by A J Allen
“Welcome, Fatiev,” he said quietly.
“Who was that?” demanded the leader of Berezovo’s bolshevicki exiles as he edged past him.
“Only my sister,” Usov said, with relief, closing the door.
Fatiev grunted.
“A man without blessings is a man without problems,” Usov told him. “Come on. The Karsenevas are already here with my brother-in-law, David Landemann. They are waiting in the counting house. Go through and join them. I will wait here until Chazowski arrives.”
“Don’t bother,” said Fatiev, “he’s not coming.”
“Why not?” asked Usov sliding the door bolt home.
“He has sent message that Izorov has posted a man outside his hut. He can’t move without tipping his hand.”
Usov swore softly.
“Already? What about the other Essers?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then we must hurry. Follow me.”
Silently, he led Fatiev through the office to the rear of the building where the two men and the woman were waiting for them. There was a chorus of hurried greetings as he closed the counting house door and, removing his outer coat, laid it down against the wide gap between the bottom of the door and the floorboards.
“Candles, David,” he ordered.
Landemann obeyed and soon the room was illuminated with little clusters of flame.
“If we are disturbed we can always say we are making Shabbat,” he joked nervously.
“That’ll be the day,” sneered Fatiev.
Usov waited until all the candles had been lit and his brother in law had taken his place beside him at the counting-table before calling the meeting to order.
“We may not have much time,” he announced. “Arkady Chazowski is already under house arrest, which means that the Social Revolutionaries are already being watched. It’s only a matter of time before Izorov turns his attention to us.”
He paused, looked at the circle of candlelit faces looking at him expectantly, and took a deep breath.
“We are going to have some visitors…” he began.
A half an hour later they were still talking, although each of them was aware that every minute increased their risk of discovery. The smoke from the candles was beginning to make David Landemann’s eyes water. Already most of the candles had burnt down into puddles of wax. He would have to make sure that he got in early the following morning to chip off the hardened wax from the ledges and the desk so that Old Goldstein did not discover his counting house had been used. As the flame of another candle spluttered and died, he felt his way towards the box of new candles that sat on top of the safe. Taking one, about the length of his hand, he broke it in two and walked back to the group by the table. As he began to trim the wick of the broken candles, he heard Oleg Karseneva, head of the Menshivik RSDLP exiles say:
“Don’t be so ridiculous, Fatiev! That idea is as dangerous as it is absurd.”
Fatiev smiled contemptuously. A gaunt, middling sized man of some twenty-seven years, his cheeks and nose and even his hair gave the impression that they had been permanently pinched by frost.
“The trouble with you, comrades,” he retorted, pointing a finger accusingly at the Karsenevas, “the trouble with all you Menshiviks is that you are still too much the gentlemen. You think that the Autocracy can be defeated by allying yourself to the Liberals, even the Kadets if necessary. Well, we don’t. We aren’t prepared to betray the revolutionary proletariat. We aren’t going to roll over on our backs and let the butchers tickle our stomachs with their bayonets!”
In the corner, Usov sighed heavily. Already their rooms might have been searched by the patrol, the alibis they had left with friends or neighbours discovered and exploded. At that very moment the barracks square might be ringing with the sound of shouted commands as detachments of mounted troops were being hurriedly dispatched to seal off the Quarter. He knew Izorov would not hesitate to call upon the support of the Sibirsky if it was necessary. Yet still these people talked as if they had no reason to hurry! Enmeshed in their fratricidal war the Karsenevas and Fatiev both refused to give way, and were reluctant to leave knowing that to leave first would mean to automatically concede the initiative to the opponent.
“When these people arrive,” Fatiev continued doggedly, “they should be met by a mass demonstration: as much against their own political opportunism as to reaffirm our determination never to cease the struggle for revolutionary socialism. A struggle they pay lip service to and that we, the majority, are prepared to die for.”
