Berezovo

by A J Allen

  “Does he have an appointment?” he asked the Secretary as they ascended the staircase to his chambers.

  The Secretary, walking crabwise and backwards up the stairs in his attempt to simultaneously accompany the Mayor and lead the way up to the mayoral chamber, waved his palms in denial.

  “Absolutely not, your Excellency,” he said adamantly, “but considering his mood I thought it best to allow him to wait…”

  “His mood?” queried Pobednyev. “What cause does he have to have a mood?”

  “Who can say, your Excellency?” replied the Secretary, adding with a titter, “Perhaps he has received some bad news of a personal nature.”

  The Mayor glared at him and then waved him away. The moment the misshapen functionary had mentioned the phrase “bad news” his mind had turned not to Kuibyshev’s domestic misfortune but to his own trouble; namely the money he had been persuaded to invest, along with the other members of the Council, in speculation on the St Petersburg bourse; a decision that he had long since regretted. What calamitous news had Kuibyshev to impart? It was with an anxious frown rather than a welcoming smile that he entered his Chamber and greeted Kuibyshev a minute later. As the other man rose to shake his hand Pobednyev could not help but admire the cut of the younger man’s suit and wondered whether the rumour was true that Kuibyshev kept an English tailor in London in business for half the year.

  “Dear Illya Moiseyevich, welcome,” said the Mayor cordially. “I am sorry that we have not had a chance to speak with each other since your return…”

  “The reason I am here,” interrupted Kuibyshev, resuming his seat, “is to hear your explanation of what has happened while I have been away.”

  “Certainly,” agreed the Mayor, walking to the other side of his broad desk. “Well, as you know, there have been one or two extraordinary events in the town that have…”

  “Let us begin,” Kuibyshev interrupted again, “with the fact that when I arrived I was herded like a common criminal down Alexei Street in front of the whole town.”

  “Ah…” muttered Pobednyev, as he lowered himself into the Mayoral chair. “Yes that was regrettable, but that was not a Council decision you know. You will have to take that whole business up with Captain Steklov.”

  “I intend to,” replied Kuibyshev firmly, “and I will be seeking satisfaction.”

  The Mayor stared at him aghast.

  “What for?”

  “For damage to my carriage,” said Kuibyshev evenly. “One of his soldiers slashed its side with his sabre.”

  “And…” the Mayor spluttered, “for this cause you are going to challenge Captain Steklov to a duel?”

  It was Kuibyshev’s turn to look surprised.

  “A duel? Of course not!” he exclaimed. “Don’t be ridiculous! Why should I want to fight a duel with him?”

  “But you said you wanted satisfaction.”

  “I mean satisfactory compensation,” laughed Kuibyshev. “Nobody fights duels any more. Why, this is the…”

  “Don’t say it!” warned Pobednyev hurriedly. “Whenever I hear people say ‘Well, after all, this is the twentieth century!’ it only reminds me of how little has changed over the years. It is not as if this century has brought us any cause to celebrate. Look at the disasters we have had so far: war with the Japanese, which we lost for God’s sake, a massacre in Petersburg that led to bloody revolution and now we are surrounded by typhus, and the century is only seven years old. Oh yes, we have modern inventions in some towns, like the telegraph and railways, but what does that mean except that we hear bad news quicker?”

  “And we all started with such high hopes,” Kuibyshev mocked him. “Come on Anatoli Mihailovich, this isn’t like you.”

  Opening a drawer in his desk the Mayor pulled out a box of cigars. Opening it, he offered it to Kuibyshev.

  “Mark my words,” he grumbled, “I think that the twentieth century is going to be a stinker.”

  “It will certainly be a century of change,” Kuibyshev told him as he took a cigar, “and some of the changes will be for the better and some for the worse. Which brings me to my second enquiry. Is it true what I hear, that Modest Tolkach is up for election to the Council?”

