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

Dolinnik walked hurriedly out of the door, forgetting his jacket; the Captain was already questioning the next prisoner.
Korchagin was the last to be interrogated. He sat on the floor'' completely dumbfounded by the proceedings. At first he could not believe that Dolinnik had been released. Why were they letting everyone off like this? But Dolinnik . . . Dolinnik had said that he had been arrested for breaking the curfew. . . . Then it dawned upon him.
The Colonel began questioning the scraggy Zeltser with the usual "What are you in for?"
The barber, pale with nervousness, blurted out:
"They tell me I was agitating, but I don''t know what they''re talking about."
Chernyak pricked up his ears.
"What''s that? Agitation? What were you agitating about?"
Zeltser spread out his arms in bewilderment.
"I don''t know myself, I only said that they were collecting signatures to a petition to the Chief Ataman for the Jewish population."
"What sort of petition?" both Chernyak and the Captain moved menacingly toward Zeltser.
"A petition asking that pogroms be prohibited. You know, we had a terrible pogrom. The whole population''s afraid.
"That''s enough," Chernyak interrupted him. "We''ll give you a petition you won''t forget, you dirty Jew." Turning to the Captain, he snapped: "Put this one away properly. Have him taken to headquarters?"I''ll talk to him there personally. We''ll see who''s behind this petition business."
Zeltser tried to protest but the Captain struck him sharply across the back with his riding crop.
"Shut up, you bastard!"
His face twisted with pain, Zeltser staggered back into a corner. His lips trembled and he barely restrained his sobs.
While this was going on, Pavel rose to his feet. He was now the only prisoner besides Zeltser in the storeroom.
Chernyak stood in front of the boy and inspected him with his piercing black eyes.
"Well, what are you doing here?"
Pavel had his answer ready.
"I cut off a saddle skirt for soles," he said quickly.
("What saddle?" the Colonel asked.
"We''ve got two Cossacks billeted at our place and I cut off a bit of an old saddle to sole my boots with. So the Cossacks hauled me in here." Seized by a wild hope to regain his freedom, he added: "I didn''t know it wasn''t allowed. . . ."
The Colonel eyed Pavel with disgust.
"Of all the things this Commandant thought of, blast him! Look at the prisoners he picked up!" As he turned to the door, he shouted: "You can go home, and tell your father to give you the thrashing you deserve. Out with you!"
Still unable to believe his ears, Pavel snatched up Dolinnik''s jacket from the floor and rushed for the door, his heart pounding as if it would burst. He ran through the guardroom and slipped outside behind the Colonel who was walking out into the yard. In a moment Pavel was through the wicket gate and in the street.
The unlucky Zeltser remained alone in the storeroom. He looked round with harassed eyes, instinctively took a few steps towards the exit, but just then a sentry entered the guardhouse, closed the door, inserted the padlock, and sat down on a stool next to the door.
Out on the porch Chernyak, much pleased with himself, said to the Captain:
"It''s a good thing we looked in. Think of the rubbish we found therê?"we''ll have to lock up that Commandant for a couple of weeks. Well, it''s time we were going."
The Sergeant had mustered his detail in the yard. When he saw the Colonel, he ran over and reported:
"Everything''s in order, Pan Colonel."
Chernyak inserted a boot into a stirrup and sprang lightly into the saddle. The Captain was having some trouble with his restive horse. Reining in his mount, the Colonel said to the Sergeant:
"Tell the Commandant I cleared out all the rubbish he''d collected in there. And tell him I''ll give him two weeks in the guardhouse for the way he ran things here. As for the fellow in there now, transfer him to headquarters at once. Let the guard be in readiness."
"Very good, Pan Colonel," said the Sergeant and saluted.
Spurring on their horses, the Colonel and the Captain galloped back to the square where the parade was already coming to an end.
Pavel swung himself over another fence and stopped exhausted. He could go no farther. Those days cooped up in the stifling storeroom without food had sapped his strength.
Where should he go? Home was out of the question, and to go to the Bruzzhaks might bring disaster upon the whole family if anyone discovered him there.
He did not know what to do, and ran on again blindly, leaving behind the vegetable patches and back gardens at the edge of the town. Colliding heavily with a fence, he came to himself with a start and looked about him in amazement: there behind the tall fence was the forest warden''s garden. So this was where his weary legs had brought him! He could have sworn that he had had no thought of coming this way. How then did he happen to be here? For that he could find no answer.
Yet rest awhile he must; he had to consider the situation and decide on the next step. He remembered that there was a summerhouse at the end of the garden. No one would see him there.
Hoisting himself to the top of the fence, he clambered over and dropped into the garden below. With a brief glance at the house, barely visible among the trees, he made for the summerhouse. To his dismay he found that it was open on nearly all sides. The wild vine that had walled it in during the summer had withered and now all was bare.
He turned to go back, but it was too late. There was a furious barking behind him. He wheeled round and saw a huge dog coming straight at him down the leaf-strewn path leading from the house. Its fierce growls rent the stillness of the garden.
Pavel made ready to defend himself. The first attack he repulsed with a heavy kick. But the animal crouched to spring a second time. There is no saying how the encounter would have ended had a familiar voice not called out: "Come here, Tresor! Come here!"
Tonya came running down the path. She dragged Tresor back by the collar and turned to address the young man standing by the fence.
"What are you doing here? You might have been badly mauled by the dog. It''s lucky I. . . ."
She stopped short and her eyes widened in surprise. How extraordinarily like Korchagin was this stranger who had wandered into her garden.
The figure by the fence stirred.
"Tonya!" said the young man softly. "Don''t you recognise me?"
Tonya cried out and rushed impulsively over to him.
"Pavel, you?"
Tresor, taking the cry as a signal for attack, sprang forward.
"Down, Tresor, down!" A few cuffs from Tonya and he slunk back with an injured air toward the house, his tail between his legs.
"So you''re free?" said Tonya, clinging to Pavel''s hands.
"You knew then?"
"I know everything," replied Tonya breathlessly. "Liza told me. But however did you get here? Did they let you go?"
"Yes, but only by mistake," Pavel replied wearily. "I ran away. I suppose they''re looking for me now. I really don''t know how I got here. I thought I''d rest a bit in your summerhouse. I''m awfully tired," he added apologetically.
She gazed at him for a moment or two and a wave of pity and tenderness swept over her.
"Pavel, my darling Pavel," she murmured holding his hands fast in hers. "I love you. . . . Do you hear me? My stubborn boy, why did you go away that time? Now you''re coming to us, to me. I shan''t let you go for anything. It''s nice and quiet in our house and you can stay as long as you like."
Pavel shook his head.
"What if they find me here? No, I can''t stay in your place."
Her hands squeezed his fingers and her eyes flashed.
"If you refuse, I shall never speak to you again. Artem isn''t here, he was marched off under escort to the locomotive. All the railwaymen are being mobilised. Where will you go?"
Pavel shared her anxiety, and only his fear of bringing trouble to this girl now grown so dear to him held him back. But at last, worn out by his harrowing experiences, hungry and exhausted, he gave in.
While he sat on the sofa in Tonya''s room, the following conversation ensued between mother and daughter in the kitchen.
"Mama, Korchagin is in my room. He was my pupil, you remember? I don''t want to hide anything from you. He was arrested for helping a Bolshevik sailor to escape. Now he has run away from prison, but he has nowhere to go." Her voice trembled. "Mother dear, please let him stay here for a while."
The mother looked into her daughter''s pleading eyes.
"Very well, I have no objection. But where do you intend to put him?"
Tonya flushed.
"He can sleep in my room on the sofa," she said. "We needn''t tell Papa anything for the time being."
Her mother looked straight into her eyes.
"Is this what you have been fretting about so much lately?" she asked.
"Yes."
"But he is scarcely more than a boy."
"I know," replied Tonya, nervously fingering the sleeve of her blouse. "But if he hadn''t escaped they would have shot him just the same."
Yekaterina Mikhailovna was alarmed by Korchagin''s presence in her home. His arrest and her daughter''s obvious infatuation with a lad she scarcely knew disturbed her.
But Tonya, considering the matter settled, was already thinking of attending to her guest''s comfort.
"He must have a bath, first thing, Mama. I''ll see to it at once. He is as dirty as a chimney sweep. It must be ages since he had a wash."
And she bustled off to heat the water for the bath and find some clean linen for Pavel. When all was ready she rushed into the room, seized Pavel by the arm and hurried him off to the bathroom without more ado.
"You must have a complete change of clothes. Here is a suit for you to put on. Your things will have to be washed. You can wear that in the meantime," she said pointing to the chair where a blue sailor blouse with striped white collar and a pair of bell-bottomed trousers were neatly laid out.
Pavel looked surprised. Tonya smiled.
"I wore it at a masquerade ball once," she explained. "It will be just right for you. Now, hurry. While you''re washing, I''ll get you something to eat."
She went out and shut the door, leaving Pavel with no alternative but to undress and climb into the tub.
An hour later all three, mother, daughter and Pavel, were dining in the kitchen.
Pavel, who was ravenously hungry, consumed three helpings before he was aware of it. He was rather shy of Yekaterina Mikhailovna at first but soon thawed out when he saw how friendly she was.
After dinner they retired to Tonya''s room and at Yekaterina Mikhailovna''s request Pavel related his experiences.
"What do you intend doing now?" Yekaterina Mikhailovna asked when he had finished.
Pavel pondered the question a moment. "I should like to see Artem first, and then I shall have to get away from here."
"But where will you go?"
"I think I could make my way to Uman or perhaps to Kiev. I don''t know myself yet, but I must get away from here as soon as possible."
Pavel could hardly believe that everything had changed so quickly. Only that morning he had been in the filthy cell and now here he was sitting beside Tonya, wearing clean clothes, and, what was most important, he was free.
What queer turns life can take, he thought: one moment the sky seems black as night, and then the sun comes shining through again. Had it not been for the danger of being arrested again he would have been the happiest lad alive at this moment.
But he knew that even in this large, silent house he was far from safe. He must go away from here, it did not matter where. And yet he did not at all welcome the idea of going away. How thrilling it had been to read about the heroic Garibaldi! How he had envied him! But now he realised that Garibaldi''s must have been a hard life, hounded as he was from place to place. He, Pavel, had only lived through seven days of misery and torment, yet it had seemed like a whole year.
No, clearly he was not cut out to be a hero.
"What are you thinking about?" Tonya asked, bending over toward him. The deep blue of her eyes seemed fathomless.
"Tonya, shall I tell you about Khristina?"
"Yes, do," Tonya urged him.
He told her the sad story of his fellow-captive.
The clock ticked loudly in the silence as he ended his story: ".. .And that was the last we saw of her," his
words came with difficulty. Tonya''s head dropped and she had to bite her lips to force back the tears.
Pavel looked at her. "1 must go away tonight," he said with finality.
"No, no, 1 shan''t let you go anywhere tonight."
She stroked his bristly hair tenderly with her slim warm fingers. . . .
"Tonya, you must help me. Someone must go to the station and find out what has happened to Artem and take a note to Seryozha. I have a revolver hidden in a crow''s nest. I daren''t go for it, but Seryozha can get it for me. Will you be able to do this for me?"
Tonya got up.
"I''ll go to Liza Sukharko right away. She and I will go to the station together. Write your note and I''ll take it to Seryozha. Where does he live? Shall I tell him where you are if he should want to see you?"
Pavel considered for a moment before replying. "Tell him to bring the gun to your garden this evening."
It was very late when Tonya returned. Pavel was fast asleep. The touch of her hand awoke him and he opened his eyes to find her standing over him, smiling happily.
"Artem is coming here soon. He has just come back. Liza''s father has agreed to vouch for him and they''re letting him go for an hour. The engine is standing at the station. I couldn''t tell him you are here. I just told him I had something very important to tell him. There he is now!"
Tonya ran to open the door. Artem stood in the doorway dumb with amazement, unable to believe his eyes. Tonya closed the door behind him so that her father, who was lying ill with typhus in the study, might not overhear them.
Another moment and Artem was giving Pavel a bear''s hug that made his bones crack, and crying: "Pavel! My little brother!"
And so it was decided: Pavel was to leave the next day. Artem would arrange for Bruzzhak to take him on a train bound for Kazatin.
Artem, usually grave and reserved, was now almost beside himself with joy at having found his brother after so many days of anxiety and uncertainty.
"Then it''s settled. Tomorrow morning at five you''ll be at the warehouse. While they''re loading on fuel you can slip in. I wish I could stay and have a chat with you but I must be getting back. I''ll see you off tomorrow. They''re making up a battalion of railwaymen. We go about under an armed escort just like when the Germans were here."
Artem said good-bye to his brother and left.

Dusk gathered fast, Sergei would be arriving soon with the revolver. While he waited, Pavel paced nervously up and down the dark room. Tonya and her mother were with the forest warden.
He met Sergei in the darkness by the fence and the two friends shook hands warmly. Sergei had brought Valya with him. They conversed in low tones.
"I haven''t brought the gun," Sergei said. "That backyard of yours is thick with Petlyura men. There are carts standing all over the place and they had a bonfire going. So I couldn''t climb the tree to get the gun. It''s a damn shame." Sergei was much put out.
"Never mind," Pavel consoled him. "Perhaps it''s just as well. It would be worse if I happened to be caught on the way with the gun. But make sure you get hold of it."
Valya moved closer to Pavel.
"When are you leaving?"
