It is even possible that the Turks saved me from So-So’s furious mouth. It was just the next day, when I was lying with Katya, that I was awakened from a wonderful, drowsy half-dream, by a whistling scream and the sound of a distant explosion. I thought there had been an accident in one of the factories or that a ship had blown up. But the screams and explosions became regular and, as I ran downstairs with Katya, a skinny friend of mine called Nikita the Greek dashed past in the street shouting that the Germans were shelling the city. Into the fog we went, with some idea that it was dangerous to stay inside, through a tiny, tree-lined plaza like an impressionist’s painting of autumn, and still that unreal, fascinating death (such things were new to us then) went whistling on. Everyone was panicking. It was terrible to see so many frightened people appearing and vanishing in the fog. Most of the shells had been intended for the harbour and the Allied ships there and soon Odessa’s defences came into action. The damage was chiefly in Persuip, the industrial district by the sea where the shipyards were. The enemy was driven off with comparative ease. The following morning we learned it had been the Turks who had shelled us. Turkey was not at that time officially at war with Russia. A couple of days later we declared war on the cruel and cunning Moslem.
Until this raid I had been entertaining thoughts of remaining always in Odessa and going to the engineering school there (which was very good, though it did not have the prestige of St Petersburg). I do not think Uncle Semya would have objected had it not been for that bombardment, which showed how vulnerable Odessa was. ‘The sea is reminder enough of our death!’ he said feelingly, that evening at dinner. For the first time I was allowed to join him and two of his guests. One was a local police chief and the other the captain of a French ship which had been slightly damaged during the shelling. He regretted, Uncle Semya said, that he could not take his whole family to Kiev or even to Moscow. His business affairs were so complex that they could not safely be left to other hands. This made the police chief laugh. My Uncle Semya was displeased, but gave a faint smile. He said that he had thought of going into the entertainment business, into kinema-displays. It was the sort of thing people wanted during wartime. Everyone agreed that the ‘kino’ was the business of the future. In America fortunes were already being made. ‘It would suit me,’ said Uncle Semya, ‘to be at least in one respect a patron of the arts.’ He had considered opening a theatre, but the investment in these troubled times was a bit uncertain. Kinema equipment could be moved, however, from place to place. You could give shows in barns, in the open air at night if need be. He visualised himself and Aunt Genia in a horse-drawn caravan—’a gypsy life on the open road’— with his projector and stock of films, going from town to town. ‘How popular we should be. How pleased people would be to see us.’
‘People are always pleased to see you, Semyon Josefovitch,’ said the police-chief. ‘You perform so many important services to the community.’
‘To the world at large,’ said the captain, representative of internationalism. ‘You are well-known in Marseilles and Cardiff. I have heard people speak of you.’
‘What, in France and England?’
‘To my certain knowledge.’
Uncle Semya was extremely glad to hear this. ‘They find me an honest merchant, I hope.’
‘Oh, indeed, I am sure they do!’ The police chief discovered more cause for baffling laughter. I remain confused to this day by much so-called humour. I had every respect for the man’s rank but I found his red, puffy face, his grey-mottled beard, his sly smiles, rather unattractive, particularly after he had had more than a few glasses of wine. The captain was much more pleasant. He had bright green eyes and wind-tanned cheeks. He carried a private, circumspective manner with him, as if he only attended the dinner from a sense of duty, or because he had to deal with Uncle Semya on business. It could be that he was as upset as I was by the police chief’s coarseness.
The following morning I received a depressing letter from Esmé. Her father had contracted influenza and had died quite suddenly in hospital. She said my mother seemed happy, though missing me. Esmé had gone with her and Captain Brown to the theatre once or twice. They had watched some kino pictures of the War. She reported that our soldiers were driving the enemy back on every front. The specific news from Kiev now seemed very provincial. I read the letter with a certain sense of superiority. Esmé said she had decided to try to become a nurse at the front. I wrote back at once before going to Katya’s, telling her that I thought this would be a perfect occupation for one of her temperament and character.
