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Title: Yashka
        My life as peasant, exile and soldier

Author: Mariia Bochkareva
        Isaac Don Levine

Release date: March 6, 2023 [eBook #70213]

Language: English

Original publication: United Kingdom: Constable and Company Limited, 1919

Credits: The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK YASHKA ***





                                YASHKA

                            [Illustration]




                                 YASHKA

                       MY LIFE AS PEASANT, EXILE
                              AND SOLDIER

                                   BY

                           MARIA BOTCHKAREVA

                        Commander of the Russian
                       Women’s Battalion of Death

                             AS SET DOWN BY

                            ISSAC DON LEVINE

                                 LONDON

                         CONSTABLE AND COMPANY
                                LIMITED




                         _First published 1919_

                         _Copyright, 1919, by_
                      FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY

                         _All Rights Reserved_




                               CONTENTS


  CHAP.                                                             PAGE

  I MY CHILDHOOD OF TOIL                                               1

  II MARRIAGE AT FIFTEEN                                              13

  III A LITTLE HAPPINESS                                              25

  IV THE ROAD TO EXILE                                                43

  V ESCAPE FROM EXILE                                                 57

  VI I ENLIST BY THE GRACE OF THE TSAR                                69

  VII MY FIRST EXPERIENCE OF NO MAN’S LAND                            84

  VIII WOUNDED AND PARALYSED                                         101

  IX EIGHT HOURS IN GERMAN HANDS                                     121

  X THE REVOLUTION AT THE FRONT                                      135

  XI I ORGANIZE THE BATTALION OF DEATH                               151

  XII MY FIGHT AGAINST COMMITTEE RULE                                169

  XIII THE BATTALION AT THE FRONT                                    181

  XIV ERRAND FROM KERENSKY TO KORNILOV                               206

  XV THE ARMY BECOMES A SAVAGE MOB                                   227

  XVI THE TRIUMPH OF BOLSHEVISM                                      247

  XVII FACING LENIN AND TROTZKY                                      260

  XVIII CAUGHT IN A BOLSHEVIK DEATH-TRAP                             279

  XIX SAVED BY A MIRACLE                                             297

  XX I SET OUT ON A MISSION                                          312




                             INTRODUCTION


In the early summer of 1917 the world was thrilled by a news item
from Petrograd announcing the formation by one Maria Botchkareva of
a women’s fighting unit under the name of “The Battalion of Death.”
With this announcement an obscure Russian peasant girl made her début
in the international hall of fame. From the depths of dark Russia
Maria Botchkareva suddenly emerged into the limelight of modern
publicity. Foreign correspondents sought her, photographers followed
her, distinguished visitors paid their respects to her. All tried
to interpret this arresting personality. The result was a riot of
misinformation and misunderstanding.

Of the numerous published tales about and interviews with Botchkareva
that have come under my observation, there is hardly one which does not
contain some false or misleading statement. This is partly due to the
deplorable fact that the foreign journalists who interpreted Russian
men and affairs to the world during the momentous year of 1917 were,
with very few exceptions, ignorant of the Russian language; and partly
to Botchkareva’s reluctance to take every adventurous stranger into her
confidence. It was her cherished dream to have a complete record of her
life incorporated in a book some day. This work is the realization of
that dream.

To a very considerable extent, therefore, the narrative here unfolded
is of the nature of a confession. When in the United States in the
summer of 1918, Botchkareva determined to prepare her autobiography.
Had she been educated enough to be able to write a letter fluently,
she would probably have written her own life-story in Russian and then
had it translated into English. Being semi-illiterate, she found it
necessary to secure the services of a writer commanding a knowledge of
her native language, which is the only tongue she speaks. The procedure
followed in the writing of this book was this: Botchkareva recited to
me in Russian the story of her life, and I recorded it in English in
longhand, making every effort to set down her narrative verbatim. Not
infrequently I would interrupt her with a question intended to draw out
some forgotten experiences. However, one of Botchkareva’s natural gifts
is an extraordinary memory. It took nearly a hundred hours, distributed
over a period of three weeks, for her to tell me every detail of her
romantic life.

At our first session Botchkareva made it clear that what she was going
to tell me would be very different from the stories about her related
in the press. She would reveal her innermost self and break open for
the first time the sealed book of her past. This she did, and in
doing so completely discredited several widely circulated tales about
her. Perhaps the chief of these is the statement that Botchkareva
had enlisted as a soldier and gone to war to avenge her fallen
husband. Whether this invention was the product of her own mind or was
attributed to her originally by some prolific correspondent, I do not
know. In any event it was a convenient answer to the eternal question
of importunate journalists how she came to be a soldier. Unable to
explain to the conventional world that profound impulse which really
drove her to her remarkable destiny, she adopted this excuse until she
had an opportunity to record the full story of her courageous life.

This book will also remove that distrustful attitude based on
misunderstanding that has been manifested toward Botchkareva in radical
circles. When she arrived in the United States, she was immediately
hailed as a “counter-revolutionary,” royalist and sinister intriguer by
the extremists. That was a grave injustice to her. She is ignorant of
politics, contemptuous of intrigue, and spiritually far and above party
strife. Her mission in life was to free Russia from the German yoke.

Being placed virtually in the position of a father confessor, it was my
privilege to commune with the spirit of this remarkable peasant-woman,
a privilege I shall ever esteem as priceless. She not only laid bare
before me every detail of her amazing life that memory could resurrect,
but also allowed me to explore the nooks and corners of her heart to a
degree that no friend of hers ever did. Maintaining a critical attitude
from the beginning of our association, I was gradually overwhelmed by
the largeness of her soul.

Wherein does the greatness of Botchkareva lie? Mrs. Emmeline Pankhurst
called her the greatest woman of the century. “The woman that saved
France was Joan of Arc--a peasant girl,” wrote a correspondent in
July, 1917, “Maria Botchkareva is her modern parallel.” Indeed, in the
annals of history since the days of the Maid of Orleans we encounter no
feminine figure equal to Botchkareva. Like Joan of Arc, this Russian
peasant girl dedicated her life to her country’s cause. If Botchkareva
failed--and this is yet problematical, for who will dare forecast the
future of Russia--it would not lessen her greatness. Success in our
materialistic age is no measure of true genius.

Like Joan of Arc, Botchkareva is the symbol of her country. Can
there be a more striking incarnation of France than that conveyed by
the image of Joan of Arc? Botchkareva is an astounding typification
of peasant Russia, with all her virtues and vices. Educated to the
extent of being able to scribble her own name with difficulty, she is
endowed with the genius of logic. Ignorant of history and literature,
the natural lucidity of her mind is such as to lead her directly
to the very few fundamental truths of life. Religious with all the
fervour of her primitive soul, she is tolerant in a fashion befitting
a philosopher. Devoted to her country with every fibre of her being,
she is free from impassioned partisanship and selfish patriotism.
Overflowing with good nature and kindness, she is yet capable of savage
outbursts and brutal acts. Credulous and trustful as a child, she can
be easily incited against people and things. Intrepid and rash as a
fighter, her desire to live on occasions was indescribably pathetic.
In a word, Botchkareva embodies all those paradoxical characteristics
of Russian nature that have made Russia a puzzle to the world. These
traits are illustrated almost in every page of this book. Take away
from Russia the veneer of western civilization and you behold her
incarnation in Botchkareva. Know Botchkareva and you will know Russia,
that inchoate, invincible, agonized, striving, rising colossus in all
its depth and breadth.

It must be made unmistakably clear here that the motives responsible
for this book were purely personal. In its origin this work is
exclusively a human document, a record of an exuberant life. It was the
purpose of Botchkareva and the writer to keep the narrative down to a
strict recital of facts. It is really incidental that this record is
valuable not only as a biography of a startling personality, but as a
revelation of certain phases of a momentous period in human history;
not only as a human document, but as an historical document as well.
Because Botchkareva always has been and still is strictly non-partisan
and because she does not pretend to pass judgment upon events and
men, her revelations are of prime importance. The reader gets a
picture of Kerensky in action that completely effaces all that has
hitherto been said of this tragic but typical product of the Russian
_intelligentsia_. Kornilov, Rodzianko, Lenin and Trotzky and some other
outstanding personalities of the Russian revolution appear in these
pages exactly as they are in reality.

Not a single book, as far as I know, has appeared yet giving an account
of how the Russian army at the front reacted to the Revolution. What
was the state of mind of the Russian soldier in the trenches, which
was after all the decisive factor in the developments that followed,
during the first eight months of 1917? No history of unshackled Russia
will be complete without an answer to this vital question. This book is
the first to disclose the reactions and emotions of the vast Russian
army at the front to the tremendous issues of the revolution, and is of
especial value coming from a veteran peasant soldier of the rank and
file.

Perhaps surpassing all else in interest is the horrible picture we get
of Bolshevism in action. With the claims of theoretical Bolshevism
to establish an order of social equality on earth Botchkareva has
no quarrel. She said so to Lenin and Trotzky personally. But then
come her experiences with Bolshevism in practice, and there follows
a blood-freezing narrative of the rule of mobocracy that will live
forever in the memory of the reader.

Botchkareva left the United States towards the end of July, 1918, after
having attained the purpose of her visit--an interview with President
Wilson. She went to England and thence to Archangel, where she arrived
early in September. According to a newspaper despatch she caused the
following proclamation to be posted in village squares and country
churches:

“I am a Russian peasant and soldier. At the request of the soldiers and
peasants I went to America and Great Britain to ask these countries for
military help for Russia.

“The Allies understand our own misfortunes and I return with the Allied
armies, which have come only for the purpose of helping to drive out
our deadly enemies, the Germans, and not to interfere with our internal
affairs. After the war is over the Allied troops will leave Russian
soil.

“I, for my own part, request all loyal free sons of Russia, without
reference to party, to come together acting as one with the Allied
forces, who, under the Russian flag, come to free Russia from the
German yoke and to help the new free Russian army with all forces,
including Russia, to beat the enemy.

“Soldiers and peasants! Remember that only a full, clean sweep of the
Germans from our soil can give you the free Russia you long for.”

                                                      ISAAC DON LEVINE.




                                YASHKA




                               Part One

                                 YOUTH




                               CHAPTER I

                         MY CHILDHOOD OF TOIL


My father, Leonti Semenovitch Frolkov, was born into serfdom at
Nikolsko, a village in the province of Novgorod, some two hundred miles
north of Moscow. He was fifteen when Alexander II emancipated the serfs
in 1861, and remembers that historic event vividly, being fond even now
of telling of the days of his boyhood. Impressed into the army in the
early seventies, he served during the Russo-Turkish War of 1877-78, and
distinguished himself for bravery, receiving several medals. When a
soldier he learned to read and write, and was promoted to the rank of
sergeant.

Returning home at the end of the war, he passed through Tcharanda,
a fishermen’s settlement on the shore of a lake, in the county of
Kirilov, within thirty miles of Nikolsko. No longer dressed as a
moujik, military in gait and bearing, with coins jingling in his
pocket, he cut quite a figure in the poor hamlet of Tcharanda. There he
met my mother, Olga, the eldest daughter of Elizar Nazarev, perhaps the
most destitute inhabitant of the place.

Elizar, with his wife and three daughters, occupied a shabby hut on
the sandy shore of the lake. So poor was he that he could not afford
to buy a horse to carry his catch to the city, and was compelled to
sell it, far below the market price, to a travelling buyer. The income
thus derived was not sufficient to keep the family from hunger. Bread
was always a luxury in the little cabin. The soil was not tillable.
Elizar’s wife would hire herself to the more prosperous peasants in
the vicinity for ten kopeks (about 2¹⁄₂_d._) a day to labour from
sunrise to sunset. But even this additional money was not always to be
had. Then Olga would be sent out to beg for bread in the neighbouring
villages.

Once, when scarcely ten years old, little Olga underwent a harrowing
experience, which she could never later recall without horror. Starting
home with a basketful of bread, collected from several villages, she
was fatigued but happy at the success of her errand, and hurried
as fast as she could. Her path lay through a forest. Suddenly she
heard the howling of a pack of wolves. Olga’s heart almost stopped
beating. The dreadful sounds drew nearer. Overcome by fright, she fell
unconscious to the ground.

When she regained her senses, she found herself alone. The wolves
apparently had sniffed her prostrate body and gone their way. Her
basket of bread was scattered in all directions, trampled in the mud.
Out of breath, and without her precious burden, she arrived home.

It was in such circumstances that my mother grew to be nineteen, when
she attracted the attention of Leonti Frolkov, who was then stopping
in Tcharanda on his way home from the war. She was immensely flattered
when he courted her. He even bought her a pair of shoes for a present,
the first shoes she had ever worn. This captivated the humble Olga
completely. She joyously accepted his marriage proposal.

After the wedding the young couple moved to Nikolsko, my father’s
birthplace, where he had inherited a small tract of land. They tilled
it together, and with great difficulty managed to make ends meet. My
two elder sisters, Arina and Shura, were born here, increasing the
poverty of my parents. My father, about this time, took to drinking,
and began to maltreat and beat his wife. He was by nature morose and
egotistical. Want was now making him cruel. My mother’s life with him
became one of misery. She was constantly in tears, always pleading for
mercy and praying to God.

I was born in July, 1889, the third girl in the family. At that time
many railroads were being built throughout the country. When I was a
year old, my father, who had once been stationed at Tsarskoye Selo, the
Tsar’s place of residence near the capital, decided to go to Petrograd
to seek work. We were left without money. He wrote no letters. On the
brink of starvation, my mother somehow contrived, with the aid of kind
neighbours, to keep herself and her children alive.

When I was nearly six years old a letter came from my father, the first
he had written during the five years of his absence. He had broken his
right leg and, as soon as he was able to travel, had started home. My
mother wept bitterly at the news, but was glad to hear from her husband
whom she had almost given up for dead. In spite of his cruelty toward
her, she still loved him. I remember how happy my mother was when my
father arrived, but this happiness did not last long. Poverty and
misery cut it short. My father’s harsh nature asserted itself again.
Hardly had a year gone by when a fourth child, also a girl, arrived in
our family. And there was no bread in the house.

From all parts of our section of the country peasants were migrating
that year to Siberia, where the Government allowed them large grants
of land. My father wanted to go, but my mother was opposed to it.
However, when our neighbour, Verevkin, who had left sometime before for
Siberia, wrote glowingly of the new country, my father made up his mind
to go, too.

Most of the men would go alone, obtain grants of land, till them, build
homesteads, and then return for their families. Those of the peasants
who took their families with them had enough money to tide them over.
But we were so poor that by the time we got to Tcheliabinsk, the last
station in European Russia, and the Government distribution point, we
had not a penny left. At the station my father obtained some hot water
to make tea, while my two elder sisters were sent to beg for bread.

We were assigned to Kuskovo, eighty miles beyond Tomsk. At every
station my sisters would beg food, while father filled our tea-kettle
with hot water. Thus we got along till Tomsk was reached. Our grant
of land was in the midst of the _taiga_, the virgin Siberian forest.
There could be no thought of immediately settling on it, so my father
remained in Tomsk, while the rest of us were sent on to Kuskovo. My
sisters went to work for board and clothing. My mother, still strong
and in good health, baked bread for a living, while I took care of the
baby.

One day my mother was expecting visitors. She had baked some cakes and
bought a pint of vodka, which she put on the shelf. While she was at
work I tried to lull the baby to sleep. But baby was restless, crying
incessantly. I did not know how to calm her. Then my eyes fell on the
bottle of vodka.

“It must be a very good thing,” I thought, and decided to give a glass
to baby. Before doing so I tasted it myself. It was bitter, but I
somehow wanted more. I drank the first cup and, the bitterness having
somewhat worn off, I drained another. In this manner I disposed of the
entire bottle. Drowsy and weak, I took the baby into my arms and tried
to rock it to sleep. But I myself began to stagger, and fell with the
child to the floor.

Our mother found us there, screaming at the top of our voices.
Presently the visitors arrived, and my mother reached for the bottle,
only to discover that it had been emptied. It did not take her long to
find the culprit. I shall always remember the whipping I got on that
occasion.

Toward winter my father arrived from Tomsk. He brought little money
with him. The winter was severe, and epidemics were raging in the
country. We fell ill one by one, father, mother, then all the girls.
As there was no bread in the house, and no money to buy anything, the
community took care of us till the spring, housing and feeding us. By
some miracle all of us escaped death, but our clothes had become rags.
Our shoes fell to pieces. My parents decided to move to Tomsk, where
we arrived barefoot and tattered, finding shelter at a poor inn on the
outskirts of the town.

My father would work only a couple of days a week. He was lazy. The
remainder of the week he idled away and drank. My sisters served as
nurse-maids, while my mother worked in a bakery, keeping the baby and
me with her. We slept in the loft of a stable, with the horses stamping
below us. Our bed was of straw laid on the floor, which consisted of
unshaven planks thrown across logs. Soon the baker’s wife began to
object to feeding an extra mouth, which belonged to me. I was then over
eight years old.

“Why don’t you send her to work? She can earn her own bread,” she
argued.

My mother would draw me to her breast, weep and beg for mercy. But the
proprietress became impatient, threatening to throw us all out.

Finally my father came to see us, with the good tidings that he had
found a place for me. I was to care for a five-year-old boy, in return
for my board and eighty-five kopeks a month.

“If you do well,” my father added, “you will by and by receive a
rouble.”

Such was the beginning of my career in life. I was eight and a half
years old, small and very thin. I had never before left my mother’s
side, and both of us wept bitterly at parting. It was a grey, painful,
incomprehensible world into which I was being led by my father. My view
of it was further blurred by a stream of tears.

I took care of the little boy for several days. One afternoon, while
amusing him by making figures in the sand, I myself became so engrossed
in the game that I quarrelled with my charge, which led to a fight. I
remember feeling keenly that I was in the right. But the child’s mother
did not inquire into the matter. She heard his screams and whipped me
for it.

I was deeply hurt by the undeserved whipping administered by a strange
woman.

“Where was my mother? Why did not she come to avenge me?”

My mother did not answer my cries. Nobody did. I felt miserable. How
wrong was the world, how unjust. It was not worth while living in such
a world.

My feet were bare. My dress was all in rags. Nobody seemed to care for
me. I was all alone, without friends, and nobody knew of the yearning
in my heart. I would drown myself, I thought. Yes, I would run to the
river and drown myself. Then I would go up, free of all pain, into the
arms of God.

I resolved to slip out at the first chance and jump into the river, but
before the opportunity presented itself my father called. He found me
in tears.

“What’s the matter, Manka?” he asked.

“I am going to drown myself, papa,” I answered sadly.

“Great Heavens! What’s happened, you foolish child?”

I then poured out my heart to him, begging to be taken to my mother. He
caressed me and talked of my mother’s distress if I left my place. He
promised to buy me a pair of shoes, and I remained.

But I did not stay long. The little boy, having seen his mother punish
me, began to take advantage of me, making my life quite unbearable.
Finally I ran away and wandered about town till dark, looking for my
mother. It was late when a policeman picked me up crying in the street
and carried me to the police-station. The officer in charge of the
station took me to his home for the night.

His house was rather large. I had never been in such a house before.
When I awoke in the morning it seemed to me that there were a great
many doors in it and all of them aroused my curiosity. I wanted to
know what was behind them. As I opened one of the doors, I beheld the
police-officer asleep on a bed, with a pistol by his side. I wanted to
beat a hasty retreat, but he awoke. He seized the pistol and, still
dazed from sleep, threatened me with it. Frightened, I ran out of the
room.

My father, meanwhile, had been informed of my flight and had gone
to the police-station in search of me. He was referred to the
police-officer’s home. There he found me, weeping in the porch, and
took me to my mother.

My parents then decided to establish a home. All their capital amounted
to six roubles (about 12_s._ 8_d._). They rented a basement for three
roubles a month. Two roubles my father invested in some second-hand
furniture, consisting of a lame table and benches, and a few kitchen
utensils. With a few kopeks from the last rouble in her purse my mother
prepared some food for us. She sent me to buy a kopek’s worth of salt.

The grocer’s shop of the street was owned by a Jewess, named Nastasia
Leontievna Fuchsman. She looked at me closely when I entered her shop,
recognizing that I was a stranger in the street, and asked me:

“Whose are you?”

“I am of the Frolkovs. We have just moved into the basement in the next
block.”

“I need a little girl to help me. Would you like to work for me?” she
asked. “I’ll give you a rouble a month, and board.”

I was overjoyed and started for home at such speed that by the time I
got to my mother I was quite breathless. I told her of the offer from
the grocery-woman.

“But,” I added, “she is a Jewess.”

I had heard so many things of Jews that I was rather afraid, on second
thoughts, to live under the same roof with a Jewess. My mother calmed
my fears on that score and went to the grocer’s shop to have a talk
with the proprietress. She came back satisfied, and I entered upon my
apprenticeship to Nastasia Leontievna.

It was not an easy life. I learned to wait on customers, to run
errands, to do everything in the house, from cooking and sewing to
scrubbing floors. All day I slaved without ceasing, and at night I
slept on a box in the passage-way between the shop and the house. My
monthly earnings went to my mother, but they never sufficed to drive
the spectre of starvation away from my home. My father earned little
but drank much, and his temper became more and more harsh.

In time my wages were raised to two roubles a month. But as I grew
I required more clothes, which my mother had to supply me from my
earnings. Nastasia Leontievna was exacting and not infrequently
punished me. But she also loved me as though I had been her own
daughter, and always tried to make up for harsh treatment. I owe a
great deal to her, as she taught me to do almost everything, both in
her business and in housework.

I must have been about eleven when, in a fit of temper, I quarrelled
with Nastasia Leontievna. Her brother frequented the theatre and
constantly talked of it. I never quite understood what a theatre was
like, but it attracted me, and I resolved one evening to get acquainted
with that place of wonders. I asked Nastasia Leontievna for money to go
there. She refused.

“You little _moujitchka_,[1] what do you want with the theatre?” she
asked derisively.

[1] A peasant woman.

“You d----d Jewess!” I retorted fiercely, and ran out of the shop. I
went to my mother and told her of the incident. She was horrified.

“But now she won’t take you back. What shall we do without your wages,
Marusia? How shall we pay the rent? We shall have to go begging again.”
And she began to cry.

After some time my employer came after me, rebuking me for my quick
temper.

“How could I have known that you were so anxious to go to the theatre?”
she asked. “All right, I’ll give you fifteen kopeks every Sunday so
that you can go.”

I became a regular Sunday occupant of the gallery, watching with
intense interest the players, their strange gestures and manners of
speech.

Five years I worked for Nastasia Leontievna, assuming more important
duties as I grew older. Early in the morning I would rise, open the
shutters, knead the dough, and sweep or scrub the floors. I finally
grew weary of this daily grind and began to think of finding other
work. But my mother was ill and my father worked less and less,
drinking most of the time. He grew more brutal, beating us all
unmercifully. My sisters were forced to stay away from home. Shura
married at sixteen, and I, fourteen years old, became the mainstay of
the family. It was often necessary to get my pay in advance in order to
keep the family from starving.

The temptation to steal came to me suddenly one day. I had never stolen
anything before, and Nastasia Leontievna repeatedly pointed out this
virtue in me to her friends.

“Here is a _moujitchka_ who doesn’t steal,” she would say. But one day,
on unpacking a barrel of sugar delivered at the shop, I found seven
sugar-loaves instead of the usual six. The impulse to take the extra
loaf of sugar was irresistible. At night I smuggled it stealthily out
of the shop and took it home. My father was dismayed.

“What have you done, Marusia? Take it back immediately,” he ordered.
I began to cry and said that the sugar was not really Nastasia
Leontievna’s, that the error had been made at the refinery. Then my
father consented to keep it.

I returned to the shop and went to bed, but my eyes would not close; my
conscience troubled me. “What if she suspects that a loaf of sugar was
missing? What if she discovers that I have stolen it?” And a feeling
of shame came over me. The following day I could not look straight
into Nastasia Leontievna’s eyes. I felt guilty. My face burned. At
every motion of hers my heart quivered in anticipation of the terrible
disclosure. Finally she noticed that there was something the matter
with me.

“What’s wrong with you, Marusia?” she questioned, drawing me close to
her. “Are you not well?”

This hurt even more. The burden of the sin I had committed weighed
heavier and heavier. It rapidly became unbearable. My conscience would
not be quieted. At the end of a couple of restless days and sleepless
nights I decided to confess. I went into Nastasia Leontievna’s bedroom
when she was asleep. Rushing to her bed, I fell on my knees and broke
into sobs. She awoke in alarm.

“What’s happened, child? What is it?”

Weeping, I told the story of my theft, begging forgiveness and
promising never to steal again. Nastasia Leontievna calmed me and sent
me back to bed, but she could not forgive my parents. Next morning
she visited our home, remonstrating with my father for his failure to
return the sugar and punish me. The shame and humiliation of my parents
knew no bounds.

Sundays I spent at home, helping my mother in the house. I would go
to the well, which was a considerable distance away, for water. My
mother baked bread all the week and my father carried it to the market,
selling it at ten kopeks a loaf. His temper was steadily getting worse,
and it was not unusual for me to find my mother in the yard in tears
after my father had come home drunk.

I was now fifteen and began to grow dissatisfied with my lot. Life
was stirring within me and quickening my imagination. Everything that
passed by and beyond the narrow little world in which I lived and
laboured called me, beckoned to me, lured me. The impressions of that
unfamiliar world which I had caught in the theatre had taken deep root
in my soul and had kindled in me new ardours and desires. I wanted to
dress nicely, to go out, to enjoy life’s pleasures. I wanted to be
educated. I wanted to have enough money to secure my parents for ever
from starvation and to be able to lead for a time, for a day even, an
idle life, without having to rise with the sun, to scrub the floor or
to wash clothes.

Ah! what would I not have given to taste the sweetness, the joy, that
life held. But there seemed to be none for me. All day long I slaved
in the little shop and kitchen. I never had a spare rouble. Something
revolted within me against this bleak, purposeless, futureless
existence.




                              CHAPTER II

                          MARRIAGE AT FIFTEEN


Then came the Russo-Japanese War. And with it, Siberia, from Tomsk to
Manchuria, teemed with a new life. It reached even our street, hitherto
so lifeless and uneventful. Two officers, the brothers Lazov, one of
them married, rented the quarters opposite Nastasia Leontievna’s shop.
The young Madame Lazov knew nothing of housekeeping. She observed, me
at work in the shop, and offered me work in her home at seven roubles a
month.

Seven roubles a month was so attractive a sum that I immediately
accepted the offer. What could not one do with so much money? Why,
that would leave four roubles for me, after the payment of my mother’s
rent. Four roubles! Enough to buy a new dress, a coat, or a pair of
fashionable shoes. Besides, it gave me an opportunity to release myself
from the bondage of Nastasia Leontievna.

I took entire charge of the housekeeping at the Lazovs. They were kind
and courteous, and took an interest in me. They taught me how to behave
at table and in society, and took care that I appeared neat and clean.

The younger Lazov, Lieutenant Vasili, began to notice me, and one
evening invited me to take a walk with him. In time Vasili’s interest
in me deepened. We went out together many times. He made love to me,
caressing and kissing me. Did I realize clearly the meaning of it all?
Hardly. It was all so new, so wonderful, so attractive. It made my
pulse throb at his approach. It made my cheeks flame with the heat of
my young blood.

Vasili said he loved me. Did I love him? If I did, it was more because
of the marvellous world into which he was to lead me, than on account
of himself. He promised to marry me. Did I particularly want to marry
him? Scarcely. The prospect of marriage was more enticing to me because
of the end it would put to my life of drudgery and misery than on
account of anything else. To become free, independent, possessed of
means, was the attractive prospect that marriage held for me.

I was fifteen and a half when Vasili seduced me by the promise of
marriage. We lived together for a short while, when orders came to the
Lazovs to leave for a different post. Vasili informed me of the order.

“Then we shall have to get married quickly, before you go,” I declared.
But Vasili did not think so.

“That’s quite impossible, Marusia,” he said.

“Why?” I inquired sharply, something rising in my throat, like a tide,
with suffocating force.

“Because I am an officer, and you are only a plain _moujitchka_. You
understand, yourself, that at present we can’t marry. Marusenka, I love
you just as much as ever. Come, I’ll take you home with me; you’ll stay
with my parents. I’ll give you an education, then we will get married.”

I became hysterical, and throwing myself at him like a ferocious
animal, I screamed at the top of my voice:

“You villain. You deceived me. You never did love me. You are a
scoundrel. May God curse you.”

Vasili tried to calm me. He tried to approach me, but I repulsed him.
He cried, he begged, he implored me to believe that he loved me, and
that he would marry me. But I would not listen to him. I trembled with
rage, seized by a fit of uncontrollable temper. He left me in tears.

I did not see Vasili for two days. Neither did his brother nor
sister-in-law. He had disappeared. When he returned, he presented a
pitiable sight. His haggard face, the appearance of his clothes, and
the odour of vodka told the story of his two-days’ debauch.

“Ah, Marusia, Marusia,” he lamented, gripping my arms. “What have
you done, what have you done? I loved you so much. And you would not
understand me. You have ruined my life and your own.”

My heart was wrung with pity for Vasili. Life to me then was a
labyrinth of blind alleys, tangled, bewildering. It is now clear to me
that Vasili did love me genuinely, and that he had indulged in the wild
orgy to forget himself and drown the pain I had caused him. But I did
not understand it then. Had I loved him truly, it might all have been
different. But a single thought dominated my mind. “He had promised to
marry me and failed.” Marriage had become to me the symbol of a life of
independence and freedom.

The Lazovs left. They gave me money and gifts. But my heart was like
a deserted ruin in the winter, echoing with the howls of wild beasts.
Instead of a life of freedom, my parents’ basement awaited me. And deep
in my bosom lurked a dread of the unknown....

I returned home. My sisters had already noticed a different air about
me. Perhaps they had seen me with Vasili at one time or another.
Whatever the cause, they had their suspicions, and did not fail to
communicate them to my mother. It required little scrutiny for her to
observe that from a shy little girl I had blossomed forth into a young
woman. And then there began days and nights of torture for me.

My father quickly got wind of what had happened at the Lazovs. He was
merciless and threw himself upon me with a whip, nearly lashing me to
death, accompanying each blow with epithets that burned into me more
than the lashes of the whip. He also beat my mother when she attempted
to intervene on my behalf.

My father would come home drunk almost every day, and immediately take
to lashing me. Often he would drive me and my mother barefoot out of
the house, and sometimes we shivered for hours in the snow, hugging the
icy walls.

Life became an actual inferno. Day and night I prayed to God that I
might fall ill and die. But God remained deaf. And still I felt that
only illness could save me from the daily punishment. “I must get ill,”
I said to myself. And so I lay on the oven at night to heat my body,
and then went out and rolled in the snow. I did it several times, but
without avail. I could not fall ill.

Amid these insufferable conditions, I met the new year of 1905. My
married sister had invited me to take part in a masquerade. My father
would not hear, at first, of my going out for an evening, but consented
after repeated entreaties. I dressed as a boy, this being the first
time I ever wore a man’s clothes. After the dancing we visited some
friends of my sister’s, where I met a soldier, just returned from the
front. He was a common moujik, of rough appearance and vulgar speech,
and at least ten years older than myself. He immediately began to
court me. His name was Afanasi Botchkarev.

It was not long afterwards that I met Botchkarev again in the house
of a married sister of his. He invited me to go out for a walk, and
then suddenly proposed that I should marry him. It came to me so
unexpectedly that I had no time for consideration. Anything seemed
preferable to the daily torments of home. If I had sought death to
escape my father, why not marry this boorish moujik? And I consented
without further thought.

My father objected to my marrying since I was not yet sixteen, but
without avail. As Botchkarev was penniless, and I had no money, we
decided to work together and save. Our marriage was a hasty affair. The
only impression of it that remains with me is my feeling of relief at
escaping from my father’s brutal hands. Alas! Little did I then suspect
that I was exchanging one form of torture for another.

On the day following our marriage, which took place in the early
spring, Afanasi and I went down to the river to hire ourselves as day
labourers. We helped to load and unload lumber barges. Hard work never
daunted me, and I would have been satisfied, had it only been possible
for me to get along with Afanasi otherwise. But he also drank, while
I did not, and intoxication invariably brutalized him. He knew of my
affair with Lazov, and would use it as a pretext for punishing me.

“That officer is still in your head,” he would shout. “Wait, I’ll knock
him out of it.” And he would proceed to do so.

Summer came. Afanasi and I found work with an asphalte business. We
made floors at the prison, university and other public buildings. We
paved some streets with asphalte. Our work with the firm lasted about
two years. Both of us started at seventy kopeks (about 1_s._ 5¹⁄₂_d._)
a day, but I rose to the position of assistant foreman in a few months,
receiving a rouble and fifty kopeks (about 3_s._ 2_d._) a day. Afanasi
continued as a common labourer. My duties required considerable
knowledge in the mixing of the various elements in the making of
concrete and asphalte.

Afanasi’s low intelligence was a sufficient trial. But his heavy
drinking was a greater source of suffering to me. He made a habit of
beating me, and grew to be unendurable. I was less than eighteen years
old, and nothing but misery seemed to be in store for me. The thought
of escape dug itself deeper and deeper into my mind. I finally resolved
to run away from Afanasi.

My married sister had moved to Barnaul, where she and her husband
worked as servants on a river steamer. I saved some twenty roubles,
and determined to go to my sister, but I needed a passport. Without a
passport one could not move in Russia, so I took my mother’s.

On the way, at a small railway station, I was held up by a police
officer.

“Where are you going, girl?” he asked brusquely, eyeing me with
suspicion.

“To Barnaul,” I replied, with a sinking heart.

“Have you a passport?” he demanded.

“Yes,” I said, drawing it out of my bag.

“What’s your name?” was the next question.

“Maria Botchkareva.”

In my confusion I had forgotten that the passport was my mother’s, and
that it bore the name of Olga Frolkova. When the officer unfolded it
and glanced at the name, he turned on me fiercely:

“Botchkareva, ah, so that is your name?”

It dawned upon me then that I had committed a fatal mistake. Visions of
prison, torture and eventual return to Afanasi flashed before me. “I am
lost,” I thought, falling upon my knees before the officer to beg for
mercy, as he ordered me to follow him to headquarters. In an outburst
of tears and sobs, I told him that I had escaped from a brutal husband,
and since I could not possibly obtain a passport of my own, I was
forced to make use of my mother’s. I implored him not to send me back
to Afanasi, for he would certainly kill me.

My simple peasant speech convinced the officer that I was not a
dangerous political, but he would not let me go. He decided that I
should go with him. “Come along, you will stay with me, and to-morrow I
will send you to Barnaul. If you don’t, I’ll have you arrested and sent
by _étape_[2] back to Tomsk.”

[2] Under convoy from prison to prison.

I was as docile as a sheep. This was my first contact with the
authorities, and I dared not protest. If I had any power of will it
must have been dormant. Had I not found the world full of wrong since
my childhood? Was not this one of the ordinary events of life? We
moujiks were created to suffer and endure. They, the officials, were
created to punish and maltreat. And so I was led away by the guardian
of peace and law, and made to suffer shame and humiliation....

I was then free to go to Barnaul, and I resumed my journey. When
I arrived there, my sister quickly found employment for me on the
steamship. The work was comparatively easy, and my life rapidly took
a happier turn. It was an immense relief to be away from my drunken,
brutal husband.

But the relief was short-lived. Afanasi came to my mother after my
disappearance to inquire concerning my whereabouts. She showed surprise
upon hearing of my flight, and denied all knowledge of my destination.
He returned to our house again and again. One day in his presence the
postman delivered a letter from Shura. He seized it, and through it
learned that I was in Barnaul.

One morning, as I was standing on the deck of the ship, which was
anchored in the harbour, my eyes suddenly fell on a figure approaching
the wharf. It was a familiar figure. In another moment I recognized it
as that of Afanasi. My blood froze and my flesh crept as I realized
what was coming.

“Once fallen into his hands my life would be one of continuous
torture,” I thought. “I must save myself.”

But how could I escape? If I were on land I might still have a chance.
Here all avenues are closed. There he is already approaching the gate
to the wharf. He is stopping to ask a question of a guard, who nods
affirmatively. Now, he is walking a little faster. His face wears a
grin that strikes terror into my heart. I am trapped.... But no, just
wait a moment, Afanasi. Don’t be sure of your triumph yet. I rush to
the edge of the deck, cross myself and jump into the deep waters of the
Ob. Ah, how thrilling it is to die! So I have outwitted Afanasi, after
all. It’s cold, the water is cold. And I am going down, down.... I am
glad. I am triumphant. I have escaped from the trap ... into the arms
of death.

I awoke, not in heaven, but in the hospital. I was observed jumping
into the river, dragged out unconscious, and revived.

The authorities questioned me as to the cause of my attempted suicide,
and drew up a protocol. I told them of my husband, of his brutality,
and the utter impossibility of living with him.

Afanasi was waiting in the anteroom, to see me. My attempt at suicide
had seriously upset him. It aroused a sense of shame in him. Touched
by my story, the authorities went out and angrily rebuked him for his
maltreatment of me. He admitted his guilt, and swore that he would be
gentle to me in the future.

He was then admitted to the ward in which I lay. Falling on his knees,
he begged my forgiveness, repeating his oath to me and professing his
love for me in the most affectionate terms. His entreaties were so
moving that I finally consented to return home with him.

For a while Afanasi was truly a different man. In spite of his coarse
habits, I was deeply touched by his efforts to be kind. However, that
did not last long. We resumed our life of drudging toil. And vodka
resumed its grip on him. Once drunk, he became just as brutal again.

Gradually life with Afanasi grew as insufferable as it had been before
my escape. That summer I turned nineteen, and I saw ahead of me nothing
but a long series of dreary years. Afanasi wanted me to take to drink.
I resisted, and that infuriated him. He made it a habit to torment me
daily. He would hold a bottle of vodka to my face, and scoffing at me
for my efforts to lift myself above my condition, he would endeavour
by blows and kicks to force the bitter drink down my throat. One day
he even stood over me with a bottle of vodka for three whole hours,
pinning me down to the ground so that I was unable to move a muscle.
Still I refused to give in.

Winter came. I baked bread for a living. On Sundays I went to church
to pray God to release me from my bondage. Again the thought of
escaping took root in my mind. The first requisite was, of course, a
passport, so I went secretly to a lawyer for advice, and he undertook
to obtain one for me legally. But ill-luck attended me. When the
police-constable called to deliver the passport to me, Afanasi was at
home. My scheme was discovered and my hopes were dashed to the ground.
Afanasi hurled himself at me and bound me hand and foot, deaf to my
entreaties and cries. I thought my end had come. In silence he carried
me out of the house and tied me to a post.

It was cold, very cold. He flogged me, drank, and flogged me again,
cursing me in the vilest terms.

“That’s what you get for trying to escape,” he bawled, holding the
bottle to my mouth. “You won’t escape any more. You will drink or you,
will die!”

I was obdurate and implored him to leave me alone. He continued his
flogging, however, keeping me for four hours tied to the post, till
I finally broke down and drank the vodka. I became intoxicated,
staggered out into the street, and fell on the pavement in front of the
house. Afanasi ran after me, cursing and kicking me. We were quickly
surrounded by a crowd. My neighbours, who knew of his cruelty to me,
came to my help. Afanasi was roughly handled, so roughly, indeed, that
he left me in peace for some time afterwards.

Christmas was drawing near. I had saved, little by little, fifty
roubles (about £5 5_s._ 7_d._). Every kopek of that money had been
earned by extra toil during the night. It was all the earthly
possession that I had, and I guarded it jealously. Somehow, Afanasi got
wind of its hiding-place and stole it. He spent it all on drink.

I was mad with fury upon discovering the loss. What the money meant
to me in the circumstances is difficult to describe. It was my blood,
my sweat, a year of my youth. And he, the beast, squandered it in one
orgy. The least I could do to my torturer was to kill him.

In a frenzy, I ran to my mother, who was struck by the expression of my
face.

“Marusia, what ails you?”

“Mother,” I gasped, “let me have an axe. I am going to kill Afanasi.”

“Holy Mother, have mercy!” she exclaimed, raising her hands to Heaven,
and falling on her knees, she implored me to come to my senses. But I
was too frantic with rage. I seized an axe and ran home.

Afanasi returned, drunk, and began to taunt me with the loss of my
precious savings. I was white with wrath and cursed him from the depth
of my heart. He gripped a stool and threw it at me. I caught up the axe.

“I will kill you, you blood-sucker!” I screamed.

Afanasi was stupefied. He had not expected that from me. The desire to
kill was irresistible. Mentally, I already gloated over his dead body
and the freedom that it would bring me. I was ready to swing the axe at
him....

Suddenly the door flew open and my father rushed in. He had been sent
by my mother.

“Marusia, what are you doing?” he cried out, gripping my arm. The
break was too abrupt, my nerves collapsed, and I fell unconscious to
the floor. Upon awakening I found the police in the house, and I told
them everything. Afanasi was taken to the police-station, while the
police-officer, a very kind-hearted man, advised me to leave the town
to get away from him.

I got my passport, but my money was gone. I could not afford to buy
a ticket to Irkutsk, where Shura had moved from Barnaul. Determined
to go at all costs I boarded a train without a ticket. The conductor
discovered me on the way, and I cried and begged him to allow me to
proceed. He proposed to hide me in the baggage car and take me to
Irkutsk, upon his own conditions. Enraged, I pushed him violently from
me.

“I will put you off at the next station,” he shouted at me, running out
of the car. And he kept his word.

Nearly all the distance to Irkutsk was yet before me, and I wanted to
get there without selling myself for the price of a ticket. There could
be no thought of going back. I had to get to Irkutsk. I boarded the
next train, and stealthily crouched under a seat, as it moved out of
the station.

Ultimately I was discovered, but this conductor was an elderly man and
yielded to my tears and entreaties. I told him of my experience with
the first conductor and of my total lack of money. He allowed me to
proceed, and whenever an inspector boarded the train, he would signal
to me to hide under the seat. Sometimes I would spend several hours
at a stretch there, concealed by the legs of some kind passengers.
In this manner I journeyed for four days, finally reaching my
destination--Irkutsk.




                              CHAPTER III

                          A LITTLE HAPPINESS


I arrived in Irkutsk penniless. All I possessed was what I wore. I
went to look for my sister, who was in poor circumstances and ill. Her
husband was out of work. One could not expect an enthusiastic welcome
under such conditions. I lost little time in seeking employment, and
quickly found a place as a dishwasher at nine roubles (about 19_s._) a
month. It was revolting work, in a filthy den patronized by drunkards.
The treatment I received at the hands of the clients was so unbearable
that I left at the end of the first day.

On the third day I found work in a laundry, where I had to wash
hundreds of articles daily. From five in the morning till eight in the
evening I was bent over the washtub. It was bitter drudgery, but I was
forced to stay at it for several weeks. I lived with my sister in one
small room, paying her rent. Presently I began to feel pains in my
back. The hard work was telling on me. I resolved to leave the laundry,
although my sister was against my doing so. I had no money saved.

Having had experience of concrete work, I applied for employment to
an asphalte contractor. He was kind enough to give me a trial as an
assistant foreman on a job he was doing at the Irkutsk prison. I was to
take charge of ten men and women labourers.

When I began I was met by an outburst of mirth on all sides. “Ha, ha,”
they laughed, “a _baba_ holding a foreman’s place!”

I paid no heed to the ridicule and went about my business quietly and
gently. The men obeyed, and as they saw that I knew what I was about,
began even to gain a respect for me. I was given for a first test the
preparing of a floor. Stretching myself on the ground with the rest of
the party, planning and working, I managed to finish my task a couple
of hours ahead of my scheduled time, and marched the men triumphantly
out of the building, to the utter amazement of the other foremen. My
employer was in high glee.

“Look at this _baba_!” he said. “She will have us men learning from her
pretty soon. She should wear trousers.”

The following day I was put in charge of twenty-five men. As they still
regarded me as a queer novelty, I made a little speech to them, telling
them that I was a plain peasant worker, only seeking to earn my bread.
I appealed to their sense of fairness to co-operate with me. Sending
for some vodka and sausages I treated them and won their good will
completely. My men called me “Manka” affectionately, and we got along
splendidly. I was such a curiosity that the contractor himself invited
me to his home for tea. His wife, who was a very kind soul, told me
that her husband had been praising me to her very much.

The great test, however, came several days later. I had to prove my
ability in preparing asphalte and applying it. We were all at work at
four o’clock in the morning. As the quality of asphalte depends on
the proportions of the elements used, the men were waiting with some
amusement for my orders. But I gave them without hesitation, and when
the contractor arrived at six o’clock he found the kettles boiling and
the labourers hard at work, pouring the asphalte on the gravel.

This work has to be done without relaxation, amid awful heat and
suffocating odours. For a whole year I stayed at it, working
incessantly, with no holidays and no other rest. Like a pendulum,
always in motion, I would begin my daily grind before dawn, returning
home after sunset, only to eat and go to bed to gain strength for
another day of cheerless toil.

Finally I broke down. I caught cold while working in a basement, and
became so weak that I was taken to the Kuznetzov Hospital, where I was
confined to bed for two months. When I recovered and had rested for
about a week, I returned to my job, but found it occupied by a man who
had been especially brought from European Russia. Besides, there wasn’t
much work left for the firm in Irkutsk.

My sister and her husband moved back to Tomsk about this time, and my
situation grew desperate. I looked for a place as a domestic servant,
but having no references I found it impossible to obtain one. The
little money I had finally gave out. My only friends in the town were
the Sementovskys, neighbours of my sister. I lived with them, but they
were poor themselves, and so, for days at a time, I would go without
food, my only sustenance consisting of tea.

One day I applied at an employment agency and was informed, after being
asked if I would agree to leave town, that a woman had been there
looking for a servant, and offered to pay twenty-five roubles (about
£2 12_s._ 9_d._) a month. I instantly expressed my willingness to go
to her. She appeared in the afternoon, young, beautiful, elegantly
dressed, her fingers and neck adorned with dazzling jewels. She was
very kind to me, inspected me carefully, and asked if I was married.

“I have been,” I replied, “but I escaped from my husband about
two years ago. He was such a brutal drunkard.” I was then in my
twenty-first year.

The lady, whose name was Anna Petrovna, gave me ten roubles to pay the
rent that I owed. I met her at the station, where she was accompanied
by several men friends, and we started together for Stretinsk, in a
second-class carriage. I had never been in one before in my life.
Nothing occurred on the way. I was well fed and nicely treated by her.
She spoke to me of their business, and I got the idea that her husband
kept a shop. Upon our arrival at Stretinsk we were met by a man and two
young women. The man was introduced to me as her husband, and the two
women as her foster daughters. We drove home, where I was given a neat
little room.

I was getting uneasy. Things looked suspicious. “Where is the shop?” I
inquired. “In the market,” was the answer. Anna Petrovna took me by the
arm and caressingly suggested:

“Marusenka, will you dress up nicely? We shall have guests to-night.”
And she handed me some very dainty and light garments, not at all
befitting a servant. I was amazed, and objected emphatically. “I never
wore such extravagant clothes, Anna Petrovna. I am a plain working
girl,” and I blushed deeply. I was both ashamed and afraid. I had a
premonition of evil. And when she handed me a very low-necked gown I
became thoroughly frightened.

But Anna Petrovna was persuasive and persistent, and I was finally
persuaded to put it on. It was so transparent that my cheeks burnt with
shame. I refused to leave my room, but was coaxed by Anna Petrovna
into following her. As I crossed the threshold I saw several girls
sitting in company with men, drinking beer. A young man was standing
apart, evidently anticipating our appearance. He moved toward us. Anna
Petrovna had apparently promised me to him.

Stars were shooting before my eyes. “A house of shame!” The thought
pierced my mind and made me furious. I lost all my submissiveness and
meekness. Seizing my clothes, I tore them madly into shreds, stamping
with my feet, cursing, shrieking and breaking everything that I could
get hold of. I caught up several bottles of beer and shattered them
into fragments on the floor.

This outbreak lasted but a moment. Everybody in the room was too
stupefied to move before I ran out of the house, wrapped only in a
shawl. I hastened to the police-station at a pace that made people
in the streets think that I must be mad. Arriving there I made my
complaint to the officer in charge.

To all appearance he was little touched by my story. While I prayed
for mercy and relief, on my knees before him, he was regarding me with
amusement. He drew me to him and proposed that I should go to live with
him! I was shocked and overwhelmed. He, whose duty it was to protect
me, was clearly in alliance with white slave traders.

“You are all scoundrels and murderers!” I cried out in anguish. “You
ought to be ashamed to take advantage of a defenceless girl.”

He grew angry and ordered me to be locked up for the night. The
policeman who took me away also made advances to me, and I had to slap
him to keep him away. The cell was cold, dark and dirty. I had left
my shawl upstairs. Enraged against the authorities, I broke all the
windows and hammered continuously at the doors and walls, till I was
set free in the morning.

But my troubles had only begun. I had no place to go. For two days I
wandered about the town day and night. I was starved and worn out. Then
I knelt on the bank of the river and prayed for half an hour. I prayed
devoutly, pouring out my whole soul. It seemed to me that the Lord had
heard my plea, and I felt relieved.

I resolved to return to Anna Petrovna after my prayer. I thought she
had been so kind at first that if I begged her to let me work for her
as a servant she would agree. Before entering her house I went into
the little grocer’s shop nearby, and posing as the new servant of
Anna Petrovna, who was a customer of the place, got a small bottle of
essence of vinegar. I then entered the house and was well received.
However, the solicitude for my safety angered me, and I resented Anna
Petrovna’s caresses. I locked myself up in my room, getting ready to
poison myself with the essence.

As I was saying my last prayers there was a knock at the door. “Who is
it?” I asked sharply. The reply was: “I am that young man whom you saw
two days ago in the parlour. I want to help you. I realize that you are
not a girl of that sort. Pray, open the door and let me talk to you.”

I naturally thought that this was another trap and answered wrathfully:
“You are a villain! You are all villains! What do you want with me?
What have I done to deserve torture and starvation? If I fall into your
hands it will be only when I am dead. I am going to drink this poison
and let you gloat over my corpse.”

The man got excited. He ran out into the yard, raised an alarm, and
dragging several people with him, shouted that I had threatened to take
poison. A large crowd collected round the house, and he forced the
window of my room from the outside and jumped in. Seizing the glass of
essence, he threw it out of the window, cursing Anna Petrovna and her
house. He made every effort to calm me, expressing his admiration for
my courage and virtue. His professions of sincerity and friendship were
so convincing that I yielded to his invitation to go with him to the
home of his parents.

My saviour, who was a handsome young man of about twenty-four, was
Yakov Buk. He was a man of education, having studied at a high
school for some time. His father was a butcher. I was well received
by his family, fed, dressed and allowed to rest. They were kind and
hospitable people. Yakov, or Yasha, as he was called by his intimates,
took especial care of me. He loved me, and it was not long before he
declared that he could not live without me.

I was also attracted towards him. He knew of my previous marriage and
proposed that we should live together by civil agreement, without
the sanction of the Church, a very common mode of marriage in Russia
of late years, because of the difficulty of obtaining a divorce. I
consented to his proposal, on condition that he told me the reason for
his living in a small barn in the backyard, apart from the family. He
agreed.

“When I was twenty,” he began, “my father was engaged in the business
of supplying meat to several army regiments. He was a partner in a
firm, and was assisted by my brothers and myself. Considering me the
most industrious and reliable of his sons, he entrusted me once with
ten thousand roubles (about £1,055 11_s._) to go to buy cattle. Most of
the money did not belong to him.

“On the train I was drawn into a game of cards, deliberately got up
by a gang of rascals for the purpose of fleecing innocent passengers
like myself. I lost all my money and my clothes to boot. Dressed in
rags, with two roubles, presented to me by the gamblers, in my pocket,
I alighted at the Chinese frontier in a suicidal state of mind. There
I became acquainted, at an inn, with some Chinese brigands who were
members of a band operating in the neighbourhood. One of them was the
chief of the band.

“I told him my story, adding that I would do anything to save my father
from disgrace and bankruptcy. He proposed that I should join his band
in a raid on an incoming train which was carrying fifty thousand
roubles. I was aghast at the suggestion. But then I had a vision of my
parents turned out of their house, of their property sold at auction,
and of themselves forced to go begging. It rent my heart. There was
nothing to do but to accept the offer. I was led by the chief into a
field and there introduced to most of the robbers. I was the only white
man in the band.

“In the evening we armed ourselves with daggers, pistols and rifles and
started for the railway line, where we lay in wait for the train. The
thought that I had turned highwayman nearly froze my blood. It was such
a violence to my own nature.

“The train was to pass at one in the morning. I prayed to God that He
would save me somehow from this experience. Suddenly a body of Cossacks
appeared in the distance, racing in our direction. The authorities had
been on the track of this band for a long time. Every man in the gang
threw down his weapons and ran into the forest. I, too, ran for all I
was worth.

“The Cossacks pursued us, and I was caught. As I was a Russian and a
new member of the organization, I succeeded by persistent denials of
any knowledge of the band in creating doubt in the minds of my captors
as to my participation in the projected raid. But I was arrested and
sent to the Irkutsk prison, where I was kept for a whole year. There I
came in contact with many politicals and was converted to their ideas.
Finally, for lack of evidence I was set free.

“I returned home covered with disgrace. My father had arrived at an
understanding with his partner whereby he was to pay back in monthly
instalments the sum I had gambled away. He would not let me enter the
house, but my mother defended me. There was a quarrel, which ended in
an agreement that I be allowed to occupy this barn. But my father swore
that he would disinherit me, giving my share of his estate to his other
sons.”

I soon had occasion to discover that Yasha was considered a suspicious
character by the local police, because of his imprisonment. His
kindness, too, was his misfortune. Freed or escaped prisoners would
sometimes visit him secretly and he would give them his last penny,
piece of bread or shirt. But I liked him all the more for that, for it
was this warm heart in him that had rescued me from death. We vowed to
be faithful to each other for ever. And I entered upon my duties as a
housewife.

The barn in which we were going to live was filled with rubbish, and
had never been cleaned. I applied myself industriously to making
it habitable. It was not an easy task, but I finally succeeded. We
received a gift of one hundred roubles from Yasha’s parents, and
decided to establish a butcher’s shop of our own. We got some lumber
and built a small shop. Then Yasha bought three cows and the two of us
led them to the slaughter-house, where I learned how to butcher. Yasha
ran the shop. I was the first woman butcher in that neighbourhood.

One summer day, while walking in the street, I saw some boys peddling
ice-cream. I had learned how to make ice-cream during my apprenticeship
with Nastasia Leontievna. It occurred to me that I could make ice-cream
and sell it. Finding out from the boys how much they paid for it, I
offered them better cream at a lower price and asked them to come
for it the next day. I immediately returned home and bought milk
from Yasha’s mother, who offered to give it to me without payment
upon learning the purpose for which it was intended. The ice-cream
I prepared was, happily, very good, and it sold quickly. During the
summer I earned two or three roubles daily by this means.

