“And now you have killed, with your own hands, this noble soul, this rare example of human kindness. Why?
“Why did you do it?” I turned fiercely on the men.
“Because he was of the exploiting class,” came one answer.
“They all suck our blood!” shouted, some others.
“Why let her talk? Who is she that she should question us?” somebody cried out.
“Kill her! Kill her, too! Kill them all! We have shed enough of our blood! The bourgeois! The murderers! Kill her!” was shouted from many throats.
“Scoundrels!” I screamed. “You will kill me yet, I am at your mercy, and I came out to be killed. You ask why I should be allowed to talk. You ask who I am. As if you didn’t know me! Who is Yashka Botchkareva?
“Who sent delegates to present icons to me, if not you? Who had me promoted to the rank of an officer, if not you? Who sent me this testimonial to Petrograd only a couple of weeks ago, if not you?”
Here I drew out from my breast pocket the resolution passed and signed by the Corps Committee and despatched to me while I was in the Petrograd Hospital. I had brought it with me. Pointing to the signatures, I cried:
“You see this? Who signed it, if not you yourselves? It is signed by the Corps Committee, your own representatives, whom you, yourselves, elected!”