Fear of Mirrors

by Tariq Ali

  She had no idea where she was going or with whom she would be staying. She had barely arrived in London when the Dutchman who met her at the station had fed her and then driven her to another station where she caught the train to Norwich.

  To her astonishment, the person waiting to meet her at Norwich station was Christopher Brown, her old lover from the Moscow days. He smiled and shook hands. Then she was driven away to the beautiful, large, Brown family house situated in the heart of Wells, a quiet, coastal town. It was an idyllic three weeks. Listening to her talk always made me want to go there just to have a look at the house and the beach. I still haven’t managed to make the trip, but perhaps you will, Karl.

  Brown was married to Olga, an émigré Russian; both were working for Ludwik. Olga was the niece of a Russian grand duke, a cousin of the Tsar. In 1917 her family had dragged her away from Moscow against her will, but not before she had left her jewels and a letter in a thick brown envelope marked ‘For Lenin and the Central Committee of the Bolsheviks’. She was on the side of the Revolution from the very beginning. If she had stayed on and joined the Bolsheviks, Stalin would probably have had her killed like all the others.

  In Britain she followed Ludwik’s advice and never declared herself in public. She died recently, in 1982, at a ripe old age. After Ludwik’s death both she and Brown broke all connections with Moscow and threatened to expose their agents if they ever tried to contact them again.

  I don’t think Gertrude liked or disliked Olga. As you can imagine, Karl, on hearing all this I was completely fascinated and obsessed by Olga. What was it that had made this young woman break with her family and support those who had had her uncle, the Tsar, and his immediate family executed? I plied Gertrude with questions, but she could tell me very little except that, on the one occasion when she had asked Olga what she felt about the Tsar, Olga had snapped back, ‘The English and French killed their kings. Why should we have done it differently? In any case their lives would have been saved had our English cousin, George V, offered them asylum here, but he declined and they perished.’

  Gertrude was struck by the tranquillity of England. Germany, Italy and Portugal were under the fascist heel; Spain was in the throes of a civil war; France often seemed on the verge of its own war with the republic under a popular front government, constantly in fear of Hitler and his fifth column inside the country; Russia was exterminating the men and women who had made the Revolution, the ‘cadres who could only be exterminated through civil war’, in Stalin’s chilling phrase. Turmoil everywhere, but England, no provincial backwater, this, but the hub of a mighty empire, remained calm. Away from it all, Gertrude recovered her poise.

  She had no news of her parents or Heiny, her beloved brother, except that they were alive and trying to get out of Germany. She thought of them a great deal and wished that she had utilized the Fourth Department network to rescue Heiny, but Livitsky had vetoed the idea as dangerous and mistaken. It would establish a bad precedent. She agreed with him, but wept when she was alone. It was on a Norfolk beach that she realized that, for her, the most important thing in the world was to defeat the Nazis. If this meant putting everything else aside for the moment, then it had to be done. Hitler must be defeated. Stalin would have to wait till later.

  Christopher and Olga entertained a great deal and one weekend Gertrude was shocked by the talk she heard during lunch. The Browns were entertaining a dozen guests, men of influence and their wives. Gertrude was introduced as an old friend from Berlin. The Englishmen suddenly became very attentive, firing sympathetic questions to her about the glories of the Third Reich. They were all, without exception, extremely impressed by Hitler’s achievements. They were also convinced – as Olga had reported to Ludwik on a number of occasions – that the English ruling elite would do a deal with Hitler to isolate the Soviet Union.

  The next morning Brown told her they were expecting new visitors, but this time from our side. Gertrude was scared. She had been in the game long enough to know that the Fourth Department was being purged. Could the men who were on their way here be her executioners? Or were they bringing her a message from Ludwik? She could not explain her fear to Olga or Christopher. She did not know what they really believed and Ludwik had warned her not to share her doubts with anyone.

