Sonia sat down. “He works too hard,” Krupskaya commented. “He will not rest.”
Lenin squeezed Sonia’s hand. “Do you remember, when we were in Irkutsk together, how we dreamed?”
“You dreamed, Vladimir,” Sonia said. “We listened. And perhaps attempted to share.”
He was clearly pleased. “What I did not realise,” he said, “was how much effort was needed to make those dreams come true.”
“Or how many lives,” Sonia remarked without thinking. This time his glance was censorious. “Lives are there to be lost, when the cause is sufficient.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Sonia agreed.
He gave her another quick glance, then sighed. “But still, there have been too many. And now...you were in the south?”
“It is a wilderness,” Sonia said. “At the railway stations people were offering their children for sale. We even heard tales of cannibalism.”
“And the Donbass is the most prosperous region of Russia. Do you know what my commissars tell me? That over ten million people have died in the Civil War, principally from starvation. And they are still dying.”
“If something is not done, the muzhiks will turn against you.
Krupskaya snorted. “That is the least of our problems. If they turn against us, we still have machine-guns for that kind of thing.”
Sonia turned to Lenin in consternation. “Do you mean to rule a desert?”
“Of course not. Mind you,” he hastily added, “Krupskaya is perfectly right, any revolt must be dealt with most severely. But there are things that need to be done. Sometimes, when climbing a mountain, it is necessary to take one step backwards before taking two steps forward. Those fools...” he jerked his thumb at the conference room, “cannot understand that. Well, I have told them what we are going to do. There is food, especially in the south. But to prevent themselves from starving the muzhiks are hoarding it. We send armed men to requisition their grain, for the good of the nation as a whole, and they find nothing. We have taken all their sheep and cattle. Now there is nothing. Yet we know the food is there. We have even tried shooting some of them to make the rest tell us where their grain is buried, but it has no effect.”
“Well, if they are going to die of starvation anyway, I do not suppose they are afraid of being shot,” Sonia pointed out, and thought what madhouse has Russia become, that I can be having such a conversation with the country’s ruler? It was because I discovered the Tsar held conversations like this with his ministers that I revolted against him in the first place!
“I realise this,” Lenin said. “That is why I am implementing a new economic policy. I am going to allow the muzhiks to sell their grain for the best price they can command. That way we will at least get it into circulation.”
“That is capitalism,” Krupskaya protested. “It is against everything the Revolution stands for.”
“Nonetheless, it is necessary, my dear, if the nation is going to survive.”
“I think you are absolutely right,” Sonia declared.
“However,” Lenin went on, “that can only be a part of the answer to our problem. We need help. We need investments, we need money, we need hand-outs. There is an American organisation which is prepared to help with the last, but this is humiliating. What we really need is the trust of the international community.”
“You’re not going to find that easy to come by,” Sonia remarked. “Not after executing the Tsar and his children.”
“I had nothing to do with that,” Lenin snapped.
“You were head of state when it happened, Vladimir. And the assassins have never been punished.”
He glared at her, but she did not lower her gaze, so at last he smiled and squeezed her hand again. “You are so forceful, Sonia. I will admit that mistakes have been made, although I cannot really see any other possible fate for the Tsar. As an exile, would he not constantly have been stirring up people against us?”
“And his family? They were such innocent girls.”
“So they were friends of yours and pleasant to you. Women can be quite as dangerous as men.” He gave his wife a quick glance; Sonia wasn’t sure whether he was looking for support or including her in his generalisation. “We must not quarrel, Sonia. We have been comrades, for too long. I have two things I wish you to do for me. One is to persuade Trotsky not to be such a hothead. He reckons that now we have won the Civil War it is time to export the Revolution. He dreams of doing this by force of arms. He seems to lack the slightest economic sense. Russia is bankrupt. We cannot feed ourselves, much less support the size of army that would be required to take socialism into the heart of Europe. Make mistake about it, we would need an army, a very large army. Let us make a success of Russia first, and then we can talk about exporting our Revolution. Do you agree with me?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then make Trotsky agree too. The second task, no less important, is to obtain for us international recognition. The American relief organisation is not part of their government. The American government, no less than the British, refuses us recognition. This we must have, at least from Great Britain,” he smiled, “if only because they have the wealth of the Tsars locked up in one of their banks, Barings. They will not release it to us because they say we are not the legitimate government of Russia. But we could do with that money. So, this is your second task.”
“I have absolutely no influence with anyone in the world, save maybe Leon.”
“My dear woman, you underestimate yourself. Apart from the Tsar’s own family, and obviously we cannot expect any assistance from them, the Bolugayevskis are just about the highest ranking princely family to have escaped Russia. Your son is now the Prince Bolugayevski.”
“I do not know if Colin is even alive. And if he is, he hates us more than anything else in the world.”
“He is a boy, and they can be hot-headed. But what about the Crombs? Patricia Cromb was both a Bolugayevska and one of us.” He held up his hand. “Don’t say it again. She was murdered, by revolutionaries. These things happen, and are deeply regretted. Had she survived I have no doubt at all that she would have supported us.”
