Daughters of victory, p.30
Daughters of Victory, page 30
My time to forget would be all too short; morning would carry it away like the sun washing across the sky until no evidence of darkness remained. For now, I was present, fully and completely, with the way my whole body tingled, wanting—needing—him. My soul ached for his. It was an ache far too strong to satiate; the more we came to know one another, the more the yearning both eased and intensified. Perhaps it would never be satisfied, but I permitted it to expand and constrict, to rise and fall, to find fulfillment and yet seek more, always more. I focused on today and everything I dared to believe it might bring.
Today was all that was promised, but I hoped for today and thousands of tomorrows.
Part 3
There is no sphere of our life where the Cheka does not have its eagle eye.
—G. MOROZ IN IZVESTIA, 6 NOVEMBER 1918
Svetlana
August–September 1918
Chapter 42
Moscow, 30 August 1918
I paced the length of the bedroom next to Kazimir’s, my cell for more than a month since he had accused me of treachery, taken my pistol, and forbidden me from working with the party. My only company had been Vera and Fanya, who tried to visit me once a day but did not always manage it. As for what Kazimir intended to do with me, he had not said, and Vera insisted he had not confided in her. Life imprisonment, perhaps, though many were clamoring for my execution. If the party pressured him enough, I was certain he would do it.
Whatever Kazimir’s plans for me, they no longer mattered. He had kept me alive these last weeks, so I would be gone before he had a chance to carry out further punishment. The day of Lenin’s scheduled speech in Moscow had arrived. The day Vera and Fanya—despite their feelings about the matter—had promised to help me target him, to stop the increase of Bolshevik power, to encourage Orlova to come for me at last. Then I would go to Kiev. To Tatiana.
A little shiver went through me as I paced. Fanya watched; she had given up trying to make me sit down.
When the door opened, I hurried to meet Vera. “Did you get it?”
She presented my Browning. This pistol, my steadfast companion, its loyalty unwavering. Two tasks left for us to fulfill. Blinking past sudden tears smarting against my eyes, I tucked the gun into my waistband.
“I bribed a boy to deliver a message to Kazimir as if from another SR contingent, asking for a meeting to discuss the Bolsheviks,” Vera said. “He’s leaving now. I’ll make sure the route to the back exit is clear, but the hotel is quiet today, so we shouldn’t have trouble. Be ready when I return.”
When she was gone, I field-stripped my pistol, giving it a thorough cleaning and inspection, then filled my pockets with the extra cartridges and magazines Vera had brought. Fanya did the same. Though I had not asked her to join me, she had insisted.
We had spent this entire revolution side by side. It was only fitting we finish it that way.
Once ready, we sat on the bed. The feeling in my stomach wasn’t the usual knot of tension. It was a rush—warm, almost giddy. I closed my eyes, savoring it.
How often did Tatiana wonder what had happened to her parents, or what had put her in Saint Anne’s Foundling Hospital? Soon she would know the truth. When we were settled somewhere entirely our own, I would teach her how to load a pistol and aim at her target; tell her how, with the help of a dear uncle who had given his life for the cause, Mama had defied her class, joined the revolution, and saved it from the brink of collapse. My life had been oppression and bloodshed; together with my daughter, ours would be freedom and hope.
I looked to Fanya beside me. The day of the bomb plot, we had sat on our bed in our dingy apartment in Kiev, each loath to break the quiet. I had given birth days prior and was still in so much pain, so fragile, the emptiness taking up all the space inside me even as I kept it enclosed, sealed away until the work was done.
“Did you build the bomb?” I asked, giving Fanya a teasing nudge.
She laughed. “After today, if I have to spend another decade in a katorga with you, there will be hell to pay, Svetlana Vasilyevna.”
* * *
WHEN WE REACHED the Serpukhovsky District in south Moscow, the sun was bright, its heat relentless. The Mikhelson Armaments Factory stretched down the street, four stories of weathered bricks consuming most of Partiynyy Pereulok. The surrounding buildings were weak and tired, pummeled by missiles from the revolution.
