THE COMING OF THE BOLSHEVIKS
If there is one quality which we Germans possess in a superlative
quantity it is a sense of justice. We Germans may be proud, we may be
too soft-hearted, we may be romantic, but we are just. The idea of
injustice is abhorrent to the truly-German. How many quarrels have I
seen at the dining tables in the various German pensions in which I
have lived, because one good German thought another was getting too
large a helping! You see it in every phase of life, and I must confess
that in my own case, nothing so irritates me, so rouses my deep German
wrath, which is a terrible thing in itself, as the knowledge that I am
not getting my share.
Understand, that I say nothing which may be taken as disparaging to
the heads of those departments under whose guidance I have worked and
for whose interest I have taken risks--risks which have not been
compensated by the meagre salary and the grudging letters of thanks
which I have received. We Germans are people of iron will and
determination. We are perhaps the best disciplined people in the
world. Give a German an order to go into battle or to walk to the
cannon’s mouth, whether it is loaded or not, and he will obey,
marching with parade step and a calm, stern face to what may very
easily be considerable personal disfigurement.
I myself have taken orders from my superiors with a sharp “Ja, Herr!”
and a stern salute, well knowing that if I carried those orders out I
would be going to certain destruction. Many of those orders I have
obeyed, having carefully reconnoitred the way and discovered the
dangers which might be avoided, for none but a fool would rush
bat-eyed into terrible perils if he could avoid them.
I have explained the circumstances under which I came to be under a
cloud, not only with the British Government, but, alas!--and my soul
weeps at the thought!--with the Government of my beloved Fatherland. I
make no complaint. We Germans never whine. We have in the
Wilhelmstrasse men without imagination, men without gratitude, men
with the brains of she-asses!
After my deportation from England and the torpedoing of the ship which
carried me, and my return to these shores on a submarine, I ceased to
be what I was, the recognized head and centre of the Intelligence
Service of the Fatherland in England. Though I had worked
independently, I had worked without success.
Major Haynes, of the British Intelligence Corps, knew I was in
England, probably had me watched night and day, and was, as the
English saying goes, “fair to my face but bitter to my stomach.”
I do not know whether I must hate this man, or whether, in my
professional zeal, admire one who must be clever--why should I deny
it?--since he had got the better of me. He was a suave, calm man with
a foolish sense of humour which no German would ever understand, a
cynical man who had probably been crossed in love in his earlier
life--possibly by some beautiful German girl, who lured the poor fool
on and then threw him over with a sneer. I often used to lie in bed
picturing the circumstances which brought about his snarling views of
Germany, and often I have enacted the scene, in which I was the
beautiful young girl.
What bitter things I have said to him! How I have tossed my rosy locks
at this proud Englishman or Scotsman, standing pale and dejected
before me begging for one rose from my hair!
I had plenty of time to dream. I was out of touch with the
organization I had created with so much labour, forethought, and
genius. I was unattached and officially unrecognized. I suspected that
some one else had taken on my work, but I found it difficult to
discover who was in my place owing to the embargo which Major Haynes
had laid upon me against communicating with certain people, the names
of whom in some mysterious way this cunning man knew, who might inform
me upon the situation.
I was sitting one day, morose and brooding, in my new lodgings in
Bayswater, meditating upon my fallen state and wondering if I had very
much farther to fall. I confess there were tears in my eyes when I
remembered all the power I had wielded, all the wonderful letters of
encouragement which had come to me from the well-born and illustrious
Captain Baron von Hazfeld, the chief of the Military Intelligence
Department; and of how I was now without recognition, a fugitive
hunted on the face of the earth, doubtless mocked at by men to whom I
had extended a helping hand.
It was near coffee-time, that is to say, nearly four o’clock in the
afternoon, when a knock came on my bedroom door and my landlady
entered with a telegram in her hand.
“For you, Mr. Smith,” she said.
I had given the name of Smith because I thought it was not likely to
attract unusual attention. It is a name very commonly used in England
by people who wish to remain anonymous.
“For me, my dear madam?” I said, taking the telegram in my hand. “Oh,
yes, I remember. A friend of mine is coming to London and he promised
to wire the hour of his arrival.”