  The two men arrived in the afternoon, were shown into the garden where tea was being served. They introduced themselves as Michael Spiegelglass and Klaus Winter. Of the two, Winter was easily the more presentable. A German Communist in his early thirties, he was of medium height, pleasing appearance, and dressed casually in a white shirt and brown trousers. He was much more at his ease than Spiegelglass, who was wearing a badly tailored dark brown suit, a white shirt and a nondescript tie. Regulation issue for secret agents on their first foreign assignment, the new men from the Fourth Department. Speigelglass was the same height as Winter, but he looked shorter because of his plumpness. He wore thick-lensed, gold-frame spectacles.

  Gertrude didn’t tell me much about him, but it was obvious from the way she talked that she had fallen in love with Winter. Yes, I had been right. The face in the photograph was familiar. Winter was still a friend, and when I was a child he would sometimes accompany us to special events like the Moscow State Circus.

  The two men had travelled from Paris to Norfolk just to see Gertrude. Spiegelglass questioned her for two hours about Ludwik. His views on the Moscow Trials, the war in Spain, the situation in Germany, and so on. He denounced Stalin, but it was such an obvious trap that far from responding in kind, Gertrude reprimanded him and threatened to inform the Department in Moscow. Both men left the same evening, though Winter returned and spent a few days with them in Wells.

  It was then that Gertrude realized Ludwik was in danger. She sent him a message and within forty-eight hours had received her authorization to return to Paris.

  The story as Gertrude told it sounded tedious. I knew the tone well. It was the voice she usually put on for outsiders when she decided to regale them with stories of her heroic past: her voice slightly raised, her nostrils slightly expanded, her eyes shining with a slightly fanatical gleam, but it was a mask. I knew that from old because a tale told in this mood was never the same. The events, the people and her own role were always different depending on the audience. This time it was just her and me, but she had slipped on the old mask and I knew she was concealing the truth. What memories was she trying to suppress, and why? I tried, but it was never easy to extract her real self from the shell. I never found out the truth. Perhaps there was nothing to discover. Perhaps it was her affair with Winter that cast a special light on that idyllic period in England. Perhaps.

  Twenty

  LUDWIK WAS ALONE in his Paris apartment. A solitary existence was nothing unusual for a spy. Often he had gone to dangerous places for a long time and at times had thought he might never return, but here in the kitchen he missed Felix and Lisa. The stillness of the morning made him uneasy.

  He gazed with keen tenderness at a photograph of all three of them on a skiing holiday; in it, he was disguised as a polar bear. The memory brought a smile to his eyes, but it faded quickly. In their absence, the sadness of his life became even more noticeable. This place was their little home, a retreat from the grim world. They felt happy and warm when they were here together. He sat staring at the white ceiling while he sipped his coffee. The truth, blinding and transparent, was clearly visible.

  Ludwik was thinking. For nearly twenty years, he had believed that they were engaged in a planetary civil war between the forces of good and evil. If the world revolution did not triumph, then counterrevolution was inevitable. The Soviet Union would not survive unless Spain, Germany and France – and that was just a start – broke just like the Russians had done from the chain of world capitalism.

  Since 1928, when the opposition had been crushed, Ludwik had realized that the Revolution in the former Tsarist Empire was beginning to degenerate. He was a veteran of the civil war. He knew all there
was to know about difficult conditions. He had observed deserters being punished and watched the swift and summary execution of White prisoners. Neither was morally justifiable, but in extremis even those who considered themselves on the side of justice committed atrocities. The revolution had to be saved at any cost, and the traumatic experiences of the First World War had, for both sides, reduced the worth of human lives.

  That phase was long over. Trotsky’s armies had won the civil war. There was no reason for continuing the restrictions on democracy inside and outside the Party, and yet the situation had become much worse. Stalin’s terror was destroying the old Bolshevik Party. Why had Ludwik, the master of strategy, the dialectician whose grasp of logic was the envy of the Fourth Department, failed to realize that sooner or later his own mind would be thrown into disorder?

