THE ARMY BECOMES A SAVAGE MOB
My women were enthusiastic over the return of their Commander. I
reported to the Commander of the Corps and was invited to luncheon
with the Staff. The officers were interested to know what was going on
in the rear. I did not tell them the details of the quarrel between
the Prime Minister and the Commander-in-Chief, but I did indicate in
general terms that a difference had arisen.
Toward the end of the meal it was reported that the Chairman of the
Corps Committee had come to see the Commander on important business.
It appeared that the corps in the trenches was to be relieved at seven
in the evening and orders had been issued to the corps in reserve,
some miles behind, to move toward the trenches at five in the morning.
However, they had not moved. The Chairman now came to explain the cause
of the delay. He was himself a patriotic and intelligent soldier and
was asked to sit down by the General while he told the story.
“The rascals!” he said of the men who had elected him as their leader,
“they wouldn’t move. They have been holding meetings all the morning
and refuse to go to relieve their comrades.”
We were all shocked. The General became excited.
“What the devil!” he exclaimed angrily. “That passes all bounds! If
the soldiers refuse to relieve the very men who had relieved them a
couple of weeks ago, then there is no use in continuing at the front,
making a pretence of war. It’s a farce! It’s no use staying here,
let them lay down their arms and go home and save the Government the
trouble of keeping up the semblance of an army. The villains! Just
shoot a few of them, and they will learn to do their duty! At seven
o’clock the trenches will be empty. Go and tell them that I command
them to move immediately!”
The Chairman returned to the billets and told his soldiers that the
General ordered them into the trenches under penalty of death. This
incensed the men.
“Aha, he is threatening to shoot!” cried one.
“He’s of the old régime,” exclaimed another.
“He wants to practise on us the Tsar’s methods!” shouted several voices.
“He is a blackguard!” suggested another.
“He ought to be killed! He wants to rule us with an iron hand!” the men
roared, working themselves up to a fever.
Meanwhile, the news came from the trenches that the men were holding
meetings there, proclaiming their determination not to remain in their
position after seven o’clock. The General was in great difficulty. He
was faced with the probability of his section of the front being left
entirely open to the enemy. He telephoned to the reserve billets and
asked the Chairman of the Committee what was going on there.
Suddenly the General grew pale, dropped the receiver and said:
“They want to kill me.”
Chief of Staff Kostayev took up the receiver and in a trembling voice
inquired what the trouble was. I listened to the answer.
“They are in an ugly mood. They have mutinied and threaten to mob the
General. The excitement is spreading, and some of them have already
started out for Headquarters.”
The voice of the Chairman at the other end of the wire was clearly
expressive of his alarm. In reply to questions what the General could
do to calm the mob he said that the committee admired and respected the
General, that its members were doing their best to allay the passions
that had been aroused, but seemed helpless.
A few minutes later several officers and men ran into the house,
greatly agitated.
“General, you are lost if you don’t get away in time!” one of them said.
Shortly afterwards Colonel Belonogov, a man of sterling heart, beloved
by his soldiers even before the revolution, rushed in. He brought the
same tidings, asking the General to hide. I joined in, imploring the
Commander to conceal himself till the storm had passed. But he refused.
“Why should I hide?” he exclaimed. “What wrong have I done? Let them
come and kill me! I have only done my duty.”
He went into his study and locked himself in.
The mob was moving nearer and nearer. There was a deathly pallor on
the faces of all those present. Every minute or so some one would dash
in breathlessly, with eyes full of horror, to herald the approaching
tempest.
The tide of tumultuous humanity reached the house. There were cries and
howls. For a second we were all in suspense. Then Colonel Belonogov
said he would go out and talk to them and try to make them see reason.
The Colonel had a gentle voice and a gentle heart. He never addressed
even his own orderly in the ordinary fashion. When a little time before
he had asked to be transferred to another position, his own soldiers
persuaded him into staying where he was.
