I didn’t go to the funeral and I didn’t let my wife go either. We didn’t go because I knew I’d kill Salty Kalcho, either at the cemetery or on the way back. Nobody had ever insulted me like that, no one had twisted a knife in my heart like that before. Later on, when I thought it all over with a clear head, I realized that he wasn’t having an easy time of it either, and he might not have known what he was doing. After all, he’s a gutless softie, all he knows is to lie around and count the stars, so if he went and carried his dead daughter from one house to another, that means he wasn’t in his right mind. That very same night I went down to town hall and pounded out a telegram to Koycho. He came four days later, looking like a wreck, crushed by grief and exhaustion. We went to the cemetery, when he saw his bride’s grave he hurled himself down on it, we couldn’t console him. He stayed with us for six days, I never left him alone for a second, I was afraid he might try to take his own life, he was that miserable. When he left I went with him on the train all the way to Shumen. I kept telling him, the dead are the dead, and the living are the living, time heals all wounds, one day he’d get married again and have a wife and children. But him, he was young, his heart was pure, he thought life began and ended with one woman. He left downcast, until his first leave we didn’t eat a square meal or get a good night’s sleep, our minds were always on him.
So that’s how Salty Kalcho dodged the bullet. The second time I almost killed him was when Stoyan Kralev stuck me down in the cellar of the village soviet. The first night no one came down to check on me, they didn’t even give me bread or water. Koycho came looking for me, but they told him they’d taken me to the city. There wasn’t even anywhere to lie down. I don’t know if you remember Captain Bardarov, the head of the border post. He was a big boozer and kept lots of wine and brandy down in the cellar. He also had the greasiest palms around. He made folks bring him wine and brandy to turn a blind eye to all sorts of border violations. He also gave his soldiers leave in exchange for wine and brandy, so the cellar of the border post was filled with barrels and kegs. In the ’40s, when Southern Dobruja was liberated from the Romanians, the border post was abandoned, then after the Ninth they made it the village soviet. I spent the first night sitting on a barrel. In the morning they stuffed a hunk of bread, a jug of water, and a declaration for membership in the co-op through the little window. When I decided to sign it, I should knock on the door and they’d let me out. At dusk it started thundering, lightning was flashing, a strong storm whipped up and rain came pouring down. All summer not a single drop had fallen, now it had rained itself out all at once, as if the sky had bottomed out. Water started leaking in under the window jamb, running down the wall, and from there a puddle went creeping across the floor. I was dog-tired but didn’t have anywhere to lie down. In the corner there was a big barrel, a good hundred and fifty gallons or so. I looked, its top head was dried up, so I pulled out the boards and climbed inside. I curled up in a ball and fell asleep like that. At one point I heard voices – he’s escaped out the window. No, I called out, I haven’t escaped.
Someone came over to the barrel and I see Stoyan Kralev’s mug looking down through the opening. He’s trying hard not to laugh, he can barely keep a straight face. You’ve never slept in a barrel before, he says, but let’s hope it’s knocked some sense into you. Get out of there so we can see what you’ve thought up! My whole body was numb, I got up, my legs were shaking, I couldn’t get out of the barrel. I was standing there like a snail in its shell, Stoyan Kralev right in front of me. Just look what we’ve come to, he says! We’re from one and the same village, we grew up together, we’re godfathers and godsons to each other, and we’ve gotten to the point of arrests and squabbles. And again he starts haranguing me about how he and his comrades are slaving away for our good, they don’t want anything for themselves, just for the people. ’Cause if we all work together, it won’t be like the olden days, man exploiting man, there won’t be rich and poor, we’ll all be equal in the eyes of the law and so on. I listen to him, waiting for him to finish his song and dance, getting ready for him to show his true stripes. ’Cause at first he starts all gentle-like, listening to him you’d think there isn’t and there couldn’t be a nicer guy. But only if you dance to his tune. Otherwise he’ll take off his kid gloves. And that’s what happened then. So what have you thought up?
