Russian peasant soldiers, and not Petrograd’s workers influenced an outcome of the February Revolution of 1917.

Specifically:

Whenever I hear official versions of the events that led to the February Revolution of 1917, they tend to say how the proletarian forces joined by peasant soldiers took down Russian monarchy. While an overall process might have looked somewhat similar, an analysis of available social and statistical data conducted by Tony Ashworth  suggests a different scenario.

There were around 390,000 workers in Petrograd and 330,000 soldiers stationed in the Petrograd military district on the eve of February Revolution of 1917. So if we trust available historical data, about 20% of Petrograd’s workers were organized on the first day, 41% on the second and 54% on the third day. In other words, there were roughly 78,000 workers actively participating in various events. At the same time, almost 95% of soldiers from the Petrograd Military District were active or passive mutineers in about 24 hours since the first events took place. We are talking about 313,500 riflemen here.

Sure, majority of soldiers represented passive mutineers, however, they restrained from using the force against fellow riflemen who experienced the horrors of trench warfare. So we have 60,000 active mutineers who realize that 250,000 rifles will not fire on them from behind. There is no loyal military force to suppress mutineers when their numbers are really small in the early hours of the first day. The momentum is gaining traction – next stop is the October Revolution of 1917.

Any other ideas?

Radio Svaboda reports that First Polish TV channel in conjunction with Everest movie Production Company recently finished working on a documentary movie “Lessons of Belarusian Language. Youth against Lukashenka”. It was directed by Miroslav Dembinsky and it was already premiered in Riga and Vilnius. The movie tells about now closed Belarusian Humanitarian Lyceum and its students who actively participated in the “Denim Revolution” during the presidential elections that took place in Belarus last March.

Mr. Dembinsky says that while events that took place in March play a significant role in the movie another goal of filmmakers was to show Belarus in the dramatic moment from a perspective of youth. The director hopes that this movie will show how students were getting prepared for such decisive moment for their country, how they were attempting to spread the word and wake up Belarusian masses prior to the Presidential elections.

Mr. Dembinsky also said that at this moment the studio already made deals with TV companies of Poland, Lithuania, Latvia and Croatia to show the movie. It also plans to offer this movie to 74 largest TV channels in Europe and the United States of America. In the near future, Mr. Dembinsky is planning to make another movie about Belarusian Rock.

RFE/RL: In his annual address to the Federal Assembly in 2005, Russian President Vladimir Putin called the collapse of the Soviet Union “the greatest geopolitical catastrophe of the 20th century.” Do you agree with such an interpretation of our recent history?

Mikhail Gorbachev:
I have said this on many occasions, and I will say it again: I agree. When, during a period of widespread reform, glasnost came along and lit up the darker corners of the situation in our country, it seemed as though all of society started moving and talking. It turned out that the people had something to say and that they had someone to speak to. At this time I had already been saying that the way of democracy, glasnost, and economic reform was the way to go.

Yet I also warned against the destructive nature of what was happening. Things certainly needed to change, but we did not need to destroy that which had been built by previous generations. We had to deprive ourselves of some things, yes, but this was the unfortunate cost. After the putsch, when the real danger of the country coming apart arose, I continued to speak out in the same vein. I emphasized that the dissolution of a country that was not only powerful, but that, during perestroika, demonstrated that it was peaceful and that it accepted the basic principles of democracy, would be a tragedy. The end of the Cold War presented us with an unprecedented opportunity to pursue a new, peaceful policy.

RFE/RL: Some observers think that the State Committee for the Emergency Situation (GKChP) was the natural result of events then going on in the country, an effort to restrain the destructive processes that had arisen as a result of a systemic crisis of state management that, in turn, was created by ill-considered and sporadic reforms. Many of the participants of the so-called GKChP insist that this was the case. In you opinion, how fair is this point of view?

Gorbachev: It is nonsense. The natural result of events was the well-tuned process that was already under way in the spring of 1991. There was already the crisis that arose when people had to wait in long lines to purchase basic everyday goods. But in the big picture, after a long period of deliberation and debate, the anti-crisis program had finally started to materialize. Interestingly, it started out as a program initiated by the cabinet ministers, but then it was joined by all the republics and even the Baltic states, with their own special views on certain questions. The Baltic states didn’t actually sign the document, but they decided to implement it anyway. By this time, we had found new solutions and ways of dealing with the situation, and we were ready to move forward.

This was natural for the democratization of the Soviet Union, and it was also natural for correcting the mistakes we had made earlier, particularly our delay in reforming the Communist Party and the federated union. The goal of the putsch was to interrupt this process. The putschists were at the top of the reactionary nomenklatura — remember, many in the nomenklatura went ahead and worked with us, struggled with us. So this is my response to the common cliche that you were referring to. These people were unable to publicly overthrow the government, so they took a clandestine route, which they failed in, because difficult as the times were, nobody wanted to return to Stalinism.

RFE/RL: According to many public opinion polls, perestroika remains more popular abroad — particularly in Europe and the United States — than in the overwhelming majority of countries of the former Soviet Union. How would you, as the author of that initiative, explain such a difference in its reputation?

Gorbachev: The difference between the reputation perestroika has in Russia and abroad is explainable. Central and Eastern Europe gained independence. All of Europe got rid of the nightmare of potential confrontation — moreover, a confrontation that could have developed into nuclear war in which Europe would suffer the most damage.

Your question mentioned the CIS countries. Without going into detail, I can tell you that neither the majority of their people nor their political elite desire a return to the way things were, or have any regrets about exiting the union. Recent polls have shown that the percentage of the population in these countries in favor of a return to the Soviet Union is only about 5-7 percent.

