by A J Allen
There it was. She felt no fear. She knew that it was useless to pretend that she appreciated properly the dangers of her position. It was as if these risks applied to someone else; to another woman. She listened to her inner voices and all she heard was a babble of confused and contradictory opinions.
Certainly, these things have happened to other women before, and they will happen again… He is young and foolish… a sharp rebuke and a slap across the face was all that was needed to put him in his place… Then why didn’t I rebuke him? Will I do so on the first opportunity that presents itself? How can I ever look him in the face again? Was this how I answer an action that stained my honour and that of my husband: by passing it off as the foolish caprice of an irresponsible young man? I must do more than that. I should tell Vasili at once and have Anton hounded out of town.
She did not have to plumb the depths of her soul to know that she would never tell Vasili, ever. In any case, the moment for such a confession had already passed. And when she considered writing a letter to her husband’s assistant, forbidding him ever to come to their house again, she knew no such letter would be written. What would happen if such a letter fell into the wrong hands? With every tick-tock of the mantelpiece clock her good intentions and stern resolutions fell away one by one. Each argument was pragmatically abandoned until she was left, passively awaiting the outcome of events with no one to turn to for help or advice. She was loved and she was alone.
Chapter Two
Monday 12th February
Berezovo, Northern Siberia
Outside the Hotel New Century, Trotsky stood smiling amongst the group of chattering local exiles. After the silence and isolation of the taiga, their noisy lionising made him feel shy. He wanted very much to get away but, like the others, he had been captured and nothing would satisfy his hosts but that he should see every inch of the town that their Chief of Police’s ukase permitted him to visit. Surrendering, he allowed himself to be led slowly along the boardwalk. Having endured almost a month of continuous sleigh travel he was finding himself unsteady on his feet. He felt himself swaying as one of the men, a self-appointed guide, pointed out the buildings across the street as they passed.
“There is Shiminski’s General Store. Well worth expropriating!”
As they stopped and looked at it, the door of the store opened and a muffled figure in a wheeled chair emerged, being pushed by a maid. It was Madame Wrenskaya being taken for her weekly perambulation.
“There you see the town’s oldest inhabitant,” proclaimed the guide. “She is over one hundred and fourteen years old and when she was young she was seduced by Prince Menshikov!”
Amid the laughter of the locals Trotsky suppressed the urge to correct his guide’s anachronism. He had left his gloves in his cell and his fingers were losing their sense of feeling. He wondered whether there was a danger of them becoming frostbitten.
“This is Alexander III Boulevard,” continued the guide, unaware of his discomfort, “also known as Alexei Street, and that small side street over there is Well Lane. That leads to Market Square and the barracks. We’ll show you that later. You can get back to the prison house that way. Opposite the Barracks is the Black Eagle Inn better known as the Black Cock, favourite haunt of the Hundred. Best keep clear of it.”
A local next to Trotsky nudged him in the ribs.
“That’s very good advice, comrade. The Black Cock is an evil place.”
“Also in the Market Square,” his guide went on, “is the library, where you can read all the latest newspapers to arrive. Though of course they are none of them less than a fortnight old. You can also arrange for some printing to be done.”
For the first time, Trotsky’s interest quickened.
“Is the librarian one of us, then?”
His guide scornfully and spat into the road.
“Hardly!” he said. “Librarian Maslov sees himself as the town’s Censor. He won’t have anything on his shelves that smacks of serious political discussion.”
The tour continued. As they made their way along the street, Trotsky could see that Dr. Feit had not exaggerated. At every street corner stood either a pair of policemen or a Sibirsky soldier with rifle and bayonet. The Chief of Police was taking pains to ensure that they did not step outside his precious zone.
Already the town bored him. It was like Vercholensk, or Kivincki, or so many others: another small cog in the machine, with its Chief of Police, and its Revenue Officer to guarantee the maintenance of order and the orderly collection of taxes. He listened patiently as his guide gave a summary of the local industries (furs, fish and timber) and wondered if the man was a police spy. Or if not him, the two men standing behind him. Or all of them; it was possible. Certainly the leaders of the exiles to whom he had been introduced earlier at the hotel – Usov, Landemann, the Karsenevas and rest – had not been eager to accompany them on their tour. They had elected to remain at the Hotel, talking to Dr. Feit and the other exiles. And none of the men around him had recognised the name Ziborov. Either the man in the barn at Belogoriye had been lying, or these were not the exiles they appeared to be. Of course, Ziborov’s brother could have assumed another name here. That, too, was possible. He would have to be careful.
They had reached a major intersection of the road that ran from the Town Hall to the church. Here the guards were doubled and watched the group closely as the guide pointed south, towards a large building two blocks distant.
“Now there is the most dangerous place in Berezovo: the Hospital,” he intoned. “Once they get you inside there, you never get out. Behind it is the Quarter, where the luckier amongst us live. The others have to grub around the outskirts of town as best we can. The Quarter is the best place to be, if you can afford the rent, but work is scarce for politicals.”
