‘Wait a minute, just wait.’

  She was the mother of his children, expecting another baby, and this is how he treated her? She did her best to kick and punch him, but he just held on to her tighter.

  ‘Will you listen to me? Let me explain?’

  She struggled and kicked all the more.

  ‘What is there to explain, aside from you’ve been stuffing your fingers up some other woman behind my back?’

  When Artyom told her there was a reason, she screamed shrilly,

  ‘Of course there’s a reason—’

  She aimed a kick towards him, but Artyom side-stepped nimbly and she nearly lost her footing, grabbing the side of the table to steady herself.

  ‘Let me go!’

  ‘Not until you’re willing to listen to what I have to say.’

  ‘Let me go!’

  ‘If you’re still angry with me after that, you can kick me from here to the middle of next week.’

  ‘You’ll just come up with a pack of lies—’

  ‘Just listen. That’s all I’m asking you to do.’

  ‘Have you been to bed with her?’

  He hesitated for a moment, then answered that he had.

  ‘I want to get away from here. I can’t bear to look at you. Let me go.’

  Artyom insisted that she listen to him.

  ‘I never want to see you again.’

  ‘Will you sit and be quiet for one minute?’

  And then he was telling her about the Banque de France, of all things, and how important it was. That contrary to what most people thought, the Republic’s central bank was, in fact, private. That although there were thousands of shareholders, only about two hundred of them mattered, the élite who were entitled to vote on anything of importance. This was a very select club, and, as Artyom knew from bitter experience, they weren’t looking for new members. Even wealthy and successful businessmen like André Citroën or François Coty weren’t welcome. This elite comprised the haut bourgeoisie, who had kept hold of the reins of power for generations, and were determined not to extend their privilege to outsiders, no matter how much money they had.

  ‘Why are you talking to me about banking? What does that have to do with fucking this whore?’

  ‘If you’d only listen, you’d find out.’

  These two hundred men were the only ones who could vote to appoint the eighteen deputies who sat on the Bank’s board. The Government appointed the Governor and the two Deputy Governors, and, following an old tradition, three deputies represented the Treasury. These three were the plutocracy within the plutocracy -– Inspecteurs de Finance, civil servants invariably appointed from the country’s best families, whose pedigrees went back for generations.

  To the ignorant, the Chamber of Deputies was the heart of French Government, but in reality, the true government was the Banque de France.

  ‘How?’

  ‘It’s as simple as withholding a loan to the Treasury.’

  ‘Why would they do that?’

  ‘If some policy or other isn’t to their liking. Raising taxation on the rich, for instance. Or if some politician or other starts to draw attention to himself by making too much noise about the rights of the poor or the unemployed, it’s the easiest thing in the world for them to take a man like that down a peg or two. Or even destroy him if necessary. This is the kind of world we live in. This is the reality of a country which makes such a song and dance about her democratic constitution.’

  Zepherine still was none the wiser what all this had to do with anything.

  ‘Why else would I have spent so much energy courting the daughter of the President of the Banking Commission? Without a friend at the Banque de France, which controls the Banking Commission, I don’t have a hope of expanding Intra-Banque out of Beirut. Zepherine, I need to be able to open branches here in Paris, and float my bank on the stock exchange. Otherwise I’ll be scratching a living on the outside forever. These men would be happy to have me rot in Beirut forever. But I know I’m every bit as good as them. Do you think Pauline means anything to me? She doesn’t. From the start, she’s only ever been a path to lead me to the door of her father’s house.

  Zepherine looked unconvinced.

  ‘So you say.’

  ‘It’s you I love, now and always.’

  ‘So you say,’ She repeated, though she looked slightly mollified.

  ‘I’m doing this for you and the girls.’

  ‘But what are her feelings for you?’

  ‘Once the Banking Commission reverses its decision, I can bring the relationship to an end.’

