I was relieved that we had not yet reached territory controlled by the notorious ‘Batko’ Makhno. Batko meant ‘Little Father’ or ‘Elder’, but with a more democratically affectionate ring. Makhno was supposed to be fighting on the Bolshevik side but was notorious for his treachery. He had almost defeated the Nationalists singlehanded at Ekaterinoslav in November.
Hrihorieff’s men were a small unit left by the line to stop any passing train. People began to argue that the loco had been flying red flags. The Haidamaki claimed they had been confused. Nationalists were not above playing tricks.
Their swarthy leader appeared. He was a barrel-bodied brute with heavy black eyebrows. He was dressed in a dark red-belted kaftan, with bullet-pouches, a sheepskin shapka, French army trousers, riding boots. He carried two Mauser pistols, a variety of knives and, of course, a Cossack sabre. He sported a vicious horsewhip. Like all Cossacks, he knew the value of that whip in inducing terror. It could kill. The villain was enjoying his power. I began to think I should have been better off with the Chekist.
He stopped, as I had expected, when he got to me. He looked with some amusement at my good-quality clothes. They were wet to the knees and I was still covered in Marusia Kirillovna’s blood. ‘What’s in the suitcase?’ He spoke superciliously. ‘Gold?’
‘Of course not. I’m on Party business.’
‘From Moscow?’
‘From Kiev.’
‘They’ re all yids in Moscow now.’ He fingered his whip reminiscently.
I nodded.
‘And in Kiev. That’s what I don’t like about this. We’re actually helping the yids.’ He looked away from me in disgust and turned as if for support to the frightened peasants. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Odessa,’ I began.
He turned back. ‘I was talking to these. Where are you going?’
They chorused the names of various towns and cities. He scratched his heavy eyebrows. ‘That’s enough.’ He pointed with his whip at some obvious Jews, including two who wore skull-caps, and told them to stand forward. They came shuffling through the crowd. They looked hopeless.
‘Everyone else back in the carriage,’ he said.
I started to climb the steps again but it was ‘not you’ and ‘back here’. I became impatient. ‘This won’t do, comrade.’ ‘You’re a bloody Bolshevik yid.’
I was shocked by the double insult. ‘My name’s Pyatnitski. I’m an engineer.’
‘What’s your real name?’
‘I have a passport,’ I told him. I put my suitcase on its side on the step and opened it. I removed my spare set of papers. I offered them to him. It was the look of rage he gave me as he took them which made me realise he could not read. But he held them to his nose, going through them slowly. He put them in his sleeve, having studied the photograph very carefully. ‘Pyatnitski. That’s a Russian name.’
‘I can’t help my name, comrade. I’m working for Ukrainian interests.’
‘Nationalists?’
‘I don’t care what they’re called. I’m trying to free Ukraine from all foreign interests.’
‘Including yids?’
‘Naturally.’
‘So you’re a traitor, too.’
‘I’m not Jewish.’
‘Then you’re the only Bolshevik who isn’t.’
‘May I return to my carriage?’
‘Why aren’t they outside too?’ He glanced at the windows.
‘We’re Party people.’
‘Yids going home to Odessa.’ He struck at a pane of glass with his whip. It cracked. He laughed. ‘Come on, comrades. All out. In the snow with the proletariat.’
They would not come. Eventually some of the bandits had to board the carriage and drive everyone down. They stood in groups like angry chickens. They had put their revolvers back in their pockets or in their luggage. Many were protesting. Not a few displayed special cards and passes. They made more noise than the whole of the rest of the train. ‘Shut up!’ shouted our persecutor. ‘What money have you got?’
‘Money?’ It was, I think, Potoaki speaking. ‘Hardly any.’
‘Bloody Red yids. Gold!’
‘Pogromchik!’ said a thin-faced woman in a head-scarf. ‘You’ve killed half the people in there. Corpses all over the place. You killed a girl!’ ‘We’re used to killing, lady. It doesn’t mean a great deal to us.’ ‘Trotsky will learn of this,’ said someone else.
