Berezovo

by A J Allen

  * * *

  In the dying months of 1905 he and Natalya had been living undercover in Petersburg as a married couple using the name of “Vikentiev”. She had gone to him on the day of her release under the October amnesty and it was as “Madame Vikentieva” that she had taken comfortable rooms with him in Kalinosky’s townhouse. Comrades had tried to persuade them to separate but they had refused. He could see now that, from a security perspective, a separation would have made sense: they had become mutually dangerous, but it had already seemed too late for such considerations. As the drama of the last fifty days of the St Petersburg Soviet of Workers’ Deputies had unfolded life had become more intense and quite different from their former existence in Paris or Geneva. Knowing that they were at the centre of events and aware that each day could be their last they had felt alive and possessed with power.

  They had nicknamed their landlord “The Crazy Man” because that was what he was becoming. Every night as they sat at his table, eating his food, Kalinosky would rage impotently at the terrible things those fiends, those “anarchists” and “Socialists” in the Soviet were doing. Every inch the respectable bourgeois married couple, he and Natalya had tutted sympathetically as their landlord described in painful detail how the value of his stocks and shares were being reduced to a fraction of their former value because of the crisis; how every strike slashed his interests to the bone. For the first week it had been amusing but soon they had become bored with the nightly recitation of his troubles. At length, they began to take a malign pleasure in his losses. When, one evening, he brought his tirade to a close with an uncharacteristic note of optimism (“Ah well, at least I still have my 7% holding in the Tver carriage works!”) they had known what to do. Within twenty-four hours the carriage makers had been brought out on strike, and another disaster was added to their landlord’s litany of woes.

  As the crisis grew, the Crazy Man began to leave his food untouched. He just sat slumped in his chair, gnawing at his fingernails as he read the reports in the evening newspapers with mounting anxiety. One night, so appalled had he been at the news of the day’s events that he had thrust the evening newspaper into the grate, setting it alight and waving it around above his head like a flaming brand as he screamed abuse at his invisible tormentors. Dumbfounded by the sight Natalya and Trotsky had sat staring at each other as the charred embers filled the dining room and floated gently down onto their plates; the speculator’s wife, Madame Kalinoskaya, all the while flicking the ashes away with her napkin as if they were wasps at a picnic. It had been all too much. Pleading hiccoughs, they had escaped to their room and had had to bury their faces deep in the pillows to muffle their laughter. After that they had made love and, he was sure of it, had conceived Baby Lev, out of laughter and class struggle.

  Following the incident of the ashes, newspapers were banned from the dining table: first the local evening editions and then even the morning national daily. But it was no use; if anything, their landlord became more disturbed. Trotsky had gone so far as to bring home a few copies of “Nachelo” (the editorials and leading articles of which he was writing under the Crazy Man’s roof, if only he had known it) with the excuse that they had been forced on him by some hooligans in the street. After the first few copies had reduced her husband to a gibbering wreck, Madame Kalinoskaya had pleaded with him not to bring any more into the house.

  In the end, the speculator’s condition became serious. Returning from an executive meeting of the Soviet one evening, he and Natalya had found Madame Kalinoskaya beside herself with worry. Her husband had locked himself in his study and was threatening to shoot himself. He had been drinking heavily all afternoon and there was every possibility that he might carry out his threat. It had been a tricky moment: such a serious incident could not fail to bring their address to the attention of the police. Hurrying to their room, they had burnt what papers they could and packed the rest in their travelling bags, before separating and going in search of safer accommodation. But, by midnight, they had had no luck. Returning to their lodgings, they spent a sleepless night, expecting at any moment to hear the crack of a pistol shot. He had never seen the man again. A few days later Parvus had published the statement that no foreign debts would be honoured by the Soviet, and the whole Executive Committee had been arrested. This time Natalya was the one who had got away.

  * * *

  He had not thought of the Crazy Man for over a year. Now, as Trotsky limped wearily across the threshold of the general store, he wondered what had become of him. Seeing him enter, Nikita Osipovich Shiminski came forward to welcome him. How could he be of service? A pair of reindeer skin boots? Certainly, sir. Ignoring the winks and nudges of his other customers, the store’s proprietor fetched the kisys and helped Trotsky put them on in return for a golden ten-rouble coin. Handing back his change, Shiminski agreed that his kisys were expensive. He appealed to their audience to vouch that they were of the finest quality. As one of the women observed, by the look of him, they would last longer in Obdorsk than their purchaser, and who could say fairer than that?

  Collecting his stick, and tucking his old boots under his arm, Trotsky left them to their speculation and went out into Alexei Street. Crossing the road, he stood for a moment in front of the Hotel New Century, where he appeared to hesitate, looking around him vaguely. Across the street the door to the uchastok was unguarded and closed. Besides the usual traffic of pedestrians and sleighs, there seemed nothing out of the ordinary about the shifting patterns of movement around him. Nevertheless, he took his time, walking slowly up one side of the main thoroughfare and then back down the other, as if he were innocently window shopping while he took his exercise, using the dark reflections in the glass panes as mirrors to watch the boardwalk opposite. Once, he dropped his boots, and twice he doubled back, on the off chance that one of the seemingly innocent figures walking behind him might hesitate, taken by surprise by his change of direction. Crude as these precautions were, he felt that it was the best he could do, given his supposed medical condition and the difficulty of the terrain. When he was as certain as he could be that his first impression had been correct – that, besides the uniformed presence of the gendarmes and the occasional strolling soldier, the street was clean – he made his way towards Roshkovsky’s office.

