The White Guard

  At that moment a volley of rifle-fire came from Rylsky Street. Just before it there had been a sudden whirlwind of peasant women screaming in the crowd. There was a shriek and someone started running, then a staccato, breathless, rather hoarse voice shouted:

  'I know those men! Kill them! They're officers! I've seen them in uniform!'

  A troop of the 10th Cavalry Regiment, waiting their turn to march into the square, forced their way into the crowd and seized a man. Women screamed. The man who had been seized, Captain Pleshko, cried out weakly and jerkily:

  'I'm not an officer. Nothing of the sort. What are you doing? I'm a bank clerk.'

  Beside him another man was arrested, white-faced and silent, who wriggled in the soldiers' grip.

  Then the crowd scattered down the street, jostling each other like animals let out of a sack, running away in terror, leaving an empty space on the street that was completely white except for one black blob - someone's lost hat. A flash and a bang, and Captain

  Pleshko, who had thrice denied himself, paid for his curiosity to see the parade. He lay face upward by the fence of the presbytery of St Sophia's cathedral, spreadeagled, whilst the other, silent man fell across his legs with his face to the ground. Just then came a roll of drums from the corner of the square, the crowd surged back again and the band struck up with a boom and a crash. A confident voice roared: 'Walk-march!' Rank upon rank, gold-tasselled caps glittering, the 10th Cavalry Regiment moved off.

  #

  Quite suddenly a gray patch between the domes of the cathedral broke open and the sun burst through the dull, overcast sky. The sun was bigger than anyone had ever seen it in the Ukraine and quite red, like pure blood. Streaks of clotted blood and plasma flowed steadily from that distant globe as it struggled to shine through the screen of clouds. The sun reddened the dome of St Sophia with blood, casting a strange shadow from it on to the square, so that in that shadow Bogdan turned violet, and made the seething crowd of people look even blacker, even denser, even more confused. And gray men in long coats belted with rope and waving bayonets could be seen climbing up the steps leading up the side of the rock and trying to smash the inscription that stared down from the black granite plinth. But the bayonets broke or slithered uselessly away from the granite, and Bogdan wrenched his horse away from the rock at a gallop as he tried to fly away from the people who were clinging on to the hooves of his horse and weighing them down. His face, turned directly towards the red globe, was furious and he continued steadfastly to point his mace into the distance.

  At that moment a man was raised on to the slippery frozen basin of the fountain, above the rumbling, shifting crowd facing the statue of Bogdan. He was wearing a dark overcoat with a fur collar and despite the frost he took off his fur hat and held it in his hands. The square still hummed and seethed like an ant-heap, but the belfry of St Sophia had stopped ringing and the bands

  had marched off in various directions down the snowbound streets. An enormous crowd had collected around the base of the fountain:

  'Petka, who's that up on the fountain?'

  'Looks like Petlyura.'

  'Petlyura's making a speech.'

  'Rubbish . . . that's just an ordinary speaker . . .'

  'Look, Marusya, the man's going to make a speech. Look, look . . .'

  'He's going to read a proclamation . . .'

  'No, he's going to read the Universal.'

  'Long live the free Ukraine!'

  With an inspired glance above the thousands of heads towards the point in the sky where the sun's disc was emerging even more clearly and gilding the crosses with thick red gold, the man waved his arm and shouted in a weak voice:

  'Hurrah for the Ukrainian people!'

  'Petlyura . . . Petlyura ..."

  'That's not Petlyura. What are you talking about?'

  'Why should Petlyura have to climb up on a fountain?'

  'Petlyura's in Kharkov.'

  'Petlyura's just gone to the palace for a banquet . . .'

  'Nonsense, there aren't going to be any banquets.'

  'Hurrah for the Ukrainian people!' the man repeated, at which a lock of fair hair flicked up and dangled over his forehead.

  'Quiet!'

  The man's voice grew louder and began to make itself heard clearly above the murmur of the crowd and the crunch of feet on snow, above the retreating clatter of the parade, above the distant beat of drums.

  'Have you seen Petlyura?'

