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RED DUSK AND THE MORROW
[Illustration: SIR PAUL DUKES, K.B.E.]
RED DUSK AND THE MORROW
Adventures and Investigations in Red Russia
by
SIR PAUL DUKES, K.B.E.
Formerly Chief of
the British Secret Intelligence Service
in Soviet Russia
London
Williams and Norgate
14 Henrietta Street, Covent Garden, W.C. 2
1923
Copyright in U.S.A., 1922, by
Doubleday, Page and Company
First Printed May 1922.
Reprinted February 1923.
Printed in Great Britain
FOREWORD
If ever there was a period when people blindly hitched their wagons
to shibboleths and slogans instead of stars it is the present. In the
helter-skelter of events which constantly outrun mankind, the essential
meaning of commonly used words is becoming increasingly confused. Not
only the abstract ideas of liberty, equality, and fraternity; but
more concrete and more recently popularized ones such as proletariat,
bourgeois, soviet, are already surrounded with a sort of fungous growth
concealing their real meaning, so that every time they are employed
they have to be freshly defined.
The phenomenon of Red Russia is a supreme example of the triumph over
reason of the shibboleth, the slogan, and the political catchword.
War-weary and politics-weary, the Russian people easily succumbed to
those who promised wildly what nobody could give, the promisers least
of all. Catchwords such as “All Power to the Soviets,” possessing
cryptic power before their coiners seized the reins of government,
were afterward discovered either to have no meaning whatsoever, or
else to be endowed with some arbitrary, variable, and quite unforeseen
sense. Similarly, words such as “workers,” “bourgeois,” “proletariat,”
“imperialist,” “socialist,” “co-operative,” “soviet,” are endowed by
mob orators everywhere with arbitrary significations, meaning one thing
one day and another the next as occasion demands.
The extreme opponents of Bolshevism, especially amongst Russians,
have sinned in this respect as greatly as the extreme proponents,
and with no advantage to themselves even in their own class. For
to their unreasoning immoderation, as much as to the distortion of
ideas by ultra-radicals, is due the appearance, among a certain class
of people of inquiring minds but incomplete information, of that
oddest of anomalies, the “parlour Bolshevik.” Clearness of vision and
understanding will never be restored until precision in terminology is
again re-established, and that will take years and years.
It was the discrepancy between the actualities of Bolshevist Russia
and the terminology employed by the Red leaders that impressed me
beyond all else. I soon came to the conclusion that this elaborate
catch-phraseology was designed primarily for propagandist purposes in
foreign countries, for the Bolsheviks in their home press indulge at
times in unexpected spurts of candour, describing their own failures in
terms that vie with those of their most inveterate foes. But they still
cling to anomalous terms, such as “workers’ and peasants’ government”
and “dictatorship of the proletariat.”
It is to such discrepancies that I have sought to draw attention
in the following pages. My point of view was neither that of the
professional politician, nor of the social reformer, nor of the
stunt-journalist, but simply that of the ordinary human individual,
the “man in the street.” As an official of the intelligence service
the Soviet Government has charged me with conspiracies and plots to
overthrow it. But I went to Russia not to conspire but to inquire. The
Soviet Government’s references to me have not been felicitous and I
may be pardoned for recalling one or two of the most striking. At the
close of 1920 I received an intimation from the Foreign Office that on
January 16, 1920, a certain Mr. Charles Davison had been executed in
Moscow and that to the British Government’s demand for an explanation
the Soviet Government had replied that Mr. Davison was shot as an
accomplice of my “provocative activities.” The letter from the British
Foreign Office was, however, my first intimation that such a person
as Mr. Davison had ever existed. Again, on the occasion of the last
advance of General Yudenich on Petrograd the Bolshevist Government
asserted that I was the instigator of a “White” Government which should
seize power upon the fall of the city, and a list of some dozen or so
ministers was published who were said to have been nominated by me. Not
only had I no knowledge of or connection with the said government, but
the prospective ministers with one exception were unknown to me even by
name, the exception being a gentleman I had formerly heard of but with
whom I had never had any form of communication.
It would be tedious to recount the numerous instances of which
these are examples. I recognize but few of the names with which the
Bolshevist Government has associated mine. The majority are those of
people I have never met or heard of. Even of the Englishmen and women,
of whom the Bolsheviks arrested several as my “accomplices,” holding
them in prison in some cases for over a twelvemonth, I knew but few.
With only one had I had any communication as intelligence officer.
Some of the others, whom I met subsequently, gave me the interesting
information that their arrest and that of many innocent Russians was
attributed by the Bolsheviks to a “diary” which I was supposed to have
kept and in which I was said to have noted their names. This “diary”
has apparently also been exhibited to sympathetic foreign visitors
as conclusive evidence of the implication of the said Russians and
Britishers in my numerous “conspiracies”! I barely need say that,
inexperienced though I was in the art and science of intelligence work,
I made it from the outset an invariable rule in making notes never to
inscribe any name or address except in a manner intelligible to no
living soul besides myself, while the only “diary” I ever kept was the
chronicle from which this book is partly compiled, made during those
brief visits to Finland which the reader will find described in the
following pages.
It goes without saying that this book is not designed to rectify this
record of inaccuracies on the part of the Soviet Government. It was
impossible in writing my story to combine precision of narrative with
effective camouflage of individuals and places. The part of this book
which deals with my personal experiences is therefore not complete, but
is a selection of episodes concerning a few individuals, and I have
endeavoured to weave these episodes into a more or less consecutive
narrative, showing the peculiar chain of circumstances which led to
my remaining in charge of the intelligence service in Russia for the
best part of a year, instead of a month or two, as I had originally
expected. To my later travels in Bielorussia, the northern Ukraine,
and Lithuania I make but little reference, since my observations
there merely confirmed the conclusions I had already arrived at as to
the attitude of the Russian peasantry. In writing, I believe I have
achieved what I was bound to regard as a fundamental condition, namely,
the masking of the characters by confusing persons and places (except
in one or two instances which are now of small import) sufficiently to
render them untraceable by the Bolshevist authorities.
“Even when one thinks a view unsound or a scheme unworkable,” says
Viscount Bryce in _Modern Democracies_, “one must regard all honest
efforts to improve this unsatisfactory world with a sympathy which
recognizes how many things need to be changed, and how many doctrines
once held irrefragable need to be modified in the light of supervenient
facts.” This is true no less of Communist experiments than of any
others. If in this book I dwell almost entirely on the Russian people’s
point of view, and not on that of their present governors, I can only
say that it was the people’s point of view that I set out to study.