I led a life of peaceful industry with Yasha for about three years.
Every morning I would get up at six o’clock and go with him to the
slaughter-house. Then all day I would spend at home. There were always
many poor people, mostly women and children, stranded in our town,
which was the junction of a railway and river route. They would wander
about the streets, begging for bread and shelter. The greater number
of them would land in our barn-home. At times they would fill it
completely, sleeping in rows on the floor. Frequently they were ill. I
fed them, washed them, and looked after their children.

Yasha would often remonstrate with me for working so incessantly and so
hard. But I had my reward in the gratitude and blessings these women
bestowed upon me. There was joy in being able to serve. In addition, I
sent regularly to my mother ten roubles (about £1 1_s._) a month. Yasha
taught me in leisure moments how to read.

My name became a household word in the neighbourhood. Wherever I went
I was blessed. “There goes Buk-Botchkareva!” people would point at me,
whispering. Yasha’s parents also grew very attached to me.

It all ended one evening in May, 1912. There was a peculiar knock at
the door, and Yasha went out to admit a man of about thirty, well
dressed, with a beard and pince-nez, of distinguished appearance.
He was pale and showed signs of agitation. He stood with Yasha in
the passage-way for ten minutes, talking in a whisper. He was then
introduced to me as an old friend of Yasha’s. He had escaped from
prison and it was our task to hide him, as his capture would mean his
death. The unexpected guest was no less a person than the revolutionary
who was responsible for the death of a notorious Governor of Siberia.

Yasha proceeded to remove our bed from its corner. He next removed
a board in the lower part of the wall, revealing, to my great
astonishment, a deep cavity in the ground underneath. Our visitor was
invited to make himself comfortable there. The board was replaced and
the bed restored to its former position. Yasha and I went to bed.

We had barely put out the light when there was heard a thumping of many
feet around the house, followed by loud knocks at the door. It was
the police! My heart was in my mouth, but I feigned sleep while Yasha
opened the door. He had previously given me his revolver to hide and I
concealed it in my bosom. The search continued for nearly two hours. I
was dragged out of bed, and everything in the house was turned upside
down.

We denied any knowledge of a political fugitive, but the sheriff took
Yasha along with him. However, he was released a couple of hours later.
Upon his return Yasha let the man out of the secret hole, supplied him
with peasant clothes and food, harnessed our horse and drove away with
him before dawn, instructing me to answer to all inquiries by saying
that he had gone to buy cattle.

On the outskirts of the town a policeman, emerging from some drinking
den in a semi-drunken condition, observed Yasha driving by. He attached
little significance to the fact at the time, but when he reported for
duty in the morning and learned of the fugitive, he said that he had
seen Yasha leave the town with a stranger. I was doing some washing
when the house was again surrounded by police.

“Where is your husband?” the sheriff inquired fiercely. “Gone to buy
cattle,” I replied.

“Get ready to come with me!” he shouted angrily. I pleaded innocence,
but in a terrible voice he informed me that I was under arrest.

I was taken to the detective bureau, where a middle-aged man, who
talked very gently, and seemed very mindful of my comfort, entered into
a conversation with me and even invited me to tea, which invitation I
refused. He went about his work very craftily, and I was nearly caught
when he asked me if I had also met the young man who had arrived at our
house at nine o’clock the night before.

His information was quite correct, but I obstinately refused to admit
the truth. I declared that I knew nothing of the young man he spoke of,
but my examiner was patient. He was generous in his praise of my help
and devotion to the poor. Promising me immunity, he urged me to tell
the truth.

I would not yield, and his patience finally wore out and he struck
me furiously with a rubber whip a couple of times. I was enraged and
bestowed on him some epithets that led to my being locked up in a
cell where two drunken street women were confined. They were of the
lowest class and were venting curses on everybody. They persecuted me
unceasingly. It was a horrible night that I passed there. The stench
alone was sufficient to drive one mad. I was greatly relieved when
morning arrived, and I was taken to the office for another examination.

I repeated my denials. There followed threats of long imprisonment,
coaxings, rebukes and attempts to extort a confession from me, and I
learned that Yasha had been arrested on his way back, before reaching
home, so that he did not know of my own arrest. I was detained for
seven days, at the end of which the authorities, having been unable to
obtain anything from me, set me free.

Yasha was still in jail, and I started out to visit various officials
and bureaus in his behalf. The chief of police of the province was
then in town, stopping in the house of a friend of ours. I invoked
the aid of the latter for the purpose of obtaining an interview with
him, and finally I was admitted to the presence of a largely built man
wearing the uniform of a colonel. I fell on my knees before him and
protested my husband’s innocence, praying for mercy. I was so unnerved
that he helped me to rise and ordered some water for me, promising to
investigate the case and to secure that justice was done.

I went next to the jail, hoping to see Yasha. But there I was informed
that he had been sent to Nertchinsk, about five miles from Stretinsk. I
was not long in making an effort to catch up with him. Taking with me a
hundred roubles, I caught the next train to Nertchinsk, just as I was,
and, immediately upon my arrival there, sought an audience with the
Governor, and was told to await my turn in the line. When my turn came,
the Governor, reading my name from the list, asked:

“Well, what is your case?”

“My husband, your Excellency, Yasha Buk,” I replied.

“Your husband, eh? How is he your husband if your name is Botchkareva?”

“By civil agreement, your Excellency.”

“We know these civil marriages,” he remarked scoffingly. “There are
many like you in the streets,” and he dismissed my case. He said it
in the hearing of a room full of people. My blood rushed to my face,
and I was bitterly hurt. It was with difficulty that I got a card of
admission to the prison, but how profound was my grief upon being
informed that Yasha had spent there only one night and had been sent on
to Irkutsk.

I had barely enough money with me to buy a fourth-class ticket to
Irkutsk, and hardly any of the necessaries for a journey, but I did
not hesitate to take the next train westward. It took three days to
reach the Siberian capital. I stopped again with the Sementovskys, who
were glad to welcome me. I made my way to the Irkutsk prison, only to
discover that Yasha had been taken to the Central Distribution Prison
at Alexandrovsk, two miles from the railway station of Usolye. There
was little time to lose. I left the same day for Usolye, whence I had
to walk to Alexandrovsk.

It was late in the autumn of 1912. I started out with little food, and
was soon exhausted. It was not an easy task to get to Alexandrovsk. The
road lay across a river and through an island, connected by ferries.

On the way I made the acquaintance of a woman, Avdotia Ivanovna Kitova,
who was also bound for the prison. Her husband was there too, and
she told me why. He was drunk when the dog-catcher came to take away
his favourite dog, and he shot the dog-catcher; now he was sentenced
to exile, and she had decided to go along with him, with her two
children, who were in Irkutsk.

At the Central Prison I received another shock. I could not be admitted
without a pass. I did not know that it was necessary to have a pass I
declared. But the warden in charge, a wizened old man, with a flowing
white beard, shouted angrily at me, “No! No! Get out of here. It’s
against the law; you can’t be admitted. Go to Irkutsk and come back
with a pass, and we will let you in.”

“But I have journeyed nearly seventy miles to see him,” I pleaded, in
tears. “I am worn out and hungry. Allow me to see him just for five
minutes--only five short minutes. Is there no mercy in your heart for a
weak woman?”

With this I broke down and became hysterical. The harsh little warden,
and his assistants in the office, became frightened. Yasha was brought
in for a brief interview. The few minutes that we were allowed to
pass in each other’s presence gave us new strength. He told me of his
experiences, and I told him of mine, and we decided that I should go to
the Governor-General, Kniazev, to entreat his mercy.

It was not till late evening that I started back to the railway
station. I reached the river at dusk and managed to catch a ferry to
the island. But it was dark when I landed there, and I lost my way
trying to cross the island to the other ferry.

I was cold, hungry, exhausted. My feet were swollen from wandering for
several hours in a frantic effort to find the right path. When at last
I got to the other side it must have been about midnight. I saw the
lights across the water and called with all my remaining strength for
the ferry. But there was no response. Only the wind, shrieking through
the woods behind me, echoed my cries. I kept calling all night, but in
vain.

When it dawned I gathered my last energies, stood up and called out
again. This time I was observed, and a canoe was sent after me.
Unfortunately, it was in charge of a boy. I was too ill to move, and
he could not carry me to it. I had to creep on all-fours to the boat.
With the boy’s aid, I finally found myself in the canoe. It took him a
long time to ferry me across, and I was in a state of collapse by the
time we reached the other side. I was taken to the Kuznetzov Hospital
in Irkutsk again, where I lay dangerously ill for nearly two months.
During this time I lost all my hair and half my weight.

After my visit to Yasha he naturally told his prison mates of it, being
proud of my loyalty to him, but when days and weeks passed by, and I
did not return, his comrades began to tease him about me.

“A fine _baba_ is yours. You may indeed be proud of her,” they would
torment him. “She has found some other husband. A lot of use she has
for you, a prisoner. They are all alike, yours and ours.” Yasha took
such jesting very much to heart. He was in complete ignorance of my
whereabouts and finally made up his mind that I had betrayed him.

As soon as I was released from the hospital, I went to the
Governor-General, in whose office I was told that Yasha had been
sentenced to four years’ exile. Obtaining a pass, I went to
Alexandrovsk to see him. But Yasha would not see me. Believing his
comrades’ taunts, confirmed by my two months’ absence, he resolved that
he had done with me. I was naturally at a loss to account for this
abrupt change, and wept bitterly. Some of his acquaintances, who had
been brought downstairs, saw me crying and described to him my wasted
appearance. Then he came down.

Visitors were not allowed to come in contact with the prisoners at
Alexandrovsk. There were two steel gratings in the office, separated
by a distance of a couple of feet. The prisoner was kept behind one
grating, while the persons who came to see him were placed behind the
other. They could not touch each other.

This was the manner in which I was permitted to meet Yasha. We both
cried like children, he, at the sight of my thinness, realizing that
he had wronged me in suspecting me of faithlessness. It was a pathetic
scene, this meeting behind bars. Yasha told me that he would not be
exiled before May. As I offered to accompany him into exile, it was
necessary for me to spend the several intervening months at some work.
I also had to get permission to join Yasha in exile.

I found work with the same asphalte firm, but now as a common labourer,
earning only fifty kopeks (about 1_s._) a day. At intervals I would go
to Alexandrovsk to see Yasha. It happened once that I was working at
a job in the Irkutsk prison, and it was not long before the prisoners
knew that I had a husband in Alexandrovsk, for there was a complete
secret system of communication between the two prisons. On the whole, I
was well treated by the convicts.

One evening, however, while at work in the hall, a trusty, catching me
in a corner, attacked me. I fought hard, but he knocked me down. My
cries were heard by the labourers of my party and several prisoners.
Soon we were surrounded by a crowd, and a quarrel ensued between those
who defended me and the friends of the trusty. An assistant warden and
some guards put an end to it, drawing up a protocol of my complaint to
have the trusty tried in court for assault.

As the day of the trial drew near Yasha was urged by his
fellow-prisoners to influence me to withdraw my charge. He told me
that the law of prison communal life demanded that I should comply with
the request to drop my complaint. I knew that my refusal might mean
Yasha’s death, and when I was called in court to testify against the
trusty, I declared that there had been no assault and that I had no
complaints to make. The case was dismissed, and my act enhanced Yasha’s
reputation among the inmates of both prisons.

The winter passed. Toward Easter of 1913 I succeeded in obtaining
permission to have myself arrested and sent to Alexandrovsk, in
anticipation of my exile with Yasha. I was put in the women’s building,
in which were detained a number of women criminals. What I endured at
their hands is almost beyond description. They beat me, but I knew that
complaining would make my lot more bitter. When supper was served to
us the matron asked me if I had been badly treated. I said no, but she
must have known better, for, turning to the women, she told them not to
ill-use me.

My reply to the matron somewhat improved my relations with my
prison-mates, but they forced me, nevertheless, to wait on them and do
their dirty work. In addition to these sufferings, the food was putrid.
The bunks in which we slept were dirty. Eight of us were in one tiny
cell. I saw Yasha only once a week, every Sunday. I spent two months in
this voluntary imprisonment, but it seemed like two years to me, and I
looked forward eagerly and impatiently to the day of our starting on
the open road to exile.




                              CHAPTER IV

                           THE ROAD TO EXILE


May had come. The Lena had opened and become navigable. The heavy iron
doors of the prison were unlocked and hundreds of inmates, including
myself and Yasha, were mustered out in the yard to prepare for exile.

Every winter the huge prison at Alexandrovsk would gather within its
walls thousands of unfortunate human beings, murderers, forgers,
thieves, students, officers, peasants and members of the professional
classes, who had transgressed against the tyrannical regime. Every
spring the gloomy jail would open its doors and pour out a stream of
half-benumbed men and women into the wild Siberian forest and the
uninhabited regions bordering on the Arctic.

All through the spring and summer this river of tortured humanity
would flow through Alexandrovsk into the snow-bound north, where they
languished in unendurable cold and succumbed in large numbers in the
land of the six months’ night. Tens of thousands of them lie scattered
from the Ural mountains to Alaska in unmarked graves....

So finally we were to breathe some fresh air. There was much stir and
bustle before our party was formed. It consisted of about a thousand
persons, including twenty women. Our guard was composed of five
hundred soldiers. We were to go on foot to Katchugo, near the source
of the Lena, a distance of about one hundred and thirty-three miles.
Our baggage was loaded on wagons.

We travelled about twenty-two miles in the first day, according to
schedule, stopping for the night at an exile-station on the edge of
a village. There are many such stations on the Siberian roads--large
wooden buildings of barn-like construction, with iron doors and grated
windows. Empty inside, save for double tiers of bunks, they are
surrounded by high fences, with a sentry-box at every corner. They
offer no opportunity for escape.

We supped on food we had brought from the prison, and turned in for the
night. Our party was divided into groups of ten, each group choosing a
trusty charged with the purchasing of food. Beginning with the second
day, each of us received an allowance of twenty kopeks (about 5_d._).

There were about one hundred politicals in the party, the remainder
being a mixed assemblage of criminals. These two classes of prisoners
did not get on well together, and there was a continuous feud. Men
and women were packed together, and some of the latter behaved
outrageously. The filth, the vermin-infested bunks, the unimaginable
stench, the frequent brawls, made our journey insufferably hideous.

Further, there was a privileged group among us consisting of the
long-sentence convicts, who wore chains and were always given priority
by the unwritten law of the criminal world. They always had the first
use of the kettles to prepare their food. Until they had finished none
of us dared approach the fire. Their word was law. They were always
given the precedence. Even the soldiers and officers respected their
privileges. One of them was chief of the party, and if he pledged
himself, in return for more freedom for all of us, that there would be
no escapes, his word would be taken without question by the Commander
of the Guard, and it was never broken.

The weather was fine the first three days. We travelled twenty miles
the second day and the same distance the third day, but then it
began to pour, and the roads became almost impassable. The mud was
frightful, but we had to walk our scheduled twenty miles. Many in our
party fell ill. We looked forward to the next exile-station with eager
expectation, so soaked were we and so tired. We longed for a roof and
a dry floor, and nothing else. We forgot our hunger, we did not feel
the vermin that night, for as soon as we reached the station we dropped
into a leaden sleep.

We had a two-days’ rest upon our arrival at Katchugo, and were allowed
to bathe in the Lena, our chief making himself responsible for our
conduct. We found a small party waiting to join us at Katchugo.

A member of this new group was recognized by some of the exiles as one
who was said to have betrayed his comrade in a raid, and was dragged
for trial before the entire body.

Here I witnessed a remarkable scene, the trial of a criminal by
criminals. There was as rigid a code of morals in the underworld as in
any legitimate government, and just as relentless a prosecution. It was
announced that there would be a trial and the privileged criminals in
chains were chosen as judges. The accusers were called upon to state
their charges, in the hearing of the whole party. They related how the
accused man had betrayed a comrade in a robbery some time ago.

There were cries of, “Kill him! Kill him! The traitor! Kill him!”
This was the usual punishment for any one found guilty. It was the
custom of the authorities to watch the proceedings and never interfere
with the carrying out of a sentence. As the mob was closing in on the
accused, and my heart was sinking within me, the judges called for
order and demanded that the man be given a hearing too. White and
trembling, he got up to tell his story in detail.

“There were two of us,” he began, “in the scheme to rob a banker. It
was decided that I should force my way into the house through a window,
hide there and signal to my confederate at the opportune moment. I
found that the banker had gone for the evening to a club, and concealed
myself in a closet, waiting for his return. My comrade kept guard,
without receiving any sign from me, for a couple of hours.

“When the banker returned he sent his valet to fetch something from the
closet in which I was hidden. The valet discovered me, and raised an
alarm, and some servants ran out to call for help just at the moment
when my comrade was about to enter the house. He was caught. I managed
to escape through the window and the garden. I am innocent, comrades.
I have been a criminal for many years, and I have a clean, honourable
record.”

He then proceeded to enumerate the most striking accomplishments of his
career, the chiefs under whom he had worked, and the robbers with whom
he had been associated in the past.

He must have mentioned some very important personages, as immediately
a number of voices were raised in his favour. Some got up and spoke
in high terms of the connections of the accused, while others scoffed
at him. The deliberations lasted for several hours, resulting in the
acquittal of the man.

The entire party, at the conclusion of the rest at Katchugo, was
taken on board a huge roofed barge. A thousand people in one hole! The
prison at Alexandrovsk, the exile-stations, were paradise in comparison
with this unimaginable den. There was no air and no light. Instead of
windows there were some small openings in the roof. Many fell ill,
and were left lying there uncared for, some of them dying. We were
so crowded that we slept almost on top of one another, inhaling the
foulest of odours. Every morning we were allowed to come out on the
deck of the barge, which was towed by a tug.

In our group was the woman Kitova, with her husband and two children.
We cooked and ate our food together, suffering much at the hands of
the criminals. There were some quiet people among the latter, and they
suffered from the whims of the leaders and their lackeys.

There was one such case of a man, who happened to cross the path of an
old criminal. The latter did not like the way he looked at him, and
the poor man was beaten and, without any ceremony, thrown overboard
and drowned. We were all locked up for it inside the barge and were
denied the privilege of going out on the deck. It was the most cruel of
punishments, worse than a long term in prison.

We changed barges on the way, spending about two months on the water,
having journeyed about two thousand miles upon arriving at Yakutsk at
the end of July. We were beached at night, but it was almost as light
as day, though much colder.

Our joy at landing was indescribable. The local politicals all came out
to welcome us. We were marched to the Yakutsk prison, where our roll
was called. Here the women were separated from the men, and those who
voluntarily accompanied their husbands were set free.

I then went to the office to inquire about the fate of Yasha, and was
told that it was probable that he would be sent farther north. I was
cared for by the local politicals, who sheltered me and gave me new
clothing and money with which to purchase food and cook dinners for
Yasha.

Yakutsk is such a distant place that the prisoners there are allowed
considerable freedom. I was kindly treated by the officials when I took
the dinner-pail to Yasha, and was permitted to remain with him as long
as I desired, even in privacy.

Shortly afterwards Yasha was informed that he had been assigned to
Kolymsk, within seven miles of the Arctic ocean, where the snow never
melts and the winter never relaxes its grip. The news was a terrible
shock to us. To be buried alive in some snow-bound hut! What for? To
live like beasts in that uninhabitable region from which only few ever
emerge alive!

There was still one ray of hope. Governor Kraft, of Yakutsk, had the
reputation of being a very kind man, and he might reassign Yasha if I
begged him to do so. Yasha had been advised to appeal to the Governor,
and he sent me on this mission.

The Governor’s office was in his home. He received me very kindly,
even shook my hand, and invited me to be seated. He was a tall, erect,
black-bearded man of middle-age, and he showed every consideration for
me as I told my story. I proposed to him to open a sanitary butcher’s
shop in Yakutsk if he allowed Yasha to remain there, as the local
butchers’ shops were inconceivably filthy.

He at first refused to consider my suggestion, but then, apparently on
second thoughts, bade me follow him into his private room, where he
seated me at a table, and, filling two glasses with wine, invited me
to drink with him. I refused, wondering what could be the reason for
this extreme friendliness. He drew nearer to me, laid his hands on my
coat and removed it. Before I recovered from my astonishment he seized
my hand and kissed it. No man had ever before kissed my hand, and I had
an idea that it was an action that could only imply immoral intentions.
Startled and indignant, I jumped to my feet.

“I will give you a thousand roubles, room for a butcher’s shop in the
market, and keep your husband in Yakutsk, if you will agree to belong
to me,” the Governor declared, trying to calm me.

I lost my self-control. “Scoundrels! beasts! you men are all alike!” I
shouted. “All! all! all! High and low, you are all depraved.” Seizing
my coat, I ran out of the house, leaving the Governor speechless.

I rushed to my lodging, locked myself in a room and wept all night.
My errand had failed, and I was now faced with the choice between a
living death for Yasha and selling myself. I had visions of Kolymsk, a
settlement consisting of several scattered huts, inhabited by natives,
lost in the vast expanse of the ice-bound steppe, and buried for months
under mountains of snow. I could almost hear the howling of the Arctic
winds, and the frightful growling of the polar bears.

I pictured Yasha in the midst of it, cut off from human companionship,
slowly languishing in the monotony of inactivity. Then my thoughts
would revert to the other alternative. To live and work with Yasha
in outward happiness, and stealthily, in the night, to go to this
degenerate Governor! And what if Yasha learned of my secret visits? How
should I explain? And of what avail would any explanations be to him?
No, it was impossible, impossible! Ah, what a terrible night it was!
From visions of the frozen banks of the Arctic waters, my imagination
would carry me to the revolting embraces of Governor Kraft, in a
fruitless search for a way out.

Morning finally came and found me completely worn out. When my friends
questioned me as to the result of my call on the Governor, I replied
that he had refused my appeal. In low spirits I went to see Yasha. He
quickly noticed my downcast appearance and inquired into the cause.

“I saw the Governor, and he would not change your place of exile,” I
informed him dejectedly.

Yasha flared up. “You appealed to the Governor, eh? The Governor never
yet refused an appeal of this sort from a woman, I am told. He is the
kindest of men. The warden here just told me that the Governor has long
felt the need of a first-class butcher’s shop in the town, and would
never let us go if properly appealed to. I hear that you did not plead
with sufficient warmth. You want to get rid of me, eh? You want to have
me sent to Kolymsk to die, so that you can remain here alone and carry
on with some other man.”

Yasha’s words pained me deeply. He had always been very jealous, but
the strain of the imprisonment and the journey had made him more
irritable. Besides, it was evident that some one from the Governor’s
office had informed him that I had not sufficiently exerted myself in
his behalf. I did not dare to tell him the truth, for that would have
meant certain exile to Kolymsk, and I still hoped against hope.

“Yasha,” I implied, “how can you say such things of me? You know how I
love you, and if you go to Kolymsk I shall go with you. I have been to
the Governor, and entreated him.”

“Then go again. Fall on your knees before him, and beg harder. He is
said to be such a kind man that he will surely have mercy. Otherwise,
we are lost. Think of our destination, a land without sun, a colony of
three or four huts, spread over a space of about ten miles, that is
Kolymsk. No horses, no business, no trades! It is not a land for the
living. Go and implore the Governor, and he may take pity.”

I looked at Yasha, and my heart was filled with anguish. He was only
twenty-seven, but his hair was already turning grey. He looked pale
and exhausted. I could not keep myself from breaking into sobs.
Yasha was touched, and, placing his arm around me, apologized for
his insinuation, assuring me of his devotion and appreciation of
my endeavours to sustain him in his trials. I left him, with the
understanding that I would call on the Governor again.

“To go or not to go,” was the thought that tormented me on the way from
Yasha. I learned that the Governor was notorious as a libertine. He
had married into the family of a high-placed bureaucrat for the sake
of a career, and his wife was a hunch-back, spending most of her time
abroad. Plucking up courage, I went to the Governor again, hoping to
win his favour by a passionate plea for Yasha. As I entered the office
I saw the clerks wink to one another significantly. I could scarcely
keep my self-control, trembling in anticipation of another meeting with
the Governor. As I was admitted into his study he stood up and smiled
benevolently, saying:

“Ah, so finally you have come, my dear. Now, don’t be afraid; I won’t
harm you. Calm yourself, and be seated,” and he helped me to a chair.

“Have pity on us, sir. Permit Yasha to remain here,” I sobbed.

“Now, now, don’t cry,” he interrupted me. “I will. He shall stay.”

My heart was full of gratitude, and I threw myself on the floor at his
feet, thanking and blessing him for his kindness. Then it occurred to
me that Yasha would be overjoyed to hear the news, and I rose to go,
telling the Governor of my purpose.

“You need not tire yourself by rushing to the prison. I will have the
message telephoned to the warden, with instructions to inform your
husband immediately,” the Governor said, “and you may rest here a
little while.”

I was overflowing with thankfulness. He poured some wine into a glass
and insisted that I should drink it to refresh myself. I had never
tasted wine before, and this particular wine was of a very strong
quality. I felt a wave of warmth creep over me. It was so sweet and
languorous. The Governor then filled my glass again and, also one for
himself, invited me to drink with him. I made an effort to resist,
but was too weak to withstand his persuasion. After the second glass
it was much easier for the Governor to make me empty the third. I
became drowsy and dull, unable to move. I had a sense of the Governor
removing my clothes, but was too helpless to protest, let alone to
offer physical resistance. He embraced me, kissed me, but I remained
inert. I then had a sensation of being picked up by him and carried to
a couch. Very dimly I seemed to realize it all, and, collecting my last
strength, I attempted to struggle, but felt as if I had been drugged....

I awoke about four in the morning and found myself in unfamiliar,
luxurious surroundings. For a few moments I could not understand
where I was, and thought that I was dreaming. There was a strange man
near me. He turned his face, and I recognized him as the Governor. I
suddenly remembered everything. He made a motion to embrace me, but I
cried out, jumped up, dressed myself hastily and ran from the house as
if pursued.

Day was just breaking. The town was still wrapped in sleep, and a low
mist merged the city with the river. It was early autumn. There was
peace everywhere but in my heart; there, the elements were raging, and
life grappled with death for supremacy. “What shall I say to Yasha?
What will our friends think of me? A prostitute!” pierced my mind
poignantly. “No, that must never happen. Death is my only escape.”

I wandered about the streets for a while, until I found a grocer’s shop
open, and I purchased there thirty kopek’s worth of essence of vinegar.
Entering my lodging, I was met by the question:

“Where have you been? Maria Leontievna, where did you sleep last
night?” My appearance in itself was enough to arouse suspicion. Without
answering, I rushed into my room and locked the door. After offering
my last prayers, I resolutely drank up all the poison, and was soon
writhing in agony.

At the same time, about ten in the morning, Yasha was released from
prison and given five hundred roubles for the establishment of a
butcher’s shop. In high spirits, he made his way to my lodging,
completely unaware of what had befallen me. It was only when he arrived
at the house that he observed an unusual commotion. The door of my room
had been broken in when my moans were heard. The poison had scorched
my mouth and throat as if with a flame, and I was found unconscious on
the floor, and only recovering my senses after I had been removed to
the hospital. Around me stood Yasha, some nurses, and a physician who
was pouring something down my throat. I could not speak, although I
understood all that was going on in the room. I had lost so much blood,
the doctor explained to Yasha, in reply to his anxious questions, that
my recovery was very doubtful. “Only a person of unusually powerful
constitution could emerge alive from such an ordeal,” he added.

For two weeks I hovered between life and death, suffering agonizing
pains, writhing in breathless convulsions that choked my breathing. I
was fed only on milk, introduced into my throat through a tube. For a
month I was incapable of speech, at the end of which time I was out
of danger, but I had to spend another month in the hospital before I
regained my normal health.

Yasha could not, at first, understand the reason for my act. The
Governor was so kind, so generous. He had not only commuted his
sentence, but had given us five hundred roubles for a shop. Could there
be anything more noble? He finally arrived at the conclusion that the
trials of the last year had resulted in a temporary mental derangement,
which was responsible for my attempt at suicide. I did not disillusion
him, although I was tempted to do so whenever be praised the Governor.

Upon leaving the hospital, we opened the butcher’s shop and immediately
began to do good business. For several months we led a peaceful
life. Then, one afternoon, the Governor suddenly called at our shop,
ostensibly to inquire how we were prospering. He stretched out his hand
to me, but I turned away.

The Governor left, and Yasha raged at me for my inexplicable conduct.
Had I gone mad? I must have, to be capable of refusing to greet our
benefactor, the kindest of men! I was sullen and silent, but Yasha
would not be satisfied. He demanded an explanation. There was nothing
left for me to do but to make a clean breast of it, which I did.

The truth was such a shock to him that it threw him into convulsions.
He struck me with something and felled me to the floor. His face turned
chalk-white, the veins stood out on his temples, and he was trembling
all over. He seemed utterly prostrated by the horror of this nightmare.
The Governor’s liberality was now explained. The five hundred roubles,
the commutation of his sentence, it had all been dearly paid for by his
beloved.

My attempted suicide now appeared to him in its true light. He would
take vengeance. He would kill the Governor, he swore, yes, he would
murder that most despicable of villains. I hugged his feet and begged
him not to attempt to carry out his threat. He paid no heed to my
prayers, and talked of the hollowness of his life if he did not avenge
me.

He set off on his fateful errand, all my efforts to bar his way having
failed. When he appeared at the Governor’s office and requested an
audience, giving his name, the clerks immediately suspected him of some
sinister design. The secretary reported to the Governor that Buk, the
butcher, desired an audience, but that his manner roused suspicion. The
Governor ordered that he should be detained and searched. A long, sharp
knife was found on him, and he was arrested, orders being given for
his exile on the following day to Amga, a hamlet about one hundred and
thirty miles from Yakutsk. I had only twenty-four hours to dispose of
the shop, and was compelled to hand it over to a local political, with
the understanding that he would pay us for it a few months later.

It was Easter Eve, 1914, when we started out in a cart, driven by a
Yakut, for Amga. The mud was the worst I have ever come across. The
horses sank so deep, and the wheels of the vehicle stuck so often,
that frequently we had to alight and help in extricating them. We
spent Easter Day in a native’s hut on the road, in which children,
women and animals lived together. There is always a fire in the centre
of these huts, the smoke being allowed to escape through a hole in the
roof. The cows were milked in the hut, and the filth was beyond words.
After supping on some bread and a sort of tea, which was unfit for
human consumption, we went to sleep. The following day we resumed our
journey to Amga.




                               CHAPTER V

                           ESCAPE FROM EXILE


We spent about six days on the road to Amga. It was a town with a
mixed population. Half of its homes were tiny cabins, built by Russian
exiles, many of whom had married Yakut women, as the latter were
physically attractive and were proud to be the wives of white men.
The natives ill-treated their wives, and were lazy, so that the women
usually laboured to support their families. Some of the Yakuts were
very wealthy, owning as many as a thousand head of deer and cattle.
Men, women and children alike dressed only in fur. They made their
bread of a coarse flour, ground by hand.

There were about fifteen political exiles in Amga. Five of these were
university graduates, and one of them was Prince Alexander Gutemurov,
who had been arrested eight years before, and had turned grey in exile.

I was the first Russian woman to come to Amga, and the joy of the
small colony of politicals knew no bounds. As the Yakut women never
wash clothes, the filth in which the white men lived was unspeakable,
and their unkempt appearance testified eloquently to the conditions in
which they lived. They were at the mercy of vermin, and offered little
resistance to epidemics. Clean food, drinkable milk, could not be had
at any price. Money was cheap at Amga. The Prince, for instance,
received a monthly allowance of one hundred roubles (about 10 guineas),
but he could not get a bath for a thousand.

I immediately took charge of the situation, and the small cabin which
I rented at two roubles a month soon became the social centre of the
colony. I had benches made as well as a table and a bed. I obtained
flour at the general shop owned by Kariakin, who had been exiled there
for a murder in 1904, and now did a very flourishing trade. I baked
real Russian bread, cooked a regular Russian meal, and made Russian
tea, inviting all the politicals to dinner.

It was a feast fit for the Gods to them, and those of them who were
single asked me to board them regularly. I not only boarded them, but
I washed and repaired their clothes as well. I had a hut turned into
a bath-house, and it was not long before the politicals looked human
again. My duties in the house demanded all my time and energy, but I
was happy in being able to give help. The men regarded me as their
mother, and never tired of praising me.

I planted a garden, and sowed some grain, as land was given by the
community for the asking, there being few settlers in spite of the
natural riches of the district. The rivers in Northern Siberia are
full of fish, and there is no end to the wealth of timber. Less than
150 miles from us gold mines were being worked. On the strength of our
having owned the butcher’s shop in Yakutsk we were able to buy a horse
on credit and also to borrow some money.

My popularity with the politicals irritated Yasha. He grew jealous of
their kindness, now suspecting one man of courting me and now another.
As he had nothing to do, he nursed his jealousies till they grew in
his imagination. He took to playing cards, which is very popular with
the Yakuts, who like to gamble. This led gradually to his becoming a
confirmed gambler. He would leave home for some neighbouring Yakut
settlement and frequently stay away for several days, spending all
his time in gambling. Finally it became a habit with him. He would
disappear, and reappear suddenly, only in different moods.

When he had won he would return all smiles, with money jingling in his
pockets, bringing me some presents, and displaying great generosity to
all. But that was not the usual case. Most frequently he lost, and then
he would come back home gloomy and dejected, nervous and irritable,
ready to pick quarrels and give provocation. His temper was especially
roused whenever he found some political in the house. Consumed by
jealousy, he would taunt me, and not infrequently resort to blows.

“Yasha, have you lost your senses?” I would say. “Do you need some
money? You know I am always glad to help you out,” and I would have
resort to my small savings, knowing that he had lost his last penny.
But that would not alleviate my suffering. It was with relief that I
looked forward to his departures, and with apprehension that I saw him
return.

At the end of about three months, we obtained permission to visit
Yakutsk for the purpose of collecting the money due to us for the
butcher’s shop, but the man to whom we had made over the business
now denied that he owed us any money, claiming to have paid fully
at the time of our exile to Amga. There was a violent quarrel, but
no money. As I had surrendered the shop to him on trust, we could
not substantiate our claims and oust him from his possession of the
premises. There was nothing to be done but to return with empty hands,
with the burden of the debts we had incurred at Amga weighing heavily
on our shoulders. I was faced with the dreary prospect of hard and
continuous toil, in order to pay what we owed.

One summer day a new party of exiles arrived at Amga. One of them was a
young man of about twenty. Yasha took a fancy to him and proposed that
he should remain in our house as my assistant. Knowing Yasha’s jealousy
I objected.

“Yasha,” I argued, “what are you doing? You know how jealous you become
when you find one of the colony in the house, and now you want me to
keep this young man here, while you will be away most of the time.
You are only making trouble for me, I don’t want him, I need no help.
Please don’t burden me with him.”

“Marusia,” Yasha replied, tenderly, “I swear that I won’t be jealous
any more. I won’t, dear. Forgive me for all the pain I have caused you.”

Yasha’s words did not entirely pacify me, but he overruled my
objections, promising to be reasonable in the future. The same
afternoon a Yakut called for him, and they left together to go to a
gambling place. The young man remained with me. Nothing occurred the
first day or two. Then, one night, I was awakened by the young man
bending over me. I repelled him, appealing to his sense of shame, but
as he persisted in his advances, I struck him violently, jumped out of
bed, and seizing a chair and shouting at the top of my voice, drove him
out of the house.

It was about one o’clock in the morning. Prince Gutemurov was returning
home from an evening with a friend and saw me drive the young man
out into the night. The latter, however, harboured a deep feeling of
vengeance against me. He resolved to await Yasha’s return, on the road
outside the village, and tell him a false version of the story!

“A fine wife you have,” he addressed Yasha, derisively, as soon as the
latter appeared.

“What do you mean?” questioned Yasha excitedly. The young man replied
that the night before I had come to him, but, being a loyal friend to
Yasha, he drove me away and left the house with the purpose of meeting
him and informing him of the incident. Yasha only had sufficient
self-control to thunder out:

“Swear, are you telling the truth?”

The young rascal answered:

“Certainly it’s the truth.”

When Yasha appeared on the threshold I observed immediately with
horror that he was in a ferocious mood, but was suppressing his fury.
That made him the more dangerous. He spoke slowly, picking his words
deliberately, words which struck terror to my soul.

“You are a faithless woman. You always have been faithless, deceiving
me continually, but you are caught now, and you won’t escape. It’s
fortunate that Dmitri is a decent young fellow and repelled your
advances. You can say your last prayers, you base creature.”

While speaking thus Yasha proceeded in a cold, business-like,
purposeful manner to make a noose to hang me. It was this calm about
Yasha’s actions, expressive of his terrible earnestness, that made me
tremble all over.

“Yasha, I am innocent, Yasha,” I sobbed, throwing myself at his feet
and kissing them. “I swear that I am innocent,” I cried. “Have mercy!
think what you are doing! I tell you I am innocent!”

Yasha went on with his preparations undisturbed.

He attached the rope to a hook on the ceiling and tested the noose.

“Yasha, come to your senses,” I implored, hugging his legs.

He pushed me aside, placed a stool under the rope and ordered me, in a
terrible voice, to stand up on it.

“Now say your last prayers,” he repeated.

He then placed the noose around my neck and jerked the stool from under
my feet. In an instant it tightened about my throat, I wanted to cry
out but could not, the pressure against the crown of my head was so
terrific that it seemed about to crack open. Then I lost consciousness.

As the noose was tightening around my neck Yasha came to himself and
hastened to loosen it. I dropped, lifeless, to the floor. In response
to his calls for help several politicals, among whom were a couple of
medical students, came running to the house. They made every effort to
revive me, succeeding only after long and persistent attempts. When
I opened my eyes, the whole colony was at my bedside. Pressed for an
explanation of his inhuman act Yasha told Dmitri’s story.

Then Prince Gutemurov revealed what he had seen the previous night, on
his way home. Yasha was overwhelmed. He fell on his knees and begged my
forgiveness, cursing Dmitri and promising to make short work of him.
But Yasha could not find him. Dmitri learned of the disclosure and
disappeared forever from Amga.

Soon afterwards, another incident occurred which further embittered my
life with Yasha. In his absence Vasili, a political, came and told me
that the authorities were in receipt of an order to arrest and send
him to Irkutsk to be tried on a new charge, which carried with it the
death-sentence. It was a regular practice of the Tsar’s government to
recall exiles for second trials on some additional bit of evidence.

Vasili asked me to lend him our horse, “Maltchik,” to help him escape.
Knowing how attached Yasha was to the horse, I refused Vasili’s
request. But he persisted in imploring me, claiming that Prince
Gutemurov had seen the order for the arrest, and that the sheriff was
already on his tracks.

“But how could the horse be returned?” I asked Vasili, touched by his
continuous pleading. He replied that he would leave it with a certain
Yakut friend of ours, some hundred versts away, and I finally yielded,
although not without misgivings. As soon as he left with “Maltchik”
my anxiety grew into alarm. I hurried to Prince Gutemurov to verify
Vasili’s story. How thunder-struck I was upon learning from the Prince
that he knew of no order to arrest Vasili, and that he had not even
seen him. It was clear that I had been swindled and that I would never
see the horse again.

“My God!” I thought, “what will happen upon Yasha’s return and his
discovery that “Maltchik” is gone?”

The fear of death rose up before me, the impression of my recent escape
from hanging still fresh in my mind. I trembled at the thought of
Yasha, with the feeling of an entrapped animal seeking an escape. But
there seemed to be no remedy.

It was August, 1914. Rumours of the great conflict were just reaching
the remote Siberian provinces. The order for mobilization came, and
there was great excitement, even in the death-bound Arctic settlements,
as if suddenly a new life had been infused into that land of monotony.
Upon the heels of the call to arms came the Tsar’s Manifesto,
abolishing the scourge of our national life--vodka, and with it a
gigantic wave of popular enthusiasm, sweeping the steppes, valleys, and
forests of vast Russia, from Petrograd and Moscow, across the Ural
mountains and Siberia, to the borders of China, and the Pacific coast.

There was something sublime about the nation’s response. Old men, who
had fought in the Crimean War, in the Turkish Campaign of 1877-78, and
The Russo-Japanese War, declared that they never saw such exaltation
of spirit. It was a glorious, inspiring, unforgettable moment in one’s
life. My soul was deeply stirred, and I had a dim realization of a new
world coming to life, a purer, a happier and a holier world.

And when Vasili robbed me of our horse, and I was filled with the dread
of Yasha’s fury, intensified by my helplessness in the face of this
misfortune, the thought, “WAR!” suddenly flashed into my mind.

“Go to war to help save the country!” a voice within me called.

To leave Yasha for my personal comfort and safety was almost
unthinkable. But to leave him for the field of unselfish sacrifice,
that was a different matter. And the thought of going to war penetrated
deeper and deeper into my whole being, giving me no rest.

When Yasha returned, Prince Gutemurov and several other friends were in
the house ready to defend me. He had already learned from the natives,
on his way home, that Vasili had escaped on our horse. He could not
believe that I would have given his favourite horse to anybody without
his permission, and he therefore suspected that I had an intrigue with
Vasili, and that I had despatched him to make preparations for an
elopement. He made a violent scene, attacking me savagely, with showers
of blows. My friends tore him away, which only infuriated him the more.
This inability to give vent to his rage made him act like one demented.

His temper was clearly becoming a danger, which called for a remedy. A
physician came to Amga only once a month. As Yasha considered himself
in good health, there could be no question of suggesting to him that
he should consult the physician. It was, therefore, agreed among my
friends that Prince Gutemurov should take a walk about the village
with the doctor when he arrived, pass by our house as if by accident,
and that I should greet them with an invitation to come in for tea.
Everything went smoothly. The physician was introduced to Yashka and
immediately remarked upon his pallor and his bloodshot eyes.

“What ails you?” he asked Yasha, “you seem to have fever. Let me
examine you.”

The result of the examination was the advice to Yasha to go to a
hospital for treatment, which he, of course, scoffed at. Privately, the
doctor informed Prince Gutemurov that Yasha’s nerves had broken down
and that he was dangerous to live with, as he might kill me for some
trivial cause. The physician urged that I should leave him at once.
But I hesitated. Another quarrel, however, was not long in coming.
Yasha actually made another attempt to kill me, but was stopped by our
comrades. The cup was full. I decided to escape.

Day and night my imagination carried me to the fields of battle, and
my ears rang with the groans of my wounded brethren. The impact of the
mighty armies was heard even in uncivilized northern Siberia. There
were rumours in the air, rumours of victory and of defeat, and in low
voices people talked of torrents of blood and of rivers of maimed
humanity, streaming back from the front, and already overflowing into
the Siberian plains. My heart yearned to be there, in the seething
caldron of war, to be baptized in its fire and scorched in its lava.
The spirit of sacrifice took possession of me. My country called me.
And an irresistible force from within impelled me.

I only waited the opportunity when Yasha should be away for several
days. It arrived one September day. Some Yakuts called for Yasha.
As soon as he left I cut off my hair, dressed in men’s clothes and
provided myself with two loaves of bread. I had no money to speak of,
as I took none of the colony into my confidence.

It was evening when I stealthily hurried out of Amga and took the road
to Yakutsk. I had before me a journey of over 130 miles. I ran at such
a pace that night, since I could not expect to travel in the day-time
without being recognized, that I covered thirty-three miles before dawn.

Several times I met Yakuts, and answered their greetings in their
native dialect, with which I had grown familiar. In the dark they must
have taken me for a Yakut. Otherwise, the journey was uneventful. The
road was dry, the weather calm, and only the stars lit my way, while
the loud throbbing of my heart echoed my footsteps.

When day broke I stopped beside a stream and breakfasted on bread and
cold water. I then made a bed of twigs in a hole by the road, lay down,
covered myself with branches and went to sleep for the day. I awoke
when evening came, offered my prayers to God, dined on some more bread
and water, and resumed my journey. It took me six nights of walking
to arrive at Yakutsk, living only on bread and water, and sleeping in
hidden nooks by the road during the day.

There was a new Governor in Yakutsk. Baron Kraft had gone to western
Europe to join his wife at some health resort, was stranded there after
the outbreak of the war, and later died a prisoner in the hands of the
enemy. The new Governor received me well, and granted my request to be
sent home, to Tomsk, at the expense of the Government. He even offered
me a convoy for protection.

My escape was a success, but my heart would not rejoice. The image of
Yasha, stricken with grief, frantically searching for me, calling to
me, rose before my eyes, and demanded an account from my conscience.
Was it right, was it just, to leave poor Yasha all alone in forlorn
Amga? Had I not vowed to remain eternally faithful to him? Was it not
my bounden duty to stand by him to the end? Should I not return to him,
then and give up this wild fancy of going to war?

I hesitated. Was it not true, on the other hand, that Yasha had become
a professional gambler? Was not life with him a perilous adventure?
Devotion to Yasha, a voice within me argued, did not mean perishing
with him, but an effort to save him. Indeed, to get Yasha out of that
wilderness was an idea which suddenly gripped my imagination. And
how could I ever expect to find a better opportunity to do so than
by distinguishing myself in war and then petitioning the Tsar in his
behalf?

So there I was again in the magic circle of war. I asked an
acquaintance to write a letter for me to Yasha. Apologizing for my
strange departure, I informed him that I was going to Tomsk to enlist
as a soldier, leave for the front and win distinction for bravery,
then petition the Tsar to pardon him, so as to enable us to resume our
peaceful life in Stretinsk.

It was a plan with which Destiny, which held no more peace for me,
played havoc. The war was to continue as many years as I had expected
it to last months, shrouding Russia in darkness, sowing revolution,
bearing thunder and lightning in its wings, spreading famine and chaos
and seeds of a new world order. In those stormy years Yasha was to
retreat to the far background of my life, then vanish altogether. But
all my heart was with him that autumn day of 1914, when I turned my
eyes toward the bleak north for the last time, as I boarded the barge
that was to carry me to Irkutsk, thence to Tomsk, and thence to war.




                               Part Two

                                  WAR




                              CHAPTER VI

                   I ENLIST BY THE GRACE OF THE TSAR


I spent nearly two months travelling homeward from Yakutsk, by water,
rail and foot. The war was everywhere. The barge on the Lena was filled
with recruits. In Irkutsk the uniform was much in evidence, and every
now and then a regiment of soldiers would march through the streets on
the way to the station, arousing one’s martial spirit. My convoy left
me upon my arrival there, and I had to appeal to the authorities for
funds to continue my journey.

My heart was beating furiously when I reached Tomsk, after an absence
of about six years. Tears dimmed my eyes as I walked the familiar
streets. Here, in this two-storied house, I had first learned
the fickleness of man’s love. That was ten years ago, during the
Russo-Japanese War, when I was only fifteen years old. There, in
that dilapidated little shop, where I can see the figure of Nastasia
Leontievna bent over the counter, I spent five years of my early youth,
waiting on customers, scrubbing floors, cooking, washing and sewing.
That long apprenticeship, under the stern eyes of Nastasia Leontievna,
served me in good stead in later years, I must admit. The smoking
chimney yonder belongs to the house in which I was married, some eight
years ago, only to gain experience at first hand of man’s brutality.
And here, in this basement, my father and mother have been dwelling for
seventeen years.

I swung open the door. My mother was baking bread and did not turn
immediately. How old she had grown! How bent her shoulders, how white
her hair! She turned her head and stared at me for a second. A lump
rose in my throat, rendering me speechless.

“Mania!” she exclaimed, rushing toward me and locking me in her arms.

We wept, kissed each other, and wept again. My mother offered prayers
to the Holy Mother and swore that she would never let me leave her side
again. The bread was almost burned to charcoal, having been forgotten
in the oven in the excitement of my return. My father came in, and
he also was greatly aged. He greeted me tenderly, the years having
softened the harshness of his nature.

I paid some visits to old friends. Nastasia Leontievna was overjoyed
to see me. The sister of Afanasi Botchkarev, my first husband, also
welcomed me cordially, in spite of the fact that I had escaped from her
brother. She realized well enough how brutal and rough he was. She told
me that Afanasi had been called in the first draft, and that it was
reported that he was among the first prisoners taken by the Germans. I
have never heard of him again.

I rested for about three days. The news from the front was exciting.
Great battles were raging. Our soldiers were retreating in some places
and advancing in others. I longed for wings to fly to their help. My
heart yearned and ached.

“Do you know what war is?” I asked myself. “It is no work for a
woman. You must make sure before starting out, Marusia, that you won’t
disgrace yourself. Are you strong enough in spirit to face all the
trials and dangers of this colossal war? Are you strong enough in body
to shed blood and endure the privations of war? Are you firm enough at
heart to withstand the temptations that will come to you, living among
men? Search your soul for a brave and truthful answer.”

And I found strength enough in me to answer “yes” to all these
questions. I suppressed the hidden longing for Yasha in the depths of
my being, and made the fateful decision. I would go to war and fight
till death, or, if God preserved me, till the coming of peace. I would
defend my country and help those unfortunate ones on the field of
slaughter who had already made their sacrifices for their country.

It was November, 1914. With my heart steeled in the decision I had
made, I resolutely approached the headquarters of the Twenty-fifth
Reserve Battalion stationed in Tomsk. Upon entering a clerk asked me
what I wanted.

“To see the Commander,” I replied.

“What for?” he inquired.

“I want to enlist,” I said.

The man looked at me for a moment and burst out laughing. He called to
the other clerks. “Here is a _baba_ who wants to enlist!” he announced
jokingly, pointing at me. There followed a general uproar. “Ha! ha!
ha!” they chorused, forgetting their work for the moment. When the
merriment subsided a little I repeated my request to see the Commander,
and his adjutant came out. He must have been told that a woman had come
to enlist, for he addressed me gaily:

“What is your wish?”

“I want to enlist in the army, your Excellency,” I answered.

“To enlist, eh? But you are a _baba_,” he laughed. “The regulations do
not permit us to enlist women. It is against the law.”

I insisted that I wanted to fight, and begged to see the Commander. The
adjutant reported me to the Commander, who ordered that I should be
shown in.

With the adjutant laughing behind me, I blushed and became confused
when brought before the Commander. He rebuked the adjutant and inquired
what he could do for me. I repeated that I wanted to enlist and fight
for the country.

“It is very noble of you to have such a desire. But women are not
allowed in the army,” he said. “They are too weak. What could you, for
instance, do in the front line? Women are not made for war.”

“Your Excellency,” I insisted, “God has given me strength, and I can
defend my country as well as a man. I have asked myself before coming
here whether I could endure the life of a soldier, and found that I
could. Cannot you place me in your regiment?”

“My dear,” the Commander declared gently, “how can I help you? It is
against the law. I have no authority to enlist a woman even if I wanted
to. You can go to the rear, enlist as a Red Cross nurse or in some
other auxiliary service.”

I rejected his proposal. I had heard so many rumours about the women
in the rear that I had come to despise them. I therefore insisted
on my determination to go to the front as a regular soldier. The
Commander was deeply impressed by my obstinacy, and wanted to help me.
He suggested that I should send a telegram to the Tsar, telling him of
my desire to defend the country, of my moral purpose, and beg him to
grant me special permission to enlist.

The Commander promised to draw up the telegram himself, with a
recommendation of his own, and to have it sent from his office. He
warned me, however, to consider the matter again, to think of the
hardships I should have to bear, of the soldiers’ attitude toward me,
and the universal ridicule that I should provoke. But I did not change
my mind. The telegram was sent at my expense, costing eight roubles,
which I obtained from my mother.

When I disclosed to my family the nature of my visit to the Commander
of the Twenty-fifth Battalion they burst into tears. My poor mother
cried that her Mania must have gone out of her senses, that it was an
unheard-of, impossible thing. Who ever heard of a _baba_ going to war?
She would allow herself to be buried alive before letting me enlist. My
father supported her. I was their only hope now, they said. They would
be forced to starve and go begging, without my help. And the house was
filled with sobs and lamentation, the two younger sisters and some
neighbours joining in.

My heart was rent in twain. It was a cruel, painful choice that I was
called upon to make, a choice between my mother and my country. It had
cost me so much to steel myself to that new life, and now, when I was
seemingly near the goal, my long-suffering mother called upon me to
give up this ideal that possessed me, for her sake. I was tormented and
agonized by doubt. I realized that I must make a decision quickly, and,
with a supreme effort and the help of God, I resolved that the call of
my country came before the call of my mother.

After some time had passed a soldier came to the house.

“Is Maria Botchkareva here?” he questioned.

He came from headquarters with the news that a telegram had arrived
from the Tsar, authorizing the Commander to enlist me as a soldier, and
that the Commander wanted to see me.

My mother did not expect such an answer. She grew frantic. She cursed
the Tsar with all her might, although she had always revered him as the
Little Father. “What kind of a Tsar is he?” she cried, “if he takes
women to war? He must have lost his senses. Who ever heard of a Tsar
calling women to arms? Hasn’t he enough men? Goodness knows, there are
myriads of them in Mother Russia.”

She seized the Tsar’s portrait on the wall, before which she had
crossed herself every morning, and tore it to bits, stamping them on
the floor, with imprecations and anathema on her lips. Never again
would she pray for him, she declared. “No, never!”

The soldier’s message had an opposite effect on me; and I was in high
spirits. Dressing in my best clothes, I went to see the Commander.
Everybody at headquarters seemed to know of the Tsar’s telegram, smiles
greeting me everywhere. The Commander congratulated me and read its
text in a solemn voice, explaining that it was an extraordinary honour
which the august Emperor had conferred on me, and that I must make
myself worthy of it. I was so happy, so joyous, so excited. It was the
most blissful moment of my life.

The Commander called in his orderly and instructed him to obtain a full
soldier’s outfit for me. I received two complete undergarments made of
coarse linen, two pairs of foot-rags, a laundry-bag, a pair of boots,
one pair of trousers, a belt, a regulation blouse, a pair of epaulets,
a cap with the insignia on it, two cartridge pockets and a rifle. My
hair was clipped short.

There was an outburst of laughter when I appeared in full military
attire, as a regular soldier of the Fourth Company, Fifth Regiment. I
was confused and somewhat bewildered, being hardly able to recognize
myself. The news of a woman recruit had preceded me at the barracks,
and my arrival there was the signal for riotous mirth. I was surrounded
on all sides by raw recruits who stared at me incredulously, but some
were not satisfied with mere staring, so rare a novelty was I to them.
They wanted to make sure that their eyes were not deceived, so they
proceeded to pinch me, jostle me and brush against me.

“Nonsense, she isn’t a _baba_,” remarked one of them.

“Indeed, she is,” said another, pinching me.

“She’ll run like the devil at the first German shot,” joked a third,
provoking roars of laughter.

“We’ll make it so hot for her that she’ll run before even getting to
the front,” threatened a fourth.

Here the Commander of my company interfered, and the men dispersed.
I was granted permission to take my things home before settling
permanently at the barracks. I asked to be shown how to salute. On the
way home I saluted every uniform in the same manner. Opening the door
of the house, I halted on the threshold. My mother did not recognize me.

