ng. The jeweler had decided that I might be
going to skip out with his money, and instead of asking for it back, he had
gone straight to the police. When I heard what the accusation was, I
immediately wrote him out a check, but I was condemned to a month in prison
anyhow. I appealed the sentence, but the appeals court sustained the
sentence w absentia since I was out of the country at the time. When
J
I returned, I found that I was to be deported. I had either to leave
immediately or face an indeterminate sentence.
I was desperate to get hold of some money and a passport that would get
me into Bulgaria. I wrote a friend of mine, a former Russian officer who was
living in Switzerland, and asked him if there was any way I could borrow
fifty thousand Belgian francs. I promised to pay him back double that
amount. He was an old friend and I knew he would trust me. He wrote back
that he didn't have such a sum but knew someone who would lend it to me if
he guaranteed the loan. He would arrange for me to meet this person in
France.
I entered France via Luxembourg and had a meeting with this man. A few
days later the money came; I was obliged to return it in three months. Now I
had to obtain a real passport, not a forged one. I had heard that this could
be arranged at some of the consulates in Berlin. I went there with a Belgian
woman friend. She suggested that she go around to the consulates. They might
be nicer to her than to me.
I waited for her all one day while she inquired around. Finally, she
returned. "Done," she said. "You have your passport." She had been to a
half-dozen consulates. When she had told them that she wanted a passport for
a friend, some of the officials had simply laughed at her, others were
angered. She was ready to come back empty-handed when she had passed a sign
that said "Consulate of Panama." She had decided to give it one more try.
The consul had received her courteously and listened to her. He finally told
her to have me come in person. I was leery of a trap but there was nothing
else I could think of to do.
He was very hospitable. As character witnesses, I was able to give him
the names of two persons living in Berlin whom he knew. A few days later I
received my passport, for which I paid thirty thousand Belgian francs.
There was no question of entering Bulgaria officially, since the
passport carried my real name. I went to the Yugoslav border town of
Zajecar, hoping to find someone to get me across the border. I finally found
two men who agreed for three thousand dinars. Meanwhile, I stayed with my
uncle, who was a supervisor at the copper mines about eighteen miles away.
One day the men who were to smuggle me across saw my wallet bulging with
money. They exchanged glances, and I decided I had to be more cautious.
At last, we set out one midnight, walking for a couple of hours.
Finally, my guides told me we were three miles inside Bulgaria and it was
time for me to pay up. I handed over the money, and while they were counting
it, put my hand on the pistol in my coat pocket. As I had half expected,
they both pulled knives and demanded my money, watch and ring. I made a
motion as if I were reaching for my wallet, but instead pulled my gun and
put a bullet in each of their heads, then I ran like hell. About a half mile
farther on I threw my pistol into a stream. As I was walking along the road
to Vidin, following the course of the Danube, I ran into a patrol of five
policemen who demanded to know why I had fired my gun. I answered that I did
not even have a gun. They searched me but decided to take me to Vidin for
questioning anyhow. This arrest put an end to my elaborate plans.
Of course, I denied that I had anything to do with killing the two men,
whose bodies had since been discovered, and the police admitted freely that
they were not really concerned about that. They were just as happy to have
two fewer smugglers to worry about. After two days, I was transferred to the
prison in Sofia. The police there were most anxious to know whether I had
entered Bulgaria illegally. I made up an elaborate story which they did not
believe. The fact was I had mailed my Panamanian passport to General
Delivery in Burgas and by this time it had already been returned to
Brussels.
It was a disaster. The man who had loaned me his money, not having
heard from me for so long, had naturally concluded that I had run off with
it and he denounced me to the police. A short time later he died.
When I finally got back to Switzerland by way of Yugoslavia, I was
arrested and extradited to France. Later, I was cleared of the charge he had
made.
I was getting desperate. I would do anything to reach the treasure. I
decided that the first thing I needed was a good lawyer. Through an
acquaintance I was recommended to one in The Hague. I sold a camera and my
gold watch to get the money to visit him. I will call him simply Leon. We
struck up a friendship right off the bat. After I had told him the whole
story, including my problems with the law, he said he would help me. He was
quite rich and did not need any money. I believe the romantic, adventurous
side of the undertaking appealed to him. He agreed to finance my first
expedition; after that, I would have enough money to pay for a hundred.
19 Leon
IT WAS THE MIDDLE OF SUMMER and we decided to get started right away.
We had a simple and workable plan. We would go by train to Constanza in
Rumania and sail from there to Constantinople. I had not been in Turkey for
a long time and, we hoped, would not be recognized. I was to stay in
Constantinople for a few days, and then take the boat alone to Burgas, do my
job, and telegraph Leon in Constantinople. He would get on the Orient
Express, which goes through Bulgaria on its way to Paris, having wired me in
care of General Delivery at Plovdiv. I would be waiting at that station and
would pass the package to him. In those days the Orient Express was all
first class and the border guards treated the passengers with deference; his
bags would not be opened until he reached Paris, and he would get off before
that. I would take a boat up the Danube and meet him in Lausanne. The day of
my departure arrived. The boat, the Bulgaria, was in the middle of the
Bosporus, and I was the only passenger. I was rowed out by some Turkish
sailors. The sea --was so rough that I almost lost my passport as I climbed
the ladder to get on board. Since I was supposed to be a Panamanian, I could
not speak Russian or show that I understood Bulgarian. I managed to
communicate with the crew in German and English.
When I arrived in Burgas, I checked into a hotel and let it be known
that I was waiting three days for the departure of my boat from Routschouk.
I spent my first day there on the beach and that night went fishing. (This
would explain my overnight absence from the hotel the following night.) I
decided to go after the treasure on the second day.
That night was warm and there was a full moon. I got to the hiding
place nearest the city about i A.M. After digging for about an hour and a
half, I found the cases. We had marked them to indicate the contents. The
first contained jewels. The next contained securities and English currency.
I took the jewels and papers and replaced the cases, and covered over
the trenches so that no one could tell that there had been any digging. I
returned to Burgas without incident .and buried my tools on the beach. I
knew it would be difficult to get back into the hotel without arousing
suspicion about my package, since I had departed empty-handed to "go
fishing." So I left the package at the door, and as I entered I asked the
desk clerk to fetch me a bottle of wine. Then I ran back for the package,
carried it to my room, and hid it under the bed.
Next I wired Leon as agreed, and by evening I had his answer. He would
pass through Plovdiv in two days. Now was my first opportunity to examine
what I had. There were beautiful jewels, about one hundred grams of cut but
unset diamonds, about one hundred foreign bonds, and twenty-five thousand
pounds sterling in currency.
The next day I took the train to Plovdiv. I went to the station the
next day and saw Leon debark from the train. This was the moment of danger:
I had to pass the bags to him inconspicuously. He took them and said,
"Everything is all right. I sent the steward for a bottle of mineral water."
This was our entire conversation. It was ten days before I saw him again, in
Lausanne. When he arrived there he had deposited the treasure in a bank. The
operation had been a marvelous success -- but it was not over yet. We had to
exchange the money and sell the bonds and the jewels. Leon was a tremendous
help because he had so many contacts. All this took two months, but brought
us a handsome sum.
When the expedition had finally worked out so well, I went back to
Brussels illegally and renewed contact with some old and faithful friends.
Naturally I shared some of my wealth with the Cossacks of Kuban. But nothing
lasts forever. Several years later my friend Lieutenant Vin-nikov, founder
and guiding spirit of the choir, fell ill and died in Brussels, and without
him the choir split up into several groups. A quintet managed by the
talented Svet-lanov brothers from the chorus enjoyed some success in Europe
for a number of years, but that was the end of the Cossacks of Kuban.
