David Oldman - Dusk at Dawn

‘You’re a Bolshevik?’ Sofya gasped.

‘A Party member since 1910,’ Valentine said with a grin. ‘At least that’s what my membership card says. Only we call ourselves the Communist Party of Bolsheviks now.’

‘How can we trust you?’

Some of Valentine’s insouciance had returned. ‘I’m afraid you’ve no choice, my dear. The Red Guards are on the streets and there are detachments of soldiers at the railway stations and all the government offices. They’re checking everyone’s papers. The Cheka are out, too, only there’s no telling who they are until they put a hand on your shoulder. Without me and my Party card you won’t get out of Petersburg.’

‘Did you get the tickets.’

‘Three berths on tonight’s sleeper to Moscow. It’s pandemonium at the stations, of course. Everyone trying to get away. Tickets are as rare as hen’s teeth. I showed them my Party card but I still had to bully them into giving us sleeping berths. Important Party business in Moscow, don’t y’know, what with the emergency.’ He laughed. ‘You’re my secretary, by the way,’ he said to Sofya, ‘so I picked up a prop for you to carry.’ He held up a small attaché case. ‘Notebook and pens, that sort of thing.’

‘What about me?’ Paul asked.

‘Well, I went to Party headquarters after the station. The place is in an uproar, needless to say. I couldn’t get any definite information that they’re looking for a Boris Alenkov — the name’s not on any of their lists for arrests yet. But perhaps no one’s talked to this Fedorova woman yet. They’re looking for you , but only under your real name at the moment.’

‘Ross?’

Valentine looked at him indulgently. ‘Rostov, old man, Pavel Rostov.’

‘Stupid of me,’ Paul muttered.

‘Who’s the man in the car?’ Sofya demanded.

‘The driver,’ Valentine said as if it was obvious. ‘He’s a Red Guard so be careful what you say in front of him. Russian only. And you,’ he said looking at Paul, ‘had better not speak at all unless you’re spoken to.’ He glanced at his watch, rubbed his hands together again and said, ‘Right. Get your things together and we’ll be off. The train leaves at midnight. We don’t want to be there too early but we don’t want to miss the thing.’

He turned away but stopped again.

‘Lenin’s not dead, by the way. Three bullets in him and he still won’t die.’

Paul could sense the atmosphere on the street even from the safety of the car. The fear was palpable, almost as if it seeped in through the cracks around the doors and windows.

They rode in silence. Paul stared at the back of the driver’s head, the man’s grey hair cut short on the back of his skull and ending in a line that wasn’t quite straight. Every so often he would jerk his chin towards the street and make a comment to Valentine who sat beside him. The trams weren’t running and the little evening traffic there was consisted of lorries and cars flying the Bolshevik flag.

Armed men stood on the street corners, some of them sailors from the Kronstadt naval garrison on Kotlin Island. Most, though, looked to be a motley assortment of the militiamen Valentine had told him about: Red Guards, the cadres the Bolsheviks had raised from factory, railway and postal workers. They had first come onto the streets spontaneously during the February Revolution, then again when Kornilov attempted to march on Petersburg. The Petrograd Soviet had not trusted the Petersburg garrison to defend them and had looked to the workers. After that, the Bolsheviks so thoroughly infiltrated the factories and the Petersburg garrison that when they seized power in October, the soldiers would no longer obey the Petersburg Staff, looking only to the Military Revolutionary Committee set up by the Petersburg Soviet for orders. And this, by then, was under Bolshevik control. The Provisional Government sitting in the Winter Palace had suddenly found they had no military units to call upon. Even the Cossacks, the tsar’s favourite weapon of choice, had been subverted by Bolshevik promises of Land, Bread and Peace.

The Nikolaevsky Station was frantic with activity. The crowd, pushing towards the entrance, was held back by Red Guards on the doors while other men checked travellers’ papers. Valentine had the driver get as close to the entrance as he could before they climbed ostentatiously out of the car in full view of the militia. Sofya clutched her attaché case while Valentine carried a bag. Paul, bereft of any sort of prop, trailed behind them.

Valentine shouldered his way up the steps to the entrance, pushing aside the crowd. Paul and Sofya followed in his wake. At the gate he showed his Party card to a man who was neither a Red Guard nor a soldier. Dressed in civilian clothes, Paul assumed he was a Chekist.

‘Party business in Moscow concerning the Putilov factory,’ Valentine announced importantly, his accent adopting a rough, working-class edge Paul had not heard before.

The Chekist, small and slight and wearing rimless glasses examined Valentine’s papers. He turned his lifeless eyes on Sofya and Paul.

‘Who are they?’

‘The girl’s my secretary.’

‘And this one?’

‘One of the clerks. An accountant.’

‘What sort of business?’

‘Finance,’ said Valentine. ‘Dirty business, comrade, but it has to be done.’ He laughed. The Chekist didn’t join in.

‘You have tickets?’

Valentine passed him their tickets. The Chekist looked them over and nodded to the militiaman behind him who was barring the gate. Valentine pocketed his party card and papers and passed through. Paul and Sofya scurried after him.

The Moscow train was already waiting on the platform, snorting and hissing like a recumbent animal. The carriages, Paul noted, still sported their pre-Revolutionary colours and classes. Valentine led them along the platform to the front of the train and a first class sleeper. He gave their tickets to the provodnik waiting at the carriage door who indicated their berths.

A bearded balding man in a creased suit was already in the compartment and he stood as they entered, bowed slightly and bid them good evening.

‘Pyotr Slepynin,’ he said, introducing himself and eyeing Sofya in a manner Paul didn’t care much for.

Sofya seemed not to notice and for the next minute they begged each other’s pardon as they attempted to arrange themselves without treading on one another’s toes.

Once the luggage was stowed they sat facing each other. Slepynin leaned towards Sofya.

‘Forgive me, Miss…’

‘Korovina, comrade,’ Sofya said.

‘… Miss Korovina. Have I had the pleasure of meeting you somewhere before?’ He took a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles from his top pocket and polished the lenses on a dirty handkerchief before putting the glasses on as if, either seeing Sofya more clearly would jog his memory, or the change to his appearance might jog hers.

‘I don’t think so,’ she said.

‘Korovina is my secretary,’ Valentine told him. He produced his Party card.

Slepynin smiled at them both and took out his own Party card, handing it to Valentine for examination.

‘A Party meeting, perhaps?’ Slepynin hazarded, turning to Sofya once more.

‘Possibly,’ said Sofya, deliberately looking away out of the window at the activity on the platform.

The train jogged forward, the carriage couplings rattling noisily. A whistle blew and the engine responded with a blast of its own. The commotion on the platform intensified and some of the desperate travellers broke into a run. Carriage doors slammed and the train lurched another few feet.

‘A meeting I expect,’ Slepynin continued, smiling at Sofya over the top of his spectacles.