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钢铁是怎样炼成的|How The Steel Was Tempered

第一部 第二章|Part One Chapter 2

属类： 双语小说 【分类】世界名著 -[作者: 尼古拉-阿列克谢耶维奇-奥斯特洛夫斯基] 阅读：[20211]
《 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 》
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一个惊天动地的消息像旋风一样刮进了这个小城：“沙皇被推翻了！”

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城里的人都不敢相信。

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一列火车在暴风雪中爬进了车站，两个穿军大衣、背步枪的大学生和一队戴红袖标的革命士兵从车上跳下来。他们逮捕了站上的宪兵、年老的上校和警备队长。城里的人这才相信传来的消息是真的了。于是几千个居民踏着积雪，穿过街道，涌到广场上去。

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人们如饥似渴地听着那些新名词：自由、平等、博爱。

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喧闹的、充满兴奋和喜悦的日子过去了。城里又恢复了平静，只有孟什维克和崩得分子［“崩得”，犹太社会民主主义总同盟的简称，是孟什维克的一个派别。——译者］把持的市参议会的楼房顶上那面红旗，才告诉人们发生了变动。其他一切都同过去一样。

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冬末，城里进驻了一个近卫骑兵团。每天早晨，团里都派出骑兵小分队，到车站去抓从西南前线开小差下来的逃兵。

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近卫骑兵个个红光满面，身材高大。军官大都是伯爵和公爵，戴着金色的肩章，马裤上镶着银色的绦子，一切都跟沙皇时代一模一样，好像没有发生过革命似的。

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一九一七年匆匆离去了。对保尔、克利姆卡和谢廖沙来说，什么都没有改变。主人还是原来的那些家伙。只是到了多雨的十一月，情况才有点不同寻常。车站上出现了许多生人，他们大多是从前线回来的士兵，而且都有一个奇怪的称号：“布尔什维克”。

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这个响亮的、有力的称号是从哪里来的，谁也不知道。

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骑兵们要捉住从前线回来的逃兵可不那么容易。车站上枪声不断，被打碎的玻璃窗越来越多。士兵们成群结队地从前线跑回来，遇到阻拦，便用刺刀开路。到了十二月初，他们已经是成列车地涌来了。

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车站上布满了近卫骑兵，准备截住列车，但是却遭到了车上机枪的迎头痛击。那些不怕死的人全都从车厢里冲了出来。

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从前线回来的穿灰军衣的士兵把骑兵压回城里去了，然后他们回到车站，火车便一列跟着一列开了过去。

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一九一八年的春天，三个好朋友在谢廖沙家玩了一阵子“六十六点”，就跑出来，到柯察金家小园子的草地上躺了下来。真是无聊，平时的那些游戏都玩腻了。他们开始动脑筋，怎么才能更好地消磨这一天的时间。这时，背后响起了得得的马蹄声，一个骑马的人沿着大路疾驰而来。那马一纵身，跳过了公路和小园子的低矮栅栏之间的排水沟。骑马的人朝躺在地上的保尔和克利姆卡挥了挥马鞭，说：“喂，小伙子们，过来！”

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保尔和克利姆卡跳了起来，跑到栅栏跟前。骑马的人满身尘土，歪戴在后脑勺上的军帽和保护色的军便服全都落上了厚厚的一层灰尘。结实的军用皮带上，挂着一支转轮手枪和两颗德国造的手榴弹。

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“小朋友，弄点水来喝喝！”骑马的人请求说。他见保尔跑回家去取水，就转过来问正瞧着他的谢廖沙：“小伙子，现在城里谁掌权？”

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谢廖沙急急忙忙地讲起城里的各种消息来：“我们这儿已经有两个星期没人管了，只有一个自卫队，老百姓轮班守夜。你们是什么人？”他也提出了问题。

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“我说你呀，操心操过头，转眼变成小老头。”骑马的人微笑着回答。

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保尔端着一杯水，从家里跑出来。

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骑马的人贪婪地一口气喝了个精光，把杯子还给保尔，接着一抖缰绳，立即朝松林驰去。

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“他是干什么的？”保尔困惑地问克利姆卡。

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“我怎么知道呢？”克利姆卡耸耸肩膀，回答说。

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“大概又要换政府了，要不列辛斯基一家昨天怎么都跑了呢？有钱人跑了，那就是说，游击队要来了。”谢廖沙十拿九稳地解决了这个政治问题。

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他的推论是那样令人信服，保尔和克利姆卡马上就都同意了。

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三个朋友还没有谈论完这个问题，公路上又传来了得得的马蹄声。他们都朝栅栏跑去。

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在他们目力所及的地方，从树林里，从林务官家的房后，转出来许多人和车辆，而在公路近旁，有十五六个人骑着马，枪横放在马鞍上，朝这边走来。最前面的两个，一个是中年人，穿着保护色军装，系着军官武装带，胸前挂着望远镜；另一个和他并排走的，正是三个朋友刚才见过的那个骑马的人。

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中年人的上衣上别着一个红蝴蝶结。

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“瞧，我说什么来着？”谢廖沙用胳膊肘从旁边捅了保尔一下。“看见了吧，红蝴蝶结。准是游击队，要不是游击队，就叫我瞎了眼……”说着，高兴得喊了一声，像小鸟似的越过栅栏，跳到外面去了。

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两个朋友紧跟着也跳了出去。现在他们三个一起站在路旁，看着开过来的队伍。

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那些骑马的人已经来到跟前。三个朋友刚才见过的那个人朝他们点了点头，用马鞭指着列辛斯基的房子，问：“这房子是谁家的？”

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保尔紧紧跟在骑马的人后面，边走边说：“这是律师列辛斯基家的房子。他昨天就跑了，看样子是怕你们……”

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“你怎么知道我们是什么人？”那个中年人微笑着问。

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保尔指着红蝴蝶结，说：“这是什么？一眼就看得出来……”

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居民们纷纷拥上街头，好奇地看着这支新开来的队伍。三个小朋友也站在路旁，望着这些浑身是土的、疲倦的红军战士。

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队伍里唯一的一门大炮从石头道上隆隆驶过，架着机枪的马车也开过去了，这时候，他们就跟在游击队的后面，直到队伍停在市中心，开始分散到各家去住，他们才各自回家。

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游击队的指挥部设在列辛斯基家的房子里，当天晚上，大客厅里那张四脚雕花的大桌子周围，四个人坐着在开会：一个是队长布尔加科夫同志，他是个已经有了白发的中年人，另外三个是指挥部的成员。

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布尔加科夫在桌上打开一张本省地图，一边在图上移动指甲，寻找路线，一边向对面那个长着一口结实牙齿的高颧骨的人说：“叶尔马琴科同志，你说要在这儿打一仗，我倒认为应该明天一早就撤走。今天连夜撤最好，不过大家太累了。我们的任务是抢在德国人的前头，先赶到卡扎京。拿我们现有的这点兵力去抵抗，简直是开玩笑……一门炮，三十发炮弹，二百个步兵和六十个骑兵——能顶什么用……德国人正像洪水一样涌来。我们只有和其他后撤的红军部队联合在一起，才能作战。同志，我们还必须注意，除了德国人之外，沿路还有许多各式各样的反革命匪帮。我的意见是，明天一早就撤，把车站后面的那座小桥炸掉。德国人修桥得花两三天的时间。

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这样，他们暂时就不能沿铁路线往前推进了。同志们，你们的意见怎么样？咱们决定一下吧。”他对在座的人说。

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坐在布尔加科夫斜对面的斯特鲁日科夫动了一下嘴唇，看了看地图，又看了看布尔加科夫，终于很费劲地从嗓子眼里挤出一句话来：“我……赞……成布尔加科夫的意见。”