  ‘Artyom, that’s not what I asked you…’

  He hesitated then said, ‘Once I’ve had what I want, Pauline will be a thing of the past.’

  It transpired he had already dined twice at François de Wendel’s table, who had promised he would have the Commission look again at the Intra-Banque application. Though he had not promised more than that.

  ‘So once you have what you want, you promise you won’t lay one finger on her ever again? On your honour? Do you promise me?’

  ‘On my honour.’

  ‘On the heads of your daughters? Do you promise me?’

  ‘On their lives and the life of this one,’ and he placed his hand tenderly on her stomach.

  ‘Because… I’m telling you now… I’m telling you right now, Artyom,’ she said, a wash of pink colouring her pale cheeks, ‘if I hear as much as a whisper that you’re carrying on with her after that, I will never forgive you… Do you hear me?’

  He answered that he did.

  ‘I won’t be made a fool of. You can’t walk all over me just as you please. My name is not Jeanette. You need to understand. I would take my revenge on you. I’d make sure you suffered.’

  ‘You’d have every right.’

  ‘Why do I still love you, Artyom?’

  ‘Because I love you.’

  49.

  The late autumn sunshine was refracted through the blustery showers, and in the distance, a rainbow spanned the Berlin skyline. Professor Krieger strode in to his office, apologising for having left him on his own, but a student had kept him talking. Alyosha moved away from the window where he’d been gazing out at the world.

  In his everyday clothes, sitting at his desk as he put his lecture notes away in a drawer, the Professor was much closer to the memory Alyosha had of him from when he was a boy in Petrograd. Since their unexpected meeting, Professor Krieger had been eager to re-establish his acquaintance with his former pupil.

  ‘I see more of your dear father in you than ever, Alexei Fyodorovich. You really have grown to be the spit of him. I hope you have also inherited that strength of character which was such a part of his personality. Fyodor Mikhailovich was a man of great integrity. He stood solid as an oak when every other tree in the forest was being blown like chaff before the wind. I remember how he loved reading about the history of Russia, and many was the time I urged him to turn his hand to writing, but he always demurred.’ Swiftly, his tone changed. ‘What ever became of that reprobate of an uncle of yours? The one who lived in Paris and, if I may say, seemed to ape the worst habits of the French?’

  ‘Uncle Artyom?’

  ‘Where is he these days?’

  ‘I haven’t spoken a word to him for years.’

  ‘Does he still live in Paris?’

  ‘As far as I know. I haven’t seen him since I don’t know when.’

  ‘By chance or choice?’

  Alyosha shrugged and told him it was a long story.

  ‘A story you’d prefer not to share?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Of course. I wouldn’t dream of intruding.’

  Professor Krieger adjusted the position of the small swastika flag on the desk.

  ‘I’m so glad our paths have crossed again, Alexei Fyodorovich.’ He stood up. ‘What is a crime if the state is the criminal? What is justice if society is unjust? What is the truth if that truth is just a jumble of slogans, to justify the power of a despotic gang of communist Jews who today have their heel on the throat of Russia? Keep in mind, Alexei Fyodorovich, that the mortal enemy of every man is self-interest. Self-interest and nothing else drove Lenin in every decision of importance he ever took. The man who serves his country rather than his own selfish needs is the one who attains true greatness. Like Adolf Hitler.’ He turned his head slightly to gaze with reverence for a moment at the silver-framed photograph of the man which hung on the wall behind him. ‘Don’t you agree?’

  He did, wholeheartedly.

  ‘The shoots of great things are starting to grow in you, Alexei Fyodorovich. I can see that clearly. That’s one of the great privileges lecturing to the young at a University confers – the ability to recognise the leaders of the future.’

  One of the reasons Professor Krieger had invited Alyosha to visit was in order to show him the last letter his father had given him when he was forced to leave Russia – a letter of thanks. ‘I treasure it greatly. Look—’ He ran his thumbnail lightly over the sheet. ‘Do you remember what fine penmanship your dear father had?’ He told Alyosha how his father had placed the envelope in his hand on the platform at the train station, just seconds before he had to step into the train to leave Russia forever. ‘Generally, I’m not an overly emotional man, but that final farewell had me almost in tears.’

