Byzantium Endures

FOURTEEN

MUSIC IS MEANT to soothe us. Even the Cossacks understood that. They had their drinking songs; their mournful ballads of death and love; and their lullabies. A Cossack, his rifle on his back, his sword at his side, singing a lullaby to a child, is one of the most beautiful sights and sounds in this world. I saw this when we camped on the way to Alexandriya. I had been dumped into the booty truck and, ahead of the entire squadron, driven through the grim February snow. With Kiev captured, Antonov was now heading south, Yermeloff said. We were all supposed to be fighting for socialism.

In this age of the Ego, I was to learn, ‘socialism’ can be anything one wants it to be. These bandits were all Catholics. Catholicism is the last rung in the ladder to Communism. Socialism or freemasonry, call it what you will, it is all tainted with the same false pride. Only the Greek Orthodox religion is free of the taint. In our religion, Christ rules. There is no such thing as an independent conscience. It is the only religion which can save us from Carthage. The Arabs do not question their Koranic law. That is their strength. God will protect the innocent. Let the Dark Age come, the Age of Iron, so we may be shown the Light once more; a new dawn granted to us by God, who is always merciful. We must not betray His trust. I speak from experience. I thought God’s gifts to me were enough. But they were taken away because I accepted them, without Faith. That is why the world now has its Polio alia Kiev, its Boeuf Stroganoff, its Strawberry Romanoff: because the generals, the politicians, the lawyers, betrayed God’s Faith. They had to become waiters, porters and chefs all over the world. It is why I am selling second-hand clothes in the Portobello Road, to Germans who push me off the pavement to get at some mock-silver Indian bracelet to take home to Munich; to French girls who laugh at me and talk amongst themselves, not knowing I understand every filthy word; to Americans with their terror-struck condescension.

I had not expected to find such a large camp at Alexandriya. The town itself was of average size. But this was Hrihorieff s home base; his wife and family were here. He had a far larger army than anyone had suggested to me in Kiev. There he had been described as little more than a petty leftist warlord. He had the loyalty of thousands of Cossacks. They swarmed around him. They accepted him, in all loyalty, as their Ataman. He was as powerful as Krassnoff of the Don, who wrote that important book revealing much about Jews, Catholics, Freemasons and their betrayal of Russia. It was published in German in the twenties in four volumes: From The Two-Headed Eagle To The Red Flag. It is more truthful than anything written since. That was why the commissars hanged him when they got to Germany. He should have changed his name. I see him taken out into black trees and executed for telling the truth.

Hrihorieff had none of the dignity or literacy of Krassnoff. His bombastic proclamations were pasted up on every available space in Alexandriya and its environs. His camp lay outside the town, beyond the railway yards. Here armoured carriages, goods-wagons, passenger-cars, mobile guns and all the rest of his loot was heaped. They had army tents, shanties, every sort of temporary housing; a massive water-cart was constantly filled with vodka, from which any soldier could drink. Not only Cossacks, but regular infantrymen, artillerymen and Haidamaki had joined Hrihorieff. They were all drunk. ‘Changeable,’ Yermeloff warned me. He helped me out of the truck and then lifted the little girls down. He called to a woman washing her laundry outside a stationary railway-carriage. He told her to look after the girls and feed them.

Now I was Yermeloff’s mascot. He tied a red band around my sleeve and told me I was a liaison man with ‘our friends the SRs’. Most of the Cossacks supported the Left Socialist Revolutionary group known as Barotbists. These had a great deal of power in Kharkov at that time (Barotba means Struggle, the name of their newspaper). Hrihorieff issued many of his proclamations on behalf of these near-Bolsheviks. He might not have believed in their cause, but he was wise to accept it. The Cossack will serve his Ataman only if the Ataman serves him. Some of them would even spit when the word Bolshevik was mentioned. I noticed a few ‘leather-jackets’ in the town. Apparently Antonov had already sent his officers to parley with Hrihorieff. I asked Yermeloff if I could visit the telegraph-post. He shook his head. ‘You are in my charge. It’s my duty to keep an eye on you. Grishenko said so.’

‘You’re of the same rank. Why listen?’

We passed a broken Nieuport and an Albatros. Someone had tried, stupidly, to combine the parts. Neither plane would ever fly. Yermeloff ignored my question. Like a master with his dog, he let me stand by the aeroplanes as if waiting while I sniffed at something interesting. He said: ‘You mustn’t approach the commissars. Grishenko wants to keep you for us. We need mechanics, you see.’

‘Hrihorieff will have him shot. I’m a resource being diverted for Grishenko’s own use.’ I was outraged. I had really become a slave; a pawn.

‘Hrihorieff might pretend to have Grishenko shot. But Grishenko would not die.’ Yermeloff was amused. ‘I, however, would be shot if I let you go. You see the game Grishenko’s playing? You are now my responsibility.’

‘It’s a children’s game!’

‘All war’s that. Have you any titles, by the way?’

