The Romanov Bride

Chapter 28 PAVEL

Who could you trust? No one. In short, our plan for me to dress up like a chorister and blow up the Tsar was found out. Stupid people. Evil snakes. There were spies everywhere, all of whom could be bought for a ruble or two. Or just a jug of samogon-home brew-the worst vodka made from the nastiest of potatoes. The Russian peasant-he was a lazy good-for-nothing, loyal to neither master nor collective, only to liquid spirits, no matter how bad.

It had seemed like such a good plan, to strike right at the heart of the beast-oh, how glorious it would have been if I’d succeeded in blowing up Nicholas the Bloody and his kin in his own home, and right before Christmas, no less! I would have been such a hero, so famous! Why, it would have been like hurling gas on a fire, for that was our goal, not simply to kill or maim but to incite revolution, to spread it fast and furious. And if I’d succeeded it would have done so much good for our cause-the chaos would have spread so quickly, burning and burning, and how the people would have risen up against the oppressors!

But foo…

Some pathetic soul informed on a handful of our comrades, and these men were promptly arrested. Within a matter of days a kind of tribunal was set up, all of ours were found guilty, and that very day, within a few hours, they were hung. All of them.

Of course, following this we searched long and hard for the right target, not merely as revenge but, again, to move the people to action and help them liberate themselves from the chains of the capitalist and tsarist masters. And this target we did not find until the spring of 1906, and he was called Pyotr Stolypin. I actually never saw the man until that fateful day when we took action against him and his, and by then our bloody Tsar had seen fit to make this Stolypin the very top man, some kind of big minister. Some said we chose Stolypin as a target simply because he was so high up-supposedly, the bastard controlled everything from the security forces to the censors and even the passports-while others claimed we needed to get rid of him because his reforms were doing too much good and therefore soothing the masses and making it easier for them to tolerate the Tsar and his money-grubbing hounds. But really, I think, it was because of how many of us he killed. Yes, that was the immediate problem. It was this Stolypin who continued-no, made even bigger-the program of catching and immediately convicting and killing our people. Within a matter of months, thousands of good revolutionaries were hanging and dangling in the wind from Stolypin’s so-called neckties. Because we lost such a lot of comrades and so quickly, too, the call to action came fast. It was either do something or dwindle into dust and blow away, the hopes of the downtrodden forever ruined.

We all knew that to keep the Organization alive we had to get rid of this Stolypin, and I was ordered to return to the capital, and there I was to work as a spy. And this was my duty: to track the comings and goings of this Mr. Minister, who settled not really in Sankt Peterburg but just outside of town in a comfortable country house on Aptekarski Island. I took a job across the lane in another house, nothing special, just minding the garden, but it gave me plenty of time to watch. In this way, I learned and reported the rhythms of the Minister’s house and when he himself, the big sheeshka-pinecone-came and went, as well as who actually lived in the house, who guarded it, and so on. He and his wife and their brood of four children lived in this big wooden dacha with lots of rooms, and there were many servants and lackeys running this way and that, all bowing without end, and there was, too, a pleasant garden out back for them to stroll in and the children to play. There was lots of fresh air, of course, and greenhouses as well. I was told the Minister himself liked this fresh air and plentiful exercise, too. Watching their pretty lives, I couldn’t help remembering how poorly my Shura and I had lived, there in the corner of a basement, four families sharing a kitchen and one filthy toilet, the air so disgusting. There were millions upon millions of comrades who lived like that, too, and yet here was this bourgeois family living so sweetly in the country air, such a good place for the little ones. Yes, while the rest of us suffered in filth and cramped quarters, here was Mr. Minister who was waited on hand and foot by a herd of uniformed lackeys. I was sure that he and his were eating as much meat as they wanted-even as much white bread, when all that the narod-the masses-could afford was black. What pigs. How we suffered so they could live such a nice, fat life.

One of my jobs was to count the number of carriages attached to the house, because they would be useful when the uprising finally came. We could use them for barricades.