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那个穿工人服的年轻人也表示同意：“布尔加科夫说得有道理。”

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只有叶尔马琴科，就是白天跟三个朋友谈过话的那个人，摇头反对。他说：“那我们还建立这支队伍干什么？是为了在德国人面前不战而退吗？照我的意见，我们应当在这儿跟他们干一仗。跑得叫人腻烦了……要是由着我的性子，非在这儿打一仗不可。”他猛然把椅子推开，站起身，在屋里踱起步来。

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布尔加科夫不以为然地看了他一眼。

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“仗要打得有道理，叶尔马琴科同志。明知道是吃败仗，是送死，还硬要战士往上冲，这种事咱们不能干。要这样干，就太可笑了。在咱们后面，有敌人一个整师，而且配备有重炮和装甲车……叶尔马琴科同志，咱们可不能耍小孩子脾气……”接着他对大家说：“就这么决定了，明天一早撤。”

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“下一个是建立联系的问题。”布尔加科夫继续说。“因为咱们是最后一批撤，当然就得担负起组织敌后工作的任务。这儿是铁路枢纽站，地方不大，可是有两个车站。应当安排一个可靠的同志在车站上工作。现在咱们就决定一下，把谁留下来。大家提名吧。”

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“我认为应当把水兵朱赫来留下来。”叶尔马琴科走到桌子跟前，说。“第一，朱赫来是本地人；第二，他又会钳工，又会电工，准能在车站上找到工作。另外，谁也没有看见他跟咱们的队伍在一起，他今天夜里才能赶到。这个人很有头脑，一定能把这儿的事情办好。依我看，他是最合适的人选。”

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布尔加科夫点了点头，说：“对，叶尔马琴科，我同意你的意见。同志们，你们有没有反对意见？”他问另外两个人。“没有。那么，就这样定了。咱们给朱赫来留下一笔钱和委任令。”

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“同志们，现在讨论第三个，也是最后一个问题，”布尔加科夫接着说。“就是处理本地存放的武器问题。这儿存着一大批步枪，一共有两万支，还是沙皇那个时候打仗留下来的。

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这些枪支堆放在一个农民的棚子里，人们早都忘记了。棚子的主人把这件事告诉了我。他不愿再担这个风险……把这批枪留给德国人，当然是不行的。我认为应该把枪烧掉。马上就得动手，赶在天亮以前把一切都办妥。不过烧起来也有危险：棚子就在城边上，周围住的都是穷苦人，说不定会把农民的房子也烧掉。”

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斯特鲁日科夫是个身板很结实的人，胡子又粗又硬，已经很久没有刮了。他欠了一下身子，说：“干……吗……要烧掉？我认……认为应当把这些枪发给居……民。”

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布尔加科夫立即转过脸去，问他：“你是说把这些枪都发出去？”

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“对，太对了！”叶尔马琴科热烈地拥护说。“把这些枪发给工人和别的老百姓，谁要就给谁。德国人要是逼得大家走投无路，这些枪至少可以给他们点颜色看看。德国人来了，日子肯定不好过。到了受不了的时候，人们就会拿起武器反抗。斯特鲁日科夫说得很好：把枪发下去。要是能运一些到乡下去，那就更好了。农民会把枪藏得更严实，一旦德国人征用老百姓的财物，逼得他们倾家荡产，嘿，你就瞧吧，这些可爱的枪支该能发挥多大作用啊！”

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布尔加科夫笑了起来：“是呀，不过德国人一定会下令，让把枪都交回去，到时候就都交出去了。”

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叶尔马琴科反驳说：“不，不会都交出去的，有人交，也有人不交。”

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布尔加科夫用询问的眼光挨个看了看在座的人。

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“把枪发下去，发吧。”那个年轻工人也赞成叶尔马琴科和斯特鲁日科夫的意见。

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“好吧，那就发下去。”布尔加科夫也同意了。“问题都讨论完了。”说着，他从桌旁站了起来。“现在咱们可以休息到明天早晨。等朱赫来到了，让他到我这儿来一下。我要跟他谈谈。叶尔马琴科，你查查岗去吧。”

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大家都走了，只剩下布尔加科夫一个人。他走进客厅旁边原房主的卧室，把军大衣铺在垫子上，躺了下来。

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早晨，保尔从发电厂回家去。他在厂里当锅炉工助手已经整整一年了。

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今天城里非常热闹，不同往常。这一点他一下子就发现了。一路上，拿着步枪的人越来越多，有的一支，有的两支，还有拿三支的。保尔不明白是怎么回事，急忙往家走。在列辛斯基的庄园近旁，他昨天见到的那些人正在上马，准备出发。

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保尔跑到家里，匆匆忙忙地洗了把脸，听母亲说阿尔焦姆还没有回来，随即跑了出去，直奔城的另一头，去找住在那里的谢廖沙。

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谢廖沙是一个副司机的儿子。他父亲自己有一所小房子，还有一份薄家当。谢廖沙不在家。他的母亲，一个胖胖的白净妇女，不满地看了保尔一眼。

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“鬼才知道他上哪儿去了！天刚蒙蒙亮，就让魔鬼给拽跑了，说是什么地方在发枪，他准在那儿。你们这帮鼻涕将军，都欠用柳条抽。太不像话了，真拿你们没办法。比瓦罐才高两寸，也要跑去领枪。你告诉我那个小无赖，别说枪，就是带回一粒子弹，我也要揪下他的脑袋。什么乱七八糟的东西都往家拿，往后还得受他连累。你干吗，也想上那儿去？”

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保尔早就不再听谢廖沙的母亲唠叨，他一阵风似的跑了出去。

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路上过来一个人，两肩各背着一支步枪。保尔飞快跑到他跟前，问：“大叔，请问，枪在哪儿领？”

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“在韦尔霍维纳大街，那儿正在发呢。”

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保尔撒开腿，拼命朝那个地点跑去。他跑过两条街，碰见一个小男孩拖着一支沉重的、带刺刀的步枪。保尔拦住他，问：“你从哪儿搞来的枪？”

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“游击队在学校对面发的，现在一支也没有了，全都拿光了。发了整整一夜，现在只剩下一堆空箱子了。我连这支一共拿了两支。”小男孩得意洋洋地说。

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这个消息使保尔大为懊丧。

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“咳，真见鬼，直接跑到那儿去就好了，不该先回家！”他失望地想。“我怎么错过了这个机会呢？”

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突然，他灵机一动，急忙转过身来，三步并作两步，赶上已经走过去的小男孩，一把从他手里夺过枪来。

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“你已经有了一支，够了，这支该是我的。”保尔用一种不容争辩的口气说。

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小男孩见他大白天拦路抢劫，气得要命，就朝他直扑过去。保尔向后退了一步，端起刺刀，喊道：“走开，小心刺刀碰着你！”

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小男孩心疼得哭了起来，但是又没有办法，只好一边骂，一边转身跑开了。保尔却心满意足地跑回家去。他跳过栅栏，跑进小棚子，把弄来的枪藏在棚顶下面的梁上，然后开心地吹着口哨，走进屋里。

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在乌克兰，像舍佩托夫卡这样的小城——中心是市区，四郊是农村——夏天的夜晚是美丽的。

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一到夏天，在宁静的夜晚，年轻人全都跑到外面来。姑娘们和小伙子们，或者成群成帮，或者成双成对，有的在自家门口，有的在花园和庭院里，有的就在大街上，坐在盖房用的木料堆上。到处是欢笑，到处是歌声。

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微微流动的空气里，充溢着浓郁的花香；星星像萤火虫一样，在天空的深处闪着微光；人声传得很远很远……

