Olga's Story by Stephanie Williams

Author:Stephanie Williams [Williams, Stephanie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-385-67346-4
Publisher: Doubleday Canada
Published: 2006-10-30T16:00:00+00:00

Some hours later, crouched in a corner of the freezing teplushka, an old man gave her the shattering news that Irkutsk had fallen to the Reds. Admiral Kolchak and his entourage, including an entire train carrying the Tsarist gold reserve, had arrived north of the city sometime after the middle of December. His officers had fled, taking their families with them. He was guarded by a detachment of Czechs. By this time Red partisans were in the northwest of the city; the Whites were in the east. Kolchak’s staff wired Ataman Semyonov to send assistance. On December 24, the Fifty-third Regiment, which was holding the station, had declared itself for the Political Center—a coalition of trade unions, leftish parties, and a few Bolshevik activists. Olga had to get the old man to repeat himself. Surely not the Fifty-third? Surely not at the station? It was Vasya’s unit he was talking about. Seeing the man look at her more closely, Olga stopped herself and pulled her face into a neutral expression. The man continued.

Fighting had broken out all over the city. The power was cut off, fuel had disappeared, and people had taken refuge in their basements. At the end of a week, negotiations opened with the Reds. In return for safe passage east to Vladivostok, the Czech forces guarding Kolchak’s train handed him over to the Bolsheviks. The scale of the betrayal took Olga’s breath away. On the morning of February 7, Olga was to learn later, Kolchak was shot. They pushed his body under the ice of the river below the bluffs of the Znamensky Convent.

Dazed by the shock of the news she had received, Olga lay curled in her corner. The train rumbled on, the wagon creaking and jolting. Other bodies, sour with the smell of damp wool and sweat, rocked against her, keeping her warm, the sound of their voices soothing her. At night the light of an oil lamp flickered with the motion of the wagon, and she dozed. The next day passed in a stupor. Night was falling when she came to with a start. A hush had fallen over the wagon. People looked at each other, tense, alert. They were coming into Dauria, a notorious Semyonov stronghold, the last stop before the relative safety of the Manchurian border. The train drew to a halt. The door to Olga’s wagon slammed open. A blast of icy air rushed in. “Everybody out!” Olga followed the others. The wind was blowing ferociously, hurling dust into her mouth and eyes. Soldiers were pushing the passengers into line with the butts of their guns. Others had climbed up into the tender, thrusting their bayonets into the woodpile. “Looking for Communists,” the mother whom she had befriended whispered beside her. One by one the men were ordered to take off their shirts. Their boots and bags were emptied onto a table, and piece by piece their belongings searched. One or two men were led away, and the piercing cries of women pleading with the guards to release them filled the platform.

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