I reached the end of the second carriage and decided to wait where I was. The lavatory was occupied. I balanced my bags on top of some sacks and moved a little distance away, as if I were merely waiting to use the lavatory. Through the broken glass I saw stocky figures stumbling down the embankment. They made dark scars in the snow. They were laughing and using words like ‘comrade’ and ‘soviet’. I began to feel a little less anxious. These were Bolsheviks who had fired on us by accident. They were a long way from Bolshevik lines and wore no red stars. Indeed, they had no identifiable uniforms at all. I guessed they were irregulars.

THIRTEEN

THEY WERE USING a mixture of Russian and Ukrainian which was easy enough to understand. At least half of what they shouted was slogans. The attackers had begun to argue with the defenders. They needed supplies. The Red Army soldiers pointed out that the train only carried passengers. I heard one of the newcomers laugh. ‘They’ll have supplies. What are they? Katsupi on their way to France?’

‘There are important comrades on board. They have work in Odessa.’

‘We have work, too. Give us the Jews and a Katsup or two. We need food. Do you know how long we’ve been out here?’

‘Who are you with?’

‘Hrihorieff.’

‘He’s turned against us.’

‘He’s turned back again.’

‘How do we know?’

There was silence. Then murmuring. Then some oaths. A few moments later sailors came alongside the train thumping with their rifle-butts on the doors. ‘Everybody out for an inspection, citizens.’

They stopped when they got to the ‘Party carriage’. I began to make my way to it, but now the peasants were even more confused, trying to get their bundles together. I was pushed back. I managed to grab one suitcase. The other was left behind. I decided to return to my compartment by way of the ground. I had no galoshes. I plunged through melting snow. It was freezing. My shoes and trousers were soaked by the time I reached the carriage. I was climbing up when a soldier shouted. ‘Stay where you are!’

I looked at him, smiling. ‘I’m merely going to my carriage, comrade. I’ve been trying to help the people back there who were shot.’

The soldier, a heavy-faced Russian, paused. He thought for a moment. I continued to climb. He said, ‘Why do you have a suitcase with you?’

‘I picked it up instinctively. My comrades will vouch for me.’

I opened the carriage door. The guard drew back the bolt on his rifle. ‘Stay there for a moment. I’ll have to check this.’

‘You’re being foolish.’

‘I must be careful.’

I was glad I had the suitcase with my spare papers in it. At least they would show me as nothing more than an innocent engineer, my ‘cover’, if they liked, for Odessa. There were more people out in the snow now than there had been at Fastov. I heard a peasant ask an insurgent where we were. Near Dmitrovka, he said. It was a town some fifty versts from Alexandriya. It meant we had not been on the direct express route at all, although we were certainly heading for Odessa.

I was relieved that we had not yet reached territory controlled by the notorious ‘Batko’ Makhno. Batko meant ‘Little Father’ or ‘Elder’, but with a more democratically affectionate ring. Makhno was supposed to be fighting on the Bolshevik side but was notorious for his treachery. He had almost defeated the Nationalists singlehanded at Ekaterinoslav in November.

Hrihorieff’s men were a small unit left by the line to stop any passing train. People began to argue that the loco had been flying red flags. The Haidamaki claimed they had been confused. Nationalists were not above playing tricks.

Their swarthy leader appeared. He was a barrel-bodied brute with heavy black eyebrows. He was dressed in a dark red-belted kaftan, with bullet-pouches, a sheepskin shapka, French army trousers, riding boots. He carried two Mauser pistols, a variety of knives and, of course, a Cossack sabre. He sported a vicious horsewhip. Like all Cossacks, he knew the value of that whip in inducing terror. It could kill. The villain was enjoying his power. I began to think I should have been better off with the Chekist.

He stopped, as I had expected, when he got to me. He looked with some amusement at my good-quality clothes. They were wet to the knees and I was still covered in Marusia Kirillovna’s blood. ‘What’s in the suitcase?’ He spoke superciliously. ‘Gold?’

‘Of course not. I’m on Party business.’

‘From Moscow?’

‘From Kiev.’

‘They’re all yids in Moscow now.’ He fingered his whip reminiscently.

I nodded.

‘And in Kiev. That’s what I don’t like about this. We’re actually helping the yids.’ He looked away from me in disgust and turned as if for support to the frightened peasants. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Odessa,’ I began.

He turned back. ‘I was talking to these. Where are you going?’