Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“The answer is quite simple,” said Trotsky before the Doctor could reply. “Ask yourself who controls the Black Hundreds? Do you think that Dubrovin acts on his own, without checking with the police first? Behind every droujina there is a police captain, or a man like your Colonel Izorov, egging them on, making sure that there are no police patrols inconveniently in the area. Why, half the Black Hundreds are just policeman off duty.”

“You don’t know Kostya Izorov, my young friend,” Nadnikov said warmly. “He’s just as tough a nut with that lot as he is with you exiles.”

“That may be,” Trotsky agreed. “I hope he is. Equality before the law is something we have long given up hoping for. But what I say still stands. Don’t just take my word for it: remember what Prince Vrossoff said last year in the Duma? He said that General Komissoroff had boasted to him that the police were in a position to start a pogrom when and how they pleased ‘With ten men or with ten thousand if needs be’. Those were his exact words. He also revealed that the very printing press that proclaimed the Reaction was to be found… guess where? In the cellars of the Central Police Headquarters. Time after time the pattern repeats itself. The broadsheets appear, giving full warning of what has been planned and inciting the mob to violence. The police do nothing about this. A few hours before the pogrom starts the police are withdrawn, ostensibly needed for unforeseen ‘special duties’ elsewhere. The pogrom begins, and then after they have murdered a few hundred people, back come the police. They ride in, arrest the few Jews that are still left standing and announce that ‘order has been restored’. This isn’t our propaganda, just what Prince Vrossof said, and the world knows he’s not a revolutionary. And he went on to say something else, something with which I agree wholeheartedly. He said that it’s in the bloodstream now, and it’s been contaminating state policy for the last twenty years. The Tsar’s government has become a death machine.”

The vehemence of this last remark cast a shadow over the table, and for a moment nobody spoke. At length, Maslov said gloomily:

“You can say what you like. Things are going to get much worse before they get better. The trouble with us is that we are all too fatalistic. That’s where your grand design falls down.”

Nadnikov drained his glass and stood up.

“Alexander Vissarionovich is right,” he announced sourly. “The country needs a rest, and so do I. Good afternoon Alexander Vissarionovich, Andrey Vladimovich, gentlemen.”

With this brief farewell and a stiff bow, the merchant turned on his heel and marched away from the table.

“Was it something I said?” joked Trotsky.

“Don’t worry about Pavel Stepanovich,” advised Maslov. “He’s just worried that one day the Revolution will break out again and commandeer all his grain. Someone once said, a foreigner I think it was, that Russians have the bodies of Caucasians and the souls of Tartars. They were wrong of course. We have the souls of small shopkeepers who can’t see even the shortest distance beyond their own serving counter. Let’s have another drink.”

Dr. Feit held out his glass. When it was filled, he toasted the librarian.

“There’s a lot in what you say,” he said gravely. “The trouble with most of the People is that they are too scared. There is too much fear, not only of the police and the unrest, but of taking the risk to change things for the better, though we all know that we can’t go on as we are now. What is capitalism after all, but a system where the worst of all people, operating for the worst of all motives, lay claim to producing the best of all worlds.”

“The same might one day be said of Socialism,” murmured Roshkovsky.

“No, my friend, you are wrong,” replied Dr. Feit. “On two counts. Firstly, whatever happens under Socialism, the majority of the people will be materially better off. Of that there is no doubt. That is the very thing that scares your friend Nadnikov. And secondly, anybody who believes in the progress of Mankind, as we do, has the one gift that our oppressors will never have. That gift is the power of imagination.”

“Oh, anyone can dream,” said Maslov wistfully, staring at his glass. “Even I dream.”

“The Doctor doesn’t mean just daydreams,” Trotsky said. “Socialism is about more than that, just as it is about more than fighting for a decent wage and better living conditions. It’s a creative process. Allow me to give you an example.”

Reaching across the lunch table he began spreading out some of the empty glasses.

“On our way here,” he continued, “for some of the journey we followed the course of the Ob. Now the Ob proper, as you know, is formed by the union of the two smaller rivers, the Biya and the Katun. By my reckoning, by the time it gets to pass here, Berezovo, most of it must be frozen for about four or five months of the year.”

He glanced at Roshkovsky, who gave a nod of confirmation.