Berezovo

by A J Allen

  She fell silent for a moment, staring at the floor in front of her.

  “Your food is already on the sleigh. There is sufficient for a week. After that you will have to rely on your driver’s skill as a hunter. Another thing… When you get about three or four days out, tell anyone who asks that you are a member of Baron Tol’s expedition. Andrey says that the Baron is still surveying for mineral resources in that area.”

  “Baron Tol,” repeated Trotsky.

  “That is correct. By the way,” Madame Roshkovsky added casually, “do you have a pistol with you?”

  “No. I have had no opportunity to get one.”

  “I thought not. Well, in view of what we were talking about earlier, I think you had better take one. If you look inside that drawer…”

  She pointed to the central drawer of the heavy sideboard. Pulling open the drawer, Trotsky discovered a flat wooden rectangular box.

  “Bring it here.”

  He took the box to her and she laid it on her lap. Brushing its catch to one side she opened the lid, revealing a long-barrelled six chamber revolver.

  “This belonged to Andrey’s uncle. He was a naval captain. He died fighting the Japanese. I think it’s only fitting that you should have it.”

  Trotsky picked it up and weighed it in his hand. It was heavier and bulkier than the Browning he had carried during the days of the Soviet. For a moment he was undecided whether to take it.

  “Won’t he miss it?” he asked. “I mean, if it’s a family heirloom?”

  “This is no time for sentimentality, comrade,” she mocked him. “Besides, you’ll be going naked onto the taiga without it. What you need is a gun that will be clearly seen at a hundred metres and can fell a wolf at fifty. That is, if you don’t want to be robbed or attacked in your sleep.”

  Reluctantly he stowed the gun in his pocket and picked up the two rounds that the box contained.

  “Don’t you keep any more ammunition?” he asked peevishly.

  “No, my husband and I have always agreed that two bullets should be sufficient for our requirements. This isn’t the Wild West.”

  Trotsky shrugged and, scooping up the two rounds, put them in the other pocket of his malitsa.

  Inwardly Nina heaved a small sigh of relief. She had done as much as she could do. If there was a God on the taiga (and many said there was not) she had put Trotsky firmly in His hands. It was no longer her affair.

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Sunday 18th February 1907

  Berezovo, Northern Siberia

  In the lobby of the Hotel New Century, Chevanin and Yeliena were helping each other with their outer coats. Both of them were unsteady on their feet, but although they had drunk almost all of the brandy in the bottle, Chevanin did not feel the least intoxicated. Yeliena had been right.

  But then, he thought, she has been right about so many things.

  The heart-stopping pain had receded and in its place had come a mixture of numbness and resignation, and finally, acceptance. He told himself that he bore no ill will towards her. In a way he had become more fond of her; certainly fond enough to allow her to help him put on his coat and fasten his buttons. He smiled sadly down at her as she fastened his top button and raised his collar, remembering how his mother used to do the same when he was as a child. Touched by the memory he bowed his head and, as if she could read his mind, Yeliena planted a kiss on his brow.

  “Come on, Hero,” she said, “time for you to go home.”

  “But I promised that I would escort you to your house,” he said loudly.

  “Sssh!”

  Clumsily he held a finger up to his lips and nodded.

  “No, but I did!” he insisted. “I promised. And I would never forgive myself if anything happened to you, if you were run down by a sleigh, or eaten by a bear.”

  He began to laugh, desperate to demonstrate how cheerful he felt.

  “That’s funny, isn’t it? A bear! I was a bear tonight, for a little while.”

  Taking his arm, Yeliena led him towards the outer door.

  “Yes I know,” she said, “and you are still dangerous. So off you go.”

  “Dangerous? Me?”

  “Yes, you.”

  “I don’t think so,” he said bitterly.

  Together they pushed the door open and immediately the freezing night air surrounded them, making them both gasp.

  “Holy Father, it’s cold!” he swore. “Come on, I’ll walk you home.”

  “No, Anton…” Yeliena protested wearily.

