43

MIKHAIL SHOLOKHOV

p The Tales of the Don, of which this story is one, were written in the twenties, at the beginning of Mikhail Sholokhov’s career as a writer, and even at that early stage showed their author to be the great artist we were to know later from And Quiet Flows the Don, Virgin Soil Upturned and The Fate of a Man.

“Sholokhov’s stories stand out like a flower in the steppe,” wrote Alexander Serafimovich as far back as 1926. "They are simple and vivid and you feel every word of them—they live before your eyes. Their language is the colourful language of the Cossacks. Everything is compressed, hut they are full of life, intensity and truthfulness.”

44

p Misha dreamed that Grandad was coming towards him, angrily swinging a long cherry switch he had cut in the orchard.

p “Come along, come along, Mikhailo Fomich,” Grandad said sternly. "You’ve got a good hiding due to you.”

p “What for, Grandaddy?”

p “For stealing all the eggs out of the tufted hen’s nest to pay for the merry-go-round.”

p “But Grandaddy,” Misha protested desperately, "I never went near the merry-go-round all summer.”

p But Grandad only smoothed his beard, and stamped his foot, and said.

p “Come along, you scamp. And let your pants down.”

p Misha cried out in his sleep, and that woke him. His heart was thumping as if he’d really had a taste of the switch. He opened one eye, just wide enough to peep around him. It was already light. Outside the window spread the warm glow of dawn. Out in the entrance voices sounded. Misha lifted his head. He could hear his Mother’s voice, shrill, excited, and half choked with laughter. And Grandad kept coughing. There was someone else there, too, someone with a booming voice.

p Misha rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. The outside door opened and shut. Grandad came trotting into the room, his spectacles bobbing up and down. For a minute Misha thought the priest must have come, with the choristers, because Grandad had fussed around just that way when they’d come at Easter. But it wasn’t the priest that came pushing into the room behind Grandad. It was a stranger, a great big soldier in a black greatcoat and a 45 ribboned cap with no peak. And Mother with her arms around his neck, squealing with excitement.

p The man shook Mother off, and yelled out, “Where’s my offspring?”

p Misha was scared, and hid under the blanket.

p “Minyushka,” Mother called, “wake up, Sonny. Here’s your Daddy, back from the wars.”

p And before Misha knew it the soldier had pulled him out of bed and thrown him up as high as the ceiling, and caught him again, and pressed him close, poking that prickly red moustache of his at Misha’s lips, and cheeks, and eyes. It was wet, too, that moustache, and it tasted of salt. Misha tried to wriggle free, but that didn’t work.

p “What a fine big Bolshevik I’ve got me,” Daddy roared. “The boy will soon outgrow his Dad! Ha, ha!”

p He couldn’t stop playing with Misha. One minute he’d sit the boy on his palm and twirl him like a baby, and the next throw him up again as high as the ceiling beams.

p Misha stood it as long as he could. But finally he made a stern face, pulling his eyebrows together the way Grandad did, and grabbed his father’s moustache in both hands.

p “Put me down, Daddy.”

p “Oh, no, I won’t.”

p “Put me down. I’m no baby for you to play around with.”

p Daddy sat down, and set Misha on his knee.

p “How old are you, then, big boy?" he asked, smiling.

p “Getting on for eight,” Misha answered sullenly.

p “Well, and do you remember, Sonny, those steamboats I made for you, the year before last? And how we floated them in the pond?”

46

p “I remember,” Misha cried, and his arms went timidly up around his father’s neck.

p And that was when the fun began. With Misha riding pickaback on his shoulders, Daddy pranced round and round the room, kicking out suddenly and neighing, just like a real horse. Misha could hardly catch his breath, it was all so exciting. Only Mother kept pulling at his sleeve.

p “Misha!" she cried. “Go and play in the yard. Clear out, I tell you, you young rascal.”

p She pestered Daddy, too.

p “Put the boy down, Foma. Do put him down. Let me have my fill of you, my own dear love! Two whole years we’ve been apart, and you spend your time playing with the child!”

p Daddy set Misha down.

p “Run and play with the boys awhile,” he said, “and later on I’ll show you what I’ve brought you.”

p Misha’s first impulse, as he shut the door behind him, was to stay right there in the entrance and listen in on what the grown-ups were talking about. But then it occurred to him that not one of the village youngsters knew his Dad was back. And off he went, across the yard and straight through the kitchen garden, trampling through the potato plants, and down to the pond.

p He splashed about a while in the evil-smelling, stagnant water, then rolled in the sand until he was coated with it, and took a last dip in the pond. Hopping first on one foot, then on the other, he got into his trousers. As he was thinking of starting for home, Vitya came along—the priest’s youngster.

p “Don’t go, Misha. Let’s have a dip, and then come to my place to play. Mother says you can come.”

p With his left hand, Misha hoisted his trousers up .and adjusted the only remaining strap of his braces over his shoulder.

47

p “I don’t want to play with you,” he said. “Your ears stink.”

p “That’s the scrofula,” Vitya said, pulling his knitted shirt off over his skinny shoulders. And maliciously screwing up one eye, he went on, “And you’re no Cossack. Your mother got you in the gutter.”

p “A lot you know about it!”

p “I heard our cook telling my mother.”

p Misha’s bare toes dug into the sand.

p “Your mother’s a liar,” he declared, looking down at Vitya from his superior height. “And anyway, my Daddy fought in the war, and your Dad’s a bloodsucker, gobbling other people’s bread.”

p “And you’re a bastard,” the priest’s boy retorted, on the verge of tears.

p Misha stooped and picked up a big smooth pebble. But the priest’s boy, controlling his tears, gave him a honey-sweet smile.

p “Don’t get mad, now, Misha,” he said. “There’s no sense in fighting. I’ll give you my dagger, if you want it, that I made out of a piece of iron.”

p Misha’s eyes gleamed, and he threw away his pebble. But then he remembered Daddy and retorted scornfully.

p “My Daddy brought one home from the wars. It’s far better than yours.”

p “You’re making it up,” Vitya drawled, unconvinced.

p “Making it up yourself! If I say he did, that means he did. And a good gun, too.”

p “Umph! Rich, ain’t you!" Vitya snorted, with a wry, envious grin.

p “And he’s got a cap with ribbons on it, and gold letters on the ribbon like in those books of yours.”

p It took Vitya some minutes to think up an answer to that. His forehead went all wrinkly, and he scratched absently at the white skin of his belly.

p “My Daddy is going to be a bishop, one of these 48 days,” he said finally. “And your Dad’s nothing but a herdsman. There!”

p But Misha was tired of standing there, arguing. He turned away and made for home.

p “Misha! Misha!" the priest’s boy called after him. “I’ve got something to tell you.”

