WHEN Katrinka awoke in the morning, Stefan Norvitch had already breakfasted and left the house. Katrinka was disappointed, and although the housekeeper set before her the half of a delicious cucumber on which honey had been thickly spread, Katrinka had little appetite.
After breakfast she went downstairs to ask the old musician to direct her to Stefan Norvitch's shop. She longed to see the place where her father had worked.
"The shop is closed to-day," said the old man, putting down the accordeon on which he was playing. "Stefan Norvitch has joined the workingmen's parade. They are going to the Winter Palace in the hope of seeing the Czar, who is in St. Petersburg. Stefan Norvitch will make a speech. I am going to see the parade and will take you and your little brother with me if you wish it."
Katrinka was delighted. She remembered the parade of girls in the park in the village of Tsarskoe Seloe. She fancied that all parades were like that one.
"I will bring Peter at once," she said, running gayly upstairs to put on her kerchief.
"Oh, Peter," she cried, bursting into the room where he sat gravely looking at picture books, "we are going to have a holiday and see a parade. And perhaps we shall see the Little Father."
She tied a flowered handkerchief about her head, opened the sheet in which her clothes were still packed, took out a handsome apron that had belonged to her mother and that was embroidered in cross stitch, fastened it about her waist, took Peter by the hand and went downstairs.
The parade was already approaching when the old musician, leading Katrinka and Peter, arrived in front of the Winter Palace.
Katrinka looked at the long line of men wonderingly, her underlip between her teeth. Among the marchers there were no gayly dressed hussars with red trousers tucked into shining boots, and coats trimmed with gold braid. This parade was made up of shabby, pale-faced men in ragged clothing, some of them barefooted, all of them gaunt and hollow eyed, as if they had gone hungry for days. She had seen men in the village of Vachok who had looked like this at the end of winter. They had come to her father's house to ask for food. Some of them had walked from villages miles away. For days they had lived on the straw with which their houses were thatched, grinding it and mixing it with water. When the straw was all gone they had come to her father for help.
Katrinka had seen so many women in beautiful carriages driving about the streets in St. Petersburg, that she was surprised to discover that here, as in the village of Vachok, there were starving people. She looked up inquiringly at the old musician. But his eyes were fixed on the parade and when Katrinka spoke he merely said, "Hush, child," in a strange voice.
The parade stopped in front of the great Winter Palace. A few of the men took pipes from their pockets as if they expected they might have to wait some time for the appearance of the Czar. While they were lighting them there was the sound of galloping hoofs, and the next moment a body of Cossacks, mounted on beautiful little horses and wearing coats all trimmed with gold, dashed into the square in front of the Palace. Katrinka gasped in delight. It was going to be a beautiful parade after all. The next moment she covered her eyes with her hands.
There was a terrible rumble. The Cossacks had fired their guns into the midst of the working-men's parade. Confusion reigned. Men ran to and fro, shouting at the top of their voices. Women and children shrieked. Katrinka felt herself being jerked backwards by a rough hand on her arm. She uncovered her eyes. The old musician whirled Peter up from the sidewalk and, still holding Katrinka's hand, started down the street as fast as he could go.
Again and again there was the terrible rumbling sound, followed by shrieks. Katrinka shouted to the old musician.
"They are shooting Stefan Norvitch," she cried. "Let us run back and help him. I saw him. There was blood on his face and he was stretching his arms towards us. Then he fell. Oh, please, let us go back and help him."
The musician paid no attention to her words. He seemed panic-stricken. Women with babies in their arms and other children dragging at their skirts, half-grown boys and girls, and now and then one of the pale-faced working-men who had taken part in the parade, were one and all hurrying through the streets at top speed.
It was not until the old musician was within a block of home that he stopped his breathless flight, and for the first time realized that Katrinka was begging him to turn back.
"Tut, tut, my child," he said, looking over his shoulder fearfully. "We can do no good there. The thing for us to do is to get under shelter as soon as possible. When the Cossacks begin an attack there is no telling where they will stop."
"But why did they shoot Stefan Norvitch?" gasped Katrinka, breathlessly. "He was a good man."
"I know–I know. But he was in the parade. Our police–the guards at the Winter Palace–are panic stricken when they hear of a parade. They fancy that an army is about to march upon Tsarskoe Seloe and destroy the whole royal family. The Cossacks are ordered out. You have seen the result."
Katrinka looked up at the old musician. His face was very white. She could feel his fingers trembling.
"You are shivering," she said. "Are you afraid ?"
The man did not answer. He hurried along the street, and presently, with Katrinka and Peter, entered his little apartment on the ground floor of the house where Stefan Norvitch lived.
This chapter has been put on-line as part of the
BUILD-A-BOOK Initiative at the
Celebration of Women Writers.
Initial text entry and proof-reading of this chapter were the work of volunteer
Joe Johnson.