‘I have a Doctorate from the University of Kiev. Petlyura made me a major against my will.’

‘Major will be good. You’re now Major Pyatnitski of our Engineering Corps. Work well with us. You’ll get quick promotion.’ He helped me pick my way through a group of drunken, coughing partisans who lounged outside a hut. By the smell, the place was used as a latrine. ‘You outrank me already, you see!’

I was still tired. I was out of my depth. I had to stay with Yermeloff. He was my sole link with sanity in this unholy chaos. I resented him, nonetheless. He mocked me. The camp stretched for miles along the railway tracks. Occasionally long trains steamed in. They dispensed soldiers, guns, booty. Cossacks stumbled between moving locomotives, scarcely aware of them. I saw several men come close to being crushed under the wheels.

These were our noble Red fighters. Most of them could not even read Hrihorieff’s proclamations. Those who could read were too insensible with vodka to focus on the words. Yet many were, indeed, true Cossacks, fighting for the freedoms eroded by the decrees of a dozen bungling Tsars. In the thirties they would become a source of terror to Stalin. He would disband all Cossack units. By the forties those units would be revived and their old glories recalled to give them the morale to fight Germans. Many went over immediately to the German side and continued to fight for their own needs. Stalin was enraged. He gave the order to shoot all returning Cossacks as traitors. It did not matter if they had been POWs or partisans or fighting with the Axis. The liberal British, the good-natured Americans, packed them into trains and ships and delivered them up to hideous and dishonourable death. Few escaped. Some are in Canada, where the weather and land (if not the eager MacDonalds and Campbells) are more to their taste. They escaped but they lost their Russian souls; that inner life so necessary to a Russian and such an irritating cargo to an American. Some, in Russia, sell their souls nightly, prancing and singing for tourists. Even Hrihorieff’s partisans were not drinking to lose consciousness, but to find their souls; to find God and seek His confirmation that what they did was just. It was not. And God did not tell them it was. So they continued to drink. At the time I was nervous of them. Looking back, I feel pity.

We entered a tent with two camp-beds of standard army design. Yermeloff scratched himself and frowned. ‘We’ll have to find you a palliasse.’

‘You share this tent?’

‘With my friend Grishenko.’

So I was to sleep with Yermeloff and his master. I was to be the slave of a slave. Yermeloff opened an ammunition box. It had not been locked. Anyone could have stolen from it. He took out a bottle of good vodka: a brand I recognised from my Odessa days. I accepted his offer and drank deep from the neck. Alcohol warms and blurs. Cocaine brings coldness and clarity. It was alcohol I needed. Yermeloff told me to wait. He closed the tent-flap behind him as he left, but I watched through a parting. He headed back towards the railway yards, laughing and joking with the soldiers, walking with a brutal swagger which made me suspect his ‘gentle’ manner might actually be the facade. I sat down on one of the beds. I tried to make sense of things. It was impossible. I had been captured by Cossacks. I was only alive because Grishenko thought I could help his prestige, his ambition, while Yermeloff wanted an audience for his sentimental drivel. I could be shot with impunity. I could be tortured. I took another drink and began to laugh. Here was a test of my wits. I would use the alcohol in order to sleep; then tomorrow I would make the best use of some cocaine. I had decided to follow Yermeloff’s lead. Until I could get to safety, I would be as hardened a partisan as the next man. I would elevate myself, not as Yermeloff intended to do, but through my intellect. I would make myself indispensable to these savages. I recalled stories by Conan Doyle and Haggard, where white men fell amongst natives and baffled them with simple scientific tricks. Not Grishenko or even Hrihorieff but The Lost World and King Solomon’s Mines would be my models.

Yermeloff returned. He took the vodka from my hand. ‘That stuffs hard to come by. I had to trade a woman for three bottles.’ He stood aside as two filthy partisans with rime and spittle in their beards placed a straw mattress and a blanket on the ground. Dumped on top of these was a ragged greatcoat, a sheepskin hat with parts of the sheep still clinging to it, a pair of clumsy felt boots and some moth-eaten fur gloves. ‘Much-prized.’ Yermeloff corked the vodka. ‘Put them on.’

‘My own coat...’

‘We Cossacks are touchy about people who are too proud to dress like everyone else.’ He spoke insouciantly but with such a significant little gesture of the bottle that I followed his advice. My good coat was removed; the rags were donned. Lice were already crawling on my body. The felt boots were big enough to fit over my shoes. I almost immediately became warmer. ‘Let your beard grow if you can,’ said Yermeloff. I was resentful of this. I had tried to grow a beard. The result had made me look like a cankerous spaniel. It would be two or three years before a proper growth would come. By then, of course, beards were out of fashion, in reaction to those elders who had proven themselves so useless in allowing the War to begin. A small moustache would give character to my face by 1925.

Yermeloff stood back, looking me over. ‘Wear the hat set high and to one side.’ He pushed it into position himself. ‘Don’t you know the expression: Beware of men who wear their caps over their eyes? A cap pushed up shows you to be a brave, open Russian, a daring Cossack needing no protection from anything. You say your father was a Zaporizhian. Didn’t he teach you this?’

