Berezovo

by A J Allen

  “And if I don’t refuse?”

  “Then it will look as if you approve of his behaviour and you won’t be able to keep him away from Yeliena.”

  The Doctor drew deeply on his cigarette.

  The horns of the dilemma, he thought, and the horns of the cuckold.

  “So what should I do?” he asked aloud.

  Chevanin took a deep breath.

  “A moment ago you paid me the greatest honour of calling me your friend,” he said. “Well, I have an idea, but I don’t know whether it will work.”

  “Let’s hear it, anyway.”

  “I spoke to Yevgeni Svortsov yesterday. I was buying some meat for my supper and the subject of the play came up. He’s beginning to have second thoughts. He really doesn’t want to take part in the second play.”

  “So?”

  “Don’t you see?” explained Chevanin patiently. “If you let him off the hook, say because of ill health, you can offer the part of ‘Tolkachov’ to Modest Tolkach.”

  “To Tolkach?”

  “Yes! You tell him that, as Hospital Administrator, the role of Smirnov is beneath him. That you consider his talents would be wasted on such a small part and that you want him for the part of ‘Tolkachov’, the main character in the second play.”

  “But there is nothing wrong with Svortsov,” Dr. Tortsov protested. “He’s as strong as an ox.”

  “Yes,” agreed Chevanin,” and with just the same amount of talent for acting.”

  Dr. Tortsov frowned as he thought through his assistant’s proposal.

  “What if Tolkach refuses to change parts?”

  “In that case,” replied Chevanin with a grin, “he would have to explain to you why he is refusing the better role. And why it is so important to him that he plays the ‘Bear’. You see, he has no choice. Either he does as you say, or he reveals himself as an adulterer who is trying to compromise another man’s wife.”

  Dr. Tortsov rolled his eyes in disbelief.

  “But he will already know,” he objected, “that I know about that after I have confronted him.”

  “Then don’t confront him!” cried Chevanin. “That way, he will not be sure whether you know about his intentions or not. There is plenty of time after the play to settle accounts with him; all the time in the world. And don’t forget, you aren’t alone. Many other people want to see him get his come-uppance.”

  The Doctor hesitated.

  “You mean,” he said slowly, “that I am to say nothing about this appalling situation?”

  “Absolutely nothing,” Chevanin insisted. “Be a complete innocent. It’s the only way with someone as wicked as him. You must outmanoeuvre him.”

  The notion seemed fantastic. To fight guilt with innocence and by doing so, defeat it. Was it possible? It certainly wasn’t honourable. Yet, much to the Doctor’s surprise, the more he thought about Chevanin’s unconventional suggestion, the more it appealed to him.

  “I like your idea,” he said at last. “I like it very much. But who shall we get to play ‘Smirnov’?”

  Chevanin blew out a long column of smoke.

  “That’s simple,” he said coolly, “I’ll play ‘The Bear’. I’d be quite happy to.”

  For the first time Dr. Tortsov smiled and shook his head.

  “You? You are far too young, Anton Ivanovich. It’s a part for a much older man.”

  “With a bit of stage make up, and some padding, I could do it,” Chevanin countered. “That way, at least you would know that Yeliena Mihailovna would feel safe with me acting opposite her. And it would give me the greatest pleasure of helping you frustrate Modest Tolkach’s plans.”

  “I’m not sure,” the Doctor said doubtfully. “It’s a big part. When would you have time to learn all those lines?”

  “We can rehearse them every day here in the surgery,” Chevanin reassured him with a smile, “until you are satisfied I am word perfect. And I can come to your house when you want to rehearse the pair of us together. Trust me, Vasili Semionovich, as a friend and colleague, this is the best way.”

