A GRAVEYARD OF DREAMS


By KATZMAREK


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This story is fiction, however it takes place during real events. It remains the property of the Author and may not be reproduced for gain without the Author's express permission.(C)


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{'You ask me, 'what did we dream of?' So much happened later that I honestly don't remember. What I *do* remember of those days was the passion, for we had an excess of it.'} 


Krystina Sofia Vladimirova.


Saratov, Russian Federation.


(Foreword to the Biography of the late General Peotr Ivanovich Vladimirov, Hero of the Soviet Union, July 1995.)


'History is what we remember. In Russia we forgot everything.'


Felix Krasin, 
Red Army Defector.


Paris France 1962


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Historical Note
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Two years out from the Russian October Revolution, towards the end of 1919, the political landscape of Russia was grim and confused. Far to the East lay the fledgling Nationalist Government of Siberia based in Omsk. An Independent State had been set up in Samara under Kochum. In the Far East the Japanese and Americans were occupying Vladivostok. Elsewhere the British had siezed Arkangel'sk, the French, Odessa and the Crimea. 


In European Russia, General Deniken and his 'White' Russian 'Volunteer' Army were swarming unchecked threatening Moscow. Finland and Poland had declared independence. The Ukhraine was in uproar with a half dozen factional militias vying for supremacy, Nationalists, Anarchists, Monarchists, Bolsheviks, 'Cadets' and the so-called 'Green' Socialists.


In the Baltic The German 5th Army of General Hoffmann occupied Lithuania in contravention of the terms of the Armistice. Relatively unengaged during the Great War, this superbly equipped and organised Army negotiated with the British and 'White' Russian counter-revolutionaries for a possible march on St Petersburg.


The winter of 1919 was the watershed of the Bolshevik Revolution. It was also the swansong of the Volunteer Workers' and Peasants' Army. In February 1920 it became the Soviet Red Army after Leon Trotsky recruited 50,000 ex Tsarist Officers into it's ranks. Conscription was introduced for all those who had not employed labour. Badges of Rank were introduced, soldiers no-longer elected their own Officers and saluting superiors became compulsory. 


Eventually, the Red Army numbered nearly 15 million and became the weapon that established the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. Finally, by the close of 1920, General Wrangel, the last commander of the 'White' Volunteer Army was hopelessly outnumbered. Refugees were fleeing to the docks of Odessa and Sevastopol to be evacuated across the Black sea.


The Tsarist colours were eventually hauled down for good in 1924 on the ancient Battleship Georg Pobiedonosets, Wrangel's floating headquarters. By then even Wrangel himself had sought other employment.


White Russians.


White Russians came to be so-called because they opposed the 'Red' Russians. In reality, that was pretty much all they *did* agree on. Constant bickering between the various factions hindered their effectiveness fatally. Their association with the reviled Don and Kuban Cossacks was an unfortunate public relations failure as far as the ordinary Russian people were concerned. Ironically, it was the disaffection of the Don Cossacks over the issue of independence that provided the final straw to the counter-revolution.


Cossacks


Somewhat over-hyped, in my opinion, it is difficult to find an occasion where the semi-regular Cossacks had any positive role in a military campaign. Ill-discipline was their biggest problem, and this was demonstrated on numerous occasions. Not the least in the suppression of Father Gapon's peaceful 'food march' in the winter of 1905. But you get what you pay for, and it's not rocket science predicting what would happen when one turns the Cossacks on a defenceless crowd led by a priest.


Bolsheviks


Literally, the 'bigger' or 'majority'. The result of a split in the All Russian Communist Party over the role of the Party in a future Russia. The Bolsheviks foresaw a centralised, dominant role whereas the losers, the Mensheviks, favoured power vested in the Soviets, or people's assemblies. The name later on came to be associated with anyone who fought in the revolution and civil war for the Reds.


CHEKA


The Committee for the Defence of the Revolution. Forerunner to the KGB and the NKVD. Need one say more?


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Central Siberia, December 1919.


Shchpuka Vladimirov dragged his felted wool boots out of the clinging snow. Through the steel grey of the Siberian winter he glimpsed his two companions in front, imitating his own clown-like struggle. The wail of the wind, straight from the North and the Central Siberian Plateau made talking difficult.


Shchpuka, Russian for pike, was his nickname. One summer day last year he'd fallen into the Anghara river and one of his laughing comrades had suggested his struggles in the water looked like that of a pike. Since then Shchpuka had been his name.


A flurry of wind-driven snow lashed at his face. Momentarily blinded by the stinging cold, Schchpuka stumbled into a drift of deep snow piled against a fallen log. His leg sank down right up to his crotch and, by the time he extricated himself, his two friends had disappeared. Cursing his misfortune he stumbled on alone dragging his heavy pack and rifle along behind.


It was easy to mistake the black object as a tree trunk or a rock outcrop. Shchpuka was just about to trudge past when something caught his eye. Something resembling an arm projected out from the object. Bending down, he saw the object was human, swathed in a long sable coat and hat.


