in precisely this way, that it was not the result of a plan worked out in advance.
As soon as my cousin was settled—in a room with a marvelous view of the famous Freiburg castle—we both took to the pen to inform our parents of the events. My parents were used to trusting me. “Our children don’t lie,” my mother liked to emphasize, boasting, and encouraging us to maintain our high reputation. And this tactic justified itself: I never deceived anyone. In the worst case, I stayed silent or did not speak the whole truth. But in this case, I sensed that I could not possibly convince them that all that had occurred was exactly as I described it and not contrived in advance. I attempted to make the letter reflect all the powers of conviction and sincerity that I possessed. But, nevertheless, I realized that had something similar happened to others, I would not have believed them myself. Everything happened too perfectly— this is not how things usually work.
I did not know to what degree my parents believed me. The withdrawal of fire and water, i.e. of the means necessary for my room, board, and tuition did not follow. In fact, I did not fear this. Our family relationships were too close. But there was no other reaction from my parents. They remained silent on this matter and this was, of course, the wisest thing, for even the sharpest rebuke would not have altered the situation.
My cousin and I were enrolled in the medical school without any complications. As required, she commenced with the natural sciences while I immediately became engrossed in anatomy. Professor Haup, a specialist on frogs who knew everything anyone had ever said or written about frogs, and who himself had published an enormous work called
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Like the rest of Russia, Moscow led a tense political life. But to a substantial degree it mirrored the life of St. Petersburg. The government was in St. Petersburg: Witte, Trepov, Durnovo, the grand dukes and the tsar. The central committees of the political parties were there. Finally, a new professional-political organization arose there and functioned legally—the Soviet of Workers Deputies. There was a branch in Moscow, though the fine-tuning derived from the St. Petersburg soviet. When it was decided to call a strike there at the end of November, the Moscow soviet could only join in support. The question of a strike was also discussed by the Moscow soviet. Mensheviks and SR’s [Social Revolutionary Party] called for caution. But St. Petersburg’s decision predetermined that of Moscow and on December 6th the Moscow soviet unanimously decided to commence a general strike on the next day.
Fondaminskii and I were assigned to the congress of railroad delegates. He argued for the necessity of a general strike and asked them to join it, while I was stitching together the corresponding resolution. The railroaders resolved to support the strike. The strike did not produce the desired result, and with an equal mix of spontaneity and premeditation “turned” into a revolt. The state immediately resorted to extreme measures. The meeting, which had convened in the “Aquarium,” was fired upon. And in the center of the city, artillery was let loose against Fidler’s Realschule [a vocational high school] where the so-called “volunteers” had gathered—most of these were youths who had not yet reached legal age and who were either students or from the working class. Following revolutionary tradition and for self-defense, barricades were set up in the streets of Moscow. They were also intended to impede the movement of mounted patrols.
I was not involved in the decisions. These were made by higher party functionaries. The building of barricades, however, was one of the responsibilities of the mid-level party member. Thus, together with others, in some square in the Arbat district, I hauled chairs, boxes, and barrels with a sense of great uneasiness and helplessness. I piled other things on top of them and unsuccessfully tried to topple a light pole with its glass already broken. I did not at all feel that the destructive spirit was simultaneously a constructive one. Those more adept, and, perhaps, less prone to reasoning, built barricades better and faster in other locations.
The headquarters of the SR committee during the insurrection was in the apartment of Lidiia and Lev Armand whom I knew from Rikkert’s seminar in Freiburg. All the directives and guidance emanated from this alley in the Arbat—insofar as guidance was possible in a semi-elemental uprising. This was the center for news and people: news regarding what was happening and people to provide information on the situation and to receive proclamations, directions, and counsel. The proclamations were mainly written by Andrei Aleksandrovich
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Nikitskii, our “scribe” as we called him. It was here also that the combatants and the volunteers came for weapons: revolvers, cartridges, and bombs. We spent all the days and nights of the uprising here, collecting and then discussing information, attempting to bring reason and order to chaos. Sometimes we had to carry out individual assignments ourselves. Thus, Lev Armand and I were sent to get cartridges. We reached the specified point safely. I was loaded up with cartridges hung front and back under my coat and headed back. The way led through the Prechistenka. A sentry stopped me at the house occupied by General Kostanda who was in charge of the forces.
“Where are you going?”
I answered. The soldier ran his hands along the overcoat and spouted out:
“Go ahead, yid face!”
I did not feel insulted. The sensation of an incredibly lucky outcome crowded out all other feelings and thoughts. Had the guard run his hands on the front and back rather than along the sides, I would not have made it alive. Moscow had been placed on military alert, and those held on suspicion, let alone those caught red-handed, were frequently executed on the spot. While unloading the cartridges, I said to my friends:
“I survived my ordeal—a miraculous deliverance from death.”
There were other risky assignments. Actually appearing on a street was accompanied by risk. One evening five of us went out. We had just approached the corner, when we heard the rhythmic clicking of horses’ hooves. The clatter was so close that it was too late to retreat and there was nowhere to run. The leader of our combat units, Aleksandr Gudkov, who was later to die as a Russian volunteer on the French front during World War I, pulled out his revolver and stood first along the edge of the wall. Behind him, also with revolvers in hand, were Oskar and Aleksandr Vysotskii. Fondaminskii and I shuffled from foot to foot: we had no weapons, and didn’t know how to use them anyway. Many tense seconds passed. My heart beat faster in rhythm with the approaching thud of the horses. Suddenly, a shaft of light from a lantern fell on a peacefully passing carriage, not on a dragoon patrol as we had supposed.
On a different occasion I was sent with another person to deliver dynamite in tea tins decorated with birds of paradise and other birds. The dynamite had to be brought to Chulkov’s house on Smolenskii Boulevard. On the way back I stopped to see Sventsitskii who lived in the same neighborhood. He was also storing either dynamite or arms. I found Andrei Bely [the famous poet and novelist] there. I did not know whether he was an SR, an SD [Social Democrat], or a member of the Christian Brotherhood for the Struggle. One did not ask these things. But I can be a definite witness to the fact that at this time he “listened to the music of the revolution” and was captivated by it.
