He hated it. My sentimental revolutionary. It made me laugh. “I thought you were a futurist,” I teased him. “This is the future.” He laughed at himself then, at his own sentimentality. He gathered me up, lifting me off my feet. “No, it’s good. Out with the useless trappings of the pampered life! Out with bustles and skirts on pianos. Freedom for heads and necks of the beautiful women.”

I took some woodcut broadsides Sasha Orlovsky had printed and began to distribute them to the crowd:

REVOLUTION

IS IT THE THUNDER?

NO, IT’S THE WORKER

CLEARING HIS THROAT.

—KURIAKIN

I loved handing these to people in the wooden hall, watching them moving their lips, slowly reading the words, reading it aloud to others. This hall was the university of the poor. They weren’t going away; they were learning, moving into their power. I could imagine Lyuda here. They were readying themselves to steer their own destiny, and my father and his cronies be damned. And what would I do? What was right and necessary, even if it frightened me, even if I knew others might not understand. I had to bet my soul on it. The important thing was to get out of the war and rebuild the country, repair the devastation, and see what the future would hold.

25 Big Ears

WHO WAS THIS GIRL in aubergine silk, with pearls once again in her ears, chatting with such important men that October? It was my season. A season of betrayal, without parties or carriages or young men in evening dress joking behind their programs. Only late dinners with diplomats and businessmen, trade representatives, Kadet diehards, Moscow journalists, American envoys, British railroad and mining representatives, British banking interests. The talk was of the war, the collapse of the French army, the German advance on Riga, barely a hundred miles away. The talk was of the future of the government and its ability to resist the Germans. And that night, the talk was of the letter that had appeared in Novaya Zhizn, written by someone in Lenin’s own party, claiming that Vladimir Ilyich himself was planning the immediate overthrow of the Provisional Government. Evidently Lenin had been in hiding abroad since the summer, when he had been implicated in the failed Bolshevik coup in July. The others in his party were blaming him—many of them had been arrested, but Lenin escaped.

“Not likely they’ll be able to go through with it now,” Father said, smoking his pipe, gloating. “I believe it would be missing the element of surprise.”

“Nothing would surprise me at this point,” said Vladimir Terekhov of the Russo-Asiatic Bank as he smugly sipped his claret. I tried to memorize everything that was said. I had an excellent memory, although this was a novel use for it.

“One can’t help but be reassured that the comrades are squabbling,” said Mr. Sibley, my English soon-to-be host—or so he thought. I’d told my parents I’d broken it off with Genya and was reconsidering the offer for Oxford.

Mother had long since given up trying to turn the conversation to matters other than politics. The wives no longer came at all. Many had already been sent out of Russia for their safety. She and I were often the only women at the table, and the topics resisted her. Tonight, however, a handsome British naval attaché named Captain Cromie had accompanied Mr. Sibley, and his presence brought her to life. Captain Cromie. British naval attaché. I made a mental note. Also, Terekhov had miraculously procured a standing rib roast, inspiring Vaula to prepare an entire English style dinner, down to the Yorkshire pudding and horseradish sauce. This while the bread of Petrograd was rationed to less than a pound a day per person.

I did my best to be agreeable, to insert an intellectual comment or two, to show that I was “taking an interest.” “How do you see our situation, Mr. Sibley?”

“It’s a game of nerves, isn’t it?” said the diplomat. “The Bolshies are weak but they’re fantastic at sounding the alarm. And the right vibrates to the least disturbance. The Provisional Government has to keep a firm hand on the tiller.”

“And you must miss your wife.”

“She sends her love to all of you, by the way. She can’t wait for you to join us in London.”

How happy Father was with my new compliance. He gazed down the table at me with proprietary pleasure, delighting to see me put away my proletarian brown dress and don a silk gown, my hair cleverly marcelled by Mother’s hairdresser into elegant waves. Mother was also glad to see me “back to my old self.” Their very happiness was maddening—that they preferred this falsehood, this thing I was portraying, to the girl they well knew me to be. Exactly as they preferred my brother’s “assimilation” into the military academy. They wanted to believe this charade.

