The Crossing Read online

  By the same author

  The Twentieth Day of January

  Pay Any Price

  The Seeds of Treason

  Show Me a Hero

  THE

  CROSSING

  TED ALLBEURY

  DOVER PUBLICATIONS, INC.

  Mineola, New York

  Copyright

  Copyright © 1987 the Estate of Ted Allbeury

  All rights reserved.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  The author has asserted his moral right in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patent Act, 1988 [UK].

  Bibliographical Note

  This Dover edition, first published in 2017, is an unabridged republication of the work originally published by New English Library, Great Britain, in 1987.

  International Standard Book Number

  ISBN-13: 978-0-486-82038-5

  ISBN-10: 0-486-82038-6

  Manufactured in the United States by LSC Communications

  82038601 2017

  www.doverpublications.com

  THE

  CROSSING

  Contents

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Part Two

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Part Three

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Part Four

  Chapter 37

  About the Author

  Part One

  1

  The boy and the young man were the only people on board the ship. They stood leaning over the rails looking at the crowd around the man standing on the wooden box, waving his arms and shouting, but the sharp wind carried his words away.

  “What’s he saying, Boris?”

  “He’s from the Military Revolutionary Committee from the Petrograd Soviet. He’s telling them that the workers, the peasants, and the soldiers are in charge now in Russia. All peasants will be given land, the soldiers will be paid and the people will be fed and given jobs.”

  “Are they pleased about that?”

  The young man laughed. “They’ve heard it too many times, boy, from too many people. They don’t believe him. They say they want deeds not words.”

  The boy looked at the young man’s face, tanned and lined from wind and sun. He had strange eyes. Old, sad eyes that never blinked.

  “Somebody told me that hundreds of people have been killed, maybe thousands,” the boy said.

  The young man nodded. “And many more thousands will die before all this is over.”

  “Why do they kill working people if they want to give them freedom?”

  The young man spat over the side of the ship. “They don’t intend to give them freedom, Josef. This is just a struggle for power. Revolutionaries against revolutionaries. Old allies facing the final truth. Which pigs will have their snouts in the trough for the next hundred years. Bolsheviks or Mensheviks.”

  “Whose side are you on? Who do you want to win?”

  “I’m on the side of whoever wins, boy. And that will be the Bolsheviks. Nobody wants them to win but they will, because they know what they want and they’ll kill anyone who stands in their way.”

  “Who are these Bolsheviks?”

  “Who knows? Here in Petrograd it’s Trotsky, Stalin, Sverdlov, Dzerzhinski, Latsis and Peters.”

  “How do you know so much about them?”

  “I live here. This is my home town. I read the papers and listen to the talk in the bars.”

  “Will there be another revolution like they had before?”

  “A revolution, yes. But not like we’ve had before. This time it is power-hungry men at each other’s throats. The people will be safe until it’s over.”

  “When will it be decided who’s won?”

  “Tonight, at the meeting of the MRC. Tomorrow we shall have new Tsars, in the pay of the Germans this time.”

  It was October 25, 1917.

  Misha had been a worker in one of the iron-foundries. He was one of Zagorsky’s friends and the young man let him on board once or twice a week so that he could have a meal. There was neither bread nor vegetables any longer in the whole of Petrograd despite the promises of commissars from the revolutionary committees.

  Even on the ship there were only the standard tins of bully-beef and not enough of those to offer to anybody who wasn’t a member of the crew. The meal the three of them ate was boiled potatoes in a thin Oxo cube gravy. Misha ate it with obvious relish, Zagorsky ate it without noticing and young Josef was too busy talking to notice what he was eating.

  “Tell me what else they’re going to do, Misha.”

  “Every man will be free. No more serfs. No more peasants. Every farmer with his own land. No Cossacks to ride down the people. No policeman can arrest a worker without a reason. Laws that protect every citizen.

  “We shall share everything; food, housing, work, goods. Every man will care for his neighbour, and all will be equal. No Tsars. No more Rasputins. No priests. For us we work today for our children’s tomorrow. And our children’s children.” He waved his arms. “A workers’ paradise, young Josef.”

  The boy smiled. “You really think they will do all these things, Misha?”

  “I swear it, boy. On my heart and on my soul. It will take time to sort out the past but they are making the laws now.” He tapped the table with his spoon. “At this minute Lenin is planning Russia’s wonderful future. We are a great people. They have freed our greatness. It will happen.”

  Zagorsky grinned. “That’s what they said when the women came out in 1905 in Vyborg District, shouting for bread. Kerensky said it years ago. Mentov wrote it in Iskra six months ago.”

  “That’s the point, my friend. The Military Revolutionary Committee was split between the Mensheviks and the Bolsheviks. The Mensheviks promised but did nothing, the Bolsheviks are not afraid. They fought for us. They organised the revolution.”

