Berezovo

by A J Allen

  “What do you want us to do?” asked Lidiya.

  “We must all sign this pledge and then tell other people about it,” Olga told her. “When we have collected, say, twelve signatures we will begin approaching the shopkeepers. By then, of course, they will have learned of our intent and will have had time to consider their position.”

  “What if they don’t agree to refuse to serve her?” demanded Raisa.

  “They will agree. What is a moment’s embarrassment to a shopkeeper compared to the loss of a week’s takings?”

  Putting the letter down on the table she reached into her bag and brought out a fountain pen, asking as she did so, “Now, who will sign first?”

  “I will sign,” said Tatyana swiftly. “After all, you are doing this for my benefit.”

  “We are doing this for all our benefits,” Olga corrected her. “Irena Kuibysheva is a bezobrazie and must be stopped.”

  “Let me sign next,” said Lidiya Pusnyena, reaching to take the pen from Tatyana. “I can speak with Elizveta Shiminski, it will be important that she joins us. And should I call on Yeliena Tortsova?”

  “No, leave her be,” commanded Olga. “Anna Christianovna was very clear on that point. Madame Tortsova is not to be approached. She thinks that it would be unfair to put her in such a difficult position.”

  “No more difficult than if her husband directed the bank,” complained Raisa.

  Taking the pen from Lidiya, Olga held it out to Raisa.

  “Are you refusing to join us, Raisa?” she demanded. “Are you going to let us down?”

  Still the banker’s wife hesitated, determinedly not looking at the pen that was being proffered.

  “Raisa!” protested Tatyana. “She’s ruined my husband.”

  “Yes, I will sign,” said Raisa taking the pen at last, “but I think that this will all end badly.”

  “Only for her,” said Olga with a satisfied smile.

  “Oh look!” said Lidiya, as Raisa unwillingly added her signature to the others.

  From her seat facing the doors Tatyana saw that Colonel Izorov had entered the dining room and was walking purposefully over towards the bearded exile.

  “Do you think he already knows about this?” Lidiya asked nervously.

  Oblivious to the policeman’s approach Trotsky watched the woman who had been the last to join the group, and who he had correctly deduced was their ringleader, quickly retrieve the note the other women had been signing and stuff it in her handbag.

  Someone is for the chop, he thought.

  The next moment his view of the group was blocked by a large figure in uniform.

  “Good morning,” the Chief of Police growled. “And what exactly are you doing here?”

  “I come here every morning,” Trotsky told him innocently. “The doctor has told me to gently exercise. Every morning I come here, buy my coffee, drink it and then go back to my room at the hospital. In the afternoon I walk down to the market square and back. It is not very far but it has been helpful.”

  “I would prefer it if you stayed in hospital.”

  “To be frank, so would I,” confessed Trotsky, “but I think that doctor is probably right to insist that I walk at least once a day. I have been careful to keep within the permitted zone.”

  “I am sure you have,” said Colonel Izorov evenly, “but I think that it is time we had you safely back at the hospital.”

  “Certainly, Colonel,” Trotsky agreed.

  The policeman waited by his side as he collected up his cigarettes and newspaper and left thirty copecks besides the empty coffee cup. Moving away from the table Trotsky felt the stone in his right boot shift and a sharp stabbing pain in his foot. He gave his foot a surreptitious shake and was relieved to feel the stone slip safely to the side of his foot.

  “You are limping,” Colonel Izorov observed. “Are your legs bothering you?”

  Trotsky produced a brave smile.

  “Not too much. For some reason they always feel worse in the mornings. By this afternoon the pains will have worn off.”

  “All the same, I think that it would be best if you rested this afternoon and stayed in your room.”

  “As you wish.”

  The two men left the dining room side by side. Colonel Izorov waited in silence while Trotsky retrieved his overcoat from the coat pegs in the hotel’s vestibule. When he was ready they left the hotel together. It was plain that he was now Izorov’s prisoner and the policeman meant personally to escort him all the way back to the hospital. This concerned him; the last thing that he wanted was for Izorov to be sufficiently suspicious to strengthen the surveillance that was already in force. If Izorov mounted a night time guard on the hospital, all his plans for escaping would be in ruins.

