Little Apple (15 page)

"I'm not sure if it was the Reds or the Communists, Your Excellency," the old beggar replied. "How would I know a thing like that? God alone can tell them apart. Other people have customs you can recognize them by. For instance, I've been in the land of the Germans and the Tatars, who are also called Kalmucks. The Germans put tobacoo in their homemade brandy, that's how you can tell them. The Tatars shave their heads and live on fish. Tatar habits, those are."

He went on to describe the hospitality and gifts he'd received at various monasteries, but he was talking to himself alone. His voice sank to a drowsy, monotonous murmur. Only isolated words could be picked out- "stockfish", "groats and honey", "dumplings", "cheese pancakes", "eighty versts", "Father Porphyri, God bless him!", "the Deacon Aristarch" - so everyone soon stopped listening to him.

That evening the former Soviet clerk was summoned to the governor's office "with his things". He turned pale when he heard his name called, but rose without a word and bundled up his belongings. The little palliasse he'd brought with him to the prison he bequeathed to his neigbour, a fishmonger from Shmerinka. Then he said goodbye to his cell-mates, even to the attorney and the actor with whom he'd been on such bad terms.

The fishmonger sat down on the palliasse at Vit¬torin's side. "He says it's because he quarrelled with his boss," he whispered, "but he took bribes. He won't be back, you mark my words. The same goes for the others in here - they'll be lucky to survive. Me, I've been promised my release by the governor if I denounce six counter-revolutionaries." He subjected Vit¬torin to a speculative stare. Then he said softly, "I've already got four."

Two more prisoners arrived the following day, a Red army deserter and a civil engineer from the Berdichev machine-tool factory, which had been shut down for lack of fuel and raw materials. The engineer, a clean-shaven, bright-eyed young man, promptly introduced himself to the other inmates and gave them a grimly humorous account of the reason for his arrest.

"I subverted the authority of the Soviet regime, comrades -that's the kind of devil I am. I told my works manager there was only one can of kerosene left in Russia, and that belonged to Lenin."

He went on to report that the Cheka hadn't yet managed to capture their mortal enemy, the veteran terrorist Artemyev. House searches were in progress day and night in Berdichev, Zhitomir, Ovruch and Kiev.

"They questioned Comrade Vera Zhedoeva, his partner in the attempt on General Prince Urussov's life seven years ago. She admitted going to Kiev to meet Artemyev, but he never turned up - he must have seen they were watching her. He is in Kiev, though, that's for sure. Someone spotted him in a suburban lodging house two days ago, but he'd gone by the time they came to arrest him. Well, they'll get their hands on him sooner or later."

"Why should they?" said the schoolmaster. "He doesn't go around with his identity written all over him."

"Yes he does," the engineer retorted. "It's easy enough to pick out a hawk in a flock of jackdaws. I saw Artemyev in Moscow before the war, at the trial of the 'Seventeen'. I'd recognize him anywhere. One look at his face and you know at once who he is."

Conversation proceeded until the attorney, who was standing beside the window, gave a low cry.

"God Almighty!" he exclaimed. "What have they done with Bobronikov? They must have shot the poor fellow."

Pale as death, he pointed to a young man sauntering across the prison yard with a riding crop in his hand, spurs jingling.

"That's the governor's deputy, and he's wearing Bobroni-kov's fur coat and cap ..."

When evening came, the cell's population was swollen by eight peasants taken as hostages from villages in the neighbourhood, one of them an old man of eighty-two. It was no longer possible to lie full length, so the prisoners sat crowded together. "It's only for tonight, citizens," were the warder's parting words. "The governor says he'll attend to your comfort tomorrow."

The landowner, who had been ejected from his prison bed, sat swathed in a blanket near the door. No one had heard him utter a word in the previous days. He had awaited his end in silence, but now he began to speak in a sepulchral voice.

"The Starets, the great saint who lies buried at Tsarskoe Selo, has put a curse on us. There's no more sun in Russia now, no more light or life. Poison failed to lay him low and bullets failed to kill him, so they strangled him with their bare hands. In God's kingdom, where the righteous take their ease, he raised his voice in accusation against the land of Russia, and the Almighty hearkened unto him."

"Enough of your saint!" the schoolmaster snapped. "Rasputin was a fraud, everyone knows that - he led a disgraceful life. Besides, there isn't a God, there are only devils, and Russia's swarming with them."

