Come into my Parlour (28 page)

When they had climbed out of their grim prison Major Makhno led them across the airfield on which they had landed to the reception office. While their papers were being examined again Gregory saw that it was a quarter past four, so they had done their four-hundred-mile trip in just over three hours. He was now conscious, too, of the sounds of distant gunfire, and as the little party were taken out to a waiting charabanc he could see the flashes of a sporadic bombardment lighting up the night sky. A heavy shell trundled overhead with a roar like the passing of a train, to burst some miles away in the centre of the city. Suddenly a Russian battery quite near by opened up with a series of staccato cracks, and it was still firing when the charabanc drove off.

Twenty minutes later they were set down outside a large building which the Major told them had been the old Hotel Astoria, but was now an officers' club. In spite of the lateness of the hour a number of people were still sitting about the big lounge, and, having arranged about accommodation, their guide procured some very welcome sandwiches and vodka for them.

Fuel was now being husbanded for the worst months of winter, so the hotel was unheated, but the vodka warmed them up a little and half an hour after their arrival they went up to bed. The place was very crowded so they had to share a room on the fourth floor with Major Makhno and two other officers, who were already installed and sleeping there. Undressing as quietly as they could, they lay down on the truckle beds under some blankets and piled their furs on top of them. Occasionally a shell whined over to explode with a loud bang, which was followed by the rumble of falling débris, but they were too tired to take much notice and soon dropped off to sleep.

In the morning they went downstairs with the Major and partook of the meagre breakfast which was all that was now allowed, and, after it, he told them that they must come with him to report to the office of the garrison commander; upon which Gregory said that they first wished to write a letter for delivery to the Commander-in-Chief.

He had already discussed with Kuporovitch the exact form that
the letter was to take, but they had felt it best not to write it in Moscow in case, through some accident, it fell into wrong hands. Paper and pens were available in the lounge, so Kuporovitch sat down to a desk and wrote the letter, while Gregory remained near by talking to the Major.

The letter to Voroshilov ran as follows:

My dear Marshal
,

No doubt you will be surprised to hear from your old comrade after this long time, but from the letter I left behind for you when I departed so hurriedly from Kandalaksha in March
1940,
you will have understood the reason for my silence
.

However, I am now happy to report that my self-imposed mission has been crowned with success and will, I trust, enable me to make a contribution of real value to the defeat of the Hitlerite bandits
.

After escaping many dangers, and a most hazardous journey, I have succeeded in bringing back with me to the Soviet Union an officer to whom you rendered a considerable service when you were commanding our army in Finland. He represents certain people who can be of incalculable help to us, and, upon receiving your instructions as to the most suitable time to strike, he will return to convey them to those who sent him
.

For reasons which I will explain when I have the honour to report to you in person, this officer and myself are at present billeted at the Astoria under the names of Mr. Sallust and Mr. Cooper respectively, and are carrying British passports
.

May I solicit the honour of an interview for my friend and myself at your very earliest convenience
?

Your old comrade and brother-in-arms of the Revolution
,

Stefan Kuporovitch
.

Having finished his letter, unobserved by the others, Kuporovitch swallowed hard, raised his eyes to heaven and crossed himself. He knew that this was but the beginning of the series of lies he would have to tell with absolute assurance and conviction if he and Gregory were to live out the week; but he also knew that only by practising the most shameful deception on his old friend Clim would Gregory get the information he wanted, and that unless that information was forthcoming there was little chance of Britain supplying the weapons which might prove the salvation of his beloved country.

After addressing an envelope he added, “Most Secret and Personal” across its flap, then put it in another marked “Most Immediate, for the Marshal Personally”. Seeing that he had finished, the other two stood up and they left the hotel together.

The light snow of early autumn had already made Leningrad's streets slushy, but a bright sun was shining, and, as the siege was still in an early stage, the people in the streets looked well fed and cheerful.

The Germans were being held at some distance from the eastern side of the city and to the north it was largely protected by the great inland sea of Lake Ladoga while to the west the naval base of Kronstadt and the upper bays of the Gulf of Finland were still in Russian hands, so the only perceptible signs of the fighting came from the south. Field-Marshal Ritter von Leeb was now making a great effort to penetrate the southern suburbs and force a surrender before winter closed in, so the dull rumble of his artillery was almost continuous; but the Germans were concentrating mainly on the Russian defence lines and only an occasional heavy burst with a resounding crump in the city's built-up area.

While they waited for a tram on the broad Nevski Prospekt they watched the white vapour trails of a dog-fight up in the sky almost directly above them. One of the aircraft suddenly flared like a struck match, hovered for a second, then came spiralling to earth with a great plume of black, oily smoke gushing from its tail. Confident that it must be a Nazi the people in the street cheered lustily, but just as the flaming machine disappeared behind a tall building a shell came hurtling over, causing them to break off and run for the nearest cover.

Without further incident they reached the Garrison Commander's office. The officer who examined their papers promised to have the letter to Marshal Voroshilov delivered without delay. He then told Gregory and Stefan that they were to return to the Astoria and were not to leave the hotel until the Chief Intelligence Officer sent someone to collect them, even if that meant their remaining indoors for two or three days, as it was not considered desirable for foreigners to go about the city unescorted.

Major Makhno volunteered to see them safely back to the Astoria, and when he had done so left them to go about his own business; but as they thought it quite possible that instructions had been telephoned to the military staff of the club to keep an eye on them, they made no attempt to evade the order confining them to it.

As they had nothing with which to occupy themselves they sat for some time staring out of a window at the passers-by, or the aircraft from which the sky was rarely free for long, but both of them were anxiously wondering what the results of the letter to Voroshilov would be. After a thin lunch in the canteen, having had very little sleep the night before, they went upstairs and spent the afternoon dozing on their beds. In the evening they endeavoured to keep their minds off the letter by playing six-pack bezique, both before and after a far from
satisfactory dinner, but the lack of heating in the club rendered it cheerless and the cold increased as the night drew on, so at ten o'clock they decided to go to bed.

