Byzantium Endures (45 page)

We had a taste of the old rivalry between the Roman Empire of the West and the Hellenic Empire of the East. Kiev saw as many emperors come and go in as short a time as Rome or Constantinople when those Empires fell apart. As my mother said in her merry way: ‘At least under the Rus or the Tatars people had time to get used to their rulers. These days it’s impossible to know who you’re supposed to cheer.’ But she liked Petlyura and his white horse and his gaudy Haidamaki with their baggy trousers and fancy waistcoats and scalp-locks. The Haidamaki had saved Ukraine from Polish oppression in the eighteenth century. They represented another calling on the past in support of a hoped-for future. Ends are defeated by means. The future will always be defeated by the past. The past is a useful metaphor but it is a terrible precedent.

My mother hoped the laundry would be nationalised. As manageress, she would have security without the same responsibility. Petlyura’s brand of socialism, she said, seemed fair enough. Petlyura needed to court what remained of the business people. Again I found myself rising in the world. I knew everyone. I was invited to various high-level meetings. I was called ‘Doctor Pyatnitski’ by everyone and regarded as a scientific Wunderkind. I was allowed to expand on the possibilities of Ukrainian monorails, Ukrainian civil airlines, Ukrainian garden-cities for the workers. My ideas no longer struck people as fantastic. All Ukraine’s potential was to be used. I mentioned special cinemas, education centres, aerial guard-ships which could protect our frontiers from Bolshevik aggression. We should soon have the cream of Russian genius, I pointed out, back in Kiev. Kiev could become the capital of a new Russian Empire (diplomatically I termed it ‘an expanded Ukrainian state’). I spoke of my dreams and I helped others to dream. That was my gift. I offered it to the government and at last the government began to accept. I had no official position. I thought it foolish to accept one. I was only just nineteen years old. At last I had found a ready audience for more complicated ideas, such as my invisible ray device. I made no large claims. Such machines could, however, form a defensive ring (‘an iron ring of light’ as someone said) about a city, making it almost invulnerable. This was the nearest thing to the recent force-field notions of the Americans.

We needed something quickly. We had Poles attacking from the West, Whites from the South, Reds from the North. There were Rumanians invading Bessarabia. French and Greek forces had been landed in Odessa. A variety of Cossack and pseudo-Cossack insurgent chieftains (
atamany
) and Anarchist brigands, such as Makhno, changed sides almost as rapidly as the regular units, a few of which still supported Skoropadskya. Ataman Hrihorieff (sometimes called Grigoriev in English) had turned against the Directorate to join the Bolsheviks. He took with him a large rabble of so-called ‘insurgent cavalry’; looters and pogromchiks to a man. We in Kiev believed no rumours whatsoever. If Bolsheviks were said to be occupying the Left Bank Dnieper, we cocked our heads. If we heard no unusual artillery- or rifle-fire, we continued about our business. At that time Petlyura seemed likely to drive the Bolsheviks out of Russia altogether. Then he allowed the farce of ’Ukrainianisation’ of the Church. Suddenly Orthodox services we’re performed in Ukrainian and half the Church’s intellectuals were dismissed from their offices or actually killed by their parishioners, simply for arguing the unchallengeable fact that there was no such thing as a Ukrainian Church, since all were subordinate to the Patriarch of Constantinople. The nationalist mania was spreading.

It was to destroy my homeland, the birthplace of Russian culture.

* * * *

ELEVEN

ONE EVENING in the middle of January 1919, I was invited to dinner at
The Savoy Hotel
by a group of industrialists, educationalists and politicians. They said the meeting was to be of considerable importance. My presence was absolutely necessary.

I arrived at the hotel dressed in my best. I wore my heavy fox-fur overcoat, hat, gloves and my felt-and-rubber galoshes. I carried my silver-topped cane. All these were left in the foyer. The manager apologised that the elevator was temporarily out of action. In a dark three-piece suit, with a conventional collar and tie, I made my way up the wide staircase to the first floor. I stopped outside a huge door which I assumed led into a ball-room. I was admitted by a uniformed servant. It was, in fact, the master-suite of the hotel. It put my little suite at
The Yevropyaskaya
to shame. I walked along a short passage which was entirely mirrored on sides and ceiling. A green curtain was pulled back to allow me into the main dining-room which, with its crystal and gilt, had not changed since Tsarist days. It was occupied by cigar-smoking men. Some were in evening dress and some wore uniform. Others were dressed as I was in what were in those days recognised as tastefully classless suits. I was greeted by the journalist Elanski. He had the reputation of being a pro-Bolshevik and a terrorist. He was a mild-looking man with spectacles and a goatee. I had met him at
The Cube
where, because I kept my peace, I was considered a socialist sympathiser. Elanski introduced me to a variety of men whose names I knew. They shook hands with me and thanked me for sparing the time to come. They evidently believed me an important figure, but I was not sure what my importance to them was. Shortly after I had arrived, the green curtain was swept back and our self-styled Supreme Commander, Semyon Petlyura, came in. He was shorter than I had guessed, with the pink, smooth skin known as ‘typically Ukrainian’, a small moustache and a birdlike way of moving his fingers together when he talked. He wore a green and gold uniform. I addressed him as ‘Pan’, which was a term used only in Ukraine and Poland. He said he would prefer to be known here as Comrade Petlyura. He smiled. He said it made him feel more relaxed; that he was amongst friends. He, too, thanked me very deeply for finding time to join the meeting. We sat down to dinner. To my surprise I was given a place on Petlyura’s left, while Elanski occupied his right. Next to me was a general and opposite the general was a high-ranking minister in charge of the Civilian War Effort. I was called ‘Comrade Pyatnitski’ throughout the dinner and found the fact privately amusing. I understood during the meal something of the euphoria of holding powerful political office. It made me more determined than ever to keep out of politics in future. All the men there were worried about Bolshevik gains. Without proper allies our lines of supplies and communications would soon be cut off. Kiev would have to be abandoned. The insurgents were unreliable. Most of them had little idea of the importance of railways and telegraphs. They tended to fight only for local territory, often with the intention, Petlyura thought, of setting up tiny nations along old Cossack lines. He was even uncertain of his own Zaporizhian forces once they had gained what they wanted. ‘We have plenty of cavalry, plenty of infantry, a fair number of machine guns, plenty of trains, no aeroplanes, little artillery worthy of the name, no tanks or armoured cars. In fact, we are only slightly better equipped to fight a modern war than Stenka Razin.’ While we laughed at this, Petlyura’s small face became stern. He made a movement of his lower lip which had the effect of strengthening his jaw. ‘And that is why, Comrade Doctor, we have asked you to let us know your views.’