Russia is a special case. The reason I say this is because Russia lost the most as a result of the break-up, in terms of geopolitical stature, in terms of historical merit, in terms of political power it had by virtue of controlling other republics, and finally in terms of economic strength, having ceased to be the center of a major economic complex with a population of nearly a quarter-billion people. [Former Russian President Boris] Yeltsin and [former acting Russian Prime Minister Yegor] Gaidar’s reforms destroyed the industrial potential of the country and reduced millions of people to poverty. Privatization was carried out in such a way that instead of contributing to a growing private sector, it only resulted in corruption and mass theft. The country was in shock, so people naturally looked back to the Soviet Union and the social guarantees that it offered. The guarantees were modest, but at least they were guarantees. Now, even though things are improving under Putin, I would still estimate that about 50 percent of our people live in poverty.

RFE/RL: In Russia, it is popular to argue — and you hear this at the highest political levels — that the end of the Cold War destabilized the modern world order; the solid bipolar international system was replaced by an unstable monopolar domination. Do you agree with this view?

Gorbachev: I’ve heard this view before — that the Cold War supposedly offered a level of stability. I’m not sure where this view comes from — whether it is part of someone’s agenda or simply rooted in ignorance of the situation that developed in the mid-1980s. I was touring the country at the time and from all sides I heard the same question: “Will there be war? Please, do anything you can to not let it happen. Do anything, we’ll live through whatever it takes, but just don’t let it happen.” Of course, many people forgot about this when the fear of war subsided.

The stability of the Cold War was a false one. It was tricky and dangerous. We in the Russian and U.S. governments knew better than anybody what the true situation was and what it could develop into, because we knew what point we were at in the arms race. We knew that the kind of technology that we were operating was powerful enough to put the fate of civilization in question should there be some sort of slip-up. We also knew that the arms race was leading to an unprecedented depletion of national resources.

RFE/RL: How do you assess the state of democracy and freedom of speech in Russia today?

Gorbachev: There are frequent accusations that democracy is being suppressed and that freedom of press is being stifled. The truth is, most Russians disagree with this viewpoint. We find ourselves at a difficult historical juncture. Our transition to democracy has not been a smooth one, and we must assess our successes and failures not in the context of some ideal, but in the context of our history. When Putin first came to power, I think his first priority was keeping the country from falling apart, and this required certain measures that wouldn’t exactly be referred to as textbook democracy.

Yes, there are certain worrying tendencies. We still have certain stipulations and restrictions that cannot be explained by real dangers, or by the realities of life in Russia. However, I would not dramatize the situation. In the past 20 years, Russia has changed to such an extent that going back is now impossible.

RFE/RL: Let’s turn the clock back 15 years. You suffered a horrible betrayal on the part of the people you considered your comrades-in-arms, as well as, perhaps, your personal friends. Not many people have experienced this. What personal lessons have you learned?

Gorbachev: We need to follow the path of democracy. We need to respect the people, and not turn them back into the herd that was bullied for decades and centuries in our country. We cannot resolve problems through coups. We need the people to participate in the changes that are being enacted in the country. Democracy needs to be effective. The law needs to be efficient. Thieves and corrupt officials should not feel safe. We need to follow the path of democracy toward a free, open, and prosperous country.

Copyright (c) 2006. RFE/RL, Inc. Reprinted with the permission of Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty, 1201 Connecticut Ave., N.W. Washington DC 20036. www.rferl.org

I can’t really describe all intensity that surrounded our discussion. And maybe precisely because of it, when we were done arguing, I decided to see what opinions and scenarios exist on the Web. And here are some “What if” versions in regard to our question.

Version 1

Germany fought AGAINST the Soviet Union.

America fought FOR the Soviet Union.

Yet most people here seem to think that IF the USA had kept out of the war, then the Soviet Union would have conquered even MORE TERRITORY than it did WITH US aid?

The USSR had manpower and a huge armory. They did NOT have enough trucks, medicine or even BOOTS until the USA sent them MASSIVE quantities.

Without US aid, the UK would have LOST the U-Boat war. (American naval might and esp. naval AIR POWER defeated U-boats.) The UK would have starved and been forced to make peace; ironically, Hitler NEVER wanted to destroy the British Empire. He hoped for it as a natural ally!)

Without the two front wars, time would have turned IN FAVOR of Germany. No western front means holding out longer in the east. That means the new u-boats and jets (ALREADY EXISTING in spring 1945) could have been produced in sufficient quantity to turn the tide in the east.

Version 2

A lot of this depends on if Japan attacked the US in the Pacific, if not then I doubt there would have any war in the Pacific other than Japan trying to expand ‘slightly’ into Asia.

Eagle and Bob, I suspect you are missing the point that the Russians effectively won the European WW2, it doesn’t actually matter what you think about boots and ambulances, the Russian steamroller relies on millions of Russian men, their logistic support is to throw them some potatoes, they broke the back of the Germans on the eastern front before the US joined the war, yes the aid that was supplied was good, but try reading ‘Stalingrad’ the US supplies were nothing more than a novelty to most of the Soviets.

The Nazi’s were also hamstrung because much of their air force was wiped out in the Battle of Britain, the idea that Britain would have been taken by the Germans is wrong, the Germans gave up in 1940, and committed themselves to the east in late 1940. The British had air superiority over the Channel, and the Germans had no amphibious capability.

The question of sea power and U-boats is an interesting one, the US contribution was vital, but even if it hadn’t been there the Brits and Canadians were already developing Radar based air escort systems by the time the US really got into it, but yes it would have had a draining effect on the UK.

However the Russians would have carried on to the Atlantic, maybe by 1946, but they would have got there. The British Empire would fight back in Africa (as it did) and maybe a vast army would be raised in India, but it wouldn’t have anywhere to go. The danger is that the Soviets own continental Europe and Northern Asia, Maybe they would turn their sights on the UK and another war breaks out, the UK would soon lose to a mighty Russia….