Before I could take the letter to the post-office, Uncle Semya called me into his study. He asked if the letter from Kiev had been sent by my mother. I told him that it was from Esmé, a childhood friend. He seemed relieved. ‘I am wondering at the sense of keeping you in Odessa. The experience has been good for you so far. It has helped you grow up and so on. That, frankly, is what I wanted. You would not have survived much longer in the world, tied to your mother’s apron— ‘
I came to the defence of my mother, but he raised a neat hand. ‘I am not criticising poor Yelisaveta Filipovna. She has done very well by you. Rather better, I would say, than other members of the family who have had children. Vanya has his virtues, but I have no son to be proud of as she is proud of you.’ I warmed with pleasure. ‘That’s why I am so anxious you should not be in danger. It is still taking a little time to approach the appropriate persons in Petersburg but I think we are nearing success (you will have to be photographed). So it is not certain you will be able to begin classes in January as we originally planned. I am wondering about my duty. Should I let you continue your “life-studies” here in Odessa—I gather you have made many friends—or should I send you back to the safety of Kiev?’
‘You think there will be another bombardment Semyon Josefovitch?’
‘The Turks took us by surprise. They will not be able to do that again. We are probably all right. But your mother will hear of this. What will she say?’
‘She will want me to return, naturally.’
‘And you think you should go?’
‘Not until absolutely necessary. I am happy here.’
He was satisfied. ‘Genia Mihailovna and myself were both saying how much you had changed, how much brighter you have become. More self-confident. You’ll be able to perform services for me, I hope, in Peter, when you go there.’
‘Of course, uncle. I would be honoured.’
‘We have a man on our hands, I think.’ He frowned. ‘You must be careful of the girls, Max.’ It was not the first time he had used this diminutive. ‘There are diseases. You know of these?’
‘I think so.’ I knew very well the dangers of venereal disease, always present in a port like Odessa. I took the necessary treatments, recommended by Katya. We had so far escaped any evident problems.
‘And you have been to the casinos?’
I admitted that I had.
Uncle Semya became almost jolly. ‘I used to enjoy the casinos. The trick is never to play with your own money. Invent a system and then offer to cut someone in for half the profit. You’d be surprised how many investors you attract. If you win, they are pleased and continue to invest. If you lose, well, you have lost their money and must admit that the system needs improvement. It is how I got my first real capital.’
I was astonished at this frank revelation, even a little shocked. But I realised my uncle had relaxed enough to offer me ‘man-to-man’ advice. It was an announcement that, in his eyes at least, I had come of age.
Uncle Semya seemed distracted then. He sighed. ‘We had thought of emigrating. Less than a year ago we planned to go to Berlin where I have a brother. Now we shall have to wait and see what happens. I heard a rumour we were forming a new alliance with the Germans against the Turks. Yet they don’t fear the Turks in Peter as much as they fear the Germans. We should move nearer to the middle. Perhaps to Kharkov. It’s safer in the middle of any country. But there are reasons— ‘ H
e waved a mysterious hand. ‘Let’s see what your mother has to say.’ His sharp, mild features clouded. He said something, I thought in German, about the Jews, but he spoke so softly it was impossible to understand him. He reached into his desk. He took out a passport, smiled at it almost wistfully, then replaced it in the drawer.
Feeling that I had been given even more freedom than before, praying that my mother would not be alarmed by the news of the bombardment (though I knew she would), I returned to my room. After I had reinforced myself with a little of my own supply of cocaine I went to call on Katya, to see if she would come with me to Esau’s. When I arrived at her place (which was over a hardware shop) her mother, who occupied the back first-floor room and was also a whore, said that she was busy. With habitual tact I left a message and went on my own to the tavern. I had expected to find Shura there, but he was about some business, and I fell into conversation with a couple of dancers from one of the cabarets. A man and a woman, they had just done a tour of the provinces and were complaining about Nikolaieff which they described as a ‘one-tram town’.
