IV
It was a hot day in Moscow. Kolya reached up to wipe away a bead of
perspiration from his face. The searing
sun did nothing to eradicate the dirt and grime on the old streets of
Moscow. The buildings themselves had a
black grimy discoloration from the coal in the factories. Kolya took no heed of it though. His object was at the end of the street. It was a relatively tall three story building
that belonged to the corner of two streets.
It was the Bolshevik headquarters in Moscow, and he was going to see his
friend Ivan Stukov.
When he first arrived in Moscow, he had
spent days trying to find remnants of his friends like Osinskii, and Stukov,
maybe even Piatakov, and a few days ago he had finally succeeded. It turned out the headquarters had been moved
now that the Bolsheviks didn’t have to hide out underground, and the new
building in Moscow had become a rallying point for old Bolsheviks returning
from exile.
The street was quiet except for the
occasional passerby. The sun ensured
that many would do their day to day tasks at a more enjoyable hour in the
evening or morning. Far off in the
distance, however, Bukharin could spot his old friend sitting with his back
propped against the wall, having a smoke.
Kolya strode happily to his friend and
plopped down next to him. The haze of
smoke from the cigarette blended nicely with the haze rising from the sun’s
rays impacting the earth. Ivan offered
Kolya a drag, which he accepted willingly.
It had been a long time since he’d had a smoke. It reminded him of his old school days back
in the University. Those days seemed so
long ago, so much had changed, they had been through so much. And yet, here he was, sitting with Stukov,
having a drag, and it seemed as though nothing had changed at all. But everything had changed. He could tell something in those eyes had
changed. There was an air of defiance or
a coldness that had replaced the old geniality in his friend. His puffy dark hair had gained a couple small
strands of white. Bukharin was glad to
see they were still the same height, captivity hadn’t changed that, and it
looked as though his friend was still unable to grow a mustache.
Bukharin smiled at his friend as he
passed the cigarette back. It reminded
him of back when Ivan had been the only one able to procure cigarettes and
other desirables. His father had been a
priest, and he had gone through school in psychoneuralosis before entering the
University. He had been part of the
privileged class before the war, and it was unlike many in the upper strata to
join the cause of the Marxists, but Ivan had joined. He had a strong voice for someone so small,
just like Kolya. But whereas Kolya ruled
deliberations with his energy, Ivan had a tinge of calmness about him. He was energetic when he spoke, but there was
a calming nature about it. It was as if
he could reassure the loudest heart with his voice alone.
Together they had led the new Bolsheviks
after 1905. And they were back
again. They had both suffered much. It had pained Kolya to know how much his
friend had suffered. He had been cast into
exile in the Tomsk region from 1911-1917, he returned to find his family had
disappeared during the course of those years.
He guessed the Tsar had them exiled somewhere as well, but to where, he
could only guess.
No, he had no family anymore, nor did
Kolya. Their family was the Bolshevik
party now. And words failed to express
what it meant to have each other again.
“Where’d you get the cigarette?” Kolya asked with a wink. Ivan just grinned back blowing smoke at his
grinning old friend. Kolya sputtered in
the haze, but for a moment in time, he was back. Back to 1908, back to his carefree
revolutionary self, unmarred by repression, the dust, the grime of time, they
all faded away in that hazy smoke. Ivan
laughed at the satisfied look on Kolya’s face, but he too knew the
feeling. This time would be
different. This time they could win.
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