those deaths? Was she safe? He wanted to hold her, to feel the warmth of her skin.
Heavy footsteps dragged him back to the here and now. Three men in boots, a conspiratorial murmur of voices on the landing, a jangle of keys. He sensed a hush on the wing like the stillness after a heavy snowfall. He was not surprised when they stopped at his door, but he was surprised when Major Vladimir Barclay stepped inside his cell. The man’s face was red raw, his hair and eyebrows scorched, and there were dark patches of blood on his blue uniform jacket.
‘You were there?’
‘Yes…’ Barclay’s voice cracked a little. It was plain from his grim expression that he had not come to speak but to punish. Turning to the burly warders at his back, he gave a slight nod then stepped aside. The door slammed shut and they advanced towards Hadfield, one with a broad leather belt in his hand and the other with a cane.
Hadfield jumped to his feet. It occurred to him that he was about to enjoy the dubious distinction of being beaten by both sides.
The first man swung with the belt but Hadfield caught it with his left hand, yanking him forward and punching the side of his face with his right. He connected well. But the other warder had climbed on to the bed and began laying about him with the cane. Hadfield dived for his legs. His shins struck the metal bed frame but his arms closed about the warder’s knees in a perfect tackle. And he tumbled backwards heavily like a tree, turning a little in a desperate effort to break his fall with his arm. But Hadfield was left prostrate on the bed and the other warder was on top of him before he had a chance to rise.
It did not last long. They punched him in the face until he was still, his eyes swollen, his lip split, then they beat him across the back and buttocks with the cane. And when it was over Barclay came to stand above him for a moment.
‘That is in case you manage to escape responsibility.’ He spat on Hadfield. ‘Now, physician, you can heal yourself.’
43
The following day the party posted a notice in the city.
Alexander the Tyrant has been killed by us, Socialists. He did not listen to the people’s tears. A tsar should be a good shepherd but Alexander II was a ravening wolf. The party has taken the first step, and under its guidance workers should rise to claim their freedom.
But there were no barricades or demonstrations in the streets, no general rejoicing, no one heeded the call to revolution. St Petersburg was subdued, even a little fearful, the churches full of mourners and those seeking the comfort of the old order. People with a living to make went about their business as always.
At the apartment on the Voznesensky, members of the executive committee composed another manifesto, to be addressed this time to the new tsar.
What were they thinking? Anna asked herself as she listened to them argue over the party’s demands. They were careless, drunk with their own sense of importance. The first of the bombers was in police custody. It was only a matter of time before those who helped him were there too.
Her fears were well-founded: that night, just as the committee’s call for ‘freedom’ and ‘reconciliation’ was being printed, ‘the white terror’ began in earnest. In the early hours, the police broke down the doors of the apartment in Telezhnaya Street. Comrade Sablin shot himself and Comrade Gelfman was arrested. And later that morning a member of the bombing party was taken. On the 4th they raided the cheese shop. The party’s chief propagandist, Comrade Tikhomirov, began wearing black and visiting churches to pray for the soul of the tsar.
On the night of the 6th there was a knock at the door of the apartment on the Voznesensky.
‘Verochka, may I spend the night with you?’ It was Sophia Perovskaya.
‘How can you ask that?’ Vera replied reproachfully.
Sophia looked exhausted, thinner, her face a distressing pallor, with dark rings about her blue eyes. No one had seen her since the death of the tsar. She had moved through the city from friend to friend, determined not to stay more than a night in one place.
‘Sonechka, you have as much right as any of us,’ said Anna, stepping forward to give her a hug.
But Sophia held her at arm’s length: ‘I have to ask. If they find me here they will hang you both too.’
‘I will shoot if they come, whether you’re here or not,’ replied Vera, and she pointed to the revolver she kept beside her bed when she slept.
That night Anna lay close to her friend. She could sense Sophia’s grief, the dark conviction that nothing would ever be the same, the time left counted in days. At a little before dawn, Sophia turned to her.
‘Annushka, why didn’t you tell me your doctor was in prison?’
‘You have your own sorrow.’
Sophia gave a sad smile and reached down to squeeze Anna’s hand.
The following morning, Sophia Perovskaya slipped away from the apartment without saying goodbye. Four days later she was arrested on the Nevsky Prospekt. Then Nikolai Kibalchich was betrayed by his landlady and his friend, Frolenko, was captured at his apartment too.
On the 19th they transferred the body of Alexander II to the Cathedral of St Peter and St Paul, the fortress’s minute gun echoing along the Neva. The river was lined with tens of thousands of onlookers, many from the country, some to mourn, some only to enjoy the spectacle. And as the long cortege of soldiers and civil representatives left the palace the city’s bells began to toll, their solemn note reaching into every home and even into the subterranean cells of the Secret House. For the first time in days Anna left the apartment seeking the anonymity of the crowded streets. She dressed in her old brown woollen coat, a little tight now, with Mikhailov’s burgundy scarf pulled up over her face. To feel the sharp air in her chest, the crunch of snow underfoot, to find relief in exercise, the stiffness leaving her body, and put the gloom of the last days, the staleness of the apartment behind her. Perhaps it was the freedom she allowed herself in the fresh air to think again of a time when she might be with Frederick that caused her to lower her guard for once. Was it in the Haymarket or on the Nevsky Prospekt? She was never quite sure. But at some point she was seen and followed by a ‘pea-green coat’, as the party liked to call the police department’s spies. He waited until she turned on to the Fontanka Embankment, then grabbed her roughly from behind. ‘Thief, thief!’ she screamed and managed to break free. She ran into a yard and to the back door of a mansion, but the dvornik had been roused by the commotion and met her on the stairs, driving her from the building. It was only a matter of seconds before they were upon her.
They drove her to Fontanka 16 and then to the studio of Alexandrovsky and Taube on the Nevsky for a police photograph. By the time she returned to the Third Section its corridors were crammed with agents and officials from the justice ministry loitering in the hope of catching a glimpse of another of the regicides. She was taken to the basement and locked in a cell with a guard to watch her at all times. The sergeant in charge of the prisoners refused to listen to her appeal for some privacy to go to the toilet. For an hour or so she sat at the edge of the bench with a dull pain in her chest, resigned to what she had long believed to be inevitable. She tried not to think of her baby. In the early evening a doctor — an elderly sober-suited German — came to examine her. Again the sergeant refused to remove the guard. She said nothing to the doctor of her pregnancy but after examining her for a few minutes, he placed his stethoscope on her belly. Then he lifted his round brown eyes to her face and gave her a knowing look.
He left without saying anything more than that she was in good health. A short time later the collegiate councillor called Dobrshinsky, whom she knew to be the special investigator, came to inform her that some dignitaries were waiting in his office to see her. He escorted her under guard up the broad marble stairs to the second floor. Then, with more graciousness than she expected, he introduced the two men who were sitting at his desk as the chief prosecutor, Count von Plehve, and General Sereda of the Gendarme Corps. A chair had been set for her in the middle of the room.
‘Is it the jealousy of the peasant, Madame Romanko?’ von Plehve asked contemptuously, as soon as she had
