Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“She might have said affectionate,” he admitted, “I cannot remember. I have been travelling for a long time.”

Frau Richter frowned.

“Next time be more careful with your memory. It could be important.”

“Yes, Frau Richter.”

Suddenly she smiled, and clapped him on the arm.

“You have done well, Pero. Welcome! My name is Nadezhda Krupskaya. I shall get dressed and then start getting you something to eat. Come upstairs and meet Lenin. He will be surprised to see you. We were not expecting you to arrive for another two weeks.”

Chapter Eleven

Sunday 4th February 1907

Berezovo, Northern Siberia

Gleb Pirogov shifted his feet and stretched his aching legs as the last echoes of the Trisagion faded away. A flash of silver, visible through the Holy Door and reflecting the blaze of candlelight surrounding the throne, told him that the service was nearing its end. The acolytes were bringing the Cross down to the iconostasis for the final veneration. Some of the congregation began to move slowly forward, their eyes fixed on Father Arkady as he appeared in front of the decorated screen with the three young boys. The worshippers waited patiently, knowing that two of his regular acolytes had fallen sick, having caught severe chills during the Epiphany service on the frozen riverbank.

Father Arkady looks tired, thought Pirogov as the priest whispered hurried instructions to his new helpers, handing one the thurible, positioning the hands of the other around the broad cross piece of the crucifix so that the boy could support its weight more easily. Pirogov offered up a short prayer for Father Arkady’s welfare as he watched him beckon the burly figure that had positioned itself at the forefront of the congregation. Respectfully, His Excellency the Mayor advanced and slowly lowered himself to his knees in front of the proffered cross. Raising his open palms towards the distant altar, Mayor Pobednyev inclined his head and kissed the foot of the crucifix. He felt the priest’s hand rest lightly on the crown of his head as his bass tones rumbled a blessing. As the third acolyte, cloth in hand, quickly wiped the spot where his lips had touched the silvered wood, the Mayor rose and retreated, allowing Colonel Izorov to take his place. From the darkened patina of the fresco high on the wall behind the throne, the luminescent eyes of the Christus glared down over the top of the screen, taking in the uniformed man kneeling below and the shuffling throng behind him.

Unlike in its estranged sister in the West, there were no pews or chairs in the main body of this House. The worshippers of Berezovo were able to move about freely, resting if they felt weary during the long services on the wooden ledge that lined the alcoves along the side walls. The ledge was symbolic of the incumbent’s compassion, as was his forbearance for those who, in the winter months, chose not to endure the long vigils on Saturday nights, and preferred to take the Eucharist the following day. Not that Father Arkady was in any way lax: he still stuck rigidly to using the ninth century Church Slavonic and frowned upon those who knelt during the reading of the Sunday services. Now, as Colonel Izorov rose, making way for another man to approach the Cross, the priest looked up and began counting the expectant faces watching through the pungent haze of candlelight and incense. The boy holding the Cross was already weakening, he noted. He would not last another quarter of an hour.

Pirogov stood alone at the back of the church. A skilled carpenter and joiner, he would receive his blessing before that of a labourer or peasant, but until that time came he was content to wait his turn. Eventually the procession of those who had been blessed began making its way past him towards the outer door. The Pobednyevs first, bowing importantly to a few select friends, followed by an unsmiling Colonel Izorov and his wife. Next came Captain Steklov, escorting, in her husband’s absence, a bored looking Madame Kuibysheva. Close behind them came the Nadnikovs and the Kavelins: the gentlemen leading the way, their wives following. Impassively, Pirogov noted Nadnikov’s look of approval at the polished boots and glittering spurs of the young Captain in front of him, while Kavelin eyed Madame Kuibysheva’s twitching bustle with a smirk.

There was a pause, then, already deep in conversation, the ‘Two Thieves’ emerged from the crowd: Izminsky, the manager of the town’s only bank and Kuprin, the revenue officer. Eyes that may have been fixed hungrily, or otherwise, upon Madame Kuibysheva’s shapely figure were now averted lest, by accidentally catching the attention of either of the two men, forgotten accounts were brought to mind. Pirogov did likewise. In the next few days he would have to apply for the loan of a paltry sum, five roubles, to cover the doctor’s bill and buy some new linen for the new babe. He had no wish to spoil his chances by appearing insolent.