  Zagorsky laughed. “All the pigs are fighting for power. We’ll see. You’d better get back to your place or they might give it to some deserving Bolshevik.”

  Misha rose easily to the taunt, beating his fist against his thin chest. “I am a Bolshevik, my friend.”

  The boy walked to the companionway with Misha and pulled aside the rough gate that kept unauthorised people off the boat.

  The Russian turned to the boy. “You care, don’t you, Josef? You understand our joy.”

  The boy smiled. “Yes, I understand, Misha. Zag just likes teasing you.”

  “He is no fool, that fellow. He knows a lot. He listens and watches. He knows much more than he says. But he has no heart.” Misha smiled. “Not like us, my friend. We are comrades, yes?”

  “Of course, Misha.”

  Back in the saloon the boy collected up the dishes and took them to the small galley. As he dried the last enamel plate Zagorsky walked in and
sat on the small box that held the cleaning materials.

  “Did you believe what Misha said?”

  The boy hesitated, blushing. “Why not? What he says makes sense.”

  “They will work harder than they’ve ever worked in their lazy lives and for no more money. It will take years before any of it comes true.”

  “So? What does it matter? They make sacrifices for their children’s sake. It’s like planting seeds. You have to wait for the corn to grow.”

  Zagorsky laughed. “Who said that, boy?”

  “Said what?”

  “About planting seeds.”

  “I said it. It’s true.”

  “Would you do all that if there was a revolution in England?”

  “Of course I would. All workers would.” He frowned. “But there’s no chance of a revolution in England.”

  “Maybe one day you’ll have the chance. You’d fight with the workers, would you?”

  “Of course.”

  Zagorsky said softly, “Why don’t you stay here in Petrograd and help? It would be good experience for when your time comes.”

  “I’ve signed on, Zag; I’d go to prison if I jumped ship.”

  “They’ll never have the chance, boy, if you stay. You could walk off now and nobody could stop you.”

  “There’s Royal Navy ratings at the dockyard gates.”

  “So we don’t go out through the gates.”

  “But you don’t believe in it, Zag. You think they won’t do it.”

  The young man looked at the boy a long time before he spoke, and then he said, “Never believe what a man says, no matter who he is. Listen, but don’t believe. Listen for what’s believed in, what’s in his mind. That’s all that matters.” He paused. “Do you want to stay and help? It will be hard work, with lots of disappointments.”

  “Would I be with you and Misha?”

  “Maybe. But you’ve got to learn the language first. Not many Russians speak English, especially the kind you’d be working with.”

  “Would they have me?”

  Zagorsky nodded. “Yes. They’d have you. We need all the help we can get. Think about it tonight. If tomorrow you still want to help I’ll take you to see the right people.”

  “But what good will I be? I can’t do anything.”

  “I’ve watched you, Josef. You are a good organiser—and you’re honest. That’s enough.”

  After three months the boy they called Josef could speak enough Russian to understand the orders he got and to hold a reasonable conversation. The Russian he learned was crude and ungrammatical, like the speech of his fellow workers. He saw Misha most days but seldom saw Zagorsky. He realised from what people said that the young man he called Zag so familiarly was important. Zag went to meetings of the Council of People’s Commissars, the sovnavkom, and mixed with leaders like Lenin and Dzerzhinski, who was the head of the newly formed Committee for Struggle Against the Counter-Revolution. The committee that became what people called the Cheka.

  The boy learned his way around the backstreets of Petrograd, carrying messages and delivering batches of the latest issue of Pravda. At night he sat listening to the heated discussions on how long the Bolsheviks would last. Some gave them only a few days, others a month or two and a few, very few, said that the Bolsheviks would be the final victors in the ruthless struggle for power that was being waged in the Duma.

  By December 1917 the Bolsheviks had taken control. Arrests, confiscations and house searches were common and there were numerous cases of violence by self-appointed bandit-revolutionaries. Drunkenness and disorder were widespread in the city and rumour had it that it was much the same in all big cities. A newspaper published a speech by Maxim Gorky which said openly that the Bolsheviks were already showing how they meant to rule the country. His final sentence was, “Does not Lenin’s government, as the Romanov government did, seize and drag off to prison all those who think differently?” But no figure arose who could successfully stop the ruthless surge to power of Lenin’s men. Resistance from any quarter was met by bringing out the workers on the streets. They seldom knew what they were demonstrating about but it had become part of their daily lives. For the Bolsheviks it was a warning to all those who opposed them that “power lay in the streets.”

  There was a wide spectrum of resistance to the Bolsheviks, including many workers’ groups and political parties; almost all left-wing political parties were sworn enemies who recognised that the Bolsheviks’ struggle for power was just that, and no more. It was like a juggernaut out of control, its only policy repression of the opposition.

