Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“Now there is the most dangerous place in Berezovo: the Hospital,” he intoned. “Once they get you inside there, you never get out. Behind it is the Quarter, where the luckier amongst us live. The others have to grub around the outskirts of town as best we can. The Quarter is the best place to be, if you can afford the rent, but work is scarce for politicals.”

As they were crossing Hospital Street, a well-dressed man hailed Trotsky’s guide and for a few moments the little procession had to wait while the two men stood to one side and conducted their business. When this was done, the guide introduced the man to Trotsky.

“Comrade, meet Andrey Vladimovich Roshkovsky, our local land surveyor. Andrey Vladimovich, meet Leon Trotsky of the St. Petersburg Soviet of Workers’ Deputies.”

The two men shook hands.

“So, you are one of the new arrivals the town is talking about,” Roshkovsky said with a pleasant smile. “May I ask how long are you staying with us?”

“Only a couple of days. We are being taken north, to Obdorskoye.”

“To Obdorsk?” echoed Roshkovsky, in surprise. “Then you still have a long way to go. The road will be hard at this time of year.”

“Have you been there yourself?”

“Yes, twice, but never in February.”

“What’s it like?”

“Pretty grim I’m afraid. There’s not much to do there except to fish and drink.”

Trotsky blew on his hands.

“I would appreciate any technical advice you could give me about the place. That is, if you don’t mind?”

“Mind?” repeated Roshkovsky mildly. “No, of course not. I get paid to go there, so any experience I have you are welcome to share. If you would like to call at my office later, I will show you a map of the area.”

Burying his freezing hands deep in his pockets, Trotsky hunched his shoulders and shook his head.

“No. That’s not possible. We are only allowed to walk on this street and the Market Square. Those are the orders of your Chief of Police.”

“Oh well,” Roshkovsky said with an apologetic shrug. “Then I’m sorry but I can’t help you.”

Sympathetic groans rose from the exiles crowding around them.

“We are allowed to use the Hotel,” Trotsky suggested. “If you can spare just ten minutes to give me some of the details I would be very grateful. That way, I would know what to tell the others to buy, and what to leave behind. It would be a great help, especially to the women and children.”

Roshkovsky hesitated, aware that he could not refuse so reasonable a request.

“I have only to visit the Bank and call in at the general store, then I can meet you there at the Hotel,” he agreed. “Shall we say in about twenty minutes?”

They shook hands again, the men around them voicing their approval. They all knew what exile meant. Faced with poverty, the climate and the police, any man who was not against you was your friend. As the tour resumed, the guide explained how he had often accompanied Roshkovsky on his journeys on the taiga. The more Trotsky heard about the land surveyor, the more his interest in Roshkovsky grew. The guide resumed his description of the town and its inhabitants. Had Trotsky heard about the Hospital Administrator’s wife?

* * *

Illya Kuibyshev was feeling increasingly unsettled. Ever since he had left his house that morning, passers-by had been greeting him with sympathetic smiles and signs of affection. Being the richest and, some considered, the most powerful citizen of Berezovo, he knew that this was not normal. Overawed by his wealth, or ashamed by their comparative poverty, people in the street generally avoided his gaze or gave a resentful nod of recognition. Today they were looking him full in the face and seemed genuinely pleased to see him. The effect was disturbing.

As he made his way towards the livery stables on the market square he struggled to account for this change in the town’s character. Reports of his undignified return the previous day, surrounded by a military guard and falling face first from his coach into the shit strewn street, had doubtless spread quickly across the town. This, he decided, was the most likely explanation. The ordinary people were relieved to find that his wealth and social eminence had not, after all, prevented him from making a foolish spectacle of himself. They were gently mocking him for being human after all. He was surprised to find how little he minded. He would bear it all, as the English said, “like a good fellow” and let them have their hour of fun at his expense without any thought of retaliation. After all, what damage had been done to him personally other than a dirtied knee and a torn coat?

If such small mishaps amuse the townsfolk, he told himself, I should allow them their laughter. Far better that they take their amusement from my fall than from my other life. Far better that they should laugh at me than shoot at me.