David Oldman - Dusk at Dawn

Paul could hardly argue. Ideological Socialism in the army didn’t work, as poor Švec had found out. Although that didn’t stop men like Karel Romanek agitating for it. If the Legion fought, like the Stavka it would have to be on their terms, Legion terms. They wouldn’t stand for Russian officers implementing Russian discipline, any more than the Russian would stand for it the other way around. What was more, Paul doubted that the Legion would stand idly by here in Omsk if the Directory was by-passed. It may not have been their idea of a Social-Revolutionary government but at least it contained some SR ministers. What would happen to them and the other SRs in Omsk if the Stavka took control? Then there was Ward and his detachment of the Middlesex. He had already intimated to Paul that something of the like might be in the wind. Ward himself might be of the opinion that Russia needed a strong man at the helm — a strong man other than Lenin, that is — but Paul couldn’t believe that a man with Ward’s background would stand idly by while the SR faction in the Directory — not to mention the large numbers of workers and peasants in Omsk who supported them — were massacred.

The whole thing was a mess. Paul was beginning to think he had been better off out on some spur line with Capek chasing the Red Army. At least there one knew who one’s enemy was. He would have just as soon gone back if it hadn’t been for Sofya. He’d managed to extricate her from a dangerous situation in Petersburg and would like to do the same in Omsk. But here it looked as if it would be more difficult. In Petersburg she had been reluctant to leave in case her brother returned; here, with him, she would be even more reluctant to leave. Now, on top of it, Paul had quarrelled with her and now had no idea where he stood.

And, what might be still worse was that her brother seemed to be up to his neck in the very situation brewing in Omsk from which Paul would wish to extricate her.

He had fallen asleep to the drone of Valentine’s voice. When the street outside became dark they had moved to a small sitting room and Valentine had closed the shutter and lit a candle. He had produced a bottle of vodka. Sometime in the evening the sound of gunfire began. Valentine cocked an ear but seemed unperturbed.

‘Just random shooting. Happens most nights,’ was all he said.

Paul listened. The gunfire sounded more than random. It was concentrated, coming in bursts, hardly random at all. But then, he had an ear for gunfire.

They sat drinking in the darkness. He didn’t know what Valentine had talked about; he hadn’t listened. The gunfire and the volume of Paul’s own thoughts had drowned everything else out. Now, in the morning, cold and with a headache, both the house and the streets were silent. He looked through all the rooms but found the Consulate empty. Valentine had disappeared. Going back to the kitchen, Paul lit the stove and made some tea.

There was no food. Hungry, he finished his tea and pulled on his coat. Outside, it was still and overcast. A light snow was falling. The streets seemed empty. He pulled the coat around him and made his way to Nikólskaya Square.

It wasn’t until he reached one of the streets that ran into the square that he saw the first body. The man lay by the side of the road, face down. His coat — if he had possessed one — had been stripped off his body, along with his boots. Nearby three Cossacks stood on a corner. They took no notice of the body but watched Paul as he approached. Too late to double-back, Paul attempted to walk around them. A sharp-faced NCO carrying a revolver stepped into his path and demanded to see his papers.

‘On whose authority?’ Paul asked, trying to ignore the body lying a few feet away.

One of the other Cossacks, a particularly ugly man it seemed to Paul, raised his rifle. ‘This is our authority,’ he said.

Paul dug beneath his coat into his tunic pocket. ‘Where’s your officer?’ he asked, producing the identification papers Ward had given him before they had left for Ekaterinburg.

The NCO ignored the question and examined Paul’s papers. He passed them to the third man who pulled out a sheet of paper and began checking Paul’s name against those on a list.

‘You’re not Russian,’ the NCO said.

‘I’m English. What’s this about?’

‘Where are you going?’

‘Back to my quarters if it’s any business of yours. I’m with Colonel Ward and the Middlesex Regiment.’

The NCO reached for the lapel of Paul’s coat and pulled it open. ‘You’re wearing a Czech uniform.’

‘I’m a liaison officer,’ Paul said.

Behind the NCO the man with the list pointed a finger against a name and showed it to the NCO. The man looked at Paul suspiciously then back at his papers again.

‘What’s going on here?’ a voice behind Paul demanded. A man shouldered past him and confronted the Cossack NCO. He was wearing a military greatcoat and an Astrakhan hat, a Russian officer. Only able to see his back, Paul couldn’t see his rank.

The Cossacks straightened up. The rifle was lowered.

‘We’ve orders to pick up the men on our list, sir,’ the NCO said.

‘Who’s orders?’

‘Colonel Krasilnikov, sir.’

Paul had heard the name before, and recently, although he couldn’t think where.

‘And is this man’s name on your list?’ the officer asked. He took the sheet of paper and looked through the names.

‘Not exactly, sir,’ the man who had held the list replied. ‘He says he’s English but he’s wearing a Czech uniform and we’re supposed to look out for—’

‘And have you been told to pick up any English men?’ the officer barked.

‘No sir.’

The officer contemptuously passed the list back, snatched Paul’s papers out of the NCO’s hand and examined them quickly. He looked up at the Cossack again.

‘Do you read English? Do you speak it?’

‘No sir.’

The officer looked at the others who shook their heads. He turned towards Paul, his back to the Cossacks. He winked.

‘Try not to look so surprised, old man,’ Valentine said in English. ‘And do close your mouth. We don’t want to make these oafs any more suspicious than they already are. They don’t understand English so just say Ward’s name and the Middlesex Regiment again, would you?’

Paul closed his mouth, opened it again and repeated to Valentine what he’d told the NCO.

‘That’s a good chap,’ Valentine said evenly. ‘When I saw you leave the consulate I thought after what happened last night I’d better see you safely back to your train.’

Behind Valentine, Paul noticed one of the Cossacks whispering in the NCO’s ear. He was consulting the list again.

‘What are you doing dressed as an officer?’ Paul asked. ‘And what happened last night?’

‘No time just now, old chap. Best get away from these beasts, I think. The name Rostov is on their list.’

The NCO’s ear pricked up at the name and Valentine turned back to him.

‘I told this officer you’re confusing him with a man named Rostov,’ he said to the NCO, resuming in Russian. ‘His name’s Ross , common enough in England, I believe, but not Rostov. Just sounds the same, fool.’

The NCO looked at Valentine resentfully. ‘But Colonel Krasilnikov said particularly—’

‘I’ll speak to the Colonel myself,’ Valentine said shortly. ‘Just remember you’re looking for SR scum, not the English. It doesn’t pay to upset them. I’ll escort this one back to his men. The sooner they’re gone the better.’ He glanced down at the body lying in the gutter and prodded it with his shiny boot. ‘Is this your handiwork? Well, for God’s sake get rid of it, will you? Haven’t you been told about leaving the bodies in the street? We’re not savages even if you Cossack scum sometimes look like it.’