Knight Without Armour

by James Hilton

  While the youth was still questioning her, another officer approached of a very different type. He was a small, fat-faced, and rather elderly Jew, glittering with epaulettes and gold teeth and thick-lensed spectacles. One glance at the woman was apparently enough for him. “Don’t argue with her, Poushkoff,” he ordered sharply. “Put her with the suspects—I’ll deal with her myself in a few moments.”

  Poushkoff saluted and then bowed slightly to Daly. “You will have to go over there for a further examination,” he said, and added, not unkindly, to A.J.—“Don’t be alarmed. You can go with her if you like.”

  They walked across the square, and on the way A.J. whispered: “Don’t be alarmed, as he said. We’ve come through tighter corners than this one, I daresay.” She replied: “Yes, I know, and I’m not afraid.”

  The second examination, however, was brutally stringent. The Reds were determined that no White sympathiser should escape, and it was altogether a matter of indifference to them whether, in making sure of that, they slaughtered the innocent. The fat-faced Jew, who appeared to be the inquisitor- in-chief, made this offensively clear. He took the male suspects first, and after a sneering and hectoring cross-examination, condemned them one after another. He did not linger a moment over the professor of philosophy. “You are a bourgeois—that is enough,” he snapped, and the man was hustled away towards a third group. When this grew sufficiently large, the men in it were arranged in line in a corner of the square and given over to the soldiery, who, no doubt, took it for granted that all were proved and convicted Whites. Then followed a scene which was disturbing even to A.J.’s hardened nerves. The men were simply clubbed and bayoneted to death. It was all over in less than five minutes, but the cries and shrieks seemed to echo for hours.

  Many of the waiting women were by that time fainting from fear and horror, but Daly was still calm. She whispered: “I am thinking of what he said—that one hasn’t lived until one has faced death. Do you remember?”

  The Jew adopted different tactics with the women. He wheedled; he was mock-courteous; doubtless he hoped that his method would make them implicate one another. With any who were even passably young and attractive he took outrageous liberties, which most of the victims were too terrified to resent, though a few, with ghastly eagerness, sought in them a means of propitiation. When Daly’s turn came, he almost oozed politeness; he questioned her minutely about her past life, her parents, education, and so on. Then he signalled a soldier to fetch him something, and after a moment the man returned with a large book consisting of pages of pasted photographs and written notes. The Jew took it and began to scrutinise each photograph with elaborate care, comparing it with Daly. This rather nerve-destroying ordeal lasted for some time, for the photographs were numerous. At last he fixed on one, gazed at it earnestly for some time, and then suddenly barked out: “You have both been lying. You are not a peasant woman. You are the ex-Countess Alexandra Adraxine, related to the Romanoffs who met their end at Ekaterinburg last July. Don’t bother to deny it—the photograph makes absolute proof.”

  “Nevertheless we do deny it!” A.J. exclaimed, and Daly echoed him. “It is absurd,” she cried, with well-acted emphasis. “We are two poor people on our way to visit our friends, and you accuse me of being someone I have never even heard of!”

  The Jew laughed. “I accuse you of being the person you are,” he said, harshly. “Stand aside—we can’t waste all night over you.”

  The sensation of the discovery had by this time reached the ears of the soldiers, and had also attracted the attention of a small group of officers, among whom was the youth who had conducted the earlier interrogation. He hurriedly approached the Jew and whispered something in his ear, and for several moments a muttered discussion went on between them. Meanwhile the rank and file, fresh from their slaughter of the first batch of suspects, were waiting with increasing impatience for the next. “Let’s have her!” some of them were already shouting. The Jew seemed anxious to conciliate them; he said, loudly so that they might all hear him: “My dear Poushkoff, it would not be proper to treat this woman any differently from the rest. Women have betrayed our cause no less than men—especially women of high rank and position. The prisoner here may herself, if the truth were known, be responsible for the lives of hundreds of our soldiers. Are we to quail, like our predecessors, before a mere title?”

