Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

He could still write, of course. He would always be a writer. But without a platform, he would sink lower and lower into the mire: from theoretician to commentator; from commentator to journalist; from journalist to “occasional reviewer”, until even that work dried up. Once he had exhausted the goodwill of his contemporaries, his offerings would be spiked, deposited unread into the editor’s wastepaper basket or returned unopened. He would be reduced to penning florid entertaining pieces for the liberal bourgeois press and haunting publishers’ offices with “unsuitable” novels.

Just as he was beginning to feel that he was standing on the edge of some awful abyss, the stygian depths of which were beyond knowing, the creak of a floorboard outside his door aroused Trotsky from his thoughts. Startled, he glanced around the room. The nine gold coins were already hidden, sown into the lining of his travelling coat, but the passport he had removed from the sole of his right boot was still in full view upon the small bedside table. Snatching it up, he thrust it under the band of his prison trousers. As the handle began to turn he saw, to his horror, that one of his boots still lay on the floor, its gaping heel clearly visible. With a swift kick, he sent it skimming under the bed as the door opened fully and a thuggish looking man stole into the room.

Standing up, Trotsky tensed himself for a possible violent attack.

“Who are you?” he demanded nervously. “What do you want?”

The roughly dressed stranger held up one gnarled finger to his lips as he quickly pushed the door to behind him.

“Who are you? What do you want?” Trotsky repeated, raising his voice.

“That depends,” the man replied slyly. “Who are you?”

“I am Leon Trotsky, prisoner 58069, on my way to Obdorskoye under a sentence of permanent exile.”

Giving a satisfied nod, the man advanced into the room.

“Then I am Noi Nikolayevich Pyatkonov. People call me Goat’s Foot. Andrey Vladimovich Roshkovsky said you needed my help.”

Indicating that his strange visitor should take his chair, Trotsky sat down again on the bed. If first impressions were anything to go by, this “Goat’s Foot” was not to be trusted; not an inch.

“I do not recall asking this Roshkovsky you speak of for any help.”

“It’ll cost you fifty roubles,” announced Goat’s Foot bluntly, adding with the next breath, “and then there are expenses and things to be taken along for the journey.”

“What journey?”

Feigning not to have heard him, Trotsky’s sinister looking visitor picked up one of the new reindeer skin boots he had purchased the previous day.

“I see you have got some kisys. That’s good. You will have to give me some cash so that I can buy the other things you need. Some chizhis, a malitsa and a gussi. Then there are the provisions, and the deer…”

“Wait a minute,” interrupted Trotsky, “Kisys? Gussis? What are these things?”

Holding up the new boot at arm’s length, Goat’s Foot pointed to it.

“Look, this is a kisy,” he explained patiently. “Inside this you wear your chizhis, what you would call stockings, made of reindeer hide. The chizhis are worn with the fur on the inside, next to your skin, see? That is so they don’t rub you raw, while the boots, the kisys, have the fur on the outside, to keep your feet dry.”

“Did anyone see you come in here?” asked Trotsky.

“No, of course not!” declared Goat’s Foot. “Now, your malitsa is just the same thing as a chizhi only you wear it over the rest of your body.”

The clumsy description confused Trotsky.

“Like a big scarf?” he guessed.

“No, not like a scarf! Like a bloody overcoat. It’s an overcoat made of deer hide with the fur turned inside out.”

“Then what do you call those big coats I’ve seen with the fur on the outside?”

“Those are your gussis!” Goat’s Foot answered triumphantly, pleased that Trotsky was catching on. “You wear them over your malitsa.”

“Are two coats really necessary? Don’t they make movement difficult? Surely one good one would suffice.”

“Not if you want to reach the Bogoslovosk mines alive. The cold out there on the taiga will be ten times worse than anything you’ve met here.”

Trotsky frowned, and looked baffled.

“The Bogoslovosk mines?” he repeated doubtfully. “I‘m sorry, there must be some mistake. I am going to Obdorskoye.”

The peasant stared angrily at him for a moment. Then, jumping to his feet, he tore off his cap and began twisting it in his hands as he advanced threateningly towards Trotsky.

“Listen, Jewboy!” he said thickly. “I’ve risked my fucking back coming to see you today and I am not the only one. Roshkovsky would also be in for it if it became known that he had anything to do with your plans for escape, and he’s got a crippled wife at home to look after. So stop wasting any more of my fucking time! You are either going or you’re not. And if you’re going, the ticket costs fifty roubles.”

Hastily, Trotsky tried to placate him.

“I apologise! But I had to make sure you were genuine!”