Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

Although he possessed written evidence on headed notepaper bearing the town’s crest, of the agreement that the cost of the banquet was to be met by the Civic funds, he felt that these veiled threats left him little choice but to reconsider his position and take preventive action. As a precaution he had instructed his staff that the exiles, despite having been found guilty of armed insurrection and of planning to overthrow the Tsar, were to be welcomed with open arms and encouraged to eat as much as they wanted, provided they paid with ready cash. By the simple process of increasing all their bills by fifty percent it was possible that some of the costs of the banquet commemorating their arrival could be immediately recouped. He was feeling additionally proud of his idea of persuading the exiles to part with their clothes, thereby forcing them to remain for much of the day on the hotel’s premises.

Trotsky was making his way over to the fire when he heard Sverchkov call out his name.

“Lev Davidovich! Over here!”

Sverchkov was sitting on a couch. As he made room for Trotsky to sit down, the flap of his overcoat opened to reveal a pair of pale naked legs.

“Dimitri, where are your clothes?”

Rearranging his coat, Sverchkov winked demurely then grinned.

“At the laundry! If you tip the manager, he will pass them on to the local women to be washed and mended. They’ve promised to get them back to us by curfew.”

“But where can I change?”

“Upstairs, though you had better make sure the room is free. Already our married comrades are making up for lost time!”

“And why not? ‘To each according to his needs’,” recited Trotsky, smiling. “How much is the rogue charging?”

“Thirty copecks per item of clothing. Five roubles an hour for a room.”

“The thief!” protested Trotsky.

“Ah yes, but it’s worth it,” replied Sverchkov confidentially, “especially as the washing is being done by the exiles. So if you have anything to post, just pin it to your jacket.”

Welcoming this news, Trotsky asked his cellmate if he had had time to see much of the town outside. He had, and for five minutes or so they discussed what they had discovered about Berezovo. Their findings were identical in all except one important matter. Trotsky held the view that it would be impossible to slip through the police cordon, and Sverchkov did not. In fact, he revealed, he had already done so.

“It was the easiest thing in the world, Lev,” he said smugly. “The police have all the roads covered, but they’ve forgotten about the library.”

“The library?”

“Yes! There is an entrance for the Market Square, that’s the main door that everyone uses. But one of the locals showed me that there’s a back door as well, half hidden behind one of the book cases. All it took was for one of the local boys to distract his attention and I was through.”

“But wasn’t it locked?”

Sverchkov shook his head.

“No! Only bolted, and one of the local Bundists has already taken care of that.”

“What about the guards?”

“That is the only risk,” admitted Sverchkov. “The door brings you out into a side street that leads straight to the Quarter, behind their backs. They are facing the other way, see? Of course, if they turn round, you’re dead.”

“And how did you get back?”

“I didn’t want to risk it twice. After all, when you are outside the back door, there’s no way of telling where the librarian is standing inside, you know? So I jumped a cart and rode straight past the guards. With some bits of sacking around me and my head down, I could have been anybody.”

“Well done!” Trotsky congratulated him. “So much for their Colonel Izorov and his precious Zone. But did you see anything useful while you were away?”

“No, not really,” Sverchkov said regretfully. “I had a few words with some of the Bund and met the head of the Bolsheviks. A skinny fellow called Fatiev. Do you know him?”

Trotsky shook his head. One of Nadhezda Krupskaya’s little song birds, he thought. His hopes began to rise.

“What did he have to say for himself?”

Sverchkov’s nose wrinkled in disapproval.

“As far as they are concerned, we are yesterday’s news. Even in exile they do not see the necessity for cooperation. And I’m afraid that all of them – both the RSDLP groups and the Bund – were particularly scathing about you.”

“There was no other message?” Trotsky asked earnestly.

”No.”

Although his sense of personal resentment towards Nicolai had steadily grown over the course of the convoy’s journey North, Trotsky now realised with a shock that shook him to the core of his being that deep within himself he had harboured an unrealistic expectation of special consideration from the Party’s leadership; perhaps, even, the hope of rescue. Sverchkov’s words and the drenching revelation that all the while he had been deluding himself, struck him like a body blow. He felt the blood drain from his face as he struggled to absorb the news of his abandonment.