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保尔挺喜欢他的手风琴。他总是爱惜地把那架维也纳造的、音色优美的双键手风琴放在膝上。灵活的手指刚刚触到键盘，便飞快地由上面滑到下面。低音键长长地吐了一口气，接着便奏出大胆的跳跃式的旋律。

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手风琴扭动身子，起劲地演奏着。在这样的时候，你怎么能不闻声起舞，跳个痛快呢？你是忍不住的，两只脚会不由自主地动起来。手风琴热情地演奏着——生活在人世间是多么美好啊！

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今天晚上特别欢畅。一群年轻人聚在保尔家对面的木料堆上，又说又笑。声音最响亮的是保尔的邻居加莉娜。这个石匠的女儿喜欢跟男孩子们一起唱歌、跳舞。她是女中音，声音又嘹亮，又圆润。

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保尔一向有点怕她。她口齿很伶俐。现在她挨着保尔坐在木料堆上，紧紧搂住他，大声笑着说：“嘿，你这个手风琴手可真棒！可惜就是小了点，要不然倒是我称心如意的小女婿！我就爱拉手风琴的，他们把我的心都融化了。”

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保尔羞得满脸通红，幸亏是晚上，谁也看不见。他想推开这个淘气的女孩子，可是她却紧紧地搂住他不放。

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“亲爱的，你要往哪儿躲？真是个小冤家！”她开玩笑地说。

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保尔觉得她那富有弹性的胸脯贴在他的肩膀上，他感到局促不安，四周的笑声却惊醒了素常寂静的街道。

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保尔用手推着加莉娜的肩膀，说：“你妨碍我拉琴了，离远点吧。”

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于是又是一阵戏谑和哄笑。

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玛鲁霞插嘴说：“保尔，拉一个忧伤点的曲子吧，要能动人心弦的。”

85
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手风琴的风箱缓缓地拉开了，手指慢慢地移动着。这是一首大家都熟悉的家乡曲调。加莉娜带头唱起来。玛鲁霞和其他人随即跟上：

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所有的纤夫

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都回到了故乡，

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唱起歌儿

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抒发心头的忧伤，

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我们感到亲切，

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我们感到舒畅……

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青年们嘹亮的歌声传向远方，传向森林。

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“保尔！”这是阿尔焦姆的声音。

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保尔收起手风琴，扣好皮带。

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“叫我了，我得走了。”

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玛鲁霞央求他说：“再呆一会儿，再拉几个吧，耽误不了回家。”

97
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但是，保尔忙着要走，他说：“不行，明天再玩吧，现在该回家了，阿尔焦姆叫我呢。”

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他穿过马路，朝家跑去。

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他推开房门，看到阿尔焦姆的同事罗曼坐在桌子旁边，另外还有一个陌生人。

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“你叫我吗？”保尔问。

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阿尔焦姆向保尔点了点头，然后对那个陌生人说：“他就是我的弟弟。”

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陌生人向保尔伸出了一只粗大的手。

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“是这么回事，保尔。”阿尔焦姆对弟弟说。“你不是说你们发电厂的电工病了吗？明天你打听一下，他们要不要雇一个内行人替他。要的话，你回来告诉一声。”

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那个人插嘴说：“不用了，我跟他一块去。我自己跟老板谈吧。”

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“当然要雇人啦。”保尔说。“因为电工斯坦科维奇生病，今天机器都停了。老板跑来两趟，要找个替工，就是没找到。

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单靠一个锅炉工就发电，他又不敢。我们的电工得的是伤寒病。”

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“这么说，事情就算妥了。”陌生人说。“明天我来找你，咱俩一块去。”他对保尔说。

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“好吧。”

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保尔看到他那双安详的灰眼睛正在仔细观察他。那坚定的凝视的目光使保尔有点不好意思。灰色的短上衣从上到下都扣着纽扣，紧紧箍在结实的宽肩膀上，显得太瘦了。他的脖子跟牛一样粗，整个人就像一棵粗壮的老柞树，浑身充满力量。

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他临走的时候，阿尔焦姆对他说：“好吧，再见，朱赫来。明天你跟我弟弟一块去，事情会办妥的。”

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游击队撤走三天之后，德国人进了城。几天来一直冷冷清清的车站上，响起了火车头的汽笛声，这就是他们到来的信号。消息马上传遍了全城：“德国人来了。”

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虽然大家早就知道德国人要来，全城还是像捅开了的蚂蚁窝一样，立即忙乱起来，而且对这件事总还有点半信半疑。

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这些可怕的德国人居然已经不是远在天边，而是近在眼前，开到城里来了。

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所有的居民都贴着栅栏和院门，向外张望，不敢到街上去。

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德国人不走马路中间，而是排成两个单行，沿路的两侧行进。他们穿着墨绿色的制服，平端着枪，枪上上着宽刺刀，头上戴着沉重的钢盔，身上背着大行军袋。他们把队伍拉成长条，从车站到市区，连绵不断；他们小心翼翼地走着，随时准备应付抵抗，虽然并没有人想抵抗他们。

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走在队伍前头的，是两个拿着毛瑟枪的军官，马路当中是一个担任翻译的乌克兰伪军小头目，他穿着蓝色的乌克兰短上衣，戴着一顶羊皮高帽。

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德国人在市中心的广场上列成方阵，打起鼓来。只有少数老百姓壮着胆聚拢过来。穿乌克兰短上衣的伪军小头目走上一家药房的台阶，大声宣读了城防司令科尔夫少校的命令。

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命令如下：

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第一条本市全体居民，限于二十四小时内，将所有火器及其他各种武器缴出，违者枪决。

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第二条本市宣布戒严，自晚八时起禁止通行。

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城防司令科尔夫少校

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从前的市参议会所在地，革命后是工人代表苏维埃的办公处，现在又成了德军城防司令部。房前的台阶旁边站着一个卫兵，他头上戴的已经不是钢盔，而是缀着一个很大的鹰形帝国徽章的军帽了。院子里划出一块地方，用来堆放收缴的武器。

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整天都有怕被枪毙的居民来缴武器。成年人不敢露面，来送枪的都是年轻人和小孩。德国人没有扣留一个人。

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那些不愿去交枪的人，就在夜里把枪扔到马路上，第二天早上，德国巡逻兵把枪捡起来，装上军用马车，运到城防司令部去。

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中午十二点多钟，规定缴枪的期限一过，德国兵就清点了他们的战利品，收到的步枪总共是一万四千支，这就是说，还有六千支没有交给德国人。他们挨家挨户进行了搜查，但是搜到的很少。

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第二天清晨，在城外古老的犹太人墓地旁边，有两个铁路工人被枪毙了，因为在他们家里搜出了步枪。

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阿尔焦姆一听到命令，就急忙赶回家来。他在院子里遇到了保尔，一把抓住他的肩膀，郑重其事地小声问道：“你从外面往家拿什么东西没有？”

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保尔本来想瞒住步枪的事，但是又不愿意对哥哥撒谎，就全都照实说了。

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他们一起走进小棚子。阿尔焦姆把藏在梁上的枪取下来，卸下枪栓和刺刀，然后抓起枪筒，抡开膀子，使出浑身力量向栅栏的柱子砸去，把枪托砸得粉碎。没碎的部分则远远地扔到了小园子外面的荒地里，回头又把刺刀和枪栓扔进了茅坑。

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完事以后，阿尔焦姆转身对弟弟说：“你已经不是小孩子了，保尔，你也明白，武器可不是闹着玩的。我得跟你说清楚，往后什么也不许往家拿。你知道，现在为这种事连命都会送掉。记住，不许瞒着我，要是你把这种东西带回来，让他们发现了，头一个抓去枪毙的就是我。

