The Town By The Sea tof-3
Page 38
I can see wet chestnut-trees through the window. Their big, broad leaves are drooping dejectedly. The rain has knocked all the blossom out of them and exposed their little prickly pods.
I arrived here last night from Leningrad. When I went to bed, I had made up my mind to go into town and visit the Old Fortress first thing in the morning.
My hostess, Elena Lukyanovna, is a nerve specialist. She lost all her family in Leningrad, during the first winter of the blockade, and after demobilization came to work in my home district. We got talking on the train. The mere fact that we had both lived for ten years in Leningrad at once drew me towards this thoughtful, prematurely grey-haired woman in a green army tunic with the marks of shoulder-straps that had only recently been discarded. My father had suffered the same fate as her parents. Not long before the war he had come to Leningrad from Cherkassy to work at the Printing-House. He died in my arms of starvation, in December 1941.
"I'm afraid you won't find anywhere to live," said Elena Lukyanovna towards the end of the journey. "The town's just a heap of ruins... If you like, you can stay with me." Since I had no longer any relatives in the town, I gladly accepted her invitation.
And overnight it started raining. The rain is still pelting down now, although it is four o'clock in the afternoon and high time I went out to see the town I have not seen for over twenty years.
When Elena Lukyanovna went out to the hospital, I asked her if she could let me have something to read.
"All my books are about medicine," she said. "My library hasn't arrived yet.. . But there are some books and magazines up in the attic. They've been there ever since the occupation. Have a look through them. Perhaps they need burning."
And now for two hours I have been turning the gaudy pages of Die Woche, Signal, and other Nazi magazines. Hitler's frenzied face glares at me from every page—meeting Mussolini, receiving the Spanish ambassador, admiring Warsaw destroyed by German bombs. Petrified ranks of Hitlerite troops line the deserted squares, banners with the sign of the swastika wave over the stricken city. . . But what is this?. .
I pull a heavy bundle of newspapers out of the bottom of the basket. Its title, the Podolian, sends my thoughts racing back to the days of my childhood. The Russian newspaper that was published in our provincial town in the time of the tsar used to be called the Podolian. But why is it in Ukrainian?
I look for the date: 1942. As I turn the pages of this Nazi Podolian, I seem to see the invaders' chronicle of the war turned inside out. I see Hitlerites driving through the deserted streets of Kiev, I read the screaming head-lines about the inevitable fall of Leningrad and Moscow, and other Nazi announcements. One reads them now with the laughing contempt that one feels after a bad dream. And suddenly a familiar name leaps to my eye—"Grigorenko." I read hastily: "On the 12th of this month, by order of the District Commissar Baron von Reindel, a Ukrainian Committee was set up in the town. It is composed of the following persons: Evgen Vikul, Tser (interpreter), Yuri Ksezhonok (chairman of the committee), Kost Grigorenko. The committee will supervise collection of taxes and help the German authorities to levy contingents. The committee is an organ of the District Commissar and acts under the Commissar's orders."
Grigorenko! The Petlura boy scout, the doctor's son, serving Petlura and the Germans! So this was where he had turned up again!
"I see you've found an interesting pastime?" Elena Lukyanovna says entering the room.
"I've just traced some old acquaintances, Elena Lukyanovna, and there are one or two whom I wish I had handed over to justice when I was young."
"Yes, I met some old acquaintances today, too," Elena Lukyanovna replied, missing the point of my remark. "One of them was a boy from Siberia, Dima. He was wounded in the fighting' when our town was liberated. He's a very difficult case. For over a year now he hasn't been able to say a single word. We've got to decide whether to operate on him or not," she went on, seeming to think aloud as she took off the hospital gown she has been wearing under her great-coat. "Today I called up Lvov and asked them to send a consultant. There's an old friend of mine working there, a professor of neuropathology from Leningrad. . ."
" 'I called up a professor in Lvov!' " I repeated. "It sounds so simple nowadays, Elena Lukyanovna. But if only you knew how much that phrase means to a person like me, who was born here! It sums up the immense changes that have taken place in the Ukraine. Twenty years ago Lvov was very far away from us, like Paris, London, or Madrid. Now it will take your professor only two hours to fly here."
