by Roger Bax
I said: “Thanks, Joe. We should be back about eleven. Okay, let her go.”
Joe slipped the painter and I pushed off into the darkness of the Bay.
Chapter Eleven
This is the moment, I think, when I should break off the narrative and briefly record the fortunes of Marya and Svetlana up to this point.
As soon as Steve had got back to Moscow from London he had taken the girls out to Sokolniki park on the outskirts of the town—where he could talk without fear of microphones behind the wallpaper—and had told them our plan. Their feelings were very mixed; they were terrifically excited, but apprehensive. It took Steve a long time to convince them that it was a practicable undertaking. He agreed that it was dangerous, but when they realized that the plan was not just an idea and that it was already half undertaken they were eager to make the attempt. Svetlana, matter-of-fact and rather fatalistic, was soon getting down to details as practically as though she were compiling a shopping list. Marya, lifted to ecstatic pinnacles of hope, was ready to dare anything, though with her keener imagination she was the more fearful.
Marya presented no great problem for Steve. She was about to leave on her long tour, and the Russians themselves would bear her surely and safely to the planned destination. Steve went over the details with her before she left, impressed on her the date and time of meeting, and gave her a harmless code message which she could cable to Svetlana if there was any last-minute change in her itinerary. Such a change seemed in the highest degree unlikely, since it would not be policy to disappoint any of the large towns which featured in the schedule.
Steve had told Marya to keep in touch with Svetlana by letter, and this she did. She wrote from Kharkov saying she had danced the lead in Swan Lake and had been tremendously applauded by the provincial public. She wrote from Kiev that she had slightly strained a muscle but that it was already better. She wrote from Odessa that she had found an amusing companion in the assistant Wardrobe Mistress, one Valentina Alexandrovna, and that they went everywhere together. She wrote from Minsk that she had received ‘three offers of bigamy’. She seemed in high spirits.
With Marya off his mind Steve could turn to more difficult matters. The first problem was to contact Rosa, the Tallinn dressmaker. Svetlana found the woman’s address in Steve’s files—flat 36, house 12, Pushkinskaya. Steve knew that Rosa occasionally came to Moscow on business, but he didn’t want to suggest a call at the hotel in a letter through the open post. But Svetlana found a way. The chief dress factory in Moscow happened to be holding a public exhibition of clothes for postwar mass production. Svetlana went along and managed to get friendly with a girl from Baltiski—the next town along the coast from Tallinn—who had brought samples of Estonian work to Moscow and was going back through Tallinn in a day or two. Svetlana gave her a carefully worded letter for Rosa, and some nylons.
There were some anxious moments after that, but within a fortnight Rosa called at the hotel. She said it had been fairly easy for her to undertake the journey, for the dress exhibition was still on. Svetlana met her in the hotel entrance hall and they talked there of the fur wrap which Rosa was going to have made for Steve’s wife in America. This was for the benefit of the vigilant reception office, but a secret appointment was also arranged.
The three of them met in Sokolniki after dark. Steve didn’t tell Rosa any more than he had to, but the drift of his purpose must have been fairly plain. He had to trust her that much, and felt he could do so, for the letter she had sent to her people in America by him had been of a kind to get her a life sentence if it had been found. A thin, bony woman of thirty-five or so, Rosa was highly intelligent and emotionally intense. She was very intrigued when Steve asked her to stroll out to Viimsi as soon as she got back and look at the leading lights and the Vake buoy, but she agreed at once to do it. Steve gave her a little sketch-map which she was to destroy as soon as she had studied it. She promised that if it were humanly possible she would meet Svetlana at Leningrad station with a spare ticket on the night of August 13 and accompany her back to Tallinn. Steve offered her a substantial sum of money, but she refused to accept it, saying to him, “One day you will set us free.”
