Berezovo

by A J Allen

  She did not smile.

  “Of sorts. It was my maiden name. I am sure that you have it written down somewhere on my file, if you care to look.”

  “I’m sure I do,” he agreed, cheerfully. “Still, one learns something new every day.”

  “So it seems. Now, how can I help you?”

  “Do you often work here?” he asked, still intrigued by her presence in the shop.

  “Most Saturdays. My permanent employer, Abelman, observes the Jewish Sabbath, so I have the day free.”

  “After so much hard work I expect you look forward to the evening.”

  “It makes for a long week, but I don’t complain. Delyanov pays well enough.”

  Colonel Izorov nodded sympathetically. Of all the exiles, the woman in front of him was possibly the easiest to hold a normal conversation with. There was something within her that was missing from the others, even from her husband. When she spoke to him, it was as if they were equals whom capricious Fortune had placed on opposing sides. It was not a matter of braggadocio, more of an inner respect for herself that kept her civil and unflustered at all times. He did not doubt that she was a resourceful and intelligent woman, nor that, given the opportunity, she could be dangerous; far more dangerous than the sullen rioters and back room orators that made up the majority of the exiles under his jurisdiction.

  “Well,” he said, “I hope that you get a good rest tomorrow. You have earned it.”

  He had intended this remark to be an innocent pleasantry; a reference only to the crowded shop and the queue of clamouring customers. His voice had contained no trace of subtle meaning yet he saw that his words had, for some reason, struck home. He sensed the woman tense.

  “On the contrary,” she said slowly, “I am expecting tomorrow to be even more difficult.”

  Like a grazing beast sniffing the wind, Colonel Izorov raised his head and stared down into her unflinching eyes, noting how she was not distracted by the shoppers pressing around him. Somewhere near the back of the shop, he could hear Delyanov crying out: “Now ladies, please! One at a time!”

  “Why should tomorrow prove such a difficult day?” he asked casually. “It’s meant to be a day of rest.”

  “Oh, I shall rest,” she replied evenly. “I do not even intend to set foot outside the house.”

  “And your husband? Will he too be resting?”

  “Yes. Most probably. All our friends will be resting.”

  Her emphasis of the word “our” dissolved any doubts he might have had. For reasons best known to herself, the co-leader of the moderate wing of the Russian Social Democratic Labour Party was telling him that their group knew all about the expected arrival of the convoy on the following day, and that they did not plan to meet it with a demonstration. But why was she doing this? Whatever Ordnitsova/Karseneva was, she would never stoop to being an informer. Yet she had taken this opportunity, this chance encounter, to give him the excuse he needed for making wholesale preventative arrests. Her behaviour baffled him until he realised that she had recognised his predicament. How could he detain her people if the prison and the barracks were already full? He could neither spare the guards nor the time. She knew about the convoy and she knew about the prison.

  “Then the Quarter will be very quiet,” he said guardedly.

  “Yes,” she confirmed, “the Quarter will be quiet.”

  Colonel Izorov became conscious of the pressure of people around him. Somewhere to his right, a customer began tapping a coin impatiently on the glass top of the counter, trying to attract attention. Tamara Karseneva glanced crossly at the woman and then returned her attention to the Chief of Police.

  Colonel Izorov frowned, feeling that he was being too slow for her. What was she trying to say? If only he could formulate the right question she would be able to tell him.

  “Excuse me Colonel, but as you can see we are extremely busy. What is it that you require the thread for, exactly?”

  He pointed to the frayed button hole and she leant across the counter so that she could examine it more closely.

  “Monsieur Delyanov said that I needed Prussian Blue number nine,” he said aloud, adding quietly, “why should there be any difficulty?”

  Straightening up, she stepped away from the counter and appeared not have heard him. He watched, as bending down, she pulled out a tray from under the display case and placed it on the glass top for his inspection.

  “There are others,” she remarked cryptically, as she indicated the tightly packed spools of thread.

