Sveaborg before the War was one of three principal naval stations of the
Russian Empire, the other two being Kronstadt and Reval. Sveaborg
occupies a number of small islands in the Bay of Helsingfors. The bay
itself, shaped like a rather narrow half moon, is so enclosed by these
wooded islands that in winter the salt water freezes solidly. In summer
the islands are green and lovely and a few of them, not under military
control, are used by the Finns as pleasure resorts. Even in the darkness
and in the unfortuitous circumstances of our arrival I could see that
the main island might be a very attractive place. Up a steep hill we
panted, past a white church surrounded with trees, and at last reached
the place of our confinement, a long, dingy, one-storied stronghold. A
young officer and several very dirty soldiers took our records, and
Erika and I were pushed into a small cell with two wooden bunks covered
with dust and alas, nothing else. The place smelled as only old prisons
do smell, and the only air came in through a small window high in one of
the walls. Wrapping ourselves in our coats, we lay down on the hard
planks and tried to sleep. In the early dawn we got up, our backs aching
and our throats choked with dust, but the irrepressible Erika laughed so
heartily and sneezed so comically that I found it impossible to lament
our surroundings. The place was a dreadful hole just the same, no
proper toilet facilities at hand, and of course no opportunity of
washing, to say nothing of bathing. We had to pay for our food at the
rate of about ten rubles a day, at that time no small amount of money.
The food was not very bad except that Stepan, the commissary, used to
wipe our plates with a disgustingly dirty towel which he wore around his
neck, the same towel being used in a laudable attempt to wipe the dust
from our bunks.
Climbing on the bunks, we had a view through the window of a new
building going up, the workmen being women as well as men. At the same
time we got a glimpse of the detective Manouiloff who, ever pessimistic,
held up three fingers as an expression of his belief that we had only
that many days to live. We, however, ventured the guess that we would
not remain at Sveaborg more than a month. It was a mere hazard but it
turned out a fortunate one. We remained just about a month. It was a
queer life we lived during that month, surrounded by tipsy and
irresponsible men whose officers seemed to fear them too much to insist
upon discipline. The officers, especially one fine young man, did
everything they dared to make us comfortable. After the first ten days
our plank beds were furnished with green leather cushions which might
have made sleep a comfort if they had not persisted in slipping from
under us about as soon as we dozed off. Somewhat later, a week perhaps
before our liberation, these cushions were replaced by real mattresses
stuffed with seaweed, wonderfully luxurious by comparison with the bare
boards. The prisoners were exercised every day in the open under
Sveaborg guards and the gaze of a crowd of Finnish Bolshevists. These
people seemed at first immensely diverted by the pomposity of the
Siberian doctor Badmieff who, in his long white robe, tall cap, and
white gloves was certainly a curious spectacle. Soon they tired of him
and turned their stolid, expressionless eyes on the other prisoners with
what intentions we could only conjecture. Badmieff continued to be a
center of interest in the prison. Erika, his faithful disciple, demanded
the privilege of attending him, and this was granted. Every day he sat
cross-legged like the Buddha he so much resembled, dictating endless
medical treatises to Erika. In the evenings he used to put his lamp on
the floor at the foot of his bunk, strew around it flowers and leaves
brought from outside, burn some kind of ill-smelling herbs for incense,
and generally create what I assumed to be the occult atmosphere of his
beloved Thibet. Erika, scantily clad, always attended these séances and
gradually they appeared to hypnotize the sailors, who thought highly of
the doctor’s professional powers. Indeed towards the end I often heard
them swearing that whoever left the fortress, they would at least keep
their highly esteemed _tovarish_ Badmieff and his Siberian-Thibetan
lore.
In sad contrast to the condition of Dr. Badmieff was that of the poor
editor, Glinka Janchevsky, who being without money was treated with the
utmost contempt. Housed in a wretched cell covered with obscene
drawings, the miserable man spent most of his time lying on his wooden
bed wrapped up, head and all, in his overcoat. He used to creep to our
cell door with a glass of hot water in his hand begging for a pinch of
tea and, if we had it, a little sugar. Every day he used to ask
pathetically: “When do you think we shall be let go?” Like all
journalists, he was famished for news, and whenever I got hold of a
stray newspaper I used to read it to him from the first column to the
last.
