Heirs And Descendants Collection

11. Yellow Forsythia

When Paulo Sergeyovitch Korovin married Tanya Malonovna Kuznetsoka, originally from Lithuania, it was not because love had brought them together. It was more a case of obligation on Korovin"s part, and the aspirations and connivance of Tanya. Paulo"s mother could speak little Russian, and when she fell ill, and Tanya nursed her, it was through Paulo"s interpretation that her symptoms and requirements were conveyed.

Tanya and her five siblings were poor even by Northern Russian standards. Her mother suffered from chronic bronchitis and was only able to work few hours in the machine factory, a two mile walk from their communal apartment block. Her father, who had lost a leg in the October revolution of 1917, received scant recompense for his sacrifice other than the pride he was constantly reminded he should have. The illness suffered by Paulo"s mother, on the other side of the partitioning wall, came as manna from heaven to the Kuznetsoka"s, as the family were willing to pay for their daughter"s time, and handsomely at that. For two and a half years this arrangement went on, until death took Andrea away, and Paulo repaid Tanya and kept his promise.

Tovarisch, to give Paulo his full Russian name or far more commonly referred to as simply Comrade Sergeyovitch, was, at the time of his mother"s death in 1955, twenty-three years of age, and had served in the KGB for three years since leaving Leningrad University, where he had written his final thesis on international law. He had joined the Communist Party when he was sixteen and at the time of the wedding, working in the fifth Directorate dealing in counter intelligence, widening his thoughts on his own expectations of life.

On their arrival in Leningrad in May 1935, Andrea Isadora Mafalda Cortez was 26, and her son Romario three. They were part of the Basque refuge"s evacuated from Spain at the start of the Civil War to the Republican supporters; Russia. Andrea had sewn money given to her by her lover and the father of her son, Lord Maudlin Paterson, into both her own and the child"s clothing, hoping that their temporary communist hosts would not search them too thoroughly.

“I managed to get it in roubles, and it should see you through for a year or two. I will send more for the boy and yourself as soon as I can; you may need it.”

Maudlin told her this, after he had said that his homeland of England was out of the question for them to relocate to, owing to the position he held. He never quite explained what that was, but knew it would be sufficient for the practical and realistic Andrea. It was to be the last of his escapades, as his own father was, by now, showing the first signs of dementia and by 1939 his future lay at "Annie"s" door. He sought one last dash, before representing his country through the Bank of St George in a much more restrained way.

Ireland had ended badly for him. On the s*******r of the "Cairo Gang" his cover had been blown, and his patriotism and respect for others smashed, so he had looked for more adventures elsewhere in a solo role, unconnected with the echelon of rank. Spain was the obvious choice, with the tensions between the ruling Republicans and the Nationalists, led by General Franco, rising by the day. He offered himself to the British Foreign Office and was sent to San Sebastian, on the northern coast, to monitor the arrivals of the volunteers to Franco"s fascist army. He simply noted their names, and feigned friendship.

"Cairo Gang"He was forty-three, with a family of four children at home in Yorkshire, but that did not stop his philandering eye selecting the beautiful, dark-skinned, Andrea as his next mistress. She had fallen pregnant early in their relationship, much to Maudlin"s initial annoyance; however, Andrea"s appeal was deeper than one just based on s*x. Maudlin had found love for the umpteenth time in his lecherous life. That version of his love had lasted an abnormal amount of years compared to other moments of amore he had endured previously, but one year later it was beginning to wane.

amoreShe had told him, in one of their heart-to-heart conversations, of relatives who had settled in the City of St Petersburg in the time of the Tsar and of its golden steeples and marbled halls; so it had seemed to him to be a perfect place in which to park-up his mothering lover. He was as good as his word when he received her one letter home allowed by the Soviets, addressed to him at the Embassy in Madrid.

The bonds were dispatched with no enclosed letter of remorse or sympathy. He was unmoved emotionally, by her and his son"s distress, confident in the solid belief that they were far enough away to cause no such pain in his own life, and money would solve their predicament. Daft, he was not at least in a monetary way, never expecting them to be cashed to their face value in some High Street bank but he believed, sincerely, that the black-market would cash them for her and give in return sufficient roubles for their wants. However, he was unaware of Kim "Stanley" Philby"s intervention. In any case, by November the following year, that so-called love for Andrea had been replaced by a new, more opportune one, named Veronica, who lived around the corner in Hans Place SW1.

The earth moved from beneath Maudlin"s feet when, in July of 1946 a letter, redirected from the Madrid Legation Ministry, arrived at his Eton Square home, and he was forced into a whole new direction. He did not recognise the writing, but knew instantly who it was from.

Part of Maudlin"s benevolence had been invested by Andrea in the absorption of the English language, taught to her son by an émigré who had fled the British Isles, seeking the neutrality of the USSR at the start of the war in which to hide his cowardice; only to find himself conscripted into the Red Army in 1941, where his conscientious objections counted for nothing.

“Listen well to these lessons, my boy. You will never regret it. The language will stay with you all your life, if you listen well.” Andrea had told her son, as she ruefully remembered her own inability to concentrate at Maudlin"s feet. His proficiency in Spanish was, unfortunately, their preferred means of parlance.