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你还是个毛孩子，他们倒是不会碰你的。眼下正是兵荒马乱的时候，你明白吗？”

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保尔答应以后再也不往家拿东西。

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当他们穿过院子往屋里走的时候，一辆四轮马车在列辛斯基家的大门口停住了。律师和他的妻子，还有两个孩子——涅莉和维克托从车里走出来。

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“这些宝贝又回来了，”阿尔焦姆恶狠狠地说。“又有好戏看了，他妈的！”说着就进屋去了。

135
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保尔为枪的事难过了一整天。在同一天，他的朋友谢廖沙却在一个没有人要的破棚子里，拼命用铁锹挖土。他终于在墙根底下挖好一个大坑，把领到的三支新枪用破布包好，放了下去。他不想把这些枪交给德国人，昨天夜里他翻来覆去折腾了一宿，怎么想也舍不得这些已经到手的宝贝。

136
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他用土把坑填好，夯结实了，又弄来一大堆垃圾和破烂，盖在新土上。然后又从各方面检查了一番，觉得挑不出什么毛病了，这才摘下帽子，擦掉额上的汗珠。

137
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“这回让他们搜吧，就是搜到了，也查不清是谁家的棚子。”

138
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朱赫来在发电厂工作已经一个月了，保尔不知不觉地和这个严肃的电工成了亲密的朋友。

139
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朱赫来常常给他讲解发电机的构造，教他电工技术。

140
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水兵朱赫来很喜欢这个机灵的孩子。空闲的日子，他常常来看望阿尔焦姆。这个通情达理、严肃认真的水兵，总是耐心地倾听他们讲日常生活中的各种事情，尤其是母亲埋怨保尔淘气的时候，他更是耐心地听下去。他总会想出办法来安慰玛丽亚·雅科夫列夫娜，劝得她心里舒舒坦坦的，忘掉了种种烦恼。

141
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有一天，保尔走过发电厂院子里的木柴堆，朱赫来叫住了他，微笑着对他说：“你母亲说你爱打架。她说：‘我那个孩子总好干仗，活像只公鸡。’”朱赫来赞许地大笑起来，接着又说：“打架并不算坏事，不过得知道打谁，为什么打。”

142
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保尔不知道朱赫来是取笑他还是说正经话，便回答说：“我可不平白无故地打架，总是有理才动手的。”

143
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朱赫来出其不意地对他说：“打架要有真本领，我教你，好不好？”

144
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保尔惊讶地看了他一眼。

145
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“有真本领怎么打？”

146
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“好，你瞧着。”

147
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他简要地说了说英国式拳击的打法，给保尔上了第一课。

148
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保尔为了掌握这套本领，吃了不少苦头，但是他学得很不错。在朱赫来的拳头打击下，他不知摔了多少个倒栽葱，但是这个徒弟很勤奋，还是耐着性子学下去。

149
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有一天，天气很热，保尔从克利姆卡家回来，在屋子里转悠了一阵子，没有什么活要干，就决定到房后园子角落里的小棚顶上去，那是他最喜爱的地方。他穿过院子，走进小园子，登着墙上凸出的地方，爬上了棚顶。他拨开板棚上面繁茂的樱桃树枝，爬到棚顶当中，躺在暖洋洋的阳光下。

150
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这棚子有一面对着列辛斯基家的花园，要是爬到棚顶的边上，就可以望见整个花园和前面的房子。保尔把头探过棚顶，看到了院落的一角和一辆停在那里的四轮马车。他看见住在列辛斯基家的德国中尉的勤务兵正在用刷子刷他长官的衣物。保尔常常在列辛斯基家的大门口看到那个中尉。

151
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那个中尉粗短身材，红脸膛，留着一小撮剪得短短的胡须，戴着夹鼻眼镜和漆皮帽舌的军帽。保尔知道他住在厢房里，窗子正朝着花园，从棚顶上可以看得清清楚楚。

152
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这时，中尉正在桌旁写什么东西。过了一会儿，他拿着写好的东西走了出去。他把一封信交给勤务兵，就沿着花园的小径朝临街的栅栏门走去。走到凉亭旁边，他站住了，显然是在跟谁说话。涅莉从凉亭里走了出来。中尉挎着她的胳膊，两个人出了栅栏门，上街去了。

153
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这一切保尔都看在眼里。他正打算睡一会儿，又看见勤务兵走进中尉的房间，把中尉的军服挂在衣架上，打开朝花园的窗子，收拾完屋子，走了出去，随手带上了门。转眼间，保尔看见他已经到了拴着马的马厩旁边。

154
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保尔朝敞开的窗口望去，整个房间看得一清二楚。桌子上放着一副皮带，还有一件发亮的东西。

155
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保尔为按捺不住的好奇心所驱使，悄悄地从棚顶爬到樱桃树上，顺着树身溜到列辛斯基家的花园里。他弯着腰，几个箭步就到了敞开的窗子跟前，朝屋里看了一眼。桌子上放着一副武装带和一支装在皮套里的很漂亮的十二发曼利赫尔手枪。

156
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保尔连气都喘不上来了。有几秒钟的工夫，他心里斗争得很激烈，但是最后还是被一种力量所支配，他不顾死活，把身子探进窗子，抓住枪套，拔出那支乌亮的新手枪，然后又跳回了花园。他向四周环顾了一下，小心翼翼地把枪塞进裤袋，迅速穿过花园，向樱桃树跑去。他像猴子似的攀上棚顶，又回过头来望了一眼。勤务兵正安闲地跟马夫聊天，花园里静悄悄的……他从板棚上溜下来，急忙跑回家去。

157
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母亲在厨房里忙着做饭，没有注意到他。

158
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保尔从箱子后面抓起一块破布，塞进衣袋，悄悄地溜出房门，穿过园子，翻过栅栏，上了通向森林的大路。他一只手把住那支不时撞他大腿的手枪，拼命朝一座废弃的老砖厂跑去。

159
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他的两只脚像腾空一样，风在耳边呼呼直响。

160
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老砖厂那里很僻静。木板房顶有的地方已经塌了下来，碎砖东一堆西一堆的，砖窑也毁坏了，显出一片凄凉景象。这里遍地杂草丛生，只有他们三个好朋友有时候一起到这里来玩。保尔知道许多安全可靠的隐蔽场所，可以藏他偷来的宝贝。

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他钻进一座砖窑的豁口，小心地回头望了望，路上一个人也没有。松林在飒飒作响，微风轻轻扬起路边的灰尘，松脂散发着浓烈的气味。

162
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保尔用破布把手枪包好，放到窑底的一个角落里，盖上一大堆碎砖。他从窑里钻出来，又用砖把豁口堵死，做了个记号，然后才回到大路上，慢腾腾地往家走。

163
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他的两条腿一直在微微打颤。

164
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“这件事的结局会怎么样呢？”他想到这里，觉得心都缩紧了，有点惶恐不安。

165
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这一天，还没有到上工时间，他就提前到发电厂去了，免得呆在家里。他从门房那里拿了钥匙，打开门，进了安装着发动机的厂房。当他擦着风箱，给锅炉上水和生火的时候，还一直在想：“列辛斯基家里现在不知道怎么样了？”

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已经很晚了，约摸是夜里十一点钟的时候，朱赫来来找保尔，把他叫到院子里，压低了嗓音问他：“今天你们家里为什么有人去搜查了？”

167
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保尔吓了一跳。

168
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“什么？搜查？”

169
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朱赫来沉默了一会儿，补充说：“是的，情况不大妙。你不知道他们搜什么吗？”

