Random Acts of Heroic Love

by Danny Scheinmann

  He looked me in the eye; he was willing me to back him up. But I thought my accent would give me away, so I contradicted him. ‘That’s not the case,’ I said, ‘I found him in the ditch. We talked and I am sure that he is not a communist.’

  ‘And where are you from, frontovik?’

  ‘I’m from the Ukraine.’

  ‘Is that so? You don’t look like a Slav.’ The Ataman stroked his beard, ‘And what’s your name, frontovik?’

  ‘Sergei,’ I said quickly.

  ‘Sergei what?’

  The only Russian names that came to my head were Pushkin, Tolstoy and Lermontov, all of which I had read in prison. The Cossacks didn’t look like literary types so I plumped for: ‘Sergei Lermontov, Sergei Alexandrovich Lermontov.’

  The Ataman did not bat an eye. ‘So, Sergei, if you are from Ukraine what are you doing here in the Urals?’

  I was beginning to unravel. ‘It’s a long story. My mother is Kazakh and my father is Ukrainian, for many years we lived in Ukraine, but when my mother’s sister fell ill we decided to move out here to look after her.’ It was a story I had heard on the road, but no sooner had the words left my lips than they seemed to lose all credibility. A man will say anything to save his life. I could not tell whether he believed me.

  ‘So, Sergei the Kazakh from Ukraine, what do you think should be done with traitors?’ the Ataman asked.

  ‘They should be shot,’ I asserted.

  ‘Is Lev a traitor?’

  ‘No, he’s too old to fight.’

  ‘Is he indeed, and what of these men?’ he said, pointing at the two greybeards in his company.

  ‘They are trained. They can fight.’

  ‘Mmm. Tell me, Lev Borisovich, is Sergei a patriot?’

  ‘He is,’ Lev said.

  ‘Then both of you lie. A deserter is always a traitor. And a patriot should kill a traitor, or be branded a traitor himself. Is not that the case?’ the Ataman said, in that gentle voice which he had used earlier as a precursor to violence.

  Neither of us knew what to say.

  ‘Well, friends, I have reached a decision on this day of sport. You are both liars, but to kill you both would be no fun, so in my infinite mercy I will let one of you live.’ The Ataman paused and eyed us each in turn. ‘Well, aren’t you going to thank me?’ he roared.

  ‘Thank you,’ we mumbled obediently.

  ‘The problem is I don’t know which is the bigger liar, so I will let you decide. Our entertainment shall be to watch. Andrei, Nikolai . . . give them your swords. Let them fight to the death. The winner will go free . . . No, on second thoughts let them use their hands.’ The Ataman gesticulated and the Cossacks dismounted, tied their horses off and formed a circle around us. They were jeering and spitting. I looked at Lev Borisovich, with his face in shreds and his left arm hanging limply by his side, and I felt a great burden pressing down on my shoulders, as if God and heaven had come tumbling down on top of me. We had been cast as animals in a theatre of cruelty, thrust into a moral vacuum from which there was no escape.

  Lev turned to the Ataman and said feebly, ‘What chance have I against this soldier? I am already wounded; I think my arm is broken. If I die will you give your word that you will leave my family in peace?’

  ‘What, and rob you of your reason to fight? I will give no such guarantee. No, no, if you lose, your three lovely girls will be ours. Isn’t that right, boys?’ The Cossacks cheered and began to chant my new name – ‘Sergei, Sergei, Sergei’ – but the Ataman cut them short. ‘However, I am a fair man, so to account for your age and injuries I will give you a sword after all. Andrei!’ Andrei unsheathed his sabre and gave it to Lev. The Ataman grinned and ran his dirty fingers through his matted beard. ‘No more horse trading, let the scrap begin.’

  We stood there for a moment, staring at each other. Lev felt more like my friend than my enemy, for we were in this nightmare together. We had no desire to hurt each other. But Lev would fight for his family and I for my future. The Ataman had decided that the two could not coexist. There could be no winner.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Lev whispered as he lifted the heavy sword in his right arm.

  ‘If you win, I forgive you,’ I said.