A little while later he heard a voice behind him.


"Shchpuka, what the hell are you doing? I thought you'd gone and fallen through the ice."


"Krasin?" he replied, "look, it's a person, a girl, she's alive!"


"What! Who the hell is she? What is she doing here? I wouldn't bother, Comrade," Krasin replied looking over Shchpuka's shoulder, "she'll soon be a block of ice. C'mon, it must be 30 below. You must get back to the village or you'll be like her."


"Comrade, we must get a troika from the village. We can't just leave her!"


"Watch me," the older man told him.


Shchpuka insisted and eventually Krasin relented and stumped off muttering to fetch a sleigh.


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The village of Malenkibrat'sk was a town the railway forgot. It had the misfortune of being bypassed by the Trans-Siberian by some 8 kilometres as it bent it's way towards Irkutsk on the shores of Lake Baykal. A random collection of log cabins, it's function in the winter of 1919, was primarily the acommodation of a small unit of the Workers' and Peasants' Army, the RKKA. 


For some ten kilometres away was the railway town of Tulun, occupied by members of the Czech Legion. At the close of the 1st World War the Legion, former prisoners of war, had been trapped in Siberia by the outbreak of revolution and the subsequent Russian Civil War. In their attempt to get home they had occupied most of the Siberian section of the Trans-Siberian Railway. As Russia's only means of transportation across the frozen vastness, they'd turned the railway into a gold mine.


The RKKA was badly outnumbered and over stretched. Broken into small units, they could do nothing but watch the Czechs while things were finally being decided in the West. Curiously, the Czechs were called by the RKKA 'Austrians' after their former employers, the Hapsburg Empire of Austria-Hungary.


Malenkibrat'sk was held by a garrison of just 20. The Red Forces main task was to man a series of observation posts consisting of log 'pillboxes.' It was a routine and boring task. Sensibly the 'Austrians' had not the slightest intention of acquiring Malenkibrat'sk, especially in the cold of winter.


Conversely, the 20 soldiers of the village had not the slightest intention of charging at Tulun over the snow. So they sat and watched each other.


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Meanwhile, a little group of RKKA volunteers stood around the bundle of firs that kept their 'discovery' alive. By now it was pitch black outside and the double glazed windows of the log barrack house were firmly shuttered. The wood stove thrummed to itself as the wind outside force-drafted the fire to a blue white heat. Two oil lamps set on the long table provided the yellow illumination. The girl's rescuers had placed her in a cot by the stove.


"Frostbite?" one of the men asked.


Shchpuka shrugged.


"She will tell us when she wakes up."


"She has ten toes and ten fingers," the man confirmed, "that is a good sign."


"The tip of her nose is a good colour," Shchpuka added.


"Have you checked her tits?" asked the first man, to a ripple of laughter, "I know you're dying to check them out."


Ignoring the teasing, Shchpuka stared at the sleeping girl's face. 'So fragile,' he thought to himself, 'like a flower on the Taiga.'


"Did you find anything on her?" Felix Krasin asked, "did you find out anything about her?"


"Just a letter, Comrade Krasin," Shchpuka replied, "but it is written in a foreign language. Latin script... maybe English? I don't know."


"English you say? A spy! I thought so. We should have left her out there in the snow."


"Don't be an idiot, Krasin!" Shchpuka replied exasperated, "does she look like a spy to you? What the hell is there to spy on here anyhow?"


"I don't know. What does a spy look like, anyway? Like a spy? I mean, the best spies don't look like spies do they? Otherwise, what's the point?"


The other men murmured agreement.


"You're being foolish! The Austrians saw us building the pillboxes last Autumn. For God's sake, Mischa bought cheese off them. If they want to know anything about us they could ask the Postman, he comes and goes when he likes. Why would they send an English spy to find out what they already know?"


"That's true, Krasin," one of the other men said, "why would they?"


"So what is an English girl doing in the middle of Siberia, hmm? Maybe she caught the wrong train? She was going to Paris to go dancing and..."


"I will ask her when she wakes up," Shchpuka volunteered.


"What, you speak English?" Krasin asked.


"No," Shchpuka admitted to general mirth.


In ones and twos the men wandered away to play cards and drink vodka. A couple began humming a song at the far end of the long barracks accompanied by someone with a flute. Not a song of revolution, as one might expect, but a gentle song of the sentimental, of love lost, of family hearths and children at play.


Shchpuka reached out and touched the girl's face. Stroking her cheek he saw her eyelids flicker for a moment. The hooded eyeballs rolled around as if scanning the room in her sleep.


"Who are you?" he said quietly, lest the other men overheard, "what are you doing in Russia?"


Her cheek was warm to his palm, the girl, however, did not stir.


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Some time later, the barracks had gone quiet. The card game was petering out at the far end surrounded by a thick, pungent cloud of tobacco smoke. Otherwise most of the men were snoring heavily in their cots.


