Berezovo

by A J Allen

  But this was not the reason for Kuibyshev’s pleasure. It was the smell of the cabin that he was enjoying. It smelled of Man; not the sort of man he was, for certain, but far more “masculine” in the commonly understood meaning of the word. It was a scent that spoke of determination and competence, narrow horizons and simple beliefs. It conjured up memories of his father and his father’s friends: silent and dogged men, absorbed in their work. It was the scent of sweat, muscle and homespun cloth. Despite the phenomenal wealth he had gained, he envied them their un-secret lives, uncomplicated by the daily need for subterfuge and masquerade.

  When Lepishinsky had finished writing and closed the book Kuibyshev reached inside his overcoat and drew out a calfskin wallet from which he extracted two five rouble notes. With deliberate care he placed them on the desk between Lepishinsky and himself.

  “Now, what has been happening in town while I’ve been away?” he asked. “Tell me everything.”

  Lepishinsky smiled broadly.

  “Well, they caught Sergei Ratapov red handed at last, while he was breaking into the back of Nadnikov’s store.”

  “Good!” said Kuibyshev. “It’s about time. The man is an inveterate thief.”

  “I thought you would enjoy that,” chuckled the proprietor.

  “What else has happened?”

  Lepishinsky shrugged, as if his other news was of less consequence.

  “The Gubernyn brothers beat one of the yids half to death in Jew Alley. Elizaveta Dresnyakova, the sister of our esteemed schoolmaster, has been scared out of her wits by that soft egg Bambayev exposing himself to her. Oh, and your old friend Pyotr Arkov’s back in trouble, this time with a young man behind the Barracks.”

  Kuibyshev’s expression remained blank, giving no sign as to whether or not he was personally dismayed by this news. The truth was that he was not; Pyotr’s irresponsible amours were of no concern to him. Lepishinsky was trying to distract him with spicy low grade gossip. It was a familiar ploy; the important information – or what his informant believed he (Kuibyshev) would regard as important – would come later and, Lepishinsky was hoping, earn an additional reward.

  Removing his gloves Kuibyshev lay them carefully on the desk, covering up the two notes.

  “Tell me something important,” he ordered.

  Lepishinsky furrowed his brow and pursed his lips, as if Kuibyshev had asked him to name all the major rivers of Africa.

  “I suppose the big story is the arrival of the convoy of prisoners last night. You know who they are? Only the Leaders of the Petersburg Soviet of Workers’ Deputies. They are stopping off here for a day or so on their way north to Obdorsk. It was all meant to be highly secret so, of course, everybody has known about it for weeks,” he said, adding boastfully, “I knew about it first because I stabled the horse of the gendarme that brought the news.”

  “So?” asked Kuibyshev, bored.

  Lepishinsky shrugged, his eyes falling momentarily on Kuibyshev’s neatly arranged gloves.

  “It was a big business,” he said apologetically. “Lots of sleighs had to be built and reindeer captured.”

  “You did well out of it?” asked Kuibyshev.

  “I can’t complain, but not as well as Leonid Kavelin. Half of the town seems to owe him money.”

  Kuibyshev nodded his acknowledgement of this news.

  “You’ve heard about the typhus?” asked Lepishinsky hopefully. “It’s getting closer. At first the Doctor thought the sleighs commissioned for the convoy were to evacuate the Council members and he threatened to close the town to travellers but that was before he was told about the Deputies arriving. He might still declare quarantine, of course, which would harm my business, and not help yours. I would be obliged if you could speak against it in Council.”

  “We’ll see. What else?”

  Lepishinsky paused and drew the palm of his hand over his face as if he was washing the sleep from his eyes.

  “We are having a theatre night next Sunday in the barracks,” he continued. “Two short plays by Chekhov. Doctor Tortsov is directing them both but of course Alexei Maslov is all over it. It seems Modest Tolkach was meant to play the lead opposite Madame Tortsova in one of the plays but the word is she refused to act with him and now he is in the other play.”

