by Simon Boxall
'What did you do after the Provisional Government?'
'Why I came back here, there was nowhere else for me to go. I came back to my family, and kept my head down low, and watched and waited ... I suffered the indignity of becoming a non-person for a while. People spat at me and my wife, when we were out on the street. Lenin's bullyboys evicted us from where we lived on more than one occasion. Three times it happened, and three times we were only given a moment's notice. During this period we lived on the goodwill of friends!' Brusilov said.
'General ... I have no great love for Tsar or Bolshevik or even Kerensky for that matter. But you are no enemy of Russia; I would have thought that they would have recognised that. After all you were one of the first to tell Nicholas, 'The Bloody', to abdicate.'
'Indeed I was one of the first, but not the very first. 'Brusilov carried on with his story.' Things began to settle down and find somewhere to live. I managed to pull a few strings and we got ourselves a place like this. Then two weeks ago I got a letter summoning me to go to the Kremlin for an interview. It was with Lev Trotsky, the very man that had made my position untenable back in seventeen. Can you believe it!' The old man stopped and recomposed himself. He carried on, 'They want me to work for them in the Red Army. Organise 'The Cavalry'. They say that I can have anything that I want. They have given me this old nag to ride around on and they have made me a comrade again. So tomorrow I get back to doing the only thing I know ... that's soldiering; non person yesterday, good comrade, with all the perks, today!'
The night wore on and they chatted Georgii produced another bottle that was quickly disposed of. But there was one question that had been niggling away at him. He asked the general why he chose to side himself with 'The Reds' when 'The Whites' seemed the obvious choice. Alexeii Brusilov replied that 'The Whites' had executed his son the previous summer and that was why he did not, and would not, ally himself with them. Looking at his watch, it was quarter past four, Georgii stood up and shook the old man's hand. He showed him to the bedroom. Brusilov protested but Georgii insisted that he would sleep on the settee. The old man said one last thing.
'The Bolshie's have said that I can have anything that I want if I help them to win this bloody civil war. I want you to come back and work for me. I want the best adjutant I've ever had to come back and work for me. Just like the old days when we were marching on the road to Gorlice.'
'I would like nothing more than to come back and work for you! But I cannot, I just cannot go back into the army. I still taste the taste of, and dream the dreams of defeat, when we had to retreat from Gorlice with our coat tails hanging between our legs.'
'I understand Georgii, I share those same sentiments. I live with the memory of those whom we left behind. I do understand ... I really do.'
'One other thing General! Does the word Kevshor mean anything to you?'
'I'm not sure ... But weren't they connected to the 'Knight's Templar' or something like that? I'll be honest with you, I can only just remember hearing of them! I think they were Georgian, I'm really not too sure.' The old cavalryman said.
'A toast,' Georgii said; adding, 'If you can't beat 'em, join 'em!' With that the old man shook Georgii's hand and went to bed.
Next morning Georgii woke up, he had overslept and was severely hung over. Brusilov and the horse were gone, and so was the straw mat. On the table was a letter. He picked it up and read it ...
Dear Georgii,
I have always thought of you as my other son. I'm sorry that I could not persuade you to take up the offer of the adjutants post, but maybe it's for the best, in the future we will get the chance to work again.
I'm sorry that I did not contact you sooner, but in these times there are those who imply guilt through association. You have to be careful what you say and to whom you say it. You are definitely right when you say, 'Same old crooks, different uniforms.' The only way to survive now is to wear their uniforms, and I can see that you and I have done exactly that. Survival is the name of the game. Great minds think alike!! Once again thank you for your hospitality.
Your friend and servant.
Aleksei Brusilov
Georgii put the letter down. The general was a remarkable man; there was no doubt about it. 'The Russian Tiger' had almost won the war! The great tragedy was his own side had betrayed him. When he had asked for help they had all stabbed him in the back. Georgii put his trench coat on and went to work. He would not see the general for a long time.
