Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

A small boy of about eight years of age sat swinging his legs on the bench. Dressed from head to foot in an assortment of handed down clothes, he had the grave mien of a tattered clown. Beneath the crinkled brim of a shapeless felt hat, two bright eyes stared unblinking at Chevanin. The boy’s face – what was visible of it beneath the dirt – was of a sallow hue and boasted a button nose, up one nostril of which a grubby finger was vigorously exploring. Between the lapels of the working man’s jacket that hung from the boy’s slender shoulders a band of discoloured woollen cloth was visible, wrapped once around his neck and folded crosswise across his chest for warmth. A strap of dark leather tied around his waist held the ensemble together. From beneath the hem of the jacket peeped a pair of trouser legs, the cuffs of which ended a good three inches short of his boots. As the boy swung his legs backwards and forwards under the seat Anton Ivanovich could see dark weals on his lower shin where, since the boy had no stockings, the edges of his sturdy boots had chafed the skin.

The Doctor’s assistant had been on the point of inviting his visitor to enter the consulting room. Now, seeing who it was, he changed his mind. The boy was almost certainly verminous; it was best to keep him as far away as from the consulting room as possible.

“Hello, Osip,” he greeted him bluntly. “What do you want?”

Staring past him into the consulting room, the boy said nothing.

“Well, what do you want?” he repeated.

The boy shrugged and began picking at a closely bitten fingernail.

“Osip Noisevitch Pyatkonov, are you sick?”

Without looking up the boy shook his head.

“Is it your father then, or your mother? Has there been some kind of an accident?”

Looking quickly up, the boy began to nod vigorously but in answer to which question still remained unclear to Chevanin.

“If it is a serious accident,” explained Chevanin slowly, “then they must attend the hospital. I can do nothing for them here unless you tell me what it is.”

The boy stared up at him blankly. With a gesture of despair, Chevanin turned on his heel and walked back into the consulting room. At once, the boy stood up and began following him. Wheeling round, the young doctor shooed him away from the door.

“Osip!” he said in exasperation. “You must either tell me what the matter is or you must leave. Do you understand?”

The young boy stood his ground, his grubby chin thrust out stubbornly.

“Farver sent me,” he said at last. “He told me to get the Doctor. Not you, though.”

“Not me?”

“No. He says I’m to get the Old Man.”

“If you are referring to Dr. Tortsov,” said Chevanin, “then he has not arrived yet. And when he does get here, he will be too busy to be making calls for no reason. So your journey had been wasted. Go away.”

The boy’s lips began to tremble. His eyed grew brighter still as he fought back his tears of frustration and anxiety. Balling his hands into little fists, he said starkly, “Muvver’s been sick.”

“Too sick to attend surgery herself like everyone else, I suppose? There’s nothing I can do.”

All at once, the boy’s face puckered and he began to blubber.

“Alright, alright!” said Chevanin testily, as the child wiped an overlong sleeve across his brimming eyes. “Tell your father that I will pass the message on to the Doctor. One of us will visit your mother later today. And tell him to have his visitation fee ready.”

He began bundling the sobbing child towards the door.

“Mind, if this a false claim the fee is doubled. Do you understand?”

Dragging the sleeve once again across his face, the boy nodded tearfully.

“Now get out, before you infest the surgery with lice.”

He held the outer door open for the ragged child. When the boy had gone, Anton Ivanovich walked back into the empty consulting room and moved the deep pan of now-boiling water to the edge of the stove’s plate. The boy had been a disappointment. He had wanted to appear busy when his employer arrived and now he had nothing to do. The hands of the surgery clock showed that it was nearly twenty past nine. Surely the Doctor could not be much longer?

As if in answer to his thoughts, he heard the outer door open again and the sound of footsteps in the waiting room accompanied by a familiar jangling of keys. The door of the consulting room opened. With a heavy heart, Chevanin looked up to see Doctor Tortsov standing in the doorway.

“Good morning, Doctor,” he said nervously.

“Good morning, Chevanin.”

His employer began to take off his hat and gloves and Chevanin hurried to help him remove his overcoat, surprised, as always, at how so frail a man could wear such a heavy garment. Leaving him to hang the coat up, the Doctor muttered his thanks and strode over to the stove.

Now I’m for it! thought the young man.

“Who do we have today?” the Doctor asked, warming his hands.

Nervously, his assistant crossed to his desk and, picking up the medical register in his trembling hands, scoured the appointment pages for that morning’s surgery.