  Chazowski and the SRs, he thought. She doesn’t know about them.

  “They have been taken care of,” he said affably as he leant over the tray of multi-coloured reels.

  Tamara Karseneva shook her head.

  “Only one sort,” she corrected him. “There are others, very similar to it.”

  Picking up two reels of cotton she held them in her hand for his inspection. Both were dark blue, but one was of a slightly darker hue than the other. Removing the lighter one, and placing it back on the tray, she held the other one up for his inspection.

  “My employer is mistaken. You should be looking for a harder thread. May I suggest this one? It is called Imperial Blue. As you can see, people who are in a hurry might confuse it with the other one, but it’s quite different. That one,” she added, pointing dismissively to the spool she had discarded, “is Prussian number nine. It’s only suitable for light repairs such as I might need, or for dressmaking.”

  “And the other one?” he prompted. “I suppose that it is more resilient?”

  “Oh yes, without a doubt,” she assured him. “In fact, it positively thrives on wear and tear.”

  Colonel Izorov held out his hand and she dropped the spool of Imperial Blue thread into his gloved palm.

  “Then I shall take it,” he said with a smile. “How much is it, please?”

  “Twelve copecks, Colonel.”

  Producing a rouble note, he handed it to her.

  “I am grateful for your help, Mademoiselle Ordnitsova. Please keep the change.”

  She pushed the note back to him, as if it had scalded her.

  “Oh no, Colonel!” she said sternly. “Make no mistake! I do not accept gratuities. That is against the policy of the house! This is strictly business. You must pay at the cash desk, like everybody else.”

  “As you wish,” he said.

  With a slight inclination of his head as a salute, he left the counter and forced his way across the crowded floor to the small cash desk in the corner of the shop.

  A few minutes later, he emerged from Delyanov’s, his purchase still clasped securely in his hand. Looking at it thoughtfully, he began walking in the direction of The Church of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary. When he had reached the corner of the street by the bakery, he stood for a moment, turning Ordnitsova/Karseneva’s words over in his mind. How she had known no longer mattered to him. She could have learned of the convoy in a dozen different ways: from the prison; from the carpenters, like Doctor Tortsov; from someone who worked in the kitchens at the Hotel New Century. What was important now was to destroy the threat she had hinted at. And if the SRs had been nullified and the Jewish Bund in the Quarter and the Karseneva faction of the Social Democrats were lying low, by simple deduction he now knew from which direction the threat was likely to come.

  Catching sight of one of his men on the far side of the street, Izorov beckoned him to come over. When the man stood in front of him, he said:

  “Go back to Headquarters and tell the sergeant to take two men and arrest Fatiev. I want him in front of my desk within the hour. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Colonel!”

  The man saluted and turned to go but Colonel Izorov called him back.

  “One more thing,” he added quietly, “tell the sergeant to bring him in bleeding. I want the bastard hurt.”

  Colonel Izorov watched the man cross the road. When he saw him enter the uchastok he turned and almost collided
with Madame Pobednyev, who had come round the corner seconds before.

  “I am so sorry, Madame Pobednyeva!” he apologised. “Please forgive me.”

  “Oh, Colonel, you gave me quite a shock!” exclaimed the Mayor’s wife breathlessly. “I was just on my way to Delyanov’s to buy a pair of gloves for tomorrow.”

  She nodded meaningfully in the direction of the Town Hall. Following her gaze, he saw that several piles of timber had already been brought to the bottom of the steps and were being laid out under the secretary’s direction.

  “Isn’t it exciting, Colonel? I do hope you have enough men to guard us all.”

  Colonel Izorov assured her that her husband and all the other councillors would be protected within a ring of steel.

  “In fact,” he added, “I was just on my way down to the Highway to complete the arrangements for the town’s security, so if you would excuse me…”

  But she detained him, moving closer and lowering her voice conspiratorially so that he had to stoop to hear her.

  “Is that the way they are coming?” she asked, nodding towards the direction of the church.

