Uncle Semya became amused again. ‘Such a Jew should join the Black Hundreds.’
‘And he recruits young lads,’ I continued. ‘Of all races. Ukrainians, Katsups, as they call Russians, Greeks, Armenians, Georgians, Muslims, anyone. He has a web like a—’ I felt uncomfortable ‘— like a spider.’
‘Heaven preserve us! Are you sure this bandit doesn’t just exist in your Pinkerton magazines?’
I told him I spoke the truth. ‘And,’ I added, ‘he has Shura in his grip.’
‘I cannot believe it.’
‘Shura tried to recruit me, too. He used me as an interpreter. I went aboard an English ship. He bought drugs.’
Uncle Semya turned his head away. He looked through the window. There was a yard with an entrance into the alley running between the houses. He watched a small child balancing on the wall. The child fell off and disappeared. He turned to look at me again, ‘I think you’re mistaken, Maxim. Shura works for me.’
‘Of course he carries messages between the ships and merchants and keeps a look-out for good cargo when it’s unloaded. But for the rest of the time he works with crooks, prostitutes. There’s a place called Esau’s. A Jewish tavern. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?’
‘I don’t often visit taverns in Slobodka.’
‘It’s a terrible place. Shura has slipped into bad company. He tried to involve me, too. I refused and now he’s angry with me.’
‘You had an argument?’
‘I objected morally to his life.’
‘He’s a young bohemian. You, too, have been living such a life.’
‘There’s a difference, Semyon Josefovitch, between bohemianism and criminality.’
‘And young people do not always recognise it.’ He waved a tolerant hand.
I was disappointed. ‘I think Shura should be sent away from Odessa.’
‘To where? To Siberia?’ He sounded the word slowly and sardonically.
‘Possibly to sea. It would do him good. The education.’
‘Did he ask you to tell me this?’
‘Not at all.’ Shura would hate to be removed from Odessa, from Katya. With Shura gone I should have both Wanda and Katya. Even when Katya opened the box of spiders she would not know it was from me. I could resume where we had left off. The notion of sending Shura to sea had been an inspiration.
‘Shura isn’t much of a sailor. Also, we are at war...’ Uncle Semyon re-lit his cigar.
‘Think what he would learn.’
‘Have you told him you were coming to me?’
‘No, Semyon Josefovitch.’
‘It might have been more manly to have done so?’
‘He needs an adult to tell him.’
‘And you’ve mentioned this to no other adults?’
‘Only yourself.’
‘I will speak to Alexander. But you must keep this a secret, Maxim.’
‘Because of the family scandal?’
‘Quite so.’
He sighed. Perhaps he was grateful that at least one of the younger members of the family was honest. ‘Off you go, Maxim. If you see Shura ask him to come here.’
‘I will, Semyon Josefovitch.’
Not an hour later, as I went downstairs to find wrapping paper for Katya’s present, I saw Shura arrive and go through the door connecting Uncle Semya’s business with the house. I had only seen these premises once: dark-painted wood and little glass windows, and oak, mahogany and brass desks, with clerks sitting at them who might have been there since the days of Pushkin. I wondered why Shura should go into the offices rather than into Uncle Semya’s study.
I waited on the landing, watching the door, but Shura did not emerge again. I assumed he had left through another exit.
Feeling mightily pleased with myself, I went to ask Aunt Genia for the fancy paper. She handed me a sheet, together with some scissors and ribbon. I was not, she said, to disturb Uncle Semya if I saw him. He was in an unusually difficult mood.
‘Was it to do with Shura?’
She shrugged. ‘Perhaps. He doesn’t seem too pleased with you, either. Have you been up to anything?’
‘Nothing, Aunt Genia.’
I returned to my room. I was just a little puzzled. I wrapped the parcel. I called Wanda in and asked her if any boys in the street could be paid to take a parcel to Slobodka. She said that she would see. I had marked the parcel with Katya’s initials, and her Polish surname, which was something like Grabbitz.
‘Who are you sending a present to?’ Wanda asked. ‘It looks a very nice one.’
I kissed her. ‘It is nobody I love. A friend of mine. Someone to whom I owe a favour.’
With a few kopeks, she took the box downstairs and eventually returned to say one of the street-urchins from the square had agreed to deliver it. Now, if Katya asked who had given the boy the box, Wanda and not myself would be identified as the sender.
Wanda and I made love very briefly. I was not really in the mood. I was still wondering what had happened to Shura. The way my luck now ran, he could be on the next ship out of the Quarantine Harbour.
I had asked Wanda to leave me alone for half-an-hour and was reaching for the drawer where I kept my cocaine when the door opened softly and closed. I expected Wanda. To my horror, it was Shura. He was grinning at me in a very menacing way. He had abandoned his tie and shirt and was wearing a laced peasant blouse with a loud, heavy scarf tied around his throat; over this was thrown a fur coat whose surface had worn away in patches. In his hand was a three-eared cap. He looked almost pathetic.
