* One assumes Harris Bristow had plans to expand his summary of pre-twentieth-century Russian history; it has been the editors’ decision, however, to add no material not clearly needed for an understanding of the text.—Ed.
† Russian dead numbered 4,000,000 in 1914–1917. Compare casualties of the Western Allies for the entire war through the end of 1918: Great Britain, 950,000 killed; France, 1,400,000 killed; United States, 115,600 killed (more than half of them by Spanish Influenza).—Ed.
* Several students of the subject insist there is room to believe the bodies, jewels and blood that were found at Ekaterinburg were planted fakes and that the royal family was spirited away alive by sympathetic conspirators. But no real proof has been offered. (From Bristow’s notes.)
* The Bolshevik government had moved the national capital from Petrograd to Moscow in 1918.—Ed.
* The Russian tendency to infect every organized activity with a terminal case of bureaucracy is not a creation of the Communists; it is a traditional Russian disease and was partly responsible for the lethargic ineffectualness of the White armies. (From Bristow’s notes.)
* The material in this section is needed for an understanding of the whole. This chapter was to be written after Harris Bristow gathered more details concerning the battles fought at this time. (No military engagements have been fleshed out in the existing manuscript, which was intended as a skeletal working structure by the author. The book, as planned, was to include detailed coverage of all significant individuals and engagements.) The editors have assembled the material in this chapter from Harris Bristow’s work notes and, to some extent, have adapted parts of the material rather freely from his earlier book, The Civil War in Russia: 1918–1921, New York, 1962.—Ed.
* In Siberia the war was fought solely along the railway. Go a hundred miles to either side of the line of track and you would find relative peace; go two hundred and you would find remarkable disinterest in the war; go three hundred and you could find people who didn’t even know there was a war on. (From Bristow’s notes.)
* Most Siberian river bridges, like those at Omsk and Irkutsk, were floating bridges which were removed from service before the winter freeze-up to prevent their being destroyed by grinding ice movements on the rivers. Temporary sand roadbeds were constructed on the thick ice for winter rail installation. After the spring thaw the bridges were replaced; to do so earlier would have been senseless. The Siberian rivers are very wide: The Irtysh at Omsk is more than a mile wide and during the spring floods can become as wide as ten miles, flooding entire valleys. (From Bristow’s notes.)
* After the first few months Janin had received instructions from Paris to obey Kolchak’s orders, with certain restrictions; he was free, for instance, to pull out at any time. Oddly, however, he remained loyal to the lost cause longer than most Russians did.—Ed.
* According to most sources there were 750,000 civilians and approximately 500,000 men in uniform, of whom most were deserters from both sides.—Ed.
* By the following April another thirty thousand had died of typhus in this small city alone. (From Bristow’s notes.)
* At this time—late December 1919—probably three-fifths of the refugees had died; half a million humans struggled on, with the Reds at their heels.—Ed.
My conversations with Haim Tippelskirch were nearly six weeks in duration. He had the rambling tendencies of age, and sometimes the querulousness. But perhaps he was aware of the hungry cells that were consuming his life; he kept repeating to me his desire to get it all said. If he had been a Catholic it would have been his final confession before asking for last rites, I think.
There were several evenings when he hardly touched on the subject of the Civil War—evenings when he talked of pre-war life in the Ukraine, of his village and his family; or of events between the wars, or his fifty years in Palestine, or the Second World War. His mind was remarkably retentive and he had a gifted analytical memory.
Clearly he had resolved to be candid with me from the outset—largely because he trusted Nikki and he saw that she trusted me—but for the first ten days his habits were stronger than his resolve. He had decided he would tell me only what it was good for me to know, and so he censored himself and spoke with an air of rueful formality.
He began at the end, with his memoir of the gold—how, why and where Kolchak had hidden it. The first time he told me the story it was related in impersonal terms, as if he and his brother had been observers there. Yet the subject of the gold was a constant source of excitement to him.
At that time I felt occasional impatience with him; I had less interest in the gold than he had. I’m a historian, not a treasure-hunter. The disposition of the Czar’s treasury was a matter of academic interest; I was more concerned with the human truth of the events. Nearly a hundred million people have died in the conflicts of the Russian twentieth century* and I had become obsessed with seeking the causes of that serial armageddon. Perhaps it was hazy reasoning to study cruelty in terms of numbers—the Russians had been involved in more bloodshed than any other people on earth but they hadn’t systematized it the way the Nazis did, nor did they put to use the technology for destruction which the United States employed on Dresden and Hiroshima and the Indochina villages. But more than any other modern nation, Russia had indulged in an unparalleled and nearly unbroken succession of mass human obliterations—sometimes aggressive but often as purely self-destructive as a rabid animal which, finding nothing else to attack, turns upon itself in a foaming fury and tears itself to bloody pieces.
I wanted to find the roots of that. I had reached a point where I was compelled to go beyond the idea of history-as-source material; history—the human record—was beginning to look like a substance with shape and motive and direction. I never took a Leninist view of History as an Entity to be worshiped and lied for; but as I probed the Russian century I began to take a Freudian view of it: I began to think it might be possible, by analyzing the causes of Russian behavior and gaining an insight into the contemporary Russian psyche, to predict the direction of future events.
