The Town By The Sea tof-3

by Владимир Павлович Беляев Неизвестный Автор

  "Of course, those kulaks didn't like us coming round searching their cellars and taking over their stores. They started shooting at us. And on top of that there were still some foreigners left at the works. John Caiworth and his family had hopped it straightaway, but he'd left his overseers behind. They were still in his pay and they used to get arms from somewhere and smuggle them into the colony secretly at night.

  "Well, one evening we went to the house of a local merchant. Buchilo, his name was. No sooner had we shut the door behind us than we heard footsteps and two of his neighbours came in after us. The Varfolomeyev brothers— kulaks 'from the colony too. Both of 'em were wearing leather jerkins, Kuban hats, purple velvet trousers. And they were both keeping their hands in their pockets. 'Well,' I thinks to myself, 'we're going to have a hot time of it!' I knew almost for certain that both brothers had served under Makhno. Then another came in, one of their servants, by the look of him. Kashket they used to call him, he. . ."

  "Just a sec', Volodya," I interrupted the cabman, "doesn't he work in the foundry now? Wears a red kerchief on his head?"

  "That's the fellow!" Volodya affirmed readily. "Well... I looked round and there's the merchant himself standing by his bed, grinning. He wasn't afraid of a search now that he'd got a body-guard. Well, those Varfolomeyev brothers, his neighbours, stationed Kashket at the door and came up to me. And II was alone, or very nearly. My mate, Kolya Smorgunov, was a smart lad and he knew how to use a carbine,

  but the famine had drained all the strength out of his body. He couldn't even have handled the younger brother. It looked as if I'd have to face the music on my own.

  "Big Varfolomeyev comes up to me and says: 'Well, Volodya, you dirty rat, if you've come to see us, you might as well sit down.'

  " 'Thanks,' I says, 'I think I will.' And I sat down on the edge of a chair.

  " 'Well, give the honoured guests something to eat,' says the older Varfolomeyev to the merchant.

  "And Buchilo comes forward carrying glasses and vodka and boiled bacon. And there are his daughters sitting in the corner, as if they're going to be betrothed. Both of 'em were engaged to the Varfolomeyevs. They were looking very pale—they must have known something was brewing.

  "I looked Varfolomeyev straight in the eye. I felt scared, but I didn't show it, I knew I'd got Soviet power to back me up. Young Varfolomeyev whispered something to Buchilo and I tried to hear what he was saying.

  "And meanwhile, Luska Varfolomeyev pours me out a glass of vodka and says: 'Have a drink, old man!'

  " 'Why should I drink first?' I says. 'Perhaps it's poisoned. Drink it yourself.'

  " 'What do you mean!' Luska hisses. 'Are you scared? And you dare to insult the master of the house! We make you welcome, you dirty tramp, and you...' And he whipped out a knife.

  "I saw what was coming, so I gave Kolya Smorgunov a wink. But instead of taking a pot at him, he smashes the lamp with the butt of his gun! Well, when that happened, I knocked big Varfolomeyev backwards over the table and heard him crash to the floor. The glasses rolled off the table, the girls screamed, and it was black as pitch all round. 'If only the others come soon!' I thought. And II pulled out my Browning to fire at the window. But just then a stool whizzed past my ear. 'Aha,' I think, 'the heavy artillery's gone into action!' And I started crawling towards the door. I could hear someone breathing close by and then I got a whiff of leather. So it was someone in a leather jerkin beside me. 'Here, take that!' I thought to myself. And I lashed out with the butt of my Browning. It landed right on the back of his head. There was a groan from one of the brothers. 'Hold the door, Kashket,' someone shouts. 'We'll show him!' And he lets fly at the ceiling. Then he stopped being shy too and let 'em have it with the Browning, into the corner where the shot had come from... Then there was screaming and firing and a smell of kerosene from somewhere. And Smorgunov shouts out from the door: 'Go it, Volodya, get their guns off 'em! I won't let 'em out!' It was all right for him to say 'get their guns!' There were four of them, not counting the daughters, and I was alone! II went on crawling towards the door. Suddenly I heard someone coming at me and caught the smell of vodka. I crouched down and covered my head with my hand. And just as I did so—zip! Something smacked into my hand!