Shchpuka too was tired, his head hung down as he sat propped in a chair by the stove. In his mind he became aware of a sound, a high, almost childlike voice, barely audible.


"Shto?" (What?)

The language was Russian, but sounded funny to his ears. Jerking fully awake, he realised the girl had spoken.


His eyes settled on her face. She blinked in confusion, trying to clear the fog from her brain. Leaning down to her, Shchpuka asked her her name in almost a whisper. Her forehead furrowed. She looked into his face and asked,


"Bolsheviki?"


Shchpuka nodded.


"Your name?" he said carefully.


"Christine," she said quietly.


"Englisi?" he asked.


"Francais," she told him.


"Ah, French," Shchpuka turned the information over in his mind. "What are you doing here?"


The girl shook her head. Clearly her stock of Russian words had run out. 'This is going to be difficult,' Shchpuka said to himself. Miming, he asked her if she was frostbitten. 


"You feel fingers and toes?" he said, "not hurt?"


Eventually she understood.


"Not hurt," she confirmed.


"Good, good. You very lucky."


"Very lucky, yes," she repeated.


Shchpuka fetched her a steaming hot cup of sweet tea from the samovar on the table. Taking a bottle of vodka from their abundant supplies, he poured a good fingerful into the mug.


"Here," he told her, "you drink."


She put the mug to her lips and sipped, grimacing at the strong flavour.


"Vodka?" she asked, to which Shchpuka confirmed, grinning.


"Merde!" (shit) she told him, but drank it anyway.


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It was well past midnight and Shchpuka had not got any further learning the mysteries of this woman. She had tried several languages on him, including English and German, but the bearded Russian had shaken his head.


Shchpuka, however, could not take his eyes away from hers. They flashed, cat-like at him as she spoke. He was captivated. She seemed comforted by his doe-like eyes and friendly face. It appeared to relax her.


He learned her name was Christine D'Lyonais and she came from Clermont-Ferrand. She wrote it down for him on a piece of paper and sounded out each letter in turn. Shchpuka wrote his own name down in Cyrillic script and performed the same service. They grinned at each other's clumsy attempts at pronouncing the unfamiliar sounds.


"Peotr Ivanovich Vladimirov," he said, "Shchpuka!"


The 'Shch' sound was ferociously difficult for her. She found 'Peotr' much easier, so Peotr she called him. 'Krystina' came more naturally for Shchpuka, so Krystina she became to him. 


After a while, tiredness and sweet teas overcame them. Shchpuka pulled his cot over next to Krystina and fell asleep next to her by the stove.


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The great experiment of the volunteer Workers' and Peasants' Army was drawing to a close. In the months ahead, 'advisors' would be attached to every unit to inculcate the proper revolutionary values and to ensure the unit's loyalty. These would eventually become the system of Political Commissars of the new Red Army.


Largely this was in response to the haphazard organisation and discipline of the RKKA that saw several units defect 'en mass' to the Whites and other factions. Clearly something had to be done to forstall the complete disintegration of the Bolshevik army and the demise of the revolution.


Through the Civil War period, disaster was staved off time and again by the professionalism of the Latvian Regiments. Fiercely pro-Bolshevik, the Latvian Red Guards were the rock upon which the Red Army was built. It was they who eventually contained the 100,000 man Czecho-Slovak Legion.


Until the Legion and the White Russian Siberian Army of General Kolchak could be defeated, the scattered Red units along the Trans-Siberian were left to their own devices. The Malenkibrat'sk garrison was quite typical of such a unit in the Winter of 1919.


The morning guard detail clattered past the slumbering couple with barely a comment. In the New Russia, marriage was to be abolished. It was an example of the subjugation of women practised by Capitalist society. In a Communist Society, men and women were to be free to choose who they wished to co-habit with. If Shchpuka and this strange woman from the snow wished to sleep together, it was none of their business.


Comrade Felix Krasin, however, was still deeply curious about the woman. Giving Shchpuka a kick as he passed, he asked him what he knew about her.


"French, eh?" Krasin considered, "how did she get here?"


Shchpuka confessed he didn't know.


"Well find out!" he snarled, "it's not natural!" 


Shchpuka watched her as she gradually stirred awake. Carefully he told her with mime and speech that he needed to know how she arrived in Siberia.


"Train," she explained.


"Why here?"


"Journalist," she told him, "La Liberte'."


"Not spy?"


"Not spy," she confirmed, grinning.


"Novorossiysk, Samara, Chelyabinsk, Krasnoyarsk, Tulun, here!" she explained, tracing her route, "no Bolsheviks, until you! Cossacks, Nationalists, Czechs, Whites... all over place. Bolsheviks around Moscow... couldn't reach. Travelled Eastwards looking for Reds. Found Peotr."


"Found Peotr, yes!"


Christine D'Lyonais had wanted to see for herself the Revolution that had grabbed the world's attention. She couldn't however, have chosen a worse time, for the Revolution was in trouble. Growing paranoid because of the outside military intervention from the Allies, the Government in St Petersburg had closed the Finnish border.


