by Roger Bax
Her thoughts swung back to Rosa. Perhaps the woman was ill or in trouble. Svetlana could not forget her taut, harassed face. If she were ill it would be ungrateful to go off without at least trying to see her, and Svetlana had much to thank her for. There could be no harm in calling at her house, if it were done with caution. The visit would help to fill in the hours of waiting.
A passer-by directed her to Pushkinskaya, a new road on the outskirts of the town. She decided to walk, and in less than half an hour she had found the street, which was composed entirely of newish blocks of flats, tall, ugly and commodious. She approached house 12 with care, but there were no signs of anything unusual happening. Children were playing and women were talking, but there were no suspicious loiterers or waiting cars. Svetlana slowly climbed the concrete stairs to the second floor. Three flats shared the same landing and all seemed quiet. She knocked at Number 36. There was no answer and she knocked again, very loudly.
Beside her the door of Number 37 opened a fraction and a voice said sharply, “Well?” Svetlana saw a worn-out wisp of a woman peering at her with hostility and suspicion.
Svetlana said, “I wanted to see Rosa Meingal.”
“Who are you? What do you want with her?”
Svetlana was frightened and wished she hadn’t come. But she said: “I’m a customer of hers. She was making me a dress.”
The woman opened the door a little wider, looking Svetlana up and down. Then she said in a milder tone: “You won’t see her. She’s in hospital.”
“In hospital! What’s the matter with her?”
The woman’s face was hard. “They came for her—a week ago.”
“They …?”
“Yes,” said the woman. “Rosa wouldn’t open the door. When they broke it in, she threw herself out of the window.”
Svetlana turned pale. “Oy yoy,” she said in a shocked tone. “Will she recover?”
The woman shrugged. “She was very badly hurt. It is a big drop from the window. They took her to the municipal hospital. They went with her.”
Svetlana slowly descended the stairs, clinging to the rail and feeling sick. Poor Rosa! A phrase that the woman had used came into her mind. “They went with her.” Svetlana could imagine them, sitting by the bedside, waiting. What did they suspect? Why had they arrested her? Had it anything to do with Steve and herself? Had they searched the apartment and found something?
Svetlana’s thoughts flashed back to that grim ordeal she herself had had to face at N.K.V.D. headquarters—the small hot room, the straight-backed chair, the bright light shining in her eyes, the shadowy figures, the questions and the questions. And she had been lucky. They had let her go. There was nothing special they had wanted from her. But if they had wanted anything and she had remained silent.… Svetlana shuddered again. It was horrible. But a woman who had fallen from a window, who was desperately ill—they wouldn’t take her away.… They wouldn’t torture a sick person. Or would they?
Svetlana felt she must set her mind at rest. At this very moment they might know about Steve and herself, about their interest in the lights and the buoy. They would soon know about her own disappearance from Leningrad and they would put the bits of the puzzle together. They might be setting a trap. If only she could talk to Rosa! But that was impossible. They might still be at the hospital, and they would certainly question visitors. There was still the telephone, though.
She walked nearly a mile before she found a telephone booth. She rang the hospital and a man’s voice answered.
“I’m inquiring about Rosa Meingal, who was brought to your hospital about a week ago. An accident case. Please tell me how she is.”
“Are you a relative?”
“Yes, yes. I’m her sister. I’ve only just arrived in Tallinn.”
“Wait, please.”
Svetlana leaned heavily against the side of the booth.
Presently the voice said: “Are you there? Rosa Meingal died the night she was brought in. I’m sorry.”
“Did she leave any messages?”
“I’ll ask,” said the man. Presently he came on again. “I’m sorry, tovariscb. Rosa Meingal left no messages. She died without recovering consciousness.”
“Thank you,” said Svetlana slowly.
Chapter Twelve
Dawn had become a vague black shape against the stars, and gradually we lost sight of her altogether. I rowed south, away from the shoal, till Denny called softly that the Viimsi lights were now in line. Then I swung the dinghy almost at a right angle and began the long pull to the peninsula. We had oiled the rowlocks and muffled the oars, and our progress was almost silent.
