by A J Allen
Izminsky nodded slowly in agreement.
“I think,” said Kavelin unctuously, “that we may have been a little hasty in our criticisms. It is quite understandable. We were all a little shocked by the Colonel’s sudden news. We should have known that His Excellency would have already thought of a plan that would resolve all our problems.”
With varying degrees of doubt, the others gave their assent to this expression of confidence. They watched as the Mayor languidly stretched out his hand and swept his badge of office back into the desk drawer.
“So, what is it?” asked Izminsky.
“What is what?”
“Your plan, Excellency. What is your plan?”
Mayor Pobednyev leaned forward, suddenly business-like, and regarded them all with a stern eye.
“It is simply this. As you know, we did not invite these people here. They have been sent to us. And although we are the only sizeable town hereabouts, we cannot be the only community in this position. These bastards have travelled all the way by train from St Petersburg, and by sleigh from Tiumen with changes of horses and so on, and we aren’t their final destination. Undoubtedly a budget exists for such an operation as big as this. Our task is to find it. Perhaps it is residing in the drawer of the Provincial Treasurer in Tobolsk, or locked in a safe in Peterhof. But rest assured, payment is guaranteed. In the meantime we have bills to meet. I suggest that Fyodor Fyodorovich here,” he said, pointing to Izminsky, “issues promissory notes from the Bank that will be met when the Council funds are reimbursed.”
Izminsky’s protest was forestalled by a peremptory wave of the Mayor’s hand.
“Be patient, Fyodor Fyodorovich, and let me finish,” he insisted. “I repeat, this ‘crisis’ could benefit us all. If you don’t believe me, ask Leonid Sergeivich here. He is already counting the profits from the sales of timber that were bought to make the sleighs.”
Sitting next to Kavelin, Nadnikov swung round and glared at him accusingly.
“They paid cash,” the timber merchant explained with a shrug.
“Don’t be so upset, Pavel Stepanovich,” the Mayor told Nadnikov. “Think instead of the quantity of food and grain that will be needed to equip a convoy of forty sleighs for a fortnight. Think, Nikita Osipovich,” he added, turning to Shiminski, “how many extra blankets and rugs they will need? And they will also be paid for in cash, no doubt. The commander of the escort will have enough money with him to cover such expenditure.”
If this news mollified Nadnikov, it did little to persuade Izminsky that the interests of the town’s bank were being protected.
“But, Anatoli Mihailovich, what about the Bank? Tobolsk and Peterhof could take months fighting it out between them. The Bank cannot be expected to issue notes without a firm date of settlement.”
“Quite, Fyodor Fyodorovich!” agreed Pobednyev. “But surely what is more important is that we look after the little people, like the carpenters Pirogov and Ovseenko, who have already invested a large proportion of their capital on this.”
Shiminski shrugged.
“What use is a promissory note to them?” he demanded.
“What use indeed?” agreed the Mayor. “They would probably prefer instead to discount it and have the cash roubles immediately, rather than wait all those months. Of course,” he added, turning to Izminsky, “it would be up to the Bank what rate it set for such a transaction.”
“It could be as high as, say, twenty percent,” suggested Kuprin.
“Exactly, Sergei Levinovich,” the Mayor agreed, with a nonchalant wave of his cigar, “or even twenty-five percent.”
“It’s still a long time to wait,” observed Izminsky grudgingly.
Leaning back in his chair, Pobednyev regarded him with amusement.
“There is an alternative solution,” he said slowly. “One that requires a slight adjustment to our thinking. We could always redistribute these costs. Spread them around, as it were.”
Pavel Nadnikov’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“How do you mean, Your Excellency?” he asked.
“Let me give you an example,” suggested Pobednyev. “Let us take this epidemic of typhus. Doctor Tortsov has told me, in no uncertain terms, that we should not consider evacuating the town, nor risk bringing the disease into Berezovo.”
“Quite right too,” rumbled Nadnikov.
