Lorimers at War (33 page)

The ipicture was too confused. There seemed no way of reconciling the golden young man, confident and handsome in the white braided blazer of a schoolboy Captain of Cricket, with Ralph as she had last seen him, thin and stooping in a shabby black suit, his eyes wrinkled against the sun. And since that time his burdens had grown even heavier. He should have died sooner, Margaret thought to herself; before Lydia's death – and certainly before Brinsley's.

Yet when Brinsley had died, it had seemed too soon.
Had they been wrong, Margaret asked herself suddenly, to feel so much sadness and regret for a life cut short? Brinsley, like his father, had been a golden boy – but Brinsley would never be tired and old and disillusioned, wondering whether his life's work had been worth while. He had always thought of himself as lucky. When Margaret considered her brother's life, and when she looked at some of her patients – alive, but facing years of pain and dependence – it was difficult not to wonder whether perhaps Brinsley's luck had held after all. Death was a disaster only for those who were left behind.

She could persuade herself, no doubt, not to mourn too much for Ralph, who in his last months had been lonely and without hope. But it was impossible to carry the thought to its logical conclusion and hope that Robert was no longer suffering: that he was dead, not sharing the pain she felt on his behalf. She had begun by feeling sad about her brother's death; but by the time she arose to walk back to the house her thoughts had returned, as they always returned, to her missing son.

Someone was calling her name. She heard it faintly while she was still in the woods, and then more loudly as she stepped out into the open. It was possible to recognize Lord Glanville's voice, although she could not see him; and the sound startled her. Piers was not a man who shouted. Nor did he ever use her Christian name in public. In private they had been close friends for many years, but in the world of the hospital she was always Dr Scott. Margaret began to hurry, fearful that some accident had occurred to Alexa or one of the children.

She saw him hurrying up the paved path from the theatre ward; he must have been to look for her there. In his hand was a card which he waved in the air as soon as he caught sight of her. That was another departure from the norm. Even in these days when formality had almost disappeared, letters were carried by servants. Margaret froze into stillness. She refused to allow her mind to
think or guess; and as though in sympathy, her body ceased for a moment to breathe.

He came towards her and it seemed that he was no more able to speak than she was. Without allowing her a chance to look at the message he held, he took her into his arms, almost crushing her in the tightness of his embrace.

How could she share his emotion when she still did not know whether the tears in his eyes were of sorrow or joy? She struggled to pull his arm away, to take the card from his hand. Then it was her turn to feel the tears flooding into her eyes. The postcard – printed and formal, except for a blank space in which a name had been written in ink – was little more informative than the telegram which had arrived five months earlier. But it provided the only piece of information that mattered.

Captain Robert Charles Scott was not dead, but a prisoner of war.

Almost every month some new messenger arrived from Moscow; to announce a new decree, to investigate the working of an old one, to explain some aspect of Bolshevik policy, to make it clear that the blame for the poor harvest of 1918, and the consequent food shortage, must be squarely placed on the shoulders of the peasants, who had generously been given land and had responded with indolence and selfishness instead of free-handed gratitude. The orator on this occasion had been sent by the Commissar for War.

That was all Kate knew as she hurried to the September meeting, a little late because of an emergency in the operating theatre and so tired that she wanted only to sleep. But she knew that her absence would be noted by
the soviet of the military hospital to which she had been attached since disbanding her own medical unit a year earlier. In any case, there had been rumours that Commissar Trotsky himself was in the area. He was known to be touring the country in his armoured train, recruiting for the Red Army. Since the assassination of Uritsky and the shots which wounded Lenin, all Trotsky's appearances were made without advance warning. But stories of the Red Terror had reached even this remote part of Russia and Kate was curious to see the man who was presumed to be responsible for the shooting of so many prisoners and hostages.