  Poushkoff answered quietly: “Not at all, Bernstein—I merely suggest that the woman should not be dealt with before she is definitely proved guilty. After all, she may be speaking the truth, and it would be too had if she were to lose her life merely because of a slight resemblance to one of those exceedingly bad photographs that headquarters have sent us.”

  “Slight resemblance, eh? And bad photographs? My dear Poushkoff, look for yourself.”

  He handed the book to the other, who examined it and then went on: “Well, there seems to me only a slight resemblance such as might exist, say, between myself or yourself and at least a dozen persons in this town if we took the trouble to look for them. Frankly, it isn’t the sort of evidence on which I would care to condemn a dog, much less a woman. And we have this fellow’s statement, also—he sounds honest.”

  “About as honest as she is, if you ask my opinion. We’ll attend to him afterwards.”

  “I merely suggest, Bernstein, that the matter should be deferred for further investigation.”

  “But, my dear boy, where’s the need of it? Surely we are entitled to believe the evidence of our own eyes?”

  “Photographs aren’t our own eyes—that’s just my point. If this woman is really the Countess, it could not be very difficult to have her identified by someone who knew her formerly. There is bound to be somebody, either at Sembirsk or Samar, who could do it.”

  “But not at Novarodar, eh? How convenient for her!” The soldiers here began a renewed clamour for the prisoner to be surrendered, and Bernstein, with a shrug of the shoulders, exclaimed: “You see, Poushkoff, what the men are already thinking—they believe we are going to favour this woman because of her high rank.”

  Poushkoff replied, still very calmly: “I beg your pardon, Bernstein—I thought the point was whether she is guilty or not. If it is merely a matter of amusing the men, doubtless she will do as well as anyone else.”

  Bernstein snorted angrily. “Really, Poushkoff, you forget yourself! The woman, to my mind, is already proved guilty—guilty of having conspired against the Revolution and against the lives of the Red army.”

  “Quite, if you are positive of her identity. That is my point.”

  “Your point, eh? You change your point so often that one has an infernal job to keep up with you! No, no, my dear boy, it won’t do—we’ve proved everything—the Countess is guilty and this woman is the Countess. There is no shadow of reason for any delay.”

  “I am afraid I do not agree.”

  “Well, then, you must disagree, that is all. The responsibility, such as it is, rests with me.”

  “Take note, then, that I protest most strongly.”

  “Oh, certainly, my dear Poushkoff, certainly.”

  “And in any case, since she is a woman, I suggest that she should be treated mercifully.”

  “And not be handed over to our young rascals, you mean, eh?” He laughed. “Well, perhaps you deserve some small reward for your advocacy. Arrange the matter as you want—you were always a lady’s man. But remember—the penalty is death—death to all enemies of the Revolution. You may gild the pill as much as you like, but the medicine has to be taken.”

  After this sententiousness Poushkoff saluted and signed to A.J. and Daly to accompany him. He led them into the town-hall through a small entrance beneath the portico. He did not speak till at length he opened the door of a basement room in which a number of soldiers were smoking and drinking tea. “Is Tamirsky here?” he asked, and an old and grey-bearded soldier detached himself from the group. Poushkoff took him out into the corridor and whispered in his ear for a few moments. T
hen, leading him to Daly, he began: “Do you know this woman?”

  Tamirsky gave her a profound stare from head to foot and finally shook his head.

  “You are prepared to swear that you have never seen her before?”

  “Yes, your honour.”

  “And you were—let me see—a gardener on the estate of Count Adraxine before the Revolution?”

  “I was.”

  “So that you often saw the Countess?”

  “Oh, very often indeed, your honour.”

  “Thank you. You are sure of all this, and are ready to swear to it?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Then come with me now.” To A.J. he added: “Wait there with the soldiers till I return.”

