HOW THE STEEL WAS TEMPERED - Nikolai Ostrovsky (Thép đã tôi thế đấy)

Fyodor left the power station for a job at the railway yards, where it was easier for him to carry on his work. At the electric station he had been cut off from the railway.
Traffic on the railway was exceedingly heavy. The Germans were shipping carloads of loot by the thousand from the Ukraine to Germany: rye, wheat, cattle...
One day the Hetman''s guards arrested Ponomarenko, the station telegrapher. He was taken to the guardhouse and brutally beaten. It was he, evidently, who gave away Roman Sidorenko, a workmate of Artem''s.
Two Germans and a Hetman''s guard, the Station Commandant''s Assistant, came for Roman during working hours. Without saying a word, the Assistant Commandant walked over to the bench where Roman was working and cut him across the face with his riding crop.
"Come along, you sonofabitch!" he said. "You''ve got some explaining to do!" With an ugly leer he seized hold of the mechanic''s arm and wrenched it violently. "We''ll teach you to go around agitating!"
Artem, who had been working at the vice next to Roman, dropped his file and came at the Assistant Commandant, his massive frame menacingly poised.
"Keep your fists off him, you bastard!" Artem spoke hoarsely, doing his best to restrain his rising fury.
The Assistant Commandant fell back, unfastening his holster as he did so. One of the Germans, a short-legged man, unslung his heavy rifle with the broad-bladed bayonet from his shoulder and sharply clicked the bolt.
"Halt!" he barked, ready to shoot at another move.
The tall, brawny mechanic stood helpless before the puny soldier; he could do nothing.
Both Roman and Artem were placed under arrest. Artem was released an hour later, but Roman was locked up in a luggage room in the basement.
Ten minutes after the arrest not a single man was working. The railway yard workers assembled in the station park where they were joined by the switchmen and the men employed at the supply warehouses. Feeling ran high and someone drafted a written demand for the release of Roman and Ponomarenko.
Indignation rose higher still when the Assistant Commandant rushed into the park at the head of a group of guards brandishing a revolver and shouting:
"Back to work, or we''ll arrest every last man of you on the spot! And put some of you up against the wall!"
The infuriated workers replied with a bellow that sent him running for cover to the station. In the meantime, however, the Station Commandant had summoned German troops from the town and truckloads of them were already careering down the road leading to the station.
The workers dispersed and hurried home. No one, not even the stationmaster, remained on the job. Zhukhrai''s work was beginning to make itself felt; this was the first time the workers at the station had taken mass action.
The Germans mounted a heavy machine gun on the platform; it stood there like a pointer that has spotted a quarry. Next to it squatted a German corporal, his hand resting on the trigger grip.
The station grew deserted.
At night the arrests began. Artem was among those taken. Zhukhrai escaped by not going home that night.
All the arrested men were herded together in a huge freight shed and given the alternative of either returning to work or being court-martialled.
Practically all the railwaymen were on strike all along the line. For a day and a night not a single train went through, and one hundred and twenty kilometres away a battle was being fought with a large partisan detachment which had cut the railway line and blown up the bridges.
During the night a German troop train pulled in but was held up because the engine driver, his helper and the fireman had deserted the locomotive. There were two more trains on the station sidings waiting to leave.
The heavy doors of the freight shed swung open and in walked the Station Commandant, a German lieutenant, his assistant, and a group of other Germans.
"Korchagin, Polentovsky, Bruzzhak," the Commandant''s Assistant called out. "You will make up an engine crew and take a train out at once. If you refuse, you will be shot on the spot. What do you say?"
The three workers nodded sullen consent. They were escorted under guard to the locomotive while the Commandant''s Assistant went on to call out the names of the driver, helper and fireman for the next train.
The locomotive snorted angrily, sending up geysers of sparks. Breathing heavily it breasted the gloom ahead as it pounded along the track into the depths of night. Artem, who had just shovelled coal into the firebox, kicked the door shut, took a gulp of water from the snubnosed teapot standing on the toolbox, and turned to Polentovsky, the old engine driver.
"Well, pa, are we taking it through?"
Polentovsky''s eyes blinked irritably under their overhanging eyebrows.
"You will when there''s a bayonet at your back."
"We could chuck everything and make a dash for it," suggested Bruzzhak, watching the German soldier sitting on the tender from the corner of his eye.
"I think so too," muttered Artem, "if it wasn''t for that bird behind our backs."
"That''s right," Bruzzhak was noncommittal as he stuck his head out of the window.
Polentovsky moved closer to Artem.
"We can''t take the train through, understand?" he whispered. "There''s fighting going on ahead. Our fellows have blown up the track. And here we are bringing these swine there so they can shoot them down. You know, son, even in the tsar''s time I never drove an engine when there was a strike on, and I''m not going to do it now. We''d disgrace ourselves for life if we brought destruction down on our own kind. The other engine crew ran away, didn''t they? They risked their lives, but they did it. We just can''t take the train through. What do you think?"
"You''re right, pa, but what are you going to do about him?" and he indicated the soldier with a glance.
The engine driver scowled. He wiped his sweating forehead with a handful of waste and stared with bloodshot eyes at the pressure gauge as if seeking an answer there to the question tormenting him. Then he swore in fury and desperation.
Artem drank again from the teapot. The two men were thinking of one thing, but neither could bring himself to break the tense silence. Artem recalled Zhukhrai''s question: "Well, brother, what do you think about the Bolshevik PaCommunisthe Gommunist idea?" and his own reply: "I am always ready to help, you can count on me..."
"A fine way to help," he thought, "driving a punitive expe***ion..."
Polentovsky was now bending over the toolbox next to Artem. Hoarsely he said:
"That fellow, we''ve got to do him in. Understand?"
Artem started. Polentovsky added through clenched teeth:
"There''s no other way out. Got to knock him over the head and chuck the throttle and the levers into the firebox, cut off the steam and then run for it."
Feeling as if a heavy weight had dropped off his shoulders Artem said: "Right!" Leaning toward Bruzzhak, Artem told him of their decision.
Bruzzhak did not answer at once. They all were taking a very great risk. Each had a family at home to think of. Polentovsky''s was the largest: he had nine mouths to feed. But all three knew that they could not take the train to its destination.
"Good, I''m with you," Bruzzhak said. "But what about him? Who''s going to..." He did not finish the sentence but his meaning was clear enough to Artem.
Artem turned to Polentovsky, who was now busy with the throttle, and nodded as if to say that Bruzzhak agreed with them, but then, tormented by a question still unsettled, he stepped closer to the old man.
"But how?"
Polentovsky looked at Artem.
"You begin, you''re the strongest. We''ll conk him with the crowbar and it''ll be all over." The old man was violently agitated.
Artem frowned.
"I can''t do it. I can''t. After all, when you come to think of it, the man isn''t to blame. He''s also been forced into this at the point of the bayonet."
Polentovsky''s eyes flashed.
"Not to blame, you say? Neither are we for being made to do this job. But don''t forget it''s a punitive expe***ion we''re hauling. These innocents are going out to shoot down partisans. Are the partisans to blame then? No, my lad, you''ve mighty little sense for all that you''re strong as an ox..."
"All right, all right," Artem''s voice cracked. He picked up the crowbar, but Polentovsky whispered to him:
"I''ll do it, be more certain that way. You take the shovel and climb up to pass down the coal from the tender. If necessary you give him one with the shovel. I''ll pretend to be loosening up the coal."
Bruzzhak heard what was said, and nodded. "The old man''s right," he said, and took his place at the throttle.
The German soldier in his forage cap with a red band around it was sitting at the edge of the tender holding his rifle between his feet and smoking a cigar. From time to time he threw a glance at the engine crew going about their work in the cab.
When Artem climbed up on top of the tender the sentry paid little attention to him. And when Polentovsky, who pretended he wanted to get at the larger chunks of coal next to the side of the tender, signed to him to move out of the way, the German readily slipped down in the direction of the door leading to the cab.
The sudden crunch of the German''s skull as it ****d in under the crowbar made Artem and Bruzzhak jump as if touched by red-hot iron. The body of the soldier rolled limply into the passage leading to the cab.
The blood seeped rapidly through the grey cloth forage cap and the rifle clattered against the iron side of the tender.
"That''s that," Polentovsky whispered as he dropped the crowbar. "No turning back for us now," he added, his face twitching convulsively.
His voice broke, then rose to a shout to repel the silence that descended heavily on the three men. "Unscrew the throttle, quick!" he shouted. In ten minutes the job was done. The locomotive, now out of control, was slowly losing speed.
The dark ponderous shapes of trees on the wayside lunged into the radius of light around the engine only to recede into the impenetrable gloom behind. In vain the engine''s headlights sought to pierce the thick shroud of night for more than a dozen metres ahead, and gradually its stertorous breathing slowed down as if it had spent the last of its strength.
"Jump, son!" Artem heard Polentovsky''s voice behind him and he let go of the handrail. The momentum of the train sent his powerful body hurtling forward until with a jolt his feet met the earth surging up from below. He ran for a pace or two and tumbled heavily head over heels.
Two other shadows left the engine simultaneously, one from each side of the cab.
Gloom had settled over the Bruzzhak house. Antonina Vasilievna, Sergei''s mother, had eaten her heart out during the past four days. There had been no news from her husband; all she knew was that the Germans had forced him to man an engine together with Korchagin and Polentovsky. And yesterday three of the Hetman''s guards had come around and questioned her in a rough, abusive manner.
From what they said she vaguely gathered that something had gone wrong and, gravely perturbed, she threw her kerchief over her head as soon as the men left and set out to see Maria Yakovlevna in the hope of learning some news of her husband.
Valya, her eldest daughter, who was tidying up the kitchen, noticed her slipping out of the house.
"Where''re you off to, Mother?" the girl asked.
"To the Korchagins," Antonina Vasilievna replied, glancing at her daughter with eyes brimming with tears. "Perhaps they know something about father. If Sergei comes home tell him to go over to the station to see the Polentovskys."

"What have you against Leszczinski?" Tonya asked.
"He''s a sissy, a mama''s boy without any guts! My fingers itch at the sight of his kind: always trying to walk all over you, thinks he can do anything he wants because he''s rich. But I don''t give a damn for his wealth. Just let him try to touch me and he''ll get it good and proper. Fellows like that are only asking for a punch in the jaw," Pavel went on, roused.
Tonya regretted having mentioned Leszczinski. She could see that this young man had old scores to settle with the dandified schoolboy. To steer the conversation into more placid channels she began questioning Pavel about his family and work.
Before he knew it, Pavel was answering the girl''s questions in great detail, forgetting that he had wanted to go.
"Why didn''t you finish school?" Tonya asked.
"Got thrown out."
"Why?"
Pavel blushed.
"I put some tobacco in the priest''s dough, and so they chucked me out. He was mean, that priest; he''d worry the life out of you." And Pavel told her the whole story.
Tonya listened with interest. Pavel got over his initial shyness and was soon talking to her as if she were an old acquaintance. Among other things he told her about his brother''s disappearance. Neither of the two noticed the hours pass as they sat there in the hollow engrossed in friendly conversation. At last Pavel sprang to his feet.
"It''s time I was at work. I ought to be firing the boilers instead of sitting here gassing. Danilo is sure to raise a fuss now." Ill at ease once more he added: "Well, good-bye, miss. I''ve got to dash off to town now."
Tonya jumped up, pulling on her jacket.
"I must go too. Let''s go together."
"Oh no, couldn''t do that. I''ll have to run."
"All right. I''ll race you. Let''s see who gets there first."
Pavel gave her a disdainful look. "Race me? You haven''t a chance!"
"We''ll see. Let''s get out of here first." Pavel jumped over the ledge of stone, then extended a hand to Tonya, and the two trotted through the woods to the broad, level clearing leading to the station. Tonya stopped in the middle of the road. "Now, let''s go: one, two, three, go! Try and catch me!" She was off like a whirlwind down the track, the soles of her shoes flashing and the tail of her blue jacket flying in the wind. Pavel raced after her.
"I''ll catch up with her in two shakes," thought Pavel as he sped after the flying jacket, but it was only at the end of the lane quite close to the station that he overtook her. Making a final spurt, he caught up with her and seized her shoulders with his strong hands.
"Tag! You''re it!" he cried gaily, panting from the exertion.
"Don''t! You''re hurting me!" Tonya resisted. As they stood there panting, their pulses racing, Tonya, exhausted by the wild chase, leaned ever so lightly against Pavel in a fleeting moment of sweet intimacy that he was not soon to forget.
"Nobody has ever overtaken me before," she said as she drew away from him.
At this they parted and with a farewell wave of his cap Pavel ran toward town.
When Pavel pushed open the boiler-room door, Danilo, the stoker, was already busy firing the boiler.
"Couldn''t you make it any later?" he growled. "Expect me to do your work for you?" Pavel patted his mate on the shoulder placatingly. "We''ll have the fire going full blast in a jiffy, old man," he said cheerfully and applied himself to the firewood.
Toward midnight, when Danilo was snoring lustily on the woodpile, Pavel finished oiling the engine, wiped his hands on waste, pulled out the sixty-second instalment of Giuseppe Garibaldi from a toolbox, and was soon lost in the fascinating adventures of the Neapolitan "Redshirts'' " legendary leader.
"She gazed at the duke with her beautiful blue eyes..."
"She''s also got blue eyes," thought Pavel. "And she''s different, not at all like rich folk. And she can run like the devil."
Engrossed in the memory of his encounter with Tonya during the day, Pavel did not hear the rising whine of the engine which was now straining under the pressure of excess steam; the huge flywheel whirled madly and a nervous tremor ran through the concrete mounting.
A glance at the pressure gauge showed Pavel that the needle was several points above the red warning line.
"Damn it!" Pavel leapt to the safety valve, gave it two quick turns, and the steam ejected through the exhaust pipe into the river hissed hoarsely outside the boiler room. Pulling a lever, Pavel threw the drive belt onto the pump pulley.
He glanced at Danilo, but the latter was fast asleep, his mouth wide open and his nose emitting fearful sounds.
Half a minute later the pressure gauge needle had returned to normal.
