Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“I remember it,” confirmed Trotsky. “We stopped there on the way here.”

Pointing to the spot that represented the village of Kandinskoye, Roshkovsky tapped it with his finger.

“Once the alert has been sounded,” he continued, “every soldier, every policeman stationed along the road will be on the look-out for you. You might bluff your way past one road block, perhaps even two if you have some sort of disguise, but no more. The whole administration of this District relies on the telegraph service. Its officials live along the Highway and use it regularly. A stranger would be picked up at once.”

“I see. What is the second alternative?”

Pointing again to the map, Roshkovsky indicated the shaded contours of the Ural Mountains that bordered its western margin.

“Your second option is to travel due west and cross the mountains, using deer and a local guide to find a pass that is still open. Once through, head for Izhma and then Archangel. No police and no telegraph for much of the way.”

Trotsky looked at him keenly.

“What is the drawback then?”

“When, or rather if you get to Archangel, you will be stuck there until the opening of the navigable routes in the spring. You will need good friends to hide you there.”

Trotsky turned his attention back to the map. The only organisation worthy of the name in Archangel was Bolshevik. He would be completely dependent upon Nicolai’s goodwill and support.

He shook his head.

“That is too risky for my comrades, and too long for me.”

“That only leaves the third option,” Roshkovsky told him, “and that is the most dangerous of all. Head westwards as before, following the banks of either the Sosva or the Vogulka rivers. Then strike out for the Bogoslovosk ore mines near Rudniki. There is a narrow gauge railway line that connects with the line to Perm. Perm, Vyatka, Vologda, St. Petersburg.”

“What are the advantages and the disadvantages?”

Roshkovsky gave a short laugh.

“There is only one advantage,” he said deliberately. “No sane man would think of looking for you along that route, and I include Colonel Izorov. There are no policemen for nearly a thousand versts; nor any village or settlement where people speak anything like Russian. Naturally, there is no telegraph either and, as the country can only be crossed by reindeer, pursuit by a cavalry patrol is out of the question.”

“And the disadvantages?”

“As I told you, no sane man would try it,” repeated the land surveyor as he began to unpin the map. “There are no policemen out there, either to capture you or to protect you. A different law operates out there, the law of the taiga. You would have to rely completely on the hospitality of the Ostyaks who live in isolated settlements, riddled with syphilis and typhus. If they take it into their heads to murder you, they will. And then there is the danger of sickness: once taken ill, you must expect no relief. This very winter at Ourvinsk yurt on the Sosvinki Road, a young fellow called Dobrovolsky was caught by the typhoid. They say he took fourteen days to die. And even if you escape death from foul play or from disease, there is always the weather. The route you will need to follow, once you have left the riverbank, is nothing more than a track, easily erased by the slightest fall of snow.”

Lifting the rolled map off the table, Roshkovsky carried it carefully back to the pile by his desk.

“Go on,” urged Trotsky.

“What more can I say? February is the month of blinding blizzards. They can last for days on end. Should one overtake you, there would be no hope. And suppose the reindeer become lame? You could not replace them, and remember you have nearly a thousand versts to cross. There’s no guarantee that the trail has been travelled recently. If none of the Ostyaks have used it since the last big blow, it would be impossible for you to even begin to find your way.”

“But you could,” suggested Trotsky. “You could be my guide.”

“No, I couldn’t,” retorted the land surveyor coldly. “All I can do is offer you advice. That’s my job: to offer people advice. I am certainly not experienced enough to act as your guide, even if I wished to. Which I don’t.”

“What about all the times you go out surveying?” Trotsky persisted. “What happens then?”

Roshkovsky raised his eyes to the ceiling in exasperation.

“I take my own guide,” he replied with an exaggerated slowness. “And I make damned sure that I don’t travel in the middle of winter. You do not seem to understand. The taiga isn’t just something you can stroll across on a Sunday afternoon. It is a barrier as big as the Sahara desert. It has its own laws, its own people, its own signs; it even has its own language. Such things are not learned in an instant. It takes years and years of travelling. If you need a guide, then go to the hunters and the trappers. Don’t come to summer travellers like me.”

Trotsky waited patiently for Roshkovsky to finish.

“Who do you use then?” he asked. “Tell me who is the best person to approach and I won’t bother you again.”