p “Go on then.”

p “Come nearer.”

p Misha came nearer, his eyes screwed up suspiciously.

p “Well, what is it?”

p Dancing around in the sand on his skinny bowlegs, the priest’s boy cried, with a gloating smile,

p “Your Dad’s a Commie. And the minute you die, and your soul flies up to heaven, God will say to you, ’Your Dad was a Communist, so you must go straight down to Hell.’ And down there, the devils will roast you in their frying-pans.”

p “Well, and they’ll roast you too.”

p “My Daddy’s a priest. Ah, you’re just an ignorant fool. What’s the sense of talking to you?”

p That frightened Misha. Silently, he turned and ran for home.

p By the fence he looked back and shook his fist at the priest’s boy.

p “I’m going to ask my Grandaddy. If you’ve been lying, you’d better keep away from our yard.”

p He climbed the fence and ran for the house. He could just imagine that frying-pan, with him, Misha, frying in it. Scorching hot, and the sour cream bubbling and foaming all around him. A shiver went down his back. He must find Grandad, quick, and ask him all about it.

p Just then he saw the sow. It had got its head stuck through the wicket gate and all the rest of it was outside. It was pushing with all its might, waggling its little tail and squealing desperately. Misha flew to the rescue. But when he tried to open 49 the gate, the sow began to wheeze. So he climbed on its back, and then, with a final effort, the animal tore the gate off its hinges and made off across the yard as fast as it could go. Misha dug his heels into its sides, and it carried him along so fast that his hair streamed in the wind. By the threshing-floor he jumped off. And when he looked around, there was Grandad, on the house porch, beckoning.

p “Come here, young man!”

p It never occurred to Misha what Grandad was after. The vision of the frying-pan filled his mind again, and he ran straight to the porch.

p “Grandaddy, Grandaddy, do they have devils in Heaven?”

p “I’ll show you where they have devils. Just you wait. A proper whipping—that’s what you want, you little scamp! What do you mean, riding horseback on the sow?”

p Grandad grabbed Misha by the forelock, so he couldn’t make off, and called into the house to Mother, “Come, have a look at this smart son you’ve reared.”

p And out came Mother.

p “What’s he been up to now?”

p “Why, what’s he been up to but riding around the yard astride the sow, raising the dust behind him!”

p “The sow that’s due to litter?”

p Mother’s hands flew up in horror.

p Before Misha could so much as say a word in selfdefence, Grandad had undone his belt and, holding up his trousers with one hand, pushed Misha’s head between his knees with the other. He gave Misha a thorough strapping, to the stern refrain of, "Don’t ride that sow again. Don’t ride that sow.”

p Misha began to bawl, but Grandad quickly put a stop to that.

p “Is that how you love your father, you young 50 brat? Here he’s just come home, all tired out, and trying to sleep, and you raise such a howl!”

p So Misha had to keep quiet. He aimed a kick at Grandad, but couldn’t reach far enough. Then Mother grabbed him and pushed him indoors.

p “Sit still, child of a hundred devils! If I take my hand to you, I won’t be as soft as Grandad.”

p Grandad sat on the kitchen bench, glancing now and again at Misha who stood with his face to the wall.

p Misha swung around rubbing away one last tear with his fist.

p “Just you wait, Grandaddy,” he said, his back pressed to the door.

p “Threatening your Grandad, are you?”

p Grandad started to undo his belt again. Misha pushed against the door until it swung a little open.

p “Threatening me, are you?" Grandad repeated.

p Misha disappeared outside the door. But he peeped in again, on the alert for Grandad’s slightest movement, and shouted, “Just you wait, Grandaddy. When all your teeth are gone don’t ask me to chew for you, because I won’t.”

Grandad came out on the porch just in time to see Misha’s head and his blue trousers flash in shaggy hemp in the garden. The old man shook his stick menacingly, but his lips, in the shelter of his beard, were smiling.

p Father called him Minka. Mother called him Minyushka. Grandad, when peacefully inclined, called him a scamp; but at other times, when Grandad’s bushy grey eyebrows drew together in a frown, it would be, "Come here, Mikhailo Fomich. Your ears want pulling.”

p Everyone else—gossipy neighbours, children, the 51 whole village—called him Mishka when they didn’t call him Bastard.

p Mother had borne him out of wedlock. True, she had been married to his father, herdsman Foma, only a month later. But the bitter nickname, Bastard, stuck to Misha for life.

p Misha was a smallish child. His hair, in early spring the colour of sunflower petals, had been bleached by the June sun into a rough, streaky mop. His cheeks were freckled like a sparrow’s egg, and his nose was always peeling from exposure to the sun and frequent dips in the pond. He had only one good point, this bow-legged little Misha: his eyes, blue and mischievous, peeping out of their narrow slits like bits of half-thawed river ice.

p It was for those eyes that Misha’s father loved him, yes, and for his active, restless temperament. From the wars, Dad had brought his son home a honey cake, stone-hard with age, and a pair of slightly worn top-boots. Mother wrapped the boots in a towel and put them away in the chest, and as for the cake, Misha pounded it with a hammer, that very evening, and ate it to the very last crumb.

p Next morning Misha woke at sunrise. He scooped a bit of tepid water from the pot, smeared his grimy face with it, and ran out of doors to dry.

p Mother was in the yard, busy with the cow. Grandad, sitting on the earth bank which surrounded the house, beckoned to Misha.

p “Dive under the barn, little scamp. I heard a hen clucking in there. It must have laid an egg.”

p Oh, Misha was always ready to oblige his Grandad. He crawled under the barn, crawled out on the other side, and off he ran, kicking up his heels, through the kitchen garden—glancing back now and then to see if Grandad was watching. By the time he got to the fence, his legs were all stung up by nettles. Grandad waited and waited, until he lost 52 patience and crawled under the barn himself. He got all smeared with chicken droppings, and half blind in the damp darkness, bumped his head painfully against all the floor beams before he got through to the other side.

p “Aren’t you stupid, Misha, searching all this time for one little egg! As if a hen would lay anything out there! Right by this stone, that egg ought to be. Misha! Where are you, anyway?”

p Grandad got no answer. Brushing the dirt from his trousers, he crept out from under the barn and peered towards the popd. Sure enough, Misha was there. He shrugged and turned away.

p By the pond, the village youngsters were crowding around Misha.

p “Where was your Dad?" someone asked. “At the wars?”

p “That’s right.”

p “Doing what?”

p “Fighting—what else?”

p “Come off it. All he fought was lice. And the rest of the time he sat by the kitchen door, gnawing bones.”

p The youngsters screamed with laughter, hopping up and down and pointing at Misha. Tears of bitter resentment filled Misha’s eyes. And to top it all, Vitya, the priest’s boy, had a dig at him.

p “Your Dad’s a Communist, ain’t he?”

p “I don’t know.”

p “Well, I know. He’s a Communist. He sold his soul to the Devil, that’s what my Daddy told me this morning. Yes, and pretty soon all the Communists are going to be strung up.”

p A hush fell over the youngsters. Fear clutched at Misha’s heart. His Dad strung up? For what crime? Through clenched teeth, he retorted,

p “My Dad’s got a great big gun, and he’ll kill off all the bourjoos.”

