Byzantium Endures (53 page)

I looked at him, smiling. ‘I’m merely going to my carriage, comrade. I’ve been trying to help the people back there who were shot.’

The soldier, a heavy-faced Russian, paused. He thought for a moment. I continued to climb. He said, ‘Why do you have a suitcase with you?’

‘I picked it up instinctively. My comrades will vouch for me.’

I opened the carriage door. The guard drew back the bolt on his rifle. ‘Stay there for a moment. I’ll have to check this.’

‘You’re being foolish.’

‘I must be careful.’

I was glad I had the suitcase with my spare papers in it. At least they would show me as nothing more than an innocent engineer, my ‘cover’, if they liked, for Odessa. There were more people out in the snow now than there had been at Fastov. I heard a peasant ask an insurgent where we were. Near Dmitrovka, he said. It was a town some fifty versts from Alexandriya. It meant we had not been on the direct express route at all, although we were certainly heading for Odessa.

I was relieved that we had not yet reached territory controlled by the notorious ‘Batko’ Makhno. Batko meant ‘Little Father’ or ‘Elder’, but with a more democratically affectionate ring. Makhno was supposed to be fighting on the Bolshevik side but was notorious for his treachery. He had almost defeated the Nationalists singlehanded at Ekaterinoslav in November.

Hrihorieff’s men were a small unit left by the line to stop any passing train. People began to argue that the loco had been flying red flags. The Haidamaki claimed they had been confused. Nationalists were not above playing tricks.

Their swarthy leader appeared. He was a barrel-bodied brute with heavy black eyebrows. He was dressed in a dark red-belted kaftan, with bullet-pouches, a sheepskin shapka, French army trousers, riding boots. He carried two Mauser pistols, a variety of knives and, of course, a Cossack sabre. He sported a vicious horsewhip. Like all Cossacks, he knew the value of that whip in inducing terror. It could kill. The villain was enjoying his power. I began to think I should have been better off with the Chekist.

He stopped, as I had expected, when he got to me. He looked with some amusement at my good-quality clothes. They were wet to the knees and I was still covered in Marusia Kirillovna’s blood. ‘What’s in the suitcase?’ He spoke superciliously. ‘Gold?’

‘Of course not. I’m on Party business.’

‘From Moscow?’

‘From Kiev.’

‘They’re all yids in Moscow now.’ He fingered his whip reminiscently.

I nodded.

‘And in Kiev. That’s what I don’t like about this. We’re actually helping the yids.’ He looked away from me in disgust and turned as if for support to the frightened peasants. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Odessa,’ I began.

He turned back. ‘I was talking to these. Where are you going?’

They chorused the names of various towns and cities. He scratched his heavy eyebrows. ‘That’s enough.’ He pointed with his whip at some obvious Jews, including two who wore skull-caps, and told them to stand forward. They came shuffling through the crowd. They looked hopeless.

‘Everyone else back in the carriage,’ he said.

I started to climb the steps again but it was ‘not you’ and ‘back here’. I became impatient. ‘This won’t do, comrade.’

‘You’re a bloody Bolshevik yid.’

I was shocked by the double insult. ‘My name’s Pyatnitski. I’m an engineer.’

‘What’s your real name?’

‘I have a passport,’ I told him. I put my suitcase on its side on the step and opened it. I removed my spare set of papers. I offered them to him. It was the look of rage he gave me as he took them which made me realise he could not read. But he held them to his nose, going through them slowly. He put them in his sleeve, having studied the photograph very carefully. ‘Pyatnitski. That’s a Russian name.’

‘I can’t help my name, comrade. I’m working for Ukrainian interests.’

‘Nationalists?’

‘I don’t care what they’re called. I’m trying to free Ukraine from all foreign interests.’

‘Including yids?’

‘Naturally.’

‘So you’re a traitor, too.’

‘I’m not Jewish.’

‘Then you’re the only Bolshevik who isn’t.’

‘May I return to my carriage?’

‘Why aren’t they outside, too?’ He glanced at the windows.

‘We’re Party people.’

‘Yids going home to Odessa.’ He struck at a pane of glass with his whip. It cracked. He laughed. ‘Come on, comrades. All out. In the snow with the proletariat.’

They would not come. Eventually some of the bandits had to board the carriage and drive everyone down. They stood in groups like angry chickens. They had put their revolvers back in their pockets or in their luggage. Many were protesting. Not a few displayed special cards and passes. They made more noise than the whole of the rest of the train. ‘Shut up!’ shouted our persecutor. ‘What money have you got?’

‘Money?’ It was, I think, Potoaki speaking. ‘Hardly any.’

‘Bloody Red yids. Gold!’

‘Pogromchik!’ said a thin-faced woman in a head-scarf. ‘You’ve killed half the people in there. Corpses all over the place. You killed a girl!’

‘We’re used to killing, lady. It doesn’t mean a great deal to us.’

‘Trotsky will learn of this,’ said someone else.

‘Then Trotsky will find out how we treat yids in Ukraine. We’re not working for yids, Red, White, Green or Yellow. We’ve had enough of them.’

‘Anti-semitic, ignorant, capitalist. ..’

‘I’ll admit to all of that, comrade. Hrihorieff is fighting with your masters because it suits him. To get rid of the landowners. You think you’re using us. We’re using you.’ He lashed out with his whip. Its thongs whistled over the woman’s head. She sucked and sobbed. ‘You bastard.’

