Pavel became pale and began darting around the wrestling dogs. “Get’im,” he kept yelling, kicking Polkan, but Polkan couldn’t tear himself away from Kaukas’ teeth. Then Pavel grabbed a stick and began to hit Kaukas, which was something a dog baiter wasn’t supposed to do, because when the owners wanted to separate the dogs they had to beat their own.
“Mister Pavel,” Lukashka shouted, “Why’re you hitting my dog?”
“Shut up,” Pavel shouted back, hitting Kaukas harder and harder.
“Stop hitting my dog,” Lukashka screamed, trying to take away the stick from Pavel. But Pavel swung around and hit Lukashka on the face with it. Lukashka’s nose began to bleed. He wanted to pull the stick out of Pavel’s hand and hit him back with it but Pavel grabbed his hand and struck him a few more times on the face.
“Mister Pavel,” Lukashka began to cry. “Why’re you hitting me?” He turned around to the kids who had been watching. You’ll witness that he hit me,” he said. “I’m going to complain to the village constable.”
Pavel started to cow the kids. “Have you seen me hitting him?” he asked. “You haven’t, right?”
The kids were scared. “No, we haven’t!” they said running away.
“You little cowards,” Lukashka shouted angrily, smearing the blood over his face. “You’re afraid to testify against a rich man, you! I don’t care, I’ve a witness anyway.”
“And who’s that?” Pavel sneered.
“Him,” Lukashka pointed at me.
Pavel looked at me calmly. “Will you witness?” he asked.
“I will,” I answered in a voice trembling from fear and anger.
“Go on,” Pavel shouted. “Go on. What’re you going to tell the constable?”
“I’ll tell him that you hit Lukashka.”
“Go on, tell him,” Pavel dared. “Go on, tell him, and tomorrow your mother’s going to come to us for flour.”
I turned away from Pavel, not saying anything, Lukashka was silent too. The dogs had stopped fighting; tired and bleeding they lay against each other, licking their wounds. Lukashka jerked the reins of his horse. Pavel swerved to the boundary ridge. The dogs rose and followed their masters; I got off the cart and began walking home.
The rest of the day my ears were ringing with Pavel’s words: “Go on, tell him, and tomorow your mother’s going to come to us for flour!”
2
I didn’t tell Mother anything. At night I dreamt of nothing but dogs. Toward morning I began dreaming that it wasn’t dogs that were fighting but Pavel was hitting Lukashka on the face. Lukashka stares at me with his good eye. “Go, go,” he begs. His face’s all bloody, his nose is broken, but I’m numb from fear. I can’t budge. I see Lukashka creeping up to me, grabbing my hand and my shoulder and whispering, “Go, hurry to the constable.”
I lose my breath from fear. I begin to roll over and over, and then … I woke up. Mother stood beside me, shaking my shoulder. “Go on, hurry to the constable,” I heard her whisper. “The foreman’s here waiting for you.”
In a flash all my sleep was gone. I rubbed my eyes: there was the foreman talking to my father. “You little stinking highness,” he turned to me. “You think the constable’s going to wait for you till you’re good’n ready? Hurry up or he’ll throw you in the klink.”
Mother called me out into the porch. She looked around to make sure that the door was tightly shut behind and told me in an angry, clipped whisper. “Don’t you get it into your head to finger Mr. Pavel. You’ve seen nothing, hear? What’s that one-eyed Lukashka to you anyway? Today he’s a sore mug, tomorrow he’ll forget all about it. But if the Karpukhins refuse us flour, we croak from hunger. Hear?”
I remembered yesterday’s incident very clearly. I was so scared that a chill hit me on the spine. “Mom,” I said, “I’m going to tell only the truth.”
“Which truth?” she asked, drawing her face close to mine.
“That Mister Pavel hit Lukashka.”
Mother’s fist came near my nose. “You daresn’t. I’ll give you the licking of your life, hear? Pavel’s never laid a hand on Lukashka. Never, you hear? And don’t you dare lie to the constable; you sing the truth or else.”
“I’ll tell the truth,” I promised.
“Which one?” Mother asked again.
I had no time to answer. Out came the foreman and led me off to the “Hall,” the villagers’ meeting place. When we walked out into the street, kids began to follow us. Mother, too, followed all the time looking around herself like a thief.