  The Mayor did not reply immediately. Having lit his own cigar, he appeared to be having trouble getting it to draw evenly. Removing it from his lips he made a show of scrutinising its burning tip with a critical expression. At length, he said, “Nothing has been decided. We are having the discussion tomorrow at the Council meeting.”

  “Why,” asked Kuibyshev as he lit his cigar, “should we want him on the Council at all?”

  “He will be helpful with defraying the cost of having the special convoy here,” explained the Mayor, “and equipping it with sleighs and so on.”

  “Really? Tolkach? You surprise me. I will be candid with you, I don’t trust him.”

  A silence fell between the two men as Mayor Pobednyev digested this unsurprising news.

  “It’s important,” he said thoughtfully, “that we only have people on the Council that are worthy of the town’s trust. I myself think that Modest Tolkach can be trusted and that he can be useful to the Town, given the right opportunity. And this opinion is shared by the majority of the Council members.”

  “The majority?” repeated Kuibyshev.

  “Yes,” the Mayor told him, adding as an afterthought, “well, everyone except you, I suppose.”

  “I see.”

  The two men regarded each other silently, the smoke from their cigars rising in the air like the smoke from the funnels of two opposing battleships.

  “And you would like my support for this decision?” probed Kuibyshev.

  “Yes, I think that would be important.”

  “But it would also be important, would it not,” suggested the fur merchant slowly, “that we don’t let the Council become too unwieldy?”

  “Unwieldy?” echoed the Mayor.

  “Yes. We have always operated with a Council of seven members, which you yourself have said is the perfect number. At the moment the Council consists of yourself, Sergei Kuprin, Fyodor Izminsky, Pavel Nadnikov, Nikita Shiminski, myself and Kavelin.”

  Kuibyshev paused and peered closely at the burning rim of his cigar.

  “Adding another one,” he reasoned, “would make it eight, and unwieldy.”

  “In that case,” asked the Mayor quietly, “what do you suggest we do?”

  “Well,” said Kuibyshev, his hands raised in a gesture that denoted he was stating the obvious to a slow child, “if there are only seven seats and a new person joins, someone else has to leave.”

  The Mayor looked down at the blotting pad on his desk and nodded his head sadly.

  “Which Councillor did you have in mind?” he asked Kuibyshev, already knowing the answer.

  “Leonid Kavelin. As you yourself say, it’s important that we only have people on the Council that can be trusted. I have been given reason to believe that Kavelin is no longer worthy of our trust.”

  The Mayor sighed and signalled his agreement with a silent nod.

  “There is no need to tell him before tomorrow,” suggested Kuibyshev.

  “And if Leonid Sergeivich goes, you will support the election of Modest Tolkach?”

  “Yes,” confirmed Kuibyshev, “although I still think that it may prove to be a mistake.”

  “Then so be it,” ordered the Mayor with a rap of his knuckle on the top of his desk.

  The two men stood and after a brief embrace that left His Excellency feeling slightly chilled, they prepared to leave the Chamber. Just as they reached the door the Mayor sought to detain Kuibyshev by grasping his sleeve.

  “One more thing, Illya Moiseyevich, can you tell me how our investments are doing? We have had no news for over two months.”

  “Your investments are in safe hands,” the fur merchant assured him. “I am confident that you will be more than satisfied by your return.”

  “But when will we see figu
res?” Pobednyev persisted. “Not knowing whether the market is up or down… it is all very worrying.”

  Cocking his head to one side Kuibyshev bestowed upon the Mayor one of his warmest, most candid smiles.

  “I am expecting the quarterly reports to arrive by the next post,” he lied. “We shall all have to be patient until then.”

  Removing Pobednyev’s hand from his sleeve, he opened the door into the landing that led to the staircase to the ground floor of the town hall. Draping his arm round the Mayor’s shoulders he said, “I hope that you haven’t been spending time worrying about your stocks. You have had enough on your plate with all these insurrectionists being deposited on the town.”