Chapter Four
He slid into the office, and sat down. Georgii looked at Vasiliev's tidy desk. Whilst he stared at it he became aware that Trofimov was calling him to come over to her office. He walked in and shut the door behind him.
'Do you remember what I said to you Comrade Radetzky about running everything past me,' she asked condescendingly.
'Yes I do,' he replied wondering where all this was leading.
'Well I've had a phone call from Cheka H.Q. saying that you were over there yesterday researching on The Kevshors, whoever 'they' might be. Certainly I don't remember giving you permission to do this. The only thing I authorised was your day off sick!' She said.
The tirade continued but Georgii thought back to something she had said earlier in the conversation. He thought back to her emphasis on the word 'they'. Trofimov suddenly changed her tune. She finished off giving him a bollocking and told him not to do it again, or, at least, let her know what he was doing rather than the Cheka having to tell her. Strange thing was she did not ask him as to why he was there. Maybe she was losing her grip, he thought.
'Comrade Radetzky, remember these are strange times and, if allegations are made against you, and you cannot corroborate as to where you were, then a Peoples Commissar might just, conveniently, throw the book at you! You need friends, Georgii, don't do it all on your own!' She said.
Back at his desk, he sat and thought. Had she been speaking to him in code? The emphasis on the 'they', and to doing everything on his own. Maybe he was reading too much into the conversation. Maybe she was going soft in the head! He started sifting through his overflowing in-tray. As he went through it, he realised that the paperwork was not as he had left it. More importantly, at the bottom of it a brown file had been concealed. He discreetly opened the file. The contents were astonishing:
CHEKA File: Ref 06851YD3.
Kevshors.
The Kevshors are a secret religious order of self styled Knights originating in Georgia around 1150. They are closely linked with the Maltese Knights and The Knights Templar. All members have one distinguishable marking. There is a tattoo of a cross inbetween two shields tattooed on their right armpit: (+).
For centuries they have wandered the southern border regions performing good deeds such as giving money and food to the poor, healing the sick and taking in orphaned children.
By the eighteenth century this nomadic group was in decline. They no longer were to be seen wandering around in their chain mail uniforms sporting their crosses of Saint George. All reference to The Kevshors seemed to disappear from Georgian folklore and history. Very few were left and those that remained had by and large, been consigned to the remote region near the Chechen border.
By the late nineteenth century The Kevshor Knights seemed to be going through some kind of resurgence. But it was a strange kind of renaissance. This time, they seemed to be moving into the areas of crime: vice, blackmail, armed robbery and black marketeering. Black-marketeering being the favourite. Various regional police reports of the time confirm this.
Starting in Tbilisi, their operations fanned out to encompass the whole of the southwest. Once again their Modus Operandi was to absorb any competition into their rank and file. Those that resisted were liquidated.
By the early nineteen hundreds rumour had it that the Kevshor sphere of influence extended as far as Kiev itself and was moving rapidly towards Moscow and St Petersburg. Here their cause was aided by the revolutions of 1905 and 1917 and The Great War; they were also abe
tted by the bad organisation of their rivals. The arrival of limited democracy after 1905 extended another opportunity for them to move into the world of politics. This they did with relative ease.
By the late summer of 1918 vague reports started circulating around Moscow of the arrival of an extremely well organised gang of Georgian Black-marketeers. Local villains and gangs started disappearing. The assumption was that The Kevshors had finally arrived and secured a base in Moscow.
All attempts to penetrate this organisation, so far, have met with failure. The evidence here is by and large secondary. When arrests have been successfully prosecuted against them, witnesses have either disappeared or been found dead in police/ Militsya custody. Thereby indicating that they have successfully bribed police officers and other officials of state.
In this respect their modus operandi is always the same:
Move in to a new area. Contact the opposition; present them with a fait accomplis. Join or go out of business. If they don't cooperate, they wipe them out.