  Alyosha read the letter, but the words on the page didn’t bring his father back to life for him. His memories of his own father, the man who had been responsible for his existence, were, by now, faded and vague.

  In the meantime, Professor Krieger had gathered his papers together for his next lecture. As he had nothing better to do with his time, Alyosha followed him to the lecture theatre and sat with the two hundred students.

  Professor Krieger took a watch out of his waistcoat pocket and placed it on the lectern in front of him. He scowled when a young man slipped in through the double doors a few moments late and proceeded to speak for exactly one hour – not a second more, not a second less.

  It was a lecture on Platonism, and the concept of ‘two worlds.’

  50.

  The following Sunday evening, as the shadows of the waning day lengthened around them, Alyosha and his former tutor visited his father’s grave at the Saint Konstantin cemetery, Professor Krieger in his brown SA uniform as a mark of respect. They stood silently for a few minutes on either side of the gravestone, before the former tutor insisted on their kneeling to pray. When he finished reciting the prayer, he slowly stood to his feet, straightened his arm, and held it in a long salute with his eyes shut, deep in contemplation. Alyosha listened to the voices of some small children who were playing hide and seek among the trees on the other side of the cemetery wall.

  As they left, Professor Krieger said there had never been an equal to Fyodor Mikhailovich Alexandrov on Russia’s soil. He fully deserved to have a memorial statue erected here in Berlin, and he very much regretted it had not already happened. Professor Krieger told Alyosha that he should dedicate himself to realising his father’s ambition, in order to give a purpose to his life. There was nowhere better to start than at his feet.

  ‘How?’ asked Alyosha, not understanding exactly what his former tutor had in mind.

  ‘By putting your own house in order,’ answered Professor Krieger, as they waited to cross the road. ‘Why are you looking so confused, Alexei?’ With a slightly impatient sigh, he went on. ‘We know all about your cousin, Margarita. We have ears amongst the Reds here in Berlin. I’m surprised at her, of everybody. One understands to an extent why the unemployed and the unintelligent find themselves tricked by the superficial appeal of Marxism, but when somebody like Margarita Kozmyevna falls for their lies – somebody who was brought up to know better – it is simply deplorable. But then, isn’t it a perfect illustration of how this Jewish ideology can bewitch anybody? These Marxists aren’t men who gobble up ideas, so much as the idea gobbles them up – see how it’s gobbled up your poor cousin. After I myself taught her of Goethe, Shakespeare and Schiller, of the masterpieces of European civilisations, the jewels in our culture’s crown. And what does she choose to do? It’s enough to break a man’s heart.’

  ‘Larissa and I have tried to make her see reason…’

  ‘You must try harder, Alexei Fyodorovich! It’s high time she comes to her senses. Now is not the time to stay your hand, or there’s no knowing what will happen. Soon, it will be too late, and no quarter will be given. The situation is as critical as that.’

  Alyosha couldn’t remember the exact reason why his tutor had been forced to flee Russia before the Revolution, but he remembered something about his having been arrested in a billiards parlour for arguing with Bolsheviks. He also had a dim memory that he’d been beaten by the police, because they thought he was spying for the Kaiser. He asked the Professor to remind him.

  ‘What? You don’t remember what happened to me? How could you forget, Alexei Fyodorovich? I remember it all as though it only happened to me yesterday morning.’

  Alyosha wasn’t given any further explanation. His most vivid memory was of his frozen feet as he waited on the platform at Finland Station with his father at dawn. He remembered his shoes crunching against the frost. He remembered the dazzling white of the early morning and his own breath prickling his nose.