My playmate, Syomka, Pavel’s little boy, crossed our way. Not paying any attention to the foreman, he came close to me and dared with goggling eyes. “You goin’ to squeal on my pappy?”
“I will,” I said, clenching a fist—just in case.
Syomka swung out, as if he was going to hit me. But seeing that he’d get one back right away, he asked instead. “You want me to rap you on the mouth?”
“Go ahead,” I challenged. “But you’ll get it back—with interest.”
We were about to grab each other. “Look at these pups,” the foreman laughed, pulling us apart. “You’ll have time for fighting later. We’ve got other things to attend to now.”
The “Hall” was full. The foreman nudged me ahead through the crowd, toward the constable sitting behind a desk. “Here’s your chief witness,” he said, seeming to be talking to the constable and the folks at the same time.
The constable adjusted the sabre hanging at his side and set back the blue-ribboned cap to the back of his head. Then he wrinkled his brow and looked at me sternly. Pavel, sitting next to him, smiled at me gaily and stroked his moustache. “Your Excellency, ask Vaska here, and he’ll tell you that it wasn’t me that hit One-Eye there,” Pavel said, nodding toward Lukashka sitting glumly a little farther away in the corner. “Dogs we sicked, true—but hit him? I never laid a hand on the lad. I’d never smear up a boy’s mug like that, no sir!”
Lukashka stared at the ceiling. His face was swollen; there were black welts round his eyes. The constable screwed up his eyes and although I stood almost next to the desk, he said to me. “You boy, will you come a little closer.”
I made a step closer; my knees buckled under me.
“Were you in the fields with Lukyan at lunchtime yesterday?” the constable asked.
“I was,” I said.
“Who else was there?”
“Mister Pavel here …”
“And what were you doing there?”
“Sicking dogs,” I said.
“Then what?”
“Then?” I repeated and looked back for some reason. I saw my mother; she began to blink her eyes and shake her head so hard that I forgot what I’d wanted to say.
“Well, come on, talk,” the constable insisted.
“Then …” I began, stepping from foot to foot. “Then … Then …” No words came out. When I had pointed at Mr. Pavel, I saw him draw his brows together so hard and toss his head so fiercely that I’d forgot the tongue in my mouth. The folks behind began to make loud noises. “Talk, talk,” they asked me.
“Quiet,” the constable roared. “Then what?” he turned to me again. “Tell the truth, did Pavel Karpukhin hit Lukyan or was it Lukyan himself that fell and hit his head against the plough. You tell the truth, boy!”
“Constable, Sir,” Lukashka shouted angrily, jumping up from the bench, “this is not the way to make an inquest.”
“Don’t you try to teach me,” the constable reddened on the face. “You know what you may get for this?”
“I’m not trying to teach you, Sir,” Lukashka answered. “I’m only trying to say you shouldn’t scare the boy. Vasya,” Lukashka turned to me, “tell the truth, Vasya. How it was, what you saw—don’t be afraid, nothing’ll happen to you if you tell the truth.”
“Sure,” Pavel boomed. “Nothing’ll happen …”
“Nothing’ll happen if you tell the truth,” I heard people buzzing behind me. “He, our little V
aska’ll never tell a lie,” I heard my mother’s voice trembling with tears. “He alway’ tells the truth.”
“Come on, talk,” the constable kept insisting while at the same time scribbling something on a piece of paper.
They were asking me to tell them the truth and I didn’t know which truth to tell them—the real truth, that Pavel had given Lukashka a beating? Whenever I opened my mouth to say it, my eyes met with Mr. Pavel’s frowning face and I heard those words ringing in my ears: Go on, tell, and your mother’ll come tomorrow for flour. Should I tell them that Lukashka fell and hit himself on the plough? Lukashka’s reproachful eyes, his beat-up face met my eyes and made me feel ashamed of myself. Which kind of truth was the truer, I asked myself?
I looked at the villagers gathered in the room, at the kids, and at Syomka, who had asked if I was going to squeal on his pappy. Syomka showed me a fist on the sly. I looked back at the constable and I remembered that he was going to move in to be rooming at the Karpukhins; then I heard Lukashka’s pleading voice: Come on, talk, nothing will happen to you if you tell the truth.
