rubles to buy “boots”—his false identity papers.
All that mattered was the Party and the cause: I am a knight of the holy grail, Mendel thought, as the sleigh approached the domed portico and splendid Doric colonnade of the Taurida Palace, where the bourgeois saps of the talkingshop parliament—the Imperial Duma—now held their absurd debates. But before the sleigh was there, Mendel leaned forward and tapped the padded shoulder of the coachman.
“Here!” Mendel pressed some kopeks into the coachman’s mitten and jumped off. Cars stood with their engines turning outside the Duma but Mendel did not approach the palace. Instead he limped into the lodge attached to the guardhouse of the Horse Guards regiment next door. An old Adler limousine with the crest of a Grand Duke, bearing a Guards officer and a flunkey in court uniform, stopped and trumpeted its horn.
The gateman, simultaneously bowing, buttoning up his trousers and holding onto his hat, ran out and tried to open the gates. Mendel glanced around and knocked on the dusty door of the cottage.
The door opened. A ruddycheeked doorman in a Russian peasant smock and yellowed longjohns let him into a dreary little room with a stove, samovar and the fusty atmosphere of sleeping men and boiling vegetables.
“You?” said Igor Verezin. “Thought you were in Kamchatka.”
“Yeniseisk Region. I walked.” Mendel noticed the doorman had a pointed bald pate the shape and color of a redhot bullet. “I’m starving, Verezin.”
“ Shchi soup, black Borodinsky bread and a sausage. The samovar’s boiling, comrade.”
“Any messages for me?”
“Yes, someone pushed the newspaper through the door earlier.”
“Someone’s coming tonight.”
Verezin shrugged.
“Where’s the paper? Let me see. Good.” Mendel threw off his coat, checked the back window and the front. “Can I sleep?”
“Be my guest, comrade. The sofa’s yours though I might bed down myself there in a minute.” There was no bed in the dim little room and the doormen took turns sleeping on the sofa. “So how did you escape?”
But Mendel, still wearing his hat, boots and pincenez, was already stretched out on the sofa.
There was a rap on the door, and the doorman found a teenage girl in a gleaming fur coat, undoubtedly sable, and a white foxfur stole, who stepped hesitantly into the room. She was slim with a wide mouth and exceedingly light grey eyes.
“I’m in luck today!” joked Verezin. “Excuse my pants!”
She gave him a withering look. “ Baramian? ” she asked.
“Get inside, milady,” joked Verezin, bowing like a court flunkey. “With that coat you should be going in the main gates with the field marshals and princes.”
Mendel stood up, yawning. “Oh it’s you,” he said, aware that his voice was his most impressive feature—deep and sonorous like a Jericho trumpet. He turned to Verezin. “Could you take a walk? Round the block.”
“What? In this weather? You’ve got to be joking…” But Mendel never joked—except about the gallows. Instead the little man looked pointedly toward the stove behind which his
“bulldog”—a Mauser revolver—waited, wrapped in a cloth, and Verezin hurriedly changed his mind. “I’ll go and buy some salted fish.” Pulling on a greatcoat, he stomped outside.
When the doorman was gone, Sashenka sat down at the wicker table beside the stove.
“Don’t you trust him?” She offered Mendel one of her perfumed Crocodile cigarettes with the gold tips.
“He’s a concierge.” Mendel lit up. “Most doormen are Okhrana informers—but when they sympathize with us they guard the safest safe houses. So as long as he doesn’t turn, no one would look for a Bolshevik at the Horse Guards headquarters. He’s a sympathizer and may join the Party.” He blew out a lungful of smoke. “Your father’s house is under surveillance. They’re waiting for me. How did you get away?”
“I waited until everyone was asleep. Mama’s
All that mattered was the Party and the cause: I am a knight of the holy grail, Mendel thought, as the sleigh approached the domed portico and splendid Doric colonnade of the Taurida Palace, where the bourgeois saps of the talkingshop parliament—the Imperial Duma—now held their absurd debates. But before the sleigh was there, Mendel leaned forward and tapped the padded shoulder of the coachman.
“Here!” Mendel pressed some kopeks into the coachman’s mitten and jumped off. Cars stood with their engines turning outside the Duma but Mendel did not approach the palace. Instead he limped into the lodge attached to the guardhouse of the Horse Guards regiment next door. An old Adler limousine with the crest of a Grand Duke, bearing a Guards officer and a flunkey in court uniform, stopped and trumpeted its horn.
The gateman, simultaneously bowing, buttoning up his trousers and holding onto his hat, ran out and tried to open the gates. Mendel glanced around and knocked on the dusty door of the cottage.
The door opened. A ruddycheeked doorman in a Russian peasant smock and yellowed longjohns let him into a dreary little room with a stove, samovar and the fusty atmosphere of sleeping men and boiling vegetables.
“You?” said Igor Verezin. “Thought you were in Kamchatka.”
“Yeniseisk Region. I walked.” Mendel noticed the doorman had a pointed bald pate the shape and color of a redhot bullet. “I’m starving, Verezin.”
“ Shchi soup, black Borodinsky bread and a sausage. The samovar’s boiling, comrade.”
“Any messages for me?”
“Yes, someone pushed the newspaper through the door earlier.”
“Someone’s coming tonight.”
Verezin shrugged.
“Where’s the paper? Let me see. Good.” Mendel threw off his coat, checked the back window and the front. “Can I sleep?”
“Be my guest, comrade. The sofa’s yours though I might bed down myself there in a minute.” There was no bed in the dim little room and the doormen took turns sleeping on the sofa. “So how did you escape?”
But Mendel, still wearing his hat, boots and pincenez, was already stretched out on the sofa.
There was a rap on the door, and the doorman found a teenage girl in a gleaming fur coat, undoubtedly sable, and a white foxfur stole, who stepped hesitantly into the room. She was slim with a wide mouth and exceedingly light grey eyes.
“I’m in luck today!” joked Verezin. “Excuse my pants!”
She gave him a withering look. “ Baramian? ” she asked.
“Get inside, milady,” joked Verezin, bowing like a court flunkey. “With that coat you should be going in the main gates with the field marshals and princes.”
Mendel stood up, yawning. “Oh it’s you,” he said, aware that his voice was his most impressive feature—deep and sonorous like a Jericho trumpet. He turned to Verezin. “Could you take a walk? Round the block.”
“What? In this weather? You’ve got to be joking…” But Mendel never joked—except about the gallows. Instead the little man looked pointedly toward the stove behind which his
“bulldog”—a Mauser revolver—waited, wrapped in a cloth, and Verezin hurriedly changed his mind. “I’ll go and buy some salted fish.” Pulling on a greatcoat, he stomped outside.
When the doorman was gone, Sashenka sat down at the wicker table beside the stove.
“Don’t you trust him?” She offered Mendel one of her perfumed Crocodile cigarettes with the gold tips.
“He’s a concierge.” Mendel lit up. “Most doormen are Okhrana informers—but when they sympathize with us they guard the safest safe houses. So as long as he doesn’t turn, no one would look for a Bolshevik at the Horse Guards headquarters. He’s a sympathizer and may join the Party.” He blew out a lungful of smoke. “Your father’s house is under surveillance. They’re waiting for me. How did you get away?”
“I waited until everyone was asleep. Mama’s
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