  "At first I didn't feel any pain, you know. Even though the knife had cut right through the sinews and touched my skull! 'I pulled my hand away and tried to find a handkerchief! But I knew I was in a bad way—my fingers wouldn't 'work. I covered the wound with my other hand and felt the sweat breaking out on my forehead. I began to feel very weak.

  "With the last strength I could muster I yelled out to Kolya Smorgunov: 'Let 'em have it, the kulak blood-suckers, I'm wounded!' And just then Kashket swept the vases off the window-sill, smashed the window with his head and jumped out into the snow. Kolya saw him off with a blast from his carbine. Then our mates arrived. They'd heard the shots and they arrested both the Varfolomeyevs and the merchant. But as for me, I was crippled. I can hardly lift a glass of water. The food was bad in those days and the sinews didn't heal up properly. Even now my hand's sort of paralysed..."

  "Look here, Volodya," Gladyshev asked. "Why does Kashket swank that he got wounded at the front when he was defending Yekaterinoslav from the Whites?"

  "At the front?" Volodya laughed. "Haven't you ever been swimming with him? No? Well, try it when you get the chance. You'll see where the bullet hit him. People don't get wounds like that at the front, except the deserters who try to run away when no one's looking..."

  The dandy we had met in the personnel department strolled past our bench in his long sharp-pointed shoes.

  "Why, there's Zuzya!" Volodya said loudly.

  "Hullo there!" The dandy turned and waved to the driver as he passed.

  "That Zuzya didn't want to take us on at the works!" Petka remarked grimly.

  "Is that so!" Volodya exclaimed.

  "Yes, it is," I said, supporting Petka.

  "Queer!" Gladyshev said. "Surely Zuzya isn't getting uppish? I've been told he's pretty decent towards the working class."

  "Decent!" Sasha cried indignantly. "Why, if it hadn't been for the director of the works... Just listen to this..." And he recounted how Zuzya had spoken to us in his office.

  "A real bureaucrat, lives on red tape!" I put in.

  "And was thinking of asking him for a job in the transport department!" Volodya said.

  "If he'd only explained things, advised us a bit! 'Allez!' he says. 'Go to Kharkov,' " Sasha went on indignantly. "Not like the director! He asked about everything like a human being, tested us on how much we knew... "

  "No flies on our director," Luka said. "You won't find a director like him all the way along the coast, from Sevastopol to Rostov! He's been asked to take over the Ilyich Works and the Ukrainian Trust, but he wouldn't go. 'Let me get this works into shape,' he says. 'I want to introduce proper working methods here and get rid of the legacy the foreigners left us.' It was his idea to raise the foundry roof. 'Let the most harmful shop have the most fresh air,' he says. Haven't you seen the fettling shop we've built since he's been director? It's a lovely sight! In the old days, under Caiworth, people working in that fettling shop used to die of consumption by the hundred. They used to clean the castings in little huts, all the dust used to get in their lungs. But now it's a pleasure to look at. It's light, it's clean, and all the dust is sucked out by pipes... And the pasting he gave those Trotskyites last year! He made their feathers fly all right! Don't try to compare Ivan Fyodorovich with Zuzya, lad."

  "What is he, does he come from the working class?"

  "Ivan Fyodorovich?"

  "No, Zuzya!"

  "He's a footballer," Luka said calmly.

  "What's football got to do with it?" Petka put in.

  "Just this," said Luka. "Zuzya was the best centre forward in the whole of Zaporozhye, but at the Communard Works they didn't think much of him—used to work as la stoker, or something. But our chief engineer, he's crackers on football. He
went to Zaporozhye once and watched Zuzya playing.

  When he saw Zuzya was a nippy fellow, he got him to come here. Of course, as soon as Zuzya arrives, he gets promoted—assistant manager of the personnel department. Now he draws a decent salary, enough to feed himself up for kicking that ball about..."

  "The chief engineer—he's a grey-haired man, isn't he?" I asked cautiously, remembering what Angelika had said about her father.

  "That's him," Volodya affirmed, "your neighbour. Rather a queer chap, but he likes football."

  "His daughter's a good-looker," Petka put in with some satisfaction. "Vasil knows her already. They've been holding hands on the beach."

  "Well, I'm blowed!" Volodya looked at me with surprise and respect. "You're a fast-worker, I see, don't let the grass grow under your feet! But watch your step—if Zuzya gets to know about, he'll break your shins for you. His kick's like a cannon-ball, lad. He can break a cross-bar with one of his shots..."