"Tomorrow, at daybreak."
"How did you manage to get away? Tell us."
In a rapid whisper Pavel told them his story. Then he took leave of his comrades. The jolly Sergei was unusually silent.
"Good luck, Pavel, don''t forget us," Valya said in a choking voice.
And with that they left him, the darkness swallowing them up in an instant.
Inside the house all was quiet. The measured ticking of the clock was the only sound in the stillness.
For two of the house''s inmates there was no thought of sleep that night. How could they sleep when in six hours they were to part, perhaps never to meet again. Was it possible in that brief space of time to give utterance to the myriad of unspoken thoughts that seethed within them?
Youth, sublime youth, when passion, as yet unknown, is only dimly felt in a quickening of the pulse; when your hand coming in chance contact with your sweetheart''s breast trembles as if affrighted and falters, and when the sacred friendship of youth guards you from the final step! What can be sweeter than to feel her arm about your neck and her burning kiss on your lips.
It was the second kiss they had exchanged throughout their friendship. Pavel, who had experienced many a beating but never a caress except from his mother, was stirred to the depths of his being. Hitherto life had shown him its most brutal side, and he had not known it could be such a glorious thing; now this girl had taught him what happiness could mean.
He breathed the perfume of her hair and seemed to see her eyes in the darkness.
"I love you so, Tonya, I can''t tell you how much, for I don''t know how to say it."
His brain was in a whirl. How responsive her supple body. . . . But youth''s friendship is a sacred trust.
"Tonya, when all this mess is over I''m bound to get a job as a mechanic, and if you really want me, if you''re really serious and not just playing with me, I''ll be a good husband to you. I''ll never beat you, never do anything to hurt you, I swear it."
Fearing to fall asleep in each other''s armsâ?"lest Tonya''s mother find them and think ill of themâ?"they separated.
Day was breaking when they fell asleep after having made a solemn compact never to forget one another.
Yekaterina Mikhailovna woke Pavel early. He jumped quickly out of bed. While he was in the bathroom, putting on his own clothes and boots, with Dolinnik''s jacket on top, Yekaterina Mikhailovna woke Tonya.
They hurried through the grey morning mist to the station. When they reached the timber yards by the back way they found Artem waiting impatiently for them beside the loaded tender.
A powerful engine moved up slowly, enveloped in clouds of hissing steam. Bruzzhak looked out of the cab.
Pavel bid Tonya and Artem a hasty farewell, then gripped the iron rail and climbed up into the engine. Looking back he saw two familiar figures at the crossing: the tall figure of Artem and the small graceful form of Tonya beside him. The wind tore angrily at the collar of her blouse and tossed her chestnut hair. She waved to him.
Artem glanced at Tonya out of the corner of his eye and noticing that she was on the verge of tears, he sighed.
"I''ll be damned if there isn''t something up between these two," he said to himself. "And me thinking Pavel is still a little boy!"
When the train disappeared behind the bend he turned to Tonya and said: "Well, shall we be friends?" And Tonya''s tiny hand was lost in his huge paw.
From the distance came the rumble of the train gathering speed.

Chapter Seven
For a whole week the town, belted with trenches and enmeshed in barbed-wire entanglements, went to sleep at night and woke up in the morning to the pounding of guns and the rattle of rifle fire. Only in the small hours would the din subside, and even then the silence would be shattered from time to time by bursts of fire as the outposts probed out each other. At dawn men busied themselves around the battery at the railway station. The black snout of a gun belched savagely and the men hastened to feed it another portion of steel and explosive. Each time a gunner pulled at a lanyard the earth trembled underfoot. Three versts from town the shells whined over the village occupied by the Reds, drowning out all other sounds, and sending up geysers of earth.
The Red battery was stationed on the grounds of an old Polish monastery standing on a high hill in the centre of the village.
The Military Commissar of the battery, Comrade Zamostin, leapt to his feet. He had been sleeping with his head resting on the trail of a gun. Now, tightening his belt with the heavy Mauser attached to it, he listened to the flight of the shell and waited for the explosion. Then the courtyard echoed to his resonant voice.
"Time to get up, Comrades!"
The gun crews slept beside their guns, and they were on their feet as quickly as the Commissar. All but Sidorchuk, who raised his head reluctantly and looked around with sleep-heavy eyes.
"The swinê?"hardly light yet and they''re at it again. Just out of spite, the bastards!"
Zamostin laughed.
"Unsocial elements, Sidorchuk, that''s what they are. They don''t care whether you want to sleep or not."
The artilleryman grumblingly roused himself.
A few minutes later the guns in the monastery yard were in action and shells were exploding in the town.
On a platform of planks rigged up on top of the tall smoke stack of the sugar refinery squatted a Petlyura officer and a telephonist. They had climbed up the iron ladder inside the chimney.
From this vantage point they directed the fire of their artillery. Through their field glasses they could see every movement made by the Red troops besieging the town. Today the Bolsheviks were particularly active. An armoured train was slowly edging in on the Podolsk Station, keeping up an incessant fire as it came. Beyond it the attack lines of the infantry could be seen. Several times the Red forces tried to take the town by storm, but the Petlyura troops were firmly entrenched on the approaches. The trenches erupted a squall of fire, filling the air with a maddening din which mounted to an unintermittent roar, reaching its highest pitch during the attacks. Swept by this leaden hailstorm, unable to stand the inhuman strain, the Bolshevik lines fell back, leaving motionless bodies behind on the field.
Today the blows delivered at the town were more persistent and more frequent than before. The air quivered from the reverberations of the gunfire. From the height of the smoke stack you could see the steadily advancing Bolshevik lines, the men throwing themselves on the ground only to rise again and press irresistibly forward. Now they had all but taken the station. The Petlyura division''s available reserves were sent into action, but they could not close the breach driven in their positions. Filled with a desperate resolve, the Bolshevik attack lines spilled into the streets adjoining the station, whose defenders, the third regiment of the Petlyura division, routed from their last positions in the gardens and orchards at the edge of the town by a brief but terrible thrust, scattered into the town. Before they could recover enough to make a new stand, the Red Army men poured into the streets, sweeping away in bayonet charges the Petlyura pickets left behind to cover the retreat.
Nothing could induce Sergei Bruzzhak to stay down in the basement where his family and the nearest neighbours had taken refuge. And in spite of his mother''s entreaties he climbed out of the chilly cellar. An armoured car with the name Sagaidachny on its side clattered past the house, firing wildly as it went. Behind it ran panic-stricken Petlyura men in complete disorder. One of them slipped into Sergei''s yard, where with feverish haste he tore off his cartridge belt, helmet and rifle and then vaulted over the fence and disappeared in the kitchen gardens beyond. Sergei looked out into the street. Petlyura soldiers were running down the road leading to the Southwestern Station, their retreat covered by an armoured car. The highway leading to town was deserted. Then a Red Army man dashed into sight. He threw himself down on the ground and began firing down the road. A second and a third Red Army man came into sight behind him. . . . Sergei watched them coming, crouching down and firing as they ran. A bronzed Chinese with bloodshot eyes, clad in an undershirt and girded with machine-gun belts, was running full height, a grenade in each hand. And ahead of them all came a Red Army man, hardly more than a boy, with a light machine gun. The advance guard of the Red Army had entered the town. Sergei, wild with joy, dashed out onto the road and shouted as loud as he could:
"Long live the comrades!"
So unexpectedly did he rush out that the Chinese all but knocked him off his feet. The latter was about to turn on him, but the exultation on Sergei''s face stayed him.
"Where is Petlyura?" the Chinese shouted at him, panting heavily.
But Sergei did not hear him. He ran back into the yard, picked up the cartridge belt and rifle abandoned by the Petlyura man and hurried after the Red Army men. They did not notice him until they had stormed the Southwestern Station. Here, after cutting off several trainloads of munitions and supplies and hurling the enemy into the woods, they stopped to rest and regroup. The young machine gunner came over to Sergei and asked in surprise:
"Where are you from, Comrade?"
"I''m from this town. I''ve been waiting for you to come."
Sergei was soon surrounded by Red Army men.
"I know him," the Chinese said in broken Russian. "He yelled ''Long live comrades!'' He Bolshevik, he with us, a good fellow!" he added with a broad smile, slapping Sergei on the shoulder approvingly.
Sergei''s heart leapt with joy. He had been accepted at once, accepted as one of them. And together with them he had taken the station in a bayonet charge.
The town bestirred itself. The townsfolk, exhausted by their ordeal, emerged from the cellars and basements and came out to the front gates to see the Red Army units enter the town. Thus it was that Sergei''s mother and his sister Valya saw Sergei marching along with the others in the ranks of the Red Army men. He was hatless, but girded with a cartridge belt and with a rifle slung over his shoulder.
Antonina Vasilievna threw up her hands in indignation.
So her Seryozha had got mixed up in the fight. He would pay for this! Fancy him parading with a rifle in front of the whole town! There was bound to be trouble later on. Antonina Vasilievna could no longer restrain herself:
"Seryozha, come home this minute!" she shouted. "I''ll show you how to behave, you scamp! I''ll teach you to fight!" And at that she marched out to the road with the firm intention of bringing her son back.
But this time her Seryozha, her boy whose ears she had so often boxed, looked sternly at his mother, his face burning with shame and anger as he snapped at her: "Stop shouting! I''m staying where I am." And he marched past without stopping.
Antonina Vasilievna was beside herself with anger.
"So that''s how you treat your mother! Don''t you dare come home after this!"
"I won''t!" Sergei cried, without turning around.
Antonina Vasilievna stood speechless on the road staring after him, while the ranks of weather-beaten, dust-covered fighting men trudged past.
"Don''t cry, mother! We''ll make your laddie a commissar," a strong, jovial voice rang out. A roar of good-natured laughter ran through the platoon. Up at the head of the company voices struck up in unison:
Comrades, the bugles are sounding,
Shoulder your arms for the fray.
On to the kingdom of liberty
Boldly shall we fight our way. . . .
The ranks joined in a mighty chorus and Sergei''s ringing voice merged in the swelling melody. He had found a new family. One bayonet in it was his, Sergei''s.
On the gates of the Leszczinski house hung a strip of white cardboard with the brief inscription: "Revcom." Beside it was an arresting poster of a Red Army man looking into your eyes and pointing his finger straight at you over the words: "Have you joined the Red Army?"
The Political Department people had been at work during the night putting up these posters all over the town. Nearby hung the Revolutionary Committee''s first proclamation to the toiling population of Shepetovka:
"Comrades! The proletarian troops have taken this town. Soviet power has been restored. We call on you to maintain order. The bloody cutthroats have been thrown back, but if you want them never to return, if you want to see them destroyed once and for all, join the ranks of the Red Army. Give all your support to the power of the working folk. Military authority in this town is in the hands of the chief of the garrison. Civilian affairs will be administered by the Revolutionary Committee.
"Signed: Dolinnik
"Chairman of the Revolutionary Committee."
People of a new sort appeared in the Leszczinski house. The word "comrade", for which only yesterday people had paid with their life, was now heard on all sides. That indescribably moving word, "comrade"!
For Dolinnik there was no sleep or rest these days. The joiner was busy establishing revolutionary government.
In a small room on the door of which hung a slip of paper with the pencilled words "Party Committee" sat Comrade Ignatieva, calm and imperturbable as always. The Political Department entrusted her and Dolinnik with the task of setting up the organs of Soviet power.
One more day and office workers were seated at desks and a typewriter was clicking busily. A Commissariat of Supplies was organised under nervous, dynamic Tyzycki. Now that Soviet power was firmly established in the town, Tyzycki, formerly a mechanic''s helper at the local sugar refinery, proceeded with grim determination to wage war on the bosses of the sugar refinery who, nursing a bitter hatred for the Bolsheviks, were lying low and biding their time.
At a meeting of the refinery workers he summed up the situation in harsh, unrelenting terms.
"The past is gone never to return," he declared, speaking in Polish and banging his fist on the edge of the rostrum to drive home his words. "It is enough that our fathers and we ourselves slaved all our lives for the Potockis. We built palaces for them and in return His Highness the Count gave us just enough to keep us from dying of starvation.
"How many years did the Potocki counts and the Sanguszko princes ride our backs? Are there not any number of Polish workers whom Potocki ground down just as he did the Russians and Ukrainians? And yet the count''s henchmen have now spread the rumour among these very same workers that the Soviet power will rule them all with an iron hand.
"That is a foul lie, Comrades! Never have workingmen of different nationalities had such freedom as now. All proletarians are brothers. As for the gentry, we are going to curb them, you may depend on that." His hand swung down again heavily on the barrier of the rostrum. "Who is it that has made brothers spill each other''s blood? For centuries kings and nobles have sent Polish peasants to fight the Turks. They have always incited one nation against another. Think of all the bloodshed and misery they have caused! And who benefited by it all? But soon all that will stop. This is the end of those vermin. The Bolsheviks have flung out a slogan that strikes terror into the hearts of the bourgeoisie: ''Workers of all countries, unite!'' There lies our salvation, there lies our hope for a better future, for the day when all workingmen will be brothers. Comrades, join the Communist Party!
"There will be a Polish republic too one day but it will be a Soviet republic without the Potockis, for they will be rooted out and we shall be the masters of Soviet Poland. You all know Bronik Ptaszinski, don''t you? The Revolutionary Committee has appointed him commissar of our factory. ''We were naught, we shall be all.'' We shall have cause for rejoicing, Comrades. Only take care not to give ear to the hissing of those hidden reptiles! Let us place our faith in the workingman''s cause and we shall establish the brotherhood of all peoples throughout the world!"
