Berezovo

by A J Allen

  At first he could see nothing, but as his eyes became accustomed to the darkness he could make out the faint outline of a window high up in the opposite wall. The room smelt of rotting vegetables and stale bread. He listened as the woman fumbled for matches, swore and then struck one. Within a few seconds she had lit another gas lamp and he could see that she had brought him into a small dingy kitchen.

  This time when she spoke it was in Russian.

  “Do you have your papers?”

  He produced the forged passport he had used since leaving Verkholensk.

  “Trotsky,” she read aloud. “Is that you?”

  “No, it’s a cover name. I borrowed it from one of the warders at my last prison.”

  She nodded thoughtfully.

  “And who did you say you were?”

  “Pero.”

  “And who sent you?”

  “Your cousin Jaques.”

  “And did you have a message for my husband?”

  Trotsky hesitated.

  “It depends who your husband is, Madame,” he replied cautiously.

  The woman nodded again, this time with approval.

  “Quite right. I am the wife of Dr. Jacob Richter.”

  “Then I do have a message for you. Jaques said to tell the doctor that the wine was excellent. And to you, Frau Richter, she sends her warmest greetings.”

  “Her warmest greetings? Schon!” snorted the woman with a mocking smile. “Jaques seems to have mellowed towards us since we last met. Are you sure she said ‘warmest’ greetings’?”

  “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.

  The man who walked behind the ‘Two Thieves’ walked alone. Suffering from the after effects of heavy food and cheap brandy, Modest Tolkach studiously ignored the stony glances of the women as he hastened to reach the fresh air outside. It had been unfortunate that the Cross should have fallen from the boy’s hands just as he had bent to kiss it. It did not necessarily mean that he was damned, although, after his supper with Anatoli Pobednyev the previous night, he felt that nothing would surprise him. Things would be different when he was on the council. The fat imbecile couldn’t stay Mayor forever.

  Ignoring the hospital administrator, Pirogov moved forward and then stopped as he caught sight of Dr. Tortsov leading his wife away from the screen, with his assistant Chevanin dutifully in tow.

  The carpenter stood his ground; he had his pride. He owed the doctor money, he reminded himself; that was all. In any case, Tortsov was all right. If you couldn’t pay immediately, he didn’t kick up a fuss. But the debt was already a week old.

  With a sinking feeling in his stomach, he watched as the doctor, seeing him, muttered a few words to his assistant, who looked in his direction and nodded. It had not occurred to him before that perhaps Chevanin, as the physician who had actually delivered the baby, would be collecting the payment. He sensed that the younger man would be far less inclined to extend his credit than his employer. He braced himself for the inevitable as the Tortsovs drew level with him and then passed him by. Chevanin hung back and greeted him.

  “Good morning Gleb Pirogov.”

  “Good morning, Sir.”

  “The doctor would like to speak to you when you leave. A quick word, that is all.”

  Pirogov nodded in acknowledgement, and Chevanin moved on. The carpenter watched morosely, inwardly cu
rsing his luck, as Nikolai Alexeyevich Dresnyakov and Alexandra Alexeyevna Dresnyakova emerged from the thinning crowd. Brother and sister, they differed only in height and hairstyles. Pirogov moved forward again, pushing his way through the outer fringes of the congregation. But for the order for the ten sleighs, he would have already paid Tortsov’s bill. Instead, every copeck of his working capital had gone to Kavelin’s timber yard for materials and he had had to turn away smaller jobs in order to finish the work on time. Now he would definitely have to go to Izminsky. Such was life.

  In front of the screen, Father Arkady had changed the acolytes around. The boy who had let the crucifix slip was now swinging the incense burner; the boy with the cloth was now holding the Cross. Impatient to leave, the remaining worshippers had formed the semblance of a queue. Prison director Skyralenko, the tunic of his Imperial Penal Service uniform worn shiny at the elbows, was quickly being followed by the lesser merchants: Shiminski, Kubalchov and Pusnyan and their wives.