‘He’s dead.’ How things had reversed. I brought myself a certain glory from what had been, until now, my shame. ‘He was a Socialist Revolutionary. An assassin. He was shot in 1906 for his part in the uprising.’

Yermeloff was pleased. ‘You really are what you say! You’re a puzzle, young major. A boy genius, a hardened socialist, and half a Zaporizhian Cossack. What was your mother?’

‘Her family was Polish.’

This seemed significant. He nodded his head but remained silent. I sat down again on the edge of the bed. He uncorked the bottle. ‘Take a small swig this time. I’m mean about vodka of this quality.’

‘You shouldn’t leave it untended. It could be stolen.’

‘Cossacks don’t steal from each other.’ He was sardonically serious. ‘Zaporizhians have their pride.’ He unbuttoned his coat, wiping at his neck with a piece of rag. ‘Would you dare steal from one?’

‘I’m not a thief.’

‘We’re not thieves. We forage, particularly in ghettos. We make appropriations, particularly from unguarded trains.’

‘I was taught to respect Cossack honour. You need not remind me of, nor should you mock at, true Zaporizhian ethics. Those men out there are scum.’

‘The Cossack hosts began as scum. When Moscow sought their help against the Tatars she made them into wholesomely romantic figures. They do the same to this day to trappers and cowboys in America.’

This was ridiculous. But it was best to say nothing. Yermeloff took out one of his black-and-silver flintlocks. He sighted along the barrel. ‘These are useless if you try to handle them like modern firearms. According to logic, it would be impossible to hit anything with one. That’s why these are mine. As some men can master a particular horse, I can master these. They are the symbol of my survival!’

I was unimpressed. Later, Paris and Berlin would be like nineteenth-century arsenals. Every ‘ataman’ would be selling his booty as family heirlooms.

The tent flap opened. Grishenko swaggered in. He had a coarse-featured girl with him. He said nothing, but Yermeloff buttoned up his coat and signed to me. We left. Grishenko chuckled and spoke to the girl in Ukrainian. Her answering giggle was ghastly. I would not have expected this sound from so experienced a whore.

Yermeloff looked at the sky. It was grey as the snow. He cursed, ‘I left the vodka. Grishenko’s bound to drink the lot.’

‘I thought Cossacks never stole from each other.’

Yermeloff walked ahead. Again he was the bully-boy. He said in a harsh voice. ‘Grishenko’s my friend. What I have is his.’

‘And what he has?’

Yermeloff stopped, then he laughed. ‘His.’ He came back to put an arm round my shoulder. I remembered Mrs Cornelius and her fox-pelts. I longed to see her Mercedes. I longed for Odessa and my mother and Esmé. Yermeloff led me towards the water-tanker. ‘We’ll try some of the ordinary.’ Bandits took no notice of me. I had reduced my outer appearance to the level of their own. A tin cup was passed from the crowd around the wagon. The vodka was no worse than that I had had on the train. Potoaki would by now be in Odessa, enjoying the benefits of the Rule of Law while plotting its destruction. The Revolution had been a work of modern art; convulsive, undisciplined, emotional and formless. Lenin and Deniken were trying to repaint it to their own tastes. Trotsky had been the catalyst for this whole war and how he enjoyed himself, standing on the roofs of trains, making speeches to soldiers from motor-cars, stalking ahead of his generals. What a fool that Jew looked to anyone with half an eye. A goose in the heron-pond. He was ridiculous in his glasses, his beard, his uniform. An irritating, self-opinionated buffoon. I could not see why Mrs Cornelius found him attractive, unless it was his power. He was a bungler. Almost every disaster after 1918 can be blamed on him. They called him the greatest general since Joshua: it is an insult to Joshua. Lenin loved him. They were two of a kind. Antonov was an intellectual but he knew how to fight. Mrs Cornelius should have taken up with him. But perhaps Antonov was too strong. She liked men, in those days, she could manipulate. She had a weakness for a fool. She liked them safely married. I do not think Antonov was married. I know nothing about him. Stalin probably had him killed in one of those trials. I avoided Russians between the wars. I would sometimes even claim to be Polish or Czech. I could not stand the sympathy of those who took up with émigrés; they made me self-conscious. I want to be myself; not the representative of a culture.

We approached a railway siding where a proclamation had been pinned to a telegraph post. The vodka was affecting my stomach. I mentioned this to Yermeloff. ‘You’re hungry,’ he said. ‘We’ll get some food here.’

