Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“You’re SPs. So there’s no allowance for you at all.”

On hearing this, a few of the Deputies began arguing amongst themselves. Signalling them to be silent, Dr. Feit urged Ziborov to continue.

“The land is different too, where you are going,” he went on. “This is taiga. Up there it’s tundra, all the way to the top of the world.”

“What’s the difference?” asked one of the Deputies’ wives.

“Every difference,” he told her. “On the taiga you get forests of pine, spruce, fir, larch and silver birch. Inside the forests there are swamps and places where animals can live. So there’s timber for the taking and plenty of hunting. Deer, ducks on the river, wild geese and so on. That’s not to mention the fishing from the Ob. What’s more, come April, all this snow disappears; right through to October most years. So you can grow short crops like potatoes and other foodstuffs. But once you get north of Berezovo, you enter the tundra. No forests, no hunting, nothing. Just bogs and snow, and more snow. And underneath the snow, the ground is permanently frozen. It’s harder than iron.”

“I’m sure something must grow there, Ivan Vasileyivich,” protested Dr. Feit.

“Oh sure!” the exile agreed cheerfully. “You won’t starve unless you have a mind to. Where there aren’t bogs you can grow a few crops, but only for about two months of the year. And there’s moss under the snow; that keeps the reindeer happy. Reindeer means that you have transport. And Obdorskoye is right on the Ob estuary, so there’s plenty of fishing through the ice. The others will show you how.”

“Others?” asked Trotsky. “What others?”

“The other SPs like you. There’s quite a colony up there. The government says that there are only about twelve thousand exiles in the whole country, but it’s really nearer sixty thousand. There are about two thousand in the Tobolsk region alone, and about a quarter of those are SPs.”

“Where, in particular?” asked Trotsky.

“All over the place,” said Ziborov vaguely, accepting another cigarette. “Scattered here and there. Besides in Tobolsk and Tiumen, there are groups at Tura, Sergut and Berezovo, and other places.”

“Once we get to Obdorskoye,” asked one of the married exiles, “what are the chances of any work that pays?”

Ziborov thought for a moment and shook his head.

“There’s plenty of work in the summer, when the fisheries are open. But until then, the estuary is frozen up. Normally in winter, you have to go to the nearest town. There are usually plenty of jobs for skilled workmen. But since you’re SPs, nobody will be too eager to employ you. Sorry, but that’s how it is.”

“And where’s the nearest town?” asked Dr. Feit slowly.

“Berezovo. But that’s nearly five hundred versts from where you will be.”

“What’s it like?”

“Berezovo? It’s all right. My brother lives there. He’s an ‘admin’ like me. It’s only four, five days’ travel from here, depending on the weather.”

“Is it easy for exiles to get about?” Trotsky asked him. “We know about the river boats, but what about on land?”

“Oh yes,” Ziborov assured him confidently, “as long as you have your passport and have got a good reason or written permission from someone. For instance, every autumn, around the end of September, each colony sends a representative to Tobolsk to purchase supplies for the winter. Matches, candles, pens; that sort of thing. Last year, some of the boys from Berezovo prepared a telegram for the Duma listing a whole load of demands. They sent it, too. Didn’t get them anywhere, though.”

“What sort of demands?” asked another Deputy.

“Mainly about allowances. You’ve got to realise, it’s less than easy to spin out the money up here. If you have to survive only on what the State allows you, it means a weekly diet of one twelfth of a pound of meat, half a pound of bread, one half stick of sugar and eight potatoes. That leaves you just about enough to rent a space on somebody’s workshop floor, unless you want to sleep with the Ostyaks.”

“And we have sixty copecks less than that!” exclaimed one of the deputies in disgust.

“What about the medical facilities?” asked Dr. Feit. “How many doctors are there?”

Ziborov laughed.

“Doctors?” he repeated incredulously. “There’s only the one. An old grouser called Tortsov. He lives in Berezovo. We only ever see him once a twelvemonth, and that’s if we are lucky. Still, you can’t blame him,” he added, “considering the size of his practice. Nearly as big as France, they reckon. There’s only one hospital too. That’s at Berezovo also.”

Dr. Feit was appalled.

“You’re not serious?” he said in shocked tones. “Just one man? From here to the Arctic Circle?”

“Well, there is another medical man,” Ziborov informed them, “but he is an exile so they won’t let him practise. They consider it a privilege which he has forfeited. So yes, just the one, and he covers the area south of here too. He’s a good fellow though, old Tortsov. Been here for years. Knows his business. Just as well really, considering the present epidemic.”

“What epidemic?”

It was Ziborov’s turn to look surprised.