Anatoly Rybakov - The Dirk

A lady-bird settled on Misha's hand; it was small, round, had a hard red body and a black pin-point head. Misha picked it up carefully, put it on his palm and chanted: "Lady-bird, lady-bird, fly away home; your house is on fire, your children alone"-and it unfolded its tiny wings and flew away.

A wasp droned into the hut, circled round Misha's head and, falling silent, sat on his leg. Would it sting him? Not if he kept still, Misha thought, and lay motionless. It crawled along his leg, then took off with a monotonous hum.

A vast but unnoticed living world was teaming all around him. An ant dragged a pine needle, throwing on the ground a small angular shadow that moved with it. A little grasshopper leaped in the grass, its long legs bent so sharply they seemed to be broken in the middle. A sparrow hopped in the garden path, its awkward sideways movements watched by the dreamy, half-closed but attentive eyes of a cat dozing on the steps of the summer-house. The breeze carried into the hut the smell of the grass and the scent of flowers. A tender drowsiness fell upon Misha and he closed his eyes and forgot his troubles...

Genka breathlessly clambered into the hut with a big warm piece of under-done beef under his shirt.

"Here, look," he whispered, "took it out of the soup."

"You're mad!" Misha cried in horror. "Don't you realize you've left everyone without their dinner?"

"What of it!" Genka exclaimed, throwing his head back recklessly. "I'm going away as a scout, aren't I? They can cook another piece of beef for all I care." He chuckled, well pleased with himself.

Misha ate the meat, tearing it with his teeth and hands. What a blockhead Genka was, after all! He was sure to get a belting from his stern father, a tall, thin man with a grey moustache, who was an engine-driver. And his step-mother would also have something to say about it.

"Heard the news?" Genka asked.

"What news?"

"Catch me telling you!"

"That's your business. Only I can't imagine you as a scout. Will you keep things from me then, too?"

The threat in Misha's voice had its effect. Now, after the theft of the meat from the pot, Genka had only one recourse-to be a scout. That meant he had to obey.

"We had a man from Nosovka to see us just now," Genka said, "and he told us Nikitsky's gang's quite near."

"What about it?" Misha asked, fiercely chewing the meat.

"Don't you see? They may attack Revsk."

"And you believed it?" Misha said with a laugh. "You poor sap. And you want to be a scout!"

"Why shouldn't I?" Genka stammered.

"Nikitsky's near Chernigov, that's why. He can't attack us because we have a garrison. See? A gar-ri-son..."

"What's a garrison?"

"You don't know what a garrison is? It's... well, how shall I put it.. it's-"

"Wait a minute! Hear that?" Genka whispered suddenly. Misha stopped chewing and listened. Shots rang out somewhere beyond the houses and the reports were drowned in the blue dome of the sky. This was followed by the screeching of the siren at the raid way station and the hurried splutter and rattle of a machine-gun.

The boys looked silently at each other in alarm, then pushed aside the foliage and peeped out of the hut.

Clouds of dust were rising from the road to Nosovka. The sound of firing came from the railway station and, before the boys could collect their wits, yelling horsemen in red-topped lambskin caps their whips whistling in the air, galloped up the deserted street. Whiteguards had broken into the town.

Misha hid at Genka's and when the firing stopped he looked into the street and ran home, keeping close to the fences. Grandfather was standing on the porch, confused and pale. Lathered horses with Cossack saddles were snorting near the house.

Misha ran up the porch and what he saw in the house froze him to the threshold.

Polevoy was fighting desperately with bandits in the dining-room; six of them hung on to him and though he resisted with all the strength of his powerful body, they pulled him down to the floor where they rolled over and over, knocking over the furniture and dragging with them the table-cloth, door-mats and curtains.

Another Whiteguard, the leader evidently, was standing motionless near the window his eyes riveted on Polevoy's movements.

Misha concealed himself behind numerous coats hanging from the rack. His heart was in his mouth. He waited for Polevoy to get up, as he had so often seen him in dreams, shake the bandits off with his mighty shoulders, single-handed, and send them all flying.

But Polevoy did not get up. His furious efforts to throw the bandits off grew weaker. Finally, the bandits stood him on his legs, twisted his arms behind his back, and led him to the Whiteguard standing near the window. Polevoy's breath was coming in gasps and blood was oozing through his fair hair. He was barefooted and wearing his striped jersey. Misha realized he had been surprised in his sleep. The bandits were armed with carbines, pistols, and sabres, and their hobnailed boots rang against the floor.

The Whiteguard leader looked at Polevoy with unblinking eyes. A black forelock had escaped from under his cocked fur cap and hung over his piercing grey eyes. A crimson scar ran down his right cheek. The only sounds in the room were the laboured breathing of the men and the indifferent ticking of the clock.

"The dirk!" the Whiteguard snapped in a sharp, hollow voice. "The dirk!" he repeated, his eyes, fixed on Polevoy, almost popping out.

Polevoy said nothing. He took a deep breath and slowly shrugged his shoulders. The Whiteguard stepped up to him, raised his whip, and brought it down heavily across Polevoy's face. Misha shuddered, tightly shutting his eyes.

"You've forgotten Nikitsky? Then I'll remind you!" the Whiteguard raved.

So this was Nikitsky! And Polevoy had concealed the dirk from him!

"Listen here, Polevoy," Nikitsky's voice was unexpectedly calm, "you can't get away. Return the dirk and clear off anywhere please. If you don't my men'll hang you!"

Still Polevoy said nothing.

"All right," Nikitsky said. "Blame yourself!"

He nodded to two of the bandits and they went to Polevoy's Misha recognized them as the wood-cutters he had seen in the mo: They began searching the room, turned everything over, littered the floor, broke the door of the cupboard with the butts of their carbines, ran their knives into the pillows, and raked the ash out of the stove.

Misha was afraid they would now go to his room. He left his shelter and moved stealthily to it.

Night was already setting in. In the darkness Misha's hand closed round the cold steel of the dirk that lay under the bed. He pulled it out and hid it in his sleeve. Holding both the sleeve and the handle in his fist, he returned to his hiding place behind the coats in the passage.

The bandits were still ransacking Polevoy's room, while Polevoy himself stood in the dining-room, his body bent forward, his arms twisted behind his back. Suddenly there was a thud of hoofs from the street and rapid footsteps were heard on the porch. A Whiteguard bandit came in and said something to Nikitsky in a low voice.

Nikitsky made no move.

"To horse!" he cried in the next second, cracking his whip.

The bandits dragged Polevoy into the dark passage that opened on to the street and the back-yard. As they pushed him into the passage, Misha took Polevoy's hand and opened his fist.

The handle of the dirk touched Polevoy's palm. He drew the dirk towards him and, taking several steps forward along the passage, jerked his hand up and stabbed the bandit in front of him in the neck. Meanwhile, Misha threw himself at the other bandit's feet, tripping him up, thus giving Polevoy time to run out into the dark back-yard.