“Yet the Provincial Medical Officer,” the Mayor went on, “would not think twice if Modest Tolkach put in a bill for sleighs, to act as ambulance wagons. In fact, he would expect to see some rise in expenditure to show that something is being done by the District Hospital, wouldn’t he?”
“He would,” confirmed Kuprin.
“Therefore, if we think that Peterhof or Tobolsk won’t pay up, we could transfer some of the costs of the sleighs, the deer and everything to Hospital accounts. Instead of claiming them from Tobolsk or Peterhof, we claim them from the Medical Board.”
“It would certainly be quicker,” agreed Izminsky. “But why would Tolkach do that? Personally, I don’t trust him.”
It was evident from the murmurs around the table that this was a judgement shared by the other Council members.
“I think you judge him too harshly,” replied Pobednyev suavely. “If he was approached in the right manner, he would be amenable. And this would be very much to our benefit.”
“We understand that, Anatoli Mihailovich, but is it that simple?” Kuprin wanted to know.
“Quite honestly, gentlemen, yes,” Pobednyev replied. “All we have to do today is to decide whether we should submit our bills to the Ministry of Internal Affairs or to the Provincial Medical Board. Or,” he added softly, “to both.”
“To both?” cried Nadnikov in astonishment.
“Why not?”
“Because we would never get away with it!”
“Why not?” repeated Pobednyev. “Both offices are expecting bills. As Revenue Officer, Sergei Levinovich, you would be able to gauge what was and what was not a justifiable expense.”
“I could,” admitted Kuprin thoughtfully, adding for Nadnikov’s benefit, “the two offices never talk to each other. Ever!”
“My God,” breathed Izminsky. “Both! Twice as much timber. Leonid Sergeivich! Twice as many blankets, Nikita Osipovich!”
“But what about Tolkach?” asked Kuprin.
“We needn’t tell him,” suggested the Mayor with a wink.
Throwing his head back, Kuprin roared with laughter.
“That’s a good one! ‘We don’t tell him!’ You’re priceless, Tolly! Absolutely priceless!”
Beside him, Izminsky began to titter, nervously at first and then, as the idea caught on with the other members of the Council, with more gusto.
“The best part is,” spluttered Leonid Kavelin, reaching into his pocket and pulling out an enormous handkerchief, “that if anything goes wrong… we can always say… that we knew nothing about the second invoice… that it was all… Tolkach’s idea!”
This possibility set him off hooting again, his fist hammering the Council table with delight at the notion.
Pobednyev looked on genially as his colleagues became helpless with paroxysms of laughter. When at last faces had been wiped and noses blown and Kavelin had been thumped on the back several times so that he could regain his breath, the Mayor continued:
“In the meantime, believe me when I say that nothing is more important than we provide a fitting welcome for our guests. A real show.”
“Guests? Pah!” snorted Shiminski cheerfully. “If I had my way, I would string the lot up.”
“And kill the golden goose?” admonished the Mayor. “No, Nikita Osipovich, that is not the way. Remember what Colonel Izorov told us. They are to be treated with ‘watchful courtesy’. After all, the Duma is to be recalled next month. For all we know, though they come here now as insurrectionists in chains, they may return as princes.”
“An amnesty certainly cannot be ruled out,” observed Kavelin, suddenly sober,
“even for these swine. All in all, I agree with Anatoli Mihailovich. I think we have to welcome their arrival.”
“Welcome them?” barked Shiminski. “Are you serious?”
“Leonid Sergeivich is right,” said the Mayor. “In fact, I have arranged, with the Colonel’s consent, that we should receive them with a parade of strength. Nothing too expensive, of course,” he added hurriedly. “It will be a small but dignified affair. And then, after they are safely locked up, perhaps a celebratory meal at the Hotel, to mark what is, after all, an historic event. Paid for out of the Civic Funds, of course.”
Outside the door, the Mayor’s secretary crouched at the keyhole, one knuckle jammed tightly against his twisted mouth to prevent his mirth betraying his presence.