Frustrated, she'd travelled back via Germany and Central Europe to Turkey and then across the Black Sea to the Port of Novorossyisk. The Port was under the control of Deniken's Volunteer Army, which was heavily supported by the French Government. Taking advantage of her Nationality, she had little difficulty threading her way through the confusion of shifting alliances and local Cossack 'Ataman' warlords that characterised the Southern Urals at that time. It did, however, cost her a great deal of money in bribes.


Deniken's Army was on the line from Kazan to Nizhny-Novgorod and stood between her and the desperate defenders of Moscow. She therefore travelled East on the Railway operated by the Czecho-Slovaks.


Everywhere she saw armed men, some clearly more disciplined than others. Nowhere had she seen the Red Banners of the revolution she'd sought. She saw destroyed villages, hungry refugees, random killings and the dead bodies of men, women and children.


By contrast the area along the Railway was the picture of relative normalcy. The Legion maintained their own Police and Customs, supplied most of the Railway personnel, Locomotive drivers, and traffic control. They ran the Railway as a Private Company with fixed rates for cargo and passage and paid dividends to the share holders. Few could remember a time when the Railway ran so efficiently.


It was well to remember, however, that the stated goal of the Czecho-Slovaks was to return to their homeland and found a Nation. Many ensured they would do so, wealthy.


Eventually Christine found herself in Tulun, farther to the East than she wanted. To her delight, however, she discovered that the local Bolshevik forces were no more than 8 kilometres away. She did not realise, though, that eight kilometres in the deep of the Siberian winter could be a very great distance indeed. Setting out for the Reds, she was caught in a blizzard and lost her way. It was to her great good fortune she was discovered by one Comrade Peotr Ivanovich Vladimirov known to his friends as Shchpuka.


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Malenkibrat'sk had always been a military post. The Tsarist troops, it's former inhabitants, had been the local Police and Government Agents. They had been responsible for a considerable area between the Anghara and Chuna rivers. The area had seen a large sawmilling industry in the past but since the outbreak of the World War, most of the timber workers had been drafted into the army.


The area of Central Siberia had also seen an influx of exiles deemed 'agitators and Socialists' by the Tsarist secret police. These had formed the backbone of the RKKA garrisons after the October Revolution.


Shchpuka Vladimirov was a native of Saratov on the Volga River. A student, he'd become involved in radical politics, first with the Socialist Revolutionaries and then with the Bolshevik Party. Drafted into the Infantry upon the outbreak of war he'd become involved in the formation of a Soldier's Soviet, court-marshalled and exiled to Siberia. Taking advantage of the confusion following the revolution, Shchpuka and his fellow exiles had stormed the local military post and taken possession. They had found a considerable quantity of rifles and ammunition and dressed themselves using the stocks of uniforms.


The RKKA had no badges or ranks. Shchpuka and his comrades wore pieces of red cloth as armbands and scarves to show their affiliation to the Bolshevik cause. A plain red banner flapped aloft above the post until a picture in a newspaper had shown Lenin beneath a hammer and sickle flag. Hastily the garrison had one of their own made.


Last Autumn, they had been in contact with several other RKKA units in the area. They agreed to combine and attack Tulun, however this had not been achieved before the onset of Winter put their plans on hold.


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Through the next day, Shchpuka and Christine were constant companions. He found her some sundry items of military uniform and felted wool boots such as he wore. Small of build, her new clothing had to be adapted especially. She told him she now looked like an unmade bed. He presented her with a Army service revolver. She made him a proper armband festooned with the hammer and sickle. He taught her some Russian, she some French.


She wanted to know about the revolution. Would women truly be free from male domination? He assured her that a free society cannot be free if 50% of the people were still in bondage. 


"Can women become Doctors and Scientists, fight alongside men in defence of their freedoms?"


"Why not?" Shchpuka shrugged, "in the New Russia anything is possible. 


He added that soon the 'Austrians' will go home and the counter- revolutionaries will whither before the will of the people.


"Then we rebuild our society."


Christine warmed to the confidence displayed by this young man. She thought him a hero to have risked his life for the emancipation of working people. 


She'd heard the Russian peasants described as brooding and fatalistic. On the contrary she'd found these men to be idealistic and confident. Perhaps, she asked herself, it was Peotr that she'd found idealistic and confident.


That afternoon the wind had died down and they tramped up to a little lake some 5 kilometres away. The Lake was called Zapadno Kul and a popular spot for ice fishing. Behind them, a ridge wound up to a series of low mountains called the Khrebet by the villagers. Hardy Russian Pine trees struggled fitfully on the lower slopes, their spidery branches glittering with snow. They trudged up the hill a ways, sat in the snow and watched the pale, watery sun low on the horizon. The dazzling blue-white carpet stretched for kilometres towards the misty smoke of the township of Tulun.


Leaning against each other, their arms intertwined, they listened silently to the song of the wind.


