Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“Welcome them?” barked Shiminski. “Are you serious?”

“Leonid Sergeivich is right,” said the Mayor. “In fact, I have arranged, with the Colonel’s consent, that we should receive them with a parade of strength. Nothing too expensive, of course,” he added hurriedly. “It will be a small but dignified affair. And then, after they are safely locked up, perhaps a celebratory meal at the Hotel, to mark what is, after all, an historic event. Paid for out of the Civic Funds, of course.”

Outside the door, the Mayor’s secretary crouched at the keyhole, one knuckle jammed tightly against his twisted mouth to prevent his mirth betraying his presence.

There is no doubt about it, he thought to himself. Sooner or later, the scum always rises to the top.

Pressing his ear still closer to the door he was in time to catch the town’s Revenue Officer proposing his eldest son’s services as a photographer.

“There should be some kind of official record,” Kuprin was saying.

Chapter Eleven

Friday 9th February

Berezovo

Several hours later, in the counting house of Goldstein the money lender, David Davidovich Landemann was trying to turn a deaf ear to his wife’s pleas as he made preparations for that night’s emergency meeting of the heads of the four groups of revolutionaries exiled to Berezovo.

“No, Hannah! We must tell them,” he insisted. “Just because they are not our people doesn’t mean that we should hide this news from them. Besides, it’s already too late. Chazowski will have been travelling for most of the day. We cannot cancel the meeting now.”

“Chazowski? That murderer!” his wife said, horrified that her husband would have dealings with the leader of the Social Revolutionary terrorists. “You should be at home with your family instead of meeting with thugs like him. Are you in the Cremola now?”

Shaking his head in despair, Landemann began fastening the inner shutters to the window frames.

“We cannot ignore the Essers, whatever we think of them,” he told her. “They are a fact of life.”

When the last shutter was closed and the upper bolt of the door in place, he reached up to the shelf above his high ledger desk and drew down a wooden bowl. Inside lay a dozen or so candle ends. He began distributing them in clusters of three around the room; his wife following him, nervously pulling at the shawl that covered her head and slender shoulders.

“Why, David?” she complained. “Why do you do this to your children? What happens if Goldstein returns and finds you all here?”

“He won’t.”

“What do you know?” she insisted. “Only maybe if you lose this job we shall all starve to death. Who else will give a job to such a fool?”

“Abram thinks that this is the safest place and he’s right,” he replied, refusing to look at her.

“And if my wonderful brother told you to go and jump in the Sosva, you would do it?” she jeered. “Some man I have for a husband! You should have married my brother, instead of me!”

David Landemann was about to reply when a sharp knock came at the outer door of the office.

“Don’t go,” implored Hannah.

He held up his hand, bidding her be silent. The two of them stood still listening as there was a second knock quickly followed by two more. Signalling to his wife to keep out of sight, Landemann walked through the outer office to the door that led to the street. Sliding back the bolt, he opened the door warily. Abram Usov, head of the small group of Jewish Bund exiles in Berezovo, entered quietly. Landemann closed the door behind him and pushed the bolt to.

Usov remained in the outer office, waiting until his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness.

“Is it safe?” he whispered.

“Yes,” Landemann told him. “We are nearly ready.”

Usov shivered, still chilled from the evening air.

“Good,” he declared. “I saw Fatiev earlier. He will arrive shortly.”

A sound of movement came from the darkness of the counting house.

“Who’s that?” he muttered. “I thought you said everybody should have left by now.”

“It’s only Hannah,” confessed Landemann. “We were just talking when you knocked.”

“What business has she being here? Send her home, David.”

“I can’t,” said Landemann apologetically. “She’s being difficult.”

“I don’t care. Send her home,” Usov insisted. “This is no place for her. It’s dangerous enough as it is. What do you think will happen if there’s a raid?”

“I’ll try,” Landemann promised.

Taking his brother-in-law by the arm, he steered him through the outer office to the counting house.

“Shalom, Abram.”

Reaching out in the darkness, Usov felt for his sister’s hands. Finding them, he pulled her to him and kissed her perfunctorily on the cheek.

“Shalom, Hannah. Now you must go. The others will be here soon.”

“I’m staying,” she whispered defiantly.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Your children are sitting at home in the dark. Your place is there, with them.”

“My place is here with David. Or have you forgotten why I followed him here?”

Releasing her, Usov turned away impatiently.