Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

The sight of so strange a train drew onlookers and the news soon spread that something was happening. Singly and in groups people began hurrying from the poorer areas of the town towards the uchastok until it seemed that the Quarter was emptying itself into Alexei Street. As Colonel Izorov’s men stationed themselves at intervals between the growing crowd and the convoy, Captain Steklov’s troops took up their positions beside each sleigh. Unslinging their rifles, they fixed their bayonets and eyed the local exiles warily. There was a delay and the onlookers fell silent, the only noise coming from the reindeer restlessly pawing at the frozen street with their heavy hooves, trying to dig beneath the packed snow for plant roots that were not there. Then, as the bell of Church of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary began to toll the hour of ten o’clock, the door to the police headquarters opened and the first of the condemned Soviet Deputies were led out into the street.

Immediately those amongst the local exiles who stood nearest the sleighs surged forwards to greet them, pressing small packages of food and comforts upon their comrades until they were forced back by the policemen’s flailing truncheons. At the rear of the convoy, there was a flash of scarlet as someone produced a red flag and stuck it jauntily into the framework of the last sleigh. The gesture brought a few ragged cheers and, more ominously, a chorus of derisive whistles from a group of men from the Black Cock who had followed the sleighs into the road. A single snowball was thrown, landing harmlessly amongst a family of prisoners who were being shepherded into their sleigh. Frightened, their youngest child began to cry. The mood grew uglier. There was a scuffle, and one of Fatiev’s men disappeared under a flurry of snow-capped boots. Half-heartedly, two of the policemen drove his attackers off and dragged the shaken man into the safety of a shop doorway. The remainder of the prisoners were quickly hustled to their sleighs, their escort looking uneasily around at the townspeople, uncertain as to what might happen next.

The crowd’s attention was now diverted by the appearance at the head of the convoy of Colonel Izorov, together with Captain Steklov and the sergeant in charge of the escort. Behind them, on the steps of the Town Hall, some of the members of the Town Council were gathering around the figure of Mayor Anatoli Pobednyev who was once more resplendent in the Sash of Berezovo. Producing a sheaf of papers from his pocket, His Excellency began to read aloud the speech he had formerly prepared for the convoy’s arrival. After the first few ringing phrases, his words were drowned out by a barrage of shouted protests from the exiles on the boardwalk which in turn gave way to a chorus of the “Marseillaise”. With an impatient gesture, Colonel Izorov motioned the sergeant to board the leading sleigh and, in a matter of seconds the convoy began to move off. Standing at the window of the Mayoral Chamber, the hunchbacked secretary snickered to himself as he watched His Excellency fold up his speech and thrust it angrily back into his pocket. Within a few minutes, the sleighs were gone and the crowd began to melt away. All that remained of the convoy were several scattered piles of reindeer droppings and a small red flag that lay trampled in the soiled snow. As His Excellency was heard to remark repeatedly as he stomped back to his chambers, it had all been very unsatisfactory.

The Mayor’s mood did not improve when, upon his return to the Town Hall, he was greeted by his Secretary with the news that Illya Kuibyshev awaited him in his chambers. Pobednyev had been wishing to avoid the fur merchant ever since his unfortunate return a few days previously. Now, it seemed, Kuibyshev was seeking him out, but for what purpose? It had not been the Mayor’s fault that he had been put in the kettle by Captain Steklov’s troops, nor that he had fallen out of his carriage and landed on his face in front of everybody in the middle of Alexei Street.

“Does he have an appointment?” he asked the Secretary as they ascended the staircase to his chambers.

The Secretary, walking crabwise and backwards up the stairs in his attempt to simultaneously accompany the Mayor and lead the way up to the mayoral chamber, waved his palms in denial.

“Absolutely not, your Excellency,” he said adamantly, “but considering his mood I thought it best to allow him to wait…”

“His mood?” queried Pobednyev. “What cause does he have to have a mood?”

“Who can say, your Excellency?” replied the Secretary, adding with a titter, “Perhaps he has received some bad news of a personal nature.”