There is no doubt about it, he thought to himself. Sooner or later, the scum always rises to the top.
Pressing his ear still closer to the door he was in time to catch the town’s Revenue Officer proposing his eldest son’s services as a photographer.
“There should be some kind of official record,” Kuprin was saying.
Chapter Eleven
Friday 9th February
Berezovo
Several hours later, in the counting house of Goldstein the money lender, David Davidovich Landemann was trying to turn a deaf ear to his wife’s pleas as he made preparations for that night’s emergency meeting of the heads of the four groups of revolutionaries exiled to Berezovo.
“No, Hannah! We must tell them,” he insisted. “Just because they are not our people doesn’t mean that we should hide this news from them. Besides, it’s already too late. Chazowski will have been travelling for most of the day. We cannot cancel the meeting now.”
“Chazowski? That murderer!” his wife said, horrified that her husband would have dealings with the leader of the Social Revolutionary terrorists. “You should be at home with your family instead of meeting with thugs like him. Are you in the Cremola now?”
Shaking his head in despair, Landemann began fastening the inner shutters to the window frames.
“We cannot ignore the Essers, whatever we think of them,” he told her. “They are a fact of life.”
When the last shutter was closed and the upper bolt of the door in place, he reached up to the shelf above his high ledger desk and drew down a wooden bowl. Inside lay a dozen or so candle ends. He began distributing them in clusters of three around the room; his wife following him, nervously pulling at the shawl that covered her head and slender shoulders.
“Why, David?” she complained. “Why do you do this to your children? What happens if Goldstein returns and finds you all here?”
“He won’t.”
“What do you know?” she insisted. “Only maybe if you lose this job we shall all starve to death. Who else will give a job to such a fool?”
“Abram thinks that this is the safest place and he’s right,” he replied, refusing to look at her.
“And if my wonderful brother told you to go and jump in the Sosva, you would do it?” she jeered. “Some man I have for a husband! You should have married my brother, instead of me!”
David Landemann was about to reply when a sharp knock came at the outer door of the office.
“Don’t go,” implored Hannah.
He held up his hand, bidding her be silent. The two of them stood still listening as there was a second knock quickly followed by two more. Signalling to his wife to keep out of sight, Landemann walked through the outer office to the door that led to the street. Sliding back the bolt, he opened the door warily. Abram Usov, head of the small group of Jewish Bund exiles in Berezovo, entered quietly. Landemann closed the door behind him and pushed the bolt to.
Usov remained in the outer office, waiting until his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness.
“Is it safe?” he whispered.
“Yes,” Landemann told him. “We are nearly ready.”
Usov shivered, still chilled from the evening air.
“Good,” he declared. “I saw Fatiev earlier. He will arrive shortly.”
A sound of movement came from the darkness of the counting house.
“Who’s that?” he muttered. “I thought you said everybody should have left by now.”
“It’s only Hannah,” confessed Landemann. “We were just talking when you knocked.”
“What business has she being here? Send her home, David.”
“I can’t,” said Landemann apologetically. “She’s being difficult.”
“I don’t care. Send her home,” Usov insisted. “This is no place for her. It’s dangerous enough as it is. What do you think will happen if there’s a raid?”
“I’ll try,” Landemann promised.
Taking his brother-in-law by the arm, he steered him through the outer office to the counting house.
“Shalom, Abram.”
Reaching out in the darkness, Usov felt for his sister’s hands. Finding them, he pulled her to him and kissed her perfunctorily on the cheek.
“Shalom, Hannah. Now you must go. The others will be here soon.”
“I’m staying,” she whispered defiantly.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Your children are sitting at home in the dark. Your place is there, with them.”
“My place is here with David. Or have you forgotten why I followed him here?”
Releasing her, Usov turned away impatiently.
“Then it’s up to him to say whether you go or stay. Well, David?”