A carriage once belonging to a first-class train was being used as a canteen. From the galley came hideous smells. I felt far worse. Yermeloff swung up the steps. Not wishing to be left alone and yet terrified of what I should have to eat, I followed him. We seated ourselves amongst a group of Cossack officers who ate soup and complained about it. A boy brought us two bowls and a piece of bread each. The soup was dark yellow, containing pieces of pale meat. I tried to gather my courage. Yermeloff joined some of the others in laughing at me. ‘He’s new. An engineer. Major Pyatnitski.’ I grinned with dry lips. This caused them further amusement. I drank a little of the broth and felt no worse for it. The taste was loathsome. I nibbled the meat. It was oddly tender. I swallowed and hastily ate some bread. It was hard. It had the texture and flavour of cheap soap.

‘Where are you from, comrade?’ This from a burly Cossack wearing beard and moustachios in the old Tsarist style. He was handsomely uniformed, though with the inevitable red cockade in his cap and an armband on his sleeve.

‘From Kiev.’

‘They make young majors there.’

‘Without much effort,’ I told him. ‘I was a civilian engineer.’

‘Who did you work for?’ The question was not emphatic but I was unsure of its meaning. I looked to Yermeloff who rescued me with: ‘His father was an SR.’

‘Oho,’ said the Cossack, ‘so nepotism exists even in revolutionary circles. Where’s your dad now?’

‘He was killed in ‘06. My mother’s in Odessa.’

He looked at me sympathetically. ‘Don’t fret, little major. We’re on the way. Those niggers won’t get their hands on our women.’ French Zouaves were rumoured to be running amok, having formed an alliance with Odessa’s Jews. Asia and Africa, they said, were shitting on Russian soil. ‘Nikolaieff first, or Kherson, to get fresh supplies. Then we’ll be in Odessa. We’re the biggest army in Ukraine. They won’t stop us.’

I thought of my Esmé, my angel, in the grip of some grinning, befezzed negro. My stomach went sour. For some reason I was able to finish both soup and bread more easily. I felt as Yermeloff had predicted, much better for the heat. Yermeloff spoke to the man who had addressed me. ‘Did you read the proclamation, Stoichko? What did it say?’

‘The usual. How well we’re doing. How good we are. How we bring honour to Ataman and aid to Barotbist. How we’ve recruited Bolshevik help in sweeping Chaos from the land.’

‘Nothing else?’

‘The 4th and 15’th are to entrain for the “new front” at six-thirty tomorrow morning.’

‘Where are we going?’

Stoichko cleared his throat. He picked up a piece of bread I had abandoned. ‘South. There are forty rumours as usual.’ He munched. ‘How’s that bastard Grishenko?’

‘Relieving the pressures of manhood in the tent.’ Yermeloff wiped his lips. The others became silent.

I looked out of the grimy window. Two priests walked past, chatting together. They might have been in a tranquil country street. I was heartened to see them. They were of the Greek faith. Later I would notice them blessing some red flag or other. There are priests and priests, just as there are Cossacks and Cossacks. But a bad priest, in my own view, is bad indeed: he will use God’s word to utter the commands of the Devil. How cheerfully those priests accepted Bolshevism. The few who did not were liquidated or attacked by their fellows. I should love to hear Kiev monks singing the Dies irae again. Can anything match that combination of architecture and music celebrating so harmoniously the works of Man and God? Or Rachmaninov’s Vespers? Even an atheist, even a Jew, would be moved. I have heard some people call it extreme. They fail to understand there are no extremes in Russia. We must all control our minds, limit our perceptions, not broaden them. Islanders rarely understand this. Americans have maintained the island mentality. They build walls round everything. I know those estates where you cannot visit a friend without telling a guard, just as you must at a madhouse. Walls are madness. Madness is a wall. Life is too short.

Stoichko, still with a full mouth, said to Yermeloff, ‘Want to bunk in with us? We’ve some spare gear.’

Yermeloff shook his head, took off his cap and scratched. He also was running with lice. Lice are not so bad. Often they are the only company one can trust. They frighten people not used to them. But they are only uncomfortable in large numbers. You keep them down by catching and killing them. This relieves the boredom of a soldier’s or a prisoner’s life. Some members of a military band I knew would draw race-tracks on drumskins and race their crabs, as some race mice or frogs. Large amounts of money would change hands. The owners would claim to be able to recognise favourite runners. I do not believe that. To me, one louse is much like another. Cleanliness, according to the English, is next to Godliness. But there are sects in Russia who think exactly the opposite. There are very rich sects who cut off their private parts to be closer to God. The money they make goes to their families. I find that disgusting. But it is understandable.

Yermeloff cracked a louse or two as he considered Stoichko’s offer. Then he declined. ‘Grishenko’s never long.’

‘No girl could live,’ said one of the others, ‘if he was. I had a little Jewess after him. I thought she was moaning with pleasure. Then I realised her arm was broken. He’s a bastard. She was willing. Willing enough, at any rate. You don’t need to use force.’ He was proud of his professionalism as a rapist. ‘One wave of a bayonet works wonders. Poor little thing. I told Yashka to be careful with her when it was his turn. I felt a fool.’

In spite of my interest in their conversation I got up. I asked where the latrine was. Yermeloff looked at my face. ‘That vodka must be bad. You’d better get out. I’ll join you in a minute.’