  The land surveyor did not bother to conceal his surprise at seeing him.

  “I thought you people had already left,” he said.

  “I’ve been detained here because of my sciatica,” Trotsky explained. “The Doctor felt that I needed the exercise.”

  “Sciatica?”

  “It will do as well as any other condition,” Trotsky admitted with a shrug. “It doesn’t demand any outward physical signs. And, after all, it was your idea.”

  “My idea?” echoed Roshkovsky, glancing anxiously towards the open door of his office. “I don’t understand. What do you mean, my idea?”

  Trotsky had waited for Roshkovsky to invite him to sit down. Now, pulling up a chair, he made himself comfortable.

  “You told me that the first thing I had to do if I was to have any hope of escape was to get myself kept back here,” he reminded him. “So I did. The question is, what do I do now?”

  Getting to his feet, Roshkovsky strode quickly across the office and closed the outer door. Running one hand nervously through his hair, he returned to his desk.

  “I might have said that,” he admitted, “but I honestly can’t be of any use to you. You must understand that. I never travel outside town until April at the earliest. Most of the time I am here, writing up my reports and looking for new commissions.”

  “Don’t worry!” Trotsky told him genially. “I won’t get you into any trouble. All I want to do is pick your brains.”

  Removing his gloves, he began unbuttoning his overcoat, making it clear to the land-surveyor that he intended to stay for some time.

  “Now,” he continued affably, “have you any maps of the area that I can look at?”


  “Look, I would like to help you, naturally,” replied Roshkovsky. “But what you are proposing is impossible. Nobody has ever escaped from Berezovo in the wintertime. To begin with, it would cost a lot of money. More, if you forgive me, than you have.”

  Reaching into his overcoat pocket, Trotsky pulled out the remaining five gold ten rouble coins and laid them silently on the top of the desk.

  “Now can I see the maps?” he repeated.

  Roshkovsky stared at the coins, then at the man seated opposite him, and then at the coins again.

  “I apologise. It seems that I was mistaken.”

  “It’s understandable. Given the circumstances, you had every reason to doubt my resources. But as you can see, money is the least of my problems. I can get more, if it is necessary. What I do need, though, is accurate information and for that I am willing to pay handsomely.”

  “That isn’t necessary,” Roshkovsky replied stiffly.

  He pointed to the small pile of coins and gestured to Trotsky to put them away. Casually Trotsky picked the coins up from the table and dropped them back into his pocket.

  “Well?” he prompted.

  The land surveyor glanced furtively again at the door of his office then back at Trotsky.

  “Come over to the drawing desk,” he said.

  Quickly ruffling through a pile of maps, Roshkovsky pulled one out and spread it out for Trotsky’s inspection.

  “This is a map of the springtime flood levels of the River Ob for this District,” he explained. “The scale is one centimetre to ten versts. Ignore the markings around the river. It’s the smaller area to the south you are interested in. I’m assuming,” he added, looking up at Trotsky, “that you do not intend to head north or east.”

  “Definitely not,” replied Trotsky.

  “I thought not. Very well. As I see it, you have three alternatives. The most direct route is to go back the way you came, along the Great Tobolsk Highway. The road will be clearly marked and there are plenty of exiles along the way to give you food and shelter. But it is as hazardous as it is straightforward. The nearest telegraph office is less than two days from here, at Kandinskoye.”

  “I remember it,” confirmed Trotsky. “We stopped there on the way here.”

  Pointing to the spot that represented the village of Kandinskoye, Roshkovsky tapped it with his finger.

  “Once the alert has been sounded,” he continued, “every soldier, every policeman stationed along the road will be on the look-out for you. You might bluff your way past one road block, perhaps even two if you have some sort of disguise, but no more. The whole administration of this District relies on the telegraph service. Its officials live along the Highway and use it regularly. A stranger would be picked up at once.”

  “I see. What is the second alternative?”

  Pointing again to the map, Roshkovsky indicated the shaded contours of the Ural Mountains that bordered its western margin.

  “Your second option is to travel due west and cross the mountains, using deer and a local guide to find a pass that is still open. Once through, head for Izhma and then Archangel. No police and no telegraph for much of the way.”

  Trotsky looked at him keenly.

  “What is the drawback then?”

  “When, or rather if you get to Archangel, you will be stuck there until the opening of the navigable routes in the spring. You will need good friends to hide you there.”

  Trotsky turned his attention back to the map. The only organisation worthy of the name in Archangel was Bolshevik. He would be completely dependent upon Nicolai’s goodwill and support.

  He shook his head.

  “That is too risky for my comrades, and too long for me.”