  There was another pause while Madame Roshkovskaya was gently lowered to her knees. Those at the back craned their necks and, seeing the reason for this new delay, started talking quietly amongst themselves. For Nina Roshkovskaya, they were prepared to wait. Even Pirogov, standing next to Irkaly Ovseenko who already smelled strongly of drink, nodded in agreement with his fellow craftsman’s tut of sympathy. There was something fundamentally wrong with a world which afflicted a harrowing condition upon such a beautiful woman. To many in the town, divided by class, rank and political beliefs, Roshkovsky’s wife provided the sole unifying link: the admiration they felt, as they watched her daily battle with the disease that was slowly crippling her, went far beyond the limits of cheap sentiment. There was a quality to her suffering that was universal and yet, at the same time, peculiarly Russian.

  The darker the night, the brighter the stars.

  The deeper the pain, the closer to God.

  Madame Roshkovskaya could not be measured by the standards of ordinary people. Her beauty was not the same as Madame Kuibysheva’s. For all her wealth, the fur merchant’s young wife looked tawdry beside the invalid’s finely chiselled aristocratic features. Nina Roshkovskaya’s obstinate determination to live every day as if her illness was a minor inconvenience spoke of a bravery beyond that of the most decorated soldier in the garrison. Knowing that Dr. Tortsov could do nothing for her, she was still able to greet him as a valued friend. With the exception of the doctor and her husband, no one had ever heard her complain of the pain she was in, though it was obvious to all. She had not even turned to Father Arkady: her presence at the service spoke not of any deeply held beliefs but of her unshakeable determination to attend the church whenever she wished. She had what those strange people, the English, called ‘grit’.

  Father Arkady’s hand rested longer than usual upon the lace that covered her elegant coiffure and for an instant an expression of profound sorrow could be detected beneath the priest’s heavily bearded features. Spreading her arms like a wild goose in flight, Madame Roshkovskaya allowed herself to be helped to her feet by her husband, assisted by Fyodor Gregorivich, the proprietor of the Hotel New Century. Slowly, the huddled trio, Roshkovsky half supporting, half cradling her in her arms, took the first steps in the laborious journey to the door. Unable to help and unable to watch, some of the waiting men turned their heads away while others fixed their gaze keenly on her eyes, willing her on, baring their teeth with the effort as they tried to pour the strength of their muscles into hers. Aware of the feelings in the hearts of their menfolk, the women looked on sombrely.

  The queue moved forward again as, in rapid succession, Maslov, Belinsky and Delyanov all knelt before the priest. Standing on tiptoe, Pirogov peered over the shoulder of the man in front of him and saw that there were at least another dozen people before his turn would come. A flicker of hope began to burn within him. Perhaps Dr. Tortsov would already have gone. But when, at last, he had received Father Arkady’s benediction and had reached the outer door of the church, he found that Fyodor Gregorivich, still supporting the land-surveyor’s wife, was blocking the way out to the street and that the doctor, standing in the centre of a small group of people, was deep in conversation with Andrei Roshkovsky. Seeing Pirogov hesitate as he approached, the owner of the Hotel New Era edged to one side to let him through, but the carpenter shook his head and pointing silently at the doctor, indicating that he had cause to speak with him. Without pausing in what he was saying, Dr. Tortsov turned and acknowledged him with a nod then carried on with this conversation. Pirogov waited, turning the worn brim of his hat nervously in his hands.

  “Remember now,” the doctor was saying, “seven o’ clock this evening at the hotel for casting. I don’t think it should take long this year. Now, are you sure that you would not prefer to take my sleigh home, Nina Vassileyevna?”

  “It’s very kind of you, Doctor,” replied Madame Roshkovskaya, “but Fyodor Gregorivich has kindly offered us seats in his. Besides, you have just as far to go as we have and the town would not forgive me if you caught a chill on my account.”

  The doctor laughed.

  “I’m too busy to catch a chill at the moment. Besides,” he added, jerking his head towards the carpenter, “I have to attend to Pirogov here, or rather his wife. You have heard of his good fortune, I suppose?”

