Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

The ground floor of the izba consisted of two rooms, one of which was now reserved for the exiled deputies and their families. After he had found room for Sverchkov by the small fire that had been lit in the middle of the earthen floor, Trotsky went in search of the Doctor. He found him in conversation with the sergeant and one of the drivers. Seeing him approach, Dr. Feit extended a hand and drew him into the group.

“Listen to this, Lev Davidovich. We believe that the next village is less than five versts away yet we may be stuck here for days!”

“Is there any food?” asked Trotsky.

The sergeant shook his head.

“Only oats for the horses.”

“If the worst comes to the worst,” suggested the driver, “we can always make them into a gruel. But it won’t come to that.”

“You don’t think so?” asked the Doctor.

“No. Just you wait and see,” the man told them confidently. “This will blow itself out in another hour or so. In the meantime we can boil up a pan of tea and there’s plenty of vodka to go round.”

Turning his head, the sergeant looked at the group of soldiers in the far corner of the room, laughing with the corporal as they passed a grimy bottle between them.

“No vodka,” he muttered. “Just tea.”

“Does that go for everyone?” asked the Doctor.

“Everyone,” replied the sergeant, adding quietly, “don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”

Reaching into the pocket of his overcoat, Trotsky pulled out a packet of cigarettes that had been presented to him by one of the exiles at the village where they had spent the previous night. Opening it, he offered it to the sergeant. The sergeant took a cigarette and nodded his thanks. The Doctor and the driver, both pipe smokers, declined. Selecting a cigarette for himself Trotsky waited while the sergeant struck a match and lit it for him, and began to relax.

It’s going to be all right, he thought.

The prospect of spending even an hour in the company of the corporal and his armed thugs, grown belligerent through the dangerous mix of boredom, close confinement and alcohol, had worried him. He did not envy the sergeant the task of disarming his men of their flasks.

Turning to Dr. Feit, he asked if there was anything he could do.

“Keep them quiet if you can,” he replied, jerking a thumb towards the room where the noise of the other prisoners had begun to rise. “I’m going to boil some water for tea. When it’s ready I’ll bring it through.”

“Tell them that if anyone wants to relieve themselves they must first come to me,” the sergeant told Trotsky. “One of my men will take them round to the gornitsa. I don’t want anyone wandering off, understand?”

“Understood,” replied Trotsky with a wry smile. “We don’t want to lose anyone, do we?”

The sergeant laughed and then frowned.

“Perish the thought,” he said.

Returning to the smaller of the two rooms Trotsky relayed the Doctor’s message. Squatting down beside Sverchkov, he felt his comrade’s brow. The skin felt hot and clammy to his touch. The fever had his friend in its grip; there was little he could do to help him.

A little boy began tugging at his coat sleeve. Concerned about Sverchkov, he ignored the child. The tugging became more insistent. Pulling his arm away irritably, Trotsky asked the child what he wanted.

“Is he going to die, Lev Davidovich?”

“Of course not. He’s just sick, that is all.”

Another child, a girl, joined them.

“Tell us a story, Lev Davidovich.”

“Not now.”

“Go on,” urged the boy. “Just one.”

“No. Lie down by the fire and try and get some sleep,” he suggested.

“We’re not tired,” declared the girl rebelliously.

He recognised her now as the boy’s sister. A few years older than her brother, she bore the look of determination that would brook no argument.

“I bet you don’t know any stories, that’s why,” she said accusingly. “Some writer!”

“Of course I know stories!” retorted Trotsky. “Plenty of them. Stories that would make your scalp turn to ice.”

“My scalp has already turned to ice, I’m so cold!” grumbled the boy.

“Then lie down by the fire.”

“Tell us a story first,” repeated the girl.

Clambering off his mother’s lap, another little boy ran to join them.

“We want a story!” he whined. “Why won’t you give us one?”

Trotsky let out a sigh of exasperation.

“Just sit down and wait. The Doctor will bring you some tea in a minute.”

But the girl, aware of her status of ringleader, was not to be fobbed off with promises of tea. Pushing the smaller children to one side, she planted herself in front of Trotsky.

“Look!” she said sternly. “You have plenty of stories, right?”

“Correct.”

“And we don’t have any, right?”

“I suppose not.”

“Then it’s unfair of you to keep all the stories to yourself, isn’t it? After all, what benefit do you get from them? You ought to share them out! Give them to people who don’t have any.”

Some of the parents who had been listening to the exchange laughed. Undeterred, the girl stuck to her guns.

“Well, am I right or am I wrong?” she demanded.

Bewildered, Trotsky shook his head.

“I surrender, Professor. Your logic is faultless.”