Blood Red Snow White Read online

  17

  I HAD A PROBLEM; I might have decided to go back to Russia, but I still had no way of getting there. The Daily News was a closed door; since Gardiner had been sacked the views of the paper had shifted from mine, but I needed a job badly, and I got one. I had a call one day from C. P. Scott, the editor of the Manchester Guardian. He’d read some of my pieces, and needed a new Russian correspondent. He offered me the job, and what swung it was probably the fact that his son, Ted, had been the closest thing to a best friend I’d ever had at school.

  Now I had a reason to go, but I still needed official permission. Once upon a time I’d had contacts in the Foreign Office, but no longer. While I was away in Russia new faces had arrived, old friends had left. My options were limited, but I pestered everyone I could, and in the end Basil Thomson of Scotland Yard managed to sway things for me.

  I went to see him the day I collected my papers. I was eager to go, September had come, and the cold weather would soon arrive in the Baltic, and in Russia, too.

  “Just one condition,” Thomson said.

  “Which is?” I said, trying not to be goaded.

  “I’ve been told you can have your visa on the condition that you write nothing untoward for the Guardian.”

  “Untoward?” I said. “What’s untoward?”

  “Well,” he said, smiling slyly, “that’s for you to decide. I might tell you that there are some people who have only agreed to you going at all because they think you’ll be less of a nuisance in Russia than here. But as to what you report, you need to use your own judgment.”

  “And if I make the wrong judgment?”

  “Don’t,” he said. He wasn’t smiling and I got the message. Behave, or else.

  * * *

  Later that day I headed to King’s Cross. As the cab pulled in I was vaguely wondering what dramas might occur at the station. Another plainclothes man? Was I still being followed everywhere?

  I had already paid the driver and was halfway across the station yard before I realized how quiet the place was. There were a handful of people drifting around aimlessly, a few porters and guards standing in clusters, chatting, but doing no work. And it was quiet—no trains. No trains at all.

  I collared a guard.

  “No coal, is there,” he said. “Nothing running today. Probably not tomorrow. Who knows how long it’ll last.”

  I shook my head. I’d heard there was a coal strike on but somehow I hadn’t made the connection with trains. No coal, no trains.

  “But I have to get to Newcastle,” I said, “urgently.”

  “Urgently, is it?” the guard said. “That’s as may be, but there’s no coal. Is there.”

  “So what am I going to do?” I complained, not really expecting an answer.

  He scratched his head.

  “Listen, chum, I’ve got a cuppa waiting. Now clear off to the docks. You might just catch the Newcastle steamer.”

  “The steamer? Of course!” I cried. “What time does it leave?”

  The guard looked as the station clock.

  “Midday. Hope you find a fast cabbie.”

  It was nearly quarter past eleven.

  I ran from the station and threw myself into the first cab I could find.

  “The docks! As fast as you can. Please.”

  The cabbie laughed, I wasn’t sure what was so funny, but I didn’t care, because he set off at a good pace. As we went I tried to avoid the torture of looking at my watch every minute.

  “I’ve got to catch the noon boat,” I explained. My driver seemed unmoved. I tried something that usually worked in Russia. “Double your speed and I’ll double my fare.”

  That did seem to impress him, and he spurred the horse on so we were soon heading through the city and out to the docks.

  “Do you know where the ticket office is?” I said.

  The driver grunted.

  “Never mind,” I said to myself. I looked at my watch again. We were almost there, but it was very nearly twelve. I threw some money at the driver and jumped from the cab, bag in one hand, typewriter in the other. The docks spread before me, the river beyond. I could see at least three boats, any of which might be mine.

  Desperately I ran forward, and accosted a steward standing at the head of a line of passengers.

  “Newcastle?” I shouted.

  He looked startled and waved a hand at the nearest boat.

  “Thanks,” I said, and ran off.

  “But you can’t go aboard!” he called after me, “Oi! Come back. It’s leaving.”

  He was right.

