Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

Fyodor Gregorivich looked on approvingly as the dining room began to fill up with each table including a strange mixture of local citizens and their “visitors” from the convoy. None of the more prosperous townsfolk who now were playing host to the “visitors” had been present at the Council banquet the previous day and they appeared determined not to be outdone in treating their guests to whatever dish took their fancy. He did not suppose that any of the exile’s illustrious predecessors – neither Prince Menshikov in 1728 nor Count Ostermann in 1742 – had been so charitably feted. As he watched Andrey Roshkovsky lead his party towards their table, threading their way across the crowded room, the hotel proprietor was relieved to see that Roshkovsky had had the good sense to exclude the local exiles from his luncheon party.

Taking his place between Sverchkov and Dr. Feit, Trotsky tried to calculate how many months had passed since he had sat at a table dressed with white linen and bearing bottles of wine. Seated opposite them across the lunch table the town was represented by Andrey Roshkovsky (land surveyor), Pavel Nadnikov (grain merchant) and the librarian Maslov. The food was served quickly and, after an awkward beginning, the conversation began to flow naturally, greatly helped by the generous supply of wine. After the topics of travel, the climate and the local topography had been exhausted it was inevitable that the talk should come around to politics and, once their plates had been cleared away and a bottle of Fyodor Gregorivich’s second best brandy placed alongside the pot of coffee, opinions were quietly given free rein, well out of earshot of the police guards stationed by the doors at the far side of the dining room.

“I’m not saying that things in Petersburg had not got out of hand,” Maslov said at one point, “but it’s different here, you know. That’s what you people fail to understand. You have spent too long at the centre of things, in big cities like Petersburg and Moscow. The majority of the country thinks like us and lives like us.”

Waving his cigar, he included the other diners in his philosophy.

“You mean we have become a land of exiles?” asked Sverchkov pointedly.

“No, of course not!” Maslov replied with a short laugh. “All I am saying is that there is no need to tear everything down, just because of a few bad bricks.”

“But you’re wrong, can’t you see that?” urged Sverchkov. “It’s because the very foundations of the building are rotten that the house is caving in. Just rearranging the tiles on the roof, or replacing the odd brick won’t change anything. You have to knock the whole building down and build a new one, discarding the bricks you don’t need.”

“You won’t find many who will agree with you, young man,” rumbled Nadnikov. “Foreigners can say what they like about us Russians, and we are all Russian now, but however much we suffer, we’re patriots first and foremost. And nobody wants to risk everything that he has worked his whole life for by supporting a system of government that has never been tried here before. So, on both counts, once you start talking about knocking everything down, your average citizen will dig his heels in simply because it’s unpatriotic nonsense.”

“The way I see it,” said Trotsky, “the revolutionary may be the only true patriot.”

Maslov and Nadnikov both began to protest, but Roshkovsky held up his hand for silence.

“Go on, please,” he said. “Explain what you mean.”

“To be a revolutionary,” began Trotsky slowly, “you must, above all, love your land and your people. Because what, after all, is your country but the land and its people? What else can it be? Without them, you are lost; you are nothing. And if you love your country, like you love your sons and daughters, then you only want what is best for it, and that is a very hard thing to achieve. It means getting rid of a system of government, a way of doing things that shackles it to the bad old days of the past. A system of government and a ruling class which says ‘This is not your country at all, it is ours.’”

Matching Maslov’s earlier gesture, he waved his hand to take in the exiles that sat at the tables around them. “Can you doubt that any of us are not prepared to sacrifice everything, our families, our homes, our freedom, our very lives if needs be, to bring about a better Russia? We love our country deeply but we want it to be a place where there is freedom, peace and justice, and beauty, and work, and health for everyone. If you doubt me, if you still require proof of the depth of our commitment to our country, then just look around you.”

At the far end of the table Dr. Feit puffed approvingly on his pipe.