Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“Is that meant to be a punishment?” she challenged him.

Colonel Izorov allowed a small smile to crease his lips.

“That rather depends on the actors, surely?”

His duty done, he turned on his heel and walked back towards the crowd at the bar.

Tamara Karseneva stuck out her tongue at his retreating back.

“Does he give you much trouble?” asked Trotsky.

“No, not really. But he can be a right bastard if he chooses.”

Her husband returned from the melee around the bar carrying three glasses of wine.

“What did old Izorov have to say for himself?” he asked as he distributed the drinks.

“He wants us to stand and sing ‘Hail to the Tsar’,” she said, taking the glass he was offering her.

“Hah!” scoffed her husband as he passed a glass to Trotsky. “When he sings the ‘La Marseillaise’ first. I did hear that he is saying that he regrets that the deputies with families were not allowed to remain in Berezovo, for the sake of the children.”

“He’s not all bad,” Tamara conceded.

The three of them lifted their glasses and toasted each other.

“What difference would it make?” asked Trotsky as he sipped his wine. “He told me himself that it’s impossible to escape from here. Is that true?”

Oleg Karsenev pulled a face.

“Let’s say it’s an exaggeration,” he replied. “People are still being brought here, therefore it must be possible for them to leave. The trick is how. He has spies everywhere.”

“Wait until spring,” advised Tamara Karseneva confidently. “That is the time to make your move.”

People were beginning to drift back to their seats. Taking his seat next to his wife, Colonel Izorov stared thoughtfully at the painted curtain that hid the stage.

So, he thought, it is to be Tuesday, the day the post sleigh arrives. Very well. I will wait. Whatever instructions Trotsky’s superiors have sent him will make interesting reading. And to catch him red-handed receiving illegal communications, that would be a real coup.

His thoughts were interrupted by a gentle nudge in his ribs.

“Enjoying it?” his wife asked.

“The evening couldn’t be better,” he assured her.

* * *

With a last ragged flourish, the musical trio drew the interval to its conclusion. There was a polite muffled applause from the gloved hands at the front of the hall. Towards the back the audience continued their conversation as loudly as ever. Only when the curtains began jerkily to part were they gradually subdued into an attentive hush.

Trotsky lit the cigarette Oleg Karseneva had offered him and sat back in his seat. Beneath his prison tunic, he could feel his heart beating wildly.

When I have smoked the cigarette, he decided, I will leave.

He watched dispassionately as the curtains revealed the librarian Maslov sitting at a desk in what appeared to be the study of a St. Petersburg apartment. A second man entered through the door at the top of the stage, staggering beneath a mountain of hat boxes, parcels, and various household goods. Reaching the centre of the stage he put them down clumsily. There was the unmistakeable sound of breaking glass which drew a ripple of laughter. When the man straightened up, Trotsky saw to his surprise that it was the Hospital’s Administrator. Despite the chill in the hall, he was dressed in a straw hat and a summer jacket.

“How do you do, Ivan Ivanovich?” the other actor greeted him. “Delighted to see you! What brings you here?”

Trotsky drew on his cigarette, savouring the harsh tobacco. Number 2 Ostermann Street, he repeated to himself.

Shutting his eyes, he tried to visualise the map he had studied in the town library. Roshkovsky had said that it was the northernmost street, so it was somewhere beyond Alexander III Boulevard. Assuming the church and the Town Hall formed the East–West axis, then there were only two streets north of that. If the first was Menshikov Street, then the second had to be Ostermann Street. It should take no more than five minutes to walk there; ten at the very most.

He became aware that the feeling in the hall had changed. If the skit was meant to be a comedy there were fewer people laughing. On stage, the Hospital Administrator was shouting and waving his hands about in desperation.

“Let your neighbours hear!” he cried. “It’s all the same to me! If you don’t give me a revolver someone else will and there will be an end of me anyway. I’ve made up my mind!”

From the rear of the hall came a chorus of cheers and drunken shouts of encouragement.