I WAS WELL SATISFIED with the change in my appearance. Looking in the mirror I was sure that nobody would recognise me. My beard was a really formidable affair, and gave me a most ruffianly appearance. I had allowed my hair to grow and entirely neglected the civilised practice of washing. This, in conjunction with a very shabby coat and a pair of shabbier trousers, presented a spectacle which any tramp might envy, and which the most suspicious comrade would pass unchallenged.
My intention now was to leave Russia as soon as I could. The mission on which I had been sent by the British government had failed disastrously. There was little or no chance of picking up again the threads of my organisation in Petrograd. I had been formally condemned to death by the Bolshevik government, the sentence to be executed whenever and wherever I was found. In short, there was little point and much danger in my remaining in Russia.
There were two ways of getting out of the country.
(1) I might take the train from the Finland station at Petrograd and cross the frontier near Viborg. This was the favourite route of émigrés. The Finns were always ready to assist, but the Red patrols were correspondingly alert. However, escapes by this route were frequent. It entailed securing another passport and running the usual barrage at the railway station.
(2) There was the way over the frontier bridge at Bielo ’ostrof. This necessitated a handsome bribe to the station Commissar and to the sentry on duty at the bridge.
Fortunately I was well supplied with money. The notes at the Cheremeteff Pereulok had remained undiscovered, and, although the evacuation of my agents from Moscow had proved a costly business, I still had a considerable sum left.
Not caring about facing the inquisition at the station, I determined to follow the latter route. The panic which had followed the shooting of Uritzky had now died down. Five hundred prisoners had been executed by way of a reprisal, and the Bolsheviks had proclaimed their intention of revenging in the same fashion any further attack upon their authority. It seemed to be known that I had travelled from Moscow to Petrograd. But the Tcheka raids had ceased in the latter city and the place had resumed its normal state of stagnation.
I resolved accordingly to show myself in public and test the efficacy of my disguise. In Petrograd I had stayed with friends, moving from place to place as I had done at Moscow. This was necessary owing to the vigilance of the house-committees, particularly in the days following the discovery of the plot, in watching for unregistered lodgers. The slightest carelessness would not only lead to my discovery, but would bring the wrath of the Tcheka on to the heads of my hosts.
I was obsessed with the impression that Petrograd possessed eyes and all the eyes were focussed on me. Everybody was watching me. The man I passed just now – did he not turn round and look after me? The woman opposite, staring at me across the pavement? I was certain to be recognised and arrested. Well, I had a Colt in my pocket, and there would be a few fresh faces in hell before I put the last bullet into my own head, rather than fall into the hands of that scum.
Gradually I grew more confident in the extent of the change in my appearance. I did not venture out in broad daylight to start with, but remained under cover until dusk. But as time went on and I still remained unrecognised, I made excursions into the more frequented streets at all hours of the day. I passed people whom I knew. I did not force myself upon their notice, however, but shuffled hurriedly by in the gait which I had assumed to suit my general appearance.
It was in the Nevsky Prospekt that I met the man who recognised me. I passed someone whose appearance was vaguely familiar to me. He seemed to know me, too, for he shot a keen and suspicious glance in my direction as he passed. Then he turned round, overtook me by about ten paces, then came back and looked at me again. I pushed ahead quickly, but before long I heard his steps tap-tapping after me again.
Then my heart missed a beat. A voice hissed over my shoulder in a hoarse whisper.
‘Sidney Georgevitch!’ Then as I neither turned round nor said anything he went on: ‘Do not be afraid. It is a friend.’ Thereupon he gave me an address and a number in the Kamenostrovsky Prospekt, and added – ‘In half an hour.’
I shuffled on. Should I go? Was it a trap? No, surely if he had been an enemy he would have given the alarm there and then. Well, trap or not, I was discovered now. Might as well face it. So I went down the long Kamenostrovsky Prospekt and knocked at the door of the house indicated.
I was admitted cautiously by the man who had recognised me, and ushered into a room bare and almost denuded of furniture. My unknown acquaintance then swung round and peered at me narrowly.
‘That beard changes you, Sidney Georgevitch,’ he said. ‘Your closest friend might not have known you.’
‘Perhaps that is why I have grown it,’ I suggested. ‘But may I ask who you are and how you came to know me?’
