Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

Carefully the last two armfuls of straw were laid, covering his head and shoulders. Trotsky lay listening to Goat’s Foot move around the sleigh, flinging the rope from side to side as he bound the straw together to make it look like a bona fide load. All around him sharp pinpoints of straw picked and scratched at his face and hands.

“I won’t be a moment,” he heard Goat’s Foot mutter, “then we’ll be away. Meanwhile, lie still.”

Trotsky lay in almost complete darkness trying to distinguish by hearing alone what the peasant was up to. He heard what sounded like the distant clang of a shovel and the grating sound as it was used for scooping something up off the ground.

“What are you doing now?” he called out.

“I’m just scattering some snow out on top of the hay so that it looks like it’s been out all night. Lie still.”

Hidden beneath the snow covered straw, Trotsky gave a tiny nod of approval. It was touches like that that mattered. It was not important that the warmth of his breath was melting the snow above him, that wet flakes were already starting to splash his face. It was the growing confidence that in two or three weeks he could be walking the streets of Petersburg, or crossing over to Helsingfors, that would keep him going.

Without warning, his body was jolted from head to foot. The next moment he heard the sleigh creak and felt it begin to move beneath him. A great rush of excitement filled him as he felt the perceptible change in temperature and heard the sound of snow beneath the runners. They had left the stable. Somewhere, above the straw and the snow, a church bell was beginning to toll. In his excitement, the pounding in his ears almost drowned out the sound of the trotting pony.

At last! he thought. This is the beginning.

He was going home, back to the outer world beyond his country’s borders; where passports were not required. Where minor officials did not hold the power of life or death over ordinary people. Where workers were free to march and sing in the streets. Where they had the freedom to organise, and to say, “No, get lost!” He was going home to Natalya’s love and Baby Lev’s needs, to Nicolai’s manoeuvrings and to the smell of fresh newsprint.

The sleigh bumped over an obstruction in the road and, despite the discomfort caused by his cramped position and his ice cold fingers, he smiled. He was once more on the road to freedom.

The next time I return to Russia, he vowed, I will be millions.

Acknowledgements

It takes more than one person to write a book. I am profoundly grateful to my family for allowing me the time and the space to finish the three books that constitute the first part of ‘Berezovo’, and especially to my wife for her patient and perceptive reading of its many drafts. I am hugely indebted to Scott Pack of the excellent Abandoned Bookshop who took a chance on a new author and to Katherine Stephen for her gentle but persuasive editing. I also wish to thank Iain Millar, Michael Bhaskar and Nick Barreto and everyone at Canelo Digital Publishing who have helped bring this story to your screen with such boldness, confidence and expertise.