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

by Nathalie Babel, Peter Constantine Isaac Babel

  The telegraph operator is receiving a direct dispatch. Sobkov, now a military commissar, is leaning over the unfurling ribbon. A loaf of black bread, threaded through with veins of straw, lies on a table next to the apparatus, and ration-issue herring is soaking in a basin of water. The telegraph operator is wearing the kind of woolen hat that skiers and skaters wear, and his torn coat is tied over his belly with a wide, monkish cord. He is wearing a backpack filled with provisions, indicating that he was just about to leave.

  The loaf of bread, the soaking herring. The telegraph operator s fingers dig into the loaf.

  Sobkov reads the ribbon that is uncoiling over the machine gun next to the telegraph apparatus. Sobkov is also digging his fingers deep into the loaf, trying to fish out the doughy inside.

  The telegram ribbon:

  “TO MILITARY COMMISSAR SOBKOV STOP. ANITICIPATING

  ENEMY PRESSURE STOP. FIND A PRETEXT TO LURE ...”

  The machine gun tangled in the telegram ribbon. Kochetkov is sitting in a corner, mending a tattered boot. Without taking it off, he is trying to reattach the flapping sole with a piece of wire.

  The continuation of the telegram:

  “... TO LURE BENYA KRIK’S UNITS OUT OF ODESSA AND DISARM THEM STOP.”

  Kochetkovs boot: Neatly twisted and clipped wire knots run the whole length of the sole along the welt.

  Sobkov stuffs the telegraph ribbon into his pocket. He tears a chunk off the loaf and chews it as he walks away. He leaves the telegraph room with Kochetkov.

  The dazzling telegraph ribbon is continuing to unfurl against a black background. The ribbon s end slides . . .

  . . . into an uncovered car engine.

  In the yard of the telegraph office. A graveyard of trucks and countless mobile field kitchens. One field kitchen is operating. A Red Army fighter is boiling cabbage soup. He is stoking the oven, using wooden wheels torn off other field kitchens. Sobkov s driver, also in the yard, is struggling to start the battered, dilapidated car. The hood is missing. The driver is trying to fix the engine, but all his efforts seem to be in vain.

  The car s engine: a smoking 1919 contraption, held together with wires and straps.

  Sobkov and Kochetkov enter the yard. They get into the car. Sobkov tells his driver:

  “TO THE BARRACKS, ON THE DOUBLE!”

  The driver turns the crank, but the engine will not start. He wipes streams of sweat from his crimson face. He glares with hatred at the engine, fiddles with some valves, and suddenly spits with all his might into the heart of the motor. Sobkov and the cook come to help him. They turn the crank, but to no avail. Finally Kochetkov manages to crank up the engine. The driver jumps into his seat, steps on the gas pedal, a gigantic cloud of smoke pours from the exhaust, and the car moves off with a groan.

  The car rolls out through the gates. The driver yanks the steering wheel convulsively. The cloud of smoke grows thicker and fills the screen. Well-thumbed playing cards fanned out in a sinewy hand emerge with unusual clarity from the yellowish fog. One of the fingers on the hand is broken and crooked. A ray of sunlight pierces the cards.

  The N. “Revolutionary” Regiment is preparing for the final battle

  The barracks of Benya Kriks “revolutionary” regiment. The soldiers’ underwear is hanging to dry on ropes strung across the whole length of the barracks. The underwear has government stamps on it. A crooked card game is under way beneath the ropes where the govern-ment-issue underwear is hanging most densely. The two players are the goggle-eyed Persian and Papa Krik, who has donned a minute military cap with a Red Army star on it. The crowd of gangsters we have already met at Dvoira Kriks wedding is standing around the table. The Persian, convinced that his trumps are unbeatable, is dealing the cards with triumph and passion. Meek gloom is on Papa Kriks face. He deliberates for a long time, wrinkles his forehead, closes one eye, and finally “kills” one of the Persians cards.

  The sun-drenched cards in old Kriks hand.

  The old man despondently “kills” the Persians second card. Kolka Pakovsky s bare back leans toward him.

  Kolka Pakovsky is sitting, stripped to the waist, on a high stool next to Mendel Krik. An old Chinese man is giving him a tattoo. He has already etched a mouse onto Kolkas right shoulder blade, and is now coiling a long and limber mouse tail over the shoulder.