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保尔当然清楚他们要搜什么，但是他不敢把偷枪的事告诉朱赫来。他提心吊胆地问：“阿尔焦姆给抓去了吗？”

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“谁也没抓去，可是家里的东西都给翻了个底朝天。”

172
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保尔听了这话，心里稍微踏实了些，但是依然感到不安。

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有几分钟，他们俩各自想着自己的心事。一个知道搜查的原因，担心以后的结果；另一个不知道搜查的原因，却因此变得警惕起来。

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“真见鬼，莫不是他们听到了我的什么风声？我的事阿尔焦姆是一点也不知道的，可是为什么到他家去搜查呢？往后得格外小心才好。”朱赫来这样想。

175
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他们默默地分开，干自己的活去了。

176
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列辛斯基家这时可闹翻了天。

177
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德国中尉发现手枪不见了，就把勤务兵喊来查问。等到查明手枪确实是丢了，这个平素彬彬有礼、似乎颇有涵养的中尉，竟然甩开胳膊，给了勤务兵一个耳光。勤务兵被打得晃了晃身子，又直挺挺地站定了。他内疚地眨着眼睛，恭顺地听候发落。

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被叫来查问的律师也很生气，他因为家里发生了这种不愉快的事，一再向中尉道歉。

179
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这时候，在场的维克托对父亲说，手枪可能叫邻居偷去了，尤其是那个小流氓保尔·柯察金嫌疑最大。父亲连忙把儿子的想法告诉了中尉。中尉马上下令进行搜查。

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搜查没有什么结果。这次偷手枪的事使保尔更加相信，即使是这样冒险的举动，有时也可以安然无事。

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Like a whirlwind the stupendous news broke into the small town: "The tsar’s been overthrown!"

1

读书笔记

是否公开

我的读书笔记

仅对会员开放

网友的读书笔记

仅对会员开放
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The townsfolk refused to believe it.

2

读书笔记

是否公开

我的读书笔记

仅对会员开放

网友的读书笔记

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Then one stormy winter day a train crawled into the station: two students in army greatcoats, with rifles slung over their shoulders, and a detachment of revolutionary soldiers wearing red armbands jumped out onto the platform and arrested the station gendarmes, an old colonel and the chief of? the garrison. Now the townsfolk believed the news. Thousands streamed down the snowbound streets to the town square.

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Eagerly they drank in the new words: liberty, equality and fraternity.

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Turbulent days followed, days full of excitement and jubilation. Then a lull set in, and the red flag flying over the town hall where the Mensheviks and adherents of the Bund had ensconced themselves was the sole reminder of the change that had taken place. Everything else remained as before.

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Towards the end of the winter a regiment of the cavalry guards was billeted in the town. In the mornings they sallied out in squadrons to hunt for deserters from the South-Western Front at the railway station.

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The troopers were great, beefy fellows with well-fed faces. Most of their officers were counts and princes; they wore golden shoulder straps and silver piping on their breeches, just as they had in the tsar’s time—for all the world as if there had been no revolution.

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For Pavel, Klimka and Sergei Bruzzhak nothing had changed. The bosses were still there. It was not until November that something out of the ordinary began to happen. People of a new kind had appeared at the station and were beginning to stir things up; a steadily increasing number of them were soldiers from the firing lines and they bore the strange name of "Bolsheviks".

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Where that resounding, weighty name came from no one knew.

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The guardsmen found it increasingly hard to detain the deserters. The crackle of rifles and the splintering of glass was heard more and more often down at the station. The men came from the front in groups and when stopped they fought back with bayonets. In the beginning of December they began pouring in by trainloads.

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The guardsmen came down in force to the station with the intention of holding the soldiers, but they found themselves raked by machine-gun fire. The men who poured out of the railway carriages were inured to death.

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The grey-coated frontliners drove the guards back into the town and then returned to the station to continue on their way, trainload after trainload.

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One day in the spring of nineteen eighteen, three chums on their way from Sergei Bruzzhak’s where they had been playing cards dropped into the Korchagins’ garden and threw themselves on the grass. They were bored. All the customary occupations had begun to pall, and they were beginning to rack their brains for some more exciting way to spend the day when they heard the clatter of horses’ hoofs behind them and saw a horseman come galloping down the road. With one bound the horse cleared the ditch between the road and the low garden fence and the rider waved his whip at Pavel and Klim. "Hi there, my lads, come over here!" Pavel and Klim sprang to their feet and ran to the fence. The rider was covered with dust; it had settled in a heavy grey Layer on the cap which he wore pushed to the back of his head, and on his khaki tunic and breeches. A revolver and two German grenades dangled from his heavy soldier’s belt.

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"Can you get me a drink of water, boys?" the horseman asked them. While Pavel dashed off into the house for the water, he turned to Sergei who was staring at him. "Tell me, boy, who’s in authority in your town?"

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Sergei breathlessly related all the local news to the newcomer.

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"There’s been nobody in authority for two weeks. The homeguard’s the government now. All the inhabitants take turns patrolling the town at night. And who might you be?" Sergei asked in his turn.

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"Now, now—if you know too much you’ll get old too soon," the horseman smiled.

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Pavel ran out of the house carrying a mug of water. The rider thirstily emptied the mug at one gulp and handed it back to Pavel. Then jerking the reins he started off at a gallop, heading for the pine woods. "Who was that?" Pavel asked Klim. "How do I know?" the latter replied, shrugging his shoulders.

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"Looks like the authorities are going to be changed again. That’s why the Leszczinskis left yesterday. And if the rich are on the run that means the partisans are coming," declared Sergei, settling the political question firmly and with an air of finality.

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The logic of this was so convincing that both Pavel and Klim agreed with him at once.

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Before the boys had finished discussing the question a clatter of hoofs from the highway sent all three rushing back to the fence.

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Over by the forest warden’s cottage, which was barely visible among the trees, they saw men and carts emerging from the woods, and nearer still on the highway a party of fifteen or so mounted men with rifles across their pommels. At the head of the horsemen rode an elderly man in khaki jacket and officer’s belt with field glasses slung on his chest, and beside him the man the boys had just spoken to. The elderly man wore a red ribbon on his breast.

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"What did I tell you?" Sergei nudged Pavel in the ribs. "See the red ribbon? Partisans. I’ll be damned if they aren’t partisans. . . ." And whooping with joy he leapt over the fence into the street.

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The others followed suit and all three stood by the roadside gazing at the approaching horsemen.

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When the riders were quite close the man whom the boys had met before nodded to them, and pointing to the Leszczinski house with his whip asked:

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"Who lives over there?"

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Pavel paced alongside trying to keep abreast the rider.

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"Leszczinski the lawyer. He ran away yesterday. Scared of you most likely. . . ."

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"How do you know who we are?" the elderly man asked, smiling.

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"What about that?" Pavel pointed to the ribbon. "Anybody can tell. . . ."

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People poured into the street to stare with curiosity at the detachment entering the town. Our three young friends too stood watching the dusty, exhausted Red Guards go by. And when the detachment’s lone cannon and the carts with machine guns clattered over the cobblestones the boys trailed after the partisans, and did not go home until after the unit had halted in the centre of the town and the billeting began.

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That evening four men sat around the massive carved-legged table in the spacious Leszczinski parlour: detachment commander Comrade Bulgakov, an elderly man whose hair was touched with grey, and three members of the unit’s commanding personnel.

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Bulgakov had spread out a map of the gubernia on the table and was now running his finger over it.

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"You say we ought to put up a stand here, Comrade Yermachenko," he said, addressing a man with broad features and prominent teeth, "but I think we must move out in the morning. Better still if we could get going during the night, but the men are in need of a rest. Our task is to withdraw to Kazatin before the Germans get there. To resist with the strength we have would be ridiculous.

