Владимир Беляев - The Town By The Sea

"Vasil's back. . . Mandzhura's here!" came excited voices.

"Fall in here, with me," Nikita shouted from the head of the column.

I pushed into the front rank and gripped our secretary's hand firmly.

There were familiar faces all round me—Sasha Bobir, fatty Maremukha, Furman the know-all. I glanced back and saw the dejected face of Yasha Tiktor in the rear.

"Well, what's the news?" Nikita said, glancing into my face.

"Everything's all right, Nikita!" I answered simply. "We'll be going to the Donbas. Listen..." Choking with excitement and trying not to trip over, I told Nikita hurriedly about my visit to the Central Committee. A drop of tar from a torch dripped on my nose. I rubbed it off with my fist and gasped out my story in bits and pieces. The ranks were very close together and it was difficult to march. Trying to hear what I was saying, the chaps kept treading on my heels and pushing me from behind.

"Is that what he said, 'your dreams will come true'?" Nikita interrupted me.

"That's right. And then the secretary said: 'Very soon young intelligent workers like you will be needed everywhere—both in Yekaterinoslav and in the Donbas.' "

"Splendid! So there's justice in the world after all Polevoi was right, wasn't he? See what a clever bloke h is?" Nikita said triumphantly, and turning to the rest o| the column, he shouted: "We'll soon be going to the Don-f bas, chaps! What did I say? Let's have a song to mark the occasion—our school song!" In one voice we struck up with the trainees song composed by a young worker-poet Teren Masenko. "We'd toss you, Vasil, but it's a bit too muddy," Nikita shouted. "We're so grateful, we might drop you—you'd get yourself dirty if you fell, you know." Proud and happy, I sang with the others. "Is Pecheritsa back yet?" I asked Nikita. "Try and find him!" Nikita flung back grimly. "What, have they

sacked him already? By telegraph, I suppose?"

"He's sacked himself." "When I was with him in the train..." "Where?" Nikita exclaimed, fixing his eyes on me. "Where? Why, we travelled together as far as Zhmerinka, then..."

"What's that?" Nikita snapped, very alert suddenly. "You went as far as Zhmerinka with Pecheritsa?"

Before I had time to tell how I had met Pecheritsa in the train, Nikita swung round and shouted right in my face: "You ass! Don't you realize this is very important! Why didn't you say anything about it before? Come with me... Furman, take charge of the column!"

We slipped out of the ranks. The group marched on with their blazing torches towards the stands on Soviet Square carrying a big portrait of Kabakchiev. Nikita and I dashed off at top speed to the house in Seminary Street.

I had always known that Nikita liked making a mystery of things.

You would ask him about something that interested you. All he had to do was to tell you the answer without keeping you on edge. But no! Nikita would keep you beating about the bush for goodness knows how long, and then, when you fairly were bursting with impatience, he would calmly start telling you about something quite different.

And that was more or less what he did now.

Not a thing would Nikita tell me all the way to the district OGPU office. His only answer to my questions was: "Wait a bit!"

Clutching our blue passes in our hands, we climbed the stairs. Anyone could see that Nikita had been here before by the bold way he climbed the stairs. I followed him.

We reached the top landing. Nikita walked confidently down a dark corridor and stopped at an oak door. He knocked loudly.

"Come in!" said a voice from inside.

Heavy curtains on the windows. Two glass-fronted bookcases. A big, fire-proof safe standing in the corner. In an alcove, a map dotted with flags, half covered by a cur-lain. Below the map, which must have been of the frontier, in the shadow cast by a table lamp sat Vukovich, the tall fair-haired frontier guard chief, who had spent so long scouring about round headquarters with Polevoi after that anxious night when Sasha let the bandit get away.

"Here's a lad who's just got back from Kharkov. He says he saw Pecheritsa in Zhmerinka," Nikita flashed out straightaway.

"Near Zhmerinka," I corrected him. "That's interesting!" said Vukovich and offered us a seat.

... When my story was nearly over, Vukovich asked: 'But just which station was it where you saw Pecheritsa last?"

"I was asleep when he got out."

"I understand that, but when did you see Pecheritsa last?"

"After Dunayevets... No, half a mo'... That was where the tickets were checked first time."

"Where was the second check-up? You know, when this chap in the wadded jacket read the warrant?"

"I don't know... The train was moving and they woke me up."

"Just a minute!" And Vukovich glanced at his notepad. "You said Pecheritsa asked whether the tickets had been checked."

"That's right."

"Where was that—when the train was moving or at a station?"

"The train had stopped... At a station, I think." "Now, what station was it? Didn't you see any notices?"

"I just can't remember.. . If I'd known.. . You see, it was the first time I'd been on a train... "

"Perhaps it was Derazhnya?"

"No... I don't think so..."

"Chorny Ostrov?"

"No.. ." "Kotuzhany?" "No."

"Was it light on the platform?"

"Uh-huh."

"What kind of light?"

"Same as usual. You know, not very bright."

Vukovich frowned. "No, wait a moment. That's not what I mean. Was it electricity or kerosene lamps? Or gas, perhaps?"

"A sort of greenish light from a lamp—a lamp with a round glass, and a burner inside. It was hanging from a post. You remember, we used to have lamps like that in Post Street, near Shipulinsky's cafe. . ."

"Gas lamps?"

"That's it—gas lamps!"

"The station wasn't on a hill by any chance? Stone steps, and the platform all rutted? If it had been raining there'd be a lot of puddles about? Is that anything like it?"

"Yes, I think so. The train comes in a long way from the station."

"And you are sure that Pecheritsa didn't get out there?" Vukovich continued with great interest, dropping the last trace of formality in his manner.

"Of course! It was later on that the conductor checked up again and read his warrant, after that station, and he was still asleep on the bunk."

"Sure he was asleep?"

"Yes, he must have been. Although ... he might have been faking, who knows. All I remember is that I saw him there."

"So then you went to sleep yourself, and when you woke up you were in Zhmerinka?"

"Uh-huh." .

"And Pecheritsa wasn't there?"

"Uh-huh."

"Are you sure of that?"

"Dead sure."

"You're a lucky fellow! You got off lightly. With a travelling companion like him, in an empty carriage, you might have gone to sleep and never woken up again," Vukovich said rather mysteriously, then with another glance at his pad where he had been making notes, he asked: "What struck you about Pecheritsa's appearance?"

"Well, his coat was sort of ragged... I'd never seen him in a coat like that before."

"And what else?"

"Oh, yes! He hadn't got a moustache."

"None at all?"

"Not a hair left. He'd shaved it right off."

"Aha, Comrade 'Kolomeyets," Vukovich said triumphantly, "so it was his moustache we found in a bit of paper outside the District Education Department. I said it was Pecheritsa’s moustache, but Dzhendzhuristy wouldn't have it. 'No,' he says, 'that blighter wouldn't give up his moustache. That's one of the nationalists' traditions—a big bushy Cossack moustache. He'd rather shave off his beard!' Just shows you how people come to expect the usual thing! Why, any enemy in Pecheritsa's shoes would throw away every tradition he ever heard of. You can't bother about traditions when your life's at stake!" And turning to me, Vukovich went on: "You're telling the truth, aren't you, Mandzhura?"