  “Don’t worry, I’m perfectly sober,” he said. “For God’s sake move, woman, before we freeze to death!”

  Moved more by force of argument than by physical pressure, she relented and accepted his arm. Together, they hurried around the corner of the hotel, he supporting her as she slid on the ice covered boards. Neither of them spoke, so intent were they on keeping their balance and getting out of the piercing cold. But when they drew nearer to the corner of Ostermann Street, Yeliena stopped and brought Chevanin up short.

  “I don’t want you to come to the house, Anton. Please, let us say goodbye here.”

  His first instinct was to obey her wish, to cut his losses and return to his room alone. But his hurt pride and her close proximity, with her hand on his arm and her warm breath on his cheek as he bent to kiss her, stirred something deep within him.

  She is not inviolate, he told himself, and she has played with me like a toy.

  Straightening up he said:

  “No, not here, Yeliena. I… we… deserve better than this. Come on.”

  He began leading her across the road towards one of the stables that Trotsky had passed three quarters of an hour before. At first, taken by surprise, she acquiesced and followed him. When she saw where he was leading her, she broke away.

  “No, Anton!”

  He went back to her and roughly seized hold of her arms.

  “Please Anton, no!” she cried out, her voice sharpening with alarm. “Let go of me!”

  Pulling her to him, he began kissing her clumsily on her cheeks.

  “Don’t be afraid of me, Yeliena. I would die rather than hurt you,” he reassured her between kisses. “You must know that. But what you said in the hotel, about wanting your body… I admit that it is true. You’re a beautiful woman, Yeliena, and now you’re saying that it’s all over and it’s not fair. It’s just not fair.”

  Attempting to drag her bodily across the street towards the stable, he stumbled and slipped on the icy roadway. He let go of her, trying to regain his balance, and instinctively Yeliena moved towards him, putting her arms under his armpits to prevent him from falling and harming himself.

  “All I ask is that you show me a little pity,” he mumbled into her breast, “a little tenderness.”

  She helped him straighten up and they walked together to the stable door.

  “Be mine just for tonight,” he implored her.

  “And if I don’t want to? Will you try to force me?” she demanded fiercely, more confident now that she had regained control of her situation.

  “No, of course not. A thousand times no.”

  In that instant she thought of Vasili, accepting plaudits at the barracks, and of all the years of duty ahead of her, and the years after that, and of her lonely bed grave. Letting go of his arm, she turned and slipped back the bolt on the door.

  Once inside the stable Yeliena listened in the darkness as Chevanin fumbled for his matches, and heard him spill one or two of them onto the floor. She was surprised at how calm and unafraid she felt now that the moment had arrived. A match flared and she watched as he reached up for a storm lantern that was hanging above their heads. He lit the wick and held the lamp at arm’s length so that its light illuminated the stable. A sleigh stood in the middle of the floor, beside a large pile of straw.

  Feeling Anton’s hand close tentatively around her wrist, Yeliena shook him off.

  “Wait there,” she said.

  Walking o
ver to the sleigh Yeliena inspected it closely. The sides and runners were stained with mud but three reindeer skins draped across the back of the sleigh covered the inner sides and floor of the vehicle, promising some comfort. Leaning over the side of the sleigh she stroked the skins, feeling how their smoothness softened the contours of its wooden boards. Turning, she looked back at Chevanin. He was still standing uncertainly by the door, the lamp held high above his head. His face wore a strained expression; he looked lost in the lamp’s light. Lifting up her hands so he could see them, she slowly removed her right glove; pulling each finger in turn. Then, almost matter-of-factly, she began to unbutton her outer coat.

  Chapter Thirty

  Sunday 18th February 1907

  Berezovo, Northern Siberia

  Trotsky had resumed his pacing up and down, the heavy malitsa thrown negligently across the back of a chair in order that he could move more freely. The clock on the mantelpiece showed that it was ten minutes to eleven. He turned away and faced Madame Roshkovskaya.