So I says: As the story goes, a little ducky thought and thought and by-the-by thought itself to death. What the hell am I supposed to think up, for Christ’s sake? Whatever I come up with, you never like it anyway. For as long as I’ve known you, you’ve always been going on about “tomorrow.” Before the Ninth you were always saying how great it’ll be when the workers and villagers take power, how democratic it’ll be, how we’re all going to live high on the hog. It’s been five years since the Ninth, and you’re still going on about the future. You wanted a co-op, you made a co-op, so what more do you want? Get to work, end of story! But somehow things can’t quite get rolling. “We don’t have enough machines” – you’ll get them eventually, the state will deliver them to you. “We don’t have enough experience” – you’ll get experience, too. “Every start is tough” – that’s true. “The best lies ahead” – well now, that’s something I’m not so sure about. When I look around at what’s going on today, tomorrow looks dark to me. I don’t see a thing. So why am I blind? Most of the people are with you, so they must have sharp eyes, what do you want with blind folks like me? We’ll open your eyes, he says. Since you can’t open them yourself, we’ll open them so that you’ll be seeing stars at high noon. Finally, will you sign the membership declaration or not? No, I say. Fine!
He turned around, went over to the door, opened it up, and who do you think came in? Salty Kalcho. Stoyan Kralev took him by the arm and led him over to me. He was staring at the ground like a bashful maiden, not daring to lift his eyes. I realized they’d dragged him in as a witness. Now tell us, Bay Kalcho, did he make you vote for the monarchy? Yes, he made me. Was he the one who forced you into the opposition? Hang on a minute, I said, just hang on! Don’t waste your time questioning this twerp! I’ll tell you everything myself. I made him vote for the monarchy and I also made him join the opposition, I even gave him land not to join the co-op. I gave it to him to get off with fewer deliveries to the state. But ask him whether I threatened him? No. I just told him those folks from the West would be coming. And I’ll tell it to you, too – they’ll come. If they don’t come in our time, then they’ll come in our children’s or our grandchildren’s time. This world wasn’t created yesterday, it has its way of doing things. What was again will be. I was trying to win him over, because I have the right to try to win him over, just like you have the right to try to win me over. You say I’ve brainwashed him? Poppycock! So why don’t I brainwash you, too? If I had told him to go jump in a well, would he have done it? He goes along with whoever suits him best at the moment. And now he’s come to sell me down the river, ’cause that’s the best way to save his own hide.
I pushed up on my arms and jumped out of the barrel. The boards from the upper head were lying on the floor, where I’d tossed them the night before. I grabbed one and swung it right at his head. As luck would have it, Stoyan Kralev dashed forward in time and knocked my arm away. With a nice hard swing like that I would’ve splattered his brains right there and then. Stoyan Kralev pushed me back, but I still managed to land a boot right in that nincompoop’s groin, well near gelded him. He doubled over, the wind knocked clean out of him. Stoyan Kralev whipped out his pistol and pressed it to my chest. If you so much as flinch, he says, I’ll shoot. I’ve got other folks, too, who will testify that you’ve been egging them on to fight the people’s government. You killed his daughter, now it looks like you want to kill him, too. Because he told the truth about you. I’m sending you to court. Go ahead and send me to court, I’ll pay him for a kick to the crotch. I’m ready to pay for the heads of the likes of him!
