by Roger Bax
Now I must make up for the time I had lost. There was no sign of a taxi, so I marched smartly up to the tram stop. My heart sank when I saw the long queue of trippers already waiting there. Two tramloads, at least. Then I remembered, just as a tram came in, that people wearing decorations were allowed in the Soviet Union to go to the head of a queue. As the tram drew up I planted myself squarely in front of two old women and four children who had probably been waiting fifteen minutes. They glanced at my medals and muttered something uncomplimentary, but nobody protested. I boarded the tram and got a seat.
It was quite like old times. There was the same unmistakable smell of the Russian tobacco substitute, makhorka, which the Red Army carried with it into every conquered country. There was the same familiar rattle of dilapidated trams over worn-out lines, the same jostling and squabbling of people whom hardship had deprived of good manners. I would have known I was in Russia again if only by the sack of potatoes and the hoe handle which were being prodded into my ribs by a little old peasant woman. Nobody bothered about me. There was a man in the seat beside me but he was worn-out with fresh air and sun, and almost before the tram had left Pirita he was snoring with his head against the window. When the shrillvoiced conductress cried “Take your tickets” I handed a rouble to the old peasant woman and watched it being conveyed down the tram by willing hands above an impenetrable mass of bodies. In due course a handful of kopecks and a shred of flimsy paper torn in the middle came back by the same route. No, the place hadn’t changed!
While the tram clattered and jerked its way into the town I looked at my documents. I discovered that I was Colonel Vladimir Kirilovitch Skaliga, of the 12th Guards Division. When I looked at the photograph pasted on to his identity card I wasn’t surprised that he had won medals. He had a fierce stare and a prognathous jaw and looked extremely tough. I hoped I should never meet him.
After about twenty minutes the tram stopped at what I took to be the terminus, for the fifty or sixty people who had managed to cram themselves into it suddenly flung themselves as one towards the exit and there struggled noisily with an even greater mob waiting to get on. I battled my way through with the rest. I found that I was in a large square which I didn’t recognize. What I did notice at once was a clock in the face of one of the buildings, its hands pointing to eleven. Desperately late though it was for my purpose there were still masses of people about. Indeed, all round the square there was a shuffling promenade of young men and girls in cotton shirts and white frocks taking the night air. It was oppressively hot. I stopped under a lamp and asked a man to direct me to the theatre. He pointed ahead, addressing me very respectfully as “Comrade Colonel”. That was reassuring.
The theatre building was in the next square, and it was just as I remembered it. It had two wings—one of them a concert hall—with a restaurant in the centre. There were a lot of people standing outside the theatre entrance, most of them in uniform. A performance of some sort was obviously being given and this, no doubt, was the last interval. My eye caught an announcement on the wall near the main doors, and I walked up to read it. It was a hastily scrawled bill, and it said that a special performance of the Sleeping Princess was being given that night exclusively for the Red Army garrison and its chief guest—Colonel General Zhdanov. Marya was billed to dance Aurora. She must be in there now, getting ready to dance the final act.
I felt an immense relief. At least she was safe. Why she was dancing, why she hadn’t managed to make an excuse, or to slip away during the day, I couldn’t imagine, but no doubt I should learn. The problem now was to make contact with her, and quickly. I might try going round to the stage door, but I doubted if I could overcome the various obstacles before the last act started. With Zhdanov in the building there would probably be N.K.V.D. chaps all over the place and I was in no position to show my documents. I should have to send her a message.
I was fumbling in the colonel’s wallet for a piece of paper when bells began to ring inside the theatre. The interval was just ending—I was too late. People who had been standing talking outside began to move in towards the doors. I was gripped with sudden panic. Somehow I must get inside the theatre. As I stood near the entrance, meditating some bluff, a young Red Army lieutenant came out with a girl on his arm. I caught his eye and then he glanced at my medals. He must have been struck by the look on my face for he saluted and said: “Do you want a ticket for the last act, Comrade Colonel? We have to leave.”
