Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

At No. 8 Ostermann Street, the midday meal had begun with a breaking of a promise. Aware that the arrival of the Soviet Deputies could no longer remain secret, Dr. Tortsov had decided to take his wife and his assistant into his confidence. He gambled that since the convoy was expected that very day, there was little risk that the news would have time to leak out from their household and inflame Berezovo’s own colony of exiled malcontents. Even so, he took precautions, waiting until Katya had retreated to the kitchen before beckoning Yeliena and Chevanin to bow their heads as if in prayer and whispering to them the news. He was also circumspect in his description of the convoy and did not refer to them as the convicted leadership of the insurrectionist St Petersburg Soviet of Workers’ Delegates, which would have been proper, but only as ‘a special party of Politicals’. According to him, their significance lay chiefly in their having travelled through villages that had been heavily affected by the latest outbreak of infection. Between mouthfuls, the Doctor was now relating the tragic fate of the young merchant Dobrovolsky who had died two years before.

“He was of no age,” he said cheerfully. “But then typhus can strike young and old alike.”

Chevanin, only half listening to what the Doctor was saying, nodded. Opposite him, Yeliena picked delicately at the food on her plate.

“One of Baron Pol’s exploration team found him at the Ourvinsk yurts, but it was too late to do anything,” Dr. Tortsov continued. “He must have lain there for at least a fortnight, becoming gradually weaker day by day. Besides making him comfortable, the Ostyaks had done nothing much to help him. After all, if he hadn’t been found they stood to gain his sleigh, his clothes and whatever gold he had on him. You can be sure of one thing: he wasn’t travelling with empty pockets, which is how he was found.”

“That’s little short of murder, surely?” murmured Yeliena.

The Doctor considered the point as he chewed a tough piece of meat.

“How can one talk of murder, or of any crime?” he replied thoughtfully. “The taiga has its own laws. Always has had and always will. You could just as well say that it was suicide when you consider how foolish the young man had been. In the first place, to go out alone, then to leave the Highway in the middle of winter, on such a journey, with all the money that he would need to buy the furs.”

He shook his head regretfully.

“I’m sorry to say so, and may God receive his soul, but that young man died the death of a fool that he deserved.”

To cover the silence that followed the Doctor’s brutal verdict Chevanin asked whether Dobrovolsky had taken a pistol with him on his journey. Dr. Tortsov thought of the approaching convoy of prisoners and laughed.

“If typhus could be destroyed with bullets,” he replied, “the Tsar would be our greatest physician.”

“Vasili!” his wife scolded him. “That’s a dreadful thing to say!”

“I just meant,” explained Chevanin, “if he was armed, perhaps he could have forced the Ostyaks to take him to the nearest settlement.”

“What an absurd idea, Anton Ivanovich!” said the Doctor. “To begin with, he would quickly become unable to hold the gun steady, much less aim it and pull the trigger. Secondly, very few men, when it comes to it, would consider threatening to kill the only people who might deliver them from harm. Besides, I doubt if the Ostyaks would have been too impressed even if he had threatened them. They are a pretty fatalistic bunch. He would have had to have shot three or four of them to show them he meant business.”

“Can’t we find something more suitable to talk about at the table, please?” complained Yeliena with a shudder.

“You are quite right, Yeliena Mihailovna,” Chevanin apologised. “I am sorry to have brought up the subject.”

But Dr. Tortsov disagreed.

“Nonsense, Lenochka! You are just being squeamish,” he retorted good humouredly, waving a fork towards his assistant. “This young man has to learn the facts of life sometime, otherwise he could end up like poor Dobrovolsky.”

Turning to Chevanin, he asked:

“You haven’t been out on the taiga yet, have you, Anton?”

“If you recall, I did accompany you as far as Belogoryia last year,” Chevanin replied, “but, no, I haven’t been out in the wilds as such.”

“Then perhaps I shall take you with me in the spring. Perhaps we shall go north, to Obdorsk. It’s only five hundred versts away, tucked snugly inside the Polar Circle,” declared the Doctor, adding mischievously, “there’s no need to begin with anything strenuous.”

Seeing the appalled expression on Chevanin’s face, Yeliena sought to put his mind at rest.

“Pay no attention, Anton Ivanovich. My husband is only teasing you. He would no sooner invite you along with him on one of his journeys than he would invite me. He is too jealous of his freedom and of his unique status.”

She silenced her husband’s protests with a wave of her fork.