Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“Paris is not so bad,” Paul admitted as he escorted Trotsky through the unfamiliar cobbled streets. “There are worse cities. But without Natalya Sedova, even Paris would lose some of its glamour. She, above all things, makes exile bearable.”

Trotsky noted the tone of affectionate protection.

“And the big fellow? Is he her lover?”

His companion laughed, a mirthless sound that sounded like cracking wood.

“Daniel? Her lover? No, they share the same birthday, that’s all. Natalya studies at the University and one of her professors presented her with some theatre tickets as a present. So, she has shared them with Daniel.”

They walked for ten minutes, talking intermittently. Noting how Paul either ignored or deflected his questions, Trotsky realised that the French comrades had chosen the venue for their rendezvous carefully so that it was not near their base. When they finally reached their destination, he was not surprised to see that it was a nondescript terraced house in a back street. The door was opened almost immediately and they were escorted to a sitting room at the rear of the house.

A solidly built woman in her mid-fifties was sitting waiting for them. Nursing a large sewing basket upon her knee she scrutinised the newcomer attentively through her rimless spectacles. Her thick square jaw and grey hair, tightly dressed in a bun, gave her a severe appearance.

As Paul and the woman exchanged a few words Trotsky took in his new surroundings. It was a low ceilinged room with one window at the far end, across which two brown curtains were securely drawn. A small fire made of cheap coal and scavenged bits of box wood was smoking cheerlessly in the hearth. The second man who had opened the outer door to them was standing in the doorway blocking his exit. Beside the chair upon which the woman was sitting stood a large table covered by a heavy woollen blanket upon which Paul had placed his travelling case. From the few inches of wood revealed by the hem of the blanket, Trotsky felt that it was a good piece of furniture, probably a relic of more prosperous times. Somehow its fine quality diminished rather raised the standard of the room. The overall impression was one of drab, soul-grinding, petit-bourgeois domesticity.

His nervousness at the prolonged silence began to give way to a feeling of anti-climax. Somewhere further along the dark hallway he heard a door open and the swish of skirts. He thought again of the beautiful stranger he had glimpsed in the bar earlier that evening. Natalya had been her name; Natalya Sedova, his beautiful stranger. The aroma of a meat stew reached his nostrils and his stomach responded with a growl of hunger. He shifted his weight wearily from one foot to another.

“Take off your overcoat,” the woman said.

He began to shrug off the heavy travelling coat and was helped by unseen hands behind him.

“Now your jacket.”

Again he was helped and his jacket disappeared.

Relieved of the warmth of his jacket and coat, he moved instinctively towards the fire.

“Stay where you are,” the woman warned.

Looking at her in surprise, he saw that one of her hands had dipped quickly into the sewing box and although he could not see the gun, he heard the click as she released the safety catch.

“Where is the key to the case?”

Carefully he patted his left trouser pocket, and the woman jerked her head towards the table. Slowly he took the small key from his pocket and passed it to the man called Paul. Unsmiling, the Pole took it from him and began opening the battered suitcase. Trotsky watched as first the bottle he had been carrying as a personal present for ‘Jaques’ and then the worn clothes that had served as ballast for the case were removed and laid carefully upon the blanket. Reaching into a jacket pocket, Paul produced a closed clasp knife which he carefully opened, revealing a blade about four or five inches long that glinted dully in the lamplight.

“Turn around,” she ordered. “Face the wall. Keep your arms by your sides.”

Assuming a nonchalance that he did not feel, Trotsky did as he was ordered, and gazed fixedly at the stained wallpaper. A faded pattern of roses was just discernible beneath the grime. Out of the corner of his right eye, he could see the doorway. It was empty; the man who had let them in had gone, taking with him the coat and jacket he had been lent in Zurich. From behind him came the sound of the knife cutting as Paul began working at the fabric of the suitcase. Trotsky waited patiently, savouring the smells of cooking that were filling the room. Closing his eyes, he longed for sleep.

“Stand up straight!”