CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX - March to April 1919
When the snow melted, and the iron-hard Russian earth turned to rich wet mud, the White armies made a mighty effort to rid their country of the curse of Bolshevism. Admiral Kolchak's force of one hundred thousand, patchily supplied with British uniforms and guns, came storming out of Siberia and attacked the Reds over a front that stretched seven hundred miles from north to south.
Fitz followed a few miles behind the Whites. He was leading the Aberowen Pals, plus some Canadians and a few interpreters. His job was to stiffen Kolchak by supervising communications, intelligence, and supply.
Fitz had high hopes. There might be difficulties, but it was unimaginable that Lenin and Trotsky would be allowed to steal Russia.
At the beginning of March he was in the city of Ufa on the European side of the Ural Mountains, reading a batch of week-old British newspapers. The news from London was mixed. Fitz was delighted that Lloyd George had appointed Winston Churchill as secretary for war. Of all the leading politicians, Winston was the most vigorous supporter of intervention in Russia. But some of the papers took the opposite side. Fitz was not surprised by the Daily Herald and the New Statesman, which in his view were more or less Bolshevik publications anyway. But even the Conservative Daily Express had a headline reading WITHDRAW FROM RUSSIA.
Unfortunately, they also had accurate details of what was going on. They even knew that the British had helped Kolchak with the coup that had abolished the directorate and made him supreme ruler. Where were they getting the information? He looked up from the paper. He was quartered in the city's commercial college, and his aide-de-camp sat at the opposite desk. "Murray," he said, "next time there's a batch of mail from the men to be sent home, bring it to me first."
This was irregular, and Murray looked dubious. "Sir?"
Fitz thought he had better explain. "I suspect information may be getting back from here. The censor must be asleep at the wheel."
"Perhaps they think they can slacken off now that the war in Europe has ended."
"No doubt. Anyway, I want to see whether the leak is in our section of the pipe."
The back page of the paper had a photograph of the woman leading the "Hands Off Russia" campaign, and Fitz was startled to see that it was Ethel. She had been a housemaid at Tŷ Gwyn but now, the Express said, she was general secretary of the National Garment Workers Union.
He had slept with many women since then-most recently, in Omsk, a stunning Russian blonde, the bored mistress of a fat tsarist general who was too drunk and lazy to fuck her himself. But Ethel shone out in his memory. He wondered what her child was like. Fitz probably had half a dozen bastards around the world, but Ethel's was the only one he knew of for sure.
And she was the one whipping up protest against intervention in Russia. Now Fitz knew where the information was coming from. Her damn brother was a sergeant in the Aberowen Pals. He had always been a troublemaker, and Fitz had no doubt he was briefing Ethel. Well, Fitz thought, I'll catch him out, and then there will be hell to pay.
Over the next few weeks the Whites raced ahead, driving before them the surprised Reds, who had thought the Siberian government a spent force. If Kolchak's armies could link up with their supporters in Archangel, in the north, and with Denikin's Volunteer Army in the south, they would form a semicircular force, a curved eastern scimitar a thousand miles long that would sweep irresistibly to Moscow.
Then, at the end of April, the Reds counterattacked.
By then Fitz was in Buguruslan, a grimly impoverished town in forest country a hundred miles or so east of the Volga River. The few dilapidated stone churches and municipal buildings poked up over the roofs of low-built wooden houses like weeds in a rubbish dump. Fitz sat in a large room in the town hall with the intelligence unit, sifting reports of prisoner interrogations. He did not know anything was wrong until he looked out of the window and saw the ragged soldiers of Kolchak's army streaming along the main road through the town in the wrong direction. He sent an American interpreter, Lev Peshkov, to question the retreating men.
Peshkov came back with a sorry story. The Reds had attacked in force from the south, striking the overstretched left flank of Kolchak 's advancing army. To avoid his force being cut in two the local White commander, General Belov, had ordered them to retreat and regroup.
A few minutes later, a Red deserter was brought in for interrogation. He had been a colonel under the tsar. What he had to say dismayed Fitz. The Reds had been surprised by Kolchak's offensive, he said, but they had quickly regrouped and resupplied. Trotsky had declared that the Red Army must go on the offensive in the east. "Trotsky thinks that if the Reds falter, the Allies will recognize Kolchak as supreme ruler; and once they have done that they will flood Siberia with men and supplies."
That was exactly what Fitz was hoping for. In his heavily accented Russian he asked: "So what did Trotsky do?"
The reply came fast, and Fitz could not understand what was said until he heard Peshkov's translation. "Trotsky drew on special levies of recruits from the Bolshevik Party and the trade unions. The response was amazing. Twenty-two provinces sent detachments. The Novgorod Provincial Committee mobilized half its members!"