Maybe Russia turns its sights to the Middle East or Asia.

But would the US have developed nukes if there was no war…unlikely, the Brits might have got there first, maybe the Russians would have got it? They made a big point of capturing nuclear labs in Germany.

Undoubtedly the Germans would have been defeated, the US, more than anything though, contributed to pinning back the communists, and providing future security for Western Europe.

Version 3

I think if the United States had not gotten involved, Russia does not necessarily steamroll Europe.

Part of the reason for the Soviet Union’s success against the Nazis was that much of Germany’s resources were also directed to the West, to prevent a second front in Europe. Without American Intervention I think the Germans and Russians would have eventually come to peace terms after millions had died…. neither being able to totally destroy the other. I think it would have also ended with some territorial gains for the Nazis.(Estonia, Lithuania ect.) (Perhaps, including Belarus since Hitler planned to group it together with Baltic States. WW)

Britain would also be forced to sign a separate peace with Germany. I don’t think Britain would have lost any territory to them in the peace treaty, but they would have to recognize Germany as master of Europe proper.

Japan would have had mastery of the Pacific, and would have eventually conquered all of China.

Version 4

Barbarossa was failed in summer 1941, because Hitler planned to destroy Red army before September 1941. First UK/USA aid was send 12 august 1941, army received it in September. According Barbaroosa it already should be destroyed! So, without allies help war in Russia would be harder, but victorious for CCCP. May be in 1947 Berlin would be taken by Red Army.
There are 4 main features that could give Russia advantages superiority:
1.Climat and supplies: as was said, Germans planned to defeat Russia before winter and was not ready to -30C chills. And it is very difficult to supply 6 million army.
2.Popular front: especially partisans. 300000 fighters participated in centralized partisan armies, 700000 participated in resistance movement in occupied lands of USSR. European resistance and industrial sabotage.
3. Resource deficit. In 1942 Germans was confronted with lack of resources. Before invasion they received it buying in USSR: Caucasus oil, Siberian gas, Ural metals.
4. Growing experience of soviet generals. Do you know that first Stalin’s order of the war was order not to shoot? He thought that this is provocation. Then, when army should prepare defense positions he ordered to attack. In 1942, after victory under Moscow, he decided that now Red Army is stronger than Germans and ordered to attack again by all farces and recapture Kharkov – result: Southern front is broken and Red Army is retreating to Stalingrad and Northern Caucasus. In the second part of war (1943-45) soviet generals didn’t make mistakes like that.

These are just some theories and I am curious what do you think about it. Indeed, what if the United States never entered the WWII?

Minsk. White Russia. August 17 (Delayed.)—After many months of terrorization under Bolshevist rule Minsk is beginning to resume normal life again. Groups are conversing on street corners and in doorways of houses breathing the atmosphere of relief and in every section of the population whether Jewish or Polish shopkeeper or Russian peasants and workmen one finds the same deep inexpressible thankfulness at deliverance from a government which, while pretending to give freedom and equal rights to all, actually exercised a tyranny far greater than anything known under the czars.

Personal liberties were destroyed
It must be admitted that in outward appearances the town and its population do not make a bad impression. Food certainly exists, though the operation of the Bolshevist system or rather its breakdown has resulted in perfectly impossible prices. But these facts admitted, there is nothing else to be said in favor of a regime that destroyed all personal liberty and made the humblest person feel that neither life nor property were either safe.
“To the dogs, death.” These words spoken by a woman as she kicked the dead body of a secretary of the soviet, as it still lay in the streets where he had been shot by Polish soldiers, express the bitter hatred of the people for Bolshevism. The Jewess who was president of the local “extraordinary tribunal for combating the counter revolution” and who signed the death warrants of the miserable persons who were executed almost daily was literally torn to pieces by the mob as she was being taken through the streets. A single word of criticism of the government was sufficient cause for arrest as a counterrevolutionary. When once the victim was arrested, his fate was unknown. Number of such persons is being released from Minsk prison. Over three hundred were deported to Bobrisk and Smolensk: certainly hundreds perished….

Peasants are rich

…Manufacturing and Industry have broken down, mainly, I believe, from a lack of transport: coal and other raw materials are unobtainable. There is plenty of forest land round Minsk, yet the price of wood was twelve thousand rubles. Other current prices are pound bread, 38 rubles; meat, 75 rubles; butter, 200 rubles.
…There has been one issue of bread on bread cards to the citizens since last Easter. On that occasion they received half a pound per head. Citizens of the third and fourth categories received none.
…Yet people have been coming here from Petrograd and Moscow in the hope of finding food for Minsk, which is regarded as the land of plenty.
…People were also drawn to Minsk by the hopes of its delivery by the Poles.

Propaganda
…Propaganda was the strong point with the Bolshevists. The town was placarded with posters, representing the destruction of capital by labor. Bolshevists soldiers shown threatening with a bayonet a fat gentleman in a waistcoat cowering behind cases of war munitions; in another the Russian people are shown floating to safety through a raging sea on a book labeled Karl Marx. Lectures were given daily in the square on the iniquities of capitalism; a special information bureau provided a prolific supply of news about revolutionary strikes in England, the downfall of Kolchak’s army and pogroms by the poles in Vilna.

