The Last Train to Kazan

3

The Kazan station – he’d been there dozens of times, but now it had changed. A ring of soldiers at each entrance. Machine guns, sandbags. Zezulin pointed the way and then vanished behind him. He walked the last few yards himself, out from under the shade of the trees, across a bed of flowers that had yet to be trampled.

It was crowded there, and it only enhanced Ryzhkov’s impression that he was being drawn into a great throat, sucked out from the sun into the blinding darkness – a place of screaming whistles and shouted commands in a dozen languages echoing beneath the great chambered roof. Into the dark cavern with not even time enough to feel what it was like to be a free man in Moscow, as if there were such a thing.

A Red Guard asked for his papers. He showed them and was moved right along to a sergeant seated at a desk at the head of the stairs. It was like a conveyor belt for people with the correct documents, and he kept moving the entire time. No one even really touched him. When they saw that he was Cheka, and only interested in speed, it got them all jumping. He passed through a mass of bawling refugees, a sergeant running along with him for half of his walk, checking his papers on the fly, and doing everything in his power not to salute. The Cheka was just like the old Okhrana, Ryzhkov thought, only with different uniforms. A black leather raincoat instead of the cheap rubberized canvas ones he’d worn as a plain-clothes gorokhovnik. The teams had changed; the flags had shed their blue and white colours and evolved into revolutionary red; the double-headed eagles had all been knocked to the ground. You walked along and counted the blemishes on architecture throughout the city.

The sergeant fell away and he arrived at track 4 and his carriage, climbed in to find his compartment, which he had all to himself for a time. He wondered why he was getting such deference and then looked at his identity papers. They’d made him an inspector with the internal unit of the Cheka. Rank of captain. Obviously doing something important since he was travelling alone with a single rucksack.

He pulled down the shades, put the rucksack on the seat opposite and looked through it, found the pistol they’d given him, an ugly Mauser. Read his instructions, a sentence of brief gibberish, a simple cipher system that he could use, a cable address, NOSMOC4, and a wireless address which would probably be useless.

He put everything away and raised the shades. At the very far end, a hospital train had emptied and was being swabbed out. There was a whistle, a porter ringing his bell. With a tremble and then a lurch his train began to glide out of the station and he looked out the window to watch the great vaulted ceilings slip away and give over to sky.

Another Chekisti came past the door, then backtracked, checked the number of the compartment and came in. His name was Sudov. Ryzhkov had a good look at him and found him pathetically young. Working hard on his first beard, a little trill of red hairs over his lip. He was going out to his first assignment, to assist the commissar in Perm. He deferentially made room so Ryzhkov could put his feet up, and they talked.

Sudov was from Petersburg. There was no food there at all, he said. Perhaps now, in summer, but back in the winter there had been no food. The boy had loved it there, the skating games in the winter, the American hills – a kind of artificial sledding ramp that had been set up on the Field of Mars, girls with rosy cheeks, the bonfires. His favourite time.

‘Did you ever go to the Komet?’ Ryzhkov asked him.

‘Where’s that?’

‘It’s a night club just off Sadovaya Street. They did plays there before the war.’

‘No, no, I don’t know it. I was too young, my parents would never let me.’ He smiled. ‘I went to the Peaches Club, though. That was a place for good times.’

Listening to young Sudov Ryzhkov fell into a long slow dreaming. With the outskirts of Moscow slipping away, the train rocking between the switches on the way out of town, dreaming about Vera and the old Komet club and all of it. That one single good year, their only year. When Ryzhkov fell into sleep the boy was still rhapsodizing about the quality of chocolates you could by at Eliseffs on the Nevsky Prospekt. ‘Perfection,’ he said. ‘The very best, like no other place on earth.’

