Authors: Owen Matthews
Veselov wrote from Stockholm. 'I am a hunter rather than a fighter, a strangler rather than a boxer,' he told his prospective client. Mervyn was impressed. He was also poor. At the end of term, he took a boat from Tilbury to Stockholm. The smorgasbord dinner cost thirty shillings, and Mervyn went hungry rather than pay the money. His third-class cabin had four berths in it and was noisy and cramped. He continued to write to Mila, but through his friend Jean-Michel in Brussels in order to conceal his whereabouts from the KGB censors. In Stockholm he checked into the Salvation Army Hotel. Mervyn's great crusade was becoming a distinctly threadbare affair.
Veselov turned out to be a dishevelled fifty-year-old with high Slavic cheekbones who lived in a tiny apartment on a nondescript street in a working-class area of the city. He introduced his young Swedish wife, who spoke no Russian, and then, with more interest, his black cat, Misha. They sat down to talk in the apartment's single room, dusty and stuffed with furniture, Russian-style.
He described his past triumphs with great animation to Mervyn; one of his greatest successes had actually been released from a prison camp. Producing a large roll of what looked like wallpaper, Veselov walked to the end of the room and dramatically unrolled it. The wallpaper was covered with press cuttings from one of his cases. Mervyn admired his skills, both at collage and at getting people out of Russia.
Veselov spoke little of himself, but did tell Mervyn that he was an Old Believer, a schismatic sect of Russian Orthodoxy renowned for its traditionalism, which had been persecuted in Russia for centuries. He also said that he had served as a colonel in Finnish Intelligence in the war. Mervyn suspected that Veselov had deserted from the Red Army during the Russo-Finnish war of 1939-40. He had a heavy Volga accent, smoked strong cigarettes, liked company and was passionate about honesty. If the press ever heard that he had lied, Veselov said, they'd never accept another story from him again. He was also an enthusiastic amateur novelist, and was working on an epic about ancient Rome. His heroine was a lusty Roman courtesan, who resembled, Mervyn thought, a Volga whore. Late in the evening, Veselov treated Mervyn to a lengthy and passionate reading of his manuscript. Every so often its creator would pause and say, 'Oi, Mervyn! What a girl, what a girl!' When Mervyn finally plucked up the courage to cut him off and go home, in the early hours of the morning, Veselov seemed deeply offended. 'Oh, that's enough is it?' he sniffed.
In July, after a long period of silence, the spirit, or rather the news that Alexei Kosygin was due in Stockholm on an official visit, moved Veselov to contact Mervyn. There was press interest, and Mervyn should try once again to get to the Soviet Premier and give him a letter. Mervyn was sceptical. One more letter, after all the others which had no doubt gone unread, would probably do no good. But the publicity might be helpful.
Expressen,
the Swedish daily, was delighted when Mervyn called. A love interest was just what was needed to pep up the rather dour story of Kosygin's visit. The paper agreed to pay some of Mervyn's travel costs. My father's expenditure on constant travel was by this point so far ahead of his income that he was considering selling the Pimlico flat and getting something cheaper in the suburbs.
Mervyn arrived in Stockholm on the eve of Kosygin's visit, and put up in the Apolonia Hotel. The next morning he was met at the hotel by an
Expressen
car, a journalist and two photographers, armed with a detailed plan of Kosygin's itinerary. The plan was to hand Kosygin a letter as he drove to the Haga Palace, the government residence. As he sat in the park he had time to write a letter to Mila.
'As you probably guessed I've come to Stockholm to see Alexei Nikolayevich [Kosygin] and if possible give him a letter . . . Just now I'm sitting in the quiet park surrounding the government residence. He should be here in an hour. The residence is very large, with a beautiful lake in front. There's a police boat on it at the moment. A typical corner of Scandinavia, rather sad. I'm glad they don't charge you for sitting on the benches, but I am sure that the day will come when they fit coin boxes.'
In the event, the massive police guard kept Mervyn and the
Expressen
team far away from Kosygin's speeding car. The
Expressen
men left immediately afterwards, and Mervyn wandered around uselessly in Kosygin's wake, and in the late afternoon decided to ask the Swedish police if they could help him deliver his letter to Kosygin and his daughter, but he was arrested and put in a cell till the evening. He was finally released without explanation, and made his way back to Veselov's, tired and indignant. Veselov was filled with joyous outrage.
