Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“There is no contradiction!” Fatiev told her triumphantly. “The purpose of our demonstration will be quite simply to continue the struggle against the armed might of the State. At the same time, we’ll be showing the Petersburg comrades, by our own example, that not only is the struggle continuing, but that even here we are able to mobilise support from amongst the peasantry for a militant campaign of action on their behalf. And after the demonstration, this campaign will be sustained with meetings and debates for the period that they are with us, in order to drive home to the workers and peasants of Berezovo the essentially oppressive nature of the society in which they live and to expose the fallacy of policies that promote peaceful coexistence or passive resistance, by confronting the forces of the tyrant Nicholas face to face. We have no illusions, Comrades! The prisoners that are soon to arrive are in the position they are in because, when it came to the sticking point, they refused to confront the forces of terror. We, in the vanguard of the revolutionary proletariat, we never deserted them. They deserted us.”

“Then you intend to turn Berezovo into a bloodbath?” demanded Oleg Karseneva. “A second Moscow?”

“That is not what I said. Don’t try and misquote me! What I said was that the rev…”

“Oh come on, Fatiev!” Tamara Karseneva snapped impatiently. “You’re not talking to a bunch of starry-eyed students now! Violent confrontation: yes or no?”

“I repeat,” Fatiev persisted stubbornly. “We shall hold a mass meeting…”

“A mass meeting?” she echoed and crowed with laughter. “How many of you are there? Ten? Twelve?”

“You’ve forgotten Chazowski, haven’t you?” Fatiev reminded her grimly. “Why do you think old Izorov has put a guard on his door and not on yours? It’s because he is not afraid of you or what this precious Quarter thinks. But with us, he knows he’s walking on a knife edge. He thinks that if the Socialist Revolutionaries are neutralised, he will be able to roll us up and to sleep safely at night. Well, with their help, we are going to prove him wrong.”

“You’re bluffing, Fatiev. The Essers will never support you,” said Oleg Karsenev. “They hate your guts.”

Fatiev grinned.

“That’s as may be,” he conceded. “We have our differences but they won’t want to miss an opportunity to strike a blow against the Izorovs and the Steklovs of this world, even if it means a temporary truce with us.”

“And with Chazowski under house arrest, they would come under your command?” asked Usov. “That should make them feel safe! Of course, you’ll be putting them in the front line?”

Fatiev didn’t answer. Glancing at her husband, Tamara Karseneva shook her head resignedly.

“As far as we are concerned,” Oleg Karsenev said, “we will side with you, Abram. We cannot condone the use of violence when innocent blood will be shed for no practical purpose.”

“In the revolutionary struggle,” declared Fatiev, “there are no innocents.”

“You’ll be on your own, Fatiev,” warned Usov.

“Then so be it!”

Chapter Twelve

Saturday 10th February 1907

Berezovo

Chevanin awoke with the imprint of Yeliena’s kiss still burning on his lips. Hurriedly he squeezed his eyes shut, unwilling to lose the memory of her embrace; but she was gone. When he opened them again all he saw was the rectangular outline of his bedroom’s window, grey in the morning light. Bereft of her presence, he fought to recapture the dream of her warm body against his. She had seemed so real that his skin was still tingling from the memory of her caress. But, no, she had gone; what remained was the cooling heat of his own excitement.

Glancing around the room he took in the ice on the windows, the room’s shabby furniture and its bare, unswept floorboards. As an experiment, he exhaled vigorously and saw his breath turn at once to vapour.

I could never bring her here, he thought.

The open pages of the script that lay on the floor by his bed caught his eye. Smiling, he retreated further under the bedclothes. There had been a moment earlier in the week, lying to Dr. Tortsov in the surgery, when he thought that events were all going to go catastrophically wrong; but they hadn’t. It had been just as well, he told himself, that he had insisted on accompanying his employer to see the Hospital Administrator. For most of the short interview, the Doctor had only stared murderously at Tolkach, while he, Anton Ivanovich, had done most of the talking. Goat’s Foot’s idea had been sound but it had been his own genius that had turned the opportunity into such a victory. Tolkach had been compliant; it had been simplicity itself to persuade him to accept the more prominent role. Securing the part of the Bear opposite Yeliena – that had been a brilliant manoeuvre; a skilful masterstroke.

“It’s probably the bravest thing I have ever done,” he said aloud.