Both Steve and Svetlana now began to cultivate the goodwill of the Press Department, and particularly of the second censor, Bankov, who usually arranged the correspondents’ trips. Steve contrived to give the impression that he was undergoing a change of heart, and his broadcasts became increasingly friendly towards Russia. In July he approached the Head of the Press Department with a request that he should be allowed to go to Leningrad and do a couple of broadcasts on the successful reconstruction of the city. He suggested that the middle of August would be the best time because that was always a dead period for news at home, and he enlisted Bankov’s co-operation—a censor was always glad to get out of Moscow on a trip. Svetlana made the final arrangements. Bankov was ardent and susceptible, and she had no difficulty in persuading him that the middle of August was a convenient time. In the end the Press Department decided to lay on a trip for all the correspondents, as Steve had no objection, and on August 11 a band of newspaper men some fifteen strong, with four or five secretaries, arrived at the biggest hotel in Leningrad for a three-day stay. Precisely two weeks before, Svetlana had received a brief note from Rosa saying that the fur wrap would soon be ready and that she was looking forward to meeting Svetlana as arranged.
At about the same time as Svetlana was settling into the Leningrad hotel Marya was climbing with her friend and admirer Valentina Alexandrovna to a seat under the old castle ramparts in Tallinn. Their train had come in that morning and they had a free day. Marya had rather wanted to wander off alone and get her bearings in the town, but Valentina had begged to be allowed to come along too. They sat down at a spot which gave them a wonderful view of the Bay. Valentina was chattering away as usual, but Marya hardly listened to her. She was thinking how incredible it was that somewhere out on that still sea—not very far away—Dawn must at that moment be approaching. Away on the right she could just make out the hazy line of the Viimsi coast, where she would soon be keeping tryst. She felt terribly excited and wondered how she would get through the next three days.
Valentina said: “How quiet you are today, Marya darling. What are you dreaming of?”
Marya pulled her wandering thoughts back and answered with a laugh. “I was thinking how wonderful it would be to dance before Joseph Vissarionovitch in the Bolshoi. One day, perhaps I will, Valentina.”
“Of course you will. You looked so sentimental, I thought perhaps you were thinking of your husband.”
Marya was startled. “My husband!” Then she smiled sadly and shrugged her shoulders. “What is the use?”
“You still love him, don’t you?”
“Let us not talk of him,” said Marya, with some impatience. But Valentina persisted.
“You know,” she continued, “you are very foolish to waste yourself. I know what I should do if I were as young and beautiful as you. I should choose a new husband—very carefully. Soon, Marya, they will all be at your feet—generals, commissars, everyone. You will be able to take your pick. I envy you.”
Marya could stand no more. “Valentina, please leave me alone for a while—I don’t feel well.”
“Then I certainly shan’t leave you, little dove. You look pale. You must come and have a glass of tea.”
Marya, afraid to behave in anything but a normal manner, rose reluctantly and followed her insistent companion.
Three days more to get through!
Back in Leningrad the Press trip was following a well-established routine. On the first day the correspondents made a tour of the city, interviewing planners and architects and talking to the leading civic authorities. In the evening the Mayor gave them a banquet. On the second day the whole body of correspondents and secretaries went out to Peterhof to see how the famous palace was being restored and in the evening there was another banquet at which the leading intellectuals of Lening
rad were produced.
Steve had done his broadcast, and having taken leave of Svetlana with a quick handclasp and a ‘Good luck, baby!’ was now giving himself an alibi by repeatedly drinking ‘bottoms up’ with a still unpurged Soviet poet. The party was hilarious, for work was over and tomorrow they were all returning to Moscow. Svetlana had no difficulty in slipping away by ten o’clock, for by that time no one knew or cared where anybody else was. She had to meet Rosa at ten-thirty for the eleven o’clock train, and the station was only about ten minutes away.
At a quarter past ten she went downstairs to the entrance hall. She had, of course, no luggage. She wore a light summer frock and carried a handbag. She had had just enough to drink to take the edge off her apprehensions. She pushed through the swing doors and was about to walk away when someone called her. It was Bankov, leaning heavily against the wall. He managed to get himself upright and stood swaying. “Svetlana Mikhailovna!” he cried. “What good fortune!” He put a hand on her arm. He was much more drunk than a censor ought to be.
Svetlana brushed him off with a disapproving “Oy yoy, Alexei Alexeivitch, aren’t you ashamed of yourself?” She began to walk along the street, but Bankov followed her.