  Why? Because he did not have the courage to become an unattached citizen, condemned to silence or even death, held in contempt by his colleagues, who would impose a moral quarantine on him. To cut the umbilical cord that tied him to the Fourth Department was a fearful prospect, a leap into the void, and yet he could delay no longer. He was losing all sympathy for the official character that he embodied.

  The final blow had come not from Stalin, but from Leon Blum. The French Socialist leader’s refusal to help the Spanish Republic had, on one level, depressed Ludwik much more than Stalin’s criminal activities in Catalonia. ‘Non-intervention’ was the name they gave to their cowardice. What else could one expect from the English, whose ruling class was dominated by secret and not-so-secret admirers of Franco, Mussolini and Hitler? The English ruling gentry were desperate for the Axis powers to wipe out Bolshevism, but Blum was a decent man, a Socialist. He had become the Prime Minister of France at the head of a popular front which the French workers had swept to victory in last year’s elections.

  If France had aided the Spanish Republic to exactly the same extent as Hitler and Mussolini were supporting Franco, the Spanish Republic would have won. It was too late now. Blum had supported nonintervention. It was a bitter, bitter blow. Did not Blum understand that he had unwittingly signed the death warrant of the French Republic as well?

  Ludwik was sure that this would be the outcome. A strengthened fascism would not be held up by the Maginot Line. French passivity on Spain had demoralized many popular front supporters. Ludwik banged the wall with his fist. Filled with rage, he realized how impotent he had become.

  It was Sunday morning and the streets below the apartment were quiet. The continental sky was blue and the sun was pouring into the sitting-room. On his own, he preferred the modest hotel in Clichy from where he had organized so much almost twelve years ago. Slowly, as he continued to stare at the white ceiling, two lists emerged in his mind. The first detailed the reasons for pulling out. (I) The Revolution has degenerated beyond repair; (2) The Spanish Republic is losing the civil war and Blum will not intervene; (3) If Spain loses, Hitler will invade the Soviet Union and Stalin will be incapable of defending it.

  And the second list? His mind registered a blank. He could think of no political reasons to stay in any longer. The thought frightened him.

  His eyes descended to see another framed photograph of Lisa and Felix that stood on his desk. Both of them were dressed in their smartest clothes. It made Ludwik laugh. Then he fell silent thinking of them in Moscow. He had received a message from Freddy saying that ‘all was well’, but nothing more. How could ‘all be well’?

  It was such a beautiful morning that Ludwik gave up the thought of making himself some more coffee and decided to walk down to his café for breakfast. He had just slipped on a jacket when the phone rang, then stopped, then rang again, stopped again, and Ludwik sat down with a sigh. The Department was trying to call him. The third ring he would have to answer and it was probably Michael Spiegelglass, the new boy at the embassy. An eager young terrier. The very sight of him made Ludwik nauseous. But it was not Spiegelglass. Instead he heard the light tones of one of his oldest agents.

  ‘Ludwik?’

  ‘Good. You’re back. Same place in an hour’s time.’

  The meeting with Gertrude would be painful. He had managed to isolate her from prying eyes, but how would she react if he told her that he had decided to break with Stalin, to do what he had stopped her doing only a few weeks ago? He decided to remain silent for the moment.

  As he approached the rendezvous point near Saint-Michel, Ludwik smiled to himself. He was sure she would be wearing her faded blue blouse and her round silver-rimmed spectacles. He was proved wrong on both counts. The woman who greeted him was attired in a smart, cream-coloured skirt, a matching jacket and, to his amazement, a navy blue straw hat. The old spectacles, too, had been replaced with something that must have come straight from the latest fashion magazines.

  ‘Do you approve my disguise?’ she asked him after they had embraced and kissed each other on both cheeks.

  He nodded.

