Little Apple

by Leo Perutz

  When the owner of this miscellany noticed that Vit¬torin paid little heed to his remarks and kept trying to reopen the subject of Selyukov, he replaced his "curios and treasures" in the casket and the latter in the desk. Then he retired to his room.

  Such was Vit¬torin's only conversation with Baron Pis-tolkors, a stubborn upholder of the ancien regime who had advised the Tsar - disastrously, as it turned out - to refuse the liberal members of the Duma an audience in January 1917 . . .

  Pistolkors spent the ensuing days closeted in his room, playing the violin - Bach, for the most part, and the melancholy, impassioned melodies of the early Italians. Vit¬torin never again set eyes on him, perhaps because the baron regretted that lack of human companionship had prompted him to confide so fully in a stranger, or perhaps because he had no wish to disclose that the cherry-red dressing-gown was the only garment he possessed.

  He played the violin from morning till late at night. He was in the middle of Tartini's "La Furiosa" sonata when the men from the Cheka came to fetch him.

  A priest who had been discharged from Lubyanka Prison the previous day brought Vit¬torin a note from Baron Pistolkors. It was dated and headed: "From life's back yard". The former gentleman-in-waiting asked for his violin, a few books, and the brown woollen rug he had used as a curtain. The world of men, he wrote, was a crass and cruel place. Malice, vindictiveness and petty-mindedness were the Holy Trinity of the age. He also asked for some cigarettes to help him establish "a tolerable relationship" with his fellow prisoners.

  Vit¬torin could not find the woollen rug among the Baron's belongings and decided to give him his own fur coat instead. When he presented himself at Lubyanka Prison with his bundle the following morning, however, he learned that the man for whom its contents were intended had been shot in the yard of the Alexander School two hours before.

  He sold the violin in the flea market. Instead of going back to his office he roamed the streets every day on the lookout for soldiers returning from the front. Vit¬torin was quite at home in Moscow by now. He knew the days on which underclothes and shoes were for sale at the market stalls in Sukharev Square. He could distinguish Soviet and Kerensky roubles from the banknotes of the Don Government and the Lettish and Georgian Republics. He wore a Russian smock. He knew where to go to get food and when it was distributed. He also knew how to converse with front-line soldiers in their own idiom and could induce even the most taciturn among them to talk to him.

  Where Selyukov was concerned, however, he made no progress at all. The conflicting reports he received were irreconcilable. The Semyonov Regiment had covered itself with glory during the capture of Orsk, he was informed one day, only to be assured the next that it had months ago been disbanded on account of anti-revolutionary sentiment. It turned up in two different places within hours, once victoriously advancing through Siberia, once riddled with scurvy and completely hors de combat on the northern front. Selyukov himself had been appointed a divisional commander at Kharkov, had been killed at Kupyansk while serving as an artillery spotter, had embezzled the regimental funds and deserted to the enemy at Yuryev - and all this within the space of a single week. Vit¬torin's informants were unanimous on one point only: that they had encountered Selyukov at the front. They recognized him instantly from Vit¬torin's description.

  Despite these setbacks, and for want of any other expedient,

  he persevered with his inquiries. He haunted the vicinity of railway stations and accosted soldiers in search of a bed for the night, offered to put them up at the apartment, plied them with tea and cigarettes, bought cartridge-case lighters from them. When they departed after hours of talk and little sleep, they left behind a smell of makhorka tobacco and wet sheepskin, leather jackets and horse dung, anise oil and onions, cabbage soup and rain-sodden grass.

  It was a routine that persisted until the evening Vit¬torin came across someone who hailed from a different kind of battlefront.

  When Vit¬torin approached the man near the freight station, he had just eaten a snack standing up and was stowing away the remains - a hunk of black bread and a pickled gherkin - in his knapsack. All that distinguished him from the front-line soldiers around him was the pair of glasses he wore. The button on his old gunner's cap was dyed with red ink. On the strength of the glasses, Vit¬torin guessed him to be an orderly-room clerk with a battalion headquarters in transit from one front to another.