‘But where?’

‘You won’t have time to find it. Just go. These comrades will be upset if you vomit all over them.’

Amidst more laughter I stumbled to the exit. The entire dining-car had been ruined. More than one person had been sick here before. The thought of the soup was too much. I reached the observation platform, then up came vodka, soup and bread. I was shivering. I pulled the old coat about me. I looked back. Yermeloff could not see me. Ahead, in the dusk, was the town. There were Bolsheviks and presumably fairly civilised officers there. My legs were weak, but I began to run until I was safely invisible, with two or three lines of coaches between me and Yermeloff. I pushed through a broken fence, went past a gabled house where a stuffed eagle looked at me from a ground-floor window, and into a side-street. Alexandriya was sacrosanct. Only Hrihorieff and his senior staff used it. There were few signs of riff-raff from the camp. I wondered if Yermeloff would come after me to shoot me. Two motor-vans went by. Their engines were running perfectly. Had Yermeloff deliberately let me go? I thought I heard my name called from the yards. There was so much babble I was probably mistaken. Had Yermeloff baited a trap? Were he and Grishenko playing a macabre trick? I felt he had been deliberately lax. Possibly Grishenko had lost interest in me and Yermeloff knew it. Consequently he did not care if I left.

I followed the street. There were wooden blocks paving the main road. Those blocks, cleared of snow, were like heavenly clouds. I was in civilisation. I stopped a Cossack who was relatively smart. I told him I was Major Pyatnitski. He pretended the name was familiar as I had hoped. ‘Has Ataman Hrihorieff returned yet?’ I asked.

‘I do not think so, comrade major.’

I pretended impatience. ‘Where’s the telegraph-post? General Headquarters?’ I followed his eyes. He looked towards a building flying a large red flag. ‘There?’

‘I think so.’

‘Very well.’ I did not salute. I let my coat fly open, although I was freezing. It displayed my ‘classless’ suit and revealed me, I hoped, as a commissar. The combination of clothing was perfect: I was an intellectual, yet a man of the people. I paused to feel into the lining of my jacket for another ‘single-dose’. I used my handkerchief again to inhale the cocaine. Much strengthened, I continued on my way. With a nod to the infantryman on guard, I went through a wicket gate, strode up a path to be greeted by a podporuchik (lieutenant) in full green and gold Cossack regalia. ‘I’m Major Pyatnitski.’ I spoke firmly. My intention was merely to get to the telegraph and send a message, allegedly of political import, to Uncle Semya. ‘I’m the engineering officer. Ataman Hrihorieff told me to report here.’

The podporuchik was hardly older than I. He listened carefully, then escorted me into a hallway crowded with ordinary domestic furniture, including a stuffed bear. Alexandriya was a town fond of stuffed animals. There were one or two deer-heads on the wall. The place had evidently been a small hotel. We entered an office where young ladies, like young ladies in any office in the world, were at work with typewriters and ledgers. One used an abacus to help her compute figures which she transcribed rapidly onto a large sheet of paper. She reminded me of Esmé. Hrihorieff was no simple bandit. Here was an efficient military headquarters. We passed through that hard-working throng, through a waist-high wooden barrier, up to a tall desk. An officer in a torn jacket from which epaulettes had been removed looked at me through tired, mild eyes. He fiddled at his heavily-waxed moustache. He moved some papers in his fingers. He was about fifty. ‘Comrade?’ He spoke awkwardly, taking note of my suit. ‘You are from Kherson? Are the supplies here already?’ He consulted a typed list.

‘I’m not a supply officer. I’m Major Pyatnitski.’ My youth and rank had a peculiar effect. He thought it was an impossible combination. But this was now a world of impossibilities. If I was so young and yet a major, I must therefore be an important political person. The cocaine quieted my stomach-pangs, as well as my nerves, though my bowels were constricting uncomfortably, ‘I have to send a telegram to Odessa.’

He put weary arms on his desk in despair. ‘Have we taken Odessa?’

‘Not yet. But we have agents there.’

‘A telegram would have to go via Ekaterinoslav.’

‘I don’t care how it gets there, comrade.’ I spoke quietly, ‘It will naturally be in code, as a personal message.’

He was baffled. ‘Perhaps we should have the advice of the political officers.’

‘I am a political officer.’

‘I have no authority.’

That was the cry which resounded through Russia. It echoes on to this day. Once authority came from God, via the Tsar, to his officials. They knew where they were. Their authority was God’s. Now, in the name of Communism, they slither away from authority. I should have thought a Communist’s first duty was to accept his own responsibility and that of his fellows. Perhaps I am too stupid to understand the complicated reasoning of Marx.

‘Where are the political officers?’ I asked. It was a dangerous game, but it was the only one to play now. ‘This is of utmost urgency.’

‘Upstairs, comrade.’ He pointed as if to heaven. ‘Didn’t you know?’

‘I’ve only just arrived.’

‘There has been no train.’

