Oh, and what a tragedy that march turned out to be… how sinful, how painful. I still weep at the lost opportunity.

For weeks it had been dark and snowy in Peterburg, of course. And cold, so incredibly cold. But that morning of the march the sun came out in all its glory. True, it was still awfully chilly and there was snow on the ground-after all, it was January-but rarely do you see so bright a day in the middle of a Russian winter, the sun so low but so sharp, cutting across the roofs and into our faces. Just gorgeous.

And because of this beauty you could see it everywhere, hope on everyone’s faces, for we all took the sunshine as a golden omen. Some even claimed that the Tsar himself had ordered such a fine day. After all, we were not asking for a new government. We were not asking for the Tsar to abandon his mighty, God-given throne. Why, no, we just wanted our beloved Tsar-Batushka to come to our aid, to reach over the conniving courtiers and bureaucrats who divided us, his devoted children, from Him, our fatherly Tsar. He would stretch out his illustrious hand and help us up-yes, we were confident he would. The massive march to our Sovereign, we were told, was to be like one great krestnii xhod-religious procession-leading right to the home of our Sovereign so that we could sob our griefs on the chest of our Little Father. And so we wore our Sunday best clothes, that was how we were instructed. All of us were told, “Put on your nicest clothes, take your wives and your children, carry no weapons, not even a pocket knife!” Likewise we were instructed not to carry anything red, not even a red shawl or scarf, for the color red was of course the sign of the revolutionaries, which we absolutely were not. After all, just as it was impossible to go before the Almighty God bearing arms, so was it unclean to go before the Tsar with devious thoughts.

Because of the huge numbers wanting to see the Tsar, because the procession was to be so enormous-well over a hundred thousand were expected-we gathered in different parts of the city. I think there was one group that met on Vasilevski Island, another along Kameniiostrovski Prospekt, somewhere else, too, and we were all to march to the Palace and congregate there on Palace Square. Shura and I joined the crowd at the square in front of Father Gapon’s Assembly Hall in the Narva District, and naturally ours was the largest group.

A great “Hurrah!” went up when Father Gapon himself appeared on the steps of the hall.

“Look, Pavel!” said my Shura, clutching my arm. “Look at Father Gapon and how handsome he is!”

I turned and in the cold saw a handsome man, his hair long and dark, his beard thick. But honestly he seemed pale. Nervous, too. Did he know, did he fear, what lay ahead? Perhaps… but just then no one gave a thought or a worry, for the air was too crisp, the golden domes of the nearby church too bright, our hopes too high. And, as Father Gapon moved toward the head of the crowd, we parted. Wearing not simply his long black robes but a chasuble-a sleeveless outer garment that I had never seen a priest wear anytime but at Mass-he passed right before us, and I watched several old women reach out and kiss the hem of his cloth.

“Bless you, Father!” one of them called.

“Thank you for helping!” sobbed another.

Suddenly Shura was grabbing my hand and pulling me along, urgently saying in a hushed voice, “Come on, Pavel, let’s go to the front of the crowd! Hurry! I want to be right in the lead so as to better see the Tsar!”

And, laughing, I let her pull me along after Father Gapon. The mass of people closed behind us, and soon we were up there near the head of the vast crowd, which numbered, they were saying, somewhere near 20,000 folk. And yet everyone was peaceful, not a word of dissent was heard anywhere, so united were we. Just to make certain that our good and religious intentions were perfectly clear, a great call went out for icons and other items of the church. Within minutes we were surrounded not just by men and women workers of every age, from young to old, but by large crosses held high, tall banners from a nearby church, huge icons, and glorious portraits of our Tsar Nikolai II, too.

In fact, a man in felt boots hurried by, calling, “Who wishes to carry an image of Otets Rodnoi, Batushka!”

“I do, I do!” shouted Shura.

And such it was that Shura was given a framed portrait of the Tsar, pulled right from the wall of Father Gapon’s Assembly Hall, to hold high and carry forth. And such it was, too, that shortly after eleven in the morning on Sunday, the 9th of January, 1905, we slowly started forward, this great mass of suffering humanity that was so full of love and hope for Tsar and Motherland.

We had not gone five steps when one man pulled his fur shapka from his head and began singing our great national anthem, “God Save the Tsar!” Immediately we all fell into dutiful song, and when we came to the line blessing our Tsar, we sang, “God Save Nikolai Aleksandrovich.” Along with our solemn voices came the pealing of church bells, and though I should have been, I wasn’t at all nervous, not even when I saw a large banner held aloft that read, “Soldiers, Do Not Fire Upon Your Brothers!” No, I wasn’t nervous, because I saw several policemen pull their hats from their own heads and cross themselves as we passed. And when we proceeded to sing “Save Thy People, O Lord, and Bless Thy Inheritance” these policemen began to sing, too. No, I was quite sure of it, there was nothing to fear. We were in God’s hands and, as if to prove it, yet another group of officers ran up the side of the procession and began to clear the way for us. They even turned away a few carriages that attempted to cross our path.

Oh, if only the Tsar had been waiting for us…

It wasn’t long at all before we reached the great Petergofskoye Highway and turned north. By this time Father Gapon himself was no longer in the front rank but just behind, surrounded by a handful of what appeared to be bodyguards, big men who kept close and tight rank around him. Shura and I were not but three or four people away from this group, and it wasn’t long before the Narva Triumphal Arch, built to welcome home the troops from their victory over Napoleon, came into view. But what caught my attention wasn’t the glorious copper arch or the copper chariot with six ponies atop. No, what seized my heart was the sight of kneeling troops, rifles at the ready, blocking our passage over the small bridge spanning the Tarakanovka River in front of the arch.

“Shura,” I muttered, “there are soldati ahead.”

Still holding the Tsar’s portrait aloft, my dear wife, along with the crowd, was now singing “Our Father” and seemed barely concerned. In fact, she and everyone else only began to sing louder. But it scared me, I confess, and a shiver went through my body when I saw behind the troops a line of cavalry-men mounted on horseback, their faces stern, their fur hats tall. Oh, dear Mother of God, I thought. All we had wished for was that our meager voices be heard by our rightful ruler, not that the Cossacks be brought in.

“Shura,” I said, taking my young pregnant wife by the arm, “perhaps we shouldn’t be here, perhaps we-”

“Don’t worry, Pavel!” she said, holding the portrait higher.

“But-”

“It’s all right. Trust me, no one would dare fire at a picture of the Tsar!”

Instinctively I started to slow, for like all peasants of Russia -serfs that we had so recently been-there was nothing I feared more than my master’s whip. But these stout men atop their horses did not bear whips. No, it was far worse, for at their sides were swords. But whatever the danger, there was no stopping our mighty procession now. Even though I tried to slow my pace, I could not. Indeed, the great mass of humanity seethed with excitement, pushing me forward faster and faster.