  Dr. Tortsov regarded him thoughtfully. Chevanin’s plan was feasible and had the merit of being preferable to murder. It would temporarily address one of his two problems and act as an effective prophylaxis against Tolkach’s ambitions. If there were to be changes to the cast it was better that they should be made at this point rather than later. As it was, they had less than ten days to rehearse. He was glad now that he had had the foresight to insist upon directing two short one-act plays rather than one longer play, knowing that if one was not ready it could be cancelled at the last moment. Chevanin had also been right to point out that there would be time after the plays were over to settle his score with the lecherous Hospital Administrator. What they were planning was only a strategy for prevention, not cure, but it was a start.

  As for Yeliena, he thought with a sigh, he would have to speak to her, when he had found the words.

  “Very well,” he said with a small nod of assent. “Agreed.”

  Chapter Seven

  Thursday 8th February 1907

  Great Tobolsk Highway

  Ever since dawn the drivers had kept their eyes on the threatening sky. There was going to be the mother of all blows, they warned the sergeant. It was advisable to stay where they were and not be caught on the open road. But the sergeant had insisted the convoy should press on; they must keep to the schedule. Grim faced, they had whipped their ponies trying to make for the next small settlement. The attempt was folly, and they knew it. After less than two hours the blizzard had overtaken them with a ferocity that had shaken many of the Deputies and their guards.

  Sitting in his customary position in the leading sleigh, Trotsky had felt overawed by the immensity of the storm’s power.

  This is no flurry of snow along a city boulevard, he told himself. This is the mighty force that stops regiments in their tracks and destroys invading armies.

  What impressed him most, even more than the noise of the storm, which was considerable, was how uniformly white and featureless everything had become. There literally was no horizon; no landmark, far or near, that his eyes could take as a point of reference. They were driving through a blank space. Deafened by the howling wind that buffeted the sleigh, he wondered whether the driver knew where he was leading them and was astonished to realise how little it mattered to him. In the face of such elemental power, he had conceded, one direction was as good as another. They were, as the saying went, in the lap of the Gods and, he sensed, under their protection. He was not surprised therefore when the driver, either acting on instinct or foreknowledge, suddenly steered his team violently to the left and he saw the indistinct outline of two buildings appear out of the gloom.

  The bad weather had forced the convoy of sleighs to leave the road and take shelter in an uninhabited izba. At the next settlement there would be hot food waiting for them and warmth and safety but that could be two versts away, or two hundred versts for all it mattered. It did not do to dwell on it. The weather had beaten them and further progress was impossible while the blizzard raged.

  The prisoners had been allocated the upper floor of the izba, the area furthest from the single ground floor entrance. Shutting his eyes, Trotsky settled himself against the attic’s icy walls and wrapped his travelling rug tighter around him. The stale matted straw on the floor and the soiled rafters told him that chickens had once been kept there; to keep them safe, he presumed, from thieving foxes and passersby. Around him the other prisoners lay huddled together for warmth, the children lying sandwiched between their parents covered by mounds of whatever clothing they had been able to grab in the scramble to disembark from the sleighs. Below them the escort could be heard talking amongst themselves as they broke up pieces of wood and tried to get a fire going in the rough hearth. Every now and again the outer door would be flung open as another driver blundered in, having stabled his ponies in the adjoining gornitsa to be greeted by a chorus of oaths. Each time the doo
r would be hurriedly closed, cutting off the wind howl.

  Lying next to him, Sverchkov moved his feet spasmodically, kicking Trotsky in the shin and then grunting an apology. Trotsky nodded into the darkness and sighed.

  Another few hours of this, he told himself, and we will surely die.

  Opening his eyes again, he watched as Dr. Feit moved from group to group. His vision became blurred and he realised, quite dispassionately, that these were tears; he was literally crying from the effects of cold. Beside him he felt Sverchkov’s body, pressed close to his for warmth, begin to shiver. At some point in the last twenty-four hours his former cellmate had caught a chill which was threatening to develop into something more serious.

