The Complete Works of Isaac Babel Reprint Edition by Isaac Babel, Nathalie Babel, Peter Constantine

by Nathalie Babel, Peter Constantine Isaac Babel

  The Moldavanka aristocrats were jammed into crimson vests, their shoulders encased in chestnut-colored jackets, and their fleshy legs bulged in sky-blue leather boots. Drawing themselves up to their full height and sticking out their bellies, the bandits clapped to the rhythm of the music and, shouting “Oy, a sweet kiss for the bride!,” threw flowers at her, and she, forty-year-old Dvoira, Benya Kriks sister, the sister of the King, deformed by illness, with her swollen goiter and eyes bulging out of their sockets, sat on a mountain of pillows next to a frail young man who was mute with melancholy who had been bought with Eichbaum’s money.

  The gift-giving ceremony was coming to an end, the shamases were growing hoarse, and the bass fiddle was clashing with the violin. A sudden faint odor of burning spread over the courtyard.

  “Benya,” Papa Krik, the old carter, known as a ruffian even in carting circles, shouted. “Benya! You know what? I think the embers have blazed up again!”

  “Papa!” the King said to his drunken father. “Please eat and drink and don’t let these foolish things be worrying you!”

  And Papa Krik followed his sons advice. He ate and drank. But the cloud of smoke became ever more poisonous. Here and there patches of sky were turning pink, and suddenly a tongue of fire, narrow as a sword, shot high into the air. The guests got up and started sniffing, and their women yelped. The gangsters looked at one another. And only Benya, who seemed not to notice anything, was inconsolable.

  “My feast! They're ruining it!” he shouted in despair. “My friends, please, eat, drink!”

  But at that moment the same young man who had come at the beginning of the feast appeared again in the courtyard.

  “King!” he said. “I have a couple of words I need to tell you!” “Well, speak!” the King answered. “You always got a couple words up your sleeve!”

  “King!” the young man said with a snigger. “Its so funny—the police stations burning like a candle!”

  The storekeepers were struck dumb. The gangsters grinned. Sixty-year-old Manka, matriarch of the Slobodka2 bandits, put two fingers in her mouth and whistled so shrilly that those sitting next to her jumped up.

  “Manka! You’re not at work now!” Benya told her. “Cool down!” The young man who had brought this startling news was still shaking with laughter.

  “About forty of them left the station to go on the raid,” he said, his jaws quivering. “They hadn’t gone fifteen yards when everything went up in flames! Run and see for yourselves!”

  But Benya forbade his guests to go look at the fire. He himself went with two friends. The police station was in flames. With their wobbling backsides, the policemen were running up and down the smoke-filled staircases, throwing boxes out of the windows. The prisoners made a run for it. The firemen were bristling with zeal, but it turned out that there wasnt any water in the nearby hydrant. The chief of police, the new broom so eager to sweep, stood on the opposite sidewalk, chewing on his mustache which hung into his mouth. The new broom stood completely still. Benya walked past and gave him a military salute.

  “A very good day to you, Your Excellency!” he said sympathetically. “What bad luck! A nightmare!” He stared at the burning building, shook his head, and smacked his lips: “Ai-ai-ai!”

  • • •

  When Benya came back home, the lantern lights in the courtyard were already going out and dawn was breaking across the sky. The guests had dispersed, and the musicians were asleep, their heads leaning against the necks of their bass fiddles. Only Dvoira hadn’t gone to sleep yet. With both hands she was edging her timid husband toward the door of their nuptial chamber, looking at him lustfully like a cat which, holding a mouse in its jaws, gently probes it with its teeth.

  JUSTICE IN PARENTHESES

  My first run-in was with Benya Krik, my second with Lyubka Shneiweis. Do you understand the meaning of these words? Can you drink in their full essence? On this road to hell, Seryozhka Utochkin3 was missing. I did not run into him this time around, which is why I am still here to tell the tale. Like a bronze colossus, he will tower above the town—red-haired, gray-eyed Utochkin. Everyone will have to scamper through his bronze legs.

