Fall of Giants

Grigori had missed. He lowered his sights-the rifle kicked up a little when fired-and squeezed the trigger again.

He missed again.

The carnage went on, police shooting wildly into the crowd of fleeing men and women.

There were five rounds in the magazine of Grigori’s rifle. He could usually hit something with one of the five. He fired a third time.

Pinsky gave a shout of pain that was amplified by his megaphone. His right knee seemed to fold under him. He dropped the megaphone and fell to the ground.

Grigori’s men followed his example. They attacked the police, some firing and some using their rifles as clubs. Others pulled the Pharaohs off their horses. The marchers drew courage and joined in. Some of those on the ice turned around and came back.

The fury of the mob was ugly. For as long as anyone could remember, the Petrograd police had been sneering brutes, undisciplined and uncontrolled, and now the people took their revenge. Policemen on the ground were kicked and trampled, those on their feet were knocked down, and the Pharaohs had their horses shot from under them. The police resisted for only a few moments, then those who could fled.

Grigori saw Pinsky struggle to his feet. Grigori took aim again, eager now to finish the bastard off, but a Pharaoh got in the way, heaved Pinsky up onto his horse’s neck, and galloped off.

Grigori stood back, watching the police run away.

He was in the worst trouble of his life.

His platoon had mutinied. In direct contravention of their orders, they had attacked the police, not the marchers. And he had led them, by shooting Lieutenant Pinsky, who had survived to tell the tale. There was no way to cover this up, no excuse he could offer that would make any difference, and no escape from punishment. He was guilty of treason. He could be court-martialed and executed.

Despite that, he felt happy.

Varya pushed through the crowd. There was blood on her face, but she was smiling. “What now, Sergeant?”

Grigori was not going to resign himself to his punishment. The tsar was murdering his people. Well, his people would shoot back. “To the barracks,” Grigori said. “Let’s arm the working class!” He snatched her red flag. “Follow me!”

He strode back along Samsonievsky Prospekt. His men came after him, marshaled by Isaak, and the crowd fell in behind them. Grigori was not sure exactly what he was going to do, but he did not feel the need of a plan: as he marched at the head of the crowd he had the sense that he could do anything.

The sentry opened the barracks gates for the soldiers, then was unable to close them on the marchers. Feeling invincible, Grigori led the procession across the parade ground to the arsenal. Lieutenant Kirillov came out of the headquarters building, saw the crowd, and turned toward them, breaking into a run. “You men!” he shouted. “Halt! Stop right there!”

Grigori ignored him.

Kirillov came to a standstill and drew his revolver. “Halt!” he said. “Halt, or I shoot!”

Two or three of Grigori’s platoon raised their rifles and fired at Kirillov. Several bullets struck him and he fell to the ground, bleeding.

Grigori went on.

The arsenal was guarded by two sentries. Neither of them tried to stop Grigori. He used the last two rounds in his magazine to shoot out the lock on the heavy wooden doors. The crowd burst into the arsenal, pushing and shoving to get at the weapons. Some of Grigori’s men took charge, opening wooden cases of rifles and revolvers and passing them out along with boxes of ammunition.

This is it, Grigori thought. This is a revolution. He was exhilarated and terrified at the same time.

He armed himself with two of the Nagant revolvers that were issued to officers, reloaded his rifle, and filled his pockets with ammunition. He was not sure what he intended to do, but now that he was a criminal he needed weapons.

The rest of the soldiers in the barracks joined in the looting of the arsenal, and soon everyone was armed to the teeth.

Carrying Varya’s red flag, Grigori led the crowd out of the barracks. Demonstrations always went toward the city center. With Isaak, Yakov, and Varya he marched across the bridge to Liteiny Prospekt, heading for the affluent heart of Petrograd. He felt as if he were flying, or dreaming, as if he had drunk a large mouthful of vodka. For years he had talked about defying the authority of the regime, but today he was doing it, and that made him feel like a new man, a different creature, a bird of the air. He remembered the words of the old man who had spoken to him after his mother was shot dead. “May you live long,” the man had said, as Grigori walked away from Palace Square with his mother’s body in his arms. “Long enough to take revenge on the bloodstained tsar for the evil he has done this day.” Your wish may come true, old man, he thought exultantly.