Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

At the piano Alexandra Dresnyakova smiled grimly as she hammered out the last crashing chords of the Tsarist anthem, nodding encouragingly to the other two musicians struggling to keep up with her. Standing near the entrance at the back of the hall, Roshkovsky watched as the actors began their performance of the evening’s first play, The Bear. Partly because of the distance and partly because a few latecomers had not yet settled down, their words were indistinct. He hoped that they would get better as the evening wore on. He had volunteered to look out for any stragglers who might try to sneak in without paying. It meant keeping an eye on the door, but that suited his purpose. Just as the audience burst into its first laughter of the evening, the door opened, and he saw Trotsky sidle in. Roshkovsky hurried over to meet him. The exile wasted no time.

“Is Goat’s Foot here?” he demanded.

“No, but I’ve already seen him and everything is arranged,” Roshkovsky assured him.

“What happened last night?”

“He gave the driver some money to buy deer and he spent it getting drunk instead.”

Trotsky swore violently.

“What do you expect?” asked Roshkovsky, with a shrug.

“So, the money, it’s all gone?” Trotsky hissed.

“Goat’s Foot isn’t a school boy. He only advanced him five roubles and he did that in front of the fellow’s wife. A formidable lady, I might add. But it’s all settled now. You leave tonight.”

Trotsky looked at him sceptically.

“Tonight? Is that final?”

“Yes. Final and definitive. You’ll be taking the mountain road as we arranged. Two Ostyak sleighs passed that way yesterday so the trail is still clear.”

“What about the Tower?”

“I’ve fixed that. One of the local carriers is to take a slaughtered calf down the Tobolsk road at dawn. I’ve sent it to a man I know in Sverdlovsk. Now, this is the plan. I shall stay here for the whole time. After the second play starts, you are to go to my house, where my wife will have food and clothes ready for you, and something hot to eat. At about a quarter to eleven, Goat’s Foot will call for you and take you to where he has hidden the sleigh. Then the two of you will go by sleigh to meet the driver at his yurt.”

“What is your address?”

“Number 2 Ostermann Street. It’s the last street to the north of the town. Go round the back. My wife will have lit a candle at the kitchen window to guide you.”

“Is there anything else?”

Roshkovsky thought for a moment then shook his head.

“No. You’d better try and find a seat now.”

He pointed towards the middle of the hall.

“Most of the other exiles are sitting over there.”

Trotsky nodded. From where they stood he could only see the backs of the audience’s heads, but there was sufficient light to reveal the seating plan. Even from the back of the barrack hall he could see that the front rows were occupied by the town’s government officials and their wives. Behind them sat the merchants and their families and the other business men. Then came the exiles, Tamara Karseneva’s rich auburn hair shining out like a beacon. To the rear of the exiles sat the plain people: clerks, the petit bourgeoisie and various groups of youths. Last were the peasants: some sitting, some standing. Beneath the row of flickering candles the walls on either side were lined with soldiers. He counted them quickly. Thirty four. But where were Izorov’s police?

Standing beside him, Roshkovsky glanced at his profile and wondered whether he should have told him not to approach him during the interval. It was too late now. He just had to hope that Trotsky wouldn’t compromise him further. Trotsky turned back to face him.

“So, it’s all settled.”

“Yes.”

The land surveyor paused awkwardly, torn between the demand for good manners and the desire to rid himself of his dangerous companion.

“Good luck! I’d like to shake you by the hand, but, well… It isn’t safe, you understand?”

“Oh, I understand,” replied Trotsky mockingly. “Goodbye Roshkovsky.”

It wasn’t until much later that Roshkovsky realised that Trotsky had never thanked him for the risks he and Nina had taken on his behalf. To his dying day, he maintained that it was entirely in keeping with the man.

Following Roshkovsky’s directions, Trotsky found an empty seat and sat down. All around him the audience was voicing their enjoyment of the antics of the players. Onstage, stepping with exaggerated care over the wreckage of her drawing room chairs, Yeliena paced to and fro as she waited for the laughter to die down.

“You’re a rude ill-bred man!” she cried, shaking her fist at her adversary. “Decent people don’t talk to women like that.”

“Oh! What a business!” Chevanin roared back. “How do you want me to talk to you? In French or what?”