“I think you are being optimistic,” Sonia muttered.
“Now there remains her son, daughter, and her husband. I am told that Joseph Cromb was taken prisoner and that you interceded to save his life.”
“Vladimir, the reason that he was taken prisoner was that he was serving with the Whites, with a determination to avenge his mother’s death. He hates us as much as Colin.”
“But you saved his life. He will never be able to forget that.”
“Perhaps,” she said cautiously.
“His father is vice-president of one of America’s biggest shipping lines, is he not?”
“His stepfather.”
“All right, his stepfather. But that is another point. This boy’s father was Joseph Fine. I loved that young man. I wept over his corpse. This boy has Communism flowing through his very veins. It’s in his blood, his mind, his heart. All he needs is to be reminded of it.” Again Sonia preferred not to comment. She had seen no evidence of Communism in Joseph Cromb’s personality. “And then the present Princess Dowager. Was she not your great friend?”
“We were thrown together by circumstances.”
“And endured together, she will never forget.”
“What Priscilla Bolugayevska will never forget, Vladimir, is that she replaced me as Prince Alexei’s wife, that her home was destroyed and herself raped and beaten by men acting in your name, and that her husband died fighting our army.”
“Traumatic events,” Lenin conceded. “And now, no doubt, the poor woman is dependent on the Crombs for her livelihood.”
“She is a Cromb herself,” Sonia pointed out. “She can never be destitute.”
“You are acting as devil’s advocate,” Lenin said. “I do not believe a family so closely bound up with Russia can ever turn its back entirely upon Russia. I believe that they
may well be persuaded to endorse the Revolution. They might respond very strongly to an olive branch, especially if it included a suggestion that some of their wealth might be restored to them.”
Sonia stared at him, incredulously. How could a man setting out to lead a nation, a world movement, be so ingenuous? But it was not so difficult to understand. Lenin was the essential materialist. He had no code of ethics, no understanding of morality. His thesis was simply the gaining of power, by whatever means, and the use of that power to implement his ideas of how society should be shaped. Thus he assumed everyone else also approached life in that context. And if the Bolugayevski-Crombs were to fall for his blandishments it would be a tremendous propaganda coup. She did not believe it was possible, but if the implementing of his idea could somehow bring the family back together, enable her to discover if Colin were alive and see Anna again... “Very well,” she said. “I will do my best, I will have to be furnished with money, clothes and passport.”
Lenin raised his shaggy eyebrows. “To do what?”
“To go England, Vladimir. There is no other way I can help you.”
“Oh, no!” he said. “I hold you in the highest respect, Sonia, but I know that your experiences have — how shall I put it — given you a split personality. If I let you go to England, you might never come back. The object, my dear, is to have them endorse us, not you endorse them.”
“Then I cannot help you,” she said.
“Of course you can help us,” Lenin said reassuringly. “I would like you to write for me a letter of introduction to your family, extolling the bearer in the highest terms, asking them at least to listen to what he has to say.”
Sonia frowned. “Who will this bearer be?”
“I will find the right person,” Lenin assured her.
“And what will he have to say?”
“Roughly what I have said to you.” He might have been able to read her mind. “This venture could well succeed in reuniting you with your children, Sonia. Is that not worth aiming at?” He paused, studying her expression. “You will write me such a letter?”
*
Dr Adamson sighed and raised his head. “He’s gone, I’m afraid.”
There was a moment’s silence in the bedroom, then Jennie Cromb knelt beside the bed to kiss her father’s hand. “Oh, Pa,” she said. “Oh, Pa!”
The rest remained still, respecting her grief; Jennie, sixteen in this summer of 1922, was closest in blood to the dead man. Eight-year-old Alexei looked solemn and understanding. He was serious boy and had seen enough of death to understand more about it than most children of his age. Fourteen-year-old Anna stared at the dead man, her face as ever hostile to the event. Joseph did not doubt that the girl had psychological problems.
Priscilla allowed Jennie a few moments, then knelt on the other side of the bed. As Duncan’s niece, she was next in blood to the dead man. Joseph remained standing at the back of the room. Duncan Cromb had been his stepfather, they had never been close. The fault was his, Joseph conceded; he had never been able to shrug off the them and us concept. His own father had been hounded to death by the Tsar’s secret police almost before he had begun to live, except perhaps for those stolen hours which had produced himself; this man had been born to prosperity and personal safety — that he had dabbled in Russian affairs was because he had a romantic streak — and a wilful wife — but that had been part of the arrogance of his birth and position. Now he had drunk himself to death, his liver and kidneys collapsing from years of abuse. If ever a life had been totally wasted, it had belonged to Duncan Cromb.
But his passing, however long expected, had left a host of questions to be answered.
He followed the doctor into the lounge, where Grishka waited. Grishka had taken over the housekeeping arrangements, even while Duncan Cromb was alive, reducing all the other servants to cyphers. Except that this was London and not Sevastopol, nothing had really changed. “I’ll let you have the death certificate this afternoon,” Adamson said. “Do you have anyone in mind?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“I’ll give you the address and telephone number of reliable people.”
He wrote out the necessary information, then shook hands. “Do you think your sister will need any medication?”
