12 (continuation)
A female student walked through the busy streets of Moscow wearing signs with an ad on both her front and back: “We print everything from leaflets to business cards.” She kept her eyes lowered out of embarrassment. On the opposite side of the street a snow-white, long limousine with a cloth ribbon, a symbol for newlyweds, passed by in a show of superfluous wealth. People were lined up in front of a foreign embassy in order to apply for a visa, and some smart guy was selling places in the line. Nearby on a shabby chair an old man in a derby hat waited for clients with a Polaroid camera. Next to young women in miniskirts, showing off their legs, an old lady with a faded scarf on her head was descending the stairs to the subway with uncertain footsteps. Her blue clothing recalled a uniform from the Soviet era. The medicines for her heart disease and hypertension were exorbitantly expensive. Her dear children in the provinces couldn’t afford plane tickets or even train tickets, and so her grandchildren wouldn’t be able to come visit her in Moscow for vacation.

Such people had been deprived of everything. What was left for them was cramped communal housing, where several families lived together, or run-down apartment houses in the suburbs. Dark envy and hatred had permeated the bottom of society. Any day now people might pounce upon the intellectuals and the rich as they did long ago in the time of Stenka Razin’s uprising.

A revolution is a fusion of the old and the new. It’s not a golden moment; it’s a turbulent, dark time. Naked greed and ambitions, clothed in both conservative and revolutionary attire, contend for power, and the people become victims of a society taken over by strife. During a time of revolution fate can only smile upon a few politicians. And not for long.

September 1993. Two hundred years earlier in France Robespierre was at the height of his power, but in Russia at this time a fatal madness reigned—the struggle between the president and parliament. People trusted Yeltsin. They believed he would dissolve the intransigent parliament and put an end to the time of trouble. But the parliament building—the White House—had been transformed into a fortress. Vice-President Rutskoi had declared himself president and now a real soap opera was underway.

The third of October. An insane Sunday. At the height of the tension Deputy Khachaturov escaped from the parliament building and approached passersby, smiling and shaking hands. No one knew yet how things would turn out—who would win. So it wasn’t a bad idea to mix with the public.

At Smolensk Square there were masses of people—a spontaneous meeting. People who thought they’d been cheated under the policies of perestroika were exchanging hostile glances with a division of riot police. The worked-up crowd bore down on the cops one step at a time.

“Hey, they’re just wimps. Let’s show them a thing or two,” a loud voice cried out, and the demonstrators surged ahead. They broke through the ranks of the police cordon and forced them to retreat. In such a situation you couldn’t get by only with “democratizer” truncheons—the crowd had truncheons, too. Heartrending wails mixed with songs coming from Arbat Street. There was total chaos; it was a frightening show of bitterness and anger.

Yevgeny, Roman’s father, was one of the “insurgents.” He and his homeless comrades were burning car tires and building barricades. Look how selflessly they worked! Look at the crude, senseless, relentless, primitive, dark strength of people who were exhausted from unrelieved want and who had been used as slaves over the course of centuries. Anyway, we served in the army, too. Everyone knows how to fight.

McDonald’s was closed. An auxiliary police division guarded the red-and-yellow symbol of capitalism. Pushing his way through the crowd, that standard-bearer of revolution, People’s Deputy Khachaturov, quickly ran away. It’s a revolution. It’s dangerous. They’ll get me. I have to return to the parliament. Rutskoi is winning.

Celebrating victory, the homeless seized a police car, put a red flag on it, and headed toward the White House.

“Revolution! A new October Revolution! We’ll show those guys who keep talking about freedom and enlightenment! Rutskoi for president! All power to the Supreme Soviet! Hey, listen everybody. The workers are here! It’s an uprising. Together we’ll take the Kremlin!”

The soldiers from the military division blocking access to the parliament building took a look at the crowd of homeless and assessed the situation. Spitting on the ground, they got their rifles ready.

“Scram! Get out of here! It’s no place for you!”

As rifle butts were dispersing them, the homeless got caught up in a crush. They fell, got up, and ran away. From the crowd of onlookers you could hear laughter and taunting shouts.

“Good heavens, what were they thinking? Did they want to turn the White House into their shelter?”

“Probably. And the people sitting inside there are just like the homeless now. They don’t have any light or water.”

“Stop, stop! Or else they’ll smash you with their weapons.”

Ilya was spending the day with his family at the dacha near Klin. Taking advantage of the sunny Indian summer day, the whole family was hard at work repairing the ramshackle dacha. Even little Igor tried to help. Only Olya was missing, but Lyuba seemed happy about that. “You’re back. Everyone’s back in my house!”

As it began to get dark, from inside the dacha Vera called out to them in a loud voice. “Listen! Something terrible is happening in Moscow! They’ve declared a state of emergency. Oh, my God! How long will it go on? Lyuba, no matter what, don’t let Ilya leave!”

“Grandma is nervous again. But things aren’t the same today as they were then. You’re not going to go anywhere this time, right? None of this concerns us.”

