Late October 1917.
The telegram from Petrograd arrived in Kyiv early in the morning.
At first, many dismissed it as just another rumor.
Over the previous months, countless reports of that kind had circulated throughout the country. Every political crisis brought conflicting dispatches, sensational newspaper articles, and exaggerated accounts from supposed eyewitnesses. Yet within a few hours, it became clear that this time something far more significant had occurred.
The Provisional Government had ceased to exist.
Its ministers had been arrested.
The Winter Palace had fallen into the hands of the insurgents.
A new authority was being formed in Petrograd.
The news spread rapidly across the city.
Groups gathered around newspaper kiosks along Khreshchatyk. Civil servants discussed the situation outside government buildings. Students argued in university corridors. Even in the markets, conversations about bread prices gradually gave way to discussions about Lenin, the Bolsheviks, and the future of Russia.
The news caused particular concern among military officers.
Kyiv's railway station received dozens of trains every day. Some carried wounded soldiers. Others brought men on leave. Still others arrived filled with soldiers who had little intention of ever returning to the front.
The army still existed on paper.
In reality, it was increasingly becoming a mass of armed men exhausted by war and politics.
Several officers stood on one of the station platforms waiting for the arrival of another train from the Southwestern Front.
Before long, their conversation turned toward the events in Petrograd.
—"So Kerensky finally lost."
An older colonel gave a grim smile.
—"After Kornilov, it was only a matter of time."
A young staff captain slowly shook his head.
—"I still cannot understand how an entire government could disappear in a matter of days."
—"Not days."
The colonel looked toward the approaching train.
—"Months. Most people simply preferred not to notice it."
For several seconds, none of them spoke.
The train began unloading passengers.
Some soldiers looked exhausted. Others appeared indifferent. A few openly welcomed the news.
One of them loudly declared:
—"Lenin will make peace now. We'll be going home soon."
His companion merely shrugged.
—"First he has to keep power."
The train continued to empty.
And with it came rumors, uncertainty, and the growing sense that the country was once again standing on the edge of enormous change.
By evening, the reports had been fully confirmed.
The Provisional Government no longer existed.
A new authority had appeared in Petrograd.
How long it would survive, nobody knew.
But one fact was already beyond dispute.
Russia had once again entered the unknown.
And Ukraine was entering it with her.
At the same time, an emergency meeting was underway inside the building of the Central Rada.
Deputies, party representatives, military officers, and government officials filled the corridors. Small groups gathered in every corner of the building, discussing the same news that had already spread throughout Kyiv.
The Provisional Government had fallen.
The Bolsheviks had seized power.
Russia had once again entered a period of uncertainty.
Inside one of the meeting halls, the leadership of the Rada reviewed the latest telegrams arriving from Petrograd, Moscow, Kharkiv, Odesa, and the front.
Some reports contradicted one another.
Others remained incomplete.
Yet the overall picture was becoming clearer with every passing hour.
Mykhailo Hrushevskyi slowly finished reading another dispatch before placing it on the table.
—"It seems there is little room left for doubt."
Several men nodded silently.
Volodymyr Vynnychenko sat slightly apart from the others, carefully observing the room.
—"What interests me most," he finally said, "is something else entirely."
Hrushevskyi looked toward him.
—"And what would that be?"
—"Why are we still discussing the fate of the Russian government as though the fate of Ukraine depends upon it?"
The room fell silent for several seconds.
Vynnychenko continued calmly.
—"First there was the monarchy. Then the Provisional Government. Now the Bolsheviks. Petrograd may change governments every few months if it wishes. That is not our primary concern."
—"And what should concern us?" one of the deputies asked.
—"Ukraine."
He paused briefly.
—"Our task is not to participate in yet another struggle for power in Russia. Our task is to build a new Ukraine."
From the opposite side of the table came the voice of Symon Petliura.
—"I am afraid it is no longer possible to separate those two questions."
Vynnychenko turned toward him.
—"Why not?"
—"Because millions of armed men still occupy the territory of the former empire."
Petliura rose from his seat and approached the large map hanging on the wall.
—"The front is collapsing. Soldiers are leaving their positions. Railways are overcrowded. And now a new government has appeared in Petrograd, claiming authority over all of Russia."
