Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“No! Listen to me,” confided the Prison Director. “That’s why we are cleaning out the cells. We have some big noise exiles staying for a few nights on the way north. They are to be billeted here, in the cells.”

“But what about us?” Arkov wanted to know.

The Prison Director hesitated, already regretting his indiscretion.

“You’re being set free on parole,” he said at last. “All of you have to report back here after they have moved on.”

“Ah! Free for a day,” Arkov said with a bitter smile. “That’s even worse.”

“Oh, Pyotr Ivanovich!” declared Skyralenko. “You shouldn’t be here.”

The old man smiled sadly at the Prison Director and shook his head.

“Where else should I be? You are a good man, Dimitri Borisovich, but your heart shall lead you into trouble, just like mine did.”

“We shall see,” Skyralenko replied and clasped his arm affectionately. Together the two men retraced their steps to the door.

“Good,” Skyralenko said loudly. “You had better return to your cell now.”

With a last nod of thanks, Prisoner Arkov left his office. Skyralenko let out a long drawn out sigh. He wondered why it was that doing what he knew to be the right thing was so often different from doing the wisest thing. Picking up his truncheon, he hung it back on the wall beside his kepi and walked out into the corridor. As he did so, there was a rattle of keys and the outer door of the prison house swung open. Janinski had returned.

“You were quick,” Skyralenko observed. “Did you get the bread as I ordered?”

“Yes Sir. I met the baker’s boy with a tray on his way to the general store and bought six loaves as you told me to,” he said, adding, “there’s no change, I’m afraid, Sir.”

“Very well. Distribute them as I ordered. One to each cell when the work is finished. Also one can of tea each. Make sure first they’ve done a thorough job, up and down. And don’t forget the stairs, and around the duty desk. Under the beds, everywhere.”

The warder saluted and made to go and then turned around to face him again.

“By the way, Sir,” he said, “I nearly forgot to report that Colonel Izorov is after you. Yelling blue murder, according to one of his men. He wants you in his office right away.”

“Did the man say what it was about?”

“Hard to say, Sir,” said Janinski impassively. “Probably wants a word about the shocking lack of discipline in here, I shouldn’t wonder.”

Cursing the warder under his under his breath, Skyralenko hurriedly retrieved his kepi from the office and quickly strode past the smirking warder out into the prison courtyard.

A small alleyway connected the prison house with the uchastok: the two buildings forming the longer sides of the alley, with the courtyard and a high wooden fence sealing either end. The fence was a tantalising link with the outside world over which small packets could be tossed and smuggled into the gaol. Over the years, a series of holes had appeared in the fence, bored at eye level either by relatives of the prisoners or the simply curious, allowing outsiders to watch the traffic between the two buildings whilst remaining invisible to those within the prison. The contraband, and the knowledge that someone they cared for could be watching over them, greatly bolstered the prisoners’ morale but the holes in the fence were a source of great distress and anxiety to Skyralenko. Guaranteed the anonymity by the barrier between them, certain citizens currently at liberty in the town were not above making personal and wounding comments at the top of their voices about him, his uniform and his prison, whenever he appeared in the alley. Consequently, he always hurried the short distance between the prison house and the rear entrance to the police headquarters. Skyralenko was dogged by the belief that one day, as he entered the alley, he would see the barrel of a pistol poke through the one of the holes. Given the temperament of some of his former prisoners and the treatment they received at the hands of his warders, this fear was not unreasonable. As if to confirm this, a ball of solidly packed snow now flew through the air and broke harmlessly on the lintel above the back door to the uchastok just as the Prison Director was passing beneath.

With a gesture of equal parts fear and annoyance Skyralenko shrugged the snow from his shoulders and ducked quickly inside the police headquarters. His haste was well timed, for his assailant – the baker’s boy whom Janinski had forced, without payment, to part with six loaves and who could only expect a beating when he returned to his employer – was even now preparing another missile, this time using a piece of ice as a deadweight.

Chapter Six

Wednesday 7th February 1907

Berezovo