TERROR IN MAKING
In the spring of 1919 Malcolm Hay came out from the Kursky Voksal
carrying his own well-worn valise. An indifferent cigar was clenched
between his white teeth, and there was a sparkle of amusement in his
grave eyes. He stood seventy inches in his stockings, and an excellent
judge of men who looked him over, noted the set and width of shoulders,
the upward lift of chin, the tanned face and flexibility of body, marked
him down "soldier"--either American or English.
Malcolm looked up and down the deserted street and then caught the eye
of the solitary _intooski_, a thoughtful-looking man with a short,
square beard, looking monstrously stout in his padded green coat, the
livery of the Moscow drosky driver.
The man on the sidewalk smiled and walked across the pavement.
"Little brother," he said in fluent Russian, "would you condescend to
drive me to the Hotel du Bazar Slav?"
The driver who had noted so approvingly the shape of Malcolm's
shoulders did not immediately answer; then:
"British?--I thought you were."
He spoke excellent English, and Malcolm looked up at him bewildered.
"I seem to know your face, too--let me think."
The cab-driver tapped his bearded chin.
"I have it--Hay. I met you four years ago at a dinner party in
Kieff--you are the manager of an oil company or something of the sort."
"Right," said the astonished young man, "but--I don't exactly place
you."
The drosky driver smiled.
"And yet I dined with you," he said. "I sat next the Grand Duchess
Irene--later, when war broke out, I invited you to my headquarters."
"Good God!" Malcolm's jaw dropped. "General Malinkoff!"
"Commanding the 84th Caucasian Division," said the bearded man dryly,
"and now commanding one little horse. If you will get into my excellent
cab I will drive you to a restaurant where we may eat and drink and be
almost merry for--fifty roubles."
Malcolm stepped into the little drosky like a man in a dream. Malinkoff!
He remembered him, a fine figure on a horse, riding through Kieff at
the head of a glittering throng of staff officers. There was a function
at the Grand Hotel to meet the new Commander, a great parade at that
ancient palace in his honour--Malcolm had come in from the oil-fields
partly to meet him at dinner--partly for news of one who had of a sudden
vanished from his life.
The drosky drove furiously through the east end of the town, and the
passenger noted that the driver was careful to avoid the big
thoroughfares which led to the Krasnaya Plotzad and that centre of
Moscow which is the Kremlin.
Presently it drew up before a small eating-house in a poor street, and
the driver hoisted himself to the ground. He left his horse unattended
and, leading the way, pushed open the swing doors of the restaurant and
passed down a long, low-ceilinged room crowded with diners, to a table
at the far end.
"Sit down, Mr. Hay. I can promise you a fair but by no means sybarite
feast--good morning, Nicholas Vassilitsky."
He nodded pleasantly to a grey-haired man in a workman's blouse sitting
at the next table, and the man addressed rose stiffly, bowed and sat
down.
"If you wish your clothes valeted whilst you are in Moscow, I recommend
my friend," said the driver, snapping his fingers towards a stout
waitress. "Colonel Nicholas Vassilitsky is not only an excellent
Director of Military Intelligence but he can press a pair of trousers
with any man."
He gave his orders briefly, and turned to his companion.
"First of all, let me interrogate you. You are on your way to
Petrograd?"
"Yes--I am on my way home. During the war I have been controlling allied
supplies in Little Russia--the Revolution stopped that."
"Fortunate man--to have a country," said General Malinkoff, and he spoke
seriously and without bitterness. "A country and an army--coherent,
disciplined comrades in arms."
He shrugged his padded shoulders.
"Yes--you are on your way to your home? It will take you months to leave
the country--if you ever leave it. I tried to leave last month. I am a
reactionary with a leaning toward discipline. I cannot breathe the air
of democracy. I used to think I had Liberal ideas. There was a time when
I thought that a day would dawn when the world would be a great United
States of Free People. Ah, well--I am still a reactionary."
Malcolm knew that behind those grave eyes was a world of laughter, that
beneath the solemn words was a gentle irony, and yet for the while he
could not distinguish how much of tragedy there was in the man's fun.
"But why are you----"
"Driving a cab?" The general finished the sentence. "Because, my friend,
I am human. I must eat, for example; I must have a room to sleep in. I
need cigarettes, and clean shirts at least three times a week--for God's
sake never let that be known. I must also have warm clothes for the
winter--in fact, I must live."
"But haven't you--money?" Malcolm felt all a decent man's embarrassment.
