Once he was sitting on his haunches in the hole, thinking about the free life and feeling dull. Suddenly a flatbread fell right into his lap, then another, and cherries came pouring down. He looked up. Dina was there. She looked at him, laughed, and ran away. Zhilin thought: “Maybe Dina will help me?”
He cleared a little space in the hole, picked out some clay, and started fashioning dolls. He made people, horses, dogs; he thought, “When Dina comes, I’ll toss them to her.”
Only the next day there was no Dina. But Zhilin heard horses stamping, people riding by, and the Tartars gathered at the mosque, argued, shouted, and mentioned the Russians. And he heard the old man’s voice. He could not make it out properly, but he guessed that the Russians had come close, and the Tartars were afraid they would enter the aoul and did not know what to do with the prisoners.
They talked it over and left. Suddenly he heard something rustling above. He saw Dina squatting there, her knees higher than her head, her necklace hanging down, dangling over the hole. Her eyes glittered like stars; she took two cheese flatbreads from her sleeve and threw them to him. Zhilin took them and said:
“Where have you been so long? I’ve made a whole lot of toys for you. Here, take them!” He began tossing them to her one by one. But she shook her head and did not look at them.
“Don’t,” she said. She sat silently for a while, and then said: “Ivan! They want to kill you.” And she put her hands to her throat.
“Who wants to kill me?”
“My father. The old men are telling him to. And I feel sorry for you.”
Zhilin said:
“If you feel sorry for me, bring me a long stick.”
She shook her head—meaning “impossible.” He put his hands together, begging her:
“Dina, please! Dinushka, bring it!”
“Impossible,” she said, “they’ll see me, everybody’s at home,” and she left.
Zhilin sat there in the evening, thinking: “What’s going to happen?” He kept looking up. He could see the stars, but the moon had not risen yet. A mullah called, everything became quiet. Zhilin had already begun to doze off, thinking, “The girl’s afraid.”
Suddenly clay poured down on his head; he looked up—there was a long pole poking at the edge of the hole. It poked and then began to descend, moving slowly down into the hole. Zhilin was overjoyed, seized it with his hand, pulled it down. It was a sturdy pole. He had seen it before on the master’s roof.
He looked up: stars glittered high in the sky; and just over the hole Dina’s eyes gleamed like a cat’s. She bent down, her face at the edge of the hole, whispering:
“Ivan! Ivan!” and she waved her hands before her face, meaning “quiet.”
“What?” said Zhilin.
“Everybody’s gone, there are only two at home.”
Zhilin said:
“Well, come on, Kostylin, let’s give it a last try. I’ll help you up.”
Kostylin would not even hear of it.
“No,” he said, “it looks like I’m not going to get out of here. Where will I go, if I don’t even have strength enough to turn around?”
“Well, good-bye, then, and don’t think ill of me.” He and Kostylin kissed each other.
He grasped the pole, told Dina to hold it, and climbed up. Twice he fell off—the shackles hindered him. Kostylin supported him, and he somehow managed to climb to the top. Dina took his shirt in her little hands, tugged him with all her might, and laughed.
Zhilin pulled the pole out and said:
“Put it back in place, Dina. If they find it missing, they’ll beat you.”
She dragged the pole off, and Zhilin went down the hill. He came to the bottom, picked up a sharp stone, and began prying the lock from the shackles. But the lock was strong, he could not knock it off, and it was awkward work. He heard someone running down the hill, leaping lightly. He thought, “It must be Dina again.” Dina came running, took the stone, and said:
“Let me.”
She knelt down and began prying at the lock. Her arms were thin as twigs, she was not strong enough. She threw down the stone and started to cry. Zhilin set to work on the lock again, and Dina squatted next to him, holding him by the shoulder. Zhilin looked around, he saw a red glow lighting up to the left, beyond the hill, the moon was rising. “Well,” he thought, “I’ll have to go through the hollow and reach the forest before the moon rises.” He got up and threw the stone away. Even with the shackles, he had to go.
“Good-bye, Dinushka,” he said. “I’ll remember you all my life.”
Dina held him, feeling with her hands for where to put the flatbread. He took the flatbread.
“Thank you,” he said, “clever girl. Who’ll make dolls for you when I’m gone?” And he stroked her head.
Dina burst into tears, covered her face with her hands, and ran up the hill, leaping like a goat. All you could hear were the trinkets in her braid clinking against her back.
Zhilin crossed himself, put his hand on the lock of the shackles so that it would not clank, and walked down the road, dragging his foot. He kept glancing at the glow of the rising moon. He recognized the road. Going straight, it would be about five miles. He only had to reach the forest before the moon rose high. He crossed the river; the light beyond the hill grew paler. He walked down the hollow, glancing all the time: the moon was not yet visible. Now the glow brightened and on one side of the hollow it became lighter and lighter. The shade moved towards the hill, coming closer and closer to him.
Zhilin went on, always keeping to the shade. He was hurrying, but the moon was coming out still more quickly; the tops of the trees to the right were already lit up. He was very near the forest. The moon came from behind the hills—all was white, as bright as daytime. Every little leaf on the trees was visible. It was still and bright over all the hills, as though everything had died out. The only noise was the stream burbling below.
He reached the forest without meeting anyone. Zhilin chose a darker spot in the forest and sat down to rest.
He rested and ate a flatbread. He found a stone and tried to knock the shackles off again. He hurt his hands, but did not succeed. He got up and went along the road. He walked a mile and was totally exhausted—his legs hurt. He took some ten steps and stopped. “No help for it,” he thought, “I’ll drag on as long as I have strength. If I sit down, I’ll never get up. I can’t reach the fortress. When it gets light, I’ll lie down in the forest, spend the day, and go on again at night.”
He walked all night. He only happened upon two Tartar horsemen, but Zhilin heard them from far off and hid behind a tree.
The moon had already begun to grow pale, dew fell, dawn was near, and Zhilin had not yet reached the end of the forest. “Well,” he thought, “I’ll go thirty steps more, turn off into the forest, and sit down.” He went thirty steps and saw that the forest was ending. He came out to the edge—it was quite light; the steppe spread before his eyes, and he could see the fortress, and to the left, quite close, at the foot of a hill, there were fires burning, dying out, smoke was spreading, there were people by the fires.
He looked more closely, he saw guns gleaming, there were Cossacks, soldiers.
Zhilin was overjoyed. He gathered his last strength and started down the hill. He thought, “God forbid a Tartar horseman should see me here in the open field; it’s close, but I won’t get away.”
He had only just thought it—he looked: to the left stood three Tartars, some hundred yards away. They saw him and started towards him. His heart sank. He waved his arms, cried out with all his might:
“Brothers! Help! Brothers!”
Our men heard him. The Cossacks leaped on their horses. They started towards him, to cut off the Tartars.
The Cossacks were far away, and the Tartars were close. Zhilin gathered his last strength, held up the shackles with his hand, and ran towards the Cossacks, beside himself, crossing himself, shouting: