The Vengeance of Rome

  My mother worked at the cleaner’s part-time. ’You know how she always preferred to occupy herself . . . She had some terrible experiences, Maxim. She almost died in the famine. Then the Germans sent her to Babi Yar. She escaped with two other women. They caught her again in Poland. They sent her to Auschwitz in 1944, and she would have been killed except she spoke several languages and was useful as an interpreter in one of the offices. She had been selected to die just before the Allies came. Luckier than most, eh? After over two years in a DP camp, she immigrated to Jaffa in 1948. She was extraordinarily fit, all things considered; you would think her ten or twenty years younger. No doubt her good health also saved her from the “selections”.’

  The thought of my poor, brave mother, who had sacrificed everything for me, being humiliated and terrorised in one of those camps disgusted and infuriated me. The experience was bad enough when it happened to me, but I was young and male. Everything was so much worse for women, especially dignified older women of her breeding. If she had not escaped from Babi Yar, she would no doubt have died there. The Nazis had a chance to wipe out most traces of that camp. The Russians filled it in then forgot about it. Babi Yar was the same gorge I flew over when, to impress Esmé, I took my first aircraft into the sky. By the time the Allies arrived in Poland and Germany, it was too late to do much. In Auschwitz my mother spent four days hiding under a hut, with nothing to eat, waiting for liberation. When it came, said Esmé, my mother’s first thought was to ask after her son. She had always imagined me leading an army unit to her rescue! As I read I was moved to tears. Why did I feel I had let her down by not being there?

  Knowing the name I had used in Russia, Esmé developed a habit of searching for it through the phone books of every city she visited. She usually found more than one Pyatnitski or Piatniski, but she doggedly asked the same questions. Only she, of course, knew certain things about us. Esmé particularly remembered that incident of the aeroplane. You flew down into the Babi Gorge and almost killed yourself! None of the others had been able to answer her on that issue.

  In London years earlier Esmé came across my name in an old book, but I had moved. Not until she was on holiday in London again last year did she pick up a tourist magazine which published details of the Spirit of St Petersburg along with a photograph with my name, describing me as an ‘old Cossack aviator who fought against Stalin’. I remember the piece. It was fanciful, written by one of Mrs Cornelius’s sons. At the time I had been a little nervous at the amount of detail. Moorcock was involved in the magazine (London Spirit) during its brief existence. The 1960s threw up dozens of such publications.

  Esmé had tried to contact me then. She was due to catch her flight back to St Malo, where she now lived. The magazine had not published my full address, but she dropped me a postcard anyway, she said. Though she had written in English, it might not have reached me. As soon as she was able, she got in touch with my mother suggesting the two of them visit London the following year and try to contact me again. They had planned to surprise me in the shop. Then they realised it might be too much of a shock. Esmé joked how she didn’t know how strong my heart was. My mother had an old friend from Kiev living at Princelet Street, Spitalfields, a private house. It might be a good idea for us to meet there. We would have time to settle, to talk, and, if things became too emotional, we could be left alone for a while. If, however, I preferred them to come to Portobello Road, or somewhere else, she would be happy to bring my mother.

  Esmé’s delicacy of understanding impressed me. Merely knowing that my mother was alive and in England was enough to strike me dumb. I could hardly breathe as I sat reading behind my till, fanning myself with the pages, so distracted that I almost let one of those Czech hussies steal a green feather boa from the rack. Those girls are whores. They are skilled thieves. This is what communism has taught them.

  Few can imagine how Esmé’s news affected me. Both the beloved women from my past, whom I had worshipped above life, whom I had given up for dead, were only miles away on the other side of the city.

  Spitalfields was an unfamiliar and not altogether savoury part of London. I had been there once or twice to buy stock in Petticoat Lane when first starting my shop, but now auctions, theatres and armies supplied me with what I needed. It seemed another minor miracle that a friend of my mother’s had been over there without my knowledge.