  They waited, and in that atmosphere of stale tobacco-smoke and heavy personal smells, Daly’s strength suddenly gave way. She collapsed and would have fallen had not A.J. caught her quickly. The soldiers were sympathetic, offering tea, as well as coats for her to rest on. A.J. began to thank them, but one of them said: “Careful, brother—don’t tell us too much about yourselves.”

  After a quarter of an hour or so Poushkoff and Tamirsky returned together, and the former signalled to the two prisoners to follow him again. Outside in the corridor several Red guards, fully armed, were waiting. Poushkoff said: “Sentence is postponed. You are to be taken to Samara for further identification. The train leaves in an hour; these men will take you to the station.” He gave an order and went away quickly.

  A few minutes later, thus escorted, they were hastening through the dark streets. Scattered firing still echoed over the town, but all was fairly quiet along the road to the railway. Dawn was breaking as they passed through the waiting-hall; the station was crowded with soldiers, many asleep on the platforms against their packs. The line, A.J. heard, had just been repaired after the recent flood-damage. A train of teplushkas, already full, lay at one of the platforms, and on to it a first-class coach, in reasonably good condition, was being shunted. As soon as this operation was complete, A.J. and Daly were put into one of the compartments, with two soldiers mounting guard outside. The inevitable happened after that; the two fugitive-prisoners, weary and limp after the prolonged strain of the day and night, fell into almost instant sleep. When they awoke it was broad daylight; snow was falling outside; the train was moving slowly over an expanse of level, dazzling white; and in the compartment, quite alone with them, was Poushkoff. He smiled slightly and resumed the reading of a book.

  A.J. smiled back, but did not speak. He felt a sort of bewildered gratitude towards the young officer, but he was not on that account disposed to be incautious. The youth’s steel-grey eyes, curiously attractive when he smiled, seemed both a warning and an encouragement. If there were to be conversation at all, Poushkoff, A.J. decided, should make the first move.

  Several times during the next quarter of an hour Poushkoff looked at them as if expecting one or the other to speak, and at last, tired of the silence, he put down his book and asked if they were hungry.

  They were, quite frantically, having eaten scarcely anything for twenty- four hours, despite the fact that their bundles, miraculously unconfiscated, were bulging with food. A.J. said ‘yes,’ and smiled; whereupon Poushkoff offered them hard, gritty biscuits and thin slices of rather sour cheese. They thanked him and ate with relish.

  “We are due to reach Samara late this evening,” he said, after a pause.

  “A slow journey,” A.J. commented.

  “Yes, the line is shaky after the floods. When the train stops somewhere I may be able to get you some tea.”

  “It is very kind of you.”

  “Not at all—we are condemned to be fellow- travellers—is it not better to make things as comfortable as we can for one another?”

  So they began to talk, cautiously at first, but less so after a while. There was something very likeable about Poushkoff; both A.J. and Daly fought against it, as for their lives, but finally and utterly succumbed. Its secret lay perhaps in contrast; the youth was at once strong and gentle, winsome and severe, shy and self-assured, boyish yet prematurely old. Like most officers in the new Red army, he was scarcely out of his teens; yet his mind had a clear, mature incisiveness that was apparent even in the most ordinary exchange of polite conversation. After about ten minutes of talk that carefully avoided anything of consequence, he remarked reflectively: “The curse of this country is that we are all born liars. We lie with such simple profundity that there’s nobody a man dare trust. You, for instance, don’t trust me—obviously not. And I, just as naturally, don’t trust you. Yet, once granting the initial untrustworthiness of both of us, we shall probably get on quite well together.”

  “We learn by experience how necessary it is to be cautious,” said A.J.

  “Oh, precisely. Don’t think I’m blaming you in the least.”

  Then Daly, who had not so far spoken, interposed: “Still less are we blaming you, Captain Poushkoff. On the contrary, we owe you far more than we can ever repay.” A.J. nodded emphatically.

  “Not at all,” Poushkoff courteously replied. “Yet even that, now you mention it, is a case in point—it could not have happened without hard lying.”

  Daly smiled. “On our part, Captain?”