53

p “Oh, no, he won’t,” Vitya declared triumphantly. “My Daddy won’t give him the holy blessing, and if he has no blessing he can’t do anything at all.”

p Proshka, the shopkeeper’s son, jabbed Misha in the chest.

p “Don’t you talk too big about that Dad of yours,” he cried, his nostrils twitching. “He grabbed all my Dad’s goods when the Revolution came. And my Dad, he says, ’Just you wait till the tables turn. First thing I do, I’ll kill that herdsman Foma.’ "

p And Natasha, Proshka’s sister, stamped her foot and yelled,

p “Beat him up! What are you waiting for, boys?”

p “Beat the Communist brat!" someone-else cried.

p “Bastard!”

p “Give it to him, Proshka!”

p Proshka swung a stick, and struck Misha across the shoulder. The priest’s boy, Vitya, hooked Misha’s leg and brought him down heavily, flat on his back in the sand.

p Yelling, the boys threw themselves upon him. Natasha, squealing shrilly, tore at his neck with her sharp nails. Someone kicked him painfully in the belly.

p Misha shook Proshka off, struggled to his feet, and made for home, zigzagging like a hunted hare. Loud whistles followed him, and someone threw a stone, but no one gave chase.

p Only in the prickly green shelter of the hemp in the kitchen garden did Misha stop for breath. He sank down on the damp, fragrant soil, and wiped the blood away where his neck had been scratched. And then he began to cry. The sunlight, working its way down through the dense leafage, tried its best to peep into his eyes. It dried the tears on his cheeks, and tenderly kissed his curly, reddish crown, as Mother sometimes did.

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p Misha sat among the hemp for a long time—until the tears stopped flowing. Then he got up and went slowly into the yard.

p His father was there, in the shed, tarring the wagon wheels. His cap had slipped to the back of his head, and its ribbons hung free. He was wearing a blue-and-white striped shirt. Misha sidled up to the wagon and stood silently watching. After a while, when he had summoned up the courage, he touched Daddy’s hand, and asked, in a whisper,

p “What did you do at the war, Dad?”

p “Why, I fought, Son,” Daddy returned, smiling under his red moustache.

p “The boys. ... The boys say all you fought was lice.”

p Again Misha choked with tears. But Daddy only laughed and swept Misha up in his arms.

p “They’re lying, Son. I was on board a ship. A big ship, that sailed the seven seas. And then I fought in the wars.”

p “Who did you fight?”

p “I fought the bosses, Son. You see, you’re still too small, so I had to go to the wars and fight for you. Why, there’s even a song they sing about it.”

p His father smiled again, and, tapping out the time with his foot, sang softly:

p Oh, my little Minka, Misha, mine,
Don’t you go to the wars. Let your Daddy go.
Daddy’s old. He’s lived his life.
And you’re still too young to take a wife!

p Misha forgot all about his troubles, and laughed aloud—laughed at the way his Dad’s red moustache bristled just like those plants Mother made brooms out of, and the way his lips smacked under the moustache,, opening and shutting the round black hole of his mouth.

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“Run along now, Minka,” Daddy said. “I have to put the wagon to rights. In the evening, when you go to bed, I’ll tell you all about the war.”

p The day dragged like a lonely road across the endless steppe. At long last, the sun went down. The herd swept through the village. The dust clouds settled, and the first star peeped out shyly down from the darkened sky.

p Misha got awfully tired of waiting. Mother took so much time milking, and then straining the milk! And then she went down into the cellar and fooled around there for what must have been an hour! Misha hung around her, squirming with impatience.

p “Mother! Ain’t it supper-time yet?”

p “Hungry? You’ll just have to wait.”

p But Misha gave her no peace. He followed her everywhere ... down to the cellar, and up again to the kitchen—clinging like a leech, hanging to her skirts.

p “Mo-o-other! Su-upper!”

p “Get out of my way, you little nuisance. If you’re so hungry, you can take a hunk of bread.”

p There was no quieting him. Even the slap his mother finally gave him did no good.

p When supper came, he gobbled his food down hastily and dashed away to the other room. He flung his trousers behind the chest and dived straight into bed, under Mother’s bright patchwork quilt. He lay very still, waiting for Daddy to come and tell him about the wars.

p Grandad knelt before the icons, whispering prayers, bowing to the very floor. Misha lifted his head to watch. Bracing himself against the floor with his left hand, Grandad bent painfully forward until his forehead bumped the floor. At the 56 same instant, Misha banged his elbow against the wall.

p Again Grandad whispered his prayers awhile, and then again he bowed his head to the floor— bump! And Misha banged his elbow against the wall —bang! Grandad got angry.

p “I’ll teach you, you imp, the Lord forgive me! Bang the wall again, and I’ll bang you plenty!”

p There would surely have been trouble, only just then Daddy came into the room.

p “What are you doing here, Minka?" Daddy asked.

p “I always sleep with Mother.”

p Daddy sat down on the edge of the bed. He didn’t say anything for a while, just sat there twisting his moustache. Finally, he suggested,

p “I thought you’d sleep with Grandad, in the kitchen.”

p “I don’t want to sleep with Grandad.”

p “Why?”

p “Because his moustache—it just stinks with tobacco.”

p Daddy sighed, and twisted his own moustache again.

p “All the same, Son, you’d better sleep with Grandad.”

p Misha pulled the blanket up over his head, then peeped out again to mumble sulkily, "You slept in my place yesterday, and now you want it again. Go and sleep with Grandad yourself.”

p Sitting up suddenly, he pulled Daddy’s head down and whispered in his ear, "You’d better go and sleep with Grandad, because Mother won’t want to sleep with you anyway. You stink of tobacco too.”

p “All right, then, I’ll go and sleep with Grandad. Only then I won’t tell you about the wars.” Daddy got up and headed for the kitchen.

p “Daddy!”

p “Well?”

