Lenin's Roller Coaster, page 30
“That is good,” Vasily said, as if receiving thousands of rubles were something he did every day. “But you must have a drink. And don’t worry—the Chekists are tucked up in bed by this time of night.”
Viktor had already poured four glasses. “To the czar!” he said once everyone had one in hand.
“To the czar,” they chorused, and tipped them back.
Viktor giggled and poured four more.
McColl raised a hand. “To victory over the Germans!”
The Russians responded, but without much enthusiasm. “To getting our world back,” Vasily muttered, suddenly serious, leaving McColl with the strong suspicion that it wasn’t the Germans he wanted it back from.
He and Paul refused a third, saying they needed to keep their wits about them.
Vasily shook his head so hard that McColl was afraid it might fly off. “We have a droshky for you—it’s waiting outside—so why do you need to keep your wits?”
“No—”
“A woman each, perhaps . . .”
“Some other time. We must go.”
“If you must, you must,” Vasily said sulkily. “And as for the Germans,” he added, as if reading McColl’s mind, “we will leave them to you and the Americans. We have our own battles to fight.”
The droshkies were still outside, and McColl saw no sign of loitering Chekists. He doubted there were enough of them to keep a permanent watch on out-of-the-way places like this one. Or maybe there were too many Viktors and Vasilys. In either case he felt safe enough, particularly now that the money was out of his hands.
But he also felt far from happy. Drunk or not, Vasily could hardly have been clearer about his priorities. As the droshky made its way back toward the Chaussée, McColl just sat there in silence, angrily mulling the matter over.
“Why are we supporting these people?” he finally asked his companion in English.
“The enemy of my enemy and so on,” Paul suggested.
“But who is our enemy now?”
“That’s an easy one. Whoever the chief says it is.”
“And that’s good enough for you?” McColl asked, more aggressively than he intended.
Paul didn’t seem offended. “We’re just soldiers in plainclothes. We do what we’re told.”
McColl sat back in the rocking seat. He couldn’t justify what they were doing. Not to the Caitlin who lived in his head, not to himself. Even as a child, he’d always hated the thought of doing as he was told.
The days that followed the one with Jack were difficult for Caitlin. It had been wonderful to see him, but also profoundly distracting. She found herself resenting him for turning up at all and castigating herself for letting his appearance cause such self-destructive turmoil in her heart. She loved him, she knew she did, but that didn’t have to mean losing all sense of proportion whenever he danced back into her life.
She worked Monday, Tuesday, and Friday at the office on Cherkasski Street and had planned to spend Wednesday and Thursday getting her Siberian notes in some sort of order. She did get some of it done, but her mind kept slipping away from the task at hand and focusing back on him. According to Kollontai’s “New Woman,” which the party was republishing in a few weeks’ time, passionate love was always a transient thing. So why, Caitlin wondered, was theirs proving so damned durable? And how ludicrous would that question sound to most women?
Maybe it was hardly ever seeing each other that gave their love no time to grow stale. Maybe, despite all their obvious differences, down deep they really were a perfect fit. She smiled at the thought.
She knew Kollontai’s words by heart. The new woman “asserted her individuality,” refused to simply “reflect” her beloved, put the expression of love “in a subordinate place in her life.” And Caitlin had done all that. She was here, wasn’t she, doing work that mattered to herself and others, not just sitting somewhere safe and sound, waiting for her man to come home? Then why was it so damn difficult?
McColl’s debriefing was held in the Kazan Station’s buffet late on the following day. There was only tea to drink and nothing at all to eat, but the place was crowded and noisy enough to cloak a conversation.
“I want you to meet up with Sidney Reilly,” Northcutt said after McColl had completed his report. “We’ll be putting a lot of troops ashore at Archangel over the next few weeks, and we expect the Bolsheviks to retaliate. They’ll probably intern all British passport holders, so we’re putting our best men underground while we still can. You’re already in that situation, and you’ll be joined by George Hill and Sidney Reilly. George is off in Ukraine at the moment, but Sidney’s here, and I want the two of you to meet, set up contact routines, all the usual. He’s using the name Constantine at the moment, and he’s expecting to see you at the Tramble Café—at the intersection of Petrovka and Kuznetsky Most—at seven p.m. on Friday. He’s a Jew, of course, but don’t let that fool you. He knows what he’s doing.”
“All right,” McColl agreed, wondering if Northcutt actually thought that most Jews didn’t. He felt curious about Reilly. Over the years he’d heard about the man from several of his colleagues, and none had offered a neutral assessment.
“And you’d better smarten yourself up a bit,” Northcutt added after taking at look at what McColl was wearing. “Reilly’s a snappy dresser, and we don’t want the two of you looking like an audition for The Prince and the Pauper.”
The following evening found McColl standing outside the entrance to St. Basil’s Cathedral, idly staring across at the Kremlin, where Lenin was probably hard at work. It was a beautiful evening, much less humid than in recent days, and the setting sun was glinting on the domes of the churches within. In front of the wall, several families were laying flowers on the grave that held Fedya’s uncle and hundreds of others. He should have brought Fedya, he thought.