“Maria Leontievna Botchkareva here?” I asked sharply, in military
fashion. Mother took me for some messenger from headquarters, and
answered, “No.”

I threw myself on her neck. “Holy Mother, save me!” she exclaimed.
There were cries and tears which brought my father and little sister
on the scene. My mother became hysterical. For the first time I saw
my father weep, and again I was urged to come back to my senses and
give up this crazy notion of serving in the army. The landlady and old
Nastasia Leontievna were called to help dissuade me from my purpose.

“Think what the men will do to a solitary woman in their midst,” they
argued. “Why, they’ll make a prostitute of you. They will kill you
secretly, and nobody will ever find a trace of you. Only the other day
they found the body of a woman along the railroad track, thrown out of
a troop-train. You have always been such a sensible girl. What has come
over you? And what will become of your parents? They are old and weak,
and you are their only hope. They always said that when Marusia came
back they would end their lives in peace. Now you are shortening their
days, driving them to their graves in sorrow.”

For a little while I hesitated again. The fierce struggle in my bosom
between the two conflicting calls was renewed. But I held by my
decision, remaining deaf to all entreaty. Then my mother grew angry
and, crying out at the top of her voice, she shouted:

“You are no longer my daughter! You have forfeited your mother’s love.”

With a heavy heart I left the house for the barracks. The Commander of
the Company did not expect me, and I had to explain to him why I could
not pass that night at home. He assigned to me a place in the general
sleeping-room ordering the men not to molest me. On my right and on my
left were soldiers, and that first night in the company of men will
ever stand out in my memory. I did not close my eyes once during the
night.

The men were, naturally, unaccustomed to such a strange creature as
myself and took me for a woman of loose morals who had made her way
into the ranks for the sake of carrying on her illicit trade. I was,
therefore, compelled constantly to fight off intrusions from all sides.
As soon as I made an effort to shut my eyes I would discover the arm
of my left-hand-neighbour round my neck, and would restore it to its
owner with a push. While keeping an eye on his movements, however, I
offered an opportunity for my neighbour on the right to get too near
to me, and I would savagely kick him in the side. All night long my
nerves were taut and my fists busy. Toward dawn I was so exhausted that
I nearly fell asleep, when I discovered a hand on my chest, and before
the man realized my intention, I struck him in the face. I continued to
rain blows till the bell rang at five o’clock, the hour for rising.

Ten minutes were given us to dress and wash, tardiness being punished
by a rebuke. At the end of ten minutes the ranks formed and every
soldier’s hands, ears and foot-rags were inspected. I was in such haste
to be in time that I put my trousers on inside out, provoking roars of
laughter.

The day began with a prayer for the Tsar and country, following which
every one of us received the daily allowance of two-and-a-half pounds
of bread and a few cubes of sugar from our respective squad commanders.
There were four squads to a company. Our breakfast consisted of bread
and tea and lasted half an hour.

At the mess I had an opportunity to get acquainted with some of the
more sympathetic soldiers. There were ten volunteers in my company, and
they were all students. After eating, there was roll-call. When the
officer reached my name he read: “Botchkareva,” to which I answered,
“Aye.” We were then taken out for instruction, since the entire
regiment had been formed only three days before. The first rule that
the training officer tried to impress upon us was to pay attention,
and to watch his movements and actions. Not all the recruits could do
it easily. I prayed to God to enlighten me in the study of a soldier’s
duties.

It was slow work to establish proper relations with the men. The
first few days I was such a nuisance to the Company Commander that
he wished me to ask for dismissal. He hinted as much on a couple of
occasions, but I continued to mind my own business and never reported
the annoyances I endured from the men. Gradually I won their respect
and confidence. The small group of volunteers always defended me. As
the Russian soldiers call each other by nick-names, one of the first
questions put to me by my friends was what I would like to be called.

“Call me Yashka,” I said, and that name stuck to me ever after, saving
my life on more than one occasion. There is so much in a name, and
“Yashka” was the sort of name that appealed to the soldiers and always
worked in my favour. In time it became the nickname of the regiment,
but not before I had been tested by many additional trials and found to
be a comrade, and not merely a woman, by the men.

I was an apt student and learned almost to anticipate the orders
of the instructor. When the day’s duties were completed and the
soldiers gathered into groups to while away an hour or two in games
or story-telling, I was always asked to take part. I came to like the
soldiers, who were good-natured fellows, and to enjoy their sports.
The group which Yashka joined would usually prove the most popular in
the barracks, and it was sufficient to secure my co-operation in some
scheme to make it a success.

There was little time for relaxation, however, as we went through an
intensive training course of only three months before we were sent
to the front. Once a week, every Sunday, I would leave the barracks
and spend the day at home, my mother having reconciled herself to my
enlistment. On holidays I would be visited by friends or relatives.
On one such occasion my sister and her husband called. I had been
detailed for guard duty in the barracks that day. While on such duty a
soldier is forbidden to sit down or to engage in conversation. I was
entertaining my visitors when the Company Commander passed.

“Do you know the rules, Botchkareva?” he asked.

“Yes, your Excellency,” I answered.

“What are they?”

“A soldier on guard duty is not allowed to sit down or engage in
conversation,” I replied. He ordered me to stand for two hours at
attention at the completion of my guard duty, which took twenty-four
hours. Standing at attention, in full military equipment, for two hours
is a severe task, as one has to remain absolutely motionless under the
eyes of a guard, and yet it was a common punishment.

During my training I was punished in this manner three times. The
second time it was really not my fault. One night I recognized my squad
commander in a soldier who annoyed me, and I dealt him as hard a blow
as I would have given to any other man. In the morning he placed me
at attention for two hours, claiming that he had accidentally brushed
against me.

At first there was some difficulty in arranging for my bathing. The
bath-house was used by the men, and so I was allowed one day to visit
a public bath-house. I thought it a good opportunity for some fun. I
came into the women’s room, fully dressed, and there was a tremendous
uproar as soon as I appeared. I was taken for a man. However, the fun
did not last long. In an instant I was attacked from all sides and only
narrowly escaped serious injury by crying out that I was a woman.

In the last month of our training we engaged in almost continuous rifle
practice. I applied myself zealously to acquiring skill in handling
a rifle and won an honourable mention for good marksmanship. This
considerably enhanced my standing with the soldiers and strengthened
our feeling of comradeship.

Early in 1915 our regiment received orders to prepare to proceed to
the front. We received a week’s leave. The soldiers passed these last
days in drink and revelry and gay parties. One evening a group of boys
invited me to go along with them to a house of ill repute.

“Be a soldier, Yashka,” they urged me laughingly, scarcely expecting me
to accept their invitation.

A thought flashed through my mind.

“I will go with them, and learn the soldier’s life, so that I may
understand his soul better.” And I expressed my willingness to go.
Perhaps curiosity had something to do with my decision. It was greeted
with an explosion of mirth. Noisily we marched through the streets,
singing and laughing, until we came to our destination.

My knees began to tremble as the party was about to enter the house. I
wanted to turn back and flee. But the soldiers would not let me. The
idea of Yashka going with them to such a place took a strong hold on
their imagination. Soldiers, before going to the front, were always
welcome in the haunts of vice, as they spent their money freely. Our
group was, therefore, promptly surrounded by the women of the place,
and one of them, a very young and pretty girl, picked me out as her
favourite to the boundless mirth of my companions. There was drinking,
dancing and a great deal of noise. Nobody suspected my sex, not even
my youthful sweetheart, who seated herself in my lap and exerted all
her charms to entice me. She caressed me, embraced me and kissed me. I
giggled, and my comrades gave vent to peals of laughter. Presently I
was left alone with my charmer.

Suddenly the door swung open and an officer entered. Soldiers were
forbidden to leave their barracks after eight o’clock, and our party
had slipped out in the dark when we were supposed to be asleep.

“Of what regiment are you?” the officer asked, abruptly, as I rose to
salute.

“The Fifth Reserve Regiment, your Excellency,” I replied ruefully.

While this was going on the boys in the other rooms were notified of
the officer’s presence and made their escape through windows and all
available doors, leaving me to take care of myself.

“How dare you leave your barracks?” he thundered at me, “and frequent
such places so late at night, I shall order you to the military prison
for the night.” And he commanded me to report there immediately.

It was my first acquaintance with the military gaol. It is not a very
comfortable place to spend a night in. In the morning I was called
before the prison commandant, who questioned me sternly. Finally, I
could contain myself no longer and broke out into laughter.

“It was all a mistake, your Excellency,” I said.

“A mistake, eh? What the devil do you mean, a mistake? I have a report
here,” he cried out angrily.

“I am a woman, your Excellency,” I laughed.

“A woman!” he roared, opening his eyes wide, and surveying me. In an
instant he recognized the truth of my words. “What the devil!” he
muttered. “A woman indeed: A woman in a soldier’s uniform!”

“I am Maria Botchkareva, of the Fifth Regiment,” I explained. He had
heard of me.

“But what were you, a woman, doing in that place?” he inquired.

“I am a soldier, your Excellency, and I went along with some of my
comrades to investigate for myself the places where the soldiers pass
their time.”

He telephoned to the Commander of my regiment to inquire into my
record and told him where and why I was detained. A titter ran through
the offices when they learned of Yashka’s adventure. The soldiers
already knew from their comrades of the night’s escapade, and with
great difficulty suppressed their merriment, not wanting to attract
the attention of the officers. But now there was a general outburst of
laughter. When I arrived it reached such a pitch that men were actually
rolling on the floor, holding their sides. I was punished by two hours
at attention, the third and last time during my training. For a week
afterwards the regiment talked about nothing but Yashka’s adventure,
nearly every soldier making a point of accosting me with the question:
“Yashka, how did you like it there?”

The date of our departure was fixed. We received complete new outfits.
I was permitted to go home to spend the last night, and it was a night
of tears and sobs and longings. The three months I had spent in Tomsk
as a soldier were, after all, remote from war. But now that I felt so
near to that great experience, it awed me. I prayed to God to give me
courage for the new trials that were before me, courage to live and die
like a man.

There was great excitement in the barracks the following morning.
It was the last that we were to spend there. In complete marching
equipment we marched to the Cathedral where we were sworn in again.
There was a solemn service. The church was filled with people, and
there was an enormous crowd outside. The Bishop addressed us. He spoke
of how the country was attacked by an enemy who sought to destroy
Russia, and appealed to us to defend gloriously the Tsar and the
Motherland. He prayed for victory for our arms and blessed us.

A spiritual fervour was kindled in the men. We were all so buoyant, so
happy, so forgetful of our own lives and interests. The whole city
poured out to accompany us to the station, and we were cheered and
greeted all along the route. I had never yet seen a body of men in such
high spirits as we were that February morning. Woe to the Germans that
might have encountered us that day. Such was Russia going to war in
those first months of the struggle. Hundreds of regiments like our own
were streaming from east, north and south to the battlefields. It was
an inspiring, uplifting, unforgettable sight.

My mother felt none of the exaltation with which I was filled. She
walked along the street, beside my troop, weeping, appealing to the
Holy Mother and all the saints of the Church, to save her daughter.

“Wake up: Marusia,” she cried, “What are you doing?” But it was too
late. The ardour of war possessed me entirely. Somewhere deep in my
heart my beloved mother’s wailings found an echo, but my eyes were
dimmed with tears of joy. It was only when I bade my mother good-bye,
hugging and kissing her for what she felt was the last time, and
boarded the train, leaving her on the platform prostrate and frantic
with grief, that my heart sank and I trembled from head to foot. My
resolution was on the point of giving way when the train moved out of
the station.

I was going to war.




                              CHAPTER VII

                 MY FIRST EXPERIENCE OF NO MAN’S LAND


Our train was composed of a number of vans and one passenger-car. These
vans, in which the soldiers sleep, have two bunks on each side, and are
called _teplushkas_. There are no windows in a _teplushka_, as it is
really only a converted luggage van. The passenger-car was occupied by
the four officers of our regiment, including our new Company Commander,
Grishaninov. He was a short, jolly fellow and soon won his men’s love
and loyalty.

There was plenty of room to spare in the passenger-car and the officers
took it into their heads to invite me to share it with them. When the
invitation came the soldiers all shook their heads in disapproval. They
suspected the motives of the officers and thought that Yashka would
fare as well among them as among their superiors.

“Botchkareva,” said Commander Grishaninov, when I entered his car,
“would you prefer to be stationed in this carriage? There is plenty of
room.”

“No, your Excellency,” I replied, saluting. “I am a plain soldier, and
it is my duty to travel as a soldier.”

“Very well,” declared the commander, chagrined. And I returned to my
_teplushka_.

“Yashka is back: Good fellow, Yashka!” the men welcomed me
enthusiastically, bestowing some strong epithets on the officers. They
were immensely pleased at the idea that Yashka preferred their company
in a _teplushka_ to that of the officers in a spacious passenger coach,
and made a comfortable place for me in a corner.

We were assigned to the Second Army then commanded by General Gurko,
with headquarters at Polotsk. It took us two weeks to get there from
Tomsk. General Gurko reviewed us at Army Headquarters and complimented
the commander upon the regiment’s fitness. We were then assigned to
the Fifth Corps. Before we started, the news spread that there was a
woman in our regiment. Curiosity was at once aroused. Knots of soldiers
gathered about my _teplushka_, peeping through the door and cracks in
the sides to verify with their own eyes the incredible news. Then they
would swear, emphasizing their words by spitting, to having witnessed
the inexplicable phenomenon of a _baba_ going to the trenches. The
attention of some officers was attracted by the crowd, and they
came up to find out what the excitement was about. They reported me
to the Commandant of the station, who immediately sent for Colonel
Grishaninov, demanding an explanation. But the Colonel could not
satisfy the Commandant’s doubts and was instructed not to send me with
the men to the fighting line.

“You can’t go to the trenches, Botchkareva,” my Commander addressed me
upon his return from the Commandant. “The General won’t allow it. He
was very much concerned about you and could not understand how a woman
could be a soldier.”

For a moment I was shocked. Then the happy thought occurred to me that
no General had the authority to overrule an order of the Tsar.

“Your Excellency!” I exclaimed to Colonel Grishaninov, “I was enlisted
by the grace of the Tsar as a regular soldier. You can look up His
Majesty’s telegram in my record.”

This settled the matter, and the Commandant withdrew his objections. We
had to walk about thirteen miles to Corps Headquarters. The road was
in a frightful condition, muddy and full of ruts. We were so tired at
the end of seven miles that a rest was ordered. The soldiers, although
they were tired out, made a dry seat for me with their overcoats. We
then resumed our journey, arriving for supper at Headquarters, and were
billeted for the night in a stable. We slept like the dead, on straw
spread over the floor.

General Valuyev was then Commander of the Fifth Corps. He reviewed us
in the morning and was extremely satisfied, assigning us to the Seventh
Division, which was situated some miles distant. The Commander of the
Division, whose name was Walter, was of German blood and a thorough
rascal. We were quartered, during the night, in the woods, behind the
fighting line.

In command of the reserves was a Colonel named Stubendorf, also of
German blood, but a decent and popular officer. When informed that a
woman was in the ranks of the newly-arrived regiment, he was amazed:

“A woman!” he cried out, “she can’t be permitted to remain. This
regiment is going into battle soon, and women were not made for war.”

There was a heated discussion between him and Commander Grishaninov,
which ended in an order for my appearance before them. I was subjected
to a searching inquiry and passed it well. Asked if I wanted to
take part in the fighting, I replied affirmatively. Muttering his
astonishment Colonel Stubendorf allowed me to remain till he had looked
into the matter further.

A big battle was raging at this time on our section of the front. We
were told to be ready for an order to move at any moment to the front
line. Meanwhile, we were sheltered in dugouts. My company occupied ten
of these, all bomb-proof, though not in first-class condition. They
were cold and had no windows. As soon as day broke we busied ourselves
with cutting windows, building fire-places, repairing the dilapidated
ceilings of timber and sand, and general house-cleaning. The dugouts
were constructed in rows, the companies of odd numbers being assigned
to the row on the right, while those of even numbers went to the left.
There were notice-boards along the road and each company had a sentinel
on duty.

Our position was five miles behind the first line of trenches. The
booming of the guns could be heard in the distance. Streams of wounded,
some in vehicles and others on foot, flowed along the road. We
drilled during most of the second day under the inspection of Colonel
Stubendorf. He must have kept a close eye on me, for at the end of the
drilling he called me, praised my efficiency, and granted me permission
to stay in the ranks.

On the third day came the order to move to the trench lines. Through
mud and under shell-fire we marched forward. It was still light when
we arrived at the firing-line. We had two killed and five wounded. As
the German positions were on a hill, they were enabled to observe all
our movements. We were therefore instructed by field-telephones not to
occupy the trenches till after dark.

“So this is war,” I thought. My pulse quickened, and I caught the
spirit of excitement that pervaded the regiment. We were all expectant,
as if in the presence of a solemn revelation. We were eager to get
into the fray and to show the Germans what we, the soldiers of the
Fifth Regiment, could do. Were we nervous? Undoubtedly. But it was not
the nervousness of cowardice, rather was it the restlessness of young
blood. Our hands were steady, our bayonets fixed. We exulted in our
adventure.

Night came. The Germans were discharging a volume of gas at us. Perhaps
they noticed an unusual movement behind the lines, and wished to
annihilate us before we entered the battle. But they failed. Over the
wire came the order to put on our masks. Thus were we baptized in this
most inhuman of all German war inventions. Our masks were not perfect.
The deadly gas penetrated some and made our eyes smart and water. But
we were soldiers of Mother Russia, whose sons are not unaccustomed to
half-suffocating air, and we so withstood the irritating fumes.

Midnight passed. The Commander went through our ranks to inform us that
the hour had come to move into the trenches and that before dawn we
should take the offensive. He addressed us with words of encouragement
and was heartily cheered. The artillery had been thundering all night
the fire growing more and more intense every hour. In single file we
moved along a communication trench to the front line. Some of us were
wounded, but we remained dauntless. All our fatigue seemed to have
vanished.

The front trench was a mere ditch, and as we lined up along it
our shoulders touched. The positions of the enemy were less than
three-quarters of a mile away, and the space between was filled with
groans and swept by bullets. It was a scene full of horrors. Sometimes
an enemy shell would land in the midst of our men, killing several and
wounding more. We were sprinkled with the blood of our comrades and
spattered by the mud.

At two in the morning the Commander appeared in our midst. He seemed
nervous. The other officers came with him and took their positions
at the head of the men. With drawn swords they prepared to lead the
charge. The Commander had a rifle.

“Climb out!” he shouted.

I crossed myself. My heart was filled with grief for the bleeding men
around me and stirred by a fierce desire for revenge upon the Germans.
My mind was a kaleidoscope of many thoughts and visions. My mother,
death, mutilation, various petty incidents of my life filled it. But
there was no time for thinking.

I climbed out with the rest of the men, to be met by a volley of
machine-gun fire. For a moment there was confusion. So many of our
number had fallen like ripe wheat cut down by a gigantic scythe wielded
by the invisible arm of Satan himself. Fresh blood was dripping on the
cold corpses that had lain there for hours or days, and the moans were
heart-rending.

Amid the confusion the voice of our Company Commander was raised.

“Forward!”

And forward we went. The enemy had seen us go over the top, and he
let loose Hell. As we ran forward we kept firing. Then the order came
to lie down. The bombardment grew even more concentrated. Alternately
running for some distance and then lying down, we reached the enemy’s
barbed wire entanglements. We had expected to find them demolished by
our artillery, but, alas! they were untouched! There were only about
seventy left of our Company of two hundred and fifty.

Whose fault was it? This was an offensive on a front of thirteen
miles, carried out by three army corps. And the barbed wire was uncut!
Perhaps our artillery was defective! Perhaps it was the fault of some
one higher up! Anyhow, there we were, seventy out of two hundred and
fifty. And every fraction of a second was precious. Were we doomed to
die here in a heap without even coming to grips with the enemy? Were
our bodies to dangle on this wire to-morrow, and the day after, to
provide food for the crows and strike terror into the hearts of the
fresh soldiers who would take our places in a few hours?

As these thoughts flashed through our minds an order came to retreat.
The enemy let a barrage down in front of us. The retreat was even worse
than the advance. Only forty-eight of our Company got back to our
trenches alive. About a third of the two hundred and fifty were dead.
The greater number of the wounded were in No Man’s Land and their cries
of pain and prayers for help or death gave us no peace.

The remnant of our Company crouched in the trench, exhausted, dazed,
incredulous of their escape from injury. We were hungry and thirsty and
would have welcomed a dry and safe place in which to recover ourselves.
But there we were, smarting under the defeat by the enemy’s barbed
wire barrier, with the heart-breaking appeals for help coming from
our comrades. Deeper and deeper they cut into my soul. They were so
plaintive, like the voices of hurt children.

In the dark it seemed to me that I saw their faces, the familiar faces
of Ivan and Peter and Sergei and Mitia, the good fellows who had taken
such tender care of me, making a comfortable place for me in that
crowded _teplushka_, or taking off their overcoats in cold weather and
spreading them on the muddy road to provide a dry seat for Yashka.
They called me. I could see their hands outstretched in my direction,
their wide-open eyes straining in the night in the hope of rescue, the
deathly pallor of their faces. Could I remain indifferent to their
cries? Was it not my bounden duty as a soldier, a duty as important as
that of fighting the enemy, to render aid to stricken comrades?

I climbed out of the trench and crawled under our wire entanglements.
There was a comparative calm, interrupted only by occasional rifle
shots, when I would lie down and remain motionless, as though I were
a corpse. There were wounded within a few feet of our line. I carried
them one by one to the edge of our trench where they were picked up and
carried to the rear. The saving of one man encouraged me to continue my
efforts till I reached the far side of the field. Here I had several
narrow escapes. A sound, made accidentally, was sufficient to attract
several shots, and I only saved myself by at once lying flat upon the
ground. When dawn broke in the East, putting an end to my expeditions
through No Man’s Land, I had saved about fifty lives.

I had no idea at the time of what I had accomplished. But when the
soldiers whom I had picked up were brought to the relief-station
and asked who rescued them, about fifty replied, “Yashka.” This was
communicated to the Commander, who recommended me for an Order of the
4th Degree, “for distinguished valour shown in the saving of many lives
under fire.”

Our kitchen had been destroyed the previous night by the enemy’s fire,
and we were very hungry. Our ranks were replenished by fresh drafts,
and our artillery again boomed all day, playing havoc with the enemy’s
wire fences. We guessed that it meant another order to advance the
following night, and our expectations proved correct. At about the same
hour as the previous morning we climbed out and started to run towards
the enemy’s position. Again a rain of shells and bullets, again scores
of wounded and killed, again smoke and gas and blood and mud. But we
reached the wire entanglement and it was down and torn to pieces this
time. We halted for an instant, emitting an inhuman “Hurrah! Hurrah!”
that struck terror into those Germans that were still alive in their
half-demolished trenches, and with fixed bayonets rushed forward and
jumped into them.

As I was about to descend into the ditch I suddenly observed a huge
German taking aim at me. Hardly did I have time to fire when something
struck my right leg, and I had a sensation of a warm liquid trickling
down my flesh. I fell. My comrades had put the enemy to flight and were
pursuing him. There were many wounded, and cries of “Save me, Holy
Jesus!” came from every direction.

I suffered little pain and made several efforts to get up and reach our
trenches. But every time I failed. I was too weak. There I lay in the
darkness of the night, within fifty feet of what had been, twenty-four
hours before, the enemy’s position, waiting for dawn and relief. To be
sure, I was not alone. Hundreds, thousands of gallant comrades were
scattered on the field for miles.

It was four hours after I was wounded before day arrived and with it
our stretcher-bearers. I was picked up and carried to a first-aid
station a mile and a half in the rear. My wound was bandaged, and I
was sent on to the Division Hospital. There I was placed on a hospital
train and taken to Kiev.

It was about Easter of 1915 when I arrived in Kiev. The station there
was so crowded with wounded from the front that hundreds of stretchers
could not be accommodated inside and were lined up in rows on the
platform outside. I was picked up by an ambulance and taken to the
Eugene Lazaret, where I was kept in the same ward with the men. Of
course, it was a military hospital, and there was no woman’s ward.

I was there all through the spring of 1915. The nurses and physicians
took good care of all the patients in the hospital. My swollen leg
was restored to its normal condition, and it was a restful two months
that I passed in Kiev. At the end of that period I was taken before
a military medical commission, examined, pronounced in good health,
provided with a ticket, money and a certificate and sent to the front
again.

My route now lay through Molodechno, an important railway terminus.
When I arrived there in the early part of July I was sent to the Corps
Headquarters by wagon, and thence I proceeded on foot to my Regiment.

My heart throbbed with joy as I drew nearer to the front. I had been
eager to get back to my comrades. They had endeared themselves to me
so much that I loved my Company as much as my own mother. I thought
of the comrades whose lives I had saved and wondered how many of them
had returned to the fighting line. I thought of the soldiers whom I
had left alive and wondered if they were still among the living. Many
familiar scenes came up in my imagination as I marched along under the
brilliant rays of the sun.

As I approached the regimental headquarters a soldier saw me in the
distance and, turning to his comrade, he pointed towards me.

“Who can that be?” he asked, thoughtfully. The partner scratched his
neck and said:

“Why, he looks familiar.”

“Why, it’s Yashka!” exclaimed the first, as I moved nearer. “Yashka!
Yashka!” they shouted at the top of their voices, running toward me as
fast as they could.

“Yashka is back! Yashka is back!” the news was passed along to men and
officers alike. There was such spontaneous joy that I was overwhelmed.
Our regiment was then in reserve, and soon I was surrounded by hundreds
of old friends. There was kissing, embracing, handshaking. The men
capered about like children, shouting, “Look who’s here! Yashka!” They
had been under the impression that I was disabled and would never
return. They congratulated me upon my recovery. Even the officers came
out to shake hands with me, some even kissing me, and all expressing
their gratification at my recovery.

I shall never forget the welcome I received from my comrades.

They carried me on their shoulders, shouting, “Hurrah for Yashka! Three
cheers for Yashka!” Many of them wanted me to visit their dugouts
and share with them the food parcels they had received from home.
The dugouts were really in a splendid state, clean, furnished, well
protected. I was reassigned to my old company, the Thirteenth, and was
now considered a veteran.

Our company was shortly detailed to act as the protecting force to a
battery of artillery. Such duty was regarded by the men as a holiday,
for it made possible a genuine rest in healthful surroundings. We spent
between two and three weeks with the battery and were then moved to
Sloboda, a town in the vicinity of Lake Narotch, about twenty-seven
miles from Molodechno. Our positions were in a swampy region, full of
mud-holes and marshes. It was impossible to construct and maintain
regular trenches there. We, therefore, built a barrier of sand-bags,
behind which we crouched, knee-deep in water. It was impossible to
endure such conditions for any length of time. We were compelled to
snatch brief intervals of sleep standing, and even the strongest
constitutions quickly broke down. We were relieved at the end of six
days and sent to the rear to recuperate. Then we had to relieve the men
who had taken our places.

Thus we continued to hold the line. As the summer neared its end
and the rains increased, the water would rise and at times reach our
waists. It was important to maintain our front intact, although for
several miles the ground was so boggy as to be practically impassable.
The Germans, however, made an attempt in August to outflank the
marshes, but they failed.

Later we were shifted to another position, some distance away. There
was comparative quiet on our front. Our main work consisted in sending
out raiding parties and keeping a keen watch over the enemy’s movements
from our advanced listening-posts. We slept in the morning and stayed
wide-awake all night.

I was assigned to numerous observation parties. Usually four of us
would be detailed to a listening-post, located sometimes in a bush,
another time in a hole in the ground, behind the stump of a tree, or
some similar obstacle. We crawled to our post so noiselessly that not
only the enemy but even our own men would not know our hiding places,
which were on an average fifty feet apart. Once at the post, our safety
and duty demanded absolute immobility and caution. We had to strain our
ears to catch any unusual sound, and communicate it from post to post.
Besides, there was always a chance of an enemy patrol or post being in
close proximity without our knowing it. Every two hours the holders of
the posts were relieved.

One foggy night, while on guard at a listening post, I detected a dull
noise. It sounded like a raiding party, and I took it at first for
our own, but there was no answer to my sharp query for the pass-word.
It was impossible to see in the mist. We opened fire, and the Germans
flattened themselves on the ground and waited.

There they lay for almost two hours, until we had forgotten the
incident. Then they crawled toward our post and suddenly appeared in
front of us. There were eight of them. One threw a grenade, but missed
our hole, and it exploded behind us. We fired, killing two and wounding
four. The remaining two escaped.

When the Company Commander received an order to send out a scouting
party, he would call for volunteers. Armed with hand-grenades, about
thirty of the best soldiers would go out into No Man’s Land to test the
enemy’s strength by drawing his fire, or to alarm him by heavy bombing
and shooting. Not infrequently scouting parties from both sides would
meet. Then there would be a regular battle. It sometimes happened that
one party would let an enemy party pass in front, and then attack it
from the rear and capture it.

The fifteenth of August, 1915, was a memorable day in our lives. The
enemy opened a violent fire at us at three o’clock in the morning,
demolishing our barbed-wire defences, destroying some of our trenches,
and burying many soldiers alive. Many others were killed by enemy
shells. Altogether we lost fifteen killed and forty wounded out of
two hundred and fifty. It was clear that the Germans contemplated an
offensive. Our artillery replied vigorously, and the earth shook with
the thunder of the guns. We sought every protection available, our
nerves strained in momentary anticipation of an attack. We crossed
ourselves, prayed to God, made ready our rifles, and awaited orders.

At six o’clock the Germans were observed climbing over the top and
running in our direction. Closer and closer they came, and still we
made no move, while our artillery rained shells on them. When they
approached within a hundred feet of our line we received the order to
open fire, and we greeted the enemy with such a concentrated hail of
bullets, that his ranks were decimated and plunged in confusion. We
took advantage of the situation and rushed at the Germans, turning them
back and pursuing them along the twelve-mile front on which they had
started to advance. The enemy lost ten thousand men that morning.

During the day we received reinforcements, and also new equipment,
including gas masks. Then word came that we were to take the offensive
the following night. Our guns began a terrific bombardment of the
German positions at six in the evening. We were all in a state of
suppressed excitement. Men and officers mixed together, joking about
death. Many expected not to return and wrote letters to their dear
ones. Others prayed. Before an offensive the men’s camaraderie would
reach its height. There would be affectionate partings, sincere
professions by some of their premonitions of death and the sending of
messages to friends. Universal joy was displayed whenever a shell of
ours tore a gap in the enemy’s wire defences or fell into the midst of
his trenches.

At three in the morning the order, “Advance!” rang out. In high spirits
we started for the enemy’s positions. Our casualties on the way were
enormous. Several times we were ordered to lie down. Our first line was
almost completely wiped out, but its ranks were filled up by men from
the second row. On we went till we reached the Germans and overwhelmed
them. Our own Polotsk Regiment alone captured two thousand prisoners
and our jubilation was boundless. We held the enemy’s positions, and
No Man’s Land, strewn with wounded and dead, was now ours. There were
few stretcher-bearers available, and a call went out for volunteers to
gather in the wounded. I was among those who answered the call.

There is great satisfaction in helping a suffering human being. There
is great reward in the gratitude of a man tortured with suffering whom
one has saved. It gave me immense joy to be able to maintain the life
in an unconscious human body. As I was kneeling over one such wounded
man, who had suffered a great loss of blood, and was about to lift him,
a sniper’s bullet hit me between the thumb and forefinger and passed
on and through the flesh of my left forearm. Fortunately I realized
quickly the nature of the wounds, bandaged them, and, in spite of his
protests, carried the bleeding man out of danger.

I continued my work all night, and was recommended to receive the
Cross of St. George of the 4th Degree, “for bravery in defensive and
offensive fighting and for rendering, while wounded, first aid on the
field of battle.” But I never received it. Instead, I was awarded a
medal of the 4th Degree and was informed that a woman could not obtain
the Cross of St. George.

I was disappointed and chagrined. Hadn’t I heard of the Cross being
given to some Red Cross nurses? I protested to the Commander. He fully
sympathized with me and expressed his belief that I certainly deserved
the Cross.

“But,” he added, disdainfully, shrugging his shoulders, “it is
_natchalstvo_ (officialdom).”

My arm was painful, and I could not remain in the front line. The
medical assistant of our regimental hospital had been severely wounded,
and I was sent to act in his place, under the supervision of the
physician. I stayed there two weeks, till my arm improved, and attained
such proficiency under the Doctor’s instructions that he issued a
certificate to me, stating that I could temporarily perform the duties
of a medical assistant.

The autumn of 1915 passed, for us, uneventfully. Our life become one of
routine. At night we kept watch, warming ourselves with hot tea, boiled
on little stoves in the front trenches. At dawn we would go to sleep,
and at nine in the morning the day would begin for some of us, as that
was the hour for the distribution of bread and sugar. Every soldier
received a ration of two and a half pounds of bread daily. It was often
burned on the outside and not done on the inside. At eleven o’clock,
when dinner arrived, everybody was awake, cleaning rifles and generally
setting things in order. The kitchen was always some distance in the
rear, and some of the men were sent to bring the dinner pails to the
trenches. The dinner generally consisted of a hot cabbage soup, with
some meat in it. The meat was often bad. The second dish was always
_kasha_, Russia’s popular gruel. Our daily ration of sugar was supposed
to be three-sixteenths of a pound. By the time our dinner got to us it
was cold, so that tea was resorted to again. After noon we received our
orders, and at six in the evening supper arrived, this being the last
meal, and consisting only of one course. It was either cabbage soup or
_kasha_ or half a herring, with bread. Many ate all their bread before
the supper hour, or if they were very hungry, with the first meal, and
were thus forced to beg for morsels from their comrades, or go hungry
in the evening.

Every twelve days we were relieved and sent to the rear for a six-days’
rest. There we found ready for us the baths established by the Union
of Zemstvos which in 1915 had extended its activities along the whole
front. Every Divisional bath was in charge of a physician and a hundred
voluntary workers. Every bath-house was also a laundry, and the men,
upon entering it, left their dirty underwear there, receiving in
exchange clean linen. When a company was about to leave the trenches
for the rear, word was sent to the bath-house of its coming. There
was nothing that the soldiers welcomed so much as the bath-house, so
vermin-infested were the trenches, and so great was their suffering on
this account.

I suffered more than anybody else from the vermin. I could not think
at first of going to the bath-house with the men. My skin was eaten
through and through and scabs began to form all over my body. I went
to the Commander to inquire how I could get a bath, telling him of my
condition. The Commander listened with sympathy.

“But what can I do, Yashka?” he said. “I can’t keep the whole Company
out to let you alone make use of the bath-house. Go with the men. They
respect you so much that I am sure they won’t molest you.”

I could not quite make up my mind at first. But the vermin gave me no
rest, and I was nearing desperation. When we were relieved next and the
boys were getting ready to march to the bath-house I plucked up courage
and went up to my sergeant, declaring:

“I’ll go to the bath-house, too. I can’t endure it any longer.”

He approved of my decision, and I followed the company, arousing
general merriment. “Oh, Yashka is going with us to the bath-house!” the
men joked good-naturedly. Once inside, I hastened to occupy a corner
for myself and begged the men to keep away from it. They did, although
they continued to laugh and poke fun at me. I was very ill at ease the
first time, and as soon as I had finished my bath, I hastily put on my
new underwear, dressed with all speed and ran out of the building. But
the bath did me so much good that I made it a habit to attend it with
the Company every two weeks. In time, the soldiers got so accustomed to
it that they paid no attention to me, and were even quick to silence
the jests of any new member of the Company.




                             CHAPTER VIII

                         WOUNDED AND PARALYSED


Towards winter we were moved to a place called Zelenoye Polie. There
I was placed in command of twelve stretcher-bearers and served in the
capacity of medical assistant for six weeks, during which I had charge
of the sending of men who were ill to the hospital and of granting a
few days’ rest from duty to those who needed it.

Our positions ran through an abandoned country estate. The house lay
between the lines. We were on the top of the hill, while the Germans
occupied the low ground. We could, therefore, observe their movements
and they, in turn, could watch us. If any on either side raised his
head he became the mark of some sniper.

It was in this place that our men fell victims to a superior officer’s
treason. There had been plenty of rumours in the trenches of pro-German
officials in the army and at Court. We had our suspicions, too, and now
they were confirmed in a shocking manner.

General Walter paid a visit to the front line. He was known to be of
German blood, and his harsh treatment of the soldiers won for him the
cordial hatred of the rank and file. The General, accompanied by a
considerable suite of officers and men, exposed himself completely on
his tour of inspection of our trenches without attracting a single
enemy bullet! It was unthinkable to us who had to crawl on our bellies
to obtain some water. And here was this General in open view of the
enemy and yet they preserved this strange silence.

The General acted in an odd fashion. He would stop at points where the
barbed wire was torn open or where the fortifications were weak and
wipe his face with his handkerchief. There was a general murmur among
the men. The word “treason!” was uttered by many lips in suppressed
tones. The officers were indignant and called the General’s attention
to the unnecessary danger to which he exposed himself. But the General
ignored their warnings, remarking, “Nitchevo!” (That’s nothing).

The discipline was so rigorous that no one dared to argue the matter
with the General. The officers cursed when he left. The men muttered:

“He is selling us to the enemy!”

Half an hour after his departure the Germans opened a tremendous
fire. It was particularly directed against those points at which the
General had stopped, reducing their faulty defences to ruins. We
thought at first that the enemy intended to launch an offensive, but
our expectations were not realized. He merely continued his violent
bombardment, wounding and burying alive hundreds of men. The cries of
the men were such that the work of rescue could not be delayed. While
the shelling was still going on I took charge and dressed some hundred
and fifty wounds. If General Walter had appeared in our midst at that
moment the men would never have let him get away alive, so intense was
their feeling.

For two weeks we worked at the reconstruction of our demolished
trenches and altogether extracted about five hundred corpses. I was
recommended for and received a gold medal of the 2nd Degree for “saving
wounded from the trenches under violent fire.” Usually a medical
assistant received a medal of the 4th Degree, but I was given one of
the 2nd Degree because of the special conditions under which I had done
my work.

We were then relieved for a month and sent ten miles to the rear, to
the village of Senky, on a stream called Uzlianka. An artillery base
was located there, and when we finally reached our destination, our
life was easier. But getting there was no easy task, for the road was
in a frightful condition. We were utterly exhausted, and most of us
fell asleep without even eating the supper that had been prepared for
us.

There was no work for a medical assistant in the rear, and besides my
arm had fully recovered, so I applied to the Commander for permission
to return to the ranks. He granted it, promoting me to the rank of
Corporal, which placed me in charge of eleven men.

Here I received two letters, one from Yasha, in reply to mine, written
from Yakutsk, in which I spoke of returning to him at the conclusion
of the war. I sent a letter in answer to his repeating my promise, on
condition that he would change his behaviour towards me and treat me
with consideration and love. The other letter was from home. My mother
wanted me to come back, telling me of her hardships and sufferings.

It was October. This month, spent at the artillery base, was a merry
one. We were billeted in the village huts, and engaged almost daily in
sports and games. It was here that I was first taught how to sign my
name and copy the alphabet. I had learned to read previously, Yasha
having been my first teacher. The literature that was allowed to
circulate at the front was largely made up of lurid detective stories,
and the name of “Nick Carter” was not unfamiliar even to me.

There were other amusements, also. I remember one day, during a
downpour of rain, I sought shelter in a barn, where I found about forty
officers and men, who were also sheltering there from the rain. The
owner of the barn, a middle-aged _baba_, was there with her cow. I
was in a mischievous mood and began to flirt with her, to the general
merriment of the men. I paid her some flattering compliments and
declared that she had captivated me. The woman did not recognize my
sex and professed to be insulted. Encouraged by the uproar of the men,
I persisted in my advances, and finally made an attempt to kiss her.
The _baba_, infuriated by the laughter of the soldiers, seized a large
piece of firewood, and with curses threatened me and the men.

“Get out of here, you tormentors of a poor _baba_!” she cried.

I did not want to provoke a fight and cried to her:

“Why, you foolish woman, I am a peasant girl myself.”

This only further inflamed our hostess. She took it for more ridicule
and became more menacing. The officers and soldiers interfered, trying
to persuade her of the truth of my words, as none of us wanted to be
put out into the rain. However, it required more than words to convince
her, so I was compelled to unbutton my coat.

“Holy Jesus!” the woman crossed herself. “A _baba_, indeed.” And
immediately her heart softened, and her tone changed into one of
tenderness. She burst into tears. Her husband and son were in the
army, she told me, and she hadn’t heard from them for a long time. She
gathered me into her arms, and gave me food and some milk, inquiring
about my mother and mourning over her lot. We parted affectionately,
and she followed me with her blessings.

It was snowing when we returned to the front line. Our position was now
at Ferdinandovi Nos, between Lake Narotch and Baranovitchi. The first
night the Commander of the Company issued a call for thirty volunteers
to go scouting and investigate the strength and position of the enemy.
I was among the thirty.

We started out in single file, moving forward stealthily and as
noiselessly as possible. We passed by some woods, in which an enemy
patrol had hidden upon hearing the crackling of the snow beneath some
of our soldiers’ boots. We crawled on to the enemy trenches and lay
in front of his barbed wire. Our chests were flattened against the
snow-drifts. We were rather uneasy, as our presence seemed strangely
unnoticed. Our officer, Lieutenant Borbov, a former school teacher, but
a fighting man of the first order, suddenly caught a noise in our rear.

“There is something happening,” he whispered to us.

We strained our ears, but we had scarcely had time to look round when
we found ourselves surrounded by an enemy force, larger than our own.
It was too late to shoot. We resorted to our bayonets, and it was a
brief but savage fight.

I found myself confronted by a German, who towered far above me. There
was not an instant to lose. Life or death hung in the balance.

I rushed at the German before he had time to move and ran him through
the stomach with the bayonet. The bayonet stuck, and the man fell. A
stream of blood gushed forth. I made an effort to pull out the bayonet,
but failed. It was the first man that I had bayoneted; and it all
happened with lightning-speed.

I fled toward our trenches, pursued by a German, falling several times,
but always rising again and pressing on. Our wire entanglements were in
a zig-zag, and I had difficulty in finding our positions. My situation
was getting critical, when I discovered that I had some hand grenades
with me. I threw them at my pursuer, falling to the ground to avoid the
shock of the explosion, and at length I reached our trenches.

Only ten of our party of thirty returned. The Commander thanked me
personally, expressing his astonishment that I should have been able to
bayonet a German. Deep in my soul I also wondered.

The year 1915 was nearing its end. The winter was severe, and life in
the trenches almost unbearable. Death was a welcome visitor. Even more
welcome was a wound that enabled one to be sent to hospital. There
were many cases of men snowed under and frozen to death. There were
many more cases of frozen feet that had to be amputated. Our equipment
was getting very deficient. Our supply organization was already
breaking down. It was difficult to replace a worn pair of boots. Not
infrequently something went wrong in the kitchen, and we were forced to
suffer hunger as well as cold. But we were patient, like true children
of Mother Russia. It was dreadfully monotonous, this inactivity, this
mere holding of frozen ditches. We longed for battles, for one mighty
battle, to win the victory and end the war.

One bitter night I was detailed to a listening post with three men. My
boots were worn out. One has to keep absolutely still while on such
duty. A movement may mean death. So there we lay on the white ground,
exposed to the attacks of King Frost. He went about his work without
delay, and thoroughly. My right foot was undergoing strange sensations.
It began to freeze. I longed to sit up and rub it. But sitting up was
not to be thought of. Was that a noise? I ceased to trouble about my
foot; I had to strain all my nerves to catch that peculiar sound. Or
was it a mere freak of the wind? My foot grew numb. It was going to
sleep.

“Holy Mother, what’s to be done?” I thought to myself. “My right foot
is gone. The feet of the other three men are freezing, too. They just
whispered that to me. If only the Commander would relieve us now! But
the two hours are not yet up.”

Suddenly we perceived two figures in white crawling toward us, Germans
provided with appropriate costumes for a deadly mission. We fired, and
they replied. A bullet pierced my coat, just scratching the skin. Then
everything quieted down again; and we were soon relieved. I had barely
strength to reach my trench. There, I fell exhausted, crying, “My foot!
my foot!”

I was taken to the hospital, and there the horrible condition of
my foot was revealed. It was as white as snow, covered with frost.
The pains were agonizing, but nothing terrified me as much as the
physician’s talk of the probable necessity of amputating it. But I made
a stubborn fight, and I saved my right limb. The doctors soon put me on
the road to recovery, and by persistent care succeeded in restoring my
foot to its normal state.

The opening of the year 1916 found me still in hospital. Almost
immediately upon my discharge our Company was sent to the rear for a
month’s rest in Beloye, a village some distance behind the fighting
line. We were billeted with the peasants in their homes; and we enjoyed
the use of a bath-house and slept on the peasants’ ovens, in true
homely fashion. We even had the opportunity of seeing moving pictures,
the apparatus being carried from base to base on a motor belonging to
the Union of Zemstvos. We also established our own theatre and acted a
play, written by one of our artillery officers. There were two women
characters in the drama, and I was chosen for the leading rôle. The
other feminine rôle was played by a young officer. It was with great
reluctance that I consented to take the part, and only after the urgent
appeals of the Commander. I did not believe myself capable of acting,
and even the thunderous applause that I won on that occasion has not
changed my belief.

At Beloye many of the soldiers and officers were visited by their
wives. I made many acquaintances there and some fast friendships.
One of the latter was with the wife of a stretcher-bearer with whom I
had worked. She was a young, pretty and very lovable woman, and her
husband adored her. When our month’s rest was drawing to an end and the
order came for the women to leave, the stretcher-bearer borrowed the
Commander’s horses in order to drive his wife to the station. On his
way back he had an apoplectic stroke and died immediately. He received
a military funeral, and I made a wreath and placed it on his coffin.

As we lowered his coffin into the grave the thought inevitably
suggested itself to me whether I would be buried like this or my body
lost and blown to the winds in No Man’s Land. The same thought must
have passed through several minds.

Another friend, made at the same time, was the wife of Lieutenant
Bobrov, the former school teacher. Both of them helped me to learn
to write and improve my reading. The peasant women of the locality
were so poor and ignorant that I devoted part of my time to aiding
them. Many of them were suffering from minor ailments that were in
need of attention. One evening I was even called to attend a woman in
child-birth, this being my first experience in midwifery. Another time
I was asked to visit a very bad case of fever.

Then came the trenches again. Again intense cold, again unceasing
watchfulness and irritating inactivity. But the air was full of
expectation. As the winter drew to its close, rumours of a gigantic
spring offensive grew more and more insistent. Surely the war cannot
end without a general battle, the men argued. And when, towards the
end of February, we were again taken for a two-weeks’ rest, it became
clear that we were to be prepared for an offensive. We received new
outfits and equipment. On March the 5th the Commander of the Regiment
addressed us. He spoke of the coming battle and appealed to us to be
brave and win a great victory. He told us that the enemy’s defences
were very strong and that it would require a mighty effort to overcome
them.

Then we started for the front. The slush and mud were unimaginable. We
walked deep in water, mixed with ice. On the road we met many wounded
being carried to the hospital. We also passed by a cemetery where the
soldiers who had fallen in our lines were being buried in one huge
grave. We were kept in the rear for the night, as reserves, and were
told to await orders to-morrow to proceed to the trenches.

March the 6th began with an unprecedented bombardment on our side. The
Germans replied with equal violence, and the earth fairly shook. The
cannonade lasted all day. Then an order came for us to form ranks and
march into the trenches. We knew that it meant that we were to take
part in the offensive.

Lieutenant Bobrov came up to me unexpectedly with these words:

“Yashka, take this and deliver it to my wife after the attack. I
have had a presentiment for three days that I shall not survive this
battle.” He handed me a letter and a ring.

“But, Lieutenant,” I objected, though I knew that protestations were of
no avail at such a moment, “you are mistaken so. It will not happen.
Presentiments are deceiving.”

He grimly shook his head and pressed my hand.

“Not this one, Yashka,” he said.

We were in the trenches already, under a veritable hail of shells.
There were dead and dying in our midst. Waist-deep in water we
crouched, praying to God. Suddenly a gas wave came in our direction. It
caught some without their masks, and for them there was no escape. I,
myself, narrowly missed this horrible death. My lips contracted and my
eyes watered and burned for three weeks afterward.

The signal to advance was given, and we started, knee-deep in mud, for
the enemy. In places the pools reached above our waists. Shells and
bullets played havoc among us. Of those who fell wounded, many sank in
the mud and were drowned. The German fire was devastating. Our lines
grew thinner and thinner, and progress became so slow that our doom was
certain in the event of a further advance.

The order to retreat rang out. How can one describe the march back
through the inferno of No Man’s Land on that night of March 7th, 1916?
There were wounded men submerged all but their heads, calling piteously
for help. “Save me, for Christ’s sake!” came from every side. From the
trenches there went up a chorus of the same heartrending appeals. So
long as we were alive we could not remain deaf to the pleadings of our
comrades.

Fifty of us went out to do the work of rescue. Never before had I
worked in such harrowing, blood-curdling circumstances. One man was
wounded in the neck or face, and I had to grip him under the arms and
drag his body through the mud. Another had his side torn by a shell,
and it required many difficult manœuvres before I could extricate him.
Several sank so deep that my own strength was not sufficient to drag
them out.

Finally I broke down, just as I reached my trench with a burden. I
was so exhausted that all my bones were aching. The soldiers got some
drinking water, a very hard thing to get, and made some tea for me.
Somehow they obtained for me a dry overcoat and put me to sleep in a
sheltered corner. I slept about four hours, and then resumed my search
for wounded comrades.

All day the artillery boomed again, as violently as on the previous
day. At night, our ranks having been replenished with fresh drafts, we
climbed out again and rushed for the enemy. Again we suffered heavily,
but our operation this time was more successful. When the Germans saw
us pressing forward determinedly in their direction they came out for a
counter-attack. With bayonets fixed and a tremendous “Hurrah” we hurled
ourselves at them.

The Germans never did like the Russian bayonets. As a matter of fact,
they dreaded them more than any other arm of warfare, and so they broke
down and took to their heels. We pursued them into their trenches, and
there followed a fierce scrimmage. Many of the Germans raised their
hands in sign of surrender. They realized that we were in a fierce,
exasperated mood. Others fought to the end, and all this time German
machine guns swept their own trenches, where Teuton and Slav were mixed
in combat. Then we flung ourselves upon the machine gun positions.

Our regiment captured in that attack two thousand five hundred Germans
and thirty machine guns. I escaped with only a slight wound in the
right leg and did not leave the ranks. Elated by our victory over the
strong defences of the first line, we swept on toward the enemy’s
second line. His fire slackened considerably. A great triumph was in
prospect, as behind the weak second and third lines there was an open
stretch of undefended territory for many miles.

Our advance line was within seventy feet of the enemy’s trenches when
an order came from General Walter to halt and return to our positions.
It was a terrible shock to men and officers alike. Our Colonel talked
to the General on the field telephone, explaining to him the situation.
The General was obdurate. All of us were so incensed at this
treacherous order that, had any one of us taken command at the moment,
we should undoubtedly have won a great victory, as the breach in the
German defences was complete.

The conversation between the Colonel and the General ended in a
quarrel. The General had not, apparently, expected us to break through
the first German line. So many waves of Russian soldiers had beaten in
vain against it, and with such terrific losses. It became evident to
our men that it was the General’s treacherous design to have as many of
us slaughtered as possible.

But discipline was severe, and orders were orders. We had to go back.
We were so exhausted that our bodies welcomed a rest. In those two
days, the 7th and 8th of August, our ranks were refilled four times
with fresh drafts. Our casualties were enormous. The corpses lay thick
everywhere, like mushrooms after rain, and there were innumerable
wounded. One could not take a step in No Man’s Land without coming into
contact with the corpse of a Russian or a German. Bloody feet, hands,
sometimes heads, lay scattered in the mud.

That was the most terrible offensive in which I was engaged. It
has come down into history as the Battle of Postovy. We spent the
first night in the German trenches we had captured. It was a night
of unforgettable horrors. The darkness was impenetrable. The stench
was suffocating. The ground was full of mud-holes. Some of us sat on
corpses. Other rested their feet on dead men. One could not stretch a
hand without touching a lifeless body. We were hungry. We were cold.
Our flesh crept in the dreadful surroundings. I wanted to get up. My
hand sought support. It fell on the face of a corpse, stuck against the
wall. I screamed, slipped and fell. My fingers buried themselves in the
torn abdomen of a body.

I was seized with horror such as I had never experienced, and shrieked
hysterically. My cries were heard in the officers’ dugout, and a
man was sent with an electric torch to rescue Yashka, whom they had
supposed to be wounded. It was warm and comfortable in the dugout, as
it had previously been used by the enemy’s regimental staff. I was
given some tea, and little by little I recovered my self-control.

The entrance of the dugout was of course now facing the enemy. He
knew its exact position and concentrated his fire on it. Although
bomb-proof, it soon began to collapse under the rain of shells. Some
of these blocked the entrance almost completely with débris. Finally,
a shell penetrated the roof, putting out the light, killing five and
wounding several. I lay in a corner, buried under wreckage, soldiers
and officers, some of whom were wounded and others dead. The groans
were indescribable. As the screech of a new shell was heard overhead
I believed death to be close at hand. There was no question of making
an immediate effort to extricate myself and escape while the bombs
were still crashing into the hole. When with the dawn the bombardment
finally ceased, and I was saved, I could hardly believe the evidence of
my own senses that I was unhurt.

The following day I discovered the body of Lieutenant Bobrov. His
presentiment was right, after all. He was an intrepid fighter, and
a man of noble impulses. I fulfilled his wish, and had his ring and
letter sent through the physician to his wife. Our own Regiment had
two thousand wounded. And when the dead were gathered from the field
and carried out of the trenches, there were long, long, rows of them
stretched out in the sun awaiting eternal rest in the immense common
grave that was being dug for them in the rear.

With bowed heads and bleeding hearts we paid last homage to our
comrades. They had laid down their lives like true heroes, without
suspecting that they were being sacrificed to no purpose by a vile
traitor.

On March 10th, still suffering from the effects of my dreadful night
among the corpses, I was sent to the Divisional Hospital for a three
days’ rest. I was back in the trenches on the 14th, when another
advance was ordered. The German positions were not yet strongly
fortified, and we captured their first line without serious losses.
Then there was another few days’ respite, during which our ranks were
reformed.

Early in the morning of March 16th, after an ineffectual bombardment of
the enemy’s position by our artillery, the signal to go over the top
was given. We advanced in the face of a stubborn German fire, dashing
through No Man’s Land only to find the enemy’s wire defences intact.
There was nothing to do but retreat. It was while running back that a
bullet struck me in the right leg, shattering the bone. I fell. Within
a hundred feet of me ran the enemy’s first line. Bullets whizzed over
my head, pursuing my fleeing comrades.

