Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

The glowing tip of the cigarette was nearing his fingers. Trotsky took a last puff and then dropped the stub onto the floor; grinding it into the wooden boards beneath his heavy boots. It was time to go. A familiar feeling of faintness swept over him. He knew that if he stood up now, he risked stumbling and attracting attention to himself. Leaning down, he carefully picked up a copy of the programme, soiled and marked by numerous footprints. Opening it, his eyes fell upon the title page.

It read:

BEREZOVO AMATEUR DRAMATIC SOCIETY

proudly presents

“THE BEAR” by Anton Chehov

and

“A TRAGEDIAN DESPITE HIMSELF” by Anton Chehov

Directed by Dr. V.S. TORTSOV

He turned the page.

8.00 DOORS OPEN

8.30 “THE BEAR”

Elena Ivanovna Popova Madame TORTSOVA\ Grigory Stepanovitch Smirnov A.I. CHEVANIN\ Luka (Madame Popova’s aged footman) D.B. SKYRALENKO

9.15 INTERMISSION and MUSICAL INTERLUDE

Beverages and Comestibles provided by the Hotel New Century (Prop. F.G. Sobolsky)

9.45 “A TRAGEDIAN DESPITE HIMSELF”

Ivan Ivanovich Tolkachov M.A. TOLKACH

Alexey Alexeyevitch Murashkin A.V. MASLOV

Further refreshments will be available after the end of the performance.

11.00 Carriages.

The BEREZOVO AMATEUR DRAMATIC SOCIETY is grateful to CAPTAIN V.P. STEKLOV

for the use of the Barracks Hall

Fuelled by the alcohol, the audience was becoming increasingly vocal, drowning Tolkach’s lines with its barracking. It was definitely time to go.

Folding the programme neatly into four, he slipped it into his pocket as a keepsake. He almost regretted that he could not stay longer; he would have enjoyed seeing how the scene ended. But there was nothing for it but to go. Some other time, he thought.

Turning to the woman sitting beside him, he said, “I am sorry. Please excuse me, but I have to leave.”

Glancing sideways at him, Tamara Karseneva gave a look of concern.

“What’s the matter? You’ve gone quite white. Are you in pain?”

He nodded bravely.

“Neuralgia. It’s this bloody cold. I’ll be better once I am walking. See you.”

“See you.”

Half crouching, he made his way along the row of seats. Onstage, the Hospital Administrator had forgotten his lines and was looking in vain towards the wings for a prompt. As he reached the end of the row, and began walking along the side aisle, Trotsky caught sight of one of the hospital attendants standing at the back of the hall. He hesitated for a moment then lifted his hand in greeting. The man raised his glass in salute. Cursing his luck, Trotsky made his way over to him.

“I’m turning in,” he told him. “Is the main door open?”

The man nodded, only paying half attention to what he was hearing, the other half concentrating on what was going on onstage.

“I’ll see you in the morning, then,” said Trotsky.

The man nodded again. Leaving him, Trotsky started walking towards the door. A group of soldiers lining the wall nearest him began to started whistling derisively at the floundering actors. He did not look back.

Chapter Twenty Five

Sunday 18th February 1907

Berezovo, Northern Siberia

Wiping the last smear of greasepaint from his cheek, Chevanin grinned to himself as he listened to the noise onstage. Tolkach was catching it in the neck. He stood up and began folding his costume, putting it back neatly in the box marked “SMIRNOV”. Relieved of the padding, he felt as light as air.