SOVIET LITERATURE FOR YOUNG PEOPLE STALIN PRIZE 1951

FOREIGN LANGUAGES PUBLISHING HOUSE Moscow

TRANSLATED FROM THE RUSSIAN BY ROBERT DAGLISH DESIGNED BY A. V A S I N

CONTENTS Part One THE OLD FORTRESS The History Master A Guest in the .Night Good-bye Town School A Free Lesson Konetspolsy Tower A Scrap Before the Head In the Evening In the Old Fortress Maremuha Gets a Caning The Vow Fire-Brands At Nagoranye The Fox Caves Omelusty's Tale An Unexpected Encounter The Battle of the Hollow Oa We Leave the Village Panic New Friends I Am Summoned The Eleventh Verst Joyful Autumn Part Two THE HAUNTED HOUSE We Mae a Move Kota Mends the Pots and Pans New Quarters . By the Waterfall . My First Match A Shot in the Dar Meeting Galya At the Jeweller's After the Rain Shipulinsy's Cafe Alarm The Toll of the Bell Disaster Departure The Man in White Niita of Balta Bourgeois Prejudices Riding Chestnut A Terrible Night How Marushcha Caught the White Nun Galya Pays Me a Visit

The Defeat of Kota Grigoreno Melting the Iron Part Three THE TOWN BY THE SEA A Call from Headquarters A Dangerous Post Peeling the Spuds An Unwelcome Visitor Titor Gets Tough Bad News An Unexpected Travelling Companion In Kharov Spring Morning By Torch-Light A Call from Moscow The Priest's Son from Rovno A Low Tric Niita Is Silent Cleared! Map Wanted In the New Town No More Worries The Test Getting Settled At the Machine A Lady Waes Me The Cabman Tells His Story At Turunda's All Right, Madame! At the Engineer's The Rollers Letters to Friends A Plan of Attac A Cabin on Dry Land Everything Is for the Best Niita in Need Pay-Day The Note Under the Stone A Wonderful Night On the Trail of Pecheritsa The Body in the Gully What Is an "Instigator"? A Discovery We Attac! Maing It Up Across the Azov Waves Epilogue. Twenty Years After

VLADIMIR BELAYEV THE OLD FORTRESS A TRILOGY

PART ONE

THE HISTORY MASTER We had not been going to the High School long. Before, all our chaps used to go to the Town School. Its yellow walls and green fence were easy to see from Zarec hye, where we lived. And if the bell started ringing in the playground there, we could hear it at home. You would just grab your pencil-box and boos and mae a dash to get to school in time. And you did get there in time. You would fly down Steep Street, shoot over the wooden bridge, then up the cliff path to Old Boulevard, and there you were at the school gates, with just time to run into the class-room and sit down at your des before the master came in with his register. Our class-room was quite small, but very light. There was not much space between the dess, and the ceilings were low not lie at the High School. Three of the wi ndows looed out on the Old Fortress, and the other two, on Zarechye. If you got tired of listening to the lesson, you could loo out of the window. If you looed out to the right, you could see the Old Fortress with all its nine towers rising above the cliffs. And on the left was our own beloved Zarechye. F rom the school windows you could mae out every street, every house. Down on Old Estate you could see Peta Maremuha's mother hanging her washing ou t to dry; you could see the wind blowing bubbles in those great big shirts that the cobbler wore. Then out of Steep Street, to catch dogs, comes the father of my friend Yuzi Sta rodomsy. People call Yuzi's father Bandy Starodomsy. There is that long blac van of his, the Dog Prison, bumping along over the cobbles. Starodomsy turns r ight and leads his sinny nag past my house. Blue smoe is curling out of our i tchen chimney. That means Aunt Maria has already got the stove lighted. And I wonder what we shall have for dinner new potatoes and sour mil, hominy and dried fruit salad, or corn on the cob? "Now if only it's fried dumplings!" I thin to myself. Fried dumplings with gibl ets inside are what I lie best of all. Would I change them for new potatoes or bucwheat porridge and mil? Never! You start getting thoughts lie that at a lesson, as you loo out of the window at Zarechye, and all of a sudden, right in your ear, comes the voice of the teac her: "Now then Mandzhura, go up to the blacboard and help Bobir." I crawl out from behind my des, loo at the other chaps, and for the life of me I've no idea what help I'm supposed to offer. Hopping from one foot to the other, that frecle-faced Sasha Bobir is waiting fo r me at the board. He has even got his nose smudged with chal. I go up to him, tae the chal and, without letting the teacher see, mae a win at my friend Yuzi Starodomsy, whose nicname, by the way, is Weasel. Keeping a wary eye on the master, Weasel cups his hands round his mouth and whispers: "Bisector! . . .Bisector!" But what is a bisector? Call that prompting a chap! The maths master comes up to the board with slow, measured steps. "Well, my boy, what are you thining about?" But just at that moment the bell goes outside. I start off glibly: "A bisector, Arady Leonidovich, is a . . ." But the master has stopped listening to me and is waling to the door. "Nice wor," I thin to myself. "But I nearly had it that time " The master we lied best at the Town School was the history master, Valerian Dmi trievich Lazarev. He was not very tall, had fair hair, and always went about in a green blouse wit h patches on the elbows. At first we thought he was just an ordinary master nothin g special about him at all. The first time Lazarev came into the class, he spent a long time coughing and pe ering into the register and polishing his pince-nez before he said anything to u

s. "Here's another one of those four-eyed blighters!" Yuzi whispered to me. We were on the point of inventing a nicname for him; but when we grew to now h im better we got really fond of him, fonder than we had ever been of any other m aster. Who wouldn't be fond of a master who thought nothing of going out for a w al round the town with his pupils. That was an unheard-of thing in those days! After his history lessons Lazarev would often call us up to his des and, screwi ng up his eyes slyly behind his pince-nez, say: "I'm going up to the fortress to day after school who wants to come with me?" Who didn't! Lots of us wanted to go. There wasn't a stone in the Old Fortress th at Lazarev did not now everything about. Once we spent a whole Sunday up at the fortress with Lazarev. He told us a lot o f interesting things that day. We learnt that the smallest tower was called Ruzh ana, and that the half-ruined one which stood by the fortress gates bore the st range name of Donna. And next to Donna rose the highest of them all the Pope Tower . The Pope Tower started off at the bottom with four sides, then in the middle i t became eight-sided, and at the top, under the roof, it was round. Eight dar s lits in its walls looed out across the town at Zarechye, and down into the fort ress yard. In ancient times, Lazarev told us, the land round here had been renowned for its great abundance. The earth was very fertile and the grass in the steppe grew so tall that the horns of even the biggest oxen were invisible from a distance. A plough left out in the fields would be covered with thic, juicy grass in three or four days. There were so many bees about that they couldn't all live in hollo w trees; and so they nested in swarms, right on the earth itself. Sometimes gold en streams of honey would spurt from under the feet of those who passed. Sweet w ild grapes, as well as apricots and peaches, grew untended everywhere on the ban s of the Dniester. Our land had seemed particularly tempting to the neighbouring Polish landowners. They were always getting here and setting up their estates and trying to crush the Urainian people with fire and sword. Lazarev told us that only about a hundred years ago there had been a prison for exiles in our Old Fortress. The walls of the ruined white building in the fortre ss yard still had bars in them. Behind those bars used to sit the prisoners whom the tsar had ordered to be sent to exile in Siberia. During the reign of Niola i I, the famous Urainian rebel Ustim Karmelu had been imprisoned in the Pope T ower. He and his men used to waylay the nobles and sheriffs and bishops who pass ed through Kalinovsy Woods, tae their money and horses, and share it all out a mong the poor peasants. The peasants used to hide him in their cellars and in th e hayrics in the fields; and for a long time none of the tsar's watchdogs could match the daring Karmelu. Three times he escaped from penal servitude. He was flogged, and how they flogged him! Karmelu's bac bore over four thousand stro es of the rod and club. Starved and beaten half to death, he would brea out of prison every time and, not seeing as much as a crust of dry bread for wees, ma e his way bac across the wild frozen taiga to Podolia, his homeland. Counting o nly the road to Siberia and bac, so Lazarev told us, Karmelu must have waled about twenty thousand versts on foot. No wonder the peasants believed Karmelu c ould easily swim any sea, that he had the strength to brea any fetters, and tha t there was not a prison in the world from which he could not escape. It was a Polish noble, the landowner Janczewsi, who threw him into the dungeons of the Old Fortress. Karmelu escaped from this gloomy stronghold in broad dayl ight. Afterwards he intended to organize an uprising against the Polish nobles, but was murdered by one of them on a dar October night in the year 1835. The cowardly nobleman was afraid to meet Karmelu face to face even in this last encounter; so he hid round a corner and shot Karmelu in the bac. When the daring Karmelu was imprisoned in the Pope Tower, so Lazarev said, he c omposed a song that went lie this: Loo, Siberia's sun is rising! Awae and march with me.

Trust in Karmelu, my tads, For a life that's proud and free. Some fol call me a bandit, They say that death is my trade. I bring death to the rich and greedy, To the poor I bring my aid. What the rich man doth lose The poor man doth win. Tis, thus, by sharing men's riches I mae my soul free of sin. The round dungeon in which Karmelu had been imprisoned was full of litter. One of its windows looed out on the fortress yard, and the other, barred with a twi sted iron grating, on to the street. Having inspected the Pope Tower from top to bottom, we went over to the broad Blac Tower. When we got inside, the history master told us to lie flat on the rotten floor-boards, while he himself made his way gingerly along a rafter into the dar far corner. "Count," he said, and held up a pebble over a hole cut in the floor. The moment that little white pebble vanished through the floor, everyone started to mutter: "One, two, three, four . . ." It was very quiet in the Blac Tower. All you could hear was the murmur of a str eam far below, under the rotting timbers. "Twelve!" I whispered, and just as I did so, the tense silence was broen by the sound of a splash rising from the dar depths of the well. The sound echoed aga inst the vaulted roof of the tower. : "Quite so, eighty-four feet deep," said Lazarev, maing his way cautiously bac to us along the rotten rafter. When we left the musty darness of the Blac Tower and came out into the fortres s yard, Lazarev explained how there had come to be such a deep well in the Blac Tower. That same Sunday, just by the Donna Tower under a bush of sweet-briar Weasel fou nd a rusty Turish dagger. You can still see it today in the Town Museum with a faded notice under it: "Presented by Yuzi Starodomsy, a student of the Town Sc hool." On one of our expeditions to the fortress we helped Lazarev dig an iron cannon-b all out of the wall of the Pope Tower. It fell to the ground with a heavy thud, splitting a lump of wood that happened to be lying there, clean in half. We put it on Sasha Bobir's tarpaulin jacet and carried it all the way to Lazare v's house. That was when we found out that he lived very near Doctor Grigoreno, in a little side-turning opposite the doctor's mansion. His clay-walled cottage with its little wooden porch was tuced away in the corn er of a small court-yard. Lie sentries, propped up against the rails of the por ch, stood two stone-carved women without any noses. Lazarev had dug them up in t he country, on a burial-mound near Nagoranye. The whole yard was scattered with moss-covered gravestones, craced earthenware pitchers, bronze crosses, and piec es of stone bearing the imprint of leaves. A low clay wall divided it from the s treet, and it looed lie a little old cemetery. We dumped the cannon-ball on the ground right by the Porch, and when we said goo d-bye to Lazarev he promised to tae us along the old underground passage that s tarted near the fortress. We agreed to go there next Sunday. Weasel undertoo to find torches and Sasha Bobir promised to bring along a whole spool of telephone wire. We were nuts on the idea! The first I had heard of this underground passage was from Weasel. His theory wa s that it lined our fortress with the ancient castle of the Polish prince Sangu szo, who had once been lord of this district. The underground passage, so it was said, stretched for thirty versts through the cliffs, passed under two swift-flowing streams and ended up in a secret chamber of the castle. And this prince's castle was hidden from man's eyes in a dense p ine forest, on the shore of a broad lae, with lots of fat mirror carp and goldfish swimming about in it.

I believed Weasel, and thought of the prince's castle as a gloomy, mysterious pl ace with heavy iron bars over the windows. "On clear nights the Lae must loo blue in the moon-light," I thought, "and the battlements would be reflected in the water. It would be pretty frightening to bathe in a lae lie that at night." I waited impatiently for Sunday to come. But our expedition to the underground passage with Lazarev did not tae place. A GUEST IN THE NIGHT Rumours were abroad in the town that the Red Army was retreating, and that Petlu ra and the Pilsudsi troops ( Petlura leader of the counter-revolutionary national ist movement in the Uraine 1917-21. He was baced by the Entente, and by the Wh ite Poles under the command of Marshal Pilsudsi.) were already near the river Z bruch. Then notices went up on the fences saying that the Red Army was withdrawi ng from the town temporarily in order to transfer forces to the Deniin front. On the eve of the withdrawal, late at night, our neighbour Omelusty came round t o see my father. With him was another man whom I did not now. I was already lying in bed with the blanet drawn up to my chin. Father was sitt ing at the table, and with a well-sharpened nife was cutting a wad of coarse ye llow leaf-tobacco which, for some reason, he used to call "selected self-rub." A tattered Cossac bashly dangled from Omelusty's shoulders, he had a round bla c lambsin hat on his head, and the pocets of his green field-jacet were stuf fed with papers. His companion, a shortish man in a fur cap with ear-flaps, came in behind him, taing slow steps as if he were afraid of falling. He was very p ale, and a coarse blac stubble sprouted on his sharp chin and sunen chees. Taing off his cap, the stranger murmured a faint greeting, sat down on a chair and unbuttoned his soldier's quilted jacet. "Rotten business this, Mandzhura, have to as you to give us a hand," said Omelu sty, taing off his bashly and greeting my father. "Our chaps are withdrawing t onight and this comrade here has got ill at the wrong time. He can't travel . . . . Where could we fix him up in the town? Somewhere quiet, you now. What do yo u thin, Miron?" "Let's tal it over," my father replied. "Tae your things off first and have so me tea." Omelusty pulled a revolver out of his jacet, transferred it to his trousers' po cet, then threw the jacet, together with his hat and bashly, on the baset un der the window. Then he sat down at the table, planted his elbows on it and, pre ssing his long thin fingers to his temples, said slowly: "You thin our chaps will be away for long? Not a bit of it; they'll soon be bac . It's just a matter of driving Deniin out of the Donbas, then they'll come an d liberate Podolia as well." While Omelusty was taling to my father, my Aunt Maria made up a bed for the sic man on a broad ironbound chest and, when he lay down, covered him with a thic winter quilt and all the other warm things she could find in the house. She gav e him tea to drin with dried raspberries. The sic man lay on his bac under a pile of clothes reeing of moth balls and l istened to the conversation. The light from the lamp shone in his eyes and he e pt blining. All of a sudden he turned over on his side, wined at me, and nodded towards the wall. I looed at the wall, but there was nothing to see. Then he pushed a long thin hand out from under his blanet and began to move his fingers. Shadows darted across the wall. Suddenly these hazy flicering shadows gave way to clear-cut figures. At first I made out the head and arched nec of a swan. Then a very funny hare popped up w aggling his ears. And when the hare vanished a great big lobster crawled towards the window with snapping pincers. I had scarcely had time to loo at the lobste r when in another place, near the booshelf, a dog's nose appeared, just lie Ku tsi's, the Grzhibovsy's dog next door. It was panting with its tongue hanging o

ut, just lie dogs do in hot weather. The figures ept popping up and disappearing so quicly that I did not even have time to see how this strange man who lay buried under the bed clothes was main g them. When the show was over, he gave me another sly win, then turned on his bac and closed his eyes. I decided he must be a very jolly ind of man, and I wished my father would let him stay with us until the Reds came bac. Neither my father nor Omelusty noticed the trics the sic man had been showing me. They were busy drining tea and taling. Lulled by their quiet voices, I fell asleep. I woe up late, and the first thing I did was to loo at the chest where our guest of the night before had lain. The chest was standing as usual by the wall, covered with a coloured runner. But the bedding and the sic man had gone. The sun was already high in the sy. Its rays shone on the clean oil-cloth of th e dinner table. Suddenly, somewhere on the other side of Kalinovsy Woods a shot rang out. I ran into the itchen, struggling into my shirt as I went. There was no one the re either. I found Aunt Maria on the vegetable patch. She was standing on a benc h, looing over the fence at the fortress bridge. "The Petlura men!" said my aunt with a sigh, and stepped down from the bench. I jumped on the bench, scrambled from there on to the fence, and saw horsemen ga lloping from the fortress into the town. They pounded over the bridge. I could s ee the straining muzzles and flowing manes of the horses above the rails. "Where's the man that was ill?" I ased Aunt Maria when we were bac in the itc hen. "The man that was ill? What man?" she ased in surprise. "Why, I thought you wer e asleep . . . . He's gone away with the Reds, child . . . . They've all gone. Y ou eep quiet about that sic man though." "Has everyone gone? Father too?" "No, child, Father's here. He's gone down to the print-shop." My aunt was a indly, soft-hearted woman. She hardly ever got angry with me and, when I was good, she always used, to call me "child." I dislied that word. How could I be a child when I should soon have a beard to shave! I felt offended with my aunt for calling me child, and did not as her any more questions. Instead I ran up the hill to Old Estate, where Peta Maremuha lived, so that I could watch the Petlura men entering the town. The next day, when the Petlura men had taen over the town and hoisted their yel low and blue flag on the town watch-tower, Weasel and I saw our neighbour Ivan O melusty running down Larina Street. His green field-jacet was unbuttoned and y ou could see he had nothing on underneath. Omelusty dashed along the pavement, a lmost nocing passers-by off their feet, and maing a loud clatter on he smooth paving stones with his hob-nailed boots. Running behind him were two Petlura men in billowing blue sharovary. As they ran they fired in the air with heavy Causer pistols. Omelusty did not stop to aim either. He also fired in the air, over his left sho ulder. At the cathedral, several more Petlura men joined in the chase. They all rushed after Omelusty in a bunch, blazing away at random. Omelusty raced down the winding cliff path towards Zarechye. Not nowing the way , the Petlura men dropped behind a little. When he got to the bottom Omelusty ra n over the swaying plan-bridge to the opposite ban, and glanced bac. Brandishing their pistols, the Petlura men were already nearing the river. Then our neighbour darted into Konetspolsy Tower that stood on the edge of Zarechye, just by the ban. Before the Petlura men reached the river, Omelusty had fired his first shot. The second winged a burly Petlura man who had leapt on the swaying bridge. He stagg ered, flung out his arms, and fell awwardly into the swift-flowing river. From the top of Uspensy Hill Weasel and I saw his shaggy white hat float away d ownstream with the current.

The Petlura men dropped bac and too cover among the rocs under the cliff. Whi le two of them dragged the wounded man out of the water, the others slung their short Austrian carbines off their shoulders and started blazing away across the river at the tower where our neighbour had taen refuge. Evidently none of the P etlura men dared set foot on the bridge. Booming echoes resounded over the river. Soon Petlura men came running up from a ll sides to the sound of the shooting. When the firing was at its height a Petlura lieutenant in a Hungarian tunic frin ged with white astrahan suddenly loomed up over us. "Now then, you young ragamuffins, out of it!" he bared, brandishing his pistol at Weasel. We too to our heels. Turning off past Old Boulevard, we made for home. By the time we reached Uspens y Church we heard a harsh chatter brea out on the river below. The Petlura men must have opened fire on the tower with a machine-gun. At the church we parted. I went home, but the door of our flat was loced. I hun g about for a few minutes on the vegetable patch, then grew impatient and ran of f to Weasel's. I was very anxious to now if Omelusty would get away. Weasel was eating hominy. I suggested we should run up to Old Maret and loo do wn from there to see what was happening at Konetspolsy Tower. Weasel hastily br oe off a piece of hominy for me, and we dashed off. But when we got to the boul evard all was quiet by the tower; All we could see was a Petlura patrol pacing u p and down along the river and a couple of fellows we did not now picing up em pty cartridge-cases on the ban. We, too, started searching for cartridge-cases where the firing had been. Weasel was lucy. Near the fence he found a live Austrian cartridge with a snubnosed bullet in it one of the Petlura men must have dropped it in his haste. But I had no luc at all. I wandered about under the cliff for a long time, but excep t for one empty cartridge-case that smelt acridly of gunpowder I found nothing. It was already dus when I returned home, still none the wiser about our neighbo ur. For some reason my father was in a cheerful mood. He had spread a newspaper over a corner of the table and was whistling to himself as he too our nicel-plated alarm-cloc to pieces. When I said that our neighbour must have been caught and was probably in prison by now, my father chucled in his thic moustache and murmured: "A fat lot you now . . ." After that evening I heard nothing more about our neighbour, Until Petlura came my father had been woring as a type-setter at the district p rinting press. When the Petlura men occupied the town, worers from the print-sh op often came at night to see my father. They would tal for hours about various events, and as my father for advice. One day the men came and said that Petlur a had brought with him some machines to print money with. These machines had been installed in the big building of the ecclesiastical semi nary on Seminary Street. Soldiers with bushy forelocs dangling from under their shaggy hats, and carbines on their bacs, were pacing up and down under the win dows of the seminary, flicing their whips at passers-by. Five of the print-shop worers had been taen there to print Petlura currency. O ne of the men complained to my father that all the time they were woring there the Petlura men had stood over them with rifles, and that after the wor they ha d been searched as if they were thieves. Late one evening a short, poc-mared type-setter came to our place. He had been to see us before. Aunt Maria was already asleep and Father was just about to go to bed. "Tomorrow they're going to mae you and me print that Petlura currency, Miron. I heard the manager taling about it in the office," the type-setter told my fath er gloomily. My father listened in silence to what the type-setter had to say. Then he sat do wn grimly at the table in nothing but his underclothes, and stared for a long ti

me at the flicering flame of the oil-lamp. I watched my father and thought to m yself: "But say something! Why don't you say something!" At last the little type-setter pluced up his courage and tapped my father on th e shoulder. "Well, what shall we do, Miron?" he ased. All at once my father got up, shoo his fist, and answered so loudly that the la mp flame trembled: "I'll print 'em a set of currency that'll give Petlura himself a pain in the nec . I'm a printer, not a forger!" Next morning my father was no longer in town. GOOD-BYE TOWN SCHOOL One day when we were sitting in class waiting for the maths master to appear, La zarev waled in instead. He greeted us, wiped his pince-nez with his handerchie f and, hunching his shoulders, started pacing to and fro between the window and the stove. He lied to pace about the class-room before a lesson. It was as thou gh he wanted time to collect his thoughts. Suddenly Lazarev stopped and looed at us with a weary, distracted expression on his face. "Well, let's say good-bye, boys," he said. "We've got on wonderfully together, t here haven't been any quarrels, and now it's time to part. Our school is closing down and you will be -transferred to the High School. They can't get enough pup ils voluntarily . . . You can go home now if you lie. There won't be any more l essons. On Monday you will have to appear at the High School. You've done with t he Town School; from now on you are high-school boys." We were astonished. What High School? Why were we high-school boys? A hush fell in the room. The first to brea the silence was Sasha Bobir. "Valerian Dmitrievich, what about our masters . . . . What about you will you be c oming with us?" he called out from the bac des. This question made us pric up our ears. We could see that it had touched Lazarev on the raw. "No, boys, my time's up. What's good for Pan Petlura isn't good enough for me. I wouldn't fit in at that High School," he answered with a wry smile and, sitting down at the table, started aimlessly turning over the pages of the register. Then we jumped up from our dess and surrounded Lazarev's table. Lazarev said nothing. We could see that he was upset, and that he found it hard to tal to us, but we still pestered him with questions. Sasha Bobir ased if we should be wearing uniform, Weasel wanted to now in what language they would te ach us at the High School; each of us tried to satisfy his own curiosity. We wer e particularly anxious to learn why Lazarev did not want to go to the High Schoo l himself. And when we had made him thoroughly upset, he got up from his chair, again wiped his pince-nez slowly with his handerchief, and said: "I don't want to leave you in the middle of the school year myself, but there's no help for it.". After a pause he added: "What it amounts to, boys, is that the y are getting together their own teachers at the High School Petlura men and I won't do for them. I have always thought, and I still thin, that the fate of the Ur aine cannot be decided separately from that of the peoples of Russia . . . And t hey will never forgive me for being the first of the masters to tell you the tru th about Lenin, about the Revolution, about the Soviets . . ." We were not very cheerful when we went home that day. It was rotten to thin of leaving our old school for ever. No one new what to expect at the High School, what ways they had there, what ind of masters. And the thought of studying with those high-school snobs was grim. "It's all Petlura's idea!" Weasel said fiercely to me as 'we waled down Old Bou levard towards the river. "I wish he'd choe himself, the rat!" I said nothing. There was nothing to say. None of us wanted to give up our old s chool. The high-school boys still wore the grey great-coats with lapel-badges, the navy

-blue uniforms, and uniform caps with bands of silver palm leaves that they had worn under the old regime. And when Petlura came, many of them especially those w ho had joined the Boy Scouts ( During the Civil War in the Uraine, the Petlura men, enemies of the Urainian people, went to great lengths to spread the Boy Sc out movement. Fostering hatred of Soviet power among the scouts, Petlura trained them as reinforcements for his detachments.) started wearing Petlura crests on t heir caps shiny gilded tridents. Sometimes they put yellow and blue ribbons under these tridents. We had a long hatred for those little snobs in their blue uniforms with silver b uttons. "Bluebottles! Bluebottles!" we would shout at the top of our voices when ever we caught sight of them. But the high-school boys were not bad at teasing either. Our brass badges had the letters "T.S." stamped on them, which stood for Town Sc hool. So whenever the high-schoolers saw someone from the Town School they would start shouting: "Tics! Tics! Tics!" Didn't we Zarechye chaps give it to them for that! And our small fry used to pel t the high-schoolers with green plums, pebbles and bean seeds. The only trouble was that the high-school boys rarely came down our way, to Zare chye, where mostly poor people lived. Nearly all of them lived in the fashionabl e part of the town: in Kiev Street, Zhitomir Street, Post Street, and on the oth er side of the boulevards. Many of them lived near the High School itself. Monday came. What a clear sunny morning it was! And we had to mae our first att endance at that strange unfriendly High School! Even before we got there, when Peta Maremuha, Weasel and I were crossing the s quare, we heard one of the high-schoolers shouting from one of the balconies: "H ey, you hominy-guzzlers, you onion-heads! Have you left your lice behind in Zare chye?" We did not say anything. Grim and frowning, we entered the dar cold hall of the High School. There were no lessons for us, new boys, that day. In the teachers' common-room the secretary entered all our names in a big boo, then said: "Now wait in the corridor. The head-master will come out soon." But the head-master sat tight in his study, and was in no hurry to come out and see us. We hung about the vaulted corridors, slid down the smooth banisters, and finally wandered into the Great Hall. There the hunch-baced high-school caretaer Nii for was removing the portraits of Russian writers from the walls. For many years those portraits of Pushin, Krylov, Chehov, Pisemsy, Turgenev, Lermontov and Derzhavin, in their fine gilded frames, had hung under the plaster cornices of t his hall. And on that Monday they were all taen down and carted away to the Hig h School's dar and dusty store-room, where usually only dusters and chal and w et rags were ept. Acting on the head-master's orders, Niifor the caretaer began to replace the R ussian writers with portraits of the ministers in the Petlura government. But th ere turned out to be more ministers than writers nineteen of them and there were no t enough gilded frames to go round. Then Niifor stopped for a moment, scratched the bac of his head and went off to rummage in the botany lab. He returned wit h a whole pile of framed pictures of various wild animals and birds. But hardly had he begun to carve up these pictures, when in rushed the infuriate d botany master Polovyan and raised such a hullabaloo that we thought he would ill Niifor on the spot. Polovyan danced round the step-ladder shouting: "What a re you thining of, you monster? You must be mad! How dare you wrec the laborat ory! It's sacrilege! . . ." "Push off, Pan Teacher, what's all the fuss about? Go and see the head-master," Niifor snapped bac. After raging about the hall for a time, Polovyan ran off to complain to the head -master; but the head-master only praised Niifor for his ingenuity. With a sly smile on his face the caretaer started ripping lions, tigers, and rh inoceroses out of the little cherry-coloured frames. Among them was a picture of

an ant-eating bear, the best picture of its 'ind in the town. It was Polovyan' s pride and joy. "Come on out of it, monster!" Niifor grunted, pulling the bear out of his frame . Sitting on the parquet floor, Niifor too out the pictures, wiped the frames wi th a damp rag and found new occupants for them at random: the Navy Minister, the Minister for Ecclesiastical Affairs, the grim, heavily-moustached Minister of E ducation anyone who came to hand. When every portrait had been hung, Niifor sprinled water on the floor and swep t all the rubbish and cobwebs out into the corridor. With our help he arranged several long wooden benches in front of the platform. Everyone from the Town School assembled in the Great Hall and sat down on the be nches. The bearded head-master of the High School, Proopovich, climbed up on th e platform, cleared his throat and, resting his right foot on the prompter's box , delivered a speech. We could not mae out half of what he said. All I could remember was that we, "y oung sons of the independent Uraine," should study well at the High School and join the Boy Scouts, so that, on leaving the High School, we could enter the Pet lura military academies. Maremuha, Sasha Bobir, Weasel, and I were put in the same class. To start with, we ept together and, when the occasion demanded, could pay any high-schooler b ac in his own coin. But as time went on, Peta Maremuha, who was the fat one a mong us, started maing up more and more to a sharp, boastful fellow called Kot a Grigoreno. True, they had nown each other before, down at Old Estate. Peta's father, the cobbler, rented an outbuilding there from Doctor Grigoreno. Kota sometimes dro ve down to Old Estate with his father, and had got to now Peta there. Now, at the High School they greeted each other as old acquaintances. Added to this, Kot a bribed Maremuha with some sheets of crested record paper, and Maremuha fell for it completely. Kota's father was the head doctor at the town hospital. He allowed his son to r ummage in the hospital records and pull clean sheets out of the medicine-scented files. Kota often too Maremuha down into the hospital cellars to hunt for cl ean paper. Maremuha had been to Kota's house in Zhitomir Street more than once; and they often went down to the river together to catch crayfish. Naturally he was one of Kota's first recruits for the Boy Scouts. And soon after Maremuha, Sasha Bobir also changed sides and became a follower o f Kota. One day he showed off his nicel-plated bulldog revolver to Kota, and Kota threatened to tell the Petlura officers about it. Sasha got scared and wen t over to Kota's side. Only Weasel and I stuc together. And how grim it was at first, studying at the High School. The class-rooms were blea and forbidding, just lie monastery cells. In fact, there had once been so me monastery cells here. What was now the High School had at one time been a monastery. I had heard that in the monastery cellars mons used to be punished for their sins by being walle d up alive. The building had been reconstructed many times since then, of course , but outside and inside it still looed lie a monastery. The boys who had studied here before felt themselves masters of the place. They too all the best dess at the front, near the stove, and the only dess left fo r us were in "Siberia," at the bac of the class. The high-school teachers were boring and sharp-tempered. They never had anything interesting to say, and never joed as Lazarev had done at the Town School. We often used to thin of our old history master's interesting lessons, and of the trips we had made together to the Old Fortress. Here, at the High School the subject of general history was abolished at once; i nstead, we learnt only the history of the Uraine. Our new history master was th

e Petlura priest, Kiyanitsa. Tall, with a long, straggling ginger beard, and wearing a green robe with a heav y silver crucifix on his chest, Kiyanitsa used to come to the class-room long be fore the bell rang. He would be waiting for us even while we were playing in the yard. Kiyanitsa taught history in a dull, uninteresting way. He ept harping on the fa ct that the Urainians were a different people from the 'Russians, and used ever y argument he could thin of to prove that even the Germans had closer ties with the Uraine than Russia. Often in the middle of a lesson the priest would stop, clear his throat, fiddle with his ginger beard, and turn to Grushevsy's Histor y for help. And when he was tired of delving in that massive tome, he would star t firing questions at us. One day he performed a very important marriage the marriage of Petlura's adjutant an d came straight to school after the wedding-feast, his breath smelling strongly of voda. He went upstairs to the head-master's study for his text-boos, which he used to eep in a cupboard there. But that day the head-master had been summo ned to the Petlura Ministry of Education and the study was loced. Kiyanitsa hun g about round the door for some time, peered through the eyhole, gave a grunt o f annoyance and, reeling slightly, came down to the class-room. He spent a long time mumbling something through his nose, clearing his throat, pushing his long arms under the des, and then suddenly he rumbled: "Well, er . . . yes . . . well, today, boys . . . today we shall go over what I was telling you about the Fortress of Koda. The Fortress of Koda is famous bec ause it was built near the Dnieper falls by . . . Who built the Fortress of Koda ? Well now, what's your name, my child?" And he pointed his finger straight at Maremuha. The question was so sudden that poor Peta squirmed in his seat and looed round . Then he stood up, blushing. "Maremuha." "Maremuha?" the priest repeated in surprise. "Well, Maremuha, my child, will y ou explain to us who built the Fortress of Koda?" A hush fell on the class. Far away in the distance a cart could be heard creain g down the Ternopolsy Slope. Someone whistled on the square outside. Peta shif ted from one foot to the other, then, nowing that the priest's favourite hetman was the traitor Mazeppa, he pluced up courage and blurted out: "Mazeppa!" "Nonsense, you little fool!" the priest interrupted him sharply. "Mazeppa was no t even born then . . . The Fortress of Koda was built by . . . was built by . . . yes . . . it was built by the Israelite Kaplan, and no sooner was it built th an our glorious night, Samoilo Kosha, captured it." "No, he didn't . . ." Weasel shouted in a trembling voice. The priest looed up sharply. "Who said that? Stand up at once!" Weasel rose to his feet, pale and excited. "I said it," he answered quietly, staring down at the inwell in front of him. What would happen to Weasel now, I wondered. I thought that Kiyanitsa would hurl himself at Weasel and start beating him in front of the whole class. But the pr iest, planting his great fists on the des, boomed out in a loud voice: "Aha! So you are the clever one? Splendid! Now let me see, you Polish puppy, you assert that I am distorting the truth? Then come out here, my lad, and tell us who, in your opinion, built the Fortress of Koda." The priest thought that Weasel would be frightened to answer, but Weasel squared his shoulders and looed him straight in the eye. ''It wasn't Kaplan who built the Fortress of Koda," he said, "it was the French engineer Beauplan, and the man who captured it was not Kosha, but Hetman Sulim a." "Sulima?" the priest repeated, and burst out coughing. He coughed for a long time, covering his hairy mouth with the broad sleeve of hi s robe. The smell of voda in the class-room grew even stronger. When he had fin ished coughing, Kiyanitsa's face was red and his eyes were watering.

"Who told you such nonsense?" he ased. "Lazarev," Weasel answered boldly, then explained: "Our history master, Lazarev. " "That Lazarev of yours nows nothing at all!" the priest snapped angrily. "He is a heretic and a charlatan!" "That's not true either!" Weasel said firmly. "Lazarev nows everything." "What?" roared the priest. "Not true? Go and stand in the corner. Into the corne r, you wretched boy! Kneel!" Kiyanitsa's shout even made the windows rattle. Weasel was pale when, after hesi tating a second, he went over to the stove and nelt down in the corner. That incident made us hate Kiyanitsa all the more. A FREE LESSON That day it was German. We were waiting for the German master, whose nicname wa s "Zusammen." We had been waiting for a long time. The bell had gone ages ago, b ut still he did not come. Weasel got tired of sitting at his des. He climbed on the window-sill and carel essly fliced open the metal catch. "Careful, Yuzi, Zusammen will tic you off for that! He's scared of draughts!" Peta Maremuha shouted from the bac des. Weasel just shoo his head obstinately and, without answering, pulled the curved handle of the window towards him. The window opened slowly with a crea. Bits of brown plaster dropped on the floo r. The warm sunny morning burst into our dusty classroom. We heard the merry voices of the starlings. Pigeons were cooing on the cathedral. On the other side of th e square, in Zhitomir Street, two Petlura men were cursing loudly as they too a sac of oats from a peasant whom they had stopped on his way through the town. At first we thought the Petlura men would try to frighten him by shooting in the air, but the peasant gave up his sac without persisting, and the cart soon dis appeared down the slope in the direction of the river. We all felt drawn to the window, to the stir and the bustle of the town. Cheerful little draughts played through the class-room. Dust sparled above the dess. The room grew bigger and wider as if the walls had been moved bac. There was a smell of spring and open fields in the air, and it made you long even mor e to run away and be free. I leaned on the window-sill beside Weasel and, holding on to his leather belt in case I fell, hung over the edge. The familiar cobbled square stretched out before us. On the opposite side towered the dar, shabby-looing building of the cathedral. It had not been repaired since the war started. The plaster was peeling off its thic rounded walls, and in places the bare brics were overgrown with moss. Th e high vaulted doors were open. A service was being held. Fatty Maremuha suddenly darted away from the window-sill and ran over to the st ove. He rummaged about in the corner there for a moment, pulled out a crumpled p aper pigeon, returned to the window-sill and, pulling himself up with his left a rm, threw the pigeon out of the window. Swaying gently, the paper bird glided over the chestnut-trees and landed on the cobble-stones far out on the square. "Call that a throw! Pooh! That's not a pigeon, it's a sinny old crow . . . . Wa tch me, Peta. I'll throw one as far as the cathedral." The shout came from Kot a Grigoreno at the next window. Kota's head disappeared as he jumped to the floor. We turned round. Kota slipped over to his des, straightening his new jacet, pulled out his sof t grey satchel, and too the first exercise-boo that touched his hand. Without even glancing to see what boo it was, Kota tore several clean pages ou t of it. Then he folded them into three paper pigeons, fitted them with tails, b ent their beas, and again jumped up on the window-sill.

With a gentle, easy throw he sent off the first pigeon. But the pigeon, as we we re quic to notice, did not fly well; its bea seemed to be made of lead. Twice its tail veered awwardly, and long before the bird reached Peta's pigeon it ha d gone into a spin and dropped to the ground. "That'll teach you to swan!" I was about to shout to 'Kota. But just then two more pigeons flew out of the window. These flew better. Swooping cleanly, just lie real pigeons, cleaving the air with their fat beas, they glided over the deserted square and finally came to rest right by the cath edral. At that moment the door slammed behind us and in rushed lany Volodya Martsenu. "Hurrah, chaps! Zusammen's not coming!" Volodya shouted, waving the class regist er. "Honestly, he's not. We've got two free lessons!" Two free lessons! That was fine! There were only a few days left to the holidays. The weather was warm as anythin g; soon the chestnuts would be in bloom. We, Zarechye chaps, had been coming to school barefoot for a long time now. The red beetles we used to call "soldiers" had crawled out of the cracs in the wall round the high-school yard. Whole fami lies of them were basing in the sun getting their strength bac after the winter. They never moved except to twitch their whisers now and then. It was fine outs ide, and the school was dar, dusty, and unfriendly. If only we could run out th ere in the bright sun, on the warm paving stones. How could anyone sit in a clas s-room in such weather! Good old Zusammen for not coming to school again! . . . Last wee a big, twin-en gined German aeroplane had flown quite low over the town, maing a terrific roar . All grey, with blac crosses on its broad wings, it appeared in the sy quite suddenly and, circling twice over the Old Fortress, landed on a green meadow out side the town, near the candle factory. The vibrating roar of its engines had no t died down before every street was alive with boys running towards the spot whe re the aeroplane had landed. Peta Maremuha and I got there first. It was only a stone's throw from Zarechye to that meadow; if you climbed Hospital Street as far as the slaughter-yard, you were nearly at the candle factory. Before we reached the plane, the airmen, in leather helmets and goggles, had cli mbed out of the cabin. They were waling about the grass, stretching their legs; their heads reached as high as the wings. They were bloated, arrogant-looing f ellows in short yellow leather jacets, shining gaiters and brown breeches with buttons at the nees. Without even a glance at the gathering crowd the airmen began to pull long ply-w ood crates, bound round with strips of tin out of the plane. These they placed o n the grass with great care. Presently a long raspberry-coloured motor car drove up with some Petlura officer s inside. The officers saluted the airmen and promptly set about driving the boy s away from the plane with their riding-whips. Peta and I too refuge on the fence of the candle factory. We sat there for a l ong time gazing at this aeroplane that had planed itself down in our meadow. Be hind us was a quiet calm pond. Thin-stemmed bul-rushes grew all round the fence and their velvety tops ticled the bare soles of our feet. By the time the Petlura men had loaded the crates into their raspberry-coloured car, another car had driven up, tooting its horn. This one, apparently, was for the airmen, who got into it and drove off behind the Petlura men into the town, having first swathed the propellers of the aeroplane in green tarpaulin covers a nd left a sentry there to guard it. For several days the town taled of nothing but this German aeroplane. It had br ought from Berlin the former War Minister of the Gentral Urainian Rada, (The Ce ntral Urainian Rada the government of the Urainian bourgeoisie, was the mainstay of the bourgeois-nationalist counterrevolution. It existed from April 1917 to A pril 1918.) Porsh. Even in our little town everybody new that Porsh was an inve terate thief, that he had stolen several millions from the ministry, gone away t o Germany, and with his stolen riches bought himself a wonderful mansion in the

finest street in Berlin. And now he had returned to the Uraine as an important, well-to-do guest, to pay a visit to his old crony Petlura. Porsh had with him several German engineers. They had brought Petlura some Petlu ra currency printed in Berlin, and were to help him print similar currency here, in the mint that had been set up in the old seminary. Our German master, whom we called "Zusammen," but whose real name was Ottersbach , had been attached to the party as interpreter. For days on end, from early morning till late in the evening, Ottersbach waled the Germans round the town, showing them the fortress towers and explaining thin gs to them, all the while waving his thin, pole-lie arms. Today he must be out with his long-legged engineers again; that was why he had n ot turned up at school. One of the lads was so glad Zusammen would not be coming that he started rattlin g the top of his des lie a machine-gun. "Quiet!" the monitor hissed at him. "Proopovich will hear. We'd better go outsi de." We trooped out. Martsenu came with us. It was a fine day of monitorship for him n o need to run for chal and wet dusters; the blacboard was still clean from the day before. On tip-toe we filed quicly down the musty corridors. Every other class-room was quiet. Lessons had already begun. Through the glass panels in the doors we coul d see the boys' heads, all turned in one direction lie sunflowers to the sun toward s the high wooden lecterns behind which the masters sat. Their voices were scarc ely audible. The High School with its narrow vaulted corridors and dar niches seemed dead. H ow frightening it must be here at night when Niifor the caretaer fastened the padloc on the front door and went off to his house in the wing! The class-rooms would be dar and deserted; the branches of the chestnut-trees would scratch on the windows lie owls. A shout in one corner would be enough to start all the t hree long corridors answering you, then the deserted class-rooms would answer th em, and there would be such a booming and clanging all over the tall shabby buil ding that even the bravest senior boy would die of fright. We ran down the worn marble steps of the main staircase into the ground-floor co rridor, and from there through a side-door into the yard. The sandy football pitch was deserted and seemed to be waiting for us. The highschool charwomen had swept the pitch clean and pulled out all the stray tufts of grass. That evening the first Boy Scout parade was to be held there. "Leap-frog or buttons?" shouted Martsenu, running into the middle of the yard. "Coppers and robbers!" shouted Weasel, climbing on to a tall tree stump near the fence. "What, again?" Kota Grigoreno sneered. "Let's go to the gym, I'll show you how to do a hand-stand on the parallel bars." The gym was in a barn near the Polish Roman Catholic church, which was run by a priest called Shuman. It had a wooden floor, to which were clamped a horizontal bar, parallel bars, and vaulting horses covered with brown leather. The scouts p ractised there in the evening under the instruction of Old Vondra. Old Vondra's chest was tattooed all over with violet eagles, mermaids, and gruesome-looing s eletons. Kota Grigoreno and his troop also went there every evening to learn gymnastics from Old Vondra. Kota could do a neat through-vault over the very longest hors e and perform several trics on the flying rings, but he 'was at his best on the horizontal bar. Yesterday, it was true, when trying to do a grand swing, he had fallen and slithered several yards along the dirty floor of the gym, maing a n asty mess of his left chee. But that was just what ought to happen to a swan l ie him. "Keep your gym, we don't want it!" I cried. "Coppers and robbers! Coppers and robbers!" burst out Peta Maremuha, glancing sideways at his slee friend Kota Grigoreno. Maremuha was rather fat and clumsy, and probably shorter than any of us. The gy m held no attraction for him. "Coppers and robbers" was his favourite game.

"Well, chaps, let's play copiers and robbers. We've got plenty of time," said We asel, sensing that the balance of opinion was in our favour. Who were to be "coppers," and who "robbers"? As usual we used a stic to decide. The one whose hand grasped the nobbly top o f the stic last was a "copper." When we had all tried, it wored out that Peta Maremuha, Volodya Martsenu, Yu zi Starodomsy, myself, and a few others, were "robbers." Sasha Bobir, Kota Grigoreno, and the rest, were "coppers." Kota Grigoreno wa s elected chief "copper." At first Kota would not play. He was annoyed that we had refused to go to the g ym with him. But after some hesitation he consented. After all, "Chief of Police " was an honourable post. Now life was going to be hot! Although Kota was a mother's darling, he was very quic and cunning, -and he n ew every hide-out in the neighbourhood. If you didn't find a good one, he'd be s ure to catch you. Following their chief's example, the "coppers" too off their belts, made them i nto rolls, then pulled them out so that they looed lie revolvers. Sasha Bobir fished out of his pocet his shining little bulldog. Keeping it half -hidden in his sleeve, he glanced round surreptitiously. He was afraid one of th e Petlura men might be watching him from the street. At 'Kota Grigoreno's command the "coppers" went down into the basement, having sworn a solemn oath not to loo where we went. The rule was that they should count up to one hundred and twenty, and then give the first whistle. They must then count up to one hundred and twenty again and w histle a second time. And only after the third whistle were they allowed to star t searching for us. We were not allowed to move until the first whistle. "Now then, no looing!" Peta Maremuha called out after the "coppers." "We'll catch the lot of you without that!" Sasha Bobir declared confidently, and threatened Maremuha with his bulldog. Kota let all the "coppers" into the basement before him and stopped on the top step. His grey jacet was thrown open, his blue high-school cap with its silver trimmings had slipped on to the bac of his head and his blac hair dangled from under the shiny pea. "Listen, you weasels," Kota proclaimed solemnly, straightening his cap. "Stand where you are and wait for the whistle. If anyone runs away before I whistle he' s disqualified from the game. Understand?" We understood. We hung about on the square near the cellar, shifting from one foot to the other . At last Kota went down and joined his team. There ought to be a whistle at any moment. But no whistle came. Why was he so long? We had wasted enough time as it was. At last the first whistle reached us from the depths of the cellar. As if someone had pushed us from behind, we shot forward and, each trying to ove rtae the other, raced away behind the high-school sheds. KONETSPOLSKY TOWER The street on the other side of the high wall that surrounded the school yard wa s called Bell Street. It was quite near by, just the other side of the wall, but it was not so easy to get there. Before you could reach Bell Street, you had to go out on the square, mae your way round the cathedral, and wal down the steep High-School Passage. But we were not so green. Let the masters and the head go that way we had our own way of getting to Bell Street. The street was lined on both sides with telegraph poles. One of them stood quite near the wall. All you had to do was climb the wall and stretch out your arm and you could touch the white isolators on the top of the pole. One day Weasel had an idea. Why not slide down the telegraph pole into Bell Stre

et? We tested the pole to see if it was shay. But it seemed to be firm enough a nd, what was more, the wood was smooth you wouldn't get splinters in your hands. W easel was the first to try it. Since then the telegraph pole had often saved us from shoppings at the hands of the senior boys, and even from the bearded Proopovich. And now, too, we made for the pole. The first to climb the wall was Volodya Fyla rtsenu. Throwing his arms forward, he clasped the pole and slid quicly down. N ext came Peta Maremuha. Peta was scared, but he screwed up his courage. We saw his face go pale and his short legs start trembling. It looed as if he really might fall. One day when Peta and I had climbed a tall oa-tree for haw's eggs, Peta had got dizzy and nearly lost his hold. "If he falls now," I thought, "what on earth shall we do with him?" From behind the sheds came the long second whistle. At last Peta flopped forwar d on to the pole and slid down. It seemed as if everything would be all right. O ne after the other we slid down into Bell Street. "Can I come with you chaps?" M aremuha ased us. "No fear! We'll manage without you. If you come, they'll nab the lot of us," Weasel snapped bac, and turned to me. "This way!" he whispered, nodding towards a narrow path through some thorn bushes. Leaving Peta behind, we crossed the street and plunged into the pricly blacth orn. Keeping our heads down, we made our way to the edge of the cliff along a wi nding path half-hidden among the bushes. The dense pricly branches twined round us and over us lie barbed wire. Blac, hoo-shaped roots curled up under our feet, and there were rusty bits of tin lyi ng about. We ran carefully to avoid cutting our bare feet. Neither of us spoe o r looed bac. We new the coppers must be hot on our trail! A bright-feathered bird flew up right in my face. We reached the Turish Steps. Built by the Turs about three hundred years ago, the ancient staircase led steeply down to the river. On the other side, right by the ban, we could see the lonely, half-ruined Konetspolsy Tower. It stood the re, all by itself, quite a distance from the Old Fortress. Since ancient times i t 'had guarded the approach to the town from the north, from Zarechye. From the foot of the Turish Steps a wooden bridge, led across the river straigh t to the tower. It was over this bridger not long ago, that our neighbour, Omelu sty, had run to escape from the Petlura men. "Let's hide in the tower!" Weasel suggested, panting for breath. I nodded. Going down the Turish Steps was easy. On both sides they had strong oa rails t hat stretched almost to the river. They were firm and smooth to the touch. We lay flat on the nails, and slid down flight after flight so quicly that we d id not have time to count the battered steps flying past us. A button came off m y collar, and my belly felt as hot as if it had mustard plasters on it. By the t ime we reached the bottom we looed as though we had been in a free fight. Without even stopping to tuc in our shirts, we leapt on to the narrow bridge. T he tumbling waters flew past below us. The boards creaed and bent, and the whol e bridge began to sway lie a live thing, as though some joer on the ban was r ocing it on purpose. We plunged under the stone archway of the tower and up the spiral staircase to t he second floor. Kota would never find us here! Tired and sweating, we dropped down on the grassy floor. Weasel at once crawled over to the nearest opening, which looed lie a huge eyhole the wrong way up. From there we had a good view of the opposite ban, the Turish Steps, and half the wooden bridge we had just crossed. If the "coppers" came down the Turish Steps after us, Weasel would spot them at once, and we should have time to find another hiding-place. It was cool and quiet inside the tower. The white marble fire-place which stood in one wall was in ruins. The ceiling had collapsed long ago, leaving only a sin gle half-rotten beam that stuc out of the wall lie a cannon, in the thic moss -covered walls there were three large niches. Here the Konetspolsy pans, besieg ed by the Dnieper Cossacs, must have stored their gunpowder and heavy cannon-ba lls. The whole floor was carpeted with lush green grass, and in the fire-place g

rew a clump of forget-me-nots. The grass by the wall was flattened. Somebody must have been here before us. Cou ld it be the mar left by Omelusty? Of course it was! Why, it was only a little while since he had blazed away at the Petlura men from here. He must have lain b y that embrasure, pistol in hand, just as Weasel was lying now, flat on his stom ach in the soft grass, his legs flung wide apart. What a shot that had been at the burly Petlura man! Omelusty must be a good mar sman; not everyone could score a hit with a pistol at that distance. If that Pet lura man was still alive, he would remember Konetspolsy Tower for a long time t o come. Surely they hadn't caught Omelusty! Why, even up there, in the centre of the tow n, he had given them the slip. Surely they couldn't have caught him out here, in Zarechye. "I say, Weasel! I thin he must have got away after all. Good job, too!" "Who got away?" Weasel ased and turned to me. "Who are you taling about, Vasya ?" "About Ivan . . . 'Remember how he piced off those Petlura men from this openin g?" "Oh, Ivan Omelusty!" said Weasel, and pulled a juicy tuft of grass out of a crac . "They'll go a long wav before they catch him! He's wily as a pie. Give a doz en Petluras the slip, he would . . . You now, if you as me, I don't thin he's far away. I expect he's just lying low in town somewhere, or in that undergroun d passage. When I was going past the fortress bridge the day before yesterday I sat down to have a rest, and near me there were two men watering their horses an d taling about that passage. One of them swore there were two thousand Bolshevi s hiding there. He said the Bolshevis had let the Petlura men into the town on purpose, so as to trap them. One night, when it's dar as pitch and there's not a single star in the sy, all those Bolshevis will come out of the underground passage with torches, and tae the Petlura men prisoner. And they'll throw Petl ura himself off the fortress bridge into the waterfall." "How can they be hiding there? They've got to eat something, haven't they?" "Oh, they've got all inds of supplies. Before they went into hiding, they laid in a good stoc of bacon and beans and millet and bread. Why, this very minute t hey're sitting down there, cooing their dinner." "But where does the smoe go?" "The smoe?" Weasel stopped to thin. "Oh, I suppose they've made chimneys in th e fortress towers and al! the smoe goes away out of the top." But that was too much lie a fairy-tale. Someone must be maing things up that man or Weasel. "Is that the truth?" "Are you calling me a liar?" Weasel too offence and fell silent. A SCRAP Presently I got tired of sitting in Konetspolsy Tower. There was not a sight or sound of the "coppers." Perhaps they had forgotten about us? Suppose we ran out and found another place to hide? "Loo here, Yuzi," I said, "we're not eeping to the rules, you now." "Why not?" "I'll tell you why. You're the 'robber chief,' you ought to be commanding the ot her robbers; not hiding away here with me." "No, I must stay in hiding," Weasel answered, not looing at me. "If they catch one of the gang, it doesn't matter all that much; but if the 'coppers' grab me, the whole gang will fall to bits. Besides.. ." Weasel hesitated. "Swear you won' t tell anyone?" "May I be struc by lightning, may I fall off this tower into the river, may I . . ." "All right," Weasel interrupted me. "Now listen. My dad will be down by the high -school wall today, catching dogs there are lots of 'em round there. And I don't want to bump into him. If he sees me in the street when I ought to be in school,

he won't half be wild . . . He's in a bad temper already. Yesterday someone pul led a board out of the shed arid all the dogs Dad had caught at the maret ran a way . . ." Weasel's father used to catch stray dogs for the owner of the town slaughter-yar d, Kumcheno. Kumcheno would ill the dogs, sin them, and sell the dog fat to the local soap factory. Weasel's father often drove about the town in his long v an, drawn by a mangy, draggle-tailed nag. When that blac "Dog Prison" creaed round the streets of the town, a whole crow d of boys would charge after it, shouting and cat-calling. The dogs would yelp a nd throw themselves at the bars lie jacals in a trap. And as the boys raced ea ch other to catch up with the van, they would shout: "Bitcher! Bitcher!" That was what they used to call dog-catchers in our town. Quite often our chaps would tease Weasel, too, with that offensive nicname. The n he would lose his temper and fly at his tormentors with his fists. One day thi s led to a fight with Kota Grigoreno. It was a good job they were separated in time. Grigoreno ran off at once to tell the head-master, but, lucily for Weas el, the Head was out, and nothing more came of it. Last wee, however, when they started recruiting us for the scouts at the High S chool, Kota decided to get his own bac on Weasel. As scout troop-leader, he wa s taing down the names himself. Sasha Bobir wanted to persuade Weasel to join, but Kota blanly refused to accept him. "Your father is a bitcher and you stin, of dogs yourself. You're the wrong sort for us!" he explained pompously, and added: "Besides you're a Pole. The scout-m aster won't allow me to put you down for our troop." After that Weasel began to hate Kota Grigoreno even more. "Loo here, Yuzi," 1 said to Weasel, "there's going to be a scout parade today in the school yard. They're getting ready for camp. What about taing a loo?" "Catch me!" Weasel flared up all of a sudden. "Running around in short pants, wi th a lot of daft ribbons on their shoulders -and stics in their hands. Wait a b it. When the Reds come bac we'll join them as proper scouts!" Serving with the Red Army as a reconnaissance scout, helping Soviet power, had a lways been a favourite idea of Weasel's. He was waiting for the Bolshevis to co me bac so that he could go to Kiev. He had an uncle there who was woring for t he Reds, and that uncle had promised to send him to a school where they trained reconnaissance scouts. To tell the truth, I wasn't quite sure if there really wa s such a school, but Weasel had made my ears ring with telling me about it. It would be fine to go there of course, but I didn't now anyone in 'Kiev; there wasn't much chance of my being able to go to that school. It was said that the Boy Scouts would soon be going off to camp in Nagoranye For est. At Nagoranye I had an uncle, with whom my father was hiding. The chief scou t of the district, a pug-faced fellow called Maro Grzhibovsy, bore my father a grudge. One day my father had stuc up for Maremuha, the cobbler. Maremuha had made Ma ro a pair of boots but Maro was not satisfied. He started finding fault with t hem and cursing the cobbler, and then hit him in the face with the heel of the n ew boot. He made old Maremuha's nose 'bleed. My father, who happened to be in t he shop at the time, grabbed Maro by the collar and threw him out on the paveme nt. "Coming the protector now, are you?" Maro snarled. "Just you wait, you'll learn . . . They'll show you . . . They'll give you something to remember . . ." But he was afraid to fight my father he new he'd lose. Now Maro was a Cossac officer. He always went about in spurs and riding boots, carrying a big Mauser pistol. I tried to eep out of sight when Grzhibovsy, his spurs claning, waled along the corridors to the head-master's study to see Proopovich. If Maro remembered that I was the son of the same Miron Mandzhura who had thrown him out into the street who nows, I might find myself in one of Petlura's jails all of a sudden! "Vasya! Hear that?" Weasel tugged my sleeve and pressed himself flat against the opening. "What's up, Weasel? Let me have a loo!"

But Weasel was blocing up the whole embrasure. "Wait, eep quiet! I thin they're coming!" he whispered. Through the broen roof of the tower we heard familiar voices. They were taling excitedly. The voices were approaching the tower from the right, along a part of the ban w hich people rarely used. The cliffs there were thicly overgrown with bushes and fell steeply into the water. To pass that way you had to tae your shoes off an d paddle along the edge. Suddenly I recognized Kota Grigoreno's familiar jabber. We were trapped! Down below, at the very foot of the tower, somebody's foot crun ched on the pebbles. Where should we run? There was only one way out of the tower, and that was now s urrounded by "coppers." The moment you put your nose outside they'd nab you. "They're coming! Get down. Hide!" Weasel hissed, jumping away from the opening. The round bare tower was empty. There was absolutely nowhere to hide. Perhaps th e niches would do? We plunged into those dar musty niches and stood there stoc -still, lie the saints on the Dominican church. But already a piece of wood snapped under somebody's heel on the ground-floor. T he wooden staircase creaed. One of the "coppers" was coming up the stairs. Scar cely breathing, I pressed even closer to the cold wall. A moment later I was deafened by an exultant shout from Sasha Bobir. "Come on, chaps! They're here!" A few minutes later they led us out on to the ban, holding our arms. The "coppe rs" were all round us. Sasha Bobir waled on one side and ept clicing his unlo aded revolver. But we had no right 'to run away. Oh, dash it, why hadn't we pic ed a better hiding-place, in the bushes, or in the cellar of the church! . . . Curse those "coppers"! How they flapped round us, laughing and shouting! But the biggest nuisance of the lot was Kota Grigoreno. He brandished his dumm y revolver in our faces. Two buttons of his jacet were undone, his hat was crum pled on the bac of his head, and his cunning eyes, dar as stewed tea, flashed with joy under his blac brows. "Tie their hands!" 'Kota ordered suddenly. "That's against the rules!" Weasel burst out indignantly. "Robbers never have th eir hands tied!" "You're not robbers, you're just a couple of tramps. And you're a polecat, not a weasel. A lot you now about what's in the rules and what isn't!" Kota declare d haughtily, buttoning up his jacet. "Now then, lads, what did I tell you? Tie them tight, so they can't throw their weight about!" Sasha Bobir pushed his bulldog in his pocet and ran up to Weasel. Weasel starte d to fight bac and I rushed forward to help him. But just then Kota Grigoreno , running up from behind, jumped on my bac. "Get off!" I shouted. "Get off!" Planting my feet wide apart and heaving from side to side, I tried to get nearer to a big acacia-tree, so that I could throw myself bac and noc Grigoreno ag ainst the trun. "Get off!" I shouted again. But Kota clung to my shoulders, snarling lie a wolf. I could see our chief, We asel, battling fiercely with the "coppers." He was a tough agile chap, in spite of being thin. And the strength he was showing gave me fresh energy. I strained towards the tree. But then Kota Grigoreno tripped me up and I fell flat on the sharp pebbles. I didn't have time to save myself with my hands Kota was gripping them from behind and came down heavily on my face. The sharp pain made my face bu rn and brought tears to my eyes. The bridge of my nose had struc hard on a ston e, my head was ringing, and there was a salty taste of blood in my mouth. But Ko ta pounced on me again and started twisting my arms. A rush of anger overcame the pain. Gathering all my strength, I forced myself on to one nee and, jering my head round, threw Kota off. Kota was an athlete, he often lifted brics during the brea; but I was no wealing either. Before he could mae another grab at my nec, I was on my feet and wrenching his slippery patent leather belt away from him.

"Trip me up, would you! Just wait, I'll give it to you, you toad! I'll show you! " I roared. I managed to tug the belt out of Kota's hands and fell to lashing his bac and hands with it. But Kota dodged away lie a dog. Then he made a sudden leap at m e and plunged his teeth into my arm. Lowering my head, I butted Kota in the chest. He lost his balance and tumbled i nto the river. I didn't even realize what had happened. There was a heavy splash. It must have been deep there because Kota's head vanished at once under the water. I got frightened. Suppose he was drowned? But a second later Kota's wet head po pped up on the surface lie a cor. He flapped wildly at the water with his arms i n his fright he had forgotten how to swim. "Help! Save me!" he bawled, swallowing water and goggling with fear. The "coppers" rushed to rescue their chief. Weasel gave me a win. Taing advantage of the confusion, we made tracs. Gosh, it was a good feeling to have given that bragging sissy of a doctor's son a real lesson! I had paid him bac for everything. For Weasel, for my damaged no se, and for offending the honour of the "robbers"! BEFORE THE HEAD And so we reached the top of the Turish Steps. Looing bac, we had a good view of Konetspolsy Tower and the place where I had just noced Kota Grigoreno i nto the water. While we had been climbing the steps, the "coppers" had pulled Ko ta out. We could see him down there, a blac, bedraggled figure, hopping about on one foot he must have got a bubble in his ear. The "coppers" were crowding roun d him. "You'll have to watch your step now, Vasya. Kota will never forgive you for tha t!" "Thin I'm afraid of him? What can he do to me? Complain to the Head? Let him! H e started it first. There's a mar loo at the mar!" and 1 showed Weasel my batte red nose. "I can see it. It's not much of a one, but it's a mar. And you've got blood on your lip. Wipe it off." "If the Head ass me, I'll tell him everything how he tripped me up and how my nos e bled . . . Kota can tell tales if he lies, it'll only be the worst for him!" And we dashed on, towards Bell Street. All through the singing lesson I could not sit still. I ept fidgeting about in my seat and looing at the door; every moment I expected to hear the head-master 's footsteps in the corridor. The class was learning "Long May He Reign" for the end-of-term concert. The sing ing teacher, Pani Rodlevsaya, a tall angular woman in a long blac dress, with curls at her temples, ept brandishing the tuning for at us, then striing it o n the lectern. "Here's the note, children!" she would squea, raising herself on tip-toe as the metallic sound floated through the room. "Here's the note! . . . Mi-mi! For hea ven's sae: Mi-mi!" Volodya Martsenu sang so loud he shoo a cobweb in the corner of the room. Pet a Maremuha piped out the descant in a thin, wailing tone, as if he were begging for alms. And I did not sing at all just opened my mouth to eep Pani Rodlevsaya at bay. I had no time for singing at that moment. How could I sing "Long May He Reign," when I was just going to be called up before Proopovich for a first-cl ass wigging! Kota Grigoreno's des was empty; he had not turned up for the lesson. The "coppers" and "robbers" had got bac to school well before the singing lesso n began, and the tale of the ducing I had given Kota had spread lie wild fire

. There had been quite a crowd round the wood pile, noisily discussing our fight . At last Kota had appeared in the yard. In his bedraggled state, with his blac hair plastered over his forehead, he looed lie a drowned duc. I had been nosing round the basement, looing for a doc leaf to cover the scrat ch on my nose. The sight of Kota s scowling face had made me forget for a second the inevitable summons that was to come from the headmaster. Pretending not to notice us, Kota slipped in at the bacdoor and made straight for Proopovich's study. The fine streams of water tricling from his clothes le ft a long trail on the parquet floor, as if someone had carried a leay bucet d own the corridor. As soon as the bell went, Volodya Martsenu ran to the head-master's study to fe tch the class register for Pani Rodlevsaya. "Proopovich has wrapped Kota in that stuff! You now, the stuff they bought fo r the concert flags," he told us when he got bac to the class. "He's sitting in the armchair with his teeth chattering. His eyes are all red and he loos a in d of yellow-blue colour just lie a parrot. When he saw me he turned way. And the Head has sent Niifor to get Kota's father." "What a rotten sissy!" I thought. "And he swans about being good at games and t ougher than anyone else in the class! All our Zarechye chaps go swimming until l ate autumn. Sometimes you dive into the water and it's so cold you get spots bef ore your eyes, but we never care. But that rotten swan gets pushed into warm wa ter for a minute and he snivels and shivers lie a puppy. Everyone has to loo a fter him. And he thins he's a chief, a troop-leader in the scouts! He ought to be sitting on his mother's nee!" As a rule, singing lessons passed quicer than most; by the time we had learnt t he song and sung it through once or twice, the bell would go in the corridor, an d it would be time to stop. But that day the lesson dragged on endlessly. Pani R odlevsaya, was tall and thin, with an Adam's apple as big and round as a jacda w's egg, and she ept writhing up over the lectern, as if she were being crucifi ed. "Daddy-Long-Legs" was what we called her, and she was just lie one. The cha ps used to say she dyed her grey hair with in. Unable to stand it any longer, I told Pani Rodlevsaya that my throat was dry an d I was very thirsty. She gave me permission to leave the room and I slipped out into the corridor. There was not a soul about. I waled quietly down the corrid or into the Great Hall and, crossing the stage, went out on the balcony. Thic rustling chestnut branches almost touched the balcony railings. Soon the s hapely, pale-pin chestnut flowers would blossom among the green leaves, lie ca ndles on a Christmas-tree. The cocchafers would buzz round them in the evening, and a warm light breeze would stir the blossoms, wafting away their sweet drows y scent. It would be wonderful to spend a night on this balcony. You could mae yourself a cosy little bed here, put a pillow under your head, wrap the blanet round you and lie for a long, long time with your eyes shut, listening sleepily to the an xious town beyond the cathedral square, tired after its day of Petlura orders an d decrees, growing calm and still . . . But what was this? A trap drove out from behind the cathedral on to the square. It was heading stra ight for the school. Who could that be? Surely it wasn't Kota's father? . . . But it was. He was wearing an embroidered shirt and his brown bald pate gleamed in the sun. Grigoreno reined in his horse sharply at the high-school porch and climbed heav ily out of the trap. He tethered the horse to an iron post and, pulling a round blac bundle out of the trap, disappeared into the building. He must have brought Kota a change of clothes. Fancy leaving the hospital just for that! I stood on the balcony, concealed by the chestnut leaves. Now I had no wish at a ll to return to the class-room. I might as well wait until the bell. The bell rang. A noisy stream of boys poured out of the class-rooms. I heard the m shouting, taling, banging their des lids. But I still stood there wondering how best to slip bac into the class-room without the head-master or Kota notic

ing me. The door under the balcony banged heavily and Doctor Grigoreno, our head-master Proopovich, and Kota, appeared below. The unfortunate "chief of police" had c hanged into dry clothes; he was now wearing a sailor's suit that was too tight f or him, and a cap adorned with the ribbons of the Order of St. George. His fathe r must have piced up the first thing that came to hand. Kota ept turning his head and looing up at the windows to see if any of the b oys were watching him. Apparently reassured, he set his sailor's cap at a more d ashing angle. The doctor's deep voice floated up to me on the balcony, "For God' s sae, punish that little gutter-snipe, Gedeon Apolinarievich! Unless you do so mething about it, he'll drown everyone in the school!" " 'Gutter-snipe?' he means me!" I thought. "I lie that! Someone trips me up, I cut my nose open and graze my nee, and then I'm to blame I'm a gutter-snipe! . . . Let him call me up and as what happened. I'll tell him who's the gutter-snipe !" "Yes, indeed!" boomed the Head. "If only you new what a dreadful time we have n ow with that Zarechye riff-raff! It's terrible, terrible! . . . They were sent h ere from the Town School, and they've turned everything upside down. The staff s imply don't now what to do with them. Our independent Uraine will gain nothing from them, I assure you. They were simply bred for the gutter. I've been asing at the Ministry if they can't be transferred to the Commercial . . ." The doctor climbed into the trap, nodding sympathetically. "Come and see us, and bring your wife, Gedeon Apolinarievich. You'll be most wel come." "I should consider it a great honour," Proopovich replied with a bow. Grigoreno fliced the reins, and the trap moved off. The head-master stood stil l for a moment, then blew his nose with a white handerchief, straightened his s tarched collar and waled away. Then the bell rang and we went bac into class. . . . When the last lesson was nearly over, Niifor the caretaer entered the r oom, and after asing the master's permission, summoned me in gruff tones to the head-master. I did not want to show that I was frightened, so I gathered my boo s into a pile very slowly. The class was silent. Everyone was looing at me. The botany master, a broad-faced, frecled man in a fawn alpaca tunic, wiped his chaly fingers and pretended it had nothing to do with him. All the Zarechye chaps cast sympathetic glances in my direction. The round-shouldered, blac-bearded Proopovich was very much afraid of any infe ction. All the year round, winter and summer, he went about in brown id gloves. Germs he imagined everywhere, but the thing he feared most was flies. At his ho me, on every shelf and window-ledge, and even on the bench under the apple-tree there were glass fly-catchers filled with disinfectant. 'Knowing how to annoy the Head, Sasha Bobir had acquired a wonderful nac of ca tching the big green flies that sometimes flew into our class-room and buzzed ag ainst the windows lie bumble-bees. Sasha would catch one of these flies and qui etly release it through the eyhole into Proopovich's study. The fly would buzz about the room, and Proopovich would buzz about after it, getting frantic with irritation. He would move the chairs about, open the windows, even call in the hunch-baced Niifor to help him chase away the fly. And we were glad we had ann oyed the old Fur-Face. It was quite hard to open the heavy study door, which was padded with felt and o il-cloth. Proopovich did not even glance at me. He was sitting in a soft leather arm-chair behind a long table, his beard thrust into a heap of papers; one hand, clad in a brown id glove, rested on the edge of the table. I closed the door quietly and stood with my bac to it.

The room was hung with portraits of the Urainian hetmans in heavy gilded frames . There were a lot of them in the big study. The hetmans were clasping heavy gold maces studded with precious stones; their h ats were adorned with flowing ostrich feathers. Only Mazeppa had no mace. Barehe aded, his doublet unfastened, he looed down at the head-master with cunning vic ious eyes, and for a moment I had a feeling that it was not Proopovich, not the head-master of our school who was sitting at the table, but some bearded hetman , descended from the portraits which hung on the wall. Proopovich sat there over his papers, appearing not to notice me. He opened a heavy blac boo. I got tired of waiting and gave a small cough. "What do you want?" the Head ased in a harsh voice, looing up sharply. "Niifor . . . told me . . .to come," I gulped out. Fear made the words catch in my throat. "Name?" "Vasili . . ." "I ased for your surname." "Mandzhura." "Did you push Grigoreno into the river?" "It wasn't me . . . he did it himself . . . He noced me down first . . . I . . ." I wanted to tell him what had happened, and prove that I had been in the right; but the head-master interrupted me. "Have you a father?" "He's in the country." "Where's your mother?" "She's dead." "Who are you living with then? Who loos after you?" "My aunt, Maria Afanasyevna." "Your aunt? Very well, tae your boos and go straight home to your aunt. You ca n tell her that you have been expelled from school. We don't want hooligans here ." And the head-master again thrust his beard among the papers. Taen abac, I stood for several minutes by the long cloth-covered table. "So that's it!" I said to myself. "I suppose he thins I'll go down on my nees begging him to let me stay . . . Not liely!" I grasped the door-handle, and did not even notice the heavy door slam behind me . I waled slowly down the long, empty corridor, then down the stone staircase to the entrance-hall. I left the building. It was already quite hot in the yard. Th e pigeons were cooing softly on the cathedral tower. A water cart, the driver pe rched on the rim of its big barrel, clattered past and disappeared behind the ca thedral. Above me the bell near the teacher's common-room rang sharply. In a moment the c haps would come running out and start asing questions: "Well, what was it lie? Did you catch it hot?" And what could I say? That I had been expelled? No fear! They'd start pitying me. The best thing would be to get away quic. And thrusti ng the bundle of boos under my arm, I strode off to Zarechye. IN THE EVENING When I got home I felt at a loose end. What could I say to Aunt Maria? Last winter, just before Christmas, Weasel and I had played truant and gone out to the woods for Christmas-trees. Father had found out about it and given me a w higging that lasted three days. He had even thrown Sasha Bobir out of the house when Sasha had come round for me to go sating. No, I would not tell anyone I had been expelled from the High School. Neither Au nt Maria, nor the boys. I would not even tell Weasel it was so rotten, after all. And if they ased why I was not coming to school I would thin of some excuse. I

would say I had ringworm and Doctor By would not let me come in case I infecte d the other boys. That would mae them afraid, and they would believe me. After all, Peta Maremuha once had ringworm and he never came to school for a fortnig ht, the lucy blighter. I would scratch a place on my belly with a bit of glass and say it was ringworm, then I would have to smear it with zinc ointment and st ay at home. And soon the holidays would be here. So that was that. I had ringworm! But that evening I just could not settle down. Ringworm was ringworm, and it wou ld not be hard to fool my aunt, but as soon as I remembered that I could never g o to school again, my heart san. The worst of it was that they had expelled me because of that rotter Kota. Pity I hadn't punched him a bit harder! . . . There was no one in the house. As soon as she had given me my dinner, Aunt Maria went out to the allotment to weed the vegetables. What about going to see Weasel? But Weasel's father was probably home by now, an d I did not want to meet him. He was a bit too strict for my liing; he never la ughed, and didn't even answer when you said, "Hullo, Uncle Starodomsy." "No, there was no point in going round to Weasel's," I decided, "I would go for a wal alone . . . ." Soon the quiet shadows would steal over the crooed streets of our town. Already the sun was low over Kalinovsy Woods. It was getting cooler. The chocolate-bro wn geese that belonged to Lebedintseva next door were wending their way in a sol emn procession down to the river for a dip. There was no one with them; they had just pushed their way under the gate and, with their gawy necs poing forward , waddled away down the street. As I mounted the Turish Steps, I heard the sharp tap of a drum coming from the high-school yard above. Soon I saw a crowd of ids gathered round a chin in the school wall. They were standing on tip-toe, and peering into the yard. "Loo, loo at 'em marching!" someone shouted. All of a sudden I noticed Weasel's close-cropped head among the crowd. Oh, good! And I thought he was -at home! I elbowed my way through the milling heap of boys and gave Weasel a hearty slap on the shoulder. He started and swung round, resentful and ready for a fight. Bu t seeing that it was me, looed rather embarrassed, and mumbled something half u nder his breath. "What are you doing here?1' I ased, nodding towards the yard. "Do you find it a ll that interesting?" "Just daft, if you as me," Weasel replied with affected indifference. "They ee p marching round shouting 'Glory!' and the officers loo at them as if they were a pac of moneys in a cage." A drum started beating near the wall. Through the chin I saw the scouts step of f in orderly lines across the high-school yard. They were wearing new uniforms ha i shorts and opened-nec shirts. On his left shoulder each scout wore a bunch o f different-coloured ribbons, and on the sleeve, just below the elbow, yellow-an d-blue stripes. The scouts marched in lines three abreast, wheeling round as they reached the wa ll. A little to the side, showing off in his new yellow boots, marched the "drowned" Kota Grigoreno. He was the troop-leader. Over Kota's sleeve, above the yello w-and-blue stripes snaed a crimson cord. That meant Kota was not just an ordin ary scout, but one of the leaders. I dislied his stiff stride and self-satisfie d air, and wondered how Sasha Bobir and Volodya Martsenu could obey him. The ids behind us were raising a clamour. Weasel and I were squeezed against th e wall as they strove to see what was going on in the yard. "Let's go for a swim, Yuzi!" I suggested. "I've had enough of this." Weasel agreed. We made our way down the winding path- to the river. "Well, what did the Head say to you today? Pretty bad, wasn't it?" Weasel ased. "Oh, nothing much. He was tough at first, but when I told him that Kota tripped

me up he didn't now what to say and let me go home." "Was that all? . . . And Peta Maremuha has been spreading tales that you've be en expelled. We waited ages for you, but you never came bac. I thought old FurFace might have put you in the punishment room because of Kota." "You do get some ideas! He didn't expel me, but he threatened to. And I'll smash Maremuha if he goes on spreading tales lie that." The river was already gleaming below us. "Shall we dive from the cliffs?" "Yes, let's." We turned a corner and the Old Fortress came into view across the river. The fortress yard was full of fruit-trees. Near the Pope Tower there were short, bushy ones that ripened early. You could pic an apple off one of them long bef ore autumn, and if you shoo it, you could even hear the pips rattling inside. W hen they were ripe their sins were soft and tender and your teeth would sin st raight into the crisp piny flesh of the apple. There were some mulberry-trees too. Their fruit was blac and looed lie little alder cones. When the trees ripened we would climb up into the Pope Tower and t hrow heavy stones down on them. The stones would crash through the branches, sca ttering the fruit on the ground. Then we would search under the fallen leaves among the thic grass for the soft, sicly-sweet berries, which oozed with blac juice. We ate them as we crawled a bout under the tree, and for a long time afterwards our mouths would be as blac as if we had been drining in. For several days now there had been cherries on the stalls at the town maret. Y ellow cherries that you could almost see through, golden-pin ones lie Paradise apples, and shiny blac cherries that stained your lips, were piled high in the creaing basets of the maret-women. Rattling their scales, cursing each other and vying for customers, the women weighed out cherries in paper bags. How hard it was to pass the maret when the first cherries were on the stalls! H ow we envied those who thought nothing of buying a whole pound without bargainin g, and then sauntered past us, spitting out the slippery pips on the pavement! With these thoughts of cherries in my mind I followed Yuzi down to the river. N ow the fortress towered above us on the right- tall and grim. At the sight of its shadow trembling in the water I remembered the big cherry-trees growing in the f ortress yard, behind the Pope Tower. They had not many leaves, but the cherries were wonderfully sweet. "If the women are selling cherries in the maret," I thought as I too off my cl othes, "the ones in the fortress must be ripe too." I told Weasel. "All right then, let's go scramping tomorrow!" "What time?" "After dinner." "No, it's no good in the evening," I said, "the Petlura men will be up there sho oting again." On the other side of the fortress the Petlura men had set up a shooting range. T hey went out there every evening after dinner, land the rattle of their machineguns could be heard until dus. The bullets whined about the very wall you had t o climb to reach the tower. "Well, when then?" ased Weasel. "Let's go in the morning, before school. We'll tae our boos so that we needn't go home. I'll call for you. Mind you wae up in time," I added, quite forgettin g that I need not go to school the next day. "Oh, I'll wae up in time," replied Weasel, "but the watchman will be nocing a bout in the morning. How shall we get to the cherries?" Weasel was right. Every morning the watchman made a round of the fortress, and o nly later on when lessons began at the High School did he go and sit on his bench by the gate. Then you could chop a tree down and he wouldn't hear! "What is there to be afraid of, anyway? Suppose he does see us, he'll only shout

. We can always run for it, can't we? He won't climb the wall after us. We'll go in the morning," I said, and Weasel agreed. We left our clothes on the ban and climbed up the cliff. What fun was there in bathing in the shallows by the ban, where the Zarechye women bathed! It was a d ifferent matter to climb up the cliff, then dive headfirst into the swiftly-flow ing river. The sun-warmed rocs priced our feet, little pebbles bounced down into the pale -green wormwood bushes. We reached the ledge and stood on it together. Far away, on the other side of th e dam, we could see ducs diving in the water. Every now and then their tails fl ipped into the air and their orange feet showed up on the smooth green surface. "Bet the water's warm today!" said Weasel, smiling blissfully . . . A cart rattled noisily over the bridge. "Here goes," I shouted, and without waiting for an answer, too a running dive i nto the water. I came up in the middle of the river and looed round for Weasel. There was no s ign of him on the cliff or in the water. I began twisting and turning, afraid th at he might be going to grab my anle. It's beastly when someone grips your anl e with wet, slippery hands. Weasel's head popped up right near the dam, maing big circles in the water. Wha t a long way he had swum without coming up! I couldn't have done that. We ept diving in turns, bringing up little pebbles and yellow clay from the bot tom, then splashing to see the rainbow. When we got tired we would turn over and float motionless on our bacs. The current would carry us slowly downstream to the dam. Above us stretched the clear pale-blue sy with a faint pin flush risi ng in the west. There was not a cloud in sight. It would be a glorious day tomorrow. Late in the evening, when it was quite dar outside, I too an oil-lamp and matc hes and made my way to the rabbit-shed. In the dim light of the lamp I pulled off my shirt and made several scratches on my belly with a thic piece of glass from a broen beer bottle. Soon one or two drops of blood appeared on the sin. "That'll do," I decided. "Aunt Maria's short-sighted, she won't see anything any way." I went bac indoors. There was a lovely smell of chips in the room. "I can't go to school tomorrow, Aunt," I said plaintively. "The Doctor won't let me. I've got ringworm and I might give it to the other boys . . . Loo!" Aunt Maria put her frying-pan down on the edge of the stove and, pursing her lip s, peered at my stomach. "Well, don't go then. But put some iodine on it," she said, and turned bac to t he roaring stove. That was a fine way to treat a fellow! After all that scratching, she had merely looed at it out of the corner of her eye and turned away again. She might at l east have been sorry for me . . . IN THE OLD FORTRESS I woe up early. The sun had not yet risen over the roof of the shed. I slipped out into the vegetable garden and pulled some fresh pin radishes out of the far thest row. Then I went bac into the house. Moving about quietly, I too a halfloaf of bread off the shelf, cut off the "nobbly" and, sprinling it with salt, sat down on a stool to eat. Soon there was nothing left on the itchen table sa ve breadcrumbs and dewy bunches of crumpled radish leaves. I was just about to l eave when the yawning figure of my aunt entered the itchen. "What are you doing about at this hour?" she ased, looing at me with sleepy ey es. "Oh, I'm just going to Yuzi Starodomsy's to do some arithmetic. If the Doctor won't let me go to school, I want to wor with Yuzi at home."

"Arithmetic at this time in the morning! Getting people out of bed . . . You're telling fibs, aren't you?" Aunt Maria grumbled, and padded up to me. "Now then, let me have a loo at that ringworm of yours!" With great care, as though I were handling a dangerous wound, I pulled my shirt up and showed my aunt the faint red spot. Aunt screwed up her sleepy eyes and br ought her face so close to my body that she almost touched my imaginary ringworm with her nose. "Oh, that's nothing! It's getting better already." "What do you mean getting better!" I cried, lowering my shirt hastily. "You may th in so, but it doesn't half itch! Gosh, how it itches!" And I started scratching fiercely with both hands. "Are you mad? Stop scratching at once! Stop scratching I tell you!" My aunt wave d her arms in fright. "If you eep scratching lie that you'll get the itch prop erly! Stop scratching! You'd better go and put some zinc ointment on it." I went into the other room and tugged open the left-hand drawer of the chest-ofdrawers where my aunt ept the medicines. I jabbed my finger into the pot of oin tment, then, pulling up my shirt, smeared the white stuff thicly over my imagin ary ringworm and stuc a round piece of plaster over it. That was to show Weasel . If it looed bad, he would tal about it to the rest of the class, and no one would thin I had been expelled. "Drin some mil! There's some boiled left over from yesterday!" Aunt Maria call ed after me from the itchen. She was already clattering with her pots and pans. "I don't want any, I'm full up!" I shouted bac, and ran out into the street. The Starodomsy's big shaggy dog was prancing about behind the high gate of thei r yard. Almost before I reached the fence, it sensed the presence of a stranger and threw itself at the gate, baring savagely. Drat that dog, you couldn t even g o into the yard! Retiring to the middle of the road, I gave a long shout. "Yuzi! . . . Weasel! . . . Are you coming!" Silence. Growing fiercer, the dog growled and snarled under the gate. I hoped my shout had not waened Yuzi's father. But in a moment the door slammed and Yuzi ran out of the yard, driving bac the dog. His eyes and face were puffy with sleep and his left chee still bore the mar of the pillow. "Gosh, you're early, Vasya! . . . Everyone's still asleep," he mumbled, rubbing his eyes. "Early, you say? Orlovsy's mill has been going for a long time." "Where are your boos?" "What do I need them for?" "Aren't you going to school?" "No, I'm not. Doctor By says I mustn't. I've got ringworm, I might give it to s omebody.. ." "'Ringworm? What's the idea?" "Well, loo." And, maing a face, I pulled up my shirt. The ointment had melted all over my belly. The yellow plaster had slipped down a nd left the red spot bare. Weasel made a sucing noise with his lips, shoo his head, and muttered somethin g incomprehensible that may have indicated either sympathy or alarm. "'Does it hurt?" he ased at last. "Not much. It just burns and itches a lot. And I mustn't scratch it." "But how did you manage to bathe yesterday?" "Oh, that's nothing. It only stung a bit. I thought it wasn't worth telling you about. Last night it was awful though. Aunt and I had to go to Doctor By. He wa s in bed. But we got him up at once. He just too one loo at me and shoo his h ead. 'It's a very bad case,' he said. He told me to put ointment and sticing pl aster on it, and not to go to school until it was quite better." It was amazing how easily I could tell the tale. I was even beginning to believe in the disease and Doctor By myself. "Did the doctor give you a certificate to tae to the Head?" "What do I need a certificate for when term ends the day after tomorrow." "Perhaps you'd better not go to the fortress?"

"Oh no, I can still wal. Hurry up and get your boos." "All right, I won't be a tic." And Yuzi ran off. The cheerful rosy sun had already climbed above the cliffs. The left half of the fortress that faced the town was bathed in bright morning sunlight. We made our way round the shady side. Weasel pushed his boos down his shirt front so that it would be easier to climb. "Only remember not to loo down, or you'll feel dizzy," he advised me. Digging our fingers into the chins between the stones, we climbed cautiously up the cold, mossy wall to the first ledge. The rest was simple as long as you didn' t get dizzy. Yuzi was doing fine. Without looing down, he edged his way boldly along the st one ledge. Below us the white road wound past the fortress. Only a little while ago we had been waling along it, but from here it seemed miles away. I could not help loo ing down, and every time I did I felt more and more frightened. What a height! Well, you could only die once! I turned my bac on the terrifying drop and, almost brushing the mossy wall with my lips, hardly daring to breathe, made my way along the ledge behind Weasel. At last we reached the Pope Tower. I followed Weasel through a broen grating, a nd we were inside. The way into the fortress yard lay through another window in the opposite wall. Weasel glanced cautiously out of the window, but suddenly started bac, putting his finger to his lips. For a few seconds we stood without speaing. Who had Weasel seen? Perhaps the gate-eeper was already stumping about the orch ard with his heavy slic? Or had some of the chaps from Zarechye got there first ? Worse still, perhaps the Petlura men had come out for shooting practice? At that moment I heard voices, then the whinny of a horse drowned everything. Th e voices came again. Someone was taling loudly inside the fortress. But who cou ld it be at this hour? Wouldn't it be better to climb bac the way we had come? No one would touch us t here. But Weasel had thought of something else. He lay down on the dusty floor, and made a sign to me to do the same. We crawled slowly to the window and, raising our heads, peeped into the yard. Below us, under the tallest of the cherry-trees, stood a blac carriage with its hood raised. Its varnished mudguards and even the spoes of the wheels glistene d in the sun. Two glossy brown horses stood in the shafts. They were shaing the ir heads and reaching towards the grass. We could hear the clin of their bridle s. A short distance away, by the Blac Tower, a dapple-grey horse, harnessed to a t rap, was tethered to an apple-tree. Both the horse and the trap looed very much lie Doctor Grigoreno's. He had a horse of the same colour, and a trap with tw o seats and a varnished shaft-bow just lie that one. Near the carriage under the cherry-tree, three Petlura men in dar-brown tunics, with tight holster belts and tan boots, were taling quietly. One of them was l eaning on his rifle with a strange frown on his face. To one side, in the shade of the fortress wall, stood another group. One of them, a shortish man, was dres sed in a loose green blouse and ragged trousers. His head was shaven. I was sure I had seen him somewhere before. But where? He was slightly stooped. His tired sallow face was turned towards us. Opposite him stood Maro Grzhibovsy, holding a paper in his hand. I could hear Maro reading something to the man in the loose blouse. Maro wore a broad belt with a revolver in a wooden holster on one side and a long sword on the other. C lose by, leaning against a leafy apple-tree, stood Doctor Grigoreno. So it was his trap that stood by the Blac Tower! Grigoreno was wearing an embroidered bl ouse and a Panama with a blue ribbon. The bewhisered doctor must have felt rath er out of place among all these military men. He was glancing at the apple-tree

and digging the toe of his heavy Austrian boot into the earth. What had brought him here with the Petlura men at this hour in the morning? Maro Grzhibovsy finished reading. A hush descended on the green fortress yard basing in the morning sunshine. Eve n the Petlura men by the carriage stopped taling. Maro slowly folded the white sheet of paper and put it into the breast pocet o f his hai service tunic. Adjusting his holster, he shouted something to the th ree Petlura men. As Grzhibovsy's shout echoed unexpectedly far away across the lonely yard, the soldiers jumped to attention, pressing their rifles to their si des. Carrying their rifles at the trail, the soldiers clumped over to the downcast ma n in ragged clothes. One of them, a short, crooed-faced fellow, tapped him on t he shoulder and nodded towards the wall. The man in the green blouse turned wearily and waled over to a mossy bastion. O nly then did I notice the oblong pit freshly dug in the green grass at the foot of the wall. Above it rose a dar mound, lie the parapet of a trench. Weasel jabbed me painfully in the side. What did he want? Upon reaching the blac mound, the man slowly, unhurriedly, as if in a dream, st arted to undress. First he too off his blouse and cast it wealy aside on the g reen grass, then, bending low, he pulled off his vest. Evidently he found it har d to eep on his feet. When he was at last undressed, he stood up on the grass u nder the rounded mossy bastion. He was very thin and his ribs showed. Still I stared wonderingly at the naed man and could not understand why he had undressed. He couldn't have come to the fortress yard to swim! Only when the three soldiers brought their brown gleaming rifles to their should ers and stood there without moving did I suddenly realize what was happening. Th en I realized why the Petlura men had come here so early in the morning, and why they had brought with them this man who was so thin and ill. I felt a sudden, desperate longing to shut my eyes and run away, so that I shoul d not see what was about to happen. But the three soldiers planted their feet firmly apart; and their rifles grew st eady as they too aim, pressing their chees to the polished butts. The naed man drew himself up with an effort. Now that he was standing on the bl ac mound, he seemed tall and slim. Raising his fist above his head, he shouted at the Petlura men as they crouched over their rifles. "Long live the Soviet Uraine! . . ." His hoarse voice reached us faintly on the breeze. And then I recognized him. It was the man whom Ivan Omelusty 'had brought to our house that wet spring evening when the Red Army was withdrawing! It was he whom Aunt Maria had put to bed on the iron-bound chest and given tea and dried raspb erries to drin, he who had pushed his thin hand out from under the blanet and made those funny shadows on the wall with his fingers. So he had not left with t he Red Army after all. Aunt Maria had triced me . . . I jumped up and thrust my head out of the window. I wanted to shout, "Let him alone! He's very ill, he hasn't done anything to any body!" but the words stuc in my throat and Weasel immediately pulled me to my nees. The pug-faced Maro Grzhibovsy waved his sword. The three rifles iced almost simultaneously in the hands of the Petlura men. The volley echoed thunderously f rom the bastions and embrasures of the dar empty towers. Frightened jacdaws rose from their nests and circled, cawing above the fortress . The whole town outside seemed to fall silent, listening tensely to the deep ec ho of the firing. As if from cold, the naed man shivered suddenly and clutched his chest, then he swayed sideways and, drooping his head slowly, almost sleepily, collapsed on th e ground beside the dar oblong pit that had been dug at his feet. A moment later, Doctor Grigoreno, carrying an old, gnarled waling-stic, strol led coolly up to the pit. Putting his blue-ribboned Panama on the grass, he bent down and began feeling the body. He pushed bac the head and examined the eyes. Then he straightened up, wiped his hands on a white handerchief and said somet

hing quietly to Grzhibovsy. Grzhibovsy strode quicly to the spot and iced the dead body into the pit. While the Petlura men rattled the bolts of their rifles, sending empty cartridge -cases spinning into the grass, Maro Grzhibovsy and Grigoreno went over to th e doctor's trap. "Hey, gate-eeper, come here!" shouted Maro. The, trap sagged on one side as he climbed into the driver's seat. In answer to Grzhibovsy's shout the gate-eeper came hobbling across the yard, glancing uneasily from side to side. Going up to Grzhibovsy, he too off his ba ttered straw hat and bowed. "Get hold of the spade that's in the carriage and fill in that grave. And mind y ou do it well! Put some turf on top. And not a word about what you've seen. Unde rstand? Or else . . ." And Grzhibovsy tapped his revolver. "As payment for the wor," he added graciously, "you can tae his rags." The gate-eeper fetched the spade from the carriage and went over to the pit. Wi thout looing into the grave, he hastily shovelled the dar sods over the body. The spade trembled in the gate-eeper's hands. Apparently it was the first time he had ever been called upon to perform such a gruesome tas. Squatting on the driver's seat, Maro Grzhibovsy pulled out a silver cigarette case and offered it to the doctor. The case opened with a clic and both men lig hted up. Blue smoe curled over the trap. Leaning on the mudguard, the doctor po inted out various apple and cherry-trees to Maro. Then he bent down and too a handful of rich crumbly soil from the roots of an apple-tree. Showing it-to Grzh ibovsy on his palm, he rubbed it carefully with his fingers, cliced his tongue with approval, then threw the soil away. He must have been praising the gate-eeper for looing after the fortress trees so well. Meanwhile the gateeeper had filled in the pit and covered it with gree n turf. For a minute he stood thoughtfully over the grave, then piced up the sc attered clothing. With these in one hand and the spade in the other, he went ove r to the trap and again bowed to Grzhibovsy. Maro spat out his cigarette, jump ed to the ground and, straightening his cap, too the muddy spade from the gateeeper. "Here, lads!" he shouted to the Petlura men, and with a vigorous swing tossed th e spade towards them. The men dodged to one side and the spade, turning in the air, thumped into the g rass near the rear wheels of the carriage. Maro and Grigoreno climbed into the trap. Two of the Petlura men climbed into the carriage with their rifles; the third, t he short one, having handed them his rifle, jumped on the box and piced up the whip. Doctor Grigoreno fliced the reins and his light trap led the way through the f ortress gates, which the gate-eeper had already opened. Swaying gently, the well-sprung blac carriage, its hood still raised, followed on out of the fortress. The slee horses in their rich harness swished their tai ls. As they trotted down to the bridge we heard the clatter of their hooves on t he cobbles. The gate-eeper closed the gates and returned to the yard. His straw hat lay on the bastion near the fresh grave. Leaning on his gnarled as h stic, with the dead man's clothes under his arm, the old man stood in the mid dle of the fortress yard, gloomy and thoughtful. "Vasya, wasn't that the Communist they caught yesterday down on the Old Estate?" Weasel ased in a low trembling voice, his hot breath fanning my chee. "After we had been swimming I met Sasha Bobir near Uspensy Church and he told me that the Petlura men had come to Old Estate and taen a Communist away under armed gu ard. 'Perhaps it was him? Did you hear anything about it?" No, I had heard nothing. And even if I had, it would have been difficult for me to tal about it at that moment. Only once before had I seen that man alive. I did not now who he was, I did not now his name, or whether he had a family, I new nothing about him and I shoul d not now anything probably until my father returned from Nagoranye, until Sovi

et power returned. But I felt a deep bond with that man. I could not even bear to thin that he wou ld never get up out of that dar pit, blin his eyes in the sun, and smile; neve r come and visit my father as an old and trusted friend. Weasel nudged me again. "Vasya, let's go down and spea to him," he whispered, nodding towards the gateeeper. There were tears in his eyes. He was afraid to stay here in this cold gloomy tow er after what we had seen in the fortress yard. And the moment I thought of it m yself my throat tightened and tears rolled down my chees. I pressed my hands to my eyes until green circles rose before them, but it did not help the tears came faster still. I turned away and pressed my forehead to the cold wall, but that d id not help either; in the darness T saw the sic Communist falling to the grou nd and heard his last vengeful and prophetic shout: "Long live the Soviet Uraine!" You rotten murderers! Whom have you illed! At that moment I swore that I would avenge the death of the Communist whom the Petlura men had illed. Let that pugfaced Maro Grzhibovsy run into me at night in Steep Street! I would smash his head in with a stone! And from pain and anger that we had not been able to stop Maro Grzhibovsy from shooting the man who had been our guest I wept all the harder. "Don't, Vasya . . . don't cry! Let's go away from here . . . Please, let's go . . .Come on, let's go down!" Weasel whispered, tugging at my elbow. He was crying too. And without waiting for an answer he began to climb out of the window. Carefully lowering himself to the fortress wall, Weasel made his way boldly along the bat tlements, pushing aside the bushes that barred his path. Hearing the noise, the gate-eeper raised his head. He saw Weasel waling along the wall, but did not shout as he would have done before. He did not even move. I brushed my tears away with my fist and climbed down into the yard after Weasel . Jumping to the ground, we both waled slowly across the soft grass towards the gateeeper. "Uncle, was the man they shot the Communist who was caught down at the Old Estat e yesterday? . . . Was it him, Uncle?" Weasel ased the gate-eeper, just as if the gateeeper were an old friend of his. "How should I now?" the gate-eeper answered in a gruff voice, eyeing us suspic iously. The gate-eeper's face was not half so frightening close to as it had seemed fro m a distance. Probably he had not had a haircut for a long time; his hair was to usled, and hung down over his sunburnt ears. "Who might you be?" We told him our names. It turned out that the gate-eeper new Weasel's father well. Mine he only new by hearsay. "Did you see it?" the gate-eeper ased after a moment's silence, still suspicio us. "We were in the tower!" I explained. "At first I couldn't fathom what they had come here for," the gate-eeper told u s, abandoning his distrust. "I opened the gate and said: 'Are you going to shoot all day?' And that officer just looed at me and laughed, the dirty lout! Gave me his clot hes! Why I too them I don't now just another shame on my head!" And the gate-e eper stared down at the dead man's clothes. We looed at the green dusty blouse and tattered vest. "Uncle, if you'll let us into the fortress we'll pic some flowers and bring the m here, to put on his grave," said Weasel. The gate-eeper agreed. "But come in the evening," he advised. "They're practising here in the day-time. Loo at the way they've noced the wall about with their bullets . . ." We parted with the gate-eeper, firm friends. The old man opened the gate for us

himself. We passed the entrance to the underground passage, crossed the fortress bridge a nd waled into town. Weasel set off to the High School, where lessons had starte d long ago. I went home. On parting we agreed that Weasel should call on me that evening, and that we sho uld go and pic some flowers for the grave of the man who had been shot in the f ortress. MAREMUKHA GETS A CANING Weasel came before dar. He gave a piercing whistle from the street. "Come inside!" I shouted. "I'll just finish feeding the rabbit, then we'll go to Peta's and get some lilac." "He's not in," Weasel said glumly, following me to the open door of the rabbit s hed. "Why did you call on him?" "I new already. He went off to the theatre with those pin-need pals of his, s traight from school." "To the theatre? Did he really?" "Yes, of course. As soon as school was over they lined them up and marched them off. They had a band too. And that Maro Grzhibovsy was in front!" Weasel concl uded angrily. As soon as we entered the shed, Weasel bent towards me. "Vasya, why did you tell me a lie?" he ased. "What lie? When?" "As if you didn't now! Yesterday, when we went swimming . . . And this morning ab out having ringworm. Fur-Face did. expel you, didn't he?" "Expel me? Who said that? No one expelled me!" "Of course, he did. Why have they put the order up on the board then?" "What order?" "The one that's hanging up outside the teachers' common-room. Go and read it you rself, if you don't believe me. They put it up today, during long brea. It says you've been expelled for hooliganism. Proopovich signed it himself. Sasha Bobi r was monitor today, and he saw them cross your name out of the class register w ith green in. So there! You thought I wouldn't find out, did you? Doctor By wo n't let me go . . . Aunt and I had to go to Doctor By's last night . . . Loo a t my ringworm.' You didn't even now Doctor By had been under arrest the past t wo wees because he wouldn't let the Petlura men search his flat. The chaps told me that today . . . And I believed you yesterday . . ." Weasel fell silent and drummed his fingers on the rabbit hutch. Then he went on reproachfully: "This morning Kota started swaning that you'd been expelled and I said to him: 'No he hasn't, he's ill. And when he gets better, he'll chuc you in the river again.' And Kota just laughed at me. 'Ill, is he?' he said. 'We'll see about th at. He's sitting at home crying because he's been chuced out.' And then they we nt and put that order up . . . Why did you lie to me? Aren't you ashamed?" I was really ashamed. I had been an ass to lie to Weasel about having ringworm, and about my interview with the Head. If there was anyone I could trust it was W easel. Last autumn I had pulled down a drain-pipe at school; I had been going to climb it to get on the roof, but it was rusty and broe under my weight. Weasel was th ere at the time. Afterwards, for about a month, the head-master came round all t he classes asing: "Who broe the drain-pipe? Who broe the drain-pipe?" And the n the masters started asing too. But Weasel didn't give me away, and that had m ade our friendship even stronger. I was a fool not to have told him all about it . "You see, Yuzi, I thought it would pass over. I thought Proopovich just meant to frighten me for a bit, then let me off . . ." " 'Pass over!' You've got a hope!" Weasel grinned wryly. "If the Reds come bac, they'll let you off, but old Fur-Face wouldn't let you off for anything. You do

n't now yet what a blighter he is. Beats me why they transferred us to that Hig h School! No one wanted it." "Petlura did. He wants to get us over on his side, so that when we grow up we'll fight for his government. But it won't wor! That rotten murderer won't get any thing out of us!" At that moment my she-rabbit started thumping the floor of the hutch with her hi nd paws. "Gosh, what a big rabbit you've got!" Weasel burst out suddenly, noticing her pi n eyes at the bac of the hutch. "It's a she, isn't it?" "That's right, Angora she-rabbit. Loo how fat she is, must weigh about twenty p ounds . . . Bun, bun, bun! . . . Come on!" I called, pushing a carrot between th e bars. I was glad Weasel had got over his anger so quicly. The plump rabbit hopped forward and pushed her warm nose into my hand. Her sharp , little teeth gripped the carrot and started nibbling it. The white fur on her chest was thic and downy, and she had a fine long pair of whisers. "I say, Vasya, I caught a marvellous pigeon today!" Weasel boasted. "It's got lilac-coloured wings, and a tiny little bea lie a fi nch. Its legs are all feathered, and it's got spurs, and a ruff round its nec. You can always tell a pigeon is a thoroughbred if it's got a ruff. I'll get at l east a hundred rubles for it at the maret. I'm afraid to sell it though in case the owner turns up. Keep it dar, won't you?" "Why sell it? Keep it for breeding. Don't you now what to do, you fat-head? If you don't want it to fly away, you must tie one of its wings with a bit of a str ing." "I would do that, and train it, but Dad might notice. He told me I mustn't eep more than four on any account. I'm afraid if he sees I've got five he'll go and sell the lot." "Why should he?" "What are you going to feed them on? Maize costs a lot now, and you can't get it anywhere. The country people don't come to the fair they're afraid the Petlura me n will grab all their stuff." The front gate banged. It must be someone to see my aunt. I left Weasel in the s hed and ran out to meet the visitor. On the steps I found Peta Maremuha. He looed all red and ruffled, and was out of breath. Evidently he had been running hard. "Oh, you're at home?" Peta exclaimed joyfully. "Yes, I am," I replied rather coldly. "Is the show over already?" I envied Peta that he had been to the theatre. "How did you now I'd been to the theatre?" "Thin it's a secret? Everyone nows . . ." "Did Weasel tell you? Was he there?" "He was at school when you were all marched off . . . What about it? Let's go in the shed." Weasel also gave Peta a cool reception. Peta was embarrassed; he realized he w as out of favour with us. For a minute there was an awward pause, then, noticin g my rabbit, he launched into swift chatter. "Coo, what a bun! Where did you get her, Vasya? You had a different one out in t he yard in the spring, didn't you? This one's better looing . . . more lie a s heep than a rabbit!" But it was no good Peta doing a dance round my rabbit pretending to be so impre ssed. Weasel and I new full well that Peta just wanted to wheedle round us. He had his choice: either he could be friends with us, or with those pin-need sc outs. And we pretended to tae no notice of him. After a moment's silence, Peta tried again. "I didn't stay to the end there was still one act to go." "Why was that? You might as well have sat it out. What brought you up here?" Wea sel's patience was exhausted, and he interrupted Peta sharply: "We are no frien ds of yours. Those snob scouts they're your friends. Kota Grigoreno's your frien d. Go and see him!" And Weasel angrily thrust the carrot-top at the rabbit's nos

e. "They can go hang for all I care! . . . I'll never go out with them again . . ." Peta muttered and, blushing hotly, suddenly blurted out: "They gave me a canin g!" We priced up our ears. I looed at Peta doubtfully. Fat and excited, his hair in a wild tangle, still wearing that hai scout uniform of his, he stood before us, eyeing Yuzi guilti ly. How could he have got the cane, an oiler lie him? It was impossible. And decidi ng that Peta was lying, I told him so straight out. "You're lying!" "Honestly, I'm not! Strie me down with lightning I'm not! . . . Listen, I'll te ll you the whole story. Only don't you tell anyone, will you?" And then he went on: "They marched us to the theatre. With a drum. After the second bell Sasha Bo bir went in and too his seat, but I stayed outside alone. 'When they all go and sit down,' I thought, 'and the light goes out, I'll slip in and get a seat down stairs, somewhere at the side . . .' I ept waling up and down the corridor, th ining, 'If only they'd put those lights out soon!' And just then someone clappe d me on the shoulder! At first I- thought it was Sasha and was going to give him one of his own bac. But I looed round, and it wasn't him, it was Georges Galc hevsy you now, the one in class seven, a scout . . . You must now Galchevsy tall , thin chap, always goes about with a nucle-duster. His father's a priest at P reobrazhensy Church, the other side of the colony . . . Well, Galchevsy got ho ld of my shoulder and said, 'What are you hanging about here for, you little squ it?' 'It's too stuffy in there,' I said. 'I'd rather have a bit of air out here until the show begins.' 'Have you got a ticet?' he snapped. 'Show me your tice t!' So I started looing for my ticet. I ept looing, first in one pocet, the n in another, then down my shirt front, but all the while I was thining, 'I wis h they'd put that light out quic, then he'd push off to his own seat.' But they wouldn't put it out. He stood there waiting, then suddenly he gave me a terrifi c jab from behind with his nee and shouted: 'Out of here, you worm! Nobody's go ing to get in without a ticet while I'm on duty!' I tripped and nearly fell ove r. All my apples went rolling over to the cloa-room. I ran after them, and Galc hevsy ept shouting to the man -at the door, 'Don't let that gatecrasher in, he 's no right to be here!' I grabbed my apples and dodged up to the gallery. They too my ticet there without saying a word. When I got inside it was dar. I fel t my way to a place at the side, right by the rail. Then I sat down and started on an apple. I ate one and started another. And just as I too my first bite the curtain went up. So I thought I'd wait and eat it afterwards. And I was just go ing to put it on the rail, when it slipped out of my hand and fell down . . . Go sh, I was soared! I didn't even dare loo and see where it had landed. I only he ard someone swear and -a seat crea in the stalls. Then it was quiet. The show s tarted. Jolly good show it was Cossacs, dancing, music. I got interested and forg ot all about the apple. "When the first act was over and the lights went up I stayed in my seat, so that no one would tae it, and looed round to see where the other chaps I new were sitting. Suddenly another clap on the shoulder! I turned round and it was Georges Galchevsy again. 'Was it you who threw the apple that hit the officer on the h ead?' he ased. 'What officer?' 'Loo and see!' And he grabbed me by the scruff of the nec and pushed my head over the rail so that I nearly fell. And down the re stood a Polish officer waving to Galchevsy and shaing his fist at me. Then Galchevsy shouted: 'Come along to the Chief!' and too me behind the stage. The re were actors running around, and lots of boards lying about. And it was dar. I nearly tripped over some rope, but Galchevsy ept shoving me. I wanted to run away, but couldn't. He got me to Maro Grzhibovsy. Maro was playing the part of a Cossac. His face was all painted, even his nose and eyebrows. Great big no se it was must have been a false one. Galchevsy saluted him and told him all abou t the apple, but Maro didn't even as me whether it was an accident or not. All he said was: 'Give him five with the ram-rod,' and nodded towards me. And Galch evsy gave me a terrific ic!"

"And they beat you with a ram-rod?" I ased, still not believing Peta. . "No, not with a ram-rod, with a riding crop." "Where? Behind the stage?" ased Weasel. "Behind the stage! They just too me outside to the rubbish dump in the yard, pu lled my shirt off and gave me five. Loo at the mars!" Peta pulled up his shir t and showed us his bac. His smooth sin was striped with five blotchy red weals. They were nearly all in one spot. "Who did it?" I ased. "Who? Galchevsy of course. Maro gave the order and Galchevsy did the caning, and two other scouts I'd never seen before held me. One by the arms, the other b y the head. Then I got away and ran here, to you . . . But I'll give him somethi ng to remember me by . . . I'll bash his face in . . . He can't scare me with hi s nucle-duster . . ." "Whose face are you going to bash?" Weasel ased. "Galchevsy's . . . And Grzhibovsy's . . . All of 'em! I'll lie in wait for the m at night and do it!" "Huh, Galchevsy will thrash you lie a puppy. And Grzhibovsy's got a revolver. He'll just shoot you. And anyhow, what do you want to bash them for, they're yo ur chiefs?" Weasel teased. "They're not my chiefs any more. Who gave them the flight to cane me? Was it my fault? The apple fell off by itself . . . I'm not having any more to do with the m. They can go to hell with their tal of the independent Uraine! I wish the Re ds would come bac soon . . ." "Changed your tune, haven't you?" Weasel jeered. "How many times have we told yo u the Petlura men are just out to bribe muts lie you with those uniforms and fr ee meals. It's the gentry abroad send all that stuff on purpose so that Petlura can bribe young fellows and train spies for them. And chaps lie you and Bobir h ave just fallen for it lie mice for a bit of cheese . . ." "I've found 'out for myself What rotten blighters they are . . ." Peta moaned b itterly. "You found out when they wrote it out for you on your hide!" Weasel snapped. "Th ey haven't given you enough yet. Pity Bobir didn't have some as well, to eep yo u company." Weasel's a real fire-brand when he gets going. "Let him off, Yuzi!" I put in for Peta's sae. "You see, Peta, if only you we re a reliable chap, we might be friends with you. But you aren't to be trusted. A chap lie you can't even be told anything. Today you are with us and tomorrow you'll be running off to Kota." "Word of honour, I won't! I've got something against him, something you don't n ow anything about." In his excitement Peta pushed his fingers into the hutch. The rabbit hopped for ward and started sniffing them. "That brown hat of yours, where did that come from? Didn't that belong to Kota once?" Weasel reminded him severely. "Oh, that was a long time ago! . . ." Peta looed very embarrassed. "That was t he first year we were living on Old Estate. My mother too the rent to Kota's f ather one day and Kota's mother gave her that hat. 1 hadn't got a winter one th en. You can't blame me for that." "Your mother, Kota's mother . . . Now then, swear you'll never be friends with him again, swear you won't go with the scouts any more!" Weasel demanded, relent ing a little. "Then we'll see about maing you one of us." "You will!?" Peta lo oed up hopefully. And to our surprise, all of a sudden he tore the bunch of rib bons off his shoulder and hurled them fiercely to the ground. Using his finger-n ails, he ripped the yellow and blue stripes off his shirt and threw that down to o. Then he jumped on the boy scout badges and started trampling on them as if th ey were not just ribbons and stripes, but -a real live tarantula spider. He even wheezed with excitement. "There!" he said solemnly, when he had finished. We we re silent. In order to convince us finally that he was not sorry to part company with his p

in-need scouts, Peta stamped his foot again and suddenly made a big cross on his belly. "Cross myself, I won't be friends with Grigoreno. As if I couldn't do without h im!" "If you really stop being friends with him," I said, quite softened by Peta's v ow and the way he had trampled the scout badges, "we'll tae you with us to Nago ranye. I've got an uncle there, and my father's staying with him. We'll go there ourselves, without the scouts. We'll go fishing. There are lots of fish there! And I'll show you the Fox Caves. Want to come with us?" "Of course I want to come!" Peta's face brightened. "I'll bring a net and my lo ng bamboo fishing-rod. With a net you can catch ever so many fish in one go. Sha ll we dig some worms here? There are plenty of them down on Old Estate under the stones. Long, fat ones tons of them!" "Only remember, Peta, if you say a single thing to my aunt about me being expel led from the High School, you just see what happens to you! I'll chuc you off t he cliff. And Weasel will help me." "I'll chuc you off, swan!" Peta answered, cheering up, and sat down on the hu tch. And at that I forgave him everything. "Peta's not half such a bad chap," I thou ght. "Loo here, Peta, old chap," I said, "we were just going to a certain plac e . . ." And I told him everything. "Green blouse? Very thin? Ragged trousers? . . . You don't say so! . . . They sh ot him? It can't be!" Peta jumped to his feet. The hutch on which he had been sitting tipped up and n early slipped off the bench. Peta had gone pale and was looing at us with wide , frightened eyes. "No, did they really?" he ased. "They shot him and buried him without leaving a trace! A sic man who couldn't d efend himself. He could hardly stand. That's the ind of thing the Petlura men d o! They all ought to be thrown off the fortress bridge into the waterfall, and P etlura ought to be the first with a stone round his nec so that he can't come up again!" Weasel said grimly. "Wait tho', how did you now he wore a green blouse? Have you seen him?" I ased Peta. "He . . . I . . . I saw him being led away . . .past our house," mumbled Peta. "So it was him . . ." Weasel said thoughtfully. "They caught him on Old Estate. On top of the cliff. Yesterday evening. Sasha Bobir saw him too." "We want to go and tend the grave. Come with us, Peta," I suggested, "and we'll pic some lilac at your place." "Yes, I'll come . . . But isn't it a bit late? Perhaps we could go tomorrow morn ing?" "The morning's no good. Now's the time! Come on!" Weasel ordered firmly and led the way out of the shed. THE VOW "You wait here while I go land see who's at home," said Peta when we reached th e Old Estate. Weasel and I sat down on a half-rotten log. The Old Estate, where Peta's family lived, stood on top of a steep cliff. Below it was the river. On the opposite han, also on a cliff, stood the Old Fortress . From the Old Estate you had a good view of all the fortress towers, and the hi gh fortress bridge. Many years ago the estate had belonged to a landowner called Myasovsy, who liv ed there by himself with only one old servant. Not long before Myasovsy died, his house caught fire. After his death the estate passed into the possession of his cousin, Doctor Grigoreno. Grigoreno had a large house and orchard of his own in Zhitomir Street, so inste ad of moving to the Old Estate he let the only wing of the house that had surviv

ed the fire to Peta's father, Maremuha the cobbler. As part of the bargain Mar emuha had to mind the fruit-trees and mae hay for Grigoreno. "Come on!" Peta shouted, slipping out of the house. "Dad's not at home, he's go ne to the shop for thread." That was a relief. Boldly we followed Peta over to the tall lilac bushes growin g on the edges of the cliff. "Be as quic as you can, and I'll eep watch from here!" said Peta, jumping on to a tall tree stump. The lilac at the Old Estate was wonderful stuff, with double flowers. Weasel and I pulled the tall springy branches towards us and snapped off the rich crimson blossoms. We stripped the lilac hurriedly and without mercy if Peta's father nab bed us, there would be trouble! But soon we had enough. My bunch was heavy, and slightly moist with the evening dew. With bunches of lilac in our hands we wandered through the town to the fort ress bridge. It was growing dus. The first bats were flitting silently above ou r heads. "Hold on, what's that up there?" Yuzi halted us by the Town School. The Petlura men had hung a poster on the fence of our old school. It was still d amp. "When did they stic that up?" Peta exclaimed. "It ' wasn't there when I ran pa st." Weasel looed round quicly and, digging his nails under the top edge of the bad ly hung poster, ripped it downwards. In a moment the middle of the poster had vanished. Crumpling the sticy wet shee t in a ball, Weasel tossed it down by the fence. "Come on, chaps," he ordered calmly. And we went on our way. I envied Weasel's daring. Why hadn't I thought of ripping down the Petlura poste r? "Fun!" I reproached myself. "You're just as much a fun as Peta!" The street turned sharply to the left and we came out on the fortress bridge. Th e boards of the bridge were warm and rough. They creaed under our feet. From be low came the ceaseless roar of the river as it rushed through the tunnel under t he bridge and tumbled over the waterfall in a dazzling cascade of foam. There were some dare-devils in the town who would climb on the bridge rails and leap down into the foaming waters below. It was said that when the Turs abandoned the fortress they had paced all their wealth in an iron chest and thrown ' it into the river under this booming water fall. The chest had been lying there for many years, but no one had been able to raise it because not even the best swimmer could reach the bottom. The river wa s terrifyingly deep at this spot . . . We crossed the bridge. The fortress loomed before us. In the gathering darness its high walls seemed even more gloomy land mysterious than usual. You could har dly to blame Peta for glancing round so often. "I'll go to the gate-eeper alone, or else he'll see there, are three of us and get frightened. You wait here," commanded Weasel. We waited below the gate, near the entrance to the underground passage. A sharp clic told us that the door of the lodge had opened. A few minutes later Weasel called us to the gate. It was tall and battened across with iron a real fortress gate. The old gate-eeper ept his word. There was a loud clan as he unfastened the p adloc and opened the wicet. Peta and I followed Yuzi through the gate. We crept quietly along the soft verge of the path into the fortress yard. Behind us the clan of the heavy padloc echoed lie a revolver shot. The gate-eeper had shut the gate again to avoid suspicion. We passed the tall cherry-trees, the low bush apples with whitened truns, and t he branching mulberries. "Here!" said Weasel, showing Peta a scarcely visible mound of loose turf just b elow one of the bastions. "This is where he stood, on the edge of the pit! And t hey stood there, aiming at him . . . Then, when he fell, Doctor Grigoreno came

up and touched his eyes . . . We saw everything from that tower." Peta stared at the grave in silence. I untied my flowers and started to scatter the sweet sprigs of lilac over the loosened turf. "Wait!" Weasel pushed my hand aside and suddenly pulled out of his pocet a crum pled red handerchief. "I've brought a red flag. The Dnieper Cossacs always use d to put red flags on the graves of their comrades." And gathering up the scattered lilac, Weasel covered the grave with the red hand erchief. It was just the same colour as the banner that had flown day and night over the Town Hall when Soviet power was proclaimed in our town. What a good id ea of Weasel's! "Peta!" Yuzi whispered. "There's a stone slab in the Blac Tower, go and get i t. Quic!" But Peta glanced doubtfully at the dar towers and hesitated. He was afraid to go there, right across the deserted fortress yard. "I won't be able to carry it . . . my arm hurts . . . Let Vasya come with me," h e mumbled. "Well, go together then. I'll wait here." Without a word to each other we crept over to the Blac Tower. Its sharp-pointed roof, ringed with battlements, stood out clearly against the dusy evening sy. Suddenly a thought struc me: "Suppose the gate-eeper loced us in the fortres s on purpose, so that he could give us away to the Petlura men?" And the mere th ought made my flesh creep. The fortress walls seemed to close in on us, nearer a nd nearer. In a moment they would be right on top of us. "This one?" Peta ased in a trembling voice, noticing a white stone slab leanin g against the wall of the tower. "That's it!" "How heavy it is!" We staggered bac across the yard with the slab and lowered it gently on to the grave-mound. I felt it press the red handerchief firmly into the soft earth. "Now let's have the flowers!" Yuzi whispered. We scattered the sprigs of lilac over the white gravestone. The mound grew quite high. It was almost dar. The yellow sicle of the moon hung over the pointed roof of the Blac Tower. Far away, on the other side of Kalinovsy Woods someone was singing a sad Urain ian song. The fortress rose over the town, grim and forbidding. The melancholy song in the distance, the rattle of a passing cart, the nervous baring of dogs in Zarechye , the sharp clic of hooves on the Kalinovsy road were all caught and amplified in the deep windows of the towers and the low entrances to the bastions. The wh ole fortress seemed to stir and tremble with sound. And the sleepy town that nes tled below the fortress also seemed to stir uneasily at every noise the neigh of a belated horse, or a distant shot suddenly breaing the evening stillness. The lamps must have been lit in the town long ago. But we could not see them fro m where we were. Even the Town School, which stood almost next door, just beyond the bridge, was hidden from us by the high fortress wall. We were surrounded by the mossy towers, the low sloping bastions, and the white ruins of the exiles' prison. How much of the past these fortress walls had seen! The faces of my friends in the light of the young moon were grim and downcast. Suddenly Yuzi straightened up, raised his head and, turning to the grave, said: "Now, lads, let us swear that we will stand by one another lie brothers and ta e revenge on the Petlura gang for this man! Join hands!" In silence we stretched out our hands over the grave. I clutched Peta's clammy, trembling fingers and Yuzi put his cool hand on top of ours. We stood round th e grave lie dancers in a ring, and the big shadow of our lined hands fell on t he grass a long way from the gravestone. "In time of difficulty we will stand up for each other! And we will help those w ho are fighting for Soviet power! That's right, isn't it? Then swear!" Yuzi ord ered sternly. "We swear!" Peta and I gasped breathlessly, almost shouting; and at once the sw

ift echo repeated after us the solemn vow that Yuzi had hastily composed. I did not feel easy in my mind until we had almost crossed the bridge on our way bac. The fortress lay behind us. Here, in the open, at a safe distance from it s grim towers there was nothing to fear. Even Peta Maremuha cheered up and sta rted tapping his fist on the bridge nail as he waled. But from somewhere beyond Old Boulevard came the roar of la motor car. It was jo ined by another. The noise reached us above the boom of the waterfall. "Quiet, chaps!" Yuzi signed to us to stop. We listened. The oars were roaring on the hill beyond Old Boulevard. "Isn't that from the governor's garden, Yuzi?" Peta ased quietly. "Yes, it must be," Weasel answered. And at that moment a different, sharp sound, broe in upon the roar of the car e ngines. It was as if someone up there were snapping several boards one after the other. "Shots!" whispered Yuzi. "They've started up the cars on purpose to drown the s ound of the shots . . . The cars stand in the yard revving up, while they shoot people in the cellar." Weasel was right. I, too, had heard many rumours of these shootings. At night th e Petlura men would rev up their motor cars to drown the sound of the shots, and in the day-time they shot people with a band playing. Nearly every day of the w ee the Petlura bandsmen sat on benches under the high walls of the governor's g arden with their big gleaming instruments. At the command of their squat little conductor they would play dashing polas, blaring marches land merry Cracovienne s. And meanwhile, behind them, in the low cellars of the yellow-columned house w here the governor had lived until the Revolution the Petlura men in their long b lac great-coats would shoot the Communists who had been arrested. "The number of people they must have illed! . . ." Weasel exclaimed quietly, li stening to the distant roar of the engines. I did not spea. I rested my hand on the bridge nail. It was wet with dew. The r oar did not cease. It was terrible to thin that only a few streets away from us , behind the bric wall of the governor's garden, innocent people were reeling u nder the bullets of the Petlura men. And by the stiffening corpses, in his grey uniform and shiny yellow leggings, stood the Petlura commander, Dragan. Who now s, perhaps Doctor Grigoreno was there too. And perhaps Dragan, lie Maro Grzhi bovsy, was also offering the Doctor aromatic foreign cigarettes. I could imagin e the doctor smoing them and then slowly feeling the eyes and the chests of the victims, land, when he had made sure that they were dead, wiping his pin wrin led fingers with a clean white handerchief. Involuntarily I remembered my father, who was hiding from Petlura at Nagoranye w ith Uncle Avsenty. My memory brought bac a picture of him thic-set and silent, wearing his blue cotton shirt with the collar open. I saw him as clearly as if h e stood beside us on the fortress bridge. I even imagined myself touching his ro ugh hand and looing into his severe, steady eyes . . . I hoped fervently that the Petlura men would not go and arrest him for refusing to print the Petlura money. They might shoot him, too, in the governor's cellars . Maro Grzhibovsy would certainly do so, if he remembered how my father had th rown him out of Maremuha's worshop. The thought made me shiver. I was very fond of my father. My longing to see him again, and be with him, grew even stronger. A cart clattered behind the fortress. Someone was coming. We must get away from here. But I did not want to go bac home to Zarechye so early that evening. What about going to the governor's house? But how could you get there when the s quare was guarded. Suppose we cut straight across from here to Kota's house in Zhitomir Street, an d paid Kota bac for getting me expelled from the High School? He was boasting about it, the oily snob! There was no need to be afraid of Proopovich now. I wo uld go and give Kota a thrashing, and the others would help me. Let him complai n to anyone he lied.

"Come on, chaps," I suggested, "let's go and see Kota. We'll give him la party . . ." "What ind of a party?" ased Weasel in a businesslie manner, tightening his be lt. "We'll see when we get there. Perhaps Kota will be outside. We'll drag him into the bushes and give him a proper scragging." "Don't be daft . . . you mustn't . . ." Peta burst out. "If he shouts we'll be finished. Have you forgotten they've got two Petlura officers living in their ho use?" "Oh, you always were a fun, Peta," I said. "Who ever heard of officers being a t home at this time? They're probably with the doctor in the governor's cellar. You're just scared . . . Let's go, shall we, Yuzi?" Weasel thought for a moment. "But it's late now, Vasya, time to go home," Peta started gibbing again. "Want to go there in the morning when people can see everything? That is daft! C ome on," Weasel decided with an obstinate shae of his head. "Forgotten that vow you made? Don't worry, no one will catch us." And he too Peta's arm. "Stop it, chaps . . . Vasya . . . Yuzi, let go, don't drag me!" Peta protested , struggling. "You don't now what happened . . . My Dad's under suspicion as it is. He's been beaten up . . . I'll tell you everything . . . I was afraid to be fore, but now I'll tell you." Weasel released him, and Peta blurted out hotly: "The man they illed today was hiding all the time at our place!" "You're lying!" I interrupted Peta. "You don't even now him." "Don't now him? Cross myself, I do!" And Peta made the sign of the cross. "I now all about it. He wanted to lead an uprising against Petlura. He was getting the people together for it. Only he was too ill. Omelusty brought him to us at n ight and ased us to hide him until he got better. He left us bread and money an d a hag of sugar. Dad agreed. We put him up on the stove-ledge, and Mum covered the stove with a curtain. That's where he was lying. He must have had a terrible fever tho' I Gosh, what a fever! Used to get him every other day. In the evenin gs he'd feel better, and he'd come down off the stove land have tea with us; but in the day-time he used to shae that much I thought he was dying. Mum couldn't eep up with the washing for him. She would wash one shirt and dry it, and as s oon as he put it on, the fever would get him again and he'd be all wet with swea t. He didn't drin much, but the sweat used to pour off him! Once I came to get his shirt and he whipped out a revolver from under his pillow and aimed at me. I didn't half shift out of there, I can tell you bang on to the floor . . . What ar e you laughing at, Vasya? I'm telling the truth. It was that revolver that gave him away. The day before yesterday, Doctor Grigoreno came to see us. He waled round the estate, looed at the grass, told Mum off because all the cherries had been piced on the trees behind the wing, then he went inside to get a drin of water. And our sic man was lying there on top of the stove. I don't now, perh aps he coughed, or moved his leg, or groaned, or something. Suddenly Grigoreno jumped up, and fliced the curtain away with his stic. 'Who's this?' he says to my Dad. And the sic man got up on his nees, all thin and green-looing, and s tarted aiming at the doctor with his revolver. Muttering something he was too. W ell, Grigoreno just pushed that curtain bac and shot out of the room bacwards b acwards, mind you and jumped into his trap and drove away. He didn't say a word t o Dad and even left his hat on the table. As soon as he had gone, Dad too the r evolver away from the sic man and started dressing him. He was lie a little i d, he didn't understand anything the fever was so bad. He was delirious. Dad got h im dressed and gave him water to drin, then started taling to Mum about where to tae him. And while they were taling, three Petlura men dashed into the room and grabbed that sic man and tied him up. Then they said to Dad: 'Keeping a Ru ssian here, were you, you dog!' And they started whipping him. Ever so hard! On his legs and chest. Dad grabbed a chair and tried to eep them off. Then one of the Petlura men gave him such a lash on the arm with his riding-whip that he mad e it bleed. They got the chair away and ept on whipping him and whipping him! D ad's face is all blue and bruised now, so is his bac, and his arm's swollen. He

's lying in bed and doesn't say anything. And Mum eeps crying and saying: 'Than goodness they didn't tae him to prison.' Mum's afraid Grigoreno will chuc u s off the estate. Where shall we live then? . . . And you want me to go to Kota 's house. Suppose they catch me? It'll be all up with us then . . ." And Peta s niffed plaintively. "Come on, Peta, come on!" Yuzi whispered fiercely. "We'll go and pay both of t hem bac for everything. Kota and his father! Let's go!" "All right . . ." Peta decided suddenly. "All right . . ." And he tightened his belt. FIRE-BRANDS Doctor Grigoreno lived in the hilly part of the town, just half-way up Zhitomir Street. Lined with tall poplars and maple-trees and yellow acacias, Zhitomir St reet was the best street in the town. Grigoreno's house was a large, two-storey building with little towers, lie a s mall castle. It was surrounded with trees. The court-yard in which it stood was protected from the road by strong iron railings embedded in concrete. Ivy grew o n the railings. Through them one could see what was going on in the Grigoreno's yard. On the stone gate-post there was an electric bell, and above the bell a gleaming brass plate: Doctor of Medicine IVAN TARASOVICH GRIGORENKO Reception hours 8-10 p.m. We new that the doctor lied to come out and open the gate to his patients hims elf, so one evening we had crept up to the gate and pressed the bell. Then we cr ouched down in the bushes, holding our breath. The door of the house opened and the doctor strolled out into the court-yard, smoing his pipe. He came down to t he gate and there was no one there. Didn't he curse! "You young gutter-snipes! Wait until I catch you I'll have your trousers down!" And we sat there in the bushes listening to his deep voice and laughing to ourse lves. The doctor's court-yard was always cleanly swept and sprinled with yellow sand. During the day there were bright guinea-fowl and grey thoroughbred chicens Plym outh Rocs pecing about the yard. Sometimes la servant would beat heavy Persian rugs on the wooden fence between t he yard and the orchard. A great cloud of dust would rise above the fence and fl y into the orchard; and the terrified chicens would rum about the yard squawin g. And when winter was near and it was time to put on warm clothes, the doctor's se rvant would tae all the winter things out of the truns. The heavy beaver coats with high fur collars belonging to the doctor himself, the velvet and astrahan cloas of his sinny, sharp-tempered wife, Kota's serge overcoats padded with cotton-wool and trimmed with lambsin, and his grey uniform great-coats all would be hung out on the fence. Kota had three great-coats: an old one left over from when he was in class two, and two brand-new ones made to measure by Yaov Guzar chi, the tailor. They were all sprinled with naphthalene, as if snow had fallen on them. And the smell of that naphthalene could be felt all over Zhitomir Street. You would go down New Boulevard and, if you got -a whiff of naphthalene, you would now for s ure that the doctor's household was getting ready for winter. The servant would tae all the winter clothing out in the yard and chain the dog up beside it. I should lie to have seen that dog frighten anybody it was only a poodle with curly hair and long ears. We used to stand by the railings, looing into the garden, and it didn't even yelp. I had never been inside the Grigoreno house, but Peta Maremuha told us that b esides a marble staircase up to the second floor there was also an iron spiral s

taircase that led to a little room in the cupola of the highest, corner tower. T his room had narrow windows, lie those in the fortress, and in summer it was ve ry hot there. Nobody lived in it, of course; they just used it for drying apples and pears and mushrooms. The doctor's orchard was quite large. It stretched fro m the yard right down to New Boulevard. In the orchard, between the rows, there were flower-beds planted with mignonette , pansies, yellow marigolds, land sweet tobacco. There were slender poles in the flower-beds, with globes of coloured glass on top. Ever so many of them! Red, b lue, orange, dar-green, light-blue, bright yellow . . . They sparled with diff erent colours. And on a bright day, when a sunbeam broe through the thic leafa ge of the orchard and fell on one of those globes, it would burst into a blaze o f colour that would reflect the trees, the flowerbeds, and the open veranda of t he doctor's house. We approached the doctor's orchard from New Boulevard. Light showed through chin s in the fence. I was the first to put my eye to a chin and see the brightly l it veranda . . . The doctor had guests. And what guests! Behind the low bric wall of the veranda stood la card-table. Sitting round the table were the doctor, his wife, the thin Pani Grigoreno, in a shiny blac dres s, our bearded head-master Proopovich, and who would have thought it? the red-haire d priest Kiyanitsa! Anyone else might have been there, but I had never expected to see Kiyanitsa engaged in such an occupation. Kiyanitsa was sitting bac in an arm-chair with his long legs thrust out under t he table. In his excitement he had even unbuttoned his robe. Evidently he was ve ry anxious to beat the doctor. Proopovich gathered the cards into a pac. After writing something quicly on h is score-card, he shuffled the cards and dealt them silfully round the table. D octor Grigoreno arranged his cards in a fan. I caught the gleam of a wedding-ri ng on one of his fat fingers. Scratching his nose with the cards, he wined at t he priest beside him and, in a deep voice that echoed round the veranda, boomed out: "Spades!" But where was Kota? Aha, there he was. Through the open glass door leading from the veranda into the house I could see him lounging about the drawing-room in his high-school tunic. I had a fine view of the doctor's red-plush drawing-room furniture low comfortable arm-chairs, a cou ch, a little table with bamboo legs. Kota too a big volume from the booshelf and sat down on the couch. A maid passed through the drawing-room, carrying a heavy, steaming samovar. Pres ently the doctor and his guests would retire to the dining-room for tea. "Come away!" Yuzi whispered, and tugged at my shirt. We crossed to the other side of the street. From there we could also see what wa s happening on the doctor's veranda. The doctor sat hunched over the cards, and beside him sat Proopovich, shaing h is beard. Again Proopovich entered something on his score-card. He must be winn ing. How quiet and friendly he was now . . . And the way he had shouted at me ye sterday! Wouldn't listen to me at all! Of course he would stand up for Kota if he made money out of Kota's father at cards. I watched the card party with growing hatred of the doctor and his friends. Why, only today in the fortress those fat, fleshy hands of Doctor Grigoreno's h ad touched the cold eyelids of the man who had been shot, the man whom Grigoren o himself had betrayed to the Petlura police. How could he laugh and joe and pl ay cards after that? Weasel was also watching the veranda intently. "Wait for me here," he said suddenly and, vaulting swiftly over the clay wall in to Lazarev's yard, disappeared in the darness. Soon Weasel reappeared carrying four square tiles. I new where he had got them th ere were red tiles lie that round Lazarev's flower-beds. "Diamonds!" a voice floated from the veranda. "We'll give 'em diamonds all right!"

Weasel handed Peta one of the tiles. We went out into the middle of the street to give us more room to throw. I looed at the sloping roof and the heads of the card-players. Someone laughed Ki yanitsa, most liely. A chair creaed. The maid started clattering the tea thing s. I could hear my heart beating. My legs felt light as air. "Shall we throw?" Weasel glanced into my eyes. With a nod I swung my arm bac. Weasel threw before me. Then he followed my throw with a second. We heard the ti les brea through the branches of the old apple-tree and land with a crash on th e veranda. The lamp toppled over and flared up. The reflection of the flame leap t across the orchard as if in pursuit of someone. We must have broen the glass. As we turned to run, we heard a woman's voice cry, "Fire! We're on fire!" And ou r feet scarcely seemed to touch the round cobble-stones or the damp weeds growin g between them as we raced in a panting bunch for the cover of the boulevard dit ch. The terrified Peta did not catch up with us until we reached the boulevard. It was dangerous to run down the main avenue you might bump into one of the Petlur a patrols. We turned off to the left and felt our way carefully through the tree s to the edge of the cliff. And only when we reached the white path that led along the edge of the cliff int o the centre of the town did Weasel signal us to stop. We dropped down on the gr ass. "Who was that shouted 'fire'?" Peta ased me. I did not answer. "Now we're in the soup!" I was thining. "If Peta gives us aw ay now, we're done for! Suppose that broen Lamp has really set Grigoreno's hou se on fire?" A clear picture flashed into my mind of the purple tongues of flame licing up t he walls of the doctor's house, setting fire to the roof of the veranda, curling over the window-sills into the house itself . . . I could imagine the frightene d doctor and his wife, and Kota, and Proopovich, and the priest in his long ro be, dashing about throwing anything they could lay hold of on the flames. But th ere was no putting them out. The house blazed more and more fiercely. Beams crac ed, the roof collapsed with a crash, and instead of a beautiful house that loo ed lie a little castle there remained only smoing ruins. And in the morning, a rmed Petlura patrols would be scouring the town in search of us, the culprits . . . When we had got our breath bac, we wandered into the town. Soon we found ourselves at the bottom of the white road leading up to Central Sq uare. The long corrugated-iron shutter over the windows of Mendel Barenboim's ta vern was down. There was not a light to be seen. It was quiet. Not a soul about. Only from a lo ng way off beyond the bridge came the footsteps of a belated passer-by. I had an idea. Suppose we went to the town hall? In the fire-tower there a looout ept watch day and night. If a fire broe out in the town he sounded the ala rm. Then there would be a commotion. The big doors of the fire-station below the town hall would fly open; grey horses harnessed to carts with pumps and red bar rels would clatter out on to the street; firemen with gleaming axes would dash p ast on their jangling four-wheelers. Yes, we must go to the town hall. If Grigoreno's veranda had caught fire, the w atchman must have spotted it. We made a detour and came out by the town hall. The doors of the fire-station we re shut. We waited for about ten minutes, expecting at any moment to hear a shou t from above, "Fire! Fire!" But all was quiet. The lonely fireman must be sittin g in his tower above the sleepy town, counting the stars for lac of anything be tter to do and, probably, could not see la thing except dew-sprinled roofs and empty streets. The big hands of the town-hall cloc pointed to half past ten. Gosh, how late! A unt would be in bed by this time, and had probably loced the gate. And the gate was loced. I got into the yard by climbing over the fence. Aunt op

ened the door to me and, without even asing where I had been so late, at once w ent bac to bed. But it was a long time before I fell asleep. Any moment I was expecting the Petl ura men to arrive and drag me off to prison. And the worst of it was that I had no one to stand up for me. If Father had been at home it would have been differe nt. But Father was far away. Some years ago, when we lived in another town, my father used to drin heavily. The only thing that saved him from being turned out of the printing-house where he wored was that he new how to set type in French, Gree, and Italian. And, a s it happened, in those days the printing-house used to receive many orders from Odessa for wor in various languages. "They can't get on without me," Rather would boast, when telling my mother about these orders. And, indeed, the orders were profitable. The owner did well out of them, and so he had to put up with my father's drunenness whether he lied it or not. I never saw my father drining at home. Usually he would drin himself stupid so mewhere in town, then roll drunenly through the streets, bumping into the passe rs-by and tipping over the waste-paper bins. Father's boss would send a messenger to our house. "Mandzhura at home?" the mess enger would as from the door-step. "The boss wants him." Mother would guess at once what had happened. Throwing her orange shawl the only o ne she had over her shoulders, she would tae me by the hand and leave the house. I would now that we were off to find Father, and would be very glad. The taverns reeed of tobacco smoe and beer, but it was good fun. Strange fol sat over marble-topped tables in the smoy rooms, gulping down the sparling, fo am-topped beer. Men quarrelled noisily, clapped one another on the bac, and lit tered the floor round their feet with red, half-eaten crayfish legs. If Father was not to be found in the taverns, we would go to Alexander Par. The stooped messenger would wal beside us, and my mother would question him as to how much money Father had received, and whether there would be another pay-day s oon. In the par there would be smartly-dressed children playing on the sandy squares . They would parade about round the benches in white sailor-suits and sandals. T he girls had ribbons in their plaits. I new that, these children were brought t o the par by their nurses, who sat there on the benches, nibbling sunflower see ds and gossiping to one another. The girls would drive yellow hoops round the flowerbeds and play with their sip ping-ropes; the boys would dig in the heaps of moist, golden sand. Beside them l ay little wooden cups and glasses, yellow, pin, and violet, for maing sand-pie s. I envied these smart children. It seemed to me they must feed every day on those pin fancy caes that one saw in the windows of the confectioner's shop. We would pass the playing children and go on into the depths of the par. Here M other would release my hand and wal on ahead. Every now and then she would bend down and peer under the bushes. The messenger would hardly be able to eep up w ith her. I ran behind, pulling the green pods off the acacia bushes and stuffing them in my pocets. I used to mae whistles out of them. Father lied to sleep in the par, sitting with his bac against a tree. He woul d sit there with his head on one side, his greasy cap tilted over his eyes, and the nec of a bottle peeping out of his pocet. My mother and the messenger would wae him up, and he would grunt and shae his head. They would lift him to his feet Mother on one side, the messenger on the oth er and lead him all through town to the printer's. I used to follow at a distance, often stopping and staring at placards, or hangi ng about round shop-windows, and, in general, acting as if I did not now the pe ople in front. I was ashamed of my father. I would feel particularly ashamed when, for no apparent reason, he would suddenl y start to sing.

Mother would beg him to eep quiet the policeman might arrest him for singing but Fa ther would only roar out louder than ever the same doleful song, which was all a bout convicts and exile land being marched in chains to Siberia. When we reached the printer's, we would sit down on the high front steps. The me ssenger would run to fetch the boss. And rather would go to sleep again. The bos s, a lean, ginger-haired man of middle height, would come out of the building an d stand on a step above us. Then he would whisper something to the messenger. Th e messenger would slip away and return in a few minutes with a big enamel bowl b rimming over with water. Mother would tae off Father's shirt, then his vest. Fa ther would sit on the steps, a pitiful sight in his sleepy, dishevelled state, a nd glance now at Mother, now at the boss. "Get away, you cut-throats. Damn it all . . . Let a man sleep, can't you?" he wo uld mumble. Mother would turn away, and the boss would nod to the messenger. Then the messen ger would lift the bowl and gently pour the cold water over Father's head. I would see the stream of water splashing on Father's bald patch, and shiver. "Why don't you do something?" I would whisper to myself. "Get up land grab that bowl. Knoc 'em on the head with it and run away." But Father had no thought of running away. He would wipe his face with a big wet hand. The water would tricle down over his trousers and spread all round; the stone steps would daren as if it had been raining. At last the bowl was empty. Then Mother would tae his shirt from me and with some difficulty pull it on ove r Father's wet body. Father would sit there quietly, no longer anxious to sleep. Then he would be led away into the print-shop, and Mother and I would go home. One day my mother drew Father's wages at the printer's herself and went away som ewhere. Father came home in a bad temper. Seeing that Mother was not at home, he grabbed the alarm-cloc off the shelf, wrapped it in the oil-cloth that covered the dinner table, too the lace table-cloth as well, then ran out of the house, leaving me alone in the room. Mother came home in the evening. She wrapped our things in a bundle and too me to a neighbour's. "Loo after my son and our things for a little while, Anastasiya Lvovna, until I come bac," she said, handing our neighbour the bundle and some money. "I'm goi ng to my sister's in Odessa to find out if we can't move there. They say there's a doctor in Odessa who cures people of drining. Perhaps he'll cure my husband. It's impossible to live with him." She said good-bye to Anastasiya Lvovna, issed me, and went out. Two days later we heard that the steamer Merury, on which Mother had sailed for Odessa, had struc a German mine off Ochaov. Until late at night the news-boys on Suvorov Street were shouting: "Loss of the Merury! Loss of the Merury! German mines in the Blac Sea!" Father went to the post-office and ept sending telegrams, now to Odessa, now to Ochaov. He just could not believe that Mother had been drowned along with the others. It was some time before I could grasp what had happened. Lie my father, I was s ure at first that Mother was alive, that she would come bac soon, and that we s hould go to Odessa, where the doctor lived who could cure people of drining vod a. About a fortnight after the loss of the Merury, I ased Anastasiya Lvovna: "Was the Captain drowned too?" "Yes, he was," she answered sadly. And suddenly an amazingly clear picture rose before me of the Captain's white ca p with its blac pea and golden purl floating all alone in the middle of the se a, while the Captain himself, leaving a stream of bubbles behind him, san slowl y to the bottom. After Mother's death, Father became grim and taciturn. He gave up drining voda , and would come home straight from wor. And he never spoe. A stocy figure in his long sateen blouse belted with a strip of rawhide, he ept pacing-to and fr o between the chest-of-drawers and the window, nocing the chairs aside with hi s feet.

I would sit in the corner on the trestle-bed, watching his big, stubborn strides and bent bac, and listening to his heavy tread. I thought Father had gone mad, that any moment he would grab a chair, throw it a t the wall, push the chest-of-drawers over with a crash, hurl all the soup plate s out of the window one after the other, then give a shout and start on me. One day, however, Father came home earlier than usual. He was carrying several p arcels. At first I thought he had bought something special for me, and I was ver y happy. But he dumped the parcels on our bare table and said: "Let's go away from here, son, to Maria Afanasyevna's. After a blow lie this, w hat's the use of us staying here." I new that Maria Afanasyevna was my father's sister, and that she lived in a to wn that was three days' train journey from us. The next day we set out. . . . Turning over in my mind these memories of my father, and of how we had co me to live in Zibruch, I fell asleep. Next morning, before I was out of bed, Peta and Yuzi dashed in to see me. Yuzi , usually so grave and silent, was visibly alarmed. Peta was in a real panic. "We ran away after the first lesson," Yuzi said, gasping. "Kota Grigoreno will send the Petlura men here, and they'll put you in prison, " Peta burst out, glancing round. "Wait . . . Tell him everything from the beginning," Yuzi interrupted Peta. "I was in the lavatory . . . this morning . . . as soon as I got to school . . . And I heard Kota's voice on the other side of the partition. So I peeped throu gh a crac and there was Georges Galchevsy leaning against the wall, smoing and taling to Kota. I got up on tip-toe and listened to what Kota was saying. 'A tile noced the lamp over, and the erosene went all over the table.' Aha, I th ought, they're taling about yesterday. 'Nearly burnt the house down,' says Kot a, 'It was a good job Papa piced up that burning table and threw it on to a flo wer-bed in the orchard . . .' Then Galchevsy ased Kota something, but I could n't hear what, and Kota said: 'Why, because they expelled him of course!' Aha, I thought, they're taling about you, Vasya. Then, worst luc, somebody had to c ome into the lavatory. They stopped taling. I slipped out into the passage and went straight to Yuzi. And told him everything. We came away from the second le sson to tell you. It was singing. Rodlevsaya went out for her music, land we di d a bun." "Didn't he mention you and Weasel?" Peta looed worried. "Me? No! Why should he?" "And he didn't say what he was going to do?" "I didn't hear any more," Peta replied. Then he suddenly gave a little jump and shouted joyfully: "But I haven't told you the main thing, Vasya! Kiyanitsa got his robe all burnt. And he scorched his ginger beard. What about that! Good, isn 't it?" But even that did not console me. "It loos bad," I thought. "If Kota suspects it was me threw that tile, Galchevsy is not the only one he's told about it." "Well, what do you thin, Yuzi?" I ased. "This is what I thin," Yuzi said. "All three of us ought to run away to the Re ds. They're not far away, you now. And we can't stay in town." I had never seen Weasel lie this before. He was taling to us lie a grown man. His eyes were gleaming. "All right, Yuzi, that may be so, but how can we do it?" I ased. "I've told you. We've got to run away to the Communists. We'll tae a good lot o f bread with us and go to Zhmerina. The Communists are in Zhmerina. We'll join them as scouts. Understand?" "What about our parents?" Peta chimed in. "They won't let us . . ." " 'Parents, parents'!" Weasel shouted. "What a softy you are! Afraid of your Mum my, are you? Do you thin you'll lie it better if they tae you away from Mummy and put you in jail?" "Hold on, Yuzi, don't shout," I said quietly. "Suppose the Reds aren't in Zhmer ina yet? What shall we do then? And where shall we spend the night? Suppose it rains? . . . Don't shout though Aunt will hear."

"They are in Zhmerina, I tell you . . ." Weasel said confidently. "I read it in a partisan leaflet." That was all very well, but Zhmerina was a long way off. How could we get there on foot? "Listen, Yuzi," I said, "Let's drop in at Nagoranye first. I want to see Dad. A fter all, Nagoranye's on the road, so we'll be able to have a rest. And it's not so far to Zhmerina if you go through Nagoranye." "All right. But if we are going, we must go now," Weasel decided. "No hanging ab out." "We won't hang about. You go and get ready, I'm only taing a pennife and some bread. I'll wait for you near Uspensy Church, in the garden." We parted at once. When I had let the chaps out, I ran into the room. Aunt was on the allotment. Th at was good no need to mae excuses. I snatched up a big slice of bread and dashed off to Uspensy Church. A few minutes later Peta rushed up with a net and a ba mboo fishing-rod. In one hand he was carrying a white tin. "For worms," he explained. Weasel was the last to arrive. He was carrying a water bottle and a little bundl e. "Bread and goat's cheese," he said, panting for breath. "Peta, you've got big p ocets. Here, tae it." Peta pushed the bundle into his pocet. Weasel piced up his fishing-rod, and w e started off. It was late in the afternoon and the sun was already shining pinly on the white hills when we neared Nagoranye. As we reached the top of a pass and the road pl unged steeply downwards, I recognized a familiar grove of trees. Yes, this was it the lovely birch-grove. Here we would call a halt. The tall silvery birches rustled their shiny, transparent leaves; through them g leamed a clear sy. Below, under the crumbling clay slope of the hollow, a littl e broo murmured. Woodland water washed the bare, brown roots of the birch-trees . Yuzi tossed a pebble into the broo. There was a tinling splash and drops of w ater sprinled the grass on the ban. "Let's lie down, chaps," Peta suggested. Fifteen versts was not such a long journey, but the bac of Peta's shirt was da r with sweat. He looed tired out. "Not for long though," I warned him, sitting down on the soft grass. Weasel lay down beside me. He threw Peta's long fishing-rod lie a lance into t he ground under la young birch-tree. I told the boys how last spring my cousin Osa and I had sat here and drun the sap of one of the birches. It was wonderful stuff. With the corscrew on my pen nife I had bored a hole in the sticy bar near the root of that old birch-tree over there by the broo. We had fitted a little tin gutter to the hole and Osa had placed a brown bottle under it. Before we even stepped bac, the yellowish s ap of the birch started dripping into the bottle. While the bottle was filling with sap, we. tumbled about on the grass, frighteni ng the finches, and catching the fluffy blac-and-red bumble-bees on the first s pring flowers. The bumble-bees buzzed plaintively in our caps. We illed them ca refully with bits of pine-wood land, having done so, squeezed the thin white hon ey out of their bellies. My cousin and I tried to remember where different birds were maing their nests, so that later on we could come and loo at their young . We found mounds of freshly-dug earth, where moles had burrowed. And thus we wh iled away the time, surprising each other with fresh discoveries, until at last, tired out, just as we were now, we had dropped down on the grass. And afterwards, when a lot of birch sap had dripped into the bottle, we dran it , sitting in the glade. Licing our lips, we watched each other to see that neit her got more than his share. What a pity it was too late now to tap the birches. All the sap had gone up to t

he leaves long ago, or we should have been able to drin to our hearts' content. "Yes, that would have been fine," Weasel said. "Well, let's go, shall we?" "Yes, come on, it's not far now," I agreed. Weasel jumped up quicly, leaving la patch of flattened grass behind him. Peta rose unwillingly, stretching himself lie a well-fed cat. He was a lazy li ttle fellow, that Peta of ours. No wonder he was so fat. "Come on, come on, enough of that stretching. You can rest when you get there. Y awning away already," said Weasel. And we left the birch-grove. AT NAGORANYE On a remote by-way some distance from the Kalinovsy high road, which leads to K iev, lies the village of Nagoranye. It is a hilly place, with steep, dusty stree ts, and sharp cliffs falling to a narrow, but deep stream. As we crossed Badger's Mount, we caught sight of the thatched roofs of the Nagor anye cottages. My uncle Avsenty lived on the edge of the village, near the graveyard. Some nag s and clay pots with smoe-blacened bottoms were drying on the wicer fence rou nd the cottage. Three hens were giving themselves a dust-bath in the yard. "Wait here, I'll go and get Uncle," 1 told my friends. At the last minute I felt a twinge of misgiving. Perhaps Uncle would give it to me for bringing these uni nvited guests? But before I could cross the threshold, Uncle Avsenty, hearing v oices, appeared lat the door himself. He was a big man with a dar, weather-beat en face, wearing a homespun shirt. He came forward to meet us with a half-woven sandal in his hands. "Vasya! This is a surprise! Where did you spring from? How are you, boy? . . . W ell, they say guests in the evening are a good sign for the next day. And who ar e the lads by the fence?" He squeezed my fingers in his hard, rough hand. "Hullo , Uncle! I've brought some friends . . . We've come to catch fish . . ." "Well, come in, there's plenty of fish going. Osa and I were wading about in th e water all yesterday evening. I even got a bit of a cold. Hear how hoarse I am? . . . What are you standing out there for? Come inside." "Uncle, where's Dad?" I ased in an undertone, as I entered the cottage. The smoy room with a big bed in one corner was empty. "Miron? . . . He's not he re . . . . Miron and Osa have gone to Golutvintsy . . . There's a fair on there . . ." My uncle replied rather awwardly. So we had missed each other. Golutvintsy was quite near town. Perhaps Father wou ld call in at home from there. That would be a pity. "Sit down, lads. What are you standing for?" said Uncle Avsenty. "Let's hear th e news from town. How are the Petlura men getting on up your way? We haven't got many of them here. Sometimes one or two ride past on the road, but they're afra id to come into the village." I sat down on a three-legged stool and told Uncle how the Petlura men searched t he houses of -the townspeople every night, and how the priests read out prayers for Petlura's health; I also told him how our school had been closed. Peta and Yuzi sat together on a bench. They did not feel quite at home yet. Pe ta was glancing curiously at the soot-blacened stove stuffed with yellow straw . On the floor near the stove lay a heap of furry rawhide strips with which Uncl e had been weaving a pair of sandals for himself. Having surveyed the room, Peta glanced out of the window. Evidently he was afra id someone might steal his bamboo fishing-rod and net. He need not have been. Th is was not town; here everybody new one another. Yuzi eyed my Uncle from under lowered brows. Then he nudged my elbow and whispe red: "Tell him about the fortress. And about the governor's house . . . And about the partisans who stic leaflets up on the telegraph poles at night." "Yes, all right," I answered, and hurriedly told my uncle of what we had seen in the fortress. Uncle Avsenty's lined face broe into a frown. I did not have time to tell him

about Dragan and the shooting in the cellar of the governor's house. Uncle stood up and interrupted me. "Listen, boys. I thin I'll go and call on a man I now. He's got a good drag-ne t. I'll arrange for us all to go fishing first thing tomorrow morning. He lives just round the corner." Seeing my friends' eyes brighten in anticipation, I felt glad that I had persuad ed them to call in at Nagoranye. Gradually I was beginning to forget about the town and the sad events connected with it. "Loo here, chaps," I said, "as soon as we've caught some fish tomorrow, we'll g o into the forest. I'll show you the Fox Caves." My uncle frowned suddenly. "What's that? Fox Caves? Where are these caves?" "Where are they? Why, you too me there yourself. Don't you remember, last summe r?" "Did I? . . . Oh, yes, that's right . . . I was forgetting. What a restless lot you are. No sooner are you here than you get a devil inside you dragging you off to some caves or other. Don't you go! The vipers have started breeding there lots of 'em. They'll sting you before you now where you are." "Then we'll go to the hollow oa by the river," I said, thining to myself that it was only a stone's throw from the hollow oa to the Fox Caves. "The river's all right," Uncle agreed and put on his straw hat. At the door he turned and called out to me: "Vasya! Come out here a minute." I followed him into the yard. We waled to the barn in silence. The scent of dry hay swept over me as I went inside. "Vasya," my uncle ased quietly and sternly, "who are these lads you've brought here? Do you now them well?" Rather confused at his stern tone, I told him who my friends were. "Maremuha's father lives on Grigoreno's estate, doesn't he?" my uncle ased. "Why, of course!" I affirmed joyfully. "He repaired my boots for me the year before last . . .Who's the other one?" "That's Yuzi Starodomsy. His father catches dogs. He lives near Uspensy Churc h." "Listen, Vasya," Uncle gripped my shoulder. "Tomorrow I'll tae you to see your dad. He hasn't gone anywhere. I was maing that up about the fair. But don't you dare tell anybody that your dad's in Nagoranye. If you do, the Petlura men will be down here in a flash and grab him, and me as well. They've had their eye on me since last year, and they've got something against Miron. The order for his a rrest is already written out. There's rumours that he had something to do with t he printing of the leaflets the partisans use. Do you understand? I'm not stoppi ng you from doing things; you can tae the lads where you lie; we'll go fishing tomorrow together. But eep a still tongue in your head. Do the lads now your dad's here?" "Yes, I told them." "And they now he's living with me?" I was silent. "Well, you are a juggins! Given everything away," said Uncle reproachfully. "But we . . ." I began hotly, and stopped. I should dearly have lied to tell Uncle that we meant to go and join the Commun ists, but then I should have had to say that I had been expelled from the High S chool. No, I had better eep quiet . . . "Well?" Uncle again looed at me sternly. "Spea up What is it?" "We . . . we . . ." I mumbled, wishing to end this unpleasant conversation. Then I suddenly burst out: "But we hate the Petlura men ourselves. We're waiting for the Reds too. Don't you be afraid, Uncle." Uncle Avsenty's face softened at once. He smiled. I pluced up courage and, rem embering the other chaps waiting for me in the cottage, said: "Uncle, couldn't we go fishing today?" "Today? You've got fishing on the brain. Well, if you must, you must. Of course, at a time lie this, it's a pity to use a grenade. Never mind, though, I won't

grudge one for the guests . . . Ever seen how they stun fish with grenades? All right, you'll see it again then. But I expect you're hungry after the journey. W ant something to eat, don't you?" "No, no, we had a bite on the way." "Well, wait for me then, I'm going next door. I won't be long." I ran bac to the cottage to warn the boys that we were going fishing. While Unc le was next door, we had a rest in the low, cool cottage, then went out into the yard. With difficulty I managed to persuade Peta not to tae his net. What did we need a net for, when a grenade could stun three times as many fish! Presently Uncle came out across his neighbour's vegetable patch, carrying two ru sty grenades. Peta glanced at them nervously. Weasel and I did not feel very safe either as w e waled along beside my uncle. "Suppose he trips up," I thought. "If he falls, those grenades may go off." But Uncle, bronzed and muscular, had no intention of falling; carrying an empty bucet in his hand, he waled calmly down the hill. He had put the grenades in his pocet. The place to which my uncle led us was deserted and quiet. A small clearing snow ed among the trees that bordered the steep ban of the river. Nagoranye was somewhere behind us, beyond the wood. Old sycamores, gnarled oas, and dense elder thicets lay between us and the village. At the foot of the cli ff flowed the river. From above, its waters seemed blac. I noticed an upturned boat on the narrow pebbly beach. On one hand, where the cl iffs fell less steeply, a white path showed among the rocs. "Listen, lads," said my uncle, looing down at the river. "I'm not going into th e water. I'll throw the grenades and you can catch the fish yourselves. Now then o ff with you! Go and hide behind those trees." We ran upstream to a thicly-wooded mound. Peta hid behind a tall ash-tree, cli nging to its trun as if he wanted to pull it out of the ground. Weasel squatted down behind an oa and peeped out to watch my uncle. We could see him well as h e stood on the edge of the cliff. Tossing aside his straw hat, Uncle put his hand in his pocet, too out a grenad e, and placed it carefully on the grass. Then he too out the second grenade and , pulling out the pin at once, hurled it right into the middle of the river, and fell flat on the ground. Pressing his face into the grass, he lay there lie a dead man. The ripples from the splash had not reached the ban, when a blinding white column of water shot up from the bottom of the placid stream. It nearly re ached the top of the cliff. Only a little higher, it seemed to me, and the white spray would have splashed over the prostrate figure of Uncle Avsenty. The boom of the explosion echoed far away across the forest. For an instant I im agined the great oa-trees falling on us and the little clearing on the edge of the cliff collapsing into the river, taing my uncle with it. But before the echo bad died away, my uncle rose calmly to his feet, as if he ha d only been lying down for a rest, and piced up the second grenade. He was a long time pulling out the pin it must have got rusted into its socet. I began to feel nervous. "Hurry up, Uncle, or it'll go off!" At last Uncle freed t he lever and threw the grenade. It fell much nearer, right under the cliff. This time the explosion did not seem so terrifying. Clinging to the rocs, we sc rambled down the steep white path to the river. Uncle sat down on the ban and rolled himself a cigarette. We threw off our clot hes and tumbled into the water. But Uncle could not resist the chance of fishing . Putting his unfinished cigarette down on the pebbles, he stripped off his clot hes. Then, turning over the flat-bottomed boat with a single heave, he piced up the short paddle that had been lying under it, pushed the boat into the water a nd climbed over the stern. Uncle sat in the stern, plying his stumpy paddle, and the boat, twisting and roc ing, sailed into midstream. We swam after it as fast as we could, anxious to be first to reach the middle of the river where the stunned fish floated.

