by A J Allen
Reaching for the notepad and pencil he had purchased after his visit to Roshkovsky’s office, he began to write furiously, his hand flying backward and forwards across the pages as it tried to keep up with the flow of his ideas.
Capital punishment, he scribbled, is a prime example of the regime’s lunatic philosophy. Previously, when it seemed the executions were so frequent that the machinery for dealing with them was in danger of breaking down (in Kiev prison there was such a shortage of suitable candidates for the post of assistant hangman that they had used a drunken murderer to do their work) the Princes in the Duma called for the abolition of the death penalty. The motion was adopted and passed on July 11 1906. By July 23, the Duma was already dissolved and discredited and nothing had been changed. If anything, the number of executions had increased. So much for the power of constitutional democracy!
He paused in his writing. It was doubtful whether the Tsar’s ministers had even been informed of the Bill, not that it would have made a scrap of difference. The logic of the men who held the reins of power was beyond the reach of rational debate. “Capital punishment is legal, therefore opposition to it is illegal. Ergo, abolition is an illegal act. Q.E.D.” Try as they might, the honoured Duma deputies could not argue with such reasoning. In any case, the introduction of Siege Law had meant that the judicial rules were thrown out of the window wherever major outbreaks of unrest had occurred. In the same year that their Excellencies had anguished over civil hangings, at least 864 people had been shot without sentence, and that was the official figure. Trotsky was sure that the true figure could be three times that number. Just as he had predicted, the first Duma had achieved nothing, and the second Duma would fare no better.
As if to show its Deputies the futility of their actions, a week after the first Duma had been dismissed, there had been a demonstration of genuine power. The Kronstadt garrison had risen and declared itself no longer under the orders of the Tsar. Even now, just thinking about it made Trotsky grind his teeth in exasperation. From what he had heard the plan had so nearly worked. The major rising was to be preceded by a smaller rebellion at Sveaborg that was intended to draw army units away from Petersburg. If only the Finnish Red Guards hadn’t got carried away and dynamited the railway track before the soldiers could be put on the trains, then Kronstadt and possibly even Petersburg could have risen in armed revolt again. Not that the naval garrison, by itself, could have had a decisive effect. Although the cruisers Pamyat Azova and Asia had also risen and flown the red flag, the earlier example of the Potemkin had shown that sailors were by their nature too self-reliant, too independent, to join up spontaneously with the revolutionary proletariat. There were too many moujiks and too few technicians and engineers in their ranks for them to make that leap in the dark. The episode tormented him. Oh, if only I had been there, he thought, what an opportunity it would have provided! What a powder keg!
But there it was: the deepest tragedy of revolution. Either the leaders hesitate in the crisis, or are recklessly premature, or find themselves in the wrong place at the right time and the moment is lost.
If, he promised, and then corrected himself. No, not if… When the Kronstadt rises again, they won’t find me unprepared. I will know exactly what to do.
If… When…
Despondently, he sat on the edge of the bed and looked at the crumpled pages of the newspaper at his feet. When would conditions be right again? he wondered. How long a period would have to pass before the country was once again shaken by the conditions that could herald a New Russia? Ten years? Twenty years? Thirty?
Like the waves of the mighty oceans, the revolutionary impulse rose and fell in time to the cycle of economic development; between peak and trough might pass a man’s lifetime, or at least the best years of his youth. Who was left from the struggles of the 1870s? Plekhanov, Axelrod, Zasulich, Deutsch and maybe a handful of others. They were all spent, even Deutsch now. Nicolai Lenin had been right. The Old Gang had been so long in foreign exile that they had nothing to offer the new generation at home. They did not even speak the same language anymore; the best that could be said for them was that they still paid some sort of lip-service to social democracy. They had not collaborated with the bourgeoisie like Millerand and Juares in France, or recanted like Bernstein. Beyond that, they were indistinguishable from any of the other shambling old men. Their whole generation was the same: the best had died in the morning, still hot with their radicalism. The remainder had basked in the early afternoon, genial heroes resting from the Struggle; their revolutionary ardour gradually cooling as their declining years brought them to the chill evening of cautious conservatism.
