MESHES
“Why, yes, Maria!” I exclaimed, “the way Mrs. Marsh bore up was just
wonderful to see! Twelve miles in deep snow, heavy marching through
thickets and scrub, over ditches and dykes, stumps and pitfalls, with
never a word of complaint, as though it were a picnic! You’d never have
dreamt she was just out of prison.”
“Yes, of course,” said Maria, proudly, “that would be just like her.
And where is she now, Ivan Ilitch?”
“On the way to England, I guess.”
I was back again in Red Petrograd after a brief stay in Finland. That
little country was supposed to be the headquarters of the Russian
counter-revolution, which meant that everyone who had a plan to
overthrow the Bolsheviks (and there were almost as many plans as there
were patriots) conspired with as much noise as possible to push it
through to the detriment of everybody else’s. So tongues wagged fast
and viciously, and any old cock-and-bull story about anybody else was
readily believed, circulated, and shouted abroad. You got it published
if you could, and if you couldn’t (the papers, after all, had to draw
the line somewhere), then you printed it yourself in the form of a
libellous pamphlet. I felt a good deal safer in Petrograd, where I was
thrown entirely on my own resources, than in Helsingfors, where the
appearance of a stranger in a café or restaurant in almost anybody’s
company was sufficient to set the puppets of a rival faction in
commotion, like an ant-nest when a stone is dropped on it.
So I hid, stayed at a room in a private house, bought my own food
or frequented insignificant restaurants, and was glad when I was
given some money for expenses and could return to my friends Maria,
Stepanovna, the Journalist, and others in Petrograd.
“How did you get back here, Ivan Ilitch?”
“Same old way, Maria. Black night. Frozen river. Deep snow. Everything
around--bushes, trees, meadows--still and grey-blue in the starlight.
Finnish patrols kept guard as before--lent me a white sheet, too, to
wrap myself up in. Sort of cloak of invisibility, like in the fairy
tales. So while the Finns watched through the bushes, I shuffled across
the river, looking like Cæsar’s ghost.”
Maria was fascinated. “And did nobody see you?”
“Nobody, Maria. To make a good story I should have knocked at the
door of the Red patrol and announced myself as the spirit of His Late
Imperial Majesty, returned to wreak vengeance, shouldn’t I? But I
didn’t. Instead of that I threw away the sheet and took a ticket to
Petrograd. Very prosaic, wasn’t it? I’ll have some more tea, please.”
I found a new atmosphere developing in the city which is proudly
entitled the “Metropolis of the World Revolution.” Simultaneously with
the increasing shortage of food and fuel and the growing embitterment
of the masses, new tendencies were observable on the part of the
ruling Communist Party. Roughly, these tendencies might be classed as
political or administrative, social, and militarist.
Politically, the Communist Party was being driven in view of popular
discontent to tighten its control by every means on all branches of
administrative activity in the country. Thus the people’s co-operative
societies and trade unions were gradually being deprived of their
liberties and independence, and the “boss” system under Communist
bosses was being introduced. At the same time elections had to be
strictly “controlled,” that is, manipulated in such a way that only
Communists got elected.
As an off-set to this, it was evident the Communists were beginning to
realize that political “soundness” (that is, public confession of the
Communist creed) was a bad substitute for administrative ability. The
premium on ignorance was being replaced by a premium on intelligence
and training, and bourgeois “specialists” of every calling, subject
to rigid Communist control, were being encouraged to resume their
avocations or accept posts with remunerative pay under the Soviet
Government. Only two conditions were required, namely, that the
individual renounce all claim to former property and all participation
in politics. These overtures were made particularly to members of
the liberal professions, doctors, nurses, matrons, teachers, actors,
and artists, but also to industrial and commercial experts, and even
landlords who were trained agriculturists. Thus was established a
compromise with the bourgeoisie.
No people in the world are so capable of heroic and self-sacrificing
labour for purely altruistic motives as a certain type of Russian.
I remember in the summer of 1918, when the persecution of the
intelligentsia was at its height, drawing attention in an official
report to the remarkable fact of the large number of educated Russians
who had heroically stuck to their posts and were struggling in the
face of adversity to save at least something from the general wreck.
