The King's Commissar

by Duncan Kyle

How they knew, I cannot tell, but when, in search of refreshment, I opened the hamper, its wickerwork branded with the name of the provision merchants Fortnum & Mason, I found that it contained a plentiful supply of cigarettes, all of them Player's Navy Cut, the make I favoured. Also there were several boxes of lucifers. I lit up with a feeling of relief, and unwrapped one of the several napkins within the hamper to find cold chicken legs therein. Two bottles of a chilled Bernkasteler Mosel of excellent quality lay invitingly in the hamper. I would make my supper, I decided, and consider my position afterwards.

  Twenty minutes later, having disposed of a dish of the most delicate strawberries (and where could they have come from, in the month of March?) I lit another cigarette and looked again at the papers in my pocket. The passport, the first I had possessed, (since up to the outbreak of hostilities no Englishman abroad had need of such frivolities) contained my photograph. Whence had that been obtained? From the Navy, no doubt, though I could not recall being photographed for years except for snapshots taken by the occasional friend. Still, there it was: 'We, Arthur Balfour, His Majesty's Principal Secretary for Foreign Affairs, command . . .' I wondered to myself how far Balfour's writ might run in a Russia crowded with armies: the Whites, the Czech Legions, the Reds themselves, and the Germans, too! The letters I placed to one side; my orders were to bear them unopened, and though even then I had misgivings, if King George believed that they might save his cousin's family then who was a mere Navy commander to question such matters?

  I concentrated my attention on the paper Zaharoff had handed to me as 'Your route'. Nothing written there was in any way surprising, save the final words: 'Proceed henceforward at, and with, discretion.'

  Finally, having finished my bottle of Mosel, I undressed and slept.

  Late the following afternoon, in darkness, the train came to Thurso and I reported, as instructed, to the Navy Transport office, and thence aboard the transport vessel which was to make a bitter, stormy crossing of the Pentland Firth. Of that short journey I remember little, spending most of it green with sickness at the ship's rail ridding myself of chicken legs, strawberries, wine and much else as the small vessel plunged and heaved its way across that vile and narrow Pentland channel between the north coast of Scotland and the Isles of Orkney.

  Fortunately for me, the crossing was accomplished in little more than a cheerless two hours. At Scapa Flow I again presented myself to a Movements Officer, and was at once ordered into a barge - an admiral's barge, no less - for immediate transportation aboard the destroyer HMS Airedale, which I could see already had steam up. No sooner was I aboard than I was shown to the First Lieutenant's cabin and the low, fast warship weighed anchor.

  Next day I landed at Bergen, and proceeded by train to Oslo on what must be the most exquisitely beautiful rail journey on earth, and thence, again by train, to Stockholm. In Stockholm I had time only for a good dinner, which I took at the Grand Hotel in the belief that it might be some time before I could enjoy another such, and then boarded the ferry for Helsinki. Now my mood was beginning to change, as every mile brought me closer to a land I had loved since childhood, but a land whose mood could likewise change, in a second's caprice, from warm good nature to sullen, cold and cruel brutality.

  From Helsinki I again took train. And now my ears were filled with the accents of the Baltic and of Northern Russia. The time of Mosel and chicken legs, of private compartments and deference, though only a day or two behind me, might never have existed. On that journey I slept cramped on a wooden bench, dined off black bread, a little cheese and tea from a samovar, without lemon, and woke as the train rolled in to the Finland station in St Petersburg to find that name had been erased from the station platforms. Nothing, I think, could have so emphasized that the Russian world would now be unfamiliar to me, as those painted boards bearing the word Petrograd.

  The city was filled with activity, doubt and confusion. I went first, and on foot because I deemed it wise to avoid unnecessary contact, to the Smolny Institute, which in my St Petersburg days had been the finest of girls' schools, but was now, since October, the headquarters of the new Soviet of Peoples' Commissaries. Its gracious, pillared entrance now stood decorated with machine-guns and a ferocious-looking but clearly dispirited band of revolutionaries.

  In several discreet conversations I gradually learned the reasons. The Government had taken itself off to Moscow so St Petersburg, as the cradle of the Revolution, now felt spurned. There was little love lost, then as later, between the two cities. And now even Trotsky, who had remained two weeks and more after the rest, had departed. The guards at the Smolny had nothing left to guard. 'Except our backs!' I was told sourly.