I was not alone. Others were groaning not far from me. Some prayed for
death.... I grew thirsty. I had lost a great deal of blood. But I knew
it was useless to move. The sun rose in the east, only to be obscured
by grey clouds.

“Shall I be rescued?” I wondered. “Perhaps the enemy’s stretcher-bearer
will pick me up soon. But no, he just fired at that soldier yonder who
raised himself in an effort to move.”

I pressed myself closer to the ground. I seemed to hear voices coming
near. I held my breath in suspense.

“I am a German prisoner!” I thought. Then the voices died away, and
again my thirst tortured me.

“Holy Mother, when will help come? Or am I doomed to lie here
indefinitely till I fall into unconsciousness and die?... The sun is
already in mid-heaven. My comrades are having their soup and warm tea.
What would I not give for a glass of hot tea! The Germans are eating,
too. I can hear the clatter of their pans. Why, I can even smell
faintly the steam from their soup.”

“It is calm now. Only rarely a sniper’s bullet crosses the field....
Night, night, night.... How I wish for night! Certainly our men are not
going to let all of us perish here. Besides, they must have missed me
by now. They surely won’t let Yashka, dead or alive, lie in the field.
So there is hope.”

The thought of my comrades’ discovery of my absence gave me new
strength. The seconds seemed hours and the minutes days, but the
shadows arrived at last, creeping toward the side where the sun had
disappeared. Then came darkness and rescue was not long in coming. Our
brave stretcher-bearers, aided by some of the soldiers, were out on
their pious mission. Cautiously they moved nearer and nearer to the
German line, and finally picked me up. Yes, it was Yashka whom they
carried into our trenches.

My comrades were filled with rejoicing. “Yashka, alive! God speed you
to recovery, Yashka!” I could only reply in a whisper. They took me to
the first-aid station, cleansed my wound and dressed it. I suffered
much. Then I was sent on to Moscow, where I lay in the Ekaterina
Hospital, ward Number 20.

I was lonely in the hospital, where I spent nearly three months. The
other patients would have their visitors or receive parcels from home,
but nobody visited me, nobody sent anything to me. March, April, May
Came and went in the monotony of ward Number 20. Finally, one day in
the beginning of June, I was declared fit to return to the fighting
line. My regiment was just then being transferred to Lutzk front. On
June 20th I caught up with it. The welcome I received surpassed even
that of the previous year. Fruit and sweets were showered upon me. The
soldiers were in a happy mood. The Germans had just been driven back
at this sector by General Brusilov for a great many miles. The country
was interspersed with their evacuated positions. Here and there enemy
corpses were still unburied. Our men, though overjoyed, were worn out
by forced marches and the long pursuit.

It was midsummer, and the heat was prostrating. We marched on June
21st a distance of ten miles and stopped for rest. Many of our number
collapsed, and we felt too worn out to go on, but the Commander
implored us to keep up, promising a rest in the trenches. It was
thirteen miles to the front line, and we reached it on the same day.

As we marched along we observed on both sides of the road that crops
which had not been destroyed in the course of the fighting were
ripening. The fighting line ran near a village called Dubova Kortchma.
We found in its neighbourhood a country seat hastily abandoned by the
Germans. The estate was full of cattle, fowl, potatoes and other food.
That night we had a royal feast.

We occupied abandoned German trenches. It was not the time for rest.
The artillery opened fire early in the evening and boomed ceaselessly
throughout the night. It could mean nothing but an immediate attack.
We were not mistaken. At four in the morning we received word that the
Germans had left their positions and started for our side. At this
moment our beloved Commander, Grishaninov, was struck to the ground.
He was wounded. We attended to him promptly and despatched him to the
rear. There was no time to waste. We met the advancing Germans with
repeated volleys, and when they approached our positions we climbed out
and charged them with fixed bayonets.

Suddenly a terrific explosion deafened me, and I fell to the ground. A
German shell had come my way, a shell I shall never forget, as part of
it I still carry in my body.

I felt frightful pains in my back. I had been hit by a fragment at
the end of the spinal column. My agony lasted long enough to attract
a couple of soldiers. Then I became unconscious. They carried me
to a dressing station. The wound was so serious that the physician
in charge did not believe that I could survive. I was placed in an
ambulance and taken to Lutzk. I required electrical treatment, but the
Lutzk Hospitals were not supplied with the necessary apparatus. It was
decided to send me to Kiev. My condition, however, was so grave that
for three days the doctors considered it dangerous to move me.

In Kiev the stream of wounded was so great that I was compelled to
lie in the street on a stretcher for a couple of hours before I was
taken to hospital. I was informed, after an X-ray examination, that
a fragment of shell was imbedded in my body and asked if I wished an
operation to have it removed. I could not imagine living with a piece
of shell in my flesh, and so requested its removal. Whether because
of my condition or for some other reason, the surgeon finally decided
not to operate, and told me that I would have to be sent either to
Petrograd or to Moscow for treatment. As I was given the choice, I
decided on Moscow, because I had spent the spring months of the year in
the Ekaterina Hospital there.

The wound in the spine paralysed me to such an extent that I could not
move even a finger. I lay in the Moscow Hospital hovering between life
and death for some weeks, resembling a log more than a human body. Only
my mind was active and my heart full of pain.

Every day I was massaged, carried on a stretcher and bathed. Then the
physician would attend me, probing my wound with iodine, and treating
it with electricity, after which I was bathed again and my wound
dressed. This daily procedure was inconceivable torture, in spite of
the morphine injected into me. There was little peace in the ward in
which I was placed. All the beds were occupied by serious cases, and
the groans and moans must have reached to Heaven.

Four months I lay paralysed, never expecting to recover. My diet
consisted of milk and _kasha_, with which I was fed by an attendant. On
many a dreary day death would have been a welcome visitor. It seemed so
futile, so hopeless to remain alive in such a state, but the doctor,
who was a Jew, and very kind-hearted, would not give up hope. He
persisted in his daily treatment, praising my stoicism and encouraging
me with kind words. His faith was finally rewarded.

At the end of four months I began to feel life stirring once again
in my helpless body. My finger could move! What a joy that was! In a
few days I could turn my head a little and stretch my arm. It was a
wonderful sensation, this gradual resurrection of my lifeless members.
To be able to close my fingers after four months of paralysis! It
thrilled me. To be able to bend a knee that had been torpid so long! It
seemed like a miracle. And I offered thanks to God with all the fervour
that I could command.

One day a woman by the name of Daria Maximovna Vasilieva came to see
me. I searched my mind in vain for an acquaintance of that name as I
asked that she should be brought to my bed. But as I was perhaps the
only patient in the ward that had no visitors and received no parcels
it may be imagined how pleased I was. She introduced herself as the
mother of Stepan, of my Company. Of course, I knew Stepan well. He was
a student before the war and volunteered as a junior officer.

“Stepan has just written me,” Madame Vasilieva said, “begging me to
come and see you. ‘Go to the Ekaterina Hospital and visit our Yashka,’
he writes. ‘She is lonely there, and I want you to do for her as much
as you would do for me, for she saved my life once, and has been like
a mother to the boys here. She is a respectable, patriotic young woman
and my interest in her is simply that of a comrade, for she is a
soldier, and a brave and gallant soldier.’ He praised you so much, my
dear, that my heart went out to you. May God bless you.”

She brought me some delicacies, and we became friends immediately. I
told her all about her son and our life in the trenches. She wept and
wondered how I had borne it. Her affection for me grew so strong that
she used to visit me several times a week, although she lived on the
outskirts of the city. Her husband was assistant superintendent at a
factory and they occupied a small but comfortable dwelling in keeping
with their means. Daria Maximovna herself was a middle-aged woman
simply dressed and of distinguished appearance. She had a married
daughter, Tonetchka, and another son, a youth of about seventeen, who
was a student at the high-school.

My friend helped me to regain my spirits, and I made good progress
towards recovery. As I gradually regained full control of my muscles
and nerves, I used to tease the doctor sometimes:

“Well, doctor,” I would say to him, “I am going to war again.”

“No, no,” he would answer, “there will be no more war for you, my dear.”

I wondered whether I really would be able to return to the front. There
was that fragment of shell still in my body. The doctor would not
extract it. He advised me to wait until I had completely recovered and
have it removed at some future date by means of an abdominal operation,
as the fragment is lodged in the omentum. I have not yet had the
opportunity to undergo such an operation, and I still have that piece
of shell in my body. The slightest indigestion causes me to suffer from
it even now.

I had to learn to walk, as if I had never mastered that art before. I
was not successful at the first attempt. Having asked the doctor for a
pair of crutches I tried to stand up, but fell back weak and helpless
on the bed. The attendants, however, placed me in a wheel-chair and
took me out into the garden. This movement gave me great pleasure.
Once, in the absence of my attendant, I tried to stand up alone and
walk a step. It was very painful, but I maintained my balance, and
tears of joy came streaming down my cheeks. I was jubilant.

It was not till a week later, however, that I was permitted by the
doctor to walk a little, supported by the attendants. But I had taken
only ten steps, beaming with triumph and making every effort to
overcome my pain, when I collapsed and fainted. The nurses were alarmed
and called the doctor who told them to be more cautious in the future.
I steadily improved, however, and a couple of weeks later I was able to
walk. Naturally I did not feel sure of my legs at first; they trembled
and seemed very weak. Gradually they regained their former strength
and at the end of six months spent in the hospital I was again in
possession of all my faculties.




                              CHAPTER IX

                      EIGHT HOURS IN GERMAN HANDS


The morning on which I was taken before the military medical commission
I was in high spirits. It was a late December day, but my heart was
aglow as I was led into the large room in which about two hundred other
patients were waiting for the examination which would decide whether
they were to be sent home or were considered fit to be returned to the
front.

The chairman of the commission was a General. As my turn came and he
reached the name of Maria Botchkareva he thought it a mistake and
corrected it to Marin Botchkarev. By that name I was called out of the
crowd.

The General shouted the order that was given to every soldier awaiting
discharge.

“Take off your clothes.”

I walked up resolutely and threw off my clothes.

“A woman!” went up from a couple of hundred throats, followed by an
outburst of laughter that shook the building. The members of the
commission were too amazed for words.

“What the devil!” cried the General. “Why did you undress?”

“I am a soldier, Excellency, and I obey orders without question,” I
replied.

“Well, well. Hurry up and dress,” came the order.

“How about the examination, Excellency?” I queried, as I put my things
on.

“That’s all right. You are passed.”

In view of the seriousness of the injury I had sustained the commission
offered me a couple of months’ leave, but I declined it and requested
to be sent to the front in a few days. Supplied with fifteen roubles
and a railway ticket I left the hospital and went to Daria Maximovna,
who had invited me previously to stay with her for a little time. It
was a short visit, lasting only three days, but a very happy one. It
was so pleasant to be in a home again, to eat home food and to be under
the care of a woman who became a second mother to me. With packages for
myself and Stepan and the blessings of the whole family following me I
left Moscow from the Nikolaiev Station. The train was crowded and there
was only standing room.

On the platform my attention was attracted to a poor woman with a
little baby in her arms, another mite on the floor and a girl of about
five hanging on to her skirt. All the woman’s property was packed in a
single bag. The children were crying for bread, the woman tried to calm
them, evidently in dread of something. It touched my heart to watch
this little group, and I offered some bread to the children.

Then the woman confided in me the cause for her fear. She had no money
and no ticket and expected to be put off at the next station. She was
the wife of a soldier from a village in German hands and was now bound
for a town three thousand versts away, where she had some relatives. I
felt that something must be done for this woman, and I made an appeal
to the soldiers who filled the car, but they did not respond at first.

“She is the wife of a soldier, of one like yourselves,” I said.
“Suppose she were the wife of one of you! For all you know, the
wives of some of you here may be wandering about the country in
a similar state. Come, let us get off at the next station, go to
the station-master and ask that she may be allowed to go to her
destination.”

The soldiers were moved and they helped me to take the woman and
her belongings off the train at the next stop. We went to the
station-master, who was very kind, but explained that he could do
nothing in the matter. “I have no right to give permission to travel
without a ticket, and I can’t distribute free tickets,” he said, and he
sent us to the military commandant. I went with the woman, having been
deserted by the soldiers who had heard the train whistle and did not
want to miss it. I waited for another train.

The commandant repeated the words of the station-master. He had no
right to provide her with a military pass, he said.

“No right!” I exclaimed, beside myself. “She is the wife of a soldier
and her husband is probably now, at this very moment, going into
battle to defend the country, while you, safe and well-fed in the rear
here, won’t even take care of his wife and children. It is an outrage.
Look at the woman. She needs medical attention, and her children are
starved.”

“And who are you?” sharply asked the commandant.

“I will show you who I am,” I answered, taking off my medals and
cross and showing him my certificate. “I have shed enough blood to be
entitled to demand justice for the helpless wife of a soldier.”

But the commandant turned his back on me and went away. There was
nothing to be done but to make a collection. I went to the First-Class
waiting-room, which was filled with officers and well-to-do
passengers, took my cap in my hand and went round, begging for a poor
soldier’s wife. When I had finished there were eighty roubles in the
cap. With this money I went to the commandant again, and handed it to
him with a request that he should provide accommodation for the woman
and her children. She did not know how to express her gratitude to me.

The next train came in. I never before saw one so packed. There could
be no thought of getting inside a car. The only space available was on
the top of a coach. There were plenty of passengers even there. With
the aid of some soldiers I climbed on to the top, where I spent two
days and two nights. It was impossible to get off at every station to
take a walk. We had to send some one even to fetch the tea, and our
food consisted of that and bread.

Accidents were not uncommon. On the very roof on which I travelled a
man fell asleep, rolled off, and was killed instantaneously. I narrowly
escaped a similar fate. I began to doze and drifted to the edge and had
not a soldier caught me in the nick of time I should undoubtedly have
fallen off. We finally arrived at Kiev.

That journey on the train was a symbol of the country’s condition
in the winter of 1916. The government machinery was breaking down.
The soldiers had lost faith in their leaders, and there was a
general feeling that they were being sent in thousands merely to be
slaughtered. Rumours flew thick and fast. The old soldiers had been
killed off and the fresh drafts were impatient for the end of the war.
The spirit of 1914 was no more.

In Kiev I had to obtain information as to the position of my regiment.
It was now near the town of Berestechko. In my absence the men had
advanced ten miles. The train from Kiev was also very crowded and there
was only standing room. At the stations we sent some of the soldiers
to fill our kettles with hot water. The men could seldom get in and
out through the entrances, so they used the windows. The train passed
through Zhitomir and Zhimerinka on the way to Lutzk. There I changed to
a branch line, going to the station of Verba, within twenty miles of
our position.

It was muddy on the road to the front. Overhead flew whole flocks of
aeroplanes, raining bombs. I got used to them. In the afternoon there
was a downpour, and I was thoroughly soaked. Dead tired, with water
streaming from my clothes, I arrived in the evening within three miles
of the first line. There was a regimental supply train camping on both
sides of the road. I approached a sentry and asked:

“What regiment is billeted here?”

“The Twenty-Eighth Polotsk Regiment.”

My heart leaped for joy. The soldier did not recognize me. He was a new
man. But the others must have told him of me.

“I am Yashka,” I said.

That was a pass-word. They all knew the name and had heard from the
veterans of the regiment many stories about me. I was taken to the
Colonel in command of the supply train, a queer old man who kissed
me on both cheeks and jumped about, clapping his hands and shouting,
“Yashka! Yashka!”

He was kind-hearted and immediately began to look after my comfort. He
promptly ordered an orderly to bring a new outfit and gave instructions
for the bath used by the officers to be prepared for me. Clean and in
the new uniform, I accepted the invitation to sup with the Colonel.
There were several other officers at the table and all were glad to
see me. The news spread that Yashka had arrived, and some soldiers
could not restrain their desire to shake hands with me. Every now and
then there would be a meek knock at the door and in answer to the
Colonel’s question, “Who’s there?” a plaintive voice would say:

“Excellency, may I be allowed to see Yashka?”

In time quite a number of comrades were admitted into the house. One
part of it was occupied by the owner, a widow with a young daughter. I
spent the night with the latter and in the morning started out to the
front. Some of our companies were in reserve and my progress became a
triumphal journey. I was feasted on the way and given several ovations.

I presented myself to the Commander of the Regiment, who invited me to
dine that afternoon with the Regimental Staff, certainly the first case
of an ordinary soldier receiving such an invitation in the history of
the Regiment. At dinner the Commander toasted me, telling the story
of my work with the Regiment and wishing me many more years of such
service.

At the conclusion he pinned a cross of the 3rd Degree on my breast, and
marked with a pencil three stripes on my shoulder, thus promoting me to
the grade of senior non-commissioned officer. The Staff crowded round
me, pressing my hands, praising me and expressing their good wishes.
I was profoundly moved by this display of cordial appreciation and
affection on the part of the officers. This was my reward for all the
suffering I had undergone.

And it was a reward worth having. What did I care for a wound in the
spine and four months’ paralysis if this was the return that I received
for my sacrifice? Trenches filled with bloody corpses held no horror
for me then. No Man’s Land seemed quite an attractive place in which
to spend a day with a bleeding leg. The screech of shells and the
whistle of bullets presented themselves like music to my imagination.
Ah, life was not so bleak and meaningless, after all. It had its
moments of bliss that compensated for years of torment and misery.

The commander had, in his order of the day, stated the fact of my
return and promotion. He furnished me with an orderly to show me the
way to the trenches. Again I was hailed by everybody as I emerged
from the dugout of the Commander of the Company, who had placed me in
charge of a platoon of seventy men. In this capacity I had to keep an
inventory of the supplies and equipment of my men, a soldier acting as
clerk under my instructions.

Our positions were on the bank of the Styr, which is very narrow and
shallow at that point. On the opposite bank were the German trenches.
Several hundred feet from us was a bridge across the stream which had
been left intact by both sides. At our end of it we maintained a post
while the enemy kept a similar watch at the opposite end. Our line
was very uneven, owing to the irregularity of the river’s course. The
Germans were very persistent in mine-throwing. However, the mines
travelled so slowly that we could take cover before they fell on our
side. My Company occupied a position close to the enemy’s first line.

I had not spent a month in the trenches when a local battle occurred
which resulted in my capture by the Germans. The latter had continued
their mine-throwing operations for a period of about twelve days so
regularly that we grew accustomed to them and were not expecting an
attack. Besides, it was past the time of year for active fighting, and
the cold was intense.

One morning about six o’clock, when we had turned in for our daily
sleep, we were suddenly awakened by a tremendous “Hurrah!” We nervously
seized our rifles and peeped through the loop-holes. Great Heavens!
There, within a hundred feet of us, in front and in the rear, the
Germans were crossing the Styr! Before we had time to organize
resistance they were upon us, capturing five hundred of our men. I was
among the number.

We were brought before the German Staff for examination. Every one of
us was tormented with questions, intended to extract valuable military
information. Threats were bestowed on those who refused to disclose
anything. Some cowards among us, especially those of non-Russian
stock, gave away important facts. As the examination was proceeding,
our artillery on the other side opened up a violent bombardment of
the German defences. It was evident that the German Commander had not
many reserves, as he made frantic appeals by telephone for support. It
required a considerable force to keep guard over us and an even larger
force to take us to the rear. As the enemy expected a Russian attack at
any moment, it was decided not to remove us until help arrived.

“So I am a German prisoner,” I thought. “How unexpected! There is still
hope that our comrades on the other side will come to our rescue. Only,
every minute is precious. They must hurry or we are lost. Now my turn
is coming. What shall I tell them? I must deny being a soldier and
invent some kind of a story.”

“I am a woman and not a soldier,” I announced as soon as I was called.

“Are you of noble blood?” I was asked.

“Yes,” I answered, promptly deciding to claim that I was a Red Cross
nurse, dressed in man’s uniform, in order to pay a visit to my
husband, an officer in the front line trenches.

“Have you many women fighting in the ranks?” was the next question.

“I don’t know. I told you that I was not a soldier.”

“What were you doing in the trenches then?”

“I came to see my husband, who is an officer of the Regiment.”

“Why did you shoot, then? The soldiers tell that you shot at them.”

“I did it to defend myself. I was afraid to be captured. I serve as a
Red Cross nurse in the rear hospital, and came over to the fighting
line for a visit.”

The Russian fire was growing hotter every minute. Some of our shells
wounded not only enemy soldiers but several of the captives. It was
past noon, but the Germans were too nervous to eat their lunch. The
expected reserves were not forthcoming, and there was every sign of a
fierce counter-attack by our troops.

At two o’clock our soldiers went over the top and started for the
German positions. The enemy Commander decided to retreat with his batch
of prisoners to the second line rather than defend the front trenches.
It was a critical moment. As we were lined up the “Hurrah” of our
comrades reached us. It stimulated us to a spontaneous decision.

We threw ourselves, five hundred strong, at our captors, wrested many
of their rifles and bayonets and engaged in a ferocious hand-to-hand
combat, just as our men rushed through the torn wire entanglements into
the trenches. The confusion was indescribable; the killing merciless. I
grasped five hand grenades that lay near me and threw them at a group
of about ten Germans. They must have all been killed. Our entire line
across the river was advancing at the same time. The first German line
was occupied by our troops and both banks of the Styr were then in our
hands.

Thus ended my captivity. I was in German hands for a period of only
eight hours and amply avenged even this brief stay. There was great
activity in our ranks for a couple of days. We fortified the newly-won
positions and prepared for another attack. Two days later we received
the signal to advance. But again our artillery had failed to cut the
German wire defences. After pushing on under a devastating fire and
incurring heavy losses we were compelled to retreat, leaving many of
our comrades wounded and dying on the field of battle.

Our Commander improvised a relief party by calling for twenty
volunteers. I responded among the first. Provided with twenty red
crosses which we prominently displayed, and leaving our rifles in the
trenches, we went out in the open daylight to rescue the wounded. I was
allowed to proceed by the Germans almost to their barbed wire. Then, as
I leaned over a wounded man whose leg was broken, I heard the click of
a trigger and immediately lay flat on the ground. Five bullets whistled
over me, one after another. Most of them hit the wounded soldier, who
was killed. I continued to lie motionless, and the German sniper was
evidently satisfied that he had killed me as well. I remained in this
position till night, when I crawled back to our trenches.

Of the twenty Red Cross volunteers only five returned alive.

The following day an order was issued by the Commander thanking all
those soldiers who had been captured three days before and had resolved
to save themselves by fighting their captors. My name appeared first
on the list. Those of us who had refused to give any information to
the enemy were praised in the order. One soldier, who had revealed to
the Germans a great deal of important information, was executed. I
was recommended for a cross of the 2nd Degree, but, being a woman, I
received only a medal of the 3rd Degree.

The opening of the year 1917 found us resting two miles in the rear.
There was much fun and merriment in the reserve billets. Although the
discipline was as strict as ever, the relations between the officers
and men had, in the course of the three and a half years of the war,
undergone a complete transformation.

The older officers, trained in pre-war conditions, were no longer to be
found, having died in battle or been disabled. The new junior officers,
all young men taken from civil life, many of them former students and
school teachers, were liberal in their views and very humane in their
conduct. They mixed freely with the men in the ranks and allowed us
more liberty than we had ever enjoyed. At the New Year festival we all
danced together. These new relations were not entirely due to the new
attitude from above. In a sense, they were generated from below by a
dumb and yet potent undercurrent of restlessness.

We were reviewed before returning to the front line by General Valuyev,
the Commander of the Fifth Corps. I was presented to him by the
Commander. The General shook my hand warmly, remarking that he had
heard many praiseworthy things of me.

Our positions were now on a hill, in the vicinity of Zelenaya Kolonia,
while the enemy was at our feet in the valley. The trenches we occupied
had been in German hands some time before.

It was late in January when I made an expedition into No Man’s Land at
the head of a patrol of fifteen men. We crawled along a ditch that had
once been a German communication trench. It ran along a very exposed
part of the field and we exercised the utmost caution. As we came
near to the enemy’s trench line I thought I heard German conversation.
Leaving ten men behind, with instructions to come to our aid in case of
a fight, five of us crept forward at a snail’s pace and with perfect
noiselessness. The German voices grew clearer and clearer.

Finally we beheld a German listening-post. There were four of them,
all seated with their backs toward us. Their rifles were scattered on
the ground while they warmed their hands over a fire. Two of my men
stretched their hands out, reached the rifles and removed them. It was
a slow and difficult operation. The Germans chattered on unconcernedly.
As I was cautiously reaching for the third rifle two of the Germans,
having apparently heard a noise, made as if they were about to turn.

In an instant my men were upon them. The two were bayoneted before I
was able to realize what was happening. It had been my intention to
bring in the four alive. The other two Germans were safe in our hands.

In all my experience of patrol duty, and I must have taken part in at
least a hundred expeditions into No Man’s Land, it was the first case
of a German listening-post being caught in such a manner. We returned
triumphantly with our prizes.

One of the prisoners was a tall, red-headed fellow, the other, who
wore pince-nez, was evidently an educated man. We took them to
Regimental Headquarters, accompanied on the way by much cheering and
congratulations. The Commander wanted to know the details of the
capture and had them written down word for word. He congratulated me,
pressing my hand, and so did all the other officers, telling me that
my name would live for ever in the annals of the Polotsk Regiment. I
was recommended for a gold cross of the 1st Degree and given two days’
leave for rest in the village.

At the end of the two days my Company joined me in the reserve. Strange
things were occurring in our midst. In subdued voices the men repeated
dark rumours about Rasputin’s death. Wild stories about his connections
with the Court and Germany were communicated from mouth to mouth. The
spirit of insubordination was growing among the soldiers, though at
that time it was still kept within bounds. The men were weary, terribly
weary of the war. “How long shall we continue this fighting?” and “What
are we fighting for?” were on the lips of everybody. It was the fourth
winter and still there was no end in sight.

Our men were genuinely anxious to solve the great puzzle that the war
had become to them. Hadn’t it been proved again and again that the
officers at Headquarters were selling them to the enemy? Hadn’t a
multitude of reports reached them that the Court was pro-German? Hadn’t
they heard of the War Minister placed under arrest and charged with
being a traitor? Wasn’t it clear, therefore, that the Government, the
official class, was in league with the enemy? Then, why continue this
carnage indefinitely? If the Government was in alliance with Germany,
what prevented it from concluding peace? Was it the desire to have
millions more of them slaughtered?

This was the riddle that forced itself upon the peasant mind. It was
complicated by a hundred other suggestions that were injected into
his brain from various channels. Depressed in spirit, discouraged and
sullen in appearance was the Russian soldier in February, 1917.

We returned to our positions and took up the heavy burden. It was not
long before an attack was organized against the German line. Our
artillery again displayed little effectiveness and again we climbed out
of the trenches and swept across No Man’s Land while the enemy’s wire
defences were intact. It was not the first wave of Russian breasts that
had beaten itself in vain against that deadly barrier, to be hurled
back with grave losses without even coming to grips with the foe. But
each of those waves had left its drop of bitterness in the hearts of
the survivors. And it was a particularly strong draught of bitterness
that this last futile attack had left in the souls of the soldiers upon
our sector.

Nevertheless, in February, 1917, the front was unprepared for the
eruption that was soon to shake the world. The front maintained its
fierce hatred for the Germans and could not conceive of a righteous
peace save through the efficient organization of a gigantic offensive
against the enemy. The obstacle in the way of such an offensive was
the traitorous Government. Against this Government were directed the
indignation and suppressed discontent of the rank and file. But so old,
so stable, so deep-rooted was the institution of Tsarism that, with all
their secret contempt for the Court, with all their secret hatred for
the officials of the Government, the armies at the front were not ripe
yet for a conscious and deliberate rising.




                              Part Three

                              REVOLUTION




                               CHAPTER X

                      THE REVOLUTION AT THE FRONT


The first warning of the approaching storm reached us through a soldier
from our Company who had returned from leave at Petrograd.

“Oh, heaven!” he said. “If you but knew what is going on behind your
backs! Revolution! Everywhere they talk of overthrowing the Tsar. The
capital is flaming with revolution.”

These words spread like wildfire among the men. They gathered in
knots and discussed the significance of the report. Would it mean
peace? Would they get land and freedom? Or would it mean another huge
offensive before the end of the war? The arguments, of course, took
place in whispers, behind the backs of the officers. The consensus of
opinion seemed to be that revolution meant preparation for a general
attack against the Germans in order to win a victory before the
conclusion of peace.

For several days the air was charged with excitement and expectation.
Everybody felt that earth-shaking events were taking place and our
hearts echoed the distant rumblings of the storm. There was something
reticent about the looks and manners of the officers, as if they were
keeping important news to themselves.

Finally, the joyful news arrived. The Commander gathered the entire
Regiment to read to us the glorious words of the first manifesto,
together with the famous Order No. 1. The miracle had happened!
Tsarism, which had enslaved us and flourished on the blood and sweat
of the toiler, was overthrown. Freedom, Equality and Brotherhood! How
sweet were these words to our ears! We were transported. There were
tears of joy, embraces, dancing. It all seemed a dream, a wonderful
dream. Who could have believed that the hated régime would be destroyed
so easily and in our own lifetime?

The Commander read to us the manifesto, which concluded with a fervent
appeal to us to hold the line with greater vigilance than ever, now
that we were free citizens, and to defend our newly won liberty from
the attacks of the Kaiser and his supporters. Would we defend our
freedom? A multitude of throats shouted in a chorus, that passed over
No Man’s Land and reverberated in the German trenches, “Yes, we will!”

Would we swear allegiance to the Provisional Government, whose desire
it was that we should prepare to drive the Germans out of Free Russia
before returning home to divide up the land?

“We swear!” thundered thousands of men, raising their right hands, and
thoroughly alarming the enemy.

Then came Order No. 1, signed by the Petrograd Soviet of Workmen and
Soldiers. Soldiers and officers were now equal, it declared. All the
citizens of Free Russia were henceforth equal. There would be no more
discipline. The hated officers were enemies of the people and should
no longer be obeyed and kept at their posts. The common soldier would
now rule the army. Let the rank and file elect their best men and
institute committees; let there be Company, Regimental, Corps and Army
committees.

We were dazzled by this wealth of fine-sounding phrases. The men went
about as if intoxicated. For four days the festival continued unabated,
so wild with delight were the men. The Germans could not at first
understand the cause of our rejoicings. When they learned it they
ceased firing.

There were meetings, meetings and meetings. Day and night the Regiment
seemed to be in continuous session, listening to speeches that dwelt
almost exclusively on the words of peace and freedom. The men were
hungry for beautiful phrases and gloated over them.

All duty was abandoned in the first few days. While the great
upheaval had affected me profoundly, and the first day or two I
shared completely the ecstasy of the men, I awoke early to a sense
of responsibility. I gathered from the manifestoes and speeches that
what was demanded of us was to hold the line with still more energy
than before. Was not this the meaning of the revolution so far as we
were concerned? When I put this question to the soldiers they answered
in the affirmative, but they had not the strength of will to tear
themselves away from the magic circle of speech-making and visions.
Such was their dazed condition, that they seemed to me no longer sane.
The front had become a veritable lunatic asylum.

One day, in the first week of the revolution, I ordered a soldier to
take up duty at the listening-post. He refused.

“I will take no orders from a _baba_,” he sneered, “I can do as I
please. We have freedom now.”

It was a bitter shock to me. Why, this very same soldier would have
gone through fire for me a week before. And now he was sneering at me.
It seemed incredible and overwhelming.

“Ha, ha,” he jeered. “You can go yourself.”

Flushed with vexation I seized a rifle and answered:

“Can I? I will show you how a free citizen ought to guard his freedom!”

And I climbed over the top and made my way to the listening-post where
I remained on duty for the full two hours.

I talked to the soldiers, appealing to their sense of honour and
arguing that the revolution imposed greater responsibilities upon the
man in the ranks. They agreed that the defence of the country was the
most important task confronting us. But had not the revolution brought
them also freedom, with the injunction to take upon themselves the
control of the army, and to abolish discipline? The men were full of
enthusiasm, but obedience was contrary to their ideas of liberty.
Seeing that I could not get my men to perform their duties, I went to
the Commander of the Company and asked to be released from the army and
sent home.

“I see no good in staying here and doing nothing,” I said. “If this is
war, I want to be out of it. I can do nothing with my men.”

“Have you gone out of your mind, Yashka?” said the Commander. “Why, if
you, who are a peasant yourself, one of them, beloved by all the rank
and file, cannot remain, what can we officers do? It is our duty as
soldiers to stay to the last, until the men come to their senses. I am
having my own troubles, Yashka,” he confided to me, in a low voice. “I
cannot have my way, either. So you see, we are all in the same boat. We
have just got to put up with it.”

It was altogether contrary to my inclinations, but I remained. Little
by little things improved. The soldiers’ committees began to exercise
their functions, but they did not interfere with the purely military
department of our life. Those of the officers who had been disliked
by the men, or whose records were typical of Tsaristic officials,
disappeared with the revolution. Even Colonel Stubendorf, the Commander
of the Regiment, had gone, retiring perhaps because of his German name.
Our new Commander was Kudriavtzev, a popular officer.

Discipline was gradually re-established. It was not the old discipline.
Its basis was no longer dread of punishment. It was a discipline
founded on the high sense of responsibility that was soon instilled
into the grey ranks of our army. True, there was no fighting between
us and the enemy. There were even the beginnings of that fatal
fraternization plague which was later to be the ruin of the mighty
Russian Army. But the soldiers responded to the appeals from the
Provisional Government and the Soviet in the early weeks of the spring
of 1917. They were ready to carry out unflinchingly any order from
Petrograd.

Those were still the days of immense possibilities. The men worshipped
the distant figures in the rear who had brought them the boon of
liberty and equality. We knew almost nothing of the various parties
and factions. Peace was the sole thought of the men. They were told
that peace could not come without defeating or overthrowing the Kaiser.
Therefore, we all expected the word for a general advance. Had that
word been given at that time nothing in the world could have withstood
our pressure. Nothing. The revolution had given birth to elemental
forces in our hearts that defied and ever will defy description.

Then there began a procession of speech-makers. There were delegates
from the army, there were members of the Duma, there were emissaries
of the Petrograd Soviet. Almost every day there was a meeting, and
almost every other day there were elections. We sent delegates to
Corps Headquarters and delegates to Army Headquarters, delegates to a
congress in Petrograd and delegates to consult with the Government. The
speakers were almost all eloquent. They painted beautiful pictures of
Russia’s future, of universal brotherhood, of happiness and prosperity.
The soldiers’ eyes would light up with the glow of hope. More than once
even I was caught by those eloquent and enticing phrases. The rank and
file were carried away to an enchanted land by the orators and rewarded
them with tremendous applause.

There were speakers of a different kind, too. These solemnly appealed
for a realization of the immediate duty which the revolution imposed
upon the shoulders of the army. Patriotism was their keynote. They
called us to defend our country, to be ready at any moment for an
attack to drive out the Germans and win the much-desired victory
and peace. The soldiers responded to these calls to duty with equal
enthusiasm. They swore that they were ready. Was there any doubt that
they were? No. The Russian soldier loved his Mother Country before. He
loved her now a hundred-fold more.

The first signs of spring arrived. The rivers had opened, the ice
fields had thawed. It was muddy, but the earth was fragrant. The winds
were laden with intoxicating odours. They were carrying across the
vast fields and valleys of Mother Russia tidings of a new era. There
was spring in our souls. It seemed that our long-suffering people and
country were being restored to a new life and one wanted to live, live,
live.

But there, a few hundred feet away, were the Germans. They were not
free. Their souls did not commune with God. Their hearts knew not the
immense joy of this wonderful spring. They were still slaves, and they
would not let us alone in our freedom. They thrust themselves over the
fair extent of our country and would not retire. They must be driven
out before we could embark upon a life of peace. We were ready to drive
them out. We were awaiting the order to leap at their throats and show
them what Free Russia could do. But why was the order postponed? Why
wait? Why not strike while the iron was hot?

Yet the iron was allowed to cool. There was a flood of talk in the
rear; there was absolute inactivity at the front. And as hours grew
into days and days into weeks there sprang forth out of this inactivity
the first beginnings of fraternization.

“Come over here for a drink of tea!” a voice from our trenches would
address itself across No Man’s Land to the Germans. And voices from
there would respond:

“Come over here for a drink of vodka!”

For several days they did not go beyond such mutual invitations. Then
one morning a soldier from our ranks advanced openly into No Man’s
Land, announcing that he wanted to talk things over. He stopped in the
centre of the field, where he was met by a German and engaged in an
argument. From both sides soldiers flocked to the debaters.

“Why do you continue the war?” asked our men. “We have overthrown the
Tsar and we want peace, but your Kaiser insists on war. Get rid of your
Kaiser and then both sides will go home.”

“You don’t know the truth,” answered the German. “You are mistaken.
Why, our Kaiser offered peace to all the Allies last winter. But your
Tsar refused to make peace. And now your Allies are forcing Russia to
continue in the war. We are always ready for peace.”

I was with the soldiers in No Man’s Land and saw how the German
argument impressed them. Some of the Germans had brought vodka with
them, which they gave to our soldiers. While they were returning to the
positions, engaged in heated arguments over the story of the Kaiser’s
peace offer, Commander Kudriavtzev came out to rebuke them.

“What are you doing? Don’t you know that the Germans are our enemies?
They want to entrap you.”

“Kill him!” a voice shouted in the crowd. “We have been deceived long
enough! Kill him!”

The Commander got out of the way quickly before the crowd had caught
up the shout of the ruffian. This incident, when the revolution was
still in its infancy, was an early symptom of the malady to which
the Russian army succumbed in months to come. It was still an easily
curable malady. But where was the physician with foresight to diagnose
the disease at its inception and conquer it while there was time?

We were relieved and sent to the reserve billets. There a mass meeting
was organized in honour of a delegate from the Army Committee who came
to address us. He was welcomed by Krylov, one of our most enlightened
soldiers, who spoke well and to the point.

“So long as the Germans keep their Kaiser and obey him we will not have
peace,” he declared. “The Kaiser wants to rob Russia of many provinces
and to enslave their populations. The German soldiers do his will just
as you did the will of the Tsar. Isn’t that the truth?”

“The truth! The truth, indeed! Right!” the multitude roared.

“Now,” resumed Krylov, “the Kaiser liked the Tsar and was related to
him. But the Kaiser does not and cannot love Free Russia. He is afraid
that the German people will take lesson from us and start a revolution
in their country. He is, therefore, seeking to destroy our freedom
because he wants to keep his throne. Is this plain?”

“Yes! Yes! Good! It’s the truth!” shouted thousands of throats,
cheering wildly for Krylov.

“Therefore,” continued the speaker, “it is our duty to defend our
country and our precious liberty from the Kaiser. If we don’t destroy
him, he will destroy us. If we defeat him, there will be a revolution
in his country and the German people will get rid of him. Then our
freedom will be secure. Then we shall go home and take possession of
all the available land. But we can’t return home with an enemy at our
back. Can we?”

“No! No! No! Certainly not!” thundered the swaying mass of soldiers.

“And we can’t make peace with a ruler, who hates us at heart and who
was the secret accomplice of the Tsar. Isn’t this true?”

“True! True! True! Hurrah for Krylov!” bawled the vast gathering,
applauding vigorously.

Then the delegate from the Army Committee mounted the speaker’s
stock. The soldiers were in high spirits, thirsting for every word of
enlightenment.

“Comrades!” the delegate began. “For three years we have bled, suffered
from hunger and cold, confined in the muddy and vermin-infested
trenches. Myriads of our brethren have been slaughtered, maimed for
life, taken into captivity. Whose war was it? The Tsar’s. He made
us fight and perish while he and his associates revelled in wealth
and luxury. Now the Tsar is no more. Why, then, comrades, should
we continue his war? Do you want to lay down your lives again by
thousands?”

“No! No! No! We have had enough of war!” thousands of voices rang out.

“Well,” continued the delegate, “I agree with you. We have had enough
of war, indeed. You are told that our enemy is in front of us. But what
about our enemies in the rear? What about the officers who are now
leaving the front and fleeing to safety? What about the landowners who
are holding fast to the large estates bestowed on them by former Tsars?
What about the bourgeoisie who have sucked our blood for generations
and grown rich through our sweat and toil? Where are they all now? What
do they want us to do? They want you to fight the enemy here so that
they, the enemies of the people, can pillage and loot in the rear! So
that when you come home, if you live to come home, you will find all
the land and the wealth of the country in their hands!”

“It is the truth! The truth! He’s right!” interrupted the vast crowd.

“Now you have two enemies,” resumed the speaker. “One is foreign and
the other is of your own race. You can’t fight both at once. If we
continue the war the enemy at your back will rob you of the freedom,
the land and the rights that the revolution has won for you. Therefore,
we must have peace with the Germans in order to be able to fight these
bourgeois vampires. Isn’t that so?”

“Yes! Yes! It’s the truth! It’s the truth! We want peace! We are tired
of the war!” came in a chorus from every side.

The passions of the soldiers were inflamed. The delegate was right,
they said. If they remained in the trenches they would be robbed of
the land and of the fruits of the new freedom, they argued heatedly
among themselves. My heart ached when I saw the effect of the orator’s
words. All the impression of Krylov’s speech had been effaced. The very
same men who so enthusiastically responded to his appeal to do their
duty now applauded just as fervidly, if not more so, the appeal of the
delegate for a fratricidal war. It maddened me. I could not control
myself.

“You stupid fools!” I burst out. “You can be turned one minute one way
and the next minute the opposite way. Didn’t you cheer Krylov when he
said truly that the Kaiser was our enemy and that we must drive him out
of Russia first before we can have peace? And now you have been incited
to start a civil war so that the Kaiser can simply walk over Russia and
get the whole country into his power. This is war! War, you understand,
war! And in war there can be no compromise with the enemy. Give him an
inch and he will take a mile! Come, let us get to work. Let us fulfil
our duty.”

There was a commotion among the soldiers. Some expressed their
dissatisfaction loudly.

“Why stand here and listen to this silly _baba_?” said one.

“Give her a blow!” shouted another.

“Kick her!” cried a third.

In a moment I was being roughly handled. Blows were showered on me from
every side.

“What are you doing? Why, it’s Yashka! Have you gone crazy?” I heard a
friendly voice appeal to the men. Other comrades hurried to my aid and
I was rescued without suffering much injury. But I decided to ask for
leave to go home and get away from this war without warfare. I would
not be thwarted by the Commander. No, not this time.

The following day Michael Rodzianko, the President of the Duma, arrived
at our sector. We were formed for review, and although the men were
somewhat lax in discipline they made up for it in enthusiasm. Rodzianko
was given a tumultuous welcome as he appeared before the crowd.

“The responsibility for Russia,” he said, “which rested before on the
shoulders of the Tsar and his Government now rests on the people, on
you. This is what freedom means. It means that we must, of our own good
will, defend the country against the foe. It means that we must all
work together, forget our differences and quarrels and present a solid
front to the Germans. They are subtle and hypocritical. They give you
fair words but their hearts are full of hatred. They claim to be your
brothers, but they are your enemies. They seek to divide us so that it
will be easier for them to destroy our liberty and country.”

“True! True! Right! Right! It is so! It is so!” the throng voiced its
approval.

“Free Russia will never be secure until the Kaiser’s soldiers are
driven out of Russia,” the speaker continued. “We must, therefore,
prepare for a general offensive to win a great victory. We must work
together with our Allies who are helping us to defeat the Germans. We
must respect and obey our officers, as there can be no army without
chiefs, just as there can be no flock without a shepherd.”

“Correct! Correct! Well said! It’s the truth! It’s the truth!” the
soldiers shouted from every corner.

“Now, my friends, tell me what you think of launching an attack against
the enemy?” asked the President of the Duma. “Are you ready to advance
and die, if necessary, to secure our precious freedom?”

“Yes, we are! We will go!” thundered the thousands present.

Then Orlov, the chairman of the Regimental Committee, a man of
education, rose to answer for the rank and file. He expressed what all
of us at the front had in our minds:

“Yes, we are ready to strike. But we want those millions of soldiers
in the rear, who spread all over the country, overflowing the cities,
overcrowding all the railroads and doing nothing, to be sent back to
the front. Let us advance all together. The time for speeches has
passed. We want action, or we will go home.”

Comrade Orlov was boisterously acclaimed. Indeed, he said what we all
so keenly felt. It wasn’t just to the men in the trenches to allow
hundreds of thousands of their comrades to keep holiday in the rear
without interruption. Rodzianko agreed with us. He would do his best
to remedy this injustice, he promised. But, privately, in reply to
the insistent questions of the officers why the golden opportunity
for an offensive was being wasted, he confessed that the Provisional
Government and the Duma were powerless.

“It is the Soviet, Kerensky and its other leading spirits, who have the
decision in such matters,” he said. “They are shaping the policy of the
country. I have urged them not to delay, but to order a general attack
immediately.”

Chairman Orlov then presented me to Rodzianko with a little speech
in which he recounted my record since the beginning of the war. The
President of the Duma was greatly surprised and moved.

“I want to bend the knee to this woman,” he said, shaking my hand
warmly. He then asked what was my feeling about conditions at the
front. I gave vent to the bitterness that was in my heart.

“I can’t stand this new order of things. The soldiers don’t fight the
Germans any more. My object in joining the army was to defend the
country. Now, it is impossible to do so. There is nothing left for me,
therefore, but to go away.”

“But where shall you go?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I suppose I shall go home. My father is old, and my
mother is ailing, and they are almost reduced to begging for bread.”

Rodzianko patted me on the shoulder.

“Come to me in Petrograd, little heroine, and I will see what I can do
for you.”

I joyfully accepted the invitation, and told my comrades that I should
be leaving soon. I was provided with a new outfit and one hundred
roubles by the Commander. The news spread that Yashka was going away
and about a thousand soldiers, many of whose lives I had saved in
battle, presented me with a testimonial.

A thousand signatures! They were all the names of dear comrades who
were attached to me by ties of fire and blood. There was a record, on
that long scroll, of every battle which we had fought and of every
episode of life-saving and self-sacrifice in which I had taken part. It
made my heart beat with joy and my eyes fill with tears, while deep in
my soul something ached and yearned.

It was May, but there was autumn in my breast. There was autumn also
in the heart of Mother-Russia. The sunshine was dazzling. The fields
and the forests rioted in all the glories of spring. There was peace in
the trenches, calm in No Man’s Land. My country was still celebrating
joyously the festival of the newly-born Freedom. It was scarcely two
months old, this child of generations of pain and suffering. It came
into being with the first warm wind, and how deep were the forces that
it aroused in us, how infinite the promises it carried! My people
still entertained the wonderful illusions of those first days. It was
spring, the beginning of eternal spring to them.

But my heart pined. All joy was dead in it. I heard the autumn winds
howling. I felt instinctively an immense tragedy developing, and my
soul went out to Mother Russia.

The entire Regiment was formed in line so that I could bid them
farewell. I addressed them as follows:

“You know how I love you, how I have cared for you. Who picked you
up on the field of battle? Yashka. Who dressed your wounds under
fire? Yashka. Who braved with you all dangers and shared with you all
privations? A _baba_, Yashka. I bore with your insults and rejoiced in
your caresses. I knew how to receive them both, because I knew your
souls. I could endure anything with you, but I cannot endure this any
longer. I cannot bear fraternization with the enemy. I cannot bear
these incessant meetings. I cannot bear this endless chain of orators
and their empty phrases. It is time to act. The time for talk is gone.
Otherwise, it will be too late. Our country and freedom are perishing.

“Nevertheless, I love you and want to part from you as a friend.”

Here I stopped. I could not go on. My comrades gave me a hearty
good-bye. They were sorry, very sorry, to lose me, they said, but of
course I was entitled to my opinion of the situation. They assured me
that they respected me as ever and that, when they had been at home
on leave, they had always told their mothers to pray for me. And they
swore that they would always be ready to lay down their lives for me.

The Commander placed his carriage at my disposal to go to the railway
station. A delegate from the Regiment was leaving the same day for
Petrograd, and we went together. As the horses started, tearing
me away from the men, who clasped my hands and wished me luck and
God-speed, something tore a big hole in my heart, and the world seemed
desolate....




                              CHAPTER XI

                   I ORGANIZE THE BATTALION OF DEATH


The journey to Petrograd was uneventful. The train was crowded to
overflowing with returning soldiers who engaged in arguments day and
night. I was drawn into one such debate. Peace was the subject of all
discussion, immediate peace.

“But how can you have peace while the Germans are occupying parts of
Russia?” I broke in. “We must win a victory first or our country will
be lost.”

“Ah, she is for the old regime. She wants the Tsar back,” murmured some
soldiers threateningly.

The delegate accompanying me here advised me to keep silence if I
wanted to arrive safely in Petrograd. I followed his advice. He left me
at the station when we got to the capital. It was in the afternoon, and
I had never been in Petrograd before. With the address of Rodzianko on
my lips I went about making inquiries how to go there. I was directed
to take a tram, the first I had ever ridden in.

About five in the afternoon I found myself in front of a big house. For
a moment I lost courage. “What if he has forgotten me? He may not be
at home and nobody will know anything about me.” I wanted to retreat,
but where could I go? I knew no one in the city. Plucking up courage,
I rang the bell and awaited the opening of the door with a trembling
heart. A servant came out and I gave my name, with the information
that I had just arrived from the front to see Rodzianko. I was taken up
in a lift, a new experience to me, and was met by the secretary of the
President. He greeted me warmly, saying that he had expected me, and
invited me to make myself at home.

President Rodzianko then appeared, exclaiming cordially:

“My little heroine! I am glad you have come,” and he kissed me on the
cheek. He then presented me to his wife as his little heroine, pointing
to my military decorations. She was very cordial and generous in her
praise. “You have come just in time for dinner,” she said, leading me
into her dressing-room to remove the dust of the journey. This warm
reception cheered me greatly.

At the table the conversation turned on the state of affairs at the
front. Asked to tell of the latest developments, I said, as nearly as I
can remember:

“The agitation to leave the trenches and go home is growing. If there
is not an immediate offensive, all is lost. The soldiers will disperse.
It is also an urgent necessity to send back to the fighting line the
troops now scattered in the rear.”

Rodzianko answered as nearly as I can remember as follows:

“Orders have been given to many units in the rear to go to the front.
All have not obeyed, however. There have been demonstrations and
protests on the part of several troops, due to Bolshevist propaganda.”

That was the first time I ever heard of the Bolsheviks. It was May,
1917.

“Who are they?” I asked.

“They are a group led by one Lenin, who has just returned from abroad
by way of Germany, and Trotzky, Kolontai and other political exiles.
They attend the meetings of the Soviet at the Taurida Palace, in which
the Duma meets, stir up class-bitterness and demand immediate peace.”

I was further asked how Kerensky then stood with the soldiers, being
informed that he had just left for a tour of the front.

“Kerensky is very popular. In fact, the most popular man with the men
at the front. The men will do anything for him,” I replied.

Rodzianko then related an incident which made us all laugh. There was
an old porter in the Government offices who had served many Ministers
of the Tsar. Kerensky, it appeared, made it a habit to shake hands
with everybody. So that whenever he entered his office he shook hands
with the old porter, thus quickly becoming the laughing-stock of the
servants.

“Now, what kind of a Minister is it,” the old porter was overheard
complaining to a fellow-servant, “who shakes hands with me?”

After dinner Rodzianko took me to the Taurida Palace, where he
introduced me to a gathering of soldiers’ delegates, then in session.
I was warmly welcomed and given a prominent seat. The speakers gave
descriptions of conditions at various sections of the front that
tallied exactly with my own observations. Discipline was gone,
fraternization was on the increase, the agitation to leave the trenches
was gaining strength. Something must be done quickly, they argued. How
could the men be kept up to the mark till the moment when an offensive
should be ordered? That was the problem.

Rodzianko arose and proposed that I should be asked to suggest a
solution. He told them that I was a peasant who had volunteered early
in the war and fought and suffered with the men. Therefore, he thought,
I ought to know what was the right thing to do. Naturally, I was very
much embarrassed. I was totally unprepared to make any suggestions and,
therefore, begged to be excused until I had thought the matter over.

The session continued, while I sank deep into thought. For half an hour
I racked my brain in vain. Then suddenly an idea dawned upon me. It was
the idea of a Women’s Battalion of Death.

“You have heard of what I have done and endured as a soldier,” I said,
rising to my feet and turning to the audience. “Now, how would it do to
organize three hundred women like myself to serve as an example to the
army and lead the men into battle?”

Rodzianko approved of my idea. “Provided,” he added, “we could find
hundreds more like Maria Botchkareva, which I greatly doubt.”

To this objection I replied that numbers were immaterial, that what
was important was to shame the men, and that a few women at one place
could serve as an example to the entire front. “It would be necessary
that the women’s organization should have no committees and be run
on the regular army basis in order to enable it to help towards the
restoration of discipline,” I further explained.

Rodzianko thought my suggestion splendid and dwelt upon the enthusiasm
that would inevitably be kindled among the men if women should occupy
some of the trenches and take the lead in an offensive.

There were objections, however, from the audience. One delegate got up
and said:

“None of us can take exception to a soldier like Botchkareva. The
men at the front know her and have heard of her deeds. But who will
guarantee that the other women will be as decent as she and will not
dishonour the army?”

Another delegate remarked:

“Who will guarantee that the presence of women soldiers at the front
will not lead to the birth there of little soldiers?”

There was a general uproar at this criticism. I replied:

“If I take up the organization of a women’s battalion, I will hold
myself responsible for every member of it. I will introduce rigid
discipline and will allow no speech-making and no loitering in the
streets. When Mother Russia is drowning it is not a time to run an
army by committees. I am a common peasant myself, and I know that
only discipline can save the Russian Army. In the proposed battalion
I should exercise absolute authority and insist upon obedience.
Otherwise, there would be no use in organizing it.”

There were no objections to the conditions which I outlined as
preliminary to the establishment of such a unit. Still, I never
expected that the Government would consider the matter seriously and
permit me to carry out the idea, although I was informed that it would
be submitted to Kerensky upon his return from the front.

President Rodzianko took a deep interest in the project. He introduced
me to Captain Dementiev, Commandant of the Home for Invalids, asking
him to place a room or two at my disposal and generally take care of
me. I went home with the Captain, who presented me to his wife, a dear
and patriotic woman who soon became very much attached to me.

The following morning Rodzianko telephoned, suggesting that before the
matter was broached to the War Minister, Kerensky, it would be wise to
take it up with the Commander-in-Chief, General Brusilov, who could
judge it from the point of view of the army. If he approved of it, it
would be easier to obtain Kerensky’s permission.

General Headquarters were then at Moghilev and there we went, Captain
Dementiev and I, to obtain an audience with the Commander-in-Chief.
We were received by his Adjutant on the 14th of May. He announced our
arrival and purpose to General Brusilov, who ordered that we should be
shown in.

