Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

Dr. Tortsov regarded him thoughtfully. Chevanin’s plan was feasible and had the merit of being preferable to murder. It would temporarily address one of his two problems and act as an effective prophylaxis against Tolkach’s ambitions. If there were to be changes to the cast it was better that they should be made at this point rather than later. As it was, they had less than ten days to rehearse. He was glad now that he had had the foresight to insist upon directing two short one-act plays rather than one longer play, knowing that if one was not ready it could be cancelled at the last moment. Chevanin had also been right to point out that there would be time after the plays were over to settle his score with the lecherous Hospital Administrator. What they were planning was only a strategy for prevention, not cure, but it was a start.

As for Yeliena, he thought with a sigh, he would have to speak to her, when he had found the words.

“Very well,” he said with a small nod of assent. “Agreed.”

Chapter Seven

Thursday 8th February 1907

Great Tobolsk Highway

Ever since dawn the drivers had kept their eyes on the threatening sky. There was going to be the mother of all blows, they warned the sergeant. It was advisable to stay where they were and not be caught on the open road. But the sergeant had insisted the convoy should press on; they must keep to the schedule. Grim faced, they had whipped their ponies trying to make for the next small settlement. The attempt was folly, and they knew it. After less than two hours the blizzard had overtaken them with a ferocity that had shaken many of the Deputies and their guards.

Sitting in his customary position in the leading sleigh, Trotsky had felt overawed by the immensity of the storm’s power.

This is no flurry of snow along a city boulevard, he told himself. This is the mighty force that stops regiments in their tracks and destroys invading armies.

What impressed him most, even more than the noise of the storm, which was considerable, was how uniformly white and featureless everything had become. There literally was no horizon; no landmark, far or near, that his eyes could take as a point of reference. They were driving through a blank space. Deafened by the howling wind that buffeted the sleigh, he wondered whether the driver knew where he was leading them and was astonished to realise how little it mattered to him. In the face of such elemental power, he had conceded, one direction was as good as another. They were, as the saying went, in the lap of the Gods and, he sensed, under their protection. He was not surprised therefore when the driver, either acting on instinct or foreknowledge, suddenly steered his team violently to the left and he saw the indistinct outline of two buildings appear out of the gloom.

The bad weather had forced the convoy of sleighs to leave the road and take shelter in an uninhabited izba. At the next settlement there would be hot food waiting for them and warmth and safety but that could be two versts away, or two hundred versts for all it mattered. It did not do to dwell on it. The weather had beaten them and further progress was impossible while the blizzard raged.

The prisoners had been allocated the upper floor of the izba, the area furthest from the single ground floor entrance. Shutting his eyes, Trotsky settled himself against the attic’s icy walls and wrapped his travelling rug tighter around him. The stale matted straw on the floor and the soiled rafters told him that chickens had once been kept there; to keep them safe, he presumed, from thieving foxes and passersby. Around him the other prisoners lay huddled together for warmth, the children lying sandwiched between their parents covered by mounds of whatever clothing they had been able to grab in the scramble to disembark from the sleighs. Below them the escort could be heard talking amongst themselves as they broke up pieces of wood and tried to get a fire going in the rough hearth. Every now and again the outer door would be flung open as another driver blundered in, having stabled his ponies in the adjoining gornitsa to be greeted by a chorus of oaths. Each time the door would be hurriedly closed, cutting off the wind howl.

Lying next to him, Sverchkov moved his feet spasmodically, kicking Trotsky in the shin and then grunting an apology. Trotsky nodded into the darkness and sighed.

Another few hours of this, he told himself, and we will surely die.