‘I am the man who used to prevent that beard from growing, Sidney Georgevitch,’ he replied. ‘Don’t you know me yet?’
Then memory came to me. ‘You are the barber,’ I said. ‘You are Alexander, who used to be in Maullé’s saloon, and shaved me in the old days.’ Alexander seemed as pleased at the meeting as I was, and prepared the samovar in high spirits.
‘Why you should have come to Russia again I do not know,’ he said, ‘when you were safely out of the place. Do you think I would return if I had a living elsewhere?’
So I told him that I had come back in the service of my country, and added that at the moment the dearest wish of my heart was to get out of it.
‘It is easy neither to get in nor out, Sidney Georgevitch,’ said Alexander sadly. ‘Which way did you think of going?’
‘I am trying to find someone who will bribe the station Commissar at Bielo ’ostrof to turn his back while I cross the bridge,’ I told him.
‘It is no good,’ he said, shaking his head gravely. ‘Anybody else, perhaps – at a price. But you – no. Nobody in Russia dare let you go, however much you paid him. I recognised you. So will others. Perhaps you are not aware that at every station people are posted who know you. The rascals have traced you to Petrograd, and I may tell you that the Redskin who let you through the barrier was summarily shot. They are pretty certain that you have not left the city, and when they say that you seem to have escaped from Russia it is only to tempt you out of hiding. There are too many eyes watching, Sidney Georgevitch. No, we must think of some other way.’
I could not but agree with him, especially since it had been proved so conclusively that my disguise was less effective than I had hoped it would be.
‘Meantime,’ said the barber, ‘you are quite safe here. So far I have given no cause for suspicion. I have a clerical post in a Soviet institution. If you will stay here I have an extra bed, and I shall be honoured by your company.’
I stayed for about a fortnight with Alexander, and, having learned caution, did not venture out of the apartment. Nor did the house committee ever suspect my presence. As Alexander said, with a rueful glance round his bare room, they had taken all there was to be taken and so were not likely to trouble him again.
And during that two weeks Alexander was searching every channel for a means to smuggle me out of Russia.
Then one day he came in bringing with him a portly, heavy-faced man, who might have been a prosperous merchant or stockbroker – if such phenomena were to be found in Russia.
‘Mr Van den Bosch,’ said Alexander by way of introduction. The heavy-faced man bowed perfunctorily. ‘Mr Van den Bosch is a Netherlander, who has come to Petrograd to do a little business with the Soviet government. His boat – it is quite a small boat, a motor boat – lies in the river now.’
Alexander paused to add emphasis. ‘I have explained to Mr Van den Bosch your predicament and your requirements. Mr Van den Bosch is of opinion that he might be able to help you.’
I thanked the stranger in German.
‘I understand,’ said Van den Bosch, ‘that you are in some trouble with the government – such government as it is in this country. What sort of trouble it is not my business to enquire. Of course you will understand, Mr—’
‘Bergmann,’ said I.
‘You are a German?’ (I bowed.) ‘Of course you will understand, Mr Bergmann, that my assisting you might very seriously prejudice my position. Not only would the very delicate trade mission on which I am engaged be ruined, but I would render myself liable to imprisonment for assisting in the escape of a man who is wanted by the authorities.’
‘Of course, I will make it worth your while,’ I assured him. ‘How much do you want?’
‘Sixty thousand roubles,’ said Van den Bosch.
‘You shall have them.’
‘And when may I expect payment?’ asked this hard-headed business man.
‘Half now and half when you land me,’ said I, and counted out to him 30,000 roubles on the spot.
‘I shall be sailing at midnight tomorrow,’ said Van den Bosch pocketing the money. ‘Be early. I cannot wait for you. Your friend here knows where my boat is lying and will guide you to it. A dinghy will be waiting by the quay. There will be no moon. But if you are followed don’t try to come aboard.’
Van den Bosch then left us. The following day I sent Alexander round to my old quarters, whence he succeeded in retrieving a suit and some linen in not too bad a state of disrepair. The faithful barber clipped my beard and moustache, and dressed my hair with a pair of rather blunt scissors. As a result I looked rather like a naval officer who had run a little to seed.