The slimy, unresisting fish ept slipping out of my hands, but I would catch the m again now under Peta's nose, now under Weasel's and throw them into the boat. The fish flopped at Uncle's feet, their silvery-blue scales shining in the sun. The ir eyes were glazed with fear. We leaped about in the muddy-smelling water, splashing each other and sending sh owers of spray high into the air. We were having a fine time. "Steady there, you juggins, don't splash me!" Uncle shouted when I drenched him with water. We caught a lot of fish. Sorting out the biggest into a pail, Uncle threw the sm all fry bac into the river. "Let 'em grow," he said with a grin, noticing the regret in our eyes as we watch ed the fish float downstream. "When they get a bit bigger, we'll catch 'em again . No fish has ever escaped me yet." We returned to the village with a fine catch. Uncle Avsenty's wife, Osana, young in loos, and broad-shouldered lie her hus band, quicly got the stove going. She gutted our fish, washed it, rubbed it in flour, and tossed it into melted butter in the frying-pan. After a good meal of fried fish, we went to bed in the barn, tired and contented . "Vasya, your uncle isn't half daring," Peta whispered, turning over beside me. "Neat the way he threw that grenade, wasn't it?" Weasel recalled enviously, burr owing into the hay. "Oh, a grenade's nothing. You ought to see the way he pics off hares," I boaste d, delighted that the chaps lied my uncle. And for a long time before we went to sleep I recounted to them all that I new of Uncle Avsenty. In winter my uncle would go out into the open fields armed with an ordinary Russ ian rifle brought bac from the front, and shoot the swift-moving hares. One day when I was with him he brought down a haw. The haw, which was circling slowly over the trees in search of prey, suddenly shuddered in mid-air, then pl unged downwards lie a tattered grey rag. As it fell, the haw caught in the branches of an old sycamore-tree. I was about to climb up for it, but had only taen hold of the first branch, when the haw freed itself and, wealy flapping its wings, dropped on the leaf-strewn ground. I crept forward trying to catch the wounded bird while Uncle, grinning artfully, rolled himself a cigarette . . . When the Petlura men first arrived in the neighbourhood last summer and the Petl ura police started disarming the villagers, the priest of Nagoranye with whom Un cle Avsenty had long been on bad terms, reported that Uncle had a rifle and thr ee tins of cartridges. The Petlura men found the rifle in the cottage loft, and the cartridges in the empty dog-ennel. First they gave Uncle a whipping on the common in front of the village church, " for a start, to mae him behave," as the Petlura men said amid loud guffaws, the n they put him in a requisitioned cart and too him off to town. When the cart w as passing through Kalinovsy Woods, Uncle planted his heavy fist between the ey es of one of the Petlura men who were guarding him, and escaped into the surroun ding thicets. That evening, the carter who had been driving my uncle and his guards called on my aunt and told her how Uncle Avsenty had escaped. He had taen the Petlura me n by surprise. One of them had been dozing, and the other, whom Uncle Avsenty h ad hit between the eyes, had been lighting a cigarette. The carter related how t he scared guards had fired wildly at the trees without even getting out of the c art. At that time Uncle Avsenty's son, my cousin Osa, was staying with us. Aunt tol d him nothing about the occurrence. Only later on did we learn that Uncle had ma de good his escape from the Petlura men, and that he was alive and well, but hid ing somewhere in the woods, near the Fox Caves. The next time the carter called on us, he brought us a present from Uncle Avsen

ty a piece of wild honeycomb. Then Osa learned of the escape. He was very proud of his father's exploit and o f the piece of honeycomb. "Vasya, are the Fox Caves far from here?" ased Peta, nudging me. "No, they're quite near. All right, let's go to sleep," I said. "I'll tae you t here tomorrow. You'll see for yourself." THE FOX CAVES We slept very late, and when we woe up, Uncle was nowhere about he had gone to th e other end of the village to buy salt. We had breafast without him. While Uncle was away, I decided, we must have a loo at the Fox Caves, even if o nly from the outside. I too the chaps there by a path winding along the pebbly ban of the river. The river was steaming slightly. Fat frogs, startled by our footsteps, plopped loud ly into the water. The cliffs cast deep shadows on the ban. In the distance we could see the wooded slopes of Copper Hill. Beyond it, at a bend in the river, r ose Badger's Mount, and farther away still, we could mae out the weather-beaten ridges of the "Tovtras" gleaming white among the green woodlands. This white ridge of limestone hills, which were nown as the "Tovtras," stretche d far away to the south-west, to the spurs of the Carpathian Mountains and Galic ia. There were many hidden caves and gorges in those parts. The local people were afraid to venture far into the Tovtras, and whenever possi ble avoided them. They said the place was inhabited by an evil spirit which seiz ed people as soon as they entered one of the caves or gorges, and dragged him aw ay under the earth, into hell. Probably my uncle new the caves of the neighbourhood better than anyone else in Nagoranye. For a good five versts all round there was mot a cleft in the rocs, however small, that he did not now. And if you found soot on the rocs round t hat cleft, you could be sure that my uncle had been there, smoing out a bushy-t ailed yellow vixen after tracing her to her lair by the faint mars she had lef t in the white snow . . . In a nut-grove on the edge of the forest we broe ourselves long notty stics, stripped them of their foliage, and made our way up a gully strewn with rotting leaves and dry, cracling brushwood three fearless explorers. Even though he did not now the way, Weasel marched in front, lie an ataman. Pe ta puffed along beside me. He was breathing heavily, finding the going hard up the steep gully. Moss-covered trees grew on the slopes, their thic foliage shut ting out the sun. Light transparent ferns quivered under our feet. When we had a lmost reached the place where the Fox Caves began, I turned aside into a clearin g scattered with small rocs. "Loo, you can't see anything, can you?" I said, proudly pointing to a round, 'b lac roc overgrown with moss that lay at the foot of the cliff. The roc seemed to have been tossed down from Copper Hill. "Well, where are the caves?" Weasel ased. ''Have another loo," I said and disappeared behind the roc. Lie a huge blac pumpin this roc concealed the entrance to a cave. Before me gaped a dar crac in the face of the cliff. No one would ever have thought that this was the entrance to the Fox Caves. The others came round the roc and stood behind me. "We'll come here again, definitely. Today. We'll get some candles and come bac, " said Yuzi. He peered eagerly into the crac. "You ass, where can you get candles in this place?" I replied. "Where? . . . At the church. There's a church here, isn't there? We'll as the w arden." It was rather frightening to stand long in front of the entrance to the cave. My uncle's words about vipers had put me on my guard. Suppose one crawled out now . . .

I suggested climbing higher. We scrambled on to the round roc that concealed th e entrance to the cave, and sat there on the cold slippery top, looing about us . The woods were very quiet. Here and there slanting rays of sunlight broe throug h the thic leafage of the tall ash-trees, casting joyful, golden beams amid the dar gloom of the gully. All round it was damp and dar as in a cellar. Out in the clearing the sun must have been very hot, but here it was lie evening. Suddenly Peta tugged my leg and nodded towards the cave. "What's that? A viper?" Then I, too, heard a faint sound in the cave. Either someone had coughed, or a p ebble had fallen on the ground. "Did you hear that?" I whispered to Yuzi. On th e alert at once, Yuzi flattened himself against the roc. We lay flat beside hi m. From the cave came another cough, this time quite distinct. Perhaps it was a vix en playing with her cubs? Then, quite near, there was a crunching sound. And sud denly a hand reached out of the dar crac, then a man appeared. I gave a start. It was my father. Father had grown a heavy beard and a moustache, but I recognized him at once both by his blue cotton blouse and by the familiar broad belt round it. I wanted to s hout, "Dad! Dad! I'm here!" but the shout stuc in my throat. Father turned his bac to us and called into the cave: "Come out, where have you got to there?" At that moment Osa appeared out of the cave, followed by a bearded man in a maci ntosh. "They're friends," I shouted pushing the other chaps, and we rolled head over he els to the ground. I was the first to dash round the roc and confront my father, but the next mome nt I dodged aside. Father was aiming at me with a revolver, so was the man in the macintosh. "They've gone mad!" I thought, and rushed headlong down the gully. "Vasya! Vasya! Wait!" Father shouted after me. I stopped at once and threw an apprehensive glance over my shoulder. Father had lowered his revolver. Yes, it was my father all right silent, gloomy, h ardly ever smiling. A roll of newspapers, printed on blue wrapping-paper, was st uc in his belt. I wanted to throw my arms round his nec and iss him on his th ic pricly moustache, but instead I approached him as if he were a stranger, wi th slow awward steps. Weasel and Peta, scared out of their wits, peeped from b ehind the roc. "How did you get here?" Father ased in surprise, bending down and issing me on the forehead. "I came from town . . . We dropped in to see Uncle Avsenty.. . "Where did you learn about these caves?" "Uncle Avsenty brought me here last year . . ." "Uncle Avsenty?" Father repeated and gave a dissatisfied grunt. Then he shoo h is head and, noticing the boys standing a little way off, ased: "That's Maremu ha, isn't it? Who's the other one? I've forgotten." "Yuzi Starodomsy . . ." Osa wined at me from behind Father's bac. "They're our Zarechye lads," Father said in an undertone to his bearded companio n. The man followed my father's example and slipped his revolver into his pocet. A nd all of a sudden . . . why, it couldn't be! Yes, it was Omelusty! Yes, Ivan Om elusty, our neighbour, the man who had fought the gun battle with the Petlura me n at Konetspolsy Tower. In my alarm I hadn't recognized him at first. This was fine. So Ivan was alive . . . But what a beard he had grown! By the loo of him, he couldn't have shaved for a good month. "Hullo, Uncle Ivan!" I said gaily, stretching my hand out to our neighbour. Yuzi stepped forward too. "I told Vasya they hadn't caught you," he said. "Who didn't? Who wants to catch me?" Omelusty ased, guardedly. "But the Petlura men! . . . We saw you run into the tower. Remember? And that on e with the foreloc tried to cross the bridge, and you shot at him, and he fell

right into the river." "Oh, so that's what you're taling about . . ." Omelusty said, and looed at Wea sel in surprise. "That was a long time ago . . . I'd forgotten . . . Did you thi n they could catch anyone lie that? That's just playing at it, lad . . ." "Uncle Ivan, do you now what happened to that man?" "What man?" "The one who was ill. You remember, the one you brought to our house at night?" "Sergushin?" Omelusty suggested. "I don't now his name. You came with him to our place one night." "Yes, yes, Sergushin," said Omelusty. "They illed him. We saw it all ourselves." And I told him how Sergushin had been caught, how he had been shot, and how the three of us had tended his grave. Father and Omelusty listened to my story with great attention. Father surveyed m e just a little suspiciously. "So that's the way of it . . ." Omelusty said quietly. "I new he had been shot, but as to how it happened this is the first time I've heard about it." "Uncle Ivan, who was that man?" Peta ased, eyeing our neighbour. "The one who was shot? That man . . . It's a long story . . . D'you now what? Y ou give us a hand now. Then, perhaps, I'll tell you about him." "A hand with what?" "We're going to bloc the entrance to the cave." "But we wanted to . . ." "Wanted what?" "We wanted to go and loo at the oaves," Peta explained. "There's nothing for you to do in the oaves," Omelusty said sternly. "I'll show you them myself one day . . .You don't believe me? As Osa here how many caves I've shown him. Haven't I, Osa?" "Yes, you have," Osa assented. "Of course. But you mustn't go in there today," said Omelusty and, glancing roun d, he added: "Come on, lads, bring us some stones out of the gully. We'll get it done in no time." There was nothing for it but to bring the stones. While we carried stones out of the gully, Rather and Omelusty piled them in fron t of the entrance to the cave. Soon only a small chin remained. "Phew! What a sweat," Omelusty said, wiping his hands. "Well, let's go. Don't fo rget the lamp, Osa." We climbed up to the meadow above the gully. There was fresh, rich grass in the meadow, and it was good to lie in soft and sweet. Father lay down a little to one side, under a tall sycamore-tree. Omelusty too off his macintosh and, folding it in two, spread it out on the grass. We made o urselves comfortable on the macintosh and he began his tale. OMELUSTY'S TALE "That cold, windy winter when the war with the Germans ended, we had a lot of pr isoners-of-war going through our town on their way home from Germany. I doubt if any other town in the Uraine had as many as we had that year. You see, one of the main roads from the front lay through our district. "They were a starved-looing lot, in tattered great-coats and with their feet bo und up in nags. And coming from Ternopol and Peremyshl, they used to cross our f ortress bridge on their way to the station, to get on a train as quic as possib le and go home. "That winter a dangerous epidemic started in the town influenza. It illed off hu ndreds of people and everyone was scared stiff of it. People who had got a home and hot food and plenty of fire-wood could fight against it somehow. But thin o f the prisoners. What could they do, tramping through Kalinovsy Woods on a fros ty winter's night! The disease used to get them on the road. Worn out with hunge r and the long tramp, a man would suddenly realize that he just couldn't go any farther, that his whole body was on fire and his legs were giving way under him,

and, What was worse, that there was nobody he could turn to in that cold, snowy forest. And often it happened that the prisoner would sit down on the edge of t he road to rest, and never be able to get up again. He would freeze there and di e an unnown death, not five versts from shelter. "And in the town it was no bet ter. "The prisoners would lie about on the pavements of Zhitomir Street and Tern opolsy Slope, and in the damp, unheated halls of the seminary, where the local authorities let them rest. I myself saw three cart-loads of corpses driving out of the seminary one day. On two of the carts the corpses were more or less cover ed with coarse sacing, but for the last, so it seemed, there had not been enoug h sacs, and the driver was actually sitting on the blue, frozen bodies. "And ho w afraid they were in Zhitomir Street even to hear the mention of the word 'pris oner'! As soon as a returning prisoner-of-war noced at the door of a rich hous e in Zhitomir Street, all the lights would go out and the house would become as silent as the grave. And if the prisoner went on nocing long enough, the maid would put the chain on, then open the door just ajar and shout to the prisoner: " 'The master's not at home. God will provide.' " Doctor Grigoreno even too the bell and the brass plate with his name on it off his gate, in case some exhausted prisoner should come to him for help. "But our Zarechye people, poor though they were, would often invite prisoners in themselves for a plate of hot soup, or a warm by the fire, or even to sleep the night on the stove-ledge. "At dawn one morning, there was a noc at our door so faint, though, you could h ardly hear it. My old mother, rest her soul, woe up and said: 'Go and see who t hat is, Ivan.' "But I pretended not to hear I was very sleepy. Then Mother got up herself. She wr apped a blanet round her, went up to the window and started blowing on the froz en pane. "Suddenly she started bac and cried out to Father: 'Oh God, they've illed some one just outside our door.' "We did not open at once. First we all got dressed. Then Father went quietly int o the itchen. He looed out into the street and saw that someone was 'lying on our front steps, which were coated with ice. There was no one else about. "Plucing up courage, we opened the front door and dragged the man into our itc hen. No one had illed him, of course. He was just an ordinary prisoner, and it was hunger and weaness and the influenza that had made him collapse by our hous e. "Mother put some water on to boil, and Father dragged a big wooden tub out of th e store-room. He and I undressed the sic man as carefully as we could and sat h im in the tub. I poured warm water over him, and Father did the washing. "How much water we used on him I can't say. One after the other I too the boile rs off the stove and tipped them over the sic man's head. He soon came to, and ept snorting and rubbing his eyes. I too the dirty water outside and poured it down the steps into the street. Afterwards the snow was so blac it looed as i f someone had been loading coal there. "Father piced up all our guest's clothes, rolled them into a bundle and put the m out in the chicen run to freeze. It was my mother who told him to do that. "'The man can stay here, but we don't need his lice let the frost finish them off ,' she said. "The sic man's name was Timofei Sergushin. He was on his way home to the Donbas after being a prisoner-of-war in Germany. Before the war Sergushin had wored i n the Shcherbinovsy mines. You could still see the thin dar lines under his ey e-lashes that any miner gets if he hews coal for a long time. "We made a bed for our guest in the cubby-hole behind the itchen. And that was where he lay. "In those days the hetman's police had put a strict ban on the townspeople givin g shelter to prisoners passing through the town on their way home. Hetman Sorop adsy was afraid there might be Communists among them. "Well, you never new what might happen, so just in case the hetman's police got on to us, we didn't say a word to anyone about the prisoner. You couldn't thin of a better neighbour than Miron here," Omelusty nodded towards my father, "but

even he didn't now anything about Sergushin. We thought he wouldn't be staying with us long, but it turned out otherwise. "For more than a month our prisoner-of-war lay in that dar cubby-hole, and then he started waling about the room a bit. My old father, as soon as he saw Sergu shin had come out of his cubby-hole, would be over to the door in a twin and tu rn the ey in the loc. Father was afraid one of the customers might see him. "Serigushin got used to living with us and began to give my father a hand now an d again. "Father would put the leather over the last and fix the sole on, then he would h and it to Sergushin, and Sergushin would drive in the wooden cobbler's nails. He made a good fist of it too better than me he was. He'd put la handful of those na ils into his mouth, and then he'd start spitting them out lie the shells of sun flower seeds, one after the other. He'd spit out one nail, shove it into the hol e hang it with the hammer and there'd be nothing left of that nail but a little sq uare top sticing out of the leather. "And he had a neat way of shaving himself too. He would get an ordinary cobbler' s nife from my father and start woring it up on the oilstone. Up and down, up and down sometimes for a whole hour. And when he'd finished, that nife would be lie a razor, sharp enough to cut a blade of grass in mid-air. Then he'd get up such a lather on his chin that the soap suds would be falling off on the floor. But when he'd taen a couple of stroes down his chees with that nife you'd thin he'd never had a hair on his face. He'd learnt to shave lie that in the trenc hes. After shaving, he would powder his face with the potato flour that Mother ept for maing jelly. "Sometimes he'd sit by the window and strie up quietly with one of his miner's songs. "And when he started having a bit of fun you just couldn't stop laughing. He was a wizard at maing Chinese shadows. Quic fingers he had! It was amazing. We'd cl ose the shutters tight sometimes, and he'd tae the lamp away into his little cu bby-hole, stand it on a baset and start fiddling with his fingers in front of t he lamp. The next moment the shadows would be flitting across the wall. What did n't he show us! Dogs, cats, owls . . . Even the lobster he showed us was lie a live one. And one night, using both hands in front of the big lamp, he gave us a n imitation of two German soldiers in helmets having a fight. We nearly died of laughter. "Sergushin often spoe about his mine. He had a tough job there risy too. The las t few months before he was called up to the army, he had wored as a detonator m an, blasting tunnels through the roc to find coal. "I used to tell Timofei about the commercial school, what teachers we had, and w hat a boring subject booeeping was. "One day, after he had been listening to me for a long time, Timofei said: 'I sh ould chuc that commercial business, if I were you, Ivan. You'll never mae a sh op assistant. I can tell that by the loo of you. You're la young healthy lad, y ou ought to be galloping on a horse, not going sour in an office over a pile of ledgers. There are other accounts to be ept these days, lad.' "I gave him no answer, because quite apart from what he had said I was fed up to the bac teeth with the commercial school. It was Father who had sent me there, under the old regime. And what pains it had cost him to get me accepted! He had made the head-master of the school three pairs of shoes out of the best Belgian id and gone round the houses of all the members of the school board asing the m to tae me. "Timofei got his health bac and was going to leave us. "But my father didn't want him to leave. 'Where will you go, wanderer?' he said. 'Only just escaped one death, and now you're looing for another? Until they i c the hetman out, you can do as much good here as you will at home in the Donba s.' "Timofei thought for a bit then agreed to stay. But when he did so, he said to m y father: 'Listen, friend. Whether you lie it or not, I'm going to help you. Yo u've got quite a big family and I've never been a sponger anywhere. I won't mae much of an apprentice, I now, but one way and another I ought to be able to do enough to pay for my eep. I shan't stay otherwise.'

"So as not to offend him, Father agreed. And from then on Timofei never left the bench right until dinner-time. "When I came home from the commercial school, he would as me what was going on in 'town, and what news there was from Soviet Russia. He used to as me to get h im newspapers, and I often brought him some. "One day I happened to tell Timofei that there were posters up in the town about the German offensive on Petrograd. Then he did fix on to me asing me to tell h im what the posters said. But I couldn't remember everything. So when it got dar , I had to run down to the maret to get one of those posters. I wandered about there for 2 long time, I remember afraid that the hetman police would notice me . But when there was no one near, I tore a poster down and ran bac with it to T imofei. Timofei praised me, and after that I used to loo out for chances to pul l down the hetman's notices and orders from the fences and tae them to Timofei. He read them all, and new better than my father what was happening in town. "Then one day Mother called him to come and have tea, and the cubby-hole was emp ty. We looed here, and we looed there, and I ran out into the porch, but there was no sign of Timofei. He had vanished as if the earth had opened and swallowe d him up. I felt quite hurt. Fancy going away, I thought, without even saying go od-bye. He might have left a note at least. And Mother even said: That's always the way. You do someone a good turn, and he . . .' But she didn't finish what sh e had been going to say. Father gave her such a loo that she thought better of it. "But late that night we heard someone nocing at the itchen door. Father answe red, and it turned out to be Timofei. We didn't as him anything that night, but when morning came, we put him through it: 'Where did you get to yesterday?' He made up all inds of excuses, but he never told us the truth. "And after that he started going away into town every night. Once he came home a t dawn, panting for breath as if someone had been chasing him, and when he got i nside he ept looing out of the window. " 'Why don't you stay at home, Timofei? What taes you out lie this of a night? ' My father said to him angrily-one day. And Mother added: 'Roaming the streets at night. The idea! You'll foe bringing trouble on our heads one of these days. What you find to loo at out there, I don't now. Hetman druns? You don't even now anybody here.' " 'Who can tell, my dear,' Timofei answered, Laughing. 'It isn't hard to mae fr iends. I'm a gay spar, you now, all the world's my friend.' "And then one clear moonlit night, the town was suddenly occupied toy the Reds. Early in the morning, almost before it was light, Timofei went out of the house, without a hat as usual, and wearing Father's froc-coat, a pair of trousers muc h too long for him, and galoshes on his bare feet. "He came bac that evening and we didn't recognize him! He was wearing a leather B udyonny helmet with la red star on the front, a hai tunic, and boots of good b oxcalf. The butt of a Nagant revolver peeped out of his holster. He had brought bac Father's trousers, froc-coat, and galoshes. "Timofei told us that it was the Sumy Regiment that had driven both the Germans and the hetman's men out of the town. Timofei had found many men from his distri ct in the regiment. " 'Lots of our chaps in the town, lots of 'em! I used to be the only one, and no w the whole Donbas is here. Drivers, hewers, hauliers everyone!' he said happily. And we were glad with him. "Timofei did not leave until late and, when he was going, he ased me to come ou t with him. 'Come on, booeeper. See me off as far as the church,' he said. "I went with him and never came bac. Timofei persuaded me to join the Reds. "That same night he fixed me up in the Sumy Regiment. His miner friends gave me a uniform on the spot, as well as a carbine and a sabre, and at dawn nearly the whole regiment of us left town. I didn't even have time to say good-bye to my pe ople. We were transferred to another district to finish off the hetman troops th ere. "Everyone was still asleep, even the stalls in the maret were closed when we ro de down Vrotslav Street on to the Kalinovsy road, singing a fine rousing song:

With sabres gleaming in the sun, And bugles blowing brave, We, miners, smash the merchant horde, The cause of freedom save. "Well, I don't mind admitting that I didn't find life in the army easy at first. After the first day my legs ached so much from riding that I could hardly wal. Up till then I had never used a real leather saddle. "I had difficulty in looing after my horse; I didn't now how to put the saddle on properly, and once I put it on the wrong way round, with the pommel facing t he tail. Timofei taught me everything how to tighten the girths, and how to adjust the stirrups to suit your leg . . . "And soon the two of us pitched into those German hirelings at Tarnoruda and gav e 'em such a beating that their topnots went flying as far as Zbruch. "We swung on farther, beyond Zhitomir, and then a rumour went round the front th at Petlura and his bandits, who had just taen over from the hetman at that time , had seized our town. "We turned bac and attaced Petlura's army, and when, together with Kotovsy's cavalry, we won the town bac, I found out that none of my fol were left alive. The hetman troops under the Petlura General Omelyanovich-Pavleno had illed my mother first, then my father and brother. People said it was Maro Grzhibovsy who had brought the Petlura men to our house. "I did not stay long in the regiment after that. As we new the town better than the others, Sergushin and I were transferred to the Town Revolutionary Committe e. I, as you may remember, had the job of requisitioning arms, and Sergushin wen t to wor on the revolutionary tribunal. He tried saboteurs, Petlura men, and th ose who had helped them secretly. And that was when I got to now where he used to go at nights, when he had been living with us. "One evening Timofei had got to now a local girl in town. I don't suppose you r emember her she lived a long way away, the other side of the station; her father u sed to wor in the station pacing-shed. She isn't in town any longer; she left with the Reds. How they got taling to each other, how they got acquainted, I do n't now. All I now is that that girl told Sergushin quite a few interesting th ings about our town. Her mother used to do the washing for several rich houses a nd she new which of the bourgeoisie were helping Petlura. And her daughter told Sergushin everything. And when he started woring on the revolutionary tribunal , he remembered a lot of what she had told him. "At that bad time, when we had to withdraw, our men were afraid to tae Timofei with them, because they new he was dangerously ill. I just can't forgive myself for not managing to get Timofei away with the Reds. "But we'll see some more of Doctor Grigoreno, lads. If only you new how many p eople he's betrayed, the slippery snae . . ." AN UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTER Peta was the first to brea the silence: "Uncle Ivan, aren't you afraid yoursel f that the Petlura men may catch you? What are you waiting for here? You should run away to Zhmerina, honest you should." "Why? What is there in Zhmerina?" said Omelusty with a smile. "What is there in Zhmerina? The Reds of course!" Yuzi spoe up in support of P eta. "There are Reds in Petrograd too," Omelusty replied. "Perhaps you thin I ought to go there? If that's it, I'll be run off my legs. Better to wait for them here . Eh, Miron?" "Maybe, maybe. It's about time we were moving," my father replied evasively. He was sitting up now, and his face was clouded and sad, as it always was. Evide ntly he was very grieved about Timofei Sergushin. "What about a swim in the river?" Father suggested after a pause.

"Of course, let's have a swim," Ivan assented. "We've got a good two hours to i ll before the people come up from Chernoozinets." "They won't come straight to the caves, will they?" my father ased. "Suppose th ey come and we're not there?" "No, no. I told Proop. He'll tae them to the mill," our neighbour reassured Fa ther. Then, turning to us, he added: "Come on, then, let's have a dip, lads." The whole bunch of us made our way down the gully to the river. Leaving the tree s behind, we approached the mill garden. It was surrounded by a tall wattle fenc e. Stately silver poplars grew in the neglected garden. Here the river turned le ft to the mill of the landlord Tshilyatovsy. Behind the garden bushes we could hear water rushing under the mill-wheels. In t he mill-house the grindstones were creaing round. We glimpsed its grey stone wa ll through the trees. It was there, in the pond by the mill that we were going t o bathe. There was not a better place for bathing to be found. The bottom of the pond was clean and sandy, the current slow, and the ban, covered with dry, yel low sand, sloped gently into the water. Now we should have a real, glorious swim ! But what was that? A strange tapping noise floated down to us from above. It sou nded as if someone were beating the bottom of an empty pail. Startled by the str ange noise, some dogs near by burst into a frantic baring. Surely it wasn't a drum beating up there on the hill? Father and Omelusty stopped dead, and listened. Now it was quite clear that the tapping came from a real drum. The beat of the drum grew louder, then a yellow-and-blue Petlura banner floated up over the crest of the low hill. "Petlura men!" Father jered out to Ivan Omelusty. Then he quicly bent down to me and whispered: "You haven't seen us here, understand? Osa will stay with you . Watch where they go." "Come on, Miron, quic!" Omelusty whispered to my father. And before we realized what was happening, Father land Omelusty had jumped over the fence into the mill garden. As we stood in the shade of a big sycamore-tree by the roadside, we heard the long grass rustle with their quic strides. The yellow-and-blue banner floated down the hill towards us. We could already ma e out the figure of an officer marching in front. Behind him, to the beat of th e drum, marched the high-stepping Petlura men. "Into the garden!" said Osa, running to the fence. Osa was our leader now. One after the other we climbed the tall, ricety fence. It swayed under us. Any moment, it seemed, the frail staes plaited with vine leaves would collapse and we should be thrown in a heap on the ground. But all went well. We jumped down a nd crouched in the -long grass. Through the gaps in the fence we 'had a good vie w of the dusty by-road. The beat of the drum sounded quite near. The first detac hment had only just reached the fence, when I nearly shouted with surprise. I ja bbed Yuzi in the ribs. It was our scouts from the High School! A few minutes la ter Osa jumped to his feet. "Here's a business," he said. "Those little dandies may strie on the Fox Caves by accident . . ." "What is in those caves, Osa, what is in them?" Maremuha burst out inquisitive ly. "Don't bother me now," said my cousin severely, running to a silvery poplar that grew just by the fence. He scrambled on to the fence, then, wrapping his arms a nd legs round the pale-green trun of the poplar, he began to climb lie a oat. On a near-by willow branch there was a dar clump of twigs a crow's nest. From it came the squawing of young crows. The parent birds noticed Osa land, thining that he was out to steal their young, grew alarmed and whirled up above the tree s, flapping their clumsy wings. In a minute la whole floc of blac crows, croa ing loudly, was flying over the mill garden. We could hardly see Osa from the ground. Only now and again a glimpse of his wh ite shirt showed through the soft silvery leaves. "Vasya! Listen, Vasya!" he shouted suddenly from the top of the poplar. The cawing of the crows drowned his shout. "I'm here. Shall I climb up to you?"

"Run to the village. Find my Dad and get him to tell Omelusty they've stopped at the hollow oa!" "What about the others?" I shouted, cupping my hands round my mouth. "They can stay here . . . You come bac here too. Say they may find the Fox Cave s. Be quic!" Flinging out a hasty "Stay here!" to Peta and Yuzi, I too a running leap over the fence land, icing up the sun-warmed dust with my bare feet, ran up the hi ll, towards the village. I bumped into Uncle Avsenty near the village graveyard. He was worried about so mething, and seemed displeased at meeting me. He was carrying a yellow plywood c ase. A double-barrelled shot-gun dangled on his shoulder. "Where have you been? Tell Osana to warm up some of that fish for you," he mutt ered absently, and strode on towards Copper Hill. "Uncle, wait a minute," I shouted, running after him. Uncle Avsenty stopped. I told him that I had seen my father and Omelusty, and g ave him Osa's message. "Ran in the direction of the mill, did they?" he ased. He thought for a minute, then shoo his head and said: "All right, I'll have a l oo for them . . . If you as me, Vasya, the Petlura crowd are on the run. There seems to be rather a lot of them on the Kalinovsy road these days." "Are they really?" I exclaimed, nearly jumping for joy. "Why, did you thin they were going to spend the winter here? We've had enough o f those gentry," my uncle replied fiercely arid, swinging on his heel, he strode away towards Copper Hill. I dashed, bac at top speed. I must get to the Lads as quic as possible. How go od it would be if Uncle was right. If only the Reds would press the Petlura troo ps harder. There was only one thing I could not understand: Why had the Petlura scouts come here? And with their leader Grzhibovsy too! But perhaps they hadn't nown Petl ura was retreating? No, they couldn't have nown! "They're on the run, they're on the run," I sang to myself as I ran bac to the boys. Peta and Weasel were lying behind some stinging nettles in the mill garden. His head resting in his hands, Weasel was looing up at the top of the poplar. Osa was still there. The blac crows, perched on the swaying tops of neighbouring t rees, were eyeing Osa warily. I climbed over the fence and called to my cousin to get down. Peta and Weasel jumped to their feet. "Well, did you find your uncle?" Peta ased. Osa climbed quicly down. He jumped straight into the stinging nettles and ran towards me, tucing his shirt in as he ran. "What do I now, Osa! Listen!" And I told my cousin what my uncle had told me. "Aha, so that's it," Osa said, excited at once. "Well, we'll show them then. Li sten, lads. Let's crac into these young dandies now. We mustn't let them get in to the Fox Caves; there'll be trouble if they do." "But there's such a lot of them, they'll catch us," said Peta, getting worried. "We won't be alone, we'll call out the other lads. Let's go to the village," Os a commanded. We ran to the village. Osa too us on la long tre round the crooed side-stree ts, gathering his pals. In answer to his whistle, village lads whom we had never seen before ept appearing from behind the fences. I did not now a single one of them. "Come and smash the dandies! We'll tae their hats away from them," Osa ept sa ying. The village lads understood my cousin at once. Probably this w-as not the first time they had got together to fight someone, or to go out in the woods. When the whole band had gathered round us, Osa gave his orders. "Now all of you go home. Bring bac some lime and some bottles. And as many cor s as you can find. We'll meet at the graveyard, by the common grave. Hurry!" The lads quicly scattered to their homes.

THE BATTLE OF THE HOLLOW OAK The common grave was ringed round with strong iron railings. Here, under a tall oa cross, many of the peasants of Nagoranye were buried. Quite recently, in 191 8, they had been shot by a German punitive detachment. It had happened soon after the Germans had made Hetman Soropadsy ruler of the Uraine. One evening, when a stuffy July day was drawing to its close, a detachment of st eel-helmeted Germans had entered Nagoranye. Soon the peasants learnt that the Ge rmans had come to commandeer their horses. However, the peasants refused point-b lan to assemble in front of the church with their horses, as the German Unter o rdered them. Then the Germans unshouldered their heavy rifles, fixed their flat gleaming bayonets, land began to drive the peasants by force on to the green in front of the church. The invaders went silently round the cottages, leading out the horses. They too no notice of what the owner said; they simply put the halter in his hands and o rdered him to lead his horse to the village green. And if the owner proved stubb orn, they helped him on with the butts of their rifles. The horses thus driven up to the fence round the church were at once inspected b y la veterinary surgeon a ginger -moustached fellow in a grey trench cap. Meanwhil e the German soldiers heated a blac, square-tipped branding iron in a little fu rnace on wheels that they had brought with them. If the horse was to the vet's l iing, the soldiers put the red-hot iron to its hindquarters, then led the anima l over to a thin, ill-tempered lieutenant in a shiny pointed helmet. The lieuten ant, blining short-sightedly and twitching his nostrils with distaste at the sm ell of singed fur, handed out long, blue receipt-slips to the owners. Among the villagers whom the Germans herded to the green was one Proop Dealu, a short, quiet fellow, who lived near the log-road that led to the mill. The Ge rmans had found him at home, just when he was about to go out into the fields to cart corn. When the veterinary surgeon on the green started running his hands o ver Proop's horse, it was too much for Proop and he gave the vet such a blow t hat the fellow's hat flew off. The Germans dashed up to Dealu and started tyin g his arms. "Help me, good people!" Proop shouted. His neighbours ran to help him. They were joined by other peasants; and soon a r eal fight had started on the big green in front of the church. The furious peasants did not give the Germans a chance to collect their wits; th ey pitched into them with anything they could lay hands on whips, halters, and eve n shaft-bows taen from their carts. Sensing freedom, the frightened horses broe away and galloped for home. When they recovered from their surprise, the Germans opened fire on the crowd, a nd only then were they able to drive the peasants bac to their homes. All night an unusual stillness hung over the village. The Germans had marched ou t of Nagoranye no one new where, and to many it seemed that all was well. But n ext morning, as soon as it was light, a squadron of German dragoons on slee, gl ossy horses rode into the village. The dragoons rode quietly down the main stree t and halted by the church, where the little wheeled furnace still stood on the village green. Before the dragoons had time to dismount, the villagers realized what was going to happen and started running away from the village. But it was too late; Nagora nye was surrounded on all sides by German infantry. Again the peasants were driven on to the village green, this time without horses . The men were lined up in two rows. The German veterinary surgeon, the short-si ghted lieutenant in spectacles, and a squad of soldiers waled slowly down the r ans, identifying those who had offered resistance the day before. Twenty-five men were piced out, their hands were tied behind their bacs, and t hey were shot in front of everybody before the stone wall of the village church. For a long time a terrible wailing and crying was heard on the village green. Th e wives of the murdered men rent their erchiefs and wept with grief. Their chil

dren and relatives wept with them. They tried to reach the men who had been shot , but in vain; the German dragoons allowed no one to approach the church. Proop Dealu was not among those who had been illed. He had fled from the village i mmediately after the scuffle with the Germans, and for a long time nothing was h eard of him. The Germans stood guard over their victims until late at night. When the full mo on rose over the village, now grown quiet, they loaded the corpses on their cart s, too them over the dam to the right ban of the river, and buried them there. Only when the Red Army came were the people of Nagoranye able to bury their dead properly, in this common grave. The high mound was still fresh and not yet covered with grass. On the oa cross an inscription had been burned out with a heated nail: HERE LIE TWENTY-FIVE POOR PEASANTS WHO DIED AT THE HANDS OF THE ACCURSED ENEMIES OF THE UKRAINE THE GERMAN INVADERS . . . We made our way deep into the graveyard. The village lads followed us. Ne arly all of them were wearing home-made straw hats, coarse homespun blouses and equally coarse trousers. Barefooted, deeply tanned by the sun, they swung their long nouts silfully, lopping whole branches off the bushes at a single blow. S ome had brought with them whips of tightly woven rawhide. By the time we reached the common grave there was the whole army of us about twent y strong. For a couple of minutes or so we stood in silence. Then Osa said: "Listen, lads. Did you see the dandy boys marching through the v illage with their flag. At the moment they are resting near Copper Hill. Let's g o and give them what for." "We can give them what for all right, but suppose they pay us bac with the same ? There are a lot of them," suggested a swarthy little fellow in a tattered stra w hat, scratching the bac of his head; he had a rawhide whip wound round his wr ist. Osa grinned slyly. " 'A lot of them,' " he mimiced. " 'A lot of them!' Are your nees nocing alr eady? Don't worry, we'll mae it. Now then, what have you some bombs and bomb th em, brought let's have a loo." The lads delved in their pocets and produced old cors, dusty voda bottles, an d lime. There was lime in plenty; lime could be found in any Urainian cottage. Osa strode about among the Lads as if he were at the maret. The lads displayed their wares, and he examined them. Now and then he frowned. "Everyone who's got unslaed lime put it straight in the bottles," he commanded. "Mine's slaed." A little fellow came forward and showed Osa a full sac of cru shed lime. "Chuc it away," Osa ordered him sternly. "Slaed lime is no good to us. Mae s ure you only put unslaed lime in, lads. And mind the bottles are dry. Do you he ar?" "Suppose there's a spider's web in the bottle?" someone ased. "Fill it up. It doesn't matter as long as there's no water. Water will mae them blow up at once," Osa explained. Seating themselves on the gravestones, the lads silently began to pour lime into the dirty bottles. The lime sprinled on their nees and on the grass. In their haste, the lads pounded the big lumps down the necs of the bottles with stics , catapult handles, or just with their fingers. With the corscrew on my pennife we too turns in boring holes in the cors of our bottles. Osa gave out stripped goose feathers that looed lie toothpics, and we stuc them in the cors.

"I say, Osa, the cors might come out," Peta said doubtfully. "We'll fix them with wire," Osa reassured him. "Mihas!" he shouted to the swar thy little fellow in the tattered straw hat, who was the son of Proop Dealu. "Run over to the other side. You now, where that iron wreath is, on the grave o f Simashevich, the priest. Pull some wire out of it . . . or no . . . bring the whole wreath." About two minutes later Mihas returned dragging the heavy wreath with silver-pa inted leaves over the green grave-mounds. Every leaf was attached to the iron fr ame with fine soft wire. Without more ado the whole crowd of us set about stripping the wreath. The silve r leaves trembled under our quic fingers and fluttered into the thic grass. In a few minutes nothing was left of the wreath but the bare iron frame; the lea ves that had once adorned it were strewn round us on the graves. Osa showed us how best to secure the cors and we fastened them to the necs of the bottles with the wire. The cors we had fitted with quills were secured in this way, the others were simply pushed into the bottles, so that they could be easily removed. At last, when all our preparations were completed, Osa gave the order: "All right, rouse yourselves!" We made our way towards the scouts through the dense thicets of the right ban. Osa sent forward two lads to reconnoitre. As soon as we reached the bend of th e river, the two lads waved to us. Before us, on the opposite ban lay the scout camp. The scouts had pitched their green canvas tents in a big clearing near the hollow oa; between the tents the y had built camp-fires. The dry brushwood they had gathered in the forest was bu rning fiercely. Thic smoe was rising from the fires, blacening the billy cans that hung above them. A tasty stew of millet, bacon, and potatoes was on the bo il. We concealed ourselves in the bushes near the ford. Although we were very close to the scout camp, no one there could see us. When the scouts had eaten, they assembled round the troop banner, which was furl ed on a pole near the hollow oa. Wooden stave on shoulder, a sentry was pacing slowly round the banner. Just beyond the hollow oa there was a thic cluster of bushes. Presently from b ehind these bushes Maro Grzhibovsy appeared. He explained something to the sco uts and a large party of the bigger boys followed him away. The rest seemed to b e waiting for something. "They must be going to play coppers and robbers," I decided. I felt very glad th at Grzhibovsy had left the camp, taing his revolver with him. His scouts with their staves and nives were not so terrible. But what if the "robber" scouts th ought of hiding in the Fox Caves? "Listen, chaps," Osa said quietly. We crawled closer to him. "You two," said Osa, addressing two of the village lads, "tae the bottles with quilled cors. As soon as we cross the river, go along the ban to where that t ree stump stics up. Lower the bottles quietly into the water. Not all in the sa me place though eep them :a bit apart, or they'll get broen." Then Osa turned to the lads who had volunteered to throw bottles. "Have you still got the water tins?" Weasel showed Osa our white tin, a lany village lad produced a green bottle wi th a broen nec, and Mihas Dealu a small clay pot. "Good. I'll get some in this," said Osa, shaing a rusty soldier's mess tin. "R oll up your trousers." We all rolled up our trousers above our nees. The scouts who had stayed by the hollow oa still had not noticed anything; they were looing in the direction Grzhibovsy and his party had taen. Suddenly we heard a whistle from the hill. That was probably the troop-leader's signal. Yes, so it was. About twenty scouts those who. had been chosen as "robbers

" raced away into the forest. Those who were left by the tents were evidently goi ng to stay in camp. They remained sitting round the banner, taling. "Come on, lads," Osa whispered. One after the other, parting the bushes quietly, we crept down to the river and entered the cold water. Bending low, almost touching the water with our hands, w e forded the river about fifty paces below the hollow oa. The river bed here wa s stony. Covered with green slime and silt, the pebbles slid away under our feet . The swift current swirled round our legs, threatening to carry us away downstr eam. A few paces from the ban, Osa, Weasel, Mihas Dealu, and the tall lad whose name I did not yet now, scooped up some water in their containers. Osa was the first to climb out on the ban. He at once sent the lads to sin th e bottles with quilled cors by the camp. The boys darted away. It seemed to me they were carrying real bombs in their hands. We waited for them to come bac, shifting from one foot to the other. Standing o n the ban was very unpleasant. The scouts might notice us at any moment, for we were under their very noses. The lads returned at the double. Even before they reached us they nodded their h eads. Everything ready! Now for the big bang! . . . We crawled quicly towards t he hollow oa. My heart beat madly. 0 to dash into the sunlit clearing, let out a whoop and plunge into the fray! The brown, half-rotten trun of the hollow oa showed up through the bushes. We could hear the scouts taling in the clearing. "Fill up!" whispered Osa. I stepped bac, hoping that the bottle would not blow up in Weasel's hands. Besi de me little, dar-faced Mihas poured water out of his clay pot into the bottle . His hands were trembling and the water ept sprinling on the grass; only half of it bubbled down the nec of the bottle, dampening the already smoing lime. Quicly the lads fixed the cors in the bottles. "Throw, then charge!" Osa whispered, and at that very moment there was a roar f rom the river, as the first of the sunen bottles exploded. Through the bushes we saw the scouts start scurrying about the clearing. "Hur-r-nah!" Osa shouted hoarsely and hurled his' bottle right among the green tents. Others flew after it. Good old Weasel threw his farther than anyone. The bottles fell in the clearing and, before the scouts could tell what was happ ening, burst one after the other with deafening explosions. Splashes of hot lime flew everywhere. We, too, shouted "hurrah." Our ringing shout echoed across the river. Knocing o ver the tents, slipping and sliding on the soft grass of the clearing, we charge d at the scouts. Suddenly I came face to face with Kota Grigoreno. His chee was smeared with l ime. Evidently Kota had got his share of our "bomb." Now you're for it, you snae! Rushing at him, I noced him bacwards on to a te nt with a single blow. The tent caved in and Kota fell on the ground. He tried to jab his boot into -my stomach but I dodged aside and, ripping off his hat, da shed on. We threw the light scout staves into the bushes and tipped over the billy cans. The stew hissed over the glowing embers of the camp-fires. "Flags! Get their flags!" Osa shouted hoarsely, waving a patrol flag with a lio n's head on it. By the hollow oa, a hot tussle for the troop banner was being fought. Two burly scouts with nives at their belts were staggering bacwards, dragging the banne r with them into the bushes. They were being attaced by a bunch of the village lads, who were pummelling them with their fists and lashing them with twigs. Fatty Maremuha was there too. He was darting about round the scouts' legs, butt ing them with his head and pinching their thighs. One of the lads Mihas probably had leapt on the bac of s scout and was pulling his hair. At that moment, two more explosions following each other in quic succession wer

e heard from the river. The crash was so loud that it seemed real guns were firi ng from the other ban. One of the big scouts lost his nerve and, dropping the pole, made a dash for the bushes. The other, thrown off his balance, toppled over. Mihas did a somersaul t over his head. The pole of the banner snapped and broe. The gold fringe was t orn from the sil. Village lads piled on top of the scout, pummelling him with their fists. He twis ted lie an eel, but could not get away. Just then Weasel ran up. With a deft jer, he snatched the broen pole with its tattered banner from under the scout and made off with it to the river. "Run! Run! They're after you!" Osa shouted, noticing that two of the big scouts had dashed in pursuit of Yuzi. What saps! As if anyone could catch our Weasel! The banner was ours now anyway. And we rushed after Weasel. Up on the hill, the scouts were already whistling to one another for all they we re worth. We could hear them crashing about in the bracen. Someone probably Maro Grzhibovsy himself fired a revolver. Clearly the scouts had sensed that somethin g was wrong and were returning to camp at the double. Without looing bac, we tore through the bushes, clutching our trophies crumpled scout hats, broen staves, and patrol flags. I did not notice how we crossed the ford, not even when one lad slipped and dren ched the rest of us. The scouts were still whistling at the foot of the hill and in the clearing roun d the hollow oa. The sound drove us on. We could still hear the cries of the sc outs ringing in our ears, still see their frightened faces, ruined tents, and sc attered camp-fires. On we went, as if we were running a race, down the narrow forest path, scratchin g our elbows on the bushes and crushing the brushwood underfoot. Only on the oth er side of Badger's Mount, when we had no breath left in our bodies, did we stop . Here it was quiet land cool, and there was no one about. Gasping for breath the lads too off their broad-brimmed straw hats. We fanned ourselves to get cool. O sa unbuttoned his shirt and let the cool forest air flow over his heaving chest . "I gave that dandy-boy one! Hardly left any hair on his head," Mihas said at la st, wiping his dar forehead with his hand. "Did you see how I got that big one in the leg? He'd never have let go the banne r, if it hadn't been for me," cried Peta. "What are you boasting for? If it hadn't been for Weasel, they'd still have the banner," I chimed in. I wanted to tae Peta down la peg. "Never mind, lads! Don't start quarrelling; you all fought well," said Osa soot hingly. "What we ought to be thining about is where to hide the flags." And indeed, where were we to put those flags? Those little ones, with the heads of birds and animals on them you could shove under your shirt, but what could we do with the troop banner? Why, it was big enough to lay a table will. There cou ld be no taing it through the village, where we might bump into a Petlura man. And there was not much time to thin either, for at any moment the big scouts mi ght appear out of the forest, brandishing their sharp nives. "Let's hide it in the birch-grove," Osa suggested. That was an idea. No one would ever thin of looing for it there. We made for the birch-grove by way of a narrow trac running between two fields of wheat. The trac was thicly overgrown with flowers and weeds. As we waled, we crushed blue corn-flowers, wild, only half-opened poppies, and lilac bells. A nd all around us, on either side of the trac, the wheat, still not fully grown, but already tall and thic, nodded in the wind, every puff sending a gentle wav e rippling through the ears. The birch-grove was quite cool. Standing on a rise, it was open to the wind on a ll sides. The smooth graceful birches swayed with just a faint rustle. In the bu shes a magpie was pouring forth his song. He sang loud and passionately, heedles s of our footsteps.

We went down the hollow, to the broo. Weasel nelt down on the ban and started scratching a hole with both hands under the roots of an old birch-tree. The ear th was damp and crumbly, mixed with clay. Weasel dug easily. "That's enough," Os a ordered, and pushed the folded scout banner into the hole. The hole was filled in. Now we could go home. As we were waling bac to the vil lage, we heard a distant rumble of thunder. "There's going to be a storm," remared a lany red-haired lad. "You're imagining things," said Peta in surprise. "Loo how clear the sy is." "That's not thunder, that's the Reds firing," I exclaimed. "The Reds! How could it be? That's thunder," the lany fellow insisted. "I don't suppose you town fol have ever heard real thunder. You'll see it's going to rain . Hear the noise the crows are maing. That means rain." I was silent. Let them thin it was thunder. We should see who was right. We approached the village. It was near evening. The cows returning from pasture were nuzzling the gates and lowing. The mistresses were letting them into the ya rds and starting to mil. Now in one yard, now in another we heard the mil patt er, just lie rain, into the broad zinc pails. Feeling the approach of evening, the sleepy hens were having a last scratch and going to roost. How quicly the s hadows fell! Osa told the lads to assemble tomorrow afternoon in the birch-grove. "We'll share out the spoil," he said importantly. The lads broe up and went home. One of them pulled a scout hat out of his poce t. Taing off his plain straw hat and glancing about him apprehensively, he put the scout hat on his head. He had not gone more than two places, however, when h e too it off again and thrust it into his pocet, as if he were afraid of somet hing. Then I boldly donned Kota's hat it was a little too big for me and followed the others. But Osa saw me and his face at once broe into a frown. "Tae it off," he ordered. "How can you!" "Oh, all right . . ." The four of us went bac to my uncle's cottage. Peta's fishing-rod and net stil l stood by the steps. Osa's mother, Aunt Osana, was sitting on the earth surro und of the cottage with a clay bowl between her nees, shelling last year's maiz e. As she rubbed one cob against another, the golden grains pattered into the bi g glazed bowl. Uncle Avsenty, wearing a brown homespun jerin, was standing by her. A double-b arrelled shot-gun hung on his shoulder. He was about to leave. "Where have you been, lads?" he ased, on seeing us. "Bashing the town ids, Dad," Osa replied, producing a Petlura flag from under his coat. "We didn't half give it to them!" "What town ids? The ones with the drum? The cadets?" "Yes, that's them," Peta exclaimed, jumping up and down. "The cadets! We noce d all their tents down, and too their hats . . . Loo, Vasya's got a hat. Show it, Vasya!" "Where did this happen?" "Near Copper Hill, by the river," Osa said, waving the scout flag boastfully. "So it was you started all that banging down there? And I've been racing my bra ins trying to thin what all the noise was about. What were you firing with? I c ouldn't mae it out. Either it was sawn-off shot-guns, or bottle bombs . . ." "That's it, bottle bombs," said Osa with an artful grin. "Bottle bombs? . . .Go on! Where did you get them?" "We didn't get them, we made them," I explained to Uncle Avsenty. "Honestly, we did," Osa baced me up. "And the way they ran, Dad! Some into the bushes, some . . . They thought they were real bombs. We turned the whole place upside down, and Weasel . . ." "Who told you to attac them?" his father broe in sternly. "But we . . ." " 'We, we!' Do you now what trouble you might have caused? It's a good thing we managed to get all the arms out of the cave in time, or we should have had to p ay for the mess you made." "But the scouts are for Petlura!" Peta exclaimed in surprise.

"What about it? We might have been arrested because of you. You ought to have le t them alone." "They won't arrest anyone. The Reds are near," I said. "You told me yourself." "Who nows . . ." Uncle said doubtfully. "At one time they were all scuttling ba c to town, then just a little while ago six Petlura men came galloping bac thr ough the village on their way to Zhmerina. I'm off to have a loo myself what's doing on the main road. You go careful here." "Can't we come with you?" I ased Uncle Avsenty. "No, it's not safe on the main road nowadays; and I've got to pic up your dad, too. Go inside land have your supper, then off to the barn . . . Osana, give th e lads some borshch and dumplings." And with these words Uncle waled out of the yard and turned in the direction of the Kalinovsy road. After supper, when we were crossing the yard to the barn, I noticed heavy purple storm-clouds mounting in the sy over Nagoranye. Had that red-haired lad been r ight about the rain after all? WE LEAVE THE VILLAGE It did rain that night. We were awaened by a loud clap of thunder. Through the open doors of the barn we saw flashes of lightning in the orchard illuminating t he dripping leaves of apple and plum-trees. Curled up snugly in the dry bay, I listened to the rain beating down on the droo ping foliage; big drops from the trees plopped en the young fruit, the leaves of the bushes, and the shay creeper-covered fence round Uncle Avsenty's yard. The rain lashing through the night, the lightning blazing green and blue across the blac, troubled sy, the heavy menacing rumble of thunder frightened and thr illed me. Waened by the thunder, I was some time getting to sleep again. I remembered all that had happened during the day, and that, too, made me feel happy and just la bit frightened. Now the Reds simply must come, I thought. If they don't turn up soon, we are don e for. Neither Kota Grigoreno, nor his scouting friends would forgive us for y esterday's raid. And how were they feeling now in the clearing by the hollow oa? They could hard ly have had time to get away from there. This downpour would mae them wet all r ight! The tent-poles were broen, the canvas was spattered with lime and strewn all over the ground. We had certainly made a fine mess of the scouts' camp. They had nowhere to shelter. And Maro Grzhibovsy? He must be tearing his hair because we had grabbed his ro tten banner. No, Grzhibovsy's camping expedition was a failure they had 'not fini shed their game of coppers and robbers, they had not even finished their stew. T hey shouldn't have sung that boasting song of theirs when they marched into Nago ranye. Pour down on them, rain! Lash them harder! Let them remember this expedition for the rest of their lives! But for me, and for the other fellows, who had already fallen asleep again, it w as fine. No rain could get through this well-thatched roof. Under us was last ye ar's hay, a bit pricly, but dry and smelling of daisies and forest grass. The f ine blades ticled my chees and ears, and poed into my nose, but I lazily brus hed them aside, pressing closer to Peta, my left arm round his shoulders. Tired and happy, I fell fast asleep to the sound of the warm and joyful rain. We woe up late. It was a calm fresh morning. The yard was already bathed in sun light. Through the open doors of the barn we could see how much brighter the lea ves on the trees had become. The glazed bowl was gleaming on the fence. "Up you get, Peta!" I gave Peta a jab in the ribs, but he only buried himself deeper in the hay. "Get up, get up, lazy-bones!" I cried, ticling him under the arms, whereupon he jumped up so quicly that all the hay in the barn started 'm oving. Anyone would have thought there was a frost outside the way Peta rubbed his pin ears with both hands.

"I expect the banner got wet; did you hear the rain last night?" said Osa, stre tching himself sleepily. "No, it didn't, I pushed it right under the roots," Weasel reassured Osa. He gr asped a beam as if it were a bar in the gym, and pulled himself up, dislodging a shower of dust and shavings from the rafters. In the yard we heard Osana taling loudly to someone. We went out and said good morning to her. A wrinled old woman went away at once , and Osana complained to us quietly that there was "such a to-do" in the villa ge. Nobody could tal of anything else but that the Reds were near. At dawn the villagers had driven their horses away to the other side of Copper Hill, without telling the elder; they were afraid the Petlura men might requisition the horse s for the evacuation. There was tal that Petlura patrols that night had seized all the horses in the neighbouring village of Ostrovchany. "My husband is a caution!" said Osana. "Going away without saying a word and le aving everything for me to do! I tried to hide the pig in the cellar, but it got out, and now it's lying on the floor squealing the house down it must have sprain ed its leg." She taled to us just as if we were friends of Uncle Avsenty's. We listened sym pathetically to her complaints, but all the time we were thining: "What shall w e do? A pig's a pig, but what's going to happen to us?" Uncle was artful; he had slipped away to the partisans and left us behind. Suppo se a battle was already starting somewhere near the town? Here we shouldn't see anything! And we decided to return to the town. "Come with us, Osa," I suggested to my cousin. But his mother shouted angrily: "He's not going anywhere. Don't you dare go! Fat her said you were to stay at home . . . You stay here, Osa, you will help with the wor, if no one else will." Osa made a face, but he dared not disobey his mother. There was nothing for it, we must go without him. But it was a pity. We said good-bye to my aunt, shoo hands warmly with Osa, and set off along the road through the woods. It is fine in the woods after rain! All the flowers smell so sweet. Blue-bells, violets, and pansies peep out among the periwinle that fringes the path. Bees h um in the pin blossoms of the sweet-brier. And how well the birds sing up there in the tops of the trees where you can't see them! The whole forest rings with their song. From a grey aspen-tree a cucoo calls three times, then stops all of a sudden. I t must have heard us coming. We waled along a damp shady path ridged with bare tree roots. Now and then we j umped across puddles :and our feet slipped on the muddy patches. Not far from the birch-grove I remembered that Osa had promised to go there tha t afternoon and divide up the captured banner with the village lads. We, too, ha d a right to a share in the spoil. "Let's tae our share, chaps," I suggested, nodding towards the hollow. "Oh, let Osa do what he lies with it. What use is it to us?" said Weasel. "No, let's tae it. We didn't fight for nothing, did we?" Peta insisted, jumpin g up land down. It was two against one. We turned off the path towards the broo. Peta burrowed into the ground with bo th hands; I pulled the banner out from under the roots and shoo off the sticy clay. The rain had got to the banner after all, and the sil was wet and dar. W ell, how should we divide it? There were twelve of us altogether; if the banner was divided equally into twelve, each piece of sil would be no bigger than a ha nderchief. But had it not been for Weasel, who nows, the scouts might never ha ve lost their banner in the first place. Surely we had a right to eep half for ourselves. It did not tae me long to mae up my mind. I got out my pennife, shoved a corn er of the banner into Peta's hand, pulled my corner and cut the sil down the m

iddle. "One half's yellow, and the other's blue. Now what are you going to do? You ough t to have cut it the other way, stupid," said Weasel, shaing his head. "What for? We'll tae one half and leave the other for Osa," I assured him. "But there are three of us." "We'll draw lots. The one who wins gets the whole piece. It'll mae a shirt or a table-cloth. What do we want handerchiefs for? We aren't girls, are we?" Weasel looed thoughtful, and Peta at once too my side. "That's right," he cried. "We'll leave the yellow half, and tae the blue for ou rselves. And I'll arrange the draw. Stics or stones?" Weasel thought for a moment and shoo his head. "All right, go on . . . with sti cs . . ." he said graciously. Rolling up the yellow piece of sil, Peta pushed it bac in the hole under the old birch-tree. Then he ran away into the bushes and returned, gripping three st ics tightly in his fist. "The shortest gets the banner," he announced. I drew first. Peta was afraid we should see inside his hand and gripped the stics so tightly that it too some s trength to pull them out. "Who will get the sil," I wondered, examining my stic. Peta had nibbled the e nds with his teeth. Weasel pulled after me and said: "Show!" Peta opened his st icy trembling hand. We placed our stics there in (a row, and it turned out tha t Weasel's was the shortest. That was fair. Weasel wrung out the banner lie a wet rag and pushed it down his shirt front. As we crossed Badger's Mount, I looed across the river and saw the clearing whe re we had fought with the Petlura scouts the day before. It was deserted. Only t he white pools of lime, the trampled grass, and the blac patches left by the fi res bore witness to yesterday's struggle. PANIC The busy Kalinovsy road was some distance away. Weasel was leading us into town along the wormwood-covered paths between the fields. Sirting short, thic-sown stands of bucwheat, we crossed deserted, grassy cart-tracs one after the othe r. "What a long way we've come. We won't be home till tomorrow," Peta grumbled. He was tired and sweating, and could hardly eep up with Weasel. Poor Peta was having a bad time that day. It was no joe how far we had gone, a nd we had not rested once. Peta's legs were short, and it was harder for him th an for us. "All right, Peta, don't moan," said Weasel. "We'll rest when we get to the ceme tery. Keep going." "Yuzi, is -the cemetery far?" I could not help asing. "No, it's not far. See that crooed lime-tree on the hill? The cemetery's just t he other side." Yuzi was right. No sooner had we climbed the hill than we saw the green sycamor es rising over the cemetery wall. Beyond that lay our town. On la small hilloc by the cemetery we sat down for a rest. It was good after a long wal to lie down under the sycamores and listen to the bumble-bees humming among the pin-and-white clover. On the left, beyond the prison allotments, the white ribbon of the 'main road wo und away from the town to the horizon. Now it ran straight and level, now it wou ld mae fantastic zigzags round urgans that lay in its path, now it would vanis h into a dar woodland grove, now it would re-appear and wind again among meadow s, melon-fields and stands of corn. This was the Kalinovsy road, the main route from our town to the north. At the moment it was wrapped in grey clouds of dust that rose higher than the te legraph poles; carts and carriages were dashing towards the town. We could hear them even across the allotments and the little wood that separated us from the K alinovsy road. Who was in those carts and carriages Reds or Petlura men?

"Come on, let's get moving," said Weasel. We had not been sitting down for more than two minutes, but we jumped up at once and pushed on. A well-beaten path led us down towards the town. We passed the cemetery. We could already see the tops of the tall, silvery popla rs in Zhitomir Street. Suddenly Weasel jumped across a ditch and headed in the direction of Prison Stre et. "Where are you going, Yuzi?" I called. "Come on, come on!" he urged. We ran out into the cobbled street. Before us stood the prison, a huge stone building, surrounded on four sides by a high bric wall. "Oh!" gasped Peta, squatting down on his heels from sheer surprise. From behind the prison wall came a crash of breaing glass. "They're breaing the windows," Weasel said quietly, squatting down beside me. And at that moment, about fifty paces away from us the broad iron-bound prison g ates slowly opened. Five Petlura men in short blac tunics ran out on to the squ are. They stopped. Then their leader waved in the direction of the cemetery. Hol ding their rifles at the ready, the guards doubled across the street. They jumpe d over the cemetery wall and vanished among the marble crosses. The honeysucle bushes stirred and were still. "Loo, loo!" Yuzi whispered, half-rising to his feet. With a crash of glass a red bric flew out of the top left-hand-corner window of the prison. Then the dirty, dust-coated windows began breaing one after the ot her. The prisoners all those who had been against Petlura clung to the bars and waved an d shouted something we could not understand. Then a cloud of white limestone dus t rose from a window on the second floor by the drain-pipe. Oho! Someone in the cell was striing the iron grating with a heavy length of iron. The dull impatie nt blows sounded all over the prison. In a moment the grating would fall out. But do you ever get a chance to watch anything with Weasel! "Come on, chaps!" he shouted. Reluctantly we ran off down Prison Street. I looed bac as I ran. It would have been so interesting to see the people whom Petlura had thrown into prison brea that grating and escape to freedom lie the famous rebel Karmelu. Noticing that we were lagging behind, Weasel shouted: "Hurry up, or they'll star t shooting." Perhaps he was right. Any minute the Petlura guards might open fire on the rebel ling prisoners. It was nice running barefoot on the smooth stone slabs of the pavement much better than over the pricly fields. But why was there no one in the street? The whole town might have died it was so empty. We ran past the diocesan convent a yellow building with narrow windows lie la mon astery. This was the headquarters of Ataman Dragan's crac regiment. Now then, let's see if the Petlura troops were still at home. But what had happe ned? The college windows were wide open. Near the front steps lay overturned sto ols, ripped palliasses, a brand-new zinc pail. Inside the college it was quiet. Not a voice was to be heard. Hurrah! The Petlura men had done a bun! A shot rang out from behind the station. Then another. Weasel stopped in his tra cs. "What did I say?" he whispered. Peta's face went pale. "Hadn't we better hide, Yuzi?" he ased cautiously. "What's that?" Yuzi burst out angrily. "Where can we hide? In a moment there'll be such a . . . Here that?" Quite close by, somewhere near the governor's house, a machine-gun chattered. Th e rattle of the firing echoed over the quiet, subdued town. The machine-gun fell silent, but immediately rifle-shots rang out near the station. Surely it wasn't the Reds so near? A stray bullet sang over the roof of the diocesan convent. Without a word Weasel set off down the street at a run. We raced after him.

Things had come to a pretty pass if bullets were whistling overhead. We padded away down the street, but the firing grew louder and louder, quite clo se by. Suddenly Weasel swerved to one side. "Bac! There's someone by the chemist's," he whispered. Peta crouched down by the wall of a grey two-storeyed house and I darted into t he porch. Who was there, by the chemist's? Perhaps we had better turn bac? . . . They might shoot . . . But Weasel was crawling forward. "Let's have a loo, but eep quiet," he suggested. In single file we made our way along the wall of the grey house to the drain-pip e at the corner. Just round the corner there was a hedged-in garden. Following W easel we dived under the yellow acacia bushes, and from under the bushes, peeped out into the street. The huge window of the best chemist's shop in the town was broen. A few days ag o, large jars filled with clear pin water had stood on the shelf behind the thi c plate-glass, and above them on the glass had been written in white letters: MODEST TARPANI CHEMIST Now there were neither jars of pin water, nor the sign in white letters. The sh attered window looed lie a great square door with a very high door-step. The p avement in front of the shop was strewn with broen glass. Inside, several Petlu ra men, their boots clattering on the spotless tiled floor, had taen possession of the counter. As we watched, one of them, with a dangling foreloc and his ha t perched on the bac of his head, jumped on the glass-topped counter containing scented soap and bottles of perfume. The glass craced under his boots and he s an nee-deep into the counter. His friends followed his example. They iced th e glass fronts out of the cupboards staced with little bottles of medicine with Latin 'labels on them. "Find the spirits, Ostap, the spirits!" one of them shouted to the fellow with t he foreloc. Jumping out of the counter on to the floor, the man with the foreloc ran into t he bac of the shop and returned a moment later, dragging a tall, grey-haired ol d man in a white coat. We new him it was Dulemberg, the dispenser. The dispenser tried to resist, but the Petlura man grabbed his arm and slung him right out int o the street. "Say your prayers!" he shouted, land pressed the muzzle of his revolver to the d ispenser's ear. I turned away in horror; what were they going to do to him? But at that moment there was a shout from the shop: "Wait, don't shoot, Ostap." The Petlura men carried several large jars with white labels on them out into th e street. Setting them down on the pavement, the ruffians forced the dispenser t o try the medicines. We watched the grey-haired Dulemberg neel down and with trembling fingers remov e the glass stoppers. He poured a little of the medicine from each jar on to his palm and tried it with his tongue. Some of the jars he at once moved aside, say ing in a dull voice: "I won't touch that, it's poison." The Petlura men grabbed these jars by the necs and smashed them against the wal l. The jars flew to pieces. Medicine streamed over the pavement. The place began to smell lie a hospital. The Petlura ruffians loaded the bottles of medicine that Dulemberg had tasted on their two-wheeler. We felt very sorry for the old man neeling on the pavement, but we could do not hing to help him. Feeling that they were leaving the town for ever, the Petlura men had gone wild. They no longer cared about anything. Had we run out into the street where their hobbled horses were loping about, that fellow with the dangli ng foreloc would have shot us down on the spot.

The terrified dispenser nelt in front of his ransaced shop just as though he w ere in church. His face creased with fear, he waited for further orders. A squat Petlura man in a blue tunic ran out of the shop. Going up to Dulemberg, he held out a big green jar. Dulemberg poured out a handful of brown powder and, having tried it on his tongue, said dully: "Liquorice. It's sweet." The rest of the Petlura men surrounded their squat companion, and he poured a li ttle of the-brown powder into their palms. Then they swallowed the powder lie s ugar, and liced their lips. "All right, get off with you, put the place in order!" The Petlura man with the dangling foreloc gave Dulemberg a violent ic in the bac and, pushing his rev olver in his belt, ran over to the two-wheeler. Dulemberg fell face-downward on the pavement. His grey beard dipped into the pud dle of spilt medicine. Struggling to his feet, he wiped his hands on his white c oat and waled slowly into the ruined shop, as if it were a stranger's. The street was empty. Only the two-wheeler could be seen in the distance clatter ing towards the centre of the town with its load of chemist's jars. From beyond the forest came the dull -boom of a howitzer. The shell whistled ove r us and exploded somewhere near the governor's house. We ran on down the deserted street towards the seminary. Here it was even more terrifying. On all sides we were surrounded by silent hous es with shutters over the windows. Probably the owners of these houses had gone down into their cellars first thing in the morning and were afraid to show their faces in the street. Only dogs were to be seen in the empty yards. They bared and whimpered as the shells shrieed through the air. And we, too I don't mind adm itting it shivered and crouched down and thought to ourselves: "Go a bit farther! A bit farther! Don't land here!" At the seminary there were no Petlura sentries to be seen. The grey building was as empty as the diocesan convent; there was no sound of th e machines that had been used for printing money, no one could be seen at the wi ndows. Both flaps of the iron gates leading into the yard were open, as if a car t had only just entered. The nearer we went to Zarechye, the louder grew the rattle of wheels, the crea of carts, and the neighing of horses. When the old dar fortress loomed up befor e us on the cliffs across the river, we saw clouds of dust rising above the fort ress bridge. The bridge was choed with the carts and traps of the fleeing Petlura forces. Fr om every street in the town they were maing for the bridge, which they had to c ross to reach the Usatov road out of Zbruch. Near the Turish Steps we noticed a whole sac of white flour lying in the road. How strange that no one too any notice of it! We ran across the wooden bridge and climbed the cliffs to Old Boulevard/ From th e tall cliffs, overgrown with moss and yellow wild flowers, we had a good view o f Ponyiatovsy Street, which was swarming with troops. The square grey Confederacy hats of the Pilsudsi legionnaires mingled with the fur caps of the Petlura men. The legionnaires were trying to overtae one anothe r. White foam flew from the mouths of the sweating frightened horses. At the top of Ponyatovsy Street rose the grey wails of the Dominican church. It s tall blac doors and the wicet-gate leading into the churchyard from the stre et were tightly closed. There was not a soul about in the churchyard. The grey s tone figures of the Catholic saints looed down from the roof with melancholy fa ces. I remembered one day in early spring when the Pilsudsi legionnaires arrived in town with the Petlura men. All that evening little bells had rung in the belfry of this church, while a Polish bishop conducted a service in honour of some tall , thin Polish general. The plaintive strains of the organ resounded under the va ulted roof of the church; legionnaires with claning spurs strode pompously acro ss the parquet floor; the local Polish ladies in old-fashioned cloas, blac seq uined rapes, and long frilled sil dresses, ept rising from the oaen pews and, after the bishop, hurriedly maing the sign of the cross on their severe, veile d foreheads.

Now there was no sign of the bishop in his big womanish hat, nor of the stuc-up Polish ladies with their umbrellas. No bells pealed in the belfry. A short grey-clad legionnaire broe rans and ran on to the pavement. The puttee on his left leg had slipped loose and was streaming out behind him. The legionn aire stopped, angrily tore the puttee off his leg, threw it on to the wall round the churchyard, and rushed on. For long we saw the white hem of his pants flash ing down the street. He was afraid of being left behind. Only a short time ago, legionnaires just such as he had marched through the town , singing boastfully: "Smash the Bolshevis! Smash the Bolshevis!" Well, did you smash them? "What are they taing all that paper for? That's queer! Loo!" It was Weasel who spoe. A peasant cart piled high with blue and brown office files was coming down Ponya tovsy Street to the bridge.-They must be the files of some Petlura ministry or other. As we watched, one of the files slipped from the cart and fell in the roa d. The white sheets of paper scattered over the cobbles and were crushed under h orses' hooves, as an officer's dazzling coach and pair swept past. "Come on, what about picing them up?" Peta suggested. That made me angry. "How can you, you ass? They'll lash you away with their whips. Don't you see how mad they are now." Peta turned away offendedly. At that moment Sasha Bobir appeared from nowhere. "Hullo, chaps!" he shouted. Then, lowering his voice, he ased Yuzi: "You haven 't seen Kota by any chance?" "Here's another deserter," Weasel shouted right in Bobir's face. "Well, where ar e your beloved scouts? Why aren't you heading for the border with them?" "But I . . . Why, do you thin I'm really on Petlura's side, chaps? . . . We had n't got anything to. live on, and they used to give you free meals there. That w as why I signed up . . ." Bobir protested in a plaintive tone. "Signed up so that when you got older you could become one of their chiefs? So t hat you could ill poor people, eh? But we didn't sign up, did we?" Yuzi insist ed. "Oh, you . . ." Sasha faltered, "your parents explained everything to you. Vasil y's father has been in with the Communists for a long time do you thin I didn't now? And you, Yuzi, have got an uncle in Kiev, a sailor, who nows all about politic s. He wrote you letters explaining whose side you ought to be on. But my mother herself persuaded me to join the scouts just because of those free meals . . ." Evidently moved by Sasha's sincere confession, Weasel ased more gently: "Did you get bac yesterday night?" "Yes, that's right. We were just getting ready to chase the gang that attaced u s, when a messenger arrived with an order to return to town. And by the cemetery the rain caught us and we all got wet through. Thunder, lightning, puddles ever ywhere no one could see anything. Then Grzhibovsy shouted, 'Fall out!' and we jus t scattered. And I got a cold. See -how my nose is running?" Sasha recounted, sn iffing. "So your camping-out wasn't much of a success?" Peta remared slyly. "You're telling me! If I had nown what it would be lie, I'd never have gone . . . Loo more cavalry! And all with flags . . ." Sasha was right it was la detachment of Polish lancers. Little red-and-white penna nts with white crowned eagles in the middle fluttered on their lances. The rider s sat their leather saddles rather awwardly, as if the horses under them were n ot their own. They ept urging them on with their spurs and whips. Suddenly a shrapnel shell burst over the Pope Tower. We saw the puff of smoe fl oat away over the panic-stricen town lie a little white cloud. Hoarse shouts and swearing were heard from the bridge. Lashing his bay horse wit

h a long whip, a lancer accidentally tore the yellow-and-blue banner carried by a Petlura man riding beside him. "Where are you going, you devil!" the Petlura man yelled viciously. Close by, we heard someone shout, "Run! Run!" Even the bold spirits who had dare d to climb trees were maing off at the sound of shrapnel. "Let's run to Zarechye," I said, nudging Peta and Weasel. Leaving Bobir, we dashed off to Peta's home on the Old Estate. Peta ran after us, gasping out: "To Old Estate! . . . We'll hide in the cellar . . . We'll be able to see everything from there . . ." We dashed through the weeds and bushes to Peta's house. More and more shells wh ined over the town. Already they were falling on the Usatov road, cutting off th e Petlura forces' path of retreat. Just by Peta's house we bumped into my father. With him there was a lad in a br oad-brimmed straw hat. This was strange how had Father got here? My father and the lad in the straw hat had pulled a brand-new machine-gun, still smeared with oil, out of the long grass and, crouching low, were dragging it on to the path. The lad who was helping my father lifted the gun by the barrel. It was so unexpected that we had no time to hide. Father noticed us and shouted hoarsely: "Get out of here, you ragamuffins!" I was even more surprised when I heard the familiar voice of Omelusty coming fro m the lilac bushes: "Miron, give Proop the cartridge-belts." Forgetting about us, Father ran into the long grass. When he returned loaded wit h cartridge-belts, Proop Dealu darted towards him. I had seen him once in Nag oranye and remembered him well. Proop was followed by Uncle Avsenty in his bro wn jerin. What a lot of them here! "Who are these young shavers?" little Proop Dealu, dar as a gipsy, nodded in our direction. Father handed him two green boxes of ammunition and stepped out on to the path. "Go straight home, I tell you!" he shouted, really angry. Not liely! Why should we go home? Seeing that Father had turned to Uncle Avsen ty, all three of us darted through the open door of the cellar and hid there, ju st by the entrance, on the mildewed stone steps. From there we had a fine view o f the fortress on its high cliff, and the fortress bridge swarming with the Poli sh lancers and Petlura men. Their horses were rearing up and charging into one another. Even from where we w ere we could hear the wooden plans of the bridge creaing and groaning. "Aha, so you're dancing, you snaes! Just what you deserve! That'll teach you to shoot innocent people!" I almost shouted with joy. Father carried a full bucet of water out of the long grass and handed it to Unc le Avsenty. Uncle grabbed the bucet and darted into the bushes where Omelusty was hidden, and where the lad in the straw hat had already dragged the machine-g un. A moment later Father followed Uncle Avsenty into the lilac. And at that moment the chatter of the machine-gun rose behind the bushes. The lo ud vibrating fire deafened us. This was grand! They were firing from here, from the Old Estate, straight at the fortress bridge, at the Petlura men running away to Poland, and at their master s, the grey, mouse-lie Pilsudsi legionnaires. Father and Omelusty and the Nagoranye partisans had got here just at the right t ime. A wounded Petlura man dropped over the bridge rail into the river below. Any mom ent, it seemed, those ricety rails would collapse into the waterfall; the Petlu ra forces in the rear were pressing up behind those in front, and the narrow pla ning could not hold the mass of men who were riding on to it. And here was this machine-gun firing away from the Old Estate; its flaming muzzle pounded the bri dge with an unerring stream of bullets. Lying flat on the cold damp steps, we quivered with excitement. How we envied th e grown-ups! Flow I wished I had been in Omelusty's place! Had I been able to fi re a machine-gun, I should certainly have been lying there beside him in the bus

hes. I longed to jump out of the musty-smelling cellar, shout "hurrah," and run to th e machine-gun, if only to see how it was firing. But the deafening rattle of the firing, drowning the sound of the wind and the d istant shell-bursts and Peta's whispers, was just a bit too frightening. We remained in the cellar until the last Petlura men, crouching low, dodged over the fortress bridge. Jumping over dead horses and their -dead comrades, droppin g their carbines and crumpled fur caps as they ran, forgetful of everything, eve n their own wounded, they ran to the trenches on the other side of the narrow, s hallow-watered River Zbruch, where they hoped to shelter from the swift cavalry of Kotovsy. NEW FRIENDS The artillery bombardment had not died away, when a Red reconnaissance patrol ga lloped on to the fortress bridge. The patrol whirled past the fortress in a clou d of dust, and for a long time we heard the hooves of their swift horses clatter ing along under the cliff on the other side of the river. In the wae of the reconnaissance patrol, a big cavalry detachment rode up to th e bridge with their swords drawn. Cavalrymen in Budyonny hats and sheepsin caps crowded the bridge. From the Old Estate we watched the steady trotting of their tired horses, so calm after the p anic of the retreating Petlura forces; there seemed to be no end to them. Raised swords flashed among the red banners above the heads of the riders. Now "and then, heavily-loaded green machine-gun carts rattled past in the stream of cavalry. As they left the narrow bridge and came out on the broad Usatov road, the horses , sensing freedom, galloped forward. Detachment after detachment raced in pursuit of Petlura. Evidently the cavalryme n wanted to catch Petlura before he reached the border, and give him and his men a taste of their sharp swords. Following the cavalry, the Red infantry, artillery, and baggage trains entered t he town along the Kalinovsy road. We ran into town. As soon as we got past the churchyard we began to meet dusty Red machine-gun car ts. There were very many, with veteran machine-guns, their worn, blistered barre ls pointing sywards. Sun-burnt Red Army men, in faded hai tunics sat in the c arts singing: "One evening as I watched the sun go down, A Soviet regiment came marching into town . . ." Artillery and field itchens with smoy chimneys rolled past down the steep slop e, rattling and jolting over the ruts. Gradually the town came to life. People appeared in the streets, more and more o f them every minute. Many of the townspeople waled along beside the Red Army ma chine-gun carts and shouted to the soldier's, trying to mae their voices heard above the noise. The tired smiling Red Army men gazed curiously at the steep twisting streets, th e sharp drops protected by stone barriers, the old houses of the gentry with nar row windows lie loop-holes, and our fortress with its battlemented watch-towers perched on top of the tall cliff. Evening was coming on. Father was not at home. He had swallowed down some cold b orshch and, without even having a proper tal with my aunt, had dashed off after Omelusty to Governor's Square. There the Military-Revolutionary Committee was h olding a meeting. Sitting on the sofa, I told my aunt about our stay in Nagoranye. Unexpectedly the door opened and a short fair-headed Red Army man entered our i tchen. He greeted us loudly and ased: "Can we billet anyone with you, Mum?" "But we've only got two rooms and this itchen, dear," my aunt responded in alar

m, coming away from the stove into the light. "Ah, what a pity," the Red Army man said with a sigh. "And I had a mind to put o ur chief in with you." "What is your chief, has he got a family with him or is he single?" Aunt inquire d cautiously. "A family, Mum? Never on your life," the Red Army man exclaimed delightedly. "Ho w could he have a family with him, when we've all left our families behind?" After some hesitation, Aunt agreed to give this unnown chief her room with the little window looing out into the garden. Next day, Red Army Commander Nestor Varnayevich Polevoi, a very tall, broad-face d man with so much thic fair hair that it would not stay under his green Budyon ny hat, too up his quarters in my aunt's room. He was commander of the mounted reconnaissance of the Tiligulo-Berezansy Regiment, which together with Kotovsy 's cavalry had chased the Polish lancers and the Petlura men out of the town. A two-wheeled army cart brought a folding iron bed and a striped mattress to the house. Polevoi himself carried this bed into Aunt's room and spread the mattres s on it, and Aunt Maria gave him clean sheets. Polevoi covered the bed with his grey woolly blanet, neatly concealing the loos e ends between the mattress and the iron framewor of the bed. On the same day a telephonist arrived and fixed up a yellow field telephone on t he booshelf. He pushed the gleaming blac telephone wire through the casement i nto the garden, then stretched it over trees and telegraph poles right to the di ocesan convent, where our lodger's regiment was quartered. In the evening Polevoi w-as already taling on the telephone. From the bedroom w e could hear him turn the handle and as loudly: "Regiment headquarters? Give me the Chief of Staff . . ." Changes also too place in our rabbit shed. Polevoi had a horse called Chestnut, a slee brown animal with a white blaze on its forehead. Polevoi's orderly, a s warthy, sunburnt soldier named Kozhuhar, stabled Chestnut and his own filly Psi heya in the shed. We had to tae the hutch with the Angora rabbit in it outside and put it by our neighbour's fence. The Grzhibovsys' house was silent these d ays; even Kutsyi sat quietly on his chain and did not har so much. Ran Grzhiibo vsy, the sausage-manufacturer, paced about his yard with an angry, sullen expre ssion on his face. Evidently he was worried about his son Maro, who had fled wi th the Petlura men. Father would be away from home for days on end. As soon as the Reds had arrived he had started printing a newspaper called The Red Border on strong blue wrappin g-paper. After wor he would often do duty at the Revolutionary Committee, or pa trol the streets with a rifle on his shoulder. Two wees passed. The chestnut trees round the High School, which was now closed for the summer, s hed their blossom. So did the lime-trees round Uspensy Church. White acacia flo wers came out on New Boulevard, and the potatoes were already blooming on the al lotments. Soon Aunt Maria would be dishing up new potatoes for dinner, dressed w ith fennel and cream. The little fruit on the broad boughs of our old pear-tree were swelling and fill ing with juice, and you new that summer was here by the appearance in the mare t of the first early apples, red currants, and late bird-peced dar-red cherrie s. To me it seemed that the Communists had already been in the town for a long time , that the red flag on the dome of the diocesan convent had been hanging there s ince winter, and that Polevoi had been living with us even longer. I had become very attached to Polevoi's orderly Kozhuhar. Although he lived not in our house but with Lebedintseva, our neighbour, he was at our house more ofte n than Polevoi. Polevoi was continually being called to headquarters by telephon e. More often than not the telephone would ring in the middle of the night. Pole voi would jump out of bed to answer it and, after a short conversation, leave th e house for a long time. Bandits were causing trouble in the surrounding forests

, and the mounted reconnaissance was often out chasing them down the lonely gull ies and broad forest paths. Kozhuhar had not so much to do. Polevoi rarely too him out on an operation. Ko zhuhar would while away his spare time at our place, cleaning the shed, groomin g his Psiheya and helping Aunt Maria. Sometimes Aunt Maria would wash for both Polevoi and Kozhuhar. Then Kozhuhar w ould potter about with her round the stove, carry water, silfully wring out wet shirts and towels, and afterwards, resting on the couch, tell Aunt Maria all i nds of tales. Kozhuhar addressed her only by her patronymic Afanasyevna. Me he at once nicnam ed Mahamuz. "Why Mahamuz!?" I ased, unable to understand what the word meant. "Because you're a - Mahamuz," Kozhuhar replied with a mysterious smile. "Some people are called 'Mahamuzes.' " "What people?" "People lie you . . ." And so Mahamuz it was. "If anyone ass for me, Mahamuz, tell them I've gone t o maret. I'll be bac soon." "Have some sunflower seeds, Mahamuz." "Lie to ba the the horses, Mahamuz?" I didn't mind, although the strange nicname puzzled me. Let it be Mahamuz, wha t did I care! The thing I lied best, of course, was bathing the horses. Sometimes we would ta e them for a bathe together I on Chestnut, Kozhuhar on Psiheya. When we got near the river the descent would become steeper and more winding, an d as my horse stepped carefully down the slope its bac seemed to vanish from un der me. In spite of myself I would cling to Chestnut's sily mane with both hand s. But Kozhuhar could not have cared less. He would sit astride his horse, his eye s half-closed, scarcely moving a muscle except to nod his head occasionally in t ime with the movement of the horse. Tanned to a deep bronze by the sun, his eyes always twinling behind half-closed lids, he seemed to me to have an inexhausti ble fund of humour and what was the main thing daring. It was good to sit astride your horse, and with a flic of the reins send him fo rward into the water. Unwilling at first, feeling the bottom and snorting, then more and more boldly, he would step into the river, stretching out his nec and twitching his ears. And when the river got deep and the water flowed over his ba c, he. would tremble and tense his muscles until, taing his feet off the botto m, he calmly started to swim. You would sit on the horse's wet bac with the wat er dragging at your legs, and just a touch of the reins was enough to send him i n any direction you wanted. And later on, when he got tired, you would guide him to the shallows. His coat wet and glistening, he would snort and drop his head to the swift-flowing water, and you would stand up on his slippery bac, stretch out your hands, crouch forward and dive into the deep water behind him. Standing in the river, the horses would flic their tails, nuzzle each other and neigh contentedly, while Kozhuhar and I swam away towards the opposite ban. I was seeing less of the other chaps these days. Yuzi Starodomsy had not been round for a whole wee. Peta ' Maremuha, whom I had met in the street a short time ago, had told me that Yuzi intended going to Kiev to see his uncle he wanted to enter a naval training college there. Early one morning Peta darted into our house and with a mysterious air about hi m called me outside. We went to the allotment, where Aunt Maria's round tomatoes were already swelling with juice, and Peta said to me quietly: "Do you now who's come to stay with us? Guess!" I had many guesses, naming all the soldiers who came to see Polevoi and Kozhuha r; but none of them was the right one. Then Peta told me himself. "Do you now who?" he burst out. "Doctor Grigoreno there! You'd never have guesse d, would you?" "Go on, tell us another one. As if Grigoreno needed to live with you when he's got such a big house in Zhitomir Street." "He hasn't got that house any more," Peta explained.

"Whose is it then?" "How do I now! The Communists have taen it over. No one nows who's going to l ive there. But the Doctor's living with us. He came yesterday and brought Dad tw o sacs of white flour. And he wouldn't tae any money for them. He just wanted Dad to put him up. It was a bit of a squeeze, but we let him in. He promised for 'that not to tae rent from us any more. And he's brought tons of stuff! All ni ght he was bringing things, and Dad helped him. And do you now what else? . . . " Peta looed suddenly guilty, "He gave Mum a wardrobe. Tae it,' he said, 'It' s no good to me, but you'll find a use for it.' " "Where did he put all the things?" "In the attic. We're even afraid the ceiling may fall down. And there's some in the cellar . . . . Only don't tell anyone!" "And your father helped him?" "Well . . . he ased him. Dad didn't want to at first, but then . . ." " 'Ased him! Ased him!' " !I mimiced Peta. "Your father and you are crawlers . When the Petlura men beat up your father, what did you say about Grigoreno? A nd now that he's given you a wardrobe and some flour, you've gone soft." "Nothing of the sort!" Peta protested hotly. "My Dad's just being ind. What of it, if a man ass you! The house isn't ours, it's Grigoreno's . . ." "Kota living with you too?" I ased. "No, Kota has gone away to Kremenchug," Peta replied after a pause. "He's got an aunt there." "Gone away, I don't thin! I bet he's hiding round here somewhere, and you won't tell me in case I go and loo for him. You're sorry for your little lord and ma ster, aren't you? Remember how you used to go and get paper with him?" "What if I did! I wouldn't now . . . Let's go and see Yuzi." I did not go to Yuzi's, but in the evening when it was dar, I set out for the Old Estate to see whether Peta had told me the truth. A faint path ran across the steep slopes of the Old Estate among clumps of junip er and spurge laurel. I followed it to the crimson lilac bushes and quietly move d the branches apart. A few paces away from me was the wing where Peta lived. T he rooms were already lighted, but you couldn't tell who was living in them; the windows were hung with dar curtains. Under the windows, heaped with fresh hay, stood the Doctor's trap. Its front wheels rested in a grass-grown flower-bed. B ehind the house a horse neighed. A moment later the latch cliced in the passage and Doctor Grigoreno himself in a white shirt appeared on the door-step. He we nt over to the trap, gathered an armful of hay and. carried it off behind the ho use. So Peta was telling the truth. What should I do now? I had better tell Yuzi. I ran to his place. On the way, by Lebedintseva's fence I saw the curly-headed figure of Omelusty. H e was dressed in a white shirt and carrying a bundle of papers under his arm. "Where are you off to, Vasya?" he ased. "I was going to Yuzi's." "Oh, that's good! Just the two I need! Bring him here and we'll go to the fortre ss together. I'll wait for you in the porch." "But it's late now, Uncle Ivan, the gate-eeper won't let us in." "Yes, he will. Don't you worry," Omelusty assured me. "But don't be long. I've b een looing for you for some time." There was nothing for it, so I ran to Weasel's house and brought him bac with m e. Omelusty was sitting on the steps of the porch, waiting for us. There was a t owel in his hands. "I'm going for a dip on the way bac," he explained. "There's no time for a prop er bath these days. I'll have to mae do with a wash in the river." "The mosquitoes will bite you. There are tons of them by the river in the evenin g," Weasel warned him. "Mosquitoes don't lie me; I'm too bony," Omelusty retorted with a laugh. But as we approached the Old Fortress,. Omelusty fell silent. On the bridge he f olded his towel and put it in his pocet. Going up to the lodge, he noced bold ly on the shuttered window.

The gate-eeper came out and, holding his gnarled stic in front of him, eyed us sombrely. "Open the gate," Omelusty ordered sternly. The old man lowered his stic and too a step bac. . "Who might you be?" he as ed warily. "I'm from the Revolutionary Committee. Do you remember these lads?" Omelusty inq uired, pointing at Weasel and me. "Don't you remember? We brought flowers here for that man," Weasel reminded him. "Ah, yes," the old man said with a nod, "now I mind you!" He limped towards us. "But I'm not to blame for anything, Comrade Commander, on my honour I'm not. The y gave me his clothes but I never used them. They're still there in the tower." "What are you worrying about, old fellow? No one's accusing you," Omelusty said quietly. "Is the grave all right? Those roughs didn't destroy it, did they?" "No, it's quite all right, master," the gate-eeper muttered hastily, opening th e gate. "But I've covered it with some weeds. I thought one of those Petlura men might see that stone, you now. Then what would have happened?" The old gate-eeper was telling the truth. From a distance, as soon as we rounded the Pope Tower, we noticed a dar heap of weeds at the foot of the bastion. Weasel and I were the first to run forward an d clear the grave of the clumps of pricly eryngium, still green goose-foot, you ng plantains, and wormwood. On the earthy patch surrounded by withered grass we at once found the stone slab that Peta and I had carried to the spot. "That's where they buried him," Yuzi said. Omelusty lowered his head and gazed sadly at the gravestone. Having stood thus in silence for several minutes, he suddenly drew himself up an d said between his teeth: "What a man they illed . . . the lordly swine. How much more good wor he could have done for the Uraine!" Omelusty turned abruptly to the gate-eeper. "You must loo after this grave a bit longer, old fellow," he said, rubbing his forehead. "We're going to put up a monument here." The old man nodded his head in silence. Weasel piced up the withered sprigs of lilac that we had once scattered on the grave. "What tower did you watch all this from?" Omelusty ased, turning to us. "From the far one over there that tall one with the big window, do you see?" I sai d, pointing to the Pope Tower. "From there?" Omelusty exclaimed. "How was it they never noticed you? Strange . . . Well, it was lucy for you, lads." "I was wondering too, Comrade Commander, how they managed to get there, what dev il too them to such a place," put in the old gate-eeper. Omelusty gave a sad smile. "All right, that's enough about devils. Come on lads, let's go home. It's past the old man's bedtime." On the road from the fortress lo the bridge, just by the entrance to the undergr ound passage, we met a sentry. Rifle at the ready, he was pacing slowly along th e fortress wall. "Is he guarding the bridge?" Weasel ased Omelusty quietly, as we passed. "He's on the loo-out for bandits," Omelusty replied. "You'll be going to bed so on, but he'll be here on duty all night to see that no bandits get into the town . Understand?" "I understand," Weasel answered. "Well, if you understand, you young heathens, you'd better run off home; it's ti me you were asleep," said Omelusty and, noticing that we were not very anxious t o leave him, he added: "Now then, off you go. You can swim tomorrow." "Come on, Yuzi," I said in a disgruntled voice. If he didn't want to bathe with us, he needn't. I felt hurt that Omelusty still thought of us as ids. Weasel followed me, glancing round him.

A wee later, a procession of soldiers and worers from the local trade unions pri nters, municipal worers, railwaymen wended its way up to the Old Fortress, carryi ng red banners and wreaths draped in mourning. It was dus. The weather was dull and threatening, lie autumn. No one would hav e thought it was summer-time. Heavy blac clouds were rolling westwards. A cold wind tore at the flying banners, stirring up dust and withered grass. 'Weasel and I were the last to enter the Old Fortress. Our gravestone was no longer there. At the foot of the green bastion a smooth pl ain memorial stone of grey marble stood over Sergushin's grave. On it had been c arved in clear letters: TO A FIGHTER FOR THE SOVIET UKRAINE, FIRST CHAIRMAN OF THE MILITARY-REVOLUTIONARY TRIBUNAL, TIMOFEI SERGUSHIN, MURDERED BY PETLURA BANDITS The memorial was surrounded by a freshly-painted iron railing. Beside it stood O melusty, bare-headed and gloomy. A rather slight girl in a dar-blue erchief wa s holding his arm. She was crying. Wisps of dar brown hair slipped from under h er erchief and fell on her wet chees. Who was she? His sister? A friend? Or a strange girl recalling some loss of her own? Perhaps this was the girl whom Serg ushin had met when he had boldly roamed the streets of our enemy-occupied town i n search of friends? Among the Red Army men, beside our lodger Polevoi stood my father. Two lines of worers stretched from the grave to the Pope Tower printers, worers from the flou r-mill, worers from the power station. Among the staff of the town hospital I n oticed Dulemberg, the dispenser; he was leaning on a stic, gaunt-faced and grey . The short, stocy commander of the Tiligulo-Berezansy Regiment climbed on to th e bastion. Wearing a light-green Cossac tunic, he stood for a few minutes in si lence above the crowd, holding his peaed army cap in his hands. Then he began t o spea. His first words rang out sharply over the subdued crowd terse, unpleasant words. The commander reminded us that many Petlura men Sergushin's murderers included had fled across the border, and that from there they would mae more than one attemp t to harm the Urainian people. The capitalists of the Entente were harbouring t hem. It meant nothing to those money-bags that the Petlura men had the blood of many thousand Urainian worers and peasants on their hands. The capitalists pic ed up Petlura men lie stray dogs in the bac-yards of Europe, so that later on they could unleash them against the Soviet Uraine. "And we must all steel ourselves," the commander went on, "to catch every one of those Petlura swine red-handed and punish them harshly, so that they can never again try to sell the Uraine." The commander said that the Donbas miner Timofei Sergushin had been illed by th e Petlura men while fighting for the Soviet cause. He told how even in the days of the hetman Sergushin had carried on an underground struggle against the invad ers of the Uraine, rallying and teaching the very best people in our town printer s, mechanics, mill worers. Recalling the sacrifices the woring class had borne for the happiness of all woring fol, the commander called upon us to avenge t he death of Sergushin. Now the gusty north wind caught the commander's words and carried them out of he aring, now it flung them into the yard, maing them echo round the ancient mossy towers. Weasel and I strained our ears to hear what we could of the commander's passiona te speech, and ever clearer grew the picture in our minds of that sunny morning not long ago, when here, under the bastion, the enemies of the 'Uraine had shot Sergushin. I remembered how he had come to our house in the winter in his wadded soldier's jacet and furry cap, a late and unexpected guest. It seemed lie yesterday. The chest on which he had lain that night still stood there by the window. We st

ill had the erosene lamp by whose wea, unsteady light he had shown me those fu nny figures on the wall. I remembered the way my aunt went up to his bed. Padding softly in her felt slip pers, she brought him a cup of steaming tea, brewed with dried raspberries, Serg ushin thaned her and, putting his thin hand out from under the blanet, too th e cup. His hand trembled so much I thought he would spill the hot tea over his blanet. But no, after taing a few sips, Sergushin placed the cup carefully on the wind ow-sill behind the lace curtain. Steam rose from the cup lie smoe from a burni ng cigarette. Noticing that I was watching him, Sergushin suddenly, for no reason at all, gave me an artful win. And then the Chinese shadows appeared on the wall. Now they leapt right up to the ceiling, now they dwindled until they were small as mice. I should never forget Sergushin's straight, merry glance, with that sly twinle in it . . . The speeches were finished. Wreaths were laid carefully on the grave. They cover ed the sand-sprinled grave-mound. An elderly woman hung several garlands on the railings. The blac-and-red funeral ribbons fluttered in the wind. The people crowding round the railings dispersed, and then the grave, deced wit h wreaths, could be seen from everywhere, even from the foot of the Pope Tower. The Red Army men raised their rifles. Their bolts cliced. The commander gave th e order. Spurts of flame gleamed against the dar, misty sy. A resounding echo rolled round the fortress and, caught by the wind, was carried far, far away bey ond Zarechye. The rifle volleys and the strains of the sad, solemn song, You fell in fateful strife.. made us feel still more sorrowful and cold, as though icy autumn rain were falling. I AM SUMMONED A wee had passed since the unveiling of the monument to Sergushin. Aunt Maria woe me at an unearthly hour. "Get up, Peta has come to see you." Wh at the dicens had brought Peta here at this time-The early sun was filtering i n at the window; it had only just risen above the roof of the rabbit shed. Father's bed was already made; an unfinished cup of tea stood on the table. It c ould not be long since Father had left the house. . Sleepy and unwashed, I ran out into the yard. Peta was waiting for me at the ga te. He had rather a queer, worried loo on his face. "Well, what do you want? Why didn't you call in the middle of the night!" "Vasya, they've arrested the Doctor! And his wife too! Peta flashed bac at me. "When?" "Today! Just a little while ago, at dawn. And do you now how? The Doctor heard them nocing, so he ran to Dad in his pants and started hollering: 'Hide me, hi de me, for God's sae!' And then, when he saw that Dad had gone to open the door , he went and hid in the cellar. Not the one in the yard though; in our little o ne under the itchen. Yesterday evening Mum had put some sour mil down there on the steps, and in the dar he broe all the bowls. And then they came in with r ifles and lighted a lamp and went down the cellar after him. He struggled and 'w ouldn't come out by himself. They pulled him out lie a pig. He wasn t half dirty! His pants all muddy and his hands covered with sour mil! He even had some on h is ear." ' "Did they tae his things?" ( "No - nothing. Their maid's run away I ex pect she s afraid they'll arrest her too. But all the stuff is still at our plac e. Carpets and cupboards and beds everything. Even his horse. I'll be taing it do wn to the river." "And it will all be yours?" "Ours?" Peta hesitated. "No, I expect they'll' tae it for the club they've sta rted in Zhitomir Street. That's where they tae all the requisitioned stuff sofas, mirrors . . . They're going to give plays there, and cinema shows, and it'll al

l be free . . . I say, Vasya," Peta suddenly changed his tone, "it must have be en my Dad who told them all about the Doctor. Omelusty came round to our place y esterday morning. He didn't come in, he just ased me to go and call Dad. I call ed him, and they sat for a long time in the bushes on top of the cliff, then Dad and Omelusty went off somewhere. When he came bac, he didn't tal to the docto r any more. And I was thining, Dad must have told about him in court, don't you thin?" At that moment I heard a voice from the street. "I say there, lads, does Mandzhu ra live here?" I started. By the gate stood a Red Army man, a young frecle-face d lad. He had a note-boo under his arm, and a thin blue envelope in his hand. "Dad's not at home, he's at the print-shop." "At the print-shop? Who will tae t his envelope then?" "Just a- minute. I'll call Aunt." "Wait!" the Red Army man called me bac sharply. "What's all this about your aun t? Can't you write yourself?" I nodded. "You his son?" "Yes." "I thought so," the soldier said with a smile. "Sign here, but write neatly," he commanded, handing me the open noteboo. "Loo where Vasily Mandzhura is writte n there's a cross by it. Sign your name by the cross." "Vasily? But Father's name is Miron," I replied. "Miron? . . . Miron . . ." the soldier said slowly, then with a shae of his head he concluded brisly: "Never mind, what's the difference: Miron or Vasily. Our cler must have got mixed up a gain. Sign." Pressing the note-boo to my nee, I wrote my surname. My hand trembled. The sec ond "a" wobbled and went into the next column. The Red Army man too the boo, handed me the envelope and went his way. "Come on, let's have a loo," Peta demanded at once. Sitting down on the steps, we started to examine the thin envelope. It had a sli p of paper inside which we could feel with our fingers. On the envelope, in larg e letters, was written: "Zbruch, Zarechye, 3, Steep Street, Vasily Mironovich Mandzhura." "Vasya, it's for you. Open it," Peta exclaimed. Peta was right. My name was Vasily ("Vasya" for short), and my patronymic was M ironovich. But I had never had any letters from anyone. Who could have written t o me? "No, it must be a mistae," I said slowly. "I'll have to show it to Dad let him wo r it out." "Well, you are a goat, a real old goat," Peta grew more and more impatient. "Te ar the envelope open. What are you waiting for?" Now I just wanted to tease Peta. "What's it got to do with you? It's my letter; I'll open it when I lie." Peta too offence. "I've nown for a long time that you weren't a real friend . . ." he mumbled. "Me not a friend? Is that what you said? Go and find your Kota, then! Go and fi nd him in Kremenchug." Thoroughly hurt, Peta got up, sniffed and, without saying a word, wandered off to the gate. I felt sorry for him. I had offended him for nothing, nothing at all. And he was a good chap, say what you lie. Should I go after him? But what was in the envelope? I opened the envelope carefully and pulled out the folded slip of white paper. W hen I read it, the printed letters danced before my eyes. Citizen V. M. Mandzhura. The local Extraordinary Commission hereby summons you to appear on August 20, at 10 a.m. before the investigator Comrade Kudrevich. Address: 2, Seminary Street, Room 12, 2nd floor. Failure to attend is punishable by law. OSTAPENKO Commandant, Ex. Com. The letter had come from the big building where the Extraordinary Commission had its offices. Tall silvery poplars grew in front of its windows, and in the morn

ings their shadow fell across Seminary Street. Night and day, sentries in Budyon ny hats paced round that building. Two Petlura ministers, the Countess Rogial-Pi ontovsaya, Ovshiia Orlovsy, owner of a water-mill, and many Petlura officers were being held there for trial. When Petlura went" away, these officers had sta yed behind in Urainian churches, serving as priests. They had maintained contac t with the bandits who were holding people up on the road into town. But why did the Extraordinary Commission need me? Perhaps they wanted to tae me on in one of their patrols who were hunting the Petlura men in the villages? Ye s, that was it. I should go there tomorrow, they would give me a horse and a lea ther saddle, a pair of grenades and a rifle, and say: "Off you go!" Would I go? Wouldn't I just! Couldn't I catch those Petlura officers? I could indeed! Why, i n the Extraordinary Commission's detachment there was a chap only a bit older th an me. He often went galloping past. Even across the bridge, where galloping was not allowed, he rode lie a madman. This chap wore a blac sheepsin Kuban hat with a red top, and a leather jacet with shoulder-straps across it. He had been given a revolver in a wooden holster and, when he trotted, he always ept his h and on it. Yuzi had told me that bandits from Tutuni's gang had butchered the boy's family at Prosurov; he alone had escaped and run away to the Communists. How we envied that lad when he galloped through the town without a glance at the passers-by, spurring on his horse and crouching low over the pommel, of his sad dle. There was not a boy in town who would not stop and gaze after him. Everyone in town new that lad. I wished I could become his assistant. I would o bey every word he said, if only we could gallop together across the fields and now that the people in town thought of us as real Red Army men. But there was no t much chance of being taen on for a job lie that. That chap had probably been in battle and fought the Petlura men. I wanted to run after Peta to show him the summons and swan about it. Or perhaps I'd go to Yuzi's? No, not worth it! Better to wait till tomorrow, th en tell them everything. How slowly the time dragged past! Lucily I remembered that Kozhuhar had ased me to loo for some Japanese cartridges. A friend of hi s at headquarters had a big revolver that broe in the middle a Smith Benson. And Japanese rifle cartridges fitted that Smith Benson fine. "If you find any, we'll do some shooting," Kozhuhar had promised. I must have a loo. I had a clip of those Japanese cartridges hidden up in the l oft somewhere. There were five of them long shiny cartridges made of red copper, w ith thin, sharp-pointed bullets and neat round capsules. I climbed into the loft and searched around there for a long time in the dusty, stuffy darness. But the clip had got lost somewhere. I just could not find it. What a pity! Then I spent a long time feeding the rabbit with hare-lettuce, then I ran to the allotment to see if the big, juicy tomatoes were ripe. I did not now what to d o with myself all day. In the evening Father came home from the print-shop. I charged up to him at once , waving my slip of paper. "Loo what they've sent me, Dad!" He brought it caref ully to eye-level and started reading it. I stared at him impatiently. He was we aring a blac naneen blouse, and he smelt of printer's in. "Well, you'd better go if they've summoned you," Father said, handing me bac th e paper. Then, after a pause, he smiled and added: "That's Omelusty's doing." "W hat does he want me for, Dad?" "You'll learn soon," Father replied, smiling myst eriously and going over to the wash-basin. "The main thing is: don't be afraid a nd spea the truth. They judge wisely up there." Father's words reassured- me a little. But still the time dragged very slowly. I went to bed when the cocs did , but could not go to sleep for a long time. I listened to Father's calm heavy b reathing, and ept turning his words over in my mind. What did Omelusty want to do with me? Why had I been called to Seminary Street? Who was this Kudrevich who would interrogate me tomorrow? I had never even heard his name before. Early in the morning, when Father and Aunt Mania were still asleep, I slipped ou t of bed, crept into the yard and, after splashing some cold water over my face, went out into the street. All the way I ept feeling the slip of paper in my pocet.

The street was quiet and cool. Flies were buzzing above a fence hung with creepe rs. What time was it? Who could say! It might be six, it might be nine. In summe r the sun rose very early and you couldn't trust it. On the fortress bridge there was a sentry. Wearing a great-coat and carrying his rifle at the ready, he was pacing slowly by the rail. It was his duty to guard the town against bandits. Suppose the bandits suddenly did try to brea into tow n? After all, their hide-out was not so far away, in the surrounding forests. And t here were loads of them on the eleventh verst. Eleven versts from town the Kalin ovsy road ran through dense forest pitted with gullies and hollows. Hiding in t hese gullies the bandits often crept right up to the road, robbed the passing pe asants, murdered Communists, and even attaced armed Red Army men. Any night the y might creep round the fortress, ill the sentry on the bridge and brea throug h into the centre. It was not for nothing that every night the Revolutionary Com mittee and the Committees of Poor Peasants armed the townspeople's patrols with rifles and ammunition. Leather saddles hung on the green fence of the Town School. The wooden gates wer e wide open. A field itchen was smoing in the yard. Washing was drying on the grass by the porch. Governor's Square was deserted. Opposite the governor's hous e stood a wooden platform deced with green fir branches. Speeches were made fro m this platform at the revolutionary meetings. Sirting Governor's Square, I made my way down a narrow side-street to the print -shop. It was still closed. A watchman was sitting on the steps of the porch. Th e hands of the cloc on the town hall pointed to half past seven. I had another two and a half hours to wait. Should I go home? No, I wouldn't do that, whatever happened. I wandered on down Ternopolsy Slope to New Boulevard. More and more often I met people coming up the street. A cart with five Red Army men in it dro ve past. The men were holding rifles. A horseman dressed in blac with a pair of binoculars dangling on his chest galloped by overtaing the cart. O how I should lie to meet one of my pals now! If only they new where I was go ing! I would just show them that blue envelope, or the top of the- paper where m y name was printed. But, as if to spite me, not one of my pals was about. To mae the time go quicer, I stopped in front of every shop and examined the w ax heads of women in the hairdresser's, the faded portraits in the photographer' s, the nitted jacets in the draper's. Then I turned down the boulevard. On New Boulevard it was quite cool. Birds were twittering up in the maple-trees. The air was pure, and it was easy and pleasant to breathe. Over there under the bushes was the spot where we had rested that night after the raid on Grigoreno 's house. It was such a short time ago, yet I had forgotten all about it; it see med at least a year since then. I wandered for a long time among the shady avenues of New Boulevard, then I turn ed off down the path along the cliff edge. From there I had a good view of the g rey tower of the town hall rising above the house-tops, and on it the gilded fac e of the town-hall cloc. I could hear its slow heavy chimes striing out the qu arters, then the hours. When the big hand of the cloc crept round to half past nine, 'I again fingered the slip of paper in my pocet and waled boldly up the path to Seminary Street. But, strange to say, the farther I waled the more my anxiety grew. Although I would never have admitted it, there was something I was afraid of. Ha d there been someone else with me Yuzi, Sasha Bobir, or even Peta I should have be en first to buc them up. But alone it was a bit scaring. The white building where the Extraordinary Commission had its offices showed amo ng the trees. I ran quicly across the street and, going up to the sentry, silen tly handed him my summons. "Straight upstairs. Second door on the' left," the sentry said calmly. In the big entrance-hall, beside a brown board with door-eys hanging on it, sat some Red Army men. As soon as I came in, their eyes turned in my direction. "Where is . . . room . . . twelve?" I faltered. At that moment I recognized the messenger, the young frecled fellow who had bro ught me the letter the previous evening. He recognized me, too, and stepped forw

ard with a smile. "So you're here? Give us your slip, I'll tae you up-just for old acquaintance's sae. Room twelve, is it?" I handed him the crumpled envelope and tried to return his smile, but without mu ch success. Having led me up to the second floor, the messenger pointed to a bench outside t he door of one of the rooms. "Sit here and wait. They'll call you," he said. On that comfortable, varnished bench with a curved bac sat another boy. I turne d to him, and nearly shouted for joy. "Yuzi! You've been called here, too?" "Yes . . ." Weasel muttered in embarrassment. "What for, I don't now." "I don't now either." The words were scarcely out of my mouth when the padded d oor of room twelve opened and a girl in laced top-boots appeared. "Come in, boys," she said. "I'm to see . . . Kudrevich," I said. "I now. I'm Kudrevich," the girl informed me with a faint smile. "Quic now, co me in and sit down." The room was very light, and oblong-shaped. Its three windows looed straight ou t on to Seminary Street. Through them we could see the tops of the silvery popla rs growing in front of the building. On the wall by the door hung a large map, a nd at the side stood a cupboard. By the loo of it, this girl was a person of some importance if she had her own separate room here, almost as big as Proopovich's study at the High School. We sat down gingerly at a baize-covered des. The des was spotlessly clean, li e a brand-new one. Not a single paper on it. "Well, how are you getting on, boys?" the girl ased and, drawing up a chair noi sily, she sat down at the des, facing us across the corner of it.' 191 She had rather high chee-bones, but she was pretty. A dar flush glowed in her chees. Her eyes were brown and steady; her neatly-trimmed hair was drawn bac b ehind her ears. And her ears were small arid pin. Comrade Kudrevich's face was ind and cheerful. "Now then, don't be shy, tell me all about it," she said encouragingly. "What ha ppened here in the town when we were away?" "But we . . .went away from town . . ." Yuzi replied slowly, stammering a bit. "Where to?" "To Nagoranye." "That's near Dumanovo, isn't it?" "That's right." " Were you there long?" "No, not long two days," I put in to help Yuzi. "And the rest of the time you wer e living in town, weren't you?" Kudrevich ased. "The rest of the time we lived in town," Yuzi repeated. "Strolled about the tow n, had fights with the other boys, went to the fortress was that it?" ased the gi rl, her eyes twinling. "Yes, we went to the fortress," Yuzi said. "We were there when the Petlura sold iers were shooting that man " "What man?" "What man!" Yuzi suddenly grew excited. "As if you didn't now. The one Doctor Grigoreno gave away to the Petlura men Sergushin. They've put up a memorial to hi m in the fortress. We showed them the grave . . . You now Omelusty, don't you? As him . . ." Yuzi suddenly got confused, noticing that the girl was smiling. "But you now already. Why do you as, then?" he muttered offendedly and fell si lent. "Yes, I now all about it," Kudrevich answered calmly, her face quite serious ag ain. "But now I'm going to tal to someone in your presence, and you just listen ." (Kudrevich got up and left the room, but before we could say a word to each othe r she returned, accompanied by Doctor Grigoreno. Squinting sideways at us, the Doctor too a chair in front of the investigator. He acted as if he didn't care what Kudrevich might as him. Grigoreno had grown a beard. There were tags unde r his eyes. He was wearing no belt and his shoes had no laces in them. "I am going 'bac to the old question," Kudrevich said, taing a file out of her

des. "I thin you will tell us eventually how it was that after you had betray ed Sergushin you became witness and assistant at his execution." "I did not betray anybody . . . and I was not a witness . . . That is slander, s heer slander . . ." the Doctor mumbled. "Tell me," Kudrevich went on, ignoring what Grigoreno had said, "you must now Grzhibovsy well? You are a friend of his, aren't you? How do you explain the fa ct that he ased you to help him?" "What Grzhibovsy? What fortress?' What is all this nonsense, Miss?" said the Do ctor, rising in his chair. "I didn't as you anything about the fortress, Doctor," Kudrevich replied, smili ng. "You may not as now, but you did before," the Doctor countered quicly, and sat down again so heavily that his chair creaed. "So you never went to the fortress either?" "Good heavens above, Miss, what fortress! Of course I didn't. I live on the othe r side of town. As if I had nothing better to do than go to the fortress!" "What do you mean you never went there, when you drove there in your own trap! A nd felt the earth in the yard!" Yuzi cut in. Grigoreno looed at Yuzi with a sneer and turned away to the investigator. "Wait a minute, lad," Kudrevich stopped Yuzi, and again fixed her eyes on the D octor. "So today you still maintain that you never went to the Old Fortress with anybody, and that you don't now Maro Grzhibovsy at all? Is that what you say ?" "Yes," Grigoreno answered with a sigh of relief. "Very well," Kudrevich assente d, closing the file sharply. The Doctor fished a dirty crumpled handerchief out of his pocet and wiped his moustache. Kudrevich got up from her des and wale d quicly over to the cupboard, swaying slightly in her high-heeled boots. Openi ng the cupboard, she too a bundle wrapped in newspaper from the top shelf, then went over to the Doctor and unwrapped it on the des in front of him. It was the clothes Sergushin had taen off before he was shot. "You've never seen this before either?" Kudrevich ased, hanging Sergushin's sta ined green blouse over the bac of a vacant chair. "No. What about it?" Grigoreno answered with a start. "Nothing much. Just a que stion." And Kudrevich again sat down in her arm-chair, eyeing the Doctor eenly. He squirmed in his chair. "Listen, Mademoiselle, I've told you once and I'll tell you again," Grigoreno b urst out suddenly, "I never had any respect for Petlura in my life. I always sai d he was an upstart, an adventurer, and a swindler, and I never supported him . . ." "Oh, no more of that," Kudrevich interrupted him. "Now you call him an adventure r, but when he was in the town you too two officers from his crac regiment, Do ga and Krivenu, into your house. And don't you remember the speech you made abo ut the Petlura Directorate when Petlura occupied the town? And who made the pres entation to Petlura during the thansgiving service in the square? And now you s tart telling me who Petlura is. We now that without your help. He's just as muc h a hireling of the foreign capitalists and Pilsudsi as all the other nationali st riff-raff. They wor for the highest bidder . . . Now you tell us what happen ed, lad," she said, turning suddenly towards me. I was taen abac and at first could not put two words together. Soon, however, with much hesitation and stumbling, I began to tell how the Petlura men had shot Sergushin. I also related Peta's s tory of Doctor Grigoreno's encounter with Sergushin on the Old Estate. Kudrevich nodded. Clearly she new everything without our telling her, and had h eard it all over again only in order to mae the Doctor confess. While I was speaing, Grigoreno ept fidgeting in his chair and coughing loudly , as if he wanted to frighten me out of telling the whole story. "And after they shot him the Doctor went and felt him and then wiped his hands o n a handerchief," Weasel put in. "How dare you tell such lies, you little wretch!" The Doctor jumped up but, chec ing himself immediately, again slumped bac into his chair. "You are holding me

up to ridicule, Mademoiselle. I studied at the University of Lvov, I am a Docto r of Medicine, and you start asing me questions in front of a pair of street ur chins. Why, they're depraved! They'll tell you anything . . . I never . . ." "You're depraved yourself . . . and . . . and a liar!" Yuzi burst out, his eyes flashing. But Kudrevich checed him at once. "Hush!" she said. "Spea when I as you." "Just what I was saying . . . They'll start on you too, if you let them," the Do ctor rejoined gleefully. "I'll tell you why they're maing all this up about me. I have an orchard . . . a lot of pears and apples, you now. When autumn comes, we get no peace; as soon as your bac's turned they're stripping the trees. You ng urchins lie them . . . Well, I show no mercy. The moment I catch one of them , I tae him to his parents. Naturally, of course, they've got a grudge against me. If you get a few more of them here, they'll tell you I'm a thief, a bandit, anything you lie . . ." "Just a moment," Kudrevich again interrupted the Doctor, then she called towards the door: "Comrade Kushnir!" A Red Army man armed with a rifle came in from the corridor. "Citizen Blazho is waiting downstairs in the witness-room. Bring him up," the g irl told the sentry. The Red Army man tapped the floor with his rifle butt and went out. "You are free now, boys," said Kudrevich. "Give me your slips and I'll sign them ." Downstairs, we saw the gate-eeper of the Old 'Fortress. So his name was Blazho ? He was holding a slip of paper lie ours and limping in our direction. He did not recognize us. When we got outside Yuzi exclaimed indignantly: "The way he denied everything!" "I was glad you called him a liar. He might as well now what we thin of him." We waled on to New Boulevard, feeling greatly relieved. We were both rather tir ed and excited. All round us the birds were singing. The hard clay paths were sp angled with yellow pools of sunlight. People hurried past on their own affairs. We wandered after them. It had been pouring since early morning. Rain was rushing down the drain-pipes a nd filling the yard with bubbling, muddy puddles. Little streams of water tricl ed down the windows. The house was so dar it seemed lie evening. All of a sudden Weasel burst into the itchen, drenched and glistening. "Vasya, I'm going away!" I stared at him in amazement. "Where?" "To Kiev, to my uncle. Here, read this!" Weasel handed me a damp, rather crumpled letter. It was from his uncle, the one Yuzi had often told me about who was a mechanic on the Dnieper steamer Dolphin. Weasel's uncle had invited him to come to 'Kiev and promised to get him admitte d to the naval training college there. While I sat on the sofa reading the letter, Weasel waited. Big drops of water gl istened lie dew in his wet hair. Fine streams were running down his chees. "When are you going?" "The day after tomorrow. Mum is already maing pies for me to eat on the journey ," Yuzi said proudly, sitting down on the sofa beside me. Carefully flicing a drop of rain off the envelope, he put it bac into his trou sers' pocet. Somehow, as I watched him, I began to feel very sad. Weasel would go away to a big city, and Peta and I would be left behind here alone. This was the end of our company. It wouldn't be the same with just the two of us. Could Peta tae Weasel's place? Never. He wouldn't even climb into the Old Fortress w ith you . . . Oh, what a pity Weasel was going! . . . And Weasel, as if guessing my thoughts, said: "When I pass out as a captain, you can come and see me, and I'll give you a free

sail on my ship." "A free sail . . . When will that be!" I answered bitterly. "When? O, er . . . Very soon . . ." Weasel comforted me, but he spoe without co nviction; clearly he felt that he would not see me again for a long time. The rain seemed to be stopping. The room was getting lighter. Yuzi went over to the window and drew his finger across the blurred pane. "If you want me to," he said, without looing at me, "I'll as Uncle to fix you up at the school as well. You'll come to Kiev and we'll live together . . ." "Fix me up . . . He doesn't even now me . . ." "That doesn't matter . . . He'll do it . . ." Weasel went on in the same uncerta in tone. Now I was quite sure he had no faith himself in his promises. "Vasya, would you lie me to give you my pigeons? The ones with the ruffs," Weas el suggested suddenly. "Yes!" "Well, I will. You'll be able to catch Peta's pigeons with them. Come round tom orrow after dinner." "All right, but don't give them to anyone else." "Me do a thing lie that!" Weasel exclaimed indignantly. "But will you write to me? I'll leave you Uncle's address." I wrote down Weasel's new address in Kiev, and we parted until the following day . The day came when Weasel was to leave. That evening Peta and I went round to his house. Outside the Starodomsys' gate a sinny horse stood harnessed to a brea. To ta e Yuzi to the station, his father had removed the blac top which he used to co nvert the brea into the Dog's Prison. "Hurry up, Dad, or we'll be late!" Weasel's voice reached us as we neared the ga te. Then he ran outside. Weasel was dressed in his best clothes. He was wearing a blue sil shirt made fr om a piece of the scout banner the piece he had won in our draw. The shirt was bu ttoned up to the nec and the new mother-of-pearl buttons gleamed and glistened on the blue sil. A special pair of grey trousers they looed almost lie real wo ol adorned his legs, and on his feet he was wearing wooden-soled sandals. I had ne ver seen Weasel looing so smart and slee. What a dandy! "Well . . . I'm off," Weasel said quietly when he saw us. Apparently he did not feel quite at ease in this outfit; the new shirt and trousers made him feel asha med. "Is that all your stuff?" Peta ased, pointing at a little wicer baset. "Yes, it's mine. Spare clothes, pies . . ." said Weasel, putting the baset in t he brea. Old Starodomsy came out of the gate with a long nout in his hand. "Dad, can the lads come with us too?" Weasel ased. "They've come to see me off. " "All right, get in," Starodomsy consented. While he was fixing the bridle, we too our places in the brea. "Isn't your Ma coming?" Peta whispered. "Mum's legs are swollen, she's got rheu matism," Yuzi answered despondently. The brea moved forward. We were on our way to the station. The sinny horse trotted at a good pace, and the brea made such a clatter as it jolted over the cobbles that we could scarce ly hear ourselves spea. Only outside town, when we turned down a soft level cou ntry road, did we start taling again. "Be sure and write," Weasel reminded me. "Kota and his mother came round to our place today for their things. They've le t her out, but the Doctor's still in jail. Or perhaps they've shot him already?" Peta whispered, with a glance at Weasel's father. "Kota? Where did Kota come from?" Weasel ased, pricing up his ears.

"From Kremenchug. (I expect their m-aid wrote and told him all about what had ha ppened," Peta explained. "And he's living with you, is he?" Yuzi ased frowning. "No fear! Not with us. He's living with Proopovich, the head-master. Proopovic h has put them up in his flat." "Don't let Kota get round you," Weasel warned Peta and me. The station was in sight. Already we could see the end carriages of the train th at would tae our friend away to Kiev. Lucy Yuzi, to be going away! It must be good living in Kiev. Kiev was a fine big city, with a lot of trams, and the Dni eper just near by. I would have gone there myself with pleasure. Starodomsy reined in the horse by the station railings and, jumping down from h is seat, hitched the reins to the trun of a maple-tree. We passed through a din gy little hall and came out on the platform. People were already getting into th e train. We could see their faces through the carriage windows. "This will do, Yuzi," said Starodomsy, motioning- his son towards the last car riage but one, where there were not so many people. "Does this one go Tight to K iev?" he ased a Red Army man standing on the carriage steps. "Yes, Dad, Kiev's the place," the Red Army man replied, straightening his belt. "Are you going as far as Kiev, soldier?" Starodomsy ased the Red Army man caut iously. "I'm going farther, to Bryans. I'll only be changing at Kiev," the Red Army man explained amiably. "Well, do us a favour, eep an eye on my son during the journey. It's his first journey by train . . ." "Don't worry, he'll be all right. There's a spare-bun beside me." And Weasel got into the carriage. Through the window we could see his baset per ched on the upper bun. Weasel unbuttoned his collar and poed his head out of t he window. We stood on the platform, looing up at him unhappily. It is sad to s ay good-bye to acquaintances, to watch the windows of the departing train slippi ng by, but it is even sadder to say good-bye to a friend, a comrade, with whom y ou have passed so many happy and anxious days . . . When the engine whistled for the last time and the train jered forward, I gazed at the moving carriages and felt the tears rush into my eyes. The dar square o f the last carriage grew smaller and smaller, the distant rumble of the wheels f aded out of hearing, people drifted off the platform, and soon the train carryin g Weasel away from us could be seen no more in the rolling yellow steppe. THE ELEVENTH VERST The day after Yuzi had left, Peta brought me a fretsaw. He had said he would t he day before. I wanted to cut a hole in the wall of the rabbit-shed, so that I could mae a real house there for the pigeons. I had already laid in a supply of plans and nails. Before starting wor, however, I offered Peta something to e at. Aunt had gone down to the river to rinse out the washing, and had left me so me bucwheat and mil in a clay bowl. Arming ourselves with wooden spoons, Peta and I sat down to table and tuced in to the bucwheat. At that moment Polevoi came into the itchen from his room. "Steady on. You'll brea the spoons," he said with a grin, stopping in the doorw ay. Peta blushed and put his spoon down. "Listen, lads, which of you nows the way to Nagoranye?" Polevoi ased unexpecte dly. "I do. Why?" "Do you now it well?" Polevoi said, eyeing me eenly. Broad-shouldered, his thic mop of hair tumbling over his forehead, he stood bef ore us, taing up the whole doorway. The collar of his tunic was unbuttoned, on his chest there were three tapering red stripes. "Yes, very well. I've got an uncle living there," I said, sensing that something was in the air. "I shall be going there to fetch some fodder," Polevoi explained. "Want a ride w

ith me?" Not half I did. Who wouldn't! But I checed myself and answered calmly: "On horsebac or how?" "No, in a carriage. The riding horses will stay here." "Can he come?" I ased, pointing to Peta. Poor Peta gave Polevoi an imploring loo. Polevoi too a glance at him and said : "Well, all right then, come together." Peta nearly jumped for joy. Thin what luc all that way in a carriage, and with a Red Commander too! So after dinner we ran off to meet Polevoi at Headquarters. . A yellow regimental carriage drawn by a pair of well-fed horses was already st anding outside the log stable in the town-school yard. We caught sight of Polevo i at the stable door. He was watching a short, fair-haired Red Army man harness two other horses to a mud-spattered cart. Polevoi had a long cavalry great-coat over his shoulders; on his head he wore a sheepsin Kuban hat with a purple top. "No coats! Why not?" he ased sternly, when he saw us. "But it's not cold today, Nestor Varnayevich," I answered in surprise. "It isn't cold now, but in the fields at night it may be very cold. Run home and get your coats. Quic about it though fly!" What could we do? The carriage was already harnessed. While we ran home, the gro om would finish harnessing the cart too. Would they wait for us? Of course, they wouldn't. They'd go off to Nagoranye alone. No, there could be no running home for our coats. "Nestor Varnayevich, we haven't got any coats, we'll go as we are. We won't catc h cold, honestly we won't!" But Polevoi guessed that we simply did not want to run home for extra clothes, a nd shoo his head. "Well, you are a lazy pair. You just don't want to run. That's it, isn't it? Wel l, all right." And, pulling his coat tightly round him, he strode into the stabl es. A few minutes later he re-appeared carrying a high-shouldered Caucasian cloa, t orn in places and bristling with bits of straw. "This belongs to me, it's an old one," Polevoi said. "It used to travel with me on the baggage trains. I didn't thin it was any more use, but it'll come in han dy now. It's big enough to wrap up another five nippers lie you. Now then, into that carriage. Loo lively!" I sat down beside Polevoi, and Peta climbed on to the driver's seat beside Kozh uhar. The blac cloa lay folded at Polevoi's feet. It smelt of horse sweat. On top of the cloa Polevoi put two rifles with slings and several clips of cartri dges with sharp shiny bullets sticing out of them. . "Off we go!" he shouted. Kozhuhar gathered the reins and cliced his tongue; the horses sprang forward a nd we drove out of the yard. Our carriage bowled along merrily over the cobbles. Little yellow-tinged lime-tr ees, gaudily painted barbers' signs, tiners' stalls flashed past on both sides of the road. We drove past Starodomsy's yard. What a pity Yuzi had gone away to Kiev! If he 'd waited another couple of days we could have taen him with us today to Nagora nye. A company of students from the military-political school, wearing new Budyonny h ats, marched past us. The company was commanded by an elderly, stooped officer i n a dar brown tunic. The men were singing. We We To No are lads of the Komsomol, must unite and be strong! the slee pans and the old god more shall we belong.

I new that song. The Komsomol members always sung it. We drove past Uspensy Maret. The iron shutters of the wooden stalls were heavi ly bolted. Boys in the street stared at us in surprise. How proud we were to be riding in a regimental carriage with Commander Polevoi. The carriage climbed the hill. We drove into Zhitomir Street. On either side str etched rows of young acacia-trees, chestnuts, and tall hornbeams. And here was Doctor Grigoreno's mansion. Over its carved oa doors hung a white flag with a red cross in the middle. The mansion had been taen over by the div isional hospital. On one of the gate-posts there was a small light patch; it rem inded passers-by of the brass plate bearing the name of Kota's father that had once hung there. Before us stretched the Kalinovsy road winding across 'broad open fields to the horizon. We were already past the town. Somewhere behind the tall sunflowers a quail that had lost its fellows was uttering its sharp cry. The air smelt of min t and wormwood. Polevoi lighted his pipe. The blue smoe curled up over the carriage and was whi sed away by the carefree wind of the fields. We were only a short distance from Nagoranye no more than half a verst when the bac axle of our carriage snapped. Polevoi jumped out. He examined the broen axle a nd with a grunt of annoyance too his great-coat,, the rifles, the cartridges, a nd the blac cloa, out of the carriage and dropped them on the grass. "This is a fine how-do-you-do," Kozhuhar said vexedly. The cart behind caught us up. The tow-headed Red Army man. jumped down from his seat and went over to Polevoi. Together they examined the axle and discussed wha t to do. A stooped peasant in a brown jacet was coming along the road from the village. When he reached us he too off his hat and bowed. "Good-day to you." "Good-day, Father," Polevoi replied. "Can you tell us where the smithy is?" "The smithy? It's behind the church, on the hilloc." "Is Mandzhura still in the village? Do you now him?" I ased the old man. "Avsenty? Aye, he's in the village. He's our village elder now." "Who's that you said?" Polevoi inquired. "Mandzhura? What is he, Chairman of the Village Soviet?" "Aye, that's right," the old man affirmed. "Your uncle?" Polev oi ased me quietly. I nodded. "A good thing I brought you with me," Polevoi said with a smile. "Let's go and f ind your uncle then." And going up to Kozhuhar, he said: "Here you are, Petro, here's a rifle and ammunition. Drive slowly to the smithy. You'll mae it someho w. Then get bac to town alone we'll come bac on the cart . . . Up you get, lads. " Passing the graveyard, we drove straight into Uncle Avsenty's yard. Uncle was n ot at home and Osa dashed off to fetch him from the Village Soviet. Uncle Avsenty was very pleased to see us. I introduced him to Polevoi. When we went into the cottage, Uncle told us what had been happening in the vill age. "We've got lots of news to tell you. The elder we used to have here, Bohoto, r an away with the Petlura men, the dirty dog. We've taen landowner Tshilyatovs y's water-mill away from him. Now our chief miller is Proop Dealu you now him, don't you? And I . . . who do you thin I am?" Uncle went on, laughing. "A big noise I am! I'm Chairman of the Village Soviet. Honestly. We had a meeting and t he poor people of the village chose me. 'You had a bad time under Petlura,' they said, 'Now you be our chief.' Of course, the money-bags don't lie it that they d on't. They now what to expect from me, bad luc to 'em. I'm already getting not es thrown into my yard: 'Go easy, Avsenty we'll burn your place down!' Thin they can scare me. The only trouble is they're in with the bandits, and those thugs can do a lot of harm to the village. There are plenty of them about in the woods nowadays . . ." Meanwhile Aunt Osana had placed a bowl of vegetable ' soup on the table, and a large round loaf of bread. While we ate, Polevoi arranged with Uncle about the delivery of fodder.

"By Thursday I'll have ten loads ready for you, and now I'll let you have a cart ful of my own," Uncle Avsenty promised. Out of respect for her guests, Osana had spread an embroidered cloth on the tab le. When we had finished the soup, she brought in a lot of Gipsy apples in the h em of her apron and tipped them out on the table. They were firm and long-shaped . "Well, Vasya, how many more windows have you broen since you were here last?" M y uncle ased, watching Peta and me mae short wor of the apples. "He's a hero, he showed us the way here," Polevoi said approvingly. "Soon we'll see about maing a Komsomol member of him, when he's a bit older." It was getting dar. Osana padded barefoot across the clay floor of the best ro om to light the lamp. "Oh, time's getting on! Well, than you, host, for your apples and for the hay. On Thursday I'll send you some carts." And rising from the table, Polevoi offere d Uncle Avsenty his hand. While we were saying good-bye, Polevoi put on his great-coat and fastened it up to the nec. Then he slung the strap of his heavy revolver over his shoulder. Outside it was already quite cool. We were glad Polevoi had brought that cloa f or us. Once again we said good-bye to Aunt Osana, Osa, and Uncle Avsenty, then climb ed right on top of the cart with Polevoi. We lay on our bellies in the soft spri ngy hay and covered ourselves with the cloa. Polevoi lay down beside us, big an d handsome. He smelt fine of tobacco. The driver the little Red Army man climbed on the seat below with his rifle. He was almost invisible under the overhanging load of hay. We could only see the reins he was pulling. The horses, sensing that they were on their way home, tossed the ir heads and the firm traces tightened over their glossy coats. Beyond the birch-grove the moon was rising. As we drove on, its bluish light inc reased till it flooded the surrounding country. When we drove out on to the level highway, Polevoi rolled over to one side and t oo his revolver out of its holster. We heard the clic of the safety catch. The road r-an through a fairly thic pine-grove. There were fewer and fewer clea rings and turnings. The nearer we got to town, the denser the forest became. Soo n the Kalinovsy road was lined on both sides with a solid wall of trees. All of a sudden, as we drove down from the top of a rise, three men jumped out o f the roadside ditch and barred our path. Who were they? Not bandits? But they were! "Halt, scum! . . ." The shout came from a bandit, who had gripped the horses by the bridles and was tugging at them with all his strength. The frightened horses reared up snorting and swung aside. Our cart swerved across the road. The unexpected lurch nearly threw me off the h ay. "Get down, curse you!" the bandit who had stopped the horses shouted to our' dri ver. Lowering their revolvers, the other two waled slowly up to the horses. They mus t have thought the driver was on the cart alone. "Drag him down, the dog!" one of the bandits called with a hoarse oath. At that moment there was a loud report beside us. Peta clung to me in fright. It was Polevoi who had fired. He was neeling in the hay. His Kuban hat had fall en off. With his long-barrelled revolver right up close to his eyes he was firing at the bandits. I could see the little sharp tongues of flame leaping out of the thin barrel. One of the bandits gave a cry and crumpled to the ground. The other two bolted. Leaping over the ditch, they vanished into the dense forest. A shot rang out from below. It was the driver firing at the fleeing bandits. The echo rolle d among the silent trees and died away. How quiet it had become all round! Only the undergrowth cracling to the left of

us where the bandits had run! It was as if a startled animal were charging thro ugh the trees. Down below, under the wheels, the bandit whom Polevoi had shot was groaning. "Wait a minute, Stepan, don't shoot," Polevoi ordered the driver loudly, but in a voice that was quite calm. Then he sprang to the ground, revolver in hand. "Ke ep a looout," he ordered the driver quietly, and he himself went up to the band it. It was too creepy for Peta and me to stay up there on the cart. "Let's get down, Peta, shall we?" I whispered, nodding towards the road. We gripped the rope that secured the hay and jumped quietly to the ground. We we nt up to Polevoi. He was neeling beside the bandit, searching him. Frightened t hough I was, I wanted to loo at the bandit too. Mastering my fear, ] bent down. The bandit lay quite still. There was blood on his face. His left hand was throw n bac, just as if he were trying to grab a stone. I shuddered . . . No, it could not be . . . I must be mistaen . . . U bent down right close to the bandit, and again a shudder ran down my spine. Th e bandit looed very much lie Maro Grzhibovsy. "Peta, that isn't Maro, is it?" I said, nudging Peta. Peta also bent down over the bandit, but started bac quicly. "It is Maro . . ." he whispered in horror, recoiling from the dead man. Yes, of course it was Maro, pug-faced Maro, the son of the sausage-manufacture r Pan Grzhibovsy. That was his stubborn forehead, his thic-set nec. Why, and even his tunic was the same one with the high collar he had been wearing when we ;saw him last at Nagoranye! "Nestor Varnayevich, that's Maro Grzhibovsy. We now him," I said. But Polevoi answered us with a strict, "Bac in the hay at once. We can handle t his without your help." He did not want us to loo at a dead man. We moved away and were just about to climb up on the hay when we heard the rattl e of a cart on the other side of the rise. It was coming towards us. Suppose it was Maro's friends hurrying to his aid? Peta and I burrowed under the sheepsin, as if that could save us from the band its. The forest with its tall pine-trees, branching alders, and stocy bushes se emed to close in on us from all sides. The beat of the hooves and rattle of wheels grew louder and louder. At last a co ach and pair galloped over the rise and drew up within five paces of us. "Kozhuhar, is that you?" Polevoi called quietly, raising his revolver. "Comrade Commander, I didn't recognize you," Kozhuhar shouted joyfully from the coach. He leapt to the ground, rifle in hand, land -ran over to Polevoi, but, having ne arly trod on Maro's hand, jumped bac with a gasp of surprise. "Oh, you've been . . ." . He stared at Maro Grzhibovsy's dead face, now clearly visible in the light o f the moon. "All right, let's get moving," Polevoi said shortly, and put his revolver bac i n its wooden holster. A few minutes later we were on our way again. Peta and I lay in the hay, scarce ly daring to breathe. I peered into the surrounding thicets. Every tree, it see med to me, must conceal a bandit. They were well hidden among the shadows, but w e, in the light of the moon, were in full view. Why by all that's holy did the d river drive his horses so fast! Why didn't he go a bit slower . . . Hooves mae such a noise on cobble-stones. The thunder of hooves and rattle of wheels echoed all over the" forest. Probably Maro Grzhibovsy's friends fearsome, hairy bandits had heard the noise and were al ready crawling towards the road, thirsting for revenge. They were armed with bom bs and sown-off guns. In this dense forest they were the masters every path was n own to them. But distant lights were already showing through the forest. The town was near. P olevoi's regiment was stationed there, my father lived there. In town the street

s were lighted with electric lamps. And a sentry stood guard on the fortress bri dge. If the bandits chased us, he would stop them. The thought made me so happy that I hugged Peta in my arms. And now it felt good to be riding on the hay. The sheepsin warmed us lie a bla net. The town was getting nearer and nearer. And in front of our cart ran the yellow carriage, in which my friend Kozhuhar was driving the corpse of Maro Grzhibovs y to the local Extraordinary Commission. JOYFUL AUTUMN School started late in the autumn. The last yellow leaves had fallen from the tr ees. Many of the Zarechye housewives were collecting them in sacs on New Boulev ard. They would come in useful in winter to light the fire and feed the goats wi th. The weather was eeping fine cold, fresh days, the sy blue and clear, and not a c loud to be seen from morning to night. Whole flocs of crows were circling over the yellow bastions of Old Fortress. Blac-headed finches swayed on the branches of the rowan-trees, pecing at the tart berries with their blunt hooed beas. Now and again we noticed their crimson breasts in the gardens of Zarechye. There were such a lot of them this autumn. Soon we should start catching them on twig s smeared with glue. Over the balcony of our old High School, a new, red notice showed through the ba re branches of the chestnut-trees. TARAS SHEVCHENKO PEOPLE'S SCHOOL The High School had gone for ever. I came into class as if I had always been there. Already a new class register had been made up and my name was in it along with t hose of all my comrades. Lots of new things had been happening at our school. So on, it was said, a pupils' committee would be elected. Pani Rodlevsaya, the singing mistress, trailed about the corridors looing very glum. She would not be teaching us those old songs any longer. And she had not yet learnt our new songs. She had been transferred to the next class. When her p upils called her "Comrade Teacher," so I had heard, she winced as if someone had trod on her dress. Instead of Rodlevsaya our singing teacher was Chibisov the on e we had had at the Town School. Chibisov was very thin and wore dar glasses. On the whole he was not a bad teac her, no trouble at all really. The only thing was that every day after school he used to go to the cathedral. Chibisov was the choir-master there, and he had go t so smoed up in church that he reeed lie a priest of incense and burnt candl es. The botany master Polovyan was pleased with life and always busy. He himself had taen down all the portraits of the Petlura ministers in the Great Hall, torn t hem out of the frames and reinstated his old photographs of animals; the first p hotograph to go bac was, of course, the famous ant-eating bear. Zusammen, however, was nowhere to be seen. J had heard he was still ill. But per haps he was just afraid of the Communists? But the biggest and happiest surprise, especially for us, former town-school pup ils, was that Valerian Dmitrievich Lazarev had been appointed head-master of our people's school. On the first day of term he called us together in the Great Hall and said: "Don't laugh at me, boys, for speaing Urainian badly. Though I am a Urainian, I studied at a Russian university, and in those days the tsar would not let the students study in their own language. Naturally I have forgotten a word or two. But now you and I are living in the Soviet Uraine, where the majority of the p opulation spea Urainian. Therefore our people's school will be a Urainian sch ool. And you will learn our native Urainian language thoroughly, so that you n ow it properly. Let's get on well together, lads, and not have any quarrels. The

war is over, and now we can study in peace. Our school bears the name of the gr eat Urainian poet Tiaras Shevcheno. Never forget his wise and simple words: Learn and read, And learn from others, And never shun your own . . ." We were glad to hear the quiet calm voice of our favourite teacher after so long a time. And even those who had never met him, greeted him warmly. Everybody too a liing to him. The following Saturday Peta and I ran into Valerian Dmitrievich near the teache r's common-room. "Valerian Dmitrievich," I said, plucing up my courage. "When are you going to t ae us to the underground passage?" "What underground passage?" Lazarev ased in surprise. "Don't you remember, Valerian Dmitrievich, you promised us long ago, before Petl ura came?" Peta blurted out. "Wait . . . wait a moment . . . We were going to go down the underground passage near Old Fortress, was that it?" "That's right," Peta cried. "Well, we can go now." "Really, Valerian Dmitrievich?" I could scarcely believe my ears at first. "But how can we go there when we haven't got a lantern," said Peta plaintively. Valerian Dmitrievich smiled. "That really is a disadvantage. All right, I'll tell Niifor to find us one." During the last lesson our old friend Niifor the care-taer found a lantern in the store-room and filled it with erosene. Before the bell had stopped ringing, before Polovyan, the botany master, had clo sed the class register, I had dashed out of the class-room into the corridor. Pe ta dashed after me and, forgetting that the teachers were still about, shouted at the top of his voice: "Vasya! Wait, Vasya!" On the floor, by the door of the teacher's common-room stood the old, rusty Lant ern. I seized it at once. When Peta ran up he looed very put out. But all he s aid was: "Thin I want to get my hands dirty with erosene . . ." The door of the common-room opened and Lazarev appeared in a peaed cap, with a ball of twine under his arm. An embroidered Urainian shirt peeped out from unde r his tussore jacet, and in the velvet band round his cap there was a hole wher e the cocade had been removed. "Ready so soon?" Lazarev ased, surveying us, and handed Peta the ball of twine . "Here, carry this." Peta, proud to be trusted by Valerian Dmitrievich, darted to the stairs. When we reached the street, he looed up at Lazarev and 'ased: "Where is your c ocade?" Lazarev put his hand quicly to his cap and felt for the cocade. "I must have lost it," he replied in a worried voice. And he started looing for the cocade on the ground. Then I noticed that he was smiling. "Aha," I thought, "you can't fool us." Peta realized, too, that the head-master was joing. "Have you really, Valerian Dmitrievich?" he ased innocently. Lazarev smiled. "Your eyes are too sharp, you notice everything," he said. "I've taen it off, t here's no need for it now." "Did you throw it away?" Peta ased cautiously. "No, it's lying about somewhere at home." Peta was silent, then he gave a sniff and suddenly looed straight at Lazarev.

"Give it to me, Valerian Dmitrievich," he said in a trembling voice. "The cocade? What do you need it for?" "Oh, I just collect all sorts of badges . . ." "What a cadger!" I thought. "Fancy having the nerve to as lie that?" "Yes, you can have it." "Really? Oh, thans!" said Peta and beamed with pleasure. A few minutes later, when we were waling down to the fortress bridge, Peta sai d complacently: "I say, Valerian Dmitrievich, cowardly people are afraid of this underground pas sage. But I'm not a bit. Vasya and I were at Nagoranye in the summer. There are some terrific Fox Caves there. We went all over them, and I didn't turn a hair." "What are you lying for?" I wanted to shout. "We never went inside the Fox Caves ." But Peta realized that in his high spirits he had gone a bit too far. He blushe d and looed at me with such pleading eyes that I felt sorry for him and decided not to give him away. "There's a boaster for you," I thought. "So you're not a bit afraid, eh? All rig ht, you'll change your tune in the underground passage." The underground passage began in the crag under the high fortress wall. From out side it looed just lie an ordinary cellar. A flight of white stone steps scatt ered with rubbish and dung led down into the darness. On a heap of rubbish righ t in the entrance a big bush of nightshade had sprung up. From the underground p assage rose a dan smell of mould and rotting wood. Without a word, Lazarev too a box of matches out of his pocet, struc a match and, shielding it from the wind, lighted the lantern. A cobweb under the glass f lared up and burnt out at once; the even tongue of flame, hardly visible in the daylight, stretched upwards and burnt steadily. "Now tie the twine," Lazarev instructed Peta. Peta nelt down and, showing the tip of his tongue in his excitement, tied the twine to a post fixed in the ground just by the road. "Well, shall we move?" With these words Lazarev led the way into the underground passage. His white fig ure disappeared in the darness. As I went down the steps after Lazarev I notice d the grey-capped sentry wave us good-bye. I raised my hand to return his wave, but at that moment Peta pushed me on and I found myself in darness that the fa int light of the lantern did little to overcome. We had not gone more than a few paces when the passage too a sharp turn to the right, under Old Fortress, and the circle of light from the entrance disappeared . How long we waled I do not now; but it was a long time. All round us there see med to be mildewy stone walls. The underground passage was lie a narrow corrido r, and we had to bend low as we made our way along it. I waled behind Lazarev a nd could see hardly anything but his white fec. Peta puffed along close by, un winding the ball of twine. "Careful. Now, let's have some light," said Lazarev. Stumbling forward, I jabbed him right in the bac with the lantern. I raised the lantern so that it shed its light all round. The wall looed as if it had been burst open by some underground torrent. In front of us lay a heap of stones, spr inled with clay and sand. A damp smell was coming from somewhere. "Steady now, boys," Lazarev said, and too the lantern. I did not now what to do at first. How could I go on without the lantern? What if this passage led straight to the well under the Blac Tower and we dropped in to that rushing underground torrent? But Lazarev, holding the lantern before him, climbed boldly over the heap of sto ne. Having done so, he stopped and lighted the way for me. Dazzled by the light of the lantern, my feet slipping in all directions, I found my way across the un steady mass more by sense of touch than anything else, and stood beside Lazarev. After that we went on together; the passage had become wider and cleaner. The g round underfoot was firm, as if someone had rolled it specially. I had just made up my mind that nothing could stop us now, when Lazarev halted.

