Byzantium Endures: The First Volume of the Colonel Pyat Quartet

  Shura mocked him. ‘They’re just on their way to the garrison. It’s the shortest route from the Goods Station where they disembarked. Look at them. They’re not show-cavalry or militia, those boys. They’re a fighting unit.’

  It was true that the Cossacks had well-worn kaftans and that there was dust on them. Their weapons looked as if they had been used in real action, rather than in the service of some pogrom.

  ‘Nonetheless,’ said Boris, ‘the City Council had a reason for making them get off at the Goods Station and for telling them to come through here. Why are they galloping in streets? On cobbles? It’s bad for horses.’

  We all shut him up. The Cossacks had done no harm (unless you counted the odd heart-attack) and I for one had been inspired by them. With fighters like that we were assured of victory. And there were thousands—perhaps hundreds of thousands—of Cossack horsemen of half-a-dozen major hosts, not to mention all the minor ones—who would rally now that the Turk had dared attack us. I could imagine the joy in the Cossack villages when the news came that they would have another chance to kill Turks. I envied them. Only traitors and out-and-out Zionists could fail to be reassured by the sight of our wild cavalrymen of the steppe.

  I had begun to develop one of the headaches which have since bothered me all my life, and so I made my excuses and returned home. The streets were unusually quiet, virtually deserted. I found the house absolutely silent. Nobody was in. I went to my room, thinking of having more cocaine, but I decided to lie in the darkness of the room, whose blinds had already been drawn, and try to sleep. There were disadvantages to taking stimulants. Sooner or later one’s resources cried out to be replenished. I spent that evening in bed and went down to dinner, where I found Uncle Semya, Aunt Genia and Wanda. My uncle lacked his usual detached benevolence and Aunt Genia spoke brightly, but with even less substance than was normal. At one point she suggested we should all think of going to Kiev. Uncle Semya said that property was expensive there and we could not afford to live as we did in Odessa. After dinner I asked Wanda what the matter was. She said that it was nothing specific. The war news was depressing. Uncle Semya had taken them out to Fountain to look at a datcha he was thinking of renting for the winter. I found this in itself bewildering, for one did not rent summer datchas for Odessa winters, which were apt to be quite severe. He had decided against the idea, Wanda told me. A touch of war-hysteria, I suggested. I had read about war hysteria. We had been warned against it. She said that was probably the case. She seemed sad as she sat in my room, but was reluctant to leave. I felt an urge to comfort her, but thought that any move I made would be misinterpreted. I said that I was very tired and that I must sleep. There would be no need to bring me any breakfast in the morning. I would sleep at least until noon. Usually Wanda was sensitive to my needs, but she continued to pass the time for a few more moments until at length she left. I began to wonder if she had fallen in love with me and whether this accounted for her unusual behaviour. Everyone was a little strange since the bombardment. They had taken it far more to heart than I had. Perhaps they had intimations of miseries to come.

  Now that I think back, the ‘peculiar behaviour’ of some of my relatives might be my own interpretation. I could be overly acute. Sometimes with prolonged use of cocaine one begins to analyse far too deeply, suspecting motives and attitudes in other people which are simply not there, at least in any exaggerated form. I had been using cocaine almost every day for more than a week and was probably not far short of experiencing that confusion and doubt which comes from over-indulgence (something I have been careful of since: Everything in moderation, as the Poles say). In those days, of course, I did not know how to measure my intake of any drug, whether it be narcotic, alcoholic, or, indeed, spiritual.

  For the first time since I had arrived in Odessa, I felt depressed and homesick as I went to sleep. I thought of lilacs in the summer rain, of smoke hanging over the steep yellow streets, of my mother’s kindness and attentiveness, something which even my lovely Katya could not replace. This mood had left me when I awoke the next day, but it was to recur from time to time. However, I was determined to stay in Odessa as long as possible, even though winter was drawing on and the heavenly, unreal summer and autumn were giving way to a more prosaic, colder life.

  I thought that Shura guessed my slight depression. He took to inviting me to parties (private houses tended to be the meeting places in winter) and to introducing me to different girls. It became harder to see Katya. At first I did not realise that I was seeing her only two or three times a week when before I had seen her every day. I became suspicious of her. I missed her comforting warm-heartedness. I became increasingly homesick.

