Innocence To Die For

by Eidinow, John

  ‘No. I don’t believe so: I’ve taken every precaution. Anyway, we should part now. It’s been long enough for two strangers to sit over their wine. I will answer your questions. You will tell me about yourself and we must plan.’

  ‘And I must get back with my shopping.’ She added, ‘I act as companion to the old lady who rented me a room in her apartment.’

  ‘Time is short. Can we meet for longer tomorrow? In the morning?’ How about the Chaumont? Take the cable car up and walk down the woodland path?

  That would be too long for her to be away. They could go up to an alternative viewpoint – the Crêt du Plan. The cable car ran from just behind the château, was much more frequent, and the journey shorter.

  Leaving the café, they shook hands and took different directions through the Jardin. He let her get well ahead, then turned and followed in her path. Outside the park he spotted her, crossed over the road and kept well back, shielding himself with the passers-by. The old spring had gone from her step; she walked with more of a trudge, wending her way uphill. If he could get her to London, he would bring her back to life again, the vital Dinah.

  He halted to light a cigarette. Along a terrace of substantial houses, she had stopped. He watched her take a key from her pocket and go up a flight of stone steps to a double door under an arch. Content that he had been alone in following her, he retraced his way.

  Finally joy stirred at their meeting, but under it the cold finger of reality moved, pointing to the dangers that lay ahead. And what had she said about her grandfather? “And my grandfather? Still safely interned?” “Safely”?

  ****

  She was waiting on the Crêt as planned. The day was brilliant, the ring of mountains sharp against the translucent blue sky. He asked the hotel reception for a panorama: the Eiger, Mönch, Jungfrau from one view; the Dent du Midi and Mont Blanc from another.

  America was as far as she could go to get away. To say “It must be over” for both of them. To say “And look, I have turned my back on him.” She had intended not to stay but, when she felt it right, to return home, to Europe. Walter had advised against it, but with the poison, in a box of chocolates, she knew that she was no safer in America. Their reach was long; America less familiar to her. If she returned, perhaps she could show them she intended no harm to the cause, was still a communist in spirit, still a supporter of the people, of socialism. Her previous work would count for her. Her grandfather also had a historic reputation.

  As she went on, he found Elisabeth’s words coming into his mind. ‘Some continued to be faithful: “In spite of everything, everything for the Soviet Union”. Some believed that the terrible events would pass over and a truly socialist state would emerge, purified in the fire. …’ Dinah had lost none of her earnestness.

  Her hope was that she and Elisabeth could support each other. For a long moment she fell silent. ‘But her time too had come. She knew.’

  ‘She was your cousin, a colleague and friend of Krivitsky’s.’

  ‘She decided I must go. I must save myself.’

  ‘What are your circumstances? What passport are you using? How do you live?’

  ‘I brought in some money – the Swiss liked that – and Elisabeth had some here. I found an architect who was happy to have his drawing done. And the old lady where I took a room offered to reduce my rent if I helped her. I even go to the synagogue in Geneva with her—so grand. It is a magnet for refugees, one or two still getting in somehow, travelling from shul to shul for shelter.’

  ‘And your passport?’

  ‘The French one. But I’m afraid the Swiss will not renew my entry visa.’

  ‘Kuttner?’

  ‘You know that?’

  ‘The British authorities tracked you to the US, to Krivitsky.’

  ‘You know so much. You are working for …?’

  ‘I am working for us both, to set us free.’ He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. ‘I have to get you to London, where you can be safe. The NKVD are holding my mother in Kiev as hostage against you—’

  Her eyes widened.

  ‘And I have to trick them into releasing her. And Davidson and his friends must be exposed.’

  She nodded. ‘So you are working for the British government.’

  ‘I would work for the devil to set you free—’

  ‘To be free of them is impossible.’

  ‘Isn’t that just what they want us to think? It’s a counsel of despair. I won’t accept it.’

  ‘Let’s go for a walk.’ She slipped her hand under his arm, once more.

