Doctor Zhivago (39 page)

The apprehensions of the peasant women were soon dispelled. When the train stopped and civilian passengers joined the crowd, trade became brisk.

Antonina Alexandrovna walked down the line inspecting the wares, her towel flung over her shoulder as if she were going to the back of the station to wash in the snow. Several women had called out:
"
Hey, what do you want for your towel?
"
but she continued on her way, escorted by her husband.

At the end of the row there was a woman in a black shawl with a scarlet pattern. She saw the towel and her bold eyes lit up. Glancing around cautiously, she sidled up to Antonina Alexandrovna and, uncovering her wares, whispered eagerly:
"
Look at this. Bet you haven
'
t seen that in a long while. Tempting, isn
'
t it? Don
'
t think about it too long or it will be gone. Like to give me your towel for a half?
"

Antonina Alexandrovna missed the last word.

"
What do you mean, my good woman?
"

The woman meant half a hare, roasted whole from head to tail and cut in two. She held it up.
"
I
'
m telling you, I
'
ll give you a half for your towel. What are you staring at? It isn
'
t dog meat. My husband is a hunter. It
'
s hare, all right.
"

They exchanged their goods. Each believed that she had had the best of the bargain. Antonina Alexandrovna felt as ashamed as if she had swindled the peasant woman, while she, delighted with her deal, called a friend who had also sold out her wares and made off with her, home to their village, striding down the snowy path into the distance.

At this moment there was an uproar in the crowd. An old woman was screaming:
"
Hey, you! Where are you off to? Where
'
s my money? When did you pay me, you cheat? Look at him, greedy pig, you call him and he doesn
'
t even bother to turn around. Stop! Stop, I tell you, Mister Comrade! I
'
ve been robbed! Stop, thief! There he goes, that
'
s him, catch him!
"

"
Which one?
"

"
That one, the one who
'
s clean-shaven and grinning.
"

"
Is that the one with the hole in his sleeve?
"

"
Yes, yes, catch him, the heathen!
"

"
The one with the patched elbow?
"

"
Yes, yes. Oh, I
'
ve been robbed.
"

"
What
'
s going on here?
"

"
Fellow over there bought some milk and pies, stuffed himself, and went off without paying, so the old woman is crying.
"

"
That shouldn
'
t be allowed. Why don
'
t they go after him?
"

"
Go after him! He
'
s got straps and cartridge belts all over him. He
'
ll go after you.
"

There were several labor conscripts in car fourteen. With them was their guard, Private Voroniuk. Three of the men stood out from the rest. They were Prokhor Kharitonovich Prituliev, who had been cashier in a government liquor store in Petrograd—the cashier, as he was called in the car; Vasia Brykin, a sixteen-year-old boy apprenticed to an ironmonger; and Kostoied-Amursky, a gray-haired revolutionary co-operativist, who had been in all the forced-labor camps of the old regime and was now discovering those of the new.

The conscripts, who had all been strangers when they were impressed, were gradually getting to know each other. It turned out that the cashier and Vasia, the apprentice, came from the same part of the country, the Viatka government, and also that the train would be going through their native villages.

Prituliev came from Malmyzh. His hair was cropped and he was pockmarked, squat, and hideous. His gray sweater, black with sweat under the arms, fitted him snugly like a fleshy woman
'
s blouse. He would sit for hours as silent as a statue, lost in thought, scratching the warts on his freckled hands until they bled and suppurated.

One day last autumn, he was going down the Nevsky when he walked into a militia roundup at the corner of Liteiny Street. He had to show his papers and was found to hold a fourth-class ration book, the kind issued to nonworkers, on which nothing could ever be bought. He was consequently detained, with many others who were arrested for the same reason, and taken under escort to barracks. His group was to be sent, like the one preceding it, to dig trenches on the Archangel front, but was diverted on its way and sent east through Moscow.

Prituliev had a wife in Luga, where he had worked before the war. She heard indirectly of his misfortune and rushed off to Vologda (the junction for Archangel) to look for him and obtain his release. But the unit had not gone there, her labors had been in vain, and she lost track of him.

In Petrograd Prituliev lived with a certain Pelagia Nilovna Tiagunova. At the time he was arrested he had just said goodbye to her, preparing to go in a different direction to keep an appointment, and looking down Liteiny Street he could still see her back disappearing among the crowd.

She was a plump woman with a stately carriage, beautiful hands, and a thick braid which she tossed from time to time, with deep sighs, over her shoulder. She was now with the convoy, having volunteered to accompany Prituliev.

It was difficult to know what it was that attracted women to such an ugly man, but certainly they clung to him. In a car farther forward there was another woman friend of his, Ogryzkova, a bony girl with white eyelashes who had somehow made her way onto the train and whom Tiagunova called
"
the squirt,
"
"
the nozzle,
"
and many other insulting names. The rivals were at swords
'
points and took good care to avoid each other. Ogryzkova never went to the other
'
s car. It was a mystery to know how she ever met the object of her passion. Perhaps she contented herself with seeing him from afar, when the engine was being refuelled with the help of all the passengers.

