Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

The young exile shook his head. All the same, when he had put the bundle of rags back in its drawer, Izorov went to the door of his office and spoke softly to the policeman outside. Within a few minutes the man had brought in two glasses of freshly made tea and put them on the desk.

When the policeman had gone, Colonel Izorov pulled open another drawer and produced a tin of cigarettes. Opening it, he placed it invitingly between the two cups.

“Have some tea,” he suggested, adding knowingly, “tears and blood parch the throat.”

His face still buried in his hands, Fatiev shook his head miserably.

“Go on,” the Colonel coaxed him. “Don’t worry, they aren’t poisoned. Look, I will drink whichever one you don’t choose.”

Getting up from his desk again, he picked up both cups and offered them to Fatiev.

“I make it a rule not to try to kill the same person twice the same day,” he joked.

Lowering his hands, Fatiev wiped the tears from his eyes with the sleeve of his torn jacket then pointed uncertainly to one of the two cups. Pressing it into his trembling hand, Izorov gently guided the cup to his lips. By accident, some of the scalding liquid spilt over the edge of the cup and fell onto Fatiev’s lap but he did not flinch. The policeman noted this with approval. It was a measure of a prisoner’s level of shock: in the face of great danger, such minor mishaps counted for nothing. Taking a cigarette, Izorov lit it and laid it on the edge of the desk for Fatiev to take. Taking another for himself, he lit it and returned to his seat behind his desk.

Now he waited, biding his time until Fatiev could bring himself around to looking him in the eye again. He knew that only then would his prisoner be ready to accept the final defeat: the one that really mattered. Until that moment came, he would be looking inward, nursing his pain and his humiliation. Then he would slowly begin to realise, first with surprise then anger and finally with self-disgust, how easily he had crumbled. He would turn the memory of those few seconds when he had smelt his own death over and over in his mind; telling himself that he should have done this, or moved like that or said some other thing. He would be both prosecutor and defence, accuser and the accused, until finally he would realise that he would never know how it might have been if things had been different, until it happened again.

When Fatiev slowly lifted his brimming eyes and stared balefully up at him, Colonel Izorov was ready.

“We can have that smoke now,” he said, pointing casually to the cigarette that was burning the edge of his desk.

Leaning forward, Fatiev took the cigarette and dragged deeply on it.

“Where were we?” asked Izorov. “Let me see… Oh yes, I remember. You know all about tomorrow. And I know you know. And now,” he added with a sardonic smile, “you know that I know you know. What a game!”

“What happens now?” asked Fatiev.

Izorov shrugged.

“Now? That depends on you,” he replied amiably. “But first tell me, were you really serious? Did you honestly imagine that you could stand up against my men and Captain Steklov’s troops and God knows how many guards there are in the escort?”

“It would have been a gesture, nothing more,” Fatiev said defensively.

“Another fine, glorious, stupid gesture!” retorted Izorov. “Our history books are full of them. The Essers would never have joined you, you know; it would have meant Chazowski’s neck. But never mind, the matter is closed. There will be no demonstration and no bloodshed, above that which has been spilt already. We shall let these people wash over us like a wave. And when they have gone, we shall remain; still living and still breathing.”

“And still prisoners,” Fatiev said dolefully.

“Don’t be so fatalistic! You are young. You have less than three years left here now, unless I submit a report about this nonsense. But I am here for life. Think about that!”

“Will you submit a report?”

“If you keep your people in check, then I see no reason why I should. But if you don’t, well…”

He left the remainder of the sentence unsaid, but his meaning was clear to his prisoner.

“I can’t answer for all of them,” said Fatiev sullenly. “They will want to make some sort of a show.”

“Persuade them. Show them the error of their ways.”

“But they will still want to meet the prisoners. It’s traditional.”

Colonel Izorov laughed drily.

“Isn’t it strange,” he observed, “how traditional you revolutionists become when it suits you? All the same, I am prepared to stretch a point. First I must have your assurance that there will be no demonstration in the town, of any sort.”

Reluctantly, Fatiev agreed.

“Good!” exclaimed Izorov. “In return I will allow the prisoners in the convoy out of their cells between the hours of ten o’ clock in the morning and four o’clock in the afternoon. They will be free to meet and talk to whomsoever they like, providing they stay within the prescribed zone.”

Fatiev sat forward in his chair, a look of concentration on his wounded face.