Now we too were in the open sea. The steamer was shuddering gently, its propeller knocking away, its tiller chain grumbling. Waves were slapping firmly against the starboard side.
Gradually everything was falling into place. Up on the bridge appeared Captain Ryabinin. Short and slim, he looked like a boy cadet. Then the first mate appeared, followed by a few midshipmen and ship’s boys. O was in the engine room, along with some mechanics and technical students. The other officers were in the boiler room.
The passengers felt touched by the collective work being carried out by these volunteers. They were especially moved by the self-sacrificing conduct of the officers in the boiler room.
“They’ve burned holes in their clothes. They’ll have nothing to wear when we get back on shore.”
A committee was established—to collect money and clothes for those in need.
“We could declare a ‘Power to the Poor’ week,” someone suggested.
But this was rejected out of hand—the phrase had unpleasant associations.
“Why don’t we simply requisition linen and clothing?” someone else suggested. “We can organize flying squads.”
This met with horror and indignation: “What do you mean? That’s downright insulting! Whatever they need, we’ll gladly donate it…”
“All right, then we’re all agreed. We’ll each donate two hundred roubles, two changes of linen, and one suit to the officers now working in the boiler room.”
“Magnificent! Wonderful!”
“But… Excuse me,” said an all-too-familiar voice.
It was Excuse-Me-I’m-Berkin.
“Excuse me,” the voice went on, “but we really mustn’t be too hasty about these donations—the clothes might get spoiled down there in the boiler room, heaven forbid. We shall distribute them on our arrival in Novorossiisk—this will be significantly more convenient for all parties. Isn’t that so?”
“Yes!”
“Yes!” said the other passengers. “You’re right.” And off they all went, a look of relief on their faces.
Subsequently the sum of money to be donated by the grateful passengers kept dwindling. By the time we got to Sebastopol, people were talking about donating only linen and suits.
And by the time we reached Novorossiisk, even this had been forgotten.
19
THE LADIES too were required to do their share of labor.
The fresh fish seized from the cargo boat (the stolen fish for which we had been held to account by the French steamer) had to be gutted and cleaned. And so the ladies were called up on deck.
Boards were laid across trestles to form makeshift tables. Knives and salt were distributed and work got underway.
I managed not to appear on deck until all the places at the tables had been taken. I would have liked to dispense a little advice to the housewives (those who don’t know how to work are always generous with their advice), but the sight and smell of the fish entrails forced me to be sensible and go back down again.
On the way I bumped into Mr. Excuse-Me-I’m-Berkin.
“How are you?” he asked cheerfully. Then he lowered his voice and, with an altogether different look on his face, hissed, “Treason! Have you heard?”
He glanced around, then added still more quietly, “The captain’s a traitor. He’s taking us to Sebastopol to hand us over to the Bolsheviks.”
“But that’s nonsense! Who told you that?”
“It was a radio message. A passenger happened to overhear. But hush! Don’t say a word! Not a word—but do warn your friends.”
He looked around once more, pressed a finger to his lips, and made off.
I went back up and found the midshipman in charge of the radio.
“Tell me—is the ship’s radio working?”
“No, not yet. I’m hoping we’ll get it working by tomorrow.”
“And are you certain there are no Bolsheviks in Sebastopol?”
“I’m afraid no one can be certain, since we’re unable to receive news. And we haven’t yet met any ships coming the other way. But we’ll do everything possible to find out in good time. Would you like to have a look at the radio?”
Oh Berkin, Berkin! Dear Excuse-Me-I’m-Berkin! Where, oh where did you get all these mad ideas from?
Meanwhile, dinner was being served downstairs: fish soup and rice with corned beef.
Passengers were forming two long lines, with bowls, plates, and spoons.
I had neither bowl nor spoon, and no idea where to get hold of such items. One kind soul generously gave me the lid from a tin teapot.
“You can use it for the rice.”
Good. Now I just needed a spoon. I went into the kitchen. There I found two Chinese men—the cook and his assistant. Neither understood a word I said.
“Do you have a spoon? A spoon? Understand? Spoon?”
“Dututanpun?” the cook replied.
“Yes, yes, a spoon. Give me a spoon!”
“Dututanpun,” his assistant repeated placidly—and the two men returned to their work, entirely ignoring me.
“I’ll bring it back. Understand? I’ll pay for it.”
I held out some money.
Suddenly, like a storm cloud out of nowhere, a young woman was bearing down on me. She looked like a pike.
“Bribery!” she shrieked. “Employing money to bribe the ship’s staff! Attempting to buy privileges beyond the reach of the poor!”
“What’s the matter?” I asked in amazement. “All I need is a spoon. If they don’t want a tip, they can just give me the spoon—I’m happy either way.”
At the word “tip,” the girl became apoplectic.
“Here on this ship we have no nobility, no tips, and no money. Everyone has to work and everyone receives the same rations. I saw you trying to employ money in order to obtain privileges. I’m ready to bear witness to all I have seen and heard. I shall go to the captain and tell him everything.”
She spun round and flew out of the kitchen.
Not only was I a depraved criminal but I was also, for all my depravity, still in need of a spoon.
Gloomily, I started back up again. I met one of our senior officers.
“Goodness me!” he said jovially. “Have you finished your dinner already?”
I gave a despairing shrug and said, “I have neither bowl nor spoon. I am, moreover, being reported to the captain.”
“What on earth for?” said the astonished officer. “Go to your cabin and I’ll have your dinner sent to you straightaway.”
And ten minutes later I was regally installed on our bathroom bench. I was sitting cross-legged, with a plate of rice and corned beef on my knees. Sticking up out of the rice were a fork and a spoon. How high fate had raised me!
Late in the evening, after I’d lain down on my refugee’s sealskin coat, someone flung open the cabin door. Silhouetted against the murky light of the corridor was the pike-maiden.
“Are you asleep?”
“Not yet.”
“You’ve got a guitar in your luggage, haven’t you?”
“Yes. Why?”
Sleepy as I was, I felt frightened. What if she went and reported me to the captain for carrying musical instruments “while the people are starving.”
“No,” I said to myself. “They can throw all my clothing overboard if they like—but I’m not going to let them have my guitar.”
“Please be so kind as to hand over your guitar,” the pike-maiden pronounced icily. “It’s required in the hospital bay, where we have a sickly element.”
This was the first time I’d heard of the sick being healed with guitars.
“No,” I replied no less icily. “I’m not giving you my guitar. Anyway, it’s down in the hold—they’re not going to go through every last item of luggage just because of you and your whims.”