  Sitting up, Trotsky removed the travelling rug and placed it across both their bodies. In a way, he welcomed the problem of Sverchkov’s health; the concern he felt for his comrade’s welfare helped take his mind off his own discomfort. Seeing Dr. Feit draw nearer to where they lay and fearing that he was going to pass them by, Trotsky beckoned him over. Stiffly the Doctor knelt down by his side in the manner of a priest hearing a dying man’s confession.

  “Get us out of here,” Trotsky whispered hoarsely. “Dimitri is sick. A few more hours up here and he’s done for.”

  Leaning across him, the Doctor placed his palm on Sverchkov’s brow and frowned.

  “I’ll do what I can,” he promised.

  “Try!” Trotsky urged him. “It’s colder here than it is outside.”

  Smiling wearily, the Doctor stood up again.

  “That’s just an illusion, Lev Davidovich.”

  “Even illusions can be dangerous.”

  “I’ll do what I can,” the Doctor repeated.

  As he began to move away, Trotsky called out after him.

  “Don’t speak to the corporal. Go straight to the sergeant.”

  The Doctor ignored him, already kneeling down beside the next pair of prisoners huddled nearby. Immediately Trotsky felt ashamed of his outburst.

  My advice was redundant, he thought, Dr. Feit has already proved himself too good a negotiator to make such a mistake, whereas I look as if I am in danger of losing my grip.

  The Faction had grown. It now numbered around fourteen guards: all young and all recruited since the war in the East. They had not seen action and were all native Siberians. Although the majority still kept aloof from the quarrel, more and more often the sergeant’s orders were being questioned by the corporal who made no secret of his opinion that the sergeant was being too lenient, too deferential towards “these red swine”. As the conditions on the road had worsened, there had even been ominous talk of “shortening the journey”.

  It’s all because they don’t have an officer commanding them, he reasoned as he burrowed deeper beneath the travelling rug. They are afraid of the responsibility; of what would happen if someone did try to escape. They don’t know what to do. They don’t know what to think.

  So far, besides the curses and a little rough handling, the prisoners had not yet suffered at the Faction’s hands. Its aggression was reserved for the bands of supporters, bearing cakes and small comforting gifts, that gathered to greet them at every stop they made. Even this far north the underground telegraph was still working its magic. At the start of their journey the welcoming committees had consisted only of the exiles based in the clusters of houses that formed the communities at which they had stopped. But now people were coming in groups from the outlying areas, even travelling several days to ensure that they caught sight of the Soviet’s deputies on their way north. As their numbers had increased, so had the Faction’s aggression. It seemed only a matter of time before the corporal’s gang of thugs fell upon the prisoners and their families.

  They don’t even know how to think, reflected Trotsky morosely.

  Hearing movement, he opened his eyes. Some of the families were rising from where they lay and beginning to gather together their belongings. It appeared that the Doctor had won: the sergeant was allowing them to descend to the warmer rooms below.

  Turning over, he shook Sverchkov’s shoulder gently.

  “Come on, we’re going downstairs.”

  Sverchkov groaned. Throwing aside the travelling rug, Trotsky stood up.

  “Come on, Dimitri, get up!” he urged him. “There’s a fire downstairs where we can get warm.”

  Too weak to speak, Sverchkov nodded pathetically and, with Trotsky’s help, got unsteadily to his feet. He stood swaying as his friend draped the rug across his shoulders.

  “You look all in,” Trotsky told him.

  Taking Sverchkov by the arm he led him to the queue that was forming at the top of the ladder.

  The ground floor of the izba consisted of two rooms, one of which was now reserved for the exiled deputies and their families. After he had found room for Sverchkov by the small fire that had been lit in the middle of the earthen floor, Trotsky went in search of the Doctor. He found him in conversation with the sergeant and one of the drivers. Seeing him approach, Dr. Feit extended a hand and drew him into the group.

  “Listen to this, Lev Davidovich. We believe that the next village is less than five versts away yet we may be stuck here for days!”

  “Is there any food?” asked Trotsky.

  The sergeant shook his head.

  “Only oats for the horses.”

