The Naked Year (13 page)

FIRE–LATORS
*

And all those…

The Kremlin and cathedral square are of stone. In the desert of day chime the bells in the monastery with a glassy tone, in dreams in melted scorching heat.

“Dong! dong! dong!” chime the bells, and the windows in the houses are wide open. In Semyon Matveev Zilotov's kitchen garden the tomatoes are ripening.

In Sergey Sergeevich's office, in the savings bank, the assistant, dealing the cards (Sergey Sergeevich and his assistant were playing preference with the dunderhead)–the assistant, dealing the cards, said:

“And do you know, your Olga Semyonovna–you know! Last night she spent the night with the communists in the monastery, took refuge with Laitis. The village girls said–they saw.”

And all–and all the same…

At home, having returned from the office, Sergey Sergeevich went down into the cellar to see Semyon Matveev Zilotov–he walked, sinking down onto each foot, and still stepping from the first step, Sergey Sergeevich guffawed mightily:

“Ho-Ho! Olga Semyonovna! Took refuge with Laitis in the monastery at night! Ho-Ho! I contrived it!”

Semyon Matveev was lying on the stove. Semyon Matveev climbed down from the stove. Semyon Matveev Zilotov's keeling-to-one-side face appeared somewhat absent-minded and helpless, which dejected him. Semyon Matveev squatted down, his sinewy legs tucked under, and whispered:

“Swear! The Pentagram? Hell's Bells?”

“I swear! The Pentagram! Hell's Bells!”

“On the altar?”

“On the altar.”

“Well, what then… Now go, Sergeich! Let me stay…” Semyon Matveev's face appeared pitiful and helpless, and not getting off his haunches, like a chained-up dog, Semyon Matveev crawled onto the stove. “Now go, Sergeich… Let me remain alone.” Semyon Matveev said quietly and sorrowfully. “Let me stay!”

And that's all–and all the same…

Returning from the office, with a girl friend, Olenka Kuntz–from the wicket gate to the rear entrance–along the boards, laid out through courtyard grass–ran, clicking her heels. And both were singing.

“
In that garden where you and I met

The chrysanthemum bush
…”

In the evening Olenka Kuntz went to the “Venice” cinema, there Vera Kholodnaya “was playing.” In the evening over the world, the town of Ordinin and over the monastery rose the moon. In the evening Semyon Matveev was at Archbishop Sylvester's and brought him a tomato. Semyon Matveev folded the pentagram in different ways–Berlin, Vienna, London, Paris, Rome bowed towards Moscow, and a red tomato appeared. Archbishop Sylvester, in a black cassock, was standing sternly and looking sullenly and exclaimed finally:

“Delusion! Delusion! Heresy! Remember the folk songs, chesty, strong, the wood demon, the witch! The wood demon set to work, strong, industrious. Ivanushka the Fool, stupidity–away with them. Leather jackets. With axes. With cudgels. The muzhik! Without a dream!–Heresy! But for the little tomatoes–thanks!”

And when Olenka Kuntz was returning from the “Venice” cinema, over the monastery flared the red glow of a fire. Like red roosters the fiery tongues twirled, the red roosters seized, enveloped the monastery cloisters and cells. After a long silence the monastery bells began to sound the tocsin–like the red roosters of the fire, the tocsin began to rush about. With bells a-jingling and a-rattling along the cobbles of the road, the fire brigade came dashing without any water and the firemen, after lingering, tore down with their boat hooks the red signboard with the red star–

People's Police Soviet Department. Ordinin Branch

the one which is just opposite the advertisement:

TAMOTOES SOLD HERE.

Showers of sparks were carried up to the sky. Out of the cloisters, out of the windows jumped the soldiers and women (it was already the curfew hour). One cloister collapsed: the one which led from the Mother Superior's cell to the winter church. It was already the curfew hour, but as a fire is always beautiful, always unusual, always sinister–nobody asked for passes, and around the monastery walls a crowd crowded.

