The Fantastical Adventures of Leutenlieb of the House of Munchausen

by Shlomo Kalo

  "A great day for the people!" the driver exclaimed, in a tone that could have expressed either joy or trepidation.

  At the airport there were several obstacles which the pilot accompanying me succeeded in overcoming. He pulled off his pilot’s jacket, made of reindeer-skin, wrapped it round my shoulders and said awkwardly: "You’ll need this!" And neither of us realized at that moment how right he was. I thanked him warmly.

  When we stood beside the plane I said to him:

  "You just start it up and the rest – leave to me! I don’t want to get you into trouble!" He gave me a long and gloomy look:

  "I have a mother here and a fiancée too," he mumbled. He started the engine and showed me how to fly the gleaming body, pointing out the two reserve tanks, securely fixed with sturdy Russian twine to the wings of the light aircraft, and stepped down from the cockpit. I sat in his place, put on the flying helmet of stiff bearskin and a thick Russian scarf, waved goodbye, engaged the throttle and eased the joystick towards me.

  The aluminum and canvas bird obeyed me, sped along the runway for some distance, and with impressive lightness, like a dancer on the stage of the Bolshoi, rose up and soared into the blue sky, which still reflected uncompromising human hope and gladness of heart such as this people had not known until my coming.

  That special and unprecedented day when I sat on the throne of authority, addressing a people striving for a little of the light of true freedom for the first time in hundreds of years – is well remembered by the peoples of the world and especially by the great Russian people, which retains it in its heart as the day the dream came true and celebrates it in the best Russian tradition – with song and dance, impressive costumes, prayers in churches and giving alms to the poor, but the most important feature of the Russian festival named after me is the consolidation and reinforcement of the belief that this will return and not just for one day, going on and on, months and years until the end of all generations, as a fitting recompense for the prolonged hardship and soaring pain. There are some who say it will then be called by my name – "Leutenlieb’s Day of Light". The Russian Orthodox Church in exile has in all seriousness debated the idea of declaring me a saint, and including Saint Leutenlieb’s Day in its ancient calendar. But this is inappropriate since it turns out that this day already belongs to another saint, no less deserving, who died under torture at the hands of Muslim tyrants, while striving desperately to preserve the purity of his faith. In the end, if there is any truth in the persistent rumors which I am hearing, this day will be named after both of us: Saints Leutenlieb and Ivan. And this will be, in the fullness of time, a national festival day, celebrated with the best of good cheer throughout free Russia.

  THE BIRD AND THE LASSO

  After about an hour of soaring and invigorating flight, in the infinitude of lustrous and exhilarating blue, at the maximum speed an aircraft like mine was capable of developing, i.e. around 320 kph, while performing impressive aerobatic exercises such as "loops" of various kinds, "corkscrews", "calligraphy" etc., I came to the surprising conclusion that Russian pilots are the most skilled pilots in all the world, unrivalled and likely to remain so – in the near and in the distant future. They stand head and shoulders above all those who boast of their exploits in their steel birds of foreign manufacture.

  In order to pilot a Russian warplane, to be more precise – a wondrous concoction of canvas, iron filings, thick plywood, untreated animal-skins, a truck-engine, corroded ignition-cables, a radio transmitter-receiver which is never capable of receiving the station that it’s looking for, which whenever operated emits a monotonous and nerve-grating hum and which, when given up on and apparently switched off, suddenly comes back to life at a volume of its own choice and even the strongest fist is powerless to silence it – the man sitting in the cockpit needs to be a consummate genius, excelling by at least twenty degrees the ingenuity of any other pilot in the world. As if all this were not enough – the responses of the Russian plane demand profound study, and only someone endowed with exceptional intuition, developed beyond all the norms of conventional human intuition – will acquire any inkling of them. The joystick for example (half of it polished wood and the other half a simple metal tube, resembling a piece of bathroom plumbing) – does not maneuver the plane in accordance with every deflection, as in the other aircraft of the world. The joystick of the Russian plane has a long, dignified moment of individualistic hesitation, a moment of "cogitation". The engine ponders with gravitas, with exemplary patience and the equanimity of the truly valiant – whether to obey the hapless pilot, who is entirely at its mercy, and comply with his instructions and if so, to what extent to comply and at which precise moment to put the order into effect – or simply ignore it, as if no order had been given.

