Byzantium Endures

THIRTEEN

THEY WERE USING a mixture of Russian and Ukrainian which was easy enough to understand. At least half of what they shouted was slogans. The attackers had begun to argue with the defenders. They needed supplies. The Red Army soldiers pointed out that the train only carried passengers. I heard one of the newcomers laugh. ‘They’ll have supplies. What are they? Katsupi on their way to France?’

‘There are important comrades on board. They have work in Odessa.’

‘We have work, too. Give us the Jews and a Katsup or two. We need food. Do you know how long we’ve been out here?’

‘Who are you with?’

‘Hrihorieff.’

‘He’s turned against us.’

‘He’s turned back again.’

‘How do we know?’

There was silence. Then murmuring. Then some oaths. A few moments later sailors came alongside the train thumping with their rifle-butts on the doors. ‘Everybody out for an inspection, citizens.’

They stopped when they got to the ‘Party carriage’. I began to make my way to it, but now the peasants were even more confused, trying to get their bundles together. I was pushed back. I managed to grab one suitcase. The other was left behind. I decided to return to my compartment by way of the ground. I had no galoshes. I plunged through melting snow. It was freezing. My shoes and trousers were soaked by the time I reached the carriage. I was climbing up when a soldier shouted. ‘Stay where you are!’

I looked at him, smiling. ‘I’m merely going to my carriage, comrade. I’ve been trying to help the people back there who were shot.’

The soldier, a heavy-faced Russian, paused. He thought for a moment. I continued to climb. He said, ‘Why do you have a suitcase with you?’

‘I picked it up instinctively. My comrades will vouch for me.’

I opened the carriage door. The guard drew back the bolt on his rifle. ‘Stay there for a moment. I’ll have to check this.’

‘You’re being foolish.’

‘I must be careful.’

I was glad I had the suitcase with my spare papers in it. At least they would show me as nothing more than an innocent engineer, my ‘cover’, if they liked, for Odessa. There were more people out in the snow now than there had been at Fastov. I heard a peasant ask an insurgent where we were. Near Dmitrovka, he said. It was a town some fifty versts from Alexandriya. It meant we had not been on the direct express route at all, although we were certainly heading for Odessa.

I was relieved that we had not yet reached territory controlled by the notorious ‘Batko’ Makhno. Batko meant ‘Little Father’ or ‘Elder’, but with a more democratically affectionate ring. Makhno was supposed to be fighting on the Bolshevik side but was notorious for his treachery. He had almost defeated the Nationalists singlehanded at Ekaterinoslav in November.

Hrihorieff’s men were a small unit left by the line to stop any passing train. People began to argue that the loco had been flying red flags. The Haidamaki claimed they had been confused. Nationalists were not above playing tricks.

Their swarthy leader appeared. He was a barrel-bodied brute with heavy black eyebrows. He was dressed in a dark red-belted kaftan, with bullet-pouches, a sheepskin shapka, French army trousers, riding boots. He carried two Mauser pistols, a variety of knives and, of course, a Cossack sabre. He sported a vicious horsewhip. Like all Cossacks, he knew the value of that whip in inducing terror. It could kill. The villain was enjoying his power. I began to think I should have been better off with the Chekist.

He stopped, as I had expected, when he got to me. He looked with some amusement at my good-quality clothes. They were wet to the knees and I was still covered in Marusia Kirillovna’s blood. ‘What’s in the suitcase?’ He spoke superciliously. ‘Gold?’

‘Of course not. I’m on Party business.’

‘From Moscow?’

‘From Kiev.’

‘They’re all yids in Moscow now.’ He fingered his whip reminiscently.

I nodded.

‘And in Kiev. That’s what I don’t like about this. We’re actually helping the yids.’ He looked away from me in disgust and turned as if for support to the frightened peasants. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Odessa,’ I began.

He turned back. ‘I was talking to these. Where are you going?’

They chorused the names of various towns and cities. He scratched his heavy eyebrows. ‘That’s enough.’ He pointed with his whip at some obvious Jews, including two who wore skull-caps, and told them to stand forward. They came shuffling through the crowd. They looked hopeless.