After parting with Pavel, Tonya headed for home, her thoughts occupied by her encounter with the dark-eyed lad; she felt happy, though she did not know why.
"What spirit he has, what grit! And he isn''t at all the ruffian I imagined him to be. At any rate he''s nothing like all those silly schoolboys..."
Pavel was of another mould, he came from an environment to which Tonya was a stranger.
"But he can be tamed," she thought. "He''ll be an interesting friend to have."
As she approached home, she saw Liza Sukharko and Nelly and Victor Leszczinski in the garden. Victor was reading. They were obviously waiting for her.
They exchanged greetings and she sat down on a bench. In the midst of the empty small talk, Victor sat down beside her and asked:
"Have you read the novel I gave you?"
"Novel?" Tonya looked up. "Oh, I..." She almost told him she had forgotten the book on the lakeshore.
"Did you like the love story?" Victor looked at her questioningly.
Tonya was lost in thought for a moment, then, slowly tracing an intricate pattern on the sand of the walk with the toe of her shoe, she raised her head and looked at Victor.
"No. I have begun a far more interesting love story." "Indeed?" Victor drawled, annoyed. "Who''s the author?"
Tonya looked at him with shining, smiling eyes.
"There is no author..."
"Tonya, ask your visitors in. Tea''s served," Tonya''s mother called from the balcony.
Taking the two girls by the arm, Tonya led the way to the house. As he followed them, Victor puzzled over her words, unable to guess their meaning.
This strange new feeling that had imperceptibly taken possession of him disturbed Pavel; he did not understand it and his rebellious spirit was troubled.
Tonya''s father was the chief forest warden, which, as far as Pavel was concerned, put him in the same class as the lawyer Leszczinski.
Pavel had grown up in poverty and want, and he was hostile to anyone whom he considered to be well off. And so his feeling for Tonya was tinged with apprehension and misgiving; Tonya was not one of his own crowd, she was not simple and easy to understand like Galochka, the stonemason''s daughter, for instance. With Tonya he was always on his guard, ready to rebuff any hint of the mockery or condescension he would expect a beautiful and cultivated girl like her to show towards a common stoker like himself.
He had not seen her for a whole week and today he decided to go down to the lake. He deliberately chose the road that took him past her house in the hope of meeting her. As he walked slowly past the fence, he caught sight of the familiar sailor blouse at the far end of the garden. He picked up a pine cone lying on the road, aimed it at the white blouse and let fly.
Tonya turned, saw him and ran over to the fence, stretching out her hand with a warm smile.
"You''ve come at last," she said and there was gladness in her voice. "Where have you been all this time? I went down to the lake to get the book I had left there. I thought you might be there. Won''t you come in?"
Pavel shook his head.
"No."
"Why not?" Her eyebrows rose in surprise.
"Your father wouldn''t like it, I bet. He''d likely give you hell for letting a ragamuffin like me into the garden."
"What nonsense, Pavel," Tonya said in anger. "Come inside at once. My father would never say anything of the kind. You''ll see for yourself. Now come in."
She ran to open the gate for him and Pavel followed her uncertainly.
"Do you like books?" she asked him when they were seated at a round garden table.
"Very much," Pavel replied eagerly.
"What book do you like best of all?"
Pavel pondered the question for a few moments before replying: "Jeezeppy Garibaldi."
"Giuseppe Garibaldi," Tonya corrected him. "So you like that book particularly?"
"Yes. I''ve read all the sixty-eight instalments. I buy five of them every pay day. Garibaldi, that''s a man for you!" Pavel exclaimed. "A real hero! That''s what I call the real stuff. All those battles he had to fight and he always came out on top. And he travelled all over the world! If he was alive today I would join him, I swear I would. He used to take young workers into his band and they all fought together for the poor folk."
"Would you like me to show you our library?" Tonya said and took his arm.
"Oh no, I''m not going into the house," Pavel objected.
"Why are you so stubborn? What is there to be afraid of?"
Pavel glanced down at his bare feet which were none too clean, and scratched the back of his head.
"Are you sure your mother or your father won''t throw me out?"
"If you don''t stop saying such things I''ll get really annoyed with you," Tonya flared up.
"Well, Leszczinski would never let the likes of us into his house, he always talks to us in the kitchen. I had to go there for something once and Nelly wouldn''t even let me into the room-must have been afraid I''d spoil her carpets or something," Pavel said with a grin.
"Come on, come on," she urged him, taking him by the shoulder and giving him a friendly little push toward the porch.

She led him through the dining room into a room with a huge oak bookcase. And when she opened the doors Pavel beheld hundreds of books standing in neat rows. He had never seen such wealth in his life.
"Now we''ll find an interesting book for you, and you must promise to come regularly for more. Will you?"
Pavel nodded happily.
"I love books," he said.
They spent several pleasant hours together that day. She introduced him to her mother. It was not such a terrible ordeal after all. In fact he liked Tonya''s mother.
Tonya took Pavel to her own room and showed him her own books.
On the dressing table stood a small mirror. Tonya led Pavel up to it and said with a little laugh:
"Why do you let your hair grow wild like that? Don''t you ever cut it or comb it?"
"I just shave it clean off when it grows too long. What else should I do with it?" Pavel said, embarrassed.
Tonya laughed, and picking up a comb from the dressing table she ran it quickly a few times through his unruly locks.
"There, that''s better," she said as she surveyed her handiwork. "Hair ought to be neatly cut, you shouldn''t go around looking like an oaf."
She glanced critically at his faded brown shirt and his shabby trousers but made no further comment.
Pavel noticed the glance and felt ashamed of his clothes.
When they said good-bye, Tonya invited him to come again. She made him promise to come in two days'' time and go fishing with her.
Pavel left the house by the simple expedient of jumping out of the window; he did not care to go through the other rooms and meet Tonya''s mother again.
With Artem gone, things grew hard for the Korchagins. Pavel''s wages did not suffice.
Maria Yakovlevna suggested to Pavel that she go out to work again, especially since the Leszczinskis happened to be in need of a cook. But Pavel was against it.
"No, mother, I''ll find some extra work to do. They need men at the sawmill to stack the timber. I''ll put in a half a day there and that''ll give us enough to live on. You mustn''t go to work, or Artem will be angry with me for not being able to get along without that."
His mother tried to insist, but Pavel was adamant.
The next day Pavel was already working at the sawmill stacking up the freshly sawn boards to dry. There he met several lads he knew, Misha Levchukov, an old schoolmate of his, and Vanya Kuleshov. Misha and he teamed together and working at piece rates they earned quite well. Pavel spent his days at the sawmill and in the evenings went to his job at the power plant.
On the evening of the tenth day Pavel brought his earnings to his mother.
As he handed her the money, he fidgeted uneasily, blushed and said finally:
"You know what, mother, buy me a sateen shirt, a blue one-like the one I had last year, remember? It''ll take about half the money, but don''t worry, I''ll earn some more. This shirt of mine is pretty shabby," he added, as if apologising far his request.
"Why, of course I''ll buy it for you," said his mother, "I''ll get the material today, Pavlusha, and tomorrow I''ll sew it. You really do need a new shirt." And she gazed tenderly at her son.
Pavel paused at the entrance to the barbershop and fingering the ruble in his pocket turned into the doorway.
The barber, a smart-looking young man, noticed him entering and signed toward the empty chair with his head.
"Next, please."
As he settled into the deep, soft chair, Pavel saw in the mirror before him a flustered, confused face.
"Clip it close?" the barber asked.
"Yes, that is, no-well, what I want is a haircut-how do you call it?" Pavel floundered, making a despairing gesture with his hand.
"I understand," the barber smiled.
A quarter of an hour later Pavel emerged, perspiring and exhausted by the ordeal, but with his hair neatly trimmed and combed. The barber had worked hard at the unruly mop, but water and the comb had won out in the end and the bristling tufts now lay neatly in place.
Out in the street Pavel heaved a sigh of relief and pulled his cap down over his eyes.
"I wonder what mother''ll say when she sees me?" he thought.
Tonya was vexed when Pavel did not keep his promise to go fishing with her.
"That stoker boy isn''t very considerate," she thought with annoyance, but when several more days passed and Pavel failed to appear she began to long for his company.
One day as she was about to go out for a walk, her mother looked into her room and said:
"A visitor to see you, Tonya. May he come in?"
Pavel appeared in the doorway, changed so much that Tonya barely recognised him at first.
He was wearing a brand-new blue sateen shirt and dark trousers. His boots had been polished until they shone, and, as Tonya noted at once, his bristly mop had been trimmed. The grimy young stoker was transformed.
Tonya was about to express her surprise, but checked herself in time for she did not want to embarrass the lad, who was uncomfortable enough as it was. So she pretended not to have noticed the striking change in his appearance and began scolding him instead.
"Why didn''t you come fishing? You should be ashamed of yourself! Is that how you keep your promises?"
"I''ve been working at the sawmill these days and just couldn''t get away."
He could not tell her that he had been working the last few days to the point of exhaustion in order to buy himself the shirt and trousers.
Tonya, however, guessed the truth herself and her annoyance with Pavel vanished.
"Let''s go for a walk down to the pond," she suggested, and they went out through the garden onto the road.
Before long Pavel was telling Tonya about the revolver he had stolen from the Lieutenant, sharing his big secret with her as with a friend, and promising her that some day very soon they would go deep into the woods to do some shooting.
"But see that you don''t give me away," Pavel said abruptly.
"I shall never give you away," Tonya vowed.

Chapter Four
A fierce and merciless class struggle gripped the Ukraine. More and more people took to arms and each clash brought forth new fighters.
Gone were the days of peace and tranquillity for the respectable citizen.
The little tumbledown houses shook in the storm blasts of gun salvos, and the respectable citizen huddled against the walls of his cellar or took cover in his backyard trench.
An avalanche of Petlyura bands of all shades and hues overran the gubernia, led by little chieftains and big ones, all manner of Golubs, Archangels, Angels and Gordiuses and a host of other ban***s.
Ex-officers of the tsarist army, Right and Left Ukrainian Socialist-Revolutionariesâ?"any desperado who could muster a band of cutthroats, declared himself Ataman, and some raised the yellow-and-blue Petlyura flag and established their authority over whatever area was within the scope of their strength and opportunities.
Out of these heterogeneous bands reinforced by kulaks and the Galician regiments of Ataman Konovalets'' siege corps, "Chief Ataman" Petlyura formed his regiments and divisions. And when Red partisan detachments struck at this Socialist-Revolutionary and kulak rabble the very earth trembled under the pounding of hundreds and thousands of hoofs and the rumble of the wheels of machine-gun carts and gun carriages.
In April of that turbulent 1919, the respectable citizen, dazed and terrified, would open his shutters of a morning and, peering out with sleep-heavy eyes, greet his next-door neighbour with the anxious question:
"Avtonom Petrovich, do you happen to know who''s in power today?"
And Avtonom Petrovich would hitch up his trousers and cast a frightened look around.
"Can''t say, Afanas Kirillovich. Somebody did enter the town during the night. Who it was we''ll find out soon enough; if they start robbing the Jews, we''ll know they''re Petlyura men, and if they''re some of the ''comrades'', we''ll be able to tell at once by the way they talk. I''m keeping an eye open myself so''s to know what portrait to hang up. Wouldn''t care to get into trouble like Gerasim Leontievich next door. You see, he didn''t look out properly and had just gone and hung up a picture of Lenin when three men rushed inâ?"Petlyura men as it turned out. They took one look at the picture and jumped on himâ?"a good twenty strokes they gave him. ''We''ll skin you alive, you Communist sonofabitch,'' they shouted. And no matter how hard he tried to explain and how loud he yelled, nothing helped."
Noting groups of armed men coming down the street the respectable citizen closed his windows and went into hiding. Better to be on the safe side. . . .
As for the workers, they regarded the yellow-and-blue flags of the Petlyura thugs with suppressed hatred. They were powerless in the face of this wave of Ukrainian bourgeois chauvinism, and their spirits rose only when passing Red units, fighting fiercely against the yellow-and-blues that were bearing down on them from all sides, wedged their way into the town. For a day or two the flag so dear to the worker''s heart would fly over the town hall, but then the unit would move on again and the engulfing gloom return.
Now the town was in the hands of Colonel Golub, the "hope and pride" of the Transdnieper Division.
His band of two thousand cutthroats had made a triumphal entry into the town the day before. Pan the Colonel had ridden at the head of the column on a splendid black stallion. In spite of the warm April sun he wore a Caucasian burka, a lambskin Zaporozhye Cossack cap with a raspberry-red crown, a cherkesska, and the weapons that went with the outfit: dagger and sabre with chased-silver hilts. Between his teeth he held a pipe with a curved stem.
A handsome fellow, Pan the Colonel Golub, with his black eyebrows and pallid complexion tinged slightly green from incessant carousals!
Before the revolution Pan the Colonel had been an agronomist at the beet plantations of a sugar refinery, but that was a dull life not to be compared with the position of an Ataman, and so on the crest of the murky waves that swept the land the agronomist emerged as Pan the Colonel Golub.
In the only theatre in town a gala affair was got up in honour of the new arrivals. The "flower" of the Petlyura intelligentsia was there in full force: Ukrainian teachers, the priest''s two daughters, the beautiful Anya and her younger sister Dina, some ladies of lesser standing, former members of the household of Count Potocki, a few members of the middle class, remnants of the Ukrainian Socialist-Revolutionaries, who called themselves "free Cossacks".
The theatre was packed. Spur-clicking officers who might have been copied from old paintings of Zaporozhye Cossacks pranced around the teachers, the priest''s daughters and the burghers'' ladies who were decked out in Ukrainian national costumes ornamented with bright-coloured embroidered flowers and multihued beads and ribbons.
The regimental band blared. On the stage feverish preparations were under way for the performance of Nazar Stodolya scheduled for the evening.
There was no electricity, however, and the fact was reported in due course to Pan the Colonel at headquarters by his adjutant, Sublieutenant Polyantsev, who had now Ukrainianised his name and rank and styled himself Khorunzhy Palyanytsya. The Colonel, who intended to grace the evening with his presence, heard out Palyanytsya and said casually but imperiously:
"See that there is light. Find an electrician and start the electric power plant if you have to break your neck doing it."