In preparing for evacuation the soviet published a proclamation declaring that they would meet the white terror- that is, the advance of the Polish army, the red terror. In fulfillment of the threat the mass executions referred to above took place, and on leaving they carried off a large number of hostages, many of whom were women whose husbands and sons are fighting in the Polish army…

The ruins decay – the vultures fly away
No longer flocking round the gore.
But painful and unhealing stay
The ever-gnawing wounds of war.
Michaś Vasilok

The cold autumn wind sweeps over the ground driving the withered leaves under the zavalinkas* and sways the wet branches in the small garden. It prances mischievously from round the corners into the small yard and small shed, or tosses the tangled fringe of Tekla’s kerchief on her back. The old woman’s sunken eyes water from the cold and wind, so from time to time she leans her chopper with its workpolished handle against the block, and wipes off the tears with the edge of her kerchief. Then she heaves a tired sigh and takes stock of the small pile of firewood that she has already chopped off a long thin log. The old woman has grown very tired, but the pile is not big enough yet to heat the stove. After resting and getting back her breath she again holds the log fast by stepping upon it and raises her jagged chopper. Autumn twilight is slowly creeping over Tekla’s potato patch, the near-by pasture and the road that runs uphill and disappears in the grey distance. There are swift, shaggy clouds scurrying across the sky, an alarmed sheep is heard bleating on the further side of the village street, and somewhere geese are cantankerously cackling.
* Zavalinka – a small mound of earth along the outer wall of a peasant’s house (translator’s note).

Tekla chops away, stopping to have a brief respite now and then, and never taking her eyes off the road. She is obviously waiting for someone, and this painful waiting weighs heavy on her mind and lurks in her watery eyes.
At last the fast-moving figure of a cyclist comes in sight on the hill and, guided by certain signs, known to her alone, Tekla recognizes the collective farm postman. The cyclist comes riding along the side of the road, and dismounts at the foot of the hill to push the bicycle past a large pot-hole, and then remounts jerking his heavy bag on to his back with a quick movement of his arm.

As he approaches, the old woman becomes more and more impatient. She puts down her chopper and, leaving the open yard, goes out into the muddy street. Her hands fumble uneasily at her breast feeling over her coat without need, her face is screwed up into an expression of agonizing eagerness, and there is unspeakable anguish in her eyes. As the postman turns into the street the old woman hobbles along to meet him, as if she fears he might forget all about her.
The postman slows down his bicycle and, with a frown of weariness on his face, remonstrates with her gruffly,
“Why on earth do you always waylay me? I’ve got nothing for you, nothing!” he shouts these words into the old woman’s face and disappears round the corner.

As if turned to stone, the old woman stares for a long time after him, her eyes expressing pain and bewilderment. For a while she stands like this, motionless and mute, dumbfounded by the discourtesy of the man. “Nothing”, she whispers through withered and faded lips, trying to grasp the sense of that unkind word. With an unsteady and awkward gait she re-enters the yard where she has left her chopper, but instead of setting to work with it at once she stands for a long time over her log staring into the hazy distance. Slowly tears roll down her sallow weather-beaten cheeks.

As she keeps gazing at the sombre hillside and the muddy road, she sees an image of a warm July day, a clear sky and a cornfield on both sides of the road. It was in that far-distant memorable year when the war broke out. Then she also stood here and with despair in her heart stared at the road, her feet itching with the desire to rush after him, her only son, her Vasil. Up to his very shoulders in the thick, tall corn, he was walking away with the brisk step of a man of action, and never turned to look back till he was a long way off. Without taking her eyes off the disappearing figure, she stood weeping, her eyes dimmed with tears that prevented her from getting the last glimps of her son, her eighteen-year-old hope, her happiness, a precious portion of her maternal heart. It was some time before he turned round to take a last look at his mother, his own house, and his village. He stopped for a little while and waved his hand, as if he were bidding farewell to all that was near and dear to him – his boyhood and early youth; then he quickly disappeared beyond the crest of the hill.

And he disappeared, perhaps, for ever…

Sixteen unbearable years, each hour of which imprinted their fearful total on the mother’s heart. Sixteen years of expectation and hope, and ever-gnawing anxious suspense. From time to time letters came, in all kinds of envelopes, but always to the same effect: the private Spodak Vasil Ivanavič is not on the list of those killed or missing. They were exciting and hopereviving, those letters. But time passed and the hopes were never realized. Sometimes the neighbours said things that were deeply resented by the mother, whose heart was loyally waiting day and night. This faith kept the old woman going, compelled her to look after herself; and so many years were wasted away just like that…

In the meanwhile, it slowly grew dark, a grey haze began to rise in the distance, and the air became chilly with autumn damp. Rousing from her thoughts, the old woman gathered up an armful of chopped firewood and, unlatching the front door, entered the house. It was already dark inside; a pitted and sooty stove showed white in the dusk. The only furniture in the house was a table with two benches next to it in the corner. Two square patches of fading light gleamed there, – the windows with one of the panes missing and stopped up. Dumping the firewood near the stove the old woman listened to the familiar stillness of the empty house and dropped down onto one of the benches. She sat there for a long time, thinking of one and the same thing: where was he, was he still alive?

Little by little the dusk deepened but the stove near the door still showed white and the windows gleamed with grey light. Tekla sat without stirring, her hands folded in her lap and her head hanging down in deep thought. She started violently when the sound of footsteps came from the porch, and her heart sank the way it always did at the slightest knock. “That’s him!” She had not the strength to jump up and rush forward, so she sat motionless, transaxed with a tense, agonizing anticipation. Somebody was heard entering the porch and groping about the wall for the door handle. Presently the door opened. “Him, him, him,” her heart began to thump, and she yearned that it might be true. Her hopes, however, were soon dashed.

“Is that you, granny?” said a voice at the door. It was Uljanka, a girl who lived next door. Perplexed by the sudden intrusion, Tekla was silent, unable to overcome the habitual pain in her heart.
“Why don’t you light your lamp? And I’ve come to borrow some matches. Have you got any to spare? Ours have been used up by those smokers, drat them all! You can’t trust them to leave a single spare match in the house!”