‘Everyone else back in the carriage,’ he said.

I started to climb the steps again but it was ‘not you’ and ‘back here’. I became impatient. ‘This won’t do, comrade.’

‘You’re a bloody Bolshevik yid.’

I was shocked by the double insult. ‘My name’s Pyatnitski. I’m an engineer.’

‘What’s your real name?’

‘I have a passport,’ I told him. I put my suitcase on its side on the step and opened it. I removed my spare set of papers. I offered them to him. It was the look of rage he gave me as he took them which made me realise he could not read. But he held them to his nose, going through them slowly. He put them in his sleeve, having studied the photograph very carefully. ‘Pyatnitski. That’s a Russian name.’

‘I can’t help my name, comrade. I’m working for Ukrainian interests.’

‘Nationalists?’

‘I don’t care what they’re called. I’m trying to free Ukraine from all foreign interests.’

‘Including yids?’

‘Naturally.’

‘So you’re a traitor, too.’

‘I’m not Jewish.’

‘Then you’re the only Bolshevik who isn’t.’

‘May I return to my carriage?’

‘Why aren’t they outside, too?’ He glanced at the windows.

‘We’re Party people.’

‘Yids going home to Odessa.’ He struck at a pane of glass with his whip. It cracked. He laughed. ‘Come on, comrades. All out. In the snow with the proletariat.’

They would not come. Eventually some of the bandits had to board the carriage and drive everyone down. They stood in groups like angry chickens. They had put their revolvers back in their pockets or in their luggage. Many were protesting. Not a few displayed special cards and passes. They made more noise than the whole of the rest of the train. ‘Shut up!’ shouted our persecutor. ‘What money have you got?’

‘Money?’ It was, I think, Potoaki speaking. ‘Hardly any.’

‘Bloody Red yids. Gold!’

‘Pogromchik!’ said a thin-faced woman in a head-scarf. ‘You’ve killed half the people in there. Corpses all over the place. You killed a girl!’

‘We’re used to killing, lady. It doesn’t mean a great deal to us.’

‘Trotsky will learn of this,’ said someone else.

‘Then Trotsky will find out how we treat yids in Ukraine. We’re not working for yids, Red, White, Green or Yellow. We’ve had enough of them.’

‘Anti-semitic, ignorant, capitalist. ..’

‘I’ll admit to all of that, comrade. Hrihorieff is fighting with your masters because it suits him. To get rid of the landowners. You think you’re using us. We’re using you.’ He lashed out with his whip. Its thongs whistled over the woman’s head. She sucked and sobbed. ‘You bastard.’

‘We want gold and supplies. We were promised them by Antonov. Where are they?’

‘They’re on the next train,’ I said. ‘A special train.’

‘How do you know?’

‘We discussed your supplies before I left. We knew it was urgent.’

‘Coming down this line?’

‘Following us.’

‘That’s right.’ Someone had guessed what I was doing, it shouldn’t be more than half-an-hour behind.’

‘Good,’ said the Cossack. ‘We’ll wait for it.’

‘There might be a crash,’ I pointed out.

‘Fine. We’ll be sure it stops then, won’t we?’

‘You’ll foul up the alliance,’ said Potoaki. ‘You’ll lose all our support.’

‘We’ve been doing fairly well without it. We need a few immediate supplies, a bit of ammunition. You might see us in Moscow before the spring’s out.’ He was glutted with provincial pride because of a few local victories. He was like those Vikings who attacked a town on the Seine and came home claiming they had sacked Rome. He made a noise in his nose and looked me up and down. ‘You’re an engineer. What sort?’

‘Most sorts.’

‘Know about motor-engines?’

‘Of course.’

‘You can fix one?’

I decided I had to ingratiate myself with this idiot or stand the risk of being shot. ‘All things being equal.’

‘What?’

‘If no new parts are needed. I can see what’s wrong. If something’s missing I might be able to improvise. But if you’ve lost something crucial...’

‘We’ve got a truck,’ he said, it stopped. Will you look at it?’