“Come on, talk,” I heard Mr. Pavel chime in. “They haven’t hung anyone for tellin’ the truth.”
It was hard for me, a twelve-year-old boy, to decide which kind of truth to tell: The Lukashka kind with its beat-up face, or the Pavel kind that looked like two measures of flour? I remembered how we had been waiting yesterday for our father to come back from the Glazovs; how Mom scolded and how she went to the Karpukhins … I remembered it and not knowing myself I let the words come out, “Mr. Pavel hadn’t hit Lukashka; he fell and cut himself on the plough …”
I said it and broke out in tears. I cried because I thought it wasn’t, me that had spoken but some other boy. I heard a sigh of relief, probably my mother’s, and I heard Pavel’s gay voice, “I’ve been tellin’ you the kid’ll tell the truth.” Then, as if in a dream, I heard my mother’s voice, “My boy’s alway’ been so so much for the truth alway’ …”
From all these words, Mr. Pavel’s, my mom’s, the floor seemed to sway under me. I thought I was falling, and my face began to burn, and my heart was ready to jump out, and my knees began to buckle. I saw the constable writing down something; then I heard him say, “So in other words, it wasn’t he who hit him.”
What else I might have said I don’t know, were it not that I heard Lukashka—One-Eye, as they call him. There was the poor orphan who I loved for the books that he had given me and for so many other things … “Ey, you, you Vasya …” I heard his reproachful sigh …
These words made me ache. I quickly turned around, caught a glimpse of my mother’s happy smile, of Pavel’s happy face, of those wondering villagers and suddenly, surprising everybody in the room, I began to shout out in anger. “No, no, Mr. Pavel did hit Lukashka. He hit him and hit him. He gave’m a bloody nose and all that. He pushed him down and hit him again. It was him, Mr. Pavel. An’ I don’t want your flour, you can keep it. I don’t want it, I don’t …”
Somebody else had begun to shout but I saw nothing until somebody grabbed my hand and pulled me. I felt a burning on my cheek—my mother was slapping me. She had dragged me out onto the street, her face was twisted from hateful fear and anger, she kept slapping me on the face and screaming, “Will you tell the truth, will you, will you …”
I rocked from side to side, repeating like a dummy, “I will, I will, I will …”
Mother kept hitting and hitting me. But the more she slapped, the more stubborn and contrary I’d become. And then I caught her finger with my teeth and bit. Mother ouched and let go of me. I broke away and began to run. I ran through yards, through fields and dove into the hemp.
3
I walked and walked for a long time. I walked through fields, along boundary ridges, in the blooming rye and in the greying oats. I didn’t know where I was going, I just wanted to get away. Whenever I saw lorries I’d hide in the crops; I was still afraid they were coming to ask me for the truth, the kind of truth that brings flour.
Then I got out into the open steppe. It was vast and blue, and covered with stacks of landlords’ hay. I began to feel sleepy. To crawl into one of those stacks, I thought, and fall asleep, and sleep, and sleep …
I remembered Mishka. Why didn’t I go with him? I asked myself. I could hear the low mooing of cows, the baaing of sheep and the ringing neighs of frisky colts. I remembered the herd I was supposed to tend today. It was noontime and the herd was at its water stand at the pond—an old pond with muddy stinking water where we’d stick in the muck up to our knees, and yet whenever we kids took the herd out we’d always go swimming in it.
I went to find them. Old Yefim was there, bent over the wickerwork he was doing and his two helpers were asleep under a willow. Old Yefim didn’t ask me anything and I told him nothing. I watched him for a long while until he took the pipe out of his mouth and asked, “You came?”
“I came,” I said.
“You want to run up and fetch me some wicker?” he asked. I knew exactly what kind of wickers he needed. I cut them up from the osier bushes and took them over to him.
“Well done,” old Yefim praised me. “You want a bite?”
It occurred to me that I hadn’t eaten anything since last night. “Uhhuh,” I said.
“Take some bread. Like as not potatoes are ready in the ashes.”
The potatoes were nice and crispy. The helpers awoke and we drove the herd back onto the pasture. The whole afternoon we looked after the cattle, running after stray cows, shouting and whistling. I completely forgot that Mom was probably looking for me, scolding, not knowing where to find me.