The Bolshevist revolution will have results far other than those
anticipated by its promoters, but in the errors and miscalculations
of the Communists, in their fanatical efforts to better the lot of
mankind, albeit by coercion and bloodshed, lessons are to be learned
which will be of incalculable profit to humanity. But the greatest
and most inspiring lesson of all will be the ultimate example of
the Russian people, by wondrous patience and invincible endurance
overcoming their present and perhaps even greater tribulation, and
emerging triumphant through persevering belief in the truths of that
philosophy which the Communists describe as “the opium of the people.”
“... Nothing is more vital to national progress than the
spontaneous development of individual character.... Independence
of thought was formerly threatened by monarchs who feared the
disaffection of their subjects. May it not again be threatened by
other forms of intolerance, possible even in a popular government?”
BRYCE, _Modern Democracies_.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
PAGE
ONE OF THE CROWD 1
The Revolution of March 1917--Recalled to London--Offered work
in Secret Service--Archangel--Helsingfors--Melnikoff--Departure
for Russia--Forging passports--Crossing the frontier.
CHAPTER II
FIVE DAYS 30
Petrograd--An unpleasant encounter--Dearth and stagnation--A
secret café--Stepanovna--Quarters for the night--An
eating-house--Welcomed as English--Mr. Marsh--Maria--The
“Journalist”--The “Policeman”--A raid on an
eating-house--Captain Zorinsky--The Extraordinary
Commission--Mr. Marsh escapes.
CHAPTER III
THE GREEN SHAWL 79
Allies expected in Petrograd--A story of Archangel--Proposals to
attack Bolsheviks--Arranging Mrs. Marsh’s escape--News of
Melnikoff under arrest--Attempts to arrange his escape--Buying a
disguise--In the prison of the Extraordinary Commission--Mrs.
Marsh’s escape--Across the frontier in the snow.
CHAPTER IV
MESHES 113
Back in Petrograd--“The Metropolis of the World
Revolution”--Communists employing bourgeois
specialists--Zorinsky supplies information and asks
questions--Certificates of exemption from military
service--Plans to rescue Melnikoff.
CHAPTER V
MELNIKOFF 181
Bolshevik Saints--Melnikoff’s Doctor uncle--Zorinsky suspected
of double dealing--A Bolshevik demonstration--A new
passport--Unrecognized by former housekeeper--A letter of
introduction--News of Melnikoff’s execution.
CHAPTER VI
STEPANOVNA 152
New acquaintances--A raid on a public
market--“Speculators”--Confiscation of furniture--Stepanovna in
trouble.
CHAPTER VII
FINLAND 162
Escape to Finland over the ice--Running the gauntlet of the
searchlights--Pursued--Hiding on the bare ice--Arrest by Finnish
patrols--Arranging for a service of couriers--Intrigues in
Finland--Back into Russia--On ski through the forest--A trying
experience.
CHAPTER VIII
A VILLAGE “BOURGEOIS-CAPITALIST” 181
A Russian peasant’s house--Music--The troubles of a thrifty
peasant--A village Soviet--Smuggling food and matches into
Petrograd--Attempt to stop “sackmen”--Recollections of March
1917.
CHAPTER IX
METAMORPHOSIS 193
Unrest in Petrograd--Attempts at arrest--A narrow escape at the
“Journalist’s”--A new disguise--A friend of
Melnikoff--Zorinsky’s treachery confirmed.
CHAPTER X
THE SPHINX 209
At work in a factory--Joining the Red army--Tsarist officers in
the Red army--Military service helpful to intelligence work--To
Moscow.
CHAPTER XI
THE RED ARMY 215
The uniform--Terrorizing Tsarist officers--Relatives used as
hostages for good behaviour--Jews in the Red army--Bronstein or
Trotzky--Trotzky conciliates Tsarist officers--Penalties of
refusing service--Mistakes of the White leaders--Discipline by
terror--A mutiny--Revolutionary Tribunals--Desertion--The army
oath--System of political control--A conscientious
commissar--Cultural-Enlightenment Committees--A regimental
entertainment.
CHAPTER XII
“THE PARTY” AND THE PEOPLE 251
“Government of Workers and Peasants” a misnomer--A gulf between
the Communist Party and People--The Third International--Its
relation to the Soviet Government--Disturbances in
Petrograd--Suppression and arrests--A speech by Lenin--“Sackmen”
legalized--Free trading permitted--Welfare of people subordinate
to interests of party--A party purge--Of what did the party
consist?--Training members--Three degrees of membership--What is
a Soviet?--Bolshevism not Soviet Government--Soviet elections--A
meeting of the Petrograd Soviet.
CHAPTER XIII
ESCAPE 285
Plans for escape--To join British Fleet in Gulf of Finland--Sent
to Latvian frontier on military service--Train searched--The
Green Guards--Across Lake Luban.
CHAPTER XIV
CONCLUSION 294
The only hope for Russian Communists, country before
party--Influence of non-Bolshevik elements--Russian dislike of
politics--Intervention must be humanitarian--Impotence of the
Third International--Russian love of the soil--Bolsheviks
despise the Russians--Co-operative Societies proof of Russian
organizing capacity--The power of religion.
INDEX 309
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
_To face page_
THE AUTHOR _Frontispiece_
THE AUTHOR, DISGUISED 16
A FORGED CERTIFICATE OF IDENTIFICATION 22
THE FORTRESS OF ST. PETER AND ST. PAUL 30
THE AUTHOR, DISGUISED 80
RAILWAY TRAVELLING IN SOVIET RUSSIA 106
THE AUTHOR, DISGUISED 128
A RUSSIAN VILLAGE 176
A RUSSIAN PEASANT “CAPITALIST” 180
A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 192
THE AUTHOR, DISGUISED 208
A REVIEW OF “RED” TROOPS 216
A CERTIFICATE OF IDENTIFICATION 224
A MEETING OUTSIDE THE TAURIDE PALACE 272
RAILWAY TRAVELLING IN SOVIET RUSSIA 288
THE AUTHOR WITH RUSSIAN CHILDREN 296
RED DUSK AND THE MORROW
CHAPTER I
ONE OF THE CROWD
The snow glittered brilliantly in the frosty sunshine on the afternoon
of March 11, 1917. The Nevsky Prospect was almost deserted. The air was
tense with excitement and it seemed as if from the girdling faubourgs
of the beautiful city of Peter the Great rose a low, muffled rumbling
as of many voices. Angry, passionate voices, rolling like distant
thunder, while in the heart of the city all was still and quiet. A
mounted patrol stood here or there, or paced the street with measured
step. There were bloodstains on the white snow, and from the upper end
of the Prospect still resounded the intermittent crack of rifles.
How still those corpses lay over there! Their teeth grinned ghastlily.