  As I lurched down the quayside I saw the gangplank being stowed, and a widening gap forming between the boat and the shore.

  “Oi!” the steward called again. “Come back!”

  I ignored him, and without thinking, hurled my typewriter and bag across the gap onto the deck, scaring an old lady in the process. She was even more alarmed when I took a longer run up and threw myself after my bags, landing on the deck with a thump. I felt a sharp pain in my ankle, but tried to ignore what it would mean if I had done anything serious.

  The gap between the boat and shore had widened further and looking at the water I felt light-headed.

  The steward stood on the quay, shaking his head.

  “Hey!” he said. “Have you got a ticket?”

  I waved.

  “Not yet, I’ll get one on board, all right?”

  I knew it would have to be all right; they weren’t going to turn the boat around just for me. He shook his head, and watched me sail away.

  “I have to get to Russia,” I called to him. Then I noticed the strange looks I was getting, and decided it was time to lie low until the boat got to Newcastle.

  18

  THE COASTAL STEAMER PULLED in to the docks at Newcastle, but, as I thought my luck was improving, it seemed to run out again.

  I made my way into the ticket office, and asked about the boat to Norway.

  “Ay, lad,” said a boy about half my age behind the ticket desk, “there’s a boat for Bergen. But it’s not going anyway. Don’t you know there’s a coal strike on?”

  I smiled and tried not to swear.

  “Yes,” I said, “I was aware of that. I didn’t know it applied to Norwegian ships.”

  “Ay, well, neither did he, till he got here.”

  The boy nodded at a man discussing something furiously with two other men across the ticket hall. He was obviously the captain of the boat, short for a Norwegian, but blond enough to put it beyond much doubt.

  I wandered over.

  One of the other men turned to me.

  “Who are you?” he said, rather aggressively.

  “A passenger for Bergen,” I said, and turned to the captain. “God dag! Is there nothing to be done?”

  Hearing the Norwegian, he smiled and spread his hands wide.

  “I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “The captain sailed with a half-full hold,” the other man said. “There’s no more than the scraps left, coal dust and rubbish in the ballast. There’s probably enough to make it back, but only probably. If he runs out before Bergen…”

  The captain was clearly fretting.

  “I really do need to get to Norway, as soon as possible,” I said.

  “You think so?” he said. “I tell you I need to get there more than you. It is my wedding anniversary tomorrow. I promised my wife I would be there for once…”

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  “In that case,” I said, “I think we had better get going. Wives are not people you should upset…”

  I pulled a face, and he laughed.

  “Besides, if we run out of fuel you can burn my luggage. Fair enough?”

  “Very well,” he said, making up his mind. He turned to the other men. “My boat will sail this evening.”

  * * *

  And it did. It was hard going. The coal dust burned badly, and soot billowed from the funnels, raking the decks in black clouds
as the wind changed, but I didn’t care. I was on my way.

  As the packet hauled its way across the North Sea, I tried to talk to the other passengers, the Norwegian and other Scandinavians going home, to see if they knew anything of the news from Russia. But no one seemed to know, or if they did, they didn’t want to talk.

  I wrote to my mother on the boat, to post when I got ashore. The letter got a bit smudged with soot, but I kept writing.

  I have no regrets in my mind. No doubts. I know I must go, I want to go, and if I do not, well, whatever happens it can’t be worse than my own guilt if I’d avoided making the journey. So that’s that.

  I wondered what Evgenia was doing. I guessed she’d be working hard, as usual, but did she know about the advance of the White Army? It was most likely, I knew, that the Bolsheviks wouldn’t want to admit that they were in trouble, that Trotsky’s Red Army had been losing ground, or that Denikin was marching on Moscow. No, of course they wouldn’t be telling the people the bad news, but maybe Evgenia had inside information. I hoped she didn’t do anything rash; she was so impetuous sometimes. I tried to keep calm; she’d navigated her way through two Revolutions without my help, after all, and for the time being, Moscow was probably the safest place for her. But I didn’t know what she knew, for though I had tried to send her several telegrams, I’d heard nothing back from her. I shut my eyes and thought of her, of the evening of Lockhart’s party, of that night.

