I caught a tram for the Montparnasse Cemetery. There was a theatre near it and a café, called something like the Pepe Napa, which had once been a favourite of Italian actors but was now the haunt of Russian anarchists. I had sunk so low I now rubbed shoulders with scum. It was for Esmé’s sake. I would do anything to escape our present squalor. Descending from the footplate of the tram I crossed the street to the café, the railings of the cemetery at my back. Sunshine was pale in the cool autumn air. The café had only just opened for business. Inside waiters were still taking chairs off tables. The only customers were grouped at the bar drinking little cups of coffee and sharing out their cigarettes. Some spoke a dialect familiar to me - the country speech, part Russian, part Ukrainian, of the Katerynoslav gubernia. I knew enough of this dialect - at least its inflections - to greet them. Nonetheless they regarded me with surly suspicion. They had probably been in Paris for several months and they still had something of the wolfish look I associated with their kind. Most wore ordinary cheap working-class clothes, though a few still had the vestiges of uniforms - a cap, a pair of trousers or boots. They were unimpressed when I told them I was from Kiev. They warmed a little upon learning that I had ridden with Nestor Makhno. The little batko was still their greatest hero. A tall, thin faced man with a pronounced limp, his left arm hanging uselessly at his side, asked a couple of questions plainly designed to test me. He was satisfied by my answers. ‘What were you?’ he asked. ‘A Green? Or one of those city anarchists who tried to tell us how to fight the Reds?’
Instinctively I decided to tell them the truth. ‘Neither,’ I told him. ‘My sister was a nurse with Makhno’s army. Maybe you knew her? Esmé Loukianoff?’
‘The name’s familiar,’ said the tall man. ‘Pretty little blonde?’
‘That’s her.’
‘So what were you doing?’
‘I’m a teacher. And an engineer. I was with the education train until the Whites captured me. They locked us up in a synagogue to die. Then some Australians came through and took us to Odessa. Hearing that the Whites had overrun the whole place and that Reds were shooting anarchists, I got on a refugee ship.’
They did not wish to hear tales of heroism, these men. Many were themselves the defeated remnants of so-called Hulyai-Polye Cossacks. They had no call to point the finger at another escapee.
The wounded one was called Chelanak, evidently a German ‘colonist’ in origin, with a Jewish tinge to him which made me mistrust him. He said he had been left for dead after a Bolshevik ambush at Holta in September 1919. ‘We were winning, too, then.’ He paused and stepped back from me a pace of two, as if inspecting a painting. Then he continued. ‘I crawled to some woods where a troop of Greek infantry mistook me for a White officer on account of what was left of my jacket. I was sent to Odessa, put on a hospital ship. For Bulgaria, I think. But I got off in some little fishing village which we stopped at for no good reason. I tried to get back - it was near the border. I was captured by renegades who were overcome by Reds before I could be shot. I got away again, first into Poland, then down into Vienna and eventually into France.’ He frowned, his voice trailing off. ‘But I know you, I’m sure.’
I had never seen him before.
The café was beginning to fill with veterans. He leaned against the bar and sipped his coffee. His next statement had no particular relevance to what he had just said. He spoke significantly, however. ‘I was with Makhno when we executed Hrihorieff in full view of his own army. Remember that? Chubenko fired the first shot, Makhno the second, I the last. We did it because of the pogroms, I think. I do know you! You were one of the Barotbist liaison people we found with Hrihorieff. Brodmann!’
This was the most dreadful thing he could have said. I felt instantly sick. I tried to smile. He put down the journal he held and snapped his fingers. ‘Brodmann. Someone said you were in Paris.’ He looked about him.
I was near screaming. ‘I am not Brodmann! For God’s sake, man! My name is Cornelius! It’s true I was captured by Yermeloff, but I got away. I was Hrihorieff s prisoner for a few days, that’s all! Then I rejoined my sister in Hulyai-Polye. I swear it’s true.’ I was appalled. I had seen Brodmann only a day before. That in itself had been nerve-racking. But to be mistaken for the dreadful, treacherous Jew by ex-bandits was worse. ‘I met someone of that name. He was a Bolshevik, though he posed as a Barotbist for a while.’ I regretted even this admission as soon as it came out of me.
‘Brodmann’s comrade, then? I know your face. I know it.’ He was not particularly unfriendly. It was as if he did not personally carry any hatred for his old enemies.
It was unlikely his tolerance would be shared by the others. I know I was sweating, almost pleading with him not to pursue this line of association. My hands implored him. I had never seen this half-dead creature before and could scarcely believe the accident which led him to associate me with one of the people I most feared and despised in the world. I tried to shake my head. ‘Which Brodmann? Red beard? Alexandrovsk?’
Chelanak began to laugh. ‘No! No! I saw you at the meeting! Day before yesterday. Near Rue St Denis. I thought you were Brodmann, then.’
‘I wasn’t at a meeting, comrade. Please don’t go on with this!’ Was Brodmann, after all, to be the death of me?
‘Brodmann claims now he helped kill Hrihorieff, did you know? You didn’t kill Hrihorieff, did you?’
‘Of course not.’
‘I apologise. We get Chekists in here quite frequently. You must have a doppelganger, comrade. Unpleasant, eh? A doppelganger who’s a Chekist!’
The chief danger seemed over, but I remained nervous. I had only come to this place in the hope of getting news of Kolya, who had had some anarchist associates in the old days. More and more exiles were crowding through the door, speaking every Russian dialect, as well as French, Polish, German. They carried their rolled newspapers casually, as they had once borne swords and rifles. I began pushing through them on my way out. Chelanak plucked at my coat. ‘But you are Brodmann’s friend, surely? Still a Barotbist, maybe? At least tell me what you’re here for!’
‘Prince Petroff,’ I said.
‘Why the hell are you looking for a Prince here?’ He was beside me again. ‘We’re a bit nervous of spies, Brodmann’s friend.’
‘I’m no friend of Brodmann. The only Brodmann I knew was caught and shot by the Whites in Odessa last year. As for Petroff, he’s done as much for the cause as anyone - and suffered as much. Is there now a class qualification for the Movement? If so you had better make plans to expel Kropotkin!’ I hated all the eyes now on me. I willed myself to speak levelly. ‘You’re a fool, Chelanak.’ I pushed at him, striking his dead arm which began to sway like a pendulum. ‘I can’t understand why you’re picking on me. I’ve done you no harm. We were part of the same group not so long ago.’
He took hold of his wounded arm with his good hand and stopped us swaying. He looked at the ground. ‘I apologise, comrade. We’ve no Petroff here, unless he’s changed his name and his caste. I’m not sure what got me going. Just something in you.’
Both of us were panting slightly. We stood outside the café now, staring towards the cemetery through the iron railings on the other side of the road.
‘You look a bit like Brodmann to me,’ he said, compounding the insult. ‘But I can see you’re not him. You haven’t the clothes or the complexion of a Chekist. It’s obvious in the daylight. I apologise again. What can I do for you?’