by Daniel Kemp
“Ciao, honey,” Rudi said to Ceran on her departure from his apartment, back to 3100 Massachusetts Avenue and her home within that compound of the British Ambassador. Life been kind to Mr English, fulfilling his dream of an Ambassadorship. “Che sarà sarà” Rudi added, as the door closed behind her.
Chapter Thirty-Nine: Crazy Paving
Igor was sixteen when he was given the sealed envelope that his father had handed to Ibo Pasha, by which time he was skilled in both the spoken and written word of his native Russian language. Stanislav began it with a poem:
Not for every plashing wavelet, watches keen the helmsman eye.
He awaits the last huge roller, when the ninth wave surges high.
But until that last strong roller, swells with deep decisive roar,
We must meet the strife and effort, of the waves that go before.
Even though we scarce perceive them, sinking vanquished to their grave,
Wait, O brethren, wait with courage, for the ninth all-conquering wave.
He handed the metaphorical verse to the Ambassador, and asked for an explanation. To the man seated before him, Igor was known affectionately as Iggy, but never beyond these two was that name mentioned, and Mr English is no longer referred to as such; he is now dead.
“Well, Iggy…let me see.” He pouted his lips and tightened his jaw, the usual mannerism he adopted when his full attention was needed. Next came the reading spectacles, meticulously adjusted onto the bridge of his nose, and finally the deep, noisy intake and exhaling of breath that would follow his acceptance of whatever written material was passed to him. Mr. English adjusted his not considerable weight into the reclining red leather chair, lit one of his sweet perfumed cigarettes and began to give his interpretation.
“It's symbolic, especially to a seafaring man and river boat captain such as your father. The rhyme suggests to me the ups and downs of life; the very rhythms, in fact. There we are, smoothly going about our daily whatever-it-is we do with the occasional bump to overcome of course, but nothing too serious until something unseen or unexpected comes along to knock us out of kilter, as it were. What he's saying, in effect, is to be wary at all times, just as a ship's captain has to be, expecting the unexpected. Not in complacency and triumph, however, in knowing what's coming; but in a circumspect way, heedful of what that rhythmical wave might bring.” As a diplomat, Mr. English was accustomed to being verbose.
At sixteen, Mr English decided to reveal all to Iggy; his real parents, their history, and his own. It wasn't so much decided by age, but more by the defection of a Major in the Sixth Directorship of the KGB. Mr Ambassador did not feel directly threatened by this, but he knew that this army officer threatened a very delicately balanced arrangement that had been struck between himself and a sympathetic Russian friend.
“It was the politics of the time that lead me to believe in Lenin's dream; I obviously still do, I should add. My father was in the Foreign Office and knew that war was coming, speaking often about the criminality of it all. He and some associates had been approached by several high-ranking Germans alerting Britain of Hitler's ambitions and asking the British government for their support. The aristocracy, for their own avaricious ends, wanted no part in another war, and so they did their upmost to retain the status quo. Intellectuals advocated peace at all cost, conveniently forgetting the atrocities the Nazis committed in Spain and that they were still perpetrating against their own people, so the leaders did what they are good at: nothing. They sat on their hands, hoping it would all go away. When it didn't, opinion became polarised and, in certain people's minds, mine included, the only side that promised to put an end to Fascism was Communism. The Western world had nothing to offer the populous, except greed and war.
I, and many like me, despised the totalitarian and despotic views of Hitler garnering support by appealing to popular bigotry, whilst the supposedly enlightened world did nothing other than consider profit and loss accounts. Lenin had offered a revolutionary ideology of self-worth and equality, one where everyone benefited from each other's labours. There was no other choice for us. I stayed alone in the support I gave the Russians. Other sympathisers went about things in their own way, and our paths rarely crossed. If they did, I was far removed from the outcome. You would do well to ensure the same, Iggy, as a similar role beckons you.”
Iggy was used to playing roles. From the approximate ages of three to six he had spent many hours with the flamboyant Ceran, his mother. He was, to her, a little doll to be dressed and displayed as such, fawned over by her and the glittering circle of friends she moved in. Comparisons between their children were made. “Oh, mine was able to configure a Rubik's cube correctly by three,” or “mine could understand Einstein's theory of relativity three weeks after birth!” He was in a competition, one in which Ceran was the official and he had no alternative but to enter.
In Istanbul she dressed him in blue and white sailor outfits or shirts with imitation decorative ties attached, as the other British mothers did to their own offspring. In whatever country he found himself in, he had to adhere to the local costume. The jilbab in Beirut and Damascus, where the traditional Arab conformity in dress was observed. The latter was where Dad was the Chargé d'Affaires for a brief time, before moving to Athens as British Ambassador, where frilly blouses and skirts were Ceran's orders of dress. No matter what the code, she would add a feminine touch, such as a pretty bow to his long curly black hair, or a beaded amethyst bracelet. In Greece, topaz earrings were hung from his juvenile lobes to match the colour of those frilly skirts that were mandatory to wear.