Who were they and how did they die? Who knew or cared? Perhaps a
mother, a wife.... The fighting was in the early morning. A crowd--a
cry--a command--a volley--panic--an empty street--silence--and a little
group of corpses, hideous, motionless in the cold sunshine!
Stretched across the wide roadway lay a cordon of police disguised as
soldiers, prostrate, firing at intervals. The disguise was an attempt
to deceive, for it was known that the soldiers sided with the people.
“It is coming,” I found myself repeating mechanically, over and over
again, and picturing a great cataclysm, terrible and overwhelming, yet
passionately hoped for. “It is coming, any time now--to-morrow--the day
after----”
What a day the morrow was! I saw the first revolutionary regiments
come out and witnessed the sacking of the arsenal by the infuriated
mob. Over the river the soldiers were breaking into the Kresty Prison.
Crushing throngs surged round the Duma building at the Tauride Palace,
and towards evening, after the Tsarist police had been scattered in
the Nevsky Prospect, there rose a mighty murmur, whispered in awe on a
million lips: “_Revolution!_” A new era was to open. The revolution,
so thought I, would be the Declaration of Independence of Russia! In
my imagination I figured to myself a huge pendulum, weighted with the
pent-up miseries and woes of a hundred and eighty millions of people,
which had suddenly been set in motion. How far would it swing? How many
times? When and where would it come to rest, its vast, hidden store of
energy expended?
Late that night I stood outside the Tauride Palace, which had become
the centre of the revolution. No one was admitted through the great
gates without a pass. I sought a place midway between the gates and,
when no one was looking, scrambled up, dropped over the railings, and
ran through the bushes straight to the main porch. Here I soon met folk
I knew--comrades of student days, revolutionists. What a spectacle
within the palace, lately so still and dignified! Tired soldiers lay
sleeping in heaps in every hall and corridor. The vaulted lobby, where
Duma members had flitted silently, was packed almost to the roof with
all manner of truck, baggage, arms, and ammunition. All night long and
the next I laboured with the revolutionists to turn the Tauride Palace
into a revolutionary arsenal.
Thus began the revolution. And after? Everyone knows now how the
hopes of freedom were blighted. Truly had Russia’s foe, Germany, who
despatched the proletarian dictator Lenin and his satellites to Russia,
discovered the Achilles heel of the Russian revolution! Everyone now
knows how the flowers of the revolution withered under the blast of the
Class War, and how Russia was replunged into starvation and serfdom. I
will not dwell on these things. My story relates to the time when they
were already cruel realities.
My reminiscences of the first year of Bolshevist administration are
jumbled into a kaleidoscopic panorama of impressions gained while
journeying from city to city, sometimes crouched in the corner of
crowded box-cars, sometimes travelling in comfort, sometimes riding
on the steps, and sometimes on the roofs or buffers. I was nominally
in the service of the British Foreign Office, but the Anglo-Russian
Commission (of which I was a member) having quit Russia, I attached
myself to the American Y.M.C.A., doing relief work. A year after the
revolution I found myself in the eastern city of Samara, training
a detachment of boy scouts. As the snows of winter melted and the
spring sunshine shed joy and cheerfulness around, I held my parades
and together with my American colleagues organized outings and sports.
The new proletarian lawgivers eyed our manœuvres askance, but were
too preoccupied in dispossessing the “bourgeoisie” to devote serious
attention to the “counter revolutionary” scouts, however pronounced
the anti-Bolshevik sympathies of the latter. “Be prepared!” the scouts
would cry, greeting each other in the street. And the answer, “Always
prepared!” had a deep significance, intensified by their boyish
enthusiasm.
Then one day, when in Moscow, I was handed an unexpected telegram.
“Urgent”--from the British Foreign Office. “You are wanted at once in
London,” it ran. I set out for Archangel without delay. Moscow, with
its turbulences, its political wranglings, its increasing hunger, its
counter-revolutionary conspiracies, with Count Mirbach and his German
designs, was left behind. Like a bombshell followed the news that
Mirbach was murdered. Leaning over the side of the White Sea steamer,
a thousand kilometres from Moscow, I cursed my luck that I was not
in the capital. I stood and watched the sun dip low to the horizon;
hover, an oval mass of fire, on the edge of the blazing sea; merge with
the water; and, without disappearing, mount again to celebrate the
triumph over darkness of the nightless Arctic summer. Then, Murmansk
and perpetual day, a destroyer to Petchenga, a tug to the Norwegian
frontier, a ten-day journey round the North Cape and by the fairy-land
of Norwegian fjords to Bergen, with finally a zigzag course across the
North Sea, dodging submarines, to Scotland.
At Aberdeen the control officer had received orders to pass me through
by the first train to London. At King’s Cross a car was waiting, and
knowing neither my destination nor the cause of my recall I was driven
to a building in a side street in the vicinity of Trafalgar Square.
“This way,” said the chauffeur, leaving the car. The chauffeur had a
face like a mask. We entered the building and the elevator whisked us
to the top floor, above which additional superstructures had been built
for war-emergency offices.
I had always associated rabbit-warrens with subterranean abodes,
but here in this building I discovered a maze of rabbit-burrow-like
passages, corridors, nooks, and alcoves, piled higgledy-piggledy on the
roof. Leaving the elevator my guide led me up one flight of steps so
narrow that a corpulent man would have stuck tight, then down a similar
flight on the other side, under wooden archways so low that we had to
stoop, round unexpected corners, and again up a flight of steps which
brought us out on the roof. Crossing a short iron bridge we entered
another maze, until just as I was beginning to feel dizzy I was shown
into a tiny room about ten feet square where sat an officer in the
uniform of a British colonel. The impassive chauffeur announced me and
withdrew.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Dukes,” said the colonel, rising and greeting me
with a warm handshake. “I am glad to see you. You doubtless wonder
that no explanation has been given you as to why you should return
to England. Well, I have to inform you, confidentially, that it has
been proposed to offer you a somewhat responsible post in the Secret
Intelligence Service.”
I gasped. “But,” I stammered, “I have never----May I ask what it
implies?”
“Certainly,” he replied. “We have reason to believe that Russia will
not long continue to be open to foreigners. We wish someone to remain
there to keep us informed of the march of events.”
“But,” I put in, “my present work? It is important, and if I drop
it----”
“We foresaw that objection,” replied the colonel, “and I must tell
you that under war regulations we have the right to requisition your
services if need be. You have been attached to the Foreign Office. This
office also works in conjunction with the Foreign Office, which has
been consulted on this question. Of course,” he added, bitingly, “if
the risk or danger alarms you----”
I forget what I said but he did not continue.
