Next morning Caitlin walked from the Zhenotdel offices to Bolshaya Lubyanka, refusing to let her anxieties about the impending interview spoil her mood. It was another beautiful day, the sun shining out of a cloudless sky. Next to the Vladimir Gate, a new billboard had been erected, and a giant poster in three sections was being pasted up. all united in a single front the first two read, and Caitlin paused to see the third one unrolled, taking guesses at what it would say. against lice was unexpected, but unfortunately all too apt.
At the M-Cheka offices, she was shown into Komarov’s empty room and asked to wait by a polite young Chekist. She declined the chair, preferring to stand by the open window overlooking the empty courtyard.
Komarov arrived a few minutes later. His hair was a greyer than it had been in March; his eyes, as she remembered, seemed to have a life of their own.
“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, comrade,” he said formally. After gesturing her into a chair, he took his own seat behind the desk and offered her a cigarette.
“I’ve only been here a few minutes,” she said, matching his courtesy and accepting the proffered match. His cigarettes were no better made than hers.
She watched him sort through a stack of papers and saw that the hand that held the pile was trembling.
He found the file, a red folder with the Vecheka stamp on the cover.
“Comrade,” she began, “I really don’t understand why the M-Cheka has chosen to interfere in Zhenotdel business.”
He looked up. “No? What would you say the business of the Chekas was?”
“The Chekas were set up to defend the revolution from counterrevolution. You’re not suggesting that Rahima Niyazi is a counterrevolutionary, are you?”
“Of course not.”
“Then…”
“Comrade,” Komarov said quietly, “you’re not as naïve as that. Sadridin Niyazi is one of the few—one of the very few—non-Russian Bolsheviks in Turkestan. We cannot afford to alienate him.”
“What sort of Bolshevik treats his wife like chattel?”
“An Uzbek one, I suppose,” Komarov said mildly. “But that is beside the point.”
That made Caitlin angry. “It is exactly the point so far as the Zhenotdel is concerned, comrade.”
Komarov sighed. “If we lose control of Turkestan,” he said calmly, “the Zhenotdel will be powerless to do anything for the women who live there. You must know that. There has to be some willingness to compromise.”
She shook her head. “I don’t object to compromise, comrade. When it is necessary. Are you seriously telling me that the rebels in Turkestan have any chance of success?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps.”
“Perhaps?”
“The Basmachi are not a spent force. Not completely at any rate. And anything that weakens our position in Tashkent will give them hope.” He placed both hands palm down on his desk. “She has to go back, comrade. But… I don’t wish to be unreasonable. You must have… How can I put this without causing offence? You must have taught her what she needs to know by now. And surely Turkestan is the best place to put that teaching into practice, back home, among her own people?” His hand wasn’t trembling anymore.
“I think the Zhenotdel is probably the best judge of that,” she said tartly. “You may well be right. But there’s more to it than that. Her husband treats her like a slave. That’s usual in his culture—I don’t blame him for it, but the Zhenotdel cannot be seen to condone such behavior. We can’t—won’t—simply tell her to go when he calls.” She took another cigarette from his pile, and let him light it for her. “And doesn’t this worry you, comrade? If we make a habit of indulging such conduct just because we find the perpetrator useful… well, where does it end? We have to draw the line somewhere.”
He looked at her thoughtfully. “I don’t know. I distrust lines. I try to deal with each case as it comes.”
“So where would you draw one in this case?”
His smile was rather sheepish for a Chekist’s, she thought.
“All right,” he said. “I won’t insist on her going back at once. But I hope you’ll persuade her that she should return soon. If not to her husband, at least to Tashkent.”
“She doesn’t want to leave him.”
“Then why…”
Caitlin smiled. “Rahima Niyazi may be only eighteen, but she’s an extraordinary woman. She loves her husband, and she’s sure he’ll be proud of her—eventually—when he realizes that it’s much more rewarding being married to a free, independent woman than to a slave. I hope she’s right. He damn well should be proud of her. It takes a hell of a lot more guts to be a revolutionary Uzbek woman in Turkestan than a revolutionary Uzbek man.” She crushed out the cigarette and stood, feeling more than a little pleased with herself. “I will discuss the matter with Rahima and her sister at the earliest opportunity, comrade. I will let you know what we decide.”
One for the Zhenotdel, she thought, shaking his hand and heading for the door.
A Foreign Agent
In the dawn twilight the hut by the forest’s edge looked like a setting for “Hansel and Gretel.” Inside it three Finns were sitting around a greasy oil lamp, apparently waiting for the world to end. They had greeted McColl and his guide, Miliutin, with politeness but little warmth; offered the two of them glasses of tea; and answered the Russian’s questions with a succession of shrugs. The mysteries of the world beyond the hut, their faces seemed to say, were hardly worth unraveling.
As he waited outside for Miliutin to reappear, McColl wondered whether they might be right.
The Russian came through the door, a tall, thin man with a bushy beard and unruly black hair. Thick, badly chapped lips and sharp black eyes were visible within the foliage. It was not a physiognomy to inspire trust, McColl thought.
But the man had brought McColl safely across the border, and fifteen miles into Lenin’s domain.
“This way,” the Russian grunted.
They walked down between ramshackle huts to the railway tracks, where a rickety wooden shelter was posing as a station. As yet there was no one else about. Only one thin spire of smoke disturbed the serenity of forest, lake, and sky.
Miliutin settled himself on the ground, his back against the shelter wall. He was not the most talkative of traveling companions, having hardly spoken twenty words since their first meeting in Vyborg.
McColl broke his last piece of Swedish chocolate in two and offered half to the Russian. “What did you do before the revolution?” he asked.
The Russian stretched a leg, then suddenly laughed. “I dreamed of the day,” he said. “You do not understand? I am an anarchist. It was our revolution, too, in the beginning. Now…” He shrugged. “They are all the same: czarists, capitalists, Bolshevists—a few people telling everyone else what to do. That is what a state is, my friend.” He wiped chocolate from his lips with the back of a hand, then sucked the latter clean. “It’s rather amusing, don’t you think, that now I make my living like this? Without states there would be no frontiers or people who needed to cross them without being seen.” He took a swig from his water bottle. “But no more. I will tell you—this is my last trip. With your English pounds, I can leave this wretched place. There may be nowhere a man can be free, but there are places where summer is long and you don’t have to dress like a bear in the winter.”
This was more than McColl had bargained for, but he was spared the need to respond by the sound of their train approaching, and the sudden appearance of several more would-be travelers, most of whom eyed his guide will ill-concealed distrust.