All this done with one thing in mind: to get Ceran noticed and spoken of. From six years onwards, when Ceran was more occupied, Igor was consigned to his father who used him in the opposite fashion…one in which his father could be inconspicuous. Kicking or hitting a ball in a park with your son does not bring the attention that doing the same with another man, without children around, may. Fishing in Lake Assad in Syria whilst holidaying alone with your son, and bumping into strangers and exchanging conversation, would not cause undue anxiety to anyone watching or happening to pass by. Even in Washington, the same was true. The Potomac and Great Falls Park was an ideal place to wander around whilst chatting aimlessly with one's son, eating ice-cream and hot dogs and avoiding as many as you could, but obviously not all, around the kiosks. Then of course there was the inevitable stops to purchase sweets and other essentials at the petrol stations on the drive home, when encounters just could not be avoided. Opportunities arose more often to accumulate information, and to pass on your own revelations, when you had a child in tow than when you did not. Dad, the Ambassador, was one of the very best in being inconspicuous. Another thing he was good at was clearing up uncertainty and loose ends.
* * *
Have you ever looked at a child whilst they are questioning you with their eyes? Weighing you up mentally, as if they can see beyond the facade that you portray in front of them, particularly one where you look happy at being used as a punchbag when suffering from a migraine? There comes that time when you must tell them off. Not for your own gratification, for shouting doesn't help that headache, but in the pure wish that you could save them from your own mistakes.
Have you seen their eyes when that happens? Is that mistrust, or just confusion, that you see there? We can all see the signs of growth physically and can alter things in that regard by adding more of this, or less than that, but how do you change the intellect and percipience? By saying sorry when the reprimand was justified, or tempering the occasion by explanation or a cuddle? But whichever way you believe to be the best for that child, he or she change. They either accept the situation that their mother or father have become different and have developed an angry side. Or they think: Mum and Dad are inconsistent. One minute they are my friends, playing with me, but the next, after that thing they call the 'television' is laying in bits all over my floor…they are shouting just because I was strong enough to pull it over
! There was I thinking I would be praised for my initiative.
The mind is formulated by such occurrences, affected by the parent's personality. The odds are that, if you are kind and considerate, so will the person growing in that tiny body grow up to be. The reverse is also true, if you are a user or a manipulator….well, that's how Igor grew after Ceran's control and his father's exploitation, and it was with that as his background that he listened to dad's problem relating to KGB Majors.
* * *
“So you see, dear boy, that Stanislav was a pragmatic person, taking advantage of the situations that presented themselves to him and Yelena. You have a special opportunity to repay your father's courage.”
“What must I do, dad?”
“Learn from me, Iggy…that is all. I have an example for you of that ninth wave your father mentioned, and how, if we are not circumspect, our boat can be overturned. Perhaps you can recall fishing off the rocks in the Mediterranean when we were in Beirut? We did it quite often do you remember? Of course you can it was great fun, wasn't it? I used to leave you occasionally and speak to a man there. A tall chap, stocky build, with a mane of blond hair. He helped you land a fish once, had a deep laugh, and made a great song and dance about it all, almost falling into the sea! That man and I, along with several others, sympathised with the left wing of persuasion before the War. We all wanted a strong Russia to be able to defeat Germany, and we thought that Britain and her allies were not doing enough in that regard. We thought that the emphasis was too loaded in the American direction, at the expense of the Russian people.
It was obvious to us that after the invasion of Poland the treaty of peace between Germany and Russia would not stand for long. The Russian armed forces were no match for Hitler, but the treaty bought time to reorganise and rearm with modern weapons. The allies would not help with information on even the basic items like bomb sights or tank technology. But we were working behind the cover of diplomacy. Through one source or another, those things and more, were delivered to our friends, eventually enabling them to wage the war that was inevitable…And win it!
Before the war finished, it was by efforts made by like thinking sympathisers that allowed Stalin to sit alongside Roosevelt and Churchill while they divided up Europe, predominately in American favour. Had he not been there, the Eastern Bloc would never have happened, and capitalism, backed by American armed forces, might would have ruled Europe. In our eyes, we needed the Russians to have the bomb. It negated the Americans, and their wish of world domination. The British and the French got theirs later. You have already learnt, I understand, about British and French colonialism, and the tyranny that brought upon people in India , the Caribbean, the whole of Africa, Cambodia and Vietnam? The conflicts that ensued in those places when freedom was denied? You only have to look at Korea and the indiscriminate killing to understand how much human life means to an American General or their President.
The only concern was one of balance, you understand. The Americans had rid the world of the Nazis but, in doing so, had peddled their own dogma wherever they could. They insured their prosperity by fostering loans on stricken countries. Even the British had to pay for its efforts to hold off Hitler when it stood alone. They despised communism and its furtherance of the common man for the common good. They believed in the power of money, but only in their own pockets. This is still true today as you can see from their interference in Iran, and now the fighting in Vietnam in which they always wanted to fight, after funding French resistance to a free country's wish. We have not been wrong in our ideals. Russia grows stronger as communism is embraced by more nations willing to fight against American capitalism. Materialism is everything here. You are judged by where you live, what you wear, and the car you drive. Communism is more of a levelled plane, one where it is important to help one another. Do you see that often in the West?” Mr. English sat back to consider his words not looking at Iggy for a reply and nor did Iggy feel the necessity to offer one. As far as Igor was concern he was in the presence of greatness and luxuriating in every syllable.
