Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

He went back to her and roughly seized hold of her arms.

“Please Anton, no!” she cried out, her voice sharpening with alarm. “Let go of me!”

Pulling her to him, he began kissing her clumsily on her cheeks.

“Don’t be afraid of me, Yeliena. I would die rather than hurt you,” he reassured her between kisses. “You must know that. But what you said in the hotel, about wanting your body… I admit that it is true. You’re a beautiful woman, Yeliena, and now you’re saying that it’s all over and it’s not fair. It’s just not fair.”

Attempting to drag her bodily across the street towards the stable, he stumbled and slipped on the icy roadway. He let go of her, trying to regain his balance, and instinctively Yeliena moved towards him, putting her arms under his armpits to prevent him from falling and harming himself.

“All I ask is that you show me a little pity,” he mumbled into her breast, “a little tenderness.”

She helped him straighten up and they walked together to the stable door.

“Be mine just for tonight,” he implored her.

“And if I don’t want to? Will you try to force me?” she demanded fiercely, more confident now that she had regained control of her situation.

“No, of course not. A thousand times no.”

In that instant she thought of Vasili, accepting plaudits at the barracks, and of all the years of duty ahead of her, and the years after that, and of her lonely bed grave. Letting go of his arm, she turned and slipped back the bolt on the door.

Once inside the stable Yeliena listened in the darkness as Chevanin fumbled for his matches, and heard him spill one or two of them onto the floor. She was surprised at how calm and unafraid she felt now that the moment had arrived. A match flared and she watched as he reached up for a storm lantern that was hanging above their heads. He lit the wick and held the lamp at arm’s length so that its light illuminated the stable. A sleigh stood in the middle of the floor, beside a large pile of straw.

Feeling Anton’s hand close tentatively around her wrist, Yeliena shook him off.

“Wait there,” she said.

Walking over to the sleigh Yeliena inspected it closely. The sides and runners were stained with mud but three reindeer skins draped across the back of the sleigh covered the inner sides and floor of the vehicle, promising some comfort. Leaning over the side of the sleigh she stroked the skins, feeling how their smoothness softened the contours of its wooden boards. Turning, she looked back at Chevanin. He was still standing uncertainly by the door, the lamp held high above his head. His face wore a strained expression; he looked lost in the lamp’s light. Lifting up her hands so he could see them, she slowly removed her right glove; pulling each finger in turn. Then, almost matter-of-factly, she began to unbutton her outer coat.

Chapter Thirty

Sunday 18th February 1907

Berezovo, Northern Siberia

Trotsky had resumed his pacing up and down, the heavy malitsa thrown negligently across the back of a chair in order that he could move more freely. The clock on the mantelpiece showed that it was ten minutes to eleven. He turned away and faced Madame Roshkovskaya.

“He’s late,” he said accusingly. “This is the second time your moujik friend has failed to meet me. Are you sure your husband knew what he was doing when he picked him?”

“Goat’s Foot will be here, never fear,” she replied calmly. “He still has another few minutes.”

“What happens if he doesn’t come?” demanded Trotsky, annoyed by her calmness. “I can’t go back to the hospital now.”

“Of course you can!” she retorted. “There will still be plenty of people staying on at the barracks. Just tell anyone who stops you that you had too much to drink and that you were taken ill. The Heavenly Father looks after drunkards and little children. You shall be quite safe.”

“I see, I see,” Trotsky said sarcastically. “And tell me, how am I to explain that?”

He pointed down at the pile of remnants of his prison uniform.

“You were very, very drunk?” she suggested.

As he turned away again, one hand raised in a gesture of frustration and despair, he heard a pony whinny outside in the lane. Trotsky froze, his eyes flicking instantly to Madame Roshkovskaya.

“Quickly now!” she said, extending her hands to him. “Help me up. Now pass me my sticks.”

He brought them to her. The sound of heavy boots climbing the back stairs filled the room.

“Lie down on the couch!” she hissed. “Pretend to have passed out.”