14
At the Hotel Metropole
Lebedev stands and gestures towards the door, signalling us to move. But before we can get up, we hear a knock.
“Come in.”
It’s the guard who’s been standing outside the room. “Sir, I still have Captain Sirko here. What am I to do with him?”
Aristarkhov and Lebedev both go over to Yuri. They stand in the doorway, questioning him. They are asking him whether he knows Emily or Dr Jansons.
I glance at Emily, and put a finger to my lips. Neither Aristarkhov or Lebedev is looking at us. The manilla envelope that Lebedev had is still lying on the table. I reach inside. There’s only a single sheet of paper in it: quickly, I fold it and stuff it in the pocket of my nursing uniform.
One moment later, Lebedev is standing over us, and within seconds Emily, Yuri and I are being marched by four Red Guards down the stairs, through an archway, and out of the Winter Palace into the dim light of early dawn. Emily is the only one who protests.
“Where are you taking us?”
“It’s for your own protection. You will be aware that there is fighting in this city. It’s not safe.”
Yuri holds up his plaster-clad arm. “I’m wounded, but I’m still a soldier. I don’t need protecting.”
“We have our orders, sir. All three of you must stay together. Now walk with us, please.”
From the Palace Embankment, we look out across the river. It’s a cold daybreak over the dark waters of the Neva. The ironclad battle cruiser Aurora looks colossal, sitting in the middle of the river. A red flag flies from its masthead, and the grinning muzzles of its guns are outlined against a pale, ice-blue sky. Our breath makes gray-white clouds in the chill air. Our guards march us along the Embankment, then we turn the corner to walk along the Nevsky Prospect. The great wide street is completely deserted. Except, at every street corner, I see the guards, wearing their red sashes, and watching us with suspicious eyes.
I notice each group of Red Guards, as we walk down the street. They are a motley collection of men. Most are young, although one or two are quite elderly. Some wear a variety of old Army uniforms, and their faces seem hardened by the long years of warfare. Others are in civilian clothes, with only the red sash to show their status. I can tell by their dress that some of the men are members of St Petersburg’s large Muslim population. I can understand their motivation: the Tsar was no friend to Islam. Other guards have blond hair and pale skin. They might be from any of the nations that the Tsar ruled over – Finland, Poland or Ukraine. But every man wears the same expression –alert, determined and purposeful. And every one carries a rifle.
We walk for over a mile, without any idea where we are being taken. All along the Nevsky Prospect, every store window displays the same banner “We support Comrade Lenin. This shop is protected from crime by the Red Guards. Looters will be punished with utmost severity.” And, on each wall that I see, I read the same poster, again and again, printed in bright red ink.
“On behalf of Russia’s workers, the Bolsheviks Party has, without bloodshed, deposed the treacherous Provisional Government. We did this for peace, for bread, and for the power of the people!”
Finally, a railway station comes into view: one that I’ve never seen before. Emily immediately blurts out. “You’re sending us away! Where the heck to?”
The guards say nothing. Throughout our walk, Yuri has been grimly silent. But now he whispers to me.
“That, Agnes, is the Moskovsky Station.”
“I need to go to the bathroom.”
As our express speeds through the Russian countryside, I look at the one guard who has boarded the train with us. Emily, Yuri and I are in a first-class compartment along with this young man, who looks rather like the sober cadet in that state room at the Winter Palace. Except that this youth’s Army uniform includes the obligatory red sash, and I sense arrogance in his eyes and his mouth. Even while seated, he keeps his rifle over his shoulder: he seems to be taking his duties very seriously.
I repeat my words. “I need the bathroom.”
The soldier’s reply is surly. “You must all stay together so I can guard you. I can’t allow one person to leave the group and wander freely about the train.”
Yuri smiles at him. “I once had the same problem. You have to use your judgement, young man.”
The guard is silent: he’s thinking what to do. Outside our window, forests and lakes fly by. Yuri has told us that we are now travelling through the Valdai Hills, half-way between St Petersburg and Moscow. He said that these hills are the heart of the Russian Empire, the source of three great river systems. From here, the Daugava flows west to Riga and the Baltic, the Dnieper runs south through Ukraine to the Black Sea, and the mighty Volga flows through Russia to the Caspian. But to me, I just feel that western Europe, already far away when I was in St Petersburg, is becoming like a distant, half-forgotten memory.
After a moment’s thought, the soldier looks at us all. “Very well. We will all have a bathroom break together. All of you will walk with me, along the carriage corridor, and go into the bathroom one by one.”
Yuri grins broadly. “I’m glad to hear you say ‘one by one’. Four of us in a bathroom would be a squeeze.”
The guard doesn’t smile. Instead he says “By now, telegrams will have been received in Moscow. They will know that the government of St Petersburg and of all Russia is in the hands of Comrade Lenin and the St Petersburg Soviet. So in the same way, the Moscow Soviet of People’s Deputies will take charge of the city of Moscow. I am looking forward to handing you over to them at Nikolayevsky Station. But for now, get up, all of you, and come with me along the carriage.”
As we file into the carriage corridor, Yuri continues his banter with our guard. “You seem very sure of the state of affairs in Moscow! What if the city council doesn’t want to hand over its power to the Moscow Soviet? Just because the Bolsheviks have grabbed St Petersburg, Moscow needn’t follow suit.”
Yuri says this with a disarming smile. But the soldier is determined to show us he’s in charge.
“Where St Petersburg leads, Moscow will follow. Besides, there are rumors that Lenin will move the capital to Moscow. The city will welcome him with open arms.”
We come to a door labelled “Bathroom”. The soldier states the obvious. “Here we are.” Then he looks at me. “You go first, Miss.”
Inside the bathroom, I have only one thought. Despite the uncertainty of our own situation, I’ve been burning with curiosity. I reach into the pocket of my nursing uniform, take out the document I took from the envelope at the Winter Palace and, as the train rumbles on, I unfold it.
It’s a large sheet of paper, covered on both sides with handwriting. There are even a couple of small pen-and-ink drawings. I peer closely at the first drawing, a little cartoon-like sketch. It’s of Dr Jansons himself, and in a few brief strokes of the pen, it’s captured him rather well.
What on earth can this paper be? I scan briefly up and down, then I begin to read it. But after a few seconds I pause, my hands trembling, as I realise what the paper is.
It’s a letter written by a child.
“Hurry up in there!”
I hear Yuri’s voice outside. “Young man, is Bolshevism not compatible with good manners? You’re speaking to a lady.”
I decide to wait to read the letter. I want to talk it over with Yuri – and Emily too, who I feel I can trust. I wash my hands and open the bathroom door. To my surprise, the young soldier decides he’s next in the queue, and steps past me into the bathroom. Yuri guffaws.