“Where are you going, Svetlana Mikhailovna? You shouldn’t be out alone, my dear, as late as this.”
Svetlana turned on him angrily. “I am hot—I want to walk. Go away, Alexei Alexeivitch, you stink of vodka.”
“How unkind you are,” said Bankov, putting his arm round her. “You need a husband, Svetlana, my dear.”
“I’ve got a husband,” she said fiercely, trying to free herself.
“Oh no,” said Bankov, leering at her, “you had a husband.”
Svetlana said desperately, “I shall report you for drunkenness.” But Bankov continued to paw at her.
“Just one kiss, Svetlana, my dove.”
She smacked his face hard. Instead of sobering him it made him violent and he began struggling with her. Luckily he was a small man, barely a match for her. She clenched her fist and hit him with all her strength. Bankov staggered back, tripped and fell—and at that moment Svetlana heard a whistle being blown. She began to run, but a militiaman intercepted her.
“Why the hurry?” he growled. “What’s happening, tovarisch?”
“I was out for a quiet walk,” Svetlana gasped, trying to fasten her torn dress, “and a man attacked me. He’s drunk.”
“Come back with me,” said the militiaman, taking her arm.
Svetlana dared not refuse. They went back to where Bankov was just getting up from the gutter. “You little bitch!” he shouted when he saw Svetlana, and made a grab at her. The militiaman let go of Svetlana and blew his whistle as he tried to restrain Bankov. Svetlana turned and took to her heels. She raced up a side street and continued running for two blocks, as hard as she could. Then she stopped and listened. Nobody seemed to be following her. She gave a little sob. Everything had gone wrong. She was hot, dishevelled and out of breath, and the time was nearly half past ten. She had run in the wrong direction for the station and dared not go back past the hotel. She made a detour, walking fast and trying to tidy herself as she went. Presently she saw the big clock above the station. The hands pointed to ten forty. Svetlana nearly wept; she was late for her meeting with Rosa, and in twenty minutes the train would leave. The last train—the only train that would get her to Tallinn in time!
She rushed through the vast waiting hall, where hundreds of people lay with all their worldly possessions and a crowd seethed like a besieging army around the closed ticket offices. She ran to the train indicator, her heart pounding. Surely Rosa had waited—for ten minutes, for fifteen minutes? Desperately Svetlana gazed around, searching for Rosa’s thin, tense face. There was no sign of her.
Now what to do? To scour the station?—but Rosa might come, and miss her. To wait there passively?—and let the train go. To search the platform?—perhaps Rosa was making sure of the seats.
The Tallinn train was filling up in noise and bustle. Svetlana could see the usual milling crowds on the platform—the travellers, the would-be travellers and the non-travellers. The minutes ticked by. Svetlana knew she was losing her chance for ever. It was ten to eleven—she must search for Rosa. Quickly she darted up the whole length of the barrierless platform. But it was hopeless to find anyone. She could not see into the high train. At the entrance to each coach there was a harassed car conductor examining tickets, appealing for order, guarding his precious seats. There were clearly more people without tickets than with. Voices were raised, strident, urgent, appealing. A militiaman patrolled the platform in case argument became more than verbal. He seemed quite undisturbed by the babel. He knew that in a few minutes the train would draw out and the rowdy shouting throng would melt away.
A bell rang. Svetlana rushed wildly from carriage to carriage. She could think of nothing but that Rosa had failed her. Suddenly she saw a young Red Army man with a bandaged foot and a crutch stumping up to a hard-class carriage. He was carrying a large parcel wrapped in newspaper, sweat was pouring down his face, his lank hair was in his eyes. Svetlana saw that between his thumb and finger was a ticket. She rushed up to him as the bell sounded for the second time. “Let me help you,” she said. He gave her a grateful glance and she took the parcel. “Make way there!” she cried. “Make way! Aren’t you ashamed of yourselves, blocking the way for a wounded hero? Look at his foot, the poor boy.” She hacked and elbowed, cursing and being cursed. “Conductor,” she cried, “make them stand back. This boy has a ticket.” The conductor shouted “Make way!” She was nearly there now, with the soldier close behind her. She was touching the rail by the steps. As she struggled up and held out a hand to the soldier the conductor said sharply, “Your ticket, citizeness?”
