Chapter Three
Someone started to clap, slowly, the applause echoing around the engine shed. Jones opened his eyes to see a man slip out from the shadow of the last carriage, a cigarette dangling from his lips, his hands still coming together. Something was said in Russian, something commanding and to the point.
Slight, balding, physically not impressive, the new arrival nevertheless had a quality that drew focus to him. The officer lowered his revolver and waddled back up the platform.
“Bravo, bravo!” cried Jones’ saviour, still clapping. “What an extraordinary entrance! Well done, comrade, well done.”
Jones leapt down from his plinth, retrieved his bag from the railings and hurried over to thank the man.
“Jones, eh? Welcome to Moscow, old boy. Welcome to the not-so-shining city on the Moskva.” His voice was amused, his eyes a glittering grey. “The name’s Duranty, Walter, from the New York Times.” His accent was a curious but pleasant blend of top table Algonquin and Scouse.
“The Great Duranty?”
“You make me sound like a wizard. I’m supposed to be the hot-shot reporter around here – but I’ve never made an entrance like that. Clearly, you’re a young man to watch.”
“Thank you ever so much.”
“Gratitude is a dog’s disease.”
“Who said that?”
“Stalin.”
“That seems a little mean.”
“Sssh, you’ll get us all taken away.”
“Well, this young man is in your debt, Master.”
“For God’s sake man, don’t call me Master. Not here, not these days. You’ll get us all into no end of trouble,” said Duranty, a twinkle in his eye. “You can buy me a drink, one day. But not on this train. Food and drinks are on the house. The thing about Soviet Man is that he’s brutal and sometimes just plain wrong… but he does know how to throw a party.”
An anxiety in a grey suit, with a cowlick of hair plastered over his skull, trotted towards them at speed.
“Mr Duranty,” said Oumansky, the man from the Foreign Ministry Jones had met the day before. “The train is leaving. We must stick to schedule religiously.”
Duranty’s eyes shone with malice. “Religiously, you say, Mr Oumansky? Isn’t religion what Marx said was the opium of the masses? Does Comrade Stalin hold with this priestly talk?”
Oumansky breathed out a sigh freighted with worry. Dozens of faces peered out from the train’s windows, drawn by the commotion.
“Oh, come on, Constantine, lighten up!” said Duranty. “Let’s give our man here some champagne. Welcome aboard the Soviet Express. Choo-choo! Choo-choo!”
As they were speaking, the engine sounded a piercing whistle and, behind them, the train started to inch away. Oumansky and Jones jumped aboard as the train began to pick up speed. Duranty, slow with his bad leg, hobbled towards the train, now accelerating away from him – and, jumping off again, Jones whisked him up in his boxer’s arms and lifted Duranty on to a mini-platform at the very end of the train. Running now, running fast, he leapt and landed helplessly on a prone Duranty – and the two men collapsed in a heap, Jones’ trilby falling off his head, tumbling towards the tracks. It was a gift from his mother, the initials G.J. stitched into the band lest he lose it. That wasn’t going to happen, not on his first day. He caught the trilby just in the nick of time.
When their laughter faded, Duranty said, “You shouldn’t have troubled yourself, old cock. You see, the Soviets want diplomatic recognition from the US of A and they want it bad. There’s a professor from Yale, Cornelius Aubyn, on board to tell Roosevelt everything is hunky-dory. If the New York Times misses the train, they’ll shoot the stationmaster.”
A shadow floated over Jones’ face and Duranty tweaked his arm playfully. “Forgive me, son. I saw too much death in the war to take anything seriously, especially missing a bloody train. Come on soldier, no harm done, let's get that champagne.”
Jones helped Duranty to his feet and the two men headed towards the restaurant car, Duranty steadying himself when the carriages wobbled over signalling points. Inside, it was warm, unpleasantly so. Each carriage had an oil-heating stove going at full throttle. The fittings and fixtures were extraordinarily plush, the carpet underfoot a rich pile, the bunks dressed with fresh white linen.
“Built for the Tsar,” said Duranty. “Lovely locomotive. Made in Glasgow in 1913. It’s Stalin’s special train. When he’s no got use for it, they let us workers have a play. That’s socialism for you.”
The older man stopped at a compartment and opened the sliding door. “Talking of fraternity, you’re sharing a pit with me, old chap. Dump your bag and let’s get that drink.”
Duranty waved Jones in. “You take the top bunk. I can’t get up there with my gammy leg. Besides, you can reach it in one jump. Keeping up the acrobat stuff, eh?”
Grinning, Jones heaved his bag onto the top bunk. Then they set out again, passing through a carriage cluttered higgledy-piggledy with boxes of equipment.
“German motion picture crew, here to capture the opening of the dam for posterity. I hope you’ve brought your make-up.”
“Make-up? No,” replied Jones before he realised he was being teased.
A young man – tall, almost gangly, with a Mr Punch nose and a blue bow-tie – emerged from a cabin, his face knotted, carrying a German newspaper in one hand and a box camera in the other.
“Max Borodin, Gareth Jones.” Duranty introduced the two men, then said, “What’s with the cheerful expression, Max?”
“News from Berlin,” Borodin replied, lifting his paper an inch or two. His voice had a natural melancholy.
“What news?”
“Adolf, again.”
“What’s he been saying this time?”
Borodin read from the newspaper. “Raising his voice to its highest pitch, Hitler thundered, ‘I have one advantage over my adversary. He is 85 and I am 43.’” Shaking his head, Borodin said quietly, “The difficulty is that, for once, every word Herr Hitler says is true.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry too much about old man Hindenburg versus Hitler,” Duranty replied, before quickly adding, “Oh, Borodin, I forgot who your people are.”
Borodin turned to go but thought better of it. “Duranty, remember – I might be half-German Jew, half-Russian atheist, but I’ve got two good legs and I can kick you with both.” He turned his head, gestured to the box camera in his hand and said to Jones, “Have you been an acrobat for long?”
“My first day. May I ask, what model is that?”
“ICA Kinamo,” said Borodin, “the smallest movie camera on the market. It was created to catch such moments of pure athleticism. Next time you plan to jump like that, you let me know beforehand.”
“I have no plans to jump like that ever again,” said Jones.
“Pity. Mr Jones, one word of advice. In Russia you must be especially careful of the company you keep.”
Borodin smiled malevolently at Duranty, then was gone.
“Cheeky sod,” said Duranty. “In Germany, his ilk is in trouble.”
“Ilk?” asked Jones.
“The Jew. Borodin is a film director. Russian father, German mother, Jewish and a big Social Democrat family to boot. Hitler’s not yet in power but the pressure on his people is growing by the day. He’s had to say ‘auf wiedersehen’ to all the lovely girls who want to be in the movies and has been making money doing boring advertising films for German engineering companies. The way things are going in Berlin for his kind he’s going to be the clapper-boy next.”
“Why would the Germans want to film the opening of the Lenin Dam?” asked Jones. “The Soviets and the Germans don’t like each other.”