I thanked him warmly and took the ticket. He smiled and saluted again and I saluted. Then I pushed my way into the lobby just as the second bell began to ring. I flung my cap on the cloakroom counter and took my check. My ticket was for the seventh row of the stalls. There was a kind of flower-shop at one side of the foyer and on an impulse I bought a great bouquet of roses with a fifty-rouble note from the Colonel’s wallet. I just managed to squeeze inside the theatre before the doors closed. I felt pretty conspicuous as I marched down the centre gangway but hoped that the flowers would divert attention from any possible defects in my military appearance. The two empty seats were at the end of a row, and I fell into one of them with immense relief just as the orchestra struck up.
It is difficult to describe my feelings during those next few moments. I was dizzy with emotion. There was a tumult inside me—my head was pounding and my mouth was dry. I gripped the arms of my seat to keep my hands from shaking. The whole thing was like a dream. I couldn’t believe I was really there, sitting in that outlandish uniform in that strange and yet familiar company. I couldn’t believe, now that the moment was so near, that Marya would suddenly appear on that stage, and that after two aching years I should be looking at her again. Yet suddenly, with a burst of tremendous clapping—there she was. She looked so incredibly beautiful that for a moment I almost stopped breathing. I yearned for her across the gap that still parted us and it was all I could do to sit in my seat. I tried to read her expression but she was too far away for me to see clearly. Whatever misery might be weighing on her privately, she was dancing divinely—so much so that the audience kept breaking in with applause, slowing down the whole performance. For my part, I had never been less interested in the technical precision of a pirouette. Though the last act of the Sleeping Princess is pure delight, my sole desire was that it should end.
That was about the longest half-hour I’ve ever known, for time was our enemy. But the ballet could not be hurried, and an audience such as this would not be deprived of its few minutes of worship. When, at the end, the orchestra played its last triumphant chords and Marya came forward to take her curtain, I felt the sweat pouring down my back. I knew I had to do something to make my presence known to her, or she might slip away and be lost to me. A crowd of officers were on their feet near the curtain, clapping and ‘bravo’-ing. There was tempestuous applause from all over the house.
I edged my way to the front until there was nothing between Marya and me but the orchestra. As she looked my way I threw the bouquet of roses at her feet and shouted as loudly as I could “Marya! Marya!” Several of the officers laughed in a friendly way and one of them slapped me on the back encouragingly. As Marya picked up the flowers with a smile and a little curtsey in my direction I shouted again, desperately. I didn’t give a damn what people might think—they might suppose me a bit the worse for liquor but they’d certainly never think I was Marya’s English husband. The second time I called she stared hard at me. I saw her hands tighten on the roses, and for a moment her eyes looked large and frightened. I knew then that she’d recognized me. I waved my hand and glanced over my shoulder towards the back of the theatre. She gave me a tiny nod even as her head went up to smile at Zhdanov and the other applauding people in the boxes.
A Red Army major was looking at me curiously. “Do you know her, Comrade Colonel?”
“I met her at Sevastopol,” I said. “She was the last dancer to give a show there before we evacuated. I lost my heart to her.”
The major smiled and shook his head.
“You will have a lot of competition,” he said. “I wish you luck.”
As the curtain fell for the last time I shouldered my way up the sloping aisle to the foyer. Nobody there seemed in any hurry to go home. A band had struck up in the restaurant, which was packed tight with dancers. I didn’t know how long it would take Marya to change, or where I’d meet her. I promenaded up and down, my nerves on edge, my thoughts in a whirl. I wondered what she’d be wearing. I couldn’t keep still. Once I went outside the building, to see if by any chance she was there, then back into the restaurant, and yet again into the foyer. Suddenly I remembered that I hadn’t recovered my cap, and I was obliged to join the animated queue of officers outside the cloakroom. A General of Artillery, the tips of whose grey moustaches I could see from behind, turned and gave me a friendly nod, noting my insignia. I wished the queue would move along more quickly, and felt myself grow cold as the general said, “It’s a long way from Tiraspol, eh, Comrade Colonel?”
I made an effort to smile. “I feel a long way from everywhere tonight, Comrade General. Such dancing! Such grace!”
