The two of them made tea and Nikki brought it into the sitting room on a silver tray. It looked quite valuable. I remember the old man catching my eye and smiling. “This is one reason I am no longer in Russia. I fear I lack proletarian sympathies. I enjoy as much comfort and luxury as I can afford—and I’ve never had anything against privilege.”
Nikki had to leave. We both saw her to the door. “Take good care of him,” she said to the old man; we kissed and she went.
He waved me to a chair and went to the bookcase where he took down a book. It was my first, the one on the Civil War in Russia. He laid it on top of the case; stopped to glance out the window at the sky and then pivoted on his cane to face me. “Of course I have read this.”
“A very youthful effort,” I said.
“It’s quite well done. But it’s seen from a great distance. You must have done it all from libraries.”
“Libraries and official archives,” I said. “I didn’t know of any other sources then. It takes time to learn one’s way around, in my craft.”
“In any craft.” He hobbled to a chair with wooden arms, settled into it and bent forward to pour the tea. “Do you take sugar? Cream?”
“No thank you.”
I didn’t rush him with questions; I’ve learned they tend to close up on you if you do that. He knew what I was there for. I let him do it his way.
He indicated my portable cassette recorder. “Do you always use that?”
“When I can. It reduces the possibility of misquoting.”
He stared briefly at the machine. Recorders frighten some people. I said, “I won’t switch it on if you prefer.”
“It doesn’t matter. Please yourself.” He had a curiously engaging smile; it was a bit absent and never quite complete but there was a tremendous warmth in it.
He handed me the tea. The cup rattled on the saucer. He sat back and sipped his own, regarding me over the rim of his cup. “I confess you took me by surprise. From your book and your recent letters I took you to be an older man. What does a young American have to do with these events in Asia of so long ago? Are you Jewish?”
“No.”
“Of Russian parentage then?”
“My mother came from the Ukraine.”
“As did I,” he murmured.
“I’ve always had the feeling that we in the West need to know more about these things,” I volunteered. “Americans know nothing of the Russian Civil War. Nothing at all. Most of them never heard of it.”
“Perhaps that’s just as well, isn’t it?”
“Those who do not learn from history——”
“Yes yes. I know all that. But the fact that you teach them this history is no warrant they’ll learn from it.”
“I only want to give them the opportunity. They can’t make a choice if they don’t know any facts.”
“Which facts? What do you expect this to prove?”
It was hard to answer; really I had no grand purpose. “I enjoy the act of discovery,” I said lamely. “Possibly my books don’t do much more than entertain, but the readers do learn something. What they do with this knowledge isn’t up to me.”
He wasn’t particularly pleased with that. “This land where we are right now,” he said. “During the First World War this was Turkish territory. History shows us that the British promised Palestine to both the Jews and the Arabs, at different times, in return for Jewish and Arab help in capturing it from the Turks. So the British captured it from the Turks and now the Jews live on it and the Arabs want to take it. The fault is England’s. The English know their history, they know this. Has it helped us?”
“It provides you with a scapegoat,” I said; and we both laughed at that.
“I have lived most of my life in Palestine,” he said abruptly. “I came here in nineteen twenty-four.”
“That long ago?”
“I’m something of a pioneer.” He was proud of it. But it was an endearing pride, not at all arrogant. He stabbed a finger in the general direction of my book on top of the case; the pointing finger was frail and avian. “That war of yours drove me here. But I suppose I can be thankful for that much. Although I can think of very little else to feel kindly toward, in that war.”
“It must have been horrible.”
“The cost,” he murmured. I noticed that his hand was shaking. He noticed that I noticed; he hid his hand in his lap.
I thought it was the right time to press gently. “I understand you were with Admiral Kolchak’s gold train at the end.”
He looked up with dignified astonishment. At first he did not reply; he covered his confusion by drinking tea. When he set the cup down he cleared his throat. “I’m surprised Nicole would have told you that.”
“I’m sure she didn’t mean to betray a confidence.”
“It isn’t that. It only means she trusts you—more completely than I have known her to trust anyone in a long time. Nicole is … brilliant in many ways of course, a remarkable woman. But she can be very vulnerable and she knows this. That she chooses to trust you—I hope you will take that as the great compliment it is.”
“I do.”
He studied me before he nodded his head; then he said, “The gold train. Yes, I was with it. Up to the very end.” He went on appraising me, sizing me up; impulse wrestled with caution on his face, and finally won. “It should be told, I suppose. Gott in Himmel, if it had been told forty years ago my brother might still be alive.” An abrupt nod of decision. “I shall tell you, then. There are no longer any secrets worth keeping.”
He reached for his cane: balanced it on the floor between his knees and rested both hands over the curved handle. He leaned forward and nodded toward my recorder and I obeyed, switching it on, testing the levels.
“The treasure was only gold in part. The largest part to be sure. I have never forgotten the count we made. There were five thousand two hundred and thirteen wooden boxes containing gold bars. I believe the value of that bullion was stated at the time as being six hundred and fifty million rubles. In addition there were some sixteen hundred bags that contained securities and other valuables—one hundred million paper Romanovs, nearly four hundred millions in platinum, and what one could call a miscellany of state treasure. This was the entire treasury of Imperial Russia—the Czar’s liquid reserves. The total value at that time was very close to one billion one hundred and fifty million rubles. In your dollars of that time this represented approximately nine hundred and fifty million, but some of the securities would be valueless today of course. The platinum and gold alone, however, would today be worth nearly two billion dollars on the world market.”
He tapped his chest. “I have made an amateur study of the gold market in my retirement. But you do not need to have a sophisticated knowledge of international monetary exchange to understand what this much raw wealth could do to the economy of nations if it were suddenly to appear.”
I said, “Not much likelihood of that, is there?”
His smile this time was edged with irony. “Herr Bristow, do you know what happened to the Czar’s Imperial Treasury?”
“Not for an absolute fact, no. The published histories conflict. One suggests the Czech Legion got it, another insists Kolchak handed it over to the Bolsheviks. One of them even says the partisans mined a bridge over the Angara and the whole train went to the bottom of the river. But it seems obvious it ended up in Lenin’s hands. They’ve got those underground vaults in the Urals.…”