Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

From his seat in the first row of the balcony, he saw at once that the narrow frontage of the theatre had been deceptive. The interior was more than twice, if not three times, the width; its walls and balconies were covered in red plush material and opulently decorated with mirrors and gilded woodwork. Despite it being only a matinee, the house was more than half full. Here and there he could make out the tanned necks and faces of soldiers back from the Cape, their khaki uniforms contrasting with the sober navy blue tunics of the sailors on shore leave. On either side of Vera and himself sat parties of jolly women chattering animatedly, paying little attention to the troupe of hefty chorus girls that were performing on stage.

Consulting her programme, Vera expressed her satisfaction: they had arrived just in time. The next act was a monologue by a popular performer: he should pay strict attention to it. When he had told her that he doubted his English was good enough to follow more than one tenth of the recitation, she had snorted. The words were nothing, she said, he already had those. It was the tone that mattered.

And she had been right. As soon as the portly figure onstage had begun to declaim, the audience fell silent, listening with respect to the ringing tones that carried to the furthermost reaches of the house. It was evident that some of them, such as the lady sitting to his immediate left, knew the words almost by heart, for she mouthed them to herself as if she was giving a response in a church, and she joined in the enthusiastic applause that swept like wave after wave from all parts of the theatre at the conclusion of the piece.

With a wan smile, he turned to Vera, who gave his arm an answering squeeze of encouragement. More dancers followed and after them a shrill chanteuse waving flags, and after her a troupe of moustachioed acrobats-cum-jugglers, dressed in spangled tights. Just as he was becoming restless, Vera brought his attention to the act that was to close the first half of the bill. After that, she promised him, they would leave the English to their enjoyment. But first he must study the comedian.

The small pit orchestra struck up a jaunty tune and the curtains opened to reveal a painted backdrop depicting what Trotsky supposed was meant to represent a London street scene, though it looked nothing like the Pentonville he knew. From the wings a man strolled nonchalantly to the centre of the stage. Dressed as a beggar, he looked an improbable sight with his battered bowler hat and the flapping soles of his kipper-mouth boots. The audience greeted him with joyous derision and the orchestra played on, but he affected not to notice either. Instead, rummaging in his pockets, he produced with an ostentatious flourish the stub of a cigar which he proceeded to light by the simple expedient of striking a match against the ragged seat of his pants. The match flared, the audience laughed. He had yet to speak a word, yet he already had the theatre in the palm of his hand.

Leaning forward in his seat Trotsky watched, fascinated, as the comic began to work the house. Like the monologist that had appeared earlier, most of the man’s patter remained incomprehensible to him, yet the cleverness that drove the crowd to respond lay not in the words he used, but in the pauses in between the lines. Gradually a pattern emerged: the man was working in pulses of three. Time after time his dry, almost laconic delivery brought forth at first titters, then guffaws and finally gales of laughter, until a single word or gesture had Trotsky’s neighbour weeping almost uncontrollably. When, with a last careless backward kick of his heels, he disappeared into the wings, the applause was thunderous and Trotsky found himself on his feet along with the rest of the audience, clapping furiously.

The house lights went up and the applause died. As good as her word, Vera led him out of the theatre. Clutching his now almost forgotten speech and the brown paper parcel which contained his new shirt and collar, he chatted excitedly to her as they made their way back through the narrow streets towards the Circus. It was barely four o’ clock yet already the sun’s light was fading in the wintry sky. Shivering, they walked up Shaftesbury Avenue until a vacant cab hove into view. Vera hailed it. It was time they were making their way to Whitechapel.

As they headed eastwards, they discussed the two acts that had impressed him. At last he fell silent.

“A copeck for your thoughts,” said Vera.

He shrugged and smiled sadly.

“Watching them reminded me of someone I knew a long time ago,” he told her.

“Who?”

“Just a woman.”

“Never say just a woman, Lev. It’s unkind. Anyway, you should be thinking of more serious things. Who was she?”

“Giuseppina Uget,” he replied with a sigh. “She was a coloratura soprano who used to sing in the Italian opera at Odessa.”

Vera gave a low whistle.

“Opera, eh? Is that what made you join the movement?”