In a word the Colonel was an exceptional man. Without question there
was no other officer in the Corps as fit as he to undertake the task of
mollifying an excited mob. He went out on the porch and calmly faced
the steadily increasing multitude.
“Where is the General? Where is he? We want to kill him!” the savage
chorus bawled.
“What are you thinking of?” the Colonel began. “Come to your senses
and consider the order. It was an order to relieve your own comrades,
soldiers like yourselves. Now, you know that this was no more than
fair. The General simply wanted you to take the places of your
comrades.”
“But he threatened to shoot us!” interrupted the men.
“You did not quite understand. He only said generally that to get
obedience one must shoot....”
“Shoot!” a hundred voices went up from every side, catching the word
but not the meaning.
“Shoot! Aha, he wants to shoot! He’s for the old régime himself!” a
thousand voices roared, without even giving the ashen-faced Colonel a
chance to explain.
“Kill him! Show him what shooting is!” raged the vast throng, while the
speaker tried vainly to raise his voice and get a hearing.
Suddenly some one jerked the stool from under his feet. In an instant
a hundred heavy heels had trampled the life out of that noble body.
It was a horrible, terrifying scene. Several thousand men had turned
into beasts. The lust of blood was in their eyes. They swayed backwards
and forwards as if intoxicated, crushing the last signs of life out of
their victim, stamping on the corpse in a frenzy. The mob’s thirst
for blood became inflamed. The officers realized that every moment was
precious. Kostayev thought that the only way to save ourselves was to
escape through the rear of the house.
“I will go out to them,” I declared.
The remaining officers thought me mad and tried to dissuade me.
“Belonogov was the idol of his regiment, and see what’s become of him.
If you go it is certain death,” they said. Colonel Kostayev disappeared
and several of the Staff followed him.
I could not see how the situation would be saved by escaping. It might
save a couple of lives, although even that was unlikely, but the
mutiny would extend and might grow beyond control. “I will go out,” I
resolved, crossed myself and dashed into the infuriated mob.
“What is the matter?” I shouted at the top of my voice. “What has
happened to you? Let me pass!”
The crowd separated and made a way for me to the stool.
“Look at her!” jeered some voices.
“Eh, eh, look at this bird!” echoed others.
“Your Excellency!” scoffed one man.
“Now,” I began sharply, as soon as I had jumped on the stool. “I am no
‘your Excellency!’ but plain Yashka! You can kill me right away, or you
can kill me a little later, five, ten minutes later. But Yashka will
not be afraid.
“I will have my say. Before you slay me I must speak my mind. Do you
know me? Do you know that I am one of you, a plain peasant soldier?”
“Yes, we do,” the men answered.
“Well,” I resumed, “why did you kill this man?” and I pointed at the
disfigured body at my feet. “He was the kindest officer in the Corps.
He never beat, never punished a soldier. He was always courteous,
to privates and officers alike. He never spoke contemptuously to any
one. Only a month ago he wanted to be transferred and you insisted on
keeping him. That was four weeks ago. Had he changed, could he have
changed, in such a short time?
“He was like a father to his men. Weren’t you always proud of him?
Didn’t you always boast that in his regiment the food was good, the
soldiers were well shod, the baths were regular? Didn’t you, of your
own accord, reward him with a Soldiers’ Cross, the highest honour that
the free Russian army has to offer?
“And now you have killed, with your own hands, this noble soul, this
rare example of human kindness. Why?
“Why did you do it?” I turned fiercely on the men.
“Because he was of the exploiting class,” came one answer.
“They all suck our blood!” shouted, some others.
“Why let her talk? Who is she that she should question us?” somebody
cried out.
“Kill her! Kill her, too! Kill them all! We have shed enough of our
blood! The bourgeois! The murderers! Kill her!” was shouted from many
throats.
“Scoundrels!” I screamed. “You will kill me yet, I am at your mercy,
and I came out to be killed. You ask why I should be allowed to talk.