‘Then Trotsky will find out how we treat yids in Ukraine. We’re not working for yids, Red, White, Green or Yellow. We’ve had enough of them.’ ‘Antisemitic, ignorant, capitalist … ‘
‘I’ll admit to all of that, comrade. Hrihorieff is fighting with your masters because it suits him. To get rid of the landowners. You think you’re using us. We’re using you.’ He lashed out with his whip. Its thongs whistled over the woman’s head. She sucked and sobbed. ‘You bastard.’
‘We want gold and supplies. We were promised them by Antonov. Where are they?’
‘They’re on the next train,’ I said. ‘A special train.’
‘How do you know?’
‘We discussed your supplies before I left. We knew it was urgent.’ ‘Coming down this line?’ ‘Following us.’
‘That’s right.’ Someone had guessed what I was doing. ‘It shouldn’t be more than half-an-hour behind.’
‘Good,’ said the Cossack. ‘We’ll wait for it.’ ‘There might be a crash,’ I pointed out. ‘Fine. We’ll be sure it stops then, won’t we?’ ‘You’ll foul up the alliance,’ said Potoaki. ‘You’ll lose all our support.’
‘We’ve been doing fairly well without it. We need a few immediate supplies, a bit of ammunition. You might see us in Moscow before the spring’s out.’ He was glutted with provincial pride because of a few local victories. He was like those Vikings who attacked a town on the Seine and came home claiming they had sacked Rome. He made a noise in his nose and looked me up and down. ‘You’re an engineer. What sort?’
‘Most sorts.’
‘Know about motor-engines?’
‘Of course.’
‘You can fix one?’
I decided I had to ingratiate myself with this idiot or stand the risk of being shot. ‘All things being equal.’
‘What?’
‘If no new parts are needed. I can see what’s wrong. If something’s missing I might be able to improvise. But if you’ve lost something crucial … ’
‘We’ve got a truck,’ he said. ‘It stopped. Will you look at it?’
‘In the common cause?’ He shrugged. ‘Will you look at it?’
‘If you promise I get back on the train when I’ve done so.’
‘All right.’
I did not know if he would wait for the fictional supply train or whether he would be afraid to face it. I returned my bag to my compartment. On a page of the notebook I carried I wrote Uncle Semya’s address. I put it in the suitcase. The other case had only clothes. This one was the most important, because it contained my plans, my designs, my notes.
I joined the scowling Cossack. His men were already looting the train, watched by helpless Red sailors. Not only Jews were suffering, although these were getting the harshest treatment. A Hasid with a bloody crotch was spread-eagled, dead, half-way up the embankment.
I followed the Cossack as he plunged towards the crest. Having slipped a couple of times, I was now covered in snow. I was shivering and uncomfortable. We reached the top. We looked down on a thin, earth road. There were some ponies standing there, attended by a young boy in a tattered sheepskin. Their breath looked whiter than the snow and there seemed to be a tranquillity here. Further along the road were three carts, harnessed to horses, and a motor-van. From the van came more vapour. German insignia had been partially scraped from its sides. It flew a red flag. The bonnet was open. Two Cossacks were arguing about what they could see inside. They spoke in dialect. As we approached, they fell silent. One of them removed his cap, then put it shamefacedly back on. Their lead
er said, ‘This is a mechanic from Moscow. He’ll look at it.’
I could see immediately that the radiator hose had come loose. All it needed was tying back on with a leather thong. I decided to try to impress them. My life depended on it. ‘Who drives?’ A sickly fellow, the one who had removed his cap, raised his hand. ‘You start the engine,’ I said to his companion. The crank-lever was already in position. He began to turn it like a peasant winding a bucket from a well. At last the engine fired and immediately began over-heating. I enjoyed its warmth in that bitter air. I walked round and round in front of the truck, as if thinking deeply. I told them to stop the engine. I told them to stand back. They did this with alacrity. I took the hose in my gloved hands and replaced it. I asked for a thong. One was found. I bound the hose up, unscrewed the radiator cap and told them to put snow into a bucket and warm it on the engine.
‘Snow!’ said their leader. ‘The thing runs on benzene.’
Even I was surprised by this ignorance. ‘Do as I say.’
The two men found a large water container and began to pick snow up in their hands, cramming it in. When it had melted I told them to begin pouring it into the radiator. ‘Not too quickly.’
