The Camelot stared with mild contempt. He knew you weren’t allowed to take valuables, not even from Jews – that was theft. He knew something else, too: these Russians were savages. And Camelot d’Escarville’s lips twisted into a malicious, disdainful grin.
At that moment, a group of soldiers appeared at the foot of the bridge on the French side, escorting a man dressed in gray. Camelot d’Escarville slung his rifle over his shoulder and slowly walked toward them, with even steps. Vasya looked on with interest. D’Escarville and the group of Camelots approached the middle span.
Vasya could now clearly make out a thin young man in an ash-colored jacket and a conspicuously Semitic nose. Camelot d’Escarville explained: “He fled from your territory during the night and made it to our side. A patrol caught him in town and we’re turning him over.”
Vasya’s eyes practically bulged with delight: A Jew! Escaped by ducking the guards!
“Hand him over, I’ll take him to the captain.”
The Camelots saluted and headed off. Vasya left his post to his fellow soldier. The fugitive was his.
The tall, thin Jew, maybe a year older than Vasya, said nothing. He just hunched down a bit and tucked his head under his arm like a frightened bird. His nervous gaze chased after Vasya like a dachshund.
Vasya took the rifle off his shoulder and released the catch:
“March! Don’t try to escape, unless you want a bullet in your skull!”
The Jew didn’t try to escape. He walked forward obediently. He only buried his head down deeper, and his two long arms dangled helplessly by his sides like clipped wings.
Meanwhile, Vasya dreamt: he himself, in person, would bring the prisoner to Captain Solomin. The captain would take one look, crack his riding whip on the tops of his boots and say: Go-o-o-od. Vasya puffed out his chest with pride and satisfaction. He would walk through fire for Captain Solomin. All the young people idolized him. A brave officer. Fought the Bolsheviks back in Wrangel’s army. Those who knew him say he was brave as the devil. And what a shot! He could kill a swallow in midair. Vasya saw it yesterday with his own two eyes. He was sitting on a table on the veranda at the café on Rue de la Pompe and he gave the Jews five-hundred paces to get away, and then he popped them off like ducks with his seven-shooter. He didn’t miss once! Good times were in store! Now to the right, just around the corner.
Vasya saw them from afar. Solomin was sitting in the company of four other officers on the veranda of the bistro across from headquarters. They’d been drinking since the previous evening.
Vasya crossed the square with a bounce in his step and came to a halt in front of the veranda.
“Vashe Blagorodye, I’m here to report that I’ve brought a fugitive. Last night he ducked the guards and snuck off to the other side of the Seine. He was caught in town and handed over to our border post.”
“Go-o-o-od!” said Captain Solomin, raising his eyes, and under his gaze Vasya went taut like the string of a violin.
“Bring him closer!”
The officers knew this would be good. The captain was a real card, he knew how to have fun. Curiosity pulled them closer.
The thin, freckled Jew trembled like a leaf.
“Closer,” repeated Captain Solomin indifferently. “Respond briefly and to the point. What creed?”
The Jew was silent. Why speak? All was lost anyway.
“A disciple of Moses?”
The officers, sensing there was about to be some action, snorted with laughter.
“Have we a mute here? Maybe I should be more direct. I’m asking: Jew?”
“No…,” the boy stammered, his lips pale.
A volley of laughter from the amused officers.
“Hold on, gentlemen, do you see something funny here?” said Solomin in a drawl. “The nose is no solid evidence. Sometimes birth defects do occur. If he says he’s not, then he’s not.”
The officers were splitting their sides, gazing at the captain with eyes full of adoration.
“Cross yourself,” slurred the captain.
The boy tried to make the sign of the cross, his fingers convulsively twisted. His trembling hand missed his arm, went astray, and ended up making a kind of odd squiggle in the air.
A loud roar of laughter from the delighted officers.
“Not quite,” said Captain Solomin with unruffled calmness. “But it happens. Out of practice… Once more, slowly and precisely.”
The boy traced a more or less accurate zigzag with his hand.
“Yes, now see, that was much better. Didn’t I tell you? The nose proves nothing. You can tell at once that he’s Russian Orthodox. But just to dispel any final doubts, down with his pants, men!”
With a bashful, almost delicate gesture the boy clasped his hands over his privates. Vasya and two other soldiers threw themselves on him and forcibly undid his pants. The boy struggled helplessly. The pants slid to the ground in two shapeless pretzels, raising another hoot of laughter.
“What’s this?” Solomin shouted in mock indignation. “Here I am, shielding you with my very own chest, so to speak, taking your word for it, and you, brother, are lying to me? Befouling the holy cross with an unbaptized hand? Denying your own faith? This I did not expect.”
The boy pulled up and fastened his useless, unruly pants. It took him a long time to find the right button.
“Search his pockets, boys!” ordered Captain Solomin.
Three pairs of greedy hands groped his chest, turning his pockets inside-out, tearing out the seams of his elegant clothing, and triumphantly removing a booklet – a Soviet passport – handed it over to the captain.
“Soooooo…” drawled the captain. “You should have said so right away. Come and ask: a pass to Belleville, please. Why not? Who ever heard of slipping off like that during the night, and with a passport stitched into your jacket to boot. It’s just foul! Oh, that it were the last time!”
Captain Solomin returned the passport.
“Put it back in his pocket! And now – Scram!”
The boy didn’t understand, and his bulging eyes stared at the captain.
“Scram! I don’t want to see you around here anymore!”
The Jew took a hesitant step forward, as if wanting to fall to Solomin’s feet, stopped himself, stared at the officers’ grinning faces, turned around and started to run along a wall, slowly at first, but then faster and faster. He was almost to the corner.
“Wait!” Captain Solomin called after him.
The boy stopped and turned around, terrified and undecided.
“Wait, I forgot to stamp your passport,” said Solomin, sending a bullet from his revolver after him.
The Jew fell flat, his arms awkwardly splayed.
Vasya figured out the game; he was a quick learner. Slinging his rifle over his shoulder, he ran to the corner where the boy lay and bent down to him. He pulled an object from the boy’s bosom and, waving it in the air, ran back to the officers.
“Right through the middle!” he shouted from afar, shaking the small red booklet.
The shredded Soviet passport had a bullet hole exactly in the middle, and around the hole, blood had formed a red halo to make a stamp.
The officers passed the small red booklet from hand to hand, murmuring their appreciation.
“Well, time to get some sleep,” said Captain Solomin, pushing back his chair and tapping his riding crop on the tops of his boots. “I advise you gentlemen to do likewise. In two hours we’ve got to be at the Bourbon Palace. A man needs his rest sometimes. So long – until evening.”
A thick chill and the murk of lowered blinds hung in the luxurious, single-story palace. An orderly opened the front door, Solomin came in and stretched out on a soft chesterfield, ordering his boots to be removed. The servant tiptoeing around brought a cushion and vanished from the room, closing the door without so much as a click.