These words were uttered with a sincerity and fervour that came from the bottom of this simple workingman''s heart. He descended the platform amid shouts of enthusiastic acclaim from the younger members of the audience. The older workers, however, hesitated to speak up. Who knew but what tomorrow the Bolsheviks might have to give up the town and then those who remained would have to pay dearly for every rash word. Even if you escaped the gallows, you would lose your job for sure.
The Commissar of Education, the slim, well-knit Czarnopyski, was so far the only schoolteacher in the locality who had sided with the Bolsheviks.
Opposite the premises of the Revolutionary Committee the Special Duty Company was quartered; its men were on duty at the Revolutionary Committee. At night a Maxim gun stood ready in the garden at the entrance to the Revcom, a sinewy ammunition belt trailing from its breech. Two men with rifles stood guard beside it.
Comrade Ignatieva on her way to the Revcom went up to one of them, a young Red Army man, and asked:
"How old are you, Comrade?"
"Going on seventeen."
"Do you live here?"
The Red Army man smiled. "Yes, I only joined the army the day before yesterday during the fighting."
Ignatieva studied his face.
"What does your father do?"
"He''s an engine driver''s assistant."
At that moment Dolinnik appeared, accompanied by a man in uniform.
"Here you are," said Ignatieva, turning to Dolinnik, "I''ve found the very lad to put in charge of the district committee of the Komsomol. He''s a local man."
Dolinnik glanced quickly at Sergei?"for it was he.
"Ah yes. You''re Zakhar''s boy, aren''t you? All right, go ahead and stir up the young folk."
Sergei looked at them in surprise. "But what about the company?"
"That''s all right, we''ll attend to that," Dolinnik, already mounting the steps, threw over his shoulder.
Two days later the local committee of the Young Communist League of the Ukraine was formed.
Sergei plunged into the vortex of the new life that had burst suddenly and swiftly upon the town. It filled his entire existence so completely that he forgot his family although it was so near at hand.
He, Sergei Bruzzhak, was now a Bolshevik. For the hundredth time he pulled out of his pocket the document issued by the Committee of the Ukrainian Communist Party, certifying that he, Sergei, was a Komsomol and Secretary of the Komsomol Committee. And should anyone entertain any doubts on that score there was the impressive Mannlicher?"a gift from dear old Pavel?"in its makeshift canvas holster hanging from the belt of his tunic. A most convincing credential that! Too bad Pavlushka wasn''t around!
Sergei''s days were spent on assignments given by the Revcom. Today too Ignatieva was waiting for him. They were to go down to the station to the Division Political Department to get newspapers and books for the Revolutionary Committee. Sergei hurried out of the building to the street, where a man from the Political Department was waiting for them with an automobile.
During the long drive to the station where the Headquarters and Political Department of the First Soviet Ukrainian Division were located in railway carriages, Ignatieva plied Sergei with questions.
"How has your work been going? Have you formed your organisation yet? You ought to persuade your friends, the workers'' children, to join the Komsomol. We shall need a group of Communist youth very soon. Tomorrow we shall draw up and print a Komsomol leaflet. Then we''ll hold a big youth rally in the theatre. When we get to the Political Department I''ll introduce you to Ustinovich. She is working with the young people, if I''m not mistaken."

Ustinovich turned out to be a girl of eighteen with dark bobbed hair, in a new khaki tunic with a narrow leather belt. She gave Sergei a great many pointers in his work and promised to help him. Before he left she gave him a large bundle of books and newspapers, including one of particular importance, a booklet containing the programme and rules of the Komsomol.
When he returned late that night to the Revcom Sergei found Valya waiting for him outside,
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself!" she cried. "What do you mean by staying away from home like this? Mother is crying her eyes out and father is very angry with you. There''s going to be an awful row.
"No, there isn''t," he reassured her. "I haven''t any time to go home, honest I haven''t. I won''t be coming tonight either. But I''m glad you''ve come because I want to have a talk with you. Let''s go inside."
Valya could hardly recognise her brother. He was quite changed. He fairly bubbled with energy.
As soon as she was seated Sergei went straight to the point.
"Here''s the situation, Valya. You''ve got to join the Komsomol. You don''t know what that is? The Young Communist League. I''m running things here. You don''t believe me? All right, look at this!"
Valya read the paper and looked at her brother in bewilderment.
"What will I do in the Komsomol?"
Sergei spread out his hands. "My dear girl, there''s heaps to do! Look at me, I''m so busy I don''t sleep nights. We''ve got to make propaganda. Ignatieva says we''re going to hold a meeting in the theatre soon and talk about the Soviet power. She says I''ll have to make a speech. I think it''s a mistake because I don''t know how to make speeches. I''m bound to make a hash of it. Now, what about your joining the Komsomol?"
"I don''t know what to say. Mother would be wild with me if I did."
"Never mind mother, Valya," Sergei urged. "She doesn''t understand. All she cares about is to have her children beside her. But she has nothing against the Soviet power. On the contrary, she''s all for it. But she would rather other people''s sons did the fighting. Now, is that fair? Remember what Zhukhrai told us? And look at Pavel, he didn''t stop to think about his mother. The time has come when we young folk must fight for our right to make something of our lives. Surely you won''t refuse, Valya? Think how fine it will be. You could work with the girls, and I would be working with the fellows. That reminds me, I''ll tackle that red-headed devil Klimka this very day. Well, Valya, what do you say? Are you with us or not? I have a little booklet here that will tell you all about it."
He took the booklet of Komsomol Rules out of his pocket and handed it to her.
"But what if Petlyura comes back again?" Valya asked him in a low voice, her eyes glued to her brother''s face.
This thought had not yet occurred to Sergei and he pondered it for a moment.
"I would have to leave with all the others, of course," he said. "But what would happen to you? Yes, it would make mother very unhappy." He lapsed into silence.
"Seryozha, couldn''t you enrol me without mother or anyone else knowing? Just you and me? I could help just the same. That would be the best way."
"I believe you''re right, Valya."
Ignatieva entered the room at that point.
"This is my little sister Valya, Comrade Ignatieva. I''ve just been talking to her about joining the Komsomol. She would make a suitable member, but you see, our mother might make difficulties. Could we enrol Valya so that no one would know about it? You see, we might have to give up the town. I would leave with the army, of course, but Valya is afraid it would go hard with mother."
Ignatieva, sitting on the edge of a chair, listened gravely.
"Yes," she agreed. "That is the best course."
The packed theatre buzzed with the excited chatter of the youth who had come in response to notices posted all over town. A brass band of workers from the sugar refinery was playing. The audience, consisting mainly of students of the local secondary school and Gymnasium, was less interested in the meeting than in the concert that was to follow it.
At last the curtain rose and Comrade Razin, Secretary of the Uyezd Committee, who had just arrived, appeared on the platform.
All eyes were turned to this short, slenderly built man with the small, sharp nose, and his speech was listened to with keen attention. He told them about the struggle that had swept the entire country and called on youth to rally to the Communist Party. He spoke like an experienced orator but made excessive use of terms like "orthodox Marxists", "social-chauvinists" and the like, which his hearers did not understand. Nevertheless, when he finished they applauded him warmly, and after introducing the next speaker, who was Sergei, he left.
It was as he had feared: now that he was face to face with the audience, Sergei did not know what to say. He fumbled painfully for a while until Ignatieva came to his rescue by whispering from her seat on the platform: "Tell them about organising a Komsomol cell."
Sergei at once went straight to the point.
"Well, Comrades, you''ve heard all there is to be said. What we''ve got to do now is to form a cell. Who is in favour?"
A hush fell on the gathering. Ustinovich stepped into the breach. She got up and told the audience how the youth were being organised in Moscow. Sergei in the meantime stood aside in confusion.
He raged inwardly at the meeting''s reaction to the question of organising a cell and he scowled down at the audience. They hardly listened to Ustinovich. Sergei saw Zalivanov whisper something to Liza Sukharko with a contemptuous look at the speaker on the platform. In the front row the senior Gymnasium girls with powdered faces were casting coy glances about them and whispering among themselves. Over in the corner near the door leading backstage was a group of young Red Army men. Among them Sergei saw the young machine gunner. He was sitting on the edge of the stage fidgeting nervously and gazing with undisguised hatred at the flashily dressed Liza Sukharko and Anna Admovskaya who, totally unabashed, were carrying on a lively conversation with their escorts.
Realising that no one was listening to her, Ustinovich quickly wound up her speech and sat down. Ignatieva took the floor next, and her calm compelling manner quelled the restless audience.
"Comrades," she said, "I advise each of you to think over what has been said here tonight. I am sure that some of you will become active participants in the revolution and not merely spectators. The doors are open to receive you, the rest is up to you. We should like to hear you express your opinion. We invite anyone who has anything to say to step up to the platform."
Once more silence reigned in the hall. Then a voice spoke up from the back.
"I''d like to speak!"
Misha Levchukov, a lad with a slight squint and the build of a young bear, made his way to the stage.
"The way things are," he said, "we''ve got to help the Bolsheviks. I''m for it. Seryozhka knows me. I''m joining the Komsomol."
Sergei beamed. He sprang forward to the centre of .the stage.
"You see, Comrades!" he cried. "I always said Misha was one of us: his father was a switchman and he was crushed by a train, and that''s why Misha couldn''t get an education. But he didn''t need to go to Gymnasium to understand what''s wanted at a time like this."
There was an uproar in the hall. A young man with carefully groomed hair asked for the floor. It was Okushev, a Gymnasium student and the son of the local apothecary. Tugging at his tunic, he began:
"I beg your pardon, Comrades. I don''t understand what is wanted of us. Are we expected to go in for politics? If so, when are we going to study? We''ve got to finish the Gymnasium. If it was some sports society, or club that was being organised where we could gather and read, that would be another matter. But to go in for politics means taking the risk of getting hanged afterwards. Sorry, but I don''t think anybody will agree to that."
There was laughter in the hall as Okushev jumped off the stage and resumed his seat. The next speaker was the young machine gunner. Pulling his cap down over his forehead with a furious gesture and glaring down at the audience, he shouted:
"What''re you laughing at, you vermin!"
His eyes were two burning coals and he trembled all over with fury. Taking a deep breath he began:
"Ivan Zharky is my name. I''m an orphan. I never knew my mother or my father and I never had a home. I grew up on the street, begging for a crust of bread and starving most of the time. It was a dog''s life, I can tell you, something you mama''s boys know nothing about. Then the Soviet power came along and the Red Army men picked me up and took care of me. A whole platoon of them adopted me. They gave me clothes and taught me to read and write. But what''s most important, they taught me what it was to be a human being. Because of them I became a Bolshevik and I''ll be a Bolshevik till I die. I know damn well what we''re fighting for, we''re fighting for us poor folk, for the workers'' government. You sit there cackling but you don''t know that two hundred comrades were killed fighting for this town. They perished. . . ." Zharky''s voice vibrated like a taut string. "They gave up their lives gladly for our happiness, for our cause. . . . People are dying all over the country, on all the fronts, and you''re playing at merry-go-rounds here. Comrades," he went on, turning suddenly to the presidium table, "you''re wasting your time talking to them there," he jabbed a finger toward the hall. "Think they''ll understand you? No! A full stomach is no comrade to an empty one. Only one man came forward here and that''s because he''s one of the poor, an orphan. Never mind," he roared furiously at the gathering, "we''ll get along without you. We''re not going to beg you to join us, you can go to the devil, the lot of you! The only way to talk to the likes of you is with a machine gun!" And with this parting thrust he stepped off the stage and made straight for the exit, glancing neither to right nor left.
None of those who had presided at the meeting stayed on for the concert.
"What a mess!" said Sergei with chagrin as they were on their way back to the Revcom. "Zharky was right. We couldn''t do anything with that Gymnasium crowd. It just makes you wild!"
"It''s not surprising," Ignatieva interrupted him. "After all there were hardly any proletarian youth there at all. Most of them were either sons of the petty bourgeois or local intellectualsâ?"philistines all of them. You will have to work among the sawmill and sugar refinery workers. But that meeting was not altogether wasted. You''ll find there are some very good comrades among the students."
Ustinovich agreed with Ignatieva.
"Our task, Seryozha," she said, "is to bring home our ideas, our slogans, to everyone. The Party will focus the attention of all working people on every new event. We shall hold many meetings, conferences and congresses. The Political Department is opening a summer theatre at the station. A propaganda train is due to arrive in a few days and then we''ll get things going in real earnest. Remember what Lenin saidâ?"we won''t win unless we draw the masses, the millions of working people into the struggle."
Late that evening Sergei escorted Ustinovich to the station. On parting he clasped her hand firmly and held it a few seconds longer than absolutely necessary. A faint smile flitted across her face.
On his way back Sergei dropped in to see his people. He listened in silence to his mother''s scolding, but when his father chimed in, Sergei took up the offensive and soon had Zakhar Vasilievich at a disadvantage.
"Now listen, dad, when you went on strike under the Germans and killed that sentry on the locomotive, you thought of your family, didn''t you? Of course you did. But you went through with it just the same because your workingman''s conscience told you to. I''ve also thought of the family. I know very well that if we retreat you folks will be persecuted because of me. But I couldn''t sit at home anyway. You know how it is yourself, dad, so why all this fuss? I''m working for a good cause and you ought to back me up instead of kicking up a row. Come on, dad, let''s make it up and then ma will stop scolding me too." He regarded his father with his clear blue eyes and smiled affectionately, confident that he was in the right.