‘In the common cause?’

He shrugged. ‘Will you look at it?’

‘If you promise I get back on the train when I’ve done so.’

‘All right.’

I did not know if he would wait for the fictional supply train or whether he would be afraid to face it. I returned my bag to my compartment. On a page of the notebook I carried I wrote Uncle Semya’s address. I put it in the suitcase. The other case had only clothes. This one was the most important, because it contained my plans, my designs, my notes.

I joined the scowling Cossack. His men were already looting the train, watched by helpless Red sailors. Not only Jews were suffering, although these were getting the harshest treatment. A Hasid with a bloody crotch was spread-eagled, dead, half-way up the embankment.

I followed the Cossack as he plunged towards the crest. Having slipped a couple of times, I was now covered in snow. I was shivering and uncomfortable. We reached the top. We looked down on a thin, earth road. There were some ponies standing there, attended by a young boy in a tattered sheepskin. Their breath looked whiter than the snow and there seemed to be a tranquillity here. Further along the road were three carts, harnessed to horses, and a motor-van. From the van came more vapour. German insignia had been partially scraped from its sides. It flew a red flag. The bonnet was open. Two Cossacks were arguing about what they could see inside. They spoke in dialect. As we approached, they fell silent. One of them removed his cap, then put it shamefacedly back on. Their leader said, ‘This is a mechanic from Moscow. He’ll look at it.’

I could see immediately that the radiator hose had come loose. All it needed was tying back on with a leather thong. I decided to try to impress them. My life depended on it. ‘Who drives?’ A sickly fellow, the one who had removed his cap, raised his hand. ‘You start the engine,’ I said to his companion. The crank-lever was already in position. He began to turn it like a peasant winding a bucket from a well. At last the engine fired and immediately began over-heating. I enjoyed its warmth in that bitter air. I walked round and round in front of the truck, as if thinking deeply. I told them to stop the engine. I told them to stand back. They did this with alacrity. I took the hose in my gloved hands and replaced it. I asked for a thong. One was found. I bound the hose up, unscrewed the radiator cap and told them to put snow into a bucket and warm it on the engine.

‘Snow!’ said their leader. ‘The thing runs on benzine.’

Even I was surprised by this ignorance. ‘Do as I say.’

The two men found a large water container and began to pick snow up in their hands, cramming it in. When it had melted I told them to begin pouring it into the radiator. ‘Not too quickly.’

Eventually the radiator was brimming over. I told them to start the engine again. As the truck spluttered and shook the leader yelled at me: ‘It hasn’t worked. What else is wrong?’

Then the motor was turning. The Cossack who had cranked it jumped back. By the smell of the fumes, it was hard to know what kind of fuel they were using. The black smoke suggested it might have been unrefined oil. The truck began to roll towards me. The driver yelled and swung the steering wheel. Their driving was only slightly better than their knowledge of the internal combustion engine. A brake was applied. I picked myself out of the snow-drift. From behind the embankment I heard sounds and saw steam. ‘The train’s leaving.’

‘You’ve just saved your life.’ The leader grinned. He was pleased to see the truck running. ‘Thank God, if you like. What’s a trip to Odessa worth now? You’ve just been saved a trip to Hell. I don’t know what you thought you were: yid, Katsup or Bolshie. But you’re now an official engineer with the host of Hetman Hrihorieff, serving under Sotnik Grishenko. Aren’t you proud?’

The bandits were coming back, grinning, waving and displaying their dishonourable booty. The stuff was thrown into the truck. I was made to climb aboard with the rest of the loot. I found myself in a tangle of stolen goods, machine-guns, ammunition, salted pork and two small girls who giggled when they saw me and offered me some herring. I accepted. It might be the last food I would get. The girls murmured at me in their thick accents. They were survivors from a village fought over by Reds and Nationalists. The truck moved off. Sotnik (Captain) Grishenko rode up close behind us. He had a look of self-satisfaction on his hard features. ‘Fix the canopy, if you like. You’ll be warmer. Don’t eat too much. That’s food for a lot of soldiers.’

