The Madonna of the Sleeping Cars (19 page)

How long I rested, I have no idea. All of a sudden, I felt Ivanof’s hand tapping me gently on the shoulder. I opened my eyes. Ivanof, without moving, his head buried in the blanket, whispered in my ear:

“Don’t budge. Pretend you’re asleep. Someone is peeking at us through the opening.”

“Is it the jailer?”

“I don’t know. Try to see without raising your head.”

Slowly, cautiously, I turned my face toward the door. Two eyes were watching us through the crossed iron bars.

Then, always stealthily, I asked, “Do you think it’s a Tchekist?”

The sound of measured steps told us that our observer had departed. Ivanof threw off the covers and said aloud:

“Now we can breathe again. He has gone.”

“Do you know who it was?”

“No, but I am sure that it wasn’t the jailer because he has bushy, yellow eyebrows.”

“Then who could it have been?”

“Didn’t you get the impression that they were—a woman’s eyes?”

“A woman’s eyes!”

“I looked at them longer than you did. I’m almost certain.”

“But what woman would have access to this place?”

Ivanoff hesitated, then shook his head. “I don’t know. Doubtless the sweetheart of one of the Red guards. I suppose, as there’s no cinema, he amuses the little darling as best he can.”

EAQUE, MINOS, AND RHADAMANTE, DRAPED IN red cotton and armed with Colt automatics, originally supplied to the Russian army by the British War Office. The Tchekists examined my papers. Their furry black brows shaded three oily noses as sharp as eagles’ beaks.

After three long nights of waiting, the officials of the Tcheka had condescended to give me their attention. The dyspeptic jailer with the yellow hair had extracted me from the cellar and piloted me into a room on the ground floor of the municipal school of Nikolaïa. Seated on a bench in front of a black desk, I took in the outstanding points of the investigating committee. I was tired out, ill at ease, worried, and dirty. My beard, all of four days old, was bristly and irritating. My silk collar, heavy with dust, was a sorry companion to my wrinkled necktie.

One of the Tchekists, known as Chapinski, and who spoke French far too well to please me, played with my passport. After having laughed heartily with his acolytes, he said sarcastically:

“Congratulations, Prince Séliman. You certainly took every precaution. Your papers are in perfect order. Not a single signature is missing!”

The man’s manner annoyed me. “Well, that being the case, why this unjustified arrest? Would you mind explaining that? I am a personal friend of Comrade Varichkine, the Soviet delegate in Berlin. I came here on his authority and with his protection. I warn you that, if you don’t set me free at once, he will make it his business to let you hear from him through the medium of your own leaders in Moscow.”

The Tchekist was obliging enough to transmit my reply and the hilarity of the other two redoubled. Their coarse laughter enraged me. They exchanged a few words and left me alone with Chapinski.

He was seated in an imposing-looking armchair. A Red guard stood at attention outside the glass door. In a corner, under the blackboard, there hung an antiquated map. Below it were two dismounted machine-guns, a number of rifles, and some hand-grenades.

Chapinski looked me up and down with evident curiosity. He was an unusually tall man, thin as Nijinsky, about thirty years old, rather fine in his leather coat. In a word, a good type of Slav, with a well-formed nose, oblique eyes, evenly sloping shoulders, and smooth, distinguished hands.

Casting a deprecating glance in the direction of his two departed associates, he began cynically, “Now that those stupid fools have gone, we can talk freely.”

Losing my patience, I rose to my feet and replied, “This makes four days that I have been held here for no reason. It is an intolerable impertinence. I ask you for the last time to take me to the comrade who commands the Nikolaïa police force.”

Chapinski bowed mockingly. “I am that personage, my dear Prince.”

“Then who is the judge in this vicinity?”

“I am, Your Royal Highness.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “It is a strange judge who interrogates the poor devils on trial while there is a loaded revolver on his desk!”

“You are mistaken. It is not loaded. Look at it, if you like.”

“Then what do you use it for? To fan yourself?”

“No, it’s merely a little bait for the counter-revolutionaries. Sometimes the prisoner, losing control of himself, takes advantage of my momentary inattention, picks up the automatic and tries to shoot me. I smile at the perfectly harmless weapon, pull this loaded gun from my pocket and return the favor to the prisoner, who has the pleasure of expiating for his murderous attempt right on the spot. Do you understand what I mean? It’s an amusing little game. I have already marked four Georgians on my list. What do you think about that, most illustrious foreigner?”