Zakhar Vasilievich stirred uneasily on the bench and through his thick bristling moustache and untidy little beard his yellowish teeth showed in a smile.
"Dragging class consciousness into it, eh, you young rascal? You think that revolver you''re sporting is going to stop me from giving you a good hiding?"
But his voice held no hint of anger, and mastering his confusion, he held out his horny hand to his son. "Carry on, Seryozha. Once you''ve started up the gradient I''ll not be putting on the brakes. But you mustn''t forget us altogether, drop in once in a while."
It was night. A shaft of light from a crack in the door lay on the steps. Behind the huge lawyer''s desk in the large room with its upholstered plush furniture sat five people: Dolinnik, Ignatieva, Cheka chief Timoshenko, looking like a Kirghiz in his Cossack fur cap, the giant railwayman Shudik and flat-nosed Ostapchuk from the railway yards. A meeting of the Revcom was in progress.
Dolinnik, lea''ning over the table and fixing Ignatieva with a stern look, hammered out hoarsely:
"The front must have supplies. The workers have to eat. As soon as we came the shopkeepers and market profiteers raised their prices. They won''t take Soviet money. Old tsarist money or Kerensky notes are the only kind in circulation here. Today we must sit down and work out fixed prices. We know very well that none of the profiteers are going to sell their goods at the fixed price. They''ll hide what they''ve got. In that case we''ll make searches and confiscate the bloodsuckers'' goods. This is no time for niceties. We can''t let the workers starve any longer. Comrade Ignatieva warns us not to go too far. That''s the reaction of a fainthearted intellectual, if you ask me. Now don''t take offence, Zoya, I know what I''m talking about. And in any case it isn''t a matter of the petty traders. I have received information today that Boris Zon, the innkeeper, has a secret cellar in his house. Even before Petlyura came, the big shopown-ers had huge stocks of goods hidden away there." He paused to throw a sly, mocking glance at Timoshenko.
"How did you find that out?" queried Timoshenko, surprised and annoyed at Dolinnik''s having stolen a march on the Cheka.
Dolinnik chuckled. "I know everything, brother. Besides finding out about the cellar, I happen to know that you and the Division Commander''s chauffeur polished off half a bottle of samogon between you yesterday."
Timoshenko fidgeted in his chair and a flush spread over his sallow features.
"Good for you!" he exclaimed in unwilling admiration. But catching sight of Ignatieva''s disapproving frown, he went no further. "That blasted joiner has his own Cheka!" he thought to himself as he eyed the Chairman of the Revcom.
"Sergei Bruzzhak told me," Dolinnik went on. "He knows someone who used to work in the refreshment bar. Well, that lad heard from the cooks that Zon used *****pply them with all they needed in unlimited quantities. Yesterday Sergei found out definitely about that cellar. All that has to be done now is to locate it. Get the boys on the job, Timoshenko, at once. Take Sergei along. If we''re lucky we''ll be able *****pply the workers and the division."
Half an hour later eight armed men entered the innkeeper''s home. Two remained outside to guard the entrance.
The proprietor, a short stout man as round as a barrel, with a wooden leg and a face covered with a bristly growth of red hair, met the newcomers with obsequious politeness.
"What do you wish at this late hour, Comrades?" he inquired in a husky bass.
Behind Zon, stood his daughters in hastily donned dressing-gowns, blinking in the glare of Timoshenko''s torch. From the next room came the sighs and groans of Zon''s buxom wife who was hurriedly dressing.
"We''ve come to search the house," Timoshenko explained curtly.
Every square inch of the floor was thoroughly examined. A spacious barn piled high with sawn wood, several pantries, the kitchen and a roomy cellarâ?"all were inspected with the greatest care. But not a trace of the secret cellar was found.
In a tiny room off the kitchen the servant girl lay fast asleep. She slept so soundly that she did not hear them come in. Sergei wakened her gently.
"You work here?" he asked. The bewildered sleepy-eyed girl drew the blanket over her shoulders and shielded her eyes from the light.
"Yes," she replied. "Who are you?"
Sergei told her and, instructing her to get dressed, left the room.

In the spacious dining room Timoshenko was questioning the innkeeper who spluttered and fumed in great agitation:
"What do you want of me? I haven''t got any more cellars. You''re just wasting your time, I assure you. Yes, I did keep a tavern once but now I''m a poor man. The Petlyura crowd cleaned me out and very nearly killed me too. I am very glad the Soviets have come to power, but all I own is here for you to see." And he spread out his short pudgy hands, the while his bloodshot eyes darted from the face of the Cheka chief to Sergei and from Sergei to the corner and the ceiling.
Timoshenko bit his lips.
"So you won''t tell, eh? For the last time I order you to show us where that cellar is."
"But, Comrade Officer, we''ve got nothing to eat ourselves," the innkeeper''s wife wailed. "They''ve taken all we had." She tried to weep but nothing came of it.
"You say you''re starving, but you keep a servant," Sergei put in.
"That''s not a servant. She''s just a poor girl we''ve taken in because she has nowhere to go. She''ll tell you that herself."
Timoshenko''s patience snapped. "All right then," he shouted, "now we''ll set to work in earnest!"
Morning dawned and the search was still going on. Exasperated after thirteen hours of fruitless efforts, Timoshenko had already decided to abandon the quest when Sergei, on the point of leaving the servant girl''s room he had been examining, heard the girl''s faint whisper behind him: "Look inside the stove in the kitchen."
Ten minutes later the dismantled Russian stove revealed an iron trapdoor. And within an hour a two-ton truck loaded with barrels and sacks drove away from the innkeeper''s house now surrounded by a crowd of gaping onlookers.
Maria Yakovlevna Korchagina came home one hot day carrying her small bundle of belongings. She wept bitterly when Artem told her what had happened to Pavel. Her life now seemed empty and dreary. She had to look for work, and after a time she began taking in washing from Red Army men who arranged for her to receive soldiers'' rations by way of payment.
One evening she heard Artem''s footsteps outside the window sounding more hurried than usual. He pushed the door open and announced from the threshold: "I''ve brought a letter from Pavka."
"Dear Brother Artem," wrote Pavel. "This is to let you know that I am alive although not altogether well. I got a bullet in my hip but I am getting better now. The doctor says the bone is uninjured. So don''t worry about me, I''ll be all right. I may get leave after I''m discharged from hospital and I''ll come home for a while. I didn''t manage to get to mother''s. I joined the cavalry brigade commanded by Comrade Kotovsky, whom I''m sure you''ve heard about because he''s famous for his bravery. I have never seen anyone like him before and I have the greatest respect for him. Has mother come home yet? If she has, give her my best love. Forgive me for all the trouble I have caused you. Your brother Pavel.
"Artem, please go to the forest warden''s and tell them about this letter."
Maria Yakovlevna shed many tears over Pavel''s letter. The scatterbrained lad had not even given the address of his hospital.
Sergei had become a frequent visitor at the green railway coach down at the station bearing the sign: "Agitprop Div. Pol. Dept." In one of the compartments of the Agitation and Propaganda Coach, Ustinovich and Ignatieva had their office. The latter, with the inevitable cigarette between her lips, smiled knowingly whenever he appeared.
The Secretary of the Komsomol District Committee had grown quite friendly with Rita Ustinovich, and besides the bundles of books and newspapers, he carried away with him from the station a vague sense of happiness after every brief encounter with her.
Every day the open-air theatre of the Division Political Department drew big audiences of workers and Red Army men. The agit train of the Twelfth Army, swathed in bright coloured posters, stood on a siding, seething with activity twenty-four hours a day. A printing plant had been installed inside and newspapers, leaflets and proclamations poured out in a steady stream. The front was near at hand.
One evening Sergei chanced to drop in at the theatre and found Rita there with a group of Red Army men. Late that night, as he was seeing her home to the station where the Political Department staff was quartered, he blurted out: "Why do I always want to be seeing you, Comrade Rita?" And added: "It''s so nice to be with you! After seeing you I always feel I could go on working without stopping."
Rita halted. "Now look here, Comrade Bruzzhak," she said, "let''s agree here and now that you won''t ever wax lyrical any more. I don''t like it."
Sergei blushed like a reprimanded schoolboy.
"I didn''t mean anything," he said, "I thought we were friends . . . I didn''t say anything counter-revolutionary, did I? Very well, Comrade Ustinovich, I shan''t say another word!"
And leaving her with a hasty handshake he all but ran back to town.
Sergei did not go near the station for several days. When Ignatieva asked him to come he refused on the grounds that he was too busy. And indeed he had plenty to do.
One night someone fired at Comrade Shudik as he was going home through a street inhabited mainly by Poles who held managerial positions at the sugar refinery. The searches that followed brought to light weapons and documents belonging to a Pilsudski organisation known as the Strelets.
A meeting was held at the Revcom. Ustinovich, who was present, took Sergei aside and said in a calm voice: "So your philistine vanity was hurt, was it? You''re letting personal matters interfere with your work? That won''t do, Comrade."
And so Sergei resumed his visits to the green railway coach.
He attended a district conference and participated in the heated debates that lasted for two days. On the third day he went off with the rest of the conference delegates to the forest beyond the river and spent a day and a night fighting ban***s led by Zarudny, one of Petlyura''s officers still at large.
On his return he went to see Ignatieva and found Ustinovich there. Afterwards he saw her home to the station and on parting held her hand tightly. She drew it away angrily. Again Sergei kept away from the agitprop coach for many days and avoided seeing Rita even on business. And when she would demand an explanation of his behaviour he would reply curtly: "What''s the use of talking to you? You''ll only accuse me of being a philistine or a traitor to the working class or something."
Trains carrying the Caucasian Red Banner Division pulled in at the station. Three swarthy-complexioned commanders came over to the Revcom. One of them, a tall slim man wearing a belt of chased silver, went straight up to Dolinnik and demanded one hundred cartloads of hay. "No argument now," he said shortly, "I''ve got to have that hay. My horses are dying."
And so Sergei was sent with two Red Army men to get hay. In one village they were attacked by a band of kulaks. The Red Army men were disarmed and beaten unmercifully. Sergei got off lightly because of his youth. All three were carted back to town by people from the Poor Peasants'' Committee.
An armed detachment was sent out to the village and the hay was delivered the following day.
Not wishing to alarm his family, Sergei stayed at Ignatieva''s place until he recovered. Rita Ustinovich came to visit him there and for the first time she pressed Sergei''s hand with a warmth and tenderness he himself would never have dared to show.
One hot afternoon Sergei dropped in at the agit coach to see Rita. He read her Pavel''s letter and told her something about his friend. On his way out he threw over his shoulder: "I think I''ll go to the woods and take a dip in the lake."
Rita looked up from her work. "Wait for me. I''ll come with you."
The lake was as smooth and placid as a mirror. Its warm translucent water exuded an inviting freshness.
"Wait for me over by the road. I''m going in," Rita ordered him.
Sergei sat down on a boulder by the bridge and lifted his face to the sun. He could hear her splashing in the water behind him.
Presently through the trees he caught sight of Tonya Tumanova and Chuzhanin, the Military Commissar of the agit train, coming down the road arm-in-arm. Chuzhanin, in his well-made officer''s uniform with its smart leather belt and numberless straps and leather shiny top-boots, cut a dashing figure. He was in earnest conversation with Tonya.
Sergei recognised Tonya as the girl who had brought him the note from Pavel. She too looked hard at him as they approached. She seemed to be trying to place him. When they came abreast of him Sergei took Pavel''s last letter out of his pocket and went up to her.
"Just a moment, Comrade. I have a letter here which concerns you partly."
Pulling her hand free Tonya took the letter. The slip of paper trembled slightly in her hand as she read.
"Have you had any more news from him?" she asked, handing the letter back to Sergei.
"No," he replied.
At that moment the pebbles crunched under Rita''s feet and Chuzhanin, who had been unaware of her presence, bent over and whispered to Tonya: "We''d better go."
But Rita''s mocking, scornful voice stopped him.
"Comrade Chuzhanin! They''ve been looking for you over at the train all day."
Chuzhanin eyed her with dislike.
"Never mind," he said surlily. "They''ll manage without me.
Rita watched Tonya and the Military Commissar go.
"It''s high time that good-for-nothing was sent packing!" she observed dryly.
The forest murmured as the breeze stirred the mighty crowns of the oaks. A delicious freshness was wafted from the lake. Sergei decided to go in.
When he came back from his swim he found Rita sitting on a treetrunk not far from the road. They wandered, talking, into the depths of the woods. In a small glade with tall thick grass they paused to rest. It was very quiet in the forest. The oaks whispered to one another. Rita threw herself down on the soft grass and clasped her hands under her head. Her shapely legs in their old patched boots were hidden in the tall grass.
Sergei''s eye chanced to fall on her feet. He noticed the neatly patched boots, then looked down at his own boot with the toe sticking out of a hole, and he laughed.
"What are you laughing at?" she asked.
Sergei pointed to his boot. "How are we going to fight in boots like these?"
Rita did not reply. She was chewing a blade of grass and her thoughts were obviously elsewhere.