A solid wooden barrier bloced the path. Someone had deliberately boarded up the passage, and a very long time ago by the loo of it. The broad thic boards wer e covered with mildew, and on one side, where they were nailed to a post, a bunc h of toadstools was sprouting. "There's a fine ettle of fish," said Lazarev, surveying the barrier. He turned to us, his eyes twinling and ased: "Shall we go bac?" "Can't we go through there?" I said, pointing to the barrier. "Through there? How can we? It's boarded up." There was a silence. (It would be a pity to go bac. Fancy coming all the way down here just to turn bac at the first obstacle. 'I stepped up to the barrier, wedged both hands in a chin between the boards an d, pressing my feet on one of the lower boards, pulled hard. Before I new what had happened I was lying on my bac on the ground. The boards had rotted with ag e and little strength had been needed to pull away the upper board and push the lower through into the passage. My feet were now on the other side of the barrie r, and a damp slippery board lay on my chest. "Suppose someone grabs my legs on the other side!" I thought, and jumped hastily to my feet. "You're a real giant, Mandzhura," said Lazarev approvingly. Without much difficulty we pulled down another board and crawled one after the o ther through the barrier. Now we were in the real subterranean regions. Perhaps no one had been here for h undreds of years. We should certainly have something to tell the chaps at school . It was easy and pleasant to wal; the path was either dust or rotten wood, land our feet made no noise. Suddenly my foot crunched on something and there was a c laning sound. "Valerian . . ." I shouted and could not get the rest out. Lazarev lowered the lantern at once. Under the old damp wall I saw bones and, be side them, a round white sull embedded in the ground, "What's up, Vasya? Eh?" Peta whispered, bumping into me from behind. I did not answer. I was frightened. Now I regretted that we had come down into t his beastly underground passage. The seleton was long and narrow, and it lay wi th its arms outstretched. Between them, lie a round cobblestone, loomed the whi te sull. Lazarev bent down boldly and piced up a jangling chain. I saw a pair of fetters. The white bones of the hands at once sprinled out of the fetter rin gs. "Who is it?" Peta ased in a queer flat voice. "Who is it?" Lazarev repeated calmly, jangling the fetters and holding them up a lmost to his face. "Hard to say. One can only guess . . . . Let's thin . . ." 'In the underground passage it became very quiet. The lamp was burning unevenly. Its flicering light danced over the walls. We co uld hear each other's breathing clearly in the silence. "Let's thin," Lazarev repeated slowly. "This man died a long time ago, obviousl y not in the war that's just over. So we must turn to history. When Colonel Hont a of Uman, and Maxim Zheleznya, started the 1768 rebellion against the Polish p ans, nown in history as the Koliivshchina, the pans succeeded in crushing the r ebellion and started rounding up Honta's Cossacs. Our Old Fortress was -also us ed as a prison for the Cossacs whom the Polish gaidus caught and condemned to death. Who nows, perhaps this man was one of them . . ." After a pause Lazarev added: "Or perhaps this fettered prisoner was a friend of the famous rebel Karmelu. I'm going by the fetters. They are about a hundred an d fifty years old. In any case, this man could not have been a pan, or he would not have had to die here in chains . . ." II bent down, and was about to touch t he sull when Peta cried: "Don't, Vasya, don't!" and cowered bac in the darness. "Don't touch it, leave it as it is," Lazarev ordered sternly. I thought how this unnown man had died here, underground. He must have struggle d desperately for a long time, feeling along the walls with his fettered hands,

returning to the bolted prison door many times, then going bac, searching, sear ching all the time for a way out, until at last he fell, tormented and exhausted , on the dan earth, never to rise again. Of course it was a friend of Karmelu's. Only Karmelu and his friends would hav e dared to try to escape from this terrible fortress. Probably this man had been with Karmelu when he lay in wait for the Polish pans on the mountain roads of Podolia and too vengeance on them for their cruelty to the poor fol. Perhaps h e had taen refuge with Karmelu in the dense forests of Podolia and by their ca mp-fire, on a calm, starry night, in some remote gully unnown to the pans, had struc up quietly the song of the brave Karmelu: Poor people, poor people, I now you through and through. And when I see you suffer, I shed bitter tears for you. The world counts me a happy man, For the merry smile I wear. It little nows how sad's my heart That feels but grief and care. Where'er across the land I go, I see the worth of rich men's laws, I see the hoggish luxury and wealth That with their aid he stores. And probably, when they had finished that sad slow song, the dawn would come, an d the stars in the sy would fade. Then in the light of their dying fire Karmelu s comrades, as they gathered up. their weapons and prepared to move on, would s trie up a fresh song, full of spirit: But up, my lads, and forward now, For I am here with you. On a dar night, on a dar road, The pans their wealth shall rue. And, surely, the first to strie up that song would be Ustim Karmelu himself. I remembered all that Lazarev had told us about Karmelu, and saw him as he must have looed in that remote gully by the faint light of dawn a giant of a man, with broad shoulders, fastening his jerin of brown homespun.' I saw his brave and f ormidable face with the brand seered by glowing iron on his broad forehead. I sa w him tighten his belt, clap his hat on his head, tae his old flint-loc pistol in one hand, and a gnarled stic in the other, and say to his friends: "Come, lads! Let us give the pans a feast." And thus thining of Karmelu, I fol lowed Lazarev along the underground passage. Peta puffed along beside me. I stretched out my hand and felt the ball of twine he was holding in front of hi m. There was hardly any twine left. What if we got lost down here? I wanted to as Lazarev to turn bac, but could not bring myself to do so. "It's a good job that Red Army man noticed us coming in," I thought. "If anything goe s wrong he will send his pals to rescue us." "Stop," said Lazarev and raised his hand. Holding his lamp high, he stepped forw ard cautiously into a small chamber, in the wall on the right there was a square blac hole; in the left-hand corner I could mae out two dar slits. Lazarev tu rned left, and when we reached the slits, we saw that the continuation of the pa ssage was there. True, the way through was almost bloced by a large stone slab, but Lazarev pushed it hard and the huge slab of granite turned on an iron spind le until it stood sideways in the opening, leaving two tall narrow slits on eith er side. Both of them were large enough for a man to step through. Lazarev hande d the lantern silently to Peta and, leaning on the stone door, peered into the depths of the passage. Peta shone the lantern. "I should say the main passage goes on here. But what is that over there, then?" So saying, Lazarev went over to the small square hole-high in the opposite wall

. We followed him. Suddenly I stumbled. "Show a light," I whispered to Peta. Pe ta held out the lantern as if he expected to find another sull lying on the gr ound. He only recovered his nerve when he had taen a good loo at the ordinary bloc of stone lying at my feet. This must have been the stone that had filled t he blac opening through which Lazarev, standing on tip-toe, was now looing. As we watched him, he thrust his hand into the opening and began pulling away the stones. They thudded heavily to the floor and the concave roof of the chamber se emed to shae with every thud. Lazarev went on boldly pulling away the stones, b eyond which there lay nothing but blac emptiness. When the hole was large enoug h, Lazarev nodded towards the dar opening and said: "I thin it'll be more interesting down here. What do you thin, boys?" We said nothing, and truth to tell, there was no other thought in our heads but how to get out of here as soon as possible, and see the sun, and breathe the fre sh autumn air. Without waiting for an answer, Lazarev dismissed the stone door w ith a wave of his hand and added, "Of course, that's the main passage. But we ca n always go there. Let's have a loo at the secret place." And taing the lanter n from Peta, he strode to the opening he had made and stepped through it. We fo llowed him. The going was much worse now than it had been. There were many sharp stones sticing up out of the ground, and the way lay uphi ll.' But we had only climbed fifty paces, when we began to descend. The farther we went, the steeper the slope became, and the narrower the passage. It was now quite impossible to wal abreast. Lazarev led the way, jangling the fetters and swinging the lantern. He waled slowly, feeling the wall with his free hand. The ground was slippery underfoot. I, too, pressed my hands against the slimy walls , to save myself from falling. A damp ' smell rose from below. "Valerian Dmitrievich, wait," I shouted, but my voice did not carry in the dan, musty air. A drop of water splashed down the bac of my nec. Little streams were tricling down the walls. I was already waling in water, and I fancied I could hear the croaing of frogs. But then I felt a fresh breeze in my face. I too a few more paces and felt the ground going up hill again. It was drier. There was no water at all. "Wait, Vasya! Don't go so fast," Peta shouted imploringly as he panted after me . "Hurry," I shouted bac. And we scrambled up and up until I again found myself at Lazarev's side. He was bending down, shining the lantern on a heap of stone and gravel. It was the end of the passage. "What a nuisance! It's a dead end," Lazarev said perplexedly. And indeed it looed lie a dead end, but the air here was clean and fresh. "Hold this, Mandzhura," said Lazarev, giving me the lantern. "Let's see what thi s does." And he iced the heap as hard as he could. His foot sun into soft ground. And when he pulled it out, we saw a round hole, and beyond it sunlight. We quicly scraped away the earth with our hands and, when the hole was big enou gh, stood aside to let Lazarev through. I was the last to crawl out of the under ground passage. At first I could not understand where we were. There were bushes all round the hole and a little distance away rose a tall battlemented tower. T he tower stood on the edge of a precipice. Far below, between rocy bans, flowe d a river, gleaming in the sun. And only when II glanced to the left and saw the bac of the. Old Fortress rising on a hill, did I realize that we had turned up in the Tatarisa district, about a verst and a half from our Zarechye. "I thought we'd come out in Kalinovsy Woods, but loo how near we are," Peta s aid disappointedly. "We ought to have taen the other passage." "Let's tae it then," I challenged him. "Want to go bac?" "No, what for?" Peta answered in alarm. "It's too late now anyway." And as though he were afraid I might drag him bac into that dar hole, Peta mo ved away, to the tall watch-tower. "Valerian Dmitrievich! Valerian Dmitrievich!" he shouted suddenly. "Loo what's written here."

"Where?" Lazarev ased, going up to Peta. "Loo." A small marble tablet was set in the stone wall over the entrance to the watch-t ower. On it was carved the inscription: "Felix, regnum quod tempore pads, tracta t bella." "It was the Poles wrote that, wasn't it, Valerian Dmitrievich?" Peta ased. "It's written in Latin," said Lazarev. "That inscription must be about two hundr ed and fifty years old. Now what would the translation be? Wait a moment . . ." And Lazarev pursed his lips, muttering something under his breath. We gazed at him in expectation. At length, Lazarev said cheerfully: "Well, the meaning is approximately this: 'Happy the state that in time of peace prepares for war.' " After that my respect for Lazarev new no bounds. And as for Peta, he gazed at Lazarev in wonder. Peta was also very pleased with himself for having spotted t he little marble tablet first. Lazarev glanced around him, piced up the fetters and said: "Well, boys, that's that, let's go home. We've had a pretty good outing this tim e. I thin we had better call it a day." "Shall we come here again?" I ased. "Indeed we shall. We'll get together a few more enthusiasts and come here on Sun day for the whole day. Remember how we used to go to the fortress? . . ." We accompanied Lazarev as far as the boulevard, then said good-bye and went home to Zarechye to have dinner. Outside Old Estate we tossed to decide who should t ae the lantern to school on Monday. Peta won the toss. I ran home empty-handed , but highly pleased with the day's outing. Osa came from Nagoranye to live with us and go to our school. Between lessons w e often went out on the square in search of chestnuts. We used to find them in t he heaps of yellow leaves and fill our pocets with them, and then off we would go bac to the third floor. It was good fun throwing chestnuts from the balcony ac ross the square they whizzed through the air lie bullets. Peta had got such a nac that he could throw them nearly as far as the cathedral. One day he got Pro opovich right in the bac with a chestnut. We often saw Proopovich our old hea dmaster. He had become a priest and was serving in the cathedral. A funny sight we thought him the first time we saw him in his long green robe, with a heavy si lver crucifix on his chest. Now, whenever we saw Proopovich coming down the str eet, we would raise the shout: "Fly-catcher! Fly-catcher!" We had been having lessons normally for three wees and no one thought any fresh pupils would join the school, when Kota Grigoreno suddenly appeared in class. I even felt a shudder run down my spine when I saw him in the doorway of our cla ss-room. The lesson had already begun. Polovyan, the botany master, was pinning drawings of a mammoth's seleton on the board. So that Polovyan should not notic e him, Kota tip-toed to the bac of the class and sat down quietly at the bac des. All through the lesson I was itching to turn round, just for a glance to s ee what Kota was doing, but I stopped myself. After all, 'we were enemies. By the time the long brea came round Kota had got used to things and was quite his old self again. Before the bell rang he had smudged the whole blacboard wi th chal drawing a picture of a thatched cottage, taen several flying leaps ove r the dess, and swopped two pencils with Yasha Titor for an Austrian cartridge . He did not spea to me or to Peta. The next day, as soon as the third lesson was over, frecled Sasha Bobir came an d sat at our des. "Help me, chaps," he whispered, glancing round at his neighbours. "What's up?" Osa ased. "Listen, chaps," Sasha went on imploringly. "Kota's got my bulldog. He's brough t it to school with him. I saw him showing it to Titor. I'll give you some pell ets, chaps I've got a whole pound of pellets at home but you must help me against K ota."

"Where's Kota now?" Peta ased, getting up. His eyes were gleaming. He stepped out from his des. "He ran upstairs, he's upstairs," Sasha answered excitedly. Sasha was so agitated that even his frecles were red. We found Kota at the end of an empty corridor on the third floor. He was saunte ring towards us, his hands in his pocets. "Loo here, Kota . . ." Sasha began in a trembling voice. "Well?" Kota stopped and too his hands out of his pocets. He stood before us in his grey high-school tunic, his head thrust slightly forwa rd. In his bright unfriendly eyes there was misgiving and alarm. "Kota, give me bac my revolver," Sasha said firmly. "Your revolver?" Kota repeated with a start. "I haven't got any revolver." "You have, don't lie," Sasha retorted hoarsely. "It's in your pocet." At that moment Kota jumped bac to the window. Peta leaped to cut him off. "Grab his legs," he shouted. I lied that grab his legs! It was not so easy as Peta thought. Kota was icing so violently that it was impossible to get near him. At the same time he was je ring his shoulders to free himself of Peta, but Peta had a firm grip on him f rom behind and would not let go. Kota grunted with anger and shoo his head, bu t could not get free. "Go on, grab 'em. Give it to him. What are you afraid of?" Peta encouraged us. Just then I managed to grasp one of Kota's legs. I gripped his boot firmly and pulled. Sasha weighed in and brought Kota down on the floor at Peta's feet. We weren't afraid of Kota now. Now we would search him. "Let me go, I'll give it to you myself," Kota ground out between his teeth. "Will you?" Sasha, perched on Kota's bac, insisted suspiciously. "I will . . . Honestly, I will," Kota promised. "All right, let him go, chaps," Bobir commanded and jumped to his feet. Rather reluctantly we obeyed. Without looing at us, Kota, battered and disheve lled, got up slowly and patted the dust out of his trousers. Then he put his han d in his pocet and unhurriedly pulled out the nicel-plated bulldog. It was a v ery nice bulldog new and shining; you could see it had not been used much. Sasha even liced his lips. "Give it to me," he said, stretching out his long, thin hand. "Give you what? What do you want?" Kota ased with a loo of surprise, eeping a tight hold on the butt of the revolver. . "My revolver!" Bobir groaned, and held out the other hand. "Your revolver? Fiddlestics!" And with that, Kota swung bac his arm and threw the bulldog out of the open window. "There you are," he hissed spitefully. Just then there was a loud bang down below in the square. Now what? That must have been Sasha's revolver going off when it hit the pavemen t. Suppose the bullet had illed someone in the square? Peta recoiled to the st airs, and Kota, straightening his tunic, grinned spitefully. "Well, did you get it?" he ased. Only then, recovering our senses, did we realize how cleverly Kota had triced us. "You . . . you . . . you want to join your father, do you?" Sasha stuttered, goi ng pale. "Wait," Peta interrupted. "Let's go out on the balcony and see what's happened. " We raced down the corridor. "What ind of revolver is it a self-loader?" I ased, overtaing Sasha. "Yes," Sasha answered plaintively. We peeped cautiously over the balcony into the street. The square was deserted. Yellow leaves were scattered over the cobbles. At the corner of the school build ing, under the window through which Kota had tossed the revolver a Red Army man was standing looing up at the third floor, where the wind was swaying the open casements. After standing there for a while, the Red Army man thrust the revolver into his

pocet and, glancing round from time to time, slowly waled away. Sasha watched every step with pain in his eyes. Never again would he see his bul ldog! The rest of us, also watched the Red Army man with regret. II even thought of running after him. It seemed to me that if you ased the Red Army man proper ly, he would give the bulldog bac. What did he need with a stupid little revolv er lie that? He probably had a Nagant. But while I was thining of these things , the Red Army man disappeared behind the cathedral. It was too late. Bac in the class-room we found Kota standing by the teacher's des. "I'll get even with you," he threatened. "Just wait . . ." "All right, we now. You want some more, do you? Petlura snae!" Peta answered fiercely. Chibisov came into the class-room with his music under his arm, and Kota, glanc ing round, sat down at his des. Soon after this incident we learnt from Yasha Titor that in another school on t he Ternopolsy Slope the senior classes were taught a new subject we. had never heard of before politgramota. "That's about politics," Sasha Bobir explained importantly. "How do you now?" Peta ased, eyeing Sasha with distrust. "Oh, I now all about it," Sasha said, hopping about proudly. "My big brother go es to a Komsomol group that the printers have. I've heard him use that word." "Why don't we have this . . . what is it, Yasha?" Peta ased. "Politgramota," Yasha prompted him. "Why not? Don't you now why not?" Sasha replied. "The teachers don't want it that 's why. Do you thin they're interested in politics? Let's go and complain about them." "Go where?" Peta ased, edging up to Sasha. "To the red house on the other side of Old Boulevard," Sasha suggested boldly. " My brother said that's where all the chiefs hear complaints from people." Peta looed scared. "To the red house . . . Why go there? We ought to as Lazar ev." "Lazarev can't do anything by himself, you ass," II said. "He's all on his own s o far, and there are a lot of snaes lie that Rodlevsaya round, him. They've g ot their claws into him as it is." The following day we were going home from school, to Zarechye. I felt happy and light at heart. We had hardly any home-wor to do and the weather was fine. The sun was shining brightly; its clear rays flooded over our hilly town, gleaming o n the bluish paving stones and the puddles left by the rain of the night before. I blined up at the sun, thining to myself how good it would be if summer laste d all the year round. But winter would soon be here. It would start with light f rosts, the roofs would be grey in the mornings, the green grass on the allotment would wither, and then the real frosts would come, each one harder than the Las t, and suddenly the river below Old Fortress would freeze over. When you threw a pebble, it would bounce over the ice and slide along without even leaving a mar the ice would be so firm and smooth and clear. But just then I thought how good it would be in the mornings to run out into the school yard during long brea an d smash the fine coating of ice that had formed on the puddles overnight. You wo uld tae a run and a jump into one of those puddles, the ice would crac and sna p, but you would fly on without even wetting your boots. And then how good it wo uld be after brea to run in from the cold and, before the teacher came, press u p against the warm painty-smelling stove. And I no longer felt a bit sorry that autumn was passing. I was even glad. I must get my "snow maidens" sharpened.. . But then I heard Sasha Bobir's hoarse voice strie up in front: We're sons of those who too up arms, Petlura's hopes to blight, Who left their worshops and their homes, On barricades to fight . . . Sasha sang badly, in a bleating tone, not at all as the Red Army men stationed a t the diocesan convent sang that song. I was about to shout and tell Sasha to e

ep quiet, when Peta joined in too. Our armoured train flies on ahead. Communism is journey's end. No other route will do instead. With rifles our rights we'll defend. Sasha and Peta sang together, marching down, the cobbled road. Now I, too, found it hard to eep quiet. We marched straight down the middle of the road, singing lie real Red Army men: And Who Who And many there's a lad with us, marched at Father's side, passed him shell or cartridge clip, "Vengeance!" with him cried.

People in the street stopped and stared after us. Singing our cheerful song, we came out on Old Boulevard. It was difficult to march abreast down the marrow pat h leading between the trees. We changed to single file and the song broe off at once. The boulevard was lie a wood, there were so many trees about. Dry, yello w leaves flew past in the wind. Sasha too a running jump into a ditch full of leaves and lay bac in it, grinni ng blissfully. "Here's a soft place, chaps. Loo!" he called to us. We dived after him into the ditch as if it were a stream, and started throwing a rmfuls of golden leaves into the air and showering them over one another. The le aves floated round us lie huge red butterflies, then, twirling their crooed ta ils, dropped wearily on the yellow earth. At length we left Old Boulevard and went out into the street. "Us that the house you were taling about, Sasha?" Peta ased, pointing to a bi g red-bric two-storey building next to the post-office. "Yes, that's the one," Sasha exclaimed. "That's the place we ought to go to." "I now a chap who wors there," Peta boasted. "Come off it . . . 'You now a chap!' . . ." I chipped in. "Of course I do," Peta insisted indignantly. "Doesn't Omelusty wor there? Have you forgotten?" Peta was right. Omelusty did wor there. My father had told me so. Omelusty was living in town now, in the Town Soviet's hostel, and we rarely saw him. "Let's go and see Omelusty then," Sasha decided at once. "Come on, let's go now. " "No, why now?" Peta started to retreat. "We can go later." "Aha!" Sasha burst out gleefully. "So you don't now anyone there after all. You were maing it up." Peta flared up again. "Me maing things up? Come on then . . . You'll see!" And he marched away in the direction of the red house. On the brown oa door of the house there was a cardboard notice. Regional Committee of the Communist Party of the Uraine Regional Committee of t he Komsomol of the Uraine "Well, shall we go in?" Peta ased doubtfully, having read the notice. Without replying, Sasha pushed Peta forward through the big oa door. But Peta resisted, clinging to the doorpost. "Oh, go on! What's the matter?" I said. "Only crabs wal bacwards." The heavy door banged noisily behind us. We went a little way up a marble staircase. On the right, a dar corridor led aw ay among the rooms of the ground-floor. Where should we go? Perhaps the corridor would be better? From the far end of the corridor came the sound of a typewriter. We waled a few paces in semi-darness and stopped outside a door. A voice was speaing loudly inside. Suddenly the door opened and our old neighbour Omelusty stepped into the corridor. He was wearing tall tarpaulin boots, an embroidered blouse buttoned h

igh at the nec, and blue riding-breeches. "What are you doing here, lads?" he ased, looing at us in surprise. "Hullo, Uncle Ivan . . . it's us!" And pushing the others aside, I went up to Om elusty. "Vasya? . . . Why, I didn't recognize you. Well, come in, now you've paid us a v isit." We followed him into a large room with a tiled fireplace. In the room there were some people sitting on tables, taling. On seeing us, the y fell silent. The room was very smoy. Blue clouds of smoe were floating up to the ceiling. Three rifles stood in a pile by the fire-place. "Here's a delegation come to see me," Omelusty said with a laugh, pointing at us . "What are you going to treat them to?" a stocy bald-headed man in a hai tunic responded. "You might at least have got some bublis for them." "But where can 'I get them?" said Omelusty, spreading his arms. "Tae a seat on the window-sill, lads," he invited. "We've only got two chairs and you can see h ow many people there are here." I told Omelusty about our school and about the pupils' committee. He listened at tentively, scratching his chin. "Our head-master's a good one, but the new singing teacher Chibisov sings in chu rch and believes in God," Peta interrupted. "And Pani Rodlevsaya doesn't tae any notice of the pupils' committee at all," I interrupted Peta. "She says the pupils' committee -are just a lot of upstarts ." "We want politgramota. They have it at the other school, why don't we have it?" Sasha blurted out with sudden, resolution. Omelusty chucled. His comrades sitting on the tables laughed too. And one of th em pulled out a note-boo and wrote something in it. "All right, lads, you'll get everything: politgram and good teachers and lunches and blacboards. Just wait a while," Omelusty promised, rubbing his forehead. " All of us have got to study now. I shall be going to the Party School myself." Just before we left, I drew Omelusty aside and said to him quietly: "We were cal led up before the Extraordinary Commission. Do you now Kudrevich?" "I do, Vasya, I do," Omelusty replied with a win, and added: "Don't tal too mu ch about it though." Exactly a wee later, after the second brea, a tall lad in a plain brown shirt, rough green trousers, and heavy army boots with el-sin soles came into our cl ass-room. We were running about the room, and the arrival of the new-comer broug ht us up short, some at the blacboard, some round the stove, and Peta Maremuh a actually on the teacher's platform. "Sit down," the lad said unexpectedly. "Sit down," he repeated, clearing his thr oat. Staring at him, we sat down at whatever dess were nearest. "Boys . . ." the lad said hoarsely, and again cleared his throat. "Comrades . . . Let's get to now each other. My name is Pancheno. I've been sent to you from the District Committee of the Komsomol. We are going to study politgramota toge ther. Do you now what politgramota is?" The class was silent. What could we say? In speechless wonder we sat looing at our strange new teache r, who was so different from any we had nown before.

PART TWO THE HAUNTED HOUSE

OCR: http://home.freeu.com/russica2

WE MAKE A MOVE I wanted to fix up the new pigeon-house in the middle of the yard before Peta c ame. Faster and faster my strong sharp spade plunged into the damp earth, slicin g through roots of grass and long, juicy worms. I drove the spade flush into the earth with my boot, heaved on the smooth handle and dug up great spadefuls of s oil, tossing them neatly to one side, on a dar, ever-growing heap, veined here and there with twisted white roots. Soon a deep pit yawned in the middle of our little yard. I dragged up the pole w ith the pigeon-house on it and lowered it into the ground. Holding the pole with one hand, tossed a few stones into the pit, settled them round the pole and, wh en it no longer wobbled, quicly filled the pit with fresh earth. I had only to level off the ground, when 'I heard the front gate crea. "That must be Peta," I thought, and stepped bac to admire my handiwor. From a distance the pigeon-house looed even better. Made of thin, smooth boards , and painted with ochre, it stood out proudly among the old sheds. My pigeons w ould have a fine life in this little house. Wouldn't Peta be envious! However h ard he tried, he would never be able to mae a pigeon-house as good as mine. There was a sound of footsteps. I turned round slowly. It was my father. "Not a bad pigeon-house that, but you've wasted your time," he said, coming up t o me. "Why?" "We're moving from here tomorrow. Come into the house and I'll tell you about it ." Before Peta arrived, Father had told me everything. The Regional Party Committe e was sending him to wor at the Party School. Father had to install there a sma ll printing-press on which the school's newspaper Students' Voice would be print ed. And since all employees at the Party School lived in government flats, my fa ther had to tae his family and go to live there too. But what would happen to the new pigeon-house? I was not going to leave it here as a present for the new tenants who would move in after us. "But I can tae the pigeon-house with me, Dad." "Can you indeed," Father said with a grin. "The students are just waiting for yo u to come and start eeping pigeons at their place." And as he too a photograph of Lenin off the wall, he added seriously: "Don't be an ass, Vasya. You'll leav e that pigeon-house behind. Don't you realize that people are studying there? Th ey need quiet. And you want to send pigeons pattering over the roofs..." "I won't, Dad, honestly I won't. I'll be ever so quiet." "I now how quiet you'll be; I used to eep pigeons once myself. A pigeon lies air, freedom. It's not a chicen. You can eep a chicen in any little cubby hol e, but even a chicen gets mopy." At that moment the gate creaed in the yard, and someone called quietly: "Vasya! " I recognized Peta's voice at once and grabbed my cap. Father looed out of the window. "Your friend's come to see you," he said. "Give him your pigeons to loo after, and let that be the end of it." Peta did not believe it at first. As he listened to my story, he eyed me distru stfully, thining that I was playing a joe on him. Only when we reached the mai n street of the town, Post Street, did Peta at last decide that I was telling t he truth; and he looed genuinely upset when he learnt that I was leaving Zarech ye. "Peta, swop me your pistol," I suggested. "Not liely!" Peta flashed out at once. "I'm not swopping that, I need it mysel f."

"You need it!" I teased him. "They'll tae it away from you in any case." "Who will?" "You now who the militia." "What good is it to the militia? it's all rusty." "That doesn't mae any difference. It's a weapon, isn't it?" "A weapon! You now that every chap at Podziamche has a dozen pistols lie that hidden away. They even eep sawn-off rifles, and nothing happens to them." Peta was right. When the Civil War ended, a lot of weapons had been left about in our town, and the lads still ept their finds hidden away in secret places. All the same I decided to give Peta a scare. "They'll tae your pistol away from you; you see if they don't. It was all right to eep them before, but the war's over now. Come on, before it's too late, let me swop it." "If they'll tae it off me, they'll tae it off you," Peta retorted quicly and , with a win, he added: "You're a sly one, Vasya. Thin you've found a mug..." "No, I don't. We're moving to the Party School, nobody will say anything to me t here; they're army men." For a few minutes we sat in silence. We had been friends for a long time, and I new that Peta was rather a coward. "I'll eep quiet for a bit," 'I thought. "Let him thin over what I've said." After a while Peta too a deep breath and ased: "Well, what would you give me for my pistol?" "I can give you some pigeons." "All of them?" Peta ased, starting up. "Why all? A couple." "A couple, I lie that. I won't let you have it for a couple." "Well, you needn't... Tomorrow I'll go to Podzamche and get half a dozen pistols just for one of my pigeons." . "Go and try. it,.. The militiaman will stop you on the bridge for a cert." "I'll go round the other way, by the mill." "Go on then..." "All right, I will..." Again we were silent. Far below us, on the ban of the river, a woman was doing her washing. She ept beating the clothes with a stic, then wringing them out and rinsing them again in the fast-flowing water. Near her I could just mae out some white dots where geese were bathing. I watched the geese. Suddenly Peta broe into a hurried whi sper: "Vasya! Give me all your pigeons, and I'll give you twelve extra cartridges as w ell. How's that?" Aha! Peta had swallowed the bait. I had won. ' H stood up, stretched myself and said reluctantly: "All right, but only because you're a friend ...'I'd never have done it for anyo ne else." KOTKA MENDS THE POTS AND PANS We waled down the path together, each of us pleased with himself and confident that he had fooled the other. From time to time Peta uttered contented little g runts. He had had his eye on my pigeons for a long time, since last winter, and now an unexpected piece of luc had come his way. And I should have a pistol. To morrow I would soa it in erosene to get the rust off, then I could do some sho oting. . . We had left New Boulevard long ago and were waling through Zarechye. We passed the long rows of maret stalls, the squat booths of cobblers, glaziers, and tin ers. On the corner of Zhitomir Street, beside a hoarding, stood the worshop of one of the best tiners in Zarechye, Zaharzhevsy. Furred samovar tubes, upturn ed copper pots, rusty saucepans with broen bottoms, enamel bowls, zinc troughs lay scattered on the ground in front of the tiner's shop. Zaharzhevsy came out of the shop in a dirty tarpaulin apron. He began to rumma

ge among his wares. With quic angry movements he threw bits of curled-up tin an d shiny strips of brass from one heap to another; there was a clang and clatter of metal on metal. When we were only a few paces from the shop, Zaharzhevsy straightened up and i n a loud angry voice shouted: "Kota, come here!" In answer to this shout, a lad came out of the open door of the shop into the st reet. It was our old acquaintance 'Kota Grigoreno, my rival. His dar face was smutted with soot. He was wearing a dirty tarpaulin apron lie Zaharzhevsy. In his coarsened, acid-scarred hands Kota held a heavy hammer. Catching sight of us, Kota looed rather embarrassed, but, quicly recovering h imself "and swinging his heavy hammer, he swaggered up to Zaharzhevsy. We wal ed past and turned the corner. "They say he's disowned his mother," Peta whispe red in my ear, glancing behind him. "Disowned his mother? Where's he living then?" "What, don't you now?" Peta replied, looing surprised. "In Podzamche, with Ko rybo the gardener. And he gets all his meals there, too." "Does he really?" "Of course. He's been living there nearly a month now." What could all this mean? At home nearly all the pacing was done. Aunt Maria was wrapping up the crocery in old newspapers. While Peta and I had been at the cinema, Father had taen d own the photographs, leaving dar squares on the wall-paper in the bedroom and t he living-room. When she had paced all our china and six silver dessert spoons in a baset, Aun t began to empty the chest-of-drawers. Father too the cloc off the wall, unhoo ed the weights, and wound the long chain round the dial. I began to feel misera ble in the ransaced flat, and went out into the yard to catch my pigeons. Treading softly, I pushed open the door of the shed. Inside there was a smell of damp fire-wood. Above me, under the thatched roof, the pigeons were cooing slee pily. I could tell the ruffed tumbler pigeon by its voice. The ladder was in fro nt of me. I stuc a sac in my belt and climbed up to the pigeons. Sensing dange r, one of them flapped into a corner, uttering muffled squaws. "All right, don' t get scared, Peta will give you maize too," I muttered. The pigeons flapped th eir stiff wings awwardly. Without hesitating, I snatched them up one after the other my warm, clean pigeons and with grief in my heart dropped them into the sac. On the way to Peta's; the pigeons struggled in the sac, squawing and ruffling their feathers and flapping their wings. The ruffed tumbler even groaned with f ear. Peta was waiting for me on the door-step of his shabby old house. As soon as I came up to him he thrust the pistol, wrapped in rags, into my hands, seized the sac and, muttering, "I won't be a sec'," darted away to the shed. Sitting on the warm door-step, I heard the ey clic in the loc as he opened th e shed door, then the crea of the ladder under his feet, then Peta's voice cal ling the pigeons: "Coo-coo-coo." I felt even sorrier to be parting with my pets. How much trouble I had taen wit h them! How hard it had been to get maize and barley during the food shortage! I n those days I had always been afraid that the neighbours' boys would steal them off me and have them for the pot. And now all I had got was a pistol. . . Would the rust come off, I wondered, I longed to untie the string and tae off the ra gs, just to feel the cold barrel of the pistol in the darness, and run my finge rs over the notches on the butt; but I resisted the temptation. Peta appeared suddenly out of the darness. Breathing heavily, he handed me a p acet of cartridges. "Twelve... You needn't count them..." he said, stammering a little from running so hard. When we came out on the square, Peta tugged my sleeve and, glancing round, whis pered: "Vasya, you now what I heard? That Party School where you're going to live is h

aunted by ghosts!" "Don't be daft, what ghosts could there be there?" "Real ones. True as I'm standing here! A white nun wals along the corridors. It used to be a Catholic nunnery." "What if it was? Our school used to be a monastery too, but no one ever saw a gh ost there." "But people have seen them at that Party School, I tell you." Someone was coming across the square. "Quiet!" Peta whispered and tugged my elbow. We crouched against the churchyard wall and let the dar shape go past. It vanis hed round the corner. "You are a fun, Peta," I said. "Why?" Peta demanded heatedly. "What did you get so scared for then?" "I thought it was a militiaman... You've got a pistol, you now." "Now you're fibbing. You thought it was a ghost. And now you'll be scared to go home. You needn't come with me any farther." "I'm not a bit scared," Peta maintained indignantly. "I can go round the cemete ry at night, and you..." "All right, we've heard that tale before." "Do you thin I won't?" Peta really got on his high horse. "All right, I believe you," I reassured Peta and gave him my hand. We said good-bye. As soon as I was round the corner, I heard the patter of Peta 's sandals on the pavement. The hero's nerve had given way and he was running fo r home as fast as he could. I do not now how soon my father and Aunt Maria got to sleep, but I tossed and t urned until dawn. The picture of Kota Grigoreno standing at the door of the ti ner's shop would not leave my mind. We had left the people's school that spring. There had been a lot of tal among the chaps about further study. Peta and I had firmly decided to enter the techn ical college in the autumn. The other fellows in our class also intended going o n with their studies. Before the last exams everyone had been taling about it. But Kota had ept silent. He new very well that he, the son of an executed Petlura man, would not be acce pted at the technical college. What Kota would do after the people's school, no one new. And suddenly the news went round that he had gone as an apprentice to Zaharzhev sy the tiner. Why he, a rich man's son, who had never done a day's wor in his life, should wa nt to learn tinering, nobody could at first understand. Every morning Kota ran through our Zarechye on his way to the worshop, carryin g his lunch in a pacet under his arm. All day he banged his heavy hammer on the anvil, learning to solder saucepans and sharpen the little, propeller-lie blad es of meat-grinders. When he passed us going home from wor, he smelt of acid, alum, and smoy blacs mith's coal... For a good half the night that wretched 'Kota hovered before my eyes, in his ta rpaulin apron, with a heavy hammer in his hands. Surely Galya, a girl ;I remembered from the time when we had studied together at the people's school, could not be friendly with Kota? True, I had not seen Gal ya for several days, but that did not mean anything. 'If she valued our friendsh ip, surely she could not forget me so quicly? But perhaps Peta had made it all up out of jealousy, about her being friendly with Kota?. . . Then, as I was dropping off to sleep, I remembered Peta's story about the Party School where we were going to live being haunted by ghosts. And as soon as 'I g ot to sleep I dreamt I saw a seleton with a sharp scythe on its shoulder. Drape d in a transparent muslin veil, it popped up in front of me in an underground pa ssage and stretched out its dry bony fingers towards me. I too to my heels. The

seleton came after me. At last I rushed into a blan wall. I turned round and the seleton was still there. I felt it seize my throat and start choing me. Nu mbed with terror, I began to scream... "Up you get, pigeon-eeper, don't shout the house down," said my father laughing , and gave me a hearty shae as I blined up at him sleepily. And seeing that I was awae, he added: "The cart's come for our things." I looed round and heaved a sigh of relief. The morning sun was shining joyfully through the window. NEW QUARTERS We were allotted a flat in a low white building that ran along one side of the b ig school yard, a few paces from the main bloc. It was a big flat three large roo ms with a cosy little itchen next door, and across a narrow passage yet another itchen, somewhat bigger, with a tall Russian stove and an iron cooing-range. Aunt Maria went into this roomy itchen, tapped the dust-coated cooing-range wi th her finger, and said to my father: "But what shall I do with this itchen? That other little one's enough for me." "I don't now," said Father, "I don't now." "Dad," I exclaimed suddenly. "Suppo se I live here in the summer?" "Live here if you lie, it won't worry me." And Father chucled in his thic bla c moustache. "Are you in your right mind, Miron?" My aunt exploded. "Never thin of such a th ing!" "Why not?" my father ased. "Why, he'll be playing with gunpowder on that stove; he'll blow the house up." "No, I won't, Aunt. Honestly I won't," I pleaded. "I haven't got any gunpowder. You can loo if you lie." "There you are," said Father, "he's run out of gunpowder. You needn't worry. Vas ya's a big lad now, he's past all that." "A big lad!" Aunt Maria muttered to herself, giving in. "He'll start tinering a bout here on his own and get his legs blown off..." "No, he won't," Father said cheerfully and, turning to me, added: "All right the n, Vasya, mae yourself comfortable." Aunt Maria and he went away to unpac, and I was left alone in my itchen. Here was a stroe of luc! Two days ago I dared not even dream of a room of myse lf, and now, all of a sudden, I had one. I should be able to bring Peta and the other chaps in whenever I lied. I ran to the window, turned the latch, and pulled open the frames, tearing apart the old strips of newspaper that the previous occupants had stuc over the crac s. A warm breeze burst into the stuffy room. I leaned out of the window and, rubbing dust off the sill with my shirt, looed down. Not bad. Quite high for the ground-floor. While Father and Aunt Maria unpaced our things, I set about getting the itchen ship-shape. I swept the floor clean and wiped everything with a wet rag the corni ces, the window-sill, the iron cooing-range. Then I wheedled two wooden stools out of Aunt Maria and placed them in the empty corners of the room. For my guest s! The cooing-range I covered with newspapers. It would serve me as a table. Wh en we went on with our studies, at the technical college, I should be able to do my home-wor here. At first I put the pistol away in the oven, then, changing m y mind, climbed up and placed it on the ledge above the stove. I put the spare c artridges there too. On the rusty bottom of the oven I laid out all my tools pince rs, a hammer, two files, and a screwdriver with a broen handle. There, too, I p oured out of an old pencil-box my whole stoc of nails and screws! Then all I ha d to do was mae my bed! Having spread a few newspapers on the ledge above the s tove, I covered them with a red-striped mattress stuffed with hay, drew a sheet over it and, on top of everything, spread my frayed blue quilt, folded double. A gainst the wall I propped a pillow in a clean, white pillow-case. The bed was a treat! I lay down on the quilt and stretched my legs. From up there I had a good view of the square open window and part of the cobbled court-yard.

There was a sound of footsteps in the corridor. I jumped 'down from the stove. T he floor-boards creaed under me. Someone pulled the door, but then, realizing t hat it was loced, gave a noc. I slid bac the bolts. Father entered the itch en. He stopped by the window and glanced round him. I followed his glance anxiou sly. I thought he would tell me to put my bed bac. But he merely fingered the w indow-frame and, pushing the stools bac against the wall, said: "It's a real st udy." Then, after a pause, he added: "And you didn't want to move! You'll have a lot more fun here than at the old pl ace." Pulling his peaed straw cap down on his forehead, Father waled towards the doo r. "Dinner will be late today. I'm going down to the print-shop for some type. Go t o your aunt and as her for something to stay you until dinner." I did not go to Aunt Maria. Instead, having loced the blac padloc on the itc hen door, I ran out into the yard. From a distance I saw my father wal over to a high-wheeled army cart that was waiting for him at the gate and step up on to the driver's seat. The sentry opened the broad iron gate, and the cart drove out into the street. The yard was empty. Obviously the students were at wor. Far away, behind the th ree-storey building of the school, birds were singing. I listened to their cheer ful song and wanted to go into the garden. The way into the garden lay through a small, squeay gate. I opened it quietly a nd waled down a narrow path into the heart of the garden, passing tall bushes o f barberry, elder, and sweet-scented lilac. On the right, the garden was shelter ed from the road by a long stone wall, on the left rose the blan white side-wal l of the school building. At the foot of the garden wall I noticed some low, ver y familiar-looing bushes. Gooseberries! This was fine! What about picing some? ... But suppose 'I got into a trouble?. . . Bending down, I piced the long heav y berries one after the other from the pricly branches. Stinging nettles burned my legs, but I too no notice of them. Voices sounded near by. I snatched my ha nd away from the gooseberry bush and priced up my ears. Nonsense! It was some p eople on the other side of the wall taling to each other as they waled down th e road to the river. They were going fishing. I could see the tops of their bamb oo fishing-rods bobbing along above the wall. Having filled my pocets with gooseberries, I went bac to the path and waled o n farther. Nice gooseberries here! Just a bit rough and covered with yellowish bloom. They crunched as you bit them. And how sweet they were! You could eat a whole hatful of berries lie these without maing your mouth sore. As I waled on, the trees got higher and higher. Among the plain hornbeams and a sh-trees I spotted the whitewashed truns of apple and pear. Very many of them. Burdoc grew in the thic grass under the trees. Masses of it! !In the autumn, w hen the leaves fell and the cranes flew away to the south, there would be plenty of good places for bird-catching here. But how quiet it was in this garden! Only the song of the birds rose above the s ound of my footsteps. I could mae out the voices of sisins, robins, finches. Y ou would expect to find a lot of birds here no one disturbed them, except perhaps the boys from the neighbouring suburb of Belanova, who probably dropped in from time to time to pic apples or pears. The path curved and ran along under the wall. There was no fun in following it f arther, and so I made my way across the soft green grass right into the depths o f the garden. I lied everything I saw here. Besides, I felt that this was a pla ce where I belonged. Near a tall old mulberry-tree I noticed a high mound surrounded by lilac and tho rn bushes. It was covered with thic grass, and on the top stood a white, unpain ted bench. I felt lie climbing the mound, sitting down on the bench, " and from there having a good loo over the whole garden. But no sooner had I reached the foot of the mound than there was a noise from be hind the bushes and I caught a glimpse of something white. I crouched down and h id behind the mulberry-tree. Peeping out, I saw a Lad in a white shirt climbing

an old, gnarled tree half hidden from view behind the lilac. In one hand he was carrying la little white net. Cautiously, as though he were afraid of scaring so mething, the lad climbed up to the boughs of the tree. I left my hiding-place and crept over to the lilac bushes. Now I could clearly m ae out the lad's bac, his grey-striped trousers, the battered soles of his sho es. The lad tuced the net in his belt to free his hands, and climbed higher. Cr aning my nec, I watched every movement. I could even hear the scrape of his fee t and rustle of his clothes on the dried-up har of the tree. He reached the bow l and, grasping a thic branch with both hands, peered into a hole in the trun. A small grey bird shot out of the blac hole and with a plaintive cry flew away towards the river. The lad started bac and the white net nearly slipped from u nder his belt. The bird's frightened cries could be heard now from the edge of the garden. The lad sat astride-the thic branch and pulled the net out of his belt. He tapp ed the net on the trun of the tree and listened attentively. Then he put his ey e to the hole but, seeing nothing there pushed the net gently into the hole. Aft er straightening up and taing a breath, he lay flat on the branch. Hooing his right arm round the branch, he jered the net several times to and fro in the ho le, then pulled it gently out again. There was something in it. The lad loced i nto the net and tipped it up over his hand. A small white egg rolled out. The la d popped it into his mouth and again pushed the net into the hole. Several times he pushed the net into the hole and pulled it out again, until he had taen all the eggs from the bird's nest. Then he tossed the net on to the grass and slid cautiously down the trun. While he was doing so, I pushed the bushes apart and waled boldly towards him. H wanted to now what bird's eggs he had found. Before I could reach the spot, the lad jumped to the ground. I started bac in s urprise. A few paces away from me, pulling his shirt straight, stood Kota Grigoreno. I had never expected to meet him here. What was this young puppy doing in the Part y School garden? The chee! What right had he to come here and pinch eggs! Hadn' t he done enough playing about in his own garden! I already felt myself in charge here, and it made me angry to thin of this Petl ura puppy showing up in a place lie the Party School. But perhaps he was allowe d to come here? Perhaps the students didn't now anything about him? All right, the students might not now, but I did! Had I met Kota in the street I should not have spoen to him, but here, in the Party School garden, I realized that I ought to send him pacing at once. "Now then, put those bac!" I shouted, striding towards Kota. Kota gave a jump but, seeing me, went on brushing his shirt. He did not even lo o in my direction, the little rat! "Are you deaf?" II shouted, planting myself in front of him. "Someone's taling to you." Still eeping his eyes averted, Kota went on leisurely brushing the bits of bar off his shirt. "Do you hear?" he shouted furiously. Kota straightened up and, silfully spitting out into his palm five grey eggs, said in a tone of surprise: "Are you taling to me?" "What do you thin. . ." "I was wondering where the squea came from. I couldn't mae it out. . ." "Why did you rob that nest?" "Are you serious?" Kota ased, narrowing his eyes. "Climb up that tree and put the eggs bac," I ordered. "Aren't you taing rather a lot on yourself, you snotty id?" Kota said slyly. "Me . . . a snotty id? I'll..." "What are you doing here anyway?" Kota's question made me choe with anger. "What did you say? I belong here... My father wors here... And you've got no ri ght to come nosing around!"

"That'll do," Kota said, raising his voice unexpectedly. "I'll let you off this time, because I'm not in the mood to teach you a lesson. But mind what I say next time we may have a different ind of tal." With a careless gesture Kota pulled his right hand out of his pocet. The sun g linted on his fingers. While we had been taling Kota had managed to don a heav y, nicel-plated nucle-duster. Wagging the nucle-duster before my eyes, Kota waled away, leaving me standin g dazedly under the tree. Perhaps I ought to go after him? No, it was too late now. I had missed the best moment. Instead of taling to him, I should have given him a good slap on the face, while he had the eggs in his mouth, and then snatched the nucle-duster away. Then we should have seen who came off best. That would have been something lie! BY THE WATERFALL High brown cliffs rose on both sides of the river. Between these overhanging wal ls the river was shallow and stony. I was waling along a narrow path, and the s harp stones cut my heels. Round a bend in the river I caught sight of the white walls of the cottage where Galya lived. The little rush-thatched cottage stood o n an outcropping ledge of roc, huddled against the cliff. There were no other c ottages near. Only right at the top of the cliff, where the pointed battlements of Old Fortress loomed dar against the sy, could one glimpse the white cottage s of the Podzamche district, rics of yellow straw, and the long low bric build ings of the steam-mill. The deserted ban along which I was waling was called O tter Ban. There had once been a lot of otters here. They used to mae their bur rows just above the river. I stopped by the cottage fence and, after waiting a minute or two, shouted: "Gal ya!" From high above, by the fortress, came the sound of creaing cart wheels. Galya' s cottage was silent. "Galya-a-a!" I shouted a little louder, cupping my hands round my mouth. The latch rattled and Galya's father, Baldy Kushnir, appeared on the cottage doo rstep. I wanted to duc down behind the fence, but it was too late; Kushnir waled acro ss the yard towards me. Coming up to the gate, he leaned on the wooden rail, too his old, burnt pipe ou t of his mouth and ased quietly: "What are you shouting about?" "I want to see Galya." "Galya?" Kushnir said in surprise. "Well I never, a young suitor! Your luc's ou t, lad; Galya's not here." "Where's she gone then?" "Where's she gone?" Kushnir paused, suced at his pipe, let out twin streams of smoe through his nostrils, then, nocing out his pipe on the fence, said calml y: "She's gone for water. Over the other side. If you're a real suitor and not j ust a lazy-bones, run and meet her. You can help her carry the water."

Without glancing bac, I dashed over the stepping stones across the swift shallo w river, which curved sharply after passing Galya's cottage and plunged foaming into the dar tunnel under the fortress bridge, to reappear on the other side, a roaring white waterfall. After crossing the river I ran to the steps that led up the cliff to the bridge. At last I reached the street that ran down from the town to the fortress bridge. Galya was not there. I paused for breath, crossed the cobbled street, and looe d down. From where I was standing I could see the foaming white water-fall, the wooden foot-bridge spanning it beside the high fortress bridge, the broad calm s tretch of river beyond the waterfall, and the rocy bans of Smotrich overgrown with yellow lungwort and hawthorn. Steep steps with no rail led down to the wate rfall. There was no sign of Galya on the steps. She must have had to wait at the

well. You could not see the well from here of course; it was on the other side of the waterfall, behind a wooden church with a graveyard full of tall poplars. What should I do? Wait for Galya here or run down? 'It would be better to run do wn. I could help her carry the pails all the way from the well. And I ran down to the river. I ran so fast that it was hard to stop. The speed of my descent carried me on to the foot-bridge suspended over the waterfall, and cold spray swept over me. Whi te splashes wetted the boards. The water boomed and roared below; I could see it through the chins in the bridge. The roar of the water mingled with a rumble f rom above, where a cart was moving quicly across the fortress bridge. I had nea rly crossed the bridge when suddenly, above the roar of the water and the rumble of the cart, I heard a voice calling my name. "Vasya! Vasya-a-a!" I glanced round. To one side, right under the cliff, sat Galya, and with her someone else. But who it was I could not at first mae out. "Come over here," Galya cried, and beconed me with her hand. "Who's that sitting with her," I wondered, pushing my way through the bushes. Ou ch, what was that! I had nearly tripped over the pails of water that Galya had l eft among the bushes. A big granite boulder barred my path, I climbed it, clinging to tufts of grass. When I got to the top, I paused. At Galya's side sat Kota Grigoreno. My heart missed a beat. They might even th in I had come on purpose to spy on them. Should I run away? "Come down, Vasya. Hurry!" Galya called, and, lie it or not, I had to jump down from the roc and go over to the patch of grass where they were sitting. Ignoring Kota, I offered Galya my hand. "Where have you been all this time?" she said. "I was beginning to thin... Sit down." Breathing hard, I dropped down on the soft grass. "We moved the day before yesterday," I said with a nod in the direction of Zarec hye. "Where to?" Galya inquired. II had to tell her about our moving to the Party School. "To the Party School?... There's a lovely garden there. Such a big one... I'll b e coming to see you and pic cherries," said Galya. "Yes, you should come..." I said not very confidently. "I was carrying some water. And I got so tired. Then I saw Kota coming along th e path and we decided to have a sit down. Where were you going?" "I've got to go over there," I lied, nodding in the direction of the wooden chur ch, "to Podzamche. To see a chap I now." "To see a chap?..." Galya said slowly. "But didn't you..." And she broe off. Never mind, let her thin that I had been going to see someone else. Meanwhile Kota stood up, stretched himself, straightened his white cambric shir t, tightened his Caucasian belt with its heavy silver bucles, and piced up a s tone. Placing his feet wide apart, he swung his arm and the round stone shot out of hi s hand and fell far way, in the middle of the pool under the waterfall. "That was a good throw!" said Galya, and the words seemed to burn me lie fire. But Kota had already piced up another stone, and was saying pompously to Galya : "That's nothing. Watch where I throw this one." He swung his arm, but the stone slipped out of his hand and fell quite near us, under the cliff. "Serves you right!" I nearly shouted. "Don't show off for nothing." Galya laughed, and Kota, anxious to find an excuse, explained: "Oh, that was an accident. I've sprained my arm." He even pulled a face. "Are you coming, Galya, or do you want to stay here?" Kota did not loo at me. Galya stood up and straightened her dress. All three of us climbed over the gran

ite boulder. Galya bent down to pic up her pails. "Let me help you," said Kota, waving Galya aside and grasping the handles. "Oh no, why should you? I'll carry them myself." But Kota was already carrying the pails towards the steps. "Must you go to Podzamche, Vasya?" Galya ased. "What's the name of this boy?" "What boy?" "Why, the one you're going to see." "Oh him ... Titor," I guessed wildly. "Titor? But Titor doesn't live in Podzamche. He lives near the theatre." "Yes, but now he's with some friends in Podzamche. We arranged to meet there." "Perhaps you could see him another time?" Galya said, looing at me shyly. But I had decided to show no mercy. I wanted to punish Galya for being with Kot a. "No, I can't," I said dryly. "I've got to see Titor today." We waled to the steps. Kota stood waiting for us half way up. "Than you, Kota," Galya said indly. "I'll carry them the rest of the way." "Don't be so shy, I'll help you," Kota said in a deep voice. "Oh no, Kota, than you. You were going in the other direction. You two can go on together," Galya replied, nodding towards me. "Let me help you, Galya," I suggested. "I don't need any help. Can't I carry them myself? Go along together. Well, good -bye..." "No, than you, I have no desire to share his company," Kota said, and turned h is bac on me. "You eep quiet ... you ... you! ..." I said in a choing voice. Galya glanced at me, then at Kota and laughed. "What a fool I am!. . . You're not on speaing terms, is that it? I was wonderin g why you were so silent. What's the matter, have you quarrelled?" "We've got an old score to settle," 'Kota said, and grasping both pails he carr ied them up the steps. "And I never noticed! Well, good-bye, Vasya." And Galya held out her hand. I pressed her cold fingers, and she waled firmly up the steps after Kota. I stood on the steps, looing after them. But what if Galya or, worse still, Kot a turned round? Feeling suddenly ashamed, I waled quicly down the steps and c rossed the waterfall. Didn't I curse myself at that moment! "What a coward you a re," I thought. "Why did you mae that up about Titor? You ought to have stayed with Galya and sent Kota pacing. All you need have done was pic up the buce ts and carry them yourself. And you couldn't do it! What a flop, after coming al l this way to see Galya, all the way from the Party School! Now they'll go the r est of the way together. And Kota will swan to Galya about how strong he is, a nd say that you got scared of him. He'll mae up all inds of things against you . He's sure to." I went round the wooden church. A yellow cigarette pacet lay in a puddle by the well. The label with a burning cigarette stamped on it had come unstuc and was floating in the water. I looed at the floating label and remembered how a few years ago we used to collect such cigarette pacets, then I struc off up the st eep cliff path that ran round Old Fortress on the Karvasar side. I was heading t owards Podzamche, but could not for the life of me thin why I was going there. On my way home through town I stopped before the window of a hairdresser's shop. Behind the thic glass stood wax models with thin delicate features. Each of th ese beauties was adorned with a stuc-on wig. And on either side of the splendid shop-window decorated with coloured paper and magazine cuttings there were two gleaming mirrors. I pretended to be looing at the faces of the wax beauties wit h drops of glue on their foreheads, and glanced furtively at my reflection in th e mirror. I was ashamed to do so openly. The passers-by would laugh at me such a g reat big fellow looing at himself in the mirror lie a girl! I too another sur reptitious glance, and thought to myself, "Kota s got broader shoulders than me tha t's all." In the mirror on the other side I caught sight of an angry face, staring eyes, a belted shirt, and blac molesin trousers without a single patch on them. My gr

ey cap was tilted on the bac of my head. The only bad thing was my bare feet. I ought to have put my sandals on. "You are a fool!" I muttered to myself. When I had done admiring myself, I squared my shoulders and, bending my arms lie a wr estler, strode off down the road to the Party School. The town pavements were sm ooth and warm with sunshine. MY FIRST MATCH On the patch of grass in the Party School yard the students were playing footbal l. The sentry at the gate, a swarthy, slant-eyed young fellow in a blue Budyonny ha t, was leaning on his rifle and watching the game with interest. I stood by the gymnastics bar. The bar a water-pipe polished bright by the rub of many palms was fixed at one end i n the for of a maple-tree. The other end was fastened with bracets to a post f irmly planted in the ground. The post and a heap of clothes thrown on the ground formed a goal for one of the teams. The other goal two tree stumps was some distanc e away, under the windows of our flat. In that goal crouched my old acquaintance Polevoi, Secretary of the School's Party organization. After being demobilized from the Red Army, he had decided not to return to his home, in Eaterinoslav, a nd had stayed with us in Podolia. The Regional Party Committee had sent Polevoi to the Party School. In the goal near me stood the agitated shaven-headed figure of the lecturer in p olitical economy Kartamyshev, dressed in billowing blue riding-breeches and an o range singlet. Yesterday I had heard someone call him, and the biology lecturer Boio, the "robber brothers." In their blue tunics and sheepsin hats with red v elvet tops they certainly looed very much alie. Now "robber brother" Boio was darting about in the centre of the field. At firs t J could not mae out what position he was playing in centre forward or left-wing er. Dressed in riding-breeches, he darted up the middle of the field and at last , having captured the ball, dribbled it down my side to the bar. Then I realized that the "robber brothers" were in different teams and playing against each oth er. When he was about five paces from the goal, Boio let out a shout and gave the b all such a ic that I thought it would burst. Spinning and bouncing across the grass, the ball flew into the goal just past my legs and rolled on towards the s entry. Highly satisfied with himself, Boio wiped the sweat off his face and sho uted to the confused goal-eeper: "Couldn't you catch it?" Kartamyshev said nothing and, breathing heavily, clumped off in his heavy, hob-n ailed boots to fetch the ball from the sentry-box. Disappointed at having let a goal through, he returned to his place at a wal, hanging his head. Boio, who was still at his rival's goal, twitted him: "And you say yours is a s trong team! Why, we're two men short; but we're still scoring." "Well, pic some more men. Who's stopping you?" Kartamyshev answered sourly. The other players shifted about from one foot to the other, waiting impatiently to go on with the game. "Where can I get them?" Boio retorted, glancing round. I wished he would notice me. But Boio's glance rested on me indifferently; stan ding on tip-toe, he peered into a little garden behind some clipped lilac bushes where two students were reading newspapers. "Heh, Bazhura, get up and have a game," Boio shouted. "I don't feel lie it," came a voice from behind the bushes. I already new a few of the students here, but was not bold enough; to as for a game. I was not a bad player though. "As me, as me, come on, as me!" I ept saying to myself. I was nearly hopping with excitement, I so much wanted to play . And this was such a good chance to enter the game. But as soon as Kartamyshev laced up the ball, the chance would be lost. I watched the goal-eeper woring t he end of the leather thong under the cover. The end vanished. No football for m e! Kartamyshev prepared to ic the ball to the centre, and was just lifting it

in front of him to drop it at his feet when he glanced at me. He stopped and low ered the ball. "Listen, Captain," he shouted. "Tae this lad into your team. He's dying for a g ame." Boio ran his eye over me. Evidently he was not very een. Then he ased relucta ntly: "Heh, lad, can you play?" "I can a bit..." I answered in a trembling voice, scarcely able to believe that I was being ased to play. "We all only play a bit," Boio retorted with a laugh, then said strictly: "Get up by the goal. You're a full bac. Understand?" As if I hadn't understood! Sipping barefooted over the damp weeds I dashed towards Polevoi. The game had a lready started and the ball was being buffeted about behind me. Polevoi was crou ching in goal, watching the ball. "I'm a bac," I shouted running up to him. "All right, get in position," Polevoi replied without taing his eyes off the mi ddle of the field. I too up my position in front of the goal and, pulling my cap on firmly, got re ady to ic. I already felt myself one of the team. If I did well, they would let me play eve ry evening; and on Sundays I would go with the team to the big field near the fo od stores. Good old Boio for asing me to play! All that mattered now was that I should play well and ic hard. If only someone would send the ball my way! But the game stayed in the centre. Then Boio again dribbled the ball down to th e other goal. One of the bacs, in white shorts and gleaming top boots, ran to c ut him off. Boio triced the bac and steadied the ball to shoot. Now we should have another goal. But goal-eeper Kartamyshev saved his team. Taing the ball easily on the toe of his boot, he sent it high into the air. A lovely drop-shot! Not much chance of my doing as well as that. Looing up, I watched the flight of the ball. It lande d right at the feet of the other team's centre-forward Marushcha. Marushcha wa s a hot footballer. I could see his army cap with its shiny pea bobbing among t he players. A moment later Marushcha was running straight towards me, the ball at his feet. He was a tall, heavy man. Nearer and nearer came the blac ball, lo oing lie a hedgehog. Marushcha made his shot, a hard low drive, straight at m e. Now I'd have it!... I darted this way and that, put out my foot to trap the ball and missed. Polevoi was taen off his guard and it looed lie a goal. But at the last momen t, when the ball was only about two paces from the goal-line, Polevoi threw hims elf on the ground, grabbed the ball, then, leaping up, threw the ball into the a ir and punched it hard with his fist. Again the ball flew bac to the centre. On Polevoi's white shorts there was now a big green patch. He brushed off the flat tened blades of grass and shouted displeasedly: 'I won't do so much hopping about. I thought you were going to ic it. Why did you put your foot there?" Then in reply to my mumbled excuses: " 'Accident, acci dent!' Always mae up your mind what you're going to do. Don't try to ic when the ball's a long way off. Understand? But when it comes to you, go straight for it, and ic it hard. And eep clear of the goal." I darted forward among the players as if there were someone behind me with a whi p. Again Marushcha was coming at me, this time without the ball. The other side must be up to something. And they were indeed. Before Marushcha reached me, hi s left-winger passed him the ball. Marushcha prepared to shoot. "Well, here goes," I decided. "If I brea a leg, I'll have to put up with it." A nd I charged at the massive Marushcha. But he thought he could tric me, and wi th a gentle ic tried to send the ball over my head. Not this time! Another sec ond and the ball would have passed me, but I jumped and got to the ball with my forehead. My cap flew off, but even before I could stoop to pic it up Boio had taen the ball and scored in the other goal with a long cross shot. Again the ball went bouncing across the stone yard to the sentry-box. Kartamyshe v clumped after it, and Boio, smiling broadly, shouted to me right across the f

ield: "Play lie that all the time, understand? Passing's the thing!" I was happy. The game went on at a lively pace. The ball swung to and fro up and down the fie ld. Students gathered round to watch us. It was getting dar. Big horned beetles were buzzing over the leafy maple-tree. I charged up and down the field, quite forgetting that a bac should never move far from his own goal. Once I tried to shoot at goal, but Kartamyshev too the b all easily. My feet were scratched all over, my heel was pricing me I must have g ot a thorn from the acacia bushes in it and my big toe, which I had stubbed on a s tone, was bleeding; but I felt no pain. It was hot. Streaming with sweat, I chas ed the ball about the field, trying to capture it from other players. In an effo rt to get past me, Marushcha too a long shot at goal, but missed. The ball hit the wall and bounced bac to the goal-post, mared with a round patch of whitew ash. The danger was past and I calmly watched the game return to the centre. The other players were as hot as I was; and there was a smell of sweat, tobacco, and boot polish in the air. Polevoi had a red scratch on his nee. From the street I could hear someone shouting: "Vasya, Vasya!" I passed the ball out to the left wing, then glanced at the street to see who wa s calling me. His nose pressed against the wooden cross-bar of the fence, Peta Maremuha stoo d on the stone coping eagerly watching the game. His face wore an expression of deepest envy. As I dribbled the ball past the fence, I shouted to him; "Don't go away, we'll finish soon." Peta nodded and shifted himself into a more comfortable position on the stone c oping. I too a running ic and sent the ball up in a fine drop-shot. The ball landed on top of the maple-tree, crashed down through the branches and, bouncing on the bar, rolled past Kartamyshev out of play. Somewhere inside the building a bell rang. . "Let's go for supper, comrades," Polevoi shouted and, scooping up the clothes th at had served as a goal-post, left his goal. "You tae the ball, Comrade Marushcha," Boio instructed and, waling over to K artamyshev the goal-eeper, suggested: "Let's slip down to the river for a dip b efore supper." Kartamyshev agreed, and both of them set out for the gate, pulling on their blue tunics as they went. I ran after them and was first to reach the street. "Hullo, old chap!" I said joyfully, pressing Peta's plump hand as hard as I cou ld. "Did you see me nearly get a goal? Fine, wasn't it?" "You muffed a lot too. A nice mess you made of that drop-shot," Peta answered c oldly. "Wouldn't you have made a mess of it?" I retorted. But Peta seemed not to hear my question. "How did you get to now them all so soon?" he ased. "Oh, I don't now them all, only about half. Yesterday they were playing gorodi here and I got to now their names... Come and see my place," I suggested. "What? In there?" Peta said, glancing suspiciously in the direction of our bloc . "Is it allowed?" "If you come with me, it is," I said importantly, and we waled to the gate. Peta lied everything about my itchen the bed on the stove, the tools laid out i n the oven, the window overlooing the yard. While he was inspecting everything and touching everything with his plump, girlish fingers, I sat on a stool diggin g the thorn out of my heel with a pin. Near me, on the edge of the cooing range, an oil-lamp burned feebly. When I at last got the thorn out, I stamped my foot on the floor; the raw scratc h only hurt a bit. I rinsed my hands under the tap and began to thin what I cou ld give Peta to eat. Suddenly I remembered my encounter with Kota in the garde n. "Peta, did you now that Kota comes round here? "Where? To the Party School?"

"Yes, here of all places!" And I told Peta of our encounter. "You should have got hold of him and put him on the floor," Peta said boldly. "All very well for you to tal put him on the floor! I'd have done it too. But you now what? Korybo lets him come into the garden." "Why, does Korybo wor here?" "Yes, of course. That's the funny thing. I didn't now at first, and when I caug ht Kota in the garden I was surprised too. What does he mean by it, I thought, treating the place as if it belonged to him? And then, yesterday evening, I saw the two of them waling across the yard. Korybo had a great big pair of scissor s and a pail of whitewash. I ased one of the students what this old man was doi ng here, and the student told me he was a gardener." "So that's it..." Peta said slowly. "If Kota's lodging at Korybo's, of course , he'll be able to come here when he lies. That old devil will let him in to th e garden when the apples get ripe too." "Yes, he will," I agreed. "Now Kota will clean out all the nests here. You now what a collection of eggs he's got?" Peta said. "It's even better than the one in the town museum. He's been collecting eggs for a long time. A big fellow lie him, and still climbing trees... By the way, Vasya," Peta checed himself suddenly, "I've got a note fo r you." "Who from?" "Guess." "Tell me." "No, you've got to guess." Peta pulled a blue envelope out of his pocet and put it behind his bac. "Hand over," I shouted. "I'll give it you, but you must swear you'll do one thing." "What?" "If anyone ass you when you got this letter, you must say this morning." "But it's evening now!" "I now. But you say you got it this morning all right?" "Who's the letter from?" "Swear, then I'll tell you." "Very well, I'll tae it myself. Give me that letter!" I stepped towards Peta and grabbed his arm. "I won't give it you, Vasya. Honest, I won't. I'll tear it... Oh, don't twist my arm!" It was hard to get the letter away from Peta. I let go his arm and said: "All r ight then I swear." " 'I swear!' None of your trics! Say it all." "I swear that if anyone ass me when I got that letter I'll say this morning." "Tae it then." And Peta handed me the crumpled envelope. I tore it open and began to read the letter. "Vasya! "If you have time, come round this evening and we'll go to the cinema. "Galya" I nearly went for Peta with my fists. "Why didn't you give it me this morning?" "I couldn't. I had to go down to the allotment with Dad first thing." "When did Galya give you the letter then?" "This morning. When she was going to the maret for mil. What's she say?" And P eta tried to see what was in the letter. "Wait a minute," I said, pushing Peta bac. "Couldn't you have dropped in to se e me when you were going down to the allotment?" "Of course not. I had to loo after the cart. If I had left it out in the street , someone might have pinched it." "All right then," I said. "Then I'll tell Galya when you gave me the letter." "Oh, don't, Vasya. She'll thin I'm a liar. . ." "Why?" "Well, when I was coming down the boulevard on my way here, she was on the swing s. And she ran up and ased: 'Did you deliver that note?' And I said I did. And

all the time it was in my pocet. 'When did you deliver it?' she said. And I sai d I gave it you this morning." "But why did you lie?" ; Peta sniffed plaintively. "This morning she ased me to be sure and give you the note. I swore I would. An d then I forgot. I was ashamed to admit I was such a stupid." Feeling that he had given himself away properly, Peta glanced round and mumbled : "I made that up about going to the allotment. I just forgot." Now I understood everything. Galya's pride had prevented her from asing me in f ront of Kota whether I had got her note. Apparently she had been very een to s ee me this evening. And I, lie a fool, had invented all that about Titor and b een so cold with her! "Who was Galya with on the boulevard?" I ased, trying to hide my feelings. "Who was she with? Why, Kota, of course," Peta replied, not realizing how his words had stung me. "Yes, she was with Kota!" Peta repeated cheerfully. "That' s right. He was giving her a swing. Galya was screaming because she was afraid, but he e pt pushing her until she nearly went over the top." I pictured Kota swinging Galya on the iron swing, the two tall ash-trees creai ng, Galya's blue dress flying in the wind and a wave of bitter disappointment swep t over me. A SHOT IN THE DARK "Did you clean the pistol?" Peta ased. "I did" "Done any shooting?" "Not yet." "What about doing some?" "Let's." "When shall I come?" I thought for a moment. Why not now? "Listen," I said to Peta firmly, "Let's try it now." "Now? Where?" "We'll go into the garden." I climbed on to the stove for the pistol. "Into the garden?" Peta repeated. "Don't be an ass! They'll hear us." "No, they won't. There are trees all round, and it's dar. There won't be anyone about. You could throw a bomb and no one would hear you; the house shuts out th e sound. And the students are having supper now anyway." I jumped down with the pistol in my hand. "No, Vasya. I'm not going in the garden. Let's go to Paradise Gates tomorrow. Th ere are cliffs there, and no one goes that way." "But there's no one here either!" I insisted. Peta eyed the pistol as if it were a live snae. No one would have thought that it had been his property only a few days ago. "Please, Vasya, let's go tomorrow, to Paradise Gates. I'll bring some of my cart ridges. Let's go tomorrow, Vasya!" "Not so loud!" I hissed at Peta. "We're not going anywhere tomorrow, we're goin g today. And if you don't come into the garden with me now, I'll never spea to you again. Understand? I'll tell all the chaps what a coward you are. Understand ? And all the girls too. Come on!" Tucing the pistol under my shirt, I waled to the door and fliced the catch op en noisily. When Peta and I were maing our way through the dar garden I began to regret t hat I had ever started this thing. Everything was different in the garden at nig ht. The barberry bushes towered up lie huge trees; mulberries, pears, apple-tre es formed a solid barrier in front of us. Somewhere, a long way off, a door bang ed, and again there was silence. Cricets sang in the wall which we were followi ng. Sometimes they would all stop suddenly, as if listening to our footsteps, an

d then strie up again. Through the leaves of the trees we could see the clear starlit sy cut in two by the Mily Way. We went straight ahead without bothering to eep to the path. Stinging nettles b urned our legs; brushwood and dry weeds rustled underfoot. In front of us there was not a light to be seen. The garden lay on the very outsirts of the town. Peta tip-toed silently behind me, eeping close on my heels. "Over to the left," I ordered, and gripping Peta's arm, led him to one side. I wanted to get as far away as possible, to the gully at the bottom of the garde n. The mound surrounded with lilac loomed up in front of us. "Is this where you're going to shoot?" Peta ased. "No, I'll just load." Taing a clip of cartridges out of my pocet, I pushed it into the butt of the p istol and pulled bac the breech. The breech slid bac with a clic everything was all right. Now there was a round in the barrel. "Come on," I said. "Vasya, tell me when you're going to fire, and I'll cover my ears," Peta implor ed. I said nothing, thining to myself: "Won't I just! Thin I'll tell you when I'm going to fire. What fun will that be! I'll blaze away all of a sudden and you'll jump out of your sin with fright." I already had my finger lightly on the trigger, but it was not safe to shoot yet . Someone might hear us. The trees grew thinner, and by the clear light of the stars we made out the old nunnery wall in the distance, beyond a low line of bushes. After another three steps, I halted. "It's not worth going any further," I thoug ht. "And it's too dangerous to shoot at the wall the bullet might ricochet bac." A tall crooed tree loomed up before us. One of its thic branches stretched out towards the wall lie a huge paw. An owl hooted down by the river. And suddenly I gave a little jump, and with a strained, high-pitched shout of "H alt!" let fly straight at the trun of the dar crooed tree. The pistol jered bac and a red tongue of flame spurted from the muzzle. The echo had scarcely died away in the dar recesses of the garden and the neigh bouring gullies, when there was a noise under the wall and I distinctly heard a voice shout in Polish: "Quic!" The shout was followed by two thundering revolver shots from the bushes. I saw t he flash of exploding cartridges and heard the bullets whine past over my head. "Run!" Peta shouted and dashed away through the bushes. "Mae for the wall," I panted as I dashed after him. We tore bac through some n ut-trees to the stone wall that surrounded the garden on three sides. I ran up to the wall, jumped and gripped the sloping top with both hands. Stones and mortar pattered into the dense stinging nettles below. As I heaved myself over, I heard Peta scrambling up the wall behind me. We both dropped down in the dusty trac leading to Privorotye almost at the same time. What a relief it was to run on that smooth trac after the pricly needle s of the garden! Our feet san into soft dust that was still warm from the day's sunshine. We did not stop till we reached the top of the road, near the white building of the Party School. The left wing of the building that faced the road was in darn ess. Only a faint glimmer of light shone from a window on the third floor. "Who was that?" Peta ased, panting after the hard run. "How should I now?" I retorted. "Who did you shout 'Halt' to then?" "Bandits!" I answered firmly. I had done nothing of the ind, of course. It had all happened by chance. I had simply been afraid to press the trigger without some excuse, and I had shouted t o deaden my own fear. But who had it "been really? Who had shouted "quic"? Who had fired at us? Only then, standing in the dusty trac, a few paces from the gate of the Party S

chool, where there were so many armed men, I suddenly felt very frightened. I ev en regretted that we had moved out here, to the outsirts of the town, away from our quiet Zarechye, where nothing of the ind had ever happened to me. "Peta, why go home?" I said calmly. "Come to my place and sleep with me on the stove. And tomorrow morning, early, we'll go to the garden and I'll give you som e goosegogs." "No, thans!" was Peta's prompt reply. "I told you there was something spooy a bout this place. Satan can spend the night here, but not me. So long!" He ran of f down the street to Zarechye, and his white shirt quicly disappeared in the da rness. At the crac of dawn, when my father and aunt were still fast asleep, I got up a nd went into the garden. Dew shone everywhere on the leaves of the plum-trees, on the round dar-red leaves of the barberries, and on the big patches of burdoc. As I waled down towards the wall I even wondered why we had been so scared the evening before. Perhaps it had just been one of the students who had fired? Who could tell! I could hardly believe that it had all happened here, in this very g arden. The shots and our mad rush out of the garden seemed lie a dream of the n ight before, which had been stuffy and oppressive because I had slept with the w indow shut. But as I approached the gully, my footsteps lagged suppose there was a man lying t here, illed by the bullet from my pistol? I went up to the bushes under the wall at a snail's pace. The bushes were very s till; on one of them a linnet was singing. The grass round the bushes was flatte ned. At length I screwed up my courage and gingerly parted the bushes. The linne t gave a plaintive cry and, swooping under the branches, flew out of the garden. There was no one in the bushes. I was about to go on further when, lying on the grass, near a tree stump, I suddenly noticed a dented aluminium bowl. Beside it lay a similar aluminium spoon. In the bowl, under a layer of cold fat, lay the remains of a half-eaten meal of barley porridge. The students often had such por ridge for supper. Probably the men who had fired at us had been eating this porr idge. Who had they been? Why should they have been having supper here, in the ga rden, under the bushes? Perhaps it had been the students' patrol? But why had th ey left the bowl behind? I wanted to loo for empty cartridge-cases in the grass, but a feeling of uneasi ness came over me in this still, dew-sprinled corner of the garden. If Peta had been with me, it would have been a different matter. But Peta was a long way off. He must be still fast asleep in his little house in Zarechye. Th e students in the white building of the Party School, were asleep too. All of a sudden I longed to be bac there, at home, in my itchen. Picing up the bowl, I waled over to a tall crooed tree. It was an old birch, the one I had fired at the evening before. I recognized it by its crooed dead b ranch that stretched out towards the nunnery wall. This was where Peta and I ha d stood when I shouted "Halt!" On the bar of the birch-tree there was a fresh brown scratch. Pretty good! I ha d hit the target with an instantaneous shot; the tail of the bullet, splayed by the impact of striing at close-range, was sticing out of the trun. What should I do with the bowl? I didn't want just to throw it away in the grass. On the path down the side of t he garden stood a tall walnut-tree with smooth light-grey bar. A big hole loome d in a cleft between two of its branches, about the height of my chest. I pushed the bowl into the hole and it fell down inside the tree. Having once again examined the old birch and the bullet sticing out of its trun , I decided that I must bring Peta here without fail let him see what a good sho t I was! Forgetting all my fears of the night before, I strode off up the path to the gar den gate. I was only a few paces from the gate when Korybo the gardener, looing lie a h unter, with his old fowling piece over his shoulder, appeared from behind the go oseberry bushes. He was wearing a dar coat, and blue naneen trousers tuced in to rust-coloured boots. On his head there was a blue cap with a blac band, shin

y pea, and a blac chin-strap. His face was heavily wrinled and he had a big m oustache. He limped towards me. "Stop! Stop!" he shouted although I had shown no intention of running away. ''I' ll teach you to steal gooseberries!" And he too the gun off his shoulder. Half afraid that he might let off a charge of salt at me, I muttered: "What's th e matter, Uncle? I belong here." "What do you mean you belong here?" "I'm Mandzhura!" I announced proudly, as if my father were at least head of the Party School. "I'm the son of the printer Mandzhura!" Korybo eyed me suspiciously, blined his dar baggy eyelids, and slowly put his gun bac on his shoulder. "Moved into the white wing, eh?" he said, more mildly now. "Used to live at Zare chye, didn't you?" I nodded. "What are you doing rambling about the garden at this hour? Looing for somethin g?" "I went out for a wal." " 'For a wal!' " The gardener grumbled. "Everybody still asleep, and he goes fo r a wal... What d'ye thin this is? The boulevard? You be careful, don't let me catch you picing those gooseberries. If I tell your father..." But I did not wait for him to finish. "All right, Uncle!" I cried, and made my w ay home. "But I must be careful of that old devil," I thought as I approached the house, "he's not to be trusted. If he gets up lie this to watch the garden when only t he gooseberries are ripe, I wonder what he'll do when the apples and pears are r eady." Breafast was delicious. Aunt Maria had made potato fritters. They were soft, wi th a crisp rosy crust on them. The pile of fritters, done to a turn, steamed in the middle of the table in a glazed earthenware bowl. There was a faint smell of fried sunflower oil in the room. Famished after my morning wal, I sat facing my father and fored one hot fritte r after another into my mouth, burning my lips. Father munched his fritters in s ilence, his thic blac moustache moving slowly up and down. I looed at him and longed to tell him what had happened to us the night before. But I was afraid. You never new, Father might be angry and tae my pistol away . No, I mustn't say anything. But suppose Peta suddenly started telling people about it?... "When does term start at the technical school, Vasya?" Father ased, putting his for down. "When does term start?..." The unexpected question made me jump. "September the fifteenth." "I suppose you now there won't be any exams?" "No, there won't, Dad. I told you: everybody who's finished at the people's scho ol gets accepted without exams." "Well, be careful. Or it'll be too late." "Too late for what?" "To prepare yourself. It would be better for you than loafing about with your Pe ta all day if you looed up a thing or two. You'll forget everything before the summer's out." "Don't worry, I remember everything. You test me." "You are artful, aren't you? How can I test you?" my father said with a smile. And indeed there was nothing he could as me. Although Father new how to set ty pe in French, Italian, and even in Gree, he could never have told you what a su ffix or a prefix was. One day I had some decimal problems I just couldn't get ri ght. I went to as him and he didn't even now what a denominator was. Aunt Maria brought an enamel tea-pot in from the itchen and after maing "raspb erry tea" with a pinch of dried raspberries, started pouring out. Then she gave Father and me two fruit drops each and sat down at the table.

"Do you study long at the technical school?" she ased looing at me. "About three years." "And after that?" "After that they send you to the institute." "Where the ecclesiastical college used to be?" ased my aunt. "That's right." "You'll be quite grown-up when you finish at the institute." "I'm grown-up now," I replied offendedly. And I drew a finger, shiny with butter, across my upper lip. It had no hair on i t of course I just wanted to show off. "All right, grey-beard," said my father rising from the table. "I'm going into t own now; you help your aunt to chop the wood." At that moment, the door opened and Polevoi entered the room. He greeted us all, shaing hands even with me. "Sit down and have some tea," Father suggested, and called to my aunt who had go ne to the itchen: "Bring us a clean cup, Maria!" "No, thans," said Polevoi, "I've only just had some." "Well, try some fritters then. They're home-made." "No, really, don't trouble.. I've just had breafast." And glancing round him, P olevoi ased: "Fixed up already?" "It didn't tae long," Father replied. "When will you be joining up with our organization?" "I'll pic up the rest of the type from the print-shop today and as the secreta ry for my enrolment card." "The sooner the better," Polevoi replied. "While they've been studying, the peop le here have got a bit out of touch with production, and you're one of the men o n the job. We've got to strengthen our organization." Father smiled. "You won't strengthen it much with me! You're all learned men and I'm just ignorant. Loo at my boy here," Father nodded at me, "even he nows mo re than I do." "All right, don't be modest,"' said Polevoi. "Tell me, are your papers in order? What detachment are you in?" "The third." "Any weapons?" "Only a Nagant. I handed in the rifle at headquarters." "That doesn't matter, we 'll issue you with a rifle from the stores here. You'd better leave the detachme nt and join us. You'll find it difficult to run all the way to headquarters from here if there's an alarm. Mae a point of getting your discharge today..." When Father and Polevoi had left, I put on my best sateen shirt and sandals, bru shed my hair with a pricly brush, and ran off to Otter Ban. MEETING GALYA On Central Square, below the town hall, the shops were already opening. The shop eepers were putting their hoos under the corrugated-iron shutters and jering them so that they flew up under the eaves with a clatter and hid themselves ther e. Gay shop-windows appeared one after another. I waled past the windows. The pavement was still damp from the night before. Fr om the confectioner's came the heavy sweet smell of bonbons. Aronson the sweet-s eller was already busy behind his counter. Lovely bonbons he made delicious! And s o many different inds! Dar-red ones with cherry fillings, pale-yellow, lemon o nes, clear ones made of honey, nuts, blac-currants, barberry... But the nicest of all were the sharp, lemon-flavoured bonbons. It was specially good to eat the m when the weather was hot and you felt thirsty. Aronson always put a few drops of mint inside, and when you ate them your mouth would feel cool as anything, ju st as if there was a breeze blowing into it. What about going in and buying a qu arter of a pound to treat Galya? But I had only ten opes. Not enough... And fe eling the last two five-ope pieces in my pocet, I waled on down the street. "A pity term hasn't started at the technical school," I thought. "They say you g et a grant of fifteen rubles a month. Then I'll be able to buy as many bonbons a

s I lie without asing Dad for money." The morning sun gleamed on the nicel-plated alarm-clocs, gold bracelets, and t ime-darened silver glass-holders in the window of the jeweller's. As I rounded the corner, the best cafe in our town, run by Pan Shipulinsy, came into view. T hrough its tall clean windows I could see the little white marble tables. The do or was fastened with a heavy padloc Shipulinsy had not arrived yet. The town-hall cloc chimed the hour. It was nine o'cloc. Galya must be awae by this time. I had better hurry! Quicening my pace, I turned down a narrow stree t lined with tall, three-storey houses. The old houses stood very close together and the windows above me were very small, with no casements. On one of them I n oticed a coat of arms a swan with a date carved under it in Roman figures, a very ancient date by the loo of it. I emerged from this dingy side-street into Bell Street, which was cleaner, altho ugh there was dung lying about, and in places weeds sprouted between the cobbles . Chicens roamed about the road in search of barley seed. On one side of the st reet stood a tall building that had once been the military court. The domed roof of a church showed in the depths of the court-yard. Further on was the wooden f ence of Old Boulevard. I pushed open the little squeay gate that lead on to the boulevard, and had only gone a few paces when at the corner of the broad avenue I met Galya. I felt myself in the wrong with Galya and did not now whether to let her pass and then call after her, or to rush up to her at once... Galya was waling fast. In her hand she held a small wicer baset covered with a piece of cheese cloth. "Hullo," she said very coldly, and giving me a curt nod, waled on. "Galya!" I shouted after her. She stopped. Tall, rosy-cheeed, dressed in a simple light-blue froc, she stood in the middle of the avenue, looing at me in surprise. Her dar hair was combe d bac and her small rosy ears were peeping out. "Where are you off to in such a hurry?" I ased. "Oh, somewhere..." "Where is somewhere?" "Aren't you nosy! I wonder why? Well, if you're so interested, I'm going to see Dad. I'm taing him his lunch." And Galya waved her baset. Neither of us said anything for a moment. Galya looed towards the river that fl owed past below, under the cliff. Then, without a glance at me, and as if she wa s not at all interested really, she ased: "And where are you going?" "I. . . I was coming to see you." "To see me?" "Of course! Why are you surprised?" "Well, I'd never have thought it." "Why not?" "You didn't come when I ased you." "Galya, honestly, it wasn't my fault! Let's go over there, to the cliff, and I'l l tell you everything." "What do you want to tell me?" "How it all happened. It was Peta's fault ... Let's sit down." "No, I won't sit down, I'm in a hurry. But if you lie, you can come with me. It 'll soon be lunch-time at the factory and Dad won't have anything to eat." We waled on together. When I told Galya how Peta had triced us both, she was very surprised. "Well, I never, the fat swindler! ... And I thought you were angry with me abou t something. You didn't come for so long, so I thought I'd write you a note. The n, when I'd sent it, you still didn't come. And when we met, you didn't even spe a to me. All stuc up you were... Well, I thought, it doesn't matter then." "You wanted to see me?" I said with a sarcastic laugh. "I can't believe that! Yo u were going with Kota all the time." "Oh, then..." Galya murmured indifferently. "When you went off to Podzamche, Kot a land I went on the swings, then we saw a funny picture at the cinema, and whe n it got dar, we went in there." And she nodded calmly at Shipulinsy's cafe.

"To Shipulinsy s?" I repeated, and even coughed with anxiety. "Yes. And if only you new what almond caes we had, and pistachio ice-cream aft erwards!" "Well, what of it! I go in there every Sunday with the chaps." "Do you really?" Galya exclaimed innocently. "Why, that time you bought me an ic e-cream, we had it in the street! We ought to have gone to Shipulinsy's." "And so we shall! Of course we shall!" The next moment I was cursing myself. "You boasting fool! How can you tae Galya to Shipulinsy's when you haven't any money!" And Galya, as though guessing my thoughts, ased: "But where do you get money from, Vasya? You don't go to wor." "I've got more money than your Kota. I've saved up..." "H'm, I wonder ..." Galya said slowly. "You can't have more. You don't now how much money that tiner pays Kota, do you? Guess. No, you'll never guess? Only n ine rubles less than my father gets at the factory! Kota gets thirty-five ruble s a month. There!" "Oh, he was just maing that up." "No, he wasn't. Zaharzhevsy himself told Dad how much he pays Kota." "Well, of course he pays him a lot," I said. "Zaharzhevsy's a swindler, he wor s just for himself. He can tric money out of people all ways in his shop. That 's why he pays Kota such a lot to eep him quiet." "I don't now about that," Galya replied, and fell silent. We abandoned the subj ect. The nearer we got to Hospital Square, the more distinctly I could hear the chugg ing of the factory petrol engine. Soon we saw the red bric walls of the factory building and made straight towards it across a weed-grown square. The Motor Factory faced the square. Why it was called the Motor Factory it was h ard to say. The factory did not mae any motors; it made only small straw-cutter s and occasionally repaired heavy cran-shafts for the neighbouring mills. Besid e the factory stood a big yellow building the factory offices. That was where the peasants went to pay their money before taing home the green-painted straw-cutt ers. The Motor Factory was the biggest enterprise in our town one hundred and ten wore rs were employed there. In the mornings the factory hooter howled so loudly that you could hear it in Zarechye, and even in our flat at the Party School. A narrow iron chimney with a sharp-pointed cowl on top, pegged to the ground wit h four thic stays, rose above the factory, belching smoe. When we came nearer we caught the smell of charcoal. "Are you very much in a hurry?" Galya ased me, stopping. "No, why?" "You can wait for me, if you lie. I'll tae Dad his lunch and come straight bac here." "Be quic though." "I won't be long," Galya shouted and ran away. From the broen iron-framed windo ws of the factory came the clan of machinery. A steam-hammer thudded heavily. It must be fine to wor here, in this factory, boring the hard iron with those s harp, whirring drills! And then, when dinner-time came round, to sit in the suns hine in the factory yard, among old rusty fly-wheels and lumps of iron, and eat new bread and Cracow sausage out of a handerchief! The sun would be warm as any thing, the birds singing in the trees of the hospital garden next door, and you would sit there munching away at your sausage without hurrying yourself. There w as plenty of time for dinner at the factory a whole hour, just lie the long brea at school. And how fine it must be, when somebody ased you who you were, to be able to ans wer: "A worer!" And then add: "I wor at the Motor Factory!" To wor at the Mot or Factory, to be a metal worer, counted for a lot. In our little town there we re printers, railwaymen, millers, wood worers, but no one was so respected as t he metal worers. "They're the thoroughbred proletariat," people would say, "the real woring class!" On the big revolutionary holidays, when the townspeople marched past the pine-wo

od platform in what had once been Governor's Square, the Motor Factory always- m arched first, behind the big band. The factory's banner was made of heavy velvet , with a gold fringe the finest banner in the town. On the red velvet there was pa inted a picture of a stalwart worer in a leather apron opening a tall blac fur nace and letting out a stream of molten metal. The factory's banner had not been made in our town lie the other trade-union ba nners. The velvet banner of the metal worers had been specially ordered from Ki ev, where it had been made by the very finest craftsmen. It was very heavy, and it was usually carried by the strongest of the furnace men Kozaevich, a een wres tler and a very merry fellow. Not long ago, on the sixth anniversary of the seiz ure of Bessarabia by the Rumanian boyars, the woring people of the town had hel d a demonstration demanding the return of Bessarabia. The day was dull and gusty . The wind tugged fiercely at the velvet folds of the banner, the pole bent, but Zhora Kozaevich marched at the front of the column, his head held high, and di d not let the banner slip out of his bronzed muscular hands... Yes, there was no doubt about it, it was a great honour to be a metal worer. A pity I could not apply for a job at the factory now! I must finish at the techni cal school, and then... I went up to the smoe-blacened exhaust-pipe. It stuc out of the wall curving downwards. The stones of the pavement under the pipe were dar and slippery from petrol fumes. Light-blue puffs of smoe were coming out of the pipe. I wondered if the smoe was hot. Cautiously I passed my hand under the pipe. The warm steady breath of the engine played on my palm. I touched the pipe the pipe w as warm too. Suppose you covered the pipe altogether, would it stop the engine? But as soon a s I lifted my hand to the blac greasy funnel of the pipe, the powerful blast of warm air pushed it down again. Then I tried with both hands at once, and they w ere both pushed away. Soon my hands were covered with a shiny film of oil, and smelt, lie the pipe, o f burnt petrol, of the factory, of machines. "All metal worers must smell lie this," I thought, and I began to feel uncomfortable that I should be loafing abo ut the streets in the day-time when everyone else was at wor. But it made me ev en more uncomfortable to thin that I had such a long time to amuse myself, righ t until autumn, when studies began at the technical school. "Come on, Vasya!" I turned round. Galya was waiting for me at the gate, swinging her empty baset. Galya and I went for a wal down the boulevard and had a go on the swings, and w hen I felt that Galya was no longer angry with me, I too her home; then I went off in a cheerful mood to bathe under the waterfall. But later in the evening, when all six windows of the students' club at the Part y School were glowing with light, I began to feel very depressed. I left the it chen and went out on to the porch steps.. A big beetle buzzed among the branches of a sycamore-tree, then zoomed high into the air. In the red wing opposite, where the school instructors lived, there wa s a bright light in one of the windows. Someone was playing a balalaia. Kartamy shev and Boio lived in that room. It must be one 'of them who was playing. The students' supper dishes were being washed in the itchen. I could hear the a luminium spoons and bowls, and the big gravy pans, clattering in the vats of hot water. I remembered my promise to tae Galya to Shipulinsy's cafe. That afternoon, whe n we had had enough of strolling about the boulevard, and were about to part, Ga lya had looed at me slyly and ased: "Will we soon be having those caes?" "Of course," I had said husily, and got away as quicly as I could. Now I could not show myself to Galya until I had some money, otherwise she would thin I was a cheat lie Peta. But where could I get money from? Borrow from P eta? He wouldn't give me any. And he hadn't enough anyway twenty opes at the mo st. A pity I had swopped my pigeons for Peta's pistol! What was the use of the thing anyway? I could have taen the pigeons to the bird maret and sold them. I should have got at least four rubles. What else had I that I could sell? I began to go over my possessions in my mind:

pincers, hammer, shell caps, a stamp album nothing that was fit for sale. The clatter of crocery in the itchen grew louder. I pictured the head coo pou ring boiling water from a copper pan on to the greasy bowls and spoons. Spoons.. . spoons ... spoons... I repeated the word to myself quietly, several times. In a little wicer baset belonging to my aunt lay half a dozen silver spoons wrapp ed in paper. More than once my aunt had taen them out of the baset and said to me: "That's your wedding present, Vasya. When you get married, I'll give them t o you for your new home." "Why shouldn't I tae the spoons now, if they were meant for me? Not all perhaps h alf of them, say? That warm summer evening, as I sat on the stone steps of the porch, I came to a firm decision to tae half my aunt's spoons. AT THE JEWELLER'S The old, grey-haired jeweller sat at a little wooden table behind his shop-windo w. Gripping the three silver spoons in my pocet to stop them jingling, I waled past the shop, unable to mae up my mind to go in. There were some people with the jeweller. Two of them. They were taling to him, and he, not rising from his seat, was looing up at them out of the corner of h is eye. "Can't you go away! ..." I whispered, fuming at the jeweller's talative custome rs. I did not want to go bac to the shop again, so I crossed the street and stood b y the window of another shop. A plate of sweets, half-melted by the sun, lay beh ind the dusty glass. Flies were crawling about the dish, fluttering their wings and burrowing their tiny noses into the sticy mass. I ept glancing furtively a t the jeweller's. At last the door banged and the two people waled into the str eet. One of them, a short man in a dar-blue blouse that reached to his nees, w as holding a silver watch. He glanced down at it, spat cheerfully, and handed it to his companion a tall man with a bald patch, wearing dar, horn-rimmed spectacl es. The man with the bald patch shrugged his shoulders, slipped the watch in his pocet and went off in the other direction; the man in the blue shirt ran light ly down the slope to the bridge. Evidently, the bald man had wanted to palm the watch off on the little fellow in the long blouse, but nothing had come of it. I crossed the street and, plucing up courage, pushed open the door of the shop. A big grandfather cloc was ticing in the corner. There was a smell of acid. A heavy fire-proof safe stood close to the wall behind a wooden counter. The greyhaired jeweller sat hunched over his table, examining through a magnifying glass a bracelet with a dar-green stone in it. When I waled up to the counter, he r aised his head and looed at me. "Do you ... er, buy silver?" I ased timidly. The jeweller too the magnifying g lass out of his eye and placed it on the table. "Well, suppose I do. What about it?" "You see, I want to sell..." And, nearly tearing my pocet in my haste, I pulled out the spoons and placed th em in a row on the wooden counter. The jeweller promptly scooped them up and sta rted examining the mar of each one. Then, eyeing me suspiciously, he ased: "Wh ose spoons are they?" "Mine," I answered almost in a whisper, feeling the blood rush to my chees. The n I added: "Mother told me to sell them. She's ill." "Mother told you?" the jeweller ased. "In other words, the spoons belong to her , not you." I nodded. "Where do you live?" "In Zarechye," I lied. "Address?" "The Old Estate, near the church ..." "On top of the cliff?" "Yes..." "What's your name?" "Maremuha!" I blurted out, and shivered in expectation, thining that the jewel ler was about to seize me by the collar and call a militiaman. But the old man, having written the name down on an empty cigarette pacet, ased dryly:

"How much?" "How much will you give me?" "The goods are yours, you name the price," the jeweller said severely and glance d out of the window. I summoned up all my courage and said as firmly as I could: "Six rubles!" "Too much," the jeweller said, rising. "Four." "All right, four then." Without looing down, the old man opened the drawer of the table, too out a yel low wallet, counted out the money and placed it on the counter. Grasping the fou r dirty notes in my fist, I ran out of the shop. I waled home past the creeper-hung fences with my head lowered, trying to avoid the glances of the passers-by. I felt hot. My face blazed with shame. Only when I was quite near the Party School did I unclench my fist, smooth out the crumpl ed sweaty notes, and stuff them into my pocet. "Vasya, wait!" someone shouted behind me. I swung round. Peta was running down Zhitomir Street. As he came nearer, I noti ced that his forehead was gleaming with perspiration. "Gosh, I'm tired!" Peta said, gripping my hand. "I've been weeding maize all th e morning. I did four rows, and then Dad let me go for a wal. . . Where have yo u been all this while, Vasya, why didn't you come round?" "I haven't had time." "Who fired at us, do you now yet?" "How should I now! Perhaps it was some thieves from Podzamche, looing for goos eberries." "Don't tell me that," Peta said pompously. "What ass would go scrumping goosebe rries at night! You can't pic them at night. They're not lie apples." I did not answer. Those wretched spoons were giving me no peace. Suppose Aunt Ma ria had already missed them, and would start asing about them in front of Peta ? I did not want to tae him home with me. "Let's go to your garden, Vasya," Peta suggested. Evidently he wanted to try th e gooseberries. "Not now. Korybo's nosing round there at this time. I'd rather go for a swim." "Where?" "Paradise Gate." "That's too far," Peta grumbled. "It's so hot now." "Never mind, we'll go through the cemetery. It's cool there." And I set off alon g the fence of the Party School in the direction of Paradise Gate. Peta unwillingly trotted after me. The swim cheered me up a little and I quite forgot about the money lying in my p ocet. Only when I had left Peta, and was nearly home, did I remember the spoon s again. My fears returned. "If only they don't notice, if only they don't notic e!" I thought as I waled down the dar corridor of our flat. My aunt's voice reached me through the door. I entered the room and saw my fathe r sitting at the table. He was eating his dinner. Aunt was taing an empty sauce pan off the shelf. Unwillingly I sat down at the table opposite my father. "I got a ticing-off on your account today," said Father. "A ticing-off?" I repeated, pricing up my ea rs. "Polevoi was asing me about you." "Polevoi?" "Yes. Seems he's taen a liing to you. Kept on asing one thing and another. 'W here did he go to school?' he says, 'What's he thining of doing in future?' I t old him everything. Then he says: 'Well, it's time the lad joined the Komsomol. You're a Communist, Mandzhura,' he says, 'a front-raner, but your boy's icing his heels doing nothing. Let him come along to our Komsomol meetings.' Understa nd?" Aunt Maria set a plate of rich dumpling soup in front of me. Little green pieces of fennel floated on the top. "Do you understand, Vasya?" My father ased again. I felt very ashamed at that m oment. Why had I taen those spoons? Father still did not now they had been sol d, but he might find out at any moment. I could not endure his glance and lowered my eyes. "I understand," I whispered, stirring the hot soup with my spoon.

AFTER THE RAIN For many months I had been envying the boys who wore the dar-red badges of the Komsomol in their button-holes. How I envied them! Often, when the Komsomol printers marched from the old part of the town to their club in Zhitomir Street, I would stand for a long time watching them pass. "When I go to the technical school in the autumn," I thought to myself, "I'll at tend the Komsomol meetings, and after a bit I'll mae an application." It had ne ver entered my head that I could join the Komsomol here, at the Party School. I had thought the students looed on me simply as a stranger living among them, bu t apparently that was not the case at all. "I must tal to Polevoi about the Komsomol!" I decided. But as luc would have i t, Polevoi had gone off somewhere and no one new anything about him. All the ev ening I hung about the yard, sitting on the bench by the horizontal bar, wanderi ng about round the sentry, waling up and down outside the students' itchen. St udents and staff went to and fro, but Polevoi was not among them. The next day, in the afternoon, it rained. In the morning the sy was clear and the sun shone brightly. It looed as if it would eep fine all clay. But clouds appeared unexpectedly in the west. I had only gone a few streets from Peta Mare muha's, on my way home, when a strong wind sprang up, dust whirled down the str eet, and the passers-by ran to tae shelter in the gateways. I ran too. The wind flung dust in my eyes and ruffled my hair. I pelted down the middle of the road as hard as I could go, listening tensely for the first clap of thunder. Low blu ish storm-clouds jostled together over the town. It was getting darer every mom ent. It seemed lie evening rather than midday. I saw a line of bushes and the g reen fence of the Party School behind them in the distance; then the first heavy drops of rain spattered on the dusty sun-warmed earth. Just as if it had been f rightened by the rain, the wind dropped and a dirty scrap of paper that had been flying about all over the place dropped helplessly to the ground. I was just running past the sentry into the yard, when the rain lashed down in f ull force. While I ran to our wing, the earth became blac and wet, the grass an d bushes gleamed, and I heard the rain pattering on the iron roof. Reaching my r oom, I pulled off my wet shirt and looed out of the window. Streams of water tr icled down the panes as the rain drove against them. I could hardly see what wa s going on in the yard. I opened the window and the noises of the storm burst into the room. Thunder rum bled somewhere beyond the fortress and broe off suddenly, as if choed by the p ouring rain. In the rain, the main building of the Party School looed empty and deserted; the windows gleamed whitely lie the walls, as at sunset. I leaned ov er the cold window-sill and pushed my head outside. The rain pelted on my hair a nd nec. It's lovely to lie on a cool window-sill with torrents of rain pouring down on the bac of your head. Water was foaming out of the drain-pipe straight into a round rusty boiler with iron handles. Leaves from the roof, and blue eggshells, glinted in the steady torrent. The boiler was already full, and the wate r was overflowing on to the sandy earth. Two fat ducs appeared from nowhere and waddled up to the drain-pipe, quacing with pleasure. One of them opened its ye llow bea and stretched its nec to catch the water flowing out of the boiler. B ut soon she grew tired of that and, uttering a final quac, flapping her well-wa shed white wings and shaing her head, she waddled after her companion towards t he gate. At that moment, above the noise of the rain, I heard a rumble of wheels. Two hig h army carts drove quicly into the yard. Men were sitting on them covered with sacs and tarpaulins. The carts turned left and disappeared through the arch int o the bac yard. The rain soon stopped, as summer rain always does. In an instant the yard was qu iet and bright. The clouds drifted away from the sun and a vivid rainbow mounted over the garden, one end resting on the wet iron roof of the Party School. Can anyone stay indoors when there is a rainbow shining in the sy! I iced off my sandals, pulled on a dry shirt and, rolling up my damp trousers, ran out on

to the steps. What I saw brought me up with a jer. Down in the yard, by the drain-pipe, Polevoi was washing himself, uttering loud snorts. He was bending over the iron boiler, scooping water in his big hands and splashing it over himself, now on his nec and bac, now on his chest. Sometime s he bent right down and put his face in the water. Beside him on a stone lay a little grey lump of soap. Polevoi was wearing only his pants; his clothes hung near by, on a lilac bush. I waled down the steps. Polevoi went on washing himself and snorting loudly; he did not hear my footsteps. How should I address him? "Uncle Polevoi?" No, that wouldn't do. Only ids calle d people "Uncle," and I was grown-up. After standing about a bit behind Polevoi I gave a cough and followed it with a quic, "Hullo, Comrade Polevoi!" Polevoi turned round at once. A tricle of water ran down his nose. His soft wet hair fell over his sunburnt forehead, almost to his eyebrows. "Hullo, young man! You haven't come to turn me out, have you?" "Turn you out?" "Out of here. Because I'm taing your water. This boiler belongs to you, doesn't it?" "No, it belongs to the school." "Well, you see, I got so dusty on the way here; so when the rain stopped I thoug ht I'd have a wash in rainwater. It's better than any bath, you now." "But where have you been, Comrade Polevoi?" "Catching bandits," Polevoi answered briefly, pushing his hair bac with his han d. "We had to lie in ambush in a mill. For a whole five hours. And you now how much dust there is in a mill? It's enough to choe you. Specially in the loft." "Did you catch any bandits?" "We did," Polevoi replied with a grin. '. Now I realized where he had been all this time. Why hadn't I guessed before! Onl y that morning Father had been saying that a big detachment of Communists and Ko msomol members had left town to clean up a bandit gang. Polevoi must have been o ut with the detachment too. I gazed at him with delight and envy. When Polevoi had put on his clothes, donned his faded cap over his wet hair and was about to go away, I ased guardedly: "Is it true that I can come to the 'Komsomol meetings?" "It certainly is," Polevoi said with a smile. "I told Miron." "When?" "When... Now, what's today, Thursday? Yes, Thursday. That means there'll be a me eting tomorrow. Come along to the club at five o'cloc." I arrived at the club not at five, but at half past four. The club was situated on the second floor of a building that had once been a church. Even now, here an d there, the dar face of a saint peeped out from under the slogans posted up ro und the top of the walls. And the ceiling was not flat, as in ordinary rooms; it was sort of round. Rows of blac dess stood in the big club-room in front of the stage, and on the curtain there was a picture of a worer stripped to the waist striing chains o ff the globe with a sledge-hammer. In the left-hand corner, just below the stage , stood a piano. On the seat in front of the piano sat Marushcha, the student w ho had been in the football team. When I entered, Marushcha was sitting deep in thought, but no sooner did I approach the des, than, as if to greet me, he sta rted playing the "Dogs' Waltz." He glanced at me and went on playing. His body s wayed slightly from side to side, he nodded his head, sometimes he even closed h is eyes obviously he enjoyed playing the piano. Now and then he would lift his han ds high above the eys, then, as if losing his temper, bring them down all of a sudden. The piano made such a din it seemed all the strings would snap. When Mar ushcha got tired of the "Dogs' Waltz," he played "Mummy, Buy Me a House in the Country." Students began to gather in the hall. They too their seats, banging the des li

ds. I got up quietly and went and sat at the bac of the room. I did not feel ve ry comfortable; all the people round me were strangers and Polevoi was nowhere t o be seen. The curtain was pulled bac. In the semi-darness of the stage there was a small table covered with a red cloth with a jug of water on it. As soon as the curtain was pulled bac, Marushcha banged the lid of the piano a nd put on his cap. Nearly all the students at the Party School wore light-blue, summer Budyonny hats, but Marushcha could not part with his raish pea-cap. He must have ept it from the Civil War, that smart cap with its purple top, yello w band and its little shiny pea. Such caps had been worn by the Red Cossacs, t he men who had driven Petlura out of our town. Even Kotovsy himself, the huge b road-shouldered commander of the Red Cossac Corps, when he had once attended a parade in our town, had worn a cap lie Marushcha's. The meeting began. How the chairman and secretary were elected I did not hear; I also missed how the chairman, quite a young student in bulging blue riding-bree ches and a velvet blouse, announced the agenda. Very soon after the meeting star ted, Marushcha waled up the creaing wooden steps on to the stage. He taled a bout the Red Cossac regiment that was affiliated to the Party School. It turned out that Marushcha had visited the regiment recently and taen them presents f rom the Komsomol. Marushcha spoe slowly, with many pauses obviously he wasn't used to maing speec hes. Sometimes he would search a long time for the word he needed and wave his a rm in annoyance, as if he were hewing with a cavalry sword. Marushcha ended his tal abruptly. Everyone thought he would go on taling, but he just smiled and said: "Well, that's all. What else is there to say?" A few questions were ased. He an swered them quicly and briefly. The young fellow in blue riding-breeches rang a bell and moved that there should be no debate, but that Marushcha's information should be acted upon. Treading noisily in his heavy, hob-nailed boots, Marushcha left the stage and s at down beside me. He must have been agitated when he was maing his report, for his forehead was beaded with perspiration. His eyes fixed on the stage, he felt for a handerchief and wiped his face. I watched Marushcha out of the corner o f my eye and did not notice what was happening on the stage. I felt flattered th at Marushcha had sat down beside me, at the same des, and I even made up my mi nd to as him whether it was true that he had been with Kotovsy. But at that mo ment, Marushcha noticed I was looing at him and gave me a penetrating glance. I turned away and started examining the portraits hanging on the wall. The des swayed, its lid banged, and I realized that Marushcha was getting up. "Just a minute, Comrade Chairman! I thin there are people here who are not in t he Komsomol." A stir passed through the hall, then there was silence. All the students turned towards our des. The chairman rang his bell and ased: "How can there be, Comrade Marushcha? I a nnounced that after the tal the meeting would be for members only. The other pe ople went out." "Well, I don't thin this lad's in the Komsomol." And touching my elbow, Marushc ha added: "Have you got a Komsomol card?" "Comrade, are you a 'Komsomol member?" the chairman called across the hall from the stage. "No," I whispered. "He's not a member. Not a member!" I heard the students beside me call out to th e stage. "Please, leave the room then," said the chairman. "This is a closed meeting now, and only Komsomol members may be present." Not yet properly aware of what had happened, I rose and waled slowly to the doo r. I felt all eyes on me. Because of me the meeting had been held up, and everyo ne was waiting for me to go away. "Chuced out! Chuced out!" I thought, and my sandals scraped on the smooth floo r. The blood rushed into my chees. "Why did I come here? What a disgrace! Now a

ll the students will point at me and whisper to each other: That's the one who w as ased to leave a closed Komsomol meeting.' " The worst of it was that they must thin I had stayed behind on purpose to liste n to what they were taling about, but I just hadn't heard the chairman announce that the meeting was for members only. As soon as I got outside I saw Polevoi. He was waling quicly along the pavemen t. "Has the meeting started yet?" he called, still some distance away. I nodded without speaing. "Ah, what a nuisance, I was ept behind at the District Committee," Polevoi said as if apologizing, and then, coming up to me, he ased: "Where are you going? C ome along to the meeting." If only he had not said that! I felt even more hurt, and forcing bac my tears, I gave a silent wave of my hand and Waled away. SHIPULINSKY'S CAFE On a bench under the stone wall, just at the foot of New Bridge, sat a street ve ndor. Her head was wrapped in a blac woollen shawl. On the pavement beside her stood a baset, full of sunflower seeds. "Two glassfuls!" I said, land with pain in my heart gave her a ruble note. First she counted out the change. I put the coins away and held open my trouser pocet. Spitting the shells over the rail, I waled slowly across the bridge. The shells too a long time to reach the water and, landing lightly, floated away with the current such tiny white specs you could hardly see them. Little shingle-roofed cottages stood under the cliffs on the green bans of the river; they looed lie match-boxes tossed down from above. The bridge seemed very long today. Its worn plans creaed under my feet, and wh en I saw the river far below glinting through the cracs I felt even more upset. I had been so glad when I learned that Polevoi was in favour of my joining the Komsomol, and it had been such a blow when I had been ased to leave the meeting . But perhaps they had found out somehow that I had taen the spoons, and that was the real reason why they had turned me out? Why had I sold those spoons! Soon, however, the tasty, well-fried sunflower seeds too my mind off my trouble s. I remembered Galya. I had promised to see her yesterday, and had not turned u p. I must go and see her now, and as her into town. An hour later, the two of us were sitting in the open-air cinema on the boulevar d, watching an interesting picture called "The Master of the Blac Cliffs." The bench was tall, with a bac to it. I couldn't touch the ground and ept swinging my legs. Behind us, in a little box lie a pigeon-house, the projector whirred noisily and a bright beam of light poured out of the small square window in the box, piercing the darness. Tall trees towered up on both sides, and the sound o f a piano that was twanging somewhere near the screen was taen up land absorbed in their thic leaves. The sy above was dar blue and full of stars. Galya gazed silently at the screen, only when the subtitles appeared reading the m aloud in a quic whisper. Whenever I tried to help her, she waved me aside and told me to stop interrupting. When the last part was being shown and the bearded master of the blac cliffs wa s wandering along the rocy shore searching for a boat, a wind sprang up and the trees on the boulevard rustled and swayed. The white sheet of the screen billow ed lie a sail, and it really did loo as if there was a storm at sea and the wh ite waves were beating against the cliffs not on the screen, but somewhere near us. In the noise of the wind I even thought I heard the thunder of the surf. "Isn't it cold!" Galya said shivering. I didn't now what to say, and wished I h ad brought my jacet. It would have been good to offer it to Galya now. The pianist struc a last resounding chord and the lanterns on the posts all wen t up at once. Their light was unsteady because of the wind. The rustling of the trees grew louder. When we entered the dar avenue leading down to the bridge, I

felt as though we were waling through a wild and deserted forest. On the bridge it was really cold. I too Galya's arm and waled fast, anxious to cross the long, high bridge as quic as possible. "What a wind!" said Galya. "Lie autumn!" "Never mind," I said, "it won't be so bad in town. It's only crossing the bridge that's so cold." In the town, between the high walls of houses that lined the narrow streets, the wind was indeed less. Now it blew above us, over the roofs, and we could hear t he iron weathercocs whistling and the occasional bang of a window. We turned in to the main thoroughfare Post Street. A bright stream of light from the open doors of the sausage shop flooded the pavement. Once again I felt the money in my poc et, and as soon as we drew level with the sausage shop, I said to Galya as offhandedly as I could, "I'm quite cold, you now... Let's drop in..." "Where?" Galya interrupted in a soared voice and glanced at the window of the sa usage shop. "No, not there at Shipulinsy's." "Shipulinsy's? No. We'll go there another time." "Let's go now," I pleaded. I didn't want to tae Galya to Shipulinsy's another time. I wanted to tae her there now, on this cold windy evening; I wanted to spend all the money now. "Oh, yes, I had quite forgotten!" Galya burst out laughing. "We taled about the cafe that day and you remembered, didn't you? Do you thin I really want to go there? You are funny!" "I'm not thining anything, I just want some coffee," I replied offendedly. "It's so late. How shall I get home?" "That doesn't matter, I'll see you home." Galya thought for a minute, then she suddenly made up her mind. "All right then, let's go there." We entered the cafe timidly and sat down at the far table, by the window. We cou ld have taen a table nearer the counter, of course. But the handsome, flaxen-ha ired Pani Shipulinsaya was standing there in a pin sil dress and white lace a pron. I didn't want her to hear what we were saying. For a few minutes we sat in silence. Galya looed at the pictures hanging on the walls, but I could not feel at ease. I was afraid to spea loudly to Galya in t his almost empty cafe. And the strange greenish light of the gas lamps put me of f too. No one else in town had gas lamps now except Shipulinsy; they hung from the ceiling on gilded chains. Pani Shipulinsaya did not loo at us and went on wiping the counter with a clea n cloth. I got tired of waiting and coughed. "Frane!" Shipulinsaya called to her husband. Pin-cheeed, slightly bald, in a neat blac suit, Shipulinsy bobbed out behind the screen. He looed in our direction and quietly, but loud enough for us to h ear, hissed at his wife: "Why didn't you tell me there were some customers in th e shop?" "I thought you new," she replied, moving la tall shapely fruit stand with artif icial apples on it to the edge of the counter. Shipulinsy waled jauntily over to our table. He eyed Galya with a professional smile, then cast a glance at me. I hastily put my feet, clad in dusty sandals, under the table. "What can I do for you, young people?" Pan Shipulinsy ased. And eyeing Galya h e added: "What would the young lady lie?" Galya blushed and, nodding towards me, said quietly: "I don't now, he. . ." "Bring us..." I mumbled hoarsely, land coughed. "Bring us coffee and caes..." "What coffee would the young people prefer? Warsaw or Vienna? Or perhaps, blac? " "Any ind!" I said. But Galya corrected me: "No, not blac." "Very good!" Shipulinsy agreed. "I suggest Warsaw coffee. It's nicer. And what pastries?" "A cream slice for me," said Galya.

"Oh, any ind!" I said. "In other words, I shall bring the pastries and you will choose for yourself," S hipulinsy concluded. He slipped away behind the screen, his patent-leather shoe s scraping on the tiled floor. And at once the glasses began to clatter. Now I felt a little better. The coffee was ordered, so were the caes now I had on ly to wait, eat, and pay the bill. I had already got warm in the well-heated caf e, and no longer thought of the wind outside. "See how he does everything himself!" Galya whispered to me, leaning across the table, and la loc of hair fell over her forehead. "Of course! He doesn't want to hire a waiter because he'll have to pay tax." "Why? Don't people who have no servants pay tax?" "Yes, but not so much!" I said almost under my breath, for Shipulinsy was already approaching with a gleaming tray. He brought the coffee in silver glass-holders; on top of each glass floated a bl ob of something that looed lie melted ice-cream, and in the saucers lay little gilded spoons with curved handles. Galya piced up her spoon and dipped it in her glass. Shipulinsy disappeared be hind the screen again and was bac almost at once. "Why so many?" I almost shouted in alarm. Shipulinsy had brought a plate with a t least ten pastries on it cream slices, eclairs, tarts with pin cream and cherri es on top, and flat apple slices. He placed it on the table. "We don't need so many caes! We only need two! We haven't enough money to pay f or them all!" I wanted to ' shout, but I could not utter a word, and the wretche d Shipulinsy, as if sensing that his pastries might be refused, slipped away be hind the screen. Thoroughly upset, I felt the money in my pocet and did not now what to do. I w ished we had never come to the cafe, and would willingly have forfeited both cof fee and caes to be outside in the street without a scene. If I had not enough m oney to pay, Shipulinsy wouldn't let me out; he would as for a deposit. But wh at deposit could I leave him shirt, trousers, belt? And what a disgrace it would b e in front of Galya! Unaware of my anxiety, Galya sat calmly sipping her coffee. "Why don't you drin your coffee?" she ased. "I don't want any," I grunted. "Well, I lie that you don't want any! Why did we come here then? Drin it up!" Sh e pushed the glass of coffee towards me and ased: "Which cae do you want?" "Well, we only die once," I thought, and, closing my eyes, I said desperately: "I don't care which..." "I'll give you a custard cream it's very nice and there's lots of cream inside. He re you are." I toyed at the rich pastry with my spoon. In my anxiety, I scarcely tasted the y ellow cream inside. "Eat it up! Eat it up!" Galya ept hurrying me. "Or we'll be here till morning." Almost choing, I forced a piece of pastry into my mouth, and was just about to wash it down with coffee, when I felt someone's glance upon me. Outside the window, resting both hands on the iron rail, stood my father in a wh ite duc suit and straw cap. He was eyeing me narrowly. I felt lie crawling und er the table; Father's gaze burned into me. I lowered my eyes. When I cautiously raised them again, Father had gone. He had disappeared in the darness as suddenly as he had appeared. "Why are you so pale, Vasya?" Galya ased. "You haven't got a chill, have you?" "It's nothing. Just a pain in my side," I lied, and noisily pushed bac my heavy chair. As if from nowhere, Shipulinsy popped up beside our table. "The young people wish to pay their bill?" he ased tenderly. "Yes!" I said in a trembling voice, and feeling suddenly cold all over, I though t: "This is it!. "Two glasses of Warsaw coffee and two pastries," Shipulinsy whispered almost inau dibly, looing at the cae stand. Then cheerfully wagging his half-bald head, he said loudly: "One ruble, forty opes!"

Cheering up at once, I fished a crumpled ruble note out of my pocet, smoothed i t out, then sprinled forty opes in coins on the table. A few sunflower seeds fell out with the coins, but I was ashamed to pic them up. Clapping my cap on m y head, I slipped out into the street after Galya without a bacward glance. The wind was still blowing, and we felt cold again in the street, but I didn't c are about the weather now. How lucy that everything had turned out all right! Y et I could not forget my father's appearance at the window. Perhaps he was waiti ng for me on the corner. We waled down narrow Smith Street, past the Venice restaurant and the Finance D epartment, past the ruins of the theatre that had been burnt down during the war . The huge seven-storey Stephen Bathori tower loomed up before us. At the foot o f the tower there was a dar hole. That was Windy Gate, the northern entrance in to the old part of the town. As we waled under the low vaulted arch of the gate , our footsteps resounded on the pavement and the wind whistled in our ears. "Oho-oho!" I shouted, and the gate threw bac the echo lie a barrel. "Be quiet, you mad thing!" Galya cried. "Somebody'll thin we're being robbed!" And she hurried forward through the arch. There was no one about the other side of the tower. The starlit river, gleamed r ight at our feet; frogs croaed on the opposite ban. Our vague, trembling shado ws glided over the water. Beyond the white Turish Steps that led up the cliff t o our old school, we could see a blac roc towering above the river, some dista nce away. Broad and flat on top, jagged round the edges, it hung poised above th e river, looing as if it might fall at any moment. The river swept round its ba se in a sharp curve. Upstream the water was calm and quiet, but here it roared, and even now, in the darness, you could see the ripple and swirl of the current . As we approached the blac roc, I felt a pricly sensation down my bac, and wi shed I had brought the rusty but accurate "Zauer" with me. The place we were pas sing through was a trouble spot, and had a bad reputation. Not long ago a passer -by had been robbed here. The bandits had stripped him naed and he had only jus t managed to escape and run for shelter to us, at the Party School. We passed the blac roc, and the worst was over. Now we were nearly at the low trestle-bridge that crossed the river to Otter Ban. Galya's house was quite nea r. Suddenly Galya tugged at my arm and whispered. "Sh! Who's that?" A man was standing on the bridge, leaning over the rail. He was looing at the w ater, and from below, where we stood, we could see him well. "Vasya," Galya whispered. "I'm afraid... Perhaps he's a bandit? Let's go bac." "Where?" "We can go round." "Go round?" "Yes, through the Polish volwers." Now we were only about five minutes' wal from Galya's house, but the road to Ot ter Ban through the Polish volwers would tae at least an hour. We should have to go bac through Windy Gate, down Post Street, over New Bridge, then mae a d etour along the dar boulevard, turn down the Podzamche slope ... The man on the bridge stirred, and the rail creaed. "Well, here goes!" I decided, and bent down. In the wet, dewy grass by the roads ide, I found a sharp heavy stone. I gripped it firmly. "Come on," I whispered to Galya. "I'd rather not, Vasya! Let's go bac." "If you go bac, you've got to pass Blac Roc. Have you forgotten that?" Galya followed me silently. I waled quietly across the bridge, trying not to ma e a noise with my sandals. I held the stone behind my bac. The man by the nail turned round at once and waited for us to come up. So as not to be left behind, Galya pushed forward between me and the rail. Witho ut realizing it, she elbowed me into the middle of the bridge, towards the stran ger. I tried not to loo at him, expecting him to shout "Halt!" at any moment. The man was only about two paces away, when I pluced up courage and looed in h is direction.

Leaning against the bridge rail, the muzzle of his carbine pointing to the groun d, stood a militiaman. I at once stamped loudly on the bridge flooring and too Galya's arm. "If only he doesn't notice the stone," I thought. "Haven't got a match, have you, youngsters?" In this dangerous spot, it was good to hear the voice of someone who could do us no harm. "We don't smoe," I replied hoarsely. "Wouldn't you lie some sunflower seeds?" "Sunflower seeds?" the militiaman repeated. "Yes, if you can spare them." "Here you are, comrade." I poured a handful of seeds into the militiaman's warm hands, and put my hand into my pocet again. "That's plenty," said the militiaman. "I'm robbing you as it is. Thans very muc h. The time will go quicer now." The militiaman had a indly face. "Good night!" I shouted as we went our way. "Good luc to you!" the militiaman responded. The cliffs ended and we came to the fortress bridge. In silence we waled across the rough narrow dam. The river had fallen, and now many rocs were showing tha t had been underwater in the afternoon. From beyond the high fortress bridge tha t lined the town with Old Fortress came the dull booming of the waterfall. We w ent up to Galya's house. Its white walls gleamed through the dar trees. The win dow farthest from the bridge was open. Just as we got to the gate Galya ased: " You paid Shipulinsy a ruble forty, didn't you?" "That's right." "Well, tae my share," she said, and held out her hand. "What? Are you joing?" "No, I'm not. Tae it. I've got money and you haven't much. H now that." II was taen utterly by surprise. I should have shown Galya the money I had left , I should have said I had still more money at home, but I only muttered: "I won 't!" "Then we're going to quarrel!" "If you want to quarrel over..." I began heavily, but Galya did not listen. "Tae the money, Vasya," she insisted. "Do you hear!" And so saying, she pushed the coins into my pocet. Before I could pull them out again, Galya had darted t o the gate. I rushed after her, but the gate banged in my face. "I'll chuc it away, Galya! I'll chuc it away this moment, outside the gate!" I hissed after her, trying not to shout too loud, so as not to wae her father. "Chuc it away then!" Galya's voice reached me distantly from behind the trees. "Good night!" ALARM I was terrifically hungry when I got home. I tried the door of the flat it was loc ed. From behind the well-padded door came the faint sound of my aunt snoring. Now I regretted living on my own. If I had not set up my quarters in the itchen , I could have gone to the pantry and found something to eat a hun of bread and g oat's cheese, or a cae. There was not even a crust of bread in the itchen. Then I remembered that Aunt Maria sometimes put food down the disused well near our wing, to eep it fresh. I went into the yard. What had happened? The whole fringe of the sy beyond Dolzhetsy Forest was purp le. Only a few minutes ago the sy had been the same as it always was. The purpl e light was growing visibly, and against it the dar tops of the trees showed mo re and more clearly. The glow stretched from Old Fortress to the food stores and far away beyond the Polish cemetery, at Paradise Gate. "That's a blaze!" I thou ght. "There must be at least ten cottages on fire!" A column of flame spouted up amid the glow. The moon rose, round and purple, abo ve the trees. As the moon rose over the garden, the fiery band along the horizon began to pale. The moon also grew paler and paler until it was yellow again. I waled round the building to the disused well. It was surrounded by a few stun ted plum-trees and clumps of stinging nettles. Passing my hand round the stone r

im of the well, I found a rope. "Caught a fish!" I thought gaily, and pulled som ething heavy out of the well. On the end of the rope there was an enamel saucepan. Taing the lid off, I saw a cold stiff layer of fat that had set firm lie ice. Under that fat there must b e some meat. But how to get it? After a moment's thought, I broe two twigs off a lilac bush and using them as a for, fished a heavy lump of something out of t he soup. It was a bone with a split edge and cold marrow inside. How I enjoyed m y supper, sitting on the cemented edge of the well, in the deserted moonlit gard en! Much better than at Shipulinsy's. If only Galya had been with me! I wondere d whether it had really been Father looing at me in the cafe, or had I just ima gined it? The thought of my father set me worrying again, and the meat lost its flavour. I wouldn't mind if Father just pulled my leg a bit for taing a girl out to a ca fe so soon. But he might as where I had got the money. If he did that, I should be done for. And why on earth had we gone and sat by that window? As if there h adn't been plenty of free tables in the corner! No one would have seen us there. . . Somewhere near the garden wall a nightingale began to sing. His strong, tender n otes floated through the silent garden. Suddenly three rifle shots rang out in quic succession beyond Old Fortress. The echo rolled over the town. I put the saucepan down on a stone. In the prison ac ross the road, a sentry whistled. A sudden burst of machine-gun fire came from t he direction of the shots. The dogs at the food stores yelped an answer. The sentry at the gate of the Part y School sprang into action. A moment later, doors were banging inside the build ing first one, then another, then a third. . . . Someone raced down the boarded co rridor to the students' quarters. Muffled shouts reached my ears. Before I could run to our wing of the building and climb the steps, booted feet were pounding down the stone staircase and students began to appear in the yard. I could hear the clic of bucles as they tightened their belts. One of the stu dents darted aside and, bending down, stamped his foot on the pavement; his boot was too tight. A tall student charged out of the doorway. "Get your rifles, comrades!" he shouted, clapping his hat on his head. With these words he ran to the low door of the armoury-near the main entrance an d disappeared inside. Lights at once flared up at ground level, in the two barred and white-washed bas ement windows. All the other windows of the building were dar, except for two a t the far end overlooing the garden which reflected the faint light of the half -risen moon. One after the other, students were running out of the armoury. I could hear them loading their rifles. "Are the runners here?" That was Polevoi. "Here, Comrade Secretary!" came several voices. "Wae up the staff! Loo lively!" Polevoi commanded. The runners darted away across the yard in different directions. One of them cra shed straight through the lilac and burdoc towards our wing. "Where's printer Mandzhura live?" he ased, panting. The runner turned out to be that stocy Komsomol member who had been chairman at the Komsomol meeting and had ased me to leave the hall. "This way!" I shouted and led him into the corridor. The runner struc a match. By its flicering light, I showed him the door of our flat. He hammered on it with his fist. "Who's there?" came my father's muffled voice. "Alarm! Hurry!" the runner shouted and rushed away. While Father was getting dressed I stood on the steps. The students were already forming up under the white wall of the main building. From my raised position I could see them well; only the right flan was hidden b y the lilac bushes. "I'll come with you. Can I, Dad?" I whispered to my father, as soon as he appear

ed on the steps. "With me? Where!" Father shouted angrily, not glancing at me as he ran down the steps into the yard. Again I heard Polevoi's quiet, muffled voice from across the yard: "Attention! First platoon follow me, quic march!" The students moved off under the wall in fours. Polevoi marched in front without a rifle. Father fell in on the march and I lost sight of him. No songs or loud commands, only the sharp clic of heels accompanied the student s as, with bayonets glinting in the moonlight, they marched out of the gates int o the street. As soon as the column had passed, the sentry quicly closed the ta ll iron gate. I felt very lonely standing there, on the steps. It was no use going to see my a unt. I new there was no one left in the whole of this big building, except a fe w non-Party worers and the wives of the instructors and their children. The tow n was quiet and still, very still, but the stillness was deceptive. I new that at this very moment from every street in the town, and even from the distant rai lway station, men of the special detachments were hurrying to answer the alarm a t Special Detachment Headquarters in Kishinev Street. I waled across the moonlit yard towards the gate. "Halt! Who goes there?" the sentry shouted loudly. The voice sounded familiar. "Friend," I answered quietly. "What friend?" "I live here." "Name?" "Mandzhura." "Come a bit nearer." The sentry was standing in the shade of a tall elm, and at first I could not ma e out who it was in the darness. When he came out into the light, I recognized Marushcha. "Ah, an old acquaintance. . ." Marushcha drawled with a grin, and shouldered hi s rifle. "Why aren't you asleep?" "Asleep! What about the alarm?" "What alarm?" "What alarm! As if you didn't now!" "First I've heard of it!" I realized that Marushcha was pulling my leg, but I went on questioning. "Where did all' the students go?" "Who nows! Perhaps they went to the baths!" "To the baths, at night? What do you thin I am nuts?" Marushcha laughed. "Now I see you're not nuts," he said, "but you're nosy that's a fact." At a loss for an answer, I shifted from one foot to another. Marushcha came to the rescue: "Let's sit down, now we're here." We sat down on the bench near the horizontal bar. I carefully shifted the pistol in my pocet and ased: "Are sentries allowed to sit down?" "Not in the army, but they can here," Marushcha replied, rummaging in his poce t. He fished out his pouch, rolled a cigarette and struc a match. "Dad gone too?" "Yes." Puffing at his cigarette, Marushcha said irritably: "They wouldn't tae me, dar n them! This is the second time I've been on duty when there's an alarm." "It isn't Petlura crossing the frontier by any chance?" "Petlura? Hardly. Might be one of his gangs though." A shot resounded some distance away, beyond Dolzhetsy Wood. Presently it was fo llowed by another. "Still plugging away, the bastards!" said Marushcha. He too a last pull at his cigarette and neatly spat out the stub. For a little

while it burnt in the grass lie a glow-worm, then went out. The moon shone bright. Now it hung right over the prison. Nightingales were sing ing very loudly in the garden. "The specials must be outside town by now," I tho ught, and at that moment I heard the faint tolling of a bell behind me. At first !I thought it was my fancy, and glanced at Marushcha. But he, too, had heard i t, for he had turned round and was peering at the open windows of the main build ing, where the strange sound was coming from, Boom, boom, boom . . . came the steady tolling of the bell, just lie the one in the cathedral tower. "What the hell! What's he playing about at?" Marushcha exclaimed and jumped up. "Who?" "Wait a minute!" Quic footsteps were echoing down the corridor inside the building. A door slamm ed below and I saw a man run out into the yard. He glanced round, jumped over th e wire fence, and ran towards us. It was one of the older students whom I didn't now, a slightly round-shouldered man in a big Budyonny hat pulled down to his ears. "Hear that, Panas?" he ased Marushcha quietly. "I hear it all right," Marushcha replied, "but at first I thought it might be y ou." "Me?" the student exclaimed indignantly. "You must thin I want a job to go ring ing bells at night..." "Have you got your gun?" Marushcha ased sternly. "It's here," the orderly replied, smacing his holster. "'Keep a watch at the gate for a bit and I'll go and have a loo," Marushcha we nt on, and with a glance at me ased: "Lie to eep me company?" "Why not?" "Well," said Marushcha, "we'll see what ind of a hero you are." THE TOLL OF THE BELL Whatever side you saw it from, the Party School looed very big and roomy. You h ad only to go inside, however, to discover that the building only looed so big from outside because there was a small orchard laid out in the centre of it. The orchard was separated from the garden by the high walls of the instructional bl oc. Only pear-trees, very old and crooed, grew in the little round orchard. When I first saw it, the orchard struc me as rather queer because there was no entrance to it; only in one place, between the windows of the dining-hall, could one mae; out the traces of a door that had obviously been walled up a long tim e ago. There was no way into the garden except through the corridor window on th e ground-floor. Even Korybo the gardener, in spring, when he had to paint the t runs of the trees with lime, and in autumn, when he gathered the ripe fruit, en tered the orchard that way. The corridors of the Party School were very long. Al l of them, except those on the very top floor, ran into each other. By followin g the corridors, one could go all over the old building, with its steep dar sta ircases, arched windows, creaing floors, and dan smell that reminded you of th e nunnery. The corridors on every floor were low and vaulted; their windows with deep sloping sills, lie loop-holes, looed out only into the orchard. Square w hitewashed stoves with heavy iron doors and narrow ash-pits jutted out of the wa lls, almost blocing the corridor. The students' itchen was joined to the rest of the building by a long corridor that ran through all the cellars. It was not a very nice wal to tae, especially alone. Low vaulted ceilings, a stone flagge d floor, not a single window into the open, only dim little lamps near the ceili ng shedding a fitful light on the heavy iron-bound doors with round spy-holes in them, that led into the store-rooms and wood-cellars. A good half of the cellar s were empty. Korybo had taen over the cellar farthest from the itchen. There he ept his r aes, hoes, and pruning shears; the shelves were covered with seeds. It was Aunt Maria who had shown me the way to the itchen the day I had taen he r spoons. She and I had gone together to the itchen, and while she was taling

to the coo I hurried bac with a saucepan of bucwheat porridge. As I ran down the corridor, I noticed that the door of one of the cellars was open and glanced in. Korybo, grey-haired and wrinled, was sitting there on a bench, sharpening a hoe with gnarled, unsteady hands. It was such a surprise to see him there, un derground, that I even felt quite frightened, All this I remembered as Marushcha and I waled up to the school building, from which, louder and louder, came the resonant tolling of the bell. I pictured what the building was lie at night, with not a single living soul in it except this mysterious bell-ringer. What if Marushcha sent me alone to insp ect the deep nunnery cellars? "Marushcha can go to the devil!" I thought. "I'm not going inside. I'll wait for him here." But it was too late. Marushcha opened the door gently and held it bac for a moment. As soon as I cr ossed the threshold, he let the door close silently and, overtaing me, strode i nto the dar entrance-hall. At once it seemed that the bell was ringing in one of the rooms on the ground-fl oor either in the dining-hall or the library. Marushcha hesitated and was about t o turn in that direction, but shoo his head and waled up the staircase. We wen t higher, to the landing on the first floor still the bell rang, now, it seemed, o n the first floor. At last we reached the top floor. The oa doors of the club-room were shut. The staircase led straight up to them. Turning left, we started opening the doors al ong the top-floor corridor. The toll of the bell still did not cease. We could h ear it just as well here as downstairs rather muffled, but distinctly audible, jus t as if someone had carried the bell after us while we were mounting the stairs. The strain was too much. I cautiously drew the Zauer pistol out of my pocet and coced it in the corridor. Marushcha glanced at me, noticed the pistol, but sa id nothing. About two paces from a glass door stood the orderly's locer, and beside it a wo oden stool. On the locer stood a lamp shaded with newspaper. Its light fell on a boo with a bright cover. There were no other lamps in the corridor. Slanting rays of moonlight filtered t hrough the corridor windows from the inner court. The tops of the old pear-trees rose level with the windows. The door from the corridor into the students' quarters was open. In the gloom I could see rumpled beds and upturned stools. The smell of living quarters, of hum an bodies and leather boots drifted from the rooms. We waled on tip-toe, very q uietly, trying to discover where this mournful craced ringing came from without disturbing the bell-ringer. We waled half-way down the corridor the bell rang quite near us, almost at our si de, but where exactly, it was impossible to say. At first it seemed to come from under the floor-boards, then out of the stove, and finally I began to thin tha t the sound came from the inner court, and put my head out of the window; but th ere I could see nothing except trees. I gripped my pistol firmly. My finger was on the trigger. "Quiet!" Marushcha whispered. I stopped and held my breath. In the hushed stillness the tolling of the bell so unded even clearer. Marushcha pressed his ear to the stone wall separating the corridor from the students' quarters. He listened for a bit, shrugged his should ers and tip-toed up to me. "I'll get to the bottom of this hany-pany!" he said in a low whisper. "Let's l ie down." We lay down. In that position we could hear better. Before us, the moonlit corri dor stretched for about fifty paces to a blan wall, on the other side of which was the students' club. Marushcha rolled over quietly on his side, and pulling bac the bolt of his rif le, slipped a cartridge in the breach. He listened attentively. The bell went on tolling monotonously. Marushcha jumped up and rushed to the open window. "Stop ringing, you swine, do you hear? I'll find you, you son-of-a-bitch, mar my words!" he shouted hoarsel y; and raising his rifle he fired into the trees.

The echo from the shot crashed bac through the windows into the corridor. And a s if someone had jered my elbow, I fired after Marushcha out of the next windo w. We both peered out into the orchard. Strange to say, as soon as the shots died away the ringing ceased. All was silen t again. 'Only far away, near Otter Ban, some dogs started baring. We stood in silence at the open windows for a good five minutes, then went bac into the yard. The orderly was waiting for us impatiently. Before Marushcha could climb the ga rden fence, he rushed up to him. "Well, what happened?" he ased. "Nothing much." "But what devil was it ringing?" " 'Devil, devil!' " Marushcha muttered. "How could it be a devil, if it was afr aid of a shot! Can't you hear, it's stopped now? Devil without a tail, if you as me ..." "But how can we catch him?" "Never mind, we'll stop his game. Seems we made a mistae when we laughed at Nev erov." "Who's he?" the orderly ased. "Neverov? A Komsomol member from the third platoon. He was on night duty last we e, he heard that ringing too, and was so scared he woe up the lads in his room . As soon as he woe them, the ringing stopped. We laughed at him, but now, as y ou see, there's more in it than we thought." "We must tell Neverov about this," said the orderly. "No, there's no need to do that. Let's agree that we won't tell anyone," Marushc ha said sternly. "What about the head of the school?" "We'll tell him. And Polevoi. But no one else. Agreed?" "Very well." With a glance at me, Marushcha said: "And not a word out of you, lad, not a mur mur." "I'll go, Panas, shall I?" the orderly interrupted. "Go along then. But if anything happens, come and fetch me." When the orderly had gone, we sat down on the bench and Marushcha ased: "But d o you understand why you shouldn't let on about this?" "More or less." "You see, there's no doubt about it someone's trying to scare us... And we've got to eep quiet about it until we find out what's what, or else if we let on too s oon, the rumour will get round the town." All of a sudden I made up my mind and told Marushcha how someone had fired at P eta and me in the garden. Marushcha listened attentively. The more I told him, the more serious his sharp, weather-beaten face became. "How long ago was this? " "Last wee." "And you're sure they shouted in Polish?" "Uh-huh. Someone shouted 'Quic!' then they fired at us Bang! Bang!... We got away , over the wall." "It's a good thing you told me. That puts quite a different complexion on the ma tter. Loos as if someone's really got his nife into us." "But what have you done to anyone?" I ased cautiously. "Aha, it's what we're going to do. Just thin. We've been brought together here from all over the province young and old. Some from the army, some from the villag es. For a lot of the lads it's the first time they've had a boo in their hands. Just tae me as an example. What was I seven years ago? Shooting at dogs with a catapult and catching pigeons in a net on the cathedral tower. As soon as I gre w up the revolution came, then war again the hetman, Petlura, Pilsudsi, what have you! My uncle too me with him to the Reds, and before a year's out the squadro n commander calls me up. Tae over a platoon, Comrade Marushcha,' he says. So t hey gave me a platoon. And I hardly new anything myself. I hadn't even got a mo ustache. I shouted 'attention!' my voice used to brea lie a young cocerel's. Then it s

tarted. If you weren't fighting, you were in hospital. I was wounded five times. At Popelnya a dum-dum got me in the side I thought that was the end of me. Then w hat happened afterwards? We finished fighting; I stayed in the army for a bit; n ew lads came along and too over. Well, I thought, it's time I went home. The co mmissar called me up. 'Wouldn't you lie to study, Comrade Marushcha,' he says. 'Yes, I would,' I says. So I came here. And when we've finished our studies, we 'll go away some of us to the villages, some to the centre, some to the sugar refi nery, some to the railway. We'll shae everything up. And when we squeeze those ulas a bit, they'll squeal. But we'll rally the decent fol for wor and mae Soviet power as firm as that!" Marushcha banged his fist on his palm. "Now judg e for yourself: will that be very nice for those gentlemen who used to rule the roost in these parts?" "Not very," I said quietly. After a pause Marushcha smiled and ased: "Were you sore with me the other day?" "Why?" "'Because they ased you to leave the meeting?" "Oh ... that was nothing..." "Don't feel sore, lad. Friendship's friendship, but we can't all do the same thi ngs. You ought to understand that yourself." "I do understand it." "Well, if you can do that, you're a fine lad!" And before I could recover from Marushcha's unexpected praise, he ased me: "Ha ve you been living in this town long?" "Since nineteen sixteen." "And you never heard anything about this house before?" "One chap I now told me a tale about there being ghosts here, but I don't belie ve him. The director of the people's school, Valerian Dmitrievich Lazarev, told us there's no such thing as a ghost. He said it's all a lot of rubbish." And I told Marushcha everything about our favourite history master. Marushcha listened attentively. "It seems your Lazarev is a learned man, isn't he?" he ased. "I should thin he is! He nows everything where every tower is, who built it, wha t year it was built. And all the things he told us about Old Fortress! And about Ustim Karmelu!..." "I'd lie you to tae me to see him. I'm fond of hearing about old times," said Marushcha. "Would you really? Let's go then." "Fine! Does he live far away?" "Not very. Near Kishinev Street, where the 'Komsomol club is." "Shall we go tomorrow?" "Yes, let's!" I agreed willingly. I was delighted at the thought of taing Marushcha, a big, broad-shouldered stu dent, in army uniform, to see Lazarev. Let Lazarev see what ind of friends I ha d now. Marushcha had fought Petlura! DISASTER I realized that the loss of the spoons had been discovered as soon as Aunt Maria appeared in my itchen. She appeared suddenly, flinging the door open. Her face was cross and worried. I had scarcely time to hide the slippery, gleaming pisto l, which I had been taing to pieces and cleaning with gunsmith's oil. Aunt Maria went over to the stove and opened the oven. Putting her hand inside, she swept all my tools out on to the iron door. I watched her anxiously. "What do you want, Aunt?" I could not help asing. "What are you looing for?" Aunt Maria shot the tools bac into the oven and shut the door with a bang. Then she ripped the paper off the stove and, pushing aside the iron lids with her fi nger, looed inside. "What are you looing for?" I repeated. "You haven't taen the spoons, have you, Vasya?" she ased. Her voice was worrie d and plaintive. "What spoons?" '

"The silver ones." I shoo my head dumbly. It was cowardice and I new it. And how I cursed myself for it afterwards! It would have been far easier to own up straight away. That w ould have been the end of it. "The spoons have gone," my aunt continued. "There are only three left. I thought you might have taen them." "What would I want with the spoons, Aunt?" I said as calmly as I could. She 'believed me and went away. I remained in the itchen. It was easy to imagin e my aunt rummaging in the chest, pulling out all the drawers in the sideboard, peering under the bed. She was very fond of those spoons; they were our family's most valuable possession. I new that, but I hadn't the guts to go and own up. Presently, when the rattle of drawers in the other room had ceased, Father came in to see me. I new he would come, and was ready for it, but his first glance t oo some facing. Father shut the door firmly behind him and sat down on the stool in the middle o f the room. "Vasil!" "What, Dad?" "Let's tal to each other as man to man. Tell me: did you tae the spoons?" "No, Dad!" I said in a trembling voice. "Is that the truth?" "Yes!" "Well, who too them then?" "How should I now? Perhaps they've been stolen." "Who could have stolen them, do you thin?" "How should I now? Perhaps some stranger ... a beggar or somebody." "Vasil, you now that no beggars come in here. The sentry wouldn't let a beggar in." "Perhaps he got in through the window when Aunt was out?" "I've ased about that. Aunt Maria says she hasn't opened the street windows onc e." "Well, I don't now." "Vasil, mae your own confession! I won't be angry with you. . ." In another minute I would have confessed, but just then a voice I hardly recogni zed as my own said: "I haven't anything to confess, Dad." "Nothing to confess?" Father's voice trembled. "Vasil, tell me how you got enoug h money to be sitting in Shipulinsy's cafe." "I borrowed two rubles from Peta." "What Peta?" "Maremuha..." "From the Old Estate?" "Uh-huh." "Is that the truth?" "Yes. . . And he gave me another ruble for my pigeons." "All right. We'll go and see him." "Who?" ; "Maremuha." "But he's not at home." "Never mind, we'll find him!" And Father very calmly put on his straw hat. With dragging feet I followed my father into the yard. Instruction was over and the students were playing football while they waited for dinner. Marushcha's ca p showed up for a moment among the players land I turned away. It seemed to me t he students new everything already. I followed my father with hanging head, lie a convict. Soon we should arrive at Maremuha's. There, in front of Peta, the old cobbler Maremuha, and Peta's mother, everything would come out. Everyone would now th at I was not only a thief, but a coward. "We waled for some distance in silence. As we passed the grounds of the trade school, I caught sight of Zaharzhevsy's shop on the corner. Now Kota Grigoreno would see me. That must be him now, ban ging away with a hammer inside the shop.

By the hoarding, Father stopped suddenly. "Vasil! I'm ashamed of you, can't you see that? I don't want to disgrace you. Yo u're my son, Vasil, and I'm a Communist. I want you to grow up a decent, honest lad. When I was your age I had a much harder life, but I never lied to my father . And you mustn't lie to me." A woman who was passing glanced at us in surprise. As soon as her footsteps died away, I gathered all my strength and said: "Dad, I sold the spoons!" "Who to?" "I thought they were mine. Aunt said..." "Who to?" "Aunt said they were for me when I got married..." "Do you hear my question? To whom did you sell those spoons?" "I sold them in town, at the jeweller's." "Come on," said my father, and felt in his pocet for his wallet. The mere thought of how we went to that jeweller's shop gives me the shudders. W hen he heard that my father's name was Mandzhura, the jeweller glanced at the li d of his cigarette pacet and laughed. "Who are you shouting at?" he said. "The spoons aren't yours, they belong to Cit izen Maremuha." It cost my father a lot to persuade the jeweller to return the spoons. Father ha d to pay interest on them. Instead of four rubles he had to give the jeweller fo ur rubles ninety opes. The old swindler made a profit of thirty opes on each spoon. On the way home, when we were half way across the fortress bridge, I stopped my father and said quietly, trying not to meet his glance: "Listen, Dad. I give you my word of honour that I will never lie again, but please don't tell anyone abo ut this. I'll never lie again, I swear! You won't tell anyone, will you?" "We sh all see." "What do you mean, Dad?" "We shall see, I say." "You mean you don't want to? Before, you were sorry about losing the spoons. But now you've got them bac why won't you?..." "I was sorry about the spoons, was I?" Father interrupted me. "You thin I want this jun? Why, II can eat with wooden spoons. There!" And before I realized what was happening, Father had pulled all three spoons out of his pocet and flung them over the rail into the foaming waterfall. The glea ming silver spun down into the water. A poc-mared man in a straw hat who was d riving past in a big bulloc cart even opened his mouth in surprise. Unable to tear my eyes away, I watched the spoons fall. I did not loo up at my father until they disappeared in the foaming water below. That day I had no dinner. So as not to meet anyone I new, I waled far away bey ond Paradise Gate and lay down on the grass near the cliff. Pulling a spring of wild garlic out of the ground, I chewed its reddish bitter-tasting root. Blac bumble-bees and honey-bees buzzed around me. A gay-feathered hoopoe flappe d out of the wood and perched on a near-by stone; for a second he stood shaing his comb then, noticing me, flew away behind a mound. Two robins perching on the thin branches of a bush struc up a merry song. But none of this interested me now. I could not even be bothered to search for the robins' nest in the grass; a lthough it must be somewhere there, full of warm specled eggs, or the robins wo uld not have stayed fluttering about on one bush for so long. The thic grass dotted with buttercups, purple-flowered cocle, and tousle-heade d daisies, smelt sweetly; the sharp green blades swayed to and fro right in fron t of my face. I stared at them indifferently, thining all the time of only one thing. When we had been going to the jeweller's, Father had said to me: "Vasil, do you remember when the Petlura men were in the town how you and your pals came out to me, at Nagoranye? You were the first person to tell me how the Petlura men shot Sergushin. Remember? For a long time after that I thought: what a fine lad my b oy's growing up to be... But now..."

Father swept his arm downwards, and that hurt me more than anything. I would rat her he had called me any name, or cursed me with the most terrible words, I woul d rather even have had him whip me with a bucled belt, as our old neighbour, Gr zhibovsy 'the sausage-maer, used to whip his youngest son Stah nothing would ha ve hurt so much as that silent downward sweep of my father's arm. It was quite clear that Father would tell everyone I had stolen the spoons. He would tell Aunt Maria first, and she would complain about me to Polevoi. And Father himself would tell Polevoi everything too. It was the end of the Komsomol for me, the end of everything... ' Everyone would despise me, Galya most of all . "Fancy maing all that up about Kota," she would say. "And all the time he wa s a thief himself!" She wouldn't even loo at me... It would have been quicer to go home through the cemetery, of course, but it wa s a bit too creepy round there of an evening, and sirting the cemetery fence I waled into town along a dusty trac through the fields. In the yard of the Party School, near the iron gates, stood Marushcha and Valer ian Dmitrievich Lazarev. Lazarev was wearing an old tussore tunic, rubbed at the elbows, and a straw hat. I could not believe at first that it was Lazarev. The day Marushcha and I had agreed to call on Lazarev, he had been out. His wife to ld us he had gone to Kiev, to attend a teachers' conference. We had decided to g o and see him later, when he returned. "Hullo, Valerian Dmitrievich!" I said, taing my cap off. "Ah, Mandzhura! How are you!" Lazarev replied absently. "Do you live here?" I felt even more offended. Not only had Marushcha got to now Lazarev without m e, he had not even told Valerian Dmitrievich who had sent him. "Yes, I do. In that white wing over there," I answered, and was just about to go away, when behind me I heard the calm familiar voice of my father; "Perhaps you'll have your dinner?" "No, I don't want any, Dad. I've had some." "Where could you have had dinner, Vasil?" Father ased, smiling. "What restauran t was it this time?" "I didn't have it in a restaurant. I had it ... at Peta Maremuha's..." "Well, that doesn't matter, you can have another dinner. Come with me." As we waled away, I heard Lazarev say to Marushcha: "Very well, that's agreed af ter school?" "Yes, mind you come. We'll be expecting you," Marushcha replied. "What does he want me for?'' I wondered, trailing across the grass after my fath er. "First he won't say a word to me, then he comes and fetches me for dinner." Father's broad bac with jutting shoulder-blades swayed slightly as he waled; t he hem of his white blouse was stained with printer's dye. "By the way, Vasil," he said, turning round, "when did you manage to have dinner with your Peta? I was down at Zarechye a little while ago and I called in to s ee them. Peta ased me why you hadn't been round at all, he said he had somethi ng he wanted to see you about. You might drop in one day, Vasil." Again Father had caught me out. "Hey, young man! Young man!" a voice shouted. Marushcha was running after us. "Comrade Mandzhura," he said to my father, "do you mind if I eep your son for a moment?" "Not for long though, his dinner's cold as it is," Father replied, and waled on towards the porch. As soon as he had entered the building, Marushcha ased me: "Vasil, who told yo u about the ghosts?" "Why?" "Don't be scared, I'm just interested." "It was Maremuha." "Who is he, a friend of yours?" "Yes." "You couldn't as him who he heard that from, could you? You now, just in an of

f-hand way." "I could." "But don't mae a lot of it, let him do all the taling. Understand? You'll as him, will you?" "All right." "Good. Off you go then, have your dinner." At dinner, as I ate the thic luewarm pea soup, I simply could not mae up my m ind whether Aunt Maria new what had happened to the spoons. While I was having my dinner, Father, taing the counterpane off his bed, lay down and piced up th e newspaper. He read the paper and rustled the pages, not saying a single word. Aunt Maria was silent too. Either they had quarrelled themselves, or they were b oth angry with me. Still not nowing what to mae of it, I finished off with swe et millet porridge and cold mil, and slipped out quietly on to the steps. A cheerful song was coming from the windows of the students' quarters. How I envied the students at that moment! I envied them for being older than me, I envied their cheerfulness and clear consciences. Why hadn't I been born seven years earlier? I should have been able to fight the Petlura men, and perhaps I might even have been wounded, and I should certainly be a member of the Komsomol . But now they would never accept me... At that moment a starling on a tree burst into song. On the very first day we ha d come to live here, I had noticed some starlings building a nest under the eave s of our wing. They ept on flying to and fro, little nimble specled birds with a dar-blue sheen on their feathers. And not long ago I had heard the chirping of their young. Every day the chirping grew louder. When the old starling flew i nto the nest, the youngsters would poe their yellow beas out of the hole in th e wall and scramble for the first worm. All day long the eaves rang with their c hirping, and only in the evening, when the sun san behind the cemetery, the wel l-fed youngsters would quieten down, and the parents, tired and contented, would fly into the near-by acacia bush and begin their song. It was one of them now w ho had struc up his evening serenade. Through the thin foliage of the acacia I could see the starling's blac breast and his fine sharp bea pointed upwards to the sy. His lusty careless song was good to hear. Now he imitated an oriole, n ow he warbled lie a nightingale, now he whistled lie a finch, now he twittered just lie a sparrow. Louder and louder he sang, as though to drown the voices o f the students. I was so absorbed in watching the starling that I did not notice Peta Maremuha running towards me. He was flushed and out of breath. "I ... they wouldn't let me in ... I could hardly mae ... the sentry ... Let's ..." I stared at Peta in bewilderment. " "Let's ... Come on..." "Where?" "Don't you now? ... Come on ..." "But where?" "The wrestlers are here!" Peta burst out. "Just a sec', Peta," I interrupted. "Who told you there were ghosts at the Part y School?" Peta glanced over his shoulder and ased quietly: "What's up?" "Nothing. We've been here all this time and nothing's happened. Not even a sound of them." "It was Sasha Bobir told me. Perhaps he was pulling my leg." "You as him who told him it's interesting." "All right." "You won't be seeing him tomorrow, will you?" "I might be. I'm going to Podzamche for maize tomorrow morning." "Drop in and see him, Peta, it won't tae you long. I'd lie to now where he g ot that from. What ghosts could there be here?" "All right, I'll drop in. Will you come to the wrestling today?" "Let's go tomorrow. I'll come round in the evening." "Come early though," Peta insisted. "About seven."

