Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

Goat’s Foot readily accepted what was preached in the back room of the Black Cock Inn was true: that there was a secret bond of brotherhood between the fat Jewish bankers and the ragged, wild eyed socialist agitators; a conspiracy dedicated to destroying the Empire. Yet what could one do? Even the builder Belinsky, for all his talk of ignoring the “Jew lover Izorov” and “taking a scourge to the vermin once and for all” had to do business with their tradespeople if they gave the cheapest prices.

Goat’s Foot walked steadily on, looking neither to the left nor to the right of him, clutching the two coins tightly in his pocket in case they clinked together. It did not do to advertise that he was carrying loose coins in Jew Alley. Two thirds of the way down the Alley, with hardly a break in his stride, he ducked into a shop which proclaimed itself as “Lotzmann’s High Class Bakery”. As he expected, Abram Usov was serving behind the counter. Goat’s Foot waited, scowling as a fat Jewess in front of him berated the young man in a thick, almost unintelligible accent for selling stale bread. Seeing him waiting, the exile brushed the woman’s complaints aside and eventually she left, still complaining loudly, with two flat loaves tucked inside her shawl.

“Is Lotzmann in?” the peasant asked gruffly.

“He’s out the back, lunching with his family.”

“Good. Can we talk?”

Usov wiped his hands on his apron and nodded towards the street door. Goat’s Foot quietly closed the door and slid the bolt home. Turning, he held up two fingers. Usov reached down beneath the counter and brought up first one and then a second bottle of the fiery wood vodka, placing them well apart on the top of the counter so that they did not chink and betray him to the keen ear of his employer.

Goat’s Foot looked at them hungrily and licked his lips, but the young man kept his hands firmly clasped around their necks.

“So? Talk.”

“Captain Steklov has been drilling his men since Monday, taking them to the Highway and back,” Goat’s Foot told him in a hoarse whisper. “I’ve seen it myself on the way here. Full dress uniform, loaded rifles, the lot.”

“I know,” said Usov. “A party of officials sent by the Governor is expected to pay us a ‘surprise’ inspection.”

The irony of the statement was not lost on either of the two men.

“Wrong,” Goat’s Foot told him softly.

Usov looked at him for a moment then silently passed one of the two bottles across the counter. It disappeared quickly into one of the peasant’s pockets. Goat’s Foot waited to see if the second bottle would follow. When it didn’t he said:

“Instead of officials, you can expect a party of your people. Does the title ‘Petersburg Soviet’ mean anything to you?”

Usov’s eyes widened behind his spectacles. The second bottle swiftly crossed the counter and disappeared.

“Are you certain? How good is this information?”

Goat’s Foot’s eyes darted greedily around the loaves that remained unsold on the shelves. He pointed to the largest and Usov took it from the shelf and began quietly to wrap it in a sheet of newspaper.

“I had a carrier sleep on my floor last night. He was bringing some stuff up for the barracks and Nadnikov’s store. He said that all along the Highway your people are getting ready to give them a big reception. Red flags, biscuits, cakes; the lot. The Soviet’s name was on all of the banners. And Steklov’s soldiers are too well armed for a welcoming committee.”

“Did he say when they were expected to get here?”

“Apparently they’re about four or five days behind him.”

Usov frowned.

“What was he taking to the barracks?”

“Only blankets. Nothing else as far as I know.”

Reluctantly, Usov passed him the wrapped loaf. Goat’s Foot squeezed it with his fingers.

“Here,” he said, raising his voice. “The old bitch was right. This bread is stale.”

“So?”

“My news was fresh.”

“Well, it isn’t now, is it?” said Usov evenly.

With a look of disgust the peasant turned to leave. As he was reaching up to draw back the door bolt, Usov called out to him.

“Goat’s Foot! Did this carrier mention anyone else in the party?”

Shaking his head, Goat’s Foot drew back the door bolt.

“Are you certain?” Usov persisted, coming out from behind the counter. “He didn’t mention the name Trotsky, for instance?”

“Never heard of him,” Goat’s Foot said sourly as he stepped back out into the street.

Goat’s Foot didn’t breathe easily until he had left Jew Alley far behind him. It was not just the groups of alien figures that stared insolently at him as he passed by. There were other, hidden eyes. He prayed that Izorov’s informers would presume that he visited the bakery solely to buy the vodka that was manufactured clandestinely somewhere in the Quarter and was reputed to be the best to be had for over five hundred versts.