I advised him not to waste his strength. Save it for the medical examination. We wouldn’t give him away.
Churilin spread a newspaper on the grass and pulled a few crackers out of his pocket.
We drank in turn, straight from the bottle. The prisoner hesitated at first, ‘The doctor might smell it on me and think it was unnatural…’
Churilin cut him off: ‘And barking and crowing’s natural? Eat some sorrel afterward and no one’ll know the difference.’
The prisoner said, ‘You’ve talked me into it.’
The day was warm and sunny. Light changeable clouds drifted across the sky. Lumber trucks honked with impatience at the railroad crossing. A bumblebee vibrated over Churilin’s head.
The vodka began to take effect, and I thought, ‘God, it’s good to be free! When I’m demobilized I’ll spend hours just walking in the streets. Stop by the café on Marat. Have a cigarette on a bench by the old Duma…’
I realize freedom is a philosophical concept. That doesn’t interest me. Slaves, after all, don’t care about philosophy. Go where you want: that’s freedom!
My drinking companions were chatting easily. The prisoner was explaining, ‘My head’s not in good shape. Plus I’ve got gas… Frankly, they ought to release people like me. Write us off because of illness. The way they write off old equipment.’
Churilin interrupted him again, ‘Head’s not in good shape? Didn’t you have enough sense to steal? Your papers say you’re in for grand larceny. So tell us, what did you swipe?’
The prisoner pretended to brush the question aside, ‘Oh, nothing much… A tractor…’
‘A whole tractor?’
‘Yeah.’
‘How’d you pull it off?’
‘Very simple. At a plant that casts reinforced concrete. I used psychology.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘I walked into the plant, climbed onto a tractor – I’d hooked an empty oil drum on behind – and headed for the guard post. The metal drum made a racket so a guard came out: “Where are you going with that drum?” “On personal business,” I said. “Got the papers?” “No.” “Then unhook it, goddamn it!” I unhooked the drum and drove on. All in all, the psychology worked. Later we disassembled the tractor for parts…’
Churilin clapped the prisoner on the back in admiration, ‘You’re an artist, pal!’
The prisoner humbly concurred, ‘I did win the respect of the people.’
Churilin suddenly stood up: ‘Long live the labour reserves!’
He pulled a second bottle out of his pocket.
By this time the sun had invaded our glade. We moved into the shade and sat down on a felled alder.
Churilin gave the command, ‘Let’s roll!’
It was hot. The prisoner unbuttoned his shirt. On his chest a gunpowder tattoo cried out Faina! Remember those golden days?
Next to it were a skull, a bowie knife and a jar marked POISON…
Churilin was drunk before I knew it. I didn’t even see it coming. Suddenly he was silent and glum.
I knew that our barrack was full of neurotics. Guard duty inevitably leads to that. But Churilin had always struck me as comparatively sane.
He had done only one crazy thing that I could remember. We had taken some prisoners out to fell trees. We were sitting by the stove in a wooden shack, warming ourselves and talking. Naturally, we were drinking.
Without a word Churilin went outside. He got a bucket from somewhere and filled it with crude oil. Then he climbed up on to the roof and poured the fuel down the stovepipe.
The shack filled with fire. We barely got out. Three of us had burns.
But that was a long time ago. Now I said to him, ‘Calm down.’
Churilin reached silently for his pistol. Then we heard, ‘On your feet! This two-man brigade is now under the escort’s command! If necessary, the escort will use arms. Prisoner Kholodenko, forward march! Private First Class Dovlatov, fall in behind!’
I went on trying to calm him down: ‘Snap out of it. Pull yourself together. And put that pistol away.’
The prisoner expressed surprise: ‘What’s all the ruckus about?’
Churilin meanwhile released the safety catch. I walked towards him, repeating, ‘You’ve just had too much to drink.’
Churilin started to back away. I kept walking towards him, trying not to make any sudden moves. Out of fear I babbled something incoherent. I remember I even smiled.
Our prisoner, though, did not lose his presence of mind. He whooped merrily, ‘Time to make my getaway!’