  Sensible that it had become imperative that the impression that he was too handicapped to pose a threat of flight was reinforced, Trotsky hesitated when they reached the edge of the boardwalk.

  “I am sorry,” he called out pathetically as Colonel Izorov began descending the steps that led down to Alexei Street. “but would you mind helping me across the road?”

  Turning back Colonel Izorov gave him an old fashioned look and then, gripping Trotsky’s arms, lifted him bodily in one effortless movement down onto the snow packed road way.

  “Thank you,” murmured Trotsky. “You’re too kind.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Saturday 17th February

  Berezovo, Northern Siberia

  Standing in the middle of the barracks hall, the Hospital Administrator Modest Tolkach stared in dismay at a thin alpaca jacket which Madame Nadnikova had contributed to the basket of actor’s costumes. The jacket smelled of camphor and a note bearing the legend “Tolkachov” had been pinned to one creased lapel. All around him the other actors were delving excitedly into the basket, plucking out odd trousers or shirts and exchanging them according to the labels they bore. He held up the jacket in front of him and inspected it closely. Turning to Maslov who was standing beside him, he asked:

  “Can there have been some mistake? This is the only piece of costume I appear to be given. It can’t be right.”

  “Here! Catch, Anton Ivanovich!” cried Maslov, flinging a pair of trousers towards Chevanin. “What do you mean, a mistake? Whose name does it have on it?”

  “Tolkachov,” said Tolkach doubtfully.

  “Well that’s you, isn’t it?” Maslov said, diving into the basket to rescue a cream waistcoat. “‘Ivan Ivanovich Tolkachov.’ That’s you.”

  “Yes, but surely I have more to wear than this?” protested Tolkach.

  “Ask the Doctor about it,” suggested Maslov off-handedly. “I certainly haven’t seen anything else for you. I say, Dimitri Borisovich! That hat belongs to me!”

  Grumbling, Tolkach crossed the hall, manoeuvring his way around the soldiers who were laying out the seats under Dr. Tortsov’s careful direction.

  “Look here, Tortsov,” he said crossly, thrusting the jacket under the Doctor’s nose. “Is this all you are giving me to wear?”

  “What did you expect?” asked the Doctor in feigned surprise. “A malitsa? Haven’t you read the script? The play is set at the height of summer. Tolkachov has just come up from the country. He works in a hot and stuffy office. Of course he would wear the lightest clothes he could.”

  “But I’ll catch my death out there,” insisted Tolkach plaintively as he waved the jacket in front of him.

  “Only if you forget your lines,” said the Doctor off-handedly. “Besides, that’s not all you wear. There’s a straw hat somewhere in the basket. And don’t worry, you’ll soon be sweating like an ox after carrying your props.”

  “Props?” repeated Tolkach. “What props?”

  “Oh, didn’t I write them into your script? I must have forgotten. Come over here and I’ll show you.”

  Taking him by the arm, the Doctor lead him towards a large crate that stood in a corner of the hall neglected amongst the noise and confusion. The crate was cove
red by a heavy, dusty horse-blanket.

  “Give us a hand with this, will you?” asked the Doctor as he pulled off the blanket and passed it to Tolkach.

  Choking from the dust, Tolkach dropped the blanket onto the floor by his feet and was about to kick it out of the way when he stopped. Bending down, he picked up one corner. It looked and felt vaguely familiar. It was Goat’s Foot’s good fortune that his attention was distracted when the next instant he felt a sharp blow behind his ear. Crying out with pain, he straightened up and saw Dr. Tortsov wielding, of all things, a wooden replica of a child’s bicycle.

  “I’m terribly sorry, Modest Andreyevich,” the Doctor said earnestly. “My hand slipped. Are you all right?”

  “Yes, yes,” Tolkach said, rubbing his painful ear. “What’s the bicycle for?”

  “It’s one of your props.”

  Plucking out the fold of papers that stuck out of his jacket pocket, Dr. Tortsov extracted a single page which he handed to the astonished Hospital Administrator. The paper contained a list, headed by the carefully written words “Tolkachov’s props.”

  Tolkach read the list aloud, with mounting alarm in his voice.

  “Glass globe for lamp, a toy bicycle, three hat boxes…”

  “Be careful with those,” warned the Doctor. “They have to go back to Delyanov’s on Monday morning.”