We had about four miles to row and just under an hour to do it in. The wind seemed to have died completely and I had seen heavier seas on the lake in Regent’s Park. I concentrated on the rowing. After much practice I had learned to judge roughly how far I had rowed by the number and strength of the strokes. To arrive a minute or two early wouldn’t matter, but if we were late the girls would turn back and we should have the risky pull in to the beach. We were both keyed up. If all had gone well ashore success seemed within our grasp. At this very moment Svetlana and Marya were, we fervently hoped, sitting on the beach only three miles or so away. In less than an hour they’d be in the dinghy with us—we’d be able to talk to them, to touch them. My pulse raced at the thought.
Denny was keeping his eye on the Viimsi beacons, for I had my back to them. Every now and again he said softly, “Starboard a little” or “Port a little” and I made a slight correction until they were in line again. Without them we could never have made the right landfall. The rest of the coastline was either quite dark or a confusion of lights. I thought I could distinguish brightly-lit Pirita over on my left, but I wasn’t even certain about that. Away in the harbour there was some activity and once we heard the distant splutter of a motor-boat engine. Our part of the bay was quite empty.
I rowed on steadily, rhythmically, counting the strokes. About half-way Denny suggested taking over, but I didn’t want to spoil the timing. A clock somewhere over by Pirita chimed a quarter to ten, and we checked our watches. Denny whispered “We shan’t be long now,” but the journey seemed endless to me as I continued to pull. When I thought we were close inshore I sounded the water with an oar, but it was still too deep to find bottom. My watch showed two minutes to ten. I rested on the oars, and we both listened tensely. My heart was thumping. Denny was motionless. I took three or four more strokes and then unshipped the oars. The lights were bang in line and I could just make out the tower of the foremost light against the sky. We couldn’t be more than a quarter of a mile from the shore. If the girls had entered the water sharp at the appointed time they must be approaching the dinghy.
The strain of those few minutes was indescribable. I was almost choking with excitement and a clutching fear. I paddled the boat forward with my hands and we listened again, staring out into the darkness. Denny was leaning over the stern. There was no sound but the faint lapping of the water against the boat. We paddled a few feet further in. Even a few feet might help. There was still no sound, and dreadful thoughts began to race through my mind. It was four minutes past ten. What could have happened? Could we have missed them? Ought we to row right in?
Then I heard a splash that was not made by the dinghy and there was a hiss of warning from Denny. He had seen something—someone. I leaned over the bows. Yes, he was right—there was a movement in the water a few yards away. We paddled quickly towards the bobbing head and in a few seconds had hauled a dripping panting figure over the stern. It was Svetlana.
“Where’s Marya?” I whispered with desperate urgency.
“She didn’t come,” Svetlana gasped. “She wasn’t on the beach. I haven’t seen her.”
“Oh, God!” I murmured, sick with apprehension. “You’re sure she wasn’t there?”
“Certain. I looked everywhere for her.”
“What was your arrangement with her—tell me quickly.”
“She knew the time—ten o’clock?”
“Of course. Oh, poor Marya!”
“Sh!” We were much too near the bank to talk safely. For a moment I gazed towards the shore in blank despair. Everything seemed hopeless. Yet when I thought of going back to Dawn, to England, without her I knew what I had to do. This was destiny. I said softly: “Denny, I’m going ashore. She must be in the town. I’m going to look for her.”
I couldn’t see his face, but I could hear the alarm in his voice. He said: “You’re crazy. You can’t do that.”
“I must. I can’t go back without her.”
“But she might be anywhere. You won’t know where to look. You’ve no documents. You’ll be pinched and jailed.”
“I can’t help it. I’ve got to take a chance. I’ve got to.”
Svetlana said: “The N.K. V. D. were after Rosa. She committed suicide a week ago.”
I scarcely heard her, and certainly didn’t take in what she said. I grabbed and unfastened one of the bundles of clothing, threw the garments across to Svetlana, stripped off all my own clothes and wrapped them securely in the waterproof cover. Then I lowered myself naked into the milk-warm water and held on to the gunwale.