Tekla was silent as she listened to the girl’s words without understanding them; the old sorrowful thoughts haunted her. Hardly aware of what she did, the old woman felt for the matches on the stove. Coming upon a half-empty box, she handed it to the girl. Uljanka went on chattering about this and that but then, realizing that her words were quite lost on the old woman, fell silent. As she took hold of the door handle she said with a sigh:
“You shouldn’t take it so much to heart. It can’t be helped. If he’s alive somewhere he’s sure to come back. If not… if not, you had better try to forget it!”
“How can I forget?” Tekla returned in an anguished tone, “If I knew that he wasn’t alive, it wouldn’t be so hard for me. But as it is… Tomorrow’s his birthday – just before the Pakroŭ holiday,* but a hard fate has befallen him! His bones may be lying somewhere – I wish I knew where – at home or, God forbid, on German land.”
* Pakroŭ – a religious holiday observed by the Orthodox Church on October 1st (translator’s note).

The girl at the door shifted from foot to foot uneasily, fearing that the old woman would burst into tears: then her grief would be hard to quell. However, the long-standing pain had dried up the tears of old Tekla, leaving her heart burning with unbearable suffering.
That night she neither heated the stove nor lit the lamp. Climbing on to the ledge above the stove that was still warm since morning, she snuggled down on the edge of it, covering herself with a coat. She could not get to sleep – did not even try to – but lay with her eyes open, while remote but never-to-be-forgotten visions arose before her in the dark.

…The boy was born on a windy day like today – a small, vociferous baby. His father had just had typhus, and though he was already up and about, he was still weak and emaciated. The first-born baby came as a great consolation to this house of theirs, that stood on the outskirts of the village. Both his parents nursed and looked after him, rejoicing in his first steps and the first words he uttered. Time flew by and the quiet, fair-headed boy grew up; he was gentle, intelligent and lively. When he was five, he would go with his father to the fields, they would go together for a night-watch with the horses. The boy also tended the geese, and when Maryśka was born he looked after her. Learning came easy to him; before the holidays he would bring home small prizes from school: note-books, pencilboxes, coloured pencils. The neighbours always had a good word to say about the boy, and the mother’s heart would beat the faster for the praise.

After school Vasilka continued his education and entered a pedagogical college in town, from which he graduated as a teacher. It was then, when he left for town, that the first painful hour of their parting came, followed later by a happy re-union. He was still quite a youngster, but the villagers respected him. Tekla’s women neighbours envied her, the men praised the boy and he, as before, was quiet, shy and affectionate towards his mother. By that time she was already a widow, for the father with his poor health had not lived till the spring. That year Vasilka was completing his education. He grew up, matured and became broader about the shoulders. Once during a holiday when he was at home on a short visit, the mother realized that the boyhood of her fair-haired child was at an end and together with it her power over her son.

The warm evening in May, when the air was laden with the scent of the poplar and young birch leaves is fresh in her memory. The yard was filled with the drone of May-bugs, a distant accordion could be heard playing in the village, and she, remembering that it was time for her son to have supper, looked for him behind the house in the vegetable patch. Vasil sat there with a book in his hands, but when his mother caught sight of him he was not reading, and his eyes were fixed in an anxious and intent gaze upon the lurid sunset. The mother called out to him in a gentle tone, but he neither stirred nor took his eyes off the setting sun. At last he answered, and his words at once disturbed the peace of his mother’s heart, and troubled her ever afterwards.

“Mother, look, do you see that sunset? Doesn’t it look like a huge fire burning? Maybe the whole land will go up in flames, too. Mother, dearest, war is sure to break out soon. I’ll have to go to the front and you and Maryśka will be left alone.”
She remembers how alarmed she was then, upon realizing the frightful meaning of those words. She burst out crying and he jumped up, embraced her and tried to comfort her as best he could, saying that perhaps everything might be settled peacefully. However, when she had restrained her foreboding of evil and quietened down, he said in the grave and firm tones of a full-grown man:
“Well, if the worst conies to the worst, I’ll have to go, mother. Whether they call me up or not, I’ll go just the same: I know I must.”
She did not understand everything, but believed that since he was saying it, indeed it had to be so, and she never tried to dissuade him or influence him in his decision.

And yet in her heart he always remained a kind, fairhaired boy who needed her love and care. During those frightful years of war she often imagined that he was somewhere living through great hardships, overcome by pain, cold and hunger. She was restless and found it difficult to stay at home. She was yearning to go in search for him, help him, take a part of his burden upon her own shoulders. Alas, where could she go and look for him?

The years went by. They often brought despair, less often joy lasting but an instant, like the gleam of the autumn sun. Men returned from the front, from the partisan detachments; many of them were wounded, but alive, about others notices of their death came. The mothers mourned over them, and quietened down little by little – what can’t be cured must be endured! Tekla was still waiting – long and patiently, without complaining, but he never came, never so much as dropped her a line. The neighbours tried to comfort her and Maryśka reasoned with her many a time – she had got married and lived in a distant village. Every time her son-in-law met Tekla he asked her to come and stay with their family – her grandchildren were growing up, and her help was badly needed. But Tekla could not bring herself to give up her house in which her son had been born, and which for years she had been carefully keeping for him.

The pitch-dark autumn night slowly steals in, the house is as still as the grave: it could be empty but for Tekla. She had once kept a cat, but it disappeared for some reason or other. Her bitter grief has stifled all her interest in life, affected her disposition and lacerated her heart, so that life seems to have nothing left in store for the lonely old woman.

