We arrived at some municipal food storeroom one mid-morning in a convoy of trucks. Things were getting serious for people. On streets nearby there were queues of men and women outside the bakeries from midnight waiting to buy a loaf. You could just about imagine the bakers getting to be the kings of life and death.
We passed the bags of flour from the heaps that rose into the lofty interior of the warehouse and then I got rid of my coat – the old checked one – and sweated like a happy labourer ought to. Artem and I then helped the soldiers to load consignments to the bakeries in the outer suburbs. We had no choice but to sell it to them at a fair price and warn them against running up the price and keeping any aside to sell on or give to their girlfriends. It was a less than perfect way to do things but at least the bakers were scared of the soldiers who occasionally turned up at the premises of some baker they suspected and led him onto the footpath outside and shot him. So Artem was the boss, but he hauled sacks beside me and it wasn’t a condescension – it wasn’t like Tolstoy doing the harvest with the peasants – because Artem was a peasant too.
When it was over we washed our upper bodies in some pump water one of the Red sentries at the warehouse had fetched us in a pail.
Blowing water out of his mouth, Artem told me, We’ve sent people out to scout places we can put public bakeries. Undercut the damned hoarders.
Like T.J. Ryan’s butcheries, I said as a half-tease.
Maybe, he admitted. I’m going to get Trofimova up here. She can find places like that and get army cooks. Pay them with bread. And she’s got quite an ear for information too. What do you think, Paddy?
Keeping my head down and splashing water on my own face, I said I thought it was a good idea. Even so it might mean a lot of frustration for me – that’s what I thought privately. Trofimova had repented of me by now.
Back in the truck we set off again towards the Gubin mansion. The other trucks of the convoy had peeled off to their various destinations around the city. Artem and I sat in the front of the truck with the driver and we were approaching the National Hotel – one of the best old hotels in Kharkov. It stood above a vast white staircase – maybe designed for an emperor and all his staff to walk up. Standing on it in the sunshine was a family group. They were being photographed by a man placed slightly down the staircase with a camera on a tripod. The family was well dressed – the women in their big hats and spotless dresses and a father and another middle-aged man both wearing morning suits. The young officer at the centre of the group made an amazing picture – the reverse of the bedraggled soldiers we saw around the city in his braided cavalry jacket and white pants and shining boots. On his head was a crimson headpiece the Russians called a bashlyk – a sort of leather hood cum hat. To go with all that a big Caucasian sword hung at the boy’s waist. Was he really a soldier or did he come out of some play? And I wondered whether the women carried bread with them in their handbags when they went out – and little silver boxes full of sugar cubes for their tea and coffee. It was rumoured the best of people did it in these hard-up days.
The family stood proudly around their golden boy who had clearly just graduated from a military academy. It was a strange sight. Who would he command, this young sprat? Where could he fight in such fancy gear? When we were getting close, our driver put on the brakes for three soldiers who were running across the avenue. We saw them kneel on the edge of the pavement beneath the white stairs and raise their rifles. Even over the engine we heard the combined blast. The young military officer fell and his bashlyk rolled down the stairs. The two older men stooped and tried to lift him upright. A woman with blood and brains on her white dress fell into the arms of two others of the family. The soldiers who’d shot the boy simply turned their backs and crossed the avenue again.
I was shocked and somehow offended that these burzhooi had been so badly punished for pretending it was 1914. Artem must have been suffering the same sort of shock and got down from the truck cabin. The soldiers crossing the avenue turned back and confronted Artem as he bawled at them. I too found myself yelling at them in a language they’d never heard.
Artem pulled me back.
Not worth the effort, Paddy, he told me. He could understand what was in the men’s mind. By his uniform, this kid was a future officer, so they had nipped him in the bud. They’d cut him out of the family photograph. And they felt justified and very gamely argued back at Artem – one of them had his fist clenched as if he was going to hit him. Then they turned away. I wondered what Artem had told them. Maybe it was that after the real revolution the kind of people who were on the stairs would be dealt with in a more orderly way.
