Afanasy’s low intelligence was a sufficient trial. But his heavy drinking was a greater source of suffering to me. He made a habit of beating me, and grew to be unendurable. I was less than eighteen years old, and nothing but misery seemed to be in store for me. The thought of escape dug itself deeper and deeper into my mind. I finally resolved to run away from Afanasy.
My married sister had moved to Barnaul, where she and her husband worked as servants on a river steamer. I saved some twenty roubles, and determined to go to my sister, but I needed a passport. Without a passport one could not move in Russia, so I took my mother’s.
On the way, at a small railway station, I was held up by a police officer.
“Where are you going, girl?” he asked brusquely, eyeing me with suspicion.
“To Barnaul,” I replied, with a sinking heart.
“Have you a passport?” he demanded.
“Yes,” I said, drawing it out of my bag.
“What’s your name?” was the next question.
“Maria Bochkareva.”
In my confusion I had forgotten that the passport was my mother’s, and that it bore the name of Olga Frolkova. When the officer unfolded it and glanced at the name, he turned on me fiercely:
“Bochkareva, ah, so that is your name?”
It dawned upon me then that I had committed a fatal mistake. Visions of prison, torture and eventual return to Afanasy flashed before me. “I am lost,” I thought, falling upon my knees before the officer to beg for mercy, as he ordered me to follow him to headquarters. In an outburst of tears and sobs, I told him that I had escaped from a brutal husband, and since I could not possibly obtain a passport of my own, I was forced to make use of my mother’s. I implored him not to send me back to Afanasy, for he would certainly kill me.
My simple peasant speech convinced the officer that I was not a dangerous political, but he would not let me go. He decided that I should go with him. “Come along, you will stay with me, and tomorrow I will send you to Barnaul. If you don’t, I’ll have you arrested and sent by étape2 back to Tomsk.”
I was as docile as a sheep. This was my first contact with the authorities, and I dared not protest. If I had any power of will it must have been dormant. Had I not found the world full of wrong since my childhood? Was not this one of the ordinary events of life? We muzhiks were created to suffer and endure. They, the officials, were created to punish and maltreat. And so I was led away by the guardian of peace and law, and made to suffer shame and humiliation. …
I was then free to go to Barnaul, and I resumed my journey. When I arrived there, my sister quickly found employment for me on the steamship. The work was comparatively easy, and my life rapidly took a happier turn. It was an immense relief to be away from my drunken, brutal husband.
But the relief was short-lived. Afanasy came to my mother after my disappearance to inquire concerning my whereabouts. She showed surprise upon hearing of my flight, and denied all knowledge of my destination. He returned to our house again and again. One day in his presence the postman delivered a letter from Shura. He seized it, and through it learned that I was in Barnaul.
One morning, as I was standing on the deck of the ship, which was anchored in the harbour, my eyes suddenly fell on a figure approaching the wharf. It was a familiar figure. In another moment I recognized it as that of Afanasy. My blood froze and my flesh crept as I realized what was coming.
“Once fallen into his hands my life would be one of continuous torture,” I thought. “I must save myself.”
But how could I escape? If I were on land I might still have a chance. Here all avenues are closed. There he is already approaching the gate to the wharf. He is stopping to ask a question of a guard, who nods affirmatively. Now, he is walking a little faster. His face wears a grin that strikes terror into my heart. I am trapped. … But no, just wait a moment, Afanasy. Don’t be sure of your triumph yet. I rush to the edge of the deck, cross myself and jump into the deep waters of the Ob. Ah, how thrilling it is to die! So I have outwitted Afanasy, after all. It’s cold, the water is cold. And I am going down, down. … I am glad. I am triumphant. I have escaped from the trap … into the arms of death.
I awoke, not in heaven, but in the hospital. I was observed jumping into the river, dragged out unconscious, and revived.
The authorities questioned me as to the cause of my attempted suicide, and drew up a protocol. I told them of my husband, of his brutality, and the utter impossibility of living with him.
Afanasy was waiting in the anteroom, to see me. My attempt at suicide had seriously upset him. It aroused a sense of shame in him. Touched by my story, the authorities went out and angrily rebuked him for his maltreatment of me. He admitted his guilt, and swore that he would be gentle to me in the future.
He was then admitted to the ward in which I lay. Falling on his knees, he begged my forgiveness, repeating his oath to me and professing his love for me