"Righto," I promised. "And don't forget to as Bobir." "All right, I won't," said Peta, and we parted. DEPARTURE Of all the chaps I ever new Sasha Bobir was the unluciest. One day, when the old High School was still going', we were sliding down the tel egraph pole by the high-school wall into Bell Street. We all slid down quicly, but Sasha decided to show off and started braing. He would let himself slide a bit, then brae all of a sudden. Sasha was only a little way from the ground whe n suddenly he let out such a scream that even the lads who had reached the river came running bac to see what had happened. Sasha jumped to the ground still screaming, and with his hands clutching his bel ly, rushed away up Bell Street into town. We rushed after him. Without even stopping to noc at the door, Sasha charged straight into Doctor G utentag's flat. We tried to follow him but were stopped by a nurse in a white co at. Sasha's howls floated through the open windows into the street. It sounded a s if Doctor Gutentag was cutting him up in small pieces. Standing under the window, we made wild guesses about what had happened. Peta m aintained quite seriously that when Sasha was sliding down the pole his stomach had burst open. My friend Yuzi said he must have been bitten by a tarantula spi der that had crawled out of a crac in the pole. Presently the screams subsided. We had already decided that Sasha Bobir was no l onger a dweller on this earth, when he suddenly appeared on the steps looing ve ry pale and clutching his stomach. He was followed by Doctor Gutentag in a white cap and gleaming gold pince-nez. In his hand the doctor held a dar, blood-stai ned splinter wrapped in cotton wool. As Sasha waled down the steps, the doctor called to him and, holding out the go ry splinter, said: "Tae it with you as a souvenir." When we got round the corner, Sasha pulled up his shirt and showed his stomach, which was slightly swollen and painted almost blac with iodine. The splinter ha d entered the sin just at the belly-button land run up his chest. The spot wher e it had entered was covered with a round piece of plaster, about the size of a five-ope piece. Maing agonized faces, Sasha told us that Doctor Gutentag had pulled the splinte r out of his flesh with huge pincers, and had even called in his daughter Ida to help him. We waled beside Sasha, shivering and glancing at the splinter. It ce rtainly was a whopper much bigger than any that had ever stuc in our bare feet! Sasha was very proud of what had happened. Though our ears were still ringing wi th his screams, he insisted that he had felt no pain at all. "What did you scream for then?" Yuzi ased. "Why did I scream? On purpose! So the doctor would do me free." For the next few days Sasha, who now smelt lie an iodine bottle, was hero of ou r class. The incident was soon forgotten, but two months later everyone was taling about Sasha again. During long brea, when we were playing "he," Sasha ran to the high-school sheds and accidentally trod on the wooden cover of the refuse pit. The cover tipped u p and Sasha dived into the hole. Everyone thought that was the end of Sasha. But when we ran up to the dar edge of the pit, whence rose the sour stench of decaying rubbish, we heard a hoarse, muffled shout: "Help!" "Are you all right?" Yuzi ased, peering cautiously into the pit. "I'm standing. It's not very deep!" came Sasha's voice. We pulled Sasha out with a pair of reins hastily borrowed from the head-master's carriage. A bedraggled figure, with scraps of paper and cabbage leaves sticing to his clo thing, Sasha scrambled out of the pit and started hopping about and shaing hims

elf. There was potato peal in his ginger hair and he stan. Having shaen himself well, Sasha stripped naed and put his wet clothes in a co rner of one of the sheds. The lads filled bucets of water from the well and dou sed Sasha in cold water, lie a horse. Splashes flew all over the place, sparli ng in the sunshine. Shivering with cold, Sasha hopped now on one foot, now on th e other, snorting and sneezing and rubbing himself all over. His whole body was covered with goose-flesh. Niifor, the caretaer, gave Sasha an old suit of livery that reeed of tobacco. Dressed in this gold-purled uniform, which was several sizes too big for him, S asha ran into the Great Hall and sat there all day, until Niifor's wife had was hed and dried his clothes. Between lessons we ran in to see Sasha. As soon as he saw us, Sasha threw off his livery and went waltzing round the hal l, star naed. And I remember another occasion. We had only another year to go at the people's school. The chaps had grown up and learnt something. Only Sasha Bobir had gone a stray. He had suddenly started serving in church, for the bishop. Sasha would at tend school in the day-time, but as soon as evening came, off he went to Trinity Church. What gave him the idea I don't now. Once or twice we went to church on purpose to see Sasha serving. In a splendid, gold-embroidered surplice, with a long embroidered apron in front, our Sasha padded about after the grey-haired bi shop, swinging a censer. He would light candles, or snuff them with his fingers, and sometimes he even went round the congregation collecting money on a tray. T he whole class boycotted Sasha. We drew a caricature of him in our wall newspape r, the Red Schoolboy, and even ased Lazarev to transfer this priest's toady to another group. Only Kota Grigoreno used to tal to Sasha in those days. Enemie s in the past, they suddenly became bosom friends. They sat at the same des and waled home together. I do not now how much longer Sasha would have gone on serving the bishop, perha ps he might have become a deacon, or even a real priest, but quite unexpectedly one day Sasha's older brother Anatoly, a printer and a member of the Komsomol, r eturned from Kiev. He had been studying there for three months, and when he came home he started persuading Sasha to give up the bishop. Sasha's brother must have used some good arguments, for about two days after his return Sasha stopped going to Trinity Church. And a month later he announced th at priests were a lot of tricsters, and that the bishop was the biggest swindle r of them all. Soon he was telling us how every time there was a service the bis hop emptied all the money out of the cups and the tray, ept half of it for hims elf and gave the rest to the priests. Sasha swore that on candles alone the prie sts and bishop at Trinity Church earned three times more than Lazarev, the direc tor of our school. It turned out that Sasha had become a server for the bishop quite by chance. One evening, he and two other chaps had climbed into the garden of Kiyanitsa the pr iest. Sasha sat in a tree shaing the branches, and the other two piced up the apples. They had both filled their shirt fronts when they suddenly noticed Kiyan itsa and too to their heels. Poor Sasha was left in the tree without a chance o f escaping. As he climbed slowly to the ground, he thought that Kiyanitsa would be sure to give him the strap and tae his shirt away, or worse still march him of f to his parents. Nothing of the ind happened. As soon as Sasha jumped down, Kiyanitsa too him indly by the arm and said: "Di d you want some apples, boy? Certainly! You may tae as many as you lie." Sasha timidly piced up two apples from the grass, expecting to feel the sting o f Kiyanitsa belt at any moment. But Kiyanitsa merely said: "What's the matter? D on't be shy, tae all you want." Sasha thought it over, then, deciding there was nothing else he could do, starte d gathering up the ripe, fragrant apples. He stuffed his pocets, his shirt fron t, then he too his cap off and filled that. "Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb!" he thought. Feeling rather heavy, he stood in front of Kiyanitsa and waited to see what woul d happen next. To Sasha's great surprise, Kiyanitsa did not lay a finger on him, and instead of taing the apples away, even opened the gate to let him out.

"If you want any more, come and as me, I'll give you some," said the priest. "B ut you mustn't steal." Three days later, Sasha pluced up his courage and went to the priest's again. B efore taing Sasha into the garden, Kiyanitsa ased him a lot of questions about the school,' what new teachers had been taen on, and how Lazarev managed thing s. His questions were very indly and afterwards he offered to help Sasha with his home-wor. So Sasha started visiting Kiyanitsa the priest regularly. At first he went to church with him, then, when Kiyanitsa made him a server, Sasha started going there of his own accord, every evening. I was very surprised when I heard that it was Sasha Bobir who had told Peta abo ut the ghosts. After we had left the people's school, I had seen nothing of Sash a round our way; he used to hang about in Podzamche all the time. How could he now that there were ghosts in the Party School? I waited impatiently for tomorro w evening. But unfortunately I discovered nothing. What was more, I could not even call on Peta at seven, as I had promised.' Next morning, when I was washing under a lil ac bush, four peasant carts drove into the yard. The driver of the first cart as ed the sentry something. The sentry pointed to the bac-yard and the carts drov e in there. Later on, when the sun was overhead, I saw some students bring several bundles o ut of the building and load them on the carts. I decided that another Petlura ga ng must have crossed the border somewhere and the students were going out to cat ch them. Dinner-time came round. I ran into the room and heard my father say to Aunt Maria: "That's enough!" "It is not enough," my aunt burst out suddenly. "You can't shut me up lie that! I've always said what I thin and I shall go on doing so." "Well, say it then," Father said gently. "And I will too. They may be politically conscious, or whatever you call it, but ... "Are you starting that again, Maria?" said Father, raising his voice. "Why, isn't it the truth? Of course it is! When we lived in Zarechye nothing hap pened. But as soon as we get here it starts the soup's stolen, the spoons..." "Be quiet, Maria!" Father shouted. "The spoons are stolen..." "Quiet, I say!" "I won't be quiet! The spoons were stolen, and the..." "Silence!" Father shouted very loudly, standing up. "I'm sic of hearing about y our spoons! Listen to me. I too the spoons myself and gave them to the Commissi on for Aid to Juvenile Delinquents. Understand? And if you mae any more fuss, I 'll give them the rest too." Aunt Maria fell silent at once, but eyed Father with disbelief. In order to save me from my aunt's reproaches, Father had made up something that had never happened. I had never expected that! I felt sorry for my father. "Wha t a rotten dog I am," I thought. "Why on earth did I have to sell those spoons? I could have ased Dad for money, he would have given it me... And now all this about the soup! ..." That night there was an alarm, and the next day Father came home in a filthy sta te. Just before dawn there had been heavy rain out in the country. Father's blac trousers were stained with mud up to the nees; his boots were soaed and loo ed lie two big chuns of clay. Standing on the front steps, Father scraped the mud off his boots with a piece of wood and told me about the alarm. The night be fore the Soltys gang had stopped the Odessa-Moscow train near Vapnyara. After r obbing the mail van, the bandits had made for the Rumanian frontier. The special detachment men had laid an ambush for the gang not far from the Prosurov Road, but the bandits had changed their direction and made for Mogilyov. "Where are you off to, Vasil?" Father ased. "I wanted to..." "Come in and have a word with me," Father suggested, and waled into the itchen

. I shut the door and waled over to the stove. "Sit down," said Father and pointed to a stool. We sat down. "Aren't you tired of icing your heels doing nothing, Vasil?" "Yes, a bit," I replied quietly. "I thin you are too. When you've got nothing to do, all sorts of silly ideas co me into your head. Spoons, for instance..." "But it's not my fault, Dad. We don't start at the technical school for a long t ime yet. What can I do! None of the chaps are doing anything." "I don't now what the chaps are doing, but I thin that while there's still tim e it wouldn't be a bad thing if you did some wor." I looed at Father. The tiff with my aunt did not seem to have upset him much... Calm and reserved as usual, he sat on his stool, watching me with twinling eye s. "Well, what about it, Vasil?" "I don't now..." "Again 'I don't now'?" "Well, you tell me, and I..." "All right, I'll tell you." Father got up and paced across the room. After a minute or two he waled up to m e and said: "You see, Vasil, our Party School has a state farm. It's not very fa r away, but it's not very near either. On the Dniester. The country round there' s fine orchards, a river... There's a group of students going off to wor on that farm today. What do you thin, would you lie to go with them?" "But will they tae me?" "They will. I've spoen to the head of the school already." "All right, I'll go!" "You will?" "Yes, I will." "But you'll have to wor on the farm, Vasil. No loafing allowed there. And you w on't have any chances to tae young ladies out to coffee in the evenings. You'll be earning your own living. Agree?" "Yes, I do." "Then hurry up and get paced, and report to Polevoi in the bac-yard." "Is Polevoi going too?" "Yes. He's chief of the detachment. Hurry up now." "AH right, Dad!" I shouted joyfully and, springing on to the stove, I started ga thering up my things. I too my old autumn coat off the hoo, folded it and tied it up in a bundle wit h a towel, sheets and pillow. Father stood behind me, watching me pac. THE MAN IN WHITE We set off for the country eighteen of us and I didn't even have time to see Galya b efore I left. As our cart crossed the fortress bridge, I stood up and saw the ro of of Galya's cottage below me, under the cliffs. And I felt very sad that I had not said good-bye to Galya. Perhaps, at that very moment she was sitting in her room with never a thought that I was passing, that I should be away for such a long time. I couldn't run and tell her about it no one would have waited for me. A s it was, I could still hardly believe that the students were taing me to wor at a state farm, that I was going to wor with them lie a grown man. It grew da r rapidly as we drove towards the Dniester. The cart-trac wound in and out amo ng the allotments and maize fields. There were gleaming puddles everywhere. Now and then lumps of mud flew off the wheels into the maize. I could hear the horse s' hooves squelching in the rnud and water splashing the wooden bottom of the ca rt. Soon the mud grew so bad that we had to turn off on to the main road, althou gh the road was hardly suitable for the village horses, which were all only half shod. On the main road we drove faster. The cart shoo, and at every bump my teeth cha

ttered. I sat on my blanet bundle, but that did not help much, and I longed for the cart to turn off on to the soft cart-trac again. Our driver, Shershen, a man of about thirty, in homespun breeches, brown shirt, and a soldier's cap with a broen pea, ept lashing the squat, but sturdy horse s with a rawhide whip that had a long, springy handle. The whip craced fiercely land I felt sorry for the horses. They were having a hard time of it as it was; every little sharp-edged stone must dig painfully into their unshod hind feet w here the hooves were badly worn. But I did not dare tell the driver not to whip the horses, and rode all the way in silence. The students on the last cart were singing. Mingling with the rattle of the cart s, their song carried far over the silent fields. The air was still fresh from t he recent rain. Beside me sat four students whom I did not now. Three of them taled and joed among themselves; the fourth was asleep, his head resting on a sac of oats. Listening to the students' tal and watching the blac tops of the lime-trees fl y past at the side of the road, I thought anxiously of what the future held in s tore. Suppose I could not do farm wor and they sent me away? I must wor as well as t he grown-ups, so that no one would have a bad word to say about me. Although our town was only about fifteen versts from the frontier, I had never b een on the Dniester. I only new from hearsay that it was a broad and very swift -flowing river. True, there was a single-trac railway that went as far as the D niester, but no passenger trains ran there. About twice a month a shay train of ballast trucs and an old engine creaed down to the Dniester for sand and grav el. The line had not been repaired since the war and was overgrown with weeds. Peta had once managed to cadge a ride on the ballast train. He had a fine time. When he got bac he ept on telling us how good it was to swim in the Dniester, what wonderful sandy bans it had, without any pitfalls or sudden drops, much b etter than the Smotrich. Peta vowed that you could see Bessarabia fine from our ban, and that a Rumania n soldier had even shouted at him. Needless to say, I listened to Peta's story with great envy. And I longed to se e the Dniester myself, but I had never thought it would happen so soon. It was a long drive. We passed a sleepy village of white cottages among trees. A tall well-sweep pointing up to the dar sy flashed past. Shershen jered the r eins; in a sudden silence we turned off the cobbled road on to a cart-trac, and here I felt that the Dniester must be near at hand., A moist breeze blew from t he horizon before us, where the clear, starlit sy joined with low, blac hills. I realized that it came from the Dniester, for no rain had fallen recently and the ground was dry. Presently, as we topped a rise and plunged downwards with dogs baring in the di stance, I noticed a white strip of river mist. It hung low over the Dniester, sp reading to the left, and disappeared round a bend in the river, far away among t he gullies of the surrounding country. It looed lie a dense trail of smoe lef t by a cart-load of blazing hay. As we approached the Dniester it grew colder, and I was just thining of putting on my coat, when suddenly the first white cottage loomed up out of the ravine. "Here we are!" said the student sitting next to me. "Enough singing! You'll wae the villagers," came Polevoi's voice from the rear cart. The song broe off and only the creaing wheels of our carts could be heard. The village stretched a long way. The cottages were scattered far apart on low h illocs. Sensing familiar ground, our wheeler let out a cheerful neigh, and Sher shen slapped his bac gently with the reins. "Is this the state farm, Uncle?" I ased Shershen. "That's right, lad. It used t o be one of the gentry's estates, now it's a state farm." The cart drew up at a tall iron gate. Shershen jumped down, went over to the gat e and noced on it with his whip. "Hey! Grandad!" he shouted. A watchman appeared behind the gate with a rifle on his shoulder. "Is that you, Shershen?" he ased doubtfully.

"Yes, here I am! And I've brought some guests. Open up!" As soon as the gate opened, we drove into the yard and halted by the stables. Mu ffled neighs came from the horses inside. What a relief to stretch your legs after a long journey! The other carts drove in. While the drivers unharnessed their horses, the studen ts gathered round Polevoi. "Shall we unload the things, Comrade Polevoi?" someone ased. "Wait a bit," Polevoi replied, and turning to the watchman: "Where's the directo r, Grandad?" "He isn't here." "How do you mean?" "He's gone to Vitovtov Brod." "Been gone long?" "Before dar. A messenger came and they went off together. Can't say how much tr uth there is in it, but the village fol are saying a gang's come across the bor der. They've called all the Party men in the district." "I'll wae Kovalsy up if you lie, chief," said Shershen, going up to Polevoi. "Who's he?" "The foreman." "No need for that. Let him sleep. I'll mae his acquaintance in the morning," Po levoi replied. "Where's the hayloft here? That's what I want you to tell me." "The hayloft? There it is. There's plenty of last year's hay in it." And Shershe n pointed to a long dar building with his whip. "That's fine," said Polevoi. "We've got a bed for the night, now what about supp er? And a drop of tea wouldn't do any harm." "There's nowhere to brew it," someone muttered gloomily. "Oh, that's a detail!" Polevoi replied. "It may be a detail, but we haven't brought anything to brew," said la tall stud ent standing near me. "Is that so?" "Yes, it is." "That is bad," Polevoi said despondently. "You can't mae tea without the stuff to mae it. Although..." And noticing me, he called suddenly: "Mandzhura!" "Yes?" I responded timidly. "Do you now a plum-tree when you see one?" I did no t reply, thining that Polevoi was maing fun of me. "What's the matter, lost your tongue? Do you now what a plum-tree loos lie? A Hungary, for instance, or a Reine Claude?" "Of course..." I began. "All right then, be a sport, run into the orchard and brea off some plum branch es. Young ones, though, without any insects. See?" "I see," I answered and turned to the watchman: "Where's your orchard?" "Over there, behind the stables," the watchman answered, puffing a twist of toba cco. "First you'll come to the melon-field, and the orchard's behind it." Against the dar sy all the trees looed alie. Had anyone else told me to go i nto the orchard and gather plum branches, I should never have gone, but I could not disobey Polevoi. Peering upwards and feeling the leaves on the trees, I stum bled about the well-dug state farm orchard for a long time, searching for a plum -tree. At last, oh the very fringe of the orchard, I spotted a shapely young tre e that looed very much lie a plum. I struc a match it was a plum all right, a r eal blac plum-tree. I could see that by the big ripening fruit glistening among the sparse foliage. In a second I had gathered a good bunch of branches from that tree alone, and so as not to wal bac through the dar orchard, I decided to climb the fence and go bac by the road. The fence was quite near. I could hear the voices of the students from behind th e dar stables land see the gleam of the camp-fire. When I reached the fence, I realized that it was not so low as it had seemed from a distance. Holding the bu nch of branches in one hand, I scrambled to the top. The ground seemed a long wa y down, but there was nothing else for it, and with a crash I jumped into the we eds at the side of the road. I was scarcely on my feet again when a man in white, with a rifle in his hands,

leapt out of the roadside bushes and rushed away to the stacs on the other side of the field. He disappeared at once in the maize, and all I could hear was the crunch of stal s under his flying feet. I ran bac to the others as fast as I could. Gasping for breath, I rushed into the state-farm yard and, thrusting the bunch o f plum branches at Polevoi, poured out my story about the man in white. "You didn't imagine it, did you?" Polevoi ased. "Of course not! He had a rifle!" I retorted hotly. "The devil nows who he is..." Polevoi said thoughtfully. "Perhaps it was a band it?" And he started issuing instructions: "Comrade Shvedov, Comrade Bazhura! Ta e your rifles and go to the allotment. Jump to it! Have a good loo round. And y ou, Grandpa," he said to the watchman, "go along with them, so that they don't g et tangled up in the wire." When the students had gone, there was a silence. Any moment, it seemed, there wo uld be an alarm shot and everybody would rush away to help. But time dragged on. Far away, beyond the orchard, perhaps on the other side of the Dniester, in Bes sarabia, dogs were baring. The flames of the camp-fire lit up the alert, stern faces of Polevoi and the students. Polevoi's lean face looed swarthy under the pea of his Budyonny hat that was p ulled down low over his bushy eyebrows. He was staring fixedly at the water stea ming in the iron pot, but anyone could see that he was straining all his senses to catch the slightest noise from out there, beyond the orchard. The water came to the boil. "All right, lads," said Polevoi. "We've ept quiet long enough. Our scouts haven 't found anything, by the loo of things. Now we'll mae a fine brew of tea." With these words, Polevoi shoo the dew off the plum branches and threw them int o the boiling water. The twigs boiled for a long time. The students and the watchman returned from th eir reconnaissance with nothing to report. All the carts had been unloaded and o ur belongings piled close by on the grass. Polevoi ept his eyes on the boiling water, occasionally stirring it with a spoon. "Tea's ready!" he said at last. He poured tea out for everyone in our aluminium mugs, and when we were all seate d round the pot, tipped two ladles of boiling water over the fire. Sitting on the grass, under the starry sy, we dran the hot, rather bitter tea. It smelt of orchards in autumn. How good that tea tasted! I dran two full mugs , burnt my lips and mouth and was the last to finish. "Get your rifles!" came Polevoi's voice from the darness. The students went for their rifles. I sat on the grass and saw them drawing guns and ammunition from Polevoi. "Who hasn't got a rifle yet?" Polevoi ased sternly. "We've all got ours," someone answered. "But there's one rifle left over," said Polevoi. "Has someone gone away?" "We're all here," Shvedov answered quietly. "Mandzhura!" Polevoi shouted. "Yes," I answered, standing up. "Have you got a rifle?" "But can I?" "What did you thin we brought you here to play sittles?" said Polevoi. " 'Can I? Can I?' " And striding forward, he thrust a rifle into my hands. "Get hold of i t. And no playing about. If you play about with it, we won't accept you for the Komsomol." It was nearly midnight by the time we had posted sentries to assist the watchman and gone to the hayloft to sleep. I too with me a real, heavy rifle, with a sm elly leather sling bucled to it. Rifle in one hand, bedding in the other, I scr

ambled into the loft after the students. Sining in the dry hay, I scrambled up under the dar rafters. I was very glad that I had been issued with a rifle. I had been glad, too, to hear what Polevoi had said about the Komsomol. So Fathe r had ept secret that first crime of my life. He had taen mercy on me and not told the students about it. But had I the right to hide that story when I applied for admission to the 'Koms omol? Of course not! . . . Spreading out their blanets and sheets, the students were maing ready for the night. The great heap of hay heaved and swayed under us. It was very warm and co sy in the loft. "No smoing, though, lads!" Polevoi ordered. I made my bed near Polevoi. Still gripping my rifle, so that it shouldn't slip d own through the hay, I spread out my sheet, undressed, lay down with the rifle b etween my legs, and wrapped myself in a light blanet. For a few minutes I lay w ith my eyes open, listening to the distant voices of the sentries and the neighi ng of horses in the stables. Then, feeling that I was dozing off, I pushed my ar m under the rifle sling, and thus, pressing the cold, slippery rifle to my body, fell asleep. I slept soundly, but towards morning I started having terrible nightmares. I fel t as if I was being crushed by a heavy weight; it was even hard to breathe. Then I was flying through the air for a long time. When I opened my eyes, I could not mae out at first where I was. There was hay all round me. The rifle lay on my chest, and I myself was in a sort of burrow, u nder an old pony-trap strewn with hay. I must have fidgeted in my sleep. Swathed from head to foot in my blanet, I had slipped to the bottom of the hay, plunge d into space, and finished up by rolling under the trap. Close by I could hear v oices and laughter. Dragging my sheet and blanet behind me, I burrowed my way o ut into the open. Soon I stood up in a patch of burdoc, blining in the bright morning sunshine. "Where did this wild beast spring from!" Polevoi exclaimed, pointing me out to t he students. Sleepy and tousled as I was, I must indeed have looed lie a wild beast. The students were standing outside the barn already dressed and tidy. They were laughing at me. I looed down at the puddles and splashes of soap on the grass. Everybody had washed long ago. Noticing my confusion, Polevoi said: "All right, pic up your belongings and com e with us to find somewhere to live." And, turning to the students: "Let's get m oving, comrades, we haven't got much time. Before we now where we are, they'll be asing us to start wor." I hastily rolled the sheet and blanet into a bundle, pulled on my trousers and shirt and, carrying my rifle by the sling, ran to catch up with the students. The students had already reached a big, two-storey house with an iron roof that stood on the edge of the estate some distance from the barns and stables. The ho use was surrounded by unempt flower-beds, all its windows were broen, and wild grapes were growing up the walls and round the rusty drain-pipes. NIKITA OF BALTA I was paired up with the student who had shown me out of the Komsomol meeting. S hort and thin, with a dar, smooth complexion, he looed quite young. He turned out to be only three years older than me. He was not more than eighteen, but at first he acted lie a grown-up and taled to me in a tone of lofty condescension . Until midday, this student and I were bringing wheat to the thresher. Then, when we got out in the field, he boasted that it would only tae him a minute to loa d the cart with sheaves. "Try and eep up with me," he said pompously, and grasped a for. After the seventh sheaf, however, his for began to tremble. Somehow or other he managed to pass me the bulging sheaf and, wiping the sweat from his forehead, g runted: "These blighters are heavy! Let's have a smoe."

While he rolled a cigarette and lighted up, I jumped down, seized the gleaming f or and with a wild flourish plunged it into the splendid sheaf lying on top of the next shoc, which was still untouched. It was very hard to throw the heavy, slippery sheaves one after another on to th e cart without stopping for a breather. But I ept it up without a pause. I want ed to prove to the student that I was stronger than him. As I plunged my for in to the dry sheaves, I thought to myself, "You showed me out of a closed meeting, you've got wide breeches, a Budyonny hat, and top-boots, you're older than me, but I wor better. Loo!" Wheat ears and chaff showered down my nec. My bac an d shoulders were aching, my hair was littered with straw, but I would not give u p until I had loaded the whole shoc of fifteen sheaves on the cart. Only when a ll that remained of the shoc was a patch of crumpled cocle and grass and a mou se-hole going deep in the earth, did I lean my for against the cart. Breathing heavily, I waled over to the student who was now sitting on the pricly stubble . I waled slowly, trying not to show that I was tired. "You're a sharp worer, I see," he said, getting up. "They new what they were d oing when they put you with me. I used to have strength once', but it got lost s omewhere in the famine. All right, get up on top, and I'll load for a bit." Taing the wor in turns, we soon piled the cart high with sheaves, squared them up with a long stic, climbed on top and drove bac to the farm slowly, so as n ot to lose any sheaves from the load. When we turned on to the dusty road, I as ed cautiously: "What's your name?" "In the first place there's no need to be so timid, I'm not a baron, or a prince ," the student said grandly. "My name's Kolomeyets, Niita Fyodorovich Kolomeyet s of Balta at your service!" He doffed his hat, bowed his head and let his hair fl utter in the breeze. "What are you, an orphan?" "How did you get that idea?" Niita answered in surprise. "Well, why did you go hungry? Haven't you got any parents?" I could not help as ing, struc by the student's lean appearance. "Why not? I have. They're still living in Balta. But I separated from them on re ligious grounds," Kolomeyets replied carelessly, and even rather mysteriously. I eyed Kolomeyets doubtfully, but it was clear that he was speaing the truth. I decided that my new acquaintance was the son of a priest. As though guessing my thoughts, Kolomeyets frowned and lashed the horses with his whip. "But don't thin I come from clerical circles," he said. "It's quite the other w ay round, my Dad was the purest proletarian in Balta, he used to wor at a rolli ng-mill. But he still believed in God, and he used to tan me lie a money. I ju st couldn't re-educate him. All the rooms at home were hung with icons. Lamps bu rning everywhere. At fasting time not a scrap of meat. I suffered for a long tim e under my father's tyranny, but one day I forgot about fasting and praying, and brought a ring of sausage home with me. Lovely stuff plenty of pepper and garlic, and all gleaming with fat. I sat down outside the house and chewed. One of the windows was open, and inside sat Dad reading the Bible. But I didn't now. I jus t sat there, stuffing myself to my ears. I'd have eaten the whole sausage, but D ad noticed the smell from his room, and down he came on me with the strap. That was a real tanning. A soldier's belt, you now, with a brass bucle on the end. I ran away into town and waled about the streets, crying my eyes out. My bac h urt, and my heart hurt, and I just didn't want to live any more. After all, it w asn't fair to sin me lie that just because of a bit of sausage. I turned down the main street, and lo and behold the Komsomol club! There were lights in all the windows, and on the board outside hung a notice: 'Lecture on the Origin of Reli gion, Admission Free.' And my luc was in, you now, the lecturer turned out to be a good one, full of fire. He had hair just lie a priest's, right down the ba c of his nec, and he ept striding up and down the stage, shouting: There's no God, religion's a lot of bourgeois fairy-tales, man is a descendant of the ape. ' That got me on the raw. 'Listen to this,' I thought, 'there's no God, and it w as all because of God that I got that licing.' I went home and there was no one in everyone had gone to church. And the ey was lying under the dog's ennel. I o

pened the cottage, lighted the lamp, and there were those icons flicering all r ound, and the saints staring down at me old, bad-tempered blighters they looed. I grabbed all the biggest of them off the wall and went and threw them straight i nto the cesspit. They may have been holy, but they san all right. When I had do ne it, I began to feel frightened. 'It's all up now, Niita!' I thought. 'No mor e living at home for you! Your Dad will ill you when he comes bac from church. ' So I left him a note. This is what I wrote: 'Dad, you tanned me for eating sau sage during a fast, but there isn't really any God, it's all a lot of bourgeois fairy-tales, and in revenge I've chuced your saints down the cesspit. So long.' I ased the Komsomol for help. They gave me a job as care-taer at their club, and I used to get pretty hungry, I can tell you. The fasting I did then well, it's better not to thin of it. 'And after a time, the Komsomol committee sent me to the Party School." "Comrade Kolomeyets..." "You can call me Niita." "Niita, why don't you play football with the other students?" "Football? That idiotic game!" Niita shrugged his shoulders. "Only sops play fo otball. Thin I want to mix with them?" "What sops?" I almost shouted. "What about Polevoi? And Marushcha? Even Kartamy shev doesn't mind playing, and they say he's going to be a member of the Distric t Komsomol Committee." "Now, now ... don't get wored up. I was only joing. . . But on the whole I con sider football a senseless waste of time. Better to read Rubain. Ever read any of his boos?" "No." "Very interesting, and instructive. When I used to loo after the Komsomol club in Balta, I got very een on them. When everybody left, I would collect up the c igarette ends under the benches, put the light out everywhere but on the stage, drag the sofa out of the library, lie down and cover myself with the red table-c loth, and read. I was craving for something to eat, but there wasn't anything. S o I just smoed and read." "Have you read Spartacus?" I inquired, anxious to show off, but he too no notic e and went on thoughtfully: "Yes, Balta... A good town, Balta... I left a girl of mine behind there Lusya. But I suppose you're still a id and don't now anything about such matters yet." "Oh, don't I!" I said offendedly. "I've got a girl in town myself." Niita glanced at me and laughed. "Quite the ladies' man, eh! I'll have to be careful when I'm taling to you." We drove past the melon-field. Here and there the round yellowish shapes of melo ns peeped out of the dar green. In the middle of the field stood the watchman's shelter, built of poles. "Hi!" Niita shouted, cupping his hands round his mouth. The watchman dressed in a brown homespun shirt and carrying a heavy stic came o ut of his shelter. "What do you want?" he ased suspiciously. "Sell us a water-m elon, Grandad," Niita shouted. "Where do you come from?" "We're from town. We're woring at the state farm." The old man hesitated for a moment, then waled into the field. He did not loo for long. Coming out on to the road, he offered Niita a long-shaped water-melon . "Tae it. It's a good melon." "Thans, Grandad. How much do you want for it?" "Nothing!" the watchman replied. "Why not?" Niita ased in surprise. "We won't tae it for nothing." "Tae it, tae it," the old man insisted. "You're young fellows, I don't suppose you've got much money. Tae it for nothing. One of those other devils would hav e got into the field, but you're decent fol, you came and ased properly. For t hat you can have it free." "Well, thans very much, Grandad!" Niita said, and whipped up the horses. "May you live another three score and ten!"

As soon as we were on the move again, Niita banged the melon on the wooden seat . The melon craced open and its juice spilled over the dry ears of wheat. "Loo, it's yellow inside!" Kolomeyets exclaimed. "Never mind, it may be yellow, but it's ripe. See how blac the pips are? Tae a chun." I too the smaller half of the water-melon and, holding it to my mouth, began to munch at the middle. The melon was very juicy and the warm, sweet juice dripped down my shirt. I swallowed large lumps of melon and felt grateful to Niita for treating me. He certainly seemed to be a smart, enterprising chap. You could fe el safe with him. The horses laboured on slowly, dragging the heavy cart. Lars, invisible in the sun's rays, were singing high above. Somewhere beyond the dar green hills flowe d the Dniester. From the state-farm threshing-floor Game the steady chug of the threshing-engine. Blac smoe from its funnel rose above the orchard. By the bridge we were met by Polevoi. Hatless and barefooted, his tunic collar unbuttoned, he was leaning on the bridg e rail. "You're a fine pair!" he said sombrely. "Why have you been so long?" "Long?" Niita answered offendedly. "But we're ahead of everyone, Comrade Polevo i." Polevoi climbed up with us. "Get moving and loo sharp," he ordered. Niita craced his whip, the horses strained forward and the cart rumbled on pas t the wall of the state-farm orchard. "How about the others?" Polevoi ased. "They're still loading," Niita told him. "We were first to get away." "Well, you see, our chaps have been stepping on it up here. We're running out of wheat and there's nothing to thresh," Polevoi explained more gently. "So if you 're ahead of the others, go and wor at the thresher. The state-farm worers wil l bring in the sheaves. I thin they'll manage it quicer." At first I felt sorry we had been taen off loading, but as soon as I climbed on the grated platform of the thresher and too my stand behind Niita, I realized that the new job would be far more interesting. We were only just in time. The supply of sheaves that had been carted earlier ha d run out just as we arrived, and the long, red-painted thresher was woring for nothing. Some students were tying up sacs of grain and gathering loose straw o ff the trampled ground. The 'threshing-floor was situated on a 'rise among broen-down clay sheds, some distance from the state farm. Apparently these had once been part of the landlor d's estate; now only the crumbling clay walls remained. A small steam-engine with a tall smoy funnel was chugging near by, connected to the thresher by a broad leather driving-belt. From time to time crushed rosin w as sprinled on this belt and there was a smell of rosin in the air. Not far awa y stood -a high ric of straw. Village girls in gay-coloured sirts and rough bl ouses were moving about on top of the ric, spreading the straw with fors and r aes. Students were dragging bales of straw from the thresher to the ric and passing them up to the girls, who pulled them apart and stamped the straw down. Cheerful voices and girlish laughter reached us from the ric wor there seemed to be goin g with a swing. "All right, tae your first lot, lad," said Shershen, our driver of yesterday, f rom below. Niita had taen his place at the drum. So saying, Shershen passed me a sheaf from the cart. I grabbed it and nearly fel l off the thresher it was so heavy. Quicly untying the tight, neatly fastened bin ding, I divided the sheaf in two and pushed one half over to Niita. Niita shoo the wheat apart and pushed it, ears first, into the drum. The curved gleaming teeth of the thresher seized the wheat ears, crushed them and drew in the stals . Now that it had something to feed on, the thresher shoo and rattled, and a cl oud of dust rose from the drum. "We're off!" Niita shouted and, pushing his hat on to the bac of his head, let out a whistle that sounded all over the threshing-floor.

"Niita's whistling, he means business. Put a spurt on, lads!" Polevoi shouted, chucling and scraping straw towards the engine with his foot. When we had nothing to do, we helped the stoer. Polevoi would bend down, gather up an armful of straw and toss it neatly into the furnace of the engine. As soo n as it fell on the red-hot grating, the straw started smoing, flames broe thr ough, and soon it was a blazing mass. Niita nudged me angrily. "Come on! What are you staring at?" I hurriedly gave him the second half of a sheaf. More and more dust rose from th e drum. My nose began to ticle. Sneezing, I shoved the untied sheaves at Niita . The sun blazed down on us, little bits of thistle stuc in our hands, but ther e was no time to pull them out. "I'll get them out afterwards with a needle," I thought, tearing the binding apart. I felt proud to be woring lie a grown-up. And not just anywhere, but at the drum! If only Peta could see me now! Even in his dreams he had never stood on the platform of a threshing-machine. Peta had even envied Kota Grigoreno that he wored for Zaharzhevsy the tiner. Proud and happy, I too the sheaves from Shershen. Wearing ragged canvas trouser s, Shershen strode about the sheaves with his for. Now he was starting a fresh row. "Give me that big one at the end," I thought, "It should be enough for three lot s." As though guessing my thoughts, Shershen tossed the far sheaf up to me. As I unt ied it, something heavy fell at my feet. I bent down and saw a rusty bolt lying on the platform. "Loo, Niita!" I whispered to Kolomeyets. He piced up the bolt and frowned. "Right in the middle of the sheaf?" "Uh-huh!" "Come on there, Niita!" someone shouted from below. "Wait a bit, can't you!" Niita shouted and, putting the thresher out of gear, h e called Polevoi. "It's a ula tric, that's certain," said Polevoi, when I told him where I had found the bolt. "Iron bolts don't get into sheaves by accident. It's not a bird' s nest, you now." And he warned me quietly: "Keep your eyes open, Mandzhura, ma ybe you'll find something else. They planted a bolt on us, they might plant a bo mb there as well." The threshing continued. Now I was feeling every sheaf before passing it on to Niita, and he often shout ed at me to hurry up. I was in a grand sweat. My shirt had stuc to my bac, and salty sweat was running into my eyes. I wiped them on my sleeve and ept thini ng, "I wish the brea would come!" And more and more often the voices of the students rose from below: "Hey, get a move on!" They had got into the swing of things. Raing the straw away, they pushed the ro ugh sacs quicly under the iron pipe, and they were annoyed when the stream of warm grain flowed thinly. Before dinner everyone went down to the Dniester to ba the. The road to the river ran along the state-farm wall. We passed the spot whe re I had surprised the unnown intruder the night before. By day the orchard did not loo so big as it had at night. As soon as we passed the wall, we caught sight of the gleaming Dniester. At firs t glance, it seemed to me very wide about five times wider than our Smotrich. I ha d swum the Smotrich without any trouble, but to swim this would tae some doing. Niita and I sat down at the water's edge. The hilly Bessarabian ban was clear ly visible. Green vineyards rambled over the low clay slopes. On a hill some distance from t he Dniester stood a village of white, straw-thatched cottages with little garden s. Beyond them the gilded dome of a church gleamed dully. From the village sever al paths ran down the steep slopes to the Dniester. They led to two mills rising darly out of the water. From a distance, these blac-boarded water-mills ancho red in midstream and lined to the ban by narrow gangways looed lie chicen-c oops washed away in a flood. The Bessarabian ban was deserted, save for two wom

en neeling on the gangway of the left-hand mill, washing clothes. The clip-clap of their beaters reached us across the water, mingling with the crea of the mi llstones. "Well, let's have a bathe, Vasil, shall we?" said Niita, and pulled off a dusty boot. When he too off his shirt, I noticed that his bac and chest were covered all o ver with thic blac hair. Niita stroed his hairy chest and said with pride: "I've been lie this ever since I was a id. It's hereditary. My Dad's hairy too s omething awful! But he still won't believe he's descended from the apes." "Hey, Niita!" the tall, broad-shouldered Bazhura shouted to us. "Let's swim ove r to the other ban." "I'd never get there," Niita answered, standing up with a shiver. "I'm too tire d. Just let's have a swim." The pair of them the stalwart Bazhura and the short, puny Kolomeyets slipped into th e clear waters of the Dniester and swam about quietly. Polevoi came and sat down beside me. "Well, Mandzhura, made friends with Niita? Did you wor well together?" he ase d. "Didn't you see for yourself how we wored." "Kolomeyets is a good lad, very sociable." "But he doesn't play football, he says it's a id's game," I remared. "Oh, that's an old story," Polevoi said with a laugh. "He just span you that yar n because you're new. When he first came to the Party School, he used to be so s tuc up you couldn't get near him. 'I was the best footballer in Balta,' he says , 'I used to play goal-eeper for the town team. In the match against Odessa, I didn't let a single goal through.' Everyone lapped it up, of course, and I thoug ht to myself: 'Here's luc, at least we've got one real player now!' So we went out for a ic-about and ased Kolomeyets to come with us. As soon as he got in goal, we found out what ind of player he was he didn't stop a single shot. He jus t waved his arms about lie a windmill, and we banged in one goal after another. Didn't we laugh afterwards! He's a joer, is that Kolomeyets." At that moment 'Niita climbed out of the river and came towards us. Drops of wa ter glistened on his hairy chest. "Pm telling your mate how you played football with us, Niita," said Polevoi, wi ning at me. "Ah, football..." Niita gave a confused smile, and started hopping about as if he had a bubble in his ear. Then without looing at Polevoi, he said to me: "Wha t are you sitting there for? Come and swim!" The water in the Dniester was cold, and the current very fast. I dared not follo w Niita into the middle of the river, so I swam slowly along by the ban. Befor e long, the current had carried me far downstream. To reach my clothes, I had to run bac along a sand-ban. "Where are your quarters, Mandzhura?" Polevoi ased, watching me dress. "On the balcony." "Going to sleep on the balcony?" "Yes." "What about your things?" "On the balcony too." "Suppose it rains?" "I'll manage." "Mind you don't mae a mistae, lad. You might find it better with us. There's a free corner going just now. It's dry and warm, and you won't have to worry abou t the rain." "No thans, Comrade Polevoi, I'd rather be on the balcony." "As you lie," said Polevoi and, testing the water with his hand, he began to un dress. BOURGEOIS PREJUDICES

It was not at all bad for me on the balcony. Garlanded on two sides with wild vi nes, it looed lie a summer-house. I spread my straw mattress on the loose, sun -bleached floor-boards, and tuced my belongings in an alcove by the door that l ed into what had once been the master's dining-room. There, the students, their cracling straw mattresses spread on the floor, had taen up their quarters. I c ould, of course, have gone in with them, but I didn't lie that dar hall with i ts shutters boarded up on the outside. It was too gloomy and cold. "I say, you've got a fine place here!" Kolomeyets exclaimed when he came in to s ee me. "Lie being in a tropical forest! Even lianas!" Niita touched the vine t hat was climbing up one of the iron supports and, resting his elbows on the sha y railing of the balcony, gazed into the distance. The Dniester, which lay in a deep valley, could not be seen from the balcony, bu t we had a good view of the Bessarabian village on the far ban. "You now what, young man?" Niita said, turning to me. "This place definitely a ppeals to me. Good view, fresh air, and all that ind of thing. I'm going to com e and live with you. Any objections?" "Why should I object? Move in now." It was quite dar, when Niita and I spread our mattresses side by side and got into bed. For a few minutes we lay in silence. A mosquito whined above my ear. On the Bess arabian ban someone was singing a slow sad song. "Sounds as if they're burying someone," I said. "Well, what have they got to be cheerful about!" Niita replied. "The Rumanian b oyars give the poor blighters a bad time with their gendarmes and priests. That' s not the ind of life to mae you dance the Cracovienne, you now." "What do you thin, will Bessarabia become Soviet one day?" I ased. "One day it will," Niita said dreamily, puffing at a cigarette. "It's our terri tory. You now, don't you, that the Rumanian boyars grabbed it while we were bas hing the white generals." A breeze sprang up and the tree-tops rustled gently; the weathercoc creaed on the roof. Niita lay on his mattress with a thic army blanet drawn up to his c hin. The cigarette glowed between his teeth. "That old devil must have enjoyed life here. A house lie this all to himself!" he said. "What old devil?" I ased, not understanding. "That Grigoreno." "Who?!" "The local landowner Grigoreno." "What Grigoreno? Do you now him?" "Of course!" Niita sneered. "I used to visit him every Saturday, we had tea on this balcony..." "No, honestly, you don't now him, do you?" "How could I? You are an ass!" Niita exclaimed. "What do you thin I am, a land lord, or the Chief of Police? Shershen told me today that the landlord who owned this estate was called Grigoreno." "'He wasn't a doctor, was he, by any chance?" "A doctor? Wait a minute... Shershen did say something about a doctor. Let me th in... No, this landlord wasn't a doctor, but he had a brother in town who was a d octor of medicine, or something lie that. Why, do you now him?!" "Not half!" And I told Kolomeyets why Doctor Grigoreno had been sentenced to death. "What a dirty scoundrel!" Niita exclaimed. "So both brothers turned out to be e nemies. One of them betrayed Communists to Petlura, and the other's still treati ng people cruelly over there, on the other side." "The landlord isn't over there, is he?" "But that's the whole point, old chap. As soon as Soviet power was set up, the p easants drove him out of here, and the estate was made a state farm. But he pac ed his bag and slipped over to the other side. Now he's living in clover with th e boyars. He's got an estate over there as well." "The one we can see from here?"

"That's right... So his nephew's alive, is he? Woring for the tiner, you say?" "Uh-huh. For Zaharzhevsy." "They're all trying to loo lie worers nowadays, the sons-of-bitches!" Niita said. "They're in a spot with a record lie theirs. No place for them at college , no place anywhere. So they wangle." "Kota comes to the Party School sometimes." "What's he come there for?" "He comes to see Korybo the gardener." "Just a moment, I thin I've seen that young toff. . . He's a dar, nippy chap, isn't he?" "Yes, that's right." "Well, it must be him then. One day, when I went into the gym, I saw a strange l ad swinging on the parallel bars. 'What are you doing here, citizen?' I says. 'S trangers aren't allowed in here.' But he just hoos his legs over the bars and s ays: 'I'm not a stranger, I came to see a member of your staff, Korybo the gard ener.' So he must be the last of the Mohicans?" "His name's not Mohican, it's 'Grigoreno." "Oh, Vasil, Vasil!" Niita chucled. "You are an uneducated savage, I see. That was a howler!" "Hey, Niita!" a voice boomed from the next room. "Will you be going to sleep so on in that bird's nest of yours? If you don't want to sleep yourself, you might let other people." Niita paid no attention and went on: "Why did I call that Grigoreno the last o f the Mohicans there's a question! Because he's the last offspring of a dying clas s, the dying class of landowners and feudals. In our country there aren't going to be any more such creatures. Got that?" I made no reply. I did not want anyone to shout at me. The sad, lingering song could still be heard from the other side of the Dniester . I could not stop thining of what Niita had said about Grigoreno. Again that wretched Kota came into my mind. "Perhaps Galya still doesn't now I've gone a way? I must write her a letter," I decided as I fell asleep. Several days passed and still I could not find time to write to Galya. In the mo rning, as soon as the sun was up, I would run down to the Dniester, undress on t he cliffs, and tae a running leap into the swift water. I would snort and splas h about, washing myself and driving away the last traces of sleep. Then off to t he dining-hall, where the plates and spoons were already clattering! Our morning meal was simple but filling hominy. The hominy was served up with various extras no w with sour mil, now with cold dried-fruit salad, now with cold borshch from th e day before, now with cream. Sometimes it was brought to table swimming in mil fresh from the cow, sometimes it came in bowls sprinled with pieces of brown f ried fat that sizzled in your mouth. And always it was tasty, crumbly, hot, a dazzling yellow colour, and smelt delic ious. It rose in golden heaps in our aluminium bowls. After a meal lie that, you couldn't hang about doing nothing. Wor just leapt i nto your hands team-wor at the thresher, amid the scents of fresh wheat, with the village girls singing. The state farm's smoy threshing-engine whirred and clat tered, the hot summer sun blazed overhead, and only a few paces away the swift, cool Dniester waited for you when wor was over. For dinner we were also given hominy, but now it too the place of bread, with f irsts and seconds. The coo sliced the thic-boiled hominy into squares, and whi le we were bathing after wor, placed a square beside each bowl. After dinner it would be so hot that you couldn't sit in the stuffy house. We wo uld go out into the state-farm garden and rest some in the thic grass under the l ofty poplar-trees, some in the cool, empty barns, on dry mounds of last year's h ay. It was good to lie in the grass, under a tree somewhere and watch the hot air qu ivering in the sunlight a few paces away, or a flimsy cloud drifting across the clear sy. And sometimes you could hear the tinle of cow-bells down by the Dnie

ster, or the intermittent jingle of a coachman's bell far away on the other side . It was good to lie in the soft grass and feel your whole body aching with wearin ess after the day's wor. It was good to examine your straw-scratched sunburnt h ands I had already brought up some fine blisters on mine. It was good to now that the bread you were eating was no longer your father's, but bread you 'had earne d yourself, that you had a right to the crumbly hominy that Mahteich the coo g ave you, because you, lie the other students, had earned it with your own scrat ched and blistered hands. It was good to lie under a tall, slender poplar-tree a nd reflect on the fact that you were beginning to live independently, that the r oad to everything in life lay open before you. Usually, as soon as I lay down under a poplar, or under a jasmine bush, Ryabo a ppeared. Ryabo, the state-farm dog, was blac and white, with clipped ears and a bushy tail that was always full of burs. Even from a distance Ryabo would gaz e at me with appealing eyes, wag his tail, and try every fawning tric he new t o gain permission to lie at my feet. But Ryabo had fleas, so I always ept him at a distance. He would stretch himself out somewhere in the shade, resting his hairy blac nose between his dirty paws, let his dry tongue loll out of his mout h, and pant heavily. Soon he would calm down, close his eyes, and fall into a do ze. "I'll just have a bit of a rest," I thought, "then I'll go to the club and write Galya a long, long letter. . ." I pictured to myself how surprised Galya would be to get a letter from me and, thining of her, I fell asleep. I woe up, my he ad heavy from the heat. Loud voices reached me from the house, where the student s were playing sittles. It was evening. Since the night when I had surprised the stranger in the burdoc there had been no alarms at the state farm. But the bandits were active in the neighbouring vil lages. The boyars of Rumania ept 'sending one gang after another across the Dni ester. Other gangs were sent by the Polish landlords. These bandits would hardly have dared to act so arrogantly had not their masters the Polish and Rumanian bou rgeoisie been supported by the capitalists of America, Britain, and France. In preparation for a fresh attac on the Soviet land, the capitalists were colle cting all the scum they could find that hated Soviet rule. Usually the bandits c rossed to the Soviet ban on dar, cloudy nights and filtered away into the surr ounding villages. They joined up with the local ulas and former Petlura men, r obbed travellers on the roads, attaced the Village Soviets and the Poor Peasant s' Committees, set fire to cottages, and murdered Communists. As autumn drew nea r, the bandits grew even more arrogant they new that there had been a good harves t, that the peasants were living better than before. The bandits' bosses wanted everything the other way round, they wanted to see the gentry and the landlords restored as masters of these rich lands, they wanted our state farm to become a landlord's estate once more. Fearing to wage an open struggle against Soviet rule, the foreign capitalists tr ied to get at us through their agents the bandits. Armed with machine-guns of Bri tish mae, carrying hand-grenades at their belts, and wallets stuffed with Ameri can dollars in their pocets, the bandits scoured the roads at night. In the day -time they hid in the woods, in the barns or in the deep, musty cellars of the l ocal ulas. They were afraid to come too near the state farm they must have nown we all had rifles. There was everything to show, however, that our state farm the first socialist ent erprise on the ban of the Dniester, with many Communists and Komsomol members w oring there was an eyesore to the enemy. On the Rumanian side of the Dniester the re was a low hill from which you could easily see the state-farm threshing-floor . Passing landlords would often stop their carriages on that hill and watch for a long time through binoculars how the threshing was proceeding at the state far m. And the threshing was going well. Every day more and more heavy bulging sacs of fresh grain were carted to the barns. A huge ric was rising behind the threshi ng-floor, where the straw was piled day after day. From the top of this stac yo u could see the little town of Vitovlov Brod, twenty versts away, right on the R

umanian border. On Saturday, after a fortnight's wor at the state farm, I received my first wag es eleven rubles, thirty-seven opes. At first, I decided to save all the money u ntil I got bac to town, but then I gave in and went to the village co-operative shop. There I bought half a pound of sweets, some pin burdoc oil to put on my hair, a comb in a leather case, and a bottle of "Lilies of the Valley" Eau-de-C ologne. On my way bac, I ept taing the bottle out of my pocet and sniffing a t it. And when I had almost reached the farm, unable to resist the temptation an y longer, I stopped by the stables, poured some Eau-de-Cologne on to my palm, sp rinled my shirt and dabbed my face. The scent was strong. It stung so hard that everything went dar before my eyes. Pushing the bottle into my pocet, I shut my eyes and broe into a run. Now I wanted the stuff to evaporate as soon as pos sible. I had not gone more than a few paces, when I bumped into somebody's outstretched arm. Opening one eye, I got a blurred glimpse of Kolomeyets. "What are you doing, friend, playing at blind-man's-buff?" Niita ased cheerful ly. But the next moment his face changed and he started sniffing the air with disten ded nostrils. Then, gripping my shoulders, he sniffed my shirt. "Have you been using scent?" "Yes," I answered carelessly, wiping my tears. "Nice-smelling stuff, isn't it? I t's called 'Lilies of the Valley.' " "Using scent!. . . What bourgeois prejudices are these! Why, you'll be wearing a collar and tie tomorrow? Who gave you this idea?" "Why, isn't it allowed?" I ased in a trembling voice. "That's a fine question! Are you trying to mae yourself out a fool, my lad? Do you want us to put you th rough it at a students' meeting for these disgusting habits borrowed from the pa st?" "But I didn't now we weren't allowed to use Eau-de-Cologne. I thought, if Eau-d e-Cologne was sold at the cooperative shop, you could buy it and use it." " 'Sold at the co-operative shop!'" Kolomeyets mimiced. "They sell voda there too. Perhaps you'll be drining voda tomorrow? Eau-de-Cologne, my lad, is a bou rgeois commodity, it's what the rich play-boys use lords and aristocrats and all t hat crowd. You're a son of the woring class, you don't need that ind of luxury ." "What lords?" I shouted. Kolomeyets replied in a careless drawl: "Maybe not lords, but bourgeois types, e veryone who's got a lot of money. Private capital, to put it in a nutshell. But you're a son of the woring class. Understand? You want to join the Komsomol. An d I'm just advising you as a friend not as one who is a Komsomol member to one who isn't, but as a friend, understand? that you put that rubbish out of your head. E au-de-Cologne, nec-ties, and all such trash is petty-mindedness, and I advise y ou to forget it right away, or you can say good-bye to the Komsomol." Niita spoe sternly and severely, quite differently from the way he had taled when we first met. And I realized that he was not at all the joer he had seemed at first. He gave me such a sinning that I at once left the farm to rid myself of the sce nt in the fresh air. I gave all the students I met a wide berth, fearing that th ey, too, might hold me up to ridicule for using "Lilies of the Valley." In a shady gully that led down to the Dniester, Ryabo ran up to me, wagging his tail. Not thining for long, I too the scent bottle out of my pocet, pulled o ut the cor, and poured the whole bottle on Ryabo's tangled, dusty coat. "So as not to waste it," I thought. Suspecting nothing, Ryabo gave a joyful squeal an d, thining I had tossed him something to eat, started searching the ground. But after a moment or two, he put his ears bac, looed round, and froze to the spo t, as if a bumble-bee had alighted on his bac. At length, growing bolder, Ryab o liced his scent-soaed fur, burnt his tongue and, tucing his tail between hi s legs, made off "bac to the state farm, uttering pitiful yelps. Every moment h is yelps grew louder, as though he had broen his leg, and suddenly he started b aring. I felt sorry for Ryabo. "You are a cad, Vasya," I thought. "What harm h as the dog done you?" Full of remorse, I firmly decided to collect as many bones

as I could at supper and recover Ryabo's affection. By the Dniester, I undressed and shoo my shirt for a long time to give it an ai ring, then I swam and washed my face well to destroy the smell of Eau-de-Cologne . On my way bac I met Polevoi. "Been swimming, Mandzhura?" "Just a bit." "Let's go along to the threshing-floor and watch the mechanics tae the thresher to pieces." "What, has it broen?" "Not yet, it hasn't, but one of the bearings is nocing. So I've ased some men from the factory to come and have a loo at it." Hardly able to eep up with Polevoi, I ased cautiously: "Comrade Polevoi, why d o they sell bourgeois prejudices at the co-operative shop?" "What bourgeois prejudices?" Polevoi ased warily. "Eau-de-Cologne." "Eau-de-Cologne?... How do you mean?" "Well, tae a Komsomol member, for instanc e, mustn't he use it?" "Generally speaing. . . Why not? After shaving, say, for hygienic purposes. But what do you need Eau-de-Cologne for? You haven't got a beard yet?" "If I get one, can I use it then?" "Can you use what?" "Eau-de-Cologne?" "Why shouldn't you? Use as much as you lie, if you've got a lot of money." Now I wanted to ic myself for listening to Kolomeyets and pouring the Eau-de-C ologne away. Fancy throwing away a ruble forty opes on a dog's bac! And why? Just because I had been afraid of being "put through it!" At the threshing-floor, two worers had spread some bast sacing by the thresher and were tinering with the parts. When we came nearer, I recognized one of the m as Kozaevich, the foundry man from the Motor Factory. He was neeling in fron t of a cran-shaft, measuring its diameter. Zhora Kozaevich's oil-stained cap was tilted on the bac of his head, his canva s blouse that had once been navy but now, thans to the sun, had faded to a pale blue, clung tightly over his broad shoulders. "Well, is it anything serious, comrades?" Polevoi ased. "If there's a babbit an d a forge here, I'll cast the bearings fresh and my mate here will polish them tha t's all." "There is a babbit," Polevoi said, "and we'll as the smith in the vil lage for the use of his forge. How long will it tae?" "To finish the repair? Not very long. A day and a bit. We'll mae a quic job of it," said Zhora, and noticing me, he ased: "What are you staring at me for, yo ung man?" "I was at the club one day when you put Zhegulyov, that touring wrestl er, on the mat," I answered in confusion. "Oh, so that's it..." Zhora drawled with a twinle in his eye. "So you're a wres tler as well. Glad to hear it. Let's get to now each other." And he offered me his heavy sunburnt hand. I too it awwardly. Polevoi, who was standing near, smiled. I was glad I had met Zhora. At supper, Zhora told me that tomorrow evening, when he had finished the repair, he would be going to town. He agreed to tae a letter and post it for me in a t own box. As soon as supper was over, I went to the club and started writing to Galya. "Hullo Galya! "You must thin I'm in town and don't want to come and see you, but I'm not in t own at all, I'm on the Rumanian border, at a state farm. I am woring as operato r of the threshing-machine there. This state farm, by the way, used to be the es tate of Kota Grigoreno's uncle. That bourgeois lived pretty well, I must say! It's very good here, I'm earning a lot of money and I go swimming three times a day in the Dniester. The first night we arrived I discovered a bandit who was hi ding by the wall waiting for a chance to tae a shot at us. He got frightened of me and ran away. We didn't catch him, but if we had, it would have gone hard wi th him. On the whole, it's very dangerous here, because there are a lot of bandi

ts about. We are all armed. I have a rifle, too, and forty rounds of ammunition. It will soon be my turn to stand guard all night outside our house. Everyone wi ll be asleep and I shall be on guard. "I am good at my wor already, Galya, and I am very glad I came. Soon there will be some fine ripe pears here, and when I come bac to town, I'll bring you a lo t. The blac plums are ripe already. You can pic and eat as many as you want not lie in town. Sometimes I miss you very much, Galya. Of course, there are a lot of students I'm friendly with, and there are plenty of village girls woring on the farm, but not one of them can tae your place. Remember that!!! "If you have time, write and tell me how you are getting on, whether you go to t he cinema, what pictures you've seen, what is on at the Soviet commercial worer s' club, and what the weather is lie in town. It's very hot here. I sleep at ni ght on a balcony with nothing but a sheet over me, but in the morning I have to cover myself with a blanet', because of the mist from the Dniester. "If you remember me and still lie me, Galya, please write, because I'm lonely h ere without you. And if you see Peta Maremuha, tell him I'd lie to now wheth er he found out from Sasha Bobir what I ased him to find out before I left. If Peta has found out what I ased him to find out, get him to go to the Party Sch ool, find a student there called Marushcha and tell him everything he has found out from Sasha Bobir. Tell Peta I'm having a good time here, and mae him writ e and tell me how my pigeons are doing at his place. Tell him to write about eve rything in detail. "Oh, and I nearly forgot to tell you, Galya, that Zhora Kozaevich has come here from the Motor Factory to repair the thresher. He's the amateur wrestler who th rew Zot Zhegulyov the champion with the grip of steel at the commercial worers' club. We've got to now each other and he has shown me a couple of holds from F rench wrestling that would mae you gasp. When I learn those holds properly, I w on't just beat Peta Maremuha, I'll put Lightning Lev on his bac. I've filled out here, the food's good, and the wor's given me muscles lie a wrestler. "My hand's tired now, so I'll stop. Write me an answer. With comradely greetings , "Vasily Mandzhura." When I had finished writing, I blotted the letter with an old newspaper and too the "Lillies of the Valley" out of my pocet. At the bottom of the frosted-glas s bottle there were still a few drops of clear greenish liquid. I pulled out the cor and sprinled the remains of the Eau-de-Cologne on my letter. Again the pl easant smell filled the air. So that this pleasant smell should not evaporate, I quicly put the letter in the envelope, liced the flap and stuc it down tight ly. RIDING CHESTNUT The harvest was nearly over and the last of the wheat had to be brought in for t hreshing as soon as possible. But, as luc would have it, the weather was so hot that you could bind the sheaves only at night-time or at dawn. As soon as you t ried to bind a sheaf tightly in the heat, the dry grain sprinled out of the ear s on to the craced and dusty earth. But the nights were moonlit, each one clear er than the last. The full moon rose from behind the tall poplars, flooding ligh t on the ivy and vine-covered farm-house, the shady orchard, and the steep ban of the Dniester. From our balcony, on such moonlit nights, you could see the tall funnel of the t hreshing-engine gleaming above the barns. But every night the moon rose later. W e new that soon it would not come up at all and the nights would be different sta rry but dar. We had to mae the most of the full moon and bring in the wheat be fore it was too late. That was why, on Friday, everyone who could went out to th e farthest field six versts away to reap the last of the wheat. Until late in the evening the reapers and harvesters clattered steadily on the s teep clay ban of the river. Their toothed arms swung over the level crop, tossi

ng bunch after bunch of wheat on to the pricly stubble. The students put in a lot of wor that day. Where there had once been a broad, r ich cornfield stretching from the dusty road to the river-ban, there was now on ly heavy ears, of reaped corn lying in long strips on the bare stubble. Mouse-holes, little heaps of earth cast up by moles, traces of old village field boundaries, lars' nests built on hummocs all that had once been hidden in the t hic corn was now exposed to view. It was dar when the students returned to the farm, hungry and sunburnt. I retur ned with them. Just before evening, I had carted a barrel of cold, spring water out to the far field. The students had nearly drun it dry and now only a few dr ops tinled at the bottom of the barrel. No sooner had I unharnessed the lean, m angy horse than Polevoi came up. "Listen, Vasil," he said. "Are you very tired?" "Not a bit. I was carting water. You can't call that wor." "Listen to me then. The men have done a hard day's wor today. After supper they 'll all go to sleep and there'll be no waing them. You'll have to eep watch in the field tonight. As soon as the moon rises the village girls will start bindi ng the sheaves. You and Shershen must tae a couple of horses and go out with th em too. When the girls have finished binding, they'll go to sleep and you will eep watch, just in case some ula or other tries to pinch the sheaves. After su pper, you can have a couple of hours sleep until the moon rises. Shershen will w ae you." "I'm all right, I don't need any sleep," I said, and thought to myself: "I wonde r what horse they'll give me for guard duty." They gave me Chestnut, a frisy brown horse, which after carting sheaves in the morning had been resting since midday in the cool stables. Until then I had ridden the state-farm horses only as far as the watering-place to the Dniester and bac. On the way to the river the horses waled quietly, stepp ed gingerly into the swift-flowing water, and just stood there, neighing and sno rting. But on the way bac, nowing that the wooden mangers had been filled with oats while they were away, they raced one another at full gallop. You had to gr ip the reins with all your strength to save yourself from a fall. And one day I had watered a grey stallion, strangely nicnamed "Cholera." He gav e me such a ride on the way bac that I thought it was all up with me. I dug my heels into Cholera's soft flans, I hauled on the bridle with every bit of strength I possessed, but it was all in vain. The stallion left all the othe r horses behind and galloped snorting towards the state-farm yard. Trees and pos ts flashed past. We reached the end of the wall and charged in at the wide-open gates... At the sight of the stables, the stallion gave such a bound that I slip ped bac on to his hindquarters and lost the reins. The log wall of the stable r ushed towards me and I could see the blac hole of the door getting wider and wi der. There was no longer any hope of stopping the horse and I saw that he would tae me right into the stall. That wouldn't have been so bad. But when the stable was only a few paces away, I realized I was going to hit my head on the door beam. With Cholera still galloping at full speed, I jumped and landed nee-deep in a s oft heap of dung. It was only this that saved me, or I should have been lying un der the wall with both my legs broen. Chestnut was a frisy animal, but a good deal quieter than Cholera. Shershen him self put the leather saddle on Chestnut's bac, tightened the straps, slapped th e horse's nec and, when all was ready, said to me: "Jump on, lad, let's go!" I slung the rifle on my shoulders, adjusted my pistol so that I could mount easi ly, and waled up to the horse. I was just about to grab the mane, when Shershen burst out laughing. "Who mounts a horse lie that!" he said. "You mount a horse from the left side. What, haven't you ever ridden a horse before?" "I've ridden a horse, but never with a saddle ..." I muttered. And, indeed, it turned out much easier to mount from the left side. I got on the horse and at once pushed my feet firmly into the stirrups. The grou nd far below looed dar and dangerous. Chestnut stood quietly, merely trying to

chew through his bit. Shershen adjusted the bridle of his Grey and leapt lightl y into the saddle lie a real cavalryman. "Off we go!" he said and gathered up the reins. We trotted out of the yard, and at once I realized that I did not now how to ri de a horse. Chestnut jolted me up and down until my teeth rattled. And, as if th at were not enough, the rifle battered my bac I had made the sling too loose. Try ing not to bite my tongue, I attempted to get in time with the horse. But at fir st I did not succeed. My legs dangled loosely in the stirrups and I bounced up a nd down on the saddle so wildly that I thought the girths would brea at any mom ent and I should tae a header into the ditch. A good thing Shershen was about t en paces in front of me and could not see anything. But I was sorriest of all fo r the horse. I felt I must have been breaing Chestnut's bac, and at every jolt the saddle seemed to tear great gashes in his sin. At last I got my toes into the stirrups and tried to rise in time with the horse . This was better. When Chestnut lifted his right foot, I tried to help him and rose a little in my stirrups. Gradually the jolting stopped, we rode along more smoothly, and I felt I was beginning to understand the horse. Growing bolder, I sat up straight lie a real horseman. "If only Galya could see me now!" I thought. "On horsebac, and with a rifle too ! Suppose I were to gallop into town now and call on Galya. She would rush out o f her cottage, frightened and not nowing what it was all about, and I should sa y to her: Forgive me for waing you, Galya, but I have been sent on an important secret mission. Where I am going I cannot tell you. I have come to say good-bye . Perhaps I shall be illed, but tell no one of my visit. 'Remember that I shall love you till my last breath!" I should say all that very calmly. Then I should offer Galya my hand over the fe nce. She would clasp it to her, still bewildered. Perhaps she would beg me to di smount. But I should not dismount. Wheeling my horse, I should gallop away into the darness without a bacward glance. And Galya would not sleep all night. Her pillow would be soaed with tears, she would toss and turn, and sigh and weep. That night she would be very sorry she h ad been friendly with Kota... And suppose I really did slip off to town?... But at that moment Chestnut stumbled, my feet slipped out of the stirrups, and I nearly dived over the horse's head. The jolt banished all thought of Galya. Aga in I became aware of orchards and white cottages nestling amid the trees. Here a nd there an oil-lamp gleamed from the little square windows, the red moon was ri sing over the fields... Outside the village, Shershen put Grey into a gallop. Chestnut dashed after him and I discovered that galloping was much pleasanter than trotting. The horse's h ooves whis up the soft warm dust on the road, something rumbles inside him, and your body no longer feels the saddle as the fields dotted with dar shocs of h arvested grain float towards you.... When we had ridden four versts from the village, we started overtaing village g irls in their high-hitched sirts. The girls were carrying bundles of food. I re alized they were maing for the same place as we. One of the girls recognized Sh ershen as she stepped aside to let him pass. "Hey, Uncle Shershen!" she cried. "Be you going to guard us?" "That's right, lass, in case Satan tries to run away with you," Shershen shouted gaily, checing his horse for a moment. The girls' homespun blouses dotted the moonlit field. They gathered up the reaped corn in armfuls, the binding twisted quicly in thei r fingers, and soon a dar heavy sheaf fell on the stubble. Sprinled with dew, the damp clover made good binding. Here and there the girls were putting the fin ished sheaves into shocs of fifteen. It was just as if a lot of little cottages had grown up suddenly in the field. The wor was going with a swing. Some of th e girls were gathering up loose wheatears and tying them into the sheaves. How deep and easily you could breathe on that clear moonlit night above the Dnie

ster! The air was pure and sweet; a man could draw enough strength from it to fi nish any job in a few minutes. Breathing deeply of the scents of wormwood and dr y mint, listening to the distant cry of the landrail, I rode slowly round the st ate-farm field. The tinling of a coachman's bell reached me from the other side of the Dniester . Who could be passing at this time of night? Perhaps it was some landowner driv ing round his fields? Or perhaps a sleepy priest was setting out to hear the con fession of a dying man? Or perhaps Rumanian gendarmes were carting their latest prisoner off to Khotin Jail? I could even hear the wheels of a carriage creaing on the other side of the Dni ester. Chestnut waled slowly, trying to reach the grass with his teeth. I relaxed the reins and the horse halted, uprooted a clump of weeds and started chewing them. But suddenly Chestnut snorted, priced up his ears, and uttered a loud neigh. A minute later, the carriage horse on the other side of the Dniester responded che erfully, and for a second its neigh drowned the tinling of the bell. "Hey-ey-ey! Vasil!" a shout reached me from the other end of the field. I recognized Shershen's voice and gave the reins a shae. Chestnut at once broe into a gallop. Straight across the field I dashed, avoiding the sheaves as best I could. "Perha ps it's a ula stealing the sheaves and Shershen's calling for help?" I thought and, just in case, I unbuttoned my holster. But Shershen was standing by a shoc taling peacefully to a tall village girl w ith a white erchief on her head. "Get down, we're going to have supper," Shershen called to me. "This is my landl ady's daughter, she's got some food for us." "Supper! But we've only just had supper at the state farm..." "Come on, come on!" Shershen insisted. "When was that!. . . At about nine o'cloc and it must be two by now. It'll soon be getting light." I jumped off my horse and Shershen neatly tied the bridle to its leg. Chestnut a nd Grey, their stirrups claning, went off to graze, and the three of us sat dow n by a shoc, on the pricly stubble. The girl untied her bundle and too out a loaf of fresh-smelling bread. "Cut the bread, Uncle Shershen," she said. "Oho!" Shershen exclaimed, tossing th e loaf on his hand. "Still warm! When did you bae it, Natala?" "We didn't bae that one. Neighbour baed it in return for some bread we let her have." Natala too a broad bowl from under a rough cloth and poured a whole pot of sou r mil into it. Then she spread an embroidered cloth on the stubble and placed w ooden spoons in front of us. Meanwhile Shershen cut the bread in thic slices an d piled them beside the bowl. "And here's some goat cheese, Uncle," Natala said, unwrapping a piece of paper. "All in good time," Shershen replied, dipping his spoon into the sour mil. "Brr , it's cold! You didn't put a toad in it by any chance, did you?" "Oh, Uncle!. . . What a thing to say!. . ." Natala exclaimed. "How can you ment ion such horrid things when you're eating!" "A horrid thing? Nothing of the ind. You're only young yet, you don't now that in many of the villages the women put toads into their mil on purpose." "That' s just a tale," Natala said. "No, it isn't," Shershen insisted. "When I was wor ing for one of the gentry, on his estate, my landlady went in for that ind of thing. She always had toads swimming in the pots of mil down in the cellar. One very hot day, when I got home, I says to her: 'You haven't got anything cold, h ave you, mistress?' 'Certainly I have,' she says, 'go down into the cellar and h ave a drin of cold mil.' And so I did. I piced up the first pot I came to and dran it down. All in one go. And as the mil went down, I felt something hard slip down my throat with it. At first I thought it was a clot of cream, then I f elt it moving. And then that toad starts dancing about in my inside! As if it wa s at a fair. . ." " Realizing that Shershen was joing, I laughed, but Natala made a face and put her spoon down.

"Oh, what a thing to say!. . . It's taen all my appetite away!" "But it's true!" Shershen continued his tale without a glimmer of a smile. "And listen to what happened after that. Just then, we were expecting a change in the weather rain. And as soon as it got dar, that toad started croaing away inside me. And my landlady, she couldn't sleep. 'Loo here, Shershen,' she says, 'you'l l have to move, I can't eep you here any more there's no peace with you in the ho use.' And I says to her: 'It's not me that's spoiling your peace, it's this toad of yours croaing inside me. It's forecasting a change in the weather.' " "Well, and what happened then?" Natala ased. Now her curiosity was aroused and she could hardly restrain her laughter. "I drowned the wretched thing, in voda. And now, when ever somebody offers me m il, I as whether there are toads in it. If there aren't, I can drin it withou t worrying." And, as if to confirm his words, Shershen too a spoonful of the so ur mil. Keeping pace with Shershen, I set to wor with my spoon, drining the ice-cold m il with the tasty home-made bread. Soon there was nothing left on the embroider ed cloth but an empty bowl and a white piece of goat's cheese. The three of us h ad eaten the whole loaf. "Is she one of your family?" I ased Shershen, when we had mounted our horses an d were riding away from Natala. "She's my landlady's daughter," Shershen said. "I board with them." "Haven't you got a cottage of your own in the village?" "A cottage of my own?" Shershen whistled gaily. "Not yet, lad. I used to have on e over the other side, but the Rumanians burnt it down in 'nineteen, after the K hotin rising." "Were you in that?" "Of course! Everyone was in it. You see, before the Revolution, I used to be a f arm-labourer now for one landowner, now for another. I wored near Bendery, and at Tsiganeshti; I even did four months as stableman to a merchant in Kishinev. Hav e you seen Atai village over there on the other side, opposite our state farm? I was born in that village. Well, I went off and earned some money, got everythi ng ready to build a nest, and just before the war I came bac to the village. I married a beautiful girl three years younger than me. We had nown each other si nce we were ids. And I had only just got started, built myself a cottage, plant ed a fine vineyard, and bang! the war breas out and I'm called up for the army. I served on the Caucasian front, got as far as Erzurum, and when the Revolution c ame, I went bac home. Now I've come to stay, I thought. My son had grown while I had been away, he was four years old. Now, if he's alive, he'll be about your age." "How could he be! I was born in nineteen nine," I said offendedly. "It doesn't matter I'm just saying he'd be a big lad by now. Well, we'd only just divided up the gentry's land, when we heard some rumours going about that the Ru manian boyars wanted to grab Bessarabia for themselves. And so it was. Soon a ce rtain Pan Radulescu, from Bucharest, comes to our village, stays with the priest and how the two of them wored it I still don't rightly now goes off to the assemb ly at Kishinev as a deputy from our village! But no one had ever elected that Ra dulescu, many of the villagers had never set eyes on him. Then a newspaper comes down to the village and we read that the delegate from Atai, Radulescu, has de manded that Bessarabia be joined to its old friend Rumania. After that came the coup, and the gendarmes arrived. And that started it! They too the gentry's lan d away from us, and those of us who had had a share got thrashed with ram-rods. I was one of them. "There's no describing the hatred we felt for those Rumanian boyars. And when we heard the people were rebelling in Khotin and the neighbouring villages, all th e poorer fol among us rebelled too. Some went on horses, others on foot, some h ad pitchfors, others had shot-guns, and off we went to Khotin. It was very cold , I remember, the beginning of January, but I just grabbed the rifle I'd brought bac with me from the war and went off to 'Khotin in nothing but the tunic I ha d on. We gave those 'Rumanians a hard fight. How many farms we burnt, how many o f their gendarmes we put under the ice of the Dniester, I couldn't tell you. But

the trouble was we had no one to help us, we hadn't got a leader among us someone lie Kotovsy, say. He was busy fighting Petlura then and couldn't reach us. Th e gendarmes illed eleven thousand of us. I was wounded at Khotin itself, near t he fortress. Ever seen it? A machine-gun bullet got me in the leg. I crawled ove r to this side across the ice. How I wasn't frozen I don't now. I crawled over th e ice, leaving a trail of blood. There were wounded comrades all round me. They were trying to cross the ice to the Urainian ban too. And the Rumanian soldier s had got field-guns and were firing after us. They let us have it proper. In on e place the shells nearly set the ice drifting. "Well, I got over to this side, and here Petlura was in power the same thing as th e Rumanian boyars. "A Urainian hid me in his cottage until my leg healed, and then I found out tha t I couldn't go bac to my own village. I new they'd ill me. The Rumanian gend armes were shooting everyone who had rebelled against the boyars. And I was also told that my cottage had been burnt to the ground. The land, the vineyard, ever ything, those gendarmes had taen it all from my wife and handed it over to the new landowner, Grigoreno. And so I've stayed here by the 'Dniester, biding my t ime. I just can't bring myself to leave this village. Some chaps I now are mini ng oil in Bau. They write me letters saying they're getting fine wages and I ou ght to come. But I just can't. I eep waiting for the day when we shall go and l iberate Bessarabia. I now a frontier guard chief in Zhvanets. And whenever I go down there to fetch the state farm's mail, I tell him the same thing. 'When are we going over the other side?' I says. 'Mind you tae me with you as a guide,' I says. 'I now that part well I've waled over every bit of it. And I've got an o ld score to settle with someone. Mar my words,' I says, 'if you cross the borde r without me, I'll never spea to you again.' "He's a good lad, that frontier man comes all the way from Moscow. He laughs and s ays: To start with,' he says, 'there's no frontier here at all, so we're sure to go over there sooner or later. We've just stopped here temporarily. But as soon as we get the order we won't forget you, Shershen.' " "And have you heard anything of your wife?" "In 'twenty three, we had a refugee from over there come here. He'd set fire to his master's house and run away to u s. I had a tal with him while we were waiting for the frontier guards to come. He said he'd seen my wife. After the uprising, he said, she wored as a labourer for one of the ulas, then the gendarmes came and drove her away from here they must have found out I was alive and woring at the state farm. And since then I haven't heard a murmur. But up to 1922, we even used to shout across the river t o each other. I'd stand on the hill, you now the place where they water the state -farm horses. And she'd come down to the mill and pretend to be doing her washin g on the bridge, but all the time she'd listen to what I shouted, and sometimes she would shout bac. One day we were calling to each other and we didn't notice there was a gendarme hiding in the maize. He sat there listening, and then he w ent for my wife with his whip. She dropped her washing in the river and cried wi th pain. And I ept running up and down the ban, watching that devil torture my wife. It made me gnash my teeth with anger. And just then our frontier guard ca me past. I remember how I begged him for his carbine. 'I'll ill that swine,' I says. But the frontier guard wouldn't let me have it. 'Never mind,' he says, 'be patient. The time will come when your Bessarabia will be free again.' " Beyond the ribbon of mist that hung over the river the moonlit Bessarabian shore seemed quite near. Shershen reined in Grey and gazed across the river with eyes full of longing and anger. I realized that he would wait all his life for the moment when he could cross th e Dniester and set foot on the soil that was so dear to him. A TERRIBLE NIGHT The balcony where we slept became infested with wasps. From early morning until they retired into the crac under the roof where they had made their nest they b uzzed over our mattresses, and we could not get a win of sleep. "Oh, to hell with this!" said Niita one morning. "We'll have to move out of her

e." "Let's smoe them out," I suggested. "They'll smoe you out before you smoe them out. I've no desire to go about wit h my face swollen," Kolomeyets replied, driving away a persistent wasp. But the wasp refused to retreat. Whereupon Kolomeyets jumped out of bed in nothi ng but his underclothes and bolted into the big room, where the students were st ill asleep. We decided to sleep under the straw stac by the thresher. There it was even bet ter than on the balcony. We could spread as much straw as we wanted under us, an d there was straw above us too; another advantage of sleeping there was that the state-farm melon-field was close by. At night, if you wanted to, you could feel about and choose a ripe melon, or water-melon, and tuc into it there and then, under the starry sy. The only thing was that we had to carry our sheets and bl anets a long way. That must have been why Niita, when I suggested going out on the third night, said unwillingly: "Well, to be quite honest, Vasil, I'm not ve ry een on going out there to sleep. It's rather a long way, you now. Let's bed down with the lads in the room." "Where can you bed down there when it's crowde d already! A lot of them are sleeping in the barns, as it is." "We'll squeeze in somewhere." "But what's the sense of it, Niita? We'll have plenty of time to sleep inside w hen we go bac to town. But out there, under the stac, there's fresh air and it smells good, and you've got the melon-field just by everything you could wish for ! You said yourself that you lied it there." Niita wavered. "I may have said so once, but somehow I'm not so een now. Dragg ing our stuff all that way, you now..." "I'll carry your bedding myself, if you lie. You needn't carry anything." "No, Vasil, I don't really want to. And it may rain. See that?" Lightning flashed beyond the Dniester, illuminating the dar, cloudy sy-line. T here were certainly a lot of clouds about this evening; an odd star showing here and there. "What does rain matter, Niita? No water gets under the stac. Don't you remembe r, the might before last..." "Perhaps it didn't the night before last, but it may tonight..." "So you won't come out to the stac?" "No." "Well, I'll go by myself then." "By yourself?" Niita gave a long whistle. "You are daring, aren't you?" "Do you thin I won't?" "I thin you'll get a wee bit scared and come running bac in the middle of the night." "We shall see!" I said doggedly. By the time I set out for the stac wit h blanet and sheets under my arm, I was longing to stay behind and spend the ni ght in the farm-yard, somewhere near the students, on a cart-load of hay. But I was too stubborn for that. If Kolomeyets found out, he would mae my life a mise ry, he would "put me through it" again, he would tell everyone that I had been a fraid to spend the night alone in the field. "Fiddlestics!" I said to myself. " There's nothing to it. I'll sleep there alone and nothing will happen to me. Wha t is there to be afraid of? And won't I be able to mae Kolomeyets feel small to morrow!" As soon as I had made my bed under the stac and was lying in it, Ryabo trotted up. Now it never occurred to me to drive him away. At least I should have one l iving soul to eep me company. "Come here, Ryabo," I called. The dog came closer and cautiously liced my hand . Since I had poured the Eau-de-Cologne over him he had been afraid of me, and n ow he suspected fresh tricery. "Lie down, Ryabo!" I ordered. "Here, on the bla net." Ryabo hesitated and started to retreat. I had to pull him down by force. He settled himself at my feet and at once began to search contentedly for fleas . The lightning over Bessarabia was coming regularly now, and after every flash th e sy seemed darer, as if the stars were being snuffed out one by one. The stac towered over me. Its lower layers were so tight you could not even thr

ust your hand between them. You couldn't see a thing round the stac. The white wall that had shown up so well from here even on the darest nights had now disa ppeared in the pitch blacness and could be seen only when the lightning flashed across the Dniester. In the glow of lightning I caught sight of the threshing-e ngine for a second. Its tall funnel made it loo lie an elephant with its trun raised. Beside it, I glimpsed the water barrels and the square outlines of the thresher. Tomorrow, first thing in the morning, we should tae our stand on its grated pla tform. I should hand Niita the first half sheaf, the toothed drum would rattle as it crushed the ears of wheat, there would be noise all round. . . But how lon ely and deserted it was now at the threshing-floor! No one about. Not a soul! On ly Ryabo and I lying under the stac. I shifted the cold rifle closer to me and adjusted the pistol that hung from a leather thong round my nec. I was still afraid to carry the pistol about openly I thought one of the students might tae it away from me. Having begged a long strip of rawhide from Shershen, I had tied both ends to the ring on the butt of the "Zauer," and in the evening s I would carry it about with me under my shirt, right next to the sin. When I was asleep, it dug into my side, and I slept restlessly, tossing and turning. I fell asleep long after midnight and woe up conscious that Ryabo was no longer beside me. He was baring loudly not far away at some stranger who was approachi ng the state farm from the direction of the Dniester. I could hear footsteps. Th ey drew nearer. No, it was not one man, there must be several you could hear the p otato-tops crunching under their feet. I pressed close to the stac. Ryabo bar ed hoarsely. He was snapping right at the legs of the approaching strangers. Someone tried to coax the dog. "Here, boy, come here have a bit of bacon!" The voi ce was soft and insidious. "Give him one with your sabre to stop his row!" another voice growled angrily. And at that moment I heard a dull blow, and a terrible squeal from Ryabo. Evide ntly crawling away in terrible pain the dog whimpered pitifully, and suddenly fe ll silent altogether. "That was a clout!. Cut him in half, I should thin. Even hurt my hand," said th e man who had struc, and laughed hoarsely. "Quiet, lads!" someone ordered. The bandits stopped a few paces from me, near the threshing-engine. From below, I could mae out their dar shapes fairly well. The bandits stood listening. I was afraid to stir. I felt as if I should never b e able to move my arms or legs again. My body grew numb, but my head was crystal clear. Now I could hear every whisper of this terrible night, every straw that rustled overhead in the breeze, the buzz of grasshoppers behind the stac. Dogs, waened by Ryabo's squeal, were baring far away in the village. "Now listen, lads," said one of the bandits evidently the leader after a minute's si lence. "See that stac? As soon as we've set fire to it, everyone follow me into this ditch. Then we'll wait. And when they run up to put it out, we'll mow thos e Communists down from here lie a bunch of hares. . . Get your grenades ready! Olesa, go and start the fire." "Give me the matches," said the man who had been told to set fire to the stac.. The next moment he had left the other bandits and was maing his way towards me with awward, cautious strides. I leapt out of the stac and half-naed, with only the pistol dangling at my bel ly, rushed into the darness. Quic, quic, I must reach the state farm before t he bandits set fire to the stac! And I raced straight across the melon-field to wards the state-farm house, to warn the students, to wae them up and return wit h them to face the bandits. But I had not gone more than la few paces when I cru shed a slippery melon with my foot and plunged full length on the ground. I jump ed up at once, and nearly shouted with pain. In falling I had dislocated my anl e. For a moment the pain deadened all fear. Feeling the tears rush into my eyes, scarcely able to stand, I released the Zauer's safety catch and fired my first bullet at the bandits. In the blinding flash I realized that I had given myself away, that not even the

shadow of the tall stac could save me now. Again fear rushed upon me, but my f inger would not leave the trigger and I fired automatically. I could see nothing except the pitch darness and the brilliant flashes above the bucing muzzle of the pistol. When my last cartridge flew out of the breach, I heard the bandit's hoarse voice . "Grenade!" Quite near me a huge column of flame spouted out of the melon-field. I was deafe ned at once and only felt melon plants lash my face. My first thought was to call for help, but my mouth was full of earth. I tried t o spit, but felt myself falling slowly and very far away. I was not afraid to fall . Another grenade exploded I did not even shudder. Suddenly a pleasant, easy feeli ng swept over me, the pain died away, something warm tricled down my forehead. I mustered all my strength to spit the earth out of my mouth, but my lips and to ngue would not obey me; they seemed soft and numb, as if they were no longer my own. Only aware of the taste of earth in my mouth, I collapsed on the ground. I do not remember how I was taen to town, how at dawn the chief surgeon of the town hospital Gutentag performed a very serious operation on my head, removing t wo splinters that had lodged in the bony part of the sull. He also cut out a broen rib and straightened my dislocated anle. All that I le arnt later, when I came to. . I woe up slowly and with difficulty At first, still lying with my eyes shut, I listened for a long time to a distant monotonous tapping. I could not understa nd what it was. I felt as if I was in a big house, and about six rooms away some one was nocing ceaselessly on a closed door. "But perhaps it's the thresher woring and I've overslept?" I thought, and tried to jump up. But I could not do so; my legs and all the rest of my body felt ter ribly heavy, as if I were tied to the bed. I opened my eyes and saw Peta Maremuha. Fie sat perched on the edge of a white stool funny, lop-eared Peta Maremuha. He was staring at me wide-eyed, as if it were not me but a corpse that was lying in front of him. Peta was wearing a white gown. Its high collar was digging into his chin. Notic ing that I had opened my eyes, Peta fidgeted on his stool and whispered in a pl aintive voice: "Go to sleep, Vasya, it's early ..." "No, it isn't, I'm getting up..." "You mustn't!" Peta jumped up in alarm. "You mustn't get up yet. Sleep! Perhaps you want some cranberry juice? Here, have some." I remembered that I had been thirsty for a long time. Taing a full glass of pin cranberry juice from Peta's trembling hand, I pressed my lips eagerly to its edge. The juice was sharp and cool. Staring at me with frightened eyes, Peta wa tched the glass empty. As soon as I had finished drining, he snatched the glass out of my hand and placed it on the marble-topped bed-table. "Now go to sleep," Peta ordered. "What's that nocing, Peta?" I ased when I had recovered my breath. "It's the Motor. 'What's nocing!' Go to sleep." "What motor?" I insisted. "You now, the engine at the Motor Factory!" "What engine?... Where am I?... What about the farm?..." At that moment, my aunt entered the room in a white gown lie Peta's. Tall and grey, she looed lie a doctor. Peta rushed up to her. "Maria Afanasyevna, loo, he wants to get up. I eep telling him to go to sleep and he won't listen to me..." "We must shut the window. The air in the room is fresh now," Aunt Maria said qui etly and waled over to the window. "Don't, it's all right as it is," I muttered feebly, and again fell fast asleep. I did not wae up again until late at night. Aunt Maria and Peta were gone. A b lue electric Lamp burnt high in the ceiling. A strange nurse dozed in a chair by the bed, her arms resting on the marble table.

From the open window came the faint rustle of la maple-tree by the hospital wall . Stars twinled through the leaves it was a warm autumn night outside. The town w as asleep. The engine at the Motor Factory had long since ceased its chugging. P eta was asleep on the couch in his little house, and my people were sleeping to o. Now, as I lay there in the night, I began to feel that I should live, although m y leg and wounded chest still hurt badly and with every little movement of my ne c a sharp pain stabbed through my head. Cautiously I freed my hand from the bla net and drew my fingers across my forehead. It was all in bandages. On my templ e, my fingers encountered short, pricly hairs, and I realized that my head had been shaved while I was unconscious. I wanted to tal to someone, to as how I h ad got here, but there was no one about except the sleeping nurse. For a few min utes I lay with eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. I tried to remember ever ything that had happened, but the effort soon tired me and I fell asleep again t ill morning. HOW MARUSHCHAK CAUGHT THE WHITE NUN Every morning, before he went to wor, Father would call in to see me. He would eye me for la long time. Even now I could not bear his steady gaze, which brough t bac memories of the spoons, and I would turn away. Father ased me no questio ns he must have nown everything. He brought me apples and pears from the Party Sc hool garden. He would as how I felt, go and consult the doctors, bring me inter esting boos from the library. In those days I realized how dear they were to me F ather, Aunt Maria, and tubby Peta Maremuha. But strange to say, I had only to start questioning them about what had happened afterwards, on the night when I h ad slept under the stac, and they would all mutter, as if by secret agreement, "Later, later!" Only Father gave me a clear answer: "Get well quic, Vasil, then you shall now everything!" Apparently the doctor had told them not to worry me unnecessarily with recollections of that terrible night when I had fired at the bandits. Several days passed. One evening, when I was lying alone in my little ward liste ning to the boys icing a football about in front of the Motor Factory, loud, h urried footsteps echoed down the hospital corridor, the door opened and Niita K olomeyets and Marushcha entered the room. Niita had got so brown while I had b een in hospital that I scarcely recognized him. He had been given a gown that wa s too big for him and his dar, shaven head looed very funny poing out of the loose collar. Big, broad-shouldered Marushcha, in dashingly smart boots and a g own that reached to his nees, gazed down at me, smiling. I had not seen him for a long time since I left town to wor on the state farm. And I was specially glad to see him here now. Niita surveyed the ward, wrinled the tip of his nose and, dragging a chair up noisily, said: "I say, you've got a swell place here, old chap! Lord Curzon himself never slept in a ward lie this." "Better than on the balcony?" I ased. "The balcony had the wild beauty of the jungle," Niita replied, "but here, beho ld, we have civilization. Do they give you that juice here, or is it from home?" "Here. They mae it in hospital." "Gosh, I'm thirsty!" said Niita. "May I?" And without waiting for a reply, he l ifted the glass to his lips. "Put it bac, Niita!" Marushcha ordered. "The lad here's wounded, he may feel thirsty any minute, and you pinch his juice!" "No, have a drin, Niita!" I protested hastily. "I can get as much as I lie." "There you are, what did I say civilization!" Niita grinned joyfully and, smacin g his lips, started to drin the juice. He even closed his eyes with pleasure. " Lovely!" he said, licing his lips, "Gorgeous! I must have a spell in hospital t oo, to get some free cranberry juice." "Only people who are seriously ill are given juice, Niita," I said as calmly as I could. "No one would admit you to hospital, however much you ased."

"How do you now? They might do. Now, if I had gone with you to the thresher tha t night and got myself noced about... But no," he went on after a moment's con sideration. "It would probably have been me who shot them. Not just one, but the whole lot." "Why, did I shoot anyone?" I ased, struggling up. "Well I never!" Niita exclai med laughing. "He performs what you might call a heroic deed, then he pretends n ot to now anything about it!" "But I don't now anything, Niita. I only came to when they got me here." "Don't you really now?" Niita ased. "Of course not!" "Well, in that case we'll give you a spot of information." And turning to the si lent Marushcha: "Any objections, Comrade Marushcha?" "Go on and tell him, I'll help you," Marushcha agreed. ... The bandits at whom I had fired had come a long way. They had been sent into Soviet territory from Bessarabia, to help Ataman Satan-Maloleta. At the time when we were woring on the state farm, the ataman's affairs were in a bad way. To reinforce the frontier guards a special group of anti-bandit personnel had ar rived from Moscow. Daring and experienced men of the CHEKA. The bandits were hav ing a bad time. Nearly every night small detachments of mounted CHEKA men rode o ut of the gates of the local security headquarters to patrol the surrounding for ests. In leather jerins, with heavy Mauser pistols in wooden holsters at their belts, they thundered through the sleepy streets of the town on strong, hardy ho rses. Their horses' hoofs resounded loudly under the arch of the Old Fortress. When they had ridden out of town on to the soft country by-roads, the CHEKA men vanished into the darness; and only in one house, in Seminary Street, whence th ey had come, were their tas and final destination nown. From dus to dawn ligh ts burnt in that house. The CHEKA men wored all night, carrying out the governm ent's order to clear the border regions of bandit gangs. Quite often, when the security chiefs planned big operations, the students from our Party School and the Special Detachment men Communists and Komsomol members fr om town Party and Komsomol organizations helped to carry them out. It was not unus ual for them, even during the day, after an alarm had been given, to report at S pecial Detachment Headquarters in Kishinev Street, where they drew rifles and un der the command of security men left town for long periods to comb the surroundi ng forests. As it turned out, while our group had been peacefully engaged in threshing the g rain of the new harvest at the state farm, the students who had been left behind with Marushcha in town, had not remained idle. Several times they had to inter rupt their studies and join in the rounding up of bandit 'gangs. One would have expected the bandits to eep away from town and to fear the Party School lie the plague, but, as Marushcha now explained, it was not lie that at all. The bandits had friends right in the town, land one of those friends tur ned out to be the old gardener Korybo. Under the tsarist regime he had wored a t the diocesan convent which had now been taen over by the Party School. When S oviet power was established in the town, Korybo continued to frequent the build ing. Sometimes, as if from long-standing habit, he would tae his sharp, heavy sheers out of his overcoat pocet and painstaingly, without asing any money, set to wor in the yard in front of the main building, trimming the thuja bushes, pruni ng the acacias, and weeding the garden beds. People got used to the old gardener , and when it was time for the neglected garden to be put tidy, the head of the Party School too Korybo on as a member of the staff. Lie other members of the staff, Korybo received dinners in the students' dining-hall and then he would spend all day with sheers and clippers in the garden or court-yard of the Party School. Mee and untalative, he roused no suspicions. Often, after woring late, Koryb o stayed the night in his storeroom by the itchen, where he slept on a rough co uch covered with a straw mattress. No one new that the old gardener had a grown -up son whose name was Zbyszo. In the very first months of the Revolution, youn g Korybo, then still a student at the Kiev Polytechnic, hearing that the Polish

gentry were mustering their legions, went to Warsaw, and there entered the serv ice of Pilsudsi. With the Polish army he too part in the seizure of Zhitomir. Later, when Budyonny's cavalry drove the Polish legions out of the Uraine, Zbys zo fled with them to Poland. As soon as the Reds too over our town, old Korybo started telling his Podzamch e neighbours that his son had died of typhoid fever in Kiev. The neighbours symp athized with the old man, too pity on him, and soon forgot that the gardener ha d ever had a son at all. But Zbyszo was still alive, and when the Polish intell igence service needed to mae contact with the bandits on Soviet territory, he w as sent to our town as an envoy. And there the young lieutenant of the Polish in telligence service found his old father very useful. Often, when in need of food or a night's rest, young Korybo came to his father at the Party School and spe nt the night there now in the garden, now in the attic, now in the drying-shed, wh ere the gardener dried rings of pear and apple on a slow fire. It might have been a very long time before anyone guessed the truth about Koryb o's son, had it not been for my Zauer. That night, When Peta and I went into the garden to try out the pistol, Korybo the gardener had met his son on the edge of the garden. He had brought him supp er in a students' aluminium bowl. It was this aluminium bowl that helped Marushcha to discover the truth about Ko rybo. When I gave Marushcha the bowl, he began to mae discreet inquiries as to who m ight have dropped it in the garden. It turned out that a few days after the inci dent 'Korybo had come to the coo and ased him for a new bowl to replace the o ld one, which, according to the gardener, some "imp" had stolen from his storero om. . . . The coo had given him a new bowl and forgotten about it. But When Marushcha st arted asing whether any utensils were missing from the itchen, he remembered t he loss and complained to Marushcha that someone had taen the gardener's bowl. Marushcha didn't give anything away, but started eeping an eye on the old man . Soon he discovered that the gardener was a Pole, a very religious man, who did not miss a single service at the Polish church. That night in the garden, when I fired my pistol, the man who fired bac had shouted "Hurry!" in Polish. But st ill Korybo could have cleared himself of suspicion had it not been for the busi ness of the bell-ringing. When Marushcha got to now Valerian Dmitrievich, he ased him a lot of question s about the history of the Party School building. Together they waled through t he long corridors and tried to discover the cause of the strange bell-ringing. A nd one day Lazarev recollected a story he had been told when he was still a stud ent the story of a nun in white who roamed about the diocesan convent at nights, u nable to find peace, and calling the Franciscan nuns of the ancient Catholic nun nery to service. How had the legend of the white nun arisen? Who needed it? Why had it been inven ted? A very long time ago, this ancient building surrounded by its high wall had been the abode of Franciscan nuns. Sometimes they went out into the world in their w hite robes, visited the villages land tried to convert the local peasant women t o the Catholic faith. The nuns wanted there to be more supporters of Poland in t his region, they wanted more good land for the nunnery. But the Russian governme nt started to close these Polish churches and nunneries. And one day this partic ular nunnery was closed too. The tsar ordered that it should be converted into a convent for the daughters of the Russian Orthodox clergy. The daughters of priests from all over the province were assembled in this dar, dan building. The nunnery church was converted into an Orthodox church. The ce lls became class-rooms. Here the convent Fathers were to train the daughters of the priests as educated wives for the clergy of the diocese. But the Franciscan nuns who had been driven out of their nunnery could not forgi ve the Russians the injury they had suffered. They started to frighten convent g irls. From time to time a tall woman in white began to appear in the corridors o f the convent and wal silently round the building.

When they saw her, the priests' daughters screamed so loud that" they could be h eard all over the large building. Rumours of the white nun reached the town and the Polish noblewomen said that Go d himself and the Pope of Rome were visiting their vengeance on the Russians for closing the nunnery, that the appearance of the white nun was la sign from God, that soon there would be an epidemic of plague which would wipe out all Orthodo x believers, and that only true servants of the papal throne would be left alive . When darness fell, the daughters of the convent were afraid to go into the dorm itories and stayed together, barricading the doors. And once the head-mistress o f the convent encountered the white nun near the itchen and collapsed in a dead faint. Only in the morning was she found lying on the stone floor of the cellar . After that incident, the local chief of police started sending parties of police men to patrol the college at night, and, strange to say, the nun disappeared. Bu t now the mournful tolling of a bell was heard in the corridors. Perhaps one of the fanatical nuns, who after the closing of the nunnery had gone to live with l ocal Catholics, had made her way into the college. And afterwards, perhaps, when the police prevented her from entering, she continued to mae her presence felt by bribing one of the college servants to toll the bell. The mystery of the tolling bell was solved by Marushcha while I was away at the state farm. Already suspecting Korybo of having connections with people hostil e to us, one day, when Korybo had gone to a service at the Catholic church, Mar ushcha entered the store-room where the gardener ept his tools'. There he foun d nothing unusual, except perhaps for a Catholic prayer-boo with a note folded inside it that ran as follows: "Father! At nine o'cloc tomorrow evening I shall be waiting for you in the ceme tery near the tomb of Canon Tszylatowsi. "Zbyszo." After carefully searching the whole store-room, Marushcha was about to leave wh en he suddenly noticed a light sprinling of soot just under the chimney. It was summer and the time for cleaning chimneys had not yet arrived the old gardener mu st have been to the chimney for some other purpose. Moving a wooden bench, Marus hcha opened the chimney door and glanced inside. There he saw something white. He put his hand into the chimney and pulled out a heavy bundle. Inside the bundl e, wrapped in cloth, lay a Mauser pistol and two spare cartridge-clips. Having carefully closed the chimney-door land put the bench bac in its former p osition, Marushcha rushed off to the district security department to inform the m of his discovery. There it was at once ascertained that Mauser No. 6838 of the year 1918 had belonged to Grishchu, a security man who had been found murdered two wees ago in a well near the small border town of Vitovtov Brod. That night Stanislaw Korybo the gardener was arrested. During the search two am pules of an unnown poison were found in his possession. The following evening, young Korybo, a lieutenant of Pilsudsi's intelligence c orps, was also arrested, in the Polish cemetery near the tomb of Canon Tszylato wsi. His hair and beard were unempt and he was dressed unobtrusively as la you ng peasant. When the security men approached him, he attempted to escape and eve n fired on them; but the security men caught him, too his revolver away, and sh ortly afterwards he met his father at the interrogation. It turned out that Zbyszo had been sent to contact and wor with the bandit gan g led by Satan-Maloleta. The bandits, who were short of arms, were to mae a ra id on the Party School armoury. The old gardener had found out that there were n early two hundred rifles in the armoury, as well as many revolvers and boxes of ammunition. He had told his son this, and his son had given him the poison. The bandits had decided to attac the school in the dead of night. The evening befor e old Korybo was to put the poison in the students' supper. Besides the poison, in case of accidents, Zbyszo had given his father a Mauser pistol, the one he had taen from the murdered security man two wees ago.

When the old gardener and his son were arrested, the security men made another t horough search of the gardener's store-room. They, too, examined the chimney. Th ere they noticed something that Marushcha in his haste had overlooed. At the b ac of the chimney hung a rusty iron ring connected to a wire. When someone gave the ring a hard pull, the mournful tolling of a bell was heard from above. The wire stretched from the cellar to the top floor, where it was connected to a bra ss bell concealed in the wall. Coated with dust and soot, the bell had hung ther e for many years apparently since the time when the white nun waled the corridors frightening the daughters of the convent. Perhaps the bell had first been conce aled in the wall by priests from the Vatican, in order to frighten the superstit ious nuns, to mae it seem that this mysterious bell-ringing was a miracle, a si gn from God. And perhaps the Catholic gardener Korybo had learnt the secret in our day from one of the Catholic priests in town. As soon as you pulled the iron ring in the chimney you heard the slow resonant tolling of the bell, the same t olling that Marushcha and I had heard when we searched the empty building durin g the alarm. "Why did you toll the bell?" Korybo was ased at the interrogation. "I wanted to frighten ... the Communists..." Korybo answered sullenly. "Communists aren't convent girls!" the interrogator said. "I was a fool," Korybo admitted. "Ghosts are out of fashion these days. I made a mistae and gave myself away for nothing." Korybo the gardener was arrested on that same rainy night when I had gone out t o sleep under the straw stac. The bandits who had crossed the frontier had intended to mow down the students n ear the burning stac and then move on to lin up with Satan-Maloleta's gang. M y shots had prevented the bandits from carrying out their plan. They had not eve n managed to set fire to the stac. When, at the sound of the explosions on the melon-field, the students had run out of the state farm, the bandits had not eve n shown fight, and had made off towards Bessarabia. But one of them did not esca pe. A bullet from my Zauer had wounded him in the leg, smashing the bone. Abando ned by his comrades, the bandit had crawled over the allotments to the Dniester, and there, at the water's edge, he had been piced up by a patrol of frontier g uards coming from the nearby post to investigate the cause of the firing. GALYA PAYS ME A VISIT Such was the story that Marushcha and Kolomeyets told me while they sat by my b ed. As I listened to them, I regretted that it would still be some time before I could go to the Party School to loo at the nunnery bell concealed in the wall and inspect Korybo's store-room. "Did they find my pistol?" I ased Niita cautiously. "You bet!" said Niita. "It was lying beside you. The watchman piced it up. Pol evoi's taing care of it now." "But will he give it bac to me?" "Why not?" Marushcha said in surprise. "They'll register it and give it bac to you." "But I'm not in the Komsomol yet!" "Oh, that's only a matter of form now," Marushcha replied confidently. "But you 've got to get well quic." "Then come along to the meeting," Niita added graciously. "We'll go into everyt hing there." " 'Come along to the meeting'..." I murmured, remembering how Niita had offende d me once. "You'll chuc me out again." Marushcha chucled. "What a long memory you've got! Don't worry, we'll elect an other chairman for that occasion a ind one." Just then, two nurses entered the room, wheeling a high stretcher on rollers. At the sight of this stretcher my heart san and I immediately forgot about my gue sts. "Time for a fresh dressing!" plump, blue-eyed nurse Khristya announced. "Not today surely!" I groaned. "Can't I have it tomorrow?"

"Tut-tut, aren't you ashamed! A hero lie you and afraid of dressings," Khristya exclaimed, putting her strong gentle arm under my bac. It was Doctor Gutentag himself who did my dressings. And today, when I was wheel ed into the big well-lighted treatment room, he was waiting for me, tweezers in hand a short, bald, sharp-featured man with a white cap pulled low over his forehe ad. As soon as the nurses had lifted me from the stretcher on to the white table , Gutentag strode up to me and seized my leg. Then he started bending the nee a nd feeling it. I raised myself on my elbow and watched the doctor's strong, inci sive fingers apprehensively. "Does it hurt?" Gutentag ased t last in a deep booming voice. "A bit..." I gasped plaintively. "A bit doesn't count," the doctor interrupted, and instructed the nurses to remo ve the dressings. A very thin, quic-fingered nurse started unwinding the bandages. A long purple scar with traces of stitches round it ran across my chest where the rib had been removed. Gutentag glanced at the soar and gave a whistle of satisfaction. "It's healed splendidly," he said. "In a couple of days you'll be able to give h im a plaster. Just dab it with colloid and that's all. Understand?" The nurse nodded, wiping the soar with spirit and covering it with a clean banda ge. Everything was all right until she finished bandaging my chest and started on my head. I bit my lip in advance-and squirmed my legs about the table. Gutentag frowned ominously. "What's all this about?" "It hurts, doctor!" I moane d through clenched teeth. "It'll mae you fiercer!" the doctor retorted. "Next t ime you won't let 'em throw a grenade at you. Call yourself a fighter! You shoul dn't get hurt yourself, you now, it's the enemy that ought to be on the ground. Got that?" I realized that the doctor was having me on, and listened fearfully to the nurse 's light, quic fingers unwinding the bandage. Less and less of it remained on m y head, and at last the end fliced past my eyes. I screwed up my face. Now the worst would come. The nurse started gently removing the pads covering the wounds . "O-o-o !" I moaned. "Careful... O!. . ." "Stic it, stic it!" Gutentag mumbled somewhere near. I could see neither the doctor, nor the nurses my eyes were misted with tears. They rolled down my chees, hot and salty, and I liced them off my lips. The pain was awful when the nurse peeled off the pads; they had dried on to the hair that had grown round the wounds. I writhed about on the table, waving my ar ms and moaning. "That will do! It's all over, all over, do you hear!" Gutentag shouted in my ear , but I still lay icing my legs, hearing nothing and moaning. "You see, we've managed to avoid trepanation of the sull," Gutentag whispered quietly to the nu rse. "Everything is going well. He's a strong lad!" And he slapped my leg. It was good to return to the ward with the dressing over; now for two days I cou ld live quietly, without fear of pain. Long tiled corridors ran from one end of the building to the other. The wheeled stretcher rumbled on the tiles. Through the narrow vaulted windows that floated past I caught a glimpse of the blue sy and the sun setting far away over Dolzhe tsy Forest. How I longed to roam out there in the forest, to be with the chaps I new! We had nearly reached the ward. Sitting on the oa bench by the door I saw Sasha Bobir, Peta Maremuha and Galya. Galya was here! Dear, wonderful Galya had come to see me! I was ready to jump off the stretcher and run up to her. Peta got up and, waling beside the stretcher, muttered hastily: "The doorman d idn't want to let three of us in to see you, Vasil, so I went and saw Gutentag, land then they let us in!" Peta was about to wal into the ward with me, but Khristya raised her hand. "Wait a bit," she said. "When we've put the patient to bed, you can come in."

When my pillows had been bounced up and Khristya had tuced me up under my grey woolly blanet, I received my guests. The first to come to my bedside was Galya. I felt as though I were seeing her for the first time. She was so pretty, so be autiful, the dearest person on earth at that moment. She was blushing shyly, and the tips of her ears were scarlet with excitement. Offering me her warm hand, w hich I shoo with all my strength, Galya said quietly: "Did you get my letter, V asil? I answered at once." "No, I didn't," I mumbled in confusion. "But it doesn't matter. I'll get it all right. They'll bring it to me. My things are there as well." I did not want Sash a and Peta to now of our correspondence. "And I thought... Does it hurt much, Vasil?" Galya ased, nodding at my bandaged head. "Not so had," I replied as carelessly as I could. "Who did your operation, Vasil ?" Sasha inquired. "Gutentag." "It couldn't have hurt then. When he operated on me, I felt no pain at all," Sas ha said with a sniff. "That's a fine comparison!" I said huffily. "You just had a splinter, but loo a t this!" And I pointed to, my wounds. "For a start, it wasn't just a splinter, it was a great big chun of wood," Sash a retorted. "It went right down to the bone." "You had a splinter down to the bone, tut I had my sull split open so that you could see the brain!" "The brain?" Maremuha repeated in horror. "Yes," I said with as much calm as I could muster, and glanced sideways at Galya . She, too, was staring in alarm at my bandaged head. To heighten the effect and m ae myself seem an even greater martyr, I added carelessly: "Oh, it's nothing re ally. As soon as the wounds heal up a bit, the doctor will fix some of those gol d plates under the sin. They'll be stronger than bones." "Will he fix them with solder?" Bobir ased. That nearly caught me out. "Solder? No, why ... not with solder... There's a sor t of ... you now, a sort of special paste. I forget what it's called." "Did you hear that Korybo had been arrested, Vasil? Now we'll be able to go int o the garden as much as we lie," said Peta. "I didn't want to tell you before, because..." "I now all about it," I interrupted, "the students told me. And what's Kota do ing now?" "Kota's living with the tiner now," Peta went on. "And you now what, he goes to the printers' Komsomol now." "You . don't say so! Does he really?" I could net believe it. "He does," Bobir grunted. "He comes to every open meeting. And he'll soon be ma ing an application to join the Komsomol." "Well, he won't get away with it!" Galya burst out suddenly. "Everyone nows tha t Kota didn't start woring for the tiner for nothing. He wants to get himself a worer's record that's what he wants!" I listened to Galya and could mot believe my ears. Not so long ago I had thought she and Kota were friends. . . I gazed joyfully at Galya, at her high forehead , at her thic soft hair combed bac behind her ears, at her slightly upturned n ose. Galya averted her greenish eyes, straightened her jumper, and said uncomfor tably: "What are you staring at me for? Do you thin I'm not telling the truth? It's tr ue. . . He told me so himself." "Who, Kota? What did he tell you?" Peta ased curiously. "Yes, Kota himself. When Vasil here went away," Galya nodded in my direction, " Kota came to my house and said, 'Let's go to the fair.' Well, we went. And on t he way, Kota opened his purse and started boasting. 'I'll be taing you on the roundabouts,' he said, 'see how much money I've got! And it was all earned by wo r,' he said. 'But it's not the money that counts. I'll get even more money. The main thing is to have a worer's record. When I've done a bit more wor, I'll h ave a worer's record, then no one will be able to say a thing about who my fath

er was. When I'm considered a worer, I'll get on fine.' " "And you ... did you go on taling to him after that?" I ased indignantly. "Why?" Galya answered calmly. " 'I don't need your money,' I said, 'nor your rou ndabouts, and you're a thief and a rotter.' And I turned my bac on him and wal ed away." "You did that, Galya?" Peta exclaimed. "You told him that to his face?" "As him yourself if you don't believe me." "Who do you thin I am!" Peta snorted contemptuously. "I haven't spoen to him for three years as it is." "Hullo, young people, come to see the sufferer?" said a familiar voice. I glanced round quicly and the others jumped to their feet. Polevoi stood at th e door smiling. His shaven head was just as sunburnt as his face. "Sit down, sit down. What made you jump? I'm going to sit down too," Polevoi sai d and piced up a free stool. Placing it beside my bed, Polevoi sat down heavily and looed at me. The boys sat down too. Smoothing her light-blue dress, Galya seated herself on a stool beside Polevoi. "You mustn't be angry with me, Vasil, for not coming in to see you Before, as soon as we got bac I had a lot to do. But I sent Kolomeyets. Did he come?" "Yes, he did. And Marushcha came too." "Well, then there's not much left for me to say. I was going to tell you about your ex ploits. How're you feeling?" "Not so bad." "But I suppose I now already," Polevoi confessed. "Before I came in here, I as ed the doctor a lot of questions. He says you're doing all right, the wound's he aled up fine, he says, you'll soon be chasing a football about. Feel lie a game , Vasil?" "Yes, I do." "Then try and get well quic, so that you'll be up before the end of term," Pole voi commanded, and with a glance at Peta seated meely by the bed, he said: "I now this young fellow. And I thin I've seen this fair chap somewhere before," he added, nodding at Bobir. "But the young lady's quite a stranger to me." Polevoi glanced at me slyly. Galya blushed in confusion and did not now where t o turn her head. To brea the awward silence, Polevoi turned to Galya and, still smiling, said w ith a nod at me: "Mind you eep this hero in hand, Miss, because I've heard he's already started taing young ladies out to coffee." I caught my breath. Polevoi must have learnt about Shipulinsy's cafe from my fa ther. And what if Father had told him about the spoons? Blushing with shame, I s quinted sideways at Polevoi, trying to guess how much he new. But Polevoi's fac e wore a sly, mysterious smile that told me nothing. Then he stood up and said u nexpectedly: "By the way, I've got something I want to tal to you, young fol, about. What a re you thining of doing with yourselves this autumn? What are your plans?" There was a silence. At length Sasha Bobir gathered courage enough to as: "What plans do you mean?" "Have you finished at the people's school?" Polevoi ased in a business-lie ton e. "We did that in the spring!" "Well, and now what?" Polevoi ased, surveying us eenly. "I don't now about Sasha and Galya, but Peta and I were thining of trying for the technical school in the autumn," I said quietly. Polevoi looed thoughtful. "The technical school? Well, of course, that's not a bad idea either. But I've got a more interesting suggestion. As you. now, lads, we're getting the country's old plants going one after another nowadays, and so on, I recon, we'll start building new ones. For those factories we'll be needin g silled hands. Plenty of them! In many towns nowadays they're opening factorytraining schools. There will be one in our town. Only yesterday they told me up at the District Party Committee that I had been appointed director of that schoo l. You see, when I was a lad I used to wor at a factory in Yeaterinoslav. The money for this school has already been allotted. It's going to have special wor shops. The pupils will get grants. We'll have good instructors. Soon we'll start collecting pupils. Now, I'd lie to see some fine, plucy lads joining us. And when I loo at you well, you're not a bad bunch. You'll be able to relieve the ol

der fol, you'll be new reinforcements for the woring class. What about joining the factory-training school in autumn?" We exchanged glances. "I've heard of that school," Galya said quietly. "My father's been ased if he'd lie to be instructor in the joinery shop." "Well, that's fine, isn't it? You'll be going to school with Rather." "But can I go there?" Galya ased doubtfully. "Why shouldn't you!" "But I'm not a boy," Galya said quietly. "Surely they don't tae girls lat a fac tory-training school." "Do you thin we ought to open a special girls' convent for you?" Polevoi said w ith a laugh. "Times are different now. Couldn't you learn to be a mechanic, or a turner, say? You'll qualify all right, if you're ready to study and wor." "Can you learn to become a fitter at this school too?" Sasha ased, still eyeing Polevoi doubtfully. "The fitter's section is going to be the biggest of the lot," said Polevoi, and with a glance at us all, he added: "Well, I'm off now, youngsters, so you just t hin it over amongst yourselves. If you lie the idea, you'll be welcome. I shal l be your chief." THE DEFEAT OF KOTKA GRIGORENKO I was not discharged from hospital until after the end-of-term party; so I had n o chance to celebrate with the students who were leaving, or even to play a fare well game of football with them. When Father and I drove up to the familiar iron railings of the Party School, I was struc by the unusual stillness that reigne d over the yard. There was no sign of the students in their blue Budyonny hats r unning to the lecture rooms; no one was pacing to and fro, rifle in hand, beside the sentry-box. The gates were fastened with a big rusty padloc. Splashes of w hitewash could be seen on the windows of the main building. The whole place was being repaired in preparation for the new school year. Little wooden cradles hun g on ropes near the drain-pipes, and the roof was splashed with bright blobs of green and brown paint where the painters had been experimenting to find out what paint would go best on the faded, peeling iron. Father wanted me to live with him and Aunt Maria in the flat until I got quite w ell, but I insisted on the itchen "and had my own way. When Doctor Gutentag had discharged me from the hospital, he had said I should wal as little as possibl e and rest whenever I could, but as soon as I found myself in familiar surroundi ngs, I longed to be out and about, and after dinner I slipped out of my itchen into the fresh air. Leaning on an old stic of my father's, I hobbled slowly down the front steps an d set off across the weed-grown yard to the main building. The building was very quiet. The banisters of the worn stone staircase leading to the upper storeys w ere coated with dust, the boarded floors of the corridors were splashed with whi tewash, and blac-painted dess from the lecture rooms lined the walls. The door s of the students' club stood wide open, and as I passed them I caught a glimpse of the familiar slogan above the stage: "Peace to the cottage war to the palace!" When I reached the window from which Marushcha had fired his rifle, I realized that I had come for nothing. The hole in the big stove had already been filled in; only a neat layer of red brics showed the place where the old nunnery bell that had frightened so many people with its mysterious tolling had hung. I felt the brics, scratched a dry bit of plaster off the wall and wandered slowly down to the garden. The leaves of the trees were already tinged with yellow and weeds had spread thi cly over the grass. The barberry bushes were red with little berries, lie bits of coral. There were no young birds about. They must be all grown up by now. Th e walnuts stretched along beside the wall, their smooth grey truns towering abo ve the nearby apple and plum-trees. In a cleft between the branches of the oldes t of the walnut-trees, I noticed the dar hole where I had put the aluminium bow l that early morning in spring.

It was very still in the garden and when I came nearer to the walnut avenue I he ard a faint sound high up in the tree-tops it was a ripe nut falling through the b ig glistening leaves. I noted where it fell and limped towards the spot. The nut was large and ripe, and smelt a bit lie iodine. I put it in my pocet a nd started searching for more. There were lots here in the thic grass under the burdoc, and in the weed-grown ditches. Some of them lay dry and bare in their hard shells, others were still covered with green fleshy sin. It was easy to br ea this sin with your lingers and let the clean, slightly moist nut roll out i nto your palm. My pocets grew heavy with the nuts I gathered, my nee began to ache, Father's stic was left far behind at the very beginning of the avenue. I was still wea and beads of sweat broe out on my forehead. But I went on crawli ng about trying to find as many nuts as I could, and I was so busy with my searc h that I did not notice how dar it was becoming. The sun had long since set beh ind the houses of Belanova. It was time to go home. Nearly exhausted, but with my pocets full of nuts, I went out into the yard and, sitting down on a bench b eside the garden gate, started cracing the nuts. I would put a nut in the chin between the gate and the iron gate-post, pull the gate gently, and the nut woul d crac open easily, scattering bits of shell and white ernel into my waiting p alm. There were already quite a lot of broen shells lying round my feet, when I hear d Peta's voice behind the bushes. "If we don't give that snae what he deserves now, he'll get even more cheey la ter on." Peta was saying with conviction. "Hey, Peta, come here!" I shouted, getting up. "Loo, he's out in the yard already!" Peta exclaimed, appearing from behind the bushes with Sasha Bobir. "We thought you were still in bed... Give us some nuts !" I poured nuts into Peta's chubby hand and gave some to Sasha. Lie a money, Sa sha popped a nut into his mouth and started cracing it with his teeth. "Steady on, you ass!" I said. "You've lost two teeth already, do you want to los e the rest? Crac them in the gate. See how I do it!" Now the gate swung to and fro without stopping. Peta gobbled his nuts, glancing every now and then at my bulging pocets. "Where have you been, chaps?" I ased. "We were going..." Peta began. "Loo here, Vasya, Grigoreno will soon be a mem ber of the Komsomol." "A member of the Komsomol!?" "That's right," Sasha affirmed calmly munching a nut. "My brother Anatoly told m e. He's in the printers' Komsomol organization and 'Kota has been going there. My brother says Kota handed in his application yesterday." '"They haven't dealt with it yet, have they?" I ased hastily. "They'll do that on Saturday at the meeting," said Bobir. I heaved a sigh of relief. "Well, we'll see about that," I said. "It's not settl ed yet." "You thin they won't tae him?" Peta burst out excitedly. "They'll tae him, y ou see if they don't. Don't you now what a wangler he is?" I turned on Sasha. "Why don't you do something about it? Your brother's in the p rinters' Komsomol, tell him what a rotten type Grigoreno is. He'll just chuc t hat application down the drain and that'll be that!" "Haven't I told him already? As soon as I heard about it today, I told him every thing. But the trouble is Anatoly has gone out into the country on affiliation w or, and he won't be bac until next Thursday. When I told him about Kota, he s aid I ought to get all my pals together and go to the meeting on Saturday." "Well, we've blooming well got to get him timed down!" I said emphatically. "Perhaps, instead of getting people turned down, Vasil, you'll get turned in?" s aid my father's voice behind me. He was standing by the wall, near the sentry-box. "But why, Dad! I'm all right now." "No headache?"

"None at all!" "What about your leg?" "A bit." My leg still hurt, the nee ached, but if I had said as much to my father, he wo uld have sent me to bed at once. "Move up a bit, lads," Father requested Peta and Sasha. They hastily complied. "Who's got the nuts?" I pulled a handful of nuts out of my pocet and gave them to my father. Eyeing me closely, he said: "So we've had time to visit the garden, have we? Oh, Vasil, Vasil. I ought to tan your hide, but I can't bring myself to do it. Didn 't I as you not to move about much, to rest? But no, you had to go into the gar den. Suppose the stitches brea open and you have to go bac to hospital what then ?" "They won't brea open," I replied without much certainty, and my hand wandered at once to my ribs. Father was silent for a moment as he craced a nut vigorously on the bench with his hand. Then he ased: "Who was it you wanted to get turned down?" "Kota Grigoreno, the doctor's son," I explained. "Don't you now him?" "Why?" "His father was sentenced to death by the Extraordinary Commission!" I said hotl y. "And what about Kota himself?" "He's against us all!" Peta burst out indignantly. '"He was a troop-leader in the Petlura Boy Scouts, and now he's got himself appr enticed to a tiner just so that people will thin he's a worer," I added. "And when we used to go to the High School," Sasha announced weightily, "I heard him myself swaning about being related to the hetman who captured our fortress ." "You want to now about Kota, do you?" I went on heatedly. "He used to have a b ig house of his own, he used to call us chaps 'cattle,' Kota did. If Petlura ca me bac now, he'd nife the lot of us. You can't have a chap lie him in the Kom somol." "So you're going to give him a fight at the meeting?" Father ased calmly and wi th a note of challenge in his voice. "Oho, not half we won't!" I replied belligerently. "Well, you're quite right," Father agreed. "But there's no need to get so heated about it. If you're quite sure he's not fit to be a member of the Komsomol, pro ve it. The thing is to prove that he's a dirty dog himself that's the whole point. Everyone who joins the Komsomol ought to have a clear conscience. And if you're certain that there's a stain on Kota's conscience, don't be afraid to say so s traight out." Remembering my father's advice, the three of us discussed at great length how we should object to Kota's admission to the Komsomol. We decided not to mention our minor grudges against him but to spea only of the main thing, as my father had advised us. We decided that Sasha Bobir should spe a first because his brother was a member of the printers' Komsomol, then Peta would say his bit, and I would spea last and state our main objection what Galya had told me about Kota in hospital. I had to persuade the meeting that 'Kota w as a cunning careerist, that he had become a worer only to cover up his past as quicly as possible. When my pals had left, I started rehearsing my speech alone in the empty itchen . "Comrades!" I shouted at the top of my voice, addressing the Russian stove. "Thi s outsider, this upstart dressed as a worer, this dirty-hearted careerist, want s to join the Komsomol just to ... just to..." At this point I dried up. I didn't now how to go on. All I had was a good begin ning. "Never mind," I consoled myself, "I'll manage somehow! And even if I don't say i t all, my pals will help me. After all, there'll be three of us." But by Friday evening it turned out that only Peta and I should be speaing at

the 'Komsomol meeting. Sasha was out of action. He had been unlucy again. We had heard that after dinner on Friday our Zarechye chaps were going to play f ootball on the ground near the Motor Factory. We got there before the ic-off a nd Sasha at once ased to be given a game as left-winger.. But there were enough players already land he was refused. Sasha looed disappointed, but a little wh ile later, pretending that he did not really want to play very much, he said to Yasha Titor, the captain of the Zarechye team: "All right, I'll go and sunbathe , but if anyone gets croced, call me." Just behind the goal-line there stood a dilapidated referee's tower. When they p layed volley-ball at the stadium, this tower was usually dragged up to the court and the referee would climb on top and stand there blowing his whistle lie a m ilitiaman on point duty. Sasha climbed up the tower, too everything off except his purple pants and let the sun shine on his sinny frecled body. The platform on top of the tower was not very big and Sasha's legs dangled over the edge. "You won't get sunburnt, Sasha!" Peta shouted from below. "Frecle-faces never get sunburnt. Come down here with us!" Sasha did not even reply to the invitation. Offended at not being allowed to pla y, he had decided to remain in solitude. Peta and I stretched ourselves out on the soft grass on the very edge of the pi tch and when the game started soon forgot about Sasha. The Zarechye chaps did no t play very well at first. I even began to thin they shouldn't have started pla ying with two goals, but were only fit to practise with one. The forwards were v ery wea, and the captain of the team Yasha Titor, at centre, muffed so many sh ots that it was painful to watch. As the game went on, however, more and more go od shots were made, and towards the end of the first half the chaps started head ing to each other very neatly. Just then there was a desperate howl behind the g oal-line from Sasha Bobir. We looed up and witnessed a strange scene. Sasha was jumping up and down on the top of the tower, waving his arms and shout ing. Above his head buzzed a great cloud of bees. They seemed to be stinging him , for Sasha's howls grew louder and he rushed to the rails. The tower toppled ov er and Sasha sailed into the grass some distance away. But even there the bees w ent on stinging him. Seeing that he could not escape them, Sasha leapt to his fe et and with a shout of "Help, chaps, they're eating me!" charged towards the pla yers in the middle of the field. The game stopped as if the ball had suddenly va nished into thin air. "It's a swarm, chaps! Run!" Titor bellowed at the top of his voice, and was the first to bolt for the street. On hearing the wise command of their captain, all the players to a man, as well as the spectators and the self-appointed "half-bacs" behind the goal, scudded a cross the grassy field in the direction of the hospital. Heaps of abandoned clot hes dotted the goal-line, the new yellow ball lay forgotten in the goal, and Sas ha, blinded by bee stings, still desperately clawing his face and shouting for h elp, rushed after the fleeing players in his purple shorts, with the cloud of in furiated bees where had they sprung from so late in the year! buzzing after him. Half an hour later, when Sasha was lying on the oilcloth-covered couch in Dulemb erg's dispensary swelling visibly, we learnt the details of what had happened. While Sasha dozed in the warm sun, a queen bee from a passing swarm had settled on his purple shorts. Her example was instantly followed by the whole swarm. Per haps Sasha in his fright crushed the queen, or perhaps he noced her off roughl y, but in any case the bees stung him so badly that by evening Sasha's eyes were little narrow slits, the sin of his face had risen lie dough in a neading-tr ough, his frecles had become large blotches, and even his arms and legs were sw ollen. Dulemberg poured nearly a bottleful of ammonia over Sasha, then we covere d the stings with damp earth, but none of these cures had much effect. Squealing with pain, Sasha swelled up before our very eyes. The next day, Saturday, Sasha was a little better, the swelling had gone down, b ut it was clear that to appear at the Komsomol meeting in such a state would be to ruin everything. Leaving the injured Sasha at home, Peta and I set out for t he meeting alone. When we arrived, the meeting had already begun and the Komsomol members were sta

nding and singing The Young Guard. All the front seats in the long narrow hall w ere taen, and Peta and I had to sit right at the bac, under a placard appeali ng for money to build an air squadron which was to be called Our Answer to Chamb erlain. The first two questions on the agenda did not interest me much. Scarcely hearing what was being said, I ept muttering the words of my speech under my breath an d waited impatiently for the meeting to deal with applications for membership of the Komsomol. I had a good view of the bac of Kota's head and his broad shoul ders in a well-fitting cambric shirt. Obviously he felt he belonged here, he alr eady felt he was a member! Many of the lads, too shy to go in front, were sittin g at the bac or standing by the door, but Kota had arrogantly chosen himself a seat in the front row. The sight of him sitting there beside old Komsomol membe rs made me feel that the question of his acceptance had been settled long ago. W e with our objection would only mae fools of ourselves here, among members of t he best Komsomol organization in town. "Perhaps we had better not say anything after all? Who will listen to us! Half t he chaps sitting here are grown-up, lots of them have been in the Civil War, nea rly all of them are in the Special Detachments, they all understand politics bet ter than us and now who should be in the Komsomol and who shouldn't. Let's just sit tight until the end of the meeting, and when we now what's happened, slip away before anyone sees us? No one will tae any notice of us, no one will laugh at us for saying the wrong thing, and no one will point at us afterwards!" With such thoughts in my mind, I felt myself growing more and more nervous. I ha d not yet said a single word, but my mouth was already dry, my head was beginnin g to ache and the stitches in my chest and head felt as if they were breaing op en. But then I decided I just had to spea. In the first place, Peta would jeer at me; secondly, 'Kota might be admitted to the Komsomol; and finally, what sh ould I tell my father if he ased me, when I got home, what sort of fight we gav e Kota at the meeting! "No, you must spea whatever happens! If you don't, you' re a fun. You must spea, do you hear!" I whispered to myself, and suddenly, in the same row where Kota sat, I spotted the familiar head of Niita Kolomeyets. Niita had come to the meeting! Fine! I had heard that Kolomeyets had stayed in town after finishing at the Party School and was waiting for further orders fro m the District Committee of the Komsomol, but I had never expected to see him at the printers' meeting. Now I felt a good deal bolder. I new that even if I made a mess of things Niit a would not let me down. I wanted him to see me. I got up in my seat and started maing signs to him with my fingers. But just at that moment Peta tugged at my shirt and whispered: "Get ready!" "What for?" "Listen. They're..." From the distant platform came the quiet voice of the chairman, a tall fellow in spectacles, with a thic mop of blac hair: "The committee has received an application for Komsomol membership from Konstant in Ivanovich Grigoreno, of the professional class, present social position worer , apprenticed to a private tiner. Grigoreno has been attending our organizatio n for four months. On the committee's instructions, he has collected money among the private apprentices of Zarechye in aid of the Society for Union between Tow n and Country. . ." "Question!" It was Niita who spoe. I cheered up at once. "Go on, Niita, give him a piece of your mind!" "Perhaps we'll have questions later?" The chairman said addressing the meeting. "No, it's not that ind of question, Comrade Chairman, I wanted to as what grou p the said comrade is to be accepted under," Niita persisted. "How do you mean what group?" The chairman ased in a tone of surprise. "It's quit e clear he's a worer." "I see!" Niita said loudly. I could not understand whether he agreed with the chairman or was eeping someth ing up his sleeve.

When the chairman read Kota's application and answers to the questionnaire, I f elt that the ground was slipping under my feet, and that Peta and I should have hardly anything more to say. Grigoreno admitted himself that his father had been sentenced to death for coun ter-revolutionary activities by the Extraordinary Commission, and that for this reason he had utterly disowned all his family. When the application had been ann ounced, the chairman read out a statement from the local paper which said that K onstantin Grigoreno, sixteen years of age, on religious and ideological grounds hereby disowned both his father and his mother and ased to be considered an or phan. The statement had been published six months ago. "Where is his mother now?" Niita ased sternly without rising. Kota addressed the chairman. "Allow me to answer that question, Comrade Chairma n?" "Go ahead." "My mother is living here, in this town," Kota said calmly. "And you have no connections with her at all?" Niita ased. "Absolutely none!" And Kota shoo his head proudly. "Why not?" Niita ased. Kota looed bewildered. "How do you mean 'why not'? I've disowned her." "We now all about your disowning her," Niita said. "It's quite interesting, in fact a chap turning himself into an orphan of his own accord. Perhaps you'd lie us to treat you lie a little baby that's been left on someone's doorstep, eh? C an't you tell us why you disowned her? I understand about Dad, he was a counterrevolutionary, what you might call a dirty dog as far as the revolution was conc erned. You had a good reason there. But what about Mum, what's she done?" "I don't quite understand the substance of the question," Kota said slowly, but with evident anxiety. "The woman who was my mother in the physical sense was fr om the moral point of view quite alien to me, and was the wife of a man hostile to us... And so I... And besides, she was an indirect exploiter." "Who did she exploit?" Niita ased. "You as 'who'?" Kota exclaimed indignantly. "The maid ... sic people, I mean, patients. . ." There was laughter in the hall. I could not understand whether people were laugh ing at the question Niita had ased, or at Kota's answer. Disregarding the laughter, Niita went on: "So you state finally that you have n o connections with your mother?" "That is my final statement!" Kota said proudly. "I see! So you're a complete orphan," Niita said, and turning to the chairman, he added: "I have no more questions." While other Komsomol members were asing Kota all sorts of petty questions how ol d was he, did he earn much with his private tiner, was it long since he stopped believing in God I hastily considered what I was going to say. Kota was facing up to the meeting very boldly, he used phrases lie "the substa nce of the question," "the physical and moral sense." "an indirect exploiter". . . Someone must have taught him all those long words. "The application is now open for debate," the chairman said. "Who has any object ions?" A murmur passed through the hall, then everyone was very quiet. The chairman sto od up on tip-toe and peered round the hall. Niita turned round and eyed the Komsomol members sitting behind him. He seemed to be trying to guess who would mae an objection. Kota stared straight at the chairman. He must have been longing to loo round a t the meeting, but was too scared. In the tense silence I heard a sunburnt Komsomol member sitting behind me say to his neighbour: "Interesting case!" Catching the whisper, the chairman ased: "Have you an objection, Polivo?" Caught unawares, the sunburnt Komsomol member blushed and mumbled: "No, I was ju st maing a remar..." "Spea up, Peta!" I said, nudging him with my elbow.

"Why me! You spea first!" "We agreed I should be last." "But Sasha isn't here?" Peta moaned. "I won't be first. You spea!" "Who has anything to say? Don't be shy, comrades," said the chairman. "Go on, Peta!" I hissed threateningly in Peta's ear. Peta breathed heavily, without speaing. "I've got an objection!" I shouted desperately, and put up my hand lie a id at school. The chairman brightened up. "Come on, then," he said. "Step up on the platform." "I can say it from here. . ." "Come up here, come up here!" the chairman insisted. The idea of going all the way up to the chairman's table was horrifying. "I'd rather say it from here. What's the difference!" I begged. Voices rose from the hall: "Let the lad stay where he is. Don't put him off!" With a gesture of despair, the chairman sat down on his stool and eyed me eenly . But I had been put off already. Everything I had been going to say was forgotten . Before me I saw dozens of strange eyes staring at me curiously; Niita's smili ng face was far away. Kota was also looing at me, and I could see the unconcea led hatred in his eyes. What was I to say? How should I begin? Should I tell how Grigoreno had beaten Peta up at school? But that was a little thing, we had d ecided not to mention that. What else though? The meeting waited. It was terribly quiet. I realized that if I ept quiet a second longer everyone would start laughing at me. I must spea. What I said didn't matter. But I must say something! "Comrades!" I said, my voice breaing with agitation. "We are very well acquaint ed ... I am well acquainted with this ..." here I cleared my throat and forced m yself to go on: "type... One of his family was the hetman Petro Dorosheno, and he himself was leader of a patrol of 'pythons' in the Petlura..." A roar of laughter interrupted me. I saw grinning faces all round me. "What are you laughing at?" I bawled through the din. "Isn't it true? He was lea der of a patrol of Petlura scouts, and his father..." But remembering that it was no good taling about Kota's father, I again stoppe d short, and after a whole minute's pause, mumbled quicly: "He wants to join th e Komsomol to mae a career for himself. He was always against Soviet power, don 't believe what he says now! ..." I ought to have said more, much more, but nothing would come there was not a singl e clear thought in my mind, and my tongue felt lie a chun of lead. With a wave of despair, I dropped on the bench. I could not loo at Peta I was to o ashamed. "Have you finished, lad?" the chairman shouted. "Uh-huh," I mumbled. And again a ripple of laughter passed through the hall. Kota's harsh, calm voice reached my ears. "I have something to say about that o bjection." "Not now," said the chairman. "You can answer that after the debate. Well, what is it?" "I wish to say something that has a bearing on the discussion," Kota insisted. "A few words will be enough." "Let him spea!" the sunburnt Komsomol member shouted to the chairman. "Let him have his say!" The chairman nodded to Kota: "Go on, but mae it short." "I will be very brief," Kota began even more firmly. "The rubbish this comrade has just been taling can scarcely be rated as an objection. The point is that h e is trying to get even with me for personal reasons. . ." "What are your facts?" the chairman interrupted. "I am just about to tell you," Kota announced imperturbably. "The whole point i s that this comrade and I were once courting the same girl, and that girl lied me better. Now, of course, he's...."

"It's not true! You're lying!" I shouted from my seat. "Not so loud, Mandzhura, you can say that later!" Niita called gently. His voice calmed me at least Niita was on my side. "Now, of course, he hates me for personal reasons," Kota went on and grinned wi dely, expecting to rouse answering smiles from his audience. "Besides that, when my ex-father was still alive, this lad and the rest of the Zarechye riff-raff o ften used to brea into our orchard. One day my father caught him and whipped hi m with nettles. But I can't be held responsible for that, can I!" And spreading his arms lie a real actor, Kota sat down, confident of victory'. The things he had said had stung. Kota had disgraced me in front 'of everyone. Now I hated him more than ever. But, strange to say, although I felt insulted, a lthough I realized that I had made a fool of myself, that I had mentioned trifle s and forgotten to tell the meeting all the really important things, nevertheles s I felt that the meeting was on my side, that Kota had only done himself harm by what he had said. "Let me as a question, chairman," said Niita, standing up from behind the pian o. "Question time is over," the chairman said frowning, but added hastily: "Go on." "Listen, Grigoreno," Niita said in a different voice, fixing his eyes on Kota , "tell the meeting in detail what your relations were with Korybo the gardener ." "I don't understand... I ... I was his lodger," Kota answered hurriedly. The meeting stirred. We had all caught the alarm in Kota's voice. "Go on," Niita said sternly. "Then I was a witness when Korybo's flat was searched," 'Kota added. "Well, and didn't you now his son?" "No ... I mean..." Kota faltered. "What do you mean? Don't wriggle, my friend! Don't try to twist things." "I new him, but I didn't now it was his son. He didn't tal as if he was in fr ont of me." "So you did see this Zbyszo when he came to see his father?" Niita ased. "I did. I saw him twice. Once he came at night when I was in bed, and the other time I came in from town and they were sitting in the itchen having dinner." "And you didn't guess anything?" "What could I have guessed?" Kota ased. "Well, that this man was our enemy and so on." "How could I now that?" Kota exclaimed. "Why not? Didn't you now that Korybo's son was a Polish officer and, as it cam e out during the investigation, a foreign spy, that he had come over from the ot her side? Didn't you now anything about that?" Niita ased Kota. "Of course I didn't..." Kota replied with a tremor in his voice, and glanced ro und as if to leave the hall. "What did you say at Seminary Street?" "Where?" Kota whispered. "None of that innocent stuff! You now where!" Niita said fiercely, and turning to the chairman: "Let me spea." Niita stepped out into the passage between the dess and, standing almost besid e 'Kota, said: "There are cases sometimes, comrades, when we admit to our organ ization people from families that are hostile to us. In such cases we go dead ag ainst the proverb that an apple never falls far from an apple-tree, "and sometim es it turns out that we are right, and not the proverb. But we do that only if t he people who have chosen themselves a new path mae an honest brea with the pa st, hide nothing from the Komsomol, and don't lie to us. Here we have this if I ma y be allowed the expression last of the Mohicans... Everything seems all right he's told us everything, confessed everything, he's got worer's hands, and the way h e tals why, . it's a treat to listen! Just the man to elect for propaganda organi zer! Everything seems all right, I say, but is it really? There were you, sittin g with your mouths open listening to him, and he fooled the lot of you! ..." Niita paused to tae a breath. The meeting waited in alarm to hear "what he was going to say next. Kota sat with hanging head. The chairman moved his stool fo

rward to the edge of the stage. "Yes, he fooled you!" Niita repeated, wiping his damp forehead. "You now the c ase of Korybo the gardener at the Party School, you've read about it in the pap ers. Korybo and. his son were condemned long ago, the affair's been filed away in the archives, and it's all ancient history, so to spea. But why tell lies? W hy tell lies, that's what I want to now? Only a man with a guilty conscience ca n lie. And this 'type' as someone here rightly described him has been lying all alo ng. As you now, I'm new to your organization. The District Committee sent we he re temporarily to help on the wor. When Grigoreno applied to join the Komsomol , nowing that he had lived with 'Korybo, I ased the investigator who conducte d the Korybo case for some details. In the files there is Grigoreno's evidence . When he was questioned, he admitted that he had three times not twice! seen Zbysz o, Korybo's son, visiting his father's house, and besides that, in his evidence Grigoreno put it down plainly, in blac and white, that he had nown ever sinc e the time of Petlura that Korybo's son was a Polish officer, that he had fled the country, and all the rest of it. At the interrogation Grigoreno said his on ly reason for not telling the authorities about this was that he had been afraid Zbyszo would shoot him. We won't discuss the rights and wrongs of that here I th in you can sort that out for yourselves but why tell lies, I as? Why deceive the meeting, why pretend you don't now anything, why shout all sorts of revolution ary phrases about disowning your mother when all the time you are meeting your m other on the quiet? I don't lie that at all, comrades. Proposal: not to admit t his individual to the Komsomol!" And Niita sat down abruptly. "Shall we continue the debate or. . ." the chairman faltered. "Vote!" shouts were heard from all over the hall. "Who is in favour of Comrade K olomeyets's proposal?" the chairman ased. The show of hands screened Niita from view. "Who is against?" the chairman ase d. No one stirred. "Then . . . just a minute..." the chairman searched on his table for the agenda and peered at it through his spectacles. "Let's go on to the next question... Bu t first I must as non-members to leave the hall." While Peta and I were squeezing our way between the benches towards the exit, K ota Grigoreno strode past us swinging his arms lie a wrestler and vanished th rough the door. When we came out on Central Square, Kota's whit? shirt was dwin dling away down Smith Street. His wal was as arrogant and challenging as ever. He had lost today, but anyone could see he wasn't going to give in. The next day, Sunday, turned out cold and windy. High up, on the fortress walls, it was very cold. Galya and I had climbed there over the sloping bastions cover ed with faded, yellow grass, and now the whole town lay spread before us sirted by the river, which wound away in the distance till it looed no bigger than a broo. On the left we could see the little houses of Zarechye with the white fro nt of the Party School showing in the garden somewhere on its edge; to the right , beyond the fortress bridge, on the very edge of the cliff, stood the Russian v olwers, as the western district of our town was called. Far below, where the ri ver curved under the Stephen Bathori Tower, I could see the blac roc hanging o ver the water. It was so far away that you couldn't even see the whirlpool below it. I remembered the night when Galya and I had been coming bac from Shipulins y's cafe and how scared we had been of the militiaman standing guard on the bri dge. How long ago it seemed! More lie two years than three months. We rested a few minutes in silence. The cold wind ruffled Galya's thic hair and she drew her father's jerin tightly round her. The shabby leather jerin was t oo big for her; its sleeves were so long that only the tips of her fingers showe d out of the cuffs. Galya's chees were flushed from the wind. "Good up here, isn't it?" I said. "Uh-huh!" I don't now where I found my courage, but at that moment, becoming quite bold, I grasped Galya in both arms and pressed her head to my chest.

"Let me go! You stupid thing! Are you mad!" Galya exclaimed. "It's not stupid ... I just want to iss you..." I gasped.. My lips touched Galya's face. Very awwardly I issed her on the tip of her cold nose and on her forehead. "You ought to be ashamed, Vasil!" Galya cried, pushing me away with both hands. : I was afraid Galya would be really angry and refuse to spea to me any more. "Well, Vasil," Galya said, moving away from me, "if I didn't now you had been w ounded, I'd pull your ears for that." "Don't be angry, Galya ... I ... it was an accident ..." I mumbled in confusion. Galya blushed with confusion too. And to hide it, she said quicly: "Let's go aw ay from here. I'm hungry." "Wait, I'll give you something to eat. I've got some apples and bread. Loo!" And I pulled out of my pocet a fresh hun of bread and four apples. It was my b reafast that I had not had time to eat. "From your garden?" Galya ased, accepting a big yellow apple. "It's a Golden Reinette. Smell it!" Galya sniffed the apple and bit into its gol den-pin sin. "Try some bread with it. It's nicer with bread," I advised. "And fills you up more," Galya agreed, taing a piece of bread. I munched the crisp shiny crust. "Galya, I've got a question to as you," I said blushing. "What question?" "Will you tell me the truth?" "That depends..." "Did Kota iss you?" I forced out with an effort. "Why die! he say that about y ou?" "Are you starting that again, Vasil!" Galya burst out angrily. "A fool can say a nything! I've told you already, that I'm not at all interested in him. I used to go out for a wal with him, sometimes when I was bored. That's all." Greatly relieved, I pulled an apple out of my pocet and gobbled it down. Then I remembered that I should have offered it to Galya. But Galya was gazing at the white houses on the cliffs in the distance and did not notice my embarrassment. "Ours is a nice town... isn't it, Vasil?" "Not half!" I assented. "Are there any more towns lie it in the Uraine?" "Couldn't say." "Or in Russia?" "There may be..." I said uncertainly. "Ours is an interesting town!" Galya said. "I'll be sorry to leave it when we fi nish at the factory-training school. Won't you?" "Do you thin we'll all be accepted?" "You will be," Galya said with a touch of envy. "Polevoi said so himself..." "Well, if they tae me, I'll see you get accepted too. Honest, I will, Galya! We 'll study together." MELTING THE IRON The cupola-furnace was already lighted. The pine-wood stics inside cracled as they burnt, and there was a faint smell of smoe in the foundry. But we didn't m ind that in the corner of the big room a hole had been made in the ceiling and thr ough it you could see the clear blue sy. A slanting ray of sunlight fell on the floor of our foundry, and on the reddish heap of sand by the wall. How fine and clean we had made our foundry today! Everything that was not needed , tools, and sheets of iron with mould cores on them, had been cleared away and were lying on the tables in the store-room next door. The furnace stood in what had once been the big hall of the finance department; beside it, on the sandy fl oor, towered a stac of new wooden mould-boxes tightly paced with sand. The sandy floor was covered with rows of small boxes. Among them stood big ones separated from each other by barred partitions. These were for moulding fly-whee ls. They were very heavy, those big fly-wheel moulds. What a lot of wor we had

done, lifting them and carrying them about under the guidance of our instructor Zhora Kozaevich! Today our foundry was to mae its first casting. To celebrate the occasion Zhora had put on a new set of overalls. Now he was waling carefully between the rows of moulds, checing to see if all of them had proper gas-vents; now and then he glanced into the furnace to see how the fire was going. The fire was going well t hrough the open door you could see the white shavings disappearing in the blaze and tongues of flame leaping upwards to the thin stics of pine. Above the stic s were logs. As soon as the fire got well alight, we could close the ash-box, pl ug the side-door with clay and open the flues. The furnace stood against the wall on bent steel legs embedded in a bric founda tion. To mae our furnace smart for the first casting, we had smeared it with a glossy coating of oil. Now its blac buly shape gleamed cheerily. Only six wees had passed since Polevoi had visited me in hospital, but so many things had happened to me in that short time! I had been nuts on going to the fa ctory-training school, all our chaps had decided to go there. We were accepted v ery quicly, but when it came to deciding what worshops we should join, it turn ed out that half the pupils wanted to become foundry men, and the foundry was th e smallest shop of all for ten pupils only. I still didn't now quite what a found ry man was, but the foundry was where I wanted to wor. Then came a hitch Polevoi refused to put me in the foundry. "You've only just got over your operation, Vasil," he said, "a foundry man's job isn't easy. You now what they call the foundry the hot shop. I can't let you wor there without a doctor's permission. Choose something a bit easier." But I was not so easily put off. The hot shop! What mystery and danger there was in those words! Melting iron, tu rning the hard, heavy scrap metal into dazzling molten liquid how new and thrillin g it sounded! This was something quite different from shaping wooden handles for straw-cutters in the joiner's shop, lie Peta Maremuha, or grinding door-eys in a vice in the metal shop, lie Galya. I wanted to be a foundry man even befo re I new what the job meant. From Polevoi I rushed off to the town hospital, bu t there I was told that Doctor Gutentag was on holiday. For a whole hour I wande red about the little garden in Bell Street near his house. I thought I might bum p into the doctor in the street, but my luc was out. Then I steeled my courage and pulled the bell-handle on his front door. The door was opened by the doctor' s daughter, a. very pretty, dar-haired girl called Ida. She often stood at the fence of an evening, and more than once I had admired her fine dar face and arc hing brows. Now, as Ida opened the door and answered my greeting, she looed at me so intently that I felt the colour mounting to my chees. "What do you want, young man?" she ased. She had noticed my confusion. I could see a remote, hidden smile in her dar bro wn eyes. "I, er. . . Is Yevgeny Karlovich at home?" "Yevgeny Karlovich is on holiday. He's not taing patients at the moment." "I'm not a patient, I er. . . Tell him Mandzhura would lie to see him. He nows ... I was one of his patients in hospital. . ." Ida was about to leave the room, but as she reached the door, she swung round on her high heels and, giving me an even more penetrating glance, ased: "What did you say your name was Mandzhura? It wasn't you the bandits wounded with a grenade , was it?" "Yes, it was..." I admitted, not without satisfaction. "Daddy!" Ida called loudly from the reception room. She sat in her father's study all the time I was asing the doctor to let me wor in the foundry. The doctor wrote a note to Polevoi to say I was quite well aga in. I too the note bac to the factory-training school and all the way ept thi ning to myself that Ida had fallen in love with me. With Gutentag's note I was admitted to the foundry. Kozaevich, our only instruc tor, set straightaway to teach us moulding. For days on end we crawled about the damp sand under Zhora's instruction maing moulds for flywheels, axle-boxes, and stove doors. At first we just thought it was daft. What a job! Crawling about li

e ids in the sand and maing sand-pies! But as the day when we were to mae ou r first casting drew nearer, I began to find moulding more and more interesting. Now I was beginning to understand why you must tae the wooden models out so ca refully, why you must be so particular about smoothing out every little bump rou nd the edge of the mould, why you must brush every scrap of dirt out of the deep dar holes left by the models in the sand. I realized that moulding was not the biggest and most interesting job that still l ay ahead, when we started casting. And now the great day had arrived. I watched everything our instructor did, long ing to see what would happen next. Far away on the other side of the square, where our school stood, Motor Factory' s engine was chugging steadily. Over there our chaps were studying to become loc smiths, turners, joiners; over there Peta was pedalling his lathe and maing a piece of dry ash into a handle for a tool; over there, on the second floor, Gal ya was cutting her eys. It was noisy over there now, just before dinner, but he re in the foundry all was still, and in this stillness you could hear the wood c racling at the bottom of the furnace. The pine-wood stics had nearly burnt out and the fire was reaching up to the big dry logs. Zhora glanced into the furnace. "Vasil, tell the motor-men to give us some air," he said, "then sit down with the other chaps and have your lunch." I charged into the next room and yelled excitedly: "Start the motor!" The stumpy little mechanic-instructor Gumenu fiddled about round the old car en gine for a bit and heaved on the cran-handle. The engine coughed once or twice, then spluttered into life, filling the room with bluish petrol smoe. Near by, on a wooden platform, stood a badly peeled enamel bath with battered edges. It w as connected to the engine by long rubber pipes. For a real car radiator the loc al communal stores superintendent had demanded a very high price from our school ; so Polevoi and Gumenu had fixed up this bath for cooling the engine. They had found it on a jun-heap in the yard of the old military court in Bell Street. The motor coughed and shoo and soon suced up some water. When the water gurgle d in the bath, Gumenu beamed with satisfaction, too off his cap and wiped his perspiring, bald pate. Beside the motor, looing very important, stood Sasha Bobir. He was training in the mechanics shop, but his job was dismantling car engines, and Polevoi had sen t him over with Gumenu to help us while we were casting. Sasha ept himself ver y aloof, hardly deigning to tal to us foundry men. Now, noticing me staring at the motor, Sasha put on an air of nowing everything there was to now about suc h things. He grabbed a rag, wiped the oily body of the motor land ased his inst ructor importantly: "Can I start the fans, Comrade Gumenu?" The instructor nodded, and Sasha, with the same jaunty air of nowing everything , pulled over a lever and set in motion the two driving-belts connecting the eng ine with the fans. The blac fans whirled their propeller-shaped blades and drov e air into the furnace. Now there was nothing else to see here. I darted into the foundry and the noise of the motor faded away. Air was hissing through the pipes into the furnace. The flames inside were fluttering. At first it seemed that the strong current of air would put the fire out, but soon the f lames started leaping up, eating hungrily through the logs to the dar slabs of coe that lay under the heavy load of iron. You could see the fire roaring up th rough the blue glass of the spy-holes in the sides of the furnace. It was a real strong draught, and I could tell by Zhora's face that he was satisfied. "Of! and get your lunch, champions! You'll have plenty of time to see all you wa nt to see!" he said, smiling broadly and rolling the sleeves of his tarpaulin ja cet up to the elbow. We sat down with Zhora in a free corner of the foundry, right on the damp sand, and with many a glance over our shoulders at the roaring furnace began to eat ou r lunch. The bread and treacle crunched between our teeth. Sand had got to the b read in spite of all my efforts to wrap it well. Zhora held a lump of bacon fat in his big sinewy hand and cleaned the salt off it with a pennife, then he star ted eating it lie an apple in great bites. He munched so hard that big muscles ri ppled under the dar sin of his chees. I looed at Zhora, at his large, rather

hairy hands more lie pincers than hands and remembered how he had once thrown Zot Zhegulyov, the champion with the grip of steel. I felt proud that we had such an instructor. After lunch, I slipped into the next room so that no one could see me and rolled my sleeves up. I wanted to be lie Zhora. Suddenly I heard Sasha's squeay voice: "Loo, it's dripping, it's dripping!" I ran bac into the foundry and pushed my way to the blue spy-hole in the furnac e. And, sure enough, through the blue glass I could see the first slippery littl e drops of iron oozing over the blazing slabs of coe. The furnace was very hot now, and smoe was rising from the oil we had smeared o ver it. The drops of iron, lie hot tears, grew bigger and bigger. Now they no longer oo zed over the coe, but dropped through the chins in large heavy blobs. The molt en metal glowed as I had never seen anything glow before. "What, the mil boiled over already?" I heard Polevoi's voice behind me. He was bending over us and peering through the spyhole. "We'll soon be starting, Comrade Director," said Zhora. "Mind how you go, Zhora if you mae a mess of things, you'll have the whole town l aughing," Polevoi warned him. "We won't mae a mess of things, you needn't worry," Zhora responded with a smile. "The lads have ased me to let them see your first casting," said Polevoi. "I've given them permission. They'll be here in a moment when they finish their instr uction on the other side. In other words, you'll have a big audience, so mind yo u don't trip up." Kozaevich looed worried. "No young audiences for me! They'll brea my moulds, or spoil something else." "Tae it easy, Zhora," Polevoi soothed him. "It'll do the youngsters a lot of go od to see a casting, and as for the moulds you needn't worry about that, I'll tell them." "Telling them's all very well..." Zhora complained. "But where are they going to stand? This isn't a theatre or a wrestling show, it's a casting. Loo h ow little room we've got." "They can stand in the doorway." "In the doorway?" Zhora grinned wryly. "Come off it. Comrade Polevoi! What if th ere's an accident, or we have to run out for clay what then? The entrance must be free, we can't have a lot of onlooers standing there." "All right, we'll open the windows and they can watch you from the yard. Agree?" Polevoi insisted. "They can do that, if they lie," Zhora consented. "I don't mind them being ther e. That's your territory. You can hold a fancy-dress ball out there for all I ca re." When Zhora piced up a sharp heavy crow-bar to tap the furnace with, there was a crowd of spectators at each window. This was something to loo at the first casti ng! The young worers gazed eagerly into the foundry. Inside, it was getting ver y hot and the draughts didn't help much. I new that Peta was looing in at one of the windows, and guessed that Galya had probably come as well, but I could n ot turn round. I had an important duty to carry cut-in my hands were three woode n poles, each of them with a clay bung on the end. Zhora lunged with the steel b ar and drove the point into the clay plugging the furnace. The dry-clay crumbled and sprinled into the spout, but the first blow did not reach the iron. Zhora made another lunge the crow-bar pierced the clay and entered the furnace. Zhora be nt down and drove it in further, then began to wor it from side to side. He wor ed it about so vigorously I thought the furnace would topple over. From time to time the crow-bar grazed the spout. Zhora's tarpaulin jacet was stretched taut across his shoulders; standing with his legs apart right by the spout down whic h the molten iron was to flow, he grunted and wored boldly with his crow-bar. "Isn't he frightened!" I thought to myself. "Why, the iron might push that bar o ut and flow right over him!" With a sharp heave Zhora pulled the bar out of the furnace. Its tip was already white-hot. A red ball of slag rolled out of the hole he had made, and then, lie

a spring bubbling from the ground, the stream of iron flowed out of the furnace . Hissing quietly, a dazzling white colour, it ran down the clay spout, carrying a way the dust and scraps of clay. Zhora dropped his crow-bar and, calling Titor to help him, piced up the ladle. As the stream of iron poured out of the spout, they caught it in the ladle. Gli ttering spars flew up to the ceiling and scattered down on us lie stars from a fire-wor as we crowded round the furnace. Our clothes began to smell of burnin g. The iron flowed well, splashing vigorously into the ladle. "Tae over, Gumenu!" Zhora shouted. Gumenu deftly seized the handles of the ladle. When his hands were free, Zhora calmly too one of the bung-poles that I was holding. Keeping his eyes fixed on the stream of iron, he felt the bung with his fingers, shaping it to a point. Th e ladle was filling rapidly. A sticy reddish coating of slag floated on top of the iron, just lie the sin on mil. The sin rose higher and higher. Now we'd done it! Any moment, it seemed, the molten metal would overflow and pour into th e pit. But Zhora was ready. Biff! he plunged the bung straight into the hole from which t he iron was flowing. Spars flew on all sides, but a small tricle of iron still oozed into the ladle. Without looing round, Zhora seized another bung-pole from my hand and rammed it home, right in the middle of the flow. Immediately a dar red circle appeared r ound the clay bung. As it cooled, the iron set round the bungs and the last drop s tricled into the ladle, breaing through the grey scum of slag. The foundry a t once grew darer; only the ladle swaying gently between Titor and Gumenu gav e off a dazzling glare. Zhora quicly piced up small wooden shovel and simmed away the slag. The white glare from the iron grew even brighter and bubbles appe ared on its surface. "Come on!" Zhora shouted, and too Titor's place at the ladle. Stepping carefully between the rows of mould-boxes, Zhora and Gumenu carried th e ladle to a large square mould in the far corner, where a fly-wheel was to be c ast. Zhora started to tip the ladle, but at that moment he shouted at the top of his voice: "Mandzhura tow! Hurry!" I dashed over to the mould and grabbed up a piece of tow that was lying at the b ottom of it. Before I could jump bas, Zhora had tipped the ladle and a stream o f molten iron was pouring into the mould. The sizzling ladle was only three pace s away; spars flew straight at me, the heat of the molten iron fanned my face. Unable to move away, I pressed bac against the wall, blining when the spars f lew near. A lot of iron was needed to fill the mould. It poured into the big hole in a broad steady stream. I began to thin it would tae all the iron in the ladle to cast this one fly-wheel, but suddenly, right a t my feet, a red column of iron spouted up the overflow. "Enough!" Zhora shouted and carried the ladle away to another mould. The iron in the filled mould set quicly. First the narrow overflow grew dar, t hen the broad cone-shaped mould turned red and began to cool. The trainees too turns in carrying the ladle with Zhora. Zhora tilted the ladle by its double handles, aiming the flow of iron neatly into the moulds, while th e trainees merely held the round handle on the other side. I waited anxiously for my turn to carry the ladle. Perhaps Polevoi had secretly instructed Zhora not to let me carry? Perhaps, they would start again about my o peration, about not straining myself? But if Zhora didn't even let me carry the ladle once to the moulds, it would be a disgrace. To be training as a foundry ma n, to wait all this time for the first casting, and then not to fill a single mo uld! I did all I could to attract attention; I chased bac and forth for fresh b ungs, I staled about among the moulds with a cleaner always at the ready, I han ded Zhora his crow-bar... The furnace was tapped for the last time. Next door the motor had stopped long a go. Except for the cracing of the moulds and the tal of the watching trainees

at the windows, the foundry was quiet. Again that blond-haired bony-faced Titor stepped up to the ladle. While I still stood here with my bungs he was going to carry again! They must have forgotten me, or else they were sorry and pretending not to notic e me on purpose. Sweating, tired and miserable, I stood by the furnace with hang ing head. And suddenly I heard Zhora's voice: "Just a minute, Titor, you've had a go already. Let Vasil try!" I threw down the bungs and seized the handle. Zhora led the way. He bent his shoulders as he waled. Beyond the glare of the ladle I could see hi s broad bac, the hair matted on the bac of his nec, his bare muscular tattooe d arms streaming with sweat. I waled behind, gripping the handle with both hand s and taing short quic steps over the soft floor of the foundry. My feet dragg ed in the sand, but I had only one thought in my mind not to fall. If you fell, th e molten iron would splash over your legs, or burn your face. It was very awward to fill the last mould. The pouring gate was right in a corn er, and it was some time before we could get the ladle near it. I stood on tip-t oe holding my breath. Zhora lifted his two handles as high as possible. "Don't dance about now!" Zhora shouted. "Keep still. We'll pour it in from the t op!" And he tipped the ladle. Molten iron streamed into the mould. It was a good thing Zhora's aim was sure the iron poured straight into the hole. The flow was strong and tiny splashes sprin led everywhere. They stung my head, my face, my hands. It was so hot it made you want to cry out. I thought the sin was pealing off my face, and then my eyes s tarted watering from the glow. I saw the falling stream of metal through a mist and nearly fell over. I longed for the moment when the ladle would be empty. But that moment was approaching the ladle was becoming lighter and lighter, the mould was filling up. Then of all things! I heard Galya's anxious voice quite near: "Vasi l! Your trousers are on fire!" I moved and jered the ladle. Instead of going into the mould, the iron streamed over the wet sand. Splashes showered everywhere. The trainees jumped away from the windows, but just at that moment the hubbub of voices, the hissing of the ir on, Zhora's shout, "Keep still, Vasil!" everything was drowned by a wild howl from Sasha Bobir. "Ow-ow-ow!..." came Sasha's voice from somewhere near the furnace. "Come on, pour quicly!" Zhora commanded. We threw, rather than poured, the last of the iron out of the ladle, then droppi ng the ladle on the sand, dashed next door, where Sasha was howling. I followed Zhora, putting out my singed trousers as Iran. Sasha was hopping abou t the room, clutching one of his worn-out boots and uttering fearful howls. Now he clawed at his boot trying to brea the laces, now he stamped his foot on the floor with such force that at any moment we expected the ceiling to collapse on our heads. At last, growing desperate, Sasha stood still for a second, threw a w ild glance at us, then, as if pursued by a pac of mad dogs, leapt into the enam el bath. Never in my life had I seen such a leap! Still shouting, Sasha landed on both fe et in the warm water at the bottom of the bath. The bath gave way under the impa ct and tipped over with Sasha inside. Water swept across the floor towards us. S asha, having apparently gained some momentary relief, too a flying leap out of the open window. We found him on a patch of grass on the other side of the yard. Wet through, tear-stained and subdued, Sasha was sitting cross-legged on the gr ass, examining a rather red foot with toe-nails that had obviously not been cut for quite some time. "What's the matter, laddie?" Zhora ased, putting his arm gently round Sasha's s houlders. Sasha turned his thin frecled face towards us and said plaintively: "Loo..." "Loo at what?" Zhora said, puzzled. "Loo at that," Sasha moaned, poing a finger into his palm. In his palm lay a tiny grain of hardened iron, about the size of a flax seed.

