Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“Yes. One of their policemen had been standing so still that, in the moonlight, I had mistaken him for one of the fence posts.”

“What did he do?” asked the boy fearfully.

“Nothing. He just walked past us without saying a word. But, as he passed Nesterenko, the policeman nudged him with his elbow. ‘Who was that?’ I asked Nesterenko. ‘I don’t know,’ he replied, as smooth as you like. At the time I didn’t suspect anything, but later I realised that he had just betrayed us.”

“What happened next?” asked the girl.

“Well, as I said, we – the union leaders – stayed away for a few weeks. But when we returned to Nikolayev, the Okhrana were waiting for us. On the 28th of January 1898 we were all arrested, along with over two hundred of our members. But still they couldn’t charge us.”

“Why not?” asked one of the Deputies.

“Because they couldn’t prove anything more than guilt by association. As soon as the arrests began, the press was dismantled and all the papers in the office burned. I was in jail for the best part of a year before they came up with any evidence against us.”

“Where were you?” asked the Deputy.

Trotsky saw the girl scowl at this interruption.

“First in Nikolayev, then two and a half months’ solitary at Kherson. That was the worst. Then Odessa and, after that, the Butyrsky transfer prison.”

“Butyrsky?” cried one of the deputies. “I know it. Awful place.”

“It was a palace compared to Kherson,” Trotsky told him gravely.

Beside him, the little girl was growing impatient. Tapping at his hand, she demanded a proper end to his story.

“What happened after they caught you?”

“After they put me in prison,” he said, resuming his tale, “they still had to find proof that I was writing the newspaper. It took them months, and it was under their noses all the time.”

“Where was it?”

“Remember I told you about the old man, Shvigorsky? The one who had got a job for the winter on the barine’s estate? Well, after I had returned from my holiday, I didn’t go straight back to Nikolayev but instead I went to visit him at the place where he worked. With me I took a large brief case filled with manuscripts, drawings, letters and all sorts of stuff that the police said was illegal. It was meant to go in the next issue of the newspaper. I arrived late in the afternoon, when Shvigorsky’s boss was not around. The plan was that I would spend the night there and then go on to the newspaper office in Nikolayev the next morning. That night, Shvigorsky didn’t want the papers in the house overnight so I let him take the briefcase and bury it in a hole in the cabbage field near his hut. That was the night of the twenty seventh. At dawn the next morning, the O. pounced on us both, like hungry wolves.”

“Did they find it?”

“Nearly. Old Shvigorsky had just dug it up again and was bringing it to me when they rode up. Quick as a flash, he stuffs it down behind the water-barrel that stood by the door. The next minute, he’s hauled into the house and told at gunpoint to stand next to me while they search the place.”

Several of the Soviet deputies murmured their approval at the old gardener’s quick thinking. Wriggling with excitement, the boy urged Trotsky to continue the story.

“They looked in the roof, they looked in the cupboards, they even began digging up the floor. Nothing. All the time, their captain was growing angrier and angrier. At last, they gave up and sat down to wait, just in case anyone else in the Union turned up. When lunchtime came, they made the old woman who looked after the place cook them some food and bring them something to drink. Seeing as there were so many of them, Shvigorsky volunteered to help in the kitchen and, while he was alone, he whispered to the old woman where the briefcase was and that she should get rid of it as soon as possible. So, while we were all having our lunch and the secret police were getting tipsy, she popped out, grabbed the incriminating papers and buried them in the snow.”

Sensing someone standing behind him, Trotsky stopped and looked round. It was Dr. Feit. Accepting a tin mug of hot tea, he took a sip and went on with his story.

“After that, we were taken away. But, before we left, the Okhrana captain threatened that he would return. That’s why I suppose the old woman didn’t dare dig the case up again and try and burn it. What was already buried seemed best forgotten about.”

“So they never found the papers?” one of the wives asked.