Byzantium Endures: The First Volume of the Colonel Pyat Quartet

by Michael Moorcock

  If only all Cossacks and those claiming Cossack freedoms had managed to work together in one huge host we would easily have driven the Reds back to Moscow (now their capital). Trotsky, Lenin, Stalin and the rest would have ended their days as querulous old exiles. The genuinely humane people would have encouraged a Russian renaissance. Our country would have been the most glorious centre for the flowering of art and science the world had known since the days of the Italian Medici. Everybody says so. What drove Sikorski away? Bolsheviks. What drove Prokofiev away? Bolsheviks.

  I remember those ‘Lorelei’ days of the twenties. The Reds tried to lure their artists, scientists and intellectuals back. The sweet voices deceived many. They went back: Gorki, Alexei Tolstoi, Zamyatin, and many more; and they were almost all dead by the time the thirties ended. That was the value Bolsheviks put on Russian talent. When the Nazis came Stalin had to release starving, wretched ex-Red Army ‘heroes’ to run the War. Not that it would have mattered. Stalin ran the War. Lucky for the world he did, as someone once said of Hitler. It was a war between a couple of psychotics who had the talent of being all things to all men. It wasted millions of lives and achieved nothing but a small shift of boundaries. Better lock them away with maps and toy soldiers, where no real harm is ever accomplished. That is what H.G. Wells advised a friend of mine.

  My mother blossomed under Petlyura even more wonderfully than she had under the Bolsheviks. I offer no interpretation. Admittedly things were quieter in the outlying suburbs. There were no more fires burning in Podol. My mother was distressed by inhumanity of any sort. When people expressed their dislike of Jews she always became upset, refusing to join in. The usual talk was harmless enough. But she would say ‘God has designed a rôle for each of us. It is not the race or the religion, it is the man or the woman that is important.’ I was thus brought up in a more tolerant atmosphere than most Kievan children. It has helped me understand people, encouraged my humanity, allowed me to mix, without feeling uncomfortable, with all sorts, black or white, high or low. When we heard that French Zouaves had occupied Odessa, in support of Denikin, that the city was ‘colonised by black men’, as the papers put it, we were all horrified. But Mother made a joke of it. ‘It will be lovely,’ she said, ‘to see a bit of extra colour in Ukraine.’ I began to understand how she and my father had come together. She had a broad, humane and trusting faith in the beauty of the world, of people’s natural tendency to help one another. He shared her ideals but felt betrayed by those he had sought to support. People were far more complex and yet far more ordinary than he wished to believe. The socialist Utopia did not spring from the ground overnight. He began to attack those whom he regarded as responsible for threatening his hopes. The simple fact is that my mother was mature, in the way of women, and could see that the best way of improving things was to lead a good, clean, kindly life.

  Revolutionists almost invariably attempt to simplify the workings of the human heart. This planet of ours is full of generous, warm-spirited, good-humoured and intelligent women supporting raving, idiotic fools like my father. All that was ever betrayed was his own humanity. How long can a woman live with a jealous man? That is the simple question in which lies the answer to my own background, I think.

  Those months of the Directorate became relatively easy. I began to move into the world again. Many of the new politicians were sympathetic to my schemes for mechanisation and industrialisation. ‘We must use the wealth of the Ukraine,’ they said, ‘to make ourselves strong and independent.’ So, for the time being, I became a nationalist, couching my arguments in terms of the province rather than the country. Luckily the letter-heads and cards I had had printed: ALL-UKRAINE ENGINEERING CONSULTANTS, Managing Director Dr M.A. Pyatnitski, still had the appropriate ring and The Hotel Yevropyaskaya, having become something of a headquarters for Petlyura’s henchmen, was a perfect address. I moved back into my old suite. I began to entertain as I had done before. Inflation, the retreat of the Germans, a lack of faith by Russian and Ukrainian investors in Petlyura’s reforms meant I had to augment my income again. It was easy enough to do. I had contacts in every part of the city. But it was irritating, for instance, to be a courier for someone who did not want it evident he sniffed cocaine; or to arrange girls for some under-Minister anxious that his wife should not find out, or to act as a go-between for a factory-owner needing certain forms stamped in a hurry, but it continued to help me keep my way of life and my friends. I was an agent of change, a catalyst. Much which was good about Petlyura’s government was directly or indirectly to do with help and advice I had been able to provide.