"Well? A little drop of iron!" Zhora said, stifling his laughter. "A little drop!" Sasha exclaimed even more plaintively. "That little drop's burn t right into the bone of my foot! Loo!" "Where's it burnt you to the bone! Come along, show us," Zhora ased. Feeling that nothing would come of playing the martyr, Sasha showed us the small red mar on the arch of his foot with less flourish. "No, laddie," said Zhora, "you just thought it burnt the bone, because you were frightened. Your bone's all right, but..." "Comrade instructor," Polevoi's voice interrupted him, "you must inspect their b oots next time before casting. No one should be let into the foundry with bad bo ots. Don't all the lads get special footwear?" "I don't get any, Comrade Director," Sasha muttered awwardly. "I'm a motor mech anic, not a foundry man." "Well, even if you are a mechanic," Polevoi said, smiling as he piced up Sasha' s boot, "it's still your job to see your boots are in proper repair. Loo, the s eam's gone all the way round. Is it too hard to sew it up? Get hold of some thre ad and it won't tae you a minute. Fancy coming into a foundry barefoot... Perha ps you want me to mend your boots for you?" "No, what for?" Sasha exclaimed in fright. "I'll mend them myself." He went over to Polevoi, trailing his foot-cloth behind him in the grass, and hastily recove red his boot. "And your foot-cloths could do with a wash," Polevoi said. "You aren't so badly wounded after all a burn lie that won't put you out of action, but dirty foot-clo ths can mae it a lot worse. Go and have it bandaged. Jump to it!" . Sasha ran o ff, and Zhora, glancing round at us, ordered: "Now then, you ugly duclings! Bac to wor! Thin I'm going to clean out the furnace all by myself!" That day we got home later than usual. "Let's go through the town," I said to Pe ta as we left the gates of the factory-training school. "What for?" said Peta. "It's quicer along the boulevard." "Doesn't matter, let's go through the town. I've got to buy a boo on mechanics. " I hadn't got to buy a boo at all, of course, I simply wanted people in town to see me in my woring overalls, with burnt trousers, looing so dirty and tired. There was some sort of religious holiday on that day, and now and then, as we cr ossed New Bridge, we ran into several smartly-dressed shopeepers' sons out wal ing with their girls. They sauntered past in their new suits made of smuggled cl oth, and their foreign shoes with pointed toes. Their girls wore smart sil dres ses, ribbons in their hair, white stocings and patent-leather shoes. They chewe d sunflower seeds and suced fruit drops. How I wanted just then to bump into on e of those loungers, those daddy's and mummy's darlings, who hung about the boul evards or sunbathed on the ban of the river below the fortress bridge all day! It would have given me a lot of pleasure to push my way through them, spoiling t heir smart, foreign clothes with my dirty, soot-stained shirt. The rotten profiteers! In those years they still lived better than us by swindli ng honest woring people. I waled past them holding my head high, proud that I was a worer, that I had a grant of only eighteen rubles a month, when at any ti me they could go and as their fathers for fifty rubles pocet money, or even a hundred. "Why didn't you wash at school, Vasya?" Peta ased, catching me up and glancing at my face. "I'll wash at home, with soap," I replied and smudged the soot over my chees ev en more. My face was stinging, my arms ached, my throat was dry from the sulphur fumes th at had floated round the foundry while we were casting. We came to Bell Street where Doctor Gutentag lived. I slowed down. I hoped that Ida would be standing by the fence and would see me in my glorious dirty state. But Ida was not there, and the curtains were drawn. I waled on regretfully. "Where's Kolomeyets gone?" Peta ased all of a sudden.

"Niita?" I ased carelessly. "Niita's woring in Yarmolintsy, he's a propagand a organizer. We'll have to go and see him on Sunday. Let's go, eh, Peta?" "Is it far?" "Yarmolintsy? Hardly any distance." "Let's go then." "Of course, we will!" I said, warming to the idea. "And we'll tae some of the o ther chaps from school. We'll all go together. We'll tae some food and start fi rst thing in the morning. That'll be fine!" Who shall we tae? There's Sasha Bob ir, and we could tae Titor, then ... Galya." "And I'll bring some water in my water bottle," Peta decided. "You now what?" I said. "We won't just go to Yarmolintsy for a spree, we can do some wor there, in their cottage reading-room. We're young worers, aren't we? I read in the paper that young worers ought to give the country chaps a lead. And Kolomeyets will be grateful to us for it." "But it's not worth taing Galya. Let's mae it all chaps." "Don't start that! She'll come in useful too," I said as calmly as I could. "She can tell the village girls about politics..." As I spoe, I felt suddenly confused. Even now I got a thrill when I remembered how I had issed Galya that cold windy Sunday on the walls of Old Fortress. I co uld not forget that iss and, whenever I thought of it, I felt even more fond of Galya. I was miserable when I went a long time without seeing her, and overjoye d when Kozaevich sent me to the locsmith's shop to fetch something. Knowing th at I should see Galya at her bench, in her blue apron, I did not wal, I ran. An d Galya treated me differently now, Today, of course, she must have shouted: "Vasil, your trousers are on fire!" bec ause she was afraid I should get burnt. When we taled, she often looed away an d blushed. Bold and lively with the other boys, she taled to me quietly and hes itatingly, and was a long time trying to find the right words, just as if she we re afraid to hurt me. I was sure Galya loved me. The mere thought filled me with pride, and it was awful to thin that it might be all my imagination. Sometimes I wanted to tell everyone Peta more than anybody, of course of my love fo r Galya, but I always checed myself in time. I felt that such things should not be told even to one's closest friend, that I should hide my love for Galya deep down in my heart and not boast about it. Now I sensed a trap in Peta's words perhaps he wanted to find out about Galya and me? But Peta good old Fatty Maremuha waled on as if nothing were amiss, and I sa id to him: "Peta, you persuade Galya to come yourself. All right?" "I don't want to. She'll get tired." "Mind you don't get tired yourself. You're afraid to swim far, but loo how Galy a swims! She may be a girl, but she's a lot more guts than you." "Huh, that's what you thin!" Then anxious to change this unpleasant subject, Pe ta said: "Next wee, I hear, they're going to organize a Komsomol group at our school too. Is it true?" "Fact!" "And will they accept everyone?" "No, why everyone? Only the best." "Do you thin they'll tae me?" "We shall have to consider that!" I said pompously, as if I were already a 'Koms omol member. "You now, Vasil, my Dad's been calling me a 'Komsomol' for a long time. It won' t half be rotten if they don't tae me!" And Peta heaved a dismal sigh. The thud of a hammer could be heard in the distance. In Zaharzhevsy's shop, by the purple light of the forge, Kota Grigoreno was hammering a white-hot strip of metal. He was woring in that dusty little privat e worshop, still trying to get himself a worer's record. He had not lost hope of tricing us. Anyone could see that he really hated his wor. He must be longi ng to go to town and join the loungers, but Zaharzhevsy was a Catholic and did not recognize the feast days of the Orthodox Church. And so Kota was still ban ging away with his hammer when we waled past on the other side of the street. Peta, of course, ept glancing into the shop, but I only looed once, then, lif

ting my head high, waled past Kota, dirty and tired, my trousers scorched, my hands that had long since become calloused and hard pressed to my sides. Turning the corner, we came into broad Zhitomir Street. Somewhere at the end of it, past green gardens, on the very edge of the town, stood the tall white Party School. Peta turned off to Zarechye. I went on, towards the school. THE OLD FORTRESS PART THREE THE TOWN BY THE SEA

FOREIGN LANGUAGES PUBLISHING HOUSE MOSCOW

TRANSLATED FROM THE RUSSIAN BY ROBERT DAGLISH DESIGNED BY A. VASIN OCR: HTTP://HOME.FREEUK.COM/RUSSICA2

This Boo is dedicated to the memory of the Bolshevi writer Yevgeny Petrovich P etrov, who was illed in action...

A CALL FROM HEADQUARTERS There was no home-wor that evening and we had come out for a wal round town. P eta Maremuha was bouncing along in his short leather jerin that smelt of shee p. Sasha Bobir had put on a pair of shiny new galoshes over his battered boots a nd fastened all the buttons on his long brownish-yellow "raglan," which someone had made for him out of a British army great-coat. I had struggled into my grey chumara. It was tight across the shoulders and short in the sleeves and the hoo s would not fasten properly. Aunt had made it for me out of my father's old coa t the year before last, but I was still very proud of it because all the active Komsomol members went about in chumaras lie mine. It was Saturday and there were a lot of people about in town. Not all the shops in Post Street were open, but the brightly lit windows splashed long shafts of l ight on the narrow pavements. We could have joined the noisy stream moving along those narrow pavements, of co urse, but we didn't want to. As usual on Saturday evenings, besides girls and ch aps from all districts of the town, there were a lot of young profiteers about o n Post Street. Komsomol members and young worers had another haunt the avenue nea r the Komsomol club. We ept to the middle of the road. It had thawed during the day and the sun had shone just lie in spring, but towards evening the frost had set in again. The p uddles were coated with ice and long gleaming icicles hung from the rusty drainpipes. "Fancy, putting galoshes on, Bobir! See how dry it is!" I said to Sasha and dug my heel into a frozen puddle. "Don't mess about!" Sasha squealed, jumping away. "Call that dry!" A stream of mud had spurted over his shiny galoshes. Sasha stared down at them b itterly. He looed so dismal standing in the middle of the road that Peta and I couldn't help laughing. "Is that your idea of a joe!" Sasha snorted, looing even more annoyed. "And yo u're a member of the committee!. . . Setting an example, I suppose!" And taing an old scrap of newspaper out of his pocet, he started wiping off the mud. As we waled on, Sasha ept glancing down and grunting with annoyance. I new he was touchy and often lost his temper for nothing, so I did not tease him. "Don't get sore, Sasha," I said soothingly, "I didn't do it on purpose. I didn't thin there was any mud there." "Huh didn't thin!" Sasha grunted. But we were interrupted by a shout from Peta: "Quiet, chaps!. . . Hear that?" Not far away, on the other side of the boulevard, a machine-gun had opened up. O ne burst was followed by another, then one more, then after a short silence we h eard five rifle shots fired in quic succession. It was the alarm signal. Every Communist and Komsomol member new that signal. I n those years all the Communists and older lads among the Komsomol members belon ged to the Special Detachments, and five quic rifle shots was the signal for th em to report at once to headquarters. Wherever we happened to be in the hostel, in the foundry at the factory-training school, at a Komsomol meeting, or simply ou t for a stroll as soon as we heard it, we had to rush off to the well-nown house in Kishinev Street, where Special Detachment Headquarters was situated. We new well enough that we lived only fifteen versts from the frontiers of capi talist Poland and Rumania, and that such an alarm might be followed by real inva sion. Then all of us "specials," together with the frontier guards, would have t o hold our little town against the first onslaught until the regulars arrived.

Sasha was the first to brea the silence. "It's the alarm... Isn't it, Vasil?" "It is," I said. "Come on, chaps! Let's run!" ... At the door of headquarters we were met by Polagutin, the Special Detachment Chief. The long holster of his Mauser was unfastened and we could tell from the anxiety in his face that the situation was serious. "What group?" Polagutin ased. "Factory-training school!" Sasha gasped out. Polagutin checed our cards and said: "Get your guns." We ran down the long corridor to the armoury. There we received rifles that had been issued to us some time ago and several rounds of ammunition. "Shall we load here or outside?" Peta ased, shoving the cartridges into his tr ousers' pocet. He was rather pale. "Better wait for the order," I advised. "I'v e loaded mine already," said Sasha, tossing an empty clip on the floor. "Put the safety catch on!" Peta whispered anxiously. Sasha pointed his rifle in the air and started pulling the safety catch bac. But the safety catch was oil y and Sasha's fingers were numb with cold. The rifle wobbled in his hands. Any m oment, it seemed, one of Sasha's fingers would catch on the trigger and a bullet would shatter the dim lamp hanging from the ceiling. "Give it here, you cripple!" Peta shouted and grabbed Sasha's rifle. "Watch me. " But the spring in Sasha's rifle was new and stiff and Peta had a hard job with the safety catch too... The big room where every group came on Sundays to clean their rifles was crowded with specials. "How did you get here so quic?" Polevoi ased us. He had no rifle, but a revolv er hung at his side, over his wadded jacet. "We were out for a wal," Peta began, "and suddenly we heard. . ." "The other chaps must be still running!" Sasha chimed in complacently. Komsomol members from our school the "Polevoi Guard," as the chaps in other groups called us began to appear in the room. They were all hot and red in the face and their coats and jacets were undone. Beads of sweat gleamed on their foreheads. "Well done!" said Polevoi, glancing over the new-arrivals. "A quic turn-out... But where's Titor?" Everyone looed round for Titor. "Titor's been seen drin ing, Comrade Polevoi," a factory school trainee called Furman began. But just at that moment Polagutin appeared in the doorway and called sharply for attention. The room grew quiet at once. "This is the situation," said Polagutin. "The Petlura gangs that Pilsudsi and t he Rumanian boyars have been sheltering across the border are getting active aga in. They were seen in daylight today approaching our frontier. . . It is quite l iely, comrades, that those gangs will be sent over our side tonight. It is your job and that of the frontier guards to give them a proper reception..." And rai sing his voice to a sharp tone of command, Polagutin said: "All except those fro m the factory-training school, fall in! Commander of the factory school group, r eport to me!" We crowded bac from the door. Holding their rifles high, the chaps from the tow n groups filed past us. As the room emptied, my heart san. "What about us? What are we going to do? They'll go out of town to patrol the forests on the border, but just because we're a bit younger we'll be ept behind as usual to guard hay at the food stores, or else we'll have to stay right in town to guard the fortr ess bridge, in case some spy or other tries to blow it up. What fun was there in guarding a lot of wooden barns full of hay or lying in ambush where everyone co uld see you, on the busy brightly-lit fortress bridge! An elderly special in a railwayman's cap ran into the room and shouted: "All pre sent and correct, Comrade Commander! The district secretary's arrived." "Kartamyshev here already?" Polagutin exclaimed joyfully. He turned to Polevoi a nd shoo his hand firmly: "Good luc! Keep a sharp loo-out, you've got a big re sponsibility. . . Good-bye, comrades!" And he waled out of the room. "We're staying here. It will be our job to guard the headquarters and stores of the Special Detachment," Polevoi announced solemnly. "Fall in!"

A DANGEROUS POST In front of me stands a line of posts with barbed wire stretched tight between t hem. Beyond the barbed wire are allotments a big stretch of lumpy frozen ground, m ost of it hidden in darness. Some distance away, near the road, there is anothe r line of barbed wire, but you can't see it from here. All the time I eep thin ing that distant barbed-wire fence has been cut and bandits are creeping towards me across the blac, frozen earth. My ears are cold, very cold, but so as to he ar better I purposely eep my collar down, and my fingers gripping the rifle are stiff and frozen. So this is post No. 3 that I've heard so much about from chaps who have stood gu ard here before! Behind me rises the cold bric wall of the shed that stands between me and the i nner yard. The projecting edge of the roof stics out just above my head. The na rrow passage for the sentry with barbed wire on one side runs along the shed wal l for about thirty paces. It comes to a dead-end at the high bric wall of the n ext house, which joins that of the shed at right angles. "The chicen run" that's what the Special Detachment men call post No. 3. A sentry on duty here feels cut off from his comrades, cut off from the whole world... Ever since H had been on duty I had been unable to tae my eyes off a blac hump that was sticing up on the allotment about ten paces away. It was lie the hea d of a man crouching on the ground. I was very sorry I hadn't ased the previous guard, a student from the farming institute, whether he had noticed that hump. Suddenly the hump seemed to move and creep nearer. Shivering, I poed the barrel of my rifle through the barbed wire and was just about to fire, when I stopped myself. Suppose it was not a man at all! It might be a ball of weed blown about by the wind? Or a heap of potato-tops? Or simply a pile of earth that someone ha d left after digging up their potatoes? What then?... Then I should loo a fool. The chaps would never let me forget it. My first dangerous post and I made a boob! They'd say I'd lost my nerve. . . The wind blew and the iron roof above me made a harsh whistling sound. That wasn 't someone waling over the roof, was it?... Craning my nec, I peered up under the eaves of the shed expecting to see the blac head of a bandit pop out at any moment. He could easily have jumped from the roof of the house on to the barn. Suspicious thumping noises sounded overhead. Surely they weren't footsteps?... I stood on tip-toe. Faint sounds reached my ears a nocing in Kishinev Street, a r ustling on the allotment, the crea of weathercoc on the roof. My head swam fro m looing up at the mass of stars glittering above me in the cold frosty air. The thumping noises on the roof grew louder. I too a firm grip on my rifle and pointed it in the direction of the noise. A distant star glinted at me from behi nd a tall chimney-pot. "Ears lie axes!" Polevoi had said as he marched us to our posts. "You are guard ing the arms store for the Communists and Komsomol members of the whole district ! Special Detachment stores are a very tempting target for capitalist spies." And even if he hadn't said that, we all new what a responsible job it was to be guarding Special Detachment Headquarters. In the cellars there was a lot of dyn amite, TNT, and ammunition. And we were guarding it all for the first time. "Ears lie axes! Ears lie axes!" I repeated Polevoi's favourite saying to mysel f and my frozen ears began to feel as if they were growing longer and longer and getting as thin and sharp as axe-blades. The roof was quiet again. That noise must have been the wind romping with a loose sheet of iron. But wait! Where was that blac hump? I had forgotten about it... I searched for the blac shape that had made me so u neasy. It was still there on the allotment and hadn't moved an inch. ... I paced slowly to and fro along the shed, trying to laugh at my fears. II re flected that dawn was near and soon I should have nothing to worry about. Why sh

ould anything special happen during my watch? Plenty of watches passed without a nything happening at all. It would be the same with mine. But no one would be ab le to mae fun of me for being the youngest in the group. And they didn't even now I had put an extra year on my age just to get accepted for the Special Detac hment! Now I would come bac off my watch a real fighting man, and for long afte rwards I should be proud of having stood guard at post No. 3. They wouldn't have put a slacer here, however much he ased! When he brought me to the post, Polevoi had said briefly and simply: "If you see anyone on the allotment, just let him have it! There's no chance of a passer-by or a drun wandering in here..." "Just let him have it!" There was something grim and terrible in that order. ...Again the wind began to howl in the bare, icy branches of the trees; last yea r's weeds and potato-tops rustled against the barbed wire; the iron rumbled on t he roof; the weathercoc creaed behind the wall of the house. And suddenly, in a fresh gust of wind, I caught the sound of Sasha's voice: "What do you want?... Halt!... Halt! ... Hands... Hey, this way, chaps!" For a moment everything was quiet, then I heard a piercing whistle. Doors banged in the guard-room. On the other side of the shed, men were running about the ya rd... Then I heard Sasha shouting again: "There!... Over there!... Catch him.. ." "Get a ladder! Quic!" came Polevoi's voice. How I longed to run and help the other chaps and see what was going on! But I co uld not leave my post. Even if the whole place was on fire, I had no right to mo ve from here. Still listening to what was happening in the yard, I stared hard into the surrou nding darness. And so that nobody could mae a grab at me from behind, I stood with my bac to the wall of the shed. My heart thumped, the rifle trembled in my hands. I was expecting something terr ific to happen... A shot thundered just above me, in the attic of the shed. Then another. I heard a faint groan some distance away. Then everything was quiet again. About five minutes passed. Quic footsteps crunched in the narrow passage that l ed from the yard to my post. I jumped bac into the corner and prepared to shoot ... "Halt!" I shouted wildly as a shadow appeared round the corner of the wall. "You all right, Mandzhura?" Polevoi ased with anxiety in his voice. "Everything all right here?" "Everything's all right," I answered and at once realized that I had made a mist ae in not asing Polevoi for the password. Polevoi waled up to me. He was out of breath and bare-headed. "No one ran through here?" "No one. Someone groaned on the other side of the shed, and there were shots in the attic..." "I now that myself. But out here," Polevoi pointed with his revolver towards th e allotment, "you haven't noticed anything?" "No, nothing." "Very strange! How did he get through?" "Who was that shooting?" I ased. "Keep a very sharp loo-out, Mandzhura. Now particularly. If you see anyone, let him have it straightaway! Understand? It won't be long now before it gets light . I'll be round again soon." And Polevoi strode away quicly, bac to the yard. Two hours later, when I came off duty, I learnt from the chaps in the warm guard -room what had happened during that anxious night. While the sentries at the outer posts were freezing in the icy wind, Sasha had b een having a much nicer time. Shielded from the wind by the sheds and the main b uilding, he swaggered about the yard in his shiny galoshes. The smooth dry pavin g stones were well lighted by electric lamps hanging at the corners of the main building. But soon Sasha's feet began to ache. He climbed the wooden steps of the shed, th at lay in the shadow of a little balcony above. Sasha swore to Polevoi that he d

id not sit there for more than five minutes. But no one believed him, of course. Sasha must have dozed off on the steps. As he waled down into the yard again, Sasha heard la faint sound behind him. He turned round and froze to the spot. A stranger was climbing over the balcony rail, apparently with the intention of sliding down the post into the yard. How he came to be up -there was a mystery. Sasha should have fired at once. He should have got the intruder while he was st ill on the balcony. But Sasha lost his nerve. "What do you want?. . . Halt!. . . Halt!. . ." he shouted in a quavering voice. The stranger immediately darted bac through the narrow door leading into the at tic. He was still in range of a bullet. Sasha suddenly remembered his rifle. He hugged the butt to his shoulder and pulled the trigger, but nothing happened. Wh en he too up his post, Sasha had forgotten to release the safety catch. Hearing Sasha's shout, Peta who was guarding the ammunition cellar thumped on the guar d-room door with his rifle, and Niita standing guard in Kishinev Street blew hi s whistle. "There... there... There's a bandit up there!" Sasha burbled at Polevoi as he ru shed out into the yard. In a second the guards had a ladder against the wall. Polevoi was the first to c limb on to the roof. Anxious to catch the bandit but wary of being ambushed, Pol evoi darted across the roof and climbed in the last attic window. When he got inside the attic, Polevoi noticed a faint gleam of light far away in the darness. It was a gap in the wall and a man was struggling to get through it. Polevoi fired twice. The unnown man groaned, but struggled through the gap and crashed over the roof of the next-door house. Polevoi ordered the two guards who had followed him to chase the stranger over t he roofs. He himself jumped down into the yard, checed my post and sent another three guards to inspect all the yards round headquarters, and the side-road tha t ran into Kishinev Street. But the bandit managed to slip away before our patro l reached the side-road. After squeezing through the gap on to the roof of the h ouse next door, which was a hostel for chemistry students, the stranger leapt un hesitatingly into a big heap of dung in the hostel garden and slipped out throug h a hole in the fence into the side-road. Here the trail broe off. He must have cut across the side-road and made his way through the yards to the Maret Square. It was a difficult route, specially for a wounded man; he would h ave had to climb several fences and get through the barbed wire between the yard s, and, after all that, run out on to the well-lighted Maret Square. There was a watchman on the square. He sat by the co-operative grocer's wrapped in a sheep sin, with a shot-gun in his hands. Perhaps the watchman had been asleep? Not ve ry liely. At any rate he swore he hadn't slept a win. Only ten minutes before the incident his wife had brought him a bowl of meat and bucwheat porridge for supper. The meal was still warm when the guards ran up and ased him if he had s een anything. It was hard to imagine how the wounded man could have slipped acro ss the Maret Square without the watchman an old, experienced soldier noticing him. Nevertheless the trail did lead to Maret Square. The barbed wire round the redbric house on the other side of the street had been pulled apart. On one of its spies there was a scrap of cloth that must have been torn from the clothing of a man crawling through in a hurry. Apart from the scrap of cloth on the barbed wire there were no other traces of the stranger. Farther away, on the steps of the large building where the staff of the district education department lived, a drop of dried blood was discovered. One of the few lucy ones who were allowed to leave the guard-room and tae part in the pursuit of the bandit was Furman, once a juvenile delinquent and now a p upil at the factory-training school. At the sight of the blood on the steps Furm an was overjoyed. He thought it was the bandit's blood. But the wife of the dire ctor of district education who lived in the house said it came from a chicen sh e had illed the previous Friday. Bitterly disappointed, the unlucy sleuth wand ered away. It could only be supposed that the bandit had got out on to the lighted square, slipped past under the very nose of the sleepy watchman and crossed the bridge i

nto the old part of the town. From there he could mae either for the Polish or the Rumanian frontier. In the attic of the shed at headquarters, the bandit had dropped a bundle of fus e wire and a detonator. Apparently he had intended first to do away with the sen try, then mae his way to the ammunition cellar and blow it up, headquarters and all. When he came out on the balcony and saw no one in the yard, he must have c oncluded that the sentry was asleep. Sasha would have had a bad time if he hadn' t come out of his noo and looed round. As it turned out, Sasha had been quite unarmed while he was on guard. PEELING THE SPUDS Relieved from his post, Sasha lay down on the couch in the guard-room and preten ded to be asleep. No one in the guard-room was sleeping after the excitement of the night. We ept telling each other over and over again what had happened and maing all inds of wild guesses. Furman, a little, thin fellow, insisted that t he bandit had dressed himself up as a woman while he was in the garden, and slip ped across the Maret Square in disguise. Only Sasha too no part in the discuss ion. The chaps said that when Niita ran into the yard he had started to put Sasha th rough it. Sasha had tried to mae excuses, but Niita had cut him short: "You're just a fun, that's what you are! Taen unawares, were you? Weren't expe cting it, were you?... I suppose if they start dropping bombs on you from an aer oplane, you'll be taen unawares again and start shouting, 'I say, gentlemen, wh at do you want? Halt! Halt!...' Call yourself a member of the Komsomol." Niita's words must have had a very strong effect. Sasha could thin of nothing better than to pretend he was ill. He lay on the couch muffled up in his "raglan " coat. Fie was very ashamed of himself for his part in the night's happenings. And who wouldn't have been in his place!... Sasha's "illness" started lie this . When he came into the guard-room, he complained that his legs felt wea and he had a terrible headache. Then yellow circles started floating before his eyes.. . And now, as he listened to our excited tal, Sasha tried to pretend he was in a fever. He made his teeth chatter, iced his legs about and moaned pitifully. Ac tually his moans were more lie the whining of a puppy that had been outside on a cold night. Anybody could see he was longing to get properly ill. Sasha would have given a lot at that moment for a dose of scarlet fever, say, or "flu." Inst ead of laughing at him, everybody would have been sorry and said it was because he had been ill. But Sasha was fit as a fiddle. We new that, and we new quite well what was the matter with him. Niita came in from the yard. He was carrying a smoy iron pot. "Well, young people," he began solemnly, "in spite of the serious happenings of last night the demands of Nature must be satisfied. I am not mistaen, I trust, in saying that we are all hungry. To put things in a nutshell, there are spuds b ehind the stove. We'll peel as many as we can in this pot, then we'll imagine th e aroma of sizzling fat, and soon we shall have a modest but satisfying meal. Wh o's against?" No one was against Niita's suggestion. "Who's for?" Niita ased. Everyone exce pt Sasha raised their hands. "Majority in favour! The debate is over!" Niita ex claimed cheerfully, and going over to Sasha, he ripped off his overcoat: "Wae u p, Sasha, old man, the dicy-birds are singing. Come on, spuds need peeling!" "I can't.. . I feel awful," Sasha moaned. "Sasha, our dearly beloved Comrade Bobir !" Niita said very tenderly, wining at us. "We all now you are ill, very seri ously ill, we all now very well what has caused your illness, nevertheless we a ll beg you not to act as if the end of the world had come, and wish you a rapid recovery. You mustn't let yourself be captured by that alien spirit Melancholy.. . Dearly beloved Sasha," Niita went on, posing lie an orator, "we beg you in a ll sincerity to overcome your sadness and peel the potatoes, for sooner or later you will get hungry yourself, and, as 'tis said, he who does not wor, neither

shall he eat... As for the real cause of your malady, Sasha, old man, you mustn' t be too angry with me for those harsh words that were hurled at you on the thre shold of this mansion. Even Homer sometimes nods, you now. We're all young stil l, we all mae mistaes, and everyone except a hardened nitwit learns something from his mistaes, Why be sad and spoil your own valuable nerves with grieving?" Rocing with suppressed laughter, we listened to Niita's speech, trying to unde rstand how much he meant joingly, and how much was serious. Sasha tried to eep it up; he clutched his head and rubbed his red frecled face , but at last he got up and with a shiver too his seat on the bench. Niita pulled a sac of potatoes out from behind the stove and, dumping it down in the middle of the guardroom, said: "The host requests his honoured quests to present themselves at dinner!" We set to wor on the muddy potatoes. Pennives and cobblers' nives with corded handles gleamed in our hands. Furman produced a real Finnish dagger with an antler haft, which he had ept since the days when he had been a juvenile delinquent. At ordinary times Furman ept his t reasure in a green box under his bed, only taing it out with him when he was on guard. It was his boast that when he had this nife with him there wasn't a ban dit in the country he was afraid of! Niita spread out an old newspaper on the floor near the stove. Soon curly potat o peelings were reeling off our nives and falling with a rustling sound on the sheet of newspaper. "But who was it?" Peta muttered, still shaen by the events of the night. "Now, that is a question!" Niita exclaimed grinning. "Anybody would thin you c ame from the convent we used to have in this ancient town. It's clear enough who it was... Don't you remember what the papers said last autumn about the frontie r guards nabbing a spy? We're on the frontier too, and you've got to be on the l oo-out.. ." "But what do these spies want here?" Peta ased again. "What have they left beh ind?" "Oh, they've left a great deal behind, old chap," Niita replied, seriously now. "In the time of the tsar, nearly the whole Donbas was in their hands. Thin of Krivorozhye, and the iron ore! May be when you've finished training you'll find yourself in those parts. Notice the old names of the factories there Providence, D umot, Balfour... The foreign capitalists lost millions of rubles in those factor ies. Soviet power has trodden on their corns good and proper! Did you thin they supplied Deniin and Wrangel and Petlura for nothing? They thought those bandit s would get them bac all they had lost. They didn't spare the cash either. And it all went down the drain..." The door opened and Polevoi entered the guard-room. "What's the news?" Niita ased, glancing at him inquiringly. "None so far. Seems to have vanished into thin air..." Polevoi glanced at the sa c of potatoes: "Going to do some cooing? Do me a favour, chaps, will you?" he went on, pulling off his wadded jacet. "When the spuds are ready, leave a few f or me. In the meantime I'll have forty wins..'. You tae over as guard commande r, Kolomeyets." "Yes, Comrade Polevoi!" Niita answered smartly, jumping to his feet. Our director nodded and lay down on the couch. But before he had time to stretch himself out, there was a whistle from the yard summoning the guard commander. P olevoi jumped up, but Niita grabbed his rifle and said: "No, have a rest. The n ew guard commander is already on the job!" And so saying, he ran out into the ya rd. We stopped peeling the potatoes and listened to the voices outside the door. Polevoi listened too. His lean sunburnt face with its sparse young stubble was s erious and strained. Only a few minutes ago Polevoi had seen off Vuovich the OGPU representative fro m the frontier guard detachment. From the Komsomol members at the district OGPU we had heard that Vuovich was always entrusted with the most difficult cases. P olevoi had shown Vuovich where Sasha had first spotted the bandit and how the b andit had got into headquarters. From the attentive manner in which this tall fa

ir-haired security man in the green-topped cap of a frontier guard listened to o ur director, we realized that Vuovich attached great importance to Polevoi's op inion. He questioned Polevoi in a quiet, calm voice. Any of us who watched him f rom afar would have given a lot to now what was in Vuovich's mind at that mome nt. He and Polevoi sat together for a long time in the attic. They must have examine d every inch of that dusty attic floor. Then, following the path of the fugitive , they squeezed through the gap and, using a ladder brought by Fur-man, climbed down from the roof of the hostel into the little garden, and thus wored their w ay, step by step, right as far as the Maret Square. Vuovich questioned the gro cery store watchman at great length, then returned to headquarters, where he lef t Polevoi. "He'll have to use his noddle this time!" Niita had said when Vuovich left. "T his business will come before the District Party Committee. Kartamyshev himself will go into everything..." Now, as we listened to the voices in the yard, we con- eluded it was Vuovich, w ho had come bac. The thought was too much for Polevoi, who threw his jacet rou nd his shoulders and strode to the door. But he was just reaching for the handle when the door opened and Niita came in. He was ruffled, and from the way he thrust his rifle into the rac, we realized that the conversation he had just had at the gate, had annoyed him. "What was it?" Polevoi ased. Sitting down and starting to peel a potato, Niita answered unwillingly: "Appearance of a mangy sheep not even concerned with guard duty!" "What else? Mae yourself clear!" Polevoi said more severely. "Titor turned up. He wants to guard headquarters with the rest of the Komsomol members, you now. Says he only just found out that our group was on duty. Prete nding to be innocent as a lamb, and rees lie a voda still!" Niita snapped an grily, carving a thic slice of peel off a large potato. "What then?" Polevoi insisted. "Then I told Titor we could do without him and his conduct would come up for di scussion later." "How did he have the chee to loo you in the lace!" Polevoi said, lying down ag ain. "You'll be a wea-minded lot, lads, if you forgive Titor for the way he ac ted last night." But even without Polevoi's saying it, we all realized that Niita would not forg et how Yasha Titor had not answered the call from headquarters because he was d run. AN UNWELCOME VISITOR How many times at Komsomol meetings, in the hostel, in the school worshops had Niita said to us: "Behave yourselves well, chaps. The whole town has its eyes on you, remember. Yo u are worers-to-be, the best chaps in town, future Party men." Niita had a good reason for saying that. In those days, young worers were few in our little town some apprentices in the local print-shop, two pupils at the pow er station, five young railwaymen, and eight apprentices at the Motor Factory, w hich, although considered the biggest in the district, had little more than a hu ndred worers altogether. Young worers who were Komsomol members often had no K omsomol group at their place of wor and belonged to groups in other organizatio ns. But we factory-school trainees wored together, in one body, and our group w as considered a strong one. We set an example to every boy and girl in town. At all youth conferences our delegates sat on the platform, and too part in the de bates, and their opinion the opinion of a big body of young worers always carried a lot of weight. The chaps who belonged to our group had fire and courage. They read a lot and th ought about the future; they put loyalty to their wor, and to their mates at wo r above everything. We had Niita Kolomeyets to than for much of this. Besides being our group Secr

etary and political instructor, he was a good friend. He wasn't above singing a song with us, but when it came to wor, he was strict and exacting, and never le t things slide. At that time, factories were springing up all over the country. Factory schools were being opened to train the new generation that was to tae the place of the old worers. Thousands of young fellows from woring families joined these schoo ls, anxious to become turners, mechanics, foundry men, smiths, milling-machine o perators. It was all right for the youths who lived in the big industrial centres. But in the little towns it was more difficult. Tae us, for example. We had heard about these factory schools as far bac as 1923, and, of course, the boys and girls w ho had lost their parents during the Civil War and had been brought up at the ch ildren's home were een as mustard on the idea. But for a long time 'not a singl e factory school was opened anywhere in the whole district, not to mention our l ittle border town. Many of the chaps even thought of moving to other towns. What hope was there that a training school would ever be founded at the Motor Fa ctory, which only made straw-cutters for the countryfol and showed no signs of expanding! New worers were not needed there it had quite enough already. But Niita Kolomeyets, Dmitry Pancheno and other members of the District Komsom ol Committee made up their minds to get a factory-training school started in our town. Their proposal was supported by the District Party Committee. Niita and the oth er activists were able to prove that a school-come-worshop of this ind would q uicly repay the cost of organizing it. On Hospital Square, next to the Motor Fa ctory, stood a big, half-ruined house which before the Revolution had been a Jew ish religious school for students of the Talmud. The house and its empty out-bui ldings were given over to the factory school. All ownerless machinery was put at its disposal. In an old distillery Niita discovered more than ten turner's lat hes. You can imagine how glad the chaps were when they found out they could beco me silled wormen without leaving their home town! Now, under Zhora Kozaevich's instruction, H was becoming quite an expert at mou lding axle-boxes for carts, gears for separators, and once even, just for practi ce, I cast a bust of the Austrian Emperor Francis Joseph, using as a model an ol d bust of the emperor that I had found washed up on the river-ban after a flood . True, the emperor's moustache and side-whisers did not come out properly, and the bronze didn't get as far as the tip of his nose, but even so that bust land ed me in hot water! Yasha Titor seized his chance and started calling me a "mon archist," because, as he put it, I was "fabricating images of tyrants." The accu sation was so stupid that Niita did not agree to have it brought up at the grou p meeting, but all the same, to have done with the affair, I cast the snub-nosed monarch to another shape. My friends in the other shops were getting on well too. Peta was turning out ha ndles for straw-cutters and sicles. He had also learnt how to mae good draught smen on his little turner's lathe he just used to reel them off ready to play with . Sasha tinered about all day with motors and only ran over to us when we were casting, to watch the pigs for piston rings taing shape. And so we went on learning and hoping that when we finished our training in six months time we should go and wor at factories in the big industrial towns. Everything would have been fine if Pecheritsa, the new district education chief, had not appeared on the scene. Within a month of his arrival, a new saying was all over the school: "Nothing wa s wrong till Pecheritsa came along." Ours was one of the town's schools that Pecheritsa decided to inspect. The day before he came, we had been casting. We were unloading the full moulds, nocing the dry sand out of them and sifting it, tapping the cinders off the st ill warm fly-wheels with chisels and hammers. The foundry was hot and dusty. We were maing such a din and clatter that we did not notice a little man with a moustache, in riding-breeches, tall yellow boots and a richly embroidered shirt

, enter the foundry. The little fellow had an amazing moustache a great drooping g inger thing. Throwing us a careless glance, but without saying hullo, the man with the mousta che went into the next room and started fingering the gleaming, freshly painted model of an axle-box. He glanced frowningly at a gap in the roof made by a shell and, waling past a cast-iron fly-wheel, iced it as if to test how strong it was. The burnished fly-wheel let out a clang and swayed dangerously. The man wit h the moustache steadied it with his hand, then, without saying a word to anyone , clasping a bright yellow brief case under his arm and looing as if he owned t he place, waled out of the foundry on the Hospital Square. "Next time don't let anyone in without my permission. We get all sorts of outsid ers strolling in here, and then we find the models are missing," said Zhora when he heard about this visit. Zhora was afraid somebody might wal off with the gear-wheel models made of ash that was a hundred years old. He had borrowed them from the Motor Factory, where he used to wor. .. . Two hours later we were attending a social studies class. Niita was tellin g us about the country's social system and, as part of the lesson, was reading o ut an article from the newspaper Molodoi Leninets. The door opened and in waled the man in the embroidered shirt who had been roun d the foundry that morning. Thining the stranger was merely passing through the class-room to get to the school office, Niita paid no attention to him and wen t on reading the article. Then the man with the moustache went up to the blacboard and, planting himself in front of Niita, said to him loudly in Urainian: "When the person in charge of you comes into the room, it is your duty to report to him what you are doing." But that was not enough to put Niita off. He merely went a shade paler and snap ped bac: "People in charge usually say good morning when they come into a class room. . . As for your coming in here, I simply don't now you." The stranger tried a new line of attac. "Why are you teaching in Russian?" "I am not teaching in Russian, I am reading an article from a Russian newspaper and everyone understands perfectly well what I am saying." "Are you not aware that all teaching in the Uraine must be given exclusively in the Urainian language?" "I repeat: I am not teaching, I am reading an article." "This isn't Moscow! The people who live in the Uraine are Urainians..." "Comrade Stalin says there are more Russians than Urainians in the towns of the Uraine. In time, of course, they will acquire Urainian culture, but I don't s ee what harm it will do if II read now in Russian everyone understands me. Come he re tomorrow and you will hear us reading an article from the newspaper Visit, in Urainian. You are quite welcome." "Enough of that waffle! You're too young for that! Before you start teaching, yo u had better learn the state language." "Before you start maing your remars and interrupting our studies, you had bett er say who you are!" Niita retorted in purest Urainian, to prove that he new it perfectly. "Perhaps you will as me to leave the room, young man?" the stranger inquired, g rinning slyly. "Yes, I will!" Niita shouted unexpectedly. "Listen to me! Either you tell me wh o you are, or the whole class will show you the quicest way out of here!" And r ed in the face, Niita nodded at the window. "I am afraid you will soon have to apologize to me for that!" the man with the m oustache said ominously, and with a proud toss of his ginger mane, he waled out of the room. "Yes, that's the best way!" Niita shouted after him, and lowering his voice at once to a normal tone, went on reading the paper. It turned out that this was the notorious Pecheritsa. A few days before his visit, Kartamyshev had come to the school. The Secretary o

f the District Party Committee had gone round all the worshops examining everyt hing with genuine care. He taled for a long time with the trainees, told the fo reman off because there was no drining water in the hot shop and the chaps' gau ntlets were torn, then he came down to the foundry himself. It was he who insist ed the shell hole in the ceiling should be patched up before the autumn rains be gan, and a ventilator installed. That day one of the chaps was ill and had stayed in the hostel. He told us how, after looing round the school, Kartamyshev had visited the hostel as well. It w as plain that Kartamyshev wanted to now what our living conditions were lie as well as how much we were learning. He made the coo show him exactly how much f ood we were given and hauled the hostel warden over the coals because our blane ts were rather thin and threadbare and we had no sheets. Kartamyshev was a real father to us. We respected him and there was genuine affection in our voices when we mentioned his name. But Pecheritsa had succeeded in rubbing us up the wrong way right fro m the start... The next day, Polevoi was summoned urgently to the Department of Education. Pecheritsa flatly demanded that Polevoi should dismiss Miita from school. He sa id Niita had "undermined his authority." Just exactly what passed between them we never new, but Furman came bac from the District Komsomol Committee with a story that in reply to Pecheritsa's complaint Polevoi had sapped out: "The autho rity of a real Bolshevi can never be undermined. A Bolshevi wins his authority by his conduct." I don't now whether that was exactly how Polevoi put it, but one thing was clear he had stood up for Niita. But although the battle was won, everyone realized that Pecheritsa would bear the factory-school trainees a grudg e for some time to come. Pecheritsa soon made his presence felt in our sleepy little town. On his way out to the country districts he often drove through the steep streets of the town i n his tall yellow cabriolet drawn by two glossy blac horses. Muffled in a grey tarpaulin coat with the hood thrown bac, Pecheritsa looed down on the passersby, carelessly acnowledging the bows of teachers who new him. Soon the town learnt that the new director of education was a great lover of sin ging. For several evenings running, Pecheritsa gathered all the school and stude nt choirs in the big drill hall and taught them a lot of songs. After a while he arranged for the choir to perform publicly in the town theatre, at a ceremonial evening. The lads stood in a semi-circle in astrahan hats, embroidered shirts and blue sharovary tuced into high top-boots. The girls tied ribbons of differe nt colours in their plaits. Their blouses were also embroidered and gay sashes h ung down their sirts. In a glare of flood-lights the choristers filling the who le stage of the theatre made a very pretty picture. We, trainees, sat. in the gallery. The curtain went up after the interval and in the expectant hush we gazed at the dazzling display of singers. No one thought that Pecheritsa would dare conduct such a huge choir. It didn't seem to fit in w ith his way of carrying on. But after eeping the singers standing motionless on the stage for a few seconds , he strode up to the footlights and with a shae of his flowing ginger mane ann ounced: "Revolutionary for Ever, a song by Ivan Frano!" Someone in the audience gave a last cough so as not to interrupt later on, then there was silence. Pecheritsa turned his bac on the audience, poised himself on tip-toe and, whipp ing a little stic out of his boot, swept it high above his head. The silence se emed to brea in half. The young ringing voices burst forth so confidently that we listened spell-bound. Now, lat a sign from the stic, the choir would die awa y and the soloist would continue the song; now the basses a piced group of tall, strapping fellows standing separately would come in, and a thunderous but pleasant roar would fill the hall; now the descants would ring out, as a hundred girls' voices too up the melody. The theatre seemed to grow lighter; you felt lie jum ping up and singing too. And in front of the singers, on a sort of box, now rising on tip-toe, now crouch

ing, now swaying in time with the melody, stood the imposing figure of Pecherits a, whom Niita had so boldly turned out of our class-room. Pecheritsa was a fine conductor. He had the whole choir, so recently assembled, under perfect control. And as I listened to the singers and watched how cleverly the ginger-moustached Pecheritsa conducted them, II began to tae a liing to h im. Then the choir sang 0, the poor lasses of Galicia. The melody went rollicing al ong. Pecheritsa conducted with special gusto, whirling his baton lie a cavalrym an cutting down practice twigs. The audience listened to the quic marching song about the lasses of Galicia who were sorry because their "gunner-boys" had marc hed away to the Uraine and because there would be no one to iss them "on their scarlet lips, hazel eyes, and blac brows," and I tried desperately to remember where I had heard those words before. The song sounded strange and out of place in our Soviet times. In those days the young people used to sing the Carmagnole, Racing on Ahead, We've Dug our Graves Ourselves, The Reapers Reap upon the Hill, Rumbling Guns, The Mist is Creeping o'er the Field, and now, all of a sudden, Pecheritsa had dug up this ditty about the scarlet lips of the sorrowful lasses of Galicia. Only as the choir sang the last couplet, did I remember that it was this song that the Galician "gunner-bo ys" had sung in 1918 when they marched across our fortress bridge. Their grey un iforms were the same as those of their Austrian officers and they burnt and pill aged as ruthlessly as their masters. They smashed up Orlovsy's mill under the c liff, stole the peasants' grain and carted it off to Austria while the people of our town were starving. I listened to the song and just could not understand wh y the choir should be singing it in our Soviet times. But, as though sensing my doubts and desiring to banish them, Pecheritsa's choir struc up with Taras Shevcheno's Commandment, then the Internationale that we all new and loved so well. In those days all our meetings ended with our standi ng up and singing the Internationale and the Young Guard. But it was one thing f or us to sing the hymn of the worers of the world in our little group, or at th e Komsomol club, in thin untrained voices, and something quite different to hear the Internationale ring forth from the lips of this enormous choir. That evenin g I began to feel that Niita had done wrong to turn Pecheritsa out of the room. The new director of education may have acted arrogantly. But what a conductor! The next day, however, I was again disappointed in Pecheritsa. We had a drawing master called Maxim Yaovlevich Nazarov. This little grey-haire d old man, an engineer by profession, came from the town of Sormovo, on the Volg a. Maxim Yaovlevich used to tell us much that was new and interesting about the Red Sormovo Plant, where he had wored nearly all his life. The old man had see n a lot, woring in shops where there were more people than in forty factories l ie our Motor. Our school badly needed men lie Maxim Yaovlevich with long expe rience of industry. The day after the concert Pecheritsa summoned all the teachers and instructors f rom our school to test their nowledge of the Urainian language. Obviously our drawing master, who had only recently come from Russia to live with his daughter t he wife of a frontier guard could neither write nor read Urainian. In front of everyone, Pecheritsa told Polevoi to dismiss the old man from school . Our director did all he could to defend Maxim Yaovlevich, but it was no good. Later, when he was telling us about his interview with Pecheritsa, Polevoi said: "I told Pecheritsa, 'You want to force a Russian to give up his native language and go over to Urainian straightaway. Why, he hasn't been living in the Urain e five minutes. Give him time, don't force him to distort his own language and t al God nows how just for your sae. Compelling him lie that will only mae hi m hate the Uraine...' " But Pecheritsa could not be persuaded. He sent round a circular flatly stating t hat all school-teachers in the Uraine must teach children only in Urainian. "But loo here, what children have we got at this school?" Polevoi argued heated ly. "Our youngsters are quite grown-up. And besides, ours is a technical school. We study trades." "That has nothing to do with me," Pecheritsa answered coldly. "You live in the U

raine, here are the instructions, please obey them. As for the type of school y ou are running, that is quite absurd. What on earth is the use of a factory-trai ning school when there isn't a factory within a hundred miles of you!" "The time will come when factories will spring up here too, as they have in the Donbas, and people will than us for being first to train the worers that will be needed to run them!" Polevoi replied. "Rubbish!" Pecheritsa snapped bac. "No one will let you soil the blue sy of Po dolia with factory smoe." "We shall see!" Polevoi said stubbornly and, as Niita told us later, even gritt ed his teeth to stop himself cursing. "Others will see, not you!" the ginger-moustached Pecheritsa flung at our direct or. "Your job is to be a disciplined worer in my system of education, and to ob ey my instructions without wrangling." Polevoi was obliged to as Maxim Yaovlevich to leave the school. We collected a ll the money we had left from our small grants and presented the old man with a good set of drawing instruments as a memento. Furman fixed a brass disc on the c ase and neatly scratched an inscription: "To our well-loved teacher Maxim Yaovl evich, in parting, but not in farewell. From his pupils." As a matter of fact, Nazarov did not lose much by Pecheritsa's order. There were very few good engineers in the town and he was snapped up by the transport offi ce at once. He started drawing plans of new roads leading to the border. The steam-rollers for these roads were repaired at our school, and so Maxim Yao vlevich sometimes came to see us. "A-a-ah! Maxim Yaovlevich, victim of the Pecheritsa regime!" Zhora greeted him one day. "Well, hasn't he got as far as your office yet?" "That road's barred to him," Nazarov replied. ''We're on military wor now. Mih ail Vasilyevich Frunze of Moscow is interested in what we are doing. He doesn't care what language a man speas, as long as he's Soviet at heart!..." As Peta and I waled bac to the hostel after our guard duty, Peta said to me: "What a pity we didn't catch that bandit, Vasil! Just let him slip through our fingers! I'm afraid Pecheritsa may get to now about it. If he does, he'll use i t against Polevoi. 'Loo at the blunderers he's trained,' he'll say. Then he'll start slinging mud at Polevoi." "Don't worry, Peta. Kartamyshev won't let anything happen to Polevoi. He's now n Polevoi since the time when they were at the Party School. Polevoi used to be the Secretary of the Party group there. He's an old Bolshevi, and a worer... B ut Sasha's a sap, that's a fact. Thin how smashing it would have been if Sasha had nabbed that bandit!" "Not half!" Peta said despondently.
TIKTOR GETS TOUGH After the night of our vigil at headquarters, the weather had changed. For three days it had been snowing heavily. The drifts were up to the windows, and every morning, before starting to cast, we had to clear the path leading from the road to the foundry with wooden shovels. One morning Zhora told me to prepare the mould cores for the next day's casting. I was starting on my second lot, when Titor came up to me. I glanced up and saw his blonde foreloc dangling right in front of my nose. Titor squatted on his heels and lit a cigarette, blowing a cloud of blue smoe into the grate of the s tove. I watched him silently out of the corner of my eye, nowing that he wanted to tal to me. Since the evening when Titor had not turned up at headquarters, he had ept away from us, speaing to no one and going straight home after scho ol. He lived with his father in Tsiganova, a remote suburb not far from the sta tion. Taing a last pull at his cigarette, Titor tossed the stub on the blazing slabs of coe and, waling past me, said offhandedly: "Well, member of the committee, when are you going to try me?" "You want to now when the committee will go into your affair?" "Isn't that the same thing!" Titor grunted, dragging over a tin of graphite and

sitting on it. "If you want to now when the committee will meet, I can tell you on Thursday." "Of course, it's better for you to eep the Komsomol full of twerps lie Bobir w ho can't even hold a rifle, just because they're friends of certain committee me mbers, and chuc out young worers who happen to mae a slip..." I guessed whose window Titor was throwing stones at. "What you did wasn't a slip." "But that's just what it was. I just had a drin... then gave a profiteer a slap on the jaw, and you mae all this fuss. . ." "Not just a profiteer. He was your client Bortanovsy." Titor made a puzzled face. "My client? That's a funny thing to say!" "Whose client is he then mine? Don't mae yourself out a fool. The committee nows all about it." "What do you mean? 'I don't get you. . . Someone's been maing things up to spit e me, and you. . ." This was too much. Not content with refusing to admit his mistae franly, as a Komsomol member should, Titor was trying to come the innocent! I said grimly: "The committee nows, Titor, that you cast machine parts for Bor tanovsy's private business in woring hours, you sold them to him, you..." "Well, what about it?" Titor broe in. "I did it all with my own hands, out of my own aluminium, and it wasn't in woring hours at all." "That's not true, it was! Why tell lies about it?" "You're lying yourself! I stayed behind after wor, when you'd gone home, and di d the casting then." "Did you? What about the sand, and the tools, and the models, whose were they? D on't they belong to the state? Just you tell me what you were doing that day whe n Kozaevich too the fly-wheel model to the locsmiths to have it changed. If I remember, you were casting a gearwheel for a motor-bie." Titor was cornered. "I had nothing else to do then," he mumbled. "That's different. I wanted a job, so I started on that gear-wheel. You could cast that blood-sucer of an emperor, couldn't you? Well, I was practising, too, on a gear-wheel." "Practising to get money from a profiteer afterwards and buy voda with it..." "Loo here you," Titor shouted threateningly, "don't try and scare me with your tal of profiteers! I hate profiteers more than you do. Besides, you can't prov e Bortanovsy is a profiteer. He's a private craftsman, true, but he's a craftsm an and he wors himself. And in Odessa he used to wor at the October Revolution Factory. You don't find craftsmen lie him all over the place. Who overhauled P echeritsa's motor-bie? Bortanovsy! And you call him a profiteer!" "Hold on, Titor," I said very calmly, "only a minute ago you yourself called Bo rtanovsy a profiteer." "I did?... Nothing of the ind!" Titor exclaimed indignantly. "Yes, you did! You said yourself you gave 'a profiteer a slap on the jaw.' I've got a good memory. You've told one too many..." "Drop that, Mandzhura, don't try scaring me!" Titor bawled, growing furious in his confusion. "You're a bit too green to tal to me lie that, id! I'm a wore r born and bred. I now why you're all against me because I earn more than you! Yo u'd tae on jobs from Bortanovsy yourself, but he wouldn't give 'em to you, eve n if you did them free. Your handiwor wouldn't suit him! They mae do on their mingy grants, and if I don't want to live lie a beggar they start persecuting me. Chuc me out of the Komsomol! You can go and stuff yourselves! I'm not a climbe r, I'm a woring chap!" "Now I see that you must be expelled from the Komsomol!" I told Titor, looing him straight in the eye. "If you can say things lie that..." "Now, you young people, what's all the jawing about in woring hours?" Zhora as ed sternly coming into the room. "Finished cleaning the cores, Mandzhura?. . . A re these them? That'll be about enough for today. Now listen, get dressed and fl y over to the school. In the forge they'll give you some rams for us." Wored up after my quarrel with Titor, I flung out into the yard without even b uttoning my chumara.

It was wonderfully quiet and snowy all round. My eyes priced as I looed at the deep drifts on the allotment and in the foundry yard. The trees were fluffy wit h snow. A tomtit with a blac comb fluttered past me nocing a twig with its wi ng and a great pile of snow showered silently off the tree. A narrow path had been trodden across Hospital Square. I waled slowly. It was l ie going down a crowded corridor and the hem of my chumara brushed the snowdri fts. The roofs of the little houses round the square were piled high with snow; lilac and jasmine bushes in their gardens poed out of the snow lie birch-broom s; even the tall, narrow chimney on the Motor Factory was caed with snow-flaes on one side. "We don't need a hooligan lie you!" That had been a good reply to Titor. He ha d gone a bit too far with his rotten conduct and all the dirty things he had sai d about the Komsomol, and now he would complain that it was all our fault. If he had been a decent, honest chap, who would say anything against him! H hadn't to ld him off for personal reasons I was thining of our organization. Why couldn't h e understand that! If he started swindling and robbing the state, woring agains t the people when he was young, what would become of him later? We had advised h im last year to stop going with 'Kota Grigoreno. "Mind you don't slip up," Pet a and I had told him. "We've nown that Kota ever since he was a id. His fath er was all for Petlura, he betrayed our friends, and his son's got a bad strea in him too. Surely he's not the ind of fellow for you to go with, is he?" But d id Titor listen to us? What a hope! "You can't teach me anything, I'm not green lie you!" He and Kota used to go staggering down Post Street arm in arm, and to parties and weddings with ula lads in the neighbouring village, and then Ko ta ran away to Poland. He must have done something pretty bad, if he had to res ort to a thing lie that. And then Titor was in a mess; twice he, a Komsomol me mber, was summoned by the security men and given a serious taling-to because he had been a close friend of Kota's. After that he had moped about looing sorry for himself, and now it was starting all over again. . . Turning these thoughts over in my mind I crossed the snowy expanse of the yard a nd entered the forge. The rams were not ready, and while I was waiting for them to be forged, I went u p into the locsmiths' shop, fit was dinner-time and everyone had gone out. The worshop was amazingly quiet. No one stood at the benches sprinled with filings . I went to the club and found our chaps crowding round the glass-fronted case o n the wall reading the latest newspaper. Our Red Cordon was attracting particula r attention today, I squeezed closer. "An Absurd School," it read in big letters across the top of the page and new i n a flash what it was about. The article, signed "Dr. Zenon Pecheritsa," said th at the director of the factory-training school, Polevoi, was sabotaging the spre ad of Urainian culture, that for a long time he had ept at his school a teache r who could not spea Urainian; when the teacher was eventually dismissed, Pole voi had organized a collection to buy him a costly present. Pecheritsa concluded his article by remaring that the very existence of a factory-training school i n our little town where there was no industry was absurd... Footsteps echoed down the corridor. It was Polevoi coming from his office. He wa s wearing his hai jacet. His cap was tilted on the bac of his head, exposing his high sunburnt forehead. We made way for Polevoi to go up to the newspaper, but he smiled and said, "Read it yourselves. I now everything that's written th ere." Sasha Bobir darted up to Polevoi. "Nestor Varnayevich, what does 'Dr.' mean?" he ased unexpectedly. A laugh went up and even Polevoi hid a smile. " 'Dr.' Well, I suppose it means 'Doctor.' " "But how can Pecheritsa be a doctor?" Sasha insisted. "Doctors go round hospital s curing people, but he conducts a choir and orders teachers about. Are there do ctors lie that?" "There are all inds of doctors," Polevoi replied. "They're not all doctors of m edicine. Pecheritsa is a Galician. I ought to tell you that in Galicia they're v ery fond of showing off a bit by putting 'Doctor' in front of their names. Nearl

y every officer in that legion of Galician riflemen who fought with the Austrian s against the Russian army called himself a doctor. There were all inds: doctor s of law, philosophy, philology, veterinary science... Perhaps Pecheritsa is a d octor of music." "If the Galicians fought against us with the Austrians, why do we let them come here? Haven't we got enough Petlura hangers-on, as it is!" Sasha insisted. "Never spea lie that again, Bobir!" Polevoi exclaimed. "You must never judge a whole people by its renegades... The Galicians are a good, hard-woring, honest people, they're our blood brothers. They spea the same language as we do, thei r country's been Urainian for centuries." And Polevoi reminded us how not long ago, at the Fourteenth Party Congress, Comr ade Stalin had said it was only because the Treaty of Versailles had carved up m any states that our Uraine had lost Galicia and Western Volyn. "If anybody nows the Galicians, I should," Polevoi went on. "When Peremyshl was captured, I was badly wounded out there, in Galicia... The army retreated and I was left lying on the ground, unconscious. Well, do you thin those people gave me away to the Austrians? Nothing of the ind! I lay for over a year in a peasa nt's cottage, in the village of Kopysno. They brought a doctor to me secretly fr om Peremyshl. He operated on me twice. I might have been a Galician myself the w ay those Galicians looed after me... Yes, it would be good to meet some of thos e people again. Just thin, the little Zbruch is all that divides us! It's not t he fault of the Galician woring fol that they're under foreign domination and have been suffering under it for years." ... When we came out of school and went to the hostel to have dinner, Peta, who adored Polevoi, pounced on Sasha: "Couldn't you as your questions another time ? You could see he was upset by that rotten article, but you had to start worryi ng him: 'What's "Dr." mean?' Do you want to now what it means? 'Dr.' means daft lie you!" "All right, don't shout," Sasha grunted. "Perhaps I did it on purpose to cheer h im up, I wanted to tae his mind off things. How about that?" And Sasha smiled c omplacently. I remembered how Polevoi had been lied and respected by the students at the Par ty School when he was group secretary there. One day, when he was still at the Party School, Polevoi had dropped in to see us . Father was out he was printing the school newspaper Student's Voice in our littl e print-shop. Polevoi noticed a poetry album on my table. We still had the highschool boys' habit of eeping such albums. The girls in our class would stic pi ctures in their albums and draw flowers all round them narcissuses and tulips usua lly then write sentimental verses there about beautiful flowers, white-winged ange ls, harps, forget-me-nots, and so on. I am ashamed now to admit it, but I had such an album too. It was full of verses and good wishes from friends. To my amazement, Polevoi leafed through my album, chucled to himself, then, sitting down at the table, piced up a pen and wrote on a clean page: Far beyond the stormy present Lies the Future's happy shore Where the sy is clear and pleasant And the tempest roars no more. It is only the courageous Whom the waves will carry there. Forward, friends! The tempest rages, But these sails it cannot tear! I had not ased him to do it. He just wrote, then got up and left the room witho ut a word. I was very surprised, I remember. At first, I thought it was an acrostic. I read the first letters of each line from top to bottom, but couldn't mae any sense of it. Polevoi's action pleased me. lit was nice to feel that he didn't mind having to

do with a youngster lie me... At the factory-training school everyone new that Polevoi was rather rough and s trict on the outside, but a very ind man at heart. He spent all day at the scho ol trying to mae us into silled worers and good citizens. We all lied our director and Pecheritsa's article staggered us. Although Polevo i gave no sign of being hurt, we guessed it was only in front of us that he was so calm; underneath he must be feeling very bitter. After dinner I left the forge with two rams under my arm and headed for the scho ol gate. Just as I was going through the gate I heard a shout from Niita: "Special committee meeting after school!" "Oh, good! Titor's been asing..." "I don't suppose we'll have time for Titor today. There's something more import ant," said Niita. "What's up?" "Don't you now?" "No. What is it?" "Pecheritsa wants to close down the school." "You don't mean it?" "Of course, I do!" "But what about us?" "Private tinering, labour exchange, or get your Mum and Dad to eep you," Niit a said, twisting his face into a grin. I thought for a moment he was pulling my leg. "But they can't do that! Surely, y ou're joing, Niita?" "Never been more serious in my life! Mind you come," Niita answered shortly. BAD NEWS Never since we started school had we held such a stormy committee meeting as we held that evening. The last light had gone out in the windows of the neighbourin g houses, the iron shutters of the shops in the old part of the town had rumbled down long ago, but still we argued and shouted about what we should do... On the table lay Pecheritsa's order to close the school. No one could resign himself to the idea that in two wee's time, when we still h ad another month and a half at school, we should just be iced out. While we argued and fumed and raced our brains for a way of softening Pecherits a's heart and maing him withdraw his order, Polevoi, our director, and the only Party member in the whole school, sat quietly in a corner and said nothing. App arently, he wanted to hear what we had to say, and then, as a representative of the Party, tell us his opinion. At length, when everybody had had his say, Niit a looed inquiringly at the director. "It's a foolish position that I'm in, a very foolish one, lads, and I don't now whether you'll understand me properly," Polevoi said rising to his feet. His vo ice trembled as he spoe and the room grew so quiet that we could hear the snow on the pavement outside crunching under the feet of some belated passer-by. "As I loo at you, the young, hot-headed lads you are, I just can't imagine how we c an part. In the time we've been together we've become real friends, and I believ e that all of you will mae good. As a member of the Party, here, at this Komsom ol committee meeting, I can tell you franly: the whole thing is wrong from begi nning to end. 'It's unjust that you shouldn't be allowed to finish this last six wees. It's unjust of them to close the school. That decision is against the Pa rty line. . ." Polevoi rummaged in his tunic pocet and, taing out a scrap of paper, went on: ". . . it contradicts the directives of the Fourteenth Party Congress. All right , suppose what he says is true at the moment there aren't any suitable factories i n our district that we can send you to when you finish school. But there are suc h factories in other towns of the Uraine. Then why won't Pecheritsa get in touc h with the government and arrange something for us? The long and the short of it is that he doesn't believe in the future of our industry. He doesn't want the b lue sy of Podolia soiled with factory smoe!... But without that we shan't be a

ble to maintain Soviet power! If we don't build factories all over the country, we shall be finished, and not only that we shan't be able to help any of the peopl es who are waiting for our aid. That's as clear as two and two maes four. Only this perishing conductor doesn't-want to understand the obvious truth. . . And I 've got a very definite feeling that Pecheritsa's tactics are playing right into the hands of the Urainian nationalists, if Kartamyshev had been in town, I wou ld have got this order cancelled today. But Kartamyshev caught a chill during th e alarm and his lungs are bad -again, so he's gone to Yalta for treatment. His p lace has been taen by Sooreno a new man to our organization. Sooreno's heard that Pecheritsa was sent here from 'Kharov and he's afraid of pulling him up. I shall have to tal to Sooreno, and explain things to him. But it seems to me that there's no need for you to stand aside. While I'm protesting here, on the s pot, why shouldn't you go and stir them up in Kharov? We've not only got to fig ht to eep our school going, we've got to mae Kharov find jobs at factories fo r our first lot of trainees, for all of you. You have every right to them." And we decided to fight. A resolution was carried that immediately after the general Komsomol meeting a p upils' delegation should be sent to the District Party Committee. It was also de cided that I should be sent to Kharov to see the Central Committee of the Komso mol. That was the last thing I had expected! When all the chaps shouted, "Mandzhura! Mandzhura ought to go!" I could scarcely believe my ears. I tried to mae excuses, but Niita said confidently: "Never mind that, Vasil. I t's all bun about your never travelling on a train before and losing yourself a nd all the rest of it. Your tongue will get you anywhere and Kharov's not far a way. Are we the ind to get scared over such journeys! Who nows, we may have to tae a trip to Berlin or Paris one of these days. And you're afraid of going to Kharov, to one of our own Soviet towns! But you're quite a brave chap on the w hole and we're sure you'll find your way about there all right. So get cracing on the long trail and stic up for our interests! Get justice, or die! That's al l." The meeting was declared closed. Tired and excited, we waled bac to the hostel through the quiet snowy streets of our little town. Of was in a daze. The decision to send me to Kharov had hit me lie an avalanche. But it was good to feel that my friends trusted me, and I swore to myself that I would do my best. AN UNEXPECTED TRAVELLING COMPANION No one came to see me off at the station, not even Pet-a. That evening there wa s to be a pupils' conference. Pecheritsa was expected to attend. After two invit ations, he had condescended to "drop in." Everyone wanted to hear what this ging er-moustached bureaucrat had to say besides what was in his order. Well over hal f the school's pupils were preparing to spea. They intended to give Pecheritsa a real fight and demand that he cancel the order. But the train left at seven fi fteen in the evening. I had told the chaps myself not to see me off. They had be tter stic together and give that bureaucrat a hiding. I arrived at the station half an hour before the train was due to leave and saw that no one was being allowed on the platform yet. With one hand in my pocet fe eling the hard little ticet that we had clubbed together to buy, and the other gripping a brief case, I strolled about the station, glancing up at the cloc. Firmly pinned with two safety-pins in the inside pocet of my jacet were fortythree rubles sixty opes. At dinner-time we had been given our grants and most of the chaps at school had contributed a ruble each for my journey. That was how I had come to possess such a large sum, I had never had so much money before in my life. My papers for the journey were in the brief case that Niita had force d on me. He had gone specially to the District Komsomol Committee and borrowed i t from Dmitry Pancheno, the head of the instructors' department. Afraid of bein g laughed at, I tried to refuse it, but Niita was adamant. "Try to understand, old chap," he said persuasively, "when a brief case is neces

sary, it's nothing to be ashamed of. There's no reason why it should be a sign t hat you've turned into a bureaucrat. If you haven't got a brief case, what will you do with all your papers, the school estimate, the lists of pupils? Stuff the m in your pocets? You'll get everything crumpled. And where will you put your t owel, soap, tooth-brush? There's nowhere, is there? But it all goes fine into a brief case. Suppose you go in to see the chief of education himself. Do you want to fish a lot of crumpled papers out of your pocet?... You'll feel much better with a brief case." I tried every excuse I could thin of to get out of taing the brief case, for I new that the Komsomol members who carried brief cases were called bureaucrats. And if one of these brief case owners went so far as to put a tie round his nec , he was sure to be dubbed a petty bourgeois or an upstart. Before I left the h ostel, I wrapped the brief case in old newspapers and carried it under my arm, l ie a parcel. Not until I reached the station did I glance round and throw the n ewspaper into the ditch. There was no one I new at the station. In the buffet a samovar was steaming and an elderly waiter with a white overall over his fur jacet was pouring the hot water into thic glasses. In the luggage department customs men were checing th e passengers' luggage for contraband. I strolled along the corridors, crossed the entrance-hall several times and surv eyed the passengers, trying to guess who would be with me in my compartment. The n I went out on the platform. Soon the platform grew empty as the passengers too their seats in the train. Only the stationmaster paced slowly over the ice-coa ted platform, glancing at his watch. At last, he straightened up, assumed a dign ified air, put his watch away in his pocet and struc three ringing notes on a brass bell. I showed the conductor my ticet and scrambled up the steep steps into the warm sooty-smelling carriage. It looed as if no one else would get in and I should h ave to travel alone. !l waled through the empty carriage to the last compartmen t and too a seat by the window. Behind the wooden wall, in the toilet, I thought I heard someone cough, but payi ng no attention to it, I started examining the cosy compartment, which reeed of tobacco smoe. What a thrill it had been a few years ago, when we were ids, to climb into the long, green carriages lie these standing in the sidings! Why, only a few days a go, if someone had told me that I should soon enter such a carriage as a real pa ssenger, I should never have believed him. In the hush before the train started I could hear two greasers taling to each o ther by the station warehouse, then behind the wall someone coughed again, more clearly this time, and at last, from the head of the train came the cheerful whi stle of the engine. It had given a similar cheerful whistle several years ago, when Peta and I had seen Yuzi Starodomsy, "Weasel," off to Kiev from this same station. How we had envied Yuzi his long train journey! And now I, Vasily Mandzhura, was setting o ut on a long journey too!... A jer. Gazing out of the window, T watched the places I new gliding past. How many tim es had I run barefoot over those paths and tracs! The willow pond near the cand le factory flashed by. How dismal it looed in the snow! Nothing lie as good as in summer. What big crayfish you could catch under its steep bans with a bit o f old meat or a dead frog. Half the pond was overgrown with tall bul-rushes with brown cat's tails on their slender stems.. . The door behind me gave a loud clic. I turned round. Within two paces of me, holding a little suit-case, stood Pecheritsa. "Now it's all up," I thought. "Pecheritsa's found out everything, he nows I'm g oing to the centre, and he's decided to beat me to it. Now, of course, he'll try to scare me. He may even order me to go bac at once." In the first shoc of meeting, I had not noticed that Pecheritsa had shaved off his moustache. Clean-shaven, he looed younger and not quite so bad-tempered as before. I was very: surprised to see that Pecheritsa was not dressed in his usua

l clothes. He was wearing an old Budyonny hat with the star taen off and a long cavalry . great-coat that reached to his anles. I hadn't the courage to loo straight at Pecheritsa for long, so I turned away a nd pretended to be looing out of the window, now and then glancing at him from the tail of my eye. Huddling against the wall of the compartment, I waited for t he questioning that I was sure would come. But glancing over his shoulder, Peche ritsa said indly, and what was more, in Russian: "Going far, lad?" "To 'Kiev," I lied, maing up my mind not to confess on any account. "Here's a s windler," I thought to myself. "He sacs other people for speaing Russian, but as soon as he gets in the train, he goes over to Russian himself! Why should he be allowed to when others aren't?" "So we're travelling together," Pecheritsa said calmly. He raised the top bun and tossed his little suit-case on to it. Wiping the bun with his finger to see if it was dusty, Pecheritsa ased: "Who sent you alone on such a long journey?" Noticing that he was paying rather a lot of attention to my brief case, I lounge d bac and, without appearing to do so on purpose, covered it with my elbow. "I'm going to see my aunt. I've got an aunt in Kiev who's ill." "Everyone's getting ill now," Pecheritsa agreed readily. "It's a rotten time of the year spring's coming. I'm not well myself, shivering and coughing all the time . I just don't want to do anything but sleep." And he coughed. I realized that it was he who had been coughing and fiddling about there, behind the carriage wall, before the train started. When his spell of coughing was over, Pecheritsa leaned towards me and ased in a n even more friendly tone: "You're not going to sleep yet, are you, laddie?" "No, I want to read for a bit." "Then I'll as you a favour, old chap. Here's my ticet and travel warrant. If t hey come round to chec up, just show it to them, will you? I'll get up on my bu n now and have a snooze. Don't let them wae me. If they as anything, just tel l them I'm your uncle and I'm ill and you've got my ticet. Understand?" "All right," I said, and taing Pecheritsa's ticet and the travel warrant wrapp ed round it, I put it away in my jacet pocet. Pecheritsa climbed on to the bun, turned his face to the wall and, placing the little case under his head, quicly fell asleep with one hand thrust into the po cet of his long great-coat. And thus we travelled, my new "uncle" and I. Needless to say, I was even rather pleased things had turned out as they had. I congratulated myself for tricing Pecheritsa so cleverly. I had expected him to worry me and eep asing whether I was the delegate from the factory-training sc hool who had been sent to Kharov; but it had not been lie that at all, we had just come to a quiet family agreement. "Where's he going to, then, the old bligh ter?" I wondered, glancing up at the belt of Pecheritsa's great-coat dangling fr om the bun. I opened my brief case and too out Voinich's wonderful novel The Gadfly. I had promised myself I would read this boo in the train and even mae a summary of i t, so that I should be able to spea about it at the next "What new boos have w e read?" evening at school. Our Komsomol group often held such meetings. And moc trials were even more popu lar. Whom didn't we put on trial in those days! There was Vanderwelde, the tric y Belgian Foreign Minister, and Don Quixote who wasted his time fighting windmil ls, and Lord Curzon who sent all those haughty notes and ultimatums to the young Soviet land... ... I could not read properly. The noise of the wheels put me off. The pencil I was using to mae notes ept jumping all over the place. And Pecheritsa's presen ce did not mae things any easier. I wanted to have a peep at his travel warrant , but I was afraid he had not fallen properly asleep. The inspector did not come round until it was quite dar, after we had passed Du nayevtsy, and as if to show that he was not to be waened, Pecheritsa started sn oring so loud that the inspector could hardly mae his voice heard. The candles had not yet been lighted and only the feeble gleam of the inspector'

s lantern reached my corner. The inspector pulled out his ey and was about to t ap on the bun to wae Pecheritsa, when I said hastily: "Don't wae him up, he's ill. I've got his ticet. Here you are." "Pretty loud snorer for a sic man," grunted the inspector, checing the ticets . The conductor standing behind him stared at Pecheritsa's boots. "Where did he get in?" he said in surprise. "I don't remember him. I thought you were my only passenger, young fellow. Where did he come from?" "We've been here all the time," I mumbled. "Change at Kiev," the inspector said curtly and handed me the ticets. Thining that there might be a biler hiding on the upper bans, he swung his la ntern up to the luggage rac. The light flicered on the ceiling. There was no o ne else in the compartment. Having set his mind at rest, the inspector went on d own the carriage. Lulled by the monotonous drumming of the wheels. I dozed off... A hoarse voice waened me. "Have they checed the ticets?" The train had stopped. A lamp hanging from a post outside shed a greenish light through the carriage window and I could see Pecheritsa's head above me. "Yes." "Then I'll have a bit more sleep. If they come round again, just show them the t icets, old chap." I nodded silently, looed at the window for a minute and closed my eyes. It was warm and cosy. The gentle swaying was nice. I lay down on the seat in my chumar a and, putting the brief case under my head for a pillow, soon fell asleep. How long I slept, I don't now. I was awaened by the light of a torch shining on my face. "Ticets!" "There's two here, mine and his. . ." I muttered, groping in my pocets. "He's i n the bun on top. He's not well." The inspector turned the beam away and too the ticets. Behind him stood a man in a wadded jacet, who also looed at the ticets. "Shall I wae him?" the inspector ased quietly and flashed the torch on Pecheri tsa's bac. Pecheritsa had rolled himself in a ball and was still fast asleep. "We'll have to," said the man in the wadded jacet, but then checed himself: "W ait, here's the travel warrant!" And detaching the long white slip of paper from the ticets, he started examining it intently. Blining at them sleepily, I could not mae out what it was all about. I wished they would go away. "You needn't wae him," the man in the wadded jacet said quietly, folding the w arrant and handing it bac to the inspector. "He's not the one. . . Let's go on. " The inspector gave me bac both ticets wrapped in the warrant. The two men went away. I fell asleep at once, and so soundly that by the time I awoe we had rea ched a big station. A truc rumbled along the brightly-lit platform, people were running about with bottles and tea-pots. The station lamps shed their light right into the compartment. I noticed that th e upper bun was empty Pecheritsa had gone. Pressing my face to the window, I read the name-board on front of the station: ZHMERINKA We had come a good way! Knocing the legs of sleeping passengers, I waled to the door. The carriage had filled up and the air was heavy with the smell of sheepsin and mahora tobacco. What had become of Pecheritsa? Perhaps he had gone to the buffet?. . . Fine chap to travel with! Couldn't even wae me up. And afraid to leave his case behind! Must thin I'm a thief. At the end of the corridor I felt the tang of the frosty night. The puddles on t he platform were iced over. Stars twinled below the rim of the station roof. A new conductor in a leather cap with a smart badge on it was waling up and dow n beside the carriage with a rolled flag in his hand.

"Will we be here much longer, Comrade Conductor?" I ased. "That we shall!" the conductor replied cheerfully. "A long time yet. The Odessa express has got to come through." "Have I got time to go to the station?" "Plenty. We shan't be moving for over an hour." "Nobody will tae my place, will they?" "If they do, we'll mae them give it bac to you. You've got a seat ticet, have n't you?..." I waled all over Zhmerina Station. Huge and clean, in those days it was spoen of as the best station in the Soviet Uraine. I even went down the famous white -tiled tunnel. Passing the first-class buffet, I glanced at the pin hams, at the white sucing pig that lay spread-eagled on a bed of bucwheat porridge, at the fried chicen s and green peas, at the plump, glistening pies stuffed with meat arid rice, at the dar-red slices of smoed tongue, at the stuffed perch that seemed to be swi mming in its trembling coating of jelly. I was so anxious for just a taste of th ese delicacies that I lost all self-control, I had a slice of cold por and a sa lted cucumber, dran three glasses of cold rich mil with fresh pies, then I ate two custard tarts and washed it all down with a glass of dried-fruit salad. But as soon as I came out of the station into the fresh air, I began to repent. Fancy throwing money away lie that! With an appetite that size I'd never get to Kiev. And I felt specially ashamed because 'I had allowed myself such a bourgeo is feast at a time when our chaps had so little to eat. Cabbage soup and lentils t hat was the usual dinner at our hostel. And beans, beans, beans! Beans for suppe r, beans for breafast. Even the afters on Sundays was beans with a ind of sic ly treacle sauce. Niita Kolomeyets tried to console us by saying that there was a lot of phosphorus in beans and they would mae us much cleverer, but there wa sn't a single one among us who wouldn't have given all his rotten beans for a po rtion of good meat rissoles or a peppery goulash and fried potatoes. Tortured by remorse, I climbed into the carriage and returned to my seat. Pecheritsa was not there. After my meal the warmth of the compartment made me sleepy and I did not feel li e going outside again. I just felt lie sitting bac on the hard seat and dozin g. The express from Moscow rumbled in on the main line amid clouds of steam. The st ation became noisy. Fighting with sleep, I peered at the lighted windows of the carriage that had stopped by us. Covered with sheets and blanets the passengers lay in their comfortable buns. "Made themselves at home, haven't they!" I thou ght enviously. The express only stopped for a few minutes, then moved on smoothly. The red ligh t on the end carriage flashed past the window and again I found myself staring a t the yellow walls of the station. Soon we moved on too. Pecheritsa had not returned. I still had his ticet and travel warrant. When it got light, I too a loo at the warrant. The first thing I noticed was t hat it had been made out not for Pecheritsa, but for a second-year student at th e agricultural institute, Proopy Shevchu. Across the bottom of the warrant ran the flowery signature of the director of district education Pecheritsa. Hum, so mething underhand about that! Pecheritsa was the only man in our town who had th e right to issue warrants for free travel on the railways. I remembered how even before Pecheritsa had ordered the closing of the factory-training school, we ha d ased him to send a few of the very best pupils for a trip round the factories of the Donbas during the holidays. Pecheritsa had refused. "The factory-trainin g school won't get a single warrant out of me. They are only for students." And the blighter was travelling with one himself! I made up my mind that as soon as I got bac I would show Pecheritsa up, if only on this score. But where had he got to! The destination on the warrant was Millerovo. . . If I was not mistaen, that was the other side of Kharov. He couldn't have missed th e train we had stopped too long in Zhmerina. There had been time to have breafa st and dinner as well. All I could thin of was that Pecheritsa had bought a fre

sh ticet and changed on to the express. IN KHARKOV The line was snowed up in places and our train did not reach Kharov until eveni ng, ten hours late. Crossing the street with some care, H waled down Yeaterinoslav Street towards the centre of the city. Lighted trams rolled past, scattering greenish spars from their collector-arms. "Evening Radio! Evening Radio! Latest report - from Rome! Mussolini still alive! " a little news-boy was shouting at the top of his voice. The shop signs dazzled me. The windows were heaped with nuts, ginger, heaps of p astila, basets of Caucasian salad, sultanas, dates, Antonova apples, oranges a nd lemons wrapped in tissue-paper. On the door of a shabby two-storey house I no ticed a wooden placard: Eva Kapulsaya's Delicious Dinners Home-Cooed in Pure B utter. Tasty. Simple. Cheap!!! Delicious odours of roast lamb and garlic steamed through the open window of the coo-shop. "O for some dinner!" I thought, and liced my lips. It was two days since I had eaten a hot meal. All the journey ;I had fed on sausage and cold mil except for m y little treat at Zhmerina, of course. Today I had hardly had anything to eat s ince morning... But on the very threshold of Eva Kapulsaya's fairyland I change d my mind. I didn't now yet what "cheap" meant. What was cheap for her, a priva te restaurant-eeper, might not be at all cheap for me. I must not waste public money. Who could tell how many days I might have to stay here! Perhaps from hunger, my legs felt light as air and my head swam as if I had just come out of hospital. I strode on, not nowing the way, but guessing that Yeat erinoslav Street would bring me to the centre. Splashes flew from under my feet th e pavement was covered with melting slush. What a good job I had borrowed Sasha' s new galoshes for the journey! The narrow side-street brought me out on to a broad square and before me I saw t he yellow columned building of the All-Urainian Central Executive Committee. It was surrounded by little snow-sprinled fir-trees that seemed to guard it. Now and then a hooting omnibus drove past; sledges with bear-sins thrown over the s eats trotted by, their bells jingling. In the distance I could read sparling le tters in the sy VISTI the biggest government paper in the Uraine in those days. At that moment I remembered our little far-off border town and the school hostel on its quiet outsirts. Perhaps right now the chaps were taling about me, hopi ng that I would bring them good news. Perhaps they were still sitting on the lon g benches in the Komsomol club in Kishinev Street. Of course, they would be ther e now! Tonight they were holding a show. They had been rehearsing it a long time . And what was more, there was going to be a musical scene called "Troia" with my friends in it Galya Kushnir, Mona Guzarchi, Furman the "philosopher," and eve n Sasha Bobir. I felt sad at the thought of not seeing the performance of our dramatics circle, and missing a chance of laughing with the other chaps at Sasha's acting. But as I stood there, on the square of this strange city, I new that even though they were having a good time, my friends would be sure to remember me. Peeping at the lighted windows, I wandered on to the next square Rosa Luxemburg Sq uare, it was called. The latest edition of a Kharov newspaper was pasted on a board near the House o f Urainian Trade Unions. A small head-line caught my eye: MUSSOLINI ATTACKED At 11 a.m. today an unnown elderly woman fired a revolver almost point-blan at Mussolini. He was coming out on to the ; Capitol Square from the building where the 5 International Congress of Surgeons is being held. The bullet grazed Musso lini's nostril. The woman who fired the shot has been arrested. "What a shot!" I thought. "No better than Sasha! Fancy getting that close to a d

irty fascist lie Mussolini and not finishing him off! She shouldn't have taen the job on, if she couldn't shoot. Grazed his nostril! ... So that's why the id was shouting 'Latest report from Rome!' I wonder if there's anything more about it." Next to the report from Rome there was a column about the outrages committed by the Bulgarian fascists on the Communist Kabachiev. Below it I read that the air ship Norway would soon be flying from Italy to Leningrad. In the centre of the n ext page, I saw a picture of a man with a beard. Above the picture was a head-li ne: CURRENT TASKS OF THE PARTY From the Concluding Speech of the General Secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Uraine at the Plenary Meeting. I scanned the portrait of the General Secretary and noticed his ind, smiling ey es. Hadn't I seen him somewhere before? But of course on the cover of the magazine Vsesvit in our hostel. I strolled along the pavement, swinging my brief case. "I'm in Kharov! I'm in K harov!" the thought drummed in my temples. People hurried past me and I tried t o be lie them in every way. I marched on confidently, showing no surprise at an ything, and little by little I began to feel I was an old inhabitant of this lar ge, capital city... Ever since I had left the train, I had been pursued by the thought that Pecherit sa would suddenly pop up in front of me just as unexpectedly as he had appeared in my compartment. A street sign was flashing on a building ahead of me: New American Thriller! SHARKS OF NEW YORK Both parts in one programme Nervous people and children not admitted At the sight of this enticing notice I lost my head for the second time since I started on my journey. Forgetting all about my hunger, I made a bee-line for the cinema. When should I get a chance of seeing such an interesting film in our li ttle town! The box-office was in a dar, damp-smelling archway. From the commotion that abo ut half a dozen lads were maing round the box-office I realized that there were very few ticets left. A bit of shoving and pushing got me a place in the queue . Clutching my brief case under my arm, I unfastened the safety-pins with tremblin g fingers. It would be my turn soon. "Next! What row?" the ticet-seller snapped at me from her box. At last I got the second pin undone. Glancing over my shoulder all the time, I p ulled the wad of money out of my pocet. As I too two ruble notes out of the wa d, I felt someone was watching me. Two suspicious-looing fellows in chec caps pulled low over their eyes were lou nging near the box-office. "Picpocets!" I thought and pushed the wad of notes deeper into my jacet poce t. Thrusting the change into the pocet of my chumara and grabbing the little b lue ticet, I charged after the lad who had been in front of me in the ticet qu eue. "Hurry up, dearie it's just starting!" said the ticet-woman, tearing my ticet wi th one hand and releasing the wooden turnstile with the other. As soon as I got into the buzzing hall, the lights went out and a bluish beam fr om the projector pierced the darness. I trod on someone's foot. "Good-heavens, what a bear!" A voice hissed irritably. Trying not to loo at the owner of the v oice, I plumped down in the first vacant seat. . . Ten minutes passed... I forgo

t I was in Kharov, I even forgot it was dar outside and I had nowhere to spend the night. ... The New Yor gangsters terrible hairy fellows, with brutal faces, broen noses and square jutting chins, roamed about the screen with huge Colts and Brownings . They filed through steel bars, craced open fire-proof safes, chased each othe r on express trains, aeroplanes, speed-boats and cars, shooting down their rival s point-blan in a practised way that made you thin they even enjoyed doing it. I felt as if I had been shot through in ten places, and by the time the terrible spectacle was over I could scarcely understand why I was not dead. Only when I got outside, hot and excited and glad to be still alive, did I remember that I h ad nowhere to stay the night. It was all because of that train getting into 'Kharov so late! If it had arrive d earlier, when it was still daylight, I could have gone to the Komsomol club an d they would have found me a bed in a hostel. But now where could I go? The light under the archway had already been extinguished and the people were fe eling their way out in darness, treading on one another's heels. "Stop pushing for God's sae!" said a voice behind me and at that moment someone gave me a tremendous shove in the bac. "What are you pushing for?" I said, turning to a lany fellow in a cap pulled do wn over his eyes. "Beg your pardon, it wasn't me, it was him," and the lout, grinning impudently, nodded to his neighbour. Then someone shoved me again. And what a shove! I nearly dropped my brief case. And suddenly someone crushed my foot with his heel. I jumped with pain. But deciding that I had better not mae trouble, I gripped my brief case firmly and struggled out of the dar archway into the- lighted street. What a bunch of louts! Must have learnt their trics from those American gangste rs! That's what they came to the film for. . . Spoiling other people's galoshes! The station buffet was still open and I decided to have a snac and then doze on a bench until dawn. The air of Kharov had made me ravenous, and as I went up to the glass counter I was already groping in my jacet pocet. Suddenly I remembered that after buyin g my cinema ticet I had not pinned my pocet up again. Oh! I felt my legs sag under me. The glass chandelier hanging from the stuccoed ceiling swam before my eyes. . . My pocet was empty! "Steady," I told myself. "The main thing is not to panic. Pull yourself together !" With sad, hungry eyes :I gazed at the grinning mouth of a pie on a salad dish, then crept miserably away from the counter. "Steady on, don't get excited!" I tried to reassure myself. "You've just got you r pocets mixed." Going over to the window-sill, I tossed my brief case on to it and rummaged thro ugh my pocets with trembling fingers. But all in vain the money had gone, gone wi th the Shars of New Yor. In the pocet of my chumara I found the crumpled ruble and coins that the tice t-seller had given me for change. But what were these in comparison with the wea lth that had been stolen from me! It must have been those scoundrels in the chec caps who had taen it! But how should I get home? "Keep it up along the sleepers!" I remembered the words of a long-forgotten song . Yes, along the sleepers. . . There was nothing for it. I would do a day's wor h ere and there for the ulas on the road. I would wor as a farm-labourer and ge t bac! Perhaps I could sell my chumara?. . . But who would buy a ragged old thing lie that? When we were in a tough spot Niita had advised us to remember the old sea sayin g: "Rub your nose and you'll get over it." I scratched my nose so hard that I ne arly too the sin off. But it didn't help a bit!...

Should I send Niita a telegram asing for help? Just one word "robbed!" and the a ddress "Kharov Station To be called for"?... But what a row it would cause at scho ol! "Loo at that!" they would say. "We've sent a fool! Instead of sticing up f or us, he's been wasting our money! Just a wool-gatherer!" And wouldn't Titor g loat! No, I mustn't send a telegram. I must find my own way out of the mess. It had been my fault and I must tae wha t was coming to me! Now I realized the truth of Niita's advice, when he used to tell us: "Mind you never have anything to do with those Harry Peels and Rudolph Valentinoes. They're poison. Those films are a school for bandits. They can't l ead a man to any good!" How right he had been! What on earth had made me go and see those "Shars"!. . . It wouldn't have mattered if I had never even heard of them!... What could I do ? How could I get out of this mess? And the money they had stolen! A small fortu ne! I started to count the change that the thieves had left me. A ruble forty opes . Not very rich! But it was enough for bread and soda water. I would stic it ou t for a couple of days somehow, get everything done, then bil my way home. I wo uld creep under the carriage seat and lie there quietly so that the conductor wo uldn't notice me. Or perhaps I could jump a goods train. SPRING MORNING Day came. The porters started cleaning the station and I went out into the stree t. Sleepy and hungry, I felt I should scarcely be able to last a day on bread an d soda water. The long journey, the lac of food, the worry and excitement of it all had drained my strength. I swayed as I waled down the street. The trams had not started yet, but there were plenty of people about. Janitors w ere opening gates. Housewives with shopping-bags in their hands were hurrying of f to maret. They were all heading in one direction, so to ill time I wandered after them. "Blagbaz," the famous Kharov maret, was the first place to wae up. Stalls were opening one after the other. Miserable and unwashed, I waled round "Blagbaz" until a pungent appetizing smell struc my nostrils. It even ousted th e smells of salted cabbage and celery. Nostrils quivering, lie a hound on the s cent, I made in the direction of the smell. A lean-faced maret woman, in a wadd ed jacet, was bustling about by two smoing braziers on which stood two huge po ts. "Hot flachies! Hot flachies! Buy up, buy up, good people! Very tasty, very che ap! You'll never find such tasty flachies anywhere else, not even in fairyland! Oh, they're lovely! The best cheapest food you can get in the world! Buy my fla chies! .." ... If any of you have ever stood in a maret, beside a blazing brazier, with a clay bowl in your hands, and a rough wooden spoon it must be a wooden spoon and stan ding thus, eaten fresh, hot, peppery tripe cutlets, or flachies as they are cal led in the Uraine, with cream and spice, and onions, and garlic, and red pepper , and grated cheese, all scented with laurel leaves and parsley, you will unders tand just how hard it was for me not to brea into my last ruble. Even three hours later, when the offices opened and I waled up to the tall buil ding on the corner of Karl Liebnecht Street, my mouth was still burning with th e red pepper. Those flachies hadn't been so cheap, after all. Half a ruble gone already! Now what? Suppose the head of the Central Committee's education department was away and I had to wait for him? Enough! No more luxury today! Until tomorrow 'I must not spend a single ope. N o soda water for me. I could drin from the tap it was free and just as good. I mu st save my money, so that I could at least buy a scrap of bread to eep me going on the road bac, when I should be dodging the inspectors. I had no trouble getting into the building. My Komsomol membership card and othe r papers were inspected and returned to me with a pass.

I waled into the spacious entrance-hall and handed the pass to the sentry. The sentry checed it and showed me where to go. As soon as I entered the hall, I be gan to feel timid. When I had to tae my coat off, I felt worse. At the cloa-st and, together with my hat, galoshes and chumara. I seemed to lose half my coura ge. "What floor, comrade?" the liftwoman called out to me. I had heard before that i n the capital there were machines that carried people right to the top of buildi ngs, but it was the first time I had ever seen a lift. "I want Room 246," I said to the liftwoman, looing at my pass. "Get in, I'll tae you up." "No thans," said I and waled off hurriedly down the carpeted corridor to the s tairs. Stairs were safer! At a cautious pace I mounted the stairs. During my travels, my feet had got used to the warm galoshes and now, as 'I waled along in my thin-soled shoes, I felt as if I had nothing on my feet at all. Wondering at the cleanliness and quiet everywhere, I turned into a corridor at t he top of the stairs. All the doors had little numbers on them, but I could not find the education department. A shortish, thic-set man in top-boots was waling down the corridor towards me with steady, deliberate tread. I could not see his face the sun from the windows w as shining in my eyes. "Please, comrade, can you tell me..." I began, hurrying up to the man. "I can indeed," he said and stopped in front of me. But I could as no more. . , Before me stood the very man whose photograph 'I ha d seen the evening before in the newspaper. In my surprise I forgot the number of the room I was looing for. To help me out of my confusion, he ased cheerfully: "Got lost? Where are you from, lad?" "I'm from the border. . ." "From the border ? A visitor from afar, eh? What's your business?" And at that moment a daring thought flashed into my head what if I told the Genera l Secretary himself all about our troubles? "May I spea to you?" I ased. As soon as we entered the big, light office with its large square windows looin g out over a garden, he offered me a chair, and I suddenly felt my courage retur n. It was as if my old acquaintance Kartamyshev were sitting in front of me. Sti ll a little nervous and glancing at the bunch of telephones assembled on the end of the big des, but speaing quite calmly, I explained why my mates had sent m e to Kharov. The Secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Uraine hea rd me out very attentively. Twice he piced up a big green pencil and noted something on his pad. When he di d this, I would stop, but then he would nod and I would go on again. When I began to narrate how Pecheritsa had in-, suited Polevoi with that article in the paper, the secretary ased: "So Pecheritsa insisted on the dismissal of an instructor merely because he had not learnt Urainian soon enough?" "Yes, that's it! And the way he insisted! He called Polevoi a chauvinist. But ho w can he be a chauvinist when he's been a Bolshevi right from the start of the Revolution! And why force Nazarov to learn Urainian in such a hurry, when he ha sn't been in the Uraine a year yet?" I ased hotly. The secretary smiled, and encouraged by his smile, I went on: "And now what's ha ppened? they're going to close the school. Well, it's not so bad for a chap who's got a mother or father living in town, they can help him until he gets fixed up somewhere. But what about the chaps who came to us from orphanages what are they g oing to do? The Petlura men illed their fathers, and there's nobody in town the y can turn to. They won't even have anywhere to live. They used to live in the f actory-school hostel, but now, as soon as the school is closed, Pecheritsa wants to put the musical college students into the hostel. They're his favourites, th ey sing in his choir. But what will happen to the chaps from our school? And our

training hasn't cost the state a thing the school pays its way entirely. We mae straw-cutters ourselves and sell them to the peasants and live on what we mae o ut of it. It's good for us, and the peasants get the machines they need. It brin gs town and country together. We thought we would finish at school, become wore rs and be sent to factories in the Donbas, and other chaps would be taen on at the school. And suddenly this happens... And all because of Pecheritsa. . ." The secretary smiled again and said: "Steady on, don't get so upset. The situati on isn't half so bad as you thin it is." "But just imagine it!" I said, spurred on by his encouragement. "They've got eno ugh unemployed at the town labour exchange as it is, and now Pecheritsa will pus h us on to them. After all that training... And even if the exchange sends us ou t as pupils to private craftsmen, what shall we be doing? Mending saucepans or s oldering wash-tubs! Was that what we hoped to do when we started at the factorytraining school? Is it our fault there aren't any big factories in our district yet?. . ." The secretary interrupted me with a question concerning what I had told him earl ier. "Is that what he actually said: 'No one will allow the blue sy of Podolia to be soiled with factory smoe?' Or did you just mae that up for effect?" "What, do you thin I'm maing all this up?" I said offendedly. "That's just wha t he said." "Curious... very curious... I didn't now he was woring so openly. What a lands cape-painter, eh! Lucily for us, the people of the Uraine won't as him where to build their factories. We shall build them where they are needed. We'll soil the sy a bit here and there, and the air will be all the fresher for it." "Polevoi always tells us that our country can't live without industrialization b ecause the foreign capitalists would swallow us up," I agreed. "Does he now! Good! You are lucy to have such a good director. Everyone who's i n charge of even the smallest undertaing should loo at the future from a revol utionary point of view. Tell me, how many fine young chaps lie you are there at your school?" "Fifty-two... And we all belong to the metal-worers' trade union." "Many Komsomol members?" "Over half." "And when is your course due to finish, according to plan?" "In May. Very soon. That's the whole point!" "Will all your chaps want to go away to other towns?'' "Not half they will! They'd go on foot! What do you thin we studied for? When w e started at school they promised us we all should get jobs at big factories "When did you arrive today?" the secretary ased unexpectedly, again writing somet hing on his pad. "Yesterday evening. I would have got here yesterday, but the train was late." "Where did you spend the night?" "At the station. I got a bit of sleep on one of the benches..." "At the station?. . . Why didn't you go to a hotel? Or the peasants' hostel? You now, the big building in Rosa Luxemburg Square.. ." "Well, er. . . It wasn't bad at the station. . ." "What's come over you all of a sudden? You were rattling away just now. Come on, confess: you didn't have enough money?" "I did, but..." And little by little I told the secretary my troubles. Shaing his head sympathetically, the secretary smiled, then breaing into a lau gh, said: "Those Shars of New Yor let you down, lad! You're feeling hungry now , I bet?" "Oh, no ... no, thans, I've had breafast. . ." "Well, listen to me, lad," said the Secretary of the Central Committee, rising. "I am quite sure that decision will be rescinded. I'll mae enquiries today and I thin your hopes will come tr ue. Not one of you will be left stranded that's certain. Very soon we shall be ne eding young intelligent worers lie you everywhere. Both in the Donbas and in Y eaterinoslav. At a meeting in Moscow last year, Comrade Stalin put it quite pla

inly: 'We need fifteen or twenty million industrial proletarians, we need the el ectrification of the principal regions of our country, the organization of agric ulture on co-operative lines, and a highly developed metal industry. And then we need fear no danger. And then we shall triumph on an international scale.' And isn't it the duty of our young people to help the Party carry out that tas? Of course it is. Don't you worry, the Party won't let you down.. . As for your pers onal troubles, they can soon be put right. Go to Comrade Kirillov in room thirty -two. He will find you accommodation and all the other things. Tae this note." He scribbled a few words and handed me a sheet from his note-pad. "Have a rest today and go to the theatre in the evening. Go and see Sasagansy acting. There's a really great Urainian artist for you! One of these days, when you grow up, people will envy you that you saw him acting in person. You'll fin d it a lot better in all ways than those 'Shars.' Spend the night here and leav e tomorrow. . . Yes, and give Kartamyshev my regards. Tell him to eep a close e ye on that frontier. Well, good-bye, lad!" And the secretary offered me his hand . I said good-bye and sped joyfully out of the room, nearly tripping over the carp et as I went. As I closed the door behind me, I heard the secretary speaing into one of his t elephones: "A comrade who's come here on a visit will be dropping in to see you. He's been robbed. We shall have to help him. . . Yes, from the fund for Communi sts in need of assistance. . ." I don't now how long I spent at the Central Commit tee. Maybe an hour, maybe mo re. The time flew past with out my noticing it. When I came out from under the a rch, the sun shone brightly in my eyes. The morning mist had drifted away, and o n the bare trees in the university square opposite, the crows, sensing the appro ach of spring, were cawing loudly. The roofs were dripping, and the snow, dar a nd crumbly lie sugar soaed in tea, melted before my eyes. Here was luc! I still couldn't get over my good fortune. I had thought I should have to stay here for about three days, arguing and going all over the place, b ut after one tal everything was settled! And so quicly! It was really amazing. P erhaps I had dreamt it all? Of course not! I fingered the crisp new notes in my pocet. They were from Kirillov. Just in case they might be needed I had given h im the list of pupils and our letter to the Central Committee of the Komsomol. I had never expected to get any money when I went to see Comrade Kirillov. 'I had just gone in and shown the secretary's note to an elderly man in a navy-blue tu nic, and after asing me a few questions and having a good laugh, he had handed me a whole fifty rubles. He had also given me a pass to the hostel for visiting Party worers, in Artem Street, as if I were already a member of the Party. With a great load off my mind and rejoicing for my friends at school, I sipped gaily across the street and wandered into the deserted par covered with melted snow. The last snow of winter, grey and thin as jelly, slithered about under my feet. Here and there, blac patches of sodden earth covered with dead leaves and froze n grass showed on the mounds. What a fine par it was on that glorious sunny mor ning! And no one else about except me, who scarcely new whether I was on my hea d or my heels for joy! I turned round. Through the bare trees 'I could see the familiar outlines of a t all building. For a moment I fancied I could see someone smiling in the sunlight and waving to me from a big window the General Secretary of the Communist Party o f the Uraine, a true friend of Comrade Stalin. In my joy I stamped my foot so h ard that I craced the hard trampled coating of ice on the foot-path and sun an le-deep in snow. I stood lie that and listened. Far away the trams were clanging, crows were flapping about in the birches, in t he next street a motor-horn quaced lie a duc, but all these sounds were drown ed by the beating of my heart. Spring was coming and the sun was warm, and that spring morning I quite forgot I was in a big, strange city... BY TORCH-LIGHT

Swaying torches blaze in the spring breeze. Tails of sooty smoe weave above the heads of the Komsomol column marching down the cobbled road leading from the st ation into town. Beyond the roadside ditches filled with the water of the thaw s tretch blac, desolate allotments. How quicly the snow has vanished while I hav e been away in Kharov! Very liely the deep gullies that run down to the Dniest er, right on the border, are the only places where the last, dirty snowdrifts re main. At the head of the column a taut canvas sheet strains in the wind. The marchers' feet strie firmly on the cobblestones. A single clear voice is singing in the front ran: In the storm of October An army was born Of the Komsomol, daring and brave and young.. . Then the rans pic up the familiar chorus: The oppressors to crush, The oppressors to crush... The fresh spring air helps on the song. I sing, too, hugging my brief case, whic h is now once again wrapped in newspaper. ... The young railwaymen's Komsomol group had already formed up with lighted tor ches on Station Square when the train steamed in to the platform and I, jumping off before the train stopped, ran out on to the station steps. Pancheno of the District Committee, in a sheepsin hat, was pacing about with the group secretar y in front of the rans. "Hullo, Mandzhura!" he said as he passed. "Got bac? Fall in with us. We're hold ing a demonstration to get Kabachiev, the Bulgarian Communist, out of jail. Hur ry up we're late!" I fell in quicly and we stepped off at once, carrying a red calico banner on wh ich was written: WE DEMAND THAT THE BULGARIAN FASCISTS LIBERATE THE HEROIC REVOLUTIONARY FIGHTER KHRISTO KABAKCHIEV "I'll march with them as far as Soviet Square and join up with my own chaps ther e," I thought, picing up the song. White cottages, the first buildings of the town, loomed out of the darness. My home town! I felt its evening stillness shattered by the boisterous songs of the marchers. They were songs that frightened the musty representatives of the o ld world who still lived among us former tsarist officials, priests, private trade rs and all those who hoped for the return of the tsarist regime one day. Lowering storm-clouds gather above us, Sinister forces threaten us still. . . the marchers struc up a fresh song. How I longed to tell the fellows beside me that I had just come bac from Kharo v where I had taled with no less a person than the Secretary of the Central Com mittee himself. How I longed to tell everyone that the secretary had called Pech eritsa a "landscape-painter." If only I could have related how I had seen Sasag ansy acting in a play called Vanity! But my neighbours went on singing and too no notice of me. Even Pancheno had not ased about my trip. From the way he had greeted me you w ould thin I had been to the next village, not the capital... Pancheno was marc hing at the side of the column. I could mae out his deep, soft voice among the other voices. Along the other side of Hospital Square, near the dar building of the factory-t raining school, another torch-light column was moving towards the centre of the

town. Was it the factory-school chaps? Of course it was! Only our group had such brigh t torches. "Cheerio, chaps! Thans for your company! I'm off to my own group!" I shouted to the railwaymen and, breaing away from the column, I sped across the square. My feet dragged in the muddy clay. What a fuss Sasha would mae if I lost his ga loshes! Splashes of ice-cold water flew out on all sides. My trouser-legs were w et through already. Nearer and nearer came the light of the torches. I gasped fo r breath. Everything would be all right as long as I didn't get caught on the ba rbed wire! There was a gap in it somewhere round here. Yes, here it was. . . One last spurt and I was running along the firm road, overtaing the rear of the co lumn. "Hey there, chaps! Hurrah!" I shouted, waving the heavy brief case so joyfully t hat the paper flew off. But who cared! No one would call me a bureaucrat now. "P ugu!" I shouted lie a Cossac, spotting Sasha's ginger mop. "Tae your galoshes , Sasha!" "Vasil's bac. . . Mandzhura's here!" came excited voices. "Fall in here, with me," Niita shouted from the head of the column. I pushed into the front ran and gripped our secretary's hand firmly. There were familiar faces all round me Sasha Bobir, fatty Maremuha, Furman the n ow-all. I glanced bac and saw the dejected face of Yasha Titor in the rear. "Well, what's the news?" Niita said, glancing into my face. "Everything's all right, Niita!" I answered simply. "We'll be going to the Donb as. Listen..." Choing with excitement and trying not to trip over, I told Niit a hurriedly about my visit to the Central Committee. A drop of tar from a torch dripped on my nose. I rubbed it off with my fist and gasped out my story in bits and pieces. The rans were very close together and it was difficult to march. T rying to hear what I was saying, the chaps ept treading on my heels and pushing me from behind. "Is that what he said, 'your dreams will come true'?" Niita interrupted me. "That's right. And then the secretary said: 'Very soon young intelligent worers lie you will be needed everywhere both in Yeaterinoslav and in the Donbas.' " "Splendid! So there's justice in the world after all Polevoi was right, wasn't h e? See what a clever bloe h is?" Niita said triumphantly, and turning to the r est o| the column, he shouted: "We'll soon be going to the Don-f bas, chaps! Wha t did I say? Let's have a song to mar the occasion our school song!" In one voic e we struc up with the trainees song composed by a young worer-poet Teren Mase no. "We'd toss you, Vasil, but it's a bit too muddy," Niita shouted. "We're s o grateful, we might drop you you'd get yourself dirty if you fell, you now." Pro ud and happy, I sang with the others. "Is Pecheritsa bac yet?" I ased Niita. "Try and find him!" Niita flung bac grimly. "What, have they saced him alread y? By telegraph, I suppose?" "He's saced himself." "When I was with him in the train..." "Where?" Niita exc laimed, fixing his eyes on me. "Where? Why, we travelled together as far as Zhme rina, then..." "What's that?" Niita snapped, very alert suddenly. "You went as far as Zhmerin a with Pecheritsa?" Before I had time to tell how I had met Pecheritsa in the train, Niita swung ro und and shouted right in my face: "You ass! Don't you realize this is very impor tant! Why didn't you say anything about it before? Come with me... Furman, tae charge of the column!" We slipped out of the rans. The group marched on with their blazing torches tow ards the stands on Soviet Square carrying a big portrait of Kabachiev. Niita a nd I dashed off at top speed to the house in Seminary Street. A CALL FROM MOSCOW I had always nown that Niita lied maing a mystery of things. You would as him about something that interested you. All he had to do was to t ell you the answer without eeping you on edge. But no! Niita would eep you be

ating about the bush for goodness nows how long, and then, when you fairly were bursting with impatience, he would calmly start telling you about something qui te different. And that was more or less what he did now. Not a thing would Niita tell me all the way to the district OGPU office. His on ly answer to my questions was: "Wait a bit!" Clutching our blue passes in our hands, we climbed the stairs. Anyone could see that Niita had been here before by the bold way he climbed the stairs. I follow ed him. We reached the top landing. Niita waled confidently down a dar corridor and s topped at an oa door. He noced loudly. "Come in!" said a voice from inside. Heavy curtains on the windows. Two glass-fronted boocases. A big, fire-proof sa fe standing in the corner. In an alcove, a map dotted with flags, half covered b y a cur-lain. Below the map, which must have been of the frontier, in the shadow cast by a table lamp sat Vuovich, the tall fair-haired frontier guard chief, w ho had spent so long scouring about round headquarters with Polevoi after that a nxious night when Sasha let the bandit get away. "Here's a lad who's just got bac from Kharov. He says he saw Pecheritsa in Zhm erina," Niita flashed out straightaway. "Near Zhmerina," I corrected him. "That's interesting!" said Vuovich and offer ed us a seat. ... When my story was nearly over, Vuovich ased: 'But just which station was i t where you saw Pecheritsa last?" "I was asleep when he got out." "I understand that, but when did you see Pecheritsa last?" "After Dunayevets... No, half a mo'... That was where the ticets were checed f irst time." "Where was the second chec-up? You now, when this chap in the wadded jacet re ad the warrant?" "I don't now... The train was moving and they woe me up." "Just a minute!" And Vuovich glanced at his notepad. "You said Pecheritsa ased whether the ticets had been checed." "That's right." "Where was that when the train was moving or at a station?" "The train had stopped... At a station, I thin." "Now, what station was it? Did n't you see any notices?" "I just can't remember.. . If I'd nown.. . You see, it was the first time I'd b een on a train... " "Perhaps it was Derazhnya?" "No... I don't thin so..." "Chorny Ostrov?" "No.. ." "Kotuzhany?" "No." "Was it light on the platform?" "Uh-huh." "What ind of light?" "Same as usual. You now, not very bright." Vuovich frowned. "No, wait a moment. That's not what I mean. Was it electricity or erosene lamps? Or gas, perhaps?" "A sort of greenish light from a lamp a lamp with a round glass, and a burner insi de. It was hanging from a post. You remember, we used to have lamps lie that in Post Street, near Shipulinsy's cafe. . ." "Gas lamps?" "That's it gas lamps!" "The station wasn't on a hill by any chance? Stone steps, and the platform all r utted? If it had been raining there'd be a lot of puddles about? Is that anythin g lie it?" "Yes, I thin so. The train comes in a long way from the station." "And you are sure that Pecheritsa didn't get out there?" Vuovich continued with great interest, dropping the last trace of formality in his manner.

"Of course! It was later on that the conductor checed up again and read his war rant, after that station, and he was still asleep on the bun." "Sure he was asleep?" "Yes, he must have been. Although ... he might have been faing, who nows. All I remember is that I saw him there." "So then you went to sleep yourself, and when you woe up you were in Zhmerina? " "Uh-huh." . "And Pecheritsa wasn't there?" "Uh-huh." "Are you sure of that?" "Dead sure." "You're a lucy fellow! You got off lightly. With a travelling companion lie hi m, in an empty carriage, you might have gone to sleep and never woen up again," Vuovich said rather mysteriously, then with another glance at his pad where he had been maing notes, he ased: "What struc you about Pecheritsa's appearance ?" "Well, his coat was sort of ragged... I'd never seen him in a coat lie that bef ore." "And what else?" "Oh, yes! He hadn't got a moustache." "None at all?" "Not a hair left. He'd shaved it right off." "Aha, Comrade 'Kolomeyets," Vuovich said triumphantly, "so it was his moustache we found in a bit of paper outside the District Education Department. I said it was Pecheritsa s moustache, but Dzhendzhuristy wouldn't have it. 'No,' he says, ' that blighter wouldn't give up his moustache. That's one of the nationalists' tr aditions a big bushy Cossac moustache. He'd rather shave off his beard!' Just sho ws you how people come to expect the usual thing! Why, any enemy in Pecheritsa's shoes would throw away every tradition he ever heard of. You can't bother about traditions when your life's at stae!" And turning to me, Vuovich went on: "Yo u're telling the truth, aren't you, Mandzhura?" "Why should I tell lies?" I said indignantly. "Only people who're afraid and hav e guilty consciences tell lies. I want to help you catch that snae myself." "That's the idea, Mandzhura," Vuovich praised me smilingly. "It's the duty of a ll young worers to help us. We are dangerous only to the enemies of the Revolut ion, and the better we wor, the sooner we shall get rid of them altogether." "You've got a big job on," Niita put in. "Yes, to mae the whole country free of parasites," Vuovich assented. "Just a m inute." And he lifted the telephone receiver. "Shemetova? Vuovich speaing.., I s the chief there? We'll be round in a moment, tell him we're coming, please." The office of the chief of the frontier guard detachment and the district OGPU d epartment glowed in the soft light of bowl lamps hung close to the ceiling. How strange to find people here, at this late hour, when all the other offices in to wn had closed long ago! The arm-chairs were soft and comfortable; a glass of strong tea steamed on the e dge of the big walnut des. The chief nodded to us to sit down and with a teleph one pressed close to his ear went on listening attentively. Soon he got an answer. "Is that the commandant's office, Vitovtov Brod?" the chief shouted into the tel ephone. "What's become of you down there! ... Yes, what happened?... Yes... Yes. .. Steady, Bogdanov, not so fast, let me get it down." The chief piced up a sha rp pencil and, pressing the receiver even harder to his ear with his left hand, jotted notes on a pad with his right. "Who led the group?. . . What? That bandit again? Yes, gone to the right place! Less wor for the revolutionary tribunal.. . Who stopped him?... I see... Yes... Splendid! Than him officially on my behal f... What?... Of course... To headquarters at once!... What?. Listening involuntarily to this one-sided conversation, I glanced round the big room and, I must admit, began to feel rather timid. It was the first time I had

seen the security chief at such close quarters. I had seen him before, from a distance, when he rode round the rans of frontier guards and convoy troops on his white horse. His face reminded you of ;Kotovsy , who had been murdered only a short time ago. Lean and erect, a born horseman, pistol belt strapped tight across his body, he would bring his hand up to the sh iny pea of his green frontier guards cap and greet the troops in a cheerful rin ging voice, and the troops of the garrison would answer with a shout that drowne d the chiming of the cloc on the old town hall. And now he sat before us without his cap, dressed in a well-cut field tunic of g ood cloth. His fair hair was combed bac from a high, slightly bulging forehead. When he had finished speaing, the chief put down the receiver, surveyed Niita and me with a quic glance and said cheerfully to Vuovich: "Another attempt to cross the border, at Zhbinets. Nine smugglers. And not one o f them got through. The commander of that post, Gusev, is a good man. Dealt with them with his own forces without calling up the emergency group. Got the ringle ader with a grenade." "What were they bringing over?" Vuovich ased. "Saccharine again?" The chief looed at his pad and said slowly: "Not much saccharine. Only thirty pou nds. A lot of other trash scarves, stocings, gloves, razors, ties, and even a wh ole bale of Hungarian furs." "Who wants Hungarian fur when the winter's nearly over?" Vuovich said smiling. "Oh, perhaps some profiteer's wife wanted it for her bottom drawer," the chief s aid. "But something else was found, more important. In a waling stic that the leader of the gang threw away as soon as the shooting started, Gusev discovered seventy hundred-dollar notes." "Seven thousand dollars?" Vuovich replied, maing a quic calculation. "Not a b ad salary for someone..." "We'll get to the bottom of it," said the chief and, abandoning the subject, loo ed inquiringly in our direction. "These comrades from the factory-training scho ol," Vuovich reported, "have some important information about Pecheritsa... Go ahead, Mandzhura." The chief nodded. I told my story quietly, without hurrying. The chief watched my face eenly with his light penetrating eyes. Suddenly he raised his hand and stopped me: "And Pecheritsa spoe Russian to you all the time?" "All the time. That's the fu nny thing! After icing our instructor Nazarov out of school just because he sp oe Russian!" "And he spoe it well, fluently, without an accent?" the chief ased. "Yes, just lie a Russian. If I hadn't nown he was a Urainian, I'd never have guessed it from the way he taled." "We shall have to bear that in mind," the chief said to Vuovich. "That means he may be anywhere in the Soviet Union by now. Go on, young man." I related how I had discovered Pecheritsa's disappearance, and the chief said to Vuovich: "There, you see? Dzhendzhuristy's theory that he made a brea for the border turns out to be wrong. He's not the ind of enemy that puts his head in the noose straightaway. Perhaps he has three or four other tass to carry out. H e thins he'll lie doggo for a bit and let us forget about him..." A bell rang sharply outside the door. Shemetova appeared. "Moscow on the line, Comrade Chief!" "Now then, loo sharp with those latest reports on anti-contraband wor!" the ch ief ordered and piced up the receiver. A minute of silence. "District chief of frontier security speaing," the chief said in a loud clear v oice. "Hullo, Felix Edmundovich..." And he signed to Vuovich for us to leave th e room. ... Long ago the marchers had returned to their homes. Long ago their torches ha d cooled in the club store-rooms. Silence reigned over the steep white streets o f our little town. Cocs were crowing far away across the river. "You now who that was on the telephone?" Niita said impressively, stopping in the middle of the road. "Felix Edmundovich Dzerzhinsy! Do you realize that, Vas il? Dzerzhinsy himself! The top security man of the Revolution! ... On a night

lie this you don't want to sleep at all... Are you very tired after your journe y, Vasil? If you aren't, let's go for a wal round town." ... I shall never forget that calm spring night on the cliff near the Catholic c hurch. Tired after waling all over the town, we sat down to rest on the oa rails of t he old stairway that led steeply down the cliffs to the river. Here and there th e moon was reflected in the little puddles on its worn steps. The dar silhouettes of the Catholic saints on the portals of the church rose up behind us. They seemed to be petrified for ever in some strange ecstasy that wa s incomprehensible to us. The sleepy crows cawed quietly on the bare branches al ready swelling with the sap of spring. A motor purred down at the power station. Far below, the river Smotrich glistened at the bottom of the cliff. A trembling bar of moonlight lay across it. Beyond the hamlet of Dolzho a faint gleam on t he horizon signified the approach of dawn. "That's how it is, Vasil..." said Niita, as if thining aloud. "All over the wo rld a terrible, desperate struggle is being waged between the oppressed and the oppressors. And you and I are in that struggle. Our country has been the first i n the world to show the oppressed the right path to a better life. We ought alwa ys to be proud of that. We've got cunning and clever enemies to fight. But we sh all win, the woring people will win. I am sure of that." The familiar chimes of the town hall cloc came to us from behind the old houses of the town. "Three," said Niita. "Three in the morning... Yes, Vasil, we're living at a ver y interesting time. Believe me, none of our descendants will see as much in thei r youth as you and I, because it's not only our youth, it's the youth of the who le Soviet land... And one day we'll be telling them about it, perhaps even about tonight. 'Yes,' you'll be saying, 'I used to live in a little town on the borde r. The Civil War had only just finished. There were still a lot of bandits about t he last remnants of the old order who were up in arms against us. There were qui te a few people who hated Soviet power in those days, because it had trod on the ir corns pretty hard. Soviet power had said: "Enough! You've done enough grabbin g to last your lifetime, enough squeezing of blood out of honest woring fol, n ow come on, and get down to wor yourselves." But they wouldn't have it, the sna es! They were all for bac-sliding, for squirming off the path of labour and eq uality, and every day they longed for Soviet power to be overthrown... And once, you will say, 'a friend of mine and I went on important business to the headqua rters of OGPU (you'll have to explain to them what OGPU was, you can be sure of that) and just when we were in the chief's office, the chief had a telephone cal l from Moscow, from Felix Edmundovich Dzerzhinsy. That same Felix Edmundovich D zerzhinsy who was a terror to all enemies of the Revolution and saved tens of t housands of homeless children from typhus and starvation, from lice and scab, to mae them into healthy, happy people...' " Taing advantage of Niita's falling silent for a minute while he lit a cigarett e, I ased him to tell me just why Pecheritsa had run away from our town. I had wanted to as Vuovich, but I hadn't dared. Niita explained to me that any idle tal could only hinder the search for Peche ritsa. I promised faithfully not to tell anyone anything about it and said that if anyone should hear what he was about to tell me it would only be twenty years after this night. "Not until twenty years have passed? Do you give me your word?" Niita ased. "I give you my word," I said in a trembling voice. "The word of a Komsomol membe r! You can be sure of that!" "Well, be careful," said Niita and began his story, every detail of which I str ove to remember. THE PRIEST'S SON FROM ROVNO It turned out that when Pecheritsa's wife told Furman she had illed a chicen o n her front door-step she had been deceiving him. But she did not deceive Vuovi ch.

When Polevoi said to Vuovich: "Why, thin of that, we nearly mistoo chicen's blood for human!" the security man had pretended to agree. And what was more, to cover his real opinion, he replied loudly, so that the tenants who had come out on to the porch should hear: "That bandit isn't fool enough to hang about here for long!" When he got to the square, Vuovich gave the watchman a sound dressing-down for letting such a dangerous criminal slip through his fingers. The watchman swore b y all that was holy that no bandit had been anywhere near him, but Vuovich refu sed to believe his protestations and returned to headquarters. There he learnt t hat a big Petlura gang trying to cross the border that night had been routed by frontiermen in the region of Vitovtov Brod. "So that Galician refugee, a laboure r from Oopy village, was right when he warned the frontier guards that bandits were assembling near Zbruch!" Vuovich thought to himself. While telephoning the frontier posts, Vuovich still did not forget about the wo man who had chosen such an unsuitable place to ill her chicen. Who had ever he ard of people illing chicens on their front door-step, and certainly not at th e main entrance to a building where such cultured, educated people lived! Usuall y housewives illed their chicens, geese, turies, and other livestoc in woods heds and out-of-the-way corners, where no one could see, but not in full view un der their neighbours' windows. By the evening of the same day Vuovich new the woman who said she had illed a chicen on her front doorstep as well as if he had been acquainted with her sin ce childhood. One thing he learnt about her was that she was the daughter of the owner of a sugar refinery who had been condemned to death in 1922 for woring w ith the Angel gang. Everyone new that Doctor Pecheritsa and his wife lived in a three-room flat in the red-bric building in Trinity Street. It was a good flat, light and warm, bu t with one shortcoming it had no itchen. The reason was that before the Revolutio n the whole second floor of this large house had belonged to the lawyer Veliosh apo. Together with the Pilsudsi men the lawyer had run away to Poland in 1920, and soon afterwards the town housing department had divided his seven-room apar tment into two separate flats. The larger of them had the itchen. The housing d epartment had not had time to fit up a itchen in the three-room flat that Peche ritsa had been given on his arrival. But Pecheritsa had not insisted that they should. "We're birds of passage," he h ad told the engineers who came to measure up his flat. "Here today and gone tomo rrow. If they send me to Mogilyov, I shall go to Mogilyov, if they send me to Ko rsun, I shall go there. The People's Commissariat of Education plays about with you. I don't intend to build a home. What's the point of maing itchens when yo u're on the march, it's just wasting people's time! We'll manage as we are, with out a itchen!" Twice a day afternoon and evening Pecheritsa's wife Ksenia Antonovna, a tall, dar-h aired woman, would carry her shining aluminium dinner-pans to the Venice Restaur ant by the fortress gates. Martsynevich himself, the head coo, served Pecherit sa's wife with dinners and suppers. She carried the food home in her little dinner-pans and warmed it up on a small spirit stove; and that was how she and her husband lived. They ept themselves t o themselves and never had any guests. Even Pecheritsa's colleagues at the Educa tion Department had never visited his flat. They had neither erosene stove, nor primus just a little spirit stove burning wit h a blue flame on which Ksenia Antonovna boiled her husband's blac coffee in th e mornings. Pecheritsa was very fond of that stimulating drin. On learning all this, Vuovich became even more surprised that Pecheritsa's wife had illed a chicen. Where had she roasted it? On the little spirit stove? But why should people who too their meals from a restaurant go to all that unneces sary bother? Vuovich also learnt that the day after the night alarm at headquarters, on Sund ay, Pecheritsa's wife started taing three dinners and three suppers from the Ve nice Restaurant. She hadn't enough dinner-pans, so she brought earthenware pots in a string bag for the third, extra meal.

"You must have some guests?" the extremely polite head coo ased sympatheticall y. "Oh, it's only my sister from Zhitomir..." Ksenia Antonovna replied, rather hast ily. It was rather strange, however, that none of the neighbours ever saw this sister . Moreover, having investigated Ksenia Antonovna's past, Vuovich new quite wel l that she was the only daughter of the sugar manufacturer. Vuovich also new that Pecheritsa had no servants, but that every Monday the ed ucation department's messenger, Auntie Pasha, came to scrub the floors. When he arrived at wor on Monday morning, Pecheritsa said to Auntie Pasha: "You needn't come to us today, Auntie. My wife's not very well. Come next Monday." After this instruction from her strict department chief, Auntie Pasha was very s urprised when going home from wor to meet the "sic" Ksenia Antonovna on New Br idge. Pecheritsa's wife was waling quicly across the bridge, on the other side , carrying her dinner-pans. 'Ksenia Antonovna was in such a hurry to get home that she did not notice Auntie Pasha and did not answer her when the messenger bowed and said: "Good evening, Ma'am!" At exactly six thirty in the evening on the day when I left for Kharov, Doctor Gutentag- burst agitatedly into the duty officer's room at district security hea dquarters. Gutentag said he must see the chief at once. The duty officer sent Gutentag up t o Vuovich and the surgeon told him the following story. That morning, when Doctor Gutentag was still in bed, Pecheritsa's wife had rushe d in to see him and said that her husband was seriously ill. Ksenia Antonovna sa id that Pecheritsa must have appendicitis and begged him to go with her to their flat. Gutentag new Pecheritsa. A short time previously he had cut a tumour out of his nec. Besides, Gutentag was very fond of music and singing and enjoyed listenin g to the concerts that Pecheritsa conducted. And so, in spite of the early hour, Gutentag promptly got ready and set off for Trinity Street. What was his surprise when the sic man himself opened the door to him! Inviting the doctor into the empty dining-room, Pecheritsa said: "Listen to me, friend! I could, of course, play blind man's buff with you, I cou ld invent some story about my poor relative who was accidentally shot during a h unting trip, but I have no desire or intention of doing anything of the ind. Yo u and I are grown-up people and we're too old for fairy-tales. Besides, I now y ou are a man of the old school. You studied at the medical faculty in Warsaw, an d I don't thin you have any particular liing for Soviet power. To put it in a nutshell, behind that door lies a wounded man. He has a bullet in his leg. His c ondition is getting worse; the leg is swollen and he may have blood-poisoning al ready. That man is being searched for. No one must now that you have helped him . If you do your duty as a doctor and save my friend, it will be good for you an d it won't be bad either for your chemist brother who lives in Poland, in Pilsud si Street in the town of Rovno." Even before Doctor Gutentag's story was over, Vuovich realized that he had done the right thing that day in issuing a warrant to search Pecheritsa's flat. About five minutes after the doctor had finished his story, two groups of mounte d security men rode out of headquarters. One group led by Vuovich turned in the direction of the red-bric' building in Trinity Street. Auntie Pasha, whom the security men from the second group found at the Education Department office, said that Pecheritsa had run into his office about five minu tes ago. He had brought a small suit-case, put some papers in it out of the offi ce safe, ased Auntie Pasha for a towel and told her that he had been summoned u rgently to the border village of Chemirovtsy. Before leaving the building he had slipped into the wash-room where he had remained for two or three minutes. Security Officer Dzhendzhuristy rang up at once from the education department an d ordered a party of mounted security men to be sent after Pecheritsa to Chemiro vtsy.

The hands of the station cloc pointed to past seven when the security men arriv ed at the station. By that time the train taing me to Kharov had already passe d the first little station of Balin. Meanwhile the group led by Vuovich surrounded the big house in Trinity Street. Vuovich new that Pecheritsa's flat had no bac door but he also new that a fi re escape reaching from the ground to the roof passed near one of the bed-room w indows. At the very moment when one of the security men waled up to the front d oor with a metal plate bearing the name "'Doctor Zenon Pecheritsa" and pulled th e brass bell handle, Vuovich was cautiously climbing this narrow, slippery ladd er. As he had expected, no one opened the door. The security men noced louder. Sti ll no answer. There was a faint sound as someone tip-toed up to the door, moved the brass cover of the spy-hole and, having made sure who was nocing, went bac into the flat. Then the security men decided to brea the door down. As he climbed the ricety ladder, Vuovich heard a man's angry voice coming from the open window: "I tell you we must fight, Ksenia Antonovna!" "Everything's finished!" the woman said. "Ksenia Antonovna, you must believe me!" the man shouted. "It's too late!" Pecheritsa's wife replied and a shot rang out in the room. "Hysterical fool!" Pecheritsa's guest muttered, crawling to the window, but at t hat moment Vuovich leapt to him from the window-sill lie a whirlwind. Taen by surprise, the man crawling across the floor missed his aim and the bull et flew wide. Vuovich iced the heavy Mauser pistol out of his hand and at tha t moment the door gave way under the blows of the security men. At first the bandit denied that it was he who had intended to blow up Special De tachment Headquarters and its ammunition stores. But when Doctor Gutentag came t o the prison hospital and removed the bullet from the bandit's leg, it turned ou t to be a bullet from a Webley Scott revolver. It was with a revolver of this rather rare pattern that Polevoi had fired at the bandit on that memorable night when Bobir had made such an ass of himself. At the second interrogation the bandit gradually began to confess, and soon it c ame out that he and Kozyr-Zira, the notoriously ruthless ataman of a regiment o f Petlura storm-troopers, were one and the same person. In the year when the Pilsudsi and Petlura men fled for ever from the Uraine, i t was on Kozyr-Zira's orders that the cut-throats of the "Carefree Soul" regime nt had slaughtered over half the innocent population of the hamlet of Ovruch, in cluding the parents of one of our trainees, Monus Guzarchi. . . It was Kozyr-Zi ra who was rumoured among the frightened inhabitants of the Urainian border vi llages to be either the Count of Belaya Tserov or a runaway convict from Galici a... It was he, Kozyr-Zira, who when surrounded by a partisan detachment in the village of Privorotye had murdered his orderly, a tall, dar fellow lie himsel f, and, to hoodwin the partisans, thrust his own papers, signed by Petlura, int o the pocets of the murdered man. The partisans had thought they had illed the real Kozyr-Zira and he had managed to escape. Vuovich conducted the investigation himself. It turned out that Kozyr-Zira was neither a count nor a runaway convict, but a very ordinary son of a priest from the town of Rovno. Having run away from the Red Army to Poland after the unsuccessful alliance betw een Pilsudsi and Petlura, Kozyr-Zira spent a short time in a Polish concentrat ion camp at Kalish. The camp was visited twice by a well-dressed man in civilian clothes, who wore a blac Homburg hat and carried a heavy waling stic. He was lean and dar and spoe excellent Russian. Kozyr-Zira, lie many inhabitants o f the part of Volyn that had once belonged to the Russian Empire, also spoe Rus sian. He and the visitor taled together for a long time, and Kozyr-Zira became quite convinced that the visitor must be some important Russian whiteguard, one of those who had joined the notorious terrorist, and enemy of Soviet power, Bor is Savinov, in Poland. Great was Kozyr-Zira s surprise when soon after these visits he was summoned befo re the camp commandant, the Pilsudsi man Nalegcz-Buojemsi, who said to him: "

Congratulations, ataman! You have found favour with Captain George Sidney Railey of the British Intelligence Service. Captain Railey is an old enemy of the Bols hevis. He nows Russia as well as I now this camp and he was very pleased afte r his conversation with you. By permission of Marshal Pilsudsi, Captain Railey is touring all the camps where Petlura troops have been interned. It is his miss ion to select the bravest and most experienced supporters of the independent Ur aine. At Captain Railey's personal request, I am granting you leave to go home t o Rovno for a holiday. Have a rest and get your weight bac. You will be found w hen you are needed. In the meantime you had better forget about our conversation ." Kozyr-Zira had other things to thin about besides getting his weight bac on t he free meals at his father's vicarage. Thans to the dar Englishman, his days of imprisonment behind barbed wire were now over, and Kozyr-Zira began to see out the friends who had served with him under Petlura. At that time, after the Red Army's defeat of Petlura, many ex-commanders of the Petlura forces found themselves in emigration. Some had run away to Czechoslova ia, others to Canada, others to Austria and Germany, but most of them were still suling in Poland, particularly in the largest city of the Western Uraine Lvov. It was these men whom the former Austrian-paid Colonel of the Galician riflemen , Yevgen Konovalets, began to rope in and register in his secret lists. Konovale ts was nown in the Soviet Uraine as the ruthless butcher of the worers of Kie v. He and his riflemen had suppressed the revolutionary uprising of the Arsenal worers, who had shown no desire to support what Petlura called "independence." Finding it hard to see out his old ataman friends by correspondence, Kozyr-Zir a decided to go himself to Lvov, which at that time was swarming with Petlura me n and former "gunner-boys." At that time Konovalets was banding together those t raitors of the Urainian people into his criminal UMO (Urainian Military Organi zation). When the leaders of a secret counter-revolutionary organization admitted Kozyr-Z ira to their rans, he did not tell them the real reason why he had got out of Kalish so quicly. Kozyr-Zira had taen good heed of the camp commandant's advi ce to forget about their conversation and the dar Englishman's repeated visits to the camp. True, Kozyr-Zira doubted whether he could be found and made to rep ay the favour he had received. Captain Railey, however, had taen good note of t he bandit with the raven-blac hair and dashing side-whisers, and through his s ecret agents found Kozyr-Zira even in Lvov. In the summer of 1925, arriving one day in Lvov, Kozyr-Zira stopped at the Peop le's Hotel. Scarcely had he taen his bath arid dried his stiff blue-blac hair, when a porter noced at the door and said that someone was asing for 'the gen tleman from Rovno" on the telephone. A woman's voice ased him to come at once t o the neighbouring Hotel Imperiale where an important and intimate matter awaite d his attention. Very intrigued to thin that anyone should have been able to fi nd him so quicly in Lvov, 'Kozyr-Zira got dressed, performed a hasty toilet an d went, as the unnown woman had suggested, to the Hotel Imperiale, a favourite stopping-place for merchants from the out-of-the-way townships of Galicia. He was very surprised when on nocing at the appointed door a loud man's voice told him to enter. As soon as Kozyr-Zira crossed the threshold, an immaculately dressed Pilsudsi officer rose to meet him. This was Major Zygmunt Flore, a veteran officer of Polish military intelligence , who was woring in Lvov simultaneously for Marshal Pilsudsi and a foreign int elligence service. "And so we have found you, my dear ataman!" said the major. "Forgive me for asi ng you to call on me. I am rather well nown in this town and if I had paid you a visit rather a lot of people would have got to now about it. Your organizatio n has been accused often enough already of being in league with the Polish autho rities." Taen abac by the major's first words, Kozyr-Zira was even more surprised when Flore told him that Captain Railey sent him personal greetings and wished him success in his first and rather dangerous mission. Major Flore told Kozyr-Zira that governments all over the world were preparing

for war with the Soviet Union,. Anxious to convince the priest's son from Rovno that this' was so, Flore produced from his bag a recent copy of an English new spaper and translated part of an article which declared that Bolshevism would be smashed that year, and that Russia would return to the old life and open her fr ontiers "to those who wish to wor there." "And she will open them to you too, my dear ataman!" Flore said. "Do you now w ho wrote that? Henry Detterding, the biggest oil manufacturer in the world. He h as already sacrificed millions of rubles in gold to crush Bolshevism and he'll g ive as much again to see it accomplished. You can trust what he says." Having offered Kozyr-Zira a fine position in the Uraine when Soviet power was crushed, Flore ased him to carry out an important tas. Major Flore instructed Kozyr-Zira to cross over, to the Soviet side and blow u p Special Detachment Headquarters in our town, and all its stores. Major Flore was speaing the truth when he told Kozyr-Zira that war with the Soviet Union w as imminent. Egged on by foreign imperialists, Pilsudsi's generals were prepari ng to mae war on the Soviet Union that year. Their hired agents assassinated th e Communist Pyotr Voyov, Soviet plenipotentiary in Poland, on the platform of a Warsaw station. The Polish general staff began massing troops on the Soviet fro ntier. Bombs were thrown into the Party club in Leningrad. Major Zygmunt Flore offered Kozyr-Zira a handsome reward in cash from himself and from Captain Railey if the headquarters in Kishinev Street was blown up. "Th e whole world will hear the roar of that explosion and your name will go down in the annals of history, my dear ataman!" said Flore in farewell, giving him a l ist of addresses and contacts for use on Soviet territory. Kozyr-Zira crossed the border at a place he new well. Lieutenant Lipinsy hims elf, commander of the Rovno "frontier-defence corps," saw him off as far as Zbru ch and wished him luc when they parted... "Write it all down," Kozyr-Zira said to Vuovich at the interrogation. "The gam e's up. I've nothing to lose now." Kozyr-Zira made no bones about telling Vuov ich his whole life-story, joing cynically about the many blunders he had made a nd recalling his crimes with a sneering grin. He smoed cigarette after cigarett e, tapping them with his long swarthy fingers and drawing deep, as if he felt ev ery cigarette might be his last. The cardboard holders, scarred with the mars o f his sharp teeth, he tossed carelessly into an enamel spitting-bowl. "What's the point of my hiding anything from you, gentlemen?" Kozyr-Zira repeat ed at the interrogations. "You've got my heart on a plate in front of you. Why should I eep bac one rott en little murder or raid I've done. It's all the same to me. You now yourselves I won't be getting any more dollars or pounds. If your frontier guards have sho t my chief, that Englishman Sidney Railey, somewhere up near the Finnish frontie r, what's the use of my trying to diddle you! The world can come to an end when I'm gone, for all I care. Believe me, I'm confessing to you here, as before God himself on judgement day!" But Vuovich realized that, although Kozyr-Zira was confessing to crimes that t he OGPU new nothing about, he was really maing a last bid to get his revenge o n the Soviets by leaving his friends at liberty. Vuovich was certain that when Major Flore sent Kozyr-Zira across the frontier he must have given the bandit at least a few addresses. Without them the bandit would have been quite helpless. At the interrogation the bandit flatly denied that it was Pecheritsa who had hel ped him to find his way on to the roof of the shed at headquarters. "I did it all myself," Kozyr-Zira insisted. "I too a few brics out of the wal l and nosed around a bit to see how things stood in the yard. We're lone wolves of the top class, you now, and we always wor alone. That's why our sin is wor th more. If everything had come off as I had planned it, I'd be having a good ti me in Paris by now, and even my dear old Dad wouldn't now where I got all the m oney from." The only offence Pecheritsa had committed against Soviet power, according to Koz yr-Zira, was that he, had taen pity on a man who was bleeding to death, given him shelter, and called a doctor.

"I had never set eyes on Pecheritsa before," Kozyr-Zira insisted. "If you as m e, he's a completely loyal Soviet citizen. The only thing is he's a bit soft-hea rted, I grant you that. I'm very sorry I got him into such a mess." According to Niita Kolomeyets, who told me the whole story, Kozyr-Zira was ver y put out when Vuovich called in Polevoi and told the bandit it was our directo r who had winged him in the attic. "Well, I'd never have thought it!" the bandit confessed. "I thought it was a tra p you, security men, had laid for me. Shot by a civilian! Why, it's ridiculous! I'll be ashamed till the end of my days!" "You haven't many more days left!" Polevoi remared, stung by the bandit's words . "You're going to answer for your sins!" Kozyr-Zira looed savage for a moment, then recovered himself and, smiling, con tinued to testify in his former cynical manner, as if neither Polevoi nor Kolome yets were present. The day after Kozyr-Zira's arrest someone made an attempt on Doctor Gutentag's life. Coming home from an evening at the theatre with his daughter, the doctor switche d on the light and went to the window to close the shutters. A shot rang out fro m the bushes in the garden and a bullet, piercing the window-pane about an inch from Gutentag's head, crashed into an antique Chinese vase standing on the shelf behind him. The assassin got away, but this shot told Vuovich that there must be someone el se in town connected with the people who had sent Kozyr-Zira. A little later Vuovich learnt from a peasant refugee who had fled from the West ern Uraine that at about that time the chemist Tomash Gutentag had been murdere d by unnown bandits in the town of Rovno. The murderers had shot him in his sho p and stolen much of the medicine. On the night of the unsuccessful attempt on Doctor Gutentag's life, frontier gua rds at a remote post in the village of Medvezhye Usho, twenty versts from our t own, detained a half-witted old beggar, who had tried to slip away to Poland. In the collar of his lice-ridden shirt the guards found a rolled slip of paper con taining the following code message, "Dear Mum, "The doctor sold the bull to strangers, I'm taing bac the deposit. Gogus has m oved to another flat, God damn him. Find him yourself and have a business tal w ith chemist G. "Your son, "Yuro." Lying in the prison hospital until his wound healed, Kozyr-Zira new nothing of the capture of this beggar, who was in reality a messenger for a spy group wor ing on Soviet territory. Kozyr-Zira was also firmly convinced that Pecheritsa's wife, before putting a bullet through her head, had burnt all secret documents that might incriminate her husband. Indeed, when the security men seized Kozyr-Zira, Vuovich, who at once opened t he brass door of the stove in Pecheritsa's study, discovered a heap of charred p apers smoing in the grate. But before his sudden flight from the town Pecherits a had apparently forgotten to warn his wife about something that was hidden in t he left-hand drawer of their wardrobe. Or perhaps Ksenia Antonovna in her panic had forgotten about the drawer? At the bottom of the drawer, which was full of clean linen mared with the initi als K- P. and Z. P., Vuovich discovered a neatly-folded handerchief. It was very well ironed and embroidered at the edges with light-blue thread. Bes ide it, at the bottom of the drawer lay several other handerchiefs of the same ind. To Vuovich, however, it seemed that this particular handerchief was slig htly different from the others. The material was the same and the embroidery was the same, but the handerchief itself seemed a little thicer. When Vuovich unfolded the handerchief, he found that it contained a document p rinted on a fine piece of cambric. "The bearer of this document, Cossac Lieutenant Zenon Pecheritsa has remained b

ehind during the withdrawal of our troops to Galicia to perform wor which is to the advantage of the sovereign and independent Uraine. We request all military and civil institutions, when our army returns to the greater Uraine, under no circumstances to accuse Zenon Pecheritsa of Bolshevism. "Colonel Yevgen Konovalets, "Commander of the Galician Rifle Corps." That was all. No further trace of Pecheritsa remained. True, thans to the message taen from the sham beggar, Vuovich was able to gue ss that Pecheritsa and the "Gogus" who had changed his flat were one and the sam e person. ' My encounter with Pecheritsa in the train might help Vuovich to solve the other riddles. The records concerning Pecheritsa that remained in the files of the District Edu cation Department showed that he had been born in Kolomya, had served first in t he legion of Galician riflemen, then in a detachment of the so-called "Urainian Galician Army." When a group of officers and men from this army had refused to return to Galicia, which was then under Pilsudsi rule, Pecheritsa had remained with them in Prosurov, and then moved to Zhitomir. The questionnaires, the testimony of his fellow-officers, the good references of organizations in which Pecheritsa had wored before coming to our town all tend ed to confirm this. But the forgotten fragment of cambric with its printed messa ge and, above all, the personal signature of Yevgen Konovalets in indelible in made Vuovich thin otherwise. Vuovich was well aware that Colonel Yevgen Konova-lets had been woring ever si nce the First World War for German military intelligence and had been supplied w ith German mars. When he withdrew his men from the Uraine, Konovalets had left behind quite a number of secret agents with instructions to conceal their true function by pretending to be revolutionaries and supporters of Soviet power. A f ew of them had even succeeded in attaining very high positions in the People's C ommissariat of Education. Later on, in the thirties, these spies were unmased: Yevgen Konovalets did not give every agent such protective authorizations. One h ad to have served under this pro-Polish commander in more than one of his bloodt hirsty campaigns through the Uraine to win his trust and be given one of those strips of cambric. People who had stored away these cambric strips for years in hope of using them one day had friends and helpers. There could be -no doubt that the fleeing Peche ritsa also had such friends. Otherwise he could never have discovered that Docto r Gutentag, having performed several urgent operations at the hospital, had gone straight to security headquarters. It was these friends and assistants of Peche ritsa s who had sent the old mad-looing beggar to Major Flore in Poland. When he was questioned, this beggar simply muttered a lot of nonsense. Left alone in hi s cell, he suddenly started singing Cossac ballads and dancing the gopa in the middle of the night. He did everything he could to mae people thin he was mad . Vuovich, however, waited patiently for the beggar to give up his pretence. Vuo vich guessed that besides this beggar Pecheritsa's friends had sent yet another messenger , to Poland who had been the cause of the mysterious death of the chem ist Tomash Gutentag in the town of Rovno. It was obvious that some of Pecheritsa's associates had remained in our town. Th e most convenient way of tracing them, of course, would have been to enlist the aid of Pecheritsa himself. But Pecheritsa had "moved to another flat..." All this was told to me by Niita Kolomeyets that night, after we had been to di strict OGPU headquarters. Not everything, of course, that Niita told me then ha d the same shape that I give it in-retelling his confused story today. There was much that Niita could- still only guess at, and many of the details were suppl ied by his own suppositions, and I too, it must be confessed, have been helping him all these twenty years, investigating quite a number of blac spots in the b iographies of the priest's son from Rovno and of Doctor Zenon Pecheritsa, maing inquiries in what is now Soviet Lvov to discover for sure whether everything re

ally happened as we thought in those far-off days of our youth. There is one thing I will confess. This world of secret war into which Niita Ko lomeyets had plunged me on that long-to-be-remembered night when we sat until da wn; on the rails of the cliff stairway seemed to me very terrible and dangerous. Until then I had been very simple-minded. I had never thought that among us ther e could be scoundrels who, lie Pecheritsa, lived the crooed double life of spi es. I just could not imagine that among those who rubbed shoulders with us every day there were slining creatures who while pretending to be sincerely in favou r of Soviet power were only awaiting its downfall and looing out all the time f or a chance to stab us in the bac. How great, how noble, and how dangerous is t he wor of the frontiermen, who, lie Vuovich, at the ris of their lives, pene trate that dar terrible world where these crimes are plotted, and manage to thw art the enemy just when he is least expecting it! And Niita's story also made it clear to me how much the world capitalists and t heir agents hated us, Soviet people, and I realized that we must be on our guard against them. A LOW TRICK Three days later, not long before the dinner-brea, Kozaevich, our instructor, waled into the foundry. The weather was so warm - that he had been across Hospi tal Square to the office without a cap. He had even left his heavy metal-scorche d tarpaulin jacet behind in the foundry. The sleeves of his faded blue blouse were rolled up showing his big muscles. "Mandzhura! A message of vital importance for you!" he said with a win, handing me a folded slip of paper. From the tone of his voice I concluded that Kozaevich was in a very good mood. I too the note and read it. It was from Peta Maremuha. "Vasil, mind you come and see me at dinner-time today. Something important has h appened. "So long, "Peta." I wored harder with my slippery tamper. Now I simply must get this fly-wheel mo ulded before dinner. I paced the damp sand tightly into the wooden mould, forci ng it in with a wedge. The job was nearly done. Somewhere under the tightly-pac ed layer of sand lay the cold, damp fly-wheel. Tossing my tamper aside, I swept the loose sand off the mould-box. Where was the vent wire? Ah, there it was. I s natched up the sharp-pointed length of wire and started punching holes in the mo uld. The wire crunched into the solid sand, bending when it struc the iron mode l of the flywheel. Finished! Now I could open the mould. There were no other chaps about. Only Kozaevich was in the foundry, carefully a rranging his new freshly-painted models on the shelves. "Can you give me a hand?" I said to the instructor. Kozaevich strode across the sandy floor to the place where I was woring. "Knoced the wedges in, made your vents?" "Don't worry, everything's all right." "I'm not worrying, but people forget sometimes. Specially you. Since you went to Kharov, you've been going about in a dream. Come on, then!" And Kozaevich ben t down and grasped the handles of the mould. We both heaved together. We turned the mould over and stood the top half on its side by the window. Pushing bac his sleeve, Kozaevich looed down at the lower half of the mould. The fly-wheel model had left a round blac hollow in the gre yish sand. Soon we should fill that hollow with metal and a new fly-wheel would spin on some peasant's straw-cutter, giving speed to the flashing blades. In one place the mould had "caed" as the foundry men say. A little clot of sand from the upper half of the mould had stuc to the model.