"Very good, Pan Colonel."
Khorunzhy Palyanytsya found electricians without breaking his neck. Within two hours Pavel and two other workers were brought to the power plant by armed guards.
"If you don''t have the lights on by seven I''ll have all three of you strung up," Palyanytsya told them curtly, pointing to an iron beam overhead.
This blunt exposition of the situation had its effect and the lights came on at the appointed time.
The evening was in full swing when Pan the Colonel arrived with his lady, the buxom yellow-haired daughter of the barkeeper in whose house he was staying. Her father being a man of means, she had been educated at the Gymnasium in the gubernia town.
When the two had taken the seats reserved for them as guests of honour in the front row, Pan the Colonel gave the signal and the curtain rose so suddenly that the audience had a glimpse of the stage director''s back as he hurried off the stage.
During the play the officers and their ladies whiled away the time at the refreshment counter, filling up on raw homebrew supplied by the ubiquitous Palyanytsya and delicacies acquired by requisitioning. By the end of the performance they were all well under the weather.
After the final curtain Palyanytsya leaped on the stage
"Ladies and gentlemen, the dancing is about to begin," he announced with a theatrical sweep of his arm.
There was general applause and the audience emptied out into the yard to give the Petlyura soldiers posted to guard the guests a chance to carry out the chairs and clear the dance floor.
A half an hour later the theatre was the scene of wild revelry.
The Petlyura officers, flinging all restraint to the winds, furiously danced the hopak with local belles flushed from the heat, and the pounding of heavy boots rocked the walls of the ramshackle theatre building.
In the meantime a troop of armed horsemen was approaching the town from the direction of the flour mill. A Petlyura sentry-post stationed at the town limits sprang in alarm to their machine guns and there was a clicking of breech-blocks in the night. Through the darkness came the sharp challenge:
"Halt! Who goes there?"
Two dark figures loomed out of the darkness. One of them stepped forward and roared out in a hoarse bass:
"Ataman Pavlyuk with his detachment. Who are you? Golub''s men?"
"That''s right," replied an officer who had also stepped forward.
"Where can I billet my men?" Pavlyuk asked.
"I''ll phone headquarters at once," replied the officer and disappeared into a tiny hut on the roadside.
A minute later he came out and began issuing orders:
"Clear the machine gun off the road, men! Let the Pan Ataman pass."
Pavlyuk reined in his horse in front of the brightly illuminated theatre where a great many people were strolling out in the open air.
"Some fun going on here by the look of it," he said, turning to the captain riding beside him. "Let''s dismount, Gukmach, and join the merrymaking. We''ll pick ourselves a couple of womenâ?"I see the place is thick with them. Hey, Stalezhko," he shouted. "You billet the lads with the townsfolk. We''ll stop here. Escort, follow me." And he heaved himself heavily from his staggering mount.
At the entrance to the theatre Pavlyuk was stopped by two armed Petlyura men.
"Tickets?"
Pavlyuk gave them a derisive look and pushed one of them aside with his shoulder. The dozen men with him followed suit. Their horses were outside, tethered to the fence.
The newcomers were noticed at once. Particularly conspicuous was the huge frame of Pavlyuk; he was wearing an officer''s coat of good cloth, blue breeches of the kind worn in the guards, and a shaggy fur cap. A Mauser hung from a strap slung over his shoulder and a hand grenade stuck out of his pocket.
"Who''s that?" the whisper passed through the crowd around the dance floor where Golub''s second in command was executing a wild dance.
His partner was the priest''s elder daughter, ^ who was whirling round with such abandon that her skirts flared out high enough to give the delighted men a good view of her silk petticoats.
Forcing his way through the crowd, Pavlyuk went right out onto the dance floor.
Pavlyuk stared with glazed eyes at the priest''s daughter''s legs, passed his tongue over his dry lips, then strode across the dance floor to the orchestra platform, stopped, and flicked his plaited riding whip.
"Come on, give us the hopak!"
The conductor paid no attention to the order.
A sharp movement of Pavlyuk''s hand and the whip cut down the conductor''s back. The latter jumped as if stung and the music broke off, plunging the hall into silence.
"What insolence!" The barkeeper''s daughter was furious. "You can''t let him do that," she cried, clutching at the elbow of Golub seated at her side.
Golub heaved himself to his feet, kicked aside a chair, took three paces forward and stopped face to face with Pavlyuk. He had recognised the newcomer at once, and he had scores to settle with this rival claimant for local power. Only a week ago Pavlyuk had played the most scurvy trick on Pan the Colonel. At the height of a battle with a Red regiment which had mauled Golub''s detachment on more than one occasion, Pavlyuk, instead of striking at the Bolsheviks from the rear, had broken into a town, overcome the resistance of the small pickets the Reds had left there, and, leaving a screening force to protect himself, sacked the place in the most thorough fashion. Of course, being a true Petlyura man, he saw to it that the Jewish population were the chief victims. In the meantime the Reds had smashed up Golub''s right flank and moved on.
And now this arrogant cavalry Captain had burst in here and had the audacity to strike Pan the Colonel''s own bandmaster under his very eyes. No, this was too much. Golub knew that if he did not put the conceited upstart in his place his prestige in the regiment would be gone.
For several seconds the two men stood there in silence glaring at each other.
Gripping the hilt of his sabre with one hand and feeling for the revolver in his pocket with the other, Golub rapped out:
"How dare you lay your hands on my men, you scoundrel!"
Pavlyuk''s hand crept toward the grip of the Mauser.
"Easy there, Pan Golub, easy, or you may trip yourself up. Don''t step on my pet corn. I''m liable to lose my temper."
This was more than Golub could stand.
"Throw them out and give them twenty-five lashes each!" he shouted.
The officers fell upon Pavlyuk and his men like a pack of hounds.
A shot crashed out with a report that sounded as if an electric bulb had been smashed against the floor, and the struggling men swirled and spun down the hall like two packs of fighting dogs. In the wild melee men slashed at each other with sabres and dug their fingers into hair and throats, while the women, squealing with terror like stuck pigs, scattered away from the contestants.
In a few minutes Pavlyuk and his followers, disarmed and beaten, were dragged out of the hall, and thrown out into the street.
Pavlyuk lost his fur hat in the scrimmage, his face was bruised and his weapons were gone and now he was beside himself with rage. He and his men leapt into the saddle and galloped down the street.
The evening was broken up. No one felt inclined to make merry after what had happened. The women refused to dance and insisted on being taken home, but Golub would not hear of it.
"Post sentries," he ordered. "Nobody is to leave the hall."
Palyanytsya hastened to carry out the orders.
"The dancing will continue until morning, ladies and gentlemen," Golub replied stubbornly to the protests that showered upon him. "I shall dance the first waltz myself."
The orchestra struck up again but there was to be no more frolicking that night nevertheless.
The Colonel had not circled the dance floor once with the priest''s daughter when the sentries ran into the hall shouting:
"Pavlyuk''s surrounding the theatre!"
At that moment a window facing the street crashed in and the snub-nosed muzzle of a machine gun was pushed in through the shattered window frame. It moved stupidly this way and that, as if picking out the figures scattering wildly away from it toward the centre of the hall as from the devil himself.
Palyanytsya fired at the thousand-candle-power lamp in the ceiling which exploded like a bomb, sending a shower of splintered glass down on everyone in the hall.
The hall was plunged in darkness. Someone shouted in the yard:
"Everybody get outside!" A stream of violent abuse followed.
The wild, hysterical screams of the women, the furious commands issued by Golub as he dashed about the hall trying to rally his officers who had completely lost their heads, the firing and shouting out in the yard all merged into an indescribable pandemonium. In the panic nobody noticed Palyanytsya slip through the back door into a deserted side street and run for all he was worth to Golub''s headquarters.
A half an hour later a full-dress battle was raging in the town. The silence of the night was shattered by the incessant cracking of rifle fire interspersed with the rattle of machine guns. Completely stupefied, the townsfolk leapt up from warm beds and pressed against window panes.
At last the firing abated, and only one machine gun somewhere in the outskirts kept up a desultory shooting like the barking of a dog.
The fighting died down as the glimmer of dawn appeared on the horizon. . . .
Rumours that a pogrom was brewing crept through the town, finally reaching the tiny, low-roofed Jewish cottages with crooked windows that somehow managed to cling to the top of the filthy ravine leading down to the river. In these incredibly overcrowded hovels called houses lived the Jewish poor.
The compositors and other workers at the printshop where Sergei Bruzzhak had been working for more than a year were Jews. Strong bonds of friendship had sprung up between them and Sergei. Like a closely knit family, they stood solid against their employer, the smug, well-fed Mr. Blumstein. An incessant struggle went on between the proprietor and the printers. Blumstein did his best to grab more and pay his workers less. The printers had gone on strike several times and the printshop had stood idle for two or three weeks running. There were fourteen of them. Sergei, the youngest, spent twelve hours a day turning the wheel of a hand press.
Today Sergei noticed an ominous uneasiness among the workers. For the past several troubled months the shop had had little to do apart from printing occasional proclamations issued by the "Chief Ataman".
A consumptive compositor named Mendel called Sergei into a corner.
"Do you know there''s a pogrom coming?" he said, looking at the boy with his sad eyes.
Sergei looked up in surprise.
"No, I hadn''t the slightest idea."

Mendel laid a withered, yellow hand on Sergei''s shoulder and spoke in a confiding, paternal tone.
"There''s going to be a pogrom?"that''s a fact. The Jews are going to be beaten up. What I want to know is this?"will you help your comrades in their misfortune or not?"
"Of course I will, if I only can. What can I do, Mendel?"
The compositors were now listening to the conversation.
"You''re a good boy, Seryozha, and we trust you. After all, your father''s a worker like us. Now you run home and ask him whether he would agree to hide some old men and women at his place, and then we''ll decide who they will be. Ask your people if there''s anyone else they know willing to do the same. The Russians will be safe from these ban***s for the time being. Run along, Seryozha, there''s no time to waste."
"You can count on me, Mendel. I''ll see Pavka and Klimka right away?"their folks are sure to take in somebody."
"Just a minute," Mendel anxiously halted Sergei who was about to leave. "Who are Pavka and Klimka? Do you know them well?"
Sergei nodded confidently.
"Of course. They''re my pals. Pavka Korchagin''s brother is a mechanic."
"Ah, Korchagin," Mendel was reassured. "I know him ?"used to live in the same house. Yes, you can see the Korchagins. Go, Seryozha, and bring back an answer as soon as you can."
Sergei shot out into the street.
The pogrom began on the third day after the pitched battle between the Pavlyuk detachment and Golub''s men.
Pavlyuk, routed and driven out of Shepetovka, had cleared out of the neighbourhood and seized a small town nearby. The night encounter in Shepetovka had cost him a score of men. Golub had lost as many.
The dead were hastily carted off to the cemetery and buried the same day without much ceremony, for there was nothing to boast about in the whole affair. The two Atamans had flown at each other''s throats like two stray curs, and to make a fuss over the funeral would have been unseemly. True, Palyanytsya had wanted to make a big thing of it and declare Pavlyuk a Red ban***, but the Socialist-Revolutionaries headed by the priest Vasili objected.
The skirmish evoked some grumbling in Golub''s regiment, especially among his bodyguard which had sustained the heaviest losses, and to put an end to the dissatisfaction and bolster up spirits, Palyanytsya proposed staging a pogrom?"to provide "a little diversion" for the men, was the cynical way he broached the subject to Golub. He argued that this was essential in view of the grumbling in the unit. And although the Colonel was loth to disturb the peace in the town on the eve of his marriage to the barkeeper''s daughter, he finally gave in.
Pan the Colonel had another reason for objecting to the operation: his recent admission into the S.R. Party. His enemies might stir up trouble again by branding him a pogrom-monger, and without doubt would slander him to the "Chief Ataman". So far, however, Golub was not greatly dependent on the "Chief", since he foraged for himself. Besides, the "Chief" knew very well what riffraff he had serving under him, and himself had time and again demanded money for the Directory''s needs from the so-called requisitions; as for the reputation of a pogrom-monger, Golub already had quite a record in that respect. There was very little that he could add to it now.
The pogrom began early in the morning.
The town was still wrapped in the grey mist of dawn. The narrow streets which wound themselves like strips of wet linen around the haphazardly built blocks of the Jewish quarter were deserted and dead. The windows were heavily curtained and shuttered.
Outwardly the quarter appeared to be immersed in sound early-morning slumber, but inside the houses there was no sleep. Entire families, fully dressed, huddled together in one room, preparing themselves for the impending disaster. Only children, too young to realise what was happening, slept peacefully in their mothers'' arms.
Salomyga, the chief of Golub''s bodyguard, a dark fellow with the swarthy complexion of a Gypsy and a livid sabre scar across his cheek, worked hard that morning to wake up Golub''s aide. It was a painful awakening for Palyanytsyâ?"he could not shake himself loose from the nightmare that had beset him all night; the grimacing, hunchbacked devil was still clawing at his throat. At last he raised his splitting head and saw Salomyga bending over him.
"Get up, you souse," Salomyga was shaking him by the shoulder. "It''s high time to get down to business!"
Palyanytsya, now wide awake, sat up and, his face grimacing with pain, spat out the bitter saliva that filled his mouth.
"What business?" he stared blankly at Salomyga.
"To rip up the sheenies, of course! You haven''t forgotten, I hope."
It all came back to Palyanytsya. True enough, he had forgotten about it. The drinking bout at the farm where Pan the Colonel had retired with his fiancée and a handful of boon companions had been a heavy one.
Golub had found it convenient to leave town for the duration of the pogrom, for afterwards he could put it down to a misunderstanding in his absence, and in the meantime Palyanytsya would have ample opportunity to make a thorough job of it. Yes, Palyanytsya was an expert when it came to providing "diversion"!
Palyanytsya poured a pail of water over his head and, thus sobered, was soon striding about headquarters issuing orders.