“Denny,” I said, “listen carefully. You’re to take Svetlana to Dawn now. Ask Joe to bring the dinghy back here right away, by himself, and to wait until one o’clock. That’s the deadline. If we’re not here by one, he’s to get back to Dawn as quickly as possible and you’re to sail for Stockholm. Is that clear?”
“But, Philip——” He was in great distress.
“Don’t be a damn’ fool, Denny. If you hang about we shall all go down the drain. You know that. I’m off now. Good-bye, Svetlana. Good luck, both of you.”
“Good luck, old man,” Denny whispered. “Good luck. We’ll keep our fingers crossed.”
I let go the dinghy and swam slowly ashore, pushing the waterproof bundle in front of me. My feet soon touched a sandy bottom. I crouched in the water for a moment, listening, and then waded cautiously in to the beach. I felt horribly white and visible, but there wasn’t a soul about.
I struggled damply into my clothes and pushed the waterproof under an overhanging rock. I hadn’t the slightest idea what I was going to do except get into Tallinn somehow and look around. I felt curiously exalted and indifferent to consequences. At least we had half-succeeded. We had snatched Svetlana away. Now I would go home with Marya or not at all. I don’t think I doubted at that moment which it would be—the time was too short, the odds were too great. But I had to try.
I picked my way along the beach for a hundred yards or so, stepping carefully to avoid dislodging any stones, and then I climbed up a low steep cliff and found myself on a rough path. Below me and about two miles ahead I could see the lights of Pirita, with the glow of the town behind. I set off along the track at a smart pace. As I walked I tried to guess what might have happened. I remembered now what Svetlana had said about Rosa. The N. K.V.D. might have found out something. Marya might have been arrested. But if so, why hadn’t they arrested Svetlana? Marya might have been taken ill—seriously ill. I couldn’t imagine that anything less would have kept her away. Perhaps she had had an accident. I didn’t think she could have mistaken the time of meeting, but she might have been delayed. I might even meet her on this very track. I kept a sharp lookout.
The shore was surprisingly empty—there didn’t appear to be even a coast patrol. It began to look as though we might have overestimated that danger. I increased my pace. If only I had more time! I tried to think of a plan. I must know what I was going to do when I reached Tallinn—I couldn’t just walk about in the darkness. The ballet company must be staying at a hotel—I could try the hotels in turn. Or perhaps it would save time to go first to the theatre and ask there. Even if the theatre were closed there was still the public restaurant in the same building, I remembered.
Somebody would be sure to know where the ballet people were staying.
I tore over the ground now. The path was a good one. Out at sea the flash of the Vake shoal buoy seemed to mock me. Very soon Denny and Svetlana would be there. To me, Dawn seemed as remote as the South Pole.
As I swung downhill I passed one or two couples in the dark, but they were intent on their own affairs, and no one spoke to me. The track was widening. On the left some ruins stood out starkly against the sky and I guessed they were those of the monastery I had seen marked on the chart. I was dropping down now into Pirita. I could see the gleam of the little river. Across the bridge was a large pavilion on the beach and I could hear dance music and the chatter of people enjoying themselves. The guide-book had been right about all Tallinn coming out here on hot summer nights. In the road behind the pavilion several sleek and official-looking motor-cars were parked in a row. The idea of taking one flashed through my mind, but the risk seemed too great. The chauffeurs couldn’t be far away and the last thing I wanted was a motor-car chase. I heard the tinkle of a tram in the distance. That would be safer. Then I remembered, with a horrible pang, that I hadn’t a kopeck of Russian money. I hadn’t been very smart. Svetlana must have had some—no doubt she had left it with her clothes on the beach. It was too late to go back now. I should have to walk into Tallinn, wasting a precious half-hour. I knew I should probably be terribly handicapped without money when I got there, and I cursed my short-sightedness.