  If the ingenious Russian pilot, possessed of the precise and acute intuition of a saint, tries to dive at a certain moment and pushes the joystick away from him, the plane is liable to carry on climbing instead of diving, gaining height as before or not as before or proceeding on a horizontal line, and only some tens of seconds later (on average – half a minute) does it bow its stubborn head and dive at a speed and trajectory which are the fruit of its own private reflection, in consultation with the astute engine and its multifarious components but not, perish the thought, with the man sitting in the cockpit and holding the joystick.

  An independent, original kind of technology, the proud handiwork of a socialist milieu suffused with anthems, crowds marching together, red flags and enlarged portraits of the "Father of the Nations".

  As previously stated, despite the dazzling splendor of the superb, unique invention called a Russian warplane, I succeeded in taking in its particular message, teaching it how to ride on the "mashinochka", in a way that even the most adept of Russian pilots might have envied.

  This plane, which my good fortune had placed in my way, stressed ad nauseam that the thing which characterizes the Russian nature in all things touching on and relating to the manufacture of weapons of war of various kinds, from time immemorial to the present day and no doubt into the future too – is surely nothing other than the most famous technique of all, the uniquely Russian technique, which bears a decidedly Russian stamp, and there is no corner of the world or living person that is not thoroughly familiar with it, the distinctive, once-in-a-lifetime and incontrovertible technique, providing a quick, sharp and comprehensive answer to every question, the wondrous technique of "Russian Roulette" which broadens the mind and illumines the heart. And for its sake it is worth building a socialist or even an anarchist regime, just so long as it doesn’t sink into the abyss of oblivion, doesn’t give up the ghost, and takes its rightful place in the blood-drenched human arena, and history will sing its fulsome praises, as is fitting. Anyway, this plane which my good fortune put at my disposal finally confirmed a well-known truth: if it’s men you want – you’ll find them in Russia, because only men have a place there, even if some of these men are wearing skirts.

  I almost melted with pleasure and delight when I heard, through the medium of the radio, with its single wooden knob, which had been broadcasting a continuous series of chirps accompanied by irregular coughs – a solemn directive from the grandson of Marshall Budyonny, who in his time was the most famous horseman in the Soviet Union and in the whole world. This grandson, so it seemed, had been appointed commander of the Soviet Air Force and it was said of him that he had inherited some of the courage and flair of his distinguished grandfather and used to ride a plane as if riding a horse, only the plane wasn’t as obedient to him as that horse, and this fact led to him becoming commander of the illustrious air forces of progressive, constructive socialism instead of a simple pilot from the ranks.

  This eminent grandson of a no less eminent grandfather issued a solemn summons to launch against me all aircraft fit to fly (more to the point, declared fit to fly) and under no circumstances to allow me to cross the frontier of the homeland whose honor had been severely impugned and damaged
almost beyond repair by the capitalist-western-Wall-Street conspiracy, permeating my blue, treacherous blood.

  And sure enough the summons was heard in all the secret airbases of the socialist homeland and all aircraft were launched skywards with emotional enthusiasm, intent on intercepting the traitor who had besmirched the honor of the mother of all nations and peoples.

  During the take-off process, there were 217 frontal collisions, plane to plane, leading to the total destruction of 1201 aircraft and the remainder (of those which had taken part in the same frontal collisions) were severely damaged.

  The blue Russian skies enclosed me on every side, like a boundless ocean, still maintaining their purity but, as it turned out, not for long.

  About a quarter of an hour later I noticed – much to my relief, since lethal collisions were not at all to my taste and saddened my heart greatly – some two thousand squadrons of aircraft, of all types and all degrees of antiquity, popping up around me and swooping on me from every altitude and direction.