  I felt, I will admit, somewhat guilty. Perhaps over the years I really had not made sufficient effort to find my mother. God knew I had done a great deal. Even when convinced she was dead I had sent enquiries to the Soviet government and received no reply. I had not known what name she was living under. I could not tell the Reds too much. Brodmann’s shadow continually cast itself over my fate. One slip and I would be the victim of an assassin’s poison bullet. Anyone close to me was in equal danger. The thought of my mother being targeted for assassination terrified me. Esmé had foreseen this. She had lost none of her intelligence. She had been right to send a letter first. It occurred to me that I did not know if my mother was using an alias. Pyatnitski, while it had become familiar to everyone who knew me, was not our original name. That would be instantly recognisable to anyone familiar with the history of the Romanoffs! Another reason why I had been so cautious about communicating with her.

  Esmé had included the number of the hotel where they were staying. As soon as I felt strong enough, I went round the corner to the phone boxes. To use my own phone would be foolish. I dialled the number and asked for Esmé’s room. After some time, the telephone was picked up. A tentative voice said, ‘Yes?’

  I asked if that were Mrs Vallir.

  A pause. ‘No.’

  I risked a few words in Russian. ‘Will she be back soon?’

  The woman answered more confidently. ‘Oh, yes. She has gone to pick up some theatre tickets. Another half-hour at most.’

  My heart was beating horribly. Instead of replacing the receiver, I asked breathlessly, ’I am sorry, I am not sure of your name. Would you tell her that Maxim phoned?’

  ‘Maxim?’

  I was almost in tears. ‘Mother?’

  ‘Oh, Maxim, my boy. So it is you.’

  I tried to make a joke, but I knew my lips were trembling. ‘No one else, Mother. I’m sorry I could not get back to Kiev as I promised. You had to travel all the way to London to see me.’

  She was weeping and even less capable of speech than I. Her words ran together, becoming hard to understand. She had missed me so much. Knowing that we would one day be reunited had kept her alive. Everything was now worth it. Esmé was a saint. Was I married? Did I have any children?

  Knowing the phone might still be tapped, I paused to collect myself. I said I would ring the hotel in an hour. If it was convenient, I would meet her at her friend’s house in Spitalfields. It would save her another journey and would probably be more convenient for everyone. She began to give me the address, but I told her I already had it. ‘Even in London, it is best to assume the walls have ears.’

  We were still both weeping when I put the phone down. I had to take control of my emotions before I left the phone booth. I could not afford to let those little ruffians see me in a weakened condition. An hour later I returned to the row of boxes. During the time I was gone someone had used the vacant one as a urinal. I tried the box next to it. Vandalised. Some child had attempted to get the money out of it. Another short walk brought me to Westbourne Grove and a phone good enough to use. By then I was in better control of myself thanks to the exercise.

  This time I spoke to a younger woman. Her faintly accented English was excellent. This was, of course, Esmé. We arranged to meet that afternoon at Princelet Street. Then, if it seemed a good idea, we would go on to Liberty. According to Esmé, my mother had long dreamed of taking tea with me at the Ritz, but the Ritz was already full up. I said I preferred Liberty. Liberty was cheaper, better and never overbooked.

  At my flat I dressed carefully and conservatively. I did not even tell Mrs
Cornelius where I was going. I still had a faint suspicion I might be falling into one of Brodmann’s traps. I had not survived for so long without anticipating such things, the legacy of all those years.

  A taxi for so great a distance was out of the question. Instead, I walked up to Notting Hill Gate and got the Central Line to Liverpool Street where I easily found a taxi to take me to Brick Lane.