"Chuzhanin is a poor Communist," she said at last. "All our political workers go about in rags but he thinks of nobody but himself. He does not belong in our Party. . . . As for the front, the situation there is really very serious. Our country has a long and bitter fight before it." She paused, then added, "We shall have to fight with both words and rifles, Sergei. Have you heard about the Central Committee''s decision to draft one-fourth of the Komsomol into the army? If you ask me, Sergei, we shan''t be here long."
Listening to her, Sergei was surprised to detect a new note in her voice. With her black limpid eyes upon him, he was ready to throw discretion to the winds and tell her that her eyes were like mirrors, but he checked himself in time.
Rita raised herself on her elbow. "Where''s your revolver?"
Sergei fingered his belt ruefully. "That kulak band took it away from me."
Rita put her hand into the pocket of her tunic and brought out a gleaming automatic pistol.
"See that oak, Sergei?" she pointed the muzzle at a furrowed trunk about twenty-five paces from where they lay. And raising the weapon to the level of her eyes she fired almost without taking aim. The splintered bark showered down.
"See?" she said much pleased with herself and fired again. And again the bark splintered and fell in the grass.
"Here," she handed him the weapon with a mocking smile. "Now let''s see what you can do."
Sergei muffed one out of three shots. Rita smiled condescendingly. "I thought you''d do worse."
She put down the pistol and lay down on the grass. Her tunic stretched tightly over her firm breasts.
"Sergei," she said softly. "Come here."
He moved closer.
"Look at the sky. See how blue it is. Your eyes are that colour. And that''s bad. They ought to be grey, like steel. Blue is much too soft a colour."
And suddenly clasping his blond head, she kissed him passionately on the lips.
Two months passed. Autumn arrived.
Night crept up stealthily, enveloping the trees in its dark shroud. The telegraphist at Division Headquarters bent over his apparatus which was ticking out Morse and, gathering up the long narrow ribbon that wound itself snakily beneath his fingers, rapidly translated the dots and dashes into words and phrases:
"Chief of Staff First Division Copy to Chairman Revcom Shepetovka. Evacuate all official institutions in town within ten hours after receipt of this wire. Leave one battalion in town at disposal of commander of X. regiment in command sector of front. Division Headquarters, Political Department, all military institutions to be moved to Baranchev station. Report execution of order to Division Commander.
"(Signed)"
Ten minutes later a motorcycle was hurtling through the slumbering streets of the town, its headlight stabbing the darkness. It stopped, spluttering, outside the gates of the Revcom. The rider hurried inside and handed the telegram to the chairman Dolinnik. At once the place was seething with activity. The Special Duty Company lined up. An hour later carts loaded with Revcom property were rumbling through the town to the Podolsk Station where it was loaded into railway cars.
When he learned the contents of the telegram Sergei ran out after the motorcyclist.
"Can you give me a lift to the station, Comrade?" he asked the rider.
"Climb on behind, but mind you hold on fast."
A dozen paces from the agit coach which had already been attached to the train Sergei saw Rita. He seized her by the shoulders and, conscious that he was about to lose something that had become very dear to him, he whispered: "Good-bye, Rita, dear comrade! We''ll meet again sometime. Don''t forget me."
To his horror he felt the tears choking him. He must go at once. Not trusting himself to speak, he wrung her hand until it hurt.
Morning found the town and station desolate and deserted. The last train had blown its whistle as if in farewell and pulled out, and now the rearguard battalion which had been left behind took up positions on either side of the tracks.
Yellow leaves fluttered down from the trees leaving the branches bare. The wind caught the fallen leaves and sent them rustling along the paths.
Sergei in a Red Army greatcoat, with canvas cartridge belts slung over his shoulders, occupied the crossing opposite the sugar refinery with a dozen Red Army men. The Poles were approaching.

Avtonom Petrovich knocked at the door of his neighbour Gerasim Leontievich. The latter, not yet dressed, poked his head out of the door.
"What''s up?"
Avtonom Petrovich pointed to the Red Army men moving down the street, and winked: "They''re clearing out."
Gerasim Leontievich looked at him with a worried air: "What sort of emblem do the Poles have, do you know?"
"A single-headed eagle, I believe."
"Where the devil can you find one?"
Avtonom Petrovich scratched his head in consternation.
"It''s all right for them," he said after a moment or two of reflection. "They just get up and go. But you have to worry your head about getting in right with the new authorities."
The rattle of a machine gun tore into the silence. An engine whistle sounded from the station and a gun boomed from the same quarter. A heavy shell bored its way high into the air with a loud whine and fell on the road beyond the refinery, enveloping the roadside shrubs in a cloud of blue smoke. Silent and grim, the retreating Red Army troops marched through the street, turning frequently to look back as they went.
A tear rolled down Sergei''s cheek. Quickly he wiped it away, glancing furtively at his comrades to make sure that no one had seen it. Beside Sergei marched Antek Klopotowski, a lanky sawmill worker. His finger rested on the trigger of his rifle. Antek was gloomy and preoccupied. His eyes met Sergei''s, and he burst out:
"They''ll come down hard on our folks, especially mine because we''re Poles. You, a Pole, they''ll say, opposing the Polish Legion. They''re sure to kick my old man out of the sawmill and flog him. I told him to come with us, but he didn''t have the heart to leave the family. Hell, I can''t wait to get my hands on those accursed swine!" And Antek angrily pushed back the helmet that had slipped down over his eyes.
. . .Farewell, dear old town, unsightly and dirty though you are with your ugly little houses and your crooked roads. Farewell, dear ones, farewell. Farewell, Valya and the comrades who have remained to work in the underground. The Polish Whiteguard legions, brutal and merciless, are approaching.
Sadly the railway workers in their oil-stained shirts watched the Red Army men go.
"We''ll be back, Comrades!" Sergei cried out with aching heart.

Chapter Eight
The river gleams dully through the early morning haze; softly its waters gurgle against the smooth pebbles of the banks. In the shallows by the banks the river is calm, its silvery surface almost unruffled; but out in midstream it is dark and restless, hurrying swiftly onward. The majestic Dnieper, the river immortalised by Gogol. The tall right bank drops steeply down to the water, like a mountain halted in its advance by the broad sweep of the waters. The flat left bank below is covered with sandy spots left when the water receded after the spring floods.
Five men lay beside a snub-nosed Maxim gun in a tiny trench dug into the river bank. This was a forward outpost of the Seventh Rifle Division. Nearest the gun and facing the river lay Sergei Bruzzhak.
The day before, worn out by the endless battles and swept back by a hurricane of Polish artillery fire, they had given up Kiev, withdrawn to the left bank of the river, and dug in there.
The retreat, the heavy losses and finally the surrender of Kiev to the enemy had been a bitter blow to the men. The Seventh Division had heroically fought its way through enemy encirclement and, advancing through the forests, had emerged on the railway line at Malin Station, and with one furious blow had hurled back the Polish forces and cleared the road to Kiev.
But the lovely city had been given up and the Red Army men were downcast.
The Poles, having driven the Red units out of Darnitsa, now occupied a small bridgehead on the left bank of the river beside the railway bridge. But furious counterattacks had frustrated all their efforts to advance beyond that point.
As he watched the river flowing past, Sergei thought of what had happened the previous day.
Yesterday, at noon, his unit had given battle to the Poles; yesterday he had had his first hand-to-hand engagement with the enemy. A young Polish legionary had come swooping down upon him, his rifle with its long, sabre-like French bayonet thrust forward; he bounded towards Sergei like a hare, shouting something unintelligible. For a fraction of a second Sergei saw his eyes dilated with frenzy. The next instant Sergei''s bayonet clashed with the Pole''s, and the shining French blade was thrust aside. The Pole fell. . . .
Sergei''s hand did not falter. He knew that he would have to go on killing, he, Sergei, who was capable of such tender love, such steadfast friendship. He was not vicious or cruel by nature, but he knew that he must fight these misguided soldiers whom the world''s parasites had whipped up into a frenzy of bestial hatred and sent against his native land. And he, Sergei, would kill in order to hasten the day when men would kill one another no longer.
Paramonov tapped him on the shoulder. "We''d better be moving on, Sergei, or they''ll spot us."
For a year now Pavel Korchagin had travelled up and down his native land, riding on machine-gun carriages and gun caissons or astride a small grey mare with a nick in her ear. He was a grown man now, matured and hardened by suffering and privation. The tender skin chafed to the raw by the heavy cartridge belt had long since healed and a hard callus had formed under the rifle strap on his shoulder.
Pavel had seen much that was terrible in that year. Together with thousands of other fighting men as ragged and ill-clad as himself but afire with the indomitable determination to fight for the power of their class, he had marched over the length and breadth of his native land and only twice had the storm swept on without him: the first time when he was wounded in the hip, and the second, when in the bitterly cold February of 1920 he sweltered in the sticky heat of typhus.
The typhus took a more fearful toll of the regiments and divisions of the Twelfth Army than Polish machine guns. By that time the Twelfth Army was operating over a vast territory stretching across nearly the whole of the Northern Ukraine blocking the advance of the Poles.
Pavel had barely recovered from his illness when he returned to his unit which was now holding the station of Frontovka, on the Kazatin-Uman branch line. Frontovka stood in the forest and consisted of a small station building with a few wrecked and abandoned cottages around it. Three years of intermittent battles had made civilian life in these parts impossible. Frontovka had changed hands times without number.
Big events were brewing again. At the time when the Twelfth Army, its ranks fearfully depleted and partly disorganised, was falling back to Kiev under the pressure of the Polish armies, the proletarian republic was mustering its forces to strike a crushing blow at the victory-drunk Polish Whites.
The battle-seasoned divisions of the First Cavalry Army were being transferred to the Ukraine all the way from the North Caucasus in a campaign unparalleled in military history. The Fourth, Sixth, Eleventh and Fourteenth Cavalry divisions moved up one after another to the Uman area, concentrating in the rear of the front and sweeping away the Makhno ban***s on their way to the scene of decisive battles.
Sixteen and a half thousand sabres, sixteen and a half thousand fighting men scorched by the blazing steppe sun.
To prevent this decisive blow from being thwarted by the enemy was the primary concern of the Supreme Command of the Red Army and the Command of the Southwestern Front at this juncture. Everything was done to ensure the successful concentration of this huge mounted force. Active operations were suspended on the Uman sector. The direct telegraph lines from Moscow to the front headquarters in Kharkov and thence to the headquarters of the Fourteenth and Twelfth armies hummed incessantly. Telegraph operators tapped out coded orders: "Divert attention Poles from concentration cavalry army." The enemy was actively engaged only when the Polish advance threatened to involve the Budyonny cavalry divisions.
The campfire shot up red tongues of flame. Dark spirals of smoke curled up from the fire, driving off the swarms of restless buzzing midges. The men lay in a semicircle around the fire whose reflection cast a coppery glow on their faces. The water bubbled in messtins set in the bluish-grey ashes.
A stray tongue of flame leaped out suddenly from beneath a burning log and licked at someone''s tousled head. The head was jerked away with a growl: "Damnation!" And a gust of laughter rose from the men grouped around the fire.
"The lad''s so full of book-learning he don''t feel the heat of the fire," boomed a middle-aged soldier with a clipped moustache, who had just been examining the barrel of his rifle against the firelight.
"You might tell the rest of us what you''re reading there, Korchagin?" someone suggested.
The young Red Army man fingered his singed locks and smiled.
"A real good book, Comrade Androshchuk. Just can''t tear myself away from it."
"What''s it about?" inquired a snub-nosed lad sitting next to Korchagin, laboriously repairing the strap of his pouch. He bit off the coarse thread, wound the remainder round the needle and stuck it inside his helmet. "If it''s about love I''m your man."
A loud guffaw greeted this remark. Matveichuk raised his close-cropped head and winked slyly at the snub-nosed lad: "Love''s a fine thing, Sereda," he said. "And you''re such a handsome lad, a regular picture. Wherever we go the girls fairly wear their shoes out running after you. Too bad a handsome phiz like yours should be spoiled by one little defect: you''ve got a five-kopek piece instead of a nose. But that''s easily remedied. Just hang a Novitsky 10-pounder ( The Novitsky grenade weighing about four kilograms and used to demolish barbed-wire entanglements.) on the end of it overnight and in the morning it''ll be all right."
The roar of laughter that followed this sally caused the horses tethered to the machine-gun carriers to whinny in fright.
Sereda glanced nonchalantly over his shoulder. "It''s not your face but what you''ve got in here that counts." He tapped himself on the forehead expressively. "Take you, you''ve got a tongue like a stinging nettle but you''re no better than a donkey, and your ears are cold."
"Now then, lads, what''s the sense in getting riled?" Tatarinov, the Section Commander, admonished the two who were about to fly at each other. "Better let Korchagin read to us if he''s got something worth listening to."
"That''s right. Go to it, Pavlushka!" the men urged from all sides.
Pavel moved a saddle closer to the fire, settled himself on it and opened the small thick volume resting on his knees.
"It''s called The Gadfly, Comrades. The Battalion Commissar gave it to me. Wonderful book, Comrades. If you''ll sit quietly I''ll read it to you."
"Fire away! We''re all listening."
When some time later Comrade Puzyrevsky, the Regimental Commander, rode up unnoticed to the campfire with his Commissar he saw eleven pairs of eyes glued to the reader. He turned to the Commissar:
"There you have half of the regiment''s scouts," he said, pointing to the group of men. "Four of them are raw young Komsomols, but they''re good soldiers all of them. The one who''s reading is Korchagin, and that one there with eyes like a wolfcub is Zharky. They''re friends, but they''re always competing with each other on the quiet. Korchagin used to be my best scout. Now he has a very serious rival. What they''re doing just now is political work, and very effective it is too. I hear these youngsters are called ''the young guard''. Most appropriate, in my opinion."
