40.

  He decided to bide his time before venturing up to the first class section, and spent the rest of the day dozing in his cabin, down in the bowels of the ship, which he shared with seven smelly fellow passengers. He thought it would be a much easier task, and more romantic, to climb up to Wisia under cover of darkness, and by the time he left the cabin, it was almost midnight. Out on the third-class deck, he gulped the damp air deep into his lungs. The ship’s lamps gave out a strangely unreliable light, as though they were shivering in fear of the dark, fading and wilting as they genuflected cravenly before the night.

  Moving along the deck was child’s play compared to climbing up the narrow and treacherously slippery steps in the face of the gusts of wind which pressed against him. He was suddenly petrified, aware that if he slipped and lost his grip he could fall and drown, without anybody being any the wiser that the sea was his grave. He felt so close to her and yet so distant, but he was a young man at the height of his strength, and he was determined to reach her. He was in the grip of some powerful emotional tide which propelled him upwards and onwards, and as he climbed higher, his confidence returned. The most important thing was that he knew the number of her cabin. Now he couldn’t wait to reach her, was already imagining her face when she opened the door and saw him there. The two of them laughing as they lunged for each other, kissed each other, made love. He was on fire to see her, on fire to hug her and kiss her, on fire to feel her flesh once more under his fingers.

  After climbing over the rail, he jumped down onto the upper deck. Checking there was nobody about, he crossed over, opened the heavy door, and went down a flight of cast-iron steps. Nobody saw him, and the only sound was the quiet thrumming of the ship’s engine. The soft carpet muffled his steps as he walked down the long corridor, which smelled of a mixture of oil and strong polish.

  As he was ticking off the numbers on the doors, a tall officer in a dazzlingly white uniform appeared round a corner at the far end of the corridor, walking in a leisurely way towards him, his right hand in his trouser pocket as he whistled Schubert’s Lindebaum under his breath. Alyosha had nowhere to hide, so half turned away from him by a cabin door, fishing in his pockets as though he were searching for his key. Expecting any moment to be challenged as to why he was skulking around the first-class corridor, Alyosha was mightily relieved when he saw out of the corner of his eye the officer come to halt, knock lightly on a door, and disappear inside. Thanking his luck, he strode eagerly towards his goal. He was outside her door. He stopped and then he realised that it was through this very door that the tall officer had stepped. He double checked the number.

  Twenty-six.

  That was the number on her ticket.

  Twenty-six.

  Then he heard a laugh. Her laugh, no two ways about it.

  His insides turned to liquid and he tried the door. It was locked. He released his grasp on the door handle and tried to calm his spinning thoughts. What did it mean?

  Without a doubt, it was her voice he could hear, followed by an appreciative eruption of laughter. Wisia. His Wisia. A dull throb crept over the back of his skull, as though someone had just bludgeoned him. He made to knock on the door, but he was paralysed, unable to speak or act, unable to exert his will. Staring down at himself, he was suddenly overwhelmed with how poor he looked, his jacket with its patched sleeves, his trousers and shoes, so dirty and unkempt, as though he’d been out digging potatoes. He looked like somebody who had been through hard times. His spirit plummeted. What was he doing in first class? He was a man from the third class. That’s where he belonged, that was obvious to all.

  But he loved her, and so, now knowing what else to do, he stayed, as the night dragged its feet through the darkness. Seconds, minutes, slowly turned to hours, but each hour left him with nothing but the increasingly sour taste of disappointment in his mouth. At some point in the long, oppressive night, the door quietly opened and the officer stumbled out, adjusting his cap on his head. Alyosha, without stopping to think, leapt to his feet and punched him with all his might. He had never in his life imagined that a man’s skull was so hard. Pins and needles danced through his knuckles all the way up to his elbow. The officer ducked his head into his hands, the red from his nose staining the white of his jacket, and after seeing the look of mad fury on Alyosha’s face, staggered blindly down the corridor until he was out of sight.

