I visited the Polytechnic and found Professor Matzneff back in charge. This, at least, was something. I told him of my problem. He assured me that he knew of my case and would do all he could to see I was properly looked after. Many records had become lost. He suspected some of the academics of destroying them. It would probably be better if I went home for a while until things became normal. Eventually the Institute would be functioning as usual. I could return and he would help me sort everything out.
‘I was promised a Special Diploma,’ I explained. ‘Can I still expect it?’
‘Of course. But the times are so uncertain. With the paper shortages it’s hard to get things printed.’
‘It is important to me. I had a letter from Professor Vorsin. He assured me the Diploma was being prepared. I had hoped to show it to my mother.’
‘Well, the letter will do, eh, for the moment?’
I agreed the letter was absolute confirmation. I would leave my address with him (I gave him my proper name) and would wait until I heard from him. I would be prepared to make a special visit to Petrograd to collect the Diploma. It would be unsafe to trust the mails in the present crisis. I had heard of postmen, for instance, dumping their bags into the snow or the garbage at the announcement of the Tsar’s abdication. I think my old friend Matzneff also had some intimation of the difficulties lying ahead and was trying to save me from the worst. Within a few months the Bolsheviks would be in control. Civil War would be laying our vast country waste, wreaking far more damage than anything the Germans might have done.
I shook hands with Matzneff, wished him luck, hoped he would be able to run the Polytechnic through what he termed the ‘interim confusion’. I repeated my offer, as I felt I should, to help teach if necessary. He said he appreciated this but that teachers of routine experience were what were currently needed. He was trying to attract Vorsin and a few of the others back. They had lost some of their nervousness and might return.
I am glad I decided to take his advice. If I had not, I should almost certainly, like Vorsin, have become a victim of the Cheka. I bade him an affectionate farewell. I returned to the apartment to say goodbye to Kolya. He promised to send for me as soon as things were stable. He had acquired sudden political influence. When he was Prime Minister, he said, he would appoint me Minister of Science. It was a consolation. Even if the revolutionaries had taken over, it was as well to have well-placed friends. Things might not be so difficult in the long term.
I went to The Harlequinade and asked after Mrs Cornelius. The place was packed. Some mixture of poetry-reading and political meeting was taking place. Red bunting was stuck everywhere. It was a madhouse. I pressed through the crowd (I had already learned to address all and sundry as ‘comrade’). I searched for Mrs Cornelius. She was not there. I left a message with a mutual acquaintance. My English trip was delayed. I would try to contact her soon. In the streets there, were groups of students waving huge red flags. The Marseillaise was being played on every sort of instrument, on gramophones, by military bands. Trams and buses trundled by, full of yelling students and drunken soldiers. It reminded me of the Paris Commune. I remembered what had happened to that particular ‘social experiment’. I prayed Kolya would have the sense to moderate his views and policies.
I stayed the night in Kolya’s apartment. There were political newspapers and posters, all the junk of Revolution littered about. My friend was attending a meeting of the Duma and did not return. In the morning I packed my bags, borrowed Kolya’s supply of cocaine, two bottles of Polish vodka and a few silver roubles, and walked to Mr Green’s. I found the office in complete confusion. Everyone was leaving. Only Mr Parrot was to remain. He looked unhappy. I told Mr Green I needed some money. He was evidently reluctant to part with what he had, but gave me some paper roubles. He said they would be enough to get me to Kiev. I must write direct to Uncle Semya if I needed any more. I thanked him for his help. I still had my passport and would be glad to act as his courier if he needed someone in the future. He nodded and said he would remember my offer.
Through misty snow I walked to the station. It was in complete chaos. Deserters, released prisoners, cripples, touts, pimps, honest artisans, bohemians, aristocrats, businessmen and students were all trying to flee the city. There was no question of a luxury journey home. By paying three times the proper price I was lucky to get a third-class ticket. I found myself crowded into a carriage which already had one window broken (‘for some fresh air’ as an unshaven soldier told me). There were tiers of smelly bunks. These were full of gypsies, Jews, Tatars, Armenians, Poles and drunks making the compartment reek of foul tobacco, cheap vodka and vomit. I clung on to my bags, forced myself to be agreeable to an old Jew in a black overcoat and a young soldier with one arm, who was also trying to get to Kiev, and squeezed in between them.
Eventually the train moved slowly from the station. St Petersburg was a miserable shadow, occupied at last by the forces of Chaos. We left it behind us. Then a white wind blew through the broken pane, making it impossible to see the countryside beyond. I consoled myself that, after all, I had achieved far more in the capital in a shorter time than I had thought possible. I would be returning home with some honour!
EIGHT
FOUR DAYS LATER THE train arrived in Kiev. By the time I struggled from the freezing compartment into the afternoon gloom I had been robbed of some books, a couple of inexpensive figurines bought for my mother, and a pair of gloves. Luckily I had some fur mittens of Kolya’s. I put these on before gripping my bags and setting off on foot in the direction of Kirillovskaya and my mother’s flat.
My city was occupied by every kind of scum: deserters who had killed their officers, peasants who had murdered their masters, workers who had stolen from their employers; all had come to Kiev to spend their gold on drink and women. In the train I had met a great many Petrograd businessmen, nobles and intellectuals, and similar individuals in flight from Moscow. They were hoping to get to Yalta or Odessa or anywhere on the coast. I do not know where they expected to go from there. Turks and Germans blockaded us on every sea. Perhaps those places were less infected with Revolutionary madness. Here red banners hung between buildings; there were proclamations on walls (some in Ukrainian, which baffled me); meetings were carried on at every corner; and bands were playing Shevchenko’s The Ukraine Will Never Die as well as La Marseillaise. The floors of the train had been filthy with expectorated sunflower seeds and with every other sort of inanimate and animate rubbish. There was no difference here, either on pavements or in parks. Incompetents had taken charge. Kiev had collapsed as a civilised city. Trams had ceased to run on time; cabs had disappeared; bands of drunken brigands in sailors’ uniforms and army greatcoats roamed about at will, demanding money, drink, food, cigarettes, from passers-by. Because the democratic Rada had not defined it, police and Cossack militia were uncertain of their authority. Should they try to arrest the brigands? Should they merely ask them to leave other comrades alone? Should they shoot on sight? Should they simply ignore the activities of the new aristos? The deserters and convicts were armed to the teeth, cheerfully willing to kill anyone who frustrated them: a typical situation in all Russia’s cities during Kerenski’s days. It would get worse. The Bolsheviks would merely legalise the terror and give it moral justification. Every murder victim became a liquidated bourgeois just as nowadays they are all listed as traffic accidents. It looked as if half the city was drunk and the other half sunk into dejection. I passed by Podol. The whole ghetto had turned Red: the Jews were celebrating their conquests. I bought a Voice of Kiev. It had already taken on a nationalist note.