“That’s enough, Comrade,” snapped Tamara Karseneva. “They are exiles, just like us. They haven’t come all this way to be met by a hostile demonstration. And may I remind you that since Stockholm, it is we who are the majority, and you who are the menshiviki. Your proposal flies in the face of all your own rules of democratic centralism. The Conference decided to work towards reuniting our two wings, remember?”
“Rules!” snorted Fatiev.
His finger began stabbing the air once more.
“Even your political language smacks of bourgeois after-dinner games,” he mocked them. “What have ‘rules’ ever got you except the derision of the proletariat? There is only one way to fight the oppressive forces of Tsarist Autocracy, and it isn’t by selling the workers for the mythical status of Deputies in a Duma that Nicholas Romanov treats with clear contempt! It’s by creating and sustaining the correct conditions for armed struggle and forming the revolutionary vanguard of the militant working class, like we did in Moscow. Not by setting yourself up as an alternative government as these people did in Petersburg and then, when you get caught, say ‘Oh no, your Majesty, of course we weren’t opposing you! Armed Insurrection? Us? Nothing was further from our minds!’. That’s not revolutionary socialism. That’s gutless hypocrisy!”
“That’s not what was said at the trial, and you know it!” flared Oleg Karseneva. “And anyway, it’s a damned sight better than leading the workers into a dead end and then staying away while they were massacred by the Semionovsky!”
“Listen, comrade!” Fatiev snarled. “My brother didn’t stay away. He was in one of the last fighting brigades in Presnia. He fought and died fighting, killed by Dubasov’s artillery. Guns that were sent from Petersburg. Guns that couldn’t have been spared if your beloved Soviet hadn’t made such a mess of it and delivered themselves into the hands of the police. And if it happened again, I wouldn’t hesitate to give my life also, the same as he did. So don’t talk to me about staying away. Nobody stayed away.”
“Except Lenin,” Landemann said quietly.
The leader of the Berezovo Bolshevicks turned on him, his face contorted with rage, and would have struck him if Usov hadn’t quickly stepped between them.
“Calm down, Fatiev,” he warned. “This isn’t getting us anywhere.”
Ignoring him, Fatiev spoke over his shoulder to Landemann.
“Retract that statement,” he demanded.
“Never,” swore the Jew, his face white with passion. “Your precious Lenin set the Moscow workers up, urged them to form attack groups for street fighting but took damn good care not to be anywhere near the city when the fighting started. And everybody knows it!”
“That’s not true!” said Fatiev thickly.
He lunged again at Landemann, and again Usov blocked him.
“Shut up, David,” he ordered gruffly, “and Fatiev, you calm down. You’ll have the patrol here with all your shouting.”
Tamara Karseneva laughed quietly.
“Abram’s right, Fatiev,” she cooed. “Calm down. Let us all agree that Lenin just made a tactical decision not to be present. Personally speaking, as prepared as I am to give my life for the Struggle, like the majority of our Party, I do not see any profit in making sacrifices of our followers to prove a theoretical point.”
With a great effort, Fatiev transferred his gaze from Landemann to her. All the fight seemed to seep out of him. Unclenching his fists, he shook
his head in despair.
“You still don’t understand, do you?” he muttered wearily. “If you don’t get the theory right, then you can never hope to succeed in practice. Lenin knows this. He knows that you can’t fight iron boots with felt slippers. He will never rest while the last vestiges of the Autocracy remain in Russia. And if that means unmasking the opportunists who seek to compromise in any way with the regime in the mistaken belief that Socialism can advance along a nice neat constitutional path without the necessary period of armed struggle, then…”
He fell silent, and looked down at his boots.
“In other words, you intend to split, split, and split again to get the Party you want,” said Oleg Karsenev bitterly.
“If that is what it takes, yes.”
“Why don’t you just leave the RSDLP and form another Party?” suggested Landemann from the corner.
Usov swung round to face him, irritated by the delay at reaching a decision.