The monastery Vvedenyo-na-Gore was seen from seventy versts away, burning. The showers of sparks were carried up to the black sky, dispersed in the black abyss. One cloister collapsed, and another. A flame gripped the whole main house. Finally. The monastery perished–it was seen from seventy versts away, burning.

And suddenly they noticed: on the roof in a dormer window appeared Semyon Matveev Zilotov. With his emaciated gait, like an old hound, Semyon Matveev Zilotov walked up to the edge, stood before the flame, shouted something wild and, pressing his hand to his face, jumped–he fell down, into the smoke, into the shower of sparks, into the flames. And immediately on the stone wall appeared two monks–a young, black one, hung on the edge and jumped safely into the crowd, but the other, ashen colored, having thrust his head out from behind the wall twice, again disappeared behind it.

Semyon Matveev Zilotov. Since his quiet youth God had en-downed the great Bible reader, Semyon Matveev Zilotov, with a passionate and tender love for books. His days flowed by in Ordinin. But the last time Ordinin lived was seventy years ago, and in Ordinin there was a single bookshop (buying and selling)–Varygin's locker in the stalls, where the very same books, in leather covers and smelling of bedbugs, were sold and re-bought. The names of these books:

“The Pentagram, or Masons' sign, translated from the French.” “Optimism, i.e., the very best light, translated from the French.” “An intelligent existence or a moral look at the achievements of life, translated from the French, a publication of the Professor of Logic and Metaphysics, Andrei Bryantsev.” “The Black Magic of Papuce.” “The Masonic Lodges, or the Great Masons, translated from the French.”

The dead days of the dead town were adorned by Papuce. Semyon Matveev Zilotov's youth–in the house of the Volkoviches, in the cellar–was adorned by the bookish wisdom of the translations from the French, and the scorching heat of the scorching hot Julys dried up Semyon Matveev Zilotov's passionate brain. Oh, books!

The war flared up like scorching hot July, like forest fires, Semyon went off to the front as a private. The war burned with the Revolution, and on account of his great learning Semyon Zilotov was elected from the S. R.'s to the Soviet of Soldiers' Deputies, into the Cultural-Educational Dept. The Revolution burned in speeches–Semyon Matveev Zilotov traveled about with lecturers on staff motor cycles, to speak to the soldiers–in any landowner's farm–about law, about brotherhood–about the state, about the Republic, about the French Commune and about Grishka Rasputin.

And the soldiers after the lecture would submit notes:

“But what will happen to Grishka in the heavenly Kingdom?” “Comrade lecturer! And wot'll ‘appen wiff me wife, if I vote at the front for an S. R. and she for Purishkevich?” “I ask you to explain if it's possible to belong to two parties at the same
time, the SR's and the Bolsheviks?!” “Comrade Lecturer! I ask you to explain about the Bolsheviks' program would the crops in the fields be insured or is an expropriation of capital envisaged?” “Mr. Comrade! Will women be freed from an eight-hour day during their period and please briefly explain the biography of Victor Hugo. Comrade Erzov.”

And Semyon Matveev Zilotov often had to rescue the lecturers–somewhere in a farm barn–climbing onto a table and shouting:

“Comrades! I, as your people's elected representative, ask you not to write foolish stupidnesses!”

This was in our dear Polesye, where there are lakes, boulders, hills, fir trees and a pale sky. Summer was leaving with its peaceful August and peaceful long evenings. In the day the soldiers wrote
stupidities
, and in the evening, somewhere behind the parapet or in the window yard of the farm, soldiers heated their billy-cans and–told stories: about their own affairs and fairy tales. The soldiers spoke in their simple muzhik words about Ivanushka-the-Fool, where simplicity and truth fight untruth, about our quiet fields, the sadness of the fields, about the woods, about cottage Russia–their words were clear and pure, like these August evenings, images clear and bright, like these August stars, and their dreams beautiful.

