Captain of the Steppe

by Oleg Pavlov

  It must have been the final straw. Khabarov fearsomely exclaimed, ‘You can go to hell, the lot of you!’ and ran out of the shack in a frenzy. From the sentry towers, they saw him stray off into the steppe. From time to time he would disappear from view, only to reappear, visible in the distance, standing stock-still.

  When he returned to the company, Khabarov once more locked himself in the office, while his appearance before the soldiers at dinnertime, which they were expecting, almost ready to tie him up and throw him behind bars, did not come to pass after all. Having eaten without pleasure, the soldiers piled off to sleep.

  In the middle of the night, a dreadful thunder and clatter was heard in the square. The men rushed quickly out of the barracks, but they saw nothing other than the shack, reduced to splinters, under whose ruins they began searching for Korneichuk. He wasn’t able to speak, but he was belching; his hideously swollen belly was poking out and there was a noose around his bull neck. That night, Korneichuk had eaten the company supplies: all the beef fat, everything that was edible. In his hunger, he had eaten away the winter, he had eaten through January and February, knowing all the same that he was going to hang himself, that he would make up for it by his death. However, the joists of the clapboard shack had not borne his weight. As a hanged man, saved by his own insides, continuing to live against his will, this was how he was found by the soldiers. They beat him up. But fearing they might beat him to death, they called for Khabarov, thinking that the captain would take the little darling away and, maybe, kill him. Khabarov led Petr Korneichuk into the steppe. The stirred-up soldiers saw them come to a halt out on the steppe, and stand there for a bit. But then Khabarov walked back to the company, while Petr Korneichuk went in the direction of the Dolinka camp, to which the captain himself had shown the way, not knowing a better alternative destination on the planet. Ivan Yakovlevich returned, looking as though he had indeed killed someone, so they feared to approach him and complain that there were no supplies left in the company. He went into the barracks averting his eyes, while the servicemen remained on the square, afraid to follow him in. But, waiting there, they heard a fusillade. Gunshots shook the barracks for a long time, just like a piledriver at work. When it all went quiet, they still did not go in for a long time. The first to look into the office saw that Khabarov was still alive. The air was smoky from burning gunpowder, but the captain himself was lying, eyes open, on the bunk, completely covered in snowy lime that had flaked off the ceiling, in which bullet holes shone like stars: he had emptied a full clip into the empty ceiling.

  From that day, from the moment of that fusillade, Khabarov refused all food and drink. Throwing out his cotton-filled mattress, he lay flat on the strong metal springs, without either air or light from the heavens. Very soon the captain began to really stink, his beard grew out and he became delirious, plunging ever deeper into a mindless void. Figuring out that this wasn’t a binge, that the company commander had got it into his head to exit this life, the soldiers began force-feeding him. They rolled up their sleeves, so as not to get them dirty. Then they would force open the captain’s mouth with their grubby little hands and pour down all kinds of liquid swill. The feeders appeared to him as regimental quartermasters intending to evict him, and the captain would groan, ‘Wait, leave me alone … I’m dying, see … ’

  But there was no one left to look after the captain, because Ilya Peregud had not returned to the company. On the day that Khabarov drove him out, he had decided to leave for Ugolpunkt for good. He got on the narrow-gauge railway, with the prison warders, and off he went. These men, his dear old friends, began to vituperate Khabarov, for whom Ilya had deserted them in years past. Ilya listened to them and began swearing about the captain himself, but suddenly he grew angry and set about defending the captain, so hotly that he threw anyone who spoke poorly of Khabarov from the train, and at Stepnoi he tore up a section of track, putting an end to traffic along the whole branch line. By the time he made it to Ugolpunkt, where the maimed prison warders had put in complaints about him, they came to escort him to the guardhouse over this misdemeanour. He likewise shrugged off his escort, and nearly brought the living quarters down around their ears; had the battalion commander not managed to placate him by promising not to shave his head and to allow him to consume vodka in the guardhouse, there might have been havoc wrought all over town.

  At these most cheerless of times, a regimental lorry arrived in Karabas, laden to the brim with potatoes, only they were rotten. Their foul smell seeped out from the back of the truck. The soldiers driving it said that they were bringing back the very same potatoes that had been taken from the company in the autumn. Just as many sacks as were shown on the inventory. They also brought news that there had been a change of command at the regiment. They informed the company about their old colonel: he was no longer at the regiment; apparently some general had arrived and imposed order.

  A day or so later, they celebrated New Year in the company, grubbing together a celebratory meal from the rotten potatoes. The captain was rotting alive in the grave of his office, unaware that a new era was dawning. They tried to share some of the potatoes with him. They rammed potatoes into his mouth, willing him to chew, but he spat them out.

  8

  A New Era

  As if part of his brain had been eaten away, Petr Valerianovich Degtiar knew no fear, unless you count an enduring embarrassment over his bald spot, which was threatening from above to turn him into a laughing stock. Deputising for Pobedov during his illness, Degtiar had had time to get used to this new position, restoring order to the singed regimental affairs, hurrying to put everything right before the inspection. He never once visited Fyodor Fyodorovich in the hospital, and only when it became known that the regimental commander was about to be discharged in good health did he plan to go – with a heavy heart, as if having to visit a man who was dying.