"Yes, not more than that," Elena Lukyanovna agreed.
It is the second morning of my stay. I open my eyes. Good! Blue sky is shining through the window and the dark green leaves of the chestnut-trees, still dripping with last night's rain, are looking up to greet the sun.
I dress quickly and dash off to the town.
Weeds and flowers are sprouting everywhere from the stone walls at the side of the road. Rattling the old tin cans that have been tied round their necks instead of bells, the goats are having a fine time in this profusion of green. That is familiar enough, I remember that from the days when I was a boy.
But I can't understand why the road leading down to the New Bridge is overgrown with weeds. Surely people still drive over these cobble-stones! This used to be the main road through town to the Dniester.
A sorry picture confronts me as I reach the cliffs. All that remains of the beautiful New Bridge are the tall stone piles at the foot of which the Smotrich gleams in the sunlight. They are spanned by a narrow wooden strip whose planks creak and sag underfoot.
No one crosses the bridge now. Nearly all the buildings of the old town perched on its high cliff above the river are in ruins.
With great difficulty I guess from the shattered walls what part of the town I am in. This must be Post Street. That's where we used to buy scraps of sausage on the days we received our factory-school grants...
And over there, that's where the Venice Restaurant used to be, where Monus Guzarchik held that rowdy party after his grandmother died...
Where is he now, our rowdy Monus, "non-Party" man, builder of electric locomotives? The last letter "I had from him was in 1940, when I was in Leningrad. Guzarchik wrote me that he was chief foreman at the Kharkov Locomotive Works, and sent me a booklet about his method of converting plants to assembly line production. . .
Many of the cottages round the huge Stephen Bathori Tower look as if they had been struck by a hurricane.
The tower was" built here on the orders of a Hungarian king, the usurper of the Polish throne who was seeking to conquer the Ukrainian lands of Podolia. And in 1943, (I heard this from Elena Lukyanovna), the Hitlerites shot more than seven thousand of the finest people in Hungary, who had refused to help the German invaders. The Gestapo officials had been afraid to slaughter them in Budapest, so they sent them to their death in this little Ukrainian town. Not far away I noticed the ruins of the building where Shipulinsky's cafe with its broad windows used, to stand. I remembered how I had invited Galya Kushnir to that tempting cafe. There we sat, Galya and I, chatting and sipping our coffee like grown-ups, when Father on his way home from the print-shop glanced in and saw us. The trouble I had then!...
And where is Galya Kushnir now? She and I were separated by the war. I received my last letter from her in the spring of 1941, from Odessa. She wrote that her thesis for a degree in history had been successful, and that she was continuing her studies on the history of the Black Sea Straits. Had she managed to get out of Odessa in time? And would I ever meet her again, my first love, a working girl who had become a historian?
As of old, a few women were selling flowers by the low wall at the entrance to the fortress bridge—red, white, and yellow peonies, bunches of wild daisies, bright-red poppies...
A stocky, broad-shouldered lieutenant-colonel standing with his back to me was buying flowers. He took the women's bunches in armfuls and carried them to the seat of a light army truck. From the number of petrol ti
ns in the back of the truck I guessed that the lieutenant-colonel and his driver had come from afar and were just as much chance visitors to this town as I.
What does he need all these flowers for, I wondered, then looking up and noticing the Old Fortress towering above me, I at once forgot the soldiers.
The fortress still stood there on its steep cliffs guarding the entrance to the town from east, south, and west, just as it had for centuries. Its thick stone walls built in ancient times, strong and indestructible as the grey weather beaten cliffs on which it stood, had often saved the inhabitants of the town from enemies.
As before the square and round watch-towers with their narrow embrasures and pointed moss-grown roofs rose above the zigzagging walls of the first ring of fortifications. Green tree-tops could be seen peeping over the fortress walls. Big bushes of honeysuckle and pink heather grew on the edge of the cliffs, their roots firmly embedded in the stonework that Turkish cannon-balls had never shaken.
By the wide-open gates hung a red notice-board that seemed to have been put up only recently: Historical Reservation and Museum.