‘Where the hell are we going?’ There was no point in my remaining polite.

‘Don’t worry, yid, you’re in safe hands.’

I shouted back at him. ‘I’m not Jewish. I’m travelling on Party business.’

‘Then you’re on Jewish business, aren’t you?’ He was pleased at his wit. He whipped his horse into a trot and was gone. I looked out at the bleak, uninhabitable hills. The line of yellow mist had joined the land. I tried to see smoke, either from the train or from a farmhouse where I might seek refuge. But there was nothing.

All I had worked for was in a suitcase in a carriage full of Bolsheviks who would steal it without a scruple. My mother and Esmé might be waiting at the station and learn of my fate. There was nothing I could do except hope we passed through a town. I would try to escape and send a telegram to Odessa. I shifted myself into a more comfortable position against a machine-gun tripod. In the end I was forced to rest my elbow on a side of pork. It became colder. I lowered the canopy, but let a corner flap. I would be able to see if we reached a good-sized settlement.

I was in the position of an enslaved magician. While I was able to perform simple tricks for these barbarians, they would keep me alive. I had been horrified by the bandit’s assumption that I was Jewish because Cossacks felt no conscience at all about killing Jews. Accuse a Slav of being a Jew and you take his breath from his body, the saliva from his mouth, the soul from his eyes. I do not fear death. I have God and I have my honour. My pride has gone. They laugh at me in the market. They call me names, even Jew. They steal from my shop and put their greasy hands on my clothes, and they sneer and ask stupid questions. Mrs Cornelius screamed at them and made them leave. The young girls are so sweet. They buy the white night-dresses and the little blouses and the silk knickers and they are so beautiful. They should sing the ‘Dante’ of Liszt to the music of harps. Lament for exiles; lament for Dante in his exile and his greatness. Lament for Chopin, who could never come to terms with his own Slavic spirit, and who also became an exile. I should like to die in Kiev, looking at lilacs and chestnut trees. The Bolsheviks have probably cut them all down to make their motorways. It is all flats. It is like the flats around here. That is your socialism. The rationalists destroy our world. Where we see beauty and the boundless wonders of science, they see only tidy shapes; their flats. Give me the old Russian rutted track across the broad steppe. Give me that again and I shall forget God’s gifts of Science and Prescience. The people do not want Prometheus. Prometheus is burdened by knowledge.

The road did not improve. The truck had no real suspension. It veered frequently. The driver used vodka as a substitute for experience. He needed courage, considering the speed at which he was driving and the condition of the road. Horses and carts vanished behind us. I would have a better than average chance of escape if I jumped clear then. But I would have frozen to death. I had no proper clothing. I had no map or knowledge of the area. I was not even sure which province this was. In spite of the noise from the truck, the discomfort and the fighting of the two little girls, towards evening a sense of peace came. The truck began to slow. I looked through the flap. To my elation I saw we passed through a fair-sized village. I eased myself towards the canopy and was about to squeeze out when the truck stopped. I was thrown amongst pork and machine-guns. The little girls squealed and giggled. I asked them if they knew where we were. They could not understand Russian. My bad Ukrainian baffled them. They had had no education at all. If they had been sent to school, they would have known Russian. It was the official language. Voices came from the twilit street. I drew back the canopy and jumped out. I faced two men wearing blue jackets with gold frogging. For a moment I thought they were officials and was relieved. Then I realised they also wore bandoliers. One had a sailor’s cap. The other had a fur hat with ear-flaps. They were heavily bearded, with a slight oriental appearance. They were bandits.

‘Fraternal greetings, comrades.’ I spread my arms wide, as if to embrace them. ‘Pyatnitski. Engineer and mechanic.’

In Russian one of them said dully, ‘What?’ I repeated myself, word for word. A man in a clean, grey great coat and regulation cap came striding up. He said cheerfully, ‘They don’t know any Russian except military stuff. They can take orders, poor bastards, but they can’t follow a joke. They’re from Volhynia. They’ll understand Polish.’

