by Sven Hassel
‘Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad! I’d soon find myself a nice lesbian bitch!’ She gets up and sits in a chair. She puts her feet on a crazy table, and her black chemise slides up her legs.
He gives a long whistle.
‘Come here and let me fuck you! You’ve got the loveliest thighs ever, and your cunt’s the world’s best. Not even those capitalist bitches are as well-equipped as you are!’
‘Shut up!’ she snarls, lighting one of her long, perfumed cigarettes. ‘Let’s get away from here, Wasilij! Moscow people can’t live in a hole like this! Our brains rot! Yesterday I caught myself talking to a reindeer, and what the devil have I got to talk to a crazy reindeer about?’
She jumps on to the bed, curls herself round him, let’s the tip of her tongue run over his face while her fingers run down over his hairy body.
‘You’re a lovely man, Wasilij! You’re a damned rogue but you can do everything a woman likes a man to do!’ She draws back and looks searchingly at him. ‘You said you had connections. The best anybody could ask for. Why the hell are we sitting here then? Isn’t it about time you got hold of them and got us out of here?’ She kisses him again, rolls on top of him and bites his ear. ‘Let’s go to Murmansk for a day! Spend a couple of days in the places the naval officers go to. Order them to get the dogs in harness and we’ll soon be in Murmansk!’
‘Are you mad?’ he replies. ‘You know we can’t do it. This is a very responsible post I’ve been given here! Suddenly the Germans’ll be here! Then I’ve got full responsibility and I’m the commander. It can mean promotion, decorations, and if we’re lucky we’ll be the only ones left and can pretty the story up a bit!’
‘Tell me now, Wasilij, isn’t there something wrong under that hair of yours? If we are the only ones left alive we’d better be pretty careful what we say in Moscow.’ She looks deeply into his naïve eyes. ‘Have you ever met a German? They’re good shots! If they really come here I’ll be interested to see how your drunken Home Guard’ll function!’
A noisy banging can be heard from the bar-room below.
‘Listen to them,’ she says, contemptuously. ‘God help us if the Germans arrived at this moment! What a lot of blood’d be spilt! Russian blood!’
‘Be careful what you say,’ he snarls, pushing her away, angrily. ‘You don’t know me!’ With a wicked gleam in his eyes he pulls a Nagan from under his pillow and presses it against her temple. ‘I’d liquidate you, if I wanted to!’
‘You wouldn’t dare,’ she jeers at him, provokingly. ‘You shoot me and all you’ve got to fuck with is that fat, greasy bitch down below. Noticed the smell of her? She hasn’t had a wash since ’36, when the Party started the “save water” campaign.’
He throws himself back on the bed, laughing madly.
‘What a hell of a woman you are! Nobody could get really angry with you.’ He throws her a grifa.
They smoke for a while in silence. Then she reaches lazily for the balalaika.
He jumps out of bed and dances wildly around the room in the Tartar manner. He points the Nagan at the ceiling and empties the magazine.
She laughs noisily and throws a crystal vase at the wall. Splinters of glass fly around their ears.
Naked he springs over the furniture and with a long jump ends in the bed. Brutally he pulls her down on top of him. She hits him on the head with the balalaika, and screams with pain when he puts out his cigarette on her naked shoulder.
‘Shut up,’ he shouts. ‘Pain and erotic love belong together!’ He catches her by the hair and forces her head down between his thighs. ‘Suck it, you dirty whore!’
‘Swine,’ she mumbles, closing her lips around his enormous weapon.
‘Get moving,’ he roars, lecherously.
She looks up at his fat, stupid face and snaps her teeth together suddenly with all her might.
He screams with pain and kicks her off him.
She spits out the lump of flesh and wipes her mouth, which is smeared with blood.
He goes down screaming and presses his hands over his bloody crotch.
‘Pig!’ she hisses. ‘You thought you could treat me anyway you liked!’ She lights a grifa coolly, and looks at him maliciously.
‘You crazy bitch, you’ve bitten it off,’ he shouts, despairingly, taking a few steps towards her.
‘So what?’ she grimaces at him and goes backwards towards the door. ‘You didn’t know how to use it anyhow. You always wanted it French, but you’ve never had it as French as you’ve had it tonight!’
‘Get a doctor,’ he pleads with her, beside himself.
‘A doctor,’ she laughs, contemptuously. ‘The only doctor we’ve got here is the fat woman, who once took an eight-day nurse’s course. She couldn’t even help a pig to farrow!’
