Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“I can assure you,” replied Yeliena, colouring, “that if for one moment my husband thought that his directing the play would jeopardise the health of a single patient, he would not have allowed himself to be persuaded to accept the post.”

“Quite right!” broke in Madame Wrenskaya, glaring at the two women on the sofa. “In any case,” she added haughtily, “who else would be more suitable for the job? Surely neither of your husbands?”

If the rebuke was intended to chasten her friend’s critics, it was unsuccessful. Throwing back her head, Tatyana Kavelina gave a screech of laughter.

“Heavenly Father, no! Leonid Sergeivich is far too busy a man to waste his time with amateur dramaticals!”

With a visible shudder, Madame Wrenskaya beckoned her maid who was standing against the far wall, almost invisible in the gloom.

“Mariya,” she commanded in a loud quavering voice, “You may offer my guests a second glass of tea.”

Chapter Five

Great Tobolsk Highway

The highway had narrowed as it left behind the larger settlements, forcing the drivers to reduce their teams from three to two and making the troikas unwieldy to drive. Trotsky moodily surveyed the passing landscape. Except for a line of trees in the distance, as faint as a hush of breath in the winter’s air, the whole world seemed cold, white and empty. At first, the continuous bumping and swaying of the sleigh had been merely uncomfortable. Now, as the versts disappeared in a blur beneath the hissing runners, Trotsky felt his body ache with hunger and fatigue.

Sitting beside him on the wooden passenger seat, his new guard sat puffing contentedly on his pipe, his rifle cradled between his knees. In front them the driver urged his team forward, occasionally flicking his whip across the broad hindquarters of the inside mare. Even now the news of the convoy’s approach was racing ahead of them. How? That was the mystery. If pressed on the matter, the drivers only shrugged and said that the wind carried messages. What was evident was that before the convoy had started out from Tiumeni, the news of their journey had already been a day or two old on the road. In all probability, when they arrived at that night’s destination, there would be yet another band of exiles and local people gathered to greet them, the men holding clumsily fashioned red banners of welcome; the women shyly bearing trays of freshly baked bread and cakes.

Another headache for the sergeant, thought Trotsky.

Since their journey had begun, the relationship between the prisoners and the majority of their guards had become more cordial. Only a small faction of the soldiers, led by an ugly looking corporal, took pleasure in sticking rigidly to the letter of their orders. Several times the senior NCO had remonstrated with them, but upon each occasion their leader, whose sympathy with the Black Hundreds was openly acknowledged, only laughed and threatened to report the sergeant for negligence of duty on their return to barracks.

Caught between the corporal’s increasing belligerence and the sergeant’s unwillingness to assert his authority, Dr. Feit had done his best to protect their group but it was clear to the exiles that some sort of explosion was likely. Already it had become daily practice for the faction to break ranks as they drew near to a village and rush ahead in order to ‘clear the way’ for the convoy. ‘Clearing the way’ in their terms meant driving whoever was waiting to greet them – man, woman or child – into the nearest ditch at bayonet point; using their rifle butts and boots whenever they felt it necessary. As the feeling of crisis grew, Trotsky had taken care to board only the sleighs in the charge of those troops he knew to be loyal to the sergeant’s command. The guard beside him now, for example – a Ukrainian in his late thirties – had seen too much of service life to be swayed by the growing hostility within the escort.

* * *

Still watching the passing snowdrifts, Trotsky’s interest quickened as the desultory conversation that the driver and the soldier had been conducting for the past half hour came round to the problem posed by the faction.

“That corporal,” said the driver over his shoulder.

“Who?” asked the guard

“You know, the bastard.”

“Corporal Krill?”

“Yeah. Krill,” said the driver thoughtfully. “He’s a bit free with the rifle butt, isn’t he?”

Trotsky heard the guard grunt noncommittally.

“You know what?” the driver continued, “I only caught him thumping Matya here this morning as I was coming to get her harnessed up. The bastard said she had trod on his toe. I told him. I said, ‘If you’re not careful, it’ll be your head next time.’ I’ll teach him to hit my team. How does he expect her to pull a load for fifty versts a day if he keeps fucking hitting her with his fucking rifle? See how he’d like it.”

“Which one’s Matya?” asked the soldier.

In answer, the driver flicked his whip first over one pony and then over the other.