Thirty years! he thought glumly.
How many of his comrades would still be alive in 1937, and if alive, still active? The Old Gang would be long dead, but what of Nicolai and Martov; Parvus and Potresov?
Potresov would never make old bones; of that he was certain. Aleksandr fretted too much: about the way he had disappointed his parents; about his need to be needed. Eventually he would leave the Party just as he had left his father’s house; because he could no longer bear to stay. He would enter the howling wilderness of despair that is only silenced by Death. At the finish, he might even turn informer to save his skin and end up like the priest Gapon. Like Gapon, Potresov had neither the faith that found solace in a monastery nor the intellect to graze contentedly in a university library.
Parvus also would drift away, chastened by his prison experience and drawn by his gambler’s desire for easy wealth. But at least he would not betray his brothers. However rich Parvus became – and it was quite possible that he could become a millionaire in whichever country and currency he chose to adopt – his old comrades would still be welcome to a good dinner and a bed for the night. In return, he would ask for nothing, save perhaps an advance warning as to where the next wave of strikes were to occur. No, his soul was as light as Potresov’s was dark. There was a merriment in his scurrilous nature that even his sternest judges had to smile at. In 1937, Trotsky reckoned, he would be sunning himself on the Promenade des Anglais, twirling his moustache and raising his hat in salute to the prettiest women as they passed him by.
Which only left Nicolai and Martov, and to know what they would be doing in thirty years’ time would be to know the fate of Russia. Nicolai would be old; nearly seventy. The years underground would have left their mark. Would he still be waking with a shout in the middle of the night and lying cowering in Krupskaya’s pudgy arms, believing that the O. were on the stairs? Or would that cold calculating machine he called his mind, which had split the Party time and time again in its ruthless hunt for power, finally shatter and drive him into the squalor of a public madhouse?
Trotsky was certain only of one thing: that Nicolai would never cease the revolutionary struggle. There would be no mellowing, no letting up. When Death came to claim Nicolai, he would brush it aside as being a theoretical irrelevance. Nicolai Lenin would never die. His ghost would haunt his political descendants: a perennial rebuke to those who undertook the easy path that deviated from the iron dictates of Party control. His was the fist and Martov’s the open hand.
And what of himself? What of Lev Davidovich Bronstein alias Yanovka alias Vikentiev alias Leon Trotsky? Neither political camp shared his vision. Neither could see that Socialism could be built in their lifetime but only as a global phenomenon. Martov would reject it out of hand as militant idealism and Nicolai (suspicious of intuition and wary of a challenge to his personal supremacy) would denounce it as infantile and tantamount to heresy. To make that great leap forward, transcending the illusion of national boundaries, telescoping the transitional period of bourgeois parliamentarianism into two or three years – perhaps even less – instead of having to endure the century of grinding exploitation that it took to form a skilled and politically conscious urban proletariat… To be prepared to do that would be inconceivable to them. He would be like a prophet dressed in goat skins and eating wild honey and locu
sts, his exhortations greeted either with scepticism or derision. Yet, having seen the Way, what else could he do? The only alternative was atrophy.
He could still write, of course. He would always be a writer. But without a platform, he would sink lower and lower into the mire: from theoretician to commentator; from commentator to journalist; from journalist to “occasional reviewer”, until even that work dried up. Once he had exhausted the goodwill of his contemporaries, his offerings would be spiked, deposited unread into the editor’s wastepaper basket or returned unopened. He would be reduced to penning florid entertaining pieces for the liberal bourgeois press and haunting publishers’ offices with “unsuitable” novels.
Just as he was beginning to feel that he was standing on the edge of some awful abyss, the stygian depths of which were beyond knowing, the creak of a floorboard outside his door aroused Trotsky from his thoughts. Startled, he glanced around the room. The nine gold coins were already hidden, sown into the lining of his travelling coat, but the passport he had removed from the sole of his right boot was still in full view upon the small bedside table. Snatching it up, he thrust it under the band of his prison trousers. As the handle began to turn he saw, to his horror, that one of his boots still lay on the floor, its gaping heel clearly visible. With a swift kick, he sent it skimming under the bed as the door opened fully and a thuggish looking man stole into the room.
