by Simon Boxall
Quietly replacing the hatch Peter Piaktow cautiously made his way through the dusty attic, to the place Gardstein had told him about. He removed the joist and fumbled around with his fingers. He swore and swept his fingers around the aperture to make certain. There was a small piece of paper inside. He picked it up and read it and stuffed it into his coat pocket. Voices were coming from down below and they were definitely much nearer, it sounded like whoever they were, they were already up on the first floor.
He swiftly crossed into an adjacent loft but, unbeknownst to him, he was going in the opposite direction to 'The Georgian'.
From the safety of his vantage point Josef Djugasvilli watched the shenanigans going on further up the street. The police had gained access to number one hundred. The guardsmen were lining up in the street and the artillery piece was being removed. His attention turned towards the house again. A body was being carried out on a stretcher. That must be Gardstein's body. They were followed by the two, albeit dazed, women. That was three, so where was Peter? By his reckoning, old Betsy would have told them how many people were actually in the house; so that was the reason why they had used excessive force to gain entry. He watched several gentlemen talking outside of number one hundred. Then turning away Josef Djugashvilli felt the lump in his inside coat pocket, smiled, turned up his collar and discretely made his way out of the house, via the back garden and out onto the street. He milled around for a while, in the crowd and then took himself off towards Surrey docks. No one asked him why he was covered in brick dust!
Peter Piaktow had to wait a little bit longer. He hid out for three days, inside a very spacious, Victorian wardrobe. On the fourth day having almost succumbed to a mixture of unbridled anger and claustrophobia; he quietly, in the middle of the night, made a discreet exit from the building. Every time he felt the anger subsiding he pulled out the note and read it. But one thing was for sure, he was going to catch up with and, when he did, he was going to kill that 'Double Dealing' Joseph Djugashvilli, even if it was the last thing he ever did.
Cooey,
Finder keepers, loser's weepers!
Love
Koba xx
Like his former associate, before him, whom he was now most anxious to catch up with, when the moment arose he too made his way down to the docks. After all Peter Piaktow now had a score to settle. Little did he know it would take him eight and a half years, one World War, and two revolutions before he'd get an opportunity to settle it. But settle it he would!
The Evening Voice.
By Hieronymus Plugg
Today your roving reporter Hieronymus Plugg found himself at the centre of an almighty 'Shenanigan'. As you know readers, your roving reporter likes nothing more than a good story and an altercation with the law. Both of these were to be found in Sidney Street.
I sensed and rightly smelled that by nightfall the blood of these dastardly, foreign anarchists, was going to be flowing along the gutters of Sidney Street!!
The Right Honourable Winston Churchill, a man who needs no introduction, was there. He took personal charge of the situation. The Guards and the Royal Artillery were there. He issued instructions for them to be called up from The Tower of London.
Acting on a tip off, two hundred policemen surrounded a house in Sidney Street. Prior to this all persons in the line of fire were evacuated. At 10 am sharp three gallant members of the local constabulary knocked on the front door. There came no reply, so they knocked again. Also, from my vantage point behind the cordon, I could see officers working their way along the rooftops. The officers on the street knocked again. A window in the house opened, and they were met by a savage volley of shots. One of the constables was hit. He fell back on the pavement and was assisted by the other two who eventually got him to safety.
The whole spectacle was beginning to draw a crowd. I looked around and urchins and guttersnipes were watching from rooftops and people were leaning out of their windows. After the initial drama and the shooting of another policeman, a stalemate seemed to set in. It was obvious by the titbits of information that these were the villains of the piece responsible for the Houndsditch murders. They had gone to ground here at number 100 Sidney Street.
It also seemed that, after the largest manhunt ever conducted in the East End, these foreign nationals – Russians – had led the police 'a right old merry song and dance'. Acting on information received the police led by the able Reginald Twist, traced them to this address.
But the brouhaha did not really get going in earnest until the arrival of the Rt. Hon. Winston Churchill.
