The background noise is deafening: a rhythm of chanting breaks out. “Le-nin! – peace and bread! Le-nin! – peace and bread!” In the tiny space of the café, it makes my head hurt. The professor and I, and Chkeidze and Lenin, are the only ones not chanting.
Lenin doesn’t answer Chkeidze’s question. He seems distracted – but not by the noise. His eyes are scanning the room, looking for someone in the crowd, someone he’s not spotted yet.
Axelson says something to me, but I can’t hear him. The deafening chants go on, but I notice a clatter at the back of the room. The huge man who was sitting alone, the man who was watching the professor and me, is rising from his chair. Lenin speaks quietly to Chkeidze, who leads him over to the man. In a brief lull in the noise, I catch Chkeidze’s words.
“Comrade Lenin, may I introduce the newest member of the St Petersburg Soviet – Ivan Horobets.”
I see the curve of a smile in Lenin’s face. Chkeidze, Lenin and Horobets form a little knot at the back of the room, speaking together, their conversation unheard amid the excited hubbub of the room. I try to catch their words, but I can hear nothing. But as I look at the three men I see, above the neckline of Horobets’ ill-fitting shirt and tie, the links of a silver necklace.
12
Revolution in October
The appearance of Doctor Jansons in my ward surprises us all. One of our best doctors, a hematologist who specialises in treating casualties with blood infections, he’s normally far too busy to visit us.
“Ladies!” he shouts, in his usual jokey style. “I have news for you all. I suppose you’ve all enjoyed the glorious summer of 1917, relaxing and sunning yourselves on the banks of the Neva? Or spending your time flirting with these Red Guards, who seem to be everywhere these days?”
There are smiles from the nurses. Doctor Jansons is good-looking and charming; he can get away with saying anything. He continues.
“But now summer’s over. September is going to be our busiest month ever. I have to tell you that thousands of casualties are right now in trains, bound for St Petersburg. Several hundred of them will be brought to the Winter Palace Hospital. The reason for this increase in numbers is that we have suffered a major defeat. The Germans have crossed the Daugava River and captured Riga. Russia has lost the pearl of the Baltic.”
He speaks clearly and calmly, but I notice the glint of tears on his cheeks as he turns briskly and leaves the ward: I hear his feet clattering down the corridor. Sister Kusnetsova and I are making up new beds: she whispers to me. “Only Jansons could put such a brave face on such news. You know, don’t you?”
“Yes, I know. Doctor Jansons is Latvian. All his family are in Riga.”
“Such a distinguished man! Before the war, he was the most sought-after private hematology consultant in Russia; all his patients were aristocrats. But he volunteered to work here, the first day the Winter Palace Hospital was opened.” She carries on praising his virtues, as we spread sheets and prepare bed after bed for new occupants.
As Doctor Jansons predicted, the next few weeks were horribly busy. It is now the last week in October, and our ward is full of injured Latvian Riflemen; their regiment stayed by the river to protect the retreat of the main Russian Army from Riga. The Germans threw everything at the Latvians; several patients are bandaged head-to-foot, like mummies. They are burned victims of a new German terror-weapon; the flamethrower.
But this afternoon, it’s quiet on the ward; most patients are sleeping. I have the opportunity to read a letter from Professor Axelson, who continues to be busy in Helsinki; so far away, I think. But even Helsinki is close, compared to home. I think of Ma, Pa and Abe. In my mind, I see the New England woods, copper and gold with the fall colours. Only now, with this pause in my work, do I realise how I feel. I look down at the professor’s letter: it’s soaked with my tears.
“Now don’t cry! Cheer up, Auxiliary Frocester! I have some good news for you. Between you and me, I think you have an admirer – a man who is very keen to see you.”
It’s Doctor Jansons’ voice, warm and positive, and I find that I feel just a little bit better. But I’m surprised by his words.
“Who?”
“A Cossack cavalry captain has been brought in; he’s on one of the ground-floor wards. Don’t worry; he’s not seriously injured. A broken arm – but the bone pierced the skin, and he developed a blood infection at the field hospital in Latvia. He’s healing well now. I took a blood sample from him, but the only question he asked me was ‘Does Agnes Frocester still work here?’”
Yuri is sitting up in bed, his left arm in a plaster cast; he greets me with a smile. “Last time you and I were in a hospital, it was your Swedish professor who was in the bed. This time, you must bring the tea, for me. I think you would call this role-reversal?”
“What happened to you?”
“As you know, Agnes, I like telling stories. I’ll pick up my tale where I left you: back in February, at the demonstration on the Nevsky Prospect. Me and my men continued to try to impose order – but without shooting civilians, like that idiot Aristarkhov wanted us to. By the way, he disappeared that same day: people say he’s in hiding. He’s a senior general, an important figure – but all the same, there is no respect for former authority now. Several military men connected with Okhrana have been lynched by the crowds.”
“And you?…”
“As you know, the demonstrations stopped when the Tsar abdicated. The city calmed down. So I got sent back to my regiment in Latvia, on the good old Daugava River. Then last month, the Germans crossed the river in boats: then they set up pontoon bridges, and soon there were thousands of them across the river, all equipped with the most up-to-date weapons: armored cars, machine guns. We were with our horses – Cossack cavalry armed with hunting rifles and sabres! The Germans attacked us with airplanes, dropping bombs. Embarrassing to say, my own horse panicked and threw me to the ground. And then he stamped on my arm. So that’s how I got my glorious war wound.”
“A wound is a wound.”
“I agree. There are no heroes and no cowards in this war. Just millions of exhausted, scared men, who are wasting years of their lives far from their homes and families.”
“I agree. That’s what I saw in France, and now it’s true of all the patients I see here in Russia.”
“Us Cossacks are traditional people, Agnes. When the war came, I was happy to respect the Tsar’s authority, and even the orders of men like Aristarkhov. But now, all I want is to go home. I want to be back in Astrakhan; to see the sun rising over the steppes, the warm southern summers, the boats on the Volga, the blue Caspian Sea. I suppose you want to go home, too?”
I can’t help it. His question touches a raw nerve: my tears start again, more than ever. I feel his right arm around me, and the moments pass in silence.
Four days have now passed since Yuri arrived. It’s late in the evening, and Sister Kusnetsova and I are taking tea to the patients before lights-out. As we wheel along the trolley carrying the familiar samovar, questions ring out at us. “What is happening across the city?” Sister Kusnetsova stands in the middle of the room and answers them all.
“We don’t know for sure. But we’ve heard that the Red Guards have taken over many government buildings throughout St Petersburg.”
There’s a chorus from the patients. “That’s good! The Red Guards are the ones who’ve brought law and order back to the city. Unlike those useless bureaucrats in the Provisional Government—”