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Returning to barracks in time for an evening meal, they found the soldiers deep in conversation around the table.


"I tell you, something is going on," Krasin was saying, "that was the sixth train in three hours, all heading West."


"Maybe there's trouble down the line and the Austrians are sending reinforcments?" one of the men suggested.


"Or they are pulling out," Krasin said, "we always knew they would eventually. They don't belong here."


Just then there was a commotion outside the door. A breathless soldier burst into the room, Comrade Yung from one of the observation posts.


"Comrades, comrades," he told them excitedly, "the Austrians... they're burning everything. Some workers from Tulun... came here. They said they loot. Putting everything into wagons!"


An old woman brushed past him, tears staining her lined features.


"The bastards shot my Borrie," she wailed, "in front of my house. They robbed us of our pots and pans!"


With that, she threw herself to the floor, screaming. Christine picked the distraught woman up and struggled with her to the stove. There she gave her a bottle of vodka, which she tipped into her throat straightaway.


"Let's go Comrades," Krasin suggested.


"Now wait a minute," a soldier piped up, "they haven't gone yet! There's only 20 of us and..."


"So speaks a defender of the working class!" someone interrupted, "you never had any spleen, Kishneyev. I'm with Krasin!"


About half the garrison collected their weapons. The other half sat at the table looking at each other. One by one they got up until only Comrade Kishneyev remained seated. Eventually he too stood, muttering that everyone had gone crazy.


Spilling outside, Krasin ordered a soldier to fetch the troika drivers. 


"We sled down to that signalman's hut about a kilometre down the line," he suggested, "then we move up the railway taking cover along the embankment. What do you think, Shchpuka?"


"A good plan," Shchpuka agreed, "the track ballast will make for a firmer footing."


"C'mon, Comrades!"


By the time they began running down the railway track towards Tulun, they heard a rattle of gunfire from the direction of the Station building. The last train containing the looted goods was just pulling out and a sporadic exchange of gunfire was taking place between the drunken Legionaires and some of Tulun's citizens. Fanning out on either side of the track, the Reds began firing on the departing carriages.


Shchpuka felt something pluck at his hat.


"Where the fuck did that come from?" he yelled, dropping to the ground.


"Over there!" someone shouted, "by that old switcher."


"Fuck off, you Austrian arse-wipes," came a shout from the derelict loco.


"We're the People's Army you silly fucker."


"You cunts took your time."


"We came as soon as we heard, you ungrateful bastard," Krasin yelled at the sniper, "and what the fuck have you been doing for the past six months? Whoring yourself to the Austrians?"


"Say that again arsehole, and I'll have your balls for a necklace."


With that, a huge man emerged from behind the switcher. He wore a faded military greatcoat festooned with ammunition pouches.


"Gregory Retvizan," he introduced himself, "are you idiots looking for recruits?"


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Tulun was partially destroyed. Many houses had been set on fire by the departing Czech Legion. The streets were strewn with the debris of ruined belongings pillaged from the citizens. Several dead bodies lay about, including a dead Czech being furiously beaten by the angry townsfolk. Someone was needed to restore order and harness the outrage of these Tuluniki. That someone was Gregory Retvizan.


Bellowing for the people to come together in the square, he planted himself on the steps of the Courthouse alongside a red flag-bearing Shchpuka and a stern-looking Krasin.


"Listen, you idiots!" he yelled to the gathering crowd. "Are we going to put up with this shit or are we going to chase that Austrian vermin all the way to Moscow?"


"To Moscow, to Moscow," someone began to chant.


"Ever since these tongue-clicking sheepherders came here you've been licking their arses as if they were going to shit gold, right?" 


The crowd was silent.


"And they repay you how?"


More silence.


"Well the way I see it, these Bolsheviks are the only ones doing anything about it. IRKUTSK HAS BEEN CAPTURED BY THE RED GUARD," his voice rose to a crescendo, "that's why the Austrians are running away. EASTERN SIBERIA IS RED!"


Retvizan paused for effect.


"LONG LIVE THE WORKER'S AND PEASANT'S SOVIETS!" he shouted.


A cheer erupted among the crowd.


"LONG LIVE COMRADE LENIN! LONG LIVE COMRADE TROTSKY! LONG LIVE THE DEFENDERS OF THE WORKERS AND PEASANTS, THE SOVIET RED ARMY!"


As the cheering grew in intensity, Krasin leaned towards the big man.


"Just who the fuck ARE you?" he asked.


"Smiling at the crowd, he replied casually, out of the corner of his mouth,


"I'm from the Committee of People's Commissars, Comrade Krasin. I heard you needed a bit of a hand out here. I believe you have your recruits, now."


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A worried Christine joined Shchpuka in Tulun. As she entered the town square, she saw it had been decorated with red flags. 'At last,' she thought, 'this is what she'd come all this way to see. A revolution in action!' The square was a milling confusion of people. She saw Shchpuka at the same time as he spotted her and, beaming, they threw their arms around each other.


