the bottom was this inscription:
There was a Jap general Nogi, Ha-ha!
And Ivan, he just knocked him groggy, la-la!
"Don't poke your nose, don't poke your nose!" Motya sang in glee,
nestling trustfully against Petya. "Isn't that right? He shouldn't go poking
his nose in either, should he?"
Petya, frowning, turned a deep red and did not reply. He was trying
hard to keep his eyes from the girl's thin little bare arm with its two
shiny vaccination marks, which were the same delicate flesh colour as paper
stickers.
But it was too late. He was already hopelessly in love.
And when it turned out that besides pictures of the Russo-Japanese War
Motya had first-class flints, nuts with which to play "king and prince",
sweets wrappers, and even cigarette pictures, Petya's love reached its
apogee.
Ah, what a day of rare and wonderful happiness that was! Never in his
life would Petya forget it.
He became curious as to how the earrings held on, and the girl showed
him the holes, which had been pierced only a short time before. He even
ventured to touch the lobe of her ear; it was soft, and still slightly
swollen, like a piece of tangerine.
After that they played pictures. Petya cleaned her out, but she looked
so downcast that he took pity on her and not only returned all the
pasteboards he had won but made her a present of all his. Let her know how
generous he was!
Then they gathered dry weeds and kindling and lighted the doll's stove.
There was a great deal of smoke but no fire. They gave this up and began to
play hide-and-seek.
In hiding from each other they crawled into such distant and
out-of-the-way spots that it was a bit scarey to remain there alone.
Yet what burning joy it was to listen to the approach of cautious
footsteps as you sat in the hiding place, mouth and nose covered with both
hands to keep from giggling!
How furiously your heart pounded, how wildly your ears rang!
All at once half of a face pale with excitement, its lips tightly
pressed together, slowly appears from behind a corner. The peeling nose, the
round eye, the pointed chin, the little white bonnet with the ruffles.
Their eyes suddenly meet. Both are so startled that they feel they are
about to faint. And then the wild, blood-curdling cry of triumph and
victory:
"Petya, seen you!"
And both dash off for all they are worth to reach the rapping stick
first.
"Seen you!"
"Seen you!"
Once the girl hid so far away that the boy spent all of half an hour
looking for her, until finally he thought of climbing over the back fence
and trying the pasture.
There, in a pit overgrown with weeds, sat Motya, her thin chin resting
on her scratched knees, and her eyes fixed on the sky, across which a
late-afternoon cloud was floating.
Around her crickets were chirping and cows were grazing. It was all
very frightening, and she was scared to death.
Petya looked down into the pit. For a long time they gazed into each
other's eyes, experiencing a strange, burning embarrassment which was not at
all like any of the feelings connected with the game.
"Seen you, Motya!" the boy wanted to shout, but he could not get out a
single sound. No, decidedly, this was no longer part of the game but
something altogether different.
Motya climbed carefully out of the pit and they strolled back to the
yard. They were embarrassed; they nudged each other with their shoulders,
yet at the same time they discreetly refrained from holding hands.
Over the immortelles of the pasture glided the cool shadow of the
cloud.
The minute they climbed the fence, however, Petya came to his senses.
"Seen you!" the sly boy cried wildly, and he raced for the stick so as
to rap the napping girl with it.
In a word, it was all so unusual and so engrossing that Petya at first
paid no attention to Gavrik when he came up to them at the height of the
game.
"Say, Petya, what was that sailor's name?" Gavrik asked with a
preoccupied frown.
"Which sailor?"
"The one who jumped off the Turgenev."
"I don't know."
"But don't you remember you told me how that skunk with the moustaches,
the detective, called him by his name?"
"Why, yes, that's right! Zhukov. Rodion Zhukov. And now don't bother
us, we're playing."
Gavrik left, wearing the same preoccupied frown. As to Petya, he was so
completely absorbed in his new love affair that this conversation
immediately flew out of his mind.
Soon after, Motya's mother called them to supper.
"Motya, invite your gentleman friend to come in and have some gruel
with us," she said. "He must be hungry."
Motya blushed furiously, then turned pale and drew herself as erect as
a stick, the way she had before. "Would you like to have some gruel with
us?" she said in a choky voice.
Only then did Petya realise that he was hungry. Why, he hadn't had any
dinner that day!
Never in all his life had he eaten such thick, delicious gruel with
hardish, smoke-flavoured potatoes and little cubes of pork.
After that marvellous supper in the open air, under the mulberry tree,
the boys set out for home.
Terenti accompanied them back to town. He ran into the house for a
moment and came out wearing a short jacket and a lustrine cap with a button
on the top of it. He carried a thin iron rod from an umbrella, the kind
Odessa artisans usually took with them when they went out walking on a
holiday.
"Don't go, Terenti dear, it's late," his wife pleaded as she saw him
off to the gate.
The anxiety in her eyes made Petya feel somehow uneasy.
"Stay at home instead. You can never tell what-"
"I have things to do."
"You know best," she said submissively.
"Everything'll be all right," Terenti said with a gay wink.
"Don't go past the goods station."
"Never fear."
"Good luck, then."
"Same to you."
Terenti and the boys set out for town.