I could see the felled alder behind Churilin. Another step back and he’d trip over it. I bent down. I knew that in falling he might shoot. And that’s exactly what happened.
A shot rang out and branches cracked…
The pistol fell to the ground. I kicked it aside.
Churilin got up. Now I wasn’t afraid of him. I could knock him flat from any position. And I had the prisoner by my side.
I saw Churilin undoing his belt. I didn’t realize what it meant. I thought he wanted to tuck his shirt in.
Theoretically I could have killed or at least wounded him. We were on a mission, after all. In a combat situation, so to speak. I would have been acquitted.
Instead I again made a move in his direction. Good breeding had gotten in my way even back in my boxing days.
As a result Churilin brought the brass buckle down on my head.
Fortunately, I remember everything. I didn’t lose consciousness. I didn’t feel the blow itself, but saw blood dripping on my trousers. So much blood that I had to cup my hands. I stood there and watched it drip.
At least the prisoner knew what to do. He grabbed the belt away from Churilin. Then bandaged my forehead with his shirtsleeve.
Here Churilin, evidently, began to realize what he’d done. He clutched his head in despair and, sobbing, trudged off towards the road.
His pistol was lying in the grass. Next to the empty bottles. I said to the prisoner, ‘Pick it up.’
Now imagine what a picture we made: a wailing enforcer at the head of the procession, followed by a deranged prisoner with a pistol and, bringing up the rear, a private first class with a blood-soaked bandage round his head. A military patrol was coming towards us. A jeep with three soldiers pointing sub-machine guns and a gargantuan wolfhound.
I still can’t believe they didn’t shoot my prisoner. They could easily have sunk a few rounds into him. Or loosed the dog.
As soon as I saw the jeep, I lost consciousness. My volitional centres gave out. And the heat finally took its toll. I only managed to tell them that the prisoner wasn’t to blame. As for who was to blame, they could figure it out for themselves.
On top of that, I broke my arm in the fall. Rather, I didn’t break it, I damaged it. They found a crack in my forearm. That was really unnecessary, I thought.
The last thing I remembered was the dog. Sitting next to me, it yawned nervously, opening wide its lilac jaws…
A wall radio sputtered to life above my head. I heard a buzzing, followed by soft clicks. I pulled out the plug, without waiting for the triumphant strains of the Soviet anthem.
I was suddenly reminded of a forgotten sensation from my childhood. I’m running a temperature and so have been allowed to stay home from school.
I’m waiting for the doctor. He’ll sit on my bed. He’ll look into my throat. And he’ll say: ‘Well now, young man.’ Mama will find him a clean towel.
I’m happy: I’m sick, and everyone feels sorry for me. I mustn’t wash with cold water…
I began waiting for the doctor to appear. Churilin appeared instead. He peeped in the open window and swung a leg over the sill. Then he came towards me. His look was mournful and beseeching.
I tried to kick him in the scrotum. He stepped out of the way and said, wringing his disingenuous hands:
‘Serge! I’m sorry. I was wrong… I repent… Truly repent… I was under the affluence…’
‘Influence,’ I corrected.
‘All the more…’
Churilin took a few cautious steps in my direction:
‘I meant it as a joke… Just for the hell of it… I have no grievances against you…’
‘I should hope not,’ I said.
What could I say to him? What can you say to a guard whose only use for aftershave lotion is internal?
I asked, ‘How’s our prisoner?’
‘Fine. He’s gone bananas again. Been singing “My Land So Vast and Free” all morning. He goes in for his examination tomorrow. For now he’s in solitary.’
‘And you?’
‘And I, naturally, am in the guardhouse. That is, in fact I’m here, but in theory I’m in the guardhouse. A buddy of mine’s on duty right now… I’ve got to talk to you.’
Churilin came a step closer and burst out, ‘Serge, I’m finished, I’m cooked! The Comrades’ Court! Trial’s on Thursday!’
‘Whose trial?’
‘My trial. They say I’ve crippled you.’
‘OK, I’ll tell them I have no grievances. That I forgive you.’
‘I already told them that. They say it doesn’t matter, their patience has run out.’