"Come Krystina," he said, "we have a meeting with Commissar Retvizan in the old mayor's office. We are going on the march!"


"Commissar who?" she asked, "march? Where?"


"He will explain, come!"


The mayor's office had been ransacked by the Czechs. Enough unbroken furniture had been found to form a rough semicircle of chairs. Retvizan sat on the mayor's huge ornate desk with a pile of papers beside him. The members of Malenkibrat'sk's RKKA unit filed in and found seating.


"Quiet Comrades," Retvizan began, "I have important news from Moscow."


The racket died down. Everyone was at full attention. Shchpuka and Christine smiled at each other and held hands. There was a feeling that something historic was about to occur.


"Comrades!" Retvizan continued, "the tide is turning. Deniken and his traitors have been turned back from Moscow. Irkutsk has been liberated from the Czechs. The workers and peasants are on the march to seize their liberty from their oppressors."


The RKKA soldiers clapped and stamped their feet.


"Comrade General Popov has been commissioned by Comrade Trotsky himself to collect all our volunteer units together to liberate the whole of Siberia. Together, Comrades, we shall be called the 7th Soviet Red Army."


"The 7th what?" Comrade Kishneyev said, "but hang on! What's to happen to the RKKA? Who the hell is Popov? Is he any good? What if I decide not to follow him?"


"Comrade Kishneyev," Retvizan replied, "the old ways are dead. If we are to defeat our enemies we must be organised, professional. We must be a proper army. Nothing must be left to chance, or we are not performing our role to defend the people properly."


"But wait, we must discuss this, take a vote..." Kishneyev continued. 


No-one else appeared to be listening to him. He looked around him for support, found none and collapsed into a grumbling silence.


"You idiots don't know what this means," he muttered.


"Within the next day or two, the liberators of Irkutsk will be arriving here to form the basis of our new Army. Right now, volunteers are being organised Eastwards down the line from all the old RKKA units. We will form ourselves in Novosibirsk and rally behind our Latvian Comrades against Kolchak in Omsk. Eventually we will join our Comrade Armies in the Centre and crush Deniken for good like the grass bug that he is!"


Retvizan paused so the information could sink in. He knew that months of waiting and pointless skirmishing had created frustration and a thirst for something to do. He looked into the faces of this RKKA unit and saw enthusiam and excitement. The same response he'd received from all the little groups from Irkutsk to Tulun. He sought to instil once again a sense of mission to the revolution in Siberia.


"Comrade Krasin," he said suddenly, "I have here a commission from the Council of People's Commissars to the rank of Colonel in the 407th East Siberian Infantry Regiment, congratulations!"


Krasin's mouth fell open. He stared in disbelief as Retvizan presented him with a rolled up piece of paper.


"Comrade Vladimirov, you are to go with him as Adjutant with the rank of Captain."


Shchpuka stared at Krasin. He felt Christine's hand tighten on his. He looked at her and saw her beaming with pleasure.


"You've earned it," she mouthed.


"Naturally, Comrade D'Lyonais, you will join the regiment as Regimental Political Advisor. However I must remind you of the regulation concerning sleeping arrangements," he added, smiling.


The group laughed at Shchpuka's and Christine's discomfort. All except Comrade Kishneyev, who sat in brooding silence looking at the floor.


"Political Advisor?" Shchpuka whispered to Christine.


Shrugging, she whispered,


"Maybe I haven't been completely honest with you Peotr."


--------------------------------------------------------------


Later that evening, on the outskirts of the town of Tulun, Christine and Shchpuka found a house that had belonged to the local Railway Manager who had fled with the Czechs. It had not been ransacked like most of the other houses. It was just as the Manager had left it. They helped themselves to the larder, well stocked with Black bread and salt fish.


"I joined the French Communist Party while at University in Paris," she was telling him, "I fell in with a group of Russian Emigres who included Comrades from the CHEKA."


"The what?" he asked.


"CHEKA, the Committee for the Defence of the Revolution. Comrade Felix Dzerzhinsky's Department."


"Oh," Shchpuka replied, doubtfully.


"They said things were moving and they needed loyal Comrades in Siberia, loyal to the Party. It was hell to get in, I couldn't tell everyone I was from CHEKA. Traitors everywhere, I could have been shot!"


"We couldn't have let that happen!" Shchpuka told her, smiling. "And this Retvizan, he's is also CHEKA?"


"Of course! You wouldn't believe the people who would sell the revolution for a bag of Roubles, Peotr. We must be constantly on guard against disloyalty to the Party and people."


"Oh yes, we must!" he agreed, scratching his beard thoughtfully.


This was all rather overwhelming for Shchpuka. From earnest volunteer he was now a Captain in the Army, expected to make decisions and give orders. He was glad he was going with Krasin, at least. The two had become the de-facto leaders of Malenkibrat'sk's RKKA and worked well together. It could well be that that was precisely what Christine had been sent to find out. To search for natural leaders and find the nucleus of an Officer Corps for Popov's new 7th Siberian Red Army.


