‘Still cautious?’ asked Gasparov.
Dmitri did not know what to make of the man’s strange confidences.
‘Yes,’ he said shortly.
‘A pity. We could have worked together.’
‘I doubt it.’
Gasparov, however, was not to be put off.
‘You’re not here by accident, are you?’ he said. ‘Someone sent you.’
‘Well, yes.’
Dmitri saw no reason why he shouldn’t admit it.
‘I thought so!’ said Gasparov triumphantly. ‘And then, when I heard that you were looking for Shumin, I thought … well, I thought that perhaps our interests might coincide. You see, on the way here I was able to strike a blow – ’
‘Strike a blow?’
‘Yes. Even in prison, my friend, it is possible to work for the cause.’
‘I see.’
Gasparov looked at him.
‘You have, perhaps, heard?’
‘Something.’
Gasparov seemed disappointed.
‘It is important that it gets out.’
‘Oh, I think it will,’ said Dmitri. ‘I think it will.’
‘You do?’ said Gasparov, pleased.
‘Tell me,’ said Dmitri, ‘have you, too, been sent?’
‘Oh, no,’ said Gasparov. ‘I was caught in the ordinary way. But even in prison the struggle must go on. So when I saw my chance, I took it. And I shall take it’, he said, ‘again and again. But for that I must remain undetected. That is why, my friend, I am interested in you; and your interest in Shumin.’
‘I’m afraid I still don’t see the reason for your interest.’
‘I used Shumin. I thought she was committed. But she turned out to be unreliable. The question I have been putting to myself is this: If she was unreliable once, might not she be unreliable again? Could she be counted on to keep silent? The answer, I think, is no. And that is why I am interested in you and your mission. It occurred to me that other people might have found her unreliable, too; and that that may be why you have been sent. Am I correct?’
‘Not entirely,’ said Dmitri.
‘Our interests are not the same?’
‘Not quite. I am a lawyer, Mr Gasparov. Examining Magistrate to the Court at Kursk.’
But of what use was that in the present situation? He could hardly go to the Governor and say: ‘I have arrested this man’. First, because Gasparov was already a convict and therefore not under his jurisdiction, and, secondly, because that would involve telling the Governor what he knew about the incident in the forest, and he didn’t want to do that until he was well clear of Siberia and back in Russia proper where someone could keep an eye on him and shout if he suddenly went missing.
And not just him; Anna Semeonova, too. It all hung on her. She was the key witness, a fact which the Governor would know as well as he did. Could he be relied on to produce her?
It would be all too easy not to. By her constant tricks with her identity, Anna Semeonova might well have played into the Governor’s hands. Anna Semeonova? Lost, Your Honour, certainly; but not here in Tiumen. Back at Kursk. No evidence whatever that she ever left Kursk. Shumin? Ah, well, a different matter; she did arrive at Tiumen but then was transferred to the infirmary. Died, sadly, shortly after transfer. Body could be produced, but does Your Honour really …? Marya Serafimovna? A Milk-Drinker? Posted on in the normal way. Now at a camp over Vladivostok way. Could be found, certainly, but it would take some time …
By which time Anna Semeonova would probably be dead. No Anna Semeonova, no witness; no witness, no trial or public inquiry. Gasparov would no doubt get his just deserts; but would the Governor?
Anna Semeonova had to come back to Kursk with him. Somehow he had to persuade her. And Gasparov could wait.
The next day someone came up to him in the yard and put a slip of paper in his hands. It was from Anna Semeonova. It said:
I am willing to testify.
Dmitri and Methodosius went to see the Artel.
‘You want us to get her out?’
Dmitri nodded.
‘I need her out and back in Kursk.’
Single-scar was doubtful.
‘Out, I daresay we could manage. Back in Kursk, though …’
‘Russia would do. So long as she’s out of Siberia.’
Single-scar looked at him.
‘It’s not just her, though, is it? It’s you as well. You’ll want to be with her. And you couldn’t take her on the pony express. They’d have you in no time.’