That evening Olga was on Tverskaya Street in front of the Moscow City Council. Barricades were going up. A politician always has to take a clear stand. Now, for example, was a time when Yeltsin needed to be defended, even if this wasn’t in accord with your convictions. Because if Rutskoi should win, the next day all parties and organizations would be banned.

It was a terrible and tempestuous night. The darkness was alarming. The television stations had been cut off. There were sounds of gunfire and trails of fire coming from tracer bullets as the soldiers tried to shoot down the snipers on the roofs. The heavy fire from the White House that was directed at neighboring residential buildings forced residents inside to spend the night lying on the floor.

Street battles. A civil war in Russia. If the regions supported the Supreme Soviet, Yeltsin was finished. In desperation the Kremlin appealed to the people.

TO THE RESIDENTS OF MOSCOW AND CITIZENS OF RUSSIA

Criminal elements instigated by the White House have unleashed a bloody slaughter in the center of Moscow. We are facing an emergency.

The government of the Russian Federation has had to resort to force in order to restrain political adventurers.

By a decree of the President of the Russian Federation a state of emergency is in effect in Moscow beginning from 4 p.m. on October 3.

Esteemed residents of Moscow! Citizens of Russia!

We appeal to your reason and your sense of responsibility for the fate of your children and relatives. We call on you to abstain from illegal activities that are fraught with the most tragic consequences.

The White House issued its own appeal.

DEAR FELLOW CITIZENS, BROTHERS AND SISTERS!

A decisive hour has come in the struggle for our Fatherland, for the life and future of our children. The Yeltsin clique that usurped power is collapsing. Neither barbed wire nor armed and ideological terror has proved able to suppress the people’s anger at humiliation, poverty, corruption, and lies.

We appeal to all communities, to all citizens of our Fatherland: do not obey the criminal decrees and orders of the Yeltsin gang. Unite around the legally elected organs of authority—the Soviets of People’s Deputies.

The Tenth Extraordinary Congress of Deputies of the Russian Federation is continuing its work. In the coming days the Congress will adopt laws and resolutions that will secure a dignified life for our people and return the glory of the past to our great Fatherland.

The residents of Moscow couldn’t decide who and what they should defend, however; the majority watched passively as events unfolded. The most important thing was not to interfere: those “operators” are fighting among themselves for the right to control the country’s wealth, and they don’t care what happens to us. But as soon as their life is threatened, they immediately howl at the top of their voices, asking our support. Let them sort it out themselves or else when you walk out onto the street, alone and unarmed, they’ll shoot you just like that. Only the army can deal with such madmen.

And lo and behold, with the first rays of the morning sun the tanks arrived with a sinister, grinding noise. They came to a stop on the bridge and pointed their cannons, which looked like cobra necks, in the direction of the White House.

Standing unsteadily on his feet, Yevgeny, whose short-sleeved shirt and battered boots were covered with dust and dirt, tried to shout to the tank men.

“Hey, soldiers! I’m a man just like you. You’re shooting in the wrong direction. Don’t shoot over here. Shoot at the Kremlin!”

His own loud voice gave Yevgeny courage. He stuck out his chest proudly but at the very same moment a single shot rang out and a bullet went right through Yevgeny’s back.

“You miserable bum. Know your own place. It’s on the pavement!”

Without making a sound, Yevgeny collapsed onto the road. He was covered with blood. The onlookers recoiled and quietly watched his final convulsions.

On the other side of the road several yellow-robed Buddhists with smoothly shaven heads were beating their drums and loudly communicating the wisdom of the Orient.

At precisely that moment the tanks belched forth flames. The thunder of the cannons mixed with the Buddhist sutras. Chunks of white wall from the Supreme Soviet building fell in clouds of white smoke. The building, which was a bastion of freedom two years ago, was under attack by the very same people who defended it then. Bright red flames shot out of the windows, and like black, red, and brown outbursts of passions—anger, envy, and pride—they soared up into the sky and then crashed down like a waterfall.

Fire, all-cleansing fire. The white parliament building, enveloped in burning tongues of red flames—and somehow resembling a seagull hovering in the sky, was being covered with dense, black soot for the redemption of human sins.

Two days later Moscow was again calm. The “terrorists” of two days earlier walked down the street with innocent expressions on their faces.

In the evenings drunkards noisily enjoyed themselves in the courtyards of quiet apartment houses.

The White House, now blackened with soot, became a destination for tourists.

“Would you like your picture taken? Only three dollars for a photo, and the background is an important, topical, and rare site in today’s world.”

“Ready? Smile! I’m shooting!”

With a show of good humor our Roman was taking photos of American tourists.

Through the lens he could see a large dark spot on the pavement—a stain from the pool of his father’s blood.

Unaware that Yevgeny had died here, Roman clicked the shutter of the camera. He was at work for his own honest business.

“Ready? Smile! I’m shooting!”