In the same ornate,
white room some Red Guards were rummaging curiously around, while my
old friend, the Colonel, stood by the window biting his moustache.
He greeted me like a long-lost brother. At a table near the door sat
the French Bessarabian. The Bolsheviki had ordered him to remain,
and continue his work.
"What could I do?" he muttered. "People like myself cannot fight on
either side in such a war as this, no matter how much we may
instinctively dislike the dictatorship of the mob.... I only regret
that I am so far from my mother in Bessarabia!"
Baklanov was formally taking over the office from the Commandant.
"Here," said the Colonel nervously, "are the keys to the desk."
A Red Guard interrupted. "Where's the money?" he asked rudely. The
Colonel seemed surprised. "Money? Money? Ah, you mean the chest.
There it is," said the Colonel, "just as I found it when I took
possession three days ago. Keys?" The Colonel shrugged. "I have no
keys."
The Red Guard sneered knowingly. "Very convenient," he said.
"Let us open the chest," said Baklanov. "Bring an axe. Here is an
American comrade. Let him smash the chest open, and write down what
he finds there."
I swung the axe. The wooden chest was empty.
"Let's arrest him," said the Red Guard, venomously. "He is
Kerensky's man. He has stolen the money and given it to Kerensky."
Baklanov did not want to.
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