soldiers wandered through the city penniless and in rags, shortages of bread causing huge unruly breadlines; and that peaceful march that ended in the shedding of blood. Now, more troubles brewed with that charlatan Rasputin ruling the roost at the palace. Revolution was in the air.
The days following that Great War was the time of mystery that shadowed the defeat of the Imperial forces. A story was told at that time in the nearness of the February revolution about a strange happening on a western roadway leading to St. Petersburg. It told about a ghostly figure that was seen standing at the roadside trying to flag down the rare passing droshkies, which traveled through the late night hours. “I think it was written by Gogol or was it Turgenev,” puzzled my grandmother.
My gran paused for a moment and stared into our eager eyes expecting a question to the Russian word ‘droshkies’. Hearing none she kindly offered an explanation in the roughness of her speech, “now, my dear children, a droshky is a open horse drawn coach, some have wheels, others have iron runners. It was quite a reliable transport in those days of cold and ice,” related my grandmother as she relaxed in her chair.
We snuggled into the covers of our beds and waited the continuance of her words. I heard the groan of the chair as she bent slightly forward and continued in her storytelling.
“It was close to the bewitching hour when a certain young gentleman was driving in his carriage down the icy highway that led to St. Petersburg. The young chappy was an officer in the army of Czar Nicholas II, a fine looking officer whose husky body fitted well in the uniform of colonel of the emperor’s guards. As he sat back in the droshky, he fingered his