David Robbins - War of the Rats - A Novel of Stalingrad

Zaitsev asked Shaikin to make do for a few more days until he could assign him someone to replace Chernova in his sector.

Shaikin elbowed Tania in the side. “Better send two.”

Tania felt the urge to go out right then, in the dark and blowing cold, to hunt. She touched Shaikin on the arm for his trust in her.

A bellow erupted from outside the doorway.

“Bullets and borscht!”

The blanket to the bunker swept aside. An icy wind followed the broad back of Atai Chebibulin, a burly old Bashkir from the village of Chishma in Turkmenia. Atai was the sniper unit’s courier, the man who brought them ammo and rations.

Tania rarely heard Atai speak to the snipers other than to announce his arrival with his preamble “Bullets and borscht,” and to say “T’ank you” in his halting Turkic dialect. But on one occasion the week before, Atai had come into the bunker earlier than usual, near dusk, when Tania was alone, waiting for more cartridges. She talked to him then. He told her he was a Moslem and that his son Sakaika had died here in Stalingrad.

Chebibulin knelt. He slid the harness for the large tin soup canister off his back. He laid the container in the center of the floor and took from a gunnysack a dozen boxes of cartridges. From his coat pocket a bottle of vodka appeared. This he handed to Chekov, who dove forward for it.

Since her first sight of Chebibulin weeks ago, while still a sniper trainee, Tania had been amazed at the Bashkir’s ability to produce food every night for the snipers. He never arrived empty-handed; he was always burdened, grunting under the weight of ammo and rations. Chebibulin carried no rifle or grenades. All his strength was used to deliver whatever the snipers needed. If Atai were a sniper, thought Tania, he would certainly be a bear. He moves like an ox, with his banging tin canister and bowls and his shy mumble.

Chekov tipped the vodka bottle back like a circus sword eater. After several gulps he called out, “Donkey! It’s not borscht again, is it? I hate cold soup. It was cold last night.”

Atai turned his back to Chekov, who busied himself again with the bottle.

Zaitsev walked to Chekov and reached for the vodka.

“Eat some soup, Anatoly, before it gets cold on you again.”

Chekov handed Zaitsev the bottle and moved to the canister. He flipped open the flimsy top and kneeled to inhale the steam from the soup.

“Ah, the Donkey ran here fast tonight,” he said, looking at Chebibulin’s back. “Potato soup.”

Shaikin said to Chekov. “That’s enough, Anatoly.”

Tania added her voice. “That’s enough.”

Chekov looked up from the cauldron. The vodka had already reddened his eyes.

“What’s the matter? You two taking sides with the Donkey?”

Before Tania could answer, Chebibulin turned on Chekov.

“Donkey! Why Donkey! Why you call me that?”

The graying Bashkir’s body was tensed, his big hands working at his sides. He blew out from under his large, drooping moustache. His chin, stippled with a dense salt-and-pepper stubble, worked as though he were chewing on his growing anger, trying to swallow it.

Chekov looked at Tania and Shaikin. Kulikov muttered and put his head back into his journal. Zaitsev, in his corner, ran his fingers up and down the vodka bottle.

“Come on, Tanyushka, Ilyushka, all this old man does is carry food back and forth,” Chekov muttered. “He’s no soldier. He doesn’t fight. Don’t give me a hard time sticking up for him. He plods back and forth. He’s a donkey. So what? Let’s eat.”

Tania put her hand on Chebibulin’s thick shoulder. “Atai, tell me again about Sakaika. I want the others to hear it.”

Chebibulin stared at the ground, chewing his mustache.

Tania watched Chekov spoon some of the white potato soup into a battered bowl.

“His name is not Donkey, Anatoly. It’s Atai Chebibulin. And if you weren’t such a mean drunk, you might have a little more respect. This man’s son—”

Chebibulin raised his thick hands. “No, I,” he said to her. “Is OK. I tell.”

Tania sat next to Shaikin. Chekov stepped aside, reaching out his open hand in a gesture to the old man, ceding him the stage. He bowed with open sarcasm.

Chebibulin sat cross-legged in the center of the room with his back to Chekov. He grunted as he folded his legs.

“Three month ago, I take Sakaika, is my boy, to train in Chishma. He in army. I take him down in cart, long way. At train, I see army horses eating hay, drinking water. I think OK, I get free drink and hay for my horse, too. I tie him to post with army horses. Train crowded, many army. I lose Sakaika. I go in every car, calling boy’s name. No answer. I lose.”

The old Bashkir narrowed his eyes. His hand scratched his matted, graying hair.

“OK, I say myself, I say goodbye already. Sakaika know. I go back to horse, he gone. Army put him on train with rest of horses. I got no way home, no horse to pull cart. I need horse for farm. I go up and down, shouting, ‘Army stole my horse!’ I call horse name, Prinza, and I hear him stomp. Brrrrr.”

Chebibulin blew through his moustache to make the flapping, rattling horse noise.

“I jump on train, find my horse with army horses. I go to soldier. ‘Hey, this my horse.’ Soldier shake his head, he say no can help. Another soldier, another, and no can help. Then train move and I try jump off. One soldier grab me. He say, ‘Hey, where you going, old man?’ I say I jumping off, you keep my horse, I walk home, OK. Man say we need you in army, all Russians fight. I say, ‘Where Sakaika?’ This soldier, he help find. I talk with Sakaika, we say OK, we go fight, we go father and son. Army give back my horse, one more horse and new cart. Me and Sakaika, we go in same regiment, Thirty-ninth Guards. Come to Stalingrad. Many fighting. Many dead. Day and night I going with dead boys to river, always coming back with bullets and borscht.”

Chebibulin smiled beneath his moustache at his signature phrase. Then, knowing the end of the story, his smile fell. He looked down again into his lap and shook his head.

“Two week after we come Stalingrad, I find Sakaika. He got bullet in chest at fight for river landing. I put him in cart, drive like crazy man to hospital. Then big bomb kill my horses.”

The old man looked up now, at Zaitsev. “I pull cart myself but too slow. Sakaika dead.”

His eyes stayed fixed on Zaitsev. Tania sensed Chebibulin’s determination that Zaitsev, head of the snipers, command respect for him from Chekov. It was not Atai’s way to challenge a man to his face.

“I put Sakaika on boat myself. He got buried on other side. I go over there sometime, later, when war here over. First I go back to regiment, tell captain I fight for Sakaika, I got his gun. Captain tell me no, Atai, I get you new horse, you too important man for just bullets. You man for bullets and borscht.”

Chebibulin rose. “Then,” he said, “I meet Danilov. Fat little Danilov. Communist, OK? He ask me to take care of you, take care of snipers, important soldiers. You the best, he say to me, I the best. I take care of you,” he said, looking now for the first time at Chekov, “and you call me Donkey. I not Donkey. I Atai Chebibulin, father of hero Sakaika.”

Chebibulin fell silent. After a moment, he moved to the canister and began to pour soup into the tin bowls. Chekov walked to Zaitsev and took the vodka bottle.

“Chebibulin?” Chekov spoke, holding the bottle out to the kneeling old man.

The Bashkir shook his head. “No. Is sin to drink spirits. Not Moslem way.”

Chekov knelt beside Chebibulin to set the bottle on the ground. He held out his empty bowl. He let the old man pour another helping into it.

“Here,” Chekov said, offering it.