Such individuals might be found at times even within the ranks of “the
party,” but they cared little for the silly politics of Bolshevism
and nothing whatever for the world revolution. Credit is due to the
Communists at least to this extent, that they realized ultimately
the value of such service to humanity, and, when they discovered it,
encouraged it, especially if the credit for it accrued to themselves.
The work done by heroic individuals of this type served largely to
counterbalance the psychological effect of ever-increasing political
and industrial slavery, and it has therefore been denounced as
“treacherous” by some counter-revolutionary _émigrés_, and especially
by those in whose eyes the alleviation of the bitter lot of the Russian
people was a minor detail compared with the restoration of themselves
to power.
The third growing tendency, the militarist, was the most interesting,
and, incidentally, to me the most embarrassing. The stimulus to
build a mighty Red army for world-revolutionary purposes was
accentuated by the pressing need of mobilizing forces to beat off the
counter-revolutionary, or “White,” armies gathering on the outskirts
of Russia, particularly in the south and east. The call for volunteers
was a complete failure from the start, except in so far as people
joined the Red army with the object of getting bigger rations until
being sent to the front, and then deserting at the first opportunity.
So mobilization orders increased in frequency and stringency and until
I got some settled occupation I had to invent expedients to keep my
passport papers up to date.
My friends, the Finnish patrols, had furnished me with a renewed
document better worded than the last and with a later date, so I
left the old one in Finland and now keep it as a treasured relic. As
a precautionary measure I changed my name to Joseph Krylenko. But
the time was coming when even those employees of the Extraordinary
Commission who were not indispensable might be subject to mobilization.
The Tsarist police agents, of course, and Chinese and other foreign
hirelings, who eavesdropped and spied in the factories and public
places, were indispensable, but the staff of clerical employees, one of
whom I purported to be, might be cut down. So I had somehow to get a
document showing I was exempt from military service.
It was Zorinsky who helped me out. I called him up the day after my
return, eager to have news of Melnikoff. He asked me to come round
to dinner and I deliberated with myself whether, having told him I
expected to go to Moscow, I should let him know I had been to Finland.
I decided to avoid the subject and say nothing at all.
Zorinsky greeted me warmly. So did his wife. As we seated ourselves at
the dinner-table I noticed there was still no lack of good food, though
Elena Ivanovna, of course, complained.
“Your health, Pavel Ivanitch,” exclaimed Zorinsky as usual; “glad to
see you back. How are things over there?”
“Over where?” I queried.
“Why, in Finland, of course.”
So he knew already! It was a good thing for me that I had devoted a
deal of thought to the enigmatical personality of my companion. I
could not make him out. Personally, I disliked him intensely, yet he
had already been of considerable service and in any case I needed
his assistance to effect Melnikoff’s release. On one occasion he
had mentioned, in passing, that he knew Melnikoff’s friend Ivan
Sergeievitch, so it had been my intention to question the latter on the
subject while in Finland, but he was away and I had seen no one else to
ask. The upshot of my deliberations was that I resolved to cultivate
Zorinsky’s acquaintance for my own ends, but until I knew him better
never to betray any true feelings of surprise, fear, or satisfaction.
Disconcerted, therefore, as I was by his knowledge of my movements, I
managed to divert my undeniable confusion into an expression of disgust.
“Rotten,” I replied with a good deal of emphasis, and, incidentally, of
truth. “Absolutely rotten. If people here think Finland is going to do
anything against the Bolsheviks they are mistaken. I never in my life
saw such a mess-up of factions and feuds.”
“But is there plenty to eat there?” put in Elena Ivanovna, this being
the sole subject that interested her.
“Oh, yes, there is plenty to eat,” and to her delight and envy I
detailed a comprehensive list of delicacies unobtainable in Russia,
even by the theatrical world.
“It is a pity you did not let me put you across the bridge at
Bielo’ostrof,” observed Zorinsky, referring to his offer to assist me
in getting across the frontier.
“Oh, it was all right,” I said. “I had to leave at a moment’s notice.
It was a long and difficult walk, but not unpleasant.”
“I could have put you across quite simply,” he said, “--both of you.”
“Who, ‘both of us’?”
“Why, you and Mrs. Marsh, of course.”
Phew! So he knew that, too!
“You seem to know a lot of things,” I remarked, as casually as I could.