  It turned out that the man had nowhere to sleep. Tired out after a long train journey, or so it seemed, he responded monosyllabically to Vit¬torin's questions on the way to Tagan-sky Square. Once in the lobby of the apartment he removed his tattered grey overcoat, an unproletarian proceeding which Vit¬torin had observed in none of his previous visitors.

  As soon as they entered the Baron's study, the soldier's manner underwent a strange and startling change. Every sign of diffidence and fatigue vanished. While Vit¬torin was making tea he toured the room and examined the desk and bookcase with particular interest. Then, more like the master of the house than a guest, he walked through the dressing-room to the bedroom, whistling softly as he went. Having inspected the whole apartment, he went to the window and peered down into the street.

  "What time is it, comrade?" he asked without looking round.

  "Seven o'clock."

  "Seven, eh?" he murmured. "They haven't changed, the mangy dogs! The old Russia has gone, swept away by time and tide, but those priests' sons are still there, still the same as ever. The only difference is, these days they hunt me in the name of Bolshevism. Once upon a time, when I was manning the barricades, they sang 'God save the Tsar'. Cowards, that's all they are - scared of their own shadows."

  Vit¬torin, busy with the samovar, had only caught the last few words. "Who's scared?" he asked.

  "Scared and stupid - yes, stupid as well. They're a bone-headed bunch."

  "Who are you talking about, comrade?"

  "The Cheka police, of course. At this very moment, those pumpkin-eaters are searching the apartment I left this morning."

  "You have an apartment?" Vit¬torin exclaimed. "You mean you haven't just come from the front?"

  The stranger slowly turned to face him.

  "Why pretend, comrade? I've been watching you for the past week, surely you spotted me? If you didn't, what kind of an 'illegal' are you?"

  Vit¬torin reached for his revolver, but it had disappeared.

  "Stay where you are," he blurted out. "Keep away from me. What do you want?"

  "Forget about Comrade Mauser," the stranger said. "I want to know what organization you belong to and who sent you here, that's all. I've admired your work - your efforts to establish contact with military personnel. You're obviously operating in accordance with some definite plan. You've entertained men from seven different regiments in the last few days, here in this room."

  Vit¬torin was dismayed. "Seven or seventy," he retorted, "what business is it of yours?"

  The stranger shrugged.

  "Artemyev may be right in thinking that you belong to some right-wing officers' association," he said. "There's a so-called 'Rebirth League' in Moscow, but we haven't managed to get in touch with it."

  Now that he had heard a familiar name, Vit¬torin felt less at sea.

  "So you're one of Artemyev's men," he said. "You should have said so in the first place. I know Artemyev - I've had dealings with him. Where is he? Is he in Moscow?"

  "He's here all right. Did you read about that raid on the armoured car full of cash from the Leather Distribution Centre? That was Artemyev. You're looking slightly reassured, I see. I'm sure we'll come to some agreement in the end. You might even offer me a cup of tea."

  "What is there to agree on, comrade?" asked Vit¬torin, his suspicions rekindled.

  The stranger waved him into a chair and sat down opposite.

  "Seen as a whole," he began, "the situation is as follows: the anti-Bolshevik forces are fragmented. They lack definite guidelines and a unified chain of command. Take
your organization, for example. It operates within the army, making random attempts to establish contact. We, too, are interested in forming Party cells inside the Red regiments. In other words, we're using two stones to kill the same bird. Why? Because instead of working in harness with us, your organization -"

  "I don't belong to any organization," Vit¬torin interjected.

  "Your friends, then, if you prefer to put it that way -"

  "I have no friends in Moscow."

  "Let's not quibble over words. Your superiors -"

  "I have no superiors in this matter," Vit¬torin said flatly.

  "You mean there's no driving force behind your operations - no political party or movement?"