  “Yes,” he confided. “The moment they enter the town, they will have an armed guard of Captain Steklov’s finest men, who are under orders not to leave their side until they are safely in my hands.”

  “Oh, how wonderful!” breathed Madame Pobednyeva. “I’m sure that the soldiers will look splendid. But don’t think you are the only one to be making preparations. I too have made my plans!”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes! After going to Delyanov’s, I am paying a call to Fyodor Gregorivich at the Hotel, to make sure that he only serves tea and small wine at the reception. I know you men,” she added, wagging a finger at him playfully. “You start drinking early in the day, there will only be trouble, and you don’t want a riot on your hands, do you?”

  To her surprise, the Chief of Police threw back his head and gave a loud bellow of laughter.

  “No, Madame Pobednyev, that wouldn’t do at all! Tell Fyodor Gregorivich that you have my full support. Otherwise,” he joked, “the prison will be so full of Councillors that I shall be forced to put our visitors in the Town Hall!”

  “Colonel, really!” cried Madame Pobednyeva, appalled by his suggestion. “Don’t make such jokes. That’s a terrible thing to say!”

  Still laughing heartily, the policeman saluted her and took his leave. Uneasily, Madame Pobednyeva watched him go.

  You never know with Kostya Izorov, she thought to herself. You can never be quite sure whether he’s joking or not.

  A snowflake settled on the sleeve of her coat, and then another. Telling herself not to be so foolish, she continued on her way.

  For Matriona Pobednyeva the day had been one full of petty frustration, beginning with the discovery that the gloves she had ordered from Tiumen the previous September did not match her new winter outfit. Of the outfit itself, she had no complaint, although she had told the tailor Polezhayev she thought it too full at the back. But what use was her smart new outfit without the proper gloves? With her husband too occupied with putting the finishing flourishes to his speech, the house had become intolerable. She had called upon Irena Kuibysheva, in the hope that she might be able to advise her, only to be told by the maid that her mistress had been forced by a severe attack of migraine to retire to her bed. And now that she had finally reached Delyanov’s, it was starting to blow!

  With a look of determination on her face, she pushed open the door of the haberdashers and began to force her way through the scrimmage of customers, moving through the crowd like a small ice breaker along the Ob at springtime, crying out as she went:

  “Excuse me! Excuse me, please! Oh, do watch where you are going! Excuse me!”

  At the back of the shop Delyanov, balancing precariously on the top rung of a wooden ladder, was busy searching through an ancient hat box full of veil gauze. Hearing her shrill cries, he too started calling out to the customers of the floor of the shop to let her pass.

  “Make way please! Make way for the Mayor’s wife! Allow Madame Pobednyeva to come through.”

  Thrusting the dusty hat box at one of his assistants, he gingerly climbed down the steps, pausing only to wipe his hands on a piece of discarded felt before he went to greet her.

  “Good afternoon, Madame. What a day! As you can see, the whole world shops at Delyanov’s!”

  “So it would appear,” replied Madame Pobednyev, wincing as a second person trod on her toes.

  “How can we help you?”

  Opening her black tasselled reticule, she drew out a small scrap of the material Polezhayev had returned to her.

  “I need some gloves to match this. Can you find some for me?”

  Holding up the scrap of cloth to the light, Delyanov regarded it doubtfully.

  “I can try,” he said at last. “There are some boxes out in my stockroom that came up about a fortnight ago. There might be something in there.”

  “Do try,” she urged him. “It’s so very important.”

  With a bow, he disappeared behind that curtain that separated the front of the shop from the storeroom in the rear.

  Seeing him depart, the noise in the shop grew louder. The customers began to jostle each other as they fought for the attention of the harassed assistants. In the crush, Madame Pobednyev felt a heel descend upon her toes and she let out an involuntary whoop of pain.

  She tapped the shoulder of the woman beside her sharply.

  “Do you mind?” she shouted. “You nearly broke my foot.”