Prior to Mr Churchill's arrival, it was becoming patently obvious that the police, having first surrounded the house, were not getting very far. Every two or three minutes everybody would dive for cover when a window would open and a hailstorm of lead would come out of number one hundred. The police also seemed to be at a loss as to whom, or how many, they were up against.
Once the member for Dundee had arrived, and after a near miss when his 'Titfer' was hit, it was clear to all and sundry that the nature of the operation had changed. 'Firm hands; produce firm results', as my father used to say. Positioning myself as close as I could to the Honourable Gent, I found myself in a unique position where I could hear what he had to say. The first thing he did was send for the guards and the second was for an artillery piece. Needless to say these produced the right results. The army snipers did what the police could not, they poured lead into the house and, finally the bringing up of the field gun, turned the tables. It was clear that everyone would be home in time for tea.
Soon number 100 was on fire and constables were inside the building. The strange thing was they only brought out two women and one man. If there were others, it seems that they had long scarpered. It almost beggars belief that two women and one man could tie down the police for the better part of a morning and afternoon.
But for old Hieronymus Plugg's money, the real hero of the day was the Right Honourable Winston Churchill. He turned towards me and exclaimed, 'This is fun isn't it!'
Readers of Stepney take note that, in these troubled times, constant talk of war with Germany and rumours of Civil War in Ireland, we need men of his calibre, men such as Winston Churchill. They do what weaker men do not, they act and, when they do, they act decisively. But these men are few and far between. I predict that we have not seen the best of, or last of this man, and that his greatest hour is yet to come. This man is definitely a Prime Minister in waiting.
So readers you can take comfort in the fact that as long as Mr Churchill is around you can sleep safely in your beds and no harm will ever come to 'Olde' Albion.
Chapter Twenty Four
Arthur Balfour put The Evening Voice down. He had read enough 'Bloody Self Publicist', he thought. The leader of the Conservative Party picked up the phone and made a call. The voice at the other end of the line liked what he heard. He put the receiver back on the hook. He would corner the member for Dundee at parliamentary questions; and as well he knew, it was going to take all of his public speaking skills and theatricality if he was going to upstage this 'Young Buck!'
The following afternoon the House of Commons chamber was full.
The speaker was shouting, 'Order! Order!' Then he said, 'The Right Honourable member for 'The City of London', Leader of The Opposition, would like to say a few words ... Order!' Ordahh!!'
'Honourable gentlemen I would like to take this opportunity to thank The Home Secretary for his swift and decisive action in Sidney Street!' One member later confided that you could hear a pin drop in the chamber on that day. The Honourable Member for Dundee sat there with a bemused grin on his face.
Arthur Balfour carried on, 'It would seem that the Honourable Member handled the affair with all his usual style and panache. Yes! Those of us that remember the Tonypandy debacle will remember that our Honourable friend was criticised for acting indecisively. I suspect that our friend, The Honourable Member for Dundee, stung by these comments, decided what was n
eeded here was a complete tactical change. If he could not quite so easily get to Wales, he might find it easier to jump into a cab at 'The Savoy' and make his way to Stepney!' Balfour paused and looked around him. He knew that he had the chamber in the palm of his hand. He would milk it for all it was worth and give 'Randolph's Brat' a good drubbing in the process. 'So it was on Monday January the third that our 'Honourable' friend found himself in Stepney with a photographer. Now, for the life of me, I can understand what the photographer was doing, but what was the Honourable member doing there? I ask the question again, what was he doing there?'
'He'd gone to get a close shave,' a member shouted out!