  ‘Likewise,’ he replied, and suddenly he thrust at me, but there was no vigour in him and I side-stepped the blade easily. It brought hoots of derision from the Cossacks and spit rained down on us. I trotted round the edge of the circle and picked up a couple of large stones. Lev turned to face me once more. He wiped the blood from his eyes, cleared his throat and limped towards me. I threw one of the stones as hard as I could, and he did not even attempt to dodge the missile, for there was nothing nimble about him. The rock hit him in the ribs and he howled in pain. I threw the second but it sailed past his ear towards the youth, who ducked and hissed at me. The others laughed and teased the boy.

  Lev swung at me; I stepped back but the tip of the blade caught the top of my leg and drew blood. There was an intake of breath from the crowd, followed by calls of ‘Come on, Sergei.’

  Lev swung again but lost his balance and followed the sword to the ground. I dived on top of him and pinned his right arm to the ground. I squeezed his wrist and tried to force the sword out of his hand, but he would not let go, so I grabbed another rock and brought it down on his hand. The sword fell from his fingers. He flailed hopelessly beneath me, but I could feel that he was spent. I lifted the rock again and smashed it down on his disfigured head, and a splatter of blood hit my face. I rolled off him and picked up the sword. He was in a pathetic state as he staggered to his feet. I made one sharp thrust towards his stomach, which he could not block, and felt the blade enter him. He slumped to the earth clutching his belly and looked up at me, waiting for me to finish him off. One swift blow to the head would have done it. I took a deep breath, and lifted the sword above my head ready to swipe, but I couldn’t do it. I turned to the Ataman and said, ‘He’s finished. I’ve won.’ I threw the sword down into the dirt.

  ‘Kill him,’ the Ataman shouted. The words echoed round the circle. Then there was a piercing scream from Lev, and suddenly the Cossacks were yelling at me to watch my back. I half-turned and saw that Lev had picked up the sword, and with the last of his strength was charging towards me. It was too late; I couldn’t get out of the way. Time slowed down and for a split second I thought I would die, but Lev brushed past me and planted the sword in the Ataman’s neck, puncturing it deeply. All hell let loose. Some of the Cossacks tore into Lev with their swords, hacking him to pieces. Others drew their guns and peppered him with bullets. The two greybeards were frantically trying to save their leader. No one was paying any attention to me so I ran as hard as I could into the bushes. I expected them to come after me but they never did. After half an hour or so I stopped in the woods and waited for nightfall. I had left my rucksack by the brambles and in it was my axe, mess tin and everything I owned. I had no choice but to go back and find it. I scrambled back through the trees and shrubs until I found the track. There was no sign of the Cossacks but the remains of Lev Borisovich were scattered across the way. It was dark and I could only make out shadows of flesh and bone. I found my pack and stumbled back into the woods.

  From then on, I walked only at night, I steered clear of all pathways and avoided contact with people. It was several days before I realized that I had left my papers in the dirt. I actually had no idea where I was going. I followed the stars and walked in a westerly direction over the Urals, but that was all I knew. I didn’t even know who was winning the war or where the various armies were camped. Food was hard to come by and I often went hungry. Occasionally I caught a squirrel or a rabbit at dawn but generally I survived on nettle soup, boiled dandelion and mushrooms. I made tea from mugwort leaves and scraped fungus from the trunks of elder trees.

  The temperature was dropping rapidly. I had left Sretensk twenty months previously, my shoes were worn right down and I was unable to rid myself of the cough I had got working in the mine
. It was raining, always raining. It was hard to navigate by night. At one point I slipped in the red mud, and bruised myself on a rock, but when I looked again I realized it was not a rock but a man’s head. Then I saw another and another; I clambered over them trying to get away but the sea of bodies seemed to extend for some way. The rain had churned up a mass grave or a battlefield, and to this day I don’t know whether they were Reds or Whites.

  One morning in mid-November I arrived at the banks of a great river. I had reached the Volga.

