My first ride on a steam-tram was an exhilarating experience. I went to the terminus early in the morning. The trams were like small single-carriage trains, running on rails and drawn by a boxlike locomotive (possibly a Henschel or an English ‘Green’). These locomotives can still be seen on narrow-gauge lines. In the summer some of the coaches would be open-sided, but in the winter they were enclosed. The locomotive itself had accommodation for about ten passengers. It was always these seats in winter which were the most coveted. There was no heating on the other coach. Needless to say my first trip to the Institute aboard the Number 2 tram was in the rear carriage, close to the door. In my new uniform and my greatcoat I was comparatively warm as we drove through the industrial suburbs. The misty streets were full of huddled figures on their way to factories like the famous Putilov Works. We passed into semi-rural country where bare trees and wooden fences seemed stuck at random into dirty snow and a smell of urine and oil predominated until one reached the middle-class suburbs and eventually, after about three-quarters of an hour, arrived at the Polytechnic buildings. These were unremarkable, institutional edifices and not in the least welcoming. Neither were the few students who watched my arrival. I asked the way to Doctor Matzneff’s office and was directed through various cold corridors, past many bleak, closed doors, until I found one bearing his name. I knocked. I was told to enter a bare, dark green room. I removed my cap, wondering if I should salute, for the professor wore a magnificent naval uniform. It was usual for retired military instructors to take positions in civil schools. Instead, I shook hands with him. He had a faded, sad-eyed look and was not the ogre I had expected. His hair was thin and grey; his moustache drooped and was snuff-stained. He remained standing near a small window which looked out across a courtyard. He could see above the green half-curtain on its brass rail, but I was too short to know what, if anything, he stared at.
‘You are Dimitri Mitrofanovitch Kryscheff?’
‘I am, your honour.’
‘You expect to study here, under me?’ He sounded deeply weary. For no good reason I felt sorry for him.
‘I hope so, your honour.’
‘You seem a polite young man.’
‘I wish to become a great engineer, your honour. I am delighted to have the opportunity ...’
He turned slowly, his sad eyes staring into mine. ‘You have a genuine wish to study here?’
‘It has been my ambition. All my life.’
Perhaps he was used to interviewing students who had failed to be accepted by better-class academies, who regarded the Polytechnic as a last resort. He grew a little more cheerful, though it was obvious he was not by nature a happy-go-lucky man.
‘Well, well.’ He sat down behind his desk. I remained standing, my cap in my hand. ‘That, at least, is a relief. I am probably as puzzled as you are, you know.’
‘Puzzled, your honour?’
‘You did not come here under conventional circumstances. You came on my recommendation. All being normal, you would not have a place here at all.’
‘I think I am qualified, your honour.’
‘That is commendable. And more than I hoped for. Do you wish me to examine you?’
‘I am ready, sir.’
He took a sheet of paper from his drawer. Reading from it he asked me straightforward questions on various scientific and engineering principles. I answered them easily. At the end of the session there was a faint smile on his face. ‘You are right, Kryscheff. You are perfectly well qualified for your place.’ I wondered why he was so surprised. He shrugged. ‘Since you’re here there’s a possibility you will benefit. But for what purpose?’
‘I wish to be a great engineer, sir. To bring Russia many inventions. To increase her fame and her prosperity.’
‘You are an idealist?’
‘I’m no radical, your honour.’
‘That, too, is a relief. My son ... Well, you were told, eh?’
‘No, your honour.’
‘Well, then, it’s confidential. Between your Mr Green and myself. My son was not as sensible. I was grateful to Mr Green for helping ... He has been very kind. I am glad to return the favour.’
‘Your son is in trouble, sir?’
‘He’s travelling abroad.’ Doctor Matzneff sighed. He rubbed at his moustache. ‘There are hot-heads at this Institute, Kryscheff. You would do well to avoid them.’
‘I shall, your honour.’
‘We all come under suspicion. Particularly with the War. It’s not as bad as nineteen-five or six, but it is still bad. People have been shot, Kryscheff.’
‘I know that, your honour.’
‘And exiled.’
‘I have an abhorrence, your honour, of politics. The only paper I read is
A deeper sigh than the last. ‘Read it and believe it, Kryscheff. All you need otherwise are your textbooks, eh?’
‘My views exactly, your honour.’