Chapinski’s sardonic smile was unbearable. His delicate hand, adorned with a stolen ring, a beautiful piece of platinum marked with the crest of some member of the imperial family, his revolutionary’s hand, which had never manipulated a pick and shovel, caressed the stock of the revolver the way a dilettante would fondle the contours of a chryselephantine statuette.

“Do you expect to make me confess to a lot of imaginary crimes by threatening to shoot me,” I said at last. “Don’t make a mistake, Comrade! The Inquisition no longer exists and the Albigenses never wore silk shirts, made to order in Bond Street.”

“That’s true enough. Silk shirts are part of the attire of capitalists.”

“Yes, just the same way that complete lack of comprehension of economic necessities goes with the Communist uniform.”

“Prince, please leave these generalities in the cloakroom. The attendant will return your truisms when you leave. If my information is correct you came to Georgia on behalf of an Anglo-American organization which proposes to exploit some oil-lands in Telav.”

“Yes. But not without Moscow’s permission and approval. And for that very reason, if you don’t release me at once, I shall telegraph to Berlin and I—”

“You will do nothing of the kind because we are instructed to guard you secretly.”

“Who issued that order?”

“Moscow.”

“That’s impossible.”

He handed me a telegram.

“I don’t read Russian.”

“Then I’ll translate it word for word:
The chief of police of Nikolaïa is herewith instructed to arrest the Prince Séliman immediately on his arrival in Georgian territory. He will land at Batoum and go to the Hotel Vokzal in Nikolaïa. Keep him in strict secrecy until the arrival of No. 17 when you will receive detailed instructions from the Executive Committee as to further measures. Signed
, L
EONOF.”

The Tchekist returned the telegram to its proper place among a quantity of other papers, looked at me with an amused air of commiseration and said:

“There you are!”

“Then you intend to prevent me from communicating with the outside world until the arrival of Number Seventeen?”

“Absolutely! There is no alternative.”

“Who is Number Seventeen?”

“If you offered me a fortune, I couldn’t satisfy your curiosity on that score.”

“Is it a delegate from Moscow? A member of the Extraordinary Commission?”

“Perhaps.”

“Why the number?”

“That is our only means of identifying them. In any case, I can tell you that when double figures are used it signifies a comrade of very high rank.”

“Oh! So you admit that, in your Union of Soviets, with equal rights, you permit of rank? That seems a trifle inconsistent.”

Chapinski made a vague gesture. “All sheep need shepherds. Anyway, you ought to take it as a great compliment that a comrade is coming all the way from Moscow to interview you and to decide your fate. But you and I have nothing further to discuss, most noble traveler. I must return you to your cell. You have only to wait there until Number Seventeen arrives.”

The Tchekist rang a bell, gave an order to the Red guard, and, as I went out, scrutinized me in anything but a friendly manner. I found myself back in my gloomy quarters. My unfortunate companion was not there. He was enjoying a breath of air out in the courtyard with the rest of the prisoners. I profited by this temporary solitude to take certain precautions. I had managed to conserve ten $100 bills which I had hidden in my socks. But I was afraid that was not a safe hiding-place. So I carefully folded and slipped them in between two tiles which I covered over with dust. I anticipated the possibility of needing that money badly in the near future.

Ivanof returned. His desolate expression moved me. He threw himself down on his bed like a poor sick dog and declared in a trembling voice:

“I told you so; it was Gouritzki who was shot the other night.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I saw his shoes on one of the guards.”

Ivanof coughed. I thought of the
la
of a violoncello.

“They will kill us all! You have been interrogated, haven’t you? By whom?”

“Chapinski.”

“Look out for Chapinski. He is a crook, a hypocrite, and a coward. A former reactionary journalist, who, having been interned in the Tcheka at Kouban, was rapidly converted and who sold his friends to gain the confidence of the heads of the Third International. He is the type of man who would compromise his blood brother to save his own skin. I learned these details from a poor friend of mine who was imprisoned at Ekaterinodar in nineteen-twenty-one and who only escaped death by a miracle. He was shut up with seventy other unfortunates in a vast subterranean jail which the Communists called ‘the Vestibule of the Tomb.’ And I’ll explain to you why that appellation was so well merited. One evening, along toward seven o’clock, the huge door swung open and the commandant of the prison entered, followed by a firing squad armed with revolvers. The officer turned to the
starosta
—the man in charge of the prisoners—and asked:

“ ‘How many are you?’