Late in the afternoon of the fourth day,
a husky man with a worker’s cap came in to see me. I didn’t know him, I asked where he was from – that was none of my business. He tied my hands, led me out of the cellar, and shoved me into a covered truck. We sat down in the back across from each other and the truck took off. We passed through Vladimirovo and the truck turned right. I thought they were taking me to Dobrich, but once we were a mile or so past the village, the truck turned right again and headed down a dirt road. Ten minutes later we stopped, the guy with the cap got out, lugging me along with him. The truck turned around and took off the way we’d come. Full moon, as bright as day. I look around, we’re at the Crag, up on the hill. The water’s glittering down below. If you recall, after some heavy rains lots of water spilled over into that dry ravine, filled it up, then later they made it into a reservoir. Me and that guy are standing there face-to-face, neither of us saying a word. He’s got one hand in his pocket, smoking a cigarette with the other one. We stand there like that for almost an hour, silent. Some headlights light up the highway, a motor is rumbling, and the truck comes back. They cut the headlights and the guy in the cap starts shoving me toward the truck. There’s a barrel in front of it. I take a look – the same barrel I spent three nights in, the boards for the head are lying next to it. There’s no one in sight near the truck. Get in, the guy in the cap says, grabbing me under the arms. He’s a mountain of a man, lifts me right up and plants me in that barrel. Sit down – so I sit down on the bottom. I hear some coughing coming from the truck, so I realize there’s people inside it, but who they are I can’t tell in the dark. I hear footsteps coming toward the barrel. Now everything’s up to you, someone says, and I recognize Stoyan Kralev’s voice. You’ve got a lot of sins to your name, he says, but if you’ve finally come to your senses, the people will forgive you. If not – you’ll go where all the stooges of capitalism and filthy reactionism have gone. I’m giving you three more minutes to think it over. Either you’re with the people, or you say your prayers.
No, I tell him, you’ve met your match this time, Comrade Kralev. You can’t scare me in the name of the people, because if it were up to the people, they wouldn’t lay a finger on me. The people don’t know the first thing about power, if they really had power, they wouldn’t allow you to torment the people themselves in their own name. If it were really that great in the co-op, you wouldn’t have to strong-arm everybody in the village to join, no, you’d set up a cop at the door and only let your own people in with special passes. The power lies only with you and folks like you, neither Bulgarians nor Turks, who’ve never so much as touched the land with a ten-foot pole. So I’m not the least bit scared of you. You’re scared of me. If you weren’t, you wouldn’t be standing there holding a gun to my head. I’ve got my hands tied, I’m sitting here in this barrel, but still you’re scared.
While I was going on like that, the guy with the cap started putting the head on the barrel and tightening it up. He slipped a hoop on it and rolled the barrel over on one side. I figured out what they were up to. They would let the barrel roll down the hill and if I yelled that I would sign the membership form for the co-op, they’d stop the barrel and take me out. If I didn’t scream, they would let it roll right into the swamp. As you know, the hill has a gentle slope, about three hundred yards long and covered with rocks. They shoved the barrel and – bumpity-bump – it started rolling down the hill. I hunkered down with all my might, clutching my head with my hands – come on, now, Bay Zhendo, let’s see how brave you really are! While the barrel was rolling across the smooth part of the hill, I could take it. I was spinning around inside like a top, trying to protect my head. But whenever I hit a rock, it would shake me so hard that I thought it would rattle my bones clean apart. If the rock was smaller, the barrel would jump right over it, but if it got stuck on a bigger one, somebody nudged it on downward. And the one nudging it had to be Stoyan Kralev. He was waiting for me to yell, to give in. No, I told myself, you’re not going to cry out! What’re those teeth for anyway? Grit them as long as they’re still in your head! You’ve passed through the eyes of needles before in this lifetime, you’ll slip through again. If you don’t hold out, if you give in, you won’t live to tell about it, ’cause I’ll shoot you down like a dog. So make your choice – either you die now, or a little later. Stoyan Kralev won’t have the heart to drown you. He’s only trying to scare you, he thinks he’s dealing with a yellow-belly.