“Keep out of this, David. It’s not our problem.”
“Abram’s right, David,” agreed Tamara Karseneva with a smile. “But don’t think we haven’t suggested it. The fact is, Fatiev here and all the militants know that if they secede from the Russian Social Democratic Labour Party, they will be cutting themselves off from the majority of the committed workers and peasants. They will be like a bunch of castaways adrift on a raft, forced to watch each other dying of thirst and starvation. Finally, they would begin eating each other. And we all know who would be the last to go, don’t we Comrade?” she jeered at Fatiev. “Your beloved Lenin!”
“Better that than staying on a ship of fools.”
“Then you do admit that you have no legitimate place in the Party,” insisted Oleg Karsenev.
“Listen,” Usov interrupted them, “this isn’t getting us anywhere.”
Tamara shrugged apologetically.
“Abram Malachayivich is right. What we have to do is decide on how to deal with the situation in hand, not fight over our differences.”
“That just means you intend to try and fudge the issue as usual,” Fatiev accused her.
“No it doesn’t,” her husband said. “What it means is that you have to decide whether you are going to be a part of the official exile reception committee, or whether you will boycott it. It’s quite simple: either it’s one way or the other. In or out.”
“I shall have to discuss it in caucus with my comrades first.”
“Oh balls, Fatiev!” swore Tamara Karseneva angrily. “The decision has to be made now. You either welcome them or you don’t.”
“So much for democracy,” sneered Fatiev.
The four of them watched him as he began pacing backwards and forwards, thinking the problem through. At last he stopped.
“It all depends what you have in mind,” he announced.
“Speaking on behalf of the Bund,” Usov said, “we are prepared to provide any material comforts that we can to make their exile more bearable.”
“Tea and cakes!” Fatiev flung over his shoulder as he resumed his pacing.
Usov shrugged amiably.
“Of more use than hot air, wouldn’t you say?” he countered. “Besides, we think, though we can’t be sure yet, that Berezovo isn’t their final destination. Old Averbuch has been working on some sleighs that we believe will be used to take them on to the next part of their journey. Though where the poor bastards will finally end up is anybody’s guess.”
Fatiev frowned at this news.
“Sleighs? You mean, for ponies?”
“No. Deer. Which means either they are going across the snowfields or they are continuing north. One more thing: the carpenter has had his boys working night and day to get these sleighs ready. They’ve been told that the job has to be finished by Sunday at the latest.”
“Is that when your informant thinks they will arrive?” asked Fatiev.
Usov shrugged.
“Could be tomorrow, even.”
“Any idea where they will be housed while they are here?” asked Oleg Karseneva.
Fatiev stopped his pacing and looked guiltily at him.
“We have heard that Skyralenko has ordered the prison to be scrubbed down and the heating turned up.”
The others looked at him accusingly.
“We thought that it was a precaution against the risk of typhus,” he said defensively.
“The prison is the most likely place to house them,” said Tamara Karseneva thoughtfully, “although it would be terribly crowded. It’s either there, the barracks, the hospital or the Hotel New Century.”
“Izorov wouldn’t let them stay in the hotel,” argued her husband. “There are too many windows and doors to guard. As for the barracks, there would be precious little room there, once you have housed their escort as well. Plus, they would have access to weapons from the armoury. The hospital is a possibility though. Only two exits, front and side. Guards on each, relieved every four hours… It’s possible.”
“Yes, it’s possible,” agreed Usov, “but the prison is more secure and has the advantage of being close to both the barracks and the uchastok. Plus, it has the prison courtyard where they can be allowed to stretch their legs without any risk. For my money, that’s where they’ll be.”
“Do you know how many are coming?” Landemann asked his brother.
Usov shook his head and looked hopefully at the others.
“It’s hard to say,” Tamara Karseneva replied. “There has been no official report of the trial or the sentences. We understand that many of the Deputies of the Soviet were released due to lack of evidence. Of the remainder, according to our sources we could be expecting as many as thirty. It is certain that at least twelve have been selected for ‘special treatment’.”
