The Red Gods Read online

  “If he means to murder me do you not think he would do it here?”

  “No! He would not dare do it here. He may be able to fabricate enough evidence against you to have you stripped of your authority and thrown out of the Party, but you are still Trotsky. To the average Russian you are still better known than he is, and there will always be people who will doubt that you are guilty of anything more dangerous than opposing Stalin on matters of policy. But if you flee to Kazakhstan, no matter that you were actually sent there, everyone will assume your guilt of more than that, and no one will care if, in perhaps a year, you are found dead in a gutter.”

  Trotsky finished his third vodka, looked at the bottle, and changed his mind. “He will not find me so easy to kill.”

  “Leon, he will send Gosykin after you.”

  “I can handle Gosykin. I was killing people before that boy was born. Now go and pack.”

  Sonia went to the door and checked. “And what of Joseph?”

  “We can do nothing for Joseph Cromb now. Very probably he is already dead. If he is not, he is almost certainly wishing he were.”

  “We cannot just abandon him. He came here because he thought we could protect him.”

  “Everybody makes mistakes,” Trotsky said. “If you attempt to help him you will wind up in a cell beside him. I thought you had spent sufficient time in prison cells. Our Cheka make the Okhrana look like schoolchildren.”

  Sonia bit her lip in indecision. To think of Joseph in such a hellish position...yet she knew that Trotsky was right. If he had been stripped of all his powers, she could not help Joseph now. Her shoulders drooped.

  *

  “Here’s an item of news that ought to please you, Sis,” Jimmy Robbins said, reaching across the breakfast table to hand Priscilla the paper. “Says that thug Trotsky has been stripped of all his powers and sent into internal exile.”

  “What?” Priscilla snatched the paper.

  Jimmy raised his eyebrows. “Aren’t you happy about that? This is the guy who beat the Whites, who beat Alexei, who drove you out of Russia, right?”

  “Yes,” she said, still studying the paper, and thanking God that Alexei had already gone to school.

  “Does this mean you are now safer than before, or less safe?” asked Caroline, her sister-in-law.

  The family had been told that the reason Priscilla had finally returned home was her fear for the safety of her son, since Colin’s murder. She had not given them any information upon the current state of play between Joseph and herself, nor as to what Joseph was actually doing now, although she was aware that the head of the London office had informed the Company President, her uncle, that he had given Mr Cromb leave of absence to visit Russia on urgent family business. Uncle Charles would have told his brother-in-law, Father, and Father would of course have told Jimmy. She had not expected Joseph to write until he returned to England, had just been becoming expectant that she should be hearing from him soon, either to report the success or the failure of his mission; she rather expected — and perhaps even hoped — that it would be failure. While she entirely understood his point of view, she also knew that Jennie was a strong-willed personality, very like her mother in every respect, and that, even if she allowed herself to be separated from her husband, she would be a handful for them to cope with. But now...She raised her head, and found her brother gazing at her. Because he had been thinking too. “You have something on your mind,” he suggested.

  “Yes. Could we have a word?”

  Jimmy glanced at Caroline. “I’ll go and see what cook is thinking about for lunch,” she decided, and left the room.

  When Priscilla had married Alexei he had been in disgrace for assaulting the infamous monk Rasputin. They had both known that would soon end, and had been looking forward to taking their proper place in Russian society, but that dream had been overtaken by the war, so that she had actually never been to St Petersburg, never worn the family tiara and rubies and be presented to the Tsar and Tsaritsa. She had never accepted that as final, not even when she had been forced to flee Russia. It was only when she had in turn fled England for Boston that she had realised there was never again going to be a Russian society such as that to which she had been promised. So...make the most of what she had, until Joseph came back for her. But now...?

  “So, give,” Jimmy said.

  “Joseph only got into Russia on a safe-conduct signed by Trotsky.”

  Jimmy frowned. “That was two months ago. Surely he’d be back by now.”

  “If he were back, don’t you think he’d have let us know? Me, at any event. He went to try to get his sister Jennie out.”