The bodyguard hundred was already in the saddle. To avoid possible complications, the farsighted Palyanytsya ordered pickets posted between the town proper and the workers'' quarters and the station. A machine gun was mounted in the Leszczinski garden facing the road in order to meet the workers with a squall of lead if they took it into their heads to interfere.
When all the preparations were complete, the aide and Salomyga leapt into the saddle.
"Wait, I nearly forgot," Palyanytsya said when they had already set out. "Get two carts to bring back Golub''s wedding present. Ha-ha-ha! The first spoils as always to the commander, and the first girl for his aidê?"and that''s me. Got it, you blockhead?"
The last remark was addressed to Salomyga, who glared back at him with jaundiced eyes.
"There''ll be enough for everybody."
They spurred their horses down the highway, the aide and Salomyga leading the disorderly mob of mounted men.
The mist had lifted when Palyanytsya reined in his horse in front of a two-storey house with a rusty sign reading "Fuchs, Draper".
His thin-shanked grey mare nervously stamped her hoof against the cobblestones.
"Well, with God''s help we''ll begin here," Palyanytsya said as he jumped to the ground.
"All right, men, dismount," he turned to the men crowding around him. "The show''s beginning. Now I don''t want any heads bashed, there''ll be a time for that. As for the girls, if you can manage it, hold out until evening."
One of the men bared his strong teeth and protested:
"Now then, Pan Khorunzhy, what if it''s by mutual consent?"
There was loud guffawing all around. Palyanytsya eyed the man who had spoken with admiring approbation.
"Well, that''s another story?"if they''re willing, go right ahead, nobody can prohibit that."
Palyanytsya went up to the closed door of the store and kicked at it hard, but the sturdy oaken planks did not so much as tremble.
This was clearly the wrong place to begin. Palyanytsya rounded the corner of the house and headed for the door leading to Fuchs'' place, supporting his sabre with his hand as he went. Salomyga followed.
The people inside the house had heard the clatter of hoofs on the pavement outside and when the sound ceased in front of the shop and the men''s voices carried through the walls their hearts seemed to stop beating and their bodies stiffened with fright.
The wealthy Fuchs had left town the day before with his wife and daughters, leaving his servant Riva, a gentle timid girl of nineteen, to look after his property. Since she was afraid to remain alone in the house, he had suggested that she bring her old father and mother to stay with her until his return.
When Riva had tried meekly to protest, the cunning merchant had assured her that in all probability there would be no pogrom at all, for what could they expect to get from beggars? And he promised to give her a piece of stuff for a dress when he returned.
Now the three waited in fear and trembling, hoping against hope that the men would ride past; perhaps they had been mistaken, perhaps it had only seemed that the horses had stopped in front of their house. But their hopes were dashed by the dull reverberation of a blow at the shop door.
Old, silvery-haired Peisakh stood in the doorway, his blue eyes wide open like a frightened child''s, and he whispered a prayer to Almighty Jehovah with all the passion of the fanatical believer. He prayed to God to protect this house from misfortune and for a while the old woman standing beside him could not hear the approaching footsteps for the mumble of his prayer.
Riva had fled to the farthest room where she hid behind the big oaken sideboard.
A shattering blow at the door sent a convulsive tremor through the two old people.
"Open the door!" Another blow, still more violent than the first, descended on the door, followed by furious curses.
But those within, numb with fright, could not lift a hand to unfasten the door.
Outside the rifle butts pounded until the bolts gave way and the splintering door crashed open.
Armed men poured into the house; they searched every corner. A blow from a rifle butt smashed in the door leading into the shop and the front door bolts were drawn from within.
The looting began.
When the carts had been piled high with cloth, shoes and other loot, Salomyga set out with the booty to Golub''s quarters. When he returned he heard a shriek of terror issuing from the house.
Palyanytsya, leaving his men to sack the shop, had walked into the proprietor''s apartment and found the old folks and the girl standing there. Casting his green lynx-like eyes over them he snapped at the old couple: "Get out of here!" Neither mother nor father stirred.
Palyanytsya took a step forward and slowly drew his sabre.
"Mama!" the girl gave a heart-rending scream. It was this that Salomyga heard.
Palyanytsya turned to his men who had run in at the cry.
"Throw them out!" he barked, pointing at the two old people. When this had been done, he told Salomyga who had now appeared. "You watch here at the door while I have a chat with the wench."
The girl screamed again. Old Peisakh made a rush for the door leading into the room, but a violent blow in the chest sent him reeling back against the wall, gasping with pain. Like a she-wolf fighting for her young, Toiba, the old mother, always so quiet and submissive, now flung herself at Salomyga.
"Let me .in! What are you doing to my girl?" She was struggling to get to the door, and try as he might Salomyga could not break her convulsive grip on his coat.
Peisakh, now recovered from the shock and pain, came to Toiba''s assistance.
"Let us pass! Let us pass! Oh my daughter!"
Between them the old couple managed to push Salomyga away from the door. Enraged, he jerked his revolver from under his belt and brought the steel grip down hard upon the old man''s grey head. Peisakh crumpled to the floor.
Inside the room Riva was screaming.
Toiba was dragged out of the house frantic with grief, and the street echoed to her wild shrieks and entreaties for help.
Inside the house everything was quiet.
Palyanytsya came out of the room. Without looking at Salomyga, whose hand was already on the door handle, he said:
"No use going in?"she choked when I tried to shut her up with a pillow." As he stepped over Peisakh''s body he put his foot into a dark sticky mess.
"Bad beginning," he muttered as he went outside.
The others followed him without a word, leaving behind bloody footprints on the floor and the stairs.
Pillage was in full swing in the town. Brief savage clashes flared up between brigands over the division of the spoils, and here and there sabres flashed. And almost everywhere fists flailed without restraint. From the beer saloon twenty-five gallon kegs were rolled out onto the street.
Then the looters began to break into Jewish homes.
There was no resistance. They went through the rooms, hastily turned every corner upside down, and went away laden with booty, leaving behind disordered heaps of clothing and the fluttering contents of ripped feather beds and pillows. The first day took a toll of only two victims: Riva and her father; but the oncoming night carried with it the unavoidable menace of death.
By evening the motley crew of s****ngers was roaring drunk. The crazed Petlyura men were waiting for the night.
Darkness released them from the last restraint. It is easier to destroy a man in the pit of night; even the jackal prefers the hours of gloom.
Few would ever forget these two terrible nights and three days. How many crushed and mangled lives they left behind, how many youthful heads turned grey in these bloody hours, how many bitter tears were shed! It is hard to tell whether those were the more fortunate who were left to live with souls desolated, in the agony of shame and humiliation, gnawed by indescribable grief for loved ones who would never return. In the narrow alleys lay the lacerated, tormented, broken bodies of young girls with arms thrown back in convulsive gestures of agony.
Only at the very riverfront, in the house where Naum the blacksmith lived, the jackals who fell upon his young wife Sarah got a fierce rebuff. The smith, a man of powerful build in the prime of his twenty-four years and with the steel muscles of one who wielded the sledge-hammer for a living, did not yield his mate.
In a brief but furious clash in the tiny cottage the skulls of two Petlyura men were crushed like rotten melons. With the terrible fury of despair, the smith fought fiercely for two lives, and for a long time the dry crackle of rifle fire could be heard from the river bank where the brigands now rushed, sensing the danger. With only one round of ammunition left, the smith mercifully shot his wife, and himself rushed out to his death, bayonet in hand. He was met by a squall of lead and his powerful body crashed to the ground outside his front door.
Prosperous peasants from nearby villages drove into town in carts drawn by well-fed horses, loaded their waggon boxes with whatever met their fancy, and, escorted by sons and relatives serving in Golub''s force, hurried home so as to make another trip or two to town and back.
Seryozha Bruzzhak, who together with his father had hidden half of his printshop comrades in the cellar and attic, was crossing the garden on his way home when he saw a man in a long, patched coat running up the road, violently swinging his arms.
It was an old Jew, and behind the bareheaded, panting man whose features were paralysed with mortal terror, galloped a Petlyura man on a grey horse. The distance between them dwindled fast and the mounted man leaned forward in the saddle to cut down his victim. Hearing the hoofbeats behind him, the old man threw up his hands as if to ward off the blow. At that moment Seryozha leapt onto the road and threw himself in front of the horse.
"Stop, you dog of a ban***!"
The rider, making no effort to stay the descending sabre, brought the flat of the blade down on the fair young head.

Chapter Five
The Red forces were pressing down hard on "Chief Ataman" Petlyura''s units, and Golub''s regiment was called to the front. Only a small rearguard detachment and the Commandant''s detail were left in the town.
The people stirred. The Jewish section of the population took advantage of the temporary lull to bury their dead, and life in the tiny huts of the Jewish quarter returned to normal.
On quiet evenings an indistinct rumble was carried from the distance; somewhere not too far off the fighting was in progress.
At the station, railwaymen were leaving their jobs to roam the countryside in search of work.
The Gymnasium was closed.
Martial law was declared in town.
It was a black, ugly night, one of those nights when the eyes, strain as they might, cannot pierce the gloom, and a man gropes about blindly expecting at any moment to fall into a ***ch and break his neck.
The respectable citizen knows that at a time like this it is safer to sit at home in the dark; he will not light a lamp if he can help it, for light might attract unwelcome guests. Better the dark, much safer. There are of course those who are always restless?"let them venture abroad if they wish, that''s none of the respectable citizen''s business. But he himself will not risk going out?"not for anything.
It was one of those nights, yet there was a man abroad.
Making his way to the Korchagin house, he knocked cautiously at the window. There was no answer and he knocked again, louder and more insistently.
Pavel dreamed that a queer creature, anything but human, was aiming a machine gun at him; he wanted to flee, but there was nowhere to go, and the machine gun had broken into a terrifying chatter.
He woke up to find the window rattling. Someone was knocking.
Pavel jumped out of bed and went to the window to see who it was, but all he could make out was a vague dark shape.
He was all alone in the house. His mother had gone on a visit to his eldest sister, whose husband was a mechanic at the sugar refinery. And Artem was blacksmithing in a neighbouring village, wielding the sledge for his keep.
Yet it could only be Artem.
Pavel decided to open the window.
"Who''s there?" he said into the darkness.
There was a movement outside the window and a muffled bass replied:
"It''s me, Zhukhrai."
Two hands were laid on the windowsill and Fyodor''s head came up until it was level with Pavel''s face.
"I''ve come to spend the night with you. Any objections, mate?" Zhukhrai whispered.
"Of course not," Pavel replied warmly. "You know you''re always welcome. Climb in."
Fyodor squeezed his great bulk through the opening.
He closed the window but did not move away from the window at once. He stood listening intently, and when the moon slipped out from behind a cloud and the road became visible he scanned it carefully. Then he turned to Pavel.
"We won''t wake up your mother, will we?"
Pavel told him there was nobody home besides himself. The sailor felt more at ease and spoke in a louder voice.
"Those cutthroats are after my hide in earnest now, matey. They''ve got it in for me after what happened over at the station. If our fellows would stick together a bit more we could have given the greycoats a fine reception during the pogrom. But folks, as you see, aren''t ready to plunge into the fire yet, and so nothing came of it. Now they''re looking for me, twice they''ve had the dragnet out ?"today I got away by the skin of my teeth. I was going home, you see, by the back way of course, and had just stopped at the shed to look around, when I saw a bayonet sticking out from behind a tree trunk. I naturally cast off and headed for your place. If you''ve got nothing against it I''ll drop anchor here for a few days. All right, mate? Good."
Zhukhrai, still breathing heavily, began pulling off his mud-splashed boots.
Pavel was glad he had come. The power plant had not been working latterly and Pavel felt lonely in the empty house.
They went to bed. Pavel fell asleep at once, but Fyodor lay awake for a long time smoking. Presently he rose and, tiptoeing on bare feet to the window, stared out for a long time into the street. Finally, overcome by fatigue, he lay down and fell asleep, but his hand remained on the butt of the heavy Colt which he had tucked under the pillow.
Zhukhrai''s unexpected arrival that night and the eight days spent in his company influenced the whole course of Pavel''s life. From the sailor Pavel learned much that was new to him, and that stirred him to the depths of his being.
Driven into hiding, Zhukhrai made use of his enforced idleness to pass on to the eager Pavel all his passionate fury and burning hatred for the Ukrainian Nationalists who were throttling the area.
Zhukhrai spoke in language that was vivid, lucid and simple. He had no doubts, his path lay clearly before him, and Pavel came to see that all this tangle of political parties with high-sounding names?"Socialist-Revolutionaries, Social-Democrats, Polish Socialists?"was a collection of vicious enemies of the workers, and that the only revolutionary party which steadfastly fought against the rich was the Bolshevik Party.
Formerly Pavel had been hopelessly confused about all this.
And so this staunch, stout-hearted Baltic sailor weathered by sea squalls, a confirmed Bolshevik, who had been a member of the Russian Social-Democratic Labour Party (Bolsheviks) since 1915, taught Pavel the harsh truths of life, and the young stoker listened spellbound.
"I was something like you, matey, when I was young," he said. "Just didn''t know what to do with my energy, a restless youngster always ready to kick over the traces. I was brought up in poverty. And at times the very sight of those pampered, well-fed sons of the town gentry made me see red. Often enough I beat them up badly, but all I got out of it was a proper trouncing- from my father. You can''t change things by carrying on a lone fight. You, Pavlusha, have all the makings of a good fighter in the workingman''s cause, only you''re still very young- and you don''t know much about the class struggle. I''ll put you on the right road, matey, because I know you''ll make good. I can''t stand the quiet, smug- sort. The whole world''s afire now. The slaves have risen and the old life''s got to be scuttled. But to do that we need stout fellows, not sissies, who''ll go crawling into cracks like so many ****roaches when the fighting starts, but men with guts who''ll hit out without mercy."
His fist crashed down on the table.
He got up, frowning1, and paced up and down the room with hands thrust deep in his pockets.
His inactivity depressed him. He bitterly regretted having- stayed behind in this town, and believing any further stay to be pointless, was firmly resolved to make his way through the front to meet the Red units.
A group of nine Party members would remain in town to carry on the work.