Eventually the radiator was brimming over. I told them to start the engine again. As the truck spluttered and shook the leader yelled at me: ‘It hasn’t worked. What else is wrong?’
Then the motor was turning. The Cossack who had cranked it jumped back. By the smell of the fumes, it was hard to know what kind of fuel they were using. The black smoke suggested it might have been unrefined oil. The truck began to roll towards me. The driver yelled and swung the steering wheel. Their driving was only slightly better than their knowledge of the internal combustion engine. A brake was applied. I picked myself out of the snowdrift. From behind the embankment I heard sounds and saw steam. ‘The train’s leaving.’
‘You’ve just saved your life.’ The leader grinned. He was pleased to see the truck running. ‘Thank God, if you like. What’s a trip to Odessa worth now? You’ve just been saved a trip to Hell. I don’t know what you thought you were: yid, Katsup or Bolshie. But you’re now an official engineer with the host of Hetman Hrihorieff, serving under Sotnik Grishenko. Aren’t you proud?’
The bandits were coming back, grinning, waving and displaying their dishonourable booty. The stuff was thrown into the truck. I was made to climb aboard with the rest of the loot. I found myself in a tangle of stolen goods, machine-guns, ammunition, salted pork and two small girls who giggled when they saw me and offered me some herring. I accepted. It might be the last food I would get. The girls murmured at me in their thick accents. They were survivors from a village fought over by Reds and Nationalists. The truck moved off. Sotnik (Captain) Grishenko rode up close behind us. He had a look of self-satisfaction on his hard features. ‘Fix the canopy, if you like. You’ll be warmer. Don’t eat too much. That’s food for a lot of soldiers.’
‘Where the hell are we going?’ There was no point in my remaining polite.
‘Don’t worry, yid, you’re in safe hands.’
I shouted back at him. ‘I’m not Jewish. I’m travelling on Party business.’
‘Then you’re on Jewish business, aren’t you?’ He was pleased at his wit. He whipped his horse into a trot and was gone. I looked out at the bleak, uninhabitable hills. The line of yellow mist had joined the land. I tried to see smoke, either from the train or from a farmhouse where I might seek refuge. But there was nothing.
All I had worked for was in a suitcase in a carriage full of Bolsheviks who would steal it without a scruple. My mother and Esmé might be waiting at the station and learn of my fate. There was nothing I could do except hope we passed through a town. I would try to escape and send a telegram to Odessa. I shifted myself into a more comfortable position against a machine-gun tripod. In the end I was forced to rest my elbow on a side of pork. It became colder. I lowered the canopy, but let a corner flap. I would be able to see if we reached a good-sized settlement.
I was in the position of an enslaved magician. While I was able to perform simple tricks for these barbarians, they would keep me alive. I had been horrified by the bandit’s assumption that I was Jewish because Cossacks felt no conscience at all about killing Jews. Accuse a Slav of being a Jew and you take his breath from his body, the saliva from his mouth, the soul from his eyes. I do not fear death. I have God and I have my honour. My pride has gone. They laugh at me in the market. They call me names, even Jew. They steal from my shop and put their greasy hands on my clothes, and they sneer and ask stupid questions. Mrs Cornelius screamed at them and made them leave. The young girls are so sweet. They buy the white night-dresses and the little blouses and the silk knickers and they are so beautiful. They should sing the ‘Dante’ of Liszt to the music of harps. Lament for exiles; lament for Dante in his exile and his greatness. Lament for Chopin, who could never come to terms with his own Slavic spirit, and who also became an exile. I should like to die in Kiev, looking at lilacs and chestnut trees. The Bolsheviks have probably cut them all down to make their motorways. It is all flats. It is like the flats around here. That is your socialism. The rationalists destroy our world. Where we see beauty and the boundless wonders of science, they see only tidy shapes, their flats. Give me the old Russian rutted track across the broad steppe. Give me that again and I shall forget God’s gifts of Science and Prescience. The people do not want Prometheus. Prometheus is burdened by knowledge.
