The Margin of Evil! (34 page)

Amidst much laughing and jeering from
'The Unionist' side, the Leader of The Opposition sat down. The Home Secretary jumped up waving his papers in the air.

'
Order, order ... Ordaah,' the Speaker shouted.

The
noise in the chamber died down and then staring at Arthur Balfour, the Honourable Member for Dundee pouted his lips and said.  'That's why Sir ... Bob is not my uncle!'  The House erupted, but this time the commotion erupted from the Government side. Feeling pleased as punch the future Prime Minister sat down and The House of Commons carried on with the business of the day.

Part Four

Chapter Twenty
Five

There was a gap in Georgii Radzetsky's life of possibly two weeks, maybe more. Things came and went; people's faces were there one minute, gone the next; they appeared to be talking, lips moved, but all he could hear were their unintelligible sounds. None of it made any sense to him. Then faces would dissolve into nothing and garbled sounds into silence. Then it would start all over again, people would be talking, and peering at him, some just shook their heads, others simply stared.

Georgii could make out one word though; the word was fever, it was repeated over and over, time and time again.
On another occasion, a man in a stained white coat came by and gave him an injection, which sent him back into the darkness. Another time Pavel and Anna were leaning over him trying to spoon some soup into him.  Their faces through his eyes looked so big and round and the spoon feeding operation, even to him in his semi delirious state, was only partially successful. Gradually the periods of lucidity lasted longer and his powers of communication, slowly at first, started to return.

Learning from Pavel and Anna, Georgii began to piece together those lost weeks.
He learned that during those weeks, three as it was, he had had many visitors. Even the party stooge Rezhnikov had done his bit to help. But there was one visitor that had visited, had bathed and washed him and sat for hours in silent contemplation beside his bed.  She took no notice of the two street urchins that Georgii had 'unofficially' adopted. She dutifully attended to his needs.  Even the writer from upstairs had visited on a few occasions. According to Rezhnikov, Gerhardt and Trofimov had stuck their heads around the corner on a few occasions.

Even though he felt weak, it was still a major effort to do most of the things that most people naturally took for granted.
Strength however began to return, and Georgii eventually found himself, with difficulty, back up on his feet and, it seemed to him, that most of his faculties were, slowly at first, returning to normal.

By now the mystery woman had returned and she had made herself known to him.
It was no surprise to learn that the mystery woman was none other than Yulia Klimtov. As his strength returned they spent hours learning all they could about each other. She had told him that he had been found delirious in the forest.  They had managed, with great difficulty, to get him into this infirmary. Pavel and Anna sometimes spent time with them, other times they left them alone to get on with things. Georgii learned that for the first week or so it had been pretty much touch and go.  It was the height of the summer, and Moscow was rife with disease.

It was now the beginning of August; he had been laid up since the second week of June.
His strength was returning, so he decided to set himself some simple achievable goals.  One such objective was to get dressed and washed on his own and another was to walk slowly around the block.

On one of her official visits, Trofimov had told him that he had been relieved of all duties on the Nizhny Novgorod gate.
When he was well enough he would be reassigned to a new job within the Cheka. Georgii said, lying through his teeth, that he couldn't wait to get started! Still she told him to enjoy the time he had left, that is, until the doctor gave him a clean bill of health. The doctor he found out was not really a doctor, but had been a medical orderly in the old 'Imperial Army'. Due to the shortage of skilled professionals in the Moscow of 1919 he had duly been promoted from orderly to 'Doctor' by the Bolsheviks.

The
'Comrade Doctor' had told him that he had had a bad case of 'Typhoid Fever'. At one point, fearing that Georgii Radetzky might die, he had consulted another comrade, who actually was a doctor, to see what could be done to revive him.

Georgii knew the doctor was wrong in his assessment.
It wasn't Typhus that he was suffering from. It was 'Malaria' contracted during 'The Galician' summer offensive of nineteen sixteen. But, it seemed they'd all done their best to help him, he couldn't ask for anything more than that.

With
out access to proper medication Georgii's prognosis was poor, but several things had worked in his favour. The first was the devoted Yulia and the second the two children. They, it seemed to him, could lay their hands on anything. It was a well known fact that the authorities had no supplies of any medicines worth mentioning. If you wanted anything you went to one of the 'Black Markets' which, in the preceding months, had sprung up all over Moscow. Whatever the Doctor wanted; they, these two urchins, managed to get. In his knowledge, especially of these times, it was almost quite without any precedence, but Anna and Pyotr never let the Doctor down, they always managed to come up with the goods. After six weeks care Georgii was pronounced almost fit and then he was told he could go back to his living space.

Back at his
living space, whenever Yulia wasn't around, Georgii would shin upstairs and chat with the writer, providing he was in and they would sit and talk for hours. Their conversations were often long and convoluted, often lasting long into the night. Georgii was surprised to find out that Boris had been thinking about writing a novel about the strange times they lived in, but he didn't really know where to start. It was simply a bunch of separate scenes and ideas all linked by the nature of the time they lived in, but that was about as far as it went. From time to time they would talk about them. On one occasion, Georgii found himself suggesting to the writer why didn't he write about these times. If he was going to do it properly, why not chronicle the last ten years, through a set of interchanging characters
[24]
; tell the world the truth, the 'Real Story' behind 'The New Society’s ‘Wrecking Ball' of change. Georgii suggested that if he was going to chronicle these times, then the writer was duty-bound to write about the harshness of 'War Communism'; it could be a living testament to the fact that life was now even worse than it ever had been under the 'Tsar'. Maybe, if it was done properly, the book could end on a note of optimism he could tell the world what most people hoped for and he told of his old friend, Alexeii Brusilov, that he thought that something better might emerge out of this mess. When Georgii spouted off like this the writer sat there frantically scribbling down notes and ideas.

