I had written once or twice in the past month to Professor Matzneff. Probably the letters had not reached Petrograd or perhaps he had left the Institute. I had given other letters to friends who felt it safe to return. It would be a little while before I had any reply. Telegrams were no longer reliable. I had made one or two attempts to deal with representatives of the Kiev Technical College but they were too busy with their politics to take an interest in my problem. One man, with pince-nez, a grey beard and all the appearance of a typical ancien-régime supporter, told me mine were ‘Russian qualifications’. If I wished to receive a diploma in Kiev, I must re-take the examinations in Ukrainian. I had given up in disgust. In the meantime I was still rising in the world. Peasants, workers, deserters, refugees, men of affairs, poured into Kiev, demanding services often operated by machinery. Thus I enjoyed the benefits of the influx as well as the inconveniences. I could see that science and technology were to be Russia’s salvation. Putilov, the visionary industrialist, shared my view. So would Stalin, for that matter. We needed no revolutions. We needed, I suppose, word from God that He approved of science. Stolypin had recognised ignorance as Russia’s most dangerous enemy. It is to my city’s eternal discredit that she allowed herself to be the scene of that great politician’s assassination. Perhaps Stolypin was God’s true emissary? The forces of the Antichrist, disguised as policemen, destroyed him. The Tsar, I heard, was not sorry. He thought Stolypin was a Jew-lover. Maybe he was and maybe that was his weakness. He had pointed out that the Germans made ‘sensible’ use of their Jews. But the Jews infiltrated German culture until they controlled it. They will always do the same, given the smallest chance.
The Germans took Riga and even more people came into Kiev. Livonia had begun to claim ‘nationhood’, so in a sense the victory was not on Russian soil, but all true Russians saw the defeat of Riga as a terrible blow. Of course the Jews did not care who won. They might have felt, speaking Yiddish, that life would be better for them under the Germans.
Soon I would be eligible for the army. I was determined not to be thrown away as cannon fodder. I wrote out a number of copies of the letter in which Professor Vorsin had mentioned my Special Diploma. Each copy was clearly marked ‘Duplicate’. It would not seem as if I were attempting a crude forgery. I sent these off, together with a letter of my own, to various establishments in Ukraine, offering my services. My only problem was that the letter had addressed me as D. M. Kryscheff whereas my new name was M. A. Pyatnitski. This was the sole substitute I made. Professor Vorsin’s writing was very precise and formal and easily imitated. I produced, after several attempts, a facsimile which was honestly what he had written, but which now called me by the same name as the one on my passport. This might seem a petty trick. It should be understood that I was determined to get justice. It did not seem wrong if I corrected the balance, since events threatened to rob me of everything I had achieved. With the help of a local printer, I reproduced the stationery of the Petrograd Institute of Technology. It was on this that I transcribed the professor’s promise of my Special Diploma. After it was done I felt many doubts lift from my mind. I became confident that the wind would soon turn and bring me what I deserved. Through an acquaintance in the Podol underworld, I had two copies of my passport printed, complete with photographs. One was in the name of Dimitri Mitrofanovitch Kryscheff, so that it would marry with my Diploma if it came in the wrong name. The other was an exact copy. Captain Brown introduced me to a British Tommy in hospital in Kiev. He was due to return home via Archangel. He had lost his right leg. I offered him a good sum if he would carry a passport home with him. I asked him to put it in a safety-deposit and leave the key in London for collection by me. He winked mysteriously as he pocketed my gold roubles. ‘Don’t worry chum. I’d be doing the same.’ He said if I got to London to go to St Martin’s Lane Post Office where I should find my key. I only half-believed him. But Captain Brown assured me he was a thoroughly reliable fellow. He had also agreed to take a letter which he would post to the captain’s relatives in Scotland as soon as he arrived in Blighty. The young soldier’s name was Fraser. He was to become quite a success as a shoe-shop proprietor in Portsmouth. I still wonder if he began by selling all the odd shoes of his own pairs. There must, after all, have been many men needing only left shoes in post-war London.
