“Miss Agnes! You have arrived in St Petersburg in the middle of a parade.”
I look at the professor. “I heard something about a march, for International Women’s Day…”
“That was a couple of days ago. You’ll see, soon enough, what is going on now.”
As I look around me, I remember how imposing this railway station is, a symbol of the Tsar’s power. We walk from the platform, down the grand marble staircase into the huge, lavishly decorated ticket hall. The are the usual crowds of well-dressed people, but I hear a hubbub of gossip, an excitement in every voice. The professor explains.
“Two weeks ago, all workers at the Putilov factory, who supply the Russian Army with armaments and vehicles, went on strike. Then thousands of other factory workers followed suit. It’s understandable; the cost of food has quadrupled since the war began, but wages are the same now as they were in 1914.”
“So how has the strike turned into a ‘parade’?”
“Lots of women turned out for the International Women’s Day celebrations, and the strikers joined them. They started by marching, very peaceably, chanting for better wages and working conditions. Then the next day there were even more demonstrators, but this time it was ‘Down with bread rationing’. The day after, the chants changed to ‘Down with the war’. And now the chants say ‘Down with the Tsar’.”
“So how have the authorities responded?”
“All this time, Miss Agnes, no-one from the government has come out to talk to the demonstrators. The Tsar and his Duma Parliament are ostriches, as you would say in English. They stick their heads in the sand, and say they can see no problems.”
Outside the station, there are a number of horse-drawn carriages, and some motor taxis. None of them are moving, and all the drivers are deep in conversation with would-be passengers. The professor glances at them, then at me.
“The taxi drivers don’t want to enter the city centre. I walked here from the Winter Palace, and we might as well walk back too; it will be simpler and probably quicker. All main routes around the city are jammed, because the Nevsky Prospect and other major streets are blocked by the parades. Let’s walk along the quieter roads: Gorokhovaya Street, then the Moyka Embankment. That route will take us to Palace Square, but will avoid the crowds.”
As we leave the noise of the station behind, the streets become quiet; much quieter than I remember them from December. Gorokhovaya Street is entirely deserted. Here and there we have to walk around huge piles of swept snow, now turning to slush. The recent mild weather means that the streets are well cleared, and we get along quickly. Soon we reach the bridge where a sidewalk leads down onto the Moyka Embankment. It’s a quaint place: they call the Moyka a river, but it looks more like a canal. The bridges and fine facades of the buildings remind me of pictures of Venice. But now, a wooden barrier and a group of soldiers block our path along the embankment. The professor steps up to one of the soldiers, who all look rather bored with their duties.
“Can we get through? I and my colleague are medical staff at the Winter Palace Hospital. We need to get there urgently, to treat battle casualties.”
The soldier looks sheepish. “I’m sorry. No-one’s allowed along the Moyka Embankment, in any circumstances. We have to do our job, I’m afraid, sir.” I notice, behind us, a policeman watching the soldiers. The professor and I leave the soldiers, and carry on walking along Gorokhovaya Street. He sighs.
“Miss Agnes, that is a typical example of what is now going on in St Petersburg. The Tsar has commanded that soldiers of the St Petersburg Garrison are stationed on street corners, all around the city centre. But the Tsar is not quite sure that all the soldiers of the Garrison are loyal to him… so, to make sure the soldiers follow orders, the police watch them. Regular police – but also every available officer in Okhrana, who are in fact running the show. The soldiers have been told that any man who disobeys Ohkrana’s orders will be sent to the Butyrka Prison in Moscow. No-one who goes there ever returns.” He points to a corner ahead. “Aha – this might be a way through. Let’s try this side street.”
A narrow, deeply-shadowed street leads off to the right. At its far end I can see the buildings round Palace Square, lit by the afternoon sunshine. There’s no barricade across this street, no soldiers, and no other people. We’re one minute’s walk from the hospital.
A towering figure on horseback appears silhouetted at the far end of the street. He wears a tall Cossack hat, and I see the outline of a curved military sabre. He reins the horse in, trots towards us, and calls out. Yuri Sirko is looking down at us.
“Agnes! And Professor Axelson, too! I’ll escort you through here. You will need to cross the top end of the Nevsky Prospect, to get to the Winter Palace.”
“Yuri! Thank you!…
“No need to thank me – after all, I’m just doing my duty. All Cossacks and other soldiers of the St Petersburg Garrison have been told to keep the city under control. The housewives of St Petersburg are daring to ask for bread! Dangerous revolutionary activity, don’t you think?” He rolls his eyes to show what he thinks of his orders.
As we walk towards the crossing-point of the Nevsky Prospect, we start to hear the chants, a rhythmic throbbing that deepens and strengthens with every step we take. The refrain is simple “We need bread!”
I ask Yuri “Is the city really in danger of starvation? That’s what everyone on my train was saying.”
“I’ve seen the grain stores. In fact, until two days ago, I was guarding them. They are ample for at least two months. And with the milder weather, the trains are moving again, so supplies can be brought in from the countryside too.”
Professor Axelson looks surprised. “So why the protests?”
“You’ll have heard the Tsar’s decree that bread rationing will start in two weeks’ time. The portions are to be reasonable: no-one will starve. So in theory there is no reason for the protests. The rationing is simply a sensible and forward-thinking measure. The problem is that the Russian government has never done anything sensible or forward-thinking before. So people assume that rationing means the grain supplies have already run out. They think there will be no more bread.”
Yuri pulls the reins gently as the horse trots; we’re closer now to the noise. He resumes. “The bread rationing news is the final straw. Ordinary Russian people have had decades of shortages and deprivation, and then the war came along on top of that. There are few families who haven’t lost a son or husband. After two and a half years of fighting, no-one even knows why we started this war. Or, if it will ever end.”
The professor and I can hear the noise of the protests more clearly now. I notice the slight anxiety in my own voice as I speak.
“Listen. The chants have changed.”
We are now only a few steps from the junction with the Nevsky Prospect. Individual voices in the crowd can be heard; people calling out against the war, against the Tsar, and against Okhrana. Many of the voices are female. Then I hear a man’s voice: low and sharp.
“Captain Sirko!” It’s a voice I’ve heard before – but only once. General Aristarkhov stands at the corner of the Nevsky Prospect, surrounded by several Cossacks on horseback. Beyond him, a barricade manned by regular soldiers, most of them very young, stretches across to the far side of the Prospect. Beyond the barricade are the massed faces of demonstrators below an array of flags and banners. The largest banner reads “Bread for the children! Their fathers are fighting to defend Mother Russia!”