Josef half-smiled. “You don’t understand do you?”
“Understand what?”
“I’m not against Communism. Communism would work. What they’ve got in Moscow isn’t Communism. It’s Bolshevism. And that’s a very different thing.”
“Was it what they did to your family that disillusioned you?”
“No. I was disillusioned before. I was on the inside. I knew what they were doing. At first I thought it was just a temporary thing that would be over in a few months. But it wasn’t. It was obscene. The Party philosophers writing pamphlets and theses about a brave new world and behind them groups of men fighting like savages for power.” He shook his head sadly. “Nobody could believe or understand what went on unless they were on the inside and saw it happening.”
“Where are you going to live?”
“I’ll probably stay here if I can find work. It doesn’t matter to me where I live.”
“Would you consider moving to London if there was work for you there?”
“I’d move to Land’s End. It makes no odds to me where I live.”
“I know people who could give you work.”
“Doing what?”
“Translating.”
“Translating what?”
“Newspapers, documents—that sort of thing. From Russian into English.”
“How much would I get?”
“Five pounds a week.”
Josef shook his head, smiling. “I’m twenty-two and nobody’s gonna pay somebody that age five quid a week.”
“Why don’t you put it to the test?”
“What sort of firm is this we’re talking about?”
“It’s a small government department but you’d work at home.”
“Do you work for this place?”
“I work for the department that is setting up this new service.”
“You know that I’ve got no education, no qualifications.”
“You may have no formal qualifications but you’ve got all the qualifications we’re looking for.” The man leaned forward and put his hand gently on Josef’s leg. “We’ll look after you.”
And those words to the orphanage boy meant more than the man who called himself Johnny could have known. After a lifetime of looking after himself the words were like balm to his raw, wounded mind. They travelled together to London the following day.
34
Johnny had found him a small flat in one of the rows of Victorian houses on the south side of the river at Putney. It turned out that Johnny was Major Johnson. But he could tell that he wasn’t a normal soldier. He never wore uniform and seemed to be able to come and go as he pleased. But he was obviously a man with considerable authority. He made instant personal decisions when it was necessary. To his surprise his wages were paid promptly, and in cash, every Friday afternoon.
Johnny had bought him dictionaries and a supply of paper for the typewriter, and the material he had to translate was varied. Sometimes an article from Pravda, sometimes the minutes of a Party committee meeting in Moscow or Leningrad. There were frequent reports of the organisation of secret Party cells in other European countries, and confidential reports on industry and agriculture in various parts of the Soviet Union. He was not allowed to keep copies and sometimes a woman’s voice on the telephone would raise queries about some point of English in his translation. He apologised for his poor English but she never commented back.
They had asked him to change his name to Smith and had given him a back-dated insurance card in that name. And his wages came in a plain brown envelope marked “S” and he was asked to sign for them just with the letter “S.” He had been given no special working hours nor was pressure put on him to get work done in a hurry, but he worked a full nine-hour day every day of the week including weekends.
It was almost nine months after he had started work for Johnny Johnson that he was asked if he would deliver a small package to a man in Paris. The address was in the rue Mouffetard, two rooms over a pâtisserie and a man who looked as if he was dying, his face was so gaunt and pale. He was invited inside and he went in reluctantly. But inside, although it was incredibly untidy, it was like so many of those small rooms that he had delivered messages to in Moscow. Even an icon set in a space on the crowded bookshelves and an etching of Karl Marx in a wooden frame on the wall.
The old man pointed to a box with a blanket folded on top of it and when Josef sat down he was handed a small glass of vodka. The old man sat on the ramshackle bed and looked at his messenger.
“What’s your name, young man?”
“I don’t give my name to strangers, mister.”
“And quite right too.” He paused. “When are you going back to London?”
“That’s my business.”
The old man cackled. “You sound like one of those bastards from the Cheka.” He paused. “You ever heard of the Cheka?”
“Yes. I’ve heard of it.”
“I got something for you to take back with you to London.” He paused. “You want it now?”
“Is it small?”
“Yeah. But I’ll have to wrap it up for you.” The old man stood up and walked awkwardly to the bookshelves and took down a thin yellow book. As he walked back Josef noticed the old man’s strenuous efforts to walk and for the first time noticed his misshapen leg. When the man stumbled he jumped up to save him from falling. As his arms went round the man’s frail body he saw the man’s teeth as he fought against the pain.
“Are you OK, Mr. Lukas? Shall I get you some help? A doctor maybe.”
Lukas shook his head. “No. It will go. Just let me sit down.” When he was seated Lukas looked at Josef and said, “When people talk about the brave new world in Moscow just think of my leg, my friend. A present from the comrades.”
“What happened?”
“I had a small printing business. A man asked me to print something for him. I never read it. I was too busy. It was a
