place, making a show of haste. “Enemy emplacement in that clump of trees ahead, Your Highness,” he said. “You’d better dismount, sir, they can see you.”
Azov remained on his horse. “So what are you doing-hiding from them?”
“His Excellency Lieutenant Kirillov told us to take them out. I’ve sent a patrol to come at them from the side while we give covering fire.”
Azov was not completely stupid. “They don’t seem to be shooting back.”
“We’ve got them pinned down.”
He shook his head. “They’ve retreated-if they were ever there in the first place.”
“I don’t think so, Your Highness. They were blazing away at us a moment ago.”
“There’s no one there.” Azov raised his voice. “Cease fire! You men, cease fire.”
Grigori’s platoon stopped shooting and looked at the major.
“On my signal, charge!” he said. He drew his pistol.
Grigori was not sure what to do. The battle had clearly been the disaster he had forecast. Having avoided it all day he did not want to risk lives when it was clearly over. But direct conflict with officers was dangerous.
At that moment, a group of soldiers broke through the vegetation in the place Grigori had been pretending was an enemy emplacement. Grigori stared in surprise. However, they were not Austrians, he saw as soon as he could make out their uniforms; they were retreating Russians.
But Azov did not change his mind. “Those men are cowardly deserters!” he screeched. “Charge them!” And he fired his pistol at the approaching Russians.
The men of the platoon were bewildered. Officers often threatened to shoot troops who seemed reluctant to go into battle, but Grigori’s men had never before been ordered to attack their own side. They looked to him for guidance.
Azov aimed his pistol at Grigori. “Charge!” he screamed. “Shoot those traitors!”
Grigori made a decision. “Right, men!” he called. He scrambled to his feet. Turning his back to the approaching Russians, he looked to left and right and hefted his rifle. “You heard what the major said!” He swung his rifle, as if turning, then pointed it at Azov.
If he was going to shoot at his own side, he would kill an officer rather than a soldier.
Azov stared at him for a frozen moment, and in that second Grigori pulled the trigger.
His first shot hit Azov’s horse, and it stumbled. That saved Grigori’s life, for Azov fired at him, but the horse’s sudden movement caused the shot to go wide. Automatically, Grigori worked the bolt of his rifle and fired again.
His second shot missed. Grigori swore. He was in real danger now. But so was the major.
Azov was struggling with his horse and unable to aim his weapon. Grigori followed his jerky movements with the sight of his rifle, fired a third time, and shot Azov in the chest. He stared as the major slowly fell off his horse. He felt a jolt of grim satisfaction as the heavy body plunged into a muddy puddle.
The horse walked away unsteadily, then suddenly sat down on its hindquarters like a dog.
Grigori went up to Azov. The major lay on his back in the mud, looking up, unmoving but still alive, bleeding from the right side of his chest. Grigori looked around. The retreating soldiers were still too far away to see clearly what was going on. His own men were completely trustworthy: he had saved their lives many times. He put the barrel of his rifle against Azov’s forehead. “This is for all the good Russians you’ve killed, you murdering dog,” he said. He grimaced, baring his teeth. “And for my front tooth,” he added, and he pulled the trigger.
The major went limp and stopped breathing.
Grigori looked at his men. “The major has unfortunately been killed by enemy fire,” he said. “Retreat!”
They cheered and began to run.
Grigori went up to the horse. It tried to rise, but Grigori could see it had a broken leg. He put his rifle to its ear and fired his last round. The horse fell sideways and lay still.
Grigori felt more pity for the horse than for Major Azov.
He ran after his retreating men.
After the Brusilov Offensive slowed to a halt, Grigori was redeployed to the capital, now renamed Petrograd because “St. Petersburg” sounded too German. Battle-hardened troops were required to protect the tsar’s family and his ministers from the angry citizens, it seemed. The remains of the battalion were merged with the elite First Machine Gun Regiment, and Grigori moved into their barracks in Samsonievsky Prospekt in the Vyborg District, a working-class neighborhood of factories and slums. The First Machine Guns were well fed and housed, in an attempt to keep them contented enough to defend the hated regime.
He was happy to be back, and yet the prospect of seeing Katerina filled him with apprehension. He longed to look at her, hear her voice, and hold her baby, his nephew. But his lust for her made him anxious. She was his wife, but that was a technicality. The reality was that she had chosen Lev, and her baby was Lev’s child. Grigori had no right to love her.
He even toyed with the idea of not telling her he was back. In a city of more than two million people there was a good chance they would never meet by accident. But he would have found that too hard to bear.
On his first day back he was not allowed out of the barracks. He felt frustrated at not being able to go to Katerina. Instead, that evening he and Isaak made contact with other Bolsheviks at the barracks. Grigori agreed to start a discussion group.
Next morning his platoon became part of a squad assigned to guard the home of Prince Andrei, his former overlord, during a banquet. The prince lived in a pink-and-yellow palace on the English Embankment overlooking the Neva River. At midday the soldiers lined up on the steps. Low rain clouds darkened the city, but light shone from every window of the house. Behind the glass, framed by velvet curtains like a play at the theater, footmen and maids in clean uniforms hurried by, carrying bottles of wine, platters of delicacies, and silver trays piled with fruit. There was a small orchestra in the hall, and the strains of a symphony could be heard outside. The big shiny cars drew up at the foot of the steps, footmen hurried to open the car doors, and the guests emerged, the men in their black coats and tall hats, the women swathed in furs. A small crowd gathered on the other side of the street to watch.
It was a familiar scene, but there was a difference. Every time someone got out of a car the crowd booed and jeered. In the old days, the police would have broken up the mob with their nightsticks in a minute. Now there were no police, and the guests walked as quickly as they could up the steps between the two lines of soldiers and darted in through the grand doorway, clearly nervous of staying long in the open.
Grigori thought the bystanders were quite right to jeer at the nobility who had made such a mess of the war. If trouble broke out, he would be inclined to take the side of the crowd. He certainly did not intend to shoot at them, and he guessed many of the soldiers felt the same.
How could noblemen throw lavish parties at a time like this? Half Russia was starving and even the soldiers at the front were on short rations. Men like Andrei deserved to be murdered in their beds. If I see him, Grigori thought, I’m going to have to restrain myself from shooting him the way I shot Major Azov.
The procession of cars came to an end without incident, and the crowd got bored and drifted off. Grigori spent the afternoon looking hard at the faces of women passing by, eagerly hoping against the odds to see Katerina. By the time the guests began to leave it was getting dark and cold, and no one wanted to stand around on the street, so there was no more booing.
After the party the soldiers were invited to the back door to eat such of the leftovers as had not been consumed by the household staff: scraps of meat and fish, cold vegetables, half-eaten bread rolls, apples and pears. The food was thrown on a trestle table and unpleasantly mixed up, slices of ham smeared with fish pate, fruit in gravy, bread dusted with cigar ash. But they had eaten worse in the trenches, and it was a long time since their breakfast of porridge and salt cod, so they tucked in hungrily.
At no time did Grigori see the hated face of Prince Andrei. Perhaps it was just as well.
When they had marched back to the barracks and handed in their weapons, they were given the evening off. Grigori was elated: it was his chance to visit Katerina. He went to the back door of the barracks kitchen and begged some bread and meat to take to her: a sergeant had his privileges. Then he shined his boots and went out.
Vyborg, where the barracks stood, was in the northeast of the city, and Katerina lived diagonally opposite in the