With this pleasant little fiction I waved her out of the room.
You may wonder why I gave any excuse at all, but we Germans are by
nature furtive, and it is part of my business to puzzle and deceive
those with whom I am brought into contact.
I opened the telegram. My address was only known to two or three
people and none of these were compatriots of mine. Judge then of my
surprise when I saw that it was a cable addressed to me from
Stockholm, and read:
“Twenty-five kegs of butter consigned to you per The Scandia Export
Company.”
The telegram was signed “Fredericks.”
I needed no code-book to understand that message. It was an order from
a very powerful and an extremely illustrious member of my profession,
a gentleman with whom I had had some correspondence and, indeed, one
whom I had met on the occasion to which I have referred in these
stories of my purchasing a newspaper.
“Twenty-five kegs” meant “call upon.”
The next morning I sallied forth. A glance at a telephone book in one
of the telephone boxes told me the address of the Scandia Export
Company, which was in Upper Thames Street.
You would think, of course, that I made my way direct to my objective.
That was not the case. I had seen in the telephone book that the
Scandia Company, with whom, by the way, I had never had any previous
dealings, was a wholesale provision merchant.
I hired a cab and drove off to Bisbury’s, one of the greatest
wholesale provision merchants in London, asked to see the manager and
demanded from him whether he could supply me with twenty-five firkins
of Danish butter at the current price. Butter at this time was getting
very scarce and the polite manager informed me that it was impossible
for him to supply me.
I drove to another provision merchant’s, this time in Long Acre, and
repeated my request. Here an offer was made to sell me the amount I
required, and I noted the price and said I would call again. From
thence my cab took me into the south of London to another butter
merchant, who was unable to supply me. And so one after the other I
called upon six firms, all of which did business in butter, before I
touched the Scandia Export Company.
I am no fool. We Germans are wide-awake. I knew, or guessed, that Mr.,
or Major, Haynes (a more un-military person I have never seen) would
have me watched and that probably my shadow was following me now.
How puzzled he would be! What! Was Heine thinking of opening a butter
shop that he went to all these great merchants? No, sir. Heine would
be no butter-patter, but Heine knew that he had an excuse for calling
at the Scandia Company, and that it was no more suspicious to call
upon this particular firm than it was to call upon the half a dozen
whom he had already visited, or the three or four more that he would
visit in the course of the day.
And so I came to the Scandia Company and found its offices on the
first floor of a very dark and untidy building. I was met by a clerk
in a large and gloomy room which was furnished with a desk, a stool
and a copying press, and politely stated my business.
“You wish to see Mr. Brantl, I think,” said the clerk. “If you will
wait a moment I will find out if he is engaged.”
He went out of the room through a glass-panelled door and was away for
a few minutes. Presently he returned leaving the door open.
“Will you step this way?” he said, and I passed into the room, closing
the door behind me.
Mr. Brantl was a short, thick-set man with a close-cropped beard who
looked at me sharply through his gold-rimmed spectacles.
“Sit down,” he said imperiously, and then without a word of
preliminary he plunged into what I can only describe as an impertinent
and ill-toned harangue.
“Now, look here, Heine,” he said, and by his simple, direct rudeness I
perceived that he was no more of a Swede than a turnip (a play on
words which is called a “pun” in English), but a true Prussian and
probably very highly connected. “You have made a mess of things.”
I stared at the man.
“I don’t understand you,” I said coldly.
“You’ve made a mess of things, and don’t interrupt me,” he barked.
“Headquarters are crazy with you. You upset all their arrangements and
you have left your work in England in a disgraceful condition. Don’t
interrupt me! You know me?”
I looked at him closely.
“I only know,” I said after a pause, and speaking with a hauteur which
was quite unmistakable to any sensitive German, “that you are
impertinently discussing a matter of which I am perfectly ignorant. I
can only say----”
“Now shut up,” said Mr. Brantl. “Swine! Pig! Miserable thief! Have you
never heard of the Captain Baron von Hazfeld?”
I stared at him closely and gasped.