“It is my hobby,” he replied, with his crooked, cynical smile. “You
are to be congratulated, I must say, on Mrs. Marsh’s escape. It was, I
believe, very neatly executed. You didn’t do it yourself, I suppose?”
“No,” I said, “and, to tell the truth, I have no idea how it was done.”
I was prepared to swear by all the gods that I knew nothing of the
affair.
“Nor have they any idea at _No. 2 Goróhovaya_,” he said. “At least, so
I am told.” He appeared not to attach importance to the matter. “By
the way,” he continued a moment later, “I want to warn you against a
fellow I have heard Marsh was in touch with. Alexei--Alexei--what’s his
name?--Alexei Fomitch something-or-other--I’ve forgotten the surname.”
The Policeman!
“Ever met him?”
“Never heard of him,” I said, indifferently.
“Look out if you do,” said Zorinsky, “he is a German spy.”
“Any idea where he lives?” I inquired, in the same tone.
“No; he is registered under a pseudonym, of course. But he doesn’t
interest me. I chanced to hear of him the other day and thought I would
caution you.”
Was it mere coincidence that Zorinsky mentioned the Policeman? I
resolved to venture a query.
“Any connection between Mrs. Marsh and this--er--German spy?” I asked,
casually.
“Not that I know of.” For a moment a transitory flash appeared in his
eyes. “You really think Mrs. Marsh was ignorant of how she escaped?” he
added.
“I am positive. She hadn’t the faintest notion.”
Zorinsky was thoughtful. We changed the subject, but after a while he
approached it again.
“It is impertinent of me to ask questions,” he said, courteously, “but
I cannot help being abstractly interested in your chivalrous rescue of
Mrs. Marsh. I scarcely expect you to answer, but I should, indeed, be
interested to know how you learned she was free.”
“Why, very simply,” I replied. “I met her quite by chance at a friend’s
house and offered to escort her across the frontier.”
Zorinsky collapsed and the subject was not mentioned again. Though it
was clear he had somehow established a connection in his mind between
the Policeman’s name and that of Mrs. Marsh, my relief was intense
to find him now on the wrong tack and apparently indifferent to the
subject.
As on the occasion of my first visit to this interesting personage, I
became so engrossed in subjects he introduced that I completely forgot
Melnikoff, although the latter had been uppermost in my thoughts since
I successfully landed Mrs. Marsh in Finland. Nor did the subject recur
to mind until Zorinsky himself broached it.
“Well, I have lots of news for you,” he said as we moved into the
drawing-room for coffee. “In the first place, Vera Alexandrovna’s café
is rounded up and she’s under lock and key.”
He imparted this information in an indifferent tone.
“Are you not sorry for Vera Alexandrovna?” I said.
“Sorry? Why should one be? She was a nice girl, but foolish to keep a
place like that, with all those stupid old fogeys babbling aloud like
chatterboxes. It was bound to be found out.”
I recalled that this was exactly what I had thought about the place
myself.
“What induced _you_ to frequent it?” I asked.
“Oh, just for company,” he replied. “Sometimes one found someone to
talk to. Lucky I was not there. The Bolsheviks got quite a haul, I am
told, something like twenty people. I just happened to miss, and should
have walked right into the trap next day had I not chanced to find out
just in time.”
My misgivings, then, regarding Vera’s secret café had been correct, and
I was thankful I had fought shy of the place after my one visit. But I
felt very sorry for poor Vera Alexandrovna. I was still thinking of her
when Zorinsky thrust a big blue sheet of oil paper into my hands.
“What do you think of that?” he asked.
The paper was a pen-sketch of the Finnish Gulf, but for some time I
could make neither head nor tail of the geometrical designs which
covered it. Only when I read in the corner the words _Fortress of
Cronstadt, Distribution of Mines_, did I realize what the map really
was.
“Plan of the minefields around Cronstadt and in the Finnish Gulf,”
explained Zorinsky. The mines lay in inner and outer fields and the
course was shown which a vessel would have to take to pass through
safely. The plan proved subsequently to be quite correct.
“How did you get hold of it?” I asked, interested and amused.
“Does it matter?” he said. “There is generally a way to do these
things. That is the original. If you would like to make a copy of it,
you must do so to-night. It must be returned to its locked drawer in
the Admiralty not later than half-past nine to-morrow morning.”
