“Your Excellency,” I insisted, “God has given me strength, and I can defend my country as well as a man. I have asked myself before coming here whether I could endure the life of a soldier, and found that I could. Cannot you place me in your regiment?”
“My dear,” the Commander declared gently, “how can I help you? It is against the law. I have no authority to enlist a woman even if I wanted to. You can go to the rear, enlist as a Red Cross nurse or in some other auxiliary service.”
I rejected his proposal. I had heard so many rumours about the women in the rear that I had come to despise them. I therefore insisted on my determination to go to the front as a regular soldier. The Commander was deeply impressed by my obstinacy, and wanted to help me. He suggested that I should send a telegram to the Tsar, telling him of my desire to defend the country, of my moral purpose, and beg him to grant me special permission to enlist.
The Commander promised to draw up the telegram himself, with a recommendation of his own, and to have it sent from his office. He warned me, however, to consider the matter again, to think of the hardships I should have to bear, of the soldiers’ attitude toward me, and the universal ridicule that I should provoke. But I did not change my mind. The telegram was sent at my expense, costing eight roubles, which I obtained from my mother.
When I disclosed to my family the nature of my visit to the Commander of the Twenty-fifth Battalion they burst into tears. My poor mother cried that her Mania must have gone out of her senses, that it was an unheard-of, impossible thing. Who ever heard of a baba going to war? She would allow herself to be buried alive before letting me enlist. My father supported her. I was their only hope now, they said. They would be forced to starve and go begging, without my help. And the house was filled with sobs and lamentation, the two younger sisters and some neighbours joining in.
My heart was rent in twain. It was a cruel, painful choice that I was called upon to make, a choice between my mother and my country. It had cost me so much to steel myself to that new life, and now, when I was seemingly near the goal, my long-suffering mother called upon me to give up this ideal that possessed me, for her sake. I was tormented and agonized by doubt. I realized that I must make a decision quickly, and, with a supreme effort and the help of God, I resolved that the call of my country came before the call of my mother.
After some time had passed a soldier came to the house.
“Is Maria Bochkareva here?” he questioned.
He came from headquarters with the news that a telegram had arrived from the Tsar, authorizing the Commander to enlist me as a soldier, and that the Commander wanted to see me.
My mother did not expect such an answer. She grew frantic. She cursed the Tsar with all her might, although she had always revered him as the Little Father. “What kind of a Tsar is he?” she cried, “if he takes women to war? He must have lost his senses. Who ever heard of a Tsar calling women to arms? Hasn’t he enough men? Goodness knows, there are myriads of them in Mother Russia.”
She seized the Tsar’s portrait on the wall, before which she had crossed herself every morning, and tore it to bits, stamping them on the floor, with imprecations and anathema on her lips. Never again would she pray for him, she declared. “No, never!”
The soldier’s message had an opposite effect on me; and I was in high spirits. Dressing in my best clothes, I went to see the Commander. Everybody at headquarters seemed to know of the Tsar’s telegram, smiles greeting me everywhere. The Commander congratulated me and read its text in a solemn voice, explaining that it was an extraordinary honour which the august Emperor had conferred on me, and that I must make myself worthy of it. I was so happy, so joyous, so excited. It was the most blissful moment of my life.
The Commander called in his orderly and instructed him to obtain a full soldier’s outfit for me. I received two complete undergarments made of coarse linen, two pairs of foot-rags, a laundry-bag, a pair of boots, one pair of trousers, a belt, a regulation blouse, a pair of epaulets, a cap with the insignia on it, two cartridge pockets and a rifle. My hair was clipped short.
There was an outburst of laughter when I appeared in full military attire, as a regular soldier of the Fourth Company, Fifth Regiment. I was confused and somewhat bewildered, being hardly able to recognize myself. The news of a woman recruit had preceded me at the barracks, and my arrival there was the signal for riotous mirth. I was surrounded on all sides by raw recruits who stared at me incredulously, but some were not satisfied with mere staring, so rare a novelty was I to them. They wanted to make sure that their eyes were not deceived, so they proceeded to pinch me, jostle me and brush against me.
“Nonsense, she isn’t a baba,” remarked one of them.
“Indeed, she is,” said another, pinching me.
“She’ll run like the devil at the first German shot,” joked a third, provoking roars of laughter.
“We’ll make it so hot for her that she’ll run before even getting to the front,” threatened a fourth.
Here the Commander of my company interfered, and the men dispersed. I was granted permission to take my things home before settling permanently at the barracks. I asked to