  “But as I understand it, she went in of her own free will.”

  “She was seduced, Jimmy. Joseph wouldn’t have allowed the marriage anyway, but when he discovered the man who had seduced her was a paid government assassin...”

  “Oh, come now,” he protested.

  “Look, these people do exist. Maybe not here in the States. Joseph went back into Russia to put the facts to Jennie and try to get her to come back out. But he couldn’t do so without a safe-conduct, both because he fought with the Whites and because he is a Bolugayevski. He finally got that safe-conduct, through Sonia, from Trotsky. But if Trotsky has been disgraced, and Joseph is still there, then he is in mortal danger.”

  “Let’s suppose you’re right about all this...just what do you propose to do about it?”

  “We have to do something! Joe is an American citizen. Duncan made him so when he adopted him. We have to get on to the State Department, and have them get him out.”

  “How, exactly? Our government doesn’t recognise theirs.”

  “You’re not going to tell me there isn’t contact.”

  “Well, there is, at an unofficial level.”

  “Then they must have some idea of just how beastly a regime Stalin is running.”

  “On the contrary,” Jimmy argued. “The last report I read from the State Department suggests that Stalin is doing a very good job, making a real success of the country...”

  “Jimmy, he kills people when they disagree with him. He employs men like Gosykin to do that.”

  “Prissy, things like that don’t really happen. And let me tell you something else: the State Department regards Stalin as a far nicer guy than your friend Trotsky. Stalin is keeping the Reds under control. Trotsky would try to start a Red revolution in every country he can reach.”

  Priscilla’s shoulders slumped. “So you refuse to help me? Very well, I will have to go and find out for myself.”

  “Don’t be absurd.”

  “Why am I being absurd? According to you I can be in no danger.”

  Jimmy changed his tactics. “What about Alexei?” He could tell from her expression that he had fired a decisive shot, but he did want to help his errant sister if he could. “Listen, I know people. I have business contacts who trade with Leningrad and Sevastopol. I even know one or two people in the State Department who might be able to help. I’ll see if I can find out what’s happened to Joe, where he is, and what he’s doing.”

  She reached across the table to squeeze his hand. “I’d be ever so grateful.”

  “I’m not promising any results,” he warned. “Now, Sis, let’s talk about you.” Priscilla tensed. Oddly, she had expected some such conversation almost the moment she had arrived in Boston. But there had been none. “I know you and Joe, well, have had something going for each other...there was some talk about marriage, wasn’t there?”

  “Yes,” she said cautiously.

  “You still planning on that?”

  “We...were going to talk about it after he got Jennie out of Russia.”

  “Talk about it, Prissy? You’ve been living with the guy for six years. What’s there left to talk about?”

  “We couldn’t get married while Uncle Duncan was alive,” Priscilla reminded him. “And since Duncan died, well...there’s been so much going on. Principally this man Gosykin.”
<
br />   “Seems to me that two people who have lived together for six years should have been able to find the time to fit in getting married.”

  Priscilla hunched her shoulders. “There are, well, problems.”

  “Because he’s Jewish?”

  Priscilla took a turn around the room. “I suppose that’s part of it. If there is the slightest prospect of the Bolsheviks being overthrown, of the legitimates regaining control...”

  “Sure. The Prince of Bolugayen couldn’t have a Jewish stepfather. Sis, suppose I told you that is an utter pipe-dream. I mean, of the Bolsheviks being overthrown, now.”

  She glared at him. “How can you be so sure?”

  “As I said, I have contacts. The Bolsheviks are there to stay. Maybe forever.” He watched her expression. “But you’re still not sure you want to marry Joe, because in your eyes, Alexei is and always will be Prince Bolugayevski. Just as you are the Princess Dowager. You just can’t figure becoming plain Mrs Joe Cromb.”

  Priscilla sighed and sat down. “I wish you could understand. When you’ve been up there, coming down is very difficult. Realising that you are going to stay down for the rest of your life is more difficult yet.”

