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strange man suddenly appeared at his side.
 Here, let me help you with that, the man said in barely under-
standable Russian. He grabbed the suitcase from Bronstein s hand,
mounted the stairs to the building, and put the case down on the cleared
Red Terror Never Again 25
area under the portico. Then he turned to Bronstein, who had hurried
after him. His deep-set eyes were wide and shining with admiration as
he asked,  Just to be sure you are Lev Davydovich Bronstein?
Bronstein tilted his head. Brows furrowed, he stared at the man. As-
sassinations by the Okhrana were occurring with frightening regularity,
as were the assassinations of high officials by the revolutionaries. The
man towered over him; as far as he could see, the strong-jawed stranger
was heavyset, perhaps very muscular under his fur-trimmed coat. He
looked about Bronstein s age mid-twenties. He had carried the heavy
suitcase as though it were filled with feathers. But the devotion in his
face was obvious hardly the look of an assassin. Anyway, Bronstein
reasoned, he was unarmed and there was nothing he could do now.
He nervously answered,  Yes.
The man grabbed Bronstein s left hand with both of his and shook
it.  This is the happiest moment of my life. To meet you and help you
achieve your revolutionary program has been my dream. Come, let us
go to your favorite cafe and I will tell you what happened with Gapon s
demonstration in Saint Petersburg. It s now called Bloody Sunday.
When Bronstein hesitated, he added,  I am rich; I want to bankroll your
revolutionary success.
The man picked up the suitcase and started down the stairs. Still
holding his books in one hand, Bronstein stared slack-jawed for several
seconds, his other hand hovering over his chest. Finally he shook him-
self and rushed down the stairs to catch up with the stranger, who was
already several yards down the concrete sidewalk.
 Who are you? Bronstein yelled at him.
 A supporter, he answered.  A believer.
A block away, they entered the émigré Café Landolt, where Bol-
sheviks gathered almost every evening. The stranger led the way to an
empty table in the back, where the gas- and candlelight barely pene-
trated. It was stuffy, warm, and smoky inside the café; the man took off
his black overcoat and threw it over a chair before seating himself.
Bronstein did the same with his greatcoat and, dropping down on
the chair across from the stranger, he blurted,  What happened in St.
Petersburg?
A round tub of a man in a leather apron approached their table
through the smoke, and Bronstein motioned for the stranger to wait un-
til they gave their order. Once the waiter departed with their order for
Kvass imported Russian beer Bronstein looked at the stranger and
raised his eyebrows.
26 Rudy Rummel
 The revolution the revolution is now! the stranger exclaimed,
raising two fists and shaking them. Bronstein listened carefully to
what the stranger said next, ignoring the mispronunciations and fill-
ing in the broken Russian.  The czar s troops around the Winter
Palace and on its approaches lost their heads. It was a massacre. The
demonstrators numbered about 140,000 mainly workers and their
families, with a scattering of professionals and students. They had
no weapons; they were told by Gapon s organizers not even to carry
a knife or brass knuckles. What they did carry was church banners,
portraits of the czar, Russian flags, holy icons, signs with medals
affixed to them, peace signs, and signs asserting faith in the czar
mixed in with signs demanding a decent wage, eight-hour workday,
land, freedom, and so on. The workers dressed in their Sunday best
and made it a family affair, bringing along their wives and children.
Nothing revolutionary.
 Yes, yes, Bronstein commented,  we tried to organize them, but
they would not listen to us. All they want is better working conditions
and pay. They love the czar.
The stranger nodded.  Then you will not be surprised to hear that
the workers not only refused to allow many revolutionaries to partici-
pate, they beat up some of them when they tried to pass out leaflets or
shouted revolutionary slogans in the crowd. No matter. On the roads
and bridges to the Winter Palace, troops blocked the way and opened
fire when the workers refused to turn around.
Leaning forward on the table, unaware that his glasses had slipped
down to the edge of his nose, Bronstein asked,  What troops? Fired?
Where?
The stranger pulled several folded sheets that looked like telegrams
from the inner pocket of his ill-fitting corduroy suit. He unfolded them
and slid the candle close so he could read them.  Let s see, he said.
 Oh, yes; I should point out that it was a bright, sunny, bitterly cold
day the temperature was about 5 degrees, the air was clear, good for
shooting.
He picked up one sheet and held it close to the flame to read it.
 When a mass of sixteen thousand demonstrators on the way to the
Winter Palace tried to cross the bridge over the Obvodnyi Canal, they
were blocked by an infantry unit and two hundred mounted Cossacks.
An officer shouted that the crowd could not cross the bridge. After the
workers refused to stop, the Cossacks attacked with whips and the flat
of their sabers and used their horses to trample them. But the Cossacks
Red Terror Never Again 27
only succeeded in creating temporary open spaces in the huge crowd,
which continued to surge forward. Many workers in the front ranks [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]