by Leo Perutz
It was an immense effort to tear himself away from the poster. When he got home, he raised the subject of Selyukov with Captain Stackelberg.
"Mikhail Mikhailovich Selyukov?" said Stackelberg. "No, the name means nothing to me. You'll have to consult the War Commissariat's personnel records, though God knows what kind of a mess they're in. Mikhail Mikhailovich Selyukov . . . So he's gone over to the revolutionaries - betrayed the Tsar and sworn allegiance to the Soviets? In that case he'll be serving on a front like this one here. He won't be a staff captain any longer - a battalion commander, more like. He was in the Semyonov Regiment, you say? Perhaps, but everything's gone haywire - you don't know where you are any more. Our Nizhgorod Dragoons have been renamed 'Lassalle's Own Red Cavalry Regiment' - that's the kind of thing that's happening these days. If he's as much of a low-down, bloodthirsty sadist as you say, you'd better look for him in the Lubyanka. That's where the worst of the scum are based."
"The Lubyanka?" said Vit¬torin. "What's that?"
"You've never heard of the Lubyanka? Why, God preserve you, the Lubyanka is the great revolutionary slaughterhouse, the headquarters of death. It's the nerve centre of the Moscow Cheka."
Count Gagarin, who was sitting beside the stove wrapped in blankets, looked up.
"You don't know the Lubyanka? Well, I do, God knows. I went there and was issued with a pass stamped 'CR', meaning 'Counter-Revolutionary'. Why CR, I wondered - my father had never dabbled in politics. Anyway, I was admitted to the office by a fellow posted outside the door, a sailor with a red arm-band. The commissar sitting at the desk wore glasses and had a shawl tied round his head - maybe he had toothache. He's a Christian soul, I told myself, so why shouldn't he take pity on me? I handed him my pass. 'What can I do for you, citizen?' he asked. 'Comrade,' I said, 'I only arrived from Petersburg this morning. My father was brought here on Tuesday. I've come to inquire the reason for his arrest.' The commissar consulted his list. 'No, he's not here.' - 'Please, comrade,' I said, 'have another look.' That annoyed him. 'He's not on my list, I tell you. Try again tomorrow, you can see I'm busy. Next!' - 'But I was sent here,' I said. 'You must have his file.' He banged the desk with his fist. 'Get out, you're wasting my time! Next!' He ignored me and started writing."
Stackelberg had risen and was pacing restlessly up and down. He took a glass of red wine from the table and went over to his friend.
"Have some of this, Mitya," he told him in his gruff voice. "Drink up, it'll make you feel better, you'll see."
"There were people waiting outside, women with tear-stained faces, but I didn't budge. He's lying cold and hungry on some damp cellar floor downstairs I told myself. The commissar looked up. 'What, still here? Go to the devil! Push off!' At that moment someone came in with a newspaper. The commissar took it and began to read. All at once he turned polite. He beckoned me over with a grin, and his voice went smooth as syrup. 'What a fortunate coincidence! I couldn't be more -delighted. I'm in the pleasant position of being able to pass on some information. There, read it for yourself.' I took the paper - it was the Izvestia - and there it was, on page one: 'Shot last night on the Khotynski Field: General S. I. Nelidov' - then someone else, a professor whose name I didn't know, and then ... I clung to the edge of the desk. A white mist gathered before my eyes and I fell to the ground - I didn't even have time to cross myself."
Stackelberg had rolled himself a cigarette. He sighed as he lit it with his lighter.
"Yes," he said, "God's world is a sad place. Great, holy Mother Russia is ruled by an army of executioners. Be patient,
Mitya: we'll crush them like eggshells. There'll come a day when their blood will be washed from our Russian soil with holy water."
Stackelberg had been out all day. It was nine in the evening when he finally returned, chilled to the marrow and wet through. He tossed his astrakhan cap on to the table and brushed the hair out of his eyes. Then he stooped to poke the fire in the stove.