  But I must not send my tale down side streets, even if on these side streets chestnuts are ripening and acacias are in bloom. Til start with Benya, and then go on to Lyubka Shneiweis. And that will be that. Then I can say I put the period where it belongs.

  I became a broker. Becoming an Odessan broker, I sprouted leaves and shoots. Weighed down with leaves and shoots, I felt unhappy. What was the reason? The reason was competition. Otherwise I would not have even wiped my nose on Justice. I never learned a trade. All there is in front of me is air, glittering like the sea beneath the sun, beautiful, empty air. The shoots need to be fed. I have seven of them, and my wife is the eighth shoot. I did not wipe my nose on Justice. No, Justice wiped its nose on me. What was the reason? The reason was competition.

  The cooperative store had been given the name “Justice.” Nothing bad can be said about that store. Sinful is he who speaks ill of it. It was run by six partners, “primo di primo” specialists, if anything, in their line. Their store was full of merchandise, and the policeman they had standing outside was Motya from Golovkovskaya. What more do you want? Can you want more? This deal was suggested to me by the Justice bookkeeper. I give you my word of honor, it was a proper deal, an honest deal! With a clothes brush I brushed my body and sent it over to Benya. The King acted as if he did not notice my body. So I cleared my throat and said: “Ready when you are, Benya.”

  The King was having light refreshments. A carafe of vodka, a fat cigar, a big-bellied wife in her seventh or eighth month, I wouldn’t want to lie to you. The terrace was surrounded by nature and wild vines.

  “Ready when you are, Benya,” I said.

  “When?” he asked me.

  “Well, now that you ask me,” I said to the King, “I have to tell you my opinion. If you ask me, the best time of all would be Sabbath night going on Sunday. By the way, none other than Motya from Golovkovskaya will be on guard. We could do this on a weekday, but why turn a nice and easy job into a job that isn’t nice and easy?”

  That was my opinion. And the King’s wife also agreed.

  “Baby,” Benya said to her. “I want you to go take a rest on the sofa now.”

  Then with slow fingers he tore the gold band off his cigar and turned to Froim Stern.

  “Tell me, Grach, are we busy on the Sabbath, or are we not busy on the Sabbath?”

  But Froim Stern is quick-witted. He is a red-haired man with only one eye in his head. Froim cannot afford to give an open answer.

  “On the Sabbath,” he said, “you were thinking of dropping by the Mutual Credit Society.”

  Grach acted as if he had nothing more to say, and calmly turned his one eye to the farthest corner of the terrace.

  “Excellent,” Benya Krik said to him. “Remind me about Zudechkis on the Sabbath, make yourself a note, Grach!” Then the King turned to me: “Go back to your family, Zudechkis. Sabbath evening, I might very well be dropping in at the Justice. Take my words with you, Zudechkis, and get going.”

  The King speaks little and speaks politely. This frightens people so much that they never question him. I left his courtyard and set off down Gospitalnaya Street, turned on Stepovaya, and then stopped to ponder Benyas words. I probed them by touch and by weight, bit down on them with my front teeth, and realized that they had not been the words that I needed.

  “I might very well,” the King had said, pulling the gold band off his cigar with slow fingers. The King speaks little and speaks politely. Who can fathom the meaning of the Kings few words? I might very well be dropping by, or I might very well not be dropping by? Between yes and no, a five-thousand-ruble commission hangs in the air. Not to mention the two cows that I keep for my needs—I have nine mouths at home snatching for food! Who gave me the right to run risks? After the Justice bookkeeper came to see me, didnt he drop by at Bunzelmann
s? And then didnt Bunzelmann run straight to Kolya Shtift? And Kolya is a fellow who is hotheaded beyond belief. The words of the King lay like a stone block across the road where hunger roamed, multiplied by nine. To make a long story short, I whispered a little warning in Bunzelmanns ear. He was going in to see Kolya just as I was coming out from seeing Kolya. It was hot, and he was sweating. “Relax, Bunzelmann,” I said to him. “You’re rushing for nothing, and you’re sweating for nothing! This is my deal, und damit Punktum, like the Germans say!”

