Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

From the safety of the shadows, Trotsky watched the six riders disappear into the darkness, as he had watched them for the past three nights from the window of his room. The peasant Goat’s Foot had told him that they took the same route every night: leaving the barracks at eleven o’ clock, riding through the Jewish Quarter to the Fire Tower, where one of the men would be detailed off to relieve the sentry who had kept the evening watch. Then they would ride past the hospital, down Hospital Street, across Alexei Street to the intersection with Ostermann Street. From there they would turn left, following Ostermann Street until they reached the Bank, where another left turn would take them back across Alexei Street again and into Well Lane. Down Well Lane, across Market Square and then back into the barracks. There would not be another patrol until eight o’clock the following morning. Fastening his coat and pulling up his collar, Trotsky fought the excitement that was beginning to rise up within him. The appearance of the night patrol had reassured him that it was not too late after all.

There’s still a long way to go, he told himself, but things are definitely going well.

It took him another twelve minutes to reach the gate of the graveyard; twelve minutes of hurried stumbling across frozen streets and feeling his way along backyard alleys. The darkness which had protected him also served to deceive. Twice he took a wrong turning, misjudging distances; at night a pace, dictated by caution, was much shorter than a pace taken in the light of day. The intense cold had also impaired his judgement, draining the excitement that he felt, and leaving only the desire to pull on the gussi and the malitsa that the peasant had promised would be waiting for him.

The heavy iron gate to the churchyard groaned as it swung on its hinges. Hatless and shivering from the cold, he pushed it shut too quickly, for it clanged loudly as it closed. Turning, Trotsky ran towards the shelter of the Church of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary, glad at last to be able to move swiftly and, by so doing, to restore some of his lost body heat. He followed the wooden walls of the church until he was invisible from the Highway, hidden by the bulk of the building. High above him, the bell in the church tower began to toll midnight.

There was no sign of Goat’s Foot. Slapping his arms around himself to create what body warmth he could, Trotsky settled down to wait.

Chapter Twenty One

Sunday 18th February 1907

Berezovo, Northern Siberia

Nina Roshkovskaya had long ago dispensed with the religious beliefs with which she had been brought up as a child. She had not, in Madame Wrenskaya’s phrase, “lost sight of God” but had chosen to look the other way; more willing to contemplate the fathomless nothingness of the abyss than to seek consolation from a God that, if Father Arkady spoke the truth, had destroyed her as part of His plan. This morning, however, she had returned to Him and prayed, beseeching His protection, not for herself but for her husband.

There had been a time, early in her illness, when Nina had not been able bear Andrey’s touch; when she had resented and distrusted his healthiness. In her heart she had not believed that the wedding vows her husband had taken before God and her family would be strong enough to overcome the deeper animal instinct to abandon the weak and infirm. But Andrey had not left her or set her aside. He had stayed and nursed her and, contrary to her fears, they had become closer as their physical love had lessened; pain proving the effective antidote to passion. What she had only now realised was that her greatest fear was not that he would be taken from her by an unknown woman, or even by the taiga, but suddenly one morning, answering a knock at the door.

Her prayers completed, she reached out for her husband. Helping his wife to her feet, Andrey supported her as she took several faltering steps back to her usual niche in the side wall of the crowded church. Noting her pallor as he lowered her into the alcove, he whispered to her.

“Dearest, do you feel sick? Do you wish to leave?”

In the gloom of the church, her pale face looked up into his.

“No, no Andrey. We should stay until the end of the service.”

Uncertain, he looked quickly at the rest of the congregation who stood before the priest chanting its responses.

“Come on,” he said gently. “Let’s go home. Father Arkady will understand.”

“No, please. Andrey, you should stay,” she said faintly.

But he insisted and reluctantly she allowed him to raise her once more and guide her towards the door. After they had taken a few steps together, Dr. Tortsov appeared at her side.

“Are you feeling unwell, Nina Vassilyevna?”

She smiled and nodded her head weakly.

“She’s feeling a little faint, Doctor,” said Roshkovsky. “If you could just support her other arm…”