Dmitri thought.
‘You’re right. It would have to be the two of us.’
Single-scar was unhappy.
‘Out, I could manage,’ he said. ‘But getting you to the border – ’
‘Walk,’ said Methodosius.
‘That’d be all right for you,’ said Single-scar. ‘You’re a Wanderer, aren’t you? But they wouldn’t be able to – ’
‘I’d go with them,’ said Methodosius.
Dmitri, aware that he would soon be leaving, went to look up his political friends in the yard. Gasparov, he was glad to see, was not among them.
‘I don’t know that there’s anything I’ll be able to do for you,’ he said to Grigori, ‘but what I can do, I will.’
‘Send some books,’ said Grigori, smiling.
‘I’m going to ask the Artel to try and get you over to the infirmary,’ he said to Konstantin. ‘Just check on the nature of the wounds. Perhaps I’ll be able to call you as a witness.’
‘I’ll find a way,’ the doctor promised.
‘Oh, and don’t say too much to Gasparov. He’s not – well, not all that he appears to be.’
Konstantin looked at him quickly.
‘No?’
‘No.’
‘Gasparov?’ said Grigori. ‘He’ll be no problem. He’s gone to the infirmary.’
12
‘Let’s get this straight,’ said Single-scar. ‘There’s this political – ’
‘I told you, didn’t I?’ interrupted Double-scar, unable to keep quiet any longer. ‘I told you!’
‘Yes, you told me,’ said Dmitri.
‘I seen it!’
‘You did.’
‘He put her up to it, didn’t he? That girl?’
‘Yes.’
‘I see her,’ said Double-scar. ‘I see her when it all starts. But I don’t see him.’
‘No, well – ’
‘Politicals is like that. They puts you up to it, but then when it all starts to happen, they’re suddenly nowhere around. I hate politicals.’
‘They leaves others to stand the racket,’ said Single-scar.
‘That’s it! And the thing is, see, they don’t do it accidental. It’s all deliberate with them. They’ve got it worked out. That bloke, see. She wasn’t the first he’d tried. He’d been going round. He’d got it all worked out, see, from the start.’
‘You saw him?’
‘No. But that day, that day when it all happened, people were talking about it. They were getting angry, like. There’s this girl, they say. But then someone says, “It’s not like that. She’s been put up to it, there’s this bloke been going round.” But no one takes any notice. No, they say, there’s something in it. Those guards are always at it. It’s time it was put a stop to. And it boils over, like, and one of them goes up to a guard and says: “You bastard!” and then they starts hitting him. Well, there’s always two sides to that story, and some starts hitting back. But there wasn’t two sides to it when the shooting started! No. I don’t blame her, though. I blames him.’
‘I blame them,’ said Single-scar. ‘They didn’t have to start shooting, did they?’
‘They wouldn’t have started if it hadn’t been for her. And she wouldn’t have got them started if it hadn’t been for him. She’s probably just an innocent. Like you, mate. Nothing personal intended. So I blame him.’
‘The thing is,’ said Dmitri, ‘he’s over there now.’
; ‘We’ve got to do something about that,’ said Single-scar.
‘Why don’t I go over and stick him?’ suggested Double-scar.
‘You leave that to me!’ said Dmitri hastily.
Double-scar looked at him doubtfully.
‘I don’t know as you’re the man for this, mate. Nothing personal intended.’
‘In my way,’ said Dmitri.
‘Ah!’ said Single-scar. ‘That’s just it! In his way!’
‘What’s so special about him?’ said Double-scar, beginning to take offence.
‘The thing is,’ said Single-scar, ‘it’s not just him, that political, that we want to stick. It’s them all.’
‘All!’ said Double-scar, daunted.
‘The guards and such. All of them.’
‘Jesus!’ said Double-scar, impressed but worried. ‘Look, I can do some of them, give me a bit of time, but – ’
‘That’s just it,’ said Single-scar. ‘That’s why it’s got to be his way. And for that he needs her out and alive and back in Kursk.’ He looked at Dmitri. ‘Tonight, then?’