Outside the window is Russia. The summer sun burns down to a cloudless sunset that fades to green, passing into the red dusk, the night air rising that sets the trees, the laundry the women have hung out, the dried straw along the side of the roadbed, all to waving. A great warm wind rises out of the earth, and when the train stops you can hear it moaning through the windows. The train itself, a place of eerie sighs; the soldiers writhe in their lonely torment, clutching their genitals, pushing their companion’s shoulder away, and grumbling in their sleep.

Ryzhkov passes from dreams to wakefulness in a long series of bumps and jars, knocks and shudders in the night that spark his worst anxieties. Somehow it is more fearful because he is too comfortable; relatively warm and reasonably fed in a time of famine, but unable to sleep, his character out of synchronization with his fellow travellers.

The train is filled with companies of Red Guards being rushed to the front. Ryzhkov, wandering up and down the train in his boredom and to relieve his stiffness, finds himself moving along, looking at the faces of the guards as the sun rises, glaring sharp and bright, causing the men on that side of the car to grope for the shades and turn their faces away. But none can fully escape because the track curves all the way to Nizhni Novgorod, and the fortunes of the sun are always changing.

He is at the head of the carriage when he meets a corporal in the buffer between carriages. The corporal is smoking and talking to a man who has taken off his shirt to shave. They both fall silent as Ryzhkov passes through.

‘Did you hear anything?’ he asks them.

‘All this lot are being sent up to hold Perm. This might be the last train.’

‘It might,’ says the other.

‘So the Whites, they’re almost at Yekaterinburg?’

The corporal shrugs. ‘The big battle is going to be in the south. I heard it from the commander,’ the man says, and pushes forward a cigarette.

‘Thank you very much, comrade. Where are you two going, then?’

‘Well, we’re to get off earlier, at Kazan, but…’ The corporal turns to the second man and they both shrug. Ryzhkov decides to be what is expected, he smiles, bows to the corporal.

‘Well, the Czechs are fast, but we’re fast too,’ he says and they turn and look out the window. The train has begun to put on speed. They should be in Nizhni by the end of the day. All of them racing down the tracks, trying to staunch the wound to Bolshevik Siberia.

‘What about you? Where are you going, comrade?’ the man asks.

Ryzhkov points to the head of the train. ‘All the way to the end,’ and moves along through to the next carriage.

Back in his compartment he inclines his head towards the window. In the far distance is the silver curve of the river that leads towards the ancient river city of Nizhni Novgorod. As the train leans over against the banking of the tracks, Ryzhkov’s view is taken away from the horizon and drawn closer to the sudden clearing of a new woodlot – a flare of pale wood chips and peeled logs. Then the little nub of civilization reaches its limit at a tangle of fencing, and is swept away, and as the carriage levels he sees a thick man standing there tending a wide patch of burning grass, shovel in hand, trying to corral the fire he’s started towards a ditch.

4

Amid the activity of the Supreme Command headquarters, only one man was in repose: standing quietly in the shadows awaiting the Kaiser’s arrival was Admiral Paul von Hintze, newly appointed Minister of Foreign Affairs. He had been in the job less than a month, and he was tired. There had been little or no time for sleep since his appointment.

Among the staff officers and aides there was an air of controlled yet feverish anticipation. It was the fourth and final attack of General Ludendorff’s great strategic offensive – or the ‘Kaiser Offensive’, as the newspapers would have it – designed to smash through the trenches and the wire, break the will of the French and British, and force a peace on Germany’s terms, before the Americans could arrive and save the day. The great opening bombardment was set to begin at midnight.

At the centre of the room was a large map of the Western Front, and from his position von Hintze could see the coloured ribbons that demarked the great scar that ran down the centre of Europe. He took grim satisfaction that all the ribbons were in French or Belgian territory. Ludendorff’s first three attacks had been successful, but how could one advance across Europe, push to within fifty miles of Paris, withstand every counter-attack, and still not be victorious? Von Hintze knew that the answer lay off the map…in the Atlantic where the British were blockading Germany and starving her into submission. The first three waves of Ludendorff’s attack had washed across the fields of France and Belgium, and then…simply run out of energy. There were no coloured ribbons to represent the hunger of the soldiers, the fatigue and desperation that sapped the will of the most ardent warrior.