  I was not distracted, now, by notes from my mother. I did make use, though, of Esmé’s free time. With her strawberry-blonde hair and her superlative taste she made a perfect hostess for my special evenings. Everyone complimented me on Madame Pyatnitski if they were under the impression we were married, or on my ‘fiancée’ or on my ‘cousin’. To intimates I let it be known she was my half-sister. I think that spiritually she was my sister through and through. It was no lie to claim a little blood, too. We had mingled it, often enough, in our childish games. Esmé found enjoyment in what she called my ‘farces’. She would cheerfully lend her energy and her imagination while always insisting that her world outside was ‘real’. This was because she was a nurse and saw so much of the disease, malnutrition and physical destruction. Gangs of homeless children, bezh-prizhorni, were beginning to become a serious problem. They had the courage of the pack, the hunger of starving dogs. Cripples and wounded in the streets were impossible to count. Beggars were given public handouts but there were far too many for the system to accommodate. A strong police force was badly needed. Haidamaki militia were inclined either to sudden savagery or absolute laziness when it came to maintaining the Law. There were attempts to recruit former police officers back into the service. But this was only partially successful. In time, Petlyura might have modified and improved conditions, and even rid himself of the hampering burden of nationalism. He did not hate Russia, he said. He hated the ‘enslaving institutions’. He also, I know, hated the Orthodox Church. He had been raised a Catholic like so many Ukrainians, and here was a fundamental difference few were anxious to touch upon. We were witnessing a low-key religious war. One of my Petlyurist friends actually expressed it best in a joke at his own expense: ‘Some say that a Jesuit is just a Jew who happens to have been born a Christian.’ And there you have it. Many ‘old Bolsheviks’, and a number of new ones in today’s Party, have secret links with the Church which they dare not admit. How much better for us all if they did. A little sanity would return to Russia.

  We had a taste of the old rivalry between the Roman Empire of the West and the Hellenic Empire of the East. Kiev saw as many emperors come and go in as short a time as Rome or Constantinople when those Empires fell apart. As my mother said in her merry way: ‘At least under the Rus or the Tatars people had time to get used to their rulers. These days it’s impossible to know who you’re supposed to cheer.’ But she liked Petlyura and his white horse and his gaudy Haidamaki with their baggy trousers and fancy waistcoats and scalp-locks. The Haidamaki had saved Ukraine from Polish oppression in the eighteenth century. They represented another calling on the past in support of a hoped-for future. Ends are defeated by means. The future will always be defeated by the past. The past is a useful metaphor but it is a terrible precedent.

  My mother hoped the laundry would be nationalised. As manageress, she would have security without the same responsibility. Petlyura’s brand of socialism, she said, seemed fair enough. Petlyura needed to court what remained of the business people. Again I found myself rising in the world. I knew everyone. I was invited to various high-level meetings. I was called ‘Doctor Pyatnitski’ by everyone and regarded as a scientific Wunderkind. I was allowed to expand on the possibilities of Ukrainian monorails, Ukrainian civil airlines, Ukrainian garden-cities for the workers. My ideas no longer struck people as fantastic. All Ukraine’s potential was to be
used. I mentioned special cinemas, education centres, aerial guard-ships which could protect our frontiers from Bolshevik aggression. We should soon have the cream of Russian genius, I pointed out, back in Kiev. Kiev could become the capital of a new Russian Empire (diplomatically I termed it ‘an expanded Ukrainian state’). I spoke of my dreams and I helped others to dream. That was my gift. I offered it to the government and at last the government began to accept. I had no official position. I thought it foolish to accept one. I was only just nineteen years old. At last I had found a ready audience for more complicated ideas, such as my invisible ray device. I made no large claims. Such machines could, however, form a defensive ring (‘an iron ring of light’ as someone said) about a city, making it almost invulnerable. This was the nearest thing to the recent force-field notions of the Americans.

