book down.
“Bertrand Russell is an aristocrat!” Bernie said angrily. “He’s the third earl!”
“That doesn’t make him wrong.” Millie stopped sucking and went to sleep. Ethel stroked her soft cheek with a fingertip. “Russell is a socialist. His complaint is that the Bolsheviks are not implementing socialism.”
“How can he say such a thing? The nobility has been crushed.”
“But so has the opposition press.”
“A temporary necessity-”
“How temporary? The Russian revolution is three years old!”
“You can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs.”
“He says there are arbitrary arrests and executions, and the secret police are more powerful now than they were under the tsar.”
“But they act against counterrevolutionaries, not against socialists.”
“Socialism means freedom, even for counterrevolutionaries.”
“No it doesn’t!”
“It does to me.”
Their raised voices woke Millie. Sensing the anger in the room, she started to cry.
“There,” said Ethel resentfully. “Now look what you’ve done.”
When Grigori returned home from the civil war he joined Katerina, Vladimir, and Anna in their comfortable apartment within the government enclave in the old fort of the Kremlin. For his taste, it was too comfortable. The entire country was suffering shortages of food and fuel, but in the shops of the Kremlin there was plenty. The compound had three restaurants with French-trained chefs and, to Grigori’s dismay, the waiters clicked their heels to the Bolsheviks as they had to the old nobility. Katerina put the children in the nursery while she visited the hairdresser. In the evening, members of the Central Committee went to the opera in chauffeur-driven cars.
“I hope we are not becoming the new nobility,” he said to Katerina in bed one night.
She laughed scornfully. “If we are, where are my diamonds?”
“But, you know, we do have banquets, and travel first-class on the railway, and so on.”
“The aristocrats never did anything useful. You all work twelve, fifteen, eighteen hours a day. You can’t be expected to scavenge on rubbish tips for bits of wood to burn for warmth, as the poor do.”
“But then, there’s always an excuse for the elite to have their special privileges.”
“Come here,” she said. “I’ll give you a special privilege.”
After they had made love, Grigori lay awake. Despite his misgivings, he could not help feeling a secret satisfaction at seeing his family so well-off. Katerina had put on weight. When he first met her she had been a voluptuous twenty-year-old girl; now she was a plump mother of twenty-six. Vladimir was five and learning to read and write in school with the other children of Russia’s new rulers; Anna, usually called Anya, was a mischievous curly-headed three-year-old. Their home had formerly belonged to one of the tsaritsa’s ladies-in-waiting. It was warm, dry, and spacious, with a second bedroom for the children and a kitchen and living room too-enough accommodation for twenty people in Grigori’s old lodgings in Petrograd. There were curtains at the windows, china cups for tea, a rug in front of the fire, and an oil painting of Lake Baikal over the fireplace.
Grigori eventually fell asleep, to be wakened at six in the morning by a banging on the door. He opened it to a poorly dressed, skeletally thin woman who looked familiar. “I am sorry to bother you so early, Excellency,” she said, using the old style of respectful address.
He recognized her as the wife of Konstantin. “Magda!” he said in astonishment. “You look so different-come in! What’s the matter? Are you living in Moscow now?”
“Yes, we moved here, Excellency.”
“Don’t call me that, for God’s sake. Where is Konstantin?”
“In prison.”
“What? Why?”
“As a counterrevolutionary.”
“Impossible!” said Grigori. “There must have been a terrible mistake.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who arrested him?”
“The Cheka.”
“The secret police. Well, they work for us. I’ll find out about this. I’ll make inquiries immediately after breakfast.”
“Please, Excellency, I beg you, do something now-they are going to shoot him in one hour.”
“Hell,” said Grigori. “Wait while I get dressed.”
He put on his uniform. Although it had no badges of rank, it was of a much better quality than that of an ordinary soldier, and marked him clearly as a commander.
A few minutes later he and Magda left the Kremlin compound. It was snowing. They walked the short distance to Lubyanka Square. The Cheka headquarters was a huge baroque building of yellow brick, formerly the office of an insurance company. The guard at the door saluted Grigori.
He began shouting as soon as he entered the building. “Who is in charge here? Bring me the duty officer this instant! I am Comrade Grigori Peshkov, member of the Bolshevik Central Committee. I wish to see the prisoner Konstantin Vorotsyntsev immediately. What are you waiting for? Get on with it!” He had discovered that this was the quickest way to get things done, even though it reminded him horribly of the petulant behavior of a spoiled nobleman.
The guards ran around in panic for a few minutes, then Grigori suffered a shock. The duty officer was brought to the entrance hall. Grigori knew him. It was Mikhail Pinsky.
Grigori was horrified. Pinsky had been a bully and a brute in the tsarist police: was he now a bully and a brute for the revolution?
Pinsky gave an oily smile. “Comrade Peshkov,” he said. “What an honor.”
“You didn’t say that when I knocked you down for pestering a poor peasant girl,” Grigori said.
“How things have changed, comrade-for all of us.”
“Why have you arrested Konstantin Vorotsyntsev?”
“Counterrevolutionary activities.”
“That’s ridiculous. He was chair of the Bolshevik discussion group at the Putilov works in 1914. He was one of the first deputies to the Petrograd soviet. He’s more Bolshevik than I am!”
“Is that so?” said Pinsky, and there was the hint of a threat in his voice.
Grigori ignored it. “Bring him to me.”
“Right away, comrade.”
A few minutes later Konstantin appeared. He was dirty and unshaven, and he smelled like a pigsty. Magda burst into tears and threw her arms around him.
“I need to talk to the prisoner privately,” Grigori said to Pinsky. “Take us to your office.”
Pinsky shook his head. “My humble room-”
“Don’t argue,” Grigori said. “Your office.” It was a way of emphasizing his power. He needed to keep Pinsky under his thumb.
Pinsky led them to an upstairs room overlooking the inner courtyard. He hastily swept a knuckle-duster off the desk into a drawer.
Looking out of the window, Grigori saw that it was daybreak. “Wait outside,” he said to Pinsky.
They sat down and Grigori said to Konstantin: “What the hell is going on?”
“We came to Moscow when the government moved,” Konstantin explained. “I thought I would become a commissar. But it was a mistake. I have no political support here.”
“So what have you been doing?”
“I’ve gone back to ordinary work. I’m at the Tod factory, making engine parts, cogs and pistons and ball races.”
“But why do the police imagine you’re counterrevolutionary?”
