They chorused the names of various towns and cities. He scratched his heavy eyebrows. ‘That’s enough.’ He pointed with his whip at some obvious Jews, including two who wore skull-caps, and told them to stand forward. They came shuffling through the crowd. They looked hopeless.
‘Everyone else back in the carriage,’ he said.
I started to climb the steps again but it was ‘not you’ and ‘back here’. I became impatient. ‘This won’t do, comrade.’
‘You’re a bloody Bolshevik yid.’
I was shocked by the double insult. ‘My name’s Pyatnitski. I’m an engineer.’
‘What’s your real name?’
‘I have a passport,’ I told him. I put my suitcase on its side on the step and opened it. I removed my spare set of papers. I offered them to him. It was the look of rage he gave me as he took them which made me realise he could not read. But he held them to his nose, going through them slowly. He put them in his sleeve, having studied the photograph very carefully. ‘Pyatnitski. That’s a Russian name.’
‘I can’t help my name, comrade. I’m working for Ukrainian interests.’
‘Nationalists?’
‘I don’t care what they’re called. I’m trying to free Ukraine from all foreign interests.’
‘Including yids?’
‘Naturally.’
‘So you’re a traitor, too.’
‘I’m not Jewish.’
‘Then you’re the only Bolshevik who isn’t.’
‘May I return to my carriage?’
‘Why aren’t they outside, too?’ He glanced at the windows.
‘We’re Party people.’
‘Yids going home to Odessa.’ He struck at a pane of glass with his whip. It cracked. He laughed. ‘Come on, comrades. All out. In the snow with the proletariat.’
They would not come. Eventually some of the bandits had to board the carriage and drive everyone down. They stood in groups like angry chickens. They had put their revolvers back in their pockets or in their luggage. Many were protesting. Not a few displayed special cards and passes. They made more noise than the whole of the rest of the train. ‘Shut up!’ shouted our persecutor. ‘What money have you got?’
‘Money?’ It was, I think, Potoaki speaking. ‘Hardly any.’
‘Bloody Red yids. Gold!’
‘Pogromchik!’ said a thin-faced woman in a head-scarf. ‘You’ve killed half the people in there. Corpses all over the place. You killed a girl!’
‘We’re used to killing, lady. It doesn’t mean a great deal to us.’
‘Trotsky will learn of this,’ said someone else.
‘Then Trotsky will find out how we treat yids in Ukraine. We’re not working for yids, Red, White, Green or Yellow. We’ve had enough of them.’
‘Anti-semitic, ignorant, capitalist. ..’
‘I’ll admit to all of that, comrade. Hrihorieff is fighting with your masters because it suits him. To get rid of the landowners. You think you’re using us. We’re using you.’ He lashed out with his whip. Its thongs whistled over the woman’s head. She sucked and sobbed. ‘You bastard.’
‘We want gold and supplies. We were promised them by Antonov. Where are they?’
‘They’re on the next train,’ I said. ‘A special train.’
‘How do you know?’
‘We discussed your supplies before I left. We knew it was urgent.’
‘Coming down this line?’
‘Following us.’
‘That’s right.’ Someone had guessed what I was doing, it shouldn’t be more than half-an-hour behind.’
‘Good,’ said the Cossack. ‘We’ll wait for it.’
‘There might be a crash,’ I pointed out.
‘Fine. We’ll be sure it stops then, won’t we?’
‘You’ll foul up the alliance,’ said Potoaki. ‘You’ll lose all our support.’
‘We’ve been doing fairly well without it. We need a few immediate supplies, a bit of ammunition. You might see us in Moscow before the spring’s out.’ He was glutted with provincial pride because of a few local victories. He was like those Vikings who attacked a town on the Seine and came home claiming they had sacked Rome. He made a noise in his nose and looked me up and down. ‘You’re an engineer. What sort?’
‘Most sorts.’
‘Know about motor-engines?’
‘Of course.’
‘You can fix one?’
I decided I had to ingratiate myself with this idiot or stand the risk of being shot. ‘All things being equal.’
‘What?’
‘If no new parts are needed. I can see what’s wrong. If something’s missing I might be able to improvise. But if you’ve lost something crucial...’
‘We’ve got a truck,’ he said, it stopped. Will you look at it?’
‘In the common cause?’
He shrugged. ‘Will you look at it?’
‘If you promise I get back on the train when I’ve done so.’
‘All right.’
I did not know if he would wait for the fictional supply train or whether he would be afraid to face it. I returned my bag to my compartment. On a page of the notebook I carried I wrote Uncle Semya’s address. I put it in the suitcase. The other case had only clothes. This one was the most important, because it contained my plans, my designs, my notes.
I joined the scowling Cossack. His men were already looting the train, watched by helpless Red sailors. Not only Jews were suffering, although these were getting the harshest treatment. A Hasid with a bloody crotch was spread-eagled, dead, half-way up the embankment.