  “I understand that,” Jimmy said. “But there are other ways back up. Maybe not to such giddy heights as being the Princess Bolugayevska. But high enough to satisfy most people.”

  She raised her head. “You’re thinking of Carlisle Mann the Third.”

  “Sure. What can you possibly have against him? He’s a multi-millionaire. He’s the American equivalent of a Russian prince, if you like. So he doesn’t own several million acres, but he sure owns a lot of stock. And he worships the ground you walk on.”

  “Has it occurred to you that I might not love him? That I might not be able to think of myself loving him?”

  “What the hell has that got to do with it? You may not want to admit it, but you’ve made up your mind that you can’t marry Joe. I accept that, and agree with it. So what are you going to do with the rest of your life? You’re thirty-one years old and still the most beautiful woman in Boston, maybe in the world. You have a title. Carlie isn’t going to object to your using that. You have a son. He isn’t going to object to that either. So he’ll want some sons of his own. Are you going to object to that? And he’ll give you back everything you’ve lost. Not Bolugayen, maybe, but wealth, power, prestige...”

  “Does he know I have been raped a number of times? I was Rotislav’s prisoner for a nearly a year. He had me whenever he felt like it. And every time it was rape, even if I didn’t fight him.”

  Jimmy blinked at her. He found it difficult to accept those words falling from such flawless lips. “He knows you were raped,” he said, carefully. “I don’t think there is any need for you to go into quantity or quality. Sis...” he reached across the table to squeeze her hand. “I, we, all of us, only want what’s best for you. And the boy,” he hastily added. “Won’t you at least think about it?”

  *

  “What a lovely young woman,” Hitler said. “Introduce me, Max.”

  “This is the Countess Anna Bolugayevska, my Fuhrer,” said the heavy man in the brown shirt and breeches and boots, speaking as softly as he could in the enthusiastic noise which filled the beerhall at the close of the meeting.

  “Charming,” Hitler said, ignoring the people who were trying to speak with him or at least catch his eye, and taking Anna’s hand, while she hesitated, uncertain whether or not to curtsey: she had waited over a year for this moment.

  “And this is Alexander von Holzbach, my Fuhrer. Herr von Holzbach and the Countess have just joined the Party.”

  Hitler allowed Holzbach only a glance, before again gazing at Anna with a benevolent smile. “I am enchanted, Countess. But did you say Bolugayevska?”

  “The Countess is a Russian emigre, my Fuhrer,” Max explained.

  “A refugee from the horrors of Communism,” Hitler suggested.

  “I wish only to be revenged on those people, my Fuhrer,” Anna said. “They murdered my family.”

  “And so you shall be avenged,” Hitler agreed. “We have sufficient Communists here in Germany. Why, that fellow Marx was all but elected President last year. That is something with which we intend to deal. The Communists and the Jews. There are our enemies, the enemies of Germany. Often enough they are found in the same bodies. They are the enemies of all mankind. But you, my dear, you are a splendid example of the true Aryan woman. Such colouring! Would you pose for some pictures? Max will take them.”

  “Pictures?” Anna’s head was spinning. She so wanted to like this man, because she so admired him and everything he stood for. But what he had just said...

  “I assure you they will be entirely tasteful,” Hitler said. “But they will be most useful on some of our display literature.” He gave her another smile and squeezed her hand. “We will get you a uniform,” he said. “Max will call. Have you the Countess’s address, Max?”

  “The Countess lives with me, my Fuhrer,” Alexander said.

  Hitler gave him a censorious glance. “Max will call,” he said again, gave Anna’s hand another squeeze, and a way was cleared for him to pass through the crowd by his brownshirt escort.

  “He really thinks he is going to get somewhere,” said a man standing beside Alexander and Anna. “And all he preaches is violence. They should put him back in prison.” Alexander hit him. There was instant pandemonium, with several people rushing forward to assist the man, who was sprawled on the floor.

  Anna caught Alexander’s arm. “There will be a brawl!”

