And then again, there were those damn Russians; the Bolsheviks. They’re so infuriating en masse, and yet individually, they’re the most charismatic and likable men Arthur has ever met.
He remembers his first visit to the Smolny Institute in Petrograd, the old girl’s school, to interview Trotsky, who at the time was effectively the dictator of the whole new Russia. He wandered down corridor after corridor until finally he found his way to the door marked “67.”
Even then suspicion tapped at the edge of his mind. When he’d arrived, to talk to Trotsky, he’d been told he was expected.
Expected? Why was he expected? How did anyone, let alone Trotsky, know about him?
That would have been his first question, but he knew he wouldn’t have long with the powerful man, so instead he asked the question his newspaper would want him to ask: What was Trotsky going to do about the war with Germany? Were they going to keep fighting as Britain wanted, or surrender to the Kaiser and ask for peace terms?
They talked, or rather, Trotsky talked, and Arthur listened. Trotsky held forth eloquently for fifteen minutes without pause, during which time Arthur absorbed the details of the room. It was almost Spartan. A simple dark polished wooden floor, a single desk, three chairs. In the corner of the room was an armchair and standard lamp. On the desk was a table lamp matching the other, and a telephone. An inkwell, three piles of papers. That was about it, though Arthur also noted a small neat hole, a bullet hole, in one of the windows.
Such a small thing, but it shook him, reminding him who he was talking to, and what was at stake.
Trotsky’s position on Germany was a simple one. Arthur asked him how he was going to get decent peace terms from Germany if he surrendered to them; it was obvious that Germany would take as much land and resources from Russia as she chose if this were to happen. Trotsky’s answer was that the German people themselves, the workers, would rise and force their own government to feel the pressure of democracy, just as had happened in Russia. He was totally confident of this and Arthur was struck by the steel in his eyes, softened by the expressiveness of his mouth. He felt overawed. Why were there some people who seemed so sure of themselves that it made him feel small and ignorant by comparison, as if they had a script to life with all the answers on it? He felt he didn’t even know the questions.
With an abrupt wave of his hand, Trotsky indicated the interview was over, and Arthur stood. As he turned to go, however, curiosity got the better of him.
“How did that get there?” he asked, nodding toward the bullet hole, forgetting for a moment who he was talking to. Briefly, Arthur saw the aura of greatness slip from Trotsky, and he became a small boy in the playground, caught red-handed at some mischief.
“That?” he said, rubbing his ear. He grinned sheepishly. “I was … holding my pistol … trying it for size, and the next thing … Bang!”
He chuckled.
It occurred to Arthur how easy it would have been for Trotsky to have made up some more impressive story. That a Tsarist assassin had made an attempt on his life. That he had fired back and in so doing had saved the Revolution. But he did not, and Arthur wondered if it were the sign of a foolish man, or a great one, who has the confidence to tell a story against himself.
6:10 P.M. CONTINUED
HE HAS GOOD REASON TO REMEMBER that visit to the Smolny, because it was that same day he met Evgenia.
Evgenia Petrovna Shelepina.
By the time she’d fed him some boiled potatoes, he knew he was already falling in love with her, and that was even before he knew who she really was.
Trotsky’s secretary.
* * *
He’d gone back to interview Trotsky again two days later, and this time it was Trotsky who’d asked to see Arthur.
Back in room sixty-seven, Arthur had expressed surprise that the Bolsheviks appeared to know all about him. Trotsky seemed almost insulted.
“Do you suppose we are fools? Do you not think it is our business to know who everyone is in this … game? A fair analogy, don’t you think? You like chess, I believe?”
A prickle ran up the back of Arthur’s neck, as again he realized how naïve he’d been. Of course they’d been watching him. They were probably watching everyone.
Trotsky wasted no time getting down to business, and began to explain the intricacies of the situation he was in.
“I have to save this Revolution,” he said. “It is that simple. The Revolution will fail if we cannot end the war with Germany; it is bleeding us dry, in men and resources. There are two options. Either the war ends for everyone, for Britain and Russia, or it ends only for Russia, and you keep fighting Germany.”
Arthur watched as Trotsky spoke, quickly and surely, stroking his small cavalier style beard as he did so.
“I can end the war between Germany and Russia by myself, but then Germany will walk all over us. What I need is for Britain to conclude a peace with Germany, too.”
“I see,” Arthur said. “And what has the British government said to you about that?”
“They have said precisely nothing,” Trotsky said, at once less animated. He sighed. “The British government still believes that I and Comrade Lenin are German agents sent to topple the country and open the door for invasion.”
Arthur raised his eyebrows.
“How do you know that?”
Trotsky turned to the window, standing near his bullet hole. A dreadful tension hung in the air as he gazed down across the snow-covered gardens of the Smolny. Then he turned.
“And now you are wondering why I am telling you this. Why I am making your journalist’s job so easy. Yes?”
Arthur nodded.
“As I said, despite numerous attempts to communicate with your government I have heard nothing from them. Only last night I sent another diplomatic note, via official channels. Once again it has been met with total silence. So, what do you suppose your government would do if they read that Russia is about to conclude a separate peace with Germany?”
