Yashka · Part IV · Chapter 19 (1/2)

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 Bochkareva 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 Bochkareva 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 undergarments 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 bloodcurdling 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 anyone 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 counterrevolutionary 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 Bochkareva.

On the platform I had another striking encounter. The news that Bochkareva 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 Bochkareva!

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 motorcar 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 regime! 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 regime.

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.