“What do you hear in the Duma, Dmitry Ivanovich?” Sofia Yakovlevna asked. “Is this going to end?”

“He’s abdicated,” Father said. “He’s signing today.”

Abdication. The tsar was removing his crown, setting it down on the grass, and walking away.

Abdication, a great brass bell, solemn, resonant, deafening.

Abdication, the word that had sounded so treasonous that day at the Hotel Europa. So radical when the strikers had called for it that day in Znamenskaya Square.

We gazed at each other like simpletons, and every face bore the same expression as our sluggish minds struggled to absorb the sound, the sense, the moment we learned we were free.

A Russia without a tsar. I sat very still, questioning my arms, my legs, my feet resting on the soil of a land that no longer had a ruler. The light filled the windows as it had the morning before, one still broken—the same light, but without a tsar.

“What about the tsarevich?” Uncle Aaron asked.

Father shook his head. “He abdicates in favor of the Grand Duke Michael, but Michael won’t take the crown without assurances, and he’s not going to get them.”

The crown of Russia had gone from most precious object to poisoned apple, a rotten, stinking potato nobody wanted.

Again, that grave smile. “The Duma Committee’s forming a Provisional Government,” Father said. “Prince Lvov, Miliukov… Kerensky, of course. I don’t know by whose authority, but what else is there? The reins are dragging on the ground.”

Sofia Yakovlevna closed her eyes and inhaled as if a fresh fragrance had entered the room. “Did you think you’d live to see it, Dmitry Ivanovich?”

“Something in me always believed,” he replied. “Though I never imagined it would come in this way.”

Shusha twisted and squirmed in curiosity. “What’s in the bag?”

“Go ahead, open it,” Father said. “From Vera Borisovna and me, a small token to thank you for your kindness, keeping the children so long.”

Shusha began removing packages from the sack, Mina and Dunya carefully peeling their wrappings away. “Oh my God, it’s butter!” Mina exclaimed. A pound of butter wrapped in cheesecloth. A small sack—sugar! Dunya licked her finger and stuck it in the bag, then it went right into her mouth. Her eyes closed. They’d been using saccharine for two years. “Oh, it’s too much, Dmitry Ivanovich,” their mother said, eyeing the whole chicken he’d included. Marmalade. A dozen eggs, individually wrapped in gauze. Aunt Fanya held up a bottle of cognac. “Santé, Dmitry Ivanovich!”

“I think we’ve taken up enough of these good people’s time, Marina. Get your brother.”

I hesitated, looked over at Sofia Yakovlevna. I didn’t want to be the one to tell Father that his son had found another father who understood and appreciated him, that he’d defied orders to follow him into the dangerous city.

“He went out with Solomon Moiseivich,” Sofia Yakovlevna said simply. “He’s helping with the camera.”

My father nodded, as if my brother’s absence were the most natural thing in the world. Now I saw how stunned he was, how truly off his normal balance. The workers, the soldiers, the Russian people he’d fought for but never trusted had just handed him his dearest wish. He’d been surprised into power.

16 Resurrection

VOSKRESENYE, WE SAY. RESURRECTION. We awoke to discover that what we had thought to be eternal, the absolute dictatorship of the Romanovs, had turned to sand. Snow fell that following morning, but by afternoon, a brilliant sun came out, dazzling us. I walked through the neighborhood just to see what the world looked like without a tsar. The air tasted sweeter. The stately houses on Furshtatskaya Street seemed newly washed. A religious feeling welled up in me, that life had been transformed, not just politically but spiritually. It felt like Easter, and I wasn’t the only one who sensed it. People smiled and greeted one another: “Good day to you!” “Good day to you, too!” “Do you believe it?” “Could you ever guess?” On a whim, I bought a huge bouquet from a shop on Liteiny exactly where I’d seen barricades just a few days earlier, and walked around handing out flowers—spicy red carnations and little chrysanthemums. People tucked them into their buttonholes and hats. They seemed euphoric but dazed, as if they were walking in a dream or had been deafened by a blast. I saw that miracles were shocking, as overwhelming as disasters.

On street after street, people broke the Romanov double-headed eagles from fences and buildings. They wrapped them in ropes and pulled, and if they didn’t come loose, they’d smash the stone with crowbars and hammers. “Do it!” the crowds cheered. “Heave-ho!” Pulling off those eagles, with their savage beaks and claws, was like pulling the nails from our own hands. We climbed down from our cross. We were risen.