  'Of course I have -just now.'

  'Ah, you're lucky. What's he like?'

  'Black moustaches pointing upward like Kaiser Wilhelm, and wearing a helmet. Look, there he is, look, look Maria Fyodorovna, look - riding on a horse . . .'

  'What d'you mean by spreading rumors like that? That's the chief of the City fire brigade.'

  'Petlyura's in Belgium, madame.'

  'Why should he go to Belgium?'

  'To sign a treaty with the Allies . . .'

  'No, no. He's gone to the Duma with a mounted escort.'

  'What for?'

  'To take the oath . . .'

  'Will he take an oath?'

  'Why should he take an oath? They are going to swear anoath to him.'

  'Well, I'd rather die, (whisper) I won't swear . . .'

  'No need for you. They won't touch women.'

  'They'll touch the Jews all right, that's for sure . . .'

  'And the officers. They'll rip their guts out.'

  'And the landlords! Down with 'em!'

  'Quiet!'

  With a strange look of agony and determination in his eyes the fair-haired orator pointed at the sun.

  'Citizens, brothers, comrades!' he began. 'You heard the cossacks singing "Our leaders are with us, with us like brothers". Yes, they are with us!' The speaker thumped his chest with his hat, which was adorned with a huge red ribbon. 'They are with us. Because our leaders are men of the people, they were born among the people and will die with them. They stood beside us freezing in the snow when we were besieging the City and now they've captured it - and the red flag is already flying over our towns and villages here in the Ukraine . . .'

  'Hurrah!'

  'What red flag? What's he saying? He means yellow and blue.'

  'The Bolsheviks' flag is red.'

  'Quiet!'

  'Hurrah!'

  'He speaks bad Ukrainian, that fellow.'

  'Comrades! You are now faced by a new task-to raise and strengthen the independent Ukrainian republic for the good of the

  toiling masses, the workers and peasants, because only those who have watered our native soil with their fresh blood and sweat have the right to rule it!'

  'Hear, hear! Hurrah!'

  'Did you hear that? He called us "comrades". That's funny . . .'

  'Qui-et.'

  'Therefore, citizens, let us swear an oath now in the joyous hour of the people's victory.' The speaker's eyes began to flash, he stretched his arms towards the sky in mounting excitement and the Ukrainian words in his speech grew fewer and fewer - 'and let us take an oath that we will not lay down our arms until the red flag - the symbol of liberty - is waving over a world in which the workers have been victorious.'

  'Hurrah! Hurrah! . . . The "Internationale" . . .'

  'Shut up, Vasya. Have you gone crazy?'

  'Quiet, you!'

  'No, I can't help it, Mikhail Semymovich, I'm going to sing it: "Arise, ye starvelings from your slumbers . . ." '

  The black sideburns disappeared into their owner's thick beaver collar and all that could be seen were his eyes glancing nervously towards his excited companion in the crowd, eyes which were strangely similar to those of the late Lieutenant Shpolyansky who had died on the night of December 14th. His hand in a yellow glove reached out and pulled Shchur's arm down . . .

  'All right, all right, I won't', muttered Shchur, staring intently at the fair
-haired man. The speaker, who was now well into his stride and had gripped the attention of the mass of people nearest to him, was shouting:

  'Long live the Soviets of workers', peasants' and cossacks' deputies. Long live . . .'

  Suddenly the sun went in and a shadow fell on the domes of St Sophia; Bogdan's face and the speaker's face were more sharply outlined. His blond lock of hair could be seen bouncing on his forehead.

  'Aaah . . . aaah . . .' murmured the crowd.

  '. . . the Soviets of workers', peasants' and Red Army soldiers' deputies. Workers of the world, unite!'

  'What's that? What? Hurrah!'

  A few men's voices and one high, resonant voice at the back of the crowd began singing 'The Red Flag'.

  Suddenly, in another part of the crowd a whirlpool of noise and movement burst into life.

  'Kill him! Kill him!' shouted an angry, quavering, tearful man's voice in Ukrainian 'Kill him! It's a put-up job! He's a Bolshevik! From Moscow! Kill him! You heard what he said . . .'