“Not so bad,” he agreed. “Not so bad at all. But these chits of girls don’t compare with the ballerinas of my day. Now I remember …” And he launched himself on a sea of recollection. I didn’t have to say another word except an occasional affirmative “Da.” The general had forgotten Tiraspol. He finally picked up his cap and said with a reminiscent twinkle in his eye: “I wish I were your age, Comrade Colonel. Good night.”
I retrieved my own hat and rushed back into the foyer just as Marya was entering from another door, her hand lightly resting on someone’s arm. With one horrified glance I saw that her companion was Zhdanov, the guest of honour!
This seemed the end. Zhdanov, saviour of Leningrad, Party boss in the north, one of the biggest of the big shots in the Soviet Union! Everyone else was keeping a respectful distance and I dared not butt in. It was a frightful moment. For all I knew he might be inviting her to supper. Marya looked very pale and I could guess what she must be feeling. Then Zhdanov gave a little bow and a smile, and an aide fell in beside him as he went out to his car.
In a moment Marya was the centre of a knot of high-powered Russian brasshats. I saw her look round a little wildly and knew that I should have to rush in. I tore across the floor, elbowing aside a general and a couple of colonels. “Marya!” I cried effusively, stretching out my arms to her. “After all these years! How are you, little dove? How is the family?” I kissed her resoundingly on both cheeks. “She is my sister,” I explained to the company. “Please forgive me. I haven’t seen her for five years. Marya darling, how is Shura? How is Mamachka?” And I took her arm possessively.
“You will forgive us, won’t you?” Marya said with a dazzling smile all round. “We have so much to talk about.” The brasshats made way for us good-naturedly, though I felt their interested stares boring into my back. The risks were piling up. I prayed that my uniform looked all right, that no one knew Marya’s family history, that the people to whom I had told different stories were out of earshot. I put my arm protectively round her shoulders in what I hoped was a fraternal manner and we strolled away. I needn’t have worried about myself—it was Marya that the whole place was watching. I was afraid that she would be caught up again in the press of her admirers. Firmly I propelled her to the exit while she kept up a most convincing chatter. A dark slim girl was standing by the door and Marya whispered quickly to me, “Be very careful.” The girl, smiling, ran up and embraced Marya. “You were wonderful, darling,” she said. She looked inquiringly at me.
“Valentina, this is my brother Serge. I haven’t seen him for years. Isn’t it marvellous? Serge, this is my dear friend Valentina Alexandrovna. She has been so kind to me during our tour.”
I clicked my heels and gave a stiff little bow. I was itching to be off. Valentina’s shrewd eyes were inspecting me. I saw she was impressed by my medals—not every colonel wore the Order of Suvorov.
I said: “No doubt we shall meet again. I am staying over tomorrow. If you’ll excuse us now—Marya, and I have so much to say to each other.”
“Of course, Comrade Colonel.” Valentina smiled and stood aside.
“Serge will bring me to the hotel,” said Marya. “Good night, Valya darling.”
“Good night, Marya.”
At last we were in the street. I set my cap firmly on my head and Marya threw a silk scarf round her hair. She wouldn’t be recognized once we were away from the theatre-goers in the square. It was agony to loiter when the need for speed was so urgent, but until we reached the corner it wouldn’t be safe to hurry. I murmured, “Darling, darling Marya,” and held her tight against me.
“Oh, Philip darling,” she said softly. “I can’t believe it’s really you. I’d given up hope.”
“We’re not out of the wood yet,” I whispered. “Round that corner we’ve got to hurry for our lives.”
“What about Svetlana? Is she all right?”
“Yes,” I said. “She turned up at the beach. What happened to you? Couldn’t you get away?”
Marya gave a nervous glance over her shoulder. “It was Valentina—she’s an N.K. V. D. spy. I only found out today. She wouldn’t leave me—not for a moment.”