So that’s what I’m thinking, to buck myself up. And that barrel, it’s all dried out, right, rattling as if it’ll fall to pieces any second. Finally it hits soft soil and splashes into the water. Water rushes in through the cracks right away, getting me wet and little by little covering me up. It reaches my mouth, I swallow a bit and started choking. Come on, now, I tell myself, you’re not gonna yell, Zhendo, you’re not gonna be the village laughingstock. Show Stoyan “Man of Steel” Kralev that he’s more scared than you are. If he’s not scared, he’ll shove the barrel in the deep water and drown you. He’s not going to drown you, he’s just going to torture you. Cowards always torture other people. Spit right in his face, so if he drowns you, at least he’ll drown you spit-stained like the scoundrel he is. Chin up! Well and good, but my chin’s already as far up as it can go. I suck in water again, choke again. The barrel rolls back and is hoisted onto dry land. Somebody hits it with a hammer, the hoop jangles and the boards of the head fall in. I can hear it – squish, squish – two pairs of footsteps walking away. The water drains out, I wait a bit to catch my breath, then wriggle out, wet as a drowned rat. Up on the hill the truck lights up, bellows, and disappears. I shake myself off, pull myself together as best I can, and slowly but surely drag myself back home around midnight.
After that business, they left me alone. No one came to browbeat me about the co-op, so I kept doing my thing for another year. The co-op grew, there were only a dozen or so of us left outside it – me, Kiro “Up Yours” Dzhelebov, Ivan Swaphook, and a few others. The co-op kept growing, taking over the best land, and little by little pushing us out to the fringes of the fields. They gave us the worst land, loaded us with taxes and state delivery quotas, but we still eked out more than the co-opers. Things there were one big muddle, while they were paid mere pennies for a day’s work. Some folks ditched their houses and land and headed to the cities to work for cold, hard cash. The factories and mills were looking for workers and took all comers. My Koycho started looking toward the city too. I kept stopping him, but when they traded our land for worse fields, he just threw up his hands at the whole business. You’re not going to get the upper hand over the co-op, he kept saying, let’s sell what we can and head to the city, there’s no future for us here. I listened to him and couldn’t believe my ears. That very same Koycho who had worked away on the land from morning till night and who’d been ready to fight to defend even a single furrow, now he was talking like he’d landed in this village from the moon. Aren’t this house and yard dear to you, I’d say, aren’t your mother and father dear to you, you’re the reason we’ve broken our backs working our whole lives. If you leave us, you’re no longer our son, even if you’re starving, I won’t give you a crust of bread. What, me starve? he’d say. I spent three years in the army labor corps, I picked up two trades, there’s no way I’ll be left hungry now. This here is family business, I told him, not just yours. Whatever the family decides, that’s what you’ll do. Nobody, he said, has the right to meddle in my life, I’ll work wherever I want, and that’s where I’ll live.
Before he’d never so much as talked back, now here he was saying this straight to my face without batting an eye. For every one thing I’d say, he’d come back at me with two more. I ought to give him a good smack, I thought to myself, but I didn’t dare – this wasn’t the same Koycho who was wet behind the ears. He’d served his army time, he was strong as a bull, he could squeeze water from a stone. If I took a swing at him, he wouldn’t take it lying down, he might even slap me around. I’m not going to give you a red cent, I told him. If you want to
go off wandering, find your own money and wander to your heart’s content. I’ll get by without your money, he said, I’ve got army buddies in the city, they won’t leave me high and dry. We wrangled like that for a month or two, until one day he finally ran away from home. He took a little bundle of clothes and told his mother he was going to visit a friend in Dobrich for a day or two. A month passed, we didn’t hear anything from him, he was still angry. We learned he was working on a construction site. I hitched up the horses and went to Dobrich. I found the site, found his friend, too, but he wasn’t there. He hadn’t liked the work and had left for Varna. Lots of our folks were working in Varna, at Koralovag, the ship and train building yard. They told me that Koycho had joined up there as a woodworker. I went there, too, and found him. We chatted a bit and made up, but he wouldn’t even hear of returning to the village. A year later he sent word that he’d gotten married. He didn’t invite us to the wedding or even bring his wife around so we could get a look at her. They didn’t have any time off, they said, so me and the wife had to go visit them. We were just about to set out to see them when they sent a letter saying they were off to some reservoir. From the reservoir they moved to Plovdiv, from Plovdiv to Karlovo. They’re living there till this day. He’s still in woodworking, head of a workshop or some such thing, she’s a teacher. She took a correspondence course and became a teacher.
Wolf Hunt Page 12