Maudlin"s illegitimate son had penned that letter of 1946, in which he detailed his and his mother"s plight. He told of how they had been unable to locate the relatives and were still at the Baskov address and how he had been educated at school number 193 in that district. How the leather-jacketed "Chekists" had issued them new papers, identity cards, and new names. Andrea, he told, had expected money, but none had come. She does not blame you, father. She never has. It is the system that she holds responsible.

She does not blame you, father. She never has. It is the system that she holds responsibleShe had spoken to her son of how time must have moved on in Maudlin"s life, and how she accepted that, ascribing no accountability to Maudlin in any way. He quoted his mother"s words again, when he wrote: "You were a kind man, and I knew what I was doing in our affair. I was aware of your marriage. You were as honest to me as I was to myself."

You were a kind man, and I knew what I was doing in our affair. I was aware of your marriage. You were as honest to me as I was to myself.He went on to say how they felt betrayed by the Soviets; and imprisoned by them.

We cannot leave this country as they told us we could. They say it is Franco"s fault, not theirs, but not all countries have been overrun by fascists, surely? We are housed like animals, and treated much the same. You cannot trust anyone, as everyone is frightened by the authorities. Mother has made friends in the Postal Sorting Office, where she works, so that is how we have been able to send this letter. If I have been successful in reaching you, then I will acknowledge any reply you make. Please, if there is anything you can do for us in the way of money, we will love you forever. The political officer in the Sorting Office is the one who taught me my English, and is a particularly good friend. Address any letters to Tovarisch Sereyovitch Korovin. He will be less suspicious, and not jealous. He signed the letter Paulo.

We cannot leave this country as they told us we could. They say it is Franco"s fault, not theirs, but not all countries have been overrun by fascists, surely? We are housed like animals, and treated much the same. You cannot trust anyone, as everyone is frightened by the authorities. Mother has made friends in the Postal Sorting Office, where she works, so that is how we have been able to send this letter. If I have been successful in reaching you, then I will acknowledge any reply you make. Please, if there is anything you can do for us in the way of money, we will love you forever. The political officer in the Sorting Office is the one who taught me my English, and is a particularly good friend. Address any letters to Tovarisch Sereyovitch Korovin. He will be less suspicious, and not jealous.Rather than ignoring the cry for help that lay on his desk he picked up the challenge, and began to pull his ex-lover and his child free from their misery. He sent Bonds in smaller denominations than before, and again in roubles.

He cautioned Paulo to be vigilant in their exchange, and begun to school him in the arts of deception.

“If you"re asked where they came from, tell them that you got the money from an uncle abroad; say Spain, it will suit your cover story better than England. If you can use banks over there, then enlist the help of others, and pay them well for their silence. If you have to rely on the black market then use the same man, if it is at all possible. It will cut down the chances of you being discovered. Do not spend the money in large quantities, or waste it. Use it to buy influence and favour, and note well who they are, the people who take your bribes. You may be able to use that information. Use the system that you"re in to further yourself within it. Buy your status, but be careful. Get a sound education through your own endeavours on which you can build your foundation. There is nothing I, or anyone else, can do regarding repatriation. There"s an iron curtain being pulled across the whole of Europe, and Stalin has the cords. You must wait until it is reopened.”

“That bastard Stalin! A curse on Russia!” Paulo would repeat over and over, whenever he was alone with his mother.

Those, and more, were the words of wisdom and advice that Maudlin passed on to his son, and Paulo began to admire his father through those dispatches. The frequent references to secrecy particularly impressed him and stirred his already fertile imagination. Not being one to sit on his hands and let life unfold before him, he decided to change his lot. On joining the KGB, he was immediately noticed for his excellent English and his devotion to the Communist cause. In 1956 he was selected to become third Naval Attaché and assistant translator at the Soviet Union Embassy in London. In readiness for the State visit of First Secretary of the Communist Party; Nikita Khrushchev, and his Foreign Secretary, Bulganin.

By now, Paulo had relayed the sad news of Andrea"s passing, and of his own marriage. He had explained the full reasons of this, and detailed the commitments he had made to Tanya. After carefully reading his letter, Maudlin developed a deeper affinity towards his son. Why this was, is a matter of conjecture. Judith, with her understanding of the human psyche, could well have diagnosed some sort of regressive personality disorder dating back to his abandonment of Andrea and his son. A feeling of guilt, compared to Paulo"s acceptance of his responsibilities and reaction to those. Maybe it could have been a repressed feeling of inadequacy. However, Judith wasn"t there to pass judgement, and even had she been, it would have had no bearing on the outcome. Whatever it was, he denied it no longer. Maudlin congratulated his son on his well thought-out plan, and offered his help.

* * *

Judith had parked the car about thirty yards from her home in Brownswood Road in the leafy London suburb of Clapham, just off the Common, opposite a huge, yellow flowing forsythia, swarming in bees. My nemeses; as my reaction told.

“Oh, don"t be such a girl, Harry! They"re only bees.”

“To you, maybe, but I"m allergic to them. You could have found a better place!”

“That"s who went missing, Harry. A girl. The person we lost track of…and never found.”