You ask who I am. As if you didn’t know me! Who is Yashka Botchkareva?
“Who sent delegates to present icons to me, if not you? Who had me
promoted to the rank of an officer, if not you? Who sent me this
testimonial to Petrograd only a couple of weeks ago, if not you?”
Here I drew out from my breast pocket the resolution passed and
signed by the Corps Committee and despatched to me while I was in
the Petrograd Hospital. I had brought it with me. Pointing to the
signatures, I cried:
“You see this? Who signed it, if not you yourselves? It is signed by
the Corps Committee, your own representatives, whom you, yourselves,
elected!”
The men were silent.
“Who suffered, fought with you, if not I? Who saved your lives under
fire, if not Yashka? Don’t you remember what I did for your comrades
at Narotch, when, up to my armpits in mud, I dragged dozens of you to
safety and life?”
Here, I turned abruptly on a gaping fellow, looked directly at him and
asked:
“Suppose the rank and file were to elect their own officers. Now, what
would you do in the Commander’s place, if you were chosen? You are a
plain soldier, of the people. Tell me what you would do!” I thundered.
The man looked foolish, making an effort to laugh.
“Ha, I would see,” he said, “once I got there.”
“That is no answer. Tell me what you would do if our Corps were in the
trenches and another one refused to relieve it. What would you do?
What?” I demanded of the whole crowd.
“Would you hold the trenches indefinitely or leave? Answer me that!”
“Well, we would leave, anyhow,” replied a number of men.
“But what are you here for,” I shouted fiercely, “to hold the trenches
or not?”
“Yes, to hold,” they answered.
“Then how could you leave them?” I fired back.
There was silence.
“That would be treason to Free Russia!” I continued.
The men bowed their heads in shame. Nobody spoke.
“Then why did you kill him?” I cried out bitterly. “What did he want
you to do but hold the trenches?”
“He wanted to shoot us!” several sullen voices replied.
“He never said anything of the sort. What he wanted to say was to
explain that the General did not threaten you either, but remarked that
in other circumstances your action would be punished by shooting. No
sooner did Colonel Belonogov mention the word “shoot” than you threw
yourself upon him without even giving the man a chance to finish what
he was saying.”
“That was not what we understood. We thought he threatened to shoot
us,” the men weakly defended themselves.
At this point the orderlies and friends of the murdered Colonel rushed
up. They raised such a cry of grief when they saw the mutilated corpse
that all speech was silenced. They cursed and wept and threatened the
mob, although they were few and the crowd numbered thousands.
“Murderers! Bloodthirsty ruffians! Whom have you killed? Our little
father! Did ever soldiers have a better friend than he was? Was there
ever a commander who took greater care of his men? You are worse than
the Tsar and his hangmen. You are given freedom, and you act like
cut-throats. You devils!”
And the mourners broke out in even louder lamentations. The wailing
rent the air. It gripped everybody’s throat. Many in the mob wept. As
the dead man’s friends began to relate the various favours they had
received from him, I could not choke down my tears and stepped down
from the stool, convulsed with sobs.
Meanwhile, in response to calls for help, a division from a
neighbouring corps arrived to quell the mutiny. The Committee of the
Division came forward and demanded the surrender of the ringleaders
of the movement that had resulted in the soldiers’ refusal to return
to the trenches and in the murder of Colonel Belonogov. There were
negotiations between the two committees, which finally ended in the
surrender by the mob of twenty agitators, who were placed under arrest.
The officers who had fled and the General now reappeared, although the
latter was still afraid to order the soldiers to relieve the corps in
the trenches. He asked me to broach the subject.
I first addressed the men about the funeral.
“We must have a coffin made. Who will do it?” I asked.
Several volunteered to get some timber and make one.
“How about a grave? We must bury him with full military honours,” I
went on. Some soldiers offered their services as grave-diggers.