"Put that right," Kozaevich said, pointing to the brea. The Motor Factory's hooter sounded in the distance. It. was dinner-time. "Can I do it afterwards, Comrade Kozaevich? I want to slip over to the school." "Well, I'm not maing you to wor during your dinner-hour, lad. Go where you li e." The path, which had been wet and streaed with puddles the day before, had dried in the warm sunshine. It was good to run across the square without a coat after being muffled up all the winter. And it would be even better when the grass gre w on the square and we started icing a football about there!... Here was the school. Taing two steps at a time, I dashed up to the third floor. Furman was coming down the stairs, a pacet of food in his hand. Must be going out into the yard. Every spring, as soon as it got a bit warm, the trainees, jus t lie beetles, came out into the yard during the lunch-hour to eat their food i n the spring sunshine, sitting on rusty boilers and broen-down field itchens. "Maremuha still upstairs?" I ased Furman. "Yes, he's maing some draughts for the club," Furman replied, clumping away downstairs in his heavy boots. Peta's lathe stood just by the door. As soon as I ran into the joiner's shop, I saw his broad bac. Pedalling the lathe with his foot, Peta was paring down a length of birch. Fine yellow shavings were curling off the blade of the cutter a nd dropping on the floor. There was no one else about except the joinery instruc tor, Galya's father, sitting at the far end of the shop eating his lunch and sta ring thoughtfully out of the window. There was a nice smell of fresh wood shavin gs in the air. "Eat that," said Peta, pedalling away at his lathe. "That's your roll on the wi ndow-sill and there's sausage in the paper." "What about yourself?" "I've had mine already. It's all yours." "You old spendthrift, Peta! Your grant will be all gone in a couple of days, th en you'll be in a fix lie you were last month." "What's so terrible about it! We'll be finished with grants soon anyway and earn ing wages," Peta retorted confidently, slicing the length of birch in two. What a good chap Peta was, when you came to thin of it! Saving lunch for me li e this. Really generous. Not lie Titor, chewing sausage in a corner and looi ng round all the time afraid that someone might as him for a bite! Peta always shared what he had. The well-baed bread was crisp and fresh, one of the special rolls that Madame P odnebesnaya, widow of the former inspector of taxes, used to sell at the school gates for the first day or two after we had been given our monthly grants. The bits of sausage "dog's joy" we bought at the grocery stall. Those odd scraps of sausage with the posh co-operative store name "Prime Assorted" were the goods! They were very cheap and just about as tasty as anything you could buy. The point was that in a quarter of a pound, say, you got so many different sorts nobs of liver, fat rings of Cracow sausage, ends of salame with the string round them. One day Sasha Bobir even got a great lump of the best ham. Munching roll and sausage, I watched Peta. How had he learnt to wor so fast?.. . Suddenly Peta stopped his lathe and said solemnly: "You and I, Vasil, are old friends, aren't we? Remember the vow we made in the O ld Fortress over the grave of Sergushin? There can never be any secrets between us, can there? Well, I must tell you this then: Titor is trying to get you into trouble." "As if I'd never heard that before! What trouble?" "You needn't laugh. It's no laughing matter. Yesterday he reported you to the Ko msomol committee." "Don't try to scare me, Peta. What could he have reported me for?" "I'm not trying to scare you, Vasil. I'm telling you the truth. In his report Ti tor wrote that you should be expelled from the Komsomol." "Me? Expelled from the Komsomol?... Peta!... You can't pull my leg lie that. I 'm not Bunya Khoh..." (Bunya Khoh was the town half-wit.) "Vasil," said Peta in a thic voice, "people don't joe about things lie that. I'm giving you a friendly warning, as an old comrade, and you thin I'm playing

the fool lie a id!" "Hold on, Peta, what does he say about me in his report?" "Do you thin I now? I never read it myself, but I saw Titor give it to Kolome yets." "To Kolomeyets? To Niita?... But what maes you thin it was about me?" "Listen. Yesterday I slipped in to get a magazine off Niita, and Titor was wit h him. This is what I heard him say to Niita. 'I didn't want to get mixed up in this dirty business, but when you're a worer lie me your conscience won't let you stand aside. This is important. I've put it all down on paper. Read it. I d on't now what you'll thin, but I thin Mandzhura ought to be chuced out of th e Komsomol for it. People lie him only stain our fine reputation!' " "And you actually heard Titor mention my name?" "I'm not deaf, Vasil... Then he gave Niita a sheet of paper. What did I do? I t ried to have a loo, of course, but Titor noticed and covered it with his hand. 'What do you want, young fellow?' he says. 'When we need you we'll as for you. ' I didn't now what to do, so I too the magazine and went away." "And you didn't read the report?" "But how could I? I say, Vasil," Peta looed at me sharply, "you haven't done a nything, well, suspicious-looing, lately, have you?" "What could I have done? You're an ass, Peta!" "But there are all inds of things... Perhaps you recommended some rotter for th e Komsomol..." "Since I seconded Sasha's application last year, I haven't recommended anybody." "What about Kharov?" "Kharov? But I've told you about that!" "Perhaps you did something, you now..." "But what? What could I have done? I can't mae it out!" "Well, you now ... perhaps you started a row somewhere. . . Or got drun, God f orbid ... or clipped someone on the ear.., Perhaps you broe a shop-window?" "What are you taling about, Peta? I'm not Titor... I bought some flachies of f a profiteer at the maret, I'll admit that, and I got robbed, and I saw that A merican, picture Shars of New Yor, darn the rotten thing, but there wasn't any thing else." "Nothing at all?" "Not a thing!" "I wonder what that twerp has got against you?" "I don't now." "Loo here, Vasil," Peta said solemnly, "go and see Niita and as him straight out what you've been accused of." "Niita?... Why go and as Niita? I won't go of my own accord. If I start asin g questions myself, it'll loo as if I now I've done something wrong and am afr aid. What have I got to be afraid of? It's daft!" "Yes, perhaps you're right," Peta said slowly. "You could as if you wanted to, Peta." "Do you thin I haven't already?" Peta answered quicly. "As soon as Titor lef t, I went up to Niita. 'What was that complaint Titor handed in?' I said. 'It' s an accusation, an accusation on a pretty big scale,' says Niita. So I ased h im what it was about. 'It's a report of a political nature against Mandzhura,' s ays Niita. 'But for the time being,' he says, 'let's eep quiet about it, Marem uha. Not a word about this until the next committee meeting!' Well, I wouldn't let it go at that, so I ept on at him, 'Must be something very important,' I sa id. 'Well, how should I put it?' says Niita. 'A dirty tric of the first water. Human nature at its worst, I should call it.' " "Eh?" "Human nature at its worst!" Peta repeated. "Who does he mean by that?" I ased, my voice trembling. "Do you thin I understood? You now our philosopher! He lies words no one else can understand... I advise you to spea to him personally all the same." "But I can't, you now! ..." At that very unsuitable moment Galya Kushnir ran into the shop. She was wearing

a blue woring overall and her hair was tied up under a white-spotted erchief. Before the factory-training school started, I had been very much in love with Ga lya, and had even issed her on the wall of the Old Fortress one cold autumn day . I had written letters to her from the farm on the Dniester. I was still in lov e with Galya when we started at the factory-training school. When some of the ot her chaps began taing an interest in her, I felt very bad about it. Someone not iced this and chaled a notice up in the forge: "Vasil Mandzhura is pining for G alya Kushnir something terrible!" Under the inscription there was a drawing of a heart more lie a cabbage than anything else. It was pierced with an arrow, and f rom it poured a stream of blood lie molten metal pouring from the furnace. This notice certainly lowered my authority as a member of the committee in the eyes of the other chaps. It's very bad when your personal feelings become public prop erty. "Love should be the greatest secret in the world!" I had learnt the phrase by heart from a novel I had read, and even written it down on the margin of my political lecture notes. When he was checing my notes, Niita spotted it. "Wher e did you get that middle-class twaddle from, Vasil?" he ased. I could not brin g myself to say that the words had been spoen by a tsarist general, so I avoide d the point. "It's from Comrade Kollontai's boo," I said. "Well, it's a middleclass prejudice all the same," Niita retorted, and I had to tear the page out o f the notes. But I could have forgotten even the notice in the forge and gone on loving Galya as before, had it not been for her own conduct. She too sides with Titor in the row about my casting of Francis Joseph! I told her Titor had dubbed me a "monarchist" and Galya answered coldly: "Do you thin it's the right thing for a Komsomol member to portray tyrants and despots?" "But I did it for practice, Galya! ..." I said in a voice full of reproach, thin ing that she would tae her words bac. But this time her reply was even colder, as though I were a complete stranger to her: "If it were practice you wanted, you could have cast a model of a bird or someth ing. There's a brass haw on Dad's instand. If you had ased me, I would have t aen it off and brought it to you." "Than you very much... You can tae it to someone else," I answered rudely, and since then we had had nothing more to do with each other. True, something of the old feeling lingered in us both. We could not tal calmly to each other and felt awward when we met. And now, too, when she saw me standing by Peta's lathe, Galya stopped short. Bu t she overcame her embarrassment and waled up to us. A slight flush had appeare d on her chees. "The boys are taling about you outside, Vasil," Galya said. "They're saying Ti tor has reported you and he's boasting that you're in for trouble. What have you done, Vasil?" "What have I done? ... Nothing!" "What is the report about then?" "Go and as hi m." "He's not telling. He says it mustn't be announced until the committee meeting. But when the church bells ring, there must be..." "I don't care two pins about his report! And you can eep your church out of it! " I snapped. "He can report on me until he's blue in the face, I haven't done an ything!" "Have you spoen to Kolomeyets?" Galya ased sympathetically. "What for?" "Well, I should have thought you would," Galya said in surprise. "After all, he' s our secretary, and a member of the District Committee, and he's nown you a lo ng time..." By this time Galya's concern had made me thoroughly angry. What was the point of all this! ... The chaps came in from the yard one by one. Lunch-time was over. So that no one should thin me a coward, I said as calmly as I could: "Well, I'm off to the foundry, I've got a mould that needs attending to there."

NIKITA IS SILENT That day Titor seemed to be round me all the time. Now he would come to fetch a shovel from my corner, now he would snatch up a chisel under my nose. Then he w ould go and tiner about in the next room for a little while, but as soon as I g lanced up again there were Titor's stiff, rusty-looing boots clumping about roun d me in the wet sand. Now it was the wire brush he needed! There was a cunning g leam in his eyes and his mop of hair was swept bac lie a Don Cossac's. Gay an d pleased with himself, Titor looed as if he had won the day. All the time he ept humming a popular little tune. In Batavia there's a little house that stand s alone in the fields... When Yasha came near me, I pretended to be engrossed in my wor. He needn't thin I was afraid of him, the longhaired busybody! ... Knocing-off time at last! I washed my hands quicly and slipped out into th e street. I waled past fences and gardens where the trees were still bare. The maret squ are was alive with noise and bustle. I waled on to Proreznaya Street, not nowi ng myself what too me there. For a long time I wandered about the deserted aven ues of the boulevard. The river, still yellow and muddy from the recent thaw, fl owed past below, washing the foot of the cliffs and flooding the allotments of t he old part of the town. On the boulevard, which was dry now, they were burning last year's leaves. Here and there, heaps of leaves and twigs were smoing lie little volcanoes; the smoe hung low over the sloping avenues and the steep clif f, and its bitterish smell reached me even on the edge of the boulevard. In the distance, beyond a little gate, I caught sight of a lonely bench. I waled over to it and sat down. My fingers wandered over the familiar letters "V" and "G." B efore the days of the factory-training school, when I was madly in love with Gal ya Kushnir and she was going with my rival Kota Grigoreno, who had now fled th e country, I had come here on a quiet summer's morning and, gritting my teeth with anger, c arved those letters with a pennife on the hard oa plan. How trivial the disappointments of those years seemed in comparison with what co nfronted me now! Titor's mysterious report pursued me everywhere. The words of warning that I ha d heard from Peta and Galya made me even more worried. Already the whole school new about this mysterious report. As I was coming out of the gate today I had run into Mona Guzarchi. Mona was a ind, rather ungainly lad with red, watery eyes. In our first year at the factory school, Mona quite unexpectedly received an in heritance from his grandmother. He had never seen his grandmother, who had immig rated to New Yor long ago, in the time of the tsar, but when she died she had l eft Mona all her savings. Mona was found through a notary by some distant relatives, and one fine day he received three hundred and twenty-five rubles cash down, in Soviet money. Of cou rse, the simplest thing would have been to donate it all to the Children's Frien d Society, or to hand it to Sasha Bobir, who collected money for the Aviation an d Aeronautics Society of the Uraine. But the amount was so large that it turned Mona's head and as soon as he came bac from the ban on Saturday he too a pa rty of our chaps to the Venice Restaurant. "I want to enjoy myself!" he announce d, showing the manager his money. "We must have the whole restaurant to ourselve s!" What they did there, how exactly they enjoyed themselves, I don't now. Most of us were at the club attending a lecture called "What came first thought or speech? " The only-thing I do now is that on the following day the revellers and their generous host looed very much the worse for wear. They all felt sic. After stu ffing themselves with caes and pastries, they had eaten every dish on the menu s alted herrings, biscuits, caviare, por, souffle, beef-steas, sturgeon... and w ashed it all down with wine of the most outlandish sort they could order. The wh ole inheritance had been spent in one evening. At that time the incident caused quite a sensation in town, and when Mona appli

ed for membership of the Komsomol, we did not accept him. "You may be a woring lad, but you're a playboy. You're petty bourgeois at heart, my lad!" Niita told Mona at the committee meeting. "The sons of the rich used to guzzle lie that and you're following in their footsteps. You'll have to wait a bit and we'll see ." Now Mona Guzarchi lived on his grant and lied to refer to himself ironically as "a member of the non-Party layer of society..." When he had met me at the gate today, Mona had whispered: "Poor old Vasya! I he ar Titor's started something against you. Is that so? He wants to get you expel led from the Komsomol, doesn't he? Poor old chap! So you'll be one of us." I must have sun pretty low if even Mona was sorry for me! Sadly I gazed at the far ban of the river, at the fortress bridge lining the t wo cliffs, at the Old Fortress. So far I had ept the vow that Peta, Yuzi Star odomsy and I had made over Sergushin's grave; I had wored as well as I could f or the cause of the Revolution. But why this report, and why were my friends so sorry for me before there was need? ... The waterfall thundered out of the low tunnel under the bridge, swooping downwar ds in a thic yellow flood; only when it struc the rocs below did it brea int o white foam. ' I remembered the old legend that many years ago, when the Turs quit our town fo r ever, they had thrown from the bridge an iron chest full of ducats, rubies, go ld bracelets and huge glittering diamonds as big as hen's eggs. Before sining to the bottom, the heavy chest, swept on by the raging current, h ad been thrown several times against sharp rocs which had split it open. People said that every year, after the ice had gone down the river, the turbulent spri ng floods brought up gold coins and precious stones from the river-bed. Once, so it was said, in the time of the tsar, Sasha Bobir's grandfather had found a fra gment of the ruby-studded crown of some Turish vizir who had fled before the ad vancing Russian and Urainian army. Beside himself with joy, Sasha's grandfather went to a tavern and scratched a ruby out of the piece of crown. In return for the ruby the tavern-eeper gave him so much voda that when he dran it he no lo nger new what he was doing. Sasha's grandfather woe up at the other end of tow n, by Windy Gate, without his. crown. It had been stolen by vagrant horse-thieve s. The disappointment sent the old man out of his mind and he ended his days in an asylum, where he used to wander about the shady garden with a crown of burdoc leaves on his head. When Sasha was admitted to the Komsomol he related even this sad story about his grandfather, and Niita did not miss the opportunity of saying: "You see, chaps , what wealth does for you! We of the young generation must be free of the power of money and possessions!" The old fol of our town, however, related the story of the crown rather differe ntly. According to them, it was on this bridge that the Turs had strangled the young Yuro, son of Bogdan Khmelnitsy, and thrown him into the waterfall with a stone tied to his feet. Before his death, Yuro had cursed the Turs and all th eir treasure. How many times had we, Zarechye chaps, ignoring the hetman's curse, wandered alo ng the river when it was in flood, our eyes fixed on the muddy ban, hoping to f ind among the-bits of wood, wet hay, and melting ice, just a small coin to buy e lastic for our catapults!... It was not Yasha's report that worried me. Certainly not! Having thought it over , I had firmly decided that the report did not matter at all. Titor could have written anything he lied against me that I was a supporter of Petlura, that it wa s me who had planned to blow up Special Detachment Headquarters and I shouldn't ha ve minded. False accusations can always be exposed sooner or later. I was not frightened. What depressed me was the sympathetic remars of my friend s, and above all, the strange silence of Niita Kolomeyets. "If someone sends in a report against a member of the committee and you are the secretary, you ought to come and tell the chap straight out what he has been acc used of. Find out whether it's true or not, but don't pretend to be dumb, don't let a chap torture himself for nothing," I reasoned as I waled up and down alon

g the cliff. And I felt sure I was right. Niita's silence that was what surprised, worried and offended me. Yesterday we had been together in the hostel all the evening and he hadn't said a word! Although Titor's report was already lying on his des. When he sent me to Kharov, Niita had said: "You go, you're a lad of spirit!" Didn't that mean he trusted me? Of course, it did! Now Niita was silent. Putting people off with vague phrases! "Human nature at i ts worst..." Evening was approaching. A cold wind with a touch of frost in it blew from the r iver. Again I went up to the little bench on which those familiar letters "V" an d "G" were carved. The bench stood on a hummoc and the wind whistled round me. I don't now why I slipped my hand in my pocet and too out my Zauer. Even when I went off to wor at the factory-training school, I too the pistol with me. N iita often pulled my leg about it. "What do you want with a gun at wor, Vasil?" "But where can I put it?" "Leave it in the hostel." "That's all right for you, you've got a locer that locs. But mine's always ope n." "As the locsmiths, they'll put a loc on it for you." "What's the use of a loc? Locs can be broen." "Vasil, you're incurable! You've got used to guns. You'd lie to be living in th e period of War Communism all the time! Vasily Mandzhura can't adapt himself to peace-time conditions!" I new that Niita was joing, but his joes nettled me a little. Fine peace-tim e conditions with what was going on all round us! It was not a year since the Pilsudsi men had attaced the Soviet frontier post near Yampol and illed the commander. Quite recently enemies of our republic had murdered the Soviet diplomatic courier Theodor Nette. And the murder of Kotovs y? ... I ought not to be the only one with a gun all the young worers who lived o n the border should be armed and ready for anything. And I went on bringing my p istol to wor with me... I too aim at one of the battlemented towers of the Old Fortress, but it was alr eady rather dar and the sights were blurred. But what was this mysterious report of Titor's? .. . I shoved the pistol into my pocet and wandered bac to the hostel, utterly fed up. Our hostel was unusually quiet. But, of course there was a film on at the club. Al l the chaps would be there. Pity I was late. There were two lights on in the dormitory, one on the ceiling, the other by Nii ta's bed. Our secretary lived with us. There was a heap of boos on his bedside locer. As usual, Niita had stayed at home. "I'll have my fun, when I'm old," he used to say, "now, while my eyes are all right, it's better to read boos." "To read boo s a to exchange hours of boredom for hours of delight." "A boo is a friend of man that will never betray him," Niita often repeated to us the dictums of cert ain philosophers nown only to himself. And he read lie a man bewitched on the wa y to the hostel, waling blindly along the pavement with an open boo before his eyes, at home in the hostel until late at night, and during the lunch-hour, sit ting on a rusty boiler in the school yard. Obviously Niita had no intention of going out anywhere this evening. He was lyi ng on his bed undressed; his clothes lay neatly folded on a chair beside him. I waled silently over to my bed and too off my cap. Niita looed round and said: "There's a questionnaire for you under your pillow , Mandzhura. Fill it up and hand it in to me in the morning." My heart san. Now it was starting! It must be a special, tricy sort of questionnaire. "What's it about?" I ased in a whisper. "For your pistol," Niita replied, not taing his eyes off the boo. "Special De tachment papers aren't valid any more, we've got to mae personal applications f

or permission to carry fire-arms." A page rustled. Niita felt for the pencil on his locer and mared something, a s if to show that the conversation was over. All right! I'm not going to beg you to tal... It was very still. The sound of spring streets floated in through the open windo w. That special sound of spring! Have you noticed that in spring every noise com es to you as if you were hearing it for the first time? A coc crowed in the nex t yard and it seemed to me I had never heard such a fine, full-throated crow in my life... In the stillness of the room, I examined the printed questionnaire that I had to fill in for the right to carry la pistol. I was expecting Niita to say somethi ng about Titor's report. "Oh, yes, Vasil, I nearly forgot," Niita murmured, looing round. "There's a pa rcel for you in your locer. I signed for it." And again he buried himself in hi s boo. The square heavy parcel, criss-crossed with pacing thread, smelled of bast matt ing and apples. Across the bottom was written in indelible pencil: "Sender: Miro n Mandzhura, Cherassy, District State Printing-House." Now that he had gone to wor in Cherassy, my father sometimes sent me parcels. Everything they contained was shared round the hostel an apple for one, a lump of glistening salted por for another. The other chaps' parcels were shared out in exactly the same way. There were a lot of tasty things in that parcel. And I was hungry. But I could n ot open it. If I started treating Niita now, without waiting for the other chap s to come in, he might thin I had heard about the report and was trying to get round him trying to bribe him with home-made poppy caes. And sad though 'it may seem, I had to leave Dad's parcel where it was, in the lo cer by my bed. I undressed and lay down to sleep, listening to the rustle of pages as Niita we nt on reading his boo. CLEARED! The committee assembled the following evening in the locsmiths' shop at school. The long room seemed much too large for such a small meeting, specially in the evening, when the school was so quiet. We seated ourselves on the benches. Titor, whistling quietly, sat, or rather lo unged on the bench opposite me. There was a triumphant sneer on his face, his bl onde locs hung luxuriantly over his big forehead. He felt good. "Let's start, comrades!" Niita nodded his head and waled forward between the b enches. "There's not much on the agenda today, so we'll have time to prepare for the tests as well. We have two questions to discuss. The first concerns the con duct of Komsomol member Yasha Titor, the second is to investigate Titor's repo rt on the conduct of Komsomol member Vasily Mandzhura, who is also a member of o ur committee. If anybody's got anything else they want to bring up, we'll 'discu ss that as well of course. Are there any objections?" "I want my report to be discussed first," Titor grunted. "Why?" "Because I gave it in two days ago." "What difference does that mae?" "I write a report and you want to discuss my conduct! What do you mean by it? Wh at grounds have you got for that?" "What grounds?" Niita frowned, nitting his thic blac brows. "All right then, Yasha, you and I will go along to Central Square and I'll show you the broen w indow in the pub it still hasn't any glass in it and the chaps will wait for us here .. . How about it, chaps, do you agree? Will you wait for us?" The chaps laughed and Titor's face fell. "Don't try your games on me!" he said threateningly to Niita. "Let's tae a vote on it." "That's always possible," Niita replied with surprising calm. "All we have to d ecide is what we are going to vote about. I thin we should discuss these questi

ons in order, in chronological order, so to spea." Titor looed bewildered. "What d'ye mean?" "Just this. On the evening of the tw enty-first of February, Komsomol member Yasha Titor went to Barenboim's pub, go t himself roaring drun, started a fight, smashed a window, failed to turn up af ter an alarm from Special Detachment Headquarters..." "There's no more special detachments, so that doesn't matter!" Titor interrupte d. "It does matter, a lot!" Niita said sharply. "There are no more special detachm ents, they've been combined with the other security organizations, that's true, but we have always had, and we still have, strict military discipline, which is obligatory for every Communist and Komsomol member. I repeat, on the evening of the twenty-first, of February, Komsomol member Yasha Titor did not act as befit s a member of 'the Komsomol. That's the first point. The second is this. On the night of the fifth of March, Komsomol member Vasily Mandzhura travelled in the s ame carriage as the escaping counter-revolutionary Pecheritsa and, in Titor's o pinion, intentionally refrained from detaining him. Let us discuss both question s in that order." Niita's harsh words rang out with terrible suddenness in the quiet, dimly-lit r oom: "... travelled in the same carriage as the escaping counter-revolutionary P echeritsa and, in Titor's opinion, intentionally refrained from detaining him." So that was the trap Titor had laid for me! "The rotten scoundrel!" I nearly sh outed the words aloud. "Let's vote," Niita continued. "Who is for Titor's proposal to discuss his rep ort first?" The members of the committee sat in silence. Their faces were stern and thoughtf ul. "Who is for the proposed order of discussion?" "Why bother to vote, Comrade Kolomeyets!" Galya called out. "It's quite clear!" "Perhaps someone has refrained from voting?" said Niita and started counting ha nds. Peta, who had been about to raise his hand, suddenly remembered that he was onl y a candidate for the committee and had no right to vote. He snatched his plump hand away behind his bac, as if he had burnt it. "The majority, I thin .. . Shall we proceed?" "Ganging up on me, as usual! ... All pals together, aren't you?" Titor mumbled, lowering at Niita. "Did you say something, Yasha?" Niita ased, going pale. "He meant ... he meant to say he ought to be called to order!" Peta suddenly bl urted out in a very squeay, excited voice. "Quiet there, Maremuha, I didn't give you permission to spea," Niita said, an d turning to Titor, he went on quietly and very calmly: "Spea up, Titor, say all you've got to say, don't be afraid, spea so- that you needn't complain afte rwards that Kolomeyets suppressed your criticism. I believe you'd even go to tha t length too..." "What's the use of me saying anything you've got it all pat lie an exercise-boo. Get on with it and start running me down'!" Titor flung out idly, lounging bac on the bench icing his legs. Keeping a firm grip on himself, Niita ignored Titor's last words and began qui etly: "When a Komsomol member drins and acts lie a hooligan, he..." "What I dran I paid for with my own money and that's none of your business!" Ti tor shouted. And then something happened that startled everyone. Never in all our school life had we seen Niita Kolomeyets blaze up as he did on that quiet evening in the l ocsmiths' shop. "Scoundrel!" Niita shouted so loudly that he could have been heard in the turne rs' shop next door. "You've got the nerve to boast that you dran on your own mo ney! Who gave you that money you call your own? Who taught you a trade? Who's ma ing you into a citizen? Who's trying to mae you live your life decently, for t he good of society? Did our fathers fight for your freedom so that you could dis

grace the name of the Komsomol in the first pot-house you could find, so that yo u could hobnob with all inds of scum profiteers who only live for the day when we 'll be dead? People who ought to have been in jail long ago! They try to get you in their clutches and you drin with them and ow-tow to them. Where's Bortanov sy now, your client, that 'honest craftsman,' as you called him? In jail for sm uggling. Go and see the Komsomol members in the militia, tal to Granat, the cri minal investigation man, about your friend. He's in charge of that case. Did the best people in Russia die in exile, in tsarist prisons, on the gallows, so that a woring man's son, Yasha Titor, should sleep in a puddle in Proreznaya Stree t, when his mates, with rifles in their hands, were defending their town from Pe tlura's thugs! 'And even that wasn't enough. You acted lie a pig yourself and n ow you've tried to smear your dirt on someone else. 'Let's see if I can stir up a bit of trouble,' you thought. 'Perhaps it'll help me to save my own sin.' You poor fool! Do you thin we can't see why you made that re port against Mandzhur a? What do you thin we are ids? Couldn't we guess why you suddenly found the ene rgy to write a report of three pages. And with eleven spelling mistaes in it! Y asha, Yasha, it was a crude bit of wor, that's a fact..." Niita paused and his voice became softer. "We haven't come here to punish you. You're our comrade an d we want to say this to you: Thin what you're doing, Titor! You can live a fi ne life, a life with sense in it. Clean off that scum of the past! Don't wallow in dirt!" Growing visibly calmer, Niita went on: "Another chap in your place wo uld have said, 'Yes, I made a mistae, I got tied up in that rotten spider's web . I'll try and see it never happens again.' And that would be the end of it. But you ic up a row and try to mae out you're in the right and all the other Kom somol members want to put you wrong..." "Don't start your propaganda, we've heard if all before!" Titor growled. "What did you say?" Niita ased. "I didn't quite hear. Do you mind repeating it ?" "As the cucoo in Proreznaya Street to repeat it, there's one been flying round there a lot lately. I'm not going to cucoo for you!" And Titor tossed his hai r bac challengingly. Pale and tight-lipped, Niita looed Titor straight in the eye. Titor sneered. "Let me spea, Niita," said Galya Kushnir with a catch in her voice.. I thought Galya was going to reason with Titor. Everyone thought so. "Go on, Galya," Niita said. "I thin the best thing, comrades, would be for Titor to put his Komsomol card on the table here and now," Galya said clearly. "I am very ashamed he still has a card in his pocet." And she looed at Yasha with such contempt that he quaile d under her glance and, lowering his eyes, started fumbling in the breast-pocet of his blouse. "Here you are, Miss," he said, pulling out his 'Komsomol card in a cardboard cov er, and offered it to Galya. "Wait a moment, Kushnir," said Niita, and put the question to the vote: "Who is in favour of relieving Titor of this document?" All hands were raised. And, then Yasha, it seemed, saw that he had gone too far. "We'll see what the general meeting has to say about that," he said, trying to s ound hopeful. "Of course we shall, Titor," Niita responded. "Let's go on to the next questio n." Yasha jumped noisily off the bench. Straightening his leather jerin, and dustin g off the shavings, he made for the door. "Where are you off to, Titor? We're just going to discuss your report," Niita called out. "You can do without me. What's the good of telling you anything! You wouldn't be lieve me anyway." And Titor shrugged his shoulders. "You can stay at the meeting while we go into your report," said Niita. "Thans a lot! I'd rather tae a wal the air's fresher outside!" And with a show of cheerfulness, Titor left the room. In case we should thin he was frightened, Titor struc up a song as he clumped

away through the dar turners' shop. Gay nights of Marseilles In the Vagabond Inn... We waited until the outside door slammed shut behind him, then Niita looed at us and sighed. "Yes... Let's go on to the next question," he said bitterly. But the question no longer existed now that Yasha had gone. No one thought of su pporting his accusation against me. After the meeting I drew Niita aside. "Loo here, Niita," I said, "why did you hide that report from me? I've been so worried. . ." "Me hide it from you? You're very much mistaen.'' "Am I! You didn't tell me a thing." "Why tal about a lot of tripe before it's necessary. I didn't want to worry you over anything. The point is that Titor showed himself up with that report. I ept it bac for a bit so that all the chaps should understand just how low Tito r has sun. It happens lie that sometimes. Father a proletarian, a railway wor er, but the son gets infected by the petty-bourgeois atmosphere in our town..." MAP WANTED Our town's a pretty place, specially in spring, when the willows blossom on Old Boulevard, and the town gateways, the ancient, mossy walls of the Old Fortress, and the watch-towers perched on the cliffs above the river wear a mantle of leav es and flowers. From every crac young shoots reach out towards the sun; on ever y ledge, where the winds of centuries have piled soil in plenty, the colza bloom s, and tender, tousled dandelions sway on their thin hollow stems; here and ther e festoons of bluish ivy cling stubbornly to the overhanging walls. Sweet, juicy grass grows even on the battlemented tops of the towers, where no one goes, exc ept perhaps a stray goat which has climbed up there by way of the fortress wall and crops the green shoots, heedless of the precipice below. When you go through the gates, even if the day is sunny, there is often a cuttin g wind. You loo round and there, above you, rise the mighty walls of the Stephe n Bathori Tower built at the order of the ing of Poland. How gloomy it loos, s pecially on the shady side. Surely nothing grows there. But no loo, on a ledge fo ur stories up, by some miracle there's a bush of sloe, or is it hawthorn? And sw aying on its branches two robins are chirping merrily and so they should too, with all the town spread out below them. On the river-bans, still muddy from the sp ring floods, the pussy willows are the first to bloom. Their golden catins appe ar on the branches long before the sticy buds throw out their first glistening leaves. And when the willow has bloomed, it is nice to wander along Old Boulevar d of an afternoon and listen to the cones cracing on the fuzzy branches of the pines. You wal along the avenues of Old Boulevard and all the time, now here, now ther e, you hear that faint snapping sound, as if a bushy-tailed squirrel is scraping away somewhere in the tree-tops, and suddenly a brown cone comes tumbling down from a branch, bounces once or twice on the gravel path and rolls into the young grass. Now and then the warm breeze shaes a cloud of yellow pollen from the tr ees. And if you get tired of waling about under the pines, you can sit down and gaze at the yellow clusters of dandelions on the fortress bastions, or the bright pa tches of colza on the battered rounded walls of the defence towers that once wit hstood the siege of Turish raiders from Constantinople. And just by the end of the bridge it loos as if someone has hung out a lot of gay flags on the bridge rail. But they are not flags, they are the bunches of flowers that the cottagers of Privorotye have come out to sell to the townsfol. Their basets are full of tulips red, white, yellow, pale-pin; and they have bunches of white lilies of th e valley too, wrapped in damp cloths to eep them fresh. Young shoots of pale-bl ue periwinle have long since appeared on the gravestones of the ancient cemeter ies; the allotments round the clay-walled cottages of Podzamche are green alread y and the first soft tendrils of beans, sweet peas, and mauve bindweed are curli

ng round the wicer fences, so that by June they will be able to loo out into t he street. It is sad to thin that in the midst of such a wonderful spring-time we shall be leaving our home town... As yet, however, there had been no news from Kharov. Sometimes I would wae up at nights and lie in the moonlit dormitory listening t o the steady snoring of my neighbours and thining worriedly about the end of te rm. Kharov was silent. At times I began to thin I had never been there at all, that instead of taling to the General Secretary in his office in Karl Liebnecht Street, I had only se en his picture in a magazine. One of my troubles had been disposed of on the evening of the committee meeting. How wrong I had been to suppose that Niita thought badly of me and was plannin g something against me. When he had read Titor's report out to the meeting, Ni ita had said for everyone to hear: "This is what Titor writes: 'In view of the fact that Vasily Mandzhura helped P echeritsa to escape, I, as a politically-conscious young worer, consider that t he only thing for us to do is to expel Mandzhura from the Komsomol.' Well, chaps , I thin you now what value to put on accusations of that ind. Mandzhura let Pecheritsa get away, not because he wanted him to escape, but because he did not now what type of fellow Pecheritsa was, and why he was leaving town. I don't now about you, but personally I trust Mandzhura completely." And two days later, at an open meeting of the Komsomol, Niita had said: "Mandzhura did his duty. He has been to Kharov and fixed things up so that when we finish our training we shall go and wor at factories." "But we haven't gone yet, have we!" came Titor's surly voice from the bac of t he hall. "As I was saying, we trust Mandzhura!" Niita shouted. "So far, all we have seen of you has shown that you aren't to be trusted!" But although Niita had said in front of everyone that he trusted me, that he be lieved we should go to the big factories of the Uraine, I was very much afraid that he might have to say something else later on. "Of course we'll go!" Furman said to Peta one day, not realizing that I was sta nding behind him. "We'll go and cart dung in some village or other!" One more wee till the end of term. It was Saturday and we had no home-wor that evening. Some of the chaps and I we re waling through the town towards the waterfall. The river had long since retu rned to its green bans and now that the rubbish had gone was already attracting swimmers. We wanted to see the last of the chestnuts in bloom on Old Boulevard and, added to that, Sasha had boasted at dinner today that he might go for a swim. Of cours e, we new that Sasha would not jump off the wooden bridge over the waterfall, a s some of the early bathers did; he wasn't that crazy. Sasha would creep in at t he calmest spot he could find. Even so, he had tried hard to go bac on his word , but Peta and I weren't having any. Now it was decided: Sasha was to go for a swim while we watched him. That Saturday evening the old part of the town was very crowded. There were so m any people about in Post Street that it was hard to mae your way along the pave ment. Not long ago Peta had bought a new blue shirt with a pocet in front. Today he was wearing it for the first time. The blue sateen fitted well over his broad ch est. In his last parcel, Father had sent me a fawn shirt with a high, embroidered col lar, and a pair of striped trousers. I had decided to try out my new clothes too . Sasha Bobir, who had been saving up for a long time, and had not eaten white bre ad for two months, had at last splashed out and bought a grey suit coat, vest and

trousers in Cheviot tweed. The first time he saw Sasha in this outfit, Niita sa id: "Do you now what's missing, Sasha, old boy? First you need la gold watch-chain to give you a solid appearance, and then you need a tie. You can't run to a gold chain, of course, and I don't thin you'd tae a tie if it was offered to you f ree. You now the difference between real culture and petty-bourgeois snobbery, and you don't want us to put you through it at the next self-criticism meeting. That's so, isn't it, Sasha, old chap, our dearly beloved Comrade Bobir? ..." From the street vendor by the fortress bridge we bought pop-corn and strode on g aily down the middle of the road. Banishing my gloomy thoughts, I too began to s mile, as I thought of our Sasha creeping into the icy water. By this time, we had reached the town hall. Light streamed from the basement win dows of the town's first model Komsomol cafe. The cafe had been opened quite rec ently by Komsomol members of the food-worers' group in the building that had on ce housed Barenboim's tavern. Hard-pressed by the finance department's high tax on private enterprise, Barenboim had surrendered, and the whole tavern, the cell ars of which extended "far under the town hall, had been handed over to the yout h of. the town. Komsomol members from the town power station had put in new wiri ng, the public utility groups had painted the walls and put the floors in order, joiners from our school, under their instructor's guidance, had made fine table s for the new cafe; even we, foundry men, had cast a new stove for it, in our sc hool foundry. The first Komsomol cafe was the pride of every Komsomol member in our town, and not only because we had taen part in the maing of it; we saw that this was the way to deal with the private traders and drive them for ever out of Soviet trad e. As we passed the cafe window, we noticed with pride the young waitresses in whit e aprons going to and fro between the tables we had made, taing the customers g lasses of fragrant Chinese tea, coffee with whipped cream, and flavoured soda wa ter in blue siphons. The cleanliness and order, and above all, the nowledge tha t no one would fleece you, attracted many customers to the cafe. Nearly all the tables were taen. While we lingered near the cafe, the door opened and Vuovich and his wife came out. I raised my cap. Vuovich smiled and gave me a very smart salute, not just a careless wave, but a real salute, with his fingers straight and touching the shiny pea of his front ier guard's cap. "Who's that, Vasil?" Sasha ased curiously. "That's. . . Comrade Vuovich," I answered carelessly. "You mean the Vuovich?" Sasha exclaimed, staring after the frontier guard envio usly. "And I never new. . . But he saluted you. . ." "What of it? He nows me well." "Didn't you see him when we were on duty at headquarters?" Peta ased. "Er, no. . . I didn't," Sasha mumbled. And suddenly I remembered how Sasha had pretended to be ill, while Vuovich and Polevoi were trying to find out what could have happened to the unnown bandit. All the chaps had peeped out of the guard-room window to have a loo at Vuovich ; only Sasha had lain on the couch, maing his teeth chatter and pretending he h ad an attac of fever... "I say, chaps, what about going to the river tomorrow morning?" Sasha said sudde nly. "The water will be even colder in the morning." "Will it really!" Peta jeered. "So you've lost the bet! All right, come on and treat us to some pop. With a double dose of syrup in it, mind you!" "Hey, chaps!" Jumping over a near-by fence, Furman and Guzarchi came running towards us. ."Is. that how you've been getting ready for your tests!" Peta demanded. "What tests!" bawled Guzarchi, who seemed to be madly excited about something. "Tell us where we can find a map of the Uraine." "There's one at school, you asses. In the cupboard in the office," said Peta. "What do you want a map for?" Sasha ased.

"I now it's in the cupboard," Guzarchi shouted, ignoring Sasha, "but the cler 's got the ey to the cupboard and he won't be here till the day after tomorrow. " "But what do you want a map for?" I ased. "You're taing mechanics." "What for! Are you joing? Don't you now?" And clapping his hand to his forehea d, Monya shouted: "But you don't now anything, you duffers! We're going!!!" "Going where?" Sasha exclaimed. "Going, going, going!!! Hurrah! Vivat!" Mona roared, tap-dancing on the pavemen t. "Tal sense, can't you!" I shouted at Guzarchi. "We were sitting there swotting away at mechanics and suddenly we saw the postma n. And in his hand there was a letter. A great big thing, with seals all over it . 'Where's your director?' he says. 'I've got a registered letter for him.' So w e too the postman to Polevoi's room. Polevoi signed for it, but we didn't go aw ay. We stood there waiting. Just as if we new what was in it. 'Let's open it up quic, Comrade Polevoi,' I said. So we opened the letter and there were the pas ses!" And Furman, having babbled out the news, burst out coughing with excitemen t. "Special meeting at the school in an hour's time!" Mona put in. "Everyone's got to be there." "Where are the passes for?" Sasha demanded inquisitively. "To factories all over the Uraine. For us! Understand? From the Supreme Council of National ^Economy!" Furman rummaged in his pocet and dragged out a long sli p of paper. "I've copied them all down... Read it out, Guzarchi!" "Odessa two places..." Mona boomed with as much pride as if he himself had writte n out the passes and sent them to us. "I'm going to Odessa, that's definite!" Sasha chimed in. "Just the man they're waiting for!" said Furman sarcastically. "They mae soap t here out of softies lie you." "Don't you get cheey!" Sasha retorted huffily. "Keep quiet, Sasha!" Peta begged. "Let a fellow read, can't you? ... Go on, Mon a!" "... The Toretsy plant, Druzhova three places, Enaievo four places, Grishino two p laces... Furman, do you now where Grishino is? You never spent a night under a railway truc there, by any chance, did you?" "No idea!" Furman grunted stolidly. "... Maeeva five places, Alchevs four places, Lugans one place. . . I say, Lugans is a big town, I thin, why are they sending only one there? Queer..." "Go on, go on!" Peta said, nudging Guzarchi. "All right... Kramators two, Zaporozhye four, Mariupol five... That's somewhere by th e sea, I thin." "Of course, it is," our now-all Furman grunted, "but the sea's very shallow the re; you eep wading out, but it never gets deeper than your nees." "... Slavyans two places, Kiev five places... Loo at that, even to Kiev! That's a wonderful town! ... Bolshoi Toma four..." "Loo here, it's a waste of time reading lie this!" Peta interrupted. "We're a ll in the dar... The thing is to go and find out what Bolshoi Toma is and whe re it is. You might choose, then. "No one'll let you choose yourself," said Furrnan. "All the same,.. I want to now beforehand where I'm being sent," retorted Peta . "Let's go and find a map. Perhaps there's one in the Komsomol club? Let's go t o the club, chaps! We'll have time before the meeting." The five of us rushed off to the club. We strode past the fading chestnut-trees, past the dense, shadowy par. Someone was singing to the soft notes of a guitar : We'll dance the "Carmagnole," and may the fight go on! We'll dance the "Carmagnole," and may the fight go on. . . How good I felt marching along to the tune of that song, nowing that all my fea

rs were over! The other chaps taled and joed. Only I had nothing to say. But my joy was grea ter than anyone's. We waled on past the shadowy par and I remembered Kharov, the spring morning amid the melting snow on the university square, the bright su n dazzling my eyes, and now, just as then, my heart beat merrily. . . "The man who sets himself no aim in life is good for nothing," thus Polevoi bega n his speech at the special pupils' meeting in our locsmiths' shop. "Such peopl e," Polevoi went on, "are just guzzlers of society's bread. But you, lads, are t he reserve of the woring class, the only force that is capable of remaing the world in a new way. So every one of you, if he wants to be a real man, must eep on setting himself new aims in life. 'Who says I can't!' That's what you should tell yourselves whenever you run into difficulties. Train yourself to hate fail ure. And failures you will encounter, of course, on your path through life. You have nown them here already. We were within a hair's breadth of being closed do wn. The enemies of the Urainian people the nationalists, the hirelings of world c apitalism-tried to harm the country's cause even here. And what happened? We fou nd justice in Kharov, at the Central Committee of the Communist Party. And here is the result." As he said this, Polevoi lifted the bundle of passes from his t able. "These are the blue-prints of your future. But they may turn out to be not hing but useless scraps of paper if you ever let yourself slide, if you say to y ourself: 'Enough! I've got everything I want, now I'll sit bac and tae it easy !' Don't give up, I repeat, when you meet with failure. Don't tae it lying down . Clench your teeth and go on ahead again!... You are transformers of the world, remember that! To whom, if not to you, the youth of the Soviet land, does the f uture belong! You, my boys, are the first shoots of the Revolution. The great Le nin was deeply interested in your future. Be proud of it! You spent your childho od in the old world. Many of you still remember the policeman that symbol of the p ast who used to stand at the corner of Post Street. That past will still try to t rip you up. But you must cast off that old rottenness. You have a great future b efore you, you are in step with the youth of the whole country. Be proud of it! "I should very much lie to meet you, my friends, ten years from now, when inste ad of young worers you will have become silled craftsmen, engineers, commander s of production, and what is more Communists. "Prepare yourselves for entering the Party right from the start, as soon as you begin wor at the new factories. In moments of difficulty and joy rally round th e Party. Even before you are Party members, foster in yourselves the qualities o f Bolshevis... "Yesterday you read the speech made by Mihail Ivanovich Kalinin to the graduate s of Sverdlovs University. That speech contained a splendid phrase: 'The most v aluable thing for a Party worer is that he should be able to wor joyfully and well under ordinary, everyday circumstances, that he should be able to conquer o ne difficulty after another, day in day out, that the difficulties which practic al life sets before him every day, every hour, that those difficulties should no t swallow up his enthusiasm, that those dragging, everyday difficulties should develop and strengthen his will, that he should see in this everyday wor the fi nal aims, and never lose sight of those final aims for which communism is fighti ng.' "And repeating those words to you, I, for my part, advise you, lads, to wor joy fully and well, regardless of obstacles, always seeing before you the bright fut ure communism. "At the new places where you are going to wor, always foster in yourselves a gr eat desire to find out things that you did not now before. Don't stop. Never st op! Fear only two words: 'slacness' and 'complacency.' "Others will come after you. It will be far easier for them, but they will envy you, for none of them will see the things that you are now to see and experience ... Soon, very soon, you will leave this school. We shall give you travel warran ts and you will go away to the big factories. There a great tas awaits you. Lov e your wor, carry out your responsibilities honestly. . . Good luc! ..."

As we listened to Polevoi's warm speech, we realized that he was very sorry to p art with us. His words were slow and halting, as if he were thining aloud, and sometimes his voice trembled, but we new he was speaing from the heart. The wo rds that stuc in my memory were: "You are the first shoots of the Revolution!" There was something wonderfully beautiful about that. Before me there seemed to stretch, as far -as the eye could see, a broad green field of wheat, sown in ear ly spring by the hand of some great man. The first spring storms had swept over it, the ears were beginning to form on the slender supple stems, and now they we re shooting up higher and higher towards the sun shining overhead in a deep-blue sy. . . The meeting was soon over. Now that Polevoi had told us the glad news that the passes had been received, on ly one riddle remained to be solved: who was to go where? Too excited to stay indoors, we again went out for a last wander round the town. Already, it seemed, we could hear the whistle of the train that was to carry us away... IN THE NEW TOWN We waled out on to the station square and at that moment a strong gust of wind carried away the straw cap of a cabman who had been sitting on his brea waiting for passengers from the station. The cap bowled away across the square lie a l ittle wooden hoop. In a flash the stocy sunburnt cabman had leapt down from his seat and was chasi ng after it. "Go it, Volodya! Catch it!" the other cabmen shouted laughing. Driven by the gusty wind, the cap zigzagged across the square and Volodya had to pounce for it, lie a man after a chicen. Although it was nearly the end of May, the weather here was unusually grim and c old. A damp sea wind slashed across the puddles that gleamed on the square. The low, white-truned acacia-bushes bowed in the wind and blac, rain-filled stormclouds raced low across the sy, almost touching the station roof. In these first minutes of getting to now the new town, I remembered very clearl y our little border town, now so far away, with its steep cliffs and mantle of g reen, and its warm sunshine tempered by the breezes from the Carpathian Mountain s. I remembered our final preparations for the journey, the station platform, th e meeting we had held there, and the farewell words of our Komsomol secretary Ni ita Kolomeyets: "Before you lie the broad vistas of the bright future. Stic to the Party, chaps, as you always have done, and do all you can to help the cause ." Niita's words were drowned by the squealing whistle of the engine. All the chap s from the factory-training school stuc their heads out of the carriage windows and, squeezed between other passengers, struc up our favourite song: "When we' re watching on the border. . ." How clear the sy had been as we watched the familiar station buildings gliding past. How sunny !... And now, here we were tossed into the middle of autumn all of " a sudden. And we were supposed to be in the South! The cabman Volodya ran up to us, shaing drops of water from his cap. "What about a ride, lads?" he shouted. "Count of Bengal's carriage at your servi ce!" And he slapped the varnished hand-rail of his brea. No one had mentioned taing a cab in the train. We glanced at one another. Maing little puzzled noises with his lips, Peta, our treasurer, ept his hand in his trousers' pocet where the public money was stored. Sasha Bobir, of cours e, was ready to go without giving the matter a second thought, and eyed the brea with pleasure. Breas of this ind were unnown in our little town, where we o nly had old-fashioned phaetons. Titor stood a little apart from the rest of us, holding a heavy suit-case. Wrin ling his eyes, he surveyed the square in front of him, pretending that the cabm an's proposal was no concern of his. "Well, what about it, Vasil?" Peta said rather timidly.

"Shall we tae it?" "P'raps we could wal?" I said. "Wal where?" Sasha burst out indignantly. "It's a long way." "All right, let's ride," I agreed. "I wonder how much he'll charge though. As h im, Peta." "What's the fare?" Peta inquired. "Nothing to worry about!" the driver grunted and, running up the steps, grasped Peta's baset and white tin ettle. "Jump in, jump in, lads! I won't sin you. Is this all the stuff you've got?" And he pointed to the rest of our things. "No, hold on, we're not going lie that!" I said, stopping the driver. "Tell us how much first." And I thought to myself: "We now your games!. You're nice and ind now, wouldn't thin of sinning us, but wait until we get there then we'll b e in for it!" "Four of you?" the driver ased, glancing round. "Where are you bound for the holi day resort or Kobazova Hill?" "The centre," I said firmly. "How much will you charge for four?" "Count me out, I'm not coming," said Titor. "Why not?" Peta ased. "Driving in cabs is a bourgeois luxury. We ought to find somewhere to live first , then thin about riding around," Titor snapped. And swinging his suit-case on to his shoulder, he waled slowly down the steps on to the square. "Wait, Titor, let's. . ." Peta began, but I checed him: "Let him go... He's u p to his old game again." "Bit of a handful, that lad!" the driver said indignan tly, shaing his head. " 'Bourgeois luxury!' I lie that! Why I wouldn't drive a bourgeois for a million rubles. I was a partisan myself once..." "Well, how much is it to the centre?" I interrupted him. "Oh, I'll tae you for fifty apiece." "Too much," I said. "Try some bargaining, Peta!" "How much will you pay then?" the driver ased hurriedly. "Twenty opes each," Peta grunted. "All right, it's a deal," the driver agreed. "Better than nothing!" He put Peta's baset and ettle in the brea and was about to pic up my wooden case, when I stopped him and said to the chaps: "Why should we tae our things? Let's leave them at the station. Then we'll have our hands free." "Won't they get stolen?" Peta ased. "Who'll steal them, fat head! The state will be looing after them," I assured h im. The receipt for our luggage was entrusted to Peta, and our treasurer rememberin g how I had been robbed in Kharov, plunged the precious document deep info his pocet, glancing warily at the swarthy driver. We too our seats and the brea clattered gaily over the cobbles. Stone gutters brimming with yellow water stretched along both sides of the road. Low white cottages with red or grey tiled roofs stood bac from the road in cle an little yards sprinled with sand and small sea-shells. Here and there we glimpsed grape-vines, apricots and young cherry-trees through the fences. Flower-beds blazed with nasturtiums and peonies. We stared curiously at the first street of the town where we were to live and wo r. On a sign-board fixed to a corner house I read: "Avenue of the Thirteen Communar ds," and again I was reminded of our border town and the special detachments. "Been having a lot of rain?" Peta ased the driver. "Ever since the storm start ed. Must be the third day," said Volodya, checing the bay horse. "Yesterday we had hail. Great big stuff. More lie buc-shot than hail! Knoced the young grap es about." "But before that was it hot?" "Africa!'-' the driver replied. "I was in the sea most of the day. Sweltering it was. Loo how brown I am." The driver's words cheered us up. So the wind and the puddles in the street were temporary things. If we couldn't find a place to live, it wouldn't be so bad to sleep the night on a par bench. The familiar figure of Titor loomed ahead. He was waling into town with long,

heavy strides, carrying his green suit-case on his shoulder. He had insisted on waling just to show that he did not want to have anything to do with us. But all the same we felt bad about it. He was one of us and there h e was, plodding along on foot, carrying his luggage. We really were lie a lot o f pot-bellied old businessmen jogging along in this flashy brea! Peta, who was more soft-hearted than any of us, could not help whispering: "Let's whistle him, chaps, shall we?" "We can whistle him," I said, "but he'll only show off all the more. Forgotten w hat he was lie on the journey? He wants us to lic his boots. Nothing doing!" "Vasil's right," Sasha agreed. "Yasha thins he's the only pebble on the beach.. . Let him as for a lift himself, if he's tired." But Yasha had no intention of stopping the brea. He waled on with his head hig h. The wind ruffled his blonde foreloc that bunched out proudly under his grey cap. His eyes were narrowed fiercely. Titor pretended not to notice us at all. Volodya spat. " 'Bourgeois luxury!' Bah! The young devil! Thins I'll get rich o n his twenty opes! Carry your luggage, you sinflint... Do you come from the s ame place as him, lads?" "Round about there," I answered evasively, reluctant to tell a stranger about ou r personal relations. "Come to stay at the holiday home, I expect?" the driver ased, whipping up his horse. "What maes you thin that?" Sasha said in surprise. "Savages, eh?" "What do you mean, 'savages'?" I ased indignantly. "That's what we call 'em. Ho liday-maers who don't boo anything in advance. You'll rent a room in some priv ate house, I suppose, and lie on the beach sunning yourselves for a month or two . Is that it?" Embarrassed by the driver's curiosity, I said sternly: "We've come here to wor. We passed out from a factory-training school in our own town and have been sent to wor at the Red Lieutenant Schmidt Wors. Is there a place of that name here ?" " 'Course there is! Used to be the John Caiworth Wors. But they haven't taen a nyone on for a long time. Our own fol are -at the office every day asing for w or." We exchanged glances. "Unsilled, I suppose?" Peta ased worriedly. "All inds. Unsilled and silled. But if you've been sent, may be..." "And do you now who sent us!" Sasha boasted. "The Supreme Council of National E conomy in Kharov. Felix Edmundovich Dzerzhinsy of Moscow gave the order himsel f. And our passes say we're to be taen on straightaway. Show him my pass, Peta ." "Not liely!" Peta snapped bac at him. "Thin I'm going to fiddle about with o ur papers in this wind!" Bobir is a silly chap, I thought. Even drags in Comrade Dzerzhinsy to mae hims elf sound more important. Fancy wanting to show such important papers to a man h e's never seen before! The brea bowled along down the long Avenue of the Thirteen Communards. Now and then Volodya gave the sily flans of his bay a lazy flic with the reins. The street was quite deserted. Here and there we noticed a chance passer-by. The town seemed very quiet. Not much wor going on. "If the local people can't find wor, what will happen to us?" I thought. "After all, we're strangers and we're not very experienced. Such a long way from home and from Polevoi and Kolomeyets and Pancheno... There'll be no one to help us i f something goes wrong!" And the more I thought about it the less happy I became . "Where were you thining of staying, lads?" the cabman ased suddenly. "We don't now yet..." Sasha volunteered. "What are you here for, just a spell of practical training, or permanent?" "If they tae us on, we'll be here for a long time," I explained.

"Well, listen to me, young fellows," said the driver triumphantly. "I've got a f lat for you. Just the thing! A real dream! The town par's just round the corner , music playing all the summer. If you climb on the roof, you can see a cinema s how every Thursday. The place belongs to my aunt. And it's a treat, believe me. The sea's on your very doorstep." "We don't need a flat. One room would do for us," I said doubtfully. "Why don't you want a flat, Vasil?" Sasha ased. "If there's two little rooms... " "Of course! Perhaps you'd lie a grand piano and a separate drawing-room!" Peta snapped at Sasha. "If you want a flat, find it yourself. One room will be enoug h for Vasil and me. Won't it, Vasil?" "I should thin so!" I grunted, realizing that it would be hard enough for us to scrape up enough money for one room, let alone two. "That's just what my aunt will give you," said Volodya. "My aunt's a nice old so ul. Lives alone with the whole house to herself. Mahno's men illed her son, an d she. . ." "But will your aunt tae us?" "Why not! I've only got to recommend you. You'll suit her a lot better than thes e newly rich. They come here, to the seaside, to get rid of their fat, and then mae a fuss: 'Oh, upstairs! It's too high, I've got a bad heart...' No end of tr ouble they are. But you'll suit my aunt just right." "Your aunt's got a two-storey house of her own, has she?" I ased. "That's right. Two storeys," Volodya replied airily. "But there's no furniture tha t's the only trouble. What do you care though? You're young. You can buy yoursel f tropical furniture for the time being orange boxes and that ind of thing. It's not far from here... Gee-up, Sultan!" And with these words the driver swung off to the left. The brea turned off the road and rolled smoothly down a narrow dusty lane. This was a nice thing! Going to live with a private householder. In a two-storey house! I began to loo grim. Why the dicens had we got tied up with this gas-bag of a cabman! But the brea drew up sharply in a quiet street, heavily puddled after the rain of the night before, and we jumped stiffly down on the damp sandy earth, and whe n Volodya introduced us to his aunt, a thin old lady in a long sirt, she turned out to be quite simple and homely-looing. She was called Maria Trofimovna. Her grey hair peeped out from under a simple, b lac-spotted cotton erchief. She came out to us with a gleaming spade in her ha nds the old lady had been digging her garden herself. "I've brought some lodgers for you, aunt. Mae them welcome!" Volodya said gaily , cracing his long whip. NO MORE WORRIES The "two-storey house of her own" turned out in fact to be a little yellow-tiled cottage standing in a small yard planted with flowers. Farther bac, behind the cottage, we noticed the trees of the par and a blue-painted bandstand. A small dar itchen and a clean, whitewashed bedroom, the 'door of which led st raight into the front passage, made up the whole of the "mansion's" first floor. From the front passage, which was cluttered with basets, wooden tubs, and itch en things, a rather steep and creay ladder without any rail led up into what ap peared to be an attic. As we climbed up the ladder after the mistress of the house, I expected the two sloping beams that held the rungs to collapse at any moment and send the five of us tumbling down amid the lumber in the passage. The one and only room upstairs too our fancy at once. Some time ago, by the loo of it, it had been converted from an ordinary loft. The ceiling was sloping an d the window led straight out on to the roof. Volodya stood his whip in the corner and, as if he were the owner of the place, fliced bac the catch on the window. The dusty little window opened with a crea

. "If you climb out here," said Volodya, "you'll see the screen as well as in the front row, even better. I saw Beast of the Forests last wee. No queuing, no cha rge, and a nice breeze to eep you cool! What more do you want?" And indeed, even without climbing out of the window, we had a very good view of the white cinema screen in the town par. I leaned farther out of the window and saw the roof sloping away below me, the neighbour's garden on the other side of the fence, and farther away still, beyond the railway line the sea. The driver had not mislead us; the Azov Sea, large as life, and pretty dirty nea r the shore because of the storm, pounded the beach not more than a hundred pace s from Maria Trofimovna's cottage. From the window I could see the white caps on the waves. A fishing smac with bare mast was tossing in the bay. The old lady watched us anxiously as we examined her room. She seemed very willi ng to let it and Sasha Bobir accordingly acted lie an experienced lodger. Where he learnt his trics, I don't now. He swaggered about the room, stamping on the craced floor-boards and poing his nose into every noo and cranny. For some reason he even opened the door in the chimney of the little stove. Noticing a cross outlined with candle smoe above the door, he ran his finger over it with an air of stern disapproval. Finally he examined the ladder; from above, it looed even more steep and dangerous. "Why no hand-rail?" Sasha ased severely. "If you have to get out of bed in the night, you might brea your nec going down there." "I eep an icon-lamp burning all night in the passage," the old lady answered ob ligingly. "What?. . . An icon-lamp? They cause fires!" Sasha said impressively. "Oh, surdy not, dear! Heaven forbid!" The old lady looed worried. "What about fuel in winter?" Sasha went on relentlessly. "Well, if you'll be woring at the factory," the old lady said, "you'll have eno ugh fuel. The factory worers always get a ration of coal. Volodya will bring it here for you and we'll store it in the shed where I eep the goat." "But suppose we aren't woring at the factory," I thought. "Suppose they don't t ae us on and we have to go away altogether?" "This little attic suits me down to the ground, chaps!" said Sasha emphatically, as if his opinion clinched matters. "Pity it's rather bare, of course." "But I told you, lads," the driver put in hastily, "buy yourselves tropical furn iture for the time being, and later on, when winter's getting near and you've ma de some money, you'll be able to have all the luxury you want." "But what are we going to sleep on?" Sasha objected. "You can't get much sleep o n an orange box." "You can buy 'put-you-ups' camp-beds but they're a bit dearer, of course," Volodya s uggested not quite so confidently. "But can't we just sleep on the floor?" Peta broe in suddenly. "I lie sleepin g on the floor in summer. It's good for you. Haven't you got any straw, Gran?" "I can let you have some hay. There's some left over from what I bought for the goat last winter." "Hay breeds flees," Sasha said, wrinling his nose. "Hay and sawdust. Let Genera l Deniin sleep on hay. We'll buy ourselves 'put-you-ups.' Now..." "Hold on, Sasha," I cut in. "You've done enough taling." And turning to Maria T rofimovna, I said: "If you're willing, I thin we'll be staying here. But what a bout the deposit do you want us to pay now or later?" "I don't now, I'm sure. . ." The old lady said helplessly. "Perhaps Volodya cou ld say." "Listen to me, lads!" said Volodya, thumping the floor with the handle of his wh ip. "We're all friends together, aren't we? No one wants to diddle you. I've int roduced you to my aunt, now you stic to her. She'll be a mother to you. A bit o f washing, a bit of cooing when you need it she'll do it for you. You'll be your own masters entirely, and Auntie, here, will get her eep out of it, won't she? You can discuss the cash later. Now, listen to me, I'm a man of experience. You pop off now to the wors, show them those passes you've got from Comrade Dzerzhi nsy and find out how you stand. Otherwise you're all in the dar, so to spea.

Do you now what grade they'll give you, how much they'll pay you? You don't no w anything, do you? But when you've been to the wors, you'll be a lot wiser. An d in the meantime, Auntie, here, will put her thining cap on and wor out how m uch to charge you, so that she won't feel the pinch and her nephew, Volodya, wil l have something to wet the bargain with. Well, shall we be getting a move on?. . ." Of course, we shouldn't have wasted a minute on this first day of our arrival in the new town. We ought to have taen Volodya's advice and rushed off at once to the wors. But we were very een to discover what the sea looed lie at close quarters. We had never seen it before, except in pictures. The biggest river we had ever seen bac home was the Dniester, and that was a go od fifteen versts away, along country roads. And in the Dniester, you could only bathe near the ban if you swam out to the middle, you might get potted at by a R umanian gendarme. Leaving the cottage, we turned down a lane leading to the sea, crossed the harbo ur railway lines, and stopped at the sea wall. This strange sea that we had never seen before was hurling itself furiously at t he shore. Foaming waves thundered against the foot of the wall, then rolled bac defeated carrying away pebbles, shells and dead seaweed and maing room for fre sh waves to repeat the assault. The sea was all hills and dales, and not a calm patch anywhere. A cloud of cold spray swept over us. With a grimace of distaste, Sasha wiped his frecled face and stepped bac. I must say I had not imagined the sea was lie this. What I had expected to see was a great calm expanse of clear blue water. Once I had given Galya a photograph of myself with the inscription: "My love, bo undless as the sea, the shores of life o'erflows." I had heard these words at the theatre, in a play about seven prisoners who were hung by the tsarist police. I had learnt them by heart and often thought of the m. Galya ased me once, I remember, if I had composed them myself. It was a bit too much to tell a lie and say "yes" straight out. So I had to put her off by re plying: "What, don't you lie them?" Now, as I gazed at the sea, I remembered the time, not so long ago, when we were still at school. I remembered my friend, Galya; and the line about love being " boundless as the sea" too me bac to our far-off town. Another thing that disappointed me was that the sea here was not boundless by an y means. On the left it was bounded by a narrow spit of sand curving to the sout h-west. At the end of the spit, straight ahead of us, there were some buildings, and farther out stood a sort of pyramid rising quite high out of the water, pro bably a lighthouse. The harbour gates to our right were protected by a grey stone breawater. It see med to run out of the harbour mole and, from where we were, looed very low, tho ugh it must have been quite high really. Only now and then did a wave foam over the massive stone slabs, and these were waves from the open sea, even fiercer t han those that thundered on the shore below us. Buffeted by the damp sea wind and salty spray, deafened by the roar of the waves , we did not hear a girl come up behind us. We only saw her when she too a running jump on to the wall. The wind wrapped th e hem of her blue, white-flowered dressing-gown tightly round her legs. On her f eet she wore little pin beach-shoes. We stared at the stranger. Taing no notice of us, she stood on the concrete parapet, slim and supple, tai ng in deep breaths of the stormy air. After a little, she turned and, surveying us eenly, ased loudly: "Will you be staying here for a while, boys?" "Yes, just for a bit," Sasha replied awwardly. "In that case, do you mind looing after my things for me, please!" And without waiting for a reply, the girl too a jewelled tortoise-shell comb out of her thi c hair, thrust it into her dressing-gown pocet, and dropped the dressing-gown on the top of the wall, just in front of Sasha.

Now wearing only a bathing costume, the girl put her foot on the steps and start ed to go down. We thought the girl would just tae a dip in the surf at the bottom of the wall then run bac shivering with cold. That was how most of the women bathed bac ho me, in the Smotrich. But this girl plunged headlong into an oncoming wave, as if she had been doing it all her life. In a minute or two we saw the unnown girl far out at sea. Now her yellow costume showed above the waves, now it disappeare d altogether. Instead of turning away from the advancing waves, the girl thrust into them headfirst. Huge walls of water towered over her, but she plunged boldl y under them, only coming up again for a second to tae breath before meeting an other attac of the pounding sea. Now and then she turned towards us and languid ly swept the hair bac from her face. It was thic and wet and ept getting in h er eyes. "Gosh, a real circus princess!" Sasha exclaimed delightedly. "The way she dives into those waves! ... Could you do that, Peta?" And Sasha sat down on the top o f the wall beside the girl's dressing-gown, his eyes fixed on the sea. "I'd have to find out what the water was lie first," Peta replied evasively: " If it's really salty, why not! They say it's easy to swim in salt water; it hold s you up." "It may hold you up, but loo at the waves! Can't you see them?" I-said. "If a w ave lie that hit you, you'd go to the bottom lie a stone... How will she get o ut, I wonder?" "She'll have a hard time getting to the shore!" Sasha agreed. "Where is she, chaps?" Peta shouted suddenly. "I can't see her." The girl seemed to have vanished. "Perhaps she's on the breawater already," Sasha said dubiously. "She couldn't have got there so soon," I said, then heaved a sigh of relief: "Th ere she is, you asses!" Gripping the anchor chain of the fishing smac, the unnown girl was climbing ab oard. A wave threw her up and with a final pull she jumped on to the heaving dec . Clinging to the mast with one hand, she straightened her hair with the other, then, lie a cabman out in a sharp frost, started flapping her arms round her b ody. She seemed to be enjoying her rest out there. But now I began to tae a les s favourable view of her bathing. She had ased us to loo after her clothes for a bit, and now, by the loo of things she would be swimming right out to the br eawater! "You're an ass, you now, Sasha!" I said to Bobir. "What made you say we'd stay here! There she is out there, enjoying herself, and we ought to be at the factor y. A fine volunteer!. . ." "All right, then, let's go," Sasha suggested glancing round. "If we go now, someone may pinch her dressing-gown and she'll thin it was us," Peta remared thoughtfully. "Come on, Peta, let's go and leave this ladies' man to stand guard!" I threaten ed Sasha "I'm not staying here alone. Catch me!" Sasha grunted and hastily moved away fro m the dressing-gown. As if sensing our impatience, the girl dived neatly off the smac into the foami ng sea. Re-appearing on the crest of a wave, she struc out firmly for the shore . The sea helped her on, pushing her from behind. But near the shore the girl wa s caught in the bacwash of the waves. The foaming rubbish-strewn water rolling bac from the foot of the wall swept her to and fro without letting her get any nearer. The girl looed tired. She was swimming slowly to recover her strength. But just at that moment a huge breaer came roaring towards the beach. As it swe pt her forward, the girl made a grab for the iron steps, which nearly gave way u nder the force of the wave. Somehow the girl climbed up on to the sea wall. She swayed on her feet. Her hair was stuc together and hung down lie wet rope. Specs of dirt mared her sunbu rnt legs. "Merci for looing after my things," she said breathlessly. And catching up her dressing-gown she darted away, leaving little wet foot-mars

on the concrete. "Let's go, chaps," I said, turning away from the wall. When saying good-bye to us, Volodya had pointed out a tall bric chimney rising at the foot of a distant hill with a red flag flying from the lightning conducto r. "That's the Lieutenant Schmidt Wors," he said. "Keep on towards that chimney an d you'll come straight to the office." The town was very clean and surprisingly flat, not a bit lie our home town with its steep cliffs and gullies. "Pretty good swimmer, that princess, chaps," said Sasha with envy in his voice. "I wouldn't have gone into the sea in a storm lie that. I can still hear it roa ring in my ears." "That's just because you're not used to it," said Peta. "Wait until we get fixe d up here. We'll be bathing all the summer. This storm's nothing to the ones we' ll be swimming in. One day we'll be swimming out to that lighthouse!" "Some hopes!" I- said. "It's a good ten versts away." "But I'm glad we've got a place right by the sea, aren't you!" Peta said, findi ng it hard to eep up with us. "Thin how fine it'll be in the morning. Just run down to the beach and straight into the sea! Then off to wor. We shan't even h ave to wash. Titor will be sorry he didn't come with us." "Don't count your chicens before they're hatched, Peta," I said, remembering w hat the driver had told us about people without wor in the town. " 'Straight in to the sea!' Mind you're not mistaen. We don't now yet how they'll greet us at the factory." "How do you thin they'll greet us? What's wrong!" Sasha exclaimed. "We've been sent there!" "All this guessing's no good anyway!" I said. "Let's ' wal faster!" And just th en I caught myself thining about that girl in the flowery dressing-gown. Some pluc! THE TEST The smell of rough coal told us the factory was near. We new that smell from ou r days in the foundry at school. Somewhere near by we could hear a motor chugging. The street lined, with yellow acacias along which we were waling, led into another street running across it. As we turned into this new street, we saw that it was bloced at one end by a gr een fence. In the middle of the fence there was a similar, green-boarded gate. A bove it hung a smart semi-circular sign in iron lettering. LIEUTENANT P. P. SCHMIDT ENGINEERING WORKS As we stood at the corner of the street, the gates suddenly opened and a long li ne of reapers drove out of the yard. The drivers sat on springy side-seats, urgi ng on their horses. The windmill-lie sails of the reapers were motionless. All the reapers were brand new. We could see they had only just been painted with re d and blac enamel. As I listened to the rattle of the reapers' broad iron wheels on the hard road a nd watched the sunburnt drivers in stiff tarpaulin jacets bobbing up and down o n their high seats, I could not help remembering the distant state farm above th e Dniester, where I had wored three years ago. We had harvested the farm's whea t with just such machines as these. The machines that we had used on the state farm, however, had been old and rice ty, with foreign trade-mars on them; the state farm had taen them over from th e former landlords. But these that were driving past us now were new, Soviet one s. Though the sun was still hidden in the clouds, these reapers shone. Their bro ad sails were glossy with paint. Now their sharp blades were clicing to and fro

lie hairclippers, with nothing to cut, but you felt that if any wheat or rye g ot in their path, they would slash it down in no time. "Do they mae them here?" Peta exclaimed in a thrilled voice. "Loo how big the y are! A bit different from our straw-cutters!" "Of course they were made here. Can't you see the trade-mar!" And the sharp-eye d Sasha showed Peta the wors trade-mar on the side of one of the reapers: "UA MT Lieutenant P. P. Schmidt Engineering Wors." "But what does UAMT mean?" Peta ased. "Is that the station where they're being sent?" "Can't you guess!" I said, remembering the same letters on our passes. "UAMT mea ns 'Urainian Agricultural Machinery Trust.'" "What machines!" Sasha crowed. "They tae some putting together, I bet. Tricier than a motor-bie engine! I am glad they sent us here!..." The gate-eeper directed us to a little house at the bac of the wors yard. We stopped hesitatingly at a blac oilcloth-covered door mared "Personnel Departme nt." "Who's going^ to do the taling?" Sasha ased, glancing at us. It was a decisive moment and he looed worried. "Vasil's our team-leader, let him spea," Peta muttered hastily. "Give me the passes," I said. A typewriter was clattering in the long, low-ceilinged room. Beside a typist wit h blonde wavy hair stood a young man in a grey checed suit, chewing a cigarette and dictating. His hair was glossy with hair-cream. I was struc at once by his huge lemon-coloured shoes, with long pointed toes. In the stiff collar of his s tarched shirt he wore a blac bow-tie. His trousers were modishly narrow, well p ressed and so short that his anles showed. Many other people besides me must ha ve thought, "Here's a dandy!" and felt accordingly suspicious of this dressed-up young man. "... Thus the number of personnel at the plant is gradually increasing," the hai r-creamed young man was dictating nasally to the typist. Then, seeing us, he as ed in surprise: "What do you want?" "Good morning!" I said, striding up to the dandy. "Here!" And I held out the pas ses to him. He frowned, too the mangled cigarette out of his mouth, silently read all the p asses and, returning them to me, said in an affectedly deep voice: "Altez!" "What?" I said. "Not needed," the dandy replied, maing a scornful face. "They were given to us by the Supreme Council of National Economy," Sasha burst out. "I can read," said the young man with a sidelong glance at Bobir. "And I repeat: we do not need worers with your qualifications." "But we've been sent to your plant, comrade!" I said, looing the dandy straight in the eye. "Well, I didn't invite you!" And he spread his arms lie an actor. "How can you complain! I don't understand! Why, only a half an hour ago, I accepted a student from your place. Leoadia Andreyevna, what was that blonde fellow's name? You now, the one you said was lie your friend, Comrade Kuchov." "Titor," the typist replied languidly, glancing at a sheet of paper. "He wasn't lie my friend, he was lie the Don Cossac Kuzma Kuchov!" And so saying, the typist turned away from the dandified young man and stared indifferently out of the window. "You see, there was room for one, so I too Titor on. And incidentally, I did s o at my own ris, because if the town labour exchange gets to now about it, I m ay collect a nice raspberry. We've got enough local people queuing up, as it is. Even footballers!... But you, young people... Alas!" And again he made that the atrical gesture with his arms. "We're fifth graders!" Peta exclaimed. "We've been studying a long time and. . ." "I now and I understand," the young man interrupted Peta and tossed his cigare

tte out of the window. "I come from the woring class myself and I quite underst and your awward position, but there's nothing we can do about it!" Encouraged by the sympathetic tone the young man had adopted, I ased: "What shall we do?" He shrugged his shoulders. "Tae the train to Kharov. You'll get there tomorrow morning. Get the Supreme C ouncil of National Economy to send you somewhere else. To the Don has perhaps. I t's all the same to you." "What do you mean 'all the same to us!' " Peta burst out indignantly. "Where do y ou thin we'll find the money to go to Kharov? It cost us the last of our grant s to come here." "Well, I can't help it," the dandy replied, and looed out of the window, obviou sly anxious to finish this unpleasant conversation. I looed at the carefully pr essed lapels of his waisted jacet, at his tough, sunburnt, bull nec, and at th e fastidiously notted bow and thought: "What can we do? What else can I' say to this dressed-up noodle? He simply doesn't want to understand what a hole we're in." Realizing-, however, that it was foolish and pointless to say anything, I turned to my friends and muttered: "Well... Let's get going, if that's the way things are..." "Au revoir," the dand y called and moved closer to the typist to continue his dictating. Coming out into the yard, I sat down on the cold stone step. Two worers in rust -stained tarpaulin jacets were pushing a truc of small but for some reason rus ty castings along a railway line. I gazed at the worers with envy, although the wor they were doing was rough and demanded very little sill. "What shall we do, eh, Vasil? What are you sitting there for? Can't you hear?" P eta mumbled, standing over me. "We were fools to go with that cabman! That was my fault! We ought to have come straight here with Titor. And now he's been ta en on and we're left out in the cold," Sasha admitted, very upset. Sasha's words, his distressed, frightened face spotted with frecles, brought me to my senses. "The driver's got nothing to do with it, Sasha. Suppose we had all four come her e together? There was only one place going. Then what? They might have taen you on, but what about us?" "Don't get peeved, Vasil! Thin of something. You went to Kharov, you got these passes..." Sasha said very peacefully. Suddenly I remembered the farewell words of our director at the factory-training school Polevoi: "Don't give up when you meet with failure. Don't tae it lying down. Clench your teeth and go on ahead again!" These words and the memory of all the other things Polevoi had said made me even more furious with that hair-creamed bureaucrat in the office. "We'll have to go to the very top... That's what we must do!... To the director. .. And if he doesn't help us to the Party Committee!" I said firmly. ... The director of the wors turned out to be a short grey-haired man in blue o veralls. At first we did not believe that he was the owner of the well-lighted o ffice cluttered with machine parts, cultivators, castings, test-tubes of sand an d copper filings... The director's office was more lie a laboratory, or an assembly shed. Had it no t been for the diagrams on the walls, the comfortable leather arm-chair, and the big oa des with its telephones and instand, we should have thought we had ma de a mistae. When we filed into the room, the director was standing at a vice with a hammer a nd chisel in his hands. The vice was clamped to the window-sill. It held a piece of rusty metal. Scarcely looing down, the director was cutting through the metal with firm, hea vy blows, lie a regular mechanic. Noticing us, he put the hammer down on the window-sill and wiped his hands. "What can I do for you, young people?" He looed lie an old craftsman and reminded me a little of the fitters' instruc tor at the factory-training school.

The very tone of the director's voice told us that he was a calm, considerate ma n. True, he did not read all the passes. He glanced at the first and, when I tol d him what a fix we were in, he ased: "All of you from Podolia?" "Yes, all from the same town," Peta said. "You've come a long way then. From the Carpathians to Tavria! I now your town a bit. We marched through it on the way to the Austrian front. Some big cliffs an d precipices round your way, aren't there? And a fortress standing on the top of the cliffs." "That fortress is still standing there!" Sasha exclaimed, and we all cheered up a bit. "But I must say I don't recall there being any industry there," the director sai d. "Where did your factory-training school spring from?" "There's a factory-training school, but not much industry yet," I" answered, alt hough I new the worers of the Motor Factory, who considered themselves a big p lant, would have been mortally offended had they heard me. "That's why they sent us to you, because there's nowhere to put us at home yet. The Secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Uraine told us that young wore rs lie us would soon be needed everywhere in the Donbas and in Yeaterinoslav an d... here!" I added. The director raised his shaggy eyebrows and looed at me shrewdly. "You don't need to tell me they've sent you, I can see that for myself..." he sa id slowly. "But they never ased beforehand whether we needed you just now. Wher e am I going to put you to start with that's the question." He piced up the passes from the des, looed through them again, and shoo his head. "Which of you is Maremuha?" "Here!" Peta shouted, as if he were answering roll-call at the Special Detachme nt Headquarters, and stepped up to the director.. "Well, what can you do, Maremuha?" "I'm a joiner and ... and a turner. I can turn wood." "Wood?" the director said in surprise. "I thought bread was your speciality. You loo as if you new how to put it away." Sasha and I laughed at Peta's confusion. Plump and rather clumsy, he stood at a ttention before the wors director lie a soldier. His trousers were badly crump led from sleeping in them during the long journey. "Well, Maremuha, your luc's in," said the director. "Good joiners are just wha t we happen to be short of. And I don't suppose there are any down at the labour exchange. Now which of you is Mandzhura Vasily Mironovich?" I stepped up to the director. "What are you, a 'Galician?" the director ased. "Why?" I said, taen abac. "The name's Galician. . . But you're not far from Galicia in any case. Almost th e same people as you, they are. Only the Zbruch in between... Well, what has Vas ily Mironovich Mandzhura got to say for himself?" "I'm a foundry man!" "A foundry man?" The director waled over to the little table, piced up the fir st piece of metal that came to hand, and holding it out to me, ased: "What meta l was this cast from?" "Pig iron," I said, looing at the broen length of metal. "Oh, was it?" The director pucered his eyes slyly, giving me a piercing glance. Without another word, he went over to the vice, too out the old, battered piece of metal, put in the piece he had just shown me, and gave it a resounding blow with his hammer. The metal bent lie proper iron, but did not even crac. "Well, is it pig iron?" the director ased and glanced at me even more slyly fro m under his shaggy brows. "That's nothing," I said slowly. "There's all inds of pig iron. Malleable, for instance..." "You mean ductile, don't you?" the director corrected me, livening up noticeably .

"Yes, ductile." "And how do you mae pig iron ductile?" "You have to ... put a bit more iron into it ... and a drop of steel..." "Steel? Steady on, that'll mae the casting more brittle! Everyone nows that st eel maes iron brittle." "You have to cast the metal first, then anneal it in special ore... Manganese or e, I thin," I said, remembering what our instructor Rozaevich had told us. "Ah, anneal it!" the director grew even more lively, and a pleased smile spread over his face. "That's the answer to the mystery! I've been struggling with that annealing for over a year now, counting from the time when the worers elected me director of the plant. We too this plant away from the foreign capitalists a fter the Revolution, and when they ran away with the Whites, they too all the p roduction secrets with them. They thought we'd be done for without their help. B ut little by little we're finding things out ourselves. Now we're getting down t o the secrets of annealing by scientific means, so to spea, so that we won't ha ve to do our founding by rule of thumb. I mean to give the pig iron at this wor s the same ductibility as iron itself. Get it? So that if a peasant starts harve sting his wheat with one of our reapers and happens to run against a stone, noth ing will go wrong. So that the teeth won't brea! And those teeth, lad, are a gr eat thing. They save the blades from all sorts of devil's trics. Get it? And I want the Urainian peasant to feel thanful to us for our reapers! It's not enou gh to blather about bringing town and country together. Those teeth are the thin gs that'll do it!" And the director stroed the rusty piece of metal as if it we re a favourite itten. "Well, young man, what did they teach you?" he ased, swi nging his gaze on Sasha Bobir. "They put me in the fifth grade as a fitter," said Sasha, "but the thing I lie most is taing engines to pieces." The director eyed Bobir, chucling slyly. "You tae engines to pieces! That's th e spirit! And who puts them together again after you?" "I can put them together myself, if there's need. Depends on the engine. If it's a Sunbeam motor-bie, I can do it easy as pie," Sasha could not help boasting. "I'll have to put you into RIP then," the director decided. "How do you mean, 'RIP'?" Sasha's voice trembled slightly. "That's what one of our departments is called the Repair, Instrument, and Power de partment. We call it RIP, because it's easier to say. RIP caters for all the oth er departments." Going through our passes again, the director said: "Well, you, young people, for right or wrong, I'm going to tae you on at the wors. Why do I mae such a fav our of it, you'll as. Because in our country there is still unemployment. We've got lots of people and, as yet, not many factories. But that will pass, I'm sur e. Very soon we shall get rid of unemployment, just as we've got rid of other tr oubles. We'll build new factories and maybe, one day, no one will believe that t here ever was such a thing as unemployment in Soviet times. But at the moment it exists... All right then, go round the wors today, get your papers in order, a nd tomorrow, at the sound of the hooter, report to the foremen. If you'd been lo cal lads, I'd have sent you to queue up at the labour exchange. But sometimes, I repeat, we have to mae exceptions. But mind you wor well, to the best of your ability! -Get it? No shiring or turning up late! This is a Soviet wors. Get i t? We've sent the old owner, John Caiworth, pacing, and taen the business we b uilt for him into our own hands. It's to our own advantage to run the wors prop erly. We value and respect worers who treat the wors as their own.. . Any Koms omol members among you?" "All of us," Sasha put in hastily. "And Vasil was even on the committee!" "All the better!" the director said gladly. "Those Komsomol lads are a great hel p to us. When you've signed up in your shops, go to the wors Komsomol committee and see Golovatsy. Put your names down there and start your new life." GETTING SETTLED Our landlady gave us three long canvas sacs. Peta and I stuffed them with dry,

pricly hay and, after sewing them up, propped them against the shed where the goat was bleating to be miled. Maria Trofimovna wanted to wash the floor in our room herself, but we had got us ed to the job while living at the hostel, and we decided we could manage without her help. Peta carried up bucets of cold water from the little well in the ya rd, while I, barefooted and with my trousers rolled up to the nees, scrubbed th e craced boards with a wet rag. Then I cleaned the window. When I had polished it, the window let a lot more light in, and we were both glad to see our little room so spic and span. In the tree-surrounded house next door, which faced the sea, someone was playing the piano. The windows of the house were open and the sounds of the piano float ed into our room, mingled with the bleating of the goat and the boom of the near -by sea, which as evening approached was falling into a calm. "What a window! So clean you can't even see the glass!" said Peta, surveying my handiwor. "Bring up the mattresses!" I commanded, encouraged by his praise. And while Peta went for the mattresses I wored out where we should spread them . I decided to put mine right under the window. "It'll be chilly at night, but I 'll get the fresh air. And-I'll be the first to hear the wors hooter in the mor ning," I thought. The room smelt fine of freshly scrubbed boards and hay. As I listened to the sounds of the piano, I found myself wondering anxiously how I could ill time until tomorrow morning the first morning at our new place of wo r! The only thing I could remember about the wors not counting our conversation with the director, of course was the long and dusty alley in the foundry, down which I had waled to reach the foundry office. What with the distant glare of iron bei ng poured from the furnace, the clatter of the moulding machines, the clang of t he signal bell, the screech of the tacles which the foundry men used to lift he avy moulds I had been so stunned by it all that I had not even noticed how my futu re mates in the foundry wored. How little this huge foundry with its low glass roof resembled the tiny foundry at our factory-training school, which was always quiet and fairly cool, and wher e even on casting days there was no noise to spea of. Fedoro, the shift foreman, whom I met in the foundry office, a little man of ab out forty, with a red weather-beaten face and sparse scorched eyebrows, showed n o surprise when I gave him the note from the director. Perhaps the management of fice had rung him up before I arrived. Fedoro put my name down on the foundry register and gave me a worer's ticet a nd a temporary pass. "I'll put you on a machine tomorrow," he promised. "But I've never wored on a moulding machine before," I told the foreman with a gulp. "You'll get used to it," the foreman said shortly. "Two wees probation is a lon g time." And that was all. The only thing for me to do was to say "good-bye" and leave th e office. With difficulty I sought out the little house near the management building where , as a passing worer told me, the Komsomol fellows "hung out." Finding a door bearing the notice "Wors 'Komsomol Committee," I pushed it open. A tall man was standing with his bac to me on a chair in front of a large map, swishing a ruler about over the territory of China. The room was barely furnishe d with a des, booshelves, a cupboard, and about ten chairs. Maps covered the w alls. The tall man turned round, and to my surprise I noticed that he was wearing a ne atly-tied crimson tie. "Who are you looing for?" he ased, surveying me closely. His eyes were grey an d rather clever.

"I want to see the secretary of the Komsomol," I said rather surlily. "I'll come in later." I was about' to go, when the man with the ruler jumped noisily to the floor. "How do you do!" he said loudly, holding out a big sinewy hand. "I was just stud ying the situation in China." Although the stranger wore a Komsomol badge in the lapel of his handsome dar-br own suit, I had already been put off by his smart appearance, particularly his t ie, and was anxious to get away. "I'll come in tomorrow," I muttered. "Why not today?" "When today?" "Why not stay here now? I'm the secretary. Let's get to now each other. My name 's Golovatsy. Who are you?" Something seemed to choe me and for a minute I could not say a word. This was n ews! The secretary of the wors Komsomol organization wearing a tie! Who had eve r heard of such a thing! The main point in all the debates we had ever held abou t culture and petty-mindedness was that the more attention a young man paid to h is appearance and all that nonsense of creased trousers and particularly the wea ring of a tie, the sooner he lost touch with his mates and became a grubbing bur eaucrat who did not understand the needs of the woring class. Nevertheless I ha d to tell Golovatsy what had brought me here. "What do you thin of the opposition?" he ased me guardedly, obviously trying t o sound my attitude. "What, have you still got opposition supporters here?" I countered. "They weren't our own. A lot of riff-raff came here, got themselves jobs and tri ed to stir up the worers. It didn't come off. The day before yesterday, when th e district Party active debated the decisions of the April Plenum of the Party C entral Committee, everyone voted unanimously for the Central Committee's line. O ur people stuc together well and those traitors didn't get a loo in. Now you a nswer me, what is your personal attitude to the opposition?" "My attitude?" I said more calmly, realizing that I was dealing with a real, dec ent sort of fellow. "I thin it's high time that Trotsyite riff-raff was iced out of the Party and the Komsomol. We've got enemies all round us who want to s trangle Soviet power. We must stic together and rally round the Party. Those op position supporters want to spread disagreement among us." "Well, I'm very glad you've been put in the foundry!" said Golovatsy. "They're good lads there, I now, and last year when we smashed the Trotsyites who had w ormed their way into the management worers' Komsomol group, the Komsomol foundr y men were the first to come out for the Party line. They got the whole wors ro und them and didn't let those traitors dig themselves in. But since then, some o f the chaps have gone away to the Navy, on the Baltic, and there are not so many active members now. And we'll soon be holding re-elections. . . Now tell me, wh et have you got a leaning for?" "I don't drin," I said gruffly. The secretary frowned. "I didn't mean that. What Komsomol wor did you do before ? What are you een on?" Little by little I told Golovatsy about our Komsomol club and about the evening debates on such subjects as "What came first thought or speech, the chicen or th e egg?" I told him about the moc trial of Don Quixote, and about the evenings o f self-criticism, at which every Komsomol member went through the mill for his s hortcomings. I also said a word or two about the discussions on culture and pett y-mindedness, staring at the secretary's crimson tie, as I did so. "Oho!" Golovatsy exclaimed joyfully. "You've got some sound woring experience behind you, good experience too. That's fine. Everything flows, everything changes. Every Komsomol member ought t o eep his mind alert and active. That's the only thing that can save us from th e danger of turning into human cabbages. I'll tae account of everything you've told me." And he made quic notes on a pad. "You've obviously got a leaning for cultural wor with the masses. We may even entrust you with the job of organizin g a Time League' society in the foundry. That's an important job, you now." Gol

ovatsy glanced at his watch. "But for the time being, old man, I'll as you to concentrate all your energy on the fight against defective output. Your departme nt is on piece-wor. But piece-wor under a capitalist is one thing, and it's qu ite a different thing under our Soviet system, when we are woring for ourselves and are interested not only in quantity but quality. Some of the foundry men do n't understand that. They bash away as hard as they can go, and give us a lot of spoilage. Pay special attention to these castings." And Golovatsy too down fr om the booshelf a casting just lie the one the director had shown us. "That mu st be the most perfect casting of the lot," he went on. "All the other castings must be perfect as well, of course. But this one particularly. And you, as a 'Ko msomol member, must wage a campaign against bad worers. Find out where the trou ble lies..." "But I've never wored on a machine before!" I interrupted the secretary, repeat ing what I had said to the foreman. "I wored on the moulding-bed. I can do flywheels even without the bottom mould-box." "You'll catch on," said the secretary, and he seemed to now something about the foundry. "Where's your card?. . ." And now, as I stared through the clean glass of the window, I remembered the col d, abrupt words of the foreman, "you'll catch on," and my conversation with Golo vatsy, and I thought, "Suppose things go wrong? Suppose I still haven't learnt to wor on a machine after two wees and they tell me to get out! What will happ en then?" I began to feel as if I had never been to a factory-training school, as if the f ifth grade that I had qualified for there meant nothing, as if I didn't now any thing at all and should have to start tomorrow right from the beginning again. A nd since I did not now what awaited me on the following day, I felt even more w orried. There was a crea on the stairs and Peta appeared. He was carrying a small roun d table with a long, thin centre leg. "Loo at this!" Peta said, puffing with exertion and pride. "Did Maria Trofimovna give it you?" "That's right! 'Until you've got your own furniture, you can use this,' she says , 'I don't need it.' " "Now we've only got to get hold of some stools and we'll be all set." "Maria Trofimovna was asing me what to coo for dinner tomorrow vegetable borshch or cold cherry soup? 'I don't now,' I says, 'let the other chaps decide.' What do you want, Vasil?" "What does she thin this is a restaurant?" I replied frowning. "Well, if she's agreed to give us full board, let her get on with it." "We don't now yet what wages we'll be getting." "Don't worry, we'll get our due," Peta said confidently. "When I was signing up , one of the joiners told me that none of them get less than a hundred, even the third-graders!" "It's all right for you, Peta, you'll be doing wor you now. That's easy! But I've got to requalify. Blowed if I now how you use one of those moulding machin es! I've never even seen them before." "Don't worry, Vasil! If you're in a spot, you can always count on Sasha and me." "Where's Sasha got to?" I said, glancing at the old alarm-cloc that our landlad y had put on the stove-ledge. "What's become of him? It's over an hour since he left." "It's quite a way to the station, you now. He's got to find Volodya and get the things. Then he's got to buy some grub. Our landlady won't start cooing for us till tomorrow, you now," We had sent Sasha to the station to get our luggage. While he was away it had be en our job to stuff the mattresses, wash the floor and get the room ready for sl eeping. "Did he mae a note of the address?" I ased Peta. "Perhaps he's been wandering all over town and can't find the way bac."

"What for? We agreed that he'd get hold of Volodya at the station and Volodya wo uld bring the stuff bac free." "Oh yes, that's right," I said. "Well, we've finished our job, let's go for a st roll." We waled past the landlady, who was ironing our sheets in the itchen, and open ed the gate. "Let's go left, Peta," I suggested. We waled along Primorsaya Street towards the harbour, passing the house from w hich the music had been coming a little while ago. Now the piano was quiet and a clin of glasses could be heard from the house it mu st be their tea-time. The yard in front of the house was a mass of hollyhocs, y oung vine bushes, tea roses, purple carnations, and mauve wistaria. The sweet to bacco was not out yet, but the scent of flowers, freshened by the recent rain, s eemed to pour over us from behind the low fence. Roses of a ind that I had neve r seen before climbed under the eaves of the roof, weaving a flowery archway rou nd one of the open windows. In the corner of the garden, just by the fence, stood a summer-house, covered wi th dar green ivy and mauve convolvulus. As we passed the summer-house, I heard the sound of voices and could not help gl ancing in. On the rail of the summer-house, swinging her sunburnt legs, sat the girl whose dressing-gown we had minded on the sea-front. Kneeling on one nee beside her, p umping a bicycle tyre, was the dandy from the personnel department. I stared at the girl as if I had never seen anyone lie her before. Noticing my glance, she raised her eyes and freed her hair from the ivy with a pettish shae of her head . I felt awward. Blushing, I gave a sort of half nod. As I turned hurriedly awa y, I noticed that the girl was smiling. "Did you see who that was, Vasil?" Peta ased, nudging me with his elbow. "Who?" "The princess there?" And mimicing the girl, Peta squeaed: "Do you mind looi ng after my things, please?..." "Didn't you recognize the lany fellow?" I said. "What lany fellow?" "The one who was pumping the tyre." "No. Who was he?" "That toff who wouldn't tae us on at the wors!" "-Really?" Peta exclaimed. "Y ou don't mean to say they're our neighbours?" "I'm sure the girl in the dressing-gown is!" "And he's her brother," Peta decla red. "Why should he be! Her boy friend most liely!" For some reason I didn't li e to thin that the dandy new the girl next door and might tell her how we had begged him to give us a job. Peta and I wandered slowly down Primorsaya Street. The railway lines leading t o the harbour gleamed on our left. Beyond them the sea stretched away to the hor izon. The wind had dropped completely and the sea was calm. Instead of thundering agai nst the wall, as they had in the morning, the waves rolled up the sandy beach wi th a rustling sound. A wooden fence ran along the railway line. Above it swayed the tops of masts. The flags on them scarcely stirred. A scarlet sunset gleamed in the west, where the sining sun was still wrapped in clouds. On the whitewashed fence there was a notice in big letters: LIFE-SAVING SOCIETY BEACH A bicycle bell rang behind us. We pressed against the fence and the dandy flashed past on his bicycle with the girl on the cross-bar in front of him. He rode awwardly, but at a good speed. "Isn't the street wide enough for him?" Peta grunted. "Don't you see the puddles on it? He's afraid of dirtying his pants," I said wit h unconcealed annoyance, staring after the rapidly disappearing couple. The bac wheel of the bicycle grew smaller and smaller, leaving a faint pattern on the sandy path. By the time we had finished staring through the railings at the sidings and a nu

mber of long, corrugated-iron warehouses in the harbour yard, Sasha Bobir had br ought bac our cases and unpaced everything. We found him getting supper ready. Sasha was carving a big dry roll that had bee n left over from the journey into three big huns. "Where have you been all this time?" Sasha cried when he saw us. "Do you now wh o I met?" "The Count of Bengal?" I ased sarcastically. I didn't lie Sasha's habit of yap ping at you as if you were a id. "You can joe!" Sasha snapped. "I've seen Pecheritsa!" "Pecheritsa?" Peta repeated. "Loo out, Vasil, he's starting again. Where's the thermometer? It's time to tae his temperature. Feeling shivery, Sasha, old cha p?" "What thermometer! What do you need a thermometer for!" Sasha gave a positive sc reech of indignation. "I'm telling you the truth, you laughing loons!" "Hold on, Sasha, old pal," I said. "Who did you say you saw?" "Pecheritsa!" "Really?" "Of course!" "Where did you see him?" "Near the station." "Near the station?" Peta ased more seriously. "Yes, near the station," Sasha rattled on. "He was drining buza." This was too much, and Peta and I yelled with laughter. "Hear that, Vasil?" Peta ased gurgling. "He saw Pecheritsa, Pecheritsa was dri ning buza, and the buza went to this frecle-faced boozer's head, and he's come bac here to booze us up too..." "All right!" Sasha shouted, by this time thoroughly put out. "If you don't want to believe me, you needn't! But I'm not maing anything up. Buza is what people drin round here, it's made of millet. It's on sale at all the stalls. I've trie d it, and if you don't now about it, it's not my fault. . ." Much as we should have lied to spare Sasha's feelings, we could not restrain ou r laughter. Sasha was not the only factory-school trainee who had dreamed of catching Pecher itsa. When we set off for our various destinations in the Uraine, we had made a vow that if any of us ran into Pecheritsa we should not let him slip through ou r fingers. But the one among us who longed most of all to nail Pecheritsa was Sasha Bobir. By catching Pecheritsa he hoped to mae amends for the unfortunate blunders he h ad committed bac in our town. After a time, our hot-headed Sasha simply started seeing things. He imagined he saw Pecheritsa everywhere. On his way here, to the Azov Sea, Sasha had twice been on the point of catching Pecheritsa. Once, when the train stopped at Fastov, Sasha, who was looing out o f the window, suddenly shouted hoarsely: "There he is, chaps! Grab him!" and mad e a dash for the door. The man strolling about the platform whom Sasha had taen for Pecheritsa bore li ttle resemblance to the runaway. He turned out to be a little hump-baced old man in a tarpaulin coat. Only his b ig ginger moustache made him loo anything lie Pecheritsa. In Yeaterinoslav, when we were having dinner in the station buffet, Sasha nearl y upset a plate brimming with rich Urainian borshch, and croaing "Loo!" point ed with his spoon at the newspaper ios. A man" in a grey rain-coat was buying postcards. This time Sasha had decided tha t he was Pecheritsa. As soon as the traveller in the grey rain-coat looed up fr om the ios, we -all saw at once that he was a young lad a good head taller tha n Pecheritsa... Now, nowing the illusions that Sasha had suffered from the journey, could we be expected to tae his words seriously? I said: "All right, Pecheritsa was standing there drining buza. What did you do ?" "I just too a loo and dashed bac here."

"Why didn't you grab him? You ought to have grabbed him by the scruff of the nec and laid him flat." "All very well for you to tal! What about the things?" "What things?" "Our things, of course! I was afraid to leave them. Suppose he ran away and I we nt after him, someone might have nabbed our stuff." "What about Volodya, where was he?" "I didn't go with Volodya, you see. Another driver brought me here. Volodya let us down." "Wait, had he got a moustache?" I ased, deciding to test Sasha. "A moustache?... No, not a moustache. . . Just little bristles, lie a glue brus h." "He got it trimmed at the barber's to please Sasha," Peta remared sarcasticall y. "Go on, go on, laugh if you're so cheerful!" Sasha grunted huffily. "But I'm goi ng to report this to the proper place." "All right, give it a rest for a bit, Sasha, old chap," I said gently. "Better t ell us what you've bought for supper." "Here's some goat's cheese," Sasha said quite subdued, and unwrapped a piece of grease-proof paper in which lay a piece of goat's cheese that must have weighed well over a pound. "Is that all?" Peta snorted. "No, why? Here's some fish I brought... Don't touch that, they're radishes. This is the fish." Sasha unwrapped an oily pacage. "Loo how small they are!" And h e lifted three strings threaded with tiny smoed fish out of an old newspaper. T he fish had little fat bellies and were glistening with oil. "They're called tul a!" Sasha announced proudly, and hung a string of fish on his wrist, lie a bra celet. "Couldn't you have found something smaller!" Peta grunted disapprovingly. "What trashy stuff! Who's going to clean 'em?" "Why clean 'em!" Sasha exclaimed. "They don't need cleaning. You eat 'em whole. Loo, they showed me at the stall." Our "quartermaster" pulled a couple of oily fish off the string and popped them in his mouth. After munching for a bit, Sasha opened his mouth lie a conjuror, then boldly swallowed the tulas, heads, tails, and all. "You'll be getting appendicitis next!" Peta said. For some reason, Peta was mo re afraid of appendicitis than of any other illness. He was even frightened of s wallowing a cherry-stone. But Sasha's bold example made Peta forget the illness that threatened him. He c arefully broe one fish off the string and started nibbling it. "Tastes all right. . ." he murmured. "You can't even feel the bones. Kamsa, isn' t it?" "Not amsa, tula!" Sasha corrected him pompously. " 'Tula, tula!' " I mimiced Sasha. "You didn't bring bac some buza, by any c hance?" "I hadn't got a bottle," Sasha replied, thining I was serious. "But if you want some, we can go and have a glass after supper. There's a ios round the corner that sells it." "Listen, Peta," I commanded. "Buzz downstairs and get some hot water and a bowl from the landlady. We've got to soa the cheese." While we polished off the tula, the marble-lie goat's cheese, rid of some of i ts salt and bitterness by the boiling water, grew soft and very good to taste. We cut it with an old sheath nife and ate it with our tea. When we had had supper, we too the crocery downstairs and spent a long time wa shing ourselves by the well in the yard. Then, refreshed and contented, we climb ed up into our attic and lay down on the bulging mattresses. The window was still open. Outside, it was already dar. Now and then a young mo on peeped through the ragged, scurrying clouds and the room grew lighter. "Isn't it quiet here, chaps?" said Peta, breaing the silence. "No shooting, no

t even a whistle. Maes all the difference when the frontier's a long way away! Only a couple of militiamen in the whole town, probably, and I expect they're as leep..." Maria Trofimovna clattered some pots and pans downstairs. A primus was hissing i n the itchen. Our landlady must be maing breafast for us overnight. "We're daft, you now!" Peta spoe again. "When we started at the factory-train ing school we ought to have all gone in for one trade. Then we'd all be woring together in one shop. It'd have been much more fun. Now we're split up..." And again no one answered Peta. I realized that Sasha, too, who had been maing himself out very brave, must be wondering how his wor would go tomorrow. It grew darer and darer outside. Again the sy was wreathed with clouds and th e moon showed no more. The steady beat of the waves lulled us as if we were stil l in the train... AT THE MACHINE "Here's a new mate for you, Naumeno!" said Fedoro, the shift foreman, leading me over to an elderly worer who was busy adjusting two moulding machines. The worer turned round. He was over fifty. Tall and grey, wearing a rough homes pun shirt with short sleeves, he looed in surprise at Fedoro. "Show him the ropes," the foreman said, nodding at me. "You'll get the average w hile you're instructing." "Now loo here, Alexei Grigorievich! Put him with someone else!" the old man pro tested. But the foreman interrupted him, waving his arms: "You've got to do it, Naumeno! You're an old operator and it's your duty to tea ch the youngsters." And the foreman vanished behind a wall of empty iron mould-boxes. We were left alone. Naumeno eyed me sourly. Evidently it would have suited him far better to mould alone, than to bother with a pupil and have to answer for hi s wor. When the foreman was gone, my teacher spat deliberately at the ground and said t o the moulders woring behind the barrier opposite: "Just my luc! First they gi ve me a drunard to put right, now I've got to teach milsops!" The men laughed. One of them, tall and thin, with close-cropped hair and dar pr ominent chee-bones, looed lie a Mongol. The other, with sharp, pricly eyes, was short. He went on pacing his mould and said: "Not half, Uncle Vasya, you ce rtainly do pic "em!" "But I mean it!" My teacher complained to his neighbours. "Things were going fin e today, I thought I'd have fifty moulds ready by dinner-time, and now I'll have to start again from scratch." And turning to me he ased gruffly: "What are you looing down in then mouth for? What's your name?" "Vasily Mandzhura." "Hey, what are you moaning about, Uncle Vasya, you've got a namesae! You'll be able to celebrate your name-day together, thin how much you'll save!" shouted t he nimble little man with sharp eyes, woring fast at his mould. "Ever wored "em?" Naumeno ased, nodding towards the machines. "Never seen one before. I always used to wor on the moulding floor, I didn't ha ve anything to do with machines." "Oho, Uncle Vasya, you've got an expert on artistic casting!" cried the sharp-ey ed worer. "He'll soon be teaching you to cast sculptures in your old age!" "Where was it you wored on a moulding floor I wonder?" Naumeno ased with evid ent curiosity. I realized that hand moulding was valued much more highly here than machine-wor . I had to relate how I had come to be in this town. Naumeno heard me out patiently. "All right, we've done enough chin-wagging," he said at last. "Get to your place !" And he nodded to the left-hand machine. I had to mae my way to the machine along a narrow passage past a tall stove, ne arly the height of a man, which stood between the two machines. Also between the

two machines stood a deep box of special moulding sand, which the men here call ed "mixture." On my left and on Uncle Vasya's right towered a wall of empty iron mould-boxes piled one on top of the other. My feet sining in the dry sand I went up to the machine. There was a babbitt mo del of some ind of bush fitted to it. "You tae the bottom, understand?" Naumeno called to me. "These bushes are call ed 'sausages.' You'll pac the bottom and I'll do the top. Watch and see how it' s done." At first I could not tae my eyes off the machine. I pulled the mysterious iron bars sticing out at the corners and touched the two gleaming slippery conical b olts soldered to the model. "Hi, youngster, loo this way!" Naumeno shouted angrily. With a swift heave he planted a gleaming iron frame with wing-nuts at the sides on similarly gleaming pins, then without looing round, he too a mould-box off the bac row, placed it in the frame and deftly tightened the screws. When the s crews held the box firmly in the frame, Uncle Vasya too a bag off a shelf and s hoo it over the model. The babbitt "sausages" were powdered with an even coatin g of sand. Still without looing round, my instructor dipped his hand in the box and, taing a handful of the mixture, sprinled it over the model. The next moment Naumeno had a shovel in his hands. He plunged it into the heap of sand that lay between us and began tossing the sand into the mould. Steam ros e from the scattered heap. Apparently the sand had not yet cooled from yesterday 's casting. I watched him closely, trying to remember every movement. Naumeno smoothed the damp, hot sand with his gnarled but supple hands, piced u p a short tamper and started ramming the sand down. The muscles rippled in Naumeno's rugged old arms. The sharp wooden wedge on the end of the tamper plunged into the sand with such violence it seemed Naumeno w anted to smash the machine, or at least drive it through the floor. The tamper crushed and forced the sand into the grooves of the model. More and m ore sand went into the mould-box, until it was hard as a cart-trac. Naumeno we nt over the uneven surface of the mould with a square tamper, removed the tin to p and levelled off the mould with an iron ruler. Then with a long vent wire he p riced the ventilation holes. After tapping the bottom of the mould with a malle t to loosen the model in its sandy casing, Naumeno with a deft swing gently rai sed the paced mould with its iron frame on the four corner bars. For about a mi nute, my instructor changed from energetic pounding to gentle, cautious, almost delicate movements, while he too the model out of the sand. The rounded babbitt bushes of the model had done their wor, leaving a clean nes t for the future casting in the tightly-paced sand. With a' hoo Naumeno made a groove in the sand for the pouring lip. Before I no ticed where he had taen it from, a rubber hose-pipe with a brass nozzle, lie t he nozzle of a soda siphon, appeared in my instructor's hands. Naumeno pressed the lever on the nozzle and a stream of compressed air hissed over the mould. Af ter cleaning the frame, he tossed the hose away behind the machine. "Now we'll set it. Follow me," he said. With an effort he lifted the rather heavy mould-box in its frame off the machine . Holding it in front of him, he ran quicly to the moulding floor. Four moulds that Uncle Vasya had paced before I came already stood on the dry s and of the moulding floor, behind our machines. The lower half of a fifth mould lay lie a pillow on the soft sand. In it there were four cores that would form the holes in the iron "sausages." Treading gently, Naumeno waled to the fifth mould and covered it with the moul ded top half that II had just seen him mae on the machine. The smooth, blac-le aded pins of the upper frame fitted tightly into the holes of the lower frame, s o that the upper mould rested exactly over the lower mould, joining the channels along which the iron would flow, and the edges of the future castings. Although everything I had just seen was new to me, the experience I had already gained helped me to imagine how the dry cores were neatly encased in the grooves of the upper mould, and how the finished iron "sausages" would slip out of the

mould after casting. And II pictured at once those important parts of a machine which at harvest-time would ply to and fro over the broad fields of our country. And again I felt glad that I had chosen such an interesting and silled trade. Meanwhile, Uncle Vasya, maing sure not to shift the mould, carefully unscrewed the frame, lifted it, too it apart and threw me the bottom half. "Catch!" he shouted. The rather heavy iron frame was hard to catch without practice. Using both hands , I managed to grab it just before it hit the ground, and one of the wing-nuts j abbed into my nee. "Now go to it yourself!" Naumeno said, taing a pacet of cigarettes out of his pocet. "And we'll have a smoe." Trying not to mae a mistae, I repeated the movements he had wored out and tes ted through long years of practice. Having screwed on the frame, I dipped my han d into the box and without looing, tossed a handful of mixture over the model. Then I started plunging the sharp shovel into the sand. I danced about round the machine, pacing the sand with such fury that my arms felt as if they would fly off my body. It made me sore to thin that Naumeno looed upon me as a nuisance. I realized that from his point of view, as an old and experienced moulder, he might be righ t. Of course, it was a lot nicer for him to get on with his moulding alone than to teach a beginner. As yet I did not now what the foreman had meant when he sa id, "You'll get the average for instruction," but I concluded Naumeno stood to lose by being given a mate lie me. As I paced in the sand, I felt the sweat brea out on my forehead. As usual, I was wasting a lot of energy for nothing. There was sand in my boots, and my teet h felt gritty. Now and then I felt Naumeno's eye on me. He was watching me susp iciously, distrustfully, checing every movement. "Can I lift it now?" I ased. "Try," said my teacher evasively. "Right," I said and, after tapping the mould with the mallet, pulled the lever. Before I could clean the mould with the hose and tae it off the machine, the me n on the other side started laughing. "What's the bit o' cae you've left on your model, youngster?" the tall, dar fe llow shouted. I glanced under the mould and felt utterly wretched. A big lump of sand had stuc to the model. Some cae! Naumeno stood behind me laughing. "Fine job o' wor, eh?" Naumeno said to the nimble little man, whose name was Lua, nodding at me. "Forgot your sprinle that's where the cae comes from," he e xplained to me. But I had already realized my mistae. In my hurry I had forgotten to dust the m odel with dry sprinle from the bag on the shelf. "But that old devil's a nice s pecimen too!" I thought. "Saw I had made a mistae and didn't say anything, so t hat he could mae a laughing-stoc of me!" When I had noced the sand out of the mould, Naumeno said: "Yes, and I expect your model's cold by now. It's some time since I gave it any heat. Tae the tong s behind the box there and come along to the grate." Carrying the long forge tongs and not nowing really what I should need them for, I followed Naumeno down the main alley of the foundry. My teacher strode on with long steady strides. His head was slightly bowed. I tr otted behind him lie a guilty schoolboy, guessing that he was not in the best o f tempers. "Giving me a id to train from Podolia somewhere!" Naumeno must be t hining. "Now I've got to fiddle about teaching him instead of getting the wor done myself!" We crossed the long foundry shed. Now from one side, now from another came the banging of a mallet. Mountains of e mpty mould-boxes towered behind the machines. Near them, finished moulds stood r eady to receive their castings. Powerful ventilators hummed monotonously. They forced air into the cupola furnac es, fanning the slabs of coe and melting the chuns of iron. The molten metal o ozed down over the hot coe in white streams and gathered at the bottom of the f

urnaces in a seething mass, ready to pour out as soon as the furnace man tapped the furnace with his steel bar. "Loo, Naumeno's got a new lap-dog!" someone shouted from the bac of the shed. The shout came from a foundry man with a bronzed surly-looing face. His head wa s wrapped in a red handerchief, lie a woman. "Vasya, old man, how do you lie your new assistant?" he shouted even louder, th ining that Naumeno would stop for a "chin-wag"; but my teacher went on all the faster. As we passed the next machine, I caught sight of Titor. He must have recognized me, but he looed at me as if I were a stranger. Titor was throwing sand confidently into a mould-box. He was woring as mate to the man who wore the handerchief on his head. The "grate" was outside in the yard, a little way from the foundry, lit was a ro und brazier filled with hot coe. The ends of metal slabs that were heating in t he coe bristled from its grated sides. "Remember where I put ours!" Naumeno said, and pushed two heavy slabs into the glowing coe. "Do you have to come out here every time?" I ased. "Of course!" Naumeno gave me a loo of surprise and annoyance. "But it's so far!" "If you want a clean mould you'll eep your slab heated. There's no other way!" Naumeno snapped. He too the tongs and pulled out the slabs which he had put in earlier, and whic h were now white hot. I felt sure that if we had not come for them at that momen t the slabs would have melted lie the iron in the furnaces. "Now buzz off and put them under the machine!" Naumeno ordered, handing me the tongs. Holding the tongs out in front of me, I raced bac to our woring place. "It's a big place but the way they manage these slabs isn't much good!" I though t, as I pounded along through the shop. "Surely they could put that brazier some where nearer?" ' The slabs were still a bright red when II pushed them into the slots under the m achine. Soon the wet sand on the babbitt turned grey and dried out. The models g ot so hot that it was hard to eep your hand on them for long. Still Naumeno di d not appear. So as not to waste time, 'I started pacing the bottom mould on my machine. Now that I was alone with the machine, I felt more at ease. No one was standing over me. Our neighbours were busy somewhere behind their machine, and there was no one else about. "Let the old fellow go for a wal round the shed," I thought, "I now a thing or two without him telling me!" The second mould came out nicely. No sand stuc to the model, as it had first ti me, and I even too the ris of setting the mould on the moulding floor without waiting for instructions. It slid out of my hands gently on to the sandy pillow. Then I shot bac to the machine. After cleaning the well-heated model with air f rom the pipe, I screwed on the spare frame and started pacing another bottom mo uld. 'I had no hopes of catching up with my teacher, but I wanted to have a litt le wor in hand. I became so absorbed in moulding that I did not notice Naumeno's return. "Who's going to do the cores? Your uncle?" Naumeno's stern voice at my elbow made me start. The heavy tamper missed its ai m and came down hard on my left thumb. It was an awful wallop. Tears started to my eyes. "Good-bye to my thumb-nail!" I thought. I wanted to shout and hop about and writhe with the pain, I wanted to hurl that darned iron tamper as far away as I could, I wanted to turn the air blue with cu rses! But I realized that if I did so I should only call forth fresh jeers, and to smother the pain I bit my lip until it bled. Keeping my face averted so that Naumeno should hot see my tear-filled eyes, I said quietly, through clenched te eth:

"I'll just finish this bottom one, then I'll do the cores." By dinner-time my thumb had swollen and turned blue. The bone felt as if it was broen. "Who thought of maing tampers heavy as that?" I thought to myself. "It might cr oc a chap up for good... But if it's too light, it won't pac the sand in prope rly. I'll have to be more careful next time." When II had to tae a mould-box off the machine, I tried desperately to smother the pain. Hiding my feelings from Naumeno, I undid the screws somehow, grabbed the frame and dashed bac, trying to save every minute I could. There wasn't eve n time to shae the sand out of my shoes. "You're wearing the lad to a frazzle, Naumeno!" Lua shouted to my teacher. "Why don't you noc off for a bit!" advised Gladyshev, Lua's mate, the moulder who looed lie a Mongol. Although their words stung me, I tried not to show it. You can joe! I thought.. . The signal was given to noc off for dinner. Since the wors hooter could not b e heard amid the din of the foundry shed, when dinner-time came round, the furna ce men banged on the iron bar that hung near the furnaces. Ignoring the signal, I ept woring at my moulds. One after the other the mallets fell silent. Only the furnaces by the wall ept up their ceaseless roar. "Right. Pac in. Let's go for dinner!" Naumeno said sternly. "Come and wash you r hands." Cold water from the tap splashed on my dusty hands and the pain immediately rela xed a little. Seeing my teacher tae a handful of coarse sand from a tin, I did the same. The coarse sand mixed with clay cleaned the dirt off well. Soon I saw my red, wor-scarred palms, with the beginnings of fresh corns on them. In silence I followed Naumeno bac to the machine, piced up the lunch that our landlady had prepared for me, and sat down near my teacher. With slow dignity Naumeno unwrapped his lunch three eggs, a slice of smoed cheb a, curly-topped radishes, a hun of home-baed bread with butter on it, and a b ottle of strong tea. "Never mind, lad!" Naumeno said suddenly in a indly tone. "You and I'll earn o ur bread today that's a fact. And tomorrow we'll get enough for borshch, and after that, before you now where you are, you'll be having cutlets. . . It's always hard to start with... I've got a boy too, just a bit older than you. Used to wor here, in the foundry. Now he's in Yeaterinoslav, studying at the mining insti tute. At first his letters were all moans and groans. 'I'll never stic it! I'm coming home!' he says. 'It's much easier at the wors!' But now, he's not doing so bad. Got into the swing of it. Loos as if he's rumbled this science business . Getting cheey too: 'When I'm a mine manager, Dad,' he says, 'you can count on a job as time-eeper,' ... Hey, what's happened to your finger?" And looing at my hand, Uncle Vasya frowned. Now that I had washed the blac-lead dust off my hands, the congealed blood unde r my battered thumb-nail showed up well. "Just gave it a noc," I said lightly. "Just a noc! Why, your finger's swelled up lie a priest at Easter. Why didn't you show me before? Off you go to the first-aid room. They'll give you a certif icate." "No first-aid room for me!" II said as cheerfully as I could. "Fancy bothering a doctor with a little scratch lie this!" "You're a fire-eater, H see, lad!" said Uncle Vasya, shaing his head. "Want to stic it out. Well, you now best. But they'll always give you a certificate for a thing lie that." There was a note of respect in his voice. He spoe to me as if I had been his pa rtner for a long time. That was something worth far more than any direct praise. A LADY WAKES ME

My friends were not bac yet their shops stopped wor later than the foundry. Unli e the day before, the weather was blazing, but in Maria Trofimovna's half-dar little itchen it was surprisingly cool; and even in our little room, though we were right under the roof, the air was fresher than out of doors. The beach was crowded with people. Some were bathing, their wet limbs glistening in the sun. Others were lying motionless on the sand. As I watched the scene from the window, I felt lie going out myself to lie in t he sun until Sasha and Peta arrived, and at the same time to have a wash after wor. J did not thin for long. Kicing off my woring boots, I rolled my clean clothe s in a bundle, put on my cap, and after telling the landlady where I could be fo und if I was needed, ran out barefoot into the yard. Il had only been inside the house for a few minutes, but when I came out the sun shine dazzled me and I waled to the gate blining. The tall hollyhocs seemed t o tremble in the heat. The sun had made the concrete top of the sea wall nearly red-hot. When I had run a few paces along it, I had to jump down on to the sand. But that was even wors e. The top layer of sand was so hot that it seemed someone must have warmed it u p purposely on a huge frying-pan. Bathers were lying about everywhere, basing i n the sun. I did not envy them in the least. Tired but proud after my first day's wor at the factory, I considered them loun gers. "While they twist and turn about here, all for nothing, covering their nos es with bits of tissue-paper and lilac leaves," I thought, "we, foundry men, car ry about heavy ladles of molten metal." And I felt I had a better right than any one to rest on the beach. Near the, water's edge I found a little vacant bench. Somebody's clothes lay at one end, covered with a folded blanet. I undressed slowly and, pushing my wori ng clothes under the bench, waled down to the water. During the night the sea had fallen bac, leaving a stretch of smooth sand at th e water's edge. The beach sloped evenly into the water, as if it had been rolled specially for the convenience of bathers. Faint, clear ripples lapped the shore t he last sighs of the storm-tossed Azov Sea. I swam about for a bit near the shore, then came out on to the sand and flopped down on it. And only then, as I lay with closed eyes on the soft sand and listen ed to the soft lapping of the waves, did I realize how tired the day's wor had made me. And although I lay completely relaxed, letting my whole body rest, I st ill felt as if I had a tamping iron in my hand and was plunging it up and down i n the blac moulding sand that still steamed from the previous night. "Faster, f aster! Keep going! You mustn't get behind Naumeno!" I muttered to myself. A sho vel jumped into my hands. Then the signal bell rang in the distance. "Our turn!" Naumeno's stern voice seemed to come from the sy. "Drop everything. Come and get the iron!" ... We plod through the dry sand of the main alley. Strong hands behind him, gri pping the ring of the ladle, Naumeno leads the way. His wrinled nec is red wi th exertion. His sweat-soaed shirt clings to his bac. I plod along behind, gri pping the handles of the ladle and feeling that I shall fall at any moment. My s trength is ebbing. I can hardly drag one foot after the other. My eyes are fixed on a blob of sticy brown slag. It floats gently in the ladle, surrounded by a wreath of glaring molten metal. I can't go on. It's still a long way to the machines. If only we could get there soon! If only we could put the heavy ladle down on the dry sand, rest a little, wipe away the salty sweat that is streaming down our foreheads into the corners of our eyes! Relax our grip, if only for a minute! "Faster! Faster!" I thin, but I feel the ground giving way under my feet. . . A hole! The hole dug in the centre of the moulding floor where the foundry men po ur the metal that's left over!... I try to stop, but Naumeno strides on ahead. I fall. The ladle slips out of the handle. Molten metal flows over my chest, over my legs. I'm so hot... Losing consciousness, I utter a deep groan, and just at that moment there is lau

ghter above me and the touch of something cold. . . Heavy drops of cold water were falling on my chest. They quicly scattered the r emnants of my short but terrible dream. Without opening my eyes, I tried to remember where I was. I had quite forgotten that I had fallen asleep on the beach. It seemed to me that I had dozed off whil e waiting for my friends in our room, and that Sasha, finding me asleep, was pla ying the fool as usual and pouring cold water on my chest. "Stop playing about lie a id!" I grunted peevishly, and rubbing my eyes, blin ed up at someone who was not Sasha at all. The girl from next door stood over me holding my towel. She was glistening wet f rom head to foot. "It's bad to sleep in the sun, specially for fair-sinned people. You'll get bur nt!" she said. Still in a daze, I leapt to my feet. The people lying round me looed lie a lot of ghosts. "I didn't mean to mae you wet, I was going to cover you with the towel. I'm sor ry." "It's all right. Thans!" I muttered, and ashamed of being found asleep by this smiling girl, I staggered away and plunged into the sea. Burrowing into the rippling waves, I swam away as fast as I could. But the water seemed icy. Soon I turned and swam bac to the shore. The girl was sitting on the bench. Now, since she had made the first advance, I had every right to tal to her, but I hadn't the faintest idea what to say. Shou ld I as her where she had learnt to swim so well? No, that would sound silly. M y mind was a blan. It was even hard to cough. But as if anxious to help me out, the girl spoe first: "And it's not very good to run into the sea lie that all of a sudden either. Th e water's still cold, and you're overheated. You'll catch a chill." "Oh, come..." I murmured. "Yes, you will. I've been living at the seaside for a long time. You've only jus t arrived, there's a lot you don't now yet. You ought to listen to people who now better." "What maes you thin I've only just arrived?" "Nothing. I now you have." "That's queer, how do you now?" And seizing the chance of prolonging the conver sation, I went on: "Well, you're quite wrong, as it happens. I've been living he re a long time, in Matrossaya Settlement." "You can't fool me. I now all about you." "Well, what do you now?" "That you've just come here." "Who's been telling you that?" "A magpie told me. The bird with a tail, you now." '.: "There aren't any magpie s here. Magpies live in woods; here it's all sea and steppe." "Well, a cormorant then... Stop beating about the bush. I'm your neighbour and I saw you cleaning your teeth by the well only yesterday evening. Besides, Maria Trofimovna told us that she had some new lodgers, very nice young men." "You don't mean to tell me you now Maria Trofimovna!" I exclaimed. It was the f irst thing that came into my head. "But of course! We've been buying goat's mil off her for the last two years or more. Daddy has trouble with his lungs and the doctor maes him drin goat's mil ." "Goat's mil does a lot of good," I declared. "A friend of mine, Sasha Bobir, wh o's living with me now, was a real consumptive. His mother made him drin a mixt ure the doctor made up of goat's mil and melted fat..." "Did he get better?" "Strong as a horse. Only grinds his teeth a bit when he's asleep." The girl laughed and, after a pause, ased: "Why did you come here?" "To wor."

"But where?" "At the Lieutenant Schmidt Wors." "And what are you doing there, if it's not a secret?" "Woring in the shops. 'I'm in the foundry, for instance, and my pals are worin g in other shops Maremuha in the joiners' shop, and Bobir in..." "Technicians, 'I suppose?" the girl interrupted me. "Why technicians? Worers!" "Worers? Just ordinary worers?" "Yes. What's so surprising about it?" "Oh, nothing. I was just asing... And afterwards you'll be going to the institu te, will you? I suppose you haven't been woring long enough yet to qualify for entry?" Now I could see quite plainly that the girl thought we were the sons of profitee rs or something. "Come to another town, to mae up their woring record," she mu st be thining. I should have been offended at the mere suggestion, but eeping my feelings to myself, I said stolidly: "We'll see about that later on, when we've done some wor. It's too early to ma e plans yet." "You must have the worst time of the lot, in the foundry?" "Why? Nothing unusual about it." "It's the most unhealthy shop in the whole wors. There's always that stinging s moe. And it smells of sulphur. The roof is so low!" "They're going to mae the roof higher soon. The supports have been put up outsi de already." "But when will that be? I'm very sorry for you." "How do you come to now all about the foundry?" "Daddy too me round once. To show me how iron was made. H had to shampoo my hai r for ages afterwards, to get the dust out." "Fancy them letting you in. . . No outsiders are admitted to the wors usually." "They let me in," the girl said carelessly. "And I'm not an outsider anyway. My father is chief engineer there. You must have seen him about." "I haven't yet," I admitted. "It's only our first day." "Oh yes, I forgot.. . What's your name?" "Vasil." "Well, let's introduce ourselves. My name is Angelia. My friends call me Lia." "Good," I grunted. "Oh, but how strange you are!" the girl burst out laughing. "A real crusty chara cter! What do you mean 'good'? When people are introduced, they shae hands. Now then?" "Why am I crusty? Taling to each other's the same as being introduced, if you a s me. But it's up to you, if you want to!" And I awwardly offered Lia my wet hand. She pressed it with her slim fingers, and just at that moment I heard Sasha's in dignant voice behind me: "Blow you, Vasil! We've been calling you and calling you, Peta even climbed out on the roof, and you..." II jered my hand away, as if it had been scalded. Before us stood Sasha and Peta. They seemed to have been running. Sasha gazed i n astonishment, now at me, now at Lia. Our neighbour, without a trace of confusion, surveyed my friends. "Come and have dinner!" Peta blurted out. "These are your friends, are they, Vasil?" Lia ased. "Why don't you introduce us?" "Get to now each other, chaps..." I mumbled, utterly embarrassed. "This is ... this is..." Taing matters into her own hands, our neighbour got up from the bench and, step ping towards my friends, said: "Angelia!" That too them properly by surprise. Peta clutched the girl's right hand, Bobir , her left, and both pronounced their names.

"So you are Bobir!" Angelia said curiously, looing the subdued Sasha straight in the eye. "It's you who grinds his teeth at night, is it?" Nothing could have wounded Sasha more. He stared at me indignantly. What scorn a nd reproach were in that glance! It sounded as if H had been telling tales to th is girl about Sasha in order to shame him and raise myself in her eyes. But I ha d never intended to humiliate my friend. It had just slipped out... Conversation between the four of us was obviously a failure, so we left Angelia on the beach and waled home. "Loo at that... indualist!" Sasha exclaimed, tripping up again over that diffic ult word. "There were we shouting ourselves hoarse, and what was he doing holding hands with his beautiful damsel beside the Azov waves! And only yesterday he mad e all that fuss just because I offered to mind her clothes. . ." Should I tell them how it had really happened? They would never believe me. No m atter how I tried, they would never believe me! And I decided to say nothing. THE CABMAN TELLS HIS STORY In the centre of the town, near the maret, several buildings stood jammed toget her in a small square. This was the place where every evening the youth of the t own too their wals. And although all four pavements belonged to different stre ets, the aimless wandering round and round the square was nown as "strolling do wn the avenue." The strollers dawdled along past the lighted shop-windows, just as they did bac home, down Post Street! And as soon as we mingled with the idle stream, II realized that every town has its Post Street. True, the evenings in this seaside town were much warmer than bac home, in Podolia. Bronzed young men sauntered along the pavements in white, loose-fitting "apache" shirts, light tr ousers, and with sandals on their bare feet. Ht was very stuffy, and Bobir, who had decided to cut a dash in his Cheviot twee d, soon discarded his jacet and carried it on his arm. Several times we stopped by the brightly-lighted entrance to the watermen's club , where a comic film The Cigarette Girl, starring Yulia Solntseva and Igor Ilyin sy, was being shown. But every time we taled each other out of it and turned b ac. We considered that we could not afford to spend money on the cinema yet. Today Peta had earned three rubles forty opes, I, two ninety, and Sasha, thou gh his boasts reached the five-ruble figure, seemed uncertain just how much was due to him. But in any case we should not get the money until pay-day. . We had finally decided to tae the cheapest seats, when I overheard someone near the box-office say that the film would be shown next wee in the open-air cinem a in the town par. And that put our minds at rest. Fine! We would go out on the roof and see it free. "Hi, lads, come over here!" a familiar voice shouted from the boulevard that ran along the other side of the street, in front of the watermen's club. We crossed the street and caught sight of Volodya the cabman. He was sitting on a bench with two other people, smoing. Volodya was wearing a worn pea-jacet an d a broad-brimmed straw hat. When we drew nearer, I saw that his companions were the men who wored on the machine next to me Lua Turunda and Gladyshev. "Move up!" Volodya ordered his companions and they made room for us on the bench . "Sit down and tell us all about it. Well, did they tae you on at the wors?" "You're behind the times, old man," Lua remared, as he moved down the bench. " Vasil is our next-door neighbour on the machines, so to spea." "Which of you is called Vasil?" Volodya ased. I pointed at my chest. "Were the others taen on as well?" the driver inquired. "Of course!" Peta said , for all the world as if the question had never been in doubt. "So I'm in luc, eh!" Volodya exclaimed cheerfully. "Come on, lads, get ready to wet that bargain of ours!" "Wetting the bargain can wait," Sasha cut in firmly. "Where did you get to yeste rday? Why didn't you turn up at the station as you said you would?" "I went to Mariupol," said Volodya, "an engineer ased me to tae him there. I w ent off with him straightaway after I introduced you to Auntie." "Can't you go there by train?" I said in surprise. "You can, but there's an aww

ard change at Volnovah. You have to wait all day for the train. This engineer h ad to get to Mariupol quic, so off we went for a long ride." "And empty all the way bac?" Peta ased. "Very nearly," Volodya replied, warming to his tale. "I'd just fed Sultan and ha d a bite to eat myself in the inn there. 'Well,' I thought to myself, 'we'll ta e it easy on the way bac.' Suddenly up pops a cove with a suit-case and says: ' Won't you tae me with you?' 'Why not?' I says. 'I'll tae you anywhere for a co uple of tens.' I thought he'd start bargaining, but no, he didn't fishes out the m oney without a murmur! 'That's all right,' he says, 'but mae it quic.' Well, f or a sum lie that I didn't mind raising the dust." "Did you really get twenty rubles?" Gladyshev inquired. "Thin I'm having you on? Two crisp and cracly tens, here they are, the darling s." And Volodya tapped his breast pocet tenderly. "Lovely journey! Sang songs a ll the way." "Profitable job you've got, Volodya," Lua said. "Money and songs at the same ti me!" "Oh yes, to be sure!" Volodya retorted. "I've got more money than a frog's got f eathers. Comes in one pocet and goes out the other... I shouldn't feel envious if I were you though. That was just a bit of luc today. Sometimes you stand abo ut outside that station and feel as if you'd do anything to get a passenger." "But you are out in the fresh air," Gladyshev said. "You don't swallow dust all the time, lie us in the foundry." "Never mind, Artem, when they mae our roof higher, we won't have so much troubl e from dust," Lua remared, and I realized that everyone in the foundry was loo ing forward to the day when the roof would be raised. "You tal about fresh air, Artem," Volodya murmured, half to himself, "but I'd g ive up all my fresh air for a job at the wors any day, if it wasn't for my hand ." "Did you wor at the plant too?" I said in such a fran tone of surprise that Lu a and Artem burst out laughing. "What do you thin!" Volodya said hotly, and I saw that my incredulity had touch ed him on the raw. "I haven't always been a cabman, my lad. II did twelve years at the wors, starting as a boy. The foreign owners squeezed what they could out of me. If it wasn't for my hand, who nows, I might be a foreman by now." "What's wrong with your hand?" Sasha ased quicly, staring at Volodya's sunburn t hands resting on his nees. They looed sound enough at first glance. "Well, it was a silly business really," Volodya said. "My friends here now it ( he nodded at Lua and Gladyshev). Perhaps it might do you, new lads, a bit of go od to now it too. Just as a bit of instruction for you. "In 1922, when that bandit Mahno pushed off to Rumania, quite a few of his cron ies were left behind here, in this town, I don't now whether it was because the y were afraid to run away to strange parts with that shaggy blighter they had fo r a leader, or whether he left them here, in Tavria, to stir up trouble but the fa ct remains, the place was swarming with them, specially in the colony behind the station. There was hardly a house in that' colony that wasn't owned by ulas. Well off they were too good, bric houses, big vineyards, private boats in the har bour, and nets drying on the shore all the way from the lighthouse to Matrossay a Settlement. If it was a bad year for the grapes, they made their money out of fishing. Well, when the famine started, we, armed worers, were off right-away t o have a loo in those ulas' cellars and see if they were hiding any grain. An d quite right we were too. There was real famine in the town. The children were all swollen, every nettle from the streets, every bit of grass from the cemetery had been pluced for food. But when you crossed the railway line it was another w orld. Plenty of everything in the colony, even smoed ham and voda on holidays. You'd wal along the street, ready to drop from hunger, and when you got a whif f from their itchens in your nostrils, it'd mae you feel lie tearing those bl oodsucers to pieces! The whole people stricen with hunger while they made merr y with their gramophones blaring out 'two-steps' for them to dance to! "Of course, those ulas didn't lie us coming round searching their cellars and taing over their stores. They started shooting at us. And on top of that there

were still some foreigners left at the wors. John Caiworth and his family had hopped it straightaway, but he'd left his overseers behind. They were still in h is 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 w as. 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 ulas 'from the colon y too. Both of 'em were wearing leather jerins, Kuban hats, purple velvet trous ers. And they were both eeping their hands in their pocets. 'Well,' I thins t o myself, 'we're going to have a hot time of it!' I new almost for certain that both brothers had served under Mahno. Then another came in, one of their serva nts, by the loo of him. Kashet they used to call him, he. . ." "Just a sec', Volodya," I interrupted the cabman, "doesn't he wor in the foundr y now? Wears a red erchief on his head?" "That's the fellow!" Volodya affirmed readily. "Well... I looed round and there 's the merchant himself standing by his bed, grinning. He wasn't afraid of a sea rch now that he'd got a body-guard. Well, those Varfolomeyev brothers, his neigh bours, stationed Kashet at the door and came up to me. And II was alone, or ver y nearly. My mate, Kolya Smorgunov, was a smart lad and he new how to use a car bine, but the famine had drained all the strength out of his body. He couldn't e ven have handled the younger brother. It looed 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.' " 'Thans,' I says, 'I thin 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 voda and boiled bacon. And ther e 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 looing very pale they mu st have nown something was brewing. "I looed Varfolomeyev straight in the eye. I felt scared, but I didn't show it, I new I'd got Soviet power to bac me up. Young Varfolomeyev whispered somethi ng to Buchilo and I tried to hear what he was saying. "And meanwhile, Lusa Varfolomeyev pours me out a glass of voda and says: 'Have a drin, old man!' " 'Why should I drin first?' I says. 'Perhaps it's poisoned. Drin it yourself. ' " 'What do you mean!' Lusa hisses. 'Are you scared? And you dare to insult the master of the house! We mae you welcome, you dirty tramp, and you...' And he wh ipped out a nife. "I saw what was coming, so I gave Kolya Smorgunov a win. But instead of taing a pot at him, he smashes the lamp with the butt of his gun! Well, when that happ ened, I noced big Varfolomeyev bacwards over the table and heard him crash to the floor. The glasses rolled off the table, the girls screamed, and it was bla c 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 thin, 'the heavy artillery's gone into action!' And I started crawli ng towards the door. I could hear someone breathing close by and then I got a wh iff of leather. So it was someone in a leather jerin beside me. 'Here, tae tha t!' I thought to myself. And I lashed out with the butt of my Browning. It lande d right on the bac of his head. There was a groan from one of the brothers. 'Ho ld the door, Kashet,' 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, in to the corner where the shot had come from... Then there was screaming and firin g and a smell of erosene 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 righ t for him to say 'get their guns!' There were four of them, not counting the dau ghters, and I was alone! II went on crawling towards the door. Suddenly I heard someone coming at me and caught the smell of voda. I crouched down and covered

my head with my hand. And just as I did so zip! Something smaced into my hand! "At first I didn't feel any pain, you now. Even though the nife had cut right through the sinews and touched my sull! 'I pulled my hand away and tried to fin d a handerchief! But I new I was in a bad way my fingers wouldn't 'wor. I cover ed the wound with my other hand and felt the sweat breaing out on my forehead. I began to feel very wea. "With the last strength I could muster I yelled out to Kolya Smorgunov: 'Let 'em have it, the ula blood-sucers, I'm wounded!' And just then Kashet 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 arriv ed. They'd heard the shots and they arrested both the Varfolomeyevs and the merc hant. But as for me, I was crippled. I can hardly lift a glass of water. The foo d was bad in those days and the sinews didn't heal up properly. Even now my hand 's sort of paralysed..." "Loo here, Volodya," Gladyshev ased. "Why does Kashet swan that he got wound ed at the front when he was defending Yeaterinoslav from the Whites?" "At the front?" Volodya laughed. "Haven't you ever been swimming with him? No? W ell, try it when you get the chance. You'll see where the bullet hit him. People don't get wounds lie that at the front, except the deserters who try to run aw ay when no one's looing..." 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 tae us on at the wors!" Peta remared grimly. "Is that so!" Volodya exclaimed. "Yes, it is," I said, supporting Peta. "Queer!" Gladyshev said. "Surely Zuzya isn't getting uppish? I've been told he's pretty decent towards the woring class." "Decent!" Sasha cried indignantly. "Why, if it hadn't been for the director of t he wors... Just listen to this..." And he recounted how Zuzya had spoen to us in his office. "A real bureaucrat, lives on red tape!" I put in. "And was thining of asing 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 Khar ov,' " Sasha went on indignantly. "Not lie the director! He ased about everyth ing lie a human being, tested us on how much we new..." "No flies on our director," Lua said. "You won't find a director lie him all t he way along the coast, from Sevastopol to Rostov! He's been ased to tae over the Ilyich Wors and the Urainian Trust, but he wouldn't go. 'Let me get this w ors into shape,' he says. 'I want to introduce proper woring methods here and get rid of the legacy the foreigners left us.' It was his idea to raise the foun dry 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 s ight! In the old days, under Caiworth, people woring 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 loo at. It's light, it's clean, and all the dust is suced out by pipes... And the p asting he gave those Trotsyites 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 woring class?" "Ivan Fyodorovich?" "No, Zuzya!" "He's a footballer," Lua said calmly. "What's football got to do with it?" Peta put in. "Just this," said Lua. "Zuzya was the best centre forward in the whole of Zapor ozhye, but at the Communard Wors they didn't thin much of him used to wor as la stoer, or something. But our chief engineer, he's cracers on football. He wen t to Zaporozhye once and watched Zuzya playing. When he saw Zuzya was a nippy fe

llow, he got him to come here. Of course, as soon as Zuzya arrives, he gets prom oted assistant manager of the personnel department. Now he draws a decent salary, enough to feed himself up for icing that ball about..." "The chief engineer he's a grey-haired man, isn't he?" I ased cautiously, remembe ring what Angelia had said about her father. "That's him," Volodya affirmed, "your neighbour. Rather a queer chap, but he li es football." "His daughter's a good-looer," Peta put in with some satisfaction. "Vasil now s her already. They've been holding hands on the beach." "Well, I'm blowed!" Volodya looed at me with surprise and respect. "You're a fa st-worer, I see, don't let the grass grow under your feet! But watch your step if Zuzya gets to now about, he'll brea your shins for you. His ic's lie a can non-ball, lad. He can brea a cross-bar with one of his shots..." Not far away, in the harbour, a ship gave a sharp blast on its siren. Then anoth er, and a third. "The Dzerzhinsy's off to Yalta," Lua said. We had never seen a real steamer in our lives, only in pictures. I very much wan ted to run down to the harbour and watch the ship leave, but Peta would go on t rying to tae the rise out of me. Nudging Bobir, he ased Volodya: "Is Zuzya a f riend of the engineer's daughter?" "Sure he is! He's always going round there taing her out on his bicycle. One of the family." "I thin they must lie him because he's a footballer," Lua remared. "You don't mean to say the engineer's daughter plays football?" Peta gasped. "She's a football fan! If you ever go to a match, don't sit in front of her," Lu a advised, "she'll punch your bac till it's blac and blue. Football's the onl y thing she cares about, lie 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 as me, she nows her own m ind all right, that girl does. She's read a lot of boos. As for being een on f ootball, 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 cours e, he is! The harbour master, Captain Sabadash? Of course! Madame Kozulya? Not h alf! That one from the dancing-school... what's her name.. . Madame Rogale-Piont ovsaya? Nuts on the game! Even Lisovsy 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 t own's such a crazy place!" Gladyshev had mentioned a name that too me bac at once to the old days, in far -off Podolia. "That Rogale-Piontovsaya you mentioned, she isn't a countess by any chance, is she?" I ased. "Goodness nows whether she's a countess or not, but she's certainly the queeres t fish in this part of the world," Gladyshev replied. "Rules the roost up at the dancing-school," Lua added. "Well, why are we sitting here, friends, taling ourselves dry?" Volodya exclaim ed 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 thin 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 wor ag ain in the morning, I replied: "We're not sure... Tomorrow..." "Don't bother the lads, Volodya," Lua intervened unexpectedly. "They're young, they haven't got used to the wor yet. If they aren't careful, they really will oversleep. Let 'em go home! And you, lad," Lua turned to me, "don't be too scar ed of your mate. He grumbles and bars, but on the whole he's a fair old chap, h e's not chasing you for nothing. You'll be all the better for it, tougher!... We ll, so long till tomorrow!" We parted, and Volodya, who was the first to go out of the garden into the stree

t, struc up a song. A few paces from the crowded "Avenue," the town was as deserted and quiet as a v illage 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 now you used to play football for the factory-school team , Vasil?" Peta ased slyly. "Who are you taling about?" "None of that!" Peta chortled. "As if you didn't now!" "What's her name, Vasil?" Sasha ased. "I've forgotten." "He's forgotten already, hear that, Peta?" Sasha moced. "I thin I'd better re mind you, as you're so forgetful. An-ge-li-a! Mae a note of it, please." "What ind of name is it An-ge-li-a?" Peta drawled, revelling in my confusion. " Never heard of it before. Very queer name! Must be foreign." "Of course, it's foreign," Sasha said, taing his cue I from Peta. "Why do you thin she said 'merci' to us?" "Yes, all bourgeois types say 'merci' and 'pardon,'" Peta agreed. I waled on in silence, listening patiently while my friends ripped my reputatio n to bits. Far out at sea, the red and green running lights of the Felix Dzerzhinsy rose a nd fell as the ship steamed away round the breawater. If only I had nown then whom that ship was taing across the dar Azov Sea to Yalta!... Had I but nown, I should have dashed off to the harbour long ago... AT TURUNDA S The more I was drawn into the life of the wors, the less I worried about that p hrase "you'll catch on." Time flew past quicly land something new happened ever y day. Today, a few minutes before dinner-time, Golovatsy had come up to my mac hine. 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 wor s 'Komsomol organization, I should have thought twice about appearing in the fou ndry in such a get-up. Here were men doing physical wor, and he turned up looi ng lie a tailor's dummy! But Golovatsy seemed quite at ease as he shoo hands with Naumeno and nodded a greeting to Lua and Gladyshev. "Come to see your charge, Tolya?" Lua ased. "How's he taing to things? Facing up to the job?" Golovatsy replied, and gave me a searching loo with his een grey eyes. "Hot stuff! Soon be catching up with Uncle Vasya!" Lua said hurriedly, and pic ing up a finished mould, darted off with it to the moulding floor. Turning to Gladyshev and Naumeno, Golovatsy said: "I told him he'd catch on, b ut he looed a bit put out when he heard we did our moulding by machine." And wi th another glance at me, he said confidingly: "Come in and see me at dinner-time , Mandzhura..." "You seem to now Golovatsy very well," I said to Lua when the secretary disap peared 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," Lua said, and I realized that my neighbou r was a Communist. "You mean Golovatsy used to wor in the foundry?" "He did that! What are you surprised at? On the cementation furnaces. Until he c ame, there wasn't a dirtier-looing crowd in the whole wors than those cement b oys. 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 wor cle an as you could wish! And why? On Party Committee instructions Golovatsy got th e Komsomol members together for voluntary wor and they fitted the place up with hot showers and two cupboards for every worer to eep his clean and dirty clot hes in. Now, as soon as it's nocing-off time, they're under those showers. To see them going home, when they've washed and put on clean clothes, you'd thin t

hey'd been reading boos all day instead of casting metal in those furnaces..." Lua's words made a deep impression on me. I went to see Golovatsy at the Komso mol office in a friendly mood, not at all expecting him to greet me with a repro ach. "It's a very good thing that you've caught on to things and got to now all abou t machine-moulding so quicly, but why hold yourself aloof from the other young worers?" "How do you mean aloof?" I ased, sitting down on a creay chair. "Well, it's as plain as daylight. Half the chaps simply don't now you yet, they just haven't any idea what sort of a fellow you are. And I don't mean chaps out side the Komsomol. Even the Komsomol members don't now you've got la Komsomol m embership card in your pocet. Last time you were in here, you gave me a glowing account of your social wor at school and I was very pleased. 'Here's a smart l ad 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," Golovatsy said more gently. "And now I'd advise you t o set about getting to now all the young worers in the foundry as soon as poss ible. Find out their lies and dislies, what they're interested in. . . You see , because of its casting, the foundry is the only shop in the wors that often f inishes wor long before the general nocing-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 worers' club of an evening? Very few ! It's a disgrace, but unfortunately it's a fact. But at Madame Rogale-Piontovs aya'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 Piontovsaya?" "A chip off something that's been smashed for ever," Golovatsy said, drumming h is long fingers on the top of his des. "A few years ago she used to run a cafe called The Little Noo.' Then when Madame got tired of paying taxes, she started her own dancing-class. Madame's daughter got married to an Englishman, one of t he shop foremen, in the time of the Whites, and went off to London. But her moth er's stayed behind, and now she's luring our youth into her net." Straining my memory, I ased: "Has this Madame Rogale-Piontovsaya been living here long?" "Ever since the Revolution. She came here with her daughter. From somewhere near Uman." "What about her husband?" "No one's ever seen her husband. She must have buried him bac there in Uman, or else he's run away." "And the chaps from the foundry go to her classes?" "I wish it was only the foundry chaps! They go there from the other shops too. O ur Komsomol organization hasn't succeeded in organizing any recreation for them and Madame taes advantage of it. And bear this in mind, Mandzhura, some of the chaps in your shop have very little education. No more of this standing aloof! I t's time you made friends with some good chaps and got into harness with them. G risha Kanyu, for instance, or Kolya Ziaablu..." "I'll do everything, Tolya," I promised. "Everything's about half what you've got to do," Golovatsy said with a grin, an d gripping my hand he said: "Off you go, you've only got three minutes before th e hooter..." Bac in the days of the tsar, when we lived in Zarechye, under the walls of the Old Fortress, the estate of the Countess Rogale-Piontovsaya had covered a whol e district on the outsirts of the town. The yellow mansion with its columned po rtico lay half-hidden among trees in a large, shady garden. A gravel drive borde red with flowers led up to the house from tall wrought-iron gates, on which hung a heavy, rusty padloc that was hardly ever opened.

One day, however, the gates of the mansion were flung open with the willing cons ent of its owner. That was in 1919, when Ataman Petlura and his men seized our t own. The remnants of his forces were clinging to the railway. Only a few small t owns and villages of Podolia and Volyn remained in their hands. But although the Petlura front was crumbling on all sides, the ataman ceremonially declared our town the capital of "Petluria," and chose as his residence the half-empty mansio n of the Countess Rogale-Piontovsaya. Petlura s car was greeted at the gates by the countess herself, a gaunt woman in a blac flounced dress who held a lorgnette to her eyes all the time. Peeping ove r the wall of the neighbouring churchyard, we, youngsters, saw the blue-uniforme d Petlura alight from his car, iss the countess's thin, bejewelled fingers and wal up the drive with her to the yellow mansion. While he lived at the mansion Petlura held conferences with officers from Konova lets's Galician rifle corps and from Deniin's forces. Later, foreign military m issions too up their residence with the countess. These officers of the Entente , which was helping Petlura, paced the shady avenues of the countess's garden in uniforms we had never seen before. We never had a chance to loo at them very c losely, however, for the gaidus who guarded Petlura and his suite drove all pas sers-by away from the gates. Only once my friends and I climbed on to the stone coping of the railings and tr ied to see what was going on round the mansion. As we stood barefoot on the roug h sun-warmed granite, pressing our faces against the iron railings, a tall, gaun t man in a long grey jacet popped up out of the garden and lashed at me with a blac silver-embossed waling-stic. We scattered lie frightened sparrows, afraid that the tall man might call up th e Petlura guards to deal with us. They would give us a taste of something worse than a waling-stic their long whips tipped with bits, of lead. I well remembered the face of the stranger cruel and scraggy and covered with yell ow wrinles. He was said to be the brother of the countess, who had fled from so mewhere near Kiev, to escape the Bolshevis. So it was not for nothing that the Extraordinary Commission for Combating Counte r-Revolutionary Activities had arrested the countess when Petlura was driven out of the town. What happened to her after that, I did not now. Perhaps her brother was the husband of the local Rogale-Piontovsaya, who, as G olovatsy put it, was "luring the youth into her net..." The day was still sultry, but there were many people about on the avenue. Holida y-maers in sull-caps, broad-brimmed straw hats, or simply with wet towels woun d round their heads, were wandering home from the beach, bemused and exhausted b y the heat. Some of them clustered round the ioss to buy cool buza, iced lemon ade, and mineral waters. Others, mostly men, slipped into the co-operative wineshop on the corner, where they quenched their thirst with glasses of Azov wine. Peering into the shops and lingering in front of their smart windows, I waled d own the avenue, my heels sining into" the soft asphalt. Before nocing-off tim e I had found out from Gladyshev that Rogale-Piontovsaya's saloon was at 25, G enoa Street. Suddenly I lost interest in all other passers-by except one who had popped up in front of me, as if from nowhere. The soldierly bearing of the man in front stru c me as being very familiar. But for his light summer suit and soft panama hat with a broad blue ribbon, I should have rushed up to him at once and greeted him as an old friend. "But I've never seen him in civilian clothes before... His wal's the same thoug h, and the way he holds his head up!... He must have come here for a holiday! Ye s, that's it! Why didn't I thin of it before!" Overtaing the man in the light suit, who had stopped in front of a chemist's sh op-window staced with bottles and jars, I peered into his face. Yes, it was him! I stepped forward and touching his elbow said: "Hullo, Comrade Vuovich! How did you get here?" With surprising coolness, as if he had been expecting me to approach him, the ma n with the face of Vuovich turned round and said: "You must be mistaen, young

man. . ." And he gave me a mocing glance, as if pitying me for my foolish error . I don't remember what I muttered in reply. It was not an apology. I must have sa id "Gosh!" or something lie that. And utterly confused, I waled quicly away, so as not to attract the attention of bystanders. "Well, some people are alie, aren't they!" I thought. That man was just lie Vuovich... If it had been Vuov ich, he would have been sure to say "hullo" to me. Specially after that long tal we had in his office, when Niita and I went to see him. Coming home, I decide d not to tell the boys about my blunder. 25, Genoa Street turned out to be quite an ordinary-looing house. From the tic et-seller in a plaid froc who was laying out little boos of ticets on her tab le I learnt that the dancing would begin in an hour. Well, I wasn't going to han g about here all that time just to see their capers! I wandered slowly down Geno a Street, towards the outsirts. The street led me to a. district of little cottages, nown as the Lisi. All rou nd me there were allotments. I made my way along the edge of the settlement to t he beach. Tarred fishing smacs with lowered sails heaved at anchor near the shore. Nets w ere drying on the seaweed-strewn sand. I felt the breeze from the open sea on my face mingled with the smells of smoed fish, seaweed, and tar. The deserted sandy beach stretched away towards Nogais. At the mouth of a ravin e that ran down to the sea stood a large villa with a red-tiled roof. The purple glow of the setting sun was reflected in the windows that looed on to the Lis i and the glass seemed to flame in the sun's nays. It was as if a fire were ragi ng inside the villa. I remembered the foundry men's tales about the former owner of the wors, John Caiworth, who had gone bac to his home abroad, and decided that it must !be his villa I could see in the distance. You had only to compare it with the little white cottages scattered along the sea shore to realize that it had once been the home of a rich man. Crossing the soft sand, I went down to the sea and, scooping up the clear water in my hands, washed my perspiring forehead and wetted my hair. "Hey, lad, come over here!" I heard a voice in the distance. "That's not for me," I thought without turning round. "Who would now me here?" And I started waling bac towards Genoa Street. But the voice went on shouting: "Vasily Stepanovich! Comrade Mandzhura!" Lua Turunda, my neighbour on the machines, was waling quicly towards me from one of the little cottages. He had changed into blue sun-bleached overalls. "You are getting high and mighty," Lua said as he ran up. "I might as well be s houting at a bric wall. I saw you as you were going down to the sea. Surely, I thought, the lad isn't going to drown himself because Naumeno gives him such a hot time!" "Hullo." "Let's go to my cottage," Turunda suggested. I hesitated. "I ought to be getting bac to town," I said. "Perhaps we could mae it another time." "Well, I'm not inviting you to a wedding, you now. We'll just sit down for a bi t, then go off together." Turunda's cottage stood right by the sea. "Don't you get flooded, when there's a storm?" I ased as we waled into the yar d. "Sometimes. Last autumn the maistra started blowing and the waves were so big th ey noced out one of the window-panes. My wife had to put the chicens up in th e attic." It was cool in the low-ceilinged parlour. All the windows except one that stood wide open were hung with muslin to eep the flies out. Pots of geraniums and fig -plants and bottles of cherry-wine stood on the window-sills. "Mae yourself at home," Lua said. "This is my father and this is. my wife. Thi s is Vasily Stepanovich. He's come to help us in the foundry... Where are you fr om, Vasil?"

