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I FLY FROM PARIS TO LONDON 127 "No, they are wicked. Bolshevik man, he's very bad." Her eyes flash as she speaks. "Then you are bourgeoisie?" "No, but not a Bolshevik." Her voice suggests a tre- mendous vitality, though her vocabulary is limited. "Bol- .shevik good idea for the mind, but not for practice." "Has it had a fair opportunity?" I ask her. "Plenty. My father, my mother, my brother all in Rus- sia and very poor. Mother is Bolshevik, father bourgeoisie. Bolshevik man very impudent to me. I want to kill him. He insult me. What can I do? I escape. Bolshevik good idea, but no good for life." "What of Lenin?" "Very clever man. He tried hard for Bolshevik—but no good for everybody—just in the head." I learn that she was educated in a convent and that she had lost all trace of her people. She earns her living singing here. She has been to the movies, but has never seen me. She "is go first chance because I am nice man." I ask her if she would like to go into moving pictures. Her eyes light up. "If I get opportunity I know I make success. But"—she curls her mouth prettily—"it's difficult to get opportunity." She is just twenty years old and has been in the cafe for two weeks, coming there from Turkey, to which country she fled following her escape from Russia. I explain that she must have photographic tests made and that I will try^ to get her a position in America. She puts everything into her eyes as she thanks me. She looks like a combination of Mary Pickford and Pola Negri plus her own distinctive beauty and personality. Her name is "Skaya." I write her full name and address in my book and promise to do all I can for her. And I mean to. We say "Good night," and she says she feels that I will do what I say. How has she kept hidden? Due at Sir Philip Sassoon's for a garden party the next day, I decide to go there in an airplane and I leave the Le 11