The Last Train to Kazan

7

Ryzhkov had actually fallen asleep there on the steps when the first cavalrymen rode into the square. He jerked awake and stood up to watch them. They came into the city with the arrogance that men on horses always carry with them, when they are armed to the teeth and don’t care about those in their path. With their entrance it was suddenly their city and not the Russians who’d resided there.

A clutch of nervous supplicants had gathered at the front of the building, the ones who were most frightened or angered by Bolshevik rule, the ones who’d been dispossessed of their little local empires. The rest of the square was empty. When the Czech cavalrymen saw them they rode over, called out some gibberish which no one could understand, cantered about the square for a few moments, and then tore off looking for the station. There was some laughter from those who were waiting, and one of the men spat out into the street.

A few moments later a military truck pulled into the square and a squad of infantrymen leapt out, their purpose to seize the Municipal Hall. As the soldiers moved up the steps one of the civilians forced a bottle of home-made vodka on a dark Czech, who took it with his pals, all of them laughing at the Russian with his hat in his hand. They went inside and left one of their squad to guard the front doors.

Already more people were creeping out from behind their doors. A few shutters on the apartments on Glavni Street were thrown open and people had come to their windows to watch the Czechs busy at occupying their town, and wondering if they might get something out of it. Half an hour later a young lieutenant came out and began collecting the details of the now sizeable group that had fetched up there at the steps.

When the lieutenant asked him who he was, Ryzhkov leaned close. ‘I am an agent of the government of France. I need to speak, confidentially you understand, with the military attaché,’ he said, and then shrugged to show he realized how fantastic it might sound.

The young man looked at him steadily and the stenographer he’d brought out with him stood there, his pen suspended over the ledger. ‘I’m sorry, I have no identification, I had to burn it, ‘ Ryzhkov said, adding a smile.

‘Very well,’ the lieutenant said slowly, and called two men over to take him to jail.

They took him straight through the Municipal Hall to the rear entrance, down another set of stairs to a waiting prison cart. There were three men already in it, chained to a long rod that was built into the wall of the van. One of them was dressed in formal attire, as if he were attending an official function; another was a Bolshevik soldier in uniform. There was a bloody bruise over his cheek, and he had been injured inside, because every movement of the cart made him wince and draw a tight breath.

They waited, watching through the grill the soldiers come and go. In a few moments they were shoving another man down the stairs, the doors were wrenched open and they tried to push him in. He was screaming at them, grabbing at the door handles.

It was a misunderstanding, he said. Everything was a misunderstanding. The Czechs began to kick him. A prominent person was on their way to vouch for him, and afterwards he would show them the city. They kept kicking him until he gave up shrieking and when they locked him to the rod he sat there, sobbing and sweating, his suit pulled open, clutching his hat in his manacled hands. Then they were off – lurching around behind the hall, down a lane and into the wide street where he could see industrious Czechs erecting barricades at the major intersections.

They were organized, the Czechs. They were still in their units, had only been able to rely on themselves throughout the war and their imprisonment once they’d deserted into Russia from the Austrian army. Now they were running things, and they knew how to do it, Ryzhkov saw. Squads of soldiers were moving through the streets, pounding on doors, requisitioning everything they needed, buildings, firewood, food, animals and people for the greater glory of the White cause.

They rounded a corner and jerked to a stop at the jail. There were several of the old city policemen there. Some of them had worked for the Bolsheviks but had held back their pre-revolutionary caps or jackets, and as members of the reconstituted constabulary they had put them on over their ordinary clothing. Now they were generously helping the Czechs to get things up and running. They went about their jobs with the kind of alert efficiency and overblown enthusiasm that a man will display when he thinks he might be fired before lunch.

By the time Ryzhkov made it to the holding rooms, they seemed to know all about him, and he guessed that the lieutenant must have sent word ahead by field telephone. He was separated from the rest, locked to a bench, then unlocked and given over to an officer who appraised him with a slight smile, and, with two other warders, walked him down to the cells.

The first cell they’d tried was already occupied, so they put him in a larger room, meant for four, but now seemingly dedicated to Ryzhkov alone. His manacles were unlocked and a few minutes later they brought him some bread and kvass. While he ate, the officer came back and watched him.

