by Pete Ayrton
Throughout this tumultuous life, Serge wrote an amazing amount: non-fiction books on the political events he witnessed, poems and a series of seven ‘witness-novels’. In the prefatory note to The Case of Comrade Tulayev, from which this extract is taken, Serge writes: ‘This novel belongs entirely to the domain of literary fiction. The truth created by the novelist cannot be confounded, in any degree whatever, with the truth of the historian or the chronicler.’
PIERRE HERBART
MY GODS ABANDONED
from La Ligne de Force
translated by Nick Caistor
ON MY RETURN FROM THE USSR I was very depressed. Nobody abandons their gods without anguish. I had decided to break with the Party. But there was the war in Spain. We thought the USSR was helping the Republicans. I managed to persuade Gide to wait for Malraux’s judgment before he published the book he had written in such haste. Before leaving for Spain (Malraux was in Albacete), I went to see Aragon. There was already a rumour going round Paris that Gide was preparing a ‘bomb’. Of course, Aragon knew more about it than anyone. I told him – which was true – that I was hoping to bring back evidence from Spain that would convince Gide to postpone the publication of his book until much later. I boarded the plane with the proofs of Return from the USSR in my pocket. In Barcelona, anarchist friends of mine outlined their situation. Hunted down by the GPU, their comrades were disappearing one after another. Their bodies were discovered by the roadsides, a bullet in the back of their heads. Soviet ‘aid’ consisted mainly of a vast police operation against the ‘dissidents’. In Albacete, Marty was doing the same with the International Brigades. In the midst of all this turmoil, Malraux was doing his best to provide the Republicans with an air force. I gave him the famous proofs. The next day, he looked worried.
‘You’ve got yourself into a fine mess,’ he told me.
‘Why’s that?’
‘Are you absolutely sure that Gide isn’t going to publish the book while you’re in Spain?’
I went pale. I wasn’t sure of anything. Left to his own devices, Gide was capable of quickly forgetting his promise. I knew only too well how hard he found it to resist the temptation of the printed word.
‘And even if he doesn’t publish it,’ Malraux went on, ‘the simple fact of finding it on you... ’
He didn’t finish his sentence.
‘I’ll go to Madrid,’ I told him, ‘and show the proofs to Koltsov.’
Malraux remained thoughtful.
‘That’s perhaps the best option... better still would be for you to return to Paris straightaway.’
‘No. I’m going to Madrid.’
‘Fine. I’ll come and see you in a few days.’
In Madrid, Koltsov put me up near him in the Russian embassy. I couldn’t bring myself to broach the matter. I suddenly realized that Gide’s book was a huge threat to him. He was the one responsible for organizing the trip to the USSR.
One morning I was in his office. I had promised myself I wouldn’t leave without giving him the proofs that were weighing down my jacket pocket.
‘Yes,’ he said, pacing up and down the room as he usually did: ‘Yes ... our situation is ... delicate. Comrade Stalin’s orders are clear, and as ever, realistic: stay out of range of the guns.’ He raised his forefinger. ‘Do you understand? There’s a nuance: we’re here, and yet we’re not here. The telephone you can see over there puts me in contact with Moscow; that other one, with Paris. When the one on the left rings, I know it’s Aragon. On the right, it’s ... Do you understand?The vital thing is not to confuse them. But what on earth are you doing getting involved in all this? Do you want to fight?’
‘Hmm. I’m not really sure. In general terms, it’s not my kind of thing.’
‘Ah! Dear Herbart, dear comrade Herbart, how I understand you! But you see, we’re also fighting here, in this office. We’ll fight side by side, in here!’
He pressed a buzzer.
‘My militiaman comrade,’ he said in his poor Spanish, ‘please bring us some caviar and vodka. The comrade from France is famished.’ Then, turning to me he said, his finger raised once more: ‘Stay out of range of the guns. Brilliant, eh? Blum is also staying out of range. The problem is, he’s a bit too far away. That spoils the effect. Aha, it’s ringing on the left. That will be Aragon, you’ll see.’
