Lenins roller coaster, p.7
Lenin's Roller Coaster, page 7
The frontier followed the line of the foothills, and all the next day both road and lorry wound upward, glimpses of snow-draped peaks ahead, the Mesopotamian plain stretched out behind and below. It was around noon when McColl noticed that the road ahead was full of men and animals. He pulled the lorry off to one side.
The animals, he realized, were mules, and rolls of something were lashed to their backs. Rolls that looked like Egyptian mummies.
“It’s a corpse caravan,” Cheselden told him. “I read about them somewhere. These people are Shi’a Muslims, and their holy city is Karbala, which is near Baghdad. So they take their dead there for burial.”
“There must be fifty bodies.”
“They save them up. They bury them when they die, then dig them up and wrap them in sackcloth when it’s time to go. The caravans make a lot of money for the people who run them, and people know that their relations are buried in the holiest ground. Everyone’s happy.”
Everyone but the mules, McColl thought. Some looked close to collapse as they trudged past the lorry.
Their overland journey to Meshed took the better part of a month. Towns went by, each with its small colony of Europeans, eager for news of the outside world yet clearly glad to be keeping their distance. Kermanshah, Hamada, and on to Teheran, with its modern hotels and tramways and twice-weekly letters to Europe. Cheselden took the pile he’d written to Soph—each neatly numbered so she’d read them in the right order—down to the office on Khiaban-i-Lalezar and handed over a thick wad of Persian shahi. Then, just to be on the safe side, he continued on to the telegraph office, where he spent another small fortune on a cable telling her letters were on the way.
Their beds at the Hotel de Paris were a welcome change from the back of the Peerless, which of course seemed even less forgiving once they’d resumed their journey. But neither was a chronic complainer, and the amount of time they spent in close proximity provoked little in the way of irritation, let alone any real dislike. McColl knew that if he’d met Cheselden in ordinary circumstances, they’d have had precious little to say to each other, but the young man was a perfect traveling companion, almost unfailingly cheerful and equally happy in conversation or silence.
The Russian lessons didn’t go well, to the point where McColl began to wonder about Cheselden’s French and German. As the younger man freely admitted, he wasn’t the sharpest pencil in the box. After announcing one night that his Soph was only five feet tall, he had gone on to conclude that their children were bound to be blessed with average height. His thoughts about what he might do after the war came down to a single sentence: “Oh, Father will think of something.” His great idea for their mission in Turkestan was almost as simple: once they reached the Transcaspian Railway, McColl would go one way and he’d go the other, looking for bridges to blow up. Any problems he, as a non–Russian speaker, might encounter on his own—accessing the necessary explosives, feeding and housing himself—were airily dismissed as “details.”
He increasingly reminded McColl of several young men he’d met at Oxford, whose breadth of knowledge had been matched only by their lack of practical intelligence.
The final stretch of their thousand-mile trek to Meshed was a tree-shaded road across a wide gray plain. The nearer they got to the gateway in the ancient city wall, the more McColl doubted that the Peerless would make it through, but despite the cries of alarm from watching locals, it did so with inches to spare. As they crept their way farther into the city, the astonished stares on the Persian faces told them how exotic a motorized vehicle was this far from their civilization.
In Teheran they’d been given directions to Meshed’s British Residency, but more help was needed from the first passerby who could understand McColl’s few phrases of Persian. The place, when they found it, was spectacular. After working their way through a maze of sand-colored walls and houses, they parked the lorry outside a huge gate bearing the British lion and unicorn and tugged on the hanging iron bell. A servant answered and ushered them in to a whole other world of lawns, rose gardens, orchards, and tennis courts. The main house—there seemed to be several within the walls—boasted a veranda entwined with climbing roses and hung with baskets of brightly colored blooms.
“This must be the Garden of Eden,” Cheselden noted, wiping his nose.
“Here comes Adam,” McColl murmured as a portly man in gardening clothes walked across to greet them.
“Reggie Cluett,” he introduced himself. “Consul general,” he added. “You must be the chappies from Whitehall. Come and meet the wife.”