“Very well,” he proceeded, “consider the matter and return at 4.30 p.m.
to-morrow. If you have no valid reasons for not accepting this post
we will consider you as in our service and I will tell you further
details.” He rang a bell. A young lady appeared and escorted me out,
threading her way with what seemed to me marvellous dexterity through
the maze of passages.
Burning with curiosity and fascinated already by the mystery of this
elevated labyrinth I ventured a query to my young female guide. “What
sort of establishment is this?” I said. I detected a twinkle in her
eye. She shrugged her shoulders and without replying pressed the button
for the elevator. “Good afternoon,” was all she said as I passed in.
Next day another young lady escorted me up and down the narrow
stairways and ushered me into the presence of the colonel. I found
him in a fair-sized apartment with easy chairs and walls hidden by
book-cases. He seemed to take it for granted that I had nothing to say.
“I will tell you briefly what we desire,” he said. “Then you may make
any comments you wish, and I will take you up to interview--er--the
Chief. Briefly, we want you to return to Soviet Russia and to send
reports on the situation there. We wish to be accurately informed as to
the attitude of every section of the community, the degree of support
enjoyed by the Bolshevist Government, the development and modification
of its policy, what possibility there may be for an alteration of
régime or for a counter-revolution, and what part Germany is playing.
As to the means whereby you gain access to the country, under what
cover you will live there, and how you will send out reports, we
shall leave it to you, being best informed as to conditions, to make
suggestions.”
He expounded his views on Russia, asking for my corroboration or
correction, and also mentioned the names of a few English people I
might come into contact with. “I will see if--er--the Chief is ready,”
he said finally, rising; “I will be back in a moment.”
The apartment appeared to be an office but there were no papers on the
desk. I rose and stared at the books on the bookshelves. My attention
was arrested by an edition of Thackeray’s works in a decorative binding
of what looked like green morocco. I used at one time to dabble in
bookbinding and am always interested in an artistically bound book.
I took down _Henry Esmond_ from the shelf. To my bewilderment the
cover did not open, until, passing my finger accidentally along what
I thought was the edge of the pages, the front suddenly flew open of
itself, disclosing a box! In my astonishment I almost dropped the
volume and a sheet of paper slipped out on to the floor. I picked it up
hastily and glanced at it. It was headed _Kriegsministerium, Berlin_,
had the German Imperial arms imprinted on it, and was covered with
minute handwriting in German. I had barely slipped it back into the box
and replaced the volume on the shelf when the colonel returned.
“A--the--er--Chief is not in,” he said, “but you may see him to-morrow.
You are interested in books?” he added, seeing me looking at the
shelves. “I collect them. That is an interesting old volume on Cardinal
Richelieu, if you care to look at it. I picked it up in Charing Cross
Road for a shilling.” The volume mentioned was immediately above _Henry
Esmond_. I took it down warily, expecting something uncommon to occur,
but it was only a musty old volume in French with torn leaves and
soiled pages. I pretended to be interested. “There is not much else
there worth looking at, I think,” said the colonel, casually. “Well,
good-bye. Come in to-morrow.”
I wondered mightily who “the Chief” of this establishment could be
and what he would be like. The young lady smiled enigmatically as she
showed me to the elevator. I returned again next day after thinking
overnight how I should get back to Russia--and deciding on nothing. My
mind seemed to be a complete blank on the subject in hand and I was
entirely absorbed in the mysteries of the roof-labyrinth.
Again I was shown into the colonel’s sitting-room. My eyes fell
instinctively on the bookshelf. The colonel was in a genial mood. “I
see you like my collection,” he said. “That, by the way, is a fine
edition of Thackeray.” My heart leaped! “It is the most luxurious
binding I have ever yet found. Would you not like to look at it?”
I looked at the colonel very hard, but his face was a mask. My
immediate conclusion was that he wished to initiate me into the secrets
of the department. I rose quickly and took down _Henry Esmond_, which
was in exactly the same place as it had been the day before. To my
utter confusion it opened quite naturally and I found in my hands
nothing more than an _édition de luxe_ printed on India paper and
profusely illustrated! I stared bewildered at the shelf. There was
no other _Henry Esmond_. Immediately over the vacant space stood the
life of Cardinal Richelieu as it had stood yesterday. I replaced the
volume, and trying not to look disconcerted turned to the colonel.
His expression was quite impassive, even bored. “It is a beautiful
edition,” he repeated, as if wearily. “Now if you are ready we will go
and see--er--the Chief.”
Feeling very foolish I stuttered assent and followed. As we proceeded
through the maze of stairways and unexpected passages which seemed to
me like a miniature House of Usher, I caught glimpses of tree-tops, of
the Embankment Gardens, the Thames, the Tower Bridge, and Westminster.
From the suddenness with which the angle of view changed I concluded
that in reality we were simply gyrating in one very limited space, and
when suddenly we entered a spacious study--the sanctum of “--er--the
Chief”--I had an irresistible sentiment that we had moved only a few
yards and that this study was immediately above the colonel’s office.
It was a low, dark chamber at the extreme top of the building. The
colonel knocked, entered, and stood at attention. Nervous and confused
I followed, painfully conscious that at that moment I could not have
expressed a sane opinion on any subject under the sun. From the
threshold the room seemed bathed in semi-obscurity. The writing desk
was so placed with the window behind it that on entering everything
appeared only in silhouette. It was some seconds before I could clearly
distinguish things. A row of half-a-dozen extending telephones stood
at the left of a big desk littered with papers. On a side table were
numerous maps and drawings, with models of aeroplanes, submarines,
and mechanical devices, while a row of bottles of various colours and
a distilling outfit with a rack of test tubes bore witness to chemical
experiments and operations. These evidences of scientific investigation
only served to intensify an already overpowering atmosphere of
strangeness and mystery.
But it was not these things that engaged my attention as I stood
nervously waiting. It was not the bottles or the machinery that
attracted my gaze. My eyes fixed themselves on the figure at the
writing table. In the capacious swing desk-chair, his shoulders
hunched, with his head supported on one hand, busily writing, there sat
in his shirt-sleeves----
Alas, no! Pardon me, reader, I was forgetting! There are still things
I may not divulge. There are things that must still remain shrouded in
secrecy. And one of them is--who was the figure in the swing desk-chair
in the darkened room at the top of the roof-labyrinth near Trafalgar
Square on this August day in 1918? I may not describe him, nor mention
even one of his twenty-odd names. Suffice it to say that, awe-inspired
as I was at this first encounter, I soon learned to regard “the Chief”
with feelings of the deepest personal regard and admiration. He was
a British officer and an English gentleman of the finest stamp,
absolutely fearless and gifted with limitless resources of subtle
ingenuity, and I count it one of the greatest privileges of my life to
have been brought within the circle of his acquaintanceship.
