“All of this will be officially announced in a special edition of the newspaper Izvestiia. The executive committee has formed a food supply commission to ensure that workers and soldiers are fed. It has also created a military commission to defend the revolution.”
There was no mention of the Duma. The crowd was cheering, but Grigori wondered whether soldiers would take orders from a self-elected military commission. Where was the democracy in all this?
His question was answered by the final sentence of the announcement. “The committee appeals to workers and soldiers to elect representatives to the soviet as quickly as possible, and to send their representatives here to the palace to take part in the new revolutionary government!”
That was what Grigori had wanted to hear. The new revolutionary government-a soviet of workers and soldiers. Now there would be change without disorder. Full of enthusiasm, he left the courtyard and headed back toward the barracks. Sooner or later, the men would come back to their beds. He could hardly wait to tell them the news.
Then, for the first time, they would have an election.
On the morning of the next day, the First Machine Gun Regiment gathered on the parade ground to elect a representative to the Petrograd soviet. Isaak proposed Sergeant Grigori Peshkov.
He was elected unopposed.
Grigori was pleased. He knew what life was like for soldiers and workers, and he would bring the machine-oil smell of real life to the corridors of power. He would never forget his roots and put on a top hat. He would make sure that unrest led to improvements, not to random violence. Now he had a real chance to make a better life for Katerina and Vladimir.
He walked quickly across the Liteiny Bridge, alone this time, and headed for the Tauride Palace. His urgent priority had to be bread. Katerina, Vladimir, and the other two and a half million inhabitants of Petrograd had to eat. And now, as he assumed responsibility-at least in his imagination-he began to feel daunted. The farmers and the millers in the countryside had to send more flour to the Petrograd bakers immediately-but they would not do so unless they were paid. How was the soviet going to make sure there was enough money? He began to wonder whether overthrowing the government might have been the easy part.
The palace had a long central facade and two wings. Grigori discovered that both the Duma and the soviet were in session. Appropriately, the Duma-the old middle-class parliament-was in the right wing and the soviet in the left. But who was in charge? No one knew. That would have to be resolved first, Grigori thought impatiently, before they could start on the real problems.
On the steps of the palace Grigori spotted the broomstick figure and bushy black hair of Konstantin. He realized with a shock that he had not made any attempt to tell Konstantin of the death of Varya, his mother. But he saw immediately that Konstantin knew. As well as his red armband, Konstantin was wearing a black scarf tied around his hat.
Grigori embraced him. “I saw it happen,” he said.
“Was it you who killed the police sniper?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you. But her real revenge will be the revolution.”
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.”
