Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“No it doesn’t,” her husband said. “What it means is that you have to decide whether you are going to be a part of the official exile reception committee, or whether you will boycott it. It’s quite simple: either it’s one way or the other. In or out.”

“I shall have to discuss it in caucus with my comrades first.”

“Oh balls, Fatiev!” swore Tamara Karseneva angrily. “The decision has to be made now. You either welcome them or you don’t.”

“So much for democracy,” sneered Fatiev.

The four of them watched him as he began pacing backwards and forwards, thinking the problem through. At last he stopped.

“It all depends what you have in mind,” he announced.

“Speaking on behalf of the Bund,” Usov said, “we are prepared to provide any material comforts that we can to make their exile more bearable.”

“Tea and cakes!” Fatiev flung over his shoulder as he resumed his pacing.

Usov shrugged amiably.

“Of more use than hot air, wouldn’t you say?” he countered. “Besides, we think, though we can’t be sure yet, that Berezovo isn’t their final destination. Old Averbuch has been working on some sleighs that we believe will be used to take them on to the next part of their journey. Though where the poor bastards will finally end up is anybody’s guess.”

Fatiev frowned at this news.

“Sleighs? You mean, for ponies?”

“No. Deer. Which means either they are going across the snowfields or they are continuing north. One more thing: the carpenter has had his boys working night and day to get these sleighs ready. They’ve been told that the job has to be finished by Sunday at the latest.”

“Is that when your informant thinks they will arrive?” asked Fatiev.

Usov shrugged.

“Could be tomorrow, even.”

“Any idea where they will be housed while they are here?” asked Oleg Karseneva.

Fatiev stopped his pacing and looked guiltily at him.

“We have heard that Skyralenko has ordered the prison to be scrubbed down and the heating turned up.”

The others looked at him accusingly.

“We thought that it was a precaution against the risk of typhus,” he said defensively.

“The prison is the most likely place to house them,” said Tamara Karseneva thoughtfully, “although it would be terribly crowded. It’s either there, the barracks, the hospital or the Hotel New Century.”

“Izorov wouldn’t let them stay in the hotel,” argued her husband. “There are too many windows and doors to guard. As for the barracks, there would be precious little room there, once you have housed their escort as well. Plus, they would have access to weapons from the armoury. The hospital is a possibility though. Only two exits, front and side. Guards on each, relieved every four hours… It’s possible.”

“Yes, it’s possible,” agreed Usov, “but the prison is more secure and has the advantage of being close to both the barracks and the uchastok. Plus, it has the prison courtyard where they can be allowed to stretch their legs without any risk. For my money, that’s where they’ll be.”

“Do you know how many are coming?” Landemann asked his brother.

Usov shook his head and looked hopefully at the others.

“It’s hard to say,” Tamara Karseneva replied. “There has been no official report of the trial or the sentences. We understand that many of the Deputies of the Soviet were released due to lack of evidence. Of the remainder, according to our sources we could be expecting as many as thirty. It is certain that at least twelve have been selected for ‘special treatment’.”

“A minimum of twelve then,” Usov said. “We must assume that they will be heavily guarded, both on the road and while they’re here.”

“It’ll be difficult to get to them,” observed Landemann. “It’s not as if they are the usual new arrivals.”

“Do we have any ideas about how the Council plans to deal with them?” Oleg Karsenev asked suddenly.

Usov and Fatiev shook their heads.

“There was an emergency meeting this morning,” Tamara said, half apologetically. “I heard Nikita Shiminski’s daughter talking about it in the general store.”

Fatiev laughed at her husband’s look of surprise and, embarrassed by her admission, Tamara turned on him.

“Like you, Fatiev,” she said stiffly, “I thought it had something to do with the typhus epidemic. Otherwise I would have attributed more importance to it.”

“Who was there?” her husband asked.

“Shiminski, the Mayor, Izminsky, Nadnikov, Kuprin, Kavelin,” she recited, adding with a grimace, “and Colonel Izorov.”

Usov let out a long drawn out whistle.

“What? No Dr. Tortsov?” enquired Fatiev archly. “A bit odd to hold a meeting about an epidemic and not have a doctor there.”

Oleg Karsenev rose to his wife’s defence.

“If Tamara had known about this beforehand, she would have told you.”

“Me?” said Fatiev with a grating laugh. “She didn’t even tell you!”

“Listen,” broke in Usov, “the important thing is that the meeting took place. That means that the Council, the police and, presumably, the garrison have already made their plans and we haven’t made ours. Let us concentrate on that. So far we are fairly certain of four things.”