Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

All was confusion. In one corner of the room, the corporal and a few of his cronies were punching and kicking somebody. A few of the Deputies were trying to pull them off; amongst these he spotted the Doctor, whose spectacles had been knocked off and hung comically from one ear. The Deputies’ efforts were being hampered by the sergeant and the other members of the guard, some of whom seemed undecided which side to take; first pushing the Deputies off then plucking ineffectively at the flailing arms of the troops, trying to stop their violence. The drivers of the sleighs were standing apart along the far wall, keeping their distance from the struggle. As he watched, he saw the sergeant step back from the melee and reach for his rifle. Instinctively, Trotsky ducked back and rolled away from the edge of the hole. A single shot rang out. Less than two feet away from where he lay a floorboard bucked and a fine shower of dust rained down from the roof above him. The sergeant had fired into the air. There were a few cries of alarm then a moment’s silence.

Not daring to breathe, Trotsky heard the sergeant order Dr. Feit back into the Deputies’ room and then tell the corporal to release his victim. The corporal started to argue, and stopped. There was a tense silence and the unmistakeable sound of another round being fed into the breech of what he fervently hoped was the sergeant’s rifle. The command was repeated. There was the sound of a scuffle, a body falling to the ground and then silence again. Very slowly, Trotsky raised his head and looked over the lip of the opening.

The sergeant and the corporal were standing in the middle of the room, facing each other. Between them on the floor was the Faction’s chosen victim. The sergeant’s rifle was pointing squarely at the corporal’s chest. With the slightest twitch of the muzzle, the sergeant motioned the other soldier to back away. White faced, the corporal obeyed. Still keeping his rifle trained on his opponent, the sergeant slowly knelt down on one knee and reached out to the old man lying at his feet. Grasping a handful of grey hair, he rose again, pulling his prisoner with him. As the man’s battered and bleeding face was slowly turned painfully upwards, Trotsky realised with surprise that he had never seen the old man before. Whoever he was, he wasn’t a member of the convoy.

Still holding the man by the hair, the sergeant told the other soldiers to sit down on the floor. They all obeyed, the corporal defiantly waiting until last. Swinging the muzzle of the rifle round, the sergeant dug it in the side of the man’s throat, at the same time letting go of his hair. In this fashion the stranger was propelled towards the wall furthest from the company.

“Passport!” snapped the sergeant.

Badly shaken by the mauling he had received, the old man was clumsy in his movements. It seemed an age before he could produce his tattered papers. Snatching them from him, the sergeant pressed him back against the wall and, holding the passport out at arms’ length, began to read aloud.

“Ziborov, Ivan Vasileyivich. Aged forty-six. Born: Pokrovokaya. Place of residence: Belogoryia. Occupation: farm machinist. Status:…”

He paused and bared his teeth in a savage grin.

“Status,” he repeated louder, “administrative exile!”

On the other side of the room, the corporal gave a short bark of laughter and nodded knowingly to his companions.

“Well well, Ivan Vasileyivich,” the sergeant told the intruder, “you’re in luck! We’ve got choice company for you.”

He prodded the man roughly with the rifle.

“What were you doing hiding in the stables?”

“I… I… was sheltering from the storm, your Excellency,” gasped the man. “I’ve been setting my traps in the woods. A little rabbit, you know? Then the weather closed in and I knew I would never make it home again, so…”

“And where is home?” interrupted the sergeant.

“Belogoryia,” replied the man hastily, pointing towards his passport. “It’s less than five versts from here. I thought that if I could just shelter here until the storm blows over, I…”

The man’s voice trailed away weakly.

“How long have you been here?”

“About four hours. I had just got settled in the straw when you arrived, your Excellency.”

“Why didn’t you declare yourself at once? Or were you spying on us? Because we hang spies, you know?”

“Oh no, your Excellency!” cried the man. “I swear I wasn’t spying! I was just too…”

“Scared?”

The man nodded dumbly, his eyes fearful under his bloodied brow.

Sighing, the sergeant lowered his rifle, and tossed Ziborov back his passport. Trotsky saw the other soldiers on the opposite side of the room relax and start talking amongst themselves. The excitement was over. There would be no hanging.

Unsure what he should do next, the stranger remained where he was.

“Hey, Ivan Vasileyivich!” one of the soldiers called out to him. “What did you get? What was your sentence?”

The man shrugged and tucked his passport back inside his coat.

“Two and a half years for agrarian riot,” he said.