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One gun with thirty rounds of ammunition, two hundred infantry and sixty cavalry. A formidable force, isn’t it, when the Germans are advancing in an avalanche of steel. We cannot put up a fight until we join up with other withdrawing Red units. Besides, Comrades, we must remember that apart from the Germans there’ll be numerous counter-revolutionary bands of all kinds to deal with en route. I propose that we withdraw in the morning after first blowing up the railway bridge beyond the station. It’ll take the Germans two or three days to repair it and in the meantime their advance along the railway will be held up. What do you think, Comrades? We must decide. . ." he turned to the others around the table.

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Struzhkov, who sat diagonally across from Bulgakov, sucked in his lips and looked first at the map and then at Bulgakov.

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"I agree with Bulgakov," he said finally.

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The youngest of the men, who was dressed in a worker’s blouse, nodded.

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"Bulgakov’s right," he said.

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But Yermachenko, the man who had spoken with the boys earlier in the day, shook his head.

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"What the devil did we get the detachment together for? To retreat from the Germans without putting up a fight? As I see it, we’ve got to have it out with them here. I’m sick and tired of? running. If it was up to me, I’d fight them here without fail. . . ." Pushing his chair back sharply, he rose and began pacing the room.

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Bulgakov looked at him with disapproval.

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"We must use our heads, Yermachenko. We can’t throw our men into a battle that is bound to end in defeat and destruction Besides it’s ridiculous. There’s a whole division with heavy artillery and armoured cars just behind us. . . . This is no time for schoolboy heroics, Comrade Yermachenko. . . ." Turning to the others, he continued: "So it’s decided, we evacuate tomorrow morning. . . . Now for the next question, liaison," Bulgakov proceeded. "Since we are the last to leave, it’s our job to organise work in the German rear. This is a big railway junction and there are two stations in the town. We must see to it that there is a reliable comrade to carry on the work on the railway. We’ll have to decide here whom to leave behind to get the work going. Have you anyone in mind?"

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"I think the sailor Fyodor Zhukhrai ought to remain," Yermachenko said, moving up to the table.

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"In the first place he’s a local man. Secondly, he’s a fitter and mechanic and can get himself a job at the station. Nobody’s seen Fyodor with our etachment—he won’t get here until tonight. He’s got a good head on his shoulders and he’ll get things going properly. I think he’s the best man for the job."

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Bulgakov nodded.

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"I agree with you, Yermachenko. No objections, Comrades?" he turned to the others. "None. Then the matter is settled. We’ll leave Zhukhrai some money and the credentials he’ll need for his work. . . . Now for the third and last question, Comrades. About the arms stored here in the town.

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There’s quite a stock of rifles, twenty thousand of them, left over from the tsarist war and forgotten by everybody. They are piled up in a peasant’s shed. I have this from the owner of the shed who happens to be anxious to get rid of them. We are not going to leave them to the Germans; in my opinion we ought to burn them, and at once, so as to have it over and done with by morning. The only trouble is that the fire might spread to the surrounding cottages. It’s on the fringes of the town where the poor peasants live."

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Struzhkov stirred in his chair. He was a solidly built man whose unshaven face had not seen a razor for some time.

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"Why burn the rifles? Better distribute them among the population."

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Bulgakov turned quickly to face him.

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"Distribute them, you say?"

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"A splendid idea!" Yermachenko responded enthusiastically. "Give them to the workers and anyone else who wants them. At least there will be something to hit back with when the Germans make life impossible. They’re bound to do their worst. And when things come to a head, the men will be able to take up arms. Struzhkov’s right: the rifles must be distributed. Wouldn’t be a bad thing to take some to the villages too; the peasants will hide them away, and when the Germans begin to requisition everything the rifles are sure to come in handy."

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Bulgakov laughed.

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"That’s all right, but the Germans are sure to order all arms turned in and everybody will obey."

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"Not everybody," Yermachenko objected. "Some will but others won’t."

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Bulgakov looked questioningly at the men around the table.

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"I’m for distributing the rifles," the young workers supported Yermachenko and Struzhkov.

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"All right then, it’s decided," Bulgakov agreed. "That’s all for now," he said, rising from his chair.

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"We can take a rest till morning. When Zhukhrai comes, send him in to me, I want to have a talk with him. Yermachenko, you’d better inspect the sentry posts."

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When the others left, Bulgakov went into the bedroom next to the parlour, spread his greatcoat on the mattress and lay down.

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The following morning Pavel, coming home from the electric power station where he had been working as a stoker’s helper for a year now, felt that something unusual was afoot. The town seethed with excitement. As he went along he met people carrying one or two and sometimes even three rifles each. He could not understand what was happening and he hurried home as fast as he could. Outside the Leszczinski garden he saw his acquaintances of yesterday mounting their horses.

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Pavel ran into the house, washed quickly and, learning from his mother that Artem had not come home yet, dashed out again and hurried over to see Sergei Bruzzhak, who lived on the other side of the town.

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Sergei’s father was an engine driver’s helper and owned a tiny house and a small plot of land.

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Sergei was out, and his mother, a stout, pale-faced woman, eyed Pavel sourly.

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"The devil knows where he is! He rushed out first thing in the morning like one possessed. Said they were giving out rifles somewhere, so I suppose that’s where he is. What you snotnosed warriors need is a good hiding—you’ve got out of hand completely. Hardly out of pinafores and already dashing off after firearms. You tell the scamp that if he brings a single cartridge into this house I’ll skin him alive. Who knows what he’ll be dragging in and then I’ll have to answer for it.

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You’re not going there too, are you?"

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But before Sergei’s mother had finished scolding, Pavel was already racing down the street.

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On the highway he met a man carrying a rifle on each shoulder. Pavel dashed up to him.

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"Please, uncle, where did you get them?"

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"Over at Verkhovina."

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Pavel hurried off as fast as his legs could carry him. Two streets down he collided with a boy who was lugging a heavy infantry rifle with bayonet attached. Pavel stopped him.

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"Where’d you get that?"

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"The partisans were giving them away out there opposite the school, but there aren’t any more. All gone. Handed them out all night and now only the empty cases are left. This is my second one,"

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the boy declared proudly.

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Pavel was utterly dismayed by the news.

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"Damn it, I should’ve gone straight there," he thought bitterly. "Now it’s too late!"

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Suddenly an idea struck him. Spinning around, he overtook the boy in two or three bounds and snatched the rifle out of his hands.

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"One’s enough for you. This is going to be mine," he said in a tone that brooked no opposition.

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Infuriated by this robbery in broad daylight, the boy flung himself at Pavel, but the latter leapt back and pointed the bayonet at his antagonist.

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"Look out or you’ll get hurt!" Pavel shouted.

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The boy burst into tears of helpless rage and ran away, swearing at Pavel as he went. Pavel, vastly pleased with himself, trotted home. He climbed over the fence, ran into the shed, laid his acquisition on the crossbeams under the roof, and, whistling gaily, entered the house.

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Summer evenings in the Ukraine, especially in small Ukrainian towns like Shepetovka, which are more like villages on the outskirts, are beautiful indeed. These calm summer nights lure all the young folk out of doors. You will see them in groups and in pairs—on the porches, in the little front gardens, or perched on woodpiles lying by the side of the road. Their gay laughter and singing echo in the evening stillness.

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The air is heavy and tremulous with the fragrance of flowers. There is a faint pinpoint glimmer of stars in the depths of the sky, and voices carry far, far away. . . .

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Pavel dearly loved his accordion. He would lay the melodious instrument tenderly on his knees and let his nimble fingers run lightly up and down the double row of keys. A sighing from the bass, and a cascade of rollicking melody would pour forth. . . .