Two souls, the East and West, popular wisdom, primordial, our beautiful, stupidity and wisdom, fabulous truth, interwoven with grief and untruth, having lain for centuries under a roaring stone and unwound–by truth. Semyon Matveev Zilotov saw all this close up. But–oh, books!–Semyon Matveev Zilotov saw here– –Riding around the trenches with an orator, one morning Semyon Matveev Zilotov was drinking tea behind a parapet, the parapet was hit by a German shell, Semyon Matveev was buried together with a saucer, then he was thrown right out by another shell (the saucer remained intact)–and Semyon Matveev came to, returned to the world of realities only after a month in his native Ordinin; Semyon Matveev's physical appearance was distorted: his face keeled over to one side, one side of his moustache began to seem larger than the other, he lost his right eye, his body became wizened, and Semyon Matveev Zilotov began to walk the way emaciated hunting dogs, eaten away by old age, walk; Semyon Matveev Zilotov's dried-up brain, eaten away by a month of death, eaten away by books from Varygin's locker (in leather covers and with bug smells), not having perceived the wisdom of cottage Russia, perceived a great secret:–two souls, a great secret, black magic, the pentagram, the pentagram from the book “The Pentagram, or the Masons' Sign, translated from the French!” (Varygin in those days was already locked up in prison.) On Red Army caps in those days there already appeared a five-pointed red star. Russia. Revolution. The books told of how people were ordered to think a hundred years ago. And there she is, Russia, disturbed, turbid, crawling, leaping, poor! One must, one must crossbreed Russia with the West, mix the blood, a man must come–in twenty years! On the Red Army caps the pentagram (“translated from the French”) flared up with a mystical shout–it will bring, it will deliver, it will save. Black Magic–the Devil! The Devil–and not God! Trample over God. In the church, on the altar, Russia will crossbreed with the West. Russia. Revolution. Save Russia!–dreams of youth and a brain dried-up in dreams.

Comrade Laitis signed orders for the arrest of Olenka Kuntz and Sergey Sergeevich.

The ordinary citizen Sergey Sergeevich. Really–was Sergey Sergeevich just an agent provocateur and petty bourgeois? On the evening before his arrest Sergey Sergeevich, having spread out the table napkin, ate tomatoes from Zilotov's kitchen garden, with vinegar and pepper. Then Sergey Sergeevich got undressed, lay down to sleep and before sleep, alone before himself–thought. Sergey Sergeevich
was suffering
, genuinely and deeply, and, like any suffering, and, like all sincerity–his pain was
beautiful
. Sergey Sergeevich
hated
, like a coward–these days, Comrade Laitis, everyone, everything– –and was afraid, afraid to the point of horror, to the point of physical pain, to the point of numbness…–

And below, on the stairs, soldiers' boots banged along. When the soldiers entered Sergey Sergeevich's room, Sergey Sergeevich was sitting, huddled into a corner of the bed, his eyes were open painfully wide, his widely swollen jaw hung down, and he whispered:

“What for? What for?”

“I've a vague idea but I don't know exactly!” said the soldier. “Get dressed. You'll find out there!”

Furthermore the COM. PARTY gave the order to arrest Laitis.

And the Bolshevik's community, having evicted the Ordinin princes, settled in the house on the old rise.

“Dong! dong! dong!” –the stones of the bells fall into the town creek.

Com-mu–tators, a-accumu-lators. Some get one thing, some another.

CHAPTER FIVE

DEATHS (TRIPTYCH THE FIRST)
THE DEATH OF THE COMMUNE

A
ND IN THESE DAYS THE COMMUNE AT PORECHYE PERISHED
: it perished suddenly, in a few days, in August. It was raining, the nights were silent and noiseless–and at night there came to the commune unknown, armed men, in Caucasian fur caps and felt cloaks, the unknown, swarthy Comrade Gerry brought them. A week before this Shura Stetsenko had left the commune, he returned with Gerry. At dusk a storm came, it rained noisily, the wind blew. Andrei had been riding since morning to a distant field, at dusk he found Yuzik, Semyon Ivanovich and Gerry in the library; they were stoking the hearth, burning papers. Semyon Ivanovich went out quickly. Yuzik was standing, his slender legs spread apart, one hand placed on his waist. Gerry, in a Caucasian fur cap, was squatting opposite the fire.