The vacillating conduct of the Bolshevist sailors toward the prisoners
of Kerensky I can only ascribe to the increasingly bitter conflict going
on between the weak Provisional Government and the Bolsheviki. The
sailors hated us because we were “bourgeois,” but they spared us because
Kerensky desired our destruction. The officers good-naturedly brought me
flowers from outside, an occasional newspaper, and even letters from
people in Helsingfors who knew my history and pitied my fate. Sometimes
I was even invited to tea with the officers, and twice I was taken out
of prison, ostensibly for examination, but really to attend services at
the little white church on the island. The guards were rough and kind by
turns, sometimes uttering horrible threats against all the prisoners,
sometimes bringing me a handful of the wild flowers they knew I loved to
have near me. Discipline was lax, and we never knew from one day to
another what might befall. For example, the padlock to my cell got lost
and for several nights the door was left unlocked. One can imagine how I
slept! On one of these unguarded nights the cell was invaded by a group
of drunken and lustful men. Erika and I fought them, screaming at the
top of our lungs, until a few sober and better-minded sailors came to
the rescue. A day or two later, when a rumor spread that we were all to
be hanged, I among the first, I for one felt less terror than relief.
Anything, even hanging, seemed better than this lunatic prison where
the guards drank, played cards, and wrangled all night, and where the
men’s attitude towards Erika and myself, the only women, was by turns
dangerously savage and dangerously friendly.
Besides the Kerensky prisoners the fortress sheltered eight or nine
prisoners charged with crimes ranging from theft to murder. Some of
these whom we encountered in the exercise yard looked like very decent
men, shining perhaps by contrast with the rowdy Revolutionists I had
seen in the course of two imprisonments. For these unfortunates and for
the guards we bought cigarettes, thus establishing more cordial
relations. Nobody knew or could guess what was going to happen to us.
One day appeared the president of the Helsingfors Soviet, a black-eyed
Jew named Sheiman, who assured us that we were to be sent back to
Petrograd, and that we might as well have our things ready by nine
o’clock that night. Nothing happened that night, nor did we, for some
reason, expect anything. The next day Sheiman came again with his
bodyguard of soldiers and sailors, and told us that his Soviet refused
for a time to release us. It appeared that telegrams had arrived from
Kerensky and from Cheidze, the Georgian leader in the Petrograd Soviet,
urgently demanding our return. The Helsingfors Soviet might have obliged
Cheidze, but they would not honor any demand of Kerensky’s, so there we
were. The Provisional Government and the Petrograd Soviet sent over
several deputies, Kaplan, a small, black-bearded man, who smilingly told
us that there was no possible hope for us; Sokoloff, the famous, or
rather infamous, author in the first instance of Order No. 1 which was
principally responsible for the break-up of the army; and Joffe, the
little Jew, who, a few years later, became influential enough to be
included among the delegates to the Genoa Conference. After their visit,
I don’t know why, prison discipline became still further relaxed. We had
visitors and the attention of physicians if we needed it. We were
informed that henceforth we would not be regarded as prisoners at all,
but only as persons temporarily detained. Two hours a day after this we
were allowed in the open air, and I became very friendly with the
Finnish women carpenters at work on the new building on our island.
These good souls brought me bottles of delicious milk, and one day the
building foreman, a Moscow Russian, invited me to his house to tea, and
here I, a poor prisoner, was treated with such deference that I was
actually embarrassed. Not one of the family would eat with me or even
sit down in my presence.
At this time Erika and I were given a more commodious cell furnished
with the seaweed mattresses of which I have spoken. But to our horror we
found the walls covered with the most frightful scrawls and pictures.
The sailor guards, however, brought water and sponges and with many
apologies washed off the disgusting records as well as they could. I was
thankful for this a few days later when all unexpectedly I received a
visit from my dear mother. It had been some days after our parting at
the frontier before she and my father learned that I was in prison.