The arrangement with Caitlin was simple—he would be here on alternate evenings, and if she had anything to report, she would run a hand through her hair and wait for him down on the towpath. If she didn’t, she would just walk on by.
It seemed unlikely she’d have any news this soon, so McColl was surprised to see her glance across and lift a hand to her hair. He let her get fifty yards ahead, then followed her down the cobbled slope to the river. The iron supports were all that was left of the wooden benches, and she was sitting on one of the capstans that stood by the edge of the water.
She rose to greet him with a kiss, but her face seemed unusually somber. “Have you heard the news?” she asked, taking his arm and setting them both in motion.
“What news?”
“The czar’s been executed,” she told him.
“Oh,” he said, for want of anything else. He wasn’t surprised, and neither mourning nor celebration felt particularly appropriate.
“An official announcement was put out this afternoon. It happened three days ago. In Yekaterinburg.” She looked out across the water. “I saw the place where they were being held, and I keep wondering where it was done. In the trees behind? In one of the basements?” She shrugged. “Not that it matters. She turned back to McColl. “My friends think it was to stop the Czechs from getting hold of him.”
“That would have been awkward,” McColl agreed. “What about the rest of the family?”
“Oh, they’re all dead,” Caitlin said.
“All of them? The children as well?”
“Yes.”
McColl could see she was upset, but he wasn’t sure why. “How do you feel about it?” he asked.
She gave him a weary look. “I don’t know. Shocked. I understand why they did it, but still . . .”
“They couldn’t afford to leave an heir for the Whites to rally around.”
“Yes. That must have been one of the reasons.”
“What others could there be?”
This time the look was slightly pitying. “Hatred. Revenge. Those millions of men he sent off to die. They all had families.”
McColl nodded and wondered what the consequences might be. More bitterness was all he could think. People already knew which side they were on.
“I’ve been asking around about children’s homes,” Caitlin was saying. “There is a new Palace of Motherhood in Moscow, but it’s for mothers and young children—your Fedya’s much too old. There are lots of orphanages, but most are awful, and the government has hardly gotten started on making them better. But I have found one that’s recommended. It’s in Yauzskaya, not far from the Kursk Station. I’ve written down the address.” She fished in her pocket for a scrap of paper and handed it over. “Most of the prewar staff was kicked out after the first revolution—there were terrible stories about the way the orphans were treated before. A local women’s group took over, and they’re still running the place. No one claims it’s perfect, but everyone says it’s the best available.”
“How many children are there?”
“About two hundred.”
“In how many rooms?”
“About thirty, I think. The children sleep in dormitories. But there’s a canteen and a library, and there are women who give lessons. After the summer they hope to start sending some of the older children to one of the local schools.”
“I don’t suppose the children are allowed to go out on their own?”
“I don’t know, but I wouldn’t think so. How could you run a place like that if you let the children come and go as they pleased?”
“What’s the age range?”
“No idea. Look, I told them about Fedya, and they say there’s a place for him. All you have to do is take him there.”
And hand him over, McColl thought. “I’m grateful,” he said.
“You’re welcome. Both of you.” She turned to face him. “I don’t know what else you’re doing here—and I don’t want to—though for the boy’s sake I’m glad you came.”
“But not for your sake?”
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know. I’m sorry.” He felt confused by her, by this woman he knew so well yet who sometimes seemed almost a stranger. “But it looks like the war might soon be over,” he said, hoping she would say that then they could be together. She didn’t.
“The fighting in France may end,” she said, “and Germany may be defeated, but here the war will go on. The real war, the one that matters. You do understand that?”
“I do,” he said with reluctance. Even though he’d known it was coming, it still felt like a blow to the heart.
“Take care of yourself,” she said.
“And you. You know where to find me.”
She smiled and put her arms around his neck. “I suppose for once that’s true.” They kissed and held each other close.
$ $ $
It was better like this, she told herself as she walked away along the towpath. And most of her believed it. The new woman, she thought, crying the same old tears.
What other choices did she have? She knew what he’d wanted her to say, but she didn’t want to raise his hopes with a promise she might not be able to keep. She was far from certain that she should have offered him any. Why could she not accept that being true to herself meant staying in Russia and that staying in Russia meant giving him up? She couldn’t be a part-time revolutionary, any more than he could be a part-time spy. And even if he gave up spying, she couldn’t give up the revolution, not without giving up on herself.
She wanted them both, yet more and more it seemed that it had to be one or the other. Passions came and went, but the work was forever—she could still hear Kollontai say it, three years ago in the house of exile high above Christiania. Her mind was convinced—could she bring her heart into line? One thing she knew—that emotional wrench would be easier once he was gone.
The fact that Fedya had sold several items at a handsome profit during McColl’s absence and was clearly feeling pleased with himself made it even harder to broach the matter of moving him into the home. McColl bided his time and waited to bring the subject up until after they’d eaten supper at the local canteen and enjoyed a leisurely walk in the warm evening air.
