“But if you join us now, you might find yourself in the inner circle of the party.”
“I’m not the sort of man who joins one side, just because it appears to be winning. But I can promise you this, Generaclass="underline" I will keep an open mind. If one day I come to believe that Bolshevism is truly the best way forward for Russia, then at that point I will ask to become a member of the party.”
“Have it your own way. But by taking more time to make up your mind, you are throwing away an opportunity right now. You may not have such a chance again. Above all, Captain Sirko, remember that it is not wise to be known as an opponent of the Bolsheviks.”
We reach the top of the stairs. Round a corner comes another group of Red Guards who I’ve not seen before. Their leader looks striking: his prominent chin and cheekbones are framed by a sweep of thick hair covering his ears. He has the air of an actor or an artist, not a soldier. He looks at Aristarkhov and asks a question.
“Have you carried out my orders?”
“I have, Comrade Antonov. Everything is in hand. My men are arresting the members of the Provisional Government right now.”
“Good. Send those bourgeois parasites down to me: I will be in the Throne Room. It’s marked as St George’s Hall on our map of the palace.”
“What’s the situation in the rest of the Winter Palace?”
“Better than you and I could ever have hoped, Aristarkhov. The Provisional Government relied on women and children protecting them! We found a group of cadets, young boys barely out of school. They had been in the wine cellar, and were much the worse for wear. And there was a women’s battalion, too. Both groups surrendered peaceably, and we’ve taken all their weapons.”
“What shall we do with them?”
“I’ve already dealt with them. None of them had any loyalty to the Provisional Government: they all said they were only here because they were following orders. I told them they were free to go, and they’ve already left the palace. They are going to catch a train this morning to return to their barracks near Vyborg. All they want is to get out of St Petersburg, and have no involvement in this business.”
“So our opponents have melted away?”
“Exactly. There is no other opposition to the Bolshevik Revolution anywhere in the Winter Palace, or across the city. And whoever controls St Petersburg controls all of Russia.”
Aristarkhov nods in satisfaction, and salutes. The man and his group of guards descend the stairs. In front of us, the gold door stands wide open. Inside the room, Aristarkhov’s men, pointing glinting bayonets, surround the members of the Provisional Government. The guards are grim-faced; the ministers are silent with dismay. No-one moves or speaks. Under the bright light of the chandeliers, the scene looks like a waxwork tableau.
Aristarkhov shouts through the door. “Take the Provisional Government ministers to Comrade Antonov. He’s in St George’s Hall, which is marked on the plan you have.” He looks at one of his men. “Except for you – standing there! You stay in this corridor, and guard Captain Sirko. Keep him here, until I call for you.”
The man steps towards Yuri. Meanwhile, Aristarkhov calls to another of the guards: a short, thickset man with small eyes, his face a mass of black stubble.
“Now – Comrade Lebedev. I need your help.”
“Of course, sir!” The man salutes like a machine.
“I need you to stay with me, Lebedev, and help me conduct the interrogation of this nurse, who has strayed over here from the Winter Palace hospital wing. We can use the Malachite Room for our interview.”
Lebedev sneers nastily at me. But the general explains further.
“She is not under arrest, Lebedev. We simply need an amicable discussion with her. And she is a foreign national, from the United States. So she must be treated with respect. But I suspect she has some important information, which she would be wise to share with us.”
Aristarkhov’s troop, waving their bayonets with more bravado than skill, push the ministers of the Provisional Government towards the door. We wait on the landing for them all to pass. My attention is drawn along the landing, to a corridor lined with Roman pillars. The scene is brightly lit by the chandeliers: under them, I see a gang of ill-dressed men, and they are all arguing.
“Put that back, Comrade!”
“I found it; why can’t I take it away?” One of the men is carrying a large bronze clock on his shoulder.
The reply is an angry shout. “You idiot! Don’t you understand that we have stormed the Winter Palace on behalf of the people? All property in here belongs to the workers of Russia! Put the clock down, now! And you – you there, too! Put that down!”
I notice that others in the group, too, are carrying a bizarre assortment of objects; statuettes, vases, paintings and rolled-up rugs. They look like a motley group of removal men. Despite the gun pointing at his chest, I notice that Yuri can’t resist smiling to himself at the chaotic scene.
Aristarkhov and Lebedev usher me into the Provisional Government’s former meeting-chamber. This, I presume, is the Malachite Room. Only on this second visit to the room can I take in the opulence around me. It’s an extraordinary place, filled with over-vivid colours like some tropical coral cave. Everything that isn’t covered with gold is made of the bright green mineral; the pillars, the fireplace, the enormous urns and statues which adorn the room. The room is huge, but the excessive finery makes it claustrophobic. I look around, as Aristarkhov and Lebedev, standing behind me, whisper together. I have no idea what Aristarkhov wants with me, or why he has involved this gruff, grim-faced guard in my interview. I feel sick in the pit of my stomach, but I try to look calm.
We sit around the table that had been occupied by the Provisional Government ministers. Their papers are still scattered across its shiny green surface. Lebedev is opposite me; Aristarkhov sits at the far end of the table, appearing almost detached from us. His blue eyes gaze idly around the room. But I can tell that he’s listening intently.
Under sullen brows, Lebedev’s eyes are like little beads, staring at me. “What is your name?”
“Agnes Frocester, American citizen.”
“I only needed your name. I already know your nationality. Just answer the questions that are asked. Now – do you work here at the Winter Palace hospital?”
“Ah – yes.” I can’t resist a slight smile, looking down at my nursing uniform. Lebedev’s face is humorless, as he considers for a moment. Then his little eyes stare closely at me.
“Tell me, Nurse Frocester, do you know this man?”
As if from nowhere, he produces a brown manilla file and holds it in front of my face. It looks just like the files I saw over a year ago, in Mr Bukin’s office. There’s a photograph pinned to it, and under the photograph is a name: Dr Māris Jansons.
“Yes. I know him. We both work here at the hospital. And I can assure you: Dr Jansons has no interest in politics. His only concern is the welfare of his patients.”
Lebedev looks unimpressed. “Did you and Dr Jansons have a discussion concerning Captain Yuri Sirko?”
“No.”
Lebedev pauses. I notice the reflection of his grizzled face, in the polished surface of the table. His words come slowly, like a measured threat.
“Lying to us is not intelligent, Nurse Frocester. We already have statements from a patient and a hospital orderly. They say that you and Dr Jansons were having a discussion about Captain Sirko, four days ago. Dr Jansons visited your ward, and he told you that Captain Sirko was here at the Winter Palace.”
“Dr Jansons did tell me that, yes. But it was hardly a ‘discussion’.” He just mentioned it in passing.”