57

p “Sleep here, if you want to,” Misha said resignedly, getting out of bed. “Now will you tell me about the wars?”

p “Yes, now I will.”

p Grandad got into bed first, leaving room ior Misha on the outside. And after a while Daddy came into the kitchen, moved a bench up to the bed, and sat down. He had lit one of his evil-smelling cigarettes.

p “Well, then, it was this way—-Do you remember when the field next to our threshing-floor belonged to the shopkeeper?”

p Yes, Misha remembered that—remembered how he had liked to run up and down between the rows of tall, fragrant wheat. He had only to climb the stone fence of the threshing-floor, and there he was, right in the wheat. It was taller than he was, and hid him entirely. The heavy, black-bearded ears tickled his cheeks, and there was a smell of dust, and daisies, and the steppe wind.

p “Misha,” Mother would call after him, "don’t go too far in the wheat. You’ll lose your way.”

p “Well,” Daddy went on after a while, gently stroking Misha’s hair, "and do you remember the time we rode out past Sandy Hill, you and me, to the field where our wheat grew?”

p Misha remembered that too: the narrow, crooked little plot beside the road, out past Sandy Hill, and the day he’d been there with Daddy and they’d found the wheat all trampled by somebody’s cattle. Headless stalks, swaying in the wind; and scattered, broken ears on the ground, mixed with the dirt. Daddy’s face had twisted terribly, and a few tears had rolled down his dust-grimed cheeks—Daddy’s cheeks, Misha’s big, strong Daddy! And that had made Misha cry, too.

p On the way home, Daddy had asked Fedot, the watchman at the melon patch,

p “Who spoiled my field?”

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p And Fedot had spat and answered, “The shopkeeper went past, driving some cattle to market, and he drove them through your field. On purpose.”

p Daddy drew his bench up closer.

p “The shopkeeper and the other big-bellies, they grabbed all the land, and there was no place left for the poor people to grow their grain. And that’s how things were everywhere—not only here in our village. Oh, but they were hard on us, in those days. We’d nothing to live on. So I got a job herding the village cattle. And then I was drafted to the army. Things were bad in the army, too. The officers would beat us for the least little thing. Well, and then the Bolsheviks came along, and they had a leader by the name of Lenin. Not a big man to look at, but terribly learned, for all that he comes of peasant stock—just like you and me. And those Bolsheviks, they said such things, all we could do was stand and gape. ’What are you thinking of, workers and peasants?’ they would say. ’Take a broom to all the lords and officials, and drive them out for good. Everything belongs to you.’

p “That was the way they talked to us, and we couldn’t say a thing. Because, when we thought it over, we saw they were right. So we took the land and the estates away from the masters. Only the masters, they didn’t like it. They couldn’t be happy without their land. And they got just bristly mad, and went to war against us—against the workers and the peasants. So you see, Sonny, how it was.

p “And that same Lenin, the Bolsheviks’ leader, he roused the people up the way you turn up the soil with a plough. He roused the workers and the soldiers, and didn’t they go for those masters! And didn’t the feathers fly! The soldiers and the workers got to be called the Red Guard. And I was in the Red Guard too. We lived in a huge big house, the Smolny it was called. You should see the great long halls 59 there, Sonny, and the rooms—so many rooms, you could lose yourself there.

p “I was on sentry duty one day, by the front door. It was bitter cold, and all I had to keep me warm was my army coat. The wind seemed to blow right through me. And then two men came out of the door. And as they passed, I saw that one of them was Lenin. And he came right up to me ana asked in such a friendly way,

p “ ‘Aren’t you cold, Comrade?’

p “And I said to him,

p “ ‘No, Comrade Lenin, the cold can’t beat us, nor no enemy neither. Once we’ve got the power in our own hands, we’ll never give it back to those bourgeoises.’

p “He laughed, and shook my hand warmly, and then he went on towards the gate.”

p His father fell silent. He got out his tobacco pouch and a bit of paper, and rolled himself a new cigarette. When he struck a match to light it Misha saw, on his bristly red moustache, a glittering tear-drop —like the drops of dew you can see of a morning, hanging from the nettle leaves.

p “That’s the sort he is. Everyone matters to him. He worries over every soldier, with all his heart. I saw him often after that day. He’d be going by, and recognise me from afar, and he’d smile and say,

p “ ‘So the bourgeois won’t beat us, eh?’

p “ ‘Not they, Comrade Lenin,’ I’d say to him.

p “And things turned out just as he said, Sonny. We seized the land and the factories, and threw out the big-bellies the bloodsuckers. Don’t you forget, when you grow up, that your Dad was a sailor and fought four long years for the Commune. I’ll die, some day, and Lenin will die too, but the things we fought for will live for ever. Will you fight for the Soviets too, when you grow up, like your Daddy?”

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p “I will,” Misha cried, and sprang up in bed to throw his arms around Daddy’s neck. Only he forgot about Grandad, lying there beside him, and thrust his foot against the old man’s belly.

p Grandad let out an awful grunt, and tried to catch Misha by his forelock. But Daddy took Misha in his arms and carried him into the other room.

p After a while, still in Daddy’s arms, Misha fell asleep. But first he thought deeply about that extraordinary man, Lenin, and about the Bolsheviks, and the wars, and the great ships. Half dozing, he heard low voices, and breathed the sweetish smell of sweat and makhorka. And then his eyes shut tight, and wouldn’t open any more—as if someone had pressed a hand over them.

p Hardly was he asleep, when a city rose before him. The streets were wide, with chickens wallowing in scattered ash-heaps everywhere you turned. There were ever so many chickens at home in the village, but in the city there were ever so many more. And the houses—they were just as Dad had said. You’d see a great big house, roofed with fresh reeds—and on its chimney another house, and on that one’s chimney another still. And the top chimney of all reached right up to the sky.

p And as Misha walked along the street, his head tilted back to see better, who should come striding up to him but a great, tall man in a red shirt.

p “Why do you hang around doing nothing, Misha?" the man asked, in such a friendly way.

p “Grandaddy said I could go out and play,” Misha answered.

p “Well, and do you know who I am?”

p “No, I don’t.”

p “I’m Comrade Lenin.”

p Misha was so scared, his knees began to shake. He’d have made off, only the man in the red shirt took hold of his sleeve and said, 

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p “You’ve got no conscience, Misha—not a farthing’s worth. You know perfectly well I’m fighting for the poor folk. Why don’t you join my army?”

p “My Grandaddy won’t let me,” Misha explained.

p “That’s as you please,” Comrade Lenin said. “Only there’s no getting things straight without you. You’ve just got to join my army, that’s all there is to it.”

p Misha took Comrade Lenin by the hand and said, most resolutely, “All right, then, I’ll join your army without asking Grandad, and fight for the poor folk. Only if Grandaddy tries to whip me, you must stand up for me.”

p “I certainly will,” Comrade Lenin said, and went off down the street. And Misha was so happy, he couldn’t catch his breath. He wanted to shout, but his tongue went dry and stuck to the roof of his mouth.

p Misha twitched suddenly in bed, bumped into Grandad—and woke.