Immediately they had gone to Helsingfors to appeal to General
Stachovitch, the Governor of Finland. But he advised them to avoid
trouble for themselves, perhaps for me also, by going quietly back to
Petrograd. My parents gave him money for me, which I never received, and
despite the Governor’s advice they stayed on in Helsingfors in faint
hope of seeing me. Dr. Manouchine, my mother told me, had returned from
a long visit in the Caucasus and was doing what he could to get me
released. My mother also gave me news of the last struggle to maintain
the army, the conflict between Korniloff and Kerensky, ending, as
everyone knows, in the death of Korniloff. These two were about equally
hated by the Sveaborg sailors who would gladly have murdered them both.
They had begun to speak with unbounded admiration of Lenine and Trotzky,
especially of Lenine, who they declared was the coming saviour of
Russia.
Bolshevism was in the air, and for a moment it assumed a really
benevolent aspect. I remember a deputation of Kronstadt Bolshevists who
came to Sveaborg to inspect us and to review our entire case. Some of
these men were very civil to me, asking many questions about the
Imperial Family and the life of the Court. At parting one said to me
naïvely: “You are quite different from what I thought you’d be, and I
shall tell the comrades so.” The very next day another deputation came
and, characteristic of the confused state of the public mind, these men
were as brutal as the others had been kind. They stormed down the prison
corridors roaring: “Where is Viroubova? Show us Viroubova!” I cowered in
my cell, but when the guard came and admonished me, for my own safety,
to show myself to the men I gathered courage to speak to them. Totally
unprepared to see the terrible Viroubova merely a crippled woman in a
shabby frock, the men suddenly quieted down and made civil response to
my words. “We didn’t know that you were ill,” said one of the men as
they prepared to move on.
Although we did not know it at the time, our fate really hung on the
outcome of a Congress of Soviets which was then being held in Petrograd,
and to which both Sheiman and Ostrovsky were delegates. Sheiman returned
to Helsingfors and visiting my cell told me that both Trotzky and
Lounacharsky were insistent on the release of Kerensky’s prisoners. That
evening, he said, would be held a secret session of the executives of
the Helsingfors Soviet at which he would urge the recommendation of
Trotzky and Lounacharsky. If the executives agreed the question would
then be referred to the entire Soviet, made up principally of sailors of
the old Baltic fleet. That evening I was invited to tea in the officers’
quarters, and while sitting there the telephone rang. “It is for you,”
said the officer who answered the call. I picked up the receiver and
heard Sheiman’s voice saying briefly: “The executive has voted
unanimously for the release of the prisoners.”
There was little sleep for me that night, but tired as I was by morning,
I greeted happily the unkempt cook and his messy breakfast plate. All
day I waited with the dumb patience only prisoners know, and at early
evening I was rewarded by the appearance of Sheiman and Ostrovsky. “Put
on your coat and follow me,” said Sheiman. “I have resolved to take you,
on my own responsibility, to the hospital.” To my nursing sister, who
had spent the afternoon with me, he gave orders to go to Helsingfors and
wait for further directions. At the prison gate Sheiman signed the
necessary papers, and hurrying me past two gaping Bolshevist soldiers,
he led the way down a bypath to the water. Boarding a small motor launch
manned by a single sailor, we started off at high speed for Helsingfors.
There was one bad moment when we approached a low bridge occupied by a
strong guard, but at Sheiman’s directions, uttered in a short whisper, I
lay down flat in the launch and we passed unchallenged. The first stars
were shining in the clear autumn sky as we reached the military quay of
the town. We ran in under the lee of a huge warship and stepped ashore.
There was a motor car waiting and the chauffeur, who evidently knew his
business, started his engine without a word or even a turn of his head.
Sheiman spoke only one sentence. “Tovarish Nicholai, drive to--” naming
a street and number. At once we were off, my head fairly swimming at the
sight of electric lights, shaded streets, and people walking up and
down. Turning into a quiet street we left the car, all three of us
shaking hands with the discreet driver. Bidding Ostrovsky find my nurse
and my small luggage, Sheiman conducted me to the door of the hospital
where a nice clean Finnish nurse took me in charge and put me to bed in
one of the freshest, airiest, most comfortable rooms I have ever
occupied. “Take good care of this lady,” were the last words of the
President of the Helsingfors Soviet, “and let no one intrude on her.”