In silhouette I saw myself motioned to a chair. The Chief wrote for
a moment and then suddenly turned with the unexpected remark, “So I
understand you want to go back to Soviet Russia, do you?” as if it had
been my own suggestion. The conversation was brief and precise. The
words Archangel, Stockholm, Riga, Helsingfors recurred frequently,
and the names were mentioned of English people in those places and in
Petrograd. It was finally decided that I alone should determine how
and by what route I should regain access to Russia and how I should
despatch reports.
“Don’t go and get killed,” said the Chief in conclusion, smiling. “You
will put him through the ciphers,” he added to the colonel, “and take
him to the laboratory to learn the inks and all that.”
We left the Chief and arrived by a single flight of steps at the door
of the colonel’s room. The colonel laughed. “You will find your way
about in course of time,” he said. “Let us go to the laboratory at
once....”
And here I draw a veil over the roof-labyrinth. Three weeks later I set
out for Russia, into the unknown.
I resolved to make my first attempt at entry from the north, and
travelled up to Archangel on a troopship of American soldiers, most of
whom hailed from Detroit. But I found the difficulties at Archangel to
be much greater than I had anticipated. It was 600 miles to Petrograd
and most of this distance would have to be done on foot through unknown
moorland and forest. The roads were closely watched, and before my
plans were ready autumn storms broke and made the moors and marshes
impassable. But at Archangel, realizing that to return to Russia as
an Englishman was impossible, I let my beard grow and assumed an
appearance entirely Russian.
Failing in Archangel I travelled down to Helsingfors to try my luck
from the direction of Finland. Helsingfors, the capital of Finland,
is a busy little city bristling with life and intrigue. At the time
of which I am writing it was a sort of dumping-ground for every
variety of conceivable and inconceivable rumour, slander, and scandal,
repudiated elsewhere but swallowed by the gullible scandalmongers,
especially German and _ancien régime_ Russian, who found in this city
a haven of rest. Helsingfors was one of the unhealthiest spots in
Europe. Whenever mischance brought me there I lay low, avoided society,
and made it a rule to tell everybody the direct contrary of my real
intentions, even in trivial matters.
In Helsingfors I was introduced at the British Consulate to an agent
of the American Secret Service who had recently escaped from Russia.
This gentleman gave me a letter to a Russian officer in Viborg, by
name Melnikoff. The little town of Viborg, being the nearest place of
importance to the Russian frontier, was a hornets’ nest of Russian
refugees, counter-revolutionary conspirators, German agents, and
Bolshevist spies, worse if anything than Helsingfors. Disguised now
as a middle-class commercial traveller I journeyed on to Viborg,
took a room at the hotel I had been told Melnikoff stayed at, looked
him up, and presented my note of introduction. I found him to be a
Russian naval officer of the finest stamp and intuitively conceived
an immediate liking for him. His real name, I discovered, was not
Melnikoff, but in those parts many people had a variety of names to
suit different occasions. My meeting with him was providential, for
it appeared that he had worked with Captain Crombie, late British
Naval Attaché at Petrograd. In September, 1918, Captain Crombie was
murdered by the Bolsheviks at the British Embassy and it was the
threads of his shattered organization that I hoped to pick up upon
arrival in Petrograd. Melnikoff was slim, dark, with stubbly hair,
blue eyes, short and muscular. He was deeply religious and was imbued
with an intense hatred of the Bolsheviks--not without reason, since
both his father and his mother had been brutally shot by them, and he
himself had only escaped by a miracle. “The searchers came at night,”
he related the story to me. “I had some papers referring to the
insurrection at Yaroslavl which my mother kept for me. They demanded
access to my mother’s room. My father barred the way, saying she was
dressing. A sailor tried to push past, and my father angrily struck
him aside. Suddenly a shot rang out and my father fell dead on the
threshold of my mother’s bedroom. I was in the kitchen when the Reds
came and through the door I fired and killed two of them. A volley
of shots was directed at me. I was wounded in the hand and only just
escaped by the back stairway. Two weeks later my mother was executed on
account of the discovery of my papers.”
Melnikoff had but one sole object left in life--to avenge his parents’
blood. This was all he lived for. As far as Russia was concerned he
was frankly a monarchist, so I avoided talking politics with him. But
we were friends from the moment we met, and I had the peculiar feeling
that somewhere, long, long ago, we had met before, although I knew this
was not so.
Melnikoff was overjoyed to learn of my desire to return to Soviet
Russia. He undertook not only to make the arrangements with the
Finnish frontier patrols for me to be put across the frontier at night
secretly, but also to precede me to Petrograd and make arrangements
there for me to find shelter. Great hostility still existed between
Finland and Soviet Russia. Skirmishes frequently occurred, and the
frontier was guarded jealously by both sides. Melnikoff gave me two
addresses in Petrograd where I might find him, one at a hospital where
he had formerly lived, and the other of a small café which still
existed in a private flat unknown to the Bolshevist authorities.
Perhaps it was a pardonable sin in Melnikoff that he was a toper. We
spent three days together in Viborg making plans for Petrograd while he
drank up all my whisky except a small medicine bottle full which I hid
away. When he had satisfied himself that my stock was really exhausted
he announced himself ready to start. It was a Friday and we arranged
that I should follow two days later, on Sunday night, the 24th of
November. Melnikoff wrote out a password on a slip of paper. “Give that
to the Finnish patrols,” he said, “at the third house, the wooden one
with the white porch, on the left of the frontier bridge.”
At six o’clock he went into his room, returning in a few minutes so
transformed that I hardly recognized him. He wore a sort of seaman’s
cap that came right down over his eyes. He had dirtied his face, and
this, added to the three-days-old hirsute stubble on his chin, gave him
a truly demoniacal appearance. He wore a shabby coat and trousers of a
dark colour, and a muffler was tied closely round his neck. He looked
a perfect _apache_ as he stowed away a big Colt revolver inside his
trousers.
“Good-bye,” he said, simply, extending his hand; then stopped and
added, “let us observe the good old Russian custom and sit down for
a minute together.” According to a beautiful custom that used to be
observed in Russia in the olden days, friends sit down at the moment
of parting and maintain a moment’s complete silence while each wishes
the others a safe journey and prosperity. Melnikoff and I sat down
opposite each other. With what fervour I wished him success on the
dangerous journey he was undertaking for me! Suppose he were shot in
crossing the frontier? Neither I nor any one would know! He would just
vanish--one more good man gone to swell the toll of victims of the
revolution. And I? Well, I might follow! ’Twas a question of luck, and
’twas all in the game!