Fanya, Vera, and I sat on a bench in the small square across from the factory. Streetlamps lined the quiet little park, while a group of sparrows perched in a young oak and hopped through a patch of grass. None of the surrounding trees or shrubs were large enough to obscure my line of fire once I assumed the position I had in mind. Across the square, on Pavlovskaya Street, a dilapidated building stood tall, with boarded windows and crumbling bricks—perhaps a hotel at some point, close enough for me to see and hear during the speech. The perfect location.
I tilted my head toward the decrepit establishment. “There.”
Vera pulled her gaze from the sparrows that had migrated to the sidewalk, then nodded. “I’ll go back to stall Kazimir in case he returns. Get a message to me when this job is done, and after you’ve faced Orlova, assuming you succeed.”
It was the only part of our plan that left an ache in my chest—the uncertainty of what awaited Vera at the hotel once my absence was detected. “Are you sure you want to go back?”
She nodded again, drawing a resolute breath. “He’ll listen to me.”
True enough; he would believe her if she feigned ignorance of my scheme, and I would not allow Vera to acknowledge her awareness and give up her place with the cause for my sake. When I spoke, I hardly trusted my voice. “I appreciate everything you’ve done.” Cries echoed in my head, the newborn shrieks fading as every step carried me farther from Saint Anne’s Foundling Hospital. Now every step carried me closer.
Vera’s hazel eyes gleamed as she looked to me. “We will meet again,” she said softly, as if saying so aloud would guarantee our lives beyond the revolution.
Then she rose, turned, and strolled across the square to Pavlovskaya Street, scattering the sparrows as she went.
Fanya let out a breath, softening the deep lines across her brow. “I’ll be with the crowd.”
“You don’t want to wait with me?”
“And miss a front-row seat to the best show in Moscow?” Though her manner was light, the unspoken message was clear. We always stayed together during missions.
“Your eyes?”
She stared at the factory while a slight wind carried her murmur to me. “It gets worse each day. I’m nearly blind.”
It was no use suggesting she wait for me at Hotel Petrov or anywhere else. When Kazimir discovered my absence, neither of us would be safe, and we needed to stay together. After this, we planned to meet outside an old bookstore a few blocks away, then find somewhere to stay until I was finished with Orlova, then go to Kiev.
Another breeze swept over us, cooling the warm droplets on my skin, stoking the steady burn inside me as it waited to be unleashed. The usual knot settled in my stomach, so I took a breath.
“If I’m caught—”
“I’ll go straight to Kiev.”
My rehearsed speech fled from my mind, replaced by the final touch of tranquility I had been missing. Still, I had to be certain.
“I realize I have no right to ask this of you. And that I’ve effectively banished both of us from our contingent.”
“The revolution was over for me the moment I blew up the café. You helped me remain a part of it anyway.” She fell silent before holding my gaze. “Finish this if you feel you must, Sveta. No matter what happens, Tatiana won’t be left alone. I promise.”
A swell rose into my throat, so I swallowed hard; I clasped her hand, letting the gesture communicate what my words didn’t. One simple statement was all I managed.
“You are a dear friend, Fanya.”
Her eyes shone, but a different light joined, the same one reflected in her gaze before we set off the bomb in Kiev. Our actions were grave, necessary, yet nothing would be the same after this.
With a newfound weight in my chest, I made my way to the abandoned building.
I circled the exterior and found a broken window in the back. It was as if the place wanted me inside. After sweeping a few stray shards of glass away, I climbed through, while a rat scuttled into the shadows, chittering in annoyance. Dusty, stale air settled, thick with decay and rot, and I coughed to relieve my lungs. The building creaked. Perhaps warning me away, perhaps inviting me farther in.
Around me I found a broken coffee table and a decrepit armchair, an old clock with its hands frozen in time, and a front desk. A lobby, if this had once been a hotel as I’d surmised. I crossed the wooden floor and ascended the stairs, flight after flight, until I lost count and the steps ended with a single wooden door. I pushed it open.