'Terrible! And this is a so-called civilized country! But it's just what we needed. We might be able to win the case through this! Come on, we've got to get down to the
Expresser:
office, perhaps they can still get something into tomorrow's edition.' Veselov's jaw was set hard, spoiling for a fight. 'The police officer will have to be disciplined, and we'll write to the Interior Minister about it.'
The next day the story of Mervyn's arrest appeared in
Expressen,
and also in the
Aftonbladet
and
Dagens Nyheter,
with a photo of a haggard Mervyn talking on the phone. Mervyn was quoted somewhere as saying that Sweden was like a police state, which evoked a solitary letter from an indignant Swedish reader telling Mervyn that he should have more respect for the laws in a foreign country.
But all in all he had got nowhere, and ended up dropping his two letters into a postbox. There had been about a dozen small pieces in the British press, and a two-page spread in the German
Bild,
but in truth Mervyn realized that after four years he was still no closer to getting Mila out.
In December 1968, as Derek and Mervyn emerged from the Audley pub in Mayfair, they spotted a Soviet diplomatic car, registration SUI, parked outside the Mission of the United Arab Emirates. They got chatting to the chauffeur, who told them the Soviet Ambassador Mikhail Smirnovsky and his wife were due to come out shortly. Mervyn and Derek waited on the pavement till they emerged, and Mervyn accosted them. They both recognized Mervyn immediately, and Smirnovsky's wife looked alarmed.
'Mr Smirnovsky, why cannot we get married?' Mervyn demanded.
'We are well aware of the case,' said Smirnovsky, flustered, as he pushed past Mervyn into his waiting car. 'You must not create difficulties.'
Derek told the
Evening Post
that the encounter was 'one of the most heartening things that has happened for a very long time. At least it proved that the Russians are well aware of our continuing fight to get married.'
Mervyn kept busy. One project, inspired by the Smirnovsky incident, was to write to all 110 heads of diplomatic missions in London pleading his case. He bought a second-hand manual rotoprinter to produce leaflets and circulars which he planned to distribute around London, but the machine just created mess in his tiny bedroom, covering his bed sheets in printer's ink. In early April Mervyn designed a leaflet featuring juxtaposed pictures of Mila, Eleonora and Mrs Smirnovsky with the caption 'Three Soviet Women', with a brief summary of the story on the back. He had them printed professionally, despite the cost. Mervyn and Derek were threatened with arrest as they stuck the leaflets under windscreens of diplomatic cars in Kensington Palace Gardens.
Mila, in Moscow, was also beginning to feel her energy and optimism fade. She wrote a despondent letter in late December. On New Year's Day, 1969, Mervyn replied in an indignant tone: 'The situation may seem hopeless to you, if you really think so you should either say so outright or believe in me even more . . . In the course of the last nine months of 1968 about fifty articles have appeared in the newspapers of several countries on my attempts to sort things out. Apart from that please don't criticize what you don't understand, the point is that you have hardly any facts by which to judge my activities. And remember that today nothing could hurt me more than assertions that I am trying in vain. Today I am busy with our affairs, but I also started to prepare for term.'
On 2 January, in better spirits, Mila sent a telegram: 'Best New Year greetings to my dear Celt, I love him faithfully, believe, and await our happiness, longing for you, kisses, Mila.'
Mervyn decided that he could risk writing a new book about Soviet society, since Mila was apparently safe and had suffered no further reprisals since her sacking from the Institute four years before. The project might even redeem the wreck of Mervyn's academic career. At the very least, the prospect of researching another book energized him, and he began looking for funds. He took short holidays in Morocco, Turkey and the Balkans.
For good measure, Mervyn and Derek were also lobbying for a motion of support in the House of Commons; a Private Member's Bill was tabled, calling on the House to 'Urge the Secretary of State for Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs to take up again the cases of Derek Deason and Mervyn Matthews, both of whom wish to marry girls who cannot get a visa to leave the Soviet Union, both on humanitarian grounds and in order to remove what is becoming an increasing obstacle in the way of better Anglo-Soviet relations.'