I thought it best not to mention my Polish. Knowledge is often of most use when kept to oneself.

‘Where are we?’ I asked.

He was amused. ‘Purgatory. We’ve taken over the town as our base. Who are you with?’ He was clean-shaven and spoke with an educated accent. He signed for the truck to pull over towards a church being used as a storehouse.

‘I was going to Odessa. Grishenko asked me to fix the truck, so I obliged. Is there anywhere I can send a telegram?’

‘Someone’s repairing the wires. They’ll be working by morning. At least as far as Ekaterinoslav.’

It would be possible to catch a train from Ekaterinoslav. Sotnik Grishenko and his men came plodding up on weary ponies. ‘Trust you to be hob-nobbing with Jews, Yermeloff!’ He dismounted and yawned.

Yermeloff laughed. ‘He said his name’s Pyatnitski.’

‘He’s got papers to prove it, too.’ These were drawn from the dirty sleeve. ‘See?’

Yermeloff could read. In the bad light he looked at them and shrugged. ‘They’re good papers. Are you on your way out of Russia?’

‘Certainly not.’ I reached for my passport. Yermeloff hesitated, glanced at Grishenko, then gave it to me. I put it in my pocket. ‘I’m working for the Party.’

‘You’re from Moscow?’

‘No. I’m from Kiev. I’m as good a Ukrainian as anyone. I want Ukraine to have her old pride back.’

Grishenko snorted. ‘Well, Katsupi and yids stick together. Good luck with him, Yermeloff. But don’t let him escape, eh? We’ve uses for him. He muttered a spell over our truck and she’s as good as new.’ He crossed to the church and, leading the two little girls by their hands, entered the doors, like, a father on his way to worship.

Yermeloff said, ‘You needn’t be afraid. I have Jewish comrades.’

‘I have Cossack blood,’ I told him. ‘It is my misfortune if I look Jewish to you. Is everyone who is not fair-haired, pink-skinned, a Jew? Is your leader a Jew?’

‘Everyone’s a Jew to Grishenko. It makes killing them easier. You don’t really talk like a Jew. I apologise.’

This well-educated man might be useful as an ally. I accepted his apology in the hope of encouraging his protection. The trouble with brutes is that they are suspicious of Reason yet become aggressive if you shout at them. God knows what their lives are like as children.

We had arrived at a house on one side of the broad, muddy, unmade streets, some distance from the church. It was a small house, built around a courtyard in which two ponies and a goat were tethered. ‘Are you really an engineer?’ Yermeloff asked. ‘Or were you just lucky?’ His cool eyes looked into mine with an expression of the mildest curiosity. He laughed. ‘I was a lieutenant in the Tsarist army. I’m a captain with our Ataman. Would the Bolsheviks make me a general, do you think?’

We entered the doorway. A black-clad woman of indeterminate age shuffled ahead of us along a dirty passage. The walls had patches on them where ikons and pictures had been. ‘That’s our hostess.’ Sotnik Yermeloff called out to her, is there any tea left, pani?’ She went into her room. Bolts were pulled. He was philosophical. ‘She pretends to be deaf. You’d be surprised how many deaf people there are in this district. Everywhere else we’ve stayed, too. At least three-quarters of the population. They go deaf at about nine years old. Before that, they’re dumb.’

We came to a square room with a stove in it. The stove had been decorated with primitive paintings. Most of these had peeled away or been blackened by soot and time. Three other officers, all in different uniforms, sat at benches around the stove. They shared a large piece of meat which they passed from hand to hand. There was black bread. Some vodka.

‘Do you mind if this comrade joins us?’ Yermeloff went close to the stove. They looked at me. One of them, with a dark half-beard and scarred forehead, chuckled. ‘Not at all. Have some bread. Have some pork.’ I had already had the herring and I did not look forward to mingling spittle with these ruffians. They probably had at least three kinds of venereal disease. I contented myself with a large piece of rough bread and a can of thick, acrid tea which had been left on the stove. I was offered no vodka. I had become very tired. I had had little sleep for nights and no opportunity of a reviving sniff of cocaine. I said I wished to urinate; was there a place? ‘In the yard with the horses. The real privy got damaged last night. We tried to pull Yuri out because he’d been in too long. But we pulled through the wrong hole.’ I left these jolly fellows and returned to the yard. It was so cold that any desire to answer the call of nature was instantly dismissed. With the house-door shut behind me, I stood looking at the ponies. The goat was now in the corner, being milked by a crazed-looking girl.