  Wisia was still standing at the open door, wearing nothing but a towel. She had a curious, nervous look in her eyes, but there was something a little indignant there as well. He was overwhelmed with the urge to choke her, to kill her; he wanted the ship to sink, wanted the world to drown, and the universe to crumble to dust. He didn’t want tomorrow, or any other tomorrow to ever dawn again. He waited for her to say something, to try and justify herself – to make some excuse for the long hours she had spent with the man, or give him some explanation, or something, anything, but she said nothing.

  ‘Do you hate me that much, Ludwika?’ he heard himself ask, the question echoing in the back of his head. ‘Do you?’

  A fleeting expression of confusion flickered in her eyes but then, in a staggeringly casual way she shook her head. He looked at her intensely, conflicting emotions bubbling up in him. Anger won, and he grabbed her cheeks, squeezing the soft flash hard – and tasted the fear that came from her.

  ‘Don’t hurt me…’ Her whole body was straining away from him.

  ‘Why?’ he asked shaking her violently. ‘Why shouldn’t I hurt you?’

  But he loosened his grip, waiting for a response, for something, anything, that might slake the acid bewilderment bubbling in the pit of his stomach, but again, that maddening silence. He felt her fear evaporate, though he was still full of hate, and still felt a ferocious desire to punish and violate her. The only other emotion she betrayed – by sighing very softly – was that she was a little annoyed with him for being so stupid as to turn up with no warning. Then, he spat in her face, but he missed and the spittle landed in the hollow of her neck – a foul ball of phlegm, fuelled with agony and disappointment. He called her something unforgiveable. He called her something unforgiveable a second time. And then he turned on his heel and walked away.

  41.

  For the rest of the three-day voyage, Alyosha, like a badly wounded animal, went to ground, cowering listlessly in his stuffy cabin, except when hunger drove him to the third-class dining room to shovel something down before returning to his lair. Only after nightfall did he venture out for some fresh air, pacing the deck as he argued with himself whether he should attempt to see her again or not. He decided against it, because, he reasoned, it was only a matter of time before she would come to find him, to explain and apologise. Invisible bruises were the worst bruises; nothing made them better. Wisia. His own Wisia. How could she? A rock of love turned into a heap of dust. Such a casual, easy betrayal, as effortless as obscuring a mirror with a single breath. How could she? That’s what floored him, the sheer inexplicability of her behaviour. It filled him with wild feelings of pure hatred, the like of which he’d never experienced in his life.

  He would return to the smelly cabin eventually, to the Poles and the two Latvians, who spent their time playing cards, smoking, and drinking for hours at a time. They’d invite him to play a hand with them every now and again, but he always refused, remaining silent and morose, oblivious to everything but his own misery. Anyway, he had no money.

  He resisted the urge to see Ludwika again. He had been so sure she would come looking for him, but she didn’t, nor even send a message. Nothing. Every time he thought of her, which was constantly, he felt his chest constrict, and sharp blades of disappointment slice his heart to ribbons. Every night, he’d hear the weak strains of the orchestra floating down from first class, playing to the different beats of tangos, waltzes and foxtrots, and would torture himself with visions of her dancing from the arms of one officer to the next, all while he sat on his bunk in a cabin filled with the smell of dirty vests and underpants and stinking socks, listening to a crew of poor workers as they gambled their pitiful wages away.

  42.

  The screeching of the seagulls at Gdynia was no different from those at Le Havre. From his narrow deck in third class, Alyosha watched her sullenly as she made her way carefully down the gangway, step by step, attended by the officer he had clouted, red glove resting on white glove. She wore a hat and a well-cut coat he hadn’t seen before. An equally well-dressed group of people thronged around her the minute she stepped onto the quayside, enveloping her with their greetings and kisses, then whisked her off, a bouquet of flowers in the crook of her arm.