  “It has been a strain,” admitted the Mayor, touched his understanding, “and it has given us such a lot of work to do. I am glad we have got shot of them this morning, although their departure was as big a shambles as their arrival.”

  Together the two men began walking down the staircase, arm in arm.

  “Well, at least they have gone now,” Kuibyshev consoled him.

  “Not all of them,” replied the Mayor grumpily. “One of them has stayed behind and is sick in the hospital.”

  “Not with typhus, I hope?”

  “No, thank God!” exclaimed the Mayor. “He suffers from sciatica, if you please.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought that was too dangerous. I mean, to travel with.”

  “Apparently it is,” replied Pobednyev with a shrug. “Anyway, he’s Kostya Izorov’s problem now.”

  “Whatever private reservations we might have about him,” said Kuibyshev suddenly with unexpected feeling, “Colonel Izorov is a just man and we are lucky to have him in this town. On my travels, Anatoli Mihailovich, I have seen things… terrible things that are barbaric. It is this reaction. People taking revenge for what happened in the Troubles… shootings, hangings, beatings, rape and mutilation, and all without any sort of trial. In some parts of the country they have gone back to the time of Tsar Ivan.”

  “That is shocking!” responded Pobednyev quietly.

  “It is good that you are shocked. So am I,” Kuibyshev told him warmly. “You know, we twentieth century men, in order to save civilisation, we must stick together.”

  Chapter Ten

  Wednesday 14th February

  Berezovo, Northern Siberia

  An hour later alone in his room at the rear of the upper storey of the hospital, Trotsky lay on his bed and listened to the church’s bell as it rang out the hour. On the eleventh stroke, he heaved a sigh of relief. Until the convoy had left, it had not been safe for him to leave his room: nothing could have been easier than for the Chief of Police to have bundled him onto a sleigh at the last moment. Now, at last, he was free to move; free to take the “gentle exercise” that the Doctor had prescribed.

  He smiled to himself. From the window in the corridor, there was a drop of maybe four metres to the street below; less if he used a sheet, and the street led straight to the heart of the town’s Jewish Quarter. But that was not the way he would go. If Colonel Izorov thought that the first thing he would do was to try and slip into the Quarter then he would be disappointed.

  Sitting up, he reached under the mattress and drew out the knife Sverchkov had stolen for him from the Hotel. Besides the single guard who sat alongside the dvornick by the main door, he had seen no other indication that security had been tightened around the hospital. It appeared that his cellmate had not exaggerated when he had boasted that he could have smuggled a rifle, or even a reindeer into him without attracting any attention.

  All the same, he told himself as he pulled off his left boot, we must proceed with caution on the premise that such security does exist.

  Examining the boot, he had a pang of regret. It really was a fine piece of footwear: it seemed a shame to damage it. The snow had stained the leather upper, but that did not matter. Five minutes with a good tin of dubbing and a rag would soon have restored its lustre. Placing the boot upside down between his knees, he laid the blade of the knife at the point where the heel met the sole and set to work. Ten minutes later, having succeeded in cutting through less than a quarter of the heel, he gave up. The cobbler in Petersburg had made too good a job of it, that was the problem. Licking his lips nervously, he wiped the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his shirt and considered what he should do next. He had tried prising the heel off, but the handle of the knife kept slipping in his hand and the blade had twice come close to snapping.

  Sliding the knife under his pillow, he lay back on the bed and weighed the boot in his hand. If he banged it with sufficient force against the iron bedstead he might be able to loosen the heel, but the noise was bound to attract attention. Grasping the heel, he wrenched at it with all his strength, but to no avail. He changed his grip and began to twist it first one way and then the other. It was no use. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he stood up again and began to limp around the room. There had to be a way to get the heel off: everything depended on it. He looked down at the bed and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. The answer was there, if only he could find it.

