Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

The driver returned, bearing a covered tray which he hastily stowed on the top of the cab. He was just in the time, for the obstruction in front of them had been removed and angry voices could be heard from behind them urging him to be on his way. The cabbie cracked his whip and Trotsky watched as, in all its tonnage, the quantity of produce was slowly paraded for his inspection. Bulky sacks of peat brown potatoes sat next to trays of imported figs. Quinces and damsons piled high in their trays shared the pavement with smooth-skinned tomatoes and craggy artichokes. Intermittently, broad wooden drays appeared upon which men stood loading boxes of apples and pears while their massive draught horses resting between their shafts, munching steadily at their nosebags, spasmodically stamping their iron shod hooves against the cobblestones. And everywhere there were workers: small dark pugnacious looking men, emerging from the bright mouths of the warehouses, with boxes of walnuts and filberts balanced three high on their cloth-capped heads, or stooped under the weight of hessian sacks of turnips and beets. No sooner had one load been carried away than it was promptly loaded into by the merchants’ waiting carts and wagons.

The cab continued its careful journey towards the periphery of the market. Down the side streets Trotsky glimpsed a greater structure, towering above the maze of street, like a glass and steel cathedral. This covered inner market seemed to form the centre of the area, for the trade became noticeably brisker around its precincts. The open doorways of the wholesalers’ warehouses were interspersed with the solid brick exteriors of bars, from which was coming a cacophony of music and laughter. Behind their steamed up windows, the carters sat at their ease, awash with beer and cheap meat pies, their rest time glimpsed in the fraction of a closing door.

As it forged its way along the crowded thoroughfare, the cab was overtaken by jaunty youths, whistling to keep out the cold as they wheeled trolleys loaded with trays of grapes or black bullaces, and silent older men, pushing barrows with mounds of carrots, beans and sprouts. Trotsky watched as a shawled and raddled prostitute, standing inconveniently at a corner, was shoved aside by the bustling columns of men; some stripped to their waistcoats and mufflers despite the chill of the night air. In the gutters, urchins fought over spillages or munched hungrily on discarded stalks. Yelping pitifully, a dog with three legs was limping painfully beside the cab, using its bulk as a cover.

With a click of his tongue, the cabbie urged his horse onwards. Gradually the light and smell of the market fell away, the noise fading last of all until it was only a buzzing in his ears. Overcome by it all, Trotsky closed the window, and sat back against the cracked leather upholstery, content to let the cabbie take him where he would. How small Odessa had seemed after Paris, and now London was bigger still!

He shook his head violently and told himself that he must clear his mind and attend to the situation at hand, and not allow himself to be overawed by the sights of the city like a country bumpkin. He had messages to deliver and important people to meet. He wondered what sort of person this Dr. Richter was and whether he knew the writer Lenin. The author of The Development of Capitalism in Russia and What is to be done obviously boasted a first class mind; but how much of that was dedicated to scholarly theorising and how much to impassioned struggle? A sudden doubt overcame him: had he travelled nearly five thousand versts only to find yet another group of emigres cursed with the Russian sickness? Was this Lenin also prone to dogged despair punctuated by futile declarations?

The cab was moving more quickly now through the silent streets, the sounds of the jangling harness and the horse’s hooves on the metalled surface of the roads echoing eerily against the walls of the houses that rose steeply on either side. At last it slowed to a stop and the driver’s double tap on the roof of the carriage signalled that the cab had reached its destination.

Alighting, Trotsky found that they had arrived in a dimly lit square, devoid of any traffic. He took some coins from his pocket and offered them to the man. Reaching down the cab’s driver grasped his hand, held his open palm under the light of the coach lamp and shook his head. The money was insufficient to pay the fare. Withdrawing his hand Trotsky dug into his overcoat pocket and produced more coins, although he knew them to be of a lesser value. The driver shook his head again purposefully. Nodding in agreement, Trotsky dropped the coins back into his pocket and then held up both hands, palm outwards in the international signal for, “Wait!”