He picked up the ’phone. ‘Ah, good morning. Just imagine, I was convinced it would be you. So what’s new?’A long silence, then his curt interjection: ‘When?’ Silence. ‘Yes, he’s here in my office.’ I could hear interference on the line. ‘Responsible? Why is he responsible?’ Eventually: ‘Yes, of course they were together. But even so, he didn’t write the book. Oh well, thank you, thank you. I’ll keep you informed.’
Koltsov turned towards me. His face was white as chalk.
‘Gide has just published a book about his trip to the USSR. A terrible book.’
‘Here are the proofs,’ I told him.
That afternoon, Koltsov came looking for me in my room.
‘I’ve read it,’ he said. ‘It may be less serious than I feared.’
‘Why is that?’
‘It is not dissidence; it’s opposition. Gide is criticizing from the outside. You can’t prohibit people from being outside the door. But if they cross the threshold and come into my office, for example, then you can’t tolerate any hair-splitting.’
‘I don’t follow you,’ I said.
‘I don’t either,’ he said with a strained smile. ‘I’m trying to see how I can limit the damage. It’s going to create an incredible storm on that side,’ he added, pointing to the right-hand telephone. ‘Let’s go out for a while, shall we? I need some air.’
‘I can’t go out. I haven’t been given a safe-conduct yet. All I have is the document from the Spanish embassy in Paris. You know that’s worthless.’
Koltsov seemed very interested.
‘When did you request a safe-conduct? Who to? Our ambassador here?’
‘Yes, I requested it three days ago, when I arrived.’
‘Aha,’ muttered Koltsov. ‘And you still haven’t received anything? Could they have... could someone have told them ... anyway, it doesn’t matter, you’ll be safe with me. Let’s go.’
The car, red flag fluttering, dropped us near Puerta del Sol. A wide, completely deserted avenue rose towards the sky, visible in the distance between rows of houses. We walked along the pavement. From time to time came the sound of gunfire. We were stopped several times by militiamen taking cover in corners.
‘Ambajada sovietica,’ Koltsov would say.
And they would let us through.
‘This is the furthest we can go,’ said Koltsov.
It was a barricade of sacks of earth, behind which soldiers kept watch, their rifles pointing at another barricade blocking the avenue a hundred metres further on. There was a special quality to the silence; the air seemed rarefied. The no man’s land between the two barricades held an obsessive attraction for me. A bullet grazed the façade behind our heads.
‘Let’s go in,’ said Koltsov.
‘Go in where?’ I wondered. Into the last house before the barricade. I could see all the ground floors formed a kind of corridor where the walls had been knocked through to allow passage from one to the next. The windows obscured with sacks in a feeble daylight. It was as if we were in a basement. It went on like that for fifty metres, through possibly ten houses. All the rooms were completely empty. At first glance nothing recalled their former use, but suddenly I could tell from my sense of smell that I was crossing a long chain of small shops. I slowed down, sniffing cautiously. Here, a shop selling rope sandals. There, a butcher’s; further on, a bakery. Faint or strong smells wafted through the air. Occasionally I came to a halt, at a loss. ‘Leather and furs,’ I would decide. Or again: ‘Oranges’, ‘Absinthe’. This corridor giving onto death if any exit door was pushed open seemed to offer the greatest protection in the city. The sound of the rare gunshots, muffled by the sand
bags, came from a very distant, sham world. Real life was mysteriously hidden here in the memory of these old-fashioned smells.
‘Here we are at the end of the night,’ said Koltsov, thumping a wall. Other blows responded immediately from the other side of the wall, together with a burst of shouted insults. The Falangists were there, fifty centimetres from us. One of our militiamen shouted some insults in reply, and then started singing in a high, piercing, if slightly hoarse voice. He was a young boy, almost a child. As he sang, he closed his eyes and poured out notes with his head thrown back like a dog howling at the moon. When he fell quiet, a voice on the far side of the wall took up the same song, and our boy continued the minute he too fell silent.