‘You say you’re a Frenchman?’ The Czech’s French was accented but understandable. The cadence was like a schoolboy’s. Maybe he just wanted to practise.

‘I’m Russian. I was Okhrana, then I was in France through the war.’

‘Ahh…with the Legion?’

Ryzhkov shrugged and nodded. ‘I work for the French now,’ Ryzhkov said.

‘Well, we all work for the French. They are in command, after all. Or at least that is the latest fiction.’ The Czech smiled, and looked down the corridor for a moment. ‘The Conte should be in soon. He’ll see you, but you’d better have the right answers, mon ami,’ the officer said, and drew a finger across his throat. ‘If you’re the real thing we’ll find out. If you’re lying…well, tell them in hell that I was a charitable man, eh?’ The officer stooped and slid a pair of cigars through the bars and set a box of matches on top of them. ‘Just don’t start any fires.’

‘Thank you. I’ll be careful.’

Ryzhkov finished his food, and used the toilet in the corner. Went over and picked up the cigars, and had just taken off his shoes and collapsed on the lowest of the iron beds when the guards were back again.

They were measuring him now, watching an ex-Okhrana brought low; the kind of man they’d all heard about come into their world at last. He didn’t look like so much, not so tough, they would be thinking. Look at how things had come round! Here he was, finally in the cell he and his kind had always deserved; even someone working for the Whites would think about the Okhrana like that, the legends of their brutality had been so notorious.

The two guards stood silently while he extended his arms to be locked together, then, supporting him on each side, they conveyed him back upstairs. They used a passage that was narrow, originally intended for servants in the distant past before one of the Tsars had had appropriated the building for a courthouse and jail to house the enemies of the state that had evolved in the dark mines far below.

Everything so far had been a prelude. Dramatic enough, but only bluff and process, and maybe he had been lucky enough to push his execution a little further into the future. His real worry was that, in exchange for his life, what could he give them? In Moscow he had asked Zezulin about it, because it was almost certain to come up.

‘Yes, yes, yes, but if you give something to them, Pyotr, what will you do after that? You give it, then it’s gone, then you’re nothing. Besides, things are changing daily. No one is predicting the future. That’s for fools. You want to give them something? What? Strategy, tactics? Names of agents and traitors? How did you come by all that? No, no. You’re running away. You’re terrified. You don’t have time to put together a nice present for the Czech counter-intelligence. You’re scared and in a big hurry. You can tell them the whole truth if you want, if you think they’ll believe you, but just do your job for me at the same time. Try to act like you mean it. Do you think you can manage that?’

So he had nothing.

An area had been carved out of the offices upstairs; it looked like the kind of room a school headmaster might have as an office. There was a furnace in the corner, and in the ‘beautiful’ corner opposite a collection of empty shelves with holes in the plaster where the icons had been stripped away by the Bolsheviks and not yet restored by the new government.

A sergeant supervised the seating of their prize; a few minutes later he heard voices, and an officer came in. The guards left, closing the door behind them. Ryzhkov nodded, and said ‘Good afternoon,’ although it was still morning.

The door opened and a secretary came in. ‘All right, tell us your story,’ the secretary translated. Then the questioning began, and curiously it relaxed him.

‘Tell him,’ he said to the secretary, ‘I’m only trying to get out of here. I was working for the French in Moscow, the Reds caught me, I was released for a few hours and I ran. I had papers but I destroyed them. I’ll tell you everything I know, but it’s not much…’ It went on and on, and he told it flatly with as much dignity as he could muster. The more he talked, the more it sounded like blather. Even the secretary was looking at him with a smirk. At the end there was a silence and he tried to pick it up by telling them about his recruitment by the Deuxième Bureau and his work in Paris, but sitting there looking at them he realized how absurd it all sounded.

The officer sniffed, shook his head, flicked the remains of his cigarette out of the window and looked out on the courtyard below. On the breeze in the warm summer day were the sounds of military commands, the clashing of rifles being stacked on the cobbles, the sounds of gulls being startled from under the eaves, angry at the intruders.