An officer went to look for a priest. I sent a soldier to the woods to
make a wreath. Then I turned and asked:
“Now, will you go to the trenches to relieve your comrades?”
“Yes,” the men answered meekly.
It was an unforgettable scene. These five thousand men, all so docile
and humble, some with tears still fresh on their cheeks, were like a
forlorn flock of sheep that had lost its shepherd. It seemed impossible
to believe that these men were capable of murder. You could curse
them now, you could even strike them, and they would bear it without
protest. They were conscious, deeply conscious of a great crime.
Quietly they stood, from time to time, uttering a word of regret,
engrossed in mourning. And yet these same lambs were ferocious beasts
two hours ago. All the gentleness now mirrored in their faces was then
extinguished by a hurricane of savage passion. These obedient children
had actually been inhuman a short time ago. It was incredible, and
still it was the truth.
Such is the character of the Russian people.
The coffin, an oblong box of unshaven boards, draped inside and out
with a white sheet, was brought at four o’clock. The body had been
washed, but it was impossible to restore the face to its normal
appearance. It was disfigured beyond recognition. With the help of
some of the men, I wrapped the body in canvas and placed it in the
coffin. Instead of one there were four green wreaths made. The priest
began to read the service but could not control himself and burst into
sobs. The General, the Staff, and I, with candles in our hands, were
sobbing too. Immediately behind the coffin, as the procession started,
the dead officer’s orderly wailed in heartrending tones, recalling
aloud the virtues of his master. Behind us marched almost the whole
Corps, including the Regiment commanded by the dead man. The weeping
was so general and so increased with every step that by the time the
procession reached the grave the wailing could be heard for miles
around. As the body was laid to rest everybody dropped a handful of
sand into the grave. The lips of all were moving in prayer.
The order was given that by seven o’clock the Corps should be moved to
relieve the soldiers at the fighting line. I went to my girls and gave
the word for them to be ready too. They had heard of the disturbance
and had passed some anxious moments, and therefore they gave me a
hearty welcome. The General had telephoned to the front line that the
Corps was a few hours late and asked the soldiers there to remain in
the trenches for the night. The distance that we had to cover was about
ten miles, and we arrived at the front before dawn.
The Battalion, now consisting of only some two hundred women, occupied
a small sector to itself, opposite the town of Kreva. There was no
sign of actual warfare at the fighting line. Neither the Germans nor
the Russians used their arms. Fraternization was general. There was a
virtual, if not formal, truce. The men met every day, indulged in long
arguments and drank beer brought by the Germans.
I could not tolerate such war and ordered my women to conduct
themselves as if everything were as usual. The men became very
irritated by our militant attitude toward the enemy. A group of them,
with the Chairman of the Regimental Committee, came over to our trench
to discuss the matter.
“Who are our enemies?” began the Chairman. “Surely, not the Germans
who want peace. It’s the bourgeoisie, the ruling class, that is the
real enemy of the people. It’s against them that we ought to wage war,
for they would not listen to the German peace proposals. Why does not
Kerensky obtain peace for us? Because the Allies will not let him.
Well, we will very soon drive Kerensky out of his office!”
“But I am not of the ruling class. I am a plain peasant woman,” I
objected. “I have been a soldier since the beginning of the war and
have fought in many battles. Don’t agitate here against officers.”
“Oh, I don’t mean you,” he replied; trying to win me over to the
pacificist idea. Several German soldiers joined the Russian group. The
discussion became heated. They repeated the old argument that the
Germans had asked for peace and that the Allies had not accepted it. I
replied that the Germans could have peace with Russia if they withdrew
from the invaded parts of our country. So long as they kept our land,
it was the duty of every Russian to fight and drive them out.