Lavinia Cluett was a thin, middle-aged woman with a pretty face and a slightly distracted air. She offered a limp hand to each of them before hurrying off to arrange their accommodation. As she vanished around one corner of the house, a man appeared, as if by magic, around the other.
“This is Colonel Aitchison,” the consul informed them, with what seemed more than a hint of reluctance. “Our military attaché,” he explained as Aitchison shook their hands.
“Miles,” he introduced himself.
Over the next couple of days, McColl realized that Cluett and Aitchison, while pleasant enough company, were not going to give him much help. Both were knowledgeable when it came to their Khorasan bailiwick, but the Transcaspian lands across the nearby border might just as well have been the moon. Cluett didn’t consider it “his place” to spy on another great power, while Aitchison, whose job it most certainly was, seemed singularly inept. The latter had a neatly written list of spies and informers on the British payroll but virtually nothing to show for his money. He assured McColl that there were German, Austrian, and Turkish agents in Ashkhabad but had nothing to back this assertion up—no names, no addresses, no reports of any kind. For all McColl knew, these agents were creatures of Aitchison’s imagination—they were there because they ought to be.
He and Cheselden sought out other sources of intelligence. Thinking the local Russians worth a shot, McColl duly presented himself at their consulate. The consul, a nervous-looking man of around fifty named Chudnovsky, freely confessed that he’d had no recent instructions from home. He had been appointed by the provisional government and was willing to concede that remaining loyal to this vanished entity was unlikely to help his career. But at least he was on foreign soil. The Bolsheviks could send a replacement, but they couldn’t make him go home.
His wife, Galina, was hoping for better. She questioned McColl on the relative merits of France and Italy, noting in passing that Capri had been her destination of choice until the author Maxim Gorky—who had famously lived there for several years—had betrayed his class and joined the dreadful Reds.
“That would spoil one’s enjoyment of a place,” McColl agreed. He wondered how much money the Chudnovskys had managed to smuggle out and whether it would still be worth the paper it was printed on by the time they reached a new home.
Neither husband nor wife had anything useful to say about the government in Ashkhabad. It was almost a year since the pair had passed through the town, and those who left later had arrived in Meshed with nothing good to report. There was no real authority left, they claimed without exception, just a rabble intent on settling scores.
McColl walked slowly back to the British Residency, thinking that his and Cheselden’s only option was to turn up in Ashkhabad and take whatever chances presented themselves. But as who? Official British emissaries seeking an alliance against the Turks? Or disguised as innocent travelers of one sort or another? Either way there seemed fair odds they’d be shot.
The next day brought better news. A sizable party of Russians had arrived in Meshed that morning after fleeing across the border. According to one of Aitchison’s informers, the newcomers were mostly from Tiflis in the Caucasus but had come by way of Ashkhabad. They were, moreover, eager for British help and should thus prove willing to answer questions.
McColl and Aitchison took the consulate brougham into the center of town, where the refugees were lodged in one of the smaller hotels. Seeing them crowded together in three large rooms, McColl could understand the Chudnovskys’ reluctance to take them in. The seven couples with assorted children and grandparents might come from the requisite social class, but they had fewer items of luggage among them than the Chudnovskys had in their lobby. These families would not be choosing between rivieras.
The terms of a deal were quickly struck—information for hotel expenses and transport on to Teheran. McColl’s first job was to pin down where each family came from, and, much to his delight, two were from Ashkhabad. The first, a handsome young Armenian named Tigran Sahakian, had lived there for four years. He was a doctor at the city hospital; his wife, the daughter of a local businessman, had lived there much longer. The family had given the first revolution a tentative welcome, and by summer things had seemed to be settling down. It was only in November, when news arrived of the Bolshevik coup in Petrograd, that their situation had markedly deteriorated. “By January we were cut off from the rest of Russia,” Sahakian said. “And our so-called soviet was left to its own devices. It started redistributing wealth and property and arresting any of those who refused to accept their losses. My father-in-law was one of them. We spent six weeks trying to find out which prison he was in and then were told he’d been shot on the day of his arrest.”
