Lebedev is touching his face, rubbing the coarse stubble as if he’s nervous. But his expression remains impassive as he asks his next question.
“Now, Nurse Frocester, this is important. Are you an associate of members of the Provisional Government? Is that why you and Captain Sirko were seen, a few minutes ago, coming down the staircase from this very room, where the Government ministers were meeting?”
“No. I don’t know a single one of them.”
“Then how do you explain this?” He throws a photograph down onto the table. The picture shows the steps of the Winter Palace. A group of soldiers and the members of the Provisional Government are walking up the steps, and I’m talking to one of the soldiers.
“That was the day the Provisional Government ministers were setting up their offices here. Before that, the Winter Palace was just a hospital. Then suddenly, all these government people appeared. So I asked that soldier what was going on.”
Lebedev shrugs cynically, but Aristarkhov leans across the table towards him and speaks quietly. “That’s enough questions on that subject.” He passes Lebedev one of the pieces of paper left on the table by the government ministers. I see that the general has scribbled something on the back of the paper.
Lebedev reads what Aristarkhov has written. Then he looks at me and asks another question.
“Have you ever been to Ivangorod? – to a palace called Tri Tsarevny?”
I’m too taken aback to think: I just blurt out. “Yes.”
Lebedev glances at the paper in from of him, like an actor using a script. “Have you ever met a Swedish woman called Svea Håk-ansson?” He stumbles over the name: it must be the first time he’s ever come across it.
I answer truthfully. “No.”
Aristarkhov has been leaning back in his chair, staring at the ceiling as if bored. But now, his face is suddenly alert, and he touches Lebedev’s elbow.
“Comrade Lebedev – our other interviewee has arrived.”
The gold door opens wide. Two soldiers are struggling to push a woman into the room. She’s protesting angrily.
“What the heck are you doing? I’m going to complain to the St Petersburg Soviet. This is one goddamned big mistake.”
I’m completely taken aback. The woman’s black hair is tousled and wild, as if she’s been dragged out of bed. Her face is white with fury, and her eyes flash daggers at Lebedev. It’s Emily Neale.
Lebedev grunts at her. “Sit down next to the nurse. We need a discussion with you. You are not under arrest, but there are good reasons for you being here.”
“I should damned well hope so.”
“I am Comrade Lebedev: this is Comrade Aristarkhov. You’ve been brought here to tell us the answers to a few simple questions.”
“In the middle of the night? Are your questions that urgent?”
He ignores her protests. “We need to establish some basic facts. We know that you are Miss Emily Neale. And don’t start telling me how you’re an American citizen. Just tell me a little background about yourself, please.”
“What do you need to know?”
“Just basic information about you.”
“I was born in New Orleans, Louisiana. I studied at Bryn Mawr—”
“What is that?”
“A ladies’ college in Pennsylvania. I gained a doctorate there—”
“You are a doctor?”
“No. I did high-level academic study. If you must know, I studied Russian writers. Tolstoy, Gorky, Dostoyevsky…”
“I get the idea, Miss Neale. What did you do then?”
“I became a travelling writer, and a journalist, but I ended up doing most of my writing for a trade union organisation, called Industrial Workers of the World. I wrote articles and pamphlets.”
Aristarkhov catches Emily’s eye, and he nods at her in recognition.
“I know who you mean, Miss Neale. The Industrial Workers of the World are more familiarly known as the ‘Wobblies’.”
“Yes. Anyway, then I came to Russia. I was invited, by the St Petersburg Soviet.”
Lebedev’s eyes are like glistening pin heads, staring at Emily. He takes up the questioning again.
“Now this is important, Miss Neale. Exactly when did you enter Russia?”
“Early 1916 – March, or maybe the beginning of April. You can check the precise date in my passport, which your friends no doubt found when they arrested me and searched my flat.”
“As I explained, Miss Neale, you are not under arrest.” Lebedev turns his gaze to me. “Now you, Nurse Frocester – when did you enter Russia?”
“August nineteenth, 1916.”
He shakes his head, grinning. “Well, well. One or both of you is lying to us.” Then he looks pointedly at me.
“Do you know this woman sitting here, this woman who calls herself Emily Neale? And do you know Nikolay Chkheidze, former Chairman of the St Petersburg Soviet?”
“I’ve met both of them only once.”
“Nonsense. You two women are admirers of Chkheidze, members of his little coterie. The three of you were seen at the Finland Station, discussing politics together!”
Emily stares back at Lebedev boldly. But he is spitting words at both of us. “You know, don’t you, that Chkheidze, a lily-livered liberal and compromiser, is no longer Chair of the St Petersburg Soviet? Comrade Lenin sent him away, back to Georgia, and has replaced him with a more politically correct Chairman – Leon Trotsky.”
Emily looks at Lebedev in surprise.
“I met Leon Trotsky years ago, in New York. He told me he was a close friend of Chkheidze. But clearly, Mr Trotsky hasn’t got much loyalty to his friends.”
“Comrade Trotsky, like Lenin, has only one loyalty – to the revolution. But what are your loyalties, Miss Neale?”
Emily can’t contain herself any longer; she pushes her chair back from the table and stands up, her eyes blazing as she looks down on the two men.
“Why have you brought me here? Why are you treating me like this? I supported the revolution! And, I recognise you.” She points at Aristarkhov. “You led the Tsar’s troops on the Nevsky Prospect!”
Lebedev snarls at her. “Shut up. You understand nothing, nothing at all.” But Aristarkhov darts a hard glance at Lebedev, who is suddenly silenced. There’s a pause, as if no-one quite knows what to say. Then the general looks at Emily, and answers her.
“Miss Neale, the incident on the Nevsky Prospect was a long time ago. I was carrying out legitimate military duties, following the orders I’d been given. Much has happened since then, and things are different now. From today, Russia will be governed by the workers, represented by Comrade Lenin, Comrade Trotsky and the St Petersburg Soviet – and the Red Guards, of whom I am one.”
“You mean, you switched sides.”
“I had no ‘side’ before February, Miss Neale. I was simply a military commander. When Comrade Lenin returned to Russia, I understood his vision for our nation. At that point, I joined the Red Guards, and I serve them loyally. You, on the other hand, have supported Chkheidze, who has been collaborating with the Provisional Government.”
Aristarkhov’s speech has not calmed Emily at all. She snaps back at him. “So what if I worked with Chkheidze! I support the revolution. Hell’s teeth, I’m a communist!”
“It is possible to be the wrong sort of communist, Miss Neale. There are people who call themselves communists, but who have a misplaced faith. They believe in democratic government representing all parts of society – even the bourgeoisie and the capitalists. But real revolution means handing all power over to the workers.”
Emily and I look at Aristarkhov; his Red Guard uniform, his hardened but aristocratic face. He glances briefly again at us, then speaks once more, quietly, as if to himself.
“I’m tired, Lebedev; it must be nearly morning. A new dawn for Russia. You and your men have done well tonight. But I still have much work to do. So please, take these two women away.”