The old tramp shook his head.

"You've studied books, Your Excellency, and you must be one of the wisest and best-educated men alive, but it can't be true that there isn't a God. There's a God all right, as sure as Christ is lord of us all, and I can prove it. Judge for yourself, Excellency. I'm walking along the highroad with eighty kopeks earned from a farmer for working in his fields. Then I see an inn. 'It's hot,' I say to myself. 'Go in and quench your thirst, but with tea, not strong drink.' However, the landlord brings out some homemade vodka and I leave the inn without a kopek to my name. 'Perdition take all inns and taverns,' I tell myself. 'Old Satan has bewitched me yet again, may I be thrashed for yielding to temptation!' And now, Your Excellency, listen to what happens next. I'm almost on the outskirts of town when two fellows come my way. They pick a quarrel with me and beat me with their sticks like a post-horse. Well, I got the thrashing I asked for, so who if not God heard me ask for it? There is a God, Your Excellency, you can see that yourself."

"You've got the intelligence of a turnip, that's all I can see,"

said the schoolmaster. "I'm delighted you got your thrashing, and . . ."

He broke off. Rifle fire and confused cries could be heard coming from the streets outside the prison.

At six the next morning the nurse entered the cell followed by an officer with his arm in a white sling.

"The Reds have been overthrown," the nurse announced. "The Volunteers have occupied the town. Any prisoner with friends or relations prepared to vouch for him is free to leave."

Not a word, not a movement. Someone in the corner started sobbing quietly. All at once the tramp rose. He thrust the actor aside and went up to the officer.

"I see you're with the 3rd Ukrainian Volunteers, Lieutenant," he said. "Be good enough to send for your commanding officer. I'm Artemyev. I'll vouch for everyone here."

People hurried out into the street from their homes and offices, from tea-houses, cellars and places of refuge. They exchanged congratulatory hugs and clustered together in vociferous groups. The same exultant and delighted cries rang out on all sides:

"They've gone - the Bolsheviks have gone! They cleared out during the night!" - "I told you so: I said they couldn't hold out for more than three weeks!" - "The chairman of the executive committee has been arrested!" - "I woke up in the night, heard those shots, and
..."

The main thoroughfare had transformed itself into a promenade. There was a sudden reappearance of long-forgotten Tsarist uniforms, ladies' silk hats, jewellery, choice furs. It was as if the town's inhabitants wanted to prove to each other that the Bolshevik reign of terror had failed to change their ways.

The commander of the Volunteers was standing in conqueror's pose on the corner of Mikhailov Street, nodding and saluting in all directions. The silver braid on his blue military tunic glittered in the winter sunlight. Saffyanikov, an ex-member of the Duma who had spent two months hiding from the Bolsheviks in the back room of a cabbies' tavern, smilingly acknowledged his friends' congratulations. Elegant sleighs and officers' horses stood waiting in front of the Passage Hotel, where the regimental band of the Volunteer Cavalry was giving a concert. The Jews of the town had gone to ground. Posters outside the municipal theatre advertised a gala performance. Cossacks were bivouacking in the marketplace.

While light and life were flooding through the streets, fighting continued on the outskirts of town. Three Communists barricaded themselves inside a warehouse near the freight depot and defended it against a half-company with revolvers and hand-grenades. When two of them were wounded, the third surrendered. A Red Army instructress arrested in the act of dressing up as a man killed herself with a bullet from her revolver. A Red sentry guarding the ration store in Uman Street refused to quit his post. Out of ammunition, he fought off the mob with his rifle butt, a tight-lipped giant of a man with blood streaming from a head-wound. He was offered quarter but paid no heed. A Volunteer officer, who happened to be riding past, dispatched him with his service revolver. The mob poured into the ration store over his dead body. All they found was a basket of onions and a few pounds of black flour adulterated with chopped straw.