“They’d probably want to talk to you very quickly indeed. But how are they going to read this?”
“Oh,” said Trotsky, casually, “they might read it in their morning paper. Maybe they read the Daily News…”
He said no more, but he didn’t have to.
Arthur knew he was going to do as he’d been asked.
Or had he been told?
6:35 P.M.
ARTHUR LEAVES THE POST OFFICE, having sent not only the letter to Tabitha, but a telegraphed report for the News, too.
By the time he gets back to the Elite he’s hot and feels dirty. There at the door, is the doorman’s girl, Kashka.
“Please? When will the war end?”
“Soon,” Arthur mumbles, forcing a smile, and makes his way wearily up to his floor, up to his room. Only then does he realize he didn’t set the scrap of paper in the door frame on his way out.
For a minute he hovers, remembering Lockhart’s admonishments, then curses quietly. They are driving him crazy, all these people, with their games and deceits. The British, the Russians; the Bolshevik Reds and Tsarist Whites. If there’s someone waiting to murder him on the other side of his door, then so be it. At least if someone pointed a gun at him, he’d know which side he was on.
* * *
He sits down at his desk.
Above it on the wall hang three pictures. Two watercolors of the Lakes, painted by his mother. The third is an Orthodox Russian icon of Saint Nicholas. He has had these with him throughout his time in Russia, he had them in the Glinka Street flat in Petrograd, but now he looks at them bitterly. Why do people set such great store by talismans like these?
He catches sight of himself in the mirror, and is shocked by the face that stares back at him. In his mind he carries a very different image of himself, not the thin, unshaven face he sees now.
* * *
Ten to seven.
There’s plenty of time, still. Too much time, if anything, for doubts and fears to cha
se each other round his head. But there’s enough time, at least, to have a bath and a shave.
He puts out some clean clothes on the bed, then gets his things together from the dresser, his greatcoat from the hook, and locking his door once more, makes his way down the hall to the bathroom shared by the floor. He’s in luck, it’s empty.
He shuts the door behind him, flicking the latch, and turns the tap on the old boiler that slowly sputters a trickle of hot water into the stained bathtub. He sits down on the toilet seat, knowing it will be a while before the bath is anywhere near ready.
He shuts his eyes, and he thinks about Evgenia.
She’s been ill. She’s getting better slowly, but was ill for days, and Arthur knows what that’s like. He’s had dysentery more than once during his time here and there is nothing he can do for her. Not right now. Not tonight.
At least he knows her now.
When he first met her, struck by her beauty and the teasing way she talked to him, it didn’t occur to him that there might be more to it. He saw her several more times, and once or twice, when he was leaving the Smolny late in the evening, he had walked her to her tram stop. Only after a few days was he cursed with an awful thought. How had he met her? That first day? He’d bumped into her three times in one evening.
When he saw her for the third time, it was almost as if she was expecting him, waiting for him with her dish of potatoes. Of course, his work and her job meant they would see each other, but perhaps there was more to it than that. She was beautiful and tall and young and clever. Why on earth would she take an interest in an English journalist? Unless … someone had put her up to it … her boss, perhaps, who just happened to be the effective ruler of Bolshevik Russia.
What had Trotsky said?
“Do you not think we make it our business to know everyone in this game?”
For days he felt sick at the thought he’d been set up, that she was mere bait, set to trap him.
Then, one night, he’d seen her again at the Smolny.
He needed a pass to attend a meeting at the Tauride Palace the next day, and worried he’d left it too late, he hurried to get one. To his surprise not only was the building still open, but there was Evgenia at her desk in Trotsky’s office.
“Don’t you ever go home?” he asked.
“I was about to go,” she said. She stood and began tidying papers.
“I’ve come for a pass for tomorrow.”
She didn’t reply, but sat down again and opened a drawer. She scribbled something on a piece of paper and handed it to him, blowing on the wet ink.
“There you are.”
“No games?”
She frowned at him.
“Usually,” Arthur said, “There are games to play…”
“I’m tired,” she said, and walked to the coat stand in the corner of the room. She was tall, but the huge fur coat still dwarfed her. Arthur noticed with a smile that despite the snow outside she was wearing an elegant pair of heels. He also noticed the curve of her leg before it was hidden by the massive fur.
“Artur Kirilovich,” she said, coming back over. She stood very close as she looked up into his eyes. “Would you walk me to the tram stop?”
Not wanting to be taken for a fool, Arthur hesitated.
“There’s been a lot of trouble on the streets today. Just for once I don’t want to have to watch my back as I go home. Please?”
Her eyes pleaded, and Arthur could not refuse their appeal.
“Of course,” he said. “Which stop?”
“Thank you,” she said, but she didn’t smile. “It’s not far. I live on Vasilievsky. Do you know it?”
“A little,” he said, and they set off down the corridors of the Smolny.
“Do you live alone?” she asked.
“Yes. Do you?”
“My sister…”
“Oh, yes.”
It was a terrible conversation, and Arthur was glad when they got outside into the swirling cold wind, where it was almost impossible to talk for long anyway.
