Little Apple (20 page)

Not that he knew how he had got there, he found himself outside a church. Too exhausted to go any farther, he went in. There was an effigy of St Nicholas the miracle-worker in one of the side aisles. He subsided into a niche beneath it and shut his eyes.

It was four in the afternoon when he left the church. He felt calmer now, and the risk of being recognized and arrested seemed less immediate. He went up to a young woman selling matches on a street corner - they cost sixty roubles a box -and asked her the way to the station.

By now, the public festivities had reached their climax. A cortege was wending its way through the Sadovaya to the strains of a bizarrre funeral march: the parliamentary system was being borne to its grave. Behind its coffin, jeered and hooted by the crowds, walked actors got up as generals and priests, distillery owners and financiers. America, symbolized by an enormous money-bag, was being hauled along Smolensky Boulevard. A proletarian poet stationed on the steps of St Paul's recited revolutionary tirades against the bad old days,

the bourgeoisie, the late Tsar's armies. In Arbat Square, where a makeshift circus was performing, European monarchs and politicians were portrayed as hyenas, wolves, alligators, feline predators and gesticulating monkeys. Wilson, Vandervelde and Lloyd George played the role of clowns.

Vit¬torin's ears were last assailed by the voice of Red Moscow
outside Kursk Station, where men armed with megaphones invited all present to participate in the crowd scenes of a revol
utionary play,
The Storming of the Winter Palace,
and broadcast
the latest news: the city of Perm had been captured by Soviet troops; Red partisan detachments had derailed an ammunition train behind the Kolchak army's lines; last but not least, the counter-revolutionary Artemyev, that mortal enemy of the Soviets and hireling of foreign capital, had been killed while attempting to evade arrest and due punishment.

Vit¬torin stopped in his tracks when tidings of the great rebel's death rang out across street and square. He had no notion of the circumstances, no inkling that he himself had delivered Artemyev into his enemies' hands. All that struck him as odd was that providence should have granted Artemyev just time enough to facilitate his, Vit¬torin's, departure for the front. It was almost as if that had been the underlying purpose of Artemyev's colourful career.

But there was no time to dwell on this now. Vit¬torin extracted the movement order and travel warrant from the leg of his boot. Then, with the papers in his hand, he made his way into the station.

CHARGE!

The Penza Division's 3rd Red Rifle Regiment had originated under enemy fire in the front line itself. Formed at the end of June 1919, it had taken part in six engagements and the defence of Kharkov during the summer campaign, borne the brunt of the enemy's assault at Valki, and had received two honourable mentions in communiques issued by the pan-Russian bureau of the War Commissars. By early November, when the rain had become incessant, the severely depleted regiment was in position facing a White brigade south-east of Miropol.

The regimental commander was a veteran captain who had lost his right arm in Carpathia and signed his orders left-handed. The first battalion was commanded by Seaman Stassik, the second by Comrade Storoshev, a stove fitter by trade. Both had completed a command course in Moscow, and both had been awarded the Order of the Red Banner. The third battalion existed on paper only.

Also under regimental command were a light field gun battery and a reconnaissance detachment made up of specially trained men. In command of this detachment was a Moscow University student who had volunteered for combat duty. His name was Berezin, and he had a girl-friend and an old mother in Moscow.

One dank November morning, Berezin returned from a patrol to the quarters he shared with the second-in-command of No. 1 Section. These consisted of a barn made semi-habitable with the aid of a worm-eaten table and a few chairs. Part of the interior was illuminated by the flickering light of a candle stuck in the neck of a broken bottle. A private soldier named Yefimov was crouching in front of the little cast-iron stove, feeding it with the damp remains of a broken crate.

Berezin hung up his crumpled, muddy greatcoat to dry. Then he went to the stove and warmed his hands at it.

"Where's the German?" he asked. "Is he out?"

"No, asleep. He's over there." Yefimov jerked a thumb at the shadows behind him.

"Still feverish?"

Yefimov shrugged. "Maybe it's fever, maybe something else. He feels cold - he shivers all the time. The medical orderly came and tried to give him some drops, but he sent him away."