‘You’ll pay for this,’ he groans, looking at his hands, which are covered with blood.
‘You’re dying,’ she confirms, as if she is telling him it is cold outside.
‘It’s murder,’ he sobs, falling to the floor.
‘Murder,’ she laughs, shrilly, ‘and you’re the one who says you don’t even know how many you’ve sent in front of a firing squad! Try now what it’s like to die yourself!’
‘You’re a devil, Tamara, but I warn you! If I die Moscow will get to know!’
‘Really?’ she whispers. ‘Maybe some’ll believe it. All they’ll hear in Moscow is you’ve died, and they’ll take your name off the list and forget you like any other louse.’
‘Tamara,’ he whispers, hoarsely. ‘You must help me. I’m bleeding to death!’
‘Wasilij; she hisses, bending over him. ‘You’ve not got much time left, but I’d like you to know I enjoy seeing you die!’
‘Tamara, you’re the devil’s sister. They’ll hang you! You’ve killed a Soviet officer!’
‘I’ve butchered a swine,’ she laughs shrilly. ‘You made me take it in my mouth! I got cramps and, you know, they put a piece of wood between the teeth of people with cramps so’s they don’t bite off their tongues. Without tongues they can’t tell the NKVD what other citizens say, you see. That’s why you sacrificed your prick! Maybe you’ll be a Hero of the Soviet Union after your dead!’
A terrific noise penetrates from the bar-room. Furniture breaking. Glass breaking. Women screaming. Men shouting.
Captain Wasilij Simsow dies to the sound of this turmoil.
Tamara sits for a long time looking at him, lying there naked with only his NKVD cap on his head.
‘If you could see yourself,’ she whispers, contemptuously. ‘The ones you sent to Gulag would be glad!’
She gets to her feet, puts a grif a in her mouth, takes a long drink of vodka and looks at herself in the mirror, consideringly.
‘You’ve done a good deed!’ she says to her mirror image.
She dresses herself in a long red dress of tulle, throws a black shawl over her shoulders, and goes down into the bar-room.
‘Captain Wasilij Simsow is dead,’ she states, solemnly, as she comes down the stairs.
‘We all have to go that way,’ hiccoughs Shenja, drunkenly, from the bar.
‘Give me something to drink,’ Tamara says, harshly.
Shenja pushes a full tankard towards her. She drinks half of it, greedily.
‘The last night in Moscow,’ she sighs, dreamily, ‘we danced in “Praga” on Arbatskaya Square. They’ve got the world’s best gipsy orchestra at that place. Have you been there?’ she asks Shenja, who scratches herself, thoughtfully, between her full breasts.
‘They’d put me in the box, if I was to put my nose in there,’ Shenja grins, broadly.
‘I bit his prick off,’ says Tamara, with a satisfied smile. ‘That was his last big bang!’
Shenja’s jaw drops. ‘Well now I’ve heard it all! Hey, listen!’ she shouts, her voice piercing the uproar of the drunken crowd. ‘Madams Tamara Alexandrovna’s bit Captain Wasilij Sim-sow’s prick off!’
‘How’d it taste?’ asks Yorgi, with a scream of
laughter.
Gregorij gets to his feet with great difficulty and stumbles several times on his way to the bar.
Mischa hands him his green commissar’s cap. Solemnly he buckles the Nagan round his waist. Now everybody can see he is on duty. With a crash he falls across the bar, smashing two bottles.
Shenja hits him on the head with a rolling-pin.
‘Gregorij Mikhailovitch Antenyew, you’re a drunken pig. Button up your trousers, there’s ladies present. You’re not with the reindeer now!’
‘Gimme a drink,’ he grins, foolishly. He empties the mug in one go, belches violently and swallows two salted herrings whole. He lets them go down his throat like a stork swallowing a frog. He scratches his head and discovers, to his surprise, that he has his cap on.
‘Tovaritches,’ he screams, in a ringing voice, ‘why am I here on duty?’ He pulls out the Nagan and swings it around. A shot sounds. The bullet hits Mikhail’s ear and ploughs on through his fur cap.
‘Careful now, comrade commissar,’ he says, admonitorily, wagging a finger at Gregorij.
