Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

Sitting beside the driver of one of the teams of straining horses, she saw Gleb Pirogov. Yeliena inwardly flinched as the carpenter respectfully touched his cap as he passed by. How can a man with a new born baby, she wondered, knowingly help send other men’s children to their deaths?

There seemed little hope for the children. Waiting until the last sleigh had jolted past her, she made the sign of the cross against her breast and began walking towards the surgery. With all her shopping done, it only remained for her to take the book to Vasili and then she could go home. If there were patients there, she reasoned, she need stay only long enough to deliver the book into her husband’s hands. Reaching the surgery door she straightened her shoulders and let herself into the outer outwaiting room.

The room was empty; the Doctor was not there. Walking on through to the consulting room, she found herself alone once more with her husband’s young assistant. As if nothing untoward had happened between them Anton Chevanin greeted her politely and ushered her towards a chair. Busying himself with tidying away the equipment that had been used during the morning’s clinic hestepped briskly around her as if she was an obstacle. Yeliena watched him as he carried the sterilising pan from the stove to the sink and poured its water away and then began locking the cupboards in the dispensary.

He is ashamed and doesn’t know what to do, she thought. He is not experienced enough in the ways of the world to carry off this situation.

She looked away as he came back into the consulting room and sat down behind his desk. He began to explain the reason for her husband’s absence from the surgery.

“Really, Vasili Semionovich should have let me examine the convoy yesterday,” he was saying. “I did offer, but he preferred to do it himself.”

Yeliena turned to face him and said nothing. Chevanin fell silent, absorbed in his new task of adding up the sums of money the practice had taken that morning and entering them in the account ledger. Looking around the consulting room she noted that little had changed in the surgery: she still felt as much an intruder as ever. Turning back to look at Chevanin she thought again of the little boy who had waved to her in the street. It seemed that the hunger and longing that she had seen in the children’s’ faces as they stared into Gvordyen’s window did not die with adulthood, nor the impossibility of fulfilment. It was merely hidden away. Is this what becomes of the fortunate ones? she wondered.

Drawing a line under his total, Chevanin laid down his pen and carefully pressed a piece of blotting paper over the wet figures.

“So when am I to expect the Doctor home again?” she asked. “Did he leave no message before he went?”

“He will be some time yet,” Chevanin replied. “Not only are there the prisoners to be examined, but also their escort and the drivers.”

He closed the ledger.

“I did offer to help him,” he repeated, “but he refused.”

“Of course he refused,” she told him curtly. “If he had found a case of typhus then he would want you to keep clear, while he put the rest in quarantine. As long as one of you is isolated from infection, my husband’s practice can continue to function.”

“I didn’t think of that,” said Chevanin humbly. “I just thought he did not trust me to do the right thing.”

Yeliena stood up, agitated by being there.

“He thinks more highly of you and I than either of us deserve,” she said abruptly.

Wounded by her words, Chevanin bowed his head.

“I suppose I shouldn’t expect him home for lunch then?” she continued. “Do you know if he has arranged to call upon any patients this afternoon?”

Chevanin got to his feet and began to tidy his desk. “Only Nina Roshkovskaya,” he answered sulkily, “and there’s nothing much he can do there.”

“He can give comfort,” Yeliena reminded him.

Looking up, Chevanin gave her a bleak smile.

“It is you who needs comforting, Yeliena Mihailovna,” he said, coming out from behind his desk.

“Anton Ivanovich, that is enough!” she said sharply, backing away from him.

He advanced towards her, his arms outstretched, his hands seeking hers as she sought to elude him. For a moment they almost wrestled, she fending him off as best she could, refusing to listen as he began urgently whispering endearments, until at last he had trapped her, forcing her into a corner by the doorway into the dispensary. Grasping her by her wrists, he brought her fingers to his lips and began covering them with quick frantic kisses interspersed with protestations of love. When she had caught her breath, she tried again to free herself but he held her firm.

“If you really loved me,” she told him angrily, “you would let me go.”