This wasn’t an intellectual game. It was an earnest pursuit. I arrived at it slowly and in retrospect I’m sure Nikki had a lot to do with it. We talked incessantly: most of it was light and frivolous but there were times when we sat together in the room or the cafés of Tel Aviv and discussed ideas. Ideas had more reality in that setting; you had a sense of living in the center of things, there was none of that blasé insulation against hard truths which you get in the States. Israel lives always under the poised threat of a suspended axe and it heightens the reality of pleasures, the savor of simple things, the intensity of everything. In that atmosphere it is still possible to discuss the ultimate questions of good and evil without feeling ludicrous.
And so we talked. Sometimes the two of us, sometimes the three; sometimes whole groups—friends and associates of my two companions. We thought it might be possible by puzzling out the Russian destiny to know whether the Russian urge toward self-destruction could determine the odds for, or against, the Kremlin’s willingness to risk war. We asserted that it was no good studying the political and rational counterpressures in the Middle East without taking into account the character of Russian leadership and its relationship to the Arab neurosis. Reason was seldom a guiding principle in international affairs and never was it less so than when you were dealing with peoples as volatile as the Jews, the Arabs, the Russians, the Americans. How much was behavior predictable on the basis of biological urges toward domination and aggression? How much was peculiar to the nations individually? Was it possible the Russians were no more aggressive or self-destructive than anybody else—that they’d simply had more provocations and opportunities than, say, the Brazilians or Canadians? Was it possible, by the same reasoning, that the French or the British, given their Versailles and their Hitler, would have been as murderous as the Germans had been? How much different would the Soviet Union have been without Stalin?
They were questions fo
r cocktails and cigarettes and charades; but for the first time in my life I was sincerely looking for the answers.
Partly it was Nikki’s influence; partly it was the fact that I was well into my thirties and it was no longer possible for me to subsist on the kind of critical notices that inevitably began by saying, “For a writer so young, Harris Bristow has produced a remarkably impressive output. The latest of his many books is …” After more than ten years writing professionally I could no longer use my youth and prolificity as accomplishments of importance; I needed to do something solid—and churning out more and more summaries of historical events had become too easy because I knew how to do it, I knew which levers to press and which narrative gimmicks to employ.
I wanted more from the old man than dry facts about the burial of Kolchak’s gold. He and his brother had spent those times in the company of officers of the old Russia and I wanted to know about those men—their sensibilities, their behavior, their attitudes. Russia and its leadership were still in the hands of men like those: their sons and brothers. The Soviet generals who fought the Wehrmacht in 1941 were former Czarist officers, most of them; the Kremlin leaders of 1970 were men who had grown up in a Russia that was still feudal or near to it. Especially among the leaders, old traditions of thought and attitude slip away only slowly. The psychologies of the men in the Kremlin today could be measured according to the prejudices of their fathers, I believed; I wanted to know about those men with whom the old Jew had lived and fought and survived.
But he didn’t give me much satisfaction during the first few weeks of our interviews. He withheld judgments even when I asked for them. He kept coming back to the gold:
“You must understand this. The gold is of the utmost importance today—more than at any time ever before. As I have told you, I have made a study of this thing. As recently as July of nineteen seventy the price of gold on the free market was not far out of line with the official monetary price of thirty-five dollars U.S. But today suddenly there is inflation throughout the world, there are devaluations everywhere you look, the currency exchanges are madhouses of profiteers. No one trusts the currencies anymore, you see. And loss of confidence in national currencies is the entire basis for the gold market. Currencies today are in a state of collapse, and the farther they fall the farther gold rises. The price of gold has already gone up to something like forty-two dollars, which is an increase of some twenty percent in one year. You understand what I am saying?”
I suppose I understood well enough; I understand it more vigorously today than I did in June of 1971, when these interviews took place; in the interim the free-market price of gold has shot up to seventy dollars a troy ounce, and on the clandestine exchanges of Beirut and Macao it is selling at nearly a hundred dollars an ounce.* This means the Kolchak treasure today is worth at least twice what it would have been worth in 1971, in dollar-exchange terms; the five hundred tons of bullion would command somewhere near five billion dollars today, depending on who sold it to whom.† There is more than one nation whose entire national treasury is only a fraction of that.
“You must understand what this means.” His hand made a loose fist. We were at a small table in a dairy restaurant, the three of us, eating blintzes. “What it must mean to any government which still has the pretense of a gold basis for its currency—even unofficially.”
“Like the United States, you mean.”
“The United States, or the Soviet Union. Yes.” Ja. Explosive, emphatic. We were still speaking German. Nikki’s attention flickered from my face to his; her smile was fond.