  He paused again, as an expression of triumph and relief lit his features.

  “Oh yes, and you have a new member of the Town Council. It’s Councillor Tolkach now,” he revealed, adding darkly, “he wants watching, that one. You remember that business about his wife? Old Izorov couldn’t nail him. If he is too fly for Izorov, then… well, he wants watching, that’s all.”

  Smiling, Kuibyshev picked up his gloves and again nodded his satisfaction.

  “And how is the good Colonel?”

  “Same as always. You never know with him,” said Lepishinsky, reaching for his money. But Kuibyshev was quicker and his fist covered the two notes on the desk before the stable owner was able to pick them up.

  The two men regarded each other solemnly.

  “And what else?” insisted Kuibyshev. “I don’t pay ten roubles just for town gossip.”

  Lepishinsky’s eyes broke their gaze and looked away to the floor of the cabin.

  There it is again, thought Kuibyshev, the same evasive gesture that I saw earlier. This isn’t about his neck. There is something else, something big, that he has not yet told me.

  “It’s a bit difficult,” muttered Lepishinsky. “It’s rather close to home, you might say.”

  Understanding his meaning, Kuibyshev groaned aloud. “Oh God, Irena? What’s she done now?”

  “It’s not so much a question of ‘what’,” said Lepishinsky regretfully, “as ‘who’…”

  Without speaking Kuibyshev lifted his hand and pushed the two notes toward him. Picking them up Lepishinsky folded them once and stuffed them inside the small bag that hung from his belt.

  “Leonid Kavelin,” he said quietly.

  “Leonard Kavelin?” cried Kuibyshev, quickly getting to his feet. “You are joking! Kavelin?”

  He turned to go but Lepishinsky grabbed hold of his sleeve.

  “Now, now, slow down to a gallop,” he admonished the fur merchant, pushing him forcefully back into his seat. “This has happened before, remember? You can’t expect to keep a young filly in a field on her own without some horse wanting to jump her fence. Especially one as young and as beautiful as Madame Irena, if you forgive me for saying.”

  Shaking himself free Kuibyshev raised both hands to his brow.

  “But Leonid Kavelin!” he repeated incredulously. “Why, he’s… he’s nothing! And nearly old enough to be her father. It’s disgusting.”

  “Yes, well…” murmured Lepishinsky, his pride bruised. Kavelin was only two years older than himself.

  Kuibyshev stood up again, his face growing pale with anger.

  “That’s why people have been grinning at me, isn’t it? They’re laughing at me not about what happened last night but because they know Kavelin’s put horns on me!”

  “That’s not strictly true,” countered Lepishinsky. “Last night was very funny by all accounts.”

  Kuibyshev gaped open mouthed at him and then gave a short bark of laughter. “Irena and Kavelin! I will kill him! How dare he? How dare he?”

  “Well, you can’t kill him, and that’s final. He’s a Town Councillor, for God’s sake.”

  “Then you must kill him!” Kuibyshev insisted.

  “Oh no!” exclaimed Lepishinsky, springing to his feet. “No more killing, thank you very much.”

  Taking Kuibyshev firmly by the arm, he began guiding him towards the door of his office. “Calm yourself,” he advised. “If I were in your shoes it would seem to me that the best revenge would be financial. I don’t know about the big business you do, but there must be some way you can use all that money you have to your advantage.”

  “Yes,” responded the fur merchant. “I’ll gut him! I’ll ruin him… drive him an
d his whole family out of town. But it will take time.”

  “Yes, it will take a time,” Lepishinsky assured him, “but when he falls everybody will know what has happened and why. You will have your satisfaction, publically and legally.”

  Apparently consoled by this thought Kuibyshev offered his hand in farewell.

  “Thank you, Vissarion Augustovich, for your sage advice and, as always for your truthfulness.”

  Lepishinsky shook his hand and then, gently gripping his arm once more, escorted Kuibyshev carefully down the steps and across the floor of the stable.

