Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“Don’t you worry, Doctor,” the builder assured him, adding with heavy emphasis and a meaningful glance at the schoolmaster, “I won’t let you down.”

“Such an unfortunate man,” remarked Dresnyakov once the builder had left them. “A drunkard, of course. As Chairman of the Committee, I suppose I am to blame for asking him to do the scenery. They are all the same: give them a job with some small element of responsibility and it goes straight to their heads. They think they can go round shouting the odds at everyone. God help us if people like Belinsky ever got onto the Council.”

Tortsov snorted in disbelief.

“That’s a bit farfetched, isn’t it? Building scenery is one thing. At least we know that it won’t fall down like it did last year. But becoming a Councillor? Hardly likely, I would have thought.”

“Don’t you believe it,” warned Dresnyakov, taking him by the elbow.

Together the two men began walking across the stage. The noise from the soldiers lounging in the seats had become louder, so that Dresnyakov had to lean closer to his colleague as he spoke confidentially into his ear.

“You’ve heard about our friend Tolkach, I suppose? Pobednyev has made him a Councillor. Soon, we shall have to pay to talk to the rascal.”

Out of the corner of his eye Tortsov caught sight of the Hospital Administrator, who was being lectured by the now returned Maslov.

“It’s a scandal!” Dresnyakov was saying. “After all this is finished,” he added, waving at the confusion around them, “one or two of us ought to put our heads together and see what can be done about it.”

Tortsov nodded, his eyes searching restlessly over the throng until they found the person they sought. His wife was standing at the side of the hall, less than three metres from the stage. Captain Steklov was talking to her and although he could not hear what he was saying, he could tell, by her blushes and the look of excitement and pleasure on her face, that she was receiving his compliments upon the fine performance. He felt a feeling of warmth and pleasure at her happiness and a smile came to his lips. She was his own Yeliena again.

As if his thoughts had communicated themselves to her, she turned suddenly. Seeing him on the stage, she lifted an arm and waved at him. Waving back, he said to Dresnyakov:

“Yes, that seems an excellent idea. Until then, leave our friend to me,” he said, adding quietly, “I haven’t finished with him yet.”

Chapter Twenty

Saturday 17th February 1907

Berezovo, Northern Siberia

Long after the lights had been extinguished in the barrack hall; long after Dr Tortsov’s string of interruptions and caustic directions had begun the process of publicly humiliating the man whom he regarded as his rival; long after the boos and jeers and slow handclaps of the soldiers had finally driven the new Councillor from the stage, a figure stole through the stillness of the upper storey of Tolkach’s hospital.

Trotsky had taken what precautions he could. A spare blanket stolen from an unlocked ward had served to imitate the lumpy shape of his sleeping body. A rolled up towel from the bathroom at the end of the corridor supplied his head. He could do no more than hope that it might pass a cursory inspection during the night. Since Goat’s Foot’s visit he had rearranged his pattern of living; lying awake each night, taking his rest by day. To his knowledge he had never been checked on, either asleep or awake, but there was always the chance that he might be. Following Colonel Izorov’s appearance that morning, the thought had remained in his mind that the Chief of Police might at any moment increase the security surrounding him; even going to the extent of posting guards outside his room after nightfall. But, as far as he knew, this had not happened and it was already past eleven o’ clock.

Barefoot, he moved stealthily down the corridor, carefully avoiding the loose floorboard two paces past the window on the left as he edged closer to the corner where the corridor opened out onto the upper landing. The business with the blanket and the towel nagged at him. He felt uneasy adopting the same ruse twice, but there had been no alternative. A lot of things had happened since Verkholensk. If a report of his first escape still existed, the chances were that it was gathering dust in a grey file somewhere in the basement registry at Fontanka 16, the Okhrana’s St. Petersburg headquarters. All the same, if he was discovered, the blanket and towel would be sufficient evidence of his intention of escape to send him to the salt mines, if not the gallows. It all depended on whether or not there was a guard posted on the landing; sitting quietly in a chair, smoking his pipe.

Holding his breath, Trotsky listened. The boots he held in his hand were becoming heavy and distracting his attention. Gently lowering them to the floor, he leant forward.

Silence.