  Josef saw Misha almost every evening. Misha liked the long rambling discussions that the group fell into every night. Analyses of personalities and policies, forecasts of a golden future or prophecies that nothing would change except a different group of despots who would behave like any Tsar. The boy always remembered Zagorsky’s advice. He listened and said nothing, watching their faces, sometimes recognising the false ring of praise for the new leaders from some obviously ambitious man. And sometimes he heard the echo of the deliberate incitement of an agent provocateur.

  It was a hot summer evening when he had to deliver a letter to Zagorsky and he had been invited in, the Russian pointing to a wooden box that was used as a chair.

  “Sit down, Josef. I want to talk to you.”

  When Josef was perched on the box Zagorsky looked at his face.

  “Are you busy with your errands?”

  “Yes.”

  “They tell me you can write in Russian now.”

  “Not very well.”

  “Well enough to make notes of the decisions at the committee meetings, yes?”

  “Yes, I do that.”

  “Misha thinks you should be made secretary of the committee. Official secretary. How would you feel about that?”

  “What would the older men think?”

  “What they think doesn’t matter. What about you? Do you want to do it?”

  “Yes, if it will help.”

  “Help what?”

  “The revolution. The workers’ new freedom.”

  Zagorsky half-smiled. “What do they think of Comrade Lenin down there?”

  “Some say he is the only leader who will do what he says. Others say that he is as bad as the Tsar. Some say he is worse.”

  “And you? What do you think?”

  “I don’t know, Comrade Zagorsky. I only hear what others say about him.”

  “Comrade, eh? A Bolshevik already?”

  The boy smiled, embarrassed. “At least they are doing things, not just talking about it.”

  “Before you are appointed as secretary you will have some training on how to run meetings and control events. It will be in Moscow and it will take about four months. Come and see me tomorrow at ten o’clock, ready to leave.”

  “Yes, comrade.”

  Josef had had his seventeenth birthday while he was on the training course. Despite being a foreigner he was very popular with the other students. Their ages ranged from eighteen to the mid-fifties and they came from all parts of the Soviet Union. On his birthday they threw a party to celebrate. It was at the party that he met Anna, an eighteen-year-old from Warsaw. Polish and proud of it, her father had been a party worker for many years. She too was going to be secretary to a committee in Moscow.

  They were housed in an old warehouse just across the Moscow River in Kuncevo. The building was divided up into classrooms, sleeping accommodation and a canteen that provided only very basic meals of vegetable soup and bread. Twice a week there were special rations of potatoes.

  Josef found some of the people on the course strange to the point of being mentally unbalanced. Men who were fanatics, constantly leaping to their feet and quoting from Marx and Lenin. Arguing with the instructors at every opportunity. Smug and self-satisfied, pleased with the divisiveness of their disruption. But most of the students were working-class men and women whose only concern was to learn how to be competent leaders in s
ome small committee and help their fellow workers improve their standards of living.

  Josef and Anna were both model students, but on fine evenings they walked along the river bank and stared across at the island and Terechovo. They were cautious at first about what they said but as time went by they talked, guardedly but honestly.

  “Why is an Englishman interested in a revolution in Russia?”

  “Because I’m working-class and I think workers get a poor deal all over the world. I wish there could be a revolution in England.”

  “You could go back and start one yourself.”

  “Things aren’t as bad there for workers as they are here. They’re not ready for a revolution.”

  “Levkin the instructor said that you had the right kind of mind to be an organiser. He said you were to be trusted and you learned quickly.”

  “Did you ask him about me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m staying on for another month of training. I suggested that you should stay on too.”

  “I’ve got work to do when I get back to Petrograd.”

  “This is special training. Only for trusted people. Comrade Zagorsky had recommended you for further training.”

  “Why do you want me to stay on here?”

  “Because I shall miss you. I like being with you.”

  He smiled and reached for her hand. “I like being with you but I didn’t have the courage to tell you.”

  “You didn’t need to tell me. I knew.”

  “How could you tell?”

  “When you talk to me your voice is different. It’s gentle and deep. You don’t paw me like other men try to do.”

  “Which men?”

  “Don’t be angry, Josef. And don’t be jealous. I can look after myself.” She paused. “So will you stay if they want you to?”

  “If Zag wants me to and if you want me to then I’ll stay.”

  “You shouldn’t call him Zag. He’s a very important man now. He’s a commissar at the new Ministry of Foreign Affairs.”

  He laughed. “He won’t mind what I call him.”

  “How did you get to know him so well?”

  “I was cabin-boy on a British boat that was tied up in Petrograd when the revolution started. People came to arrest the crew in case they were spies. I was left with Zag to guard the ship against looters.”