We rose. “Good-bye,” said Melnikoff again. He turned, crossed himself,
and passed out of the room. On the threshold he looked back. “Sunday
evening,” he added, “without fail.” I had a curious feeling I ought
to say something, I knew not what, but no words came. I followed
him quickly down the stairs. He did not look round again. At the
street door he glanced rapidly in every direction, pulled his cap
still further over his eyes, and passed away into the darkness--to
an adventure that was to cost him his life. I only saw him once
more after that, for a brief moment in Petrograd, under dramatic
circumstances--but that comes later in my story.
I slept little that night. My thoughts were all of Melnikoff, somewhere
or other at dead of night risking his life, outwitting the Red
outposts. He would _laugh_ away danger, I was sure, if caught in a
tight corner. His laugh would be a devilish one--the sort to allay all
Bolshevist suspicions! Then, in the last resort, was there not always
his Colt? I thought of his past, of his mother and father, of the story
he had related to me. How his fingers would itch to handle that Colt!
I rose early next day but there was not much for me to do. Being
Saturday the Jewish booths in the usually busy little market-place were
shut and only the Finnish ones were open. Most articles of the costume
which I had decided on were already procured, but I made one or two
slight additions on this day and on Sunday morning when the Jewish
booths opened. My outfit consisted of a Russian shirt, black leather
breeches, black knee boots, a shabby tunic, and an old leather cap with
a fur brim and a little tassel on top, of the style worn by the Finns
in the district north of Petrograd. With my shaggy black beard, which
by now was quite profuse, and long unkempt hair dangling over my ears I
looked a sight indeed, and in England or America should doubtless have
been regarded as a thoroughly undesirable alien!
On Sunday an officer friend of Melnikoff’s came to see me and make sure
I was ready. I knew him by the Christian name and patronymic of Ivan
Sergeievitch. He was a pleasant fellow, kind and considerate. Like many
other refugees from Russia he had no financial resources and was trying
to make a living for himself, his wife, and his children by smuggling
Finnish money and butter into Petrograd, where both were sold at a high
premium. Thus he was on good terms with the Finnish patrols who also
practised this trade and whose friendship he cultivated.
“Have you any passport yet, Pavel Pavlovitch?” Ivan Sergeievitch asked
me.
“No,” I replied, “Melnikoff said the patrols would furnish me with one.”
“Yes, that is best,” he said; “they have the Bolshevist stamps. But
we also collect the passports of all refugees from Petrograd, for
they often come in handy. And if anything happens remember you are a
‘speculator.’”
All were stigmatized by the Bolsheviks as speculators who indulged in
the private sale or purchase of foodstuffs or clothing. They suffered
severely, but it was better to be a speculator than what I was.
[Illustration: THE AUTHOR, DISGUISED]
When darkness fell Ivan Sergeievitch accompanied me to the station
and part of the way in the train, though we sat separately so that it
should not be seen that I was travelling with one who was known to be a
Russian officer.
“And remember, Pavel Pavlovitch,” said Ivan Sergeievitch, “go to my
flat whenever you are in need. There is an old housekeeper there who
will admit you if you say I sent you. But do not let the house porter
see you--he is a Bolshevik--and be careful the house committee do not
know, for they will ask who is visiting the house.”
I was grateful for this offer, which turned out to be very valuable.
We boarded the train at Viborg and sat at opposite ends of the
compartment, pretending not to know each other. When Ivan Sergeievitch
got out at his destination he cast one glance at me but we made no
sign of recognition. I sat huddled up gloomily in my corner, obsessed
with the inevitable feeling that everybody was watching me. The very
walls and seat seemed possessed of eyes! That man over there, did he
not look at me--twice? And that woman, spying constantly (I thought)
out of the corner of her eye! They would let me get as far as the
frontier, then they would send word over to the Reds that I was coming!
I shivered and was ready to curse myself for my fool adventure. But
there was no turning back! _Forsan et haec olim meminisse juvabit_,
wrote Virgil. (I used to write that on my Latin books at school--I
hated Latin.) “Perhaps some day it will amuse you to remember even
these things”--cold comfort, though, in a scrape and with your neck in
a noose. Yet these escapades _are_ amusing--afterwards.
At last the train stopped at Rajajoki, the last station on the
Finnish side of the frontier. It was a pitch-dark night with no moon.
Half-a-mile remained to the frontier, and I made my way along the rails
in the direction of Russia and down to the wooden bridge over the
little frontier river Sestra. I looked curiously across at the gloomy
buildings and the dull, twinkling lights on the other bank. That was my
Promised Land over there, but it was flowing not with milk and honey
but with blood. The Finnish sentry stood at his post at the bar of the
frontier bridge, and twenty paces away, on the other side, was the Red
sentry. I left the bridge on my right and turned to look for the house
of the Finnish patrols to whom I had been directed.
Finding the little wooden Villa with the white porch I knocked timidly.
The door opened, and I handed in the slip of paper on which Melnikoff
had written the password. The Finn who opened the door examined the
paper by the light of a greasy oil lamp, then held the lamp to my face,
peered closely at me, and finally signalled to me to enter.
“Come in,” he said. “We were expecting you. How are you feeling?” I did
not tell him how I was really feeling, but replied cheerily that I was
feeling splendid.
“That’s right,” he said. “You are lucky in having a dark night for it.
A week ago one of our fellows was shot as we put him over the river.
His body fell into the water and we have not yet fished it out.”
This, I suppose, was the Finnish way of cheering me up. “Has anyone
been over since?” I queried, affecting a tone of indifference. “Only
Melnikoff.” “Safely?” The Finn shrugged his shoulders. “We put him
across all right--_a dalshe ne zanyu_ ... what happened to him after
that I don’t know.”
The Finn was a lean, cadaverous-looking fellow. He led me into a tiny
eating-room, where three men sat round a smoky oil lamp. The window
was closely curtained and the room was intolerably stuffy. The table
was covered with a filthy cloth on which a few broken lumps of black
bread, some fish, and a samovar were placed. All four men were shabbily
dressed and very rough in appearance. They spoke Russian well, but
conversed in Finnish amongst themselves. One of them said something
to the cadaverous man and appeared to be remonstrating with him for
telling me of the accident that had happened to their colleague a
week before. The cadaverous Finn answered with some heat. “Melnikoff
is a chuckle-headed scatter-brain,” persisted the cadaverous man,
who appeared to be the leader of the party. “We told him not to be
such a fool as to go into Petrograd again. The Redskins are searching
for him everywhere and every detail of his appearance is known. But
he _would_ go. I suppose he loves to have his neck in a noose. With
you, I suppose, it is different. Melnikoff says you are somebody
important--but that’s none of our business. But the Redskins don’t like
the English. If I were you I wouldn’t go for anything. But it’s your
affair, of course.”
We sat down to the loaves and fishes. The samovar was boiling and
while we swilled copious supplies of weak tea out of dirty glasses
the Finns retailed the latest news from Petrograd. The cost of bread,
they said, had risen to about 800 or 1000 times its former price.
People hacked dead horses to pieces in the streets. All the warm
clothing had been taken and given to the Red army. The _Tchrezvichaika_
(the Extraordinary Commission) was arresting and shooting workmen
as well as the educated people. Zinoviev threatened to exterminate
all the bourgeoisie if any further attempt were made to molest the
Soviet Government. When the Jewish Commissar Uritzky was murdered
Zinoviev shot more than 500 at a stroke; nobles, professors, officers,
journalists, teachers, men and women, and a list of a further 500
was published who would be shot at the next attempt on a Commissar’s
life. I listened patiently, regarding the bulk of these stories as
the product of Finnish imagination. “You will be held up frequently
to be examined,” the cadaverous man warned me, “and do not carry
parcels--they will be taken from you in the street.”
After supper we sat down to discuss the plans of crossing. The
cadaverous Finn took a pencil and paper and drew a rough sketch of the
frontier.
“We will put you over in a boat at the same place as Melnikoff,” he
said. “Here is the river with woods on either bank. Here, about a mile
up, is an open meadow on the Russian side. It is now ten o’clock. About
three we will go out quietly and follow the road that skirts the river
on this side till we get opposite the meadow. That is where you will
cross.”
“Why at the open spot?” I queried, surprised. “Shall I not be seen
there most easily of all? Why not put me across into the woods?”
“Because the woods are patrolled, and the outposts change their place
every night. We cannot follow their movements. Several people have
tried to cross into the woods. A few succeeded, but most were either
caught or had to fight their way back. But this meadow is a most
unlikely place for any one to cross, so the Redskins don’t watch it.
Besides, being open we can see if there is any one on the other side.
We will put you across just here,” he said, indicating a narrow place
in the stream at the middle of the meadow. “At these narrows the water
runs faster, making a noise, so we are less likely to be heard. When
you get over run up the slope slightly to the left. There is a path
which leads up to the road. Be careful of this cottage, though,” he
added, making a cross on the paper at the extreme northern end of the
meadow. “The Red patrol lives in that cottage, but at three o’clock
they will probably be asleep.”
There remained only the preparation of “certificates of identification”
which should serve as passport in Soviet Russia. Melnikoff had told
me I might safely leave this matter to the Finns, who kept themselves
well informed of the kind of papers it was best to carry to allay the
suspicions of Red guards and Bolshevist police officials. We rose and
passed into another of the three tiny rooms which the villa contained.
It was a sort of office, with paper, ink, pens, and a typewriter on the
table.
“What name do you want to have?” asked the cadaverous man.
“Oh, any,” I replied. “Better, perhaps, let it have a slightly
non-Russian smack. My accent----”
“They won’t notice it,” he said, “but if you prefer----”
“Give him an Ukrainian name,” suggested one of the other Finns, “he
talks rather like a Little Russian.” Ukrainia, or Little Russia, is
the south-west district of European Russia, where a dialect with an
admixture of Polish is talked.
The cadaverous man thought for a moment. “‘Afirenko, Joseph Ilitch,’”
he suggested, “that smacks of Ukrainia.”
I agreed. One of the men sat down to the typewriter and carefully
choosing a certain sort of paper began to write. The cadaverous man
went to a small cupboard, unlocked it, and took out a box full of
rubber stamps of various sizes and shapes with black handles.
“Soviet seals,” he said, laughing at my amazement. “We keep ourselves
up to date, you see. Some of them were stolen, some we made ourselves,
and this one,” he pressed it on a sheet of paper leaving the imprint
_Commissar of the Frontier Station Bielo’ostrof_, “we bought from over
the river for a bottle of vodka.” Bielo’ostrof was the Russian frontier
village just across the stream.
I had had ample experience earlier in the year of the magical effect
upon the rudimentary intelligence of Bolshevist authorities of official
“documents” with prominent seals or stamps. Multitudinous stamped
papers of any description were a great asset in travelling, but a big
coloured seal was a talisman that levelled all obstacles. The wording
and even language of the document were of secondary importance. A
friend of mine once travelled from Petrograd to Moscow with no other
passport than a receipted English tailor’s bill. This “certificate of
identification” had a big printed heading with the name of the tailor,
some English postage stamps attached, and a flourishing signature
in red ink. He flaunted the document in the face of the officials,
assuring them it was a diplomatic passport issued by the British
Embassy! This, however, was in the early days of Bolshevism. The
Bolsheviks gradually removed illiterates from service and in the course
of time restrictions became very severe. But seals were as essential as
ever.
[Illustration: A FORGED CERTIFICATE OF IDENTIFICATION]
When the Finn had finished writing he pulled the paper out of the
typewriter and handed it to me for perusal. In the top left-hand corner
it had this heading:
* * * * *
Extraordinary Commissar of the Central Executive Committee of the
Petrograd Soviet of Workers’ and Red Armymen’s Deputies.
Then followed the text:
CERTIFICATE
This is to certify that Joseph Afirenko is in the service of the
Extraordinary Commissar of the Central Executive Committee of the
Petrograd Soviet of Workers’ and Red Armymen’s Deputies in the capacity
of office clerk, as the accompanying signatures and seal attest.
* * * * *
“In the service of the Extraordinary Commission?” I gasped, taken aback
by the amazing audacity of the thing.
“Why not?” said the cadaverous man coolly, “what could be safer?”
What, indeed? What could be safer than to purport to be in the service
of the institution whose duty it was to hound down all, old or young,
rich or poor, educated or illiterate--who ventured to oppose and sought
to expose the pseudo-proletarian Bolshevist administration? Nothing,
of course, could be safer! _S volkami zhitj, po voltchi vitj_, as the
Russians say. “If you must live amongst wolves, then howl, too, as the
wolves do!”
“Now for the signatures and seal,” said the Finn. “Tihonov and
Friedmann used to sign these papers, though it don’t matter much, it’s
only the seal that counts.” From some Soviet papers on the table
he selected one with two signatures from which to copy. Choosing a
suitable pen he scrawled beneath the text of my passport in an almost
illegible slanting hand, “Tihonov.” This was the signature of a proxy
of the Extraordinary Commissar. The paper must also be signed by a
secretary, or his proxy. “Sign for your own secretary,” said the Finn,
laughing and pushing the paper to me. “Write upright this time, like
this. Here is the original. ‘Friedmann’ is the name.” Glancing at
the original I made an irregular scrawl, resembling in some way the
signature of the Bolshevist official.