  For me this was hardly the best of news, for it meant I must somehow contrive to journey to Moscow, and I had learned by now that the trains were crowded and permission to board them almost impossible to obtain. In the old days a little bribery would have achieved it in an instant, but I felt strongly here that a bribe proffered in the wrong place would lead to a beating, or worse.

  en I then thought of the British Embassy, and took myself and my heavy suitcase there, and sat outside on the case for a time, hoping for the sight of a familiar face. I wanted at all cost to avoid entering and thus placing myself or my name on any official basis, but it seemed to me that members of the staff might well be knowledgeable about the best means of proceeding. t

  But no one came, or at any rate no British face I recognized. Then, as evening was drawing on, with the cold deepening, I felt a sudden hard thwack between my shoulder-blades and rose, half-turning, to see Vorozhin. His mouth was open wide, his face alight, his arms spread.

  'I thought so - Dikeston!'

  I laughed too, delighted to see the old reprobate. 'Vassily Alexandrovitch!' He had been supplier of fodder for the Embassy horses for many years, a great cheerful Cossack and himself a horseman of enormous daring.

  'Why are you sitting so sadly -' he kicked the suitcase -'on that?'

  'Because I have nowhere else.'

  'No? And they -' he gestured scornfully at the Embassy building - 'so busy looking after themselves they have no time for you. Eh?'

  'True enough,' I lied, I need to get to Moscow, and it seems -'

  He gave a great laugh. 'Difficult? Yes, my friend, it is difficult. What is not difficult?' Then he bent his shaggy head close to mine. 'But nothing is impossible, eh?' And laughed hugely.

  'You can help me?'

  He picked up my case in his enormous paw and took my arm. 'A drink, my friend. A little talk, some food. And then we see!'

  He now had only a third of his fine house, but it was more than enough, for he lived alone. More important, he saw himself as in my debt because, years earlier when he had been in England, I had been able to arrange for him to visit a Newmarket trainer of my acquaintance, whom I suspect he had startled greatly with his vaults and side-riding and other Cossack tricks.

  Like everyone else in the aftermath of the Revolution, Vorozhin was waiting. Horses had always been needed, were needed now and would always be needed, and he was patient, waiting to discover how his eye and his skills could best be employed by new masters. That and maintaining his friendships. We ate frugally: bread and a little fish and some tough horsemeat (The old ones die, my friend, and keep us alive. A last service, eh?') and talked over old times, and drank some vodka, and my difficulties began to disappear. There was a former corporal of cavalry, it seemed, now employed in the railway station, with apparently unlimited authority over the movement of people. 'We'll see him in the morning, Dikeston, old friend. First, more vodka, then sleep, eh?' He loved using my surname, thus, and also teasing me by converting my Christian names into a bastard Russian patronymic form: Henry Georgevitch. A wonderful man and a fine friend. True to his word, he had me on the Moscow train early next morning.

  By nightfall, suitcase still in hand, I wished he again stood beside me as I faced a levelled machine-gun at the entrance to the tunnel arch that led through the Kr
emlin wall beneath the Spassky Tower, with the musical clock chiming high above. The same clock which once had played 'God Save the Tsar' now ground out the sober notes of the Internationale.

  The gun barrel was levelled at my chest. Thumbs rested on the firing buttons. Several pairs of eyes stared at me, examining from head to foot. At last one of the men, a black-bearded giant with fierce and angry eyes, jerked his head to indicate I should approach.

  'Your business?'

  'I have a letter for V. I. Lenin.'

  'Comrade Lenin.'

  'Yes, for Comrade Lenin."

  'Who's it from?'

  'An old friend.'

  The giant stuck out his hand. 'Give it to me.'

  I shook my head. 'Only to his secretary.'

  His manner became more menacing. 'Give.'

  Again I shook my head.

  'Do you imagine,' he grated, 'that Comrade Lenin has time to waste with -' and his eyes ranged over my clothing-'bourgeois postmen?'

  'I imagine,' I said levelly, 'that he might be angry if this letter were not delivered.'