They walked toward Nevsky Prospect from where Evgenia could catch her tram, and then huddled in a doorway while they waited for it to come. The streets seemed quiet, but she was right, there’d been a lot of scuffles and isolated shootings.
Now they weren’t walking, Arthur felt the silence. Someone had to say something.
“How did you…?”
“What?”
“I mean, how did you get into this? The Revolution? To be Trotsky’s secretary?”
She shrugged, a gesture almost obliterated by the size of her fur.
“I was in the right place at the right time, I suppose.”
“The right place?”
She laughed.
“Yes, the right place. My father was a gardener. For the Tsar. My parents live out at Gatchina, it was a Tsarist estate. My sister and I came to the city to work. I worked in the government under the Tsar, and then under Kerensky in the provisional government, and now for Lev Davidovich.”
It was an extraordinary story, but put so simply. Almost everyone and everything else had been swept aside with each change of rule, and yet here was one young girl swimming along with the current behind her. Arthur felt a sudden sorrow for her, and put a gloved hand on her sleeve.
She looked at the hand, then shrieked.
“My tram!”
Without either of them seeing it, the tram had slid up in the wind-blown street. It began to move off, and Evgenia jumped for the running board.
“Thanks so much,” she called, but the words slipped from her mouth, as her foot slipped from the icy step.
Within a moment she was hanging from the step, the heel of one of those expensive shoes caught in the grate, her body dragging along inches from the tram’s rear wheels.
Arthur ran.
In his mind he saw the heel snap and the tram run right over her, and then his mind stopped seeing anymore.
Somehow keeping his footing, he reached her hand and pulled, felt her other hand grab his coat.
Something slipped, and then all he knew was the noise of the tram dying away. They lay in the snow for long seconds, and only then did it all become clear.
“My God,” Arthur said. He rolled over and looked at Evgenia, who sat up. She had a frown on her face like a sulky schoolgirl, and he almost laughed. Almost.
“You could have been…”
It didn’t need saying.
She stood in front of Arthur, slightly lopsided with one heel missing.
“Those,” she said, “were expensive shoes.”
Now Arthur did laugh, but offered to find a drozhka to take her home.
“You can’t do that,” she protested. “It’s far too expensive. I’ll wait for another tram.”
“I’ll get a cab and I’ll come with you to Vasilievsky. Then I’ll get it to take me home. Haven’t you had enough of trams for one night?”
“I have had enough of trams,” she said, smiling, and he took that for a yes. He went to find a cab, and as he did, he heard her say something else, though it wasn’t clear.
It might have been, “but not enough of you.” The words were lost in the evening wind.
The accident had changed things, Arthur knew that.
It had brought them closer, helped Arthur to see the real woman, the honesty in her eyes. If Trotsky had set them up, he didn’t care. He’d done him a favor.
7:20 P.M.
THE BATH IS A THIRD FULL with the spitting hot water and now Arthur dares to let the icy cold in to mix with it. He strips absentmindedly, stirring the water with one foot, then lowers himself gingerly in as hot as he can bear it. Within seconds his skin is pink from the heat, and he feels the pain in his shoulders ease slightly.
His body relaxes, but there is no release for his mind. His soul is tired. The wave that has rolled through Russia has been easy to ride. He’s been swept along, but nonetheless there’s horror waiting just beneath the water, and every now and again, one of the hor
rors surfaces.
* * *
Almost right from the start, it was unclear whose side he was on.
He was summoned to the Smolny one day early in January, not to see Trotsky or Lenin, but another of the Bolshevik clan. Karl Radek possibly outshone his more powerful colleagues in terms of intellect, and certainly eccentricity. Arthur was shown into an office where he was greeted by a tiny man, with pointed nose and clean-shaven chin, wild and wiry hair, small round glasses, and a pipe seemingly glued to the corner of his mouth. He reminded Arthur not so much of a man as a pixie, or some sort of hobgoblin.
On the table beside him lay a collection of books, and some other items, too. Arthur immediately recognized them as his own. When he left Stockholm, he’d feared a difficult journey and had asked Vorovsky to send much of his stuff after him. Vorovsky had sent them, just not to the right person.
“You had no business to open that!” Arthur declared.
“Mr. Ransome,” he said, smiling, “it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Thrown off guard, Arthur returned the handshake.
“What I said to myself,” Radek went on, “is what kind of man owns such diverse and wonderful things! These books alone. What have we here?”
He began to rummage, like a squirrel foraging, all the time a generous smile on his face.
“Aha! Shakespeare! So I know the man is a good Englishman. “To be or not to be,” yes? “Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of…”
He broke off.
“But why am I reciting Shakespeare to you? You are the Englishman!”
He laughed.
“I am a Pole,” he said. “I’m a Pole who speaks Polish badly because I talked too much German when I was in exile with Mr. Lenin and the others. But when I speak Russian I sound Polish, do I not? I speak French, too, but abominably. Hmm. But we were talking about you. How rude of me. Here we have a chess set, with folding board and miniature pieces. Clever. So we know the owner has a keen and shrewd mind.”
Blood Red Snow White Page 7