His words and the assured smile of the nurse were good soporifics and I
fell almost instantly into a deep sleep.
Two days later, September 30 (Russian), Sheiman came to see me with the
news that Trotzky had ordered all the Kerensky prisoners back to
Petrograd, and that he, Sheiman, had personally seen to it that my nurse
and my aunt, who was at that time in Helsingfors, were to accompany me.
Sheiman himself, and also Ostrovsky, who was unfortunately very drunk,
went with us in the train which left Helsingfors that same night about
half past ten. It was an unpleasant journey, the prisoners being in a
state of wild excitement, and many of the red-badged officers more or
less tipsy. With my aunt and the nurse I sat in a corner of a dirty
compartment praying for the day to come. At nine in the morning we
reached Petrograd, and Sheiman, still solicitous of my welfare, escorted
the three of us to the Smolny Institute, once an aristocratic school for
girls, now the headquarters of the Petrograd Soviet. Here I had the
happiness once more to embrace my mother, who, with relatives of other
prisoners, waited our arrival. Many Soviet authorities were in the
place, among others Kameneff, a small red-bearded man, and his wife, a
sister of the renowned Trotzky. Both of the Kameneffs were extremely
kind to us, seeing that my companions and I had tea and food, and
expressing the hope that I should soon be out of trouble. Kameneff
telephoned Kerensky’s headquarters asking leave to send us home, but as
it was a holiday nobody answered the call. “Well, go home anyhow,” said
Kameneff, leaving the telephone, but Sokolov stopped us long enough to
make us understand that the prisoners all had to appear the next day
before the High Commission in the Winter Palace. I never saw the
Kameneffs again even to thank them for their kindness, but I read in the
Kerensky newspapers that I was on terms of intimacy with them and was
therefore a Bolshevist. It was even stated that I was a close friend of
the afterwards notorious woman commissar Kolantai, whom I have never
seen, and that Trotzky was a familiar visitor in my house.
Thus ended my second term of imprisonment. First I was arrested as a
German spy and intrigant, next as a counter-Revolutionary. Now I was
accused of being a Bolshevist and the name of Trotzky instead of
Rasputine was linked with mine. Hardly knowing what next was in store
for me, I reported at once to the High Commission. Here I was told that
their inquiries concerning me were finished, and that I had better see
the Minister of the Interior. At this ministry I was informed that I was
in no immediate danger but that I would remain under police
surveillance. I asked why, but got no satisfactory answer. Later I
learned that the tottering Provisional Government wanted to send me and
all the “counter-Revolutionists” to Archangel, but this move Dr.
Manouchine, who was still very influential, was determined to prevent.
From my uncle’s house, where I had first taken refuge, I moved to a
discreet lodging in the heart of the city and from this place I never
once in daylight ventured out. This was in late October, 1917, and the
Bolshevist revolution had begun in deadly earnest. Day after day I sat
listening to the sound of rifle shots and the putter of machine guns,
the pounding of armored cars over the stone pavements, and the tramp,
tramp, tramp of soldiers. Russia was getting ready for the long promised
constitutional convention which turned out to be a Communist _coup
d’état_. Once in a while the husband of my landlady, a naval man, came
to my lodgings, and it was he who gave me news of the arrest of the
Provisional Government, the siege of the Winter Palace, and the
ignominious collapse of Kerensky while women soldiers fought and died to
hide his flight! The scenes in the streets, as they were described to
me, were appalling, and soon it was decided that my retreat was too near
the center of hostilities to be at all safe. About the end of October I
was taken by night to a distant quarter of the town to the tiny
apartment of an old woman, formerly a masseuse in my hospital. Here came
our old servant Berchik, keen to protect me from danger, and here we
stayed for a month, when my mother found me a still safer lodging on the
sixth floor of a house in the Fourtchkatskaia, a cozy little apartment
whose windows gave a pleasant view of roofs and church steeples. There
for eight months I lived like a recluse, once in a great while venturing
to go to church, well guarded by Berchik and the nurse. The Bolshevik
Government seemed successfully established, and its policy of blood and
terror and extermination was well under way. Yet in my hidden retreat it
seemed to me that, for a time at least, I was forgotten, and my troubles
were all over.