  He stared at me wrathfully, a jack-in-office faced with a situation of which he was uncertain. This examination, like the first, went on for some moments, but at last he jerked his head again, this time to indicate I might pass beneath the arch. 'Present yourself at the Kavalersky Building and wait.'

  I proceeded through, suitcase still in my hand, and found that the Kavalersky Building stood, as described, opposite the Potyeshny Palace. Again I was stopped and asked my business. Again I explained about the letter. Again I was examined closely by hostile eyes. Finally I was allowed to enter and found myself at the end of a long corridor. A guard sat at a table with his pistol before him. He did nothing: did not rise, did not ask what I wanted, did not invite me to be seated. He did not even answer when I spoke. I had been given instructions to wait, however, and that is what I did, turning my back upon the guard and fixing my attention upon an icon over the main door. It has always seemed to me that one of the advantages conferred upon a young man by service training is the ability to stand still for extended periods, without impatience and without the need for such distractions as magazines and newspapers. So I stood properly at ease, hands behind my back and kept my gaze upon the icon.

  How long I stood so I do not know, but after a time there came the sound of swiftly approaching footsteps, and a youthful voice demanded, 'You have a letter for Comrade Lenin?'

  Turning, I saw a sailor in uniform, in his early twenties, scrubbed and red-faced. 'You are his secretary?'

  'No, Comrade, I am not. But I am privileged to assist him.'

  'I will deliver the letter only to Comrade Lenin's secretary.'

  We stared at each other for a moment, he a little impatient of this stranger who sought to impose his will, I guessing that my only hope of achieving my goal was to be entirely firm. Behind him the corridor was busy, men crossing from room to room with pieces of paper in their hands. For a moment one of them looked familiar, a medium-sized man in a tunic with a shock of hair, a small goatee and wearing pince-nez. 'Is that Trotsky?' I demanded.

  'It may be Comrade Trotsky.' The sailor did not look round. I was again instructed to wait, and resumed my contemplation of the icon. That sight of the revolutionary leader, however, had had its effect upon me. It was like a sight of an enemy warship, with the knowledge than an encounter was to begin: I was suddenly aware that here, in the Kavalersky, I stood only steps away from the determined crew of Bolsheviks who had seized power so ruthlessly and triumphantly a few short months ago! These were the men who had wiped away a Romanov Dynasty which had held in autocratic thrall the largest nation on earth for more than three hundred years! I felt my heart begin to thud within me more powerfully even than it had at St James's Palace; King George was but a constitutional Sovereign, for all his dignity, and these men were, or aimed to be, the power in all the Russias.

  The footsteps came again. 'Follow me.'

  I walked after the sailor down the long corridor, steps clicking on the tiled floor, but having to pause once or twice as somebody emerged hurrying from a room and crossed in front, heedless.

  The sailor stopped and gestured with his hand. I entered a room equipped entirely, and in unlikely fashion in this place, with light birchwood furniture, perhaps from Karelia. A man in a dark suit sat behind a desk and he too wore pince-nez from which a black ribbon fell to his neck.

  'This letter,' he said. 'You must give it to me. We must have an end to these childish mysteries!'

  'You are Comrade Lenin's -'

  'Secretary?' He sighed. 'Yes.' And held out his hand commandingly. 'From whom does it come?'

  'From Mr William Clark, at the British Museum in London.' I took the envelope from the inside pocket of my jacket and handed it to him.

  'I will ensure that it reaches Comrade -'

  He was interrupted by the abrupt appearance through another door of Lenin himself! Though for a brief moment I did not recognize him: for his head was shaved and his celebrated beard gone and thus he was of altogether more Asiatic appearance than I had imagined.

  He looked at me sharply. 'From Clarke

  I stood to attention. 'Yes. Comrade Lenin."

  'Who are you?'

  'Commander Dikeston, Royal Navy.'

  He laughed, quite gaily. 'So - now Clark has naval officers delivering his messages, eh? You've seen him? Is he well?'

  I thought of the poor wretch sitting and writing at Zaharoffs cold command. He'd been old, and almost terrified out of his wits, but his health had seemed good. 'Yes, he's well.'

