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It was on the last day of the war when a column of Russian armoured cars in the army of General Zhukov arrived at a British prisoners-of-war camp south-east of Berlin.

A small flag fluttered in front of the foremost car. Inside were a Russian colonel and three other officers. The youngest of them was Vladimir Michaelovitch Rogov. The Colonel spoke to him in a rasping voice which carried above the thump of the engine and the heavy rumbling drone of the other cars.

“I shall need you as interpreter with these English prisoners. Do you speak their damned language well enough?”

“It was my mother’s language,” answered Vladimir.

One of the officers sitting behind—he wore the green badge of the military police—leaned forward and spoke in the young man’s right ear.

“No fraternization. We have strict orders.”

Vladimir nodded. He had already been told by this officer that when they came in touch with the British or Americans there was to be no intermingling, no demonstrations of comradeship, nothing beyond cold civility. These people had been fighting against the Germans, but victory was due to Russia alone, and the Allies still remained ideological enemies in defence of the last crumbling bulwarks of Capitalism and Pluto-Democracy. Between them and the Russian Army there must be an iron curtain to prevent a possible contamination of the Russian soul.

At the entrance to the camp a great crowd of English prisoners were shouting and cheering at the approach of the Russians. Vladimir felt his heart give a queer lurch as he saw them. He felt excited and emotional. His blue eyes were alight because of an inner and irresistible sense of comradeship with those who had been fighting the common enemy. He wanted to laugh in answer to these cheering men, the English. He wanted to leap out of his car and embrace them. There was a smile on his lips and for a moment his eyes were wet.

It was a momentary weakness, taking him off his guard, and due to an overwhelming sense of brotherhood with these English soldiers. It was the first time he had ever seen an English crowd, though now in a dream-like way, by some atavism in his own blood and soul, they seemed familiar to him, those Cockney faces, those thin, sharp-featured, English types. Their clean-shaven jaws and lean bodies and finely cut faces were lighter and more delicate than the Slav structure of the flesh. In that first intense observation of them he seemed to have seen them all before. He seemed to know them as though he had belonged to them in some former life. He had their blood in his own body. That no doubt accounted for this sensation of familiarity and brotherhood, which for a little while extinguished political and ideological differences.

The armoured cars had halted inside the camp, beyond the barbed wire and close to the watch-towers. When Vladimir followed his Colonel out of the armoured car with the two other officers he was surrounded by the English prisoners of war, still laughing and cheering. One young man—a sergeant by the stripes on his sleeve—grasped his hand and was pump-handling it.

“Glad to see you, Russki. Sprechen sie Deutsch? Parlez-vous? My languages don’t go as far as Russian.”

“I speak English,” said Vladimir; “my mother was an English lady.”

“You don’t say so!” exclaimed the sergeant. “Well, that’s a bit of luck, and this is a great day for all of us. Nice of you to help us win the war! We couldn’t have done without you.”

Vladimir laughed. It was wonderful being able to understand this English soldier in spite of his accent.

“The Soviet armies have done much to win the war,” he said proudly and gladly. “The English and Americans helped on the other side. We acknowledge that.”

The sergeant was pushed on one side by the pressure of the crowd. Several men thrust their way forward to get near this English-speaking Russian.

“You Russkies have beaten the band,” said one of them. “We’ve heard all about it on our secret wireless. Good old Zhukov!”

“I’ve been three years in this lousy cage,” said another. “Welcome to our camp, brother, and get us home as soon as you can. I want to see my wife and kids.”

“Shake hands, Russki,” shouted another English soldier. “I’d like to kiss you on both cheeks and shed tears on your beautiful epaulettes.”

One man put his arm round Vladimir’s shoulder. “What’s the Russian word for comrade?” he asked. “I’d like to learn it.”

Vladimir laughed, and answered him: “Tavarish. We call all our friends that. But I like the English word comrade. It gives me great pleasure to speak English again. Do any of you know Clapham Common?”

There was a roar of laughter. “Cripes, yes!”

“My mother——” said Vladimir.

Suddenly he was interrupted by his Colonel who thrust his way through the Englishmen and spoke harshly to Vladimir.

“You are forgetting yourself, Lieutenant. I shall report you to headquarters. You are disobeying instructions.”

“Excuse me,” said Vladimir. “These English soldiers are eager for a little demonstration of comradeship. Perhaps for a short time——”

“Our orders are precise,” said the Colonel sharply. “Fraternization is strictly forbidden, even for a few minutes. Tell these men that I wish to speak to their senior officer. Tell them that no one must leave the camp. Anyone who disobeys will be shot.”

Vladimir was no longer smiling. He translated the Colonel’s words into English in a loud clear voice. The effect upon the English prisoners, he noticed, was disconcerting. It was as though he had thrown ice-cold water over them. He was sorry the rules were so rigid. Weren’t they inhuman and abominable? No, he must crush down thoughts like that. Since boyhood he had had to crush down little devils of doubt which had tempted him constantly to betray his faith in the pure gospel of the Soviet State with all its severities, terrible sometimes, and its call for sacrifice and obedience. It was because of his English blood that he had been so tempted by the little whispering demons of doubt. They came out of his mother’s milk. They came out of English books he had read as a boy. He had thrust them back with a kind of horror lest he should be disloyal to the Soviet State. Sometimes he thought he had killed them, but lately they had surged up again and threatened to overwhelm him.