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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.
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.
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.
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,
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.
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.
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.
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,