'I will tell you why he went there gentlemen,' Arthur Balfour paused and then went on with his speech. 'I believe the member for Dundee is of a new breed altogether, he has adopted a new methodology, and it is called 'The Hands On' approach in dealing with criminals and crime. I would wager that he is of the opinion that nothing gets done unless he is physically present. But I tell you this Gentleman; that if this is the case; then this is a sad day for Parliamentarians and democracy! I will tell you why. When our Honourable friend took it upon himself to order in the military, he was sending out a clear message to those public servants who go quietly about their business in the pursuit of their day to day jobs. Indeed it seems that the people of Tonypandy are lucky, they got off lightly! The Metropolitan Police and the residents of Sidney Street did not!' More laughter. 'Now it is my belief that the honourable gentleman has set a precedent and that the precedent is this. In future all Home Secretaries will assist the constabulary in the arrest of felons; they will also assist the Fire Service in the extinguishing of fires, they will be there ready and waiting for him! All ministers of war will fix bayonets and lead the charge! But maybe! Maybe I'm not making myself totally clear, whatever I think doesn't really matter, or maybe it does. If it does gentleman it is this; was this an entirely reckless act, or was it an act of bravery, or was it an assault on parliament and the way we conduct our business here? If it is, and we apply his criteria to the way we do things; in the future, holders of government portfolios will have to apply, and rigorously adhere to, the Churchill maxim, 'Roll up your shirt sleeves, and get your hands dirty;' or, should we carry on as before? Listen to the advice of those best qualified to advise, and then act accordingly. I suspect the residents of Sidney Street would choose the lesser of the two evils! But maybe I should make myself clearer. When I say that the right honourable member is a new breed of politician, maybe we need to clarify exactly what this new type of politician is! I say that this type of politician always travels with his photographer by his side; he is always in touch with the editors of the daily newspapers, but this new breed of politician is definitely of a new type, a type we have not seen before! He is, Gentlemen, a populist, he cannot bear to secrete himself away in Whitehall, he has to be there at the coal face, no pun intended, he has, in order to justify to himself, to be seen to be doing something. And that something is purely for the public record! Gentlemen, Honourable friends we have been made, that is all of us; we have all been made redundant, by simple virtue of the fact that the Right Honourable Home Secretaries actions have ushered in a new era in politics, that is, the era of the 'Self Publicist! What is he you may ask? I will tell you, he is a person who sells newsprint to further his own political ends. He will say that he will do anything for anyone, but has no intention of doing anything, honourable friends, unless it furthers his own career!'
Amidst much laughing and jeering from 'The Unionist' side, the Leader of The Opposition sat down. The Home Secretary jumped up waving his papers in the air.
'Order, order ... Ordaah,' the Speaker shouted.
The noise in the chamber died down and then staring at Arthur Balfour, the Honourable Member for Dundee pouted his lips and said. 'That's why Sir ... Bob is not my uncle!' The House erupted, but this time the commotion erupted from the Government side. Feeling pleased as punch the future Prime Minister sat down and The House of Commons carried on with the business of the day.
Part Four
Chapter Twenty Five
There was a gap in Georgii Radzetsky's life of possibly two weeks, maybe more. Things came and went; people's faces were there one minute, gone the next; they appeared to be talking, lips moved, but all he could hear were their unintelligible sounds. None of it made any sense to him. Then faces would dissolve into nothing and garbled sounds into silence. Then it would start all over again, people would be talking, and peering at him, some just shook their heads, others simply stared.
Georgii could make out one word though; the word was fever, it was repeated over and over, time and time again. On another occasion, a man in a stained white coat came by and gave him an injection, which sent him back into the darkness. Another time Pavel and Anna were leaning over him trying to spoon some soup into him. Their faces through his eyes looked so big and round and the spoon feeding operation, even to him in his semi delirious state, was only partially successful. Gradually the periods of lucidity lasted longer and his powers of communication, slowly at first, started to return.
Learning from Pavel and Anna, Georgii began to piece together those lost weeks. He learned that during those weeks, three as it was, he had had many visitors. Even the party stooge Rezhnikov had done his bit to help. But there was one visitor that had visited, had bathed and washed him and sat for hours in silent contemplation beside his bed. She took no notice of the two street urchins that Georgii had 'unofficially' adopted. She dutifully attended to his needs. Even the writer from upstairs had visited on a few occasions. According to Rezhnikov, Gerhardt and Trofimov had stuck their heads around the corner on a few occasions.
