Berezovo

by A J Allen

  Some of the parents who had been listening to the exchange laughed. Undeterred, the girl stuck to her guns.

  “Well, am I right or am I wrong?” she demanded.

  Bewildered, Trotsky shook his head.

  “I surrender, Professor. Your logic is faultless.”

  “Then you will tell us a story?”

  “Yes, yes. What would you like?”

  “Something with wolves in it,” the first boy piped up eagerly.

  “No, wolves are silly,” said the little girl, pinching her brother’s arm.

  With a howl of pain, the boy ran away and hid behind Trotsky’s coat.

  “Tell us a true story,” the girl demanded.

  “Wolves are better,” came the muffled protest.

  Seeing that it was time to restore order, Trotsky drew the little boy out from behind him and, sitting down on the floor, placed him on his knee.

  “Now, now,” he chided them. “Quiet, both of you, otherwise there will be no story at all. The Professor here is quite right. True stories are the best. And maybe,” he added quickly, “I can remember one with a wolf in it.”

  Satisfied, the girl sat down beside him and slipped her hand into his.

  “Have you been a prisoner before?” she wanted to know.

  “Oh yes, a long time ago.”

  “Did you escape?”

  “Of course.”

  “Tell us about that, then.”

  Trotsky smiled regretfully.

  “I’m afraid I can’t. You see, I promised some people I wouldn’t. But I can tell you how I got caught. That’s quite a story. Will that do?”

  “Maybe,” she replied, doubtfully.

  The little boy wriggled on his lap to get more comfortable.

  “Well then,” Trotsky began. “As I say, it all happened a long time ago. At the time, I was living at a place called Nikolayev, far to the south of here.”

  “Was it warm there?” the boy asked dreamily.

  His sister shushed him. The room had fallen quiet; the exiles that remained awake were listening to his tale.

  “Yes, it was warm, in the summer anyway,” Trotsky recalled. “I and a few other students had decided to organise ourselves and form a Union. We had our own newspaper, which we printed on a secret press, and circulated throughout the area. To begin with, there were only a handful of us; maybe five or six, no more. We used to meet at the hut of an old gardener called Shvigorsky. He was a fine old man. You would have liked him.”

  The little boy nodded thoughtfully.

  “Soon,” Trotsky continued, “we became famous amongst the workers in factories of the town, and beyond. Hundreds of them wanted to join the Union, even from as far away as Odessa. But we were very careful because it was a secret organisation and we didn’t want the police to know our names. Every day, thousands of workers would read our newspaper and wonder who we were. Even the Okhrana, when they got to hear about us, refused to believe that this mighty organisation was led by just a few students in a gardener’s hut. But they watched us all the same. For the longest time they watched us and sent in their spies but still they could prove nothing against us. We were that careful.”

  “So how did you get caught?” asked the girl, with a puzzled frown.

  “It was like this. It was getting near winter and lately the police had been asking far too many questions about us for our liking. So we, that is the leaders of the Union, decided that it was time to lie low for a while and to leave Nikolayev for a few weeks, to put them off our scent. It was all planned. I would go to one place, the rest of the students would go to other places.”

  “What about poor old Shvigorsky?” asked one of the Deputies.

  “Oh, he was all right,” Trotsky assured her. “A wealthy landowner called Sokanin had given him a job on his estate for the winter.”

  “But what about your paper?” asked another Deputy.

  “I’m coming to that. Of course the paper still continued to be distributed by our comrades but before we could leave, there were a hundred and one details that had to be taken care of so that things could run smoothly in our absence. Among them was securing the lines of distribution for our newspaper. What we used to do was print it, wrap it in bundles and take them to a series of special places where they would be hidden. Then someone else would collect them and smuggle them into the factories for the workers to read. It ran like clockwork.

  “Then, one day, just before I was about to leave Nikolayev, one of our pick-up men, a carpenter called Nesterenko, insisted that he had to meet me at the hiding place in person.”

  Trotsky acknowledged the muttered chorus of disapproval that arose from the older members of his audience with a rueful grin.

