Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“Why say ‘or’?” asked Tatyana.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You have written ‘that we will maintain this resolve until she has made full restitution to those she has wronged or has departed from our midst.’ We should be demanding that she leaves town, not allow her the option of staying.”

This time their leader shook her head.

“Anna Christianovna and I fought over that,” Olga assured her. “She thinks that we will not get enough people to sign if we openly also insisted Kuibysheva left town, and that we may also be liable to legal proceedings. She believes that the shame will be sufficient.”

This was not the truth. Unlike Tatyana Kavelina, both women had instinctively recognised where the limits of their power lay, and so had settled for ‘or’.

“But do we know where she shops?” Lidiya asked.

“Oh yes, I have compiled a list already.”

Raisa looked at the letter doubtfully.

“Do you think anybody will support this?” she asked.

“Oh yes,” replied Olga confidently, “once they have been provided with an example. I know from the enquiries I have been making over the past week that feelings in the town about this shameful woman are running very high.”

“What do you want us to do?” asked Lidiya.

“We must all sign this pledge and then tell other people about it,” Olga told her. “When we have collected, say, twelve signatures we will begin approaching the shopkeepers. By then, of course, they will have learned of our intent and will have had time to consider their position.”

“What if they don’t agree to refuse to serve her?” demanded Raisa.

“They will agree. What is a moment’s embarrassment to a shopkeeper compared to the loss of a week’s takings?”

Putting the letter down on the table she reached into her bag and brought out a fountain pen, asking as she did so, “Now, who will sign first?”

“I will sign,” said Tatyana swiftly. “After all, you are doing this for my benefit.”

“We are doing this for all our benefits,” Olga corrected her. “Irena Kuibysheva is a bezobrazie and must be stopped.”

“Let me sign next,” said Lidiya Pusnyena, reaching to take the pen from Tatyana. “I can speak with Elizveta Shiminski, it will be important that she joins us. And should I call on Yeliena Tortsova?”

“No, leave her be,” commanded Olga. “Anna Christianovna was very clear on that point. Madame Tortsova is not to be approached. She thinks that it would be unfair to put her in such a difficult position.”

“No more difficult than if her husband directed the bank,” complained Raisa.

Taking the pen from Lidiya, Olga held it out to Raisa.

“Are you refusing to join us, Raisa?” she demanded. “Are you going to let us down?”

Still the banker’s wife hesitated, determinedly not looking at the pen that was being proffered.

“Raisa!” protested Tatyana. “She’s ruined my husband.”

“Yes, I will sign,” said Raisa taking the pen at last, “but I think that this will all end badly.”

“Only for her,” said Olga with a satisfied smile.

“Oh look!” said Lidiya, as Raisa unwillingly added her signature to the others.

From her seat facing the doors Tatyana saw that Colonel Izorov had entered the dining room and was walking purposefully over towards the bearded exile.

“Do you think he already knows about this?” Lidiya asked nervously.

Oblivious to the policeman’s approach Trotsky watched the woman who had been the last to join the group, and who he had correctly deduced was their ringleader, quickly retrieve the note the other women had been signing and stuff it in her handbag.

Someone is for the chop, he thought.

The next moment his view of the group was blocked by a large figure in uniform.

“Good morning,” the Chief of Police growled. “And what exactly are you doing here?”

“I come here every morning,” Trotsky told him innocently. “The doctor has told me to gently exercise. Every morning I come here, buy my coffee, drink it and then go back to my room at the hospital. In the afternoon I walk down to the market square and back. It is not very far but it has been helpful.”

“I would prefer it if you stayed in hospital.”

“To be frank, so would I,” confessed Trotsky, “but I think that doctor is probably right to insist that I walk at least once a day. I have been careful to keep within the permitted zone.”

“I am sure you have,” said Colonel Izorov evenly, “but I think that it is time we had you safely back at the hospital.”

“Certainly, Colonel,” Trotsky agreed.

The policeman waited by his side as he collected up his cigarettes and newspaper and left thirty copecks besides the empty coffee cup. Moving away from the table Trotsky felt the stone in his right boot shift and a sharp stabbing pain in his foot. He gave his foot a surreptitious shake and was relieved to feel the stone slip safely to the side of his foot.

“You are limping,” Colonel Izorov observed. “Are your legs bothering you?”

Trotsky produced a brave smile.

“Not too much. For some reason they always feel worse in the mornings. By this afternoon the pains will have worn off.”