Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

Collecting his stick, and tucking his old boots under his arm, Trotsky left them to their speculation and went out into Alexei Street. Crossing the road, he stood for a moment in front of the Hotel New Century, where he appeared to hesitate, looking around him vaguely. Across the street the door to the uchastok was unguarded and closed. Besides the usual traffic of pedestrians and sleighs, there seemed nothing out of the ordinary about the shifting patterns of movement around him. Nevertheless, he took his time, walking slowly up one side of the main thoroughfare and then back down the other, as if he were innocently window shopping while he took his exercise, using the dark reflections in the glass panes as mirrors to watch the boardwalk opposite. Once, he dropped his boots, and twice he doubled back, on the off chance that one of the seemingly innocent figures walking behind him might hesitate, taken by surprise by his change of direction. Crude as these precautions were, he felt that it was the best he could do, given his supposed medical condition and the difficulty of the terrain. When he was as certain as he could be that his first impression had been correct – that, besides the uniformed presence of the gendarmes and the occasional strolling soldier, the street was clean – he made his way towards Roshkovsky’s office.

The land surveyor did not bother to conceal his surprise at seeing him.

“I thought you people had already left,” he said.

“I’ve been detained here because of my sciatica,” Trotsky explained. “The Doctor felt that I needed the exercise.”

“Sciatica?”

“It will do as well as any other condition,” Trotsky admitted with a shrug. “It doesn’t demand any outward physical signs. And, after all, it was your idea.”

“My idea?” echoed Roshkovsky, glancing anxiously towards the open door of his office. “I don’t understand. What do you mean, my idea?”

Trotsky had waited for Roshkovsky to invite him to sit down. Now, pulling up a chair, he made himself comfortable.

“You told me that the first thing I had to do if I was to have any hope of escape was to get myself kept back here,” he reminded him. “So I did. The question is, what do I do now?”

Getting to his feet, Roshkovsky strode quickly across the office and closed the outer door. Running one hand nervously through his hair, he returned to his desk.

“I might have said that,” he admitted, “but I honestly can’t be of any use to you. You must understand that. I never travel outside town until April at the earliest. Most of the time I am here, writing up my reports and looking for new commissions.”

“Don’t worry!” Trotsky told him genially. “I won’t get you into any trouble. All I want to do is pick your brains.”

Removing his gloves, he began unbuttoning his overcoat, making it clear to the land-surveyor that he intended to stay for some time.

“Now,” he continued affably, “have you any maps of the area that I can look at?”

“Look, I would like to help you, naturally,” replied Roshkovsky. “But what you are proposing is impossible. Nobody has ever escaped from Berezovo in the wintertime. To begin with, it would cost a lot of money. More, if you forgive me, than you have.”

Reaching into his overcoat pocket, Trotsky pulled out the remaining five gold ten rouble coins and laid them silently on the top of the desk.

“Now can I see the maps?” he repeated.

Roshkovsky stared at the coins, then at the man seated opposite him, and then at the coins again.

“I apologise. It seems that I was mistaken.”

“It’s understandable. Given the circumstances, you had every reason to doubt my resources. But as you can see, money is the least of my problems. I can get more, if it is necessary. What I do need, though, is accurate information and for that I am willing to pay handsomely.”

“That isn’t necessary,” Roshkovsky replied stiffly.

He pointed to the small pile of coins and gestured to Trotsky to put them away. Casually Trotsky picked the coins up from the table and dropped them back into his pocket.

“Well?” he prompted.

The land surveyor glanced furtively again at the door of his office then back at Trotsky.

“Come over to the drawing desk,” he said.

Quickly ruffling through a pile of maps, Roshkovsky pulled one out and spread it out for Trotsky’s inspection.

“This is a map of the springtime flood levels of the River Ob for this District,” he explained. “The scale is one centimetre to ten versts. Ignore the markings around the river. It’s the smaller area to the south you are interested in. I’m assuming,” he added, looking up at Trotsky, “that you do not intend to head north or east.”

“Definitely not,” replied Trotsky.

“I thought not. Very well. As I see it, you have three alternatives. The most direct route is to go back the way you came, along the Great Tobolsk Highway. The road will be clearly marked and there are plenty of exiles along the way to give you food and shelter. But it is as hazardous as it is straightforward. The nearest telegraph office is less than two days from here, at Kandinskoye.”