‘Come here,’ the officer said in passable Russian, and Ryzhkov got to his feet and shuffled over to the window. Across the courtyard a wide gallows was being set up. It looked like something standard, from a kit. Struts and braces that a section of men could load on the back of a lorry and screw together as needed.

‘This is civilization now,’ the officer said. His voice was quiet. Purring. The accent unusual. ‘This is what we have come to,’ he said, looking around at Ryzhkov. They were about the same age, he realized, but the officer was immaculate – his moustache flecked with grey, the eyebrows dark and even, the eyes light blue and steady, the complexion a little darker, with golden tones rather than pink. A smile. ‘So, you have been telling us the truth today, signor?’

‘Yes, Excellency.’ Ryzhkov almost reflexively bowed as he said it.

‘Well, you’ve certainly had a very turbulent time. It’s quite a story. Worked for the Okhrana? Ran away to France? Fought like a tiger, and now you’re here. “Released for a few hours,” did you say?’

Ryzhkov nodded and a ‘Yes, Excellency’ escaped his lips like a whisper.

‘You’d better tell me if you’re lying, yes? It’s so much better if you tell me now, much better instead of me finding out later that you’ve been untruthful, eh?’

‘It’s all the truth, I swear it.’

‘Swear?’ the man said, almost laughing. ‘“Swear to God”, eh? It’s all true and you want to live? Live a long and happy life, work, have children, a little home. And maybe do something, something useful here in town…’ The officer gestured and simultaneously there was a metallic clang as the workers outside tested the gallows trap. The gulls took off again, a chorus of shrieks echoing in the courtyard, wheeling overhead. There were the dim sounds of laughter, the men congratulating themselves on a job well done.

‘Well, maybe you’re just hungry, or maybe you’re truly a French agent. I’m checking on that part of your tale right now, but since you want to be helpful and you have no choice I suppose I can put you to work, now that you understand the circumstances.’ The officer turned, looked out at the gallows and then lifted his hand to his neck and made a garish death’s face – tongue lolling out, eyes rolled up. Like a schoolyard clown. Then he laughed and went back to the desk.

‘All right then…’ The officer spread his hands out on the surface of the desk, leaned back in his chair, a smile flirting with the corners of his mouth. ‘I am Conte Captain Tommaso di Giustiniani, and for the moment I am head of counter-intelligence in Yekaterinburg, and your saviour. And now that we’ve both washed up here in this…enthralling little city,’ he said with that slow smile, ‘there is really only one great question to answer: Where’s the Tsar? Yes? It is all very puzzling, and, since you are so devoted to the truth, Ryzhkov, perhaps we can find it together.’

8

The first train arrived just after four carrying the headquarters of White General Golitsyn, his deputy, Major de Heuzy, and several cars of hangers-on and support staff, a melange of diplomats, spies, adventurers, journalists, disgruntled fugitives and commercial opportunists – a population made up of the lowest forms of life, all of them hungry and in search of food and lodging.

By afternoon the citizenry had reclaimed the streets and the city was suddenly busy, swarming with all varieties of blue-uniformed Czechs, the officers striding possessively through the shopping district, all of them demanding service and willing to pay, although it was in paper roubles that had been over-stamped by the White Kolchak-led government, or in letters of credit that no one could understand. There wasn’t really any choice: if you had something they wanted you could either sell it for the pretend money or they’d just requisition it.

Over dinner the details came out. Ryzhkov was fed lavishly at the Fez, a restaurant across the square that had immediately been taken over as the officer’s club. The room was not crowded, they were eating between hours. A troika of Czechs held serious talk over cigars in the corner. The waiters came in and out, resetting the tables, tidying up for the dinner hour. Giustiniani had taken one bite when he began laughing at the quality of the cooking.