  They went along a winding path through thick woodland with sporadic breaks in the trees where the hillside fell sharply away exposing its steep flank, a tumble of bare rocks and deep gullies, and the mountains clear across the lake below. The scent of warm pines lapped them about. Occasional pairs of butterflies danced in pools of sunlight.

  ‘Tell me about the army. You are so much harder.’

  ‘I was in the army: after you went, the choice was joining up or arrest as a traitor.’ He sketched in his life from the ELR, France, his being plucked out to bring back Elisabeth, his mother trapped, Burenko’s appearance, and facing up to the Oprichnina.

  ‘Someone has been teaching you Russian history. You haven’t mentioned that lady.’ She gave him a little push.

  ‘A friend who runs a gallery. Very helpful.’ He collected his thoughts to go on. His secret pact with Burenko. His being given a diplomatic mission to France out of the blue. The necessity to get her to London and under cover. ‘I have a friend who will look after you there while I sort things out.’

  ‘Then I must spill the beans?’

  ‘Then you can kill two birds with one stone. Avenge Elisabeth and get away from them. Three birds. We can be together.’

  ‘I want to be with you, dear Peter. Believe me. When I saw the Bach score, I nearly fainted. You had not abandoned me. Lily of the Valley. My heart beat so fast.’ She paused and frowned. ‘But it’s a long step from leaving them to betraying them – betraying people who do what they do because they want a free and equal world, who truly believe that the present violence is an aberration or a temporary necessity or a painful detour along the only path to a socialist society, who think that the capitalist powers must be fought with every weapon for the sake of the oppressed.’

  Truly the old Dinah had reappeared: the vitality, the intensity, the zeal.

  ‘A long step. Too long a step.’

  He waited for a moment. ‘The first and most important thing is London. Getting you to London, Dinah, before the Swiss send you back to France or your former friends find you. And find you they will – you know it’s only a matter of time – and kill you. Burenko told me. Then he tried to pretend otherwise, that things had changed. They might only want to talk, make a valued colleague an offer. Of course he was lying. To help me feel better. I’d told him you would never let the working class down, but he has only contempt for ideals, for loyalty or trust. In fact, this is the chance to save other idealistic people. People like yourself who only wanted a better world and are now Stalin’s prey.’

  ‘Perhaps in London I could ask my grandfather’s advice.’

  They had reached a viewpoint over the Alps and sat side by side on a bench set back under the trees. He lounged, pushing his hat on to the back of his head and stretching out his legs into the sunshine. She sat up with her arms wrapped round her, looking down at him steadily. ‘Will we be together in London?’

  ‘There’s a war and I must do what I’m commanded. But, yes, at last we’re going to be together.’ In one motion he sat up, took her face between his hands and kissed her gently. She was caught by surprise and stiffened for a moment. Then, with tears running down her cheeks, she responded.

  Sitting back, he took out his handkerchief and patted her wet face. ‘Joy or sorrow?’

  ‘Both. Joy that we are together, that you came for me. Sorrow for such trouble.’

  They slipped their arms
around each other and their kisses became more fervent. He could feel the beating of her heart.

  The sound of approaching voices made them spring apart. He went to stand on the other side of the path as an elderly couple, dressed for alpine walking and carrying spiked sticks, came slowly into view with a Grüss Gott. They must have hiked along the hill from the other high point over Neuchâtel, the Chaumont. The man, short and plump, took off his hat to Dinah. Peter followed suit to the elderly lady, short and rotund, and was rewarded with a breathless smile.

  Peter watched them out of sight. ‘Let’s go to the hotel and have something to eat. Then, the sooner you’re down in the city and carrying on as normal, the better. I’ll go back to Berne tomorrow morning and start putting things together. I’ll need your passport details and a means of getting in touch with you.’

  ‘How soon will we go to London?’

  ‘That isn’t clear. Say within two weeks.’

  ‘I promised to go to Geneva with my landlady. It’s a special day for her and she wants to give something for these refugees.’

  ‘When we go, you leave everything and just go. Up to that moment, everything completely normal. But you know that.’ He gave her hand, under his arm, a squeeze. ‘This time I know it too. Can we meet later, this evening, with your passport?’

