Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

It wasn’t just because of the heavy swell of her breasts under her plain summer blouse, or the fact that she was eight years older than him, but something else. Resting his back against the wall of the peasant cottage in which he was now billeted, Trotsky recalled now that she had had not just a maturity but also a world view and an active commitment to something alive and active that he had envied. Alexandra would listen half contemptuously to their endless circular arguments with a knowing smile, as if distant and untouchable, and this had irked him greatly. Soon a pattern of their behaviour emerged. When challenged, she would give a sound Marxist response which would cause him, prompted by an involuntary reflex he could neither understand nor resist, immediately to jump up and deride her views. Her reaction was always the same: an uncaring shrug and her retirement from what she clearly saw as an unprofitable conversation.

He had been so arrogant that for eighteen months, he had refused to embrace her views. There had been times, more times than could be counted, when she had almost believed he was ready but then he had slipped away, mocking ‘her’ Marx and her credulity. Apart from these advances and retreats, they had regarded each other mostly from a distance; he looking at her rounded voluptuous figure; she at the young man struggling to leave his childhood and family behind like an insect ripping itself from the larva, its skin still moist from the gum. She had waited patiently and, finally, without any trumpets or drama, it had happened.

He’d woken one morning – he was now sleeping every night on the floor of Shvigorsky’s hut with some of the other ‘runaways’ – with the inner certainty that the Marxist position of how permanent and sustainable change could come about was the only one that made sense. Lying there beside his sleeping friends, he felt both shocked and gladdened by this sudden revelation. True, there was still so much that he did not understand, but that did not trouble him. What mattered was that he had found himself in a new world, transformed. He knew that while the other groups debated, it was the Marxists that were organising; not losing an hour, even a minute, in constructing their revolution. That is what he and his friends should be doing, instead of sitting round talking endlessly about things that they knew little about. Words without deeds was death.

Ashamed now of the wasteful discussions in which he had revelled only the previous day, he made the decision to avoid the others and to spend the day by himself thinking things through. But so strong had been the impulse to share his good news that he had felt that he would burst if he didn’t tell someone.

“So you are a Marxist now, are you?” Shvigorsky had said, leaning on his spade.

The old man shook his head sadly.

“How many times have I seen this? A piece of skirt comes through the door and political principles fly out the window.”

He had protested hotly, as the wizened gardener, still laughing quietly to himself, had taken him gently but firmly by the arm and led him back to his friends who were sitting outside the hut, smoking cigarettes and watching the sunset. They too had all laughed when he told them his news. All except Alexandra who stood up and began walking away. She had fallen for this before and would not stay to hear her political views mocked. She believed that a woman’s views had a right to be considered as seriously as a man’s. This time he did not jeer at her, but followed her meekly through the orchard, ignoring her repeated requests to be left alone. Finally, she stopped and turned to face him, the evening light bathing her face, the scent of warm fruit all around them.

“Alexandra,” he had pleaded, “honestly, I want to learn. I want to understand.”

She had shown her reluctance. Why should she believe that he was not teasing her as he had so many times before?

He had persisted, following her deeper into the orchard. Could he borrow some of her books? If he wrote out his thoughts on what he read, would she read them? He felt lost, he had said, catching up with her and taking her hand in his, noting how under the spreading boughs the dappled shadows of light played against her neck and cheek. Would she show him the way forward? Could she forgive him for all the stupid things he had said in the past? Above all, would she be his teacher?