A few days later I secured through my regular Admiralty connections,
whom I met at the Journalist’s, confirmation of this distribution of
mines. They could not procure me the map, but they gave a list of the
latitudes and longitudes, which tallied precisely with those shown on
Zorinsky’s plan.
While I was still examining the scheme of minefields my companion
produced two further papers and asked me to glance at them. I found
them to be official certificates of exemption from military service
on the ground of heart trouble, filled up with details, date of
examination (two days previously), signatures of the officiating
doctor, who was known to me by name, the doctor’s assistant, and the
proxy of the controlling commissar. One was filled out in the name of
Zorinsky. The other was complete--except for the name of the holder!
A close examination and comparison of the signatures convinced me
they were genuine. This was exactly the certificate I so much needed
to avoid mobilization and I began to think Zorinsky a genius--an evil
genius, perhaps, but still a genius!
“One for each of us,” he observed, laconically. “The doctor is a
good friend of mine. I needed one for myself, so I thought I might
as well get one for you, too. At the end of the day the doctor told
the commissar’s assistant he had promised to examine two individuals
delayed by business half an hour later. There was no need for the
official to wait, he said; if he did not mind putting his signature
to the empty paper, he assured him it would be all right. He knew
exactly what was the trouble with the two fellows; they were genuine
cases, but their names had slipped his memory. Of course, the
commissar’s assistant might wait if he chose, but he assured him it
was unnecessary. So the commissar’s assistant signed the papers and
departed. Shortly after, the doctor’s assistant did the same. The
doctor waited three-quarters of an hour for his two cases. They did
not arrive, and here are the exemption certificates. Will you fill in
your name at once?”
What? _My name!_ I suddenly recollected that I had never told Zorinsky
what surname I was living under, nor shown him my papers, nor initiated
him into any kind of personal confidence whatsoever. Nor had my
reticence been accidental. At every house I frequented I was known by a
different Christian name and patronymic (the Russian mode of address),
and I felt intensely reluctant to disclose my assumed surname or show
the passport in my possession.
The situation was one of great delicacy, however. Could I decently
refuse to inscribe my name in Zorinsky’s presence after the
various favours he had shown me and the assistance he was lending
me--especially by procuring me the very exemption certificate I so
badly needed? Clearly it would be an offence. On the other hand, I
could not invent another name and thus lose the document, since it
would always have to be shown together with a regular passport. To gain
time for reflection I picked up the certificate to examine it again.
The longer I thought the clearer I realized that, genuine though the
certificate undoubtedly was, the plot had been laid deliberately
to make me disclose the name under which I was living! Had it been
the Journalist, or even the Policeman, I should not have hesitated,
certainly not have winced as I did now. But it was Zorinsky, the
clever, cynical, and mysterious Zorinsky, for whom I suddenly
conceived, as I cast a sidelong glance at him, a most intense and
overpowering repugnance.
Zorinsky caught my sidelong glance. He was lolling in a rocking-chair,
with a bland expression on his misformed face as he swung forward and
backward, intent on his nails. He looked up, and as our eyes met for
the merest instant I saw he had not failed to note my hesitation.
I dropped into the desk-chair and seized a pen.
“Certainly,” I said, “I will inscribe my name at once. This is, indeed,
a godsend.”
Zorinsky rose and stood at my side. “You must imitate the writing,” he
said. “I am sorry I am not a draftsman to assist you.”
I substituted a pencil for the pen and began to draw my name in
outline, copying letters from the handwriting on the certificate.
I rapidly detected the essentials of the handwriting, and Zorinsky
applauded admiringly as I traced the words--_Joseph Krylenko_. When
they were done I finished them off in ink and laid down the pen, very
satisfied.
“Occupation?” queried my companion, as quietly as if he were asking the
hour.
_Occupation!_ A revolver-shot at my ear could not have startled me
more than this simple but completely unexpected query! The two blank
lines I took to be left for the name only, but, looking closer, I saw
that the second was, indeed, intended for the holder’s business or
occupation. The word _zaniatia_ (occupation) was not printed in full,
but abbreviated--_zan._, while these three letters were concealed by
the scrawling handwriting of the line below, denoting the age “thirty,”
written out in full.
