Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

Certain now that his good humour had returned, Irena stamped her foot in mock impatience.

“No! I really would like to go and have something to drink.”

“Very well!” said Kavelin, getting to his feet. “As always, your wish commands me.”

Retrieving his overcoat from the peg beside the door, he said casually, “Why don’t we ask Fyodor Gregorivich to serve us our refreshments in the mezzanine lounge? It would be far more comfortable than sitting on the hard seats in the public dining room, and we would not be exposed to so many prying eyes.”

“Oho!” cried Irena, as she helped him on with his coat. “I don’t think that would be a very good idea, do you? I know you men all too well. First of all, you get a woman up to the mezzanine floor and all by herself and then it is just a short trip upstairs to the bedrooms. Behave yourself, Leonid Sergeivich!”

Kavelin began to protest good naturedly, but she waved his words away.

“Just remember that what you call prying eyes,” she exclaimed theatrically, “are, in fact, the guardians of a woman’s honour!”

They were both laughing at this remark when the door leading to the Public Library area opened to reveal the disapproving countenance of Lidiya Pusnyena, wife of Serapion Pusnyen, general merchant of Berezovo.

“Good morning Leonid Sergeivich! Good morning Irena Alexandrovna! I suppose you know that your noise can be heard from the street. This is meant to be a quiet space.”

“Oh, good morning Lidiya Stepanovna,” Irena greeted her quickly. “I do apologise for being so cheerful but Leonid Sergeivich was just explaining to me the intricacies of the refining of whale blubber and it suddenly struck me as being all quite ridiculous!”

“And I can’t get her to understand how serious the Blubber Question is,” chipped in Kavelin.

Madame Pusnyena regarded them both suspiciously.

“Well, a little more consideration for other library users would be appreciated,” she chided them.

“Quite so,” agreed Kavelin.

There was a short pause as her remonstrance sank in. Buttoning his overcoat Kavelin inclined his head in a formal bow, and signalled their departure.

“We shall now both retire and leave you in sole possession of the room,” he announced. “Good day, Lidiya Stepanovna.”

As the door closed behind them Lidiya Pusnyena pursed her lips disapprovingly. It occurred to her that they appeared far, far too happy to have been innocently occupied.

* * *

In his small office on the ground floor of Berezovo’s jail house, Prison Director Dimitri Skyralenko’s head jerked up from the pages of the two-week-old newspaper he was reading. The shouting on the upper landing was growing louder. Above him Janinski’s threats and curses rose to a crescendo and were followed by the sound of a scuffle. Reluctantly he reached for his braided kepi and the lead weighted truncheon that hung beside it against the brown plaster wall. He regarded the use of violence with distaste but the thought that the fracas might be audible from Colonel Izorov’s office alarmed him more.

He left his office and made his way across the Reception area past the five cells on the ground floor. The occupants of the cells were invisible except for the row of hands that grasped the bars in the gratings of the thick cell doors. An angry shout came from the farthest cell.

“Get back to your beds!” he warned loudly, bringing his truncheon down against the panel of the nearest door.

Fearing injury, the hands withdrew.

Turning, he shouted up the steps.

“Get back to your cells, up there!”

Steeling himself for the forthcoming confrontation, he began to climb the steps, rattling his truncheon against the iron banisters as he went. Immediately the cries of the prisoners rose to greet him.

“Director! Director! Come quickly!”

“Your charges are being murdered in their cells!”

“Director!”

“Quiet!” he shouted up the stairs again. “Get back to your cells!”

A quick glance towards Janinski’s empty chair confirmed his suspicions; the knout that usually hung in pride of place below the cheaply framed portrait of the Tsar was missing. Turning the corner, he saw two prisoners were huddled on the floor against the wall at the far end of the landing, keeping the duty warder at bay with desperate jabs of their long handled mops. Standing between them and their cell, Janinski stood hunched over them, his body tensed to wield the thick knout in his hand the instant either prisoner dropped his guard.

Skyralenko saw that the other prisoners had been allowed to obey his orders. They now reached out to him from the doorways of their cells as he passed them, imploring him to intercede.

“Director, stop the brute!”

“Janinski means to kill them!”

“It was an accident!”

The warder turned his head and, seeing his commanding officer, immediately sprang to attention.

“Director on the landing!” he screamed. “Prisoners back to their cells! Faces to the wall! Hurry!”