  The management had set the hospital up with such a sheen that it looked like a spa. It was surrounded by a well-tended park, with avenues and benches; on its surface swam the hospital, looking like a cruise ship. In it, meritorious people – that is, war veterans and senior officers from the region – restored their health. Pobedov had already been transferred to a convalescent ward, impinging on a retired general there. This general considered himself in charge of the ward. The general wore his towelling dressing gown nonchalantly, as if done up to the nines in a felt cloak from the Caucasus. His uniform, even in the hospital, consisted of a crisp shirt and trousers with red stripes running down the side. He wandered about the ward with the handset from a radio receiver of the best workmanship, from which news incessantly churned out: from building projects to factories and fields … He would listen to them, his hard head slightly slanted, as if he’d put his neck out, and now and then would set matters straight: ‘Now that’s right, that’s right, that I approve … Well, what are they looking at, I would give them all a good thrashing! Ah, but that’s good, that’s good.’ This thing, this receiver, was valuable in and of itself, but everything pointed to the fact that the general had received it as an award, maybe for long service, which was why he valued it and would not let his award slip from his grasp. Degtiar and the colonel had to withdraw so as not to alarm him.

  Pobedov looked tired. He was afraid of being the first to ask what was happening in the regiment, although he had found everything out second-hand from other people. ‘How’s your health?’ asked Petr Valerianovich. The colonel hastened to fall ill again. ‘I can’t breathe, I have these bouts. If I could just make it through this inspection … They’ve ruined my regiment for me, the shitheads, but just watch, they’ll be sent flying once I get back … ’ Degtiar then set about guiltily reporting what he had been doing and how he had been doing it in the colonel’s absence. Pobedov listened to him with a cold, contented air; he was enjoying the fact that the adjutant had presented himself after all, and was patiently hearing out the colonel’s reproaches; that is, he wasn’t protesting. Gaining vigour, th
e colonel even took pleasure in giving the adjutant a rather crude dressing-down: ‘Take your bloody hat off, man, you’re indoors.’ Hurt, Degtiar removed his headgear. Pobedov cut him off once again: ‘So, I bet you’ve been trying my office out for size? Hang on a bit, I’ll be sitting there a little longer myself. Support me a little, then we’ll see.’

  Degtiar could not restrain himself. ‘Fyodor Fyodorovich, I don’t understand, I’ve always followed orders.’

  ‘Followed orders, he says … But try waiting for some gratitude from you,’ complained the colonel, in a weaker voice. ‘You might at least have got a parcel together, shown some consideration. Other people get them brought, but I’ve nothing in my bedside cabinet. It’s embarrassing, really.’ Degtiar stood. ‘Where are you off to?’ frowned Fyodor Fyodorovich.

  ‘I’m going back to the base.’

  ‘Off you go, then, off you go … I’m told you left Skripitsyn in place? Well, all right. Give that saboteur my regards. I’ll have another talk with him, maybe I’ll forgive him.’ He rose, with a groan. His government-issue dressing gown was too big for him, although its stitching and cut were impeccable. Turning away, he stumbled back to his ward and knocked. ‘Comrade Lieutenant-General, permission to enter?’

  November in Karaganda in some way resembled the white nights of the north. The town air was cool, clear and fresh. That was the month when neither snow nor rain fell. The earth dried out, like laundry in a frost. It got cold in the evenings, as though winter had come into the town to stay, but as soon as day began to break, it warmed up all around and winter left.

  Discharged from the hospital, Fyodor Fyodorovich hurried back to the regiment, where they had somehow already managed to restore order after the ruinous fire. Degtiar once more stepped to the side as the colonel returned; it seemed he hadn’t so much moved aside as buried himself underground. Pobedov decided for now to pay no heed to Skripitsyn, who had been relieved of his post but allowed to remain in the regiment. He roamed around like a lone horse. No one knew which general would appear to conduct the inspection but, during those days, each man in the know recounted hotly that this general could not be bought off at any price and that he seemed to be performing his duties reliant on mysterious sources of strength. The Asiatic districts were inspected, including the regiments in Tashkent, Ashkhabad and Frunze, from which came the most chilling rumours about a General Dobychin, a new man, merciless, the likes of which the army had never seen before. However, nothing changed as a result of these rumours and it was the same old Karaganda, nestling under drowsy rays of sunlight just before the winter, that greeted General Dobychin.

  When they finally saw the actual Dobychin, the regiment experienced yet another shock: out of the car climbed a tall Tatar; not elderly at all, but rather in the very prime of life; handsome like silver, and not darkened by spite. Perhaps he wasn’t even a Tatar; whatever his ethnic background, though, his character dazzled with inspiration. Strength was imprinted all over his appearance. His eyes were narrow, his cheekbones high, his mouth held tightly shut; he was sinewy and tough. He stood out from the people surrounding him, although the general was accompanied by small men who would have appeared sycophantic no matter what pose they adopted. And this created a surprising sight: it was as if a wolf were chasing a herd of sheep yet was not at all hungry; he had no desire to devour them. They, meanwhile, were servile, as if they had grown hungry and were asking for something to eat. And so, while there was nothing ghastly about Dobychin’s appearance, he still seemed frightening, even merciless. However, when he saw that the regiment’s commander was elderly, Dobychin treated the colonel with great respect; that is, he shook him personally by the hand, which nearly led Fyodor Fyodorovich’s arm to drop off, because such a thing had never happened to him in all his years of service.