Fitz tried to imagine Kolchak summoning such a response from his supporters. It would never happen.
He returned to his quarters to pack his kit. He was almost too slow: the Pals got out only just ahead of the Reds, and a handful of men were left behind. By that evening Kolchak's Western Army was in full retreat and Fitz was on a train going back toward the Ural Mountains.
Two days later he was back in the commercial college at Ufa.
Over those two days, Fitz's mood turned black. He felt bitter with rage. He had been at war for five years, and he could recognize the turn of the tide-he knew the signs. The Russian civil war was as good as over.
The Whites were just too weak. The revolutionaries were going to win. Nothing short of an Allied invasion could turn the tables-and that was not going to happen: Churchill was in enough trouble for the little he was doing. Billy Williams and Ethel were making sure the needed reinforcements would never be sent.
Murray brought him a sack of mail. "You asked to see the men's letters home, sir," he said, with a hint of disapproval in his tone.
Fitz ignored Murray's scruples and opened the sack. He searched for a letter from Sergeant Williams. Someone, at least, could be punished for this catastrophe.
He found what he was looking for. Sergeant Williams's letter was addressed to E. Williams, her maiden name: no doubt he feared the use of her married name would call attention to his traitorous letter.
Fitz read it. Billy's handwriting was large and confident. At first sight the text seemed innocent, if a bit odd. But Fitz had worked in Room 40, and knew about codes. He settled down to crack this one.
Murray said: "On another matter, sir, have you seen the American interpreter, Peshkov, in the last day or two?"
"No," Fitz said. "What's happened to him?"
"We seem to have lost him, sir."
{II}
Trotsky was immensely weary, but not discouraged. The lines of strain on his face did not diminish the light of hope in his eyes. Grigori thought admiringly that he was sustained by an unshakable belief in what he was doing. They all had that, Grigori suspected; Lenin and Stalin too. Each felt sure he knew the right thing to do, whatever the problem might be, from land reform to military tactics.
Grigori was not like that. With Trotsky, he tried to work out the best response to the White armies, but he never felt sure they had made the right decision until the results were known. Perhaps that was why Trotsky was world-famous and Grigori was just another commissar.
As he had many times before, Grigori sat in Trotsky's personal train with a map of Russia on the table. "We hardly need worry about the counterrevolutionaries in the north," Trotsky said.
Grigori agreed. "According to our intelligence, there are mutinies among the British soldiers and sailors there."
"And they have lost all hope of linking up with Kolchak. His armies are running as fast as they can back to Siberia. We could chase them over the Urals-but I think we have more important business elsewhere."
"In the west?"
"That's bad enough. The Whites are bolstered by reactionary nationalists in Latvia, Lithuania, and Estonia. Kolchak has appointed Yudenich commander in chief there, and he's supported by a British navy flotilla that is keeping our fleet bottled up in Kronstadt. But I'm even more worried about the south."
"General Denikin."
"He has about a hundred and fifty thousand men, supported by French and Italian troops, and supplied by the British. We think he's planning a dash for Moscow."
"If I may say so, I think the key to defeating him is political, not military."
Trotsky looked intrigued. "Go on."
"Everywhere he goes, Denikin makes enemies. His Cossacks rob everyone. Whenever he takes a town, he rounds up all the Jews and just shoots them. If the coal mines fail to meet production targets, he kills one in ten miners. And, of course, he executes all deserters from his army."
"So do we," said Trotsky. "And we kill villagers who harbor deserters."
"And peasants who refuse to give up their grain." Grigori had had to harden his heart to accept this brutal necessity. "But I know peasants-my father was one. What they care about most is land. A lot of these people gained considerable tracts of land in the revolution, and they want to hold on to it-whatever else happens."
"So?"
"Kolchak has announced that land reform should be based on the principle of private property."
"Which means the peasants giving back the fields they have taken from the aristocracy."
"And everyone knows that. I'd like to print his proclamation and post it outside every church. No matter what our soldiers do, the peasants will prefer us to the Whites."
"Do it," said Trotsky.
"One more thing. Announce an amnesty for deserters. For seven days, any who return to the ranks will escape punishment."
"Another political move."
"I don't believe it will encourage desertion, because it's only for a week; but it might bring men back to us-especially when they find out the Whites want to take their land."
"Give it a try," said Trotsky.
An aide came in and saluted. "A strange report, Comrade Peshkov, that I thought you would want to hear."
"All right."
"It's about one of the prisoners we took at Buguruslan. He was with Kolchak's army, but wearing an American uniform."
"The Whites have soldiers from all over the world. The capitalist imperialists support the counterrevolution, naturally."
"It's not that, sir."
"What, then?"
"Sir, he says he's your brother."