"They''ll manage without me. I can''t sit around any longer doing- nothing1. I''ve wasted ten months as it is," Zhukhrai thought irritably.
"What exactly are you, Fyodor?" Pavel had asked him once.
Zhukhrai got up and shoved his hands into his pockets. He did not grasp the meaning of the question at first.
"Don''t you know?"
"I think you''re a Bolshevik or a Communist," Pavel said in a low voice.
Zhukhrai burst out laughing, slapping his massive chest in its tight-fitting striped jersey.
"Right enough, matey! It''s as much a fact as that Bolshevik and Communist are one and the same thing." Suddenly he grew serious. "But now that you''ve grasped that much, remember it''s not to be mentioned to anyone or anywhere, if you don''t want them to draw and quarter me. Understand?"
"I understand," Pavel replied firmly. Voices were heard from the yard and the door was pushed open without a preliminary knock. Zhukhrai''s hand slipped into his pocket but emerged again when Sergei Bruzzhak, thin and pale, with a bandage on his head, entered the room, followed by Valya and Klimka.
"Hullo, old man," Sergei shook Pavel''s hand and smiled. "Decided to pay you a visit, all three of us. Valya wouldn''t let me go out alone, and Klimka is afraid to let her go by herself. He may be a redhead but he knows what he''s about."
Valya playfully clapped her hand over his mouth. "Chatterbox," she laughed. "He won''t give Klimka any peace today."
Klimka showed his white teeth in a good-natured grin. "What can you do with a sick fellow? Brain pan''s damaged, as you can see." They all laughed.
Sergei, who had not yet recovered from the effects of the sabre blow, settled on Pavel''s bed and soon the young people were engaged in a lively conversation. As he told Zhukhrai the story of his encounter with the Petlyura ban***, Sergei, usually so gay and cheerful, was quiet and depressed.
Zhukhrai knew the three young people, for he had visited the Bruzzhaks on several occasions. He liked these youngsters; they had not yet found their place in the vortex of the struggle, but the aspirations of their class were clearly expressed in them. He listened with interest to the young people''s account of how they had helped to shelter Jewish families in their homes to save them from the pogrom. That evening he told the young folk much about the Bolsheviks, about Lenin, helping them to understand what was happening.
It was quite late when Pavel''s guests left. Zhukhrai went out every evening and returned late at night; before leaving town he had to discuss with the comrades who would remain in town the work they would have to do.
This particular night Zhukhrai did not come back, When Pavel woke up in the morning he saw at a glance that the sailor''s bed had not been slept in.
Seized by some vague premonition, Pavel dressed hurriedly and left the house. Locking the door and putting the key in the usual place, he went to Klimka''s house hoping that the latter would have some news of Fyodor. Klimka''s mother, a stocky woman with a broad face pitted with pockmarks, was doing the wash. To Pavel''s question whether she knew where Fyodor was she replied curtly:
"You''d think I''d nothing else to do but keep an eye on your Fyodor. It''s all through him?"the devil take him?" that Zozulikha''s house was turned upside down. What''ve you got to do with him? A queer lot, if you ask me. Klimka and you and the rest of them. . . ." She turned back in anger to her washtub.
Klimka''s mother was an ill-tempered woman, with a biting tongue. . . .
From Klimka''s house Pavel went to Sergei''s where he voiced his fears.
"Why should you be so worried?" said Valya. "Perhaps he stayed over at some friend''s place." But her words lacked confidence.
Pavel was too restless to stop at the Bruzzhaks for long, and although they tried to persuade him to stay for dinner he took his leave.
He headed back home in hopes of finding Zhukhrai there.
The door was locked. Pavel stood outside for a while with a heavy heart; he couldn''t bear the thought of going into the deserted house.
For a few minutes he stood in the yard deep in thought, then, moved by an impulse, he went into the shed. He climbed up under the roof and brushing away the cobwebs reached into his secret hiding place and brought out the heavy Mannlicher wrapped in rags.
He left the shed and went down to the station, strangely elated by the feel of the revolver weighing down his pocket.
But there was no news of Zhukhrai at the station. On the way back his step slowed down as he drew alongside the now familiar garden of the forest warden. With a faint flicker of hope, he looked up at the windows of the house, but it was as lifeless as the garden. When he had passed the garden he turned back to glance at the paths now covered with a rusty crop of last year''s leaves. The place seemed desolate and neglected?"no industrious hand had laid a visible imprint herê?"and the dead stillness of the big old house made Pavel feel sadder still.
His last quarrel with Tonya had been the most serious they had had. It had all happened quite unexpectedly, nearly a month ago.
As he slowly walked back to town, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, Pavel recalled how it had come about.
They had met quite by chance on the road and Tonya had invited him over to her place.
"Dad and mother are going to a birthday party at the Bolshanskys, and I''ll be all alone. Why don''t you come over, Pavlusha? I have a very interesting book we could read?"Leonid Andreyev''s Sashka Zhigulyov. I''ve already finished it, but I''d like to reread it with you. I''m sure it would be a nice evening. Will you come?"
Her big, wide-open eyes looked at him expectantly from under the white bonnet she wore over her thick chestnut hair.
"I''ll come."
At that they parted.
Pavel Hurried to his machines, and the very thought that he had a whole evening with Tonya to look forward to, made the flames in the firebox seem to burn more brightly and the burning logs to crackle more merrily than usual.
When he knocked at the wide front door that evening it was a slightly disconcerted Tonya who answered.
"I have visitors tonight. I didn''t expect them, Pavlusha. But you must come in," she said.
Pavel wanted to go and turned to the door.
"Come in," she took him by the arm. "It''ll do them good to know you." And putting her arm around his waist, she led him through the dining room into her own room.
As they entered she turned to the young people seated there and smiled.
"I want you to meet my friend Pavel Korchagin."
There were three people sitting around the small table in the middle of the room: Liza Sukharko, a pretty, dark-complexioned Gymnasium student with a pouting little mouth and a fetching coiffure, a lanky youth in a well-tailored black jacket, his sleek hair shining with hair-oil, and a vacant look in his grey eyes, and between them, in a foppish school jacket, Victor Leszczinski. It was him Pavel saw first when Tonya opened the door.
Leszczinski too recognised Korchagin at once and his fine arched eyebrows lifted in surprise.
For a few seconds Pavel stood silent at the door, eyeing Victor with frank hostility. Tonya hastened to break the awkward silence by asking Pavel to come in and turning to Liza to introduce her.
Liza Sukharko, who was inspecting the new arrival with interest, rose from her chair.
Pavel, however, turned sharply and strode out through the semidark dining room to the front door. He was already on the porch when Tonya overtook him and seized him by the shoulders.
"Why are you running off? I especially wanted them to meet you."
Pavel removed her hands from his shoulders and replied sharply:
"I''m not going to be put on a show before that dummy. I don''t belong to that crowd?"you may like them, but I hate them. If I''d known they were your friends I''d never have come."
Tonya, suppressing her rising anger, interrupted him:
"What right have you to speak to me like that? I don''t ask you who your friends are and who comes to see you."
"I don''t care whom you see, only I''m not coming here any more," Pavel shot back at her as he went down the front steps. He ran to the garden gate.
He had not seen Tonya since then. During the pogrom, when he and the electrician had hidden several Jewish families at the power station, he had forgotten about the quarrel, and today he wanted to see her again.
Zhukhrai''s disappearance and the knowledge that there was no one at home depressed Pavel. The grey stretch of road swung to the right ahead of him. The spring mud had not yet dried, and the road was pitted with holes filled with brown mire. Beyond a house whose shabby, peeling facade jutted out onto the edge of the pavement the road forked off.

Victor Leszczinski was saying good-bye to Liza at the street intersection opposite a wrecked stand with a splintered door and an inverted "Mineral Water" sign.
He held her hand in his as he spoke, pleadingly gazing into her eyes.
"You will come? You won''t deceive me?"
"Of course I shall come. You must wait for me," Liza replied coquettishly.
And as she left him she smiled at him with promise in her misty hazel eyes.
A few yards farther down the street Liza saw two men emerge from behind a corner onto the roadway. The first was a sturdy, broadchested man in worker''s clothes, his unbuttoned jacket revealing a striped jersey underneath, a black cap pulled down over his forehead, and brown, low-topped boots on his feet. There was a blue-black bruise under his eye.
The man walked with a firm, slightly rolling gait.
Three paces behind, his bayonet almost touching the man''s back, came a Petlyura soldier in a grey coat and two cartridge pouches at his belt. From under his shaggy sheepskin cap two small, wary eyes watched the back of his captive''s head. Yellow, tobacco-stained moustaches bristled on either side of his face.
Liza slackened her pace slightly and crossed over to the other side of the road. Just then Pavel emerged onto the highway behind her.
As he passed the old house and turned to the right at the bend in the road, he too saw the two men coming toward him.
Pavel stopped with a start and stood as if rooted to the ground. The arrested man was Zhukhrai.
"So that''s why he didn''t come back!"
Zhukhrai was coming nearer and nearer. Pavel''s heart pounded as if it would burst. His thoughts raced madly as his mind sought vainly to grasp the situation. There was not enough time for deliberation. Only one thing was clear: Zhukhrai was caught.
Stunned and bewildered Pavel watched the two approach. What was to be done?
At the last moment he remembered the revolver in his pocket. As soon as they passed him he would shoot the man with the rifle in the back, and Fyodor would be free. With that decision reached on the spur of the moment his mind cleared. After all, it was only yesterday that Fyodor had told him: "For that we need stout fellows. . . ."
Pavel glanced quickly behind him. The street leading to town was deserted; there was not a soul in sight. Ahead a woman in a light coat was hurrying across the road. She would not interfere. The second street branching off at the intersection he could not see. Only far away on the road to the station some people were visible.
Pavel moved over to the edge of the road. Zhukhrai saw him when they were only a few paces apart.
Zhukhrai looked at him from the corner of his eye and his thick eyebrows quivered. The unexpectedness of the encounter made him slow down his step. The bayonet pricked him in the back.
"Lively, there, or you''ll get a taste of this butt!" cried the escort in a screechy falsetto.
Zhukhrai quickened his pace. He wanted to speak to Pavel, but refrained; he only waved his hand as if in greeting.
Fearing to attract the attention of the yellow-moustached soldier, Pavel turned aside as Zhukhrai passed, as if completely indifferent to what was going on.
But in his head drilled the anxious thought: "What if I miss him and the bullet hits Zhukhrai. . . ."
But there was no time to think.
When the yellow-moustached soldier came abreast of him, Pavel made a sudden lunge at him and seizing hold of the rifle struck the barrel down.
The bayonet hit the pavement with a grating sound.
The attack caught the soldier unawares, and for a moment he was dumbfounded. Then he violently jerked the rifle toward himself. Throwing the full weight of his body on it, Pavel managed to retain his grip. A shot crashed out, the bullet striking a stone and ricocheting with a whine into the ***ch.
Hearing the shot, Zhukhrai leapt aside and spun around. The soldier was wrenching at the rifle fiercely in an effort to tear it out of Pavel''s hands. Pavel''s arms were painfully twisted, but he did not release his hold. Then with a sharp lunge the enraged Petlyura man threw Pavel down on the ground, but still he could not wrench the rifle loose. Pavel went down, dragging the soldier down with him. Nothing could have made him relinquish the rifle at this crucial moment.
In two strides Zhukhrai was alongside the struggling pair. His iron fist swung through the air and descended on the soldier''s head; a second later the Petlyura man had been wrenched off Pavel and, sagging under the impact of two smashing blows in the face, his limp body collapsed into the wayside ***ch.
The same strong hands that had delivered those blows lifted Pavel from the ground and set him on his feet.
Victor, who by this time had gone a hundred paces or so from the intersection, walked on whistling La donna e mobile, his spirits soaring after his meeting with Liza and her promise to see him at the abandoned factory the next day.
Among the Gymnasium youths Liza Sukharko had the reputation of being rather daring in her love affairs. That arrogant braggart Semyon Zalivanov had once declared that Liza had surrendered to him, and although Victor did not quite believe Semyon, Liza nevertheless intrigued him. Tomorrow he would find out whether Zalivanov had spoken the truth or not.
"If she comes I shan''t be bashful. After all, she lets you kiss her. And if Semyon is telling the truth. . . ." Here his thoughts were interrupted as he stepped aside to let two Petlyura soldiers pass. One of them was astride a dock-tailed horse, swinging a canvas bucketâ?"evidently on his way to water the animal. The other, in a short jacket and loose blue trousers, was walking alongside, resting his hand on the rider''s knee and telling him a funny story.
Victor let them pass and was about to continue on his way when a rifle shot on the highway made him stop in his tracks. He turned and saw the mounted man spurring his horse toward the sound, while the other soldier ran behind, supporting his sabre with his hand.
Victor ran after them. When he had almost reached the highway another shot rang out, and from around the corner came the horseman galloping madly. He urged on the horse with his heels and the canvas bucket, and leaping to the ground at the first gateway shouted to the men in the yard:
"To arms! They''ve killed one of our men!"
A minute later several men dashed out of the yard, clicking the bolts of their rifles as they ran.
Victor was arrested.
Several people were now gathered on the road, among them Victor and Liza, who had been detained as a witness.
Liza had been rooted to the spot from fright, and hence had a good view of Zhukhrai and Korchagin when they ran past; much to her surprise she realised that the lad who had attacked the Petlyura soldier was the one Tonya had wanted to introduce to her.
The two had just vaulted over the fence into a garden when the horseman came galloping down the street. Noticing Zhukhrai running with a rifle in his hands and the stunned soldier struggling to get back on his feet, the rider spurred his horse towards the fence.
Zhukhrai, however, turned around, raised the rifle and fired at the pursuer, who swung around and beat a hasty retreat.
The soldier, barely able to speak through his torn lips, was now telling what had happened.
"You dunderhead, what do you mean by letting a prisoner get away from under your nose? Now you''re in for twenty-five strokes for sure."
"Smart, aren''t you?" the soldier snapped back angrily. "From under my nose, eh? How was I to know the other bastard would jump on me like a madman?"