The good fellow then left me. We were to meet at eleven o’clock by the Kazan Cathedral. I was to board the boat at the last minute. A visit from the Bolshevik agents before she put to sea was almost inevitable.
The day seemed interminable. I amused myself by reading the copies of the communist papers which Alexander had brought. I was not a little edified to find several references to myself and to the abortive conspiracy in which I had played a part. But there was little news. Most of the matter consisted of propaganda and the approaching war against the imperialist powers of the West.
The night fell stormy and overcast. Great clouds were chasing one another across the sky and there were several downpours of rain. The streets were deserted when I set out for the ruined Kazan Cathedral.
Alexander was waiting for me. When he saw me he signalled a warning and slipped behind the hoarding which covered one face of the edifice. I joined him there.
‘All is clear, Sidney Georgevitch,’ he whispered. ‘I have been down to the quay. The boat is waiting, as Van den Bosch promised. A Commissar has been on board with a soldier, but left at about eight o’clock. Since then the quay has been deserted. I will go ahead. If I see anyone suspicious I will pretend to stumble. That will be a signal to you to get under cover. If anything goes wrong make your way back to the Kamenostrovsky Prospekt. But go circuitously. You might be followed.’
I let Alexander get some fifty yards ahead and then followed him. It had begun to rain hard much to my satisfaction. But I was drenched to the skin before we reached the quay. Nothing untoward had happened. Alexander stopped in the shadow of a large building and signalled me.
‘Wait here,’ he whispered when I joined him. ‘All is not well. There is a light showing in the boat. Mr Van den Bosch promised to show a light if you could not go aboard. Stay, while I go and investigate.’
The faithful barber disappeared into the rain in the direction of the quay. By and by he returned looking anxious.
‘The boat is showing a light, Sidney Georgevitch, and the dinghy is not at the quay as Van den Bosch promised. Something is wrong. We must return at once to the Kamenostrovsky Prospekt.
‘Too late, Alexander. You have been followed.’ Out of the downpour in the wake of the barber a man had appeared, a giant of a fellow, who towered above myself and my companion in the uncertain light. My hand closed on the butt of my revolver. My adventures seemed to have come to an end at last. But a pleasant surprise awaited me.
‘Herr Bergmann?’ The newcomer addressed me in German. ‘I am Mr Van den Bosch’s mechanic. I recognise your friend. I have seen him with my master. Herr Bergmann, there is a Commissar on board the boat. You cannot come on board until he leaves.’
‘And when does the Commissar intend to leave?’ I asked him.
‘Not until the boat sails,’ said the mechanic. ‘The communists are suspicious about something. A man came aboard yesterday night, when Mr Van den Bosch was away, and asked many questions. He was very anxious to know where Mr Van den Bosch had gone. And when Mr Van den Bosch returned he was followed. Tonight the Commissar came aboard again, and insisted on examining each one of the crew. Mr Van den Bosch does not wish to offend the Bolsheviks. He expects to do business with them. Therefore he is entertaining the Commissar in his cabin until we are due to sail. The Commissar has expressed the polite intention of seeing us off and waving goodbye from the quay.’
‘And when do we go aboard?’
‘When the Commissar comes off.’
‘And if he sees us?’
‘Herr Bergmann, the Commissar will not be in a condition to see anyone.’
Sure enough, shortly after one o’clock the Commissar was brought ashore dead drunk. Hastily gripping Alexander’s hand, I hastened across the quay with the mechanic and dropped into the dinghy.
Van den Bosch provided me with a change of clothing and some hot toddy. As I heard the screw thresh the water, a flood of exhilaration surged through me. I felt as a man feels who, after being almost suffocated, gets a breath of air. Slowly the rare lights of Petrograd dropped astern. Chug, chug, chug! In front of us was the open sea, Helsingfors, Copenhagen, England. At that moment running the gauntlet of the German Naval Base at Reval seemed but a minor risk. Chug, chug, chug! The drifting clouds were being chased out of the sky by the quickening breeze of morning. Here and there a watery star looked dimly down. Already the long grey fingers of dawn reached from the Eastern horizon. Chug, chug, chug! England, home, safety.
‘Where are you bound for?’ I asked Van den Bosch.
‘The German Naval Base at Reval,’ was the answer.