Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

She did not have to plumb the depths of her soul to know that she would never tell Vasili, ever. In any case, the moment for such a confession had already passed. And when she considered writing a letter to her husband’s assistant, forbidding him ever to come to their house again, she knew no such letter would be written. What would happen if such a letter fell into the wrong hands? With every tick-tock of the mantelpiece clock her good intentions and stern resolutions fell away one by one. Each argument was pragmatically abandoned until she was left, passively awaiting the outcome of events with no one to turn to for help or advice. She was loved and she was alone.

Chapter Two

Monday 12th February

Berezovo, Northern Siberia

Outside the Hotel New Century, Trotsky stood smiling amongst the group of chattering local exiles. After the silence and isolation of the taiga, their noisy lionising made him feel shy. He wanted very much to get away but, like the others, he had been captured and nothing would satisfy his hosts but that he should see every inch of the town that their Chief of Police’s ukase permitted him to visit. Surrendering, he allowed himself to be led slowly along the boardwalk. Having endured almost a month of continuous sleigh travel he was finding himself unsteady on his feet. He felt himself swaying as one of the men, a self-appointed guide, pointed out the buildings across the street as they passed.

“There is Shiminski’s General Store. Well worth expropriating!”

As they stopped and looked at it, the door of the store opened and a muffled figure in a wheeled chair emerged, being pushed by a maid. It was Madame Wrenskaya being taken for her weekly perambulation.

“There you see the town’s oldest inhabitant,” proclaimed the guide. “She is over one hundred and fourteen years old and when she was young she was seduced by Prince Menshikov!”

Amid the laughter of the locals Trotsky suppressed the urge to correct his guide’s anachronism. He had left his gloves in his cell and his fingers were losing their sense of feeling. He wondered whether there was a danger of them becoming frostbitten.

“This is Alexander III Boulevard,” continued the guide, unaware of his discomfort, “also known as Alexei Street, and that small side street over there is Well Lane. That leads to Market Square and the barracks. We’ll show you that later. You can get back to the prison house that way. Opposite the Barracks is the Black Eagle Inn better known as the Black Cock, favourite haunt of the Hundred. Best keep clear of it.”

A local next to Trotsky nudged him in the ribs.

“That’s very good advice, comrade. The Black Cock is an evil place.”

“Also in the Market Square,” his guide went on, “is the library, where you can read all the latest newspapers to arrive. Though of course they are none of them less than a fortnight old. You can also arrange for some printing to be done.”

For the first time, Trotsky’s interest quickened.

“Is the librarian one of us, then?”

His guide scornfully and spat into the road.

“Hardly!” he said. “Librarian Maslov sees himself as the town’s Censor. He won’t have anything on his shelves that smacks of serious political discussion.”

The tour continued. As they made their way along the street, Trotsky could see that Dr. Feit had not exaggerated. At every street corner stood either a pair of policemen or a Sibirsky soldier with rifle and bayonet. The Chief of Police was taking pains to ensure that they did not step outside his precious zone.

Already the town bored him. It was like Vercholensk, or Kivincki, or so many others: another small cog in the machine, with its Chief of Police, and its Revenue Officer to guarantee the maintenance of order and the orderly collection of taxes. He listened patiently as his guide gave a summary of the local industries (furs, fish and timber) and wondered if the man was a police spy. Or if not him, the two men standing behind him. Or all of them; it was possible. Certainly the leaders of the exiles to whom he had been introduced earlier at the hotel – Usov, Landemann, the Karsenevas and rest – had not been eager to accompany them on their tour. They had elected to remain at the Hotel, talking to Dr. Feit and the other exiles. And none of the men around him had recognised the name Ziborov. Either the man in the barn at Belogoriye had been lying, or these were not the exiles they appeared to be. Of course, Ziborov’s brother could have assumed another name here. That, too, was possible. He would have to be careful.

They had reached a major intersection of the road that ran from the Town Hall to the church. Here the guards were doubled and watched the group closely as the guide pointed south, towards a large building two blocks distant.