Thus life dragged on. Nights and days passed in discussions. Kerensky
had almost entirely lost his hold on the men, who were drifting more
and more toward Bolshevism. Finally, the feud between Kerensky and
Kornilov reached a crisis. Kerensky asked the Commander-in-Chief by
telephone to send some loyal troops to Petrograd, apparently realizing
that his days were numbered. Kornilov replied with a message through
Alexeiev, requesting a written certificate from Kerensky, investing
the Commander-in-Chief with full authority to restore discipline in
the army. It would seem that Kornilov was willing to save Kerensky,
provided the latter allowed him to save the front.
But Kerensky evidently saw in this an opportunity of restoring his
fallen prestige and securing his position. He therefore turned against
Kornilov, publicly declaring that the latter was aiming at supreme
power and he appealed to the workmen and soldiers to rise against the
Commander of the army. The result was the brief encounter between
the revolutionary masses and Kornilov’s Savage Division. Kornilov
was defeated. Kerensky triumphed, and for the moment it looked as
if he had attained his object. All the radical forces were united
and Kerensky, as the saviour of the revolution from an attempt at a
counter-revolution, again became the idol of the soldiers and the
working class.
The larger part of the army sided with Kerensky when he appealed for
support against Kornilov. But this did not last long. Kerensky little
by little lost the confidence of the masses which he had suddenly
acquired, because he did not bring them the much desired peace.
Those of the soldiers and officers who sided with Kornilov were
nicknamed _Kornilovetz_. To call a man by this name was equivalent to
calling him a counter-revolutionary, an advocate of the old régime, or
an enemy of the people.
The inactivity of life in the trenches became wearisome. One rainy day
I sent out a listening party into No Man’s Land, with instructions to
shoot at the enemy in case of his approach. I watched the party go
forward. Suddenly, a group of Germans, numbering about ten, came in the
direction of our trenches. They walked along at their ease with their
hands in their pockets, some whistling, others singing. I aimed my
rifle at the leg of one of the troop and wounded him.
The whole front was in an uproar in a second. It was scandalous! Who
dared do such a thing! The Germans and the Russians were seething with
rage. Several of my women came running up to me greatly alarmed.
“Commander, why did you do that?” they asked, seeing me with a smoking
rifle in hand.
A number of soldiers who were friends of mine next hastened into
our trench to warn me of the men’s ugly temper and threats. I told
them that I saw the Germans approach my girls and make an effort at
flirtation. But this defence did not appease the soldiers. They placed
machine guns in the first trench and were preparing to slaughter us
all. Fortunately, we were informed in time and were hidden in a side
trench. The machine guns raked our position, without causing any
casualties. The firing was finally interrupted by the sharp orders
of the Chairman of the Regimental Committee. I was called before him
to give an explanation. I bade farewell to my girls, telling them
that there would probably be a repetition of the episode of Colonel
Belonogov’s lynching.
I was received by the men with threats and ugly words.
“Kill her!”
“She’s a Kornilovka!”
“Make an end of her!”
I was surrounded by the members of the committee, who kept back the
mob. Several speakers rose in my defence, but hardly succeeded in
appeasing the crowd. Then an officer got up to talk in my behalf. He
was a popular speaker. But this time his popularity did not avail him.
He said that I was right. He would have done the same thing had he been
in my place. That was as far as he got.
“Aha, so you are a Kornilovetz too!” shouted the crowd. “Kill him! Kill
him!”
In an instant the man was thrown off the chair and struck on the head.
In another instant he was crushed to death under a thousand heels.
Then the mob swayed in my direction. But the committee seized me and
carried me off to the rear, hiding me in a dugout. One of my girls,
Medvedovskaya, was placed at the entrance to guard it.
Meanwhile, my girls heard what had happened and hurried to my aid. The
mob dispersed to look for me and some of the men came to the dugout in
which I was concealed.
“Where is Botchkareva? Let us in to see if she is there!” they shouted.
The girl sentry said she had orders to shoot if they approached near
her. They did. She-fired, wounding one in the side.
The poor girl was bayoneted by the brutes.