His hand moved across the map.
—"We should not assume the Bolsheviks intend to stop at Petrograd."
Several military representatives nodded in agreement.
One of the officers present at the meeting added:
—"Reports from the front are increasingly troubling. Agitation is growing in almost every army."
Vynnychenko frowned.
—"No one is suggesting that we ignore the situation. But I strongly oppose turning Ukraine into another battlefield of Russia's civil conflict."
—"And what if that conflict comes here on its own?" Petliura asked calmly.
Vynnychenko did not answer immediately.
—"Then we shall act according to the interests of the Ukrainian people."
—"The interests of the people cannot be protected without force."
—"Support from the people creates strength, not the number of bayonets."
—"Sometimes bayonets are necessary as well."
Silence settled over the room once again.
The argument remained entirely political.
No voices were raised.
No personal attacks were made.
Yet many present could already sense that beneath the discussion stood two very different visions of Ukraine's future.
Hrushevskyi eventually redirected the conversation toward practical matters.
—"For now, our priority is to determine our position. Russia has changed once again. We must decide how Ukraine will respond."
Several people exchanged thoughtful glances.
The discussion gradually shifted toward the preparation of a new political declaration that would define Ukraine's status under the new circumstances.
For the next several hours, the debate continued. Different proposals were discussed, amended, and challenged, while fresh telegrams continued arriving from across the former empire. The atmosphere remained tense, but unlike Petrograd, Kyiv had not yet reached the point where weapons would decide political questions.
Not yet.
Several hundred kilometers west of Kyiv, the headquarters of the Ukrainian Army continued its work.
Autumn was gradually taking hold. The roads had turned muddy after repeated rains, the air grew colder by the day, and with it came a growing sense of uncertainty.
Too much had changed over the past months.
After the February Revolution, many had still believed that the state could be preserved. After the July Days, serious doubts began to emerge. After the Kornilov Affair, it became clear that the government was steadily losing control of the country.
Now the Provisional Government itself had fallen.
Inside one of the headquarters buildings, several officers stood around a large map.
Railways, corps sectors, supply depots, and key junctions remained carefully marked upon it. Yet over the past months, new symbols had increasingly appeared alongside traditional military information.
Reports of desertion.
Political agitation.
Activities of soldiers' committees.
Disruptions in transportation.
Colonel Oleksandr Sliwinski finished reviewing another report and placed it on the table.
—"Two more divisions reported significant numbers of men leaving for home."
Marko Bezruchko looked up.
—"Which sectors?"
—"One from the Romanian Front. Another from the Southwestern Front."
Bezruchko rubbed his eyes tiredly.
—"Every day it's the same story."
Petro Bolbochan stood near the window overlooking the headquarters courtyard.
—"And it will only get worse."
No one disagreed.
Pavlo Skoropadskyi listened silently while reviewing the latest dispatches.
Over the previous weeks, dozens of similar reports had crossed his desk.
Individually, each one appeared manageable.
Taken together, they painted a far more troubling picture.
The old army was disappearing.
Millions of soldiers still remained under arms on paper.
Armies, corps, and divisions still existed on official documents.
Headquarters still operated.
Orders were still issued.
But increasingly, the question was not whether the system was weakening.
The question was how long it could continue functioning at all.
—"What about our army?" Skoropadskyi finally asked.
Sliwinski immediately understood what he meant.
—"The situation remains considerably better than in most neighboring formations. The corps retain their command structure, officers still exercise authority, and headquarters continue to function properly. There are no signs of large-scale disintegration."
—"For now?" Skoropadskyi asked.
Sliwinski nodded.
—"For now. The men are tired. More and more soldiers believe that the events in Petrograd will somehow bring the war to an end. They continue to obey orders, but the mood is no longer what it was even during the summer."
Bolbochan allowed himself a dry smile.
—"Remarkable. Half the army seems convinced that Lenin can end a world war with a speech."
—"People cling to hope when they've spent four years in the trenches," Omelianovych-Pavlenko replied calmly. — "That is hardly surprising."
—"Hope and illusion are not the same thing," Bolbochan answered. — "If the Germans launch another offensive tomorrow, slogans won't stop artillery shells."
Several officers exchanged silent glances.
No one could honestly argue with that.