"It's just as I said," he announced without straightening up. "The Volunteers have received reinforcements and ammunition. There's fighting ahead. The front is coming to life."
This was bad news, Vit¬torin knew. It might rule out any possibility of getting through the lines. Dismayed, he turned to Count Gagarin and tried to read his expression. Minutes went by. Outside, the blizzard continued to rage. Gagarin cocked his head and thought awhile.
"Well," he said at last, "so it's tonight, God help us."
Vit¬torin stood up. If the front came to life their venture would assume the nature of a reckless gamble, and yet . . . Count Gagarin was determined to keep his word. Vit¬torin went over to him. He tried to thank him, but he was still groping for the right words when the young Russian officer shook his head with an embarrassed smile.
"Why thank me? Anyway, what's all the fuss about? It's a mere stroll, twelve versts."
"Twelve versts by the Devil's reckoning," growled Stackelberg. "It's nearer twenty, Mitya, and don't forget the snowstorm."
"All right, call it twenty - we still won't freeze to death. What are you trying to do, Seryosha, get me to break my word and blush for shame? Back home on the Don our Cossacks have a saying: Toss your heart over a ditch and your horse'll jump after it.'"
The captain shrugged his shoulders and made no reply.
Very little more was said. Count Gagarin completed his preparations: binoculars, map, compass, a small flask of brandy, food for two days. Then he carefully checked his Smith & Wesson revolver and stowed it away in the pocket of his grey peasant smock.
They left the house an hour before midnight. Stackelberg bade them farewell on the outskirts of the fishing village.
"Go now, Mitya, and may God preserve you."
He kissed his friend on both cheeks in the Russian manner, then shook Vit¬torin's hand.
"I owe you thanks for bread and salt, roof and hearth. I won't forget. Goodbye and good luck."
They set off along a track defined by straw-wrapped posts jutting from the snow. On their right lay the gleaming ribbon of the frozen river. The blizzard had temporarily abated, and a menacing, malevolent moon sailed overhead. The wind drove tousled clouds along and shook snow from the bare branches of hazel and whitethorn bushes. The fishermen's huts receded into the gloom, and the wintry solitude lay heavy on Vit¬torin's soul.
It was about three in the morning. The moon emerged from between the wind-blown clouds racing across the sky. By its light, Count Gagarin made out the dark shape of a farmhouse to the right of the track. He halted.
Snow was still falling heavily, but it was a little less cold. Vit¬torin was close to collapse. He staggered along like a drunken man, slipped twice and fell, scrambled to his feet again, toiled through the snow with his eyes shut. The breath rasped in his throat. His feet were numb with cold and his cheeks chapped and burning. At last he reached Gagarin's side.
"Do we have much farther to go?" he groaned.
"We've only covered eight versts at the most." Gagarin pointed to the farmhouse. "We can rest there and get a little sleep. It'll do you good."
"Isn't it occupied?"
Gagarin shook his head. "There aren't any people in this part of the world - we're between the lines. They're a sad sight, these abandoned houses. Peasants lived here once — lived as their forefathers did, slept and got drunk and beat their wives, prayed to God and tilled the soil. The earth is black -grain thrives here. Now they're all gone, where to, no one knows."
He released his safety catch - it was possible that some patrol had bivouacked in the farmhouse - and they made their way inside. Moonlight filtering through gaps in the roof disclosed that the place was deserted.
"There's some straw over there - yes, and a horse blanket!" Gagarin exclaimed. 'This isn't a peasant hut, it's a palace fit for a tsar. You'll sleep as snug here as an angel curled up beside God's stove."
Vit¬torin was so exhausted he flopped down where he stood. Gagarin draped the blanket over him and thrust a bundle of straw beneath his head
. He himself perched on the table and lit a cigarette.
"Aren't you going to get some sleep?" Vit¬torin asked.
"Somebody has to keep watch. I've got the brandy here, but we'd better save it for tomorrow."