As soon as she opened the door, however, she knew that the speaker was not Comrade Trotsky. Even if the empty sleeve of his greatcoat had not given her the clue, she could not have failed to recognize the voice which had taught her to speak Russian. Sergei's pale yellow-grey complexion was even less healthy than before and his fanatically glittering eyes had sunk even more deeply into their black sockets, but his intensity of manner and shabbiness of appearance had not changed at all.

He recognized her with equal speed. His eyes, drawn by the movement of her late entry, fixed her for a moment with their hypnotic gleam. But he did not allow himself to be distracted from his theme; and that was directed to the men, not to her. He was describing the atrocities perpetrated by the White Army, the intention of its generals to restore land to the old nobility if they won, the need for all who were faithful to the spirit of the revolution to join the Red Army and fight both the enemy within the country and the invaders from outside.

When the meeting was at an end, Sergei asked a quiet question of the chairman of the soviet, who looked around and pointed out Kate. There was another brief discussion, and then an announcement that Comrade Gorbatov wished to speak to the Comrade Doctor. Kate deduced from this that Sergei had not admitted that he
even knew who the doctor was, much less that they were old friends. In the current atmosphere of suspicion and betrayal, she found this disquieting; and she could see the same uneasiness in Vladimir's eyes as he watched her follow the speaker out.

At their parting, Sergei had kissed her. For two years Kate had remembered him with affection, but now she did not know how to approach him. She had seen too many personal relationships snap under the strain of divided political loyalties. She waited: and so, for a moment, did he. Then he laughed.

‘So you have remained faithful to your Serbs, foolish one.'

‘There are not many of them left,' Kate said. ‘Those who survived the second retreat were badly treated. When the officers of the Russian divisions found that they could no longer rely on their men to obey orders without mutinying, they used the Serbs instead to take the force of the German attack – but without doing them the favour of giving them any weapons. Yet later, when the death penalty was abolished and the Russians began to desert to their home villages, the Serbs were forced to stay in the line because they had nowhere to go.'

‘I'm delighted to hear you speak so fluently. I was a good teacher, was I not? But the words you use are bitter.'

‘I'm speaking of the past,' said Kate. ‘Like everyone else, I hope for better things in the future. Are you having success in building your new army?'

‘It goes well, yes. The difficulty is in finding officers. We're having to recruit from amongst the officers of the old Imperial Army.'

‘I thought most of them were in hiding.'

‘This is their opportunity to emerge. Those who don't take advantage of it will proclaim themselves as enemies of the people. There will be no second chance.'

Kate was careful to keep her voice under control so
that Sergei could not guess her personal interest in the subject. ‘And do you find them reliable?' she asked.

‘Every unit of the army is to have its own political commissar, who will soon report any disloyalty. And of course, not all officers are equally welcome. If any of the old nobility expect to obtain an amnesty in this way, they very soon discover that they are mistaken.'

‘How do you mean?' asked Kate.

‘We shoot them. Except in a few cases – of men who handed over all their land and property to the people voluntarily, right at the beginning, before it became impossible for them to do anything else.'

Kate felt that her sudden pallor must be too visible for Sergei to ignore; and now that she had heard what she feared she was anxious to change the subject as quickly as possible. But it seemed that her old friend had his own anxieties.

‘You shouldn't be here, you know. You should have gone long ago, while it was still possible. You could be in great danger.'

‘Why?' asked Kate. ‘I mean, I've been in danger almost without pause for three years now. Why should this be any worse?'

‘The news isn't generally known outside Moscow and Petrograd,' Sergei said, ‘but the Intervention is becoming more serious. The British have landed troops at Vladivostok and Murmansk. That's too far away for them to give any protection to you. But their presence on Russian soil is bound to stir up great anti-British feeling. In fact, hatred of foreigners has become Party policy. We have no choice.'

‘I speak Russian all the time,' said Kate. ‘I have a Russian name. Nobody knows that I'm British.'

‘Your Serbs know.'

‘They would never betray me.'