Instantly I was on my feet, clicking my heels, my hand raised to my
forehead, for this gentleman was none other than that illustrious
Chief of the Intelligence Bureau, whom I had had the honour and
privilege to see on one occasion through the window.
“Sit down,” he growled. “I have had to come to England to clear up the
damned mess you’ve made and I can tell you I am not feeling cheerful
about it. Now tell me what happened.”
Briefly I explained to him how Major Haynes had detected me and had
sent me out of the country. I also described my voyage back in the
submarine and he listened attentively.
“Part of what you tell me is lies,” he said, “part of it is true.
British Intelligence Department--bah! If you hadn’t been a sucking
dove, or should I say, a sucking pig----?”
“Whichever pleases you, Herr Baron,” I said, with a little smile.
“Don’t grin, you baboon. If you had exercised the slightest amount of
caution you would never have been caught. You have simply given
yourself into the hands of the Englishman.”
“Scotsman,” I murmured.
“Don’t interrupt,” he roared, “you needn’t be afraid of Hayes or
Haynes, or whatever the man’s name is. You have now a chance to
rehabilitate yourself in the esteem of the Department. I never agreed
to your coming to England. It was against my wishes, thank God! I told
von Papen that I wanted a man of intelligence who at any rate looked
like an English gentleman.”
“I flatter myself----” I began.
“You do,” said the Herr Baron, “that’s the trouble with you, your
infernal conceit. Now listen and don’t interrupt. In three days’ time
there will arrive in this country a very large number of forged bank
and treasury notes. Every agent in England and Scotland will put those
notes into circulation. They are so well done that you can’t tell the
difference between them and the real thing. They are, in fact,” he
said, “made----”
“----in Germany,” I smiled.
He cursed me for interrupting him.
“You will be in Merson Street, Soho, on Thursday night, standing
outside the Petite Dejeuner restaurant. A man will come and give you a
large travelling case. It will contain the forged money, and you will
spend the rest of your time wandering about England getting rid of it.
It will not be an unpleasant experience,” he said. “The forgeries will
never be detected until the money comes into the Bank of England.
Therefore, your job is to get as far away from London as you possibly
can.”
“But I shall never be able to spend it.”
“Give it away then,” said the Herr Baron. “You understand your
orders?”
“Perfectly,” I replied.
“You won’t want any real money. You will buy everything except war
bonds.”
“I would not think of doing anything so unpatriotic,” I cried
indignantly.
“It isn’t a question of patriotism, you fool. War bond money comes
back to the Bank.”
He was silent so long that at last I plucked up my courage to say:
“Is that all, Herr Baron?”
“No, that is not all,” he said slowly, “only I don’t know whether I
can trust you with the other matter.”
I drew myself up.
“I have been trusted with many delicate duties,” I said, not without a
certain quiet dignity.
“And you made a mess of ’em. I know all about it,” said the Baron,
“still I can tell you this because it may not come your way. Have you
heard of Loski?”
To another man I should have said “Yes,” but to this discerning,
thought-reading, truth-compelling German, who was, moreover, of the
highest nobility, I replied simply and modestly: “No.”
“Loski is the chief of the Lithuanian Soviet. He is a member of the
Supreme Council at Petrograd, and is a Bolshevik--hang all Bolsheviks!
but they are very useful to us. The mad English Government has given
him permission to visit this country on behalf of some industrial
corporation at Moscow. I have had a telegram from Stockholm to say
that he will be here this week. Now, don’t forget, this man is working
for us, and if he swims into your orbit you are to do everything you
can for him. Render him any assistance that lies in your power. Find
out where he is lodging and make his acquaintance. That is all.”
I bowed and withdrew. I must confess that on my journey back to my
lodgings I was troubled. I did not share this bullying, brow-beating,
stupid man’s views of Major Haynes. We Germans never despise an enemy
who is worthy of our steel, and I felt that Major Haynes was not only
worthy of my steel, but my carving knife as well. It is hard to jest
with a sad heart! So I was not surprised the following morning when my
landlady came to me to tell me that a soldier had called to see me
with a message.