‘You know,’ Giustiniani said haltingly so that he wouldn’t choke, ‘I have been all over the world, based in some lovely cities. Everywhere, in every port there is at least one reasonably decent restaurant.’ His fork stirred the concoction on his plate. It looked like a small steak of some kind smothered in a brown camouflaging sauce, and potatoes that had been mashed and blended with cabbage beside it. Ryzhkov couldn’t decipher it either although it hadn’t stopped him from wolfing it down. ‘Every port brings people in, you know, from elsewhere. New blood, strangers with new ideas – fertilization,’ Giustiniani continued wistfully, took a sip of wine and winced, shook his head and pushed the hateful dish away.

With nothing to fill his mouth, Giustiniani was free to tell his life story while Ryzhkov ate, and so began a poetic and amusing saga of olive groves and grapevines and cypress trees.

Tommaso di Giustiniani was a submariner in the Italian navy who had surfaced just in time to be sent to Russia to help the Allies quell the worldwide revolution. He had ceased to refer to himself as nobility, dropping the ‘Conte’ and shortening his name. ‘The family is…well, it is not what it was,’ he said by way of explanation.

Giustiniani liked to entertain and he liked to talk, and he had, apparently, all the time in the world to do it. But Ryzhkov saw him for a man who preferred being underestimated, preferred to conceal his true strength inside. You didn’t go down in those tin cans if you didn’t have the black space inside you somewhere, and you didn’t last if you didn’t know how to handle men. For Giustiniani, dropping his noble connections was an obvious first step; a title and estates were worthless when pressure was cracking the hull, or when the destroyers were trying to find you, and all the crew knew it. Ryzhkov wasn’t an expert on the Italian underwater boat service, but he knew that all such machines were fantastic creations that used the most expensive materials in their defiance of the seas. Thus, despite his old-world charm, the lazy smile, the unmuscled gestures, Giustiniani was a modern man.

The brandy came, and by that time Ryzhkov had grown sleepy and drunk. Giustiniani signed the chit and they moved into a large room that had been converted into a lounge and attempted to play billiards on a threadbare table. ‘There is no felt, eh? No felt in Yekaterinburg at all. There is a felt shortage,’ Giustiniani said, missing a shot.

At one point Ryzhkov found himself gazing at two billiard tables, the visions overlaying each other at angles, identical balls swimming in the sea, and knew that he was very, very drunk. He tried to snap back to sobriety because Giustiniani was talking about the Romanovs.

‘Everyone says they are dead,’ Ryzhkov said.

‘Everyone says a lot of things. Everyone says that Nicholas and Alexandra were seen in Perm yesterday morning. Everyone says that our advance party stole them away just before we took the town on Tuesday accomplishing this with such stealth that no one actually saw them. Those kinds of witnesses we have plenty of. All we can be certain of is that the Imperial Family has vanished since last weekend. And their property also,’ he added with a smile.

‘What do you want me to do then?’ Ryzhkov said. They were both standing there looking at the billiard ball. Giustiniani stared at him for a second, then reached out and swept it into a side pocket.

‘I want you to go and get cleaned up. We’re expected at an orgy.’

Cleaning up meant splashing cold water on himself in the shower at the military quarters that Giustiniani took him through, a quick shave which was frightening because of his inability to see his own face clearly, then more frightening when he finally came into focus. A rinsing of his mouth with mint water, and then Giustiniani was there at the door, looking as fresh as a spring day. They journeyed through the streets by hired cab, the driver being all too happy for the fare.

By the end of the night Yekaterinburg had been transformed into a town gripped by a fever as powerful as a gold rush. The people were manic, like inhabitants of a desperate new boom town – everyone simultaneously trying to ingratiate themselves with the winners and queuing up for transit passes to Vladivostok.

Outside the Hotel Palais Royal there was a fist-fight in progress, and soldiers stood about listlessly leaning on their rifles, smoking cheroots and waiting for the combatants to tire. The foyer was crowded with women negotiating terms and conditions with various suitors, and the stairs were threadbare and treacherous, owing to the increasing lack of illumination the higher one climbed.

It didn’t seem much like an orgy to Ryzhkov, at least not in the imagined Roman sense. It was held in the ballroom of the hotel, supposedly one of the city’s finest, and was crowded with sweating matrons and men holding their hats in their hands, everyone seeking approval, affection, a little cash, a passage east – easily the most prised item – or a position in the new government of Admiral Kolchak.