Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

Madame Wrenskaya’s concern for Yeliena Tortsova’s moral safety would only have increased if she had witnessed Yeliena at that moment hurrying towards her paramour. She had agreed with Chevanin that they should meet at the surgery; there being the only place in the town where the presence together of the Doctor’s wife and the Doctor’s assistant could be innocently explained away. Their assignation had been easily arranged: Anton Ivanovich had volunteered to work extended hours at the surgery to enable the Doctor to provide extra cover in case typhus appeared in the town and also to allow him time to work on the direction of the play. In return Yeliena had insisted that the doctor’s assistant should eat at least one hot meal a day and, to ensure he did so, she would transport it to the surgery herself. Katya, she had argued, would only moon around Chevanin and get in his way. And the errand was genuinely no inconvenience to her as she could pay her social visits and do a little shopping at the stores at the same time. Vasili had readily agreed, seeing the practical advantages of both arrangements, and so now, for an hour a day, they could meet behind the security of closed doors in complete safety.

Despite the inherent danger of her position Yeliena was greatly enjoying their brief spells together although she often felt quite worn out by the passionate tussling and fending off that punctuated their daily hour. Chevanin was by turns ardent, attentive, and sly; one moment as considerate as a courtier, the next as hungry as a wolf and twice as cunning, rarely missing an opportunity to hold and caress her. She enjoyed their game of kiss-chase as she resolutely defended her honour and resisted his advances, by turns allowing herself to be captured or skilfully evading his embraces. Most of all, she loved his height. He was about ten centimetres taller than Vasili and it made all the difference. In their moments of rest she could press her body against his, tucking her shoulder under his armpit, her breast crushed gently against his chest with his arm draped around her like a protective wing.

His height, his lips, and his youthful vigour, she decided, as she followed the sidewalk that led round to the surgery, were the qualities that endeared him most to her. She had taught him how to kiss her the way that she liked and now he was repaying her with a generosity and skill that made her heart flutter, until she had to stop him in order to catch her breath. And when she did pull away, he had learned enough not always to pursue her but sometimes to wait for her to return to him, hungry for more. At other times he did not pause but pounced, used his strength, size and weight to trap and overpower her, so that she could experience once again for a fleeting moment the dangerous thrill of being helpless. But always he would release her before any harm had been done, and she would pretend to be angry and remonstrate with him, threatening to leave early if he did not behave with more propriety. It was, she decided, like indulging in a mock-fight on the lawn with a much loved family pet with which one had grown up – a large dog, an English mastiff perhaps or a borzoi – full of wrestling and snarling and bared teeth, safe in the knowledge that it would never bite, and if, by accident, it did, it would only give the gentlest nip.

Reaching the outer door of the surgery Yeliena paused to compose herself. The thrill of Anton’s physicality, his youth and rascality and her anticipation of his embraces had coloured her cheeks and it was by no means certain that the waiting room she was about to enter was empty. She shifted the pot she was cradling in her arms, the same pot that she had sent Katya to carry to Gleb Pirogov a fortnight before, and adjusted her hat. Covering her excitement as best she could, she pushed open the outer door and entered her husband’s surgery.

Chapter Twelve

Thursday 15th February 1907

Berezovo, Northern Siberia

On the third day of his stay at the hospital, bored with having no distraction from the tedium of waiting for a response from the land surveyor Andrei Roshkovsky and hungry for the immersive enchantment of the written word, Trotsky left his room, went downstairs and asked the dvornik for directions to the town’s library. Partly due to being given misleading advice and partly to his own personal difficulty with Berezovo’s singular street pattern, it took him twenty minutes and two further requests for directions from passers-by to locate the place. By the time he had crossed its threshold and set the bell above the library’s door ringing, he felt chilled to the bone.