  Walking quickly to the door, he wedged the single chair the room possessed under the door handle then returned to the bed. Picking up the pillow and the knife, he laid them carefully on the floor. The blankets and the mattress followed them, until all that was left was the bed springs, and the two ends of the bed, held together by a pair of heavy side irons. Beginning at the head of the bed, he began examining the frame minutely, but soon abandoned it: none of the bars were anywhere near close enough together for him to insert the heel between them and lever it off the boot; likewise the foot frame. Leaning over the bed springs, he looked for a space, a hook or a screw head; anything that might be strong enough or large enough to be of any use. There was nothing. With a silent curse, he threw the boot onto the mattress. Then, lying down full length on the floor beside the bedframe, he began feeling along the edge of the nearest side iron with his fingers.

  The bar seemed to be made of low quality cast iron. Its thickness was not uniform; there was a slight but discernible tapering towards the edge. Reaching out his arm he retrieved the boot, and tried to fit the edge of the side iron into the wedge-shaped cut he had sawn into the heel. It did not quite fit, but it was close enough. Putting his hand though a gap in the bed springs, he grasped the heel and pulled. The gap grew fractionally wider. Kneeling on the edge of the bed frame, still pulling the heel as hard as he could, he presented it to the edge of the side iron for a second time. It fitted. Grinning with relief, Trotsky let the heel grip the metal bar.

  A few minutes later, the six ten-rouble gold coins that had been stacked and wrapped together in sticky black tar paper in the cavity inside the heel were safe in the pocket of his overcoat and Trotsky was busy repairing as best he could the damage he had inflicted on his boot. In the heel of his other boot was another sixty roubles: in its sole, a false passport. Having more than sufficient money for what he needed to do that day, he let them remain hidden where they were. Giving the heel a final tap with the handle of the knife, he slipped the boot on and stood up. The heel still felt precarious, but he thought that it might last him until he had reached the general store. Buttoning up his overcoat, he looked carefully around the room. Everything was as it should be: the bed made; the knife hidden from view within a slit in the mattress.

  He took a step and felt the heel give a little more. Behind the door stood a walking stick that the Hospital Administrator had insisted he should use. The day before, he had viewed it with suspicion, not wishing to overplay the extent of his condition, but now he was grateful for its support. Pushing the chair out of the way he opened the door and shuffled out of his room, placing as little weight as he could upon his left foot as he made his way along the corridor to the top of the staircase.

  It was probable that he would lose the heel before he reached the main road but it was a necessary risk. He cheered himself up with the thought that nobody w
ould suspect a man with such a shambling gait to be laying plans for escape. Aware that his appearance had already been noted by the waiting guard below, he carefully began to negotiate the first step on the stair way that led down to the ground floor and the street.

  This was not his first outing since his transfer to the hospital. The afternoon before, he had taken a short walk, no further than to the library and back. It had been sufficient to corroborate Sverchkov’s report. There was indeed a door that would give him access to the Quarter but, like the window outside his room, it struck him as being of little use. He knew neither the ghetto nor which, if any, of its inhabitants to trust. Dismissing the door from his mind, he had passed the time talking to the librarian while he “rested” from the exertion of his exercise. Maslov had been preparing his antiquated press, prior to printing the programmes for the forthcoming amateur dramatic production, of which – if the playbill was to be believed – he appeared to be the leading light. As he watched him work, squaring the paper for the guillotine and brushing the type block with rich black ink, Trotsky felt all the old excitement well up inside him. What he could not achieve in a place like Berezovo if he was free and had a printing press! It was all he could do to prevent himself tearing off his jacket and lending a hand.

  At the back of his mind, something about the librarian picked at his memory. It was nothing that Maslov had said or done, but more the way he worked, with fancy little gestures; a minor alteration here, a redundant flourish there. At the time, he could not put his finger on what it was that bothered him about the man, but now, as he hobbled down Hospital Street, it suddenly came to him, out of nowhere. The Librarian Maslov bore a striking resemblance to the speculator Kalinosky. Despite his predicament – the heel seemed to be growing looser with every step – he permitted himself a small smile as he thought of the last time he had seen “The Crazy Man”.