After our successful expedition in Bulgaria Leon and I traveled a good
deal, particularly to Vienna, our favorite city, but also to Berlin, Prague
and Budapest. While we were enjoying ourselves, however, we never lost sight
of the fact that we were going to recover the rest of the treasure. We had
long since decided that the only effective way to get at it was to go to
Bulgaria as tourists on a yacht and that we would have to buy one, rather
than rent it, so that we wouldn't be saddled with a crew we couldn't trust.
We searched for the right vessel for over a month and grew discouraged.
One was too large, another too small. One day Leon received a letter from a
friend in Rotterdam telling him that the kind of boat he was looking for was
anchored at Cannes. We went there immediately and fell in love with the
yacht at first sight. Leon went to England and bought it, retaining its
registration, which was Panamanian. Many yachts had this registration, but
it was a lucky detail because of my passport. It was perfect for us. It had
two powerful engines, six cabins and quarters for a crew of five.
It took us two months to get ready. The most complicated task was to
find a reliable crew. We put together an international team: three Dutch
sailors, a German mechanic and his wife, who would serve as maid, a Russian
cook and an English captain. Leon deliberately chose a crew who did not
understand French so that we could talk freely. We took on board a great
supply of all sorts of provisions and invited two beautiful women we knew to
add the proper touch of posing as rich tourists on a cruise.
We departed in midsummer, sailing at a leisurely pace. We stayed at
Naples for three days and visited the famous Blue Grotto on the isle of
Capri to please our companions, and a few days later we stopped for a few
hours at Lem-nos, where I had had so many adventures, to buy some fruit and
fresh bread. After a two-day stopover at Constantinople we headed toward the
Bulgarian coast. First, we anchored at Varna, a larger and more pleasant
city than Burgas, as it might have looked suspicious if we had gone directly
to Burgas, bypassing a tourist attraction like Varna. We spent a week there,
lolling on the beach.
Finally, we headed for Burgas. The customs officials did not bother us;
they were concerned only with those who actually arrived in port. We moved
back and forth from the boat with sacks and bags to get them used to our
moving about. I found my tools where I had buried them on the first
expedition. To explain our overnight absence to the ladies and the captain,
we said that we were going to visit Russian friends of mine who lived
inland.
We set out early the first evening. I carried my Mauser, though Leon
was unarmed. Even though the first hiding place was still half full, I
decided to go straight to the second, and we got there about 11 P.M. An hour
later, we had finished. But I was only able to take out about half the
valuables because Leon was scared and kept urging me to hurry. I realized
that for the next expedition I would need a different kind of man; you can't
ask a bourgeois lawyer to be an adventurer, specially when the affair had
little or no heroism to it. We were back at the seashore at about 2 A.M. and
had located the place where I was planning to hide the tools. We buried the
tools and rested a while. Then we started out at a leisurely pace. We didn't
want to get to town too early.
After walking for about ten minutes, we heard "stoi" ("halt"). That's
it, I said to myself, the customs police. I had forgotten that the customs
would patrol that part of the beach at night since it was an ideal spot for
smugglers to land. The voice came from the brush at the edge of the beach. I
sized up the situation immediately: if we remained on the beach we were done
for. I told Leon to follow me and ran for the cover of the brush. We heard
the order to halt again but by this time we were hidden. We were each
carrying a bag full of valuables. "Run toward the town and wait for me near
the station," I said to Leon. I decided to fire on the police if they
pursued us. A few seconds later, the customs man (who, as I had surmised,
was alone) fired in the air; I fired two shots in his direction and he
apparently decided to leave us alone.
I reached Burgas without any trouble and found Leon at a bistro near
the station. He was gray. "I'm not a Cossack, you know," he told me. We
bought a few pieces of fruit and some vegetables and put them into our
sacks. When we passed the customs officials at the port, they greeted us as
casually as usual, and we reached the boat without any difficulty. I put the
sacks into a storage space near my cabin that I always kept closed. No one
noticed them.
We spent the next day on the beach and the following day we left Burgas
for Constantinople. We decided that we had to be alone to take inventory of
what we had, so we put the women off the boat in Trieste, in spite of their
tears and protests, and gave them money to go back to Brussels. We cruised
around the boot of Italy and left the boat at San Remo, then made our way to
Switzerland by train. Once again, thanks to his connections, Leon was able
to sell everything. After our business"was done, Leon had to return to The
Hague to take care of some business.
Even after I had given away about three-quarters of the money from my
last expedition, I still had quite a bit. However, I knew that war was
imminent and I was determined to get back to Bulgaria as soon as possible.
Leon tried to dissuade me, listing all the difficulties that the tense
political situation would create. I knew he was right, but I couldn't accept
a quiet life. He offered to lend me whatever I needed to get established in
Brussels, but I could not undertake any legitimate business, since I had no
legal documents with my real name. I decided to go to Bulgaria one more
time. Alone.
13. From Riches to Ruin
AT THE END OF FEBRUARY of 1939 I set out by train for Naples, and went
from there to Constantinople by ship. Then I had to figure out some way of
getting into Bulgaria. I met an old acquaintance there by chance, the
ex-police chief of my hometown. He imported hams from Bulgaria and he went
back and forth to Burgas all the time. The hams were shipped on Turkish
feluccas, which sailed to Sozopol, a city south of Burgas, to collect wood.
Of course, he knew the captains of all these boats, so I had him introduce
me to a couple and I made arrangements to go to Burgas on one boat and come
back on another.
The morning I arrived in Burgas I found the fourth hiding place, the
closest one to where we had landed. Everything came off without a hitch. As
before, I took only part of what was buried. This time I managed three of
the six cases, as well as three unopened cases in each of the other three
hiding places -- twelve cases in all, still a sizable fortune. The felucca I
was to return on was not ready to leave, so for the next five days I helped
load it. We got back to Constantinople without incident and I managed to
slip by customs. I still had my room in the Pera Palace Hotel.
I had so many valuables with me that I thought it would be prudent to
deposit some of them, mainly the stocks and some of the diamonds, in a bank
vault and plan to come back for them later, and so I did this. I was worried
that I would be thoroughly searched at customs in Naples. That did not turn
out to be the case, surprisingly, and I made my way peacefully to Leon's
home in The Hague. He was grateful to see me safe and sound, and confessed
that he had been very concerned. However, he refused to go back to
Constantinople to recover what I had put in the bank, which put me in a very
difficult position. Convinced that war was imminent, I wrote to the bank and
asked them to advise me how I could authorize a person to open my safe
deposit box. They wrote back with instructions on how to proceed. Leon still
refused to go, so I had to go to Constantinople by myself. He advised me to
find a buyer, at least for the diamonds; I could leave the stocks in the
Constantinople branch office of any of the major European banks.
At Anvers I located a diamond merchant who agreed to make the trip, and
who was ready to buy the diamonds from me on the spot. I drove across
Germany, Austria, and Hungary and as far as Belgrade with my new Belgian
girl friend. The merchant, who was Jewish, didn't want to travel through
these countries, so he took the Orient Express and met us in Belgrade. We
all spent a very pleasant evening the first night we were there and then
agreed to meet early the next morning. My girl friend and I arrived on time
for our appointment. But the diamond merchant was late, and when he arrived
he acted very disturbed and announced that he had to return home
immediately. I protested vigorously, but then, because I knew that his
concern had to do with the persecution of the Jews by the Germans, I did not
insist further.
I phoned Leon to tell him that I would have to return to The Hague
because the merchant could not continue on with me. He told me instead to go
to Budapest and that he would join me there. So my girl and I went there and
settled into a hotel in the heart of the city, on the charming island in the
Danube. The manager knew me, since I had stayed there several times before.
One day, I saw him wearing an army officer's uniform and when I asked him
about it, he explained that the political situation was very grave and that
the government had mobilized some of the reservists. That evening he came to
our room and advised me to leave the country immediately. "If war breaks
out," he said, "you will be stuck here, and if America comes in, you are
bound to be interned." We decided that this was good advice and that we
should leave immediately. If war did break out and I was caught with a phony
passport, I could be arrested as a spy. We left Budapest on August 25, 1939,
one week before the war began. It took us a long time to reach the
Luxembourg border. All the roads in Austria and Germany were clogged with
military convoys. When we finally reached the Moselle and the bridge that
connects Luxembourg and Germany, a nasty surprise was waiting for us. No one
was being permitted across. We had to sit there all day before we were
finally allowed to go over. The next day we reached Brussels. Immediately I
went to the beautiful apartment I had there, furnished with rare Russian
books, icons, and other objets d'art. An old girl friend was living there as
housekeeper, since she was out of work. I decided I'd better stay off the
streets, as there were all sorts of rumors about German parachutists and
spies and I did not want to take the chance of being taken for one. Then I
had a piece of bad luck (or was it good fortune in disguise?). The woman who
had traveled with me to Budapest phoned to say that her stepfather, who was
a French citizen, had just been mobilized and was to return right away to
France. She very much wanted me to meet him before he left and, against my
better judgment, I agreed. I walked the half mile that separated my
apartment from hers and when I was almost there, three men approached and
showed me their badges. One said: "Police. Let me have your papers, please."
When I reached into my pocket, my heart almost stopped. My passport was
not there. I had not taken the time to transfer it from another coat. But I
couldn't tell the police that, because I was renting the apartment under a
different name from the one on the passport. The only thing I could think of
to do was to say I had left it at my hotel. The police said I had better
come along to the station house and explain everything to the officer in
charge. They would send someone to my hotel to find the passport. But when I
got to the magistrate, I decided I had better tell the truth, especially
since he knew me. "This is going to cost you a month in jail," he said,
"since you have already been formally expelled from the country once." So I
found myself in jail again, cursing my carelessness.
The next day I appeared before the judge to be arraigned. Much to my
surprise, he greeted me cheerfully. When I asked him why he was so cheerful,
he replied that he had just signed a warrant for my arrest on a charge of
swindling. "Do you know Mr. ----?" It was the diamond merchant. Now it
dawned on me why he had left so precipitately in Belgrade. An associate of
his had gone to the police looking for information about me. Needless to
say, he had found out that I had been accused of swindling twice and had
been expelled from Belgium. He had warned his friend to get away from me as
soon as possible. Since the diamond merchant had not suffered any losses at
my hands, he was willing to drop the whole matter. But the law followed its
inexorable course. The judge had presented an indictment on the grounds that
I had wished to swindle the man and I was sentenced to eighteen months in
prison. I appealed, and that charge was finally dismissed; but I was still
charged and convicted of using a false name when I had written to the
merchant.
To add to my woes, I received another sentence of four months in prison
for something I had not done. It had all begun a year before when I met a
pretty girl one evening at the movies. I had walked her home and we had
agreed to meet again. A few days later, we went to see another film that was
restricted to adults. When she was asked for her identity card, she said she
had forgotten it and so I guaranteed the ticket taker that she was nineteen,
which is what she had told me. Later, as we were having a drink in a cafe, I
caught a glimpse of her card when she opened her pocketbook. I was shocked
to see that she was only sixteen, and decided not to see her again. (Belgian
law is very strict on the corruption of minors.) I told her I was going off
on a long trip. Then one day while I was serving my sentence in prison in
Brussels, I was called to court and there she was. She had testified that I
had seduced her. I learned only later that she had bragged to her friends
about having had an affair with a rich foreigner and that one of her friends
had told her parents, and that they had gone to the police. Having started
the whole mess with lies, she couldn't stop lying now. I was found guilty.
As the war began to rage in earnest, food grew scarce and life in
prison was a nightmare. We were given only a little bread with some
margarine melted into it and warm water. I became so undernourished that my
legs and feet swelled up horribly and I had to be transferred to the prison
hospital. The food was better there and after a month I was all right. I was
told by the police that I was to be detained even after my sentence ran out,
because I was considered a menace to the public order.
Each day we strolled in the prison courtyard, I saw members of the
Gestapo. They had taken over part of the jail for their own prisoners. I
knew that if I told them my real name and that I had been an officer of the
White Army, I could get free. And after a while a German officer did come to
the library, where I was in charge, to inspect the books. I told him I was a
Russian and how it was that I had ended up in prison. He found my story
incredible. "You're out of your mind to stay here," he told me, and he
offered to let me go right away if I would take a job with the German
authorities; my knowledge of languages would make me very useful. It was
July 1941, a few days after the German invasion of Russia. I refused. I knew
what the Germans were doing to my country.
But just about this time, I had the luck to be transferred to a
minimum-security prison that had been built for emotionally disturbed people
along with all the other foreign prisoners.
I was treated quite differently from the other prisoners. The camp
director had decided that my sentence was unjust, and although he did not
have the authority to do anything about it, he made me librarian there and
gave me complete freedom to come and go as I pleased. I could have escaped
at any time and I often thought of doing so, but I decided against it
because I did not want to betray the director's trust. One horrifying day
the Germans discovered that there were some Jews among us; they quickly
transferred them to German camps. My hatred for the Belgian authorities made
me reluctant to do anything for that country, but I did help the Belgian
resistance in one small way. Near the prison there were some mines where the
Germans forced Russian prisoners of war to work. Many of them used to escape
and join the partisans. I used to write notes in Russian which the Belgian
underground would give them, urging them to tell the Germans nothing if they
were captured.
Soon, I had terrible news. The woman whom I had left in charge of my
apartment had never communicated with me in any way, in spite of my many
letters. Finally I appealed to the authorities to get in touch with her. The
news came back that she had sold all my beautiful possessions and that I had
nothing left.
But soon after that, at last something good happened. I received a
postcard in Russian, mailed from Brussels, from a woman I didn't know. She
had heard of my plight and wanted to help. Even before I had finished
writing her a letter, I was summoned to the director's office. A magnificent
package of bread, chocolate, tea, sugar, brandy and cigarettes had arrived
from her. We corresponded all through my internment, and I learned that she
was the wife of the proprietor of the most elegant Russian cafe in Brussels.
I did not know what she looked like, whether she was old or young, pretty or
not. I asked her for a picture and discovered that in fact she was young and
lovely. She used to complain about her husband in her letters. So I decided
to go on the offensive. I wrote her a love letter. For a week I was in
agony, not knowing how she would respond. Then one day to my great surprise,
I was summoned to the visiting room, and there she was. We fell into each
other's arms and that began a love that was to last for eight years.
14. The Soviets and I
ON SEPTEMBER 14, 1944, after a short battle, the English occupied
Rekam, near the prison. All night German and Allied shells crisscrossed
overhead. The fighting was so close that we could hear a burst of artillery
fire from one side and an explosion on the other almost simultaneously. We
were near the Siegfried Line, which the Americans were bombing constantly. A
few months later, on January l, 1945, the Germans launched a last desperate
air offensive. The furniture and buildings trembled and danced but we were
not hit.
The clock had struck the hour of freedom but for me it was canceled out
by an arbitrary and cruel decision. My conduct in camp had been exemplary;
it was attested to by both the director and Father Stefan Gervais, a
Franciscan friar to whom I had given Russian lessons. Nonetheless, the
police gave me one month to leave the country under threat of being
reinterned. I was refused the status of political refugee to which I had a
legal right, and was a stateless person.
Back in Brussels I found my benefactress. She had taken a small
apartment for the two of us. At last I felt sure I had someone by my side
who loved me for myself, not because I was rich or handsome or exotic. After
she had left her husband, she had bought a laundry and she had worked there
day and night to keep us going. My beloved Maroussia told me also that
somebody else, a man I did not know, had intervened with the Belgian
authorities to get me released. Victor Breslav was a Russian engineer who
had lived in Belgium since before World War I and was a top executive in a
large plant. After the Liberation he had applied for Soviet citizenship, and
was subsequently elected secretary-general of the Union of Soviet Patriots
in Belgium. When he had heard about me through Father Gervais, he had
informed the authorities that he would guarantee me a job at the union.
Needless to say, I was hesitant to go to work for those who had for so long
been my mortal enemies. But things change, and patriotism perhaps does not
depend entirely on who happens to rule one's country. Anyhow, I was
desperate.
Working for the Soviets brought down on me the hatred and contempt of
my fellow White Russian emigres, even though my work was humanitarian and
not political. My first Job was to fill out forms for the Soviet Red Cross,
which was trying to locate persons who had been forcibly transported by the
Nazis and who might now be in territory occupied by the Russians. Most of
the inquiries were for Jews. Sadly, I never found any of them, although we
did locate some other Belgians. Later, I was put in charge of a small
Russian language revue. As a result, I was identified in the Belgian, French
and English press as a Soviet spy. I found this so ridiculous that I did not
even try to refute the charge. How could anyone think the Soviets would use
me as a spy -- a former White officer, now so conspicuously in their employ?
A year went by after my liberation from prison camp and my life was
poisoned by the police. Each month I had to go through the ordeal of having
my Belgian visa extended for another month. Sometimes, it took days or even
weeks. If my papers were to lapse before I got a renewal, I was in constant
danger of being picked up as an illegal alien. Often I had to stay away from
my own apartment for fear of being arrested. One day, when Maroussia and I
were alone in the apartment, two plainclothes police came looking for me,
and I had to hide behind a cabinet in the kitchen. They came so close I
thought they might hear my breathing. Finally, after long efforts by some
well-placed persons who had taken an interest in my case, I was granted the
right to remain in Belgium. The Soviet commercial mission put Breslav and me
in charge of an export-import operation for agricultural machines and
produce. My material situation was immeasurably improved and we were able to
move to a larger apartment and even buy a car.
I had no time to think about my treasure, and I had really given up all
hopes of recovering it. Bulgaria was now communist and it would be all the
more dangerous for me to take risks there. And now that I had found
contentment with Maroussia, I had no desire to take up my former life of
adventure.
Nevertheless, my love for my poor and hard-put country got me involved
once again. In spite of the terrible sacrifices the Russian people had
endured during the war, the USSR was the target of hate-filled propaganda.
Some people were seriously proposing that Bolshevism could be exterminated
because of Russia's weakness. I cared only for my people, who could not
endure another bloodlet-ting. I was obsessed by the thought that I could do
something to help, and finally I believed I had found a way. Since it was
chiefly Americans who were preaching a crusade against Russia, it was they
whom I had to influence.
I composed a stenographic record of an imaginary top-secret meeting in
the Kremlin attended by all the Russian military leaders and presided over
by Stalin. I managed to give it a certain authenticity because I had had
military training and because I had read every Soviet publication that came
into Belgium. The supposed occasion for the meeting was a threat to the
Soviet Union by its former allies, England and the United States. Stalin had
called his military advisers together to determine the capabilities and
preparedness of all units of the Soviet armed forces. The military men had
made their reports with absolute frankness, and they all exhibited the
greatest optimism. One of them had declared that the Soviet Union would have
its own atomic bomb within a year. (I was absolutely astonished when this
turned out to be true.) I thought the report sounded realistic and detailed,
and that any potential enemy, having seen it, would think twice before
attacking Russia. Now, I had to get it to the Americans.
My first thought was simply give it to them without asking for any
money, but I concluded that I would not be credible. They had to believe
that I was acting for a member of the Soviet consulate or embassy. So I
approached an inspector of the Belgian security police whom I had previously
met and told him that a Soviet diplomat who wished to defect had asked me to
be his intermediary. I explained that he had authorized me to make the offer
for him, because he knew there were Soviet agents in the American service
and he wanted to remain in Europe. I asked for a million Belgian francs,
half on delivery of the document and half a month later. This appeared to
convince the inspector, who returned a few days later with an affirmative
response from the Americans. He furnished me with a Russian alphabet
typewriter, and while Maroussia worked each day in the Office of
Repatriation, I typed out the "minutes." Finally I told the inspector to
inform the Americans that the document was ready for delivery. The next day
he informed me that someone would wait for me in a room in the Hotel des
Boulevards and give me the first five hundred thousand francs. I was then to
go to the Soviet consulate, pass the money on to the diplomat, and return to
the hotel with the document.
As I entered the hotel room, I could see a large bundle under the
bedspread. I had no way of carrying it except in my pockets, and I didn't
know how I was going to manage that since I already had the document in my
pocket and I was not going anywhere to pass the money on to anyone.
If I came back from the consulate with the money still on me, I would
be found out. And I would surely be followed when I left the hotel. I did
the only thing I could think of. I stuffed the money into my pockets and,
just as I got to the door, I pulled the document out, handed it to the
startled agent, and said, "I am going to pass the money on." He started to
say something, but I was already halfway down the stairs.
Outside the hotel, I took a taxi to the consulate, followed by two
cars.
When I arrived, I had the bad luck to run into the consul, Skobelov.
"There you are," he said. "I want to talk to you for a few minutes. Take off
your coat and come into my office." I couldn't refuse but I couldn't go in
there with my pockets bulging with all those bills. "Excuse me a moment," I
replied, "I have to have a few words with the secretary first. I'll be with
you in a couple of minutes."
As Skobelov started upstairs to his office, I went out the front door
onto the street. Pretending not to see the two cars that followed me, I
crossed the avenue and took a streetcar that stopped a few steps from my
home. I wrapped the money in oilcloth and buried it in the coal bin in the
cellar.
Then I took the tram back to the hotel. The American agent was furious,
and demanded to know why I had rushed out of the hotel. I said the reason
was obvious. Clearly, he was not alone in the hotel and I was well aware
that they could easily have taken the money back once they had the paper. He
wanted to know why I had gone home after I left the consulate and I don't
remember exactly how I got around that. It was clear that he did not believe
me, but I felt it didn't make much difference. The only thing that mattered
was that they couldn't prove the document was counterfeit.
Though they had promised not to try to find out the name of the Soviet
diplomat who had sold the information, I was soon summoned by the Belgian
inspector, who had been the original intermediary, to meet some American
agents at the Hotel Metropole. They bombarded me with questions. I just kept
saying that I knew nothing more than I had already told them, and I kept
repeating that they had promised not to ask for the defector's name.
As we were talking, I heard a funny noise in the next room. I jumped up
and threw all my weight against the door that opened into the adjoining
room. This sent three inspectors of the Belgian security police, who had
been listening at the door, sprawling to the floor and made the American
agents furious. One called in two more colleagues. By this time, I had had
quite enough. I had my pistol in my pocket and was ready to use it if I had
to. I told them the affair was over and I did not wish to see any of them
again. Thank God, they let me go. If they had tried to stop me, I would have
shot them dead before they could have made a move and then I would have had
to take refuge with the Soviets and been sent back to Russia.
I did not know then that the Soviets knew all about my history in the
affair of the treasure.
Now I had quite, a bit of money, though the Americans, as I expected,
never paid me the second half. For some time my life went along without
incident. I put the money in a bank vault so as not to arouse the suspicions
of the Belgian police. After a few months I thought my income plus
Maroussia's salary would be enough to explain an improved standard of
living, so I bought a new car.
This peaceful situation was not to last, however. One evening we were
at a meeting at the Union of Soviet Patriots hall in Brussels. As it was
breaking up, Consul Skobelov rose to speak. "Comrades, I have some good
news. The Presidium of the Supreme Soviet of the Soviet Union has authorized
the return of one of our members -- Nicholas Svidine." I thought I must be
dreaming. Ma-roussia almost fainted. This was very mysterious and
frightening. I was not even a Soviet citizen and it was common knowledge
that I had been an officer in Wran-gel's army. I certainly had not requested
a passport. The audience applauded and everyone shook my hand. I accepted
their congratulations and said nothing.
After the meeting, Maroussia and I went to see Breslav, who was the
secretary-general of the union. He thought the whole thing was bizarre and
agreed to go see the consul the next day. When he came back, the told me the
consul demanded to see me personally. I asked him to accompany me.
When I arrived, the consul delivered the following speech: "We know
with absolute certainty that you were in Bulgaria with General Pokrovsky at
the time that he was killed by the Bulgarian police. We also know that he
was in possession of a fortune which, of course, he had stolen from the
Russian people. You are the only one who remains of his entourage and we
also know that you have;on occasion, sold large quantities of valuables and
diamonds. We regard this as proof that you have knowledge about the
treasure, and what remains of it. Besides this, we have the records of a
counterrevolutionary group in Germany that pursued you for two years, though
they failed to find you."
He was silent for a moment. I said nothing.
"Now you belong to the Union of Soviet Patriots. Since you have lived
abroad, you have committed no hostile act against your country, and you have
not been active in any of the White organizations. During the war your
behavior was absolutely correct. We are aware that you were harassed by the
Belgian police at the instigation of the White Russian emigres. Now,
however, it is your duty to give back to the Russian people what rightfully
belongs to them. It is for that reason that the Soviet Union invites you to
return. You will be paid back generously, and decorated. A few days from now
a Soviet ship will stop at Anvers and take you on board."
As I listened to all this, my first inclination was simply to refuse. I
hesitated. I thanked the consul for the goodwill of the Soviet government
and asked for a few days to think things over. Breslav, whose situation was
delicate, warned me to be very careful. Maroussia begged me to refuse. This
suggested a new tack.
The next day I went back to see the consul. I explained that I was
living with a Russian woman who was also a member of the Union of Soviet
Patriots. "You know, when I think of how she saved my life during the war, I
realize I could never leave her here by herself."
The consul made it plain that this put him in a difficult position with
his superiors. But after thinking it over for a few moments, he promised
that she would be permitted to follow me shortly. "I will not go without
her," I insisted.
For two months they left us alone. Finally, the consul summoned me.
Maroussia had been granted permission to return to the Soviet Union. I
thanked him and went straight to Breslav's. "Now," he admitted, "you are
really in a spot. If you refuse to go, you lose your job and will be
expelled from the union." I didn't care, I told him, and I reminded him that
even though he had left Russia before World War I, he didn't want to go
back. How much more so in my case. I had fought the Soviets for two years,
my whole family had served in the White Army, and everybody was dead. No
matter how you sliced it, the whole deal was unacceptable. I was not a
Soviet citizen, I had not requested citizenship. How dare they simply order
me to return? "You will have to so inform the consul," I concluded.
When Breslav returned, he told me that the consulate was in an uproar
and the consul himself wanted to see me. I agreed on the condition that we
meet in Breslav's home. That night, over dinner, Breslav asked me why I was
in such a state about going back to Russia. "But it's obvious," I told him.
"I'm afraid." He seemed unwilling to just accept that. He asked me why I was
afraid and told me I would be given a hero's reception. Even he did not seem
to understand why, after having lived all these years on my own, I would be
so resentful at being handed a fait accompli by a government I had no
relation to, and every reason to resent and distrust. Furthermore, I assured
him, after all these years, I was not sure I could find the treasure; it
might have been discovered and taken away (I was pretty sure this could not
be true, but I spoke with conviction). "How would the authorities react to
that? I would be a traitor, an officer of Wrangel's army, an enemv of the
people. It would mean Siberia."
The next day even Breslav advised me to refuse. If it had not been for
the money I had gotten from the Americans, I would have been desperate,
because I couldn't get a Belgian work permit. And now I had lost my job.
15. An End to My Prisons
SO I BEGAN TO THINK about the treasure again. I had to have a good deal
of money to go after it again, and now I would have to obtain a new passport
under a different name, since the Soviets knew all about me. I also needed
at least two people to help me, and that too would cost money. I couldn't go
to anyone for backing. They would want to know who I was, and if they
breathed one word to the Belgian police, I would be arrested again as a
swindler.
I had to make some money. Every morning Maroussia applied a yellow
liquid to her hair. When I asked her what it was, she told me that her
father, who was a doctor, had invented a way of restoring color to graying
hair. After a number of experiments, I was finally persuaded that it did
work. We planned to merchandise it, and I christened it Serebrine, from the
Russian word for silver. At first, we were refused permission to manufacture
and sell it in Belgium but after it was tested in government laboratories,
we got a license. We set about the task of introducing it to the market with
our extremely limited resources.
Our business went only moderately well. A bottle of Serebrine sold for
a hundred and thirty Belgian francs, and though sales were good, we didn't
gross enough to cover our costs. Advertising was very dear, and even though
we sold only for cash, our expenses ate up seventy-two percent of what we
took in. I had tried to raise capital from a number of sources, but some
were skeptical about the product and others had imposed unacceptable
conditions. It would be a pity to throw in the towel so soon. We had put up
a lot of money and effort into it, and we had never had a single complaint
from a customer. In fact, we had letters from all over the country
testifying to the product's effectiveness. We had no outstanding debts on
Serebrine, and if I had had a job, I could have liquidated the business, but
I could not get a work permit, and if the Belgian police were to discover
that I was unemployed, they would expel me from the country without a
passport.
I was so worried I could not sleep nights. This was the time of the war
between the People's Republic of China under Mao and Nationalist China under
Chiang Kai-shek. My sympathies were with Mao, who seemed to be the weaker.
The Americans were completely on Chiang's side and were pouring an enormous
amount of aid into his campaign. He was using their money for luxuries. I
decided to get hold of some of that money.
First of all, I studied everything I could find on what was going on in
China. I received some Soviet journals that were not very widely circulated
in the West. When I felt I knew enough to discuss the Chinese situation with
anyone, I called up the Chinese ambassador in Brussels. I told him I had
something important to communicate to his government and asked to see him as
soon as possible. The next day I went to the embassy and was received by the
ambassador, a man of infinite charm and refinement.
The plan I had devised to assist Mao -- like the document on the Soviet
meeting that I had furnished to the Americans -- has never been found out as
phony. I told him there was a Soviet headquarters organized to offer
assistance to Mao, located in Kharbin, a Russian city in Manchuria. From the
Soviet publications, I knew the names of the generals stationed in Siberia
and who among them had contacts with Mao. Because I was able to include many
of the real facts about the situation and the personnel in Manchuria, my
story rang true. My connection with the Union of Soviet Patriots was also
well known (only Breslav knew that I had been expelled) and I still went
regularly to the restaurant run by the union. It was generally believed that
I had been relieved of my duties in order to prepare for my departure to the
Soviet Union, or because I had received a new assignment.
The Chinese ambassador was enthusiastic about my offer to pass him
information about Russian aid to Mao. He cabled Marshal Chiang immediately,
and a few days later he informed me that my offer had been accepted. He
would pay me for any information I gave him on a scale running between two
hundred thousand and five hundred thousand Belgian francs. I accepted. For
the next three years I passed on all kinds of false information and was well
paid for it.
But eventually the arrangement came to an end. One night the ambassador
summoned me urgently. I was afraid I had been found out, but I could hardly
refuse to go. We met in a supper club in the city and the ambassador was
very nervous. Chiang had told him to obtain exact intelligence on the Red
strategy for the inevitable battle at the Yellow River. I had never before
been asked for such precise information; ordinarily, I furnished rather
general information about Soviet assistance and various projects. I told him
information would be hard to come by, that it would take at least two weeks,
and that I could not guarantee anything. For the next two weeks I pored over
all the news sources I could lay my hands on, and I stared at a map of China
that I kept in my apartment. Then I prepared a report and presented it to
the ambassador, pretending, as I always did, that I had got it from a Soviet
diplomat in Brussels who had connections in Moscow. Once again, my so-called
information turned out to be correct. Chiang's army was defeated and had to
withdraw to Formosa. A week later, the ambassador called me again, but I
decided to call this particular arrangement to a halt.
I furnished other such "interesting" information to a number of
embassies, including the Mexicans. One day as I was leaving their embassy,
carrying the cash I had just been paid for a "document," I was picked up by
two policemen and taken to a nearby station house. They confiscated the
money (though they gave me a receipt). The ambassador had his information
now, and evidently he wanted his money back. However, since we both posted a
claim on the money, neither of us could get it. Some time later, the
Mexicans threatened to denounce me to the Soviets unless I withdrew and
allowed them to recover their money. I did what they asked but they
denounced me anyhow.
I was obliged to tell the whole story to the counselor of the Soviet
embassy in Brussels. He scolded me for giving their counterintelligence
service such a bad name. I explained that after the Union of Soviet Patriots
had thrown me out I had no other way to make a living. He was understanding
but had no advice to offer. He was very flattering about the "document" I
had sold the Americans, although he said that any Soviet expert would have
known it was false right off the bat from some of the language. "Anyhow,
congratulations," he said. "It was a great job."
I don't want to name all the embassies to whom I sold information, but
there were many. My career in this line of work came to an end, however,
some time later in Switzerland. I had fallen ill in Vevay and couldn't pay
my hotel bill and, as a result, I was not thinking clearly. I wrote the
United States embassy in Berne offering them important information from the
Soviet Union. But I neglected to keep my fingerprints off the letter and
they checked them as a matter of course. When I telephoned the embassy to
follow up, I was told to go to a cafe near the federal capitol. There, I
would get a telephone call and be told the exact time and place for a
conference. I was suspicious, but I had no choice. When I arrived, the cafe
was empty except for two very engrossed couples and a lone man reading a
newspaper. It looked too well-staged, but I sat down at a table and ordered
a coffee. A few minutes later the telephone rang and the owner announced, "A
call for Monsieur Nicholas." I waited a moment before I got up and said,
"That's me." I hadn't taken three steps before all five of them had me
surrounded.
The man who had been reading the newspaper was a Swiss federal police
inspector named Muller. Very politely, he asked me to come along with him. I
told the police that the Americans had cheated me of some money a few years
back and that I was simply trying to get it back. They held me for about
three weeks and then Muller, again very politely, invited me to leave
Switzerland.
So I returned to Brussels, where the sales of my homemade secret
documents had been providing me with the capital to finance the Serebrine
enterprise. Business was better and I was looking forward to future
prosperity. Unfortunately, just then I got myself into another tight spot.
While I was still on good terms with the Soviets, I had undertaken a project
for them in order to raise money for another expedition to Bulgaria. I had a
franchise to import typewriters from East Germany -- then the Soviet zone of
occupation -- and to sell them in Western Europe. I had to pay for shipping
and insurance and had to borrow over a million Belgian francs from four
different individuals; the business and financial arrangements were very
complicated. I was late in repaying my creditors.
Two of them, to whom I owed altogether six hundred thousand francs,
were getting impatient. To get them off my back, I paid them off, but I was
still in debt to the tune of another six hundred thousand francs. I was
looking for a way to raise the additional money.
To add to my troubles, the chief inspector of the Belgian security
police had it in for me. Somehow he learned that I owed P. two hundred
thousand francs, his investment in the German typewriter deal plus interest.
Once he found out, he persuaded P. that I had to be deported as a security
risk.
P. visited me. "Listen," he said, "this typewriter business is dragging
on too long. The money I loaned you isn't mine. It belongs to my uncle and
he is getting very nervous.
"What can I do? Why not bring him here and I'll explain things to him."
"That's okay but he won't believe you unless you show him something in
writing. You must have something official in writing."
"Nothing but the original letter from Berlin that you read."
"So what? Make something up. We'll show it to him and tear it up
afterward."
"Okay, bring him around to your house tomorrow. But I must have your
word of honor that I can tear up the paper as soon as he leaves."
I went to the consulate and typed some notes about shipping and other
details on Soviet letterhead. The next day P. introduced me to his "uncle."
We had a drink and chatted about this and that. Then I brought up business.
I assured him that everything was going well but that if he wanted to
withdraw his investment, I would repay him the following week. As I said
this, I took out the letter and handed it to him. He read it carefully and
then folded it and calmly put it in his pocket. "What are you doing?" I
said. "Why are you taking my letter?"
"Because it is a forgery and I am placing you under arrest," he said,
pulling out his police badge. I was convicted and put in prison.
Needless to say, the Serebrine company foundered. Maroussia could not
keep it going alone, and when I was released, I was issued a travel permit
and ordered to leave Belgium. It was clear that I would never obtain the
legal right to settle anywhere with such a document. My only choices were to
get a passport of some kind or give up, and I was not ready to give up. I
bought myself a good passport and with it I operated in several European
countries as a clandestine export-import liaison between Western and Eastern
Europe. Naturally, this was entirely extralegal, and I was often assumed to
be a Russian spy. At one point, an official of the Ministry of the Interior
refused to issue me a permit to settle in France because I had not paid any
taxes. But how could I pay taxes when my official identity was false?
For four months I did manage to live legally in Paris but it meant
going to the police headquarters constantly to get my permit renewed, and
the official from the Ministry of the Interior hounded me incessantly.
Finally, I was assigned to live in Rennes, in Brittany. Rennes is a charming
city, but I looked everywhere for a job, and after two months I had to face
up to the fact that there was nothing there I could do. I had to get
someplace else. To lead the kind of clandestine life I did, you have to have
at least three passports. It's very tricky. I was arrested once in Nice for
using a false name and not having a residence permit and sent to prison in
Aix-en-Provence. Because I was a middle-aged man, I was assigned to the
infirmary and there I made a new and extraordinary acquaintance. For
whatever reason, a man presented himself at the prison one fine day and
simply said, "I am Paul Leca. I want to give myself up." I had been
immediately impressed with the deference with which both guards and
prisoners treated him. It turned out that Paul Leca was a famous gangster,
who had been involved in a theft of some of Begum Aga Khan's jewels. He had
subsequently disappeared in South America for a while. His return was
signaled by a series of gangland murders in Corsica and southern France.
Various inconvenient witnesses were being eliminated one by one. He was a
fascinating person and we spent a lot of time chatting about his adventures.
Unfortunately, I did not have the chance to get to know him better. The
court of appeals upheld my sentence and I was transferred to Les Baumettes
to finish out my term.
I brought a case of sausages from Leca to some of his friends there,
and because I was known as a friend of his, I was once again put in the
infirmary, a relatively comfortable spot.
Two years after that, I received a letter from Leca. He was out of
prison and wanted to get together. He invited me to come to Nice, in the
south of France, where he owned a restaurant. I was vacationing in Alassio
in Italy and I wrote him that I preferred to meet there, since I was trying
to steer clear of places where the police were likely to be on the lookout.
He arrived after a few days and we had a splendid reunion. Leca made me
several propositions, any of which would have bought me all the residence
and work permits I could use, if I had simply accepted and then gone to the
police. But I assured him I would do no such thing, thanked him for his
friendship, and declined.
About this time I got interested in the tierce, which is a form of
racetrack gambling very popular in France. I had come to the conclusion that
it is possible to win quite a bit of money if one played the tierce
systematically. Of course, it is necessary to place substantial bets. I
figured out a system that has worked out quite well over the years, and I
managed to win between sixty and one hundred thousand francs a year. But it
is hard work. So that's the way I lived, betting and moving around. But I
also met the last woman in my life. We have been together for almost eleven
years and, even in the hardest times, she has never let me down.
16. Back to the Treasure
I DIDN'T THINK MUCH about the treasure then for a long time. But every
so often the thought would come to me that if I died it would be gone
forever. I finally decided that I had to do something about it, even if I
couldn't find anybody to help. I finally wrote to the Bulgarian ambassador
in Paris, telling him what was involved and offering to share what was left
with the Bulgarian Government. He wrote back to say that he had forwarded my
letter to Sofia. When I telephoned the ambassador a month later, he asked me
to come to the embassy. I preferred to meet at a cafe nearby. He indicated
that his government was inclined to accept, but wanted to know my
conditions. I told him I would offer a proposal shortly.
My plan involved a friend in Paris who was a former member of the
National Assembly. I approached him with it. The two of us would go to
Bulgaria together, posing as simple tourists, during which time I would show
him the first hiding place. At our ages, it would be physically impossible
for us to actually dig it up. When we were back in Paris, I would inform the
Bulgarians that my friend could conduct them to the first hiding place, but
that he did not know any of the others. Whatever they recovered was to be
transported to the French consulate, where it would be appraised by a
Parisian expert whom I would send. My half of the treasure would be given to
my friend to give to me.
The Frenchman and I agreed, but when I laid it out to the Bulgarians, I
saw at a glance that it was unworkable. It was clear to me that they would
immediately alert the Russians, who would claim the treasure as their
rightful property. The plan had been impractical, but at least I was sure
that the treasure was not in any immediate danger. Before I did anything
more about it, however, I decided that I ought to go to Bulgaria to make
sure that the hiding places were still intact. But it was a long time before
I was able to make the voyage, only a few years ago. And that trip was a
series of adventures.
I thought I might try to enter Bulgaria from Greece, where I had a
friend who had been a fellow officer during the Civil War. Somehow, I had
never been able to accept his invitations to visit him and his Greek wife.
Now I went there to see them to tell him my plan. He said I had come to the
right man. He could help. All I needed was a small solid boat and a reliable
crew. He knew a captain who smuggled, but who was a man of his word and a
good sailor. He arranged for us to meet. We went down into the old section
of the city near the port and were admitted into a whitewashed stone
building by an old woman. The captain was there, a giant of a man with a
magnificent black beard and incredibly large hands and arms. My friend
explained: I had to land in Bulgaria, stay there for about three days, and
then go to an Italian port. The captain agreed to take me, and set a
reasonable price. I was to take a regular ferry to the island where he kept
his boat.
I had no trouble finding his boat in the little port. It looked like an
ordinary fishing boat, with a sail and a motor, about twenty yards long. The
captain was in the interior of the island on business. While I waited for
him, I stayed at his house, which was luxurious and exquisitely furnished
with Oriental rugs. He threw a party for me the evening he returned, with
members of his crew and a small orchestra. Greek wine and the local cognac
flowed like water and a whole lamb was cooked on a grill.
Two days later we set out. I had paid for my trip in dollars and the
captain had said that he was going to purchase Bulgarian tobacco while we
were there. He promised me that he would not sell it illegally until after
he had landed me at an Italian port. We left the island about 4 P.M. As we
came close to the entrance to the Dardanelles toward evening, the captain
told me that a storm was brewing and that he would have to put in at a small
port on one of the islands. We didn't make it, however. The waves grew huge
and the wind howled. The boat pitched so deeply that I thought it would turn
over. I was certain we would sink. I lav on my bed, since I could not stand
without cracking my head against the walls of my cabin. The storm raged
until 3 A.M. and then began to calm down. About 5 A.M., as dawn was
breaking, I looked outside the cabin. I could hear the captain's voice just
outside my door. When I opened it, there he was, and I have never been so
happy to see anyone in my life. He smiled at me through his magnificent
beard. "So, you are still alive."
He had not been able to reach any of the islands, of course. And, in
fact, for the moment we had had to stay as far from land as possible so as
not to be driven onto the beach. There was some damage to the boat but
nothing serious. It could be repaired in a few days and then we would
continue on our way. Eventually, we stopped at a small village on one of the
islands, where I spent a very pleasant two days. Then we went to
Constantinople, where we purchased fuel and provisions. The next day we
pushed on and soon we had entered the Black Sea, which I have always been in
love with.
But before we got to Bulgaria, the captain came to my cabin. "I don't
know why you are going to Bulgaria," he said, "and I don't care. All I ask
is that you do nothing to cause trouble between me and these people. As far
as I'm concerned, you are a tourist on a pleasure cruise. And you know
nothing about my business. Right?" I assured him that he had nothing to
worry about. "I have come to check on some personal business," I said.
"That's all." It was the truth.
Before I even thought seriously about trying to recover the treasure, I
had to make sure it was still there. I had no doubts that it was, but I
wanted to find out whether the terrain had altered. Perhaps the woods had
been cut down, or somebody might have built on the site. We landed, and
after the usual formalities, the captain headed for Plovdiv, the center of
the tobacco market. He gave me three days' leave before I had to be back at
the boat.
Disembarking was easy. The customs officials were very friendly. The
city had changed tremendously since I had been there last and I did not
recognize many of the streets. I strolled around all that day, and set out
on my expedition toward evening. I was wearing old clothes so as to melt
easily into the general population.
By daybreak I had reached the first hiding place. It was undisturbed.
By late afternoon I had found the other three spots. They too were
untouched. All this had taken longer than I had planned and I was physically
exhausted as well. Since I couldn't leave until it was completely dark, I
stretched out to catch a nap. I must have been asleep for about three hours
when I was awakened bv voices nearby. Two men were talking and were
evidently awaiting a third person. They may have been bandits. In any case,
I was afraid to move even an inch because the noise of the dry leaves would
have given me away.
I drew my pistol slowly. My back and legs were aching. I didn't know
whether they were armed. This went on for about two hours, and then I heard
a dog barking. The Bulgarians called out. It must have been their friend
with his dog. The damn dog would certainly discover me. In a few minutes,
the dog had picked up my scent. He began to bark and growl. At first the men
must have thought he had found some animal. He was right on top of me and I
was sure he was about to go for my throat, when I shot him in the snout,
leaped up with my gun drawn, and ordered them to hold their hands up. I had
taken them completely by surprise. To my relief I could see they were not
armed, though each carried a big club. I told them to throw their clubs
down. They realized immediately from my accent that I was Russian. All to
the good. It made them all the more careful. I asked them what they were
doing there. They told me some cock-and-bull story about looking for a lost
dog. I said that was nonsense and that they could be shot as thieves. "Get
out of here, fast," I said, and they set out running.
By about 5 A.M. I was almost back at the port. I lay down in a small
woods nearby for about an hour and then went back on board. Once back in my
cabin, I slept for fourteen hours, almost till midnight. I had some supper
and spent the rest of the night reading. Early the next morning, I heard the
captain come back aboard and went out to greet him. "We will leave
tomorrow," he said. "I haven't been able to do any business but I hope your
affairs went well."
As we entered the Aegean the captain asked whether it was all right
with me if we changed course. "It will add two or three days to the trip,"
he said, "but you will see islands most tourists have never seen." I had
nothing bet ter to do and it seemed like a delightful prospect. That night I
went to sleep peacefully.
About i A.M. I was awakened by shouting and screaming on the deck. I
could hear people running around and falling down. I ran up to see what was
going on. I couldn't believe my eyes. There were about twenty men attacking
our crew. The captain was fighting like a madman, with his back up against
the mast. I saw him pick a man up and heave him into the sea. Then someone
hit me over the head.
When I came to, I had a fierce pain in the back of my neck and I
couldn't move. My hands were tied behind my back and there were irons on my
ankles. And I was thirsty as the very devil, my mouth so dry I couldn't even
call out. I had a fantasy that I had fallen into the hands of men who knew
about the treasure and were going to torture me to find out the secret.
I was in a dark room and on land. I couldn't hear a sound, and I could
barely make out my surroundings. Then I lost consciousness again. When I
awoke the next time I was astonished to find myself in a well-lighted room,
lying on a clean bed. Just as I was getting ready to call for help and ask
for something to drink, a young man came into the room with two pitchers,
one of cold water and the other of white wine. He spoke to me in Greek,
which I could not understand. Nor could he comprehend any of the languages I
tried out on him. Then he began to count with his fingers. When he saw that
I still did not understand, he lowered the lamp and raised it again, holding
up seven fingers. I understood that he was telling me that I would have to
wait until seven o'clock. He was not wearing a watch but when I pointed to
his wrist, he held up his fingers to indicate that it was 11 A.M. I pointed
to the wound on my head and groaned. He left and came back after a few
minutes with an old, toothless crone dressed all in black. When she saw my
wound, she began to scold the young man. Then they both left. I thought I
wouldn't see them again.
After a half hour they returned. She was carrying a bowl of hot water
and a big wad of absorbent cotton. He had some cold meat, goat cheese, and
bread and fruit. The woman gestured for me to turn over. Then she washed my
wound with water and bathed it with an evil-smelling liquid which, to my
surprise, eased the pain. Then she set a plate full of food in front of me.
They both wished me kalispera, "good night," and left.
My appetite had come back and I ate heartily. I was still trying to
understand what in the world was going on. At last, even in my state, I
dismissed the idea that it had anything to do with the treasure. The only
person in Greece who knew anything about it was my Russian friend, whom I
trusted absolutely. I decided to put it out of my mind and try to get some
sleep.
When I woke up the next morning, two men were standing over me, staring
at me with curiosity but with no apparent hostility. "Good morning," one of
them said in fairlv good French. "How did you sleep?"
"How could I sleep well when here I am kidnapped and tied without
knowing why? What's going on?"
The one who spoke French translated for his companion, who was clearly
his superior. They were both well dressed in European style. The more
important man wore an expensive suit and a gold watch. He wanted to know who
I was, what I had been doing on the boat, and how long and how well I knew
the captain. I asked if they were from the police and they answered, "We are
as far from the police as the moon is from the earth."
They were gangsters. The captain and I had agreed on what my story
should be if anyone wanted to know what I was doing on board his boat. So I
told them that I was a former officer of the Russian White Army and that
therefore I couldn't safely enter any communist countries. But I had had my
heart set on going to Bulgaria to see my only sister, who had married a
Bulgarian. This seemed to satisfy them. I hoped the captain had stuck to our
story.
They wanted to know if I knew why the captain went back and forth to
Bulgaria. I said I didn't and that if they knew the captain, they also knew
that he was not the kind of man one questioned too closely. Without another
word they turned to leave, and the interpreter said, "Monsieur is satisfied
with your answers. You will learn his decision this evening."
I looked out through the barred window. The building was about two
hundred yards from the sea and in the distance I could see a tiny island. I
was almost certainly on one of those tiny islands in the Sporades and
therefore far from any of the main routes. The time passed slowly as I
waited to learn what "Monsieur" had decided. It was quite late when the
interpreter finally returned. He handed me an envelope.
"Monsieur regrets," he said, "that you have been so badly treated. Here
is a thousand dollars. He wants you to accept it to make up for the unjust
treatment you have received. Tomorrow, a doctor will come to take care of
you. In the meanwhile, the old woman who took care of you last night will
look after you. In a couple of days you can leave here with the captain,
provided he agrees to make retribution for the harm he has done us. If he
refuses, we will take you to any port that you choose. There is only one
condition: you must swear to tell no one what has happened. It is to your
advantage to accept this condition, because the police are after both the
captain and us and I promise you they will give you nothing but trouble if
they find out about all this."
I swore I would speak to no one. Immediately after-ward, the old woman
and the young man came with fresh bandages and food. They also had a large
jug of cool white wine. The old lady was so gentle with me that after she
had cleaned my wound, I kissed her on both cheeks. She placed her hand
softly on my head and said something that I would have given anything to
understand. When they left, I ate, then drank the whole jug of wine and
threw myself on the bed quite drunk. The next morning the young man woke me
and escorted me to another building. It had the same plain exterior but was
very luxurious inside. He took me to a bathroom, where I was overjoyed to
find my baggage, my papers and my books. I shaved, bathed, and changed my
clothes.
When I came out, he was waiting for me. "In a few days," he said, "you
will be far from here, and I believe your friend the captain will be the one
to take you. He is being quite reasonable and there is peace between us
now." I was delighted. He led me into a drawing room, beautifully furnished
in the Middle Eastern style, and offered me some strong Turkish coffee. Just
then a small man, also dressed in the European style, appeared in the
doorway and announced in perfect German that he was a doctor. He examined my
wound and pronounced it not serious. The swelling was already going down. He
reban-daged it, and advised me to keep it covered for three days and after
that to let nature take its course.
These gangsters were treating me so graciously that I was beginning to
feel at home. I was almost ready to forgive them for my injury and the
brutal way they had treated me. It must be a matter of two rival gangs
involved in the same illicit traffic. All I hoped was that my part in their
adventures would soon be over.
I saw the captain again about noon. The door opened suddenly and there
he was -- covered with bruises and almost his entire head in bandages. He
threw his arms around me and kissed me on both cheeks. "My friend," he said,
"I am so glad to see you. I hope you are feeling better. Forgive me for this
frightful experience. I had no idea. One day they will pay for it. Someone --
it had to be someone in my crew -- betrayed me. I'll find out who it was and
then he had better watch out."
The young man came to lead us to another room, where we were served an
excellent lunch. The captain told me that he had lost two men. The cook had
been killed and a sailor had been fatally wounded. The attackers had also
had two killed, both by the captain himself. The boat had suffered some
damage but would be able to embark in a couple of days. I thought it best
not to ask what had been the cause of the trouble. Once before, I had asked
him what I had imagined was a harmless question and he had changed from a
friendly companion into a cold, terrifying stranger.
That evening, the chief, who was leaving the next day, gave a banquet
to celebrate his reconciliation with the captain. We ate bounteously and
drank gallons of wine until four o'clock in the morning. Everybody got
drunk, including me. The men drew their pistols and started firing into the
ceiling. At the end the chief brought two pretty dancers who had entertained
during the evening to the captain and me. Unfortunately, I was so drunk that
I fell asleep as soon as I hit the bed.
That afternoon the captain and I walked around the island. I tried to
find out where we might be by referring to Lemnos. He pretended not to
understand. Honor among thieves. He would not betray his own enemies.
The next day, the captain was as anxious as I to leave. Since there was
no wind, he started up the engine, and soon we were far from the island. The
two missing crew members had somehow been replaced. The captain was in a bad
mood. and I understood he was brooding about the traitor who had given away
his course and the enormous sum he must have had to pay to ransom himself,
his crew and his boat.
He got his revenge on the traitor that night. After dinner we were
playing checkers when he announced suddenly that he was going to retire. I
was exhausted and only too willing. I fell asleep immediately, and was
awakened by such terrible and bloodcurdling screams that I covered my ears.
I was sure the captain was extracting a confession from the suspect.
The next morning he asked me if I had slept well. answered, "Never
better." But about noon I noticed that the old helmsman was missing. The
captain himself was at the rudder. Three days later he let me off at the
same port| from which I had embarked, and before I left he gave me back the
money I had paid him. "You were almost killed and it was all my fault," he
said. "Take this money and don't give me any argument. Just keep all this to
yourself."
When I saw my old Russian friend again, I had to tell him all about my
trip. He was terribly upset that he had put me in such danger. "Not at all,"
I told him. "I had to see if it was still there."
I spent a week with him and his wife, and though they wanted me to stay
longer I decided I had to get away from Greece. I wanted to go home. All
that was left for me now was to dream about the treasure of the White Army
buried in an obscure Bulgarian forest.
Only I know where.