“Are you Botchkareva?” the young man inquired, showing me to a seat. I was pale, weak and travel-worn and I sank into the chair gratefully. Looking at the young man, hope kindled in my breast. He had a noble, winning face.
“Yes, I am Botchkareva,” I answered. “I am going to Kislovodsk, to cure my wound in the spine, and I have lost my way.”
“What were you thinking of? Are you in your senses? We are just preparing for an offensive against Kornilov. How could you take this route at such a time? Didn’t you know that your appearance here would mean your certain death?” the young man asked, greatly agitated over my fatal blunder.
“Why,” he continued, “I just had a telephone call telling that a woman-spy had crossed from Kornilov’s side early this morning. They are looking for her now. You see the situation into which you have brought yourself!”
The youthful chief was apparently favourably inclined toward me. I decided to try to win him over completely.
“But I came of my own accord,” I said, breaking into sobs. “I am innocent. I am just a sick woman, going to take a cure at the springs. Here is my ticket to Kislovodsk, and here is a letter from a friend of mine, my former adjutant, inviting me to come to the Caucasus. Surely you will not murder a poor, sick woman, if not for my own sake, at least for the sake of my wretched parents.”
Several of the Red Guards present cut short my entreaties with angry cries:
“Kill her! What is the use of letting her talk! Kill her, and there will be one slut less in the world!”
“Now wait a minute!” the Acting Commandant interrupted. “She has come to us of her own free will and is not one of the officers that are opposing us. There will be an investigation first and we will ascertain whether she is guilty or innocent. If she is guilty, we will shoot her.”
The words of the chief of the investigation committee gave me courage. He was evidently a humane and educated man. Subsequently I learned that he was a university student. His name was Ivan Ivanovitch Petrukhin.