I reached surreptitiously for my cocaine, found a small ‘single-dose’ packet I had hidden, dragged out my handkerchief and pretended to blow my nose. It is not the best method of taking cocaine, but it was the only one available. I emptied the packet into the handkerchief. I sniffed first through one nostril, then the other, until I had inhaled everything possible. It was a large amount. I had come to over-use the drug while working on the Violet Ray. Even this dose had only a minimal effect. I still felt slow and drowsy. But my head had cleared a little.

Nobody knew what was going on in Ukraine in those days: armies came and went, won and lost battles, looted towns, were termed glorious allies, barbaric enemies, treacherous comrades - often within the same hour: bandits, Cossacks, Anarchists, Bolsheviks, Nationalists. The words were meaningless. The loyalties of the various armies were, as we say in chemistry, highly volatile. I could not know if Hrihorieff (who had already fought with Skoropadskya and Petlyura) was with the Bolsheviks or not. He could be pretending to be with them; he could be pretending to be against them. He could be pretending to parley to gain time for his men out on raids. It was the essence, I suppose, of guerilla war. Our land had become worse than the Western prairies at the time of Custer. It was even more savage and with no single government in control. The Seventh Cavalry might well arrive; but it could be in league with the Indians or working on its own account, like Quantrill in the American Civil War.

The oil-lamp in the room was burning low as I came back. All the soldiers with the exception of Captain Yermeloff had huddled down into rags and stolen shirts and were going to sleep. Yermeloff unbuttoned his greatcoat. He tried to roll a cigarette out of newspaper and tea-leaves. I slipped two of my papyrussa from my pocket and offered him one. He was grateful. We lit the cigarettes. It is a twentieth-century ritual, this exchanging and lighting of cigarettes. It requires proper analysis by those who study human behaviour. We sat down together against the wall nearest the door. Yermeloff put the lamp between us. It was cold. The other soldiers had taken the best positions near the stove. ‘Where’s your main host?’ I asked.

‘Hrihorieff? His headquarters. Alexandriya. We’re a foraging force.’

‘My father was a Zaporizhian Cossack,’ I said. ‘So I have blood-ties with the Ataman.’

‘You’re probably right. You’re both as likely to be Zaporizhians as not.’ Yermeloff was amiable. ‘He’s got about fifty titles, at the present count. More than Krassnoff.’ He enjoyed the cigarette slowly. He let it go out and then relit it from the waning lamp, ‘It’s strange how five years ago we were merely farmers or workers or even schoolboys. Infantrymen, cavalrymen. Now we’re all Cossacks. There must be enough of us to drive every Turk and Tatar over the edge of the world. But instead Christian kills Christian and socialists ram bayonets into the groins of socialists.’ He scratched his head and laughed.

‘You’re not a Cossack?’

‘I was with a Cossack brigade.’ He shrugged, ‘I can ride a horse. It’s enough. We’re fighting cavalry actions all over the place. Doesn’t it seem strange? Has some atavist engineered the whole thing for his private amusement? We’ve gone back in time a hundred years at least. Look.’ From the belt beneath his coat he drew two large and very beautiful flintlock pistols. I had seen old prints of Cossacks wearing them. They were black with elaborate silver decoration. Typically Caucasian, the weapons had buttons where triggers would normally be. There were flints in the locks. They looked as if they worked. ‘I got these out of a museum while everyone else was busy looking for gold and meat. I’ve shot two men with them now. One was wounded. One fell over and cracked his head. But he was killed. You use ball-bearings of the appropriate caliber. And I take them seriously. They’re loaded now. Think how many poor Jews’ arses they’ve been fired up!’ He balanced one in his gloved hand. ‘And they’re worth a small fortune as antiques.’

