Eastern Approaches (17 page)

But I met with fewer difficulties than I had expected. At N.K.V.D. Headquarters, I was told politely and promptly by the officer on duty that I should address myself to the local base of Sovsintorg, the State Organization in Charge of Trade with Sinkiang. From the attitude of the N.K.V.D. I gained the impression that they had already received instructions about me from Moscow. This impression was confirmed when, a few hours later, I was informed by the Director of the Sovsintorg Base that, although normally no bus would be running on that day to the frontier town of Bakhti, he would put one on especially for my benefit. It would leave at two in the afternoon and we should reach Bakhti by eight in the evening. At Bakhti I should be able to
pick up a lorry which would take me on to Urumchi. This unexpected, and, in my experience, unprecedented helpfulness, left no doubt in my mind that the authorities at Ayaguz had received explicit instructions to speed me on my way.

Before leaving Ayaguz I witnessed one of those spectacles without which no picture of any part of the Soviet Union would be complete. While I was talking to the stationmaster at Alma Ata, an order had come through by telephone for a detachment of N.K.V.D. troops to be dispatched to Ayaguz and these had travelled with me on the train. Now, as I was waiting for the bus to appear, the detachment paraded on the platform, where they proceeded to take charge of a contingent of prisoners who were then herded into a heavily barred truck. The prisoners, largely Kazakhs, seemed for the most part indifferent to their fate, but one of their number, a burly, red-bearded European Russian, seized this opportunity to harangue the crowd which had collected to witness their departure and had to be driven hastily into the truck at the point of a bayonet. This scene supplied the inevitable undertone of violence and repression.

The bus made its appearance at 4 o’clock — barely two hours late. Although it had been produced especially for my benefit, it was already filled to bursting point with a crowd of Kazakhs, including no less than six small babies. Room was found, or rather made, for me, and we set off as fast as the bus, a four-year-old product of the Stalin Factory, could be induced to go. The heat was stifling and the bus hermetically sealed.

After the first few miles the road emerged from the desert and ran through rolling prairies of fragrant grasses and flowering scrub, from which covey after covey of partridges got up as we passed. To the north the steppe was bounded by the blue craggy foothills of the Tarbagatai Range and to the south it stretched away as far as the eye could see. The road, though rough, was a first-class one by Soviet standards and obviously every effort was being made to keep it in a state of good repair. At frequent intervals we found gangs working on it with every modern road-building appliance. Altogether it bore the mark of a road which had been made, and was being kept up, for
a very definite purpose. We passed a number of lorries filled with merchandise going in both directions.

Towards midnight, in spite of furious driving, made all the more noticeable by the absence of springs and the uneven surface of a road not designed for passenger traffic, we were still a hundred miles from the frontier. Most of the other passengers had by now faded away and we decided to spend the night at the village of Urdjar, a group of mud farmhouses clustered on the banks of a stream. Here I was given a kettle of tea and the choice of six not very promising-looking beds.

At four next morning, in the bleak half light that precedes the dawn, we started on the final stage of the journey to the frontier. For the remaining hundred miles the road runs between two ranges of mountains, to the north the Tarbagatai Hills with beyond them the Altai Mountains, and to the south the Dzungarian Range. At ten we reached the Soviet frontier town of Bakhti and drove straight to the headquarters of the N.K.V.D. Frontier Guards.

There I was received in the most friendly manner by the officer in charge, a tall good-looking Russian in the khaki-drill tunic and smart apple-green cap of his Corps. He had clearly been warned of my arrival and, in less than an hour, had commandeered a Sovsintorg lorry and installed me in it next to the driver, a merry fellow in a red and white striped football jersey. In forty-eight hours, he said, I should be in Urumchi. The journey was not a difficult one and I should be able to find food and accommodation for the night at rest houses provided by Sovsintorg for their drivers. Then he shook hands and saluted and we started on our way. Everything seemed to be going surprisingly well.

Leaving behind us the Soviet frontier post where Soviet frontier guards in smartly cut uniforms were exercising their well-groomed horses, we passed through a triumphal arch and entered Chinese territory. The road immediately became narrower and rougher than on the Soviet side of the frontier. Soon we reached the Chinese frontier post where a very old wrinkled Chinaman, with long white drooping moustaches and a very shabby black suit, came out to inspect our passports. In the background a number of Chinese and Turki soldiers in jodhpurs and bedroom slippers lounged about and
searched each other for lice. The old man, after looking at my passport in a dejected way for some time, finally disappeared into a dilapidated two-storeyed house and I was left sitting outside in the sun.