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How can you keep still when the sinuous bellows weave in and out and the accordion breathes its warm compelling harmonies. Before you know it your feet are answering its urgent summons. Ah,how good it is to be alive!

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This is a particularly jolly evening. A merry crowd of young folk have gathered on the pile of logs outside Pavel’s house. And gayest of them all is Galochka, the daughter of the stonemason who lives next door to Pavel. Galochka loves to dance and sing with the lads. She has a deep velvety

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contralto.

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Pavel is a wee bit afraid of her. For Galochka has a sharp tongue. She sits down beside Pavel and throws her arms around him, laughing gaily.

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"What a wonder you are with that accordion!" she says. "It’s a pity you’re a bit too young or you’d make me a fine hubby. I adore men who play the accordion, my poor heart just melts."

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Pavel blushes to the roots of his hair—luckily it is too dark for anyone to see. He edges away from the vixen but she clings fast to him.

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"Now then, you wouldn’t run away from me, would you? A fine sweetheart you are," she laughs.

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Her firm breast brushes Pavel’s shoulder, and he is strangely stirred in spite of himself, and the loud laughter of the others breaks the accustomed stillness of the lane.

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"Move up, I haven’t any room to play," says Pavel, giving her shoulder a slight push.

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This evokes another roar of laughter, jokes and banter.

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Marusya comes to Pavel’s rescue. "Play something sad, Pavel, something that tugs at your heartstrings."

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Slowly the bellows spread out, gently Pavel’s fingers caress the keys and a familiar well-loved tune fills the air. Galochka is the first to join in, then Marusya, and the others.

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All the boatmen to their cottage Gathered on the morrow,O, ’tis goodAnd O, ’tis sweetHere to sing our sorrow. . . .

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The vibrant young voices of the singers were carried far away into the wooded distances.

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"Pavka!" It was Artem’s voice.

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Pavel compressed the bellows of his accordion and fastened the straps.

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"They’re calling me. I’ve got to go."

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"Oh, play just a little more. What’s your hurry?" Marusya tried to wheedle him into staying.

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But Pavel was adamant.

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"Can’t. We’ll have some music tomorrow again, but now I’ve got to go. Artem’s calling." And with that he ran across the street to the little house opposite.

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There were two men in the room besides Artem: Roman, a friend of Artem’s, and a stranger. They were sitting at the table.

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"You wanted me?" Pavel asked.

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Artem nodded to him and turned to the stranger:

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"This is that brother of mine we’ve been talking about."

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The stranger extended a knotted hand to Pavel.

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"See here, Pavka," Artem said to his brother. "You told me the electrician at the power plant is ill.

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Now what I want you to do is to find out tomorrow whether they want a good man to take his place. If they do you’ll let us know."

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The stranger interrupted him.

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"No need to do that. I’d rather go with him and speak with the boss myself."

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"Of course they need someone. Today the power plant didn’t work simply because Stankovich was ill. The boss came around twice—he’d been looking high and low for somebody to take his place but couldn’t find anyone. He was afraid to start the plant with only a stoker around. The electrician’s got the typhus."

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"That settles it," the stranger said. "I’ll call for you tomorrow and we’ll go over there together."

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"Good."

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Pavel’s glance met the calm grey eyes of the stranger who was studying him carefully. The firm,steady scrutiny somewhat disconcerted him. The newcomer was wearing a grey jacket buttoned from top to bottom—it was obviously a tight fit for the seams strained on his broad, powerful

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back. His head and shoulders were joined by a muscular, ox-like neck, and his whole frame suggested the sturdy strength of an old oak.

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"Good-bye and good luck, Zhukhrai," Artem said accompanying him to the door. "Tomorrow you’ll go along with my brother and get fixed up in the job."

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The Germans entered the town three days after the detachment left. Their coming was announced by a locomotive whistle at the station which had latterly been deserted.

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"The Germans are coming," the news flashed through the town.

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The town stirred like a disturbed anthill, for although the townsfolk had known for some time that the Germans were due, they had somehow not quite believed it. And now these terrible Germans were not only somewhere on their way, but actually here, in town.

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The townsfolk clung to the protection of their front-garden fences and wicket gates. They were afraid to venture out into the streets.

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The Germans came, marching single file on both sides of the highway; they wore olive-drab uniforms and carried their rifles at the ready. Their rifles were tipped with broad knife-like bayonets; they wore heavy steel helmets, and carried enormous packs on their backs. They came from the station into the town in an endless stream, came cautiously, prepared to repel an attack at any moment, although no one dreamed of attacking them.

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In front strode two officers, Mausers in hand, and in the centre of the road walked the interpreter, a sergeant-major in the Hetman’s service wearing a blue Ukrainian coat and a tall fur cap.

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The Germans lined up on the square in the centre of the town. The drums rolled. A small crowd of? the more venturesome townsfolk gathered. The Hetman’s man in the Ukrainian coat climbed onto the porch of the chemist’s shop and read aloud an order issued by the commandant, Major Korf.

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All citizens of the town are hereby ordered to turn in any firearms or other weapons in their possession within 24 hours. The penalty for violation of this order is death by shooting.

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Martial law is declared in the town and citizens are forbidden to appear in the streets after 8 p.m. Major Korf, Town Commandant.

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The German Kommandantur took up quarters in the building formerly used by the town administration and, after the revolution, by the Soviet of Workers’ Deputies. At the entrance a sentry was posted wearing a parade helmet with an imperial eagle of enormous proportions. In the backyard of the same building were storage premises for the arms to be turned in by the population.

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All day long weapons were brought in by townsfolk scared by the threat of shooting. The adults did not show themselves; the arms were delivered by youths and small boys. The Germans detained nobody.

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Those who did not want to come in person dumped their weapons out on the road during the night, and in the morning a German patrol picked them up, loaded them into an army cart and hauled them to the Kommandantur.

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At one o’clock in the afternoon, when the time limit expired, German soldiers began to take stock of their booty: fourteen thousand rifles. That meant that six thousand had not been turned in. The dragnet searches they conducted yielded very insignificant results.

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At dawn the next morning two railway men in whose homes concealed rifles had been found were shot at the old Jewish cemetery outside the town.

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As soon as he heard of the commandant’s order, Artem hurried home. Meeting Pavel in the yard, he took him by the shoulder and asked him quietly but firmly:

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"Did you bring any weapons home?"

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Pavel had not intended to say anything about the rifle, but he could not lie to his brother and so he made a clean breast of it.

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They went into the shed together. Artem took the rifle down from its hiding place on the beams, removed the bolt and bayonet, and seizing the weapon by the barrel swung it with all his might against a fence post. The butt splintered. What remained of the rifle was thrown far away into the waste lot beyond the garden. The bayonet and bolt Artem threw into the privy pit.

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When he was finished, Artem turned to his brother.

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"You’re not a baby any more, Pavka, and you ought to know you can’t play with guns. You must not bring anything into the house. This is dead serious. You might have to pay with your life for that sort of thing nowadays. And don’t try any tricks, because if you do bring something like that home and they find it I’d be the first to be shot—they wouldn’t touch a youngster like you. These are brutal times, understand that!"

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Pavel promised.

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As the brothers were crossing the yard to the house, a carriage stopped at the Leszczinskis’ gate and the lawyer and his wife and two children, Nelly and Victor, got out.

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"So the fine birds have flown back to their nest," Artem muttered angrily. "Now the fun begins, blast them!" He went inside.

