The Bloody Meadow

by William Ryan

  It was clear enough, and Korolev had followed the colonel’s instructions to the letter – to the extent that now he and Slivka stood in the snow, stamping their feet to keep warm and uncomfortable under the close inspection of the four goons who’d come with the colonel from Moscow. Hard men, young, hungry – looking like hunting dogs waiting for an order from their master.

  ‘I hope that’s it,’ Slivka said, breaking the silence. Korolev turned to find her looking up at the sky.

  ‘What?’ he asked, curious.

  ‘The winter. I hope that’s it finished now. That we can leave it behind us at last.’

  ‘Yes,’ Korolev said, a little distracted. ‘The spring is always welcome.’

  Their attention was diverted by the sound of the door to the Militia station closing. Rodinov stood in front, pulling on his gloves.

  ‘Korolev?’ he said, looking around the village for a moment, as if to remember it for ever. Korolev raised his hand to his hat in salute.

  ‘Come with me.’

  Korolev followed the colonel to his car, its engine still running. At Rodinov’s invitation he joined him in the back seat.

  ‘Well, Korolev. You did a good job.’

  ‘Thank you, Comrade Colonel.’

  ‘Don’t thank me, thank Comrade Ezhov. He’s pleased with how things have turned out and wants you to know it.’

  ‘I’m grateful for that.’

  ‘You should be. Of course there are a few matters that still need to be resolved, and that’s what I’m here to do.’

  ‘I see,’ Korolev said quietly, wondering if he was one of them.

  ‘Yes.’ The colonel took off one of his gloves and examined his fingernails. ‘A little tidying up is called for. So I will now tell you what exactly happened here over the last few days, in case you become confused when you read about it in the newspapers. Are you listening carefully?’

  ‘Yes, Comrade Colonel.’ Korolev tried to make sure his face was devoid of any indications that could be construed as confusion, although his mind was racing.

  ‘What happened is this,’ Rodinov continued, not looking at Korolev and speaking as though to an invisible audience. ‘A young comrade, the late Maria Lenskaya, beautiful, dedicated and utterly loyal to the Soviet State, came across her estranged father – the traitor Andreychuk – whom she knew to be a former Petlyurist officer and suspected of being an active counter-revolutionary. The rat didn’t recognize her and so she was able to observe him behaving suspiciously – we’ll fill in the exact details later on. It helps, of course, that he was involved in such activities.’

  He glanced at Korolev, as if looking for approval, and so Korolev nodded, beginning to understand.

  ‘Alerted to his evil intentions, she informed Comrades Mushkina and Les Pins about her fears and, under Mushkina’s direction, Lenskaya and Les Pins, together with Comrade Lomatkin, I think, infiltrated a conspiracy to create an independent Petlyurist state in the Ukraine – with German backing. With me so far?’

  Korolev nodded again.

  ‘Very good. The conspiracy was led by that fellow Damienko, a Ukrainian exile who had returned to the country from – ’ the colonel paused to think – ‘Budapest. Fortunately the efforts of Comrade Lenskaya and her fellow loyal Party members to bring the conspirators to justice were ultimately successful and resulted in the seizure of a large quantity of weapons and the death and arrest of all the conspirators, but at a terrible price. Comrades Mushkina, Les Pins and Lenskaya laid down their lives so that the Revolution might be preserved. They have joined the pantheon of Bolshevik heroes, along with Militiamen Gradov and Blumkin, of course. And we should never forget Major Mushkin. Especially not Major Mushkin. A Chekist hero of the highest valour. I shouldn’t be surprised if his mother and he weren’t buried in the Kremlin wall itself. Oh, and that journalist Lomatkin. He was a hero as well.’

  ‘All of their lives?’ Korolev couldn’t stop himself from asking the question; as far as he knew Blumkin, Mushkina and Lomatkin were still alive.

  ‘Yes,’ Rodinov said, drawing a finger languidly down the fogged-up window beside him. ‘All of them. Their selfless sacrifices for the Socialist Motherland will be an example to us all. They will be awarded the highest honours, of course. Posthumously.’

  Rodinov seemed lost in thought for a moment and Korolev sensed his own fate was hanging by the narrowest of threads.

  ‘Which brings us to you and Sergeant Slivka.’

  ‘We’re happy to do our duty, as you direct.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it. Slivka is a Party member?’

  ‘Komsomol, I believe.’

  ‘I see, but you aren’t – isn’t that right?’ The colonel’s eyes were boring into him now, but Korolev sensed no hostility as such – not yet, at any event. He hesitated, considering how best to respond.

  ‘I’ve never thought myself worthy of being considered for an active political role in the Revolution, Comrade Colonel.’ Korolev spoke carefully.

  ‘Yes, I think you should focus on what you are good at, Korolev – digging out answers for people like me.’

  There was a hint of irony in the colonel’s voice, but there was no trace of it in his expression.

  ‘You, Korolev,’ he said after another pause, ‘you will go back to Moscow and resume your duties.’

  Korolev felt relief well up in him, but the colonel wasn’t finished.

  ‘I understand there are vacancies in Moscow CID that haven’t been filled. Semionov was a junior lieutenant, wasn’t he?’

