Lenin’s increasingly militant stand against the Provisional Government was a surprise even to the Bolsheviks in Russia. Yet Lenin’s influence grew where it mattered most. His promises of peace and bread and the communal sharing of wealth had great appeal among the masses. Thus, it was not long before he crushed Party opposition and became its undisputed leader.
Another “shot in the arm” came to the Party, and to Lenin, with the arrival of Leon Trotsky from America at the end of May. Trotsky had broken with the Party years before and was no longer an official member, yet he was a charismatic and well-known force and quickly rose in the ranks of the Soviet, eventually coming solidly in line with Lenin’s philosophy. They made a formidable pair—the driven single-mindedness of Lenin and the tireless man of action who was Trotsky.
Andrei’s patchy memory recalled nothing of Trotsky. But when he and Rudy attended a workers’ rally at the Putilov Steelworks, where Trotsky was the main orator, Andrei was duly impressed. The man could stir a cold pot of borscht to a boil. It mesmerized Andrei even with the stock rhetoric about “power to the Soviets!” It was also more than merely Trotsky’s fiery voice that captivated, for it was difficult to take one’s eyes off his animated visage, the mane of thick, dark hair incongruously offset by narrow, intelligent eyes covered with sedate wire-rimmed glasses. He emanated fire and urbanity all at once. Andrei pressed closer to the front of the crowd.
“So, what do you think?” Rudy asked, elbowing Andrei to get his attention.
“He’s a powerful force.”
“I hear Lenin will speak to a public gathering tomorrow. You can compare them.”
“I don’t know. . . .”
“You must do this eventually, Ivan.”
“Yes . . . yes. . . .”
“You may not need to confront Lenin directly,” offered Rudy. “Perhaps one of his lieutenants will recognize you.”
“Perhaps . . .”
Andrei felt pulled in so many different directions. Anxious to learn his identity, yet fearful and uncertain at the same time. But he had attended several political rallies lately in the hope that someone there might recognize him. Still, it felt rather foolish to boldly approach strangers with the question, “Who am I?” or, “Do you know me?” He had tried it a couple of times, only to be faced with blank stares or replies questioning his sanity.
Andrei turned his attention back to Trotsky, who was standing on a makeshift stage bellowing denouncements of the Provisional Government, the War, and anything else that conflicted with the Bolshevik doctrine. It occurred to Andrei that Trotsky had certainly changed his tune. Hadn’t he previously embraced the Menshevik philosophy? Suddenly, Andrei realized he was having a flicker of memory. But the moment he tried to grasp it and squeeze more from it, the illusive flicker was gone. His head spun and he swayed on his feet. He must have bumped Rudy, for his friend turned.
“Are you all right?” Rudy asked.
“Yes, just a bit tired, I suppose.”
“Do you want to leave?”
Andrei shook his head, not so much in refusal as in frustration and confusion. “Why can’t I remember, Rudy?”
“Something happened, didn’t it?”
Andrei nodded. “I belong here, I know that. . . .”
“Andrei, is that you?”
Andrei heard the voice coming from behind him but did not respond. Why should he? It was the name of a stranger being called. And the name was called again. Still he did not respond until a heavy hand grasped his shoulder. He started, then spun around, staring into the face of yet another stranger. A large man, as tall as he, hefty in weight and muscular development. His craggy features were rather stern and imposing, but his appearance at that moment was not entirely unfriendly in spite of the absence of a smile of greeting.
“Yes . . . ?” said Andrei.
“You look at me as if I am a stranger. It hasn’t been that long.”
“I . . . I’m afraid I—” He was too nonplussed to find a response.
Rudy interjected. “Please excuse my friend. He means you no disservice. Even if you were his brother, you would be a stranger to him.”
“I don’t understand,” said the man.
Andrei finally found his voice. “I was injured a few months ago—”
“He nearly died,” put in Rudy.
“In the process,” Andrei continued, “I seem to have lost some of my memory.”
“Lost your memory?” The man first looked incredulous, then he laughed. “Well, well! That’s too fantastic of a story to be a lie.”
“I assure you it’s true.”
“Some thought you were dead. Others, that you had perhaps rejected your Party loyalties. I, for one, hated to believe the latter.”
“The Party . . . ?
“Perhaps I should start at the beginning.”
“That’s a marvelous idea,” said Rudy, “but not here. My friend is growing fatigued. There is a tea shop around the corner. Let’s go there.”
The three shouldered their way through the crowd, found the tea shop, and ordered tea before sitting at a table in the corner.