  I slowed my air-speed as far as this was possible and waited for the planes to come closer…

  Only a few sporadic shots were fired at me, since the machine-guns with which these planes were equipped were not easy to control and use of them was very dangerous, primarily to the user himself; instead they tried to intercept me according to the international rules and take me prisoner, thus awarding me the privilege of a public trial with all the trimmings, and a billet in some dungeon left over from the time of Peter the Great and Ivan the Terrible. At once I pushed the joystick forward. In its unruffled socialist fashion, my plane continued on its way with no change in altitude, and then, when it felt the time was right (I had taken account of this in my calculations, using the acute and highly developed intuition with which I was blessed) – it suddenly dived at a vertical angle, like a stone dropped into a well.

  My intrepid interceptors, losing control of their machines, collided with one another with remarkable precision and with a hideous din. Bits of aircraft debris flew in all directions and I had to maneuver between them with almost superhuman dexterity to avoid being hit.

  Those watching the impressive display from below ran to pick up shards of aluminum, plywood, animal skins and pieces of canvas, short rubber tubes, buttons of uniforms and buttons of radio-sets, seat upholstery, springs and screws. From the bodies of the pilots they looted energetically whatever was left of their uniforms, stripping off their boots with particular alacrity, and disappearing with their spoils into their ramshackle hovels.

  The whole of this gloomy picture I observed as I regained height, and not wanting to let a certain kind of mood dominate me – I switched on the radio transmitter and sang into it, in my full and melodious voice, that marvelous Russian song: "Shiroka strana moya rodnaya". To my utter astonishment, I heard the air force chief, the grandson of the illustrious Budyonny, singing along with me in a fine bass voice… so we sang our duet, which all connoisseurs of modern Russian prosody would have appreciated. This song, as is well-known, is rich in sound and replete with deep and sublime Russian sentiment. We kept on going to the very last word, and we even repeated the particularly moving final verse several times. And then Budonny’s grandson addressed me and declared solemnly:

  "I congratulate you, Comrade Major, on your inspiring victory over the degenerate capitalist, Baron Leutenlieb. I recognize you by the tuneful sound of your voice. From this moment on you are promoted – fly on to further success, Colonel Sergei Sergeyovich Papundze!"

  I found it a distressing experience, hearing his confident tone of voice. I made no attempt to correct his mistake, in fact I gave him no answer for better or for worse, but thumped the black bakelite box with my fist; it stopped broadcasting and reverted to its rhythmic coughing and routine chirping. I carried on in a north-north-easterly direction towards the open sea.

  I went on singing and flying, enjoying the prodigious Russian spaces, the blue sky, the sense of freedom and elation that is the lot of every pilot. And then the engine shuddered and emitted a series of puttering sounds. I wasn’t unduly perturbed by this, knowing that under the wings two reserve tanks were stowed. So I unfastened some buckles, stood up from my seat and crawled out onto the left wing, unhitched one of the tanks, carried it a few meters, still crawling of course, removed the cap of the fuel intake and carefully poured in the contents of the tank without wasting a single precious drop. I scanned the terrain below me and not seeing a living soul down there, jettisoned the empty tank. I returned to the cockpit, strapped myself in and carried on singing that Russian song which had been my favorite since childhood. And then, the engine coughed again. Incredible though it seemed: it had consumed 50 liters of fuel in less than five minutes. This was strange, but it didn’t worry me as I had another 50 liter tank at my disposal, in other words, I was guaranteed at least four minutes of flying-time. I repeated the refueling process as already described. Releasing buckles, crawling out onto the wing (the right wing this time), detaching the fuel tank, carrying it to the fuel intake and pouring the liquid into the funnel of the pipe. While doing this, as I held the emptying tank and raised it by degrees. I noticed that while I was filling the engine’s fuel reservoir on one side, the precious fluid was spilling out, in a thinner stream admittedly, from the other side, straight into the empty space below me, through a hole which, in spite of everything, one of those valiant Russian pilots had succeeded in punching through the engine casing.

