One of the masterpieces of world literature, The Red Wheel is Nobel prize–winner Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn’s multivolume epic work about the Russian Revolution told in the form of a historical novel. March 1917—the third node—chronicles the mayhem, day by day, of the Russian Revolution. Book 4 presents, for the first time in English, the conclusion of this four-volume revolutionary saga. In this book, the willing and unwilling participants of the Russian Revolution try to make sense of their next steps amidst unraveling chaos.
Sterligov spread the fingers of his large hand and held forth:
“This way is untenable, gentlemen. An appeal must be made to the army with the clarification that all regulations currently in effect retain their full force until they are legally replaced. Otherwise the army will fall apart and there’ll be nothing left of us.”
The silence was deafening.
And von Derwies, although he was under threat of a stroke, was waiting and even asking for it:
“But this abomination—not giving officers weapons? How is this? The government approves?”
This was something Vinokhodov did not know—and did not presume to answer. He smiled showing his white teeth. He’d already said what he knew. Wasn’t it time now to have supper? And dance? He looked at Valentina.
Rokossovsky did not reproach anyone individually, but Colonel Belelyubsky thought it very likely this was about him; the whole brigade knew him to be a liberal. And he replied, trying to persuade them:
“Gentlemen! This has all been explained! This has nothing to do with the army in the field, just the Petrograd garrison, to keep a counterrevolution from forming. Shouldn’t the new government be able to secure itself somehow? We can only wish the government more strength at this grandiose moment. Let us all submit to the new government and not worry about anything. A page of history has turned, gentlemen!”
“If anarchy spills over into the army—that will be a beast no one can stand up to! They’re already removing and arresting officers in our 2nd! They’re up to all kinds of things in the grenadier regiments. And tomorrow—in our brigade?”
“Not in our brigade,” Sterligov thoughtfully shook his broad head in its drab gray outline. “It’s impossible in the artillery.”
“That depends. That depends.… Our own soldiers don’t trust us anymore.”
There had been a change, and they felt it. The soldiers’ reproach or mistrust even seemed to hang over today’s officer assembly. In the current situation, that kind of gathering could raise suspicions. They’d lost their old simplicity with the soldiers.
“Gen-tle-men!” Belelyubsky sang out. “In the current situation the committees, too, have their pluses. If they’re going to elect their own quartermasters and cooks, all the better. Less grounds for mistrust and dissension. And less trouble for us.”
“Yes!” Vinokhodov, who had yet to sit down, remembered. “They’re also working out a plan to reduce officers’ pay!”
Was that so!… The brilliant officer class had been impoverished all these years but kept up appearances scrupulously—and now their pay was going down?”
This was awkward, and the conversation reached the batmen in the kitchen.
“And also,” Vinokhodov insisted, “most of the existing medals and distinctions are going to be abolished, too.”
He was wearing the Stanislav and the Anna, but he said this with the joy of remembering, managing not to forget.
They had collected them! Treasured them! Taken pride in them! What had been won in piercing and explosive fire, nearly the main thing in an officer’s life, shining and jingling on their chests, or for some not yet received, but anticipated—and…?
“Are they going to take away our wound stripes, too, maybe? Abolish the wounds, too, make them go away?”
Like a fire that catches so quickly you don’t have time to regret it.
Apparently, though, Vinokhodov had now finished. He sighed. His eye was on the table.
But it was like he’d shot everyone here, all the others.
Sanya badly regretted his decorations, his George cross. Apparently—what? A convention. … This wasn’t what frightened him. Losing the soldiers’ trust was. All of a sudden he felt not at the head of his own men but practically surrounded by strangers.
Lieutenant Sterligov’s slow-gazing, slow-seeing, dogged face conveyed much sadness and agony. As if trying with his eyebrows to break through the film over his eyes, he spoke with difficulty:
“Gentlemen! We aren’t prepared for anything. We never knew anything. I would be very grateful if someone could explain to me now.… For example, what exactly does SR mean? Who are they? Who are these crocodiles? I don’t understand them.”
Up until the past few days, it had been indecent for officers to notice them.
“Or: what is so-cial-ism? If someone would explain to me …” Sterligov finished up in a lost, muffled voice.
“Yes, even”—Captain Sokhatsky nervously twisting his fingers—“I wish someone would explain what a revolution is. Who could give us that definition? How can we get our bearings without that?”
A sluggish silence ensued.
“Yes,” Rokossovsky drawled ironically, still at the center of the group and still not relenting in his bearing. “This is a question for wise men. Or Belelyubsky.”
Belelyubsky, with hairs slicked down on his bald head, didn’t seem shocked, he would even willingly have set about explaining. But he felt the almost universal ill will.
“But why!” Short, nimble, generous Staff Captain Melnikov responded loudly. “Revolution in general—I couldn’t say, but revolution in time of war like this—please! It is like shitting your pants a step away from the can. It’s a tragedy!”
They burst out laughing.
Perhaps the evening wasn’t lost yet after all? As long as they were all together and they had this night?
Sterligov nodded to the batmen to serve supper.
(excerpted from chapter 576)