  “He’s late,” he said accusingly. “This is the second time your moujik friend has failed to meet me. Are you sure your husband knew what he was doing when he picked him?”

  “Goat’s Foot will be here, never fear,” she replied calmly. “He still has another few minutes.”

  “What happens if he doesn’t come?” demanded Trotsky, annoyed by her calmness. “I can’t go back to the hospital now.”

  “Of course you can!” she retorted. “There will still be plenty of people staying on at the barracks. Just tell anyone who stops you that you had too much to drink and that you were taken ill. The Heavenly Father looks after drunkards and little children. You shall be quite safe.”

  “I see, I see,” Trotsky said sarcastically. “And tell me, how am I to explain that?”

  He pointed down at the pile of remnants of his prison uniform.

  “You were very, very drunk?” she suggested.

  As he turned away again, one hand raised in a gesture of frustration and despair, he heard a pony whinny outside in the lane. Trotsky froze, his eyes flicking instantly to Madame Roshkovskaya.

  “Quickly now!” she said, extending her hands to him. “Help me up. Now pass me my sticks.”

  He brought them to her. The sound of heavy boots climbing the back stairs filled the room.

  “Lie down on the couch!” she hissed. “Pretend to have passed out.”

  He threw himself on the couch and sprawled across its buttoned cushions as an authoritative knock sounded at the back door. Through the lashes of his right eye, he watched Madame Roshkovskaya make her way sedately from the sitting room into the kitchen where she disappeared from sight. He heard her call out and receive a muffled reply. There followed the noise of bolts being drawn, a few whispered words and then silence. Raising his head, he measured the distance between where he was lying on the sofa and the malitsa that lay on the chair. He cursed himself for his carelessness. He would never reach the revolver in time, and even if he did, it was not loaded.

  A familiar shambling figure had appeared in the doorway.

  “Evening.”

  “You’re late, Goat’s Foot,” complained Trotsky, sitting up.

  “Then let’s be getting a move on, shall we?” said the peasant equitably. “You can’t rush these things, you know.”

  Getting up from the couch, Trotsky put on his malitsa and snatched his hat and gloves from the table. Cramming the hat on his head, he began to put on the gloves and then remembered the gun in his pocket. Flinging down the gloves, he drew the gun from his pocket, broke it and then quickly dropped two cartridges into the revolving firing chambers. He felt that it would do no harm for the peasant to know he was armed.

  “Come on!” Goat’s Foot hissed impatiently at him from the doorway. “You can play with that later.”

  Trotsky snapped the gun shut again and put the safety catch on. Scooping up the gloves, he hurried into the kitchen. As he stuffed the revolver back into his pocket, he half turned to Madame Roshkovskaya.

  “There is no time for goodbyes,” she said. “Just go and don’t forget to take the bottles with you.”

  With a last nod of acknowledgement, Trotsky gathered up the three bottles of liquor and followed Goat’s Foot out into the night.

  After the brightly lit interior, the darkness seemed impenetrable; the cold intense. He had to rely on the sound of Goat’s Foots boots descending the stairs to locate the top of the steps. More than once, hampered by the vodka he was carrying, he was sure he was on the brink of falling but his luck held out and he reached the ground without mishap. He heard Goat’s Foot talking softly to the pony and, guided by the sound of his voice, caught up with him.

  “You gave us a fright, bringing the pony. We thought it was one of Steklov’s men,” he whispered.

  “You would have looked pretty stupid if I hadn’t brought it. It’s a good ten versts to the Zyrian’s hut.”

  Clicking his tongue, Goat’s Foot held the pony by his bridle and led him away from the house.

  “Couldn’t you have tethered it somewhere else?” insisted Trotsky nervously.

  “Don’t talk daft! What would have happened if someone had stolen it? Where would we be then?”

  The two men and the pony walked on in silence for another twenty seconds then Trotsky swore softly.

  “What’s up?” asked Goat’s Foot immediately.