It was by my calculation that every Saturday Stolypin stayed at this summer mansion and received all sorts of people, petitioners from all sorts of classes wanting this or that from him. And when I made my report of this we quickly decided that it was on such a Saturday that we would kill him.

“The perfect time for us to get directly into the house,” one of my leaders reported.

There lived with Stolypin an old maid, Annushka, who was not quite right in the head but was devoted to her master. I learned that Stolypin had brought her from his large estate in a distant province. This Annushka was short and ugly and gray, and had been attached to the family forever-she’d been born a serf to them-and though the Emancipation had been long ago, the poor woman didn’t understand that she was free. She would not step one foot beyond the edge of her master’s property. Her only job was to sweep the front steps, and there she stood all day long, sweeping with her twig broom after each and every visitor mounted the steps and entered the house. She swept with such determination that soon she scratched away all the paint and the steps had to be repaired.

Anyway, though Annushka wouldn’t leave her master’s territory, I met her several times at the rear of the garden, there by a wicket fence. I asked of her master, of her master’s beautiful dacha, and she told me many things freely and without hesitation. She was all innocence, that one, and through her I learned that Mr. Minister Stolypin’s study, cloak room, and two reception rooms were all downstairs, off to one side, while off the other way was one parlor and the dining room, the kitchens too. Upstairs were all the bedrooms and a parlor.

“And that’s where my mistress sits, up there in that big window, you see?” Annushka told me with a near-toothless smile. “She sits up there in her parlor and does her needlework. She makes such pretty things, sometimes even aprons for me!”

From where we stood, she pointed to all the windows of the big dacha, telling me where her master worked, where his children played, and generally making sure I understood her household and how it operated. She was very proud to belong to the family, and it was from this simple Annushka’s description that we made our plan-how we would enter the house, where we would find Mr. Minister, and precisely where we should throw the bomb. I begged desperately to do the deed, but was not allowed. My face was already known in the neighborhood, and it was feared I would be blocked from the property altogether. New comrades were needed who could come in disguise and not be recognized.

After much talk, we finally decided on a particular Saturday, and when that day arrived it was warm and sunny. Lots of people came to see the Minister and beg his help. Some were important people with official petitions from banks or other cities, some were ordinary folk with hungry children in tow, even a few priests. By late morning, I had counted almost fifty souls who had entered the house, Annushka sweeping the stoop after each of them passed.

It was about then that I saw our two comrades coming up the lane in an open carriage. They were dressed as policemen, helmets and all. They didn’t look at me, and I pretended not to see them, even though I wanted to cheer them on. Really, it was so exciting. How could they not succeed?

When they turned onto the property of the dacha, a guard immediately stopped the carriage, demanding, “What business do you have here?”

One of our men, a tall, thin comrade who did not look quite comfortable in his police uniform, for it was too small for him, replied, “We have two portfolios to deliver to Mr. Minister Stolypin.”

“Hand them to me and I’ll make sure he receives them,” demanded the guard.

The other comrade, who was shorter and smarter, too, quickly called from the carriage, saying, “We would gladly do so, my friend, but we carry important papers-official government ones at that-and our instructions are to place them only in the hands of Mr. Minister himself.”

With a shrug, the guard, who that morning had already heard so many sad stories from those wanting to get in, thought nothing of it and opened the gate and let the carriage pass. This was all according to plan, and the carriage with our two fake policemen rolled onto the Minister’s property.

But within seconds, just after they had passed through the gate, things started to take a nasty turn. The house was not too far down the drive, but suddenly I heard shouts and saw men running after the carriage. Someone, a soldier, was demanding what kind of police our two men were, where they had come from, who had sent them, and what exactly they were carrying.

“We’re here to deliver two portfolios to Mr. Minister Stolypin, that’s all!” shouted our tall policeman with a nervous grin.

“I demand to know who has sent you!”

And then a real policeman appeared from the side of the house, and demanded, “Hey, why aren’t you two wearing the new helmets?”