Even though he felt weak, it was still a major effort to do most of the things that most people naturally took for granted. Strength however began to return, and Georgii eventually found himself, with difficulty, back up on his feet and, it seemed to him, that most of his faculties were, slowly at first, returning to normal.
By now the mystery woman had returned and she had made herself known to him. It was no surprise to learn that the mystery woman was none other than Yulia Klimtov. As his strength returned they spent hours learning all they could about each other. She had told him that he had been found delirious in the forest. They had managed, with great difficulty, to get him into this infirmary. Pavel and Anna sometimes spent time with them, other times they left them alone to get on with things. Georgii learned that for the first week or so it had been pretty much touch and go. It was the height of the summer, and Moscow was rife with disease.
It was now the beginning of August; he had been laid up since the second week of June. His strength was returning, so he decided to set himself some simple achievable goals. One such objective was to get dressed and washed on his own and another was to walk slowly around the block.
On one of her official visits, Trofimov had told him that he had been relieved of all duties on the Nizhny Novgorod gate. When he was well enough he would be reassigned to a new job within the Cheka. Georgii said, lying through his teeth, that he couldn't wait to get started! Still she told him to enjoy the time he had left, that is, until the doctor gave him a clean bill of health. The doctor he found out was not really a doctor, but had been a medical orderly in the old 'Imperial Army'. Due to the shortage of skilled professionals in the Moscow of 1919 he had duly been promoted from orderly to 'Doctor' by the Bolsheviks.
The 'Comrade Doctor' had told him that he had had a bad case of 'Typhoid Fever'. At one point, fearing that Georgii Radetzky might die, he had consulted another comrade, who actually was a doctor, to see what could be done to revive him.
Georgii knew the doctor was wrong in his assessment. It wasn't Typhus that he was suffering from. It was 'Malaria' contracted during 'The Galician' summer offensive of nineteen sixteen. But, it seemed they'd all done their best to help him, he couldn't ask for anything more than that.
Without access to proper medication Georgii's prog
nosis was poor, but several things had worked in his favour. The first was the devoted Yulia and the second the two children. They, it seemed to him, could lay their hands on anything. It was a well known fact that the authorities had no supplies of any medicines worth mentioning. If you wanted anything you went to one of the 'Black Markets' which, in the preceding months, had sprung up all over Moscow. Whatever the Doctor wanted; they, these two urchins, managed to get. In his knowledge, especially of these times, it was almost quite without any precedence, but Anna and Pyotr never let the Doctor down, they always managed to come up with the goods. After six weeks care Georgii was pronounced almost fit and then he was told he could go back to his living space.
Back at his living space, whenever Yulia wasn't around, Georgii would shin upstairs and chat with the writer, providing he was in and they would sit and talk for hours. Their conversations were often long and convoluted, often lasting long into the night. Georgii was surprised to find out that Boris had been thinking about writing a novel about the strange times they lived in, but he didn't really know where to start. It was simply a bunch of separate scenes and ideas all linked by the nature of the time they lived in, but that was about as far as it went. From time to time they would talk about them. On one occasion, Georgii found himself suggesting to the writer why didn't he write about these times. If he was going to do it properly, why not chronicle the last ten years, through a set of interchanging characters[24]; tell the world the truth, the 'Real Story' behind 'The New Society’s ‘Wrecking Ball' of change. Georgii suggested that if he was going to chronicle these times, then the writer was duty-bound to write about the harshness of 'War Communism'; it could be a living testament to the fact that life was now even worse than it ever had been under the 'Tsar'. Maybe, if it was done properly, the book could end on a note of optimism he could tell the world what most people hoped for and he told of his old friend, Alexeii Brusilov, that he thought that something better might emerge out of this mess. When Georgii spouted off like this the writer sat there frantically scribbling down notes and ideas.