The German generals have created shock troops and, without prior warning, attacked our army, which was in the process of peaceful demobilization. However, resistance is growing and will continue to grow with each day. We must devote all our energies to repulsing the German White Guard!
Who are the White Guards? Klim wondered. Anyone who opposed the Bolsheviks?
“Señor Martínez Campos is expecting you,” the secretary called Klim and ushered him into a fancy office.
The ambassador was about fifty. He was sitting at his desk dressed in an elegant suit with his neat black mustache tips twirled upward and his gold pince-nez glinting in the lamplight.
“Pleased to meet you,” he said, thrusting out his small hand. “How long have you been in Russia? Half a year? It would appear we are witnessing the total collapse of a great country. How could this have been allowed to happen?”
“A series of extremely unfortunate coincidences—” Klim said, but the ambassador had already changed the subject.
“I’ve met Lenin several times,” Martínez Campos said, smiling wryly. “A man of culture but a perfect fanatic. The only decree he has made that is actually in the interests of his country is the decision to switch to the Gregorian calendar.”
Klim didn’t feel inclined to discuss the change in the calendar, so he got straight to the point and told the ambassador about his problem.
“I advise you to leave Russia as soon as possible,” Martínez Campos said. “If you have no money, our government can supply you with a loan. At present, the only route out of the country is through Arkhangelsk in the north or Vladivostok in the far east. All the other borders are shut. You could perhaps try Finland if the Soviets provide you with the necessary pass. If you choose to go there, I’ll give you a paper for the People’s Commissariat for Foreign Affairs.”
Martínez Campos took a pen and a blank sheet of paper from his drawer.
“I need to take my family with me,” Klim said. “The Bolsheviks have prohibited my fiancée from leaving Nizhny Novgorod. Have we any leverage to get them to let her go?”
“Is she a citizen of Argentina?”
“No, but—”
Martínez Campos put his pen away and assumed a weary expression, as though he already knew in advance everything Klim was about to say.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t help you. I have instructions not to grant visas to any Russian citizens.”
Klim’s heart sank like a stone. “But why?”
“The government in Buenos Aires is wary that the Bolshevik disease could spread to our country.”
“But what if she were the spouse of an Argentinean citizen? I’m planning to marry her. We just haven’t had time to draw up the papers.”
“There can be no exceptions,” Martínez Campos sighed. “I strongly recommend that you make a run for it, Señor Rogov, or you may well end up dying here.”
Klim headed back to the railroad station.
The country is becoming the land of red tape, Klim thought as he hurried down the street. People needed official permission for everything. To buy food, Klim needed a ration card; to take a train, he needed a pass; and his personal happiness now depended on a visa.
He attempted to calm himself. It doesn’t matter. The main thing now is to get back to Nizhny Novgorod as soon as possible.
The railroad station was full of passengers who had been waiting for days for their trains. A soldier with a red armband constantly warned them, “Don’t fall asleep! Keep an eye on your possessions, comrades, or they’ll be stolen.”
There was a long queue at the ticket office, and the girl on duty was yelling at everybody who was waiting, “There are no tickets for sale! There’s been a directive from the Chairman of the Central Board for Evacuation. Nobody is to leave the city except women, children, and government officials.”
She was about to close the window when Klim stopped her.
“I’m a foreign journalist, and I need to get to Nizhny Novgorod as soon as possible.”
“Foreigners are not allowed to buy tickets,” she snapped.
Klim dashed to the departure platform. To hell with tickets! If he had to, he would break into the car by force. But the platform had already been cordoned off by soldiers. Nobody was being allowed onto the trains with or without tickets.
A blackout had been imposed on the city. The hazy beams of the searchlights swept the night sky, and factory sirens wailed in the distance. Petrograd was expecting a German airship attack.
Klim found Khitruk’s apartment building on Mokhovaya Street and climbed the dark staircase to the fifth floor. He knocked on the padded door, and it was opened by a round-faced housemaid with a candle in her hand.
“We’ve been expecting you,” she said when Klim introduced himself. “Anton Emilievich told us you were coming. Please don’t take your overcoat off—it’s cold in here.”
Khitruk’s apartment was full of noise and cigarette smoke. Klim headed to the dining room lit by a paraffin lamp. A group of lively and energetic men were sitting at the table in their fur coats.
“Ah! Here’s my nephew!” cried Anton Emiliviech.
Klim greeted people and shook hands with them without registering all of their names and faces. He found himself a place in an armchair by the wall and sat down, feeling suddenly exhausted.
“How are things?” Anton Emilievich whispered, trying not to interrupt the speech of a tall, gray-haired man who was passionately berating the Soviets.
“Things are looking bad,” Klim told him. “I couldn’t get any visas, and now, it’s impossible to buy tickets to get back to Nizhny Novgorod.”
“Did the ambassador turn you down?” Anton Emilievich whistled. “That’s too bad. Are you hungry?”
He ran to fetch Klim some rye bread.
“Khitruk is a rich man these days,” Anton Emilievich said when he returned, gesturing toward the gray-haired man. “His wife and children are in Kiev, and he uses their ration cards and lives like a king. Seven pounds of bread for one person! Not bad, eh?”
“How did your affairs go?” Klim asked.
Anton Emilievich fished a paper out of his pocket. “I went straight to the chairman and told him I needed a warrant,” he said. “And here it is.”
For a while, Klim looked at the paper with a huge purple stamp.
This document is to certify that the bearer, Anton Emilievich Schuster, is indeed a revolutionary journalist. He is granted permission to go to Finland on assignment. I order all Soviet institutions to render him assistance and support.
“How much did you pay?” Klim asked disconsolately.
“Five hundred rubles in golden tens,” Anton Emilievich said.
That was the price for one paper, and Klim needed three: for Nina, Zhora, and Sofia Karlovna. Nina had promised her mother-in-law to take her with them. She couldn’t just let the poor old woman starve to death.
“My advice to you,” Anton Emilievich said, “is to go to the Bolshevik headquarters while you still can. The Bolsheviks know that they won’t be in power for long, and they are grabbing any bribes that come their way.”
“I only have two hundred rubles,” Klim said.
“The Bolsheviks have robbed us of our revolution!” exclaimed Khitruk. “They have completely disgraced themselves. Censorship has got so bad that they don’t even bother rewriting articles anymore but just leave blank spaces where the articles should have been. So, what are we going to do about it? We can’t just sit around doing nothing.”