But the route they took was altogether different from the one by which
the boys had come. Terenti led them through vacant lots, backyard vegetable
patches and side streets. This route turned out to be much shorter, and they
met fewer people on the way.
Quite unexpectedly they came out on familiar Sennaya Square. Here
Terenti said to Gavrik, "I'll drop in later this evening," and with a nod of
his head he disappeared in the crowd.
The sun had already set. In some of the shops the lamps were being lit.
"What will they say at home!" Petya thought in horror.
His happiness was over. Now he would have to pay for it. He tried to
keep his thoughts from dwelling on this, but he found it impossible.
Lord, what his new shoes looked like! And his stockings! Where had
those big round holes in the knees come from? They hadn't been there in the
morning. His hands were a sight-as filthy as a cobbler's. And the spots of
tar on his cheeks. Good God!
No doubt about it; there'd be a terrific row when he got home!
If they'd only give him a whipping it wouldn't be so bad. But the whole
trouble was they would never do that. They would groan and moan and wring
his heart with reproaches-and the worst of it was that the reproaches would
all be just.
Father might even grab him by the shoulders and shake him as hard as he
could, shouting, "Where have you been, you good-for-nothing! Do you want to
drive me to my grave?" And that, as everybody knew, was ten times worse than
the worst possible whipping.
These and similar bitter thoughts put the boy into a thoroughly
depressed mood, aggravated by infinite regret at the burst of passion which
had moved him so foolishly to give away those pictures to the first girl he
met.
"I WAS STOLEN"
No power on earth, it seemed, could save Petya from an unprecedented
row. It was not for nothing, however, that the hair on Petya's crown grew in
two whorls instead of one, as it does on most boys, and this, as anyone will
tell you, is the surest sign of luck. Providence sent Petya an unexpected
deliverance.
He could have expected anything under the sun, but never this.
Not far from Sennaya Square, in Staro-Portofrankovskaya Street, he saw
Pavlik running along the pavement. He was all by himself.
He stumbled as he ran, and tears streamed down his grimy cheeks as
though they were being squeezed out of a rag. His pink little tongue
quivered ruefully in the open square of his mouth. From his nose hung two
pearly drops.
He was emitting a steady wail, but since he was running at the same
time what he produced was not a smooth "Ahhhh" but a jerky and hiccupy "Ah!
Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah!"
"Pavlik?!!"
At sight of his brother, Pavlik ran up to him as fast as he could and
clutched his sailor blouse with both hands.
"Petya! Petya!" he cried, trembling and panting. "Oh, Petya dear!"
"What are you doing here, you bad boy?" Petya asked sternly.
Instead of replying, Pavlik began to hiccup. He could not utter a word.
"Answer me: what are you doing here? Well? Where have you been, you
good-for-nothing? I see you want to drive me to my grave, eh? Say something
or else I'll have to slap some sense into you."
Petya seized Pavlik by the shoulders and shook him until he cried out
through his hiccups, "I-hie!-I was- st-stolen!"
Then again he gave way to tears.
What had happened?
Petya was not the only one, it appeared, who had got the happy idea of
taking a stroll on his own the day after returning to town. Pavlik had
dreamt of the same thing a long time.
He had not intended, of course, to wander off as far as Petya did. His
plans included a visit to the rubbish-heap, and, at the outside, a walk
round the corner to watch how the soldiers at the entrance to Army Staff
building presented arms.
Unfortunately, who should come into the yard just then but
Vanka-Rutyutyu, or Punch.
Together with the other children, Pavlik watched the show from
beginning to end. But he found it too short. A rumour spread, though, that
in the next yard a longer performance would be given.
The children followed Vanka-Rutyutyu into the next yard, but there the
show was still shorter. It came to an end at the part where Vanka-Rutyutyu-a
long-nosed puppet with the stiff neck of a paralytic, wearing a cap that
looked like a pod of red pepper-killed the policeman with a blow of his
stick. But absolutely everybody knew that after that there must come a
horrible monster- something halfway between a furry yellow duck and a
crocodile-and this monster would seize Vanka-Rutyutyu's head in its jaws and
drag him off to the nether regions.
This part, however, was not shown. Perhaps it was because not enough
coppers had been thrown from the windows. In the next yard, though, business
was certain to be better.
Their eyes fixed on the wicker basket where the puppets lay
mysteriously hidden, the bewitched children moved from one courtyard to the
next in the wake of the loudly-dressed woman with a street organ slung over
her shoulder and the hatless man carrying a screen under his arm.
Pavlik, devoured by curiosity, trudged along beside the other children
on his sturdy little legs, his tongue sticking out and his light
chocolate-coloured eyes, with their large black pupils, open wide. He forgot
everything -Daddy and Auntie Tatyana, and even Kudlatka whom he had not had
time to put in the stable or give a good portion of oats and hay.
The boy lost all sense of time. When he came out of his trance he
discovered with a start that night was falling and that he was following the
street organ along totally unfamiliar streets. All the other children had
long since disappeared. He was quite alone.
The loudly-dressed woman and the man with the screen walked along
quickly, evidently in a hurry to get home. Pavlik could scarcely keep up
with them. The streets became more and more strange and suspicious. It
seemed to Pavlik that the man and woman were whispering something in a
sinister manner.
