70

Daniel watched, horrified, as the infantry drove into the procession, rifles blazing. This simply could not be happening.

But it was!

A man crumpled to the ground right in front of him and he would have stumbled over the body had Sergei not grabbed his arm, jarring him back to his senses, and nudged him around.

Another regiment was rushing toward them from the Admiralty, while other troops were attacking from behind. Daniel was no novice to danger or battles; he had been in military encounters before. But this was different—the victims were unarmed. They were singing hymns, for heaven’s sake!

“Sergei?” Daniel implored. He could think of nothing else to add, he simply had to reach out to someone; he had to touch some element of sanity.

Sergei just shook his head. His face was white, and he clutched Andrei and Yuri to him as if he would shield their young eyes from this horror. But he was not successful. The boys watched as men and women fell, bloodied and screaming. Pale and terrified, they clung to their father.

Still the crowd would not give way. They had come to see their “Little Father.” He would save them if only he knew such things were happening.

A woman stumbled, and Daniel stopped to help her. She looked up at him with plaintive eyes. “Where is the tsar?” she asked, tears streaming down her face.

No words came to Daniel’s lips. All he could do was stare silently at her. She turned to another, a simply clad worker, and tugged at his sleeve, repeating the same question.

The man’s broad, friendly features were knotted with confusion. Then Daniel heard the man utter the most incredible words he would ever hear from a common Russian man:

“There is no tsar!”

“Oh, God in heaven! Help us!” wailed the woman, stumbling on.

An instant of panic gripped Daniel as he realized he had lost sight of Sergei. He didn’t want to be alone in this. He had heard Anna tell about Khodynka Field, and now he knew exactly how she had felt. He would be all right if only he stayed with Sergei. Wildly, Daniel looked around, a mumbled prayer on his lips.

He pushed against the surging mob. Shots were still firing. Then just as he caught a glimpse of Sergei, he heard another shout.

“The priest has been shot!”

That had to be Gapon. Daniel was almost to Sergei. The boys were still hanging on to their father, but Sergei, hearing the shout about Gapon, now started forward. Daniel knew that Gapon meant something to Sergei, but was Sergei going to the very front of the throng, exposing himself and his boys to such danger?

As if Sergei had read Daniel’s thoughts, he stopped and turned back. Then he saw Daniel.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” Sergei said, pushing his way to Daniel.

“There’s no place to go.”

They had to try. Sergei attempted to steer them toward the edge of the street. Because they were so near the Square, there was little cover from buildings, but they could at least get out of the middle of the crazed melee.

In the noise and confusion, Andrei’s scream could hardly be heard. Daniel didn’t even notice anything until he saw Andrei let loose of his father and fall to his knees, grasping a bloody shoulder.

When Andrei fell, Sergei spun around and threw himself on both his sons in a frenzied attempt to protect them. Fear, fury, panic marked his expression.

Daniel saw a soldier with his rifle still aimed in the direction of Sergei and his sons. Instinctively he charged the soldier, but the man was too far away. And Daniel was suddenly blocked in his hapless effort as a dozen workers unwittingly knocked him to the ground.

The soldier fired another round before Daniel could do anything.

By the time Daniel got to his feet, it was too late. Although screams were rising all over the place, one scream now seemed to echo over them all. It was no louder than the others; only its sickening familiarity made it stand out.

When Daniel spun toward the sound, he saw Sergei still crouched over Andrei. But now Sergei was sprawled over his son, a huge, ugly splotch of dark red staining the back of his best Sunday jacket.

Daniel’s legs felt wooden as he forced himself toward his companions.

Yuri was crying. “Papa! Papa!” he sobbed.

There were no tears in Andrei’s eyes though he bit his lip, obviously in physical pain from his shattered shoulder. He just sat there, staring at his father’s fallen form draped over his own legs.

Daniel knelt by them and tried to lift Sergei, but he was heavy—dead weight. Daniel couldn’t accept that. Sergei must only be unconscious. Perhaps he could bring him around.

“Sergei, can you hear me?” Daniel laid a hand on Sergei’s shoulder and gave it a little shake. But there was no response.

“Is he . . . ?” Andrei began, but he couldn’t finish the awful thought. And Daniel couldn’t have found the courage to answer, anyway.

All Daniel knew was they could not stay where they were, still very much in harm’s way. Panicked, confused crowds surged around them, and the soldiers were still attacking. He had to get Sergei and Andrei to safety, to help. But he also knew he couldn’t carry Sergei. He uttered a silent prayer for help, then looked wildly around as if God’s answer would come from the crowd itself.

And it did.

A huge worker by the name of Ivan, whom Sergei had tutored, stumbled toward them. “Sergei Ivanovich?”

“Yes,” Daniel said. “He’s wounded. We have to get him away from here.”

The big man bent down and lifted Sergei into his muscular arms.

Ivan looked at Daniel. “I think he’s . . . gone.”

“No!” said Yuri almost pleading. “He’s wounded. He needs a doctor.”

“Come on,” said the worker. No sense arguing now with the poor child.

Daniel tried to help Andrei up, but the boy had barely started to stand on his feet when he crumpled to the ground in a faint. Daniel gathered him into his arms, and urging Yuri forward, they headed after Ivan.

The events of that day did not end until long after midnight. Even after the majority of the workers had dispersed and gone to their homes, others roamed the streets, looting and vandalizing. On Vassily Island, the workers threw up a barricade and tried to fight back with guns burglarized from a local gun shop. But in the end, a deadly quiet fell over the city. The workers’ noble quest had failed. What they had most feared, and what the revolutionaries had often tried to tell them, was true after all.

The Little Father did not care. There was no tsar.

Anna and Raisa and Talia had stayed indoors all day. They had heard many shouts and much commotion outside. And the gunfire. It had been frightening, not knowing what was happening.

When Anna heard a noise outside the front door of the flat, she prayed it was Sergei and the boys returning. She would not rest until they were safe at home. She rushed to the door, flung it open and was greeted by Daniel’s drawn and haggard face, his arms laden with Andrei’s semiconscious form.

“Anna, I’m sorry—” Daniel began.

For a moment, her stupefied gaze fixed only on Andrei. When the boy moved, she realized he was alive. But she had no time to feel relief, for Yuri threw his arms around his mother, new sobs wracking the grief-stricken boy.

“Mama! It’s Papa . . . he’s . . .”

Before Yuri could finish, Anna’s eyes shifted, focusing over Daniel’s shoulder to a big, coarse-looking worker.

And Sergei in his arms.