Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“We are lucky this time, Colonel,” he said. “As far as I can tell, Feit’s diagnosis is correct. It’s nothing worse than an acute case of sciatica.”

“Are you sure?”

“As sure as I can be. The patient reports a history of it and he complains of all the classic symptoms. Pains in the buttocks, and the backs of his thighs, spreading to the outside and front of his legs. He feels faint and has experienced muscular lock. Of course, it could be an incipient spinal tumour, but I doubt it.”

Annoyed, Colonel Izorov looked back along the corridor.

“I thought that it was at least typhus by the time you were taking,” he grumbled.

“You can’t be too careful, Colonel,” warned the Doctor. “To be frank, I won’t be happy until I have examined each and every one of them, especially the children. They are the most vulnerable. As it is, I have already been derelict in my responsibility by not having seen them before. Now I must insist that I check them all before I leave here.”

“All of them!” exclaimed Colonel Izorov. “Some have already gone out into the town.”

“Then get them back.”

“How long will it take?”

“All morning, I’d say,” replied the Doctor. “Longer if I find any positive signs.”

The policeman jerked his thumb back towards the cell they had just left.

“What about him in there?”

“Don’t worry, he is clear, but he won’t be fit to travel for at least another three or four days, probably longer. The best thing would be to leave him here until the end of the week.”

Turning on his heel Colonel Izorov began to walk down the steps, declaring as he descended, “Impossible! The cells will be needed again. We have prisoners of our own.”

“Then have him transferred under guard to the hospital for convalescence,” suggested the Doctor following him.

“Why? There’s nothing wrong with him, only a few aches and pains. You can’t die of sciatica, can you?”

“No,” agreed the Doctor as they reached the ground floor, “but if sciatica is not treated properly, one can certainly become crippled, and that is as good as a death sentence in a place like Obdorsk. As he is now, I doubt if he would last a month; possibly less.”

“I can’t split them up,” the Colonel told him, “and I can’t keep the rest of them here until he chooses to get better. It’s not up to me. These people have a timetable to keep to.”

“Colonel, this isn’t a matter of choice,” insisted the Doctor. “You asked me to examine a sick prisoner. I have done so. The medical record will show my diagnosis and the treatment I have prescribed. What you do with him is your responsibility. If he dies the first week out there, and then the new Duma grants them amnesty and these people are brought back on reprieve, there will be questions asked. Questions that you will have to answer. I wash my hands of the whole matter.”

“Doctor, be reasonable!” pleaded the Chief of Police. “Consider my position. The sooner we pack them off the better.”

“I can only repeat what I have told you,” replied the Doctor stubbornly. “The prisoner Trotsky should be allowed time to recover. If the others have a clean bill of health, they may proceed. But as far as he is concerned, he needs a warm, dry room and plenty of gentle exercise for a week.”

“For a week, you say?”

“Probably less. Certainly no more, unless there are complications.”

“God keep me from complications!” Izorov muttered under his breath.

“Well?” demanded Dr. Tortsov.

“All right, Doctor,” agreed the Colonel unwillingly. “A week, but no longer. The rest will leave tomorrow as arranged.”

“Allow me to be the judge of that, Colonel, will you?” replied the Doctor, beckoning to Prison Director Dimitri Skyralenko who was hovering nearby.

As Dr Tortsov set to examining the rest of the prisoners, Skyralenko, remembering his promise to the prisoner Arkov, attempted to persuade the Chief of Police to change his mind on another matter. Arkov was an old man, he argued. Let his remaining sentence be commuted to one of house arrest and the revolutionist Trotsky could be safely kept behind bars until he had recovered. But the Colonel, irritated at having had his authority challenged once that morning, brushed the Prison Director aside, and strode angrily back to his lair to give orders that the remaining “visitors” were to be rounded up at once and marched back to the jail.

* * *

At about the same time that Colonel Izorov was entering through the rear door of the Police headquarters, Yeliena Tortsova was passing out through the front door of No. 8 Ostermann Street. With the exception of her attendance at the Sunday service it was the first time she had stepped out of the house for over two days and she was looking forward to enjoying her morning’s shopping excursion.