Bribe police, judiciary and local/ regional officials.
More recently, security services acting on behalf of the state have managed to place an operative within their ranks. The information received so far confirms, and indeed corroborates, earlier unreliable information on their progress and history.
But the most astonishing piece of information we have so far received is that they now seemed to have penetrated right into the heart of the 'Bolshevik' party itself. They seem to be aided by senior officials from the central caucus of the party. A parallel investigation is going on right now. The compiler of the report is due to submit to Comrade Sverdlov within the next week. He will then take his evidence and present it to Lenin.
Georgii took in a deep breath, hastily replaced the file back into the envelope, and buried it at the bottom of his in-tray. Such was the effect that the report had had on him, he felt obliged to put on his coat and go outside to take a breath of fresh air.
By the time he returned to the office and looked into his in tray the report had gone. He could have kicked himself; he should have taken the report with him. He cautiously looked around him. No one seemed to be taking any interest in him. He sat at his desk and pondered. In his mind he started weighing up recent events; starting with the phone call, then the meeting with Gerhardt, followed by the appearance of the file, Comrade Trofimov, and the frosty response from 'The Cheka.' On top of all this he was to go to the 'Ivory Tower' to listen to speeches made by Lenin and Trotsky. The rest of the day dragged on. After a department meeting with Trofimov and the other 'Good' comrades, Georgii managed to get away from the station.
He got home and cleaned himself up. He lit the fire in the living room and stropped his cut-throat razor. He went upstairs and borrowed an iron from the writer. Downstairs he ironed his almost threadbare suit. Georgii did his shirt and then put his Sunday Best on. It was now a size too big. Losing weight in Moscow was now a national pastime. He looked in the mirror and tidied himself up. He looked at his watch, grabbed his coat and left for The Kremlin. It was a forty-minute walk across town. It was snowing again and he could he feel each cold flake sting his face, he turned the collar up on his coat. He walked on, lost in thought, towards his destination. At one point he bumped into a man of 'Turkic' appearance[8]; he didn't give it a second thought at the time, but their passing was to hold great bearing on Georgii in the not too distant future.
Georgii crossed Red Square. A few people wandered here and there. He arrived and showed his invitation to the Red Guards manning the gate. They told him to wait. A guide would come and fetch him. He rubbed his hands and waited. Eventually a guide came and they headed off towards the interior of the building. Georgii was well aware that The Kremlin was now the 'Nerve Centre' for all things Bolshevik. He knew that most of The Party leadership lived here. Georgii also knew that all key decisions were made within these walls. Further into the building he was led. One of the first things that struck him was how the place seemed relatively untouched by the upheaval of the previous two years. The carpets and the walls were clean and the pictures still hung on the walls. Occasionally, a picture had been removed and a shadow marked the place where it had once hung.
Officials and messengers scurried past in different directions. No one seemed to take much notice of him as he made his way through the building. Eventually he came to his destination. In front of him was a pair of large double doors that led into a former ballroom. The doors opened and he was ushered inside. The sight that met his eyes was simply unbelievable. It reminded him of the 'Decadent' past. Inside visitors were served champagne and caviar. The buffet looked simply out of this world. He grabbed a drink and started making his way towards it. He was halfway there when Gerhardt called over to him. He picked up a plate and noticed that the 'Old' two-headed eagle was still on the crockery. How ironic he thought!
'Georgii Radetzky, glad you could make it! Let me introduce you to some people,' Gerhardt said.
Slightly peeved, Georgii did as his mentor asked. One after the other he was introduced to 'Comrade-This' and 'Comrade-That.' They all seemed to have heard quite a lot about him too and his work. By the time he managed to head back towards the buffet most of it had gone. Gerhardt approached him again.
'What do you think of all this Georgii,' he said.
'If I was honest, you would probably take me outside and have me shot,' he said.
Gerhardt laughed. 'Georgii… two Revolutions have not tempered your legendary sense of humour!'