  “If the worst comes to the worst,” suggested the driver, “we can always make them into a gruel. But it won’t come to that.”

  “You don’t think so?” asked the Doctor.

  “No. Just you wait and see,” the man told them confidently. “This will blow itself out in another hour or so. In the meantime we can boil up a pan of tea and there’s plenty of vodka to go round.”

  Turning his head, the sergeant looked at the group of soldiers in the far corner of the room, laughing with the corporal as they passed a grimy bottle between them.

  “No vodka,” he muttered. “Just tea.”

  “Does that go for everyone?” asked the Doctor.

  “Everyone,” replied the sergeant, adding quietly, “don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”

  Reaching into the pocket of his overcoat, Trotsky pulled out a packet of cigarettes that had been presented to him by one of the exiles at the village where they had spent the previous night. Opening it, he offered it to the sergeant. The sergeant took a cigarette and nodded his thanks. The Doctor and the driver, both pipe smokers, declined. Selecting a cigarette for himself Trotsky waited while the sergeant struck a match and lit it for him, and began to relax.

  It’s going to be all right, he thought.

  The prospect of spending even an hour in the company of the corporal and his armed thugs, grown belligerent through the dangerous mix of boredom, close confinement and alcohol, had worried him. He did not envy the sergeant the task of disarming his men of their flasks.

  Turning to Dr. Feit, he asked if there was anything he could do.

  “Keep them quiet if you can,” he replied, jerking a thumb towards the room where the noise of the other prisoners had begun to rise. “I’m going to boil some water for tea. When it’s ready I’ll bring it through.”

  “Tell them that if anyone wants to relieve themselves they must first come to me,” the sergeant told Trotsky. “One of my men will take them round to the gornitsa. I don’t want anyone wandering off, understand?”

  “Understood,” replied Trotsky with a wry smile. “We don’t want to lose anyone, do we?”

  The sergeant laughed and then frowned.

  “Perish the thought,” he said.

  Returning to the smaller of the two rooms Trotsky relayed the Doctor’s message. Squatting down beside Sverchkov, he felt his comrade’s brow. The skin felt hot and clammy to his touch. The fever had his friend in its grip; there was little he could do to help him.

  A little boy began tugging at his coat sleeve. Concerned about Sverchkov, he ignored the child. The tugging became more insistent. Pulling his arm away irritably, Trotsk
y asked the child what he wanted.

  “Is he going to die, Lev Davidovich?”

  “Of course not. He’s just sick, that is all.”

  Another child, a girl, joined them.

  “Tell us a story, Lev Davidovich.”

  “Not now.”

  “Go on,” urged the boy. “Just one.”

  “No. Lie down by the fire and try and get some sleep,” he suggested.

  “We’re not tired,” declared the girl rebelliously.

  He recognised her now as the boy’s sister. A few years older than her brother, she bore the look of determination that would brook no argument.

  “I bet you don’t know any stories, that’s why,” she said accusingly. “Some writer!”

  “Of course I know stories!” retorted Trotsky. “Plenty of them. Stories that would make your scalp turn to ice.”

  “My scalp has already turned to ice, I’m so cold!” grumbled the boy.

  “Then lie down by the fire.”

  “Tell us a story first,” repeated the girl.

  Clambering off his mother’s lap, another little boy ran to join them.

  “We want a story!” he whined. “Why won’t you give us one?”

  Trotsky let out a sigh of exasperation.

  “Just sit down and wait. The Doctor will bring you some tea in a minute.”

  But the girl, aware of her status of ringleader, was not to be fobbed off with promises of tea. Pushing the smaller children to one side, she planted herself in front of Trotsky.

  “Look!” she said sternly. “You have plenty of stories, right?”

  “Correct.”

  “And we don’t have any, right?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “Then it’s unfair of you to keep all the stories to yourself, isn’t it? After all, what benefit do you get from them? You ought to share them out! Give them to people who don’t have any.”