Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

He threw himself on the couch and sprawled across its buttoned cushions as an authoritative knock sounded at the back door. Through the lashes of his right eye, he watched Madame Roshkovskaya make her way sedately from the sitting room into the kitchen where she disappeared from sight. He heard her call out and receive a muffled reply. There followed the noise of bolts being drawn, a few whispered words and then silence. Raising his head, he measured the distance between where he was lying on the sofa and the malitsa that lay on the chair. He cursed himself for his carelessness. He would never reach the revolver in time, and even if he did, it was not loaded.

A familiar shambling figure had appeared in the doorway.

“Evening.”

“You’re late, Goat’s Foot,” complained Trotsky, sitting up.

“Then let’s be getting a move on, shall we?” said the peasant equitably. “You can’t rush these things, you know.”

Getting up from the couch, Trotsky put on his malitsa and snatched his hat and gloves from the table. Cramming the hat on his head, he began to put on the gloves and then remembered the gun in his pocket. Flinging down the gloves, he drew the gun from his pocket, broke it and then quickly dropped two cartridges into the revolving firing chambers. He felt that it would do no harm for the peasant to know he was armed.

“Come on!” Goat’s Foot hissed impatiently at him from the doorway. “You can play with that later.”

Trotsky snapped the gun shut again and put the safety catch on. Scooping up the gloves, he hurried into the kitchen. As he stuffed the revolver back into his pocket, he half turned to Madame Roshkovskaya.

“There is no time for goodbyes,” she said. “Just go and don’t forget to take the bottles with you.”

With a last nod of acknowledgement, Trotsky gathered up the three bottles of liquor and followed Goat’s Foot out into the night.

After the brightly lit interior, the darkness seemed impenetrable; the cold intense. He had to rely on the sound of Goat’s Foots boots descending the stairs to locate the top of the steps. More than once, hampered by the vodka he was carrying, he was sure he was on the brink of falling but his luck held out and he reached the ground without mishap. He heard Goat’s Foot talking softly to the pony and, guided by the sound of his voice, caught up with him.

“You gave us a fright, bringing the pony. We thought it was one of Steklov’s men,” he whispered.

“You would have looked pretty stupid if I hadn’t brought it. It’s a good ten versts to the Zyrian’s hut.”

Clicking his tongue, Goat’s Foot held the pony by his bridle and led him away from the house.

“Couldn’t you have tethered it somewhere else?” insisted Trotsky nervously.

“Don’t talk daft! What would have happened if someone had stolen it? Where would we be then?”

The two men and the pony walked on in silence for another twenty seconds then Trotsky swore softly.

“What’s up?” asked Goat’s Foot immediately.

“I left my gloves back at the house. They are on the arm of the chair I was sitting in.”

“That was stupid,” Goat’s Foot told him as he quickened his pace. “Still, can’t help that now.”

“Is it far where we are going?” asked Trotsky, annoyed by his error.

“No,” whispered Goat’s Foot angrily. “We’re just coming to it, and keep your bloody voice down, if you can’t shut up.”

They were approaching one of the large stables that faced the entrance to Menshikov Street. Just as Trotsky was about to try the door, he felt a hand grab his arm and another roughly cover his mouth.

“Not a sound now,” Goat’s Foot whispered softly in his ear. “Someone’s got here before us. They’re inside. Can’t you see the light under the door?”

Peering over the peasant’s hand, Trotsky looked down and saw, at his feet, a faint line of light shining from under the stable door. He gave an exaggerated nod and the peasant released him. Silently they led the pony away from the stable.

“Sorry about that,” Goat’s Foot apologised. “But I didn’t think that you had seen it.”

“I hadn’t,” Trotsky admitted. “What do we do now?”

The peasant looked up and down the dark street uncertainly.

“Well, we can’t stay out here all night, that’s for certain,” he muttered. “I shall go in first, you follow me, bringing the pony with you. Keep this side of it, so that it is between you and whoever is inside. If there’s any trouble, hit it on the arse and let it go. It’ll run into whoever is in there. Then get off out of it, quick. Understand?”

Trotsky nodded.

Silently he handed Goat’s Foot the three bottles in exchange for the pony’s reins.

“Right! Here we go…” the peasant said.

Leading the way, he walked back to the stable and, without any hesitation, pushed its door wide open.