Shura came in shortly afterwards. He greeted me with a slap on the back and one of his winks. ‘Going to Peter, I hear.’
I said that it still wasn’t entirely settled. He ordered a glass of tea and drank it thirstily. He nodded. ‘When you get there, you want to keep in with all those well-connected young ladies at the university. They’re the daughters of rich men. I talked to a girl yesterday. She’s on holiday at Fountain and liked the look of me. Her father’s a factory-owner from Kherson. He sent me packing when he caught me giving her the eye. But he’s the sort. An industrialist who’ll back your patents.’ Another wink.
I said that it sounded as if he were recommending a con-game, and he laughed. ‘Isn’t it all a racket, Xima, dear? What if the War lasts forever? What if this is to be the world we’ll know for the rest of our lives? We must protect ourselves.’
I shared the general opinion that Germany and Austria-Hungary had bitten off far more than they could chew. The Hapsburg dynasty, for a start, was rotten through and through.
‘And you don’t think it’s true of the Romanoffs?’
I had heard more scandal about the Tsar and his family in Odessa than previously I had heard in the whole of my life. I had to agree that it looked bad. The Tsarina and most of her court, I had heard, were drug addicts. The Tsar’s ministers and military high command were all corrupt. It was easy to believe these things in the atmosphere of Odessa. I let the subject drop, however, in deference to my mother. I merely said: ‘Russia has the strength to beat anyone.’
A group of our friends entered and made towards our table. ‘Oh, we certainly have more cannon-fodder than anyone else.’ As the boys and the girl seated themselves around us Shura looked towards the bar. There a young woman was singing a frenetic song to an accordionist’s accompaniment. She was slim and neurasthenic while her musician-friend was burly and dirty, looking as if he had come straight out of one of the more miserable shtetls I had read about and, thank God, never had to experience. ‘But, as the Vikings used to say, free men fight better.’
I told him that there was no such thing as freedom, that in my view it was a revolutionary’s idea of heaven. He was amused. Nikita the Greek (who was only Greek in name) pushed his workman’s cap back on his head and leaned across the table, giving one of his strange, menacing grins. ‘Only a man without a soul is a free man,’ he said. ‘It’s possible to live a free life, but only if you renounce your immortality. That’s what I think.’ Nikita had been trained for the priesthood until he had run away from Kherson. He added: ‘One cannot have God and freedom.’
It was pretty much what I had said. I glanced triumphantly at Shura, but he had lost interest and had his shoulder up. He was insouciantly chewing sunflower seeds and staring at the emaciated singer. Behind Shura’s back, Nikita widened his big eyes and jerked a thumb at my cousin, as if to indicate that Shura was showing unusual interest in the girl. I grinned. I was to remember that grin with some bitterness, but at the time I said: ‘All the Turks have done is to wake us up to the real danger. Now we’ll fight properly. Nothing can destroy Russia.’
Lyova, the painter, came back with a handful of drinks and lowered them to the table. His dark hair fell over his eyes and he pushed it back. ‘That’s what they said about Carthage. They were probably going about saying ”Carthage is indestructible. It’s one of the oldest civilisations in the world.” Then look what happened. The Romans destroyed the whole thing overnight. And why? Because of a failure of imagination. They simply couldn’t conceive of their fate. If they’d been able to do so, they’d have been here today.’
‘They are here,’ said Boris the Accountant, tapping his round spectacles. ‘Why do you think there are so many semites in Odessa? The New Carthage.’
‘The New Gomorrha, more likely,’ said Shura, turning back and draining his tea-glass. ‘Let’s have some vodka.’ He seemed gloomy. He wouldn’t look at me. I thought he must be upset at the prospect of our parting.
‘Nonsense,’ said Nikita. He sneered. ‘Russians and Jews are all too innocent. They are still serfs at base. We behave like kids, we’re cruel to one another, because we are kids. We treat our own children badly … ‘
Grania, the curly-haired dancer with the heart-shaped face, would not have this. She made a disapproving sound. ‘Nobody loves children more than Russians!’
