Daniel Yarosh - The Death of Hercules - A DocuNovel

“No,” he said, but immediately regretted it since it sounded so immature. “I did,” he corrected himself.

“Another war casualty,” she sighed. “But you tell me you’re free. You can find another, and still find her. I did.” Max looked up in surprise. “Yes, yes, in Paris we were free. Every night a new man found my fancy. Sometimes a woman, if she was special,” she bragged. Max could not take his eyes off hers. She was powerful, direct and without shame.

Then she saw the look in his face. “Sholom? Never. Even with two good arms.” She chuckled at her own joke. Max smiled from embarrassment. “Don’t look at me like that. I am a married woman.”

“Married?” Max asked in astonishment.

“Yes, my husband is Witold Brzostek.” She waited for a sign of recognition, but Max offered none. “He was an Anarchist with me in Paris but was arrested. He was going to be deported because he had no dependents. So I married him and played the babushaka . I even borrowed a baby.”

“Where is he now?” Max asked.

“I don’t know. I left him. For another woman. That didn’t last.” She looked down.

“No,” Max murmured, not knowing what to say.

“But it was Batko who broke my heart,” she said, looking up at Max. He showed no recognition. “You know. Otaman Nestor Makhno. No?” Max shook his head. “Oh, he is so handsome and dashing. We had wild times, yes, the vodka. Sometimes he had other women join us. Yes, it was exciting. The peasants loved him, especially the girls. He had his own army, the Makhnovshchina . He wanted freedom, too, even from the Bolsheviks. But when they arrested me last year, he valued their love more than mine.” She gave him a wink. “They took my command and exiled me. If it wasn’t for Schwartzbard and Kotovsky, I’d be back in Siberia.”

“Arrested you? Why?”

“Insubordination. Can you imagine?” she said, stubbing out her cigarette butt. She rose and stood in front of him. “Don’t worry, Mr. Max. You will see her again. But in the meantime, live!” She bent down and planted a long, open mouth kiss on his lips.

The following day, Wednesday, February 5, a Cossack Brigade, led by a young unknown commander Ivan Semesenko, stormed into Proskuriv from the south on horseback and truck. The Kotovsky unit, lax on their perimeter surveillance and stuffed with booty seized from the town, were surprised, unprepared, and forced to flee west to the surrounding forest and north across the river. The source of Semesenko’s urgency was reflected by the first stop he made after entering town: he went to the local physician who diagnosed him with a nasty case of gonorrhea.

Equally surprised was the Directorate leader Simon Petliura in Kyiv, who was gathering his government to flee in the face of a Bolshevik expeditionary force ready to take the city. He made his escape to Vinnytsia, only a short distance to Proskuriv.

From his command center in the forest, Kotovsky sent out reconnaissance, who reported back that Semesenko’s forces were an easy match for a prepared counterattack. But the scout party was clumsy and was spotted by the Cossack sentries, who reported back to headquarters that a rag-tag band was sneaking around town, peering through binoculars. Although Semesenko was the same young age of 24 as Max, he was a seasoned battlefield commander, and he understood the meaning of the report. He declared martial law in Proskuriv on Friday, February 7, banned gatherings and strikes, and set a 7 pm curfew.

Nevertheless, Kotovsky went forward with his plan to take back the city, setting the date for the revolt for Saturday, February 15. At secret meetings with the town Bolshevik party members in the intervening week, the locals complained there were too few workers among the 50,000 people to support the uprising. But Kotovsky, with support from the revered Marusya, insisted the revolt would spread throughout the region.

That Saturday, February 8, Sholom came to the motor pool and interrogated Max. How many trucks were operational? Were the cannons checked? Was the petrol loaded in drums and into the fuel transports. Sholom seemed nervous. Finally, after a long checklist was completed, Sholom sat down while Max wiped his grease-stained hands.

“I am worried, Max,” Sholom began. He did not often confide in Max, so he sat down next to Sholom. “I trust Kotovsky, but Marusya knows no control. She even scares the Anarchists – she would like to burn it all down, always.” He paused and blew on his hands. “I know she had great success leading the Black Guards and then the Free Combat Druzhina . For God sakes, she conquered half of Ukraine. She beat the White Guards, the Ukrainian Nationalists and the Germans last year. No doubt. But I just don’t like this.”

“She is a great commander,” Max offered.

“Oh, yes. But I knew her before. She is crazy. She would spout off at meetings about ‘motiveless terrorism’. She has bombed, kidnapped, robbed banks.”

“Just like Kotovsky,” Max interjected.

“Yes, just like him. That’s why together they are frightening. She doesn’t think she needs allies. She doesn’t even want them. I hope that Kotovsky is better and can get the workers on our side.”

The climactic meeting was held after dark on Thursday, February 13, at a farmhouse north of town that the Bolsheviks had commandeered from an intimidated kulak family. About two dozen men attended, half of them Bolsheviks and half of them Jewish, and many both. With his penchant for theatrics on full display, Kotovsky delivered a stutter-filled and impassioned plea for obedience to the Cause and the Revolution.

Someone from the back shouted back “We don’t have the key people with us. Krinsky and Dolechuk won’t come anywhere near here. Malamud and Drobek say they won’t help. They are tired.”

“W-were they t-tired of the Tsar? Did that st-stop the Re-Revolution?” thundered Kotovsky. “We have two White regiments ready to join us!”

“No!” several yelled. “Which ones?”

“The 15th B-B-B-Belgorod and the 8th P-Podolosk will s-start our return on Sa-Saturday,” Kotovsky bellowed, with his chest pumped out and his finger in the air.

The pitch of the commotion intensified, until a local Bolshevik stood. “Comrade Kotovsky, we support you. We are encouraged that the regiments support you. But this is not the time. We need to make better preparations and be sure that the right people are behind us. We need more men who can fight.”

“You Je-Jews will never learn this,” Kotovsky pointed and growled with narrowed eyes. “You do not l-lead by l-looking behind. You l-lead from the f-f-front of the people. We will d-destroy the Cossacks, take back Proskuriv, and the p-people will rise up to carry us!”

That ended the discussion, with Kotovsky showing that he was a strong leader but a poor listener.

On Friday night, February 14, Marusya visited Max in the motor pool, waving a bottle of vodka. “I was once a bottle washer at a vodka factory,” she told him. He sat down near the dying embers of the forge fire, and she sat down uncomfortably close. She pulled two glasses from her coat pocket and poured them each two fingers. She shot hers down immediately while Max drank in sips.

“Oh, Max, you should have seen us in the Free Combat Druzhina ,” she said wistfully. We had our own train, covered with a banner ‘Long Live Anarchy”. But it wasn’t just talk. Behind it was an armored flat car, and two 100-mm cannons.”

Max looked wide eyed at her and shot down the remaining drink. Marusya filled their glasses again.

“We had more flat cars for the armored trucks, tachankas , and box cars for the horses. Our soldiers grew their hair long and wore sheepskin caps. We had red breeches with ammunition belts slung over them. We were a terror. We would arrive by train, unload, and outflank those Cossack fools. We would appear like a fairy tale pirate band, black flags flying. Those poor conscripts turned and ran. It was all we could do to catch them!” She gulped her drink and Max followed.