The committee and my friends, numbering about one hundred, insisted
that I should be given a trial and not lynched. My girls were ready
to die for me to the last one. I was taken out from the dugout by my
defenders, who made an effort to lead me to safety for an open trial.
The mob, which had now increased, pressed closer and closer. The two
sides were fighting for me. It was agreed that no weapons were to be
used in the scramble. The mass of humanity swayed back and forth, my
girls fighting with the strength of infuriated wild beasts to stave off
the mob. Now and then a man would get close enough to strike a blow at
me. As the struggle developed these blows increased in number till I
was knocked senseless. In that state my friends dragged me away from
the scene of the struggle.
My life was saved, although I was badly knocked about. It cost the
lives of a loyal girl and an innocent friend. I was sent to Molodechno,
a couple of my girls going with me to look after me. The Battalion was
taken from the front to the reserve billets. But even there their lives
were not safe. They were insulted, annoyed, and dubbed Kornilovki.
There were daily tumults. The windows of their dugouts were broken. The
officers were powerless and seldom showed their faces. My instructors
did their best to defend me and the Battalion, explaining that we were
non-party.
One morning a car came for me from Headquarters at Molodechno. There I
met the Commanding General of my Corps, who described the unbearable
conditions in which my girls were placed. They were waiting for me,
refusing to go home, unless I disbanded them. He had sent them to dig
reserve trenches in order to keep them away from the men. They did
splendid work, he said, but as soon as they returned the men began to
molest them. Only the previous night a gang of soldiers made an assault
on the dugouts in which my girls were billeted. They beat the sentry
and broke in with the intention of attacking the women. There was a
panic. Some of the girls seized their rifles and fired in the air.
The noise attracted the attention of my instructors and several other
soldiers, among whom there were numerous decent men. The situation was
saved by the latter.
But what was to be done? Life for the Battalion was becoming absolutely
unbearable, at least at this part of the front. It was difficult to
understand the change which had come over the men in a few months. How
long ago was it that they almost worshipped me, and I loved them? Now
they seemed to have lost their senses.
The General advised me to disband the Battalion. But that would be to
admit failure and despair as to my country’s condition. I was not ready
to make such admissions. No, I would not disband my unit. I would fight
to the end. The General could not understand my point of view. Was not
the case hopeless since the soldiers had turned machine guns on the
Battalion? Wouldn’t I have been lynched but for the desperate struggle
of my girls and the soldiers who were my friends? So I resolved to go
to Petrograd and ask Kerensky to transfer me to a fighting sector.
I went to see my girls before leaving for the capital. It was a
pathetic meeting. They were glad to learn of my intended journey. They
could not stand it much longer where they were. They were prepared
to fight the Germans, to be tortured by them, to die at their hands
or in prison camps. But they were not prepared for the torments and
humiliation that they were made to suffer by our own men. That had
never entered into our calculations at the time the Battalion was
formed.
I took my documents with me and left the same evening, telling my
soldiers that I would not stay away longer than a week, which was the
limit that they set on their endurance. Upon my arrival in Petrograd
I went to the quarters occupied by the Battalion while in training.
It was evident at a glance that an atmosphere of depression weighed
heavily on the Russian capital. The smiles and rejoicings were gone
from the streets. There was gloom in the air and in everybody’s eyes.
Food was very scarce. Red Guards were plentiful. Bolshevism walked the
streets openly and defiantly, as if its day had already come.
My friends, who had taken an interest in the Battalion, were horrified
to learn of conditions at the front. Their accounts of the state of
affairs at the capital depressed me greatly. Kerensky, after his
dispute with Kornilov, had cut himself off completely from his friends
and acquaintances of the upper classes. I went to General Anosov,
telling him of my mission. But he would not accompany me anywhere,
although he placed his motor-car at my disposal. I drove to the
Commander of the Military District, General Vasilkovsky, a Cossack, who
looked impressive and strong, but was actually a weakling. He received
me cordially and asked the purpose of my visit to the city. He had
heard of the rough handling I had endured and expressed his sympathy.