  So it became known that Dobychin had respect for old men after all, and that he was a true general, who would decide everything himself, on the spot.

  The regiment had assembled on the square for his arrival. They took pride in their parades and their band was carefully chosen. The bandmaster himself travelled around as a recruiting officer, searching out French horn players and trumpeters among the hordes of people who had been sent off for military service. He was capable of giving up two strapping Ukrainian lads, brought up on a healthy diet of dumplings and sour cream, to another recruiter in exchange for a sickly Jewish boy who had known the whole truth about the bass clef since childhood. A parade like this would dazzle any general lucky enough to inspect it – so much blood must have been expended on the distillation of cast-iron marches out of living souls whipped into endless ranks.

  Pobedov had unexpectedly regained some of his youth and, as he commanded the sections on parade, his voice rang out around the square. His arms and legs began to resound like ripe watermelons when he suddenly sprang across to the general to offer his salute. And when he had saluted, he did not stand behind the general, as the other lower-ranking regimental officers were doing, but showed the general his back, doing an ‘abo-o-out, turn’ and, thrusting his leg out like a bayonet, marched towards the regiment, which was drawn up at a standstill, where he stood under the colours, in their shade. And it was he who shouted, ‘Forward, ma-a-a-rch!’, stretching out his voice like a bugle call. Many could not hide their alarm, scared that the colonel would knock them all out of step, causing the hitherto serried ranks to fold up like a concertina, but Fyodor Fyodorovich socked it to them so hard that, gasping for breath, the whole regiment set off joyfully behind him, their very own dashing commander. Dobychin patiently watched the whole parade, but remained unmoved. ‘You know how to walk, then … ’ he said, dryly and without warmth, to the colonel who had skipped up to receive his praise, all in a lather. And so another discovery was made: that Dobychin was far from being soldierly by nature since he did not understand and appreciate the beauty of the drill.

  With far greater goodwill, the general took a stroll around the base. He looked into everything, interested by all that he saw. However, a certain glint, albeit tarnished, had crept into his eye. This indicated more clearly that there was nothing for him to do there, as if he had flown in from another world. It must have been a drag for Dobychin to inspect units like these, where he wasted his time for nothing, taking part in contemptible charades arranged on the occasion of his arrival.

  He turned to the colonel and said, part jesting but also with menace (although the latter out of boredom), ‘You had a fire here recently.’

  ‘Yes sir, comrade General, this fact did take place,’ mumbled the colonel. ‘Things burned.’

  ‘Fresh air, was it, that burned?’ Dobychin had grown tired of waiting for a straight answer.

  ‘No sir, it was the lorry park,’ replied Pobedov, great drops of sweat breaking out and pouring, not even like paint, but like his own vivid crimson blood, since the general had stopped right by the lorry park itself. The charred concrete had been scraped away and gnawed at, like a bone. The hangars had been rebuilt, and for a bit of prettiness they had stuck a few trees in the ground. ‘So what was it that burned here?’ exclaimed Dobychin, provoked into anger after all. His exclamation hung in the air, then was suddenly caught up by a sack-like figure holding a briefcase who had been hiding in the shadows behind other people’s backs, but who now began to make his way through the crowd, to widespread alarm.

  ‘Comrade General! It was the truth that burned here, comrade General!’

  Skripitsyn had jumped in and begun swimming through the heads, hitching up his case as if he feared getting the contents wet when a ring of these liquid people caught hold of his shoulders, trying to sink him, but not even a tempest at sea could have stopped this desperate man; he emerged at the general’s feet with such a sorry look, it was as if he truly had spent some time under water. ‘Who on earth is this?’ asked Dobychin, not in fright but surprise.

  ‘This man used to be the head of my Special Department. We even wanted to court-martial him, comrade General … ’ Fyo
dor Fyodorovich hurriedly spoke up, dazed by fear; it seemed to him that his very life was ending. And it wasn’t clear what the general intended when he unhesitatingly gave an order to his officers, who had seized hold of the trembling Skripitsyn: ‘Bring this seeker of truth to me afterwards … ’

  ‘Comrade General –’ Pobedov tried to explain, but Dobychin had once more turned morose.

  When they slowly moved away from that spot, it seemed that the regiment was not being inspected but buried; almost as though in front of them a coffin was being borne along on pall-bearers’ shoulders. Their faces could not have been more mournful and the colonel was clutching at his chest, although Dobychin had begun talking calmly to him, as if seeking explanation for something he had seen. When he found out as they were walking that the old colonel had deliberately discharged himself from the hospital, he even clapped Fyodor Fyodorovich on the shoulder. ‘Well, what did you do that for? You should have made sure you were better … ’