by A J Allen
Chapter Sixteen
Friday 16th February
Berezovo, Northern Siberia
The following morning the gentlemen of the Drama Committee paid their first visit to the makeshift stage that had been erected in the main hall of the barracks. They were relieved to find that the scenery had nearly been completed. All that remained after the painters had finished their work was for the drapes to be hung and the floor of the stage to be dressed with furniture and carpets. The four trick chairs (commissioned after all from the Jew Averbuch) were stacked carefully out of harm’s way in one corner of the barracks hall and only reluctantly brought out for the committee’s inspection under the Doctor’s watchful eye. Constructed in such a way that a single sharp blow would lead to their prompt collapse, the Doctor assured his colleagues that this coup de theatre would be sufficiently spectacular as to be worth the price they had paid for them. But it was the scenery towering above them, replete with ledges, window sills, book shelves and doorways, that drew the most admiration. The painters’ brushstrokes, cunning with trompe l’oeil, had counterfeited extra dimensions that looked most real from a distance of less than ten paces. Who knew that such artistry existed in the town?
While the builder Belinsky basked in their praise, the Committee’s chairman Nikolai Dresnyakov paced the part of the hall that was to serve as their auditorium. The schoolmaster had calculated that, with a deft rearrangement of the seating plan, it was possible to fit in an extra dozen seats with only a minimal loss of comfort and still have room for those with cheaper tickets to stand at the rear of the hall. Standing beside the stage and preoccupied with his own problems, Roshkovsky was half listening to Doctor Tortsov’s predictions of how successful the performances promised to be, which were interrupted at several points by Maslov who clearly continued to entertain concerns. As soon as he was able, the land surveyor took the opportunity to slip away and leave the hall before the “artistic discussions” degenerated into yet another acrimonious dispute.
Leaving the barracks, he entered Market Square. It was still snowing. Seeing the row of sleighs for hire, he debated with himself whether to ride home. He decided that he should walk instead. He needed time, he told himself: time to think. Try as he might, he could not rid himself of the one thought that now hammered at his mind: that he must tell Nina what he had done. But how to go about it? Just as Chevanin had struggled with himself while waiting in the Tortsovs’ living room six days before, so now Roshkovsky pondered over the exact words he would use to tell his wife that her husband had become implicated in a plot to help a dangerous revolutionary to escape. Since Trotsky had left his office, he felt that he had aged ten years with every passing hour. The strain of waiting for Colonel Izorov to discover their conspiracy had become intolerable. He almost wished that it was all over; that he was already safe behind bars in the prison house and unable to do any further harm, either to himself or to those he loved.
It’s true after all, he admitted to himself. Eventually the impulse to confess becomes equal to the temptation to commit the crime.
As he trudged towards Alexei Street, he turned the limited range of choices that presented themselves over in his mind. He could be jocular (“The oddest thing happened to me the other day in the office…”). He could be full of bravado (“I’ve just helped a convicted menace to society escape…”). He could be casual (“Talking about taking a short holiday…”). Or, he thought angrily, he could be shot. Should be shot, for involving her in such a dangerous affair. No matter how hard he tried, the words would not come.
In the end it was his heart and not his head that spoke. Sitting opposite his wife at lunch he watched as she lifted another trembling fork full of food to her lips. Lately, the spasms had become worse, until each mealtime had become a trial of strength in which gradually her illness was gaining the upper hand. Determined to keep her personal dignity for as long as she could, she refused to let him feed her. His heart felt full and heavy as, catching him looking at her, his wife smiled bravely back. Overcome with emotion he put down his knife and fork and rose from his seat. Going to her he half knelt by her chair and embraced her.
“Nina, I have something to tell you.”
As she listened, Madame Roshkovskaya’s eyes grew rounder and rounder, and her face lengthened as the enormity of his folly was revealed to her. Looking up at her, Roshkovsky saw her expression pass in quick succession from surprise and anger to dismay and finally horror. When at last he had told her everything that had happened, she sat staring at him unbelievingly for a moment. Then she asked the one question to which he did not have an answer.
“But why, Andrey? Why did you get involved in the first place?”
“To begin with, there seemed no harm in it,” he replied sheepishly. “And anyway, I felt sorry for him.”
He could see that his answer, truthful though it was, sounded incredible to her ears.
“No harm?” she repeated slowly, as if doubtful whether she had heard him correctly. “This man leads an armed revolt against the Tsar and his ministers, occupies large parts of St. Petersburg and comes within an ace of overthrowing the Imperial government and you tell me there is no harm in helping him? Why is it that I find that so hard to understand?”
“I’ve told you,” Roshkovsky protested, “at first he did not ask me for help. All he asked was whether or not it was possible to escape. And I replied that the odds were against it, which is true. All the rest he did for himself.”
“But what about the maps, Andrey?” she cried shrilly. “The maps you showed him. Someone must have seen him enter your office. Colonel Izorov will have spies watching his every move.”
“That’s why I went to see Goat’s Foot! If he does get caught, Goat’s Foot won’t talk.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Faced with a flogging or losing fifty roubles,” he retorted grimly, “Goat’s Foot will take the flogging. You can be sure of that.”
