The members of the committee finally recovered their wits and took charge of the situation. Turning to Pugatchov, they declared:
“Now we have an order here from the Commander-in-Chief, and it shall be obeyed. We are going to take her away.”
They closed about me and I was marched out of the line and off the field. Pugatchov was in a white rage, raving like a madman, grinding his teeth. As we walked away, his brutal voice roared:
“Fire at the knees!”
A volley rang out. Immediately cries and groans filled the air. Turning my head, I saw the savages rush upon the heap of victims with their bayonets, digging them deep into the bodies of my companions of a few minutes before, and crushing the last signs of life out of them with their heels.
It was frightful, indescribably frightful. The moans were so penetrating, so bloodcurdling that I staggered, fell to the ground my full length, and swooned.
For four hours I remained unconscious. When I came to, I was in a compartment of a railway coach. Petrukhin sat by me, holding my hand, and weeping.
When I thought of the circumstances that had led to my fainting, the figure of Pugatchov swam up before my eyes, and I took an oath there and then to kill him at the first opportunity, if I escaped from the Bolshevik trap.
Petrukhin then told me that Peter had aroused such compassion for me among the members of the Investigation Committee that they had agreed to go with him to Sablin, and petition the Commander-in-Chief to send me to Moscow for trial by a military tribunal. About fifty soldiers were also won over to my side by Peter’s accounts of Yashka’s work in the trenches and No Man’s Land, and of my reputation among all the men. Petrukhin had remained at my bedside till I recovered consciousness, but he now wished to join the deputation. I thanked him gratefully for his kindness towards me and his desperate efforts to save my life.
Before he left, word reached him that Pugatchov had incited some of the men against me, threatening to kidnap and lynch me before I was taken away. Petrukhin placed five loyal friends of his at my compartment, with orders not to surrender me at any cost.
I prayed to God for Petrukhin, and hearing my prayer he said:
“Now, I, too, believe in God. The appearance of this man, Peter, was truly miraculous. In spite of all my efforts, you would have been executed but for him.”
“But what are my chances of escaping death now?” I asked.
“They are still very small,” he answered. “Your record is against you. You do not deny being a friend of Kornilov. Your strict discipline in the Battalion and your fighting the Germans at a time when the whole front was fraternizing, are known here. Besides, the death penalty has become so customary here that it would be very unusual for one to escape it. Only the other day a physician and his wife, on their way to Kislovodsk to the springs, somehow arrived in Zverevo. They were arrested, attached to a party about to be shot, and executed without any investigation. Afterwards papers from their local Soviet were found in their clothes, certifying that they were actually ill, the physician suffering from a cancer, and requesting that they should be allowed to proceed to Kislovodsk.”
Petrukhin kissed my hand, and left, warning me:
“Wait here till I return. Nobody will harm you in my absence.”
He locked the door behind him. I took out the little bottle of holy water, given to me by my youngest sister, Nadia, and drank it. On my knees before the little icon, I prayed long and devoutly to God, Jesus, and the Holy Mother. My ears caught a noise outside the car: it came from several menacing soldiers who wanted to get in and kill me on the spot. I prayed with greater fervour than before, pleading for my life in the name of my mother, my father and my little sister. My heart was heavy with sorrow and despair.
As I was hugging the little icon, tears streaming from my eyes, I suddenly heard a voice, a very tender voice, say to me:
“Your life will be saved.”
I was alone in the compartment. I realize that it is a daring statement to make. I do not seek to make anyone believe it. It may be accepted or not. But I am satisfied that I did hear the voice of a divine messenger. It was soothing, elevating. Suddenly I felt happy and calm. I thanked the Almighty for His boundless grace and vowed to have a public prayer offered at the Moscow Cathedral of Christ the Saviour at the first opportunity, in commemoration of His miraculous message to me.
Then I fell asleep, and rested calmly till the arrival of Petrukhin. His face was wreathed in smiles, he clasped my hand joyfully, saying:
“Thank God! Thank God! You are at least saved from the mob. Sablin has ordered you to be sent to Moscow. The necessary papers are being prepared now.”
At this point Peter came in, followed by some members of the investigation committee. All were happy. It was a wonderful moment. How an act of humanity transforms men’s countenances! Peter and his comrades congratulated me, and I was too overcome to express all the gratefulness that I felt toward these men.
Petrukhin then narrated how he had dealt with the infuriated soldiers, who had clamoured for my life. He told them that I was being led away to Moscow in the hope that I would there deliver up several counterrevolutionary Generals, associated with Kornilov.
“Will she be shot afterwards?” they inquired.
“Of course,” Petrukhin declared. The lynchers went away
