“I would not join the officers here or Kornilov in the South for the purpose of waging war against my own people,” I replied. “I can’t do it because every Russian is dear to my heart, whether he be a Bolshevik, a Menshevik, or a Red Guard. But I will undertake to go to Kornilov, in order to satisfy your, as well as my own, desire for information.”
It was agreed that I should dress as a Sister of Mercy. A costume was obtained for me, and I put it on over my uniform. My soldier’s cap I tucked away in a pocket and donned the ordinary headgear of a Sister of Mercy, which left visible only my eyes, nose, mouth and cheeks, and made me look like a matron of about forty-five.
A passport was furnished to me, bearing the name of Alexandra Leontievna Smirnova, which was to be my name on the journey. As I wore army boots there was no danger of my trousers showing under the skirt. I took with me a letter from Princess Tatuyeva, in which she invited me to visit her in her home in the Caucasus. A ticket from Petrograd to Kislovodsk, a Caucasian health resort within several hundred miles of the place where Kornilov was stationed, was given me, to be used only in an emergency. It was agreed that in case of danger I should discard my garb of a Sister of Mercy, and disclose my identity, supported by the evidence of the emergency ticket to Kislovodsk and the letter from Princess Tatuieva, declare that I was on my way to take a cure at that place. In addition, I was, of course, provided with money for expenses.
It was very amusing to lose one’s identity and appear as a complete stranger. I was no longer Maria Bochkareva, but Alexandra Smirnova. And as I glanced at myself in the mirror it seemed even to my own eyes that I had been reincarnated from a soldier into a Sister of Mercy.
When I started from Petrograd my destination was Nikitino, a station which one would ordinarily pass on the way to Kislovodsk. Nobody recognized me on the train. Sometimes a soldier asked:
“Where are you going, little sister?”
“Home, to Kislovodsk,” was my usual answer.
The next question would be about the service I had seen at the front, and the sectors at which I worked. I would reply with facts from my actual experience as a soldier. There was nothing strange about a Sister of Mercy returning home, and as I preferred silence and solitude to conversation, I reached Nikitino, at the end of several days, without any trouble.
From Nikitino all trains were by order of the authorities switched off to other lines and sent to their destination by roundabout routes. The road running directly south from Nikitino was used for military purposes exclusively by the Bolshevik forces engaged in fighting Kornilov. Twenty miles farther on, at Zverevo, the so-called front began. Private passengers were therefore not allowed to go to Zverevo.
It was evident that vast preparations were being made for a campaign against General Kornilov. There were many ammunition trains and large numbers of men concentrated there waiting transportation. There was apparently no lack of money, and there was iron discipline, reminding one of the early days of the war. There was order everywhere.
The first problem confronting me was how to get to Zverevo. I went to the Commandant of the station, complained that I was penniless, that I could not wait indefinitely for the end of the fighting to return home to Kislovodsk, and urgently begged him to advise me what to do. I made such an appeal to him that he finally said:
“A munition train is just about to leave for Zverevo. Come, get into it and go to Zverevo. Perhaps they will pass you through the lines at the front. There is a second-class carriage attached to the train.”
He led me to the carriage, in which were only the five soldiers who were in charge of the train. He introduced me to the chief of them as a stranded Sister of Mercy and asked for their indulgence. I thanked the obliging Commandant profusely and from the bottom of my heart.
The train moved out of the station, but although satisfied with the first stage of my enterprise, I was by no means cheerful as to my prospects in Zverevo, the Bolshevik war zone. The head of the party sat down opposite me. He was a dirty, ugly muzhik. I did not encourage him to engage me in conversation, but he was evidently wholly insensible to my feelings in the matter.
After the preliminary questions, he expressed his surprise that I should have chosen such an inopportune moment to go to Kislovodsk.
“But my mother is ill there,” I lied, “perhaps she is dying now. It broke her heart when I went to the front.”
“Ah, that’s different,” he declared, moving over to my side. “They will pass you in that case.”
From an expression of sympathy he had no hesitation in proceeding to an attempt at flirtation. He moved closer to me and even touched my arm. It was a delicate situation. I could not well afford to provoke his antagonism, so I warded off his advances with a smile and a coquettish glance. He treated me to a good meal, during which the conversation turned to general conditions. He was, of course, a rabid Bolshevik and a savage opponent of Kornilov and all officers. My part in the conversation was confined to brief expressions of acquiescence,
