Murder and Revolution

by Evelyn Weiss

  “No, Miss Agnes. There are other, identical copies of the leaflet around. I have spotted two more, up there.” He points, and I see small white dots on the wooded slope above us. But the professor continues.

  “The other thing I have seen is of far more practical importance.”

  He looks up: I follow his gaze. Across the empty, pale blue sky is a trail of sooty smoke.

  “It is too big and too dark, Miss Agnes, to be woodsmoke from a village. That smoke is from some kind of factory. I think our journey on the river is at an end.”

  I nod at him silently; he carries on.

  “For good or ill, we are near a town, situated on the plateau above this canyon. It is probably a mining or industrial centre. We should go up this slope – and see what our luck has in store for us.”

  We wake Rufus, and, as fast as our starved bodies will permit, we start the laborious ascent through the sloping woods. It’s steep, and we all stop for breath every few feet. Midges and flies buzz around us.

  The leaflets are an odd accompaniment to our climb; I’ve seen three more scattered around under the trees. Rufus laughs heartily when he sees them. “This design was one of my ideas! It’s rather good, don’t you think?”

  I nod politely as Rufus carries on. “I was told, Agnes, that these leaflets were to be widely distributed across Russia. Well, this shows that they were.”

  It’s mid-morning by the time we reach the top of the slope. I’m on the very last reserves of my strength, and the professor is not much better. We are still among the dense woodland, but at last the ground is flat. Ahead of us, we see something new. A tall wire fence marks the edge of the forest, and we look through it. Beyond it is a wide clearing; a flat, grassy field. In the distance is a dark line of conifers, but the open field must be half a mile across. There is no-one at all about.

  The fence is ten feet tall, and topped with curls of barbed wire. We’re too exhausted to even think of trying to climb it. So we follow it, all the while looking out across the field for signs of life. We have no idea whether this place is in the possession of friends, enemies, or no-one.

  At one point a tree has fallen: it lies across the fence, which is flattened to the ground. Wordlessly, we step over the wire. There is nothing to discuss, no decisions to be made. We know we have to find food soon, or faint from hunger. But then Rufus speaks.

  “What’s that?”

  We look, hoping to see a building of some kind. But he’s pointing only a few feet away, at a small, blackened pile alongside the fence. We go over to it.

  The remains of a bonfire are surrounded by more leaflets. All are the same as the ones we’ve seen; many are half-burnt. The fire itself is long cold; a stack of charred papers. Axelson nods gravely.

  “This is bad news. Someone is trying to destroy all these leaflets: the copies we saw in the woods must have been part of the bonfire, but they were carried up from the flames by drafts of air. Someone has been burning large quantities of White Army propaganda. So, it seems likely that this place belongs to the Bolsheviks.”

  Rufus adds “But – if the Bolsheviks are burning Tsarist papers – it shows that White forces were here? – perhaps not long ago.”

  “You have a point there, Mr du Pavey; well done. I think this fire was made yesterday. Friendly troops may be close by. But if there is a battle line, we are on the wrong side of it.”

  “So if we got back in the boat, and travelled a bit further along the river?...”

  The professor looks at Rufus’s heavy physique. “Miss Agnes and I are finished. We have no strength left: we must have food.” He adds pointedly “We have not got the reserves of fat that you have.”

  We decide to rest for an hour. There’s nothing else we can do. I lie flat on the ground: I feel I’ve not an ounce of strength left. But after a short while, Rufus gets up and says he is going for a walk. In a few minutes he reappears.

  “I’ve seen something. Come with me.”

  We follow him along the edge of the field, keeping to the line of the fence. After a minute, we see a collection of sheds in the far corner of the field. There is still no-one at all about. We’re too tired and hungry for caution; we walk straight to the nearest shed. It’s fronted with wide windows looking out over the field. Rufus is carrying a grin of satisfaction under his mustache. The professor stares around us.

  “What is this place?”

  Rufus’s blue eyes twinkle, like a glimpse of his old charm.