Hardly a week had elapsed since I left the front, and here I was again,
this time not in the trenches, however, but in the presence of the
Commander-in-Chief. It was a very sudden metamorphosis and I could not
help wondering, deep in my soul, over the strange ways of fortune.
Brusilov shook hands with us cordially. He was interested in the idea,
he said. Wouldn’t we sit down? We did. Wouldn’t I tell him about myself
and my ideas concerning the scheme?

I told him about my soldiering and my leaving the front because I
could not reconcile myself to the prevailing conditions. I explained
that the purpose of the plan would be to shame the men in the
trenches by letting them see the women go over the top first. The
Commander-in-Chief then discussed the matter from various points of
view with Captain Dementiev and approved of my idea. He bade us adieu,
expressing his hope for the success of my enterprise, and, in a happy
frame of mine, I left for Petrograd.

Kerensky had returned from the front. We called on Rodzianko and told
him of the result of our mission. He informed us that he had already
asked for an audience with Kerensky and that the latter wanted to see
him at seven o’clock the following morning, when he would broach the
subject to him. After his call on Kerensky, Rodzianko telephoned to
tell us that he had arranged for an audience for me with Kerensky at
the Winter Palace at noon the next day.

Captain Dementiev drove me to the Winter Palace, and a few minutes
before twelve I was in the ante-chamber of the War Minister. I was
surprised to find General Brusilov there, and he asked me if I had come
to see Kerensky about the scheme I had discussed with him. I replied
that I had. He offered to support my idea with the War Minister, and
introduced me to General Polovtzev, Commander of the Petrograd Military
District, who was with him.

Suddenly the door swung open and a young face, with eyes inflamed from
sleeplessness, beckoned to me to come in. It was Kerensky, at that
moment the idol of the masses. One of his arms was in a sling. With the
other he shook my hand. He walked about nervously and talked briefly
and dryly. He told me that he had heard about me and was interested in
my idea. I then outlined to him the purpose of the project, saying that
there would be no committees, but regular discipline in the battalion
of women.

Kerensky listened impatiently. He had evidently made up his mind on the
subject. There was only one point of which he was not sure. Would I be
able to maintain a high standard of morality in the organization? He
would allow me to recruit it immediately if I made myself answerable
for the conduct and reputation of the women. I pledged myself to do so.
And it was all settled. I was granted the authority there and then to
form a unit under the name of The First Russian Women’s Battalion of
Death.

It seemed unbelievable. A few days ago it had dawned upon me as a mere
fancy. Now the dream was adopted as a practical policy by the highest
in authority. I was in ecstasy. As Kerensky showed me out his eyes
fell on General Polovtzev. He asked him to give me all necessary help.
I was overwhelmed with happiness.

A brief consultation took place immediately between Captain Dementiev
and General Polovtzev, who made the following suggestion:

“Why not start at the meeting to be held to-morrow night in the
Mariynski Theatre for the benefit of the Home? Kerensky, Rodzianko,
Tchkheidze, and others will speak there. Let us put Botchkareva between
Rodzianko and Kerensky on the programme.”

I was seized with nervousness and objected strenuously that I could
never appear in public and that I should not know what to talk about.

“You will tell them just what you told Rodzianko, Brusilov and
Kerensky. Just tell them how you feel about the front and the country,”
they said, making light of my objections.

Before I had time to realize it I was already in a photographer’s
studio, and there had my portrait taken. The following day this
picture appeared at the head of big posters pasted all over the city,
announcing my appearance at the Mariynski Theatre for the purpose of
organizing a Women’s Battalion of Death.

I did not close an eye during the entire night preceding the evening
fixed for the meeting. It all seemed a fantastic dream. How could I
take my place between two such great men as Rodzianko and Kerensky?
How could I ever face an assembly of educated people, I, an illiterate
peasant woman? And what could I say? My tongue had never been trained
to elegant speech. My eyes had never beheld a place like the Mariynski
Theatre, formerly frequented by the Tsar and the Imperial family. I
tossed in bed in a state of fever.

“Holy Father,” I prayed, my eyes streaming with tears, “show Thy
humble servant the path to truth. I am afraid; instil courage into my
heart. I can feel my knees give way; steady them with Thy strength. My
mind is groping in the dark; illumine it with Thy light. My speech is
but the common talk of an ignorant _baba_; make it flow with Thy wisdom
and penetrate the hearts of my hearers. Do all this, not for the sake
of Thy humble Maria, but for the sake of Mother Russia, my unhappy
country.”

My eyes were red with inflammation when I arose in the morning. I was
nervous all day. Captain Dementiev suggested that I should commit my
speech to memory. I refused his suggestion with the remark:

“I have placed my trust in God and rely on Him to put the right words
into my mouth.”

It was the evening of May 21, 1917. I was driven to the Mariynski
Theatre and escorted by Captain Dementiev and his wife into the former
Imperial box. The house was packed, the receipts of the ticket office
amounting to thirty thousand roubles. Everybody seemed to be pointing
at me, and it was with great difficulty that I controlled my nerves.

Kerensky appeared and was given a tremendous reception. He spoke only
about ten minutes. Next on the programme was Madame Kerensky, and I
was to follow her. Madame Kerensky, however, broke down as soon as
she found herself confronted by the audience. That did not add to my
courage. I was led forward as if in a trance.

“Men and women citizens!” I heard my voice say. “Our mother is
perishing. Our mother is Russia. I want to help to save her. I want
women whose hearts are loyal, whose souls are pure, whose aims are
high. With such women setting an example of self-sacrifice, you men
will realize your duty in this grave hour!”

Then I stopped and could not proceed. Sobs choked the words in me,
tremors shook me, my legs grew weak. I was caught under the arm and led
away amid a thunderous outburst of applause.

Registration of volunteers for the Battalion from among those present
took place the same evening, there and then. So great was the
enthusiasm that fifteen hundred women applied for enlistment. It was
necessary to put quarters at my immediate disposal and it was decided
to let me have the building and grounds of the Kolomensk Women’s
Institute, and I directed the women to come there on the morrow, when
they would be examined and officially enlisted.

The newspapers contained accounts of the meeting and the publicity
which it gained helped to swell the number of women who volunteered to
join the Battalion of Death to two thousand. They were gathered in the
garden of the Institute, all in a state of jubilation. I arrived with
Staff-Captain Kuzmin, assistant to General Polovtzev, Captain Dementiev
and General Anosov, who was introduced to me as a man very interested
in my idea. He looked about fifty years of age and was of impressive
appearance. He wanted to help me, he explained. In addition, there was
about a score of journalists. I mounted a table in the centre of the
garden and addressed the women in the following manner:

“Women, do you know what I have called you here for? Do you realize
clearly the task lying ahead of you? Do you know what war is? War! Look
into your hearts, examine your souls and see if you can stand the great
test.

“At a time when our country is perishing it is the duty of all of us to
rise to its succour. The morale of our men has fallen low, and it is
for us women to serve as an inspiration to them. But only such women as
have entirely sacrificed their own personal interests and affairs can
do this.

“Woman is naturally light-hearted. But if she can purge herself for
sacrifice, then through a kindly word, a loving heart and an example of
heroism she can save the Motherland. We are physically weak, but if we
be strong morally and spiritually we shall accomplish more than a large
force.

“I will have no committees in the Battalion. There will be strict
discipline, and any offence will be severely punished. There will be
punishment for even slight acts of disobedience. No flirtations will
be allowed, and any attempts at them will be punished by expulsion
and sending home under arrest. It is the purpose of this Battalion to
restore discipline in the army. It must, therefore, be irreproachable
in character. Now, are you willing to enlist under such conditions?”

“Yes, we are! we are! we are!” the women responded in a chorus.

“I will now ask those of you who accept my terms to sign a pledge,
binding you to obey any order of Botchkareva. I warn you that I am
stern by nature, that I shall personally punish any misdemeanour, that
I shall demand absolute obedience. Those of you who hesitate had better
not sign the pledge. There will now be a medical examination.”

There were nearly two thousand signed pledges. They included names
of members of some of the most illustrious families in the country,
as well as those of common peasant girls and domestic servants. The
physical examination, conducted by ten doctors, some of whom were
women, was not ruled by the same standard as that in the case of the
men. There were, naturally, very few perfect specimens of health among
the women. But we rejected only those suffering from serious ailments.
Altogether there were about thirty rejections. Those accepted were
allowed to go home with instructions to return on the following day
when they would be quartered permanently in the Institute and begin
training.

It was necessary to obtain outfits, and I applied for these to
General Polovtzev, Commander of the Military District of Petrograd.
The same evening two thousand complete outfits were delivered at my
headquarters. I also asked General Polovtzev for twenty-five men
instructors, who should be well disciplined, able to maintain good
order and acquainted with every detail of military training, so as to
be able to complete the course of instruction in two weeks. He sent me
twenty-five officers of all grades from the Volynski Regiment.

Then there was the question of supplies. Were we to have our own
kitchen? It was found more expedient not to establish one of our own
but to make use of the kitchen of a guard regiment, stationed not far
from our quarters. The ration was that of regular troops, consisting
of two pounds of bread, cabbage soup, _kasha_ (gruel), sugar and tea.
I would send a company at a time, provided with pails, to fetch their
meals.

On the morning of May 26 all the recruits gathered in the grounds
of the Institute. I had them placed in rows, so as to arrange them
according to their height, and divided the whole body into two
battalions of approximately one thousand each. Each battalion was
divided into four companies, and each company subdivided into four
platoons. There was a man instructor in command of every platoon, and
in addition there was an officer in command of every company, so that
altogether I had to increase the number of men instructors to forty.

I addressed the women again, informing them that from the moment that
they entered upon their duties they were no longer women, but soldiers.
I told them that they would not be allowed to leave the grounds, and
that only between six and eight in the evening would they be permitted
to receive relatives and friends. From among the more intelligent
recruits--and there were many university graduates in the ranks--I
selected a number for promotion to platoon and company officers, their
duties being limited to the domestic supervision of the troop, since
the men commanders were purely instructors, returning to their barracks
at the end of the day’s work.

Next I marched the recruits to four barbers’ shops, where from five
in the morning to twelve at noon a number of barbers cut short the
hair of one woman after another. Crowds outside the shops watched this
unaccustomed proceeding, greeting with jeers each woman as she emerged,
with hair close cropped and perhaps with an aching heart, from the
barber’s saloon.

The same afternoon my soldiers received their first lessons in the
large garden. A recruit was detailed to stand guard at the gate and
not to admit anybody without the permission of the officer in charge.
The watch was changed every two hours. A high fence surrounded the
grounds, and the drilling went on without interference. Giggling was
strictly forbidden, and I kept a sharp watch over the women. I had
about thirty of them dismissed without ceremony the first day. Some
were expelled for too much laughing, others for frivolities. Several of
them threw themselves at my feet, begging for mercy. However, I made up
my mind that without severity I might just as well give up my project
at the beginning. If my word was to carry weight, it must be final and
unalterable, I decided. How could one otherwise expect to manage two
thousand women? As soon as one of them disobeyed an order I quickly
removed her uniform and sent her away. In this work it was quality and
not quantity that counted, and I determined if necessary to dismiss
without scruple several hundreds of the recruits.

We received five hundred rifles for training purposes, sufficient only
for a quarter of the force. This necessitated the elaboration of a
method whereby the supply of rifles could be made use of by the entire
body. It was thought well that the members of the Battalion of Death
should be distinguished by special insignia. We, therefore, devised new
epaulets: white, with a red and black stripe. A red and black arrowhead
was to be attached to the right arm. I ordered two thousand such
insignia.

When evening came and the hour for going to bed arrived, the women
ignored the order to turn in for the night at ten o’clock and continued
chatting and laughing. I reproved the officer in charge, threatening
to place her at attention for six hours in the event of the soldiers
keeping awake after ten. Fifty of the women I punished forthwith by
ordering them to remain at attention for two hours. To the rest I said:

“Every one of you to bed this instant! I want you to be so quiet that I
could hear a fly buzz. To-morrow you will be up at five o’clock.”

I spent a sleepless night. There were many things to think about and
many difficulties to overcome.

At five only the officer in charge was up. Not a soul stirred in the
barrack. The officer reported to me that she had twice ordered the
women to get up, but none of them moved. I came out and in a voice of
thunder ordered:

“Vstavai!”[3]

[3] Get up.

Frightened and sleepy, my recruits left their beds. As soon as they had
finished dressing and washing there was a summons to prayer. I made
praying a daily duty. Breakfast followed, consisting of tea and bread.

At eight I had issued an order that the companies should all be formed
into ranks ready for review in fifteen minutes. I came out, passed each
company, greeting it. The company would answer in a chorus:

“Good health to you, Commander.”

Training was resumed, and I continued the combing-out process. As
soon as I observed a girl making eyes at an instructor, behaving
frivolously, and generally neglecting her work, I quickly ordered
her to take off her uniform and go home. In this manner I weeded out
about fifty on the second day. I could not insist too strongly on the
burden of responsibility I carried. I constantly appealed to the women
for the utmost seriousness in facing the task that lay before us. The
Battalion must either be a success or I must become the laughing-stock
of the country, at the same time bringing disgrace upon those who
had supported my idea. I admitted no new applicants, because rapid
completion of the course of training so as to be able to dispatch the
Battalion to the front was of the greatest importance.

For several days the drilling went on, and the women mastered the
rudiments of a soldier’s training. On several occasions I resorted to
slapping as punishment for misbehaviour.

One day the sentry reported to the officer in charge that two women,
one a famous Englishwoman, wanted to see me. I ordered the Battalion to
remain at attention while I received the two callers, who were Emmeline
Pankhurst and Princess Kikuatova, the latter of whom I knew.

Mrs. Pankhurst was introduced to me, and I ordered the Battalion
to salute “the eminent visitor who had done much for women and her
country.” Mrs. Pankhurst became a frequent visitor of the Battalion,
watching it with deep interest as it grew into a well-disciplined
military unit. We became very much attached to each other. Mrs.
Pankhurst invited me to a dinner at the Astoria, the leading hotel in
Petrograd, at which Kerensky and the various Allied representatives in
the capital were to be present.

Meanwhile, the Battalion was making rapid progress. At first we
suffered little annoyance. The Bolshevik agitators did not take the
project seriously, expecting it to come to a speedy end. At the
beginning I received only about thirty threatening letters. Gradually,
however, it became known that I maintained the strictest discipline,
commanding without a committee; and the propagandists began to regard
me as a danger, and sought a means for the frustration of my scheme.

On the evening appointed for the dinner I went to the Astoria. There
Kerensky was very cordial to me. He told me that the Bolsheviks were
preparing a demonstration against the Provisional Government and
that at first the Petrograd garrison had consented to organize a
demonstration in favour of the Government. Later, however, the garrison
had decided not to march. The War Minister then asked me if I would
march with the Battalion in support of the Provisional Government.

I gladly accepted the invitation. Kerensky told me that the Women’s
Battalion had already exerted a beneficial influence, that several
bodies of troops had expressed a willingness to leave for the front,
that many of the wounded had organized themselves for the purpose of
going to the fighting line, declaring that if women could fight, then
they--the cripples--would do so, too. Finally he expressed his belief
that the announcement of the marching of the Battalion of Death would
stimulate the garrison to follow suit.

It was a pleasant evening that I spent at the Astoria. Upon leaving,
an acquaintance who was going in the same direction offered to drive me
to the Institute. I accepted the invitation, alighting, however, at a
little distance from headquarters, as I did not wish him to drive out
of his way. It was about eleven o’clock when I approached the temporary
barrack. There was a small crowd at the gate, about thirty-five men,
of all descriptions, soldiers, roughs, vagrants, and even some decent
looking fellows.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?” I questioned sharply.

“Commander,” cried the sentry, “they are waiting for you. They have
been here more than an hour; they broke through the gate and have been
searching the grounds and the house for you. When they became convinced
that you were away they decided to wait here for your return.”

“Well, what do you want?” I demanded of the group as they surrounded me.

“What do we want, eh? We want you to disband the Battalion. We have had
enough of this discipline. Enough blood has been shed. We don’t want
any more armies and militarism. You are only creating new troubles for
the common people. Disband your Battalion and we will leave you alone.”

“I will not disband!” was my answer.

Several of them pulled out revolvers and threatened to kill me. The
sentry raised an alarm and all the women appeared at the windows, many
of them with their rifles ready.

“Listen,” a couple of them argued again, “you are of the people and we
only want the weal of the common man. We want peace, not war. And you
are inciting to war again. We have had enough war, too much war. We now
understand the uselessness of war. Surely you don’t like to see the
poor people slaughtered for the sake of the few rich. Come, join our
side, and let us all work for peace.”

“You are scoundrels!” I shouted with all my strength. “You are idiots!
I myself am for peace, but we shall never have peace till we have
driven the Germans out of Russia. They will make slaves of us and ruin
our country and our freedom. You are traitors!”

Suddenly I was kicked violently in the back. Some one dealt me a second
blow from the side.

“Fire!” I shouted to my girls at the windows as I was knocked down,
mindful that I had instructed them always to shoot in the air first as
a warning.

Several hundred rifles rang out in a volley. My assailants quickly
dispersed, and I was safe. However, they returned during the night and
stoned the windows, breaking every pane of glass fronting the street.




                              CHAPTER XII

                    MY FIGHT AGAINST COMMITTEE RULE


It was after midnight when I entered the barracks. The officer in
charge reported to me the events of the evening. It appeared that at
first one of the group, a Bolshevik agitator, had made his way inside
by telling the sentry that he had been sent by me for something. As
soon as he was admitted he got the women together and began a speech,
appealing to them to form a committee and govern themselves, in
accordance with the new spirit. He scoffed at them for submitting to
the system of discipline which I had established, calling it Tsaristic,
and expressing his compassion for the poor girls whom I had punished.
Declaiming against the war, appealing for peace at any price, he urged
my recruits to act as free citizens, depose their reactionary chief and
elect a new one in democratic fashion.

The result of the address was a split in the ranks of my Battalion.
More than half of them approved of the speaker, crying: “We are free.
This is not the old régime. We want to be independent. We want to
exercise our own rights.” And they seceded from the troop, and finding
themselves in the majority after taking votes, elected a committee.

I was deeply agitated, and in spite of the late hour ordered the girls
to form into ranks. As soon as this was accomplished I addressed the
following command to the body:

“Those who want a committee move over to the right. Those who are
against it go to, the left.”

The majority went to the right. Only about three hundred stood at the
left.

“Now those of you who are willing to be treated by me as you have been
treated hitherto, to receive punishment when necessary, to maintain the
severest possible discipline in the Battalion and to be ruled without a
committee, say yes,” I exclaimed.

The group of three hundred on the left shouted in a chorus: “Yes, we
consent! We are willing, Commander.”

Turning to the silent crowd on the right I said:

“Why did you join? I told you beforehand that it would be hard. Did
you not sign pledges to obey? I want action, not phrases. Committees
paralyse action by a flood of words.”

“We are not slaves; we are free women,” many of the mutineers shouted.
“This is not the old régime. We want more courteous treatment, more
liberty. We want to govern our own affairs like the rest of the army.”

“Ah, you foolish women!” I answered with a sorrowing heart. “I did
not organize this Battalion to be like the rest of the army. We were
to serve as an example, and not merely to add a few _babas_ to the
ineffectual millions of soldiers now swarming over Russia. We were
to strike out a new path and not imitate the demoralized army. Had I
known what stuff you were made of, I would not have had anything to do
with you. Consider, we were to lead in a general attack. Now, suppose
we had a committee and the moment for the offensive arrived. Then the
committee suddenly decides not to advance and our whole scheme is
brought to nothing.”

“Certainly,” the rebels shouted. “We should want to decide for
ourselves whether to attack or not.”

“Well,” I said, turning to them in disgust, “you are not worthy of the
uniforms you are wearing. This uniform stands for noble sacrifice, for
unselfish patriotism, for purity and honour and loyalty. Every one of
you is a disgrace to the uniform. Take it off and leave this place.”

My order was met by an outburst of scoffing and defiance.

“We are in the majority. We refuse to obey your orders. We no longer
recognize your authority. We will elect a new chief!”

I was deeply hurt, but I controlled myself so as not to act rashly. I
resolved to make another appeal to them, and said:

“You will elect no new chief. But if you want to go, go quietly. Make
no scandal, for the sake of womanhood. If all this becomes public
it will injure and humiliate all of us. Men will say that women are
unfit for serious work, that they do not know how to carry through an
enterprise and that they cannot help quarrelling. We shall become a
byword all over the world and your act will be an eternal blot on our
sex.”

“But why are you so cruel and harsh to us?” the rebels began to argue
again. “Why do you treat us as if we were in a prison, allowing us no
holidays, giving us no opportunity to go for walks, always shouting and
ordering us about? You want to make us slaves.”

“I told you at the beginning that I should be strict, that I should
shout and punish. As to not letting you out of the grounds, you know
that I do it because I cannot be sure of your conduct outside. I wanted
this house to be a holy place. I prayed to God to hallow us all with
His chastity. I wished you to go to the front as saintly women, hoping
that the enemy’s bullets would not touch you.”

All night an argument raged between the three hundred loyal women and
the mutineers. I retired, leaving instructions with the officers to let
the rebels do as they pleased, even to leave in their uniforms. I was
filled with despair as I reflected on the outcome of my enterprise. My
soul ached for all women as I thought of the disgraceful conduct of
the girls who had pledged their honour on behalf of an idea and then
deserted the banner they had themselves raised.

In the morning I was informed that the rebels had elected a deputation
to go to General Polovtzev, Commander of the Military District, to
make complaint against me, and that they had all departed in uniform.
The same day I was called to report to General Polovtzev on the whole
matter. The General advised me to meet some of the demands of the
rebels and come to terms.

“The whole army is now being run by committees of soldiers. You alone
cannot preserve the old system. Let your girls form a committee so that
a scandal will be averted and your great work thereby saved,” General
Polovtzev tried to persuade me. But I would not be persuaded.

He then went on to tell me that the soldiers of the First and Tenth
Armies, having heard of my work, had bought for me two icons, one of
the Holy Mother and the other of Saint George, both of silver, framed
in gold. They had telegraphed instructions to embroider two standards
with appropriate inscriptions. Kerensky, the General told me, had
thought of making the presentation a solemn occasion and had had my
record in the army fully investigated, after which he had decided to
buy a gold cross to present to me at the same time.

“Now what will become of this ceremony if you do not pacify your
women?” the General asked.

I was, naturally, flattered by what Polovtzev told me, but I considered
that duty came first and that I must not give in for the sake of the
honours promised to me, in spite of the assurances he gave me that
he would order the women to ask my pardon if I consented to form a
committee.

“I would not keep the rebels in the Battalion for anything,” I said.
“Once having been insulted by them, I shall always consider them
prejudicial to the organization. They would sap my strength here and
would disgrace me at the front. The purpose of the Battalion was to
set an example to the demoralized men. Give them a committee, and all
is lost. I shall have the same state of things as in the army. The
disintegration there is a sufficient reason for my determination not to
introduce the new system.”

“Yes, I agree with you that the committees are a curse,” confided the
General. “But what is to be done?”

“I know this much, that I, for one, will have nothing to do with
committees,” I declared emphatically.

The General jumped to his feet, struck the table with his fist and
thundered:

“And I order you to form a committee!”

I jumped up as well, I also struck the table and declared loudly:

“I will not! I started this work on condition that I should be allowed
to run the Battalion as I saw fit and without any committees.”

“Then there is nothing left but to disband your Battalion!” proclaimed
General Polovtzev.

“This very minute if you wish!” I replied.

I drove to the Institute. Knowing that the women had been ordered to
return I placed ten sentries armed with rifles at the gates with
instructions not to allow any one to enter, and to shoot in case of
trouble. Many of the rebels came but on being threatened with the
rifles they retired. They went back to Polovtzev who, for the moment at
least, could do nothing for them. He reported the matter to Kerensky
with a recommendation that some action should be taken to control me.

I proceeded to reorganize my Battalion. There was only a remnant of
three hundred left of it, but it was a loyal remnant, and I was not
upset by the diminution in numbers. Most of the remaining women were
peasants like myself, illiterate but very devoted to Mother Russia. All
of them but one were under thirty-five years of age. The exception was
Orlova, who was forty, but of an unusually powerful constitution. We
resumed the drilling with greater zeal than ever.

A day or two later Kerensky’s adjutant telephoned. He wanted me to
come to the Winter Palace to see the War Minister. The ante-chamber
was again crowded with many people and I was greeted by several
acquaintances. At the appointed time I was shown into Kerensky’s study.

Kerensky was pacing the room vigorously as I entered. His forehead was
knit in a heavy frown.

“Good morning, Minister,” I greeted him.

“Good morning,” he answered coldly, without extending his hand.

“Are you a soldier?” he asked abruptly.

“Yes,” I replied.

“Then why don’t you obey your superiors?”

“Because I am in the right in this case. The orders are against the
interests of my country and in violation of my charter.”

“You must obey!” Kerensky raised his voice to a high pitch, and
his face was flushed with anger. “I order you to form a committee
to-morrow, to treat the women courteously, and to cease punishing them!
Otherwise I will get rid of you!” The War Minister banged his fist on
the table to give emphasis to his words.

But I felt that I was right, so this fit of temper did not frighten me,
but, on the contrary, strengthened my determination.

“No!” I shouted, bringing down my fist, too, “no, I am not going to
form any committees. I started out with the understanding that there
would be the strictest discipline in the Battalion. You can disband it
now. A soldier I was and a soldier I shall remain. I shall go home,
retire to a village and settle there in peace.” And I ran out, slamming
the door angrily in the face of the astonished Minister.

In high agitation I returned to the Institute, and having assembled the
women, I addressed them as follows:

“I am going home to-morrow. The Battalion will be disbanded, because I
would not consent to form a committee. You all know that I had warned
all the applicants previously that I should be a severe disciplinarian.
I wanted to make this Battalion an example that would shine for ever
in the history of our country. I hoped to show that where men failed
women could succeed. I dared to dream that women would inspire men to
great deeds and save our unhappy land. But my hopes are now shattered.
The majority of the women who responded to my appeal proved themselves
weak and cowardly, and they have wrecked my scheme for the salvation
of suffering Russia. I have just come back from Kerensky. He told me
that I must form a committee, but I refused. Have you any idea what a
committee would mean?”

“No, no, Commander,” the women answered.

“A committee,” I explained, “means nothing but talk, talk, talk. The
committees have destroyed the army and the country. This is war, and in
war there should be not talk, but action. I can’t submit to the order
to introduce in this Battalion the very system that has shattered our
glorious army. So I am going home.... Yes, I leave to-morrow....”

The women threw themselves at my feet in tears. They wept and begged
me to remain with them. “We love you. We will stand by you to the
last,” they cried. “You can punish us, beat us if you will. We know
and appreciate your motives. You want to help Russia and we want you
to make use of us. You can treat us as you please, you can kill us,
but don’t leave us. We will go anywhere for you. We will go to General
Polovtzev and tear him to pieces!”

They embraced my feet, hugged me, kissed me, professed their affection
and loyalty. I was profoundly stirred. My heart was filled with
gratitude and love for these brave friends. They seemed like children
to me, like my children, and I felt like a tender mother. If I had
offended fifteen hundred unworthy members, I had won the deep devotion
of these three hundred noble souls. They had tasted the rigours of
military life but did not flinch. The others were cowards, masquerading
their worthlessness under the cover of “democracy.” These sought no
excuses. The prospect of complete self-sacrifice did not daunt them.
The thought of three hundred Russian women, courageous of heart, pure
of soul, ready for self-sacrifice, was one to comfort my aching heart.

“I wish that I could, but it is impossible for me to remain,” I replied
to the pleadings of my women. “The orders from those in authority
are to form a committee or to disband the Battalion. Since I flatly
refused to do the former there remains nothing for me but to go home.
Good-bye for the present: I am going to the Duchess of Lichtenberg for
the afternoon.”

The Duchess was one of the circle of society women who had taken a
deep interest in my work. She was a very simple and lovable soul, and
I needed some one to whom I could pour out my heart. I was always sure
that the Duchess would understand and be helpful.

“What ails you, Maria?” were the words with which she greeted me as
soon as I appeared on the threshold of her house.

I could not restrain my sobs, and told her haltingly of the mutiny and
the consequent collapse of the Battalion. It weighed heavily on me and
I felt myself crushed by the disaster. She was shocked at the news and
cried with me. The beautiful dream we had cherished was shattered. It
was indeed a melancholy evening. I stayed with her for dinner.

About eight o’clock one of my women called and asked to see me and she
was shown in. She had been sent from the barracks as a messenger to
report to me the results of a visit they had paid to General Polovtzev.
It appeared that my three hundred loyalists had armed themselves with
their rifles and had gone to the Commander of the Military District,
demanding that he should come out to see them. They were not in a mood
for trifling and meant business. The General came out.

“What have you done to our Commander?” they demanded sternly.

“I haven’t done anything to her,” Polovtzev answered, amazed at this
threatening demonstration.

“We want back our Commander!” my women shouted. “We want her back
immediately. She is a saintly woman, her heart is bleeding for unhappy
Russia. We will have nothing to do with those bad, unruly women, and
we will not disband the Battalion. We are the Battalion. We want our
Commander. We want strict discipline in accordance with our pledges to
her, and we will not form any committees.”

It was reported to me that General Polovtzev was actually frightened,
surrounded by the throng of angry and threatening women. He sent
them back to the Institute, promising that he would not disband them
and that he would come to the barracks at nine o’clock the following
morning. I went with the messenger to the quarters and found everything
in splendid order. The girls seemed anxious to comfort their leader and
so kept calm and moved about noiselessly.

In the morning everything went as usual, the rising hour, prayers,
breakfast and drilling. At nine I was informed that General Polovtzev,
the adjutant of Kerensky, Captain Dementiev, and several of the women
who took an interest in the Battalion, were at the gate. I quickly
formed the Battalion. The General greeted us and we saluted. He then
shook hands with me and gave orders that the women should be sent into
the garden, for he wanted to talk things over with me.

I asked myself, as I led the group of distinguished visitors into the
house, what it all meant. “If it means that they have come to persuade
me to form a committee,” I thought, “then it will be very hard for me,
but I shall resist all persuasion.”

My anticipation proved correct. The General had brought all these
patronesses of mine to help him overcome my obstinacy. He immediately
launched into an exposition of the necessity for complying with general
regulations and introducing the committee system in the Battalion. He
argued along the already familiar lines, but I would not yield. He
gradually became angry.

“Are you a soldier?” he repeated the question put to me by Kerensky.

“Yes, General!”

“Then why don’t you obey orders?”

“Because they are against the interests of the country. The committees
are a plague. They have destroyed our army,” I answered.

“But it is the law of the country,” he declared.

“Yes, and it is a ruinous law, designed to break up the front in time
of war.”

“Now I ask you to do it as a matter of form,” he argued in a different
tone altogether, perhaps himself realizing the truth of my words. “All
the army committees are beginning to make inquiries about you. ‘Who is
this Botchkareva?’ they ask, ‘and why is she allowed to command without
a committee?’ Do it only for the sake of form. Your girls are so
devoted to you that a committee elected by them would never seriously
bother you. At the same time it would save trouble.”

Then my lady-visitors surrounded me and begged and coaxed me to give
way. Some of them wept, others embraced me, all of them exasperated my
nerves. Nothing was more calculated to enrage me than this wheedling. I
grew impatient and completely lost self-control, abandoning myself to
hysteria.

“You are rascals, all of you! You want to destroy the country. Get out
of here!” I shrieked wildly.

“Be silent! How dare you shout like that? I am a General. I will kill
you!” Polovtzev thundered at me, trembling with rage.

“All right, you can kill me! Kill me!” I cried out, tearing my coat
open and pointing to my chest. “Kill me!”

The General then threw up his hands, muttering angrily under his
breath: “What the devil! This is a demon, not a woman! There is nothing
to be done with her,” and with his mixed following he withdrew.

The following morning a telegram came from General Polovtzev, informing
me that I should be allowed to continue my work without a committee!

Thus ended the dispute caused by the mutiny in the Battalion, which had
nearly wrecked the entire undertaking. It was a hard fight that I had
made but, convinced of my right, there was no question of retreating
for me.

Events have completely justified my conviction. The Russian Army,
once the most colossal military machine in the world, was wrecked in
a few months by the committee system. Coming from the trenches, where
I had learned at first hand what a curse the committees were proving,
I realized early their fatal significance. To me it has always been
clear that a committee meant ceaseless speech-making. That was the
outstanding factor about it to me. I considered no other aspect of it.
I knew that the Germans worked all day while our men talked, and in
war, I always realized that it was action that counted and conquered.




                             CHAPTER XIII

                      THE BATTALION AT THE FRONT


The same morning on which the telegram came from General Polovtzev
there also arrived a banner, with an inscription that read something
like this:

“Long live the Provisional Government! Let Those Who Can, Advance!
Forward, Brave Women! To the Defence of the Bleeding Motherland!”

We were to march with this banner in the demonstration, that had been
organized in opposition to the Bolshevik demonstration fixed for the
same day. The Invalids were to march in the same procession. I talked
matters over with their chief when we met at Morskaya.

The air was charged with alarming rumours. The Captain of the Invalids
placed fifty revolvers at my disposal. I distributed them among the
instructors and my other officers, reserving a pair for myself.

The band of the Volynski regiment headed the Battalion of Death, as
half the soldiers of that regiment had refused to march against the
Bolsheviks, having already been contaminated with Bolshevist ideas,
although it was only June.

Mars Field, our destination, was about five versts from our barracks.
The whole route was lined with enormous crowds which cheered us and
the Invalids, of whom there were about five hundred. Many women on the
pavements wept, grieving for the girls whom I was leading into what
seemed a conflict with the Bolsheviks. Everybody said: “Something is
going to happen to-day.”

As we approached the Mars Field, where the opposing demonstration was
held, I ordered my soldiers to sit down and rest for fifteen minutes.

“Form ranks!” I ordered at the end of that time. We were all more or
less nervous, as if on the eve of an offensive. I addressed a few words
to the Battalion, instructing them to support me to the end, not to
insult anybody, not to run away at the least provocation, in order to
avoid a panic. They all pledged themselves to fulfil my instructions.

Before resuming the march the Captain of the Invalids, several of his
subordinate officers, and all my instructors came forward and asked to
march in the front row with me. I objected, but they insisted, and I
finally had to give way, in spite of my desire to show the Bolsheviks
that I was not afraid.

The crowds on the Mars Field were indeed enormous. A long procession,
with Bolshevist banners, flowed into the great square. We stopped
within fifty feet of a Bolshevist cart and were met promptly by a hail
of jokes and curses. There were jeers at the expense of the Provisional
Government and shouts of: “Long live the revolutionary democracy! Down
with the war!”

Some of the women could not suppress their indignation and began to
answer back, provoking heated argument.

“When you cry, ‘Down with the war!’ you are helping to destroy Free
Russia,” I declared, stepping forward and addressing my turbulent
neighbours. “We must beat the Germans first and then there will be no
war.”

“Kill her! Kill her!” several voices threatened.

Greatly excited, I rushed a few steps nearer to the crowd. My fingers
gripped the two pistols, but in all the tumult that followed, the idea
was fixed in my mind that I must not shoot at my own people, common
workers and peasants.

“Wake up, you deluded sons of Russia! Think what you are doing! You
are destroying the Motherland! Scoundrels!” I concluded as their jeers
continued.

My instructors tried to hold me back as the throng swarmed round me,
but I tore myself out of their arms and plunged into the thick of it. I
worked myself up to such a state of frenzy that I did not cease talking
even when a volley of shots was sent into our midst. Then my officers
ordered the Battalion to fire. There followed a terrible scuffle.

Two of my instructors were killed, one while defending me. Two others
were wounded. Ten of my women were also wounded. Many bullets grazed
me, but I escaped till struck unconscious by a blow on the head with
an iron bar, from behind: Many of the onlookers were drawn into the
scrimmage and the result was a panic.

I recovered consciousness in the evening. I was in my own bed with a
physician beside it. He told me that although I had lost a good deal of
blood my wound was not serious, and that I should be able to resume my
duties soon.

Late in the evening the officer in charge reported that Michael
Rodzianko had come to see me. The physician went out to meet him and I
heard the two conversing in the room next to mine. Rodzianko’s first
question was whether I had been killed. It appeared that rumours were
being spread in the town that I had been struck dead on the Mars Field.
The doctor’s account of my condition apparently came as a joyful relief
to the President of the Duma.

He then came in and smilingly approached my bed and kissed me.

“My little heroine, I am very glad that you escaped serious injury.
There were many alarming reports about you. It was a brave act to march
straight into the midst of the Bolsheviks. Nevertheless, it was foolish
of you and the wounded men to oppose such tremendous odds. I have heard
of your victory in the fight against the introduction of the committee
system in the Battalion. Well done! I wanted to call and congratulate
you earlier, but I have been very busy.”

I sat up in bed to show my visitor that I was quite well. He told me of
the appointment of General Kornilov to the command of the south-western
front, and of a luncheon to be given the following day at the Winter
Palace, at which Kornilov would be present. Rodzianko inquired if I
should be strong enough to attend it, and the physician thought that
I probably should. Rodzianko then took his leave, assuring me of his
readiness to help me at all times and wishing me a speedy recovery.

The following morning I spent at the window, with my head bandaged,
watching my women drill. I felt strong enough to go with Rodzianko to
the luncheon. He called before noon and drove me to the Winter Palace.
In the reception-room there I was introduced by the President of the
Duma to General Kornilov.

Middle-aged, with a spare, manly, vigorous frame, a keen face, grey
moustache, Mongol eyes, semi-Mongol cheek-bones: this was Kornilov.
He spoke little, but every word he uttered rang out clearly. One felt
instinctively that here was a man of powerful character and of dogged
perseverance.

“I am very glad to meet you,” he said, shaking my hand. “I congratulate
you on your determined fight against the committees.”

“General,” I replied, “I was determined because my heart told me that I
was in the right.”

“Always follow the advice of your heart,” he said, “and you will do
right.”

At this moment Kerensky appeared. We rose to greet him. He shook hands
with Kornilov, Rodzianko and me. The War Minister was in a good humour
and smiled benignly at me.

“Here is an obstinate little person. I never saw her like,” Kerensky
said, pointing at me. “She took it into her head not to form a
committee, and nothing could break her will. One must do her justice.
She is a diehard, holding out all alone against us all. She foolishly
persisted in maintaining that no such law existed.”

“Well,” said Rodzianko in my defence, “she isn’t such a fool. She is
perhaps wiser than you and me together.”

We were then asked into the dining-room. Kerensky was seated at the
head of the table, I at its opposite end. Rodzianko was on Kerensky’s
right, Kornilov was on my right. There were also three Allied Generals
present. One was on my left, and the other two were between Kerensky
and Kornilov.

The conversation was carried on mostly in a foreign tongue and I
understood nothing. Besides, I had my troubles with the dishes and
table etiquette. I did not know how to deal with the unfamiliar dishes,
and blushed deeply several times, while I watched my neighbours from
the corners of my eyes.

Now and then I engaged in conversation with Kornilov. He approved
my decided views about the necessity of discipline in the army, and
declared that if discipline were not restored, then Russia was lost.
The burden of Kerensky’s conversation at the table was, that in spite
of the considerable disintegration that was thinning the ranks of the
army, it was not too late as yet. He was contemplating a trip to the
front, feeling certain that it would lead to our troops taking the
offensive.

Finally Kerensky got up, and the luncheon was over. He told me before
leaving that there would be a solemn presentation to me of the two
standards and icons sent by the soldiers from the front. I replied that
I did not deserve such honours, but hoped to be able to justify his
trust in me.

Kornilov parted from me cordially, inviting me to call on him at his
headquarters when I arrived at the front. Rodzianko then escorted me
home and asked me to come to see him before leaving for the front.

The time remaining before the date fixed by Kerensky for the dedication
of the Battalion’s battle flag was spent in intensive training and
rifle practice. The women were almost ready to go to the front and
awaited June 25 with impatience.

Finally that day arrived. The women were in high spirits. My heart
was filled with expectation. The Battalion arose early. Every soldier
had a new uniform. The rifles were spick and span. There was a
holiday-feeling in the air. We were all cheerful, though nervous under
the weight of responsibility which the day was to bring.

At nine in the morning two bands arrived at our gates. They were
followed by Captain Kuzmin, assistant Commander of the Petrograd
Military District, with instructions for the Battalion to be at the St.
Isaac’s Cathedral at ten o’clock in full military array. We started out
almost immediately, led by the two military bands.

The throng of people moving in the direction of the Cathedral was
enormous. The entire neighbourhood was lined up with units of the
garrison. There were troops of all kinds. There was even a body
of Cossacks, with flags on the points of their spears. A group of
distinguished citizens and officers stood on the steps leading to the
entrance of the church. It included Kerensky, Rodzianko, Miliukov,
Kornilov, Polovtzev and others. The Battalion saluted as we marched
into the huge building.

The officiating clergy were two bishops and twelve priests. The church
was filled to overflowing. A hush fell on the vast gathering as I was
asked to step forward and give my name. I was seized with fear, as if
in the presence of God Himself. The standard that was to be consecrated
was placed in my hand and two old battle flags were crossed over it,
hiding me almost completely in their folds. The officiating bishops
then addressed me, dwelling upon the unprecedented honour implied in
the dedication of an army standard for a woman.

It was not customary to inscribe the name of a Commander on the flag
of a military unit, he explained, but the name of Maria Botchkareva
was emblazoned on this standard, which, in case of my death, would be
returned to the Cathedral and never used by another Commander. As he
spoke and said the prayers, in the course of which he sprinkled me
three times with holy water, I prayed to the Lord with all my heart and
might. The ceremony lasted about an hour, after which two soldiers,
delegates from the First and Third armies presented to me two icons,
given by fellow-soldiers, with inscriptions on the cases, expressing
their trust in me as the woman who would lead Russia to honour and
renown.

I was humbled. I did not consider myself worthy of such honours. When
asked to receive the two icons I fell on my knees before them and
prayed for God’s guidance. How could I, an ignorant woman, justify the
hope and trust of so many brave and enlightened sons of my country?

General Kornilov, representing the army, then presented me with a
revolver and sword with handles of gold.

“You have deserved these gallant weapons, and you will not disgrace
them,” he said, and kissed me on the cheek.

I kissed the sword, and pledged myself never to disgrace the weapons
and to use them in the defence of my country.

Kerensky then pinned the epaulets of a Lieutenant on my shoulders,
promoting me to the rank of an officer. He, also, kissed me, and was
followed by some of the distinguished guests, who congratulated me
warmly.

The high officials departed and General Polovtzev took charge for
the rest of the day. I was too overcome to regain my self-possession
quickly. I was raised up by the hands of General Polovtzev and General
Anosov first. Then some officers of junior rank carried me. Next I
was raised above the crowd by some enthusiastic soldiers, and dragged
out of their hands by even more jubilant sailors. All the time I was
very uncomfortable, but the ovation continued and the cheers would not
subside. Women in the throng forced their way to me, kissing my feet
and blessing me. It was a patriotic throng, and love for Russia was the
dominant note. Orators mounted improvised platforms and talked of the
coming offensive and the Battalion of Death, finishing with a “Long
live Botchkareva!” The emotion of the soldiers at the moment was such
that they cried: “We will go with Botchkareva to the front.” Speakers
pointed to the women as heroes, calling upon every able-bodied man to
rise to the defence of Russia.

It was a wonderful day: a dream, not a day. Had my fancy come true?
Had this group of women already accomplished the object for which it
was organized? It seemed so that day. I felt that Russia’s manhood
was ready to follow the Battalion and strike the final blow for the
salvation of the country.

It was an illusion, and my disenchantment was not very long delayed.
But it was such a beautiful illusion that I gained enough strength
from it to work patiently for its renewal and realization. What those
thousands of Russian soldiers, assembled in the neighbourhood of the
St. Isaac’s Cathedral, felt on June 25, 1917, was the thrill that
comes from self-sacrifice for the truth, from unselfish devotion to
the Motherland, from lofty idealism. It convinced me that the millions
of Russian soldiers, scattered over their vast country, were amenable
to the word of truth, and instilled into me faith in the ultimate
restoration of my country.

After the consecration of the Battalion’s standard, there remained
less than two days before leaving for the front. These were spent in
preparations. We had to organize a supply unit of our own, as we could
not take with us the kitchen of the Guard Regiment that we had used.
Also, every member of the Battalion received complete war equipment.

On June 29 we left the grounds of the Institute and marched to the
Kazan Cathedral, on the way to the railway station. The bishops
addressed us, dwelling upon the significance of the moment and blessing
us. Again large crowds followed us into the Cathedral and to the
station. When we started out from the church a group of Bolsheviks
blocked our way. The women immediately began to load their rifles. I
ordered them to stop this, put my sword in the scabbard, and marched
forward to the Bolsheviks.

“Why do you block the way? You scoff at us women, claiming that we
can’t do anything. Then, why did you come here to interfere with our
going? It is a sign that you are afraid of us,” I said to them. They
dispersed, jeering.

Accompanied by the hearty cheers of the people who lined the streets,
we marched to the station. Our train consisted of twelve vans and one
second-class passenger coach. We boarded the train under orders to
proceed to Molodechno, the headquarters of the First Siberian Corps, to
which the Battalion was to be attached.

The journey was a triumphal procession. At every station we were hailed
by crowds of soldiers and civilians. There were cheers, demonstrations
and speeches. My women had strict orders not to leave the cars without
permission. Our meals were provided for us at certain stations, through
telegraphic orders, and we alighted for our meals at those places. At
one stopping-place, while I was resting, a demonstration took place in
our honour, and I was suddenly taken out of bed and carried out in view
of the crowd.

Thus we moved to the front, arriving at Molodechno. I was met there
by a group of about twenty officers and taken to dine with the Staff.
The Battalion was quartered in two barracks upon our arrival at Corps
Headquarters.

There were about a score of barracks in Molodechno. Almost half of
these were filled with deserters from the front, former police and
gendarmes who had been impressed into the army at the outbreak of the
Revolution, and had soon escaped from the ranks. There were also some
criminals and a number of Bolshevist agitators. In a word, they were
the riff-raff of that sector of the front.

They soon got word of the arrival of the Battalion, and while I was
being driven to dinner they crowded round my women and began to curse
and molest them. The officer in charge perceived with alarm the
growing insolence of these ruffians, and hurried to the Commandant of
the station to beg protection.

“But what can I do?” answered the Commandant helplessly. “I am
powerless. There are fifteen hundred of them, and there is nothing
to be done but to submit patiently to their derision and win their
goodwill by kindness.”

The death penalty had already been abolished in the army.

The officer in charge returned with empty hands. She found a few of the
rioters in the barracks, behaving offensively towards the women. Having
tried vainly to get rid of them by persuasion she telephoned to me. I
had barely seated myself at the dinner table when her summons reached
me. I hastened into a motor and drove to the barracks.

“What are you doing here?” I asked sharply, as I jumped from the car
and ran inside. “What do you want? Go out of here! I will talk to you
outside if you want anything.”

“Ha, ha, ha!” the men jeered. “Who are you? What sort of a _baba_ is
this?”

“I am the Commander.”

“The Commander, eh? Ha, ha, ha! Look at this Commander!” they scoffed.

“Now,” I spoke slowly and firmly, “you have no business here whatever.
You have got to go away. I will be at your service outside. If you want
anything you can tell me there. But you must get out of here!”

The men, there were only a score of them, went towards the door, still
jeering and muttering curses. I followed them. Immediately outside a
large crowd had collected, attracted by the noise. As I faced these
depraved men in soldiers’ uniforms my heart was pained at the sight of
them. A more ragged, tattered, demoralized lot of soldiers I had never
seen. Most of them had the faces of murderers. Others were mere boys,
corrupted by the Bolshevist propaganda.

A little while ago, in the old days of January, 1917, it would have
been sufficient to execute a couple of them to transform the fifteen
hundred into respectable and obedient human beings. Now, the mighty
Russian military organization, while engaged in a mortal combat with
an enemy of stupendous strength, had been rendered incapable of coping
with even such a small group of recalcitrants! This was my first
experience of the front after an interval of two months. But what a
great stage the disintegrating influences had advanced in this short
period of time! It was four months since the Revolution, and the front
was already seriously infected by the blight of disobedience.

“Why did you come here? What devil brought you here? You want to fight?
We want peace! We have had enough fighting!” was shouted at me from
every side.

“Yes, I want to fight. How can we have peace save by fighting the
Germans? I have had more experience of war than you, and I want peace
as much as any one here. If you want me to talk more to you and answer
any questions you care to ask me, come to-morrow. It is getting late
now. I shall be at your disposal to-morrow.”

The gang drifted away in groups, some still scoffing, others arguing.
I transferred the women from the second barrack into the first for
greater safety, and posted sentinels at every entrance. This cheered up
the women somewhat, but they were even more encouraged when they heard
me refuse an invitation to spend the night at Staff Headquarters. How
could I leave my women alone with these fifteen hundred ruffians in
the neighbourhood? So I resolved to sleep with them, under the same
roof.

Night came and my soldiers went to bed. Many of us must have wondered
that evening whether the deserters would heed my words or return during
the night and attack the barrack. It was not yet midnight when a party
of them came knocking at the windows and the thin wooden walls. They
cursed us all, and particularly me. They tried to enter through the
doors, but were met by fixed bayonets. When their scoffing proved
ineffective, they stoned the barrack, breaking every pane of glass and
bruising about fifteen of my women.

Still we made no complaint. If the Commandant confessed his
powerlessness to control them, what could we do? Besides, we were going
to the front to fight the Germans, not to engage in a battle with three
times our number of desperadoes.

The more patience we exercised the bolder grew the attacks of the men.
Some of them would suddenly thrust their hands through the shattered
window-panes and seize some of the women by their hair, causing them
to cry out with pain. Nobody slept. All were excited and on edge. The
crashing of the stones against the wooden walls would every now and
then shake the whole building. It required a lot of patience to endure
it all, but my orders were not to provoke a fight.

However, as the night wore on and the noises and jeering did not cease,
my blood began to boil, and I finally lost control of myself. Hastily
putting on my overcoat I ran out of the barrack. The day was just
breaking, an early July day. The band of scoundrels, about fifty in
all, stood still for an instant.

“You villains, you rogues! What are you doing?” shouted with all my
strength. “Didn’t you want a rest on the way to the trenches? Can’t you
let us alone, or have you no sense of shame? Perhaps some of the women
here are your sisters. And I see that some of you are old men. If you
want anything, come to see me. I am always ready to talk and argue and
answer questions. But leave the women alone, you shameless ruffians!”

My tirade was met by an outburst of laughter and jeers that incensed me
even more.

“You will go away this instant or kill me here!” I shrieked, flinging
myself forward. “You hear? Kill me!” I was trembling with rage. The
roughs were impressed by my tone and words. They left one by one, and
we settled down for a couple of hours of sleep.

In the morning General Valuyev, now Commander of the Tenth Army,
reviewed the Battalion. He was greatly pleased and expressed his
gratification to me at the perfect discipline and bearing of the unit.
Our own two kitchens then prepared dinner, after they had received a
supply of food and provender. There were twelve horses attached to the
Battalion, six drivers, eight cooks, two shoemakers. In addition to
these sixteen men, there were two military instructors accompanying us.
The men were always kept separate from the women.

After dinner the deserters began to assemble around our barracks. I had
promised to debate with them on the preceding day, and they now took me
at my word.

“Where are you taking your soldiers? To fight for the bourgeoisie? What
for? You claim to be a peasant woman, then why do you want to shed the
peoples’ blood for the rich exploiters?”

These and many similar questions were fired at me from many directions.

I stood up, folded my arms and eyed the crowd sternly. I must confess
that a tremor ran over me as my eyes passed from one rascal to
another. They were a desperate lot, looking more like beasts than human
beings. The dregs of the army, truly.

“Look at yourselves,” I began, “and think what has become of you! You,
who once advanced like heroes against the enemy’s devastating fire and
suffered like faithful sons of the Motherland in the defence of Russia,
lying for weeks in the muddy, vermin-infested trenches, and crawling
through No Man’s Land. Consider for a moment what you are now and what
you were a little while ago. Only last winter you were the pride of
the country and the world. Now you are the execration of the army and
the nation. Surely there are some among you who belonged to the Fifth
Siberian Corps, aren’t there?”

“Yes, yes.”

“Then you ought to remember me--Yashka--or have heard of me.”

“Yes, we do! We know you!” came from several parts of the crowd.

“Well, if you know me, you ought also to know that I waded in the mud
of the trenches together with you; that I slept on the same wet ground
as you or your brother; that I faced the same dangers, suffered the
same hunger, shared the same cabbage soup that you had. Why then do
you attack me? Why do you jeer at me? How and when have I earned your
contempt and derision?”

“When you were a common soldier,” answered a couple of voices, “you
were like one of us. But now, being an officer, you are under the
influence of the bourgeoisie.”

“Who made me an officer if not you? Didn’t your comrades, the common
soldiers of the First and Tenth Armies, send special delegates to
honour me and present icons and standards to me, thus raising me
to the grade of officer? I am of the people, blood of your blood, a
toiling peasant girl.”

“But we are tired of war. We want peace,” they complained, unable to
find fault with me personally.

“I want peace, too. But how can you have peace? Show me how?” I
insisted vigorously, observing that my words were soothing the temper
of the crowd considerably.

“Why, simply by leaving the front and going home. That’s how we can
have peace.”

“Leave the front!” I shouted, with all the force at my command. “What
will happen then? Tell me! Will you have peace? Never! The Germans will
just walk over our defences and crush the people and their freedom.
This is war. You are soldiers and you know what war is. You know that
all is fair in war. To leave the trenches! Why not hand Russia over
to the Kaiser! It’s the same thing, and you know it as well as I.
No, there is no other way to peace than through an offensive and the
defeat of the enemy. Conquer the Germans and there will be peace! Shoot
them, kill them, stab them, but do not fraternize with the foes of our
beloved Russia!”

“But they fraternize with us. They are tired of the war, too. They want
peace as much as we,” said a few men.

“They are deceiving you. They fraternize here and send soldiers to
fight our Allies.”

“What are the Allies to us if they do not want peace?” some argued.

“They do not want peace now because they know that the Germans are
treacherous. You and I know it, too. Haven’t the Germans asphyxiated
thousands of our brethren with their deadly gases? Haven’t we all
suffered from their base tricks? Aren’t they now occupying a large
part of our country? Let’s drive them out and have peace!”

There was silence. Nobody had anything to say. Greatly encouraged, I
resumed, just as a happy idea dawned upon me.

“Yes, let us drive them out of Russia. Suppose I were to take you along
to the front, to feed you well, to equip you with new uniforms and
boots, would you go with me to attack the treacherous enemy?”

“Yes, yes! We will go! You are our comrade. You are not a bourgeois
vampire! With you, we will go!” many voices rang from all sides.

“But if you go with me,” I said, “I shall keep you under the severest
discipline. There can be no army without discipline. I am a peasant
like you, and I would take your word of honour to remain faithful.
But should any one of you attempt to escape, I would have him shot
promptly.”

