The Margin of Evil!

by Simon Boxall

  The writer laughed out loud and said who would want to know about life in Bolshevik Russia. Georgii told him, let history be the judge; time might well surprise us all. To be sure Georgii was intrigued by him; the writer from the Urals fascinated him, he really looked forward to their fireside chats. Even though there was never any fire and, even if there had been, he mused, there was never any wood to put into the grate. One of life's little ironies he thought.

  On another occasion the writer said, 'Georgii, you must agree that the threads of our lives can run through any major upheaval. We never really change from who we really are. Today we are known as Comrade this or Commissar that, yesterday you might have been known as Duke this, or Prince that; but the point I'm trying to make is, do we really change from the people we are, or have become;' the writer looked long and hard into the empty fireplace and then said,' that's what I want to write about.'

  'I think ... I follow you,' Georgii replied.

  'Georgii, whilst you were in your coma I received a letter from friends in Siberia. The gist of which was that things were a lot better out there. When the opportunity presents itself, I'm going to go there. Life they say, beyond the Urals, is pretty much the way it's always been. They say that the libraries and the markets are still open.'

  'But what about the Civil War?' Georgii said.

  'In the letter it said that people just ignore it, they don't care about the Reds or the Whites. They just want to get on with their lives. If anyone has the support of the people it's 'The Greens',' the writer said.

  'Why don't you write that into your book?' Georgii said. He then went on. 'From what you tell me, it sounds like this book could chronicle the 'Old' times; the war, the revolution, and the present death throes of this once great nation!' Georgii paused, thinking of Yulia. 'Why, you could turn it into a love story! That would sell the book. Just look at all the disparate people that live in this town, surely you could find a man and a woman that you could easily write into the narrative! Surely that's not going to be too difficult,' he said.

  'No, no! Not at all, in fact it would only be too easy! But Georgii, you don't think the 'Powers That Be', would think a book of this kind would not be, as you say, somewhat 'Counter Revolutionary?'

  'I don't think so. From what I know of our 'New 'Political' Masters', they would welcome a book of this nature. Quite simply, because they are too busy blazing histories 'Socialist' trail, I think they would think a book, a love story, would provide a little light relief. For example when I was in hospital with malaria at the end of nineteen sixteen, I met this doctor when I was in hospital. I got to know him well. Like everybody else, he had a wife and children and they all came from a privileged background.'

  'So what's wrong with that,' the writer said.

  'Nothing. But he was in love with another woman, she was a nurse at the hospital and she wasn't his wife. But, owing to the nature of the war and the revolution, it was never going to be. The woman left and the gentleman was ever so distraught. He tried to find out where this other woman was, but it was to no avail! I've never forgotten it. When I got reinstated and had gone from non citizen to comrade I made every effort to find this man who had saved my life. Eventually, I found out that he had been on a street car when, by chance, he looked out of the window and there she was walking down the street. He fought his way out of the car and onto the street and then before he got to her he dropped dead from a heart attack. I doubt whether the woman ever realised. He died there and then and I suppose you could say that it was another life unfulfilled! Why don't you write that into your book Boris! Spice it up a bit, maybe put a love child in[25].' Georgii said.

  'Maybe I will Georgii, maybe I will,' the writer said thoughtfully.

  Throughout August Georgii continued to make good progress. It was also a sad time for him; the writer, Pasternak, had informed him that he had been allowed a permit to travel east. He would be leaving next Thursday. Georgii said he would accompany him down to the station and see him off. On the Wednesday they would organise a celebration for the departing writer poet. Pavel and Anna were instructed to go out into the city to see what they could find.

  But Georgii Radetzky still felt weak, even though he was making good his recovery, he still felt that he had no 'real' physical strength. Long days prior to the writer's departure were particularly tiring. Also he had received a communication from Comrade Trofimov asking him to report for duty as soon as he possibly could. This bothered him, one minute he was told to take as long as he wanted off, the next he was to report back for immediate service. He groaned; the meeting was scheduled for three the following afternoon.

  He got out his black leather coat and put it on along with his black cap. Georgii looked at his reflection in the cracked mirror and thought, 'Same old villain, but the uniform hasn't changed!' He shut the door and ventured out onto the landing. He stopped for a moment, and could hear some movement upstairs; seconds later he was walking past Rezhnikov. The old man nodded as he walked past. Georgii descended the outside steps and walked down the street. Even though it was high August, and the sun was blazing, there was hardly anyone out on the street. Those that did venture out were as they had been in the winter; they scurried like rats along an open sewer. They looked neither left nor right. They just made a beeline for home. Momentarily Georgii wondered what their business might be.

  After twenty minutes he stopped; Georgii was beginning to feel tired. He looked around him. August nineteen-nineteen, he thought, within the space of three years this once great city had started to look seedy. Weeds were growing in the middle of nearly deserted streets. Men, woman and children, dressed in rags, pushed hand carts along the streets. The trees that had once lined the boulevards looked like the stumps he had seen three years before in 'No Man's Land'. Like him they had been reduced to nothing. The occasional motorcar cruised past probably carrying some 'Party' official some place. As always Red Guards, stopped and harried anyone appearing to be out on private business. Fortunately for Georgii, all he had to do was show his papers and they waved him on.