  “A large parcel containing a dress,” continued Tolkach. “A case of beer! Beer?” he repeated unbelievingly.

  Tortsov, who had been listening and nodding as Tolkach read out each item, obligingly lifted out of the box a wooden crate and passed it to him.

  “Several little parcels,” went on Tolkach, “A sewing machine! A bird cage containing one canary… Tortsov, you can’t be serious?”

  “Don’t worry,” the Doctor assured him genially. “It isn’t really a live canary. I asked Gleb Pirogov to whittle a piece of wood in the shape of a canary and paint it yellow. It’s nailed to the perch. The audience won’t know the difference. Look!”

  Dipping into the box a third time, he produced the cage. Behind the iron bars, the painted model eyed the two men beadily.

  “He has painted the plumage beautifully,” the Doctor pointed out.

  “But what about the bicycle and the sewing machine?” spluttered Tolkach.

  “The bicycle belongs to Madame Kuibysheva and the sewing machine is Madame Kuprina’s. Heaven help you if you break that!”

  “But…”

  “It’s all in the script,” said Tortsov airily, pushing the cage roughly into Tolkach’s unwilling arms. “Now get changed and be ready to go on stage in about fifty minutes.”

  Tolkach cast a vengeful glance at the Doctor’s retreating back and then looked down at the crumpled jacket he still held in his fist.

  At least changing shouldn’t present much difficulty, he thought morosely.

  At the other end of the hall, Chevanin was shuffling out from behind the scenery sheepishly clutching the waistband of his costume trousers. They were several sizes too big for him. On the voluminous seat of the trousers someone had pinned a label bearing the legend “G.I. SMIRNOV”. Seeing him, Yeliena clapped her hands with pleasure and laughed.

  “Look, everybody!” she called out. “Doesn’t Anton Ivanovich look splendid.”

  A chorus of cheers broke out as Chevanin gave an embarrassed bow. Seeing the Doctor crossing the hall, he called out to him.

  “Vasili Semionovich, help me! I feel like a clown in these trousers. I can’t move an inch without them falling down.”

  “Ah, I see you’ve found Madame Pobednyeva’s contribution,” Dr Tortsov responded cheerfully. “I do hope His Excellency doesn’t miss them. Look in the basket. There should be a pillow there. Stuff that down the front, then try on the jacket. I think it should fit snugly. Ah, Dimitri Borisovich,” continued the Doctor as Skyralenko also appeared from behind the scenery. “Let’s have a look at you.”

  The Prison Director stood awkwardly in the centre of the bustling crowd, allowing the Doctor to inspect him with a critical eye. Skyralenko was dressed in the uniform of a footman. The costume did nothing to obscure his humble origins; on the contrary, it was his prison officer’s uniform which seemed now to be the disguise. With his rounded features and arched eyebrows, his close cropped grey hair (tinted with a mixture he applied at night), the play’s costume revealed him for what he was: a moujik who had risen, as much by grace and favour as by good fortune, above his station.

  “Yes, very good, Dimitri Borisovich,” murmured the Doctor and turned away, leaving the Prison Director standing foolishly by himself.

  Two of the soldiers that Captain Steklov had ordered to help the Doctor were climbing through the window in the scenery. Spotting them, the Doctor clapped his hands loudly.

  “You two! Stop that horse play! You’ll have the whole set down in a minute. Go and help put out the seats.”

  Turning back to the actors milling around him, he ordered them to gather round and began counting them.

  “Where’s Maslov got to?” he demanded.

  Chevanin, his jacket swollen by the pillow stuffed crudely beneath it, was sitting discontentedly on one of the plush front seats.

  “He’s gone home,” he told the Doctor, “He said that Murashkin would never have worn a blue jacket, and that he had one at home that was far more suitable. So he’s gone to fetch it.”

  Raising his eyes to the ceiling, Dr. Tortsov counted silently to himself.

  “Right!” he cried, “In that case, we shall start with The Bear and hope that at least we can get through it without the usual interruptions. Remember, gentlemen, this is our only dress rehearsal. We shall go straight the way through and any last minute problems that we encounter shall be dealt with at the end.”

  “Excuse me, Vasili,” interrupted Yeliena. “I think you have forgotten these.”