  Not far away, in the harbour, a ship gave a sharp blast on its siren. Then another, and a third.

  "The Dzerzhinsky's off to Yalta," Luka said.

  We had never seen a real steamer in our lives, only in pictures. I very much wanted to run down to the harbour and watch the ship leave, but Petka would go on trying to take the rise out of me. Nudging Bobir, he asked Volodya: "Is Zuzya a friend of the engineer's daughter?"

  "Sure he is! He's always going round there taking her out on his bicycle. One of the family."

  "I think they must like him because he's a footballer," Luka remarked.

  "You don't mean to say the engineer's daughter plays football?" Petka gasped.

  "She's a football fan! If you ever go to a match, don't sit in front of her," Luka advised, "she'll punch your back till it's black and blue. Football's the only thing she cares about, like her old man."

  "Now, now you're going a bit too far. . ." Gladyshev, who had been silent until now, came to the defence of my acquaintance. "If you ask me, she knows her own mind all right, that girl does. She's read a lot of books. As for being keen on football, what's wrong with that? Who of us isn't! Some go in for pigeons, others prefer football. The chief doctor down at the sanatorium, is he a fan? Of course, he is! The harbour master, Captain Sabadash? Of course! Madame Kozulya? Not half! That one from the dancing-school... what's her name.. . Madame Rogale-Piontkovskaya? Nuts on the game! Even Lisovsky the priest, as soon as there's a match, he shuts up his church and goes off to the ground with his old woman.. . Our town's such a crazy place!"

  Gladyshev had mentioned a name that took me back at once to the old days, in far-off Podolia.

  "That Rogale-Piontkovskaya you mentioned, she isn't a countess by any chance, is she?" I asked.

  "Goodness knows whether she's a countess or not, but she's certainly the queerest fish in this part of the world," Gladyshev replied.

  "Rules the roost up at the dancing-school," Luka added.

  "Well, why are we sitting here, friends, talking ourselves dry?" Volodya exclaimed suddenly. "What about going to Chelidze and having a glass of beer, eh?"

  "We'd better go, hadn't we, Vasil?" Sasha whispered to me. "They'll be offended if we don't."

  "Komsomol members going to a pub?" I thought. "Is that right? On the other hand, our new friends may really think we're too soft for their company, or too tight-fisted! And after all, what's a glass of beer!"

  But my tired limbs had the last say, and remembering that I had to be at work again in the morning, I replied: "We're not sure... Tomorrow..."

  "Don't bother the lads, Volodya," Luka intervened unexpectedly. "They're young, they haven't got used to the work yet. If they aren't careful, they really will oversleep. Let 'em go home! And you, lad," Luka turned to me, "don't be too scared of your mate. He grumbles and barks, but on the whole he's a fair old chap, he's not chasing you for nothing. You'll be all the better for it, tougher!... Well, so long till tomorrow!"

  We parted, and Volodya, who was the first to go out of the garden into the street, struck up a song.

  A few paces from the crowded "Avenue," the town was as deserted and quiet as a village in the middle of the night. The flowers were smelling sweetly, and in one of the garden hedges, just by the road, a quail began to twitter. *

  "Does your sweetheart know you used to play football for the factory-school team, Vasil?" Petka asked slyly.

  "Who are you talking about?"

  "None of that!" Petka chortled. "As if you didn't know!"

  "What's her name, Vasil?" Sasha asked.

  "I've forgotten."

  "He's forgotten already, hear that, Petka?" Sasha mocked. "I think I'd better remind you, as you're so forgetful. An-ge-li-ka! Make a note of it, please."

  "What kind of name is it—An-ge-li-ka?" Petka drawled, revelling in my confusion. "Never heard of it before. Very queer name! Must be foreign."

  "Of course, it's foreign," Sasha said, taking his cue I from Petka. "Why do you think she said 'merci' to us?"

  "Yes, all bourgeois types say 'merci' and 'pardon,'"

  Petka agreed.

  I walked on in silence, listening patiently while my friends ripped my reputation to bits.