Vasia
'
s story was quite different. His father had been killed in the war and his mother had sent him to Petrograd to be apprenticed to his uncle.

The uncle kept a private shop in Apraksin Yard. One day last winter he had been summoned by the local soviet to answer a few questions. He mistook the door and walked into the office of the labor corps selection board. The room was full of conscripts; after a while soldiers came in, surrounded the men, and took them to the Semenov barracks for the night, and escorted them to the Vologda train in the morning.

The news of so many arrests spread and the prisoners
'
families came to say goodbye to them at the station. Among them were Vasia and his aunt. His uncle begged the guard (Voroniuk, who was now in car fourteen) to let him out for a minute to see his wife. The guard refused without a guarantee that he would return. The uncle and aunt offered Vasia as a hostage. Voroniuk agreed. Vasia was brought in and his uncle was let out. This was the last he ever saw of his aunt or uncle.

When the fraud was discovered, Vasia, who had suspected nothing, burst into tears. He threw himself at Voroniuk
'
s feet, kissed his hands, and begged him to let him go, but to no avail. The guard was inexorable not because he was cruel, but discipline was very strict in those troubled times. The guard answered for the number of his charges with his life, and the numbers were checked by roll call. That was how Vasia came to be in the labor corps.

The co-operativist, Kostoied-Amursky, who had enjoyed the respect of his jailors under both Tsarism and the present government and who was always on good terms with them, repeatedly spoke to the head of the convoy about Vasia
'
s predicament. The officer admitted that it was a terrible misunderstanding but said there were formal difficulties in the way of examining the case until they arrived; he promised to do his best at that moment.

Vasia was an attractive boy with regular features who looked like a royal page or an angel of God in a picture. He was unusually innocent and unspoiled. His favorite occupation was to sit on the floor at the feet of his elders, looking up at them, his hands clasped around his knees, and listen to their discussions and stories. By watching the muscles of his face, as he just barely restrained himself from tears or choked with laughter, you could almost follow the conversation.

The Zhivagos had invited the co-operativist Kostoried to dinner. He sat in their corner sucking a leg of hare with a loud wheezing noise. He dreaded drafts and chills, and changed his place several times, looking for a sheltered spot. At last he found a place where he did not feel the draft.
"
That
'
s better,
"
he said. He finished his bone, sucked his fingers clean, wiped them on his handkerchief, thanked his hosts, and said:
"
It
'
s your window. It has to be cemented. But to go back to our discussion: You
'
re mistaken, Doctor. Roast hare is an excellent thing, but to conclude that the peasants are prosperous is rash, to say the least, if you
'
ll forgive my saying so.
"

"
Oh, come,
"
said Yurii Andreievich.
"
Look at all these stations. The trees aren
'
t cut, the fences are intact. And these markets! These women! Think how wonderful! Somewhere life is still going on, some people are happy. Not everyone is wretched. This justifies everything.
"

"
It would be good if that were true. But it isn
'
t. Where did you get all those ideas? Take a trip to any place that is fifty miles from the railway. You
'
ll find that there are peasant rebellions everywhere. Against whom? you
'
ll ask. Well, they
'
re against the Reds or against the Whites, whoever happens to be in power. You
'
ll say, Aha, that
'
s because the peasants are enemies of all authority, they don
'
t know what they want. Allow me to differ. The peasant knows very well what he wants, better than you or I do, but he wants something quite different.

"
When the revolution woke him up, he decided that his century-old dream was coming true—his dream of living on his own land by the work of his hands, in complete independence and with no obligations to anyone. Instead, he found he had only exchanged the oppression of the former state for the new, much harsher yoke of the revolutionary superstate. Can you wonder that the villages are restless and can
'
t settle down? And you say they are prosperous! No, there are a lot of things you don
'
t know, my dear fellow, and as far as I can see you don
'
t want to know them.
"

"
All right, it
'
s true, I don
'
t. Why on earth should I know and worry myself sick over every blessed thing? History hasn
'
t consulted me. I have to put up with whatever happens, so why shouldn
'
t I ignore the facts? You tell me my ideas don
'
t correspond to reality. But where is reality in Russia today? As I see it, reality has been so terrorized that it is hiding. I want to believe that the peasants are better off and flourishing. If it is an illusion, what am I to do? What am I to live by; whom am I to believe? And I have to go on living, I
'
ve got a family.
"

He made a despairing gesture and, leaving the argument to his father-in-law, moved away, and hung his head over the edge of the bunk to look at what was going on below.

Prituliev, Tiagunova, Vasia, and Voroniuk were talking together. As the train was approaching his native province, Prituliev recalled the way to his village, the station, and the road you took according to whether you went by horse or on foot, and at the mention of familiar village names, Vasia repeated them with shining eyes, as if they were a marvellous fairy tale.

"
You get off at Dry Ford?
"
he asked, choking with excitement.
"
Our station! Of course! And then you go on to Buisky, right?
"