  There was a little light snow in November. It seemed to me that the whole of Odessa had been covered with cocaine. By early December I was using about two grams a day, most of it supplied by Shura. My mother had written to me to say that she thought I should return. I had written to say that the news had been sensationalised and that I was safe. I would go home ‘at about Christmas-time’. She did not write to Uncle Semya and I was able to tell him my mother was reassured. Then, on the morning that the first real snow came I received a letter from Esmé telling me my mother had influenza and that Esmé had moved in with her, since her father’s pension had stopped with his death and she could not, anyway, afford the rent on his apartment. This seemed an ideal solution. I was glad that my mother had companionship and someone as competent to look after her as Esmé. I wrote back to say that I would visit Kiev ‘some time after Christmas’, that studies and so on were keeping me in Odessa and Uncle Semya was anxious that I should get the maximum benefit from my stay. None of this was a lie, but the prospect of poverty and simple food over the holiday was too much to contemplate. I could have done very little for my mother in Kiev. Indeed, with myself and my mother to look after, Esmé would have been hard-pressed. Of course, I did not know that the influenza was a very bad attack or I should have returned home at once.

  A day or so later Shura asked me if I would like to go aboard an English steamer. I said that the idea was very attractive. Shura needed an interpreter in some business he was transacting with the mate of the ship. The captain was not aboard. He had gone sick and been put ashore in Yalta. I assumed that because of this the mate was interested in off-loading whatever his cargo was and taking on something else. There were fewer and fewer foreign merchant ships in Odessa, due to the winter and Turkish control of the Straits. I believe, too, they were taking different routes, to avoid German submarines. There were, from time to time, Australian warships in the harbour, but we rarely had any contact with their crews. I was glad of the rare chance to try out my English. That night we went down to Quarantine Harbour and showed passes Shura had obtained. Then we were met by two seamen with a ship’s boat and rowed to where the S.S. Kathleen Sisson was anchored beyond the mole. She was not much of a ship; typical of the tramps trading along the coasts from the Aegean to the Sea of Azov. After Turkey entered the War, these began to disappear so rapidly that as a mercantile city Odessa went from riches to rags almost overnight. I think the Kathleen Sisson had been recalled to her home port of Piraeus and possibly her officers, who were the only Britons aboard, wanted to get out of the theatre of war. The rest of the crew consisted of Greeks and Armenians who would have made a company of laskars seem savoury.

  We went below the bridge, to the captain’s quarters, and met Mr Finch, the mate. At the time I found him a pleasant, quietly spoken Irish gentleman, but I suspect I would see him differently now. He was tall and dressed in a grubby white uniform. He offered us a drink of what must have been arak, but which I foolishly thought would be Scotch whisky. It tightened the muscles of my throat, making it hard for me to speak properly for several days. We sat down around a chart table and Mr Finch began the conversation, asking Shura if he had brought the money. Shura told me to tell Mr Finch that the money was on deposit and would be paid over at a mutually agreed time and place. Mr Finch seemed
displeased by this but became reconciled, giving us some more ‘whisky’ (I have never drunk much real whisky since that day). Shura asked to see a sample and Mr Finch took him away while I waited, impressed by the cabin with its wealth of instruments, charts and general seafaring paraphernalia. It was my first experience aboard a ship and even a run-down tramp was absolutely enchanting.

  Shura and Mr Finch returned. Mr Finch told me that if Shura were satisfied we should agree a time and place to meet ‘on neutral ground’. Shura suggested a seamen’s club near the harbour. This was a favourite of English and American sailors. Mr Finch would feel at ease. The mate agreed and he and Shura shook hands. Mr Finch said to me that it had been ‘a long haul from Malacca’ and that he would be ‘glad to be back in Dublin’. I expressed surprise that he had sailed all that way and he laughed. ‘I joined this old kettle at Trebizond. I’ve been in damned native trains since Basrah, worrying myself sick every minute I was on land. I started the whole deal before the War, see. Now I wish I never had.’

  It was not clear what the deal had involved. I began to suspect it must be illegal. Shura was inclined to sail a little close to the wind, but this was something which could land us in trouble with the police. We got back to the harbour and I said goodbye to my cousin. I was glad the venture was over for me. Shura came to the house two days later and gave me ‘enough cocaine to last you through the season’. He seemed even better disposed towards me than usual. I guessed he must be feeling guilty for involving me in something dangerous. The cocaine was of prime quality. This was probably what Mr Finch had been carrying all the way from Malacca.