The book idea soon paid off. Colombia University in New York offered my father a three-month visiting fellowship. Mervyn was overjoyed. It would be a welcome change from the disappointments of London, and because Manhattan was home to the United Nations, it offered a whole new field for campaigning.
Zhit ne po lzhy!
- Live not by lies!
Alexander Solzhenitsyn
Mervyn arrived in New York at dawn on 20 April 1969. He took a yellow cab to the Hotel Master on Riverside Drive, where he checked into a large but dingy room. Mervyn cared more about the phone lines, and went straight down to talk to the elderly switchboard operator, Grace. She assured him that he would probably be able to get through to Moscow. Satisfied with the communications, Mervyn went out for a ninety-nine-cent breakfast in a diner.
The next week brought important news. Derek sent him a small dipping from the
Guardian:
'The Fea yesterday asked the Soviet ambassador, Mr Smirnovsky, if he could confirm reports that Gerald Brooke, aged thirty, a lecturer, serving a five-year prison sentence in Russia for alleged subversive activities, was likely to be re-tried for espionage . . .' Brooke had been due for release in April 1970; the Krogers still had over a decade of their sentences left to serve.
Izvestia
had suggested as early as 1967 that Brooke might be re-tried because of alleged involvement in espionage. Now the summoning of the Soviet ambassador meant the rumours were well-founded. But how Wilson's government would react to Moscow's renewed blackmail was still unclear.
Mervyn wrote to U Thant, Secretary-General of the United Nations, and penned two indignant articles for the Russian émigré newspaper,
Novoye Russkoye Slovo.
As previously arranged, he exchanged long letters and audio tapes every week with Derek, the phone being too expensive except for urgent news.
More news on Brooke appeared in
The Times
on 16 June: 'A Foreign Office spokesman has said that the negotiations on Mr Brooke's case (not necessarily on a transfer with the Krogers) have been proceeding. There, it appears, the matter still rests. A spokesman did, however, yesterday deny reports of a visit to Britain by Herr Wolfgang Vogel, an East German lawyer, as being in any way part of the exchanges.' If Vogel was involved, reasoned Mervyn, something must definitely be afoot.
My father fired off terse telegrams to the Foreign Office: 'Brooke-Kroger Exchange Must Include Soviet Fiancées Bibikova, Ginzburg. Watching Developments Closely. Considering Public Action,' he wrote to Michael Stewart, who was now serving a second stint as Foreign Secretary. 'Brooke Negotiations Include Bibikova And Ginzburg, No Other Course Acceptable,' he telegraphed Sir Thomas Brimelow, Deputy Under-Secretary of State at the Foreign Office and one of Mervyn's most hated FO mandarins.
On 18 June he followed up with letters. 'Dear Brimelow [sic], It has just come to my attention that you may be considering a Brooke-Kroger exchange. Both Derek Deason and I will expect our long-suffering fiancées to be included in it . . . The disastrous events of 1964 are still fresh in my memory, and it is not my intention to allow the FCO to make more blunders at my expense. A Brooke-Kroger exchange [without the fiancées] would be another collapse on your part . . . Frankly, we will require an undertaking that any further exchange negotiations will also include our fiancees. Otherwise we shall have no alternative to take every possible step, public and private, to prevent our interests being ignored after so many tearful years. Copies to the Prime Minister and the Director of Intelligence.'
There was a heated row over the proposed exchange in the Cabinet on 20 June 1969. The arguments in favour of getting Brooke out of Russia were strengthened by the testimony of a British sailor, John Weatherby, who had been briefly interned in Russia and had met Brooke in prison and confirmed that his health was deteriorating. Harold Wilson had firmly opposed the swap since it had been first suggested in 1965, but finally allowed himself to be won over. Perhaps he remembered the persistent young Welshman who had buttonholed him in his Moscow hotel room and on the street in London. More likely, he wanted the seemingly endless saga of Brooke to disappear, and the addition of the Soviet brides to the deal would help to sweeten the bad publicity and charges of giving in to blackmail which would surely follow. Citing humanitarian grounds, the Cabinet formally authorized the exchange. Negotiations on the practicalities would be opened with the Soviets forthwith. Finally, the 'juggernaut of history' of which Mila had written so bitterly had shifted its course.