He arrived at the Kremlin.
He walked up to the guard's desk and announced his arrival. A gruff, old comrade asked to see his papers and then told him to wait. Georgii looked around him. There was nothing but chaos and confusion. Men were in tears, children shouted and played, women screamed hysterically. Welcome to the New Utopia and live the Socialist Dream, he thought. He was well and truly lost in his thoughts, when a young voice beckoned him. He looked up.
'
Comrade Radetzky? Follow me please.'
Georgii got up and followed the young man.
They walked along corridors, upstairs, until they arrived at a door. The young Comrade knocked. They waited for a minute or two.
'
Enter!' The voice on the other side said.
Georgii recognised the v
oice as that of his old mentor. He walked in.
'
Georgii Radetzky, it's been a long time,' his old mentor said.
Georgii looked at
the face, it was tired looking. There were bags under the eyes, the laughter lines were ingrained and furrowed. The aquiline nose seemed different, but all in all it was still the face of Auguste Gerhardt.
They chatted awhile, pleasant small talk; after all they had not seen ea
ch other for nearly five years. Gerhardt spoke of his admiration for Georgii's distinguished war service as adjutant serving under General Brusilov
[4]
. Auguste Gerhardt spoke of his regret that he himself had not answered the call. On the grounds of fallen arches he reasoned, but when Georgii questioned him he declined to shed any further light on his war years. Then as soon as it had started the conversation ran out of steam. There was a short silence and then Gerhardt got down to business.
'
Georgii, I have always regarded you as a son. In many ways I believe that I have always looked out for you. I know there were difficulties in the beginning, but you proved me wrong. I have learned that I can trust you and that you will get the job done and you will do it discreetly. Which brings me to why I have asked you to come here,' Gerhardt said.
'
What is it that you want of me Auguste?'
'
It is this! I need a man that I can trust completely. That person has to have my total confidence… because the job I have in mind is very similar to the one you did for me back in 1905,' his voice quietened, and then he carried on. 'I know you might think me quite selfish, but I want you, at short notice, to conduct an investigation for me. Will you do it, for me, Georgii?'
'
With all due respect why, as one of the greatest detectives of all 'The Russia's', why don't you do it yourself? Your record is second to none! You know that! Of course I'll try and help you, but no one is as meticulous, and as thorough in an investigation as you!'
'
That may very well be true Georgii, but I don't need to remind you that we live in strange times. No one can be trusted! Absolutely no one!' He paused then carried on. 'Look! I want you to meet me on Thursday outside of the Bolshoi? We'll talk again! Will you meet me there? Yes or no?'
'
What time?'
'
Thursday, at five thirty!'
'
O.K. I'll be there.' Georgii said.
'
One other thing, make sure that no one follows you. Do not tell anyone, at your Militsya Station, that you have spoken to me.' Gerhardt said.
'
You know me ... I'm the very soul of discretion.'
'
I know you are, but tomorrow you're going to get a new Comrade Commissar and a new assistant. Be very careful of what you say, and what you do, in front of these people. The assistant you don't know but 'The Commissar' is, I believe, an old acquaintance. Both are of the New Order. They are the very people that we used to exile back in the good old days. Remember ...'
Then a very strange thing happened.
The old detective pushed a piece of paper towards him that said:
Criminals are still criminals; it's just that they now wear uniforms.
Georgii read it and then Gerhardt grabbed it, stuffed it in his mouth, and ate it. With that he motioned with his hand for him to leave. Georgii exited the way he came and soon found himself back out on the street. Outside was curiously deserted, the wind was chilly and flakes of snow were beginning to float about. Those people still brave enough to stay out on the street huddled in groups or loafed around braziers. Groups of Red Army soldiers surveyed the scene and asked people for their papers. Georgii headed for home.
He thought that home was not really home, but it was shared lodgings in a requisitioned house that had probably been commandeered from a rich merchan
t after the October revolution. All kinds of people lived there. Some were grace and favour Bolshevik supporters, others just passed through. These days Georgii didn't have the time to socialise. Occasionally, he would exchange words on the stairs with the writer who lived in the rooms above him, but usually he would register with the 'Party Concierge', go upstairs and fix himself something to eat, generally soup and black bread, and then go to bed. In a nutshell that was his daily routine. Go to the Militsya Station, then on home to bed. He did this six days a week. On the seventh he would go down to the river, sit and watch it, or go for a walk in the park, or for want of nothing else better to do, just walk the streets. There was not much else to do in the era of war communism.
H
e arrived outside his lodgings. The building itself had once been grand. Now, like everything else, it had fallen into a state of disrepair. He carried on walking towards the entrance, up the steps and into the lobby. Georgii walked up to the drunken concierge and signed in. Rezhnikov, the Party Stooge, just sat there. He looked up at Georgii and muttered something unintelligible to him. Georgii hated this part the most. It simply nauseated him. He could feel the bile rising up from his stomach as Rezhnikov breathed his noxious fumes over him. He put the pen down and hastily climbed the stairs. Up to the first flight; lingering for a moment, he could hear the sounds of a baby crying and a mother talking harshly to her children. Georgii didn't know these people - they were new to the place. He opened the door and watched the speck of paper fall to the floor. Keys were now considered bourgeois. Why lock your door in this day and age, after all private property had been abolished. Front door keys indicated that you had something to hide. Everyday people were accused of hoarding, so why lock your door if you had nothing to hide. As a precaution Georgii wedged a small paper ball into the corner of the door. Just by doing this, he could tell if he had had any uninvited guests whilst he'd been away at work. Uninvited guests in the shape and form of Rezhnikov. He had caught him snooping before on a couple of occasions. He had balled him out of course, but he was under no illusions as to what kind of man the concierge was. Rezhnikov would sell his own grandmother given half the chance.