‘Well then, what can I do?’
‘You’re educated – think of something. Turn the pecker inside out, as they say. Or else those bastards’ll pass the paperwork on to the tribunal. And I’ll get three years in a disciplinary battalion. A disbat’s worse than camp. You gotta help me…’
He screwed up his face and tried to cry, ‘I’m the only son… My brother’s in prison, sisters are all married…’
I said, ‘I don’t know what to suggest. There is one possibility…’
Churilin brightened up: ‘What?’
‘At the trial I’ll ask a question. I’ll say: “Churilin, do you have a civilian occupation?” And you’ll say: “No.” Then I’ll say: “What’s he supposed to do after he’s demobilized – steal? Where are the promised courses in driver’s education and crane operation? Why are we worse than a regular army?” And so on. Other soldiers in the hall will jump in and raise hell. They may even bail you out.’
Churilin brightened up even more and sat down on my bed, repeating, ‘What brains! Now that’s what I call brains! With brains like that you could, in theory, get by without working at all.’
‘Especially,’ I said, ‘if you bash them in with a brass buckle.’
‘That’s behind us now,’ said Churilin, ‘it’s all forgotten… Write down what I’m supposed to say.’
‘I just told you.’
‘And now write it out. Otherwise I’ll get all mixed up.’
Churilin handed me the stub of an indelible pencil. Then he tore off a piece of the wall newspaper: ‘Write.’
I spelled it out: No.
‘What does that mean, “No”?’ he asked.
‘You said: “Write down what I’m supposed to say.” And I’ve written it down: No. In court I’ll ask you: “Do you have a civilian occupation?” And you’ll say: “No.” Then I’ll do my bit about the crane operation courses. And the uproar will begin.’
‘You mean I only have to say one word – “No”?’
‘I guess so, yes.’
‘That’s not very much,’ said Churilin.
‘You may have to answer some other questions as well.’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘But what’ll I say?’
‘Depends on what they ask you.’
‘What’ll they ask me? Roughly?’
‘Well, for instance: “Do you plead guilty, Churilin?”’
‘And what’ll I say?’
‘You’ll say: “Yes.”’
‘That’s all?’
‘Or you could say: “Yes, of course I plead guilty and I am deeply sorry.”’
‘That’s more like it. Write that down. First the question, then my answer. Write the questions the usual way and the answers in block letters. So I don’t confuse them…’
Churilin and I conferred until eleven. The doctor’s assistant wanted to kick him out, but Churilin said, ‘May I not talk to my comrade in arms?’
As a result we wrote an entire play. Complete with dozens of possible questions and answers. What’s more, Churilin insisted I indicate in parentheses: (Coldly), (Pensively), (Confusedly).
Then they brought me my lunch: a plate of soup, fried fish and watery jelly.
Churilin was surprised: ‘Food’s better here than in the guardhouse.’
I said, ‘Would you rather it were the other way round?’
I had to give him the jelly and the fish.
After that, we parted. Churilin said, ‘My buddy in the guardhouse goes off duty at noon. Then some Ukrainian comes on. So I’ve got to be there.’
Churilin walked over to the window. He turned round: ‘I forgot. Let’s trade belts. Otherwise I’ll get a longer sentence for this buckle.’
He took my soldier’s belt. And hung his own on the end of the bed.
‘You’re lucky,’ he said, ‘mine’s made of natural leather. And the buckle has a weld. One blow and a guy’s out cold!’
‘Yes, I know…’
Churilin went back to the window. And again turned round.
‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘I’ll never forget this.’
Then he climbed out of the window. Though he could just as easily have used the door.
At least he didn’t walk off with my cigarettes…
Three days went by. The doctor told me I’d gotten off lightly. All I had was a scratch on my head.
I wandered round the cantonment. Spent hours in the library. Sunbathed on the roof of the woodshed.
Twice I tried going into the guardhouse. Once there was a first-year Latvian on duty. He raised his sub-machine gun as soon as he saw me. I wanted to leave some cigarettes, but he shook his head.
That evening I went by again. This time an instructor I knew was on duty.
