‘He’s a Slovak, actually.’
Valentine waved the distinction aside. ‘Whatever he is, he’s a foreigner. Russian officers won’t take orders from foreigners. Stavka here has a low opinion of the Legion as it is. They regard them as allies of the SRs. More to the point, they’ve persuaded Kolchak of the fact. He’s been heard to say that the sooner they clear out the better.’
‘That’s hardly fair,’ Paul protested. ‘They’ve shouldered the bulk of the fighting since the summer. They’ve been all that’s stood between the Red Army and…’
He stopped. He had said exactly the same thing to Sofya that morning and had just finished up fighting with her. But it was unjust. Without the Legion the Bolsheviks would already have control of Russia and Siberia. They had taken over all the Soviets set up after the February Revolution and it was only the fact of the disruption caused by the Legion controlling the Trans-Siberian line that had stopped them from crushing all opposition. The Legion had suffered reverses since the autumn, it was true, but that was due to the present overwhelming superiority of the Red forces. What they needed was support from a Russian army, but the incompetence and the back-biting Russian Stavka and the machinations of the various local governments had left those Russian soldiers who had been willing to fight — like Kappel and Pepelayev — without the means to do so. He told Valentine about the lack of supplies they were suffering at the front.
‘Exactly the point, old man,’ Valentine replied unmoved. ‘Someone needs to get hold of the whole supply system and shake it up. I’m not saying it’s deliberate on the Directory’s part—’
‘Sofya did,’ said Paul. ‘She blamed it on someone called Avksentiev.’
‘He’s the leader of the SRs here in Omsk and one of the Directory of Five. I daresay she was just parroting her brother and the usual Stavka view. They hate the SR ministers more than they hate the Bolsheviks. They blame them for everything that’s happened since the Revolution. But really it’s nothing but incompetence. It was the same in Petersburg.’ He threw his hands in the air knocking what was left of the bread on the floor. ‘They’re talkers. It’s all they can do. My, if you had sat through as many debates in the Petersburg Soviet as I did! Lord it was boring. And to what end? None! None at all. They used to talk each other to a standstill over points of order and procedure but no one actually did anything! Of course, here it didn’t help when Chernov issued his decree on how the army should be organised—’
‘Who on earth is Chernov?’ Paul asked, lost among this myriad of bickering politicians.
‘The SR leader in Ufa.’
‘I thought that girl, Spiridonova, was supposed to be their leader.’
‘Just the titular head, old man,’ Valentine said. ‘Because of her reputation and what happened to her after the Cossacks arrested her. Anyway, no one seems to know what’s happened to her now. The Bolsheviks arrested her after the SRs pulled that business at the Moscow Congress. They might even have shot her by now.
‘No,’ he said, returning to his point, ‘Chernov and the rest of them want the army run along SR lines. You know the sort of thing, officers elected, committees deciding strategy… I may not have been in the army, old man, but I do know that one can’t fight a war under those conditions. Even Trotsky had to admit that. He’s gone as far as drafting in some of the old tsarist officers again. Although not the kind we’ve got here in Omsk, naturally. Hierarchy and discipline, it’s the only way. That’s what Stavka want here. But of course they want it on the old terms.’
Paul could hardly argue. Ideological Socialism in the army didn’t work, as poor Švec had found out. Although that didn’t stop men like Karel Romanek agitating for it. If the Legion fought, like the Stavka it would have to be on their terms, Legion terms. They wouldn’t stand for Russian officers implementing Russian discipline, any more than the Russian would stand for it the other way around. What was more, Paul doubted that the Legion would stand idly by here in Omsk if the Directory was by-passed. It may not have been their idea of a Social-Revolutionary government but at least it contained some SR ministers. What would happen to them and the other SRs in Omsk if the Stavka took control? Then there was Ward and his detachment of the Middlesex. He had already intimated to Paul that something of the like might be in the wind. Ward himself might be of the opinion that Russia needed a strong man at the helm — a strong man other than Lenin, that is — but Paul couldn’t believe that a man with Ward’s background would stand idly by while the SR faction in the Directory — not to mention the large numbers of workers and peasants in Omsk who supported them — were massacred.
The whole thing was a mess. Paul was beginning to think he had been better off out on some spur line with Capek chasing the Red Army. At least there one knew who one’s enemy was. He would have just as soon gone back if it hadn’t been for Sofya. He’d managed to extricate her from a dangerous situation in Petersburg and would like to do the same in Omsk. But here it looked as if it would be more difficult. In Petersburg she had been reluctant to leave in case her brother returned; here, with him, she would be even more reluctant to leave. Now, on top of it, Paul had quarrelled with her and now had no idea where he stood.
And, what might be still worse was that her brother seemed to be up to his neck in the very situation brewing in Omsk from which Paul would wish to extricate her.
45
He had fallen asleep to the drone of Valentine’s voice. When the street outside became dark they had moved to a small sitting room and Valentine had closed the shutter and lit a candle. He had produced a bottle of vodka. Sometime in the evening the sound of gunfire began. Valentine cocked an ear but seemed unperturbed.
‘Just random shooting. Happens most nights,’ was all he said.
Paul listened. The gunfire sounded more than random. It was concentrated, coming in bursts, hardly random at all. But then, he had an ear for gunfire.
They sat drinking in the darkness. He didn’t know what Valentine had talked about; he hadn’t listened. The gunfire and the volume of Paul’s own thoughts had drowned everything else out. Now, in the morning, cold and with a headache, both the house and the streets were silent. He looked through all the rooms but found the Consulate empty. Valentine had disappeared. Going back to the kitchen, Paul lit the stove and made some tea.
There was no food. Hungry, he finished his tea and pulled on his coat. Outside, it was still and overcast. A light snow was falling. The streets seemed empty. He pulled the coat around him and made his way to Nikólskaya Square.
It wasn’t until he reached one of the streets that ran into the square that he saw the first body. The man lay by the side of the road, face down. His coat — if he had possessed one — had been stripped off his body, along with his boots. Nearby three Cossacks stood on a corner. They took no notice of the body but watched Paul as he approached. Too late to double-back, Paul attempted to walk around them. A sharp-faced NCO carrying a revolver stepped into his path and demanded to see his papers.
‘On whose authority?’ Paul asked, trying to ignore the body lying a few feet away.
One of the other Cossacks, a particularly ugly man it seemed to Paul, raised his rifle. ‘This is our authority,’ he said.
Paul dug beneath his coat into his tunic pocket. ‘Where’s your officer?’ he asked, producing the identification papers Ward had given him before they had left for Ekaterinburg.