  I could only pray she knew I was coming.

  I folded the letter and looked for an envelope. I rummaged around the bottom of my case, remembering a small pack of paper and envelopes I usually kept with me when traveling. I hadn’t used it for weeks, and as I pulled out the first envelope, I saw something strange.

  There was handwriting on it already. A child’s handwriting, just one word.

  Daddy.

  I opened it and inside was a photograph. It was me and Tabitha, and instantly I knew what it was. It was from the visit I’d made eighteen months before, when Tabitha was seven. There we were, on that walk we’d taken down the lane, hand in hand, just pretending to be dancing so the camera wouldn’t get confused …

  I’d left before Ivy had had the chance to get that film developed, and I’d never seen the photo before. It was wonderful. Happy. Tabitha must have sneaked it into my stationery set on this last visit, knowing I would find it sooner or later.

  I turned it over. There was writing on the back.

  Look, Daddy! We’ll always be dancing. Lots of love, Tabitha.

  I stared at the picture for a long time, and looked at our faces. She was right; in the photograph, we’ll always be dancing, always happy.

  Then I realized there are actually three of us in it; for although Ivy had been behind the camera, the sun had been behind her. Her shadow leaned in toward us. It didn’t matter; it was the truth, all of it. The happiness, the dancing, the shadow. Me, Tabitha, Ivy. All part of our little bit of history, and for once, I felt at peace with it all. Carefully, so carefully, I slid the photograph back into the envelope and put it in my inside pocket.

  I needed a talisman, and at that very moment, Tabitha had given one to me.

  19

  I CROSSED NORWAY BY TRAIN, from Bergen, and then on to Sweden, where I found myself in Stockholm once again. Due to my previous embarrassment there I was only permitted a transit visa, but it was a day or so before I managed to get a boat to sail east across the Baltic to Reval, the fine and ancient capital of Estonia.

  And there I was truly stuck.

  Not only was Moscow a very long way away, but the opposing front lines of the White and Red Armies lay between me and Evgenia. Estonia had taken the White cause at the outbreak of Revolution; their armies lay locked in stalemate with the Bolshevik forces.

  At a loss, I presented myself to the Minister for Foreign Affairs.

  The Minister, with the charming name of Ants Piip, made me very welcome. I thought there was every chance he would tell me he had no time for personal affairs, but I explained where I wanted to go, and I explained why.

  As I talked he regarded me thoughtfully from under dark brows, and his face grew more serious as I spoke. When I finished he seemed lost in thought, but then a smile spread across his face.

  “You, Mr. Ransome, are sent from God! May well you look surprised, but it is true. You are no more surprised than me, I assure you. If I had prayed for something like this to happen it could not have been more perfect.”

  “What?” I asked. “I don’t…”

  “No,” he said. “But then maybe you are not aware of the current situation with Russia. We are at war with Russia, on behalf of the White cause. But we are struggling. We are a small country, with few friends. We cannot continue this war with Russia, it is killing more than just our men. We want to make a peace proposal to the Bolsheviks, and for their part, the Bolsheviks have made promises to respect our independence if we end the war.”

  “So why not simply tell them so?”

  “How? The wires between here and Moscow are tapped. If I send a man, an Estonian to Moscow, and he is caught … Mr. Ransome, if the Allies, and if the White Armies learned that we want a truce with the Reds, there would be grave consequences. What I need, instead, is an independent man. A neutral figure, someone known by and trusted by the Bolsheviks. In fact I need you, Mr. Ransome.”

  Then I understood why Piip had given me so much of his time. I was, as he said, the perfect messenger, heaven-sent.

  “I’ll get you across the border, I’ll arrange a transfer to Russian hands for you. Then you can rescue your Evgenia, and I will have my message delivered to Lenin. Do we have a deal?”

