After much talk, we finally decided on a particular Saturday, and when that day arrived it was warm and sunny. Lots of people came to see the Minister and beg his help. Some were important people with official petitions from banks or other cities, some were ordinary folk with hungry children in tow, even a few priests. By late morning, I had counted almost fifty souls who had entered the house, Annushka sweeping the stoop after each of them passed.
It was about then that I saw our two comrades coming up the lane in an open carriage. They were dressed as policemen, helmets and all. They didn’t look at me, and I pretended not to see them, even though I wanted to cheer them on. Really, it was so exciting. How could they not succeed?
When they turned onto the property of the dacha, a guard immediately stopped the carriage, demanding, “What business do you have here?”
One of our men, a tall, thin comrade who did not look quite comfortable in his police uniform, for it was too small for him, replied, “We have two portfolios to deliver to Mr. Minister Stolypin.”
“Hand them to me and I’ll make sure he receives them,” demanded the guard.
The other comrade, who was shorter and smarter, too, quickly called from the carriage, saying, “We would gladly do so, my friend, but we carry important papers-official government ones at that-and our instructions are to place them only in the hands of Mr. Minister himself.”
With a shrug, the guard, who that morning had already heard so many sad stories from those wanting to get in, thought nothing of it and opened the gate and let the carriage pass. This was all according to plan, and the carriage with our two fake policemen rolled onto the Minister’s property.
But within seconds, just after they had passed through the gate, things started to take a nasty turn. The house was not too far down the drive, but suddenly I heard shouts and saw men running after the carriage. Someone, a soldier, was demanding what kind of police our two men were, where they had come from, who had sent them, and what exactly they were carrying.
“We’re here to deliver two portfolios to Mr. Minister Stolypin, that’s all!” shouted our tall policeman with a nervous grin.
“I demand to know who has sent you!”
And then a real policeman appeared from the side of the house, and demanded, “Hey, why aren’t you two wearing the new helmets?”
One of our comrades said, “Please, my friends, just let us do our-”
“But why aren’t you wearing the new uniforms? All uniforms were changed two weeks ago, and you should be wearing the new uniforms and the new helmets!”
Fearing that they had been discovered, our fake policemen cracked the whip and the carriage bolted toward the large wooden dacha. From all around came screaming and yelling.
“Stop! Stop right now!” cried the Minister’s guards.
But our fellows, dedicated to the Revolution, would not slow, let alone stop, and they steered the carriage right toward the front entrance of the house. I hurried across the lane, and with my own eyes saw all the commotion-the racing carriage, the soldiers and guards hurrying to apprehend our comrades. I even saw two of Mr. Minister Stolypin’s own children-a young girl and a much younger boy-come running onto the balcony above the front entrance, for they were eager to see what all the excitement was about. And when the carriage reached the house itself I watched as our fellows, still clutching the portfolios, leaped down from the carriage and rushed toward the entrance of the house and up the steps. The former serf Annushka was there at the door as always but, riled by the commotion, she didn’t greet the men with her toothless smile or even get ready to sweep away their filth. Instead, she took her twig broom and started swinging it at the men in an attempt to beat them back.
“Go away! Go away!” she screamed.
But our brave men swatted her like a fly, flicking her right off the stoop and into the bushes. The next moment they were charging inside.
Yes, in one second our comrades disappeared into the house, two very able men quite determined to put an end to this Stolypin. And then in a flash they were dead and gone, blown to pieces, because there came-oh!-what an explosion! I never saw such a thing, never heard anything so loud!
Certainly they must have thrown the bombs down in the entry hall, right onto the wood floor. Perhaps there were more guards blocking their way. Perhaps they realized they could go no farther-it must have been this-and when they realized they could not reach the Minister and toss the bombs at his feet they smashed them there on the floor. First the front door blew right off its hinges, shooting out some forty paces, followed immediately by some poor soul who came hurtling outside, head over heels, flying through the air like a rock. And then the entire huge summer house seemed to lift right up off its foundation. Yes, right before my eyes the whole house jumped upward, but actually it was the front of the house that took it the worst, for the entrance was blown clean away and even the balcony with the children on it exploded into the sky. Wood and doors and glass went flying everywhere, and even the horse that had pulled our fake policemen was lifted up into the air and thrown against a tree.
And then there was an odd quiet, but not complete quiet, for as the explosion reverberated through the neighborhood I could hear pane after pane of glass breaking in all the surrounding houses-later I heard that all the windows in all the houses on the island were broken or at least cracked. Even when the explosion was finished there was an odd kind of noise, a strange rain of sorts, as pieces of wood and glass and stone and even shoes and children’s toys began to fall down right on me. A huge brass samovar came tumbling out of the sky, landing not on my head but right at my feet.
My ears ringing, I ran toward the house, couldn’t stop myself. As I made my way up the drive, there were bodies everywhere, arms and legs, too, just like a real battlefield. For another minute or two there was silence, and then all of a sudden there was one scream, then another, and finally an entire chorus of agony. I looked around in shock. There, off to the side, buried in debris, was the body of Annushka, legs and arms twisted this way and that. She was quite dead, probably killed instantly. And there a gardener, his head blown off, and two women piled on top of each other, their faces ripped away and chests carved wide. Radi boga, how many had we killed here today? How many had given their lives just so we could eliminate the Minister who was so determined to stomp out the uprising of the oppressed?
I realized then that not just the front of the house had been ripped away but all the rooms in the central part too. Hearing someone cough, I looked up and saw a woman standing there at the top of the main staircase, of which only the top two steps remained. Looking like a ghost, this woman was completely covered in a white dust of plaster and limestone, and she surveyed everything, calmly and evenly. Then downstairs, off to the left, a door was pushed open and a large man stepped through the doorway and into a room that no longer existed. I recognized him as none other than Mr. Minister Stolypin. His office had been missed completely, and he emerged unscathed except for a large blue ink stain on his shirt-the worst that had happened to him was that his inkpot had spilled against his chest, dumping ink all over his fine white shirt.
The woman at the top of the stairs looked down at big Mr. Minister and in a flat, even voice, she said, “Thank God, you are alive.”
“Yes, my dear, as are you,” he said to this woman, who was obviously his wife. “And the children? Do you have them?”