They turned a corner and then suddenly wheeled round, and Pavlik
noticed in alarm that there was a cigarette in the woman's mouth. Terror
swept over him. He began to tremble as he suddenly remembered. Absolutely
everybody knew that organ-grinders enticed little children away from home,
broke their arms and legs, and then sold them to the circus as acrobats.
How, oh how could he have forgotten that! It was as well known as the
fact that sweets manufactured by "Krakhmalnikov Bros." could poison you, or
that the ice-cream sold in the streets was made of milk in which sick people
had bathed.
Here there could be no doubt. Only Gipsy women and other women who
stole children smoked. In another minute they would seize him, stuff a rag
into his mouth, and carry him off to Romanovka, where they would twist his
arms and legs out of their sockets and turn him into an acrobat.
With a loud wail Pavlik turned and fled. He ran as fast as he could,
until suddenly he bumped into Petya.
After giving his little brother a good spanking Petya triumphantly
dragged him home by the arm. At home, panic reigned. Dunya was running
frantically through the neighbouring courtyards, her cheap taffeta skirts
swishing. Auntie Tatyana was rubbing her temples with a migraine stick.
Father was getting into his summer coat to go down to the police station to
report his children missing.
Upon seeing Pavlik safe and sound, Auntie rushed up to him, undecided
whether to laugh or to cry.
She did both at the same time. Then she spanked the little vagrant
soundly. Then she planted kisses all over his smudgy little face. Then she
spanked him again.
Only after that did she turn a threatening face to Petya.
"And what about you, my friend?"
"Where were you gadding about, you bandit?" Father shouted, seizing the
boy by the shoulder.
"I was looking for Pavlik," Petya replied modestly. "I ran all over the
city before I found him. You ought to thank me. If not for me he would have
been stolen long ago."
Then and there he launched into a magnificent tale of how he had chased
the organ-grinder, how the organ-grinder had tried to escape him down back
alleys, and how he had finally seized the organ-grinder by the collar and
shouted for the police. Then the organ-grinder became frightened, let go of
Pavlik, and ran away.
"Otherwise I'd have had him put in jail, by the true and holy Cross!"
Although Petya's story, contrary to his expectations, aroused not the
slightest admiration, and Father even wrinkled his nose in disgust and said,
"Aren't you ashamed to talk such nonsense?" there was nothing anyone could
do about it, for it was Petya, and Petya alone, who had found the missing
Pavlik. Thanks to that Petya got off scot-free.
That's what came of being a lucky boy with two whorls on his crown!
Meanwhile Gavrik had returned to the hut to find Grandpa and the sailor
greatly excited. A little while before, some officials had come to the hut,
supposedly from the city council, to check up on Grandpa's fishing permit.
The papers had been in order.
"Who's that on the bed?" the gentleman with the brief case had suddenly
asked, noticing the sailor.
Grandpa did not know what to say.
"Is he ill? If so, then why don't you take him to the hospital?"
"No," said Grandpa, putting on an air of cheerful indifference. "He's
not ill; he's drunk."
"Drunk, is he? Your son?"
"No."
"A stranger?"
"I tell you he's a drunk, Your Honour."
"Yes, I understand. But where did he come from?"
"Where?" Grandpa repeated, pretending he was a half-witted old man.
"He's a drunk, I tell you. You know, a drunk. He was lying in the weeds,
that's all."
The gentleman looked closely at the sailor.
"Was he lying in the weeds like that, in nothing but his underdrawers?"
"That's how I found him."
"Hey, you! Let me smell your breath!" the gentleman shouted, putting
his face down close to the sailor's.
Zhukov made believe he did not hear. He turned his face to the wall and
covered his head with a pillow.
"Strange! A drunk who doesn't smell of alcohol," the gentleman
remarked. Then he added, regarding Grandpa severely, "You'd better look out,
there!"
With that the officials departed.
Gavrik did not like the looks of this at all.
Passing by the restaurant he had seen the district police inspector,
the nasty one whom the local fishermen called "our boat snooper", seated at
a table.
The inspector had been drinking beer, and his heavy mug stood on a
thick round piece of cardboard with the inscription "Sanzenbacher's Beer".
He had seemed less interested in the beer, however, than in the time shown
by his silver watch.
The sailor felt much better. Evidently the crisis had passed. He was no
longer feverish.
He sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his stubbly cheeks.
"I'll have to get out of here at once," he said.
"Where'll you go without trousers?" Grandpa asked sadly. "Stay here
until dark. No other way out. Hungry, Gavrik?"
"I had supper at Terenti's."
Grandpa raised his eyebrows. Think of it! His grandson had already been
at Terenti's. Quick work!
"How are things there?"
"He's planning to drop in today."
The old man chewed his lips and raised his eyebrows still higher,
marvelling at how quick-witted his grandson was. Why, he grasped things
better than many a grown man. And on top of everything, he was shrewd. Oh,
how shrewd he was!
Although only nine and a half, Gavrik really did have a better
understanding of some things than many adults. This was not surprising, for
from his earliest years he had lived among fishermen, and the fishermen of
Odessa did not differ essentially from the sailors, stokers, shipyard
workers and dockers, that is to say, from the poorest and most
freedom-loving section of the city's population.