  Observing this welcome and the love that came to her part, Alyosha realised that the plain truth of it was that she was home, back with her own people now. What had he ever been to her? Nothing more than a little puppy dog to play with in the park, to throw little sticks of love for him to carry back to her – so that she could mock him.

  Was that all he had been? Somebody to while away her evenings with, somebody who made Paris a little more bohemian, perhaps, or even a case of la nostalgie de la bou? How had he not seen it? In his blind love for her, he had created some false picture of her. Now he could see her for what she was; she was the daughter of those Polish aristocrats at the quayside. She belonged to them and not to him.

  And to her fiancé.

  He needed to speak to her, one last time. Hurling himself down the gangway, to the indignation of the sedately disembarking passengers, he looked for her, but she had already disappeared. He ran along the quayside towards the exit gate, but when he saw the wooden hut and the two officials checking everybody’s papers, he realised he would have to go through the rigmarole of explaining his lack of passport and visa. When it came to his turn he hurriedly tried to explain himself and gave Ludwika’s name as somebody who would vouch for him. An official, who had been listening to his garbled explanation from where he sat at his desk inside the hut, rose and came to join the other two, and looked over the only proof of identity Alyosha had with him – a scribbled note from Ludwika signed ‘Wisia.’

  ‘She’ll vouch for me.’

  He was ushered into the hut where there was a rough table and some chairs.

  He had just sat down opposite the two officials when he jerked to his feet again as he saw Ludwika bend her head to step into the back of a Rolls-Royce.

  He rushed over to the window and pressed his face against the bars.

  ‘Wisia!’

  She turned her head a fraction, half looked around, but then the door closed on her.

  ‘Wisia!’ he yelled this time – a long, desperate plea which shattered the silence as the car began to move. He leapt up and barrelled his way past the officials and out of the wooden hut. The Rolls-Royce was coming towards him and he stepped into its path. He was felled savagely from behind, and though he made a feeble attempt to get up, somebody had straddled him and was holding him down. Then, he blacked out completely.

  When he came round, they arrested and imprisoned him, but it was a matter of complete indifference to him. He had lost the will to live and as far as he was concerned, they could do what they wanted with him.

  II: 1927–1928

  1.

  Dom Narkomfin was a brand new apartment block of reinforced concrete, built in parkland, yet not far from the centre of Moscow. In Berlin, Masha had told Margarita how privileged she felt to be living in such a place, which had its own shops, hairdressing salon, gymnasium and even a crèche. Everything she could ever want was on her doorstep.

  When the young official at the entrance realised that Margarita was a foreigner, he phoned through to someone else. By and by, his superior appeared and asked her about the nature of her visit.

  ‘Masha Ivanovna Baburina?’

  Was she sure she had the correct name, asked the superior officer. The young soldier looked bored.

  ‘Yes. She told me this was her address. Masha Ivanovna Baburina. Apartment 107.’

  A middle-aged woman in a fur hat and coat tightly buttoned to her neck came past the gate and walked by swiftly without catching anybody’s eye.

  ‘Where did you say she worked again?’ asked the superior officer.

  ‘At the Ministry of Culture.’

  ‘Then I suggest you inquire there.’

  Walking back to the Hotel Moskva, Margarita reasoned that the mistake must be hers. What other explanation could there be? She went to her room, pulled off her coat, beret and scarf, and looked through her diary. But the address Masha had written down was the one she had given the young soldier: Masha Ivanovna Baburina, Apartment 107, Dom Narkomfin.

  As she stared at Masha’s handwriting, Margarita could see her friend clearly in her mind’s eye, introducing the film about Yalta. Margarita had been completely mesmerised that night and had felt herself transported home to Russia, so much so, that when the lights came on for the intermission, she had not the slightest inclination to speak German. She wanted nothing more than to nestle into her memories while speaking Russian with Masha.