  “If you will permit me,” he said as they walked towards the entrance, “let me also say this. You should not be too harsh on your wife. Obviously she needs a beating but remember what I said to you when you first brought her to Berezovo. I warned you that no one here will like her because she is too young, too pretty and an outsider. If you want to know the truth, I don’t think that she has a single friend in the town. I see and hear it all from up there,” he added, pointing towards the windows of his office, “all the comings and the goings. People talk when they don’t know anyone is listening. When you point a finger at her, just remember there are three of your own fingers pointing back at you. You brought her here. If you want her to settle down, you’ll have do something about it, and soon. Get her in foal, before someone else does. That should do it.”

  “There’s a lot in what you say,” Kuibyshev responded wearily.

  The two men stood for a moment looking out at the busy market stalls.

  “There’s one of those prisoners I was talking about,” Lepishinsky observed, pointing to a small group of men conversing on the other side of the Square. “Stupid sods, off to Obdorsk.”

  “They tried to change things by violent revolution,” said Kuibyshev. “We will find another way, through parliamentary reforms and economic growth.”

  Chapter Three

  Monday 12th February

  Berezovo, Northern Siberia

  When, by pleading fatigue, Trotsky had finally persuaded his guides to allow him to return to the Hotel New Century, he made straight for the dining room where he had left the rest of his fellow prisoners. It was deserted and the persistent hum of conversation from the mezzanine floor told him that his comrades had adjourned upstairs. Joining them he discovered that, with the exception of the two bored policemen posted outside its doors, the small lounge had taken on the appearance of a revolutionary headquarters. Local exiles stood huddled in groups swapping the latest news with their visitors, whilst others were busy playing chess, writing letters or reading magazines. Unknown to the two guards on the landing some wag had pinned a notice above the inside of the door. It read “THIS IS THE BEREZOVO SOVIET!” The sight cheered Trotsky, although he was surprised to notice that, rather boorishly, many of his comrades still wore their outer coats, despite the warmth of the room.

  It might be thought that, given the enormity of their crimes, Fyodor Gregorivich would have had strong reservations about allowing the mezzanine lounge to become so brazenly the centre for revolutionists. However, the opposite was true. When the first few exiles from the convoy appeared for a cooked breakfast that morning he had indeed ignored their presence, deliberately making them wait for service. His attitude had quickly changed once he had received Matriona Pobednyeva’s brusque response to his bill for the Civil Reception that, for his own inflationary purposes, the Mayor had instructed him to send to his home address rather than to the Town Hall. Madame Pobednyeva’s suggestion that the account should be revised in the light of the hospitality he had secretly afforded Madame Kuibysheva and Leonid Kavelin – details of which Madame Kuibysheva’s husband was so far unaware – had put a different complexion on the matter.

  Although he possessed written evidence on headed notepaper bearing the town’s crest, of the agreement that the cost of the banquet was to be met by the Civic funds, he felt that these veiled threats left him little choice but to reconsider his position and take preventive action. As a precaution he had instructed his staff that the exiles, despite having been found guilty of armed insurrection and of planning to overthrow the Tsar, were to be welcomed with open arms and encouraged to eat as much as they wanted, provided they paid with ready cash. By the simple process of increasing all their bills by fifty percent it was possible that some of the costs of the banquet commemorating their arrival could be immediately recouped. He was feeling additionally proud of his idea of persuading the exiles to part with their clothes, thereby forcing them to remain for much of the day on the hotel’s premises.

  Trotsky was making his way over to the fire when he heard Sverchkov call out his name.

  “Lev Davidovich! Over here!”

  Sverchkov was sitting on a couch. As he made room for Trotsky to sit down, the flap of his overcoat opened to reveal a pair of pale naked legs.

  “Dimitri, where are your clothes?”

  Rearranging his coat, Sverchkov winked demurely then grinned.

  “At the laundry! If you tip the manager, he will pass them on to the local women to be washed and mended. They’ve promised to get them back to us by curfew.”

  “But where can I change?”

  “Upstairs, though you had better make sure the room is free. Already our married comrades are making up for lost time!”

