A Allen: Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“Couldn’t you have tethered it somewhere else?” insisted Trotsky nervously.

“Don’t talk daft! What would have happened if someone had stolen it? Where would we be then?”

The two men and the pony walked on in silence for another twenty seconds then Trotsky swore softly.

“What’s up?” asked Goat’s Foot immediately.

“I left my gloves back at the house. They are on the arm of the chair I was sitting in.”

“That was stupid,” Goat’s Foot told him as he quickened his pace. “Still, can’t help that now.”

“Is it far where we are going?” asked Trotsky, annoyed by his error.

“No,” whispered Goat’s Foot angrily. “We’re just coming to it, and keep your bloody voice down, if you can’t shut up.”

They were approaching one of the large stables that faced the entrance to Menshikov Street. Just as Trotsky was about to try the door, he felt a hand grab his arm and another roughly cover his mouth.

“Not a sound now,” Goat’s Foot whispered softly in his ear. “Someone’s got here before us. They’re inside. Can’t you see the light under the door?”

Peering over the peasant’s hand, Trotsky looked down and saw, at his feet, a faint line of light shining from under the stable door. He gave an exaggerated nod and the peasant released him. Silently they led the pony away from the stable.

“Sorry about that,” Goat’s Foot apologised. “But I didn’t think that you had seen it.”

“I hadn’t,” Trotsky admitted. “What do we do now?”

The peasant looked up and down the dark street uncertainly.

“Well, we can’t stay out here all night, that’s for certain,” he muttered. “I shall go in first, you follow me, bringing the pony with you. Keep this side of it, so that it is between you and whoever is inside. If there’s any trouble, hit it on the arse and let it go. It’ll run into whoever is in there. Then get off out of it, quick. Understand?”

Trotsky nodded.

Silently he handed Goat’s Foot the three bottles in exchange for the pony’s reins.

“Right! Here we go…” the peasant said.

Leading the way, he walked back to the stable and, without any hesitation, pushed its door wide open.

Hidden from view behind the pony, Trotsky heard a man’s muffled curse. He tightened his grip on the pony’s bridle. Nervous of the stranger holding him and the glare of the light from the lamp, the pony started forward into the stable. Trotsky was unprepared for the movement. As he was dragged forwards he glimpsed the shadowy figure of a man standing in what appeared to be a sleigh. He seemed to be having difficulty with his trousers. Fighting to control the pony, Trotsky pulled sharply at its reins and reluctantly it allowed him to lead it further into the stable. When he looked again at the man, he saw that he was not alone. Hidden from view until now by the sides of the sleigh, a woman was getting to her feet, revealing a flash of thigh and calf as she hurriedly pushed her dress down.

For the longest time, nobody spoke. Trotsky, his face now clearly visible to both the man and the woman, turned to Goat’s Foot, but the peasant had already moved behind him and was busy fastening the stable doors, ignoring them all. Looking back at the embarrassed couple, Trotsky recognised first the woman and then the man. He had seen them both on stage in the first play that had been performed in the barracks earlier that evening. She was the wife of the town’s doctor; he was her husband’s assistant. Transferring the reins to his left hand, his right hand crept into the pocket of his malitsa and pulled out Nina Roshkovskaya’s gun.

Neither the man nor the woman were looking at him, nor towards the door at Goat’s Foot, but at each other like two figures in a tableau. It seemed to take him an age to lift the naval revolver and rest its barrel against the back of the pony’s neck.

The noise will be deafening, Trotsky told himself, and without doubt the pony will be startled, which could be dangerous.

It was a chance he felt that he had to take. On the positive side, the distance was negligible. He was firing at point blank range. They were standing so close together that with one shot he could possibly wound both of them; with two, kill. He had two bullets in the chamber. His throat was dry. Despite being supported on the pony’s broad neck, the gun felt heavy in his hand.

Goat’s Foot’s quiet voice came from less than an inch away from Trotsky’s ear.

“Put that fucking thing away,” the peasant said slowly.

The man and the woman turned to face them, as if suddenly recalling that they were not alone. The woman saw the gun first and gasped. She seemed to shrink away from it, as if another few inches would render the long barrel harmless. The man clasped her to him, turning as he did so, so that his back was acting as a shield for both of them.

“They’ve seen my face,” explained Trotsky.

“It doesn’t matter. Put it away,” Goat’s Foot repeated. “I don’t want to see it again. These two won’t say anything and we won’t either.”

Reaching deliberately across his line of fire, Goat’s Foot took the reins from him and led the pony forward, forcing Trotsky to lower the gun and step back to avoid being trampled.

“You two!” Goat’s Foot called out to Yeliena and Chevanin as he led the pony across to the sleigh. “Never mind him with the gun. You get off out of here and be quick about it.”

Chevanin hesitated for a moment then began to climb unsteadily out of the sleigh, offering his hand to Yeliena, who followed him with downcast eyes. Trotsky watched them, unmoving, the gun hanging loosely by his side.

“Go on,” Goat’s Foot urged them, “get out. You ain’t seen nothing and neither have we.”

With one arm still wrapped protectively around Yeliena, Chevanin began to edge towards the door. As the two of them passed him, Trotsky moved so that his back was towards Goat’s Foot. Deliberately he raised the revolver again.

“Go on,” Goat’s Foot repeated, “move yourselves!”

With a last desperate glance behind them, the couple made a dash for the door, the man pushing the woman roughly before him.

Trotsky waited until they had gone before lowering his weapon.

“That,” he said flatly, “was a mistake.”

“What else could we do?” Goat’s Foot said as he began harnessing up the pony. “Shoot them or take them with us? Either way it would have meant the end of your little game. Now, climb into the sleigh and lie down please.”

Trotsky obeyed. The sides of the sleigh reminded him unpleasantly of a coffin. Realising that he was still holding the gun, he slipped its safety catch on and put the weapon back in his pocket. Goat’s Foot’s face appeared briefly above him. Then the peasant began to cover his outstretched body with armfuls of straw.

As he watched him work, Trotsky asked:

“Are you certain that they won’t talk?”

“Positive,” Goat’s Foot assured him. “Anyway, by the time the alert is sounded, we will be well on our way.”

Carefully the last two armfuls of straw were laid, covering his head and shoulders. Trotsky lay listening to Goat’s Foot move around the sleigh, flinging the rope from side to side as he bound the straw together to make it look like a bona fide load. All around him sharp pinpoints of straw picked and scratched at his face and hands.

“I won’t be a moment,” he heard Goat’s Foot mutter, “then we’ll be away. Meanwhile, lie still.”

Trotsky lay in almost complete darkness trying to distinguish by hearing alone what the peasant was up to. He heard what sounded like the distant clang of a shovel and the grating sound as it was used for scooping something up off the ground.