“The man we met in Lebanon was a believer, and he was an enigma to the British. He had served Queen and country well, yet was suspected by America of being one of those hated commies, so he was sent away from here, back to England, and on to retirement for his brave service. He is one of us and, when discovered will be rowed down the Thames and through Traitor's Gate, spending the remains of his life in the Tower, or shot, according to English law.
The defecting KGB Major knows all about that man's past, but that is all he knows in that direction. However, the man in question knows much more, and could, if pressed hard enough, point his finger in other directions. Being in the diplomatic corps has made things easier for me to pass on the knowledge that has helped your father and your true Motherland to get where it is now, and in so doing I have been privileged to more information than most. There is an arrangement in force that my position cannot be compromised by any ninth wave or man-made disaster. Your position will be equally protected…but neither can be so if our friend in Lebanon is exposed.” Iggy could wait no more, Mr. English needed help it seemed.
“We are a long way from Lebanon, dad. Have we got to go there and kill this man?” the worried Igor enquired.
“Goodness no Iggy. People like us do not kill, and in this case it is far from necessary. Eventually he will be found out for what he was by the testimony of this Major. Remember, Iggy…you cannot stop the ninth wave. You can only expect it, and ride it out. He will not be found out for what he did, nor whom he knew. They will not catch him for that ride down the Thames because of me. In a last resort, we have others to do the unpleasant side to our work. We specialise in knowing those people and in knowing how to arrange the disappearance of embarrassments without bringing suspicion upon ourselves. I shall tell you how this will be done, old chap. You never know…one day, it might come in handy,”
Igor's education up to this point had been exclusively handled by Mr English, with hand-picked tutors in whatever country they stayed in for a while. But all the tutors had one common denominator: dedication to their well disguised communist leanings. This subterfuge was never discovered,. And on return to England a few years later, when Igor was sent to Cambridge, he presented himself as the staunch patriotic Brit that dad had portrayed, and had envisaged Igor following.
With his background and pedigree, it was not long before he was recruited into the British Secret Service. He never parted with the words contained in that letter written by his Russian father, nor the lessons of deceit and misrepresentation of the truth his dad had taught him so very well. His impression of a desolated and rejected Russia never left him, so when he found out about an English spy working against the land that Stanislav and Yelena gave their lives for, he felt sullied and defiled, as though he had suffered personal violation and betrayal.
* * *
At the end of Stanislav's letter, there was a long appended paragraph, written perhaps as an afterthought. It had no real bearing as to the previous content that told Igor of the lives his parents had lived and how they had met, but it had significant resonance to remain in his life forever. It read:
That day in August 1942 when both your brothers were killed and your mother was so badly injured, I was with my unit on the hills to the south of the city overlooking the Volga and the Western suburbs. Although not the highest point in Stalingrad, we could see virtually the whole city. I was a field gunner in the Fourth Brigade of artillery, and we had been stationed here for some time, expecting the Germans. They had already overrun the Ukraine, with several thousands of refugees arriving in our city by the day. They were a mixed bunch of different nationalities, all fleeing from the Nazis, and had been scattered around families for shelter and whatever food could be provided. Our block, where we all lived, was in front of me and to my right. I could see it clearly, and on one occasion, when the officer lent me his binoculars, could make out our own part of it on the fifth floor. It w
as one of several of the same height and had spotters for the guns situated on the roofs. These, too, I saw through the binoculars. When night came, there was no light shining from the city but for the searchlights that lit the sky as the sound of planes filled the darkness with the droning of heavy engines. As the guns on the far outskirts of the city opened up, there was a blaze of light on top of our block and other buildings around Stalingrad. Bonfires had been lit, marking them out for the German bombers. We had been betrayed. Amongst those refugees had been Romanians spying for the Germans and pinpointing important targets for them.
When our forces were strong enough, and the German Army was surrounded by our troops, it was the flanks held by Romanian soldiers that we drove through. We took a bloody revenge on them that day, slaughtering many without mercy in ways only battle hardened soldiers could think of. I took my own revenge for your wounded mother and my dead children in a manner I will not describe to you, but I was not alone in this brutality. The betrayal their fellow countrymen had wrought upon us had gnawed deeply into our souls, driving any thoughts of compassion far away. Never forget where you came from, my son, and never forget the evil that man can do to man.
Chapter Forty: Resting Time
What remained of Friday quickly passed. I read the list on which were more names unknown to me than the reverse, and of those that I did recognise, none jumped from the pages screaming Murderer! I seemed inundated by detail. Everything appeared to have been covered for both days by my brother, but still I fussed and had to check. I hadn't seen Maurice for several years, and had no desire to rush and reunite. There was no hostility between the two of us, it was simply that we had drifted apart through the ages and now had little in common in which to engage. I was not in the mood for idle niceties, nor was I looking forward to the conversation with my recently extended family at dinner.