In the evening we brought the herd home into the village. From afar I could see our cottage; Dad walking home stooped from the threshing floor, and Mom waving her arms, going somewhere, then turning to Aunt Maura.
I sneaked into my favorite hut, scrambled onto an old pile or chaff and took out the last piece of bread from my pocket. I had deliberately saved it. A while later, when it became quite dark I heard fast steps outside. My heart jumped at the familiar voice, “Where could that devil’s brood be? Just let me get my hands on him!”
She was still looking for me! I was afraid Mom might take a peek inside where she had surprised me already with a book in my hands. I got out through a hole on the side, crawled on the ground, until I reached the threshing floor. Then I began to run. I ran along field boundaries, then turned onto the street. The dark night made my fears grow and grow. I walked and walked, not knowing where to stop. Lukashka! Why not go to him? I thought.
Lukashka always slept in his master’s barn. “This is my nest,” he’d tell me. I softly opened the door and took a peek. He was still awake. “Is it you, Vasya?” he asked.
“It’s me,” I said. “What’re you doing?”
“Thinking. Can’t sleep.”
“What about?”
“Everything,” Lukashka said, making room beside himself on the bedding. “Come up here, Vasya. Where’ve you been?”
“Everywhere,” I lay beside him and we were silent for a while. “You mean you weren’t home?” he asked me.
“I musn’t go home.”
“Why not?” he asked.
“Mom’ll beat me up.”
“Why should she beat you up?” Lukashka wondered.
“I don’t know why but she will.”
“But I know,” Lukashka smiled.
“You know?” I asked in surprise. “How would you know?”
“How? Easy,” he said.
“Then tell me.”
“It’s because of the truth,” he said.
“The truth! Eh, you’re like all the others,” I waved my hand. “Everybody says you’ve got to tell the truth and nothing’ll come to you. Truth doesn’t burn, doesn’t sting, but …”
“But it depends which kind of truth,” Lukashka laughed. “There’re two, you know. One’s poor, carries a bag; the other’s rich, has a trunk. If you tell the first one, you get it with a s
tick over your paws; if you tell the other one, you get bread into them.”
I thought of the flour and the beating mother gave me. “You’re so right,” I said sadly. “Now there’ll be no flour for us; the bin in the pantry shed’ll stay empty and we’ll croak from hunger.”
“Uh, don’t worry,” Lukashka mutered. He might have been talking to me or to himself.
He woke me up early next morning. “Go on home now, Vasya,” he told me. “I’ve got to go out tilling.”
I rubbed my eyes and scrambled down from his “nest.” I went toward home but then stopped behind the corner of our cottage to watch; mother was driving the sheep out to pasture—her face was smeared, tearful. I thought she was probably awake most of the night, crying, maybe worrying about me, maybe about the flour.
Pavel’s wife had driven the cows out of the Karpukhin yard. Seeing Mother, she stopped and rocked her heavy, pregnant belly. “Ari-ii-nushka,” she chanted loud’n clear for the whole street to hear. “You awlready t’come for the flour? Your bag wide’n roo-oo-my? Ey you miserable beggar woman, you moo-oo-cher. Ever thought of raisin’ your own bread, you good-f’-nothin’ baa-aggars?”
My mother, the champion name-caller and quarreler, didn’t answer a word. She smirked sheepishly and hurried back home. But then, I don’t know whether I gave myself away by leaning out too far, or Mom just happened to take a glimpse in my direction, there she stopped and stared at me. I remained like chained to the ground as she slowly moved toward me, swinging that stick she used to drive out the sheep.
“Wa-al,” she finally shouted. “Get in already, get in. Where’ve you been? What do you care that your mother’s worryin’ to death about you? Wa-al, get in, get in. Hey, you old poop,” she shouted at Dad, “come here and help me catch this brat so I can lay my hands on him.”
Happen what may, I decided, I’m going to walk up to her myself. “Go on, hit me Mom,” I dared. “Kill me, I don’t care, I’m a goner anyway.”
My words might have stunned her. It might have been she was glad inside that I’d come back. She raised her stick as if to hit me, but instead, took a hold of my hair and waved a bandaged finger in front of my nose. “Look what you’ve done, look wha …” Mom groaned heavily and began to cry before she finished the sentence.
Treasury of Russian Short Stories 1900-1966 Page 4