The door squealed in agitation and sent a cloud of dust to assault me. Once again, I coughed, and waited for it to settle, then I stepped across the threshold.
The attic. Worn planks beneath my feet; tiny sets of tracks through the filth; cobwebs draped along every surface like strands of lace. Miscellaneous pieces of furniture—a broken headboard, a yellowed mattress, a stained rug, stacks of books, a young lady’s portrait, a small desk with an old typewriter, a paperweight carved in the shape of an eagle. Across from the door was a single window, tall and narrow.
Each step sent up a fresh cloud of dust. When I reached the window, I used my sleeve to clean the dirt and smudges from the pane, but the view remained cloudy. Instead, I cracked it open—difficult, until it succumbed with a little shriek. Fresh air poured inside, so I drank it in.
Below, I had a clear view of the square, where Fanya remained, and Partiynyy Pereulok, where the front door to the factory stood about halfway down the block. Before the door, a small stage and podium had been set up for his speech, as though waiting to hail a hero.
I moved out of direct sight to wait. My Browning was loaded, as always, but I checked to make certain.
The first few bullets were Lenin’s, the next for when she came for me. Those were reserved for Orlova.
* * *
THE HOURS PASSED. I stayed in position, hardly moving. The single thought of my mission consumed me, while every beat of my heart reminded me of my target.
At last, the crowd gathered below, each person difficult to distinguish from this height, but I had seen him countless times in newspapers and on propaganda posters. I would recognize him when he came. Maybe I would fire before he had the chance to address them.
No, better to wait. That would show him exactly what I thought of his speech.
As the crowd began to shift, a black car turned onto Partiynyy Pereulok. My finger drifted toward the trigger, while the heat inside me threatened to spill over; I quelled the urge. Now was not the time. I kept my eyes on the car as it stopped in the middle of the street.
The door opened, revealing a bald head and thick dark mustache. Again, the heat pulsing through me encouraged my finger closer to the trigger. I resisted. When he stepped onto the pavement, a roar rose from the crowd while he buttoned his dark three-piece suit jacket, adjusted his tie, and placed his flat cap onto his head. He lifted his hand in a wave before disappearing into the factory, passing Red Guards stationed by the door.
A breeze encouraged a few wisps of hair to fall into my eyes, so I pushed them back. I stayed to the side, hidden from those below, but pressed closer to the window.
Lenin didn’t stay indoors long, too eager to deliver his speech to his horde of adoring subjects. He stepped up to the podium amid a steady ovation while the onlookers moved as one entity, surging closer. Poor Fanya, trapped among them. When the applause died, he spoke.
“We Bolsheviks are constantly being accused of forsaking the slogans of equality and fraternity.”
Such whining. If he found the accusations offensive, he should have been open to a Constituent Assembly—a true chance for equality as opposed to single-party rule. I waited while he droned, but I had a mind to interrupt the speech multiple times. Each time, I stayed my hand.
“And our task today is to carry on our revolutionary work . . .”
How much longer would I have to endure this? Beads of sweat gathered along my brow, and I wiped them aside while his bellows floated through the window to assault my ears. At last, Lenin raised his voice in an exuberant cry, a clear finale to his proclamations, a call to arms.
“We have only one alternative: Victory or death!”
Finally, something we agreed upon.
The crowd cheered while I took aim.
Lenin moved through the crowd as it parted to make a path to his car. His driver opened the door and stepped back, waiting for him. I pulled back my slide. When it snapped, I released the fire inside me. The one that never missed its target.
Victory or death.
Three smooth, quick shots, and the world below erupted. Even from this height, I saw the places of impact—his coat, his chest, his neck. Blood as crimson as the Bolshevik flag poured from the wounds while he collapsed amid the scattering crowd’s screams. Red Guards swarmed into the masses, seeming to believe the shots had come from the crowd. I waited, prepared to fire again if necessary, longing for the pronouncement of his death, when the door behind me screeched on its hinges.