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All day long Pavel thought regretfully of the rifle. In the meantime his friend Sergei was hard at work in an old, abandoned shed, digging a hole in the ground next to the wall. At last the pit was ready. In it Sergei deposited the three brand-new rifles, carefully wrapped in rags: he had picked

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them up when the Red Guard detachment distributed arms to the people. He had no intention of giving them up to the Germans and had laboured hard all night to make sure that they were safely hidden.

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He filled up the hole, tramped the earth down level, and then piled a heap of refuse on top.

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Critically reviewing the results of his efforts and finding them satisfactory he took off his cap and wiped the sweat off his forehead.

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"Now let them search, and even if they find it, they’ll never know who put it there, because the shed is nobody’s anyway."

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A firm friendship had sprung up between Pavel and the grim-faced electrician who had been working a full month now at the electric station. Zhukhrai showed the stoker’s helper how the dynamo was built and how it was run.

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The sailor took a liking to the bright youngster. He frequently visited Artem on free days and listened patiently to the mother’s tale of domestic woes and worries, especially when she complained about her younger boy’s escapades. Thoughtful and serious, Zhukhrai had a calming, reassuring effect on Maria Yakovlevna, who would forget her troubles and grow more cheerful in his company.

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One day Zhukhrai stopped Pavel as he was passing between the high piles of firewood in the power station yard.

151

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"Your mother tells me you’re fond of a scrap," he said, smiling. " ’He’s as bad as a game-cock,’ she says." Zhukhrai chuckled approvingly. "As a matter of fact, it doesn’t hurt to be a fighter, as long as you know whom to fight and why."

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Pavel was not sure whether Zhukhrai was joking or serious.

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"I don’t fight for nothing," he retorted, "I always fight for what’s right and fair."

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"Want me to teach you to fight properly?" Zhukhrai asked unexpectedly.

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"What d’you mean, properly?" Pavel looked at the other in surprise. "You’ll see."

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And Pavel was given a brief introductory lecture on boxing.

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It did not come easy to Pavel. Time and again he found himself rolling on the ground, knocked off his feet by a blow from Zhukhrai’s fist, but he proved a diligent and persevering pupil, and in the end he mastered the art.

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One warm day after a visit to Klimka’s place Pavel, for want of something better to do, decided to climb up to his favourite spot—the roof of a shed that stood in the corner of the garden behind the house. He crossed the backyard into the garden, went over to the clapboard shack, and climbed up onto its roof. Pushing through the dense branches of the cherry trees that hung over the shed, he made his way to the centre of the roof and lay down to bask in the sunshine.

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One side of the shed jutted out into the Leszczinski garden, and from the end of the roof the whole garden and one side of the house were visible. Poking his head over the edge, Pavel could see part of the yard and a carriage standing there. The batman of the German Lieutenant quartered at the Leszczinskis’ was brushing his master’s clothes.

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Pavel had often seen the Lieutenant at the gate leading to the grounds. He was a squat, ruddy-faced man who wore a tiny clipped moustache, pince-nez and a cap with a shiny lacquered peak.

161

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Pavel also knew that he lived in the side room, the window of which opened onto the garden and was visible from the shed roof.

162

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At this moment the Lieutenant was sitting at the table, writing. Presently he picked up what he had written and went out of the room. He handed the paper to the batman and walked off down the garden path leading to the gate. At the summer house he paused to talk to someone inside. A moment later Nelly Leszczinskaya came out. The Lieutenant took her arm and together they went out of the gate into the street.

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Pavel watched the proceedings from his vantage point. Presently a drowsiness stole over him and he was about to close his eyes when he noticed the batman entering the Lieutenant’s room; he hung up a uniform, opened the window into the garden and tidied up the room. Then he went out, closing the door behind him. The next moment Pavel saw him over by the stable where the horses were.

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Through the open window Pavel had a good view of the whole room. On the table lay a belt and some shining object.

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Driven by an irresistible curiosity, Pavel climbed noiselessly off the roof onto the cherry tree and slipped down into the Leszczinski garden. Bent double, he bounded across the garden and peered through the window into the room. Before him on the table were a belt with a shoulder strap and holster containing a splendid twelve-shot Mannlicher.

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Pavel caught his breath. For a few seconds he hesitated, but reckless daring gained the upper hand and reaching into the room, he seized the holster, pulled out the new blue-steel weapon and sprang down to the ground. With a swift glance around, he slipped the revolver into his pocket and dashed across the garden to the cherry tree. With the agility of a monkey he climbed to the roof and paused to look behind him. The batman was still chatting pleasantly with the groom. The garden was silent and deserted. Pavel slid down the other side and ran home.

167

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His mother was busy in the kitchen cooking dinner and paid no attention to him.

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He seized a rag from behind a trunk and shoved it into his pocket, then slipped out unnoticed, ran across the yard, scaled the fence and emerged on the road leading to the woods. Holding the heavy revolver to prevent it from knocking against his thigh, he ran as fast as he could to the abandoned ruins of a brick kiln in the woods.

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His feet seemed barely to touch the ground and the wind whistled in his ears.

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Everything was quiet at the old brick kiln. It was a depressing sight, with the wooden roof fallen in here and there, the mountains of brick rubble and the collapsed ovens. The place was overgrown with weeds; no one ever visited it except Pavel and his two friends who sometimes came here to play. Pavel knew places where the stolen treasure could be safely hidden.

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He climbed through a gap in one of the ovens and looked around him cautiously, but there was noone in sight. Only the pines soughed softly and a slight wind stirred the dust on the road. There was a strong smell of resin in the air.

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Pavel placed the revolver wrapped in the rag in a corner of the oven floor and covered it with a small pyramid of old bricks. On the way out he filled the opening in the old oven with loose bricks, noted the exact location, and slowly set out for home, feeling his knees trembling under him.

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"What will happen now?" he thought and his heart was heavy with foreboding.

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To avoid going home he went to the power station earlier than usual. He took the key from the watchman and opened the wide doors leading into the powerhouse. And while he cleaned out the ashpit, pumped water into the boiler and started the fire going, he wondered what was happening at the Leszczinskis.

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It was about eleven o’clock when Zhukhrai came and called Pavel outside.

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"Why was there a search at your place today?" he asked in a low voice.

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Pavel started.

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"A search?"

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"I don’t like the look of it," Zhukhrai continued after a brief pause. "Sure you haven’t any idea what they were looking for?"

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Pavel knew very well what they had been looking for, but he could not risk telling Zhukhrai about the theft of the revolver. Trembling all over he asked:

181

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"Have they arrested Artem?"

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"Nobody was arrested, but they turned everything upside down in the house."

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This reassured Pavel slightly, although his anxiety did not pass. For a few minutes both he and Zhukhrai stood there each wrapped in his own thoughts. One of the two knew why the search had been made and was worried about the consequences, the other did not and hence was on the alert.

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"Damn them, maybe they’ve got wind of me somehow," Zhukhrai thought. "Artem knows nothing about me, but why did they search his place? Got to be more careful."

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The two parted without a word and returned to their work.

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The Leszczinski house was in a turmoil.

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When the Lieutenant had noticed that the revolver was missing, he had called in his batman, who declared that the weapon must have been stolen; whereupon the officer had lost his temper and had smashed his fist into the batman’s face. The batman, swaying from the impact of the blow,stood stiffly at attention, blinking and submissively awaiting further developments.

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The lawyer, called in for an explanation, was loudly indignant at the theft and apologised to the Lieutenant for having allowed such a thing to occur in his house.

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It was Victor Leszczinski who suggested that the revolver might have been stolen by the neighbours, and in particular by that young ruffian Pavel Korchagin. His father lost no time in passing on his son’s conjecture to the Lieutenant, who at once ordered a search made.

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The search was fruitless, and the episode of the missing revolver showed Pavel that even enterprises as risky as this could sometimes succeed.

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