Fall of Giants

Konstantin had been elected as one of two deputies from the Putilov works. During the afternoon more and more deputies arrived until, by early evening, there were three thousand of them crammed into the huge Catherine Hall. Nearly all were soldiers. Troops were already organized into regiments and platoons, and Grigori guessed it had been easier for them to arrange elections than for the factory workers, many of whom were locked out of their workplaces. Some deputies had been elected by a few dozen people, others by thousands. Democracy was not as simple as it seemed.

Someone proposed that they should rename themselves the Petrograd Soviet of Workers’ and Soldiers’ Deputies, and the idea was approved by thunderous applause. There seemed to be no procedure. There was no agenda, no proposing or seconding of resolutions, no voting mechanism. People just stood up and spoke, often more than one at a time. On the platform, several suspiciously middle-class-looking men were scribbling notes, and Grigori guessed these were the members of the executive committee formed yesterday. At least someone was taking minutes.

Despite the worrying chaos, there was tremendous excitement. They all felt they had fought a battle and won. For better or worse, they were making a new world.

But no one was talking about bread. Frustrated by the inaction of the soviet, Grigori and Konstantin left the Catherine Hall during a particularly chaotic moment and walked across the palace to find out what the Duma was up to. On the way they saw troops with red armbands stockpiling food and ammunition in the hallway as if for a siege. Of course, Grigori thought, the tsar is not simply going to accept what has happened. At some point he will try to regain control by force. And that would mean attacking this building.

In the right wing they came across Count Maklakov, a director of the Putilov works. He was a delegate for a right-of-center party, but he spoke to them politely enough. He told them that yet another committee had been formed, the Temporary Committee of Duma Members for the Restoration of Order in the Capital and the Establishment of Relations with Individuals and Institutions. Despite its ludicrous title, Grigori felt it was an ominous attempt by the Duma to take control. He became more worried when Maklakov told him the committee had appointed a Colonel Engelhardt as commandant of Petrograd.

“Yes,” said Maklakov with satisfaction. “And they have instructed all soldiers to return to barracks and obey orders.”

“What?” Grigori was shocked. “But that would destroy the revolution. The tsar’s officers would regain control!”

“The members of the Duma do not believe there is a revolution.”

“The members of the Duma are idiots,” Grigori said angrily.

Maklakov put his nose in the air and walked away.

Konstantin shared Grigori’s anger. “This is a counterrevolution!” he said.

“And it must be stopped,” said Grigori.

They hurried back to the left wing. In the big hall, a chairman was attempting to control a debate. Grigori leaped onto the platform. “I have an emergency announcement!” he shouted.

“Everyone has,” said the chairman wearily. “But what the hell, go ahead.”

“The Duma is ordering soldiers to return to barracks-and to accept the authority of their officers!”

A shout of protest went up from the delegates.

“Comrades!” Grigori shouted, trying to quiet them. “We are not going back to the old ways!”

They roared their agreement.

“The people of the city must have bread. Our women must feel safe on the streets. The factories must reopen and the mills must roll-but not in the same old way.”

They were listening to him now, unsure where he was going.

“We soldiers must stop beating up the bourgeoisie, stop harassing women on the street, and stop looting wine shops. We must return to our barracks, sober up, and resume our duties, but”-he paused dramatically-“under our own conditions!”

There was a rumble of assent.

“What should those conditions be?”

Someone shouted: “Elected committees to issue orders, instead of officers!”

Another said: “No more ‘Your Excellency’ and ‘Most High Radiance’-they should be called Colonel and General.”

“No saluting!” cried another.

Grigori did not know what to do. Everyone had his own suggestion. He could not hear them all, let alone remember them.

The chairman came to his rescue. “I propose that all those with suggestions should form a group with Comrade Sokolov.” Grigori knew that Nikolai Sokolov was a left-wing lawyer. That’s good, he thought, we need someone to draft our proposal in correct legal terms. The chairman went on: “When you have agreed what you want, bring your proposal to the soviet for approval.”

“Right.” Grigori jumped off the platform. Sokolov was sitting at a small table to one side of the hall. Grigori and Konstantin approached him, along with a dozen or more deputies.

“Very well,” said Sokolov. “Who is this addressed to?”

Grigori was baffled again. He was about so say To the world. But a soldier said: “To the Petrograd Garrison.”