Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“That is probably what Izorov expects him to do. Don’t worry so. If anything goes wrong, the Quarter will be the first place the police will search, not here.”

His wife refused to be mollified.

“‘Don’t worry’ you say. How can I not worry when any minute the police might come in and arrest us both. Oh, don’t be such a fool!”

“Nina,” he said quietly, “if you had been in my position, you would have done exactly the same thing.”

“Oh? You think so, do you?”

“Yes! There is something special about him. I can’t describe it, but he’s not like the others. He’s not a man of violence; in fact he abhors violence. The idea that you can change things by the bomb or the gun is anathema to him. He is a man of peace who wants merely the same things we want: an end to war, and suffering. He wants to abolish poverty and hunger and to bring this poor country into the twentieth century.”

“I see,” said his wife sceptically. “Then perhaps you can explain why this man of peace, this paragon of virtue is under sentence of life exile at Obdorskoye? Just tell me that, or have you become a Socialist as well?”

“No, of course not,” replied Roshkovsky crossly, “but it doesn’t mean that I can’t appreciate what he is trying to do.”

“I know precisely what he’s trying to do, Andrey!” exploded Madame Roshkovskaya. “He’s trying to escape, that’s what he’s trying to do! And he doesn’t much care how many people get hurt in the process.”

She gave a bitter laugh.

“I will say this for him, though,” she added. “He’s a good judge of character. He knew that he had to find the one fool in Berezovo who was stupid enough to help him and, by God, he found him!”

“That’s a cruel and a rude thing to say, Nina,” said Roshkovsky quietly. “In every man’s life there comes a time when he is faced with the decision to act or look the other way. It’s the easiest thing in…”

“No, Andrey!” protested his wife. “In Heaven’s name, spare me another of your sermons. If you wish to play Jesus Christ, do so. But just remember that our Lord did not have a wife and a career to think about.”

Madame Roshkovskaya took a delicate lace handkerchief from under the cuff of her blouse and began dabbing at her eyes. Roshkovsky stood watching her for a moment then walked over to her again. Tentatively, he put a hand on her shoulder.

“Don’t worry Nina. Nothing will go wrong,” he assured her softly. “He is meeting Goat’s Foot tomorrow night in the churchyard. It has all been arranged. The driver, the sleigh, everything. By midnight he will be well on his way and we can forget all about him.”

“Are you certain?” she asked with a sniff.

“Yes. Nobody will go looking for him on a Sunday. Even Izorov takes the day off. And what with the play and everything, Captain Steklov will be too preoccupied making sure that we don’t burn down the barracks to even think about mounting a guard over him. Assuming that he is still free to move around tomorrow, then Goat’s Foot will get him out of town.”

Tucking away the handkerchief again, she looked up at him and smiled uncertainly.

“And if he isn’t free? What will you do then?”

“I? I shall do nothing,” he promised her. “What more can I do? If the Colonel suddenly decides to double Trotsky’s guard, that is the chance he has to take.”

Reaching up, she caught hold of his hand and, pulling it to her lips, kissed it.

“Andrey, promise me that you won’t take any more risks.”

“Darling…”

“Promise me, Andrey.”

“I promise. Now,” he urged her, “dry your eyes and stop worrying.”

Giving her hand a final squeeze, he left her side and began clearing the table.

Taking out her handkerchief again, Nina Roshkovskaya blew her nose. She felt emotionally drained by the crisis that had suddenly invaded her home.

“What do you think his chances are?” she called out wearily to him.

For a moment Roshkovsky did not answer. When he did speak, all his previous optimism seemed to have left his voice.

“Between ourselves, I don’t think he has a hope. Well, perhaps one chance in twenty. Certainly no better than that.”

“I almost hope he doesn’t make it,” she admitted. “Is that awful of me?”

“It isn’t very kind,” he admitted. “Anyway, it’s out of our hands now.”

“Does he know the dangers he will be facing?”

“I warned him, naturally,” Roshkovsky told her, as he carried a second pile of crockery to the sideboard. “What matters most to him is that this is the last opportunity he has to regain his freedom.”

“And because of that he is prepared to risk being murdered or left to freeze to death on the taiga?” she said, shaking her head in wonder. “I could never do that.”

“Exiles like him don’t seem to care about such things,” replied Roshkovsky. “They are different from us. To them, their life is cheap compared to the cause in which they believe.”

“And so are other people’s lives,” she observed. “That is what worries me the most.”

“What do you mean?”

Madame Roshkovskaya gave her husband a cool look.

“What happens if this Trotsky gets caught and is brought back here to town? Who will he blame for betraying him?”

Roshkovsky shrugged.