  From behind her back, she produced two moth-eaten false beards, which she dangled in front of him.

  “Thank you, my dear,” replied the Doctor testily. “Dimitri Borisovich, Anton Ivanovich, here are your beards! Luka’s is the grey and Smirnov’s is the brown.”

  “Must we wear them?” asked Skyralenko. “I’m sure they will muffle our words.”

  “Yes, you must!” insisted the Doctor. “You will just have to speak up.”

  Taking their leave of the Doctor, the three players mounted the steps onto the stage and slipped behind the curtain.

  “Here you are, Dimitri Borisovich,” said Yeliena lightly, as she handed Skyralenko his beard. “You will find some spirit gum in a small box by your dressing area. I shall help Anton Ivanovich with his. Don’t use too much now, or we’ll never get it off you again.”

  Chevanin watched the prison director retreat towards the opposite side of the stage set. As soon as he had disappeared into the wings, Yeliena turned and looped the top of the beard, made out of two grimy pipe cleaners, lovingly over Anton Ivanovich’s ears. A growl of protest arose from behind the beard.

  “I feel an absolute fool wearing this,” he complained.

  “You look sweet,” Yeliena assured him. “Now, stand still.”

  As she moved closer to him to straighten the beard, he growled again.

  “I want to put my arms around you,” he said softly.

  Tapping him smartly on the chest, Yeliena laughed.

  “Don’t you dare!”

  From over the top of the curtain, they heard Dr. Tortsov calling for quiet and ordering the soldiers to stop arranging the chairs.

  “It’s all a trick,” Chevanin fumed. “He doesn’t want you to kiss me, that’s all.”

  “Ugh!” said Yeliena, pulling a face. “Neither do I! Horrible smelly thing. There!”

  With a last minute adjustment, she stepped back and looked at him.

  “What do I look like?” he asked. “Fetch me a mirror.”

  “You remind me of the King of the English,” she teased him, poking playfully at his stuffing. “I shall call you Eduard.”
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  “Can we start now please?” cried the Doctor from the back of the hall. “Yeliena, get on stage please.”

  “My master calls me,” Yeliena whispered. “I must obey. Adieu, Eduard!”

  Blowing him a quick kiss, she ran back to the safety of the centre of the stage. Remaining where he was, Chevanin watched the curtain rise smoothly as Skyralenko joined her. Together they advanced towards the foot of the stage.

  “We shall need more light in the hall, Vasili Semionovich,” he heard Skyralenko call out, “otherwise, it will be as black as a witch’s… as night when we perform tonight.”

  “Don’t worry,” the Doctor’s voice came floating back. “Captain Steklov has promised us candles and lamps tomorrow night. You will have plenty of light. Take your positions please. Yeliena, you should be sitting down at the table, looking at the photograph. Dimitri Borisovich, you are on the wrong side of her. Hurry! Oh, why is everybody so slow today?”

  The final rehearsal began. It soon became apparent to the Doctor that the costumes were proving a mixed blessing. In Skyralenko’s case, his livery had the curious effect of altering his gait. No longer did he march ponderously about the stage, as if he were patrolling the corridors of his prison. Instead, he appeared to have adopted a completely new stance all of his own: half bobbing, half shuffling in a servile manner and executing little steps sideways every time Madame Tortsov addressed him, as if he were dodging invisible missiles being flung at him from the wings.

  “As for Yeliena,” thought the Doctor gloomily, “she moves as if she has lead weights tied to her feet.”

  It was true. Because of her heavy widow’s weeds, his wife’s ability to express herself was restricted to the upper half of her body. She was reduced to emphasising her lines either by waving her arms as if she were herding geese or wringing her hands like a washerwoman. The Doctor sighed; she was not, in Maslov’s phrase, ‘using the stage’ at all. Only when Chevanin appeared was she galvanised into action, swooping from one side of the stage to the other like a bird that had flown in through the window of a room and could not find its way out again; pausing only a moment to alight upon a sofa or flutter around a table in its restless search for an exit. This improvement was counterbalanced by the fact that three quarters of what Chevanin was saying was muffled by his beard. With growing impatience, the Doctor sat through “Smirnov’s” first speech, then, despite his own ban on interruptions, he commanded the production to stop.