by A J Allen
He watched as yet more people began climbing the steps to join the group on the makeshift platform. There seemed to be some sort of argument going on. From a cluster of figures at the bottom of the steps, he saw Olga Nadnikova break away and clamber onto the stage, followed by Raisa Izminsky, his own Irena – assisted somewhat inelegantly by Leonid Kavelin – then a gesticulating Madame Pobednyeva. Shaken, he heard Steklov’s crisp order to halt and watched as three men – Mayor Pobednyev, Prison Director Skyralenko and Colonel Izorov – detached themselves from the crowd and advanced on foot to meet him. He saw the Captain salute, then bend low in his saddle to speak with them. The four men seemed to be arguing. More of the men left the stage and moved to join them. Voices were becoming raised and in the early evening air he heard someone say the word “fiasco”.
Seeing Captain Steklov turn and point in his direction, Kuibyshev kicked himself free of his travelling rug and propelled himself through the door towards the street. As he did so, the toe cap of his left boot caught the raised edge of the floor of the carriage and he lost his balance. Pitching forward, he fell full length into the roadway. Drunken cheering and female laughter rose from the platform. Badly shaken, he struggled to his feet and tried to brush away the road’s filth from his fur malitsa travelling coat. The laughter grew, rippling through the group until the whole crowd appeared to be gripped with hysteria. Tearing off his hat, Kuibyshev stared wildly around him at the soldiers, who were by now openly pointing at him and joining in the mockery. Several of them were swaying unsteadily in their saddles as they wiped tears from their eyes.
“Would someone please tell me!” he begged them. “What has happened here? Has everyone gone mad?”
Book Three
Journey’s End
Chapter One
Monday 12th February
Berezovo, Northern Siberia
Baby Lev was lying in his cot staring up fearfully at the three figures struggling above him. Nicolai Lenin was roughly shaking the edge of the cot. Beside him Nadhezda Krupskaya was fending off Natalya, who was trying to reach down and gather up her baby in her arms to protect him. Nicolai was grinning furiously, his semi-Asiatic features white with anger.
“I’m going to eat you, you little idiot!” he was shouting.
Trotsky awoke, wrenching himself from the nightmare. He lay on his bed, listening to the muffled voice in the next cell comforting the child whose cries had invaded his dreams. From the landing came the sound of running water and people talking quietly. He reached out and groped across the table that was jammed between his bed and Sverchkov’s. Finding his pince-nez, he settled it across the bridge of his nose and the cell sprang into focus.
The first thing he saw was the candle he had been given to light the way to his plank bed and, beside it, a plate upon which lay the stale remains of a portion of cake. He had been so fatigued by the day’s journey that he had not even stayed up to eat the supper that had been prepared for them. Wrapping his blanket around his shoulders he sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Sverchkov’s bed was empty. Leaning across the narrow gap, he felt the mattress. It was cold: his cellmate had been up for some time. Sitting on the edge of his bed, he ran his fingers through his greasy unkempt hair. It had been over thirty days since he had bathed. That had been in the prison in Tobolsk. He felt filthy and he knew that he stank of stale sweat and dirt. He started to scratch himself. In the adjoining cell a man’s voice, deep bass baritone, struck up a revolutionary hymn and other voices joined in. Memories of the previous night began to come back to Trotsky. He recalled a long street and then the uchastok, crowded with watchful policemen, unnerved by the celebrity of their new prisoners. After that an alley and a courtyard lit with torches. Around the walls of the courtyard a mixed company of troops and prison guards had stood, some with bayonets fixed to their rifles. Then the shuffling line into the prison house, the lighted candle thrust into his hand and, finally, this cell.
He stretched and shook his head to clear away the last remnants of his dream.
So, he thought, this is Berezovo.
The door to the cell was pulled open and Sverchkov entered, his hair wet. He wore a damp towel draped around his neck and in his hands he carried two wooden beakers of tea, one of which he passed to Trotsky.
“Good morning, Your Excellency!” he said cheerfully. “I trust your accommodation is to your satisfaction?”
With a grunt of thanks, Trotsky took the cup from him.