‘I came, my friend, in a truck. I was abducted by an undisciplined bandit who should be punished as soon as possible.’

‘I do not understand, comrade. Who was this?’

‘Sotnik Grishenko.’

This meant something to him. He frowned. He wrote the name down. He circled it. He dipped his pen in his ink and underlined the circling. He pursed his lips. ‘Grishenko can be over-enthusiastic.’

‘He abducted me from a train taking me to Odessa. Now do you follow me?’

These military clichés rang from my lips like little bells. They pealed for me. I did not have to think. Everyone spoke like that if they had any education. Only the illiterate and stupid used original phrases in Hrihorieff’s army. Those in command did nothing but ape the officers they had killed and robbed in their various mutinies and desertions. I had learned this instinctively. Such instincts are of considerable use, but they can complicate a life.

‘You’ll deal with Grishenko?’

‘I’ll report it to the appropriate division-commander, comrade major.’

‘Many other comrades were inconvenienced. Some were killed. I was captured. Is that serious enough?’

‘It is very serious.’

‘Grishenko should be severely reprimanded.’ I would have my vengeance. ‘Reduced to the ranks.’

‘He’s a useful field-officer,’ began the man at my side. I rounded on him. ‘Useful? At shooting comrades?’

All the women were looking up. Some were pretty. They were like innocent nuns working quietly, unthinkingly, in Hell. We returned through this pleasant warmth of femininity to climb wooden stairs carpeted with red pile. On the landing a group of men were talking in intense, grumbling tones. They stopped as we appeared.

‘Pyatnitski,’ I said. ‘From Kiev.’

None of these were partisans. Some were dressed as I was. Others wore smart, featureless uniforms of the kind affected by Trotsky and Antonov. They had the fresh-minted Bolshevik insignia: metal stars on their caps, carefully-sewn felt stars on their sleeves. The Reds were manufacturing such things on a large scale. Half the people in Bolshevik-occupied Russia were employed running up fresh red flags and pressing out brand-new metal stars.

They greeted me. Some put their hands forward to be shaken. ‘I was on my way to Odessa. Party business. I was kidnapped, literally, by one of those bandits from the railway yards.’

‘Keep calm, comrade.’ A small, prematurely wizened creature with soft lips and white hands: ‘I’m Brodmann. It’s a problem already familiar to us. Let’s go in here.’ He put his hand on my spine and took me into a room full of hard, straight-backed chairs. There was a map of Southern Ukraine on the wall. Someone else closed the door quietly behind us. They seemed to relax. They were more frightened than me. Brodmann said, ‘We are political people. Bolsheviks and Barotbists. There’s been a suggestion Hrihorieff should be liquidated. That’s out of the question for the moment. He’s the best commander here. I say nothing, of course, against Comrade Antonov. He has also done brilliantly. Hrihorieff commands a huge army. He’s sympathetic to our cause. But he’s impossible to discipline. He has no real ideological education. That’s why it’s so important to keep him sweet while we educate his troops. When that’s done our problems will be much simpler.’ He went on in this manner for at least twenty minutes. Anyone who wants a larger bucket of the same drivel need only read one of those novels which wins the Stalin Prize with the regularity of a steel-press. I picked out all the useful information and then said, ‘Is there no way for me to get to Odessa?’

‘You were on the last train.’ A tall, thin man in a leather overcoat spoke from near the window. He had been observing a convoy of trucks and artillery. ‘You were very unlucky. The French have forbidden further trains.’

‘Can I send a telegram?’

His moody, lugubrious features showed a degree of amusement. ‘Hrihorieff controls the telegraph as his personal means of communication. One of our people is supposed to be keeping an eye on him but he’s completely under Hrihorieff’s spell. He’ll do nothing without direct orders from the Ataman. We’re only allowed to use the telegraph to communicate with Hrihorieff, or sometimes Antonov.’

‘And where is Antonov?’

‘Trying to catch up with Hrihorieff. The bastard moves fast. It’s why he’s gathering so much support.’

I was furious. This was socialism in action: death, destruction and slow strangulation in red tape. None of my risks had been worth a kopek. I should have remained with Yermeloff. My best plan was to board a train to Kiev where at least I would be on home ground. Mrs Cornelius might be able to help me. ‘Is there a train to Kiev?’

‘Probably,’ said the thin man. He drew on his cigarette as a starving baby draws on a teat. ‘They never give us any information.’

‘And Grishenko? Can he be punished?’

‘It depends how Hrihorieff feels. As his confidence grows he ignores us more.’ Brodmann offered me a chair. Fastidiously he helped me off with my coat. He placed it in a corner of the room. I must have looked odd in my blood-stained suit and felt boots. I sat down. I had a view from the window of the passing convoy. It was impressive.

‘Have you made an official complaint?’ asked the thin man.

‘If the officer downstairs took any notice.’

‘He’s efficient. One can’t say that for most of the others. The complaint will go to the appropriate DivCom.’