  Vit¬torin had a fleeting vision of the fat, flushed, ever-perspiring face of his old comrade Feuerstein.

  "I'm operating alone," he said, downcast all of a sudden. "I don't have anyone to help me. There used to be an organization, but it collapsed."

  "I can't expect you to trust me right away," the stranger said after a pause. "You're bound to be wary of everyone including me, I realize that."

  "It's the truth," Vit¬torin insisted. "My best man was arrested and the last person to help me shot himself: Count Gagarin - know the name?"

  "No, it doesn't ring a bell. You may be telling the truth, comrade, but if your organization has collapsed, where does that leave you? What's the point of working in isolation? You'll soon be faced with a choice between joining us and discontinuing your activities. No, don't shake your head, you know I'm right. You can't operate indefinitely in Moscow without -"

  "I'm not staying in Moscow," Vit¬torin broke in. "There's nothing more I can do here. I'm going to the front."

  "You're leaving?" said the stranger, and a look of surprise flitted across his face. "Is that definite? I regret your decision, comrade. We might have put some important work your way. When are you thinking of going?"

  "I can't say for certain. I want to go to the front, but to one particular regiment. That's the snag."

  "What snag, comrade?"

  "I doubt if the district commission takes account of personal preferences."

  "What strange ideas you have, comrade," said the man in glasses. "What do you need the district commission for? We have the rubber stamps of every regiment, every regimental headquarters and regimental committee, every divisional staff and military academy - even of the War Commissariat itself. We have travel permits, letters of appointment, blank forms of all kinds. We even have the official seal of the executive committee of the Moscow Soviet. We'll provide you with a nice little piece of paper, never fear." He broke off. "Doesn't this apartment have a second exit? Pity ..."

  Artemyev was spending the night at a hostel in the Presnya district. Two hours later he received the following report pencilled in the margin of a sheet of newsprint:

  "Where premises are concerned, the apartment of the German whom I was instructed to watch would lend itself admirably to the manufacture and storage of bombs. Furthermore, its windows overlook Tagansky Square, where the headquarters of the Wool Trading Agency and the Sickness Benefit Office are situated. This could be of relevance to our organization's financial position, given that it would enable us to keep watch and pick the most favourable moment for a raid. The chairman of the house committee is known to me. He takes bribes and should present no problem. I had a conversation with the German. Although he was evasive, I managed to ascertain that he belongs to a right-wing group dedicated to the formation of a bourgeois government. What points to this is that one of the rooms contains photographs of ex-Premier Goremykin, General Efimovich, and other representatives of the imperial regime. Active cooperation with this group cannot, however, be recommended. It is in the throes of disintegration, and its leading lights are in prison. The German has decided to abandon his conspiratorial activities and leave Moscow. In my opinion, he could at most be employed as an observer."

  Vit¬torin met Artemyev at an eating-house installed in the basement of a house opposite Spassky Gate formerly owned by Prince Kudashev. The place served fish soup, boiled turnips, and, quite often, little earthenware bowls of thin, unsweetened coffee. In the afternoons it was almost always crowded with employees from the nearby government offices who wolfed their food and were swiftly replaced by other customers waiting on the spiral wooden staircase. At midday, however, Artemyev and Vit¬torin had the place to themselves.

  The veteran revolutionary sat astride a bench with his cap tilted back and a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, one eye on Vit¬torin and the other on the entrance to the cellar. He seemed to be known here, because a nod from him sufficed to banish the pockmarked waiter to the cubbyhole that served as a kitchen.

  "Moscow's a big place, but I tracked you down for all that,"

  Artemyev began. "I'm glad you're still in the land of the living. You've worked really hard, collecting all that information about the Red troops and their headquarters. A useful form of activity, comrade, but what of our conversation at Berdichev? Weren't you planning to take some form of positive action against a certain individual?"

  Vit¬torin stared at the table.

