Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“National socialism?” suggested Trotsky, frowning. “I don’t think that is a good idea. In fact it’s a contradiction in terms. You can’t keep Socialism confned to one country – it would be too vulnerable to a hostile world. Its only hope lies in in spreading. In any case why validate the boundaries put between people by a predatory economic system? They must be torn down! Is the German worker my enemy, or the Jew, or the Pole? Of course not, but I will keep believing he is if I am forced to compete against him and if I am told repeatedly that he is threatening my existence or my livelihood.”

“What are you then?” challenged Maslov, suddenly feeling uncomfortable with their discussion. “An ‘international’ socialist?”

Trotsky laughed loudly as the door’s bell tinkled and Irena Kuibysheva entered the library.

“No, absolutely not!” he retorted. “You make me sound like a flaneur. I am perhaps a ‘socialist internationalist’. Will that satisfy you?”

“I think that now that you are just playing with words,” muttered Maslov. Excusing himself, he went to greet Irena Kuibysheva.

“Good morning Madame Kuibysheva. It is good to see you looking so well.”

“Good morning, Alexander Vissarionovich. And, pray, why shouldn’t I be looking well?”

Flustered by her boldness, Maslov gave an embarrassed smile and bowed apologetically.

“Forgive me. How can I be of service to you today?”

“There is nothing I require. I am intending only to sit in the Reading Room and look at the new books that have arrived.”

“I am so sorry,” the librarian said hastily. “I am afraid that the Private Reading Room is closed today.”

Irena had half turned away. Now she turned back to face him, her eyes narrowing with suspicion.

“The Reading Room is closed?” she repeated. “Why should it be closed?”

“I regret to tell you,” said Maslov nervously, “that there has been a leak in one of the heating pipes and I have had to seal the room until it has been mended.”

“And how long do you see the repairs taking?” she asked with a sad smile.

“Who knows? But it must remain closed until further notice for the protection of the library.”

Irena weighed his words carefully. Taking two steps, she whispered softly in the librarian’s ear.

“Alexander Vissarionovich, has my husband already been here?”

Maslov’s nod was barely perceptible. Lifting her gloved hand Irena squeezed his arm sympathetically.

Maslov was on the point of saying something further to her when the street door was opened forcefully and Leonid Kavelin bustled into the library. Trotsky watched his arrival with interest. From his dress and bearing he could deduce that this newcomer was a bourgeois of means but his status with the young woman who had arrived a few moments before him was unclear. They did not appear to be related by blood and she was younger and more fashionably dressed than he was. Trotsky instinctively felt that there was nothing in the older man’s physique or demeanour that would recommend itself to her romantically. Nevertheless they now appeared to be engaged in a heated argument, albeit in subdued tones, the cause of which in some way involved Maslov. The librarian was standing to one side and looking anxiously from one to the other like a spaniel awaiting a whipping.

Finally the argument ended; from the expressions on the couple’s face, it seemed that the result was not in either of their favour. With a bad tempered gesture of dismissal the woman left the library and, smiling with relief, Maslov beckoned Trotsky over and introduced him to the man.

“What are you still doing here?” demanded Kavelin, ignoring Trotsky’s outstretched hand. “I though all your lot had gone north.”

“Unfortunately I have been delayed by ill health. Your Dr. Tortsov has insisted that I stay until I have recovered. I intend to follow my comrades in a few days only.”

“Ill? What’s the matter with you? You look fit to me.”

“I regret that I am suffering with sciatica,” explained Trotsky. “I intend to follow my comrades in a few days.”

“You look fit to me,” repeated Kavelin belligerently.

“And you are a trained physician? I mean, as well as a wood merchant?”

“Leonid Sergeivich,” interrupted Maslov quickly, “could I ask you please to escort M. Trotsky across to the Hotel? I understand that he is allowed to dine there and to use the facilities. I am sure,” he added as an afterthought, “that the more exercise he gets the sooner he will be able to continue his journey.”

“That is certainly Colonel Izorov’s opinion,” agreed Trotsky.

The mention of the Chief of Police’s name was of sufficient weight to settle the matter. As he took his leave he asked the librarian to grant him one favour. Would it be possible for him to borrow one of the more recent newspapers for an hour to read at the hotel?

Maslov hesitated, clearly reluctant to extend this benefit to the revolutionist.

“I am afraid that it is against the rules to allow newspapers to leave the library.”