Liza too was questioned. She told the same story as the escort, but she omitted to say that she knew the assailant. Nevertheless they were all taken to the Commandant''s office, and were not released until evening.
The Commandant himself offered to see Liza home, but she refused. His breath smelled of vodka and the offer boded no good.
Victor escorted Liza home.
It was quite a distance to the station and as they walked along arm in arm Victor was grateful for the incident.
"You haven''t any idea who it was that freed the prisoner?" Liza asked as they were approaching her home.
"No, I haven''t. How can I?"
"Do you remember the evening Tonya wanted to introduce a certain young man to us?"
Victor halted.
"Pavel Korchagin?" he asked, surprised.
"Yes, I think his name was Korchagin. Remember how he walked out in such a funny way? Well, it was he."
Victor stood dumbfounded.
"Are you sure?" he asked Liza.
"Yes. I remember his face perfectly."
"Why didn''t you tell the Commandant?"
Liza was indignant.
"Do you think I would do anything so vile?"
"Vile? You call it vile to tell who attacked the escort?"
"And do you consider it honourable? You seem to have forgotten what they''ve done. Have you any idea how many Jewish orphans there are at the Gymnasium, and yet you''d want me to tell them about Korchagin? I''m sorry, I didn''t expect that of you."
Leszczinski was much surprised by Liza''s reply. But since it did not fit in with his plans to quarrel with her, he tried to change the subject.
"Don''t be angry, Liza, I was only joking. I didn''t know you were so upright."
"The joke was in very bad taste," Liza retorted dryly.
As he was saying good-bye to her outside the Sukharko house, Victor asked:
"Will you come then, Liza?"
"I don''t know," she replied vaguely.
Walking back to town, Victor turned the matter over in his mind. "Well, mademoiselle, you may think it vile, but I happen to think differently. Of course it''s all the same to me who freed whom."
To him as a Leszczinski, the scion of an old Polish family, both sides were equally obnoxious. The only government he recognised was the government of the Polish gentry, the Rzecz Pospolita, and that would soon come with the Polish legions. But here was an opportunity to get rid of that scoundrel Korchagin. They''d twist his neck sure enough.
Victor was the only member of the family to have remained in town. He was staying with an aunt, who was married to the assistant director of the sugar refinery. His family had been living for some time in Warsaw, where his father Sigismund Leszczinski occupied a position of some importance.
Victor walked up to the Commandant''s office and turned into the open door.
Shortly afterwards he was on his way to the Korchagin house accompanied by four Petlyura men.
"That''s the place," he said quietly, pointing to a lighted window. "May I go now?" he asked the Khorunzhy.
"Of course. We''ll manage ourselves. Thanks for the tip."
Victor hurried away.
The last blow in the back sent Pavel reeling into the dark room to which they had led him, and his outstretched arms collided with the opposite wall. Feeling around he found something like a bunk, and he sat down, bruised and aching in body and spirit.
The arrest had come as a complete surprise. How had the Petlyura crowd found out about him? He was sure no one had seen him. What would happen next? And where was Zhukhrai?
He had left the sailor at Klimka''s place. From there he had gone to Sergei, while Zhukhrai remained to wait for the evening in order to slip out of town.
"Good thing I hid the revolver in the crow''s nest," Pavel thought. "If they had found it, it would have been all up with me. But how did they find out?" There was no answer to the question that tormented him.
The Petlyura men had not got much out of the Korchagin house although they made a thorough search of its every corner. Artem had taken his best suit and the accordion to the village, and his mother had taken a trunk with her, so that there was little left for them to pick up.
The journey to the guardhouse, however, was something Pavel would never forget. The night was pitch black, the sky overcast with clouds, and he had blundered along, blindly and half-dazed, propelled by brutal kicks from all sides.
He could hear voices behind the door leading into the next room, which was occupied by the Commandant''s guard. A bright strip of light showed under the door. Pavel got up and feeling his way along the wall walked around the room. Opposite the bunk he discovered a heavily barred window. He tried the bars with his handâ?" they were immovable. The place had obviously been a storeroom.
He made his way to the door and stood there for a moment listening. Then he pressed lightly on the handle. The door gave a sickening creak and Pavel swore violently under his breath.
Through the narrow slit that opened before him he saw a pair of calloused feet with crooked toes sticking out over the edge of a bunk. Another light push against the handle and the door protested louder still. A dishevelled figure with a sleep-swollen face now rose up in the bunk and fiercely scratching his lousy head with all five fingers burst into a long tirade. When the obscene flow of abuse ended, the creature reached out to the rifle standing at the head of the bunk and added phlegmatically:
"Shut that door and if I catch you looking in here once more I''ll bash in your. . . ."
Pavel shut the door. There was a roar of laughter in the next room.
He thought a great deal that night. His initial attempt to take a hand in the fight had ended badly for him. The very first step had brought capture and now he was trapped like a mouse.
Still sitting up, he drifted into a restless half-sleep, and the image of his mother with her peaked, wrinkled features and the eyes he loved so well rose before him. And the thought: "It''s a good thing she''s awayâ?"that makes it less painful."
A grey square of light from the window appeared on the floor.
The darkness was .gradually retreating. Dawn was approaching.

Chapter Six
A light shone in only one window of the big old house; the curtains were drawn. Outside Tresor, now chained for the night, suddenly barked in his reverberating bass.
Through a sleepy haze Tonya heard her mother speaking in a low voice.
"No, she is not asleep yet. Come in, Liza."
The light footsteps of her friend and the warm, impulsive hug finally dispelled her drowsiness.
Tonya smiled wanly.
"I''m so glad you''ve come, Liza. Papa passed the crisis yesterday and today he has been sleeping soundly all day. Mama and I have had some rest too after so many sleepless nights. Tell me all the news." Tonya drew her friend down beside her on the couch.
"Oh, there''s plenty of news, but some of it''s for your ears only," Liza smiled with a sly look at Yekaterina Mikhailovna.
Tonya''s mother smiled. She was a matronly woman of thirty-six with the vigorous movements of a young girl, clever grey eyes and a face that was pleasant if not beautiful.
"I will gladly leave you alone in a few minutes, but first I want to hear the news that is fit for everybody''s ears," she joked, pulling a chair up to the couch.
"Well, to begin with we''ve finished with school. The board has decided to issue graduation certificates to the seventh-graders. I am glad. I''m so sick of all this algebra and geometry! What good is it to anyone? The boys may possibly continue their studies, although they don''t know where, with all this fighting going on. It''s simply terrible. . . . As for us, we''ll be married and wives don''t need algebra," Liza laughed.
After sitting with the girls for a little while, Yekaterina Mikhailovna went to her own room.
Liza now moved closer to Tonya and with her arms about her gave her a whispered account of the encounter at the crossroads.
"You can imagine my surprise, Tonya, when I recognised the lad who was running away. Guess who it was?"
Tonya, who was listening with interest, shrugged her shoulders.
"Korchagin!" Liza blurted out breathlessly.
Tonya started and winced.
"Korchagin?"
Liza, pleased with the impression she had made, went on to describe her quarrel with Victor.
Carried away by her story, Liza did not notice Tonya''s face grow pale and her fingers pluck nervously at her blue blouse. Liza did not know how Tonya''s heart constricted with anxiety, nor did she notice how the long lashes that hid her beautiful eyes trembled.
Tonya paid scant heed to Liza''s story of the drunken Khorunzhy. One thought gave her no rest: "Victor Leszczinski knows who attacked the soldier. Oh, why did Liza tell him?" And in spite of herself the words broke from her lips.
"What did you say?" Liza could not grasp her meaning at once.
"Why did you tell Leszczinski about Pavlusha . . . I mean Korchagin? He''s sure to betray him. . . ."
"Oh, surely not!" Liza protested. "I don''t think he would do such a thing. After all, why should he?"
Tonya sat up sharply and hugged her knees so hard that it hurt.
"You don''t understand, Liza! He and Korchagin are enemies, and besides, there is something else. . . . You made a big mistake when you told Victor about Pavlusha."
Only now did Liza notice Tonya''s agitation, and her use of Korchagin''s first name confirmed what she had vaguely suspected.
She could not help feeling guilty and lapsed into an embarrassed silence.
"So it''s true," she thought. "Fancy Tonya falling in love with a plain workman." Liza wanted to talk about it very much, but out of consideration for her friend she refrained. Anxious to atone for her guilt in some way, she seized Tonya''s.
"Are you very worried, Tonya?"
"No, perhaps Victor is more honourable than I think," Tonya replied absently.
The awkward silence that ensued was broken by the arrival of a schoolmate of theirs, a bashful, gawky lad named Demianov.
After seeing her friends off, Tonya stood for a long time leaning against the wicket gate and staring at the dark strip of road leading to town. The wind laden with a chill dampness and the dank odour of the wet spring soil fanned her face. Dull red lights blinked in the windows of the houses over in the town. There it was, that town that lived a life apart from hers, and somewhere there, under one of those roofs, unaware of the danger that threatened him, was her rebellious friend Pavel. Perhaps he had forgotten herâ?"how many days had flown by since their last meeting? He had been in the wrong that time, but all that had long been forgotten. Tomorrow she would see him and their friendship would be restored, a moving, warming friendship. It was sure to returnâ?"of that Tonya had not the slightest doubt. If only the night did not betray him, the night that seemed to harbour evil, as if lying in wait for him. . . . A shiver ran through her, and after a last look at the road, she went in. The thought, "If only the night does not betray him", still drilled in her head as she dozed off.
Tonya woke up early in the morning before anyone else was about, and dressed quickly. She slipped out of the house quietly so as not to wake up the family, untied the big shaggy Tresor and set out for town with the dog. She hesitated for a moment in front of the Korchagin house, then pushed the gate open and walked into the yard. Tresor dashed ahead wagging his tail. . . .
Artem had returned from the village early that same morning. The blacksmith he had worked for had given him a lift into town on his cart. On reaching home he threw the sack of flour he had earned on his shoulders and walked into the yard, followed by the blacksmith carrying the rest of his belongings. Outside the open door Artem set the sack down on the ground and called out;
"Pavka!"
There was no answer.
"What''s the hitch there? Why not go right in?" said the smith as he came up.
Setting his belongings down in the kitchen, Artem went into the next room. The sight that met his eyes there dumbfounded him: the place was turned upside down and old clothes littered the floor.
"What the devil is this?" Artem muttered completely at a loss.
"It''s a mess all right," agreed the blacksmith.
"Where''s the boy got to?" Artem was getting angry. But the place was deserted and dead.
The blacksmith said good-bye and left.
Artem went into the yard and looked around.
"I can''t make head or tail of this! All the doors wide open and no Pavka."
Then he heard footsteps behind him. Turning around he saw a huge dog with ears pricked standing before him. A girl was walking toward the house from the gate.
"I want to see Pavel Korchagin," she said in a low voice, surveying Artem.
"So do I. But the devil knows where he''s gone. When I got here the house was unlocked and no Pavka anywhere about. So you''re looking for him too?" he addressed the girl.
The girl answered with a question:
"Are you Korchagin''s brother Artem?"
"I am. Why?"
Instead of replying, the girl stared in alarm at the open door. "Why didn''t I come last night?" she thought. "It can''t be, it can''t be. . . ." And her heart grew heavier still.
"You found the door open and Pavel gone?" she asked Artem, who was staring at her in surprise.
"And what would you be wanting of Pavel, may I ask?" Tonya came closer to him and casting a look around spoke jerkily:
"I don''t know for sure, but if Pavel isn''t at home he must have been arrested."
Artem started nervously. "Arrested? What for?"
"Let''s go inside," Tonya said.
Artem listened in silence while Tonya told him all she knew. By the time she had finished he was despairing.
"Damn it all! As if there wasn''t enough trouble without this mess," he muttered gloomily. "Now I see why the place was turned upside down. What the hell did the boy have to get mixed up in this business for. . . . Where can I find him now? And who may you be, miss?"
"My father is forest warden Tumanov. I''m a friend of Pavel''s."
"I see," Artem said absently. "Here I was bringing flour to feed the boy up, and now this. . . ."
Tonya and Artem looked at each other in silence.
"I must go now," Tonya said softly as she prepared to go. "I hope you''ll find him. I''ll come back later."
Artem gave her a silent nod.
A lean fly just awakened from its winter sleep buzzed in a corner of the window. On the edge of an old threadbare couch sat a young peasant woman, her elbows resting on her knees and her eyes fixed blankly on the filthy floor.
The Commandant, chewing a cigarette stuck in the corner of his mouth, finished writing on a sheet of paper with a flourish, and, obviously pleased with himself, added an ornate signature ending in a curlicue under the title "Commandant of the town of Shepetovka, Khorunzhy''''. From the door came the clinking of spurs. The Commandant looked up.
Before him stood Salomyga with a bandaged arm.
"Hullo, what''s blown you in?" the Commandant greeted him.
"Not a good wind, at any rate. Got my hand sliced to the bone by a Bogunets." ( Bogunetsâ?"a fighting man of the Red Army Regiment named after Bogun, the hero of the national liberation struggle waged by the Ukrainian people in the 17th century.)
Ignoring the woman''s presence Salomyga cursed violently.
"So what are you doing here? Convalescing?"
"We''ll have time to convalesce in the next world. They''re pressing down pretty hard on us at the front."
The Commandant interrupted him, nodding toward the woman.
"We''ll talk about that later."
Salomyga sat down heavily on a stool and removed his cap, which bore a ****ade with an enamel trident, the emblem of the UNR (Ukrainian National Republic).
"Golub sent me," he began in a low tune. "A division of regulars is going to be transferred here soon. In general there''s going to be some doings in town, and it''s my job to put things straight. The ''Chief himself may come here with some foreign bigwig or other, so there''s to be no talk about any ''diversions''. What''re you writing?"
The Commandant shifted the cigarette to the other corner of his mouth.
"I''ve got a damn nuisance of a boy here. Remember that chap Zhukhrai, the one who stirred up the railway-men against us? Well, he was caught at the station."
"He was, eh? Go on," Salomyga pulled his stool closer.