They were both still sound asleep at half past two in the morning when they were suddenly aroused by a rough voice calling out their names. The other occupants of the room also awoke, and as the light was switched on everyone sat up to stare at an officer who stood in the doorway. Behind him were two armed soldiers.

The officer advanced into the room, his hand resting casually on the automatic at his belt, and, having identified Gregory and Kuporovitch, he stood there while his two men searched their clothes for weapons. They were then told to dress. This, they knew, was the answer to their letter. It had come, not in the form of a friendly summons, as they had hoped, but with all the harsh abruptness of undisguised arrest. Their hands were steady, but their nerves were stretched as taut as piano-wire, as they accompanied their guards downstairs and out to a waiting car.

The car took them only a short distance and pulled up before a large block of flats. Outside the entrance a fur-clad soldier was standing in a sentry-box, and on going inside it was clear that the whole building had been taken over by the military.

Since leaving the Astoria, the officer by whom they had, virtually, been arrested had not spoken a word, but on entering the hall he dismissed the two soldiers and said to Kuporovitch in Russian:

“I am Colonel Gudarniev, and a member of Marshal Voroshilov's personal staff. The Marshal ordered me to bring you to him: he lives on the top floor of this building. Please to get in the lift.”

“On the top floor!” echoed Kuporovitch, as he obeyed. “Surely that is a bad place for anyone to be whose life is so precious, now that the city is under bombardment?”

Gudarniev shrugged. “The Marshal occupied the apartment in the old days, when he was Governor of Leningrad, and it has a magnificent view over the Neva. Naturally we all wished him to live in the rooms prepared for him at his battle headquarters, far underground, but, despite our protests, he elected to reoccupy his old flat, because up there he can see quite a lot of the fighting through a powerful telescope mounted on the roof.”

“How like him,” sighed Kuporovitch. “I have served under him myself, and he was always the same. Reports were never good enough and he must see things for himself. Nearly every day he would visit some part of the front, and he often declared that any General who devoted more than a few hours at night to meetings and paper work was in danger of losing both touch with reality and the personal devotion of his men.”

Their escort brushed up his dark moustache and gave them a more kindly look, but the lift stopped, so no more was said and they got out. On the top landing another sentry was stationed outside a plain oak door. He came to attention, then pressed the doorbell. After a moment it was opened by an orderly who, instead of a uniform tunic, wore a white, high-necked blouse belted at the waist. Evidently he was expecting them, as he stood aside, closed the door, took their furs,
led them down a passage, knocked twice on another door and, without waiting for an answer, threw it open.

As they followed Colonel Gudarniev into the room they saw that it was in semi-darkness. A moment later they realised the reason. Along the greater part of its southern side ran a long low window; from this the blackout curtains had been pulled back; the room was lighted only by the reflection of the snow on the adjacent roofs and the intermittent flicker of artillery fire. Silhouetted in the centre of the gap between the curtains stood out the short, thick-set figure of the Marshal as he gazed over the uneasily sleeping city towards the unceasing battle.

On hearing them enter behind him he pulled the curtains to, then Gudarniev switched on the light. As he did so the Marshal spoke. “I wish to talk to these men alone, Ivan. You had better go and get something to eat now, then come back to collect them in an hour or so.”

In a single glance Gregory had taken in the room. It was low-ceilinged, of medium size and furnished in a comfortable modern style without any trace of ostentation. In its centre was a large table, at one end of which was a tray bearing the remains of the Marshal's supper; the rest of the table was strewn with maps. Near the window there was a large radiogram and, at the far end of the room, a bureau-bookcase, on the top of which were photographs of Stalin, the beautiful ex-ballet dancer Caterina Davydovna, whom Voroshilov had married, and several children. Grouped round the stove were a rather worn leather settee and two armchairs.

Gregory's eyes switched almost instantly towards the Marshal. Voroshilov was just sixty years of age, but he still appeared to be in the prime of life. His dark wavy hair was grey only above the ears, his eyes were bright and his square-jawed forceful face still had all the characteristics which had caused him, when a younger man, to be regarded as such a handsome fellow. His military tunic, with its big Marshal stars on the high collar, was undone and hung open, showing his white shirt. While Gudarniev left the room he stood with his hands clasped loosely behind his back regarding Kuporovitch with an intent, searching look, and even after the door had closed he continued his silent scrutiny for a full half minute.

“Well,” he said at last, in a sharp tone that boded no good to his visitors. “What have you to say to me?”

“First, Marshal, permit me to recall to you my companion.” Koporovitch waved a hand towards Gregory. “
Herr Oberst Baron
von Lutz.”

Voroshilov favoured Gregory only with a swift scowl, then turned
back to his compatriot. “Yes, I remember him now. He was one of the German Military Mission attached to my headquarters just before the Finnish surrender. There was some business about saving a woman from extradition by the Gestapo, and I ordered sledges to be provided for him so that he could cross the ice of Lake Ladoga by night. But, of course! It was to Kandalaksha that he was going and you were then Governor there. That was just before you disappeared from your post, and we all thought that you must have been murdered.”

“But, Marshal!” Kuporovitch's dark eyebrows shot up in feigned surprise. “Did you not get the letter that I left behind for you?”

“I got no letter. And, let me tell you, since you are alive you have no small amount of explaining to do. It is clear now that while commander of a fortress you deserted your post in the face of the enemy, and——”

“Not in the face of the enemy,” interrupted Kuporovitch, stoutly. “There was not a Finn within five hundred miles of me, and of all the dead-alive holes Kandalaksha——”