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Authors: J. M. Sidorova
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it impossible to deny the trouble. What was still conveyed in whispers was that the insurgency’s leader, Pugachev, claimed to be Peter the Third, complete nonsense, because the latter had been most definitively killed in 1762, with my regiment’s direct involvement!
In early December three letters came from Anna all at once—variably dated, repetitive.
Dear Alexander,
I completely understand why you would not find words to put down on paper in reply to my outpourings. I have been quite irrational and I have made your task rather difficult. I thereby hurry to assure you, that I am still the Anna you used to know, and not the babbling maenad I may have appeared. My husband has been quite open with me now, and I find strength and consolation in awareness. Still, we cannot leave—it is unsafe to travel now because, you see, Orenburg is surrounded and there are uprisings all the way between here and the Volga River. It is so strange, Alexander, to have one’s husband wake up every morning, have his tea and bread, and go to war. He has been outside the city walls, fighting, three or four times now. Each time they are out, they lose people to Pugachev’s side. I just sit and wait. This one time he came back, sat down in the front room, his coat and gloves still on, and he wept inconsolably. He kept repeating, The ground gives under my feet . . .
They raid almost every day. Every time our cannons shoot, they withdraw to their camp. What is rumored to go on there, I shudder to relay to you. I shall not commit it to paper . . .
They raid, and chase our foraging parties. They burned all the haystacks around the city and now the horses are near starvation, and our foraging is all in vain because a rare party can slip out unnoticed, and then half of it will run off to the enemy. Winter started early, in mid-October, and never relented. My son does not eat well anymore; the doctor says he may have trouble swallowing, because he nearly choked once when they started shooting and one cannon blew up. It seemed so close, right over our heads. A cannoneer lost his legs there, we heard. My son was just having his oatmeal. We are so alone. Food will be short soon. The governor keeps writing to everyone for whatever bread they can spare and none has come. One detachment that was coming to help us out, under Colonel Chernishev, was misled right to Pugachev’s camp; all officers killed, all soldiers forcibly recruited to the enemy. They are ten thousand strong now. All officers beheaded, walked right onto the knife, and it was almost in sight of the city walls, and no one from us could help. I’ve never seen my husband weep before . . .
My dear Alexander, not so long ago it was nothing, and now it is too late. I am sorry I keep troubling you. I hope this letter will find you well. Your godson says hello, and your brother I am sure would have sent his regards, were he not willfully ignorant of this correspondence.
I wrote two more letters: one to the empress, and one to the command. There was a knock on my door when I was finishing, and Svetogorov poked his head in even before I answered, “Come in!”
“Alexis! Whatcha up to?”
I sighed.
He twitched his brow. “You got another letter from Orenburg, didn’t you?”
I nodded. He prompted, “Go on—”
“Not good,” I said. He acknowledged, “I figure. You look like crap. A dinner at Gypsy Joe’s, perhaps, to dilute the melancholy in alcoholy ?”
“Not feeling it today.”
“Billiards, then?”
I looked at him. He was, after all, the closest I had to an old friend. “I will be leaving first thing tomorrow, Paulie. Going to Orenburg. Don’t make a big deal out of it, will you?” I said the latter expecting him to burst out in objections—or to marvel. His eyes indeed widened, but he let out only a whistle to indicate his surprise and said, “That bad . . . And they let you?”
“Not yet. But I can’t wait for them. I wrote a letter of resignation
In early December three letters came from Anna all at once—variably dated, repetitive.
Dear Alexander,
I completely understand why you would not find words to put down on paper in reply to my outpourings. I have been quite irrational and I have made your task rather difficult. I thereby hurry to assure you, that I am still the Anna you used to know, and not the babbling maenad I may have appeared. My husband has been quite open with me now, and I find strength and consolation in awareness. Still, we cannot leave—it is unsafe to travel now because, you see, Orenburg is surrounded and there are uprisings all the way between here and the Volga River. It is so strange, Alexander, to have one’s husband wake up every morning, have his tea and bread, and go to war. He has been outside the city walls, fighting, three or four times now. Each time they are out, they lose people to Pugachev’s side. I just sit and wait. This one time he came back, sat down in the front room, his coat and gloves still on, and he wept inconsolably. He kept repeating, The ground gives under my feet . . .
They raid almost every day. Every time our cannons shoot, they withdraw to their camp. What is rumored to go on there, I shudder to relay to you. I shall not commit it to paper . . .
They raid, and chase our foraging parties. They burned all the haystacks around the city and now the horses are near starvation, and our foraging is all in vain because a rare party can slip out unnoticed, and then half of it will run off to the enemy. Winter started early, in mid-October, and never relented. My son does not eat well anymore; the doctor says he may have trouble swallowing, because he nearly choked once when they started shooting and one cannon blew up. It seemed so close, right over our heads. A cannoneer lost his legs there, we heard. My son was just having his oatmeal. We are so alone. Food will be short soon. The governor keeps writing to everyone for whatever bread they can spare and none has come. One detachment that was coming to help us out, under Colonel Chernishev, was misled right to Pugachev’s camp; all officers killed, all soldiers forcibly recruited to the enemy. They are ten thousand strong now. All officers beheaded, walked right onto the knife, and it was almost in sight of the city walls, and no one from us could help. I’ve never seen my husband weep before . . .
My dear Alexander, not so long ago it was nothing, and now it is too late. I am sorry I keep troubling you. I hope this letter will find you well. Your godson says hello, and your brother I am sure would have sent his regards, were he not willfully ignorant of this correspondence.
I wrote two more letters: one to the empress, and one to the command. There was a knock on my door when I was finishing, and Svetogorov poked his head in even before I answered, “Come in!”
“Alexis! Whatcha up to?”
I sighed.
He twitched his brow. “You got another letter from Orenburg, didn’t you?”
I nodded. He prompted, “Go on—”
“Not good,” I said. He acknowledged, “I figure. You look like crap. A dinner at Gypsy Joe’s, perhaps, to dilute the melancholy in alcoholy ?”
“Not feeling it today.”
“Billiards, then?”
I looked at him. He was, after all, the closest I had to an old friend. “I will be leaving first thing tomorrow, Paulie. Going to Orenburg. Don’t make a big deal out of it, will you?” I said the latter expecting him to burst out in objections—or to marvel. His eyes indeed widened, but he let out only a whistle to indicate his surprise and said, “That bad . . . And they let you?”
“Not yet. But I can’t wait for them. I wrote a letter of resignation
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