As they were crossing Hospital Street, a well-dressed man hailed Trotsky’s guide and for a few moments the little procession had to wait while the two men stood to one side and conducted their business. When this was done, the guide introduced the man to Trotsky.
“Comrade, meet Andrey Vladimovich Roshkovsky, our local land surveyor. Andrey Vladimovich, meet Leon Trotsky of the St. Petersburg Soviet of Workers’ Deputies.”
The two men shook hands.
“So, you are one of the new arrivals the town is talking about,” Roshkovsky said with a pleasant smile. “May I ask how long are you staying with us?”
“Only a couple of days. We are being taken north, to Obdorskoye.”
“To Obdorsk?” echoed Roshkovsky, in surprise. “Then you still have a long way to go. The road will be hard at this time of year.”
“Have you been there yourself?”
“Yes, twice, but never in February.”
“What’s it like?”
“Pretty grim I’m afraid. There’s not much to do there except to fish and drink.”
Trotsky blew on his hands.
“I would appreciate any technical advice you could give me about the place. That is, if you don’t mind?”
“Mind?” repeated Roshkovsky mildly. “No, of course not. I get paid to go there, so any experience I have you are welcome to share. If you would like to call at my office later, I will show you a map of the area.”
Burying his freezing hands deep in his pockets, Trotsky hunched his shoulders and shook his head.
“No. That’s not possible. We are only allowed to walk on this street and the Market Square. Those are the orders of your Chief of Police.”
“Oh well,” Roshkovsky said with an apologetic shrug. “Then I’m sorry but I can’t help you.”
Sympathetic groans rose from the exiles crowding around them.
“We are allowed to use the Hotel,” Trotsky suggested. “If you can spare just ten minutes to give me some of the details I would be very grateful. That way, I would know what to tell the others to buy, and what to leave behind. It would be a great help, especially to the women and children.”
Roshkovsky hesitated, aware tha
t he could not refuse so reasonable a request.
“I have only to visit the Bank and call in at the general store, then I can meet you there at the Hotel,” he agreed. “Shall we say in about twenty minutes?”
They shook hands again, the men around them voicing their approval. They all knew what exile meant. Faced with poverty, the climate and the police, any man who was not against you was your friend. As the tour resumed, the guide explained how he had often accompanied Roshkovsky on his journeys on the taiga. The more Trotsky heard about the land surveyor, the more his interest in Roshkovsky grew. The guide resumed his description of the town and its inhabitants. Had Trotsky heard about the Hospital Administrator’s wife?
* * *
Illya Kuibyshev was feeling increasingly unsettled. Ever since he had left his house that morning, passers-by had been greeting him with sympathetic smiles and signs of affection. Being the richest and, some considered, the most powerful citizen of Berezovo, he knew that this was not normal. Overawed by his wealth, or ashamed by their comparative poverty, people in the street generally avoided his gaze or gave a resentful nod of recognition. Today they were looking him full in the face and seemed genuinely pleased to see him. The effect was disturbing.
As he made his way towards the livery stables on the market square he struggled to account for this change in the town’s character. Reports of his undignified return the previous day, surrounded by a military guard and falling face first from his coach into the shit strewn street, had doubtless spread quickly across the town. This, he decided, was the most likely explanation. The ordinary people were relieved to find that his wealth and social eminence had not, after all, prevented him from making a foolish spectacle of himself. They were gently mocking him for being human after all. He was surprised to find how little he minded. He would bear it all, as the English said, “like a good fellow” and let them have their hour of fun at his expense without any thought of retaliation. After all, what damage had been done to him personally other than a dirtied knee and a torn coat?
If such small mishaps amuse the townsfolk, he told himself, I should allow them their laughter. Far better that they take their amusement from my fall than from my other life. Far better that they should laugh at me than shoot at me.
There had been a moment the previous afternoon when he had felt himself threatened. He thanked Heaven that the only serious outcome to the whole business had been the damage done to his travelling coach. This was the matter on which he was now engaged. Vissarion Lepishinsky would give him a fair estimate of how much its repair could cost. Visiting the livery stables also provided him with the opportunity to learn what had occurred in Berezovo during his two months’ absence, Lepishinsky being one of the three spies he employed in the town to collect intelligence on his behalf.
When he arrived at the stables he was surprised to see that both its tall outer doors were wide open. Peering into the lamplight interior he made out the burly figure of the proprietor carrying a saddle and bridle from one of the stalls.
“Good morning Vissarion Augustovich!” he called out. “Have you had a chance to look at my carriage?”
Carefully placing the tack down on a side bench Lepishinsky lumbered forward, his hand extended in greeting. As he approached Kuibyshev noted that he had a thick bandage wound around his throat.
“Hello Illya Moiseyevich!” the proprietor greeted him, gripping Kuibyshev’s slender hand briefly in his own large paw. “It is good to see you back in town again, and not before time. I heard that your arrival was… theatrical.”
Kuibyshev smiled good naturedly. As his most trusted confidential informant he allowed Lepishinsky a greater degree of familiarity than he afforded to others.