Berezin proceeded to pull off his boots. Yefimov put some water on the stove to heat and continued his report.

"About the rations, comrade. They haven't issued any bread today, only cans of bully beef. One between two, that's all they had. This one's for you, though. The German won't eat a thing. He's only thirsty - kept asking for water all night long." Yefimov paused. "Well, comrade, how are the Whites faring? They sent over some shrapnel yesterday. I heard some rifle fire, too. Have the wolves' teeth grown again?"

"They're in clover, the swine," said Berezin. "It's groats and milk for them. You can hear them praying and singing after evening muster. They have regimental priests, the way they had in the days of the Tsar. They even have psalm singers."

The figure in the corner stirred. Vit¬torin rubbed his inflamed eyes, threw off his coat and blanket and sat up.

"Is that you, Berezin? Why shut the door? It's unbearable, this heat - for God's sake let some air in. Well, did you see him?"

Berezin, who had produced a cup with a broken handle from his knapsack, knelt down beside the stove. He carefully wiped the cup on the hem of his jacket and filled it with tea.

"Aren't you going to open the door and let some fresh air in?" Vit¬torin exclaimed.

"You think it's still summer outside, but that's because you're feverish," Berezin told him. "It isn't hot in here, with all the wind blowing through the cracks."

"I'm all right - there's nothing the matter with me. So you didn't see him?"

"Who?"

"The White officer - the one your men call 'the Whistler'."

"No, I didn't come across him. A patrol passed within twenty paces of us in those willow thickets beyond the embankment. Later on, at dawn, I met another - nearly bumped into it, the mist was so dense."

Vit¬torin shut his eyes. When had he first heard of the White officer who whistled as he led his men ino the attack, riding crop in hand? Who lined up Red prisoners, told their officers to step forward, and, still whistling, gunned them down? Brooding hatred had impelled Vit¬torin to seek him everywhere and question every White deserter, but it was only now, as he lay there in the barn, stricken with fever and consumed by his endless obsession, that he had become convinced that "the Whistler" and Selyukov were identical: Selyukov the well-groomed, perfumed murderer who strolled through life with a quirt in his bloodstained hand . . .

"Berezin," he said faintly, "tell me what happened when you got his horse."

"I already did," Berezin replied. "Ten days ago, it was. We'd shot the man's charger from under him, hoping to capture him alive, but he just stood there with an arrogant look on his face, smoking a cigarette and emptying his revolver at us. Marushin was killed right beside me."

Looking arrogant, smoking as he blazed away . . . Who had ever seen Selyukov without a cigarette?

"Well, go on. What happened then?"

"Nothing - I told you. We came under enfilading fire and had to withdraw."

Vit¬torin sank back on the straw with a groan. His eyes were smarting - the barn seemed full of red mist. We had to withdraw . . . Selyukov wouldn't have escaped if
he'd
been there.
He
wouldn't have withdrawn, enfilading fire or no. He would have taken cover and fought on . . .

A shiver ran down his spine. Too restless to He still, he rose, draped the coat around his shoulders and began to pace the barn like a caged beast.

I'm sick, I can feel it. My fever's worse - I ached in every joint last night. Sooner or later they'll send me to hospital, and where will the regiment be when I get back? It's going to be withdrawn and sent into action on another front, the CO said so. The lorries are ready and waiting at Miropol. Where will the apple roll to next? The Revolution switches its troops from front to front, Storoshev says. The Revolution wins its battles with blood and gasoline. And over there, beyond the shell-torn sugar factory, is Selyukov. By tomorrow I may be in hospital. I must act - I must force the issue . . .

"Berezin?"

Berezin didn't hear. He was stretched out with the candle beside him, reading
The Red Front-Line Soldier.

"Berezin, are you going out again today?"

"Yes, this afternoon, with a four-man patrol. They want to know what our friends across the way are up to. No patrols tonight, only listening posts." Berezin returned to his newspaper. "Honestly, these know-it-all journalists! Listen to this: 'The army perceives itself to be the product of the economic, social and political forces that govern us.' He may have learnt to write that way at Party rallies, but he won't earn many plaudits at the front. Comrade Yefimov, keep the fire going -that's an order! I don't talk about economic forces to my men. 'You're heroes,' I tell them, 'you're invincible. And now, folio w me.'"