When Dmitri went down into the yard a little after midnight he was surprised to find not only Methodosius but Timofei.
‘Well,’ said Timofei, with a self-deprecating shrug, ‘she’s a Milk-Drinker, isn’t she? Almost?’
Dmitri might have been disposed to argue, but the men from the Artel were waiting. It was the same two men as before. They slipped out of the main prison through the side gate, crept along the road for a while keeping to the shadows, and then crossed it when the moon disappeared behind a cloud. On the other side they found the steep palisade that contained the dispensary and moved softly down it until they came to the door Dmitri had used before. This time, however, they went in.
They did not have long to wait. The door opened quietly and two men came out with a girl muffled up in a long convict coat. One of the men pushed a bag into Dmitri’s hands.
‘You’ll need that,’ he said.
And then the men were gone.
Methodosius sniffed the air like a dog, lifted his eyes to the sky, and then set off unhesitatingly into the darkness.
Recounting the tale of his adventures afterwards, back in Kursk, Dmitri made light of the rigours of the journey.
‘Yes,’ he said, affecting nonchalance, ‘it was about two hundred miles to the border. It took us just over a fortnight. But then we were walking all the time.’
‘Anna Semeonova, too?’ asked Sonya, round-eyed. She still could not get over the fact that her schoolfriend had somehow become a heroine.
‘Of course.’
How else did Sonya think the girl had got there?
‘In a way, it was easier for her than it was for me. She had, after all, walked it before,’ he pointed out.
‘Still …’
Sonya found it hard to come to terms with anyone walking two hundred miles, let alone someone from one of the best families in Kursk. Walking to church on Sunday was about the furthest she herself was allowed to get. Reading her novels, she had sometimes dreamed of following the man she loved, on foot if necessary, out to Siberia to share the exile to which he had been unjustly condemned, but …
‘It must have been very romantic,’ she said irrelevantly.
‘Romantic?’
‘Out on the steppe.’
‘Actually, we were never out on the steppe. The first bit was forest. That was the hardest part, in fact, because we had to keep well away from the road and make our way through the undergrowth. It took us ages. But we knew the guards would be looking for us.’
‘Gosh, yes!’ breathed Sonya.
‘In fact, we were very glad to see the forest that first morning. We had walked all night and when it became light the forest was still some way ahead of us. We were afraid we’d be caught out on the plain. Besides, Methodosius and Timofei wanted to get their chains off, but they didn’t want to stop until they were safe among the trees.’
‘How did they get them off?’ asked Sonya.
‘The Artel had given Methodosius a hammer and chisel. I think they’d also worked on them before leaving. It didn’t take them long. And then, well, we just carried on.’
And on and on, thought Dmitri. The journey had seemed endless. Especially that bit in the forest. They had hardly seemed to be making any progress at all. Sometimes the way had been so blocked by undergrowth as to be impenetrable. At other times they had come upon swamps and ponds and had had to make detours.
‘What did you eat?’ asked Sonya.
‘The Artel had given us some food. After that we ate birds’ eggs.’
‘How exciting!’
‘Raw,’ said Dmitri.
Actually, in the forest it had not been so bad. It was afterwards, when they came out into the farmland, that they had felt really hungry. There were villages but they hadn’t dared to go into them. Everyone there was in the pay of the Prison Administration, or else exiles themselves.
‘What about the wolves?’ asked Sonya enthusiastically.
‘Wolves?’
‘There were wolves?’
‘Not as far as I know. There were mosquitoes, though. As big as bats.’
‘Big as bats?’ queried Vera Samsonova.
The trouble with scientists was that they were so literal.
‘They hung around us in swarms. We couldn’t get rid of them. It was the swamp, I suppose.’
‘You didn’t run into anything, well, bigger?’ asked Sonya, disappointed.
‘Like what?’
‘Bears?’ said Sonya hopefully.
