Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

Opening his eyes again, he watched as Dr. Feit moved from group to group. His vision became blurred and he realised, quite dispassionately, that these were tears; he was literally crying from the effects of cold. Beside him he felt Sverchkov’s body, pressed close to his for warmth, begin to shiver. At some point in the last twenty-four hours his former cellmate had caught a chill which was threatening to develop into something more serious.

Sitting up, Trotsky removed the travelling rug and placed it across both their bodies. In a way, he welcomed the problem of Sverchkov’s health; the concern he felt for his comrade’s welfare helped take his mind off his own discomfort. Seeing Dr. Feit draw nearer to where they lay and fearing that he was going to pass them by, Trotsky beckoned him over. Stiffly the Doctor knelt down by his side in the manner of a priest hearing a dying man’s confession.

“Get us out of here,” Trotsky whispered hoarsely. “Dimitri is sick. A few more hours up here and he’s done for.”

Leaning across him, the Doctor placed his palm on Sverchkov’s brow and frowned.

“I’ll do what I can,” he promised.

“Try!” Trotsky urged him. “It’s colder here than it is outside.”

Smiling wearily, the Doctor stood up again.

“That’s just an illusion, Lev Davidovich.”

“Even illusions can be dangerous.”

“I’ll do what I can,” the Doctor repeated.

As he began to move away, Trotsky called out after him.

“Don’t speak to the corporal. Go straight to the sergeant.”

The Doctor ignored him, already kneeling down beside the next pair of prisoners huddled nearby. Immediately Trotsky felt ashamed of his outburst.

My advice was redundant, he thought, Dr. Feit has already proved himself too good a negotiator to make such a mistake, whereas I look as if I am in danger of losing my grip.

The Faction had grown. It now numbered around fourteen guards: all young and all recruited since the war in the East. They had not seen action and were all native Siberians. Although the majority still kept aloof from the quarrel, more and more often the sergeant’s orders were being questioned by the corporal who made no secret of his opinion that the sergeant was being too lenient, too deferential towards “these red swine”. As the conditions on the road had worsened, there had even been ominous talk of “shortening the journey”.

It’s all because they don’t have an officer commanding them, he reasoned as he burrowed deeper beneath the travelling rug. They are afraid of the responsibility; of what would happen if someone did try to escape. They don’t know what to do. They don’t know what to think.

So far, besides the curses and a little rough handling, the prisoners had not yet suffered at the Faction’s hands. Its aggression was reserved for the bands of supporters, bearing cakes and small comforting gifts, that gathered to greet them at every stop they made. Even this far north the underground telegraph was still working its magic. At the start of their journey the welcoming committees had consisted only of the exiles based in the clusters of houses that formed the communities at which they had stopped. But now people were coming in groups from the outlying areas, even travelling several days to ensure that they caught sight of the Soviet’s deputies on their way north. As their numbers had increased, so had the Faction’s aggression. It seemed only a matter of time before the corporal’s gang of thugs fell upon the prisoners and their families.

They don’t even know how to think, reflected Trotsky morosely.

Hearing movement, he opened his eyes. Some of the families were rising from where they lay and beginning to gather together their belongings. It appeared that the Doctor had won: the sergeant was allowing them to descend to the warmer rooms below.

Turning over, he shook Sverchkov’s shoulder gently.

“Come on, we’re going downstairs.”

Sverchkov groaned. Throwing aside the travelling rug, Trotsky stood up.

“Come on, Dimitri, get up!” he urged him. “There’s a fire downstairs where we can get warm.”

Too weak to speak, Sverchkov nodded pathetically and, with Trotsky’s help, got unsteadily to his feet. He stood swaying as his friend draped the rug across his shoulders.

“You look all in,” Trotsky told him.

Taking Sverchkov by the arm he led him to the queue that was forming at the top of the ladder.