“I don’t think so. If she does, I’ll let you know.”
Adamson nodded, gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile to the rest of the family, and allowed Grishka to show him to the door. “Grishka,” Joseph said. “Would you take Alexei for a walk?”
“Don’t want to,” Alexei said.
“Come along, Your Excellency,” Grishka said. She might, by force of circumstances, be living in democratic England, but to her Alexei remained a Russian count. Alexei pouted, but he would never argue with Grishka.
“Perhaps you would go too,” Priscilla suggested to Anna.
Anna looked at Jennie. During the three years she had lived here she had not really been close to her cousin, but today...
“I think Jennie should stay,” Joseph said. Anna glared at him and followed Grishka to the door. “Drink?” Joseph asked.
Joseph filled three small glasses with vodka and handed them out. “To Duncan.” They each drained their glass. Jennie gave a little shudder; if, she had indulged in a great deal of champagne, she was not used to vodka. “Now let’s all sit down,” Joseph suggested.
He sat opposite them, Priscilla, with her ash-blonde hair and tall, slender figure; Jennie with her curling auburn hair was voluptuous even at sixteen. And he was now responsible for them both. “First, arrangements,” Joseph said. “Adamson has given me a number to call, and I shall do so in a moment. He assures me these are reliable people and the funeral will be fully taken care of. Secondly, finances. Father showed me his Will some days ago. He has left everything to be divided equally between you and me, Sis, and there is actually quite a lot; he was a successful player of the market, we have no financial worries.” Jennie made no comment. She had never known any problems with money. “So we only have to decide what you are going to do next. You take your School Certificate exams this summer. Are you going to pass them?”
Jennie shrugged. “I guess.”
“Well, do you want to stay at school and take your London Higher? And then maybe university?”
“Ugh! That’ll mean another two years at school!”
“Well, two years as a sixth-former can be rather fun. You’ll wind up as head girl, I should think. The thing is, should you decide to go home to the States, you’ll be starting from scratch in another school, with different methods...” he paused, speculatively; Jennie might have had an American father, but she could not possibly regard Boston as ‘home’.
“What are you going to do?” Jennie countered. She included them both in her glance.
“We’ll be here,” Priscilla said.
“That’s something else we have to discuss,” Joseph said.
“There is nothing to discuss, Joe. I have said, and I repeat, I am not going back to Boston.”
She had made this clear in Sevastopol, and even more clear since reaching England. It had sparked a monumental family row. The moment they had learned of her escape from Russia, her father and brother had been on the wire, telling her how much they were looking forward to seeing her. When she had wired back that she wasn’t planning to go home, they had both hurried across the Atlantic to change her mind and had discovered a personality far stronger than theirs. They had eventually retired defeated, unable to understand such a perverse point of view.
They had no idea that she was his mistress, Joseph knew. And Duncan, who did know, had not betrayed his niece and stepson. He had preserved a benevolent neutrality throughout the quarrel. This was not merely weakness. Duncan as much as Joseph knew how traumatic it would be for someone who had been one of the premier princesses in Russia. Who, additionally, had been torn from that perch with the utmost brutality. She could not retire to the gentility and the utter democracy of Boston. Equally
, Duncan had welcomed her ebullient, beautiful presence as a permanent adornment in his house. Even if he had refused to allow them to marry, they could have done in defiance of his will, but they had opted not to. Priscilla had not wanted to upset the dying man, she said. But additionally, Joseph felt, she had not been sure that she wanted to marry again, certainly so soon, and especially to a half-cousin who was four years her junior.
But now... “There is no need for anything to change,” she said. “Surely you will not lose your job simply because Uncle Duncan has died?”
“I should not think I will,” he acknowledged. “But we will have to cable your father with the news. He’ll probably come across.”
“Why don’t you two get married?” Jennie asked. Both their heads turned sharply. “If you did,” Jennie pointed out, “Uncle Charles wouldn’t have a leg to stand on.”
Priscilla looked at Joseph and smiled.
There was a large turn-out for the funeral of Duncan Cromb; he had been a popular man. He was buried in Hampstead Cemetery, because it had been Patricia’s ambition to be buried close to her beloved Karl Marx, and as she hadn’t made it he had made it plain that he would take her place.
The family stood together at the graveside, heads bowed, as the final words were spoken, and remained there for some minutes while their hands were shaken by the mourners. Grishka was with them, and when they returned to the Mayfair flat she picked up the card which had been dropped through the letter box, and gave it to Joseph. “Andrei Gosykin,” Joseph read. “Nothing else. Not even a phone number.”
“There is writing on the back,” Priscilla said. Joseph turned the card over. ‘I would deem it a great privilege to be allowed to call,’ Gosykin had written in Russian. ‘I am acquainted with Princess Bolugayevska.’ Joseph handed the card to Priscilla.
She raised her head. “I cannot imagine any White supporter who escaped, referring to Sonia as the Princess Bolugayevska.”
“And if he is a Communist he would refer to her as comrade, you suppose. I would say that he is most probably sent by Sonia herself.”
The Red Gods Page 11
