The Complete Works of Isaac Babel Reprint Edition by Isaac Babel, Nathalie Babel, Peter Constantine

by Nathalie Babel, Peter Constantine Isaac Babel

  “Good day to you, Monsieur Grach,” he said, and moved to the side. “Golubchik informed me that you’d be dropping by, and I have prepared a pound of tea for you, an absolute rarity!”

  And he began talking about a new variety of tea that had been brought to Odessa on Dutch ships. Grach listened to him patiently, but then interrupted him, because he was a simple man with no tricks up his sleeve.

  “I'm a simple man with no tricks up my sleeve,” Froim said. “I stay with my horses and I work hard at my work. Im ready to throw in some new linen and a few coins for Basya, and I needn’t tell you that I myself stand behind her—and whoever thinks that’s not enough can burn in hell!” “Why should we burn?” Kaplun answered in a quick jabber, caressing the carters arm. “No need for such words, Monsieur Grach. We know you well as a man who can lend another a helping hand, not to mention that your talk might offend a man—you’re no Cracow rabbi, you know, and though I myself didn’t stand beneath wedding wreaths with no niece of Moses Montefiore, we must consider ... we must consider Madame Kaplun, a grand lady—God himself has no idea what that woman wants—”

  “Me, I know, I know that Solomonchik wants my Basya,” Grach interrupted the grocer. “But Madame Kaplun doesn’t want me.”

  “That’s right! I don’t want you!” shouted Madame Kaplun, who had been listening by the door, and she came into the glass veranda, hot all over, her chest fluttering. “I don’t want you, Grach, as man doesn’t want death! I don’t want you, as a bride doesn’t want her face to be covered with pimples! Don’t forget that our dear late granddaddy was a grocer, and we must keep up la branched

  “You can keep your la branched Grach told the heated Madame Kaplun, and went home.

  Basya was waiting for him there in her orange dress. But without even glancing at her, the old man spread out a sheepskin coat under the cart and went to sleep, and he slept until Basya’s powerful arm dragged him out from under the cart.

  “You redheaded thief!” the girl said in a whisper, not at all like her usual whisper. “Why do I have to put up with your carter’s ways, and why are you as mute as a log, you redheaded thief!”

  “Basya!” Grach said to her. “Solomonchik wants you, but Madame Kaplun doesn’t want me. She wants a grocer’s girl.”

  The old man adjusted his sheepskin coat and crawled back under the cart, and Basya went running out of the courtyard.

  All of this happened on a Sabbath, a day of rest. The purple eye of the sunset, rummaging over the earth, stumbled upon Grach in the evening, snoring under his cart. An impulsive ray bumped into the sleeping man, and with its blazing reproach led him to Dalnitskaya Street, which lay dusty and shimmering like green rye in the wind. Tatars were walking up Dalnitskaya Street, Tatars and Turks with their mullahs. They were returning from a pilgrimage to Mecca and going back to their homes on the Orenburg Steppes and in Transcaucasia. A steamship had brought them to Odessa, and they were going from the harbor to the inn of Lyubka Shneiweis, nicknamed Lyubka the Cossack. The Tatars wore striped, rigid robes, and they covered the streets with the bronze sweat of the deserts. White towels were wound around their fezzes, indicating they had worshiped at the shrine of the Prophet. The pilgrims walked to the corner of the street and headed for Lyubka’s courtyard, but they couldn’t get in because a big crowd of people had gathered by the gates. Lyubka Shneiweis, her bag by her side, was beating a drunken muzhik, pushing him out into the street. She was punching him in the face, her fist clenched like a tambourine, while with her other hand she was holding him up so he wouldn’t collapse. Streams of blood were trickling between the muzhiks teeth and down past his ears. He was lost in thought, looking at Lyubka as if she were a complete stranger. Then he collapsed onto the stones and fell asleep. Lyubka gave him a kick and went back inside her store. Yevzel, her watchman, closed the gates behind her, and waved at Froim Grach, who was walk-ing by.

  “My respects, Grach!” he shouted. “If you want to see a real slice of life, come into our courtyard—you’ll have a good laugh!”