“Who’s in charge?” McColl wanted to know. “The local Bolsheviks?”
“Not on their own. There are Bolsheviks and Mensheviks and Socialist Revolutionaries and other parties that someone thought up the day before and will forget again tomorrow. Most of them are railway workers. Railway workers!” he repeated, as if he couldn’t quite believe it.
“What about the local Turks? The Turcomen, I think you call them.”
Sahakian shrugged. “What about them? They spend all their time chasing each other across the desert. Or admiring their latest gold tooth in the mirror.”
“They’re not involved with the soviet?”
“God no. These socialists may be only railway workers, but at least they’re white men.”
“And the real Turks? Is anyone worried that they’ll cross the Caspian and head for Ashkhabad?”
“I’ve never heard anyone say so. If they ever reached Baku, then maybe. But not until then.”
“And what about Germans and Austrians? Are there any of them in Ashkhabad?”
Sahakian hadn’t seen or heard of any, but one of the other men, a Russian named Poletaev, knew of some who had. Poletaev had owned a small clothes factory, and he had heard from friends in the local business community that a delegation of Germans had visited the city only a few weeks earlier. They had come to discuss the purchase of cotton stockpiles left stranded by three years of war. “No deal was done,” Poletaev said, “because there is no way to get the cotton out. But if the Germans reach the Caspian, they can ship it across and train it home.”
Back at the Garden of Eden, McColl talked matters through with Cheselden. His partner’s Russian was unlikely to fool any half-competent authority, and spies, as McColl reminded his partner, were usually shot in wartime. Cheselden, however, had been working on his plan to head off alone once they were both across the border. He argued that while his Russian was dreadful, his German was much better, certainly good enough for him to pose as an escaped prisoner of war. If caught, he wouldn’t be shot as a spy, just sent back to the nearest camp.
Which was a great idea, provided nobody asked him to describe the one he’d supposedly escaped.
McColl was inclined to think that the safest bet—for both him and Cheselden—was to leave the younger man behind.
Cheselden wouldn’t hear of it. “What do you expect me to do?” he asked. “Just twiddle my thumbs while I wait for you to come back? I didn’t travel halfway round the world to wait.”
McColl raised his hands in surrender. “Okay. We’ll go in together, waving the flag, offering the earth to any Russian who’ll help us keep that cotton from the Germans. And the first hint we get that it’s all going up in smoke, we either go into hiding or make a run for the border, whichever looks the better bet. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” Cheselden said, wiping his nose on his sleeve and offering his hand.
5
Celestial Alphabet
Thanks to the Russian calendar, which was still running thirteen days behind its Western counterpart, the American correspondents in Petrograd had two Christmases to enjoy. The first, their own, was celebrated in some style. Invited to lunch at the Hotel Europe by the American Red Cross mission, they arrived to find a beautiful candlelit tree, a roaring fire, and a traditional table. Once turkey with potatoes and cabbage had been served, each guest was solemnly treated to the Russian chef’s idea of a seasonal mince pie.
After digesting this feast, Caitlin and the other correspondents barely had time to get home and change for the evening entertainment—a full-scale party for the two-hundred-strong American colony in Petrograd. This was held at the old Turkish embassy, in a vast reception room lined with enormous mirrors. There was more turkey and real American layer cakes in place of the fake mince pies. Caitlin, like almost everyone else, spent time on the floor, dancing one-steps and waltzes with men she didn’t know to the raucous music of a balalaika band. Several other guests expressed their admiration of her shimmering blue frock, which she’d borrowed from Kollontai’s still-capacious wardrobe.
This singular day gave way to the worst week she’d had since arriving in Russia. Perhaps it was just a natural hangover, or maybe spending so much time in purely American company was bound to play on long-suppressed emotions. Whatever the reasons, four hours of daylight no longer seemed anywhere near enough, and the snow-draped city felt more like an icebox than a winter wonderland. The people were no less welcoming, her grasp of the language grew better by the day, but almost overnight, or so it seemed to her, Russia came to feel like a truly foreign country. She felt a long way from home, and achingly lonely. She missed Jack.
