The Grinding Mill: Reminiscences of War and Revolution in Russia 1913-1920 by Andrei Lobanov-Rostovsky

Author:Andrei Lobanov-Rostovsky [Lobanov-Rostovsky, Andrei]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Nonfiction, Social & Cultural Studies, Political Science, Government, Communism & Socialism, History, Asian, Russia, International
ISBN: 9781839742149
Google: qkx_zQEACAAJ
Amazon: B084BYC9C6
Goodreads: 54665765
Publisher: BURTYRKI Books
Published: 2020-01-30T05:00:00+00:00

PART II

CHAPTER VIII — THE REVOLUTION - March-June 1917

It was at Kiev that first signs of the revolution became apparent. While I was waiting for the express a mob broke into the first-class dining-room of the station and noisily started removing the portrait of the Emperor, the double-headed eagles, and other insignia of the fallen regime.

The next day we were delayed for several hours near Novoseletza by a head-on collision between the train in front of us and the Kiev express in which the sleeping cars had been virtually smashed to pieces. Several coaches were still burning and the engine, standing almost erect on its back wheels, lay crushing the roof of the dining-car while in the snow near by were neat piles of what looked like coal—the carbonized remains of the dead. It was the first sign of disorganization of the railways. Our train was given a military guard and some soldiers with red ribbons on their caps smoking and shouting, invaded the first-class carriages—a new picture for Russia.

The train reached Petrograd about two a.m., March 5, almost twelve hours late. Leaving Anton at the station with my luggage, I decided to find a room at the hotel. No taxis or droshkies were to be found in the empty streets, so I started out to walk to the Astoria. My uncle still lived there, and I thought he would be able to give me some information as to what was taking place. It was bitterly cold, and there was not a soul to be seen. Here and there military patrols looked at me suspiciously but let me pass. I went by the burned ruins of a police station. As I approached the Morskaya, the Bond Street of Petrograd, signs of destruction became more evident. Broken window panes, looted stores, and walls bearing traces of machine-gun fire were evidences of street fighting.

The Hotel Astoria had suffered very badly from a mob attack. The large windows of the lobby had been smashed and hastily patched up with planks, and the whole building showed signs of heavy fire. To my surprise it was plunged in complete darkness. I rang at the main entrance, but there was no answer. I went to a side door and tried knocking. After a while there was some noise within, and presently the door opened. Before I knew what had happened I found myself surrounded by armed sailors with their rifles menacingly at my breast. The men seemed to be in an ugly mood. “Where’s your pass?” they asked. I replied that I did not have one. “Why are you carrying a revolver?” I tried to explain that I had just arrived from the station. “Well, we can’t let you go,” they said. I was trapped. “Where is your officer?” I asked. “He’ll be here soon.” Presently a young naval lieutenant appeared. At seeing me he looked surprised and worried. I explained my position. “I can’t do anything about it,” he said loudly. Then in an undertone so that his men could not hear: “It was very foolish of you to go out at night.

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