Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

Leaving the barracks, he entered Market Square. It was still snowing. Seeing the row of sleighs for hire, he debated with himself whether to ride home. He decided that he should walk instead. He needed time, he told himself: time to think. Try as he might, he could not rid himself of the one thought that now hammered at his mind: that he must tell Nina what he had done. But how to go about it? Just as Chevanin had struggled with himself while waiting in the Tortsovs’ living room six days before, so now Roshkovsky pondered over the exact words he would use to tell his wife that her husband had become implicated in a plot to help a dangerous revolutionary to escape. Since Trotsky had left his office, he felt that he had aged ten years with every passing hour. The strain of waiting for Colonel Izorov to discover their conspiracy had become intolerable. He almost wished that it was all over; that he was already safe behind bars in the prison house and unable to do any further harm, either to himself or to those he loved.

It’s true after all, he admitted to himself. Eventually the impulse to confess becomes equal to the temptation to commit the crime.

As he trudged towards Alexei Street, he turned the limited range of choices that presented themselves over in his mind. He could be jocular (“The oddest thing happened to me the other day in the office…”). He could be full of bravado (“I’ve just helped a convicted menace to society escape…”). He could be casual (“Talking about taking a short holiday…”). Or, he thought angrily, he could be shot. Should be shot, for involving her in such a dangerous affair. No matter how hard he tried, the words would not come.

In the end it was his heart and not his head that spoke. Sitting opposite his wife at lunch he watched as she lifted another trembling fork full of food to her lips. Lately, the spasms had become worse, until each mealtime had become a trial of strength in which gradually her illness was gaining the upper hand. Determined to keep her personal dignity for as long as she could, she refused to let him feed her. His heart felt full and heavy as, catching him looking at her, his wife smiled bravely back. Overcome with emotion he put down his knife and fork and rose from his seat. Going to her he half knelt by her chair and embraced her.

“Nina, I have something to tell you.”

As she listened, Madame Roshkovskaya’s eyes grew rounder and rounder, and her face lengthened as the enormity of his folly was revealed to her. Looking up at her, Roshkovsky saw her expression pass in quick succession from surprise and anger to dismay and finally horror. When at last he had told her everything that had happened, she sat staring at him unbelievingly for a moment. Then she asked the one question to which he did not have an answer.

“But why, Andrey? Why did you get involved in the first place?”

“To begin with, there seemed no harm in it,” he replied sheepishly. “And anyway, I felt sorry for him.”

He could see that his answer, truthful though it was, sounded incredible to her ears.

“No harm?” she repeated slowly, as if doubtful whether she had heard him correctly. “This man leads an armed revolt against the Tsar and his ministers, occupies large parts of St. Petersburg and comes within an ace of overthrowing the Imperial government and you tell me there is no harm in helping him? Why is it that I find that so hard to understand?”

“I’ve told you,” Roshkovsky protested, “at first he did not ask me for help. All he asked was whether or not it was possible to escape. And I replied that the odds were against it, which is true. All the rest he did for himself.”

“But what about the maps, Andrey?” she cried shrilly. “The maps you showed him. Someone must have seen him enter your office. Colonel Izorov will have spies watching his every move.”

“That’s why I went to see Goat’s Foot! If he does get caught, Goat’s Foot won’t talk.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Faced with a flogging or losing fifty roubles,” he retorted grimly, “Goat’s Foot will take the flogging. You can be sure of that.”

“And what if the police search his izba and find the money?” his wife argued. “Then he will have no reason to protect you. Kostya Izorov isn’t a fool. He will guess that this Trotsky had a go-between, someone to arrange his meetings with Goat’s Foot.”

Standing up, Roshkovsky smiled shrewdly, and shook his head.

“Izorov won’t find any money. It’s probably already buried somewhere along the riverbank safe and sound until the spring thaw, when all this will be forgotten. Goat’s Foot is too cunning to keep it at home.”

Looking down at her half eaten food, Madame Roshkovsky feebly pushed the plate away.

“But why you, Andrey?” she repeated. “Why didn’t he go to one of the exiles? God knows, he must have enough friends in the Quarter who would be more than willing to help him.”