  And the watchman took Grach to a wall where the pilgrims who had arrived the night before had settled down. An old Turk in a green turban, an old Turk as green and light as a leaf, was lying on the grass. He was covered in pearly sweat, breathing with difficulty, and his eyes were rolling.

  “There!” Yevzel said, adjusting the medal on his shabby jacket. “There you have a scene from the real-life opera ‘Turkish Sickness.’ He’s dying, this old man is, but no one must call a doctor, because they think that whoever dies on the road back from the Muhammadan God is a fortunate and wealthy man. . . . Halvah!” Yevzel shouted at the dying man, and burst out laughing. “The doctor has come to cure you!”

  The Turk looked up at the watchman with childish terror and hatred, and turned away. Yevzel, pleased with himself, took Grach to the wine cellar on the other side of the courtyard. In the cellar, lamps were already burning, and music was playing. Old Jews with massive beards were playing Rumanian and Jewish songs. Mendel Krik was at a table drinking wine from a green glass, describing how his own sons—Benya, the older one, and Lyovka, the younger—had maimed him. He yelled out his story in a hoarse and terrifying voice, showed his smashed teeth, and let those around him poke the wounds on his belly. The Volhynian tsaddiks, with their porcelain faces, stood behind his chair and listened to Mendel Krik’s bragging with numb bewilderment. They were astonished at everything they heard, and Grach despised them for it.

  “Old braggart!” he mumbled, and ordered wine.

  Then Froim called over the owner, Lyubka the Cossack. She was standing by the door spouting curses and downing shots of vodka. “What!” she shouted at Froim, squinting at him in fury.

  “Madam Lyubka,” Froim said, beckoning her to sit next to him. “You are a clever woman, and I have come to you as I would to my very own mama. I have faith in you, Madam Lyubka—first and foremost in God, then in you.”

  “What!” Lyubka yelled, and quickly marched around the cellar before coming to sit next to him.

  And Grach said, “In the setdements,” he said, “the Germans are having a rich wheat harvest, but in Constantinople groceries go for a song. In Constantinople you can buy a pood of olives for three rubles, and then sell them here for thirty kopecks a pound! The grocers are really doing well now, Madam Lyubka, theyVe grown big and fat, and if one approaches them with a delicate touch, one could come away quite happy. But I’m all alone now on the job, the late Lyovka Bik has died, and I have no one left to turn to, and I’m all alone, as God is alone in heaven.

  “Benya Krik!” Lyubka said to him. “You tried Benya out on . Tartakovsky, so why not Benya?”

  “Benya Krik?” Grach repeated, full of amazement. “He’s a bachelor too, now that I think of it!”

  “He’s a bachelor,” Lyubka said. “Hook him up with Basya, give him money, make the rounds with him.”

  “Benya Krik,” the old man repeated, like an echo, a distant echo. “I hadn’t thought of him.”

  Froim Grach got up, muttering and stuttering, Lyubka marched off, and he tagged along behind her. They crossed the courtyard and went up to the second floor. There on the second floor lived the women that Lyubka kept for her guests.

  “Our bridegroom is with Katyusha,” Lyubka said to Grach. “Wait for me in the hall!” And she went to the room at the other end, where Benya was in bed with a woman named Katyusha.

  “Enough slobbering!” Lyubka told the young man. “You have to set yourself up first, Benchik, and then you can slobber away. Froim Grach is looking for you. He needs a man for a job but can’t find one.”

  Then she told him everything she knew about Basya and about Grach’s business.

  “I'll think it over,” Benya told her, covering Katyushas bare legs with the sheet. Ill think it over. Let the old man wait a bit.”

  “Wait a bit,” Lyubka told Grach, who was still standing in the hall. “Wait a bit, hes thinking it over.”

  Lyubka brought him a chair, and
he sank into boundless waiting. He waited patiently, like a muzhik in a government office. Behind the wall, Katyusha moaned and burst out laughing. The old man dozed off for two hours, maybe more. Evening had long turned into night, the sky had turned black, and its Milky Ways had filled with gold, brilliance, and coolness. Lyubkas cellar was locked up already, the drunks lay like broken furniture in the courtyard, and the old mullah with the green turban had died around midnight. Then music came over the sea—hunting horns and trumpets from the English ships—the music came over the sea and faded away, but Katyusha, unfailing Katyusha, was still incandescing her rosy-painted Russian paradise for Benya Krik. She moaned behind the wall and burst out laughing. Old Froim sat motionless in front of her door. He waited till one in the morning, and then he knocked.

