Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

He smiled to himself. From the window in the corridor, there was a drop of maybe four metres to the street below; less if he used a sheet, and the street led straight to the heart of the town’s Jewish Quarter. But that was not the way he would go. If Colonel Izorov thought that the first thing he would do was to try and slip into the Quarter then he would be disappointed.

Sitting up, he reached under the mattress and drew out the knife Sverchkov had stolen for him from the Hotel. Besides the single guard who sat alongside the dvornick by the main door, he had seen no other indication that security had been tightened around the hospital. It appeared that his cellmate had not exaggerated when he had boasted that he could have smuggled a rifle, or even a reindeer into him without attracting any attention.

All the same, he told himself as he pulled off his left boot, we must proceed with caution on the premise that such security does exist.

Examining the boot, he had a pang of regret. It really was a fine piece of footwear: it seemed a shame to damage it. The snow had stained the leather upper, but that did not matter. Five minutes with a good tin of dubbing and a rag would soon have restored its lustre. Placing the boot upside down between his knees, he laid the blade of the knife at the point where the heel met the sole and set to work. Ten minutes later, having succeeded in cutting through less than a quarter of the heel, he gave up. The cobbler in Petersburg had made too good a job of it, that was the problem. Licking his lips nervously, he wiped the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his shirt and considered what he should do next. He had tried prising the heel off, but the handle of the knife kept slipping in his hand and the blade had twice come close to snapping.

Sliding the knife under his pillow, he lay back on the bed and weighed the boot in his hand. If he banged it with sufficient force against the iron bedstead he might be able to loosen the heel, but the noise was bound to attract attention. Grasping the heel, he wrenched at it with all his strength, but to no avail. He changed his grip and began to twist it first one way and then the other. It was no use. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he stood up again and began to limp around the room. There had to be a way to get the heel off: everything depended on it. He looked down at the bed and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. The answer was there, if only he could find it.

Walking quickly to the door, he wedged the single chair the room possessed under the door handle then returned to the bed. Picking up the pillow and the knife, he laid them carefully on the floor. The blankets and the mattress followed them, until all that was left was the bed springs, and the two ends of the bed, held together by a pair of heavy side irons. Beginning at the head of the bed, he began examining the frame minutely, but soon abandoned it: none of the bars were anywhere near close enough together for him to insert the heel between them and lever it off the boot; likewise the foot frame. Leaning over the bed springs, he looked for a space, a hook or a screw head; anything that might be strong enough or large enough to be of any use. There was nothing. With a silent curse, he threw the boot onto the mattress. Then, lying down full length on the floor beside the bedframe, he began feeling along the edge of the nearest side iron with his fingers.

The bar seemed to be made of low quality cast iron. Its thickness was not uniform; there was a slight but discernible tapering towards the edge. Reaching out his arm he retrieved the boot, and tried to fit the edge of the side iron into the wedge-shaped cut he had sawn into the heel. It did not quite fit, but it was close enough. Putting his hand though a gap in the bed springs, he grasped the heel and pulled. The gap grew fractionally wider. Kneeling on the edge of the bed frame, still pulling the heel as hard as he could, he presented it to the edge of the side iron for a second time. It fitted. Grinning with relief, Trotsky let the heel grip the metal bar.