The King's Commisar

The journey took three days and there could hardly have been a better convalescence. I started out weak as a kitten, and came finally into Moscow rested and revived, as nearly filled with strength as I was with determination. And in the ensuing days I was to need a plentiful supply of both, for I was entering into a period of the most intense frustration, which indeed began at once!

All I needed was sealing wax and matches and matches I had already; but sealing wax was impossible to find. I tramped Moscow from shop to shop, asked in post offices, stationers, anywhere I could think of, but it was near nightfall before a counter clerk in the Finland Bank said he was sure they had some somewhere, went away, and came back not with a stick of the stuff, but with an unopened box of a gross! I almost fell upon his neck in gratitude. Instead I sealed my precious letter with copious quantities of wax, marked it with my initials in several places, and asked the fellow:

'Are you a Finn?'

'We all are, sir.'

Well, I thought, there would be no guaranteeing Lenin's behaviour, or Trotsky's - they'd eat Finland for breakfast if they felt like it. But perhaps they wouldn't and you can usually trust a Finn. They can be wild men, but they're pretty honest, too. I held up the envelope. 'This must be kept secure. You have a vault?'

'Yes, sir.'

'And how much interference from the authorities?'

'Very little, sir.'

'You could keep it for me?'

'With pleasure, sir.'

It was done without receipt, but upon a signature -Henry George was the name I used - a sovereign changed hands by way of fee in advance, and I took myself off to the Kremlin in a taxi. As I alighted at the tunnel arch that led through the wall beneath the Spassky Tower, it was immediately apparent that much had changed in the weeks since last I came to the ancient fortress. Then, a levelled machine-gun had greeted me: now it was two Red Army soldiers in smart uniforms, rigid at attention. Neither took the smallest notice of me, but none the less it was only a moment before a corporal was barking at me, yelling to know my business.

'Is Comrade Sverdlov still in the Kavalersky Building?' I demanded of him.

'Who wishes to know?'

'Convey to him,' I said, 'that Dikeston the Englishman has returned to Moscow and wishes to see him.'

'Many people wish to see him.'

'Convey it. And quickly.'

But nothing was quick. That was another thing much changed; for a cold formality had fallen here, and an army of clerks ruled. I was passed from t'other to each quick enough, but made no apparent progress towards my objective ; the universal notion was to be rid of me, rather than to assist, but where in the modern world is it not?

I was back next morning, having spent the night in a rooming-house that had, until recently, been a lavish private dwelling. It had also been looted, so that though the heavy bed itself was of elaborate gilt, there was no linen and the single blanket was of the roughest. Still, it was clean and free of bugs. I returned early to the Kremlin and began again the curious quadrille with endless petty officials. By two in the afternoon I had reached a waiting-room. It was crowded; a clerk sat at a desk inside the doorway and examined the chit which had brought me thus far; he scowled up at me.

'What does this concern?'

'Comrade Sverdlov knows.'

'He's very busy.'

'He sent me upon a task of some importance. Do not prevent my giving my report!'

He scowled further. Prevention was his chosen career. 'You may give your report to me!'

'Have a care,' I told him, 'or my report will be about you!'

He gestured angrily towards the waiting people, indicating that I should take my place among them, and I did so. The chairs were hard, the atmosphere sticky with heat, and there was no refreshment. It was hardly a pleasant wait, but at seven in the evening a door was opened with great obsequiousness, and one of the clerks said, 'Comrade Minister, please to receive Commander Dikeston.'

I entered and he fixed me with a fierce eye. 'What the devil do you want?'

I was angry, no doubt of it, and spoke too sharply for one in my position addressing one in his. 'Sense,' I said. 'That's what I want! Do you know where it's to be found?'

He was taken aback, no mistake, and we glowered at each other for a moment or two. It would have surprised me not at all to be arrested then and there, but after a moment he laughed and shouted suddenly, 'There's damned little of it here, you're right!' He gave me a tight grin then, and said, 'Could you stand a drink?'

I nodded and a second later had a half-tumbler of slivovitz thrust into my hand. Sverdlov lifted his glass in a silent toast, and drained it. I followed suit as is required in courtesy and, feeling the spirit bite at my innards, decided I must take my chance quickly before my senses began to reel. I said, 'You gave me a job and stopped me doing it.'

'You didn't do it then? The Zaharoff paper's unsigned?'

'That's right - it's unsigned.'

'Why? You had plenty of time.'

'Why!' I said. 'Because you arrested me and locked up Nicholas! That's why?'

'The Regional Soviet did it.'

'On whose orders?' I demanded. 'On whose orders was I turned back at Omsk? Tell me that!'

He frowned at me, then again gave that tight grin. 'Where is your paper?'

'With Nicholas. If he's still alive.'

'What do you mean - still alive?'

'There's a majority in Ekaterinburg in favour of killing him.'

Sverdlov gave a tiny shake of the head. 'Don't worry,' he's safe.'

'Is he?' I said. 'Among the wild men you can't control? You gave me a pass, remember. They spat on the pass. Spat at your name. Spat at Lenin's, even!'

'Nevertheless, they are safe - the Romanovs.'

'How do you know?'

'Because I know.' He spoke softly now, his tone intense. I had gone too far and he was making it clear. I said, 'I'm relieved to hear it.'

He gave me a glare. 'Relieved! Why are you relieved?'

'Because the thought of the murder of children is offensive to any man.'

'They are Romanovs. Their history is of blood. You wouldn't understand!'

'There are four girls, a sick boy -'

'And Nicholas the Bloody and his German bitch!'

I said, 'Are the arms still important?'

He stared across the desk at me, picked up the bottle. 'More?'

'Thank you, no, if you will excuse me. I have been ill.'

Sverdlov poured into his own glass, said, 'To your health,' and drained it. 'Arms are important if you need them.'

'And do you not need them,' I asked, 'against the Whites and the Czechs in Siberia?'

'Perhaps more here.' he said. Then he rose and stretched. 'I'm tired, Englishman. Come and see me tomorrow, eh? At noon.'

'If your clerks will let me,' I said sourly.

He laughed then, and scribbled quickly upon a slip of paper. 'My name may not count for much in Siberia,' he said, and laughed again. 'But here it should be effective.'

I left him, feeling somewhat puzzled. In many ways the things he had said had confirmed my own hypothesis: that the Romanovs were imprisoned in Ekaterinburg for the very good reason that that was where the Moscow Bolshevik leadership wanted them. That reason and no other. But why then was Sverdlov treating me with reasonable courtesy? I knew of his involvement, and of Lenin's. If aught were to go awry, that knowledge would besmirch both their names. I was better out of the way, yet he was taking trouble to reassure me, and to give me his time . . .

And it continued next day. When I was shown in, Sverdlov waved me to a seat beside his desk and pushed a paper across to me. It was headed 'Signal' and addressed to one General Jan Berzin, Ekaterinburg Military HQ. It read:

Report at once condition of Romanov family now confined your district. Your personal assurance of their well-being urgently required.