One of our comrades said, “Please, my friends, just let us do our-”

“But why aren’t you wearing the new uniforms? All uniforms were changed two weeks ago, and you should be wearing the new uniforms and the new helmets!”

Fearing that they had been discovered, our fake policemen cracked the whip and the carriage bolted toward the large wooden dacha. From all around came screaming and yelling.

“Stop! Stop right now!” cried the Minister’s guards.

But our fellows, dedicated to the Revolution, would not slow, let alone stop, and they steered the carriage right toward the front entrance of the house. I hurried across the lane, and with my own eyes saw all the commotion-the racing carriage, the soldiers and guards hurrying to apprehend our comrades. I even saw two of Mr. Minister Stolypin’s own children-a young girl and a much younger boy-come running onto the balcony above the front entrance, for they were eager to see what all the excitement was about. And when the carriage reached the house itself I watched as our fellows, still clutching the portfolios, leaped down from the carriage and rushed toward the entrance of the house and up the steps. The former serf Annushka was there at the door as always but, riled by the commotion, she didn’t greet the men with her toothless smile or even get ready to sweep away their filth. Instead, she took her twig broom and started swinging it at the men in an attempt to beat them back.

“Go away! Go away!” she screamed.

But our brave men swatted her like a fly, flicking her right off the stoop and into the bushes. The next moment they were charging inside.

Yes, in one second our comrades disappeared into the house, two very able men quite determined to put an end to this Stolypin. And then in a flash they were dead and gone, blown to pieces, because there came-oh!-what an explosion! I never saw such a thing, never heard anything so loud!

Certainly they must have thrown the bombs down in the entry hall, right onto the wood floor. Perhaps there were more guards blocking their way. Perhaps they realized they could go no farther-it must have been this-and when they realized they could not reach the Minister and toss the bombs at his feet they smashed them there on the floor. First the front door blew right off its hinges, shooting out some forty paces, followed immediately by some poor soul who came hurtling outside, head over heels, flying through the air like a rock. And then the entire huge summer house seemed to lift right up off its foundation. Yes, right before my eyes the whole house jumped upward, but actually it was the front of the house that took it the worst, for the entrance was blown clean away and even the balcony with the children on it exploded into the sky. Wood and doors and glass went flying everywhere, and even the horse that had pulled our fake policemen was lifted up into the air and thrown against a tree.

And then there was an odd quiet, but not complete quiet, for as the explosion reverberated through the neighborhood I could hear pane after pane of glass breaking in all the surrounding houses-later I heard that all the windows in all the houses on the island were broken or at least cracked. Even when the explosion was finished there was an odd kind of noise, a strange rain of sorts, as pieces of wood and glass and stone and even shoes and children’s toys began to fall down right on me. A huge brass samovar came tumbling out of the sky, landing not on my head but right at my feet.

My ears ringing, I ran toward the house, couldn’t stop myself. As I made my way up the drive, there were bodies everywhere, arms and legs, too, just like a real battlefield. For another minute or two there was silence, and then all of a sudden there was one scream, then another, and finally an entire chorus of agony. I looked around in shock. There, off to the side, buried in debris, was the body of Annushka, legs and arms twisted this way and that. She was quite dead, probably killed instantly. And there a gardener, his head blown off, and two women piled on top of each other, their faces ripped away and chests carved wide. Radi boga, how many had we killed here today? How many had given their lives just so we could eliminate the Minister who was so determined to stomp out the uprising of the oppressed?

I realized then that not just the front of the house had been ripped away but all the rooms in the central part too. Hearing someone cough, I looked up and saw a woman standing there at the top of the main staircase, of which only the top two steps remained. Looking like a ghost, this woman was completely covered in a white dust of plaster and limestone, and she surveyed everything, calmly and evenly. Then downstairs, off to the left, a door was pushed open and a large man stepped through the doorway and into a room that no longer existed. I recognized him as none other than Mr. Minister Stolypin. His office had been missed completely, and he emerged unscathed except for a large blue ink stain on his shirt-the worst that had happened to him was that his inkpot had spilled against his chest, dumping ink all over his fine white shirt.