  And then the fifth day came. And then the sixth day came. The Sabbath came strolling through the streets of the Moldavanka. Motya was already standing guard, and I was already asleep in my bed, and Kolya was busy working at the Justice. He had loaded half a cart, and was aiming to load another half. Suddenly there was a rumpus in the alley, the clattering of iron-reinforced wheels, and Motya from Golovkovskaya grabbed hold of the telegraph pole and yelled, “Shall I push it over?”

  “Not yet!” Kolya yelled back. (The thing is, the telegraph pole could be toppled when push came to shove.)

  A cart rolled slowly into the alley and pulled up in front of the store. Kolya thought the police were on their way, and his heart tore itself to shreds, because he really hated the idea of the deal going sour.

  “Motya!” he yelled. “When I fire my gun, the pole topples!”

  “Understood!”

  Kolya Shtift went back into the store, and all his helpers followed him. They lined up against the wall and drew their revolvers. Ten eyes and five revolvers were trained on the door, and outside there was the booby-trapped telegraph pole. The youths were bristling with impatience.

  “Scram, you cops, you!” one of the eager youths hissed. “Scram or we’ll finish you off!”

  “Shut up!” Benya Krik growled, jumping down from the loft. “Where d’you see cops, you lunkhead? Its me, the King!”

  A bit more and there would have been trouble. Benya knocked Shtift down and snatched the revolver from his hands. Men started descending from the loft like rain. You couldn’t tell who was who in the darkness.

  “Ha! Interesting!” Kolya shouted. “So now Benya is out to kill me!”

  It was the first time in his life that the King had been mistaken for a policeman. This was worth a good laugh. The gangsters laughed out loud. They turned on their flashlights, splitting their sides with laughter, rolling on the floor, gasping for air.

  Only the King did not laugh.

  “They will be saying in Odessa,” he began in a serious tone, “in Odessa they will be saying the King was tempted by his friend’s earnings.”

  “They will say it only once,” Shtift said. “No one will dare say it twice.”

  “Kolya,” the King continued in a solemn, quiet voice. “Do you believe me, Kolya?”

  And here the gangsters stopped laughing. Each of them was holding a burning lantern, but laughter wormed its way out of the Justice store.

  “What do you want me to believe you about, King?”

  “Do you believe me, Kolya, that I had nothing to do with all of this?”

  And the King sat down sadly on a chair, covered his eyes with a dusty sleeve, and began to cry. This was how proud this man was, he should burn in hell! And all the gangsters, each and every one of them, saw their King crying because his pride was hurt.

  Then the two men stood opposite each other. Benya stood, and Shtift stood. They apologized to each other, they kissed each other on the lips, and they shook hands with such force that it looked as if they were trying to tear each other’s arms off. Dawn was already beginning to blink its bleary eye, Motya had already left for the police station to sign out, two full carts had hauled off what had once been known as the Justice Cooperative Store, while the King and Kolya were still distraught, still bowing to each other, still throwing their arms around each others necks, kissing each other tenderly like drunks.

  Who was Fate hunting down that morning? Fate was hunting down me, Zudechkis, and Fate cornered me.

  “Kolya!” the King finally said. “Who arranged for you to come here to the Justice?”

  “Zudechkis. What about you, Benya? Who had you come here?”

  “Zudechkis!”

  “Benya!” Kolya exclaimed. “Is he to be left alive?”

  “Most definitely not,” Benya said, and he turned to one-eyed Stern, who was chuckling in a corner because the two of us dont see eye to eye. “Froim! You go order a brocaded coffin, and I’ll go over to Zudechkis. And you, Kolya, once you’ve started something you have to finish it, which is why my wife and I would like to cordially invite you to visit us in our home in the morning, to partake of breakfast with us and our family.”