‘You can never be quite sure. It only needs one. By mistake, even – mentioning the English doctor when he
thinks no one is listening. Would you leave if I could find a way? It may be too late already. The French and British have both sent warships to take off some of their own people: I doubt if there will be a second chance. But if I could find a route, would you go?'

‘If what you say is true, you would surely be putting yourself in danger by helping a foreigner.'

Sergei smiled. ‘Do you remember that I once saved your life?' he asked.

‘Oh, Sergei, how could I ever forget!'

‘Well then, when a man saves someone's life he's responsible for that person for ever.'

‘Sergei!' They were both laughing with happiness as they embraced. ‘I couldn't be sure – I didn't want to get you into trouble.'

‘I'm the one who gets people into trouble,' he said. ‘You may trust me not to be sentimental. But of course what makes the decision easier in this case is that I know you have never been an enemy of the people. Will you go?'

Kate needed a moment longer to think, and it was a reminder of the new barriers which had sprung up between friends that she could not afford to let Sergei know what she was thinking. She would not go without her husband, and in the eyes of a Bolshevik Vladimir would undoubtedly be an enemy of the people. They could try to deceive Sergei – but the documents which were adequate to support Vladimir's identity in a place where he was established with no reason to arouse suspicion might not stand up to the more detailed investigation which the issuing of a passport would involve.

‘No,' she said. ‘You are kind, as you have always been kind to me. But I believe in the new society as passionately as you do. I'm a Russian now. And soon I shall be the mother of a Russian as well.'

‘Ah!' he said. He drew away and looked at her more closely. ‘And I thought you were wearing three overcoats
to keep out the cold. The father is Russian, then, not Serbian?'

‘Yes.'

He thought again. ‘It's still my opinion that you aren't safe here. You should go to some place where you aren't known. As a doctor you can make yourself useful anywhere. If I may speak without immodesty, your speech is a credit to my teaching. You can pass for Russian as long as no one has any cause to suspect that you are not. I'll give you a travel permit. No journey is safe now, I'm afraid. If the train is stopped by bandits, you'll have to hope for your pregnancy to protect you. If the line's cut by the Whites, I suppose it might be worth while to reveal your nationality. The British are supposed to be supporting them, after all. This authorization will only serve if it's the Cheka who stop you.'

‘I should want my husband to travel with me,' said Kate firmly.

‘Greedy, greedy.' But Sergei was smiling. He sat down and opened the briefcase he carried, taking out a selection of papers and rubber stamps. ‘You'd better have an official posting to another military hospital, in order to keep your ration entitlement. What's your husband's name?'

‘Vassily Petrovich Belinsky.'

‘And occupation?'

‘Anaesthetist.'

Sergei laughed in incredulity. ‘You have been able to get anaesthetics for your hospital?'

‘No,' said Kate, joining in his laughter, although with a trace of bitterness. ‘Not any longer. His function now is to hold the patient down while I operate.'

‘There'll be fewer problems in keeping you together if we choose something less specialized,' said Sergei. ‘Medical assistant should do.' He scribbled and stamped for a few minutes before considering again. ‘I'll send you to Petrograd,' he said. ‘I don't recommend that you stay
there too long. The food shortages are worst in the big cities. But it's the best place to establish a new identity, and it's a place where doctors are badly needed. After a year or so you could move on to somewhere smaller if you wanted to – Novgorod, perhaps – and settle down. There you are, then. I'll tell the chairman of your soviet that I've transferred you, but I won't say where you're going. You need to muddy your tracks if you're to be safe.'

‘Thank you. Thank you very much. And Sergei – I am so very glad for you, that you've been able to return to your own country. I know how much it always meant to you.'

‘You were kind to me when I was an exile,' he reminded her. ‘I don't forget that. I only hope that you won't regret cutting yourself off from your country and your family.'

‘From each according to his ability; to each according to his need,' quoted Kate. ‘I believed that, you know, long before I ever came to Russia. I can see the need here, and I have the ability to help. Shall we meet again, Sergei?'