Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

The first thing he saw was the candle he had been given to light the way to his plank bed and, beside it, a plate upon which lay the stale remains of a portion of cake. He had been so fatigued by the day’s journey that he had not even stayed up to eat the supper that had been prepared for them. Wrapping his blanket around his shoulders he sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Sverchkov’s bed was empty. Leaning across the narrow gap, he felt the mattress. It was cold: his cellmate had been up for some time. Sitting on the edge of his bed, he ran his fingers through his greasy unkempt hair. It had been over thirty days since he had bathed. That had been in the prison in Tobolsk. He felt filthy and he knew that he stank of stale sweat and dirt. He started to scratch himself. In the adjoining cell a man’s voice, deep bass baritone, struck up a revolutionary hymn and other voices joined in. Memories of the previous night began to come back to Trotsky. He recalled a long street and then the uchastok, crowded with watchful policemen, unnerved by the celebrity of their new prisoners. After that an alley and a courtyard lit with torches. Around the walls of the courtyard a mixed company of troops and prison guards had stood, some with bayonets fixed to their rifles. Then the shuffling line into the prison house, the lighted candle thrust into his hand and, finally, this cell.

He stretched and shook his head to clear away the last remnants of his dream.

So, he thought, this is Berezovo.

The door to the cell was pulled open and Sverchkov entered, his hair wet. He wore a damp towel draped around his neck and in his hands he carried two wooden beakers of tea, one of which he passed to Trotsky.

“Good morning, Your Excellency!” he said cheerfully. “I trust your accommodation is to your satisfaction?”

With a grunt of thanks, Trotsky took the cup from him.

“There’s water then?”

“Plenty, as long as you want it cold. No matter though, it’s good enough to wash with. The guards have brought in a samovar for tea.”

Putting his own mug down, Sverchkov began towelling his hair vigorously.

“At least I’ve said goodbye to some of my ‘friends’,” he said thankfully. “Apparently, there’s a hotel where we can have hot baths as well. That should see the rest of them off.”

“I don’t think I shall ever feel clean again,” Trotsky said gloomily. “Are you sure about the hotel?”

Sverchkov nodded confidently.

“Two of the warders told me. They seem all right, but we had better watch out for the head man. Name of Janinski; a local Black Ganger. A real swine.”

“What about food?”

Sverchkov flung the towel onto the end of his bed and sat down beside Trotsky. Reaching into his boot, he pulled out a comb and began to comb his hair.

“As far as I can make out,” he reported, “we are to be allowed out for meals, or we can take them here. It seems they have been expecting us for weeks. We are almost celebrities. Yesterday, the Mayor and everybody were waiting to greet us, but we arrived too late. The Doctor’s gone to see the Chief of Police to sort things out. We are obviously the biggest thing that has happened here for years.”

“It could be worse,” conceded Trotsky. “Did you see any more soldiers around while you were washing?”

“No. I didn’t have a chance. They weren’t letting anyone out besides the Doctor. We’re to wait here for his return.”

Rising from the bed, Trotsky eased his aching muscles.

“I suppose I had better go and wash too,” he said. “I feel like a walking farmyard. Can I borrow your towel?”

“Certainly,” replied Sverchkov affably, “but it’s still wet. There are plenty of dry ones downstairs. Just ask for one: courtesy of the management.”

Trotsky let out a low whistle as he made for the door.

“They’re spoiling us, aren’t they?”

He was pleased that Sverchkov had chosen to share his cell, but not surprised. They had been cellmates before at the House of Preliminary Detention and, since he had nursed him back to health, Sverchkov had not left his side. It was, he realised, admiration masquerading as loyalty. All the same, it felt odd to have one’s steps dogged by another man who was willing to fetch and run errands, instead of waiting to arrest him.

My own little Flemish, he thought fondly.

As he walked along the landing, he saw that every cell on the upper floor had been cluttered with furniture in a pathetic attempt to make their surroundings seem more homely. The same eclectic mix greeted him on the floor below where, in the largest cell, he discovered a family sized table with a table cloth, a set of Vienna chairs, a card table, a kitchen lamp and two glass candle sticks with candles. Collecting his towel from a pile on the prison warder’s desk, he was just about to return to the upper landing when Dr. Feit appeared.

“Good morning, Lev Davidovich,” the old man greeted him cheerfully. “Could you tell everybody upstairs that we shall have a meeting in a couple of minutes? I have some pleasant news for them.”

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