It is even possible that the Turks saved me from So-So’s furious mouth. It was just the next day, when I was lying with Katya, that I was awakened from a wonderful, drowsy half-dream, by a whistling scream and the sound of a distant explosion. I thought there had been an accident in one of the factories or that a ship had blown up. But the screams and explosions became regular and, as I ran downstairs with Katya, a skinny friend of mine called Nikita the Greek dashed past in the street shouting that the Germans were shelling the city. Into the fog we. went, with some idea that it was dangerous to stay inside, through a tiny, tree-lined plaza like an impressionist’s painting of autumn, and still that unreal, fascinating death (such things were new to us then) went whistling on. Everyone was panicking. It was terrible to see so many frightened people appearing and vanishing in the fog. Most of the shells had been intended for the harbour and the Allied ships there and soon Odessa’s defences came into action. The damage was chiefly in Persuip, the industrial district by the sea where the shipyards were. The enemy was driven off with comparative ease. The following morning we learned it had been the Turks who had shelled us. Turkey was not at that time officially at war with Russia. A couple of days later we declared war on the cruel and cunning Moslem.
Until this raid I had been entertaining thoughts of remaining always in Odessa and going to the engineering school there (which was very good, though it did not have the prestige of St Petersburg). I do not think Uncle Semya would have objected had it not been for that bombardment, which showed how vulnerable Odessa was. ‘The sea is reminder enough of our death!’ he said feelingly, that evening at dinner. For the first time I was allowed to join him and two of his guests. One was a local police-chief and the other the captain of a French ship which had been slightly damaged during the shelling. He regretted, Uncle Semya said, that he could not take his whole family to Kiev or even to Moscow. His business affairs were so complex that they could not safely be left to other hands. This made the police-chief laugh. My Uncle Semya was displeased, but gave a faint smile. He said that he had thought of going into the entertainment business, into kinema-displays. It was the sort of thing people wanted during wartime. Everyone agreed that the ‘kino’ was the business of the future. In America fortunes were already being made. ‘It would suit me,’ said Uncle Semya, ‘to be at least in one respect a patron of the arts.’ He had considered opening a theatre, but the investment in these troubled times was a bit uncertain. Kinema equipment could be moved, however, from place to place. You could give shows in barns, in the open air at night if need be. He visualised himself and Aunt Genia in a horse-drawn caravan - ‘a gypsy life on the open road’ - with his projector and stock of films, going from town to town. ‘How popular we should be. How pleased people would be to see us.’
‘People are always pleased to see you, Semyon Josefovitch,’ said the police-chief. ‘You perform so many important services to the community.’
‘To the world at large,’ said the captain, representative of internationalism. ‘You are well-known in Marseilles and Cardiff. I have heard people speak of you.’
‘What, in France and England?’
‘To my certain knowledge.’
Uncle Semya was extremely glad to hear this. ‘They find me an honest merchant, I hope.’
‘Oh, indeed, I am sure they do!’The police-chief discovered more cause for baffling laughter. I remain confused to this day by much so-called humour. I had every respect for the man’s rank but I found his red, puffy face, his grey-mottled beard, his sly smiles, rather unattractive, particularly after he had had more than a few glasses of wine. The captain was much more pleasant. He had bright green eyes and wind-tanned cheeks. He carried a private, circumspective manner with him, as if he only attended the dinner from a sense of duty, or because he had to deal with Uncle Semya on business. It could be that he was as upset as I was by the police chiefs coarseness.
The following morning I received a depressing letter from Esmé. Her father had contracted influenza and had died quite suddenly in hospital. She said my mother seemed happy, though missing me. Esmé had gone with her and Captain Brown to the theatre once or twice. They had watched some kino pictures of the War. She reported that our soldiers were driving the enemy back on every front. The specific news from Kiev now seemed very provincial. I read the letter with a certain sense of superiority. Esmé said she had decided to try to become a nurse at the front. I wrote back at once before going to Katya’s, telling her that I thought this would be a perfect occupation for one of her temperament and character.
Before I could take the letter to the post-office, Uncle Semya called me into his study. He asked if the letter from Kiev had been sent by my mother. I told him that it was from Esmé, a childhood friend. He seemed relieved. ‘I am wondering at the sense of keeping you in Odessa. The experience has been good for you so far. It has helped you grow up and so on. That, frankly, is what I wanted. You would not have survived much longer in the world, tied to your mother’s apron - ‘
I came to the defence of my mother, but he raised a neat hand. ‘I am not criticising poor Yelisaveta Filipovna. She has done very well by you. Rather better, I would say, than other members of the family who have had children. Vanya has his virtues, but I have no son to be proud of as she is proud of you.’ I warmed with pleasure. That’s why I am so anxious you should not be in danger. It is still taking a little time to approach the appropriate persons in Petersburg but I think we are nearing success (you will have to be photographed). So it is not certain you will be able to begin classes in January as we originally planned. I am wondering about my duty. Should I let you continue your “life-studies” here in Odessa - I gather you have made many friends - or should I send you back to the safety of Kiev?’
‘You think there will be another bombardment Semyon Josefovitch?’
‘The Turks took us by surprise. They will not be able to do that again. We are probably all right. But your mother will hear of this. What will she say?’
‘She will want me to return, naturally.’
‘And you think you should go?’
‘Not until absolutely necessary. I am happy here.’
He was satisfied. ‘Genia Mihailovna and myself were both saying how much you had changed, how much brighter you have become. More self-confident. You’ll be able to perform services for me, I hope, in Peter, when you go there.’
‘Of course, uncle. I would be honoured.’
‘We have a man on our hands, I think.’ He frowned. ‘You must be careful of the girls. Max.’ It was not the first time he had used this diminutive. ‘There are diseases. You know of these?’
‘I think so.’ I knew very well the dangers of venereal disease, always present in a port like Odessa. I took the necessary treatments, recommended by Katya. We had so far escaped any evident problems.