  “I must admit, Prof, I have an advantage over you and Agnes. When we first got to the fence and looked across the field, I recognised this set up. I’ve seen this kind of place often, but neither of you will have. It’s an airfield.”

  The professor’s face beams in a heartfelt smile. “Well done, Mr du Pavey!”

  Rufus continues. “What’s more, it appears to be deserted. But whoever was here may have left food behind. I suggest we try the office first.” We go over to the glass-fronted shed; the door isn’t locked. Inside there’s nothing much to see, just a desk and some chairs. A door leads into another room; we go through. This room is a kitchen, with a pantry. We fling the pantry door open and see bread, butter and some cured meats. We fall on them, gobbling greedily.

  Rufus continues exploring, opening doors and going into other rooms. He calls to us. “There’s a plan of the airfield here. Its name is Kamensk Stone Gates. I guess the ‘Stone Gates’ refers to the canyon we came through yesterday.”

  Axelson adds “And Kamensk must be the nearby town.” But Rufus interrupts.

  “There’s another pantry here – with several loaves in it! Enough food for many days.”

  Axelson, however, is peering out of the window. He points towards a roughly-hewn wooden post. A tattered red blanket is nailed to the top of it, and it flaps in the breeze, covering and uncovering the crudely-drawn outlines of a hammer and a sickle.

  “That must be an emblem the Bolsheviks have adopted. The hammer, I suppose, represents industrial workers; the sickle, the peasants. The Red Guards are definitely in control of this place – but the makeshift flag shows, perhaps, that they have only just taken it over. And luckily for us, they are not here now.”

  “What shall we do?”

  “I suggest we take all the food we can and go back inside the forest. We need to rest and recover our strength. Tomorrow, we could go to the outskirts of Kamensk town and see who is in control there. Or we might be able to find the White Army forces in the woods…”

  Rufus, however, is pointing across the field. At the far side, several figures are approaching. Even at this distance we can see the red sashes and collars. All are armed with rifles.

  We grab every loaf of bread we can, and go out through the back door of the kitchen. This side of the office is hidden from the approaching guards. But the airfield is a huge open space. If we try to get back across the field to the fence, we’ll be seen. I point towards another door in a much larger shed.

  “Let’s hide in there.”

  It’s dark inside the big shed: we can see nothing, but there is a strong smell, like kerosene. For a moment I’m reminded of the burning cottage at Ivangorod. But a dim light is filtering through cracks in the planks of the walls, and my eyes become accustomed to the light.

  “Well, well.” Rufus’s voice is oddly warm. “This is a surprise.”

  25 Faith in Comrade Lenin

  An enormous, angular shape fills the gloomy space above and around us. It juts above our heads, and extends off into the furthest areas of the shed. But we have no time to look at it. Axelson whispers and points to a corner. “Those stacks of paper – let’s hide behind them.”

  We’re only just in time. Behind us, the door is opening. We hear voices: it’s obvious they are unaware of us.

  “So, we are now in control of this airfield. Is the White Army airplane completely unpacked now?”

  “Yes. It was stuffed full of Tsarist war propaganda. It looks like the Whites were flying on a circuit through Siberia,
landing at the principal townships and delivering batches of leaflets. A quick way to distribute it, more efficient than sending it by rail. The stacks of leaflets are in that corner. Of course, we will ensure they are all burnt.”

  “What about the airplane itself?”

  “It’s in working order, fully refuelled and ready to go. I have sent a telegram, and a small plane will fly out here to Kamensk, with a pilot who can fly it back to our base. He’s arriving tomorrow.”

  “Good work. Guard the plane carefully overnight. The White Army seem to have retreated far into the forest. We’ve seen nothing of them for several days. But they may still have scouts and spies around here. If they can’t recapture their airplane, they might try to destroy it.”

  “One of our men saw a boat, sir, down in the canyon.”

  “Where exactly?”

  “It’s beached on the river bank, by the Stone Gates. It looks abandoned, sir.”

  “So the boat may well have been used by White Army scouts – and they might be in the forest nearby. Keep a good look-out – all guards must be alert for any sign of them.”