‘They’re not very practical, are they?’

‘They kill.’ He spoke in a baffled voice. ‘And if I wanted to make a run for it - I don’t know, to Berlin or somewhere - I could live for a month by selling them for the silver alone. I’ve seen two lots of men fighting, in the past week, with sabres and whips, just as in the days of Taras Bulba. Is it happening all over the world? Is it the Dark Ages?’ He seemed anxious to hear my considered opinion.

‘It looks that way,’ I said. ‘But the Entente forces still have aeroplanes and tanks. Even the Bolsheviks have a Spad. I saw it outside Kiev. Flying well.’

‘For how long?’

‘You really think it’s the end of civilisation?’

‘If I didn’t I wouldn’t be here. I want to learn how to survive. I want to become a successful savage. Can you see my point?’

‘It’s defeatist.’

‘So was deserting from the Galician Front.’

‘You deserted?’

‘With everyone else. I’m not an individualist, comrade. I’m a Zaporizhian Cossack, like you. I’ve thrown away my Tolstoi and my Dostoieffski. Now I sing dirty songs and make jokes about yids and I get drunk on bad vodka. I piss in a line with thirty other drunks all farting and swearing and boasting of the human beings they’ve killed, the girls they’ve raped, the horses they’ve stolen. I accepted civilisation as a gift. I never thought twice about it. Now I’m morally obliged to accept barbarism. I don’t intend to think about it. That’s the end of that.’ He got up and found a cup in which some grubby vodka still swilled. I refused it, so he drained it. ‘How did Grishenko get you?’

‘He held up a train. I was on it. I agreed to fix his truck. He let the train go and I was stuck. He promised to let me back on the train.’

‘He would. He’s a bastard. Nobody likes him or trusts him. They say he’s a Jewish spy, a Bolshevik spy, a White spy. He’s careless, you see, about who he robs. But he’ll succeed. This is his world. I model myself on him. We’re friends. He gave you to me as a sort of present. He knows I can read.’

‘He likes you?’

‘I wouldn’t say that. But everyone needs a friend and I’m Grishenko’s friend.’

‘And what do you think of him?’

‘He’s a beast. He has no morals. He has hatred instead of a brain. He has malice in place of a heart. I want to be like him. We’re both Sotniki at the moment, but he’ll rise. Hrihorieff’s already noticing him. The Ataman pretends to disapprove of him when the Bolshevik liaison people are about. But he doesn’t care. Grishenko’s a wolf. Hrihorieff’s building up a pack of them. Like Ivan’s oprishniki: a circle of iron, of snarling teeth. He’s bright enough to use current political catch-phrases, but he aims to become Tsar. When he does, I’ll be a wolf, too. The oprishniki were the only ones ever safe from Ivan the Terrible’s blood-lust.’

He seemed mad. ‘You could emigrate,’ I said.

He shook his head. ‘The world’s the same all over. Russia was just the start. The War’s done it. Germany’s going. There are soviets in England. All the most civilised nations are breaking apart. It’s like an earthquake. It can’t be stopped. Maybe it’s natural. Maybe it’s something to do with the sun or the moon. What do you think?’

‘It’s not possible,’ I said with self-mocking earnestness, ‘to reach an analysis with such subjective data. But you’re not the first Russian to develop a philosophy based on despair. And you might not be the first to have been wrong.’

‘I can, as I say, only go by the evidence. Do you read modern poetry?’

‘It isn’t to my taste.’

‘Our poets predicted an age of blood and fire. The Apocalypse. Didn’t they identify themselves with the end of the world?’

I was not sure. There had been so many -isms and -ists in Petrograd I remain confused to this day. They are all forgotten, those Acmeists and Constructivists. They went mad or killed themselves or were killed by Stalin. As I said recently, I am personally nothing but a ‘Lisztist’. Naturally none of those ignoramuses in the pub followed a word. I begin to believe now that Yermeloff was right. The process has merely been slower, less dramatic and less interesting than he thought.