  Mendel Krik is “killing” his opponent s cards one after another. The Persians face has darkened. He pays Mendel with new gunmetal watches. On the table next to him lies a heap of new watches, fresh from a store shelf and still in their boxes.

  The barracks filled with drying underwear. In the far corner stands Lyovka Bik in a blood-smeared leather apron, cutting up a recently butchered bull. He plies his trade even in the barracks. He is surrounded by “Red Army fighters” waiting for their portion. The heads of market women standing in line outside the window. They are also waiting for their portions. Lyovka hands out meat dripping with blood to the Red Army men. From time to time he skewers a monstrous piece of meat with his knife and, without turning around, hurls it out the window, as a lion tamer might hurl a chunk of horsemeat into a lions cage.

  The card game is continuing. It is now the Persians turn to triumph. Twitching, guffawing, trembling with excitement, he trumps the old mans cards and demands his winnings. Papa Krik pays with new banknotes, which he pulls out of a packet tied together as they are in banks. Two notes turn out to be blank on one side, only their tops are printed. The old man calls over one of the gangsters and gives him the worthless notes.

  “TELL YUSSIM HE’LL BE WASHING HIS FACE IN BLOOD IF HE

  KEEPS CHURNING OUT BILLS LIKE THESE! TELL HIM TO FIX

  THESE!”

  The gangster slips the notes into his pocket and leaves. At the door he bumps into Tartakovsky, and makes way for him to pass into the barracks. Tartakovsky is wearing a battered soldiers cap. His face bears the traces of an astonishing disguise—he has shaven off his mustache, but has left his beard intact in the fashion of a Dutch skipper.

  Tartakovsky tiptoes along the wall. He is holding a velvet pouch with something in it. The old man has dyed his hair and is dressed in the spirit of the times: he is wearing a torn coat, his shoes are tattered, and only his belly is as majestic as before. Two reputable Jews are tiptoeing behind him. One is wearing a cyclists cap, an overcoat, and leggings, the other a slightly smaller cap and a cape fastened with a military ornamental clasp.

  The captain of the N. “Revolutionary” Regiment

  The inner courtyard of the Red Army barracks. On one of the doors to the barracks hangs the sign: “Infantry Regiment Honoring the Glorious French Revolution.” (And written in chalk next to it: “The

  German one too.”) Benya, wearing an outlandish uniform, is riding a horse. Froim Grach is standing in the middle of the yard cracking a coachmans whip. Benya is riding at full gallop in neat circles around the yard, as if he were in a riding ring.

  A low door. Three fat bellies squeeze through the narrow opening.

  The galloping continues. Tartakovsky and his quivering companions enter the yard. They bow to Benya, the Captain of the N. “Revolutionary” Regiment, who is riding tirelessly in circles. He spurs his horse, brandishes his whip, and gallops toward the cringing fat men. Tartakovsky holds out the velvet pouch to Benya.

  There is a flowery, embroidered inscription on the velvet pouch:

  “FROM THE REVOLUTIONARY ARTISANS OF ODESSA.”

  Benya pulls a Torah scroll out of the velvet pouch, its parchment wound around carved, lacquered sticks. He hands the Torah to Froim Grach. Tartakovsky steps closer, caresses the horses muzzle with a trembling hand, and launches into his speech:

  “WE, THE REVOLUTIONARY ARTISANS, BEG YOU ..

  Benyas impassive face. His arms, folded majestically, are leaning on the pommel of his saddle. Froim is unwinding the scroll in the background.

  Tartakovsky continues:

  “. . . BEG YOU TO DEFEND REVOLUTIONARY ODESSA

  WITHIN
REVOLUTIONARY ODESSA ITSELF AND ...”

  Froim is unwinding the Torah, pulling out one Czarist hundred-ruble bill after another.

  Benya watches Froim from the corner of his eye. Tartakovsky continues:

  “... WITHIN REVOLUTIONARY ODESSA ITSELF, AND NOT TO

  SET OFF FOR ANOTHER ... ANOTHER FRONT.”1

  The thunder of gates flung open. A column of smoke comes pouring into the yard and interrupts the artisans speech. Three fire brigade horses enveloped in smoke trot into the yard. They are towing Sobkovs car, which caught fire on the way to the barracks. A Red Army fighter wearing felt slippers on his bare feet is sitting on one of the horses. Sobkov and Kochetkov jump off the other two horses and hurry toward the barracks. The driver walks over to the smoking engine, glares at it, lifts his bleary eyes to the sky, and spits intently time and again into the magneto.

