One evening we learned the truth about Fedotkin. Commander Baudyš told us the story of the end of Fedotkin.
We were making a set of rabbit hutches and Commander Baudyš said, ‘That’s right, keep learning, lads. You know what they say: golden Czech hands. How could I have made it all the way here from that bloody camp at Vorkuta without ’em? That time we were freezing and helpless in the huts of the penal colony at the mercy of the cruel Soviet Russians. Yes lads, and if you think a Russian like that would sweep the flue of a smoking stove, bollocks! He’d just kick it. And when it was minus forty, who do you suppose sealed around the flues in the huts of Vorkuta to keep out the cold, eh? Aye, that was some cold, let me tell you, that time we set out from Buzuluk, meaning our entire Czechoslovak Army Corps… If you didn’t wrap your foot-rags properly, you died in the ice and frost. And if a transporter got stuck, who was on hand? Or if a belt snapped and a half-track gave up the ghost, who did they call for, eh? “Baudyš, fall in!” So you see, you lot, learn how to handle a hammer, learn how to work. It’ll come in handy one day, believe me!’
We did believe Commander Baudyš, and he was highly pleased and satisfied with us in our workshop lessons.
On many an evening he told us stories until we were quite worn out and until work ended, and in the dormitory his voice was replaced by the voice of Commander Vyžlata, telling the story of Fedotkin and the Czech boy.
That was how our commanders saw to our education.
Commander Baudyš told us how they, some Czech boys, had been called up by the homeland and how they had gone with the Czechoslovak Army Corps all the way from Buzuluk to Prague. In concert with the security services of the Soviets, our homeland had tracked them down even in the death huts of Soviet penal colonies. And Commander Baudyš talked himself hoarse about how the Czechoslovak Army Corps marched in concert with the Red Army from the icy wastes of freezing Buzuluk to the smiling face of Prague in May, and how they had cut down whole hordes of Germans on the way and saved hosts of women and children and defended the Fatherland… ‘And now, Commander Vyžlata and I have been called up as educators,’ he said, squinting into the fire.
‘But then you know, boys, back at the Centre they had thrown in the towel as far as you were concerned. No-one wanted to come here. So for your benefit they enlisted us. The Party enlisted us — the obvious thing to do. And we’ll make men of you yet. And when all’s said and done, lads, I don’t think you’ve done badly, getting us. Who better to nurture you, human spawn, than us old warhorses, eh? When the end of the world comes nigh once more, you’ll be properly prepared. You know, Commander Vyžlata actually raised me, too,’ said Commander Baudyš. ‘We met each other in the hut for street kids at the Vorkuta camp up there in the Arctic. And Commander Vyžlata was saved, as a Czech boy in a burning village, by Stalin’s Flying Brigade, as no doubt you know. The Flying Brigade! Now that, my lads, was a unit of Guards. They gave him an education, believe me. Then, as a foreigner, they shoved him in the camp, the way they used to in the Soviet Union. How I got there, I’ve no idea! I was little! Then we got hardened in combat, that we did. And now the ones who survived all that have been chosen to teach others. I reckon that’s quite right and proper, I do. What do you think? Obviously, not all of us old warhorses who made it back to Prague could make a go of it as teachers. I mean, this war business. Some might’ve survived it — but without legs. Had ’em whipped off by a grenade — in seconds flat, right out of the blue. A bloke like that with no legs could hardly lead you lot through life, now could he?’ said Commander Baudyš, and because he was checking the work we’d duly handed in and was satisfied with it, he was smiling.
And if one of us boys hit himself with a hammer and threw a tantrum or if someone got the shakes because one of his fingers had got frozen or he’d spiked himself on some wires in the mains supply, Commander Baudyš would cool him down — quick as a flash! — and say: ‘Compared to the Soviet gulag, you’re living in clover here in Siřem, believe me…’ and Commander Baudyš used to smile fit to make his whiskers crackle.
And that evening we finally learned what had really happened to Fedotkin. That evening the Commander talked himself hoarse, and when his voice dropped to a low wheezing, someone piped up in a thin little voice: ‘And Fedotkin? Did you know Fedotkin?’
‘Oh yes, boys, I knew him.’ Commander Baudyš fell silent, then he screwed up his eyes even more, because he was thinking so hard.
‘And what was Fedotkin doing in Vorkuta?’ the same little voice squeaked. I knew whose it was. It was Dýha. He was acting up and squeaking so that no-one would recognize him.
‘Fedotkin was waiting for his court martial,’ said Commander Baudyš, and we all — me and the other boys — pricked up our ears.
‘But how could a war hero like Fedotkin get locked up?’ someone asked.
‘I never tried to find out,’ said Commander Baudyš. ‘You know, I was just a street kid, like you lot… and in those terrible camps at Vorkuta. But there you have it — see where I am now!’
‘Commander,’ Dýha began in his normal voice, ‘did you know Fedotkin well?’
‘Oh, yes.’
And we were all quiet. Anyone with a hammer stopped hammering, and the boys who were stoking the stove froze where they knelt. That’s how keen we were to know, all of us who weren’t outside raking ashes, because it happened not to be raining, and finally someone blurted out: ‘So what did happen?’
‘To Fedotkin you mean, boys? They shot him.’
And Dýha said in his normal voice, ‘But why?’
‘What’s “why” got to do with it?’ asked Commander Baudyš. ‘That’s irrelevant. And anyway, getting shot — that ain’t too bad.’
We were all still. We had just learned how Fedotkin met his end.
9: And Fedotkin’s boy? Liquidation. Šklíba
The truth is, sometimes we’d be waiting for Commander Vyžlata to tell us his Fedotkin story in the dormitory in the dark and he didn’t turn up. That did actually happen!
But that day we didn’t care that he hadn’t come yet. We knew the truth about how Fedotkin had died. We’d heard it in the kitchen-workshop, and even those who’d been outside digging pits got to hear from the others about Fedotkin being shot.
And the boy? What about Fedotkin’s boy? What became of him? Commander Vyžlata was not there to ask.
The truth is that when Commander Vyžlata came in, making the wooden dormitory floor echo with his footfalls, and when he told the story of Fedotkin and the son of the regiment, we did listen — we had to — but we slipped into sleep with our own thoughts in our heads and with endless images from all our training and working. The thing was that many of us now thought much the same about Fedotkin’s story as Dýha, who had said, ‘Sod it. He snuffed it anyway.’
We were all boys from defence, attack and sabotage squads, and Fedotkin’s death by firing squad affected us.
I don’t think we were quite so keen to hear the Commander’s fairy story any more!
We had admired the undaunted Fedotkin and wanted to be just as courageous and ready to fight as his boy.
And Fedotkin’s execution ordered by a court martial affected us, I can tell you!
We didn’t want to hear about it!
After the news of Fedotkin’s death many of us started talking again about escaping to join the Foreign Legion. I was one of the first.
Soon it was hardly winter at all. Then Šklíba disappeared.
Commander Vyžlata didn’t like him. Neither Šklíba nor Martin took part in training exercises, and they didn’t go to work either, being the Commander’s aides.