  ****

  He hadn’t seen her smile. Back in the Glycine, enjoying a beer and sandwich in the peace of the garden, he was running over the events of Neuchâtel. No sight of that wonderful curving smile that made her whole face radiant and lit her eyes – so dark now, not a hint of hazel. Something was pressing down on her spirit, had been all the time they were together. Was it the poisoning, the constant fear in flight, or fear of that other poison – the deceit rotting the movement she’d worked for in all idealism? That the bond of comradeship was exposed as a lie. The bond and the comradeship.

  To his inexpert eye, her passport had looked the real thing. Perhaps it was. But her entry visa hadn’t long to go and a curious immigration officer might note that she appeared to have entered Canada but not to have left it. Still, who would look beyond a valid British entry visa?

  His books had not been quite as he’d left them. On the way out, he asked the landlady if anyone, anyone apart from the maid, had been in his room. Only the maid. The maid had probably moved his things. One would expect that.

  He dropped by the Schweizerhof, used the public telephone in the hall to ring Tim, then was off to the legation by tram and bus, to discover that there were no cables for him. One thing he had no control over was his being officially withdrawn, and regularity was crucial.

  ****

  Tim had suggested dinner in a fish restaurant just below one of the bridges across the Aare. It was a short bus ride from the legation, so he stayed on in the drawing room and began to compose his valedictory report. The evening had turned grey and he walked the last stretch towards the river through heavy spots of rain.

  The restaurant jutted over the waters, fast flowing even in summer. On such a dreary evening, the glowing log fire, where the owner grilled river fish, gave a homely feel to the wood and stone dining room. From their place in an alcove by a window, the two could look down at the river; the rain, now heavy, seeming to skip along the grey surface. At a long table, a fraternity in caps and sashes were smoking churchwarden pipes and raising vast moulded earthenware and pewter mugs to toast themselves in song.

  Tim shivered. ‘Doesn’t look as if it’ll let up. I’ll give you a lift back to the Glycine.’

  ‘Miserable weather for August. The mountains were completely blanked out earlier.’

  ‘Not that unusual – very changeable and unpredictable at this time of year, the alpine weather, autumn round the corner. You go to bed with the sky beautifully clear and wake up to thick mist. Impossible to drive over the mountain roads, flights cancelled at no notice. Plays havoc with travel plans. If that’s what someone has in mind.’

  ‘Someone might have. Public or private flight.’

  ‘The weather draws no distinction. Private pilots are more flexible where risk’s concerned—if the money’s right. Raclette then the house fish?’

  ‘Thank you.’ He waited for the order to be taken. ‘I suppose private might solve the travel problem.’

  ‘Commercial flights out are like gold dust and official flights strictly controlled. Papers in order?’

  ‘Will be when there’s a British entry visa on a valid French passport.’

  ‘Reason for travel?’

  ‘Accompanying a returning diplomat.’

  ‘British?’

  ‘Say Canadian. Just for the sake of argument.’

  ‘Let’s see if I’ve understood. A Canadian diplomat returning to London may be accompanied by one presumably non-diplomatic, French – am I to assume the female of the species? – possibly an assistant or secretary?’

  ‘Close.’

  Tim watched the rain and swirled his wine round the glass before drinking.

  Peter looked down into the river. ‘One point. Assistant or secretary – not the only possible relationship between the two, shall we say.’

  Tim raised his eyebrows. ‘Shall we now? Business or pleasure?’

  ‘Business.’

  ‘Assuming the deed can be done, isn’t that beyond the call of duty?’

  ‘If it’s the only way to get her to London, it is the call of duty.’

  ‘And you think requiring a British entry visa?’

  ‘In all the circumstances.’

  ‘Forgive me for asking the obvious, but couldn’t she stay here with her valid French passport and, if it helps, a British visa fixed by yours truly?’

  The fraternity were on their feet, raising their mugs. They turned outwards and sang a toast in two-part harmony to the other diners. Peter and Tim stood to raise their wine glasses and join in the cheering that followed.

  ‘First, she’s needed in London.’ The raclette interrupted him. Hot, crisp slices of yellow cheese, yellow potatoes. ‘Secondly, if she stays, she’ll very likely be killed—’

  Tim’s loaded fork had stopped halfway between the plate and his open mouth.

  ‘And my instinct says there’s not much time.’

  Tim collected himself and ate his mouthful. ‘Will she go along with it? This business arrangement.’

  ‘If she sees there’s no better way.’

  ‘And the private flight?’

  ‘A chimaera, I think. Very much a last resort.’

  ‘Assuming the diplomatic route, shall we get down to the possible order of play?’

  The fraternity stood again, marched round their long table singing, each man with his left hand on the shoulder in front; then they swivelled and marched the other way, sang a toast, banged the table with their mugs, sat and filled their pipes in unison.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Tim gestured towards the fraternity. ‘I didn’t know tonight was choir practice.’

  ‘Very tuneful, very jolly. Vicar must be pleased. Makes one forget the war. So does this.’ Their fish had arrived, the skin charred from the fire, the flesh lightly pink. ‘Order of play?’ Peter counted on his fingers. ‘Find out how long it takes, what’s the shortest notice etc., co-ordinate that with the next available flight, bring her here a day or so before, do the deed, fix the visa, get out. Of course, we must be certain of getting out. “Always know how you’ll get out before you get in” is the rule.’ Was he sounding like Ponsonby? ‘Tim, can you find out how long it takes?’

  ‘I’m tempted to find out how long it takes to certify a lunatic.’

  ‘Ask the singers.’ The fraternity were engaged in a ritual that involved smoking their pipes through looped arms. ‘Just in case, we should identify a private pilot with a good plane. From what you’ve said, I’m assuming there’ll be no difficulty with the visa.’

  ‘The least of your problems, Peter. I’ll need the passport, preferably with the lady attached.’

  ‘Could you come to her?’


  ‘In the circumstances, my dear fellow, what price one more serious breach of protocol?’ The fraternity were up on their feet, stamping, beating their mugs on the table and singing. They ended with a tremendous upsurge in a harmonise shout and sat down. The pipes went into cases. Some made their farewells, others sat casually chatting. ‘All over. Till they meet again.’

  From Tim’s tone, Peter wondered if he had cold feet. ‘As long as a good time was had by all. We meet next?’

  Tim dropped him a street away from the pension. Before he got out, Peter said, ‘I’m very grateful for your forbearance as well as all your help. Not knowing what or why must be difficult. I promise it’s of national importance. I couldn’t do my part without your help.’

  ‘All part of the service, old scout. I’ll get that information as soon as they’re open for business. You press ahead.’

  ****

  He rang the bookseller in Zürich to report on the search for the Diderots. ‘If your customer is still interested, please ask him to be patient. I am certain of them. And it will be only two, at very most three weeks before they are in his hands.’

  ‘Even three will not be a problem for him. He is indeed very interested to get his hands on them. You should press ahead with your efforts, please.’

  Breathing space in that direction. With fingers crossed, he went down to the legation – being desired to return to Vichy was the only move out of his control. No cable for him. He finished off his valedictory report and sent it with a note that to preserve the integrity of his mission circumstances now suggested his imminent return.

  Then to the Swiss Foreign Ministry to inquire about diplomatic flights out. No, the number had not reduced. The official hinted that the Germans found it – for reasons not needing to clarify, he would understand – convenient that they should continue regularly. Demand for places was considerable and the conditions and diplomatic procedures strictly observed. He was advised to require his place well in advance; today would not be too soon. ‘Two places?’ The well-trained Swiss eyebrows did not waver.

  Finally, he made his way out of the old city to the Bärengraben. He stopped at one or two shops and a café on the way, wandering a little on his route. No familiar face – or pair of shoes – visible among the crowds before he crossed the Nydeck Bridge, which leaped in a single span high over the Aare. He took a path that would lead him down to the legation but saw Tim leaning on the broad stone edge of the bears’ pit enjoying a cigarette and turned aside to greet him. They shook hands. Tim pointed to a café on the hill above them and they crossed the road and took the narrow lane that led up to it, finding a table on the terrace that overlooked the city and the Alps in their evening glow.