“A minimum of twelve then,” Usov said. “We must assume that they will be heavily guarded, both on the road and while they’re here.”
“It’ll be difficult to get to them,” observed Landemann. “It’s not as if they are the usual new arrivals.”
“Do we have any ideas about how the Council plans to deal with them?” Oleg Karsenev asked suddenly.
Usov and Fatiev shook their heads.
“There was an emergency meeting this morning,” Tamara said, half apologetically. “I heard Nikita Shiminski’s daughter talking about it in the general store.”
Fatiev laughed at her husband’s look of surprise and, embarrassed by her admission, Tamara turned on him.
“Like you, Fatiev,” she said stiffly, “I thought it had something to do with the typhus epidemic. Otherwise I would have attributed more importance to it.”
“Who was there?” her husband asked.
“Shiminski, the Mayor, Izminsky, Nadnikov, Kuprin, Kavelin,” she recited, adding with a grimace, “and Colonel Izorov.”
Usov let out a long drawn out whistle.
“What? No Dr. Tortsov?” enquired Fatiev archly. “A bit odd to hold a meeting about an epidemic and not have a doctor there.”
Oleg Karsenev rose to his wife’s defence.
“If Tamara had known about this beforehand, she would have told you.”
“Me?” said Fatiev with a grating laugh. “She didn’t even tell you!”
“Listen,” broke in Usov, “the important thing is that the meeting took place. That means that the Council, the police and, presumably, the garrison have already made their plans and we haven’t made ours. Let us concentrate on that. So far we are fairly certain of four things.”
Holding up four fingers, he ticked off the points one by one.
“Firstly, that some of the defendants of the Petersburg trial will be passing through here on their way to their place of exile. Secondly, that if they don’t arrive tomorrow, then we can expect them on Sunday. Thirdly, that there will be at least twelve of them and that they will be heavily guarded. Lastly, that they will probably be situated at the prison, perhaps the hospital, for the duration of their stay. Now, the next question is: for how long?”
“They’ve come a long way,” said Fatiev. “Given that they’ve changed horses at every available stop and that they might – I say might – be transferred onto these sleighs of Averbuch’s, then they need only stay one night.”
“But won’t their guards be as exhausted as they are by the journey?” argued Usov. “This is the last town on the Highway; the last chance for them to pick up supplies. Surely they will take the opportunity to rest up for a couple of days at least?”
“If Shiminski was at the meeting,” said Tamara Karseneva, “it’s possible that the supplies are all ready and waiting for them. All they need do is replace the escort with some of Steklov’s men and they could be on their way the next morning. Izorov won’t want to keep them hanging around the town any longer than is necessary.”
“No, Abram Usov is correct,” argued Fatiev. “Think of the drivers. You can change the teams but the drivers will probably need a rest for a day or so. Besides, Steklov won’t fancy letting go of some of his own troops and having to rely upon strangers still weary from their journey. He’ll want to be ready to meet any challenge we might present him with. That must be why he’s been parading them like peacocks for the past week. He’s trying to provoke us.”
“It’s not provocation,” scoffed Usov. “It’s a rehearsal. He’s planning to meet them down the road and bring them into town under his command. We’ve been watching them: they always take the same route. They come up from the South, up Alexei Street then stop by the police headquarters. Then back down Alexei Street, down Well Lane, across Market Square and straight into the barracks.”
“Or the prison?” suggested Tamara Karseneva.
There was a moment’s silence. Her husband spoke for them all when he said:
“Damn it! And all the time we didn’t see it. We must be getting slow.”
“Well, we know now,” said Usov glumly.
“So that only leaves one question unanswered,” mused David Landemann, squinting through narrowed eyes at one of the candles that was about to expire. “You still don’t know who exactly is coming.”