  Far out at sea, the red and green running lights of the Felix Dzerzhinsky rose and fell as the ship steamed away round the breakwater. If only I had known then whom that ship was taking across the dark Azov Sea to Yalta!... Had I but known, I should have dashed off to the harbour long ago...

  AT TURUNDA’S

  The more I was drawn into the life of the works, the less I worried about that phrase "you'll catch on." Time flew past quickly land something new happened every day. Today, a few minutes before dinner-time, Golovatsky had come up to my machine. It was strange to see him amid the dust and noise of the foundry in a well-fitting suit— not to mention that tie of his. If I had been secretary of the works 'Komsomol organization, I should have thought twice about appearing in the foundry in such a get-up. Here were men doing physical work, and he turned up looking like a tailor's dummy! But Golovatsky seemed quite at ease as he shook hands with Naumenko and nodded a greeting to Luka and Gladyshev.

  "Come to see your charge, Tolya?" Luka asked.

  "How's he taking to things? Facing up to the job?" Golovatsky replied, and gave me a searching look with his keen grey eyes.

  "Hot stuff! Soon be catching up with Uncle Vasya!" Luka said hurriedly, and picking up a finished mould, darted off with it to the moulding floor.

  Turning to Gladyshev and Naumenko, Golovatsky said: "I told him he'd catch on, but he looked a bit put out when he heard we did our moulding by machine." And with another glance at me, he said confidingly: "Come in and see me at dinner-time, Mandzhura..."

  "You seem to know Golovatsky very well," I said to Luka when the secretary disappeared behind the piled mould-boxes.

  "He's one of us. We brought him up here in the foundry. We accepted him for the Party here, when Lenin died in 1924," Luka said, and I realized that my neighbour was a Communist.

  "You mean Golovatsky used to work in the foundry?"

  "He did that! What are you surprised at? On the cementation furnaces. Until he came, there wasn't a dirtier-looking crowd in the whole works than those cement boys. The rust from the ore even used to get in their hair. You could tell a lad from the cement furnaces a mile away. But now, why, they come away from work clean as you could wish! And why? On Party Committee instructions Golovatsky got the Komsomol members together for voluntary work and they fitted the place up with hot showers and two cupboards for every worker to keep his clean and dirty clothes in. Now, as soon as it's knocking-off time, they're under those showers. To see them going home, when they've washed and put on clean clothes, you'd think they'd been reading books all day instead of casting metal in those furnaces..."

  Luka's words made a deep impression on me. I went to see Golovatsky at the Komsomol office in a friendly mood, not at all expecting him to greet me with a reproach.

  "It's a very good thing that you've caught
on to things and got to know all about machine-moulding so quickly, but why hold yourself aloof from the other young workers?"

  "How do you mean—aloof?" I asked, sitting down on a creaky chair.

  "Well, it's as plain as daylight. Half the chaps simply don't know you yet, they just haven't any idea what sort of a fellow you are. And I don't mean chaps outside the Komsomol. Even the Komsomol members don't know you've got la Komsomol membership card in your pocket. Last time you were in here, you gave me a glowing account of your social work at school and I was very pleased. 'Here's a smart lad come to give us a hand,' I thought..."

  "But I had to get the run of things," I said guiltily, feeling that there was a lot in what the secretary said.

  "You've got the run of things now, I hope?"

  "Yes, I have now..."

  "Well, that's something," Golovatsky said more gently. "And now I'd advise you to set about getting to know all the young workers in the foundry as soon as possible. Find out their likes and dislikes, what they're interested in. . . You see, because of its casting, the foundry is the only shop in the works that often finishes work long before the general knocking-off time. What does that mean? It means that the young fellows in the foundry get more free time than anyone else. But do you find many of them at the metal workers' club of an evening? Very few! It's a disgrace, but unfortunately it's a fact. But at Madame Rogale-Piontkovskaya's hops there are masses of them..."

  It was the second time recently that I had heard that familiar name and I could not help interrupting the secretary.

  "Who is this Madame Piontkovskaya?"

  "A chip off something that's been smashed for ever," Golovatsky said, drumming his long fingers on the top of his desk. "A few years ago she used to run a cafe called The Little Nook.' Then when Madame got tired of paying taxes, she started her own dancing-class. Madame's daughter got married to an Englishman, one of the shop foremen, in the time of the Whites, and went off to London. But her mother's stayed behind, and now she's luring our youth into her net."