Free Blood Red, Snow White by Marcus Sedgwick Page B

that Germany would take as much land and resources from Russia as she chose if this were to happen. Trotsky’s answer was that the German people themselves, the workers, would rise and force their own government to feel the pressure of democracy, just as had happened in Russia. He was totally confident of this and Arthur was struck by the steel in his eyes, softened by the expressiveness of his mouth. He felt overawed. Why were there some people who seemed so sure of themselves that it made him feel small and ignorant by comparison, as if they had a script to life with all the answers on it? He felt he didn’t even know the questions.
    With an abrupt wave of his hand, Trotsky indicated the interview was over, and Arthur stood. As he turned to go, however, curiosity got the better of him.
    “How did that get there?” he asked, nodding toward the bullet hole, forgetting for a moment who he was talking to. Briefly, Arthur saw the aura of greatness slip from Trotsky, and he became a small boy in the playground, caught red-handed at some mischief.
    “That?” he said, rubbing his ear. He grinned sheepishly. “I was … holding my pistol … trying it for size, and the next thing … Bang!”
    He chuckled.
    It occurred to Arthur how easy it would have been for Trotsky to have made up some more impressive story. That a Tsarist assassin had made an attempt on his life. That he had fired back and in so doing had saved the Revolution. But he did not, and Arthur wondered if it were the sign of a foolish man, or a great one, who has the confidence to tell a story against himself.

 
    6:10 P.M. CONTINUED
    HE HAS GOOD REASON TO REMEMBER that visit to the Smolny, because it was that same day he met Evgenia.
    Evgenia Petrovna Shelepina.
    By the time she’d fed him some boiled potatoes, he knew he was already falling in love with her, and that was even before he knew who she really was.
    Trotsky’s secretary.
    *   *   *
    He’d gone back to interview Trotsky again two days later, and this time it was Trotsky who’d asked to see Arthur.
    Back in room sixty-seven, Arthur had expressed surprise that the Bolsheviks appeared to know all about him. Trotsky seemed almost insulted.
    “Do you suppose we are fools? Do you not think it is our business to know who everyone is in this … game? A fair analogy, don’t you think? You like chess, I believe?”
    A prickle ran up the back of Arthur’s neck, as again he realized how naïve he’d been. Of course they’d been watching him. They were probably watching everyone.
    Trotsky wasted no time getting down to business, and began to explain the intricacies of the situation he was in.
    “I have to save this Revolution,” he said. “It is that simple. The Revolution will fail if we cannot end the war with Germany; it is bleeding us dry, in men and resources. There are two options. Either the war ends for everyone, for Britain and Russia, or it ends only for Russia, and you keep fighting Germany.”
    Arthur watched as Trotsky spoke, quickly and surely, stroking his small cavalier style beard as he did so.
    “I can end the war between Germany and Russia by myself, but then Germany will walk all over us. What I need is for Britain to conclude a peace with Germany, too.”
    “I see,” Arthur said. “And what has the British government said to you about that?”
    “They have said precisely nothing,” Trotsky said, at once less animated. He sighed. “The British government still believes that I and Comrade Lenin are German agents sent to topple the country and open the door for invasion.”
    Arthur raised his eyebrows.
    “How do you know that?”
    Trotsky turned to the window, standing near his bullet hole. A dreadful tension hung in the air as he gazed down across the snow-covered gardens of the Smolny. Then he turned.
    “And now you are wondering why I am telling you this. Why I am making your journalist’s job so easy. Yes?”
    Arthur nodded.
    “As I said, despite numerous