They all had more than their share of life's trials and tribulations,
the children no less than the adults-and perhaps even more.
This was the year 1905, the year of the first Russian revolution.
The poor, the disinherited, the oppressed were rising to fight tsarism.
And not the last among them were the fishermen.
It was a fierce struggle that had started, a struggle to the death. And
a struggle that taught them to be shrewd, cautious, vigilant, daring.
All these qualities had gradually, imperceptibly, grown and developed
in our little fisherman.
Gavrik's brother Terenti had also been a fisherman. After his marriage,
however, he had gone to work in the railway shops. From many signs Gavrik
could not help guessing that his elder brother had something to do with what
in those times was vaguely and significantly called "the Movement".
When he visited Terenti at Near Mills, Gavrik often heard him use words
like "committee", "faction", "password". Although he did not know what they
meant, he sensed that they were connected with words like "strike", "police
agent" and "leaflet", words everyone understood.
Gavrik knew especially well what leaflets were, those sheets of rough
paper with small grey letters printed on them. Once Terenti had asked him to
distribute some along the shore, and he had put them, at night, in the
fishing boats, trying to do it so that no one saw him.
Terenti had said, "If anyone sees you, throw them into the water and
run. If they catch you, say you found them in the bushes."
But everything had gone off all right.
And so, that was why Gavrik had decided to go straight to his brother
about the sailor. He knew that Terenti would arrange everything. He also
understood, however, that his brother would have to consult someone else,
and to go somewhere, perhaps even to that "Committee".
That meant they must wait. But waiting was becoming dangerous.
Several times the sailor opened the door a crack and cautiously peeped
out. It was fairly dark by now, but not dark enough to risk going out the
way he was without attracting attention, especially since there were still
many people on the beach and they could hear singing from rowing-boats on
the water.
The sailor returned to the bed. "The rats! The damned bloodhounds!" he
said in a loud voice, no longer wary of the old man and Gavrik. "Just let me
get my hands on them! I'll-I don't know what I'd do to them! I'd risk my
head but I'd pay them back-" And he quietly struck the bed with his massive
fist.
THE PURSUIT
Night had already fallen when the door of the hut was suddenly pushed
open, and for an instant the body of a big man shut out the stars. The
sailor sprang to his feet.
"That's all right," Gavrik said. "It's our Terenti."
The sailor sat down again, peering into the darkness at the newcomer.
"Evening," came Terenti's voice. "It's so dark I can't see a soul. Why
don't you light the lamp? What's up, out of paraffin?"
"There's a few drops left." Grandpa rose with a grunt and lighted the
lamp.
"Hello, Grandpa, how are things going with you? I was in town today and
I thought, what about looking my own folk up? Why, I see you've got a
visitor as it is. Hello, there."
Terenti gave the stranger a quick, close glance in the flickering light
of the wick lamp.
"He's the one we fished out of the sea," Grandpa explained wryly, with
a good-natured grin.
"So I hear."
The sailor said nothing. He eyed Terenti with glum suspicion.
"Rodion Zhukov, I take it?" Terenti said, a gay note in his voice.
The sailor gave a start but instantly controlled himself. He braced
himself more firmly against the bed with his fists and narrowed his eyes.
"What about it?" he said with a defiant smile. "Why do I have to tell
you? I answer only to the Committee."
The grin faded from Terenti's pock-marked face. Never had Gavrik seen
his brother so grave.
"You may take me for the Committee," Terenti replied after a moment's
reflection. He sat down on the bed beside the sailor.
"Prove it," the sailor said stiffly, edging away.
"First prove who you are."
The sailor indicated his underdrawers with an angry glance. "Can't you
see for yourself?"
"That's not enough."
Terenti walked over to the door, opened it a crack and said in a low
voice, "Will you come in for a minute, Ilya Borisovich?"
There was a rustling in the bushes, and then a short frail young man
wearing pince-nez on a black ribbon looped behind one ear entered the hut. A
black sateen Russian blouse belted with a leather strap showed beneath his
old, unbuttoned jacket. Atop his shock of hair perched a flat engineering
student's cap.
The sailor felt that he had seen this "student" somewhere before.
The young fellow turned sidewise, adjusted his pince-nez and squinted
at the sailor with one eye.
"Well?" Terenti asked.
"I saw this comrade on the morning of June the 15th at the Platonov
jetty guarding the body of the sailor Vakulinchuk who was brutally murdered
by officers," the young fellow said quickly, without stopping for breath.
"You were there, Comrade, weren't you?"
"Right you are."
"There. I knew I wasn't mistaken."
Without saying a word Terenti produced a bundle from under his jacket
and laid it on the sailor's knees.
"Trousers, a belt and a jacket, couldn't get boots, sorry, so you'll
have to go without until you can buy some, and now get dressed and don't
lose any time about it, we'll turn our backs," the young fellow said all in
one breath, adding, "I've an idea this place is being watched."
Terenti gave a wink. "Get going, Gavrik."
Gavrik understood at once and quietly slipped out of the hut into the
darkness. He stopped and listened. He thought he heard a rustle among the
dry potato bushes in the vegetable patch.
He crouched and tiptoed forward. Suddenly, when his eyes became
accustomed to the darkness, he clearly saw two motionless figures in the
middle of the patch.