"Everything's gone all right so far, hasn't it?"
Vit¬torin found it an effort to speak. His chapped and blistered lips were smarting.
Gagarin didn't reply.
"You'll be going back the way we've come," Vit¬torin went on. "Will the captain be waiting for you at Novokhlovinsk?"
"No. He's under orders to head for Tiraspol through Polish territory. Scattered Russian units have formed themselves into a new army down there on the Dniester."
"And you? What will you do?"
Silence fell. Gagarin seemed to be pondering the question. All Vit¬torin could see of him in the gloom was the glowing tip of his cigarette.
"I'll play hare or hound, depending on how the hunt goes," he said eventually. "Who can tell what the next hour will bring? I may wear my regiment's blue cherkesska again, or I may die like a rat in some Cheka cellar. It doesn't pay to speculate on such things. My soul will reach its appointed destination come what may."
"And you really believe that the old Russia, the Russia you love, will be reborn?"
"Perhaps," said Gagarin, sounding weary and despondent all of a sudden. "Perhaps. Russia is undergoing an ordeal by fire. We aren't privileged to know what the outcome will be."
He took a final pull at his cigarette and got off the table.
"It's cold in here," he said in an altogether different voice. "Will it disturb you if I dance a lezginka to warm myself up?"
The farmhouse was still in darkness when Vit¬torin awoke. He felt as if he'd been asleep for no more than a few minutes. A dull, distant rumble could be heard. He raised his head and listened.
"Shall we wait till the storm blows over?" he asked drowsily.
"Rub your face with snow, that'll soon wake you up." Count Gagarin's voice came from somewhere near the door. "That's hell speaking, not heaven. The Volunteers' artillery opened up half an hour ago - they're getting ready to attack. You didn't hear a thing, though, just went on sleeping like a baby. Ready to go? We'll have to take a different route. There's no time to waste."
Snow stung their faces as they emerged from the farm house. Gagarin pointed in a south-easterly direction.
"See? There's the forest, dark as damnation. Stay close behind me, this is a bad stretch: a powdering of snow on a thin layer of ice and marshy ground beneath."
They trudged through the darkness of night and the grey light of dawn for two long hours, sheltering among clumps of willow whenever the blizzard became too fierce. Once, when the beam of a searchlight came gliding across the snow-mantled hills and fields, Gagarin flung himself to the ground. By daybreak they had reached a sparse belt of birch trees straggling up the side of a hill. At the top they called a halt. Bluish-grey clouds were scudding across a cold, translucent sky. Visible through the trees was a distant horizon veiled in mist.
"Now would be the time to make some tea," said Gagarin, "but we can't. Look down there."
He pointed at the valley. A detachment of Red cavalrymen had paused to water their horses on the banks of a frozen mere. Three of them had dismounted and were punching a hole in the ice with the butts of their carbines. The patrol commander, who was sitting his horse a few feet away, seemed intent on the distant bombardment.
Gagarin led off again. They descended the hill and made their way along a deep ravine forming the bed of a frozen stream. For a long time their route took them across level ground thickly overgrown with bushes. At one point Gagarin seemed to lose his way. He consulted the map and compass, made a sharp left turn, and they were back on course again.
Toward nine in the morning he paused, pointing to some telegraph poles and a bullet-riddled signalman's cabin.
"We've crossed the railway line," he said. "Another quarter of an hour and we'll be safe."
Now that the mist had lifted they could see their destination, Berdichev Forest.
"Only another quarter of an hour," Gagarin went on, "but I'll feel happier when we've got this last stretch behind us. The wind has blown the mist away, which isn't good. If there's a patrol on the edge of that forest they'll be invisible to us but quite capable of spotting us at a thousand yards." He shrugged. "Well, we've got to get across somehow. We can't fly like birds, so we'll have to run like hares. First, though, I'll take a bit of a look around."