I managed somehow not to jump out of my seat. “Is it essential?” I
asked. “I have no occupation.”
“Then you must invent one,” he replied. “You must have some sort of
passport with you. What do you show the guards in the street? Copy
whatever you have from that.”
Cornered! I had put my foot in it nicely. Zorinsky was inquisitive for
some reason or other to learn how I was living and under what name,
and had succeeded effectually in discovering part at least of what
he wanted to know. There was nothing for it. I reluctantly drew my
passport of the Extraordinary Commission from my pocket in order that I
might copy the exact wording.
“May I see?” asked my companion, picking up the paper. I scrutinized
his face as he slowly perused it. An amused smile flickered round his
crooked mouth, one end of which jutted up into his cheek. “A very nice
passport indeed,” he said, finally, looking with peculiar care at the
signatures. “It will be a long time before you land in the cells of
_No. 2 Goróhovaya_ if you continue like this.”
He turned the paper over. Fortunately the regulation had not yet been
published rendering all “documents of identification” invalid unless
stamped by one’s house committee, showing the full address. So there
was nothing on the back.
“You are a pupil of Melnikoff, that is clear,” he said, laying the
paper down on the desk. “By the way, I have something to tell you about
Melnikoff. But finish your writing first.”
I soon inscribed my occupation of clerk in an office of the
Extraordinary Commission, adding also “six” to the age to conform
with my other papers. As I traced the letters I tried to sum up the
situation. Melnikoff, I hoped, would now soon be free, but misgivings
began to arise regarding my own position, which I had a disquieting
suspicion had in some way become jeopardized as a result of the
disclosures I had had to make that evening to Zorinsky.
When I had finished I folded the exemption certificate and put it with
my passport in my pocket.
“Well, what is the news of Melnikoff?” I said.
Zorinsky was engrossed in _Pravda_, the official Press organ of the
Communist Party. “I beg your pardon? Oh, yes--Melnikoff. I have no
doubt he will be released, but the investigator wants the whole 60,000
roubles first.”
“That is strange,” I observed, surprised. “You told me he would only
want the second half _after_ Melnikoff’s release.”
“True. But I suppose now he fears he won’t have time to get it, since
he also will have to quit.”
“And meanwhile what guarantee have I--have we--that the investigator
will fulfil his pledge?”
Zorinsky looked indifferently over the top of his newspaper.
“Guarantee? None,” he replied, in his usual laconic manner.
“Then why the devil should I throw away another 30,000 roubles on the
off-chance----?”
“You needn’t if you don’t want to,” he put in, in the same tone.
“Are you not interested in the subject?” I said, secretly indignant at
his manner.
“Of course I am. But what is the use of getting on one’s hind-legs
about it? The investigator wants his money in advance. Without it, he
will certainly risk nothing. With it, he may, and there’s an end of it.
If I were you I would pay up, if you want Melnikoff let out. What is
the good of losing your first 30,000 for nothing? You won’t get that
back, anyway.”
I thought for a moment. It seemed to me highly improbable that a rascal
investigator, having got his money, would deliberately elect to put
his neck in a noose to save someone he didn’t care two pins about.
Was there no other means of effecting the escape? I thought of the
Policeman. But with inquiries being made along one line, inquiries
along a second would doubtless be detected by the first, with all sorts
of undesirable complications and discoveries. An idea occurred to me.
“Can we not threaten the life of the investigator if he plays false?” I
suggested.
Zorinsky considered. “You mean hire someone to shoot him? That would
cost a lot of money and we should be in the hands of our hired assassin
as much as we are now in those of our investigator, while if he were
shot we should lose the last chance of saving Melnikoff. Besides, the
day after we threaten the investigator’s life he will decamp with the
first thirty thousand in his pocket. Pay up, Pavel Ivanitch, pay up and
take the chance--that’s my advice.”
Zorinsky picked up his paper and went on reading.
What should I do? Faint though the chance seemed, I resolved to take
it, as it was the only one. I told Zorinsky I would bring him the money
on the morrow.
“All right,” he said, adding thoughtfully, as he laid aside the
newspaper. “By the way, I think you were perhaps right about
threatening the investigator’s life. Yes. It is not a bad idea. He need
not know we know we are really powerless. We will tell him he is being
tracked and cannot escape us. I will see what can be done about it. You
are right, after all, Pavel Ivanitch.”
Satisfied at having made this suggestion, I set about to copy the map
of the minefields and then retired for the night.
Not to sleep, however. For hours I paced up and down the soft carpet,
recalling every word of the evening’s conversation, and trying to
invent a means of making myself again independent of Zorinsky.
Would Melnikoff be released? The prospects seemed suddenly to have
diminished. Meanwhile, Zorinsky knew my name, and might, for all I
knew, out of sheer curiosity, be designing to discover my haunts and
acquaintances. I recalled poignantly how I had been cornered that
evening and forced to show him my passport.
With this train of thought I took my newly procured exemption
certificate from my pocket and examined it again. Yes, it certainly was
a treasure. “Incurable heart trouble”--that meant permanent exemption.
With this and my passport, I considered, I might with comparative
safety even register myself and take regular rooms somewhere on the
outskirts of the town. However, I resolved I would not do that as long
as I could conveniently live in the centre of the city, moving about
from house to house.
The only thing I did not like about my new “document” was its patent
newness. I have never yet seen anybody keep tidy “documents” in Russia,
the normal condition of a passport being the verge of dissolution.
There was no need to reduce my certificate to that state at once, since
it was only two days old, but I decided that I would at least fold and
crumple it as much as my passport, which was only five days old. I took
the paper and, folding it tightly in four, pressed the creases firmly
between finger and thumb. Then, laying it on the table, I squeezed the
folds under my thumb-nail, drawing the paper backward and forward.
Finally, the creases looking no longer new, I began to ruffle the edges.
[Illustration: THE AUTHOR, DISGUISED]
And then a miracle occurred!
You know, of course, the conundrum: “Why is paper money preferable to
coin?”--the answer being, “Because when you put it in your pocket you
double it, and when you take it out you find it in creases.” Well,
that is what literally did occur with my exemption certificate! While
holding it in my hands and ruffling the edges, the paper all at once
appeared to move of itself, and, rather like protozoa propagating
its species, most suddenly and unexpectedly divided, revealing to my
astonished eyes not one exemption certificate--_but two_!
Two of the printed sheets had by some means become so closely stuck
together that it was only when the edges were ruffled that they fell
apart, and neither the doctor nor Zorinsky had noted it. Here was the
means of eluding Zorinsky by filling in another paper! How shall I
describe my joy at the unlooked-for discovery! The nervous reaction was
so intense that, much to my own amusement, I found tears streaming down
my cheeks. I laughed and felt like the Count of Monte Cristo unearthing
his treasure--until, sobering down a little, I recollected that the
blank form was quite useless until I had another passport to back it up.
That night I thrashed out my position thoroughly and determined on
a line of action. Zorinsky, I reflected, was a creature whom in
ordinary life I should have been inclined to shun like the pest. I
record here only those incidents and conversations which bear on my
story, but when not discussing “business” he lavished a good deal
of gratuitous information about his private life, particularly of
regimental days, which was revolting. But in the abnormal circumstances
in which I lived, to “cut” with anybody with whom I had once formed
a close association was very difficult, and in Zorinsky’s case
doubly so. Suppose he saw me in the street afterward, or heard of
me through any of his numerous connections? Pursuing his “hobby” of
_contre-espionnage_ he would surely not fail to follow the movements
of a star of the first magnitude like myself. There was no course
open but to remain on good terms and profit to the full by the
information I obtained from him and the people I occasionally met at
his house--information which proved to be invariably correct. But he
must learn nothing of my other movements, and in this respect I felt
the newly discovered blank exemption form would surely be of service. I
had only to procure another passport from somewhere or other.
What was Zorinsky’s real attitude toward Melnikoff, I wondered?
How well had they known each other? If only I had some means of
checking--but I knew none of Melnikoff’s connections in Russia. He had
lived at a hospital. He had spoken of a doctor friend. I had already
twice seen the woman at the lodge to which he had directed me. I
thought hard for a moment.
Yes, good idea! On the morrow I would resort once more to Melnikoff’s
hospital on The Islands, question the woman again, and, if possible,
seek an interview with the doctor. Perhaps he could shed light on the
matter. Thus deciding, I threw myself dressed on the bed and fell
asleep.