‘You little stool-pigeon,’ he said. ‘You stupid, silly little Kiev gilt-goyim. You wouldn’t have it out face to face. What a crook I am! That’s a laugh. Uncle Semya’s the biggest crook of all.’
I was familiar with these revolutionary arguments. ‘Capitalism isn’t a crime.’
‘Isn’t it? Well, your plan misfired. I’m not to be sent to the galleys. I’m merely to be more cautious about what I let green little sneaks see.’
‘Did Uncle Semya say that?’
‘Not exactly. But it’s the substance.’
‘I can’t believe it.’
‘You don’t have to. I thought we were friends. Max.’
Shura spoke as if I had betrayed him! I now remember him with nothing but kindness and have long since forgiven him, but at that moment the fact that Shura considered himself a victim was almost laughable. I smiled. ‘Shura, it was you who broke the friendship.’
‘You idiot. I was sleeping with Katya before you even turned up. I asked her to be nice to you. I slipped her money. Why did you think it went so easily for you?’
‘She loved me.’
‘I suppose she did. As much as she could. She’s been my girlfriend for years. Ask anyone.’
‘You’re lying. It’s despicable.’
He went bright red. His face was a match for his cropped hair. ‘You don’t have to take my word. Katya will tell you.’
The door opened slowly. Wanda came in. ‘What is it, Shura?’
Shura told her to leave. I nodded in agreement. ‘This is between us.’
‘Don’t start fighting, or I’ll call Aunt Genia.’
‘I wouldn’t touch him,’ said Shura. This relieved me.
‘At least you’ve made it clear how you feel,’ I said. ‘What about me? My rival’s a Jew-loving lout who can hardly speak his own name. A crook.’
‘Jew-lover?’ He laughed. ‘And why not? Do you know what our name originally was?’
‘Your father’s you mean? I’m surprised you know it.’
‘Coming from you, that’s rich.’
We were hurting one another quite unfairly, as only those who have been close can wound. It was I who turned my back first, refusing to continue. If Shura was going to flaunt the fact of being half-Jewish, that was his own affair. It only confirmed what I thought.
‘I feel sorry for you,’ he said. ‘You could have been happy here. You could have had friends here. People liked you. But not n
ow. I advise you to get out of Odessa as quickly as possible.’
Was it a threat? I said, ‘Odessa has no further attractions for me.’
He opened the door, drawing his moth-eaten fur about him. ‘You won’t say that when your sneg runs out.’ Sneg was the slang term for cocaine, meaning ‘snow’.
Then he was gone. Did he think he had turned me into a drug fiend? I became alarmed, then reassured. I was not the type to become addicted. I have gone for months without touching the stuff. Indeed, in recent years, with prices the way they are, I have all but given it up. It is possible to burn the candle at both ends sometimes and feel the results of that, but as for withdrawal symptoms, I have never known them. One has to have withdrawal symptoms to be an addict. They made cocaine illegal after the First World War. It was one of the silliest things they did. They should have made asprin and gin illegal at the same time.
On the morning of Christmas Eve I was called again to my uncle’s study. Concerned that he had not heard from her, he had sent my mother a telegram. A reply had reached him from Captain Brown. My mother had bad influenza. She was worrying about me. It seemed that providence had given me a perfect excuse to leave Odessa and escape any attempted vengeance from Shura. Uncle Semya agreed I should rejoin my mother as soon as the Christmas holiday was over, when the trains would be running as normally as could be expected in wartime. A place had been found for me at the Petrograd Polytechnic Institute. I would begin there in January. A full wardrobe would be provided for me. I would draw a small allowance from his agents in the city. They would also find me accommodation. In return, I might be called upon to translate in matters of business or carry small parcels to other agents of his. I told him I would be honoured to serve him.
He had confirmed my place, he said, by telegram. A number of telegrams had gone back and forth in the past twenty-four hours. He had spoken to Shura and had received Shura’s faithful promise not to engage in acts likely to embarrass the family. My revenge was frustrated. There was no time to plot a fresh one. At least, I thought to myself, Katya would be opening her spiders by now.
I went back upstairs to tell Wanda what was happening. We decided to make the most of our time together. I gave her a little of my cocaine to help her stay awake. We spent as much of the Christmas holiday as possible in an orgy of love-making.
When my suitcases were packed and my first-class ticket (a gift from Aunt Genia) was in my pocket, I realised I would miss Wanda. I told her I would come back to Odessa as soon as possible. She must visit me in Kiev. I never did see her again. She became pregnant, gave birth to a son, and was looked after by Uncle Semya until she vanished three or four years later in the terrible days of famine and revolution.
Wanda and Aunt Genia saw me to the Kiev train. The station was crowded with uniforms. I was already missing Odessa, with her docks and shops, her fog and coal-dust and her vital, noisy life. I believe I wept a little. Wanda certainly wept. Aunt Genia wept. The train began to move away from the platform, heading inland once more. I thought I saw Shura standing near the gate, raising his hat sardonically, Katya at his side.
