A Allen: Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

She is not inviolate, he told himself, and she has played with me like a toy .

Straightening up he said:

“No, not here, Yeliena. I… we… deserve better than this. Come on.”

He began leading her across the road towards one of the stables that Trotsky had passed three quarters of an hour before. At first, taken by surprise, she acquiesced and followed him. When she saw where he was leading her, she broke away.

“No, Anton!”

He went back to her and roughly seized hold of her arms.

“Please Anton, no!” she cried out, her voice sharpening with alarm. “Let go of me!”

Pulling her to him, he began kissing her clumsily on her cheeks.

“Don’t be afraid of me, Yeliena. I would die rather than hurt you,” he reassured her between kisses. “You must know that. But what you said in the hotel, about wanting your body… I admit that it is true. You’re a beautiful woman, Yeliena, and now you’re saying that it’s all over and it’s not fair. It’s just not fair.”

Attempting to drag her bodily across the street towards the stable, he stumbled and slipped on the icy roadway. He let go of her, trying to regain his balance, and instinctively Yeliena moved towards him, putting her arms under his armpits to prevent him from falling and harming himself.

“All I ask is that you show me a little pity,” he mumbled into her breast, “a little tenderness.”

She helped him straighten up and they walked together to the stable door.

“Be mine just for tonight,” he implored her.

“And if I don’t want to? Will you try to force me?” she demanded fiercely, more confident now that she had regained control of her situation.

“No, of course not. A thousand times no.”

In that instant she thought of Vasili, accepting plaudits at the barracks, and of all the years of duty ahead of her, and the years after that, and of her lonely bed grave. Letting go of his arm, she turned and slipped back the bolt on the door.

Once inside the stable Yeliena listened in the darkness as Chevanin fumbled for his matches, and heard him spill one or two of them onto the floor. She was surprised at how calm and unafraid she felt now that the moment had arrived. A match flared and she watched as he reached up for a storm lantern that was hanging above their heads. He lit the wick and held the lamp at arm’s length so that its light illuminated the stable. A sleigh stood in the middle of the floor, beside a large pile of straw.

Feeling Anton’s hand close tentatively around her wrist, Yeliena shook him off.

“Wait there,” she said.

Walking over to the sleigh Yeliena inspected it closely. The sides and runners were stained with mud but three reindeer skins draped across the back of the sleigh covered the inner sides and floor of the vehicle, promising some comfort. Leaning over the side of the sleigh she stroked the skins, feeling how their smoothness softened the contours of its wooden boards. Turning, she looked back at Chevanin. He was still standing uncertainly by the door, the lamp held high above his head. His face wore a strained expression; he looked lost in the lamp’s light. Lifting up her hands so he could see them, she slowly removed her right glove; pulling each finger in turn. Then, almost matter-of-factly, she began to unbutton her outer coat.

Trotsky had resumed his pacing up and down, the heavy malitsa thrown negligently across the back of a chair in order that he could move more freely. The clock on the mantelpiece showed that it was ten minutes to eleven. He turned away and faced Madame Roshkovskaya.

“He’s late,” he said accusingly. “This is the second time your moujik friend has failed to meet me. Are you sure your husband knew what he was doing when he picked him?”

“Goat’s Foot will be here, never fear,” she replied calmly. “He still has another few minutes.”

“What happens if he doesn’t come?” demanded Trotsky, annoyed by her calmness. “I can’t go back to the hospital now.”

“Of course you can!” she retorted. “There will still be plenty of people staying on at the barracks. Just tell anyone who stops you that you had too much to drink and that you were taken ill. The Heavenly Father looks after drunkards and little children. You shall be quite safe.”

“I see, I see,” Trotsky said sarcastically. “And tell me, how am I to explain that?”

He pointed down at the pile of remnants of his prison uniform.

“You were very, very drunk?” she suggested.

As he turned away again, one hand raised in a gesture of frustration and despair, he heard a pony whinny outside in the lane. Trotsky froze, his eyes flicking instantly to Madame Roshkovskaya.

“Quickly now!” she said, extending her hands to him. “Help me up. Now pass me my sticks.”

He brought them to her. The sound of heavy boots climbing the back stairs filled the room.

“Lie down on the couch!” she hissed. “Pretend to have passed out.”

He threw himself on the couch and sprawled across its buttoned cushions as an authoritative knock sounded at the back door. Through the lashes of his right eye, he watched Madame Roshkovskaya make her way sedately from the sitting room into the kitchen where she disappeared from sight. He heard her call out and receive a muffled reply. There followed the noise of bolts being drawn, a few whispered words and then silence. Raising his head, he measured the distance between where he was lying on the sofa and the malitsa that lay on the chair. He cursed himself for his carelessness. He would never reach the revolver in time, and even if he did, it was not loaded.

A familiar shambling figure had appeared in the doorway.

“Evening.”

“You’re late, Goat’s Foot,” complained Trotsky, sitting up.

“Then let’s be getting a move on, shall we?” said the peasant equitably. “You can’t rush these things, you know.”

Getting up from the couch, Trotsky put on his malitsa and snatched his hat and gloves from the table. Cramming the hat on his head, he began to put on the gloves and then remembered the gun in his pocket. Flinging down the gloves, he drew the gun from his pocket, broke it and then quickly dropped two cartridges into the revolving firing chambers. He felt that it would do no harm for the peasant to know he was armed.

“Come on!” Goat’s Foot hissed impatiently at him from the doorway. “You can play with that later.”

Trotsky snapped the gun shut again and put the safety catch on. Scooping up the gloves, he hurried into the kitchen. As he stuffed the revolver back into his pocket, he half turned to Madame Roshkovskaya.

“There is no time for goodbyes,” she said. “Just go and don’t forget to take the bottles with you.”

With a last nod of acknowledgement, Trotsky gathered up the three bottles of liquor and followed Goat’s Foot out into the night.

After the brightly lit interior, the darkness seemed impenetrable; the cold intense. He had to rely on the sound of Goat’s Foots boots descending the stairs to locate the top of the steps. More than once, hampered by the vodka he was carrying, he was sure he was on the brink of falling but his luck held out and he reached the ground without mishap. He heard Goat’s Foot talking softly to the pony and, guided by the sound of his voice, caught up with him.

“You gave us a fright, bringing the pony. We thought it was one of Steklov’s men,” he whispered.

“You would have looked pretty stupid if I hadn’t brought it. It’s a good ten versts to the Zyrian’s hut.”

Clicking his tongue, Goat’s Foot held the pony by his bridle and led him away from the house.