The boy caught his breath. His ears began to ring so loudly that he no
longer heard the sea. Biting his lips savagely, he made his way without a
single sound to the rear of the hut to see if there was anyone on the path.
On the path stood two other men, one of them in a white jacket.
Gavrik crawled towards the hill and there he saw several men. He could
tell at once they were policemen by their white jackets. The hut was
surrounded.
He was just about to run back when a big, hot hand firmly seized him
from behind by the scruff of the neck. He broke away, but the next instant
he was tripped up and sent sprawling into the bushes.
A pair of strong hands gripped him. He twisted round, and, to his
horror, found himself face to face with Moustaches; he was staring into an
open foul-breathed mouth and at a chin as rough as a pine board.
"Plee-eease," Gavrik whined in a thin little voice.
"Shut up, you dog!" hissed Moustaches.
"Let me go, plee-eease, let me go!"
"I'll teach you to shout, you little rat," Moustaches muttered through
his teeth, seizing Gavrik's ear in fingers of steel.
Gavrik shrank back and, turning his face to the hut, screamed in a wild
voice, "Hook it!"
"Shut up or I'll kill you!"
Moustaches yanked Gavrik's ear so savagely that it cracked. Gavrik felt
as though his head had split. It was stabbed by horrible, unimaginable pain.
At the same time he was swept by a wave of hatred and anger that turned
everything black before his eyes.
"Hook it!" he shouted again at the top of his voice, writhing with
pain.
Moustaches threw himself on Gavrik. Continuing to twist his ear
savagely, he used his other hand to stop the boy's mouth. But Gavrik rolled
on the ground, biting the sweaty, hateful, hairy hand. Weeping, he shouted
frenziedly, "Hoo-ook it!"
Moustaches violently flung Gavrik aside and raced towards the hut. A
long police whistle sounded.
Gavrik got to his feet and saw at once that his shouts had been heard,
for three figures-two tall and one short -dashed out of the hut and across
the vegetable patch, stumbling as they ran.
Two white jackets barred their way. The fugitives wheeled about, only
to find that they were surrounded.
"Halt!" an unfamiliar voice cried out of the darkness.
"Shoot, Ilya!" Gavrik heard Terenti yell in desperation.
The next instant there were three flashes and three revolver shots one
after the other, sounding like the cracking of a whip. The shouts and grunts
told Gavrik that a scrimmage was going on in the darkness.
Would they be caught? So overcome with horror that he did not know what
he was doing, Gavrik dashed forward, as if he could help them in some way.
He had not run more than ten paces when he saw the same three
figures-two tall and one short-tear themselves away from the tussle, run
towards the bluff and disappear in the darkness. "Stop them! Stop them!"
There was a flash of red light, followed by the loud report of a
policeman's Smith & Wesson. Police whistles shrilled at the top of the
bluff. It looked as if a cordon had been posted all along the shore.
Gavrik listened with a sinking heart to the hue and cry of the pursuit.
It was beyond him why Terenti had chosen to run in that direction. Only a
madman would have climbed the bluff. Straight into a trap, where they would
all be caught. It would have been better to try to escape along the beach.
He ran on a bit farther. He thought he could make out three figures
crawling up the sheer wall of the bluff. They were done for!
"Oh, Terenti, why did you go that way!" the boy whispered in despair.
He bit his hand to keep from crying, but scalding tears tickled his nose and
stung his throat. Then all of a sudden Gavrik understood why they had chosen
the bluff. He'd quite forgotten. And yet it was so simple! The point was
that-
At this very moment Moustaches flung himself at Gavrik, caught him
under the arms and dragged him backwards, tearing the boy's shirt. He pushed
him into the hut, near which two policemen were now standing. Gavrik struck
his cheek painfully against the door and fell on top of Grandpa, who was
sitting on the floor in the corner, his legs crossed under him.
"If they get away, I'll have your heads!" Moustaches yelled at the
policemen, and ran out.
Gavrik sat down beside Grandpa, crossing his legs under him in the same
way. They sat in silence, listening to the whistles and cries gradually
dying away in the distance.
At last all was silence.
Only then did Gavrik become aware of his ear. He had forgotten all
about it, but it ached terribly. It felt as if it were on fire. Even
touching it was painful.
"That devil! Almost tore my ear right off!" he muttered, trying his
hardest to hold back the tears and to appear indifferent.
Grandpa glanced at him without turning his head. The old man's eyes
were motionless and horrifyingly blank. He softly chewed his lips. For a
long time he was silent. At last he shook his head and said reproachfully,
"Who ever saw the likes of it? Tearing off a child's ear! Is that the way to
act?"
He drew a heavy sigh and took to chewing his lips again. All at once he
bent anxiously over Gavrik, looked fearfully at the door to see whether
anyone was listening, and whispered, "Did you hear anything? Did they get
away?"
"They went up the bluff," Gavrik said rapidly in an undertone. "Terenti
took them to the catacombs. If they're not shot down on the path they're
sure to get away."
Grandpa turned his face to the icon of the miracle worker, closed his
eyes, and slowly crossed himself with a sweeping gesture, pressing his
folded fingers hard against his forehead, his stomach and both shoulders.