Above us two women were stopping the blood-stained third from hurling herself full-length on the body of the boy. Artem climbed towards the family and I followed him. He offered to take the body of the boy inside. Though the men harangued us as if we’d shot the boy ourselves they let us help. I took the booted ankles and Artem carried him under the armpits. In the lobby we sat him in a chair where he lolled. The lamenting women followed us inside. I’ll never forget how delicate this young officer’s lips looked, as if he were about to say something as the bullet ripped into his head.
The hotel manager rushed away to ring a doctor. There was nothing more for us to do. We backed towards the door. Suddenly the father of the boy and various of the menfolk blocked our way out and began raining blows on us. I quickly had enough of this and knocked one to the ground and then was drained of all anger and felt sorry for the man. Artem was not at a loss to defend himself but the father and uncle or godfather – blinded by anger and loss – were smashing into him. We forced our way out through the hotel door.
That night I dreamed of a conversation the young officer had with me. In the dream I knew exactly what he was saying but when I woke I remembered it only as stumps of words. The sense was all gouged out of it.
10
It was a day or two later that my education in guns resumed. A man in a bowler hat and frock coat came to the gate and spoke to the Red Guards and was let in. We were upstairs in our office but we heard the fellow enter Federev’s office yelling. Artem raised his head and said to me, I know that voice. But surely it can’t be...
He stood up, his face lively with anticipation. Come on, he said, and we went clattering down the stairs. Through Federev’s open door I saw a true gentleman with a fancy walking stick and a crooked grin – for all the world like a hayseed who’d struck it rich. Someone who’d come into money instead of being used to it.
Not you! Artem yelled at the man.
It is me, said the man. How is my old Artem?
How is my old Slatkin for that matter? roared Artem, and they walked up to each other and swapped energetic kisses and hugs.
The man was shorter than Artem but he was well fed and had a little pot belly. When I was introduced to him he spoke English to me as well as some of Artem’s people in Brisbane. It turned out he’d worked more than two years on the London docks.
Timofei Maximovich Slatkin, said Artem. There he stands in all his bourgeois glory. Wouldn’t you just like to shoot him?
I deserve it, said Slatkin. Without a doubt. Do you like my suit, Artem? I had a little trip to France last year – yes, to France despite the war – and I had it run up there. I wanted to impress you today so I had my servant get it out of the cupboard and send it with me.
You clearly have a hard life, said Artem, beginning to laugh. How is the divine Mrs Slatkin?
Delighted with her husband still, he said. Because – after all – he never complains.
Even Federev – a very serious man – was smiling at all this.
She is also discontented with the so-called revolution, said Slatkin of his wife.
But she’ll lose her fortune and her house in the end, said Federev.
She can’t wait for that liberation, said Slatkin. She believes in brotherhood, not in Mammon.
That’s handy, said Artem.
Artem, I had to see y
ou.
See all you want, Artem invited him.
Is there somewhere we can talk?
Upstairs, said Artem.
Artem and Slatkin said goodbye to Federev and we went up the stairs with Slatkin flourishing his cane like someone in a play. I left them to talk alone in the office and went into the sisters’ room where Tasha was dictating an article to Olya. They were like Martha and Mary in the gospel. One of them knew what theory was and the other did a lot of the work. I was not really welcome there so in the end I took a chair outside to the head of the stairs and began writing more notes about things I had seen here – half hoping something new would come from them that I could use for one of my articles. Certainly not an article on the killing of the young officer.
The light started to fade. A mixed smell of sulphur and candle grease came from Artem’s office where the old friends were advising each other in Russian with slightly raised voices. Then they came out onto the landing. I stood up. Artem told Slatkin in English that I was totally reliable. I felt vainly proud of that.
Slatkin looked at me directly. Did Artem tell you about the banks we used to rob? And he began to laugh.