The writer laughed out loud
and said who would want to know about life in Bolshevik Russia. Georgii told him, let history be the judge; time might well surprise us all. To be sure Georgii was intrigued by him; the writer from the Urals fascinated him, he really looked forward to their fireside chats. Even though there was never any fire and, even if there had been, he mused, there was never any wood to put into the grate. One of life's little ironies he thought.

On another occasion the writer said,
'Georgii, you must agree that the threads of our lives can run through any major upheaval. We never really change from who we really are. Today we are known as Comrade this or Commissar that, yesterday you might have been known as Duke this, or Prince that; but the point I'm trying to make is, do we really change from the people we are, or have become;'  the writer looked long and hard into the empty fireplace and then said,'  that's what I want to write about.'

'
I think ... I follow you,' Georgii replied.

'
Georgii, whilst you were in your coma I received a letter from friends in Siberia. The gist of which was that things were a lot better out there. When the opportunity presents itself, I'm going to go there. Life they say, beyond the Urals, is pretty much the way it's always been. They say that the libraries and the markets are still open.'

'
But what about the Civil War?' Georgii said.

'
In the letter it said that people just ignore it, they don't care about the Reds or the Whites. They just want to get on with their lives. If anyone has the support of the people it's 'The Greens',' the writer said.

'
Why don't you write that into your book?'  Georgii said. He then went on. 'From what you tell me, it sounds like this book could chronicle the 'Old' times; the war, the revolution, and the present death throes of this once great nation!'  Georgii paused, thinking of Yulia.  'Why, you could turn it into a love story! That would sell the book. Just look at all the disparate people that live in this town, surely you could find a man and a woman that you could easily write into the narrative! Surely that's not going to be too difficult,' he said.

'
No, no! Not at all, in fact it would only be too easy! But Georgii, you don't think the 'Powers That Be', would think a book of this kind would not be, as you say, somewhat 'Counter Revolutionary?'

'
I don't think so. From what I know of our 'New 'Political' Masters', they would welcome a book of this nature. Quite simply, because they are too busy blazing histories 'Socialist' trail, I think they would think a book, a love story, would provide a little light relief. For example when I was in hospital with malaria at the end of nineteen sixteen, I met this doctor when I was in hospital. I got to know him well. Like everybody else, he had a wife and children and they all came from a privileged background.'

'
So what's wrong with that,' the writer said.

'
Nothing. But he was in love with another woman, she was a nurse at the hospital and she wasn't his wife. But, owing to the nature of the war and the revolution, it was never going to be.  The woman left and the gentleman was ever so distraught. He tried to find out where this other woman was, but it was to no avail! I've never forgotten it. When I got reinstated and had gone from non citizen to comrade I made every effort to find this man who had saved my life. Eventually, I found out that he had been on a street car when, by chance, he looked out of the window and there she was walking down the street. He fought his way out of the car and onto the street and then before he got to her he dropped dead from a heart attack. I doubt whether the woman ever realised. He died there and then and I suppose you could say that it was another life unfulfilled! Why don't you write that into your book Boris! Spice it up a bit, maybe put a love child in
[25]
.'  Georgii said.

'
Maybe I will Georgii, maybe I will,' the writer said thoughtfully.

Throughout August
Georgii continued to make good progress. It was also a sad time for him; the writer, Pasternak, had informed him that he had been allowed a permit to travel east. He would be leaving next Thursday. Georgii said he would accompany him down to the station and see him off. On the Wednesday they would organise a celebration for the departing writer poet. Pavel and Anna were instructed to go out into the city to see what they could find.

But Georgii Radetzky still felt weak, even though he was making good his recovery, he still felt that he had no
'real' physical strength. Long days prior to the writer's departure were particularly tiring. Also he had received a communication from Comrade Trofimov asking him to report for duty as soon as he possibly could. This bothered him, one minute he was told to take as long as he wanted off, the next he was to report back for immediate service. He groaned; the meeting was scheduled for three the following afternoon.

He got out his black leather coat and put it on along with his black cap.
Georgii looked at his reflection in the cracked mirror and thought, 'Same old villain, but the uniform hasn't changed!'  He shut the door and ventured out onto the landing. He stopped for a moment, and could hear some movement upstairs; seconds later he was walking past Rezhnikov. The old man nodded as he walked past. Georgii descended the outside steps and walked down the street. Even though it was high August, and the sun was blazing, there was hardly anyone out on the street. Those that did venture out were as they had been in the winter; they scurried like rats along an open sewer. They looked neither left nor right. They just made a beeline for home. Momentarily Georgii wondered what their business might be.

After twenty minutes he stopped; Georgii was beginning to feel tired.
He looked around him.  August nineteen-nineteen, he thought, within the space of three years this once great city had started to look seedy. Weeds were growing in the middle of nearly deserted streets. Men, woman and children, dressed in rags, pushed hand carts along the streets. The trees that had once lined the boulevards looked like the stumps he had seen three years before in 'No Man's Land'. Like him they had been reduced to nothing. The occasional motorcar cruised past probably carrying some 'Party' official some place. As always Red Guards, stopped and harried anyone appearing to be out on private business. Fortunately for Georgii, all he had to do was show his papers and they waved him on.