Grandad’s lips were moving, mumbling something through his sleep. Outside the window Misha could see the pale blue of the sky beyond the pond, and against it a pink foam of clouds floating across from the east.

p Every evening, now, Daddy would tell Misha more tales about the wars, and about Lenin, and about all the different places he had seen.

p Saturday evening the watchman from the village Soviet brought a stranger to the house—a squat little man in an army greatcoat, with a leather brief case under his arm.

p “Here’s a comrade Soviet official,” the watchman said to Grandad. “Come from the town, he is, and he’ll stay the night with you. Give him some supper, Grandad.”

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p “We can do that,” Grandad said. “Only, Mister Comrade, what are your credentials?”

p Amazed at Grandad’s erudition, Misha paused, finger in mouth, to listen.

p “All the credentials you want, Grandad,” the man with the leather brief case answered, smiling. And he turned to go into the house.

p Grandad followed him, and Misha followed Grandad.

p “What brings you to our village?" Grandad asked.

p “I’m in charge of the new elections. You’re to have new elections here, for the chairman and members of the village Soviet.”

p After a while Daddy came in from the threshingfloor. He shook hands with the stranger and told Mother to get supper ready.

p After supper Daddy and the stranger sat down together on the kitchen bench and the stranger opened his leather brief case and got out a bunch of papers and showed them to Daddy. Misha hung around as close as he dared, trying to get a glimpse. Daddy took one of the papers and held it out to Misha.

p “Look, Minka,” he said, “this is Lenin.”

p Misha seized the photograph—and, as he stared at it, his mouth fell open in surprise. The man in the photograph was not tall, and he had no red shirt on either—just an ordinary jacket. He had one hand in his trouser pocket, and the other flung forward, as though pointing out the way. Eagerly, Misha examined the photograph, indelibly printing on his memory the arched brows, the smile that lurked in the eyes and lips, every detail of the pictured face.

p The stranger reached for the photograph, locked it away in his brief case, and went to the other room to bed. He undressed and got into the bed, with his 63 greatcoat for blanket; but just as he was falling asleep the door suddenly creaked.

p “Who’s there?" he asked, lifting his head.

p Bare feet came pattering across the floor.

p “Who’s there?" the stranger asked again. And then he saw that it was Misha, standing beside the bed.

p “What is it, boy?" he asked.

p For a moment Misha did not answer. Finally, summoning up his courage, he whispered, “Look, Mister—give me your Lenin.”

p The stranger did not say a word, just looked steadily down from his bed at Misha.

p Misha was terribly frightened. Suppose the man was mean? Suppose he refused? Stumbling over the words in his eagerness, trying hard to stop his voice from trembling, Misha whispered,

p “Give him to me, for keeps. I’ll give you my tin box, a real good box, and every single knucklebone I’ve got, and”—with a desperate sweep of the arm —“yes, and the boots Daddy brought me, too!”

p “But what do you want Lenin for?" the stranger asked, smiling.

p He wouldn’t agree, Misha thought. Bowing his head to hide the tears, he said heavily, "I want him, that’s all.”

p The stranger laughed, pulled his brief case out from under the pillow and gave Misha the photograph. Misha hid it under his shirt, pressing it tight against his heart, and raced back to the kitchen. Grandad woke up and grumbled,

p “What’s wrong with you, running around in the middle of the night? I told you not to drink that milk at bedtime. If you’ve got to go that bad, you can pee in the slop pail. I’m not getting up to take you out of doors.”

p Misha got into bed without answering. He lay very still, afraid to move for fear of crumpling the 64 photograph, which he still held with both hands, pressed close to his heart. He fell asleep without changing his position.

p It was scarcely light when he woke. Mother had just finished milking, and sent the cow off with the herd. At the sight of Misha she threw up her hands.

p “What’s bitten you? Why are you up so early?”

p Holding the photograph tightly under his shirt, Misha slipped past his mother, across the threshingfloor and under the barn.

p Coarse burdock grew around the barn, and a thick, bristly green wall of nettles. Under the barn, Misha cleared a little space by brushing away the dust and chicken droppings. He wrapped the photograph in a big, yellowed burdock leaf, laid it in the cleared space, and weighted it down with a stone, so the wind could not blow it away.

p It rained all day. Grey cloud banks hid the sky. The yard was full of puddles, and swift rivulets raced one another down the street.

p Misha had to stay indoors. But as evening fell Daddy and Grandad went off to the Soviet to attend the village meeting, and Misha, with Grandad’s cap on his head, slipped out and followed them. The Soviet had its headquarters in the church lodge. Not without effort, Misha scrambled up the rickety, mudcaked porch steps. Inside, the place was packed. High up under the ceiling hung a cloud of tobacco smoke. At a table by the window sat the stranger, explaining something to the meeting.

p Misha slipped stealthily to the back of the room and sat down on the last bench.

p “Comrades, those voting for Foma Korshunov as chairman of the Soviet please raise your hands.”

p Prokhor Lysenkov, the shopkeeper’s son-in-law, sitting right in front of Misha, shouted,

p “Citizens! I object! He’s no honest man. We found him out long ago, when he herded for the village.”

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p Then Fedot, the shoemaker, jumped up from his seat on the window-sill and shouted too, waving his arms excitedly,

p “Comrades! The big-bellies do4M want a herdsman for chairman. But herdsman Foma, he’s one of the proletariat, he’ll stand up for Soviet power.”

p The wealthy Cossacks, bunched together by the door, began stamping and whistling. The room was filled with noise.

p “Down with the herdsman!”

p “Now he’s back from the army, he can hire himself out again to be herdsman.”

p “To hell with Foma Korshunov!”

p Misha looked around for Daddy, and found him standing right near by. Daddy’s face was white, and Misha turned white too, out of fear for him.

p “Order, comrades,” the stranger yelled banging his fist down on the table. “Or we’ll throw out the rowdies!”

p “Give us a real Cossack for chairman!”

p “Down with Foma!”

p “Down with him! ...”

p All the richer Cossacks were shouting now, and loudest of all the shopkeeper’s son-in-law, Prokhor.

p A huge, red-bearded Cossack with a ring in his ear climbed on a bench. His jacket was all patched and tattered.

p “Brothers!" he cried. “See what they’re trying to do! The big-bellies, they want a man of their own for chairman. And then they can have things the way they were before—-"

p He snouted and shouted, the big Cossack with the ring in his ear, but through the din Misha could only make out a word or two here and there:

p “The land.... New share-out.... Clay and sand 66 for the poor folk, and the good black soil for themselves.”

p “Prokhor for chairman!" the group at the door was yelling. “Pro-kho-or! Kho-or! Kho-or!”