  FIVE

  THE FOG IN ODESSA grew thicker and colder, muting the slow moans of the last ships in the harbour. People occupied the streets less frequently. They put on their long coats, their mufflers, their fur caps. Christmas approached and the better shops were filled with light and wonderful displays; posters started to appear for Winter Balls and entertainments, many of them to raise funds for the war effort; ice-cream sellers gave way to chestnut sellers under the hissing gas-lamps, and the stevedores on the docks put on quilted jackets and gloves, their breath mingling with the thick, low-lying steam from the ships. My mood grew steadily worse. In winter Odessa became a fairly ordinary city. I was scarcely seeing Katya at all (she was tired, she said) and I was using cocaine in stronger and stronger doses to relieve an almost suicidal depression. I had overdone my adventures. I had packed years of experience into a few months. I had neglected my work at the very time I should have been concentrating on it. I tried to stay with my books and forget about Katya. It was impossible. I decided to get up early one morning and go to see her, to offer her anything if she would forsake her profession and see more of me. She was an intelligent, beautiful girl and could easily have got a job in an office, or in a shop. Uncle Semya would probably help.

  I bought her a present. A few days before Christmas Eve I wrapped it in silver paper, tied it with green ribbon (it was an ornamental clown of the best Ukrainian ceramic, bought at Magasin Wagner) and set off for Slobodka. In my dark suit, white shirt, bow-tie, dark-brown bowler and matching English top-coat, with the present under my arm, I must have looked the picture of a young man on his way to ‘pop-the-question’ (although I was not yet fifteen). I bought an expensive imported flower (already becoming scarce) to complete the effect. I also carried a white ivory stick with a carved head. This had been a present from Shura about a week before.

  I arrived at the broken-down house in the alley where Katya lived. The front, used by the ironmonger, had not yet opened, but I knew a trick of jerking the door open, even when it was locked. I entered the dark, cluttered interior of the shop and tip-toed through to the narrow stair leading to Katya’s room. She would have got rid of any customer by this time, but I did not want to risk embarrassing her. Determined to go away if a man was with her, I crept up the stairs and opened the door a fraction. I saw a form huddled in the bed with its arms around my Katya. I suppressed my jealousy. Then I realised I recognised the shoulder. It was young. A boy’s shoulder. It was, of course, Shura’s shoulder.

  I did not behave then as I would behave now. I lost all control. I screamed and flung the door back. I realised why Shura had shown me such kindness, why Katya’s time with me had become so limited, why she and Shura never spoke when they met at Esau’s. I had been betrayed.

  I recall only the emotions; the way in which the blood became a drum in my brain, in which my hot hand gripped the cool ivory of the stick as I advanced on Shura. He scrambled up with a yell, laughed at me, became terrified, tried to protect Katya, threw a pillow at me. I raised the stick. His naked body flew at me and caught me below the waist. I struck his back, his buttocks. I fell over. The fight had no proper end. I lost the stick. We became exhausted. I remember Katya weeping. ‘Can’t you see I loved you.’

  Shura sat panting against a wall down which, as if to witness the drama, cockroaches climbed. ‘She loved us both, Xima. I love you both.’

  I said the usual things about treachery, trickery, double-dealing. I have been betrayed too many times since then to recall anything specific. Katya wanted Shura’s maturity and my innocence. Fundamentally she was a whore. She could not resist any of us. There were probably other lovers, as opposed to customers. I think she was one of those kindly, slightly frightened girls who gives in to the slightest pressure then spends her life trying to reconcile everyone, far too afraid to tell the truth which would extricate her from such situations. It is a characteristic of our good-natured Slav girls, particularly in Ukraine. There are even Jewish girls who are like it. They are incapable of scheming, but weave the most impossible webs of deception. These girls are so frequently treated as femmes fatales when, in fact, they are the very opposite. None of this occurred to my fourteen-year-old self. Drained by a drug which in later years would prove beneficial, exhausted by an unequal physical encounter, weeping with misery at the terrible thing done to me by my little Katya, I lay in a corner and picked cobwebs and dust off my fine suit, while my cousin Shura, trying to mollify me, got dressed, and Katya wailed, wishing she had never met either of us.