“There’s water then?”
“Plenty, as long as you want it cold. No matter though, it’s good enough to wash with. The guards have brought in a samovar for tea.”
Putting his own mug down, Sverchkov began towelling his hair vigorously.
“At least I’ve said goodbye to some of my ‘friends’,” he said thankfully. “Apparently, there’s a hotel where we can have hot baths as well. That should see the rest of them off.”
“I don’t think I shall ever feel clean again,” Trotsky said gloomily. “Are you sure about the hotel?”
Sverchkov nodded confidently.
“Two of the warders told me. They seem all right, but we had better watch out for the head man. Name of Janinski; a local Black Ganger. A real swine.”
“What about food?”
Sverchkov flung the towel onto the end of his bed and sat down beside Trotsky. Reaching into his boot, he pulled out a comb and began to comb his hair.
“As far as I can make out,” he reported, “we are to be allowed out for meals, or we can take them here. It seems they have been expecting us for weeks. We are almost celebrities. Yesterday, the Mayor and everybody were waiting to greet us, but we arrived too late. The Doctor’s gone to see the Chief of Police to sort things out. We are obviously the biggest thing that has happened here for years.”
“It could be worse,” conceded Trotsky. “Did you see any more soldiers around while you were washing?”
“No. I didn’t have a chance. They weren’t letting anyone out besides the Doctor. We’re to wait here for his return.”
Rising from the bed, Trotsky eased his aching muscles.
“I suppose I had better go and wash too,” he said. “I feel like a walking farmyard. Can I borrow your towel?”
“Certainly,” replied Sverchkov affably, “but it’s still wet. There are plenty of dry ones downstairs. Just ask for one: courtesy of the management.”
Trotsky let out a low whistle as he made for the door.
“They’re spoiling us, aren’t they?”
He was pleased that Sverchkov had chosen to share his cell, but not surprised. They had been cellmates before at the House of Preliminary Detention and, since he had nursed him back to health, Sverchkov had not left his side. It was, he realised, admiration masquerading as loyalty. All the same, it felt odd to have one’s steps dogged by another man who was willing to fetch and run errands, instead of waiting to arrest him.
My own little Flemish, he thought fondly.
As he walked along the landing, he saw that every cell on the upper floor had been cluttered with furniture in a pathetic attempt to make their surroundings seem more homely. The same eclectic mix greeted him on the floor below where, in the largest cell, he discovered a family sized table with a table cloth, a set of Vienna chairs, a card table, a kitchen lamp and two glass candle sticks with candles. Collecting his towel from a pile on the prison warder’s desk, he was just about to return to the upper landing when Dr. Feit appeared.
“Good morning, Lev Davidovich,” the old man greeted him cheerfully. “Could you tell everybody upstairs that we shall have a meeting in a couple of minutes? I have some pleasant news for them.”
* * *
Beyond the prison walls there were several citizens within the town who were already regretting the enthusiasm with which Berezovo had prepared to greet its infamous visitors. The Pobednyevs’ household remained in darkness, its curtains and shutters drawn as if in mourning. In the warmth of the breakfast room, still
dressed in her night attire, Madame Pobednyeva sat at the table, drinking a cup of boiled water and contemplating the ruin of her husband’s ambitions. Her head ached, her stomach heaved; even her limbs felt as if they had been wrenched from their sockets overnight.
How could Captain Steklov have done it? the Mayor’s wife tormented herself. To pretend to arrest Illya Kuibyshev! It was unforgiveable. And why, oh why did we laugh so much?
One thing was certain: Irena Kuibysheva wouldn’t be laughing at that moment; nor would Leonid Kavelin. And what about her own poor Tolly and his statue? He had appeared so comatose that morning that he might have been dead. Wearily she put her husband’s health in the hands of his Maker and took another sip of the boiled water. Even the prospect of imminent widowhood could not stir her enough to face climbing the stairs to their bedroom. She groaned as a timid knock came at the door. It was her maid, Masha.
“Ma’am, these letters have arrived,” the girl announced as she laid several envelopes and a dish bearing a moist flannel in front of her, “and I’ve brought this to cool your brow.”
