Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

On the day of the lecture he had spent the morning in his room working on his speech. On one side of his desk lay a single sheet, containing a neatly enumerated list of topics that Nicolai had suggested he should address, broken down into headings and sub headings. In front of him, a sheaf of pages, already stained and curling at the edges from his moist palms, was covered with short paragraphs that he had written, scored out and then rewritten. Discarded balls of crumpled paper littered the floor of his room.

It was hopeless, he told himself.

Resigning himself to humiliation, he persevered, working and shaping the words until at last he felt that, if nothing else, he could recite them without faltering. He was writing the final sentence when he heard the sound of a church clock chiming one o’clock and, almost simultaneously, a knock on his bedroom door. Vera appeared. Without speaking, she motioned him to follow and to bring his speech with him. Taking his hand, she led him ceremoniously down the few short steps to the common room.

To his surprise he saw that the room had been tidied and the linoleum covering the floor had been scrubbed clean. Gone was the rickety table and in its place stood Vera’s own personal flat-topped writing desk, over which was draped a freshly laundered and pressed tablecloth. Seeing the table was set with only one place, he started to protest, but, still unspeaking, she pointed to the empty seat waiting for him. As he took his place she crossed over to the small stove in the corner upon which the contents of an array of pots and pans bubbled and sizzled, and began to serve him his lunch. She sat opposite him, watching as he spooned up the borscht and looked genuinely pleased when he told her it was delicious. She thanked him for the compliment, adding in an almost offhand way that his opinion mattered, not only about her cooking but also on other things. His speech, for instance. Could she read it? Unwillingly he pushed his notes across the table to her. Taking away his bowl she replaced it with a plate full of katushki, prepared, she told him, the way Plekhanov himself liked.

While he devoured the fish balls and wiped up the rich sauce with a rough-cut slice of bread, she read the dozen or so pages he had given her, nodding once or twice. For dessert she had prepared a cold cherry kissel, and only when this too had been consumed had she given her verdict on what she had read. His speech, she declared, was good: an intelligent and coherent analysis of the contemporary state of Russian affairs and a persuasive argument for a reorganised Party structure. There was no doubt in her mind that he would be an outstanding success. His timid spirits began to rise, bolstered by the meal and her praise.

After they had cleared away the table, Vera sprang her second surprise, announcing that they had a busy afternoon ahead of them. Their first port of call would be the new shops in Oxford Street. Brushing aside his reservations – he still needed to review his notes – she insisted on his accompanying her and within the hour, they had joined the hundreds of pedestrians that thronged the pavement of the busy thoroughfare. Some of the shop windows were already dressed for the coming celebration of Christmas, a fact that scandalised Vera since December had barely started. The purpose of their visit was revealed only when she again took him by the hand and led him inside an emporium specialising in men’s clothing.

The young gentleman, she told the floorwalker in her heavily accented English, required a new shirt and collar: one that was ready to wear. Despite his glaring looks as an assistant fussed over him with a measuring tape, Trotsky had allowed his benefactor to have her way. After his choice was selected, wrapped and paid for, Vera once more took charge and led him circuitously towards the whirlpool of Piccadilly Circus. With the aid of a burly policeman, a gap was found in the flow of cabs and trader’s vehicles, and they hurriedly crossed, diving once more into the security of the relatively quiet side streets. Vera’s step did not falter as she led him briskly past the rows of public houses, in the doorways of which garishly painted, sad-faced prostitutes watched their approach with sharp predatory eyes. Momentarily uneasy, he was relieved when they stopped in front of not a brothel, but the brightly painted facade of a Palais de Varieties where Vera bought two tickets from the box office and, pushing him in front of her, directed him towards the upstairs auditorium.