Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“All the same, I think that it would be best if you rested this afternoon and stayed in your room.”

“As you wish.”

The two men left the dining room side by side. Colonel Izorov waited in silence while Trotsky retrieved his overcoat from the coat pegs in the hotel’s vestibule. When he was ready they left the hotel together. It was plain that he was now Izorov’s prisoner and the policeman meant personally to escort him all the way back to the hospital. This concerned him; the last thing that he wanted was for Izorov to be sufficiently suspicious to strengthen the surveillance that was already in force. If Izorov mounted a night time guard on the hospital, all his plans for escaping would be in ruins.

Sensible that it had become imperative that the impression that he was too handicapped to pose a threat of flight was reinforced, Trotsky hesitated when they reached the edge of the boardwalk.

“I am sorry,” he called out pathetically as Colonel Izorov began descending the steps that led down to Alexei Street. “but would you mind helping me across the road?”

Turning back Colonel Izorov gave him an old fashioned look and then, gripping Trotsky’s arms, lifted him bodily in one effortless movement down onto the snow packed road way.

“Thank you,” murmured Trotsky. “You’re too kind.”

Chapter Nineteen

Saturday 17th February

Berezovo, Northern Siberia

Standing in the middle of the barracks hall, the Hospital Administrator Modest Tolkach stared in dismay at a thin alpaca jacket which Madame Nadnikova had contributed to the basket of actor’s costumes. The jacket smelled of camphor and a note bearing the legend “Tolkachov” had been pinned to one creased lapel. All around him the other actors were delving excitedly into the basket, plucking out odd trousers or shirts and exchanging them according to the labels they bore. He held up the jacket in front of him and inspected it closely. Turning to Maslov who was standing beside him, he asked:

“Can there have been some mistake? This is the only piece of costume I appear to be given. It can’t be right.”

“Here! Catch, Anton Ivanovich!” cried Maslov, flinging a pair of trousers towards Chevanin. “What do you mean, a mistake? Whose name does it have on it?”

“Tolkachov,” said Tolkach doubtfully.

“Well that’s you, isn’t it?” Maslov said, diving into the basket to rescue a cream waistcoat. “‘Ivan Ivanovich Tolkachov.’ That’s you.”

“Yes, but surely I have more to wear than this?” protested Tolkach.

“Ask the Doctor about it,” suggested Maslov off-handedly. “I certainly haven’t seen anything else for you. I say, Dimitri Borisovich! That hat belongs to me!”

Grumbling, Tolkach crossed the hall, manoeuvring his way around the soldiers who were laying out the seats under Dr. Tortsov’s careful direction.

“Look here, Tortsov,” he said crossly, thrusting the jacket under the Doctor’s nose. “Is this all you are giving me to wear?”

“What did you expect?” asked the Doctor in feigned surprise. “A malitsa? Haven’t you read the script? The play is set at the height of summer. Tolkachov has just come up from the country. He works in a hot and stuffy office. Of course he would wear the lightest clothes he could.”

“But I’ll catch my death out there,” insisted Tolkach plaintively as he waved the jacket in front of him.

“Only if you forget your lines,” said the Doctor off-handedly. “Besides, that’s not all you wear. There’s a straw hat somewhere in the basket. And don’t worry, you’ll soon be sweating like an ox after carrying your props.”

“Props?” repeated Tolkach. “What props?”

“Oh, didn’t I write them into your script? I must have forgotten. Come over here and I’ll show you.”

Taking him by the arm, the Doctor lead him towards a large crate that stood in a corner of the hall neglected amongst the noise and confusion. The crate was covered by a heavy, dusty horse-blanket.

“Give us a hand with this, will you?” asked the Doctor as he pulled off the blanket and passed it to Tolkach.

Choking from the dust, Tolkach dropped the blanket onto the floor by his feet and was about to kick it out of the way when he stopped. Bending down, he picked up one corner. It looked and felt vaguely familiar. It was Goat’s Foot’s good fortune that his attention was distracted when the next instant he felt a sharp blow behind his ear. Crying out with pain, he straightened up and saw Dr. Tortsov wielding, of all things, a wooden replica of a child’s bicycle.

“I’m terribly sorry, Modest Andreyevich,” the Doctor said earnestly. “My hand slipped. Are you all right?”

“Yes, yes,” Tolkach said, rubbing his painful ear. “What’s the bicycle for?”

“It’s one of your props.”

Plucking out the fold of papers that stuck out of his jacket pocket, Dr. Tortsov extracted a single page which he handed to the astonished Hospital Administrator. The paper contained a list, headed by the carefully written words “Tolkachov’s props.”

Tolkach read the list aloud, with mounting alarm in his voice.

“Glass globe for lamp, a toy bicycle, three hat boxes…”