  “Well, no—I was rather thinking of Tamirsky. He lies so marvellously—it is a pure art with him. And so faithfully, too—his lies are almost more steadfast than the truth. You certainly owe your life to him, Madame.”

  “And why not also to you, Captain, who told him what lie to tell?”

  “Oh no, no—you must not look at it in that way. My own little lie was only a very poor and unsuccessful one compared with Tamirsky’s.”

  “What was your lie, Captain?”

  He answered, rather slowly, and with his eyes, implacable yet curiously tender, fixed upon her: “I said, Madame, that in my opinion the photograph bore only a slight resemblance to you. That was my lie. For the photograph, in fact, was of you beyond all question.”

  She laughed. “Nevertheless, don’t suppose for one moment that I shall admit it.”

  “Of course not. Your best plan is so clearly a denial that I don’t find your denial either surprising or convincing.” He suddenly smiled, and as he did so the years seemed to fall away and leave him just a boy. “But really, don’t let’s worry ourselves. Quite frankly, I don’t care in the least who you are.”

  A.J. had been listening to the conversation with growing astonishment and apprehension. There was such a charm about Poushkoff that he had been in constant dread of what Daly might be lured into saying; yet an almost equal lure had worked upon himself and had kept him from intervening. Even now he was waiting for her answer with curiosity that quite outdistanced fear. She said: “That leads up to a rather remarkable conclusion, Captain. You believed I was really the Countess, yet you made every effort to save my life.”

  “Yes, perhaps I did, but I don’t see anything very remarkable in it.”

  They sat in silence for some time, while the train-wheels jog jogged over the uneven track, across a world that was but a white desert meeting a grey and infinite horizon. A.J. was puzzled still, but less apprehensive; it was queer how the fellow’s charm could melt away even deepest misgivings. More than queer—there was something uncanny in it; and he knew, too, that Daly was aware of the same uncanniness. He glanced at her, and she smiled half- enquiringly, half-reassuringly. Then she said, all at once serene: “Captain, since you do not care who I am, there is no reason why we should not all be the greatest of friends.” And turning to A.J. she added: “Don’t you think we might share our food with the Captain?”

  A.J., after a moment’s hesitation, returned her smile; in another moment one of the bundles that had been so neatly and carefully packed at the Valimoffs’ cottage was being opened on that shabby but only slightly verminous compartment-seat. There was a tin of pork and beans, a tin of American mixed fruits, shortbread, chocolate, and—rarest delicacy of all—a bottle of old cognac. As thes
e treasures were displayed one after another, Poushkoff showed all the excitement of a well-mannered schoolboy. “But this is charming of you!” he exclaimed rapturously, and then, with swift prudence, rushed to lock the door leading to the corridor and pull down the blinds. “It will be best for us not to be observed,” he laughed, and continued: “And to think that I offered you my poor biscuits!”

  “We were very grateful for them,” Daly said, with a shining sweetness in her eyes.

  Then began a most incredible and extraordinary picnic. Zest came over them all, as if they had been friends from the beginning of the world, as if there were no future ever to fear, as if all life held nothing but such friendship and such joyous appetite. Poushkoff’s winsomeness overflowed into sheer, radiant high spirits; Daly laughed and joked with him like a carefree child; A.J. became the suddenly suave and perfect host, handing round the food as gaily as if they had all been on holiday together. It was like some strange dream that they were all, as by a miracle, dreaming at once. They shouted with laughter when Poushkoff tried to open the tin of fruit with the knife-blade and squirted juice over his tunic. They had to eat everything with their fingers and to drink the brandy out of the bottle—but how wonderful it all was, and how real compared with that unreal background of moving snowfields and flicking telegraph-poles! They did silly inconsequential things for no reason but that they wanted to do them; Poushkoff made a fantastic impromptu after-dinner speech; A.J. followed it by another; and Daly exclaimed, in the midst of everything: “Captain, I’m sure you speak French—wouldn’t you like to?” And they all, in madness to be first, began gabbling away like children.