‘I shall have to look into this, Pyatnitski. But it is routine, naturally.’ Obviously he was in no way seriously worried. He was almost apologising. ‘You’re a good interrogation officer and we need everyone. The Reds are coming back and they’re much better organised. We’re a little worried about spies.’
‘I understand completely, sir.’
‘There’ll be an enquiry. An extensive one. I don’t want to waste a man guarding you. Will you promise to stick near your quarters until the morning?’
‘I am lodging,’ I said with embarrassment, ‘at Zoyea’s.’
‘I know that. You won’t need to leave, then, will you?’ He was like an uncle. ‘Brodmann’s accusations are heard every day. I’ll have him properly questioned tonight. It could be he’ll admit he knows nothing. If that’s the case, it shouldn’t take long for you. You’ll be back on duty by the afternoon.’
‘It’s a holiday,’ I said with a smile.
‘All the better. After Christmas.’
I thanked him civilly and left. Walking through the snow towards Madame Zoyea’s I stopped to buy a bundle of cigarettes from a ragged young girl. For some reason I gave her a gold rouble for them and thanked her in English. She replied in the same language. I was amused. ‘You speak it excellently,’ I said.
She was flattered. She was shivering worse than Brodmann had shivered. She had been attractive. In other circumstances I might have spent more time making her acquaintance. There was something about vulnerable young women which brought out the best in me. It was almost love. She told me her husband had been a White officer. The Bolsheviks had shot him. She was supporting her mother. There were many young women like her in Odessa, selling small things from trays. She had a quality of the sort Esmé had once possessed. I supposed she would lose it, if the Reds came again. The Allies were already regretting their enthusiasm for the Volunteers. They were horrified by what they took to be our moral weakness. It was, of course, only our despair. The British hate despair. They will do anything to fight it, even going so far as to let socialists hold the reins of power in their own country. The Americans share the British hatred but have so far resisted socialism. It will come, no doubt. The French have a healthier reaction. They are merely disgusted by poverty. Disgust was at the heart of their colonial policy. It enabled them to withdraw from Indo-China with rather more honour than the Americans. But, to the British, despair and moral weakness are synonymous. It took me some years to discover this fact.
At Madame Zoyea’s I packed two suitcases. I had jewellery and gold. I had never, of course, recovered my other baggage, with my plans, my designs, my hopes. All I had was a blood-stained diploma and a dirty passport. I should have to begin all over again. I did not relish being put off in Constantinople, but even that city would be safer for me now than Odessa. And I was no longer poor. Sooner or later I should have had to leave, anyway. In about two months the Bolsheviks would return. I should have become a victim of the Cheka.
In the large suitcase went my uniforms, including the one I had been wearing. I dressed in civilian clothes and put on an expensive fur coat. My pistols were still with me, in the pockets. Both coat and pistols could be sold if necessary. I had a file of forms, including marriage certificates. It was an easy matter to forge the appropriate information. I asked Madame Zoyea to come to me. I told the maid that the matter was urgent. Within half-an-hour the proprietress was there. She was not surprised by the signs. I put on a good fur hat which matched the coat. I gave her fifty gold roubles. My passport and papers were, of course, in perfect order. I asked her to tell any callers I was engaged with one of her girls. I wondered if she could arrange a discreet cab for me, to take me to the docks at about five in the morning. She agreed and she kissed me. ‘I’ll miss you,’ she said. ‘I think you were bringing us luck. What will happen when the Reds come back?’
I showed her my file of spare papers. ‘I’d advise you to make use of them for yourself and as many girls as you can. They’re all pre-stamped you’ll notice. They merely need names and dates.’
‘You’re very kind. But Reds are men ...’
‘They’ll be trying to deny that fact,’ I said. ‘You should listen to me, Zoyea. Gypsies and Jews will not be the only ones to suffer under the Cheka. They’re anxious to eradicate all signs of their own and therefore others’ humanity.’ (To be honest, I do not think I phrased my warning so elegantly. Time improves all conversations, particularly one’s own. I was to see Zoyea again, I am glad to say, in Berlin.) ‘You are only safe while men admit their vulnerability. When they pretend they are demigods, you should be afraid.’ We kissed once more. She asked if I would like to make love. I told her I needed nothing to distract me. We kissed shyly, then.