  ‘That was his Militia rank.’

  ‘Then we shall promote Sergeant Slivka. You work well together. I’ll explain it to your chief. You may give her the good news. The People’s Commissar believes you may be of use to him again, sometime in the future.’

  ‘Thank you, Comrade Colonel.’

  The colonel waved a hand in acknowledgement.

  ‘Now these forensics men you worked with – are they reliable?’

  ‘I put my life in their hands, Comrade Colonel. And they came through.’

  ‘Well, we shall look after them as well.’

  Korolev’s face must have revealed his fears because Rodinov raised a reassuring hand.

  ‘Don’t worry, Korolev, they served the State loyally – they have nothing to fear.’ Rodinov’s expression was still cold, but Korolev sensed that the danger had passed. ‘What did I tell you again and again during this investigation, Korolev?’

  ‘That discretion was vital, Comrade Colonel.’

  ‘Be sure your new colleague knows it as well as you do. The Party is grateful for your contributions to the successful outcome of this matter, but you must never speak of it again.’

  ‘I understand.’

  Rodinov studied him. ‘You have a son, Korolev, haven’t you?’ he said in a detached voice.

  ‘Yes. He’s eleven now.’

  ‘He lives in Zagorsk, doesn’t he?’

  Korolev said nothing, fear paralysing his vocal cords, wondering how Rodinov knew about Yuri, and whether the threat in the question was intended, and then certain beyond doubt that it had been. He found himself trying to swallow, but there was no saliva in his mouth, wondering should he say something, assert his complete reliability, his devoted loyalty to the Party, his dedication to the revolutionary cause, but instead he just looked into the colonel’s cold eyes and kept his face as expressionless as he could.

  ‘You still have ten days before you need to be back at work, Korolev. Go and visit the young lad. The permits will be arranged for you. You deserve it.’

  §

  A few moments later Korolev found himself outside in the sun, in something of a daze, the freezing air sharp on his face and unexpected tears icy on his cheek. He turned away from Rodinov’s car and walked towards the Orlov House, his feet moving of their own accord and his mind not concentrating on anything much except the fact that he’d made it through this mess after all and that he’d be seeing his son. His glance fell on the ruined
church and for an insane moment he found himself walking towards it, fully intent on going inside to thank the Lord for his good fortune.

  But instead he pulled a hand across his eyes to dry them and then over his unshaven chin, and felt the tiredness of the last few days like a weight on his back, and with the last of his energy he turned, smiling at Slivka as he walked back towards her.

  Author’s Note

  The Bloody Meadow is a work of fiction, but I’ve tried to ensure it has a sound basis in fact. There have, however, been some compromises, particularly with regard to place names – the Orlov House, for example, is loosely based on the Kuris Manor near the village of Petrivka, not too far away from Odessa. Sadly it burnt down in 1990, but I’ve posted some photographs of it in its current condition on my website, www.william-ryan.com, for those who might be interested. Likewise the village of Angelinivka and the town of Krasnogorka can also be found near Odessa, but they bear no resemblance geographically or otherwise to the way I’ve described them in the book.

  The film The Bloody Meadow, from which the novel’s title derives, bears some resemblance to Eisenstein’s lost masterpiece Bezhin Meadow – from which it can reasonably be assumed that the character Savchenko has a very slight connection to the great Russian film director. As it happens, the writer Isaac Babel was involved with the screenplay for Bezhin Meadow and, as he appeared in The Holy Thief, it seemed a good idea to set the novel on a fictional version of the filmset. Unfortunately for Babel and Eisenstein, the concerns about the political soundness of Bezhin Meadow meant that it was never shown publicly. It’s believed the only copy of it was destroyed by a German bomb in 1941.

  For more detail on the historical background to the novel, I’d encourage readers to visit www.william-ryan.com, where I have given a more detailed description of the research I undertook for the novel, including a bibliography of sources, photographs and other material.

  I’m in debt to a large number of people for their support and assistance during the writing of The Bloody Meadow.

  Elena Andreeva and Anna Andrievskaya showed me round Odessa and the surrounding region – Elena, in particular, managed to spirit me into places I really wasn’t supposed to go, which was both stressful and invaluable.

  Larisa Ivash was a source of very useful suggestions and was a careful and helpful reader of an early draft, as were Ed Murray, Barney Spender, Kelley Ragland at Minotaur, Nina Salter at Éditions des Deux Terres and my wife, Joanne.

  My agent Andrew Gordon and his colleagues at David Higham Associates, particularly Tine Nielsen, Ania Corless and Stella Giatrakou, have been brilliant, as has George Lucas at Inkwell in New York.

  Finally, I’m grateful to everyone at Macmillan – Sophie Orme, Katie James, Liz Cowen and Eli Dryden in particular, but most of all Maria Rejt for her consistently to the point and accurate editing. The novel wouldn’t be whatever it is without her.

  Also by William Ryan

  THE HOLY THIEF

  First published 2011 by Mantle

  This electronic edition published 2011 by Pan Books

  an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited

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  ISBN 978-0-230-76068-4 EPUB

  Copyright © William Ryan, 2011

  The right of William Ryan to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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