Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

They had reached the uchastok door. A few of the exiles were still crossing from the Hotel, deep in conversation; seemingly oblivious to the shouted commands of the sergeant who beside the doorway.

“Well, then,” Trotsky said and stuck out his hand. “Goodbye Roshkovsky, and thank you very much for the meal.”

The land surveyor took the proffered hand and shook it warmly.

“Goodbye Trotsky.”

Trotsky held onto his hand a mite longer than was strictly necessary, then let it go.

“I’m a long way from home,” he said simply.

Roshkovsky nodded understandingly.

“We all are,” he said.

With a final nod of farewell, Trotsky turned and joined the last of the exiles pushing their way into the uchastok to be checked off before they passed through to the prison. Nothing in his face betrayed the sense of relief and of renewed hope that was beginning to well up within him. The rules for conspiratorial living that Nicolai had drummed into him, he realised, had become second nature after all. Never run when you are scared: never hum when you are happy. When you are on Party work, the only two expressions allowed are ones of positive optimism or of thoughtful deliberation. Above all, hide your feelings: from the police and from your comrades. The flicker of an eyelid may betray a comrade; a sudden pallor or flush of irritation may betray yourself. Even in the shadows, such as these in the narrow alleyway between the uchastok and the prison compound, one could not relax in case a chance light illuminated an unguarded expression. (“Sergeant, why is that man smiling?”) Once you accepted the Revolution, you accepted the Mask. For the rest of your useful Party life you must live and, if the Party required it, die with it firmly in place.

How he longed to be free of it!

Impassively, he followed his comrades into the prison house and a few moments later heard the heavy iron door slam shut behind him and the key grate in the lock. The sound produced a barrage of whistles above which someone began to sing a song about the Putilov Steel workers’ strike. Several of the others had managed to smuggle in unfinished bottles of wine or vodka from the hotel and, in the larger cells, the chorus was quickly taken up as the bottles began to be passed around.

Trotsky pushed his way through the crush of bodies at the bottom of the staircase and began to climb the stairs. Sverchkov appeared above him, going the other way, and as they passed each other, he grabbed Trotsky’s arm.

Waving the half-finished bottle of brandy he had filched from their lunch table he said, “Aren’t you coming to the party, Lev? Come on, there’s plenty for everyone.”

“No thanks, Dimitri, I think not.”

“Oh come on!” Sverchkov urged. “We have to drink to your brilliant plan to divert the Ob and make the deserts bloom.”

“No!” Trotsky insisted. “I am not feeling at all well. You go on. Is the Doctor upstairs?”

“Dr. Feit? Yes, I think so.”

Still blocking his way, Sverchkov drunkenly put his arm across Trotsky’s shoulder.

“Oh come on, Lev! You’ll feel much better after you’ve helped me finish off this brandy.”

Trotsky shook himself free.

“No. I think I’ve had enough. You go and enjoy yourself.”

“Suit yourself,” said Sverchkov with a shrug and continued on his way, calling out as he reached the bottom of the stairs, “Don’t wait up.”

When Trotsky had reached the upper landing, he saw that the door to the first cell was pushed to. Opening it silently, he looked inside. The Doctor was lying on his back, reading a newspaper by the dim light of an oil-lamp. On the opposite bed, three small children lay asleep under a single blanket, their faces strained with exhaustion. Looking up, the old man held a finger to his lips.

As silently as he could, Trotsky entered the cell and closed the door behind him. One of the children, a boy of four years old, stirred in his sleep. The movement touched Trotsky, reminding him of his disturbing dream earlier that day.

Tiptoeing over to the Doctor’s bed Trotsky knelt down beside it.

“Doctor,” he whispered softly. “I think I’m going to be ill.”

Chapter Five

Tuesday 13th February 1907

Berezovo, Northern Siberia

Colonel Izorov stood in the doorway of the cell and watched closely as Dr. Tortsov completed his lengthy examination of the half-naked prisoner on the bed. At last, the Doctor straightened up and, with a final noncommittal grunt, motioned to the young man to get dressed.

“Well?” Colonel Izorov asked impatiently.

Although he felt oppressed by the cell’s stale air the Doctor was not to be hurried. Picking up his battered medical bag from the bedside table he pushed past the Chief of Police and walked out onto the landing. Colonel Izorov joined him and together they made their way past the open doors of the cells, where a few of the exiles were anxiously waiting to learn his verdict. When they had reached the top of the staircase Dr. Tortsov turned and fixed the policeman with an uncompromising look.