Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

Ahead Katya could make out the distant glow of the oil lamps that burned outside the hospital; tiny pin-pricks of light that would be shielded from the approaching blizzard by thick glass bulbs that had been brought all the way from Tobolsk. The sight cheered her and she walked with more confidence across the furrowed surface of Ostermann Street, ignoring the biting cold that snapped at her calves as she lifted the hem of her skirt to mount the steps on the opposite side.

The nearer she drew to the main intersection with Alexander III Boulevard, the more insistent the tolling of the church’s bell grew in her ears. She strove to ignore it and began chanting to herself the words ‘errand of mercy’ as she passed by the closed shutters of Kuzma Gvordyen’s bakery and confectionery shop. A picture was slowly forming in her imagination: an image of the wife of Gleb Pirogov, the carpenter, lying exhausted in her stall; weakened by what Father Arkady called the miracle of birth. Clutching the jar tighter to her bosom, she hurried on, the wooden soles of her crudely fashioned boots clattering over the uneven boards. From the kitchen she had overheard the doctor say that this would be the Pirogovs’ fifth birth in four years, their third child if it lived, and that Pirogov’s family would welcome the scraps of freshly cooked meat that Madame Tortsova had told her to stir into the broth. Katya wondered what the baby would look like. Would it seem as red, old and angry as her own brothers’ and sisters’ babies had been when they were born? Perhaps it would be different, more like the calm ivory baby in the books that Father Arkady had shown her. The thought thrilled her. Had not Joseph also been a carpenter? How wonderful that would be! she thought. The Holy Father born again; here, in Berezovo! And she, Katya, would be the first to bring him gifts.

Stopping by the light from a half shaded window she carefully lifted the lid of the jar, and peered down at the steaming viscous broth of yellow goat meat. Grey globules of fat began immediately to congeal and float to the surface. She debated whether to hook them out with her fingers and throw them into the road, but decided against doing so. Anton Ivanovich had told her that the fat was good for the chests of weak children; he would be upset if she wasted it. Unwilling to displease the doctor’s young assistant, she replaced the lid and moved quickly towards the step that led down to the junction with Alexei Street. From the eastern end of the broad thoroughfare the last clear notes of the church’s bell reproached her as she began to half run, half lope across the frozen sleigh tracks. The lid, clumsily set on the lip of the jar, shifted and some of the broth splashed onto her rough blouse scalding her. Pausing only to wipe off what she could, she continued her journey across the boulevard’s broad expanse. The Pirogovs lived close to Jew Alley, deep in the Quarter and only the thought of seeing Anton Ivanovich’s broad handsome face prevented her from feeling afraid. He would protect her from harm.

She had once tried to tell Father Arkady what she had felt for Anton Ivanovich but the priest had grown angry and reprimanded her. It was true, he told her, that Anton Ivanovich Chevanin would one day become a hero – as would all good men of science who dedicated their lives to the welfare of mankind – but it was wrong, very wrong of her to have such feelings of adoration for him. What Katya had seen in her employer’s assistant, the priest had explained, was but the outward manifestation of the gifts placed there by God the Father; gifts that could be found in varying degrees within every soul on earth. That she should respect Anton Ivanovich and care for him as a frequent guest at the Tortsovs’ household until he took a wife of his own was quite appropriate, but she must think of herself as a handmaiden of God the Father for there was no mortal man who would return her love as He could. Reminding her of the reason why she was as she was, of the terrible sins of her parents, Father Arkady had assured her that as she grew older she would realise that the emotions she was now experiencing were misplaced and sinful.