  We needed something quickly. We had Poles attacking from the West, Whites from the South, Reds from the North. There were Rumanians invading Bessarabia. French and Greek forces had been landed in Odessa. A variety of Cossack and pseudo-Cossack insurgent chieftains (atamany) and Anarchist brigands, such as Makhno, changed sides almost as rapidly as the regular units, a few of which still supported Skoropadskya. Ataman Hrihorieff (sometimes called Grigoriev in English) had turned against the Directorate to join the Bolsheviks. He took with him a large rabble of so called ‘insurgent cavalry’; looters and pogromchiks to a man. We in Kiev believed no rumours whatsoever. If Bolsheviks were said to be occupying the Left Bank Dnieper, we cocked our heads. If we heard no unusual artillery-or rifle-fire, we continued about our business. At that time Petlyura seemed likely to drive the Bolsheviks out of Russia altogether. Then he allowed the farce of ‘Ukrainianisation’ of the Church. Suddenly Orthodox services were performed in Ukrainian and half the Church’s intellectuals were dismissed from their offices or actually killed by their parishioners, simply for arguing the unchallengeable fact that there was no such thing as a Ukrainian Church, since all were subordinate to the Patriarch of Constantinople. The nationalist mania was spreading.

  It was to destroy my homeland, the birthplace of Russian culture.

  ELEVEN

  ONE EVENING in the middle of January 1919, I was invited to dinner at The Savoy Hotel by a group of industrialists, educationalists and politicians. They said the meeting was to be of considerable importance. My presence was absolutely necessary.

  I arrived at the hotel dressed in my best. I wore my heavy fox-fur overcoat, hat, gloves and my felt-and-rubber galoshes. I carried my silver-topped cane. All these were left in the foyer. The manager apologised that the elevator was temporarily out of action. In a dark three-piece suit, with a conventional collar and tie, I made my way up the wide staircase to the first floor. I stopped outside a huge door which I assumed led into a ballroom. I was admitted by a uniformed servant. It was, in fact, the mastersuite of the hotel. It put my little suite at The Yevropyaskaya to shame. I walked along a short passage which was entirely mirrored on sides and ceiling. A green curtain was pulled back to allow me into the main dining room which, with its crystal and gilt, had not changed since Tsarist days. It was occupied by cigar-smoking men. Some were in evening dress and some wore uniform. Others were dressed as I was in what were in those days recognised as tastefully classless suits. I was greeted by the journalist Elanski. He had the reputation of being a pro-Bolshevik and a terrorist. He was a mild-looking man with spectacles and a goatee. I had met him at The Cube where, because I kept my peace, I was considered a socialist sympathiser. Elanski introduced me to a variety of men whose names I knew. They shook hands with me and thanked me for sparing the time to come. They evidently believed me an important figure, but I was not sure what my importance to them was. Shortly after I had arrived, the green curtain was swept back and our self-styled Supreme Commander, Semyon Petlyura, came in. He was shorter than I had guessed, with the pink, smooth skin known as ‘typically Ukrainian’, a small moustache and a birdlike way of moving his fingers together when he talked. He wore a green and gold uniform. I addressed him as ‘Pan’, which was a term used only in Ukraine and Poland. He said he would prefer to be known here as Comrade Petlyura. He smiled. He said it made him feel more relaxed; that he was amongst friends. He, too, thanked me very deeply for finding time to join the meeting. We sat down to dinner. To my surprise I was given a place on Petlyura’s left, while Elanski occupied his right. Next to me was a general and opposite the general was a high-ranking minister in charge of the Civilian War Effort. I was called ‘Comrade Pyatnitski’ throughout the dinner and found the fact privately amusing. I understood during the meal something of the euphoria of holding powerful political office. It made me more determined than ever to keep out of politics in future. All the men there were worried about Bolshevik gains. Without proper allies our lines of supplies and communications would soon be cut off. Kiev would have to be abandoned. The insurgents were unreliable. Most of them had little idea of the importance of railways and telegraphs. They tended to fight only for local territory, often with the intention, Petlyura thought, of setting up tiny nations along old Cossack lines. He was even uncertain of his own Zaporizhian forces once they had gained what they wanted. ‘We have plenty of cavalry, plenty of infantry, a fair number of machine-guns, plenty of trains, no aeroplanes, little artillery worthy of the name, no tanks or armoured cars. In fact, we are only slightly better equipped to fight a modern war than Stenka Razin.’ While we laughed at this, Petlyura’s small face became stern. He made a movement of his lower lip which had the effect of strengthening his jaw. ‘And that is why, Comrade Doctor, we have asked you to let us know your views.’