He stowed the binoculars in his pocket and scaled a pine tree that was leaning over at a slight angle. The artillery fire in the north had slackened, but the rattle of a machine-gun could be heard nearer at hand. The branches swayed and groaned, snow trickled down from above, and a crow, cawing harshly, circled the tree.
Suddenly a shot rang out from the forest. Vit¬torin looked up in alarm, but Gagarin hadn't moved. He remained perched in the pine tree with the binoculars to his eyes in the attitude of one watching and listening. A minute went by. Then he started down again, slowly and carefully transferring his grip from branch to branch. Once on the ground he stood leaning against the tree trunk.
"Time to say goodbye," he said. "You'll have to fend for yourself from now on. Take the compass and the map. If you run into a sentry on the other side, produce your papers and knock him out while he's examining them. If there are more than one — "
"Aren't you coming with me?" Vit¬torin broke in.
"No, what's the point? I'll be honest with you: I'm scared. It's shameful, I know, but there it is."
Vit¬torin stared at him in silence.
"You may not believe me," Gagarin pursued in a low voice, "but it's God's own truth. Why shouldn't I be afraid, when I love life so much? You have a duty to perform - a great mission, you told me so yourself. You've got to get across. Hurry, don't waste time or it'll be too late."
"And you'll stay here?"
"No, I must go back. It would be lovely to lie here in the fresh air, close my eyes and dream the dream of the earth."
He slid to the snowy ground. His cap had fallen off, and the moist hair was clinging to his forehead.
"You're wounded!"
Gagarin shook his head.
"Yes you are, you're wounded," Vit¬torin exclaimed. "Let me take a look."
"All right, so I'm wounded," Gagarin replied with an impatient gesture. "For heaven's sake get going. When you reach the outskirts of Berdichev, send a peasant with a sledge - he can fetch me tonight. It was a Lettish sniper. He was over to the left there, on the edge of the forest. I spotted him just too late - he got me in the leg. And now hurry. Keep to the right or you'll bump into the patrol. Get a move on, I'd hate to have brought you all this way for nothing."
"I'll find a sledge and fetch you myself," Vit¬torin said. "What if the patrol finds you first, though?"
"Stop asking questions, you're wasting time. Don't worry about me, I know what to say to those fellows. I'll spin them a yarn - tell them I've deserted from the Volunteers to fight for Red Russia. They'll relieve me of my pound of tea and bars of soap. Then they'll cart me off to a field hospital, end of story. No long goodbyes, comrade. Take your courage in both hands and run for your life."
He ran for his life, but he didn't get far. Halfway to safety he ran into the Red patrol.
One bullet whistled over his head, another grazed his ear. He threw himself down in the snow, panting, and lay there with the blood pounding and roaring in his temples.
"Don't shoot!" he yelled as soon as he had caught his breath. "Deserter! Don't shoot!"
Four Red Guards emerged from behind a snow-drift and advanced on him, rifles at the ready. Their leader, who wore a sackcloth coat and a red cockade in his cap, looked down at Vit¬torin with a mocking expression.
"A deserter, eh? Trying to sneak through the lines in a peasant smock? Well, we'll soon see what kind of deserter you are. Where's your friend?"
Vit¬torin had sat up.
"What frien
d?"
"Don't lie, you bastard!" the patrol commander bellowed. "The man in the tree - where did you leave him?"
Vit¬torin wiped the sweat from his brow.
"Over near the signalman's cabin," he said, "but he may have turned back."
"Well, he won't have got far. You go first, and don't try to run for it or you'll take a bullet with you."
They found Count Gagarin beside the signalman's cabin. He had removed his boot and bandaged his shattered knee with a strip of cloth. When he saw the Reds coming he took a couple of long pulls at his cigarette and fumbled in his pocket. With no sign of haste, he produced a ribbon in the colours of Imperial Russia and carefully wound it around his sleeve. Then he reached for his revolver, which was lying beside him in the snow, put it to his temple - the barrel glinted briefly in the winter sunlight - and pulled the trigger.
