‘To hell with the lot of ’em, I say!’
‘Who’s “them”?’
‘Them, every last one – Petlyura, and that bastard Hetman and all the rest. All of ’em! Just leave the people in peace.’
‘Hey, Pan Sotnik, what’s the matter with you? Don’t be shy, say something! Tell us, just where is the front?’
‘Just beyond Priorka,’ he replied hesitantly. ‘Near the Voditsa Woods.’
‘Whoa, whoa, whoa, now you tell us! That’s a good ten versts from here.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Pan Sotnik, ‘we’re going to get a ride.’
The soldiers tittered. ‘On what?’
‘You’ll see.’
‘The tsar’s landau. It’s the least they could do for heroes like us.’
I still don’t know what dull apathy kept us marching on, even though all of us, Pan Sotnik included, understood that there was no good reason for going to the front and that we could just as easily and without any fear of consequences turn round and head home. But we kept on nevertheless, down to Podol and into Kontraktovaya Square. There, a normal, everyday morning had begun – little boys in their grey overcoats were on the way to school, the bells of the Bratsky Bogoyavlensky Monastery summoned the worshippers, peasant women in boots drove mangy cows to market, barbers opened their filthy shops, and house porters swept the dirty, slushy snow off the pavement. Two old open-decked trams stood on the square.
‘All aboard!’ shouted Pan Sotnik, having suddenly come to life.
In complete shock, the regiment stopped dead in its tracks.
‘You heard me – all aboard!’ he was angry now. ‘I told you transport had been arranged. These are military trams.’
The Cossacks began talking happily among themselves.
‘Now, this is what I call a civilised war!’
‘One of Father Gervasy’s miracles! Heading off to the front on a tram.’
‘Get in, boys, you’re holding us up!’
We quickly climbed in, and the jingling trams trundled off down the cobbled streets of Podol and through dreary Priorka to the Voditsa Woods. Just beyond Priorka the trams came to a stop. We got out and followed Pan Sotnik, straggling through alleys lined with crooked hovels and snow-bound open spaces dotted here and there with mounds of stinking manure. Up ahead loomed a dark, ancient park. This was the famous park called ‘Cheer Up’, which I had known so well since my childhood.
On a snow-covered slope near the edge of the park, a network of trenches had been dug, complete with communications, bunkers and foxholes. The Cossacks were unexpectedly pleased with the foxholes, which provided excellent cover. Pan Sotnik took a bunker for himself, and the motor boys quickly occupied two foxholes. Within minutes they had set up trestle boards and were playing cards.
I stood watch at the observation post. Before me lay a large field and beyond that the pine forest of the Voditsa Woods, now green and thawing out in the warm wind. Petlyura’s men took lazy pot-shots at us from there. The bullets whizzed quietly and harmlessly over our heads, now and then smacking into the parapets. Pan Sotnik had forbidden us from showing our heads or returning fire. To the right, a leaden sky hung over the Dnieper, and a dirt track, reddish-brown from manure, led into a wood. To the left, from the direction of Svyatoshino, came the sound of artillery fire. However hard I stared into the woods, I never once saw one of Petlyura’s men. If only a bush had stirred, but I didn’t even see so much as that. It was boring, standing there. I lit a cigarette. I had recently managed to get hold of three packets of Odessan Salve cigarettes and was quite proud of myself. They were fat, strong and aromatic.
I smoked and, with nothing better to do, thought back over the past few years of my life. They had been full of adventure. I thought it was high time I got serious and dedicated myself to becoming a writer. I was twenty-six, but still hadn’t written anything worthwhile – nothing but some vague drafts, sketches and studies. I had to set a goal, make a plan, stop drifting.
I thought I saw something move off to my right, just beyond the dirt track. There was an old cemetery over there. On a grave mound a cross stood leaning to one side. All of a sudden, it seemed strangely familiar somehow–the sullen day and the cross, the thaw in the air and the jackdaws screeching behind me in the dark park, the track covered with manure and rotting straw. The sensation was so powerful I let out a moan. It was exactly three years ago, on a day just like this on a mound just like the one I saw before me, that we had buried Lëlya. Three years that seemed like three decades. Still the same Germans, the same ice and slush, although by now perhaps no trace of her grave was left. Not for a moment could I imagine her bones lying in the ground. I did not believe it possible. It seemed to me that she would lie forever just as she had been when we laid her body in that wooden coffin – pale and indescribably beautiful, peaceful and young, her eyes closed and her lashes casting sad shadows on her cheeks.
There was no one I could ever tell this to, not even Mama. I was condemned to carry this burning pain in my heart. I felt this pain every day and still do, even though I speak of it rarely. Maybe it’s pointless to bring it up. Can a writer ever be certain that stony critics or churlish readers won’t treat such painful confessions with derisive condescension? Can a writer ever be certain that a confession of one’s grief will not be used by others to inflict even more pain?
Still thinking about Lëlya, I lit another cigarette and then, desperate to discharge my sudden anxiety somehow, I pulled the trigger of my rifle. A shot rang out and was answered immediately by a ragged volley from the cemetery, where Petlyura’s men had apparently been hiding. My shot must have startled them. Pan Sotnik leapt from his bunker. We opened fire on the cemetery. Our bullets were knocking splinters off the crosses and then we saw some soldiers break cover and run for the woods. The motor boys fired at them as they took flight, whistling and hounding them with curses. In the end, we had repulsed their planned attack.
I was relieved from my post by a bushy-haired student in thick glasses, probably the son of a priest. I went down into a foxhole. A small smoky paraffin lamp gave a bit of light. I pulled some bread and a piece of stale smoked sausage out of my knapsack and started to eat. The duty orderly came over, a little man with bright eyes, white scars all over his face and a tattoo on his hand in the shape of a woman’s pursed pair of lips. When he opened his palm, the lips puckered as though ready for a kiss. The tattoo made him enormously popular with the motor boys. He poured me a mug of hot tea, handed me three sugar cubes and patted me on the back, saying: ‘Tea by Vysotsky, sugar by Brodsky and Russia – by Trotsky.fn5 Right, aren’t I?’
Not waiting for an answer, he left and walked over to the gamblers at the trestle board. Cursing and clowning, he sat down and joined in the game. The guns in the direction of Svyatoshino boomed louder and louder. After every explosion, the lamp poured out ever more smoke. Warm and tired, I fell asleep leaning against the wall of the foxhole. I awoke in the middle of the night to the muffled sounds of swearing and commotion. The gamblers were fighting. They were holding the orderly face down on the trestle board and calmly, methodically punching him in the head. He wasn’t resisting. No doubt he knew he had earned a beating. Three men were needed for a new duty shift in the trench. The motor boys let the orderly go, and three of us – the orderly, a tall man in a cavalry greatcoat and myself – made our way over to the trench.
It was warmer now, and the melting snow sounded like mice scurrying around us. The orderly kept up a stream of cursing until the man in the cavalry coat hissed at him angrily: ‘Shut your trap or I’ll carve you up into little pieces. Got it?’
The orderly spat, moved a bit closer to me, sat back on his haunches, drew a deep breath and said: ‘You won’t carve me up, chum, I’ve already done it myself. Made a proper picture of my mug. I’ve got scars on top of my scars. Haven’t you noticed?’