  24

  AH, DOVID, HAVE YOU GOT BORED WITH YOUR TRAIN? I’M sorry, I can’t play with you. Why don’t you find Mummy? There’s a good boy. Maybe you should go, too, Fischel. Come back later. I’ll just have a little nap with Isaac. Look at the little cherub, so sweet. I’ll miss him. I’ll miss all of you . . . Oh no, I’m sorry, Fischel . . . please don’t cry. I shouldn’t have said that. Listen, Son, I can’t pretend that everything is going to be all right. I wouldn’t be doing you any favours if I did. Soon you’re going to be the man about the house and you’re going to have to look after your brothers and help your mother. You will have to be strong . . . it’s hard, I know, but I have faith in you. Now, if you let me sleep I’m sure I’ll feel stronger later. Don’t worry, I’ll be here a good few days yet. Oh Fischel, come here . . . No? Do I smell so bad you can’t even hug me? Here, take my hanky and wipe your eyes. It’s all right, this one’s clean. Do you want me to carry on? Is that it? You do. Oh dear . . . gone silent again. For you, Fischel, I’d do anything . . . even walk back across Siberia . . . so I’ll carry on. But please be patient with me if I have to stop to catch my breath, or if I have to whisper. Pass me the spittoon . . . thank you . . . now sit down and hear the rest.

  As I stood at the banks of the Volga I could hear distant gunshots coming from the woods to the north. To the south I could see the outskirts of a town emerging in the dawn light. I presumed this was Samara. On the other side of the river was another town rising up the hill.

  I thought about swimming across, but the water was nearly frozen and the river was wide. I would never have made it. What could I do but surrender myself, exhausted and ravenous, to the hazards of the town? As I shuffled down the streets with the heels of my worn-down shoes dragging on the cobbles I passed several attachments of Red soldiers. They were not very well-turned-out but they looked as disciplined and determined as any good army. The latest Bolshevik decrees were plastered on every telegraph post. It looked as if the Whites had lost Samara already. I headed down towards the port, past queues of people waiting to buy butter or kerosene. All I could think of was food and how to get some. I felt around in my pocket; I still had five roubles. There was a bakery near the jetty and a long line of people were waiting patiently outside. I joined the back hungrily. After a couple of hours I wondered whether I shouldn’t cut my losses and go and catch the ferry, but I had got trapped in that strange logic that afflicts people in queues; a logic which dictates that once you’re in a queue you have to stay in it. It may not have moved all day but you become convinced that the minute you leave, it will start moving. And having spent so long there already it would be stupid to have wasted all that time for nothing. Even worse, once you get to the front you will buy something even if you don’t want it because the queuing has to be for something.

  It was four hours before I reached the counter, and then imagine my horror when I realized that the price of a loaf had rocketed from two kopeks to four roubles since the last time I had bought one. So there I am at the front of the queue dithering as to whether I can possibly afford myself the luxury, and the baker is sneering at me, and the people behind me are losing their patience as I ask the price of every roll. And in the end, after some deliberation, I settle for a tiny roll of stale bread which still costs me a precious rouble, and I leave the shop feeling guilty for having bought it, but in five seconds I’ve devoured it in one greedy mouthful, every crumb. And you know what? I feel hungrier than before.

  I made my way to the ferry calculating that I would survive two days in Samara before I ran out of money. On the harbour was a sign that read ‘Saratov crossing’. This confused me. Saratov? Where was Saratov?

  Look on the map, Fischel, you see it? Go down the Volga . . . there, that’s it . . . Saratov is about four hundred kilometres south-west of Samara. I really didn’t have a clue where I was. I must have been in this town, here, on the eastern banks of the river – Pokrovsk it’s called – and as you can see I was still a long way from home.

  Another thing that baffled me was the date on the ferry ticket. It read 2 December. By my calculation it should have been 17 November. Where had the other two weeks gone? I tracked back in my mind to the last time I had seen the date, which was on a newspaper in a shop in Orsk in October. I had bought some paper there so that I could carry on writing to Lotte. It was a futile habit I had never broken. Letters were the engine of my journey and I wrote a few words every day describing my progress, a bit like a diary. The missing fortnight was a mystery to me, I wondered if I hadn’t been walking in my sleep. I didn’t realize that the Reds were already using a different calendar.