“A large sum in gold has a way of pyramiding its power,” he went on. “You can’t merely think of it as two billions or two and a half billions. It is not paper currency, subject to inflation. In Beirut where the world black market has headquarters and the trading is for opium and heavy weapons, gold is the only accepted medium of exchange—they have been stamping out new gold sovereigns for years, and the transactions are in millions and hundreds of millions of dollars. This is true in all the smuggling capitals of the Near East and the Orient—only gold is used. No currencies at all. Can you imagine the effect of billions in gold on those markets? It would be far, far beyond anything you can measure in dollar equivalents.”
I said I could hardly picture a private gang of smugglers and thieves trying to heist five hundred tons of gold bullion for criminal purposes. The logistics alone were prohibitive; it would require the manpower and transportation facilities of a national government.
“Or a big corporate enterprise,” he countered.
“On Russian soil?”
“I have not said the gold is still on Russian soil, Harry.”
“Oh? Then where is it?”
He drew back. “I have not said it is not on Russian soil, either.”
Nikki said, “You shouldn’t play games with us, Haim.”
“The truth is I do not know where the gold is. I have an approximate idea. Very approximate—you must measure it in thousands of kilometers. But that is not the point. I only mentioned the smugglers’ black market as an illustration of the power that can be exercised with this much gold. An even more telling illustration is the use to which a government might put it.”
I was dubious. “There are departments of the American government that spend that much money in a matter of days.”
“In gold?”
“Gold or not, it’s still purchasing power.”
“You mistake it, Harry. The leverage of bullion wealth is many times its value. For how many years did your government support a three-hundred-billion-dollar economy on the official basis of thirty or forty billions in gold reserves? The political and economic power of large sums of gold is a factor of eight or ten times the actual value of the gold. A small country with two or three billions in gold reserves is in a position to wield the same economic pressures as a substantial but gold-poor country with an economy of twenty or thirty billions a year. Do you understand the reasons for this?”
“I’m not sure.”
“It’s a question of credit, more than anything else. A nation with piles of gold in its vaults gives the appearance of being a solid credit risk. When the world money market is uncertain, when currencies can’t be depended on to hold their values for any length of time at all, a reserve of gold becomes magnified out of all proportion to its real value—simply because it is there. It isn’t going to wear out, it can never be inflated to the valuelessness of a Weimar Deutschmark. It is always gold, always measurable by the troy ounce, always valuable.”
Nikki caught my eye and made her private signals of love. The waiter’s arm flashed in past our shoulders; he took away the plates and replaced them with espresso cups. Haim Tippelskirch was drawing tracks in the tablecloth with his fork.
He said, “A country with that much uncommitted gold in its vaults could go a long way toward destroying the economies of neighboring states. It might behave very boldly because it would know that no internationally sanctioned blockade could succeed against it when every greedy trader in the world was eager for gold credits. Or it could buy munitions—enough to build the most powerful and modern small army on the face of the earth. Do you begin to see what I’m driving at?”
I said, “You’re talking about Israel now, aren’t you.”
He made no reply; he only watched me until Nikki broke the silence: “If the shoe fits.”
His intensity made me uneasy. He was driving at something, as he admitted; I was not yet certain what it was, and I didn’t altogether want to know. I steered the talk away from the subject of the gold and, for a while, he was content not to return to it.
During the next week or two he began to open up with me, far more than before. Later I realized he was doing this partly in an effort to gain my confidence; at the time I felt he was warming to me, loosening up with familiarity.
He told me about his wife, Hannah Stein. I recognized the name at once but thought it might have been a coincidental duplication—
it was not an uncommon name for a German Jew—but very quickly I realized he had been married to the Hannah Stein, the forthright woman who had worked so closely with Ben-Gurion and Golda Meir in the thirties and forties to bring about the nation-state of Israel.
When I realized this, the old man changed in my eyes; he was more than the quaint relic I had taken him for. In fact it turned out that for several years—the years that counted—he himself had been an agent for the Mossad. I felt terribly foolish; I took to casting back through our discussions in an attempt to recall whether I had appeared patronizing at any point. Now he was no longer a garrulous old man still living in a forgotten war of fifty years ago; he was a veteran Israeli security agent who had helped forge a nation in what must have been one of the great adventures of the mid-twentieth century. For the first time I realized that the importance of his life had not drifted away after the fall of Kolchak: that in terms of his own accomplishments the Russian Civil War had been a minor youthful training ground for the hard important events in which he had figured in his maturity.
He showed me a photograph of himself and Hannah Stein that had been taken in 1949; I knew her face from all the old newspaper photographs but I found Haim Tippelskirch barely recognizable. For the first time now I understood why Nikki had been so alarmed when we had paid him our first visit together. In the photograph he was a strapping giant in his prime: a man of fifty or thereabouts, towering over his sturdy wife, the big chest and shoulders filling the poplin of his new Israeli uniform. Today he was nothing more than a bookmark left in place of that man. His color was faded, a kind of powdered yellow; the skin hung in brittle folds from his skull and the spidery hands were always atremble, mottled with small brownish-blue spots of illness and age. He was still tall but the shoulders seemed to have curled inward, the chest collapsed; he was gaunt and tired and only the pale eyes reminded you of life, like bright coals in the ashes of a dead fire.
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