"Forgive me butting into your affairs, but naturally I'm rather hazed."
"Naturally," laughed the general. "A bottle of kavass, my peach of
Turkistan, and a glass for our comrade."
"Long live the Revolution!" wheezed the waitress mechanically.
"Long may it live, little mother!" responded the general.
When the girl had gone he squared round to his companion.
"I have no shame, Mr. Hay--I'm going to let you pay for your own dinner
because I cannot in these democratic times pauperize you by paying for
you. No, I have no money. My balance in the State bank has been
confiscated to the sacred cause of the people. My estate, a hundred
versts or so from Moscow, confiscated to the sacred cause of the
Revolution, my house in Petrograd is commandeered to the sacred service
of the Soviet."
"But your command?"
The general did not smile now. He laid down his knife and fork and threw
a glance behind him.
"The men began shooting their officers in March, 1917," he said,
lowering his voice. "They executed the divisional staff in May--the
democratic spirit was of slow growth. They spared me because I had
written a book in my youth urging popular government and had been
confined in the fortess of Vilna for my crime. When the army was
disbanded I came to Moscow, and the cab was given to me by a former
groom of mine, one Isaac Mosservitch, who is now a judge of the high
court and dispenses pretty good law, though he cannot sign his own
name."
"Mr. Hay," he went on earnestly, "you did wrong to come to Moscow. Get
back to Kieff and strike down into the Caucasus. You can reach the
American posts outside of Tiflis. You'll never leave Russia. The
Bolsheviks have gone mad--blood-mad, murder-mad. Every foreigner is
suspect. The Americans and the English are being arrested. I can get you
a passport that will carry you to Odessa, and you can reach Batoum, and
Baku from there."
Malcolm leant back in his chair and looked thoughtfully at the other.
"Is it so bad?"
"Bad! Moscow is a mad-house. Listen--do you hear anything?"
Above the hum of conversation Malcolm caught a sound like the cracking
of whips.
"Rifle-firing," said the general calmly. "There's a counter-revolution
in progress. The advanced Anarchists are in revolt against the
Bolsheviks. There is a counter-revolution every morning. We cab-drivers
meet after breakfast each day and decide amongst ourselves which of the
streets shall be avoided. We are pretty well informed--Prince
Dalgoursky, who was a captain in the Preopojensky Guard, sells
newspapers outside the Soviet headquarters, and the comrades give him
tips. One of these days the comrades will shoot him, but for the moment
he is in favour, and makes as much as a hundred roubles a day."
The waitress came to the table, and the conversation momentarily ceased.
When she had gone Malcolm put the question which he had asked so often
in the past four years.
"Can you give me any news of the Grand Duke Yaroslav?"
The other shook his head.
"His Highness was in Petrograd when I heard of him last."
"And--and his daughter? She has been with the Russian Red Cross on the
Riga front, I know."
The bearded man shot a queer glance at his companion.
"In what circumstances did you see her last?" he asked.
Malcolm hesitated.
He could hardly tell a stranger of that tragic scene which was enacted
in his bedroom. From the moment she had fled through the door he had not
set eyes upon her. In the morning when he had wakened, feeling sick and
ill, he had been told that the Grand Duke and his daughter had left by
the early northern express for the capital. Of Boolba, that hideously
blinded figure, he heard nothing. When he inquired for Israel Kensky,
men shrugged and said that he had "disappeared." His house was closed
and the old man might be in prison or in hiding. Later he was to learn
that Kensky had reappeared in Moscow, apparently without hindrance from
the authorities. As for Boolba, he had kept his counsel.
"You seem embarrassed," smiled Malinkoff. "I will tell you why I ask.
You know that her Grand Ducal Highness was banished from Court for
disobedience to the royal will?"
Malcolm shook his head.
"I know nothing--absolutely nothing. Kieff and Odessa are full of
refugees and rumours, but one is as much a suspect as the other."
"She would not marry--that is all. I forget the name of the exalted
personage who was chosen for her, though I once helped to carry him up
to bed--he drank heavily even in those days. God rest him! He died like
a man. They hung him in a sack in Peter and Paul, and he insulted the
Soviets to the last!"
"So--so she is not married?"
The general was silent, beckoning the waitress.
"My little dear," he said, "what shall I pay you?"
She gave him the scores and they settled.
"Which way now?" asked the general.
"I hardly know--what must a stranger do before he takes up his abode?"
"First find an abode," said the general with a meaning smile. "You asked
me to drive you to the Hotel Bazar Slav, my simple but misguided friend!