‘You’re under arrest,’ roars Gregorij, waving his pistol about. ‘Confess, you devils, so we can have a big trial! It won’t help to deny it! The NKVD knows everything!’ He picks up a huge piece of pork from a dish, and pushes it into his mouth like a peasant pushing straw into his clogs. The pistol falls into the soup. He scalds his hand when he tries to fish it out. Roaring, he dances round on one leg, blowing on his hand. ‘You’ll pay for this,’ he screams, furiously. ‘Nobody gets away with scalding a commissar’s hands. You can think it over in Gulag!’ He drops heavily into a chair and feels so sorry for himself that he begins to cry. He wipes his forehead, and again discovers his service cap on his head. ‘Jesus, I’m on duty,’ he howls, pointing accusingly at Sofija. ‘You’ve been talking nonsense again to that ikon of yours, you holy bitch! You just wait! They’ll nip that out of you in Gulag, easy as a Tartar nipping out a suckin’ pig’s bollocks!’ Waveringly he gets to his feet and stumbles over Fjedor’s legs. ‘The world’s a ball o’ shit!’he groans, from the floor.
Yorgi helps him to his feet, and sits him on the narrow bench alongside the stuffed bear, with which he starts a conversation. ‘Who do you think you are, anyway,’ he says to the bear. ‘The arsehole of the Soviet Union, that’s what!’ He strikes at it, and falls again. He lies where he is for a while, looking wickedly at the bear, which looks back at him, glassily.
‘Tovaritch,’ he says, with a stifled laugh. ‘Let’s get a court martial goin’ an’ have us a bit of fun! May I offer you a drink?’ he asks the bear. When it doesn’t reply he takes a kick at it, misses and falls full length on the floor. He gets up again with difficulty. ‘Auntie Shenja, a double go of “The Red Flag’s Victory”. I’ll see to it next pay-day!’
‘Not a chance!’ says Shenja, coldly. ‘You owe me a year’s pay already. You’ve drunk every kopeck of it up, and what security’ve you got? You’re a bad risk, Gregorij Antenyew. If the Germans come they’ll hang you and your green cap. And I think they are coming!’
‘Then we’ll work with ’em,’ says Gregorij, with an airy gesture.
‘You’re a nice sort of Soviet commissar,’ remarks Shenja, drily.
‘Give us a drink, then,’ he begs. ‘You know how hard I’m workin’ for victory!’
‘Best thing you can do,’ sniffs Shenja. ‘You know what’ll happen to you commissars if you do lose!’
‘It’s the Jews,’ says Gregorij, gloomily. ‘Them rotten hook-noses are all sittin’ over in America keeping the fire goin’. You know what their plan is?’ he asks, in a whisper.
‘To cut off your head,’ grins Shenja, bringing the meat chopper down on the bar like a guillotine.
‘That’s part of it,’ admits Gregorij, feeling his throat tenderly. ‘They’ve thought up a monstrous plan!’ He hiccoughs several times and empties Mikhail’s mug, which, by mistake, has been left within his reach. ‘They want us an’ the Nazis to slaughter one another. They’re sending a Kaiser Wilhelm to Berlin an’ a Czar Nicholas to Moscow, to put a stop to the people’s thousand years of rule.’ He hiccoughs again, and tries to drain a few more drops from the empty mug. ‘I tell you! I receive secret messages from Moscow,’ he whispers, looking important. ‘Well, are you goin’ to confess?’ he shouts suddenly, pointing at Shenja. ‘Or would you rather go through intensive interrogation?’
‘I thought you wanted credit?’ says Shenja, her eyes like slits.
‘You’re a one, you are!’ he grins. ‘You know just how to manage things in the Soviet Union. The next time I send a report to those pigs in Murmansk telling ’em about life in our little community I’ll put you in for a Worker’s Hero, so’s you can give a big party for us. The case against you is rejected as bein’ a load of unnecessary nonsense! Now, how about a little drink on the slate?’ He takes off his bulowka and smashes it on to the bar. ‘Now you can all say what you like! I am no longer on duty.’ He knocks the bulowka across the room. ‘Let’s get on with criticising those bastards in the Kremlin. Madame, do you always bite your lover’s prick off?’ he asks Tamara, confidentially. He attempts to bow to her and falls to the floor with a thud, his face landing straight in a spit-pan.