A tear, so tiny that it was almost invisible, crept down his cheek and
disappeared in a wrinkle.
GRANDPA
Many cities of the world have catacombs-Rome, Naples, Constantinople,
Alexandria, Paris, Odessa.
Some fifty years earlier, Odessa's catacombs had been limestone
quarries. To this day they run in a labyrinth beneath the entire city, with
several exits beyond its limits. Everyone in Odessa knew, of course, that
the catacombs were there, but few had ever gone down into them, and fewer
still had any idea of their layout. The catacombs were, in a way, Odessa's
mystery, its legend.
Terenti, however, had once been a fisherman. He knew the Odessa
shoreline perfectly, and had made an exact study of all the catacomb exits
there.
One of these exits was located a hundred paces behind the hut, halfway
up the bluff. It was a narrow opening concealed by growths of sweet-brier
and spindle tree. A brook trickled out of the opening and ran down the
bluff, causing the creepers and weeds to tremble.
After repulsing the first attack of the policemen and the detectives,
Terenti led his comrades straight to the opening in the bluff.
Their pursuers knew nothing of its existence. They thought the
fugitives were trying to make their way to town through the villa district.
This played into their hands, for they had the district surrounded and the
fugitives would be trapped for certain.
And so, after the first shots the policemen were ordered to hold their
fire.
When he had waited below for about a quarter of an hour, the chief of
the Alexandrovsky police station, who was directing the raid personally,
sent the district police inspector to find out if the criminals had been
caught.
The inspector took the easy but roundabout path to the top of the
bluff, and another quarter of an hour passed before he returned to report
that the fugitives had not been seen up there. It thus turned out that they
were neither at the top nor at the bottom. Then where were they? It was
utterly impossible to think they were sitting in the bushes somewhere
halfway up the bluff, waiting to be caught.
Nevertheless, the chief ordered his men to climb up and search every
bush. Then, no longer trusting "those fools", he himself followed them,
letting out strings of oaths as his patent-leather boots slipped on the
grass and clay.
They combed the bluff from bottom to top but nothing did they find. It
seemed a miracle. The fugitives couldn't have been swallowed up by the
earth!
"Your Honour!" a frightened voice suddenly cried from above. "Could you
please come here?"
"What's the matter?"
"It's the catacombs, Your Honour."
The chief of police reached up and caught hold of the thorny bushes
with his white-gloved hands. An instant later he was seized by strong hands
and pulled up to a small ledge.
Moustaches struck one match after another, and by their light they
could make out a long black crevice overgrown with bushes.
The chief saw at once that he had lost. What a catch had escaped him!
He shook with rage; he stamped his elegant boots; his white-gloved fists
struck out right and left, hitting random noses, cheekbones and moustaches.
"What are you standing there for, you idiots!" he blustered in a voice
hoarse from shouting. "Forward, march! Search all the catacombs! Catch those
scoundrels or else I'll tear your heads off! I'll smash your damned mugs to
a pulp! Forward, march!"
But he knew that it was hopeless. To search all the catacombs would
take a fortnight at least. And it was useless even to start, for they had
already lost more than half an hour and the fugitives had undoubtedly
reached the other side of town long since.
Several policemen unwillingly crawled through the opening. Lighting
matches continually, they hovered not far from the entrance, examining the
damp limestone walls of the underground passage that disappeared into
sepulchral darkness.
The chief spat on the ground in disgust and ran down the side of the
bluff, his spurs jingling. He was choking with fury. He tore so violently at
the over-starched collar of his white pique uniform jacket that the hooks
flew off.
He strode through the crackling bushes to the hut, and savagely
wrenched open the door. The policemen sprang to attention in fright. The
chief stepped into the little room and halted, his feet wide apart and his
twitching fingers behind his back. He was followed through the door by
Moustaches.
"Your Honour," Moustaches whispered mysteriously, his round eyes
indicating Grandpa, "he's the owner of this undercover place and that's his
brat."
Without glancing at Moustaches the chief stretched out his arm, put the
flat of his white hand against the man's sweaty face, and pushed it away in
furious disgust.
"No one's asking you, you fool! I know that myself!"
Gavrik was horror-stricken. He felt something dreadful was about to
happen. Small, pale, his ear red and swollen, he stared unblinkingly at the
erect, broad-shouldered officer in the blue breeches and black
patent-leather shoulder belt.
After standing like that fully a minute, a minute that seemed an hour
to the boy, the chief sat down on the edge of the bed. Without taking his
eyes off Grandpa he stretched out a patent-leather boot, drew a silver
cigarette case and an orange-coloured matchbox from his tight breeches'
pocket, and lit a yellow cigarette.
"He smokes Asmolovs," Gavrik thought.
The chief blew the smoke through his nostrils, drawling out a
"Ss-o-o-oo!" together with the smoke. Then he suddenly shouted at the top of
his lungs, in a voice so loud that Gavrik's ears rang. "Stand up in the
presence of an officer, you scoundrel!"
Grandpa nervously sprang to attention. Standing on his bent, bare black
legs and adjusting the shirt over his frail chest, he stared at the chief
with dull, expressionless eyes.