That is a Soviet headquarters. You will certainly go to a place adjacent
to the hotel to register yourself, and afterwards to the Commissary to
register all over again, and, if you are regarded with approval, which
is hardly likely, you will be given a ticket which will enable you to
secure the necessities of life--the tickets are easier to get than the
food."
The first call at the house near the Bazar Slav gave them neither
trouble nor results. The Soviet headquarters was mainly concerned with
purely administrative affairs, and the organization of its membership.
Its corridors and doorway were crowded with soldiers wearing the
familiar red armlet, and when Malinkoff secured an interview with a
weary looking and unkempt official, who sat collarless in his shirt
sleeves at a table covered with papers, that gentleman could do no more
than lean back in his chair and curse the interrupters volubly.
"We might have dispensed with the headquarters visit," said Malinkoff,
"but it is absolutely necessary that you should see the Commissary
unless you want to be pulled out of your bed one night and shot before
you're thoroughly awake. By the way, we have an interesting American in
gaol--by his description I gather he is what you would call a gun-man."
Malcolm stared.
"Here--a gun-man?"
Malinkoff nodded.
"He held up the Treasurer-General of the Soviet and relieved him of his
wealth. I would like to have met him--but I presume he is dead. Justice
is swift in Moscow, especially for those who hold up the officials of
the Revolution."
"What sort of justice do these people administer?" asked Malcolm
curiously.
Malinkoff shrugged his padded shoulders.
"Sometimes I think that the very habit of justice is dead in this land,"
he said. "On the whole they are about as just and fair as was the old
regime--that is not saying much, is it? The cruelty of our rule to-day
is due rather to ignorance than to ill will. A few of the men higher up
are working off their old grievances and are profiting enormously, but
the rank and file of the movement are labouring for the millennium."
"I think they're mad," said Malcolm.
"All injustice is mad," replied Malinkoff philosophically. "Now get into
my little cab, and I will drive you to the Commissary."
The Commissary occupied a large house near the Igerian Gate. It was a
house of such noble proportions that at first Malcolm thought it was one
of the old public offices, and when Malinkoff had drawn up at the gate
he put the question.
"That is the house of the Grand Duke Yaroslav," said Malinkoff quietly.
"I think you were inquiring about him a little earlier in the day."
The name brought a little pang to Malcolm's heart, and he asked no
further questions. There was a sentry on the _podyasde_--an untidy,
unshaven man, smoking a cigarette--and a group of soldiers filled the
entrance, evidently the remainder of the guard.
The Commissary was out. When would he be back? Only God knew. He had
taken "the Little Mother" for a drive in the country, or perhaps he had
gone to Petrograd--who knew? There was nobody to see but the
Commissary--on this fact they insisted with such vehemence that Malcolm
gathered that whoever the gentleman was, he brooked no rivals and
allowed no possible supplanter to stand near his throne.
They came back at four o'clock in the afternoon, but the Commissary was
still out. It was nine o'clock, after five inquiries, that the sentry
replied "Yes" to the inevitable question.
"Now you will see him," said Malinkoff, "and the future depends upon the
potency of your favourite patron saint."
Malcolm stopped in the doorway.
"General----" he said.
"Not that word," said Malinkoff quickly. "Citizen or comrade--comrade
for preference."
"I feel that I am leading you into danger--I have been horribly selfish
and thoughtless. Will it make any difference to you, your seeing him?"
Malinkoff shook his head.
"You're quite right, it is always dangerous to attract the attention of
the Committee for Combatting the Counter-Revolution," he said, "but
since I have taken you in hand I might as well see him as stay outside
on my cab, because he is certain to inquire who brought you here, and it
might look suspicious if I did not come in with you. Besides, somebody
will have to vouch for you as a good comrade and friend of the Soviet."
He was half in earnest and half joking, but wholly fatalistic.
As they went up the broad spiral staircase which led to the main floor
of the Yaroslav Palace, Malcolm had qualms. He heartily cursed himself
for bringing this man into danger. So far as he was concerned, as he
told himself, there was no risk at all, because he was a British
traveller, having no feeling one way or the other toward the Soviet
Government. But Malinkoff would be a marked man, under suspicion all the
time. Before the office of the Commissary was a sentry without rifle. He
sat at a table which completely blocked the doorway, except for about
eight inches at one side. He inquired the business of the visitors, took
their names and handed them to a soldier, and with a sideways jerk of
his head invited them to squeeze past him into the bureau.