Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

Surely Nicolai and the others know where I am, he protested to himself, and where I am going? All my letters to Natalya had been going through the Iskra channels; carried by couriers still loyal to the Party. They have been written specifically to be read, copied and resealed. So how could there be no sign, no message of support from Nicolai or the other Iskra editors?

“But I did learn something more important, depressing though it is,” continued Sverchkov, unaware of his comrade’s distress. “Just on the edge of the Quarter, between the Highway and their hospital, there is a high watch tower.”

Dazed and breathless, Trotsky managed a wan smile of acknowledgement. The fire tower had been pointed out to him on his walk.

“It’s manned twenty-four hours a day,” Sverchkov was saying, lowering his voice, “by troops from the garrison. From the platform, you can see over the whole town and beyond. No wonder this Colonel is so sure of himself.”

It’s impossible, Trotsky thought. Impossible. Berezovo was my last hope. This is the end. Nicolai, Jules, Vera and the others have all written me off. I am finished.

Clearing his throat, he fought to regain his composure.

“There are no blind spots at all?” he asked quietly.

Sverchkov shook his head.

“No. I climbed up and had a look myself, while the guard had gone off for a piss. You can see for over two versts in every direction. Probably more.”

“But Dimitri, you still managed to get up there,” Trotsky insisted. “That shows that their back is turned occasionally.”

“It’s no use, Lev. He was gone maybe five minutes, no more. Not long enough to get clear of the town, if that’s what you’re thinking. The Colonel is right. No one escapes from here, at least not until Winter is over.”

“And by the time Spring comes,” said Trotsky bitterly, “we shall be far beyond the tree line, freezing ourselves to death in Obdorskoye.”

Sverchkov was about to reply when he looked over Trotsky’s shoulder and frowned. The buzz of conversation from the groups around them begin to falter and die. In the silence that followed there came the sound of an embarrassed cough. Turning his head, Trotsky saw Roshkovsky standing in the doorway. Still inwardly wounded by Sverchkov’s unwelcome news he was grateful for this distraction. Excusing himself, he went to greet the land surveyor but instead of entering the lounge, Roshkovsky led him away until they were standing at the top of the broad staircase that led down to the vestibule.

“I didn’t realise there were quite so many of you,” Roshkovsky said apologetically. “That makes everything rather awkward.”

“Why?”

“Well, some of the townsfolk wondered if you would be their guest at dinner tonight, here in the Hotel,” he explained. “I happened to mention that I was coming to see you when I was in the general store and I suppose…”

“They want to come and gawk at us, is that it?”

Roshkovsky shrugged and muttered a few words of apology.

“It’s only natural, I suppose,” responded Trotsky. “We are just as curious about them. But a dinner tonight is out of the question. Your Colonel Izorov had told us that we have to be back in our cells by four o’ clock, otherwise…”

Lifting his forefinger and thumb, he mimed the cocking and firing of a pistol.

“I see,” said Roshkovsky. “What a pity.”

“It’s probably for the best,” Trotsky assured him. “We should all get as much rest as we can before we continue our journey.”

“Yes, of course.”

Trotsky hesitated, watching the man closely.

“Perhaps if the invitation was transferred, say, to lunch? I am sure that some of us would be only too happy to accept, on the understanding that we are your guests. I am afraid that none of us are in a position to return your hospitality. Nor will be for some time to come.”

Roshkovsky brushed this consideration to one side.

“Of course not! There’s no need to mention it. If you will give me a few minutes, I shall take your proposal to the general store. In any event I would like to extend my invitation to you and any two of your friends who would like to join me.”

Having politely thanked him for his invitation, Trotsky watched as the land surveyor descended the stairs and left the hotel. Then, returning to the hubbub in the lounge, he sought out the woman with the deep auburn hair who earlier had been introduced to him as one of the leaders of the local Mensheviki.

“Comrade Karseneva?” he asked quietly as he drew her to one side. “What can you tell me about your Andrei Roshkovsky?”

Chapter Four

Monday 12th February

Berezovo, Northern Siberia