He was quite a common soldier, evidently an orderly, and when he was
shown into my room I immediately put him into his place by telling him
to take his cap off. The fact that he took not the slightest notice of
what I said, shows that the English Army is the worst disciplined and
the least respectful of all armies in the world.
I read the note. It was from Major Haynes, telling me to come to his
office with the least possible delay.
“Tell your master I will be there,” I said haughtily.
“Tell who?” said the common soldier.
“Your master, my man.”
“Pull yourself together,” said the common soldier, “do you mean Major
Haynes?” Of course the low fellow called him ’Aynes.
I resolved to report him for his insolence, but somehow the idea
slipped from my mind on the journey, because I was in some
apprehension (why should I conceal the fact?) as to why this officer
wanted me.
He was busily writing as I entered and jerked his head to a chair and,
since I am a perfect gentleman, I did not interrupt him until he had
finished. He blotted his letter and folded it up into an envelope
before he turned his attention to me.
“I’ve got a little honest work for you.”
I shivered at the words. I remembered the last time I had assisted
him, and he evidently read my thoughts.
“Oh, this is all right,” he said with a smile, “no danger, Heine. You
are a good German, I believe?”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“What is the use of arguing with you, Major Haynes,” I said with a
smile, “if I were a German I should certainly be a good German.”
“And every good German is afraid of the Russian.”
“We Germans fear nobody,” I said hotly, and then, realizing that I had
betrayed myself, I went on with scarcely a break, “as a German would
say.”
“Neatly put,” said the Major, “at any rate, a well conducted German
does not love the Bolshevik, and especially a Bolshevik who is not
even--there, I nearly said too much,” he smiled, “and that is not like
me, is it?”
I could have told him that anything he said to me was too much, but I
refrained.
“Foreign as I know it to be to your honest nature,” the Major went on,
“I am, nevertheless, asking you to do a little professional espionage
work for me--oh, yes, I am serious,” he said, “you owe me a great
deal, Heine. You owe me your life amongst other things, and I am going
to give you a chance of paying me back, or rather paying the
Government back, without necessarily betraying any of your own fellow
countrymen. From such a prospect as that,” he said with pious
hypocrisy, “my very soul revolts.”
And this man who had the brazen effrontery to make a so-canting
statement had deliberately forced me to assist him in capturing two of
my lamentable fellow-countrymen only a few weeks before? Such is the
boasted honour of the British race!
“In reality,” said the Major, “the work I want you to do is very
simple, very harmless and yet very necessary, and I believe that you,
of all the people I know, can best perform the service I require.”
I nodded.
“There is a man arriving in this country in the course of this week,
named Loski,” said the Major. “He may be a Russian patriot. He may be
an anarchist. He may be only a simple-minded burglar. On the other
hand, he may be engaged by your clever Intelligence Department to
carry on propaganda work. There is a man in London named Missovitch
who I know is in correspondence with the Loski crowd and is their
agent in London. Missovitch lives at 364, Dean Street, Soho. I will
write the address for you,” he said, suiting the action to the words.
“And what do you expect me to do, Major Haynes?” I asked.
“I want you to see Missovitch. He is one of those peculiar Russians
who speak German, the type with which you are well acquainted.”
“Probably from the Baltic Provinces?” I said boldly.
“Very likely,” said Major Haynes, with a smile. “Pump him. He will
confide in you. Nobody would mistake you for an English gentleman.
Find out what the game is. No harm can come to our friend Loski. The
worst that can happen is that he will be handed his passports and
returned to the place from whence he came.”
I breathed a sigh of relief and was inwardly chuckling. Somehow I felt
in the swing again, an entire master of my confidence.
I found Missovitch without any trouble. He kept a little tobacconist’s
shop at the address Major Haynes had given me, a pale, unhealthy young
man with a slight moustache and a fringe of beard. He was not very
communicative. I might say that from the very moment I entered the
shop till I left he regarded me with suspicion which he did not
attempt to disguise.
I was in a quandary because I could not betray my knowledge of Loski,
nor could I tell this unauthorized person that I was an agent of the
great German Government that wished him no harm. He grew more and more
uneasy at my careless questions, and to my amazement he also grew
paler, and beads of perspiration grew upon his brow as I asked one
question after another.