  I didn’t even think about it.

  “Yes,” I said, “we have a deal.”

  20

  BUT NOTHING IS EVER THAT EASY.

  Minister Piip and I might have decided upon a neat little plan that suited us both, but the third party to the equation, Moscow, had not.

  At my suggestion, Piip sent a telegram to Litvinov, whose release from Brixton prison had secured Lockhart’s freedom. I hoped my old acquaintance there would be enough to get the Bolsheviks to arrange the journey, but it was not.

  Piip received a telegram back from Litvinov almost by return. They refused, point-blank, to let me back into Russia. I don’t know what had happened in my absence, but I was clearly out of favor with Moscow. Maybe Trotsky had finally convinced Lenin that I was a spy after all. Which, to be fair, would only be reasonable.

  I, however, had other cares, and I wasn’t going to be deterred by a mere telegram.

  In Piip’s office, I told him what to do. I grabbed a sheet of paper and scribbled on it in capitals.

  “This is a telegram for Litvinov,” I said. “Wait three days and then send it.”

  I handed Piip the paper and he laughed as he read the five words.

  RANSOME ALREADY LEFT FOR MOSCOW

  “You are a brave man, Mr. Ransome,” he said.

  “No. Not brave. Just someone trying to find a home.”

  Piip looked at me curiously, but he said nothing.

  “So,” I said, “I’m leaving as soon as possible. Can you get me an escort to the front lines?”

  He nodded.

  “Of course.”

  “And papers? Do you have something for me to take?”

  “No,” Piip said. “You are my message. I cannot run the risk of anything falling into the wrong hands. You will carry your message up here,” he tapped his head, “which is why only you can do this job. Lenin will believe what you have to tell him.”

  * * *

  I took the night train out of Reval, for Valka. The train was unheated and I froze, getting no sleep at all. Next day I traveled on by narrow-gauge railway to Maliup, where I spent the night with an Estonian captain and his wife. They were hospitable and fed me well, for which I was very grateful.

  The following morning, I was taken under escort in a two-horse carriage.

  We drove east, but
then turned to the south. It seemed that fighting had broken out again, and my escorts thought I would stand more chance further toward the Latvian border, where things were quieter. The snows had come, and the roads were bad. Progress was slow, but after some hours of driving along idyllic forest tracks, the carriage slowed. It crawled on and on at walking pace for another half hour or so, nothing but trees and snow to be seen, and then stopped.

  The escort turned to me.

  “You walk from here,” he said in English, and shoved the door open.

  I got out, my things dumped in the snow at my feet.

  “Our soldiers, there,” said the escort, pointing behind me. “Russians are there. Good luck.”

  With that the carriage made a hasty turn, and then sped away as fast as it could.

  I took stock.

  It was still morning, and though hints of mist hung over the snowy landscape, the sun was glinting on the tops of the firs and silver birches that surrounded me. As the sun tilted down, the frost on the snow glittered like a certain case of jewels Trotsky had once shown me. That seemed long ago, as I stood on my own in the forest. I looked back to where the Estonian forces were supposed to be, but could see nothing. Was that a hint of something metal shining? It was only a guess. I turned and looked at the way ahead. There was an open field, that led from the clutch of trees where I was standing, over to where the Reds were supposed to be.

  Well, I thought. I’m in no man’s land. Now what?

  In answer to my own question, I pulled my pipe from one pocket, and some tobacco from the other. I risked the cold for a while, pulling my gloves off and holding them in my teeth while I filled the pipe. Gloves back on, I lit the pipe, and began to puff it into life.

  No man’s land. The space between. The space between one side and another, that belongs to neither. That’s where I was. And that’s where I had always been, I realized; I’d skirted my way between the Russians and the Allies, but the path I took had always been mine alone.

  I relaxed. I was at home here, in the middle of nowhere, and with that comfort, I decided what to do.

  I reached down, picked up my bag in my right hand, my typewriter in the left, and began to walk toward the Russian lines.