“It was a farce, if that is what you mean,” he agreed. “That idiot Steklov escorted me into town as if I was a damned prisoner. And there was an official reception committee no less.”
“Everything but a band, so I heard,” offered the stable owner.
“Quite so. It all adds to the gaiety of the town, I suppose. My return has clearly amused many people. What has happened to your throat?”
A look of embarrassment crossed Lepishinsky’s face and Kuibyshev saw his gaze shift guiltily to the earthen floor.
“Oh, this?” muttered Lepishinsky, picking self-consciously at his frayed collar. “It’s a small boil on the back of my neck that has become infected. Never mind it, let’s have a look at this coachwork of yours.”
He turned and led Kuibyshev towards the rear of the stables where the fur merchant’s travelling carriage was waiting for them in the gloom. What little light there was came from a lamp hanging from a nail high on a post. Taking the lamp down Lepishinsky held it close to the carriage and inspected the long scratch that had disfigured the paintwork on the vehicle’s right hand side.
“What exactly happened here?” he asked, his tone heavy with disapproval.
“One of Steklov’s cavalrymen slashed at it with his sabre,” explained Kuibyshev. “He was definitely drunk. Look at it!”
Lepishinsky moved closer to the carriage and raised the lamp a little higher. Reaching out he ran the fingers of his right hand gently across the raised edges of the cut woodwork, reminding Kuibyshev of how he had once traced with his own finger tips the scars that marked Cesar’s back; wanting to understand the depth of his wounds and not cause further suffering.
“What do you think?” he asked quietly.
Lepishinsky shook his head doubtfully and took a step back.
“Well,” he replied “The cut is not very deep, which is good but it has taken off a lot of the paintwork and it will be difficult to match the patina. I can see what can be done here in town but it ought to go back to the original carriage builder. Where was it made?”
“Tyumen.”
“To be honest,” admitted Lepishinsky, “it will be very difficult to match. I can get someone here to try, but I can’t guarantee that you would be satisfied with the result.”
With an impatient gesture Kuibyshev took a few steps away from the carriage and then returned to stand beside the livery stable’s proprietor.
“If I send it back to Tyumen,” he complained, “it would be three months before I get it back, and with no certainty that they would repair it correctly. That would leave me without a carriage at the very time I should be out on the taiga buying skins.”
Lepishinsky shrugged.
“I can rent you a perfectly good sleigh,” he offered, “and at a reasonable price.”
The two men stood side by side and regarded the carriage like two farmers worrying over an injured but valuable bull. Then Lepishinsky moved closer to the carriage once more.
“Of course,” he said thoughtfully, “there is always an alternative…”
“Which is?”
“Instead of trying to match the paint work,” he suggested, tapping the side of carriage with a stubby forefinger, “we clean a bit more off and paint on an insignia. It would be cheaper and easier. Your monogram, for instance. Something on a shield or a scroll…”
“Yes, I like it,” responded Kuibyshev. “And we could make the body of the insignia a different colour so that it didn’t have to match the rest of the coachwork.”
“We certainly could. What colour would you like?”
“Gold, of course!” exclaimed the fur merchant, his enthusiasm returning. “A background of gold leaf, with my initials picked out in black. I’ll design them myself.”
“That should do it,” agreed Lepishinsky. “Come into the office and I will write the job up.”
Extinguishing the lamp, the proprietor led the way to the small cabin that was located at the top of a short flight of steps to one side of the stables. Kuibyshev followed with a sense of contentment. The stairs, the cabin and the view overlooking the stalls always reminded him of the visits he had paid as a child to his father’s office in the warehouse in Nizhni Novogrod. There was the same snug warmth emanating from the corner stove, and a similar long w
ork desk cunningly fashioned out of three planks. At right angles to the work desk two shelves attached to the wall supported a cluttered row of tattered ledgers and lidless pots containing knotted twine, nails and crossed pen nibs that could be deftly repaired with pliers. Beside the work desk two wooden chairs, one – Lepishinsky’s – boasting a creased cushion, its fabric faded with use, awaited them. Taking the second chair Kuibyshev settled himself, noting the fragment of rug that its owner had laid beneath the desk to insulate his feet from the rising cold.
While the proprietor made notes in his work book Kuibyshev admired his office. Lepishinsky had created his own womb-like space that was at the same time warm, secure and functional. It was true that it lacked any sense of modern style; its walls were decorated sparsely with the photographic reproductions of two icons, a picture of his Imperial Majesty the Tsar, and a calendar produced by a feed merchant in Tobolsk. Neither was it equipped for entertaining. Looking along the desk he counted three unwashed cups but no glasses. Although no supporter of Temperance, it was well known around the town that Lepishinsky would not allow alcohol in the stable; one of the reasons that Kuibyshev valued him highly as an informant. In addition, suspended above the stable floor, the cabin’s windows, opaque with grime except where Lepishinsky had rubbed them clear (no doubt, Kuibyshev thought now, with his coat sleeve) offered a panoramic view of the stalls below them from which the comings and goings of the townsfolk could be watched unobserved.