p It was a long time before the din could be checked. The stranger shouted and shouted, frowning and spluttering. Cursing, most likely, Misha reflected.

p When it got quieter, the stranger put the question loudly,

p “Who votes for Foma Korshunov?”

p A great many hands were raised. Misha raised his, too. Someone started counting, striding from bench to bench.

p “Sixty-three ... sixty-four.. .”—and, pointing to Misha’s hand—“sixty-five.”

p The stranger wrote something on a sheet of paper, and then shouted, “Who votes for Prokhor Lysenkov?”

p Up went the hands of twenty-seven of the richer Cossacks and one more—miller Yegor’s. Misha also raised his hand. But this time the man counting the votes, when he reached the back bench, happened to look down.

p “Of all the little rascals!" he cried, grabbing Misha painfully by the ear. “Get out of here, before I thrash you! Voting—and how do you like that?”

p Laughter broke out. The man who had counted the votes dragged Misha to the door and pushed him out. Tumbling down the slippery porch steps, Misha recalled what Daddy had once said, arguing with Grandad.

p “Who gave you the right?" he shouted,

p “I’ll show you who!”

p Injustice is always a bitter thing!

p When Misha got home he snivelled a bit, and complained to Mother. But she was cross, and said, 

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p “Well, don’t go where you’re not wanted. Poking your nose in everywhere—you’re a real trial to me!”

p Next morning, while the family were still at breakfast, the sound of far-away music was heard. Daddy put down his spoon and said wiping his moustache,

p “That’s a military band.”

p Misha was off like the wind. The door banged to behind him, and tap-tap-tap went his light footsteps across the yard.

p Dad and Grandad went out too, and Mother leaned out of the window.

p Rank upon rank of Red Army men were swinging up the village street like a surging greenish wave. The band marched in the lead, and the whole village rang to the blowing of its huge trumpets and the banging of its drum.

p Misha was ready to burst with excitement. He spun around wildly on his heels, and ran to meet the marchers. A strange, sweet tingling filled his chest and rose to his throat. He looked up at the Red Army men’s jolly, dust-grimed faces, at the musicians, with their cheeks puffed up so importantly. And he made up his mind, once and for all: he was going with them to fight in the war.

p The dream he had had came back and, somehow mustering up the courage, he tugged at the cartridge pouch of one of the Red Army men.

p “Where are you going? To fight in the war?”

p “Where else? In the war, of course.”

p “Who will you fight for?”

p “For the Soviets, youngster. Here—get in the lines.”

p He pulled Misha into the ranks. One of the men, grinning, flicked his finger against the boy’s tousled head. Another fumbled in a pocket, got out a grimy lump of sugar, and pressed it into the boy’s mouth. 68 When they reached the square, the order was shouted down the lines, “Halt!”

p The Red Army men fell out, and threw themselves down to rest in the cool shade of the schoolhouse fence. A tall, clean-shaven fellow with a sabre hanging from his belt, lounged up to Misha, twisting his lips in a smile.

p “Where d’you come from?" he demanded.

p Misha squared his shoulders importantly, and hitched up his trousers.

p “I’m going to fight in the wars with you,” he declared.

p “Comrade Battalion Commander!" one of the Red Army men called. “Take him along to be your adjutant!”

p Everyone roared with laughter. Misha was close to tears; but the man they called so strangely, " battalion commander”, frowned at the noise and answered sternly,

p “What are you laughing at, blockheads? Of course we’ll take him. Only on one condition.” Here he turned to Misha. “Those pants of yours—they’ve only got one strap. We can’t take you that way. You’d disgrace us. Look—I’ve got two straps to mine, and so have all the others. Just you run home as fast as you can, and get your mother to sew you on another strap. We’ll be waiting for you here.” And, with a wink at the men resting in the shade of the fence, he shouted, “Tereshchenko! Go and fetch a gun and an army coat for our new Red Army man.”

p One of the men got up and touched his hand to the peak of his cap.

p “Right away,” he said.

p And off he went, at the double.

p “Double quick, now,” the battalion commander said to Misha. “Ask your mother to sew you on another strap, just as fast as she can.”

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p Misha looked up at him sternly.

p “You won’t go back on your word, will you?"

p “Don’t you worry.”

p It was a long way home from the village square. By the time Misha reached the gate he was completely out of breath. He wriggled out of his trousers as he ran and tore barelegged into the house, crying,

p “Mother! My pants! A strap!" But the house was still and empty. A black swarm of flies hung, buzzing around the stove. Misha looked everywhere—the yard, the threshing-floor, the kitchen garden—but there was nobody anywhere— neither Mother, nor Dad, nor Grandaddy. He ran back to the house. Looking around, he spied an empty sack. With a knife, he cut a long strip of sacking. He had no time to waste on sewing, and anyway, he had never learned to sew. He tied the strap hastily to the back of his trousers, threw it over his shoulder, and tied it to the front. That done, he flew out of the house and dived under the barn.

p Still puffing for breath, he rolled the stone away, and glanced at the photograph. Lenin’s outstretched hand pointed straight at Misha.

p “There!" Misha whispered. “Now I’ve joined your army.”

p He wrapped the picture carefully in its burdock leaf, thrust it under his shirt, and rushed off down the street—holding the photograph safely in place with one hand, and hitching up his trousers with the other. Running past the neighbours’ fence, he called, “Anisimovna!”

p “What’s up?" Anisimovna asked.

p “Tell my folks not to wait dinner for me.”

p “Where are you off to, little scamp?"

p “To the wars!"—and Misha waved a hand in farewell.

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p But when Misha reached the square he stopped short, petrified. There was not a living soul in sight. The ground along the fence was littered with cigarette ends, and empty tins, and somebody’s torn puttees. The band was playing again, away down at the end of the village, and you could hear the tramp of marching feet on the hard-packed dirt road.

One despairing cry, and Misha ran after them, just as fast as his legs would carry him. And he’d have surely caught them up, if it hadn’t been for a big yellow dog sprawled right across the road by the tannery, its teeth bared in a snarl. By the time Misha had got round the dog, the music and the tramp of feet had died away.

p A day or two later a detachment of some forty men arrived at the village. These soldiers were not in uniform. They wore grease-stained work clothes, and shabby felt boots. When Daddy came home from the village Soviet for his dinner, he told Grandad,

p “Get our wheat ready in the barn. There’s a food detachment come, to collect the grain surplus.”

p The soldiers went from house to house, testing the earthen floors of the sheds with their bayonets, digging up buried grain, and loading it on carts to be taken to the communal granary.

p The chairman’s turn also came. One of the soldiers, puffing at a tobacco pipe., asked Grandad,

p “Well, Grandad, tell us the truth. How much grain have you buried?”

p But Grandad only stroked his beard.

p “My son is a Communist,” he answered proudly.

p They went to the barn. The soldier with the pipe glanced at the bins, and smiled.