  At five o’clock in the morning—or no, it must have been four, and then again, maybe it wasn’t even four yet—the King entered my bedroom, grabbed me, if you will pardon the expression, by my back, dragged me out of bed, laid me down on the floor, and placed his foot on my nose. Hearing various sounds and so on, my wife jumped out of bed and asked Benya, “Monsieur Krik, why have you taken umbrage at my Zudechkis?”

  “What do you mean, why’?” Benya said, without removing his foot from the bridge of my nose, and tears began to trickle from his eyes. “He has cast a shadow on my name, he has disgraced me before my companions, you can bid him farewell, Madam Zudechkis, because my honor is more important to me than my happiness, which is why he cannot live!”

  Continuing to cry, he began stomping on me. My wife, seeing that I was quite distressed, started yelling. This occurred at four-thirty, but she didnt finish with Benya until around eight. She let him have it— oy!—how she let him have it! It was a joy to behold!

  “Why are you angry at my Zudechkis?” she shouted, standing on the bed, while I, writhing on the floor, looked up at her with admiration. “Why beat up my Zudechkis? Why? Because he wanted to feed nine little hungry fledglings? You—ha!—you’re so very grand! The King! The son-in-law of a rich man, rich yourself, and your father rich too! You are a man with the world at your feet! What is one bungled deal for Benchik, when next week will bring seven successful ones? How dare you beat my Zudechkis! How dare you!”

  She saved my life.

  The children woke up and began yelling in unison with my wife. Benya still ruined as much of my health as he knew he needed to ruin. He left two hundred rubles for my doctors bill, and walked out. I was taken to the Jewish hospital. On Sunday I was dying, on Monday I felt better, on Tuesday I took a turn for the worse.

  This is my first story. Who was to blame, and what was the reason? Was Benya really to blame? Let us not try to pull the wool over each others eyes. There is no other like Benya the King! He stamps out lies in his quest for justice—justice in parentheses as well as justice without parentheses. But what are you to do when everyone else is as unruffled as a pickled fish? The others don’t care for justice, and don’t look for it, which is even worse!

  I recovered—escaping from Benya’s hands only to fall into Lyubka’s! I have told you about Benya, and I will tell you about Lyubka Shneiweis. But let us stop here. Then I can say I put the period where it belongs.

  HOW THINGS WERE DONE IN ODESSA

  I was the one who began.

  “Reb Arye-Leib,” I said to the old man. “Lets talk about Benya Krik. Lets talk about his lightning-quick beginning and his terrible end. Three shadows block the path of my thoughts. There is Froim Grach. The steel of his actions—doesn’t it bear comparison to the power of the King? There is Kolka Pakovsky. The rage of that man had everything it takes to rule. And could not Chaim Drong tell when a star was on the rise? So why was Benya Krik the only one to climb to the top of the ladder while everyone else was clinging to the shaky rungs below?”

  Reb Arye-Leib remained silent as he sat on the cemetery wall. Before us stretched the green calm of the graves. A man thirsting for an answer must stock up with patience. A man in possession of facts can afford to carry himself with aplomb. That is why Arye-Leib remained silent as he sat
on the cemetery wall. Finally he began his tale:

  “Why him? Why not the others, you want to know? Well then, forget for a while that you have glasses on your nose and autumn in your heart. Forget that you pick fights from behind your desk and stutter when you are out in the world! Imagine for a moment that you pick fights in town squares and stutter only among papers. You are a tiger, you are a lion, you are a cat. You can spend the night with a Russian woman, and the Russian woman will be satisfied by you. You are twenty-five years old. If the sky and the earth had rings attached to them, you would grab these rings and pull the sky down to the earth. And your papa is the carter Mendel Krik. What does a papa like him think about? All he thinks about is downing a nice shot of vodka, slugging someone in their ugly mug, and about his horses—nothing else. You want to live, but he makes you die twenty times a day. What would you have done if you were in Benya Kriks shoes? You wouldn’t have done a thing! But he did. Because he is the King, while you only thumb your nose at people when their back is turned!