"Is that the political instructor reading?" the Commissar asked.
"No. Kramer is the political instructor." Puzyrevsky spurred his horse forward.
"Greetings, Comrades!" he called.
All heads turned toward the commander as he sprang lightly from the saddle and went up to the group.
"Warming yourselves, friends?" he said with a broad smile and his strong face with the narrow, slightly Mongolian eyes lost its severity. The men greeted their commander warmly as they would a good comrade and friend. The Commissar did not dismount.
Pushing aside his pistol in its holster, Puzyrevsky sat down next to Korchagin.
"Shall we have a smoke?" he suggested. "I have some first-rate tobacco here."
He rolled a cigarette, lit it and turned to the Commissar: "You go ahead, Doronin. I''ll stay here for a while. If I''m needed at headquarters you can let me know."
"Go on reading, I''ll listen too," Puzyrevsky said to Korchagin when Doronin had gone.
Pavel read to the end, laid the book down on his knees and gazed pensively at the fire. For a few moments no one spoke. All brooded on the tragic fate of the Gadfly. Puzyrevsky puffed on his cigarette, waiting for the discussion to begin.
"A grim story that," said Sereda, breaking the silence. "I suppose there are people like that in the world. It''s not many who could stand what he did. But when a man has an idea to fight for he can stand anything," Sereda was-visibly moved. The book had made a deep impression on him.
"If I could lay my hands on that priest who tried to shove a cross down his throat I''d finish the swine off on the spot!" Andryusha Fomichev, a shoemaker''s apprentice from Belaya Tserkov, cried wrathfully.
"A man doesn''t mind dying if he has something to die for," Androshchuk, pushing one of the messtins closer to the, fire with a stick, said in a tone of conviction. "That''s what gives a man strength. You can die without regrets if you know you''re in the right. That''s how heroes are made. I knew a lad once, Poraika was his name. When the Whites cornered him in Odessa, he tackled a whole platoon singlehanded and before they could get at him with their bayonets he blew himself and the whole lot of them up with a grenade. And he wasn''t anything much to look at. Not the kind of a fellow you read about in books, though he''d be well worth writing about. There''s plenty of fine lads to be found among our kind."
He stirred the contents of the messtin with a spoon, tasted it with pursed-up lips and continued:
"There are some who die a dog''s death, a mean, dishonourable death. I''ll tell you something that happened during the fighting at Izyaslav. That''s an old town on the Goryn River built back in the time of the princes. There was a Polish church there, built like a fortress. Well, we entered that town and advanced single file along the crooked alleys. A company of Letts were holding our right flank. When we get to the highway what do we see but three saddled horses tied to the fence of one of the houses. Aha, we think, here''s where we bag some Poles! About ten of us rushed into the yard. In front of us ran the commander of that Lettish company, waving his Mauser.
"The front door was open and we ran in. But instead of Poles we found our own men in there. A mounted patrol it was. They''d got in ahead of us. It wasn''t a pretty sight we laid eyes on there. They were abusing a woman, the wife of the Polish officer who lived there. When the Lett saw what was going on he shouted something in his own language. His men grabbed the three and dragged them outside. There were only two of us Russians, the rest were Letts. Their commander was a man by the name of Bredis. I don''t understand their language but I could see he''d given orders to finish those fellows off. They''re a tough lot those Letts, unflinching. They dragged those three out to the stables. I could see their goose was cooked. One of them, a great hulking fellow with a mug that just asked for a brick, was kicking and struggling for all he was worth. They couldn''t put him up against the wall just because of a wench, he yelped. The others were begging for mercy too.
"I broke out into a cold sweat. I ran over to Bredis and said: ''Comrade Company Commander,'' I said, ''let the tribunal try them. What do you want to dirty your hands with their blood for? The fighting isn''t over in the town and here we are wasting time with this here scum.'' He turned on me with eyes blazing like a tiger''s. Believe me, I was sorry I spoke. He points his gun at me. I''ve been fighting for seven years but I admit I was properly scared that minute. I see he''s ready to shoot first and ask questions afterwards. He yells at me in bad Russian so I could hardly understand what he was saying: ''Our banner is dyed with our blood,'' he says. ''These men are a disgrace to the whole army. The penalty for ban***ry is death.''
"I couldn''t stand it any more and I ran out of that yard into the street as fast as I could and behind me I heard them shooting. I knew those three were done for. By the time we got back to the others the town was already ours.
"That''s what I mean by a dog''s death, the way those fellows died. The patrol was one of those that''d joined us at Melitopol. They''d been with Makhno at one time. Riffraff, that''s what they were."
Androshchuk drew his messtin toward him and proceeded to untie his bread bag.
"Yes, you find scum like that on our side too sometimes. You can''t account for everyone. On the face of it they''re all for the revolution. And through them we all get a bad name. But that was a nasty business, I tell you. I shan''t forget it so soon," he wound up, sipping his tea.
Night was well advanced by the time the camp was asleep. Sereda''s whistling snores could be heard in the silence. Puzyrevsky slept with his head resting on the saddle. Kramer, the political instructor, sat scribbling in his notebook.
Returning the next day from a scouting detail, Pavel tethered his horse to a tree and called over Kramer, who had just finished drinking tea.
"Look, Kramer, what would you say if I switched over to the First Cavalry Army? There''s going to be big doings there by the looks of it. They''re not being massed in such numbers just for fun, are they? And we here won''t be seeing much of it."
Kramer looked at him in surprise.
"Switch over? Do you think you can change units in the army the way you change seats in a cinema?"
"But what difference does it make where a man fights?" Pavel interposed. "I''m not deserting to the rear, am I?"
But Kramer was categorically opposed to the idea.
"What about discipline? You''re not a bad youngster, Pavel, on the whole, but in some things you''re a bit of an anarchist. You think you can do as you please? You forget, my lad, that the Party and the Komsomol are founded on iron discipline. The Party must come first. And each one of us must be where he is most needed and not where he wants to be. Puzyrevsky turned down your application for a transfer, didn''t he? Well, there''s your answer."
Kramer spoke with such agitation that he was seized with a fit of coughing. This tall, gaunt man was a printer by profession and the lead dust had lodged itself firmly in his lungs and often a hectic flush would appear on his waxen cheeks.
When he had calmed down, Pavel said in a low but firm voice:
"All that is quite correct but I''m going over to the Budyonny army just the same."
The next evening Pavel was missing at the campfire.

In the neighbouring village a group of Budyonny cavalrymen had formed a wide circle on a hill outside the schoolhouse. One giant of a fellow, seated on the back of a machine-gun carrier, his cap pushed to the back of his head, was playing an accordion. The instrument wailed and blared under his inept fingers like a thing in torment, confusing the dashing cavalryman in unbelievably wide red riding breeches who was dancing a mad hopak in the centre of the ring.
Eager-eyed village lads and lasses clambered onto the gun carrier and fences to watch the antics of these troopers whose brigade had just entered their village.
"Go it, Toptalo! Kick up the earth! Ekh, that''s the stuff, brother! Come on there, you with the accordion, make it hot!"
But the player''s huge fingers that could bend an iron horseshoe with the utmost ease sprawled clumsily over the keys.
"Too bad Makhno got Afanasi Kulyabko," remarked one bronzed cavalryman regretfully. "That lad was a first-class hand at the accordion. He rode on the right flank of our squadron. Too bad he was killed. A good soldier, and the best accordion player we ever had!"
Pavel, who was standing in the circle, overheard this last remark. He pushed his way over to the machine-gun carrier and laid his hand on the accordion bellows. The music subsided.
"What d''you want?" the accordionist demanded with a scowl.
Toptalo stopped short and an angry murmur rose from the crowd: "What''s the trouble there?"
Pavel reached out for the instrument. "Let''s have a try," he said.
The Budyonny cavalryman looked at the Red infantryman with some mistrust and reluctantly slipped the accordion strap off his shoulder.
With an accustomed gesture Pavel laid the instrument on his knee, spread the sinuous bellows out fanwise and let go with a rollicking melody that poured forth with all the lusty vigour of which the accordion is capable:
Ekh, little apple,
Whither away?
Get copped by the Cheka
And that''s where you stay!
Toptalo caught up the familiar tune and swinging his arms like some great bird he swept into the ring, executing the most incredible twists and turns, and slapping himself smartly on the thighs, knees, head, forehead, the shoe soles, and finally on the mouth in time with the music.
Faster and faster played the accordion in a mad intoxicating rhythm, and Toptalo, kicking his legs out wildly, spun around the circle like a top until he was quite out of breath.
On June 5, 1920, after a few brief but furious encounters Budyonny''s First Cavalry Army broke through the Polish front between the Third and Fourth Polish armies, smashed a cavalry brigade under General Sawicki en route and swept on toward Ruzhiny.
The Polish command hastily formed a striking force and threw it into the breach. Five tanks were rushed from Pogrebishche Station to the scene of the fighting. But the Cavalry Army bypassed Zarudnitsy from where the Poles planned to strike and came out in the Polish rear.
General Kornicki''s Cavalry Division was dispatched in pursuit of the First Cavalry Army with orders to strike at the rear of the force, which the Polish command believed to be headed for Kazatin, one of the most important strategic points in the Polish rear. This move, however, did not improve the position of the Poles. Although they succeeded in closing the breach and cutting off the Cavalry Army, the presence of a strong mounted force behind their lines which threatened to destroy their rear bases and swoop down on their army group at Kiev, was far from reassuring. As they advanced, the Red cavalry divisions destroyed small railway bridges and tore up railway track to hamper the Polish retreat. On learning from prisoners that the Poles had an army headquarters in Zhitomir (actually the headquarters of the whole front was located there), the commander of the First Cavalry Army decided to take Zhitomir and Berdichev, both important railway junctions and administrative centres. At dawn on June 7 the Fourth Cavalry Division was already on its way at full speed to Zhitomir.
Korchagin now rode on the right flank of one of the squadrons in place of Kulyabko, the lamented accordionist. He had been enrolled in the squadron on the collective request of the men, who had refused to part with such an excellent accordion player.
Without checking their foam-flecked horses they fanned out at Zhitomir and bore down on the city with naked steel flashing in the sun.
The earth groaned under the pounding hoofs, the mounts breathed hoarsely, and the men rose in their stirrups.
Underfoot the ground sped past and ahead the large city with its gardens and parks hurried to meet the division. The mounted avalanche flashed by the gardens and poured into the centre of the city, and the air was rent by a fear-inspiring battle-cry as inexorable as death itself.
The Poles were so stunned that they offered little resistance. The local garrison was crushed.
Bending low over the neck of his mount, Pavel Korchagin sped along side by side with Toptalo astride his thin-shanked black. Pavel saw the dashing cavalryman cut down with an unerring blow a Polish legionary before the man had time to raise his rifle to his shoulder.
The iron-shod hoofs grated on the paving stones as they careered down the street. Then at an intersection they found themselves face to face with a machine gun planted in the very middle of the road and three men in blue uniforms and rectangular Polish caps bending over it. There was also a fourth, with coils of gold braid on his collar, who levelled a Mauser at the mounted men.
Neither Toptalo nor Pavel could check their horses and they galloped toward the machine gun, straight into the jaws of death. The officer fired at Korchagin, but missed. The bullet whanged past Pavel''s cheek, and the next moment the Lieutenant had struck his head against the paving stones and was lying limp on his back, thrown off his feet by the horse''s onrush.
That very moment the machine gun spat out in savage frenzy, and stung by a dozen bullets, Toptalo and his black crumpled to the ground.
Pavel''s mount reared up on its hind legs, snorting with terror, and leapt with its rider over the prone bodies to the men at the machine gun. His sabre described a flashing arc in the air and sank into the blue rectangle of one of the army caps.
Again the sabre flashed upwards ready to descend upon a second head, but the frantic horse leapt aside.
Like a mountain torrent the squadron poured into the streets and scores of sabres flashed in the air.
The long narrow corridors of the prison echoed with cries.
The cells packed with gaunt, hollow-eyed men and women were in a turmoil. They could hear the battle raging in the town?"could this mean liberation? Could it be that this force that had swept suddenly into the town had come to set them free?
The shooting reached the prison yard. Men came running down the corridors. And then the cherished, long-awaited words: "You are free, Comrades!"
Pavel ran to a locked door with a tiny window, from which stared dozens of pairs of eyes, and brought his rifle butt down fiercely against the lock again and again.
"Wait, let me crack it with a bomb," cried Mironov. He pushed Pavel aside and produced a hand grenade from a pocket.
Platoon commander Tsygarchenko tore the grenade from his hands.
"Stop, you fool, are you mad! They''ll bring the keys in a jiffy. What we can''t break down we''ll open with keys."
The prison guards were already being led down the corridor, prodded along with revolvers, when the ragged and unwashed prisoners, wild with joy, poured out of their cells.
Throwing a cell door wide open, Pavel ran inside.
"Comrades, you''re free! We''re Budyonny''s men?"our division''s taken the town!"
A woman ran weeping to Pavel and throwing her arms around him broke into sobs.