Deeply moved and excited I walked under the arch of the fortress gates.
"Our fine, dear, old lady!" I thought, surveying the fortress. "Neither time, nor the Turks, and not even Hitler's bombs could destroy you. As you have stood for centuries, an invincible stronghold on the south-west border of Podolia, you still stand, bringing joy to our people and striking terror into the hearts of the enemies that have been driven for ever from our ancient Ukrainian soil!"
As soon as I entered the grassy yard, however, I realized that even our old lady had suffered pretty badly in the' recent battles.
The watch-towers, whose loop-holes looked out on all sides, were riddled with shell-holes. The roof of the Ruzhanka Tower had disappeared altogether. The Commandant Tower was a heap of rubble. But the fortress, evidently a museum now, had been restored. Its new window-frames and fresh plaster work told me that the building had been raised from the ruins only recently.
. The noise of a car made me turn round. The same army truck with its array of petrol cans came into view. Apparently the lieutenant-colonel who was so fond of flowers had decided to look over the museum.
I saw the truck pull up near the guard-house, and turning away followed a narrow path that led to the green ' bastion behind the Black Tower.
But in vain I sought for the grey marble obelisk that had been erected' to Timofei Sergushin, the Bolshevik who had been shot by the Petlura bandits a quarter of a century ago.
Enemies and traitors in their hatred of Soviet power had tried to destroy the memory of that fine man, the first Communist to enter our little cottage in Zarechye.
But in the thick grass under the Black Tower I found a piece of marble bearing the last word of the inscription that had been written over the grave.
The base of the obelisk—a simple square of stone—was still there, so was the grave-mound. The hump of earth under which lay Sergushin's remains was thickly carpeted with periwinkle.
I stopped by the mound and my memory carried me back to those far-off days when Soviet power had only just been established in Podolia.
I remembered the evening after Sergushin had been shot, when Weasel and I and Petka Maremukha had come to this spot. In accordance with Cossack custom, Weasel had spread a red flag over the grave-mound and we had sprinkled fragrant lilac branches over it. Over the murdered man's grave we had sworn that evening to stand up for one another, like true friends, and to take vengeance on the enemies of the Soviet Ukraine for the murder of one of its finest sons.
I stood there lost in thought, my head bowed over the unkempt grave, and the words of Sergushin's favourite song came clearly to my mind:
This song that I sing would soar up like a lark
But a heart full of sorrow has given it birth.
Like a bird in a cage it rings out in the dark,
Borne down by the weight ofthe earth...
And soon, very soon, never sung to the end,
In the twilight ofautumn this song will fall still,
And replacing myself in the mine, a new friend
Will finish my song, yes he will!
Lost in thought, I did not notice that someone else had come up to the grave until crimson peonies scattered into the thick grass.
The stocky, broad-shouldered lieutenant-colonel was sprinkling flowers over Sergushin's grave, paying no attention to me at all. I glanced at him closely, and suddenly, under the stubbly beard that fringed his sunburnt face, I recognized the familiar features of Petka Maremukha... "Comrade..." I began excitedly.
Turning at the sound of my voice, the lieutenant-colonel at first looked at me very sternly, almost with annoyance, then his face changed suddenly and he shouted: "Vasil!... Good old friend!..."
Half an hour later we were sitting on the dewy grass under Karmeluk's Tower, deep in conversation.
Maremukha's driver, a red-cheeked tank corporal, spread out a cape-tent on the grass and piled it with good things. "But look here, Vasil," Petka interrupted me, "why didn't you answer my letters when you were in Leningrad? I bombarded you with them. I even wrote to the staff department of that aircraft factory you were working at. Where's your engineer Vasily Mandzhura, I said. And they just wrote back once that you'd been sent off on a job, and nothing more. Where did you get to?"
"They sent me to the Bolshevik Works..." At. that moment we heard an old man's voice behind us: "Comrades! Aren't you ashamed of yourselves! This is a historical reservation, and you scatter your rubbish about here!"'
We swung round at the sound of the voice, as if we had been schoolboys caught here by the care-taker in the old days.