‘Will they let me send a cable to my mother in Odessa?’ I asked.

‘We’re a bit nervous of the telegraph, we savages.’ He bent to the lamp again, to relight his cigarette. ‘The message has to be of “military importance”.’

‘The Ataman’s still loyal to the Bolsheviks?’

‘Technically, yes.’

‘Then I’ll introduce myself as a comrade. I’ll say the matter’s political.’

‘He’s cunning.’

‘How old is he?’

‘About my age,’ said Yermeloff.

‘Forty?’

‘Thirty-five. Have I only aged five years? I must be adapting better than I supposed.’ He took no offence at my blunder, ‘I could get through it, yet, eh? I might even witness the re-invention of the wheel.’

‘Is Hrihorieff like Grishenko?’

‘He’s much cleverer.’

‘Why does Grishenko think everyone’s a Jew?’

‘That’s simple. He enjoys the sufferings of others. And nobody enjoys suffering more than a Jew. So Grishenko makes a whole damned circus of it. It’s a sort of conspiracy between both parties, I think.’

‘He believed me a Jew. He didn’t kill me.’

‘He’s not sure. He calls everyone a yid who looks a bit wrong to him. If they start to whine and grovel, he knows he’s right. It’s not complicated logic, is it? There’s no secret to it. He’s a savage dog. He can smell fear. If one wants to keep his good opinion, by the way, it’s as well to display as much savagery as he does.’

‘I can’t accept your cynicism.’ My head ached.

‘We all have ways of surviving. We have to find strong masters in a world like this one.’

‘Why not aim to be your own master?’

‘It’s the second rank which survives. I studied history. As a cadet. I was in the army most of my life.’

I had guessed. He had the stance and way of relaxing of a regular soldier; a way of economising on his own energy and that of others. God knows what passions really slept in him. But he would not allow them to wake up. It was his training. He was doing his job as best he could. Having no cause, no Tsar, no God, he desperately rationalised the situation by looking about for the most likely Tsar. That, at least, was my belief.

It now strikes me how narrowly we missed achieving the founding of a new dynasty in Russia. I imagine we should have had a Tsar Grigori of one family or another. Rasputin, perhaps, or Hrihorieff. Or a new Peter, in Krassnoff. I suppose none of them allowed themselves to admit the fullness of their ambition. But they would have let their supporters proclaim them Tsar. Rasputin: Theocrat of All Russia. What might he have achieved? An Enlightenment? Or an age of terror to match Lenin’s? Was he Lorenzo the Magnificent or Savonarola? Did we need both in one? Evidently we did. The theological student from Georgia, Stalin, became Priest-King in the end. He widened and extended the Russian Empire. Kerenski baulked at using the whip. He screamed like an hysterical mother at her children, begging us to be good. Stalin proclaimed that Russia should be orderly, and it was orderly. We have had ages of greyness and we have had ages of silver in Russia. In the distant past we have had fleeting ages of gold. We long for those golden ages. But when they come, they are like the gold of an Arctic autumn, seen for a single day. Then Winter falls.

I asked Yermeloff, as he went to sleep, why Grishenko had not waited for the second train of which I had spoken.

‘If it was a Bolshevik train, he would have had to wipe everyone out: all witnesses; passengers, soldiers, drivers. The lot. It wasn’t economic. He got the best he could. Loot from the Jews and a mechanic to fix our transport. You were quite a coup. I’m honoured to own you.’

‘What fuel was in that truck?’

‘Moonshine,’ said Yermeloff, ‘in all likelihood.’ He turned his back and began to breathe deeply.

I did not sleep. I went out into the yard again. I wished I could ride. I considered stealing the truck. But it would be hard to start and it might be low on fuel. I did not dare risk Grishenko’s anger. I would wait until we got to Alexandriya and look for Bolshevik ‘comrades’. Politicians were easier to deal with than wolves, and Yermeloff was merely a comfort to me, not an ally. He served his own private Tsar: the Emperor of Destruction, the God of Despair. It was almost traditional: to ally oneself with the Devil in the belief that God had given up the world.