  'Good, good!' Lenin ripped open the envelope, saying, 'He's a splendid man. From Marx onward, who knows where we'd all have been without -' And then he stopped, the laughter shut off, and gave me a hard, sideways look. 'This other document he speaks of. You have it?'

  'Yes, Comrade Lenin.'

  'Come in here.'

  I reached into my pocket for Zaharoffs missive, and followed him into his office. He went behind his desk and stood there like a Lord of Creation, hand outstretched.

  'Give it tome.'

  In removing the single sheet of paper, Lenin did not slit open the envelope, though a paperknife lay upon his desk. He tore it, and there was plain impatience on his face. The thick foolscap crackled as it was unfolded. I could not see what was written, nor did Comrade Lenin offer to show me, but I had an impression of a few handwritten lines, no more.

  Then Lenin was shouting: 'Comrade Secretary!'

  The man bustled through from his own outer office. 'Yes, Comrade Lenin?'

  'Please ask Comrade Trotsky and Comrade Sverdlov to join me for a moment.'

  'Yes, Comrade Lenin."

  This repeated use of the word comrade, once, twice, three times in every spoken sentence, struck me as both excessive and amusing. I must have smiled, for Lenin snapped at me: 'Something is funny?'

  I dipped my head. 'Your pardon, sir. I am simply much taken at the thought of the imminent presence of men whose names are so widely known.' He shot me a warning look. I straightened my face and resolved to smile no more and nor indeed, in the ensuing weeks, was I to do so.

  A minute passed, no more, before they arrived, and they were hurrying. I found it interesting that Lenin was so evidently master, for, nominally at any rate, Yankel Sverdlov was Head of State; and there could be no doubting Trotsky's power. The fact remains that they came trotting in like a pair of terriers, and when Lenin said, 'Sit,' and pointed to chairs, the pair of them sat and looked up at him, all but wagging tails.

  Lenin's finger now stabbed towards me. 'This man brings a message.' He looked from one face to the other, from Sverdlov to Trotsky, and back again. 'He is British.'

  Two pairs of eyes turned, regarded me for a moment, then returned their attention to Lenin.

  'The message -?' Trotsky began.

  Lenin flung the paper down on the desk before him. He radiated a pleasure that was almost triumphant. 'Vickers,' he said. 'And Zaharoff.'


  Trotsky swung to face me. 'Zaharoff s emissary?'

  Since I was in reality nothing of the kind, I shook my head. 'I merely brought his letter, sir.'

  'Not "sir". Address me, please, as comrade.' Trotsky snatched up the letter, read it quickly, then handed it at once to Sverdlov. While it was read a third time the others remained silent, though it was clear they ached to speak.

  It was, in any event, no more than a moment before Sverdlov looked up and said softly, 'Fifty million?' It was as though he could scarcely believe what he was saying.

  Trotsky, in the same instant, cried, 'But can he be trusted?'

  Lenin pursed his lips, his head tilted a little, his hand turned over to finish palm up; it was a curiously Gallic gesture. 'As a gift?' he said. 'In arms? It's worth far more than the lot of them.'

  Trotsky blinked several times. "They put their trust in Zaharoff. What happened? Nothing was delivered.' He said it again, with a bitter edge to his voice. 'Russia paid Vickers. Zaharoff had the money. Nothing was delivered.'

  'Fifty million in arms,' Lenin said. 'We need them, Lev Davidovitch. Yesterday in this room you said that without -' He stopped and looked at me. 'Leave us. Wait outside. I will send for you.'

  I took a seat in the secretary's office, wondering who 'they' were. 'They' who had put trust in Zaharoff; 'they' who seemed equated with Russia. I wondered, also, in my innocent way how anybody, having met Zaharoff as I had, could possibly trust him. In my mind's eye I could picture that eagle face, those compelling eyes. It was a face to be watched, to be examined, a gaze to be avoided—but hardly to be trusted. Yet clearly the King himself was placing faith . . .

  Sverdlov came bustling out of Lenin's room. He did not stop; he merely crooked the finger of authority at me and continued walking out into the corridor. I scrambled to my feet and followed him. A few doors along he turned into an office, closed the door after me and gestured me to chair. I sat obediently, as he had done earlier.

  'How well do you speak Russian?' he demanded.

  I said, 'Perfectly.'

  'With what accent?'