“And what if the police search his izba and find the money?” his wife argued. “Then he will have no reason to protect you. Kostya Izorov isn’t a fool. He will guess that this Trotsky had a go-between, someone to arrange his meetings with Goat’s Foot.”
Standing up, Roshkovsky smiled shrewdly, and shook his head.
“Izorov won’t find any money. It’s probably already buried somewhere along the riverbank safe and sound until the spring thaw, when all this will be forgotten. Goat’s Foot is too cunning to keep it at home.”
Looking down at her half eaten food, Madame Roshkovsky feebly pushed the plate away.
“But why you, Andrey?” she repeated. “Why didn’t he go to one of the exiles? God knows, he must have enough friends in the Quarter who would be more than willing to help him.”
“That is probably what Izorov expects him to do. Don’t worry so. If anything goes wrong, the Quarter will be the first place the police will search, not here.”
His wife refused to be mollified.
“‘Don’t worry’ you say. How can I not worry when any minute the police might come in and arrest us both. Oh, don’t be such a fool!”
“Nina,” he said quietly, “if you had been in my position, you would have done exactly the same thing.”
“Oh? You think so, do you?”
“Yes! There is something special about him. I can’t describe it, but he’s not like the others. He’s not a man of violence; in fact he abhors violence. The idea that you can change things by the bomb or the gun is anathema to him. He is a man of peace who wants merely the same things we want: an end to war, and suffering. He wants to abolish poverty and hunger and to bring this poor country into the twentieth century.”
“I see,” said his wife sceptically. “Then perhaps you can explain why this man of peace, this paragon of virtue is under sentence of life exile at Obdorskoye? Just tell me that, or have you become a Socialist as well?”
“No, of course not,” replied Roshkovsky crossly, “but it doesn’t mean that I can�
�t appreciate what he is trying to do.”
“I know precisely what he’s trying to do, Andrey!” exploded Madame Roshkovskaya. “He’s trying to escape, that’s what he’s trying to do! And he doesn’t much care how many people get hurt in the process.”
She gave a bitter laugh.
“I will say this for him, though,” she added. “He’s a good judge of character. He knew that he had to find the one fool in Berezovo who was stupid enough to help him and, by God, he found him!”
“That’s a cruel and a rude thing to say, Nina,” said Roshkovsky quietly. “In every man’s life there comes a time when he is faced with the decision to act or look the other way. It’s the easiest thing in…”
“No, Andrey!” protested his wife. “In Heaven’s name, spare me another of your sermons. If you wish to play Jesus Christ, do so. But just remember that our Lord did not have a wife and a career to think about.”
Madame Roshkovskaya took a delicate lace handkerchief from under the cuff of her blouse and began dabbing at her eyes. Roshkovsky stood watching her for a moment then walked over to her again. Tentatively, he put a hand on her shoulder.
“Don’t worry Nina. Nothing will go wrong,” he assured her softly. “He is meeting Goat’s Foot tomorrow night in the churchyard. It has all been arranged. The driver, the sleigh, everything. By midnight he will be well on his way and we can forget all about him.”
“Are you certain?” she asked with a sniff.
“Yes. Nobody will go looking for him on a Sunday. Even Izorov takes the day off. And what with the play and everything, Captain Steklov will be too preoccupied making sure that we don’t burn down the barracks to even think about mounting a guard over him. Assuming that he is still free to move around tomorrow, then Goat’s Foot will get him out of town.”
Tucking away the handkerchief again, she looked up at him and smiled uncertainly.
“And if he isn’t free? What will you do then?”
“I? I shall do nothing,” he promised her. “What more can I do? If the Colonel suddenly decides to double Trotsky’s guard, that is the chance he has to take.”
Reaching up, she caught hold of his hand and, pulling it to her lips, kissed it.
“Andrey, promise me that you won’t take any more risks.”
“Darling…”
“Promise me, Andrey.”
“I promise. Now,” he urged her, “dry your eyes and stop worrying.”
Giving her hand a final squeeze, he left her side and began clearing the table.
Taking out her handkerchief again, Nina Roshkovskaya blew her nose. She felt emotionally drained by the crisis that had suddenly invaded her home.
“What do you think his chances are?” she called out wearily to him.
For a moment Roshkovsky did not answer. When he did speak, all his previous optimism seemed to have left his voice.
“Between ourselves, I don’t think he has a hope. Well, perhaps one chance in twenty. Certainly no better than that.”
“I almost hope he doesn’t make it,” she admitted. “Is that awful of me?”
“It isn’t very kind,” he admitted. “Anyway, it’s out of our hands now.”
“Does he know the dangers he will be facing?”
“I warned him, naturally,” Roshkovsky told her, as he carried a second pile of crockery to the sideboard. “What matters most to him is that this is the last opportunity he has to regain his freedom.”
“And because of that he is prepared to risk being murdered or left to freeze to death on the taiga?” she said, shaking her head in wonder. “I could never do that.”
“Exiles like him don’t seem to care about such things,” replied Roshkovsky. “They are different from us. To them, their life is cheap compared to the cause in which they believe.”
