The thought of my poor, brave mother, who had sacrificed everything for me, being humiliated and terrorised in one of those camps disgusted and infuriated me. The experience was bad enough when it happened to me, but I was young and male. Everything was so much worse for women, especially dignified older women of her breeding. If she had not escaped from Babi Yar, she would no doubt have died there. The Nazis had a chance to wipe out most traces of that camp. The Russians filled it in then forgot about it. Babi Yar was the same gorge I flew over when, to impress Esmé, I took my first aircraft into the sky. By the time the Allies arrived in Poland and Germany, it was too late to do much. In Auschwitz my mother spent four days hiding under a hut, with nothing to eat, waiting for liberation. When it came, said Esmé, my mother’s first thought was to ask after her son. She had always imagined me leading an army unit to her rescue! As I read I was moved to tears. Why did I feel I had let her down by not being there?
Knowing the name I had used in Russia, Esmé developed a habit of searching for it through the phone books of every city she visited. She usually found more than one Pyatnitski or Piatniski, but she doggedly asked the same questions. Only she, of course, knew certain things about us. Esmé particularly remembered that incident of the aeroplane. You flew down into the Babi Gorge and almost killed yourself! None of the others had been able to answer her on that issue.
In London years earlier Esmé came across my name in an old book, but I had moved. Not until she was on holiday in London again last year did she pick up a tourist magazine which published details of the Spirit of St Petersburg along with a photograph with my name, describing me as an ‘old Cossack aviator who fought against Stalin’. I remember the piece. It was fanciful, written by one of Mrs Cornelius’s sons. At the time I had been a little nervous at the amount of detail. Moorcock was involved in the magazine (London Spirit) during its brief existence. The 1960s threw up dozens of such publications.
Esmé had tried to contact me then. She was due to catch her flight back to St Malo, where she now lived. The magazine had not published my full address, but she dropped me a postcard anyway, she said. Though she had written in English, it might not have reached me. As soon as she was able, she got in touch with my mother suggesting the two of them visit London the following year and try to contact me again. They had planned to surprise me in the shop. Then they realised it might be too much of a shock. Esmé joked how she didn’t know how strong my heart was. My mother had an old friend from Kiev living at Princelet Street, Spitalfields, a private house. It might be a good idea for us to meet there. We would have time to settle, to talk, and, if things became too emotional, we could be left alone for a while. If, however, I preferred them to come to Portobello Road, or somewhere else, she would be happy to bring my mother.
Esmé’s delicacy of understanding impressed me. Merely knowing that my mother was alive and in England was enough to strike me dumb. I could hardly breathe as I sat reading behind my till, fanning myself with the pages, so distracted that I almost let one of those Czech hussies steal a green feather boa from the rack. Those girls are whores. They are skilled thieves. This is what communism has taught them.
Few can imagine how Esmé’s news affected me. Both the beloved women from my past, whom I had worshipped above life, whom I had given up for dead, were only miles away on the other side of the city.
Spitalfields was an unfamiliar and not altogether savoury part of London. I had been there once or twice to buy stock in Petticoat Lane when first starting my shop, but now auctions, theatres and armies supplied me with what I needed. It seemed another minor miracle that a friend of my mother’s had been over there without my knowledge.
I felt, I will admit, somewhat guilty. Perhaps over the years I really had not made sufficient effort to find my mother. God knew I had done a great deal. Even when convinced she was dead I had sent enquiries to the Soviet government and received no reply. I had not known what name she was living under. I could not tell the Reds too much. Brodmann’s shadow continually cast itself over my fate. One slip and I would be the victim of an assassin’s poison bullet. Anyone close to me was in equal danger. The thought of my mother being targeted for assassination terrified me. Esmé had foreseen this. She had lost none of her intelligence. She had been right to send a letter first. It occurred to me that I did not know if my mother was using an alias. Pyatnitski, while it had become familiar to everyone who knew me, was not our original name. That would be instantly recognisable to anyone familiar with the history of the Romanoffs! Another reason why I had been so cautious about communicating with her.
Esmé had included the number of the hotel where they were staying. As soon as I felt strong enough, I went round the corner to the phone boxes. To use my own phone would be foolish. I dialled the number and asked for Esmé’s room. After some time, the telephone was picked up. A tentative voice said, ‘Yes?’
I asked if that were Mrs Vallir.
A pause. ‘No.’
I risked a few words in Russian. ‘Will she be back soon?’
The woman answered more confidently. ‘Oh, yes. She has gone to pick up some theatre tickets. Another half-hour at most.’
My heart was beating horribly. Instead of replacing the receiver, I asked breathlessly, ’I am sorry, I am not sure of your name. Would you tell her that Maxim phoned?’
‘Maxim?’
I was almost in tears. ‘Mother?’
‘Oh, Maxim, my boy. So it is you.’
I tried to make a joke, but I knew my lips were trembling. ‘No one else, Mother. I’m sorry I could not get back to Kiev as I promised. You had to travel all the way to London to see me.’
She was weeping and even less capable of speech than I. Her words ran together, becoming hard to understand. She had missed me so much. Knowing that we would one day be reunited had kept her alive. Everything was now worth it. Esmé was a saint. Was I married? Did I have any children?
Knowing the phone might still be tapped, I paused to collect myself. I said I would ring the hotel in an hour. If it was convenient, I would meet her at her friend’s house in Spitalfields. It would save her another journey and would probably be more convenient for everyone. She began to give me the address, but I told her I already had it. ‘Even in London, it is best to assume the walls have ears.’
We were still both weeping when I put the phone down. I had to take control of my emotions before I left the phone booth. I could not afford to let those little ruffians see me in a weakened condition. An hour later I returned to the row of boxes. During the time I was gone someone had used the vacant one as a urinal. I tried the box next to it. Vandalised. Some child had attempted to get the money out of it. Another short walk brought me to Westbourne Grove and a phone good enough to use. By then I was in better control of myself thanks to the exercise.
This time I spoke to a younger woman. Her faintly accented English was excellent. This was, of course, Esmé. We arranged to meet that afternoon at Princelet Street. Then, if it seemed a good idea, we would go on to Liberty. According to Esmé, my mother had long dreamed of taking tea with me at the Ritz, but the Ritz was already full up. I said I preferred Liberty. Liberty was cheaper, better and never overbooked.