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p “Cart one binful to the granary,” he said, “and keep the rest for yourself, for food and seed.”

p Grandad hitched old Savraska to the cart. He sighed once or twice, and grumbled to himself, but he loaded the wheat—it filled eight sacks—and, with a helpless shrug, drove off to the granary. Mother wept a little, sorry to part with the wheat. Misha, after helping Grandad to fill the sacks, went over to the priest’s, to play with Vitya.

p The two boys settled down on the kitchen floor, with some horses they had cut out of paper. But just then the soldiers came—the same group that had been to Misha’s home. The priest went scurrying out to meet them, stumbling over his cassock hem in his nervous haste, and invited them into the parlour. But the soldier with the pipe said sternly,

p “It’s your barn we want to see. Where do you keep your grain?”

p The priest’s wife came hurrying into the kitchen, her hair all in a mess.

p “Would you believe it, gentlemen,” she said, with a foxy smile, “we haven’t any grain at all. My husband hasn’t made his rounds of the parish yet.”

p “Have you got a cellar anywhere?”

p “No, no cellar. We’ve always kept our grain in the barn.”

p Misha remembered very well how he and Vitya had played in a spacious cellar opening from the kitchen.

p “What about the one under the kitchen where me and Vitya played?" he said, turning to face the priest’s wife. “You must have forgotten.”

p The priest’s wife laughed, but her face turned pale.

p “You’re imagining things, child,” she said. “Vitya, why don’t you two go and play in the orchard?’

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p The soldier with the pipe smiled at Misha, screwing up his eyes.

p “How do you get to that cellar, youngster?" he asked.

p “Don’t you believe that silly child,” the priest’s wife said, clenching her hands until the knuckles cracked. “We have no cellar, gentlemen, I assure you.”

p “Perhaps the comrades would like a bite to eat?" the priest suggested, smoothing the folds of his cassock. “Just come into the parlour.”

p Moving past the boys, the priest’s wife pinched Misha painfully, but said, with the kindliest of smiles,

p “Go out into the orchard, children. You’re in the way.”

p The soldiers exchanged glances and set about a careful examination of the kitchen, tapping the floor with the butts of their rifles. They shoved aside a table that stood by the wall, and lifted the sacking that lay under it. The soldier with the pipe pulled up one of the floor boards and looked down in the cellar.

p “You ought to be ashamed,” he said, shaking his head. “Telling us you have no grain, when your cellar’s piled to the top with wheat.”

p The priest’s wife threw Misha such a look that he was frightened and wanted to get home just as fast as he could. He got up and made for the door. In the entrance the priest’s wife caught up with him, seized him by the hair, and began shaking him. She was crying.

p He jerked himself free and ran for home. Choking with tears, he told his mother what had happened. Her hands flew up in horror.

p “What am I to do with you?" she cried. “Get out of Iny sight before I thrash you!”

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p After that, when Misha’s feelings were hurt, he would go straight under the barn, roll aside the stone, undo the burdock leaf, and, his tears rolling down on to the photograph, he would confide all his troubles to Lenin.

p A week passed. Misha was very lonely. He had no one to play with. None of the youngsters round about would have anything to do with him. It was not only “bastard” that they yelled after him now. There were new names the boys had picked up from their elders.

p “Communist brat!" they would cry, and “Dirty Commie!”

p Coming home from the pond late one afternoon, Misha heard his father’s voice in the house, sounding very loud and stern. Mother was wailing as people do over the dead. Misha went inside. His father sat pulling on his boots. His army coat lay beside him already rolled.

p “Where are you going to, Daddy?”

p His father laughed.

p “Quiet your mother, Sonny, if you can. She’s breaking my heart with her crying. I have to go to the wars again, and she won’t let me go.”

p “Take me along with you, Daddy.”

p Daddy pulled his belt tight, and put on his cap with the ribbons to it.

p “Now, aren’t you silly? How can we both go off together? You mustn’t go till I get back. Or else who’s to get the wheat in, when harvest comes? Mother has the house to tend to, and Grandad—he’s getting old.”

p Misha kept back his tears, and even managed to smile as he said good-bye to his father. Mother hung on Daddy’s neck, as she had when he came home, and he had a hard time making her let go. Grandad sighed and, kissing Daddy good-bye, whispered in his ear, "Look, Foma—what if you stayed home? 74 Can’t they get along without you? What will we do if you get killed?”

p “Drop it, Dad. That’s no good. Who’s to fight for the Soviets, if the men all hide behind their women’s skirts?”

p “Ah well, go, then, if you’re fighting for what’s right.”

p Turning away, Grandad furtively wiped away a tear.

p They went as far as the village Soviet with father, to see him off. A score or so of men were waiting there, all of them with rifles. His father took a rifle too. And then he kissed Misha good-bye again and marched away with the other men, down the road leading out of the village.

p Misha walked home with Grandad. Mother dragged unsteadily behind. Here and there in the village dogs were barking. Here and there, a light showed in someone’s window. The village had wrapped itself in the dark of night, as an old woman wraps herself in her black shawl. A light rain was falling, and somewhere out in the steppe lightning kept flashing, followed by the dull rumble of thunder.

p They walked home in silence. But as they reached the gate Misha asked,

p “Grandaddy, who’s my Daddy gone to fight against?”

p “Don’t bother me.”

p “Grandaddy!”

p “Well?”

p “Who’s my Daddy going to fight?”

p Bolting the gate, Grandad answered, "There’s some wicked men gathered together, right near the village. A band, people call them. Only to my mind they’re just plain robbers. That’s who your Dad’s gone off to fight.”

p “How many of them, Grandad?”