“We agree! We are willing to follow you! You are one of us! Hurrah for
Yashka! Hurrah for Botchkareva!” the crowd roared almost unanimously.

It was a soul-stirring scene. But an hour ago these tattered men acted
as if their hearts were deadened. Now they were beating warmly. A short
time ago they looked like the most degraded ruffians; now their faces
were lit with the fire of humanity. It seemed a miracle. But it was
not. Such is the soul of the Russian; at one moment it is hardened and
brutal, at another it is full of devotion and love.

I spoke to General Valuyev and begged permission to take the body of
deserters to the front, asking for equipment for them. The General
refused. He was afraid that they would demoralize the rest of the men.
I offered to be responsible for their conduct, but I could not bring
over the General to my point of view.

So I had to return with empty hands, but I did not disclose the truth
to the men. I told them that there was no equipment available and that
as soon as it arrived they would be dispatched to the Battalion’s
sector. Meanwhile, I invited them to escort us out of Molodechno in the
morning.

We started out, in full array, at ten the following day. Each of the
girls carried her full equipment, a burden of about sixty-five pounds.
There were twenty miles ahead of us to Corps Headquarters. The road was
open, fields alternating with woods stretching on both sides of it.

I had telegraphed to Headquarters ordering supper, expecting to arrive
there early in the evening. But clouds gathered overhead and showers
impeded our progress to such an extent that the women could scarcely
keep up their strength. Whenever we passed a village, it was a great
temptation to let them take a rest in it, but I knew that I should
never be able to rally them again that day if I once allowed them to
break the ranks. So I was compelled to keep the Battalion on the march
and to press on regardless of the condition of the road or the weather.

It was eleven at night when we arrived at Corps Headquarters and were
met by General Kostiayev, Chief of Staff, who invited us to go to
eat the meal prepared for us. The General in command would review us
to-morrow, he said. The girls were too tired to eat. They fell like
logs in the barn assigned to the Battalion and slept all night in their
clothes.

The Corps Headquarters were situated at Redki. We breakfasted in the
barracks, after which we proceeded to prepare for review by the General
in command. I had been invited to lunch at Staff Headquarters after
review.

It was then that I found that several of my girls were suffering from
the effects of the arduous march on the preceding day. Two of them,
Skridlova, my adjutant, the daughter of an Admiral who had commanded
the Black Sea Fleet, and Dubrovskaya, the daughter of a General, were
too ill to remain in the ranks and were sent to a hospital. I appointed
Princess Tatuyeva, who belonged to a famous Grusin family in Tiflis, to
be my adjutant. She was a brave and loyal girl, of high education and
spoke fluently three foreign languages.

At twelve I formed the Battalion for review. Knowing how much the
women had gone through the previous day, I relaxed my sternness for
the moment and joked with my soldiers, coaxing them to make an effort
to make a good impression on the General. The girls did their best to
pull themselves together and were ready to show the General what the
Battalion was worth. The Corps Commander arrived soon. He reviewed my
soldiers, gave them a thorough examination, resorting even to some
catch tests.

“Magnificent!” he said enthusiastically at the conclusion of the test,
congratulating me and shaking my hand, “I would not have believed it
possible for men, let alone women, to master the training in four weeks
so well. Why, we have had recruits here who had undergone three months’
drilling, and they could not compare with your girls.”

He then spoke a few words of praise to the women themselves, and my
soldiers were immensely pleased. I proceeded with the General and his
suite to Headquarters, where luncheon was awaiting us. He nearly kissed
me when he learned that there were no committees in my Battalion, so
genuine was his delight.

“Since the committees were instituted in the army, everything has
changed,” he said. “I love the soldiers and they always loved me. But
now all is changed. There is endless trouble. Every day, almost every
hour, there come some impossible demands from the ranks. The front has
lost almost all of its former strength. It is a farce, not war.”

We had not had time to begin the luncheon when a telegram arrived
from Molodechno, notifying the Staff of Kerensky’s arrival there for
luncheon and requesting the General’s and my attendance. Losing no
time, the General ordered his car and we drove to Molodechno at top
speed.

There were about twenty persons present at the luncheon at Army
Headquarters. Kerensky sat at the head of the table. The Commander of
my Corps was on my right and another General on the left. During the
meal the conversation was about conditions at the front and the state
of preparedness for a general offensive. I took practically no part in
the discussion. At the end of the meal, when all arose, Kerensky walked
up to the Commander of my Corps and delivered himself unexpectedly of
the following peremptory speech:

“You must see to it that a committee is formed immediately in the
Battalion of Death, and that she,” pointing at me, “ceases to punish
the women!”

I was thunderstruck. All the officers in the room strained their ears.
There was a tense moment. I felt my blood rush to my head like a flame.
I was furious.

With two violent jerks I tore off my epaulets and threw them into the
face of the War Minister.

“I refuse to serve under you!” I exclaimed. “To-day you are one way,
to-morrow, the opposite. You allowed me once to run the Battalion
without a committee. I shall not form any committees! I am going home.”

I flung these words at Kerensky, who had turned very red, before any
one in the room had recovered from the shock, ran out of the house,
threw myself into the Corps Commander’s motor and ordered his chauffeur
to drive to Redki instantly.

A friend of the Chief of Staff, Kostiayev, told me later that there was
a great commotion as soon as I left the room. Kerensky was furious at
first.

“Shoot her!” he ordered in a fury.

“Minister,” said General Valuyev, the Commander of the Tenth Army, in
my defence, “I have known Botchkareva for three years. She first tasted
war as a member of my Corps. She suffered more than any other soldier
at the front, because she suffered both as a woman and as a soldier.
She was always the first to volunteer for any enterprise, thus serving
as an example. She is a plain soldier and a word is a pledge to her. If
she had been promised the command of the Battalion without the aid of a
committee, she would never understand a violation of the pledge.”

The Commander of my Corps and other officers also spoke up for me.
Finally some remembered that Kerensky had abolished capital punishment.

“Capital punishment has been abolished, Minister,” they said. “If
Botchkareva is to be shot, then why not let us shoot some of those
fifteen hundred deserters who are raising the devil here?”

Kerensky then abandoned the thought of shooting me, but insisted before
departing from Molodechno that I should be tried and punished. The
trial never took place.

The Corps Commander was very agitated when he discovered that I had
disappeared with his car. He had to borrow one to get to Redki, and
although pleased in his heart with my outburst he decided to give me
a scolding and remind me of discipline. I was too excited and nervous
to do anything when I returned from Molodechno, and so lay down in
my barrack, trying to picture what would now become of the Battalion.
I knew I had committed a serious breach of discipline and reproached
myself for it.

I was called before the Commander late in the afternoon, and he
reprimanded me for my unmilitary conduct. The General’s rebuff was
severe. I acknowledged every point of it without argument, recognizing
that my behaviour was unpardonable.

The hour for dinner came, and I went to Headquarters. The scene at
the table was one of suppressed merriment. Everybody knew of what had
happened at Molodechno. The officers winked knowingly and exchanged
smiles. I was the hero of the secret rejoicing. Nobody dared to laugh
out loud, for the General at the head of the table had assumed a grave
expression, as if struggling not to sanction by an incautious smile the
clandestine mirth of the Staff over my treatment of Kerensky. Finally
the General could not preserve his gravity any longer and joined in the
laughter. The restraint was removed.

“Bravo, Botchkareva!” one of the men exclaimed.

“That’s the way to treat him,” said another.

“As if there weren’t enough committees in the army, he wants still
more!” spoke a third.

“He himself abolished capital punishment, and now he orders her to be
shot!” laughed a fourth.

The officers were plainly hostile toward Kerensky. Why? Because
they saw that Kerensky did not understand the temper of the Russian
soldier. His flying excursions to the front perhaps left Kerensky and
the world with the impression that the army was a living, powerful,
intelligent organism. The officers who were with the soldiers day
and night knew that the same crowd which had given an enthusiastic
welcome to Kerensky an hour before would accord a similar reception
to a Bolshevist or Anarchist agitator. Above all, it was Kerensky’s
development of the committee system in the army that had undermined his
reputation with officers.

After dinner I applied to the General for seven officers and twelve
men instructors to accompany the Battalion to the trenches. One of
the officers, a young Lieutenant named Leonid Grigorievitch Filippov,
was recommended to me for the post of adjutant in battle. Filippov
was known as a brave fellow, as he had escaped from a German prison
camp. I addressed to the group of instructors a warning to the effect
that if any of them were unable to consider my soldiers as men it
would be better for them not to join the Battalion, and thus avoid
unpleasantness in the future.

The Battalion was assigned to the 172nd Division, situated within four
miles of Redki, in the village of Beloye. We were met by the units in
reserve, who were drawn up to welcome us, with great enthusiasm.

It was a sunny day in midsummer. We spent little time at Division
Headquarters. After lunching we resumed our march, having been further
assigned to the 525th Kuriag-Daryiuski Regiment, about a mile from
Beloye and a little over a mile from the fighting line. We arrived
at Senki, the Regimental Headquarters, after sunset and were met
by a “shock battalion,” formed of volunteer soldiers for offensive
warfare. There were many such battalions scattered throughout the army,
comprising in their ranks the best elements of the Russian forces.

Two barns were placed at the disposal of the Battalion and one dug-out
for the officers. Another dug-out was occupied by the instructors and
members of the supply detachment. However, as the men in the place
began to manifest a certain amount of curiosity in regard to my women,
I decided to sleep in one barn and let Tatuyeva take charge of the
second. At night a crowd of soldiers surrounded the barns and would not
let us sleep. They were inoffensive. They made no threats. They were
simply curious, intensely curious.

“We merely want to see. It is something new,” they replied to the
remonstrances of the sentinel: “_babas_ in breeches! And soldiers, as
well! Isn’t it extraordinary enough to attract attention?”

In the end I had to go out and talk with the soldiers. I sat down and
argued it out. Didn’t they think it right for the women to want a rest
after a day of marching? Yes, they did. Wouldn’t they admit that rest
was necessary before taking the offensive? Yes, they would. Then why
not suppress their curiosity and give the exhausted women a chance to
gather new strength? The men agreed and dispersed.

The girls were in high spirits the following day. The Russian artillery
had got to work early and poured a stream of fire into the enemy
positions. Of course, that meant an offensive. The Commander of the
Regiment came out to review us and made a cordial speech to the
Battalion, calling me their mother and expressing his hope that the
girls would love me as such. The firing increased in violence as the
6th of July, 1917, was drawing to a close. The German artillery did not
remain silent long. Shells began to fall round about us.

The night was passed in the same barns at Semki. How many of the girls
slept, I do not know. Certainly most of them must have been awed in
the actual presence of War. The guns were booming incessantly, but my
brave little soldiers, whatever they felt in their hearts, behaved with
fortitude. Were not they going to lead in a general attack against
the foe that would set the entire Russian front ablaze? Were not
they sacrificing their lives for beloved Russia, who would surely
remember with pride this gallant group of three hundred women? Death
was dreadful. But a hundred times more dreadful was the ruin of Mother
Russia. Besides, their Commander would lead them over the top, and with
her they would go anywhere.

And what was the Commander thinking about? I had a vision. I saw
millions of Russian soldiers rise in an invincible advance after I and
my three hundred women had disappeared in No Man’s Land on the way to
the German trenches. Surely, the men would be shamed at the sight of
their sisters going into battle. Surely, the front would awake and
rush forward like one man, to be followed by the powerful armies of
the rear. No force on earth could withstand the irresistible onrush of
fourteen million Russian soldiers. Then there would be peace....




                              CHAPTER XIV

                  AN ERRAND FROM KERENSKY TO KORNILOV


In the dusk of July the 7th we made our last preparations before going
into the trenches. The Battalion was provided with a detachment of
eight machine guns and a crew to man them. I was also furnished with a
wagonload of small ammunition.

I addressed my girls, telling them that the whole regiment would take
part in an offensive the coming night.

“Don’t be cowards! Don’t be traitors! Remember that you volunteered to
set an example to the laggards of the army. I know that you are of the
stuff to win glory. The country is watching for you to set an example
for the entire front. Place your trust in God, and He will help us save
the Motherland.”

To the men who were standing by I spoke of the necessity of
co-operation. As Kerensky had just completed a tour of this section,
the soldiers were still under the influence of his passionate appeals
to defend the country and freedom. The men responded to my call,
promising to join us in the coming attack.

Darkness settled over the earth, broken now and then by the flare of
explosions. This was to be the night of nights. The artillery roared
louder than ever as we stealthily entered a communication trench and
filed singly into the front line. The rest of the regiment was pouring
in the same direction through other communication trenches. There were
casualties during the operation. Some soldiers were killed, and many
were wounded, among the latter being several of my girls.

The order from General Valuyev, Commander of the Tenth Army, was for
our whole corps to go over the top at 3 a.m., July 8th. The Battalion
occupied a section of the front trench, flanked on both sides by
other companies. I was at the extreme right of the line held by
the Battalion. At the extreme left was Captain Petrov, one of the
instructors. My adjutant, Lieutenant Filippov, was in the centre of
the line. Between him and myself two officers were stationed among
the girls at equal distances. Between him and Captain Petrov another
two officers occupied similar positions. We waited for the signal to
advance.

The night was passed in great tension. As the hour fixed for the
beginning of the attack approached, strange reports reached me. The
officers were uneasy. They noted a certain restlessness among the men
and began to wonder if they would advance after all.

The hour struck three. The Colonel gave the signal. But the men on my
right and to the left of Captain Petrov would not move. They replied to
the Colonel’s order with questions and expressions of doubt as to the
wisdom of advancing. The cowards!

“Why should we die?” asked some.

“What’s the use of advancing?” remarked others.

“Perhaps it would be better not to attack,” expressed the hesitation of
many more.

“Yes, let us see first if an offensive is necessary,” debated the
remaining companies.

The Colonel, the Company Commanders and some of the braver soldiers
tried to persuade the regiment to go over the top. Meanwhile, day
was breaking. Time did not wait. The other regiments of the corps
were also hesitating. The men, raised to a high pitch of courage by
Kerensky’s oratory, lost heart when the advance became imminent. My
Battalion was kept in the trench by the cowardly behaviour of the men
on both flanks. It was an intolerable situation, unthinkable, grotesque.

The sun crept out in the East, only to shine down upon the
extraordinary spectacle of an entire corps debating upon their
Commander’s order to advance. It was four o’clock. The debate still
continued heatedly. The sun rose higher. The morning mist had almost
vanished. The artillery fire was slackening. Still the debate
continued. It was five o’clock. The Germans were wondering what in the
world had become of the expected Russian offensive. All the spirit
accumulated in the Battalion during the night was waning, giving way
under the physical strain which we were enduring. And the soldiers were
still discussing the advisability of attacking!

Every second was precious. “If they would only decide in the
affirmative, even now it might not be too late to strike,” I thought.
But minutes grew into hours, and there was no sign of a decision. It
struck six, and then seven. The day was lost. Perhaps all was lost.
One’s blood boiled with indignation at the absurdity, the futility of
the whole thing. The weak-kneed hypocrites! They feigned concern as to
the advisability on general principles of starting an offensive, as if
they hadn’t talked for weeks about it to their hearts’ content. They
were nothing but cowards, concealing their fear in floods of idle talk.

Orders were given to the artillery to continue the bombardment. All day
the cannon boomed while the men argued. The shame, the humiliation of
it! These very men had given their words of honour to attack! Now fear
for the safety of their skins had taken possession of their minds and
souls. The hour of noon still found them in the midst of the debate!
There were meetings and speeches in the immediate rear. Nothing more
stupid, more empty of meaning could be imagined than the arguments
of the men. They were repeating in stumbling speech those old, vague
phrases that had been proved false again and again, to the complete
satisfaction of their own minds. And yet they lingered, drawn by their
faint souls towards doubt and vacillation.

The day declined. The men had arrived at no final resolution. Then,
about seventy-five officers, led by Lieutenant-Colonel Ivanov, came
to me to ask permission to enter the ranks of the Battalion for a
joint advance. They were followed by about three hundred of the most
intelligent and gallant soldiers in the regiment. Altogether, the
Battalion’s ranks had swollen to about a thousand. I offered the
command to Lieutenant-Colonel Ivanov as to a superior, but he declined.

Every officer was provided with a rifle. The line was so arranged
that men and women alternated, a girl being flanked by two men. The
officers, now numbering about a hundred, were stationed at equal
distances throughout the line.

We decided to advance in order to shame the men, having arrived at
the conclusion that they would not let us perish in No Man’s Land. We
all felt the gravity of the decision. We had nothing to justify our
belief that the men would not abandon us to our fate, except a feeling
that such a monstrosity could not happen. Besides, something had to
be done. An offensive had to be launched soon. The front was rapidly
deteriorating to a state of impotence.

Colonel Ivanov communicated to the Commander by telephone the decision
of the Battalion. It was a desperate gamble, and every one of us
realized the grimness of the moment. The men on our flanks were joking
and deriding us.

“Ha, ha! The women and officers will fight!” they jeered.

“They are pretending. Who ever saw officers go over the top like
soldiers, with rifles in hand?”

“Just watch those women run!” joked a fellow, amid a chorus of
merriment.

We clenched our teeth in fury but did not reply. Our hope was still in
these men. We clung to the belief that they would follow us over the
top and, therefore, avoided giving them cause for offence.

At last the signal was given. We crossed ourselves and, hugging our
rifles, leaped out of the trenches, every one of our lives dedicated to
“the country and freedom.” We moved forward under a devastating fire
from machine guns and artillery, my brave girls, encouraged by the
presence of men at their sides, marching steadily against the hail of
bullets.

Every moment brought death with it. There was but one thought in every
mind: “Will they follow?” Each fleeting instant seemed like an age that
lurid morning. Already several of us were struck down, and yet no one
came after us. We turned our heads every now and then, piercing the
darkness in vain for support. Many heads were raised above the trenches
in our rear. The laggards were wondering if we were in earnest. No,
they decided that it was all a trick. How could a bare thousand women
and officers attack after a two-days’ bombardment on a front of several
miles? It seemed incredible, impossible.

But, dauntless of heart and firm of step, we moved forward. Our losses
were increasing, but our line was unbroken. As we advanced further
and further into No Man’s Land, the shadows finally swallowing us
completely, with only the fire of explosions revealing our figures at
times to the eyes of our men in the rear, their hearts were touched.

Through the din and crash of the bombardment we suddenly caught the
sound of a great commotion in the rear. Was it a feeling of shame that
stirred them from their lethargy? Or was it the sight of this handful
of intrepid souls that aroused their spirit? Anyhow, they were roused
at last. Numbers had already climbed over the top and were running
forward with shouts, and in a few moments the front to the right and
left of us became a swaying mass of soldiers. First our regiment poured
out and then, on both sides, the contagion spread and unit after unit
joined in the advance, so that the entire corps was on the move.

We swept forward and overwhelmed the first German line, and then the
second. Our regiment alone captured two thousand prisoners. But there
was poison awaiting us in that second line of trenches. Vodka and beer
were in abundance. Half of our force got drunk forthwith, throwing
themselves ravenously on the alcohol. My girls did splendid work here,
destroying the stores of liquor at my orders. But for that, the whole
regiment would have been drunk. I rushed about appealing to the men to
stop drinking.

“Are you mad?” I pleaded. “We must take the third line yet, and then
the Ninth Corps will come to relieve us and keep up the push.”

I realized that the opportunity was too precious to be lost. “We must
take the third line and make a breach in their defences,” I thought,
“so as to turn this blow into a general offensive.”

But the men were succumbing one by one to the terrible curse. And
there were the wounded to be taken care of. Some of my girls were
killed outright, many were wounded. The latter almost all behaved
like Stoics. I can see, even now, the face of Klipatskaya, one of my
soldiers, lying in a pool of blood. I ran up to her and tried to help
her, but it was too late. She had twelve wounds, from bullets and
shrapnel. Smiling faintly her last smile, she said:

“My dear, it’s no matter.”

The Germans organized a counter-attack at this moment. It was a
critical time, but we met the shock of the attack with our bayonets.
As usual in such cases, the enemy turned and fled. We pursued them and
swept them out of their third line, driving them into the woods ahead
of us.

We had hardly occupied the enemy’s third line when orders came by
field telephone from the Commander to keep up the pursuit so as not
to allow the Germans to entrench themselves, with a promise that the
supporting corps would start out immediately. We cautiously sent some
patrols into the woods to find out the strength of the enemy. I led one
such scouting party, and was able to detect that the German force was
being slowly but steadily augmented. It was then decided that we should
immediately advance into the forest and occupy positions there till
reinforcements arrived enabling us to resume the advance.

It was early dawn. The Germans being in the thick of the woods had the
advantage of observing every movement we made, while we could not see
them at all. We were met by such a violent and effective fire that our
soldiers lost heart and took to their heels by the hundred, reducing
our force to about eight hundred, two hundred and fifty of whom were
those of my girls who had escaped death or injury.

Our situation rapidly became critical. The line running through the
forest was long. Our numerical strength was wholly inadequate for
it. Our flanks were unprotected. Our ammunition was running low.
Fortunately, we turned on the enemy several of his own abandoned
machine guns. We stripped the dead of rifles and bullets. And we
reported to the Commander that we had been deserted under fire by the
men and were in imminent danger of capture. The Commander begged us to
hold out till three o’clock when the Ninth Corps would come up to our
succour.

Had the Germans had any idea of the size of our force we should not
have remained there more than a few minutes. We dreaded every moment
that we should be outflanked and surrounded. Our line was stretched
out so that each soldier held a considerable number of feet, our force
altogether covering a distance of two miles. The Germans organized an
attack on the left flank. Aid was despatched from the right flank,
which was left almost without machine guns, and the attack was
repulsed. In this engagement Lieutenant-Colonel Ivanov was wounded.
There were many other wounded officers and men lying about. We could
not spare the hands necessary to carry them to the first-aid dressing
stations far away in our rear.

Three o’clock came, and the expected reinforcements were not yet in
sight. The Germans made an attack on the right flank. My adjutant,
Lieutenant Filippov, was now commanding there. As our line was curved,
he ordered the machine guns on the left flank to direct a slanting fire
at the advancing enemy. At the same time our artillery was instructed
to let down a barrage in the same section, and the attack was repulsed.

At my request the Commander sent out about a hundred stretcher-bearers
to collect the dead and wounded scattered between our former line and
the captured German third line. About fifty of my girls were dead and
more than a hundred wounded.

Meanwhile the sun had risen and time was passing. Our condition grew
desperate. We sent an urgent appeal for help to Headquarters. From the
other end of the wire came the appalling answer:

“The Ninth Corps has been holding a meeting. It arrived from the
reserve billets and went forward till it came to the trenches we had
held before the attack. There it stopped, wavered, and began to debate
whether to advance or not.”

We were struck by the news as if by some terrific blow. It was
crushing, unimaginable, unbelievable.

Here we were, a few hundred women, officers, men--all on the brink of
a precipice, in imminent danger of being surrounded and wiped out of
existence. And there, within a mile or two, were they, thousands of
them, with the fate of our lives, the fate of this whole movement,
nay, the fate, perhaps, of all Russia, in their hands. And they were
debating!

Where was justice? Where was brotherhood? Where was manhood and decency?

“How can you leave your comrades and those brave women to certain
destruction?” the Commander appealed to them. “Where is your sense of
honour and justice and comradeship?”

The officers begged and implored their men to go forward as our calls
for help grew more and more insistent. There was no response. The men
said they would defend their positions in case of a German attack, but
would not take part in any offensive.

It was in these desperate circumstances, as I was rushing about from
position to position, exposing myself to bullets in the hope that
I might be struck dead rather than see the collapse of the whole
enterprise, that I came across a couple hiding behind a trunk of a
tree. One of the pair was a girl belonging to the Battalion, the other
a soldier. They were making love!

This was even more overpowering than the deliberations of the Ninth
Corps, which were sentencing us to annihilation. I was almost out of
my senses. My mind failed to grasp that such a thing could be really
happening at a moment when we were trapped like rats at the enemy’s
mercy. My heart turned into a raging caldron. In an instant I flung
myself upon the couple.

I ran my bayonet through the girl. The man took to his heels before I
could strike him, and escaped.

There being no immediate prospect of a conclusion of the debate in the
Ninth Corps, the Commander ordered us to save ourselves by retreat.
The difficulty was to extricate ourselves without being detected by
the Germans. I ordered first one group to go back some distance and
stop, and then another and then a third group to do the same till we
reached almost the fringe of the forest. It was a slow and perilous
undertaking, full of anxious moments during the shiftings of the line,
but everything went smoothly and our hopes were raised.

Our line was drawn in, and we were preparing for the final retreat when
terrific shouts of “Hurrah!” suddenly rang out, almost simultaneously,
on both flanks. We were half surrounded! Another quarter of an hour and
the net would have completely surrounded us. There was no time to lose.
I ordered a helter-skelter retreat.

The German artillery increased in violence, and the enemy’s rifles
played havoc with us from both sides. I ran for all I was worth several
hundred feet, till knocked unconscious by the terrific concussion of
a shell that landed near me. My adjutant, Lieutenant Filippov, saw
me fall, picked me up and dashed through the devastating fire, the
German trench system, the open space that was No Man’s Land before the
offensive, and into the Russian trenches.

There the Ninth Corps was still debating. But it was already too late.
As the breathless survivors of the Battalion, bespattered with mud and
blood, made their way one by one into our trenches, it became obvious
that there was no use in any further deliberations. The offensive had
been all to no purpose. The Germans re-occupied, without opposition,
all the ground and trenches we had won at such terrible cost. There
were only two hundred women left in the ranks of my Battalion.

I regained consciousness at a hospital in the rear. I was suffering
from shell-shock. My hearing was affected and, while I could understand
what was said to me, I was unable to talk. I was sent to Petrograd and
was met at the station by a distinguished gathering, including many of
my patronesses and some distinguished army officers. Kerensky sent his
adjutant. General Vasilkovsky, successor to Polovtzev as Commander of
the Petrograd Military District, was also present. I was deluged with
flowers and kisses. But to all the congratulations I could make not a
sound in reply, lying motionless on the stretcher.

I was taken to a hospital and given a large, beautiful room. Kerensky
came to see me, kissed me on the forehead, and presented me with a
handsome bouquet. He made a little speech, apologizing for the trouble
he had given me in the controversy about introducing the committee
system in the Battalion, praising me for my bravery, and declaring that
I had set a wonderful example to the men all over the front. He invited
me to call on him as soon as I got well.

President Rodzianko visited me the following day. He was very depressed
and pessimistic over the condition of the country.

“Russia is perishing,” he said, “and there is no salvation in prospect
for her. Kerensky relies too much on his own power, and is blind to
what is going on around him. General Kornilov requested that Kerensky
should grant him the necessary authority to restore discipline in the
army, but Kerensky refused, saying that he was able to accomplish it
himself in his own fashion.”

While I was in the hospital a delegate from the front brought me a
testimonial from my Corps Committee! It appeared that two days after I
was wounded the Committee, which usually comprised the more intelligent
soldiers, met in session and discussed all night how they could best
reward my conduct. A resolution was passed in which praise and thanks
were expressed to me for brave leadership in an attack which resulted
in the capture of two thousand prisoners. The testimonial was a record
of the resolution, signed by the members of the Corps Committee.
Later, the men would have done anything to revoke their signatures, as
they deeply regretted this tribute to me, an implacable enemy of the
Germans, from the entire corps, which was infected even then with the
Bolshevist spirit.

I learned that Lieutenant Filippov had taken charge of the Battalion,
gathering the survivors from all the units with which they identified
themselves during and after the retreat. However, he did not remain
with the Battalion, resigning in order to join an aviation detachment
in the south, after he had organized the remnant of my unit. It was
also reported to me that the Commander of the Corps had recommended me
for a cross.

Another week passed before I recovered my speech and my normal
condition, although the effects of the shock did not disappear
completely for some weeks. A woman friend of mine told me that Kornilov
was expected to arrive in Petrograd the next day, and that his
relations with Kerensky were strained, on account of their different
views as to the restoration of discipline at the front. I telephoned to
the Winter Palace for an appointment, and the War Minister’s adjutant
reported my request to Kerensky, who said that he could receive me
immediately, even sending his car for me.

Kerensky welcomed me heartily, expressing his gladness at my recovery.
He asked me what was the reason why the soldiers would not fight. In
reply I told him in detail the story of my fruitless offensive, how
the men had called meetings and debated for hours and days whether to
advance or not. I told only the facts, as narrated above, and Kerensky
was deeply impressed. In conclusion I said:

“You can see for yourself that the committees stand for talk, endless
talk. An army that talks is not a fighting army. In order to save the
front it is necessary to abolish the committees and introduce strict
discipline. General Kornilov seems to be the man to accomplish this.
I believe he can do it. All is not yet lost. With an iron hand the
Russian Army can be restored. Kornilov has such a hand. Why not give
him the right to use it?”

Kerensky agreed with me generally. “But,” he said, “Kornilov wants to
restore the old régime. He may take the power into his own hands and
put back the Tsar on the throne.”

This I could not believe, and I said so to Kerensky. He replied
that he had grounds for believing that Kornilov wanted the monarchy
re-established.

“If you are not convinced,” Kerensky continued, “go over to General
Headquarters, have a talk with Kornilov, find out all you can about his
intentions, and come back to report to me.”

I realized immediately that Kerensky was asking me to act for him in
the rôle of a secret agent, but I was interested. The thought occurred
to me again and again:

“What if Kerensky is right, and Kornilov really wants the Tsar back?”

My country was in a bad state, but I dreaded to think of a return of
Tsarism. If Kornilov was for the old régime, then he was an enemy of
the people, and Kerensky was right in hesitating to invest the General
with supreme authority. I therefore accepted his proposal.

I was, however, uneasy at the thought of the errand I had undertaken
and resolved to go to Rodzianko, whom I look upon as my best friend,
and make a clean breast of it. When I told him of my conversation with
Kerensky he said:

“This is Kerensky’s old game--suspecting everybody of being for
the old régime. I don’t believe it of Kornilov. He is an honest,
straightforward man. Still, if you feel in doubt about it yourself,
come, let us go over together to Headquarters. Do not go as a spy, but
tell Kornilov the truth to his face.”

We took a train for General Headquarters and were admitted to Kornilov
soon after our arrival. I told him frankly what had passed between
Kerensky and myself a couple of days before. Kornilov reddened. He
jumped up and began to pace the room in a rage.

“The scoundrel! The upstart! I swear by the honour of an old soldier
that I do not want Tsarism restored. I love the Russian moujik as much
as any man in the country. We have fought together and understand
one another. If I were only given authority, I would soon restore
discipline by punishing, if necessary, a few regiments. I could
organize an offensive in a few weeks, beat the Germans and have peace
this year even now. He is driving the country to perdition, the rascal!”

Kornilov’s words were like sword-thrusts. There was no question but
that the man spoke from the depth of his soul. His agitation was real
beyond a doubt. He continued to walk the room fiercely, talking of the
certain collapse of the front if measures were not taken without delay.

“The idiot! He cannot see that his days are numbered. Bolshevism is
spreading rapidly in the army, and it will not be long before the tide
swamps him. To-day he allows Lenin to carry on his propaganda in the
army without hindrance. To-morrow Lenin will have got the upper hand,
and everything will be wrecked.”

We left Kornilov, and I had to decide whether to make a report to
Kerensky or not. I must confess to a feeling of shame when I thought
of how I had carried out the errand. I therefore asked Rodzianko to
tell Kerensky of Kornilov’s attitude toward Tsarism and I boarded a
train for Moscow, where I had been invited to review the local Women’s
Battalion, organized in imitation of mine. There were many such
battalions formed all over Russia.

When I arrived at the barracks and was taken before the fifteen hundred
girls who had enlisted in the Moscow unit, I nearly fainted at the
sight of them. They were nearly all rouged, they were wearing slippers
and fancy stockings, they were wantonly dressed and very casual in
their bearing. There were a good many soldiers about, and their
behaviour with the girls was revolting.

“What is this, a house of shame?” I cried out in my grief. “You are a
disgrace to the army! I would have you disbanded at once, and I shall
do my best to see that you are not sent to the front!”

A storm of protest broke loose.

“What is all this, the old régime or what?” shouted some indignant
voices.

“What’s that? Discipline? How dare she talk in that fashion?” cried
others.

In a moment I was surrounded by a mob of indignant men who drew closer
and closer, threatening to kill me. The officer who accompanied me
apparently knew the temper of the crowd and realized the danger I had
brought upon myself. He sent an urgent call to General Verkhovsky,
Commander of the Moscow Military District, who was very popular with
all the troops.

Meanwhile my escort was doing his best to calm the raging throng which
soon grew to about one thousand. Closer and closer the circle drew in
about me, and I was ready to say my last prayers. One man tripped me by
the foot, and I fell. Another brought down the heel of his boot on my
back. Only another minute and I should have been lynched. But God was
with me. Verkhovsky arrived not an instant too soon and dashed into the
crowd, which separated to make way for him. He addressed a few words to
the men. They had a magic effect. I was saved.

From Moscow I went to the front, and when my girls saw me arrive there
was general jubilation. “The Commander has come back!” they shouted,
as they danced about. They had had a hard time in my absence, but
unfortunately I did not remain long. In the evening of the day of my
arrival a telegram came from General Kornilov, requesting my immediate
presence. I left without delay for Army Headquarters, and there met the
Commander-in-Chief and Rodzianko. The three of us went to Petrograd to
see Kerensky. It was on the eve of the great Moscow Assembly, which
met on the 28th of July.

During this journey Kornilov talked of his childhood. He was born in
Mongolia, the son of a Russian father and a Mongolian mother. The
conditions of life some fifty years ago in the Far East were such as
to inure one to any hardships. Thence it was that Kornilov derived
his contempt for danger and his spirit of adventure. He was given a
good education by his father, who, I believe, was a frontier trader
of peasant stock, but rose to his high position by sheer ability
and doggedness. He learned to speak a dozen languages and dialects,
more from mixing with all kinds of people than from books. In short,
Kornilov was not of an aristocratic family or brought up in select
surroundings. His knowledge of men and affairs was gained at first
hand. He had enjoyed close contact with the Russian moujik and workman.
Himself of reckless valour, he came to love the Russian peasant-soldier
for his contempt of death.

Upon our arrival at Petrograd we all went together to the Winter
Palace. Kornilov entered Kerensky’s study first, leaving us to wait in
the ante-chamber. It was a long wait for Rodzianko and myself. Kornilov
remained locked up with Kerensky for two whole hours, and our ears
bore witness to the stormy nature of the interview inside. When the
Commander-in-Chief finally emerged from the office his face was flushed.

Rodzianko and I were admitted next. Kerensky was visibly agitated. He
said that he had not expected me to carry out his errand in such a
manner. I had not acted rightly, he declared.

“Perhaps I am guilty towards you, Minister,” I replied. “But I acted
according to my conscience, and did what I felt was my duty to the
country.”

Rodzianko then addressed Kerensky in some such manner as the following:

“Botchkareva reports from the front that you are rapidly losing favour
with both men and officers; the officers because of the decay of
discipline, the men because of their desire to go home. Now, consider
what is happening to the army. It is going to pieces. The fact that the
soldiers could allow a group of women and officers to perish is proof
that the situation is critical. Something must be done immediately.
Give absolute authority in the army to Kornilov, and he will save the
front. And do you remain at the head of the Government, to save us from
Bolshevism.”

I joined Rodzianko in his plea. “We are rapidly nearing an abyss,” I
urged, “and it will soon be too late. Kornilov is an honourable man, I
am convinced of it. Let him save the army now, so that people shall not
say afterwards that Kerensky destroyed the country!”

“That will never happen!” he cried, banging his fist on the table. “I
know what I am doing!”

“You are destroying Russia!” exclaimed Rodzianko, angered by Kerensky’s
arrogance. “The blood of the country will be on your head.”

Kerensky turned red, then white as a corpse. His appearance frightened
me. I thought he would fall down dead.

“Go!” he shrieked, beside himself, pointing toward the door. “Leave
this room!”

Rodzianko and I moved to the exit. At the door Rodzianko stopped for a
moment, turned his head and flung a few biting words at the Minister.

Kornilov was waiting for us in the ante-room. We drove to Rodzianko’s
house for luncheon. There, Kornilov related to us the substance of
his conference with Kerensky. He had told him that the soldiers were
deserting the front in droves and that those who remained were useless,
as they visited the German trenches every night and came back drunk in
the morning. The fraternization had extended to the entire front. A
whole Austrian regiment, well provided with liquor, came over to our
trenches at one point and a debauch followed. Kornilov described the
experience of my Battalion as related in official reports that had
reached him and declared that numerous messages from officers asking
for instructions were coming to him daily. But what instructions could
he give? He had to seek instructions himself from Kerensky.

At this point the Minister asked him what was to be done, and he
replied that capital punishment must be re-established, that the
committees must be abolished, that the Commander-in-Chief must be given
full authority to disband units and execute agitators and rebels, if
the front was to be saved from collapse and the country from an immense
disaster.

Kerensky replied that Kornilov’s suggestions were impracticable, that
all that could be done was for the officers to submit the various
complications arising at the front to the Regimental, Corps and Army
Committees for solution. Kornilov retorted that the committees had
already, again and again, been confronted with such problems, had
them investigated and confirmed, passed resolutions of censure and
obtained pledges from the men that they would not repeat the offences,
but like weak children the soldiers would immediately resume drinking
and fraternizing. Only rigid discipline, he insisted, could make the
Russian Army a force to be reckoned with.

However, Kerensky was obstinate. He would not consent to put Kornilov’s
recommendation into practice. A deadlock was reached which aroused
Kornilov’s temper. He blurted out:

“You are driving the country to destruction. You know that the Allies
already regard us with contempt. Should our front collapse they would
consider Russia a traitor. You are under the delusion that the rank and
file still believe in you. But almost all of them are Bolsheviks now.
Only a little while, and you will find yourself overthrown, and your
name will go down in history as the destroyer of the country. All your
life you fought Tsarism. Now you are even worse than the Tsar was. Here
you sit in the Winter Palace, unwilling to leave, too jealous to hand
over the power to some one else. Although I knew the Tsar well, your
distrust of me and belief that I am in favour of Tsarism now is utterly
unfounded. How can I be in favour of a Tsar when I love my country and
the moujik? My whole aspiration is to build up a strong democratic
nation, by means of a Constituent Assembly and a chosen leader. I want
Russia to be powerful and progressive. Give me a free hand in the army
and our Motherland will be saved.”

Kerensky heatedly rejected Kornilov’s request.

“You will have to resign,” he exclaimed, “and I will appoint Alexeiev
in your place, and use force against you in the event of your failure
to obey me!”

“Scoundrel!” exclaimed Kornilov, and he left Kerensky’s study.

During lunch Kornilov told Rodzianko that if Kerensky carried out his
threat he would lead the Savage Division, consisting of tribesmen
loyal to him, against Kerensky. Rodzianko pleaded against such action,
begging Kornilov not to war against the Government, as that would
divide the country into several factions and lead to civil war. After
a long, private conversation Kornilov was induced by the President of
the Duma to stick to his post as Commander-in-Chief for the sake of the
peace of the nation.

At the table I also learned that General Alexeiev had more than once
been offered the Chief Command, but had declined to take it unless he
had authority to exercise a free hand. It also appeared that Kerensky
was growing more and more autocratic and irritable, and was reluctant
to see people and accept advice.

I parted from Rodzianko and Kornilov. The latter kissed me and pledged
his friendship to me for my efforts to maintain discipline. I returned
to the front, while they went to Moscow to attend the Assembly.

My heart was heavy with sorrow. It was five months since freedom was
born, only five months. But what a nightmare it had become! We were at
war, but playing with the enemy. We were free, but disorder was on the
increase. Our best men were happy and united five months ago. Now, they
were divided and quarrelling among themselves. The people were divided,
too. When the revolution first broke all had rejoiced together, the
soldier, the townsman, the peasant, the workman, the merchant. All
were glad. All hoped for good and happiness. Now, there had sprung up
a number of parties that were setting one group of the people against
the other. Each of them claimed to have the truth. All of them promised
a blissful era, but what was good to one was evil to the other. They
talked, argued, fought among themselves. And the minds of the people
grew confused and their hearts divided. In the face of such a terrible
foe as the Germans, how long could a disunited country endure? I prayed
to God for Russia.




                              CHAPTER XV

                     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




                              CHAPTER XVI

                       THE TRIUMPH OF BOLSHEVISM


I returned to the front. The trains were frightfully crowded, but
fortunately I found accommodation in a first-class compartment. At
Molodechno I reported to General Valuyev, Commander of the Tenth Army,
and lunched with the staff. The General was painfully surprised to
learn of the punishment I had received at the hands of the soldiers.

“Did they really strike _you_?” he asked incredulously, as if he found
it hard to imagine the soldiers maltreating Yashka.

“Yes, General, they did,” I answered.

“But why?”

I told him of the German I had wounded as he came over with several
comrades.

“God, what has become of my once glorious army!” he cried out.

As I related to him the remaining phases of the episode, he punctuated
my story with exclamations of surprise.

At the end of the meal General Valuyev informed me that I had been
promoted to the rank of Captain. He pinned an extra star on my epaulets
and congratulated me.

I was provided with a car and driven to Corps Headquarters, where I
reported to my Commanding General. He and the officers of the Corps
Staff were anxious to know of the latest developments in the rear. I
told them the impression made upon me by Kerensky and Verkhovsky two
days before.

“Their appearance bears witness to the fact that all is lost,” I said.

“And how about the transfer?” the General asked. “The Battalion is
waiting for you to come and take it to a more sympathetic sector.”

I answered that orders would soon arrive for the transfer, and showed
the certificate authorizing me to command without a committee. The
General was glad for my sake.

Meanwhile, my girls learned of my arrival. They formed ranks, desiring
to give me a cheerful welcome. My presence seemed to put heart into
them. After thanking them for their welcome, I went with them to mess.
It was my custom to eat the same food as the girls. Only I seldom ate
with them. Before eating, I usually supervised the mess, satisfying
myself that there was plenty of food and that all was in good order. I
knew from experience that there is nothing like food for keeping up a
soldier’s heart.

Was it my promotion that was the cause of a happy mood, or my return
to the girls, to whom I had grown deeply attached? I don’t know. But
after dinner it occurred to me that it would be the right thing to let
the girls have some fun. So I suggested a game, and my soldiers took up
the idea with delight. As the game proceeded, many men gathered round
the circle in which it was going on. They watched longingly, clearly
desirous to play too, but not daring to join in for fear lest I should
order the girls away. It gave me pleasure to observe how these grown-up
children longed to take part in the sports. But I pretended not to
notice it.

Finally they sent several delegates to express their desire to me.

“Captain,” the men said bashfully, “we want to speak to you.”

“All right, speak out,” I answered, “only don’t address me as an
officer. Call me plain Yashka or Botchkareva.”

“May we be allowed to take part in the game?” they asked, encouraged by
my words.

“Yes, but only on condition that you do not molest my girls and
consider them as fellow-soldiers only,” I declared.

The men swore that they would behave, and the girls were not at all
displeased at the new arrangement. They played for two or three hours,
and the men kept their pledge. When the game ended they left with quite
a different feeling towards me. It was a feeling of respect and even
love, instead of their former one of hostility.

The Battalion remained in the reserve billets for several days. There
developed, as a result of that game, a new attitude on the part of many
soldiers toward us women. Companies of them would come over and join
the Battalion in sports or singing and various entertainments.

The expected order for a transfer did not come promptly. Meanwhile,
the time arrived to relieve the Corps in the trenches. I decided that
we had had enough rest, and upon our arrival at the fighting line
I put my Battalion on a regular war footing. I sent out scouting
parties, established observation posts, and swept No Man’s Land with
my machine guns and rifles. The Germans were very much agitated. Our
own soldiers became excited too, but because of the friendly relations
we had established in the rear, they contented themselves with sending
delegates and committees to argue the matter with me.

“We have freedom now, you say,” I argued. “You insist that you do not
want to fight. Very well. I will not ask you to fight the Germans. But
you have no right to ask me to act against my convictions. We came here
not to fraternize but to fight, to kill and get killed. I claim my
freedom to get killed if I want to. Then let me fight the Germans at my
sector. Let the Germans fight only against the Battalion. We will leave
you alone, and you leave us alone.”

The soldiers admitted that this was no more than fair and consented
to such an arrangement. When they asked me why I was so anxious to
kill Germans I told them that I wanted to avenge my husband who
was slain early in the war. For this invention I had only a slight
foundation--a rumour that had reached me of the death in battle of
Afanasi Botchkarev. Of course, it was an absurd excuse. But I had used
it before and I used it afterwards on a number of occasions, and it
finally became widely known and believed.

It was exhilarating to be able to do some real fighting again. It is
true, we were a mere handful, scarcely two hundred women. But we raised
quite a storm. Our machine guns rattled and No Man’s Land was turned
from a promenade for agitators and drunkards into a real No Man’s Land.
The news spread rapidly along the front of the activity of the Women’s
Battalion, and I believe that for hundreds of miles our little sector
was the only fighting part of the line. I was naturally very proud of
this distinction.

For several days this state of affairs continued. Finally the Germans
became so annoyed that they ordered their artillery to bombard my
position. There had not been any artillery fire at our sector for some
time, and the opening of the big guns caused tremendous excitement.
Many of the men were caught in the bombardment and were killed or
wounded. The Battalion’s casualties were four dead and fifteen wounded.

The whole Corps was roused to a high state of agitation, and a stormy
meeting took place immediately. The men demanded my instant execution.

“She wants war,” they cried, “and we want peace. Kill her and make an
end of it!”

But the members of the committee and my friends insisted that I acted
in accordance with an agreement. “She only engages her own Battalion
in fighting,” my defenders argued, “and leaves us alone. It is not her
fault that the German artillery could not find the range quickly and
killed some of our comrades.”

When word reached me of the indignation and threats of the men I
decided to organize an offensive of my own and die fighting. I
requested our artillery to answer in kind the enemy’s fire. The
engagement developed into a regular little battle. We were firing
furiously.

While this was going on and the soldiers in the rear were holding
the meeting the news arrived of the overthrow of Kerensky and the
Bolshevists’ victory in Petrograd. It was announced to the men by the
Chairman and was hailed with such an outburst of enthusiasm that the
shouts almost drowned the rattling of the machine guns.

“Peace! Peace!!” thundered through the air.

“We will leave the front now! We are going home! Hurrah for Lenin!
Hurrah for Trotzky! Hurrah for Kolontay!”

“Land and freedom! Bread! Down with the bourgeoisie!”

As the rejoicing was at its height, the ears of the multitude suddenly
caught the sound of the shooting at my sector. The men were roused to
fury.

“Kill her! Kill them all! We have peace now!” they roared as they
stampeded in our direction.

Several girls dashed up to me to tell me of the approach of the
bloodthirsty mob. Almost simultaneously the Commanding General rang up
on the field telephone.

“Run!” was his first word. “We are all lost. I am escaping myself. Go
to Krasnoye Selo!”

I ordered my girls to seize their rifles and whatever belongings they
could and run without stopping. To one of the men instructors I gave
the direction in which we were to go, asking him to transmit the
information to our supply detachment.

Meanwhile the mob was advancing. It encountered in the immediate rear
about twenty of my girls, who were engaged in the supporting line.

These twenty girls were lynched by the maddened mob.

Four of the instructors, who made an attempt to defend these innocent
women, were crushed under the heels of the savage crowd.

I and my remaining soldiers ran for ten miles. Although we could see no
sign of pursuers we ran no risks. We stopped in the woods beside the
road to Molodechno. It was dark. We drank tea for supper and prepared
sleeping quarters under the trees. Our supply train came up during the
night and was intercepted by one of the sentries.

We were up at four in the morning. I had a connection made with the
telephone wire running to Army Headquarters at Molodechno and talked
to the officer in charge, telling him of our approach and asking for
dugouts. The officer replied that Molodechno was overflowing with
deserters and that it was as dangerous a place for the Battalion as the
front itself.

But what could I do? I had to go somewhere. I could not very well
continue living in the forest. It was an awful situation. We had
escaped from one mob, leaving twenty victims in its hands, and
were running straight into the arms of another, perhaps even more
bloodthirsty. So we resumed our march. Within two miles of Molodechno I
led the Battalion far into the woods and left it there with the supply
detachment, comprising twenty-five men. I went to Molodechno alone,
having decided to make preliminary investigations and see what was to
be done.

Groups of soldiers here and there, in the streets of Molodechno,
stopped me with jeering remarks:

“Ha, there goes the Commander of the Women’s Battalion. She demands
iron discipline. Ha, ha!” they would laugh, turning to me, “What now?”

With smiles and conciliatory answers I managed to get to Headquarters.
I made a report to the Commandant and was assigned some dugouts for the
Battalion. There were crowds of soldiers everywhere as I walked to the
billets. They began to harangue me.

“You were late with your Battalion,” they said. “It’s peace now.”

“I am always with you, I am myself a common peasant soldier,” I
answered. “If you make peace now I will abide by your decision. I am
not going to fight against the people.”

“Yes, you are for the people now, but where were you before?” they
inquired. “You maintained the discipline of the old régime in your
Battalion.”

“If I had had no discipline,” I answered, “my Battalion would have
become a shameful thing. You would have sneered at it yourselves. Women
are not like men. It is not customary for women to fight. Imagine what
would have become of three hundred girls among thousands of men let
loose without supervision and restraint, and you will agree with me
that I was right.”

The men appreciated my argument.

“We think you are right about that,” they assented, and became more
sympathetic.

I requested their help in cleaning out the dugouts for my girls,
and they gave it cheerfully. I dispatched an instructor for the
Battalion, and by night my soldiers were comfortably quartered.
Under the protection of sentinels picked from the men attached to my
unit we passed a restful night. But our presence offered too good an
opportunity for the agitators to let it pass. So in the morning after
breakfast, as I started on my way to Headquarters, a small group of
insolent soldiers, not more than ten in number, blocked my path,
heaping insults upon me.

In a few minutes the ten ruffians were increased to twenty, thirty,
fifty, a hundred. I tried to parry their jeers and threats, but without
success. In ten minutes I was almost surrounded by several hundreds of
these ruffians in uniform.

“What do you want with me?” I cried out, losing patience.

“We want to disband your Battalion. We want you to surrender all the
rifles to us.”

Now there can hardly be a greater dishonour for a soldier than to
surrender his arms without a fight. However, my girls knew that I hated
the idea of perishing at the hands of a mob. When they heard of the
demand of the crowd they all came out, with rifles in hand.

I made a couple of attempts to argue, but it was apparent that the men
came with the purpose fixed in their minds by propagandists. They would
not give way and finally cut me short by giving me three minutes to
decide. One of the ringleaders stood there, watch in hand, counting the
time. Those were moments of indescribable agony.

“I would rather advance against an entire German army than surrender
arms to these Bolshevik scoundrels,” I thought. “But it is not my life
only that is at stake. Everything is lost, anyhow. They say that peace
has been declared already. Have I a right to play with the lives of my
girls? But, Holy Mother, how can I, a soldier true to my oath and loyal
to my country, order the surrender of my Battalion’s arms without a
fight?”

The three minutes were up. I had arrived at no decision. Still, I
mounted the speaker’s bench. There was complete silence. The crowd of
course expected my capitulation. My girls waited in great tension for
their Commander’s orders. My heart throbbed violently as my mind still
groped for a solution.

“Shoot!” I suddenly shouted at the top of my voice to the girls.

The men were so surprised that for a moment they remained petrified.
They were unarmed.

A volley from two hundred rifles went up into the air.

The crowd dispersed in all directions. My order almost drove the men
out of their senses with rage. They ran to their barracks for weapons,
threatening to return and do for us all.

The real crisis now arose. There was no question that the mob would
return, several times stronger, and tear us to pieces. A decision had
to be arrived at and carried out instantly. It would take not more
than ten minutes for the men to come back. If we did not escape it was
certain death.

“In five minutes the Battalion must be ready to march!” I thundered. I
sent one of my instructors to the barracks, to mix with the crowd, and
later report to me in the woods on the mob’s activity. Simultaneously I
directed the supply detachment to follow the road in the direction of
Krasnoye Selo. Then I called for a volunteer from among the instructors
to take care of our battle flag under oath that he would defend it to
his death. Accompanied by three other instructors he was sent ahead
with the flag.

All this was done in less than five minutes. It was no ordinary feat
for a military unit to form in full marching formation in that space
of time. But my girls did it. I sent one squad after another into the
woods, leaving with the last squad myself.

I had fixed as our destination a certain clearing in the woods, five
miles distant. This distance we covered at break-neck speed. I knew
that the infuriated men would follow the road in pursuing us, and I
ordered the Battalion to go into the heart of the woods. There were few
of us who did not trip on the way several times. Our uniforms were torn
by thorns and brambles, and many of us had cuts in our legs and arms.
There was little time for dressing the wounds.

A couple of hours later, after reaching the clearing, we heard a
distant whistle, the signal of the instructor I had left behind. He was
in high glee over his own experience, and in spite of our precarious
position we heartily enjoyed his story.

The mob, it appeared, had returned to our billets, as we had
anticipated, fully armed. The men were in a ferocious mood and rushed
into the dugouts. They were thunderstruck upon discovering that the
dugouts were deserted! They ran about like madmen, scouring the
neighbourhood, but there was no sign of us. They could not realize that
in such a brief space of time the Battalion had been marched away with
all the equipment.

“The witch!” they shouted. “She must have spirited them away.”

But this did not seem a plausible explanation to the cooler heads.
They telephoned to Headquarters, but received an answer of complete
astonishment. Nobody there knew of my sudden withdrawal. The mob
started along the road to Krasnoye Selo and soon overtook my supply
wagons, which were in charge of old soldiers. These said that they had
received orders to leave for Krasnoye, and that they knew nothing of
the movements of the Battalion. The mob decided that we were on the
same road and sent a couple of horsemen to overtake us. The horsemen,
of course, returned empty-handed.

“She is a witch!” many soldiers shook their heads with superstitious
awe.

“A witch, undoubtedly!” was repeated in tones of uneasiness by others.

The four men with our flag lost their way in the woods, and seeing that
they did not arrive, I sent out about twenty girls and instructors to
look for them. They were finally discovered. Next we had to get in
touch with the supply wagons, and managed to bring them to our camp.
Once this was accomplished we were fairly well established behind the
protection of the thickets. There was only one question confronting us:
How to get away in safety.

Molodechno was not to be thought of. Krasnoye Selo was also a
dangerous place, as our pursuers had warned the garrison there of our
approach and had requested that we should be dealt with summarily.
The prospects were far from cheerful. I decided to get into secret
communication with the Commandant through the instructors.

We camped in the forest for a couple of days, till the Commandant found
an opportunity to slip out and come to see us. We held a conference for
the purpose of finding a way out of the dilemma.

