Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“Throw him back!” joked one of the drivers, jerking his thumb towards the door. “He’s not big enough for us!”

They all laughed, their new prisoner included.

“You’ll have to pay to talk to the ones in there,” warned a second driver, nodding towards the room where the Soviet Deputies sat.

The crisis past, Trotsky decided that it was time to go down. Cautiously, he grasped the top of the ladder and put his foot on the third rung.

“Stop!”

Looking down, he saw that the sergeant had spun round and had raised his loaded rifle again. Only this time it was pointing straight at him.

“Come down slowly,” the sergeant ordered.

Carefully he obeyed.

As he emerged from the darkness, he heard one of the soldiers mutter:

“Christ, they’re coming out of the fucking woodwork now!”

“I had forgotten all about you,” the sergeant admitted when he had reached the ground. “You nearly got a bullet up the arse.”

Trotsky looked up at the spot where the sergeant’s warning shot had gone clean through the ceiling.

“I know,” he replied calmly.

“Take your father here through to your friends,” the sergeant ordered. “See if the Doctor can’t patch him up.”

Trotsky led the unfortunate Ziborov through to the next room. The other exiles greeted his own reappearance with silence. Then, seeing the injured man was with him, they quickly got to their feet and made a space for him. Leaving Ziborov with Dr. Feit, Trotsky went over to where Sverchkov lay sprawled near the fire. Kneeling down, beside him, he felt his comrade’s brow. It was warmer than before.

“Sverchkov has a fever,” he said aloud, to no one in particular.

Removing his own coat, he placed it under Sverchkov’s head.

“Here, Trotsky.”

Standing up, Trotsky turned slowly to find himself facing the Soviet Deputy who had challenged him.

“Get some water, will you? This comrade’s been cut.”

Nodding, Trotsky went back to the other room. It hadn’t been an apology – he hadn’t expected one – but at least the man was offering some sort of a truce. Returning with a mug of warmed water, he held it while the Deputy carefully bathed the man’s wrinkled face. Then the Doctor took over, examining his patient’s injuries with little grunts of satisfaction every now and again. It wasn’t too bad. No bones had been broken. A few cuts to the brow, cheeks and mouth: that had been the worst. Still shaken, Ziborov was given a cigarette and the remains of a cup of lukewarm vodka tea. A place was found for him by the fire.

When the newcomer had gathered his senses, the Doctor began to question him gently. Both men spoke in whispers, partly because it was difficult for Ziborov to speak at all and partly to prevent the guards from overhearing. The other exiles crowded round them, their ears straining to catch every word.

His name was Ziborov and he was based at Belogoryia: that much he had told the guards was true. A member of the local Menshivik exiles, like an idiot he had volunteered to walk out and meet the convoy. But then the blizzard had overtaken him and he had taken shelter in the barn where one of the guards had spotted him.

“We are sorry for your reception,” apologised one of the Deputies.

Ziborov waved his hand dismissively.

“Forget it! It was worth a little roughing up to get into the warm,” he replied. “I was freezing to death out there. Every moment I thought, ‘Shall I go in and show myself or shan’t I?’ You know how it is.”

“How far is Belogoryia?” asked Dr. Feit.

“Five versts from here. Maybe less. It’ll take you twenty minutes at the most, once this blow has stopped.”

The deputies looked at each other anxiously, each thinking the same thought. They were twenty minutes from safety. It seemed an eternity.

“Where are you being sent to?” asked Ziborov.

They told him.

“Obdorsk!” he said in surprise and would have whistled if his cut lips had let him. “That’s bad. None of us administrative ever get sent there. It’s only for you SPs.”

“SPs?” queried Trotsky.

“Ssylno poselentsys,” the newcomer explained. “Enforced exiles. Lifers.”

He looked curiously at the ring of faces surrounding him.

“Have any of you been this far north before?” he asked.

None of them had.

“That’s very bad,” he said gravely.

“What are the conditions like?” asked Dr. Feit. “Rates of allowances, work prospects, vegetation. We know nothing.”

Ziborov rubbed his bruised jaw gingerly.

“It all depends on where and who you are,” he replied. “In Tobolsk, for instance, ordinary admins like me get four roubles fifty copecks a month. Whereas up in Berezovo it’s four roubles eighty. But fellows like you only get four roubles twenty. Unless, of course, any of you are noblemen, or have a university education. Then it’s eleven roubles twenty-five a month.”

“What about a clothes allowance?” asked one of the wives. “And things for the children.”

“Twenty-five roubles for the winter,” Ziborov told her. “Paid every August. In May we get an extra month’s allowance for summer clothes. But…”

He hesitated apologetically.

“But what?” prompted the Doctor.