  We drove down the mean, narrow road, full of bagel bakeries, rag shops and kosher butchers. To be honest, Brick Lane was never an area which attracted me. The denizens had reproduced their original slums and shtetls. The cab turned into Princelet Street. Number 19 was about halfway along an old run-down row of eighteenth-century houses, typical of the time, with an arched doorway and two matching arched windows beside it. Above this were two rows of three windows and above them some sort of attic. Even compared to the nearby buildings the place had a distinctly neglected look. No doubt the home of an impoverished refugee, like so many in Notting Hill these days. The door was poorly painted, the knocker filthy with rust and dirt. I lifted it and let it fall; the interior sent back a hollow echo. Something seemed wrong. Was this indeed a trick? I was poised to turn and flee. Perhaps after all I should have brought one of Mrs Cornelius’s sons with me. Too late to change my mind. The door was opened by a smart, stocky woman of about my own age. Her hair and costume were clearly that of a person of substance. She smiled and swung the black door back, admitting me into a narrow hall. On both walls were arranged groups of fly-spotted photographs. The place smelled strongly of onions and cabbage. More of old Kiev came back to me. I hesitated. I removed my hat.

  ‘Maxim!’ Her smile was sweet as always. Awkwardly we hovered, unsure whether or not to embrace. At last I did my best to smile in return. I shook hands with her. Her poise and manner were distinctly French. She wore a deliciously floral perfume. Guerlain, I thought. I know these things from the women who come into the shop. I was not a bit surprised at feeling a strong attraction for Esmé.

  Needless to say, she was not the bright little girl or the sober young woman I had known long ago, but she wore excellent makeup. Her well-cut clothes were flattering. She spoke good, educated Russian in a beautifully modulated accent such as I had scarcely heard in years. Again tears came to my eyes.

  ‘Good afternoon, Maxim Arturovitch.’ She was sweetly sardonic. ‘It seems the prodigal son has, if not returned, at least arranged to meet for tea. How are you, my dear?’

  ‘Well, thank you.’ Keeping control of myself, I kissed her on both cheeks in the Parisian manner. ‘Did you have a good journey, Esmé Alexandrova?’

  ‘We took a plane,’ she said. ’So much quicker! The first time your mother has flown. Unlike you, Maxim!’ Her grin was mischievously attractive. She had been the first person ever to witness me harness the power of flight, to soar over the towers and steeples of old Kiev. Oh, how she had loved me then! How often I had missed that love!

  The house smelled of antiquity and grief, its rooms unlived in and musty. Yet in contrast to the prevailing atmosphere the front parlour was almost opulently furnished, with big armchairs, a solid table, a floral carpet, some heavy, blue velvet curtains. The wooden blinds were half shut to admit two bright bars of sunlight, one of which shone on fresh flowers in a large green vase, the centrepiece of the table. Around the walls were arranged an old-fashioned radio set, a bureau and a bookcase with dark, matching volumes. Over to the right in the shadows stood two stocky old women in black, neither of whom I recognised. One of them stepped forward holding out her arms. And we embraced. I began to shake. Esmé suggested we sit down. The other old lady murmured in what sounded like German. I heard a few words. She went to get us some tea. My mother sat down across from me on the sofa.

  ‘We can go on to Liberty as soon as you feel like it.’ Esmé stepped back. ‘I can order a taxi.’ I remained intensely aware of her floral scent. I noticed how the shafts of light caught her hair. She had good cheekbones, soft skin. She had aged well. ‘But if you’d rather stay here don’t worry. You aren’t disturbing anyone. Mrs Stein’s only here part of the week. She’s the caretaker. The house hasn’t been used for several years. Are you familiar with its history?’

  Why should I be? I thought. I told her that I hardly ever came to this neighbourhood. ‘In London East and West are two separate worlds.’ I did my best to laugh. ‘You go through an invisible gate at Holborn.’

  ‘Mrs Stein tells us the place was once well known. They are trying to get a grant, she says, to preserve it. The house was the last of its kind in London, according to Mrs Stein, originally built to accommodate Huguenot weavers, but around 1870 they added on behind. It remained an ordinary house in the front. Perhaps a rabbi lived here. The addition was a tiny synagogue! You can still see all its decorations, prayer books and so on. The last members of the congregation either died or moved away. Mrs Stein has been telling us about it.’

  This news confused me. Had Esmé converted to Judaism while in Palestine? This ordinary working-class front room was a synagogue? I saw no sign of such a building. Was this after all an elaborate hoax? Yet Esmé spoke in a matter-of-fact voice. Did she seem over-controlled?