The rooms,
by Moscow 1919 standards, were very Spartan. There was a chair by the window and a table next to it. By them was a pile of books he had found on the street; a straw mat lay in front of the fireplace. Over by the far wall underneath the mirror was an old battered settee. Many were the times, and too exhausted to go to bed he had come back from work and slept on the settee. The bedroom next door was sparsely furnished. There was an old wooden bed, if you could call it that. Georgii thought it reminded him of a fat trestle table with sheets on it. Opposite was a huge wardrobe that dwarfed everything else in the room. On the other wall was a basin with a tap that spewed out brown water when it felt like it.
He fixed himself some black bread and soup and then went to bed.
Bed was the best place to be in January. Simply because the place was so cold, and, also if he sat by the window, the noise of the writer typing away up stairs on his typewriter always annoyed him. It stopped him thinking.
The dream was always the same
; it seldom ever changed. It was a hot summer morning on the steppe. The horizon disappeared into heat haze. In the distance there was the sound of distant thunder, but the rumble just got louder and louder. Georgii was standing on the far bank of the river. On the other side he could see men women and children laughing and playing. All the time the sound was getting louder. Now he could see that shapes in the distance were becoming visible. Men were riding on horseback. He could see now that they were Cossacks and their sabres were drawn. There was nothing that Georgii Radetzky could do, as he was standing on the wrong side of the river. Everything moved in slow motion. The people looked up and the riders smashed into them killing all the men women and children. It was all over in a flash. The Cossacks left as quickly as they had arrived. There was only silence. All that could be heard was the distant cries of a baby carried, on the wind.
Georgii woke up
. He was soaked through with sweat. He got up, smoked a cigarette then went back to bed.
The next morning Georgii woke up late.
It was still dark outside and the flat was freezing cold. He got up, washed and got dressed whilst trying to eat some scraps of food. Breakfast consisted of a stale piece of black bread. He walked out of the dingy flat, replaced the tiny paper ball, shut the door and left for work.
The
station was reasonably quiet, he checked in at the reception and then went upstairs to his desk. He sat down and killed time and prepared himself for the daily staff briefing. Vasiliev pointed over to an office within the office. Over in the far corner was a very attractive, middle-aged woman. Georgii knew her from somewhere, but he could not put his finger on where he had seen her before. He turned and asked Vasiliev who she was. He said that she had arrived last night and they had taken 'Old' Timoshkin away, apparently he had been escorted off site and driven off in a waiting car. Vasiliev reckoned that she was a Bolshevik stooge, put in place to make sure that they did not - the remaining staff - develop any dated 'Old World' bourgeois tendencies. What was it that Georgii had remembered from the meeting with Gerhardt? 'Criminals were still criminals. Only the uniforms had changed! 'Cultural criminals indeed, he thought. The thought amused him and he savoured it for a moment.
'
Everyone to my office.' The woman's voice said.
He got up
and walked over with Vasiliev. She was standing behind Timoshkin's old desk eyeing everyone that entered her office. They sat down.
'
My name is Comrade Trofimov. I am now in charge of this Militsya/ Cheka station.'
'
Where's Comrade Timoshkin?' A voice behind Georgii asked.
'
On a need to know, you don't need to know,' her icy voice replied.
'
On whose authority was he replaced,' another said.
'
He was replaced by the authority of the Central Committee,' Trofimov replied. There was a hint of sarcasm in her voice. 'Now, down to business. It has come to the party's notice that things have been run shoddily, especially in this station. Things will change with immediate effect. From now on all of you will file regular reports. You will tell me what you are working on when you are here and where you are working. Failure to comply with these orders will result in immediate disciplinary action…, you will all see me with your reports during the course of today.'
Georgii walked back to his desk
. He thought about the Bolsheviks' concept of, and their implementation of, disciplinary action. It went hand in hand with public humiliation, trial and summary execution. He sat down and lit up a cigarette. He looked back towards Trofimov's office. Vasiliev was in there waving his hands around. She was repeatedly jabbing her finger at him. Whereas he looked desperate, she remained composed. He got on with his work and thought about his up and coming meeting with Gerhardt. The best plan of action was - and this had always served him well in the past - keep your head down and do not draw attention to yourself. He looked up, Vasiliev shaking his head, was walking back towards their shared desk.
'
Georgii, that bitch wants you in there right now! No wonder they call her Lenin's whore!' Vasiliev sat down and wiped the beads of perspiration off his forehead.
'
Gave you a right going over did she?'
'
Shouldn't laugh to soon Radetzky. She'll soon wipe that cheeky grin right off your face!' Vasiliev said.
Georgii got up and walked over to her office.
He knocked on the door and waited. He peered through the window; she was in there with some lackey. He knew her from someplace, now where was it…
'
Comrade Radetzky, come in,' she said.
She sat there behind Timoshkin
's old desk. Georgii could see that she had made herself at home. She was leafing through some papers. Trofimov looked up and fixed him with her steely gaze.
'
You don't remember me do you?' She said.
It was true he couldn
't quite remember her, but he knew the face.