“And so are other people’s lives,” she observed. “That is what worries me the most.”
“What do you mean?”
Madame Roshkovskaya gave her husband a cool look.
“What happens if this Trotsky gets caught and is brought back here to town? Who will he blame for betraying him?”
Roshkovsky shrugged.
“Goat’s Foot, I suppose,” he replied. “After all, he is the one who made all the practical arrangements. He is the one who took his money.”
“Nobody would believe that!” she scoffed. “Goat’s Foot might be many things, but he isn’t a police informer. You’ve already said so yourself. No, the finger will be pointing straight at us.”
“Don’t be so ridiculous! What would we have to gain?”
“They don’t need reasons. To them, we are the Bourgeois Enemy. That is sufficient. As you say, life is cheap to them.”
Roshkovsky stood still for a moment in the middle of the room and thought over what his wife was saying. The more he thought about her objection, the more likely it seemed that he, and not the peasant, would be the one who fell under the exiles’ suspicions if Trotsky was caught.
After all, he reasoned to himself, I am a novice in these affairs. If anyone’s nerve broke, it would be mine and not Goat’s Foot’s. It is unlikely that this business has given him the same sleepless nights that I have had to suffer.
The thought worried him. It was well known that once the exiles believed they had unmasked an informer, their desire for revenge was implacable. He only hoped that Goat’s Foot’s cunning mind had not already come to the same conclusion as his wife’s.
Putting on as cheerful a face as he could, he tried to dismiss her fears.
“It’s too late to think of that now,” he told her. “As I say, he will get a good start. And anyway, it’s ninety-five percent certain that he will perish on the taiga. Nobody can blame me for that.”
A smile creased his face as a happy thought suddenly came to him.
“And there’s another thing,” he added. “If a patrol does happen to come across him, which is highly unlikely, they will be more likely to shoot first and ask questions later. He strikes me as the sort of person who wouldn’t give himself up without a struggle.”
Madame Roshkovskaya had been staring moodily at the cleared table. Now her expression brightened as a new thought struck her.
“Is he armed then?” she asked.
“No, I don’t think so. In fact, almost certainly not. But that won’t stop Izorov’s men, believe me.”
Madame Roshkovskaya fell silent again. She did not share her husband’s optimism. There remained that slim chance that this wretched prisoner, upon whom she had never laid her eyes but who now threatened her existence, might be captured by a stray police patrol or a chance encounter with a detachment of guards before he had the opportunity to perish somewhere out in the wilderness. It seemed to her far more likely that, once they had realised the escaping prisoner was unarmed, Trotsky’s captors would make every effort to bring him back alive rather than dead; in short, to cover themselves in glory rather than blood. It was a loophole she vowed she would not have allowed to remain open, in the unlikely event she had found herself in the same position as her more impressionable husband.
Chapter Seventeen
Friday 16th February
Berezovo Northern Siberia
At Number 8 Ostermann Street Yeliena Tortsova was sewing buttons onto a black jacket which had become her mourning costume for the play. The jacket – her own – had eight buttons, all faux pearls and her task that afternoon while Vasili was taking his nap in his bedroom upstairs was to replace them with black fabric buttons she had purchased from Delyanov’s haberdashery that morning. She thought the buttons ugly but at the same time appreciated that this was not important. All that mattered was that she gave the appearance onstage of a widow still grieving for her loss.
She was relieved to be engaged upon such a task. She had taken Madame Wrenskaya’s admonishments of the previous day to heart and had instructed Katya to take Chevanin’s lunch to the surgery. Her maid had been more than happy to do this and Yeliena had felt a twinge of guilt at
the way that her face had flushed with pleasure at being given her errand.
Another conquest for Anton Ivanovich, she thought. How smug he must feel at having all these women swooning at his feet! The poor girl does not know that he has only eyes for me. I have become his obsession. But was I not too obsessed for a while? Intoxicated by his presence, drunk with the fact of him?
Holding up the jacket in front of her so she could inspect her progress, she shook her head.
It will not do, she told herself sternly. Anna Christianovna is right, I have already travelled too far down road to becoming a town spectacle like Irena Kuibysheva, just because someone has thrown me some affection. How pitiful I must be! There is nothing that Anton Chevanin can offer me that I do not already possess, and nothing that I can give him that he will not willingly dispense with as soon as he grows a little older.
She sighed. She envied Anton his delusion that all one needs is love to sustain one’s life.
Whereas, she thought, all the world knows that love is like the appendix. It is quite possible to live without it, once one has survived its removal.
She must think about the future, she told herself. Vasili had promised her that they would travel to the South in the summer. She had confidence in his word, although she did not dare to believe that he had been serious about looking for a new practice there.
How wonderful that would be! she thought. We could start a new life in the warmth, in a big city where the sun shone every day, where life was eventful and we could enjoy the company of a wide circle of intelligent friends. But I must be practical and accept that it will never happen. We shall have an enjoyable holiday, nothing more.
The sound of movement upstairs disturbed her thoughts. Lifting her head she listened to her husband moving above her.
Vasili has awoken from his nap, she thought. He will want his cup of tea.
Laying aside her sewing she went into the kitchen to speak to Katya.