The woman at the top of the stairs looked down at big Mr. Minister and in a flat, even voice, she said, “Thank God, you are alive.”

“Yes, my dear, as are you,” he said to this woman, who was obviously his wife. “And the children? Do you have them?”

“I don’t know where the two little ones are.”

Not knowing what I did-that the young ones had been on the balcony above the front entrance-the two parents turned and went separate ways, disappearing toward the back of the house. I nearly called out to them, nearly shouted, “No, your children were on the front balcony, looking at all the excitement. They must be lying out this way, out front-look this way! The force of the blast must have hurled them out here, into the front garden!”

Instead, it was I who went searching for the children.

I stepped over a body, broken and bent in a very strange way, and made my way over a pile of shattered wood. The carriage that had brought our fake policemen was heaved on its side and mostly destroyed, and the horse that had pulled the carriage hung there in its harness, stabbed in the side with a board and bleeding like a river. If the poor creature wasn’t already dead, it would be in a second. Noticing that there was something odd about the horse, I looked closely and saw that stuck to its side, right there on the hide, was a person’s ear. Two steps beyond was a man, lying facedown and moaning. I stooped by his side, listening as he tried to speak. I couldn’t understand a thing, and simply watched as he took a deep breath and then expired, blood pouring from his mouth. A little gray cat came running out of nowhere, frightened and excited, and scampered over the dead man’s back.

Off to the side I saw some scraps of railing and clambered in that direction, and there, under the debris, I found the two youngest children of Mr. Minister Stolypin. Lifting up a large board, I first found the boy, who was perhaps three years old, certainly no more than four. He was lying quite still, his legs twisted in opposite directions-broken, I was sure-and he had a gash in his forehead. At first I thought he too was dead. When I brushed the grime and debris from the child’s face, however, he blinked twice and looked up at me sweetly.

And with a faint smile, the boy managed to utter, “You’re a nice uncle.”

Fighting back something-just what I didn’t know-I managed to say, “Don’t try to move.”

The boy thought for a moment, and replied, “I can’t.”

Trying to make sure he was comfortable, I pushed everything aside as best I could, leaving him lying there quite calmly. Just a few paces away lay the other child, the girl, who was perhaps a teenager. She lay beneath a large piece of wooden furniture, which I grabbed and hurled aside. There were rocks and some other things covering her too, and these things I quickly pulled from her body. Looking for injuries, I could see none until my eyes came to her feet, both of which seemed to have been all but blown off.

When I lifted part of a desk off her arm, her body quivered, and she opened her eyes and gasped, “What kind of dream is this?”

“It’s not a dream, my child,” I replied.

“Oh.” Coming quickly to her senses, she asked, “Can you tell me, please, does Papa live?”

As much as I wanted to deny it, I could not lie, and said, “Yes.”

“Thank God. And thank God it’s me who’s hurt and not him.”

Her devotion touched something long forgotten inside me, and I knelt by her side and took her hand and held it and said some kind of comforting words, something even religious. I had seen enough bad accidents in my village to know she might actually live, but I was likewise certain that if she survived she would definitely be maimed for life. Glancing down at her damaged feet, I was sure she would never walk again.

As I crouched by the girl, holding her hand and soothing her, I suddenly felt a firm hand on my shoulder. Turning and looking up, my heart leaped when I saw that it was none other than the bastard, Mr. Minister Stolypin, bearing over me in his ink-stained finery. My first thought was that I had been found out and he himself had come to do me in. But rather than punching me or ripping out my throat or stringing me up from a tree, he looked at me gratefully.

“Thank you, my good man, for finding my daughter,” he said, tears of relief filling his eyes.

I should have shot him right then and there and finished the job, but of course I had no gun. It occurred to me that I should have shoved him back and strangled him to death, but he was a bigger, stronger, mightier person than me. In fact and quite oddly, I realized that there was not a crumb of strength left in me. I felt completely drained, and it was all I could do to stand.

