At the moment I was interested in nothing in the world so much as my clean little blue-and-white room and a hot bath. My trench khaki was caked with mud and reeked of the odors of barracks and stuffy trains. On the way back from the front, I had spent two sleepless nights sandwiched with fourteen other people into a compartment intended to accommodate four. The first night I shared the upper berth with another woman. It was so narrow that we had to lie head to foot. There were no pillows or bedding, and I am sure that neither of us closed our eyes. The next night I insisted on her sleeping alone, and I sat below, listening to the crowd talk. Toward morning a pathetic-looking little peasant woman, nodding uncomfortably back and forth, bumped against me. I glanced at her hair. It was hopelessly in need of a shampoo. I decided that, after all, dirt didn’t really matter, and settled her head on my shoulder. She went peacefully to sleep. This morning all that was past. With soap and water so close at hand, dirt mattered more even than probable revolution. At the hotel I hastened upstairs without stopping to ask questions. An hour later I emerged, remade and ready for anything. I hurried toward the Nevsky. Again the scene was changed, and there was no mistaking the signs. The Bolsheviki were taking possession of the city. The uprising that Petrograd had been expecting hourly for weeks had come. The Bolsheviki, radical minority in the Soviet of Workmen and Soldiers’ Deputies, were making a demonstration against coalition with the bourgeoisie. Led by Nicolai Lenine and Leon Trotzky, the Red Guard, composed of armed workers from the factory districts and of sailors from the naval station at Kronstadt, had come out to demand “all power to the Soviet,” and with banners of flaming red were crying: “Down with the capitalist ministers!” “Land to the peasants!” “Control of industry by the workers!” and “Immediate general peace!” The night before, thousands upon thousands of armed workers had marched through the streets singing the “Marseillaise.” This morning they were continuing the demonstration in more menacing terms. The deserted Nevsky was suddenly filled with people. Down the street came a huge motor-truck, a vicious-looking machine-gun mounted behind and another on each side. It was filled with Red Guardsmen and sailors. Each man was armed with a rifle, and its threatening nose was pointed in the direction of the crowd. I stood there watching, wide-eyed and wondering, recalling that whispered prophecy that had been sounding perpetually through the spring days: “The streets of Petrograd will run rivers of blood.”