Free The Family Romanov: Murder, Rebellion, and the Fall of Imperial Russia by Candace Fleming Page A

Petersburg into a battleground, they said. Count Witte even drew up a document for the tsar to sign. But Nicholas refused to give in.
    Six days later, on October 30, Nicholas’s cousin and commander of the St. Petersburg Military District, Grand Duke Nicholas Nikolaevich, stormed into the tsar’s study. Waving a revolver, he shouted, “If the Emperor does not accept the Witte [document] … I shall kill myself in his presence.… It is necessary for the good of Russia.”
    Cornered, Nicholas backed down. That same day, he reluctantly signed Witte’s document. Known as the October Manifesto, it granted “freedom of conscience, speech, assembly and association” to the Russian people. But most important, it promised a Duma that would allow even the lower classes of Russians to have a say in how the country was run. Among the powers given to this newly created legislature, the manifesto pledged that “no law may go into force without the consent of the Duma.”
    It was a stunning concession. By giving the Duma the final word on the creation of laws, Nicholas had essentially waived his autocratic rights. No longer would one man, the tsar, make all the laws affecting citizens’ lives. Now a group of men, elected by the people, would decide what was best for them. “People have laid down their lives ‘For the Faith, Tsar and Country’—and this is how Russia was created,” fumed one nobleman. “But who is going to lay down his life ‘For the State Duma’?”
    Most of Nicholas’s subjects, however, greeted the manifestojoyfully. Calling off the strike, they cheered and sang. Speakers appeared on street corners, testing their new freedom of speech. People imagined a new Russia, a free Russia, a Russia that included them. Said one citizen, the country “buzzed like a huge garden full of bees on a hot summer’s day.”

R EPRESSION AND P OGROMS
    On the very day the October Manifesto was proclaimed, a crowd of jubilant Moscow workers marched to the city jail. There, on this sunny autumn day filled with so much promise, they eagerly exercised their newly granted freedom of speech by peacefully demonstrating for the immediate release of all political prisoners. They sang hymns. They made speeches. And to their astonishment, the jail doors opened. One hundred and forty political prisoners—imprisoned for having spoken and written against the tsar—now stepped out onto the cobbled street. Roaring its approval, the crowd hoisted several of the released men high onto its shoulders. Triumphantly, they headed back toward the city’s center. But they had not gone far before they met a large mob waving patriotic banners and carrying portraits of the tsar. As the still-celebrating workers grew closer, the mob pulled out knives and brass knuckles. Within minutes, the workers’ triumph turned to terror as they were slashed and beaten. Some were forced to kneel before Nicholas’s portrait, while others were made to kiss the national flag. When the attack was over, one of the prisoners lay dead, and dozens more were wounded.
    Who had committed this crime? The Union of Russian People, later to be known as the Black Hundred. Staunch supporters of the tsar, members of the Black Hundred vowed to stamp out anyone they believed threatened the autocracy. This included “upstart” workers, students, and Jews—most especially Jews. Formed in early October, the Black Hundred’s membership swelled with“uprootedpeasants forced into towns as casual laborers; small shopkeepers … squeezed by … big business; [and] low ranking [government] officials” who felt their jobs were threatened by the new reforms. By 1906, the group claimed three hundred thousand members and one thousand branches across the country. Nicholas himself proudly wore the group’s emblem and accepted one for his infant son, Alexei. Wishing the group“total success” in uniting “loyal Russians,” Nicholas helped by financing the group’s rabidly