It was snowing heavily as the train pulled into open countryside. I sat back happily in the padding of the heated carriage. This was more comfortable than the last trip. I was already making progress. I wore a Petersburg suit, a good quality fur cap, an English top-coat with a fur collar, and black, patent-leather boots. Over the course of a few months, I thought, I had become not only a man. I had become a gentleman.
In the main I received good service from the train staff. With my first-class ticket I was able to sit in a deep plush armchair with my books and magazines close by on a little folding table. Soon after we left Odessa we ran into a blizzard. The further north we went, the deeper the snow became. All I could see was undulating banks of whiteness, interspersed with the roofs, smoke and domes of villages, the silhouettes of trees, the occasional snow-drenched forest. I could almost smell the snow through the windows, though of course the carriage was insulated and the motion of the train so regular one might not have been travelling at all. Just for the pleasure of it I took the ‘large breakfast’ in the restaurant car. I ate cheese and cold meats and watched the snow clinging to the windows. Sometimes it built up a layer before the speed and heat of the train melted it away, to reveal the steppe again. I strolled into the saloon-car which bore the sign of the Romanoffs, the two-headed eagle, over the door. Here I remained, in a small chair close to the ornate stove, listening to the murmurings of generals and priests, aristocrats and fine ladies; they were already drinking, many of them, for prohibition extended only to the lower classes. Their well-bred tones would from time to time be broken by sudden, loud laughter. They were cynical, in the main, about the War news.
Being in the saloon and unable to join the occupants depressed me. I returned to my carriage, where an old lady dressed all in black took a fancy to me. She began to tell me how she was the widow of a certain general killed in the war with Japan.
She spoke in the slightly Frenchified accents of St Petersburg. I was soon able to catch the sound and reproduce it. She decided I was well-educated, a well-bred boy. She shared some of her chocolates with me. She asked where I was bound. I told her Kiev. I was to go on almost immediately to St Petersburg. She said I should come to see her and wrote down an address in a small notebook. The other travellers in the carriage were a high-ranking military man who said nothing, studied maps, read The Voice of Russia, and sometimes left to go to the saloon-car to smoke a cigar; a theatrical, rather haughty, young woman who claimed she acted in Moscow and was soon to tour the provinces. She smelled of the same perfume as Mademoiselle Cornelius, whom I still remembered with great pleasure. This actress had none of that lady’s character; she was a typical, neurotic Moscow ‘beauty’. I doubt if she was an actress at all. Probably a general’s mistress, travelling separately to avoid scandal. Her brocades and furs had the look of trophies rather than familiar clothing.
The snow did not stop. It became dark quite soon and the gas was lit in the carriages. So comfortable and warm was the train that I was more and more reluctant to have the journey end. I hoped for delays on the line, some minor disaster which would extend the adventure for another day at least. Lunch came and went, and dinner. I talked to my old lady, telling her of my ideas, my plans, my expectations of ‘doing good for Russia’. She said I would love Peter, ‘It is really Russian there, not like this awful province. This is a land of Jews. They are impossible to avoid.’
Feelingly, I agreed with her.
‘But in St Petersburg,’ she said, ‘there you will find the embodiment of all that is best in Russia.’
The actress claimed that Moscow was ‘more Russian’ than the capital. There were too many Europeans in Peter. The place had been founded by a Tsar who had looked to Germany for inspiration. See, she said, where that had got us. Attacked by the very people we had courted, to whom we had shown hospitality. Half the Royal Family was German. They were the scourge of the Earth. She wished she could remain in Moscow all her life. No socialists there. No nihilists. No assassins. There were no Jews and no Germans, either. It was a true Slav city, not some imitation Berlin or Paris.
The old lady listened with amusement. Her husband had been just such a radical. A Pan-Slavist who wished to turn his back on Western Europe. ‘But Western Europe will not turn her back on us, my dear.’
‘No, indeed!’ said the actress. ‘She comes towards us with hands extended. With a knife in one fist and a sword in the other. We should have expelled all foreigners years ago. Including those who call themselves Russians.’ This was a reference to our ‘German Empress’ and a number of nobles in St Petersburg who were of German origin and still had German names. Even some of the generals at the front and the ministers in the Duma were of recent German ancestry, including the prime minister. There were plenty of rumours of German traitors working against Russia from within: a tendency, especially in Moscow, to put the blame for our militar
y failures on corruption in the capital: a suspicion that the Court had no real interest in the progress of the War, that the Tsar might be inclined to negotiate a peace at any time. I make this clear to show how bad morale was. Russia had never started a major war. We had never wanted to go to war; Germany had attacked us. As a result of this, almost the whole of the civilised world was now in arms. Although I felt more patriotic than many at this time, I could understand why they were so aggrieved. It could be argued to this day that Germany, who gave the world Karl Marx, prepared the ground in which Marx’s pernicious doctrines could flourish. Many believe the German race the creator of the terror and chaos which is our twentieth century. I do not agree with this depiction. The Germans were very kind to me in the thirties, by and large.
Byzantium Endures: Pyat Quartet Page 14