And so as I rose directly by his side I nodded toward his daughter’s mangled feet, and quietly offered but one thing, perhaps the only piece of village wisdom that I, a peasant, could give to such a highly placed Minister, saying, “The doctors will want to amputate-do not let them.”

This man, nothing more at that moment than the most devoted of fathers, gasped in horror and half fell against me, clutching my arm for support. Despite all that I had been taught by my comrades and the hatred that burned within my own heart, I steadied Stolypin, hanging on to him until he regained his composure.

Then finally dropping to his knees by his daughter, Stolypin gently said, “My beautiful Natasha… do not worry, my sweet one, everything’s going to be all right.”

“You’re here, Papa, and not hurt.”

“Not in the least, and I won’t leave your side.”

I disappeared then, traipsing off through the mayhem completely unnoticed, not a soul suspecting me of my role in this messy affair. I walked all the way back into the city and across the Troitsky Bridge, where I paused midway and stared across the vast waters of the Neva River. From there I proceeded through the Field of Mars, eventually finding my way into the much less glorious corners of the capital, where my comrades took me in. They tried to feed me tea, but I refused. I told them everything-excepting how I had come face-to-face with our number-one enemy, not to mention the human words we had exchanged, which became the darkest secret of my life.

Yes, and although we had failed to eliminate our target, I later heard that thirty people had been killed immediately by the blast, and that many more died in the following days. It was a pity that so many had to give their lives for the cause, but such was the price. And while we failed to eliminate our main target -the Minister himself-news of the attack spread through the Empire so that everyone learned of our determination to help the downtrodden and needy. In that way we succeeded greatly, and in that way we were more greatly feared than ever.

I heard, too, that when young Natasha was rushed to the best hospital the chief doctors were, just as I had guessed, determined to cut away both of the girl’s feet, certain that that was the only way to save her life. With tears streaming down his big cheeks, Stolypin, perhaps heeding my words, pleaded for the doctors to wait at least until the next morning, and to this, despite their fears of gangrene setting in, they agreed. The girl, I was told, survived the night without incident, and the doctors waited another day after that, and then another. Much to their astonishment and the joy of father and mother, the child began to improve almost miraculously, and her feet, though forever maimed, were saved. I heard, too, that a peasant from the Tobolsk District had a very strong desire to bless Stolypin’s injured daughter with an icon, and he was granted entry and came to her and prayed by her side. Perhaps this was why she recovered so well. This peasant-his name was Grigori Rasputin.

That was the first time I had ever heard the name.

As for the youngest child, the boy, in the following weeks I went to great lengths to learn his fate, and found out that both of his legs had been broken, as well as his hip. However, a medical sister told me that I mustn’t concern myself, that both he and yet another of the Minister’s children, a daughter whose kidney had been torn by the blast, were recovering just fine.

Soon after the bombing the Tsar moved Stolypin and his entire family into the Winter Palace, placing them behind the tall iron gates and thick doors of the imperial home. They hid them there, the best soldiers guarding them day and night, and each time the Minister left the Palace he snuck out a different door, and with great secrecy too. As for the exercise and fresh air that Mr. Minister Stolypin so greatly craved, he was forced to pace the paths laid up there on the roof of the Winter Palace, and I think I once saw him up top, going around and around among the decorations along the edges of the roof.

Because of our failure to kill him, the hangman Minister lived and pressed on, more determined than ever to string up as many members of our Organization as he could, and he nearly succeeded in this, nearly wiped us out completely. Unfortunately, we did not succeed in assassinating him for another five years, not until 1911, when one of ours, the Jew named Bogrov, shot Stolypin with a Browning revolver at the Kiev Opera House, there in the presence of the Emperor.

That finally brought the end to “Stolypin’s neckties” and to his reforms, and in this way we hoped to speed up the struggle of the Oppressed.