“Names first,” said Rudy, and he followed his order by giving his own.
“I’m Stephan Kaminsky.” The stranger paused, obviously confused at the peculiar looks on his companions’ faces, then it dawned on him and he added, “You are Andrei Christinin.”
If Andrei had hoped hearing his true name would open the floodgate of memory, he was greatly disappointed. The name proffered was just as foreign as the one he had been using these last months.
Andrei.
It meant nothing. And yet this was his identity. It was the key to who he was. It was the portal into the man he was seeking, into—hopefully—his own heart and soul.
“How do I know you?” Andrei said, trying to force logic instead of emotion into this monumental encounter.
“You were in exile with us—with Lenin himself. You are a Bolshevik. You remember none of this?” When Andrei shook his head, Stephan continued, “You don’t remember Malenkiy Soldat?” Stephan reached into his pocket and withdrew a newspaper. Across the top was the name “Pravda.” He pointed to the cartoon on the front page. It was of soldiers in the trenches. They were gaunt and hungry, garbed in ragged uniforms, some were holding broken weapons while others were merely throwing stones at the well-equipped and hardy enemy. Standing over the poor Russian soldiers was a Russian general, well fed and groomed, seated on a white stallion. The caption with the cartoon was simply, “Whose war?”
Andrei’s first impression of the drawing was that it was terribly obvious. Hardly art even if the drawing was good and the characterizations vivid. “I drew this? But how?” Andrei pointed to the current date on the paper.
“It is a reprint. You drew it in Switzerland. I watched you do it.”
“You must tell me everything, Stephan.”
And for the next hour as several pots of tea were consumed, Stephan Kaminsky did just that. Andrei learned of a young revolutionary, fervent and passionate in the cause. He had joined the exiles shortly before the beginning of the war and had quickly become an integral part of the propaganda machine. Stephan embellished his tale with much of his own propaganda, liberally interjecting Leninist philosophy into nearly every statement. Finally, he told how Lenin had sent Andrei back to Russia in order to distribute newspapers and to report on the status of the Bolshevik Party. That had been a mere handful of days before the revolution had begun.
“We heard nothing from you,” Stephan said. “We weren’t overly concerned until Lenin arrived in Petrograd and still you did not show up.”
Several moments of silence followed before Andrei could ask the question most strongly on his mind.
“Do you know of my family, Stephan? My parents . . . anyone . . . ?”
Stephan sighed as if terribly regretful over what he must reply. “Andrei, it is our practice to speak little of our families—you know, for their protection. It is possible even the name I know you by is a pseudonym. I know nothing about your family, not their names, not even where they are from. You did mention your mother—but only in general terms, mind you. I believe your father is deceased.” He shook his head sadly, then added with more enthusiasm, “But, Andrei, you must remember this if nothing else. Your Bolshevik comrades are your family now. You were part of us, and we will make you part of us once more.”
“Yes, I suppose so . . .”
“What? Still reluctant?”
“What do you mean?”
“I . . . that is, I only meant that after all you have heard, you still wonder about your identity?”
“I’m hearing your words as if they are about someone else. Yet I must admit I do feel an affinity for the revolution. There is something inside me that knows the Russia of the past was not right.”
“There you have it!” said Stephan with enthusiasm. “What is there to question? There can be no true revolution without Lenin. What we have now is a bourgeois sham, run by a prince no less! They are but a breath away from a monarchy.”
“What about Kerensky?”
“Bah! He talks like a revolutionary, but in action he is still in awe of the monarchy. He treats the deposed tsar as if he is still royal. He would have the man exiled to live in luxury in England.”
“And what would Lenin do with the tsar?”
“The tsar and his heir belong in prison. They are criminals.”
Andrei decided to change the subject. “How will Lenin go about taking power?”
“A physical battle for power is the only way. Even now he is trying to find ways to arm the Proletariat. The question I would ask, Andrei, is will you be part of it? Will you take up the place you abandoned and continue the fight? And do not be fooled—the fight has only begun. We have yet to see the true revolution.”
“You must understand—” Andrei began.
“I understand only that I have asked a simple question. Are you for us or against us?”
“It is hardly simple.”
Stephan leaned back and studied Andrei for a long moment. Then he said in a quiet voice, as if he had decided upon a new tact, “You have been through a great trauma, I realize. Why don’t you just come and have a look around our operation? It will all come back, I’m certain.”
“Yes, that’s a good idea. I’ll come tomorrow.”