The sailor was busy climbing and gave no response. A moment later he was straddling the top of the pole. Two cut rows of wires flew to the ground like broken guitar strings. The sailor spent another long moment fiddling up top.
“Done?” asked Laval from on deck.
“Done!” shouted the sailor.
“So back you go!”
The sailor seemed to be measuring the distance to the ground for a moment, and then the distance to the ship and the black Mauser Comrade Laval had pointed at him, and then he obediently began sliding back down the line to the deck. When his feet touched the deck he spat through his teeth and growled:
“Put away your Mauser, Comrade Commander. You’d be better off shooting the line – I hear you’re a pretty good shot.”
Comrade Laval silently took aim and shot. The line fell into the water. It was pulled up on deck. The sailor mumbled some compliments and began unwinding the wires attached to the pole at the other end.
“Shunt off to the middle of the river!” commanded Laval.
The boat slowly floated to the middle, pulling after it two thin threads of wires.
“Halt! Comrade Monsignac, here’s the telephone, attach it to the ends of the wires.”
The sailor fiddled with the telephone, clearly having a rough time of it, as every other minute he cursed vehemently and spat through his teeth. After twenty minutes had passed, the phone apparatus was ready.
Comrade Laval picked up the receiver.
“Light all the lights! And silence!”
The crank of the field device gave a dry crunch.
An eternity flowed from the receiver before a patient, melancholy “Hell-l-l-o…,” came from somewhere far away.
“Hello! Tansorel!” Laval yelled into the mouthpiece.
“Tansorel…,” came back like an echo.
“Get the mayor on the line!”
“Who’s there…?” came the distant voice.
“It’s the prefecture,” Comrade Laval calmly continued. “Please wake the mayor and the parish priest immediately and call them both to the telephone. It’s urgent.”
“Please hold…,” came the echo.
Comrade Laval propped his elbows on his lap, held the receiver to his ear, and smoked a cigarette as he waited. Ten minutes passed.
Suddenly someone’s hurried footsteps clattered in the receiver. From far away a voice raveled in a web of wires descended, fluttered, and rang out.
“This is the mayor of Tansorel.”
“Is the parish priest awake?”
“He’s on his way.”
“Please hand him another receiver. This matter concerns him as well. I don’t want to have to repeat myself,” said Laval in a commanding tone.
“We’re listening. Who’s speaking? Is that you, Mr. Prefect?”
“Listen carefully. This is the expedition of the Paris Republic of Soviets speaking. At midnight we broke through the cordon and came here for food. The Parisian proletariat is dying of starvation. Our boat is on the river, across from the dock. I am speaking from its deck. Don’t try to call the garrison for help. All the telephone lines have been cut. The only remaining line connects you to our boat. Now listen carefully. We have come in peace. We are anchored in the middle of the river and if you act promptly we won’t touch shore at all. We have come to collect food for the starving poor of Paris. If over the next hour you do not supply and load barges with six hundred sacks of flour, we will come ashore, plunder, and bombard your village. We are giving you one hour. It is your job, Citizen Mayor, to wake up the village, arrange transport, and guide the shipment to the dock. You, Citizen Priest, will use your authority to convince the reluctant and ensure that everything gets done on time. Both of you set your watches. It is now ten to two. If by ten to three the first load of sacks of flour has not yet appeared on the road to the docks, we will disembark. Discipline and punctuality will keep you and all of France from becoming infected with the plague. Understood, Mayor? Six hundred sacks of flour in one hour to the docks.”
The receiver was silent. After a long moment the first scratchy words came out:
“But our village doesn’t have that much flour…”
“You’ll find it. You won’t have to look far. You can take it from the Plon brothers’ mill. Then load it onto the sawmill barges. As you can see, we know your area as well as you do. Don’t forget to bring some tarps from the mill to cover the barges. Is this clear?”
“It’s clear…” groaned the echo.
“Perfect, I knew I was dealing with intelligent people. So let’s not waste any more time. I’ll give you an extra five minutes to check the truth of what I’ve said. You can spend that time making sure your telephone wires really are cut and your village is in our boat’s line of fire. Just to be clear, I warn you that the first messenger who appears on the road, either on horseback or bicycle, will get a bullet to the head. And now – get to work. I repeat: if in an hour’s time the sacks of flour have appeared on the shore and the barges are loaded in another half an hour, we won’t come ashore and no one will get hurt. We have not come to pillage. We’ve come to feed the starving. The clock is ticking. Goodbye and see you in one hour!”
Comrade Laval hung up and anxiously paced the deck. He couldn’t tell from the nervous voice on the other end of the line if they would follow his orders or stay put. He was riddled with doubt. What if it were all in vain? If no one turned up on the shore within an hour? What then? Then he would have to turn heel and sail off empty-handed. He knew all too well that he wasn’t about to go ashore, no matter what. Then the whole expedition would be shot to hell.
Comrade Laval spat in helpless rage, his hand squeezing his sluggish watch…
Meanwhile, at the other end of the wire, the village was being turned upside-down – doors slammed open and shut, people cried and scampered, drowsy, bewildered figures with lanterns crowded the road to the mill.
Leading them was the pale, wild-haired mayor, his collar missing, his jacket askew, and sockless in his shoes, giving out feverish orders. The first horse-drawn cart loaded with flour was already heading toward the docks.
Suddenly the parish priest appeared, his robes in disarray, breathless in the illuminated circle of the road, pushing the crowd out of his way.
“Hold everything! Hold everything!” the priest cried from afar, waving his arms. “I have an idea!”
The mayor ran to meet him.
The hands of the watch were dragging forward to three when the hump of white sacks on the first cart became visible at the bend in the road.
Comrade Laval wiped the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief and, lighter at heart, slipped the watch into his pocket.
After the first cart, a second appeared on the road, then a third – a long bridal train, a white litany of carts squeaking a melody. In the glare of the lights, the flour-dusted and frightened peasants were hunched under their loads like so many worker ants, carrying the white, bursting bales to the floating anthills of the barges, the snowy hills rising higher with every passing moment.
Comrade Laval anxiously glanced at his watch. An hour had already passed, and they had only just finished loading the second barge. Somewhere in the distance the black seam of the horizon that binds heaven and earth unraveled before their eyes, like a shabby, threadbare fabric, and the gray lining of daybreak shone through the growing rift. Comrade Laval kept uneasily turning toward it.
When the third barge was finally ready, his watch showed four-thirty. The smear of daybreak to the east had already drawn a wide crack. The snowy hills of the boats, as if warmed by the sun’s first rays, went green with the improvised lawn of the tarps. There was not another moment to lose.