  Sobkov and Kochetkov hurry through the same door through which the three bellies of the revolutionary artisans had squeezed with such difficulty.

  Tartakovsky s voice has dropped to a whisper. He pats the horse s muzzle with increasing cheerfulness and affection, while the other delegates caress its flanks. Benya bends down closer to them. Froim is rolling up the parchment in his corner.

  The card game inside the barracks is continuing with unremitting passion. A young man with bandaged legs, his face rough and his mustache close-cropped, is lathering one of his cheeks by the opposite wall not far from Lyovka, who is still flinging slices of meat through the air. Next to the young man, a short plump woman in fashionable knee-length boots is lying asleep on a couch with her back to the audience. Sobkov and Kochetkov come bursting into the barracks. Sobkov jumps onto a platform beneath a pair of crossed flags:

  “COMRADES!”

  The newly hatched “comrades” gather lazily around Military Commissar Sobkov. Lyovka wipes his knife on his apron and walks over to the platform. The other men in the barracks also come forward, among them the young man with the lathered cheek, the Chinese man, and Kolka Pakovsky, still stripped to the waist. Only the Persian and Papa Krik stay where they are, continuing their card game, still exchanging their new watches and new banknotes.

  “COMRADES!”

  the military commissar repeats. The “comrades” stare at him with dull eyes. A view from behind: all the men, as if by silent command, scratch one bare foot against the other. Sobkov says:

  “THE WORKERS’ GOVERNMENT IS PREPARED TO FORGIVE

  YOUR PAST CRIMES, AND DEMANDS THAT YOU COMMIT

  YOURSELVES TO HONESTLY SERVE THE PROLETARIAT!”

  The young man with the lathered cheek is standing in front of Sobkov in profile, his face sullen, his thumbs twiddling. Lyovka Bik is polishing his knife to a shine. The military commissar continues:

  “THE EXECUTIVE COMMITTEE HAS PUT ITS TRUST IN YOU

  AND HAS DECIDED TO TURN YOUR REGIMENT INTO A PROVISIONS ACQUISITION DETACHMENT.”

  Sobkov stops in order to gauge the effect of his sudden announcement on the gangsters. The gangsters applaud. The applause is lively, they like the announcement and clap with mounting fervor. The military commissar, fired up, slides his hand into his pocket for his handkerchief, but his hand slides deeper and deeper without impediment. Someone has sliced off his pocket.

  The expertly sliced-off pocket.

  Military Commissar Sobkov stands riveted to the spot, his mouth hanging open. The gangsters return to their places. The young man with the bandaged legs, the rough face, and the close-cropped mustache lathers his other cheek. His lady friend stirs, wakes up, and turns her creased face and tousled curls toward the military commissar. Sobkov, shaken, looks first at the gangsters and then at the yawning woman, who swings her fat legs in their fashionable boots off the couch.

  The young man whom Papa Krik had sent off with the banknotes comes running through the barracks bringing back the amended bills. He gives them to Papa Krik.

  Sobkov comes back to his senses and pulls out his revolver. Kolka Pakovsky, sprawled out in his armchair, looks at him, turning his head in profile, and then looks away again. The Chinese man is still working on his shoulder, adding color to the mouses tail, which is coiling around Kolkas nipple like a snake. Kochetkov grabs hold of Sobkovs hand.

  Sobkovs fingers, in Kochetkovs grip, weaken and drop the revolver.

  Part Six

  Tempted by the prospect of doing some “provision acquisition” Benya Kriks regiment decides to set outfrom Odessa

  A deserted Odessa street. The stores lining it are boarded up with planks, bolts, and locks. A picture of the King of Greece is nailed to the door of a ramshackle little store, and under the picture hangs the sign: “Here trades Meir Grinberg, foreign subject.,, A solitary dog lies in the middle of the street next to some cut telegraph wires. They lie before the dog like banners before a victorious commander in chief. A fat, lame man is limping quickly along the street. He is stepping heavily on one leg, which is curved like a wheel. His back can be seen receding down the length of the deserted street in the red dust of the sun.