Gavrik could see Grandpa's taut neck trembling; the dry skin, on which
there was an old scar, stretched like two reins.
"So you're hiding outlaws, eh?" the chief said in an icy voice.
"No, sir," Grandpa whispered.
"Speak up, now. Who was just here?"
"I don't know, sir."
"You don't know, eh?" The chief slowly rose to his feet, compressing
his lips. With a clipped, precise swing he gave the old man a blow in the
ear that flung him against the wall.
"Speak up! Who were they?"
"I don't know, sir," the old man repeated firmly, his jaw muscles
twitching.
Again the fist in the white glove flashed through the air. Two trickles
of blood began to flow from Grandpa's nostrils. He closed his eyes, hunched
his shoulders, and caught his breath with a sob.
"What's this beating for, Your Honour?"
Grandpa's voice was low but stern. He wiped his nose and showed the
chief his blood-stained hand.
"None of your lip!" cried the chief, turning pale.
The large velvety birth mark stood out black on his plaster-white face.
He glanced disgustedly at his spoilt glove.
"Speak up! Who were they?"
"I don't know."
Grandpa had time to cover his face with his hands and turn to the wall.
The blow struck him on the head. His trousers bagged out at the knees.
Slowly he sank to the floor.
"Don't hit him! He's an old man!" cried Gavrik with tears of despair,
flinging himself at the chief.
But the chief was already striding out of the hut. "Take this scoundrel
into custody!" he shouted.
The policemen seized the old man and twisted his arms behind his back.
They dragged him out of the hut as though he were a bundle of straw. Gavrik
dropped to the floor and, gnawing at his fists, burst into sobs of rage.
For some time he sat motionless, listening with one ear to the noises
and stirrings of the night. His other ear was deaf.
Every now and then he deliberately put his finger in his good ear, and
a profound silence enveloped him. It was a terrifying silence, in which some
nameless danger seemed to lurk.
He would then uncover his ear, as if hurrying to release the imprisoned
sounds. One ear, however, could not take in all the different sounds at the
same time.
First he would hear the deep infrequent sighs of the sea, and nothing
else. Then the tinkling music of the crickets would break in, shutting out
the sound of the sea. A warm breeze, passing over the weeds, would fill the
night with rustling, and leave no place either for the crickets or the sea.
Then there would be only the sputtering of the lamp, in which the paraffin
had burnt out.
All at once a realisation of his loneliness swept over the boy. He
sprang to his feet, blew out the lamp, and dashed off to look for Grandpa.
A luxuriant August night enveloped the world. The twinkling black sky
showered its stars upon the running boy. The chirp of the crickets streamed
as high as the Milky Way itself.
But what did all that indifferent beauty matter to the tortured,
outraged child since it had no power to make him happy!
Gavrik ran as fast as he could.
By the time he caught up with Grandpa and the two policemen they were
already in Staro-Portofrankovskaya Street, just outside the police station.
They were riding in a droshky, one of the policemen sitting and the other
standing. Grandpa had fallen off the seat. He lay on the floor at the
policeman's feet, his head bobbing helplessly against the step. The light
from the gas lamps flickered across his face, streaked with dust and blood.
Gavrik made a dash forward but the droshky came to a stop in front of
the police station. The policemen dragged the stumbling old man through the
gate.
"Grandpa!"
One of the policemen rapped Gavrik across the back of the neck with the
scabbard of his sword. The gate swung closed. The boy remained alone.
STUBBORN AUNTIE TATYANA
Petya's moment of supreme happiness and triumph had come.
By one o'clock in the afternoon he had already made the round of all
his acquaintances in the 'house to show his new Gymnasium cap and give an
excited account of the exam he had just passed.
To be quite truthful, there was almost nothing to tell. There had been
no actual examination but merely a simple entrance test lasting fifteen
minutes. It began at half past ten, and by five minutes past eleven the
bowing, smiling assistant in the shop next door to the Gymnasium was handing
the boy his old straw hat wrapped in paper.
From the moment he put it on before the shop mirror and right through
until evening, Petya did not remove his new cap.
"What a grand showing I made in that exam!" Petya declared excitedly as
he hurried down the street beside Auntie Tatyana.
He kept looking in all the windows to catch glimpses of himself in his
new cap.
"Calm yourself, my dear," Auntie Tatyana remarked, her chin quivering
with suppressed laughter. "It wasn't an exam but only a test."
"Why, Auntie Tatyana, how can you say that!" Petya cried at the top of
his voice. He turned red with anger and stamped his feet, ready to burst
into tears. "You weren't there, yet you talk! It was a real examination. You
were waiting in the reception room, so you have no right to say it wasn't. I
tell you it was an exam!"
"To be sure. I'm the fool, and you're the clever one. It was only a
test."
"It wasn't! It was an exam!"
"You will insist that the beard was clipped."
Auntie Tatyana was referring to the old Ukrainian joke about the
stubborn fellow who argued with his wife as to whether the volost clerk's
beard was clipped or shaven. Despite all evidence to the contrary he kept
insisting it was clipped. Finally his infuriated wife picked him up and
threw him into the river. He continued to shout "It was clipped!" and as his
head went under the water he raised one hand and made clipping motions with
his fingers.