  ‘A synagogue?’

  She was awkwardly respectful. She gave a small, uncertain shrug. ‘Such places were common, apparently, in this part of London. Poor immigrants could not afford very large ones. The whole thing fills the little backyard! Incredible, eh? Do you want to look at it later? The rest of the house, of course, is just a normal dwelling. You can still see where the Protestants had their looms.’

  The woman who I supposed was my mother shook her head, speaking in Russian. She smiled uncertainly. ‘No doubt they had to keep it secret. For fear, I would guess, of pogroms.’

  ‘Pogroms?’ I was completely at sea. ‘In London? The Jews were never threatened. You’re thinking of Mosley in the 1930s. But that came to nothing. The Jews were always tolerated in London.’

  As I spoke Mrs Stein re-entered the room. She shrugged. ‘Pray to God it’s true. I heard things were all right in Leeds, but here —? Even today you are never surprised.’ She shared a complicit glance with the other two women.

  I felt extremely uncomfortable. ‘So it is now a museum?’ I asked.

  ‘Not even that,’ said Esmé. ‘This room Mrs Stein keeps up. But the rest of the place has fallen into disuse. The Rodinsky family lived here until recently. Then they died or moved away. One, I gather, was mentally disturbed. This is Mrs Rodinsky’s furniture. A shame.’ ’

  I was allergic to the dust. I coughed, wiping my eyes. Though the house had recently been cleaned, I felt a strong need to get back into the street. Such rooms always made me claustrophic. ‘Perhaps we should go straight on to Liberty?’

  The old lady - my mother - brightened. ‘You find this place a bit depressing. So do I. We’ll go have our tea at the restaurant you mentioned. Mrs Stein won’t mind.’ Then she frowned. ‘But it would not be good manners ...’ She began to weep again. ’It is so wonderful to see you, my darling.’ She opened her arms, and I was again in her embrace, delighting in the maternal softness of her body, the warmth, her smell. My caution was leaving me. I hugged her as tightly as she hugged me. I had not known such affection since I was last in Kiev, promising to return as soon as possible. I could not control my sobs. ‘Oh, Mother!’ Only now did I understand what I had been suppressing for so long.

  After a while she fell back into her chair, opening her patent-leather handbag and searching through the contents. ‘I brought a few things I have kept. I finally got a copy of your birth certificate through the agency in Tel Aviv. I thought it might be useful to you. There was, of course, nothing else saved. The Huns destroyed most of our district, and then the KGB and the partisans finished it off. They dynamited half the city, Maxim. How could Ukrainians do that? I couldn’t bear to go back. There’s nothing left of the Kurenvskaya. Podol is gone, as I said. And they blew up the Kreshchatik. That beautiful avenue!’

  I knew of Kiev??
?s destruction. She was right. The Red Army had done as much damage as the Nazis. Between them they left only ruins. Like Nuremberg and Dresden, local people had reconstructed everything from old plans and photographs. Full-size replicas of themselves. I had often wondered if they then sent out for reproduction bakers, grocers and shoemakers to staff the rebuilt shops.

  ‘You wouldn’t recognise anything.’ The old lady dabbed at her face with a handkerchief she found in her bag. She handed me a folded piece of paper. ‘Here it is.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said absently. ‘This will be useful.’ I had something I could send the genealogy people at last. I opened it. I was puzzled. What was wrong?

  Frowning, I studied the certificate. I laughed then. ‘But what is this, Mother?’ I had no idea to whom the thing referred. ‘This is for someone called Moishe Aaronovitch Peskonechnya.’ The only resemblance to my own name were the initials. The similarity of sound had no doubt confused the authorities. She had not looked at the document properly. Her eyesight was failing. Slowly I folded it back up. I looked from the beaming Esmé to the weeping, smiling old woman. She nodded. ‘That was your father. Peskonechnya. A kosher butcher by trade. His father was a rabbi in Kersen.’