It was agreed that the career of the Battalion was ended and that
nothing remained but to disband it. The problem was, how? The
Commandant suggested that he should procure women’s garments for the
girls and let them return home.

The plan did not strike me as practical. It was hardly possible to
obtain nearly two hundred costumes for us in a day or two. It might,
therefore, take a couple of weeks to disband the Battalion, which would
not be advisable. I proposed a different scheme, namely, to discharge
the girls singly and dispatch them to a score of scattered stations
and villages. This plan was adopted, as it did not seem difficult for
individual members of the Battalion to board trains or obtain vehicles
in the neighbouring villages and get away.

It took a day or so for the Commandant to get ready the necessary
documents and funds for all the girls. Then the disbanding began. Every
ten or fifteen minutes a girl was sent away, now in one direction, now
in the opposite. It was a pitiful finale to an heroic chapter in the
history of Russian womanhood. The Battalion had struggled gallantly
to stem the tide of destruction and ignorance. But the tide was too
strong. It had swamped all that was good and noble in Russia. Russia
herself seemed wrecked for ever in that maelstrom of unbridled
passions. One did not want to live. There remained only the glory and
satisfaction of sharing the overthrow of all that had been honourable
in the country. Everything seemed upside down. There was no friendship,
only hatred. The unselfishness of the days when Tsarism was overthrown,
now, after the fall of Kerensky, had given place to a wave of greed and
revenge. Every soldier, every peasant and workman, saw red. They all
hunted phantom bourgeoisie, bloodsuckers, exploiters. When freedom was
first born there was universal brotherhood and joy. Now intolerance and
petty covetousness reigned supreme.

As I kissed my girls good-bye and we exchanged blessings, my heart
quivered with emotion. What had I not hoped from this Battalion! But as
I searched my soul I could find little to regret. I had done my duty by
my country. Perhaps I had been too rash when I had imagined that this
handful of women could save the army from ruin. And yet I was not alone
in that expectation. There was a time when even Rodzianko believed as I
did, and Brusilov and Kerensky had thought that the self-sacrifice of
the women would shame the men. But the men knew no shame.

My girls had departed. Of the whole Battalion there remained only
myself and a few of the instructors. In the evening I made my way
to the road where a motor-car was waiting to smuggle me away. The
Commandant had arranged for me to go to Petrograd under the personal
escort of two members of the Army Committee. They were to join me at
the train. The peril lay in the journey to the station. Hidden at the
bottom of the car, I was driven to the railway, where the two men took
me under their protection. I had decided to go home, to the village of
Tutalsk, near Tomsk, where my people had moved during the war.




                             CHAPTER XVII

                       FACING LENIN AND TROTZKY


Petrograd seemed populated by Red Guards. One could not make a step
without encountering one. They kept a strict watch over the station and
all the incoming and outgoing trains. My escorts left me on the station
platform, as they were to return to the front immediately.

I had hardly emerged from the station, intending to look for a cabman,
when a Red Guard Commissary, accompanied by a private with a naked
sword, stopped me with the polite query:

“Madame Botchkareva?”

“Yes.”

“Will you come with me, please?” he suggested.

“Where?” I asked.

“To the Smolny Institute.”

“But why?”

“Because I have orders to detain all officers returning from the
front,” he replied.

“But I am only going home!” I tried to argue.

“Yes, I understand. But as an officer you will also understand that I
must obey orders. They will probably release you.”

He hailed a cabman and we drove to the Smolny Institute, the seat of
the Bolshevik Government. It impressed me as a strongly garrisoned
fortress. There were armed sentries everywhere. Accompanied by Red
Guards I was led inside. There were Guards at every desk. I was taken
before a sailor. He was very rough and brusque.

“Where are you going?” he demanded curtly.

“I am going home, to a village near Tomsk,” I replied.

“Then why are you armed?” he sneered.

“Because I am an officer, and this is my uniform,” I answered.

He blazed up.

“An officer, eh? You will be an officer no more. Give me that pistol
and sword!” he ordered.

The arms were those given to me at the consecration of the flag of the
Battalion. I prized them too much to hand them over to this rogue of a
sailor, and I refused to comply with his demand. He grew furious. It
would have been useless to resist as the room was full of Red Guards.
I declared that if he wanted my arms he could take them, but I would
never surrender them myself.

He violently tore the pistol and sword from me and pronounced me under
arrest. There was a dark cellar in the Institute which was used as a
place of detention, and I was sent down there and locked up. I was
hungry, but received no answer to all my calls, and remained in the
hole till the following morning. As soon as I was brought upstairs I
began to demand my arms. The various officials, however, remained deaf
to my pleas.

I was informed that I should be taken before Lenin and Trotzky, and
was soon led into a large, light room where two men of contrasting
appearance were seated, apparently expecting my entrance. One had a
typical Russian face. The other looked Jewish. The first was Nikolai
Lenin, the second Leon Trotzky. Both arose as I stepped in and walked
toward me a few steps, stretching out their hands and greeting me
courteously.

Lenin apologized for my arrest, explaining that he had learned of it
only that morning. Inviting me to a seat, the two Bolshevik chiefs
complimented me upon my record of service and courage, and began to
sketch to me the era of happiness that they intended to procure for
Russia. They talked simply, smoothly and very beautifully. It was for
the common people, the toiling masses, the disinherited that they were
fighting. They wanted justice for all. Wasn’t I of the working class
myself? Yes, I was. Wouldn’t I join them and co-operate with their
party in bringing happiness to the oppressed peasant and workman? They
wanted peasant women like myself: they had the highest esteem for them.

“You will bring Russia not to happiness but to ruin,” I said.

“Why?” they asked. “We seek only what is good and right. The people are
with us. You saw for yourself that the army is behind us.”

“I will tell you why,” I replied. “I have no objection to your
beautiful plans for the future of Russia. But as for the immediate
situation, if you take the soldiers away from the front, you are
destroying the country.”

“But we do not want any more war. We are going to conclude peace,” the
two leaders replied.

“How can you conclude peace without soldiers at the front? You are
demobilizing the army already. You have got to make peace first and
then let the men go home. I myself want peace, but if I were in the
trenches I would never leave before peace had been signed. What you are
doing will ruin Russia.”

“We are sending the soldiers away because the Germans will not advance
against us, anyhow. They do not want to fight either,” was the reply.

It irritated me, this view of the Germans held by the men who now
controlled the Government of my country.

“You don’t know the Germans!” I cried out. “We have lost so many lives
in this war, and now you would give everything away without a struggle!
You don’t know war! Take the soldiers away from the front and the
Germans will come and seize upon everything they can lay hands on. This
is war. I am a soldier and I know. But you don’t. Why did you take it
upon yourselves to rule the country? You will ruin it!” I exclaimed in
anguish.

Lenin and Trotzky laughed. I could see the irony in their eyes.
They were learned and worldly. They had written books and travelled
in foreign lands. And who was I? An illiterate Russian peasant
woman. My lecture undoubtedly afforded them amusement. They smiled
condescendingly at my suggestion that they did not know what war was in
reality.

I rejected their proposal to co-operate with them and asked if I were
free to leave. One of them rang a bell and a Red Guard entered. He
was requested to accompany me out of the room and to provide me with
a passport and a free ticket to Tomsk. Before leaving I asked for my
arms, but was refused. I explained that they were partly of gold and
given to me on an occasion that rendered them almost priceless to me.
They answered that I would receive them back as soon as order was
restored. Of course, I never got them back.

I left the room without saying good-bye. In the next room I was given
a passport, and proceeded by tramcar to the station. I decided not
to linger in Petrograd and to depart without even seeing any of my
friends. On the way I was recognized everywhere, but was allowed
to proceed unmolested. The same evening I boarded one of the three
cars attached to a train that went to Irkutsk by way of Vologda and
Tcheliabinsk. I was going home. With me I had some two thousand roubles
(about £211 2_s._ 3_d._), saved during my command of the Battalion,
when I had received a salary of four hundred roubles (about £42 4_s._
5_d._) a month.

The train was overcrowded with returning soldiers, almost all ardent
Bolsheviks. I remained in the compartment for eight days, leaving it
only occasionally at night. I sent out a companion passenger to buy
food for me at the stations. As we neared Tcheliabinsk, at the end of
the eight days, the crowd had diminished in number, and I thought, I
might safely go out on to the gangway and get off at the great station
for a little walk. No sooner did I appear on the gangway than I was
recognized by some soldiers.

“Oh, look who is here!” one exclaimed.

“It’s Botchkareva! The harlot!” a couple of others echoed.

“She ought to be killed!” shouted somebody.

“Why?” I turned on them. “What harm have I done to you? Oh, you fools,
fools!”

The train slowed down, approaching the station. I had scarcely turned
my head away from the insolent fellows, when I was suddenly lifted
by two pairs of arms, swung to and fro once, twice, three times, and
thrown off the moving train.

Fortunately the momentum of the swinging was so great that I was thrown
across the parallel tracks and landed in a bank of snow piled along the
railway. It was the end of November, 1917. It was all so sudden that
the laughter of the brutes behind me still rang in my ears as I became
conscious of pain in my right knee.

The train was halted before pulling into the station. In a few moments
a big crowd collected round me, composed of passengers, railway
officials and others. All were indignant at the brutality of the
soldiers. The Commandant of the station and members of the local
committee hurried to the spot. I was placed on a stretcher and taken to
the hospital. It was found that I had a dislocated knee, and my leg was
bandaged. I then declared that I desired to continue the journey, and I
was given a berth in a hospital coach attached to a train going east.
There were attendants and a medical assistant on the car.

My injured leg grew more and more painful as I proceeded homeward.
It began to swell, and the medical assistant telegraphed to the
stationmaster of Tutalsk, the village in which my family now lived, to
provide a stretcher for me.

My sister, Arina, was employed at the station as attendant at the
tea-urn, which is always kept boiling at Russian railway stations.
It was this employment of hers that had caused the family to move to
Tutalsk from Tomsk, where they had no means of livelihood whatever.
When the message from the doctor in charge of the car reached my
sister and through her my parents, there was an outburst of grief.
It was three years since they had seen their Marusia and now she was
apparently being brought to them on her death-bed!

On the fourth day of the journey from Tcheliabinsk the train stopped at
Tutalsk. My leg was badly swollen and was as heavy as a log. The pains
were agonizing. My face was deadly pale.

A stretcher was prepared for me at the station. My sisters, my mother
and father and the stationmaster were at the door of the coach when I
was carried out. My mother shrieked in heartrending tones, “My Marusia!
My Manka!” stretched her hands toward heaven and threw herself full
length on me, mourning over me as if I were ready for burial.

Her prodigal daughter had returned, my mother sobbed, but in what a
condition! She thought that I must have been wounded and have asked
to be sent home to die. I could not speak, I could only grasp her
bony arms, as my throat was choked with a tempest of tears and sobs.
Everybody was crying, my sisters calling me by caressing names,
my father standing over me bent and white, and even the strange
stationmaster....

I became hysterical and the doctor was sent for. He had me removed
home immediately, promising in response to my mother’s entreaties to
do everything in his power for me. I was ill for a month, passing
Christmas and meeting the New Year, 1918, in bed.

The two thousand roubles I had saved I gave to my parents. But this
sum, which would have been reckoned a fortune before the war, was
barely sufficient to keep us for a few months. It cost nearly a hundred
roubles (about £10 11_s._) to buy a pair of shoes for my youngest
sister, Nadia, who was going about barefoot! It cost almost twice as
much to buy her a second-hand jacket at the Tomsk market. Manufactured
goods sold at a premium when they were to be had, but it was much more
difficult to find what one needed than to pay an exorbitant price for
it. There was plenty of flour in the country. But the peasants would
not sell it cheaply because they could get nothing in town for less
than fifty or a hundred times its former price. The result was that
flour sold at sixty roubles (about £6 6_s._ 8_d._) a _pud_ (32 pounds)!
It may be imagined how far two thousand roubles would carry one in
Russia.

Tutalsk had also been swept by the hurricane of Bolshevism. There
were many soldiers who had returned from the front imbued with
Bolshevik teachings. Just before my arrival the newly-fledged heretics
even burned the village church, to the great horror of the older
inhabitants. It was not an unusual case; it was typical of the time.
Hundreds of thousands of deluded young men had returned from the
trenches with the passion to destroy, to tear down everything that had
existed before: the old system of Government, the church, nay, God
Himself--all in preparation for the new order of life they were going
to establish.

But one institution--the scourge of the nation--they failed to wipe
out. Nay more, they restored it. The Tsar had abolished vodka. The
prohibition was continued in force by the new régime, but only on
paper. Nearly every returned soldier took to distilling vodka at home,
and the old plague of the country recovered its power and took its part
in the building of the Bolsheviks’ new world.

Every town and village had its committee or Soviet. They were supposed
to carry out orders from the Central Government. An order was issued to
confiscate all articles of gold and silver. Committees searched every
house for such belongings. There was, also, or was supposed to be, an
order taxing furniture and clothes. When the taxes arbitrarily demanded
were not paid, the furniture and clothes were taken away.

In the towns it was the townsmen who suffered, in the villages the
peasants, all under the pretext of confiscating the riches of the
bourgeoisie. It was sufficient for a peasant to buy a new overcoat,
perhaps with his last savings, for him to be branded as an exploiter
and lose his precious garment. The peculiar thing about such cases was
the fact that the confiscated article would almost invariably appear on
the back of one of the Bolshevik ringleaders. It was merely looting,
and the methods were pure terrorism, practised mostly by the returned
soldiers.

I received some letters at Tutalsk. One was from my adjutant, Princess
Tatuyeva, who had arrived safely in Tiflis, her native town.

One morning I went to the post office to ask for letters.

“There goes Botchkareva!” I heard a man cry out.

“Ah, Botchkareva! She is for the old régime!” another fellow replied,
apparently one of the Bolshevik soldiers.

There were several of them and they shouted threats and insults at me.
I did not reply but returned home with a heavy heart. Even in my own
home I was not safe.

“My God,” I prayed, “what has come over the Russian people? Is this my
reward for the sacrifices I have made for my country?”

I resolved not to leave the house again. Surely this madness would not
last long, I thought. I spent most of the day reading the Bible and
praying to Heaven for the awakening and enlightenment of my people.

On the 7th of January, 1918, I received a telegram from Petrograd,
signed by General X. It read:

“Come. You are needed.”

The same day I bought a ticket for the capital, bade farewell to my
family, and set out. I removed the epaulets from my uniform, thus
appearing in the garb of a private.

About this time the Germans, to the profound shock of the revolutionary
masses, began their sudden advance into Russia. It had an almost
miraculous effect on the Bolshevik sympathizers. The train was as usual
packed with soldiers, but there was a noticeable difference in their
expression and conversation. All the braggadocio had been knocked out
of them by the enemy’s action. They had been lulled into the sweet
belief that peace had come and that a golden age was about to open for
them. They could not reconcile that with the swift advance of the
Kaiser’s soldiers toward Petrograd and Moscow.

It was refreshing, exhilarating to listen to some of the men.

“We have been sold!” one heard here and there.

“We were told that the German soldiers would not advance if we left the
front,” was another frequent expression.

“It is not the common people, it is the German bourgeoisie that is
fighting us now,” was an argument ordinarily given in answer to the
first opinions, “and there is nothing to be afraid of. There will soon
be a revolution in Germany.”

“Who knows,” some would doubtfully remark, “that Lenin and Trotzky have
not delivered us into the hands of the accursed Germans?”

There were always delegates from local committees going somewhere, and
they talked to the soldiers, answering questions and explaining things.
They could not very well explain away the German treachery, but they
held out the promise of a revolution in Germany almost any day. The
men listened but were not greatly impressed by the assurances of the
agitators. One felt that they were still groping in the dark, although
the light was dawning on their minds. The awakening could not be long
postponed.

I had a safe and comfortable journey to Petrograd. Nobody molested me,
nobody threatened my life. I arrived at the capital on the 18th of
January. The station was not as strongly guarded as two months before.
Red Guards were not in such evidence in the streets, which appeared
more normal. I went to one of my former patronesses and learned of the
terror in which the capital lived.

The following day I called on General X, who greeted me cordially.
Kiev, he told me, had just been captured by the Germans. They were
threatening Petrograd, and the opposition of the Red Guards would not
prevent or even postpone its capture by one day if the Germans were
bent upon taking the city.

Red Terror was rampant in Petrograd. The river was full of corpses of
officers who had been slain and lynched. Those who were alive were
leading a wretched existence, fearing to show themselves in public
because of the temper of the mob, and therefore on the verge of death
from starvation. Even more harrowing was the situation of the country.
It was falling into the hands of the enemy so rapidly that immediate
action of some sort was imperative.

A secret meeting of officers and sympathizers had been held at which
it was decided to get in touch with General Kornilov, who was reported
as operating in the Don region. There were so many conflicting reports
concerning Kornilov that it had been suggested that a courier should be
sent to him to find out definitely his plans and his resources. After
an exhaustive discussion General X suggested that I, as a woman, was
the only person who could possibly get through the Bolshevik lines and
reach Kornilov. Would I go?

“I would not join the officers here or Kornilov in the South for the
purpose of waging war against my own people,” I replied. “I can’t do it
because every Russian is dear to my heart, whether he be a Bolshevik, a
Menshevik, or a Red Guard. But I will undertake to go to Kornilov, in
order to satisfy your, as well as my own, desire for information.”

It was agreed that I should dress as a Sister of Mercy. A costume was
obtained for me, and I put it on over my uniform. My soldier’s cap I
tucked away in a pocket and donned the ordinary head-gear of a Sister
of Mercy, which left visible only my eyes, nose, mouth and cheeks, and
made me look like a matron of about forty-five.

A passport was furnished to me, bearing the name of Alexandra
Leontievna Smirnova, which was to be my name on the journey. As I wore
army boots there was no danger of my trousers showing under the skirt.
I took with me a letter from Princess Tatuyeva, in which she invited me
to visit her in her home in the Caucasus. A ticket from Petrograd to
Kislovodsk, a Caucasian health resort within several hundred miles of
the place where Kornilov was stationed, was given me, to be used only
in an emergency. It was agreed that in case of danger I should discard
my garb of a Sister of Mercy, and disclose my identity, supported by
the evidence of the emergency ticket to Kislovodsk and the letter from
Princess Tatuieva, declare that I was on my way to take a cure at that
place. In addition, I was, of course, provided with money for expenses.

It was very amusing to lose one’s identity and appear as a complete
stranger. I was no longer Maria Botchkareva, but Alexandra Smirnova.
And as I glanced at myself in the mirror it seemed even to my own eyes
that I had been reincarnated from a soldier into a Sister of Mercy.

When I started from Petrograd my destination was Nikitino, a station
which one would ordinarily pass on the way to Kislovodsk. Nobody
recognized me on the train. Sometimes a soldier asked:

“Where are you going, little sister?”

“Home, to Kislovodsk,” was my usual answer.

The next question would be about the service I had seen at the front,
and the sectors at which I worked. I would reply with facts from
my actual experience as a soldier. There was nothing strange about
a Sister of Mercy returning home, and as I preferred silence and
solitude to conversation, I reached Nikitino, at the end of several
days, without any trouble.

From Nikitino all trains were by order of the authorities switched off
to other lines and sent to their destination by roundabout routes.
The road running directly south from Nikitino was used for military
purposes exclusively by the Bolshevik forces engaged in fighting
Kornilov. Twenty miles farther on, at Zverevo, the so-called front
began. Private passengers were therefore not allowed to go to Zverevo.

It was evident that vast preparations were being made for a campaign
against General Kornilov. There were many ammunition trains and large
numbers of men concentrated there waiting transportation. There was
apparently no lack of money, and there was iron discipline, reminding
one of the early days of the war. There was order everywhere.

The first problem confronting me was how to get to Zverevo. I went to
the Commandant of the station, complained that I was penniless, that I
could not wait indefinitely for the end of the fighting to return home
to Kislovodsk, and urgently begged him to advise me what to do. I made
such an appeal to him that he finally said:

“A munition train is just about to leave for Zverevo. Come, get into it
and go to Zverevo. Perhaps they will pass you through the lines at the
front. There is a second-class carriage attached to the train.”

He led me to the carriage, in which were only the five soldiers who
were in charge of the train. He introduced me to the chief of them as a
stranded Sister of Mercy and asked for their indulgence. I thanked the
obliging Commandant profusely and from the bottom of my heart.

The train moved out of the station, but although satisfied with the
first stage of my enterprise, I was by no means cheerful as to my
prospects in Zverevo, the Bolshevik war zone. The head of the party sat
down opposite me. He was a dirty, ugly moujik. I did not encourage him
to engage me in conversation, but he was evidently wholly insensible to
my feelings in the matter.

After the preliminary questions, he expressed his surprise that I
should have chosen such an inopportune moment to go to Kislovodsk.

“But my mother is ill there,” I lied, “perhaps she is dying now. It
broke her heart when I went to the front.”

“Ah, that’s different,” he declared, moving over to my side. “They will
pass you in that case.”

From an expression of sympathy he had no hesitation in proceeding to an
attempt at flirtation. He moved closer to me and even touched my arm.
It was a delicate situation. I could not well afford to provoke his
antagonism, so I warded off his advances with a smile and a coquettish
glance. He treated me to a good meal, during which the conversation
turned to general conditions. He was, of course, a rabid Bolshevik
and a savage opponent of Kornilov and all officers. My part in the
conversation was confined to brief expressions of acquiescence, till
suddenly he asked:

“Have you heard of the Women’s Battalion of Death?”

My heart thumped violently.

“What Battalion did you say?” I asked with an air of ignorance.

“Why, Botchkareva’s Battalion!” he replied in a loud voice.

“Botchkareva’s?” I asked reminiscently. “Oh, yes, Botchkareva; yes, I
have heard about her.”

“The ----! She is a Kornilovka!” he exclaimed. “She is for the old
régime.”

“How do you know?” I asked. “I thought she was non-partisan.”

“We know them all, the counter-revolutionists! She is one of them,” my
companion declared emphatically.

“Well, but the Battalion of Death no longer exists, and Botchkareva has
apparently vanished,” I suggested.

“Yes, we know how they vanish. Many of them have vanished like that.
Kornilov had vanished, too. Then they all pop up again somewhere or
other and cause trouble,” he declared.

“Now, what would you do to her if she were to pop up here?” I ventured
to inquire.

“Kill her. She would never get away alive, you may stake an oath on
that,” he assured me. “We have the photographs of all the leading
counter-revolutionaries, so that they can’t conceal their identity if
they are caught.”

The conversation then took a more profitable turn for me. I learned all
about the plans of the Bolshevik force against Kornilov. The arrival of
the train at Zverevo put an end to my association with my travelling
companion. I thanked him warmly for all his kindness to me.

“You know, Sister,” he unexpectedly declared before parting, “I like
you. Will you marry me?”

I was not prepared for this. It rather took me aback. He was such a
dirty, repulsive-looking creature, and the proposal was so ludicrous
that it was with difficulty that I controlled my desire to laugh. The
situation was not one for merriment.

“Yes, with pleasure,” I responded to his offer, with as much
graciousness as I could command, “but after I have seen my mother.”

He gave me his address and asked me to write to him, which I promised
to do. Perhaps he is still waiting for a letter from me.

I left him at the train and went toward the station. There were
Red Guards, sailors, soldiers, even Cossacks, who had joined the
Bolsheviks, on the platform and inside the station. But there were no
private citizens in sight. I sat down in a corner and waited. I was
taken for a nurse attached to the Bolshevik army, and was not molested.
One, two, three hours passed and still I could find no opportunity
to proceed to my destination. A civilian, who somehow found his way
into the station, was placed under arrest before my eyes without any
preliminaries. I, therefore, preferred to sit quietly in my corner
rather than move about.

Finally a pleasant looking young soldier became interested in me. He
walked up and asked:

“Why are you waiting here, Sister?”

“I am waiting for a comrade,” I answered.

“What is his name?” he inquired, interested.

“Oh, that is a secret,” I replied in a teasing manner.

He sat down near me, and asked me if I had worked at the front. I said
that unfortunately I had been detailed only to hospitals in the rear.

“Why was that man arrested?” I ventured to ask.

“Because he had no papers from the Soviet,” was the reply. “He will be
shot immediately.”

“Do you execute everybody who has no papers?” I asked.

“Everybody, without distinction.”

“Even women?” I inquired.

“Yes, even women,” was the reply. “This is a war zone.”

“Holy Mother!” I exclaimed in horror. “How terrible! You really slay
them all? Without even a trial?”

“There is little time for trials here. Once fallen here, there is no
escape. Our firing squads make an end of all suspected persons on
the spot,” he informed me kindly. “Come, would you like to see the
execution-grounds? They are quite near here.”

I followed him reluctantly. A few hundred feet away from the station we
stopped. I could go no further. The field in front of us was covered
with scores of mangled, naked corpses. It made my flesh creep.

“There are about two hundred of them here, mostly officers who had
joined or sought to join Kornilov,” he explained.

I could not help shivering. The dreadful scene nearly shattered my
nerves and it was all I could do not to collapse.

“Ah, you women, women,” my escort nodded sympathetically. “You are all
weak. You don’t know what war is. Still,” he admitted, “there are some
who can compare with men. Take Botchkareva, for instance, she would not
shudder at sights like this.”

“Who is she, this Botchkareva?” I was curious.

“Haven’t you heard of her?” he asked in surprise. “Why, she was a
soldier of the old régime and organized the Women’s Battalion of Death.
She is for Kornilov and the bourgeoisie. They gave her an officer’s
rank and bought her over to their side, although she is of peasant
blood.”

It was all very interesting, this theory of my corruption. I had heard
it before, but not stated in such definite terms. At the same time I
was haunted by the picture of those mangled bodies, and the thought
rankled in my mind of the treacherous Bolsheviks who had opposed
capital punishment in the war against Germany but introduced it in the
most brutal fashion in the war against their own brothers.

I then told my friend of the trouble in which I found myself, that I
was penniless, that I had to get home to Kislovodsk and that I did
not know how to get through the front. He explained to me that the
so-called front was not a continuous line but a series of posts,
maintained on this side by the Bolsheviks and on the opposite side by
Kornilov.

“Sometimes,” he added, “the peasants of the neighbouring villages are
allowed by both sides to pass through to Novotcherkask, Kornilov’s
headquarters. If you follow that road,” and he pointed to it, “you will
come to a village about three miles from here. One of the peasants may
be willing to convey you across.”

I thanked him for the valuable information, and we parted friends. The
walk to the village was uneventful. On the outskirts of it I saw an
old moujik working outside of his hut. There was a stable and horses
attached to it.

“Good day, grandfather!” I greeted the old man.

“Good day, little sister,” he answered.

“Would you drive me to the city?” I asked.

“Great God! How is it possible? The Bolsheviks are fighting in front of
the city, and they don’t let anybody pass,” he said.

“But people do go sometimes, don’t they?”

“Yes, sometimes they do.”

“Well, I will give you fifty roubles for driving me to the city,” I
offered.

The moujik scratched his neck, reconsidering the matter.

“But aren’t you a political?” he inquired cautiously.

“No,” I assured him, “I am not.”

He went into the cabin to talk it over with his _baba_. It was a
tempting offer and her consent was apparently quickly obtained, for he
soon returned and said:

“All right, we will go. Come into the house. We will have tea and
something to eat.”

The invitation was welcome indeed, as I had grown hungry during my long
wait at the station and the walk to the village. When we had finished
our tea and lunch and the peasant harnessed his horse, I asked for
a large apron, which I put on over my clothes. I then asked for the
_baba’s_ winter shawl and wrapped it over my head and shoulders, almost
completely covering my face, so that I no longer looked like a Sister
of Mercy, but one of the local peasant-women.

Praying to God to grant me a safe journey, I seated myself in the cart.
The horse started off along the road.

The Bolshevik front was still ahead of me. But I was making
progress....




                             CHAPTER XVIII

                   CAUGHT IN A BOLSHEVIK DEATH-TRAP


“What shall I say to the sentries?” the moujik asked me as we
approached the front positions.

“Tell them that you are carrying your sick _baba_ to a hospital in the
city, as she is suffering from high fever,” I answered, and I asked him
to wrap me in the huge fur overcoat on which he was seated. I was warm
enough without it, but I thought that it would raise my temperature
even more, and I was not mistaken. Under all the wrappings I looked
more like a heap than a human form. When we reached the outposts I
began to moan as if in pain.

“Where are you going?” I heard a voice ask my driver sharply, as the
horse stopped.

“To a hospital in the city,” was the answer.

“What have you got there?” the inquirer continued.

“My _baba_. She is dying. I am taking her to a doctor,” the peasant
replied.

Here I groaned louder than ever. I was suffocating. My heart was
thumping with dread of a sudden exposure and discovery. Every particle
of time seemed an age.

The sentry who had stopped us apparently talked the matter over with
some of his comrades, to the accompaniment of my loud moans. Without
uncovering my face he issued a pass to the moujik.

My heart beat joyfully as the horse started off at a rapid pace. For a
while I still held my breath, hardly daring to believe that I had left
Bolshevik territory behind me with so little difficulty.

After some time we arrived at Kornilov’s front. The posts along it were
held by officers, of whom his force was almost exclusively composed. At
one such post we were stopped by an imperative “Halt!”

The driver was about to repeat the story of his sick _baba_ when I
surprised him by throwing off the fur coat, then the shawl, and jumping
out of the vehicle, heaving a deep sigh of relief. I could not help
laughing.

The moujik must have thought me mad at first. The officers at the post
could not understand it either.

“What the devil!” a couple of them muttered under their breath. I
proceeded very coolly to pay the fifty roubles to the peasant, and
thereupon to dismiss him, to his great amazement.

“I shall get to the city all right from here,” I informed him.

“The deuce you will!” blurted out the officer in charge. “Who are you?”

“Why, can’t you see, I am a Sister of Mercy,” I answered impatiently.

“Where are you going?”

“I am going to see General Kornilov,” I said, laughing.

The officers were getting furious.

“You will not go a step further,” the chief officer ordered.

“Oh, yes, I will,” I announced emphatically.

“You are arrested!” was the reply.

I burst out laughing, while the officers turned white with fury.

“Don’t you recognize me? I am Botchkareva,” and I threw off my
head-dress of the Sister of Mercy, revealing my own self. The officers
gasped, and then immediately crowded round me congratulating me and
shaking me by the hand. Kornilov was notified by telephone of my
arrival and of the joke I had played on the sentries.

“How do you do, little sister?” he greeted me laughingly when I was
brought to his headquarters. The story of my arrival and of the way I
had got through the lines amused him very much. He looked very thin and
somewhat aged, but as energetic as ever.

I reported to him that I was sent from Petrograd by General X and
other officers, for the purpose of ascertaining his plans and exact
situation. I also informed him that the Bolsheviks were making big
preparations for an attack against him, that I had seen eleven cars
with ammunition at Zverevo, and that the blow was planned to take place
in a couple of days.

Kornilov replied that he knew of the impending offensive and that
his condition was precarious. He had no money and no food, while the
Bolsheviks were amply supplied with both. His soldiers were deserting
him one by one. He was cut off from his friends and surrounded by
enemies.

“Was it your intention to remain with me and join my force?” he asked
me.

“No,” I said, “I could not fight against my own people. The Russian
soldier is dear to me, although he has been led astray for the present.”

“It is also very hard for me to fight the men that I loved so much,”
he declared. “But they have turned beasts now. We are fighting for our
lives, for our uniforms. The life of every Russian officer is at the
mercy of the mob. It is a question of organizing for self-defence. One
cannot hope to do much for the country, if the Bolsheviks are waging
civil war when the Germans are advancing into Russia. This is a time
for peace and union among all classes. It is a time for presenting
a united front to the enemy of the Motherland. But Bolshevism has
perverted the minds of the people. What is necessary, therefore, is
to enlighten the masses. We can’t hope to enlighten them by fighting.
If it were possible to organize a counter-propaganda, to convince the
Russian peasants that the Bolsheviks are rapidly driving our country
to utter ruin, then they would rise and make an end of Lenin and
Trotzky, elect a new Government, and drive the Germans out of Russia.
This is the only solution that I can see, unless the Allies aid us in
conciliating our soldiers and re-establishing a front against Germany.”

This, in substance, was Kornilov’s view of conditions in Russia,
when I saw him in February, 1918. I remained only one day at his
headquarters. From conversations with the men attached to his Staff, I
learned that Kornilov’s force comprised only about three thousand men.
The Bolshevik army opposing it was about twenty times its strength. I
left Novotcherkask in the evening, after an affectionate parting from
Kornilov. He kissed me as he bade me farewell, and I wished him success
for the sake of the country. But there was no success in prospect. We
both knew it only too well. A heavy darkness had settled on Russia,
stifling all that was still noble and righteous.

Encouraged by my success in reaching Kornilov’s line, I determined to
return by myself. I was taken to the outposts by a group of officers,
and from there, accompanied by their blessings, I started out through
the war zone alone. I crawled on all-fours as if through No Man’s Land,
and advanced a couple of versts without any mishap. The experience I
had gained at the front stood me in good stead. I scented the approach
of a patrol and hid just in time to escape being observed. The patrol
turned out to be one of Kornilov’s force, but I remained hidden.
After some more crawling I caught the sound of voices coming from the
direction of a coal-mine and judged the place to be one of the front
positions. Exercising extreme caution, I managed to pass beyond it
safely. Some distance away, dimly standing out against the horizon, was
a wood.

A Bolshevik force got wind of the patrol I had encountered and went out
to capture it by a flank operation. I decided to conceal myself behind
a pile of coal and wait till quiet was restored. On my right and left
were dumps of coal.

Keeping close against the coal-heap, I breathlessly awaited the result
of the enterprise. After a little while the Bolsheviks returned with
the prey. They had captured the patrol! There were twenty captives,
fifteen officers and five cadets, I discovered. They were led to a
place only about twenty feet distant from the coal-heap behind which I
was concealed.

The hundred Bolshevik soldiers surrounded the officers, cursed them,
beat them with the butts of their rifles, tore off their epaulets and
handled them in the most brutal fashion. The five youthful cadets must
have suddenly seen an opportunity to escape, for they dashed off a few
minutes afterwards. But they failed in their attempt. They were caught
several hundred feet away and brought back.

The Bolshevik soldiers then decided to gouge out the eyes of the five
youths in punishment for their attempt to run away. Each of the victims
was held by a couple of men in such a position as to allow the bloody
torturers to do their frightful work. In all my experiences of horror
this was the most horrible crime I witnessed.

One of the officers could not contain himself and shrieked:

“Murderers! Beasts! Kill me!”

He was struck with a bayonet, but only wounded. All the fifteen
officers begged to be killed outright. But their request was refused.

“You must be taken before the Staff first,” was the answer. Soon they
were led away.

The five martyrs were left to expire in agony where they were.

My heart was petrified. My blood congealed. I thought I was going mad,
that in a second I should not be able to control myself and should jump
out, inviting death or perhaps similar torture.

I finally gathered strength to turn round and crawl away, in the
opposite direction, toward the woods. At a distance of several hundred
feet from the forest it seemed to me safe to rise and run for it. But
somebody noticed me from the mine.

“A spy!” went up in a chorus from several throats, and a number of
soldiers set off after me, shooting as they ran.

Nearer and nearer the pursuers came. I raced faster than I ever did
before in my life. Here, within another hundred feet or so, were the
woods. There, I might still hope to hide. I prayed for strength to get
there. Bullets whistled by me, but firing as they ran the men could not
take aim.

The woods! the woods! It was the one thought that possessed my whole
being. Louder and louder grew the shouts behind me:

“A female-spy! A female-spy!”

The woods were within my reach. Another bound, and I was in them.
Onward I dashed like a wild deer. Was it because there were only a few
soldiers left at the post and they could not desert it to engage in
a hunt, or because the men decided that I could not escape from the
forest anyhow, that my pursuers did not follow me into the woods? I
know only that they were satisfied with sending a stream of bullets
into the forest and then ceased to trouble about me.

I concealed myself in a hollow till everything was quiet again. Then I
got out and tried to work out the right direction, but I made a mistake
at first and returned to the edge at which I had entered. I then walked
to the opposite side, struck a path and before taking it, I threw off
my costume of a Sister of Mercy and hid it, drew out my soldier’s
cap, destroyed the passport of Smirnova, and appeared again in my own
uniform. I realized that reports must have been sent out by my pursuers
of a spy dressed as a nurse and determined that as Botchkareva I might
still have a chance of life, but as Smirnova I was done for.

Day was breaking, but it was still dark in the woods. I met a soldier,
who greeted me. I answered gruffly, and he passed on, evidently taking
me for a comrade. A little later I encountered two or three other
soldiers, but again passed them without being suspected. I pulled out
my direct ticket to Kislovodsk and the letter from Princess Tatuyeva.
These were my two trump-cards. After walking for about thirteen miles
I came in view of the station at Zverevo. A decision had to be adopted
without delay. I felt that loitering would be fatal, and so I made up
my mind to go straight to the station, announce my identity, claim that
I had lost my way and surrender myself.

When I opened the door of the station, which was filled with Red
Guards, and appeared on the threshold, the men gaped at me as if I were
an apparition.

“Botchkareva!” they gasped.

Without stopping to hear them I walked up to the first soldier, with
my legs trembling and my heart in my mouth, and said:

“Where is the Commandant? Take me to the Commandant!”

He looked at me with an ugly expression, but obeyed the order and led
me to an office, also packed with Red Guards, where a youth of not
more than nineteen or twenty was introduced to me as the head of the
investigation committee, who was acting as chief in the absence of the
Commandant. Again everybody gave vent to exclamations of surprise at my
unexpected appearance.

“Are you Botchkareva?” the young man inquired, showing me to a seat. I
was pale, weak and travel-worn and I sank into the chair gratefully.
Looking at the young man, hope kindled in my breast. He had a noble,
winning face.

“Yes, I am Botchkareva,” I answered. “I am going to Kislovodsk, to cure
my wound in the spine, and I have lost my way.”

“What were you thinking of? Are you in your senses? We are just
preparing for an offensive against Kornilov. How could you take this
route at such a time? Didn’t you know that your appearance here would
mean your certain death?” the young man asked, greatly agitated over my
fatal blunder.

“Why,” he continued, “I just had a telephone call telling that a
woman-spy had crossed from Kornilov’s side early this morning. They are
looking for her now. You see the situation into which you have brought
yourself!”

The youthful chief was apparently favourably inclined toward me. I
decided to try to win him over completely.

“But I came of my own accord,” I said, breaking into sobs. “I am
innocent. I am just a sick woman, going to take a cure at the springs.
Here is my ticket to Kislovodsk, and here is a letter from a friend of
mine, my former adjutant, inviting me to come to the Caucasus. Surely
you will not murder a poor, sick woman, if not for my own sake, at
least for the sake of my wretched parents.”

Several of the Red Guards present cut short my entreaties with angry
cries:

“Kill her! What is the use of letting her talk! Kill her, and there
will be one slut less in the world!”

“Now wait a minute!” the Acting Commandant interrupted. “She has come
to us of her own free will and is not one of the officers that are
opposing us. There will be an investigation first and we will ascertain
whether she is guilty or innocent. If she is guilty, we will shoot her.”

The words of the chief of the investigation committee gave me courage.
He was evidently a humane and educated man. Subsequently I learned that
he was a university student. His name was Ivan Ivanovitch Petrukhin.

As he was still discoursing, a man dashed in like a whirlwind, puffing,
perspiring, but rubbing his hands in satisfaction.

“Ah, I have just finished a good job! Fifteen of them, all officers!
The boys got them like that,” and he bowed and made a sign across the
legs. “The first volley peppered their legs and threw them in a heap on
the ground. Then they were bayoneted and slashed to pieces. Ha, ha, ha!
There were five others captured with them, cadets. They tried to escape
and the good fellows gouged their eyes out!”

I was petrified. The newcomer was of middle height, heavily built, and
dressed in an officer’s uniform but without the epaulets. He looked
savage, and his hideous laughter sent shudders up my spine. The
bloodthirsty brute! Even Petrukhin’s face turned pale at his entrance.
He was no less a person than the assistant to the Commander-in-Chief of
the Bolshevik Army. His name was Pugatchov.

He did not notice me at first, so absorbed was in the story of the
slaughter of the fifteen officers.

“And here we have a celebrity,” Petrukhin said, pointing at me.

The Assistant Commander made a step forward in military fashion, stared
at me for an instant and then cried out in a terrifying voice:

“Botchkareva!”

He was beside himself with joy.

“Ha, ha, ha!” he laughed diabolically. “Under the old régime. I should
have received an award of the first class for capturing such a spy! I
will run out and tell the soldiers and sailors the good news. They will
know how to take care of her. Ha, ha, ha!”

I arose horror-stricken. I wanted to say something but was speechless.
Petrukhin was greatly horrified too. He ran after Pugatchov, seized him
by the arm, and shouted:

“What is the matter, have you gone mad? Madame Botchkareva came here of
her own accord. Nobody captured her. She is going to Kislovodsk for a
cure. She is a sick woman. She says that she lost her way. Anyhow, she
has never fought against us. She returned home after we took over the
power.”

“Ah, you don’t know her!” exclaimed Pugatchov. “She is a Kornilovka,
the right hand of Kornilov.”

“Well, we are not releasing her, are we?” retorted Petrukhin. “I am
going to call the committee together and have her story investigated.”

“An investigation!” scoffed Pugatchov. “And if you don’t find any
evidence against her, will you let her go? You don’t know her! She is a
dangerous character! How could we afford to save her? I wouldn’t even
waste bullets on her. I would call the men and they would make a fine
gruel of her!”

He made a motion toward the door. Petrukhin kept hold of him.

“But consider, she is a sick woman!” he pleaded. “What is the
investigation committee for if not to investigate before punishing?
Let the committee look into the matter and take whatever action it
considers best.”

At this point the Commandant of the station arrived. He supported
Petrukhin. “You can’t act like that in such a case,” he said, “this
is clearly a matter for the investigation committee. If she is found
guilty, we will execute her.”

Petrukhin went to summon the members of the investigation committee,
who were all, twelve in number, common soldiers. As soon as he told
the news to each member, he told me later, the men became threatening,
talking of the good fortune that brought me into their hands. But
Petrukhin argued with every one of them in my favour, as he was
convinced of the genuineness of my plea. In such a manner he won some
of them over to my side.

Meanwhile Pugatchov paced the room like a caged lion, thirsting for my
blood.

“Ah, if I had only known it before, I would have had you shot in
company with those fifteen officers!” he said to me.

“I should not have the heart to shoot at my own brothers, soldier or
officer,” I remarked.

“Eh, you are canting already,” he turned on me. “We know your kind.”

“Taking you all in all,” I declared, “you are no better than the
officers of the old régime.”

“Silence!” he commanded angrily.

Petrukhin came in with the committee at that instant.

“I must ask you not to make such an uproar,” he said, turning to
Pugatchov, feeling more confident with the committee at his back. “She
is in our hands now, and we will do justice. It is for us to decide if
she is guilty. Leave her alone.”

There were only ten members of the committee within reach. The other
two members were absent and the ten, as they made a quorum, decided to
go on with the work.

“Whether you find her guilty or not, I will not let her get out of
here alive!” Pugatchov declared. “What am I?” he added. “I am no enemy
either.”

However, this threat worked in my favour, as it touched the committee’s
pride. They were not to be overridden like that. Pugatchov demanded
that I should be searched.

“I am at your disposal,” I said, “but before you proceed further I
want to hand over to you this package of money. There are ten thousand
roubles in it, sent to me by Princess Tatuieva, my former adjutant, to
enable me to take the cure at the springs. I kept this money intact,
because I hoped to return it to her upon reaching the Caucasus.”

The money had in reality been given to me by Kornilov, to secure my
parents and myself from starvation in the future.

The valuable package was taken away, without much questioning. I was
then ordered to undress completely. Petrukhin protested against it, but
Pugatchov insisted. The dispute was settled by a vote, the majority
being for my undressing.

The search was painstaking but fruitless. There was the ticket to
Kislovodsk, the letter from Princess Tatuieva, a little bottle of holy
water, given to me by my sister Nadia, and a scapular, presented to me
before leaving for the front by one of the patronesses of the Battalion.

“Ah, now we have got it!” exclaimed Pugatchov, seizing the sacred bag.
“There is the letter from Kornilov!”

The bag was ripped open and a scroll of paper was taken out on which a
psalm had been written in a woman’s hand. I declared that the sin of
tearing it open would fall on their heads and that I would not sew it
up again. One of the soldiers obtained a needle and thread and sewed up
the bag again.

The members of the committee apologized for having been obliged to have
me searched in such a manner.

“What shall you do with me now?” I asked.

“We shall have you shot!” answered Pugatchov.

“What for?” I demanded in despair.

The brute did not reply. He merely smiled.

Petrukhin was afraid to defend me too warmly, lest he should be
suspected of giving aid to a spy. He preferred to work indirectly
for me, by influencing the members of the committee individually.
It was decided, I believe, at the suggestion of Petrukhin, that the
case should be submitted to the Commander-in-Chief, Sablin, for
consideration and sentence. This was merely a device for preventing an
immediate execution, but the feeling among the men was that my death
was certain. Nevertheless, I was deeply grateful to Petrukhin for his
humane attitude. He was a man of rare qualities, and among Bolsheviks
he was almost unique.

I was ordered to a railway carriage used as a jail for captured
officers and other prisoners. It was a death-chamber. Nobody escaped
from it alive. When I was led inside, there were exclamations:

“Botchkareva! How did you get here? Coming from Kornilov?”

“No,” I answered, “I was on my way to Kislovodsk.”

There were about forty men in the car, the greater part of them
officers. Among the latter there were two Generals. They were all
shocked at my appearance among them. When my escort had departed, the
prisoners talked more freely. To some of them I even told the truth,
that I had actually been to Kornilov. None of them gave me any hope.
All were resigned to death.

One of the Generals was an old man. He beckoned to me and I sat down
beside him.

“I have a daughter like you,” he said sadly, putting his arm round
my shoulders. “I had heard of your brave deeds and had come to love
you like my own child. But I never expected to meet you here, in this
death-trap. Is it not dreadful? Here are we, all of us, the best men of
the country, being executed, tormented, crushed by the savage mob. If
it were only for the good of Russia! But Russia is perishing at this
very moment. Perhaps God will save you yet. Then you will avenge us....”

I broke down, convulsed with sobs, and leaned against the General’s
shoulder. The old warrior could not restrain himself either and wept
with me....

The other officers suddenly sang out in a chorus. They sang from
despair, in an effort to keep from collapsing.

I cried long and bitterly. I prayed for my mother.

“Who would support her?” I appealed to Heaven. “She will be forced to
go begging in her old age if I am killed.” Life became very precious to
me, the same life that I had exposed to a hundred perils. I did not
want to die an infamous death, to lie on the field unburied, food for
carrion crows.

“Why haven’t you allowed me to die from an enemy’s bullet?” I asked
of God. “How have I deserved being butchered by the hands of my own
people?”

The door swung open. About forty soldiers filed in. Their leader had a
list of names in his hand.

“Botchkareva!” he called out first.

Somehow my heart leaped with joy. I thought that I was to be released.
But the officers immediately disillusioned me with the statement that
it was a call for execution. I stepped forward and answered:

“I am here!”

“Take off your clothes!”

The order stupefied me. I remained motionless.

Some soldiers came up, pushed me forward and repeated the order several
times. I awoke at last and began to undress.

The old General’s name was read off the list next. Then a number of
other officers were called out. Every one of them was ordered to cast
off the uniform and remain in his undergarments.

The Bolsheviks needed all the uniforms they could get, and this was
such an inexpensive way of obtaining them.

Tears streamed down my cheeks all the time. The old General was near me.

“Don’t cry!” he urged me. “We will die together.”

Not all the prisoners were in our group. Those remaining kissed me
farewell. The partings between the men were alone sufficient to rend
one’s heart.

“Well, we shall follow you in an hour or two,” those who were left
behind said bravely.

After I had taken off my boots, I removed the icon from my neck and
fell before it on my knees.

“Why should I die such a death?” I cried. “For three years I have
suffered for my country. Is this shameful end to be my reward? Have
mercy, Holy Mother! If not for the sake of humble Maria, then for the
sake of my destitute old mother and my aged father! Have mercy!”

Here I collapsed completely and became hysterical.

After a few moments an officer approached me, put his hand on my
shoulder, and said:

“You are a Russian officer. We are dying for a righteous cause. Be
strong and die as it befits an officer to die!”

I made a superhuman effort to control myself. The tears stopped. I
arose and announced to the guards:

“I am ready.”

We were led out from the car, all of us in our undergarments. A few
hundred feet away was the field of slaughter. There were hundreds upon
hundreds of human bodies heaped there. As we approached the place, the
figure of Pugatchov, marching about with a triumphant face, came into
sight. He was in charge of the firing squad, composed of about one
hundred men, some of whom were sailors, others soldiers, and others
dressed as Red Guards.

We were surrounded and taken toward a slight elevation of ground, and
placed in a line with our backs toward the hill. There were corpses
behind us, in front of us, to our left, to our right, at our very feet.
There were at least a thousand of them. The scene was a horror of
horrors. We were suffocated by the poisonous stench. The executioners
did not seem to mind it so much. They were used to it.

I was placed at the extreme right of the line. Next to me was the old
General. There were twenty of us altogether.

“We are waiting for the committee,” Pugatchov remarked, to explain the
delay in the proceedings.

“What a pleasure!” he rubbed his hands, laughing. “We have a woman
to-day.”

“Oh, yes,” he added, turning to us all, “you can write letters home and
ask that your bodies be sent there for burial, if you wish. Or you can
ask for similar favours.”

The suspense of waiting was as cruel as anything else about the place.
Every officer’s face wore an expression of implacable hatred for that
brute of a man, Pugatchov. Never have I seen a more bloodthirsty
scoundrel. I did not think that such a man was to be found in Russia.

The waiting wore me out soon and I fell again on my knees, praying to
the little icon, and crying to Heaven:

“God, when have I sinned to earn such a death? Why should I die like a
dog, without burial, without a priest, with no funeral? And who will
take care of my mother? She will expire when she learns of my end.”

The Bolshevik soldiers burst out laughing. My pleading appealed to
their sense of humour. They joked and made merry.

“Don’t cry, my child,” the General bent over me, patting me. “They are
savages. Their hearts are of stone. They would not even let us receive
the last sacrament. Let us die like heroes, nevertheless.”

His words gave me strength. I got up, stood erect and said:

“Yes, I will die as a hero.”

Then, for about ten minutes I gazed at the faces of our executioners,
scrutinizing their features. It was hard to distinguish in them signs
of humanity. They were Russian soldiers turned inhuman. The lines in
their faces were those of brutal apes.

“My God! What hast Thou done to Thy children?” I prayed.

All the events of my life passed before me in a long procession. My
childhood, those years of hard toil in the little grocer’s shop of
Nastasia Leontievna; the affair with Lazov; my marriage to Botchkarev;
Yasha; the three years of war; they all passed through my imagination,
some incidents strangely gripping my interest for a moment or two,
others flitting by hastily. Somehow that episode of my early life, when
I quarrelled with the little boy placed in my charge and the undeserved
whipping I got from his mother stood out very prominently in my mind.
It was my first act of self-assertion. I had rebelled and escaped....
Then there was that jump into the Ob. It almost seemed that it was not
I who sought relief in its cold, deep waters from the ugly Afanasi. But
I wished that I had been drowned then, rather than die such a death....




                              CHAPTER XIX

                          SAVED BY A MIRACLE


The investigation committee finally appeared in the distance. Petrukhin
was leading it. There were all the twelve members present, the two
absentees apparently having joined the other ten.

“You see, how kind we are,” some of the soldiers said. “We are having
the committee present at your execution.”

Not one of us answered.

“We have all been to see Sablin, the Commander-in-Chief,” Petrukhin
announced as soon as he approached near enough to Pugatchov. “He said
that Botchkareva would have to be shot, but not necessarily now and
with this group.”

A ray of hope was kindled in my soul.

“Nothing of the sort!” Pugatchov bawled angrily. “What’s the matter
here? Why this delay? The list is already made up.”

The soldiers supported Pugatchov.

“Shoot her! Finish her now! What’s the use of bothering with her
again!” cried the men.

But just as Pugatchov guessed that Petrukhin had obtained the delay in
the hope of saving me, so the latter had realized that spoken words
would not be sufficient to secure the fulfilment of his order. He had
provided himself with a note from Sablin.

“Here is an order from the Commander-in-Chief,” Petrukhin declared,
pulling out a paper. “It says that Botchkareva shall be taken to my
compartment in the railway carriage and kept there under guard.”

Pugatchov jumped up as if he had been stung. But the committee now
rallied to the support of Petrukhin, maintaining that orders were
orders, and that I should be executed later.

Not the least interested spectator of the heated discussion was myself.
The officers followed the argument breathlessly, too. The soldiers
grumbled. The forces of life and death struggled within me. Now the
first would triumph, now the second, depending on the turn of the
quarrel.

“That won’t do!” shouted Pugatchov, thrusting aside the order of the
Commander-in-Chief. “It’s too late for orders like that. We will shoot
her! Enough of talking!”

At this moment I became aware that one of the two newly-arrived members
of the committee was staring at me intently. He took a couple of steps
toward me, bent his head sideways and fixed his eyes on me. There was
something about that look that electrified me. As the man, who was a
common soldier, craned his neck forward and stepped out of the group, a
strange silence gripped everybody, so affected were all by the painful
expression on his face.

“A-r-e y-o-u Y-a-s-h-k-a?” he sang out slowly.

“How do you know me?” I asked quickly, almost overpowered by a
presentiment of salvation.

“Don’t you remember how you saved my life in that March offensive, when
I was wounded in the leg and you dragged me out of the mud under fire?
My name is Peter. I should have perished there, in the water, and many
others like me, if not for you. Why do they want to shoot you now?”

“Because I am an officer,” I replied.

“What conversations are you holding here?” Pugatchov thundered. “She
will have to be shot, and no arguments!”

“And I won’t allow her to be shot!” my God-appointed saviour answered
back firmly, and walked up to me, seized my arm, pulled me out of my
place, occupying it himself.

“You will shoot me first!” he exclaimed. “She saved my life. She saved
many of our lives. The entire Fifth Corps knows Yashka. She is a common
peasant like myself, and understands no politics. If you shoot her, you
will have to shoot me first!”

This speech put new life into me. It also touched the hearts of many in
the crowd.

Petrukhin went up, took a place beside Peter and myself, and declared:

“You will shoot me, too, before you execute an innocent, suffering
woman!”

The soldiers were now divided. Some shouted, “Let’s shoot her and make
an end of this squabble! What’s the use of arguments?”

Others were more human. “She is not of the bourgeoisie, but a common
peasant like ourselves,” they argued. “And she does not understand
politics. Perhaps she really was going to seek a cure. She was not
captured, but came to us of her own accord, we must not forget that.”

