Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“I am hopeful,” responded Trotsky with a disarming smile, “that on this occasion you will do me the tremendous honour of trusting me. Especially since I am aware that if I did not return your newspaper I should find myself in very serious trouble indeed.”

Smiling sheepishly, Maslov picked up one of the newly arrived newspapers at random and handed it to him.

The two men walked in silence side by side along the wooden boardwalk that led to the Hotel New Century, Kavelin instinctively taking up position between the street and Trotsky as if he was a guard accompanying a dangerous prisoner to his final court appearance. When they reached the hotel entrance he held the outer door open for Trotsky and followed him closely into the hotel’s Dining Room. Thus it was that Trotsky entered the Dining Room first and, looking around at the scattering of people seated at its tables, saw that the woman who had earlier visited the library and had argued with his companion was now sitting alone, consoling herself with a cup of chocolate. Catching her eye he walked over to her table and, introduced himself and was surprised by the woman’s cool appraising look and the brief touch of her gloved fingers with which she condescended to graze his hand.

“Are you perhaps following me?” Irena asked him earnestly. “Am I in danger from your revolutionist comrades?”

“No, on both counts,” he assured her. “Librarian Maslov has kindly lent me a newspaper to read while I drink my coffee, that is all. I come here in peace.”

Irena’s anxious expression turned to one of delight.

“Congratulations!” she told him. “You have made history.”

“How so?” asked Trotsky.

“You might not have overthrown the Tsar’s government and burned Petersburg to the ground but you are the only person that Alexei Maslov has ever permitted to relieve him of one of his precious newspapers. You must think them very important.”

“You needn’t respond,” said Kavelin discouragingly, joining him at the table.

“They are important,” replied Trotsky unabashed. “There are few luxuries valued more highly by to an exile than to sit in peace in a nice hotel, smoke a cigarette, drink coffee and read a newspaper without the fear of arrest. Even if,” he added, “most of what is printed is utter lies.”

“You think that you are reading lies?”

“Irena, stop talking to this man!” ordered Kavelin crossly.

“Of course I am,” replied Trotsky. “The newspapers lie unconsciously when their journalists don’t know their facts or get them wrong. They lie on purpose when their editors have orders to condemn and destroy the people their proprietors think are a threat to their capitalist interests. They lie to protect their circulation and in order not to upset their good readers who do not want to know about what is really happening in their country. And sometimes, they just lie out of habit and fabricate stories.”

“That’s enough!” said Kavelin, raising his voice. “Shut up your rubbish!”

Ignoring the curious looks of the other people in the dining room he pulled Trotsky away from the table and stood between him and Irena.

“Since you value your peace and quiet while you are reading your lies,” he told him menacingly, “please go and find a table of your own. We will not detain you any longer.”

“As you wish!” said Trotsky simply and left them.

Ignoring Irena’s tut of irritation Leonid Kavelin took a seat uninvited at her table and reflected bitterly on how much had changed in his life over the course of the past seven days.

“What a performance!” he said testily. “How can you talk to human trash like that?”

“Don’t be a bore,” she responded. “It does no harm to be pleasant. Now, what is it you wanted to speak to me about?”

Still smarting from their argument in the library, Kavelin’s response was less than courteous.

“Shall we go up to the room?” he demanded bluntly. “I have a Council meeting in an hour.”

Irena smiled at him pityingly.

“Oh no, Leonid. I never do anything twice,” she informed him, adding with a sigh, “besides it is quite impossible now that Illya is back and the whole town knows about us.”

Kavelin’s face darkened.

“I want you now. Get the room key and go upstairs,” he insisted.

Irena’s smile slowly vanished and was replaced by an expression he had not seen before. It spoke of confident defiance.

“No. Absolutely not.”

“I can be very difficult, you know,” he blustered.

“Difficult?” repeated Irena.

She looked around casually to make sure that no waiters were eavesdropping on their conversation, and then addressed Kavelin in low measured tones

“Leonid, my husband deals in animal skins. He knows many hunters, large rough men who would slit your throat for twenty roubles and make it look like a shaving accident. You’ve had your fun, now be satisfied. You have a nice house and a good business but people tell me wood burns and I believe them.”

“Don’t be so ridiculous!” he scoffed. “Illya wouldn’t dare touch me.”

Irena gave a mirthless laugh.

“Remember poor Dobrovolsky who everyone thinks died from the typhus? My husband had him poisoned.”