Through misty snow I walked to the station. It was in complete chaos. Deserters, released prisoners, cripples, touts, pimps, honest artisans, bohemians, aristocrats, businessmen and students were all trying to flee the city. There was no question of a luxury journey home. By paying three times the proper price I was lucky to get a third-class ticket. I found myself crowded into a carriage which already had one window broken (‘for some fresh air’ as an unshaven soldier told me). There were tiers of smelly bunks. These were full of gypsies, Jews, Tatars, Armenians, Poles and drunks making the compartment reek of foul tobacco, cheap vodka and vomit. I clung on to my bags, forced myself to be agreeable to an old Jew in a black overcoat and a young soldier with one arm, who was also trying to get to Kiev, and squeezed in between them.

Eventually the train moved slowly from the station. St Petersburg was a miserable shadow, occupied at last by the forces of Chaos. We left it behind us. Then a white wind blew through the broken pane, making it impossible to see the countryside beyond. I consoled myself that, after all, I had achieved far more in the capital in a shorter time than I had thought possible. I would be returning home with some honour!

EIGHT

FOUR DAYS LATER THE train arrived in Kiev. By the time I struggled from the freezing compartment into the afternoon gloom I had been robbed of some books, a couple of inexpensive figurines bought for my mother, and a pair of gloves. Luckily I had some fur mittens of Kolya’s. I put these on before gripping my bags and setting off on foot in the direction of Kirillovskaya and my mother’s flat.

My city was occupied by every kind of scum: deserters who had killed their officers, peasants who had murdered their masters, workers who had stolen from their employers; all had come to Kiev to spend their gold on drink and women. In the train I had met a great many Petrograd businessmen, nobles and intellectuals, and similar individuals in flight from Moscow. They were hoping to get to Yalta or Odessa or anywhere on the coast. I do not know where they expected to go from there. Turks and Germans blockaded us on every sea. Perhaps those places were less infected with Revolutionary madness. Here red banners hung between buildings; there were proclamations on walls (some in Ukrainian, which baffled me); meetings were carried on at every corner; and bands were playing Shevchenko’s The Ukraine Will Never Die as well as La Marseillaise. The floors of the train had been filthy with expectorated sunflower seeds and with every other sort of inanimate and animate rubbish. There was no difference here, either on pavements or in parks. Incompetents had taken charge. Kiev had collapsed as a civilised city. Trams had ceased to run on time; cabs had disappeared; bands of drunken brigands in sailors’ uniforms and army greatcoats roamed about at will, demanding money, drink, food, cigarettes, from passers-by. Because the democratic Rada had not defined it, police and Cossack militia were uncertain of their authority. Should they try to arrest the brigands? Should they merely ask them to leave other comrades alone? Should they shoot on sight? Should they simply ignore the activities of the new aristos? The deserters and convicts were armed to the teeth, cheerfully willing to kill anyone who frustrated them: a typical situation in all Russia’s cities during Kerenski’s days. It would get worse. The Bolsheviks would merely legalise the terror and give it moral justification. Every murder victim became a liquidated bourgeois just as nowadays they are all listed as traffic accidents. It looked as if half the city was drunk and the other half sunk into dejection. I passed by Podol. The whole ghetto had turned Red: the Jews were celebrating their conquests. I bought a Voice of Kiev. It had already taken on a nationalist note.

By the time I reached our quiet, unlit street, I had realised I must support any authority, even if it were socialist. My arms and back ached horribly. I tugged the bags up the dark, smelly staircase to our landing. I knocked at the apartment door. There was silence. I went up a flight and pulled Captain Brown’s bell. Soon the old Scot stood quivering in the opening. His breath was heavy with homemade vodka. His eyes were scarcely able to focus.

‘It is I.’

He coughed in surprise. He wiped at his untrimmed moustache as if it were a piece of food he had found adhering to his lip. ‘Your mother will be very pleased.’

‘Mother isn’t in.’

‘Bring your bags.’ He gestured a welcome. ‘Thieves everywhere. You might have been murdered. The envious wretches will kill anyone with a hint of refinement.’ He stumbled down after me and tried to pick up a suitcase. He failed. I had never seen him so helpless. He was old and pathetic.