Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

He felt the woman’s eyes upon his back, taking in his uncut hair, his ill-mended and dusty shoes. He recognised her now: she was the Cerberus of the party; no one whose credentials did not satisfy her would be allowed access to the centre. And where was the centre? Somewhere else in the city, that seemed probable; not here, in this hole. He began to wonder what would happen if he had been a police agent in disguise. Certainly he would not have been permitted to leave the house alive; these people did not play children’s games with empty guns. There was little doubt in his mind that Paul’s knife was as capable of slitting throats as it was of slitting case linings. As if the Pole had read his thoughts, he heard the sound of the blade stop and the rustle of paper as the documents were removed. There was a pause, and then he was told to turn round.

On the table, the clothes remained undisturbed. Beside them, the case gaped open, shreds of its lining draped over the sides like lolling tongues. Taking the bottle of Ticino with him, Paul left the room, patting Trotsky’s arm absentmindedly as he did so. Wearily, Trotsky turned to follow him but the woman stopped him.

“Stay here, Comrade. In a moment Pavel will bring you a glass of wine and something to eat.”

He watched as, with a sigh, she closed the lid of the sewing box and placed it carefully on the table beside her chair. Then, stiffly, she rose and stood for a moment, looking at him as if preoccupied with some inner thoughts. She seemed to reach some decision, for she took a pace forward and held, out her hand.

“Bienevenue, Pero. Je suis Jaques.”

Smiling at last, he had shaken her hand, relieved that his long journey was over. He noticed the dry strength of her grasp and the way that her eyes lost none of their shrewdness as she examined his face closely. He was later to realise that he had only passed through the first of many tests; success in all of which was imperative if he was to be given access to the headquarters of the party abroad.

The house to which Paul had led him appeared to be some form of private boarding establishment, for there were numbers on each of the six bedrooms. However, during that first stay in Paris he had seen no other guests; a fact that had puzzled him until he had overheard the doorman inform a caller that they had illness in the house. Each day was the same. He spent most of the morning and afternoon either reading or resting in his room. In the evening, he would join Jaques in her sitting room and allow himself to be subjected to hours of questioning. Occasionally he would be allowed to go out, but always in the company of Paul.

One evening, in the hope of once more catching sight of his beautiful stranger, Trotsky had persuaded the Pole to allow him to revisit the bar in the Rue Cavertin. Natalya had not appeared and Trotsky and Paul had spent the evening talking with the other émigrés.

As the talk grew louder and the air in the bar turned beer stale and blue with cheap tobacco smoke, Trotsky found that their pessimism upset him, and he felt that he was drifting back and was once more amongst talkers and not doers. The exiles of Ust-Kut and Verkholensk, he told himself, had had more life in them than these uprooted creatures. It was as if he had climbed to the lip of the volcano and heard from its depths not fiery rhetoric, but the endless echo of ineffectual chatter. He became in turn suspicious, abrasive and, finally, rude. Even the prospect that Natalya might at any moment enter the bar did nothing to soothe his spirits. On the contrary, he could not have borne it if she had appeared while he was feeling in such a foul mood. He was relieved when Paul suggested that they return to Jaques, and he had used the kilometre back to the safe house to walk off some of his frustration.

Reaching the house, they found Jaques waiting up for them. Trotsky had gone straight to his room (first storey back) that he shared with Paul and was sitting on the rough camp bed when he heard his hostess’s voice calling his name. Wearily, he rose and went downstairs, expecting to have to answer more questions about the South Russia Union and how it had collapsed. One look at the stern expression on Jaques’ face put him on his guard.

She did not mince her words.

“Paul tells me that you behaved in a very uncomradely way tonight. He says that, like a fool, you argued with everyone. You talked instead of listened.”

Trotsky looked quickly at Paul, who was standing beside her chair. If he was expecting the Pole to look embarrassed, he was to be disappointed. In truth, the Pole looked very satisfied with himself and did not display any shame at his exposure as informant.

“Well, do you have an explanation?” Jaques demanded. “I suppose you realise that you have endangered everybody here. You have drawn attention to yourself and therefore to this house. What made you behave so stupidly? Was it the drink? Was that it?”