Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“But it would also be important, would it not,” suggested the fur merchant slowly, “that we don’t let the Council become too unwieldy?”

“Unwieldy?” echoed the Mayor.

“Yes. We have always operated with a Council of seven members, which you yourself have said is the perfect number. At the moment the Council consists of yourself, Sergei Kuprin, Fyodor Izminsky, Pavel Nadnikov, Nikita Shiminski, myself and Kavelin.”

Kuibyshev paused and peered closely at the burning rim of his cigar.

“Adding another one,” he reasoned, “would make it eight, and unwieldy.”

“In that case,” asked the Mayor quietly, “what do you suggest we do?”

“Well,” said Kuibyshev, his hands raised in a gesture that denoted he was stating the obvious to a slow child, “if there are only seven seats and a new person joins, someone else has to leave.”

The Mayor looked down at the blotting pad on his desk and nodded his head sadly.

“Which Councillor did you have in mind?” he asked Kuibyshev, already knowing the answer.

“Leonid Kavelin. As you yourself say, it’s important that we only have people on the Council that can be trusted. I have been given reason to believe that Kavelin is no longer worthy of our trust.”

The Mayor sighed and signalled his agreement with a silent nod.

“There is no need to tell him before tomorrow,” suggested Kuibyshev.

“And if Leonid Sergeivich goes, you will support the election of Modest Tolkach?”

“Yes,” confirmed Kuibyshev, “although I still think that it may prove to be a mistake.”

“Then so be it,” ordered the Mayor with a rap of his knuckle on the top of his desk.

The two men stood and after a brief embrace that left His Excellency feeling slightly chilled, they prepared to leave the Chamber. Just as they reached the door the Mayor sought to detain Kuibyshev by grasping his sleeve.

“One more thing, Illya Moiseyevich, can you tell me how our investments are doing? We have had no news for over two months.”

“Your investments are in safe hands,” the fur merchant assured him. “I am confident that you will be more than satisfied by your return.”

“But when will we see figures?” Pobednyev persisted. “Not knowing whether the market is up or down… it is all very worrying.”

Cocking his head to one side Kuibyshev bestowed upon the Mayor one of his warmest, most candid smiles.

“I am expecting the quarterly reports to arrive by the next post,” he lied. “We shall all have to be patient until then.”

Removing Pobednyev’s hand from his sleeve, he opened the door into the landing that led to the staircase to the ground floor of the town hall. Draping his arm round the Mayor’s shoulders he said, “I hope that you haven’t been spending time worrying about your stocks. You have had enough on your plate with all these insurrectionists being deposited on the town.”

“It has been a strain,” admitted the Mayor, touched his understanding, “and it has given us such a lot of work to do. I am glad we have got shot of them this morning, although their departure was as big a shambles as their arrival.”

Together the two men began walking down the staircase, arm in arm.

“Well, at least they have gone now,” Kuibyshev consoled him.

“Not all of them,” replied the Mayor grumpily. “One of them has stayed behind and is sick in the hospital.”

“Not with typhus, I hope?”

“No, thank God!” exclaimed the Mayor. “He suffers from sciatica, if you please.”

“I wouldn’t have thought that was too dangerous. I mean, to travel with.”

“Apparently it is,” replied Pobednyev with a shrug. “Anyway, he’s Kostya Izorov’s problem now.”

“Whatever private reservations we might have about him,” said Kuibyshev suddenly with unexpected feeling, “Colonel Izorov is a just man and we are lucky to have him in this town. On my travels, Anatoli Mihailovich, I have seen things… terrible things that are barbaric. It is this reaction. People taking revenge for what happened in the Troubles… shootings, hangings, beatings, rape and mutilation, and all without any sort of trial. In some parts of the country they have gone back to the time of Tsar Ivan.”

“That is shocking!” responded Pobednyev quietly.

“It is good that you are shocked. So am I,” Kuibyshev told him warmly. “You know, we twentieth century men, in order to save civilisation, we must stick together.”

Chapter Ten

Wednesday 14th February

Berezovo, Northern Siberia

An hour later alone in his room at the rear of the upper storey of the hospital, Trotsky lay on his bed and listened to the church’s bell as it rang out the hour. On the eleventh stroke, he heaved a sigh of relief. Until the convoy had left, it had not been safe for him to leave his room: nothing could have been easier than for the Chief of Police to have bundled him onto a sleigh at the last moment. Now, at last, he was free to move; free to take the “gentle exercise” that the Doctor had prescribed.