I was taken aback. ‘I’m no strategist.’

‘But you are a scientist.’ Elanski leaned forward. ‘And a brilliant one. Everyone speaks of you. I’ve met people from Petrograd, from Moscow, from Odessa. All say you’re one of the most far-sighted men of our day. A child-genius, who built his first flying machine at the age of eight.’

I smiled, holding up my hand. I wore rings, now, of Ukrainian filigree silver. They gave me a vaguely nationalist air without actually identifying me as anything in particular. ‘Stories of that sort are apt to be exaggerated. I have a number of inventions, many theories, some practical ideas. But without proper materials I am unable to make the necessary experiments. Thus, gentlemen, comrades, you find me in Limbo.’

‘Can you give us aeroplanes?’ asked the general. His name was Konovalets and he was scarcely older than me, though his face was set like limestone.

‘Not without proper plants and expert men. You must know this already. French aeroplanes are your best hope.’

Petlyura spoke in a small voice. ‘We need to buy time against Lenin and Trotsky.’

I looked questioningly at Elanski, who shrugged. ‘They won’t guarantee us anything.’

I was still cautious. Should the Bolsheviks enter Kiev next week, Elanski might be singing a different song. His type was becoming familiar in modern Russia.

‘We had heard about a kind of ray. Like concentrated sunlight.’ Someone spoke from the other end of the table. ‘Have you developed this ray?’

Now I laughed aloud. A few months ago nobody had taken the idea seriously. Tonight they ignored practical mechanical conceptions and grabbed desperately at a notion which every one of them would normally have dismissed as cheap fiction. But now the Reds were knocking at Kiev’s gates. Some there, I could tell, were still a little doubtful. There was no way in which I would convince them. I did not intend to try. I could make no claims until a prototype had been built. ‘Ray-cannon are not easily developed. A good deal of money and equipment is required.’

Petlyura was impatient. ‘You can have what you need. Doctor Braun,’ he indicated an elderly gentleman, ‘is a scientist from Kiev University. He can put all their resources at your disposal.’

‘When I have heard the young man’s idea,’ said Braun in a deep voice. He gave me a stare.

‘I have done some research,’ I said. ‘I believe it’s possible to concentrate a ray of light until it is so powerful it can cut through steel.’

it is not an unfamiliar theory,’ Braun agreed, ‘I don’t see how you can apply it.’

‘A special vacuum tube would be needed. Like a very large radio valve. Shall I describe it as simply as possible?’

‘For my sake,’ he said. The old man had a sardonic humour lacking in most of his colleagues. Perhaps he had less to lose. I described how mercury would be introduced into a tube and boiled to drive out air. The mercury vapour would then be trapped while the tube was sealed, with wires extruding. Low voltage could be applied to a heating element in the tube. Once it reached a temperature of 175° Celsius a high voltage would be applied to the electrodes, producing an electrical discharge in the mercury vapour. The excited mercury ions would then emit a light beyond the spectrum perceived by the human eye.

‘I call this Ultra-Violet light,’ I said. ‘Mirrors or quartz lenses could be used to focus it.’

‘And how much electrical power would you need?’ Braun was impressed. He frowned over some notes he had made in pencil on the table-cloth.

‘Obviously, the better the source of power, the stronger the beam.’

‘It is violet in colour, the ray?’ said someone else.

I began to explain, but Petlyura gripped my arm. ‘How many of these ray-machines could you build to give us, say, a month before help arrived?’

‘There would have to be an experimental model first. After that, it should be fairly easy to manufacture more. If the generators were available to power them.’

‘Would the generators in the electricity stations do?’ Petlyura enquired.

‘I think so.’ I had not expected such an offer. This meant he was willing to divert Kiev’s entire power supply. I was flattered. ‘Cables would have to be laid.’

‘Where would the machines best be sited?’

‘On the heights.’ General Konovalets was adamant. ‘That gives a sweep, you see. If they were used in the outlying suburbs they would be too cumbersome to move quickly, eh?’

‘The machines themselves would be transported in the normal way of artillery, but the power-sources are the problem.’ I admired his quick grasp. ‘One can’t go dragging huge cables all over Kiev. The people, as well as the streets and the houses, would get in the way.’

‘They always do!’ Konovalets spoke with mock despair. ‘St Andrew’s would be one good site.’

‘You mean the observation gallery, near the dome?’ I considered this. ‘The only thing I wonder about there is - ‘ I hesitated, not knowing whether to bring the question of religion into a discussion with socialists, many of whom might be militant atheists.

‘Sacrilege,’ said Petlyura. ‘Is that what you’re worrying about? You’re a believer? And a scientist?’

‘ - the problem of diverting power to such a high point.’

‘There is no sacrilege,’ said Konovalets quietly, ‘in defending ourselves against Bolshevism. They are sworn to destroy all religions.’