We Will Live On. In Memory of Fallen Comrades in the Struggle for Freedom
N. M. Minsky
“But immortal is the one who, through the dust of the earth, Caught sight of some new world in the distance — non-existent yet eternal. Who longed for unearthly goals so fervently and suffered, That by the strength of thirst, the mirage created itself. Amidst the endless desert.”
1905. The Russian Revolution rushes like a whirlwind through the depths of the empire. The rebellious Penza region, stirring since the times of Pugachev, boils with “agrarian disorders” that erupted in Narovchat, Mokshan, and Chembar. Revolutionary combat groups of Social Revolutionaries (Esers) and anarchists formed and actively operated throughout the province. In 1906–1907, a group of anarchist-communists gained particular notoriety, led by German Vel’kopol’skiy.
The autocratic regime took harsh measures to save itself, attempting to strangle the revolution with the so-called “Stolypin’s necktie.” In 1906, Minister of Internal Affairs Pyotr Stolypin signed a decree introducing military field and military district courts, whose cases were expedited without the presence of prosecutors and defenders. By decision of the military district court, approved by General Sandetskiy, commander of the Kazan Military District, death sentences were imposed on Penza anarchists. Around 20 individuals would be hanged in the Arbekovskaya grove.
***
Autumn 1907. Penza Province. Morning in the Arbekovskiy Forest.
The autumn chill sends shivers down my spine. Am I trembling just from the cold? Are my teeth chattering from the dark, icy morning? Or is it fear that governs me? Anxiety grips every part of me, my hands shake, every muscle quivers. No! It’s all just the cold, November is indeed here, winter is approaching rapidly, hence the unmistakable shivering.
The ancient forest greets me with silence, as if all living things are hiding, observing every slow step of mine, every second of my existence’s finale. Even the wind seems to hush. Only the sounds of our movement are audible. I walk steadily, not rushing, but at the same time not slowing down, so as not to provoke a push from behind. If I were to close my eyes for a fraction of a second, it might seem like I’m walking alone, without any company, just strolling through the still dark autumn forest. But my gaze is fixed ahead now, trying to see through those who lead me, attempting not to lose track of distracting thoughts. There’s hardly any snow, just scattered patches, making the gloom even more impenetrable. The distance is obscured, a pity, for one desires to look far away and escape into that distance. Oh, how I long to leave, to close my eyes and vanish from here, to be gone entirely.
Fallen twigs on the ground jab at my legs, snagging, as if to say, “Don’t go, don’t go, stay.” Yet I continue, as if under a spell, my body moving as if on its own, no longer mine, abandoning me, departing from my mind. How tempting it is to fall! To press against the ground, the fallen leaves, the chilling dampness, the forest scents. The soul craves the touch of life, of nature, of eternity. And now I feel dirty, surrounded only by concrete and iron for these past few days, saturated with the smell of the office, as if my body has been tainted by symbols of all that I fought against, all that I genuinely hated. Purification is needed through the touch of the natural, free world, devoid of the presence of man-made evil. Even just washing with a handful of snow would suffice, but they won’t allow it, and I won’t ask, they won’t wait for my requests, neither pleas nor apologies.
Fatigue, the result of prolonged languishing and sleeplessness, plunges me into a foggy state. My eyes close, and I walk by touch, while changing scenes play before me; mother looks at me, so tenderly and warmly, smiling. Comrades laugh, so happy, kind, and cheerful. Little sister, father, all so close, as if they’re right here, and it feels so good to see them, to feel that they’re with me now. And she, so beautiful and bright, like an angel coming towards me, I would embrace her and never let go. I would give my life just to see the sun shining over them, to warm them with rays of freedom, dispelling the shadows of humiliating slavery and submissive oppression. There’s so much more I want to tell them, to explain, to pour out every word that has been lingering in my heart, so they could hear how much I love them, how I cherish the memories of their presence in my life.
The night darkness gradually dissipated in the morning expanse of the sky. I lifted my head, pausing briefly, and to my surprise, no one hurried me from behind. Yet the sky remained the same, serene and vast, stretching above all of us, transcending human turmoil and deprivation, its light shining over the whole world. While we all whirl around in our busyness, in our sufferings and joys, losing and saving each other, struggling and surviving, it silently hangs above us, counting the seconds of our lives. Up there, through the swaying branches’ network, faintly transparent dark clouds drifted by. I continued walking. My throat felt parched; I longed for a drink. Thirst drowned even the sensation of hunger, reminding me with stomach rumblings. But all these instincts seemed so insignificant compared to the surging thoughts and sharpened emotions. Love, regrets, sadness, hatred mingled inside me, gaining immense power. With each breath, memories flashed brightly, faces, events. The adrenaline rush verged on madness, but I tried to keep myself composed.