  “And why not? ‘To each according to his needs’,” recited Trotsky, smiling. “How much is the rogue charging?”

  “Thirty copecks per item of clothing. Five roubles an hour for a room.”

  “The thief!” protested Trotsky.

  “Ah yes, but it’s worth it,” replied Sverchkov confidentially, “especially as the washing is being done by the exiles. So if you have anything to post, just pin it to your jacket.”

  Welcoming this news, Trotsky asked his cellmate if he had had time to see much of the town outside. He had, and for five minutes or so they discussed what they had discovered about Berezovo. Their findings were identical in all except one important matter. Trotsky held the view that it would be impossible to slip through the police cordon, and Sverchkov did not. In fact, he revealed, he had already done so.

  “It was the easiest thing in the world, Lev,” he said smugly. “The police have all the roads covered, but they’ve forgotten about the library.”

  “The library?”

  “Yes! There is an entrance for the Market Square, that’s the main door that everyone uses. But one of the locals showed me that there’s a back door as well, half hidden behind one of the book cases. All it took was for one of the local boys to distract his attention and I was through.”

  “But wasn’t it locked?”

  Sverchkov shook his head.

  “No! Only bolted, and one of the local Bundists has already taken care of that.”

  “What about the guards?”

  “That is the only risk,” admitted Sverchkov. “The door brings you out into a side street that leads straight to the Quarter, behind their backs. They are facing the other way, see? Of course, if they turn round, you’re dead.”

  “And how did you get back?”

  “I didn’t want to risk it twice. After all, when you are outside the back door, there’s no way of telling where the librarian is standing inside, you know? So I jumped a cart and rode straight past the guards. With some bits of sacking around me and my head down, I could have been anybody.”

  “Well done!” Trotsky congratulated him. “So much for their Colonel Izorov and his precious Zone. But did you see anything useful while you were away?”

  “No, not really,” Sverchkov said regretfully. “I had a few words with some of the Bund and met the head of the Bolsheviks. A skinny fellow called Fatiev. Do you know him?”

  Trotsky shook his head. One of Nadhezda Krupskaya’s little song birds, he thought. His hopes began to rise.

  “What did he have to say for himself?”

  Sverchkov’s nose wrinkled in disapproval.

  “As far as they are concerned, we are yester
day’s news. Even in exile they do not see the necessity for cooperation. And I’m afraid that all of them – both the RSDLP groups and the Bund – were particularly scathing about you.”

  “There was no other message?” Trotsky asked earnestly.

  ”No.”

  Although his sense of personal resentment towards Nicolai had steadily grown over the course of the convoy’s journey North, Trotsky now realised with a shock that shook him to the core of his being that deep within himself he had harboured an unrealistic expectation of special consideration from the Party’s leadership; perhaps, even, the hope of rescue. Sverchkov’s words and the drenching revelation that all the while he had been deluding himself, struck him like a body blow. He felt the blood drain from his face as he struggled to absorb the news of his abandonment.

  Surely Nicolai and the others know where I am, he protested to himself, and where I am going? All my letters to Natalya had been going through the Iskra channels; carried by couriers still loyal to the Party. They have been written specifically to be read, copied and resealed. So how could there be no sign, no message of support from Nicolai or the other Iskra editors?

  “But I did learn something more important, depressing though it is,” continued Sverchkov, unaware of his comrade’s distress. “Just on the edge of the Quarter, between the Highway and their hospital, there is a high watch tower.”

  Dazed and breathless, Trotsky managed a wan smile of acknowledgement. The fire tower had been pointed out to him on his walk.

  “It’s manned twenty-four hours a day,” Sverchkov was saying, lowering his voice, “by troops from the garrison. From the platform, you can see over the whole town and beyond. No wonder this Colonel is so sure of himself.”

  It’s impossible, Trotsky thought. Impossible. Berezovo was my last hope. This is the end. Nicolai, Jules, Vera and the others have all written me off. I am finished.

  Clearing his throat, he fought to regain his composure.