“I’m not travelling,” said Svetlana, hauling the soldier up and pulling the crutch after him. “If no one else will help this fellow, I must.”
“Be quick, then,” the conductor warned her. “We’re just going.” He took the soldier’s ticket and tucked it into a little pouch. “Place number twenty-seven. Stand back, there.” The bell clanged for the last time. Svetlana was in the carriage. The train gave a sudden jerk. The soldier said: “Quick, you must go. Thank you, thank you.” The conductor rushed in. “We’re moving. Hurry, citizeness, hurry.” Svetlana looked through the window and saw the platform lights slowly slipping by. The conductor was half dragging her towards the carriage door. There was only one thing to do. The whole ten stone of her sagged to the floor and she lay there inert with her leg carefully crooked round a seat support.
By the time she had had water dashed in her face and was ready to come round, the train was leaving the outskirts of Leningrad. She scrambled to her feet. People were gazing down at her with benevolent interest from the tiers of hard wooden bunks. The soldier was leaning on his crutch and regarding her with concern.
“I fainted,” she said, unnecessarily.
The conductor was muttering bad-temperedly. “A fine thing!” he said. “I have known many people travel without tickets, but this was the cleverest trick of all.”
Svetlana gave him a withering look. “Fool! Do I look as though I’m travelling? No coat, no blankets, no luggage, not even food!” She glanced round to see if public opinion was with her so far, and found that it was. “Idiot! If you had kept proper order at the entrance it would have been unnecessary for me to get in.” There was a murmur of approval. “It’s disgraceful that you should let a howling mob make travel impossible for decent people.”
The conductor was sulky and unconvinced. “All the same, you must get off.”
“Get off! What do you expect me to do? Jump out?”
“You must get off at Narva.”
“And pray when shall I get a train back from Narva?”
The conductor shrugged. “Perhaps tomorrow morning. Perhaps tomorrow night.”
“And perhaps next week! I shall go on to Tallinn. There I shall go to the Press Department of N
arkomindyel, for whom I work, and they will get me a ticket. And you, my friend—bozhe moi, for you there will be trouble!”
The conductor regarded her doubtfully. She was a talker, this girl—she could put a case. She had a confident air—and a gold wrist-watch. She seemed, indeed, a person of authority—not a person who would travel hard-class. Perhaps she would make trouble. He said, “Let us go and talk quietly.” He took her to his own cubby-hole where he slept when off duty.
“And now, tovarisch,” said Svetlana amiably. “Let us stop arguing and be reasonable. The harm is done. Let me have your bed, and we will say no more.” She took a hundred rouble note from her handbag and his fingers closed over it.
It wasn’t a very clean bed, but Svetlana was tired out and managed to make herself very comfortable. The conductor, relieved of anxiety and financially fortified, could not do enough for her. He even made her a glass of tea. Svetlana dozed a little, but mostly she lay awake wondering about Rosa. How was it possible that they had missed each other at the station? Well, it didn’t matter now. In a few hours she would be in Tallinn.
It was a fine and sunny day on the Baltic coast and as they steamed into Tallinn Svetlana’s spirits rose. It was nearly midday, and she was hungry. She went into the station buffet and ate two rolls. Then she washed and tidied herself. When she finally stepped out into Tallinn she was neat and smart again. If she attracted attention now, it would only be on account of her good looks.
It had been agreed that she should meet Marya on the beach by the leading lights at a quarter to ten that night, so she had many hours to kill. She took a tram out to Pirita and walked along the coastal track until she could see the tall mast on which the foremost light was fixed. There would be no difficulty at all, she decided. Having reconnoitred the ground she returned to the town, had a good meal, and relaxed. She wondered if her absence from Leningrad had been discovered yet. It had been Steve’s intention to be ill after the banquet and to lie low in bed as long as possible. Bankov, however, would probably be looking for her, if he wasn’t in jail. She knew he would want to apologize. She felt sorry for Bankov, who would undoubtedly lose his job, if nothing worse. She sighed. In every operation there must be casualties.