While I was waiting I was engaged in conversation by an onlooker, who introduced himself as an inhabitant of Chuguchak. His father, he said, had moved there from Tashkent. He himself was a Soviet citizen but his brother had Chinese nationality. By race they were Uzbeks. He then went on to say that what was really wanted in Chuguchak was a good English school. Could I not arrange for one to be founded there? The whole population knew Russian but were longing to learn English and he hinted at promising opportunities for propaganda. He himself already knew a few words of English which he then proceeded to air. On the whole he gave the impression of being an
agent provocateur
. But perhaps prolonged residence in the Soviet Union had made me unduly suspicious.

After half an hour had elapsed I went up to the house to see if I could expedite matters. I was received in the most friendly way by a number of soldiers who ushered me into a small room containing a rack of eight rifles, an incredible number of flies and the largest bed I have ever seen. They then produced a teapot and two bowls, one of which they handed to me while the other was passed round from mouth to mouth. After this ceremony they invited me by means of gestures (to my surprise I found that none of them could or would speak Russian) to lie down and go to sleep. In reply I made it clear to them, also by means of gestures, that at the moment I was not anxious to go to sleep, but wished rather to continue my journey to Urumchi with as little delay as possible. At this they left me, locking the door rather ostentatiously as they went.

Time passed. My prospects, I began to feel, were not so bright as they had at first seemed. Upstairs I could hear Russian being spoken and the sounds of scuffling and female laughter.

Finally the key turned in the lock and the decayed old man in the black suit reappeared and told me that, as soon as my lorry, which had apparently broken down, had been repaired, my documents would be returned to me and I should be allowed to proceed on my way. This
was good news. I cheered up and settled down to wait with better grace.

Another hour elapsed. The lorry was now in working order. Again I returned to the attack; but this time the old man announced that my passport had been sent off by special messenger some two hours before to the Governor of the neighbouring town of Chuguchak. We must wait for it to be returned.

We now sat down to watch the road to Chuguchak, which could be seen from where we were winding across the plain towards the blue mountains of Dzungaria. At last in the remote distance, a column of dust appeared moving rapidly along the road. We watched it coming nearer. Out of it there eventually emerged a small black car of Soviet manufacture, rattling along at full speed over the uneven surface. It drew up in front of the guard-house and from it descended a frail-looking young man with spectacles and a small black moustache neatly dressed in a suit of plus-fours and a mackintosh, an officer in a smart black uniform and top-boots with an enormous Mauser automatic strapped to his side and the air of a stage executioner, and a dejected-looking individual in a stiff collar. All three were Chinese.

The young man in plus-fours and the officer disappeared upstairs without a word, and I was ushered into an office where I found the third member of the party looking more embarrassed and dejected than ever. After inquiring in bad but fairly fluent Russian at some length about the state of my health, he very gradually turned the conversation to the question of my journey. The Governor of Chuguchak, he said, seemed to have received no instructions about me from the Chinese Central Government, or from the Provincial Government at Urumchi. This placed him in a dilemma. He would have liked to help me but it was impossible for him to do so. Indeed he could not even allow me to remain any longer on Chinese territory. The law prevented him. And so, taking everything into consideration, he would advise me to return to Moscow.

In reply, I explained with some vigour that I was proceeding to Urumchi on instructions from the British Government, that I was doing so with the approval of the Chinese Central Government, as was shown by the Chinese diplomatic visa and
laissez-passer
which had been
issued to me, and, finally, that the Sinkiang Provincial Government had been notified of my arrival both by the Chinese Central Government and by His Majesty’s Consul-General at Kashgar, and that if the authorities at Chuguchak had received no instructions regarding my journey it could only be due to a most regrettable omission on the part of the Provincial Government.

