Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“Of course. How else are the troops to return?” replied the colonel with a shrug. “Only a fool would think otherwise. However important these prisoners are, they aren’t worth a company of soldiers freezing their balls off in the snow.”

“I’m relieved to hear you say that,” said Steklov drily.

“Another thing,” the colonel went on. “The escort will need two guides who know the way over the ice fields. Do you have two good men you can let them have?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Good. The billeting of the escort I leave to you. Is there anything else?”

A quick glance at the paper Izorov had given him reminded Steklov of the one remaining obstacle.

“Yes, just one question. It’s a minor detail really, but it could prove awkward. I have promised Dresnyakov’s drama committee the use of the barracks hall for the night these people arrive. What do you suggest I tell him?”

“I know all about that,” replied Izorov as he began gathering up the rest of his papers. “I have already cancelled the performance. The last thing I want to do is to hand the Reds a mass meeting as soon as they arrive.”

“Quite. But would it not be better merely to postpone the play?” suggested Steklov. “Say, just for a week? That way, it might not excite so much gossip in the town. After all, secrecy is vital.”

Izorov turned the idea over in his mind and gave a slow nod of consent. “Perhaps you are right. I shall leave that up to you.”

Folding the policeman’s notes, Captain Steklov put them into the pocket of his tunic then got to his feet. The discussion was over. But as he took his carefully polished peaked cap from the hook behind the door, he could not resist a parting shot.

“In that case, Colonel,” he announced with a faint smile, “I shall inform the drama committee that the postponement is due to regimental exercises.”

Colonel Izorov looked up sharply, but the young officer was already bowing and making his exit. With a grunt of dismissal, the Chief of Police let him leave. He felt contented with the way the meeting had gone. He had already known that he could rely on Skyralenko to do as he was told, but the alacrity with which the Mayor had surrendered his position once he had been given the opportunity to make one of his speeches had been impressive. And to cap it all, Steklov’s easily ruffled feathers had been smoothed.

It had been a good morning’s work. He had succeeded in doing what he had set out to do: to give them enough work to keep themselves out of mischief, enabling him to keep his hands free. Now all he had to do was watch and wait. Unless he was very much mistaken, it wouldn’t be long before the first signs of anarchy appeared in the town, like spring grass sprouting through the melting snow. And when they did, he would be ready to pull them out by the roots.

Chapter Four

Wednesday 31st January 1907

Berezovo, Northern Siberia

At Number 14 Menshikov Street, the chimes of the ancient clock upon her mantelpiece striking the half hour had woken Anastasia Christianovna Wrenskaya to a room ill-prepared for guests. In the dull cheerless gloom of the late afternoon her salon, for so she regarded the faded drawing room, looked as welcoming as a crypt. A gaunt figure, her back unbent despite her great age, Berezovo’s oldest inhabitant sat picking irritably at the folds of the blanket that covered her knees as she waited for her maid to reappear. A lifetime of being waited upon had left her with an ingrained impatience with those in her service. She had neither the strength nor the inclination to go searching for the girl.

It was at times like this, with her guests due to arrive at any moment and nothing ready for them, that she missed the order and discipline that her first husband – the professor – had once provided. The professor would not have tolerated such dereliction for an instant. At the first sign of laziness or of insolence, he would have given the girl a good hiding. Then what screams and shouts would have come from the back of the house as he pressed home the attack! How they had bellowed! She had often wondered how such small creatures could make such a noise. There had been one chit of a girl who had sounded exactly like the siren at Pilsudsky’s steel mill. The Professor had laughed heartily when she had told him, but it was true. She could recall his voice now, and could remember the way his ticklish moustache would twitch angrily as his temper worsened. Then he would select his favourite stick and, gripping it firmly in his hand, stalk off towards the kitchens to do his duty as Master of the House. The Professor, quite properly, always spared her the burden of witnessing the offender’s punishment. (“It’s a degrading scene, my dear. Best not to look.”) She would sit there, in the same chair in which she now sat, its high-winged back half turned towards the window, and pretend to read as she listened to the commotion.