The liberation of five thousand and seventy-one Bolsheviks and of two thousand Red Army political workers, whom the Polish Whites had driven into these stone dungeons to await shooting or the gallows, was more important to the division''s fighting men than all the trophies they had captured, a greater reward than victory itself. For seven thousand revolutionaries the impenetrable gloom of night had been supplanted by the bright sun of a hot June day.
One of the prisoners, with skin as yellow as a lemon, rushed at Pavel in a transport of joy. It was Samuel Lekher, one of the compositors from the Shepetovka printshop.
Pavel''s face turned grey as he listened to Samuel''s account of the bloody tragedy enacted in his native town and the words seared his heart like drops of molten metal.
"They took us at night, all of us at once. Some scoundrel had betrayed us to the military gendarmes. And once they had us in their clutches they showed no mercy. They beat us terribly, Pavel. I suffered less than the others because after the first blows I lost consciousness. But the others were stronger than me.
"We had nothing to hide. The gendarmes knew everything better than we did. They knew every step we had taken, and no wonder, for there had been a traitor among us. I can''t talk about those days, Pavel. You know many of those who were taken. Valya Bruzzhak, and Rosa Gritsman, a fine girl just turned seventeen?"such trusting eyes she had, Pavel! Then there was Sasha Bunshaft, you know him, one of our typesetters, a merry lad, always drawing caricatures of the boss. They took him and two Gymnasium students, Novoselsky and Tuzhits?"you remember them too most likely. The others too were local people or from the district centre. Altogether twenty-nine were arrested, six of them women. They were all brutally tortured. Valya and Rosa were raped the first day. Those swine outraged the poor things in every possible way, then dragged them back to the cell more dead than alive. Soon after that Rosa began to rave and a few days later she was completely out of her mind.
"They didn''t believe that she was insane, they said she was shamming and beat her unmercifully every time they questioned her. She was a terrible sight when they finally shot her. Her face was black with bruises, her eyes were wild, she looked like an old woman.
"Valya Bruzzhak was splendid to the very end. They all died like real fighters. I don''t know how they had the strength to endure it all. Ah, Pavel, how can I describe their death to you? It was too horrible.
"Valya had been doing the most dangerous kind of work: she was the one who had contact with the wireless operators at the Polish headquarters and with our people in the district centre, besides which they found two grenades and a pistol when they searched her place. The grenades had been given to her by the provocateur. Everything had been framed so as to charge them with intending to blow up the headquarters.
"Ah, Pavel, it is painful for me to speak of those last days, but since you insist I shall tell you. The military court sentenced Valya and two others to be hanged, the rest to be shot. The Polish soldiers who had worked with us were tried two days earlier. Corporal Snegurko, a young wireless operator who had worked in Lodz as an electrician before the war, was charged with treason and with conducting Communist propaganda among the soldiers and sentenced to be shot. He did not appeal, and was shot twenty-four hours after the sentence.
"Valya was called in to give evidence at his trial. She told us afterwards that Snegurko pleaded guilty to the charge of conducting Communist propaganda but vigorously denied that he had betrayed his country. ''My fatherland,'' he said, ''is the Polish Soviet Socialist Republic. Yes, I am a member of the Communist Party of Poland. I was drafted into the army against my will, and once there I did my best to open the eyes of other men like myself who had been driven off to the front. You may hang me for that, but not for being a traitor to my fatherland, for that I never was and never will be. Your fatherland is not my fatherland. Yours is the fatherland of the gentry, mine is the workers'' and peasants'' fatherland. And in my fatherland, which will comê?"of that I am deeply convinced?"no one will ever call me a traitor.''
"After the trial we were all kept together. Just before the execution we were transferred to the jail. During the night they set up the gallows opposite the prison beside the hospital. For the shooting they chose a place near a big ***ch over by the forest not far from the road. A common grave was dug for us.
"The sentence was posted up all over town so that everyone should know of it. The Poles decided to hold a public execution to frighten the population. From early morning they began driving the townsfolk to the place of execution. Some went out of curiosity, terrible though it was. Before long they had a big crowd collected outside the prison wall. From our cell we could hear the hum of voices. They had stationed machine guns on the street behind the crowd, and brought up mounted and foot gendarmes from all parts of the area. A whole battalion of them surrounded the streets and vegetable fields beyond. A pit had been dug beside the gallows for those who were to be hanged.
"We waited silently for the end, now and then exchanging a few words. We had talked everything over the night before and said our good-byes. Only Rosa kept whispering to herself over in one corner of the cell. Valya, after all the beatings and outrages she had endured, was too weak to move and lay still most of the time. Two local Communist girls, sisters they were, could not keep back the tears as they clung to one another in their last farewell. Stepanov, a young man from the country, a strapping lad who had knocked out two gendarmes when they came to arrest him, told them to stop. ''No tears, Comrades! You may weep here, but not out there. We don''t want to give those bloody swine a chance to gloat. There won''t be any mercy anyway. We''ve got to die, so we might as well die decently. We won''t crawl on our knees. Remember, Comrades, we must meet death bravely.''
"Then they came for us. In the lead was Szwarkowski, the Intelligence Chief, a mad dog of a sadist if there ever was one. When he didn''t do the raping himself he enjoyed watching his gendarmes do it. We were marched to the gallows across the road between two rows of gendarmes, ''canaries'' we called them on account of their yellow shoulder-knots. They stood there with their sabres bared.
"They hurried us through the prison yard with their rifle butts and made us form fours. Then they opened the gates and led us out into the street and stood us up facing the gallows so that we should see our comrades die as we waited for our turn to come. It was a tall gallows made of thick logs. Three nooses of heavy rope hung down from the crosspiece and under each noose was a platform with steps supported by a block of wood that could be kicked aside. A faint murmur rose from the sea of people which rocked and swayed. All eyes were fixed on us. We recognised some of our people in the crowd.
"On a porch some distance away stood a group of Polish gentry and officers with binoculars. They had come to see the Bolsheviks hanged.
"The snow was soft underfoot. The forest was white with it, and it lay thick on the trees like cotton fluff. The whirling snowflakes fell slowly, melting on our burning faces, and the steps of the gallows were carpeted with snow. We were scantily dressed but none of us felt the cold. Stepanov did not even notice that he was walking in his stockinged feet.
"Beside the gallows stood the military prosecutor and senior officers. At last Valya and the two other comrades who were to be hanged were led out of the jail. They walked all three arm-in-arm, Valya was in the middle supported by the other two for she had no strength to walk alone. But she did her best to hold herself erect, remembering Stepanov''s words: ''We must meet death bravely, Comrades!'' She wore a woollen jacket but no coat.
"Szwarkowski evidently didn''t like the idea of them walking arm-in-arm for he pushed them from behind. Valya said something and one of the mounted gendarmes slashed her full force across the face with his whip. A woman in the crowd let out a frightful shriek and began struggling madly in an effort to break through the cordon and reach the prisoners, but she was seized and dragged away. It must have been Valya''s mother. When they were close to the gallows Valya began to sing. Never have I heard a voice like that?"only a person going to his death could sing with such feeling. She sang the Warszawianka, and the other two joined in. The mounted guards lashed out in a blind fury with their whips, but the three did not seem to feel the blows. They were knocked down and dragged to the gallows like sacks. The sentence was quickly read and the nooses were slipped over their heads. At that point we began to sing:
Arise, ye prisoners of starvation. . . .

"Guards rushed at us from all sides and I just had time to see the blocks knocked out from under the platforms with rifle butts and the three bodies jerking in the nooses. .. .
"The rest of us had already been put to the wall when it was announced that ten of us had had our sentences commuted to 20 years'' imprisonment. The other sixteen were shot."
Samuel clutched convulsively at the collar of his shirt as if he were choking.
"For three days the bodies hung there in the nooses. The gallows were guarded day and night. After that a new batch of prisoners was brought to jail and they told us that on the fourth day the rope that held the corpse of Comrade Toboldin, the heaviest of the three, had given way. After that they removed the other two and buried them all.
"But the gallows was not taken down. It was still standing when we were brought to this place. It stood there with the nooses waiting for fresh victims."
Samuel fell silent staring with unseeing eyes before him, but Pavel was unaware that the story had ended. The three bodies with the heads twisted horribly to one side swayed silently before his eyes.
The bugle sounding the assembly outside brought Pavel to himself with a start.
"Let''s go, Samuel," he said in a barely audible voice.
A column of Polish prisoners was being marched down the street lined with cavalry. At the prison gates stood the Regimental Commissar writing an order on his notepad.
"Comrade Antipov," he said, handing the slip of paper to a stalwart squadron commander, "take this, and have all the prisoners taken under cavalry escort to Novograd-Volynsky. See that the wounded are given medical attention. Then put them on carts, drive them about twenty versts from the town and let them go. We have no time to bother with them. But there must be no maltreatment of prisoners."
Mounting his horse, Pavel turned to Samuel. "Hear that?" he said. "They hang our people, but we have to escort them back to their own side and treat them nicely besides. How can we do it?"
The Regimental Commissar turned and looked sternly at the speaker. "Cruelty to unarmed prisoners," Pavel heard him say as if speaking to himself, "will be punished by death. We are not Whites!"
As he rode off, Pavel recalled the final words of the order of the Revolutionary Military Council which had been read out to the regiment:
"The land of the workers and peasants loves its Red Army. It is proud of it. And on that Army''s banners there shall not be a single stain."
"Not a single stain," Pavel whispered.
At the time the Fourth Cavalry Division took Zhitomir, the 20th Brigade of the Seventh Rifle Division forming part of a shock corps under Comrade Golikov was crossing the Dnieper River in the area of Okuninovo village.
Another corps, which consisted of the 25th Rifle Division and a Bashkir Cavalry brigade, had orders to cross the Dnieper and straddle the Kiev-Korosten railway at Irsha Station. This manoeuvre would cut off the Poles'' last avenue of retreat from Kiev.
It was during the crossing of the river that Misha Levchukov of the Shepetovka Komsomol organisation perished. They were running over the shaky pontoon bridge when a shell fired from somewhere beyond the steep bank opposite whined viciously overhead and plunged into the water, ripping it to shreds. The same instant Misha disappeared under one of the pontoons. The river swallowed him up and did not give him back. Yakimenko, a fair-haired soldier in a battered cap, cried out: "Mishka! Hell, that was Mishka! Went down like a stone, poor lad!" For a moment he stared horrified into the dark water, but the men running up from behind pushed him on: "What''re you gaping there for, you fool. Get on with you!" There was no time to stop for anyone. The brigade had fallen behind the others who had already occupied the right bank of the river.
It was not until four days later that Sergei learned of Misha''s death. By that time the brigade had captured Bucha Station, and turning in the direction of Kiev, was repulsing furious attacks by the Poles who were attempting to break through to Korosten.
Yakimenko threw himself down beside Sergei in the firing line. He had been firing steadily for some time and now he had difficulty forcing back the bolt of his overheated rifle. Keeping his head carefully lowered he turned to Sergei and said: "Got to give her a rest. She''s red hot!"
Sergei barely heard him above the din of the shooting.
When the noise subsided somewhat, Yakimenko remarked as if casually: "Your comrade got drowned in the Dnieper. He was gone before I could do anything." That was all he said. He tried the bolt of his rifle, took out another clip and applied himself to the task of reloading.
The Eleventh Division sent to take Berdichev encountered fierce resistance from the Poles. A bloody battle was fought in the streets of the town. The Red Cavalry advanced through a squall of machine-gun fire. The town was captured and the remnants of the routed Polish forces fled. Trains were seized intact in the railway yards. But the most terrible disaster for the Poles was the exploding of an ammunition dump which served the whole front. A million shells went up in the air. The explosion shattered window panes into tiny fragments and caused the houses to tremble as if they were made of cardboard.
The capture of Zhitomir and Berdichev took the Poles in the rear and they came pouring out of Kiev in two streams, fighting desperately to make their way out of the steel ring encircling them.
Swept along by the maelstrom of battle, Pavel lost all sense of self these days. His individuality merged with the mass and for him, as for every fighting man, the word "I" was forgotten; only the word "we" remained: our regiment, our squadron, our brigade.
Events developed with the speed of a hurricane. Each day brought something new.
Budyonny''s Cavalry Army swept forward like an avalanche, striking blow after blow until the entire Polish rear was smashed to pieces. Drunk with the excitement of their victories, the mounted divisions hurled themselves with passionate fury at Novograd-Volynsky, the heart of the Polish rear. As the ocean wave dashes itself against the rockbound shore, recedes and rushes on again, so they fell back only to press on again and again with awesome shouts of "Forward! Forward!"
Nothing could save the Polesâ?"neither the barbed-wire entanglements, nor the desperate resistance put up by the garrison entrenched in the city. And on the morning of June 27 Budyonny''s cavalry forded the Sluch River without dismounting, entered Novograd-Volynsky and drove the Poles out of the city in the direction of Korets. At the same time the Forty-Fifth Division crossed the Sluch at Novy Miropol, and the Kotovsky Cavalry Brigade swooped down upon the settlement of Lyubar.
The radio station of the First Cavalry Army received an order from the commander-in-chief of the front to concentrate the entire cavalry force for the capture of Rovno. The irresistible onslaught of the Red divisions sent the Poles scattering in demoralised panic-stricken groups.