  Turning, the woman, a shawled harridan from the poorer section of the town, regarded her stonily and would have said something in reply if a young male assistant had not stopped in front of them and asked despairingly who required his service. Seeing her chance, the old woman elbowed Madame Pobednyev brutally aside.

  “Two arshines of red flannel please. And the same in lining.”

  Madame Pobednyev shuddered as the crowd pressed her closer to her neighbours. The woman smelt unpleasantly strong and her slack accent spoke of the back streets around Jew Alley.

  “How red do you want it?” asked the assistant wearily. “Pink? Crimson?”

  “Scarlet!” replied the woman. “And it must be strong enough to hang without tearing.”

  Unaware of the revolutionary purpose for which the material was destined, the Mayor’s wife shook her head in disgust.

  Scarlet curtains! she said to herself. There’s common.

  Hearing the sound of the bell at the front of the shop she turned to see Tatyana Kavelina enter the shop accompanied Raisa Izminskaya. She waved her hand in greeting. The two women responded in kind but remained standing together uncertainly in the doorway.

  “Oh, this shop is impossible!” exclaimed Raisa Izminskaya to her friend. “It’s always so crowded. I only want to buy some ribbon for a petticoat.”

  “Who’s that for?” asked Tatyana Kavelina meaningfully. “Surely not Fyodor Fyodorovich?”

  The banker’s wife smiled.

  “Hope springs eternal,” she said.

  Laughing, Tatyana Kavelina took her arm and pulled her gently back into the street.

  “Let’s leave this crowd. We could be an hour here. I have some ribbon at home which I will send over to you.”

  “No, don’t send it,” said her friend hastily, patting her hand. “Bring it over when you come to my house for English tea this afternoon.”

  “Am I coming to tea?”

  “Yes. Gvordyen has sent over a box of his new biscuits which he has baked especially for the reception tomorrow. We can try them, just you and I.”

  “That would be wonderful,” said Tatyana. “It’s been such a long time since we have had a good opportunity to sit and talk.”

  “Yes, far too long,” her friend agreed.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Saturday 10th February 1907

  Great Tobolsk Highway

  The convoy had halted about half a vers
t from the village settlement, the name of which the exiles had yet to learn. This time, fed up with the trouble that his corporal had stirred up during the last three stops, the sergeant had elected to go on ahead with two of the guards. The sleighs were drawn up in two rows along the brow of a hill, their passengers quiet under the watchful eye of the remaining soldiers.

  Sverchkov, still weakened by the after effects of his illness, sat beside Trotsky in the lead sleigh listening contentedly to his comrade’s description of how the scene reminded him of a copy of a painting he had once seen on his travels in Europe. About ten yards away their driver stood talking with the other drivers, their breaths intermingling in plumes of vapour in the cold afternoon air.

  “The painter was a man called Breughel, a Dutchman, and the scene is very much the same,” Trotsky was telling him. “It shows a hunting party returning from a winter hunt, six or seven weary fellows but only a very meagre catch. A few birds, a rabbit or two; little more. I remember that they had dogs with them and the dogs’ tails were down between their legs so they were either very tired or hungry or both; clearly dispirited.”

  “You can tell a lot by a dog’s tail,” agreed Sverchkov.

  “Even though you couldn’t see much of their faces,” continued Trotsky, “the artist had the cunning to show that they were not returning in triumph but with meagre fare. Although I understand he was a bourgeois, Breughel understood the life of the peasant – how the line between survival and going under is so often finely drawn – and I believe generally preferred to spend his time painting them than richer patrons. Certainly this painting is a success, because it translates better than all the novels of Victor Hugo the endless struggle against poverty, the ceaseless challenge of having to survive off the land and fight nature for every scrap of food.”

  “And the landowners,” added his companion.

  “Well, the painting was painted some time in the sixteenth century,” observed Trotsky, “so you can be sure that they had been hunting on some nobleman’s land.”

  “Sixteenth century? They didn’t have guns?”

  Trotsky shook his head.