So that was it! I began to wonder how long it would be before Valentina discovered that she had handed over her charge to a bogus colonel. Not long, I suspected—they must have identified the real colonel by now and the net would be closing. I gripped Marya’s arm more firmly and we turned the corner. The street seemed empty. I said: “Come on, now, as fast as you can. It’s touch and go whether we reach the beach in time.”
I had hoped there might be a tram at the terminus but there wasn’t, and we couldn’t afford to wait. The town clocks showed a quarter after midnight. We raced along the cobbled streets, under old arches and past pepper-pot turrets on battlemented walls. Whenever we saw anyone approaching we slowed down until they were well past. Four miles to cover and less than three-quarters of an hour to do it in! It was impossible. Marya was doing her best, but she was already tired after a strenuous evening’s dancing. She was almost running to keep pace with my long strides, but soon I felt her begin to drag on my arm. If an opportunity had offered now I would have stolen any car, any conveyance, even bicycles. But there was nothing to be seen. The streets were almost deserted. If our own legs could not carry us to the beach in time, nothing would.
A car came rushing along, its headlights blazing, and I drew Marya into an alley while it swept by. I was very nervous now about my uniform, but could see no way of discarding it. The tunic smothered me and sweat poured off me in rivulets as we rushed along. By the time we reached Pirita it was ten minutes to one. The cars had gone, the people had dispersed, the restaurant was just closing. We hurried over the bridge and bent to the long slope uphill. Marya’s breath was coming in little sobs and I knew she was just about all in. We couldn’t have talked now if we’d wanted to. I knew how she must be feeling—my own head throbbed, my throat was sore and dry, each intake of breath was a rasp. Somewhere behind us a distant clock struck one, and it was like the first note of a passing-bell. Deadline! We still had a mile and a half of uphill track to cover.
The clock acted on me like a spur. To be so near and yet to fail—it was unbearable. But we had to rest. Marya was stumbling blindly forward and I knew she would collapse if we went on at that pace. We flung ourselves down for a moment, soaked with sweat, panting for air. I tried to exhort her. I said: “We’re nearly there, Only another mile. That’s all. Marya, don’t give in! Just a little more.”
I dragged her up and she swayed against me. I urged her on, half carrying her, murmuring little words of encouragement. I knew we could not regain our former pace. The Viimsi lights seemed very near, but even as I exhorted her I had no hope that we should reach them in time. I couldn’t bear the thought of what was ahead. Marya had no reserves of strength to swim out—she would drown. I couldn’t even let her try. Anyho
w, the dinghy must have left by now. Despair overwhelmed me, and I no longer tried to force the pace. We moved forward mechanically and in my mind’s eye I saw our brief lovers’ meeting shattered by arrest and separation, questioning and worse.
Suddenly a figure loomed out of the darkness ahead. I whispered a warning to Marya and we became a spooning, sauntering couple. The figure stopped. It was a coastguard or police officer of some sort—I could see his uniform and holster. He flashed a torch on us, then on me, then on my epaulettes. He stopped.
“Good evening, Comrade Colonel. I apologize for bothering you.
A colonel’s uniform has been stolen and we have orders to check all documents.”
So it had come at last! A wave of anger possessed me. For a moment this one man seemed to personify all the things in the world that I most hated. I lashed out at his face with all my remaining strength and as he fell I hurled myself upon him. I’m not the commando type. I was more strongly built than he, but he was much more skilled in a rough-and-tumble. It was the darkness that saved me. He couldn’t get to grips. We struggled noisily, violently, rolling over and over on the path. I was hardly aware of pain or blows. All I knew was that I wanted to get my hands on his throat and squeeze the life out of him. Once he got on top of me but I managed to heave him away with a tremendous effort and together we rolled off the path. I felt the sharpness of rocks as we slid and slithered down the slope of the cliff, still clawing at each other. The Russian seemed to have gathered new strength, but my own was nearly gone. As we struggled and plunged together down the beach, sometimes half upright, sometimes flat on the ground, my hand suddenly closed over a stone. I struck wildly at his bare head as he lunged at me. Two or three times his upraised arm protected it and then the stone crashed against his skull. He went down without a sound and I lay dizzy and exhausted, my wits scattered.
