Yermeloff shook his head, took off his cap and scratched. He also was running with lice. Lice are not so bad. Often they are the only company one can trust. They frighten people not used to them. But they are only uncomfortable in large numbers. You keep them down by catching and killing them. This relieves the boredom of a soldier’s or a prisoner’s life. Some members of a military band I knew would draw race-tracks on drumskins and race their crabs, as some race mice or frogs. Large amounts of money would change hands. The owners would claim to be able to recognise favourite runners. I do not believe that. To me, one louse is much like another. Cleanliness, according to the English, is next to Godliness. But there are sects in Russia who think exactly the opposite. There are very rich sects who cut off their private parts to be closer to God. The money they make goes to their families. I find that disgusting. But it is understandable.
Yermeloff cracked a louse or two as he considered Stoichko’s offer. Then he declined. ‘Grishenko’s never long.’
‘No girl could live,’ said one of the others, ‘if he was. I had a little Jewess after him. I thought she was moaning with pleasure. Then I realised her arm was broken. He’s a bastard. She was willing. Willing enough, at any rate. You don’t need to use force.’ He was proud of his professionalism as a rapist. ‘One wave of a bayonet works wonders. Poor little thing. I told Yashka to be careful with her when it was his turn. I felt a fool.’
In spite of my interest in their conversation I got up. I asked where the latrine was. Yermeloff looked at my face. ‘That vodka must be bad. You’d better get out. I’ll join you in a minute.’
‘But where?’
‘You won’t have time to find it. Just go. These comrades will be upset if you vomit all over them.’
Amidst more laughter I stumbled to the exit. The entire dining-car had been ruined. More than one person had been sick here before. The thought of the soup was too much. I reached the observation platform, then up came vodka, soup and bread. I was shivering. I pulled the old coat about me. I looked back. Yermeloff could not see me. Ahead, in the dusk, was the town. There were Bolsheviks and presumably fairly civilised officers there. My legs were weak, but I began to run until I was safely invisible, with two or three lines of coaches between me and Yermeloff. I pushed through a broken fence, went past a gabled house where a stuffed eagle looked at me from a ground-floor window, and into a side-street. Alexandriya was sacrosanct. Only Hrihorieff and his senior staff used it. There were few signs of riff-raff from the camp. I wondered if Yermeloff would come after me to shoot me. Two motor-vans went by. Their engines were running perfectly. Had Yermeloff deliberately let me go? I thought I heard my name called from the yards. There was so much babble I was probably mistaken. Had Yermeloff baited a trap? Were he and Grishenko playing a macabre trick? I felt he had been deliberately lax. Possibly Grishenko had lost interest in me and Yermeloff knew it. Consequently he did not care if I left.
I followed the street. There were wooden blocks paving the main road. Those blocks, cleared of snow, were like heavenly clouds. I was in civilisation. I stopped a Cossack who was relatively smart. I told him I was Major Pyatnitski. He pretended the name was familiar as I had hoped. ‘Has Ataman Hrihorieff returned yet?’ I asked.
‘I do not think so, comrade major.’
I pretended impatience. ‘Where’s the telegraph-post? General Headquarters?’ I followed his eyes. He looked towards a building flying a large red flag. ‘There?’
‘I think so.’
‘Very well.’ I did not salute. I let my coat fly open, although I was freezing. It displayed my ‘classless’ suit and revealed me, I hoped, as a commissar. The combination of clothing was perfect: I was an intellectual, yet a man of the people. I paused to feel into the lining of my jacket for another ‘single-dose’. I used my handkerchief again to inhale the cocaine. Much strengthened, I continued on my way. With a nod to the infantryman on guard, I went through a wicket gate, strode up a path to be greeted by a podporuchik (lieutenant) in full green and gold Cossack regalia. ‘I’m Major Pyatnitski.’ I spoke firmly. My intention was merely to get to the telegraph and send a message, allegedly of political import, to Uncle Semya. ‘I’m the engineering officer. Ataman Hrihorieff told me to report here.’