Standing up, Trotsky tensed himself for a possible violent attack.
“Who are you?” he demanded nervously. “What do you want?”
The roughly dressed stranger held up one gnarled finger to his lips as he quickly pushed the door to behind him.
“Who are you? What do you want?” Trotsky repeated, raising his voice.
“That depends,” the man replied slyly. “Who are you?”
“I am Leon Trotsky, prisoner 58069, on my way to Obdorskoye under a sentence of permanent exile.”
Giving a satisfied nod, the man advanced into the room.
“Then I am Noi Nikolayevich Pyatkonov. People call me Goat’s Foot. Andrey Vladimovich Roshkovsky said you needed my help.”
Indicating that his strange visitor should take his chair, Trotsky sat down again on the bed. If first impressions were anything to go by, this “Goat’s Foot” was not to be trusted; not an inch.
“I do not recall asking this Roshkovsky you speak of for any help.”
“It’ll cost you fifty roubles,” announced Goat’s Foot bluntly, adding with the next breath, “and then there are expenses and things to be taken along for the journey.”
“What journey?”
Feigning not to have heard him, Trotsky’s sinister looking visitor picked up one of the new reindeer skin boots he had purchased the previous day.
“I see you have got some kisys. That’s good. You will have to give me some cash so that I can buy the other things you need. Some chizhis, a malitsa and a gussi. Then there are the provisions, and the deer…”
“Wait a minute,” interrupted Trotsky, “Kisys? Gussis? What are these things?”
Holding up the new boot at arm’s length, Goat’s Foot pointed to it.
“Look, this is a kisy,” he explained patiently. “Inside this you wear your chizhis, what you would call stockings, made of reindeer hide. The chizhis are worn with the fur on the inside, next to your skin, see? That is so they don’t rub you raw, while the boots, the kisys, have the fur on the outside, to keep your feet dry.”
“Did anyone see you come in here?” asked Trotsky.
“No, of course not!” declared Goat’s Foot. “Now, your malitsa is just the same thing as a chizhi only you wear it over the rest of your body.”
The clumsy description confused Trotsky.
“Like a big scarf?” he guessed.
“No, not like a scarf! Like a bloody overcoat. It’s an overcoat made of deer hide with the fur turned inside out.”
“Then what do you call those big coats I’ve seen with the fur on the outside?”
“Those are your gussis!” Goat’s Foot answered triumphantly, pleased that Trotsky was catching on. “You wear them over your malitsa.”
“Are two coats really necessary? Don’t they make movement difficult? Surely one good one would suffice.”
“Not if you want to reach the Bogoslovosk mines alive. The cold out there on the taiga will be ten times worse than anything you’ve met here.”
Trotsky frowned, and looked baffled.
“The Bogoslovosk mines?” he repeated doubtfully. “I‘m sorry, there must be some mistake. I am going to Obdorskoye.”
The peasant stared angrily at him for a moment. Then, jumping to his feet, he tore off his cap and began twisting it in his hands as he advanced threateningly towards Trotsky.
“Listen, Jewboy!” he said thickly. “I’ve risked my fucking back coming to see you today and I am not the only one. Roshkovsky would also be in for it if it became known that he had anything to do with your plans for escape, and he’s got a crippled wife at home to look after. So stop wasting any more of my fucking time! You are either going or you’re not. And if you’re going, the ticket costs fifty roubles.”
Hastily, Trotsky tried to placate him.
“I apologise! But I had to make sure you were genuine!”
“Do you think I would risk a knouting if I wasn’t genuine?”
“But if you weren’t genuine,” countered Trotsky, “then you wouldn’t be risking anything at all.”
Goat’s Foot scratched his head and considered this answer for a while. Then his craggy face broke into a smile.
“That’s true enough, I suppose,” he admitted, taking his seat again. “So, can we do business together?”