On a mound close by stood a grey-haired old man in an old-fashioned canvas blouse with a black bow-tie and gold pince-nez. He had appeared silently, like a vision from one of our childhood dreams, and the mere fact of his appearance had made us a good quarter of a century younger.
Were it not for the old man's familiar pince-nez, we might not have recognized him as Valerian Dmitrievich Lazarev. But he. it was—our favourite history master and the first head-master of the Taras Shevchenko People's School. Leaping to his feet, Petka brought up his hand in salute. "Our deepest apologies, Valerian Dmitrievich! We were so excited we forgot where we were. This rubbish shall be removed at once."
"I beg your pardon! But how do you come to know my name?" Lazarev responded, obviously a little confused as he stepped down from the mound.
How could he have recognized in this grizzled officer with medal ribbons on his chest that short little chap who had once run barefooted after a lot of other little boys with a lantern, all of them longing to go down the underground passage!
Lazarev had seen thousands of pupils like him in his many years as a schoolmaster—could he remember them all!
"How do you know my name?" Lazarev repeated, planting himself in front of Maremukha.
Then I intervened: "
"When shall we be going down the underground passage with you again, Comrade Lazarev?"
"Just a moment!.., What's all this about?" The old man took off his pince-nez and wiped them with his handkerchief. "You aren't from the regional education committee, are you, comrade?"
"I'm from the Taras Shevchenko People's School, Valerian Dmitrievich. And so is the lieutenant-colonel. We both left in 1923. You haven't forgotten us, have you?"
And with these words I warmly embraced our old head-in aster.
We had talked of many things. . . "You want to know about everything that happened here?" Lazarev asked, rising from the cape-tent. "Let's make it a demonstration lesson then. I think the last one was about the rebel, Ustim Karmeluk, wasn't it?"
"Quite correct, Valerian Dmitrievich!" Petka rapped out in military style. "Remember how we found those fetters of one of Karmeluk's or Gonta's friends..."
"Those fetters are still in the museum today," Lazarev said. "Now I'm going to tell you about some other heroes of th
e struggle against the oppressors of the Ukrainian people.... But just tell me this to start with, Colonel," Lazarev glanced slyly over his pince-nez at Maremukha," "do you know what the general military situation was in this area in the early months of last year?"
"More or less," Maremukha replied evasively. "In that case you'll be able to help me out if I go wrong."
And he began his story.
"When Soviet troops captured Volochisk in March 1944, the Nazis lost the direct railway to the West. Then all their forces that were left in the Podolia bag made a dash in this direction. Thus the Soviet forces had to cut off the Hitlerites way of retreat through our town into Bukovina and the Western Ukraine. At the beginning of March the Soviet artillery ripped open the German defences at Shepetovka. The tank forces of Generals Lelushenko, Rybalko, and Katukov poured through the gap in an offensive that was heading South, towards the Dniester... What are you smiling at, Maremukha? Have I said something wrong?"
"I'm smiling because I had something to do with the offensive you mentioned," Petka said quietly. "I served with Lelushenko."
"Oh, you did, did you, you rascal!" Lazarev exclaimed. "I suppose it was you who put up such a fight here? Come on, out with it!"
"No, not here—over there!" Maremukha pointed to the North-West. "We took Skalat."
"Well, listen to me then," Lazarev went on reassured. "After you had captured Skalat, a tank brigade of the Urals volunteer corps was sent here..."
"Yes, they were Guards, weren't they?" 'Maremukha added. "The tanks of that corps were the first to break through into Lvov, and it was them who saved Prague from destruction."
"You're probably right," Lazarev agreed. "When our forces struck in the direction of Ternopol, this brigade was given the task of paralysing the enemy's rear by cutting through Gusyatin, Zherdye, Orinin, and capturing our town... And then what happened, my lads..." At this point Lazarev's voice trembled and he spoke more quietly, pausing now and then to take deep breaths. "On the twenty-fifth of March 1944, the inhabitants of Podzamche, for the first time after two and a half years of Nazi occupation, saw Soviet tanks! They wept for joy, they rubbed their eyes and thought it was a dream. . . I wept too, my boys, like a child, when one of those tanks stopped in the village where I was hiding from the Hitlerites.