  “Hey!” he called. “Are you making fun of me?”

  Benya finally opened the door.

  “Monsieur Grach!” he said, flustered, smiling, and covering himself with a sheet. “When were young, we see girls like them’s merchandise, but they re just straw that catches fire by itself.”

  He got dressed, made Katyushas bed, shook out her pillow, and went out into the street with the old man. They walked until they came to the Russian cemetery, and there at the cemetery the interests of Benya Krik and gnarled old Grach the gangster intersected. Their interests intersected because Basya would bring her future husband three thousand rubles as a dowry, two thoroughbred horses, and a pearl necklace. They also intersected because Kaplun would have to pay two thousand rubles to Benya, Basya’s bridegroom. Kaplun of Privoznaya Square was guilty of family pride. He had grown rich on Constantinople olives, he showed no mercy for Basyas first love, and that was why Benya decided to take on the task of relieving Kaplun of two thousand rubles.

  “Ill take on this task, Papa!” he said to his future father-in-law. “With the help of God we shall punish all grocers!”

  These words were uttered at dawn, after night had already past. And here now a new story begins, the story of the fall of the house of Kaplun, the tale of its slow ruin, of arson and gunshots in the night. And all this—the fate of arrogant Kaplun and the fate of Basya—was decided that night when Basyas father and her sudden fiance sauntered past the Russian cemetery. Young men were pulling girls behind the fences, and kisses echoed on the gravestones.

  FROIM GRACH

  In 1919, Benya Krik's men ambushed the rear guard of the Volunteer Army,5 slit all the officers' throats, and captured part of their supply unit. As a reward, they demanded that the Odessa soviet allow them three days of “peaceful insurrection,” but as they were not given permission, they looted all the stores lining the Alexandrovsky Boulevard. Then they set their sights on the Mutual Credit Society. They let all the customers enter first, and then requested that the porters carry all the bags of money and valuables outside to a car parked nearby. Within a month Benya Kriks men were being lined up and shot. There were people who said that Aron Peskin, a workshop owner, had had a hand in their capture and arrest. What kind of workshop it was, nobody knew. There was a machine in it—a long device with a warped lead roller—and on the floor, surrounded by sawdust, lay pasteboards for binding books.

  One spring morning Misha Yablochko, one of Peskins friends, knocked on the door of his workshop.

  “The weather’s great outside,” Misha said to him. “You see before you a man who is about to grab a bottle of vodka along with some food and go for a ride to Arkadia.^ Don’t laugh—sometimes I love to just walk away from it all!”

  Peskin put on his jacket and set out with Misha Yablochko in his buggy to Arkadia. They rode about until evening. At dusk, Misha Yablochko entered the room in which Madame Peskin was bathing her fourteen-year-old daughter in a tub.

  “Greetings,” Misha said, lifting his hat. “We had such a nice time. The air there—simply out of this world! Though talking to your husband is like pulling teeth. What a tiresome man he is!”

  “You can say that again!” Madame Peskin said, grabbing her daughter by the hair and yanking her head every which way. “Where is he, that vagabond?”

  “He's unwinding outside in the garden.”

  Misha lifted his hat again, excused himself, and left in his buggy. Madame Peskin went straight outside. Her husband was sitting there in a Panama hat, leaning against the garden table with a grin on his face.

  “You vagabond!” Madame Peskin said to him. “How dare you just sit there laughing, while that daughter of yours is driving me to an early grave! She wont wash her hair! I want you to go inside right now and have a word with her!”

  Peskin sat there silently, still grinning.

  “You fool!” Madame Peskin said. She peered under her husbands Panama hat and started screaming.

  The neighbors came running.

  “Hes not alive,” she told them. “Hes dead!”

  That wasn’t true. Peskin had been shot twice in the chest and his skull was broken, but he was still alive. They took him to the Jewish hospital. Doctor Silberberg in person operated on the wounded man, but Peskin was out of luck. He died under the knife. That same night the Cheka6 arrested a man nicknamed The Georgian, and his friend Kolya Lapidus. One of them was Misha Yablochkos coachman, the other had lain in wait for the buggy in Arkadia by the bend in the road that leads from the seashore out into the steppes. The two arrested men were shot after a brief interrogation. But Misha Yablochko managed to slip the net. He disappeared from sight, and a few days later an old woman selling sunflower seeds came hobbling into Froim Grachs yard.

