Yermeloff cracked a louse or two as he considered Stoichko’s offer. Then he declined. ‘Grishenko’s never long.’
‘No girl could live,’ said one of the others, ‘if he was. I had a little Jewess after him. I thought she was moaning with pleasure. Then I realised her arm was broken. He’s a bastard. She was willing. Willing enough, at any rate. You don’t need to use force.’ He was proud of his professionalism as a rapist. ‘One wave of a bayonet works wonders. Poor little thing. I told Yashka to be careful with her when it was his turn. I felt a fool.’
In spite of my interest in their conversation I got up. I asked where the latrine was. Yermeloff looked at my face. ‘That vodka must be bad. You’d better get out. I’ll join you in a minute.’
‘But where?’
‘You won’t have time to find it. Just go. These comrades will be upset if you vomit all over them.’
Amidst more laughter I stumbled to the exit. The entire dining-car had been ruined. More than one person had been sick here before. The thought of the soup was too much. I reached the observation platform, then up came vodka, soup and bread. I was shivering. I pulled the old coat about me. I looked back. Yermeloff could not see me. Ahead, in the dusk, was the town. There were Bolsheviks and presumably fairly civilised officers there. My legs were weak, but I began to run until I was safely invisible, with two or three lines of coaches between me and Yermeloff. I pushed through a broken fence, went past a gabled house where a stuffed eagle looked at me from a ground-floor window, and into a side-street. Alexandriya was sacrosanct. Only Hrihorieff and his senior staff used it. There were few signs of riff-raff from the camp. I wondered if Yermeloff would come after me to shoot me. Two motor-vans went by. Their engines were running perfectly. Had Yermeloff deliberately let me go? I thought I heard my name called from the yards. There was so much babble I was probably mistaken. Had Yermeloff baited a trap? Were he and Grishenko playing a macabre trick? I felt he had been deliberately lax. Possibly Grishenko had lost interest in me and Yermeloff knew it. Consequently he did not care if I left.
I followed the street. There were wooden blocks paving the main road. Those blocks, cleared of snow, were like heavenly clouds. I was in civilisation. I stopped a Cossack who was relatively smart. I told him I was Major Pyatnitski. He pretended the name was familiar as I had hoped. ‘Has Ataman Hrihorieff returned yet?’ I asked.
‘I do not think so, comrade major.’
I pretended impatience. ‘Where’s the telegraph-post? General Headquarters?’ I followed his eyes. He looked towards a building flying a large red flag. ‘There?’
‘I think so.’
‘Very well.’ I did not salute. I let my coat fly open, although I was freezing. It displayed my ‘classless’ suit and revealed me, I hoped, as a commissar. The combination of clothing was perfect: I was an intellectual, yet a man of the people. I paused to feel into the lining of my jacket for another ‘single-dose’. I used my handkerchief again to inhale the cocaine. Much strengthened, I continued on my way. With a nod to the infantryman on guard, I went through a wicket gate, strode up a path to be greeted by a podporuchik (lieutenant) in full green and gold Cossack regalia. ‘I’m Major Pyatnitski.’ I spoke firmly. My intention was merely to get to the telegraph and send a message, allegedly of political import, to Uncle Semya. ‘I’m the engineering officer. Ataman Hrihorieff told me to report here.’
The podporuchik was hardly older than I. He listened carefully, then escorted me into a hallway crowded with ordinary domestic furniture, including a stuffed bear. Alexandriya was a town fond of stuffed animals. There were one or two deer-heads on the wall. The place had evidently been a small hotel. We entered an office where young ladies, like young ladies in any office in the world, were at work with typewriters and ledgers. One used an abacus to help her compute figures which she transcribed rapidly onto a large sheet of paper. She reminded me of Esmé. Hrihorieff was no simple bandit. Here was an efficient military headquarters. We passed through that hard-working throng, through a waist-high wooden barrier, up to a tall desk. An officer in a torn jacket from which epaulettes had been removed looked at me through tired, mild eyes. He fiddled at his heavily-waxed moustache. He moved some papers in his fingers. He was about fifty. ‘Comrade?’ He spoke awkwardly, taking note of my suit. ‘You are from Kherson? Are the supplies here already?’ He consulted a typed list.
‘I’m not a supply officer. I’m Major Pyatnitski.’ My youth and rank had a peculiar effect. He thought it was an impossible combination. But this was now a world of impossibilities. If I was so young and yet a major, I must therefore be an important political person. The cocaine quieted my stomach-pangs, as well as my nerves, though my bowels were constricting uncomfortably, ‘I have to send a telegram to Odessa.’
He put weary arms on his desk in despair. ‘Have we taken Odessa?’
‘Not yet. But we have agents there.’
‘A telegram would have to go via Ekaterinoslav.’
‘I don’t care how it gets there, comrade.’ I spoke quietly, ‘It will naturally be in code, as a personal message.’
He was baffled. ‘Perhaps we should have the advice of the political officers.’
‘I am a political officer.’
‘I have no authority.’
That was the cry which resounded through Russia. It echoes on to this day. Once authority came from God, via the Tsar, to his officials. They knew where they were. Their authority was God’s. Now, in the name of Communism, they slither away from authority. I should have thought a Communist’s first duty was to accept his own responsibility and that of his fellows. Perhaps I am too stupid to understand the complicated reasoning of Marx.
‘Where are the political officers?’ I asked. It was a dangerous game, but it was the only one to play now. ‘This is of utmost urgency.’
‘Upstairs, comrade.’ He pointed as if to heaven. ‘Didn’t you know?’
‘I’ve only just arrived.’
‘There has been no train.’
‘I came, my friend, in a truck. I was abducted by an undisciplined bandit who should be punished as soon as possible.’
‘I do not understand, comrade. Who was this?’
‘Sotnik Grishenko.’
This meant something to him. He frowned. He wrote the name down. He circled it. He dipped his pen in his ink and underlined the circling. He pursed his lips. ‘Grishenko can be over-enthusiastic.’
‘He abducted me from a train taking me to Odessa. Now do you follow me?’
These military clichés rang from my lips like little bells. They pealed for me. I did not have to think. Everyone spoke like that if they had any education. Only the illiterate and stupid used original phrases in Hrihorieff’s army. Those in command did nothing but ape the officers they had killed and robbed in their various mutinies and desertions. I had learned this instinctively. Such instincts are of considerable use, but they can complicate a life.
‘You’ll deal with Grishenko?’
‘I’ll report it to the appropriate division-commander, comrade major.’
‘Many other comrades were inconvenienced. Some were killed. I was captured. Is that serious enough?’
‘It is very serious.’
‘Grishenko should be severely reprimanded.’ I would have my vengeance. ‘Reduced to the ranks.’
‘He’s a useful field-officer,’ began the man at my side. I rounded on him. ‘Useful? At shooting comrades?’
All the women were looking up. Some were pretty. They were like innocent nuns working quietly, unthinkingly, in Hell. We returned through this pleasant warmth of femininity to climb wooden stairs carpeted with red pile. On the landing a group of men were talking in intense, grumbling tones. They stopped as we appeared.