Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

Despite what Steklov had told him, he began to feel uneasy. The town was unnaturally silent and empty of people, as if all the townsfolk were indoors, watching the strange procession from behind half-closed shutters as it made its way up the street. Shuffling forward on his seat he poked his head out of the carriage’s window. In the distance, a line of torches could be seen arranged across the front of the Town Hall. He waited for the carriage to turn to the right, down Hospital Street towards his house. When he realised that it was not going to do so, he began pulling at the travelling rugs, trying to free his encumbered legs. The carriage was drawing nearer to the torches at the end of the road; he saw that these were borne aloft by figures dressed in police uniforms and he wondered anxiously whether he was under arrest after all. He had heard rumours in both Moscow and Petersburg of how the Kadets were sending out investigation committees with orders to rake up scandals against corrupt government officials before the Duma was recalled. He had dismissed them as fairy tales, but perhaps they were true after all. Could Kuprin have talked about the land deal? Still trapped by the tangled rugs, he leant further out of the window and called up to his driver.

“Osip! Stop the carriage immediately!”

His words fell on deaf ears. His driver was being steered by the escort inexorably towards the line of policemen waiting at the far end of the street. Now genuinely alarmed, Kuibyshev turned to appeal to Steklov but the Captain had gone, spurring his horse on towards the front of the column. By the light of the torches, he could distinguish more men in uniforms watching him from the shadows of the street corners as he passed. A crowd of spectators had gathered in front of the Town Hall. They appeared to be standing on some sort of stage. Drawing nearer to the row of torches, Kuibyshev was able to pick out a few of the faces in the crowd. There was Kuprin and Fyodor Izminsky, and Pavel Nadnikov, and Father Arkady…

He watched as yet more people began climbing the steps to join the group on the makeshift platform. There seemed to be some sort of argument going on. From a cluster of figures at the bottom of the steps, he saw Olga Nadnikova break away and clamber onto the stage, followed by Raisa Izminsky, his own Irena – assisted somewhat inelegantly by Leonid Kavelin – then a gesticulating Madame Pobednyeva. Shaken, he heard Steklov’s crisp order to halt and watched as three men – Mayor Pobednyev, Prison Director Skyralenko and Colonel Izorov – detached themselves from the crowd and advanced on foot to meet him. He saw the Captain salute, then bend low in his saddle to speak with them. The four men seemed to be arguing. More of the men left the stage and moved to join them. Voices were becoming raised and in the early evening air he heard someone say the word “fiasco”.

Seeing Captain Steklov turn and point in his direction, Kuibyshev kicked himself free of his travelling rug and propelled himself through the door towards the street. As he did so, the toe cap of his left boot caught the raised edge of the floor of the carriage and he lost his balance. Pitching forward, he fell full length into the roadway. Drunken cheering and female laughter rose from the platform. Badly shaken, he struggled to his feet and tried to brush away the road’s filth from his fur malitsa travelling coat. The laughter grew, rippling through the group until the whole crowd appeared to be gripped with hysteria. Tearing off his hat, Kuibyshev stared wildly around him at the soldiers, who were by now openly pointing at him and joining in the mockery. Several of them were swaying unsteadily in their saddles as they wiped tears from their eyes.

“Would someone please tell me!” he begged them. “What has happened here? Has everyone gone mad?”

Book Three Journey’s End

Chapter One

Monday 12th February

Berezovo, Northern Siberia

Baby Lev was lying in his cot staring up fearfully at the three figures struggling above him. Nicolai Lenin was roughly shaking the edge of the cot. Beside him Nadhezda Krupskaya was fending off Natalya, who was trying to reach down and gather up her baby in her arms to protect him. Nicolai was grinning furiously, his semi-Asiatic features white with anger.

“I’m going to eat you, you little idiot!” he was shouting.

Trotsky awoke, wrenching himself from the nightmare. He lay on his bed, listening to the muffled voice in the next cell comforting the child whose cries had invaded his dreams. From the landing came the sound of running water and people talking quietly. He reached out and groped across the table that was jammed between his bed and Sverchkov’s. Finding his pince-nez, he settled it across the bridge of his nose and the cell sprang into focus.