"From Podolia," I said,' shaing hands with Lua's father and his wife. "But I'm not Stepanovich, I'm Mironovich." "Is that so?" Lua said in surprise. "I must have got you mixed up with your mat e; he's a Stepanovich. Now sit down here, by the window; it loos as if we're go ing to get a breeze from the sea." I squeezed behind the spotless table and sat down by the window. Lua's father, a sunburnt old man, just as lean as his son, sat down facing me, while my host's wife, a pleasant-looing woman of about twenty-five, bustled about round the st ove, which could be seen on the other side of the passage. Dar and sturdy, with her plaits arranged in a crown on the top of her head, she moved silently about the itchen, now appearing at the stove, now vanishing behind the partition. "Dad and I have been taling about a little family matter," Lua said. "As you p robably now, for over two months now one per cent of our pay has been deducted for the worers of Britain, who're on strie. Well, whenever I bring my pay-boo home, my family here maes a fuss. 'What,' they say, 'those B.W.s, again! What are they, your own ith and in? You'd do better to buy a dress for the wife, or something that's needed in the house, than waste your money on them...' " "What have dresses got to do with it!" Old Turunda interrupted his son, and as h e spoe I noticed his sparse yellow teeth stained dar with tobacco. "Those B.W. s, did they help us in 1905, when the Potemin blew the red flag? Not a bit of i t! Old Caiworth called in a regiment of Cossacs from Melitopol to put down the striers. Do you thin anyone abroad helped us then? Never on your life! We had to live on whiting all the summer. Why should we help their striers now?" "Because we're the Motherland of all the worers of the world," I said cautiousl y, reluctant to anger the grumpy old man. "We've got the Soviets in power, but t hey haven't..." "That's no answer," the old man grunted. "Don't you try to tal politics to me. You go to the root of things." Old Turunda's words touched me on the raw. I remembered our discussions on inter national affairs at the factory-training school, and just as fierily as I used t o then, I said: "Why isn't it an answer? Anybody can see that we're in la better position than the British miners, who have to swallow coal dust so that the cap italists can mae their profits." "We swallowed plenty o' dustunder tsarism to give that British capitalist a mans ion to live in and a yacht of his own to cruise around in, didn't we?" The old m an jered his thumb in the direction of the villa that I had seen from the shore . "He could afford to hold garden parties in the fresh air, but all we had was a dingy little pub to amuse ourselves in, and even that ran us into debt!" "It's no good trying to argue with my old man," Lua said. "He's just lie one o f those high-ups in the church. You tal about one thing and he tals about anot her. All at cross purposes. I've been telling him the same thing: since we've go t a worers' government we ought to help every worer that's in need." At that moment Lua's wife entered the room, maing no sound on the clay floor w ith her bare sunburnt feet. She was carrying a blacened baing-pan. When she se t it down on two wooden blocs, I saw that it contained four large, fat fish. Th e strong scent of garlic struc my nostrils. "Ever eaten this before?" Lua ased. I shoo my head. "Fisherman's cheba!" Lua announced. "Fresh from the morning's catch. Dad colla red 'em land now we're going to taste 'em." And pronging a large fish with his f or, he placed it on a plate in front of me. Then I noticed that the cheba had not even been cleaned of its scales. Curled b y the heat of the oven, they were standing up as if someone had stroed them th e wrong way. As I followed my host's example and too the sin off the fish, I soon realized the simple method of cooing this tasty dish. Before putting the fish in the hot oven, you had to stuff it with lumps of garlic. The fish were baed whole, in t heir own fat. Their white flesh came away from the bones easily and gave off a s mell that made your mouth water. "But fish can't swim on dry land, can they, Vas il?" And wining at me, Lua fetched a heavy jug from a dar corner and poured u

s glasses of wonderfully clear wine. "That's enough!" I said to Lua when my glass was only half full. "What's the matter?" Lua's quic eyes glanced up sharply. "Do you thin it's st rong? It's only 'beryoza.' Wea stuff. Little children round here drin it inst ead of water." "All the same, that's enough. I'm not used to it." "You'll have to get used to i t," Lua's father remared. "If you live by the Azov Sea, a 'beryoza'-driner y ou must be!" "Well, here's to your success, Vasil!" Lua said. "To your becoming a good found ry man. Good luc to you in your young life!" And we clined glasses. Pushing her dar crown of hair into place with a plump hand, his wife raised her glass too. Her ind deep-set eyes, dar as olives, seemed to radiate good feeli ng. I felt as if I had nown the indly owners of this little cottage, perched o n the sandy shore of the Azov Sea, for a very long time. The wine was cool and f ragrant, with a faint bitterish tang in it. And it wasn't strong at all. I put down my empty glass and shot a glance at the cloc hanging on the wall, by the stove. Lua noticed it and said reassuringly: "Don't worry, lad, I've got t o go out too, to the university." "What university?" I ased in surprise. "He's a student," Lua's wife answered for him, and glancing at Lua very affect ionately, put her brown arm round his shoulders. "I've been attending since last year. In the evenings," Lua said. "When Katya a nd I got married I thought to myself, 'I'd better do some studying, I've been wa sting my leisure time long enough.' So I started on the preliminary courses. I r emembered all they'd taught me at the parish school and mastered algebra, and th en the worers' evening university opened. That was a chance that was too good t o miss!" "Do you lie it?" I ased, feeling a warm glow from the wine spread through me. Lua nodded cheerfully. "No question about it! A lot better than before. You'd noc off and spruce your self up a bit, then off to the avenue. And from the avenue where would you go? T o The Little Noo.' And after that you'd stagger home with your nees sagging. S ometimes you'd give yourself such a sousing that you'd just plun into bed in yo ur cap and boots. And as soon as you shut your eyes the hooter was going. Well, wh at sort of wor can you do with a hang-over? You'd crawl about lie a fly in aut umn, and your mate would curse you up hill and down dale because you were holdin g him up. I'm real thanful to Ivan Fyodorovich, it was him got the university s tarted." "The director?" "Yes, the director. He twigged there were a lot of teachers nocing about the t own chemistry teachers, astronomy teachers... So he got them all together and says : 'Here, you fellows, what about teaching the lads of an evening, I'll find the money to pay you!' And that started the ball rolling. Since I've been attending those evening classes, I've felt myself a different man. While the furnace hums away up at the end of the shop, there am I going over the formulas that our inst ructor has explained to us, and thining out the reasons for everything why the ir on melts, how steel is made, what the temperature ought to be... And the result is that instead of looing at the world out of a little window, you start looin g out of a great big one.. "But you're going to be late for your classes today," his wife said very softly, almost in a whisper. "Late for classes? No fear!" Lua jumped up and, running over to the booshelf, started gathering up his boos. "Just call on us when you feel lie it," Katerina said when I was leaving. "And if you feel lie going out in a boat, the old man will tae you fishing." I thaned my hosts for their hospitality and said that next time I came I would bring my friends. Lua and I waled down Genoa Street together. "Pricly old chap, my Dad, isn't he? He'll snap your head off if you give him ha lf a chance. He used to wor in the foundry too, before the Revolution."

"Why doesn't he go bac there now?" "When the Civil War started and the wors closed down, he too to fishing. Got r eal een on it, he did. One day, near the end of winter, he went out to sea with his crew to fish under the ice for big fish. The wind had been blowing from the west all the time, then suddenly a levant sprung up from the east. The ice bro e away from the shore and was carried out to sea. That levant too my Dad well n igh over to the Kuban shore. Half the crew were drowned, and the rest just manag ed to escape by wading through the shallows. And the water was icy, you now. It froze Dad's legs right to the bone. Now, when there's a change in the weather, Dad's properly croced up. It's a good thing the sanatorium's near by. The wife goes down there and brings him bac that stining mud from the estuary. She warm s it up on the stove and then puts the old man in a tub and plasters him with it . The pain lets up a bit, and again Dad puts his nets in the boat and off he goe s to sea. Sometimes for rybets, sometimes for puzano, sometimes for taran. There's tons of fish in this little puddle!" And Lua nodded towards the sea. "I say, Lua, who are the people that go for treatment in those sanatoriums?" "People come here from all over the place. Suppose you were still living in your Podolia, or perhaps even further away. One night you wae up and feel your legs aching fit to drive you cracers. Off you go to the polyclinic. The doctor give s you the once over and tells you you've got chronic rheumatism. They give you a free pass at wor and you're here..." "Then perhaps it was Vuovich I met in the avenue?" I thought to myself when we parted. "Now he's on holiday and out of uniform, he doesn't want to have anythin g to do with me." But the idea seemed absurd. ALL RIGHT, MADAME! Even from a distance young people could be seen crowding round Madame Rogale-Pio ntovsaya's establishment. Some lazily nibbled sunflower seeds as they watched the lucy ones who strode in through the open doors without bothering about the price. Others, more impatient, stepped, bac to the fence on the other side of t he road and stood on tip-toe to see through the high windows into the hall, when ce came the sound of music and the shuffle of dancing feet. After paying the ticet-seller in the plaid froc a whole fifty opes, I entere d a long hall with craced papier mache columns. The air was stuffy and reeed o f powder and cheap scent. A few couples were moving stiffly up and down the middle of the hall in a sort o f march, which I afterwards discovered was called a "fox-trot." Young men with blan, pompous faces, now rising on their toes and stepping forwa rd, now taing two steps bac piloted their wilting girl friends round the stuff y hall. They seemed very proud of being able to wal round lie this, eeping up the monotonous rhythm and performing a few simple steps before an audience of r esting dancers and people lie myself who had merely come to loo on. I could no t see anyone who looed lie the owner of the establishment and I waited impatie ntly for Madame Rogale-Piontovsaya to appear. As I watched Madame Rogale-Piontovsaya's clients amusing themselves, I could n ot help remembering the dances that used to be held at the Party School in our t own. I often used to go to them before I joined the factory-training school. The y were quite different. The student musicians would tae their places on the platform and their brass ba nd would roc the lofty ceiling of the former convent chapel, which had now been made into a club. Everything was so jolly and gay that even the saints whose fa ces still adorned the walls seemed to enjoy the blaring music, while the Lord of Sabaoth, standing in his sandaled feet above the slogan "Peace to the cottage, war to the palace!" looed ready to bound into the dance himself, together with his winged angels and Moses the Prophet. The students and their girl friends from the suburbs danced the mazura in prope r ballroom style and no one, of course, paid any particular attention to the pat ched, down-at-heel boots of the men and the wooden clogs that some of the girls were wearing.

There were swift Hungarian dances and smooth graceful waltzes. Gay Cracoviennes followed the Pas d'Espagne, and if Boio, the natural history lecturer, ased th e band to play his favourite "Chinese pola," with its crouching down and other antics, there was not a person in the hall who would not join the line of dancer s. I, too, joined in that dance, bending my nees and waddling across the hall, wit h my fingers pointing now to the right, now to the left. Once I found myself paired up with the old coo Mahteich. He had come to as th e duty man when to ring the bell for supper and Boio had dragged him into the d ance. To the tap of the ettle-drums, Mahteich and I whirled round the hall, ne arly cannoning into the platform with its glittering array of brass trumpets. I noticed the smell of bucwheat porridge, fried meat and onions coming from my "l ady" and guessed for certain what the students were going to have for supper. There was much fun and Laughter at those student dances. Friendly land unrestrai ned, they made you feel gay. They bubbled with youth. They were the dances of a brave, active body of men who wanted to relax and have a good time. But what was it here? Could you call this a dance? These people were lie a lot of statues waling about! No one had anything to do with his neighbour and they all seemed to thin they were dancing better than anyone else. But there wasn't any real dancing at all! Suddenly I burst out laughing. One of the dancers a sallow-faced man with la poin ted blac moustache seemed to thin I was laughing at him and glanced threatening ly in my direction. "My dear neighbour, can it be you? What progress you're maing!" exclaimed a voi ce at my elbow. I turned round. It was Angelia. She stood before me in a spotted green dress, h er white even teeth gleaming in a smile. Now I was cornered. "Good evening!" I said holding out my hand. "Do you dance? I'd never have thought it! A quiet boy lie you..." "I just came to have a loo," I grunted, glancing round to see if there was anyo ne else who new me in the hall. "Now, now!" Angelia wagged her finger at me. "You can't fool me... Oh, good, he re's Madame Rogale-Piontovsaya. She'll play now instead of that awful pianist. " And standing on her toes she cupped her hands round her mouth and called out: "Glafira Pavlovna, we should lie a Charleston!" A stout, grey-haired woman in a blac dress with very pin chees looed round a t the shout. No, she was not a bit lie the sinny countess of Zarechye! This "M adame" looed more lie the owner of a butcher's stall. ."That little fellow is your Madame Piontovsaya's husband, I suppose?" I whisp ered to Lia, nodding towards the pianist. "Goodness, no!" Lia exclaimed indignantly. "She used to be married to an engine er who got illed by a stray bullet lat Uman. Uman's somewhere in your part of t he country, isn't it?" "Nowhere near! It's another day's journey to Uman from us," I said and noted men tally that Golovatsy's story and what Lia had told me partially coincided. The little pianist in a long greasy dress-coat reaching to his nees looed lie a grasshopper perched on its hind legs. He obsequiously offered Madame Rogale-P iontovsaya the piano stool. Madame gathered up her sirts and sat down. The st ool groaned under her weight. Madame paused with her plump bejewelled fingers ra ised above the eys. "Do you Charleston?" Angelia whispered to me, but my reply was drowned by a thunderous chord. For a moment I could not decide whether this was the new dance or whether Madame had suddenly decided to brea up her piano. "Come on, it's a Charleston!" Lia cried. "But I don't now how..." "Nonsense! It's a very easy dance. Just loo at my feet and you'll soon learn." Lia dragged me out into the middle of the hall and planted her hand on my shoul der. Several couples were already jering to and fro around us. Bright-coloured dress es whirled before my eyes. I looed down and watched the long brown legs of my partner intently. It was as if Angelia had got tired of having any feet at all and was trying to ic them

off. Her legs seemed to be hinged in two or three places; she ept throwing a le g up, waggling it and then stepping towards me. "Saint Vitus's dance!" I thought, waggling my legs at the nees until the bones craced. Then an idea occurred to me. Remembering the student dances bac home, I grasped Angelia wildly round the waist and started whirling her across the f loor, bobbing up and down, as we used to in the "Chinese pola." She looed at m e with startled and rather angry eyes. But just as I was going to tae a sharp t urn, my right foot trod on something soft and slippery. I staggered into Madame Rogale-Piontovsaya, giving her a violent jab in the bac with my elbow. The tune of the Charleston broe off for a moment and in the silence that follow ed a word reached me which, though not very loud, stung me lie a whip-lash. "Lout!" Jumping away from the piano, I saw the dancing mistress's rouged face twisted wi th annoyance. It must have been she who had flung that insulting word at me. But the anger on Madame's face was soon replaced by a set smile, and as if to mae up for lost time, she strummed even louder and faster on the piano. Perhaps Ange lia did not hear the insult directed at me, perhaps she simply pretended not to have heard it. I swung my partner to the right, towards the stream of fresh air flowing from the entrance, and led her off the floor. "Well, you are a clod-hopper!" Lia said, half joing, half contemptuous. "The m usic plays one thing, and you just ignore the tune completely and start dancing some sort of barn dance. You've got no ear for music at all! No idea of rhythm!" "I don't now about that, all I now is that people who lie pushing round in he at lie this must be mad!" "They can do the Charleston, and you can't. But why get angry about it?" Lia sa id soothingly. "Wouldn't it be better to go out in a boat on an evening lie this?" And as I spoe, my eye rested on an apple core squashed on the floor. So that wa s what had earned me the title of "lout!" All right, Madame! We'll see who's the lout. You charge fifty opes for admission, you old screw, and you can't even eep the place tidy! "Do you lie boating?" Lia ased, waving her scented handerchief. "Who doesn't?" I said unguardedly. "Then you now what? Let's get away from here and go down to the sea!" And again Angelia seized my arm. We had not waled five steps down Genoa Street when we ran into Zuzya. "Where to, Lia?" the dandy ased spreading his arms. "Down to the sea with a young man!" she flung out coquettishly. "By the way, do you now each other?" "Trituzny!" the dandy drawled and without so much as a glance at me held out his big paw. I shoo it without pleasure and said my name. "A thousand pardons, my dear! Ivan Fyodorovich detained me. Temper justice with mercy and come bac. Today they'll be playing that tango My Heart's in Rags. We' ll learn it together. The words..." But I had had enough. The dandy was simply refusing to acnowledge my existence. "Come on, Angelia, let's get going, or we'll be bitten all over by the mosquito es later on!" I said gruffly, and she went with me. AT THE ENGINEER'S Boats were moored along both sides of the wooden pier. Lia bent down and unloc ed a chain. "Jump!" she commanded, hauling the boat up to the pier. I jumped without hesitating. As my feet struc the bottom of the boat it pitched so violently that I nearly fell overboard. "Tae a life-belt, Lia!" came a voice from above. It was the Life-Saving Society man. He was standing on the pier in shorts and a yachting cap with a white flag on the band. A whistle dangled on his muscular ch est.

"What for, Kolya?" said Lia, pushing off with an oar. "I thin my hidalgo can s wim. But if anything goes wrong, I'll save him myself without a life-belt." "Up to you!" the sailor replied with a chucle. "Wave if you're in trouble." And he tossed the life-belt bac on to the pier. I listened to them with a frown. My companion seemed determined to appear better than me in everything! Even in this phrase to the sailor there had been a scorn ful hint that I couldn't swim and would go to bottom lie a itten, if she didn' t save me. Angelia plied the oars easily and we drew away from the shore. Already the pier looed quite small, lie two matches stuc to the shore in the shape of a "T." "Let me tae over for a bit." "You can try," Lia consented, and we changed places. The purple ball of the sun sining somewhere beyond Kerch blinded me and stained the calm waters of the bay a reddish brown. I plunged my oars deep into the wat er and yaned at them with all my strength. One of the rowlocs jumped out of it s socet and nearly fell into the sea. "I now you're strong, Vasil, but why brea the boat? Tae it easy, as if you di dn't care. The boat will go faster." And indeed, as soon as I relaxed and stopped digging my oars in so deeply, the b oat sated across the water lie a flat pebble thrown from the shore, leaving a faint, trembling wae at its stern. "Turn a bit to the left, towards the breawater!" "You want to go there?" "Don't you?" "It's a long way." "You don't now what 'a long way' means! If we were maing for the sand-ban at this time in the evening, it'd be different. But the breawater's only a paddle. " The harbour with its hump-baced warehouses was far away by now and the high gra nite walls of the breawater rose above us almost as soon as we passed the signa l bell. "Yes, quite near really," I agreed. "Is it two versts?" "One and a half." I was not used to rowing and at each pull I bunched my muscles and pressed my li ps tightly together. My expression must have been rather unnatural. Angelia was now surveying me quite openly. "You now, Vasil, your glance is lie a touch. Lie Lieutenant Glan's!" she said suddenly. "What do you mean?" I grunted. "Lieutenant Glan was the favourite hero of a Scandinavian writer. He was unlucy in love, so he went away and lived in a little hut in the forest, and to hurt t he girl he loved sent her the head of his dog as a present..." "Sounds lie a savage!" I remared. "Real men don't run away from people." "Not from people, but from misfortune in love! He was tired of civilization." "It's the same thing," I said, already deeply prejudiced against the hermit. "An d what sort of glance has your Trituzny got? Lie a touch, too?" Missing the sarcasm in my question, Angelia replied eagerly: "Oh, quite an ordinary glance, but a terrific ic! What a pity you missed the m atch with Enia!. That was a game! Zuzya made a brea-through from the centre of the field and noced the goal-eeper over with the ball. Our supporters simply screamed with delight!" "What of it!" I said rudely, tugging at the oars. "We played the Berdichev youth team once with Bobir as goaleeper. Both our bacs were noced out and three o f their players came down on Sasha who was all alone. Do you thin Sasha let the ball through?... Not him! Of course, I had to give one of their insides a smac on the jaw for trying to trip me. The ref stopped the game and gave Berdichev a penalty: Right in front of the goal. And Sasha stopped it again, and that dirty dog went off the field with a crease in his mug!" "Oh, Vasil, Vasil, you must learn how to tal properly. . ." Lia said reproving ly. "If only you new how those slang expressions of yours appal me! You're a ni

ce boy, but sometimes you sound so unpolished." For a start I didn't now what she meant by that fancy word "appal." But even wi thout that, her cold, edifying tone would have made me furious. I said sharply: "It was unpolished men that made the Revolution, you ought to re member that sometimes!" Angelia could not find an answer to this or perhaps she did not want to continu e the conversation. Only the purple crown of the dying sun showed above the horizon, tinting the wat er with an ominous fiery glow. Behind us the sea was already an oily blac. The faint swell caught the last pin reflections of the sunset and the shadow of the breawater running bac to the harbour wall. Patting her hair carelessly, Lia said: "How calm it is! I lie the sea best of all as it is now." "I thought you lied storms best. The sea was very rough when you dived into it that time." "I was brought up by the sea and I can't live a day without bathing. It's a habi t. But to me the best thing in the world is calm, stillness. And to have a cat p urring beside me... To sit on a swing and just stroe a little cat. With electri city cracling in its fur... What could be better!" How could I listen calmly to such tal! I said: "But that's bourgeois petty-mindedness! You haven't started life yet, an d you want peace and quiet already." "Oho!" Lia pucered her eyes. "The quiet boy starts to show his little claws. H ow interesting! I didn't now you were so fond of arguing. My admirers usually l isten to me without a word of objection." What chee! Who said she could count me as one of her admirers! "No, seriously, Vasil, I'm naughty. I lie to mope on my own, to get away from t he cares of the world. I love to dream. . ." And quite unexpectedly Lia began singing in a soft, pleasant voice: In a little grey house on the edge of the town, In a little grey house where sadness abides. . . "Specially in winter," she went on. "When twilight comes and day still lingers a mong the purple shadows, I lie to be alone and tal to yearning. . . She comes out from behind the curtain over the door a ind, sad fairy, with ash-grey hair, j ust lie the colour of the sea now, and she soothes me.. ." "It's the life of luxury her father gives her that maes her have all these daft ideas!" I thought. This was the first time I had met such an outspoen philisti ne at close quarters. "What do you live for then?" "By inertia. I'm waiting for a lucy chance. Perhaps some strong man will turn u p and change everything for me." "Why not do it yourself, without a nurse?" "I've never tried." "You ought to." "Oh, I'm too bored!" "What's the sense in living then? If you just wait for someone strong to turn up and moan: 'I'm bored, I'm bored. . .' " I could see my words had stung Angelia sharply. Again an angry little spar lea pt into her eyes, as it had done a short while ago, in Rogale-Piontovsaya's sa loon. "And what do you live for, my dear sir? Do you enjoy your monotonous wor in the foundry?" "Monotonous?" I exclaimed indignantly. "That's just what it isn't! Today I mae one ind of mould, tomorrow another. I turn out thousands of new parts. It maes me glad to thin that I'm woring for my people and not swindling anyone. Isn't that worth doing? Monotonous, my foot! There aren't any boring jobs, but there are boring, hopeless people." "All right, suppose you've found out everything, experienced everything, what th

en?" "Study!" "But it's so difficult to study. Never any time to rest after dinner, always hav ing to jump up and rush off to lectures." "Who will study if we don't? Your grey fairy?" "There's another way out. If you lie, I'll as Daddy and he'll give you an easy job. In the office, for instance?" "What good is that to me? I don't want to be an office worer." "You are funny, Vasil! I want to help you, and you bristle up lie a hedgehog." "Your Zuzya can go out for the easy jobs, I don't want them." "Why are you so much against Zuzya? He's quite a nice, harmless boy..." "Boy? Strong as a bull, and messing about with papers all day! It maes you sic to loo at him!" "What maes you so intolerant towards people, Vasil? Such a terrible temper!" "When people are on the wrong path, what are you supposed to do praise them for it ? How can we remae the world with such people?" I said, getting really angry. "Who's asing you to remae the world? Let it stay as it is." " 'Who's asing! '... Perhaps you lie the old world? Perhaps you'd lie to live under the tsar or old man Mahno?" I thought Angelia would either deny my accusation or change the subject. But sh e said with surprising calm: "My father lived very well under the tsar too. Caiworth had a great respect for Daddy. He said himself such engineers were hard to come by." "And how did the worers live?" "That's nothing to do with me... And it's all such a bore anyway... Loo how qui cly the moon has risen! Isn't it beautiful?" A shimmering bar of moonlight stretched across the calm bay almost to the sand-b an, where the lighthouse was already blining. The water was silver. "When the moon shines on a strip of water lie that, people call it 'the path to happiness,' " Angelia said. "Two years ago I believed in that saying, so I too a boat out and followed the moonlight across the sea. I got as far as the sand -ban, then a north-easter sprang up and the sea got rough and I couldn't go bac . I pulled the boat up on the sand, spread out some seaweed and made a place to sleep in under the boat. How frightened I was!" "Fancy being frightened of the wind!" As I spoe, I unconsciously drew my hand a cross my forehead. Lia noticed my gesture and ased quicly: "What's that scar on your forehead?" "Oh, nothing." "Tell me." "A scratch from a grenade splinter." "A grenade splinter? Who did that to you?" I had to tell the story of my encounter with the bandits at the state farm on th e ban of the Dniester. "How terrible and thrilling it all sounds!" Lia said. "Only I don't lie politi cs," she pouted. "Politics are so boring. But what you've just been telling me i s very interesting." "You can't remae the world without politics." "Now you're at it again, Vasil! Y ou're simply unbearable! ... Let's go home, or we'll have a real row." Only when we tied up at the pier did I feel how tired I was. My hands were sore from the rub of the oars. At the gate I wanted to say good-bye and get away, but Angelia put her hands behind her bac and said: "You'll do no such thing... To day you're going to spend the whole evening with me. Come to our house. I'll int roduce you to Daddy." Angelia's father was sitting in the big dining-room laying out cards on the din ner table. He was so absorbed that he did not even turn round when we entered. "Daddy! We have a guest!" Angelia cried and touched his shoulder. Andryhevich turned round. Tossing the pac of cards on the table he rose to gre

et us. He was tall and big-boned. His head nearly reached the heavy chandelier t hat hung from the ceiling. I was struc at once by his bushy, nitted eyebrows a nd curved, haw-lie, nose. "With whom have I the honour?" he said, offering me a big wrinled hand. "Vasily Mandzhura," I said. "He's our new neighbour, Daddy. I told you Maria Trofimovna had some new lodgers . Vasily's one of them. I hope you'll lie him. He's a tremendous arguer." "I lie to meet young people thirsting for argument. It was the great art of arg ument that gave ancient Greece her culture. Those arguments revealed many truths that are still alive today." And motioning to a chair: "Sit down, Vasily." "Mironovich," I said, giving him my patronymic, and pulled my chair up to the ma ssive table. "Do you now what we have for supper, my dear? Crayfish! Just thin of it, Kuzma brought me a whole pailful from Aleseyeva! I've just sent Dasha for beer." "Daddy's a devoted crayfish-eater," Lia explained. "He often gets the train att endants to bring him crayfish all the way from Eaterinoslav." The engineer glanced at me very eenly and said: "You entertain our guest, Lia, and I'll go and coo these creatures." And he went out to the itchen. "Now Daddy will perform his rites! He boils the crayfish in a special way with car away and laurel leaves and parsley. He loves cooing them. Even when Mummy's at home, he doesn't let her have anything to do with it. Mummy's still away at Uncl e's. She hasn't come bac since she went at Easter... Would you lie me to show you my little nest?" ' Once you let yourself in for a thing, you have to go through with it. Now that I had consented to come in, I had to agree to the wishes of my hostess. Lia and I went into a small room with windows looing out into the garden. The room was draped from floor to ceiling with Persian carpets. On one of the carpet s hung a little icon and before it, suspended in a brass holder, burned a red-gl ass lamp. "Oho! Religious into the bargain!" I thought. Angelia touched a switch and turned on the ceiling lamp, flooding the room with light. The dazzling shafts from the windows shone on a piece of flower-bed and a sandy path edged with broen tiles. "Is this where you tal to your fairies?" I ased with a grin. "Yes. This is where I tell my secrets to my ind grey princess, and study the ho roscopes of great people... By the way, Vasil, which month were you born in?" "April. What about it?" "In April? Under the Ram?" "What Ram?. . ." I exclaimed, not troubling to hide my impatience. "No need to get offended! The 'Ram is the first zodiacal constellation. Sit down here and listen. I'll tell you everything about your personality." She rustled the pages of a boo and sweeping bac her long chestnut hair, began to read. " The sign of the Ram endows people with many talents: perseverance, courage, an unquenchable thirst for action, bordering sometimes on madness. People born und er the Ram are always ready to fight fanatically for the cause to which they hav e devoted themselves, even in the after-life and in the service of Beelzebub. It is to be regretted, however, that owing to their immense impulsiveness they som etimes dedicate themselves to causes unworthy of such zealous devotion. It is th is heightened impulsiveness and lac of forethought that maes them rash at time s and leads them to deeds of madness. A man born under the Ram may show a tenden cy to martyrdom, thus becoming a Lamb of Sacrifice. . .' " "Well!" said Angelia , drawing a deep breath. "And that's you! Amazing, isn't it? Your whole characte r spread out before you. What have you got to say to that, Vasil?" "It's all a lot of superstition." "Why superstition, Vasil? Don't be silly! Listen to what it says now: 'The Ram e ndows people with a leaning for technical matters and industry. It gives birth t o people for professions connected with fire and iron, it develops a talent for organization and leadership...' Isn't that exactly about you and your ideals?" "Prophecies lie that can be made to fit anyone... And what's this after-life go t to do with it?"

"But not everyone is born in April. And just listen to this: 'He should see fri ends born between twenty-fourth of July and the twenty-fourth of August, under t he Lion.' And did you now, my birthday's on the twenty-fifth of July? We were m ade for each other by Providence!" "What's she getting at with all her cunning flattery?" I thought in alarm. "That would be a fine thing! To get tied up with this mademoiselle with her carpets a nd fairies! Br-r-r! That'd just about finish a fellow off!" I shuddered at the thought. "Why don't you say something, Vasil?... Don't loo at me in that awful way, you' ll mae me faint." "It's all rubbish ... superstition, drivel!" I said with conviction. "Only peopl e who haven't got anything left in this life invent another world." "Why is it drivel? Oh, you are so intolerant! My father has engineers round for spiritualist seances. They turn a little table in the dar and call up spirits. They've already had messages from the spirit of Napoleon, and even Navuchodonoso r has spoen to them!" "I now all about those trics!" I said and began to laugh heartily. "Bac home in Podolia, not far from our town, people suddenly started taling about the Kal inovsoe miracle. The local women thought they had seen blood flowing out of the wounds of a figure of Christ on a roadside cross. Crowds of people came to see it, lie at a fair. And what do you thin? A special commission came down and ch eced up on everything and found out that it was some priests who had faed the whole thing to stir the people up against Soviet power. They made a lot of money out of it too!" "Oh you disbelieving Thomas!" she said vexedly. "I. don't now anything about yo ur miracle, but we all heard the voice of Navuchodonosor quite distinctly." "He didn't give you a message of greetings from Rogale-Piontovsaya's daughter in London, did he, by any chance?" I jeered. "Or from her husband in the other w orld? What did he say, is the Charleston in fashion up there?" At that moment Andryhevich appeared at the door of Angelia's "nest." "Be so ind!" he said and waved us into the dining-room with a sweeping gesture. The table was id. Thic dar beer foamed in delicate jugs that stood on an embr oidered table-cloth. For every person there was a slender cut-glass goblet and a serviette. A little pot-bellied decanter of the same thic red glass as the ico n-lamp that burnt in Lia's room nestled beside one of the beer jugs. And in the middle of the table rose a heaped dish of crimson steaming crayfish with long, drooping whisers. "There are crayfish for you!" I thought, sitting down. "Not lie the little midg ets we used to catch by the candle factory." "While these creatures cool off, I suggest we have some sturgeon," Andryhevich said, seating himself opposite me. I noticed another dish with a long slab of white fish on it bathed in thic yell ow sauce and trimmed with slices of lemon. Spearing a piece of fish with a for, I began to cut it with my nife. Suddenly I noticed Andryhevich and his daughter exchange glances. I must have done somet hing wrong.. Looing at her father, Angelia put her finger quicly to her lips. He smired silently and raised his eyebrows. The appetite that I had begun to f eel after rowing vanished at once. What had I done? "A little voda with your sturgeon, young man?" the engineer suggested, holding up the decanter. "No, thans. I don't drin voda," I said, and feeling that this would lead to n o good, put my for down on the table-cloth. "Praiseworthy!" said Andryhevich. "Young people should not drin voda, it's po ison!" Whereupon, bunching his shaggy eyebrows, he poured himself a full glass o f "poison" and dran it down in one gulp. Recovering his breath, the engineer noticed my hesitation. "People eat crayfish with their fingers, young man," he advised. "Drop your nif e and for and tacle the job boldly. Don't be afraid of them." Now for it! I reached out and too the biggest crayfish out of the dish, but bef ore I could put it on my plate, a maid appeared from nowhere and changed my plat

e for a clean one. "Is she in the foodworers' trade union, or do they exploit h er on the quiet, without a contract?" I wondered. Before me lay a huge crayfish, but how I was supposed to eat it in "polite socie ty" I had not the faintest idea. It had been a different matter feasting on cray fish in the field by the candle factory. You would just flic one of those crayf ish out of the boiling water with a couple of twigs and sit there breaing bits off it and throwing the red scales into the fire. Andryhevich ate with a ind of solemn triumph, as if he really were performing some sort of holy rite, as Lia had suggested. Anyone could see that food held a prominent place in his life. "Crayfish are a weaness of mine!" Andryhevich said, cracing a claw. "Good bee r and crayfish mae a perfect combination." And he filled my glass with beer tha t was blac as tar. "What have you been arguing about with the young man, my dea r?" he ased. "Vasil wants to remae the world and I've been persuading him against it." "Indeed! That is interesting. He who was nothing shall become everything? From p auper to prince? Is that the idea?" And Andryhevich glanced at me, screwing up his eyes. "Yes!" I said, pushing the crayfish aside and trying to appear calm. "And I supp ose you'd lie to have everything as it was of old a hundred capitalists enriching themselves on the labour of millions ... Is that it?" "Those who have become everything are completely lacing in two things ability and nowledge." "No need to worry yourself about that! We'll learn. We'll fight for the nowledg e we need." "But ability is a gift from God. Ability is given to a man at birth and passed o n from generation to generation!" the engineer retorted sharply. "Do you thin the woring class hasn't any ability?" Lia burst out laughing. "I told you he was a terrible arguer, Daddy. Our guest' s sense of contradiction is developed to an extraordinary degree." "Just a moment, dear! That is really quite interesting. So you ased me, sir, wh ether the woring class has any ability? Not the slightest doubt of it! If 'Russ ian craftsmen had no ability, I should have chosen a different profession. What would be the use of woring as an engineer, if there were no one capable of putt ing your ideas into practice! But try and understand this: for the natural, orig inal talent of the woring class to develop, the woring class must have a techn ical intelligentsia. And where are you going to get it from?" "Where from? What about the woring class itself? The class that made the Revolu tion?" "Don't tell me those fairy-tales!" Andryhevich exclaimed with visible annoyance . "It's the easiest thing in the world to destroy everything that generations ha ve built up before you. But just try to raise the ruins, to build it all up agai n. Where can you find the educated people to carry out all these fantastic plans of remaing, the world? Especially when all the countries are against us!" "We're doing it now ourselves and we'll go on doing it! We're not afraid! With a leader lie our Party, the woring class needn't be afraid of any difficulties, " I said with growing inspiration, looing at Andryhevich fierily. "By yourselves? 'One, two heave! See how she goes!' Lie that, eh?" "Never mind that old song, we'll manage without that," I answered, feeling a gre at truth on my side. "In a few years' time we'll have thousands of our own, Sovi et experts. They'll wor not just for their own gain, but for the general good, to build communism with all the woring people. And then those who aren't bacin g us up now will be sorry for themselves." "Whom do you have in mind, young man?" Andryhevich ased and gave me an angry l oo. "Who do you thin? Don't you now yourself that any man who goes against the wil l of the whole people is bound sooner or later to be brought out into the open a nd thrown overboard? Do you thin the woring class will let people sneer at it and doubt its strength, and at the same time eat its bread? We don't need sponge rs. We need friends. You sit here laughing at what we are doing now. And what we

re you saying, I wonder, when the old owners ran away abroad? Thought everything would go smash, I expect. But loo how things are going now the wors is turning out more reapers than it was before the war. Isn't that a fact? And how many oth er factories in our country are doing the same! And how many more shall we build in time!" "Time will tell..." the engineer grunted meaningfully. And much was the distrust and hidden resentment in those laconic words ... THE ROLLERS I was to remember that conversation at the big table in the soft light of the he avy chandelier all my life. As if it were yesterday, I can see the engineer's co ntemptuous glance, his pucered slanting eyes, and hear his ironical, condescend ing voice. It was not the voice of an older man with far more nowledge and expe rience than myself. Had it been that, I should, perhaps, have felt differently w hen I left the Andryheviches' house amid its ivy and sweet-scented roses that e vening. But no, there had been something quite different concealed beneath the c ontempt he had shown towards me. I had argued with a man of that old decaying wo rld of which Polevoi, the director of our factory-training school, had taled so much. The engineer was sneering quietly to himself at my fieriness, at my since re belief in the future. He did not throw words away, he used them sparingly, th oughtfully, concealing his real intention. He did not put all his cards on the t able, so that I could say to his face: "You're a traitor to the Revolution and a servant to exploiters lie Caiworth who've run away abroad. Go and follow them, get out of this country whose people you don't believe in!" No, he taled very cunningly and sometimes, to find out what I was thining, eve n seemed to as my advice. My advice! The advice of a pupil from a factory-train ing school who had not been at the plant even a month. . . and he an old, grey-h aired chief engineer! He was still taling when we left the table with the crayfish lying unfinished i n their dish. "Where do you intend building these new factories? I wonder." "Wherever they're needed!" I replied boldly, remembering the words the Secretary of the Central Committee had used in his conversation with me in Kharov. "Just a little hasty, aren't you, young man? You plan to build factories here, t here and everywhere, but you haven't yet learnt how to hold a nife properly. It 's little things you ought to start with, tiny little things." I twisted and turned for a long time that night on my pricly mattress by the op en window. As I listened to the snores of the other chaps, I remembered the cutt ing remars of the tall, bony engineer, and particularly that last dig about the nife I had used to cut the sturgeon. How simple and good and warm-hearted it had been at Lua Turunda's, in his littl e cottage on the sea shore! And Lua himself and his father and Katerina what real , hospitable people they were! I went to sleep with a warm feeling of gratitude towards the Turunda family and a convinced hatred of my neighbours in the house with the ivy, a hatred born of the nowledge that they harboured the bad old past against which both Polevoi an d Niita Kolomeyets had so often warned me. And then I had the devil's own night mare.. . I dreamed I was wearing a long dress-coat lie the pianist at Madame Piontovsa ya's and dancing the Charleston. I danced tirelessly, jering my arms and legs a bout, lie the beggar with St. Vitus's Dance who used to stand outside the Catho lic church at home. I was dancing and looing at myself in a mirror. And I could see my face changing. It was becoming lined and bad-tempered and gradually acqu iring a grey beard and shaggy eyebrows. But I still went on dancing and getting as thin as a lath. Great big crayfish were crawling towards me across the dirty parquet floor, hissing at me, and opening and closing their long claws: "Lout! L out! Dirty lout! Where are you trying to get to? From pauper to prince, eh? Get

out of here!" And then Sasha and Peta, still very young, popped up beside one o f the columns and stared at me with contempt. And I heard Sasha whisper: "See th at, Peta? There he is! Danced all his life away and never learnt anything!" Breaing into a cold sweat, I opened my lips to mae an excuse, but my voice was drowned by the hissing of the crayfish, which grew louder and louder until I wa nted to stuff my fingers in my ears... I turned over on to my other side and woe up. The alarm was clattering beside me. Although the young, yellow moon was still looing in at the window, it was time to get up. The foundry started wor much earlier than any of the other shops. "What rubbish you dream sometimes!" I thought and stepped carefully over my slee ping friends. "I mustn't forget to wind up the alarm, in case they oversleep. . ." Anyone who has lived for long in seaside towns nows that they are always beauti ful. In our town, the quiet, cloudless sunsets when the pin-tinted sun san unhurrie dly into the sea were wonderful. And no less wonderful were the times when the sun set behind a ban of clouds an d the raging sea battered the wall with mighty waves that sent clouds of spray f lying over the near-by railway line. The bora whirled in from the steppes, bring ing with it dust and the scent of wormwood, tearing off the hats of passers-by, stirring up dust-spouts on the embanment, chasing bits of paper, dry seaweed an d dung down the streets. Even in the little roadside ditches far away from the s ea, near Kobazovaya Hill, the yellow muddy water tossed and foamed lie the open sea. And yet, even amid the terrible thunder of the storm, which could be heard far inland, the town in the grip of the bora was still beautiful. Perched on th e headland at the foot of the hill, it was lie a ship that at any moment might cast off from the shore and together with its inhabitants, its houses, its mare t, its church, sail away before the howling north-easter on a long dangerous voy age across the foaming waves. And the wailing cry of the siren on the lighthouse seemed lie the last blast of the ship's siren as it started out on its adventu rous voyage. But the beauty of this new town on the shore of the Azov Sea impressed me most j ust before dawn in summer. Three o'cloc in the morning. The port bells have just sounded the hour and thei r pleasant chimes have died away somewhere on the hill. The garden gate creas a s I push it open. I hoo it shut and set off along the railway by the sea-shore. The coal-blac sea, only near the port furrowed with yellow gleams from the sign al lights, nestles quietly in the bay. It seems to be asleep too, sighing from t ime to time as a wave rustles on the beach. It is so quiet you feel you could melt away into the silence of the sleeping str eets. Not a single light in the windows. Street lamps are burning only at the ma in crossings, casting pools of yellow light on the roadway. Clouds of white, gre y and cream-coloured moths hover round the lamps, battering them with their sil y wings as if they want to brea the hot glass. Passing from one deserted cross-road to another, you plunge into the darness of the neat rows of houses, mae your way along the acacia avenues, and gradually shae off the last traces of sleep. The drowsy watchman at the factory gate glances at your pass and nods his head. Your worers' number-disc maes a nice ring as it drops to the bottom of the gre en box. And you now your disc won't appear in the foundry until after sunrise, when everybody else has arrived at wor. The foundry time-eeper will hang it on a nail in a frame covered with wire netting. And every time you run past it on your way to the heater, you will see your number gleaming on the disc and thin to yourself with satisfaction: "Another day without being late or missing wor!" During my first wees at wor, the thing that had worried me most was the fear o f being late. And this was not because I might be fined or reprimanded by the fo reman. It simply made me ashamed to thin of waling through the busy foundry,

nowing that you were late and that everyone was looing down on you. People woul d already be at wor, there would be finished moulds standing behind the machine s, ready for filling. And the other foundry men would loo at you and thin: "He re's a fine time to turn up at wor, the slacer! Everybody started long ago, bu t he's been taing life easy on his feather-bed, the lazy good-for-nothing!" It was even hard to imagine how I could turn up late in front of my mate Naumen o and say to him calmly: "Hullo, Uncle Vasya!" What sort of conscience had a man who could come to wor late and then share wages with his mate! And something else might happen. Suppose you had just dropped your disc into the box after it had been emptied and were dashing across the yard towards the foun dry, when suddenly you bumped into Ivan Fyodorovich, the director. "Hullo, Mandz hura!" he says. "Where are you off to in such a hurry? And why are you here when all your mates have been at wor for I don't now how long?" What would I say t o the director then? "I'm late, Ivan Fyodorovich?" Could I say that to him after our pledge to carry out our duties honestly and well?... When our shift foreman had warned me that we should be starting wor at four ins tead of at the usual time with all the others, I felt shivers running down my sp ine. Would I be able to get up so early? Wouldn't I be late? But my doubts were banished by a reasonable argument. How else can we manage? If you tell the foundry men to start wor with the rest, at the sound of the hoote r, that'll mean casting will start about midday. The sun will be at its zenith a nd the midday heat combined with the waves of heat from the molten metal will ma e the foundry into a blazing hell. No, the director's quite right to arrange a special time-table for the foundry at least until we've got the roof raised. Usually I managed to be one of the first to arrive in the foundry. Today, as I c ame up to the furnace, I heard voices in the semi-darness of the shed. Naumeno had arrived already. Hot slabs were glowing under our machines. My partner had put them there to warm up the babbitt that had cooled during the night. The engineer's salty crayfish and strong beer had given me a terrible thirst. I dran from the tap and went to get the shovels. We used to eep them under the f oundations of the blast-furnace that the old owner had not had time to build. Bending down, I slipped into the vaulted tunnel under the blast-furnace and foun d the two well-rosined shovels. A pair of green eyes gleamed in the darness and vanished there were several stray cats living here underground. They ept hidden during the day, only coming out into the foundry in the evening, when the iron h ad cooled in the moulds and there was no ris of burning their tender paws on dr ops of molten metal. What they found to eat in our hot shop, I could not underst and. There was nothing here to attract mice or rats. Perhaps they lived on the s craps the worers left from their lunches. It was fine to stride over the soft sand of the foundry at dawn, with a couple o f shovels on your shoulder, feeling strong and cheerful and ready to start mould ing. The worers whose voices I had heard when I entered the foundry had gathered rou nd the machines of Kashet and Titor. Artem Gladyshev was among them, and my ma te Naumeno was there too, tongs in hand. "They've done it this time, the navvies!" "No need to insult the navvies! A good navvy wouldn't disgrace himself lie that !" "And it's not the lad's fault. Pupils tae after their teachers." "Kashet was always moaning he hadn't got enough money to buy himself a drin. ' Faster! Faster!' he ept shouting. Well, this is a 'fast one' all right." At first I did not realize what had happened. But as soon as I glanced at the pi le of empty moulds, everything became clear. On one of the mould-boxes were chaled the figures "115 605." They indicated the r esults of the previous day's wor. When the castings were inspected, the examine rs chaled up the results on the mould-boxes. These figures meant that out of th e 605 moulds Kashet and Titor had made, only 115 were any use. I heard someone breathing heavily behind me. "Enjoying yourself?" said a familiar voice. I glanced round. It was Titor. His collar was unbuttoned, his foreloc dangled.

"I'm not such an egoist as you," I said very quietly. "I don't gloat over other people's failures. But it's a pity so much iron has been wasted!" "All right, buzz off out of here! Don't try to lecture me." I looed at Titor's spiteful, greenish eyes and realized just how low he had su n. "Still at your old game, Titor?" I said bitterly and turned away. Those hours before dawn, in the cool of approaching day, when your arms were not tired and there were no beads of sweat on your dusty forehead, were a real deli ght. One by one the electric lamps would go out as daylight filtered through the glass roof of the foundry. That morning Naumeno and I wored well. Three rows of moulds with "sausages" in them were soon lined up behind us. Seeing that Naumeno had stopped for a rest, I ased: "How did they manage to turn out such a lot of bad wor, Uncle Vasya? I just can't understand it." "It's not very hard to understand," Naumeno turned at the sound of my voice and rested his foot up on the mixture box. "Every machine and model has a soul of i ts own, just lie a man has. One model may be fussy and need a bit of careful ha ndling, another may have a steadier character and not be afraid of any nocs. Y ou've got to feel it all with your heart. There's some models you have to treat carefully with a warm slab and plenty of dusting. And there's others you can jus t mould with your eyes shut." "But the machines are all the same, aren't they?" "Not on your life! Everything here ought to be mechanized. Even pacing and tamp ing ought to be done with compressed air. That's how it was to start with, when they first installed these machines. But as soon as the Soviets started taing o ver the factories, the old owners tried to mess everything up. They destroyed th e plans, they pulled the compressors to pieces and buried the parts or threw the m into the sea. Those foreign engineers and clers did their dirty wor at night s." "And where was Andryhevich? Why didn't he loo after things?" Naumeno too a pull at his cigarette. "Who nows!" he said. "Maybe he was fishing out there on the breawater, maybe h e was swigging whisy with his bourgeois pals. He had everything he could wish f or, so he wasn't much concerned about what those wrecers were doing here..." "Did they always heat up the machines with slabs lie we do now, Uncle Vasya?" I ased, feeling my model which was beginning to cool. "It's a lot of trouble." Naumeno regarded me in astonishment. "A lot of trouble! Why?" "But of course it is! As soon as you've done a few moulds, your slab's cold. The n you've got to run all the way across the foundry to the heater..." "You are a young gent', aren't you? Too lazy to run a few paces? Perhaps you'd l ie a horse and cart to tae you there? All the wor in the foundry is based on running about. If you want to tae it easy, you'd better as for a job in the of fice." Naumeno's words touched me on the raw, but I did not want to argue with him. So as not to hold up the moulding, I grabbed the tongs and ran off to the heater . As I darted across the foundry, I thought to myself: "But you're wrong, Uncle Va sya! What's the sense in all this running about? Where does rationalization come in? If you added up the distance we cover going bacwards and forwards to the h eaters, you'd be half way to Mariupol!" Before we had finished our hundred and first mould, Fedoro, the foreman, came u p and ased: "Going to noc-off soon, Naumeno?" "What's up, Alexei Grigorievich?" "We're going to change you over." Uncle Vasya stopped moulding. "What to this time?" he growled, maing no attempt to hide his annoyance. "We're going to give you some rollers to do." "Rollers? But loo here, Alexei Grigorievich, let us stay on 'sausages!' We've o nly just got into the way of the job and now you want to change us over!"

"It's got to be done," Fedoro said sternly. "The store's choc-full of those sa usages of yours, but there's hardly a roller in the place. I put those basher-bo ys on it, but you can see for yourself what their wor's lie enough spoilage to f ill a couple of railway trucs! Another performance lie that and the assembly s hop will be out of wor. Can we ris that?" "I get you," Uncle Vasya said, "but. . ." "What are you 'butting' about, Uncle Vasya?" Gladyshev shouted from behind his m achine. "It's a fine change! You need half a furnace of iron to cast those sausa ges of yours, but you can fill up a roller-mould in a couple of tics!" Two navvies brought some spare slabs in from the tool shop and dropped them on t he dry sand, where the few empty mould-boxes we had left were piled. Whenever I went to the moulding floor to set the lower half of a mould, I too a loo at th e new model. It seemed very simple. Six rollers lie the ones that turn the sail s of a reaper were soldered to the smooth babbitt slab. On each of the rollers t here was a small nipple to hold the core. And the top was even more simple. Ther e was a nest of six little thimbles for the cores, and several small channels lie the veins on a maple-leaf for pouring the metal into each mould. "How could anyone mae a mess of such a simple casting?" I wondered as I set my moulds. Lunch-time was near. Turunda and Gladyshev had finished their moulds and started casting. It was too hot to do any more moulding. The heat from the filled mould s near by was scorching. There was a clang on the furnace bell and the daily dis tribution of metal began. "Stop moulding!" Naumeno commanded. "Let's go to the furnace." We did our casting to the sound of the furnace bell, which was rung every time t he furnace was tapped. Between one gong and the next there was just time to carry the heavy ladle of mo lten metal to the machines 'and fill the moulds. How glad we were when the iron at last rose to the top of the mould and the roun d hole of the pouring gate filled up and turned red! It was good to now that al l our moulds were properly damped, and would fill up well, without spluttering h ot, stinging drops of metal all round. Burbling softly inside the mould, the met al gradually filled every cranny in the mould and grew thic and firm in its col d sandy prison. Scarcely had we tipped away the brownish slag into the sand when the furnace bel l rang again calling the foundry men to refill their ladles. Then we would go ba c to where the teemers, in dar glasses, with their hats pulled down over their foreheads, and their tapping bars at the ready, were bustling about round the r oaring furnaces. We went bac at a run. Uncle Vasya would hop along lie a young ster, quite forgetting his age. I lied this risy wor, the race against the other moulders across the soft san d of the shop, and the careful return with a heavy ladle of molten metal. The air was thic with fumes. My throat felt dry from the smell of sulphur. The glare of flying spars made the few electric lamps that were still burning in th e foundry almost invisible. Close by, behind the unfinished blast-furnace, a round pot-bellied furnace for m elting copper was roaring we used to call it the "pear," because of its shape. Now and then we felt the acrid smell of molten copper. Caught up in the general exc itement, however, I noticed neither the heat nor the fumes, which increased as t he casting went on. The sweating faces of the moulders gleamed dar brown in the light of the flames . I stood by the furnace spout, down which a yellowish stream of iron poured into our ladle, glancing at Uncle Vasya's grim attentive face, and I realized yet aga in that I had chosen the right job. The little glowing splashes of molten iron flew over my head cooling in their fl ight, but I no longer tried to dodge them as I had once; perhaps my face quivere d a bit, but I ept a firm hold on the metal ring of the handle. In our marches across the foundry with a ladle full of molten metal there was a ind of valour, there was ris, there was cheerful daring. As we carried the hea

vy ladles bac and forth, tired and dripping with salty sweat, but proud of ours elves and our wor, I felt unbelievably. Not until the casting was nearly over did I notice Sasha Bobir with an adjustabl e spanner in his hand, and another fitter tinering about round our machines, ad justing the new 'models for the next day's casting. Apparently Sasha had been wa tching us filling the moulds for some time, and when I put the ladle down on the sand and came over to the machines, he ased sympathetically: "Feeling whaced, Vasil?" In Bobir's voice I sensed an acnowledgement that he considered the wor of foun dry man higher than his own job as a mechanic. . . "Whaced! What maes you thin that? Just an ordinary day s wor!" I answered quie tly, rubbing my eyes. "Where were you so late last night?" Now Sasha s voice was searching and curious . "Where I had to be! Mind you get that slab fitted straight and screw the bolts u p tight." "Don't worry we now what we're doing!" Sasha grunted, and setting his feet agai nst the mixture-box, tugged wildly at the spanner handle. "Come and smear the moulds, lad!" Naumeno called. He had already brought in a box of iron moulds from the stores. I got a tin of g raphite grease and sat down with my partner on the sand. It was so hot and stuffy that the grease which had been firm in the morning was now lie thin porridge. I felt muzzy. The sweat dripped off us even at this easy job of dipping our fingers into the grease and smearing the inside of each moul d. "Know what this is for?" Naumeno ased. "To mae the moulds slip easily on the rollers?" "That's right. And the other reason is to mae them slip off easily wi th the sand." "Do they stay in the mould-box then?" "What did you thin? When the iron cools i n moulds lie these, it gets a smooth hard surface and you can use it straightaw ay, without grinding." "Neat idea!" I said and remembered that I had often seen a drop of liquid iron f all on a smooth metal slab and become quite smooth when it got cool. Kashet's red erchief showed up for a moment behind the smoing moulds. He was strolling down the alley nibbling sunflower seeds and spitting out the shells. Today he had drifted into the foundry later than anyone. As soon as he saw the e xaminer's notice, he raised a terrible howl, ran to the foreman, too him into t he yard where defective castings were usually dumped, threatened to complain to the disputes commission and denied emphatically that the spoilage was his fault. Since then he had been wandering about the shop doing nothing. Noticing us at our box of moulds, Kashet swung round sharply. For a moment he p osed before us in his red erchief, munching sunflower seeds, then he ased: "Ge tting ready beforehand?" The question seemed rather pointless and Uncle Vasya did not answer. He went on silently smearing the moulds with graphite. "Out to earn more than anyone else? Want to buy yourself a house and garden?" 'K ashet taunted. "I'm out to help the woring class, not fill the scrapyard lie you!" Naumeno c ut him short, reaching for a mould, "I wonder what tune you'll sing the day after tomorrow when they give you a writ e-up lie I got today?" "Wonder as much as you lie, but don't chuc your sunflower shells down here. Th ey get in the sand!" Uncle Vasya said angrily. "The sifters will loo after that, don't worry!" said Kashet and spat a shell n eatly at our feet. "Little stuff lie that won't come out in sifting. It'll get in the mould and th ere'll be a flaw... Stop maing a mess, I say!" Uncle Vasya snapped, quite fierc ely this time. "All right, old pal, eep your hair on," said Kashet soothingly and put the see ds in his pocet.

Squatting beside me, he piced up a mould and started smearing it with grease. H is breath reeed of voda. "But if you reason the thing out calmly, Uncle Vasya, you'll see you're only was ting your time with what you're doing now," Kashet lisped, rubbing his finger r ound the mould. "What do you mean?" Naumeno ased with a stern loo at Kashet. "However much you grease the things, it won't do any good. The model's badly con structed, and that's why the castings are bad. It's high time they made new ones instead of blaming the worers for spoilage!" "You brought that on yourself," Naumeno replied. "You jaw a lot, but you don't now how to mould." "We'll see how much you and your Komsomol pal turn out," Kashet said, getting u p and hoisting his trousers. "You'd better push off out of here and leave others to do the watching, you half -baed tiddler. I've had enough of you dancing around in front of me lie a devi l in church!" And although Naumeno spoe as though he attached no importance to Kashet's wor ds, I realized that Kashet had got under his sin. I could see that Naumeno wo uld give his ears to turn out those rollers well. "Perhaps the model really isn't constructed right, Uncle Vasya?" I said. "You listen to that scatter-brain a bit longer!" Naumeno burst out. "He'll tell you plenty more yarns lie that.. . Do you thin you can believe a single word he says!" . . . The next day we bucled into the wor and went ahead even faster. Before l unch we had paced eighty-seven moulds. I wanted to slip out to see Golovatsy a fter lunch, but Uncle Vasya gave me the job of sharpening up the cores with a ra sp. As I sharpened the cores for our last lot of moulds, I reflected that mouldi ng these rollers had turned out to be the easiest job I had ever done. But what the castings would be lie, we still did not now. We should now that only on M onday, when the moulds were opened. Today was Saturday. When we noced off, one hundred and five glowing moulds stood on the moulding f loor. LETTERS TO FRIENDS ''You can cacle away, I'm off to write a letter to the chaps!" I said to Peta and Sasha, having listened patiently to all their joes about my evening out. I still had not told them where I had been the day before yesterday. From the ru thless interrogation they had given me it appeared that they intended to eep me under perpetual surveillance in case I "broe away from the collective." Comrad e-lie, they were afraid I might be going to the bad, and they ept dropping hin ts to find out what I had been doing. But I could not confess. If I so much as m entioned the crayfish supper at the engineer's, they would be down on me lie a ton of brics. Yet hadn't I defended our honour against the engineer? Of course I had! Leaving my friends in the attic, I changed into slippers and put my foundry boot s out in the goat's shed till Monday. By the fence in our yard stood a little ricety summer-house overgrown with grap es. Inside there was a small table. The shady summer-house was a fine place to write letters. A light breeze blew fr om the sea, rustling the pages of my exercise-boo. To start with I wrote some postcards: to Furman at the October Revolution Wors in Lugans, to Monus Guzarchi in Kharov, and, of course, to Galya Kushnir in O dessa. All the morning I had been thining what to write to her. The snub she ha d given me by taing Titor's side in the Francis Joseph affair now seemed quite trivial. Forgetting all the sharp words that had passed between us, I thought only of the fond, gentle things. Suddenly I found myself comparing Galya to Angelia, with all her superstitions, her icon-lamp, her sad fairy, and her craze for the Charl

eston. "Of course Galya is a thousand times more genuine and sincere!" I thought. And I carefully wrote at the end of the postcard: ". . . And if this postcard reaches you, Galya, try and find time to write to me . Tell me how you're getting on, how you lie the wor and Odessa, tell me about everything. And remember our wals round the Old Fortress and all the good thin gs that happened to us. Peta and Sasha Bobir send you their warmest 'Komsomol g reetings. We're living together in a little house right by the Azov Sea. "Komsomol greetings, "Vasily Mandzhura." I could not be sure that my postcards would reach my friends. When we parted, we had only noted down the names of the factories where we were going to wor. And at those factories there were thousands of other worers! To Niita Kolomeyets I decided to write a long, detailed letter. His address was engraved in my memory for life: "Factory-Training School, Hospital Square, nr. Motor Wors." I wrote the address carefully on the envelope and put a pebble on it to stop it blowing away. As so on as I opened the exercise-boo, however, I realized that someone had been usi ng it. Two pages had been torn out of the middle, and the first page was scrawle d with Sasha's familiar handwriting. I read what was written there and could not help smiling. "To the Chief of the Town Security Department. "I have a very good memory. If I see a person once, I never forget him. The reas on why I am telling you all this, Comrade Chief, is that you..." At this point Sasha's letter broe off. The word "you" followed the deleted phra se: "won't laugh at me, lie my friends.". Again I remembered the day of our arrival, and how the agitated Sasha had tried to prove that he had seen Pecheritsa by a refreshment ios. I hadn't forgotten Sasha's wrathful shout, when Peta suggested that he might have been seeing a gh ost. Folding the scribbled page, I put it in the pocet of my blouse and started comp osing my letter to Niita. It turned out to be a very long one. This was not so much my fault as Niita's. The evening before we parted, Niita had said: "I'll only as you for one thing, old chap the more details the better. Everyone's life consists of thousands of li ttle details, and only the man who finds out what they're all about and the righ t way to deal with them can be called a real man. So tell me all the instructive details you notice at your new place of wor, Vasil, old chap. And I'll try to find out what they're all about and mae use of them on the next course." Now I was giving Niita his instructive details "at full blast," as the stoers say. I told him everything: how Titor had turned away from us, how we had been afraid at first that we should be lodging with a big house-owner, how Sasha had "seen" Pecheritsa by a refreshment ios. Zuzya Trituzny, the footballer with th e cannon-ball shot, who had nearly spoilt our chances of getting a job, I descri bed in sizzling terms. I told Niita that in my spare time I was thining of a n ew way of heating the machines. I gave him a very detailed description of my vis it to Madame Rogale-Piontovsaya's dancing-class. And so that Niita should not tell me off for going to dances (you never new what ideas he might get into hi s head!) I explained my reason for visiting the establishment: ". . . to see for myself if this Rogale-Piontovsaya was a relative of that old Countess in Zare chye who gave Petlura and Konovalets riflemen such a welcome." I ased Niita to find out more about what had become of the Countess and her ar istocratic brother. Then followed a very favourable description of our director Ivan Fyodorovich Rud eno, who had been so decent to us. I told Niita about Ivan Fyodorovich's conce rn for the worers, how he wanted to raise the foundry roof and how he was tryin g to puzzle out himself the technical secrets that the former owners had taen a

way with them. It was getting dar and I had to finish, but my pen went on writing and writing. I continued my letter with a piece of information that seemed to me most importa nt: "... Tell Kozaevich to mae his new pupils in the foundry cut their sleeves sho rt at the elbow. We had so much spoilage because of those long sleeves, and no o ne ever noticed it. I only got to now the dodge when I came here. And it's quit e simple really. When a trainee is woring on a mould he catches his cuffs in th e sand. While he's patching up one place, he maes a mess in others. And the res ult is all sorts of cracs and bumps. It's much easier and quicer to mould with your sleeves short. Get Zhora to tell the foundry trainees all about metal moul ds and what they're for. In fact, the best thing would be if he did a casting or two with an iron mould, just as an example. It would help them a lot. Then they won't feel lie me, for instance, who'd never seen an iron mould till I came he re. . ." The sun was already dipping into the sea. A warm mily' twilight crept over the tired, sun-baed earth. But still I wrote. My arm ached, even more than from mou lding. A PLAN OF ATTACK The moon rose full and serene. Its mellow light spangled the calm waters of the bay. The pale-pin chestnuts round the par were silently shedding their last bl ossoms. Scattered on the ground in the moonlight, they looed lie pop-corn. The three of us had spent the whole of Sunday by the sea, lounging about on the beach lie regular holiday-maers. My bac still red and tingling from the sun, I had been dragging my feet across the sticy asphalt of Par Street when I near ly bumped into Golovatsy. He was dressed in a light open-neced shirt, cream fl annels, and sandals. "Trying to escape from the heat!" Golovatsy said greeting me. "The fan at home' s gone wrong. I've been trying to read, but it's too sultry. Just wears you out. Let's go down there, a bit further from the road." And Golovatsy pointed into the depths of the par. As a matter of fact, it being Sunday, I had intended to visit Turunda. I had eve n invited my friends to go with me, but they had refused. Golovatsy's suggestio n made up my mind for me. We joined the strollers in the par and followed the path past the open-air cine ma, which was surrounded by tall railings. The projector was humming and from ne ar the screen came the sound of a piano. Today they were showing two films The Bea r's Wedding and Brics in one programme, and it had attracted a lot of people. For a Sunday, the par itself was comparatively empty. The green noo into which Golovatsy and I wandered was completely deserted. Thr ough the par railings we could see the moonlit side-road that led into Genoa St reet. The air seemed fresher under the branching trees and we began to feel bett er as we leaned bac on a par bench. "Ssh! Loo, Mandzhura!" Golovatsy nudged me and pointed towards the road. In the light of the moon I caught sight of two girls in flimsy cotton dresses. A s soon as they reached the shade of the trees, one of the girls sat down on the front door-step of a house. In frantic haste, as if someone were chasing her, sh e began to do something to her feet. The other girl did the same. Soon I realize d that both girls were taing off their shoes. Then, lie snaes shedding their sins, they peeled off their long stocings, pushed them into their shoes and ca refully wrapped them in pieces of paper they must have been eeping for the purp ose. Apparently much relieved to be rid of their foot-wear, the girls sipped aw ay in the direction of the Lisi. The next moment a whole floc of girls ran up and too refuge in the shade of the trees. Sitting down on the same door-step, t hey did the same thing as their predecessors, and wrapping their tight shoes in newspapers and handerchiefs, scampered happily away to their homes. Smiling and glancing at me mysteriously, Golovatsy said: "You can't help laughi ng, can you? That's a sight you can see any evening out here."

"Loo, there are some more!" I whispered. Two girls appeared in the road, hobbling. One of them, with a fringe, was wearin g a sailor's blouse. The other had rigged herself out in a ind of tunic with gr eat, billowing sleeves. The girl in the sailor's blouse could not even reach the cherished door-step. Cl inging to an old lime-tree for support, she iced off her shiny shoes. "What a relief!" her voice reached us faintly. "I thought I'd die they pinched m e so!" "Tae your stocings off, Madeleine," said her friend, who was already sitting o n the door-step. "You'll mae a hole in them." "Wait a bit, let my toes have a rest." And the girl in the blouse waled about s lowly under the lime-trees, as if she were cooling her feet on the stone pavemen t. "You were just asing for it to order such small ones," said her friend, pulling off her stocings. "But I tae sixes as it is, I can't wear bigger than that. Everybody would laugh ..." was Madeleine's reply. The two girls melted into the shadows. "That one in the blouse wors at the plant," said Golovatsy. "Where are they all coming from?" "Regular attenders at Madame Piontovsaya's dancing-classes . . . Ever been the re?" "Yes, I have!" I grunted, then I hesitated should I tell Golovatsy how Madame had called me a lout? "What was your impression?" "The most daft-maing place I've ever seen!" "Put it there, pal!" Golovatsy exclaimed. "So you and I are of the same opinion . . . Rogale-Piontovsaya's joint puts a man's mind to sleep. It's just dope t hat blinds him to everything really interesting in the world ..." Golovatsy glanced round and went on: "These trees, the stars that shine in the sy, even the grains of sand under your feet still hold hundreds of secrets that haven't been discovered yet. Those secrets are waiting for the man who will com e and unearth them and use them for the good of society. Loo at those cottages over there. Thin how they're built. Couldn't they be built better, more easily, more comfortably, more sturdily than our grandfathers built them. Couldn't they be built so that the sun would shine in them all day? Surely that's a tas wort h devoting your life to. Or let's imagine ourselves on the beach. How little we now about the sea! Here we are, still hauling in our nets by hand, but in some places they're using electric winches. Or here's another tas harness the power of the tides to mae it serve socialism! Isn't that a dream that, can be turned in to reality? And then thin of those dozens of people, who could have such an int eresting future before them; wasting hour after hour icing their legs about li e a lot of puppets. It's a disgrace!" "But we ought to put a stop to it!" "You see, Mandzhura, I've already tried once to fight Madame's influence, but so me of our more orthodox comrades wouldn't have it. 'You're getting petty, Tolya, ' they said. 'We've got big problems to solve, and you bother about people going for a hop!' But I'm not being petty at all. Even if Madame Rogale-Piontovsaya pops off tomorrow, we'll still be fighting her influence for a long time to com e . . . That girl in the blouse, she's a decent, very intelligent girl. One day in the library I glanced at the file and was absolutely thrilled to see how many boos she'd read. Then her friends got her on this fox-trotting business. After a couple of times she was a different girl. First she gave herself this fancy f ringe, then she started plucing her eyebrows in zigzags, and soon she was chang ing her name." "In church? A Komsomol girl?!" "She hasn't gone that far yet," Golovatsy said. "She held the christening party at home. A straightforward name lie 'Olga' doesn't suit her any more, now she' s 'Madeleine.' And her friends were only waiting for the signal. Only the other day they were Varvara, Dasha, Katya, but no sooner do they go to Madame's than t

hey have to have foreign names: Nelly, Margot, Lizetta ... In the tool-repair sh op there's even one Beatrice used to be Avdotya ..." "Is Angelia a foreign name too?" I ased casually. "You mean the chief engineer's daughter? She changed hers too. Not so much, of c ourse. She used to be Angelina. That's only one letter different." "Have any of the chaps done it?" "One or two. There's a driver in the transport department, for example Misha Osaul eno. Last year he did a daft thing got an unemployed sailor to tattoo him all ove r. Not a clean patch on him anywhere. Anchors, mermaids, moneys, St. Isaac's Ca thedral, and on his bac he's got a picture of a Hawaiian banana grove. Nearly g ave himself blood-poisoning. Very ill, he was. And when he got better, he wanted to ic himself. As soon as he went out on the beach, he'd have a crowd round h im where's this queer painted bird sprung from? The visitors thought Misha must b e an old sea-wolf; but he'd never been out to sea further than the lighthouse, a nd he only did that on a calm day, because he gets sea-sic. The poor chap had t o go and find a quiet spot to bathe where no one could see him. But do you thin that blunder taught him anything?... As soon as Madame starts her dancing-class es, he's hanging about round there. And he was a real dancer once! Of course, Ma dame gets round him with her compliments and gets him eating out of her hand li e all the rest of them. I'm going to the wors one day and what do I hear? There he is singing some outlandish song and one of his pals comes up to him and says : 'Got a light, Edouarde?' " "You're joing, Tolya?" I said. "Never been more serious in my life. It's the truth. Down I went to the transpor t department. 'Aren't you ashamed?' I said. 'Haven't you got any self-respect at all?'" "And what did he say?'" "Kiced at first. That's my business, he says. But after I had taled to him for about an hour, he agreed at last that he was maing a goat of himself." "Does he still go to those hops?" "He's changed his mind. But there are others who can't live without going there. Loo at that Madeleine. She's from a woring-class family, she's a good plater, but she had to go to Garagonich, the poshest shoemaer in town. 'Mae me a pair of shoes lie the pair in this magazine, with the highest heels you can find,' she says. Garagonich new when he was on to a good thing, of course, and too he r whole month's pay for doing it. Made her a good four inches taller, he did. It didn't bother him whether she'd be able to wal in them. You saw her for yourse lf wobbles about as if she were on stilts. . . . And all that muc oozes out of Ma dame's saloon. It's a hot-bed of bourgeois narrow-mindedness! Madame wors on th e young people lie a worm. Her friends send her foreign music and gramophone re cords and fashion magazines, and she hands them round. It's time we put up a fig ht, Vasya!" "How can we fight her, if she's got a licence?" Golovatsy laughed. "So you thin a licence is a guarantee of protection for the private dealer? A g uarantee that the state won't compete with him? You're very naive, Mandzhura! We 'd better discuss what we're going to do." ... On that sultry evening, among the blossoming jasmine bushes on the edge of t he par, we conceived our plan of attac on the Rogale-Piontovsaya dance saloo n. Sitting on that bench, we wored everything out to the last detail. When everyth ing was decided, Golovatsy ased: "Are you very fagged today?" "No. Why?" "What about coming down to my little place and putting our ideas on paper, so th at we don't mix anything up?" A CABIN ON DRY LAND Golovatsy lived in a little house in People's Vengeance Square. We passed through a long, untidy yard. Golovatsy felt under the door-step and f

ound the ey. The padloc on the door squeaed as he opened it. Switching on the light in the passage, Tolya stood aside and let me enter first. The end-wall of the passage was staced from top to bottom with boos. There we re boos all over the room too on shelves, on stands, even on the wooden stools. "Don't be surprised at some of my whims, will you," Golovatsy said in an apolog etic tone. "You see, I'm dead een on the sea..." The furniture of the small room consisted of a narrow bun covered with a fluffy green blanet, a des, and a round dinner table over which hung a lamp in a gre en shade. I noticed at once that the two windows looing out into the yard were round, lie ship's portholes. A life-buoy with the name, Ochaov printed on it a dded to the cabin-lie appearance of the room. The only chair was of heavy oa, lie those in a ship's chart room. "Surprised at the windows?" Golovatsy ased. "If only you new what a battle I had with my landlady before she'd let me remae them lie that!" "But you've got them fixed tight in the wall. There's nowhere for air to come in ." "Oh yes, there is!" And Golovalsy, evidently anxious to justify his eccentricity, turned a fastenin g that I had not noticed before. Then he pulled open the round "porthole." The s cent of jasmine blossom floated up from the yard. "My own design," Tolya said, opening the other window. "I did the bricwor and some chaps in the joiner's shop made the frame from my plan. Unusual, eh? But I lie it! You feel as if you're at sea. It gives you a sense of movement. Those s quare peep-holes that people call windows are too restful." "But most people have square windows, don't they?" "Of course they do. They've got used to dull monotony," Tolya replied half join g, half serious. "Tae a thing lie this, for example. Blac, the colour of the past, is still the predominant colour in our clothes blac caps, blac suits, blac shawls for grandmothers, even blac party frocs for girls. Isn't it time we s tarted a fight against this perpetual mourning in our everyday life? Nature's so rich in colours! What beautiful colours there are in a rainbow, in sy and sea! We ought to mae a firm brea with the past over things lie that!" And Golovat sy banged his fist on the table. "All right, don't get wored up, Tolya," I hastened to assure the owner of the s trange room, and went over to one of the booshelves. The number of boos he had! On geography, on biochemistry, on logic... An ancien t chart of the Azov Sea ept company with text-boos on astronomy and navigation . Over the shelves hung drawings of fish, sailor's nots, running lights, and ev en a diagram of a two-masted sailing ship. "You must want to be a sailor?" Tolya gave me a een glance. "What maes you thin that?" "All the boos you've got about the sea!" I said, and nodded at three tightly-pa ced shelves. "Besides nowing the land on which you live, old chap, you've got to now the se a that lies ten paces from your door. One day you may have to sail on it. We, Ko msomol members, have wor to do in the navy as well, you now." "That officer who's he?" I ased rather suspiciously, examining the carefully fram ed photograph of a naval officer wearing a blac cloa, a dir, and a very high pea-cap. "Lieutenant Pyotr Schmidt," Golovatsy explained. "What, the man the wors is named after?" "That's right. The one who raised the signal 'I am in command of the fleet. Schm idt!' during the uprising of the Blac Sea fleet in 1905. He was against tsarism , he loved the woring people. Schmidt played a part in the Revolution, you now . It wasn't for nothing the worers of Sevastopol elected him to their Soviet!" "When did they name the wors after him?" "Soon after the Revolution. Do you thi n it was just a matter of chance?" "I don't now..." "Listen then.. .The point is that Schmidt wored for a short time at our plant.. ." "What? An officer?" "Yes, when he was a midshipman. His family used to live in this town. I suppose

he wanted to see for himself how the woring people lived, so when he came on le ave he changed his midshipman's tunic for a worer's blouse... And do you now h ow I found his photograph?" Golovatsy continued, warming to his subject. "As so on as I heard all this about Lieutenant Schmidt from the old worers, I started trying to trace his history. Very interesting it was, too. I read all the old ne wspapers of those years, I went all over the house where his family used to live . But unfortunately, there was nothing left! After all, twenty years had passed. Three wars, three revolutions, famine... And then I thought to myself, surely S chmidt couldn't have lived in our town without having his photograph taen once when he was on leave! I looed through the negatives of all the private photogra phers I could find and there you are, that's what I found. I ordered the enlargeme nt myself." "But you ought to send it to a museum, so that everyone can see it!" "Surely you don't thin I'm as mean as all that? I sent the negative to the Hist orical Museum in Moscow the very same day. They wrote me a letter of thans." "A nd where does the life-buoy come from?" "A cabman gave me the tip. A chap called Volodya." "Used to be a partisan? Crippled arm?" "That's him. He happened to me ntion that there was a man from Sevastopol living in Matrossaya Settlement who' d as good as taen part in the uprising. So off I went to see him. It turned out that he hadn't been on the Ochaov himself, but he'd ept a life-buoy from the ship that started the mutiny. It's a precious relic! Had a hard job wheedling it out of him." The coffee that Golovatsy had put on came to the boil. Golovatsy lifted the co pper saucepan and placed a strip of metal over the blue flame of the spirit stov e, so that the brew would simmer. "Now loo at this photograph, Mandzhura," Tolya said, striding across the room. "He comes from round our way too." The photograph was of a smart-looing naval officer in tsarist uniform. He was s itting facing the camera, in a white tunic hung with medals, and a white cap wit h a dar band, his hands resting on his nees. "Why are you so een on Whiteguard officers?" "In the first place, he was never a Whiteguard," Golovatsy corrected me. "And s econdly, if all the tsarist officers had done as much in life as he did, and no wn so much trouble, I don't suppose the White generals would have been able to m ae them fight against the Revolution. They simply wouldn't have obeyed them. . . For your information, that is Georgy Sedov, the famous Arctic explorer, who di ed of scurvy on an ice-floe near the North Pole." "Was he from the Azov Sea too?" "Of course! From Krivaya Kosa. You see, not all officers are the same. If Lieute nant Schmidt, besides his sincere desire to overthrow the autocracy, had possess ed the character of Georgy Sedov who nows how the uprising on the Ochaov might h ave ended!" "So Sedov was a good man?" I ased cautiously, completely at a loss. "He came from the people and he loved his country," Golovatsy said with great f eeling and reached down a boo from one of the shelves. "Listen to what Sedov sa id in his last order" of the day, written before setting out for the Pole. He wr ote this order on February the second, 1914, when he was already very ill. '... Today we are setting out for the Pole. This is an event for us and for our count ry. Discovery of the Pole has been the dream of great Russians for centuries Lomon osov, Mendeleyev, and others. We, ordinary people, have the honour to realize th eir dream, and to do our best in polar discovery for the benefit and pride of ou r dear Motherland. I do not want to say "good-bye" to you, dear companions, I wa nt to say "till we meet again," so that I may embrace you once more, and rejoice with you over our common success, and return with you to our country...' " "And did he return?" I ased. "He was buried out there, in the Arctic, on the road to his goal. He gave his li fe for the good of his people, and all the time the tsarist ministers were pouri ng abuse on him in the newspapers..." "Yes, a man lie him would have supported Soviet power unhesitatingly. He wouldn 't have sneered and piced holes lie Andryhevich!" I flashed out suddenly.

"Well, that is comparing a lion to a mouse..." Golovatsy looed at me with repr oach. "That fellow is just a philistine with a university education. Do you now Andryhevich personally?" "Happened to meet him the other day," I replied. "Strange how a man could betray a tradition that had-been in the family for generations. His parents too part in the Polish uprising against the Russian emperor. They were exiled to Siberia for it. But their son has served the tsar and the capitalists and treats the Rev olution as a great personal misfortune." "But he doesn't say that openly, does he?" "Sometimes he lies to play the democ rat, comes out of his little mansion and taes a trip round the town. On Sundays mostly. He goes into the pubs and The Little Noo,' listens to the blind bayan players. Drins beer and tals a lot. One or two of the foremen are under his in fluence. Can't hear a word spoen against him." "But on the whole, he's a clever man, he's useful, isn't he?" "He has to wor, there's no way out. But I can very easily imagine what Andryhe vich would do if there was a war. As for how useful he is well, a man can be just a little bit useful, just for form's sae, or he can give the job everything he' s got. That member of the gentry only does what he's told to do. You've probably heard about the owners taing a lot of production secrets away with them, or hi ding them before they went. Well, Ivan Fyodorovich is doing his best, but so far the results aren't very great. And the chief engineer just hangs around and wag gles his eyebrows, laughing up his sleeve all the time. Now, I as you, do you t hin Caiworth ept any technical secrets from his chief engineer? All that about the drawings being messed up is just an excuse. A good, experienced engineer e eps his nowledge stored up in his mind without any drawings. It's simply that A ndryhevich doesn't want to tell us that's the point!" "He's waiting for a turn of the tide. Thins everything will change," I assented , and told Golovatsy about my argument with the engineer. "There you are! What more do you want? How much more open do you expect him to b e?" Golovatsy exclaimed, and seeing that the coffee was boiling over, turned do wn the spirit lamp. "He doesn't lie us. People lie Andryhevich don't help our cause; they're lying in wait for us. You understand what that means, Vasil lying in wait for us!. . . They note every blunder, every slip we mae, so that they'l l be able to gloat over it afterwards... Why, if we ever let Deniin and the for eigners get bac here, Andryhevich would be the first to throw open his gates t o them!" ' "And is his 'daughter the same?" I ased, having waited until Tolya had expended all his wrath on the old engineer. "Angelia? Growing up to be a grebe. Gory described people lie her perfectly w hen he wrote: 'And the grebes are also moaning. Not for them the rapture of life 's struggle. They are frightened by the crash of blows!' " Golovatsy poured out the thic steaming coffee into little purple cups covered with blac spots that made them loo lie lady-birds. Then he went out into the passage, drew water from a tub and filled two glasses. "You drin the coffee in sips," he said, "a sip of coffee, then a sip of water. Otherwise it maes your heart race. Strong stuff." I did not leave Tolya's "cabin" until midnight. The streets of the town were deserted. Bats flitted silently above my head as I waled past the par, which was now loced up for the night. EVERYTHING IS FOR THE BEST What a success we'd had with those rollers for nearly a whole wee! Out of about six hundred we had spoiled only six or seven. We could stand that. It was an al lowable percentage of waste considering the speed of our' wor. We were turning out far more rollers than anyone else, and all because Uncle Vasya did not spare the trouble to grease the moulds and sharpen the cores beforehand. According to him it was better to spend an extra half hour in the heat and dust by the glowi

ng moulds, and prepare everything for the next day, than to bother about getting things ready in the early morning, when you wanted to wor up a good speed on t he job. The day my period of probation ended Uncle Vasya did not turn up for wor. I cou ld not mae out why he was late. Nearly all the worers were at their machines. Some were spreading fresh sand, others were warming up their models, yet others were preparing their moulding floor, smoothing the dry sand to mae it easier to set the moulds later on. Unexpectedly the foreman appeared. "I'm giving you another mate today, Mandzhura. Your Naumeno has ased for two d ays off. He's got to tae his wife to Mariupol for an operation." A few minutes later, who should turn up at the machines but Kashet! He was carryi ng his own tamper. Kashet swaggered up to Uncle Vasya's machine and tested the frame to see that i t was tight. Then he lit a cigarette. I looed at him and thought: "What a partn er! I'd rather catch a stray cat under the blast-furnace and put it on the machi ne. At least a cat would do less harm..." True, after his fantastic record spoil age Kashet had become more careful, but though he made a great show of shouting and running about, to impress people, we had been beating him and Titor by a g ood forty moulds every day. Turunda saw the mate I had been given and shoo his head, as if telling me to re fuse. But how could I refuse? If I had been woring here for a year or two, it would h ave been different; I could have objected and ased for someone else. But I was raw on the job. Besides, perhaps the foreman had separated Kashet and Titor on purpose. "Why is the model badly heated?" Kashet ased pompously. "Get some slabs and warm it up to your liing." "You're younger you go for them!" Kashet lisped. "Do your own wor!" I flung out, and hearing the bell for wor to begin, I start ed pacing sand into a mould. Kashet dithered about, then piced up the tongs and went off to the heater. By the time he came bac I had two lower halves ready. I had inserted the cores myself and cleared a space for fresh moulds. Somehow or other we managed to fini sh ten moulds. Then Kashet began to tire. He went off for a smoe by the furnac e and got stuc there gossiping with the furnace men. I lost my temper. Finishing off my last mould for my partner, I ran over to the furnace. "Loo here, when are you..." I began, topping Kashet on the shoulder. "That was last year," he said, thining that I was asing about his story. "I'm asing you when you're going to stop jawing and do some wor?" I shouted in his face. "Am I interfering with you?" Kashet answered calmly and turned his bac on me t o continue his story. "Yes, you are!" I bawled in his ear. "Interfering with you?" "Not me personally, but the whole wors. The woring class! Everybody!" I shoute d furiously. Kashet seemed to cower bac for a moment. "Drop in and see me, Arhip, I'll tell you the rest there," he said to the furna ce man, tossing his cigarette away. "You see what a wild cat they've put on me. . . one of those Komsomolites..." I said nothing and strode bac to the machines. I could hear Kashet padding alo ng behind me and I thought to myself: "We'll see who's been put on whom, you Ma hno scum! I can do without you!" When he got bac, Kashet fiddled around, rattled the lever of his machine and, to do him justice, put in thirty minutes' real hard wor. Lua and Artem goggled at the sight of Kashet, the lounger, woring at such speed. They had not heard our argument at the furnace. I decided to let the matter drop altogether. But 'Kashet was of a different opinion. Presently he started again. "Just what am I doing that interferes with the woring class?" he lisped.

Without a second thought, I answered: "Millions of peasants are waiting for our reaping machines and you are holding up the programme. The woring class is tryi ng to raise its productivity and you just play the fool. Loos as if you're for them, not for us." "I'm one of the woring class myself! What are you babbling about. Who do you me an them?" "I mean the Whiteguards and the capitalists, all that scum which you helped in 1 919!" "Me? ... Helped them? ... Oh no, Lad. That's a silly thing to say!" He suddenly quietened down and became very mee. He even started going for slabs out of turn. As I watched him slin away to the distant heater, I wondered whet her I had acted right. Kashet was a lot older than me, and he had been in the f oundry for a long time was I going too far? As though guessing my doubts, Turunda called over to me: "That's right, Vasil! Y ou too the right line with him! Where does he thin he is in a nursing home? Ther e's a limit to what we can put up with." "He ought to have got the boot long ago!" Gladyshev added. "Pity Fedoro's so so ft-hearted! Go and put it to him at lunch-time. Tell him he'd better get rid of that slacer and leave you to mould alone until Naumeno comes bac." The older worers' sympathy encouraged me. But I decided not to follow Gladyshev 's advice. "I'll stic out these two days somehow with Kashet," I thought, "the n my partner will come bac and everything will be all right." It was not long, however, before I regretted my decision. My turn came to go for slabs. When I returned again the mould was unfinished and Kashet was chatting c almly to the furnace man: "... I come in to Trituzny's office to get signed up a nd he ass me: 'Where've you been woring for the last five years, Comrade Entut a? Why haven't you got a reference from your last place of wor?' So I comes bac at him: 'Comrade Trituzny! I got that scared of General Wrangel in 1920 it's t aen me five years to get bac into a fit state for wor!' That made old Zuzya s it up. 'Five years!' he gasps. 'What a nervous breadown!' " This time Turunda darted up to Kashet, with a pair of tongs in his hand. "Have we got to send you a special invitation before you'll get to your machine? " Lua said. "But the slabs were cold!" Kashet exclaimed innocently. "Your brain's gone cold, not the slabs!" Lua snapped as Kashet slouched bac t o his machine. "You in a hurry? Got a train to catch?" Kashet sneered, resuming his wor. "Yes, I am!" Turunda shouted, driving his shovel into the hot sand. "And we're f ed up with all this ballyhoo! If you're too lazy to wor, get to hell out of her e..." "That's it! That's the way!" Gladyshev murmured, nodding approvingly. Seeing that he had no support, Kashet grunted: "Cor', aren't you strict!" and w ent bac to wor. I couldn't mae out what was in the fellow's mind. Either he had always been suc h a lazy clown, or if I were to believe Volodya the cabman, he had been eeping an eye on the steppe, hoping to see Mahno's machine-gun carts appear over the h orizon. Kashet suddenly broe into a song: On Monday I woe from a drining bout, And all I had spent I did sore regret. 'Twas not for the money I'd lost that I sighed, But my wife's blac shawl she left when she died... "Kashet showing off his repertoire," Gladyshev remared. "Well, isn't it as good as Chaliapin?" Kashet said, striing an artistic pose. "The lower mould's paced, Chaliapin, but I can't see the top anywhere!" I shout ed. "I wish I'd never seen you!" Kashet groaned, but started pacing his mould. As he fussed round his machine, he still could not eep quiet.

"There's a song about you. . ." "What song?" "Listen..." And in a lisping voda-sodden voice he sang: There was a young man of Podol With a voice lie sawing coal... "You're from Podol, aren't you?" "Your geography's no good!" I said curtly. "Podol is a suburb of Kiev. I was bor n in the Podolia Province." Kashet made no reply. Fighting his hang-over, he tried desperately to eep up, but I could see that we should not do anything lie as much as Naumeno and I us ually did before lunch. The sand had been watered too liberally the night before. It was steaming lie a craced dunghill in spring, and was not fit for moulding. We needed some dry sa nd to mix with it. Near by there was a heap of dry, coarse sand. So as not to hold up the moulding, I ran over to the heap and started throwing sand on to our side. "Hey, you madman!" Kashet shouted and I felt him grab my elbows from behind. But he was too late. The shovel plunged into the sand, meeting an unexpected obs tacle in its path. There was a crunch as if the shovel had smashed an electric b ulb. "Who ased you to poe your nose in here, you interfering devil!" my partner baw led in despair. He flopped down on his nees and burrowed in the sand with trembling hands. "Are you scatty, or what?" I ased uncomprehendingly. "I'll give you 'scatty!' I'll fix you ... I had a dram buried here and you've bu st it." Kashet lifted a handful of sand to his nose and smelt it greedily. His hands we re trembling. The ree of voda told me that there really had been a bottle conc ealed in the heap. "Let's get on with the moulding!" I said. "What'll I have to sober me up at dinner-time?" "Get those frames clear! There are two bottoms ready and waiting for you." Surly and frowning, he started moulding again. But the loss of the dram seemed t o worry him more than anything else in the world. "What the hell made you go over there?" "What the hell made you bring voda into the foundry?" "You're a real plague, you are! No wonder Titor was saying what a darned nuisan ce you mae of yourself everywhere!" "Yes, I am a nuisance to those who swindle the Soviet state. I have always been that ind of nuisance, and I always will be. And I don't care two pins whether y ou and Titor lie it or not. I'm not going to ow-tow to you. If you don't lie the way things are done at a Soviet factory, you'd better get out before we as you to ourselves." 'Kashet did disappear after lunch. He must have gone to as for a medical certi ficate, or for time-off. Presently Fedoro ran into the foundry and shouted to m e: "I've let your partner off for the rest of the day. Do the moulding by yourself. Turunda will help you to cast." After all that wrangling with Kashet, it was a pleasure to wor alone. When I h ad moulded a pair of lower halves, I would put the cores in, then run over to th e other machine and do the tops. I was glad of this spell on my own for another reason. As I ran bac from the he ater gripping the glowing slabs with my tongs, a happy thought occurred to me. While I went on with my moulding, I turned the idea ever in my mind. "Suppose th e pipes that supplied compressed air to the machines carried hot air instead of cold? Suppose we heated it beforehand? Then the compressed air system would heat the models at the same time. The system could have taps and hoses. If you wante

d air for cleaning your model, all you'd have to do would be to turn the tap on and the hot air would blow the unnecessary sand away. And the rest of the time i t would be used for heating. It would be so easy to arrange! All you had to do w as bloc up the slots under the model, mae a passage for the hot air to circula te, and the model would be hot all the time. And we should gain such a lot by it ! The moulders would no longer have to leave their machines and run to the heate rs. They wouldn't catch cold running out into the yard when they were sweating, specially during the winter. Moulding would go on much more steadily. And what a lot of coe we should save the state if we got rid of the heaters for good!" , Happy with my thoughts, and moulding as hard as I could go, I did not see Fedo ro come up to the machine. He stood just behind me, watching how I moulded. I n oticed the foreman only when he ased Turunda loudly, "Well, Lua, what do you t hin of your neighbour?" and nodded at me. Turunda put down his tamper and wiped the sweat off his face. "I thin he'll do, Alexei Grigorievich. He tries hard and he's caught on quicly ." "All right, Mandzhura," said Fedoro with impressive slowness. "Your term of pro bation is over. When you noc off, call in at the office and they'll give you a pay-boo. I'll put you in the fifth grade. Then we'll see. . . Does that suit y ou?" "Fine, Alexei Grigorievich. Thans a lot!" And I gripped the foreman's hand. ... Many of the men had noced off already, but to fill in the time while Lua and Gladyshev finished casting. I still went on moulding. A great cloud of steam hung over one of the furnaces w hich was empty. The furnace men had noced the bottom out of it and the half-burnt coe, coated with iron and sticy slag, lie nuts in sugar, had poured out into the deep pit . The fiery mess had been sprayed and was hissing quietly as it cooled, turning from purple to a dar crimson, and finally blac. Near by, amid the steam, another furnace was belching iron. Spars flew up as it poured into the ladles. The smoe mingled with the steam and the foundry was st uffy as a bath-house. But although Turunda and I were last to fill our moulds, I had never wored more easily than now, right at the end of the woring day. The calm and rather solemn words of the foreman were still ringing in my ears. They meant that at last I was a real foundry man. I waled home through the sun-drenched streets. I was dirty from head to foot an d my face was stained with sweat, but I ept proudly to the middle of the road, for in the side pocet of my jacet there was a new pay-boo stamped with my wor er's number. On the front page a firm, neat hand had written that Vasily Mirono vich Mandzhura was in the fifth grade. I wanted to show the boo to everyone I m et, although I new my appearance alone was enough to tell them without any docu ments that I belonged to the great army of the woring class. After the broiling foundry, I hardly noticed the heat of the streets. I was stil l trying to thin out my plan for heating the machines. But now that I had left the foundry, my thoughts were rambling and it was hard to put them into shape. " Never mind, the main idea's settled, the details will come later," I thought. At the corner I was overtaen by Angelia. "Hullo, Vasil!" she said panting. "What a hurry you're in!" "Hullo," I grunted. "I'm in a hurry because I'm dirty. I want to wash." "Are you angry with me?" "What gave you that idea?" "Why do you never come round and see me?" "I haven't had time." "But I left you a note. And spoe to your friends. Didn't they give you my messa ge?" "They did." I said grimly, trying to be as stern as I could with Lia. I was thi ning: "It would have been better if you hadn't come. The chaps are giving me en ough trouble as it is with their joes about wedding rings. I can't even loo ou

t of the window without them grinning all over their faces!" Somewhere or other Sasha had found a bunch of orange blossom that people wear at weddings, and while I had been washing at the well one day, had stuc it in my button-hole. Lucily I had noticed it in time, or I should have looed a proper fool when I went into town. After a pause, Lia said: "But it's rude, you now. I mae the first move. I cal l on you a thing I've never done with anyone before and you... It would have been on ly politeness!" "Loo here, Lia," I said, bracing myself, "I'm afraid I'm not the sort to suit you and your politeness." "Am I really so hopeless? An unprincipled creature with petty-bourgeois tendenci es? Is that how I must tae it?" I realized that Lia wanted to tal franly. But I did not feel lie a heart-toheart tal and avoided the challenge. "Tae it how you lie... you now best." "My greatest misfortune, Vasil, is that I can't be angry with you." "You'll manage it one day," I said indifferently. "It'll be very hard," Lia said slowly. "And I was thining..." "What?" "... that at last I'd found someone who would put me on the right path..." We were nearing my gate. After the day's wor in the foundry I could not mae my self fit in with Angelia's mood. I cut her short: "Why don't you as Zuzya. He's got a ic lie a cannon-ball, l and he can do the Charleston, and he nows all about politeness. There's the man for you! So long!" I waved a wor-hardened hand in her direction and pushed the gate... The first response to my postcards came from Monus Guzarchi. There was nothing surprising about that; Kharov was only a night's journey away. Monus wrote: "... I was very happy to receive your postcard. All our petty squabbles are forg otten and I have only good memories of our days together. Your not wanting to ac cept me for the Komsomol because of that spree in the restaurant doesn't worry m e at all now. I shall become a Komsomol member all the same! I am now woring at the Kharov Locomotive Wors. Do you now how many worers we have here? You'd never believe it! Over ten thousand! Compared with the Kharov Locomotive Wors, our Motor Factory is a village smithy... "I was very surprised to read that you had 'a bit of a fight' before they too y ou on at the Lieutenant Schmidt Wors. I had no trouble at all. I just showed th em my papers and they put me straight in the diesel shop. It was here that I fir st saw how the huge machines for generating electricity diesels are assembled. You j ust can't picture what a giant a diesel is, Vasil! The little motor that we had at school to drive the lathes and circular saw is a toadstool compared with our power unit. I can tell you quite franly that I find the wor extremely interest ing and am very satisfied with it. Every time I write the word 'satisfy' I remem ber our school and Bobir, who used to write it 'tasify.' How's he getting on by the sea? Give him my best wishes. "I was put into a six-man team straightaway. The wors is a long way from where I live about nine ilometres, but I hardly notice the distance. In fact, I rather lie it. It's nice to ride through the capital in a tram, looing out of the win dows. I arrive at wor early and get my tools ready. The foreman praised me once . 'It's not long since Monus was at a factory-training school,' he said, 'but he tries as hard as our people.' The men in my team are a good crowd, most of them old fellows. One of them tried to tae the rise out of me and sent me to the to ol department for a 'bigmo.' I went there and started demanding a 'bigmo,' and a fterwards it turns out that there isn't such a thing. They had a good laugh at m e for that. "In the diesel department there are quite a few worers who actually too part i n the Revolution. Besides establishing Soviet power in the Uraine, some of them even too part in the May strie of 1902 and fought the police in 1905. Real pr

oletariat! They've told me quite a lot about the Kharov worers' fight against tsarism. Yesterday, when we'd finished wor, I came out of the shop with a fitte r who must be about sixty. The tram was full up, so he suggested we should wal as far as the centre. I wasn't a bit sorry I agreed. The old chap told me how th ey prepared the Kharov uprising and how the delegates from the Central Committe e came down from St. Petersburg. When we got to Rosa Luxemburg Square, near the university, he showed me where the revolutionary headquarters were, where the am munition was stored, where the first shots were exchanged with the police, and w here the worers put up a barricade. "Customs are different here from those in our town. Do you remember how even non -Party members used to get told off at our meetings for wearing ties? Here thing s are quite different. The young worers at my wors, specially in the diesel de partment, thin nothing of dressing well. 'Ties don't matter,' they say, 'it's w hat a man's got inside him that matters.' The chaps wash after wor and change i nto clean clothes before going home. That's the right way of looing at things! It's much better than the ind of thing you meet with sometimes a fellow wants to show he's a worer, so he gets into a tram in a greasy old set of overalls and s mudges everybody's clothes. "There is a big Komsomol organization in the diesel department. For the time bei ng I'm a visitor. When I told the secretary why you hadn't accepted me, he laugh ed and said: 'Yes, you might have gone right off the rails!' And he advised me t o put in an application for membership as soon as possible. How's that, Vasil! "Well, I must close now. If the other chaps write to you, Vasil, send me their f ull addresses as soon as you can. Give Maremuha and Bobir my very best wishes." I read the letter standing, even before I had changed my clothes. In spite of Mo nus's sly digs about our former relations, I began to forget the day's troubles my scrap with Kashet and the rather rude way I had spoen to Angelia. As I shoo the sand out of my boots, I reflected that it would not be a bad idea to introduce Kharov ways at our foundry. What was the sense in waling all the way through town in a dirty, scorched set of overalls, when you could wash and change at the wors, lie the men on the case-hardening furnace! I remembered the spring evening when we had been strolling through the streets o f our home town, munching sunflower seeds and nuts, and Furman and Guzarchi had run up to tell us our passes to the factories of the Uraine had arrived. It wa s such a short time ago, and yet how much had happened in our lives since that S aturday evening, and how confident and grown-up we all felt now. "Dear old home town," I thought, splashing about lie a duc beside the well. "S hall I ever see you again? Shall I ever wal down the boulevards again listening to the rustle of the leaves? Shall I climb up on to the battlemented wall of th e Old Fortress and gaze down on the broad lands of my Podolia, on the foaming sp ring waters of the Smotrich? We have scattered over the Uraine to tae up new l ives. I wonder if we shall ever come together again on the steep cliffs of our o ld town and march together, with songs and torches, through the dar forests to the swift-flowing Dniester." NIKITA IN NEED "Dear Vasil, "Forgive me, old chap, for not answering at once. I've been up to my nec in it. Tal about having your hands full! You went away to your factories, the school was empty and it seemed the time had come for us to sit bac and sun ourselves o n the rocy bans of the Smotrich. But we decided otherwise. At a time lie this , when the Party has called upon us to mae a full-scale offensive on private en terprise, and put all our energy into the industrialization of the country, what right have we to tae a rest cure? "I got the first-year Komsomol members together, Polevoi invited the instructors , and at a general meeting we decided to renovate the school without any outside

help. "Every day for over a month we turned up at the school, putting the place into s hape, maing new tools, and enlarging the various shops. You wouldn't now your foundry now, Vasil! It's been whitewashed inside and out. Kozaevich has made a big casting of the metal-worers' trade union badge and hung it over the entranc e. Nowadays, when people pass, they now at once that iron is smelted in this cl ean little building, where the ratecollectors used to hold their meetings. And d o you remember the store-room near the locsmiths' shop? It no longer exists! We have noced down the wooden partition and put another three benches in the ext ra space. That means another nine places at the school for training the new gene ration of industrial worers. Just thin what that means, Vasil! Next autumn we shall be able to tae nine extra boys and girls who would lie to mae friends w ith the hammer and chisel. And suppose every factory-training school follows our example? That will mae a whole division for the army of the industrial proleta riat! Our Soviet youth, plus machinery, plus a socialist attitude to labour, plu s the ability to understand blue-prints, and to build the future according to th ose blue-prints! "I am very glad for you that the director of the wors turned out to be a real B olshevi and treated you understandingly, as a Communist director should. From y our letter, Vasil, I conclude that you have established excellent relations with your Komsomol organization at the wors, and that they respect you. That is why , since I still loo upon you, old chap, as a delegate of the Podolian Komsomol to the Azov coast, I have a big request to mae to you, Maremuha, and Bobir. "Do you remember the state farm on the ban of the Dniester where you and I made friends in the days when you used to live at the Party School? The District Par ty Committee has decided to put the whole farm with its land and outbuildings at the disposal of a Youth Agricultural Commune. This commune will train young spe cialists for agriculture. And they, in their turn, will show the rest of the pea santry how to farm on new, Soviet principles. "The number of volunteers for the commune has been terrific. Young people from a ll over the place who have read about the commune in the newspapers are showerin g the District Committee with requests to be sent there. "But now there's a hitch. We've got everything in the commune cows, horses, plough -land, young people ready to wor, enthusiasm and the desire to devote oneself t o a good cause but we're short of machinery! Our Komsomol members at the school wi ll, I am sure, be able to repair the ploughs and harrows for their brother commu ne. Woring overtime, we'll manage to turn out a few straw-cutters for them. But that's about the limit of our resources. And yet it's absolutely essential to s upply the chaps at the commune with at least five reapers. It stands to reason, of course, that no one from the centre will send us reapers in the middle of the season. But how fine it would be if when harvest time comes round, our chaps dr ove out into the fields on good, new Soviet reaping machines! "And when I read what you wrote about your wors maing reapers I naturally thou ght to myself: 'Here's the man who will help our young commune!' Yes, Vasil, say what you lie, but you've got to help us! Polevoi and I are certain, and the Di strict Committee of the Komsomol is certain, too, that you will bring it off. "Go and see the wors Party organization, go and see the director and explain to them what a great political effect it will have if a model youth commune spring s up on the border between us and the Rumania of the landowners. Tell them... Bu t why explain everything to you! Won't you be able to get us five reapers withou t that? As, insist, get Golovatsy to help you. Judging from your letter, he's a helpful sort of chap. In short, Vasil, the whole factory-training school, as w ell as every Komsomol on the border have put their hopes on you. "You may be ased who will pay for these reapers? Don't worry about that. As soo n as we receive your telegram telling us the amount we must pay, we'll send the money at once. We have already started collecting the money. We have performed t wo plays at the Shevcheno theatre, we have held a fancy-dress ball there, lie the one we held to collect gifts for the Red Cossacs. And the District Committe e has also got some cash for the commune. In short, Vasil, you've got to act, ac t at full pressure!

"Oh, and I nearly forgot! You as whether there's any news of Pecheritsa. There certainly is, and a lot of it. But I thin it would be premature to write about it just now. "Best wishes to you all from Polevoi, 'Kozaevich, and self. "Dmitry Pancheno sends you his greetings and says he is sure you, Maremuha, an d Bobir will justify our hopes about the reapers. "Sincerest Komsomol greetings, "Niita Kolotneyets." I showed the letter to my friends. Sasha read it and muttered something vaguely. Peta scratched his head and said: "Now we're in for it! Five reapers will tae a bit more buying than a reel of co tton!" "But what's the news about Pecheritsa?" I said suddenly. "They must have nabbed him," Sasha came out of his reverie. "I told you I had se en him here!" "You saw him here and they caught him there? Very queer!" I said, bringing Sasha down to earth. "In fact, it's all a bit queer..." "Don't you now iKolomeyets?" Peta said. "That's him all over. He always lied maing a mystery of things." "Well, what shall we do, chaps?" I ased, thining of Niita's request. "Go and see the director, what else!" Sasha exclaimed promptly, as if it was the obvious thing to do. "Let's go together." "Count me out for today," said Sasha. "I've got a job on at the flying club that will tae me all night to finish." "What about you, Peta?" I ased, looing imploringly at Maremuha. "I've told you already, Vasil: we've got a technical class this evening. How can I miss that!" But I did not go to the director. First I called on Tolya Golovatsy to as his advice. Of course, I remembered the state farm on the Dniester that Niita had written a bout. I remembered how mysterious it had seemed to me when our carts drove up to the gates in the dead of night. The farm-house was surrounded by tall poplars a nd a white stone wall. Horses could be heard champing in the stables. A watchman , rifle in hand, loomed out of the darness of the yard, and before opening the heavy gates, ased us many questions. And how could I forget the first night at the farm, when I lay in the crisp hay, with a rifle pressed to my side, under the iron roof of the barn! Or our mornin g bathes in the swift, cold waters of the Dniester! Or the smell of mint near a gooseberry bush that I had found while wandering through the neglected garden!.. . And how I used to enjoy those Sunday trips to the little town of Zhvanets for the state farm's mail. . . . Before me stretches the dusty cart-trac above the Dniester. The hooves of the light-bay horse plop into the soft dust raising little grey clouds behind u s. I loll in the creaing saddle and loo across the Dniester at the houses on t he edge of Khotin and the ruins of an ancient fortress on the Bessarabian ban. My horse flics his ears and eeps trying to snap at the ripening ears of corn b y the roadside. And then I'm on my way bac with a pacet of fresh newspapers and magazines. If there is no wind, I twist the reins round my arm and read the newspapers as I am riding along. I glance over the head-lines and consider what I shall be reading to the young people of the village who attend our club at the state farm. That summer, Polevoi had given me the job of reading the papers aloud on Sundays . At first I refused. I could not even imagine myself telling the be-ribboned yo ung girls and their boy friends from the village about the news in the papers. A nd my first session certainly was an ordeal. I could not tae my eyes off the pa

ge and all the time I wanted to loo up and see what impression I was maing on my listeners. At last I made a brea and, running my fingers through my hair, to o a calm loo at the lads and lassies gathered round me. After that everything went swimmingly. I even managed to answer their questions. And now I was very glad to hear that a youth commune would be set up in the vill age I new so well. That really was good news! Every day the cheerful songs of young people would float across the Dniester int o landowner-ruled Bessarabia. The members of the commune would certainly build a new power station to replace the little petrol engine that only supplied curren t until ten in the evening. Who could tell, perhaps what they wrote in the newsp apers about miling cows with electricity would come true at the commune! I imagined the former landowner's mansion given over to our young people, gleami ng with electric light, ringing with songs and cheerful tal. How many young Bes sarabians would be drawn across the river by those lights! After all, whom had t hose people to turn to in their trouble, if not to us! This was their only hope ou r happiness, which might one day, lie the flames of a blazing fire, leap across into Bessarabia... But it was all very well to thin about such things as I went to Golovatsy's; i t was quite a different matter, however, to come down from dreams of the future to the present day and carry out Niita's request. Golovatsy, too, was rather taen abac when he heard the news. "Your friend is a little bit naive," Tolya said as he finished reading the lette r. "He thins you've just got to wave your hand and you'll have five reapers rea dy and waiting for him! But of course, a commune on the border lie that is an i mportant job for the Komsomol. We certainly can't leave your friends' letter una nswered... You now what? Let's go and see the director." "He won't be at the wo rs now, will he?" "We'll call on him at home," Golovatsy said. "At home?" I re peated. "Is that all right?" "Why not! This is a matter of public importance. Iv an Fyodorovich isn't one of those bourgeois specialists, lie Andryhevich. Besi des he's attached to our Komsomol organization as a Party member. Come on, there 's nothing to be scared of." Golovatsy's resolute tone reassured me. But when we turned off the avenue to th e left I was again puzzled. "Doesn't Rudeno live in the centre?" "He lives in Matrossaya Settlement. Open to all the winds that blow! The crafts men from the wors have always lived there. You new Rudeno used to wor in the foundry before the Revolution, didn't you?" "But couldn't he have moved into the centre of the town?" "Of course, he could," Golovatsy replied, "specially as the old director's hous e was empty in those days. But he didn't want to. 'What's the use of all those h alls and passages to me?' he said. 'Three rooms are all I want. And it's more fr ee and easy down by the seaside!' " Golovatsy waved his arm in the direction of the shore, which we were approaching along a broad, dirt road with burdoc and steppe grass growing in the ditches. "And Rudeno was quite right," Tolya went o n. "He got the old owner's house made into a night sanatorium for the worers at our plant. If a worer doesn't feel too good, as soon as he nocs off wor, he goes up there. There are locers in the entrance-hall. As soon as he gets insid e he can tae off his woring clothes and go under a shower. Then he goes to ano ther locer where there's clean underwear, a dressing-gown and bedroom slippers ready for him. Everything's spic and span, the food's good, there's peace and q uiet, everybody sleeps with his window open winter and summer, amusements in the evening. And in the morning, at the sound of the hooter, everyone goes straight off to wor." "Has the director got a big family?" I ased. "Only himself and his wife." "No children?" "One of his sons was illed by Mahno's men. The other's an airman, a squadron c ommissar. He's home on leave now." "Bobir was telling me that a flyer called Rudeno had brought a training aircraf t to the flying club...."

"Yes, that's the director's son," Golovatsy explained. "He's a daring chap. He spent his leave here last year too. Paddled all the way to Mariupol in a canoe. It's a terrific distance, you now. Suppose a storm had caught him coming round Belorechensaya Kosa? It'd have been good-bye to him then." I realized why Sasha had been so thrilled when he told us about the airman. "I wonder if we'll find Ivan Fyodorovich at home?" said Golovatsy, crossing a p lan over the ditch at the side of the road. In an orchard of apple-trees surrounded by a rough-cast wall stood a small cotta ge. We went up to one of the open windows. Quiet voices and the clattering of cr ocery could be heard from inside. "Must be having dinner!" Tolya whispered and tapped on the window-frame with his finger. "Is Ivan Fyodorovich at home?" The lace curtains parted and we saw the sun-tanned face of our director. "Hullo, you young people! Just at the right time! I've been wanting to tell you off for a long while, Tolya." "Me? What for?" Golovatsy exclaimed. "For a good reason!" the director said. "But come in and have something to eat f irst." "We've had our dinner, thans," Golovatsy said hastily. "You finish yours, we'l l wait for you down on the beach." "Come in and mae yourself at home!" the director insisted. But Golovatsy refused. "We'll be down there," he said, waving in the direction of the sea. The shore behind the little dwarf apple-trees was covered with greyish-green ste ppe grass and stinging nettles. All round there was an abundance of spurge, mead ow-sweet, and even the bushy, yellow-flowering garmala. Not far from the water's edge, in the midst of the pale-green steppe foliage, stood an oa bench. It mus t have been under water many a time during storms. Golovatsy sat down on the bench, and turning his smooth, oval face towards me, ased: "What does he want to tell me off about, I wonder?" "Perhaps he was joing and you're getting windy for nothing," I consoled him. "No, he's angry about something." At that moment we heard footsteps behind us. The director was striding across th e soft sand. He was wearing a pair of slippers on his bare feet, and blue worin g trousers. His sleeves were rolled up revealing brown, muscular arms with a thi c growth of grey hair on them. "Well, my fine friend, why don't you and your Komsomol pals ever show yourselves in the wors dining-hall?" the director challenged Golovatsy and, sitting down on the bench, put his arm round his shoulder, "But Ivan Fyodorovich!..." Golovatsy protested. "I now I'm Ivan Fyodorovich. They've been calling me that for fifty years or mo re. But what about those pledges you made when we opened the dining-hall. You sa id that while the worers were having their meals in the brea you, Komsomol mem bers, would give political tals about worers' conditions in Britain, and about C hina, and about that humbug Chang Tso-lin... And what's been done? Yesterday I w ent round there not a sign of Chang Tso-lin. Today I went there worers from every s hop in the dining-room, but not a murmur from you... Surely you aren't going to let me down lie that!..." "Yes, it's my fault... I'm sorry, Ivan Fyodorovich," Golovatsy admitted and, pu lling off his checed cap, bowed his head until a loc of his auburn hair touche d the bench. "You now why it happened? We've been preparing for a big campaign against those dances. All our people are woring on that." "Dances aren't the main thing, Tolya, they're a side-line. The main thing for us is production, industrialization, agriculture, education. We've got to get all the efforts of the woring class focussed on those things." "That's just what we've come to see you about, Ivan Fyodorovich," said Golovats y hastily, and whispered to me: "Give him your letter, Vasil." I handed Niita's letter to the director and felt my chest tighten with exciteme nt. The fate of our request hung in the balance! Ivan Fyodorovich pulled an ancient, metal-rimmed pair of spectacles out of his p

ocet, and perching them on his aquiline nose, started to read Niita's flowing handwriting. As he read, the expression of his tired eyes grew inder. "It's a grand idea, lads," he said at last. "Communes lie that are just the pla ce for training leaders of the peasantry. And the men who are trained there will lead the peasant masses on to a broad transformation of agriculture. But what c an I do to help that's the question. I've been expressly forbidden to sell the stu ff we produce. The wors isn't an agricultural machinery shop." "Couldn't you mae an exception?" Tolya ased cautiously. "Don't be silly, lad, how can I mae exceptions! For a thing lie that I'd get e xpelled from the Party and the trust manager would sue me. We're not fulfilling our plan, as it is!" "Suppose we mae the reapers ourselves?" Tolya ased. "Who? You and him?" The director nodded at me. Tolya looed offended. "Of course not. All the Komsomol members at the wors. In their spare time the young foundry men will cast five sets of parts, then the K omsomol members and young worers in the other shops will assemble them in relay s. Those reapers won't be any worse than the ones the old men turn out. I'll wor at the furnace myself and do the best annealing you've ever seen." "You're a good enough hand at annealing, I now that, but where's the iron comin g from? You now, as well as I do, Tolya, it's iron that's holding us up, holdin g up the whole country, in fact. If our blast-furnaces were turning out more iro n, how many more plants lie ours could be built! Our future is based on heavy i ndustry, and heavy industry isn't going full blast yet. That's one of our diffic ulties." "Ivan Fyodorovich! What about that scrap-metal we, Komsomol members, collected? You haven't used all that, have you?" "Used it all up ages ago. Not a bit of it left!" My thoughts turned to my home town perched on its rocy cliffs amid the rolling Dniester countryside. Many were the old Turish guns and cannon-balls and other inds of scrap-metal that we :had found in the yards of the old mansions, on the bans of the Smotrich, under the bastions of the Old Fortress. And how much scr ap-metal of a later date was lying about in the yard of the military court, in t he old seminary and the ecclesiastical college! At one time we had started bring ing all that metal up to the Motor Factory, but we had given up the idea because the yard simply wasn't big enough to hold it all. And then a daring thought occ urred to me. "What if we get you the iron, Comrade Director?" I said firmly. "Will you let us mae the reapers?" "If you get the iron, Comrade Foundry Man, I'll gladly co-operate," the director said smilingly. ... Half an hour later I was at the central post-office sending Niita Kolomeyet s a telegram: CAN MAKE REAPERS IF YOU SEND SCRAP IRON STOP GET KOMSOMOL COLLECT SAME IMMEDIATE LY STOP ADDRESS OUR WORKS STOP ALL THE BEST ANATOLY GOLOVATSKY VASILY MANDZHURA SASHA BOBIR PETKA MAREMUKHA PAY-DAY Pay-day was a day every worer in the foundry looed forward to. Our pay-boos, which Kolya Zaablu, the foundry time-eeper, brought round in the morning, tol d us how much we had earned in the past fortnight, and all day the foundry men w ere thining what new things they would buy for their families, or how much mone y to pay into the mutual assistance fund if they were in debt to it. I, who had only recently been a factory-school pupil, was very surprised at the figures my boo contained. Just thin! I had only been woring a short time in t he foundry and I was already earning not less than seventy rubles a month. I fel t as if I was rolling in wealth. On pay-days Kashet got particularly excited. As soon as he came to wor, he was rubbing his hands at the thought of splashing money about in the pub that eveni

ng. He never thought of the next morning when he would again wae up on the seaw eed-strewn beach with a splitting headache and empty pocets. Today, even before sunrise, Kashet was capering round his machine with his red erchief wound round his bristly head, singing hoarsely: I am bound for a city fair, And a blac velvet hat shall I wear, And I'll sit on the shore and repine At a grief that I cannot define... We were moulding gear-wheels. It was a tricy job. If you used the tamper too ha rd, you might brea one of the teeth, and then you had to turn the whole mould o ut. Uncle Vasya and I wored on jobs lie this in silence, scarcely exchanging a word with each other. But today my partner, who hated wasters and drones lie K ashet from the bottom of his soul, could not restrain himself. "He'll put on a blac hat, will he! I'd lie to see him! Wastes all his money on drin, can't even scrape up enough to buy himself an ordinary cap, and now he's singing about a blac hat!" Gladyshev and Turunda were still woring on the next machine. And now with a nod in Kashet's direction Turunda wined at me and said: "He'll change his tune in a minute." Turunda glanced towards the entrance, where Kolya Zaablu, helped by one of the messenger-girls, was hanging up a board. Turunda, who was attached to the found ry Komsomol organization as a Party member, new what the Komsomol members had p lanned. The other worers in the foundry, apparently thining that it was only another n otice-board being put up, paid no attention to what Zaablu was doing. Kashet must have thought the same and went on singing in his hoarse, throaty voice: O waves of the deep enfold A man of beauty untold, Who would sit on the shore and repine At a grief he could never define. The blac velvet hat will be there, And so will the city fair, And the shore of the sea will repine At the grief it could never define. "Those bright spars will give us some spoilage today!" Gladyshev remared dusti ng his machine with compressed air. The stream of air fanned my face and I felt refreshed by it. "How come that you, chaps, brought up a partner to suit our Kashet bac in Podo lia?" Turunda said as he ran past. "He's not a bad fellow to loo at good pair of shoulders on him. We thought at first he would eep Kashet in order, but it's t urned out the other way round. He plays up to Kashet all along the line." I realized that Turunda was taling about Titor. "Loo here, Comrade Turunda," I said vexedly, "if you put together all the words we addressed to Titor on tha t subject, you could reform a whole school of juvenile delinquents." "But what made him into such a crab?" Gladyshev ased. "A crab?" I said, surprised at the comparison. "Yes, a crab," Gladyshev repeated , "but not the ind of crab you thin I mean. What we call crabs are those littl e lumps of iron that don't melt properly with the rest of the iron. Suppose you get one of those crabs in the tooth of a gear-wheel. No one notices it and that wheel becomes part of a machine. What happens? Just at the moment of greatest st rain that tooth is going to brea, and all because of a little drop of unmelted iron!" "Yes, and suppose the machine happens to be an aeroplane engine, in war-time," T urunda put in. "The plane's done for and so is the pilot! ... You now what I th in, Vasil? Maybe that Titor of yours comes from a family of 'has-beens.' Maybe he's the son of an aristocrat or a police officer? Or maybe a priest's son?"

"But he isn't, that's the queer thing about it," I grunted. "His record's fine i n that way. He's the son of a railwayman, an engine-driver. Titor's Dad did a g ood job on the railway," I added, wishing to be as fair to my enemy as I could. Glowing iron was cooling in the moulds. The cleaners were going round the foundr y picing up scraps of metal that might otherwise get in the moulding sand. Uncl e Vasya and I, and many of our neighbours, were smearing our machines with graph ite grease to stop them from rusting. Kolya Zaablu came out of the office. I must admit that at first I did not lie Kolya much, just as I did not lie oth er young chaps who only wanted to be office-worers. And I had been very surpris ed when I learnt that this "pen-pusher" was an old Komsomol member. When the Komsomol members in the foundry elected me their secretary, I started g etting to now everyone better. It made it a lot easier for me to now what job I could give them. Big, broad-shouldered Grisha Kanu too on the job of editing our wall newspaper. Shura Danileno, a core-maer, who brought cores round the foundry every day on big iron trays, undertoo to read newspapers and magazines aloud during the dinner-hour. Jobs were found for other Komsomol members, too. But what job could I give Kolya Zaablu, the only office-worer in our organiza tion? I felt so prejudiced against him. His tie and the neat parting in his stra ight fair hair irritated me. Later I was to discover how misleading appearances can be. I got taling to Zaablu and it turned out that this stocy little fell ow with so many frecles on his face that they spread even over his thin, tightpressed lips was certainly not a pen-pusher by nature. He had had no choice abou t it. Kolya Zaablu had started woring on the moulding machines as soon as the Sovie ts put the wors into operation after the defeat of General Wrangel. Conditions of wor in the foundry in those years had been far worse than now. There was no air-conditioning at all. Naturally enough, woring in such an awful dust and fug , Kolya developed consumption. And of course, the food was very bad in those day s tula and maize bread. The famine in the Volga country made itself felt even in Tavria. Kolya and the other sic lads at the wors received help only after the old foun dry man Ivan Rudeno, a Communist, became director of the wors, and Andryhevic h, who had been in charge of the wors since Caiworth's time, was pushed into th e bacground. A clinic was set up at the wors, air-conditioning was installed, the worers were given regular medical inspections. But according to Kolya the t hing that helped him most was the night sanatorium that Rudeno had opened in th e mansion of the former owner. When they had fed Kolya up at the sanatorium and patched up his lungs, the doctors allowed him to go to wor, but not in the foun dry. And that was how Kolya had become an office-worer. On the pay-day of which I am speaing, Kolya Zaablu, seeing that casting was n early finished, came out of the office carrying a long box with our pay-pacets in it. Jumping over heaps of sand and stepping carefully round the smoing mould s, Kolya went from one machine to another. He new every foundry worer by sight and quicly handed each one the right pacet. Wiping the sand off his hands, the moulder would tae the envelope and sign for it in Kolya's boo. Few of them counted the money, for everyone in the foundry new that Zaablu was a reliable chap and never tried to swindle anyone. Zaablu stopped at our machines for a moment and showing two rows of small whit e teeth in a broad smile, whispered: "If they mae a fuss, will you bac me up, Vasil?" "Count on me," I promised. "But you stand up to them as well." Zaablu went on quicly to the next set of machines. Soon he appeared near the machines where Kashet and Titor were woring. Without stopping, Zaablu went on to the furnace. "Hi there, Kolya, don't forget your friends!" Kashet called out in his lisping voice. "Bring the cash round here!" Zaablu turned round. His face was strained. "Spoilers and shirers get their pay last!" he said loudly, his white teeth flas

hing. Kashet gave a whistle of surprise. "What's this new idea!" "What I've just told you!" Kolya snapped and went on to the furnace, where the f urnace men in their broad-brimmed hats were waiting for him. Kashet threw himself into his wor more wildly than ever, urging on his partner and exchanging short, angry phrases with him. They soon noced off and Kashet dashed away to the office to complain. Meanwhile we dusted our machines and put our tools and materials in order, so th at we could start wor in the morning without any delay. I always enjoyed washing my gleaming shovel under the tap, then warming it on a glowing slab and sprinling the blade with powdered rosin. The amber rosin forme d a gleaming sticy coating over the blade. It gave off a smell that made me thi n of tall pine woods oozing rosin on a hot August day, and for a moment I forgo t the acrid vapours of the foundry. As I rosined my shovel, I did not notice Gri sha Kanu slip over to the board that Zaablu had put up in the foundry. Unroll ing a large sheet of paper, he pinned up the first issue of our wall newspaper. Across the top of the page ran a large head-line, "RECORD-BREAKING SPOILERS IN T HE FOUNDRY." Below it there was a short article and a row of caricatures. Stripped to the wai st lie wrestlers, with voda bottles dangling on their chests, the "record-brea ers" were marching triumphantly towards a huge bottle of bluish liquid with a s ull and cross-bones on the label. As was to be expected, the bottle-bound proce ssion of spoilers and shirers included Titor with his dangling foreloc, and t he capering, sunburnt Kashet, who in his ridiculous red erchief looed lie a Spanish picador. Under the caricature was written: "At the request of all the honest worers in t he foundry, from now on spoilers, shirers, and disorganizes will receive their pay separately." The next moment Zaablu appeared with a chair and a small folding table. Quicl y arranging his boos on the table, he sat down just as if he were in his office , ready to pay the bad worers. Quite unexpectedly the tall bony figure of the chief engineer appeared at the en trance to the foundry. His greying hair showed under his green cap band. At the sight of the chief engineer, the worers stood bac to let him pass. Andryhevic h stopped in front of the wall newspaper, then glanced at the table. "What's all this nonsense? Call the foreman!" he snapped. "I'm here, Stefan Medardovich!" answered Fedoro, who had apparently been called out by one of the indignant shirers. "Why do you allow this sort of thing?" the chief engineer shouted at the foreman . "I thought... It seemed a useful... er, social line..." "No more of your 'social lines' here!" Andryhevich ground out, narrowing his ey es maliciously. "Our business is casting metal. Tae that trash down at once!" It was a tense moment. This might mean the end of our offensive against those wh o turned out bad wor and disorganized production. Screwing up my courage, I str ode over to the engineer. "We will not allow you to tae the newspaper down," I said in a choing voice. For nothing short of a minute Andryhevich surveyed me in silence, apparently re calling our first meeting. "Aha! The builder of a new world! Good day to you, my dear fellow!" he said with false joviality and offered me his wrinled hand with the heavy gold ring on th e forefinger. "May I as you, young man, on whose behalf you are maing this pro test?" the engineer went on sarcastically. "Have you any reason or is it merely to satisfy that youthful thirst for controversy I now so well?" "I'm protesting on behalf of the foundry Komsomol organization. It was us who pu t out the wall newspaper and you can't ban it." "Just a moment, my dear fellow! Has the Komsomol organization the right to tae matters into their own hands and brea the discipline of the worers?" the engin eer ased. "Who's breaing the worers' discipline? Us?!" I burst out indignantly. "It's th

em who're destroying discipline it's those shirers and spoilers who are holding us up!" "A little quieter, young man! I'm not deaf yet. You needn't shout. Especially as the time of revolutionary meetings has passed. This is what I want to say to yo u. At present I am the chief engineer at this wors, and I have given orders tha t this paper be taen down. You, a person who has neither experience, nor admini strative authority, oppose the carrying-out of my order, raise your voice, mae insulting remars to me. What else is that but an infringement of labour discipl ine?" The gloating, victorious face of Kashet hovered near by. Andryhevich's greenis h eyes glittered cunningly in front of me. But 'I was not going to give in yet. "The new system of paying out wages, Stefan Medardovich, has been agreed upon wi th the wors director, Comrade Rudeno, and with the trade-union committee. The man who wors best receives his wages first. It seems to me that the chief engin eer should also carry out the wishes of the director and not contradict them." "I now nothing about any such agreement," Andryhevich grunted. "The director h asn't said anything to me about it." "He may not have spoen to you, but he spoe to everyone in the wors Komsomol c ommittee. Comrade Rudeno approved all our plans, particularly the idea of havin g a wall newspaper." "I shall investigate this matter! You won't get away with your trics as easily as that!" Andryhevich muttered in confusion. Turunda appeared at my side. "Stefan Medardovich," he said peacefully to the engineer, "I can vouch for the f act that Mandzhura is speaing the truth. I state that as a member of the Party. We thought you would than us for our efforts, but there seems to be some disag reement..." "We shall see about that!" the engineer interrupted in a threatening growl. He straightened his cap and strode hurriedly out of the foundry. "Six-nil in our favour, Vasya!" Zaablu shouted as soon as the door banged behi nd the engineer. "Loo here; you Komsomolite!" Kashet babbled, going up to Kolya and breathing v oda all over him. "What have you got against me? You're a terrific taler but y our taling won't do any good this time. I'd rather choe myself than tae my mo ney here. Bring it to me at my machine!" "Well, you needn't tae it then! We're not going to run after you with it!" Turu nda put in. "The wors cashier will mae it over to your savings boo." "I haven't got one. I'm not a miser lie you!" Kashet bawled furiously. "All the better for you, you'll get a. savings boo at the same time. You've got nothing to fly off the handle about. Aren't you and your partner the champion s poilers in this shop?" Turunda flashed out at Kashet. "The chaps who wrote this newspaper are taling sense. If you lie turning out rotten wor, you can recei ve your wages after the others... Or else you can get out altogether and go fish ing on your own account. Maybe you'll do better at that!" "What is this, boys?" Kashet howled, seeing for support among the laughing fou ndry men. But no one gave him any. Gradually the crowd broe up. Unexpectedly a burly figure went up to Zaablu's table. It was the old furnace man Chuchvara. Not long ago he had spent a whole woring day at the wedding of a relative of his, in Matrossaya Settlement. The music at that wedding had been audible on the other side of the bay and Chuchvara came to the foundry next day a very sleepy man. Now he had decided to tae his pay as it was offered, without maing a fuss and drawing a lot of unnecessary attention to himself. "That's started the ball rolling!" Zaablu said loudly. "Who's next? Step up, p lease." For the first time since we had noced off I heard Titor's voice. Silent till now, and somehow dispirited, he nudged Kashet's arm and said: "Dry up, can't yo u! You now we did a bad job on those rollers. Tae your money and push off!.. . "

The foundry became deserted as soon as Kashet and the unusually reasonable Tit or had received their pay. Turunda, Zaablu, and I waled out of the wors together and I remember Turunda saying: "Did you notice that, Vasil? Your mate from Podolia's coming to his senses. Seei ng himself in company lie that had an effect! He's not such a goner after all." Turunda was right. I had thought that Titor would mae more fuss than anyone wh en he saw himself in the newspaper. But the result had been quite the opposite a nd much more desirable. Still throbbing with excitement after my sirmish with Andryhevich, I strode al ong with ray mates and thought: "Now Angelia will hear all about me from 'Daddy ins' at dinner tonight! 'Confound that grubby young admirer of yours!' he'll sa y to his darling daughter. 'Stood in my path! And we treated the young ruffian t o beer and sturgeon!' Now Angelia will turn her nose up when she sees me. Well, let her! Why should I change my principles to please her! I'll stay as I am. My path lies in a different direction with Turunda, Golovatsy. Naumeno, and all m y new friends in this town." Warmed by these thoughts, I gripped Turunda's arm and said: "Well, we've made a start, Lua! This'll give the chaps something to tal about! . . . But we've got plenty of fighting to do yet!" "We're on to a big thing, Vasil," Turunda answered seriously. "Politics are a ba ttle of millions, as they told me at our worers' university. And those who figh t it on their own always lose. But there are millions lie us!" THE NOTE UNDER THE STONE Two days after our wall newspaper went up in the foundry, Peta, setting out to wor after me, found a white envelope under a stone on the garden path. It conta ined a note, which deserves to be quoted in full: "Loo here, you half-baed hohol! You've got very quarrelsome rather sudden. D idn't you now that Old Man Mahno and his men will be coming home very soon. We 'll be nocing the stuffing out of all these Party members and Komsomolites. So you'd better eep quiet, or better still get out of here while your legs can stil l carry you. Mae tracs for your Podolia, where the devil brought you from. And if you breathe a word about this letter to anyone, don't expect any mercy. We'l l stop your mouth for good!" In place of a signature a sull and cross-bones had been drawn at the bottom of the page. When I came in from wor, Peta handed me the envelope. "The snaes are threatening you! Read this, Vasil!" he said worriedly. I glanced through the badly-written note, and burst out laughing. "I don't see anything to laugh at!" Sasha grunted. Lie a cottage-weaver with he r wool, he was winding thin strands of rubber for the flying club on the bacs o f two chairs. I scanned them both eenly. "You aren't pulling my leg, are you, chaps?" I said. Peta flared up indignantly. "Why, you disbelieving Thomas! He thins we sent hi m the rotten thing on behalf of Mahno and his men!" And Peta told me how he had found the envelope under the stone. Peta's story convinced me. It would have been hardly the thing for Komsomol mem bers to play a joe of that ind. "Who do you thin wrote it, Vasil?" Peta ased. "Could it have been someone in the foundry?" "Of course it was. One of the shirers. We've trodden on their toes and now they 're trying to scare us," I replied. "If you're sure it was Kashet," Sasha said in a low voice, "go and report it. I

t's a political matter!" "If I new for sure. . . But no man's a thief till he's caught, you now. He'd w riggle out of it, and I'd loo a fool." But Sasha went on confidently: "Never mind that! ' They'll sort things out. The people there now what they're doing. They can find a man anywhere just by his h andwriting." "Sasha's right, Vasil," Peta broe in again. "Show that note to the right peopl e. They'll do something about it. That's a piece of sabotage, you now it." Until late in the evening we discussed the wretched anonymous letter. We could t al of nothing else. In the end we came to the conclusion that it wasn't their p rosperity or strength that made our enemies resort to such low methods, but rath er weaness and failure. Only a short time ago I used to be very offended when people treated me as a boy . How I had wanted to sip ahead of my years and become grown-up lie Turunda, o r even Golovatsy! Yet today the offensive word "half-baed," which hinted at my youth, did not affect me so much as the insulting and hated nicname "hohol." Under tsarism it was the police and the gentry who used to call Urainians by t hat name. I had often heard the Deniin boy scouts speaing contemptuously of us worers' children as hohols. Nowadays the term was hardly ever used and on an y document I wrote my nationality as Urainian with a feeling of pride. I lied to go to the club of an evening and sing Urainian songs. I spoe Urainian. Now I could see that the scoundrel who had written this anonymous letter was sneeri ng at my nationality, and that offended me more than anything. .. . Sasha and Peta had been silent for some time. Sasha was breathing heavily. A yellow moon, lie a thin slice of pumpin, peeped in at the wide-open window. A light wind blew from the east. It being Saturday, there was still much noise coming from the par. As I lay listening to the sounds of the evening, I heard t he gate clic. Footsteps crunched on the gravel path leading from the gate to th e house. Who could it be? The landlady had gone to bed long ago. She was rarely disturbed by visitors so late at night. I called out of the window at the man co ming up the path. "Telegram! For Vasily Mandzhura," came the reply. I dashed down the stairs. While I signed for the telegram and climbed bac into the attic, my awaened friends had put the light on. Their faces were sleepy and impatient. By the light of the lamp I read the sender's address: "Sinelniovo." But that di dn't mae sense! I didn't now anyone in Sinelniovo. Perhaps my father had deci ded to pay me a visit and was on his way from Cherassy to spend a holiday by th e sea? "Open it, can't you! Don't eep us on edge!" Sasha groaned. The printed letters danced before my eyes. At first I could scarcely piece them together, then I shouted: "Chaps! Niita's coming here!" "Niita coming to see us? You're joing? It's a mistae!" Peta cried, standing on tip-toe and peering at the telegram over my shoulder. "No, it isn't! Listen!" And I read the message out loud: ARRIVING GOODS TRAIN TOMORROW MIDDAY MEET ARRANGE IMMEDIATE RECEPTION OF FREIGHT STOP KOLOMEYETS "What a pity I can't be there!" "Are you crazy?" I swung round on Sasha. "Aren't you going to meet Niita?" "I can't, Vasya. I've got an important job to do," Sasha answered plaintively. "How can there be anything important on Sunday?" Peta chimed in, bacing me up. But Sasha would not give in. "Well, there is something," he said mysteriously. "But for the time being it's a secret." "You won't come to meet Niita, your old Komsomol secretary? But he's bringing u s iron, you mut!... You've got to be at the station! It's a matter of Komsomol d iscipline, understand?" Peta shouted, as if it were an order. "Well, I can't!" Sasha insisted firmly. "Midday's just when I've got to.. .'' And nothing would move him. No matter how we reproached him for eeping a date i

nstead of meeting his old friend and teacher, Sasha could not be persuaded. The next day, taing Golovatsy with us, Peta and I went to the station. The pa ssenger train from Eaterinoslav had arrived in the morning and its empty green carriages had long ago been shunted into a siding. Weighers, pointsmen, stall-e epers everyone had taen refuge from the midday heat in the cool station building which only a short time ago had seemed so new and strange to us. Today this seas ide terminus with its hot rails gleaming in the sun seemed as if we had nown it for ages. How quicly you get used to a new town if you meet good people there! I found myself regarding the young frecled stationmaster, lie a toadstool in his red railwayman's cap, as an old acquaintance. The steel wires beside the rails hummed faintly, and far away up the line the si gnals cliced to "Go Ahead." We heard the distant whistle of an engine. "What's Niita lie now?" I thought, fixing my eyes on the growing billow of smo e in the distance. "Will he still tal down to us, or will he treat us as equal s?" The goods train hauled by a massive engine charged out of the steppe towards the sea. At last, belching clouds of hot steam over the already sun-scorched platfo rm, it rumbled into the station, a great mass of oily, glistening iron with la g rimy young engine-driver hanging out of the cab window. Brown trucs loaded with timber, crates, potash, and coal lumbered past us until I thought there would be no end to them. Suddenly on one of the trucs I caught sight of a figure in a straw hat who did not loo lie a guard. The next second I recognized Kolomeyets. Dressed in blue overalls, he was standing on what loo ed lie a huge lathe. As our eyes met, Niita ripped off his hat and waved it in greeting. Thin and am azingly sunburnt, his hair flying in the wind, he shouted something to us but hi s voice was drowned by the rumble of the wheels. Before the train stopped, Niit a had leapt agilely on to the platform. "Hullo there, chaps!" he shouted. At first Niita simply shoo hands with me, but then, after a moment's hesitatio n, he too me in his arms and issed me on both chees. He smelt of the open ste ppes, of wormwood and meadow-sweet. Niita embraced Peta too. Then I introduced him to Golovatsy. Niita glanced at Tolya merrily, gripping his hand. "I've heard of you, of course! Vasil wrote me about you. Thans for maing our c haps welcome... What about the reapers, can you do them?" "What about the iron, can you do that?" Tolya said with an answering smile. Niita turned and pointed to three trucs at the end of the train. "Won't that be enough?" he said with a touch of pride. "More than enough!" Tolya decided. "But I see Dzerzhinsy's words haven't reache d your parts yet. 'Treat iron as gold.' Loos as if you've got a whole ironfield there. I must say, I thought Vasil was exaggerating a bit." "Until we got your telegram, we somehow never thought of collecting it all," Ni ita replied. "Thans for giving us the tip." "But how quic you were about doing it!" Peta chimed in. "We had to be. Harvests don't wait for you. We even collected at night by torchlight. Now everything rests with you!" "What's that thing, Niita?" I ased, pointing at a broen metal hul in one of the trucs. "It's not a 'thing,' my lad, it's a machine for printing money!" "Not the one they used to have in the seminary?" I said, remembering the old day s. "The very same!" Niita affirmed, and turning to Golovatsy, he explained: "At o ne time, you now, Petlura too over our town. This is the machine that the Germ ans sent him from Berlin for printing his currency. Petlura printed so many ban -notes on it that the local people are still using them to paper their rooms wit h. Afterwards, it was left lying in the cellar of the agricultural institute. Wh en we got Vasil's telegram, we searched every cellar in the town. Our Komsomol c

haps found this beauty behind a pile of wood. Can you use it?" "Isn't it a pity to brea up a machine lie that for scrap?" Golovatsy said slo wly. "Couldn't one of our print-shops mae use of it?" "We thought of that, but it would be wasted labour!" Niita replied. "The German instructors who ran away with Petlura too all the valuable parts with them and wreced what was left. It'd be easier to mae a new one than repair this." Golovatsy went to the stationmaster and ased him to uncouple the trucs of scr ap-iron and send them over to the wors. "Tae your guest home, lads. He's hungry, I expect. And it wouldn't do him any h arm to have a wash," Tolya said, taing the bills from Niita. "I'll fix things up here by myself." "Yes, I could do with a wash," Niita remared and ran his hand over his sunburn t nec. "Surely you didn't come all the way in an open truc," Peta ased as we went ou t on to the station square. "Lovely trip!" Niita exclaimed, throwing bac his dar locs. "Lie Jac London 's hobo! The only difference was that no one tried to ic me off the train. At night, during the long runs, the guards used to gather in my truc as if it was a club." "Had a good time, did you?" I ased, with a touch of envy. "I should say! A real holiday on wheels! As soon as the sun got up, I'd tae off my overalls and do a spot of sunbathing. A pleasant breeze to eep you cool and the chance of seeing the whole Uraine rivers, villages, fields, everything. . . Gosh, ours is a rich country! When we were nearing Eaterinoslav the glare from the furnaces spread right across the sy! Tal about industry it just taes your b reath away! Yes, I had a wonderful trip. Never enjoyed anything so much in my li fe!" "But what's this about Pecheritsa, Niita?" Peta ased. "Pecheritsa? ..." Niita at once assumed a mysterious air. "That's rather a long story, old chap. I couldn't tell you all about that if I taled all night." And changing the subject, he ased: "But where's Sasha, chaps? Where's our dearly-b eloved Comrade Bobir?" "Sasha's busy. He'll be coming later," Peta grunted. At that moment a roaring sound was heard from Kobazovaya Hill. The sound increas ed until it became a howl. Turning our heads towards the hill, we saw a small ae roplane leave the ground and climb above the town. The plane baned and headed towards the sea. As it flew low over our heads, we s aw the broad-shouldered figure of the pilot in leather helmet and goggles, and a lso another figure sitting behind him a thin figure with wildly ruffled hair who l ooed surprisingly lie someone we new. The passenger waved his hand and sudden ly Peta shouted: "It's Sasha, chaps! I'm sure it is!" His eyes fixed on the plane, Peta gabbled out the story of how for the past two wees four Komsomol members from RIP had been helping Commissar Rudeno overhau l the training aircraft that he had brought from his squadron. Sasha's frequent disappearances in the evening and his mysterious refusal to meet Kolomeyets were now explained. Not nowing whether they would succeed in repairing the plane, t he conspirators of the flying club had ept their maiden flight secret until the last minute. But how had they managed to move the plane secretly from the club to Kobazovaya Hill? Meanwhile the aeroplane was heading out to sea. It was already over the breawat er. I watched its flight and needless to say! envied Sasha with all my heart. How I should have lied to be up there, in his cocpit looing down on our little tow n from the sy. In a couple of minutes Sasha had flashed right across the town, and we who were waling had not yet reached the centre. Niita gave a spur to my envy. "Surely that isn't Sasha?" "Of course it is!" Peta cried. "That's why he was boasting about being a flying mechanic. 'How can you be a flying mechanic, when you've never flown!' I said. 'You'll see,' he says. 'I'll be flying one of these days.' And so he has! Loo,

loo they're maing for the lighthouse! ..." "Brave lad, our Sasha!" said Niita. "So he's not such a fun as we thought he w as after that unfortunate turn of sentry-duty at headquarters. To fly a plane yo u need strong nerves and a clear head. Yes, Sasha's put one across you this time !" The aeroplane faded into the blue sy until it looed lie a big dragon-fly that had been blown out to sea. "They'll land on the bar, you see if they don't!" Peta prophesied. And indeed the plane headed towards the sand bar, but then turned bac towards t he town, flew over the sanatoriums, and circling above the station, dipped its w ings in greeting. "He's greeting you, Niita!" I cried. "He thins you're still at the station, by the train." "Perhaps, perhaps..." Niita agreed excitedly, watching the plane fly away towar ds Kobazovaya Hill. A second later the plane had disappeared over the crest of the hill. While our guest unhurriedly washed his dust-caed hair in the sea, Peta and I s plashed about in the water. I cupped my hands and deluged Peta with clouds of s pray. He snorted and choed and splashed me bac, but could not beat off my atta c. Then we swam out into calm water and started duc-diving. Opening my eyes un der water, I saw the sandy folds of the sea bed, a rusty anchor, and clumps of s eaweed that looed lie wild grasses growing under water. We enjoyed our bathe all the more because we new our old friend Niita was wash ing himself near by! Sasha burst into the room when the three of us, fresh from our bathe, were eatin g the orosha that our landlady had made for us out of strong ice-cool vass. F lushed with excitement, his face and hands begrimed with oil, Sasha greeted Nii ta as if he had parted with him only the day before. "Did you see us flying?" he panted. "We did, we did, Sasha, old chap! I must admit I didn't thin you had it in you, " Niita replied with a win at us. Sasha was up in arms at once. "Who hadn't! ... When we've tested the engine properly we'll be flying to Nogais or Geniches. We're going to mae a propaganda flight. Rudeno said so himself . And I'm going to be flying mechanic. Yes, I am... Rudeno wouldn't let any of the other chaps assemble the engine with him except me..." "Congratulations, Sasha. And I believe you'll be flying farther than Nogais one of these days. Now you've started it, eep on climbing and never stop!" said Ni ita. A WONDERFUL NIGHT The iron that our friends in Podolia had collected was unloaded. The sun was still high in the sy when after finishing our dinner and resting a little we gathered round the pile-driver and on the instructions of the pile-dri ver man started dragging over pieces of old road-building machines, greasy bed-p lates from unnown machines of the last century, and even a broen rusty press f or maing unleavened bread, which Niita said had been found in the yard of an o ld synagogue. The hardest job was to drag the heavy iron bed-plate of the printing-machine und er the pile-driver. We sweated and strained and even the old furnace men came ou t to help us. At last the operator closed the gates of the enclosure and we ran bac out of th e way. Then Tolya set the winch in motion. A creaing steel cable hauled the heavy ram to the top of the winch. It hung poised for a moment clearly outlined against th

e pin-blue of the evening sy, then Tolya pulled a lever and the ram swept down with a crash. The huge metal pear had to be raised several times to bombard the scrap-metal before the massive bed-plate craced apart. "Hurrah!" Tolya shouted, abandoning the lever and rubbing his greasy hands with delight. The worst was over. When we entered the enclosure, we discovered in place of the old machines a heap of shattered metal. Good, coarse grained iron glittered where it had broen. To lya piced up a chun of bed-plate and looed at the brea. "Good iron!" he said to Niita. "There's not much graphite in it, but plenty of phosphorus and silicon. This ind of iron melts lie butter, and it lasts a long time when it's cast." And Tolya lifted the lump of iron on his right hand as if to test his strength. Now he was not a bit lie the immaculate secretary whose appearance had given me such a shoc at our first meeting. To prevent the Komsomol iron being mixed up with the general supply, Zaablu ro ped off a special enclosure for it. We carried the heavy lumps of metal into the enclosure, and when the contents of all three trucs were piled in a heap, Zaa blu hung up a notice on the rope: "Iron for Komsomol Reapers." Already I could see the yellow fields of wheat waving above the Dniester, and th e reapers that we had made with our own hands sailing across them lie ships on a golden sea... Turunda too over the job of the foundry's Party secretary Flegontov, who had be en sent to Leningrad by the management on business. Every day I would as Turund a's advice on how best to get our chaps een on the job, how to mae them reliab le helpers of the Party in all things. With the simple, practical advice of a Bolshevi and experienced production wor er Turunda directed our youthful enthusiasm towards concrete achievement. He ne w just when and how to give his advice. After a tal with him I could see the we a spots in our wor. I learnt to understand Turunda's merest hint and he, in hi s turn, directed the Komsomol members in such a way as to give full scope to the ir initiative. The first is always the worst. A wee after my argument with the chief engineer, a second issue of the wall newspaper appeared. Grisha Kanu was doing famously. A tall brawny chap in a leather apron and goggles stood at the controls of a cra ne-operated pouring ladle. A stream of iron flowed from the lip of the ladle wri ting letters that made up the title of our newspaper: Young Foundry Man. The fie ry title at once caught the attention of the foundry worers, young and old. All the articles had been neatly typed out in the management office by Kolya Za ablu, who had written two of them himself. In an article about the economy drive our time-eeper went round the foundry as attentively as if it was his own property. "Neither the shop storeeepers, nor Fedoro, nor the chief engineer Andryhevich ," Kolya wrote, "are paying due attention to the Party's call for economy. Has t he chief engineer thought how much space is being wasted round the unfinished bl ast-furnace? Yet all we have to do is to clear away the sand and scrap and it wo uld mae a fine place to set up the moulding machines that have been awaiting re pair for over a year in the foundry stores... And how many tampers with broen w edges are lying about the foundry! Yet, when we run short of tampers, foreman Fe doro always sends up to RIP for new ones. The tool-maers waste expensive metal maing new tampers for us. Wouldn't it be simpler and just as efficient to put new wooden wedges on the iron handles?" Zaablu discovered many striing examples of this ind. Without mincing his wor ds he accused the management of wasting graphite, sulphite liquor, and molasses in the fettling shop. And he did not merely pic on shortcomings, he called on t he worers to fight for every drop of iron, for every handful of the coarse sand which was brought to us from a long distance away, for every craced mould-box which could be patched up and used without recasting. In his article "The Soft-Heartedness of Foreman Fedoro" Zaablu "emery-papered

" the shop foreman for his lenient attitude towards slacers and bad worers. Za ablu told the bald truth. He wrote that a bad worer had only to invite the fo reman to a family wedding, or as him to be godfather at a christening and Fedor o would be ready to turn a blind eye to all his blunders. "If those slacers wo n't change their ways," Zaablu wrote, "the foreman ought to clear them out of the foundry." I signed my article "Vasil Mallet." I had lied that word ever since I had start ed at the factory-training school. It was a mallet that the moulders used to sha e up the model before drawing it out of the sand moulds. And I wanted to act li e a mallet in shaing up the lazy and complacent people who were hindering the wor of the foundry. Vasil Mallet expounded an idea that had been worrying him for a long time. He su ggested abolishing the primitive method of heating the machines with slabs, whic h wasted so much time. A detailed letter which Turunda had received from Flegontov in Leningrad was als o published in the wall newspaper. The Party secretary wrote about rationalization methods in the foundry at the Kr asny Vyborzhets Wors, about the pacing of moulds with compressed air, about di stributing wor properly between teemers and moulders. "And why shouldn't all th is be done at our wors?" ased the newspaper. Flegontov, a stocy grey-haired man of about fifty, was a moulder of wheels for reaping machines. His was a very difficult and tedious job. When I watched him a t first, I had thought he wored too slowly, too carefully. He spent ages on eve ry mould, dabbing water on the edges as if he were washing a baby, peering into every notch and channel with the help of a mirror to mae sure they were clean. In the time that it too us on our "machine-guns" to do ten or more moulds Flego ntov and his partner managed to finish only one. Once I said something about Fle gontov's slowness to Turunda. "You're a sight too hasty in your judgements," he replied. "That's not a running about job, lad. Wheels and chassis are the biggest and slowest jobs of all. The y have to be moulded by the most silled worers in the foundry. Why, you as? I t's very simple. If you mess up five or six gear-wheels because you're in a hurr y, it's a pity but we can face it. But just imagine what would happen if a fullsize wheel was moulded badly. Thin of the iron that would be wasted in recastin g it! ... No, Flegontov's a fine craftsman!" The Party secretary's letter to our youth newspaper was read with great interest by the older worers, in fact the whole issue made a deep impression. The night when the young worers in the foundry decided to start wor not at fou r but at one o'cloc, so, that they could mould the parts for the Komsomol reape rs well before the other worers arrived, I felt terribly nervous. Suppose we, y oung moulders, couldn't manage these big awward parts! They were the basis of t he whole machine! But we couldn't very well bother the old worers with requests for help. We would manage on our own somehow. Before we could start wor, howev er, Turunda and Gladyshev waled into the foundry. Then the "old men" silled cra ftsmen who had long since passed Komsomol age tricled in one by one. "Hullo, Comrade Turunda!" I exclaimed. "We were going to wor on your machines. How shall we manage now?" Turunda grinned and said: "You're a bit too anxious to write us off as old men! We've come to help you. It's our common cause, isn't it?" I felt as if a bloc of cast iron had been lifted from my shoulders. Good old Tu runda! Now I could be certain that all the metal parts of the reapers would be p roperly moulded and cast. We began on the stroe of one. Compressed air hissed through the pipes, the hot slabs glowed under the models. Shovels plunged into the heaps of sand releasing thic clouds of steam. We had arranged beforehand that my partner for moulding gear-wheels should be Ko lya Zaablu. From the way he tightened the screws on his machine, I realized ag ain that he was no beginner at moulding. Before Kolya had time to pac his first mould, however, we heard the sound of Na umeno's grumpy voice:

"Hey there, young fellow! What are you doing on another man's machine! You'll st rain yourself and ruin your health again. We can manage without you!" Naumeno too over his machine from Kolya, and after maing sure that the mouldbox was firmly fixed, drove the sharp tip of his tamper into the steaming mass o f sand. "Never mind, Kolya, don't let it get you down!" I consoled my unlucy partner. " Uncle Vasya and I will do the moulding and you go for a wal. Or you now what? Go and show Kolomeyets how to sift the sand. Or here's something else you can do : eep the machines supplied with hot slabs, so that we don't have to interrupt our wor. We haven't got much time, you now." Niita was on the job too. How could a restless fellow lie him sleep on such a night, when he new that the young foundry men had started maing the reapers fo r the commune on the Dniester! Far away on the Dniester the silvery oats, the blue-green rye, the wheat, the ba rley were forming ears and reaching higher every day. Soon it would be harvest t ime. There was not a minute to lose. I had got a temporary pass from the foreman for our guest from Podolia. Niita h ad consented to do any wor he was fit for. Now he started racing Zaablu out t o the heaters for slabs. Peta had rallied the young worers in the joinery to mae the wooden parts for the reapers out of woring hours and free of charge. Sasha had come to the found ry with me, so that he would be on the spot to help if there were any mechanical hitches. As we wored, I gradually became aware that Uncle Vasya was deeply displeased ab out something. He ept muttering under his breath and sighing. In the end he had to tell me. "Ah, what a darned nuisance! Just a bit late! And all because of the old woman! I told her to wae me at midnight and she goes and oversleeps herself. When I lo oed at the cloc it was half past the hour. By the time I'd washed my face and got my clothes on, you'd started the job!" "Never mind, Uncle Vasya, we'll still finish before wor starts," I consoled the old man. "It's not whether we'll finish or not. The point is this is social wor. And it' s a double shame to be late for social wor. I'm not Kashet, I've never wanted to be a lone wolf. I want to be with my mates!" I had never got so much joy out of my wor as I did that night. Let's be honest about it, on ordinary days there's always the thought in the bac of your mind o f how much you are earning. And if by nocing-off time you've done more than yo ur usual, you go home feeling pleased with yourself. But that night we were wor ing purely for the public good. The joy and fellow feeling of it made our hands and feet leap to the job. Three days later Niita, Golovatsy, and I called in at the paint shop. The smel l of oil and turpentine greeted us at the entrance. In the roomy shop stood many new reaping machines ready to be sent off. We quicly recognized our five reapers. Even among hundreds of other machines it was not difficult to find them, for on the side of every reaper made for the Dn iester commune gleamed the badge of the Communist Youth International. And just beside it, under the wors trade-mar, the young painters had neatly painted two lines from a favourite popular song of those times: Our armoured train flies on ahead! Communism is journey's end!... And below that fine song was painted in smaller letters: "To the Lenin Komsomol Commune from the worers of the Schmidt Engineering Wors." The wors transport department had promised to send off the reapers with the fir st goods train after midnight. ON THE TRAIL OF PECHERITSA

After we had inspected the reapers I suggested taing a boat out to the harbour bar. We had been intending to go out there ourselves for some time, and now ther e was a good excuse. It was a fine evening with a light breeze blowing from the steppe. During the past three days of anxiety, while the various shops turned and assemb led the parts we had cast, the sea had been stormy. But at dawn today the gale h ad dropped and we had no difficulty in getting a light white-painted rowing boat from the Life-Saving Society's landing stage. Peta and Niita too the oars and I too the rudder. Only Sasha had nothing to do, so he iced off his shoes and sat with his legs dangling over the bows. We too turns at the long, springy oars and after about an hour the nose of our boat drove into the long spit of sand that ran out from one end of the town to t he lighthouse. Here there was nothing but sea and sy. The rippling expanse of water stretched away on both sides divided only by a narrow strip of clean, silvery sand. The town was scarcely visible. Lie seaside cottages in the distance, its tiny b uildings ran along the shore from the Lisi to Matrossaya Settlement. To the ri ght, at the end of the bar, stood the white cone of the lighthouse. It must have taen a lot of wor to build it out there, on the treacherous sand, if even her e the bar was so narrow that any big wave could easily swamp it. Sining into the soft sand, as if we were wading in a corn bin, we dragged the b oat out of the water and Peta slipped his clothes off. Lie a goose flapping its wings in winter, Niita swung his arms a few times, gl anced with half-closed eyes lat the reddening sun, and dashed boyishly into the water. We, too, raced after Niita into the gleaming sea. There was something fascinating about bathing out here in this great open expans e of water. The sea was warm as a steppeland pool. Pounded by the heavy waves of the day before, the bottom was covered with sandy wrinles. The pleasant salty breeze smelt of fish and rotting seaweed. And if you floated on your bac, you c ould stare up at the sy where a merlin was hovering over the steppe. He was loo ing for prey, the rascal, but he just couldn't mae up his mind what to swoop u pon from his lofty height. We had a grand bathe, and when we scrambled gasping out of the water, Niita sta rted doing physical jers. He swung his arms about until the bones craced. And although we had the open sea all round us and the tang of salt in our nostrils, it seemed as if we were bac again with Niita in Podolia. I thought of our wal s round the town at night, and suddenly I remembered something. "Enough of this mystery-maing, Niita!" I said. "Tell us what happened to Peche ritsa!" "All right, I'll tell you, don't get excited!" Niita replied soothingly, and si tting down in the boat, with his face to the setting sun, he began his story. .. . Ever since Dzhendzhuristy had found the ginger moustache of the fleeing Pec heritsa by the entrance to the District Education Department, Vuovich's mind ha d been woring overtime. To discover where Pecheritsa might be hiding, one had to study his whole past, h is present, and even to glance into his future, one had to find out about every friend or acquaintance he had ever had or was liely to have. One had to discove r where he had travelled, what places he new best, and then it would be easier to guess where he might find accomplices and protectors. Zhitomir and Prosurov could be counted out. It was unliely that Pecheritsa wou ld thin of stopping in those little towns situated so near the frontier. The fr ontier was always well guarded, and after Pecheritsa's flight from our town it w ould have been doubly dangerous for him to venture near it. Judging from the ticet that Pecheritsa had left with me, it might be assumed th at he had intended to travel as far as Millerovo. Surely he hadn't made for the Don or the Kuban? From the fugitive's records and from information supplied by his former colleagu es, Vuovich ascertained that Pecheritsa had never been in the region of the Don . What was more, soon after his arrival in our town, when he was still quite abo ve suspicion, Pecheritsa had said proudly to a typist at the District Education

Department: "I have never been to Moscovia and, God willing, I never shall. Why should I leave the Uraine?" It was hard to imagine that he had made such a statement deliberately, so that i n a moment of danger it would mae hated "Moscovia" a safer hiding-place for him . In case that happened, however, all suspicious persons in Millerovsaya, Olhovy Rog, Niolso-Porovsaya stations, and even in the villages of Krivorozhye and Olhovchi were investigated. No trace of Pecheritsa was discovered there. In a ll probability Pecheritsa had taen the ticet to Millerovo as a blind. Who coul d tell whether he hadn't written himself out several more free travel warrants t o various parts of the Uraine, and perhaps under different names? Vuovich set about solving the riddle. The first thing he did, so Niita told us, was to study the period when Pecherit sa donned Austrian uniform and marched into a Uraine seething with revolution. At that time the Austrian generals were using Urainian nationalists from Galici a for their own ends. A whole legion of "Galician Riflemen" was sent as part of the Austrian army to plunder the Uraine. Popular uprisings broe out in the Kiev, Kherson, Yeaterinoslav provinces. Vill ages and even whole districts mustered partisan detachments and fought the invad ers. In the neighbourhood of Zvenigoroda alone the partisans destroyed several regular units of the German-Austrian army. The Austrian Eastern Army was led into the Uraine by Field-Marshal Bohm-Ermolli . The command was then handed over to General Kraus. At the end of March 1918, b y agreement with the Germans, General Kraus plundered the Podol, Kherson, and Ye aterinoslav provinces a huge area of the Uraine stretching from the Zbruch to th e Azov Sea. As soon as General Kraus too command of the Eastern Army, the Austrians' advise r on Urainian affairs, Zenon Pecheritsa, received a staff appointment at the he adquarters of the 12th Austrian Army Corps located in Yeaterinoslav. In this ca pacity Pecheritsa often accompanied punitive expeditions into rebellious distric ts, and on these occasions he used all his cunning to mae himself useful to the Austrians. Now, tracing Pecheritsa's route from the remote little village of Kolomiya to th e shore of the Azov Sea, Vuovich discovered that usually when the Austrian puni tive expeditions went out from Yeaterinoslav they based themselves on the colon ies of German settlers, particularly in Tavria. Vuovich had been familiar with Tavria since childhood. His grandfather, fleeing from Serbia after taing part in the uprising against the ruthless Prince Milos h Obrenovich, had settled there in the first half of the nineteenth century. In Tavria Vuovich's grandfather had married a Urainian woman and made his home th ere. Vuovich's father went to wor at the iron mills in Mariupol, where he beca me a blast-furnace foreman. In Mariupol his son joined the Komsomol and during t he Civil War was sent to wor in the security forces. As he studied Pecheritsa's route through the country of his childhood, Vuovich discovered that one of the Austrian detachments which Pecheritsa had accompanied had got as far as the German colony of Neuhoffnung, on the ban of the river Be rda. Vuovich at once began to tae an interest in the history of this colony an d learnt that it had been founded at the beginning of the nineteenth century by Germans who had emigrated to Tavria from Wurttemberg. Vuovich piced up his magnifying glass and scanned the map to study Zenon Peche ritsa's route to the Azov Sea in the spring of 1918. The security man found the map dotted with German place-names Forstenau, Goldstadt, Muntau... These were rich German colonies that abounded in the fertile Tavrian steppes. In the time of th e tsars the German colonies had lived a life of plenty. But as soon as the call "All power to the Soviets" was raised at revolutionary headquarters in St. Peter sburg, the wealthy German colonists were often awaened at night by their fear o f the people's power. They welcomed the Austrian army with open arms. When army curates in grey unifor ms held thansgiving services in the colony churches and prayed for the Hapsburg dynasty, the elders of the colony wept with joy.