Artem laughed too. Comrade Slatkin’s talking about himself, he told me.
No, said Slatkin. You were our quartermaster, Artem. You were a sneaky little supplier. He put a finger to his nose in a gesture of secrecy. See you tomorrow then, Artem. Good afternoon to you too, Mr Dykes.
As Artem saw Slatkin off the premises I went into the office and began working up the notes of a speech Artem had given me earlier. But I couldn’t help sitting back in my chair and wondering, Robbed a bank? I understood but did not forgive the fact that he hadn’t told me earlier.
Artem returned and got straight back to work. But the question was aching in the air. He looked up.
He exaggerates, Paddy, said Artem. It was on my way back from France all those years ago. I bought pistols in Germany, the ones Slatkin and his crowd needed. I passed them on. Using them they robbed a bullion shipment on its way from the docks to a bank in Kaliningrad. That’s all, Paddy. I wasn’t there – maybe I wasn’t considered tough enough for that. But I’ve got to be frank: I would have if ordered. The party needed the funds, and Slatkin was a man for funds.
I had read somewhere that the Social Democratic Party had voted to end bank robberies. But after all – even I understood this that afternoon – the revolution was the revolution and had to be paid for. I still stupidly felt offended, and I didn’t know why. Why was the idea of bank robbery itself a genuine shock to me when the usury of the banks – their licensed thieving – wasn’t? If it was a shock to me, what did it say about me and my timid approach to things?
Artem explained further: Vladimir Ilich didn’t ask me to be a bandit but he asked Slatkin – because Slatkin was a true man of action, a bank robber right out of the Wild West. And then Vladimir Ilich asked him to marry the heiress, Miss Stürmer, as I told you in Brisbane.
No, I said. You never told me that.
It must have been Hope Mockridge, he said. Or perhaps I was talking to Amelia.
He explained that Slatkin had been ordered by Lenin to marry the sister of a deceased industrialist who had been a party sympathiser and one of its financiers. And sure enough he’d charmed the girl and done it, just as ordered, and it was the former Miss Stürmer whom Artem had asked after when we were downstairs in Federev’s office.
Internally I gave myself a good talking to. How did I think the party had been kept going? Was it by nice sentiments? Was it by timid little prayers? Of course it was by big, tough plans. Yet it was as if Artem himself didn’t want me to think too much about that.
Anyhow, he said, changing the subject, Slatkin said they want me to go to Piter. You’ll come, of course?
At once I wanted to, but I asked, Why?
Artem shook his head, confused by my resistance.
Because you’re my partner, Paddy. Do you think you’re ever going home again?
Well I might, I said. But I managed a smile.
He looked down at his desk and grinned almost shyly. No, you won’t go back. Trofimova – she has her hooks in you.
What he knew, and what he didn’t – that was the question. And how did he know it? I didn’t want to ask him.
When are we leaving? I rushed in to ask him.
As soon as we can. But there’s something we need to do here first. With Slatkin.
11
Later that evening Artem came into the room and put a black and white bandanna on the desk.
You’ll need that, Paddy, he told me.
What for?
Slatkin will be along in a while. You’ll see how things work.
He looked at his watch and decided that we should wait downstairs.
We’re not robbing a bank, are we? The idea excited me – I was surprised how ready I was to go.
Not a bank, Artem told me.
We didn’t disturb the sisters across the hall but went down the stairs and out the front door past columns of Red Guards who – in our new military mode – Artem saluted. Then we waited on the pavement.
He shouldn’t be too long, said Artem.
We were there about ten minutes before a large French car pulled up. The auto was driven by a man in a uniform like Federev’s chauffeur wore – a better uniform than those of the soldiers or Red Guards. Behind the car a large truck pulled in, its back covered with a canopy. The uniformed driver got out of the car and opened the doors for us to enter. The well-dressed Slatkin was waiting for us inside.
