Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“Go on,” said the land surveyor.

“Well, as I say, it’s formed by two smaller rivers, thousands of versts away to the south, in an area which is badly watered, if not virtually desert. And it empties into the Arctic Ocean which is closed by ice for two thirds of the year and therefore useless during these months as a trade route.”

“Yes,” Roshkovsky interrupted him. “But there are plans to get around that. People are now saying that if a railway was built between Obdorsk and Archangel, all the trade that has to go through the Central Siberian districts would be able to travel straight to the European markets via the Baltic.”

The three exiles looked at each other in astonishment.

“A railway station at Obdorskoye?” Sverchkov said.

“It’s not quite that simple,” apologised Roshkovsky with a smile. “All sorts of studies have to be made. The track will have to be laid across what is arguably the worst terrain on Earth. Even if money was available, it would take at least eight or nine, possibly ten years to survey and build.”

“A long time to wait for a train,” joked Dr. Feit, “even in this country.”

“As I was saying,” persisted Trotsky, “the rivers that constitute the Ob flow from a land where there is no water to an estuary which is closed to traffic for most of the year due to ice. What we would do is take the water from the upper reaches and feed it back into the land. Use it to irrigate those barren wastes, by way of a series of locks and canals or reservoirs perhaps, while still allowing sufficient water to flow downstream to maintain its present course. That way, we can open up a whole new area previously closed to us by the forces of nature and increase our agricultural base by who knows how much.”

“Bravo, Lev Davidovich!” crowed Sverchkov. “A brilliant example of Socialist ingenuity.”

“It’s just a thought,” said Trotsky modestly.

Dr. Feit looked sceptical. Not for the first time he thought that Trotsky had over-reached himself and had spoken foolishly, pronouncing plans beyond his field of expertise.

“Is it possible, Roshkovsky?” he asked the land surveyor, pointing at the glasses that Trotsky had been arranging to illustrate his scheme. “Could it be done?”

“I don’t know,” replied Roshkovsky. “It is an intriguing idea, but the gradients involved are formidable. It would require millions of roubles, of course, and as many man hours. I doubt whether we yet have the technical expertise in this country. Even without the problems of labour and capital, the natural obstacles alone would be immense.”

“Don’t you mean impossible, Andrey Vladimovich?” asked Maslov. “Turning society upside down is one thing. Making the Ob flow the other way is something altogether different. For a start, who would pay for it?”

“Under Socialism, the State would pay,” Trotsky explained.

“You mean the taxpayer! I’ve got better things to do with my money than waste it on crazy schemes like making rivers run up hill.”

“It’s about as crazy,” declared Sverchkov hotly, rising to his comrade’s defence, “as… as… draining the Neva marshes and building Petersburg.”

“And how many thousands of your precious workers died doing that, do you know?” retorted the librarian.

“Thousands of workers are dying anyway,” Dr. Feit reproved him gently, “and only because they ask for bread and justice. Socialism offers them the world. Perhaps our young friend is right about his plan and perhaps he’s mistaken. I don’t know; I’m not an engineer. But it makes more sense to me to use Man’s energies, all his aggressive instincts, to fight his oldest enemy, Nature, than turning it upon himself.”

“But what if his oldest enemy is himself?” Roshkovsky wanted to know.

Dr. Feit threw up his hands in surrender.

“Now that is a question!” he admitted with a sigh.

Pushing back his chair, he stood up.

“Come on comrades! It’s time we found our clothes and returned to our own hotel. We don’t want to give Colonel Izorov the bother of having to come looking for us. We’ll let the Ob stay where it is for now.”

After each of the exiles had shaken hands with their two hosts and the bill had been discreetly settled, the small party made its way to the vestibule where Dr Feit and Sverchkov went off in search of their laundry. Pointedly ignoring the librarian, Trotsky announced that he wished to take a short walk to stretch his legs before he returned to his cell and asked Roshkovsky if he would mind acting as his escort for a few moments more.

“I don’t want to give the guards the wrong idea,” he explained.

Roshkovsky consulted his watch.

“I don’t mind in the slightest,” he replied. “But it will have to be quick. It has already gone half past three.”

Bidding the librarian farewell, the two men left the hotel and set off at a brisk pace.