“Fedya,” he began, once they were back inside, “I won’t be here in Moscow for much longer.”
The look of alarm was instant. “Why? Where are you going?”
“I’m going home.”
Fedya looked confused. “But you told me you lived here in Moscow.”
McColl hesitated. Telling Fedya his true identity was obviously fraught with risk, but he felt he owed the boy that much. “I come from England,” he said, opting for simplicity. He doubted that Fedya had heard of Scotland. “My government sent me here to fight the Germans. And now I have to go back.”
“Why?”
“Because if I stay here, I’ll probably be caught and killed.”
Fedya looked stunned by that, though only for a moment. “So what’s your real name?” he demanded to know.
“Jack McColl.”
“Jack McColl,” the boy repeated, trying it out. “I want to come with you,” he said, a sliver of hope in his eyes.
“No, that’s not possible,” McColl said, watching it wither away. “I can’t. I wish I could,” he added, and part of him really meant it. “But I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Lots of reasons. Because it’s too dangerous. Because if you’re caught with me, you’ll share my punishment, like you did in the German camp—”
“But we escaped!” Fedya cried out, clenching his fists.
“I know, but next time we might not be so lucky. And, Fedya, you are Russian. This is your country. You speak the language, you know what it’s like here.”
“But . . .”
“I’ve found you a home—a friend of mine has. A home with lots of children, one where you’ll go to school and learn lots of things.”
“Why can’t I just stay here? I can run the shop on my own.”
McColl sighed. “I know you could. But someone else will be coming to run it, so you can’t stay here. And the home will be better. It will.”
“But I won’t know anyone.”
“Not at first, but you’ll soon make friends,” McColl said, wincing at the cliché. “The food’s good. You’ll learn things. And I’ll visit you while I’m still here. And my friend will visit you after I’m gone. You’ll like her.” Caitlin had offered no such thing, but he knew she would if he asked.
Fedya was trying hard not cry. “When?” he asked.
“Tomorrow,” McColl told him. It was better not to drag it out, he thought.
The boy let loose a single heartrending sob and turned his face to the wall.
McColl just sat there, wondering what, if anything, he could say or do to make things better. He told himself Fedya had fastened onto him and would do the same to others—boys of his own age, the women whom Caitlin had talked about. No matter how hard it seemed, things were better this way. McColl had no idea how long he’d be staying in Russia or how difficult it would be to get out when the time eventually came. And even if he could take Fedya to England, what would life be like for an eleven-year-old boy who spoke not a word of the language and whose whole world up to a few weeks before had been that of a peasant village? A fish out of water would feel more at home.
He knew he was doing the right thing, and maybe one day Fedya would, too.
The next morning the boy hardly said a word, either over breakfast or during the ride across town. McColl had wondered whether Fedya, in his desperation, might do something truly reckless, like vanish overnight or threaten to expose him as a foreign spy. But the boy seemed beaten down, which made McColl feel even worse.
The orphanage was a large pastel gray building on a narrow street off Sadovaya. It looked cared for, and McColl was pleased to see that those bars across the windows that were broken or missing had not been replaced. Once inside the front door, he found the lack of noise surprising, but the woman who welcomed them seemed kind enough. She ruffled Fedya’s hair and took no offense when the boy pushed her hand away. “You’ll like it here,” she said. “Once you get used to it. I promise you will.”
Fedya shook his head.
“It’s better if you say good-bye here,” the woman told McColl. “I have all the details your friend supplied, and Fedya can tell me about his family.”
“They’re dead,” Fedya said, as if that closed the conversation.
McColl got down on one knee to face him. “I’ll come and check up on you in a few days,” he promised. “That is all right?” he asked the woman.
She nodded.
Without any warning, Fedya threw his arms around McColl’s neck and clung on as if his life depended on it.
McColl hugged him back. “It’ll be all right,” he said. It was such a stupid thing to say, but somehow it struck a chord. Fedya allowed McColl to gently disengage them, then tried and almost succeeded in raising a smile.
“A few days,” McColl repeated as the woman led the boy away.
Fedya didn’t look back.
Out on the street, McColl wiped the tears from his cheeks and cursed the world and everyone in it. Another day, another fucking good-bye.
McColl approached the Tramble Café cautiously, walking up Kuznetsky Most and spending several minutes watching the café from the other side of the intersection. It was doing good business, with hardly a moment passing before someone made use of the doors.
Most of the clientele were wearing suits, and McColl was glad he’d followed Northcutt’s orders. It hadn’t been easy, but an hour’s rummaging through the shop’s store of secondhand clothes had turned up a suit and a stiff-collared shirt that almost fit. The shoes were ones that Sandy Luckett had left behind, and after walking a mile in them McColl had a good idea why.
He was glad of something to do, something that took his mind off Caitlin and Fedya. It was five minutes past the allotted hour, and he’d seen no one who matched the description of Sidney Reilly. Which probably meant the man was already inside. There were no cars parked nearby, and McColl himself was the only loiterer. It looked safe.