The road did not improve. The truck had no real suspension. It veered frequently. The driver used vodka as a substitute for experience. He needed courage, considering the speed at which he was driving and the condition of the road. Horses and carts vanished behind us. I would have a better than average chance of escape if I jumped clear then. But I would have frozen to death. I had no proper clothing. I had no map or knowledge of the area. I was not even sure which province this was. In spite of the noise from the truck, the discomfort and the fighting of the two little girls, towards evening a sense of peace came. The truck began to slow. I looked through the flap. To my elation I saw we passed through a fair-sized village. I eased myself towards the canopy and was about to squeeze out when the truck stopped. I was thrown amongst pork and machine-guns. The little girls squealed and giggled. I asked them if they knew where we were. They could not understand Russian. My bad Ukrainian baffled them. They had had no education at all. If they had been sent to school, they would have known Russian. It was the official language. Voices came from the twilit street. I drew back the canopy and jumped out. I faced two men wearing blue jackets with gold frogging. For a moment I thought they were officials and was relieved. Then I realised they also wore bandoliers. One had a sailor’s cap. The other had a fur hat with earflaps. They were heavily bearded, with a slight oriental appearance. They were bandits.
‘Fraternal greetings, comrades.’ I spread my arms wide, as if to embrace them. ‘Pyatnitski. Engineer and mechanic.’
In Russian one of them said dully, ‘What?’ I repeated myself, word for word. A man in a clean, grey great coat and regulation cap came striding up. He said cheerfully, ‘They don’t know any Russian except military stuff. They can take orders, poor bastards, but they can’t follow a joke. They’re from Volhynia. They’ll understand Polish.’
I thought it best not to mention my Polish. Knowledge is often of most use when kept to oneself.
‘Where are we?’ I asked.
He was amused. ‘Purgatory. We’ve taken over the town as our base. Who are you with?’ He was clean-shaven and spoke with an educated accent. He signed for the truck to pull over towards a church being used as a storehouse.
‘I was going to Odessa. Grishenko asked me to fix the truck, so I obliged. Is there anywhere I can send a telegram?’
‘Someone’s repairing the wires. They’ll be working by morning. At least as far as Ekaterinoslav.’
It would be possible to catch a train from Ekaterinoslav. Sotnik Grishenko and his men came plodding up
on weary ponies. ‘Trust you to be hob-nobbing with Jews, Yermeloff!’ He dismounted and yawned.
Yermeloff laughed. ‘He said his name’s Pyatnitski.’
‘He’s got papers to prove it, too.’ These were drawn from the dirty sleeve.
‘See?’
Yermeloff could read. In the bad light he looked at them and shrugged. ‘They’re good papers. Are you on your way out of Russia?’
‘Certainly not.’ I reached for my passport. Yermeloff hesitated, glanced at Grishenko, then gave it to me. I put it in my pocket. ‘I’m working for the Party.’
‘You’re from Moscow?’
‘No. I’m from Kiev. I’m as good a Ukrainian as anyone. I want Ukraine to have her old pride back.’
Grishenko snorted. ‘Well, Katsupi and yids stick together. Good luck with him, Yermeloff. But don’t let him escape, eh? We’ve uses for him. He muttered a spell over our truck and she’s as good as new.’ He crossed to the church and, leading the two little girls by their hands, entered the doors, like a father on his way to worship.
Yermeloff said, ‘You needn’t be afraid. I have Jewish comrades.’
‘I have Cossack blood,’ I told him. ‘It is my misfortune if I look Jewish to you. Is everyone who is not fair-haired, pink-skinned, a Jew? Is your leader a Jew?’
‘Everyone’s a Jew to Grishenko. It makes killing them easier. You don’t really talk like a Jew. I apologise.’
This well-educated man might be useful as an ally. I accepted his apology in the hope of encouraging his protection. The trouble with brutes is that they are suspicious of Reason yet become aggressive if you shout at them. God knows what their lives are like as children.
We had arrived at a house on one side of the broad, muddy, unmade streets, some distance from the church. It was a small house, built around a courtyard in which two ponies and a goat were tethered. ‘Are you really an engineer?’ Yermeloff asked. ‘Or were you just lucky?’ His cool eyes looked into mine with an expression of the mildest curiosity. He laughed. ‘I was a lieutenant in the Tsarist army. I’m a captain with our Ataman. Would the Bolsheviks make me a general, do you think?’
Byzantium Endures: The First Volume of the Colonel Pyat Quartet Page 40