  Benya Krik comes riding around the corner on a thoroughbred horse. A multitude of ribbons is plaited into its mane. Next to him ride Sobkov on a sleepy Siberian pony, and one-eyed Grach in riding breeches. The rest of Grachs outfit—his canvas cloak, his well-polished boots, and his whip—have remained unchanged. Kochetkov is marching behind them. His flopping soles tear their doleful jaws wide open. Behind the horsemen ride musicians perched on mules. These mules are from the time when Odessa was occupied by the Nationalists. The mules are twirling their long ears. They have no saddles or stirrups— they are covered with simple carpets. The musician from Dvoira Kriks wedding is marching in front of the band, raising to the skies his shining tuba, which, as previously mentioned, resembles a boa constrictor more than a musical instrument.

  The receding back of the lame man shot from a distant perspective in the fiery dust of the sunset. He arrives at a plumbing store, the only store that has not been boarded up, and turns his red, sweating, good-natured face toward the viewer.

  Benya Kriks horde of men is marching behind the band. The former gangsters are wearing helmets and machine gun belts, and their pants are rolled up. Some are barefoot, others are wearing shoes that are torn and tattered, but made of patent leather. An unruly, shrieking throng of mothers, brides, wives, and prams is tangling up the lines.

  Kolka Pakovsky s mother, a little old woman carrying his rifle and backpack for him, is hobbling behind him, struggling to keep up. Lyovka Bik is pushing a baby carriage carrying his one-year-old son. Next to him is his wife, a lively Moldavanka woman wrapped in a red shawl. Lyovka Bik and his family leave the marching horde. He gazes sadly at the long line of boarded-up stores.

  The “artillery” arrives—tachankas with machine guns mounted on them. Behind the “artillery” rolls a cart on which some kind of booth has been mounted. Written in large letters is: “Political Education Unit of the N. Infantry Regiment Honoring the Glorious French Revolution.” Inside the booth a sailor, his puffed-up chest covered in ribbons, is playing a ramshackle little piano. Two midgets, a man and a woman dressed in elegant evening wear, are holding out to the bystanders little buckets with “For Decorating our Barracks” written on them.

  Inside the only store that has not been boarded up. The merchandise for sale: porcelain toilet bowls, drain pipes, toilet seats. A lanky young fellow with greenish freckles and a thin neck is sprinkling the floor with a brass kettle, making elaborate water designs of numbers and human forms. The German store owner, the lame man, wipes his broad, helpless face with a towel. The quick walk has exhausted him. Profuse sweat seethes on his fiery, hanging cheeks—the sweat of a good-natured fat man. Having wiped his face, he slides the towel into his open shirt. At that moment the door opens and Lyovka Bik, accompanied by his family, comes bursting into the store.

  The kettle shakes in the young fellows hand. The elegant loops are interrupted, and water pours at random onto the floor.

  A r
ow of sparkling toilet bowls. Lyovkas inquisitive face bending over them. He sees that there is nothing to take, hesitates, walks away, returns, and, so as not to leave empty-handed, takes one of the toilet bowls that is lavishly decorated with pink flowers. He tosses it into his sons baby carriage and leaves. The German stands rooted to the spot, the towel inside the opening of his shirt.

  At the corner of Deribasovskaya and Ekaterininskaya Streets, Cafe Fankoni is boarded up and there are no flower girls to be seen. A barefoot girl draped in a sack, the same girl who delivered Benyas notes, is huddling against Wagner s display window. The first regimental row— Benya, Froim, and Sobkov—is riding past her. Trembling, she quickly

  pulls a rose wrapped in newspaper out from under her blouse. Darting between the horses, she runs up to Benya and hands him the rose.

  The port. The wharves of the so-called Watermelon Harbor are lined with boats. The sunset is gilding the dirty sails, the water filled with rinds, and the heaps of watermelons, the myriad of watermelons. Little boats are piled to the brim with them.

  The unloading of watermelons. The owner of the boat, a Greek, throws a watermelon to a stevedore on the dock, who throws it to another stevedore, who then throws it to another, all the way to the railroad car. The distance between one stevedore and another is two to three paces.

  The watermelons, thrown from one hand to another.

  Some of Benyas men are watching the unloading of the watermelons with stony faces. A barely visible ripple runs through their ranks. Suddenly, with astonishing speed, they push the stevedores into the water and form their own line from the vessel to the railroad car. A momentary pause and the unloading of the watermelons continues with its former smoothness.

  The watermelons, thrown from one hand to another.

  The stevedores, veteran dockworkers, are thrashing about in the water. The Greek owners of the vessels hoist their sails and prepare to escape. Evening. The lights in the port are lit.

  Benya Kriks regiment is boarding railroad boxcars. The future “provision acquisition detachment” has filled a boxcar with piles of empty sacks.