For some time the place was transformed into a debating-ground. It
was a strange scene for a debate. There were the hundreds of bodies
scattered round us. There were the twenty of us in our under-garments
awaiting death. Of the twenty only I had a chance for life. The
remaining nineteen held themselves stoically erect. No hope stirred
within them. No miracle could save them. And amidst all this a hundred
Russian soldiers, a quarter of an hour before all savages, now half of
them with a spark of humanity in their breasts, were debating!

The members of the committee finally recovered their wits and took
charge of the situation. Turning to Pugatchov, they declared:

“Now we have an order here from the Commander-in-Chief, and it shall be
obeyed. We are going to take her away.”

They closed about me and I was marched out of the line and off the
field. Pugatchov was in a white rage, raving like a madman, grinding
his teeth. As we walked away, his brutal voice roared:

“Fire at the knees!”

A volley rang out. Immediately cries and groans filled the air. Turning
my head, I saw the savages rush upon the heap of victims with their
bayonets, digging them deep into the bodies of my companions of a few
minutes before, and crushing the last signs of life out of them with
their heels.

It was frightful, indescribably frightful. The moans were so
penetrating, so blood-curdling that I staggered, fell to the ground my
full length, and swooned.

For four hours I remained unconscious. When I came to, I was in a
compartment of a railway coach. Petrukhin sat by me, holding my hand,
and weeping.

When I thought of the circumstances that had led to my fainting, the
figure of Pugatchov swam up before my eyes, and I took an oath there
and then to kill him at the first opportunity, if I escaped from the
Bolshevik trap.

Petrukhin then told me that Peter had aroused such compassion for me
among the members of the Investigation Committee that they had agreed
to go with him to Sablin, and petition the Commander-in-Chief to send
me to Moscow for trial by a military tribunal. About fifty soldiers
were also won over to my side by Peter’s accounts of Yashka’s work in
the trenches and No Man’s Land, and of my reputation among all the men.
Petrukhin had remained at my bedside till I recovered consciousness,
but he now wished to join the deputation. I thanked him gratefully for
his kindness towards me and his desperate efforts to save my life.

Before he left, word reached him that Pugatchov had incited some of the
men against me, threatening to kidnap and lynch me before I was taken
away. Petrukhin placed five loyal friends of his at my compartment,
with orders not to surrender me at any cost.

I prayed to God for Petrukhin, and hearing my prayer he said:

“Now, I, too, believe in God. The appearance of this man, Peter, was
truly miraculous. In spite of all my efforts, you would have been
executed but for him.”

“But what are my chances of escaping death now?” I asked.

“They are still very small,” he answered. “Your record is against you.
You do not deny being a friend of Kornilov. Your strict discipline in
the Battalion and your fighting the Germans at a time when the whole
front was fraternizing, are known here. Besides, the death penalty
has become so customary here that it would be very unusual for one to
escape it. Only the other day a physician and his wife, on their way
to Kislovodsk to the springs, somehow arrived in Zverevo. They were
arrested, attached to a party about to be shot, and executed without
any investigation. Afterwards papers from their local Soviet were found
in their clothes, certifying that they were actually ill, the physician
suffering from a cancer, and requesting that they should be allowed to
proceed to Kislovodsk.”

Petrukhin kissed my hand, and left, warning me:

“Wait here till I return. Nobody will harm you in my absence.”

He locked the door behind him. I took out the little bottle of holy
water, given to me by my youngest sister, Nadia, and drank it. On my
knees before the little icon, I prayed long and devoutly to God, Jesus,
and the Holy Mother. My ears caught a noise outside the car: it came
from several menacing soldiers who wanted to get in and kill me on the
spot. I prayed with greater fervour than before, pleading for my life
in the name of my mother, my father and my little sister. My heart was
heavy with sorrow and despair.

As I was hugging the little icon, tears streaming from my eyes, I
suddenly heard a voice, a very tender voice, say to me:

“Your life will be saved.”

I was alone in the compartment. I realize that it is a daring statement
to make. I do not seek to make any one believe it. It may be accepted
or not. But I am satisfied that I did hear the voice of a divine
messenger. It was soothing, elevating. Suddenly I felt happy and calm.
I thanked the Almighty for His boundless grace and vowed to have a
public prayer offered at the Moscow Cathedral of Christ the Saviour at
the first opportunity, in commemoration of His miraculous message to me.

Then I fell asleep, and rested calmly till the arrival of Petrukhin.
His face was wreathed in smiles, he clasped my hand joyfully, saying:

“Thank God! Thank God! You are at least saved from the mob. Sablin
has ordered you to be sent to Moscow. The necessary papers are being
prepared now.”

At this point Peter came in, followed by some members of the
investigation committee. All were happy. It was a wonderful moment.
How an act of humanity transforms men’s countenances! Peter and his
comrades congratulated me, and I was too overcome to express all the
gratefulness that I felt toward these men.

Petrukhin then narrated how he had dealt with the infuriated soldiers,
who had clamoured for my life. He told them that I was being led
away to Moscow in the hope that I would there deliver up several
counter-revolutionary Generals, associated with Kornilov.

“Will she be shot afterwards?” they inquired.

“Of course,” Petrukhin declared. The lynchers went away satisfied.

I was curious to know what would be done to me in Moscow. Petrukhin
replied to my inquiries that among the papers relating to my case,
which my escort would take with them to Moscow, the chief document
was the protocol. That protocol had been drawn up by himself, in the
capacity of chairman of the Investigation Committee. He described in it
how I had lost my way while going to Kislovodsk, getting stranded at
Zverevo, and how I had reported of my own free will to the authorities,
adding that I had with me a ticket to Kislovodsk, an invitation from
Princess Tatuyeva to come to the Caucasus, _and a certificate from a
physician certifying to my ill-health_. The last was, of course, an
invention. Petrukhin sent the ticket and the letter from Tiflis, adding
that he had misplaced the physician’s certificate and would send it on
later.

“It is unlikely,” he said to me, “that you would be punished with death
in the face of such evidence. I should expect your release, sooner or
later. But in any event, here is a poison pill. I prepared it for you
originally to take in case the mob got their way, so that you should
escape torture at the hands of these savages. I hope you will not need
to resort to it in Moscow.”

I still carry with me that poison pill wherever I go....

Petrukhin gave me forty roubles for expenses, as I was penniless. I
thanked him and asked him to write a letter to my people, telling them
where I was. We then took leave of one another. Petrukhin and Peter
exchanged kisses with me, and I again and again reiterated how much I
owed to them, swearing that in any future emergency, whatever happened,
I would always be ready to do everything within my power for them. We
all realized that many a change was still in store for Mother Russia,
before she settled down to a peaceful existence.

Accompanied by my friends and surrounded by four armed guards, forming
my escort, I was led to an empty railway coach, attached to an engine.
On this train, consisting of cattle-trucks and my coach, I was taken to
Nikitino. There I was brought before the Commandant, with a request to
provide accommodation for the party on an ordinary train. It was the
very Commandant who had helped me so generously to get to Zverevo on
the munition train. Of course, he did not recognize the Sister of Mercy
in Botchkareva.

On the platform I had another striking encounter. The news that
Botchkareva had been seized and was being taken to Moscow became known
in the station and a number of Red Guards and soldiers gathered about
me, showering upon me insults, curses and threats. Among these, in the
foremost rank, was the repulsive-looking man who was in charge of the
train on which I went to Zverevo and who had proposed marriage to me.

The beast did not recognize me now. He sneered in my face, and
repeated my name syllable by syllable, taking a peculiar joy in
distorting it and railing generally at my appearance and reputation.

“The slut! We have got her, the harlot!” he raved. “Only I can’t
understand why they didn’t shoot her there. Why bother with such a
slut!”

I could not help laughing. I laughed long, without restraint. It was
so amusing. I was almost tempted to disclose to him how I had duped
him. He still has no idea that Alexandra Smirnova, whose fictitious
address at Kislovodsk he, in all probability, cherishes yet, was Maria
Botchkareva!

For three days I travelled with my escort from Nikitino to Moscow. I
was treated with consideration, but always as a prisoner. The guards
would get food for me and themselves at the stations on the way. Upon
our arrival at Moscow I was taken in a motor-car to the Soldiers’
Section of the Soviet, established in what was formerly the Governor’s
mansion. My guards delivered me to a civilian, with all the documents
of the case, and left.

“What, coming from Kornilov?” the official asked me gruffly.

“No, I was on my way to take the cure at Kislovodsk,” I replied.

“Ah, yes, we know those cures! What about the epaulets? Why did you
take them off?”

“Because I am a plain peasant woman. I have defended my country bravely
for three years. I am not guilty.”

“Well, we will see about that later,” he interrupted and ordered me to
be led away to prison.

I was locked up in a small cell, in which there were already about
twenty prisoners, officers and civilians, all arrested by agents
who had overheard them talk against the Bolshevik régime! A fine
reincarnation of the worst methods of Tsarism.

The cell was in a frightful condition. There was no lavatory in it,
and the inmates were not permitted to leave the room! The stench was
indescribable. The men smoked incessantly. The prisoners were not even
allowed to take the short, daily promenade outside, which was granted
by the old régime.

Apparently in order to make me confess, I was subjected to a new form
of torture, never practised by the Tsar’s jailers. I was denied food!
For three days I did not receive even the niggardly ration given to the
other prisoners. My companions were all kind to me, but the portions
that they received were barely enough to sustain life in their own
bodies. So for three days and three nights, I lay on the bunk, in a
heap under a cover, on the point of suffocation, starved, feverish, and
thirsty, as no water was allowed me.

During these days the Commandant of the prison, a sailor, would come in
several times daily to torment me with his tongue.

“What are you going to do to me?” I asked.

“What? You will be shot!” was his answer.

“Why?”

“Ha, ha. Because you are a friend of Kornilov’s.”

Those were the hours when I hugged the pill given me by Petrukhin,
expecting every moment an order to face a firing squad.

Soon one of the arrested officers, who had been caught cursing
Bolshevism while drunk, was set free. Before he went some of his
companions intrusted him with messages to their relatives. I thought
of the Vasilievs, who had so kindly taken me from the hospital to
their home in the autumn of 1916, and begged the officer to visit them
and tell them of my plight. He promised to do so and carried out his
pledge. I sent them a message that I expected to be executed and asked
their help.

When Daria Maximovna got the message she was horrified and immediately
set out to get permission to see me. But when she called at the
Soldiers’ Section for a pass to see Botchkareva, she was taken for a
friend of Kornilov’s and would have been badly mauled if not for the
fact that her son Stepan, who had belonged to my Company and who had
brought about the friendship between his mother and myself, was now one
of the Bolshevik chiefs. Daria Maximovna cried out that she was the
mother of Stepan Vasiliev, of such and such a department, and he was
brought to identify his mother.

This rescued her from a severe punishment. She appealed to her son to
intervene in my behalf, but he refused, saying that he could not come
to the aid of an avowed friend of Kornilov’s. He, however, obtained a
pass to my cell for his mother. Later he responded to her entreaties
and did say a few good words for me, telling the proper authorities
that I was a simple peasant woman with no understanding of politics.

On the fourth day of my imprisonment I received a quarter of a pound of
bread, some tea and two cubes of sugar. The bread was black, consisting
partly of straw. I could not even touch it and had to satisfy myself
with three cups of tea. Later in the day a sailor came in, and,
addressing me as comrade, informed me that one Vasilieva was waiting to
see me. I was weak, so weak that I could not move a few feet without
assistance. As soon as I got up and made a step, I sank back on the bed
in a helpless condition.

“Are you ill?” the sailor asked.

“Yes,” I murmured.

He took me by the arm and led me to a chair in the office. I was bathed
in perspiration after the little walk and so dizzy that I could not
see anything. When Daria Maximovna saw me she fell on my neck and wept.
Turning to the officials, she cried out bitterly:

“How could you ever have such a woman arrested and subjected to
torture? A woman who was so kind to the soldiers, and suffered so much
for your own brothers!”

She then opened a package, took out some bread and butter, and handed
them to me with these words:

“Manka, here is a quarter of a pound of bread. All we got to-day was
three-eighths of a pound. And this is a quarter of a pound of butter,
our entire ration.”

I was full of gratitude to this dear woman and her children, who
had sacrificed their own portions for me. The bread was good. The
difficulty was, according to Daria Maximovna, to get enough for them
all. Even their meagre ration was not always obtainable.

I then told her my troubles and the punishment I was expecting, begging
her to write to my mother in case of my execution.

I spent two weeks in that abominable cell before I was taken before
the tribunal. I was marched along the Tverskaya, Moscow’s chief
thoroughfare, and recognized on the way by the crowds. The tribunal was
quartered in the Kremlin. For a couple of hours I waited there, at the
end of which time I was surprised to see Stepan Vasiliev come in and
approach me.

“Marusia, how did you ever get into this?” he asked me, shaking my hand
and inviting me to sit down.

I told him the story of my going to Kislovodsk to take the cure.

“But how did you ever get to Zverevo?” he inquired.

“I had a ticket to Kislovodsk. I did not know that Zverevo was such a
forbidden place. Once they sold me a ticket, I thought it all right to
follow the regular route,” I answered excitedly.

“I spent a couple of hours yesterday examining your case and the
documents relating to it, but I could not quite understand how you got
to Zverevo,” Stepan said. “Perhaps you really did go to see Kornilov?”

“I do not deny my friendship for Kornilov,” I declared, glad at heart
that Stepan had turned up in such a position of authority. “But you
know that I am almost illiterate and understand no politics and do
not mix with any party. I fought in the trenches for Russia and it is
Mother Russia alone that interests me. All Russians are my brothers.”

Stepan answered that he knew of my ignorance of political matters. He
then went out to report to the tribunal, and shortly afterwards I was
called in. There were six men, all common soldiers, seated at a long
table covered with a green cloth, in the middle of a large hall, richly
decorated. I was asked to sit down and tell my story, and how I got
into Zverevo. The six judges were all young men, not one of them over
thirty.

I was about to rise from the chair to tell my story, but was very
courteously asked to remain seated. I then told of my wound in the
back, of the operation that I still needed for the extraction of a
piece of shell, and of my consulting a Petrograd physician who had
advised me to go to the Springs at Kislovodsk. I said that I had heard
of the fighting between Kornilov and the Bolsheviks, at Novotcherkask,
but had no idea what a civil war was like and had never thought of
a front in such a struggle. I, therefore, continued my journey to
Nikitino, where the Commandant had sent me on to Zverevo. Of course, I
failed to mention the fact that the Commandant had sent on to Zverevo,
not Botchkareva, but Smirnova, a Sister of Mercy. I concluded with the
statement that as soon as I reached Zverevo I realized that I was in a
dangerous situation, and had surrendered to the local authorities.

I was informed that it would take a week for my case to be cleared
up and a decision reached. Instead of sending me to the Butirka, the
prison in which I had spent the last two weeks, I was taken to the
military guard house, opposite the Soldiers’ Section. Drunken sailors
and Red Guards were usually confined there. The room in which I was put
was narrow and long, the windows were large but closely grated. There
were about ten prisoners in it.

“Ah, Botchkareva! Look who’s here!”

I was met with these words as soon as I crossed the threshold. They
quickly turned into phrases of abuse and ridicule. I was quiet, and
sought seclusion and rest in a corner, but in vain. The inmates were
Bolsheviks of the lowest sort, degenerates and former criminals. I was
the object of their constant ill-treatment, so that torturing me day
and night became their diversion. If I tried to sleep, I soon found
some one near me. When I ate or drank, the beasts assembled about
me, showering insults on me and playing dirty tricks. Weeping had no
effect on them. Night after night I was forced to stay awake, sometimes
throwing myself upon an intruder with my teeth in an effort to drive
him away. I implored the warder to give me a cell to myself.

“Let it be a cold, gloomy hole. Give me no food. But take me away from
these drunken brutes!” I would plead.

“We will take you away soon--to shoot you!” the warder would joke in
reply, amid the uproarious laughter of my tormentors.

The appointed week elapsed and still there was no decision in my
case. The days--long, cruel, agonizing days--passed slowly by. The
impossibility of sleeping was above all so torturing that it drove me
to a state actually bordering on insanity. Two and a half weeks I lived
in that inferno, seventeen days without a single full night’s sleep!

Then one morning the warder, who had delighted daily in telling
me stories of what would be done to me, very vivid stories of
frightfulness, came in with some papers in his hand.

“Botchkareva!” he called out to me. “You are free.” And he opened the
door facing me.

I was so surprised that I thought at first that this was another trick
to torture me.

“Free?” I asked. “Why?” I had grown to believe the warder’s tales of
what awaited me, and I could not imagine him as the carrier of such
tidings.

“Am I free for good?” I asked.

“Yes,” was the answer. “You will go with a guard to the Soldiers’
Section, where you will get the necessary papers.”

I bade farewell, with a sigh of relief, to the chamber of horrors, and
went immediately to get the document from the tribunal, which stated
that I had been arrested but found innocent of the charge and that,
as I was ill, I was to be allowed complete freedom of movement in the
country. With this passport in my pocket I was set at liberty.




                              CHAPTER XX

                        I SET OUT ON A MISSION


The Vasilievs were the only people I could go to in Moscow. They lived
on the outskirts of the city. I made an attempt to walk to their house,
but was too weak to proceed more than two blocks. There was a cabman
near at hand, but he wanted twenty-five roubles to take me to my
friends. I tried to bargain, offering fifteen, but he would not hear of
it. As I had no money, I finally hired the cab in the hope that Daria
Maximovna would pay for it. The alternative was to remain where I was.

Madame Vasilieva received me as if I were her own daughter. She was
overwhelmed with joy at my release. I was too weak and worn out to
appreciate fully my miraculous deliverance from torture and death. I
was given some light food, and Daria Maximovna began to prepare a bath
for me. I had not changed my undergarments for several weeks, and my
body was blacker than it ever had been during my life in the trenches.
My skin was in a terrible condition from vermin. The bath was a greater
relief at the moment than my release itself. And the long hours of
sleep following it were even more welcome. I doubt if sleep ever tasted
sweeter to any one.

It was impossible to remain long as a guest in Moscow in those early
days of March, 1918. Stepan lived away from his home, as he and
his parents held widely divergent views in regard to the political
situation. The family consisted of Daria Maximovna, her husband and the
younger son. The daughter, Tonetchka, was married and lived elsewhere.
The three Vasilievs received daily a pound and one-eighth of bread!
The weekly meat ration was a pound and a half. I, therefore, promptly
realized what a burden I was bound to be. But I could not make up my
mind where to go and what to do. The Vasilievs offered to buy me a
ticket home, but the document I had from the Soldiers’ Section was in
itself a ticket.

I recalled that some of my wounded girls had been sent to Moscow, to
be quartered in the Home for Invalids, and I thought of looking them
up. I took a walk to the city. When I approached the block in which the
Home was situated, I noticed a crowd in the street, largely composed
of soldiers, holding meetings of indignation. When I reached the Home
I saw a number of wounded soldiers, some of them without legs or arms,
dispersed about the front grounds.

On inquiry I learned that the Bolshevist authorities had turned the
hundreds of crippled inmates of the Home into the street. Many of them,
including my girls, had already disappeared, some no doubt being forced
to beg, others being cared for by charitable people and societies. But
still a goodly number remained, crying, cursing Lenin and Trotzky, and
asking passers-by for food and shelter. It was a pathetic sight. The
cruelty of the order made one’s blood boil. It was evidently an act of
wanton brutality. The excuse that the Government needed the building
was certainly no justification for it.

There were about two hundred soldiers in the crowd, and I stopped to
listen to their conversation. All of them had been attracted to the
place by the complaints of the ejected invalids. Their talk came as a
revelation to me. They were in a mutinous spirit, stirred up against
the régime of Lenin and Trotzky. For several hours I lingered round the
various groups, sometimes taking part in the discussions.

“See what you have brought about by your own acts. You have shamefully
beaten and killed your officers. You have forgotten God and destroyed
the Church. Now, this is the result of your deeds.” In some such manner
I would address the men, and they would answer somewhat as follows:

“We believed that by overthrowing our officers and the wealthy class,
we should have plenty of bread and land. But now the factories are
demolished and there is no work. We are terrorized by the Red Guards,
who are recruited mostly from drunkards and criminals. If there are any
honest soldiers among them, it is because hunger and poverty force them
to enlist in order to escape starvation. If we demand justice and fair
play, we are shot down by the Red executioners. And all the while the
Germans are advancing into Russia, and nobody is sent to fight them,
our real enemies.”

At these words I crossed myself, thanking the Almighty for the deep
change He had wrought in the minds of the people.

The crowd became so excited that the authorities were notified and
a detachment of the Red Guard was sent to suppress it. It arrived
suddenly and warned us to disperse by firing a volley into the air. The
gathering separated and vanished from the street. A group of about ten
soldiers, including myself, rushed into a neighbouring courtyard and
continued the conversation there behind the gates.

“See, what you get now! If you were armed, they would not dare to
treat you like that. They made you surrender your arms and now oppress
you worse than the Tsar. Who ever heard of a thousand sick persons
being thrown out into the street under the old régime?” I asked.

“Yes, we have been betrayed. It is clear now. The Germans are taking
away all our bread, occupying our land, destroying our country,
demanding all our money and possessions. We have been betrayed,” nodded
several men.

“Ah, so you are beginning to see the truth!”

“Yes, we are,” declared one fellow. “A month ago I wouldn’t have talked
to you. I was then the chairman of a local Soviet. But I see what it
all means now. We are being arrested, searched, robbed, terrorized by
the Red Guard mercenaries. I would, myself, shoot Lenin and Trotzky for
this outrageous treatment of the hospital patients. A month ago I was
a fool, but I see now that I was all wrong in my ideas about you and
other opponents of the Bolsheviks. You are not an enemy of the people,
but a friend.”

Accompanied by a couple of soldiers I walked away. One of them told me
he had seen one of my girls begging, after she had been turned out of
the Home. My heart ached at the thought, but I was absolutely without
means. What could I have done for her? We reached the Cathedral of
Christ the Saviour and I remembered the vow I had made to have a public
mass celebrated in commemoration of my miraculous escape from death.

I took leave of my companions and entered the church. There were about
five or six hundred people there. On that very day, I believe, the
order was promulgated separating the Church from the State. All the
devout members of the Cathedral came to the Communion service that
afternoon.

I went to see the deacon in the vestry and told him of the miracle
that had been vouchsafed me and the vow I had made. I did not fail
to mention the fact that I was penniless and could not pay for the
service. At the conclusion of the Communion, the priest announced:

“There has just come here a Christian woman who has suffered greatly
for the country and whose name is known throughout the land. A miracle
saved her in a desperate moment. God listened to her prayers and sent
her an old friend, whose life she had once saved, on the eve of her
execution. The execution was postponed. She then prayed to God again,
and a divine voice informed her that her life would be spared. She
vowed to offer public prayers in this Cathedral in the event of her
release. The Lord mercifully granted her freedom, and she is now here
to fulfil the vow.”

The priest then asked the deacon to bring me up to the altar. When I
was led there, a murmur went through the assembly:

“Heavens! It’s Botchkareva!”

Candles were lit and for fifteen minutes prayers of praise to the Lord
were read, glorifying His name.

I returned to the Vasilievs by tram. On the car there were many
soldiers, and again their conversation cheered me up.

“A fine end we have come to! The Germans are moving nearer and nearer,
and here they are shooting and arresting the people!” the men said to
one another. “Why don’t they send the Red Guard to resist the enemy? We
are being sold to the Germans.”

This was my second encounter with sober-minded soldiers in one day.
I arrived at Daria Maximovna’s in high spirits. The awakening of the
Russian soldier had begun!

I had left my medals and crosses in Petrograd before starting out on
the fateful errand. Borrowing some money from Madame Vasilieva, I went
to Petrograd to fetch them. The railway carriage in which I travelled
was packed with about a hundred and fifty soldiers. But they were no
longer the cut-throats, the incensed and revengeful ruffians of two
months ago. They did not threaten. They did not brag. The kindness of
their true natures had again asserted itself. They even made a place
for me, inviting me to sit down.

“Please, Madame Botchkareva,” they said, “take this seat.”

“Thank you, comrades,” I answered.

“No, don’t call us comrades any more. It’s a disgrace now. The
comrades are at present fleeing from the front, while the Germans are
threatening Moscow,” some of them remarked.

I felt among friends. This comradeship was what endeared the Russian
soldier to my heart. Not the comradeship of the agitators, not the
comradeship so loudly proclaimed in the Bolshevik manifestoes and
proclamations, but the true comradeship that had made the three years
in the trenches the happiest of my life. That old spirit again filled
the air. It was almost too good to be true. After the nightmare of
revolutions and terror, it seemed like a dream. The soldiers were
actually cursing Bolshevism, denouncing Lenin and Trotzky!

“How has it come about that you all talk so sensibly?” I asked.

“Because the Germans are advancing on Moscow, and Lenin and Trotzky
don’t even raise a finger to stop them,” came the answer. “A soldier
has escaped from Kiev and has just telegraphed that the Germans are
seizing Russians and sending them to Germany to help to fight against
the Allies. Lenin and Trotzky told us that the Allies were our
enemies. We now see that they are our friends.”

Another soldier, who had been home on leave, told of an armed Red Guard
detachment that had descended on his village one fine day and robbed
the peasants of all the bread they had, the product of their sweat and
toil, exposing them to starvation.

“The people are hungry, that’s why they join the Red Guard,” one of
the men remarked. “At least then they get food and arms with which to
plunder. It is getting so that no one is safe unless he belongs to the
Red Guard.”

“But why don’t you do something?” I addressed myself to them.
“Everywhere I see the people are indignant, but they do nothing to cast
off the yoke.”

“We have demanded more than once the resignation of Lenin and Trotzky.
There were large majorities against them at several elections. But they
are supported by the Red Guard and keep themselves in power in spite of
the will of the people. The peasants are against them almost to a man.”

“The more reason why you should act,” I said. “Something ought to be
done!”

“What? Tell us what!” several inquired.

“Even to get together, for instance, and re-establish the front!” I
suggested.

“We would, but we have nobody we can trust to lead us. All our good
people are fighting among themselves,” they argued. “Besides, we should
need arms and food.”

“You just said that the Allies were our friends. Suppose we asked them
to send us arms and food and help us to reorganize the front, would you
be willing to fight the Germans again?” I inquired.

“Yes,” answered some, “we would.”

“No,” replied others; “what if the Allies got into Russia and wanted to
take advantage of us, like the Germans?”

“Well, you must elect your own leader to co-operate with the Allies
only on condition that we fight till we defeat the enemy and finish the
war,” I proposed.

“But whom could we choose as our leader?” the men persisted. “All our
chiefs are divided. Some are reputed to be monarchists. Others are said
to be exploiters of the poor working people. Others are declared to be
German agents. Where could we find a man who did not belong to one or
other of these parties?”

“What if I, for instance, took charge, and became your leader?” I
ventured to ask. “Would you follow me?”

“Yes, yes!” they cried. “We could trust you. You are a peasant
yourself. But what could you do?”

“What could I do? You know that these scoundrels are destroying Russia.
The Germans are seizing everything they can lay hold on. I would try to
restore the front!”

“But how?” they asked.

At this moment, the idea of going to America originated in my mind. We
had all heard that America was now one of the Allies.

“What if I should go to America to ask there for help?” I ventured.

My companions all burst out laughing. America is so remote and so
unreal to the Russian peasant. It did not sound like a practical
proposition to the soldiers. But they raised only one objection.

“How would you ever get there? The Bolsheviks and Red Guards will never
let you out of the country,” they said.

“But if I did get there and to the other Allies,” I insisted, “and
came back with an army and equipment, would you join me then, and would
you persuade all your friends to come with you?”

“Yes, we would! Yes! We know that you could not be bought. You are one
of us!” they shouted.

“In that event, I will go to America!” I announced resolutely, there
and then making up my mind to go. The soldiers would not believe me.
When we reached Petrograd, and I parted from them affectionately, with
their blessings following me, I did not forget to warn them to remember
their pledge upon hearing of my return from foreign lands with troops.

I spent only a few hours in Petrograd and did not go to see General X.
I got my war decorations from the woman friend with whom I had left
them, and saw only a few of my acquaintances. I told all of them of
the great change in the state of mind of the soldiers, and they were
delighted.

“Thank God!” they exclaimed. “If the soldiers are waking up, then
Russia will yet be saved.”

After dinner I took a train back to Moscow. As usual, soldiers
formed the bulk of the passengers. I listened to their discussions
attentively, although this time I took no part in them, as there were a
few Bolsheviks among the men, and I did not wish to divulge my plans. I
heard many curse Lenin and Trotzky, and all expressed their willingness
to go to fight the Germans. One fellow asked:

“How could you fight them, without leaders and organization?”

“Ah, that’s the trouble,” answered several at once. “We have no
leaders. If some appeared and only appealed to us, we would make short
work of the Bolsheviks and drive the Germans out of Russia.”

I said nothing, but I took good note of their words. The people were
groping for light. It strengthened my determination to go to the Allied
countries in search of help for Russia. But it was necessary to evolve
some plan whereby I could get out of the country. A happy thought then
occurred to me: I would make my destination the home of my valued
friend, Mrs. Emmeline Pankhurst in London.

Upon my arrival at Moscow, I announced to the Vasilievs my decision to
go to London. It was explained to me that the only way out of Russia
lay through Vladivostok, and that I should have to cross America before
coming to England. That suited me perfectly.

Before taking the necessary steps for the departure I resolved to
look up my girls and I visited a hospital to which my poor little
soldiers were said to have been taken. When I arrived at the address
I found the building closed and was referred to a certain professor,
whom I finally traced. He told me that those of the girls who were not
severely wounded had left for their homes. Only about thirty invalids
remained. Five of these were suffering from shell shock and were either
hysterical or insane. Many of the others were nervous wrecks. He had
worked hard to get them into the Home for Invalids, but hardly had they
arrived there when the building was requisitioned by the Bolsheviks and
the inmates turned out into the streets. Vera Michailovna, a wealthy
woman, had rescued them from the streets and sheltered them in her
house, but just before my visit she had telephoned to him that the
Bolsheviks had now requisitioned her own house, and she was at a loss
to know how to dispose of the girls. He concluded with the suggestion
that both of us should go over to Vera Michailovna.

With a heavy heart I entered the large house in which my unfortunate
girls were staying, expecting every moment to be ordered to leave. My
visit was a complete surprise to them. But there was no joy in my heart
as I crossed the threshold of their room. It was not a happy re-union.
I had no means with which to help them, no power, no influential
friends.

“The Commander! the Commander!” the women exclaimed joyously as soon
as they saw me, rushing toward me, throwing themselves upon my neck,
kissing me, hugging me.

“The Commander has come! She will save us! She will get us money,
bread, a home!”

They danced about me in high glee, making me feel even more bitter and
miserable.

“My dear girls!” I said, in order to undeceive them at once, “I am
myself penniless and hungry. You mustn’t expect any help of me now.”

“No matter! You know how to get everything!” they said confidently.
“You will take us to fight the Bolsheviks as we fought the Germans!”

There was a conference between Vera Michailovna, the professor and
myself on the problem confronting us. Vera Michailovna suggested that I
should take the girls along with me to my village. I rejected the idea
at first, both because I did not intend to remain at Tutalsk, but only
to pass through it on the way to Vladivostok and because of my lack
of funds. Vera Michailovna, however, insisted that the wisest thing
in the circumstances would be to take them away from Moscow. She told
me that several of the girls had been enticed away and maltreated by
the Bolshevik soldiers and that the result of leaving them in Moscow
would be their ruin. She offered to provide tickets for them all to my
village and a thousand roubles in ready money. I finally consented to
take my invalids with me, hoping to obtain sufficient funds in America
to ensure them a life of peace and comfort.

I had resolved to go to America. But I had no funds. As my destination
was to be London, for the reasons mentioned, I thought of seeking
assistance from the British Consul in Moscow. With the aid of the
Vasilievs I succeeded in finding the Consul’s offices and went to
see him. There were many people waiting to see the Consul, and I was
informed that he could not be seen. His secretary came out and asked me
the purpose of my call. I gave him my name, told him of my plight and
of my decision to go to London, to visit Mrs. Pankhurst, and asked for
aid on the ground that I had fought and sacrificed much for the cause
of Russia and the Allies. He reported my presence to the Consul, who
received me almost immediately.

The Consul was very courteous. He met me with a smile and a cordial
handshake, said that he had read in the papers of my arrest at Zverevo
and inquired what he could do for me. I showed him the document from
the Soviet, but did not reveal to him the fact of my mission to
Kornilov, adding:

“Consul, this paper, as you see, allows me freedom of movement. I want
to take advantage of it and go to London, to visit my friend, Mrs.
Pankhurst. But I am without means. I came to ask you to send me, as a
soldier, who had fought for the Allied cause, to England. If Russia
should awake, I shall eagerly resume my service on behalf of this
cause.”

The Consul explained that the Bolsheviks would not allow him to
draw on the Consulate’s deposits in the banks, but, in view of my
circumstances, he could supply me with some money for expenses. As to
my visit to London, he said there were almost insuperable difficulties
in the way, even for his own countrymen, let alone Russians.

But I would not alter my mind, and persisted in begging him to send me
to his country. He promised to consider the matter and give a definite
answer that night. He then invited me to dine with him at eight o’clock
that evening.

When I returned for dinner the Consul informed me that he had already
telegraphed to the British Consul at Vladivostok of my going to London
by way of America, requesting him to aid me in every way he could. At
dinner I told the Consul how Mrs. Pankhurst had come to know me, but
kept to myself the real purpose of my journey, as I feared that the
Consul would not want to antagonize the Bolsheviks by extending his
protection to me. He gave me five hundred roubles (about £52 15_s._
6_d._), and I decided to leave immediately. A Siberian express was
leaving at 12.40 the same night. I had a few hours left to get my girls
to the station and to bid farewell to the Vasilievs.

My immediate destination was Tutalsk, on the Great Siberian Line. I was
uneasy about the treatment our party might receive from the soldiers,
who occupied three-quarters of the space on the train. But here again
the mental transformation was obvious. The passengers discussed
affairs sensibly. There were many officers on the train, but they
were not molested. The soldiers were friendly to them and to us. The
all-absorbing topic was the advance of the Germans. Lenin and Trotzky
were cursed and denounced as despots worse even than the Tsar. There
were many refugees from the newly-invaded provinces, and their tales
further increased the mutinous spirit of the men.

“We were promised bread and land. Now the Germans are taking both away.”

“We wanted an end to the war, but Lenin has got us into a worse
position than before.”

“We went to the Bolshevist offices and told them of our hunger, and
they advised us to enlist in the Red Guard.”

“It is impossible to find work, all the factories are shut down or
disorganized.”

These and similar sentiments were expressed on every side. Underlying
them all was a greater hatred for the Germans than ever. There was
no doubt in my mind that those men were ready to follow any trusted
leader, with arms and food, against the Germans.

At Tcheliabinsk the train stopped for a couple of hours. There were two
regiments stationed there, and there were several hundred soldiers on
the express. A meeting was quickly organized quite near the station,
within a short distance of the place where I had been thrown off the
train some three months ago. But how different was the mood of the
masses now! There were thousands at the meetings. A refugee addressed
the crowd. He made a stirring, sarcastic speech.

“Every one of us,” he began, “has something at stake in Russia. We
all want to defend our country. We have all made our sacrifices. For
three years I fought in this war. Then I was set free to return home.
But I found my home in the hands of the Germans. I could not return.
I lost my parents, my wife, my sisters! What do I now get for all my
sacrifices?

“Liberty! I came to Petrograd. For three days I went hungry. I was not
alone. There were many other soldiers who suffered the same fate. They
gave us no bread. What have we gained?

“Liberty!

“I went to see the chief of the Government in Petrograd. But I was not
admitted to him. I was nearly beaten to death and thrown out of the
building. Why?

“Liberty!

“The Germans are taking everything they can lay hands on, and at the
same time the Red Guard is being strengthened in order to fight--whom,
the Germans?--no, the so-called bourgeoisie! But are they not our own
brethren, our own blood? In whose name are we urged to slaughter our
own people while the Germans ravish our land?

“In the name of Liberty!

“Our country has been disgraced and ruined and still we are being
called upon to destroy our own educated and intelligent classes.

“Is this liberty?

“I hear that in Moscow a thousand invalids were thrown out into the
street. These invalids are soldiers like yourselves and myself, only
maimed and crippled for life. Why were they thrown out?

“For the sake of liberty!”

We were all deeply impressed by this speech. Not a single voice was
raised in protest. Every heart felt that the liberty we had received
was not the kind of liberty we had dreamed of. We wanted peace,
happiness, brotherhood, not civil war, foreign invasions, strife,
starvation and disease.

Another speaker arose and said:

“He is right. We have been deceived and disgraced. We go hungry and no
one cares. But how can we get out of this shameful situation? We should
have to overthrow the present leaders, and re-establish the front. The
Japanese are already moving into Siberia, and the Germans are occupying
Russia, all because we are divided. We shall be under some foreign yoke
if we don’t join our forces. We quarrelled with our officers, but how
can we ever hope to do anything without officers? We might make peace
with them, but where can we get arms to overthrow our present leaders,
who have surrounded themselves with bands of Red Guards?”

For a moment the vast gathering remained silent. It was a pathetic
calm. There was a painful sense that our much-cherished freedom had
turned into an oppressive bondage.

Suddenly a couple of men raised their voices, shouting protests,
denouncing the speaker, even threatening him. They were promptly seized
and placed under arrest, and quiet was restored.

“Allow me to answer the question!” I shouted to the chairman from the
distant place I occupied.

“Botchkareva! It’s Botchkareva!” a number of voices passed the word to
the platform, and immediately I was lifted up and carried on to the
platform.

“It’s a pleasure to speak to you now,” I began, “only a few weeks ago
you would have torn me to pieces.”

“Yes, it’s true! We killed many!” several men interrupted. “But we were
told that the officers wanted to enslave us, that’s why we killed them.
We now see that our real enemies are not the officers, but the Germans.”

“Before I answer the question put by the previous speaker, let me ask
you what your attitude is toward the Allies?” I said.

“America, England, and France we trust. They are our friends. They are
free countries. But we distrust Japan. Japan wants Siberia,” came in
reply from many directions.

Here a soldier interrupted and asked permission to ask a question. It
was granted.

“I can’t understand why our Allies do not defend us,” he said. “Not
even one of them has come to our help at a time when Germany is
devouring our land. The Allied envoys are running away from Russia, and
those that remain do not listen to the voice of the masses, but to the
representatives of Lenin and Trotzky. At Moscow I saw an official of
the Soviet escort an Englishman to a train. I was hungry. There were
hundreds of soldiers like me at the station. Our hearts were aching. We
wanted to give him a message, but he did not even turn to us. Instead,
he warmly shook hands with the Soviet official.”

“What if we should appeal to the Allies, to America, England, and
France, to furnish us with bread, arms and money for the reconstruction
of the front?” I resumed.

“How can we trust them?” I was interrupted again. “They will come here
and work in league with Lenin and his band of bloodsuckers.”

“Why not join forces and elect a Constituent Assembly, and let your own
leaders co-operate with the Allies?” I suggested.

“But whom could we choose?”

“That we would decide later. There are plenty of good men still left in
Russia,” I answered. “But what if I, for instance, should want to do
something, would you trust me?”

“Yes, yes! We know you! You are of the people!” hundreds of voices
cried out.

“Well, let me tell you then, I am going to America and England. If I
should succeed and come back with an Allied force, would you come to
aid me in saving Russia?”

“Yes, we will! Yes, yes!” the crowd roared.

With this the meeting ended. The train was now about to start and we
hurried towards it, singing on the way. I felt happy and hopeful.
Several thousand soldiers were not to be disregarded. They were
almost unanimous in their new view of the country’s condition. Taken
in combination with what I had observed in Moscow and on the way to
Petrograd, this meeting further reinforced my hopes for Russia’s
salvation. It was obviously a phenomenon of widespread occurrence, this
awakening of the soldiers.

My mother had received Petrukhin’s letter, and for six weeks had
mourned me as dead. She was overwhelmed with joy upon my return, but
became a little uneasy as she perceived a long line of girls, many of
them almost barefoot, file after me into the little hut. She took me
aside and asked what it meant, confiding to me that she had only fifty
roubles left of the money I had brought home on my previous visit. I
begged her to be patient and assured her that I would arrange matters
promptly. I immediately went to the owner of the hut and several others
of the leading peasants of the community, got them together, explained
to them the situation, informed them that I had only one thousand
roubles to spend toward the support of the girls, and asked if they
would undertake to feed and house them on credit till my return from
America.

“I swear that I will pay every kopeck due to you. I will get enough
money to pay not only the debts, but to ensure for them sustenance and
shelter to the end of their lives. Now I want you to keep a record of
all your expenses. Will you trust me?”

“Yes,” replied the peasants. “We know that you have done a great deal
for Russia, and we have confidence in you.”

This was the arrangement under which the thirty invalids of my
Battalion of Death were left by me in the village of Tutalsk in March,
1918. The thousand roubles I gave to my mother with instructions to buy
shoes for the most destitute of the girls. Of the five hundred roubles
given to me by the Consul, I gave three hundred to my mother I decided
to take my youngest sister, Nadia, with me to America. Accompanied to
the station by my parents, the thirty girls, and half the community, I
started eastward, for Irkutsk and Vladivostok, dressed once more as a
woman.

At the station in Irkutsk I noticed a young girl, with two tiny
children in her arms. Somehow her face looked familiar to me, but I
could not recall who she was. She was evidently in trouble, poor and
ragged. For a while she stared at me. Then she ran up and cried out
breathlessly:

“Mania!”

She was the younger daughter of the woman Kitova, whose husband had
killed the dog-catcher and who had accompanied him into exile, at the
same time that I had gone into exile with Yasha. Then she was only a
little girl, not more than eleven or twelve years old. Now she was the
mother of two children.

For three days, she told me, her mother and herself had been living on
the floor of the station. They had only seventy kopecks left in their
possession. With this money the mother had gone to the town to find a
lodging! More than three months they had been travelling from Yakutsk,
where this girl had married a political. All the money in my purse was
two hundred roubles. I gave forty and then another twenty to the poor
girl.

While I was nursing one of the two babies, an official approached me.

“Are you Botchkareva?” he asked.

“Yes,” I answered.

He wanted to detain me, but some of the soldiers who had travelled on
the same train with me hurried to my defence. There was a hot argument.
I drew out my pass from the Soviet and claimed the freedom to go
wherever I pleased. I was finally left in peace.

I waited for the return of old Kitova to the last minute, desirous to
see her and especially to learn about Yasha and other friends in North
Siberia. Her daughter could only tell me that Yasha had married a Yakut
woman, after the local fashion, and was still in Amga when last she
heard....

We resumed the journey eastward. At Khabarovsk, about 460 miles from
Vladivostok, we changed trains and had to accommodate ourselves for the
night at the station in the women’s waiting-room. When I was about to
settle down for the night, the door opened and a voice behind me called
out sharply:

“Commander Botchkareva?”

“Yes,” I replied, alarmed at this form of address.

“Are you going to England?” was the next question.

“No.”

“Where, then, are you going?”

“To Vladivostok, to stay with some relatives.”

The official then demanded my baggage in order that he might search it.
He found a letter from the Moscow Consul to his Vladivostok colleague.
I explained that, the Consul had helped me in Moscow and now asked the
English representative at Vladivostok to help me also. The official
told me in a whisper that he was only fulfilling orders, but did not
sympathize any longer with Lenin’s régime. He had left four soldiers
outside the room in order to facilitate matters for me. His eyes
then fell on a photograph of me in the trunk. It showed me in full
uniform and was the last copy in my possession. He asked for it and my
autograph, and to win his good will I gave it to him without demur. He
then advised me to conceal the letter from the Consul, and I sent it by
Nadia to Ivanov, one of my fellow-travellers outside. One of these was
a member of a provincial Soviet, an ex-Bolshevik. He and other soldiers
aided me while I was on the train to evade the Red Guards, who used
to search it daily, at various stations, for officers going to join
General Semenov. More than once, in an emergency, I was concealed under
their overcoats. When the Guard asked:

“Who’s there?”

“A sick comrade,” was the answer, and they passed on.

The official had received orders to take me to the town and detain
me. Escorted by the four Guards, Nadia and I were taken to the police
station. I was locked up, while the official went to call a meeting of
the local Soviet. Nadia remained outside the cell, and I suddenly heard
her cry for help. Rushing to the door, I saw through the keyhole that
the Red Guards were annoying her. I banged at the door, shouting to the
rascals to leave her alone, appealing to their sense of shame, but they
only jeered and continued to torment her. My helplessness behind the
locked door infuriated me. I dare not think of what the ruffians would
have done to Nadia had not my friend Ivanov come in with two other
soldiers to plead for me.

They found Nadia crying and me banging at the door in a white fury. I
told them of the behaviour of the four Red Guards toward my sister, and
a sharp quarrel ensued. Presently the chairman of the local Soviet and
the majority of its members arrived. My case was taken up. It appeared
that orders had been received from Moscow or Irkutsk to detain me. As
the search had not led to the discovery of any incriminating evidence
against me, my claim that I was going to Vladivostok could not be
refuted.

Ivanov and the two soldiers put up a valiant defence, arguing
that I was a sick woman, that they had come to know me during our
companionship on the train as a real friend of the people, and that
it would be a disgrace to arrest me and send me back with no evidence
against me. But for these three defenders, I should in all probability
have been dispatched under escort to Moscow or Tutalsk. With their
aid, I was able to make such a favourable impression on the Khabarovsk
Soviet that I was permitted to proceed to Vladivostok, where I arrived
about the middle of April, 1918, with five roubles and seventy kopecks
in my purse.

The Soviet in Vladivostok kept a close watch over all the people who
were arriving and departing. As soon as Nadia and I reached a lodging
house, our documents were demanded in order that they might be sent to
the Soviet for inspection. Nadia had a regular passport, while I made
use of the paper from the Moscow Soldiers’ Section. It is usual for
such documents to be returned to their owners with the stamp of the
local Soviet on the back. But ours were slow in arriving--not a good
omen.

I went to the English Consul and was received in his office by an
elderly Russian Colonel, who served there in the capacity of secretary
and interpreter. He recognized me at once, as a telegram from Moscow
announcing my coming had preceded me. The Consul was very kind and
cordial when I was shown into his study, but declared that his position
was such that he could not take it upon himself to obtain a passport
for me from the Soviet, as he was suspected of counter-revolutionary
activities.

Without revealing to the Consul the true purpose of my journey, I
explained to him that my journey to London was undertaken not merely
as a social visit to Mrs. Pankhurst, but as an escape from the terror
of Bolshevism, which made life perilous for me anywhere in Russia. He
advised me to go to the local Soviet, tell them of my desire to go
to Mrs. Pankhurst, of whom the Bolsheviks had certainly heard, and
ask for passports. The Consul thought that the Soviet could not find
anything suspicious about my journey to his country, and would allow me
to proceed unmolested. I replied with an account of some of the things
I had endured at the hands of Lenin’s government and said that I was
certain that my formal application for a passport would be the end of
my adventure. He then telephoned to the American Consul at Vladivostok,
informed him of my arrival and my plight, and enlisted his interest.

I returned to the hotel, with three hundred roubles in my purse, given
me by the Consul. The place was dirty and without conveniences, but
it was almost impossible to obtain decent accommodation in the city.
However, the proprietor of the inn was very helpful and later saved me
from trouble.

The following day the Consul told me that all efforts to win the
goodwill of the Soviet toward me had not only failed but had been
met with threats. The Bolsheviks might even send me back, I learned.
I renewed my entreaties to the Consul to send me away, even without
the Soviet’s passport. He would not promise to do so, but under the
pressure of my appeals finally showed an inclination to consider the
matter.

Upon leaving the Consulate I was stopped in the street by a soldier.

“Botchkareva?” he asked.

“Yes,” I answered.

“Why did you come here to tramp the streets?” was the next question.

“I came to visit my relatives, but found that they had moved, so I am
going back soon.”

He let me go my way. As soon as I arrived at the inn, the proprietor
took me aside to tell me that representatives of the Soviet had called
in my absence, and inquired as to my doings and my plans. He had
informed them that I had come to visit some relatives, but was unable
to find where they were living. They had left with the threat that they
would return to arrest me. I did not intend to wait for their arrival
and allow myself to be detained and sent back. I telephoned to the
Consul and told him of the latest development. Fortunately he had some
good news for me. An American transport was to touch at Vladivostok two
days later!

Nadia and I hurried to the Consulate. The Consul declared that the
Bolsheviks had threatened him if he should be found aiding me to
get away. Meanwhile he proceeded to have all the necessary foreign
passports prepared for us, and we were photographed for that purpose.
The difficulty of leaving Vladivostok without a pass from the Soviet
still confronted us. The harbour was under strict supervision, and
the boats that were used to ferry passengers from the shore to the
steamships were manned and inspected by Bolsheviks.

For nearly two days I remained in my room, in constant dread of the
appearance of Red Guards to arrest me. They did not come, however,
apparently convinced that I could not escape them anyway. They had
ample reason afterwards to change their minds about this. I then went
to the Consul again. The American transport _Sheridan_ was due that
night, he said, but he was not sure yet if the Captain would be willing
to take me on board.

Meanwhile we sought a means to elude the inspectors at the port. A
large travelling basket was tried, and I managed to pack myself into
it, but the Consul decided that I might be suffocated in case the
basket should be left at the pier for a couple of hours. So I got out
of the basket.

The transport arrived in the evening, and the Captain expressed his
willingness to carry me across the Pacific. At the request of the
Consul I remained in his house, while my sister, accompanied by an
officer, went to the inn to get my things, and with them left for the
vessel. Two hours later I called up the inn to find out whether Nadia
had been there with the officer. The proprietor informed me that about
fifty Red Guards had just been there looking for me, and had been
disagreeably surprised to learn that I had departed already.

“Where did she go?” they asked the proprietor.

“To the railway station, to take a train,” he lied.

“What train?” they shouted indignantly. “There are no trains leaving
to-night.” With that they went away, presumably to search for me.

I communicated to the Consul what I had learned, and he hid me in a
closet. Shortly afterwards several Red Guards arrived, asking for
Botchkareva. The Consul denied knowledge of my whereabouts, declared
that I had come to him only once, as a result of which he had applied
to the Soviet for a passport for me, but since he was refused he washed
his hands of my case. The Red Guards said that I had been observed
entering the Consulate, but had not been seen to leave it. They glanced
about for me and then left, after the Consul’s denial of my visit.

The old Colonel returned, after taking Nadia aboard the transport,
with the news that I should have company on the way, as eight Russian
officers were to be passengers on the same vessel. Hundreds of Russian
officers had arrived in Vladivostok in the belief that they could join
the British army there and be transported to France. Unfortunately the
Allies would not accept their services and they found themselves in
difficult circumstances, without means to return to European Russia
and with no desire to do so, as long as Bolshevism was still rampant
there. Some of them succeeded by various means in making their way to
the United States or Canada.

The Colonel asked me if I wanted to meet my fellow-travellers. I
answered in the affirmative, and as they were at the moment at the
Consulate, he took me into the room in which they were waiting.
Scarcely had I crossed the threshold, when, glancing at the small group
of officers, my eyes suddenly fell on Leonid Grigorievitch Filippov,
my former battle adjutant, who had carried me unconscious under German
fire to safety in that unhappy advance of the Battalion.

“What are you doing here?” both of us asked each other simultaneously,
astonished at this unexpected meeting.

I had always felt that I owed my life to Lieutenant Filippov after I
had been stunned by a shell and injured while running from the enemy at
the end of the fruitless offensive launched by the Battalion. He had
taken charge of the Battalion after I had been sent to the Petrograd
hospital, and later left for Odessa to train as an aviator.

From a short private conversation I learned that Lieutenant Filippov
was in the same plight as all the other officers who had come to
Vladivostok under the impression that they would be accepted by the
Allies. I decided to ask the Consul to allow him to assume his former
post of adjutant to me and let him become a member of my party.
The Consul graciously consented, and I was happy at the thought of
journeying to foreign lands in the company of an educated friend, with
a knowledge of languages, peoples and geography, who was also devoted
to Russia with all his heart.

After another conference with the Consul, it was decided that I should
be dressed as an Englishwoman and as such make an effort to get to
the American transport. The necessary clothes were obtained, and in
fifteen minutes I appeared no longer as a soldier, but as a veiled
foreign lady who did not understand a word of Russian. Accompanied by
the Colonel, I left for the harbour, after having expressed my deepest
thanks to the Consul for his great sacrifices in my behalf.

I was supposed to play a speechless rôle and leave everything to my
escort. This I did, although more than once my heart jumped when a
guard seemed to scrutinize me closely, and now and then I had to
suppress an impulse to laugh when the Colonel, in reply to questions,
said that I was an Englishwoman returning home. It was dark when I was
ferried to the transport, and everything went off without mishap. But
that was not the end of the adventure.

The transport had to remain for another day in the harbour, and it was
expected that the Soviet would search it for me. To baffle all attempts
to discover me I was placed in a cabin, the entrance and all approaches
to which were guarded. Nobody was allowed to come near the room, all
inquirers being told that an important German general was detained
there on his way to an American prison camp. Even Lieutenant Filippov
did not know of the trick and was greatly worried over my non-arrival
as the hour for the departure of the ship drew near. If any Bolshevik
emissary was sent on board the vessel to look for me, he was stopped in
front of a certain cabin by American soldiers and informed that no one
would be permitted to get within so many feet of the imprisoned enemy
general.

When the anchors of the _Sheridan_ were raised and the ship began to
move, I came out of the cabin, to the liveliest merriment of everybody
who had expected to see a stern Teuton general emerge from the door.

I was free!

It was April 18, 1918, when I left Russian soil for the first time
in my life. Under the American flag, on an American transport, I was
heading for that wonderful land--America--carrying in my breast the
message of the Russian peasant-soldier to the Allies:

“Help Russia to release herself from the German yoke and become
free--in return for the five million lives that she has sacrificed for
your safety, the security of your liberties, the preservation of your
own lands and lives!”


   _Printed in Great Britain by_ Butler & Tanner _Frome and London_




                          Transcriber’s Notes

Punctuation errors have been fixed.

Page 21: “be begged my forgiveness” changed to “he begged my
forgiveness” “Once drunk, be became” changed to “Once drunk, he became”

Page 57: “offere little resistance” changed to “offered little
resistance”

Page 65: “ha broken down” changed to “had broken down”

Page 85: “commande me to report” changed to “commanded me to report”

Page 111: “as violently a on” changed to “as violently as on”

Page 165: “burden of reponsibility” changed to “burden of
responsibility”

Page 180: “the oustanding factor” changed to “the outstanding factor”

Page 222: “the anti-chamber” changed to “the ante-chamber”

Page 233: “Who sigued it” changed to “Who signed it”

Page 239: “one of the troup” changed to “one of the troop”

Page 328: “in conbination with” changed to “in combination with”



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