‘The whole thing’s a revolutionary conspiracy,’ screams Stefan Borowski from the corner. ‘They always twist you in the end. They promised me something quite different when I was serving in Moscow, and now the capitalist lackeys send me here! A conspiracy, that’s what it is! But they won’t get Stefan Borowski like that. Wait’ll the Germans meet me. That’ll make ’em think a bit! This war’s goin’ to take me to the top of the tree. What the hell’s a world war for, else?’
‘You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,’ says Carol, emptying a bottle, with a long gurgling sound, as if his throat was a sewer. ‘I’m the only one here who’s ever met the Germans. It was in the little war in ’39.’
‘There weren’t any Germans in that war,’ protests Stefan. ‘Only Finnish fascists.’
‘You Moscow pig,’ roars Carol, excitedly. ‘When I say I’ve met Germans, I’ve met Germans. They had swastikas both in their eyes and in their arseholes, but I also met some Finns, real Communist-eaters, bloodthirsty as you wouldn’t believe. They didn’t give a spoonful of caviare if it was men or women they butchered. They were wild! They stabbed and slashed every which way and bullets came out of their arses an’ mouths. I can tell you, all them fuckin’ Finns act like they’ve been shot out of their mothers’ cunts, with a machine-pistol at the ready an’ a knife between their teeth. But the Germans you run into in this big war are like ten crazy Finns. You don’t realise how mad they are till you’ve met ’em, an’ then they’ve took your life before you know it’s them! They slash everythin’ Russian they meet to tiny pieces, man, woman or beast!’
‘Keep your stinking reindeer claws away from me,’ roars Stefan, striking out at Carol. ‘Those Germans’ll get to know me! They won’t get round me with their machine-pistols and their swastikas.’ He pulls the fur cap down over his ears and swings his hunting rifle over his shoulder. ‘Now you can all fuck off. You’re so stupid an intelligent man can’t bear to stay in the same room with you!’
Singing loudly he staggers off down the long, wide main street of the village. The storm tugs at his ankle-length fur coat, as if it were trying to pull it off him. He bumps into a telephone pole, and recoils into a deep snowdrift.
‘Get the hell out of my way, German shit,’ he scolds the telephone pole. With great difficulty he works his way out of the snowdrift, strikes out at the telephone pole, misses, and lands in the snowdrift again. ‘There, you see!’ he roars, angrily. ‘Always trying to twist a man who is doing his duty, but I’ve had enough!’ With a volley of vicious oaths he attacks the telephone pole again. ‘You rotten enemy of the people, you won’t knock me on my arse again. You’ve stood there doing nothing for long enough. It’s the next train to Gulag for you!’
Panting and swearing he continu
es on towards his house. Arriving there he has great difficulty in finding the door, and has to go round the house three times before he finds it. On the way he has a row with an old fence and kicks it to pieces. He gets the door open and falls into the house. Throwing his fur cap and coat on the floor, he kicks the cat and with shaking hands gets hold of a bottle.
‘I’m that mad!’ he explains to the stove, ‘I could break up bricks with my prick!’ He takes a long swig at the bottle. ‘They always manage to twist you in the end,’ he confides. ‘Never trust a Nazi German, and don’t trust a Soviet Communist either.’ In some strange way he manages to get one foot in the garbage pail, and dirty water splashes over him. ‘Help! Save me! The Germans’ve got me!’ he screams in terror, and falls on his back with a deafening clatter.
‘What are you doing, you drunken pig?’ asks his wife, putting a sleepy face out of the alcove.
‘Job tvojemadj! he roars. ‘I have been attacked, womans Attacked! Here in my own service accommodation!’
‘Who has attacked you?’
‘The German swine’ve laid a trap for me right inside my own kitchen door!’
‘Drunk as a parson, you are, and soaking wet too! Wipe the muck off you, you pig! There’s a sack behind the door.’
‘And that is all you have to say to your husband, who bravely risks his life for the Soviet Union, and one day will be a Hero of the Red Banner?’
‘Oh come to bed,’ she hisses.
‘Njet, you understand nothing! You are cattle, stupider than a reindeer’s arse. It doesn’t matter to you that I have been half-. killed. When were you at a political orientation meeting, which is the duty of all Soviet citizens, may I ask? You don’t know, I suppose, that we are at war, and that the Germans are almost ready to move into our village?’
‘You are drunk as a fart, Stefan Borowski. And for the fifth time this week.’
‘Me drunk!’ he protests, furiously. ‘You are out of your mind, you mare! I am the only sober policeman in the whole of the Soviet Union!’