{III}
The platform was long, and there was a heavy morning mist, so that Grigori could not see the far end of the train. There was probably some mistake, he thought; a confusion of names or an error of translation. He tried to steel himself for a disappointment, but he was not successful: his heart beat faster and his nerves seemed to tingle. It was almost five years since he had seen his brother. He had often thought Lev must be dead. That could still be the awful truth.
He walked slowly, peering into the swirling haze. If this really was Lev, he would naturally be different. In the last five years Grigori had lost a front tooth and most of one ear, and had probably changed in other ways he was not aware of. How would Lev have altered?
After a few moments two figures emerged from the white mist: a Russian soldier, in ragged uniform and homemade shoes; and, beside him, a man who looked American. Was that Lev? He had a short American haircut and no mustache. He had the round-faced look of the well-fed American soldiers, with meaty shoulders under the smart new uniform. It was an officer's uniform, Grigori saw with growing incredulity. Could his brother be an American officer?
The prisoner was staring back at him, and as Grigori came close he saw that it was, indeed, his brother. He did look different, and it was not just the general air of sleek prosperity. It was the way he stood, the expression on his face, and most of all the look in his eyes. He had lost his boyish cockiness and acquired an air of caution. He had, in fact, grown up.
As they came within touching distance, Grigori thought of all the ways Lev had let him down, and a host of recriminations sprang to his lips; but he uttered none of them, and instead opened his arms and hugged Lev. They kissed cheeks, slapped each other on the back, and hugged again, and Grigori found that he was weeping.
After a while he led Lev onto the train and took him to the carriage he used as his office. Grigori told his aide to bring tea. They sat in two faded armchairs. "You're in the army?" Grigori said incredulously.
"They have conscription in America," Lev said.
That made sense. Lev would never have joined voluntarily. "And you're an officer!"
"So are you," said Lev.
Grigori shook his head. "We've abolished ranks in the Red Army. I'm a military commissar."
"But there are still some men who order tea and others who bring it," Lev said as the aide came in with cups. "Wouldn't Ma be proud?"
"Fit to bust. But why did you never write to me? I thought you were dead!"
"Aw, hell, I'm sorry," said Lev. "I felt so bad about taking your ticket that I wanted to write and say I can pay for your passage. I kept putting off the letter until I had more money."
It was a feeble excuse, but characteristic of Lev. He would not go to a party unless he had a fancy jacket to put on, and he refused to enter a bar if he did not have the money to buy a round of drinks.
Grigori recalled another betrayal. "You didn't tell me Katerina was pregnant when you left."
"Pregnant! I didn't know."
"Yes, you did. You told her not to tell me."
"Oh. I guess I forgot." Lev looked foolish, caught in a lie, but it did not take him long to recover and come up with his own counteraccusation. "That ship you sent me on didn't even go to New York! It put us all ashore at a dump called Cardiff. I had to work for months to save up for another ticket."
Grigori even felt guilty for a moment, then recalled how Lev had begged for the ticket. "Maybe I shouldn't have helped you escape from the police," he said crisply.
"I suppose you did your best for me," Lev said reluctantly. Then he gave the warm smile that always caused Grigori to forgive him. "As you always have," he added. "Ever since Ma died."
Grigori felt a lump in his throat. "All the same," he said, concentrating to make his voice steady, "we ought to punish the Vyalov family for cheating us."
"I got my revenge," Lev said. "There's a Josef Vyalov in Buffalo. I fucked his daughter and made her pregnant, and he had to let me marry her."
"My God! You're part of the Vyalov family now?"
"He regretted it, which is why he arranged for me to be conscripted. He's hoping I'll be killed in battle."
"Hell, do you still go wherever your dick leads you?"
Lev shrugged. "I guess."
Grigori had some revelations of his own, and he was nervous about making them. He began by saying carefully: "Katerina had a baby boy, your son. She called him Vladimir."
Lev looked pleased. "Is that so? I've got a son!"
Grigori did not have the courage to say that Vladimir knew nothing of Lev, and called Grigori "Daddy." Instead he said: "I've taken good care of him."
"I knew you would."
Grigori felt a familiar stab of indignation at how Lev assumed that others would pick up the responsibilities he dropped. "Lev," he said, "I married Katerina." He waited for the outraged reaction.
But Lev remained calm. "I knew you'd do that, too."
Grigori was astonished. "What?"
Lev nodded. "You were crazy for her, and she needed a solid dependable type to raise the child. It was in the cards."
"I went through agonies!" Grigori said. Had all that been for nothing? "I was tortured by the thought that I was being disloyal to you."
"Hell, no. I left her in the lurch. Good luck to you both."
Grigori was maddened by how casual Lev was about the whole thing. "Did you worry about us at all?" he asked pointedly.
"You know me, Grishka."
Of course Lev had not worried about them. "You hardly thought about us."