Bezruchko picked up another report.
—"The railways concern me far more."
Skoropadskyi looked toward him.
—"How serious?"
—"Not critical yet. But I dislike the direction things are heading. Committees interfere with transportation more frequently, trains are being delayed without explanation, and in some places soldiers simply seize railway cars and head home."
Bolbochan folded his arms.
—"If major disruptions begin on the railways, we lose the ability to move forces quickly."
—"Not only forces," Bezruchko replied. — "Ammunition. Food. Medical supplies. An army can survive a defeat on the battlefield. Surviving the collapse of its supply system is far more difficult."
The room fell silent for several moments.
Skoropadskyi slowly closed the folder before him.
Nothing in the reports truly surprised him.
Each new dispatch merely confirmed conclusions he had reached months earlier.
The empire was dying.
Not because of one revolution.
Not because of one politician.
Not because of one military defeat.
For years, problems had accumulated beneath the surface.
Now they were all emerging at once.
Bolbochan stepped away from the window.
—"Pavlo Petrovych, may I speak frankly?"
—"Always."
—"If the Bolsheviks manage to hold Petrograd, they won't stop there."
One of the staff officers frowned.
—"You sound very certain."
—"Because I am."
Bolbochan pointed toward the map.
—"Revolutions do not confine themselves to a single city. If they have taken power, their next objective will be keeping it. And to keep it, they will try to gather every remaining piece of the former empire under their control."
—"Even if the empire is already falling apart?" Bezruchko asked.
—"Especially because it is falling apart. Every new government seeks authority. Revolutionary governments seek even more."
Omelianovych-Pavlenko studied the map thoughtfully.
—"Then the real question is not what the Bolsheviks want."
Sliwinski looked toward him.
—"What is it, then?"
—"Whether anyone else is prepared to defend what they consider their own."
The room grew quiet once more.
Outside, the changing of the guard was underway.
Soldiers moved with discipline.
Orders were carried out without argument.
Officers maintained control.
There were no endless meetings, no debates over every command, no committees attempting to direct military operations.
Such scenes were becoming increasingly rare across the former empire.
For several moments, Skoropadskyi watched through the window.
Twenty years.
Twenty years of preparation.
Factories.
Railways.
Financial institutions.
Officers.
Industrialists.
Intellectuals.
Administrators.
People he had carefully gathered around him over the course of nearly two decades.
Back in 1900, he had not known whether history could be changed.
Now history had already changed.
The real question was whether his preparations would be enough for what was coming next.
A knock sounded at the door.
A duty officer entered carrying a fresh intelligence report.
—"New information from the area of the Second Guards Corps."
Skoropadskyi accepted the papers and quickly scanned the first page.
Then he handed them to Sliwinski.
The colonel read several lines before his expression darkened.
—"Bolsheviks?"
—"Yes."
—"How serious?"
—"Too early to tell."
Bolbochan immediately looked up.
—"What's happened?"
—"Bolshevik agitation has increased sharply within the Second Guards Corps."
Bezruchko frowned.
—"Trying to stir up the soldiers?"
—"It appears so."
Bolbochan stared at the map for several seconds.
—"Then they've started earlier than I expected."
No one asked who exactly he meant.
The answer was obvious.
The revolution was no longer confined to Petrograd.
It was steadily moving into the army itself.
The following day brought even more reports.
Some arrived from the front.
Others came from Kyiv.
Many were sent by officers stationed throughout Ukraine.
Individually, none of them appeared alarming.
Taken together, they revealed a dangerous trend.
Political agitation was spreading faster than military orders.
In one division, soldiers spent hours debating resolutions passed by various councils.
In another, committee representatives demanded the right to review orders before they were carried out.
Elsewhere, political speakers gathered larger audiences than staff officers during official briefings.
The army still existed.
But politics was steadily taking the place once occupied by discipline.
Inside headquarters, another meeting was underway.
Several fresh reports lay scattered across the table.
Sliwinski pointed to one of them.
—"This arrived during the night."
Skoropadskyi glanced at the document.
—"Another committee?"
—"Yes."
—"What are they demanding this time?"
Sliwinski skimmed the report.
—"Election of junior officers. Revision of disciplinary punishments. Expanded authority for soldiers' committees. The usual package."
