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Esmé had continued nursing through at least three different regimes. She was beginning to look drawn. It was Esmé, I thought, who suffered from exhaustion now. My mother devoted herself, with maniacal quixotism, to learning Ukrainian from the badly-printed books available. New schools and universities had been established. All, of course, taught in Ukrainian. There was no longer a chance for me to work as a teacher. I had not received a single reply to my requests for a position, though it was generally accepted amongst my friends and the business community that I had done brilliantly at Petrograd. I admit the impression was useful. I was often, these days, addressed as ‘Doctor’ and more than once I was called ‘Professor’. I found this comforting. It did no harm. When I received my Special Diploma I could go on to receive a proper doctorate almost anywhere. I want no one to think I made these claims for myself. But life is often hard. If people wish to have illusions about one, then it is sometimes foolish to spend unnecessary energy denying them. Doubtless because she was overworking, Esmé could sometimes be condescending and irritatingly sharp when I wanted to discuss my plans for the future. On the other hand my mother would sometimes call me ‘Doctor’ just for the sound of it. She would stand on our landing and say, for instance: ‘Well, well, Doctor, here’s our old friend Captain Brown to see us.’

Captain Brown was beginning to decay almost by the day. His face was blotchy and his hands had an obvious drunkard’s shake. His craving for alcohol was pathetic. Sometimes I was tempted not to pander to him. But Esmé would say ‘What else has he to live for?’ and I could not argue. His stories became more confused, though substantially familiar. He was baffled by what he called ‘this fake language with its fake government, its fake bank-notes and its fake history.’ We hushed him when he uttered such sentiments in Russian. It did not matter when he spoke English, as he did most frequently now. Esmé had learned a little English from me, but not enough for her to understand him clearly. Once, she told me, he had been found in Bessarabskaya market where he had gone up to one of Petlyura’s Sich riflemen and asked him which circus he belonged to. He had spoken first in English, then in French, then in German, then in Russian and then, it seemed, in Polish. The soldier had either misunderstood him or had not bothered to take exception to the insult. A couple of friends had brought the captain home.

I visited Bessarabskaya myself. Cocaine was plentiful and cheap there, though not of particularly good quality. I was building up a supply for a rainy day, as they say in England. The market was booming, with old family heirlooms to be purchased for a mere chag or two. Chags and karvovantsis were the new monetary units. The notes were so easily forged nobody bothered to check them unless it was in the post office. Inflation was running at a ridiculous rate. At least for a while the prostitutes became younger and prettier. Two of them actually turned out to be the virgins they claimed to be. I was again in a mood to take my pleasures as they came, in case they should not come too frequently later.

If only all Cossacks and those claiming Cossack freedoms had managed to work together in one huge host we would easily have driven the Reds back to Moscow (now their capital). Trotsky, Lenin, Stalin and the rest would have ended their days as querulous old exiles. The genuinely humane people would have encouraged a Russian renaissance. Our country would have been the most glorious centre for the flowering of art and science the world had known since the days of the Italian Medici. Everybody says so. What drove Sikorski away? Bolsheviks. What drove Prokofiev away? Bolsheviks.

I remember those ‘Lorelei’ days of the twenties. The Reds tried to lure their artists, scientists and intellectuals back. The sweet voices deceived many. They went back: Gorki, Alexei Tolstoi, Zamyatin, and many more; and they were almost all dead by the time the thirties ended. That was the value Bolsheviks put on Russian talent. When the Nazis came Stalin had to release starving, wretched ex-Red Army ‘heroes’ to run the War. Not that it would have mattered. Stalin ran the War. Lucky for the world he did, as someone once said of Hitler. It was a war between a couple of psychotics who had the talent of being all things to all men. It wasted millions of lives and achieved nothing but a small shift of boundaries. Better lock them away with maps and toy soldiers, where no real harm is ever accomplished. That is what H.G. Wells advised a friend of mine.