“But,” he added, “no one is safe in these days. I, myself, expect
to be thrown out at any time. It is a matter of days, of hours, for
the Government. Another revolution is ripening and is close upon us.
Bolshevism is everywhere, in the factories and in the barracks. And how
are things at the front?”
“The same or even worse,” I answered, and I told him of all my trials
and troubles, and the help I expected to obtain from him and the War
Minister.
“Nothing can help you now,” he said. “The authorities are powerless.
Orders are not worth the paper on which they are issued. I am going now
to Verkhovsky, the new War Minister. Would you like to come with me?”
On the way we discussed Verkhovsky’s appointment. He was the same man
who, as Commander of the Moscow Military District, had rescued me from
the mob at Moscow some weeks before. He was a very popular leader and
had considerable influence with the soldiers.
“Perhaps if he had been appointed some months ago he might have saved
the army. But it is too late now,” said Vasilkovsky.
When we arrived at the War Ministry, we found that Kerensky was in
Verkhovsky’s study. We were announced, and I was asked to come in
first. As I opened the door I saw immediately that all was lost. The
Prime Minister and the War Minister were both standing. They presented
a pathetic, heart-breaking sight. Kerensky looked like a corpse. There
was not a vestige of colour in his face. His eyes were red as if he
had not slept for nights. Verkhovsky seemed to me like a man who is
drowning, reaching for help. My heart sank. War had made me callous,
and I was seldom shocked. But this time I was nearly overcome by
the sight of these two agonized figures. I saw the agony of Russia
reflected in their despairing faces.
They made an effort to smile, but it was a failure. The War Minister
then inquired how things were at the front. “We heard you were roughly
treated,” he said.
I gave a detailed account of everything that I had myself witnessed
and experienced. I told them in detail about the lynching of Colonel
Belonogov, of the officer who tried to defend me, of the bayoneting of
my girl, of the machine guns that were turned on me because I wounded
one of the enemy.
Kerensky seized his head in his hands and cried out:
“Oh, horror! horror! We are perishing! We are drowning!”
There was a tense, painful pause.
I ended my story with the suggestion that action was urgently needed or
all would be wrecked.
“Yes, action is needed, but what action? What is to be done now? What
would you do if you were to be given authority over the army? You are a
common soldier, tell me what you would do?”
“It is too late now,” I answered after thinking a little time. “Two
months ago I could have accomplished a great deal. Then they still
respected me. Now they hate me.”
“Ah!” exclaimed the War Minister. “Two months ago I might have saved
the situation myself, if I had only been here then!”
We then discussed the purpose of my journey. I asked for a transfer
to a more active part of the front and for a certificate that the
Battalion was to be run without committees. This certificate I
obtained from the War Minister without delay, and I still have it in
my possession. He also agreed to my first request and promised to look
into the matter and issue orders for my transfer.
Kerensky was silent during the conversation. He stood like a ghost, the
symbol of once mighty Russia. Four months before he was the idol of the
nation. Now almost all had turned against him. As I looked at him I
felt I was in the presence of that immense tragedy which was rending my
country into fragments. Something seemed to clutch my throat and shake
me. I wanted to cry, to sob. My heart dripped blood for Mother Russia.
What would I not have done to avert that impending catastrophe? How
many deaths would I not have died at that moment?
Here was my country drifting towards an abyss. I could see it sliding
down, down, down.... And here were the heads of the Government
powerless, helpless, clinging hopelessly to the doomed ship, despairing
of salvation, abandoned, forlorn, stricken....
“God only knows the future--shall we ever meet again?” I asked the two
men in a stifled voice, as I bade them farewell.
Kerensky, livid, motionless, answered in a hoarse whisper:
“Hardly.”
Part Four
TERROR