  Hearing his name mentioned, Pirogov took a step forward, smiling sheepishly.

  “Good fortune, Gleb Yakovlevich?” asked Madame Roshkovskaya. “Why? What has happened to you?”

  “I have a son, Madame,” he admitted. “A fine boy.”

  The land surveyor’s wife leant forward on her two sticks, her eyes widening with delight.

  “A son! How marvellous! When was he born?”

  “A week ago today, Madame.”

  “A Sunday child. He will be lucky.”

  Twisting her body with some effort, Madame Roshkovskaya turned to face her husband.

  “Andrei, haven’t we some blankets in the upstairs cupboard that are not being used? Perhaps Madame Pirogova could make better use of them than we can, if Gleb Yakovlevich would allow us to lend them to her?”

  For a few seconds, the carpenter felt too moved to reply.

  “Thank you, Madame,” he said gruffly. “I’m sure she could find them useful for the babe. Just for a few months, until the warmer weather comes, you understand.”

  “Then that’s settled,” said Madame Roshkovskaya lightly. “You may call for them any time you like. But remember to tell Mariya Nikoleyevna that they will need to be aired before she uses them.”

  With a tired smile, she took her leave of them, the roughly dressed peasants that had begun to stream past the group hanging back so that her supporters could safely negotiate the ice-covered steps down to the street.

  Pirogov shook his head in admiration. Madame Pirogova! he thought proudly. Mariya Nikoleyevna, if you please! That will buck the old girl up.

  Undeniably, there was something about Madame Roshkovskaya that made the heart feel full again. It was more than lending blankets and remembering people’s names, though both went a long way towards explaining it. The nearest he could get to the secret of her mystery was ‘breeding’ and that was close enough for him. Happier now, he turned back to face the doctor, who was busy fastening the top button of his fur collared coat. Warmed by Madame Roshkovskaya’s unexpected generosity, he decided that perhaps five roubles could be found after all. It wasn’t the end of the world.

  “Well then,” announced the doctor as he pulled on a thick pair of gloves, “since we have my sleigh after all, let us go to your house and see this famous baby of yours. He must be wondering where his father has got to.”

  Hunching their shoulders against the cold, the two men walked towards the line of waiting sleighs.

  * * *

  The Pirogovs lived on the opposite side of town in the heart of the artisan quarter: the warren of grim streets that ran between the rear of the hospital and the great Tobolsk Highway. Th
eir house was one of a half dozen modest properties owned by Nadnikov the grain merchant. The family’s accommodation consisted of two small, dank rooms on the upper storey, the whole of the ground floor being given over to a single large room which served as the carpenter’s workshop and store house. It was a far cry from Ostermann Street. Here, the poorer inhabitants of Berezovo huddled together for warmth and profit. Christian carpenter lived cheek by jowl with Jewish tailor, and sub-let rooms, if he had them, to atheistic exiles. It was said amongst the political exiles (of which Berezovo boasted a colony of around 200 souls) that so striking was the difference between this southern section of the town and its wealthier northern counterpart that it was virtually impossible, on seeing one, to suppose that the other existed, unless, of course, you were a Marxist; the joke being that one usually had to be a Marxist to find oneself in the situation to begin with.

  In his own way, Gleb Pirogov was himself having difficulty bridging the gap between the two worlds as he climbed self-consciously onto the driving board of the doctor’s sleigh. Unaccustomed to being driven home from church, he sat staring straight ahead throughout the journey, one hand tightly holding onto the edge of the plank so as to steady himself as the thick-coated ponies bent their heads to their task.

  Sensing his passenger’s unease, Doctor Tortsov asked genially:

  “How is your wife? Is she taking the tonic that Dr. Chevanin left her?”

  “She is quite well, thank you Doctor,” Pirogov replied. “As well as can be expected, anyhow.”

  “I expect that she is tired, though.”

  “Yes, she is tired. But I make sure she has her two spoons full, just as you ordered.”