The new Provisional Government took its first steps away from the rule of autocracy. Under the august leadership of Prince Lvov, a dedicated liberal and the central figure of Father’s Kadet party, eight basic resolutions became the law. I was amazed how far these liberal gentlemen were willing to go. The document granted freedom of speech and assembly, the right to strike, a constituent assembly elected by universal and secret ballot, men and women alike. It provided for the dissolution of the police “and all its organs” in favor of a militia whose officers were elected and controlled by the city. It declared amnesty for political prisoners and authorized protection for the soldiers who had mutinied, giving them the same rights as civilians when off-duty. It abolished rights based on religion, nationality, and social origin. A daring piece of work.

Kadet Paul Miliukov, the new foreign minister, asked Father to join the foreign office. “You know, I’d rather help draft the constitution,” Father had said that evening, though I could tell he was thrilled at the posting. “But I’ll go where they need me.” They knew he had foreign contacts, and doubtless saw that as more valuable than his legal skills. I thought of Great-Aunt Mariya Grigorievna. Dmitry Ivanovich won’t be satisfied until the Union Jack flies over the Winter Palace. But we were ahead of the English now. Unlike them, we had no king.

But there was another government in Russia as well. The Soviet of Workers’ and Soldiers’ Deputies, elected by the factory committees and the army units, met in the opposite wing from the Duma in the Tauride Palace. Which was the real government? Each body thought it was in charge. The Provisional Government behaved more like a ruling body, with its statesmen and sense of decorum. It continued the war and made policy. But without the support of the workers and the soldiers, its power was only hypothetical. How galling Father found the situation—the Soviet calling the shots, when he himself wasn’t sure the Provisional Government even had the right to govern.

Instead of police, now armed militias called Red Guards patrolled the streets. Neighborhood committees sprang up that were responsible for everything from food distribution to house maintenance. Without police, Avdokia darkly predicted mass drunkenness and looting, but instead—for the most part—you saw a determination to prove that we didn’t need an emperor to govern ourselves as modern, civilized people.

Everyone was part of the revolution now, from bankers to textile workers, even our schoolmistresses—all moving forward together on the same great ship, which had finally left port. It reminded me of the legend of Kitezh, the holy city that sank beneath Lake Svetloyar to keep it out of the reach of Tatar invaders. Legend had it that one day the spell would break, and the city would rise again. That’s how we felt—the three-hundred-year Romanov siege had been broken and the city was rising from under the waters.

The Soviet’s first act in power was a call for elections in the army. From now on, soldier committees would run their units, not officers. Father was apoplectic. “Command isn’t a popularity contest,” he fumed. “We’re still running a war out there!”

“They’re organizing themselves,” I said. “Would you prefer them running amok? If it wasn’t for the soldiers, we’d still have the tsar.” I stirred my morning kasha, which I preferred these days over Western eggs and toast.

“Marina. Don’t let your idealism run away with you,” he said. “I’m all for democracy, but war can’t be won by soldiers’ committees. There has to be discipline, and there has to be expertise.” Vaula brought him his boiled egg in its cup. He cracked the egg smartly, lifting the top off like a brain surgeon, making sure it was properly cooked, with a runny yolk. Mother was sleeping in, but Seryozha and I were back in school.

“Lucky Volodya’s popular,” I said. “Maybe they’ll elect him.”

Father wiped his mouth, checked his Breguet watch. “That’s something to be hoped for. The one silver lining is that these hundreds of so-called soldier delegates are now full voting members of the wise and beneficent Soviet. They’re descending on the Tauride Palace en masse. It’s a mess. They outnumber the workers ten to one. There aren’t enough chairs.” He chuckled, finished his English tea. “The Soviet can’t get a thing done. It’s going to give us time to put our own house in order.”


The rage for elections and committees was contagious. At the Tagantsev Academy, we voted in student committees on policy, curriculum, maintenance, and food supply. The teachers had their own committees, but we got an equal voice—just as in the government and the Soviet. Varvara—and surprisingly, Mina—sat on the academic policy committee, while I signed up for food supply. A provisioning unit. These were exciting times, and I forgot about Kolya for days on end. It was the food supply committee’s responsibility to walk to the district food depot early in the morning and collect the school’s bread and milk. A special perk of the job—we were often accompanied by boys from the nearby Herzen School, which made the assignment far more attractive than arguing over whether there should be calculus in the mathematics curriculum. One boy in particular, Pavlik Gershon, caught my eye. He helped me carry the big milk can, and we talked about Baudelaire. He asked me to go skating after school. “Why not?” I said.