"And who is this Popov?" he asked her, "where does he come from?"


"He was a General of an Army Corps on the Southern Front during the war, very experienced."


"A Tsarist?" he asked in surprise.


"Yes. But now he's willing to throw in his lot in defence of the revolution. We are very grateful to have him."


Shchpuka wondered to himself just what Trotsky had promised this Tsarist General. He couldn't believe such a man could have had an about face and join the people against his former Class. The rules were changing all around him. Nothing seemed to be what they appeared. He was not sure he liked all this secrecy and intrigue, even when it brought him such a person as Christine. Tsarists, secret police, military rules and discipline? 


'The more things change, the more they stay the same.' Somebody said,  but he couldn't remember who. The man was a prophet-genius in any case.


-----------------------------------------------------------------


Above all Shchpuka was loyal. Loyal to his friends and Comrades in the Party. Loyal to a cause that had identified the enemy that had sent millions of young men to their deaths for no greater reason than profit. The Party gave him a sense of mission and purpose.


And Shchpuka was a survivor. If nothing else, Russia teachs one how to survive in the harshest of environments, be it physical or societal. 


For the next 60 years Christine breathed life into his soul through the bloodiest period in Russian history. Navigating the tricky waters of the Soviet Officer Corps through the wicked paranoia of Stalin's purges, he was to serve with distinction as commander of a Tank Brigade during the Great Patriotic War against Nazism. Twice wounded, he became a Hero of the Soviet Union in 1945 before Berlin.


Did he have any second thoughts about the revolution he had helped to bring about? No-one knows, for he never said. He was, he said, too busy doing his duty. He DID say, however, that he never for a moment questioned 'why' at the time.


'The passion was strong,' he told his young Officers.


----------------------------------------------------------------


Christine and Shchpuka sealed their love for each other that night in Tulun. This was no, 'marriage of revolutionary purpose' that sealed the civic bonds of so many of the old Bolsheviks. It was simply the desire between a man and a woman to be united. An itch that needed scratching, constant scratching as it turned out.


The stove in the little manager's cottage was stoked with seasoned  Russian pinewood. The tallow lamp suffused the cottage with a pale glow and acrid fumes that stung the eyes. The rough-sawn interior was hung with brightly coloured beaded mats, Siberian fashion. The reds and golds flickered in the flame-light.


Outside, the Siberian winter hammered at the shutters and wailed over the shingle roof. The stove, however, turned the cottage into an oven making clothing superfluous.


The first to be disposed of was the heavy woollen overcoats and quilted jackets. The felted boots came off as did the long padded trousers and ankle wraps. Comfortably attired in their waist-to-knee woollen underwear and linen shirts they nestled into the manager's 'chaise lounge.'


Her head fell onto his shoulder, his cheek delighted in the texture of her brown hair, worn loose and flowing around her.


"We cannot sleep together when we are with the Regiment," she explained, "it is against regulations."


"Of course not," he agreed, " it would be improper... I guess."


"Yes, do you mind?"


"Do you?" he asked.


"I enjoyed lying next to you at the barracks," she told him, "it seemed natural, like it was meant to be this way."


"I guess we will have leave from time to time," he suggested, "they will give us time off, don't you think?"


"I'm sure they will," she reassured him, "all armies give leave to their soldiers. Surely ours will be no different."


"Your Russian has improved?" he told her wryly.


"Um, yes," she giggled, embarrassed, "it's a little better than I let on yesterday. I'm sorry I lied to you, Peotr. Orders, you must understand!"


"Orders, yes," he agreed, "I guess we have to get used to them, now."


"That won't be too hard for you, will it Peotr? I mean, you were in the Tsarist army weren't you?"


"Yes, but I wasn't a very good soldier."


"That's because you didn't believe in what you were fighting for. Now you do, so it will be much easier, won't it?"


"Yes, of course, much easier," Shchpuka reluctantly agreed.


"You must believe, Peotr. You cannot lose heart, please!" she told him, her voice urgent.


"I won't shrink from the task, Krystina. I will see this thing through, then get on with living."


"Together?" she asked, arching her eyebrows.


"Together, Comrade Krystina," he smiled.


They turned towards each other and sealed the bargain with a kiss. Her moist mouth sent a tingle of warmth through his body and he lingered, wanting more. He eyes sparkled with excitement and she smiled in pleasure. Her eyelids closed, she moved uncertainly towards his mouth once more.


The next kiss lasted a long, long time. At some point a jolt of desire overcame them both simultaneously, and growling they clutched at one another. Shchpuka's hands sought her body, flowing over the exquisite contours of her slight frame. Christine's hand clutched at his back, drawing in the hard strength she found there. The power she felt in his shoulders and upper arms ignited a spark of desire that rippled down to her very centre. Heart pounding, she attacked his mouth again, thrusting her tongue inside in an obvious indication of her growing need.


