Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

Reading the paragraph through, Trotsky winced. It was mostly lies but sufficiently credible to convince any prying eyes that he intended to stay put. At the same time it also served to reassure Natalya that she need not be anxious for his safety. He knew her too well to delude himself that she would ever entertain the notion of coming to join him in exile. She would remain safe in Finland, looking after their baby son, Lev. For himself, as bad as the situation was, it could be worse. He had had to endure enough prison before the trial; a period of rest at Obdorskoye after the rigours of the journey might not prove to be too bad. And, he reasoned, enforced exile was better than the alternative: the death cell at the Shlisselburg fortress. As for what life in Obdorskoye would be like, he knew no more than the others in the convoy. He had no choice but to wait until he reached his destination and see what the locals did.

For the sake of appearances he had pledged with the other Soviet Deputies not to attempt an escape en route. They all feared the immediate reprisals that might be taken on themselves and on their families. But this promise meant little to him. When he escaped he would do so alone; it was the only possible option that he would consider. Not that any chance had so far arisen. They had been locked in every night and counted several times during the day while they were on the road. At no time had there been an opportunity of gaining more than a six hour start and the telegraph was always within reach. The telegraph would outrun any man.

Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on the table and forced himself to concentrate on the unfinished letter before him. The words had grown cold on the page. Quickly reading through what he had already written, he tried to regain their flow. He read the last paragraph through once more then, dipping his nib into the saucer’s puddle of ink, he resumed his letter writing.

Exiles do not remain in one place very long. They wander incessantly all over the province. The regular steamships on the Ob River carry ‘politicals’ free of charge. The paying passengers have to crowd into corners while the ‘politicals’ take over the whole ship. This may surprise you, dear friend, but such is the firmly established tradition. Everyone is so used to it that our peasant sleigh drivers, hearing that we are going to Obdorsk, tell us, “Never mind, won’t be for long. You’ll be back again on the steam ship next spring.” But who knows under what conditions we of the Soviet will be placed in Obdorsk? For the time being instructions have been issued for us to be given the best sleighs and the best sleeping quarters en route.

He sat for a moment, stroking his pursed lips with the end of the pen. The conditions of travel had gradually worsened. If they continued to decline he could not hope to escape before the convoy reached Obdorskoye. Once they had arrived, he might have to wait three, maybe six months before the guards’ vigilance began to lapse. By then the brief Arctic summer would be over.

By Christmas, he promised himself. By Christmas he would be with Natalya and Baby Lev in Finland. Either in Finland or Geneva, unless events at home took a turn for the better. The Duma was due to be recalled and the prospect of an amnesty was being widely discussed. It was unlikely that the Kadets would support a call for the return of the Soviet’s deputies from exile, much less their release; but stranger things had happened. Until then he must work harder than he had ever worked before.