The winding path led us to a clearing, seemingly the heart of the dense forest. It was filled with a crowd of waiting figures, but that wasn’t what caught my eye. I saw piles of earth and dug pits. Nothing instills fear like those pits—deep, dark, damp pits. I turned away from them. I looked at the faces, somber, some sly, others simple, bright, looking at me with a self-restraining pity. They probably thought that a crazed villain with a glassy black gaze would be brought here, but instead, there was just a man, the same as they themselves, as their sons, and it was evident that they felt uncomfortable with this growing realization. They probably pushed it away, so as not to scream, not to grab their heads and flee from this procession. Others, however, seemed to hate me, watching eagerly, anticipating a spectacle of suffering, wheezing, and pleading. Oh, how I wanted to spit in their vile faces. But most seemed to be here with demonstrative reluctance, as if they were forced to come, and they wore masks of indifference, looking through me as if I didn’t exist, as if they had gathered only to watch the aspens sway and count the crows on the branches. They are the real villains, the most terrifying people, capable of pretending that nothing is happening, even as villages burn, as rape and torture occur, they would just look away, silently present, thus normalizing executions.
Yet I want to live, with every breath of air, I want to hope, and I will never suppress this urge within me. I want to lunge forward, let them shoot, as long as I don’t walk to the scaffold myself, but my legs seem frozen, I feel a push on my shoulder. Before me, a birch tree and a dark stool beneath it, and nearby stands a sturdy Tatar, a murderer and executioner. There’s no strength; I want to scream, to ask them all:
— By what right do you have?! And why did you decide to claim this right for yourselves?! You, born into this world just like me, suddenly burdened yourselves with the role of judges of human destinies, conducting trials, accusing, deciding, depriving. My path, unknown to your minds, unaccepted by your hearts, was deemed criminal. You destroy me as an enemy because I stood against you, against the peaks of your powers, against your whips and your palaces. Are thoughts and awareness of human freedom alien to you? I, born on the other side, view the world with a different eye, and therefore you deprive me of the sky, the air, the sun, and the warmth, because my words and actions oppose your chains?
These thoughts scream inside me, and through my silence, this call breaks through with tears in my eyes, which I try my best to hold back so as not to be perceived as weak.
Between the bare trees, passing flocks of clouds were visible. I felt the cutting touch of a thick loop around my neck. The feeling of heaviness returned under my eyes. It could be seen how one of the attendants in the crowd squinted and turned away. Cold ran through my body as if an invisible entity branded me with ice. From the nearby Tatar, the stench of sweat emanated.
Is darkness awaiting me? The end, nothingness, emptiness. Or will I meet someone? Another world I’ll discover, and my consciousness won’t be erased. Yet my mother always spoke of God, of merciful forgiveness. Thus, I depart into the depths of mysteries, still unknown to anyone. Whatever will be, will be, for I regret nothing, lived sincerely by the call of conscience, and for the truth, destroyed by human evil.
Raindrops fell faster and faster, breaking into small splashes. I felt the farewell touch of life, bringing a small fraction of ease. The trickling streams of cold heavenly water washed away all the settled dust of the prison and the internal stifling hatred. The crowds of authoritative figures vanished, there were no longer rows of guards, no torturous readiness of the executioner. Only icy freshness, the noise of the spreading rain, and the scent, slightly frozen, of fallen leaves remained. A heavy sigh, one of the last, the thick loop preventing me from taking a full breath. Everything blurred. I hear the pounding of my heart, it’s so loud, pulsating in my eyelids, marking the seconds. I bid farewell to the world, to my consciousness, to those who loved and surrounded me. The soul tears apart with regret that I’m leaving so soon, that so many dreams and paths disappear with me in the silence of the night forest. It seems like I haven’t done enough yet and still wanted to see and know so much. I lost the battle to which I dedicated my life. I’m just a extinguished spark of a great flame, departing with the hope that bypassing days, years, centuries, the small raindrops causing so much discomfort to the crowd around me, united, will grow into a downpour. Those looking at me now are uncomfortable, uneasy; they’re cold and wet, irritated, they want to go home, they want to stay dry and clean, they don’t want to touch the falling water. They dislike the rain washing away the old dust particles of the clouds, they seek shelter and hide, while I stand already soaked with a noose around my neck and smile, believing that the heavenly waters are eternal, and they will come with the winds to the deserts, and with storms, they will wash away the consequences of drought. Greenery will rise from under the oppression, reaching the heights, destroying with itself the sandy-golden palaces, and the rainbow light will color the dark, forgotten places. Today, we are the first drops falling on the stone, dry soil. We vanish without a trace, leaving only the hope of the coming dawn to the earth. We will rise again into the heavens, to return with a new flow of elements.