‘We want gold and supplies. We were promised them by Antonov. Where are they?’

‘They’re on the next train,’ I said. ‘A special train.’

‘How do you know?’

‘We discussed your supplies before I left. We knew it was urgent.’

‘Coming down this line?’

‘Following us.’

‘That’s right.’ Someone had guessed what I was doing, it shouldn’t be more than half-an-hour behind.’

‘Good,’ said the Cossack. ‘We’ll wait for it.’

‘There might be a crash,’ I pointed out.

‘Fine. We’ll be sure it stops then, won’t we?’

‘You’ll foul up the alliance,’ said Potoaki. ‘You’ll lose all our support.’

‘We’ve been doing fairly well without it. We need a few immediate supplies, a bit of ammunition. You might see us in Moscow before the spring’s out.’ He was glutted with provincial pride because of a few local victories. He was like those Vikings who attacked a town on the Seine and came home claiming they had sacked Rome. He made a noise in his nose and looked me up and down. ‘You’re an engineer. What sort?’

‘Most sorts.’

‘Know about motor-engines?’

‘Of course.’

‘You can fix one?’

I decided I had to ingratiate myself with this idiot or stand the risk of being shot. ‘All things being equal.’

‘What?’

‘If no new parts are needed. I can see what’s wrong. If something’s missing I might be able to improvise. But if you’ve lost something crucial...’

‘We’ve got a truck,’ he said, it stopped. Will you look at it?’

‘In the common cause?’

He shrugged. ‘Will you look at it?’

‘If you promise I get back on the train when I’ve done so.’

‘All right.’

I did not know if he would wait for the fictional supply train or whether he would be afraid to face it. I returned my bag to my compartment. On a page of the notebook I carried I wrote Uncle Semya’s address. I put it in the suitcase. The other case had only clothes. This one was the most important, because it contained my plans, my designs, my notes.

I joined the scowling Cossack. His men were already looting the train, watched by helpless Red sailors. Not only Jews were suffering, although these were getting the harshest treatment. A Hasid with a bloody crotch was spread-eagled, dead, half-way up the embankment.

I followed the Cossack as he plunged towards the crest. Having slipped a couple of times, I was now covered in snow. I was shivering and uncomfortable. We reached the top. We looked down on a thin, earth road. There were some ponies standing there, attended by a young boy in a tattered sheepskin. Their breath looked whiter than the snow and there seemed to be a tranquillity here. Further along the road were three carts, harnessed to horses, and a motor-van. From the van came more vapour. German insignia had been partially scraped from its sides. It flew a red flag. The bonnet was open. Two Cossacks were arguing about what they could see inside. They spoke in dialect. As we approached, they fell silent. One of them removed his cap, then put it shamefacedly back on. Their leader said, ‘This is a mechanic from Moscow. He’ll look at it.’

I could see immediately that the radiator hose had come loose. All it needed was tying back on with a leather thong. I decided to try to impress them. My life depended on it. ‘Who drives?’ A sickly fellow, the one who had removed his cap, raised his hand. ‘You start the engine,’ I said to his companion. The crank-lever was already in position. He began to turn it like a peasant winding a bucket from a well. At last the engine fired and immediately began over-heating. I enjoyed its warmth in that bitter air. I walked round and round in front of the truck, as if thinking deeply. I told them to stop the engine. I told them to stand back. They did this with alacrity. I took the hose in my gloved hands and replaced it. I asked for a thong. One was found. I bound the hose up, unscrewed the radiator cap and told them to put snow into a bucket and warm it on the engine.

‘Snow!’ said their leader. ‘The thing runs on benzine.’

Even I was surprised by this ignorance. ‘Do as I say.’

The two men found a large water container and began to pick snow up in their hands, cramming it in. When it had melted I told them to begin pouring it into the radiator. ‘Not too quickly.’

Eventually the radiator was brimming over. I told them to start the engine again. As the truck spluttered and shook the leader yelled at me: ‘It hasn’t worked. What else is wrong?’

Then the motor was turning. The Cossack who had cranked it jumped back. By the smell of the fumes, it was hard to know what kind of fuel they were using. The black smoke suggested it might have been unrefined oil. The truck began to roll towards me. The driver yelled and swung the steering wheel. Their driving was only slightly better than their knowledge of the internal combustion engine. A brake was applied. I picked myself out of the snow-drift. From behind the embankment I heard sounds and saw steam. ‘The train’s leaving.’

‘You’ve just saved your life.’ The leader grinned. He was pleased to see the truck running. ‘Thank God, if you like. What’s a trip to Odessa worth now? You’ve just been saved a trip to Hell. I don’t know what you thought you were: yid, Katsup or Bolshie. But you’re now an official engineer with the host of Hetman Hrihorieff, serving under Sotnik Grishenko. Aren’t you proud?’

The bandits were coming back, grinning, waving and displaying their dishonourable booty. The stuff was thrown into the truck. I was made to climb aboard with the rest of the loot. I found myself in a tangle of stolen goods, machine-guns, ammunition, salted pork and two small girls who giggled when they saw me and offered me some herring. I accepted. It might be the last food I would get. The girls murmured at me in their thick accents. They were survivors from a village fought over by Reds and Nationalists. The truck moved off. Sotnik (Captain) Grishenko rode up close behind us. He had a look of self-satisfaction on his hard features. ‘Fix the canopy, if you like. You’ll be warmer. Don’t eat too much. That’s food for a lot of soldiers.’