“No,” I answered, “I was on my way to Kislovodsk.”
There were about forty men in the car, the greater part of them officers. Among the latter there were two Generals. They were all shocked at my appearance among them. When my escort had departed, the prisoners talked more freely. To some of them I even told the truth, that I had actually been to Kornilov. None of them gave me any hope. All were resigned to death.
One of the Generals was an old man. He beckoned to me and I sat down beside him.
“I have a daughter like you,” he said sadly, putting his arm round my shoulders. “I had heard of your brave deeds and had come to love you like my own child. But I never expected to meet you here, in this deathtrap. Is it not dreadful? Here are we, all of us, the best men of the country, being executed, tormented, crushed by the savage mob. If it were only for the good of Russia! But Russia is perishing at this very moment. Perhaps God will save you yet. Then you will avenge us. …”
I broke down, convulsed with sobs, and leaned against the General’s shoulder. The old warrior could not restrain himself either and wept with me. …
The other officers suddenly sang out in a chorus. They sang from despair, in an effort to keep from collapsing.
I cried long and bitterly. I prayed for my mother.
“Who would support her?” I appealed to Heaven. “She will be forced to go begging in her old age if I am killed.” Life became very precious to me, the same life that I had exposed to a hundred perils. I did not want to die an infamous death, to lie on the field unburied, food for carrion crows.
“Why haven’t you allowed me to die from an enemy’s bullet?” I asked of God. “How have I deserved being butchered by the hands of my own people?”
The door swung open. About forty soldiers filed in. Their leader had a list of names in his hand.
“Bochkareva!” he called out first.
Somehow my heart leaped with joy. I thought that I was to be released. But the officers immediately disillusioned me with the statement that it was a call for execution. I stepped forward and answered:
“I am here!”
“Take off your clothes!”
The order stupefied me. I remained motionless.
Some soldiers came up, pushed me forward and repeated the order several times. I awoke at last and began to undress.
The old General’s name was read off the list next. Then a number of other officers were called out. Every one of them was ordered to cast off the uniform and remain in his undergarments.
The Bolsheviks needed all the uniforms they could get, and this was such an inexpensive way of obtaining them.
Tears streamed down my cheeks all the time. The old General was near me.
“Don’t cry!” he urged me. “We will die together.”
Not all the prisoners were in our group. Those remaining kissed me farewell. The partings between the men were alone sufficient to rend one’s heart.
“Well, we shall follow you in an hour or two,” those who were left behind said bravely.
After I had taken off my boots, I removed the icon from my neck and fell before it on my knees.
“Why should I die such a death?” I cried. “For three years I have suffered for my country. Is this shameful end to be my reward? Have mercy, Holy Mother! If not for the sake of humble Maria, then for the sake of my destitute old mother and my aged father! Have mercy!”
Here I collapsed completely and became hysterical.
After a few moments an officer approached me, put his hand on my shoulder, and said:
“You are a Russian officer. We are dying for a righteous cause. Be strong and die as it befits an officer to die!”
I made a superhuman effort to control myself. The tears stopped. I arose and announced to the guards:
“I am ready.”
We were led out from the car, all of us in our undergarments. A few hundred feet away was the field of slaughter. There were hundreds upon hundreds of human bodies heaped there. As we approached the place, the figure of Pugatchov, marching about with a triumphant face, came into sight. He was in charge of the firing squad, composed of about one hundred men, some of whom were sailors, others soldiers, and others dressed as Red Guards.
We were surrounded and taken toward a slight elevation of ground, and placed in a line with our backs toward the hill. There were corpses behind us, in front of us, to our left, to our right, at our very feet. There were at least a thousand of them. The scene was a horror of horrors. We were suffocated by the poisonous stench. The executioners did not seem to mind it so much. They were used to it.
I was placed at the extreme right of the line. Next to me was the old General. There were twenty of us altogether.
“We are waiting for the committee,” Pugatchov remarked, to explain the delay in the proceedings.
“What a pleasure!” he rubbed his hands, laughing. “We have a woman today.”
“Oh, yes,” he added, turning to us all, “you can write letters home and ask that your bodies be sent there for burial, if you wish. Or you can ask for similar favours.”
The suspense of waiting was as cruel as anything else about the place. Every officer’s face wore an expression of implacable hatred for that brute of a man, Pugatchov. Never have I seen a more bloodthirsty scoundrel. I did not think that such a man was to be found in Russia.
The waiting wore me out soon and I fell again on my knees, praying to the little icon, and crying to Heaven:
“God, when have I sinned to earn such a death? Why should I die like a dog, without burial, without a priest, with no funeral? And who will take care of my mother?