  "I still have that end in view," he said. "I've never abandoned it."

  "Remember Dolgushin?" Artemyev went on. "You know, the man who accompanied you to the station? 'Comrade,' Dolgushin said to me when he got back, 'I know a terrorist when I see one. That German will never kill Lenin or Rakov-sky. He'll go to Moscow and try all kinds of things, and they won't amount to a row of beans.' Dolgushin's a lathe operator by trade. He's had thirty years in the organization - specializes in blowing up bridges. He dislikes and mistrusts intellectuals. Russia was deep in snow when he said that about you. Now the peasants are cutting hay."

  "I know," Vit¬torin said despondently. "I've wasted a lot of time. All my efforts have gone for nothing."

  "So what are your future plans, comrade?"

  Vit¬torin, still staring at the table, shrugged his shoulders. His face took on a weary, apathetic expression.

  "I'm no stranger to bitterness myself," Artemyev said. "There are days when I feel as if I'm bound hand and foot -entangled in a sort of shroud. It's hopeless, I tell myself; luck has deserted me in favour of the other side. I'll be killed and there's no one to take my place. What will remain of me when I've been shovelled into the ground? Will the great Russian people - the people of the steppe villages and factories, the people I love - will they appreciate what I've lived and fought for? There's a terrible void inside me at such times. Then a new day dawns and my spirits revive. I'm still alive and kicking, I tell myself. The priest isn't handing out candles yet - he hasn't anointed my head with oil or sprinkled my chest with earth."

  "You're right." Vit¬torin looked up. "I'll leave Moscow and start all over again."

  "So you're leaving. Would you be prepared to go out into the villages and further our cause among the peasants?"

  Vit¬torin shook his head. "I want to go to the front."

  "Why there, of all places?" Artemyev protested. "You think they'll welcome you with wine and roses? Village work is important. The peasants' guilds have always been our major source of strength."

  "I must leave for the front," Vit¬torin said firmly.

  "Must you really? I used to say 'I must, I must', but now, when I ask myself why I had to do certain things, I can't find one good reason. You want to go to the front? Very well, I won't try to stop you. The front it is, then. I've got as many forms and rubber stamps as any commissar. First, you'll need a movement order. 'The War Commissariat confirms that . . .' What are you full names?"

  "Vit¬torin, Georg Karl."

  "Georg Karlovich Vit¬torin. The War Commissariat confirms that Comrade G. K. Vit¬torin . . .' Year of birth?"

  "1889.

  "'. . . born in 1889 of proletarian parents, has been transferred to . . .' Which regiment?"

  "The Semyonov Regiment."

  "That unit has been renamed 'Karl Liebknecht's Own' and forms part
of the Second Moscow Rifle Division, currently holding the Kharkov-Belgorod Line. In what capacity do you wish to join the regiment, comrade? Shall I assign you to the transport section? Can you drive a car or ride a horse?"

  "I can't do either," Vit¬torin replied apologetically.

  "Well," said Artemyev, "no one can be good at everything. If wolves could fly, God wouldn't have created the eagle. All right, how about a hand-grenade instructor? Would that suit you?"

  "I don't have the technical knowledge."

  "Oh, come now, surely you can throw a hand-grenade? Anyway, what's all this talk about technical knowledge? Take the medical corps: any fool who used to sweep the floor of a chemist's shop can call himself a doctor nowadays. Here's your movement order, here's your travel warrant, and here's your permit from Moscow Military District. The latter entitles you to draw a three-day ration of bread and sugar from the stores at garrison headquarters. One more thing, comrade: don't go back to your apartment."

  "It was officially allocated to me," Vit¬torin protested. "I've every right to . . ."

  He broke off. Artemyev glanced at the waiter, who had just emerged from his cubby-hole.

  "Your apartment has been under surveillance since last night," he said in a low voice. "I owe it to you to point out that three Cheka policemen have been posted in Tagansky Square. They plan to arrest you."