Михаил Булгаков - A Country Doctor's Notebook

‘ “Just you wait till the Bolsheviks come.”

‘The sight of these two wretched men, killed for some unknown reason, was sickening, and so in the end I too started looking forward to the Bolsheviks’ arrival. They were coming nearer and nearer. Darkness was falling, and from the distance came rumblings, as if in the very bowels of the earth. So with my lamp giving out a light that was both reassuring and yet disturbing, I was completely alone in the flat; my books were scattered everywhere (for in all this chaos I had cherished the insane hope of studying for a higher degree) and I myself was crouched over a suitcase.

‘To tell you the truth, events had seized me by the hair and dragged me along with them: everything had been happening as though in some hellish nightmare. I had come back that evening from a workers’ hospital in the suburbs where I was an intern in the female surgery department, and on my arrival I had found an envelope stuck in the letter-box with an unpleasantly official look. I tore it open there and then on the landing, read the contents and sat down on the top stair.

‘The note, typed in blue-black ink, was in Ukrainian. Translated into Russian it read:

‘ “On receipt of this you are to report to the Army Medical Directorate within two hours to await instructions …”

‘This was a summons from that same gallant army, led by “Boss” Petlyura, which left corpses in the street and indulged in pogroms. And I, with a red cross armband, was to join that company.

‘I did not waste much time day-dreaming on the staircase. I leaped up like a jack-in-the-box and went into my flat; this is where my suitcase came on the scene. I quickly worked out a plan: I would leave the flat, taking a change of underwear, and make my way to a feldsher friend of mine who lived on the outskirts, a man of doleful aspect and manifest Bolshevik sympathies. I would stay with him until Petlyura was thrown out, for there could be no doubt that he was going to be defeated. Or maybe the long-awaited Bolsheviks were a myth? Where were the guns? Silence had fallen. No, there was the rumbling again.

‘I threw the shirt away angrily, snapped the lock of the suitcase, put an automatic and a spare magazine into my pocket, and donned my greatcoat with its red cross armband. Then I looked around miserably, put out the lamp and groped my way through the shadowy twilight into the hall. There I turned on the light, fastened the hood on to my greatcoat and opened the door to the landing.

‘That instant I heard a cough, and two figures with short cavalry carbines slung over their shoulders stepped into my hall. One was wearing spurs, the other was not, and both had tall fur hats with blue tassels which dangled jauntily down to theircheeks.

‘My heart missed a beat.

‘ “Are you Doctor Yashvin?” the first trooper asked in Ukrainian.

‘ “Yes, I am,” I answered tonelessly.

‘ “You’re coming with us,” he said.

‘ “What’s the meaning of this?” I asked, having somewhat recovered from the shock.

‘ “Sabotage, that’s what,” said the one with the loud spurs, and gave me a sly leer. “The doctors don’t want to be mobilised, so they’ll be punished according to the law.”

‘The hall light was switched off, the door clicked shut and we went down the stairs and out.

‘ “Where are you taking me?” I asked, stroking the cool ribbed butt of the automatic in my trouser pocket.

‘ “To the First Cavalry Regiment,” answered the man with the spurs.

‘ “What for?”

‘ “Wha’ you mean, what for?” The second man was surprised. “You’ve been appointed our doctor.”

‘ “Who’s in command of the regiment?”

‘ “Colonel Leshchenko,” the first one answered with some pride, his spurs clinking rhythmically to my left.

‘ “What an idiot I was,” I thought, “to waste so much time over my suitcase. All because of a pair of underpants … I could easily have left five minutes earlier.”

‘By the time we reached the house the city was covered by a black frosty sky studded with stars. A blaze of electric light shone through its large, ornate windows. With much clinking of spurs, I was led into an empty, dusty room, blindingly lit by a strong electric bulb under a cracked opal-glass lampshade. The muzzle of a machine-gun jutted out from a corner, and my attention was riveted by red and russet-coloured trickles on the wall by the machine-gun, where an expensive tapestry hung in shreds.

‘ “That’s blood,” I thought to myself and winced.

‘ “Colonel,” the man with spurs said quietly, “we’ve found the doctor.”

‘ “Is he a Yid?” barked a dry, hoarse voice.

‘From behind the woven sheperdesses of the tapestry a door was silently thrown open and a man walked in. He was wearing a magnificent greatcoat and boots with spurs. A fine Caucasian belt decorated with silver medallions was tightly drawn around his waist, and at his hip a Caucasian sabre glinted in the bright electric light. He was wearing a lambskin hat with a magenta top crossed with gold braid. His slanting eyes had a cruel and curiously pained look, as though little black balls were bouncing up and down inside them. His face was riddled with pockmarks and his neat black moustache twitched nervously.

‘ “No, not a Yid,” replied the trooper.

‘Then the colonel strode up to me and looked into my eyes:

‘ “You’re not a Yid,” he began in a strong Ukrainian accent, speaking a horrible mixture of Russian and Ukrainian, “but you’re no better than a Yid, and as soon as the fighting’s over I shall have you court-martialled. You’ll be shot for sabotage. Don’t let him out of your sight,” he told the trooper, “and give the doctor a horse.”

‘I stood there without saying a word, and as you can well imagine, the blood had drained from my face. Then once again everything started happening as though in a bad dream. A voice in the corner said plaintively:

‘ “Have mercy, sir …”

‘I dimly perceived a quivering beard and a soldier’s torn greatcoat. Troopers’ faces hovered around it.

‘ “A deserter?” croaked the now familiar hoarse voice. “God, you filthy wretch.”

‘I saw the colonel twitch at the mouth as he drew a grim, shining pistol from its holster and struck this broken man in the face with the butt. The man flung himself to one side, choking on his own blood as he fell to his knees. Tears poured from his eyes.

‘Then the white, frostbound city vanished, a tree-lined road stretched along the bank of the still, dark waters of the mysterious Dnieper and the First Cavalry Regiment was marching along the road, strung out in a long winding file.

‘At the rear of the column an intermittent rumbling came from the two-wheeled transport carts. Black lances bobbed along beside pointed hoods covered in hoar-frost. I was riding on a cold saddle, every now and then wriggling my aching toes in my boots. I breathed through a slit in my hood, which was growing a shaggy fringe of hoar-frost, and could feel my suitcase, tied to the pommel of the saddle, pressing against my left thigh. My inseparable escort rode silently beside me. Inwardly, I was as chilled as my feet. Now and then I raised my face to the sky and looked at the bright stars and in my ears, almost without cease, as though the sound had solidified, I could hear the shrieking of the deserter. Colonel Leshchenko had ordered him to be beaten with ramrods and they had beaten him in that house.

‘The distant darkness was now silent and I reflected bitterly that the Bolsheviks had probably been beaten off. My fate was hopeless. We were making our way to Slobodka, where we were to halt and guard the bridge across the Dnieper. If the fighting should die down and I ceased to be of immediate use to him, Colonel Leshchenko would have me court-martialled. At this thought I felt petrified and cast a sad, longing glance at the stars. It was easy to guess at the verdict of a trial on a man who refused to report for duty within two hours in such a crisis. A horrible fate for a medical man.