  “We will, of course, sir.”

  The voices die down, and the door slams. Immediately, the professor hisses.

  “We must keep our voices low.”

  “Of course, Prof –”

  “It’s your voice I’m worried about, Mr du Pavey. Because I know what you are going to suggest – with your usual enthusiasm.”

  What little light there is catches in Rufus’eyes, as he stares wide-eyed at the enormous shape above us.

  “It’s a Handley Page Type O/100. I’ve had dreams about this airplane.”

  I can’t help smiling to myself: Rufus’s boyish eagerness is infectious. He can’t keep quiet. “Before the war, I was good friends with Jack Alcock: I’ve heard he’s piloting O/100s now, based in Greece. He’s been bombing German battleships in Istanbul harbor. Meanwhile, I’ve been stuck behind a desk in St Petersburg, writing garbage.”

  Axelson can’t resist laughing at Rufus. “You played the part you were asked to play in the war effort, Mr du Pavey! After all, is there not an English saying that the pen is mightier than the sword? Now let’s be quiet – until darkness falls.”

  It’s the professor who wakes us, whispering in my ear. But his first words are to Rufus.

  “Now, we can make our plans. It’s getting dark outside. So while you were resting, I took a look around. With great caution, I peered out of the hangar to see what the Red Guards are doing. It appears that they are not very interested in standing guard for hours. Instead, they are all sitting on the grass outside the office, drinking vodka. Except for two of them, who are burning more leaflets.”

  Rufus grins. “So we’re going to try it?”

  “Of course. And you are the pilot, Mr du Pavey, so Miss Agnes and I are reliant on your expertise. Should we make preparations to fly at first light tomorrow? Or, could you take off and fly by night?

  “Night. We should go at seven hours before dawn. Even in the dark, I will be able to see enough to clear the trees at the far end of the airstrip. After that, day or night makes no difference. It will be navigation by compass. But I will need a map, of course.”

  “Why seven hours?” I ask.

  “The guards said the airplane is fully refuelled. Its range is about seven hundred miles, or in terms of time, about eight hours. I said we should take off at seven hours before dawn, because I’ll need an hour of daylight to spot our landing place and touch down. It was Jack Alcock, actually, who once summed up being a pilot – ‘Flying’s easy; any fool can do it. It’s coming down again that can be tricky.’”

  We smile, but Rufus’s face is serious. “The question is, of course, where can I fly the airplane to? I need to look at maps.”

  The door rattles and opens. A guard comes straight in. Rufus’s voice… was it too loud? My heart’s in my mouth as the man walks towards the stacks of papers that conceal us. But then, he seems to have second thoughts. He walks away again, towards the airplane. Does he suspect we are here – is he trying to catch us out?

  The figure climbs up a rope ladder into the cockpit. I see him saluting to imaginary comrades, looking forward, reaching for the joystick. He’s pretending to fly the plane. Like so many of these men, he’s just a boy, playing at wars. Then he climbs down from the plane and comes over to the stacks. I shrink down behind the papers, and hold my breath. But the guard just grabs an armful of leaflets and leaves the hangar, banging the door carelessly behind him.

  I breathe, then say “We need to find a better hiding place in here.”

  We find space behind some heavy packing cases, and, through a narrow gap between them, we watch a succession of men taking piles of papers out to be burnt. Every few minutes, the stack of papers diminishes, marking the passage of time.

  Finally, it’s completely quiet. No guards have come into the hangar for an hour. The professor whispers.

  “Miss Agnes. I would never wish to propose anything which would put you in danger, but we are all –”

  “I agree. I was going to suggest it myself, because I’ll be quieter than either of you men. I’ll go and look, and try to see what’s happening out there.”

  My task is easy. After five minutes I return to the airplane hangar.

  “They are all inside the office now, lying in a circle around empty vodka bottles. Every one of them is sleeping like a baby.”

  Rufus goes over to the cockpit of the airplane. I rummage around the hangar, and find a flashlight, which I pass up to him.