  A pair of arms shot up into the air. The orator leaned sideways, then his legs, torso and finally his head, still wearing its hat, disappeared.

  'Kill him!' shouted a thin tenor voice in response to the other. 'He's a traitor! Get him, lads!'

  'Stop! Who's that? Who's that you've got there? Not him - he's the wrong one!'

  The owner of the thin tenor voice lunged toward the fountain, waving his arms as though trying to catch a large, slippery fish. But Shchur, wearing a tanned sheepskin jerkin and fur hat, was swaying around in front of him shouting 'Kill him!' Then he suddenly screamed:

  'Hey, stop him! He's taken my watch!'

  At the same moment a woman was kicked, letting out a terrible shriek.

  'Whose watch? Where? Stop thief!'

  Someone standing behind the man with the thin voice grabbed him by the belt and held him whilst a large cold palm, weighing a good pound and a half, fetched him a ringing smack across his nose and mouth.

  'Ow!' screamed the thin voice, turning as pale as death and

  realising that his fur hat had been knocked off. In that second he

  felt the violent sting of a second blow on the face and someone

  shouting:

  'That's him, the dirty little thief, the son of a bitch! Beat him ____

  'Hey!' whined the thin voice. 'What are you hitting me for? I'm not the one! You should stop him - that Bolshevik! - Ow!' he howled.

  'Oh my God, Marusya, let's get out of here, what's going on?' There was a furious, whirling scuffle in the crowd by the fountain, fists flew, someone screamed, people scattered. And the orator had vanished. He had vanished as mysteriously and magically as though the ground had swallowed him up. A man was dragged from the centre of the melee but it turned out to be the wrong one: the traitorous Bolshevik orator had been wearing a black fur hat, and this man's hat was gray. Within three minutes the scuffle had died down of its own accord as though it had never begun, because a new speaker had been lifted up on to the fountain and people were drifting back from all directions to hear him until, layer by layer around the central core, the crowd had built up again to almost two thousand people.

  *

  By the fence in the white, snow-covered side-street, now deserted as the gaping crowd streamed after the departing troops, Shchur could no longer hold in his laughter and collapsed helplessly and noisily on to the sidewalk where he stood,

  'Oh, I can't help it!' he roared, clutching his sides. Laughter cascaded out of him, his white teeth glittering. 'I'll die laughing! God, when I think how they turned on him - the wrong man! -and beat him up!'

  'Don't sit around here for too long, Shchur, we can't take too many risks', said his companion, the unknown man in the beaver collar who looked the very image of the late, distinguished Lieutenant Shpolyansky, chairman of The Magnetic Triolet.

  'Coming, coming', groaned Shchur as he rose to his feet.

  'Give me a cigarette, Mikhail Semymovich', said Shchur's other companion, a tall man in a black overcoat. He pushed his gray fur hat on to the back of his head and a lock of fair hair fell down over his forehead. He was breathing hard and looked hot, despite the frosty weather.

  'What? Had enough?' the other man asked kindly as he thrust back the skirt of his overcoat, pulled out a small gold cigarette-case and offered a short, stubby German cigarette. Cupping his hands around the flame, the fair-haired man lit one, and only when he had exhaled the smoke did he say:

  'Whew!'

  Then all three set off rapidly, swung round the corner and vanished.

  Two figures in student uniforms turned into the side-street from the square. One short, stocky and neat in gleaming rubber overshoes. The other tall, broad-shouldered, with legs as long as a pair of dividers and a stride of nearly seven feet. Both of them wore their collars turned right up to their peaked caps, and the tall man's clean-shaven mouth and chin were swathed in a woollen muffler - a wise precaution in the frosty weather. As if at a word of command both figures turned their heads together and looked at the corpse of Captain Pleshko and the other man lying face downward across him, his knees crumpled awkwardly to one side. Without a sound they passed on.

  Then, when the two students had turned from Rylsky Street into Zhitomirskaya Street, the tall one turned to the shorter one and said in a husky tenor:

  'Did you see that? Did you see that, I say?'

