They will not admit that Russian humanity is their best publicity. Even the beggars on the trains, the dirty station-sellers, the gypsies, the poor, the murderers, the drunkards, are part of our ancient dignity. But what do they show the world? Science fiction. Tractors. Sputnik.
I wrote a letter to my mother and told her I would return to Kiev soon or would send for her. I told her to bring Captain Brown, if she wanted an escort; that I would pay. I asked one of the soldiers to see that the letter was put in the mail bag for Kiev. He accepted it and issued a receipt. I had done all that I could, for the meantime, in that area. My mother, at least, had seemed happy. I hoped that she was still happy.
By morning the telegram had gone to Nikolaieff, to the tanks. A reply stated that Captain Wallace sent his compliments. He was no longer in need of a Russian intelligence officer. He added that he was glad I had survived and he wished me luck. Two captains came out of their room and invited me in. They, too, they said, were with Intelligence. They said there was no record of me and apologised. A picture of the late Tsar was hanging on the wall. It was like old times. I became calm.
‘I worked in Kiev,’ I said, ‘and for a while was a liaison officer with Hetman Skoropadskya’s forces. Then I was employed on behalf of General Krassnoff’s Don Cossacks. I was gathering information at Bolshevik headquarters. I was responsible for anti-Petlyurist sabotage in Kiev.’ They wrote down what I told them. Times, they said, were confusing. I said I had had to destroy my military identification, but I showed them my diploma. I mentioned that I had been a friend of Prince Petroff and that I had been with the Prince’s cousin who had crashed in the sea. They asked me if I had done much civilian interrogation. It was dull, routine stuff. This was their main problem at present. I told them I had done nothing worth speaking of but I was willing to work in any capacity. I was given papers, a new uniform, a side-arm, a bread ration, a bunk in a room shared with only three others, and some bits and pieces of kit. I also had a pay-book but was warned that pay was erratic and one was expected to forage a little. There were shortages of every kind of equipment. I had become an Intelligence Officer in the Volunteer forces, attached to the 8th Army Corps. It would be my job to vet and to issue passes and other papers to those applying for them. I began work the next morning.
Within a week I had become rich enough to purchase some good cocaine. I can still remember the frisson as I took my first delicious sniffs. I was not alone. All the other officers joined me.
Odessa, it seemed to us, had begun to come fully alive again. The houses of pleasure, in a certain familiar street near the Quarantine Harbour, were in full bloom, with a host of fresh buds and petals, and roulette remained the favourite game of the sportsmen, mainly soldiers, who visited them. We would wear our dress uniforms when ‘on the town’ and I had mine at last. It was white and gold, with green and black insignia, made by a local military tailor. He was very cheap. While I was in his shop he offered to modify another fine uniform for which the customer had never returned. It was, he said, exactly my measurements. It was the dress uniform of a colonel in the Don Cossacks. I inspected it and told the tailor I would accept it as it was. Both were delivered two days later to Madame Zoyea’s, where I had taken up residence.
Madame Zoyea was young, plump and witty. Her colouring was the same as my gypsy’s from the canyon, but she would never tell me if she were the same girl and she would never let me make love to her, for all she seemed to hold a special affection for me. Perhaps she had a disease. Although it was impossible to recapture the old days completely, I was fortunate in meeting several friends from the past, including Boris the Accountant, who had married his girl. He was working for one of the few shipping offices still operating. As a result I came into frequent contact with him. He would do me favours and we would split the proceeds. He wanted me to help him get to Berlin and I was able to supply the necessary documents at a reduced fee. Boris told me that Shura was not dead, that he had deserted, spent some time in Moldovanka and then ‘gone East’, he thought. Wanda had become a whore, in common with almost all girls of her class, and had been killed during a fight. The child was being raised by relatives in a small port further up the coast. Uncle Semya and Aunt Genia had been arrested during Hrihorieff’s occupation and Boris thought they must have been shot ‘since so many of us were’. I put the past behind me and considered the future.