Koltsov and I looked at each other in silence.
‘By the way,’ he said, ‘I had to account for Gide’s book to comrade X. (I didn’t understand the name he said.) ‘I’m sure he will want to question you.’
I was asleep some time around midnight when my door opened (I thought I had locked it). An extremely fat man with a pallid look came across to my bed. He grabbed a chair, sat on it, and began without so much as introducing himself:
‘Comrade Herbart, I have read André Gide’s anti-Soviet book closely... But you were sleeping, and I’m disturbing you... Wait, let’s drink some champagne... ’
He rang, and to my great surprise a servant appeared with a bottle of champagne and two glasses. The stranger carefully uncorked it, filled the glasses and said, raising his own:
‘Here’s to the health of the traitor André Gide... What, aren’t you drinking?’
‘I’m not thirsty,’ I said.
‘Perhaps you don’t like my toast?’
‘I don’t like your toast.’
‘Does it shock you?’
‘It shocks me. André Gide didn’t betray anything apart from his own bewilderment faced with certain contradictions that a non-Marxist mind finds it hard to resolve.’
‘How well I talk,’ I said to myself. ‘The fact is, I’m not at all afraid.
I’m not frightened because I started thinking of N. and I don’t care about anything.’
‘Objectively... ’ my visitor began.
I cut him short.
‘Yes, objectively, I know... But doubtless you wanted to ask me questions about the trip.’
‘I’ll ask whatever questions I like,’ he replied curtly.
I was filled with rage, one of those overwhelming rages that immediately boils over.
‘Comrade,’ I shouted, sitting up in my bed. ‘It will soon be one in the morning. I am tired. I won’t answer a single question tonight.’
To show I was serious, I covered my head with the blanket. Some time later, I risked leaving my refuge. I was alone. I jumped out of bed, ran to the door and shot the bolt. I was about to get back into bed when I came up short, the blood freezing in my veins. My revolver which, as I did every night, I had left on my bedside table, was no longer there. ‘That’s bad,’ I grunted. I fell asleep immediately like a brute.
The next morning I kicked up a big fuss about my revolver. ‘There are Francoist spies even in the embassy,’ I complained.
Koltsov was listening to me curiously.
‘And when will I get my safe-conduct?’
‘You’re nervous,’ Koltsov observed. ‘Just wait calmly... ’
The fat man from the night before came in and handed Koltsov a piece of paper without a word. I noticed that the stranger had his hair plastered down on his forehead. When he had read what was written on the paper, Koltsov looked enquiringly at the fat man, who merely touched his cap a couple of times. I don’t know why, but this silent scene filled me with unease (probably also because the obese gentleman, when he caught my eye, stared vacantly at me as if he had never seen me before).
The next night, Madrid was bombed.
I had put in my Quiès ear-plugs. When I opened my eyes, I was astonished to see three men waving their arms about inside my room. A bomb had gone off on my balcony. The window frame had been blown in and was lying on my bed. There was a delicate halo of broken glass all round my head. I had not heard a thing. I took out my ear-plugs, and the film suddenly became a talkie. Stalenkov (let’s call him that) was shrieking at me:
‘You left your light on... as a signal to the enemy!’
‘If the Francoist airmen are so accurate with their bombs, the Republic’s had it,’ I replied.
The fat man’s two acolytes were picking up the shards of glass on my sheets with their fingers.
‘Get up!’ they ordered me. ‘We’ll find you another room.’
I got dressed. The fat man was staring out of the window. For a split second I hoped he would take another step forward and fall from the fourth floor, as the balcony balustrade had been torn away by the bomb.
‘Something is burning,’ he said. He turned towards me: ‘Would you like to go and see the fire?’