  “Thanks Agnes. I’ve found flying goggles for us all. And there is a map in the cockpit, but it’s no use to us. It shows only the local area.”

  “Could I look at it, please, Mr du Pavey?”

  Rufus passes the map down to the professor, who peers at it in the light of the flashlight. “That explains the smoke I saw from the river bank. There’s an iron foundry in the town. Kamensk looks quite a large settlement, which would explain why they wanted to deliver a batch of leaflets here.”

  Rufus is still looking in the cockpit. “Ah! Here’s the bigger map, and the flight log! The plane has come from a place called Orenburg. It’s five hundred miles away, and it’s got an airfield and fuel supplies. I’ll fly us there.”

  Axelson looks grave. “To the best of my knowledge, Orenburg is south-west of here. Those areas are, I believe, mostly controlled by the Bolsheviks. What if Orenburg is the Bolshevik base those men were talking about?”

  “But the plane, which belonged to the White Army, came from Orenburg. So unless the Reds have taken it over recently, Orenburg airfield will be fine.” I can sense the frustration in Rufus’s voice at Axelson’s doubts. But the professor carries on.

  “I’m not so sure. I think it would be safer to fly south-east, towards China.”

  “We’ve got no maps of that area! And, it’s almost uninhabited. It will be nothing but forests, deserts and mountains for a thousand miles. We’ll end up with nowhere to refuel, or even to land.”

  “Yes – you have a point. Without a map and a known refuelling place, it may not be wise to head for China. But we are asking for trouble if we fly to Orenburg. If the Bolsheviks are in control there, they will have received reports of the stolen plane.”

  “Will they have received a report? Think of the chain of command, Prof. First, one of the guards at this airfield has to wake up. Okay, the noise of the plane taking off will probably wake them. But then, they have to see that the airplane is gone, then send a telegram. And then someone in Orenburg has to pick up the telegram, then alert the airfield… all in the middle of the night. So if we get to Orenburg at dawn, we’ll be ahead of news of the plane being stolen. We simply refuel and go on our way.”

  Axelson is still pondering. “You make it sound easy, Mr du Pavey.”

  I look at the professor. “We have a map showing Orenburg. And we know it’s within range of the airplane’s fuel.”

  Rufus points at the plane�
��s fuselage. “Look. Our Bolshevik friends at this airfield have given us a helping hand. If they do happen to be in control of Orenburg, and if this aircraft lands and ask for fuel, they will give it to us. Look at that.”

  He shines the flashlight along the side of the plane, and we see fresh paint. The guards have decorated it with the crude emblems of the hammer and sickle.

  Axelson nods in agreement. It’s a makeshift plan, but we all know it’s the best we can do. Rufus climbs up into the cockpit, and the professor and I go over to the hangar doors; they are not locked. Each door is on wheels, but even so, they are huge. Every muscle in my body aches as I slowly push the right-hand door open, and the professor is equally slow with the left-hand door. But in the end we manage it. We go back to the airplane, and Axelson up looks anxiously at Rufus.

  “Opening those doors was hard work for us. How on earth will Miss Agnes and I push this plane out of the hangar?”

  Rufus’s confidence is growing. “No need to push it, Prof! I’ll fire up the engines now, and each of you give the propellers a turn. Be careful: as soon as you feel them moving, step right away from them. Then climb up the rope ladder into your seat. I’ll taxi the plane out of the hangar, onto the airfield and take off. Just leave it all to me. If I do ask you to do anything during the flight, I’ll shout loud and clear. This is going to be noisy.”

  I look up at his goggled face in the cockpit, and remember my last flight, also with Rufus. But this airplane is a giant by comparison: two massive engines sit either side of the fuselage, and rather than the flimsy bench I sat on then, recesses in the fuselage hold five seats; one at the front for the pilot, then behind it, two pairs of two side-by-side seats. I remember Rufus’ idea of an ‘air-line’. He was right, I realise. With an airplane like this, you could carry passengers across the globe, as long as you have places to refuel en route.