  I was taken aback. ‘I’m no strategist.’

  ‘But you are a scientist.’ Elanski leaned forward. ‘And a brilliant one. Everyone speaks of you. I’ve met people from Petrograd, from Moscow, from Odessa. All say you’re one of the most far-sighted men of our day. A child-genius, who built his first flying machine at the age of eight.’

  I smiled, holding up my hand. I wore rings, now, of Ukrainian filigree silver. They gave me a vaguely nationalist air without actually identifying me as anything in particular. ‘Stories of that sort are apt to be exaggerated. I have a number of inventions, many theories, some practical ideas. But without proper materials I am unable to make the necessary experiments. Thus, gentlemen, comrades, you find me in Limbo.’

  ‘Can you give us aeroplanes?’ asked the general. His name was Konovalets and he was scarcely older than me, though his face was set like limestone.

  ‘Not without proper plants and expert men. You must know this already. French aeroplanes are your best hope.’

  Petlyura spoke in a small voice. ‘We need to buy time against Lenin and Trotsky.’

  I looked questioningly at Elanski, who shrugged. ‘They won’t guarantee us anything.’

  I was still cautious. Should the Bolsheviks enter Kiev next week, Elanski might be singing a different song. His type was becoming familiar in modern Russia.

  ‘We had heard about a kind of ray. Like concentrated sunlight.’ Someone spoke from the other end of the table. ‘Have you developed this ray?’

  Now I laughed aloud. A few months ago nobody had taken the idea seriously. Tonight they ignored practical mechanical conceptions and grabbed desperately at a notion which everyone of them would normally have dismissed as cheap fiction. But now the Reds were knocking at Kiev’s gates. Some there, I could tell, were still a little doubtful. There was no way in which I would convince them. I did not intend to try. I could make no claims until a prototype had been built. ‘Ray-cannon are not easily developed. A good deal of money and equipment is required.’

  Petlyura was impatient. ‘You can have what you need. Doctor Braun,’ he indicated an elderly gentleman, ‘is a scientist from Kiev University. He can put all their resources at your disposal.’

  ‘When I have heard the young man’s idea,’ said Braun in a deep voice. He gave me a stare.

  ‘I have done some research,’ I said. ‘I believe
it’s possible to concentrate a ray of light until it is so powerful it can cut through steel.’

  ‘It is not an unfamiliar theory,’ Braun agreed. ‘I don’t see how you can apply it.’

  ‘A special vacuum tube would be needed. Like a very large radio valve. Shall I describe it as simply as possible?’

  ‘For my sake,’ he said. The old man had a sardonic humour lacking in most of his colleagues. Perhaps he had less to lose. I described how mercury would be introduced into a tube and boiled to drive out air. The mercury vapour would then be trapped while the tube was sealed, with wires extruding. Low voltage could be applied to a heating element in the tube. Once it reached a temperature of 175° Celsius a high voltage would be applied to the electrodes, producing an electrical discharge in the mercury vapour. The excited mercury ions would then emit a light beyond the spectrum perceived by the human eye.

  ‘I call this Ultra-Violet light,’ I said. ‘Mirrors or quartz lenses could be used to focus it.’

  ‘And how much electrical power would you need?’ Braun was impressed. He frowned over some notes he had made in pencil on the tablecloth.

  ‘Obviously, the better the source of power, the stronger the beam.’

  ‘It is violet in colour, the ray?’ said someone else.