Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

Seated at the Charge desk, the police sergeant looked up as the Prison Director entered, and pointed meaningfully with the end of his pen towards the closed door of Colonel Izorov’s lair. Brushing the remainder of the snow from his tunic, Skyralenko approached the door, knocked deferentially and entered. Inside, the Colonel, Captain Steklov and His Excellency the Mayor Anatoli Pobednyev were standing around Colonel Izorov’s desk looking down at the large map of Berezovo that was spread out before them. Muttering his apologies, Skyralenko joined them.

“As I was saying,” drawled Captain Steklov, placing an elegant finger on the black square that represented the fire tower, “I shall have one sentry posted here at all times, who will alert my men as soon as the convoy is sighted.”

“How, exactly?” asked the Mayor.

“By firing a single rifle shot. Having received this signal, my troops will mount up and ride out to meet the convoy at this point here.”

His finger travelled quickly to a bend in the Highway about a verst to the south of the town.

“They will then escort the convoy into the town,” he went on, “turning into Alexander III Street and continuing until they reach the Town Hall. At that point I shall hand the prisoners over to the Colonel and then take their escort back with me to the barracks.”

“What about mounting patrols afterwards, while they are with us?” the Mayor wanted to know. “Especially along here,” he added, pointing to the pair of thin straggling parallel lines that described Jew Alley.

“As I understand it,” Steklov replied, “while they are within the boundaries of the town, the exiles are the responsibility of the Police.”

Colonel Izorov nodded confirmation.

“Naturally,” the Captain said with a ghost of a smile, “we shall give the Colonel every assistance, but I would hesitate before sending my men into the heart of the Quarter. For a start, the streets are too narrow and winding to use cavalry effectively and,” his smile widened, “my horses are rather particular about what they smell.”

“Captain Steklov is right,” agreed Colonel Izorov. “Leave me to look after the Jews and the Reds. As far as I know, it will be a complete surprise to all of them. By the time they have organised any trouble, these people will have gone.”

Turning to Skyralenko, he asked him to tell them what preparations had been made to accommodate the new arrivals.

Skyralenko coughed nervously, and smoothed down his moustache with a gesture much imitated by his prisoners.

“After the prisoners have arrived and have been accounted for, they will be brought to the prison and allocated their cells,” he announced. “Married prisoners with their families on the top floor, single unaccompanied men on the bottom floor. At this very moment, the building is being scrubbed down from top to bottom. Also the heating will be on full from today onwards, and will remain so for the length of their stay.”

“What about our own prisoners?” Colonel Izorov prompted him.

“Ah, yes. As we agreed, our own prisoners are to be released on the Sunday morning.”

Turning to the Mayor, he asked:

“Your Excellency, might I suggest that we do this during the church service, so as to attract as little attention in the town as possible?”

“Very well,” agreed the Mayor warmly. “A capital idea.”

“There is only one thing that I have yet to do and that is arrange their meals,” confessed the Prison Director. “I am afraid that the whole question of food presents a problem.”

“Why is that?” asked Colonel Izorov.

“Firstly there is the question of money. As they are state prisoners and not town prisoners, should I send the bill for the food to Tobolsk or Peterhof? Secondly, some of the food will have to be prepared in advance for when they arrive. Who will do that? Especially if only the four of us are meant to know about this business?”

The three men looked expectantly at Colonel Izorov.

“That’s a good point, Konstantin Illyich,” said Mayor Pobednyev. “And here’s another thing. With all the arrangements that are to be made for the civic reception, it is inevitable that very soon I shall have to inform the Town Council about this.”

“Impossible,” answered the Chief of Police brusquely.

“What do you have in mind, Colonel?” Captain Steklov baited him. “Hold the reception and only afterwards tell everybody why they came?”

“I see no alternative,” persisted the Mayor. “I must call an emergency meeting of the Council, in secret session. Otherwise there won’t be a reception at all.”

Gesturing them to be seated, Colonel Izorov began to roll up the map.

“Would that be such a bad thing?” he mused aloud.