  “I was so green,” he admitted, “I never suspected a thing. Off I went with my bundle of papers, the ink still wet on some of them.”

  Trotsky paused and looked down at the rapt faces of the children sitting beside him.

  “The meeting place was a cemetery, at midnight,” he continued. “I remember the moon was full and everywhere there was a perfect stillness over the deep snow. Beyond the cemetery wall the fields spread out like a frozen desert in the moonlight. Well, there I was, with the papers stuffed under my coat and there was Nesterenko, bang on time. Just as I was handing him the bundle, a figure detached itself from the cemetery wall and began stealing towards us, like a wolf.”

  “Was it the O.?” breathed the girl.

  He nodded solemnly.

  “Yes. One of their policemen had been standing so still that, in the moonlight, I had mistaken him for one of the fence posts.”

  “What did he do?” asked the boy fearfully.

  “Nothing. He just walked past us without saying a word. But, as he passed Nesterenko, the policeman nudged him with his elbow. ‘Who was that?’ I asked Nesterenko. ‘I don’t know,’ he replied, as smooth as you like. At the time I didn’t suspect anything, but later I realised that he had just betrayed us.”

  “What happened next?” asked the girl.

  “Well, as I said, we – the union leaders – stayed away for a few weeks. But when we returned to Nikolayev, the Okhrana were waiting for us. On the 28th of January 1898 we were all arrested, along with over two hundred of our members. But still they couldn’t charge us.”

  “Why not?” asked one of the Deputies.

  “Because they couldn’t prove anything more than guilt by association. As soon as the arrests began, the press was dismantled and all the papers in the office burned. I was in jail for the best part of a year before they came up with any evidence against us.”

  “Where were you?” asked the Deputy.

  Trotsky saw the girl scowl at this interruption.

  “First in Nikolayev, then two and a half months’ solitary at Kherson. That was the worst. Then Odessa and, after that, the Butyrsky transfer prison.”

  “Butyrsky?” cried one of the deputies. “I know it. Awful place.”

  “It was a palace compared to Kherson,” Trotsky told him gravely.

  Beside him, the little girl was growing impatient. Tapping at his hand, she demanded a proper end to his story.

  “What happened after they caught you?”

  “After they put me in prison,” he said, resuming his tale, “they still had to find proof that I was writing the newspaper. It took them months, and it was under their noses all the time.”

  “Where was it?”

  “Remember I told you about the old man, Shvigorsky? The one who had got a job for the winter on the barine’s estate? Well, after I had returned from my holiday, I didn’t go straight back to Nikolayev but instead I went to visit him at the place where he worked. With me I took a large brief case filled with manuscripts, drawings, letters and all sorts of stuff that the police said was illegal. It was meant to go in the next issue of the newspaper. I arrived late in the afternoon, when Shvigorsky’s boss was not around. The plan was that I would spend the night there and then go on to the newspaper office in N
ikolayev the next morning. That night, Shvigorsky didn’t want the papers in the house overnight so I let him take the briefcase and bury it in a hole in the cabbage field near his hut. That was the night of the twenty seventh. At dawn the next morning, the O. pounced on us both, like hungry wolves.”

  “Did they find it?”

  “Nearly. Old Shvigorsky had just dug it up again and was bringing it to me when they rode up. Quick as a flash, he stuffs it down behind the water-barrel that stood by the door. The next minute, he’s hauled into the house and told at gunpoint to stand next to me while they search the place.”

  Several of the Soviet deputies murmured their approval at the old gardener’s quick thinking. Wriggling with excitement, the boy urged Trotsky to continue the story.

  “They looked in the roof, they looked in the cupboards, they even began digging up the floor. Nothing. All the time, their captain was growing angrier and angrier. At last, they gave up and sat down to wait, just in case anyone else in the Union turned up. When lunchtime came, they made the old woman who looked after the place cook them some food and bring them something to drink. Seeing as there were so many of them, Shvigorsky volunteered to help in the kitchen and, while he was alone, he whispered to the old woman where the briefcase was and that she should get rid of it as soon as possible. So, while we were all having our lunch and the secret police were getting tipsy, she popped out, grabbed the incriminating papers and buried them in the snow.”