  “That only leaves the third option,” Roshkovsky told him, “and that is the most dangerous of all. Head westwards as before, following the banks of either the Sosva or the Vogulka rivers. Then strike out for the Bogoslovosk ore mines near Rudniki. There is a narrow gauge railway line that connects with the line to Perm. Perm, Vyatka, Vologda, St. Petersburg.”

  “What are the advantages and the disadvantages?”

  Roshkovsky gave a short laugh.

  “There is only one advantage,” he said deliberately. “No sane man would think of looking for you along that route, and I include Colonel Izorov. There are no policemen for nearly a thousand versts; nor any village or settlement where people speak anything like Russian. Naturally, there is no telegraph either and, as the country can only be crossed by reindeer, pursuit by a cavalry patrol is out of the question.”

  “And the disadvantages?”

  “As I told you, no sane man would try it,” repeated the land surveyor as he began to unpin the map. “There are no policemen out there, either to capture you or to protect you. A different law operates out there, the law of the taiga. You would have to rely completely on the hospitality of the Ostyaks who live in isolated settlements, riddled with syphilis and typhus. If they take it into their heads to murder you, they will. And then there is the danger of sickness: once taken ill, you must expect no relief. This very winter at Ourvinsk yurt on the Sosvinki Road, a young fellow called Dobrovolsky was caught by the typhoid. They say he took fourteen days to die. And even if you escape death from foul play or from disease, there is always the weather. The route you will need to follow, once you have left the riverbank, is nothing more than a track, easily erased by the slightest fall of snow.”

  Lifting the rolled map off the table, Roshkovsky carried it carefully back to the pile by his desk.

  “Go on,” urged Trotsky.

  “What more can I say? February is the month of blinding blizzards. They can last for days on end. Should one overtake you, there would be no hope. And suppose the reindeer become lame? You could not replace them, and remember you have nearly a thousand versts to cross. There’s no guarantee that the trail has been travelled recently. If none of the Ostyaks have used it since the last big blow, it would be impossible for you to even begin to find your way.”

  “But you could,” suggested Trotsky. “You could be my guide.”

  “No, I couldn’t,” retorted the land surveyor coldly. “All I can do is offer you advice. That’s my job: to offer people advice. I am certainly not experienced enough to act as your guide, even if I wished to. Which I don’t.”

  “What about all the times you go out surveying?” Trotsky persisted. “What happens then?”

  Roshkovsky raised his eyes to the ceiling in exasperation.

  “I take my own guide,” he replied with an exaggerated slowness. “And I make damned sure that I don’t travel in the middle of winter. You do not seem to understand. The taiga isn’t just something you can stroll across on a Sunday afternoon. It is a barrier as big as the Sahara desert. It has its own laws, its own people, its own signs; it even has its own language. Such things are not learned in an instant. It takes years and years of travelling. If you need a guide, then go to the hunters and the trappers. Don’t come to summer travellers like me.”

  Trotsky waited patiently for Roshkovsky to finish.

  “Who do you use then?” he asked. “Tell me who is the best person to approach and I won’t bother you again.”

  “It’s not a question of being ‘bothered’,” Roshkovsky began quietly, then fell silent.

  The two men looked at each other.

  Roshkovsky took a deep breath and let out a resigned sigh. “Look, I shall speak to someone about it,” he muttered unwillingly. “I am not making any promises to you, but if anyone can do it, he can. He knows the taiga like his own hat. But first you must agree to one condition.”

  “Which is?” asked Trotsky

  Turning to face him Roshkovsky held up a warning finger.

  “The condition is that you never, ever, come to this office again or openly engage me in conversation in a public place again. Do you understand? If I have anything to communicate to you, I will find a way of doing it myself.”

  Trotsky hesitated. Roshkovsky w
as asking him to place more trust in him than he felt, but what choice did he have? Unwilling to put further pressure on the gossamer fine thread by which his hopes now hung, he grudgingly accepted.

  “What is the man’s name?”

  The question angered Roshkovsky.

  “Oh no!” he cried, slamming the flat of his hand down on the top of his desk. “I have said enough. That is all you need to know until I have spoken to him. Now, you must go!”

  Reluctantly Trotsky stood up and began fastening his overcoat. After making sure he had left nothing behind, he picked up his boots and the walking stick and went to the door. Opening it, he turned back to face Roshkovsky.

  “You won’t forget, will you? I don’t have very long.”

  “I won’t forget.”

  “Speak to him today. Remember, you promised.”

  Without waiting for a reply, he shuffled through the door and out into the street.

  Roshkovsky sat down at his drawing desk and buried his head in his hands.

  “What have I done?” he asked himself over and over again.

  With another heavy sigh, he stood up and, taking his padded frock coat down from its hook, began to close up the office.

  Stopping only to buy a loaf of bread at Gvordyen’s in order to give himself the excuse to return home, he set off for Ostermann Street, where Madame Roshkovskaya greeted him with cries of surprise and delight. But if his wife had thought that he had closed his office early just to be with her, she was quickly disabused of the notion. No sooner had Roshkovsky arrived than he exchanged his office overcoat for the thick fur coverings he usually wore when he was travelling and slipped off his town shoes in favour of a pair of heavy boots similar to the ones his unwelcome visitor had purchased earlier that morning.