Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“I’d say firstly that I am not a terrorist and do not support terrorism and secondly that I don’t give orders.”

Nina Roshkovskaya threw her head back and laughed.

“Don’t be so modest!” she mocked him. “You wouldn’t have been brought all this way here guarded by a company of soldiers if someone didn’t think you gave orders; that you held some sort of power.”

“It is a case of mistaken identity. A miscarriage of justice. Besides, there were others with me.”

“When it comes to apportioning blame, there are always others,” she observed drily. “We are talking about you.”

“In that case, yes. I gave orders, but not the sort that killed people.”

“But if it had been necessary, you would have done?” she persisted.

“Yes.”

“And would still do in the future?”

He sighed and shook his head.

“We are fighting a war,” he explained slowly. “People get killed in wars. Ask the Minister for the Interior. Ask your own Colonel Izorov.”

Suddenly agitated, he got up and began to pace to and fro. The woman was beginning to unsettle him. Pausing by the mantelpiece, he stared at the clock.

“What time did Goat’s Foot say he was going to arrive?”

“You still have a little time to wait,” she told him. “Sit down and rest yourself. You have a long journey ahead of you.”

Grudgingly, he returned to the table and, picking up the scissors again, continued the destruction of his prison clothes.

“Tell me about yourself,” she said. “About what you believe in.”

“Why are you asking me all these questions?” he demanded suspiciously.

“It’s quite simple. Firstly because I am curious and secondly because it concerns me.”

“How does it concern you?”

“I would have thought that was obvious,” she observed. “For better or for worse my husband and I find ourselves responsible for releasing you back into the population. I am merely trying to gauge the likely consequences. One day, it may even be tomorrow, we could find ourselves having to account for our actions.”

“If you mean your Colonel Izorov, don’t worry,” he said grimly. “I have taken every precaution against capture.”

“Actually, I didn’t mean Colonel Izorov, although he too will have questions that will have to be answered. No, I meant a much higher power.”

Understanding dawned on Trotsky’s face.

“Oh! You mean your God.”

“Yes,” she replied solemnly. “‘Our God’. I take it you don’t believe in any form of deity?”

“No.”

“No, of course not,” she agreed. “You could not possibly. It would be so limiting for you.”

“Instead,” said Trotsky, “I believe in history. And that events have consequences and that, only by following the dictates of my conscience, can I justify my actions. I am no saint but, since the age of eighteen when first I entered revolutionary politics, I have done nothing… pursued no policy… that I would not be prepared to defend as justified within the given circumstances in front of a tribunal of my comrades.”

“That must be a great comfort to you,” Nina observed, her voice heavy with irony. “And, of course, to your comrades. Now, you must start getting ready. Goat’s Foot should be here at any moment. I have enjoyed our little talk. Being handicapped, I receive so few new visitors.”

Laying aside the scissors, Trotsky slipped on the sleeveless gussi and found that it reached down to below his knees. The hairs on the reversed reindeer skin pricked him through the thin cloth of the shirt. Putting on the heavy malitsa he staggered under the weight. With his hat on and wearing his boots, his entire body would be covered with animal fur.

“Turn around and let’s have a look at you,” said Madame Roshkovskaya, adding doubtfully, “Well, that’s the best we can do in the time allowed us. Now, there are one or two more things you have to remember. Sit down while I talk to you if you please. Looking up is painful for me.”

He obeyed with difficulty. The width of the malitsa overcoat was so great, its thickness so impregnable, that he had trouble positioning himself securely in his seat.

“Firstly, do you have any papers?” she asked.

“Yes. They are in my boot.”

“Good. How about money?”

“Only about twenty roubles,” he lied.

“That’s enough. You certainly shouldn’t carry much more if you know what’s good for you,” she warned. “Don’t give the impression that you have any more about your person. There are three bottles of spirits in the kitchen which you can take as you leave. Andrey says that it’s by far the best currency to use on the taiga.”

She fell silent for a moment, staring at the floor in front of her.

“Your food is already on the sleigh. There is sufficient for a week. After that you will have to rely on your driver’s skill as a hunter. Another thing… When you get about three or four days out, tell anyone who asks that you are a member of Baron Tol’s expedition. Andrey says that the Baron is still surveying for mineral resources in that area.”

“Baron Tol,” repeated Trotsky.

“That is correct. By the way,” Madame Roshkovsky added casually, “do you have a pistol with you?”

“No. I have had no opportunity to get one.”