  Sensing someone standing behind him, Trotsky stopped and looked round. It was Dr. Feit. Accepting a tin mug of hot tea, he took a sip and went on with his story.

  “After that, we were taken away. But, before we left, the Okhrana captain threatened that he would return. That’s why I suppose the old woman didn’t dare dig the case up again and try and burn it. What was already buried seemed best forgotten about.”

  “So they never found the papers?” one of the wives asked.

  “Later they did. Much later. While I was rotting in prison, the seasons were changing. In the spring the snows melted, revealing the brief case. Tall green grass grew, hiding it again. Then comes summer. A workman on the estate is told to cut the grass down. He takes his two boys with him. While he works, they are playing in the long grass. They find the briefcase and take it to him. ‘What is this, Dad? Is it valuable?’ The workman can’t read and, reckoning that it probably belongs to his master anyhow, he hands it in. The trouble is, the landowner Sokonin can read. Terrified at what has landed in his lap, he rushes off to Nikolayev and hands it in at the police station. Nine months after arresting us, the O. finally gets its proof.”

  Sitting back, Trotsky took another sip of his tea as his fellow prisoners broke into a babble of comment. Slipping from his knee, the boy regarded him seriously.

  “There weren’t any wolves, were there?”

  “No,” admitted Trotsky, “but the policeman in cemetery at midnight was very like a wolf.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, he had yellow eyes and walked silently in the snow,” Trotsky assured him.

  Seemingly satisfied, the boy nodded his approval and ran back to his mother.

  Still smiling, Trotsky sniffed the mug of tea that was warming his hands. Unless he was mistaken, a compromise had been reached in the other room. A strong taste of vodka was discernible, mixed in with the melted snow and the floating tea leaves.

  “What happened next?” asked the little girl.

  “What happened next?” he mused. “Well now, let me see. Nearly all of the Union members were let off with a caution. The leaders, that is Grigory, Ziv, Alexandra and myself, were sentenced to four years’ exile. And that was that.”

  The girl remained by his side, holding his hand. The appearance of a woman in the story for the first time had reawakened her curiosity.

  “Alexandra? Was she very beautiful?”

  Trotsky thought for a while.

  “Yes, very.”

  “Were you sweethearts?”

  “That’s enough now, Sophiya,” her mother called out from the other side of the room.

  “No, I don’t mind,” Trotsky said slowly. “Yes, we were sweethearts. In fact, while we were in prison we got the warden to marry us because we wanted to spend our exile together.”

  “It must have been a very romantic honeymoon, Lev Davidovich,” one of exiles remarked. “Why don’t you tell us about that?”

  Gently shooing the girl away, Trotsky smiled at his comrade.

  “I’m sure none of it would interest a man of your experience,” he said, “but all right. About six months after the trial, we were shipped off to our allotted places of exile. It was the first time that Alexandra and I had been together as actual man and wife.”

  “Oh aye?”

  “Well, as I say, we were shipped off and I mean literally shipped. All the prisoners were loaded onto rafts and floated down the River Lena. Every now and again, one of the rafts would put into the bank where a few prisoners would be taken off and left to fend for themselves. Only, the thing was, on our raft Alexandra and I found ourselves packed in with no less than one hundred and fifty Skaptsy…”

  Trotsky paused. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the women grin broadly then cover her mouth and whisper to the woman beside her, who began to laugh. Then several of the men also began to chuckle. Looking expectantly at the Deputy, he realised that he had not understood the joke.

  “Let me tell you,” he explained, “as keen as my appetite was to ‘get down to business’ and ‘celebrate’ our marriage, I did find it a little difficult in the company of a hundred and fifty shaven headed Christian eunuchs, forever chanting hosannas every hour of the day and night!”

  There was more laughter.

  “Needless to say,” he concluded modestly, “I persisted and at last matters reached a successful outcome.”

