A Allen: Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

Understanding dawned on Trotsky’s face.

“Oh! You mean your God.”

“Yes,” she replied solemnly. “‘Our God’. I take it you don’t believe in any form of deity?”

“No.”

“No, of course not,” she agreed. “You could not possibly. It would be so limiting for you.”

“Instead,” said Trotsky, “I believe in history. And that events have consequences and that, only by following the dictates of my conscience, can I justify my actions. I am no saint but, since the age of eighteen when first I entered revolutionary politics, I have done nothing… pursued no policy… that I would not be prepared to defend as justified within the given circumstances in front of a tribunal of my comrades.”

“That must be a great comfort to you,” Nina observed, her voice heavy with irony. “And, of course, to your comrades. Now, you must start getting ready. Goat’s Foot should be here at any moment. I have enjoyed our little talk. Being handicapped, I receive so few new visitors.”

Laying aside the scissors, Trotsky slipped on the sleeveless gussi and found that it reached down to below his knees. The hairs on the reversed reindeer skin pricked him through the thin cloth of the shirt. Putting on the heavy malitsa he staggered under the weight. With his hat on and wearing his boots, his entire body would be covered with animal fur.

“Turn around and let’s have a look at you,” said Madame Roshkovskaya, adding doubtfully, “Well, that’s the best we can do in the time allowed us. Now, there are one or two more things you have to remember. Sit down while I talk to you if you please. Looking up is painful for me.”

He obeyed with difficulty. The width of the malitsa overcoat was so great, its thickness so impregnable, that he had trouble positioning himself securely in his seat.

“Firstly, do you have any papers?” she asked.

“Yes. They are in my boot.”

“Good. How about money?”

“Only about twenty roubles,” he lied.

“That’s enough. You certainly shouldn’t carry much more if you know what’s good for you,” she warned. “Don’t give the impression that you have any more about your person. There are three bottles of spirits in the kitchen which you can take as you leave. Andrey says that it’s by far the best currency to use on the taiga.”

She fell silent for a moment, staring at the floor in front of her.

“Your food is already on the sleigh. There is sufficient for a week. After that you will have to rely on your driver’s skill as a hunter. Another thing… When you get about three or four days out, tell anyone who asks that you are a member of Baron Tol’s expedition. Andrey says that the Baron is still surveying for mineral resources in that area.”

“Baron Tol,” repeated Trotsky.

“That is correct. By the way,” Madame Roshkovsky added casually, “do you have a pistol with you?”

“No. I have had no opportunity to get one.”

“I thought not. Well, in view of what we were talking about earlier, I think you had better take one. If you look inside that drawer…”

She pointed to the central drawer of the heavy sideboard. Pulling open the drawer, Trotsky discovered a flat wooden rectangular box.

“Bring it here.”

He took the box to her and she laid it on her lap. Brushing its catch to one side she opened the lid, revealing a long-barrelled six chamber revolver.

“This belonged to Andrey’s uncle. He was a naval captain. He died fighting the Japanese. I think it’s only fitting that you should have it.”

Trotsky picked it up and weighed it in his hand. It was heavier and bulkier than the Browning he had carried during the days of the Soviet. For a moment he was undecided whether to take it.

“Won’t he miss it?” he asked. “I mean, if it’s a family heirloom?”

“This is no time for sentimentality, comrade,” she mocked him. “Besides, you’ll be going naked onto the taiga without it. What you need is a gun that will be clearly seen at a hundred metres and can fell a wolf at fifty. That is, if you don’t want to be robbed or attacked in your sleep.”

Reluctantly he stowed the gun in his pocket and picked up the two rounds that the box contained.

“Don’t you keep any more ammunition?” he asked peevishly.

“No, my husband and I have always agreed that two bullets should be sufficient for our requirements. This isn’t the Wild West.”

Trotsky shrugged and, scooping up the two rounds, put them in the other pocket of his malitsa .

Inwardly Nina heaved a small sigh of relief. She had done as much as she could do. If there was a God on the taiga (and many said there was not) she had put Trotsky firmly in His hands. It was no longer her affair.

In the lobby of the Hotel New Century, Chevanin and Yeliena were helping each other with their outer coats. Both of them were unsteady on their feet, but although they had drunk almost all of the brandy in the bottle, Chevanin did not feel the least intoxicated. Yeliena had been right.

But then, he thought, she has been right about so many things .

The heart-stopping pain had receded and in its place had come a mixture of numbness and resignation, and finally, acceptance. He told himself that he bore no ill will towards her. In a way he had become more fond of her; certainly fond enough to allow her to help him put on his coat and fasten his buttons. He smiled sadly down at her as she fastened his top button and raised his collar, remembering how his mother used to do the same when he was as a child. Touched by the memory he bowed his head and, as if she could read his mind, Yeliena planted a kiss on his brow.

“Come on, Hero,” she said, “time for you to go home.”

“But I promised that I would escort you to your house,” he said loudly.

“Sssh!”

Clumsily he held a finger up to his lips and nodded.

“No, but I did!” he insisted. “I promised. And I would never forgive myself if anything happened to you, if you were run down by a sleigh, or eaten by a bear.”

He began to laugh, desperate to demonstrate how cheerful he felt.

“That’s funny, isn’t it? A bear! I was a bear tonight, for a little while.”

Taking his arm, Yeliena led him towards the outer door.

“Yes I know,” she said, “and you are still dangerous. So off you go.”

“Dangerous? Me?”

“Yes, you.”

“I don’t think so,” he said bitterly.

Together they pushed the door open and immediately the freezing night air surrounded them, making them both gasp.

“Holy Father, it’s cold!” he swore. “Come on, I’ll walk you home.”

“No, Anton…” Yeliena protested wearily.

“Don’t worry, I’m perfectly sober,” he said. “For God’s sake move, woman, before we freeze to death!”

Moved more by force of argument than by physical pressure, she relented and accepted his arm. Together, they hurried around the corner of the hotel, he supporting her as she slid on the ice covered boards. Neither of them spoke, so intent were they on keeping their balance and getting out of the piercing cold. But when they drew nearer to the corner of Ostermann Street, Yeliena stopped and brought Chevanin up short.

“I don’t want you to come to the house, Anton. Please, let us say goodbye here.”

His first instinct was to obey her wish, to cut his losses and return to his room alone. But his hurt pride and her close proximity, with her hand on his arm and her warm breath on his cheek as he bent to kiss her, stirred something deep within him.