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I was in the position of an enslaved magician. While I was able to perform simple tricks for these barbarians, they would keep me alive. I had been horrified by the bandit’s assumption that I was Jewish because Cossacks felt no conscience at all about killing Jews. Accuse a Slav of being a Jew and you take his breath from his body, the saliva from his mouth, the soul from his eyes. I do not fear death. I have God and I have my honour. My pride has gone. They laugh at me in the market. They call me names, even Jew. They steal from my shop and put their greasy hands on my clothes, and they sneer and ask stupid questions. Mrs Cornelius screamed at them and made them leave. The young girls are so sweet. They buy the white night-dresses and the little blouses and the silk knickers and they are so beautiful. They should sing the ‘Dante’ of Liszt to the music of harps. Lament for exiles; lament for Dante in his exile and his greatness. Lament for Chopin, who could never come to terms with his own Slavic spirit, and who also became an exile. I should like to die in Kiev, looking at lilacs and chestnut trees. The Bolsheviks have probably cut them all down to make their motorways. It is all flats. It is like the flats around here. That is your socialism. The rationalists destroy our world. Where we see beauty and the boundless wonders of science, they see only tidy shapes; their flats. Give me the old Russian rutted track across the broad steppe. Give me that again and I shall forget God’s gifts of Science and Prescience. The people do not want Prometheus. Prometheus is burdened by knowledge.

The road did not improve. The truck had no real suspension. It veered frequently. The driver used vodka as a substitute for experience. He needed courage, considering the speed at which he was driving and the condition of the road. Horses and carts vanished behind us. I would have a better than average chance of escape if I jumped clear then. But I would have frozen to death. I had no proper clothing. I had no map or knowledge of the area. I was not even sure which province this was. In spite of the noise from the truck, the discomfort and the fighting of the two little girls, towards evening a sense of peace came. The truck began to slow. I looked through the flap. To my elation I saw we passed through a fair-sized village. I eased myself towards the canopy and was about to squeeze out when the truck stopped. I was thrown amongst pork and machine-guns. The little girls squealed and giggled. I asked them if they knew where we were. They could not understand Russian. My bad Ukrainian baffled them. They had had no education at all. If they had been sent to school, they would have known Russian. It was the official language. Voices came from the twilit street. I drew back the canopy and jumped out. I faced two men wearing blue jackets with gold frogging. For a moment I thought they were officials and was relieved. Then I realised they also wore bandoliers. One had a sailor’s cap. The other had a fur hat with ear-flaps. They were heavily bearded, with a slight oriental appearance. They were bandits.

‘Fraternal greetings, comrades.’ I spread my arms wide, as if to embrace them. ‘Pyatnitski. Engineer and mechanic.’

In Russian one of them said dully, ‘What?’ I repeated myself, word for word. A man in a clean, grey great coat and regulation cap came striding up. He said cheerfully, ‘They don’t know any Russian except military stuff. They can take orders, poor bastards, but they can’t follow a joke. They’re from Volhynia. They’ll understand Polish.’

I thought it best not to mention my Polish. Knowledge is often of most use when kept to oneself.

‘Where are we?’ I asked.

He was amused. ‘Purgatory. We’ve taken over the town as our base. Who are you with?’ He was clean-shaven and spoke with an educated accent. He signed for the truck to pull over towards a church being used as a storehouse.

‘I was going to Odessa. Grishenko asked me to fix the truck, so I obliged. Is there anywhere I can send a telegram?’

‘Someone’s repairing the wires. They’ll be working by morning. At least as far as Ekaterinoslav.’

It would be possible to catch a train from Ekaterinoslav. Sotnik Grishenko and his men came plodding up on weary ponies. ‘Trust you to be hob-nobbing with Jews, Yermeloff!’ He dismounted and yawned.

Yermeloff laughed. ‘He said his name’s Pyatnitski.’

‘He’s got papers to prove it, too.’ These were drawn from the dirty sleeve. ‘See?’

Yermeloff could read. In the bad light he looked at them and shrugged. ‘They’re good papers. Are you on your way out of Russia?’

‘Certainly not.’ I reached for my passport. Yermeloff hesitated, glanced at Grishenko, then gave it to me. I put it in my pocket. ‘I’m working for the Party.’

‘You’re from Moscow?’

‘No. I’m from Kiev. I’m as good a Ukrainian as anyone. I want Ukraine to have her old pride back.’