  The laughter rose again and a few of the deputies clapped their hands in applause.

  “At least he knew where she was at night,” someone called out.

  “They say that a one eyed man is Tsar in the empire of the blind,” observed Dr. Feit jovially. “Well, in Lev Davidovich’s case…”

  Trotsky smiled bashfully as someone began to slap his back in congratulation. One of the exiles who had been standing against the wall spat meaningfully on the hard earthen floor.

  “Is that how you see yourself now, comrade?” he asked. “A Tsar among eunuchs?”

  Trotsky looked up at him in surprise. Other men began quickly to get up from the floor as Dr. Feit stepped between the two men.

  “Now, now!” he warned the Deputy. “Stop it. It was just a bit of fun, that’s all.”

  Pushing Dr. Feit away, the man was still waiting for an answer. Certain that the Doctor would stop any violence before it started, Trotsky slowly got to his feet.

  “No, Comrade,” he replied quietly. “But it is how I see the difference between me and you.”

  The man charged, swinging a fist. One of the women screamed and the nearest Deputies scrambled out of the way. Ready for the attack Trotsky backed away, letting Dr. Feit catch the Deputy’s arm and pull it down to his side.

  “Trotsky! Outside, now!” the Doctor shouted. “And you, Comrade, sit down where I can see you.”

  With a nonchalance he did not feel, Trotsky shrugged and obediently left the room, walking through to where the soldiers were sitting, smoking their pipes around a small makeshift hearth.

  “Any trouble in there?” enquired the sergeant.

  Trotsky shook his head.

  “No,” he lied, “I just came to ask if I could go out to the gornitsa.”

  The sergeant kicked the boot of the soldier sitting next to him and ordered him to escort Trotsky outside. Trotsky noted with dismay that the sergeant had chosen one of the Faction to act as his escort. Grumbling loudly, the man picked his rifle off the floor and lumbered out after his prisoner.

  Although the wind had abated, the snow was still falling heavily. Together, th
e two men trudged past the line of sleighs already covered by a deep layer of fine solid white crystals. Opening the door of the stable, the guard motioned Trotsky inside then ordered him to wait whilst he fumbled for a match. Seeing an old oil lamp lying on its side, Trotsky bent down and picked it up, noting as he did so how the guard’s rifle had not followed his movements.

  So that is how it is, he thought. The mistakes are beginning already.

  Holding the lamp high for the soldier, he waited until it was lit before he walked deeper into the stable.

  “Halt!” ordered the soldier. “That’s far enough. You can do it there.”

  Setting down the lamp, Trotsky opened his coat and began unbuttoning the front of his trousers. Nearby, one of the ponies moved restlessly, disturbed by the presence of humans.

  “What’s the matter now?” asked the soldier impatiently. “Can’t you find it?”

  “In this weather?” Trotsky joked. “No, I’ve found it alright. It just won’t work.”

  “Try whistling.”

  “I can’t whistle.”

  “Oh, one of those, eh?” sneered the guard. “Well then, in that case I’ll whistle for you. What would you like?”

  Trotsky smiled to himself in the darkness.

  “There’s one tune that always works. Never fails, in fact.”

  “Oh yeah? What’s that, then?”

  “‘God save the Tsar’. Whenever I hear that, I always piss myself laughing.”

  “Is that right?” growled the guard.

  Coming closer, he raised his rifle and, resting it on Trotsky’s shoulder, pressed its muzzle roughly against his cheek.

  “How about I blow your fucking head off instead?” he whispered menacingly. “That way, we’ll get rid of all your shit as well.”

  With his teeth bared in a rictus-like grin, his prisoner began to urinate against the stable wall.

  “There you go!” encouraged the guard. “Soldier and peasant, working as one.”

  Chapter Eight

  Thursday 8th February 1907

  Great Tobolsk Highway

  When they had returned to the izba Trotsky, unwilling to return so soon to the scene of the recent confrontation, asked the sergeant’s permission to retrieve his notebook from the floor of the upper room.