“ ‘Sixty-seven.’

“ ‘Only sixty-seven,’ repeated the commandant with perfect indifference. ‘And the trench is ready for eighty bodies. That’s a waste of time and labor.’

“The poor wretches waited in breathless fear. The commandant looked them over carefully while the sixty-seven victims stood in horrified silence. Finally, he turned to the head of the firing-squad and said:

“ ‘Well, I must find thirteen more. Watch these until I come
back. I’m going to rummage through the cells. I’ll get my quota all right.’

“The door was closed. The sixty-seven men waited several minutes, petrified with the vision of what was to come. Suddenly one of them fell on his knees and began to pray in a desperate voice. He invoked God and groveled in the thick dust; then he gave vent to an inhuman laugh, like that of a hyena in an African jungle, and began to rush wildly around, striking his friends. He had lost his mind.

“Hours went by while the horrible expectation continued. A few men tried to summon up a vestige of hope. Some suggested that the captain might fail to find thirteen more victims and that, on that account, they would be spared by a miracle. The others wept, wrung their hands and groaned pitifully. This went on for two days and nights. Then it became known that the thirteen others had already been executed. No one could understand that. Everyone was completely bewildered. On the third day the Tchekists invaded the dungeon a second time. Their leader was carrying a lantern and a large piece of paper. The prisoners read with horror these words, written in the left-hand corner: ‘To Be Shot.’ And enduring the most awful mental torture, they saw the names which were underscored in red ink. Which ones were they? The insane man threw himself at a Tchekist, who shot him on the spot. He was still breathing when they threw his body into the hall. The death roll began. One prisoner, in an effort to drive away the frightful anxiety which was threatening his sanity, whistled loudly an old popular mazurka.

“ ‘Keep quiet!’ shouted the leader of the firing-squad. ‘I can’t even hear myself talk.’

“Then the reading of the list was resumed.

“The whistler was one of four who were spared out of this
wholesale slaughter. When he found himself with the three others who had escaped death by nothing short of a miracle, he asked in a stupefied manner, staring the while with glassy eyes:

“ ‘Well, what about me? And you there? Aren’t they going to shoot us?’

“ ‘We are pardoned.’

“He repeated the word ‘pardoned,’ clutched his throat with both hands and fell dead. The joy of living had killed him.”

The afternoon passed. The jailer opened the door and gave us some soup which stank of rotten fish. He motioned to Ivanof and said something in Russian. Ivanof rose to his feet, terrified.

“What’s the matter?” I asked, worried for this companion whose society and docile resignation I deeply appreciated.

“They are changing my cell. It seems that they want you to be alone tonight.”

“Me! Alone? Why?” A vague question to which the jailer himself could not reply.

He pointed to the vile concoction supposed to be soup, rubbed his stomach mockingly and, pushing Ivanof before him, went out.

I was alone. An hour passed. Tired of trying to determine why they had deprived me of my unhappy friend, I lay down on the bed and pulled the blanket over me. My eyes half closed, in the yellowish deathlike light, I had leisure to meditate. But the meditations of a man of the world, locked in a Russian jail, are anything but amusing. I slowly rehearsed my past; it was like sipping a nondescript beverage and it left the frightful after-taste of uncertainty. Visions of my early life alternated with lingering reminiscences of the last night at the Pera-Palace, and of my pretty German girl with the sad eyes.
I had encountered danger in the course of my life. Shells had whistled by my head during the war.

But those intermittent tribulations, those insignificant difficulties, seemed nothing at all in comparison to my present state of ignorance about my own fate. And I had endured that for three and a half days. My life was hanging like a thread from between the rough fingers of these all-powerful and irresponsible Tchekists. They might liberate me tomorrow or execute me tonight according to their mood. My disappearance, once remarked by the civilized world, would doubtless occasion a stir in diplomatic circles. The authorities in Moscow would, of course, invent plausible proofs of my guilt: probably espionage or conspiracy against their orders. The Quai d’Orsay would register a formal protest. But, as it could not afford to have trouble with the Soviets, it would accept fabricated excuses, and the case would be buried in the file. With an indifference which surprised me, I imagined the events which my decease would occasion. I read, amusedly, long articles in Paris, London and New York papers. I could hear Lady Diana’s impassioned voice in Park Lane drawing-rooms: