The Influence of Winter on Russian Poetry

By BRUCE RENTON

IWAS writing a thesis, " The Influence of Winter on Russian Poetry." If I had finished it they would have made me a Doctor of Philosophy. Only I never did. I wanted to go to Russia, but everywhere I went in London they told me it was impossible. The only thing to do was to take the law into my own hands. " Go to the frontier," I said to myself, " and explain your problem to them. It always helps to be on the spot.' I caught the Orient Express—with the rough notes of the chapters in my brief-case.

There seemed to be a little cqnfusion as to the exact position of the Russian frontier. At Vienna they turned me out of the train. I explained my problem to the man who took tickets at the gate. He was on my side though he did not really seem the academic type. " They tell me I can't go to Russia," I said to him in my best German. The man looked to the right and left and whispered. " Don't you believe them. Anybody can go to Russia. It's all lies. Anybody can go." With that he took my ticket from me and pushed me into the streets of Vienna.

I must say that the man's words encouraged me. I went straight to the Allied Headquarters. Up the stairs I went till I saw some Russian writing on a door. I went in and explained in Russian to the soldier behind the desk that I was writing a thesis on " The Influence of Winter on Russian Poetry." At the very mention of winter the man spoke to his superior on the telephone. This was the sort of service an academic ought to receive. I had to go all the way to Vienna to get it.

The Chief Liaison Officer was a podgy Russian with a red face and enormous gold epaulettes. He offered me a cigarette that went up in flames as soon as I lit it, then said that he personally was not qualified to say anything about winter but that he would put me in touch with somebody who was. I thanked him and offered him an English cigarette. He hummed and ha-ed a little but in the end he took it.

" I know exactly where to go for information as soon as I get to Moscow, of course," I told him. He was at once profuse with apologies. " Please don't misunderstand me," he said. " I am only trying to save you trouble. Why go to Russia if we can manage the whole thing here in Vienna ? Perhaps if we co-operate a little we can straighten everything out, eh ? ' I had left the main street and was walking across some ruins when whistles blew on my left. There were ominous clicks in the night around me. How odd, I thought. I sat down. Silence. I got up. Whistles and clicks. As a child I never worried about the dark, but when I grew up I got frightened. This always made me laugh at myself. Every time I laugh at myself I lose all sense of proportion. So I suddenly stood up and walked across the common. Gunfire opened up all round me; there were fiendish yells as men went into battle. Through it all I heard ihe same very English voice shout, " Try to take him alive." When I opened my eyes I was in a chair. A British officer was tapping the table with a pencil. " I want you to answer three questions quickly without thinking," he snapped at me. " First question," he snapped. " What do you think of when I say white ? " • " Winter," I said.

The officer turned to some colleagues hovering in the shadows. " What did I tell you 7 " he said triumphantly.

" Second question," he snapped. " What do you think of when I say snow 7." " Winter," I said. The officer rubbed his hands.

- " Third question," he snapped. " What do think of when I say winter ? " ' The influence of winter on Russian poetry," I said.

The officer looked disappointed, and slumped into a chair. A burly man came out of the shadows and caught me by the scruff of the neck. " What was you doin' with the Rooskis ? " he asked. This process was repeated several days running. Then I was released. I at once presented myself to the British Minister in Residence, first to protest against the treatment, and then to ask his advice about going to Russia. I explained my problem to him. I was writing a thesis, I said, on the influence of winter on Russian poetry . . .

" You're a smooth one, I must say," said the Minister. " What a waste to put such talent at the service of the Russians." " Then . . . then you can't help me ? " I faltered. " You'll co-operate ?." asked the Minister tensely. " Why, I'd be only tod willing, sir. My only desire is to get to Russia."

" Safe conduct ? " he asked. " Are those your terms ? " " Oh, well yes, of course, I'd like to get there safely," I said. " I wouldn't like a repetition of the other day."

" Right," said the Minister, slapping the desk. " I give you safe conduct. You give me Winter."

The Minister kept saying he wanted Winter. I said he could not have it till I got back from Russia. lie said I was not a man to be trusted. As there seemed little point in continuing such a conversation I went back to . see the Russian Liaison Officer. My papers ought to have been ready by then.

We went through the cigarette ceremony again. " Is every- thing ready ? " I asked. " I put your case to the M.V.D.," he said. " They were agreeable, on one condition."

" Yes," I smiled. It, " They want Zeema," he said. Zeema is Russian for winter. "And my papers ? " I asked.

" Zeema," said the Russian.

" As soon as I get back from Russia," I said.

" Now," said the Russian.

I told him it was impossible. He only repeated the same thing. As our talks seemed to have reached the conventional deadlock I left.

" No Zeema, no winter," said the Russian as I went out, and I remember thinking what a peculiar sense of humour the man had.

I returned to my cheap hotel room, somewhere in the Gogolasse, and wrote a letter to my tutor. " What a gulf," I wrote, " between the academic and the bureaucratic mind." As I was licking the flap of the envelope there was a knock on the door. " Come in," I called.

The door opened slowly, and the heads of two British military policemen curled round it. The heads vanished; then a man in a fur cap was flung into the room. He picked himself up and sat on a chair. " I hope Winter comes," he said in Russian. " Who on earth are you ? " I demanded, mildly pacified by the fact that he spoke Russian.

" I," said the man, " am Zeema."

I introduced myself and said that, oddly enough, I was writ- ing a thesis on the influence of winter on Russian poetry. " Well, all I hope is that Winter comes," said the Russian. " Winter always does," I said, philosophically. A few minutes later there was another tap on the door. Slowly the door opened, and two heads appeared. Each head had a blue band round the cap, the mark of the M.V.D. The heads vanished, and a second later a man came hurtling into the room.

He picked himself up and stared at the Russian. " I'm Winter, M.I. 8," he introduced himself. " I'm Zeema, M.V.D. II," screamed the Russian and fell on Winter's neck. Next he embraced me while Winter gripped my hand and said, " I don't know who you are, but thanks a lot, chum." He was about to go, but I caught him by the arm. " I think I have a right to an explanation," I said indignantly. He looked at me admiringly. " What a card ! " he said. " We could do with a few more like you in the service." Gaspadin Zeema and Mr. Winter went down the stairs together. I walked to the window. As soon as they appeared there was a fusilade of gunfire from each end of the street. I dropped the curtains and wrote another letter to my tutor. I wanted to change the title of my thesis, I said.