The Foreign Office, which Christy called by its incomprehensible name, was in a big block of buildings at the corner of an open place beyond the Red Square. A young soldier in an overcoat made for a bigger man, so that the sleeves came below his hands, barred the way with his rifle at the foot of a staircase, until Christy said, “Tavarish Weinstein.”
At the top of the staircase, Christy plunged down a corridor, turned sharply to the left, knocked at a door, and opened it without waiting for an answer. It was well past midnight, but at a desk heaped with papers, a man sat working. He was a delicate-looking man, past middle age, with a pointed beard and moustache, like a French painter. Like such a type, also, he wore a jacket of brown velveteen. He looked up at Christy’s entrance, and Bertram saw that the pleasant aspect of his face was spoilt by “crossed” eyes.
“Good evening, Mr. Weinstein! This is my friend, Bertram Pollard of The New World.”
“Glad to meet you, Mr. Pollard. A tiring journey, I’m sure.”
He shook hands with Bertram, with a limp, soft touch, and spoke in a gentle, tired voice. As chief of the propaganda department of the Soviet Republic, he did not come up to Bertram’s expectations of a leading Bolshevik. He might have been the editor of The Ladies’ Home Journal, or one of the most respectable members of the Royal Academy. He did not even look like a Jew.
“You purpose to visit the Famine region of the Volga?” he asked Bertram, and then, in a melancholy voice, said something about the tragic conditions in that part of Russia. The Republic was doing its best to cope with them. But it was very difficult. They needed foreign help. From England and the United States.
“We have nothing to hide,” he said presently. “Go where you like, see what you like. Write what you like. We only ask you to tell the truth. So many lies have been told about us. Incredible! We welcome the truth. We wish the world to know.”
“My friend Pollard is a glutton for truth,” said Christy, with just the flicker of a wink at Bertram. “Where are you going to billet him, Mr. Weinstein? With me, I hope?”
“Certainly. You are comfortable?”
“Luxurious, even.”