Fanya must have decided to join me, to celebrate our victory together.
No, not Fanya. A man.
His frame took up the entirety of the narrow doorway as he stepped from the shadows, the smell of cigarette smoke joining the gun smoke around me. Shaggy black hair, thick beard, piercing eyes glowering at me as they never had before, the usual ember glow caught between his lips. Even if I hadn’t been stunned into silence, he left me no time to speak or react.
Kazimir leveled his revolver at me and fired.
Chapter 43
Khimki Forest, 31 August 1918
When I woke, my entire body was stiff and sore, but the heaviest ache was concentrated upon the left side of my scalp.
Where his bullet had struck.
Was this death? As much pain and misery in the second life as in the first? My mother had always talked about eternal rewards; I supposed my reward was the everlasting discomfort of my death blow. If so, I accepted it along with the pain and misery accompanying it. All the agony in the world had no power to take away my accomplishment.
The thought sent a flicker of warmth over me. I opened my eyes, blinking and pushing through the fog inside my mind.
If this was hell, it was unimpressive. Not the flames of eternal damnation but a tiny, decrepit wooden structure and a pitched roof overhead. An izba, perhaps. The logs forming the cottage resembled spruce; on the far wall was a large white pech; across from it, a small bed. Shelves lined the walls; in the center of the room, chairs surrounded a square table, where an oil lamp rested, providing light in addition to that from a single window. Through the filthy pane, I glimpsed blurry outlines resembling a forest.
Ropes secured my wrists to a chair’s armrests and my ankles to its legs.
I wasn’t dead. What kind of incompetent fool failed to assassinate his target and chose to kidnap her instead?
The chair was constructed of a light wood—perhaps also spruce—but dark stains surrounded my arms, the seat, and the floor around me. Countless measures of blood had been spilled here. I tugged on the bonds; with a little work, they would loosen.
A whiff of rose and honey, evidence of a scented oil, blended with stale traces of blood, vomit, and piss, so pungent and cloying I fought a gag. I shifted, acutely aware of the emptiness against the small of my back. That bastard had taken my pistol again.
“Kazimir.” A croak, but I continued, undeterred, until my voice regained strength. “Where are you? Get in here, Kazimir, I know you can hear me!”
As I shouted and thrashed against my bonds, the ropes cut into my skin with every movement. A few rope burns would not deter me. I would gnaw through the ropes if that was what it took, and by the time I was finished with Kazimir, he would be wishing I had assassinated him instead of Lenin.
When the door swung open, bringing a sudden burst of light, Kazimir said nothing.
“What the hell is this?” I asked through my teeth. “Is it so difficult to shoot me properly?”
A muscle in his jaw twitched. “How many times did I warn you not to sabotage the revolution?”
I opened my mouth to retort but stopped, caught on one word. Sabotage. Did he consider fighting the Bolsheviks sabotage?
Meeting my incredulous gaze, he answered the unspoken question. “The Bolsheviks take particular interest in the surviving family of those executed alongside Aleksandr Ilych Ulyanov, Comrade Lenin’s brother, and learned my father was among the condemned. After the uprising, they helped me realize a successful revolution and avenging my father meant working with the Ulyanov family, as he had.”
Each breath fell shallow, painful. At last, the abrupt shift in his leadership made sense, the way he promoted propaganda and organized meetings but had ceased taking aggressive action against the Bolsheviks. His allegiance had changed. All this time, he had accused me of being disloyal when he was the real traitor.
“Uncle Misha and your father had mutual friends. You always told me that those connections led you to the Socialist Revolutionary Party.”
“And now the Bolshevik Party is the only remaining hope,” he snapped, then he grabbed my shoulders. “If you wanted me and what was best for this revolution, you would not have fought either one.” He tightened his grip as his voice softened into a sudden break. “I wanted success. I wanted us, Sveta.”
My heart twisted as he turned away; I had wanted the same more than I had ever admitted, though not at the price of my ideals. Not even for him.
“Kazimir,” I said softly, “there’s something you—”