At this low ebb, she found that her political doubts began to multiply. If women were making bigger strides here than anywhere else, was that only because they had so much further to go? Was the Cheka as benign as Peters wanted her—and probably himself—to believe? With Finns, Ukrainians, and other nationalities all chafing at the old Russian yoke, could the country even hold together? And if it did, would the new democracy survive? The Constituent Assembly was due to meet in a couple of weeks, and most of the people she knew expected the Bolsheviks and LSRs to dissolve it. They had their reasons—ones she agreed with on her more forgiving days—but were they kidding themselves? Was she?
She didn’t let these doubts seep into her writing—there would be critics enough back home—but as the year reached its end, she did sometimes feel they were seeping into her heart.
Salvation came in three installments: a magical walk, a message from Kollontai, and, most surprising of all, a speech by her own country’s president. The walk was with her fellow correspondent Bessie Beatty, who had discovered the wooded islands just to the north of the city and taken to spending Sunday’s daylight hours away from the ever-churning revolution. On the weekend after their Christmas, she invited Caitlin to accompany her, and the two of them spent several hours walking through the snow-clad pines and spruces, occasionally sharing a word but mostly enjoying the heaven-sent silence.
The message from Kollontai came two days later, informing her that the marriage law was about to be passed and urging her to attend. Caitlin was in the press seats next morning, watching her friend introduce her bill and seeing it duly voted into law. With gender equality as the guiding principle, marriage became a purely civil affair, requiring the couple concerned only to register their union. Securing a divorce was just as easy if children were not involved, and only slightly more difficult if they were.
That evening, at Kollontai’s flat, Caitlin’s friend was full of plans for turning one of the city’s dreadful children’s homes—often known, ironically, as “angel factories”—into a new model Palace of Motherhood, in which women could get the pre- and postnatal care they needed, regardless of how they came to be pregnant. And Kollontai also had other news. “Dybenko thinks we should set an example by making use of yesterday’s new law,” she said, “but most of my friends disagree. They tell me that after everything I’ve said about the slavery of marriage, people will think me a hypocrite.”
“Then you should set an example of a slaveless marriage,” Caitlin told her, to Kollontai’s unconcealed delight.
The third thing that lifted Caitlin’s heart was the speech that Woodrow Wilson gave to Congress on January 8, news of which reached Petrograd two days after the Russian Christmas. It wasn’t his Fourteen Points for peace that inspired her—for all except European leaders these simply stated the obvious—but the depth of fellow feeling that the president shared with the Russian people and its current government. Clearly referring to the Bolsheviks’ stand at the Brest-Litovsk peace negotiations, Wilson thought “their conception of what is right, of what is humane and honorable for them to accept, has been stated with a frankness, a largeness of view, a generosity of spirit, and a universal human sympathy which must challenge the admiration of every friend of mankind.”
Of all the people Caitlin had expected to notice such qualities in the Russian Revolution, Woodrow Wilson was among the least likely, and she took his speech as a gift—one of those rare moments in which she felt truly proud of her country. And she wasn’t alone in her surprise—even her fellow journalist Jack Reed seemed at a loss for words.
Caitlin spent the Russian New Year’s Eve at an LSR party on Fontanka Embankment. The diminutive Spiridonova was much in evidence, her animated face more beautiful than ever. She introduced people to each other, enforced the evening’s no-politics rule, and even blocked a stampede for the door when a kerosene lamp burst into flames and briefly threatened to burn the building down. There was roast pig and pasties to eat, candles in bottles for light, and a Christmas tree still tenaciously clinging to a few of its needles. There was dancing and comedy, and a moving hymn to fallen comrades, and, despite the rule, discussion of events in Ukraine and Finland, arguments over what if any terms the government should accept from the Germans. Everything, it seemed, was still up for grabs.