***
The drumroll resounded, drowning out the final quiet cry of the young man standing on the scaffold. He looked ahead somewhere into the distance, so doomed and contemplative. Only those nearby heard the last words left in this world by the young revolutionary before the executioner knocked the stool from under his feet.
“We will live!” he shouted through the sounds of the deadly drumroll. Not everyone present understood the significance of these words because he didn’t say them for them; he shouted these words for himself, as a salvational manifesto of hope that everything to which he dedicated his life would not be erased by the execution of young souls, that every letter of his sincere words, actions, and feelings mattered both for the present and the future, that he was not dying in vain. These words echoed through Arbekovskaya grove, remaining there as an eternal reminder of lives painfully lost with faith in the truth of the struggle against the oppression of human freedom, beauty, and inspiration. They lost the air they loved so much. The cool forest wind could no longer give them life; it was taken away from them as brazenly as the people’s freedom was taken. Hearts that carried dreamy lines about earthly paradise stopped under the branches of Russian birches.
The rain stopped. The gusts of wind intensified, setting in motion the emptied surroundings of Arbekovskaya forest. The remaining raindrops fell from the treetops onto the still loose black soil. Exactly 10 years later, a revolution will sweep across all of Russia, breaking the scaffolds of autocratic power but still not finding true freedom. Darkness and the clank of chains continue to reign in a world where new forces of resistance persistently revive. “We will live!” — these words resonate again from century to century, as a reminder to any authoritarian regime of its inevitable downfall. The Stolypin necktie, as a symbol choking the yearning for freedom, returned in the knots of the Stolypin carriages, tightening the noose over the breath of free movement in modern Russia. This suffocation takes away voice, air, life, and we seem to stand again on the scaffold under the drizzling rain, awaiting the downpour.
***
Autumn 2017. A gloomy September day. The Arbekovskaya grove scattered yellow-brown carpets of leaves. The dark sky is torn apart by the roar of clouds. Rare birches sway with gusts of wind.
I read the names on the stele dedicated to the memory of fighters for the people’s happiness.
Grigory Donskov, Andrey Zemlekov, Nikolai Popkov…
A dozen destinies, the most different people, united only by a common goal – freedom. Each of them had their own separate path, loved ones, habits, dreams, character traits; they were all absolutely different, dissimilar residents of a gloomy province, whose lives would have been erased in the longevity of history if not for the single impulse, caused by a tremor in the heart, if not for the lines they read, awakening faith and aspirations.
Today we know a lot about the theorists and practitioners of past years; we almost know by heart the stages of their biographies and the meanings of their sayings, but much less often do we talk about the common people – workers, peasants, and students who were just drops in the pouring rain of revolutions. About Yakovs, Grigorys, Nikolais, and Stepans, who gave their lives in the struggle against oppression. They probably did not seek glory for themselves, they just did what they thought was necessary, trying to erase the stages of hard labor camps, secret police executions, and the consequences of class inequality. Empathy for the people, of which they were a part, was their guide. And to the people of Russia, despite the uprisings, there were still many years of Bolshevik terror and endless repression ahead. Throughout all historical periods, the people, from the intelligentsia to the peasants, from teachers to businessmen, from artists to programmers, whether united or alone, continue to resist in various forms. We cannot count all the years of freedom that were taken away from people by exile and prisons, we cannot enumerate the lives of everyone who was sincere in their struggle; we can only maintain within ourselves the awareness of the eternity of resistance, part of which is someone’s unique fate.
Rare raindrops sprinkled from the dark canvas of the sky. The forest silence immersed in the feeling of the continuity of times, the chronicles of which seemed to manifest in the surrounding pictures – in the woody, long-lived thickets, which became witnesses of many events of different generations. Mikhail Lazgachev, Alexey Lysenkov, Egor Kulagin…
The rain grew stronger, and the mighty force of the wind set the forest in motion.
Yakov Fedotov, Ivan Sinekov, Fedor Pershin…
“We will live,” echoed among the swaying birches.
Vasily Nemov, Trofim Kolokoltsev, Boris Alexeev were executed in the Arbekovskaya grove in 1907 for participating in revolutionary activities.
October 2017. 110 years have passed since the execution of anarchists. The resource “OVD-Info” reports that in Penza, five anarchists have been detained on suspicion of preparing to overthrow the constitutional system through terrorist activities. The training of young people took place, including in the Arbekovskaya forest.