Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

This, he felt, was an awkward situation. The amount he had spent on the two glasses of rum on the boat crossing had left him short of money for the fare. Wasn’t that embezzlement? Moreover, his instructions about his arrival had been clear. He was to alight from the cab before reaching the address and allow the cab to leave the vicinity. Once he was sure that the coast was clear he would go to the door numbered 30 and give the agreed signal by knocking. This, he recognised, was not now possible; instead, he would have to rouse Dr. Richter and ask him for money to pay the cabdriver. It would mean a risk to security and, what was worse, great personal embarrassment. It risked becoming a repetition of the farcical scene he had played with Victor Adler; the reports of which had preceded his journey to Paris.

He looked briefly around the square, but it appeared empty of loiterers and he could see no evidence of surveillance behind the shut faced curtained windows. Opening the door of the cab he reached in and picked up his luggage. Placing the suitcase deliberately on the pavement in full view of the driver he mimed his intentions. The driver solemnly nodded his approval. Turning quickly Trotsky hurried to the door of number 30 and gave the triple knock Jaques had taught him. He waited. There was no response. He tried again: one… two-three. Plek-hanov. From somewhere inside the house, on the first floor he heard a faint movement and seconds later saw an upstairs curtain twitch. A white moon of a face appeared briefly, then it was gone. Another minute passed and he debated whether he should knock again. He decided against it. To knock the first time was to follow orders; to knock the second time was to confirm his bona fides. To give the signal the third time would be to compromise his credibility as a man who could not be flustered.

He had been told that the landlady, a Mrs Yeo, lived on the ground floor of the premises. Looking first one way and then the other down the street, he leant forward and placed his ear against the panel of the door. New sounds were coming from within the house: soft footfalls descending the stairs; the hiss and pop of a gas lamp as light dawned in the hallway and then the sound of someone hurrying towards the door. Straightening up, he waited as the unseen person reached up and, with a grating sound of metal against metal, stealthily drew back the bolt. Cautiously the door was opened a few inches and a pudgy faced woman, her shabby nightgown caught protectively at the throat by her hand, stared out at him.

“Yes?” she demanded, her voice thick with suspicion. “What you want?”

Her crude use of English came as a surprise to him. Keeping his voice to a whisper he replied in Russian.

“I am Pero. I have come to see Doctor Richter. Are you Frau Richter?”

She looked at him and frowned.

“Why do you want to see the doctor?”

Confident that he had arrived at the correct address, he nodded.

“Jaques sent me. I don’t have enough fare for the cab. I am very sorry, comrade. Can you help me?”

Looking out into the square, she took in the waiting cab and the suitcase on the pavement beside it.

“Wait here,” she ordered.

Once she had paid off the cab the woman let him into the house, immediately closing the door and bolting it after him. Dowsing the gas, which exploded with another pop, she held a finger up against his lips. Then, taking him by the hand, she led him along the dark hallway past the bottom of the staircase to the back of the house. Opening a door, she pushed him through and followed after him.

At first he could see nothing, but as his eyes became accustomed to the darkness he could make out the faint outline of a window high up in the opposite wall. The room smelt of rotting vegetables and stale bread. He listened as the woman fumbled for matches, swore and then struck one. Within a few seconds she had lit another gas lamp and he could see that she had brought him into a small dingy kitchen.

This time when she spoke it was in Russian.

“Do you have your papers?”

He produced the forged passport he had used since leaving Verkholensk.

“Trotsky,” she read aloud. “Is that you?”

“No, it’s a cover name. I borrowed it from one of the warders at my last prison.”

She nodded thoughtfully.

“And who did you say you were?”

“Pero.”

“And who sent you?”

“Your cousin Jaques.”

“And did you have a message for my husband?”

Trotsky hesitated.

“It depends who your husband is, Madame,” he replied cautiously.

The woman nodded again, this time with approval.

“Quite right. I am the wife of Dr. Jacob Richter.”

“Then I do have a message for you. Jaques said to tell the doctor that the wine was excellent. And to you, Frau Richter, she sends her warmest greetings.”

“Her warmest greetings? Schon!” snorted the woman with a mocking smile. “Jaques seems to have mellowed towards us since we last met. Are you sure she said ‘warmest’ greetings’?”