  The situation was indeed serious, but not desperate. I set out to exploit to the best of my ability the four minutes of flying-time that I reckoned I had left, looking around for a suitable place to land, and then it dawned on me that I was flying over a wide expanse of sea, the northern sea to be precise, and the idea of landing was impractical. I was left with only one option: once the fuel had run out I would have to fly the plane like a glider, i.e. detach the heavy engine from its body and carry on, maneuvering with joystick and foot-pedals, and waiting for some idea to flash into my mind, which as is widely known and as I can say without boasting – is the mind of a genius. So, I let the plane fly on and in the meantime, with the speed of lightning, I unfastened the screws holding the engine in place, a job which took me no more than three minutes. The engine, released from its moorings, was driven forward by the force of its own momentum, before dropping in free-fall, a delightful spectacle indeed, into the broad bosom of that sea, and I continued to pilot the body of the aircraft, which in a moment had become a glider, exploiting the light air currents, which are characteristic of the northern sea. And so I flew on, for a further three hours or thereabouts.

  In the early afternoon, when the sun was turning westward, a black spot appeared on the horizon, growing larger with alarming speed, before my very eyes. I didn’t know what it was and at first in my innocence I took it for a black cloud, chased by a strong westerly wind. And I had no time to spare for analyzing data. About ten minutes after its appearance the black patch stopped, between me and the sun, which was turning to the west, as mentioned previously, and darkened the whole of my sphere of vision.

  This was a massive eagle, a variety of condor, perhaps that legendary bird known as "Jochani" or some such name. With its wings it could have covered the greatest of all the ships in existence on earth, and made it look like the tiniest of chicks; its head, the size of a 50,000-seater stadium, was mounted proudly on a neck of length equivalent to the height of a medium-sized skyscraper; its exposed legs, with claws resembling big Turkish scimitars, were like giant date-palms that could be climbed to reach the forest of downy feathers covering the lower part of the body. The extraordinary spectacle of the bird almost made me lose my senses, but I soon got my composure back and then, as is usual in such circumstances, an idea flashed into my mind which I instantly put into effect. It could be said that by virtue of this idea, my deep initial shock occasioned by the impressive encounter with the king of the skies, the lord of space and time – turned into joy and jubilation. The bird for its
part, insofar as a brief, preliminary glance can be relied on, was not at all gratified by the encounter, and if he had been happy the reason for his happiness would have been simplicity itself: my juddering aircraft was in his eyes a bird of moderate size, which would perhaps satisfy his hunger for a short while. To me he paid no attention, or perhaps he didn’t see me at all, or if he did see me – it was not as someone existing in his own right, but as a part of the battered body of this rather strange bird, one of its limbs, a light side-dish to the forthcoming meal.

  A number of times the bird circled around me with a regal beating of wings, trying perhaps to work out from which angle it would be most convenient to stretch out his head and devour the booty that had turned up in his path, or at least, stick his talons in it and carry it off to some snowy mountain peak, where he would feast upon it, or perhaps share it with his fledglings – if he had fledglings. Anyway, it was obvious that I needed to act – and act with all possible speed. Every wasted second could foil my plans and lead to the kind of glitch that my millions of loyal readers would bitterly regret, with my story breaking off at the most fascinating point, charged with rising tension, and never reaching its ingenious conclusion, fit to gladden the heart and refresh the spirit.

  May I remind you, I had dispensed with the empty fuel tanks while there was still time… and to the credit of those oil-drums, it may be said that in the end they did me a great service. Specifically because they were Russian oil-drums and a Russian technician secured them to the undersides of the wings using the traditional Russian method, familiar from the time of the Tatars and into the present day – using a simple rope. This rope was still dangling from the wing, with the wind tossing it from side to side and back and forth, and from time to time mischievously slapping my face with it, a gesture of ursine affection which always filled my heart with gratitude for the way my head was protected by that Russian flying-helmet made of plywood and thick animal skins.