“Please, Hannah,” Landemann said, “don’t make a fuss. We can’t start until you have gone. Go home and wait for me there. This won’t take long and when it is finished I shall come straight back, I promise.”
“‘It won’t take long’,” she mimicked him. “Who are you trying to fool? You will still be arguing when the police break down the doors.”
“That’s enough,” her brother said angrily.
The sound of a single knock on the outer door silenced them. The knock was repeated and then twice more in quick succession. It was the agreed signal, but delivered too rapidly to be identical to the one they had arranged. For a second none of them moved. Then Landemann left them in the counting house and padded quietly across the outer office to open the outer door. As soon as he had done so, two shadowy figures pushed roughly past him.
“Shut the door,” a man’s voice said urgently. “There’s a patrol at the bottom of the Alley.”
“Troops?” asked Landemann nervously.
“No,” the man said. “Izorov’s men. One on horseback, two on foot. They are making their way down the street, trying all the doors.”
“We should move to the back of the shop,” his companion said calmly.
It was the voice of a woman. She spoke unhurriedly, as if their predicament was of little consequence.
Bolting the door, Landemann led them through to the counting house where they greeted Abram Usov and his sister.
“David, you stay here in the back,” said Usov, turning to his brother-in-law. “Hannah and I will be by the door.”
Taking his sister by the arm he guided her into the outer office, shutting the door behind them so that they would not be overheard.
“Abram, let go!” complained Hannah, trying to free herself from his grip. “Oh! You’re hurting me.”
“Sshh!” he warned her. “Now listen, little sister. The moment the patrol has passed, you are going straight out into the street and then home. This is no place for a woman, do you understand?”
Rising on tip toe, she tried again to pull away, but he held her fast.
“Do you understand?” he repeated menacingly, increasing the pressure on her arm.
She shook her head angrily.
“Let me go, you bully!” she whispered loudly. “Why can’t I stay? She’s here.”
“Shhh!” Usov warned her again. Together they moved closer to the outer door and stood listening as the sound of boots approached and stopped. A bright light shone under the door and one of the patrol tried
the door handle. They heard a horse snort outside in the dark street and stomp its hooves. Apparently satisfied, the boots moved on and a moment later they heard the patrol repeat its inspection at the shop next door.
Relaxing his grip a fraction, Usov sighed.
“Tamara Karseneva is present as a representative of the RSDLP,” he said. “Both she and Oleg have taken the risk of coming here because they are responsible to their people. You, on the other hand, are responsible to no one but your children. Your place is at home with them.”
“What about David?” she whispered back angrily. “He’s their father.”
“The only reason David is here is because he has the keys. I will look after him. Now get out of here before that patrol decides to come back.”
Letting go of his sister’s arm he stepped back and smiled apologetically at her.
“I’m sorry, Hannah. I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he told her softly. “But you must go now. Go on.”
Rubbing her arm, Hannah moved reluctantly towards the door.
“All right,” she said. “Just don’t make me a widow.”
During their struggle, her shawl had fallen from her. Picking it up off the floor, she shook it then wrapped it tightly around her head and shoulders. At her signal that she was ready, Usov pulled the door open and stepped silently out into the street. The dim light from the patrol’s lamp was making its way northwards along the Alley. Beckoning his sister to join him, he pushed her in the opposite direction and stepped back into the office, pulling the door to until it was almost closed. Pressing his eye to the crack in the door, Usov watched her cross the Alley and move out of his range of vision. Instinct told him that there was someone else out there. He remained where he was; waiting for the spy to reveal himself. Sure enough, after a minute had passed, a figure detached itself from the shadows of a doorway further up the street: a darker darkness in the shape of a man. But instead of following his sister, he seemed to be making his way towards where Usov stood. With a frown, Usov reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his heavy iron bar. He waited for the figure to draw nearer, watching him move cautiously along the street, wherever possible still keeping to the cover of the shadows. Only when the man had nearly reached the door did Usov recognise him. Opening the door wider, he drew the newcomer in.