His hand worked it's way under her shirt and onto her skin. She trembled at the touch as it wound it's way higher towards the swell of her breasts. His thumb sunk into her armpit, tickling her. She gasped and instinctively brought her elbow down. It was, she thought, not that annoying and giggled with pleasure as he continued to molest her there.


Her shirt was being bunched up in front. She was dimly aware of the change as the air tickled her skin. Then her nipples were grazing the rough cotton of Shchpuka's shirt sending out tingles of sensation. Breathless, he whispered into her ear.


"Perhaps, my 'devotchka', we should make ourselves more comfortable?"


'Hmm, 'his devotchka' (young woman). She liked the sound of that', she decided.


"Perhaps if we pulled the mattress out and lay it on the floor, we would be more comfortable. I like it in here."


Together they pulled the mattress off the Manager's bed and pulled it out in front of the stove. They fetched some sheets, pillows and a bedspread and quickly made a comfortable bed for themselves.


Self-consciously, Christine pulled her shirt over her head to a gasp of appreciation from Shchpuka. He watched her breasts wobble, the crimson nipples hard and standing out a good inch. She turned her back as she struggled with the buttons of her underwear. Shchpuka's mouth went dry as she slid them down over the cheeks of her pale white bottom.


She hurriedly slipped under the covers and watched Shchpuka shed his clothes. His broad chest was well-muscled as she'd imagined it would be. His cock bulged at an angle in his underwear, hard, and stretching the wool fabric tight. Easing his underwear over his erection, it sprang forth and stood proudly out from his body. Christine put her hand between her legs in anticipation, and felt her  moistening sex. She hadn't, she thought, wanted something so much in her life.


Christine pulled the covers back in invitation. Shchpuka smiled, then took on an expression of urgency. His cock waved from side to side as he approached the bed. She looked up from it to his face and back again. Her arm sprang out as he climbed in beside her and she wrapped it around his shoulder pulling him fiercely against her body. Shchpuka rolled onto his side, his arm pulled her on her side to face him. His fingertips touched her face, tracing the outline as if she was a fine tapestry.


Outside, far off, there was a crackle of riflefire as some revellers still celebrated the liberation of the town.


"I wonder if there'll be any vodka left in the morning," Shchpuka murmured, grinning.


"I don't know how you Russians drink that stuff, it's parafin!" she told him laughing.


"We drink quickly, so!" he mimed, "we feel it, not taste it."


"Feel it?" she grinned, stroking him, "so that's the secret, hmm."


His fingertips traced their way down he neck, pausing to feel the ridges of her collarbones, then drifted lower to the valley of her breasts. Christine shivered at the touch. He was so delicate in his caress. She felt his erection nudging her tummy and moved her knee between his legs.


His hand swept over her left breast, his thumb feeling the nipple as he passed. Then it gripped her around her bottom, gently massaging her cheeks and drawing her closer.


Shchpuka's balls grazed her thigh. She gripped his cock with her fist and pulled urgently on him. Fiercely, she kissed her way down his chest, licked and bit his nipples. His hand siezed her between the legs, fingers rubbing, he found her receptive and ready for him.


"Please!" she begged, pulling him on top of her.


She aimed his cock at her entrance and worked the head all around, luxuriating in the sensation. Gasping, he took her suddenly, pushing himself inside until their pubic bones ground together. Moaning, she held him tightly, revelling in the release of emotion he brought to her.


"I knew it, I knew it!" she sighed, "you're so hard, my man, so hard!" she added whispering in his ear.


"Krystina!" he gasped, "my devotchka, I must... I must."


"oh yes, you must."


So saying, Shchpuka began to move in and out of her. Whimpering, Christine sucked in her lower lip, panting his name. She could feel every exquisite inch of him as he moved faster and faster.


"Harder!" she cried urgently, "oh, don't stop!"


She thrust herself urgently against him, matching his speed and rhythm. Shchpuka moved her head to face him, watched her expression as she demanded he go faster and faster. Her face screwed up, her eyes shut tight. With a sudden expulsion of air her body went rigid.


"Ohhhhh," she howled, "ohhhhh..." and in a series of convulsions grabbed his back and arse leaving her nail prints in his skin long afterwards.


In response he burst inside her, growling and pushing himself as far inside her as anatomy permitted.


For an indeterminate time, they lay still in the same position until their aching limbs could not be ignored. Reluctantly Shchpuka rolled off her to the side. Sleep came a long while later. In the pale light of the lamp, they whispered, joked and made plans for the future. These were prefaced with, 'after the war,' and sustained them through the long days ahead.


And they were granted leave from the army. On the Don front, the Volga, as Deniken's and later Alexiev and General Wrangel's lines shrank before the weight of 5 Soviet Red Armies. On the Black Sea coast between Nikolayev and Odessa they watched the rusting hulks convey the remnants of the White Russian Army across to Istanbul. They looked at each other in relief for now, they thought, it was all over.


"What do you think of this fellow, Comrade Stalin?" he asked her that day.


"Some Georgian," she shrugged, dismissively.


KATZMAREK (C)


