I followed the Cossack as he plunged towards the crest. Having slipped a couple of times, I was now covered in snow. I was shivering and uncomfortable. We reached the top. We looked down on a thin, earth road. There were some ponies standing there, attended by a young boy in a tattered sheepskin. Their breath looked whiter than the snow and there seemed to be a tranquillity here. Further along the road were three carts, harnessed to horses, and a motor-van. From the van came more vapour. German insignia had been partially scraped from its sides. It flew a red flag. The bonnet was open. Two Cossacks were arguing about what they could see inside. They spoke in dialect. As we approached, they fell silent. One of them removed his cap, then put it shamefacedly back on. Their leader said, ‘This is a mechanic from Moscow. He’ll look at it.’
I could see immediately that the radiator hose had come loose. All it needed was tying back on with a leather thong. I decided to try to impress them. My life depended on it. ‘Who drives?’ A sickly fellow, the one who had removed his cap, raised his hand. ‘You start the engine,’ I said to his companion. The crank-lever was already in position. He began to turn it like a peasant winding a bucket from a well. At last the engine fired and immediately began over-heating. I enjoyed its warmth in that bitter air. I walked round and round in front of the truck, as if thinking deeply. I told them to stop the engine. I told them to stand back. They did this with alacrity. I took the hose in my gloved hands and replaced it. I asked for a thong. One was found. I bound the hose up, unscrewed the radiator cap and told them to put snow into a bucket and warm it on the engine.
‘Snow!’ said their leader. ‘The thing runs on benzine.’
Even I was surprised by this ignorance. ‘Do as I say.’
The two men found a large water container and began to pick snow up in their hands, cramming it in. When it had melted I told them to begin pouring it into the radiator. ‘Not too quickly.’
Eventually the radiator was brimming over. I told them to start the engine again. As the truck spluttered and shook the leader yelled at me: ‘It hasn’t worked. What else is wrong?’
Then the motor was turning. The Cossack who had cranked it jumped back. By the smell of the fumes, it was hard to know what kind of fuel they were using. The black smoke suggested it might have been unrefined oil. The truck began to roll towards me. The driver yelled and swung the steering wheel. Their driving was only slightly better than their knowledge of the internal combustion engine. A brake was applied. I picked myself out of the snow-drift. From behind the embankment I heard sounds and saw steam. ‘The train’s leaving.’
‘You’ve just saved your life.’ The leader grinned. He was pleased to see the truck running. ‘Thank God, if you like. What’s a trip to Odessa worth now? You’ve just been saved a trip to Hell. I don’t know what you thought you were: yid, Katsup or Bolshie. But you’re now an official engineer with the host of Hetman Hrihorieff, serving under Sotnik Grishenko. Aren’t you proud?’
The bandits were coming back, grinning, waving and displaying their dishonourable booty. The stuff was thrown into the truck. I was made to climb aboard with the rest of the loot. I found myself in a tangle of stolen goods, machine-guns, ammunition, salted pork and two small girls who giggled when they saw me and offered me some herring. I accepted. It might be the last food I would get. The girls murmured at me in their thick accents. They were survivors from a village fought over by Reds and Nationalists. The truck moved off. Sotnik (Captain) Grishenko rode up close behind us. He had a look of self-satisfaction on his hard features. ‘Fix the canopy, if you like. You’ll be warmer. Don’t eat too much. That’s food for a lot of soldiers.’
‘Where the hell are we going?’ There was no point in my remaining polite.
‘Don’t worry, yid, you’re in safe hands.’
I shouted back at him. ‘I’m not Jewish. I’m travelling on Party business.’
‘Then you’re on Jewish business, aren’t you?’ He was pleased at his wit. He whipped his horse into a trot and was gone. I looked out at the bleak, uninhabitable hills. The line of yellow mist had joined the land. I tried to see smoke, either from the train or from a farmhouse where I might seek refuge. But there was nothing.
All I had worked for was in a suitcase in a carriage full of Bolsheviks who would steal it without a scruple. My mother and Esmé might be waiting at the station and learn of my fate. There was nothing I could do except hope we passed through a town. I would try to escape and send a telegram to Odessa. I shifted myself into a more comfortable position against a machine-gun tripod. In the end I was forced to rest my elbow on a side of pork. It became colder. I lowered the canopy, but let a corner flap. I would be able to see if we reached a good-sized settlement.
