A Revolution of the Heart

Her letters had become more intermittent as the war raged on into its second then third year. At first he thought it was the post and the nearly wholesale destruction of rail lines across the country, combining with his crisscrossing Russia’s great expanses to stamp out subversion wherever it reared its ugly head.

But he had tasked one of his most capable adjutants to look into the matter and his furtive report that all mail was coming to the War Commissariat unimpeded disconfirmed this possibility, this hope.

At first his face had twitched in instinctive displeasure. He had to feign a cough to conceal it from his adjutant. He’d dismissed him curtly in the next breath, his adjutant looking dog-faced as he slunk out of the room, surely blaming himself for what he perceived as a personal failure. But it had nothing to do with him, the poor fool. Either way, it was good to keep the staff on their toes.

Thereafter for three weeks he had thrown himself into his work to put it out of his mind. A regiment of Latvians had rebelled in Vilnius and the peasants in Voronezh had killed the local commissar and declared loyalty to the SR’s. The train rides had taken a good deal of time and planning snuffing out these traitors to completion had taken concentration and all his mental faculties. The number of executions he’d approved was particularly conspicuous, even he was surprised at his lack of charity.

But they’d eventually been put down. Now he was on his way back to Moscow. Back to see Lenin; and to report, confer, argue, disagree. And back to his thoughts.

She was beautiful in the classic Russian sense. Prominent cheekbones, plush rose-shaped lips, round face, piercing eyes of jade like the dragon statues he had seen on his missions to Mongolia and the steppes. Gifts from Mandarins. She had been an actress and the vivacity of her spirit knew no bounds when they had known each other well. When the letters had come more frequently. When they still contained the succor he secretly needed.

He could see her face now levitating about four feet over the heads of the Muscovites he walked through briskly on the way to the Council of the People’s Commissariat. He could see the face of his angel floating over the heads of the mortals streaming towards and parting before him. Some recognized him and made pretenses to bow, salute or make some other signs of respect, with a muffled and awed ‘Comrade’ sometimes accompanying these repellant gestures. Others made way as quickly as possible, studiously avoiding eye contact. He ignored them anyway and focused on the apparition of his beloved above their heads, cradling the bare warmth it created in his bosom.

Her apparition disappeared as he found himself contemplating how Kollantai or Stalin would seek to outmaneuver him at the approaching council. He tried with all his might to hold on to the vision of his beloved, though these political concerns beat her away. Yet he longed for her as he made his way up the steps of the Smolny Institute, his attention dragged into the present concerns with uncompromising violence.

Perhaps an hour or more later he charged back down the grand staircase smoldering with fury. He ducked into the running car waiting for him and barked ‘drive’ to the chauffeur, who without pause merged into the evening snow and silent midnight. Moscow’s lights, hemmed in by wintry hush, reflecting back off the gently falling flakes created a misleading ambiance of comfort and peace. So too his stolid, bespectacled face belied the riot in the cavity of his heart.

He would put Stalin’s treachery out his mind for now. In fact, it only made the desire for his beloved more intense, he knew not why. He had to find her. He would have to loose his hell hounds to search her out. She wouldn’t get away from him. She couldn’t. She knew that. He knew she knew that.

He let these thoughts float through his mind as the city streets passed by in nighttime repose outside the car’s window. The muted silence of its upholstered interior seemed to reverberate the passion of his longings back on himself, fueling the jealous plotting running roughshod over his normal faculties.

He toyed with the orders he might give the Cheka. Would they merely trail her, report her whereabouts, her daily contacts, her new lover? He bit down on his lip. The copper taste tinged his tastebuds. He hadn’t tasted that since the campaign in Poland. The shell bursts overhead making his ears ring and musky stench of thousands of panting, sweating horses. Just outside of Warsaw, the eastern banks of the Vistula… so close to the world revolution…

Perhaps he would have the Cheka bring her to him. Then; to install her in the Metropole with champagne and caviar, or one of Dzerzhinsky’s facilities? The possibilities made his head swim. His seat sunk deeper into the upholstery and he felt the burden of having to keep his head up and his eyes open. He simply wanted her here with him. He longed to be driving home to her now, to be nursing the anticipation of her embrace, imbibe her joy written in the crinkles around the corner of her eyes, her loyalty and love made manifest in the tea she’d have on boil waiting for him.

The absence of these things left an enormous, monstrous ache in his sternum. The fact of her willful abandonment of their love, of him, filled this ache and emptiness with malice. He found himself having to consciously unclench his fist, his fingers having dug furrows in the upholstery, exposing the stuffing beneath. He’d have to remember to mention it to the driver on the way out.

Only a few minutes now. Then rest. Perhaps it’d all change after some sound sleep.

The car pulled into the long drive abutted by the gate and two sets of Red Army guards in their khaki trench coats and pointed caps, stamping from one foot to another to fight off evening winter’s cold. It glided through the rows of ornate bushes meticulously maintained on either side of its straight path. The driver finally pulled up in front of the early 18^th century mansion, built for one of the lovers of Peter the Great, it’s robin egg blue rococo and gold guilt looking somehow cheerful and ridiculous in the shroud of snow falling endlessly from the sky.

He got out and checked his silver pocket watch as the driver closed the door behind him. Nearly 1am. He’d have to be up in another several hours or so for a meeting with Lenin on the feasibility of forming worker battalions to man the state-run monopoly goods factories. It would prove to be an arduous task.