Boris said feelingly, ‘Cossacks aren’t too finickety about Jewish children … ‘
‘Careful what you say, Benya,’ Lyova warned him with a smile. ‘We have a Cossack hetman in our company.’ We all enjoyed this.
‘We are children,’ insisted Nikita. ‘We love our “Little Fathers”, our “Batkos”. And it’s why we’re such materialists. Because we are poor, most of us, as children are poor. We have no power, no wealth, no justice save the justice of the autocrat. We are always quarrelling about possessions. We must be the only race in the whole world to equate sentimental lyricism with emotional maturity. Our literature’s full of trees and naive protagonists. There are more trees in Russian novels than it took to make the paper they’re printed on.’
I do not think any of us followed Nikita’s wild arguments too clearly. It was the first time he had expressed them. He was to become a journalist on a Bolshevik newspaper and disappear in the mid-3os (I met his sister briefly in Berlin). Boris the Accountant seemed to agree with Nikita, however. ‘We are in the power of mad children,’ he said. ‘Russians will do anything to resist growing up. Thus they are easily ruled.’
‘And that’s why we could lose the war,’ said Shura, giving Boris his talented attention and evidently making the Accountant feel as if he had something profound to say. Boris merely developed the same theme:
‘It’s a vast, infantile nation. Its notion of maturity is a romantic youth’s notion that he’s mature when he becomes sentimental about general ideas like Love, Death and Nature.’
We laughed as only sentimental youths, who had not really lost such ideas, can laugh.
I report these conversations, as I remember them, not because I believe they had any special profundity, but to give a flavour of the ideas current in Odessa in those days.
‘It’s the reason Tolstoi is so popular with the young and passionate,’ said Boris. ‘Natasha is Russia. Even the oldest, noblest greybeard is a kid. How else could they embrace Marxism so easily?’
At this mention of politics I was automatically on my feet. Most Jews like Boris were radicals and had to be avoided. Marxists, Kropotkinists, Proudhonists, they were all the same to me. They displayed a disease of the brain which could be highly contagious, for it was transmitted, as I once said of hypochondria, by word of mouth. Also I was still afraid of ‘So-So’. Talk of that devil might cause him to reappear. I decided to see if Katya’s customer had left yet. As I got up, she came in. She dashed forward to throw her arms round me, kissing me in a way I found uncharacteristic. The bombardment had caused many of u
s to have second thoughts about our lives and, perhaps, put a slightly higher value on our relationships.
Shura remained in his strange mood. He was far from friendly to Katya and took a brooding interest in the singer, who had continued to pipe her peculiar Yiddish songs above the noise of our conversation. More vodka arrived. We all drank. We toasted the singer. Boris lost interest in politics when his fat girl-friend arrived to let him know their parents had met and decided they should marry. He became quite pale and began to make calculations in the margins of his anarchist newspaper.
That was the day the Cossacks rode through Moldovanka and every Jew in the city shook in his shoes. The girl singer had stopped her wailing and we had grown rather stupefied. Katya had gone home, to prepare for her evening’s business, but it was not yet dark. The sound of cavalry in a city is very peculiar to one who has not heard it before. At first we thought we were to be bombarded again, because the noise was unfamiliar, and that is why we fell silent.
When it is distant, the sound of cavalry in a city is like the wind which comes off the steppe, almost a hissing; slowly it grows louder and more irregular until it is a series of syncopated, broken beats, rising and falling, like water running at different speeds over rocks; at this stage it becomes suddenly much louder—the rushing noise of a clattering express train in a tunnel. And that is when it is galloping and you must get out of its way at any cost.
The Cossacks galloped past our alley and the bravest (or in my case the most curious) of us stuck our heads out of the doorway and watched the Cossacks charge through the streets of Moldovanka ghetto.
‘They’ re frightening us because they failed to frighten the Turks,’ said Boris. ‘It’s what they always do.’
Byzantium Endures: The First Volume of the Colonel Pyat Quartet Page 13