To this he answered that this was as it might be; but without explicit instructions from Urumchi he could not allow me to remain on Chinese territory, diplomatic visa or no diplomatic visa. All he could do was to telegraph to Urumchi for instructions, pending the receipt of which I must wait on the other side of the frontier. Threats and attempts at persuasion proved of no avail and the outcome of a long argument was that my baggage was transferred to a Chinese lorry and that I started off in the direction of the Soviet frontier with the assurance, for what it was worth, that as soon as the necessary instructions arrived, all possible facilities would be accorded to me.

The officer in command of the frontier guards at Bakhti expressed great concern on seeing me back so soon. He had thought, he said, with the suspicion of a smile, that I was going to China. At any rate, he went on with perhaps rather suspicious emphasis, I would agree that the Soviet authorities had done everything in their power to help me on my way. With uncultivated people like the Chinese of course one never could tell. He only wished that he could have allowed me to await the answer of the Urumchi Government at Bakhti. But unfortunately it happened to be in a forbidden area. He would advise me to return to Alma Ata where I could get into touch with Urumchi through the Chinese Consul. It so happened that the bus which had brought me to Bakhti was still there. I could leave immediately.

Feeling that I was being made a fool of, I climbed back on to the bus. It was fuller than ever, and this time there were eight children. On the way we stopped at the village of Makanchi for a much-needed evening meal which we were given in the eating-house of the local collective farm: tea, vodka, fried eggs and beef-stew. The eating-house which was a converted mud hut, seemed to be monopolized by the higher
kolkhoz
officials whom I found engaged in preparations for the forthcoming elections to the Supreme Council of the Kazakh S.S.R.
These consisted in plastering the walls of every building inside and out with the not very prepossessing portrait of the local candidate, a typical officer of the N.K.V.D. troops. He was, needless to say, unopposed.

After driving all through the night I reached Ayaguz in time to throw myself on board a hard carriage bound for Alma Ata, where I arrived, tired, cross and dejected, twenty-four hours later.

On reaching Alma Ata, my first care was to call on the Plenipotentiary Representative of the People’s Commissariat for Foreign Affairs, the same pleasant young Kazakh with whom I had had dealings the previous autumn. I explained to him what had happened and asked him to find me accommodation for two or three days while I endeavoured to communicate with Urumchi through the intermediary of the Chinese Consul. He was as usual extremely amiable and, after providing me with a letter to the director of the Dom Sovietov, the hotel where I had stayed on my first visit, proceeded to try to ring up the Chinese Consul on my behalf.

This proved to be no easy matter, and when, after the sixth attempt he had still not got through, I told him that I would walk round to the Chinese Consulate and see what I could do myself. He seemed a little embarrassed at the idea of my paying a personal call on the Chinese Consul and assured me that if I would leave it to him he would arrange everything for me himself. I thought it nevertheless better not to take advantage of his kind offer and set out to find the Chinese Consulate on my own.

It was a revealing experience. The consular offices were installed in a tumble-down native house in a side street. As I was about to enter the front door I was challenged very abruptly by the N.K.V.D. militiaman on duty outside, who asked me where I thought I was going. I replied that, although the matter scarcely concerned him, my intention was to call on the Chinese Consul. At this the militiaman, who had by now, I think, realized that I was not a native of Alma Ata filled with a sudden desire to move in consular society, entered the courtyard of the Consulate, closely followed by myself, and emitted a tremendous bellow. A seedy-looking Chinese appeared in answer to this somewhat unorthodox summons and was told in the most peremptory fashion to ‘come and talk to this man’. The Chinese, who
introduced himself as the Secretary of the Consulate, was evasive as to the whereabouts of the Consul but assured me that he himself would be glad to deal with any points I might wish to raise. I accordingly explained to him my business and asked him to send a wireless message to Urumchi requesting that instructions for my admission to Sinkiang should be sent to Chuguchak with as little delay as possible. At this he seemed slightly embarrassed and asked me whether I had been to see the Plenipotentiary Representative of the People’s Commissariat for Foreign Affairs. He was afraid that the Soviet authorities might be opposed to my visiting Sinkiang. I pointed out that the Soviet authorities had done everything to facilitate my journey and added that I had already in the ordinary course of events been to see the Representative of the People’s Commissariat for Foreign Affairs, although I did not see how this affected the matter. After extracting from him a promise to send an immediate wireless message to Urumchi I returned to the Representative of the People’s Commissariat for Foreign Affairs to report progress.