Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

Like a man abandoning ship, or a suicide leaping from a bridge, Kavelin pitched forward, his hands clutching blindly at her pert, jiggling breasts. Wrapping her arms and legs around him, Irena Kuibysheva beat his back and sides with her fists.

“That’s it, Tiger!” she cooed. “That’s it… ooh yes!”

“Tiger?” mouthed Fyodor Gregorivich to himself.

Fighting the urge to laugh out loud, the hotel proprietor pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and stuffed it into his mouth while the cries and groans in the next room became more frenzied. He listened as they rose to a crescendo, broke and died.

Leonid Kavelin? A tiger? he thought. Tiger Kavelin?

Silent tears of laughter began to roll down his cheeks as he repeated the words to himself.

Chapter Sixteen

Saturday 10th February 1907

Berezovo

Shaking the snow off the shoulders of his greatcoat, Colonel Izorov sat down behind his desk and unbuttoned his holster. The weather was worsening and he was concerned that the convoy could be delayed for days if the blizzard returned. As normal before an interrogation, the shutters of his office windows were closed. Outside, he could hear the faint hammering as the workmen strove to finish building the dais before nightfall.

It could just as well be a gallows, he thought grimly. Perhaps it will be. Time will tell.

Drawing out his service pistol, he placed it on the desk, its muzzle pointing towards the huddled prisoner sitting opposite him. Then, with a sigh, he leant down and opened the bottom drawer of his desk. In it lay what appeared to be a bundle of rags. Lifting it carefully out of the drawer, he laid the bundle alongside the gun and kicked the drawer shut with his boot.

Fatiev said nothing, but the Colonel could feel his frightened eyes watching his every movement. Picking up his pistol again, he thumbed the catch at the base of the butt and removed the full magazine. After checking that the breech was empty, he began to clean the weapon.

Even without the monthly intelligence reports from the Okhrana office in Tobolsk, it would have been obvious to him that the Social Democrats were split. No party, however broadly based or lax in its recruitment criteria, could encompass the two poles represented by the Karseneva woman and the man sitting hunched in the chair opposite him. This was one of the many differences between them and the Social Revolutionaries he had encountered. The Social Democrats were mostly loudmouthed agitators and troublemakers, at odds with the world and with each other, whereas the Essers were just terrorist thugs. Glancing up again at Fatiev, Colonel Izorov noted with satisfaction that his sergeant had done his job well. Fatiev’s nose was broken, quite smashed, and the blood was already crusting around his trembling lips.

That is good, he thought. It is hard to be a hero with your nose in bandages. Not the most magnificent figure to cut upon the field of battle. Not a sight to inspire confidence in one’s followers.

He worked methodically, drawing back the oiling stick and carefully inserting it in the open barrel. His concentration appeared total, his eyes never leaving the mechanism in his hand, but when Fatiev made a movement to try to staunch a fresh flow of blood, he was prepared for him. One stern glance was sufficient to make his prisoner refold his arms on his chest.

When he had finished with the pistol, Izorov set it down and, picking up the magazine, began to empty the live rounds onto the desk, the squat bullets rolling and settling on the desk like the ill-formed beads of a broken necklace.

“Does it hurt?” he asked Fatiev.

“What?”

“The nose. Does it hurt?”

“Of course,” Fatiev mumbled. “Your sergeant broke it.”

Colonel Izorov allowed a look of surprise to cross his face as he bent his head to the task of cleaning the clip. Carefully, he poured three drops of magazine oil from a small grey bottle onto the spring.

“Would you care to borrow a handkerchief, to stop the blood from spoiling your clothes?” he asked.

One of the lapels of Fatiev’s jacket had been torn in the struggle and the shirt he was wearing was completely open to the waist, all the buttons having been lost. The knees of his trousers were stained where he had fallen to the ground and had been half dragged along the street. Yet the prisoner seemed to see nothing strange in his suggestion and considered it carefully.

“Yes,” he said at last, adding after a few seconds’ hesitation, “please.”

Izorov tested the spring with his forefinger, and when he was satisfied it was functioning smoothly, he lay the magazine down beside the empty pistol. Picking up one of the bullets, he breathed on it, his breath dulling its brass casing.