'A third one might,' Georgii quipped. They both laughed.
'How is that little favour that I asked of you, Georgii, coming on? Gerhardt discreetly asked.
'Good, good,' he replied, lying through his teeth.
'Remember, our next meeting is Thursday next week!' Gerhardt disappeared into the throng.
Georgii took the opportunity to look at the people present. He recognised some of the people there, but in truth he felt like a fish out of water. There was one group that caught his eye. They just stood there and took everything in. The group seemed to be watching everyone. They didn't seem to socialise with any of the other guests. Georgii looked long and hard at this group. At the front was a short man wearing an army coat and a cap. He had an Armenian moustache and a pock marked face. He reminded Georgii of a Turkish shepherd. Behind him was a taller man who reminded him of a bank manager. This group fascinated him, because they did not seem to join in with the collective 'Meeting and Greeting' that was going on. Georgii Radetzky came to the conclusion that they must be a visiting delegation of some sort or other.
As he stood there he noticed someone walking towards him. It was Trofimov. He was slightly taken aback at the prospect of making idle conversation with this woman. Though, if he had to, he'd give it his best shot.
'Radetzky who invited you here?' She said in a condescending tone.
'I did,’ came the reply from behind.
Auguste Gerhardt stepped into view. 'Do you have a problem with that,' he said.
'No ...' she snorted.
Saved by the bell, Georgii thought to himself. Whilst he was thinking, she turned around and strode off.
'I cannot stand that woman!' Georgii said.
'Neither can anyone else; but she has the eyes and ears of Comrades Lenin and Trotsky.' He paused and then carried on, 'She is a dangerous woman to cross. She is bad news, Georgii. A lot of people have lived to regret the day they ever got involved with Anya Trofimov. You of all people should know that. Remember, when she was an enemy of the state and we turned Moscow and St Petersburg upside-down looking for her? The irony is now we end up working for these bastards. They need us Georgii! They like to think that they can do it on their own, but they can't. That sticks in their craw.' Gerhardt looked at Georgii long and hard.
'Auguste, who's that group of people over there?' Georgii said.
'Why that's Joseph Stalin. He's The Commissar, responsible for 'The Nationalities'. Very efficient at what he does. Leni
n thinks him able; he's used him as a trouble-shooter on several occasions. Have to say that he's a bit of a loner. Some party people say that he's a rude arrogant man. Frequently uses crude language; ha, ha. This upsets the wives of the intellectuals!!'
Right at that moment there was a commotion over the far side of the hall. They both looked around. Georgii could make out a man clutching a sheaf of papers walking very determinedly towards the rostrum. He recognised him instantly as none other than the one and only Vladimir Illyvich Lenin. There was the sound of rapturous applause. Then the room slowly filled with silence.
'Comrades today is the best of days. Today is the day, when we start to think of the challenges that await us in 'The Future.’ Comrades, let me put it like this - are you aware that ordinary people cannot read or write in this country?'
Georgii stood there and listened. Lenin railed at 'The Whites', the British and the Americans. They were interfering; they wanted the restoration of the 'Old Order.' All they thought about was exploitation and subjugation. None of them wanted to improve the lives and living conditions of ordinary people. Lenin waved his papers wildly up in the air from time to time. Often the applause was deafening. Lenin would pick up again and again where he'd left off; telling them all that he was going to build: hospitals, schools and decent accommodation for the workers.
'We will turn Russia into a proletarian paradise that will be the envy of every worker in the Capitalist world. Want, sickness and exploitation will be consigned to the history books. Workers when they see what we have done and achieved will copy us. And I tell you 'Good Comrades' we shall be glad to let them copy us! We shall show them the way! We shall blaze the trail!!'
With that he raised his papers aloft for the umpteenth time and then descended from the rostrum. He shook hands with those immediately present, and then sat down in the corner of the chamber. It was now the turn of Leon Trotsky to speak.