The thing they had really been worried about, of course, was soldiers. There were soldiers everywhere on the Siberian road. They had tried to keep away from it, but occasionally, forced by an extra large detour, they had caught sight of it through the trees. Always there were carts; not the prison carts going out to Tiumen, but the heavy obozes, or transport wagons, bringing food and furs and timber products back. And always there were guards.
Whenever they had come that close they had turned away and slipped deeper into the forest. Apart from the people on the road, they never saw anyone. There must have been people in the forest, if only the people the soldiers were guarding the carts against, but they never saw anyone.
Or any living things, either, apart from the birds and the mosquitoes. After the first few days, Dmitri found the continuous forest oppressive. At first he had welcomed the refuge the trees provided, had been relieved to escape into them. But then, as day after day passed without there being a break in the foliage overhead, he began to feel that the Russian forest, like the Russian steppe, was endless. It was like walking forever through a dark tunnel. The sun filtered its light through the dark tops of the trees enough for Methodosius to steer by, but rarely enough to lighten the gloom below.
It was an enormous relief when at last they came out into open cultivated farmland and were able to leave the forest behind them. Now there were sown fields and grazing ground for the village cattle. Walking was easier. But for the first time they began to see people. Methodosius decided it was no longer safe to walk during the day. Instead, they walked at night, giving the villages a wide berth, not because of people but because of dogs, and steering now not by the sun but by the stars.
Still, though, from time to time, forced out of their way by some obstacle or other, they caught a glimpse of the convict road. It was lined now, in this open country, by a double, sometimes triple, row of giant silver birches, seventy or eighty feet in height, set close together so that their branches interlocked to give continuous cover from the fierce Siberian sun. Walking by night, they would sometimes see the trees sharp against the moonlight, running like some great wall forever across the plain.
There was no sheltering cover now, away into which they could creep. Indeed, every morning, when the sky began to lighten, Methodosius would look around anxiously for a place in which they could hide during the day. There were, of course, occasional copses, but too often they would c
ontain cattle or goats grazing, or even little hen-houses or beehives. Close to the villages, too, there was always the risk of being found by a dog.
This close to the border, also, there were always Cossack patrols out. And it was one of these that eventually found them.
What Dmitri had said about never being on the steppe was not completely true. Some of the land where the villagers grazed their cattle had been taken out of the steppe and beyond it was the steppe itself, a sea of grass, brown at this time of the year, extending to the horizon, featureless except for the waves that the wind sent rippling over it. In many parts it was head-high and one morning, lacking other cover, they had crept into it to hide. They had come upon a shallow pond where Methodosius had hoped to find fish. They hadn’t, but there had been water birds in plenty. They hadn’t eaten for days and Methodosius had decided, exceptionally, to kill a bird and cook it over a fire. It was, perhaps, the fire that gave them away.
The patrol came out of the long grass, a dozen of them, riding in line abreast. Methodosius jumped to his feet and made as if to run off, but it was already too late. The Cossacks had long whips which they simply span about him. The others froze on the spot.
The sergeant rode up to them.
‘What have we here?’ he said.
He looked Methodosius all over.
‘Have I seen you before?’ he asked.
‘Me, I’m saying nothing,’ said Methodosius.
‘Ask him what his name is,’ said the sergeant, ‘and do you know what he’ll say?’
‘I don’t remember,’ said Methodosius.
‘That’s right. I’ve met your sort before.’
He looked at Timofei.
‘You’re not a Wanderer, though, are you? More like a Schismatic. You wouldn’t be a Milk-Drinker, by any chance?’
‘I am a Milk-Drinker,’ said Timofei quietly.
‘Breaking the law again? There’s no stopping you people. Well, at least you’re not likely to give us any trouble. What about you, though?’ he said, looking at Dmitri.
Dmitri stayed silent.
‘A political, I’d say, to look at you. Though I don’t know. I don’t know quite what to make of you.’
Dmitri and the Milk-Drinkers Page 17