“Thank you, Masha.”
“Is there anything else I can do, Ma’am?” the maid enquired solicitously.
“No thank you. That will be all.”
Gathering up the flannel Madame Pobednyeva held it to her face and groaned again. She would never eat and drink so much again, she vowed. She would live on boiled water and rice, like a Chinaman. Dabbing at her temples with the flannel she began to examine the morning’s post. Three letters for herself and one for Tolly. One of the letters addressed to her bore the unmistakable classical script of Madame Wrenskaya. Laying the flannel down, she opened the envelope and shakily drew out a gilt-edged card. Madame Wrenskaya was at home to her that afternoon.
The thought of having to give the old woman the satisfaction of crowing over the collapse of her husband’s plans made her grimace. Flinging the card to the floor, she opened the second envelope. It was another “At Home”; this time from Raisa Izminskaya. If she wasn’t going to go to Madame Wrenskaya’s, she told herself crossly, she certainly wasn’t going to attend Raisa Izminskaya’s post mortem; not after she had fought her for a place on the reception platform the previous afternoon. Madame Izminskaya’s invitation fluttered down to join Madame Wrenskaya’s.
She opened the third envelope, telling herself that its contents could not be worse than those which had gone before. With relief, she saw that it was only a bill from Polezhayev the tailor, for his daughter’s handiwork. Despite her sour temper, Madame Pobednyeva put it to one side. The amount was, after all, not excessive; it was quite reasonable. She looked at it again. In fact it was very reasonable: about a third of what one of Delyanov’s outworkers would have charged, and the needlework had been particularly fine. Still, there was no hurry for settlement: the girl was a Jewess, after all. The bill could wait until the end of the month.
The remaining letter, addressed to “His Excellency the Mayor, Anatoli Mihailovich Pobednyev”, lay unopened on the table in front of her. Picking it up she held it to her nose, recoiling sharply at the scent of cheap scent. She turned it over in her hand. On the reverse was the legend “From the HOTEL NEW CENTURY, BEREZOVO”. Frowning, she slit it open and pulled out the sheet of paper inside and found that it was another bill.
What a fool Fyodor Gregorivich is! she thought. He should have addressed this to the Town Council.
Smoothing out the bill, she ran her eye over the itemised account and gasped. The total came to over sixty roubles! A cold hand gripped her heart. Was it possible that the proprietor had made a mistake? Had that fool of a husband of hers privately arranged to pay for the banquet, just as he had paid for the drinks at the Drama Committee Casting Night? Were there no lengths to which he would not go, she wondered, no excess to which he would not aspire in order to buy votes for his precious statue?
Gripping the edge of the breakfast table for support, she levered herself to her feet. So keenly had she been concentrating on the contents of the morning’s correspondence that the ill effects of the previous day’s feasting had been temporarily forgotten. Now, upon her attempting to rise, they returned with a vengeance to remind her of her own excesses with the result that no sooner had she summoned up enough energy to call out to her maid than she promptly sat down again in her chair with a bump. Plucking up the discarded flannel once more, she pressed it feebly to her brow, praying that the room would stop tilting long enough for her to decide what she should do.
There was little point in confronting Tolly with the matter at that precise moment, she reasoned. She would get no sense out of him, whether her fears were justified or not. Yet the bill was completely unacceptable and, which was worse, it was on their breakfast table. If the Mayor had pledged to meet it out of his personal funds, it was only because of this wretched monument business. There seemed little chance now of her husband having a door nail named after him, she thought, much less a statue; not after what had happened to Illya Kuibyshev.
Picking up her small silver hand bell she again summoned her housemaid. Masha appeared and was promptly dispatched to seek out pen, ink and paper. When Madame Pobednyeva had written her reply, she ordered the maid to take it at once to the Hotel New Century and deliver it in person to the hotel’s proprietor.
“Shall I wait for an answer, Ma’am?” the girl asked.
“Certainly not!” exclaimed her employer crossly. “There can be no answer. The very idea!”