"I'll take that patrol off your hands, Berezin. I'll go out today instead of you. You're tired - you haven't slept."

"And you're ill, comrade," Berezin said. "I couldn't take the responsibility."

"I'm not ill!" Vit¬torin cried, shaking with fever. "All I need is wind, rain, fresh air, exercise. I'm rotting away in this place.

The lice are eating me alive, that's what's wrong with me. Let me go in your place, comrade."

"All right, damn you," said Berezin, "go."

He yawned, took a final look at the stove through half-closed eyes, and settled down for a sleep.

Vit¬torin did not return from patrol until darkness had fallen. He sent his men straight to their quarters and walked on down the path, skirting a fence and a clump of alders on his way into the dip beyond.

Fat beads of moisture dripped from overhanging branches, and the air reeked of sodden earth and stagnant water. The whitewashed farmhouse that served as regimental headquarters
was a pale blur in the gloom. The sentry delivered his challenge
in a low, lilting voice.

"Stoy! Kto takoy!"

Vit¬torin came to a halt.

"Svoy.
One of yours."

"Password?"

"Comintern."

Outside the CO's office Vit¬torin encountered the regimental commissar, an athletic young man with a mass of curly brown hair.

"I've a report to make, comrade," Vit¬torin said, his fingers stiffly aligned with the peak of his cap. "The Whites are entertaining some important visitors tonight."

The commissar, a veteran of two campaigns and the great street battle at Kiev, studied Vit¬torin's face intently.

"What exactly did you see, comrade?"

"I spotted some officers in French uniform and horses with English harness. I also observed a cavalry signals section laying a telephone line outside the schoolhouse."

"What time was this?"

"Five p.m."

"And you noticed nothing out of the ordinary apart from that?"

"No - that's to say, yes: a lot of activity in and around the schoolhouse. Runners coming and going, that sort of thing."

"You observed no troop movements?"

"No."

Was that a malicious, mocking glint in the commissar's eye? The farmhouse floor lurched beneath Vit¬torin's feet and the rafters seemed to be closing in on him, but he clenched his teeth and kept a grip on himself. He held the commissar's gaze without a tremor, subduing his fever by sheer willpower.

"Those officers you saw," the commissar said after a brief pause, "- they may have been inspecting the White lines on behalf of some higher command. Where were you when you saw them?"

"On the roof of the farmhouse we shelled last week."

"So you managed to infiltrate the enemy outposts?"

"I did."

"Casualties?"

"None. I left my men behind and went on alone."

The commissar preserved an interminable silence. Another question? Another trap? Vit¬torin's temples throbbed. He clenched his teeth still harder to prevent them from chattering. Like every other joint in his body, his knees ached with dull insistence. He wouldn't be able to stand there for much longer, he could tell. Another few seconds, and -

"Very well," said the commissar. "I'll pass your report on."

It was eleven o'clock at night. A paraffin lamp was burning in the CO's office, and above it floated a dense grey cloud of tobacco smoke. Hanging on the wall were greatcoats, caps, a cartridge belt, and a carbine. A map lay spread out on the table, and running across it were two lines of flags, one red, one blue. On the far side of the blue flags, in the territory occupied by counter-revolutionary troops, lay a penknife and the CO's silver repeater.

Three men were sitting around the table, studying the map.

The regimental commander stood near the window, his right sleeve hanging limp at his side. The stove, which was almost out, crackled softly to itself. Seaman Stassik, commander of the first battalion, levelled his dead cigarette at the field telephone and vented his wrath on the staff officers at divisional headquarters.

"They're still arguing," he said with a scornful laugh. "First they've got to discuss the strategic and operational status of the entire front. One of them may even have made a suggestion, but the others will have pounced on him and cited half a dozen textbooks to prove that his plan is worthless. It's a straightforward military problem, but they peer at it through their glasses and see difficulties everywhere: it's the wrong time of year, the ground's flooded, the regiment can only muster eleven hundred rifles, the troops are inadequately equipped-"