  She was carrying a basket of seeds on her arm. One of her eyebrows was arched in a furry, coal-black line above her eye, the other, barely visible, lay sagging on her eyelid. Froim Grach was sitting near the stable with his legs apart, playing with Arkadi, his grandson. The boy had come tumbling out of his daughter Basyas powerful womb three years ago. Froim held out his finger to Arkadi, who grabbed it and began to swing from it as if it were a crossbeam.

  “You little scoundrel, you!” Froim said to his grandson, peering at him with his single eye.

  The old woman came up to him with her furry eyebrow and her mens boots tied with string.

  “Froim,” she said. “I tell you these people have not a drop of soul in them. They dont say a word, they just kill us in their cellars like dogs. And they dont give us a chance to open our mouths before we die. We should tear these men to pieces with our teeth, and rip out their hearts! Why are you silent?” the old woman—Misha Yablochko—asked Froim. “Our men are waiting for you to break your silence!”

  Misha got up, moved the basket to his other arm, and left, lifting his black eyebrow. He ran into three girls with braided hair walking with their arms around each others waists outside the church on Alekseyevskaya Square.

  “Hello girls,” Misha Yablochko said to them. “Sorry I cant invite you for tea and cake.”

  He scooped up some sunflower seeds with a little glass mug, poured them into the pockets of their dresses, and walked off, disappearing around the church.

  Froim Grach remained alone in his yard. He sat motionless, his single eye staring into the distance. Mules captured from imperialist troops were munching hay in the stables, and fattened mares were grazing with their foals on the meadow. Carters were playing cards in the shade of the chestnut trees and drinking wine from broken cups. Hot gusts of air swept over the whitewashed walls, and the sun in its blue rigidity poured over the yard. Froim got up and went out into the street. He crossed Prokhorovskaya Street, which was blackening the sky with the destitute, melting smoke of its kitchens, and Tolkuchy market, where people laden with curtains and drapes were trying to sell them to each other. He walked up Ekaterininskaya Street, made a turn by the statue of the Empress, and went inside the building of the Cheka.

  “I am Froim,” he told the commandant. “I want to see the boss.”

  The chairman of the Cheka back then was Vladislav Simen, who had come from Moscow. When he heard that Froim was there to see him, he called in B
orovoi, one of his investigators, and asked for information on him.

  “A first-rate fellow!” Borovoi told him. “Odessa begins and ends with him!”

  And old Froim, in his canvas overalls, red-haired and big as a house, a patch over one eye and his cheek disfigured, was led into the office by the commandant.

  “You know who you’re killing off, boss?” he said as he walked into the room. “You’re killing off all the lions! And you know what you’ll be left with if you keep it up? You’ll be left with shit!”

  Simen leaned forward and opened his desk drawer.

  “Don’t worry, I’m clean,” Froim told him. “Nothing in my hands, nothing in my boots—and I didn’t leave nobody waiting outside neither. Let my boys go, boss! Just name your price!”

  Simen had the old man sit down in an armchair, and offered him some cognac. Borovoi left the room and called together all the investigators who had come from Moscow.

  Borovoi told them how it was one-eyed Froim and not Benya Krik who was the real boss of the forty thousand Odessa thugs. Froim might never show his hand, but he was the brains behind everything—the looting of the factories and the Odessa Treasury, and the ambushing of both the anti-Bolshevik army and its allies. Borovoi waited for Froim to come out of Simen’s office so he could have a word with him. But Froim did not appear. Tired of waiting, Borovoi went to look for him. He searched through the whole building until he finally looked out into the backyard. Froim Grach was lying there stretched out under a tarpaulin by a wall covered in ivy. Two Red Army men stood by his body, smoking.

  “Strong as an ox,” the older of the two said when he saw Borovoi. “Strength like you wouldn’t believe! If you don’t butcher an old man like that, he’ll live forever. He had ten bullets in him and he was still going strong!”