Kalya noted in his diary, that Pasha was now someone void of emotions. Happy or sad were words seemingly without meaning to him. “A person like that has the characteristics of a killer, an assassin,” he wrote.
By the summer of 1917, Kalya, Pasha, and the others gathered in secret locations around Moscow. They began to make their way toward the rail yards in small groups. Workers and peasants jumped into open boxcars as trains slowly gained speed.
Watching from their train, passengers in opulent salon cars looked on in amusement.
“How quaint,” a woman told her traveling companion.
That wouldn’t be the word of choice for Pasha. Since leaving Moscow, he kept staring as if hypnotized by the lantern hanging from the roof as it swayed with the rocking of the freight car. Men and women stood