‘Come on in,’ he said, ‘you can even spend the night.’
He rattled his keys. The door swung open.
Churilin was playing cards with three other prisoners. A fifth was watching the game while he ate a sandwich. The floor was littered with orange peel.
‘Hi there,’ said Churilin. ‘Now be quiet, I’m just about to get ‘em down on all fours.’
I handed him a pack of Belomors.
‘What, no booze?’ said Churilin.
You had to admire his nerve.
I stayed for a minute and left.
Next morning notices were posted everywhere: Open Komsomol Meeting. Entire Division Invited. Comrades’ Court. Personal Case of Churilin, Vadim Tikhonovich. Attendance Compulsory.
An old-timer walked by.
‘Finally,’ he said. ‘Been getting away with murder… What goes on in those barracks, it’s frightening… The liquor flows till they’re ankle-deep…’
Some sixty people had gathered at the clubhouse. The Komsomol bigwigs were up on-stage. Churilin had been seated off to one side, by the flag. Everyone was waiting for Major Afanasyev.
Churilin looked utterly blissful. Maybe this was his first time in the spotlight. He was gesticulating, waving to friends. He waved to me, too, by the way.
Major Afanasyev went up on-stage.
‘Comrades!’
Gradually the hall settled down.
‘Comrade soldiers! Today we will discuss the personal case of Private Churilin. Private Churilin was sent on a responsible mission with Private First Class Dovlatov. Along the way Private Churilin got blind drunk and proceeded to commit irresponsible acts. As a result, bodily harm was done to Private First Class Dovlatov who, by the way, is just as much of a fuck-up, forgive me, as Churilin… They might have controlled themselves with a prisoner present…’
While the Major was saying all this, Churilin beamed with pleasure. He combed his hair a couple of times, fidgeted in his chair, fooled with the flag. He clearly felt like a hero.
The Major went on: ‘In this quarter alone, Churilin has spent twenty-six days in the guardhouse. I’m not talking about benders – they’re like snow in winter for Churilin. I’m talking about more serious crimes, like fights. You get the sense that for him Communism has already been built. He doesn’t like your look – he socks you in the jaw. Soon everyone will be swinging his fists. You think there isn’t anyone I’d like to take a swing at myself? Anyway, my patience has run out. Here’s the question: Does Churilin stay with us or do his papers go to the tribunal? This is a serious matter, comrades! Now let’s begin! Tell us, Churilin, what happened.’
Everyone stared at Churilin. A crumpled scrap of paper appeared in his hands. He twisted it, studied it and whispered something soundlessly.
‘Tell us what happened,’ repeated Major Afanasyev.
Churilin looked at me in confusion. We’d obviously forgotten something. Left something out of our script.
The Major raised his voice, ‘Don’t keep us waiting!’
‘I’m in no hurry,’ said Churilin.
He looked gloomy. His face was becoming more and more angry and morose. The irritation in the Major’s voice, too, was growing. I had to step in: ‘Why don’t I tell what happened?’
‘As you were!’ shouted the Major. ‘You’re a fine one yourself!’
‘O-oh,’ said Churilin, ‘well… I’d like to… you know… take a course in crane operation…’
The Major turned to him: ‘What do courses have to do with it, for crying out loud? He got drunk, see, maimed his friend, and now he’s dreaming of courses! Perhaps you’d like to go to university? Or study music?’
Churilin glanced at his paper again and said sullenly, ‘Why are we worse than a regular army?’
The Major was choking with rage: ‘How long can this go on? You try to meet him halfway, but he won’t budge! You say “Tell us what happened,” but he doesn’t want to!’
‘There’s nothing to tell,’ Churilin jumped up. ‘Whad’ya want, a fucking Forsyte Saga?1 “Tell us! Tell us!” What’s to tell? The hell I will, bastard. Wanna make me mad? I could run you through, too, y’know!’
The Major grabbed his holster. Red spots bloomed on his cheekbones. His breathing became laboured. Then he pulled himself together:
‘Everything is clear to the court. Session adjourned!’
Russian Short Stories from Pushkin to Buida (Penguin Classics) Page 49