“I don’t know who you are, sir,” he said at last, “but I assure you I
have not any knowledge of the Bolsheviks, and I am not interested in
anything which is occurring in Russia.”
“Come, come,” I said jokingly, “that is fine talk from a man with your
name. Tell me, who is this Loski I hear so much about?”
He looked at me through his half-closed lids.
“Sir,” he said, “if you are the police I can give you no information.
You may arrest me,” he said excitedly, though I tried to calm him,
“you may put me in jail, but I can tell you nothing, and Ivanoff’s
trouble will be in vain. I am a poor shopkeeper trying to earn my
living. I don’t know anything about the Bolsheviks, anything about M.
Loski. I know nothing, nothing.”
This was a bad beginning, I thought, as I left the shop, wondering who
was Ivanoff, and certainly not a satisfactory one for Major Haynes.
And yet in many ways it could not have been better.
I had but to tell the truth to Major Haynes and be relieved of a
rather embarrassing mission. Strangely enough, when I reported to the
Intelligence Officer, he accepted my word without any query, though he
was, as I could see, rather troubled.
“The man suspected you, that’s bad,” he said, frowning. “Still, I’m
sure, Heine, you did your best. By the way, he didn’t mention any
other Russian person?”
I suddenly remembered.
“Yes,” I said, “he mentioned a man named----”
“Ivanoff?” said the Major quickly.
“That’s the name,” I said, stupefied by his intelligence.
“H’m,” said Major Haynes, “thank you, Heine. I will let you know if I
want you again.”
I did not hear from the Major, but on the Thursday morning a note was
delivered to my lodgings, this time in the well-known writing of
Captain Baron von Hazfeld. It ran simply:
“Cancel my previous instructions. Meet messenger to-night at 8.30,
under the clock at King’s Cross Station.”
At eight o’clock I was at King’s Cross. I gathered that I was to meet
the boat train which was coming in from the north. The train itself
was about five minutes late, and I composed myself to read the evening
newspaper to pass the time. I stood in a little recess and away from
observation, and I was immersed in my newspaper when suddenly I heard
a smothered cry, and, looking up, I found myself face to face with
Missovitch.
He was staring at me with horror. His face was no longer white but
green, and as I took a step toward him he put up his hands with a
strangled cry, and turning, ran like the wind, dodging between
passengers and porters and disappearing through the archway which
leads into the station. I was amazed. What was there in my appearance
which frightened him. Was he following me with the intention of doing
me bodily harm? The thought sent a cold shiver down my spine.
But I had little time to speculate upon this mystery, for a few
minutes afterwards the boat train drew into the station, and I took up
my position under the clock and waited. The passengers streamed
through the narrow barriers, some hailing taxi-cabs, some stopping to
pick up other friends who were on the train, some greeting those who
were waiting for them.
I had no means of recognizing the man who was to bring me the forged
money, but I supposed that he had been well instructed. Do not let it
be thought that I was quite free from care, that in a few moments I
should be in possession of a vast number of forgeries gave me no
pleasure. Suppose anything went wrong! Suppose I was captured! A fine
end for a great agent. I don’t think, as they say in England.
Presently a man emerged from the crush about the barrier and walked
straight across to me, looking at me thoughtfully. He was a tall man
with a thin black moustache, and he stopped near me.
“May I take your bag?” I asked softly in German.
He smiled, passed the bag to me, and we walked out of the station
together.
“Which way do you go?” I asked still in the same language.
“We shall meet at your place to-night,” he said in a low voice.
He turned to the left and I turned to the right. My taxi-cab was
waiting, and I put the bag in. I turned back and saw two men leap from
the shadow upon my late companion. There was a struggle, I heard a
shot, and my blood turned to water.
Summoning all my reserves, I said to the taxi-cab driver, in as calm a
voice as I could manage:
“Bayswater Square,” and in a few seconds I was being whirled away, as
I believed, from the greatest possible danger, my mind filled with the
most distressing and painful thoughts.