  Georgii Radetzky took in a deep breath and set off in the direction of the Lubiyanka. He thought about the writer, who would be packing his things back at the hostel. He thought about the two children. They, surely, deserved better. He stopped again and gathered his breath. There was no two ways about it. Moscow was a rubbish tip of a city and it stunk; no it really stunk like hell. He looked around at the sparsely populated streets and the almost deserted avenues; anyone of any consequence had left, they had cleared out a long time ago and they had taken their valuables with them. The 'Old Order' was gone; they had simply closed up shop and moved on. They knew what was coming and had simply gone before the inevitable storm had broken.

  The word 'Old Order' stuck very much in his mind. He, and it was widely known in 'Red' circles, that he, Georgii Radetzky, had been very much a part of that 'Old Order'. He knew that as long as they had a use for him he was safe. He fleetingly thought about Auguste Gerhardt. Now here was a man, a man with no conscience, even though Georgii had admired him greatly before the war; but questions had to be asked, who was Auguste Gerhardt and what could make him change sides, obviously he had no qualms in selling his services to the Bolsheviks? But what made Gerhardt tick, what makes any of us tick for that matter, he thought. Georgii knew, and this is what really worried him that, in these times, Gerhardt would sacrifice him if he had to, just like he'd done to that Lithuanian girl back in London. His mind returned to the writer. He was leaving town and he was heading out east. Something else was beginning to stir in the back of Georgii Radetzky's mind.

  He was now well and truly alone with his thoughts, but the poet had an exit pass; there was no way that he could apply for and get an exit pass. They would arrest him and drum up some counterrevolutionary charge against him. Georgii was now nearing the Lubiyanka; he stopped again to get his breath. He thought about the Englishman, most definitely their Moscow operative Sidney Riley; he wondered if he
might help him escape. Georgii dismissed that as too risky, he wondered who else might help. He could not think of anyone that might help. He couldn't approach 'The Whites', even though they would almost certainly know of him through his war service as Brusilovs adjutant; but they would execute him for having collaborated with the Bolsheviks. That counted them out.

  Georgii knew he was on the right track here, he had to get out of Moscow and Russia and he had to take Yulia and the two children with him. As he approached the formidable looking Cheka headquarters, he thought that if he could get to Finland he might be able to get a boat from there to England. But again the stumbling block was getting out of Moscow and Russia itself. As he walked up the outside stairs and into the foyer, the idea came to him. Yulia could depart with Anna and Pavel and he would follow on later.

  But even as he signed in, he wondered how he could pull off this hare-brained scheme. Anyway he now had to deal with the slimy Trofimov. He knocked on her office door and waited.

  'Enter Comrade,' she said.

  He sat down and waited. She appeared to be reading a report of some kind. The silence was only broken by his heavy breathing. He looked out of the office and over to where his desk was. It was still there, and it looked from where he was sitting that everything was pretty much as he had left it. But if he could, he had better get over to see if everything was as exactly as he had left it.

  She looked up and said. 'Fortune favours the brave, so they say and fortune favours you Comrade Radetzky. Tomorrow or the day after you can clear your desk. Box everything up, and give it to me. Monday you are to take up a post in the Kremlin. So fortune favours you Georgii ... Now go!'

  Georgii liked those interviews, the ones where you turn up and others do all the talking, and then when they finish they kick you out. He exited her office and walked over to his desk. Georgii sat down and looked around him, nobody was taking any interest in him; he shuffled through his papers. After a few minutes it was clear that someone had been through the files, but that was not altogether a bad thing as he had been off sick. It only stood to reason that people might have ferreted around for cases that he had been working on prior to his posting on the Nizhny Novgorod gate. Georgii drew in his breath and looked back at Trofimov; she seemed so busy in her office. He tried the drawers, they were still locked and he looked around, in both directions, and then pulled out the key from his inside coat pocket. Georgii Radetzky crouched down and opened the bottom drawer, then getting out his Swiss army knife he ran the knife under the lip of the first draw. The tip of the knife touched the catch that opened the secret compartment. He then pulled the bottom drawer right out. Then sticking his head inside the empty space he looked inside the false compartment. He sighed; it was a sigh of relief, for the folder was still there. He emptied the folder out and quickly stuffed its contents into another file and then stuffed it inside the lining of his coat. He then replaced the empty file inside the false compartment and covered the drawer over it. He stood up, dusted himself off and carefully looked around, nobody was the least bit interested in him. Georgii then got another file and then concealed it with the other file, then he started to box up his few personal effects. When Georgii had finished, he walked over to the stairs and slid out of the building. On the way home he thought to himself, that one day the contents of that folder are going to make for some interesting reading. But now was not the time!