She still lies awake thinking her joyless thoughts and listening intently. She had grown accustomed to be on the alert during those sixteen years of anxiety and waiting – to listen to every rustle and every noise outside. However, everything is still. Only the wind can be heard rustling in the eaves, and the drone of an engine coming from the road. It must be a lorry approaching, bumping in the pot-holes near the hill. For an instant the bluish flash of its headlights glides across the windows and a narrow wavering streak reaches the corner under the ceiling. The drone comes nearer, the streak of light spreads over the sooty, cracked logs of the wall and grows into a large spot crossed by dark stripes from the window frame; presently the whole of Tekla’s window with one of its panes stopped up is slantingly projected on the wall. The reflection glides quickly towards the other corner and finally disappears, lighting up for an instant a large peg and the collar of a sheepskin coat hung on it. The house grows dark again as the lorry rumbles past Tekla’s yard.

Tekla remains motionless, listening and alone with her thoughts, then she is galvanized by a new hope. He may have come from the station; he may be standing near the house – about to enter. Tekla raises her head and really hears unsteady footsteps outside and a gentle, brief knock. That’s him! The old woman stirs to life, climbs down from the ledge, dragging her quilted jacket after her and fumbles with the latch at the door. She throws it open; the dampness and cold of an autumn night breathe into her face; there is silence and darkness all around. Nobody is to be seen in the field, gloom envelopes the yard. For a brief moment she gazes into the night, listening intently, overwhelmed once more by despair, unwilling to relinquish her defeated hope. Slowly splashing through the mud she skirts the corner of the house and stops for a long while staring into the street – the street is deserted.

Then she retraces her steps and, climbing on to the ledge above the stove, lies awake all night through, listening. Before dawn the old woman falls asleep at last and sees a wonderful dream as if in continuation of her thoughts.

She is dreaming that a new day has come – Vasilka’s birthday. She is busy doing her daily chores and all the time keeps glancing at the road. She waits and knows for certain that he – her hope – is bound to come. The woman is getting everything ready for this meeting, but somehow it does not rejoice her heart – something stands in the way of her coming joy. Little by little she ceases to expect the meeting altogether. The old woman lights the stove, her daughter Maryśka helping her. They make pancakes and, as they do it, they feast on choice food, forgetting all about Vasilka and his forthcoming return. All of a sudden their neighbour, Uljanka, raps on the window and shouts something – Tekla cannot make out the words, but she guesses it is news about him. The old woman runs out of the house and sees her son, her dear Vasilka, walking down that same road on which she saw him sixteen years ago. But he walks very slowly, stopping now and then and falling on his knees; something is wrong with him, he seems to be under great stress. A wild uncontrollable impulse drives the mother out of the house, with only a light jacket on, and without her kerchief. She rushes towards her son straight across the potato field and the patches of mud. She is already aware that something terrible and irreparable has happened to her Vasilka. Wailing, the woman runs up to her son who is lying on the road. He raises himself a little on his hands and an understanding smile crosses his face – a face as young as it used to be sixteen years ago, without a single wrinkle. But what is this? Why has the young man neither arms nor legs? There are just short stumps in place of them. And why is there blood on his cap with its small green star? The mother, frozen with fear, takes hold of her son, trying to lift him. She never stops wailing, but he says quietly, “It’s all right, mother, our hard luck is all over. Now we’ll start a new life.
And then she sees him in her own house; he seems to be sitting at the head of the table, no longer in the Red Army uniform, but in the grey coat that he had made to order before the war. In a grave tone he says to his mother, “It’s all right, really, although I died I’m alive again…”

The nightmares wake her up at daybreak and, weak from the horrors she has been through, she lies still with her mind a blank. Then she recalls her recent dream and goes over its most salient points, and the vision, so vivid and fresh in its appeal gives her an exquisite pain. The more she thinks, the more she feels convinced that he is bound to return. This conviction mixed with the desire that all this should come true puts an end to her inactive waiting. The old woman gets up and hastily throws on her coat. It is chilly in the house, the stove having grown quite cold; day is just beginning to break, and Tekla hurries to the window with the broken pane to look at the road. However, the road is still invisible, only the empty hill looms in the distance under a low leaden sky. The old woman roams about, wondering what she should turn her hand to; her thoughts are far away – over there on the road, and her heart is filled with increasing impatience. Once more she feels quite sure that he is on his way home, so now and then she either hastens to the window, or goes out into the yard and stares into the distance till her eyes begin to ache.

When it grew light Tekla could no longer contain herself and, going out again, peered at the road. At first it was deserted, then there came a cart driven by two men and a woman. For a long time Tekla watched them eagerly, her heart going pit-a-pat with impatience, while they drove through the village, taken up with carefree talk mixed with laughter. After that the road was empty for a long time, till a lonely figure made its appearance in the distance. It came in sight, quivered on the horizon for a little while, and vanished. Tekla’s heart stood still within her and the thought pulsated dully in her head, “That’s him, that’s him!” She stared still more intently, and then could stop herself no longer. Without even shutting the door of the house the old woman started walking down the road, with her bare feet thrust hurriedly into her rough boots. At first she tried to avoid the muddy places, casting glances now at the road, in front her now at the hill, then she quickened her steps and minded the road no more. When she reached the low dip near the pot-holes and lost sight of the hill she was seized with panic. The old woman imagined that she was too late, that he had fallen and lay there, a crippled man, so she broke into a trot, quickly losing her breath.

Her heart nearly burst with grief and strain by the time she emerged from the dip. Every minute she fancied, she would see him, as in her recent dream, lying on the road, a prostrate, crippled man. Gasping with weariness, and agitation she mounted the hill, but the road was empty. That was the first disappointment but it did not shake the old lady’s determination. Perhaps he was over there, beyond the brushwood or in the meadow, she thought, and the old woman hurried on, without stopping.