  After they left the cemetery, Professor Krieger insisted on taking Alyosha to supper. The restaurant at the Gasthaus Reiter on the corner of Gendarmenmarkt was his favourite place in Berlin – it was a traditional guest house kept by Herr Helfferich and Frau Helfferich, their three sons, Udo, Ulf and Urban, and three daughters, Udda, Udele and Udine. It might be a family affair, but that didn’t mean they were old-fashioned. The previous year, they had installed a lift for the benefit of their guests, so they no longer had to climb the stairs to their rooms on the upper floors. But luckily, there was nothing modern about the food; they served good, traditional German fare in generous portions, and this pleased Professor Krieger more than anything. Alyosha ordered the ham hock on his recommendation, and it was every bit as delicious as he said.

  They were enjoying a cigarette with their coffees when, glancing around him, Professor Krieger suddenly stiffened in his chair. Alyosha followed his gaze to the young woman sitting at the next table. Professor Krieger glared at her and then, looking at Alyosha over his spectacles asked,

  ‘Have you noticed this dishonest Jewess?’

  Some of the diners at the nearest tables overheard him, and there was a barely perceptible shifting in chairs and nervous glances. Alyosha felt his heart start to race. The young woman must have heard too though she didn’t show it, turning her attention instead to the young man in a grey jacket who was making his way briskly towards her. They greeted each other with a kiss. Apart from his still, dark eyes, his appearance was unexceptional. He sat down, coughed, and took his lighter and cigarettes out of his pocket and put them on the table.

  ‘Look at them,’ Professor Krieger said, with no attempt to lower his voice. ‘In all seriousness, just look at the two of them.’

  The lovers were talking earnestly together, eyes locked, voices low. Although their hands didn’t touch, their feet under the table were playing hide and seek.

  ‘The way they’re behaving, no shame at all.’

  Alyosha was mortified, but thankfully, his former tutor left it at that.

  It was only when Frau Helfferich placed the bill on their table that Herr Professor realised that his wallet was lost. He became rather flustered, until the young Jewish woman at the next table lifted it from where it had fallen on the floor.

  ‘Is it this you’re looking for?’

  She held the leather wallet out on her open palm. As if he feared touching her flesh, Professor Krieger snatched it from her and stuffed it into his pocket.

  ‘Aren’t you going to thank me?’

  She smiled sadly at his discomfiture.

  51.

  Vlasich Pesotski couldn’t believe Alyosha’s luck.

  ‘It’s still who you know in this world,’ he said bitterly, ‘I don’t care who says different.’

  After all the long years of living so precariously, Professor Krieger had told Alyosha he would help him out of poverty, and, unlike other individuals who had made similar promises, his former tutor kept to his word. He was employed by the NASAP as a driver and, ahead of his wages, was given money to buy a suit, a smart tie and a chauffeur’s peaked cap. It was a fine thing to wear such clothes, with his hair neatly cut and the smell of soap on his skin. He felt he cut quite a figure, especially when he caught the girls throwing him a quick sidelong look as they sauntered past the motor car. Some even paused to chat and flirt, and he ended up taking a few of them for a drive, which they loved. More often than not, there’d be an excuse to park in some quiet backstreet, before climbing into the back seat.

  However, apart from his official duties, he was also expected to collect Vlasich Pesotski and two or three others from the usual rendezvous, the beer cellar on the corner of Rheinburgerstrasse and Strelitzerstrasse, after dark, to hunt down known communists. The fighting would be bloody and violent, with fists pounding flesh and air, feet dancing on the cobblestones, before the gang took to their heels and hurled themselves back into the car.

  ‘Go, go, go, go, go!’

  He’d press his foot down on the accelerator and tear away at speed.

  52.

  Occasionally, he drove Joseph Goebbels, Berlin’s Gauleiter, when his personal chauffeur had a day off. The man always worked on his papers for the entire journey, the only sound the squeak of his leather coat whenever he shifted. Long after he got out of the car, the smell of that coat lingered.