Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“This Breughel, he was Dutch, you say?” asked Sverchkov.

“Yes, I think so.”

“And the painting was meant to portray everyday life in the Low Countries?”

“I suppose so,” said Trotsky with a shrug.

“A high hill,” said Sverchkov doubtfully, “in the Low Countries. Really?”

Turning in his seat, Trotsky regarded his comrade through narrowed eyes.

“The picture was so true to life,” he said slowly, “I remember now, that it had a fire, with some women round it, piling on some faggots of wood as the hunters were walking past. Even the flames of the fire made you feel cold.”

“And all of this,” challenged Sverchkov, holding out his arms wide embrace to the view before them, “reminds you of that picture?”

“Yes, absolutely.”

“Even though there are no lakes and no birds,” he persisted, “no fire, and no neat town. Just a few scattered buildings with, I grant you, snow on their roofs.”

“The scenery is still reminiscent of the poetry of the painting as I can recall it,” said Trotsky.

“Aha!” exclaimed Sverchkov. “‘The poetry of the painting.’ Ha!”

Struggling to his feet, he assumed the stance of a public prosecutor, pointing accusingly down at Trotsky.

“What you are remembering, Comrade, is not the snow and the roofs and the lakes and the sky of the original but the small group of defeated hunters with their dogs. You are identifying us, this convoy with them, and that is defeatist, revisionist and dangerously bourgeois thinking,” he proclaimed triumphantly, adding, “unlike your hunters, the St Petersburg Soviet of Workers Deputies is not defeated!”

“It is just meeting in a new location?” suggested Trotsky.

The faint sound of a whistle come from the village below. Turning their heads, they saw the sergeant beckoning the convoy down from the hills with exaggerated gestures of his arms. Sitting back down again, Sverchkov regarded Trotsky fondly.

“Bourgeois element!”

“Philistine,” retorted Trotsky.

Refusing to be hurried, the drivers finished their discussion before tramping back to the waiting sleighs. Within a few minutes the brow of the hill was once more empty and the teams of ponies were picking a path carefully down the icy road way to the waiting crowd of villagers.

The sergeant had organised the villagers into a well-regulated welcoming reception, splitting them into groups on either side of the road to greet the two columns of sleighs as they came to a stop in the clearing that served the settlement as a communal square. Discarding their travelling rugs, the exiles and their families began the now familiar process of arrival and disembarkation, stretching their arms and legs to remove the stiffness from sitting for so long in the sleighs. The villagers waited patiently, many of the women and children carrying wooden trays of biscuits, bread, salt and beakers of goat’s milk. The men of the village were clustered around the sergeant, who was pointing out which prisoners would be billeted with them.

Together, Trotsky and Sverchkov walked to the nearest group of villagers. One of the mothers pushed forward her daughter, who bobbed a curtsey and offered them a plate of grey dumplings. Bowing over the plate Trotsky inspected the dumplings, noting the deep finger marks in the pastry and black flecks of dirt, and quickly took the least unappealing. He smiled his thanks to the child and to her mother, who regarded him impassively. There were none of the banners or written signs of salutation that they had seen in the other places they had rested for the night.

These are not Party members, he thought. They are real people.

He was still holding the dumpling when a blow to his wrist knocked it out of his hand.

“Come on!” ordered the corporal. “You can’t always be eating. Time to bed you two fairies down for the night.”

Grabbing Trotsky by his upper arm, the corporal began marching him away from the crowd, accompanied by two of his cronies carrying rifles with fixed bayonets. Sverchkov started to protest and he was effortlessly gathered up by the two guards. The small group set off in the direction of an izba at the far end of the village street.

“Where are you taking us?” demanded Trotsky.

“You’ll see,” said the corporal grimly, adding, “somewhere where you will feel right at home.”

Pigs. Trotsky could smell them before he could hear them, and he could hear them before he could see them. Shaking himself free of the guards, Sverchkov hurried to catch up with him.

“Well, this isn’t pleasant,” he said anxiously.

“Don’t worry,” Trotsky told him. “It’s just their idea of a joke.”

“I suppose you’re used to this,” said Sverchkov, his nose wrinkling as they drew nearer to the izba.

“Why?”

“Didn’t you say you were brought up on a farm?”

“At Yanovka, yes. We grew wheat and reared cattle, horses and, of course, pigs; lots of pigs. My father tried Merino sheep but they didn’t take.”