Byzantium Endures полностью

Kiev was not so much a city under siege as one which seemed already to have fallen. Haidamaki had looted Podol with such efficiency they had hardly time for their normal pogromist activities. No fires were started, few Jews were killed, unless they seriously interfered with the business in hand. Shadowy groups of men with sacks and rifles dodged back and forth across the street as my motor, flying Petlyura’s official flag; rolled over cobbles which had not been cleared of snow for days. I was glad to return to the relative security of Kreshchatik. It was protected by more disciplined troops. At the half-deserted Savoy I quickly went to the main suite to report my progress to an anxious Petlyura who laughed, turning to Vinnichenko. The curtains were closed. Vinnichenko was peering through them like a spinster at a neighbour. ‘Are we going to hear any more of “co-operation” and “evacuation”?’ Vinnichenko shrugged. He was probably disappointed not to be able to greet Trotsky, Stalin and Antonov personally. Petlyura asked me, ‘How are things in the city?’

‘Troops are looting it, Supreme Commander.’

‘We should never have trusted the ones who came over from Skoropadskya.’

‘We should never have thought we could hold Kiev.’ Vinnichenko turned his back on us both. ‘We should have stayed with the peasants and not thrown in with Russians and Jews.’

Petlyura clapped me on the back. ‘Do not let anyone tell you I have anything against your people.’

I smiled, feeling my power over him. Was he trying to placate the Russian ‘Katsopi’ billygoats he had so despised? ‘You don’t hate us any more?’

‘It’s the peasants,’ he said. ‘Russians and Jews own all the shops, all the factories, all the machinery.’ His voice had begun to rise. He controlled himself, ‘Is the ray ready for final tests?’

It could not be tested until I had more power. I thought it would be pointless to requisition civilian electricity and harm public morale until the last possible moment.

Petlyura became immediately calm, as if responding to morphine. He stroked his moustache and gave me an encouraging wink. ‘Off you go, then, professor.’

The Savoy echoed. Some of the mirrors had been removed, as if the entire building were being made ready for shipment. There were very few shops open in Kreshchatik. Many were boarded up. I was tempted to drift down to Bessarabskaya and find myself one of the really young girls who were now working there. I had developed a taste for them. I was certainly a better customer than most they could expect. But with some weariness I directed the driver to return to St Andrew’s and the tower, which was full of light, like a beacon in the darkness and confusion. Climbing the stairs to the top of the church, I heard distant noises from the city: gunfire, shouts and screams. All these had become familiar. I wondered if I would miss them if they ever stopped.

Some new, larger tubes had been delivered. I admired the workmanship. The corporal who was helping me said that they would probably be the last we would get. I asked why.

He grinned. ‘They looted the glass-works about two hours ago, that’s why.’

‘What do they want with glass?’

‘They thought they’d find gold.’

I inspected my tubes. They were excellently made. I began carefully to unscrew the clamps holding the smaller tube on the swivel stand. I replaced it with a new one. ‘Gold?’

‘They guessed the Jews were making gold,’ said the soldier. ‘Because of the crucibles and stuff.’

‘The glass-works isn’t Jewish.’ I connected up the wires.

‘They got even angrier when they found that out.’ The corporal laughed.

I stood back to admire the machine. Once the mirrors were properly aligned and more power diverted, I thought it would be possible to try out the ray on one of the trees near the yacht club. It still stood, deserted, on Trukhanov Island, on the other side of the ice-bound river. I lit a cigarette and then, in a democratic mood, handed one to the soldier. He was impressed by the gesture. ‘Thanks, comrade.’

‘What about the Bolsheviks? Will we beat them?’ I felt it was important to know what a regular soldier, with some experience, thought. He was more reliable than Petlyura.

‘It depends. They’re nearly all Russians. They look down their noses at Ukrainians. It keeps them together. But Ukrainians can’t even agree on what to call their commanders.’

I nodded. ‘They’ll side with anyone, it seems. The Hetman, Petlyura, Hrihorieff, Trotsky, Korniloff...’

The soldier drew on the long paper tube. ‘This is good tobacco. Is it Turkish?’

‘I think so.’

He made a gesture towards the suburbs and beyond. ‘Those poor bastards out there have nothing. They don’t believe in governments - nationalist, Tsarist, Bolshevik, Polish, French. They believe in freedom and owning a plot of land.’

‘To nurture their own gardens,’ I said.

‘If you like.’

‘Voltaire,’ I explained.