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Often, when he was busy working on an article, he would hear her sing snatches from the aria Depuis le jour ou je me suis donnee. “Our opera,” she had called it. He had long since given up pointing out the discrepancies. That Natalya’s family was wealthy and not poor and that her relationship with her father was extremely cordial, considering that she had been expelled from her school. That he himself was not a poet like “Julien”. That they had not met on the stairs outside her room but that she had picked him up in a bar. Whatever argument he had used, her reaction was always the same: a swift pinch on the arm and the accusation that he was “an unfeeling lout”. Then she would giggle and start whistling tunelessly. It was a lover’s joke. When Madame Alexandrovna had first asked her how the new comrade was settling in, she had reported that he seemed to whistle a lot.

“Tell him he’s here to work for the Revolution, not to whistle!” the old woman had barked, forgetting that sometimes there was more to be gained by whistling than by working.

Trotsky opened his eyes. Onstage the Doctor’s wife was receiving a lesson from the “Bear” in how to hold and cock a gun.

I mustn’t think of Natalya any more, he told himself. It’s pointless. What is done is done. The fact is, if I fail to get away from here I will probably never see Natalya or Baby Lev again.

A rush of self pity that made his heart ache and his eyes and nose prick with tears suddenly overwhelmed him and he was grateful for the semi-darkness of the barracks hall.

This is no time for weakness, he warned himself. All the same, to have gone through what I have gone through to finally find love, only to risk being parted from her forever… It’s hard.

Chapter Twenty Four

Sunday 18th February 1907

Berezovo, Northern Siberia

Backstage, Skyralenko was hurriedly trying to repair his whiskers as the first play rolled to its close. One half of the beard had come adrift and he had made his last entrance onstage holding it to his cheek as if he was suffering from toothache. His efforts were hampered by the lack of a mirror. He could hear that Chevanin was nearing the end of his speech. Without warning he felt someone shove him in the small of his back, pushing him off balance so that he fell against the scenery. Turning, he saw that it was Maslov. The librarian thrust a small axe into his hands.

“It’s your cue!” he hissed urgently. “Quickly! The window!”

Still trying to fix his beard back into place, Skyralenko peeked through the scenery window and saw Chevanin holding the struggling heroine in his arms. The crowd was cheering as Yeliena screamed her protests.

“Get away from me! Take your hand away! I hate you! Let’s go and fight!”

Abandoning the beard, Skyralenko clambered gingerly across the sill of the window. The scenery swayed dangerously under his weight. Catching sight of the pair engaged in a prolonged kiss, he waved the axe in the air crying:

“Little Fathers! Little Fathers!”

The fringe of grey horse hair swung freely beneath his chin and the outburst of laughter from the audience drowned the play’s last line.

Yeliena disentangled quickly herself from Anton Ivanovich’s arms as the curtain was drawn and her husband hurried onstage to embrace her.

“Lenochka, you were a triumph!” cried Dr Tortsov, shouldering his assistant to one side. “Now line up everybody and be ready to take a bow.”

The curtain opened again. One or two of the audience had risen to their feet. Seeing the actors and their director on the stage they resumed their applause. More people began to follow their example, until most of the audience were standing applauding the success of their play.

As the curtain closed, Dr. Tortsov hugged his wife again and then turning, wrung the hands of Chevanin and Skyralenko.

“Marvellous! Marvellous! Thank you! Thank you!” he exclaimed. “Dimitri, you were marvellous, word perfect! And what do you think of my protégé?” he added, putting his arm around Chevanin’s shoulders. “Wasn’t he superb?”

“He’s certainly a consummate actor,” agreed the Prison Director wryly.

“I think he was marvellous! And that business with the chairs – absolutely perfect! Couldn’t have done it better myself.”

Chevanin smiled bashfully.

“Thank you, Vasili Semionovich!” he replied. “But you did all the hard work. You should take all the credit. Will you excuse me if I go and change now? I am being baked alive in this costume!”

“Certainly, my boy!” the Doctor agreed jovially. “You cut along. I still have another play to look after.”

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