  I sat next to a plump elderly lady whose hair was wrapped in a bright woollen headscarf. At first she eyed me suspiciously: I must have looked a dreadful mess. I was scrawny, dirty and malnourished, my beard was long and scraggly. But once I had spoken politely to her she softened and then nothing could keep her quiet. She had two large baskets at her side; one was filled with onions, the other held a rabbit, its stiff legs awkwardly hanging over the edge. She was delighted with her acquisitions. Finding food had apparently become a national sport. She said she knew of a peasant woman out in the country who had a good supply of onions. She had got up at four in the morning, crossed the Volga, and walked for three hours to her village, and once she had got there she was doubly rewarded when she came across a man selling rabbits. She was going to cook up a rare old feast for her family. She was a keen gossip and as we crossed the Volga she warmed my ear with news and rumour. Most significant was the news that General Kolchak had proclaimed himself the Supreme Ruler of Russia or at least White Russia and that the Central Powers had lost the war. The monarchies of central Europe had crumbled. What turmoil my country must have been in! And yet, despite my concern, the news filled me with hope that I would soon be home.

  There was a man begging on the quayside in Saratov. He was perhaps ten years older than me and noteworthy for his old Austrian greatcoat and flap-eared hat. Despite the shabby state of his clothes there was a certain straight-backed elegance about him that seemed incongruous. He sported a distinctive handlebar moustache – a table for his large Roman nose to rest on – and his fingers were unusually long and thin. As the passengers disembarked he spoke politely to each one in turn: ‘Tovarich, please, one two kopek. Some food. Please, tovarich.’ No one paid much attention to him. It was clearly a sight to which they had all grown accustomed. He earned a single rotten potato for his efforts. I waited for everyone to go before approaching him.

  ‘Tell me, friend,’ I said to him in German, ‘what are you doing here?’

  He eyed me mistrustfully, ‘The same as all the others.’

  ‘You’ve been released?’

  ‘Weren’t you?’

  ‘No, I escaped from Sretensk.’

  ‘Where’s that? Siberia?’

  I nodded. He grinned broadly, grabbed my hand and shook it warmly. ‘Well done, old boy, I’m Oskar Schmidt.’

  ‘Moritz Daniecki.’

  ‘Been here long?’

  ‘First day in Soviet territory.’

  ‘Crikey, you’re in for a shock. Come follow me, there’s no point hanging around here, next boat’s in two hours.’

  He led me away from the docks towards the town. I felt deeply uncomfortable walking down a busy Russian street talking in German, but Oskar seemed unconcerned.

  ‘So the Bolsheviks kept their promises,’ I said.

  ‘They certainly did, soldier, th
ey lined up every German and Austrian officer they could lay their hands on and shot them . . . class enemies or some such nonsense . . . then they opened the doors to the camps and let the rest of us out to wander the countryside like vagabonds. Frankly I’d rather be inside; at least we were fed there. I never thought I’d miss kasha.’ We both laughed.

  ‘And the people won’t kill you here for being Austrian?’

  He lowered his voice, ‘The people are terrified; they do whatever the Bolsheviks say.’

  ‘Terrified of what?’

  He tugged his moustache nervously, looked over his shoulder and quickly pulled me into a quiet alley. ‘Ever heard of the Cheka?’ he asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘They are the secret police, they tolerate no opposition. If you cross them they’ll butcher you without trial. They’ve been requisitioning apartments in the centre of town and moving anyone who looks like they’ve got a bit of money into the suburbs. They stick them in cellars and worse. We’ve had a few demonstrations here but they don’t last long, the Red Guard fire straight into the crowd. Beggars are top of the heap. If I wasn’t a foreigner I’d probably be given a dacha next week,’ he joked.

  ‘Are all the POWs begging?’ I asked.

  ‘No, some of them are fighting the Whites. I saw a platoon of Magyars heading for the front the other day. I don’t know what’s wrong with those bloody Hungarians, they are suckers for Bolshevism. There’ll be trouble when they get home,’ Oskar scoffed.

  ‘Can’t we just go home? After all, the war is over . . . isn’t it?’

  Oskar sneered, ‘If only life were that simple. We are pawns in a political dogfight, soldier. Lenin’s getting all excited, he reckons the whole of Europe will be Soviet by next year. Can’t see it myself. The latest is they’ll send you back if you agree to join the international revolution and spread the word back home.’

  I was ready to agree to anything if it meant a ticket home.

  ‘They won’t just let you go, you know,’ he said, seeing my eyes light up. ‘You have to be brainwashed first. Only when you walk, talk and shit like Lenin will you be let out. It’s dreadful.’