“You don't know each other?–Comwade Andwei–Comwade Gewwy.”

Gerry silently offered a huge hand and spoke to Yuzik in English. Yuzik contemptuously shrugged his shoulders and kept silent.

“Comwade Andwei doesn't understand English,” said Yuzik.

“Pleash excush me, Comrade Andrei, but I am very tired,” –Gerry's lips, unaccustomed to smiling, parted in a sneer, but his pitch-like eyes remained heavy and cold as before, very concentrated.

“Gewwy came from the Ukwaine, there'll soon be an uprising there. Gewwy and I starved together for a long time in Canada. Then in the Ukwaine I saved his life. When the Haydamaks took Yekatewinoslav, Gewwy, not knowing how to aim, opened fire on the town with a cannon–not know
ing how to aim! Gewwy, they say, were you drunk? Gewwy was caught and
they wanted to execute him. But in the evening I came with my detatchment and saved Gewwy's life. I love life vewy much, Comwade Gewwy–just like you. I want nothing from others, but I won't allow anyone to touch me.”

“Comrade Joseph, when old age comes, we will remember. You're very talkative!”

“I love life vewy much, Gewwy, for I have fwee will!”

“You're very talkative, Comrade Joseph!”

“So be it!” –Yuzik contemptuously shrugged a shoulder.

Gerry stood up, flexing his muscles. The fire in the hearth was dying out. Yuzik stood motionless, with his hands on his slender high waist, he looked into the fire. Into the study came Oskerko, Nikolai, Kirill, Natalya, Anna, Pavlenko. Stassik in the drawing room had begun to play Ukrainian dances on the piano, he broke off immediately. Natalya was coming up to Yuzik from behind, she placed her hands on his shoulders, lowered her head and said:

“Dear Comrade Yuzik! There's no need to be sad. What rain! We met in order to be together this evening.”

In came Stassik in a dressing gown with tassels, bellowing:

“Yuzka, don't be sad! You're a fool, perhaps?!”

Yuzik turned round and spoke loudly, calmly and contemptuously.

“Comwades! Shuga Stentsenko–is no comwade and no wevolutionary. He's just a bandit. Gewwy's a guest. Let's enjoy ourselves!”

In the commune, in the old prince's house, they enjoyed themselves recklessly, fervently and youthfully. Through the windows stood black darkness, the rain lashed, the wind howled. In the drawing room they lit the lamps, last lit for sure under the princes, they danced, sang, played charades, danced a jig. Pavlenko and Natalya secretly brought in a ham, bottles of cognac and vodka and a basket of apples. Gerry and those who had come with him were no longer there, and because beyond the walls there were strangers, because over the earth moved
autumnal, already cold clouds–in the hall it was especially cozy and jolly. They made hot punch, handed round a goblet to everyone, they split up into various corners, and regrouped, joked, argued, talked. They parted after midnight–Andrei went out onto the terrace, listened to the wind, watched the darkness, thought about how the earth was moving towards autumn. Towards our gray, nostalgic Autumn, bogged down in misty fields, yellow dried-up riverbeds. In the drawing room they had all already dispersed. Yuzik was saying to Oskerka:

“Guawds must be stationed everywhere. You'll conceal yourselves in the house–you, Pavlenko, Sviwid and Nikolai. With wifles and bombs.” –Yuzik turned to Andrei, smiled. “Comwade Andwei! You and I will stay the night here, in the cowner woom, in the divan-room. I'll accompany you.”

In the corner room, by the mirror a candle was murkily burning. From both sides through large windows, with arc-shaped tops, blew the wind; surely the frames were badly secured–the wind walked through the rooms, whistled mournfully. Yuzik took a long time washing and cleaning himself, then addressed Andrei:

“Please, Comwade Andwei, keep quiet. I'll be busy for another half hour.” –He took the candle and went away, put the candle in the neighboring room, in the study, footsteps died away in the distance. The dim candle light fell from behind the door-curtain.

There was silence for a long time. Andrei lay down on the divan. And suddenly in the study they began talking–Andrei had not heard the returning footsteps.