Bolbochan gave a dry laugh.
—"It's remarkable how every committee claims to be saving the army while dismantling the very things that make an army function."
Several officers exchanged faint smiles.
Omelianovych-Pavlenko leaned back in his chair.
—"Most of them have never commanded so much as a platoon. Yet they speak with absolute confidence about how divisions and corps should be run."
—"Because theory is easier than responsibility," Bolbochan replied. — "A committee can demand anything it likes. It never has to lead men into battle afterward."
Sliwinski placed the report back on the table.
—"The worst part is that six months ago many officers still believed these experiments would stabilize the army. Now we can compare the theory with the results."
—"And the results are sitting in railway stations waiting for trains home," Bezruchko said.
That ended the brief amusement.
Everyone in the room had seen too much during the previous months.
Entire regiments abandoning positions.
Committees overruling officers.
Battalions refusing orders.
Units arguing about politics while the front collapsed around them.
Bezruchko picked up another report.
—"This concerns me far more."
He handed the document across the table.
—"Increasing numbers of reports are coming from Kharkiv, Yekaterinoslav, and the Donbas. Bolshevik activists are working aggressively among railway workers, industrial laborers, and garrison troops."
—"Organized?" Skoropadskyi asked.
—"Not completely."
—"Meaning?"
—"Meaning there is no clear command structure that we can identify yet. But the methods are identical. The slogans are identical. The targets are identical."
He tapped the report with a finger.
—"That suggests coordination."
Bolbochan nodded.
—"Of course it does. Nobody spreads the same message across half a country by accident."
—"Peace. Land. All Power to the Soviets," Omelianovych-Pavlenko said thoughtfully. — "Simple words."
—"Very simple words," Bezruchko agreed.
—"Simple enough to be effective," Skoropadskyi added.
For a moment nobody spoke.
The war had entered its fourth year.
Millions of people were exhausted.
Exhausted by shortages.
By uncertainty.
By politics.
Most of all, by war itself.
Bolbochan finally broke the silence.
—"The danger is not that their slogans are clever."
Several officers looked toward him.
—"The danger is that they promise immediate solutions to men who have stopped believing that patience will improve anything."
Omelianovych-Pavlenko nodded slowly.
—"Four years ago soldiers marched to war believing in victory. Today most of them would settle for simply going home alive."
—"Exactly," Bolbochan replied. — "When a man reaches that point, he becomes willing to believe almost anything."
The room grew quiet once more.
Skoropadskyi listened carefully.
Years ago, when he had first begun preparing for the future, he had assumed that the greatest battles would be fought with armies.
Now he increasingly saw that many of the most important battles would be fought for minds.
A revolution could destroy a state long before a single shot was fired.
Another officer entered carrying a fresh bundle of telegrams.
The meeting paused briefly.
After reviewing the latest messages, Sliwinski looked up.
His expression had grown noticeably darker.
—"Several more reports of disturbances in rear-area units."
—"The same pattern?" Skoropadskyi asked.
—"Mostly."
—"Political?"
—"Political. Committees challenging officers. Demands for new elections. Refusals to carry out certain orders."
Bolbochan shook his head.
—"Every week the officers lose a little more authority."
—"And every week somebody in Petrograd calls it democracy," Omelianovych-Pavlenko replied.
This time even Skoropadskyi allowed himself a faint smile.
It vanished almost immediately.
The issue was too serious.
Sliwinski folded the telegram.
—"None of these incidents are major by themselves."
—"But together they are creating something larger," Bezruchko said.
—"Yes."
The room fell silent.
No one needed further explanation.
Every officer present understood how military institutions actually collapsed.
Rarely through one dramatic event.
Far more often through hundreds of small failures that gradually eroded authority until nothing remained.
Outside, darkness was slowly settling over the headquarters.
The first lamps were already being lit in the courtyard.
Sentries continued their patrols.
Orderlies carried documents between buildings.
Couriers rode through the gates carrying messages in both directions.
For the moment, the army still functioned.
For the moment, the chain of command still held.
For the moment, discipline remained stronger here than in most formations across the former empire.
Yet everyone in the room understood the same reality.
The storm that had begun in Petrograd was moving south.
And sooner or later, it would reach Ukraine as well.