“Have you a photograph?” asked the cadaverous man. I gave him a
photograph I had had taken at Viborg. Cutting it down small he stuck
it at the side of the paper. Then, taking a round rubber seal, he made
two imprints over the photograph. The seal was a red one, with the same
inscription inside the periphery as was at the head of the paper. The
inner space of the seal consisted of the five-pointed Bolshevist star
with a mallet and a plough in the centre.
“That is your certificate of service,” said the Finn; “we will give you
a second one of personal identification.” Another paper was quickly
printed off with the words, “The holder of this is the Soviet employee,
Joseph Ilitch Afirenko, aged 36 years.” This paper was unnecessary in
itself, but two “documents” were always better than one.
It was now after midnight and the leader of the Finnish patrol ordered
us to lie down for a short rest. He threw himself on a couch in the
eating-room. There were only two beds for the remaining four of us
and I lay down on one of them with one of the Finns. I tried to sleep
but couldn’t. I thought of all sorts of things--of Russia in the
past, of the life of adventure I had elected to lead for the present,
of the morrow, of friends still in Petrograd who must not know of my
return--if I got there. I was nervous, but the dejection that had
overcome me in the train was gone. I saw the essential humour of my
situation. The whole adventure was really one big exclamation mark!
_Forsan et haec olim_....
The two hours of repose seemed interminable. I was afraid of three
o’clock and yet I wanted it to come quicker, to get it over. At last
a shuffling noise approached from the neighbouring room and the
cadaverous Finn prodded each of us with the butt of his rifle. “Wake
up,” he whispered, “we’ll leave in a quarter of an hour. No noise. The
people in the next cottage mustn’t hear us.”
We were ready in a few minutes. My entire baggage was a small parcel
that went into my pocket, containing a pair of socks, one or two
handkerchiefs, and some dry biscuits. In another pocket I had the
medicine bottle of whisky I had hidden from Melnikoff and some bread,
while I hid my money inside my shirt. One of the four Finns remained
behind. The other three were to accompany me to the river. It was a raw
and frosty November night, and pitch dark. Nature was still as death.
We issued silently from the house, the cadaverous man leading. One of
the men followed up behind, and all carried their rifles ready for use.
We walked stealthily along the road the Finn had pointed out to me
on paper overnight, bending low where no trees sheltered us from the
Russian bank. A few yards below on the right I heard the murmur of the
river stream. We soon arrived at a ramshackle villa standing on the
river surrounded by trees and thickets. Here we stood stock-still for
a moment to listen for any unexpected sounds. The silence was absolute.
But for the noise of the water there was not a sound.
We descended to the water under cover of the tumble-down villa and the
bushes. The stream was about twenty paces wide at this point. Along
both banks there was an edging of ice. I looked across at the opposite
side. It was open meadow, but the trees loomed darkly a hundred paces
away on either hand in the background. On the left I could just see the
cottage of the Red patrol against which the Finns had warned me.
The cadaverous man took up his station at a slight break in the
thickets. A moment later he returned and announced that all was well.
“Remember,” he enjoined me once more in an undertone, “run slightly
to the left, but--keep an eye on that cottage.” He made a sign to
the other two and from the bushes they dragged out a boat. Working
noiselessly they attached a long rope to the stern and laid a pole in
it. Then they slid it down the bank into the water.
“Get into the boat,” whispered the leader, “and push yourself across
with the pole. And good luck!”
I shook hands with my companions, pulled at my little bottle of whisky,
and got into the boat. I started pushing, but with the rope trailing
behind it was no easy task to punt the little bark straight across the
running stream. I was sure I should be heard, and had amidstream the
sort of feeling I should imagine a man has as he walks his last walk to
the gallows. At length I was at the farther side, but it was impossible
to hold the boat steady while I landed. In jumping ashore I crashed
through the thin layer of ice. I scrambled out and up the bank. And
the boat was hastily pulled back to Finland behind me.
“Run hard!” I heard a low call from over the water.
Damn it, the noise of my splash had reached the Red patrol! I was
already running hard when I saw a light emerge from the cottage on
the left. I forgot the injunctions as to direction and simply bolted
away from that lantern. Halfway across the sloping meadow I dropped
and lay still. The light moved rapidly along the river bank. There was
shouting, and then suddenly shots, but there was no reply from the
Finnish side. Then the light began to move slowly back towards the
cottage of the Red patrol, and finally all was silent again.
I lay motionless for some time, then rose and proceeded cautiously.
Having missed the right direction I found I had to negotiate another
small stream that ran obliquely down the slope of the meadow. Being
already wet I did not suffer by wading through it. Then I reached some
garden fences over which I climbed and found myself in the road.
Convincing myself that the road was deserted, I crossed it and came out
on to the moors where I found a half-built house. Here I sat down to
await the dawn--blessing the man who invented whisky, for I was very
cold. It began to snow, and half-frozen I got up to walk about and
study the locality as well as I could in the dark. At the cross-roads
near the station I discovered some soldiers sitting round a bivouac
fire, so I retreated quickly to my half-built house and waited till it
was light. Then I approached the station with other passengers. At the
gate a soldier was examining passports. I was not a little nervous
when showing mine for the first time, but the examination was a very
cursory one. The soldier seemed only to be assuring himself the paper
had a proper seal. He passed me through and I went to the ticket office
and demanded a ticket.
“One first class to Petrograd,” I said, boldly.
“There is no first class by this train, only second and third.”
“No first? Then give me a second.” I had asked the Finns what class
I ought to travel, expecting them to say, third. But they replied,
“First, of course,” for it would be strange to see an employee of the
Extraordinary Commission travelling other than first class. Third class
was for workers and peasants.
The journey to Petrograd was about twenty-five miles, and stopping at
every station the train took nearly two hours. As we approached the
city the coaches filled up until people were standing in the aisles and
on the platforms. There was a crush on the Finland Station at which we
arrived. The examination of papers was again merely cursory. I pushed
out with the throng, and looking around me on the dirty, rubbish-strewn
station I felt a curious mixture of relief and apprehension. A flood
of strange thoughts and recollections rushed through my mind. I saw
my whole life in a new and hitherto undreamt-of perspective. Days of
wandering Europe, student days in Russia, life amongst the Russian
peasantry, and three years of apparently aimless war work all at once
assumed symmetrical proportions and appeared like the sides of a prism
leading to a common apex at which I stood. Yes, my life, I suddenly
realized, _had_ had an aim--it was to stand here on the threshold of
the city that was my home, homeless, helpless, and friendless, one of
the common crowd. That was it--_one of the common crowd_! I wanted not
the theories of theorists, nor the doctrines of doctrinaires, but to
see what the greatest social experiment the world has ever witnessed
did for the common crowd. And, strangely buoyant, I stepped lightly out
of the station into the familiar streets.