I was satisfied that at least Grishenko would be severely embarrassed. It was less than he deserved for cutting me off from my family, calling me foul names and forcing me into the company of coarse oafs, of cynics like Yermeloff. My new comrades asked me what I had been doing in Kiev. I said I had been sabotaging Petlyura’s defences. This impressed them. I explained how Grishenko had made me fix his broken truck. I was a trained engineer. I had crucial work at the Odessa docks. I felt my importance growing as I spoke. The gaps in my knowledge of party etiquette were thus glossed over. I was not only a ‘political man’; I was an ‘activist’. Therefore I ranked very highly in their fanatical hierarchy. I drew on acquaintanceships from Odessa days, from my months in Petrograd. I spoke casually of trains wrecked and guns put out of action. Two or three of those in the room said my name was familiar. My abduction, instead of being a familiar affair, came to be seen in a serious light. My eloquence, my anger, also helped me. I think I could have formed my own socialist group there and then. Thousands would have followed me.

It was easy to become a leader in those days. Most Russians found it impossible to think in terms of self-sufficiency. We must stick together, they said, against the common enemy. The only common enemy I ever found was iconoclasm and egotism. But Trotsky did not want Russia saved. He wanted to be a god. As a god, he would stand on the roof of his Red Train and issue a proclamation: ‘Let there be peace.’ Trotsky desperately wished to be acknowledged our Saviour, like an Old Testament prophet. Robbed of this, he turned against Stalin. I wonder how he faced God after Stalin kicked him out and he wound up in a Mexican bordello with a pick-axe in his back. I can imagine the scene. Did God stand on the roof of a train and say to Trotsky: ‘You are forgiven’? I doubt it. That pick-axe is probably proving useful in Hell.

My new friends took me down to the back of the hotel. Here was a small dining-room. The thin man left us. We sat at bare tables and good simple food was brought to us (Party people always have the best in Russia). I ate little. I still felt the effects of my sickness. There was coffee. I drank several cups. This settled my stomach. The thin man came back. They had been discussing the problem of billeting me. Only a few places were available. Most of the political people slept in Wagons-Lits at the sidings. I, of course, had no wish to return there. I explained why.

‘I’ve spoken to our friend at the telegraph post,’ said the thin man. ‘He has had a thousand messages from Hrihorieff. They all conflict, as usual. I sent a complaint about that officer who kidnapped you. It was received and acknowledged. The officer is to be shot. I saw the order.’

Though the brute deserved it, I did not want any man’s blood on my hands. ‘Could he not merely lose rank?’ I asked. ‘Or be whipped?’

‘Hrihorieff only has one punishment. Death. You’re generous, comrade. But we might not get another chance to teach those pogromchiks a lesson.’

One less Grishenko would be no bad thing for the world, but I had had no wish to take such a cruel vengeance. I do not possess the killing-instinct. I am a scientist first and foremost. If Fate had given me a slightly better hand of cards I would now be working happily at the National Physical Laboratory or teaching at London University.

It was decided I should share Brodmann’s room. Brodmann’s partner would go to the yards. As I left with the small revolutionist I asked the thin man, ‘When will the punishment occur?’

‘Immediately. An arrest. An accusation. A firing squad. I gather he’s not a popular officer.’

‘That’s true.’ I only hoped Yermeloff would not blame me and seek me out.

‘Then we should not have much trouble.’ He stopped himself in mid-gesture as if realising he had committed a social blunder. ‘Did you want to witness it?’

‘No, no.’

‘He must be shot. Hrihorieff could return, change his mind and have us shot instead. It’s happened.’ His lips moved in a smile.

I walked with Brodmann through the roaring darkness of a town troubled by excited military preparations. Trucks towing guns honked, teams of artillery horses whinnied. Troops of cavalry and infantry quarrelled and cursed and went their ways. Men in full kit ran rapidly across the street into their division headquarters. We passed through all this to the far side of Alexandriya and reached a street of prosperous cottages. Here, so far from the sidings, it was relatively peaceful. We came to a walled garden with a gate in it. Brodmann admitted us with a large key. It was an old-fashioned latch. It had been polished. We strolled along a stone path. This part of the town was almost idyllic, with trees and fences and widely-separated little gabled houses. ‘Our landlord,’ said Brodmann, ‘is a retired doctor. He hates us. He calls us vampires. Of course, “Jew” is his favourite form of insult. I advise you not to let yourself be drawn into an argument with him. He’s harmless.’

‘Jews! Vampires! You killed the Emperor!’ A high-pitched voice shrilled from what I guessed was the parlour.

Brodmann and I crept up the stairs. The doctor did not emerge. I think he was frightened of us. A mouse content to squeak from the safety of his hole.

