Владимир Беляев - The Town By The Sea

Vladimir Belayev

PART THREE

FOREIGN LANGUAGES PUBLISHING HOUSE MOSCOW

TRANSLATED FROM THE RUSSIAN BY ROBERT DAGLISH

DESIGNED BY A. VASIN

OCR: http://HOME.FREEUK.COM/RUSSICA2

This Book is dedicated to the memory of the Bolshevik writer Yevgeny Petrovich Petrov, who was killed in action...

There was no home-work that evening and we had come out for a walk round town. Petka Maremukha was bouncing along in his short leather jerkin that smelt of sheep. Sasha Bobir had put on a pair of shiny new galoshes over his battered boots and fastened all the buttons on his long brownish-yellow "raglan," which someone had made for him out of a British army great-coat. I had struggled into my grey chumarka. It was tight across the shoulders and short in the sleeves and the hooks would not fasten properly. Aunt had made it for me out of my father's old coat the year before last, but I

was still very proud of it because all the active Komsomol members went about in chumarkas like mine.

It was Saturday and there were a lot of people about in town. Not all the shops in Post Street were open, but the brightly lit windows splashed long shafts of light on the narrow pavements.

We could have joined the noisy stream moving along those narrow pavements, of course, but we didn't want to. As usual on Saturday evenings, besides girls and chaps from all districts of the town, there were a lot of young profiteers about on Post Street. Komsomol members and young workers had another haunt—the avenue near the Komsomol club.

We kept to the middle of the road. It had thawed during the day and the sun had shone just like in spring, but towards evening the frost had set in again. The puddles were coated with ice and long gleaming icicles hung from the rusty drain-pipes.

"Fancy, putting galoshes on, Bobir! See how dry it is!" I said to Sasha and dug my heel into a frozen puddle.

"Don't mess about!" Sasha squealed, jumping away. "Call that dry!"

A stream of mud had spurted over his shiny galoshes. Sasha stared down at them bitterly. He looked so dismal standing in the middle of the road that Petka and I couldn't help laughing.

"Is that your idea of a joke!" Sasha snorted, looking even more annoyed. "And you're a member of the committee!. . . Setting an example, I suppose!" And taking an old scrap of newspaper out of his pocket, he started wiping off the mud.

As we walked on, Sasha kept glancing down and grunting with annoyance. I knew he was touchy and often lost his temper for nothing, so I did not tease him.

"Don't get sore, Sasha," I said soothingly, "I didn't do it on purpose. I didn't think there was any mud there."

"Huh—didn't think!" Sasha grunted.

But we were interrupted by a shout from Petka:

"Quiet, chaps!. . . Hear that?"

Not far away, on the other side of the boulevard, a machine-gun had opened up. One burst was followed by another, then one more, then after a short silence we heard five rifle shots fired in quick succession.

It was the alarm signal. Every Communist and Komsomol member knew that signal. In those years all the Communists and older lads among the Komsomol members belonged to the Special Detachments, and five quick rifle shots was the signal for them to report at once to headquarters. Wherever we happened to be—in the hostel, in the foundry at the factory-training school, at a Komsomol meeting, or simply out for a stroll—as soon as we heard it, we had to rush off to the well-known house in Kishinev Street, where Special Detachment Headquarters was situated.

We knew well enough that we lived only fifteen versts from the frontiers of capitalist Poland and Rumania, and that such an alarm might be followed by real invasion. Then all of us "specials," together with the frontier guards, would have to hold our little town against the first onslaught until the regulars arrived.

Sasha was the first to break the silence. "It's the alarm... Isn't it, Vasil?"

"It is," I said. "Come on, chaps! Let's run!"

... At the door of headquarters we were met by Polagutin, the Special Detachment Chief. The long holster of his Mauser was unfastened and we could tell from the anxiety in his face that the situation was serious.

"What group?" Polagutin asked.

"Factory-training school!" Sasha gasped out.

Polagutin checked our cards and said: "Get your guns."

We ran down the long corridor to the armoury. There we received rifles that had been issued to us some time ago and several rounds of ammunition.

"Shall we load here or outside?" Petka asked, shoving the cartridges into his trousers' pocket. He was rather pale. "Better wait for the order," I advised. "I've loaded mine already," said Sasha, tossing an empty clip on the floor.

"Put the safety catch on!" Petka whispered anxiously. Sasha pointed his rifle in the air and started pulling the safety catch back. But the safety catch was oily and Sasha's fingers were numb with cold. The rifle wobbled in his hands. Any moment, it seemed, one of Sasha's fingers would catch on the trigger and a bullet would shatter the dim lamp hanging from the ceiling.

"Give it here, you cripple!" Petka shouted and grabbed Sasha's rifle. "Watch me."

But the spring in Sasha's rifle was new and stiff and Petka had a hard job with the safety catch too...

The big room where every group came on Sundays to clean their rifles was crowded with specials.

"How did you get here so quick?" Polevoi asked us. He had no rifle, but a revolver hung at his side, over his wadded jacket.

"We were out for a walk," Petka began, "and suddenly we heard. . ."

"The other chaps must be still running!" Sasha chimed in complacently.

Komsomol members from our school—the "Polevoi Guard," as the chaps in other groups called us—began to appear in the room. They were all hot and red in the face and their coats and jackets were undone. Beads of sweat gleamed on their foreheads.

"Well done!" said Polevoi, glancing over the new-arrivals. "A quick turn-out... But where's Tiktor?" Everyone looked round for Tiktor. "Tiktor's been seen drinking, Comrade Polevoi," a factory school trainee called Furman began.

But just at that moment Polagutin appeared in the doorway and called sharply for attention.

The room grew quiet at once.

"This is the situation," said Polagutin. "The Petlura gangs that Pilsudski and the Rumanian boyars have been sheltering across the border are getting active again. They were seen in daylight today approaching our frontier. . . It is quite likely, comrades, that those gangs will be sent over our side tonight. It is your job and that of the frontier guards to give them a proper reception..." And raising his voice to a sharp tone of command, Polagutin said: "All except those from the factory-training school, fall in! Commander of the factory school group, report to me!"

We crowded back from the door. Holding their rifles high, the chaps from the town groups filed past us. As the room emptied, my heart sank. "What about us? What are we going to do? They'll go out of town to patrol the forests on the border, but just because we're a bit younger we'll be kept behind as usual to guard hay at the food stores, or else we'll have to stay right in town to guard the fortress bridge, in case some spy or other tries to blow it up. What fun was there in guarding a lot of wooden barns full of hay or lying in ambush where everyone could see you, on the busy brightly-lit fortress bridge!

An elderly special in a railwayman's cap ran into the room and shouted: "All present and correct, Comrade Commander! The district secretary's arrived."

"Kartamyshev here already?" Polagutin exclaimed joyfully. He turned to Polevoi and shook his hand