In the summer of 1917, I thought Papa’s death was the most terrible thing that would ever happen to me. It was only in the years to come, when churches were raided and robbed, and priests murdered, that I realized we’d been lucky to have a proper funeral service. That we’d had time to mourn. Yuri and Elena drove Papa’s body to the city, in a coffin Yuri built from a tree he’d chopped down at Priyalko. Mama offered them a place with us in Petrograd, but Elena politely declined.
“We’re not city folk. Too many people, not enough fresh air. Besides, who else will keep an eye on the house?”
She genuinely believed we would come back one day. The peasants at Priyalko had organized a “Farmers’ Collective”—whatever that meant—but Elena said there’d been no further trouble, and no one had objected to her and Yuri remaining in their quarters. All the usual routines continued: the early planting had begun; the chickens were producing more eggs than ever. Only a week had passed since Papa’s murder, and it seemed impossible—immoral—that life continued there largely unchanged. Knowing Elena, who took such pride in the house, she’d been the one to scrub away Papa’s blood, though I didn’t want to ask. Imagining it was hard enough.
Vasily was able to push up his leave to attend Papa’s service, and he was Mama’s main source of support in the following days. It was Vasily’s death she’d been preparing for, ever since the war started, and there were times she seemed unable to believe that her son was alive and her husband was gone. “Who would have thought?” she’d say, her voice drifting off with a shake of her head.
Vasily did his best to live up to his role as head of the family. He’d gotten a promotion and new uniform and looked every inch the resolute Russian officer as he greeted guests at the funeral reception. He’d cut his hair very short—they were all doing it, he said, to cut down on lice—and his face looked thinner, but no less striking. He made time to speak with every guest, seemingly with ease. Only someone who knew him as well as I did would have noticed the signs of strain. The way his eyes dulled whenever he had a moment to himself, or the catch in his voice when he talked about Papa. His hands were chapped and weathered, glaring evidence of the hardships of army life, and he usually kept them clasped behind his back or sunk into his pockets.
Mama had given Vasily only the vaguest description of what happened at Priyalko, and he’d told her not to upset herself by talking about it. But I wanted him to know the truth, craving his absolution for surviving when Papa did not. On the night of the funeral, after I’d seen Mama to bed, I came back downstairs and saw Vasily sitting by the fireplace in our front parlor, in the armchair that had always been Papa’s. With his shirtsleeves rolled up and legs stretched out, he looked like the brother I remembered from years before, the one whose confidence deflected all troubles.
I stood in the doorway, wondering if he wanted to be left alone. “I thought you’d gone to bed.”
“Is Mama all right?” he asked.
I shrugged. The doctor had given her something to help her sleep, and I’d convinced her to take it. She’d refused to get into bed until Anna was sitting on a chair by the door, guarding it.
“She’s afraid to be alone,” I said. “After that night.”
Vasily tilted his head, beckoning me forward. “You can tell me, if you want.”
I walked to the fireplace and sank onto the carpet at Vasily’s feet, curling my legs underneath my skirt. The same way I used to sit with Papa.
“They shot him, right in front of us. I watched him die.”
Once the first words were spoken, the rest came easier. I told Vasily what it had been like to have our home invaded. To witness the defilement of a place we both loved.
“There was a girl who pushed right past me carrying a handful of my clothes. No shame at all.” The girl I saw you on top of, I was thinking, not that I ever would have said it. “I don’t even know her name, but I recognized her. Big-boned, with one of those faces that always looks like she’s frowning.”
Vasily didn’t show any particular interest, but he’d always been good at keeping secrets. How many times had he met with that girl? I’d seen no signs of seduction between them, let alone love. With a queasiness I preferred not to examine, I remembered sneering at her shameless behavior. But how much choice did she have?
“Don’t tell Mama,” Vasily said, “but all these Socialists and Bolsheviks are stirring up trouble in the army, too. Forming committees—soviets—and telling soldiers they don’t have to salute officers. Are we supposed to hold meetings and vote before each attack? It’s madness! Some officers have even been killed by their own men. Not in my division, but you hear stories.”
“The war has to end soon. How much longer can it go on?”
“As if I could answer that!” Vasily attempted a laugh. “We’ve had successes. If you asked me a few months ago, I’d have told you things were looking better than they have in a long time. But with all this political uncertainty, who knows? It’s impossible to run an army without order and discipline.”
The mighty Russian Army was the pride of our country. Wasn’t it strong enough to withstand a few rabble-rousers?
“I’m counting on you to look out for Mama,” Vasily said. “I can’t count on Uncle Sergei. You know what he’s like.”
“He’s doing his best. The magazine takes up so much time . . .”
“Exactly. He’s always put work over family. You’re the one who’s here with Mama every day. Keep her busy. Make sure she doesn’t brood too much. Encourage some of her artist friends to visit.”
Our house hadn’t hosted salons or poetry readings for years, but I nodded anyway.
“I know it’s not fair to ask this of you, at your age. You should have nothing on your mind but dresses and boys.”
I’d be turning sixteen in a few months; this was the summer I was supposed to be planning my debut. The loss of a party was nothing compared to the loss of Papa. But it still stung, the smaller hurt compounding the larger one.
“We’ll be fine,” I said. Vasily would be back on the front lines soon, and I wouldn’t add to his worries. “Everyone says Petrograd is much safer now.”
“Tell Mama that.” I noted that Vasily didn’t confirm it was actually true. “Elena told me you were very brave, at Priyalko. I’m proud of you.”
I’d been trained to modestly decline compliments, but I couldn’t help flushing with pride. Vasily didn’t hand out praise lightly.
We passed the rest of my brother’s visit quietly, accepting condolence calls but largely keeping to ourselves. When Vasily left, the house sank into gloomy silence, Mama and I moving wordlessly through the cavernous rooms like ghosts. My birthday in September passed like any other day: school, a quiet supper, in bed by nine. Although a few of my school friends had been given small coming-out parties by their parents, Mama didn’t offer to host one for me, and I didn’t ask her to. Those gatherings, with their forced cheerfulness and nostalgic reminiscing, seemed more depressing than no party at all.
Outside our home the provisional government lived up to its name. It was a temporary stopgap, incapable of inspiring loyalty or trust. For the most part law and order had been restored in Petrograd, though occasional riots by disgruntled soldiers or factory workers kept us on edge. Nothing ever felt resolved; we lived with our breaths half-held. When the Bolsheviks took advantage of the unsettled political situation to seize power in October, it seemed like yet another twist in an ongoing drama, rather than a definitive end. The country was already a mess, divided and ungovernable. As Sergei told me, repeating the conventional wisdom, it was only a matter of time until Lenin and his friends were pushed aside by someone else.