There was a sudden movement at the large doors, a command, and every military man in the room snapped to attention as the Kaiser entered. He was, on this night, dressed immaculately, in the uniform of the Supreme War Lord. In his withered left hand he clutched the hilt of his sabre, in his right a Field Marshal’s baton.

For a moment von Hintze was struck with a pang of pity for the man. While they were almost the same age, and distantly related, psychologically they were opposites. Wilhelm had grown up conscious of his deformity and the need to both hide it and compensate for it. Embarrassed and terrified by his own inferiority, he had developed an arsenal of strategies to deflect any crisis, erase every slight, and expunge every weakness from view. As an emperor ruling by divine right, it was inevitable that Wilhelm would adopt the pose of the hyper-masculine War Lord, but Von Hintze, with his naval background and his experience as a diplomat, was adept at reading men’s motives. He did not consider himself a politician by any means, and had always preferred to work quietly, if possible behind the scenes.

As the Kaiser entered the room, his mood seemed ebullient. He smiled at the field officers bowing to him, but von Hintze knew that if today’s attack failed, or if any news arrived in the evening that hinted at a setback, Wilhelm could easily be plunged into paranoia and angry depression. Among the intimates of the Kaiser his quirks and preferences were common knowledge, but now von Hintze studied the man closely, for in his new job as Minister he would have to orchestrate miracles.

He made his way across to the great map and approached the Kaiser. Wilhelm saw him and manufactured a smile that could not quite mask his wary look. Von Hintze bowed stiffly, then moved closer. ‘If I might have a word with you, All Highest.’

‘After we start things, I hope,’ said the Kaiser glancing towards the map. He had come to headquarters to mingle with his generals; the presence of von Hintze could only mean a fresh problem, the kind that could not be solved by howitzers.

There was the muted buzz of a field telephone from the desk just in front of them. Ludendorff looked up and said very quietly, ‘The attack has begun.’ The Kaiser raised his baton in salute and a ripple of applause spread through the room. For a moment afterwards there was a silence that hung in the room, as if they were all holding their breath, then the magic vanished as a series of telephones buzzed into life.

‘How long will the bombardment continue?’ the Kaiser said, his sharp voice cutting through the din.

‘A full hour, Majesty. Eight thousand guns, the largest bombardment of the war,’ said Ludendorff with pride. Looking at him von Hintze could not tell if he was smiling or not.

‘Excellent. The largest! Well, well.’ The Kaiser turned to von Hintze. ‘Perhaps this is a good time then?’

‘There’s plenty of time. Your car is waiting, Majesty.’ Ludendorff had laid on a visit to an observation station. It was a particularly clear night and the Kaiser would be able to watch the pyrotechnics as the bombardment progressed over the Allied lines guarding Rheims. It would also serve to get the Kaiser out of his hair, keep him happy for a while.

‘Yes, I understand, but there are other matters.’ Von Hintze reached around and guided Ludendorff by the elbow. ‘Please, All Highest, if we might…’ They began to walk away from the map table into the shadows, and von Hintze lowered his voice. ‘It’s information about the…special case.’

‘Ahh,’ said Ludendorff, ‘the special case, yes, of course.’

It seemed to Von Hintze that the Kaiser’s face suddenly became stricken. ‘Yes, yes…very important. Very good, Hintze. Is there any progress?’

‘At the moment there is a crisis, since the Czech deserters are approaching the city. What action to be taken is a question that finally only you can answer, All Highest.’

‘Ahh, please, no,’ the Kaiser said, shaking his head. Everyone knew that he hated to actually take a decision. His normal reaction would be to bluster and threaten, then he would inevitably vacillate, and then the postponements would start.

‘First, Majesty, as to the disposition of the special case, the British have said no.’

‘Then there is no option left,’ Ludendorff intoned.