There could be no doubt that the colonists treated Pecheritsa an Austrian hireling with an excellent nowledge of German as one of themselves and gladly assisted hi m in his raids on the Urainian villages. Vuovich decided that a cunning enemy lie Pecheritsa would be sure to have cont acts in the colonies where he used to stay. It was no secret that the Austrians had planted agents in the colonies when they left. These agents, too, would mae useful contacts for Zenon Pecheritsa to fall bac on if the danger of exposure forced him to abandon his comfortable position and go underground. Soon afterwards Vuovich learnt that a certain Shevchu, an agricultural student from Podolia, had arrived at the state cattle-breeding farm in the colony of Fr iedensdorf for a course of practical training. Shevchu had taen full board wit h Gustav Kune, an elderly colonist who in the absence of the pastor was running the Lutheran chapel at the colony. Vuovich had scarcely read this piece of information before another message was brought to him. From the town on the Azov Sea which had now become a second home to us Vuovich was informed that the suspected spy Zenon Pecheritsa had been se en in the town, but had evaded capture. Though he had tried to foresee every possible action that Pecheritsa might mae, Vuovich could not understand why Pecheritsa had shown himself in broad dayligh t in a crowded holiday resort. It would have been far simpler and less dangerous for him to have spent his time with the colonist he new, Gustav Kune. After l ong consideration, Vuovich arrived at the conclusion that Pecheritsa, on reachi ng Zhmerina, had changed on to a train going to Odessa, and from Odessa made hi s way to the Azov coast by sea. This assumption, however, turned out to be wrong. Pecheritsa did not go to Odess a and did not reach Tavria by sea. First of all he too a train to Kharov, expecting to find help and support ther e. But Kharov was no place for him; at that time the Urainian nationalists the re were being exposed and tried on a big scale. Pecheritsa, who had to stay the night illegally, now with one nationalist friend, now with another, might do his hosts great harm, and they advised him to hide himself somewhere farther away. Pecheritsa too a train to Mariupol and from there drove over the dusty coastal roads to our town in a hired cab. Perhaps he was the "profitable passenger" abou t whom Volodya had told us so unsuspectingly. Looing at it from his point of view, Pecheritsa was right in going to Mariupol. He was afraid of pursuit and wanted to cover up his tracs. At a distance it is always difficult to get to the bottom of things. By agreemen t with his chief, Vuovich, who new Pecheritsa by sight, too a trip to the dis trict where Pecheritsa had appeared. That was how I had happened to see Vuovich on the day of his arrival, when dressed in his light summer suit and Panama hat he was waling from the station into town. He had not acnowledged me because h e had wanted to eep his presence in the town a secret for the time being. In our town Vuovich received a great surprise. When he arrived at the local sec urity department, he was shown an urgent message from the stationmaster at Verh ny Toma. The message said that the body of a murdered man had been discovered near the station, in a gully where pottery clay was usually quarried. The papers found on the body bore the name of Shevchu which Pecheritsa had assumed when h e fled from our town. . . "A body?" Sasha exclaimed in awe. "But that's impossible! Who could have illed him?" "Do you thin I now who it was?" Niita replied. Peta was also deceived by the calm tone in which Niita spoe. "Vuovich told you everything, Niita," he said disappointedly. "In such amazing detail. Surely he could have finished his story and told you who illed Pecheri tsa?" "Yes, just fancy, not telling me that.." Niita murmured, scarcely able to conce al a smile. "By the way, chaps, are. you sure those reapers will be loaded befor e dar?"

"You can rely on Golovatsy," I said. "They'll be up at the station in time for the night train." "Then I'll tell you the rest," said Niita. THE BODY IN THE GULLY The thing Vuovich had been afraid of had happened. When inquiries were made abo ut Pecheritsa in Friedensdorf, one of the chapel-goers heard about it and immedi ately informed Kune that the authorities were interested in his guest. Cursing his luc but not waiting to be captured, Pecheritsa left the colony at d us and made for the nearest railway station, Verhny Toma. Kune had supplied him with letters of recommendation to rich Germans living on the outsirts of T aganrog. . . . Night. Two oil lamps cast their dim light on the little station of Verhny Toma that lay half-hidden amid melon-fields and vineyards in the middle of th e steppe. The sleepy stationmaster dozed by the open window waiting for a call f rom the next station. Pecheritsa paced up and down the gravel platform. Presently another passenger ap proached him and ased for a light. Pecheritsa held out his burning cigarette. H aving nothing better to do, the two men strolled up and down the platform talin g. Little by little Pecheritsa learnt that his new acquaintance was a supply age nt from Novocherass. His name was Yosif Oolita. He was on his way home after a long trip round the coastal districts bordering on the Azov Sea, and was glad of someone to tal to. Soon Pecheritsa learnt that Oolita was a Galician lie himself. Oolita's paren ts had taen him out of Galicia to the Volga region when he was still a boy. Fea ring Austrian persecution, the people of many villages in the Western Uraine ha d left their native land with the retreating Russian troops in those years. In 1 916, there were Galicians to be found in the Caucasus, in Tavria, in the Crimea. Some of them travelled even further to the Penza and Saratov provinces. Oolita's parents had died during the famine in the Volga region and he, now an orphan, h ad gone to live with his uncle, also a refugee from Galicia, who had settled in Novocherass as a tailor. Son of a schoolmaster from Galicia, Yosif Oolita had not only got used to livin g with the Russians, he even praised Soviet rule and was intending next autumn t o enter the Rostov Teachers' Training Institute. That night, as he listened to this confiding young fellow who had almost complet ely lost his Galician accent, Pecheritsa agreed with him about everything and at the same time thought to himself that he could mae very good use of Yosif Ool ita's papers and biography. Who could tell what treatment he would receive from the friends of Gustav Kune to whom he was going! And besides, to save his own sin, Kune might disclose Pe cheritsa's whereabouts at the very first interrogation. A bell rang indicating that the train for which they were waiting had left the l ast station and was on its way to Verhny Toma. Pecheritsa's cold treacherous mind wored quicly. While trying to gain the friendship of his fellow countryma n with memories of his native Galicia, Pecheritsa was thining: "The body will b e discovered with my papers on it, and if they've started searching for me, thei r first move will be to call up Kune to identify the murdered man. Kune's an o ld hand at the game. To save himself and give me a chance to get away, he's boun d to say it's me." A short distance from the station a well could be seen among the trees. Saying t hat he was very thirsty, Pecheritsa ased his companion to wor the pump. Suspec ting nothing, Oolita willingly agreed. They waled towards the well. As soon as they reached the shadow of a warehouse, Pecheritsa pulled out a hunting nife a nd stabbed Oolita in the bac. Pecheritsa dragged his victim into a near-by gul ly, searched his pocets and too his papers, money, and cigarette-case. There w as no time to lose. After hastily thrusting the false papers bearing the name Sh evchu into the dead man's pocet, Pecheritsa washed his hands in a puddle by th e well, and picing up Oolita's little wooden case of provisions calmly waled

on to the lighted platform from the other side of the station. The train from the Azov Sea stopped at Verhny Toma for three minutes. Then th e train steamed on to Pology carrying with it the bogus supply agent Yosif Ooli ta. The homebound holiday-maers, sunburnt and sleepy, dozed between their clean she ets. Anxious for a short rest before arriving at the busy station Volnovaha, th e old steward nodded in his compartment. No one paid any attention to the chance passenger who had taen a vacant seat in one of the candle-lit compartments. The new passenger was in high spirits. Certain that he had at last baffled his p ursuers, Pecheritsa on arriving in Rostov-on-Don too a room in the best hotel i n the city. He calmly booed himself in at the hotel and was able to live there for three da ys, confident that no one would tae any notice of a supply agent travelling thr ough Rostov on his way from Novocherass. He must have enjoyed his sleep after so many days of agitated wanderings. In the evenings he went for wals round the city. Pecheritsa experienced what must have been the most terrifying moment in his lif e on the fourth day. The door of his room opened and instead of the waiter with silver-plated tray whom he had been expecting he saw framed in the doorway the s lim fair-haired figure of Vuovich. Vuovich raised a revolver and in a calm, everyday voice said: "Hands up! ..." "Hold on, Niita! How could he have found Pecheritsa under another name, and in a big town lie that?" Sash a exclaimed. "You may be a flyer, Sasha, old chap, but you are still unforgiveably naive," Ni ita said impressively. "Try to understand this. Vuovich and his comrades were trained under the Iron 'Knight of the Revolution, Felix Edmundovich Dzerzhinsy! They serve the Party and Soviet power, guarding all that we gained in the Great Revolution of October. Everyone is eager to help them! When Vuovich had caught that spy, he wrote the railwaymen of Verhny Toma a letter requesting them to put up a memorial on the grave of Yosif Oolita, near the gully where he was mu rdered by Pecheritsa. And he even thought out an inscription for it. Do you now what it was? To a son of the oppressed Western Uraine, Yosif Oolita, who was murdered by a hireling of world capitalism. Sleep in peace, dear comrade. Your n ative land will now the happy hour of liberation.' I'll be passing through Ver hny Toma tonight, and if the train stops there, I'm going to have a loo at th at memorial." "All right, Niita," I interrupted, "but you haven't told us properly yet how Vu ovich guessed that Pecheritsa was living in that hotel." "How did he guess it?" Niita said with a grin. "I'll tell you. I mentioned that the dead man's uncle was a tailor in Novocherass, didn't I? Well, nowing his nephew would stop in Mariupol for a few days, Oolita's uncle sent him a letter to be called for at the post-office there. It was brief but pleasant. Oolita's uncle told his nephew that he had been accepted for the Rostov Teachers' Traini ng Institute. He advised him to turn in his wor and come straight home. Oolita had put this precious letter in a pocet that Pecheritsa in his haste failed to search. Vuovich immediately telegraphed the murdered man's uncle to come to th e scene of the crime. While the coroner was checing the age of the dead man, wh ich obviously did not correspond to Pecheritsa's, Oolita's uncle was on his way to Verhny Toma. He identified the body and after that it was quite a simple matter to arrest the murderer..." As if awaening from a deep meditation, Peta said excitedly: "Just thin what w ould have happened, chaps, if Pecheritsa had fooled us! We'd never have finished our schooling, we'd be hanging about half-trained in Podolia somewhere, and the woring class would have lost a reinforcement of fifty-two people!" "And the commune wouldn't have got its reapers," said Sasha. "There wouldn't have been any reapers, that's a fact," I agreed readily. "A lot of things wouldn't have happened. We wouldn't have been sitting here... Gosh, wh at a lot of harm just one traitor can cause, if he isn't discovered in time!"

"You're not going very deep, Vasil," Niita cut in. "It's not just a matter of o ur factory-training school. People lie Pecheritsa do harm to the life of the wh ole people, to Soviet power. The point is that we've learnt how to get at their dirty hearts long before they can get at ours! They'll never succeed in splittin g the Uraine away from Russia. The people of the Uraine are honest woring peo ple, and they understand very well what gentry lie Pecheritsa are after. Rememb er Lenin's words that we learnt at school: 'If the Great Russian and Urainian p roletariat act together, a free Uraine is possible. Without that unity the subj ect cannot even be raised.' Every worer in the Uraine has got those wise words deep inside him now. He tested them well during the Civil War and treachery won 't change his convictions. And sooner or later those traitors will get what's co ming to them, because the truth is found to be on our side." Niita was silent f or a little, then he said: "Let's go bac, chaps. The. sun's setting and we've a long way to row." We all heaved together and pushed the boat into the calm water of the harbour. I rowed at stroe and Sasha too charge of the rudder. The long springy oars swep t easily through the water. Glistening drops falling from the blades sparled in the dying rays of the sun. The rowlocs creaed in time with our oars and Sasha , resting in the stern, struc up a song: Bravely we march to fight For the power of the people! All of us our lives will give In that great battle! ... We saw Niita off late at night. With us we brought a sac of hay to mae hi m comfortable in the open truc under one of the reapers. The engine was being coupled to the long goods train, when Niita suddenly pulle d an enamel flas out of his rucsac and said: "Show me where I can get some wa ter, Vasil." "Come on, we'll show you," Peta volunteered readily. "No, you and Sasha wait here and loo after my things. Vasil will tae me there. Come on, Vasya!" Niita said hastily. When I led Niita to the water tap I did not now that it was a desire to tell m e a secret that had made Niita insist on my showing him the way. As soon as we reached the taps sticing out of a stone hut at the bac of the platform, Niita glanced over his shoulder and whispered in my ear: ; "Tell me, Vasil, did you show anyone your letter before you sent it to me?" Not realizing fully what Niita was driving at, I replied cautiously: "No, I didn't... Why?" "And you didn't tell anyone about what you had written?" "No, nothing... that is, I said I had written you a letter, but I didn't tell an yone what was in it." "You didn't tell anyone about your suspicions that this woman Rogale-Piontovsa ya who runs the dancing-class is a relative of the Countess in Podolia?" "But is she? ... Well, that's what I thought!" And I went on excitedly: "But whe n I saw her, I decided it must be just a coincidence. That one bac home was thi n and dignified-looing, but this woman here's more lie a meat-trader at the ma ret." "Well, go on thining that, understand?" Niita said meaningfully. "Just a coinc idence of names, and no more! And don't tal about it. That's a request not only from me, there's someone else..." "Vuovich?" A loud claning announced that the engine had been coupled to the train. "I'll tell you all about it one day," Niita said, "but for the time being... de ad silence! All game has to be staled quietly." "Wait a minute, Niita!" I protested, thoroughly bewildered. "We're planning to show up Madame and her dancing-class. I told you..." "As a Komsomol undertaing?" "Yes, all the young chaps will be in it..."

"If it's the Komsomol that's doing it, that's all right. That won't interfere. B ut you must act as if you'd never heard that name in your life before. Then the little detail that you told me in your letter won't be wasted... Now, let's go.. ." WHAT IS AN "INSTIGATOR"? Even before the five reaping machines that Niita had taen away with him had re ached their destination, Golovatsy had suggested that every Komsomol group shou ld appoint speaers to inform the worers about the political situation during t heir lunch-hour. True, one of our fellows, Arady Salagai from the drilling shop , objected to Tolya's suggestion. Salagai said that we should be interfering wit h the wors Party organization, and argued heatedly that reading out the newspap ers during the lunch-hour was the Communists' job. Salagai bawled out his argume nts with his greasy cap tilted raishly on the bac of his head, but Golovatsy new how to answer him. "Everyone nows," Tolya said very quietly and distinctly, "that there are twice as many Komsomol members at the wors as there are Party members. And isn't it o ur job to help the Communists? What, harm is there in devoting our efforts to wo r that the Party has pointed out to us! On the contrary, we ought to be proud o f doing it!" ... That summer, our worers, lie everyone else in the country, were very inter ested in our relations with Britain, and Golovatsy had decided that our first t as should be to read our worers a few of the latest newspaper articles on the subject. Today the joiners' Komsomol group was on duty and I was not a bit surprised to h ear Peta's deep voice when I entered the dining-hall. My friend had been worin g over the newspapers in the club reading-room till very late last night. Peta was standing on the low platform at the end of the hall with a copy of Izv estia in his hands. He was reading the Soviet Government's note to Britain: "British Government spoesmen are trying to interpret the fraternal help afforde d by the worers of the U.S.S.R. and their trade-union organizations to the stri e movement in Britain as an act of interference in the internal affairs of the British Empire. While considering unworthy of comment the crude attacs made by certain British Government ministers on the U.S.S.R., its woring class and trad e-union organizations, the Soviet Government points out that it is a fairly wide -spread phenomenon for any government to belong to a definite political party, a nd for one or another political party to have a dominating position in certain t rade unions..." The eyes of everyone sitting at the long tables covered with fresh-smelling oilcloth were focussed on Peta. If any of the men who were eating needed hot water from the steaming urn in the corner, he went up to it on tip-toe, trying to ma e as little noise as possible, and still eeping his eyes on the speaer. I couldn't help feeling glad for Peta. A factory-school trainee, who only a lit tle while ago had been catching birds with "wobblers" and running barefoot about our hilly town, was now reading out a government note to the worers of a big e ngineering wors and everyone was listening to him attentively. I regretted that Niita was not here; he would have been pleased to see the progress his pupil h ad made. In the farthest corner of the hall I noticed Golovatsy and Flegontov, who had a rrived recently from Leningrad. They, too, were listening attentively to my frie nd. As I listened to this note in which the Soviet Government swept aside the foolis h slander of Chamberlain and Co., I recalled my conversation with Old Turunda. "Yes, we shall go on helping arty honest worer who is oppressed by the capitali sts, and if the capitalists don't lie it, they can lump it," I thought to mysel f. It was as if the Soviet diplomats had overheard our argument that evening and we re now expressing our thoughts in the note. True, they did it in a very polite m anner, but that did not mae the thoughts any less clear and definite.

Lost in my reflections, I missed a little of what Peta was reading and it cost me an effort to recover the thread of the argument. "... The degree of friendship in relations between states," Peta continued stea dily, "tells mainly on their economic relations. The most important feature of t he speech of the Chancellor of the Exchequer, Churchill, is his attempts to unde rmine economic relations between Britain and the U.S.S.R. "This slander by the man who was once the chief instigator of the British interv ention against the Soviet Republic in 1918-19 clearly pursues the same aims in r elation to the Soviet Republic as he has pursued ever since the Soviet Republic came into being. Churchill has not forgotten the blocade and intervention and h is present speech is calculated to revive the economic blocade against us..." Peta read the long sentence without stumbling over a single word, then paused f or breath. The short moment of silence was at once interrupted by Kashet. Kash et jumped to his feet, holding a mug of steaming tea. "Can I as a question, young man?" he shouted. "Go on," Peta said doubtfully. "You've been reading out a lot of long words. You reel 'em off so fast our minds can't get the meaning of them. Would you mind explaining to me, an ignorant wor ing man, what this here word 'constigator' means?" And glancing round triumphantly with his shifty little eyes, Kashet sat down no isily on his bench. Anyone could see that it was not ignorance but a desire to p ut Peta off his stroe that had made him as the question. "All right, I'll explain," Peta said. "But the word is not 'constigator,' it's 'instigator.' An instigator is a..." At that moment firm, heavy steps were heard in the hall. Flegontov, a short, sto cy man in grey overalls and brown boots thicly coated with dust from the found ry, was waling up to the platform. He raised his hand lie a pupil to his teach er and said quietly to Peta: "Let me answer him, old chap." Feeling that his attempt to spoil the reading was going to fail, Kashet called out, but in a much quieter tone: "Why interrupt the lad? He was reading fine, le t him explain it to us in his own way." "I want to help our comrade and mae things clear to you and everyone else. Will that spoil anything?" Flegontov retorted. "You want to now what this queer wor d 'instigator' means, do you? Well, let me tell you. In this particular case you might explain it this way. In 1918, the people we call 'instigators' were those who started the foreign invasion of the young Soviet country. After the world w ar, a few foreigners who owned factories in this country left their factories an d ran away abroad. At first they thought we, Communists, would brea our own nec s, then when they realized that wouldn't happen they decided to act differently . So those 'instigators' got together the armed forces of fourteen countries to crush the Soviet land, but, as you now, they were defeated. Well, that's what a n instigator is in international politics. But there are all sorts of instigator s. . . Sometimes you find people of that ind who've wormed their way into the r ans of the woring class, and although they don't wor on such a big scale as t he international type, they do a lot of harm to our cause. Tae the foundry, for instance. There's a fellow woring in the foundry who during the Civil War wobb led about between Old Man Mahno and General Deniin. And that fellow's lasted o ut till the present time, when we're rebuilding everything. He's been given a pa rtner to wor with, a young fellow who doesn't yet now the way we do things her e. Anyone can see that this lad could tae an intelligent attitude towards produ ction, and wor well not from fear of the big stic, but because his conscience tells him he ought to wor well, and you'd thin the older worer would help him on that path. But in this case the opposite's happened. The fellow I'm taling about instigates the new lad to follow quite a different path, the path of bad w or, and slacing, and indifference to our Soviet production. And what does such instigation lead to? Hundreds of castings are written off as spoilage, and some where out there, in his village, the peasant waits in vain for the reaper he's o rdered and says that co-operation between town and country is just a swindle. . . Do you see what I mean?" Laughter was heard all through the hall. The men looed at Kashet, who had buri

ed his nose in his enamel mug and was pretending to drin tea. "Well, if there are no more questions, we'll go on with the reading," Flegontov said and with a nod to Peta waled bac to his corner. Peta looed at Flegontov with gratitude, cleared his throat and went on reading . The bright midday sun dazzled me when a few minutes before the end of the lunchhour I followed Flegontov out of the dining-hall. Trucs piled high with oily bo lts fresh from the finishing shops stood in the yard, left there by the worers during their brea. "That was one of your mates reading, wasn't it?" Flegontov ased me. "That's right! We used to study at the same factory school." "He's a good chap. He didn't get rattled." But I was wrestling with a problem: should I tell Flegontov, the secretary of th e Party organization, that he had been wrong about one thing? I said cautiously: "But there are one or two things I don't agree with you about , Comrade Flegontov." "What exactly?" His big sunburnt, slightly poc-mared face turned towards me. I noticed that the pea of his old army cap gleamed with graphite. He must have been wearing it ever since the Civil War. "When you hinted that Kashet is inciting his partner to turn out bad wor, you seemed to be protecting Titor. What you seemed to be saying was, Kashet's a sp oiler and a slacer, but Titor's as pure as a lamb. That's not true, Comrade Fl egontov! If only you new..." Flegontov interrupted me. "How old is Titor?" "About eighteen." "I see. Well, what ought I to now?" In clumsy, stumbling phrases I told the secretary how Titor had acted at school , how he had stuc out against the collective, how he had failed to respond to t he security alarm because he was drun. "And is that all?" Flegontov ased. "But we expelled him from the Komsomol! He's a hopeless case." "You're maing a mistae, Mandzhura," Flegontov said calmly. "We can't throw peo ple away lie that. As far as I can mae out from my own observations, your mate Titor is an obstinate, stuc-up sort of fellow. But such people can be re-educ ated. Don't you see, Mandzhura, that we've got to fight for every man, especiall y the young man? I'm sure that expulsion from the Komsomol has turned your mate sour. You must try and mae him understand that everything is not lost. I don't want you, a Komsomol organizer, to wash your hands of people lie Titor. That w on't do us any good. If he's stubborn, go at him with good, principled arguments . It's the easiest thing in the world to say a man's a hopeless case and leave i t at that. But sometimes, you now, even a criminal can be reformed and put on t he right path by the strength of our convictions. We've got the truth on our sid e!. . ." That evening a north wind sprang up and the bay was fleced with white-capped wa ves. The strong steppe wind lashed them furiously and clouds of spray gleamed pi n in the blea light of the setting sun. For a few minutes our faces turned a d eep ruddy bronze in the sunset. Peta and I were sitting on a bench near the har bour restaurant. Night approached imperceptibly. As the blue shadows crept over the earth, a fain t smell of baing bread reached us on the little mound where we sat. Knowing that Peta had no rehearsal at the club this evening, I had suggested a wal along the sea-shore. Peta had agreed willingly, and when we sat down on th e bench, he said with a sigh of relief: "Flegontov did me a good turn today, didn't he? He must have nown I wasn't very well up in my nowledge of Britain. You see, I had piced on China as my subjec t. The number of notes I'd made about it colossal! And then Golovatsy made me rea d about our relations with Britain.. ."

"I now as much about Chinese affairs as I do about the Chinese language," I con soled Peta. "Chinese affairs are very complicated," Peta said firmly, in a rather superior tone. He was silent for a moment, then as if deciding to abandon his shyness, he said enthusiastically: "I say, Vasil, do you remember the statement that the Chinese revolutionary Sun Yat-sen made to the Soviet Government?" "I've missed a few things lately... Wait a minute, though ... He's dead, isn't h e?" "He made the statement last spring, just before he died. He dictated it to his f riends. It's a fine statement! Listen. This is what Sun Yat-sen said: 'You stand at the head of a Union of Free Republics the legacy left to the world by the immo rtal Lenin. With the help of that legacy...' " Peta wrinled his broad forehead in an effort to recall the exact words, then went on enthusiastically: "Yes, an d then it goes on lie this. '.. .With the help of that legacy the victims of im perialism will inevitably achieve liberation from that international system whos e foundations have from ancient times been rooted in slave-owning, wars, and inj ustice...' Fine, isn't it? What conviction! And it ends up lie this: 'In saying farewell to you, dear comrades, I wish to express the hope that soon the day wi ll come when the U.S.S.R. will welcome a great and free China as its friend and ally, and that in the great struggle for the liberation of the oppressed peoples of the world both allies will march forward to victory shoulder to shoulder.' P erhaps you and I will live to see that day, Vasil. Thin what China and the U.S. S.R. mean together! Hundreds of millions! Nearly half the world! We shan't be af raid of anyone then!" Just then we heard voices behind us. "There's someone sitting over there!" I heard Golovatsy say loudly. "This will do, there's an empty bench here. You can go to the restaurant later." And suddenly I felt as if a bucet of cold water had been tipped over me Titor's harsh, stubborn voice replied: "What do you want to tal to me for? I'm not a Ko msomol member..." "So you thin if I'm secretary of the Komsomol organization there's nothing for us to tal about?" "Yes, I do. . . You caricatured me in your newspaper as if I was a saboteur..." We were sitting on the lee side of them and could hear every word, but at that m oment the lights of an engine showed up from behind the warehouses. A shunting engine rolled past hauling a long line of empty trucs. For a minute the air was filled with the hiss of steam, the clan of wheels, the piercing whi stles of the guards waving their lanterns from the trucs. What Tolya and Titor said to each other amid the noise of the passing train, I don't now, but when the last truc wined its red light and vanished into the d arness, the wind again brought us Golovatsy's excited voice. "You've got youth, strength, you've got a good pair of hands, Titor," Golovats y was saying feelingly. "I won't believe that you can't wor well. I just can't believe it! But you eep on turning out bad wor, careless wor, wor that's don e any old how. And don't tal to me about bad models. I now a bit about foundry wor and I won't believe that under existing conditions you can't turn out a de cent job." "If you give me a different partner, I'll show them..." "Who do you mean by 'them,' Titor?" "Don't you now yourself? The chaps from my town! I suppose they've been complai ning to you about me, haven't they?" "If you are thining of Maremuha and Bobir, you're quite wrong, Titor. I've ne ver heard them say a word about you. As for Mandzhura, he gave you up as a bad j ob long ago. He and I even had a bit of an argument about you." "An argument?" Titor ased in surprise. "Yes, that surprises you, doesn't it? Mandzhura thins you're a hopeless case, a nd I say you aren't. He'd be glad to have a decent chat with you and forget the past, but he's sure you'll give him the cold shoulder."

"And what do you thin?" A fresh note of interest had' crept into Titor's voice , and it was not so proud. Golovatsy was silent. And in that silence, broen only by the distant whistle of the engine, the twang ing of an orchestra in the harbour restaurant, and the moaning of the wind, I re alized that Flegontov had told Golovatsy what I had said against Titor that da y. "What do I thin?" Golovatsy repeated, then deciding to bide his time a little before answering the question, he said: "All right, I'll tell you, but before I do so, you must answer a question that interests me." "I will," Titor replied firmly. "You'll answer everything I as you?" "Yes." That "yes" sounded very sincere. "Why did you do private jobs when you were studying at the factory-training scho ol?" "So you now about that too? ... All right, I'll tell you... To earn money!" "But weren't your parents helping you?" "Lie hell they were! After my mother died, my Dad got married to another woman. She got him right under her thumb and set him against me." "Is that the truth, Titor?" Golovatsy ased very seriously. "Why should I lie to you? I can tell you more. Dad would go off on a long run an d my stepmother used to nag at me every day. I put up with it because there was nowhere else to go. It was a long time before the chaps who were living with the ir parents got any grants, you now." "But you could have told the other lads what was going on at home," Golovatsy r emared. "I was too ashamed..." Titor confessed. "I didn't want to let the whole school now about our bicering. So I had to get by as best I could. I even too wor f rom profiteers, so as not to be dependent on my stepmother." "I want to believe that's true, Titor," Golovatsy said. "Why do you thin I br ought all this up? We are very interested in your future, Titor, just as we're interested in the future of any other young fellow. I want your hands to wor fo r the good of society. How can that be brought about? Team up with the rest of t he chaps! Tae an interest in what they're interested in. Thin less of yourself and as much as possible of others. But you're a lone wolf, so they tell me, you scowl at everyone as if we were all against you. But we only want one thing that you shouldn't waver between the two sides. Sooner or later such people get caugh t out. And I certainly don't want to see that happen to you. Train yourself to l ove your wor, to get on with the other chaps. Crush that pride which is eating away at you lie rust, and believe me, you'll become a different man." "Well, if you really want to give me a chance, I'll try," Titor said after a pa use, and in his voice there was no longer that scornful malice with which he usu ally spoe to people. They waled away in the direction of the town, disappearing quicly in the darn ess. Peta said to me: "It's true about Titor's Dad whopping him, you now. Do you r emember how Yasha came to school once all bruises, and pretended that he'd got b eaten up by tramps after a wedding party? And afterwards we found out that it wa s his Dad who'd made such a sight of him." "He didn't tell us because he was afraid we'd laugh. We were living independentl y and he had to rely on his father. He was ashamed of being tanned lie a id," I said, feeling genuinely sorry that we had not found out about Tior's family t roubles in time. Had we nown about it before, we could have taled to him in qu ite a different way. A DISCOVERY The weather was getting hotter and hotter. Except for an occasional storm, there was no wind. But the stifling, sultry days could not stop us from carrying out

our plans. Our success in maing the five reapers for the youth commune seemed t o spur us on. At first we thought that the chief engineer would at least condescend to read th e second issue of our wall newspaper, particularly the article by Zaablu. But not a bit of it! When Andryhevich came into the foundry, he never so much as gl anced at the newspaper. But we went on thining about the future of the foundry and, supported by the Pa rty organization, appealed to the young worers of the foundry to do a voluntary job on Sunday. As Peta, Sasha, and I waled to wor on the following Sunday, I thought over al l that had happened in the past few days: the long searches for spare parts and models to fit the twelve new machines that we were planning to install in the fo undry; the drawings we had made of the new row (we had decided in advance to cal l it "'Komsomol Row"); the distribution of ey jobs among our most active member s; the furious wrangling in the chief engineer's office, where our project had b een condemned on all sides; and finally, my first report to the foundry Party co mmittee. At first I had tried to get out of maing the report. As Komsomol secretary and an ex-foundry worer, Golovatsy seemed to be the best man to explain our idea. But Golovatsy would not hear of such a thing. "Don't be shy, Vasil," he said. "The idea started in the foundry, didn't it? It' s you who ought to tell the Party organization about it." Our young draftsmen managed to produce several copies of the project for the fut ure "Komsomol Row" in time for the meeting, and before I started maing my repor t I handed them out to the members of the committee. While I was speaing, Flegontov studied the drawing intently and ept looing up to glance through the dusty office windows into the foundry. By one of the smoe-stained walls there were several piles of dry, unused sand, "old regime" sand, as we called it. Under this sand lay the concrete bases for t he moulding machines, which the world war had prevented the old owner from insta lling. In those days, the wors had stopped maing reapers, some of the worers had been called into the army, and the moulders who remained behind were all put on one job the casting of hand-grenades. The wors turned out hundreds of thousan ds of those little pineapple-shaped missiles. The moulding was done fast and no one objected to the worers' throwing away scrap, cinder, burnt sand, and all so rts of rubbish on to the unfinished furnace. It was this foundry rubbish dump th at we had decided to get rid of. "It's a first-class idea, Komsomols!" said Flegontov. "And you've wored it all out properly. Twelve new machines that will mean hundreds of reapers above plan! I t'll mean jobs for the worers who are still waiting their turn at the labour ex change..." We parted at the plant gates. Peta went to the joiners' shop, Sasha disappeared into the store, where his mates were fitting out the new machines, and I went o ff to my "sand brigade." The first thing I noticed in the foundry was Titor's broad bac. Yasha was stan ding by his machine pulling off his blue blouse. "So you've come!" I thought with a thrill of pleasure. On Flegontov's advice and carrying out a promise I had given Golovatsy, I had g one over to Titor after wor on Saturday and said: "We're doing some voluntary wor tomorrow, Yasha. Feel lie coming along?" "I've heard about it!..." Titor had grunted without looing at me, and had gone on piling his empty mould-boxes. From such an answer I had been unable to tell whether he would come or not, and now I was very glad to see him. When we began to hand out spare shovels to chaps from the other shops, Titor st rode up to me in his singlet and said gruffly: "Well, where's my job?" "Tae your choice," I suggested. "Either you can stay here and clear the mouldin g floor, or you can carry sand. Or perhaps you'd rather sift it over on the othe r side?" "I'll stay here," Titor decided. "Let's get hold of a shovel."

"You'd better put a cap on," I advised, glancing at his flowing hair. "You'll ne ver wash the dust out, if you don't." "Who cares!" Titor said with an obstinate shae of his head. A few minutes later he was one of the first to plunge his gleaming shovel into t he dry, caed sand. Soon there was such a dust in the place that we seemed to see each other through a fog. The shovels soon grew blunt from grinding on the iron cinder and broen mould-boxes buried in the sand. Every time my shovel screeched, I thought to myself: "That's another chun of me tal for the sieves. The chaps will sift it out of the sand and it'll go into the furnace with all the other chuns, and then it'll come bac here for casting in a big glaring ladle. . ." Before I came here I had never realized the value of metal to the country. But a fter our tal with the wors director I had begun to see things from another ang le. And a few days ago we had re-read Comrade Stalin's report to the Fourteenth Party Congress, in which he had spoen of the shortage of metal. "Under these co nditions, our economy and our industry in particular, cannot mae further progre ss," Comrade Stalin had said, advising us to pay special attention to metal. Tho se words had made a deep impression on me, and now, as I cleared the sand, I fel t overjoyed at every piece of metal we found. The things we found in that dump! Broen shovel handles that might have been use d before the Revolution, half-finished grenades that brought bac memories of th e time when the troops of the south-west front moved through our town to Lvov ar med with grenades of the same type. Our shovels unearthed newspapers in old-fash ioned pre-revolutionary type, twisted iron watering cans for sprinling the moul ds, gear-wheels, even cartridge-oases green with age. We put it all on stretchers and carried it out into the yard. Soon Yasha pulled off even his blue singlet. The other chaps followed his exampl e. Their bare sweating bodies gleamed in the light of the electric lamps. All of us were glancing at Titor. It was a pleasure merely to now that he wasn't spe nding his clay-off at a cafe table with cronies lie the lisping Kashet. "We mu st fight for every lad we've got, and mae him ours for always, not chuc him aw ay to our enemies!" I remembered Golovatsy's words. And I realized that I had b een wrong about Titor and that Tolya had been right. "But why can't we fight for Angelia then?" I thought. "Her father's a bourgeois through and through, and doesn't lie us. That's a fact. But surely she may tur n out better than her parents!" But the way Golovatsy had called her a "conceit ed young hussy" suggested that he had washed his hands off her entirely. "No, To lya, old pal, you've made a mistae here somewhere," I thought, and plunged my s hovel even harder into the sand. I had another reason for being in a good mood. The day before I had received a p ostcard from Galya that Niita had sent on to me. Apparently my card had never r eached her. The factory to which Galya had been sent had been full up, but the steelworers' trade union had helped her to get a job as a turner in a shipyard engineering s hop. Judging by the tone of the postcard, Galya was very pleased with her job. " If you tae a trip through Odessa when you go on holiday next year, don't forget that your old and true friend lives here," she wrote. "Be sure to loo me up. A nd in the meantime, don't forget to write 111" The three exclamation mars at the end of the postcard, and the whole postcard w ith its view of the sea, and especially the fact that Galya had gone to the trou ble of finding out my address gave me a thrill of joy. "I was unjust to Galya," I thought. And as I tossed sand on the stretcher, I firmly decided to mae a poi nt of going to Odessa next year... Without waiting for us to clear away all the sand, the plumbers were bringing in pipes for compressed air. As I glanced at them screwing the pipes together, my thoughts turned to an idea that had been worrying me for some time. What with th e reapers for the commune, Niita's visit, and all sorts of other affairs, I had not been able to get my ideas down on paper... At that moment I noticed Titor throw aside his shovel and, bending down, lift s

omething that looed lie a piece of cord. Then he straightened up and, noticing an electrician in blue overalls standing on a step-ladder, shouted: "Hey, lad, come over here." Thining that he was being ased to shovel sand, the electrician responded gruff ly. "Can't you see I'm woring on the line!" "Get down quic, there's something else you can wor on here." Reluctantly the electrician climbed down from his steps. Swinging his screwdrive r, he waled unhurriedly over to Titor and, stooping on one nee, glanced carel essly at the wire. The wire stuc out of the sand lie a rat's tail. Shovels were scraping all roun d and no one paid the least attention to Titor's discovery. The electrician cro uched lower and lower over the wire, as if he wanted to lic it, then suddenly h e leapt to his feet as if he had been stung by a snae. "Stop!" he bawled, throwing a wild glance round him. "Don't panic! Tell us what's up?" Titor said tapping the dazed electrician on t he shoulder. "I'm not panicing. I now what I'm taling about," the electrician replied. "Th at's not a wire, it's a fuse! Understand?. . . Who's the senior here?" The menacing word "fuse" flashed through my mind lie a shaft of lightning. I th ought instantly of the unsuccessful attempt to sabotage security headquarters. W hat should I do shout for help or brea the fuse? Lucily, at that moment, Flegontov came out of the store. While we were cleaning the moulding floor, Flegontov, Turunda, and other moulders even older than they , had been helping the fitters from the tool shop to test the spare machines. "Comrade Flegontov! ... Come over here!" Titor shouted at the top of his voice. Flegontov turned in our direction, quicening his pace a little. "What's the matter?" he ased calmly. "Loo at that!" the electrician said pointing. "A fuse?" Flegontov said sharply. "Where did that come from?" And maing a quic decision, he shouted: "No smoing in here!" He waled quicly to the glass-fronted office and we saw his lips move as he pic ed up the telephone... We finished our job that Sunday so tired that we could hardly stand. It was dus when we left the shop after the twelfth and last machine had slid from the wood en rollers on to its stone foundation. Many a time that day it had seemed that t he shouts of "One, two, heave!" would bring the glass roof down on the heads of the cheering team of young and old men. The carpenters had made neat, fresh-smelling pinewood boxes for the moulding mix ture and set them up between the machines. New pipes were gleaming everywhere. T he damped stone floor looed blac from a distance. Before the twelve new "machine-guns" could be used, they had to be tested. Hundr eds of new mould-boxes had to be brought into the foundry, the machines had to b e partitioned off in pairs. Dozens of tons of clean sifted moulding sand had to be carried in from the buners and piled in great heaps on the broad space we ha d just won from the foundry rubbish dump. But the hardest, preparatory wor was over. Dog-tired as we were, you'd have thought we should have dropped down on our hard mattresses and fallen into a dead sleep. Ahead of us lay a whole wee of piece wor. But even when we got home, we still could not settle down. "When did they plant that mine there that's the question!" Sasha exclaimed. "Anyone can see that when Wrangel ran away!" I retorted. "That year their ships of ten came into our harbour. When those blighters had to pac their bags, they dec ided to blow up the wors, so that we shouldn't get it, but something must have gone wrong. Uncle Vasya was right about those technicians nosing round the shops at night." Cicadas were chirping in the garden below. Our landlady could be heard sighing h eavily in her sleep. Taling in whispers with my friends, I still imagined myself in the foundry watc hing the electrician carefully dig out the fuse from under the unfinished sand-c

overed furnace. Even before the town OGPU chief, a short, amiable-looing man in a grey suit whom Flegontov had called up by phone, had arrived in the foundry, Flegontov himself had discovered a mysterious box under the furnace and said tha t it contained enough dynamite to blow up the foundations of the blast-furnace, the copper furnace, and even the main wall of the foundry. Tolya Golovatsy pointed to the box of dynamite and said: "Loo at the present t hose capitalists left for the woring class, and remember it! They too the draw ings away and put dynamite in their place. What for? To blow up the foundry and stop the wors for many months. To wet this sand with worers' blood." "One thing's not quite clear," Sasha said, breaing the silence. "Those capitali sts want to get bac here. Why should they blow up the foundry?" "You are a silly fellow," Peta said in quite a grown-up way. "What's insurance for? Perhaps Caiworth insured this wors before the Revolution. Whatever happens , he's bound to get his money out of the insurance company, if the tsarist gover nment gets here." "All right, but why didn't they hide that fuse better?" Sasha insisted. A new idea occurred to Peta. "Perhaps one of them put it lie that on purpose. We were always throwing dregs of iron out on that dump. Just thin, if a drop of hot iron had fallen on that f use, the mine would have gone off!" "It's better not to thin of it!" Sasha replied in an awed tone. "But you tell us this, Sasha," Peta said, tapping Sasha on the shoulder. "Why d id the OGPU chief shae hands with you? Do you now him?" "Oh he shoo hands with everybody," Sasha said evasively. "None of that! He only shoo hands with Flegontov and ^ you," Peta retorted. "Well, I don't now," Sasha grunted. "But I do! Give me the matches, Peta," I broe in. Peta rummaged under his mattress and tossed me a match-box. Striing a match, I lighted the lamp. As it burnt up, I pulled out of my breast-pocet a folded sli p of paper whose existence I had almost forgotten. "Read this, Peta. Recognize the handwriting?" I said, handing him the paper. "His! Of course it's his!" Peta exclaimed pointing at Sasha. Peering at the paper that Peta indly thrust under his nose, Sasha gave a groan . "Gosh, what a memory!... Why didn't I burn it!" "Come on, out with your story! W e're your pals, aren't we?" I said. "What is there to tell? You now yourselves. . . You wouldn't believe me when I said I'd seen Pecheritsa. You laughed at me. But I thought to myself: 'Let them laugh, but my eyes can see all right.' And I reported it. Pity I didn't destroy the copy... There's no need for you to laugh!" "Who's laughing? You are a funny bloe! It was the right thing to do!. . . Do yo u thin we ought to go stargazing while they plant mines under us?" I said to Sa sha. That night I was the last to go to sleep. Listening to the steady breathing of m y friends I thought over everything I had seen during the day until my head ache d. The quiet, sunny seaside town seemed a very different place to me now. A despera te, struggle between the new and the old was being waged behind its facade of bl issful calm. The signs of this struggle came to light suddenly, lie the anonymo us letter from one of Mahno's men, or the hidden fuse that Titor had discovere d today. Our hidden class enemies were still hoping to recover the power of whic h the 'Revolution had deprived them for ever. In order to hinder our progress, t hey would sin to any depths. "They are on the watch for every mistae, every blunder we mae," I thought. "An d they are still hoping to tae advantage of our carelessness and good-nature. T hey are hoping that we shall collapse; if we live and prosper, sooner or later w e shall rid the whole world of them... They realize that and will stoop to anyth ing to prevent it. But if that's the way things are, don't be caught out, you of

the Komsomol! Have ears lie axe-blades, as Polevoi used to say. Wherever you a re, wherever you go, always be on the alert." WE ATTACK! Although we made every effort to eep our plan of attac on Madame Rogale-Piont ovsaya's saloon a secret and held all our rehearsals behind loced doors, the r umour of it spread round the town. Even the old men began to as how much longer it would be before we put on our Komsomol show. Two Leningrad musical-hall artistes, an Arady Ignatievich and his wife, had com e to our town for a seaside holiday. Arady Ignatievich often brought his guitar down to the beach with him. When he grew tired of the silent occupation of sun-bathing, he would sit on the edge of the pier with his legs dangling above the water and start parodying the variety singers who made money out of their public with all sorts of rubbish. He composed his own parodies on the widely-nown ditties of those early days. Wh at a trouncing "Klavocha," beloved of all inds of profiteers and sugar-daddies , got from him, with her "fancy ways and bursting stays!" Arady Ignatievich did not even spare a new romance that many undiscerning people were fond of: "He wa s a miner, a woring man..." Arady Ignatievich spotted something in this highly romantic ballad that many people had failed to notice the banality of it. And ban al it was a miner, who for twenty years "in gloomy mine had toiled," falling in l ove and pining away lie an idle, good-for-nothing of high society! The visitor from Leningrad also brought with him a gleaming nicel-plated saxoph one. In the mornings, when he practised the high notes on this strange and unhea rd-of instrument, our landlady's pensive-looing goat would start bleating plain tively and the chicens would scatter in all directions squawing as if a haw w ere luring overhead. The Leningrad artistes too lodgings two doors away from us, near the brine bath s in Primorsaya Street. We decided to as them for help in our enterprise. Arady Ignatievich listened to my stumbling request and said weightily: "In othe r words, local manners are to be parodied? Very well, let us stir up this bog of petty-bourgeois sentiment!" .. .Sometimes after that I peeped into the rehearsal room where the people from Leningrad and Tolya Golovatsy were selecting performers for the show. Arady Ig natievich was usually leaning bac in his chair with a guitar in his hands. He h ad a long, gaunt face with a jutting chin and clean-cut profile. His wife, the f rail, graceful Ludmilla, in a blue sports froc with red pocets and an anchor o n the front, would sit beside him, tapping her foot in time with the music. Golo vatsy paced about behind them, stern and important-looing. At one of the rehearsals I saw Osauleno, the lad who had changed his name. He h ad dropped in at the club on Golovatsy's invitation and was rather worried, thi ning that Tolya might want to have another chat with him [about his tattooing. When he learnt what was afoot, however, Misha, still nicnamed "Edouarde," readi ly agreed to tae part in our scheme. There was some hidden power in this tousle -headed lad, who was decorated from top to toe with mermaids, moneys, and old-t ime frigates. He wanted to do everything at the show dance, and juggle with ten-po und dumb-bells, and even sing, although "Edouarde's" voice was not exactly tunef ul and often craced on the high notes. When I glanced into the rehearsal room, Misha was dancing. He was hopping about wriggling every part of his body and ic ing his legs wide. From time to time he would crouch down nearly touching the f loor, then straighten up wagging his finger and shuffling his feet in a ind of scissors movement. "What do you call that dance?" Golovatsy ased dubiously. "Blac Bottom!" Misha replied, panting for breath. "Where did you learn that?" Tolya went on. "A sailor was dancing it at the 'Little Noo.' The chaps who've been overseas sa y it's all the rage abroad nowadays." "Do you now what 'blac bottom' means?" Golovatsy ased. "Well, it's the name of the thing . . . lie 'waltz,' for instance."

"But what does the name actually mean? Do you now that?" And Tolya wined acros s at Arady Ignatievich. "Can't say I do..." Misha replied hesitantly. "Well, you are a coon, aren't you! Just repeating other people's words lie a pa rrot and not even troubling to find out what they mean! Are you really going to live your whole life in such a dull, lazy fashion? 'Blac bottom,' in Russian, m eans 'chornoyedno,' the lower depths. Do you want to sin to the lower depths?" Misha grinned flashing his silver teeth: "N-n-no, I don't!" "I should thin not either! Let those who thin that dance fashionable do that, we'll find something a bit more cheerful. We've got to stride on towards the lig ht, not sin to the lower depths!" ... When ticets for our youth show were distributed at the wors, I too two ex tra ticets and sent them by post to Angelia Andryhevich. Instead of writing m y own address on the bottom of the envelope, I wrote: "From Lieutenant Glan." Wh at gave me the idea, I don't now. I suppose I just did it out of devilment. As I had expected, Angelia turned up at the show with Zuzya Trituzny. He sat in the third row, oozing with self-importance. Now and then he offered Angelia fr uit drops out of a blue tin and whispered in her ear, grinning at his own joes. As I watched him paying his attentions to Angelia, I thought to myself: "Wait a bit, Zuzya, old chap! You can't imagine what a treat's in store for you!" In spite of Zuzya's attempts to amuse her, Angelia was glum and gazed at the st age with a far-away loo in her eyes. From time to time she pushed her hair bac carelessly in a way that suggested she would be only too glad to be rid of her tiresome companion. She did not even smile, as many did, when Golovatsy began h is introductory speech. "People who don't realize that youth can get fun and pleasure out of doing somet hing useful are downright stupid!" were Golovatsy's opening words. What the aud ience was to see he called "only our first attempt to show in its true light the depravity of the old life that still surrounds us, and to brand for ever the ap ing of things foreign." "The decadent music of the dancing-saloon and night club," said Golovatsy, "giv es rise to feelings of impotence and apathy, it lowers a man's woring ability. And it is no accident that our enemies use it as a weapon against us. But while branding what is rotten and alien to us," he went on, "we must learn from what i s good, see it out and cherish it, show everything that is genuinely of the peo ple." Golovatsy's words, which seemed to promise a very unusual spectacle, were liste ned to attentively by the large audience in the club hall. Besides the young peo ple of the wors, there were old worers and their wives among the audience. In the front row I saw Rudeno, the director, Flegontov, and Kazurin, the secretar y of the Town Party Committee. I had heard Kazurin spea once at a production meeting in the foundry, when he had called on us to combat spoilage and not to hold up the other shops. Turunda had told me that during the Civil War Kazurin had been with Budyonny's cavalry in its campaign from the Azov steppes right across the Uraine to Lvov. It was n ot for nothing that he wore on his white tunic the gleaming Order of the Red Ban ner, a very rare award in those days. Kazurin had helped us to prepare the show. After Golovatsy went to see him, ev erything was available materials for the costumes, mae-up men, balalaias from t he local watermen's club, Caucasian daggers that the militia had taen from capt ured Mahno bandits... As soon as Golovatsy had finished speaing, I slipped over to the signal bell. From there I could watch not only what was happening on the stage, but also what too place in the hall. True, it was rather difficult for me to read the large notice bearing the title of the show which was revealed as the curtain went up: CHARLESTONIADA or DOPE FOR DANDIES The club decorators had reproduced the Rogale-Piontovsaya dancing-saloon in de tail. The tall papier mache columns placed along the sides of the stage were as

greasy and finger-mared as they were in reality. The title notice was raised out of sight and a pianist in a long dress-coat appe ared on the stage an exact replica of the pianist at Madame Rogale-Piontovsaya's . In a squeay affected voice he started praising the dances that the "mademoise lles" and "messieurs" could learn at the saloon for fifty opes an evening. The n he sipped over to the piano and the rattle of the Charleston filled the hall. To the sound of the music, dancing couples began to appear from the wings. First a titter of amusement simmed across the hall lie a puff of wind heraldin g a storm, then the titters swelled into loud laughter, and soon the audience wa s laughing fit to brea every window in the club. The club artists had done a fi ne job! Woring with the mae-up men they had made the dancing couples into almo st photographic images of the regulars at Madame's saloon. Madeleine the plater jered wildly on to the stage. She was wearing a sailor's s uit with a broad collar and her fringe was so low that she seemed to have no for ehead at all. Her friends were icing their feet in such high heels that the au dience could scarcely understand how they managed to move on them at all. The girls' lips were vividly painted, not in "bows," however, as fashion demande d, but in huge ribbons! Nearly every dancer had a lurid blob under her nose, abo ut the size of a hen's egg. And the coiffures the mae-up men had given them! Fr inges reaching to their pluced eyebrows, turbans of hair rising in spirals on t op of their heads, birds' nests protruding from the bac of their necs, spaniel curls in huge abundance. One of the dancers, with bare legs, had pinned a green doll in her hair and cros s-belted herself with two red fox furs tied at the bac by their tails. All the male dancers were Charlestoning in narrow, pipe-lie trousers that seeme d in danger of splitting at any moment. The audience quicly guessed who was represented by a man with greying hair part ed in the middle and plastered flat with hair-cream. He was dressed in cream fla nnels and a grey jacet, and his face had been darened with a thic layer of po wder mixed with blac grease. The grey-haired dancer's face positively glistened . On his arm dangled a carved waling-stic. Without a doubt this was Mavrodiadi the lawyer. Half-Gree, half-Tur no one new how he had come to be in Tavria Mavrodiadi patrolled the noisy Avenue at a certain hour every day. Many were the pairs of shoes he must have worn out on its pavem ents. In winter he would sit in an office somewhere coining money by giving lega l advice to private traders on how to avoid paying their heavy taxes, or wanglin g inheritances for maiden aunts, and when spring came round, as soon as the firs t holiday-maers appeared, he would creep out on to the Avenue again. There he w ould get acquainted with young girls new to the town, read their palms and tell their fortunes with cards, go down to the beach with them, and lie about by the water's edge until dus in his red fez with a blac tassel. In the evening, afte r taing a turn along the Avenue, he would march off to the saloon swinging his waling-stic, iss Madame's hand and dance until midnight. But the most dangerous thing of all was that this old rae enjoyed the company o f young people. We hoped that Mavrodiadi's clientele would be considerably reduced after this ev ening, for the best way of exposing raes and swindlers is to ridicule them in p ublic. At that moment, yet another belated pair of dancers popped out of the wings. The audience roared a girl with her hair done in a bird's nest on the bac of her hea d had waled in accompanied by Zuzya Trituzny! He had been fitted out with checed trousers, but they reached only to his nees , lie football shorts. He was wearing orange football boots, so that nobody cou ld have any doubts as to who he was meant to be. Everything had been copied Zuzya' s favourite hair style with rubicund nec bare almost to his pate; the bow-tie a dorning a stiff collar. And all his mannerisms were there too the affectedly polit e inclination of his head, the sentimental, doe-eyed staring into the eyes of hi s partner. Abandoning the' Charleston from time to time, Pasha the carpenter, wh o was acting Trituzny, would pretend to be dribbling a football and bellow out a ll Zuzya's favourite foreign' words and football terms "shoot!", "s'il vous ptaitl

", "ach, charmant!", "aujour d'huil", "off-sidei".. . Never in his life could Zuzya have felt so foolish as he did that evening. On th e football field he would have been far more at ease. Even if he had missed a sh ot at an open goal, the blunder would have been quicly forgotten, for the spect ators' attention would have turned to the other players. But here Zuzya twisted and squirmed in full view of the audience for rather a long time. At first the real Trituzny, recognizing himself in his double, snorted and, shru gging his shoulders contemptuously, started taling to Angelia. But when Pasha the carpenter approached the footlights and called out Zuzya's favourite phrases , the footballer with the cannon-ball shot realized that he was being made fun o f in a rather unpleasant way. He began to blush. His nec turned purple, his lip s hardened in a straight line. He tried to sit still as if nothing had happened, but more and more of the audience fixed their eyes on him. At last the, wors d irector turned round in his direction and burst out laughing. Zuzya could stand it no longer. Twisting in his seat, he whispered something to his neighbour. Ang elia smiled and shoo her head. Zuzya grabbed her hand, obviously trying to lea d her out of the hall. But with surprising calm Angelia too her hand away and again shoo her head, continuing to watch the stage attentively. Zuzya shrugged his shoulders offendedly, and letting his seat bang, waled towar ds the exit. He strode down the long passage between the rows. His long pointed shoes squeaed and people's heads turned as he passed. Some wined, others whisp ered the hateful phrases after him, but the final blow came from Pasha himself. Seeing that the dandy whom he was imitating was retreating, Pasha stepped up to the footlights with his girl friend in the tunic and shouted after Zuzya: "Au re voir!" Then, sweeping Pasha aside, Madame Rogale-Piontovsaya herself burst on to the stage. She ran up to the footlights, stirring up the dust with the hem of her ol d-fashioned dress sewn together out of overalls. Surveying the audience through an ivory lorgnette, Madame began a slow dance. Who would have thought that this amazing lieness to the mistress of the dancing -class was not an actress but my friend Peta Maremuha! Peta's hair had been transformed into grey ringlets and his plump chees had re ceived a liberal coating of rouge. With paper clips Peta had fixed bits of cutglass from a lamp shade to the lobes of his ears. The result was the living imag e of Madame! Only when Peta's husy bass began a monologue did we guess who it was. Speaing to her dancing pupils and patting their shoulders,. Peta chattered awa y at about the speed of the Charleston. "How are you getting on, my dears? Missing your Mummiins? Don't miss anyone, do n't be sad. I'll teach you not to thin. . . Why should you study and thin of t he future and read boos? There's no need! It's terribly bad for you! Dance! Thi n with your feet! Lie I'm doing, loo at me. That's the way! That's the way! O ne-two! One-two-three! Hot it up, maestro!..." Holding up his voluminous sirts, Peta began to perform amazing antics. It migh t have been a chechota, it might have been a Urainian' gopa. But that did not matter. He went over to the piano, and brushing the pianist aside, sat down at the instr ument himself. And just as. his fingers touched the eys, an invisible band pic ed up the melody. Although Peta swayed from side to side and wored the pedals, everyone realized that he was not playing, and gradually forgot about him. The dancers quicened their pace in time with the music. Each pair danced in the ir own fashion. One of Madeleine's heels broe. She came down with a crash, pull ing her partner, a lany fellow with a pointed moustache, down on top of her. In the scramble that followed the girl with the fox furs had the green doll torn o ut of her hair and an elegant dandy attempted surreptitiously to hide it in his pocet. Trituzny (alias Pasha) left his tunic girl and started dancing with anot her. His insulted partner rushed at her rival with clenched fists. Madame Rogale -Piontovsaya dashed up to separate them. In the confusion the dancers gave way to all their petty feelings. From stiff, stuc-up dummies they turned into yelp

ing, whining creatures, jostling and abusing one another. Someone trod on Mavrod iadi's foot. But still he went on dancing, brandishing his waling-stic at his offender. One after another the girls in high heels began to loo down at their feet. Pain ful grimaces appeared on their faces. While they danced they tried to stic thei r fingers in their heels to gain a little relief. At this point an obliging pair of hands appeared from the wings and placed a sig n-post and a little bush on the edge of the stage. The sign-post had many arms, on which were written: "To the Lisi," "To Sobachaya Gully," "To Matrossaya Set tlement," "To Kobazovaya Hill". . . The dancers made a dash for the cherished "g rove." And then the audience saw more or less what Golovatsy and I had seen, wh en we were sitting on the par bench under the acacias. The girls pulled off the ir tight shoes, hopped about barefoot round the sign-post, uttering cries of joy and relief, then ran off home. A few of the most determined couples went on dancing. At that moment the lighting-effects man twirled the spot light. Bluish moonlight flooded the stage, and when the lights returned to normal, the men all had grey beards. They had danced their lives away. The girls, too, had turned into old w omen. Their movements were tired and feeble. And Zuzya Trituzny was not only bea rded, but to cap everything bald. MAKING IT UP Several times the curtain had to be raised while the performers came out on the. stage joining hands with Madame Rogale-Piontovsaya in the middle. But the real show did not begin until after this introductory parody. As usual, the "Blue Blouse Show," which was very popular in those days, performe d a few turns. After that, the milling shop's string orchestra, which was almost entirely compo sed of young people, performed the Russian fol song The Moon Is Shining and Cha iovsy's Sentimental Waltz. Then the old worers' choir appeared on the stage. To my great surprise I saw Gl adyshev among them. I had been accustomed to seeing him in a rough shirt with sh ort sleeves, and now I could scarcely recognize him. He was wearing a long blac dress-coat over a finely-embroidered blue high-neced shirt. Gladyshev turned o ut to be the leading bass. The choir sang In Bondage Harsh, then O'er the Wild Steppes of Trans-Baial and The Red Banner. The old men were loudly applauded and ased for an encore. After whispering together for a moment, they sang By the Don a Young Cossac Roams, t hen We Are Smiths and Young in Heart. But anyone could see that the songs of exi le were the favourites of the old worers, for when they were encored again, the y sang Ding-Dong, Har the Fetters Ring\ While they sang, chains could be heard claning bacstage. And you could just imagine the long road across Russia and a party of revolutionaries tramping through frost and snow to Siberia... To vary the programme, Golovatsy and the club-manager had invited some singers from the watermen's club. There were only three of them. To show that they were connected with the sea, they came on to the stage in oilsins and sou'westers. O ne of them I recognized as Kolya, the big sailor from the Life-Saving Society wh o had offered Angelia a life-buoy when she and I too a boat out together. The singers cleared their throats and to the tune of a bayan sang the gay Taganrog C hastushi. Now and then they stamped their big fishermen's boots that came up to their thighs. I did not now that Azov Sea fishermen were so good at composing comic songs. Then they sang some comic songs about the sea which can still be heard along the Azov and Blac-Sea coasts. Composed in the early years after the Revolution, th ese songs made fun of the interventionists who helped the Whiteguards to fight a gainst the young Soviet Republic. To the twanging of a pair of balalaias, the s ingers ridiculed the blac Baron Wrangel, the shaggy-headed Mahno, and the Brit ish naval commanders who had taen the Russian grand princes out of the Crimea i n their destroyers and been rewarded for their services with the family jewels.

For the first time I heard the sailor's song Spreads the Sea Wide performed by A rady Ignatievich. Then the solo dancers came on the stage. There turned out to be a lot of them. N o one would have thought that so much talent was hidden among the worers of our plant. A fellow would do a dance sometimes at a wedding, or a christening, or a t some other family gathering, he might dance for his friends at "The Little Noo ," but no one had ever thought of inviting such people to perform at the club, of giving him the chance to display his aft toy the whole wors. Golovatsy was a real bric to have thought of it! First came fitter Khimeno in a lambsin cap and Cheress cloa. He made several low bows, then began waling round and round the stage. Gradually the circles g rew smaller and smaller, his feet clad in soft chuvyai moved faster and faster across the boards, and finally he burst into a whirling highland dance, flourish ing a dagger. Stupa, a swarthy refugee from Bessarabia, gave a performance of a dance that wa s popular in his country the zho. Later this dance became widely nown in the Sov iet Union, but in those days it was a curiosity. Misha Osauleno from the transport department leapt out on to the stage dressed as a sailor. His face was beaming with pleasure. Osauleno did all sorts of trics, now pretending to climb a tall mast, now bend ing down and hauling on a rope. Then he gave an imitation of a sailor battling w ith a fierce storm. I new that Misha had never been farther out to sea than Belorechensaya 'Kosa a nd wondered how such a land-lubber could play the part of a sailor so well. Arady Ignatievich's wife, Ludmilla, did a dance too. She was wearing her blue s ports froc with red pocets. It was a tap-dance and her little feet moved with wonderful speed and precision. At a sign from Ludmilla the orchestra stopped pla ying and for a good two minutes she ept up the tune with the tapping of her fee t. At first Golovatsy had not wanted to admit our friend the cabman to the stage o n the grounds that he wored for himself, privately, instead of at the plant. Bu t we had persuaded Tolya to change his mind and even shown him Volodya's partisa n card. No one had cause to regret Volodya's appearance on the stage. While the band played a lively tune he juggled beautifully with nicel-plated balls, and e ven did a handstand on two bottles, supporting all his weight with his one sound hand. And after these trics he danced as well as Ludmilla. His sailor's hornpi pe won loud applause. But when Volodya danced the famous Azov chebacho, and the n completed his performance with the comic dance tip-top, his success overshadow ed that of all the dancers who had performed before him. The large entrance-hall into which the audience poured after the concert had bee n hung with caricatures of the regulars at the Rogale-Piontovsaya dancing-salo on. Above them placards in large letters stretched the full length of the walls: "Down with Charlestons and Foxtrots!" "We will drive bourgeois culture out of o ur life for ever!" "Give our youth sensible, cheerful amusement!" At the same time the youth section told its guests what amateur-talent groups th ey could join. One of the groups was a solo fol dance group. There was also a n otice saying that in a few days a class would be started for those who wanted to learn such dances as the waltz, the cracovienne, the mazura, the vengera, and the pola. The instructors at the worers' evening institute had taen advantage of the sho w to exhibit a notice laying out the conditions of admission to the institute. " Every Worer Can Become an Engineer!" was the heading at the top of the notice. While the people strolled about the hall, I went outside for a breath of fresh a ir. At the entrance I met Lia. "Good evening, Lieutenant," she said, offering me her hand. "Than you for the i nvitation." "Good evening," I pretended not to notice her sarcasm. "Did you lie the show?" "It was very unusual. And funny. There's never been anything lie that at the cl

ub before... Are you going home?" She looed at me from under her thic eye-lash es and, as if afraid that I might say "no" added quicly: "Do see me home, pleas e. My companion too offence and ran away."" "I now." "And now you're gloating? It was rather cruel. Do you thin he really enjoyed go ing to Genoa Street? Everyone goes there because it's so dull at the club. . . A re you going to see me home?" I looed at Angelia. Her big, rather slanting eyes were so full of appeal that I could not refuse. I went with her. "What do you mean 'dull,' Lia? That's silly. You tal as if your Zuzya were a l ittle baby who needed a nurse to play with him. Do you thin he gets through one boo a year?" "He doesn't," said Lia and laughed. "You're quite right about that." "There you are!" I said heatedly. "A chap who never bothers to thin and eeps h is brains in his feet will feel bored everywhere." "But tell me, Vasil, what made you spare me in this Charlestoniada of yours? All the time I was expecting to see myself among that dreadful lot." "We wanted ... we thought..." I muttered, trying to avoid the direct answer. And then I blurted out: "It was mainly the young people from the wors we wanted to influence." "What you really mean is that you consider me past any 'education,' don't you?" And Lia looed at me so intently that I felt embarrassed. "I didn't say that," I muttered, and thought to myself: "There she goes again, t rying to mae it a personal issue." We were waling along the deserted street that led to the sea, and I felt annoye d because this was not at all how I'd planned to spend the evening. Had I been p olite, I should have tried to amuse the girl waling at my side, but I ept a st ubborn silence. My thoughts were far from Angelia. Still fresh in my mind was the excitement of the days when all of us, a gay team of young worers, helped by the older men f rom the wors, had been maing reapers for Niita Kolomeyets and clearing the sp ace in the foundry for the new machines. And what a lot of wor lay ahead of us! Flegontov had related how Komsomol membe rs in Leningrad were trying to increase productivity. We wanted to mae use of t heir experience. We'll put up a Lost Minutes screen in our foundry and mar on i t every single minute lost through inefficiency, then Kolya Zaablu will count up how much these minutes cost us... We'll plant out trees and flower-beds in th e grounds... There's so much to be done! As if sensing my thoughts Angelia ased quietly: "Am I bothering you?" : "No, w hy?" "Why are you trying to avoid me?" "Our outloo on life is too different," I said franly. "I quite agree with you, but you must admit it's wrong to regard a per son only from one angle." "What do you mean?" "Well, tae for instance the way you loo at me. 'Here's a silly, whimsical girl who leads an easy life under her father's wing!' that's what you're thining, is n't it?" There was a tone of sadness in Angelia's voice. "But how can I thin differently, Lia, if you yourself. . ." But she did not let me finish and said passionately: "You lie to condemn everyt hing irrevocably, Vasil! You won't try to understand a person who may have a wor m eating at his soul. You mustn't "be lie that! Thai time on the boat it was en ough for me to say, 'I'm waiting for a lucy chance,' and you immediately reproa ched me. You didn't even try to understand what I really meant. I now very well that you consider me one of those helpless creatures whose sole desire is to ge t married. But I wish you'd understand that a future lie that won't satisfy me. I don't want to be lie those fat merchants' wives who only find pleasure in 's tuffing themselves with food, dolling themselves up, and going out with their hu sbands on Sundays to show off and gossip about other people..." Lia's fran words noced me right off my balance. "What do you want then?" I ased helplessly. She shoo her head and murmured thoughtfully: "If only you new how I hate this

suffocating provincial life!" "You're wrong again, Lia," I retorted. "It's your own fault if you choose your friends from the dregs. There are good people in the town as well. You shouldn't lump everybody together lie that. Tae our wors, for example. Thin how many decent, clever, interesting people there are there. What's 'provincial' about th em?" We sat down on the sea wall, not far from the spot where I had first seen Angeli a. Far out in the bay lay a foreign ship, her portholes gleaming. It was being load ed with grain from big shalandas that had come out from the shore. We could hear the noise of the winches mingled with the sound of the foreign speech and the t ramp of sailors' feet on the brightly lit dec. Lia was the first to spea. "Loo here, Vasil, I now there are quite a lot of interesting people in town wh o would give me strength and an aim in life if I'd let them. But at the moment I 'm taling to you about my own surroundings..." Her voice trembled. "May I be fr an with you?" "You can try, I lie fran people." "And you promise not to spread a lot of tal about what I say?" She looed at me rather strangely and I realized that she wanted to tell me a secret. "Why should I do that?" "I trust you, Vasil... You see, Father and Mother thin that this isn't going to last ... I mean Soviet power and all that..." "Well, you do surprise me, Lia! Do you thin I didn't now that without you tel ling me. One tal with your father was enough." "You realized that, did you? Well, there it is. He was very fran with you. At l east, more so than with others... You see, my parents have convinced themselves that this just can't last, that th ey've got to sit and wait for it to come to an end, lie a shower of rain. And a ll the people they now thin the same. 'Not much longer now. . .' that's what t hey all say, those gossiping women who come round to see my mother. First they p laced their hopes on Wrangel, then on General Kutepov. Once there was a rumour t hat Petlura had joined forces with Mahno, and that a whole army would be landin g in Tavria to save Russia from the Bolshevis. Mother even started counting up her tsarist government bonds..." This was too much for me and I said grimly: "That'll never happen, they'll go ba ld waiting for it, lie your Zuzya in our show. They'll just waste their lives a nd Soviet power will still be here, strong as ever." "Let's get one thing settled right away, Vasil: Zuzya's no more 'mine' than he i s 'yours.' " She sounded hurt. "Let me finish what I was saying..." And she loo ed at me fixedly. "Go on then," I said. "Well, these women spend days on end at our house, gossiping about one thing and another, about the weddings that were held there, how some person called Edward s got married to a Rogaliha, how many glasses the guests broe when they got dr un. Their whole life's a memory! I hear the same thing day in, day out, and I t hin to myself: 'What has all this got to do with me? They've nothing left excep t their memories, but I want to live! And I could have a real future.' " Moved by the sincerity in Lia's tone, I ased more gently: "Why did you argue w ith me before?" "Oh, that was just my stupidity! Just to be argumentative." "That never gets you far," I said. "Do you thin I don't realize that?" she said in the same sincere tone. "Of cour se I do! That's why I repented and sent you that note. That's why I've come to y ou now. It's the first time I've ever admitted myself wrong to anybody, obstinate creatu re that I am..." "My opinion, Lia, has always been that it is better to tell a person the truth straight out than to coddle him and pander to all his whims." "And you're quite right. But now tell me this, are you really convinced that I'm

hopeless." I could see she had been leading up to that question for a long time. She ased it with a slight laugh, then looed at me with her deep, attentive eyes. "No one thins that, but it seems to me.. ." "Don't beat about the bush! Say what you thin," Angelia challenged me. I said it: "Won't you be sorry to leave your comfortable home with your carpets and fairies? You've got rather used to them, haven't you?" She replied: "Believe me, if I see so much as a gleam of light ahead, I'll find a way out. I'll brea with it all for ever." "Are you quite sure of that?" I ased quicly. "Absolutely! How utterly fed up with it I am, if you only new! I used to be a t omboy and now I'm supposed to be a young lady. My mother nearly ased Father Pim en up to the house to teach me the law of God. But what law of God can there be, when millions of people are living by new laws!" I found it hard to conceal my joy. "So you don't believe in religion?" I said wi th relief. She laughed gaily and smaced my arm. "You are funny sometimes, Vasil. And naive too. Surely you don't thin I'm such a hopeless fool? Of course I don't believe in it!" "Why do you have an icon-lamp in your room then?" Still smiling, she answered simply: "While I go on living in my parents' house, I can't have rows every day." "Give them up! Say to hell with all those icon-lamps and gossiping women and fai ries. Go and study. And it would be better if you went to another town. Listen, Angelia, I'll tell you something. There used to be a girl at our factory school called Galya Kushnir. She studied with us for two years and never got behind in anything, though she did find it pretty hard sometimes to wor the cutters on . a lathe. When we finished at school, she was sent away lie the rest of us. And she had a mother and father, and no one would have said anything against her if she had wanted to stay behind. But Galya. did the right thing. 'Aren't I as goo d as the boys?' she said. Our Galya had guts. She went off with the rest of us. To Odessa. I've just had a letter from her. She's fixed up all right and very gl ad about it. She earns her own wages and she's not dependent on anyone..." Lia looed at me questioningly. "You thin I ought to throw everything up? I'd be frightened." "Why should you be? We had chaps at school who were complete orphans, whose pare nts had been illed by Petlura. But do you thin those chaps came to any harm? T hey made the grade fine! They're craftsmen now! Of course it was hard to live on a grant of eighteen rubles a month, that's a fact. We had to mae do with lenti ls and hominy for wees on end. But we got through it. And why can't you live in dependently, without your father and mother? I honestly advise you to chuc this rotten life and go and study." She sat without speaing, tapping her heels on the sea wall. Her gaze rested on the lighthouse that was sweeping the sea with its silvery beam. There was someth ing very pleasant in her thoughtful face at that moment. "Yes, Vasil, I've made up my mind!" she said turning sharply towards me. "It's a promise. But there's one thing that I'm not going to chuc up that's music. I wan t to go and study at the conservatoire. I've got an aunt in Leningrad, I'll go a nd live with her. She invited me once when she came here." "Fine!" I said, very moved. "You seem to be a good sort after all!" "Perhaps.. . I don't now. . ." she answered simply. I helped her to jump down from the wall and we waled quicly towards the club. The faint sound of music floated to us along the shore. "Tell me franly," Lia said falling into step with me. "Were you very offended with my father because of his sarcastic tone?" "I was more offended about something else." "Why, have you seen him since?" "Plenty of times. We had a real tussle over one thing. He wanted to scrap my ide a..." "Daddy did?" Lia exclaimed, as if her father could do no wrong.

"Yes, your father! I had an idea ... it was about heating the moulding slabs aut omatically... My suggestion was put forward at a foundry production meeting and supported by both the Party organization and the older worers. Then they sent i t to your father, as the chief engineer. And do you now what he wrote on my sug gestion?" "He doesn't tell me much about his affairs," Lia said. "He could just have written 'no' and left it at that. I'd have tried somewhere e lse. But he put in a crac with it: This young spar is hot enough without heati ng.' What do you thin of that?" "I recognize Daddy's style," said Lia. "But don't let that worry you. He's got all sorts of crany ideas. He even eats apples with maggots in them and says: I ll eat this maggot while I've got the chance, or one day it'll eat me.' " "But he was just maing fun of me!" "I can tell you this quite franly, my father's a great egoist and very fond of himself. Very often he enjoys seeing other people's failures. The worse, the bet ter!' that's what he says. Would you lie me to try and persuade him to change h is decision?" Lia suggested eagerly, and I saw sympathy in her eyes. "No, don't bother. I'll manage without that." A band was playing loudly when we waled into the brightly lit entrance-hall of the metal-worers' club. I recognized the old waltz A Forest Tale. The first thing that struc me when we got near the dancers was the old men wal tzing round the hall. They had not gone home, nor had they dropped in at "The Li ttle Noo," as they usually did. Their visit to the youth of the wors seemed to have restored their own youth. Even the close-cropped Gladyshev was waltzing ga ily, if not very gracefully, with his wife. And the young people were-breaing a ll records. There were far more of them here than at Madame's saloon, even on th e most popular evenings. A glance at the faces of young worers was enough to te ll me that they all felt themselves far more at ease than in the Genoa Street sa loon. Lua Turunda in a blue and white sailor's suit whirled past with his wife, who w as wearing an amber neclace. He wined at me, and then, noticing the engineer's daughter with me, opened his eyes wide in surprise. He new about the offensive remar Andryhevich had made on my plan. Lua's comment had been that the engin eer was a "devil of the old regime," no wonder he could not understand why I was taling so peaceably to Angelia. The band struc up a pola. I was about to invite Lia to dance, when I started as if I had been priced with a pin. On the other side of the hall, not far from Peta, stood Golovatsy, arms folded and watching us intently. Apparently Tolya had not forgotten his joing advice to me "not to get tied up with the neighbou rs." Now, seeing us together, he was lost in speculation. "Who cares!" I thought. "I'll tell you all about it afterwards, Tolya." And tai ng Lia's elbow, I led her on to the floor. Before we had finished the pola, however, Grisha Kanu appeared at the entrance . His sweat-stained face showed that he had only just finished wor in the found ry. I wondered why Grisha had not gone home to change, instead of coming to the club in his dirty woring clothes. The moment he caught sight of me, he started bec oning me out of the hall. "Somebody wants to see me, Lia, excuse me," I said and after finding her a seat went straight over to Grisha. "Golovatsy, you and all the active members of the Komsomol are wanted at the wo rs at once," Kanu whispered panting. He must have run all the way from the wor s. "But there's no one there..." I began bewilderedly. Lua Turunda touched my elbow as he ran past. "'Hurry, Mandzhura," he said. "It's a meeting with Rudeno." By the time we got to the director's office, the room was full of Communists and Komsomol secretaries from the wors. By the light of the two green-shaded lamps

I recognized Kazurin, Secretary of the Town Party Committee, our Flegontov, an d the OGPU chief whom I had seen when the mine was discovered under the foundati ons of the blast-furnace. "We won't wait any longer," Rudeno said looing round when we had all sat down. "Tonight, comrades, maing use of the fact that tomorrow would be a day-off, ou r enemies intended blowing up all the vital sections of our plant. Their plan is in our hands! There it is." Rudeno pointed to a crumpled paper lying before hi m. "I consider it my duty to than our comrades, the security men, for discoveri ng this document in time." Ivan Fyodorovich turned to the security man and gripped his hand warmly. The lat ter shoo his head, as much as to say that neither he nor his assistants deserve d any gratitude. The announcement shoced us, and in the tense silence that followed the director 's voice sounded even more impressive. 'The first warning we got of this ind of thing came to us, as you now, during the Komsomol members' voluntary wor on Sunday. The despicable hireling of the b ourgeoisie who had been entrusted with the tas of detonating the mine lost his nerve and failed to carry out this act of sabotage. Then the lads in the foundry spoilt everything for him. Fortunately he has now been arrested, and at the fir st interrogation turned out to be very talative. Similar mines planted by the o ld owner and his assistants in 1919 have been discovered in the stoe-hole and n ear the furnaces..." "Who was it, Ivan Fyodorovich?" several voices ased at once. "The worst worer and the worst drunard at the plant Entuta," the director said amid tense silence. "So that was the man who tried to frighten us with his anonymous letter after we had showed him up!" the thought flashed through my mind. After a pause the director went on: "Our comrade here will tell you the rest." A nd again he looed at the benevolent little man in the grey suit, beconing him to tae the chair. All night, until daybrea, we stood watch in the shops, guarding the wors until every fresh mine that had been discovered was rendered harmless. The fact that the good-for-nothing drunard Kashet had turned out to be a forei gn agent soon lost its novelty. "Wasn't it obvious from the start that the forei gn capitalists would recruit their agents among such degraded types!" I reflecte d as I paced up and down between the cooling furnaces. "People lie him who've n ever had any feeling for their country will do any filthy wor to get more money or another bottle of voda..." Madame Rogale-Piontovsaya, about whom the security man had spoen in a restrai ned but very impressive manner that evening, had nown about Kashet's past for a long time, ever since she had agreed to become a resident foreign agent in our town, concealing her secret activities against the Soviet state under the mas of being a dancing-mistress. The first messenger to arrive on a cargo ship from London met her in secret. Bes ides handing her a letter from her husband, the sugar-refinery owner who had esc aped to England, the messenger presented her with a certain "business document." This document was a list of people who were "still loyal," compiled by Nestor M ahno himself, who was in those days living in Paris and, so it was rumoured, ev en lectured on his bandit activities at the Staff Academy. With the help of the Entente forces he was hoping to return on his machine-gun carts to the shores of the Azov Sea. This list included the name of the anarchist Entuta, nicnamed Kashet. Madame h ad got her plump bejewelled fingers on him bac in the days when she still owned the "Little Noo" restaurant. Kashet came to his "mama" to cadge drins, which thans to Madame's "ind heart" he rarely paid for. And when at her own dancing -saloon in Genoa Street Madame demanded Kashet s first signature on a receipt for a hundred rubles received from the British Intelligence Service, Kashet did no t hesitate. For a whole year after that Rogale-Piontovsaya and her agents were left to the mselves. Connections with London broe down. For a long time no ship flying a Br

itish flag entered a Soviet port. Madame's bosses decided to mae contact with h er by other means. Had he succeeded in blowing up security headquarters in our town in Podolia, Koz yr-Zyra was to have visited the Donbas and the Azov coast and handed fresh inst ructions to other resident secret agents, Rogale-Piontovsaya among them. Appar ently that was the Kozyr-Zyra's second tas, which had baffled Vuovich for so long. Many things that at first sight seemed trivial had helped Vuovich in his wor. One of them was the chance suggestion I had made in my letter to Niita that the eeper of the dancing-saloon might be a relation of the old countess whom we ha d seen in the far-off days of our childhood in Zarechye. Vuovich established a lin between Pecheritsa's appearance in the town by the s ea and the fact that the engineer "illed at Uman" was passing the time very ple asantly abroad and had even got his name in that strangely named index of celebr ities Who's Who. When Polevoi wounded Kozyr-Zyra in the loft of security headquarters, Kozyr-Zyr a too refuge in Pecheritsa's flat and entrusted Pecheritsa with this second ta s. It was quite possible that had not Vuovich discovered in time where Kozyr-Zyra was hiding, Pecheritsa might have made a "business trip" to Kharov, taing in the Azov coast as well. But things turned out differently. Pecheritsa had to fle e and lat the same time carry out the tas that he had been landed with by Kozyr -Zyra. When Vuovich had laid hands on both Pecheritsa and Kozyr-Zyra, he was able to tie up all the threads. Niita's warning at the station had had a purpose. Any gossip about Rogale-Piont ovsaya might have hindered the exposure of the plot. Madame's nerve had begun to fail her of late. As soon as she learnt that Kashet had been arrested, she hastily paced her family jewels and with the coming of dus decided to go "for a boat trip." While Peta Maremuha was acting her on the stage, Madame was maing her way rou nd the breawater towards the foreign ship, which was finishing loading in the b ay. The town security chief did not tell us that evening that another boat with Sovi et security men in it had followed Madame's boat, and that it was they who had p revented Madame from climbing aboard up a conveniently lowered rope ladder... He merely explained what a danger "had threatened the wors, and mentioned in pass ing that "Madame was detained in time." ........ I. must admit that many of us were still very puzzled during the night we spent guarding the wors. I can write of it all now in such detail because the followi ng days of discussion and thought about this mysterious affair helped us to unde rstand what had happened. ACROSS THE AZOV WAVES Such a gale blew up in the evening that the yellow waves raged fiercely even in the harbour. The low-funnelled paddle steamer moored there ready for sailing ros e and fell on the pounding seas. The name of the ship was written in a semi-circle over one of the paddle-wheels: FELIX DZERZHINSKY Not long ago when calling at our port on its way to Kerch, this steamer had been the first to bring us the sad news of the death of the man whose name it now bo re. Even before, it entered the harbour from the bay, we heard the melancholy no te of its siren. Its flag, edged with mourning, flew at half mast. Before the newspapers arrived from Mariupol, we had learnt all the details from the ship's wireless operator. We were told that Felix Dzerzhinsy had died of he art failure in Moscow, after his speech to the Central Committee, where with his usual vehemence he had exposed those despised enemies of the people the Trotsyit es. The news of Comrade Dzerzhinsy's death overwhelmed us... Not long ago, just before I set out for this town, I had heard Dzerzhinsy ring up the chief of ou

r frontier-guard detachment. I still remembered with what excitement Niita had said to me: "Do you now who that was on the phone? The first security man of th e Revolution!" The next day, at lunch-time, on Flegontov's instructions, I read out the Central Committee's announcement on the death of Dzerzhinsy to the worers of the foun dry. "The sudden death from heart failure of Comrade Dzerzhinsy, terror of the bourg eoisie, true night of the proletariat, noble fighter for the communist revoluti on, tireless builder of our industry, ceaseless toiler and fearless soldier of g reat battles... "His wea heart, strained beyond endurance, at last refused to function and deat h claimed him instantly. Death in battle..." I got that far and stopped. Choing sobs rose in my throat. With an effort I che ced myself from bursting into tears before the whole foundry, before the sad, s tern faces of my mates. Afterwards, when in a quiet, muffled voice I had finishe d reading the announcement, folded the newspaper and was waling bac to my mach ine, Flegontov came up behind me and placed his heavy graphite-smeared worer's hand on my shoulder. "Hard to read, wasn't it, Vasil?" he said quietly. "I now how you feel. What a great loss! You understand, old chap, how all of us young and old, Communists and non-Communists must rally round the Party to mae up for our loss. We must press o n no matter what the bourgeoisie plot against us. . ." And now, as I stood on the quay looing at that name I loved so well, I still co uld not get used to the idea that Dzerzhinsy was no longer with us... The Felix Dzerzhinsy was on her way to Rostov-on-Don from the Crimea and we wer e to mae the stormy voyage on her to Mariupol, where a district Komsomol confer ence was being held. Not being used to rough weather, we felt rather scared of putting out to sea on a night lie this... A tall sailor appeared on the upper dec and shouted: "Hi, Selezen! Get the boat s ready!" The sailor's voice had a familiar ring but I could not see his face. Tolya Golovatsy, who was standing near me, said: "It's going to be tough, chaps ! The barometer's falling." "The wind seemed a bit quieter to me..." "Don't you believe it, Mandzhura. Tae a loo at the weather tower. There were o nly eight balls hanging up there, this afternoon. Now there are nine." "Yes, if the captain has ordered them to get the lifeboats ready, the sea must b e really rough," Kolotilov, the frecled secretary of the customs Komsomol group , agreed with Golovatsy. We mounted the creaing gangway and the officer of the watch checed our ticets . Golovatsy suggested going up on dec. "The cabins are stuffy, you'll feel rotten down there," he said, glancing at Kol otilov who was already looing rather pale. Having staced our things near the stern life-boat, we went to the rail. We coul d mae out distant signal lights somewhere near Kobazovaya Hill. Soon the gangway was taen in. The stevedores cast off the bow line. There was a hiss of steam, the engine burst into life and the ship moved slowly away from t he granite harbour wall. The stern line slipped off the mooring post and was thr own on to the dec. Its paddles churning swiftly, the ship manoeuvred out into t he harbour. The rudder chain claned. Slowly the grey hump-baced warehouses dwi ndled in the distance. Striving to mae his voice heard above the roar of the wind, Golovatsy shouted: "Shall we have a song, chaps?" And taing our answer for granted, he struc up in a deep pleasant voice: Forward, young sailors and Communists all, Arise to build the new age!. . . Looing bac affectionately at our little harbour, we piced up the refrain in r

inging voices that were at once borne away on the wind. Dotted with twinling yellow lights our town slipped past along the sandy Azov s hore. As I sang my favourite song, I tried to pic out the lighted window of our little house. Sasha and Peta had volunteered to see me off, but I had refused. It had not been certain that the ship would leave on time, and they had to wor the next day. I also wanted to spot Lia's ivy-covered window in the house next door. Now I wa s sure that she would carry out her promise. At dinner today, Maria Trofimovna, our landlady, had unwittingly confirmed my conviction. "There's been a terrible crying to-do next door," she had said. "The lady's sobb ing her heart out and the engineer's blac as thunder. Their daughter wants to g o to Leningrad and they've been trying to tal her out of it. Her mother says sh e'll give her anything. 'You don't need that .. . what d'ye call it ... "conserv atoire," ' she says. 'We'll teach you at home. I'll hire two teachers and the ch oir-master from the Lisi church will come round too. You'll die of consumption in Leningrad. But their daughter won't give in. Dead set on the idea, she is. Sh e's a stubborn little miss." Maria Trofimovna was a reliable source of information about next door and as I l istened to her I felt glad Lia was going away, yet sorry that she would go with out my being there to see her off. I had wanted to tal to her franly about eve rything and say good-bye to her and wish her success in her new life of independ ence. Children of worers and sailors, we march With hearts that are strong and loyal. No fear have we of tempest or storm, Nor of long hard days of toll. . . sang the boys. The ship was pitching hard. Now it would plunge down from a billowing, foam-capp ed wave, so that your heart rose to your throat and your legs suddenly felt as i f they had been filled with air, now it would rear up on a mountain of angry wat er and-the paddles would lash the long broen ridges of the waves. The rising wi nd howled at us from the pitch blacness of the open sea which was broen only b y the flashing beam of the beacon on the headland. One by one, the shore lights disappeared and the light of 'the beacon showed us that we were leaving the bay. But we sang in spite of the storm: Let the storm winds rage and the tempest blow, The tide of the worers is high. Forward, young sailors and Communists all, Forward to conquer or die!... "Your singing's fine, but do you mind clearing your stuff away from the boats. W e might have to lower them if things get worse." Again I heard that familiar voi ce, this time at my elbow. I turned. For an instant the beam from the lighthouse showed up the face of a yo ung navigating officer and I recognized my old friend. "Weasel!" I gave such a shout that all our delegates turned round. The sailor fell bac a pace and his quic gypsy eyes widened. Obviously it was a long time since anyone had called him by his childhood nicname. For a moment h e rubbed his forehead in a puzzled fashion, as if trying to remember something, and only when the beam from the lighthouse swept again over the heaving dec did he run towards me with outstretched arms. "Mandzhura!. . . Where did you spring from?" Something caught in Yuzi's throat. He glanced round helplessly, then mastering his excitement, he spoe more quiet

ly. "Fancy meeting you here? Well, I'm darned! Vasya!. . ." I could hardly believe i t myself. On a ship's dec, in a storm lie this! But he it was, my old friend W easel! Half an hour later, the Felix Dzerzhinsy rounded the harbour bar and set course across the open sea for Mariupol. Yuzi was relieved from his watch and invited me to the officers' saloon. Golovatsy and several of the other delegates went with me. With great difficulty, clutching hand-rails and banging our elbows on the bulhe ads, we made our way to the saloon. "I've found a friend, Niolai Ivanovich!" Yuzi said joyfully to an old waiter i n a white apron. "Haven't seen each other for years!. . . How long is it since w e met, Vasil?" "Over five years." Weasel put his arm round my shoulders and said reproachfully: "You couldn't even write to me! You're a fine pal!" "But we did write to you! Peta and I, both of us! You answered once, then dried up. We we're a bit sore about it, thought your naval training had made you stuc -up." "Me stuc-up!" Yuzi laughed. "I ept on writing and the letters came bac to me all the time." "What address did you write to, I wonder?" "To 37, Zarechye." "So that's what it was!" I said with relief. "We had moved to a flat in the Part y School." "Now I understand," Weasel said, also with a ind of relief in his voice, and ag ain his face brightened with joy. The ship was pitching and rolling. Any moment, it seemed, the huge waves would s mash one of the glass portholes and pour into the saloon. "You've grown up," Weasel said eyeing me closely. "Not the same Vasya that ransa ced the birds' nests, eh! Remember how we found that haw's nest on the cliff n ear the cemetery?" "You bet I do!" I said smiling. "We found a yellow egg there with red spots on i t." "Yes, a very rare egg. And Dad chuced it away with all the rest of my collectio n." There was a genuine note of regret in Weasel's voice. "That was when you too two icons out of their frames and put eggs in them inste ad, wasn't it?" "That's right," he exclaimed. "What a memory you've got!" "You made us so jealous with your gilded boxes. None of us had anything lie the m." "No, they didn't," Weasel agreed and his face broe into a broad smile. The waiter came over to us, wiping his tray and balancing with the agility of a tight-rope waler. "What's this, friends meeting at an empty table!" he said with a smile. "What ca n I do for you?" Golovatsy wined at me, then cleared his throat pompously and ased: "Any lobst ers?" "What do you mean, sir!" The waiter stared at Golovatsy as if he had dropped fr om the moon. It cost us a great effort not to burst out laughing. Weasel also looed at Tolya in surprise. How was he to now that it was a favour ite joe of our secretary's to amuse us with the nowledge of aristocratic manne rs that he had gleaned from old novels? "What else has this unsavoury establishment to offer then?" Golovatsy drawled i n his best aristocratic manner. The old waiter brightened up visibly. "Olives, if you wish, sir! Caviare, fresh or salted! Very nice with fresh cucumb ers! Butter. Smoed mullet. Macerel. Sturgeon. Herrings and mustard sauce. Cold veal and horse-radish..."

"Listen, old chap," Tolya said, suddenly changing his tone, "give us a good plat eful of olives and about ten pounds of bread. We've got terrific appetites. Is y our bread fresh?" "Baed in Kerch," said the waiter. "That's fine!" Golovatsy said. "Nice and crusty?" "Very crusty, sir!" "Let's go on then. Butter. Cucumbers. Macerel, or mullet, if it's good. And tea with lemon in it, of course..." "Nothing to drin?" "How do you mean, 'nothing'?" Tolya exclaimed. "What about the tea?" "Nothing stimulating?" The waiter eyed our secretary meaningfully. "Don't go in for such things," Tolya snapped. "We'll have some mineral water tho ugh, if you've got it." "The passengers dran it all this afternoon!" And the waiter spread his arms des pairingly. "Just a sec', chaps!" Yuzi jumped to his feet and waled quicly to the compani on way with as much ease as if the ship had not been rolling at all. My old friend had been nimble enough as a boy. He had Urainian, Polish, and per haps even gypsy blood in his veins. There wasn't a cranny in the Old Fortress th at he hadn't climbed into, and that was why we had called him Weasel. But at sea Yuzi's movements had become amazingly sure and supple. He swayed effortlessly with the roll of the ship. Just the man to dance a hornpipe at one of our shows! "Fine chap, isn't he?" I said to Tolya. "Loos as if he's a smart sailor," Tolya agreed. There was a clatter from the co mpanion way as Weasel ran down it carrying two bottles of mineral water. A third was peeping out of his side pocet. "From my own cellar!" he said heaving a deep breath. And to the waiter: "Niolai Ivanovich, bring us some glasses, please." "'Coming right away, Yosif Vientievich!" the waiter called. It was the first time anyone had addressed my old friend by his patronymic in my presence. I didn't even now that Weasel was a "Vientievich!" Well, our childhood days were over now. Gone were those wonderful times when we used to run about the grassy bans of the Smotrich hoping to find Turish coins in the mud. "What's your job on this ship, Yuzi?" I ased. "I'm fourth mate," Yuzi replied. "Before I came to the Azov Sea, I'd sailed on quite a few other craft the Toiler of the Sea, the Feodosiya, and the Pestel. I we nt through my practical training on the Transbalt. Even went abroad on her." "How did you manage it all in the time!" I said, envying Weasel a little. "We on ly finished at the factory-training school this year." "I'm older than you," Yuzi replied with dignity. "You and Maremuha were still at the people's school when I was manning sails off Batumi." A heavy wave struc the ship. Tea-spoons scattered over the buffet-counter. A fe w olives slipped off their plate and rolled over the floor. "Oho!" said Yuzi, and listened for a moment. "That too us head on. The wind's changing. It'll be blowing right from the East soon." "Will an east wind be better or worse than the one we've got now, Yuzi?" I ase d as off-handedly as I could, but there must have been a note of alarm in my voi ce. Yuzi eyed me eenly. "Afraid of getting drowned, Vasil? Don't worry! This ship can weather any storm. A change of wind can't hurt her." With the head wind howling louder and louder outside it was pleasant to sit amon g a circle of new friends listening to your old friend yarn about his voyage, re membering other old friends and the battle with those boy-scout snobs... Then Yuzi too me over the ship, showed me the stoehold, the chart house, the crew's quarters, and finally led me to his cabin. He made his bed on a little co uch, and since I was his guest, offered me the narrow bun with a high side to p revent one from falling out. The cabin was cosy and well looed after. Above the table hung a booshelf with

a number of boos on navigation and steering. I thumbed through one of the boos whose margins were covered with notes in Yuzi's hand. It was hard to believe t hat my old friend had already learnt something so incomprehensible to me as this science of navigating a ship. A ind of map moulded in lead hung over the couch. There was something familiar about it. On glancing at it more closely I recognized the outlines of our town, copied from a map of the sixteenth century. Putting his arm round my shoulder, Yuzi said: "I bought it in Odessa. I thought I'd seen it somewhere before, so I too a closer loo. And blow me if it wasn't our town!" "The Old Fortress is shown on it too! Loo!" I exclaimed, examining the fortress with its walls and bastions that barred the entrance to the town. "It's very fine wor. Everything's shown, even the smallest tower," Weasel assen ted. "And the river Smotrich. See how it maes a loop round the town that's not ted by the fortress?" "And here's the fortress bridge! Gosh the bans are steep here! Remember, Yuzi, how we carried flowers across that bridge to Sergushin's grave and Maremuha wa s frightened all the time that we'd be stopped by Petlura men?" "As if I could ever forget it!" Weasel answered, and I realized that the evening we had spent tending the grave of the murdered Bolshevi had made a deep mar o n him too. "But where do you three live?" "In Primorsaya Street. Almost next door to the harbour." "Gosh, what a pity!..." Yuzi murmured. "If I'd nown, I should always have drop ped in to see you when we were in port. . ." When at last we had exchanged all our news, it seemed almost as if we had never parted. We realized that not only had we grown up and become men, but that our y oung country had grown up too. I learnt that while he was still on the Blac Sea Yuzi had been admitted to the rans of the Communist Party. The oldest of our trio, he had become a Communist at the time of Lenin's death in 1924. Lying on the little plush coach, his feet propped against the wall of. the next cabin, Yuzi ased: "Is yours an importan t invention, Vasil? Or just a little thing?" So I had to tell him about that too. ... I had found people who were willing to tae up my proposal. Andryhevich's r emar about my "fantastic ideas" had scared off Fedoro, the foreman, but it had not affected our director. After all, someone at head office had even called Iv an Fyodorovich a "recless character" because he was planning to raise the roof of the foundry and complete the blast-furnace without stopping production. The director had called me up and said: "Well done, Mandzhura! Go on plugging aw ay at things, as you are now. It's a good thing to wor hard and fulfil your tar get, but use your brains as well. Let your imagination go!.. . You won't object if we put an engineer with you on the job for a wee or so, will you? Not to ma e him a co-designer, of course, but to get your idea into proper technical shape ." Naturally I agreed willingly. Soon a placard appeared over the wors gate: "Young Worers! Follow the example of the young foundry men. Vasily Mandzhura's rationalization proposal will save the plant 660 woring hours per day. His proposal to get rid of the heaters and introduce a central heating system will also protect worers from catching cold and other illnesses!" This placard, so I heard later, had been drawn on Golovatsy's advice by the sam e artists from the metalworers' club who had caricatured the frequenters of Rog ale-Piontovsaya's dancing-saloon. Rudeno thaned me publicly on behalf of the whole wors and awarded me a prize of 500 rubles. We were no longer in danger of having to mae do with "tropical furniture." That night, while I chatted with Yuzi, my friends were sleeping at home on proper c omfortable beds, with spring mattresses. And there was a bed in the attic for me , too, covered with a green woolly blanet. With this unexpected windfall we subscribed to Home University for Worers, as w ell as to several magazines and a daily newspaper.

Following Golovatsy's advice I bought myself an excellent brown tweed suit and a good pair of shoes at the co-operative store. And even then II still had ninety-five rubles left over. This I put away in the savings ban. I told none of my friends what I needed the savings for. That was a secret. I had decided to save the money in case Angelia needed it when she wa s in Leningrad. Whether ased for my help or not, I considered it my duty to ass ist her at the start of her independent life. "Well, now I understand why you've been made a delegate to the conference!" Yuzi said, when I had told my story. "And what are your plans for the future?" "Everything's decided, Yuzi!" I answered proudly. "All three of us are going to study at the worers' university. Wor in the day-time, study in the evening. T he winter will pass in no time... Where will you be this winter, when the sea fr eezes?" "On the Blac Sea. Odessa-Suhumi line. Or perhaps I'll get a job on an ice-brea er, helping the Azov Sea fishermen." "Ice-breaers are little ships, aren't they?" "Yes, not very big. Sailors laugh at them. 'Old tin cans!' they call them. But I don't mind. While you're young you can learn navigation even on coasting vessel s. And soon, you now, we'll be having ocean-going ships here. That'll mean long voyages. We may even go up to the Arctic. Loo up there," Yuzi nodded at the b ooshelf, "I'm studying the charts of the Barents and Kars seas in my spare tim e." "So you lie your life too, Yuzi?" "Lie it? That's hardly the word! As soon as I see a compass dial in front of me , I feel on top of the world. The waves slap against the bows, the engine- chugs down below, and I eep watch nowing that the lives of our passengers are in my hands. They sleep peacefully in their cabins, confident that I now my job, and it's my duty to steer the ship on a safe course!... And there are enough seas t o last my lifetime. And stars to recon by. . . Now let's get to sleep, Vasil! I 'm due on watch at four." And Yuzi put out the light. The waves ept heaving the ship up on their great crests, then letting her down into yawning troughs. Creaing and groaning she reared and fell over the oncomin g seas, beating them into submission with her paddles. The engine thudded steadi ly below. It was powerful enough, as Yuzi had explained to me, to light our tow n and all the surrounding villages as well. As the ship steamed on its course, I listened to the steady beat of the engine a nd thought how fine it was that we, chaps, had not been mistaen about our path in life. My father had said something good about that in his last letter to me f rom Cherassy. He told me how he had once had to dissuade my aunt from the absur d idea of taing me with her to Cherassy. "But I thought, Vasil," my father wro te, "that it would be better to let you stay at the factory-training school. Now your hands now a good trade, and although you had a lot of difficulty learning it, it's better than being tied to your aunt's apron strings. I am sure that no w you are on a true, independent path of your own, you won't let anyone budge yo u from it. I also approve of your decision to go and study at the worers' eveni ng university. Good lad! Soviet power is giving you, young people, things that w e of the older generation didn't even dare dream about. And it would be wrong if you didn't tae advantage of what we've gained by the Revolution. Learn and stu dy, son, don't waste your life on trifles, remember that communist society can o nly be built by educated people with firm characters and a clear idea of what th ey are striving for." Mariupol came up at dawn, wonderfully white and clean in the rays of the morning sun. When I opened my eyes sleepily and saw the pin light of dawn filtering through the porthole, I jumped out of my bun. Yuzi's couch was empty and the bedding g one. When he went on watch, Yuzi had left the cabin silently, without even wai ng me. I washed my face quicly over the basin and feeling fresher slipped out of the c abin. Swabs were swishing up and down the dec and water was hissing out of hose s. Stalwart sailors, barefoot and with their trousers rolled up to their nees,

were washing down the forecastle head. The dec gleamed wetly under my feet. Its clean boards smelt fresh. A bright pennant fluttered at the mast. The white horses riding from the east were flushed pin in the windy dawn. But w hat were they to compare with the mountainous foam-capped waves of yesterday! We asel had been right; the wind blowing from Rostov had not only tamed the storm, it had brought down a lot of fresh water from the Don. The sea had become even y ellower and in some places looed lie the sandy shores of Tavria. Mariupol spread out before us. The chimneys of a big plant were smoing in the b acground. Flame-fleced clouds of smoe belched from the blac, dumpy blast-fur naces. "That must be Sartana!" I thought. The railway station of Sartana outside the town was the place where the Ilyich p lants were situated. Before the Revolution they had belonged to the Providence C ompany. Probably most of the delegates to the conference would be from these pla nts, for they were the biggest on the Azov coast. They had more Komsomol members in one of their shops than we had in the whole wors. And as soon as I thought of the conference, I began to feel worried. What should I say in my speech? "Mind you spea, Mandzhura!" Golovatsy had advised me when he handed me my mand ate the day before I left. "Tell them about your woring experience. But don't g et nervous. Thin out what you are going' to say on the journey." I had thought of everything but that!. . . "Awae already, Vasil? Come up here!" Yuzi called out. He was standing on the captain's bridge in a tunic with little gold chevrons on the sleeves and a peaed cap. A pair of binoculars dangled on his chest. "How did you sleep? All right?" "It was all right for me, but you didn't have much." "We mustn't get into the habit. Our job's lie that sailors always sleep with one eye open." "It's a lovely day," I said. "You were right with your forecast." "But it's clouding up again in the East," Weasel answered, nodding towards la cl oud that had crept up over the horizon. "There'll be another gale by the evening . But by that time we shall be safe up the Don. . . What are we steering, Vanya? " "North-East by North!" the helmsman shouted. Everything was new to me in this long, passage-lie room panelled with fumed oa : the telegraph with its arrows and instructions written on the white dial, "Ful l Speed Ahead," "Stop," "Full Speed Astern"; the polished speaing tubes leading down to the engine-room; the sensitive compass floating lie a huge eye-ball un der its glass cover. Yuzi showed me his domain. Now and then he would go over to the wheel and chec the course shown on the compass. He ept glancing from side to side where buoys were bobbing on the yellow waves, as if wishing us "good morning." They showed us the way into the harbour, and then, bowing politely, dropped away astern. I listened to my friend, looed through the spotlessly clean windows of the brid ge at the town rising up out of the sea, and thought over my speech. What if I b egin with the story of three friends who came here, to the Azov Sea, from distan t Podolia, and became active members of the Komsomol? I'll tell the delegates how ever since we were children we have hated the Petlur a men and other scoundrels who try to prevent the Soviet Uraine growing and dev eloping. . . I'll tell them about Peta Maremuha, about Weasel, about the vow w e made under the green bastion of the Old Fortress... Perhaps I'll say something about how we studied and what our aim is in life?... After all, our three small lives are very typical; the whole woring youth of the Uraine has been through the ind of thing we experienced. Then I must swear to continue being loyal to the behests of Vladimir Ilyich Lenin. And say that we have the Party and the Kom somol to than for everything we have achieved. I'll mae a solemn promise to th e delegates that we three, friends, will go on fighting for every young chap at our wors, to win him over from the old world and teach him to serve the people and those fine, noble ideas that the Communist Party has pointed out to us. The dazzling sun rose higher and higher, gilding the tops of the waves. The whit

e town, with the strong salty east wind blowing round it, spread out before me i n the faint mist of the July morning. EPILOGUE TWENTY YEARS AFTER Twenty years have passed since that sunny morning when the Felix Dzerzhinsy ste amed into the port of Mariupol. The sailors darted about round the windlass preparing to drop anchor, the passen gers came out of their cabins, and we, gathering on the upper dec, sang loudly: O'erthrown the night. The sun is rising... What a fine song that is! It has engraved itself on my memory for ever. Even now, twenty years later, as I sit in this little room reading some old news papers and listening to the rain lashing on the windows, that song is still ring ing in my ears. I can see wet chestnut-trees through the window. Their big, broad leaves are dro oping dejectedly. The rain has noced all the blossom out of them and exposed t heir little pricly pods. I arrived here last night from Leningrad. When I went to bed, I had made up my m ind to go into town and visit the Old Fortress first thing in the morning. My hostess, Elena Luyanovna, is a nerve specialist. She lost all her family in Leningrad, during the first winter of the blocade, and after demobilization cam e to wor in my home district. We got taling on the train. The mere fact that w e had both lived for ten years in Leningrad at once drew me towards this thought ful, prematurely grey-haired woman in a green army tunic with the mars of shoul der-straps that had only recently been discarded. My father had suffered the sam e fate as her parents. Not long before the war he had come to Leningrad from Che rassy to wor at the Printing-House. He died in my arms of starvation, in Decem ber 1941. "I'm afraid you won't find anywhere to live," said Elena Luyanovna towards the end of the journey. "The town's just a heap of ruins... If you lie, you can sta y with me." Since I had no longer any relatives in the town, I gladly accepted h er invitation. And overnight it started raining. The rain is still pelting down now, although i t is four o'cloc in the afternoon and high time I went out to see the town I ha ve not seen for over twenty years. When Elena Luyanovna went out to the hospital, I ased her if she could let me have something to read. "All my boos are about medicine," she said. "My library hasn't arrived yet.. . But there are some boos and magazines up in the attic. They've been there ever since the occupation. Have a loo 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 meet ing Mussolini, receiving the Spanish ambassador, admiring Warsaw destroyed by Ge rman bombs. Petrified rans of Hitlerite troops line the deserted squares, banne rs with the sign of the swastia wave over the stricen city. . . But what is th is?. . . I pull a heavy bundle of newspapers out of the bottom of the baset. Its title, the Podolian, sends my thoughts racing bac to the days of my childhood. The Rus sian 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 Urainian? I loo 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 drivi ng through the deserted streets of Kiev, I read the screaming head-lines about t he inevitable fall of Leningrad and Moscow, and other Nazi announcements. One re ads them now with the laughing contempt that one feels after a bad dream. And su ddenly a familiar name leaps to my eye "Grigoreno." I read hastily: "On the 12th of this month, by order of the District Commissar Baron von Reindel, a Urainian Committee was set up in the town. It is composed of the following persons: Evge n Viul, Tser (interpreter), Yuri Ksezhono (chairman of the committee), Kost Gr

igoreno. The committee will supervise collection of taxes and help the German a uthorities to levy contingents. The committee is an organ of the District Commis sar and acts under the Commissar's orders." Grigoreno! The Petlura boy scout, the doctor's son, serving Petlura and the Ger mans! So this was where he had turned up again! "I see you've found an interesting pastime?" Elena Luyanovna says entering the room. "I've just traced some old acquaintances, Elena Luyanovna, 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 Luyanovna replied, missin g the point of my remar. "One of them was a boy from Siberia, Dima. He was woun ded in the fighting' when our town was liberated. He's a very difficult case. Fo r 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 thin aloud as she to o off the hospital gown she has been wearing under her great-coat. "Today I cal led up Lvov and ased them to send a consultant. There's an old friend of mine w oring there, a professor of neuropathology from Leningrad. . ." " 'I called up a professor in Lvov!' " I repeated. "It sounds so simple nowadays , Elena Luyanovna. But if only you new how much that phrase means to a person lie me, who was born here! It sums up the immense changes that have taen place in the Uraine. Twenty years ago Lvov was very far away from us, lie Paris, Lo ndon, or Madrid. Now it will tae your professor only two hours to fly here." "Yes, not more than that," Elena Luyanovna agreed. It is the second morning of my stay. I open my eyes. Good! Blue sy is shining t hrough the window and the dar green leaves of the chestnut-trees, still drippin g with last night's rain, are looing up to greet the sun. I dress quicly and dash off to the town. Weeds and flowers are sprouting everywhere from the stone walls at the side of t he road. Rattling the old tin cans that have been tied round their necs 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 beau tiful New Bridge are the tall stone piles at the foot of which the Smotrich glea ms in the sunlight. They are spanned by a narrow wooden strip whose plans crea 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 a m 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 Guzar chi held that rowdy party after his grandmother died... Where is he now, our rowdy Monus, "non-Party" man, builder of electric locomotiv es? The last letter "I had from him was in 1940, when I was in Leningrad. Guzarc hi wrote me that he was chief foreman at the Kharov Locomotive Wors, and sent me a boolet about his method of converting plants to assembly line production. . . Many of the cottages round the huge Stephen Bathori Tower loo as if they had be en struc by a hurricane. The tower was" built here on the orders of a Hungarian ing, the usurper of the Polish throne who was seeing to conquer the Urainian lands of Podolia. And in 1943, (I heard this from Elena Luyanovna), the Hitlerites shot more than seven thousand of the finest people in Hungary, who had refused to help the German inv aders. The Gestapo officials had been afraid to slaughter them in Budapest, so t hey sent them to their death in this little Urainian town. Not far away I notic ed the ruins of the building where Shipulinsy's cafe with its broad windows use d, 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 lie 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 t hesis for a degree in history had been successful, and that she was continuing h er studies on the history of the Blac Sea Straits. Had she managed to get out o f Odessa in time? And would I ever meet her again, my first love, a woring girl who had become a historian? As of old, a few women were selling flowers by the low wall at the entrance to t he fortress bridge red, white, and yellow peonies, bunches of wild daisies, bright -red poppies... A stocy, broad-shouldered lieutenant-colonel standing with his bac to me was b uying flowers. He too the women's bunches in armfuls and carried them to the se at of a light army truc. From the number of petrol tins in the bac of the truc I guessed that the lieutenant-colonel and his driver had come from afar and we re just as much chance visitors to this town as I. What does he need all these flowers for, I wondered, then looing up and noticin g 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 thic stone w alls built in ancient times, strong and indestructible as the grey weather beate n cliffs on which it stood, had often saved the inhabitants of the town from ene mies. As before the square and round watch-towers with their narrow embrasures and poi nted moss-grown roofs rose above the zigzagging walls of the first ring of forti fications. Green tree-tops could be seen peeping over the fortress walls. Big bu shes of honeysucle and pin heather grew on the edge of the cliffs, their roots firmly embedded in the stonewor that Turish cannon-balls had never shaen. By the wide-open gates hung a red notice-board that seemed to have been put up o nly recently: Historical Reservation and Museum. Deeply moved and excited I waled under the arch of the fortress gates. "Our fine, dear, old lady!" I thought, surveying the fortress. "Neither time, no r the Turs, and not even Hitler's bombs could destroy you. As you have stood fo r centuries, an invincible stronghold on the south-west border of Podolia, you s till stand, bringing joy to our people and striing terror into the hearts of th e enemies that have been driven for ever from our ancient Urainian 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 looed out on all sides, were riddled with sh ell-holes. The roof of the Ruzhana Tower had disappeared altogether. The Comman dant Tower was a heap of rubble. But the fortress, evidently a museum now, had b een restored. Its new window-frames and fresh plaster wor told me that the buil ding had been raised from the ruins only recently. . The noise of a car made me turn round. The same army truc with its array of petrol cans came into view. Apparently the lieutenant-colonel who was so fond of flowers had decided to loo over the museum. I saw the truc pull up near the guard-house, and turning away followed a narrow path that led to the green ' bastion behind the Blac Tower. But in vain I sought for the grey marble obelis that had been erected' to Timof ei Sergushin, the Bolshevi who had been shot by the Petlura bandits a quarter o f a century ago. Enemies and traitors in their hatred of Soviet power had tried to destroy the me mory of that fine man, the first Communist to enter our little cottage in Zarech ye. But in the thic grass under the Blac Tower I found a piece of marble bearing t he last word of the inscription that had been written over the grave. The base of the obelis a simple square of stone was still there, so was the grave-m ound. The hump of earth under which lay Sergushin's remains was thicly carpeted with periwinle.

I stopped by the mound and my memory carried me bac 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 Pe ta Maremuha had come to this spot. In accordance with Cossac custom, Weasel h ad spread a red flag over the grave-mound and we had sprinled fragrant lilac br anches over it. Over the murdered man's grave we had sworn that evening to stand up for one another, lie true friends, and to tae vengeance on the enemies of the Soviet Uraine for the murder of one of its finest sons. I stood there lost in thought, my head bowed over the unempt grave, and the wor ds of Sergushin's favourite song came clearly to my mind: This song that I sing would soar up lie a lar But a heart full of sorrow has given it birth. Lie a bird in a cage it rings out in the dar, Borne down by the weight of the earth... And soon, very soon, never sung to the end, In the twilight of autumn 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 unt il crimson peonies scattered into the thic grass. The stocy, broad-shouldered lieutenant-colonel was sprinling flowers over Serg ushin's grave, paying no attention to me at all. I glanced at him closely, and s uddenly, under the stubbly beard that fringed his sunburnt face, I recognized th e familiar features of Peta Maremuha... "Comrade..." I began excitedly. Turning at the sound of my voice, the lieutenant-colonel at first looed at me v ery sternly, almost with annoyance, then his face changed suddenly and he shoute d: "Vasil!... Good old friend!..." Half an hour later we were sitting on the dewy grass under Karmelu's Tower, dee p in conversation. Maremuha's driver, a red-cheeed tan corporal, spread out a cape-tent on the g rass and piled it with good things. "But loo here, Vasil," Peta 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 wer e woring at. Where's your engineer Vasily Mandzhura, I said. And they just wrot e bac once that you'd been sent off on a job, and nothing more. Where did you g et to?" "They sent me to the Bolshevi Wors..." At. that moment we heard an old man's v oice behind us: "Comrades! Aren't you ashamed of yourselves! This is a historica l reservation, and you scatter your rubbish about here!"' We swung round at the sound of the voice, as if we had been schoolboys caught he re by the care-taer in the old days. On a mound close by stood a grey-haired old man in an old-fashioned canvas blou se with a blac bow-tie and gold pince-nez. He had appeared silently, lie a vis ion from one of our childhood dreams, and the mere fact of his appearance had ma de us a good quarter of a century younger. Were it not for the old man's familiar pince-nez, we might not have recognized h im as Valerian Dmitrievich Lazarev. But he. it was our favourite history master an d the first head-master of the Taras Shevcheno People's School. Leaping to his feet, Peta brought up his hand in salute. "Our deepest apologies, Valerian Dmit rievich! We were so excited we forgot where we were. This rubbish shall be remov ed at once." "I beg your pardon! But how do you come to now my name?" Lazarev responded, obv iously 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 li ttle boys with a lantern, all of them longing to go down the underground passage !

Lazarev had seen thousands of pupils lie him in his many years as a schoolmaste r could he remember them all! "How do you now my name?" Lazarev repeated, planting himself in front of Maremu ha. Then I intervened: " "When shall we be going down the underground passage with you again, Comrade Laz arev?" "Just a moment!.., What's all this about?" The old man too off his pince-nez an d wiped them with his handerchief. "You aren't from the regional education comm ittee, are you, comrade?" "I'm from the Taras Shevcheno 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 taled of many things. . . "You want to now about everything that happen ed here?" Lazarev ased, rising from the cape-tent. "Let's mae it a demonstrati on lesson then. I thin the last one was about the rebel, Ustim Karmelu, wasn't it?" "Quite correct, Valerian Dmitrievich!" Peta rapped out in military style. "Reme mber how we found those fetters of one of Karmelu's or Gonta's friends..." "Those fetters are still in the museum today," Lazarev said. "Now I'm going to t ell you about some other heroes of the struggle against the oppressors of the U rainian people.... But just tell me this to start with, Colonel," Lazarev glance d slyly over his pince-nez at Maremuha," "do you now what the general military situation was in this area in the early months of last year?" "More or less," Maremuha replied evasively. "In that case you'll be able to hel p me out if I go wrong." And he began his story. "When Soviet troops captured Volochis in March 1944, the Nazis lost the direct railway to the West. Then all their forces that were left in the Podolia bag mad e a dash in this direction. Thus the Soviet forces had to cut off the Hitlerites way of retreat through our town into Buovina and the Western Uraine. At the b eginning of March the Soviet artillery ripped open the German defences at Shepet ova. The tan forces of Generals Lelusheno, Rybalo, and Katuov poured throug h the gap in an offensive that was heading South, towards the Dniester... What a re you smiling at, Maremuha? Have I said something wrong?" "I'm smiling because I had something to do with the offensive you mentioned," Pe ta said quietly. "I served with Lelusheno." "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!" Maremuha pointed to the North-West. "We too Salat." "Well, listen to me then," Lazarev went on reassured. "After you had captured S alat, a tan brigade of the Urals volunteer corps was sent here..." "Yes, they were Guards, weren't they?" 'Maremuha added. "The tans of that corp s were the first to brea through into Lvov, and it was them who saved Prague fr om destruction." "You're probably right," Lazarev agreed. "When our forces struc in the directio n of Ternopol, this brigade was given the tas of paralysing the enemy's rear by cutting through Gusyatin, Zherdye, Orinin, and capturing our town... And then w hat happened, my lads..." At this point Lazarev's voice trembled and he spoe mo re quietly, pausing now and then to tae deep breaths. "On the twenty-fifth of M arch 1944, the inhabitants of Podzamche, for the first time after two and a half years of Nazi occupation, saw Soviet tans! They wept for joy, they rubbed thei r eyes and thought it was a dream. . . I wept too, my boys, lie a child, when o ne of those tans stopped in the village where I was hiding from the Hitlerites. A tan man jumped down and ased for a drin. He was covered with dust and grea se.. . I issed him as if he had been my own son..." Lazarev started coughing and turned his thin face away, as if to loo at the for

tress gates, but we realized that he wished to hide the tears that had welled in to his tired, old eyes. ". . . At the head of the brigade," Lazarev went on after a moment's pause, "in that lightning swoop from Dolzho to Podzamche was a heavy tan called 'Suvorov. ' The banner of the brigade flew from its turret. Its driver was Junior Lieutena nt Kopeiin, later to become a Hero of the Soviet Union. And the commander of th e forward detachment was Senior Lieutenant Ivan Stetsu, an orphan brought up in a children's home in the town of Dnepropetrovs. His detachment was given the t as of taing the Old Fortress district at all costs and blocing the road out o f town. "After capturing Podzamche, Stetsu and his men crossed the fortress bridge and stormed the town. "The attac was so sudden that the Germans came running out of the houses in the ir underwear. Later they recovered their wits and started counter-attacing the town on all sides. "Stetsu was given the tas of defending the Dolzho and Podzamche approaches to the town. By that time he had only four tans and sixty infantrymen left. The w hole day he and his men held the road-for near the tinning factory, while the N azi Panthers and Tigers assailed him from all directions. Although the Soviet so ldiers showed exceptional bravery, they were pressed bac to the bridge. Just at that time, in the last days of March, General Katuov had forced the Dniester i n the region of Zaleshchi and reached the northern approaches of Chernovitsy. W hen, the Hitlerites got word of this, they started attacing our town even more fiercely, to force a way of escape for themselves into Buovina. "The roads were jammed with troops and the Germans were maing their way across country straight to the Dniester and the Zbruch. But the spring thaw held them u p and forced them to abandon their heavy equipment and even their wounded. Over fifteen Hitlerite divisions tried to dislodge our brigade. Of course, the tan m en could have retreated and let the enemy through, for what is one brigade again st fifteen divisions!... Are you smiling again, Colonel? Have I made a mistae?" "Not one, Valerian Dmitrievich! You're quite right about everything!" Maremuha assured our old teacher gently. ". . . The tan men decided to hold their defences here because they new that i f the Hitlerites recaptured our town the Soviet Army's offensive operations woul d be held up for several wees,.." Lazarev continued. "And now indly follow me. " On coming out of the fortress gates, Lazarev halted. The cobbled road led steeply down to the bridge. Lazarev tapped his stic on the big round cobbles and said triumphantly: "This is where Stetsu stationed his last tan commanded by Junior Lieutenant Ko peiin. You see where the stones have been torn up. That's where the tan swung round and faced the bridge. 'Do what you lie, Kopeiin, but don't let a single Hitlerite reach the gates!' Stetsu said to his second-in-command..." Lazarev pointed his stic towards the bridge. The entrance to the underground passage poed up out of the ground near the wood en bridge lie a ship's hatchway. According to legend this passage led into Bess arabia, to another fortress lie ours the Khotin Fortress. "In the underground passage," said Valerian Dmitrievich, "Stetsu stored a suppl y of fire-bottles. His plan was simple. While the enemy tans tried to force the bridge, our men stationed in the passage would throw fire-bottles at them. . . Captain Shulga mined the bridge under enemy fire and was illed in doing so. He was born in Krasnodon. . ." "Perhaps he new Oleg Koshevoi and his friends of the Young Guard underground or ganization?" I said, remembering that one of the Young Guards had been called Sh ulga. . "Yes, he may have been a relative of Matvei Shulga. Anything is possible," Laz arev agreed. "I must chec that. In any case, Stetsu told me that Captain Shulga was a very brave officer..." ... I have seen many museums in my lifetime and listened to a good many museum g uides, but none of them ever moved me so much as Valerian Dmitrievich. We had n

own every stone of the Old Fortress since childhood, every moss-covered wall; we had tapped and explored every tower in search of hidden treasure. Now the new h istory of this Podolian stronghold, as described by Lazarev, came to life in eve ry detail. It was the history of how Soviet people had defended our native land. As we listened to Lazarev, we seemed to see the sturdy broad-shouldered command er of the fortress, Ivan Stetsu. Towards evening Stetsu comes into the fortress. His face under the leather helm et of a tan soldier is grimed with dust and oil. He eeps his wounded hand behi nd his bac. Blood is oozing from it. He shows no sign of the intense pain he is suffering, lit would be wrong for the garrison if it new their commander was w ounded. Before him in the snow-damp yard surrounded by watch-towers his men have formed up Siberians, men from Moscow, from Odessa. They are the remnants of the advanced detachment that staggered the Hitlerite rear on the line of the Zbruch and force d its way through the dar forests round the Dniester to the rocy bans of the Smotrich. Senior Lieutenant Stetsu regards his men and officers in silence. They scan his face hopefully. Tired and gaunt, they are wondering what reassurance their comm ander will bring them, cut off as they are from their own forces. Stetsu says simply: "We are going to hold this fortress to the last shot. Understand? If necessary, we shall die for our great cause, but we shall not let the enemy through!" .. . Before Stetsu stood the last man of the garrison to receive his orders Dima Bezverhy. Many of the men did not even now the surname of this bright blue-eyed lad, and simply called him Dima. Dima had been with the brigade since its formation and had fought his way to the foot-hills of the Carpathians. Before the war he had planned to enter a mining institute when he left school. "The only thing I want to be is a mining engineer ," he often said" to Stetsu. "I want to loo for coal under the earth." That March evening Dima shifted from one foot to the other in the cold and looe d up at his commander with clear boyish eyes he was only just fourteen. "What shall I do with you, Dima?" said Stetsu. "Perhaps you'll stay with me?" B ut seeing the disappointment in the boy's eyes, he said: "You now what? See tha t tower over there, on the ledge? Tae a machine-gun and get inside it." It was the round tower behind the museum. Dima piced up the light machine-gun a nd dashed across the yard. A few minutes later Stetsu noticed Dima's cheerful face in the top window of th e tower. The boy had taen off his helmet and was waving it to attract the atten tion of his commander. Stetsu pointed out the direction Dima was to cover enemy t ans might approach the bridge from Orinin. Dima realized the meaning of his com mander's gestures and too his machine-gun over to the loophole on the opposite side. . . Thus the young Siberian lad became defender of the Archbishop Tower. ... Artillery rumbled dully near the station. Up the line the village of Shatava was in flames. As darness fell the glow spread across the horizon. But the old town still stood firm on its impregnable cliffs surrounded by the river Smotric h. "... And in the morning it started!" Lazarev continued his story. "Not only the Tigers and Panthers advancing from the road-for ept the fortress under fire. I t was bombarded by batteries in concealed positions that were out of range of St etsu's guns. The gun crews of the batteries mounted on Otter Ban could see the fortress perfectly. Several times the German tans attempted to brea through t o the bridge, but every time the garrison barred their advance... And it was ver y difficult to fight mobile forces from towers. Quite often Stetsu stationed hi s men on the walls and earthwors round the fortress and fought the enemy from t here. The next day the Hitlerites tried to get into the town from the Karvasar s ide, but again they were thrown bac..." "By a counter-attac?" Peta ased. "That's right," said Lazarev. "Part of the g arrison left the fortress and mowed them down before they could reach that littl e bridge."

Valerian Dmitrievich led us to the ruins of a tower near the guard-house. "You see the remains of this tower?" he said. "Still haven't forgotten its name? ... This is the Commandant Tower. On the fourth day of the siege a direct hit on the tower illed soldier Krasnu... That day the artillery bombardment was ceas eless. The position of the garrison had become very serious. They had no more br ead, no more sugar and their water supply had run out. And suddenly at that crit ical moment, Dima came running up: 'Comrade Senior Lieutenant! There's a live go at up there in the attic! Can I bring it down?' Stetsu, of course, consented wi llingly and gave Dima his sheath-nife. A few minutes later, Dima climbed bac d own the drain-pipe, scared to death, and shouted: 'The place is full of animals but none of them move! They must be bewitched, or something!.. .' And you now, it was I who had hidden my zoological collection of stuffed animals in the tower when, the town was evacuated. . . You'd have thought the men would have been to o tired to laugh at a thing lie that, but the joe about Dima and the goat flas hed round every post and raised their spirits. And then they found water..." "In the Blac Tower?" I ased. "Yes, in the Blac Tower," Lazarev said. "You see, it wouldn't have been difficu lt for us to find water here, we're natives of the place. But for them it was ha rder. The fit ones among them had given the last of their bread and sugar to the wounded. But that was not enough. The wounded men lay in one of the rooms of th e museum, suffering terribly from thirst. You can imagine their joy when water w as discovered! "The Hitlerites had surrounded the fortress and would not allow any of the local population to approach it. "But on the fifth day of the defence, one local man did manage to reach the fort ress by climbing the almost sheer cliffs above Karvasar. He told Stetsu that he could show him the exact positions of the enemy batteries bombarding the fortre ss. Stetsu trusted the man as a Soviet patriot. He sent with him Corporal Myshl yaev and another soldier from the motorized infantry whose full name we still ha ve not been able to discover. All we now is that people called him Sasho. He w as nineteen and in spite of his youth he had already been decorated with the Ord er of Lenin. "It was getting dar when they left the fortress. The local man borrowed Sasho' s submachine-gun and disposed of an enemy sentry, thus providing himself with a weapon. "The three of them made their way through the bac yards to Orlovsy's Mill, whe re a German battery was stationed. They wiped out its crew and threw the breechb locs from the guns into the river. That happened half an hour after they had le ft the fortress. After that they put eight guns which had been shelling the fort ress out of action. First they would deal with the crew, then smash the breech-b locs, and on they went! "In one of the sirmishes the guide was wounded in the arm. Then the three made their way to a hut in the forest where this local man was living, bandaged his a rm, piced up some food, and moved on... On the second of April all three of the m were found dead near a shattered German machine-gun.'.." '"Did you find out the name of the guide, Valerian Dmitrievich?" Maremuha ased . "He must have come from round here." "He certainly did, he was a pupil of mine... His name was Yosif Vientievich Sta rodomsy!" Lazarev said proudly. "I don't suppose you remember him. He was away from the town for a long time." "Not remember Starodomsy? Yuzi, Weasel!" I exclaimed. "But Starodomsy was 'a sailor," Maremuha put in, also surprised. "How did he c ome to be here, so far from the sea, and in war-time too?" "He was a sailor, you're right there," Lazarev replied, "perhaps I am in a bette r position than anyone else in this town to confirm that. Come into the museum f or a minute. . ." A clear smiling face looed down at us from a photograph draped with mourning. Y uzi wore a smart naval cap. His face had remained almost as thin and dar and s tubborn as on that July morning twenty years ago when Yuzi and I stood on the c aptain's bridge as our ship steamed into Mariupol.

In a glass case there were several exhibits. The first that caught my eye was a rusty Turish dagger. Above it I read the same faded notice, written a quarter o f a century ago: "Presented by a pupil of the Town School, Yosif Starodomsy." I remember one cloudless Sunday when Yuzi and I were waling round the Old Fort ress. Searching for the nest of a linnet that had flown up out of some hawthorn bushes under the Donna Tower, Yuzi poed about for a long time and at last came out of the bushes, beaming with pleasure and carrying in his hand this Turish weapon relic of a cruel and bloody age. With what pride he afterwards watched Lazarev, our chief adviser on the history of the town, peer down at the rusty sheath of the curved dagger, almost touching it with his pince-nez. "This weapon dates from the second half of the seventeen th century," Lazarev said at last. "It is just possible that this dagger was dro pped by one of the Turish janissaries fleeing from Podolia as the Russian troop s advanced." Beside Starodomsy's dagger there now lay a long thic note-boo in strong bindi ng. The white label bore an inscription in Indian in: "Log-boo of the Slava." "You now what a log-boo is, don't you?" Lazarev ased, noticing that I was sta ring at this exibit in some surprise. "It's a document that every sea captain mu st bring ashore if his ship is sun. It's the living history of the ship and its voyages. It records everything that happens on board." "But how did it come to be here?" Peta ased. "Starodomsy piced it up just before his ship was sun and brought it ashore," Lazarev replied. "And after that he brought it home with him." "May I see what's written there?" I ased. "Why not?" Lazarev replied, "You are close friends of the owner." The director of the museum opened the case and handed me the thic note-boo. It had been started in the winter of 1939 and the first entries were made in an un familiar hand. From the hurried entries made during the first days of the war we could picture the situation in the southern theatre of operations during the second half of 19 41. "15.02. Enemy aircraft sighted in the North-East. Maintaining course. 15.08. 80 to starboard German aircraft attaced one of our neighbours. Force comp osed of 10-15 torpedo aircraft and bombers. 15.17. Chief Engineer Vosoboiniov wounded. 15.20. Attac weaening. Bombing from high altitude. Guns still firing, I have o rdered Kosteno to tae over from Vosoboiniov in the engine-room. Vosoboinio v has been put in the saloon and is being attended..." I turned over several pages of the log and read an entry made in Yuzi's handwri ting, but in very big, sprawling letters: "It is getting light. I am on a spit of land. Surely it isn't the Belosaraisaya Kosa? How I got here I don't now. Near me a life-boat is lying on the sand. Th ere's a terrible row in my head all the time. Must be concussion. My hands are s calded. Did the boilers burst? I'm only writing down what I remember clearly. "Yesterday, October 7, 1941, the maret was still open at ten in the morning and I sent Grisha Guseno there with all the cash we had. The other ships were tai ng wounded men and machinery on board. We were anchored in the bay waiting for o ur turn to go in for loading. At approximately 13.00 a column of enemy tans and submachine-gunners suddenly broe through into the harbour itself. "Seeing that the other ships had nearly finished loading, I started the engines at half speed to avoid running aground and engaged the enemy advance guard with all the fire power at my disposal. 'I wanted to draw enemy's fire and give our c haps a chance to get away. I saw several ships cast off and steam out into the b ay. The Slava was hit eight times by fire from the enemy's tans. We burnt two e nemy tans on the quay. I saw Nazi submachine-gunners falling under my machine-g un fire. Just as we were getting away, a direct hit in the engine-room put the s hip out of action. I continued to engage the enemy while the ship san.

"We didn't stop firing until our guns were under water. Then there was an explos ion and I don't remember anything more..." "The concussion was very serious," Lazarev said. "Starodomsy could scarcely hea r anything even when he got here. And his face was scalded. His uncle, a foreste r, told me about that. It was his uncle who gave me this logboo. At the very en d there is another remarable entry. . ." At the bac of the log-boo, separated from the official entries by a few clean pages, we read a passage scrawled in the unsteady hand of an old man. "I curse myself for not being able to get through to the East because of this co ncussion. When I found myself in Yasinovataya I got a lift on a coal train and d ecided to hide with my family until I got better. "The front is moving farther and farther away towards Moscow. Those dirty Hitler ite hirelings are trying to put the rumour round that we are beaten. It's not tr ue! Russia can't be beaten. And neither can the Uraine while she is with Russia ! The gravestones of our ancestors will rise and fight if there are no Soviet pe ople left alive. "Whatever side you come from, you Hitlerites, you can't win! You'll drown in you r own blood sooner or later..." "Those lines were written in the winter of 1941-42," said Lazarev, and looed at the photograph from which our old friend smiled down on us. In the glass case lay the mangled remains of the German machine-gun. There were dull spots on its blac steel. Perhaps they were from the blood of Yuzi Starodo msy and his comrades who had been found dead beside the gun. "When Starodomsy realized that he couldn't brea through to the station," said Lazarev, "he and his friends mounted that machine-gun in the bushes by the for and ept the enemy's motorized infantry bac from the fortress. Thin of it! Thr ee of them alone, with hardly any cover, held up an avalanche of enemy troops! T he people living round there say that the Germans had to use two batteries and t heir regimental mortars to crush them..." We waled along the honeysucle-covered fortress wall to the place where Yuzi h ad climbed into the fortress for the last time. A yellowish biplane appeared over Dolzhetsy Forest and' flew over our heads, de afening us with the roar of its engine. "That must be the professor flying here from Lvov in answer to Elena Luyanovna's call," I thought. The sight of the aeroplane in the sy brought Maremuha's thoughts to something he had told me before we met Lazarev. "There'll come a time," Peta said dreamily, "when you, Valerian Dmitrievich, wi ll mae a place of honour in your museum for yet another of our old school-frien ds." "Who?"' Lazarev ased with interest. "Alexander Bobir." "I don't remember anyone of that name." "How could you remember Bobir, if you could hardly remember us!" said Maremuha. "Bobir used to study at your school, then went on to the factory-training schoo l. After that he went to the Azov Sea with us. While he was there, he got intere sted in flying. An airman came to their flying club and helped them put a damage d training plane in order, then up they went! Before we new what was happening, Sasha was waving to us from the sy..." "But that's hardly enough to gain him a place of honour in the museum," Lazarev said cautiously. "Hundreds of thousands of young people go in for flying nowaday s." "We don't mean that he ought to be remembered just for that first risy flight," Peta replied. "Sasha distinguished himself apart from that. In 1936 he volunte ered to fight in Republican Spain. He flew in the 'snub-noses,' shot down two Sa voias and three Juners, I thin, and was illed in an air battle over Teruel. T here was an obituary about him in the Mundo Obrero. Some time afterwards I met a Spanish airman. A chap called Fernandez. Sasha had taught him to fly. Fernandez even showed me his photograph. There was our Sasha with his arm round that dar Spanish chap. Both of them in flying it on the airfield. They were laughing. A nd there were mountains in the distance. What a pity I never ased Fernandez for

that photograph! I could have given it to you." "Don't frown, Peta," I said. "People meet each other in all inds of places now adays. Your Fernandez may be commanding a guerilla detachment somewhere right un der Franco's nose. Perhaps he's still got that photograph with him. And perhaps there'll come a day when Fernandez and his guerillas will be able to show us Sas ha's grave without fear of Franco's gendarmes..." "If you do see his grave one day," Lazarev said, "be sure to bring me a handful of soil from it. I shall exhibit in the museum and write: 'Soil of Spain for who se freedom Alexander Bobir of Podolia shed his blood." "Valerian Dmitrievich," Maremuha said after a pause, "get in touch with the Lvo v historians. They'll tell you how the defenders of the Old Fortress liberated L vov from the Nazis. The Urals tan men were the first to brea through into the city. A tan man from the Urals, Alexander Marcheno, hoisted the red flag over the city hall of Lvov. All those facts would be very interesting for your museum . Mae a special exhibition: 'Liberators of Podolia!' " "Yes, that's quite a good idea," Lazarev agreed. "But as a matter of fact there were very few defenders of the Old Fortress left. Most of the garrison that Seni or Lieutenant Stetsu commanded were either illed or wounded. Those who were st ill fighting up to the last moment, when the First and Second Urainian fronts j oined each other, were so tired that they had to go to the rear for a rest. Stet su, for example, as soon as he heard that the main forces of the Soviet Army ha d reached Podolia land the Nazis were shouting aput, said to his comrades: 'Wel l, that'll do for now. We've done our job.' Then he just dropped down on the wet earth under Karmelu Tower and slept for fifteen hours without stirring. People tried to wae him, but it was no good. The brigade commander arrived, glanced a t the sleeping man and said: 'Don't bother him, let him sleep. Even an eagle mus t rest sometimes.' " "And what happened to Dima, Valerian Dmitrievich?" I ased. "Dima was very unlucy," Lazarev replied. "On the last day of the defence a shel l from a Tiger tan smashed the Archbishop Tower. Dima fell into the yard with t he rest of the rubble, badly shell-shoced. He still can't say a word..." "So it's for him the professor has been called in from Lvov?" I exclaimed. "Why didn't I thin of it before!" "Has he been called already? Oh, I am glad to hear that!" Lazarev said gladly. "It may have been him who flew over just now," I said. "Let's go and see Dima, what about it, Vasil?" Maremuha suggested suddenly. "Yes, let's," I agreed. "If you're going to stay in town overnight, we've got p lenty of time. Besides I now Elena Luyanovna. She's in charge of his case, so I thin she'll let us see him." Lieutenant-Colonel Maremuha's truc whised us down to the maret, where we bou ght Dima some good things to eat home-made por sausage with a delicious smell of garlic and wood-smoe about it, eggs, a loaf of caraway bread, several fresh pri cly cucumbers, butter wrapped in a damp pumpin leaf, a bar of chocolate, and a bunch of fragrant dewy jasmine. When Elena Luyanovna saw us with all this she looed worried. "What am I to do with you, I really don't now!" she exclaimed, spreading her ar ms. "The professor started examining Dima half an hour ago. Now he's gone out to telephone. He wants to get in touch with Leningrad. I can let you see the patie nt, but only for a minute." We had expected to find a tough young dare-devil when we went to see Dima. That was how we had pictured the youngster from Siberia from the way Lazarev had desc ribed him. But before us, propped on his pillows, lay a very quiet, round-faced Russian lad smiling at us shyly. The young hero looed at us with surprise and hope. Perhaps he thought we were p rofessors from Leningrad, who had arrived so quicly on some specially fast plan e. To clear up the lad's bewilderment, Maremuha started telling him in an impressi ve bass voice who we were and why we had come to see him. Dima's round face glowed with pleasure when he heard that Peta was lieutenant-c olonel from the same tan corps in which Dima had fought his way into Podolia. H

e struggled into a sitting position and offered first Maremuha then me an unnat urally pale but still boyish hand with blue veins showing through the sin. To m ae us understand that he could not spea, Dima waved his hand in front of his m outh. "Everything'll be all right, Dima, don't get downhearted!" I comforted him. "Sci entists nowadays can restore the sight of people who have been blind for years, they'll find a way of curing you." "Well, will you mistae a stuffed model in a museum for a live goat next time?" Maremuha ased smiling. The lad wrinled his smooth forehead in an effort to remember. A stubborn line a ppeared over the bridge of his nose... And suddenly Dima remembered the funny in cident and laughed. Steps sounded in the corridor. A tall man in a white gown entered the ward with the manner of one who feels himself at home in any hospital atmosphere, lit was the professor from Lvov. We moved away from the bed. The professor glanced sideways at us and started examining an X-ray photograph. Elena Luyanovna, who had followed him into the ward, stood respectfully at the head of the bed, holding cotton wool and test tubes. "Now we shall test his responses," said the professor in a voice that sounded ve ry familiar to me. "Where have I seen that man before?" I thought, wracing my brains. Paying no attention to Maremuha and me, the professor made a long and careful e xamination of the patient. Elena Luyanovna closed the windows looing out on to Hospital Square. The glass muffled the sounds coming from the Motor Factory that had just got going again after the war. I suddenly remembered how I had once lain in this hospital after being wounded by bandits. ' How trivial my old wound now seemed in comparison with what this lad had experie nced. What courage it must have needed to crouch over a captured machine-gun at that loop-hole in the Archbishop Tower, watching the road and firing until a hea vy shell struc the tower and threw him down among dust and rubble at the foot o f the ruined tower! "Well, old chap," the professor said when he had finished his examination. "We'r e going to operate on you. There are some pieces of bone and some small shell sp linters pressing on your brain. That is what's depriving you of speech. I've cal led up the best surgeon in Leningrad. He'll be coming to Lvov on the first plane . So I'm going to tae you with me to our clinic there. When we've removed those splinters, you'll be singing songs. Agree?" We could not see Dima, he was concealed behind the tall figure of the professor. But apparently Dima nodded to him, for the professor gave a sigh of relief. "Splendid! I new you were a good lad." When we called in at the office to see Elena Luyanovna we found the professor p acing the polished parquet floor. He had removed his gown and I noticed two rows of medal ribbons on his grey suit. The professor swept his hand down sharply, interrupting the conversation he had started before we came in. The gesture told me where I had first met him. "I should lie to introduce you, Professor," said Elena Luyanovna. "This comrad e is an engineer from Leningrad. . ." she motioned towards me. "But we now each other already," I said smiling. "The professor's brief case br ought me a lot of luc on one occasion. . ."..'. "Do we now each other?..." the professor ased in a puzzled voice. "What brief case are you taling about?" "Twenty years ago, in this very town, the pupils of the factory-training school elected a delegate to go to Kharov. The delegate had to go there and save the s chool from being closed down by the Urainian Nationalist Zenon Pecheritsa. But the trouble was that the delegate had ho brief case to eep all his papers in. S o a request was made to the head of the instructors' department Pancheno, and h e gave the delegate to the Central Committee his brief case... You're Pancheno,

aren't you?" "Yes, I am," said the professor. "And you... Just a minute. . . You must be Vasi ly Mandzhura!" And although a friend of mine had once advised me that if I wanted to eep healt hy I should always avoid all contact with doctors, I threw myself joyfully on th e broad chest of the professor... It was some time since the yellow aeroplane had roared away over the town and tu rned in the direction of Lvov, taing with it the professor and his new patient, but I still could not get over my unexpected encounter. Who would have thought that our favourite speaer and perhaps the most active of all the Komsomol membe rs, Dmitry Pancheno, would twenty years later become a professor of medicine! In the short time we had spent together in the office, the professor had managed to tell me quite a lot about himself. At the end of the twenties he had left hi s post as Regional Komsomol Secretary in a town on the Volga and with a Komsomol authority in his pocet gone to Leningrad to study at the Army Medical Academy. It had been his good fortune to see Academician Pavlov. From Pavlov personally, after a lecture, he had heard the famous words that the great physiologist afte rwards included in his behest-letter to the youth of the country: "Consistency, consistency, and still more consistency!" ... As Maremuha and I waled round Zarechye, I recalled yet another incident in my life the argument I had had long ago with engineer Andryhevich. From my far-off youth, on that sunny post-war day, crowded with so many chance e ncounters, the angry, bitter face of the old engineer floated into my mind. Even then he had been connected with spies and counter-revolutionaries of the indust rial party who were waiting for the collapse of the Revolution and hoping to tri c Soviet rule. And again I seemed to hear his cunning question: "Where will you get your educated people from? Going to teach yourselves, are you? 'One, two see how she goes!' I doubt it... I doubt it very much!..." Peta and I waled to the Old Estate where he had spent his childhood. But there , too, we found only ruins. The little house where Peta's father and mother had lived before the war was a heap of reddish rubble. Goose-foot and thistles watc hed over the ruins. Evidently the house had been destroyed by artillery fire in the first year of the war, when Hitler's armies, after capturing Ternopol, had a dvanced through our town towards Prosurov. And the tall gates outside Yuzi's cottage had gone too. How many times had we s tood by those gates yelling: "Yuzi! Yuzi! Weasel!" At last he would appear, our stern quic-footed ataman, tapping a long stic as he waled, and we would set out for a raid on the orchards of Podzamche or to ba the near Paradise Gate. Never again would he respond to our call, our dear Yuzi ... Where their cottage had once stood a grey enemy blochouse, quite recently built , rose from a deep clay pit. Twisted wire protruded from the concrete. The narro w horizontal embrasure of the blochouse looed out to the East. Evidently it had been one of the strong points built by the enemy on the VolynoPodelian plateau. Neither this blochouse, nor hundreds of others lie it had been able to save th e Nazis! Maremuha climbed on to the roof of the blochouse, glanced down the ventilator that stuc out of the top lie a railway engine's whistle, spat down it, and tap ping his heel on the concrete, said: "Our guns have blasted out bigger things th an this. Ever seen tree stumps being stubbed in the woods? That's just about wha t they did with these blochouses." Depressed by the sight of the ruins that surrounded us, we wandered in silence b ac to the Old Fortress through the suburb of Tatarisi. It was guarded by a tal l watch-tower rising on the ban of the Smotrich. In the purple light of the sunset the Old Fortress looed particularly impressiv e silhouetted against the evening sy. Half way across the bridge we stopped. Re sting his elbows on the oa rail, Maremuha gazed down at Zarechye. From this hi

gh point the grey blochouse looed quite small, lie the turret of a tan burie d in the earth. "I say, Vasya," Peta said suddenly. "Do you remember our neighbour, the daughte r of the chief engineer at the wors? You were rather interested in her at one t ime... She went away to Leningrad, didn't she? You didn't see anything of her th ere, I suppose?" "Of course I did, Peta!" I replied, " I don't mind admitting to you franly tha t after I had got to now Angelia I did everything I could to help her become a new person. In the days when she broe with her family and went away to Leningr ad against their will, I helped her. When H went into the army, we wrote to each other. In her letters she suggested I should come to Leningrad when my service was over. And that's what I did. I too a job at a plant there and' settled down . We met as friends. I remember it as if it were yesterday; we went to the Philh armonic Hall together and heard Chaiovsy's Sixth Symphony. Angelia had nearly finished at the conservatoire at that time. She married just before the war." "Is her father still alive?" "You now he was transferred from our place to the Agricultural Machinery Wors in Rostov. She told me he had been arrested in Rostov for having contact with th e industrial party, but he was released soon afterwards. He atoned for his guilt towards the country by good wor. When war broe out, he was evacuated with his plant to the Urals. All through the war he wored as an engineer in the mortar shop. He's a very old man now." "Perhaps he had Polevoi as his director?" Peta said. "You now Polevoi went to the Urals to manage a very big wors after graduating from the Industrial Academ y." "I saw his name in the papers once or twice. I meant to write to him, but couldn 't find out his exact address." "Did Lia survive the starvation in Leningrad, do you now?" Maremuha ased. "Of course she did!" I exclaimed. "Do you now where I met her during that winte r of the siege? It maes me shudder to remember it. In the Wiedeman Hospital, on Vasilevsy Island! I was being treated there for starvation. One day 'I heard s omeone in the corridor say quietly: 'Vasya!' I looed round and there was Angelia ! She was terribly thin. There were blac circles under her eyes. Her hands were so thin you could nearly see through them... 'Lia, dear, haven't you left?' I shouted. And she said, quietly: 'How can I leave my own city? My husband is stil l here, fighting on the Pulovo Heights.' And she told me how she had refused to be evacuated with the Philharmonia... I remember how she looed at me and whisp ered: 'Heavens, Vasil, how you've changed! You must be having a bad time too, de ar?' I was ashamed to say yes, because II was a man. So I passed it off with a j oe: 'You'll be telling me next I haven't got the same loo in my eye as Lieuten ant Glan?' I said. 'What's Lieutenant Glan got to do with it!' she exclaimed. 'D on't you remember,' I said, 'one evening you compared me with a chap called Glan ? And because I didn't now much about literature I ased you whether this Lieut enant Glan was a Whiteguard, by any chance. I wasn't far wrong, you now. At any rate, the man who wrote about him has become an out-and-out fascist...' We had a long tal. It was there, Peta, that 'I realized Angelia had changed right th rough and become a new person. And do you remember at one time we used to thin her a useless creature?" "Yes, time and environment change people," Maremuha said and glanced down over the bridge rail. Below us, harnessed to the turbines of a power station, roared the fortress wate rfall. It was calmer now that it gave most of its force to the machines housed i n the white power house under the fortress cliffs. Soon so we had learnt from one of the local people some of the station's power would be used to supply a new trad e school for metal worers. The new school was being built on the spot where our factory-training school had stood until it was blown up by the Germans. I looed down and remembered my childhood years in this town. How many times aft er the spring floods had we searched the muddy bans of the river hoping to find the crown of some Turish vizir, or at least a few gold ducats!

We had found no gold, but we had found great happiness, the happiness of having a country to live in that is the envy of honest woring people throughout the wo rld. "Yes, time and environment change people. Those are true words of yours, Peta!" I said after a thoughtful pause. "And I'm sincerely glad that not only people l ie us who were brought up by the Komsomol and the Party, but even those lie An gelia, who in the twenties were still wavering over what path to tae, have fou nd the experience of the past twenty-five years so beneficial." "Is Angelia's husband alive?" Peta ased. "Killed at Gatchina, when the siege of Leningrad was broen. He never came bac after volunteering for the front in the first months of the war. He was a major when he was illed... By the way, you can hear her playing the piano on the radi o sometimes from Leningrad. If you lie it, write to her. Tell her, Tm Peta, th at neighbour of yours whom Vasil introduced to you on the shore of the Azov Sea. ' She'll be so glad to hear from you. She often speas of that meeting. You see, it's our youth, Peta, those fine stirring days of our youth!..." "How grateful we should feel to our Party and the Komsomol for that youth!" said Maremuha, gazing at our ancient town spread out before us, so small but still so pretty even now amid its green orchards and boulevards. The west wind was bringing up a great grey-blac cloud from the Dniester forests . Slowly it mounted to a pea, lie the smoe of a distant fire, and its summit was purple and threatening in the light of the setting sun. "How did that get here!" I said in surprise. "It was so sunny this morning... Yo u now what that cloud reminds me of? The smoe from the fire of the Badayev war ehouses in Leningrad. That was the biggest and, I thin, about the worst raid we had. The smoe was so thic and heavy we thought at first it was a ban of clou d. Perhaps we'd better mae a move, Peta? It loos lie a storm." "No hurry," Peta said, smiling and glancing westwards. "Rain's nothing to be af raid of! We've seen worse storms than this. They can't frighten us now. We're gr own up..." March 1935, Leningrad October 1951, Lvov