Toward noon a violent snowstorm set in and the streets emptied. Vit¬torin suddenly found himself alone on the deserted boulevard. Now that all those beaming, excited faces had disappeared and the cries of joy had died away, it occurred to him that he had no share in the happiness of the liberated town. Although he had escaped a futile death and was no longer in custody, he was back where he had been four days ago: outside Soviet Russia and far from his goal. All his trials and tribulations had been in vain. He had a momentary vision of the young officer who had lost his life on Selyukov's account. Cheeks pale and eyes closed, he lay in the snow while a Red Army soldier bent over him and rifled his pockets. Vit¬torin gave an involuntary groan. Gagarin had died so young, but his death hadn't taken him, Vit¬torin, a step further. He doubted if he would ever get to Moscow unaided. Meanwhile, Selyukov was striding arrogantly through the streets of that white stone city, strolling quirt in hand along Petrovka and Tverskaia, or sitting in his office and pouring scorn on humble petitioners. "Ah, so it's you. What a fortunate coincidence - I couldn't be more delighted to see you, believe me. Your father? He was shot last night. And now get out, you can see I'm busy.
Pashol!"

Or perhaps he was riding into villages at the head of a requisitioning detachment, herding peasants together and mowing them down . . .

It was while these thoughts were running through Vit¬torin's mind that he suddenly recalled Selyukov's face, the loathsome countenance he'd forgotten: eyes like those of a bird of prey, thin lips set in a cruel, mocking smile, features inhuman. A Satanic mask, that was how Selyukov's face appeared to him now.

The snow swirled about him unceasingly as he came to a halt and debated what to do. First he must find somewhere to sleep for an hour or two. He was hungry, too, not having eaten all day. Such money as he still had left was sewn into his cap. He walked on, intending to remove it from the lining in the shelter of the next doorway, but his path was barred by a young man in working clothes.

"Excuse me, comrade, would you be good enough to come with me? Someone wants a word with you."

"Who is this someone?" Vit¬torin demanded.

"Don't worry, he's a friend. I'll take you to him."

Vit¬torin was shown into a room on the first floor of an elegant town house. It had probably served as the office of a Bolshevik commissar, because pictures of Lenin, Trotsky and Liebknecht shared the walls with a motley assortment of Communist proclamations and posters: "Long Live the Fraternal World of the Working Class!" - "Universal Education for the Proletariat!" - "We Forge Your Guns, You Grow Our Bread!" The room reeked of stale tobacco smoke. Seated at a circular table strewn with newspapers and pamphlets were three men so intent on their conversation that they seemed oblivious of what was going on elsewhere in the room. A girl in a dark school uniform was furiously battering away at a typewriter. Cartridge cases and empty cans littered the floor.

"Comrade Artemyev," said Vit¬torin's companion, "here's the man you wanted to see."

It was only then that Vit¬torin recognized his former cellmate. The veteran revolutionary was standing at a window some distance from the rest. He had shaved off his beard and now looked thoroughly West European despite the tattered peasant smock he still wore. He took no notice of Vit¬torin. His entire attention was focused on the cringing, terrified figure of the schoolmaster, who stood before him with his arms outstretched in a bizarre attitude of supplication.

"Comrade Poshar," Artemyev called to one of the three men sitting at the table, "take this down. The following items were found in the prisoner's bundle: twelve thousand Romanov roubles, eighty thousand Duma roubles, a canvas pouch containing picric acid, and a small-bore Colt revolver. I identify them all as my property. There can be no doubt, therefore, that he robbed me while in prison."

"It's a mistake, I swear it," the schoolmaster cried piteously. "I'm innocent. I've no idea how those things found their way into my possession. It's a complete mystery to me."

"Be quiet, Semyon Andreevich, you can't expect me to believe that!" Artemyev's expression was half indignant, half sorrowful. "Whatever the reason - greed, spite, or ingrained habit — you robbed me. Now turn out your pockets. Ah! So you took my Soviet roubles too, did you? They aren't worth much, but you didn't sneeze at them either. All right, tell me: what am I to do with you?"

The schoolmaster wiped some beads of sweat from his brow.

"I don't understand," he moaned, "I must have done it in my sleep. For Christ's sake have mercy and let me go. I've been an honest man all my life. It's only now, in these accursed days ..."

Artemyev raised one hand and let it fall again.

"As far as I'm concerned you can go to hell," he said scathingly. "Wait, not so fast - don't forget your bundle. And no more experiments of this kind, or you really will end up against a wall."

Vit¬torin's companion suddenly threw his cap on the ground and roared with laughter. The three men at the table joined in while the youthful typist spluttered into her handkerchief. The schoolmaster paused in the doorway. He glared at the girl, spat, and disappeared in a flash.