It made for a strange cynical pleasure, to pretend I was one of them, to smile at their jokes at the expense of the people—something only Kolya, with his love of trickery, could really appreciate—while storing away the choice scraps for Varvara.

That night Terekhov and Mr. McDonegal of Sheffield Steel discussed Kerensky’s new legislation establishing martial law in the factories. It had been one of the causes of the revolution in February, and here we were again. “We’d never get away with it back home,” said McDonegal.

“Nobody likes it, but absentee rates are through the roof. Eighty percent, more,” said the banker. “If the Russian worker wasn’t so busy playing politics, he might have time to put in a day on the production line.” He blotted his lips and pushed away his greasy plate.

It took all my self-control not to pick up the water pitcher and pour it over his head. And when would that be, Mr. Terekhov? After sleeping overnight in the bread queues? In between locating a missing load of iron and tanker of fuel? The workers themselves were the only ones keeping our factories open.

“Will the government finally move house?” asked Captain Cromie. “Somewhere safer?”

“Like Japan?” Mother quipped, making the others laugh.

“Kerensky and his Moscow bankers,” Father sighed. “They’re pressuring him to move down, but we’re doing our best. It would give Germany altogether the wrong signal. Put out the welcome mat. Whatever you’ve heard about our Petrograd garrison, Cromie, I can promise you they are solidly anti-German. They’d never give up Petrograd. The only problem is that they’ll defend it in the name of the Soviet instead of the government.”

All Power to the Soviet. It was getting closer every day.

“I don’t know which is worse,” said Terekhov.

Cromie was full of questions. “Is the Soviet really calling the shots?” An attractive man with chiseled face, military bearing, and excellent Russian, Cromie had won over the others, but I didn’t trust him. There was something more to him… the way he weighed the others’ statements before he spoke. What was he really doing here?

“My dear Cromie,” said Sibley. “I’m sure the government’s got them well in hand.”

“We’ve heard that Kerensky’s going to send the garrison to the front and replace them with reliable troops,” said the attaché. “In case there’s anything to this insurrection talk.”

“Which would be fine, if only he wouldn’t broadcast his every whim,” Father said grimly. “Every time Kerensky manages to make a decision, he makes a splashy speech about it, and then he’s countermanding it before the ink is dry. It’s undermining the little confidence anyone has in us.”

“What do you think of Lenin?” asked Cromie. “Does he have the sway people say he does?”

Father stoked his pipe, spoke carefully. “He’s not the great speaker of the movement—he leaves that to Trotsky and Zinoviev, that Cirque Moderne crowd. But he’s absolutely relentless. Without him the Bolsheviks would have compromised long ago.”

“He’s doing a fine job of keeping the agitation going,” said Mr. Sibley, lighting up an after-dinner cigarette. “Even from hiding. Whenever the fires seem to die out, he gets the bellows out and fans them up again. I’d say the Germans are getting their money’s worth.” He chuckled drily.

I’d always been sure it was a lie that the Bolsheviks were being funded by Germany, but Sibley was in a position to know. Was that something Varvara would want to learn? English believe Lenin’s in Germany’s pay.

“That’s the thing you have to remember about the Bolsheviks,” said Terekhov. “These are the dregs of society. Look at their leaders: Jews. The dregs of the Jews at that. Their own people won’t even have them. Trotsky, Martov, Zinoviev? These aren’t Robespierres. They’re little Jewish businessmen. All this talk about taking power. I don’t see it.” Anti-Semites weren’t all monarchists; the Kadets were crawling with them. Terekhov was exhibit A.

Peace without annexation or indemnities—that’s the German formula,” said Sibley.

Peace without annexation hardly meant winning to these people. They wanted a hunk of the Ottoman Empire as a prize and to bill the loser for the whole mess.

“But there won’t be a separate peace?” Cromie said.

“No separate peace, no negotiated end,” Father said. “We won’t bend on that.”

Nods all around the table. But the people wanted us out of the war, and the Bolsheviks would do it without dithering for a second.

“If you could only get your hands on this Lenin,” said McDonegal. Basya came in to clear the table. He let her clear his plate but hung on to his wine glass. “He seems to be the one stirring the pot. I’d do a house-to-house search if I were you.”