* * *
At the Kavelin household, Tatyana Kavelina was considering the small envelope that had been delivered that morning by messenger. Raisa’s unmistakeable copper plate handwriting had changed little since they had been school children. Walking into the kitchen she consigned her friend’s invitation unread to the flames within the kitchen stove, using a padded towel to protect her hand as she opened the stove’s iron plate door.
* * *
At number 8 Ostermann Street, Yeliena Tortsova was reading aloud to her husband; she, for once, sitting in the chair he usually occupied beside the hearth while the Doctor lay recumbent upon the sofa. As she read, a portion of her mind was engaged upon the task of composing a note; one that would retrieve her honour. Like Matriona Pobednyeva, her husband was also suffering from the after effects of the premature celebration. He had dutifully kept his promise to Colonel Izorov and had stayed until the exiles had arrived. Upon discovering that they already had a fully qualified physician travelling with them, he had left in disgust and had been escorted safely home in much the same fashion as Illya Kuibyshev had arrived three hours before. Now, as Yeliena read to him, he lay propped up on the cushions of the sofa, drifting in and out of sleep and prey to fitful dreams in which the Hospital Administrator Modest Tolkach leered at him grotesquely over bottles of poisoned wine.
“‘Everyone was loudly expressing his disapproval,’” Yeliena read, “‘and repeating a phrase someone had uttered: “Lions and gladiators will be the next thing.” And everyone was feeling horrified; so that when Vronsky fell and Anna moaned aloud there was nothing out of the way in it. But immediately after, a change came over Anna’s face which was positively unseemly. She completely lost her head. She began fluttering like a caged bird at one moment getting up to go, at the next turning to B… “Let us go! Let us go!” she cried’.”
Lowering the book, Yeliena listened to her husband’s regular breathing. He was asleep at last, a mocking smile on his lips. Leaning back in her chair, she turned her head and stared into the flames of the fire, just as she had sat waiting for him to be brought home the night before. He was unaware of what had occurred in that very room, that much was certain. Katya had been calmed and advised not to worry herself about the incident; it had been an innocent rehearsal for the play, nothing more, and, the broken crockery could be replaced. Whatever the girl had thought she had seen would only be a confused memory after the sleeping draught Anton had given her to calm her. Shamefacedly, he had offered one to Yeliena also, but she had ref
used. At the time she had had no need of it. She had felt… nothing. She had been neither happy nor sad; had experienced neither joy nor shame. But that had been then; now, all the opiates of Asia could not cloud the realisation of the appalling position in which she found herself.
Closing the book, she ran her fingers over the worn leather binding and noted dispassionately that its spine had become cracked with age. It was not a novel she cared for. She had read it aloud to her husband only because he had asked her to. If anyone had asked her for her opinion of it twenty-four hours before, she would have said that the plot was sordid and that none of the characters had any redeeming virtues: a group of foolish people doing unnecessary things to each other and to themselves. But now, in the aftermath of Anton’s embrace, she felt that the story was also shallow and inconsequential when compared to the reality of the circumstances it claimed to portray. The truth was not like that. The truth was simply this: sitting in a drab sitting room; one moment dreading when she would have to face Anton Chevanin again; the next, impatient to see him.
She felt as if she had found herself in the middle of an enormous and unfamiliar puzzle, stepping through a mirror glass into a world that was at once familiar and yet different. Try as she might, she could find no excuse for herself, nor any sense of regret for what had passed between them. Aware that she could not allow Chevanin’s familiarity to reoccur she could not bring herself to blame him entirely for his outrageous behaviour. She had led him on; that much was clear. Had she not changed her clothing to make herself feel more alluring? For all her airs, she was no better than any other faithless wife. She had to put a stop to it at once, as soon as possible; to save not only herself but also Anton and Vasili. Yet why, she wondered, in the light of all that had passed between her and Anton Chevanin in the very room in which she was now sitting, why did she feel no guilt at the memory of his hands on her, only pleasure? She had not endured a sleepless night. She had not spent the hours of darkness praying, fighting for her soul. On the contrary, she had slept like a child that was tired out after a visit to the theatre. Why was she now not filled with shame or, at the very least, acutely sensible to the danger that threatened her? Why was she not afraid?