Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“A man without blessings is a man without problems,” Usov told him. “Come on. The Karsenevas are already here with my brother-in-law, David Landemann. They are waiting in the counting house. Go through and join them. I will wait here until Chazowski arrives.”

“Don’t bother,” said Fatiev, “he’s not coming.”

“Why not?” asked Usov sliding the door bolt home.

“He has sent message that Izorov has posted a man outside his hut. He can’t move without tipping his hand.”

Usov swore softly.

“Already? What about the other Essers?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then we must hurry. Follow me.”

Silently, he led Fatiev through the office to the rear of the building where the two men and the woman were waiting for them. There was a chorus of hurried greetings as he closed the counting house door and, removing his outer coat, laid it down against the wide gap between the bottom of the door and the floorboards.

“Candles, David,” he ordered.

Landemann obeyed and soon the room was illuminated with little clusters of flame.

“If we are disturbed we can always say we are making Shabbat,” he joked nervously.

“That’ll be the day,” sneered Fatiev.

Usov waited until all the candles had been lit and his brother in law had taken his place beside him at the counting-table before calling the meeting to order.

“We may not have much time,” he announced. “Arkady Chazowski is already under house arrest, which means that the Social Revolutionaries are already being watched. It’s only a matter of time before Izorov turns his attention to us.”

He paused, looked at the circle of candlelit faces looking at him expectantly, and took a deep breath.

“We are going to have some visitors…” he began.

A half an hour later they were still talking, although each of them was aware that every minute increased their risk of discovery. The smoke from the candles was beginning to make David Landemann’s eyes water. Already most of the candles had burnt down into puddles of wax. He would have to make sure that he got in early the following morning to chip off the hardened wax from the ledges and the desk so that Old Goldstein did not discover his counting house had been used. As the flame of another candle spluttered and died, he felt his way towards the box of new candles that sat on top of the safe. Taking one, about the length of his hand, he broke it in two and walked back to the group by the table. As he began to trim the wick of the broken candles, he heard Oleg Karseneva, head of the Menshivik RSDLP exiles say:

“Don’t be so ridiculous, Fatiev! That idea is as dangerous as it is absurd.”

Fatiev smiled contemptuously. A gaunt, middling sized man of some twenty-seven years, his cheeks and nose and even his hair gave the impression that they had been permanently pinched by frost.

“The trouble with you, comrades,” he retorted, pointing a finger accusingly at the Karsenevas, “the trouble with all you Menshiviks is that you are still too much the gentlemen. You think that the Autocracy can be defeated by allying yourself to the Liberals, even the Kadets if necessary. Well, we don’t. We aren’t prepared to betray the revolutionary proletariat. We aren’t going to roll over on our backs and let the butchers tickle our stomachs with their bayonets!”

In the corner, Usov sighed heavily. Already their rooms might have been searched by the patrol, the alibis they had left with friends or neighbours discovered and exploded. At that very moment the barracks square might be ringing with the sound of shouted commands as detachments of mounted troops were being hurriedly dispatched to seal off the Quarter. He knew Izorov would not hesitate to call upon the support of the Sibirsky if it was necessary. Yet still these people talked as if they had no reason to hurry! Enmeshed in their fratricidal war the Karsenevas and Fatiev both refused to give way, and were reluctant to leave knowing that to leave first would mean to automatically concede the initiative to the opponent.

“When these people arrive,” Fatiev continued doggedly, “they should be met by a mass demonstration: as much against their own political opportunism as to reaffirm our determination never to cease the struggle for revolutionary socialism. A struggle they pay lip service to and that we, the majority, are prepared to die for.”

“That’s enough, Comrade,” snapped Tamara Karseneva. “They are exiles, just like us. They haven’t come all this way to be met by a hostile demonstration. And may I remind you that since Stockholm, it is we who are the majority, and you who are the menshiviki. Your proposal flies in the face of all your own rules of democratic centralism. The Conference decided to work towards reuniting our two wings, remember?”

“Rules!” snorted Fatiev.

His finger began stabbing the air once more.