  The more he thought about it, the more his mind kept returning to his escape plan. Finland seemed attractive and, there was no doubt about it, Yulia and the kids could get there. But he first had to ask her and what if she said no. Also, even though the plan seemed to be a good one; if he was to follow on, it would be much harder for him if he was travelling incognito. Maybe if they were to head for Scandinavia, it would be better for him to make for England by another route. By now Georgii was deep in thought; he was oblivious to anything going on around him. Someone grabbed his arm and pushed him into a narrow side street.

  Georgii looked over and noticed it was that bloody Englishman from the spring encounter; none other than his majesty's special agent in Moscow Sidney Riley.

  'Radetzky, good to see you well and back on your feet,' the Englishman said. The black leather glove tightened its grip on Georgii's arm and then carried on,' I take it that you have been receiving my presents Comrade Radetzky. Because I have something in my possession, that ... shall we say is the final piece of a jigsaw that you have been, with my help, putting together.' He stopped and faced Georgii Radetzky who was midway through one of those Damascene moments, where things suddenly fall into place. Georgii just stared at the Englishman.

  'I think I'd better carry on don't you. Remember the meeting by the river; do you remember what I said I could do for you? Do you remember?!'

  Georgii tried to stammer out a reply. 'Why-yes-of-course; of-course-I-I-was-th-there!' Once he had said it he felt completely stupid. Pulling himself together, he carried on.' Didn't you say words to the effect that you would keep an eye on me?'

  'Yes I did 'Old Boy' and so far I think I've done a pretty good job; certainly on the day you visited Lefortovo Prison!'

  'Youuuuuuuuu!' Georgii exclaimed.

  'Quiet, we don't want to bring attention to ourselves! If we get caught, its summary execution for both of us! I can't speak for you. But I plan on reaching my old age. 'The agent paused and collected his thoughts. 'Georgii you have always been surplus to requirement; all along you were being stitched up. You are being used as a pawn in a power struggle that is now going on inside the Kremlin. I would say that when Trotsky and Gerhardt have no further use of your services. You will stop a bullet. If I were you, I would get out of here and quickly. I'm afraid that I cannot directly help you, but I can point you in the direction of some associates of mine who, for a price, might just get you out of this place. But only you! Not the woman and certainly not those 'Bezbrozikii' kids that you have been involving yourself with!'

  'So you know what I've been doing and whom I've been associating with. So why do you imply that with your help I'm no longer in danger?'

  'Since you were taken ill with the fever, events have moved ever more swiftly and possibly they have moved in your favour. Apparently Lenin and, to a lesser extent Trotsky, are not so keen on exposing Stalin. They are trying to put on a united front in the face of a 'White' onslaught in the Ukraine that has now spilled over into the Kuban. To this end Lenin has, temporarily, pulled the plug on Trotsky's little subterfuge. They will deal with Stalin when they feel it is appropriate. Now is not the right time.' He paused and then carried on. 'I suspect that they will want you back on the case, once you arrive back in the Kremlin.'

  'How the fuck do you know about that,' Georgii replied in an almost shrill whisper.

  'Remember, I know everything that goes on around here. I make it my business! Remember 'Comrade', everyone around here has their price! Even you! Anyway talking about jigsaws, ' pulling a large file out of his coat pocket he thrust it into Georgii's hand. 'Shall we say that if your thinking of getting out of here alive you'll need this for life insurance!'

  With that the agent provocateur let go of his hand and walked off into the shadows. Now, confused more than ever, Georgii shoved the file into his coat pocket and headed back onto the street wasting no time he headed off in the direction of home.

  The three files were now safely hidden inside the lining of his coat. His mind returned to the last words that the Englishman had said. They made sense. Simultaneously Georgii began to wonder where, that old reprobate, Royston O' Reilly was.

  The English agent was right about one thing, and he had always known this, that he, sooner or later, would become surplus to requirement. In fact, even up until recently, he had been in a state of complete denial over these very facts. Georgii Radetzky, here in Moscow, was becoming painfully aware that he was definitely beginning to overstay his 'Bolshevik' welcome. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. It; was becoming all too clear that, sooner or later
, he, or more to the point the back of his head was going to stop a bullet. And when that day came, he figured, there would be many people who would be clambering, to shake the hand of his would-be assassin.

  Deep in thought, again he walked past the sleeping concierge and headed up to his rooms.

  Chapter Twenty Six

  The party had taken on a life of its own. The wine and vodka flowed, the singing was raucous and, to cap it all, the two urchins had managed to produce a pheasant. As usual no questions were asked and the bird duly went into the pot.

  Even so the obnoxious Rezhnikov, whom had not been invited, came upstairs and managed to donate a large bottle of vodka to the proceedings. By the end of the night the top half of the house had pretty much given itself over to the festivities.

  Good night as it had been, it was all over way too soon. By the time when night merges with day, unconscious bodies lay all over the top half of the house.