I walked round to the front of the pavilion. There were tables on a verandah under coloured lights. Half a dozen Red Army officers with their girls were drinking beer and eating pastries. Inside the pavilion, people were dancing. The sandy beach in front was floodlit from the verandah and several groups of young people were sitting about on coats and rugs, apparently picnicking. There was an old crone selling ice cream, and a plump young militia girl talking to her. I heard cheerful voices and laughter down by the water’s edge and saw that people were swimming.
At the edge of the floodlit area was a public convenience—a long wooden building backing on to some bushes. I thought there might be a path from it to the road and the trams, and I hurried along the beach, avoiding scattered parties of bathers. Half-way down the beach from the convenience a man was sitting alone on what looked like a motor rug and keeping guard over a pile of clothes on the top of which was a Red Army cap. On a sudden impulse, I said as I passed him: “There’s a bit of trouble back there. Someone tried to pinch a car.”
It was a shot in the dark, but it found its target. He was on his feet in an instant. “What sort of car, tovarisch? Not a black army ZIS?”
“That’s right,” I said. “It’s not yours, is it? The militia are making trouble about a missing chauffeur.”
The man caught my arm in panic. “Tovarisch, help me, I beg you. Just keep your eye on these things while I go and see. If the colonel comes out of the water tell him I’ve gone to the convenience. Bozbe moi, bozbe moi!” And he raced off, muttering, to the pavilion.
I didn’t hesitate. As soon as the man had disappeared I grabbed the bundle of clothes and made for the convenience. I paused for a second at the entrance and listened, but the ramshackle shed appeared to be unoccupied. I walked in quickly and closeted myself.
I changed as fast as sweat and excitement would allow. Happily the colonel was a tall man or I shouldn’t have been able to get into the uniform at all. As it was I had to brace the trousers down. I was evidently slimmer than the colonel, for his tunic was loose on me, but the flat peaked cap was a perfect fit. I reflected, as I belted myself in and fastened my neck-band, that I should soon know now if Marya had been right when she said I could pass for a Russian. I was fairly confident, which was half the battle. There was something comforting about the revolver in the holster against my hip. There were medals on my left breast, but I hadn’t time to examine them. I rolled my own clothes into a tight bundle and stuffed them under a pipe. They would certainly not be found before morning. I gave a final hitch to
my tunic, threw my shoulders back and was just about to step out when I heard a noise from the beach which was anything but a shout of joy. I found a hole in the wooden wall where a knot had fallen out and applied my eye to it. As I had feared, the owner of the clothes had finished his swim and discovered his loss. He was standing by the rug shouting “Thief! Thief!” and waving his arms in a fury.
What happened next was so very Russian that it would have seemed funny if I’d had any thought in my head but to get away. The plump militia girl came panting up from the pavilion shouting “What’s going on here?”, or words to that effect. Dancing with rage and using frightful language, the colonel declared that his chauffeur had stolen his clothes. Except for abbreviated swimming trunks he was stark naked, of course, and altogether he cut a most undignified figure. The militia girl seemed unimpressed when he said that he was a Red Army colonel, and tactlessly asked to see his documents. That naturally made him more furious than ever. He called her several unprintable names and she indignantly blew her whistle. A crowd began to collect, a big militiaman pushed his way into the noisy throng, and then the chauffeur came panting up. The colonel at once seized him by the throat and began shaking him, and the next moment colonel and chauffeur were both being marched away under police escort.
For the moment, at least, the hue and cry was postponed. It would take a little time for the colonel to cool off and get his story corroborated, and I didn’t think the chauffeur had seen enough of me in the darkness to give much of a description. If I knew anything of Russian red tape it would be an hour or two before the search for a bogus colonel got fully under way. In that time a lot could happen. I slipped round to the back of the convenience, found a path, and cautiously climbed to the road. I discovered that I had a fat wad of documents, a bunch of keys, and a pocketful of small change. Looking down at my chest I saw that I had become a member of the Order of Suvorov and a Hero of the Soviet Union. No wonder the humiliated colonel had been beside himself with rage!