"Well, that blockhead Omelchenko, the Station Commandant, sent him over escorted by a Cossack, and on the way the lad I''ve got in here took the prisoner away from him in broad daylight. The Cossack was disarmed and got his teeth knocked out, and was left to whistle for his prisoner. Zhukhrai got away, but we managed to grab this fellow. Here you have it all down on paper," and he pushed a sheaf of sheets covered with writing toward Salomyga.
The latter scanned through the report, turning over the sheets with his left hand.
When he had finished, he looked at the Commandant.
"And so you got nothing out of him?"
The Commandant pulled nervously at the peak of his cap.
"I''ve been at him for five days now, but all he says is, ''I don''t know anything and I didn''t free him.'' The young scoundrel! You see, the escort recognised himâ?"practically choked the life out of him as soon as he saw him. I could hardly pull the fellow offâ?"no wonder, he''d good reason to be sore because Omelchenko at the station had given him twenty-five strokes with the cleaning rod for losing his prisoner. There''s no sense in keeping him any more, so I''m sending this off to headquarters for permission to finish him off."
Salomyga spat in disdain.
"If I had him he''d speak up sure enough. You''re not much at conducting enquiries. Whoever heard of a theology student making a Commandant! Did you try the rod?"
The Commandant was furious.
"You''re going a bit too far. Keep your sneers to yourself. I''m the Commandant here and I''ll ask you not to interfere."
Salomyga looked at the bristling Commandant and roared with laughter.
"Ha-ha-ha. . . . Don''t puff yourself up too much, priest''s son, or you''ll burst. To hell with you and your problems. Better tell me where a fellow can get a couple of bottles of samogon?"
The Commandant grinned.
"That s easy. "
"As for this," Salomyga jabbed at the sheaf of papers with his finger, "if you want to fix him properly put him down as eighteen years instead of sixteen. Round the top of six off like that. Otherwise they mightn''t pass it."

There were three of them in the storeroom. A bearded old man in a threadbare coat lay on his side on the bunk, his spindle legs in their wide linen trousers drawn up under him. He had been arrested because the horse of the Petlyura men billeted with him had been missing from the shed. An elderly woman with small shifty eyes and a pointed chin was sitting on the floor. She made her living by selling samogon and had been thrown in here on a charge of stealing a watch and other valuables. Korchagin lay semiconscious in the corner under the window, his head resting on his crushed cap.
A young woman, in a peasant kerchief, her eyes wide with terror, was led into the storeroom.
She stood for a moment or two and then sat down next to the samogon woman.
"Got caught, eh, wench?" the latter spoke rapidly, inspecting the newcomer with curious eyes.
There was no answer, but the samogon woman would not give up.
"Why''d they pick you up, eh? Nothing to do with samogon by any chance?" The peasant girl got up and looked at the persistent
"No, it''s because of my brother," she replied quietly.
"And who''s he?" the old woman persisted.
The old man spoke up.
"Why don''t you leave her alone? She''s got enough to worry about without your chattering."
The woman turned quickly toward the bunk.
"Who are you to tell me what to do? I''m not talking to you, am I?"
The old man spat.
"Leave her alone, I tell you."
Silence descended again on the storeroom. The peasant girl spread out a big shawl and lay down, resting her head on her arm.
The samogon woman began to eat. The old man sat up, lowered his feet onto the floor, slowly rolled himself a cigarette and lit it. Clouds of acrid smoke spread out.
"A person can''t eat in peace with that stink," the woman grumbled, her jaws working busily. "You''ve smoked the whole place up."
The old man returned with a sneer:
"Afraid of losing weight, eh? You won''t be able to get through the door soon. Why don''t you give the boy something to eat instead of stuffing it all into yourself?"
The woman made an angry gesture.
"I tried, but he doesn''t want anything. And as for that you can keep your mouth shutâ?"it''s not your food I''m eating."
The girl turned to the samogon woman and, nodding toward Korchagin, asked:
"What is he in here for?"
The woman brightened up at being addressed and readily replied:
"He''s a local ladâ?"Korchagin''s younger boy. His mother''s a cook."
Leaning over to the girl, she whispered in her ear:
"He freed a Bolshevikâ?"a sailor we had hereabouts .who used to lodge with my neighbour Zozulikha."
The young woman remembered the words, she had overheard: "I''m sending this off to headquarters for permission to finish him off."
One after the other troop trains pulled in at the junction, and battalions of regulars poured out in a disorderly mob. The armoured train Zaporozhets, four cars long, its steel sides ribbed with rivets, crawled along a side track. Guns were unloaded and horses were led out of closed box cars. The horses were saddled on the spot and mounted men jostled their way through the milling crowds of infantrymen to the station yard where the cavalry unit was lining up.
Officers ran up and down, calling the numbers of their units.
The station buzzed like a wasps'' nest. Gradually the regular squares of platoons were hammered out of the shapeless mass of vociferous, swirling humanity and soon a stream of armed men was pouring into town. Until late in the evening carts creaked and rattled and the stragglers bringing up the rear of the rifle division trailed along the highway.
The procession finally ended with the headquarters company marching briskly by, bellowing from a hundred and twenty throats:
What''s the shouting?
What''s the noise?
It''s Petlyura
And his boys
Come to town. . . .
Pavel Korchagin got up to look out of the window. Through the early twilight he could hear the rumbling of wheels on the street, the tramping of many feet, and the lusty singing.
Behind him a soft voice said:
"The troops have come to town."
Korchagin turned round.
The speaker was the girl who had been brought in the day before.
He had already heard her storyâ?"the samogon woman had wormed it out of her. She came from a village seven versts from the town, where her elder brother, Gritsko, now a Red partisan, had headed a poor peasants'' committee when the Soviets were in power.
When the Reds left, Gritsko girded himself with a machine-gun belt and went with them. Now the family was being hounded incessantly. Their only horse had been taken away from them. The father had been imprisoned for a while and had a rough time of it. The village elderâ?" one of those on whom Gritsko had clamped downâ?"was always billeting strangers in their house, out of sheer spite. The family was destitute. And when the Commandant had come to the village the day before to make a search, the elder had brought him to the girl''s place. She struck his fancy and the next morning he brought her to town with him "for interrogation".
Korchagin could not fall asleep, try as he might he could not find rest, and in his brain drilled one insistent thought which he could not dispel: "What next?"
His bruised body ached, for the guard had beaten him with bestial fury.
To escape the bitter thoughts crowding his mind he listened to the whispering of the two women.
In a barely audible voice the girl was telling how the Commandant had pestered her, how he had threatened and coaxed, and when she rebuffed him, turned on her in fury. "I''ll lock you up in a cellar and let you rot there," he had said.
Darkness lurked in the corners of the cell. There was another night ahead, a stifling, restless night. It was the seventh night in captivity, but to Pavel it seemed that he had been there for months. The floor was hard, and pain racked his body. There were three of them now in the storeroom. The samogon woman had been released by the Khorunzhy to procure some vodka. Grandpa was snoring on the bunk as if he were at home on his Russian stove; he bore his misfortune with stoic calm and slept soundly through the night. Khristina and Pavel lay on the floor, almost side by side. Yesterday Pavel had seen Sergei through the windowâ?"he had stood for a long time out in the street, looking sadly at the windows of the houses.
"He knows I''m here," Pavel had thought.
For three days running someone had brought sour black bread for himâ?"who it was the guards would not tell. And for two days the Commandant had repeatedly questioned him.
What could it all mean?
During the questioning he had given nothing away; on the contrary he had denied everything. Why he had kept silent, he did not know himself. He wanted to be brave and strong, like those of whom he had read in books, yet that night when he was being taken to prison and one of his captors had said, "What''s the use of dragging him along, Pan Khorunzhy? A bullet in the back will fix him", he had been afraid. Yes, the thought of dying at sixteen was terrifying! Death was the end of everything. Khristina was also thinking. She knew more than the young man. Most likely he did not know yet what was in store for him . . . what she had overheard.
He tossed about restlessly at night unable to sleep. Khristina pitied him, though the prospect she herself faced was hardly betterâ?"she could not forget the menace of the Commandant''s words: "I''ll fix you up tomorrowâ?" if you won''t have me it''s the guardhouse for you. The Cossacks will be glad to get you. So take your choice." Oh, how hard it was, and no mercy to be expected anywhere! Was it her fault that Gritsko had joined the Reds? How cruel life was!
A dull pain choked her and in the agony of helpless despair and fear her body was racked by soundless sobs. A shadow moved in the corner by the wall. "Why are you crying?"
In a passionate whisper Khristina poured out her woes to her silent cell mate. He did not speak, but laid his hand lightly on hers.
"They''ll torture me to death, curse them," she whispered in terror, gulping down her tears. "Nothing can save me." What could Pavel say to this girl? There was nothing to say. Life was crushing them both in an iron ring.
Perhaps he ought to put up a fight when they came for her tomorrow? They''d only beat him to death, or a sabre blow on the head would end it all. Wishing to comfort the distraught girl somehow, he stroked her hand tenderly. The sobbing ceased. At intervals the sentry at the entrance could be heard challenging a passer-by with the usual "Who goes there?" and then everything was quiet again. Grandpa was fast asleep. The interminable minutes crawled slowly by. Then, to his utter surprise, Pavel felt the girl''s arms go around him and pull him toward her.
"Listen," hot lips were whispering, "there is no escape for me: if it isn''t the officer, it''ll be those others. Take me, love, so that dog won''t be the first to have me."
"What are you saying, Khristina!"
But the strong arms did not release him. Full, burning lips pressed down on hisâ?"they were hard to escape. The girl''s words were simple, tenderâ?"and he knew why she uttered them.
For a moment everything recededâ?"the bolted door, the red-headed Cossack, the Commandant, the brutal beatings, the seven stifling, sleepless nightsâ?"all were forgotten, and only the burning lips and the face moist with tears existed.
Suddenly he remembered Tonya.
How could he forget her? Those dear, wonderful eyes.
He mustered his strength and broke away from Khristina''s embrace. He staggered to his feet like a drunken man and seized hold of the grill. Khristina''s hands found him.
"Why, what is the matter?"
All her heart was in that question. He bent down to her and pressing her hands said:
"I can''t, Khristina. You are so . . . good." He hardly knew what he was saying.
He stood up again in the intolerable silence and went over to the bunk. Sitting down on the edge, he woke up the old man.
"Give me a smoke, please, Granddad."
The girl, huddled in her shawl, wept in the corner.
The next day the Commandant came with some Cossacks and took Khristina away. Her eyes sought Pavel''s in farewell, and there was reproach in them. And when the door slammed behind her his soul was more desolate and dreary than ever.
All day long the old man could not get a word out of Pavel. The sentries and the Commandant''s guard were changed. Toward evening a new prisoner was brought in. Pavel recognised him: it was Dolinnik, a joiner from the sugar refinery, a short thickset man wearing a faded yellow shirt under a threadbare jacket. He surveyed the storeroom with a keen eye.
Pavel had seen him in February 1917, when the reverberation of the revolution reached their town. He had heard only one Bolshevik speak during the noisy demonstrations held then and that Bolshevik was Dolinnik. He had climbed onto a roadside fence and addressed the troops. Pavel remembered his closing words:
"Follow the Bolsheviks, soldiers, they will not betray you!"
He had not seen the joiner since.
Granddad was glad to have a new cell mate, for he obviously found it hard to sit silent all day long. Dolinnik settled down next to him on the edge of the bunk, smoked a cigarette with him and questioned him about everything.
Then the newcomer moved over to Korchagin. "Well, young man?" he asked Pavel. "And how did you get in here?"
Pavel replied in monosyllables and Dolinnik saw that it was caution that kept the young man from speaking. When he learned of the charge laid against Pavel his intelligent eyes widened with amazement and he sat down beside the lad.
"So you say you got Zhukhrai away? That''s interesting. I didn''t know they''d nabbed you."
Pavel, taken by surprise, raised himself on his elbow. "I don''t know any Zhukhrai. They can pin anything on you here."
Dolinnik, smiling, moved closer to him. "That''s all right, my boy. You don''t need to be cautious with me. I know more than you do."
Quietly, so that the old man should not overhear he continued:
"I saw Zhukhrai off myself, he''s probably reached his destination by now. He told me all about what happened." After a moment''s pause, Dolinnik added: "I see you''re made of the right stuff, boy. Though, the fact that they caught you and know everything is bad, Very bad, I should say."
He took off his jacket and spreading it on the floor sat down on it with his back against the wall, and began to roll another cigarette.
Dolinnik''s last remark made everything clear to Pavel. There was no doubt about it, Dolinnik was all right. Besides, he had seen Zhukhrai off, and that meant. . . .
That evening he learned that Dolinnik had been arrested for agitation among Petlyura''s Cossacks. Moreover, he had been caught distributing an appeal issued by the gubernia revolutionary committee calling on the troops *****rrender and go over to the Reds.
Dolinnik was careful not to tell Pavel much.
"Who knows," he thought to himself, "they may use the ramrod on the boy. He''s still too young."
Late at night when they were settling themselves for sleep, he voiced his apprehensions in the brief remark:
"Well, Korchagin, we seem to be in a pretty bad fix. Let''s see what will come of it."
The next day a new prisoner was brought inâ?"the flop-eared, scraggy-necked barber Shlyoma Zeltser.
"Fuchs, Bluvstein and Trachtenberg are going to welcome him with bread and salt," he told Dolinnik gesturing excitedly as he spoke. "I said that if they want to do that, they can, but will the rest of the Jewish population back them up? No, they won''t, you can take it from me. Of course they have their own fish to fry. Fuchs has a store and Trachtenberg''s got the flour mill. But what''ve I got? And the rest of the hungry lot? Nothingâ?"paupers, that''s what we are. Well, I''ve got a long tongue, and today when I was shaving an officerâ?"one of the new ones who came recentlyâ?"I said: ''Do you think Ataman Petlyura knows about these pogroms or not? Will he see the delegation?'' Oi, how many times I''ve got into trouble through this tongue of mine. So what do you think this officer did when I had shaved him and powdered his face and done all in fine style too? He gets up and instead of paying me arrests me for agitating against the authorities." Zeltser struck his chest with his fist. "Now what sort of agitation was that? What did I say? I only asked the fellow. . . . And to lock me up for that. . . ."