Trotsky nodded.
“I think so.”
“Good! So this is how it goes,” the peasant continued. “You hire me for fifty roubles and I will make all the necessary arrangements to get you away from here. That means finding a driver, choosing the deer…”
“Hold on!” broke in Trotsky. “Do you mean that you won’t be driving me?”
Goat’s Foot stared at him and then laughed.
“In February? You must be fucking kidding! No true born Christian could find his way across the taiga in this weather. No, you shall need a Zyrian for this job, and I know just the fellow. He’ll get you where you want to go if anyone will.”
“A Zyrian?” repeated Trotsky doubtfully.
“Sure! It’s only natural. The taiga is in their blood. They can find their way across it blindfold, or blind drunk, as easy as a yid makes money, if you’ll excuse the saying.”
“And does this Zyrian drink?” asked Trotsky, ignoring the slur.
“Drink?” repeated Goat’s Foot incredulously. “Of course he bloody drinks! Why shouldn’t he drink? Everybody drinks in these parts. It was drink what ruined him. Before that he was a first class hunter and used to bring in plenty of sables and earn lots of money for his family.”
Getting up, Goat’s Foot came over and sat down beside Trotsky on the bed, patting his arm reassuringly.
“Don’t worry. Nikivor’s a real old fox. He’s got two heads instead of one. If he’s game, your problems are over. And he’s strong enough,” Goat’s Foot added, lifting his own arm and flexing his muscles to illustrate the point. “If he won’t drive you, no one will.”
Still unconvinced, Trotsky hesitated.
“Will he be able to understand what I say to him?” he asked.
“Oh, sure!” replied Goat’s Foot confidently. “Don’t worry about that. Like I told you, he was a great hunter. He’s been around. He speaks Russian, and Zyriane and two different Ostyak dialects. Another driver like him is not to be found around here. And he’s shrewd, very shrewd.”
“All right,” said Trotsky unwillingly. “When can I meet this man?”
“Ah! That’s just it. You can’t,” admitted Goat’s Foot apologetically. “At least, not for the moment. He lives in a yurt about ten versts from here. But as soon as we agree o
n terms, I’ll ride out to his place and hire him. I expect that the sooner you get started, the happier you will be.”
“And I suppose you shall want something in advance?” asked Trotsky.
Goat’s Foot scratched his beard thoughtfully.
“Well,” he conceded, “it would be useful if I had something to flash at him. He is the one who will be picking out the team for you. Even though I’m a fair judge of deer, he’s better than I am.”
Trotsky’s eyes narrowed with suspicion.
“I thought all the deer had been bought up already for the convoy.”
“Pah!” snorted Goat’s Foot. “Not all the good ones. Why waste them on the military, eh? And don’t worry about my man Nikivor. Just remember, he has to pick a team that will not only get you there, but also bring him back. So he’ll make sure they’re the best.”
In order to buy himself some time, Trotsky swung his feet off the bed and got up. The deeper I go, he thought, the less trustworthy people become. Roshkovsky can be relied upon only until he is pushed too far. This fellow sitting next to me even less so. This Zyrian guide, this “Nikivor”- will need careful watching.
Walking over to his overcoat which was hanging from a peg in the wall he rummaged in its pockets, and brought out a tin of cigarettes and some phosphor matches. Offering a cigarette to the peasant, he took another and lit them both.
“What are your terms again?” he asked.
“Fifty roubles for me,” repeated Goat’s Foot, “plus the cost of hiring Nikivor and buying the deer and clothing. Twenty roubles now, the rest when all the arrangements are made.”
“That’s far too much!” protested Trotsky. “I’ll be left with nothing.”
Goat’s Foot shrugged philosophically.
“Once you’re on the taiga, money means little. If anything, it’s a liability.”
“That may be so,” retorted Trotsky, “but when I reach the railway they’ll expect payment in cash for a ticket, not in skins. This Zyrian, he will already have the deer to keep for himself. Any money he demands above that will have to come out of your share. Otherwise, I can’t afford it.”