Seat yourselves, gentlemen, he said. The performance is about to begin.
As soon as our backs hit the upholstery and the car took off he did something amazing. He fetched from a deep pocket in the door of the car a pistol and handed it butt-first to Artem. Artem inspected it like an expert. My attention was riveted on the thing too. It had nothing in common with the six-shooters in the books I had read as a child – and it seemed all the more sinister for that. The trigger was placed between the brown handle and a thin rectangular box. That box-like appendage – Artem told me – was the magazine for bullets. Then Slatkin fetched another pistol from the pocket and handed it to me.
Paddy’s not trained in firearms, said Artem. Perhaps it would be better–
No, no, no! said Slatkin. As long as he doesn’t shoot one of us, he should carry one. The odd accidental shot – what does that matter at this moment of history? Keep the safety catch on and he can wave it about like an actor on stage.
Artem sighed. The hard steel thing in my hand excited me and frightened me at the same time. He took the thing away from me and assured himself the catch was on. Then – with a warning stare – he gave it back to me. He was right – I was not ready yet for such a weapon – but at last I felt like a true actor in the scene. I had the idea that I was being, as people say, initiated or blooded. I didn’t mind at all that Artem might be adding me into what the old part of me thought of as a crime.
Slatkin himself opened his jacket and fitted a gun into a leather holster he was wearing. Meanwhile I could see through the back window that the truck stuck to us. I wondered how many men were concealed beneath its canopy to help us in whatever adventure we were embarked on.
Is this a bank robbery? I asked again.
Slatkin laughed. Not exactly, Mr Dykes, he said.
Artem told me, We’re just going to collect a few items we need. Sorry to be mysterious but ... you’ll see.
We drove north-east, towards the workers’ section of the city. It was a dreary place full of hollow-faced men and women, the kids barefoot in the autumn chill. We rolled over cobbles towards what could only be called a fort at the top of a hill. I could see two sentries on its main gate. They had not abandoned the army like others – perhaps they had had an easy time of the war. Even so they looked bored and not very much devoted. Slatkin’s auto swung to the right in front of the gate and the truck braked only a few yards from the sentries.
In t
he car Slatkin said, Bandannas, gentlemen.
And we pulled them on, like children playing cowboys. Slatkin’s driver opened the car door and we all bundled out, Slatkin first. The area smelled of busted sewers and cooking in which sour cabbage played a big part. I saw that men wearing caps and bandannas had piled out of the truck and two of them already held pistols to the sentries’ throats. The rest of those from the truck broke the lock on the gate and swung it open. In barely more than a second the truck rolled through the gate and disappeared.
The three of us walked in behind it. From a guardroom a number of soldiers carrying rifles appeared but our fellows threatened them with Mausers and rifles – the same Mannlichers with which the tsar had equipped his troops. We three caught up to the raiding party and Slatkin gave the commands.
Two officers appeared from the main stone building ahead – it looked like the sort of place that would have once housed two dozen officers and hundreds of men. But not in these days of chaos. Slatkin and Artem spoke with the two men while I stood by, armed with a pistol if not with the language. The more senior of the officers led us – nearly invited us – inside the barracks. On the walls there were crossed swords and dim paintings of battles that had meant a lot to the tsars but which now meant nothing. The officer opened cabinets full of rifles. We had many hands to carry them down into the courtyard and load them into the truck.
Some of our men – helped by NCOs – fetched machine-guns from a cellar and hoisted boxes of ammunition for them into the truck. I put my pistol in my pocket and helped carry a Maxim gun. The whole thing was done in a quarter of an hour. We were like locusts stripping a field. Our men held the gate open as the truck went through and then they climbed into the back. We slipped out ourselves – Slatkin and Artem and I – and returned to the car we’d left only a few minutes before. Slatkin’s uniformed chauffeur even held the car door for us again – as if we were going home after dinner at a hotel. We left by a different road than we had arrived on.