Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“More than that, I shall be generous,” Skyralenko declared.

Putting his hand into the pocket of his blue serge trousers, he pulled out some coins. After holding them up for all to see he handed them to the warder.

“Janinski,” he said loudly, “Go to Gvordyen’s bakery and buy some hot bread. Then make a can of tea for each cell. The bread and the tea are only to be distributed when each cell has been washed and the landing has been thoroughly swept.”

Dismissed, the warder slunk away angrily, the prisoners in their cells whistling and jeering at him as he passed.

“Mind the bread’s hot, Janinski!”

“Make ours a big can!”

“Don’t forget to turn the heating up on your way out!”

“Mind your step, Janinski! Those stairs can be a bastard when they’re wet.”

Returning to the end cell, Skyralenko stood beside Arkov. He let the prisoners celebrate their small victory until he had wrung a wry smile of approval from his former friend.

“All right,” he called out. “That’s enough. You sound like a bunch of novices in a nunnery whistling at the gardener’s boy!”

Crowding around the doors of their cells, the prisoners laughed.

“Collect your mops and buckets and get on with it. I want this place spotless, otherwise there’s no tea, no bread for anyone. You’ll have to eat my wife’s cooking!”

With a few more comments, the prisoners dispersed and fell to cleaning their cells. When he was satisfied that the work was going smoothly, he signalled to the prisoner Arkov to follow him and together they walked back towards the top of the stairs.

“Your head is bleeding,” Skyralenko informed him. “Come down to my office and I’ll give you something for it.”

Smiling grimly, the old man shook his head.

“No. No favouritism, eh? I should be helping the others.”

“Don’t be such a fool,” Skyralenko said, taking the man firmly by the elbow. But Arkov resisted, shaking his arm free.

“All right then… as Prison Director I order you to accompany me to my office.”

“Oh well, in that case,” Arkov replied, smiling, “I accept your kind invitation.”

After he had attended to the small gash behind the old man’s ear, staunching the flow of blood with a piece of cotton wadding, the two men sat chatting, Arkov accepting a cup of burnt coffee from the pot that sat on the stove and a cigarette. He inhaled the rough tobacco with an expression of ecstasy.

“Do you think, Dimitri Borisovich, that a millionaire with all his gold and fine wines could derive as much enjoyment from his finest cigar as does an honest prisoner from such a cigarette?” he asked with a sigh. “I doubt it.”

“An honest prisoner? Probably not,” agreed Skyralenko.

The sight of his former friend reduced to such circumstances distressed him. Guiltily he asked him:

“How is your back?”

“Oh that,” Arkov said, pulling a face. “I’ve had worse. Forget it.”

There was an awkward pause, then the old man stretched painfully.

“I must go back.”

“Stay a little longer,” Skyralenko urged him kindly. “Have another cigarette.”

“No… but thank you,” Arkov replied.

Expertly pinching off the burning end of the cigarette he tucked the remainder away inside a hole in the lining of his jacket.

“I’ll save the other half until later,” he explained. “If I stay any longer, or you give me another cigarette, the others will think I’ve been singing. Then life really won’t be worth living.”

Skyralenko escorted him to the door. As the prisoner put his hand on the door handle, the Prison Director felt that he ought to say something more to his old friend. But what?

“Watch out for Janinski,” he said simply. “Be careful.”

The old man looked at him.

“You know,” Arkov told him, “he’d kill all of us if he could. Only you being here stops him.”

Skyralenko bowed his head; the man was speaking no more than the truth.

Arkov opened the door and was about to leave when, acting on a sudden impulse, Skyralenko pulled him back inside the office.

“No, Dimitri, I must go,” the prisoner began.

Skyralenko pushed him farther back into the room. When he had got him as far away from the door as possible, he held up his hand in warning.

“Listen!” he hissed. “How long have you been in here now?”

“Just under three weeks,” Arkov told him. “Why?”

“Sshh! That means,” the Director hesitated, mentally calculating the days before the man completed his sentence, “you still have another eight days to do. Just make sure you keep out of Janinski’s way until Sunday. Do you understand?”

“What?” Arkov wanted to know. “Is he being moved?

“I can’t say any more. I’ve said too much already. You’ll be safer then, that’s all.”

“We’ll see,” the old man said disbelievingly.

“Just don’t mention it to anyone else. Nobody at all.”

“If that’s what you want.”

“Promise me, Pyotr.”

Suddenly embarrassed by the prison director’s use of his familiar name, the old man pulled away.

“What good is a prisoner’s word to you?” he said bitterly.

Before he could stop himself, the words had left Skyralenko’s lips.

“After Sunday you shall be free.”

“Do not joke.”