A murky autumn day, imperceptibly crept over the broad tracts of farm-land and naked copses; it was windy and cold. The low sky was heavy with ragged-looking clouds – in a solid endless mass they floated from the West carrying the first frosts with them.

Tekla never stopped to rest either at the top of the hill or near the undergrowth; she was unable to slow down her pace – urged on by a yearming to move yet nearer to the place where she expected to find him. The whole time the old woman fancied that all she had to do was to get to the hill, or skirt the shrubbery, and she would see him so she hastened her steps.

However, he appeared neither from behind the hill, nor from behind the brushwood, and the old woman’s strength was now ebbing away. She leaned against a telephone pole and looked this way and that, as if she realized for the first time how ephemeral her hope was. What a good thing it was, the old woman thought, that his father was buried at home, in the village graveyard, and his grave was well looked after. But what about her son? Where was he buried? – the thought rent her heart. Was it really all over? Would she never be able to see him again? Would she have to leave for a distant village, to stay with her son-in-law?… No, why think of death, and all that? He couldn’t have died, he must be alive, he must be walking down the same road, so she had better hurry on and meet him. And she trudged through the mud into an unknown part of the road.

By noon she had passed all the familiar parts and well-known villages. The road wound on amidst the expanses of autumn fields, and the mother scanned them with eagerness, but he was not to be seen anywhere. She walked on and on till she got very tired and had to rest at the edge of the fields, near a pole or on a stone. She could bring herself neither to stop nor turn back: she was obsessed by the idea that her son’s life depended on her moving on.

Presently she met a tractor that was pulling a huge red-painted threshing-machine; there were a few young men on each of the vehicles. The old woman stepped off the side of the road, away from the rattle and rumble and looked closely at the men. The one who sat next to the tractor-driver in the cab struck her as the very picture of her Vasilka; the tractor had passed by and she still stood looking after it. A fellow wearing an unbuttoned quilted jacket stood on the thresher; he shouted something to her and broke into a laugh – she could not make out the words, but his youthful perky laughter somehow cut her to the quick.

Towards evening she could hardly drag herself along, short of breath and stopping every now and then from sheer weariness. The enthusiasm that had shone in the old woman’s eyes urging her on had now worn out, together with her impatient hope to meet him. And yet, with a palpitating heart, she turned her eyes upon every curve of the road. Little by little the groundless hope of the old woman began to wither. The thought kept recurring to her that it was all a wild goose chase. He was going to return neither that day nor any other day, for he was no more in this world. The whole thing was an illusion, vain expectations and the only thing she desired to know now was where her son was buried. That was another matter, but she took it as much to heart as the hope of his being alive.

The lurid clouds grew thicker in the sky. They were no longer floating, but pressed together and crowded over the expanse of the field as though plotting some evil. A sinister gloom descended from bevond the horizon and hung in the distance, darkening the landscape which grew wan in expectation of foul weather. Evening twilight was steadily coming on, although it might be growing dark too soon because of the overcast sky. Sparse snowflakes came whirling down on the north wind.

Tekla trudged on, though she herself did not know where and why. Grief and despair were closing in upon her, and she knew for certain that good fortune would not come her way on this road. And yet she could not possibly turn back – she had not the strength.
The road turned into a thick wood of firs. The trees stood on both sides, their tops moaning in the wind. There were heaps of rustling leaves blown into the ruts which were filled with muddy brown water. Tekla walked down the road, leaning on a stick, and hardly able to drag her tired aching feet along. However, the wood soon came to an end, the road ran downhill towards a lonely empty meadow and the old woman, stopped abruptly, growing slowly conscious of the surrounding scene.

On a hill that stood on the edge of the forest a little way off the road there was a stone obelisk with a star on top, showing white in a kind of pure and luminous way – an ordinary military memorial to those who had fallen before reaching Berlin. Swept by bitter misgivings that filled her heart, Tekla left the road and, wading through the mass of rustling leaves, approached the memorial.

It was well kept and recently whitewashed, this sorrowful relic of the war. The small grave, covered with withered grass, was carefully trimmed and simple wreaths, long shrivelled up, were placed on it; the well-planed wooden parts of the enclosure were lying green after military fashion. On one side of the obelisk there was a black plaque with letters written or engraved on it in a rustic, homely manner – a list of the buried men. Desperately pressing with her breast against the railings the old woman drank in those lines of pathetic words.

But he was not there. “Lieutenant Avierjanaŭ, Guards Master-sergeant Kuźniacoŭ, privates Bondaraŭ, Pilipienka, Čarnych and others.” Well, who were those others, why weren’t their names mentioned? He may have been among those unknown “others”.
She was unable to leave the place; she clung to the cold rails of the enclosure and a heart-rending query broke from her burning breast.
“My son, where are you?”
The sky grew dark with heavy clouds, the wind moaned among the naked branches of the trees on the edge of the forest, and further away on the horizon there was a chilly stillness. The wind echoed with that query of hers for a long time, as the mother’s heart wailed of the woe caused by the bleeding wounds of war.

1957

Bielaruskaya Palichka

“But revolution or, say, democratization could be somewhat profitable, if some guy like Steven Spielberg decided to make a movie about it. Let us face the facts – we are interesting. We are an odd one out in Europe, and a lot of fascinating events happen in our country, just you need to pay a little bit more attention to them. This is a nation either beloved or forsaken by God. Maybe it is a test, or I don’t know what, but hey, we’ve been occupied by hegemons for centuries, millions of our nationals were killed in most major wars on the continent. We are torn between two civilizations, two geopolitical choices, and God knows where on earth we as a nation will end up in a century.
We are interesting. And by producing a film about us and our struggle, you would not only help us raise our social awareness, form our dusty national identity, resurrect our self-questioning, and maybe help our democratization, but you would also secure a investment that would pay back and even be quite profitable. Of course, you need to make it big, like you can, like you always do. Yeah, right, we need that big Hollywood star portray a Belarusian freedom fighter, and another big one playing a hateful dictator. This would be a smash hit. I can feel it. Can you?”

