A lady I knew darted out of a hairdresser’s.
“It’s outrageous! I’ve been waiting for the last three hours. All the hairdressers are jam-packed…. Have you had your curls done already?”
“No,” I replied in bewilderment.
“What’s got into you? The Bolsheviks are coming and we have to leave. Are you telling me you’re going to leave without having your hair done first? Zinaida Petrovna’s no fool. She said: ‘I realized yesterday that things were getting serious, so I went and had a Marcel wave and a manicure straightaway!’ Now the hairdressers are all jam-packed. Well, I’m off…”
I was passing the home of the lawyer I’d phoned earlier, so I decided to call in and see if he could tell me anything.
His daughter opened the door.
“Papa’s still out. He’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
Their entire hall was heaped with clothes, linen, hats, and shoes. There were open trunks and suitcases, still only half full.
“Are you leaving?”
“I think so…”
“Where are you going?”
“Constantinople, I think. Although we don’t have any passes—Papa’s trying to arrange for some now. Very likely, we won’t go at all.”
The phone rang.
“Yes!” she shouted into the receiver. “Yes, yes. Together. Are the cabins next to each other? Wonderful! Papa’s coming to pick me up at seven.”
To spare the girl the embarrassment of realizing I would have overheard, I quietly opened the door and slipped out.
Out on the street I had another encounter.
It was a woman I knew, a native of Odessa. She was very excited, even elated.
“Darling!” she exclaimed. “You won’t believe it! It’s strong as hide. Quick—before it’s all gone.”
“What? Where?”
“Crêpe de chine. Wonderful quality! I’ve got myself a dress length. But what are you looking so surprised about? It’s an opportunity we can’t afford to miss. They’re selling it off cheap—otherwise it will all get confiscated by the Bolsheviks. Don’t just stand there! What are you waiting for?”
“Thank you, but I’m not quite in the mood.”
“Well, the shopkeeper’s not going to stand around waiting for your mood to change. And believe me—we may not know what the future holds in store, but we can be sure there’ll be no getting by without crêpe de chine.”
I called on some other friends, the Ns.
They didn’t know anything. They didn’t even know that the French troops were leaving. Nevertheless they too had seen troubling signs.
“Our friend Hammerbeak has moved in now. He’s taken over the living room. Listen!”
I listened.
The living room was at the far end of the corridor. I could hear the sound of a very unpleasant and rusty voice, singing:
Madame Lou-lou…
I love you-ou…
I understood. It was the voice of “Hammerbeak,” a very suspicious character indeed, who in the past used to scurry down the corridor with his face turned to the wall. One of the Ns’ visitors had recognized him and even told them his Party alias. Hammerbeak was a Bolshevik from Moscow.
He used to call on the Ns’ landlady, so he could eavesdrop and spy on everyone. At the same time he had whispered sweet nothings to her and flirted with her, since she wasn’t so very old and went about all day in a dress with a plunging neckline. The flesh this revealed was always generously dusted with a coating of flour-like powder. Her eyes bulged out from beneath their plump lids and she had a nose like an awl. In a word—love’s young dream.
Late in the evening, when she was done with the prose of denunciations, she would let out little dove-like coos: “Oh, oh! And where is my love? Where is my true joy?”
“Your true joy is right here beside you!” the rusty voice would reply.
And now her “true joy” was no longer in hiding. Her true joy had moved in the day before, with its basket of things, and had bellowed into the kitchen, “Annushka! Clean my breeches!”
The Bolsheviks were no longer in hiding.
The omens did indeed bode ill.
The Ns were not preparing to go anywhere. It was reassuring to know that at least some people were staying put.
I went back to my hotel.
The doormen had all disappeared. Almost all the rooms were empty, their doors wide open.
I’d only just got back when there was a knock at my door.
In flew K, someone I knew from Moscow.
“Ah, I came round a while ago. You don’t happen to have any money, do you? The banks are all closed and we’ve got no money for the journey. My wife’s at her wit’s end.”
“Where are you going?”
“Vladivostok. We’re leaving tonight on the Shilka. What about you?”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“You’re joking! You’re mad! Staying behind in a city that’s going to be handed over to gangsters! They say the Moldavanka’s already sharpening its knives. They’re just waiting for the last of the French troops to leave—then they’ll take over the whole of Odessa.”
“But what can I do?”
“We were quite certain you’d already arranged something. Come with us to Vladivostok. We’ve got a pass for the Shilka. We can take you with us.”
“Thank you. I’m very grateful.”
“Then be at the harbor at eight sharp, with all your luggage. Don’t forget—eight sharp!”
“Yes, of course. And give Leila a kiss from me.”
Now that something had been arranged, I realized just how much I wanted to leave. Now that I could gather my thoughts, I felt frightened. I could see what life would be like for me if I stayed. It wasn’t death itself that I was afraid of. I was afraid of maddened faces, of lanterns being shone in my eyes, of blind mindless rage. I was afraid of cold, of hunger, of darkness, of rifle butts banging on parquet floors. I was afraid of screams, of weeping, of gunshots, of the deaths of others. I was tired of it all. I wanted no more of it. I had had enough.
16
I OPENED my window.
I could hear shooting on one of the side streets.
I packed my things, then went downstairs.
The lobby had quieted down. There were still a few suitcases against the walls, but people were no longer bustling about. Even the hotel staff had disappeared. There was just a messenger boy, hanging about by the front door.
“Who’s doing the shooting?” I asked him.
“They’re just scaring the shpeculators away.”
“What speculators?”
“Currency shpeculators. The streets are full of ’em—just look round the corner. They sell foreign currency to the people who’re leaving. That’s why they’re shooting at ’em.”
The boy seemed to think this a good thing.
I went outside and glanced round the corner. A little way off, there were indeed many small groups of people, talking and waving their arms about.
A shot would ring out. The groups would slowly break up, then quickly re-form.
The boy stopped me. “No, not that way,” he said, “you might get shot. And you can’t go left neither—that way’s roped off.”
“Why?”
“ ’cos of the looters—to keep them from the International and the London. Them bourgeois and foreigners make rich pickings. The hotels is always first to get looted.”
This was not a comforting thought.
“Are there many people still here in the hotel?”
“Nope. Hardly anyone. All gone.”
To save time in the evening, when I’d have my luggage with me, I decided to go down to the harbor and see where the Shilka was moored.
The road down to the sea was still open.
The harbor seemed empty.