Prince of Petersburg

1

St. Petersburg, 1905

From his seat on his father's shoulders, Dmitri Sudayev could see the whole world. At least, that's what it seemed like to the almost three-year-old. From here he could see above the heads of the people below him, flowing along the streets like a river. Spires of the various palaces dotted around the city could be seen through the winding rows of brown buildings and, if Dmitri twisted himself all the way around, he could catch a glimpse of the pale blue walls of the Winter Palace.

"How's the view up there, Dima?" Fyodor asked, bouncing his son on his shoulders.

Dima giggled. "Good! I can see everywhere!" He threw his arms in the air and Fyodor laughed, gripping his son tightly.

"Hold on tight, little one. We're going into the crowd and I don't want you to fall."

Dima nodded and looped his arms around Fyodor's neck. They moved into the ebbing sea of people, following the flow as they walked towards the Winter Palace. Snowflakes danced through the air, decorating Dima's eyelashes with white dots. He opened his mouth wide, catching the soft flakes as they melted on his tongue. He loved winter. He had often heard people complain about the cold and dampness and the shorter days, but Dima loved the way the crisp air nibbled at his cheeks until they turned pink and how the city lit up when the sun went away. It was magical, and it also meant Christmas. Every child loved Christmas.

The crowd had continued to build and the two Sudayevs were caught in the middle. A variety of people were marching besides them, from little babushkas in their headscarves to workers from the factories holding images of the Tsar to university students with handmade signs and banners. Dima would understand what they said if he could read. "Papa," he asked, "where are we walking?"

Fyodor hesitated, thinking about how to explain to his son. "We're walking to the Winter Palace to give the Tsar a petition."

"What's a pedishun?"

"A petition is a piece of paper of lots and lots of people's names who want to change something. Father Gapon has it, at the front of the crowd."

"Oh." They walked in silence for a moment before Dima spoke up again. "Why?"

"Why do we have a petition?"

"Mm hmm."

"Well, everyone in this crowd works in difficult jobs, like in factories. We're called the proletariat."

"Proledariat," Dima repeated.

"The people who work in the proletariat don't get much money. So we made a petition to give to the Tsar so we can get more pay."

Dmitri nodded, understanding. "Because we need money for food."

"Exactly." Fyodor patted Dima's leg. "You're a smart boy, Dima."

Dima grinned, swinging his legs happily. They were walking to give a petition to the Tsar. He gasped. What if they saw the Tsar? And the royal family? The idea of seeing them send Dmitri's legs swinging madly and he nearly kicked Fyodor's nose. "Alright Dima, let's calm those legs down."

"Sorry, Papa," Dima giggled. The crowd was beginning to reach the Winter Palace and Dima strained his neck to see what was happening. He could see the pinkie-sized figure that was Father Gapon leading on the growing crowd. Someone bumped into Fyodor and Dmitri nearly fell. The crowd was growing rapidly now and it was getting harder to walk. Workers were pressing in on all sides, and short Fyodor was beginning to feel trapped.

"What can you see up there, Dima?"

Dima squinted to see. "I see the Tsar's guards! On horsies!"

Fyodor let out a noise and tried to see through the heads around him. It was no use: he was far too short. "What are they doing?"

Dmitri shrugged. "I don't know. The people have stopped."

The protest was growing restless, unsure of what was happening. "Please hear us!" They were calling. "Bless the Tsar and his family!"

"I don't think the Tsar is home."

Fyodor looked at the little babushka next to him, her grey hair flying free from an old scarf tied around her head. "What do you mean?" He asked.

"He is most likely in Tsarskoe Selo with his family." Her dark eyes twinkled and Fyodor frowned.

"Well if he's not here, then why are we marching?"

The old woman shrugged, turning her wrinkled face to Fyodor's. "Who knows? Maybe we've come to die."

Fyodor paled, letting out a nervous laugh. "I don't think we'll die, little mothe-" He was quickly cut off by a distant bang, followed by a scream. The babushka smiled sadly to herself and she was soon lost as the crowd began to move back. Fyodor could feel the panic beginning to well up in his chest and he squeezed Dima's legs. "What was that?"

"The guards have big guns. They shooted one."

Another bang tore through the sea of people, followed by a ripple of shrieks and terror. People were trying to flee, but there was too many and the street was on the verge of a stampede. The gunshots were coming faster now and the crowd was beginning to panic. People were fleeing past them, trying to squeeze through the mob of workers. Fyodor pulled his son down from his shoulder and held him close to his chest, pressing his head into his old coat. Dima couldn't see much but he could feel every footstep Fyodor made as he began to run with the crowd. Bullets whizzed past them. People were screaming, crying, falling to the ground as the soldiers continued to fire. Fyodor kept his head down and sprinted through the massacre, helping two brothers to their feet. Dima looked over his father's shoulder and was flashed with the image of a dead woman, her blouse seeping with red.

The soldiers were almost upon them. Fyodor ducked behind a statue, watching with wide eyes as a bullet narrowly missed his head. Dima started to wail. He didn't know what was happening, or why it was happening, but he didn't like it. He was scared, far more scared than he had ever been. A hand held his head gently, trembling but firm as Fyodor wrapped the coat around him. "It's okay. We'll be okay. But you need to be quiet." Dmitri bit down on his bottom lip, burying his face into Fyodor's neck. His father was still calm, but there was an edge to his voice and a glint of fear behind his eyes.

A soldier burst around the statue, gun raised and ready to aim at any protesters he could shoot. Fyodor yelped and the soldier whirled on him, ready to shoot at the man, when he caught sight of the trembling boy in his arms. The soldier froze, the rifle still raised, but it was enough to send Fyodor sprinting down the streets, stumbling over an abandoned sign. He darted into an alleyway, taking a quick moment to catch his breath. "Hold on tight, Dmitri." The boy obeyed, gripping his father's coat in his fists. Then, Fyodor began to scale the wall. He was like a lizard, or a spider, using the pipes and cracks in the bricks to find a way up onto the rooftop. He ran nimbly across the roof, avoiding the loose tiles, and finally crouched behind a chimney stack. Dima finally relaxed his grip, still trembling like a leaf. "Are you alright?" Fyodor asked.

Dima nodded. "Papa," he whispered, "why..." The child struggled to find the words. "Why?"

Fyodor knew what he was asking. "I don't know little one. It appears the Tsar wasn't home after all." The little old woman had been right. About the Tsar and about people coming there to die.. He wondered if she was still alive. He pulled his son closer, resting his chin on Dima's head. It was then that Fyodor noticed that he was shaking too. If Dmitri had been hurt then it would have all been his fault. And if the Dima had lost me, then... Fyodor shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. They were both alive.

And that was all that mattered.

_____________________________

The 1905 revolution is known as "Bloody Sunday." The Tsar indeed was not at the Winter Palace in Petersburg, but at their country palace 12 miles out of the city. Approximately 150,000 people marched in a peaceful protest to the Palace, led by Father Gapon with a petition to change working conditions, open a national government and more. The Cossack guards mistook it and they opened fire. 200 people died and several more were injured. This was to become the "dress rehearsal" for the October Revolution.