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p “Two hundred maybe—so people say. Off with you! It’s high time you were in bed.”

p In the night, Misha was wakened by the sound of voices. He reached over to wake Grandad, but Grandad wasn’t in the bed.

p “Grandaddy! Where are you?”

p “Shhh! Lie still and sleep.”

p Misha got up and groped his way across the dark kitchen to the window. Grandad was there, sitting on the bench in nothing but his underclothes, his head poked out through the open window—- listening. Misha listened too. Through the still night, he clearly heard the shooting, somewhere beyond the village. Scattered shots at first, and then regular volleys.

p Bang! Bang-bang!

p Like somebody hammering nails.

p Misha was frightened. He moved up close to Grandad.

p “Is that my Daddy shooting?" he asked.

p Grandad did not answer. And Mother was crying again.

p The shooting went on all night. At daybreak, all fell silent. Misha curled up on the bench and dropped into heavy, unrefreshing sleep. Soon a group of riders galloped down the street towards the village Soviet. Grandad woke Misha, and hurried out into the yard.

p Smoke rose in a black pillar over the village Soviet. Flames licked at the near-by buildings and horsemen charged up and down the streets. One of them shouted to Grandad, 

p “Got a horse, old man?”

p “Yes.”

p “Hitch up, then, and go fetch your Communists. They’re piled up in the brushwood. Tell their folks to bury them.”

p Grandad quickly harnessed Savraska to the cart, 76 took the reins with trembling hands, and drove off at a trot.

p Shouts and screams rose over the village. The bandits were dragging hay from the lofts, and slaughtering sheep. One of them dismounted by Anisimovna’s fence and ran into her house. Misha heard Ahisimovna scream. The bandit came out, his sabre clattering in the doorway. He sat down on the porch, pulled off his boots, discarded his filthy footwrappings and replaced them with Anisimovna’s bright Sunday shawl, torn roughly into two.

p Misha climbed into Mother’s bed and hid his head under the pillow. There he stayed until he heard the gate creak. Then he ran out of doors and saw Grandad, his beard all soaked with tears, leading the horse into the yard.

p On the cart lay a man, barefoot, his arms flung wide. The man’s head kept bumping against the back of the cart, and on the boards lay great, dark pools of blood.

p Swaying slightly, Misha went up to the cart and gazed into the man’s face. It was criss-crossed with sabre cuts. The teeth were bared. One cheek had been sliced off, and hung by a shred of skin. A huge green fly sat on one bloodshot, goggling eye.

p Misha was shivering with horror; but realisation did not come at once.- He tried to turn away, and then his eyes fell on the blue-and-white striped sailor’s shirt, all bespattered with blood. He started violently, as though someone had struck him, and turned again to stare, wide-eyed, at the dark, unmoving face.

p “Daddy!" he cried, jumping up on to the cart. “Daddy, get up! Daddy!”

He fell from the cart, and tried to run. But his legs buckled under him. On all fours, he crawled as far as the porch. And there he dropped, hiding his face in the sand.

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p Grandad’s eyes had sunk deep, deep into their sockets. His head was shaking, and his lips moved soundlessly.

p For a long time he sat stroking Misha’s hair, without a word. And then, with a glance at Mother, prostrate on the bed, he whispered, “Come, Grandson, let’s get out of here.”

p He took Misha by the hand and led him out on the porch. As they passed the open door of the other room, Misha shuddered and dropped his eyes. There, on the table, lay Daddy, so stern and still. The bloodstains had been washed away, but Misha could not forget that glassy, bloodshot eye, and the green fly on it.

p At the well, Grandad fumbled endlessly, undoing the bucket rope. Then he led Savraska out of the barn, brushed the foam from the horse’s lips with his sleeve, and slipped on the bridle. He stood listening a moment. The village rang with shouts and laughter. Two of the bandits rode by, their cigarette ends glowing through the dusk.

p “Well, we showed them what’s what with their surplus,” one of them said. “They’ll know better in the next world than to go grabbing people’s grain.”

p When the hoofbeats had died away Grandad bent down and whispered in Misha’s ear,

p “I’m too old. I can’t get up on the horse. I’ll put you up, Grandson, and you ride straight to Pronin Farm. I’ll show you the way. The soldiers are there, the ones that passed through the village with the drums and the bugles that time. Tell them to come quickly, because the bandits are here. Will you remember what to say?”

p Misha nodded. And Grandad lifted him on to the horse’s back, and tied his legs to the saddle with 78 the rope from the bucket, so he wouldn’t fall off, and led the horse across the threshing-floor and past the pond, past the bandits’ pickets, and out to the open steppe.

p “See,” Grandad said, “that gully cutting into the hill. Keep to the edge of the gully, and don’t turn off anywhere. It will bring you straight to the farm. Well—good luck, my boy!”

p Grandad kissed Misha, and slapped Savraska lightly on the haunch.

p It was a clear and moonlit night. Savraska jogged along at an easy trot, snorting now and again. The weight of the rider bumping up and down in the saddle was so small that the horse often slackened its pace. Then Misha would give the reins a shake, or slap the horse’s neck.

p Out in the fields, where the ripening grain stood thick and green, the quail were calling cheerfully. A tinkle of spring water rose up from the gully. A cool breeze blew.

p Misha felt frightened, all alone in the steppe. He threw his arms around Savraska’s neck—a shivering human morsel, clinging to the warm flesh of the horse.

p The track crawled uphill, then down a bit, then up again. Misha kept whispering to himself, afraid to look back, afraid even to think. He shut his eyes, and his ears were blocked by the stillness.

p Suddenly Savraska tossed his head, snorted, and quickened his pace. Misha opened his eyes. Down below, at the foot of the hill, lights were faintly twinkling. Carried by the wind came the sound of dogs barking.

p For a moment. Misha’s chilled heart warmed with joy.

p “Gee up!" he cried, banging his heels against the horse’s sides.

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p The barking was nearer now, and up the slope the outlines of a windmill stood out faintly in the night.

p “Who goes there?" came the call from the mill.

p Misha silently urged Savraska on. Cocks were crowing.

p “Halt! Who goes there? Stop, before I fire!”

p That frightened Misha, and he tugged at the reins. But Savraska, sensing other horses near, neighed loudly and burst forward.

p “Halt!”

p Shots rang out from somewhere by the windmill. Misha’s scream was drowned in the thudding of hooves. Savraska wheezed, reared, and fell heavily on his right side.

p Pain shot through Misha’s leg, pain so fearful, so utterly unbearable, that he could not even cry out. And Savraska’s weight pressed down, heavier and heavier, on the aching leg.

p The sound of hooves came nearer, nearer. Two riders appeared. With a clatter of sabres, they dismounted, and bent over Misha.

p “God save us! Why, it’s just a youngster!”

p “Not killed?”

p A hand was thrust under Misha’s shirt, and warm, tobacco-laden breath brushed his face.

p “Alive,” the first voice said, with evident relief. “Looks like the horse hurt his leg.”

p Half-fainting, Misha managed to whisper, “There’s bandits in the village. They killed my Daddy. And burnt down the Soviet. And Grandad says for you to come, as fast as you can.”

p Then everything went dimmer and dimmer, and rings of colour began to swirl before Misha’s eyes.

p Daddy went by, laughing, twisting his red moustache, and a big green fly balanced, swaying, on his eyeball. And there went Grandad, shaking his 80 head reproachfully. And Mother. And then a little man with a high forehead, his arm pointing straight

"Comrade Lenin! ” Misha cried in a stilled voice and with a great effort raised his head, smiling and holding out his arms.

Translated by Helen Altschuler