  ‘The first time I met you, Ludwik, you were dressed in a three-piece suit, prominently displaying a watch, with a gold chain which was safely attached to your waistcoat. Your businessman look.’

  ‘Wrong. I was Professor of Modern Languages at Charles University. My businessman costume was really vulgar. But your clothes are good. Olga or Christopher?’

  ‘Christopher!’

  ‘I thought so. The sun is still out. Should we walk by the river for a while?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Ludwik was somewhat distracted by the new-look Gertrude. Could this be the same woman who had threatened suicide a few months ago? She appeared far too jaunty and self-confident. He decided to proceed slowly.

  ‘Tell me about England.’

  ‘Olga said you know England very well. She said you were first in London in 1921, helping the Irish. Is that true?’

  ‘Yes. That was Lenin’s idea. You know he followed their Easter Rising in 1916 very closely. Felt sympathy with Connolly’s revolutionary defeatism. I offered help. Yes, that’s when I first met Olga. She was eighteen and very beautiful.’

  ‘I know. She told me her story. So you recruited the niece of a Russian grand duke to the Bolshevik cause.’

  ‘It wasn’t so remarkable. She was already on our side. She was an obvious candidate. Do you trust Christopher?’

  ‘Totally.’

  She coloured slightly.

  ‘How so sure?’

  They walked on for a few moments before she replied.

  ‘I am. I just am sure.’

  ‘Did you sleep with him again?’

  ‘Ludwik!’

  ‘Answer me, Gertrude.’

  ‘Once. It was a beautiful sunny day and the beaches were totally deserted and –’

  ‘Spare me the details. Does Olga know?’

  ‘He told her.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She came into my room one night. We talked. It was OK.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She said “Ludwik sent you to us for a rest and a cure. You have now had both. I think you should leave us.” I’m really sorry, Ludwik. It was all spontaneous. I had not planned anything. Neither of us had forgotten those weeks in Moscow after Lenin died.’

  ‘Forget it. Did anyone from Moscow come to the house while you were present?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Ludwik froze. He had forbidden Olga and Christopher to contact the embassy while Gertrude was there.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Olga said she had a message from someone. She said it might even be you. We had to see them.’

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘Someone at the embassy in France. Spiegelglass? He said he was a friend of yours. That you went back to the twenties. He hadn’t seen you for years. Just wanted to know how you were. Asked hundreds of questions about you. What you thought about the trials, about Spain, Germany, everything.’

  ‘Including Stalin.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Did you tell him anything?’

  ‘No,
but he tried to make me. He denounced Stalin, but neither Olga nor I responded. That was all. He was accompanied by a very nice, young German comrade. He was genuinely very friendly. Didn’t mention you at all. Just talked about the world situation and his great passion for cooking. Christopher was quite impressed with him.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘The German, Klaus Winter, cheered us all up. Ludwik, I’m getting tired. Can we sit somewhere and have something to drink?’

  ‘Madame is missing her afternoon tea?’

  She laughed, unaware that Ludwik was in a vicious mood. He knew that something had changed in her, that she was not telling him the whole truth. This only made him determined to delve deeper. It was while they were sipping their iced lemon drinks that he understood. He put her through a very simple test. In the course of a conversation about Lisa, he casually referred to Stalin as the gravedigger of the Revolution. For Ludwik, this was a very mild remark. None of his close friends would have given it another thought, but Gertrude appeared slightly shifty.

  He kept looking at her till she felt obliged to speak.

  ‘Our heroic age is a thing of the past, Ludwik. I’ve understood that now. We were utopians. This is no time for lofty sentiments. Fascist terror has to be defeated. Christopher and Olga are convinced that the English ruling class will do a deal with Hitler. That leaves the Soviet Union. It’s all we’ve got, Ludwik.’

  ‘So the choice we are offering the workers of the world is barbarism or barbarism, fascist terror or Stalinist terror?’

  ‘There is no equation between the two systems.’