Khalturin joined his co-conspirators shortly before 6:30.
He was breathless and, even in the icy temperature, perspiring freely. Quickly he threw on the coat Zhelyabov handed him, took the cap, and pulled it far down on his forehead. He glanced nervously around to make sure he had not been followed.
“You are safe, my friend,” said Zhelyabov. “We have been all the way up and down the street. No one is out. You have not been seen.”
“We must be off then,” said Khalturin hastily. “I had to push my way past one of the Cossacks at the outer gate. I made up a lie about a medical emergency, but they are sure to look into it the moment the bomb goes off. The man was suspicious, and he saw my face clearly. Come, let us go!”
“Not yet,” insisted Zhelyabov. “You are safe awhile longer. We must watch for the results of your work. How much longer?”
“Any second,” replied Khalturin. “In setting the timed fuse on the bomb, I only allowed myself the barest minimum of time to get out of the palace before detonation. That’s why I couldn’t let that guard stop and question me.”
He glanced back over his shoulder. “It should have gone off by now. I tell you, I made the fuses short. I didn’t want to take any risk of discovery.”
“That is good,” said Zhelyabov. “We have had too many failures in the past, and we have taken too many risks with this attempt. It will not fail. Be patient.”
The three stood in Senate Square, having great difficulty masking their anticipation and keeping their eyes casually averted from their target. Remaining behind was foolish, and Khalturin kept imploring the others to go. But Zhelyabov was not willing, even for safety’s sake, to leave before the assurance of success.
He removed his pocket watch again. “Six-thirty, you say?” he asked Khalturin.
The carpenter nodded. “Don’t worry. Nothing can go—”
Considering past performance, the words he was about to utter were a bold pronouncement. But the statement, only half spoken, was suddenly confirmed as a deafening blast shattered the night air.
The explosion was of such magnitude that it shook the ground beneath their feet two hundred meters away. They looked toward the palace but saw only billowing smoke and shattering windows. As soon as the echo from the terrific blast began to die away, screams and yells and shouts could be heard from inside the palace.
Khalturin, who had become intimately familiar with that particular section of the palace in recent days, vividly pictured the collapsing walls and the caving in of the floor, sending the elegantly laid dining table, the tsar and the imperial family into the basement. Falling bricks and boards, collapsing structural beams, further explosions of dynamite, fires, crashing chandeliers, toppling bookcases—splintered glass and flying plaster and roaring flame would consume them all!
Unconsciously, Paul glanced toward his comrades. He tried to make himself feel the same joyful exuberance as he saw in their eyes. This was the victorious culmination of all their hopes and dreams and plans. Everything had come down to this one delicious moment! Yet as he stood there, he could not keep other ugly images from crowding unbidden into some sensitive place in his mind where his heart still ruled—images of the injured, of innocent servants and guests. He saw blood. He heard the cries of agonized pain. Hadn’t Anna written that she had been in the Winter Palace a time or two? Hadn’t she even been close enough to the tsar to touch him? What if she—
No. She wasn’t here now! He had to push such thoughts away!
He shook himself awake in the cold night air. This was no time to drift off into such worries. No sacrifice is too great for the cause. Over and over he forced himself to say the words, trying to make himself believe them again.
No sacrifice is too great . . .
It did not take long for the entire area to come alive with activity in the immediate aftermath of the explosions, and Paul was spared having to dwell long on his confused and conflicting thoughts.
Squads of gendarmes and guards rushed toward the palace. Medical and fire wagons, most stationed not far off, raced wildly down the street, bells pealing furiously to announce their arrival. Crowds of spectators began to form in spite of the cold. Survivors poured out of the palace, swelling their ranks. In the midst of the mayhem, shouts of confusion and question and panic only added to the uncertainty of what had happened. And still smoke poured from the palace, adding vivid reality to the flying rumors.
“The whole palace is in flames!” shouted some anonymous messenger of doom running from inside as if in terror for her life.
“Hundreds killed!” cried another.
“Every minister dead!”
“The entire imperial family—gone!”
The three silent observers intuitively knew that less than half these reports could have any validity in fact. Clearly their plan had met with success, but who exactly had been killed—that was the critical question. Yet they could not stay around any longer to find out.
The place was crawling with the kind of people they made a habit of avoiding. And the initial confusion and throng of onlookers could provide cover for only so long. Soon the police would begin making summary arrests, as they always did, hauling in any spectator who appeared even vaguely suspicious or showed a little too much interest in the proceedings.
Still unsure of the specific nature of their success, the three separated and lost themselves in the growing crowd.