The profiteers were once again beginning to show their true colors with rumblings for the allowance of free trade and ceasing of forced requisitions from the kulaks. Most egregious was that some of these very same opinions were beginning to be ventured, timidly no doubt but manifest nevertheless, by some members of the various economic committees relevant to these concerns. It made his head ache just thinking about it.

The great gilded door to the house was opened by his faithful attendant, dressed modestly in a simple grey cassock befitting the equality of a state employee founded on socialist principles. His bald head and wrinkled faced nodded deferentially in what equated to a warm greeting. The attendants eyes flitted further in towards a man waiting for him in the interior of the foyer. He stepped in and allowed his attendant to remove his overcoat while he scrutinized the unexpected guest.

To his surprise, which he strictly and vehemently suppressed, it was his best adjutant. Once again, he looked furtive, for though he was a talented administrator he was poor at hiding his true feelings. The adjutant held a manilla dossier tucked under one arm which he nervously palmed with the opposite hand repeatedly. He simply frowned at the man, clearly displaying his displeasure at being interrupted at this hour.

                “What is it you want?”

                “Apologies Comrade People’s Commissar. I know it is late and you are very busy. However, I was just recently informed of a matter you were most concerned with some weeks back. I thought you would want to know right away without delay.”

He untucked the dossier from under his arm and held it halfway out in front of him, as if it was either containing something highly valuable or highly dangerous, it was unclear which.

He sighed. More business. When would he ever get rest? If things kept up this way he would be working at all hours of the night and go insane from lack of sleep. His servant had returned from hanging his great coat and brought a cup of tea billowing steam. He took the saucer and the tea cup jangled. He inhaled the fragrant aroma. He felt some strength coming back to him.

                “Very well, give it here.”

The adjutant placed the dossier into the free, outstretched hand. He flipped it open with just the one hand in a practiced flick. His eyes gazed over the document, expecting tables of manufacturing figures or meeting minutes of some subversive cadre in a major Russian city. Instead, it was a picture of his beloved.

The tea cup and saucer crashed onto the parquet. His attendant and adjutant both instantly rushed forward to catch him just in time as he staggered and almost fell to the floor. He leaned on them in sheer exhaustion for several moments. All strength seemed to have left his body as he was propped up by the two men.

From out of nowhere, from a part of himself that he was only dimly aware had existed previously, a bellowing cry burst forth, something between a groan and a howl. He sagged again heavier onto the two men.

Then he caught his breath, pushed them both away from him and straightened back into an erect position, gathering his faculties. The dossier was still in his hand, gripped tightly, furiously. The picture of his beloved stared back at him unblinking in black, white and tones of grey.

Despite his whole body and soul revolting against him, he willed himself to read the entirety of its contents, willed himself to swallow the bitter reality unfolding before him.

The heading printed at the top was of “The All-Russian Extraordinary Commission”. Below that, the photograph of his beloved, a beautiful one albeit official, the one he knew was used for her passport and a photograph taken before the revolution when she had been an actress in Petrograd.

Following from this were two more photos, attached to the folder by a paperclip. They showed the figure of a woman in an evening dress, with a large dark stain in the back, lying face first on the floor of some hardly identifiable interior of a building. Another showed the same body lying next to several others, with the boots and overcoats of the enacting officials in the top corner of the photograph.

Beneath these photos were the report from the commanding agent. It read in the terse and uncompromising dictation of the Cheka:

“Katerina Yuliana Fyodorovna. Executed by firing squad November 4^th, 1920, for subversive and counter revolutionary activity against The People of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. Namely; black market smuggling, profiteering, conspiracy to undermine socialist economic principles, possession of foreign luxuries and currencies as well as subversive literature. No further illegal or counter-revolutionary connections were revealed under interrogation. Sentence was carried out without prejudice. Signed, Emil Mikhail Igorovych, representative of The All-Russian Extraordinary Commission, Petrograd. November the 6^th, 1920.”

Waves of nausea crashed through his whole body, buckling his knees. His adjutant and attendant made to steady him again but he waved them off with a violent sweep of his hand. The corner of his mouth spasmed twice. Only two months ago he thought, only two months ago his beloved was still alive. He coughed hard several times, and his balance seemed to waver again though he remained upright. His gaze seemed to shift somewhere away from the men in front of him, beyond the foyer they stood in.

Why hadn’t she come to him? Had she not known she was in danger? How had the Cheka in Petrograd not known of their connection? Where was this Emil Mikhail Igorovych? He would not be enjoying the soundness of life and limb much longer.

A trembling hand reached into his jacket pocket once again and tugged at the silver chain of his watch. He popped open the lid. 1:03am. He closed it and returned it to his pocket.

He sighed, heavily, terribly. Then he walked through the puddle of tea now cold on the parquet and in between the two men still staring at him, waiting at his behest. He climbed the staircase to the second floor and his bedroom beyond. Just as he got to the top he turned back to his adjutant as if he’d just remembered something.

“Prepare my train for Petrograd firs thing tomorrow. Wire the Cheka headquarters that a surprise inspection will take place. Single out one Emil Mikhail Igorovych, notify his command that he will be acknowledged for conspicuous action. Dismissed.”

His adjutant saluted and spun on his heel, striding out the front door and into the night. The servant went to find a wet cloth in the kitchen. Snow continued to fall on Moscow until 5:37am that morning.