In his excitement Zeltser twisted a button on Dolinnik''s shirt and tugged at his arms.
Dolinnik smiled in spite of himself as he listened to the indignant Shlyoma.
"Yes, Shlyoma," he said gravely when the barber had finished, "that was a stupid thing for a clever fellow like you to do. You chose the wrong time to let your tongue run away with you. I wouldn''t have advised you to get in here."
Zeltser nodded understandingly and made a gesture of despair with his hand. Just then the door opened and the samogon woman was pushed in. She staggered in, heaping foul curses on the Cossack who brought her.
"You and your Commandant ought to be roasted on a slow fire! I hope he shrivels up and croaks from that booze of mine!"
The guard slammed the door shut and they heard him locking it on the outside.
As the woman settled down on the edge of the bunk the old man greeted her jocularly:
"So you''re back with us again, you old chatterbox? Sit down and make yourself at home."
The samogon woman darted a hostile glance at him and picking up her bundle sat down on the floor next to Dolinnik.
It turned out that she had been released just long enough for her captors to get some bottles of samogon out of her.
Suddenly shouts and the sound of running feet could be heard from the guardroom next door. Somebody was barking out orders. The prisoners stopped talking to listen.

Strange things were happening on the square in front of the ungainly church with the ancient belfry. On three sides the square was lined with rectangles of troopsâ?" units of the division of regular infantry mustered in full battle kit.
In front, facing the entrance to the church, stood three regiments of infantry in squares placed in checkerboard fashion, their ranks buttressed against the school fence.
This grey, rather dirty mass of Petlyura soldiers standing there with rifles at rest, wearing absurd Russian helmets like pumpkins cut in half, and heavily laden down with bandoliers, was the best division the "Directorate" had.
Well-uniformed and shod from the stores of the former tsarist army and consisting mainly of kulaks who were consciously fighting the Soviets, the division had been transferred here to defend this strategically important railway junction. Five different railway lines converged at Shepetovka, and for Petlyura the loss of the junction would have meant the end of everything. As it was, the "Directorate" had very little territory left in its hands, and the small town of Vinnitsa was now Petlyura''s capital.
The "Chief Ataman" himself had decided to inspect the troops and now everything was in readiness for his arrival.
Back in a far corner of the square where they were least likely to be seen stood a regiment of new recruitsâ?" barefoot youths in shabby civilian clothes of all descriptions. These were farm lads picked up from their beds by midnight raiding parties or seized on the streets, and none of them had the least intention of doing any fighting.
"Let them look for fools somewhere else," they said.
The most the Petlyura officers could do was to bring the recruits to town under escort, divide them into companies and battalions and issue them arms. The very next day, however, a third of the recruits thus herded together would disappear and with each passing day their numbers dwindled.
It would have been more than foolhardy to issue them boots, particularly since the boot stocks were far from plentiful. And so everyone was ordered to report for conscription shod. The result was an astonishing collection of dilapidated footwear tied on with bits of string and wire.
They were marched out for parade barefoot.
Behind the infantry stood Golub''s cavalry regiment.
Mounted men held back the dense crowds of curious townsfolk who had come to see the parade.
After all, the "Chief Ataman" himself was to be present! Events like this were rare enough in town and no one wanted to miss the free entertainment it promised.
On the church steps were gathered the colonels and captains, the priest''s two daughters, a handful of Ukrainian schoolteachers, a group of "free Cossacks", and the slightly hunchbacked mayorâ?"in a word, the elite representing the "public", and among them the Inspector-General of Infantry wearing a Caucasian cherkesska. It was he who was in command of the parade.
Inside the church Vasili, the priest, was garbing himself in his Easter service vestments.
Petlyura was to be received in grand style. For one thing, the newly-mobilised recruits were to take the oath of allegiance, and for this purpose a yellow-and-blue flag had been brought out.
The Division Commander set out for the station in a rickety old Ford car to meet Petlyura.
When he had gone, the Inspector of Infantry called over Colonel Chernyak, a tall, well-built officer with a foppishly twirled moustache.
"Take someone along with you and see that the Commandant''s office and the rear services are in proper shape. If you find any prisoners there look them over and get rid of the riffraff."
Chernyak clicked his heels, took along the first Cossack captain his eye lighted on and galloped off.
The Inspector turned politely to the priest''s elder daughter.
"What about the banquet, everything in order?"
"Oh, yes. The Commandant''s doing his best," she replied, gazing avidly at the handsome Inspector.
Suddenly a stir passed through the crowd: a rider was coming down the road at a mad gallop, bending low over the neck of his horse. He waved his hand and shouted:
"They''re coming!"
"Fall in!" barked the Inspector.
The officers ran to their places.
As the Ford chugged up to the church the band struck up The Ukraine Lives On.
Following the Division Commander, the "Chief Ataman" heaved himself laboriously out of the car. Petlyura was a man of medium height, with a square head firmly planted on a red bull neck; he wore a blue tunic of fine wool cloth girded tight with a yellow belt to which a small Browning in a chamois holster was attached. On his head was a peaked khaki uniform cap with a ****ade bearing the enamel trident.
There was nothing especially warlike about the figure of Simon Petlyura. As a matter of fact, he did not look like a military man at all.
He heard out the Inspector''s report with an expression of displeasure on his face. Then the mayor addressed him in greeting.
Petlyura listened absently, staring at the assembled regiments over the mayor''s head.
"Let us begin," he nodded to the Inspector.
Mounting the small platform next to the flag, Petlyura delivered a ten-minute speech to the troops.
The speech was unconvincing. Evidently tired from the journey, the Ataman spoke without enthusiasm. He finished to the accompaniment of the regulation shouts of "Slava! Slava!" from the soldiers and climbed down from the platform dabbing his perspiring forehead with a handkerchief. Then, together with the Inspector and the Division Commander, he inspected the units.
As he passed the ranks of the newly-mobilised recruits his eyes narrowed in a disdainful scowl and he bit his lips in annoyance.
Toward the end of the inspection, when the platoons of new recruits marched in uneven ranks to the flag, where the priest Vasili was standing, Bible in hand, and kissed first the Bible and then the hem of the flag, an unforeseen incident occurred.
A delegation which had contrived by some unknown means to reach the square approached Petlyura. At the head of the group came the wealthy timber merchant Bluvstein with an offering of bread and salt, followed by Fuchs the draper, and three other well-to-do businessmen.
With a servile bow Bluvstein extended the tray to Petlyura. It was taken by an officer standing alongside.
"The Jewish population wishes to express its sincere gratitude and respect for you, the head of the state. Please accept this address of greeting."
"Good," muttered Petlyura, quickly scanning the sheet of paper.
Fuchs stepped forward.
"We most humbly beg you to allow us to open our enterprises and we ask for protection against pogroms." Fuchs stumbled over the last word.
An angry scowl darkened Petlyura''s features.
"My army does not engage in pogroms. You had better remember that."
Fuchs spread out his arms in a gesture of resignation.
Petlyura''s shoulder twitched nervously. The untimely appearance of the delegation irritated him. He turned to Golub, who was standing behind chewing his black moustache.
"Here''s a complaint against your Cossacks, Pan Colonel. Investigate the matter and take measures accordingly," said Petlyura. Then, addressing the Inspector, he said dryly:
"You may begin the parade."
The ill-starred delegation had not expected to run up against Golub and they hastened to withdraw.
The attention of the spectators was now wholly absorbed by the preparations for the ceremonial march-past. Sharp commands were rapped out.
Golub, his features outwardly calm, walked over to Bluvstein and said in a loud whisper:
"Get out of here, you rotten heathens, or I''ll make mincemeat out of you!"
The band struck up and the first units marched through the square. As they drew alongside Petlyura, the troops bellowed a mechanical "Slava!" and then swung down the highway to disappear into the sidestreets. At the head of the companies, uniformed in brand-new khaki outfits, the officers marched at an easy gait as if they were simply taking a stroll, swinging their swagger sticks. The swagger stick mode, like cleaning rods for the soldiers, had just been introduced in the division.
The new recruits brought up the rear of the parade. They came in a disorderly mass, out of step and jostling one another.
There was a low rustle of bare feet as the mobilised men shuffled by, prodded on by the officers who worked hard but in vain to bring about some semblance of order. When the second company was passing a peasant lad in a linen shirt on the side nearest the reviewing stand gaped in such wide-eyed amazement at the "Chief" that he stepped into a hole in the road and fell flat on the ground. His rifle slid over the cobblestones with a loud clatter. He tried to get up but was knocked down again by the men behind him.
Some of the spectators burst out laughing. The company broke ranks and passed through the square in complete disorder. The luckless lad picked up his rifle and ran after the others.
Petlyura turned away from this sorry spectacle and walked over to the car without waiting for the end of the review. The Inspector, who followed him, asked diffidently:
"Pan the Ataman will not stay for dinner?"
"No," Petlyura flung back curtly.
Sergei Bruzzhak, Valya and Klimka were watching the parade in the crowd of spectators pressed against the high fence surrounding the church. Sergei, gripping the bars of the grill, looked at the faces of the people below him with hatred in his eyes.
"Let''s go, Valya, they''ve shut up shop," he said in a deliberately loud defiant voice, and turned away from the fence. People stared at him in astonishment.
Ignoring everyone, he walked to the gate, followed by his sister and Klimka.
Colonel Chernyak and the Captain galloped up to the Commandant''s office and dismounted. Leaving the horses in the charge of a dispatch rider they strode rapidly into the guardhouse.
"Where''s the Commandant?" Chernyak asked the dispatch rider sharply.
"Dunno," the man stammered. "Gone off somewhere.''''
Chernyak looked around the filthy, untidy room, the unmade beds and the Cossacks of the Commandant''s guard who sprawled on them and made no attempt to rise when the officers entered.
"What sort of a pigsty is this?" Chernyak roared. "And who gave you permission to wallow about like hogs?" he lashed at the men lying flat on their backs.
One of the Cossacks sat up, belched and growled:
"What''re you squawking for? We''ve got our own squawker here."
"What!" Chernyak sprang toward the man. "Who do you think you''re talking to, you bastard? I''m Colonel Chernyak. D''you hear, you swine! Up, all of you, or I''ll have you flogged!" The enraged Colonel dashed about the guardhouse. "I''ll give you one minute to sweep out the filth, straighten out the bedding and make your filthy mugs presentable. You look like a band of brigands, not Cossacks!"
Beside himself with rage, the Colonel violently kicked at a slop pail obstructing his path.
The Captain was no less violent, and, adding emphasis to his curses by wielding his three-thonged whip, drove the men out of their bunks.
"The Chief Ataman''s reviewing the parade. He''s liable to drop in here any minute. Get a move on there!"
Seeing that things were taking a serious turn and that they really might be in for a floggingâ?"they knew Chernyak''s reputation well enoughâ?"the Cossacks sprang into feverish activity.
In no time work was in full swing.
"We ought to have a look at the prisoners," the Captain suggested. "There''s no telling whom they''ve got locked up here. Might be trouble if the Chief looks in."
"Who has the key?" Chernyak asked the sentry. "Open the door at once."
A Sergeant jumped up and opened the lock.
"Where''s the Commandant? How long do you think I''m going to wait for him? Find him at once and send him in here," Chernyak ordered. "Muster the guard in the yard! Why are the rifles without bayonets?"
"We only took over yesterday," the Sergeant tried to explain, and hurried off in search of the Commandant.
The Captain kicked the storeroom door open. Several of the people inside got up from the floor, the others remained motionless.
"Open the door wider," Chernyak commanded. "Not enough light here."
He scrutinised the prisoners'' faces.
"What are you in for?" he snapped at the old man sitting on the edge of the bunk.
The old man half rose, hitched up his trousers and, frightened by the sharp order, mumbled:
"Dunno myself. They just locked me up and here I am. There was a horse disappeared from the yard, but I''ve got nothing to do with it."
"Whose horse?" the Captain interrupted him.
"An army horse, of course. My billets sold him and drank the proceeds and now they''re blaming me."
Chernyak ran his eye swiftly over the old man and with an impatient jerk of his shoulder shouted: "Pick up your things and get out of here!" Then he turned to the samogon woman.
The old man could not believe his ears. Blinking his shortsighted eyes, he turned to the Captain:
"Does that mean I can go?"
The Cossack nodded as much as to say: the faster you get out the better.
Hurriedly the old man seized his bundle which hung over the edge of the bunk and dashed through the door.
"And what are you in for?" Chernyak was questioning the samogon woman.
Swallowing the mouthful of pie she had been chewing, the woman rattled off a ready answer:
"It''s an injustice it is that I should be in here, Pan Chief. Just think of it, to drink a poor widow''s samogon and then lock her up."
"You''re not in the samogon business, are you?" Chernyak asked.
"Business? Nothing of the kind," said the woman with an injured air. "The Commandant came and took four bottles and didn''t pay a kopek. That''s how it is: they drink your booze and never pay. You wouldn''t call that business, would you?"
"Enough. Now go to the devil!"
The woman did not wait for the order to be repeated. She picked up her basket and backed to the door, bowing in gratitude.
"May God bless you with good health, your honours."
Dolinnik watched the comedy with frank amazement.
None of the prisoners could make out what it was all about. The only thing that was clear was that the arrivals were chiefs of some kind who had the power to dispose of them as they saw fit.
"And you there?" Chernyak spoke to Dolinnik.
"Stand up when Pan the Colonel speaks to you!" barked the Captain.
Slowly Dolinnik raised himself to his feet from the floor.
"What are you in for?" Chernyak repeated.
Dolinnik looked at the Colonel''s neatly twirled moustache, at his clean-shaven face, looked at the peak of his new cap with the enamel ****ade, and a wild thought flashed through his mind: Maybe it''ll work!
"I was arrested for being out on the streets after eight o''clock," he said, blurting out the first thing that came into his head.
He awaited the answer in an agony of suspense.
"What were you doing out at night?"
"It wasn''t night, only about eleven o''clock."
He no longer believed that this shot in the dark would succeed.
His knees trembled when he heard the brief command:
"Get out."