  Shura suggested we go for a drink. I accepted. We went to Esau’s where Shura cracked and chewed sunflower seeds and talked about ‘the world’ and how he had been going to tell me but that Katya had been afraid it would hurt my feelings. Slowly the onus was transferred onto the woman in the case. Two or three glasses of vodka made it seem we had both been badly deceived by a little bitch. Another two or three glasses and I was close to weeping. I told Shura I had nearly killed him. Shura said it was appalling how trollops like Katya could make two friends fight so savagely. We drank to the doom of all women. We drank to eternal comradeship. When the question arose as to which of us was to stop seeing Katya we were both insistent we had ‘no rights’; then insistent that each had ‘greater rights’ because of ‘loving her more’. And so it went on, with recriminations creeping back and Shura rising and turning his shoulder to me, and me deciding to go to see Katya to demand from her a guarantee she would dismiss Shura for good. We left Esau’s. We both had the same destination. We stopped at the corner of her alley. A woman went past, leading two cows (still kept for fresh milk in cities in those days) and we were separated by them. Both of us dashed past the beasts and tried to reach the ironmonger’s first. This ludicrous and undignified scene resulted in the pair of us reeling drunkenly into stacks of pots and pans which we knocked onto the cobbles. Out of the shop came the middle-aged Jewish proprietor, screaming and waving his arms and cursing the lust of men and the venality of women. Why had God decided that he, a respectable shop-keeper, must support his impeccably virtuous family by letting rooms to women of easy virtue (I knew that an ‘extra’ on his exorbitant rent was an afternoon every week with Katya’s mother)? We demanded he step aside and let us through.

  ‘To have my shop destroyed by drunks!’ He took a great axe from his display. ‘To bring the police down on my poor head! Wonderful!
Cossacks in the Moldovanka! Let’s have a new pogrom, eh! Stand back, both of you, or I’ll give the police fair cause to visit me. I’ll split your heads and hang myself rather than let you in.’

  Katya’s orange-haired sluttish mother appeared behind him. She was pulling on a grubby Chinese robe. ‘Shura? Maxim? What’s the matter with you? Where’s Katya?’

  ‘We have come to see her,’ I said. ‘She has to choose between us.’

  ‘But she left half-an-hour ago.’

  ‘Where did she go?’ asked Shura.

  ‘To Esau’s, I thought.’

  ‘Was she laughing?’ I asked significantly.

  ‘Not that I noticed. What do you want with her? You boys shouldn’t quarrel over a girl. She likes you both.’

  ‘She’s a deceiver,’ I said. ‘A liar.’

  ‘She’s a bit weak, that’s all,’ said Shura. ‘I told her … ‘

  ‘I won’t have such discussions in my street, outside my shop.’ The Jew advanced with the axe. We retreated.

  Katya’s mother shook her head. ‘Calm down. Go for a walk together. Go for a swim.’ She seemed unaware that it was winter.

  ‘She was not frank with me,’ I said.

  ‘Frank? What is frank?’ asked the shop-keeper. He gestured with his huge axe. ‘Jews are not the bogatyrs of Kiev. They have no room for such podvig luxuries.’

  ‘They have a great penchant for hypocrisy instead,’ I retorted.

  He smiled. ‘If we are here to indulge in some rabbinical discussion, some orgy of self-criticism, let us settle down around the book, my young Litvak.’

  Did he think I was a Jew? I was shocked. I looked at his dirty skin, his stringy beard, his hooked nose and thick lips and realised what a terrible mistake I had made. To believe that Jews could be my friends, that I could exist in their company without some of their traits rubbing off on me! I backed away. I began to run through the alleys of the ghetto, knocking aside old men and children, treading on cats and dogs, breaking down washing lines, kicking cans of milk, until I was back at Uncle Semya’s house, bedraggled, my coat flapping, my hat missing, my ivory cane lost in the struggle at Katya’s. Straight up the steps and into the front door. Up the stairs and into my room. I lay on my bed weeping and swearing never again to have anything to do with Jews, with the Moldovanka, with my cousin Shura, with coarse, corrupt, vulgar Odessa.