  The shorter man did not reply but shrugged and groaned as though one of his teeth had suddenly started aching.

  'I'll never forget it as long as I live,' went on the tall man, striding along, 'I shall remember that.'

  The shorter man followed him in silence.

  'Well, at least they've taught us a lesson. Now if I ever meet that swine . . . the Hetman . . . again . . .' - A hissing sound came from behind the muffler - 'I'll . . .' The tall man let out a long, complicated and obscene expletive. As they turned into Bolshaya Zhitomirskaya Street their way was barred by a kind of procession making its way towards the main police station in the Old City precinct. To pass into the square the procession only had to go straight ahead, but Vladimirskaya Street, where it crossed

  Bolshaya Zhitomirskaya, was still blocked by cavalry marching away after the parade, so the procession, like everyone else, was obliged to stop.

  It was headed by a horde of little boys, running, leapfrogging and letting out piercing whistles. Next along the trampled snow of the roadway came a man with despairing terror-stricken eyes, no hat, and a torn, unbuttoned fur coat. His face was streaked with blood and tears were streaming from his eyes. From his wide, gaping mouth came a thin, hoarse voice, shouting in an absurd mixture of Russian and Ukrainian:

  'You have no right to do this to me! I'm a famous Ukrainian poet! My name's Gorbolaz. I've published an anthology of Ukrainian poetry. I shall complain to the chairman of the Rada and to the minister. This is an outrage!'

  'Beat him up - the pickpocket!' came shouts from the sidewalk.

  Turning desperately to all sides, the bloodstained man shouted: 'But I was trying to arrest a Bolshevik agitator . . .'

  'What? What's that?'

  'Who's he?'

  'Tried to shoot Petlyura.'

  'What?'

  'Took a shot at Petlyura, the son of a bitch.'

  'But he's a Ukrainian.'

  'He's no Ukrainian, the swine', rumbled a bass voice. 'He's a pickpocket.'

  'Phee-eew!' whistled the little boys contemptuously.

  'What are you doing? What right have you to do this to me?'

  'We've caught a Bolshevik agitator. He ought to be shot on the spot.'

  Behind the bloodstained man came an excited crowd, amongst them an army fur hat with a gold-braided tassel and the tips of two bayonets. A man with a tightly-belted coat was striding alongside the bloodstained man and occasionally, whenever the victim screamed particularly loudly, mechanically punched him on the
neck. Then the wretched prisoner, at the end of his tether, stopped shouting and instead began to sob violently but soundlessly.

  The two students stepped back to let the procession go by. When it had passed, the tall one seized the short one by the armand whispered with malicious pleasure:

  'Serve him right. A sight for sore eyes. Well, I can tell you one thing, Karas - you have to hand it to those Bolsheviks. They really know their stuff. What a brilliant piece of work! Did you notice how cleverly they fixed things so that their speaker got clean away? They're tough and by God, they're clever. That's why I admire them - for their brazen impudence, God damn them.'

  The shorter man said in a low voice:

  'If I don't get a drink in a moment I shall pass out.'

  'That's a thought. Brilliant idea', the tall man agreed cheerfully. 'How much do you have on you?'

  'Two hundred.'

  'I have a hundred and fifty. Let's go to Tamara's bar and get a couple of bottles . . .'

  'It's shut.'

  'They'll open up for us.'

  The two men turned on to Vladimirskaya Street and walked on until they came to a two-storey house with a sign that read:

  'Grocery'

  Alongside it was another: 'Tamara's Castle - Wine Cellars.' Sidling down the steps to the basement the two men began to tap cautiously on the glass of the double door.

  Seventeen

  Throughout the last few days, since events had rained down on his family like stones, Nikolka had been preoccupied with a solemn obligation, an act bound up with the last words of his commanding officer, who had died stretched out on the snow. Nikolka succeeded in discharging that obligation, but to do so he had had to spend the whole of the day before the parade running around the city and calling on no less than nine addresses. Several