The room was fairly clean. The beds were unmade, the linen was somewhat grubby. But it was better than Yermeloff had offered me before Grishenko had evicted us. Grishenko would soon regret that action. He was probably already dead. There was little furniture, save an old screen, an ordinary military lamp for light, a pile of pamphlets and hand-bills evidently not the property of our landlord, a couple of cane-seated chairs and two wooden-framed beds of the sort peasants or servants slept in before the Revolution. Brodmann drew down the blind. He went behind the screen and undressed to his red vest and his long underpants before putting on a thick flannel nightgown. ‘He’s sold or given away everything. He’s afraid of looters. He probably has a few bits and pieces hidden in the garden. I don’t think he made much from his doctoring. Not in this village. He knew Hrihorieff when the Ataman was a child. Nobody in Alexandriya seems to dislike the Ataman much. The doctor says there’s nothing wrong with him, that he’s protecting the interests of the Tsar. He might as well believe that, eh?’ Brodmann continued in this vein. He was one of those politicians who loves to sound ‘realistic’. His cheap cynicism no longer bothered me as I went behind the screen, undressed, and got into bed. I wore only my blood-stained shirt, from which I had removed the collar and cuffs. It was very cold. I was restless from the cocaine, but Brodmann’s drone helped me sleep peacefully and well.

I became alert early in the morning. Noises from below had awakened me. There were heavy boots on the stairs. I was terrified. The doctor’s squeaks came along the landing. I cleared my throat, but could not speak. I peered through the half-light as the door opened slowly. I at once recognised the silhouette of Grishenko the Cossack. He had escaped death. Anger poured from him like heat from fresh-cast metal. I knew that this was not a nightmare. I could see the whip at his belt.

I remember only his outline; my sense of his brutality. None of his features are clear to me. I remember his powerful hands. I knew, of course, that he had come to kill me. He held two guns. I was shivering as I sat up.

I waited for the pain of the shots.

But the guns were reversed. He was giving them to me. Like an accusing ghost. Did he want me to kill him? I put my two trembling hands towards the offerings: Yermeloff’s pistols with their rounded pommels. I clasped them awkwardly. There was bile in my throat. I did not put my fingers on the trigger-buttons. The guns weighted my wrists. They were too heavy. Grishenko was challenging me, I thought. I did not speak.

His voice was a throbbing, furious whisper. ‘They’re from Yermeloff. A gift.’

Brodmann moaned in his bed. Grishenko glared at him absently. Then he appeared to dismiss him as he returned his attention to me. ‘He said to bring them. Now they are yours.’

I did not understand.

Grishenko had a tear in his left eye. He pulled one of his long daggers from its red velvet sheath. He leaned over me. ‘We are free. We have our own laws.’ He put the knife under my chin. ‘Up.’

‘Why?’ I began to cough and then stopped, fearing that I would impale myself on the sharp tip. The knife-point touched my jugular. I felt the vein pulsing against steel.

‘Up, yid.’

I recalled Yermeloff’s warning. Grishenko was a savage dog who would only attack if you showed fear. I pulled at the triggers. The guns were not cocked. They would not fire. Grishenko put his face closer to mine. His breath burned me. ‘Up.’

I had no choice. I dropped the pistols to the bed. I stood in my shirt. My legs and genitals froze. I was dizzy. He placed his free hand on my chest and pushed me against the wall.

Brodmann began to whine slogans from where he sat in his nightshirt. He babbled about ‘rights’ and my ‘importance’. The Cossack said absently to him, ‘I’ll kill you. Be quiet.’

I think my neck had begun to bleed.

Grishenko gripped my shoulder. It felt as if it was going to break. The knife slid slowly down my stained shirt and the shirt parted. The blade touched my groin. ‘He said you would know what the guns meant to him. He was a holy one. I loved him. I protected him. I thought you would cheer him up. He was not a happy man.’ The point was drawn down one leg and then another. I hardly felt it, yet blood trickled. I did not beg. My honour was in me. I did not beg as the others begged. When he told me to face the wall, I obeyed. ‘He wanted you to live. To survive, he said. I did not understand. But Yermeloff was closer to God than I am. Do you accept his gift?’

‘Yes,’ I said. I think I thanked him.

‘Yermeloff was shot last night. Because he let you go. Not because your Bolsheviks ordered it. He told me to give you the guns. So I have brought them.’

I could not see what he was doing. The knife was at my heart but he was removing something else from his belt. ‘He made me promise not to kill you.’

‘You...’

‘Shut up. I promised. But I said I must make sure you would remember him. I don’t think you’ll keep his guns.’

I heard Grishenko’s awful whip whistling through the dull, grey air. We screamed together. I can feel the pain. It was the worst pain I have known. It was the most unexpected. It was inflicted with such skill, such controlled passion, that no bone was broken. But I still bear the marks of the little lead weights in my buttocks.

‘Now you’ll remember Yermeloff, yid.’

He pushed me onto the bed so that my face struck the pommels of the guns. I was weeping. He was still in the room, staring at me, slowly putting his whip back in his belt, his knife back in its sheath. Then he turned and went out. He closed the door quietly behind him. The monster had gone. That monster, who had killed his friend to save his own skin.

I still have the pistols. I have been offered a thousand pounds for them.