Yes, I can feel it. It could have been a great wake up call for some layers of Belarusian society. After posting two simple photo-clips about Belarus on this web site, the few friends of mine noted that these clips were highly motivational. And here, we are talking about home-made clips!
I agree with the author about a need for “big Hollywood star portray a Belarusian freedom fighter, and another big one playing a hateful dictator.” In matter of fact, we might not need a Hollywood star, but someone who can truly feel it…

And while we are waiting a response from Hollywood, I will mention a movie that sort of falls into a category of “Freedom fighter versus hateful dictator”. Enter V for Vendetta.

“So, who was Mickiewicz?? Polish, Lithuanian, or Belarussian?”. Because he was born in Belarus, wrote poems in Polish, and his most famous poem begins with: “Lithuania, my homeland!”.

And indeed, so much confusion and it does not stop there. Historians are still engaged in an intense discourse whether Belarusians have Baltic or Slavic roots. N.Vakar mentions in his book, “Belorussia: The Making of a Nation”:

“The Belorussians consider themselves the oldest and purest branch of the Slav family, tracing their origins to three ancient Slavic tribes: The Krivichi, Dregovichi and Radimichi…The question remains who these people were. Racial distinctions for that period are not clear. Herodotus refers to the Budini, a people dwelling in northern Scythia “in forests where there are large lakes”…

But what if there were some different civilizations on the territory of Belarus? Who could they be? In relation to these questions I stumbled across quiet unexpected article—“Remarkable discovery in Russia” published in “Gleason’s pictorial drawings – Room Companion” on September 24, 1853.

M.B. Larsky, the engineer, lately deceased, made a discovery of the greatest importance in White Russia—a discovery brought to light when his papers were examined after his decease. Being occupied in making a road in that province, he found it necessary to drain off the waters of a lake into another at a lower level, and in the course of the operation he discovered in a forest, several feet below the surface of the soil, a road paved in antique Roman or Mexican style, with traces of a stone bridge of peculiar construction. In Mr. Larsky’s opinion, 2000 or 3000 years must have elapsed before the face of the country has been transformed to such an extent as he observed, and if this supposition be well founded, the district must have been inhabited before the time of the Seythians (Scythians) by a more civilized nation. M. larsky’s discovery will doubtless not pass unnoticed, and may lead to important results.

Unfortunately, there aren’t any specific places mentioned but I don’t have any doubts that the place of discovery was somewhere in modern day Belarus. If someone has more information regarding it, please feel free to comment. It might be indeed “Remarkable discovery”…

Not long ago, one Pole argued with me that Belarusians are…Poles. Another gentleman insisted that Belarusians are somewhat like Russians who speak funny dialect and so on and forth. Various reasons and facts were presented to support theories based on their modern-day perspectives.
It is fine, but what about opinions that existed in the past on this issue? Attempting to find the answer I stumbled upon two pieces written in 1918 and 1914.

On January 18, 1918, The New York Times published an article “Lithuania Declares its Independence. Not Only Russian Territory but Part of Prussia Including Koenigsberg Claimed for New State in Eastern Europe”. The article informs readers that Lithuania declared its Independence and presents historical information about the country. And while the main topic might not necessarily evolve around the issue of White Russia and its national background, I found some interesting moments that concern my topic.

In one instance, the newspaper mentions:

“From the tenth to the sixteenth century the Lithuanian principality extended from the Baltic to the Black Sea. In that territory were White Russians and Ukrainians or Little Russians. White Russians are mostly of Lithuanian stock, Russianized in earlier centuries. Whoever goes from Lithuania to White Russia soon notices that the same types, customs and festivities exist there. The language of White Russia is 25 per cent, Lithuanian, and the attitude of the people toward the Lithuanians is very friendly.”

(Dark shaded areas represent territory desired by Lithuanians for their new State. Note that it includes present day Belarusian town Grodno)

More developed thoughts on this subject can be found in an article that appeared in “Folklore” on March 31, 1914. The article is titled “White Ruthenian Folk Songs” and it split into two parts: “Notes on the people”(that is White Ruthenians) and analysis of local folk.

It starts out with passage:

“White Ruthenia covers approximately the south and east of Lithuania, which was originally inhabited by peoples of the Sarmatian stock, who were divided into two branches, Lithuanian and Slavonian. The former included the Lithuanian proper, Letts, Old Prussian, and Yarzwings (now extinct); the latter the Bohemians, Ukrainians, Poles, White Ruthenians, and many others.”

And while the passage is pretty typical “historic-like” introduction the following sentence adds a bit of “character”.

“The White Ruthenians of the present day contain, no doubt, some polish and Lithuanian blood, as well as blood from other surrounding races…. The White Ruthenians occupy the present governments of Vitepsk, West Polock, Minsk, Mohylev, Grodno, and Vilno….where they are energetically carrying out a nationalist revival, in order to differentiate themselves from Poles and Lithuanians on the one hand, and from Russians on the other, — a policy which no doubt the Russian government has encouraged.”

And in an original copy, the first sentence contains a reference on the bottom of the page:

“Sometimes called Byelorusses or White Russians, but incorrectly, since no White Ruthenian would ever alow himself to be called by a name which would imply that he was Russian.”

The authors (H. Iwanowska and H.Onslow) continue by saying about the White Ruthenian language:

“The language is Slavonic and totally unlike Lithuanian, (which is more closely allied to Sanskrit than any other European language), and, though unlike Polish, resembles it more than it does Russian.”