Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

With these terrible parting words, Dr. Tortsov left the carpenter staring wretchedly at the piles of sawn timber that surrounded him and struck off in the direction of the Jewish Quarter.

Tramping over the hard packed snow, he turned over in his mind what he had learnt from his visit. It seemed incredible to him that Kostya Izorov would condone a scheme that could only lead to panic and mayhem. Far more likely that Pobednyev had used the colonel’s name to frighten the man into silence. That was a dangerous game, but then the Mayor was playing for high stakes. The minute he posted the quarantine notice, the price of all goods in the shops would soar and there would be the constant threat of disorder and lawlessness. Ovseenko had been right about one thing: ten sleighs were not enough to carry away all the wealthier families and their possessions. Even twenty-two sleighs would hardly be sufficient to reach destinations such as Tiumen and Tobolsk that lay over a fortnight’s travel away.

Smiling grimly to himself, the doctor wondered whether the Mayor had considered where they were to sleep en route, if all the villages had become infected. It was possible that Pobednyev was counting on the isolation of the settlements to the east to provide them with safe shelter. Certainly ponies would be useless in such terrain, which was why the Mayor had commissioned the heavier type of sleighs pulled by reindeer.

If escape was what the Mayor and his cronies on the town council were planning, then perhaps he should let him proceed and good riddance to bad rubbish. It would serve them all right if they froze to death on the snowfields or were murdered by the Yakuts. He slowed his place, in two minds as to whether his call on Averbuch was now necessary. It was unlikely that Pobednyev would give town council money to a Jew. But although he felt confident now that his deductions were correct, he decided to press on in the fervent hope that Pirogov had been misinformed and that Averbuch was not also building sleighs.

Averbuch had an order for eighteen deer sleighs. The Jew listened politely to the doctor’s impassioned arguments then shrugged his shoulders. Business was business. He had his whole family to think of first, before he considered what the good doctor called the ‘wider implications’. Besides, where was the proof that the doctor’s fears were justified? As far as he was concerned the touring sleighs were just what they appeared to be. Of course, the good doctor was right: to risk bringing disorder into the town was foolhardy. But what could he do? He had no control over the Mayor. If he did not supply what His Excellency wanted, someone else would. The doctor should go to his town council if he had a complaint. If he had grounds, Krasinsky would be happy to support him. He still had the piece of paper bearing the Mayor’s signature that gave the specifications for the job: an echt contract. He hoped the doctor understood that it was not that he did not trust the gentlemen on the town council; it was just that it was best to take certain precautions when dealing with them.

When the pointlessness of continuing their conversation had become clear to both of them, Dr. Tortsov allowed himself to be conducted to the door. As they stood on the threshold of the carpenter’s shop, he asked Averbuch whether he also was unable to supply the four trick chairs he needed for the performance of The Bear. Staring gloomily out at the passersby – the lanes of the Quarter were busy in odd contrast to the deserted Sabbath streets of the northern side of town – the doctor heard Averbuch chuckle.

“Now that is what I call unreasonable. You expect a good joiner to make furniture that collapses in front of the whole town! Do you want to ruin him?”

“No, you don’t understand. They are meant to collapse. It’s a coup de theatre.”

“How would I ever sell another chair when people think that every time they sat on it they are going to land on their tochis?” retorted Averbuch happily. “Good luck to you, Doctor.”

With a muttered farewell, Doctor Tortsov set off on the long journey home, inwardly cursing Averbuch.

It doesn’t do to lose your temper with these people, he reminded himself. Letting them see you were beaten only makes their victory sweeter.

He now regretted wasting so much time with the carpenter; he should have known that he would not get any satisfaction from the rascal. As he passed them by, he noticed people conversing in shop doorways stop talking and nudge each other. He quickened his pace. It was getting late and the narrow lanes and alley ways of the Quarter were no place for a professional man to be after nightfall. Looking up at the darkening skyline above the ill-kempt rooftops, he began to wish that he had brought a stout stick.

Chapter Fourteen

1902

London