‘Oh, yes. I am. Do you want to come with me while I find out which paper I am working for now?’
I shook my head. He left. I was glad that he went. Such a relationship would have been impossible. He walked towards the Goods Station. Soldiers were coming in now. Horses and motor-vehicles pulled gun-limbers towards the docks. I went to look for Esau’s in Slobodka. It was rubble. I went to find the ironmongery shop where Katya lived. It was looted. There were broken shutters all over Moldovanka and hardly any people on the streets. Those few were, by the way they slouched, to be feared. I went to the St Nicholas Boulevard, by the church, and looked out over the harbour. There were no fashionable people here now. A French cruiser was coming in. They must have waited until they learned Odessa was in friendly hands. I found a fragment of blue-veined marble and put it in my pocket. Why had Petroff wanted to kill me? Had Kolya said something which his cousin had misinterpreted?
There were still crowds on the quays. There were limousines and carriages. All that remained of Russia’s decent people were here, hoping to leave. I saw them fighting. I decided I must return to Kiev, bring my mother back by force if necessary and get her to Yalta. In those days Yalta was considered permanently safe.
Diseased children gathered around me. I think they were threatening me, but they were too weak to do much. I laughed at them and gave them my Petlyura money. Let them spend that, if they could. They began to tug at me. I was too tired to play. I was busy. I had to think. I drew a black and silver pistol and they ran away. I returned the pistol to its pocket. A group of soldiers was coming towards me. They asked for my papers. I told them I was Major Pyatnitski and that I was working for Military Intelligence, I would rather not be seen talking to them. They believed me and went on. There was some firing from the harbour but it hardly lasted a moment.
I decided I must go to the station. People would be travelling back to Kiev soon. It would be as well to get in the queue as early as possible. But the station, which had emergency oil-lamps burning, was so full I knew I would not have the strength to cope with it. I realised, too, that I had no real money. I tried to find some tanks, to seek the hospitality of my Australian friends. The tanks were probably still on the outskirts. I could hear artillery fire from the northern suburbs.
As usual flags and proclamations were the first priority. They were spreading over the city like cosmetics on a leper’s face. Military cars went by. Everything seemed very busy. The Volunteers and their Allied friends were in control and were feeling, as new conquerors always did, efficient. The ‘representatives of the true government of Russia’ were issuing orders not so different from those I had read before. There was a curfew for ‘all civilian personnel’. I was glad of my kaftan and shapka. I tried to walk with more of a military gait. I entered a small café in Lanzeronovskaya, near Theatre Square. There was to be a performance that night, judging by the comings and goings. It was, someone said, a sign of the Odessa spirit. ‘We live through anything - and enjoy ourselves through anything,’ said a waiter. He called me comrade by accident and apologised. It was difficult, he said, to remember who was who, these days. Had I come with the ‘new troops’? I had, I said. He asked me if I knew what had happened to the aeroplane which had been seen flying round St Nicholas earlier that day. Was it hit?
‘It was hit,’ I said. ‘I know, because I was in it.’
Naturally, I became their hero. I was bought whatever there was to buy. Vodka, bread, sausage. People of noble birth shook my hand. Bankers saluted me. There was music. I was getting some small satisfaction from my adventure. I was asked my advice on every topic and gladly gave it, since it was in the main very good advice. When I said I needed to get back to Kiev to find my mother, I was offered almost every form of transport. I made an arrangement to see some prince or other on the following day at his hotel. I lost the card. In a carriage owned by an industrialist from Kherson I drove through the dark and foul-smelling streets to a small, undistinguished hotel. It had been, he said, the best he could find. We knocked on metal shutters and were cautiously admitted. The industrialist was drunk. He introduced me as his brother to a sour-faced Georgian woman. She said that I would be extra. The industrialist laughed and said: ‘Panye, I was prepared to pay for a suite at The Bristol, so I do not think it will mean much if I have to bribe you for an extra blanket and a mattress for my brother.’ We were, he said, as we went upstairs, all brothers now.