  “I left my gloves back at the house. They are on the arm of the chair I was sitting in.”

  “That was stupid,” Goat’s Foot told him as he quickened his pace. “Still, can’t help that now.”

  “Is it far where we are going?” asked Trotsky, annoyed by his error.

  “No,” whispered Goat’s Foot angrily. “We’re just coming to it, and keep your bloody voice down, if you can’t shut up.”

  They were approaching one of the large stables that faced the entrance to Menshikov Street. Just as Trotsky was about to try the door, he felt a hand grab his arm and another roughly cover his mouth.

  “Not a sound now,” Goat’s Foot whispered softly in his ear. “Someone’s got here before us. They’re inside. Can’t you see the light under the door?”

  Peering over the peasant’s hand, Trotsky looked down and saw, at his feet, a faint line of light shining from under the stable door. He gave an exaggerated nod and the peasant released him. Silently they led the pony away from the stable.

  “Sorry about that,” Goat’s Foot apologised. “But I didn’t think that you had seen it.”

  “I hadn’t,” Trotsky admitted. “What do we do now?”

  The peasant looked up and down the dark street uncertainly.

  “Well, we can’t stay out here all night, that’s for certain,” he muttered. “I shall go in first, you follow me, bringing the pony with you. Keep this side of it, so that it is between you and whoever is inside. If there’s any trouble, hit it on the arse and let it go. It’ll run into whoever is in there. Then get off out of it, quick. Understand?”

  Trotsky nodded.

  Silently he handed Goat’s Foot the three bottles in exchange for the pony’s reins.

  “Right! Here we go…” the peasant said.

  Leading the way, he walked back to the stable and, without any hesitation, pushed its door wide open.

  Hidden from view behind the pony, Trotsky heard a man’s muffled curse. He tightened his grip on the pony’s bridle. Nervous of the stranger holding him and the glare of the light from the lamp, the pony started forward into the stable. Trotsky was unprepared for the movement. As he was dragged forwards he glimpsed the shadowy figure of a man standing in what appeared to be a sleigh. He seemed to be having difficulty with his trousers. Fighting to control the pony, Trotsky pulled sharply at its reins and reluctantly it allowed him to lead it further into the stable. When he looked again at the man, he saw that he was not alone. Hidden from view until now by the sides of the sleigh, a woman was getting to her feet, revealing a flash of thigh and calf as she hu
rriedly pushed her dress down.

  For the longest time, nobody spoke. Trotsky, his face now clearly visible to both the man and the woman, turned to Goat’s Foot, but the peasant had already moved behind him and was busy fastening the stable doors, ignoring them all. Looking back at the embarrassed couple, Trotsky recognised first the woman and then the man. He had seen them both on stage in the first play that had been performed in the barracks earlier that evening. She was the wife of the town’s doctor; he was her husband’s assistant. Transferring the reins to his left hand, his right hand crept into the pocket of his malitsa and pulled out Nina Roshkovskaya’s gun.

  Neither the man nor the woman were looking at him, nor towards the door at Goat’s Foot, but at each other like two figures in a tableau. It seemed to take him an age to lift the naval revolver and rest its barrel against the back of the pony’s neck.

  The noise will be deafening, Trotsky told himself, and without doubt the pony will be startled, which could be dangerous.

  It was a chance he felt that he had to take. On the positive side, the distance was negligible. He was firing at point blank range. They were standing so close together that with one shot he could possibly wound both of them; with two, kill. He had two bullets in the chamber. His throat was dry. Despite being supported on the pony’s broad neck, the gun felt heavy in his hand.

  Goat’s Foot’s quiet voice came from less than an inch away from Trotsky’s ear.

  “Put that fucking thing away,” the peasant said slowly.

  The man and the woman turned to face them, as if suddenly recalling that they were not alone. The woman saw the gun first and gasped. She seemed to shrink away from it, as if another few inches would render the long barrel harmless. The man clasped her to him, turning as he did so, so that his back was acting as a shield for both of them.