Wilhelm turned and glared at him, shook his head violently. ‘The British will change their minds when they see a sure thing in front of them. They always do.’

‘Among the British, the war has been unpopular, particularly among the working classes. Any gesture of support to a monarch, even one as benevolent as your cousin Nicholas, would inflame the various Socialistic elements within the country. In short, they are afraid of repercussions, Majesty,’ von Hintze said. Having Ludendorff there made it easier to be direct.

‘Yes, but didn’t we talk about that?’

‘Yes we talked, but it doesn’t change anything,’ Ludendorff said, turning to glance back at the map table.

‘Yes, Majesty. We spoke specifically about the idea of a change of identity, of anonymity, but –’

‘What’s wrong with that? You’re not going to tell me it’s impractical. Come on, von Hintze, of course it can be done.’

‘It is very difficult, Majesty,’ he said quietly.

‘I see what is happening. I am not going to abandon my own flesh and blood to the mob, eh!’ Wilhelm said. His voice had risen. A brace of staff officers looked over to them, and then nervously away. ‘What would I be then? A coward? Well, I may be many things, but I am not a coward like my British cousins. When I save the family, then they’ll thank me for it. Wait and see,’ the Kaiser said. Angrily he made a stomping motion with his foot.

Von Hintze looked over at Ludendorff, waiting for him to chime in, but the great strategist only rocked back on his heels and gazed at his staff officers moving about the table. As usual the army was leaving the real problems up to the civilians. For an uncomfortable moment the three of them stood watching the cadets pushing pins in the map. The room was a hive of whispers, the slithering of memoranda crossing the blotters, the scratch of pens, the ratcheting of the telegraph that pierced the room whenever the door opened.

Von Hintze took a deep breath and began again. ‘Unfortunately Yekaterinburg is on the point of being surrounded and it may already be too late.’ The Kaiser in his agitation had walked out into the light. Von Hintze looked at the grey eyes, tired and flecked with bloodshot from fatigue and strain.

‘I know what you are saying, gentlemen, but back when this plan came up, when the idea was first presented to me, everyone was happy, everyone was happy to give me certainties. We spent a million pounds –’

‘Half a million. The first payment only, All Highest.’

‘And we still don’t have anything to show for it?’

‘It’s worse than that,’ Ludendorff started.

‘Here’s the latest telegram, All Highest,’ von Hintze said, fishing it out of his pocket and handing it to the Kaiser, who held it up into the light.

‘Bloody, bloody…What the hell does this mean? “Awaiting shipment all pelts. Seven boxes. Will transport on receipt.”’

‘He’s posing as furrier’s agent.’

‘Ahh.’

‘He would be told to cancel the order.’

‘My God…’

‘Lloyd George is afraid of a similar revolution as has befallen Russia. That’s the reason for the British refusal. They were quite clear about that. Truthfully, Majesty, an upheaval is a real possibility, even I am forced to admit.’ For the first time when Wilhelm rounded on him, von Hintze made himself keep speaking. His hand was trembling. He pressed on.

‘If we go forward with the scheme, and even supposing we save the family, if it somehow becomes known, the public response –’

‘There will be no talk of a revolution in Germany,’ the Kaiser insisted. ‘It’s absurd! Not when we’re winning!’

For a moment von Hintze stood there. His eyes wandered to the great illuminated map and then back to the Kaiser. There was no effective way to get through to the man that today’s attack was in reality Ludendorff’s last desperate gamble.

‘It doesn’t matter about the talking of revolution. You can forbid all you want and there will still be talk in the streets. It’s clear. You can’t have that family here. You can’t have them in Germany,’ Ludendorff said, his gaze swivelled on the Kaiser.

‘I cannot abandon my own flesh and blood. I will not do it!’ the Kaiser hissed. The force of it bent him over at the waist. Across the room he saw the bulk of Hindenburg shifting in his chair. He had a field telephone headset hanging around his neck, and he took it off and handed it to his aide.