  But they were immediately surrounded by brownshirts, holding away those who would attack them, and leaving them with nothing better to do than shout threats and curses. “That was well done,” said one of the brownshirts, a somewhat pudgy man of medium height, who, like Hitler, wore a little moustache. “My name is Ernst Roehm. I command these stormtroopers. We could use a man like you. What did you say your name was?”

  “Alexander von Holzbach.”

  “And you have just joined the Party? Would you like to be one of us? You’ll wear a uniform and you’ll be well paid.” He looked at Alexander’s somewhat shabby suit; the money he had taken from Colin’s apartment was long spent. “You don’t look very well paid at the moment.”

  “I’ll join you,” Alexander said.

  “Good,” Roehm said again. “One of my men will call.” He clicked his heels and gave Anna a little bow. “My pleasure, Countess. Now, four of my men will escort you home, just in case one of these thugs tries to start something.”

  “Isn’t that tremendous?” Alexander asked, when they had gained the privacy of their bedroom.

  “Tremendous?” Anna sat on the bed, her hands dangling between her legs.

  “We’re in,” Alexander said. “Protégés of the Fuhrer himself. And of Roehm. I’ve been told he is second only to the Fuhrer in the Party.”

  “He’s a ghastly little man,” Anna said.

  “Well, it takes all sorts. But right now he’s important. If I please him, I’ll be advanced.” He ruffled her hair. “You’ll be closer to Hitler.”

  “Didn’t you hear what he said?” Anna asked. “Do you suppose we shall still be his protégés when he finds out I am Jewish?”

  “Oh, well, that is a political matter. People have to be given something to hate, to bring them together.”

  “And I am one of those things.”

  “No, no. You are not a practising Jew. You are an Orthodox Christian, in religion. And you are only half-Jewish, anyway.”

  “I am not a practising anything,” she muttered, suddenly introspective.

  “And in any event,” Alexander went on, reassuringly, “How is he going to find out? You don’t look like a Jew. And I am certainly not going to tell him. So what is there to worry about?”

  *

  The train clattered to a halt and the doors were thrown open.

  “Out, out!” bawled the guards. “Ten minutes. Out, ou
t!”

  The men and women scrambled out of the cattle cars and slid, ran or rolled down the embankment beside the tracks. The railway line ran through the middle of a pine forest, which came as close as fifty yards to the tracks, but no one, man or woman, sought the privacy of the trees: they only had ten minutes, and in any event, anyone seen wandering into the trees would be shot by the guards. So they squatted along the track, the men with their pants down, the women with their skirts up; after several days on the train no one felt the least embarrassment. “Where do you think we are?” Joseph asked Rotlewi.

  They had become, if not friends, intimates, by force of circumstance. Besides, Rotlewi was also Jewish. “That last city was Omsk,” Rotlewi said. “You could say we are definitely in Siberia, now.”

  My father was sent to Siberia, Joseph thought. That was one of the things which kept him from sinking into a bottomless pit of despair: he was treading in Father’s footsteps. Father had perhaps been more fortunate, in that he had had as his companions in distress people like Lenin and Krupskaya, and even more important, beautiful girls like Patricia Bolugayevska and Sonia Cohen. There were no beautiful girls on this train, at least that he had seen. There was only Rotlewi. But Father had also died in this endless wasteland. Joseph was determined he was not going to die. He had too much to live for. Priscilla!

  He still did not know exactly what had happened, why he was here. He had been accused of so many things, of being so many things, he had lost track. It is easy to lose track when you feel that your genitals are being torn from your body by the electric current coursing through them. He had no idea what had been asked him, and he had no idea what he had answered. Whatever he had said must have pleased them, because the immediate pain had stopped, but not the torture of his anguished body, his even more anguished mind. Surely Sonia would come to his rescue, as she had once before. But this time she never had.

  Was she then part of the conspiracy to lure him to Russia and destroy him? He could not accept that. Even worse was his lack of knowledge concerning Jennie. The thought of Jennie being stripped naked by men to have electrodes thrust between her legs almost drove him mad. Not one of his guards would answer any of his questions. If he asked too persistently, they had beaten him.