Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

They talked until the early hours and the voice of Vera Zasulich remained with him until his head finally touched his pillow. Awaking the next morning, he considered his situation afresh. Of one thing he was certain: any residual guilt he felt about abandoning Alexandra and the children had dwindled to nothing over the miles and the weeks he had travelled. Personal ties and old private loyalties had to be put aside in favour of the greater purpose of the movement. Everyone he had met in the underground had long ago made their own sacrifice to the cause; he could no longer regard his loss as being of any more account than theirs. Besides, how else would he have got as far? Not by waiting patiently for his sentence to end in the mire of Verkholensk, that was certain.

Look where I am now, he reasoned. Living in the very same house as two of the joint editors of Iskra, not to mention the production manager, and hailed as the Young Eagle by no less a person than Vera Zasulich.

Sitting up in bed, he had hugged himself with pleasure. The Young Eagle! What a title! Perhaps he could suggest it as new nom-de-plume. Not that Pero (The Pen) was that bad. Certainly he had earned it. But the Young Eagle…

A discreet tap on the door cut short his self-congratulation. The bearded and bespectacled face of Jules Martov appeared. Would he care to take lunch with Lenin, Zasulich and himself at Holford Square?

Enthusiastically Trotsky accepted the invitation. Rising from his bed, he began to dress hurriedly. Outside, chill October winds blew down drab streets, but deep in his heart there was an inextinguishable glow that told him that it was great to be alive. He felt tremendously fortunate, almost as if he had been chosen by the Fates.

Chapter Thirteen

Sunday 4th February 1907

Berezovo, Northern Siberia

Until his visit to Pirogov’s workshop that morning, Doctor Tortsov had had every reason to believe that the day promised to be pleasant, even satisfactory. A late breakfast; church; lunch with Yeliena and young Chevanin; a rest in the afternoon (he was still feeling the fatigue from his tour of the outer villages) and then, in the evening, a gentle stroll round to the Hotel New Century for the casting session for the plays. Of these events, he was looking forward to the last with most pleasure.

When Dresnyakov, in his capacity as chairman of the drama committee, had first tentatively raised the possibility of his directing the committee’s next production, he had hesitated. He had, as Yeliena had said, so much else to occupy his time. But lying awake that night he had turned the matter over in his mind like a dog worrying a bone; first toying with the idea, then allowing himself the luxury of devouring it. Why shouldn’t he accept the invitation? The committee would be unlikely to ask him again if he turned them down. Chevanin had shown that he had the makings of a general physician – for which he held himself principally responsible – and the young man was now competent enough to handle the ordinary cases. In addition, Dresnyakov had assured him that the committee members would give him every practical assistance, without getting in his way. In fact, it would be entirely ‘his show’.

The following morning, he had sent Dresnyakov a note informing him that he would be prepared to accept the role of director on two conditions. Firstly, that the entertainments should be two small one-act plays, separated by a musical interlude, so that as many people as possible would be able to participate. Secondly, that they would both be comic pieces. There was to be no mention of sickness, disease or social distress. The plays were to celebrate life and dispense that most indispensable of tonics: laughter. These conditions had been accepted by the committee and, so far, all was proceeding smoothly. The scripts had arrived, the scenery had been commissioned and the barracks hall had been booked. Of the dramatis personae, one of the principal roles had already been cast and he had every reason to expect the remainder would be determined that evening.

Such is the unstable nature of life that it abhors efforts to celebrate its virtues and finds devious ways to frustrate those who attempt to do so. First there had been the reports of the epidemic. Then there had been that sudden and unexplained setback with the date of the performance. Here no serious damage had been done. In fact, the doctor felt that this was all to his advantage, since it gave him an extra week to rehearse his actors. Now there was this matter of the Mayor’s sleighs.