That suited me fine. What was burning was a covered market. The pavements all round it were packed with armed militiamen who were arguing furiously with murderous-looking civilians. They all claimed the market had not been hit by a bomb. Spies had taken advantage of the air-raid to set the place on fire. One woman was shouting: ‘They want us to starve!’ Stalenkov, his men and I spoke French to each other. I caught some of the crowd looking at me menacingly. All of a sudden we were confronted by militiamen.
‘Ambajada sovietica,’ said Stalenkov. But this time the password didn’t work. With deliberate slowness, the fat man took out his wallet and produced a document.
‘Ambajada sovietica,’ he repeated, pointing to his two companions.
‘What about this one?’ said the militiamen.
Stalenkov glanced casually in my direction, shrugged his shoulders, and left without responding. The barrel of a sub-machine gun was jabbed into my ribs. The angry crowd closed in around me. ‘This time I’m done for,’ I told myself. ‘They’re in such a state they’re either going to shoot me or let the crowd tear me to pieces.’ It was the fact that the militiamen were so small that saved me. I could see over their heads. A few feet away I saw the poet José Bergamín also watching the fire.
‘What’s happening to you?’ he shouted. Then, to the militiamen: ‘For goodness’ sake, let him go!’
The threats changed to applause. I was quaking with fear and horror.
‘Could you take me back to the Soviet embassy?’ I asked Bergamín.
When he saw me, Koltsov’s face brightened. The fat man and his henchmen did not react.
‘What’s this then?’ said Koltsov. ‘You get lost now like Tom Thumb, do you?’
‘People lose me like Tom Thumb,’ I corrected him.
Koltsov had a bed made up for me on his couch. He had to lend me a pair of pyjamas, because my things had disappeared, and my suitcase had apparently ‘gone astray’.
One sleeps wonderfully after a real fright. But when I woke up I didn’t feel so triumphant. I was cornered like a rat. How was I to escape? ‘Telephone Paris,’ I told myself. ‘They might be embarrassed if people find out I’m their guest at the embassy.’ I picked up the left-hand telephone. ‘There’s no point calling home,’ I calculated. ‘Nobody will be there.’
‘What number?’ asked the girl on the switchboard in Paris.
‘Littré 13–31,’ I told her.
That was Malraux’s number. ‘Please god let Clara be in, let Clara be in... ’ I begged. Koltsov came into the office.
‘Is that you, Clara?’ I said. ‘I wanted to ask you to call my wife to re-assure her. Tell her I’ve been taken in by the Russian embassy. Yes, I’m living there. I saw André last week. He’s fine. So please call my wife straightaway.’
Koltsov was standing in front of his desk, tidying some papers.
‘...I wanted them to know in Paris that I’m safe, staying here with you,’ I said.
Koltsov nodded.
‘Clara Malraux is a very good comrade,’ he said.
That afternoon, Malraux swept i
n. I suspect he made the journey from Albacete to Madrid just to find out what had become of me. I managed to get him on his own.
‘I’m taking you with me,’ he declared once I had explained everything to him. And to Koltsov: ‘Herbart is wasting his time here. Send him to Barcelona; I’ll find a plane for him in Albacete.’
Koltsov leapt at this chance to get rid of me. In all seriousness, he drew up a list of comrades I must see in Catalonia, wrote letters of introduction, added lots of official stamps.
‘We need you to carry out an investigation into the state of mind of the anarcho-syndicalist groups,’ he insisted. ‘And you’ll bring back the results. So I’ll see you soon. Or rather, I won’t. I will probably be recalled to Moscow.’ He shook my hand. ‘Farewell. I’ll send your greetings to Maria.’
I knew I would never see him again.
When I landed at Le Bourget, I jumped into a taxi that took me straight to Aragon’s. I’m sure he remembers that visit. As for Gide, he welcomed me with open arms.
‘My Return from the USSR is the talk of the town.’
‘You almost got me shot.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous! Look my dear man, since you’re here, admit that what I did was for the best. And believe me, I thought and thought about it.’