It was in these hectic days that Pavel Korchagin had a most unexpected encounter. He had been sent by the Brigade Commander to the station where an armoured train was standing. Pavel took the steep railway embankment at a canter and reined in at the steel-grey head carriage. With the black muzzles of guns protruding from the turrets, the armoured train looked grim and formidable. Several men in oil-stained clothes were at work beside it raising the heavy steel armour plating that protected the wheels.
"Where can I find the commander of the train?" Pavel inquired of a leather-jacketed Red Army man carrying a pail of water.
"Over there," the man replied pointing to the engine.
Pavel rode up to the engine. "I want to see the commander!" he said. A man with a pockmarked face, clad in leather from head to foot, turned. "I''m the commander."
Pavel pulled an envelope from his pocket.
"Here is an order from the Brigade Commander. Sign on the envelope."
The commander rested the envelope on his knee and scribbled his signature on it. Down on the tracks a man with an oil can was working on the middle wheel of the engine. Pavel could only see his broad back and the pistol-butt sticking out of the pocket of his leather trousers.
The commander handed the envelope back to Pavel who picked up the reins and was about to set off when the man with the oil can straightened up and turned round. The next moment Pavel had leapt off his horse as though swept down by a violent gust of wind.
"Artem!"
The man dropped his oil can and caught the young Red Army man in a bear''s embrace.
"Pavka! You rascal! It''s you!" he cried unable to believe his eyes.
The commander of the armoured train looked puzzled, and several gunners standing by smiled broadly at the joy of the two brothers in this chance meeting.
It happened on August 19 during a battle in the Lvov area. Pavel had lost his cap in the fighting and had reined in his horse. The squadrons ahead had already cut into the Polish positions. At that moment Demidov came galloping through the bushes on his way down to the river. As he flew past Pavel he shouted:
"The Division Commander''s been killed!"
Pavel started. Letunov, his heroic commander, that man of sterling courage, dead! A savage fury seized Pavel.
With the blunt edge of his sabre he urged on his exhausted Gnedko, whose bit dripped with a bloody foam, and tore into the thick of the battle.
"Kill the vermin, kill ''em! Cut down the Polish szlachtal They''ve killed Letunov!" And blindly he slashed at a figure in a green uniform. Enraged at the death of their Division Commander, the cavalrymen wiped out a whole platoon of Polish legionaries.
They galloped headlong over the battlefield in pursuit of the enemy, but now a Polish battery went into action. Shrapnel rent the air spattering death on all sides.
Suddenly there was a blinding green flash before Pavel''s eyes, thunder smote his ears and red-hot iron seared into his skull. The earth spun strangely and horribly about him and began to turn slowly upside down.
Pavel was thrown from the saddle like a straw. He flew right over Gnedko''s head and fell heavily to the ground.
Instantly black night descended.

Chapter Nine
The octopus has a bulging eye the size of a cat''s head, a glazed reddish eye green in the centre with a pulsating phosphorescent glow. The octopus is a loathsome mass of tentacles, which writhe and squirm like a tangled knot of snakes, the scaly skin rustling hideously as they move. The octopus stirs. He sees it next to his very eyes. And now the tentacles creep over his body; they are cold and they sting like nettles. The octopus shoots out its sting, and it bites into his head like a leech, and, wriggling convulsively, it sucks at his blood. He feels the blood draining out of his body into the swelling body of the octopus. And the sting goes on sucking and the pain of its sucking is unbearable.
Somewhere far far away he can hear human voices:
"How is his pulse now?"
And another voice, a woman''s, replies softly:
"His pulse is a hundred and thirty-eight. His temperature 103.1. He is delirious all the time."
The octopus disappears, but the pain lingers. Pavel feels someone touch his wrist. He tries to open his eyes, but his lids are so heavy he has no strength to lift them. Why is it so hot? Mother must have heated the stove. And again he hears those voices:
"His pulse is one hundred and twenty-two now." He tries to open his eyelids. But a fire burns within him. He is suffocating.
He is terribly thirsty, he must get up at once and get a drink. But why does he not get up? He tries to move but his limbs refuse to obey him, his body is a stranger to him. Mother will bring him some water at once. He will say to her: "I want to drink." Something stirs beside him. Is it the octopus about to crawl over him again? There it comes, he sees its red eyes. . . . From afar comes that soft voice: "Frosya, bring some water!"
"Whose name is that?" But the effort to remember is too much for him and darkness engulfs him once more. Emerging presently from the gloom he recalls: "I am thirsty."
And hears voices saying: "He seems to be regaining consciousness." Closer and more distinct now, that gentle voice: "Do you want to drink, Comrade?"
"Can it be me they are addressing? Am I ill? Oh yes, I''ve got the typhus, that''s it." And for the third time he tries to lift his eyelids. And at last he succeeds. The first thing that reaches his consciousness through the narrowed vision of his slightly opened eyes is a red ball hanging above his head. But the red ball is blotted out by something dark which bends towards him, and his lips feel the hard edge of a glass and moisture, life-giving moisture. The fire within him subsides. Satisfied, he whispers: "That''s better."
"Can you see me, Comrade?"
The dark shape standing over him has spoken, and just before drowsiness overpowers him he manages to say: "I can''t see, but I can hear. . . ."
"Now, who would have believed he would pull through? Yet see how he has clambered back to life! A remarkably strong constitution. You may be proud of yourself, Nina Vladimirovna. You have literally saved his life." And the woman''s voice, trembling slightly, answers: "I am so glad!"
After thirteen days of oblivion, consciousness returned to Pavel Korchagin. His young body had not wanted to die, and slowly he recovered his strength. It was like being born again. Everything seemed new and miraculous. Only his head lay motionless and unbearably heavy in its plaster cast, and he had not the strength to move it. But feeling returned to the rest of his body and soon he was able to bend his fingers.
Nina Vladimirovna, junior doctor of the military clinical hospital, sat at a small table in her room turning the leaves of a thick lilac-covered notebook filled with brief entries made in a neat slanting handwriting.
August 26, 1920
Some serious cases were brought in today by ambulance train. One of them has a very ugly head wound. We put him in the corner by the window. He is only seventeen. They gave me an envelope with the papers found in his pockets and the case history. His name is Korchagin, Pavel Andreyevich. Among his papers were a well-worn membership card (No. 967) of the Young Communist League of the Ukraine, a torn Red Army identification book and a copy of a regimental order stating that Red Army man Korchagin was coinmended for exemplary fulfilment of a reconnaissance rnission. There was also a note, evidently written by himself, which said: "In the event of my death please write to my relatives: Shepetov-ka, Railway Junction, Mechanic Artem Korchagin."
He has been unconscious ever since he was hit by a shell fragment on August 19. Tomorrow Anatoli Stepanovich will examine him.
August 27
Today we examined Korchagin''s wound. It is very deep, the skull is fractured and the entire right side of the head is paralysed. A blood vessel burst in the right eye which is badly swollen.
Anatoli Stepanovich wanted to remove the eye to prevent inflammation, but I dissuaded him, since there is still hope that the swelling might go down. In doing this I was prompted solely by aesthetic considerations. The lad may recover; it would be a pity if he were disfigured.
He is delirious all the time and terribly restless. One of us is constantly on duty at his bedside. I spend much of my time with him. He is too young to die and I am determined to tear his young life out of Death''s clutches. I must succeed.
Yesterday I spent several hours in his ward after my shift was over. His is the worst case there. I sat listening to his ravings. Sometimes they sound like a story, and I learn quite a lot about his life. But at times he curses horribly. He uses frightful language. Somehow it hurts me to hear such awful cursing from him. Anatoli Stepanovich does not believe that he will recover. "I can''t understand what the army wants with such children," the old man growls. "It''s a disgrace."
August 30
Korchagin is still unconscious. He has been removed to the ward for hopeless cases. The nurse Frosya is almost constantly at his side. It appears she knows him. They worked together once. How gentle she is with him! Now I too am beginning to fear that his con***ion is hopeless.
September 2, 11 p.m.
This has been a wonderful day for me. My patient Korchagin regained consciousness. The crisis is over. I spent the past two days at the hospital without going home.
I cannot describe my joy at the knowledge that one more life has been saved. One death less in our ward. The recovery of a patient is the most wonderful thing about this exhausting work of mine. They become like children. Their affection is simple and sincere, and I too grow fond of them so that when they leave I often weep. I know it is foolish of me, but I cannot help it.
September 10
Today I wrote Korchagin''s first letter to his family. He writes his wound is not serious and he''ll soon recover and come home. He has lost a great deal of blood and is as pale as a ghost, and still very weak.
September 14
Korchagin smiled today for the first time. He has a very nice smile. Usually he is grave beyond his years. He is making a remarkably rapid recovery. He and Frosya are great friends. I often see her at his bedside. She must have been talking to him about me, and evidently singing my praises, for now the patient greets me with a faint smile. Yesterday he asked:
"What are those black marks on your arms, doctor?" I did not tell him that those bruises had been made by his fingers clutching my arm convulsively when he was delirious.
September 17
The wound on Korchagin''s forehead is healing nicely. We doctors are amazed at the remarkable fortitude with which this young man endures the painful business of dressing his wound.
Usually in such cases the patient groans a great deal and is generally troublesome. But this one lies quietly and when the open wound is daubed with iodine he draws himself taut like a violin string. Often he loses consciousness, but not once have we heard a groan escape him.
We know now that when Korchagin groans he is unconscious. Where does he get that tremendous endurance, I wonder?
September 21
We wheeled Korchagin out onto the big balcony today for the first time. How his face lit up when he saw the garden, how greedily he breathed in the fresh air! His head is swathed in bandages and only one eye is open. And that live, shining eye looked out on the world as if seeing it for the first time.
September 26
Today two young women came to the hospital asking to see Korchagin. I went downstairs to the waiting room to speak to them. One of them was very beautiful. They introduced themselves as Tonya Tumanova and Tatiana Buranovskaya. I had heard of Tonya, Korchagin had mentioned the name when he was delirious. I gave them permission to see him.
October 8
Korchagin now walks unaided in the garden. He keeps asking me when he can leave hospital. I tell himâ?"soon. The two girls come to see him every visiting day. I know now why he never groans. I asked him, and he replied: "Read The Gadfly and you''ll know."
October 14
Korchagin has been discharged. He took leave of me very warmly. The bandage has been removed from his eye and now only his head is bound. The eye is blind, but looks quite normal. It was very sad to part with this fine young comrade. But that''s how it is: once they''ve recovered they leave us and rarely do we ever see them again.
As he left he said: "Pity it wasn''t the left eye. How will I be able to shoot now?"
He still thinks of the front.
After his discharge from hospital Pavel lived for a time at the Buranovskys where Tonya was staying.
Pavel sought at once to draw Tonya into Komsomol activities. He began by inviting her to attend a meeting of the town''s Komsomol. Tonya agreed to go, but when she emerged from her room where she had been dressing for the meeting Pavel bit his lip. She was very smartly attired, with a studied elegance which Pavel felt would be entirely out of place at a Komsomol gathering.
This was the cause of their first quarrel. When he asked her why she had dressed up like that she took offence.
"I don''t see why I must look like everyone else. But if my clothes don''t suit you, I can stay at home."
At the club Tonya''s fine clothes were so conspicuous among all the faded tunics and shabby blouses that Pavel was deeply embarrassed. The young people treated her as an outsider, and Tonya, conscious of their disapproval, assumed a contemptuous, defiant air.
Pankratov, the secretary of the Komsomol organisation at the shipping wharves, a broad-shouldered docker in a coarse linen shirt, called Pavel aside, and indicating Tonya with his eyes, said with a scowl:
"Was it you who brought that doll here?"
"Yes," Pavel replied curtly.
"Mm," observed Pankratov. "She doesn''t belong here by the looks of her. Too bourgeois by half. How did she get in?"
Pavel''s temples pounded.
"She is a friend of mine. I brought her here. Understand? She isn''t hostile to us at all, even if she does think too much about clothes. You can''t always judge people by the way they dress. I know as well as you do whom to bring here so you needn''t be so officious, Comrade."
He wanted to say something sharp and insulting but realising that Pankratov was voicing the general opinion he checked himself, and that only increased his anger at Tonya.
"I told her what to expect! Why the devil must she put on such airs?"
That evening marked the beginning of the end of their friendship. With bitterness and dismay Pavel watched the break-up of a relationship that had seemed so enduring.
Several more days passed, and with every meeting, every conversation they drifted further and further apart. Tonya''s cheap individualism became unbearable to Pavel.
Both realised that a break was inevitable.
Today they had met in the Kupechesky Gardens for the last time. The paths were strewn with decaying leaves. They stood by the balustrade at the top of the cliff and looked down at the grey waters of the Dnieper. From behind the towering hulk of the bridge a tug came crawling wearily down the river with two heavy barges in tow. The setting sun painted the Trukhanov Island with daubs of gold and set the windows of the houses on fire.
Tonya looked at the golden shafts of sunlight and said with deep sadness:
"Is our friendship going to fade like that dying sun?"
Pavel, who had been gazing at her face, knitted his brows sternly and answered in a low voice:
"Tonya, we have gone over this before. You know, of course, that I loved you, and even now my love might return, but for that you must be with us. I am not the Pavlusha I was before. And I would be a poor husband to you if you expect me to put you before the Party. For I shall always put the Party first, and you and my other loved ones second."
Tonya stared miserably down at the dark-blue water and her eyes filled with tears.
Pavel gazed at the profile he had come to know so well, her thick chestnut hair, and a wave of pity for this girl who had once been so dear to him swept over him.