“Yuzik, you must tell everything,” said Kirill.

“Quiet,” –Andrei did not recognize the second voice.

“O.K. I'll tell,” –Yuzik was speaking in a whisper, lengthily, calmly, Andrei heard fragments.

“Gewwy and Stetsenko came up to me, and Gewwy said:–‘You're under awwest.' But I put my hand into my pocket and answered: ‘Comwade Gewwy, I love life just as you do, and anyone who lifts his hand, will die before me.' I spoke and walked away, but they wemained standing there, because they are bandits and cowawds…”

“…Gewwy demands those millions which we took in the expwopwiation of the Yekatewginoslav bank… Gewwy has fowgotten Canada…”

“…I'll give him nothing. The wevolution and death gave birth to me, blood.”

The whispering was long and wearisome, then Yuzik said loudly, just as always:

“Pavlenko, send Gewwy to me. Tell Kiwill and Sviwid to hide in this woom, with awms.”

Pavel's footsteps faded away, silence reigned, the two men came, rattling their rifles. Svirid went and stood by the door-curtain near Andrei. Then in the distance Gerry's heavy footsteps began to thunder.

“Comrade Yuzef, yiz called me?”

“Yes. I wanted to tell you that you won't get anything fwom me. And I ask you to leave the commune immediately,” –Yuzik turned round and walked smartly into the room in the corner.

“Comrade Yuzef!”

Yuzik made no response, for a moment the orphan wind was heard–Gerry's soled boots clicked. Andrei pretended to be asleep. Yuzik silently undressed and lay down, immediately began to snore.

At dawn shots awakened Andrei. –Bang, bang!–there were cracking noises in the next room, answered by a distant thud, shots were coming from the yard, on the porch a machine-gun chattered and immediately fell silent. Andrei jumped up–Yuzik stopped him. Yuzik was lying in bed with one arm dangling and in his hand was clutched a Browning.

“Comwade Andwei, don't be alawmed. This is a misunderstanding.”

In the morning there was no longer anyone in the commune. The house, the yard, the park were empty. Anna told Andrei that in the lodge by the gate with the lions lay killed–Pavlenko, Svirid, Gerry, Stetsenko and Natalya.

In the daytime a detail of soldiers came to the commune
from the Soviet
.

The last night Andrei spent at St. Nicholas's, which is at Belye-Kolodezy. Yegorka, in the evening, went to have a look at the fishing rod, brought back a pike. They sat with a lighted torch, the night came black, dense, rainy. Andrei went to the spring for water, in St. Nicholas' [ILLEGIBLE] tower the bells, with the wind, groaned mournfully, the church in the darkness seemed even more sunken into the ground, even more decrepit. The pines swished. And from the pines out of the darkness came a rider in a Caucasian fur cap, a felt cloak and with a rifle.

“Who goes there?”

“Here I am!”

“Comrade Yuzik?”

“Is that you, Comwade Andwei?”

Yuzik stopped the horse. “I've come to you.” –he fell silent. “You must get away from here. They'll catch you in the morning and are bound to shoot you. Tomowwow we'll go away from hewe–to the Ukwaine. Come with us.”

Andrei refused to go. They said goodbye.

“It'll soon be autumn. There are no staws. The worldly pwison–do you wemember? May God give you evewy happiness! To live!”

Yuzik was silent for a while, then he turned his horse sharply and rode off at a trot.

At dawn Andrei was already at the station, at “Mar loop-station,” he elbowed his way through to the suitcases in the heated freight car. In the dawn gray murkiness a child was crying orphan-like, and a tediously happy voice cried out tediously, monotonously:

“Gavrila, turn! Tur–n, Gavryu-ska!…”

The train stood a very long time, then slowly moved off weary and muddy, like a pig.

So perished the anarchists' commune at Porechye.

–And here is the story of how the landowner's Porechye perished: this was in the first days of the Revolution, in the first campfires of Revolution, since then many campfires have burnt themselves out, and the days have sung many blizzard songs, carrying people away. Here is the story–