  Margarita remembered her friend’s enthusiasm, as well as her wish to learn about their efforts in Berlin. Masha had questioned her closely about the work of the betriebsräte, where the communists could offer practical guidance to the factory committees. Margarita had told her about their own struggles: how Die Rote Fahne had been shut down by the government and banned for a specified period, and how they had ignored the prohibition and continued to publish it underground. How a court order had put a stop to the KPD conference in Württemburg, at a time when more and more workers were thrown out of work, and how the bosses used the tactics of sacking and shut-outs to demoralise the workers, hoping to intimidate those that remained into not striking, without realising that this might work against them one day, for the foot soldiers of every revolution always come from the army of the unemployed.

  Masha Ivanovna Baburina, Apartment 107, Dom Narkomfin. That was her address. Why were they claiming she wasn’t there? Perhaps she had moved. She would have to make further enquiries at the Ministry of Culture, as they suggested.

  2.

  That evening, at the official reception, Nikolai Bukharin, a thin, shortish man with a goatee, a receding forehead and sparse, reddish, curly hair, extended a fraternal and warm welcome to the assembled delegates from foreign communist parties, on behalf of the Central Committee of the Communist party of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republic, on the occasion of the tenth anniversary of the Revolution. The author of The ABC of Communism and Politburo member reminded them with a smile that, here in Moscow – the capital city of the communist world – they were among comrades.

  The dinner comprised traditional food: bortsch with smetana, shashlik and rice. There was champagne as well as the best vodka, and wine from Abshasin and sparkling water from Kislovodsk, served in elegant crystal glasses. The hundreds of delegates sitting at round tables were served by young men and women in black-and-white uniforms. The six courses were ferried from the kitchens and placed on the white tablecloths in their turn, and then whisked away with great efficiency. When the meal was finally cleared, there was a request for silence, and each head of the delegations was invited to address the company in turn, under the red flags that decorated the walls of the room. Two or three cameras flashed. The French, Italian, Hungarian and Romanian delegates spoke, and then it was Margarita’s turn. She had been feeling nervous for a while, and when she stepped up to the round microphone the piece of paper in her hand was shaking. She thanked them for the welcome, and went on to pay tribute to the Soviet Union, the first state in the history of mankind to establish a society which would be emulated world-wide once capitalism was destroyed, and the whole planet – yes, every last bit of it – would live and breathe under a truly humanist social order.

  As she went on, Margarita found her voice. She felt proud to be able to report on the progress being made by the KPD, but admitted that they had not yet exposed the Social Democratic Party to all as the fake socialists that they were, betraying the German proletariat time and time again.

  They were making good progress in Saxony, Thuringia and Mecklenburg-Strelitz, and there was every reason to hope that the revolution would prevail. As she came to the end of her speech, Margarita raised her voice. ‘We have to beat the fascists. We have to beat the capitalists. We have to smash their corrupt order and replace it with a fairer, decent system. Together, we can, and together, comrades, we will be victorious. We will see the dawning of the day when the red flag flies high above the Reichstag.’

  Enthusiastic applause broke out. Six hundred glasses were raised in a toast: ‘To the tenth anniversary of the Revolution!’

  Bukharin held his glass up even higher, ‘To other revolutions.’

  ‘Other revolutions.’ the room replied as one.

  Margarita received a lavish bouquet of pink roses and a little bottle of perfume, which had been produced at the new factory in Yaroslavl.

  3.

  Margarita was filled with joy to be in the company that night of so many like-minded people, and everybody was so encouraging as they congratulated her, appreciative of her reports of the struggles for the cause. She felt light-hearted with hope; it was so pleasant to be praised for once, instead of hearing nothing but contempt and hatred. Berlin seemed a world away; a city of capitalist greed and rampant inflation, where workers picketed and bosses pocketed. In Germany, there was nothing but unemployment and lives whittled down to stumps, every last twig of hope plucked bare. She had been longing to see for herself how the system in the Soviet Union worked towards a better future, where there was a meaning and purpose and a true worth to everybody’s life.