But Petya did not take the hint. In a tearful voice he kept repeating,
"It was an exam! It was an exam!"
Auntie Tatyana was a kindhearted woman, and now she began to feel sorry
that she was depriving her nephew of the most precious part of his triumph.
If the word "exam" meant so much to the boy, then let him have his joy of
it. Why irritate him on this happy day?
And so, she made a bargain with her conscience. "On second thought, I
probably was mistaken," she said with a subtle smile, "I do believe it
really was an exam."
Petya beamed. "And what an exam!"
Yet deep down inside Petya was consumed by doubts. It had all been much
too quick and easy for an exam.
True, the children had been lined up in twos and led into a classroom.
Also, there had been a long table covered with a blue cloth. And behind that
table had sat stern examiners in blue uniforms with gold buttons, wearing
gold-rimmed spectacles, medals, starched shirt-fronts that looked as stiff
as egg-shells, and cuffs that crackled. Among them had stood out the silk
cassock and womanish curls of a priest.
Petya had felt his stomach sink; his feet had turned clammy; an icy
sweat had broken out on his temples. All the symptoms known since time
immemorial had been there.
But as to the exam itself- No, Petya now clearly saw that it was only a
test, after all.
The minute the boys had seated themselves at the desks one of the
examiners buried his nose in a big sheet of paper on the table and said,
rolling out each word beautifully and distinctly, "Well, let us begin. These
boys will please step forward: Alexandrov, Boris; Alexandrov, Nikolai;
Batchei, Pyotr."
When he heard his name pronounced in full, sounding so strange and
forbidding in that bare, echoing classroom, Petya felt as if someone had
punched him in the pit of the stomach. He had never dreamt the terrifying
moment would come so soon.
Taken completely by surprise, he turned a fiery red and almost fainted
as he walked across the slippery floor to the table.
Each of the three boys was turned over to an examiner.
Petya fell to the priest.
"Well, now," drawled the huge old man, rolling back the wide sleeves of
his cassock.
Then he pressed against his narrow chest the dagger of a crucifix
hanging from his neck on a silver chain. The chain was made of flat links
with grooves like those in coffee beans.
"Come closer, son. What is your name?"
"Petya."
"Not Petya but Pyotr, my dear boy. You left Petya at home. And your
last name?"
"Batchei."
"The son of Vasili Petrovich who teaches in the trade school?"
"Yes."
The priest leaned back in his chair in the dreamy attitude of a man
smoking.
He squinted at Petya with an ironical smile that the boy did not
There was a Jap general Nogi, Ha-ha!
And Ivan, he just knocked him groggy, la-la!
"Don't poke your nose, don't poke your nose!" Motya sang in glee,
nestling trustfully against Petya. "Isn't that right? He shouldn't go poking
his nose in either, should he?"
Petya, frowning, turned a deep red and did not reply. He was trying
hard to keep his eyes from the girl's thin little bare arm with its two
shiny vaccination marks, which were the same delicate flesh colour as paper
stickers.
But it was too late. He was already hopelessly in love.
And when it turned out that besides pictures of the Russo-Japanese War
Motya had first-class flints, nuts with which to play "king and prince",
sweets wrappers, and even cigarette pictures, Petya's love reached its
apogee.
Ah, what a day of rare and wonderful happiness that was! Never in his
life would Petya forget it.
He became curious as to how the earrings held on, and the girl showed
him the holes, which had been pierced only a short time before. He even
ventured to touch the lobe of her ear; it was soft, and still slightly
swollen, like a piece of tangerine.
After that they played pictures. Petya cleaned her out, but she looked
so downcast that he took pity on her and not only returned all the
pasteboards he had won but made her a present of all his. Let her know how
generous he was!
Then they gathered dry weeds and kindling and lighted the doll's stove.
There was a great deal of smoke but no fire. They gave this up and began to
play hide-and-seek.
In hiding from each other they crawled into such distant and
out-of-the-way spots that it was a bit scarey to remain there alone.
Yet what burning joy it was to listen to the approach of cautious
footsteps as you sat in the hiding place, mouth and nose covered with both
hands to keep from giggling!
How furiously your heart pounded, how wildly your ears rang!
All at once half of a face pale with excitement, its lips tightly
pressed together, slowly appears from behind a corner. The peeling nose, the
round eye, the pointed chin, the little white bonnet with the ruffles.
Their eyes suddenly meet. Both are so startled that they feel they are
about to faint. And then the wild, blood-curdling cry of triumph and
victory:
"Petya, seen you!"
And both dash off for all they are worth to reach the rapping stick
first.
"Seen you!"
"Seen you!"
Once the girl hid so far away that the boy spent all of half an hour
looking for her, until finally he thought of climbing over the back fence
and trying the pasture.
There, in a pit overgrown with weeds, sat Motya, her thin chin resting
on her scratched knees, and her eyes fixed on the sky, across which a
late-afternoon cloud was floating.
Around her crickets were chirping and cows were grazing. It was all
very frightening, and she was scared to death.
Petya looked down into the pit. For a long time they gazed into each
other's eyes, experiencing a strange, burning embarrassment which was not at
all like any of the feelings connected with the game.
"Seen you, Motya!" the boy wanted to shout, but he could not get out a
single sound. No, decidedly, this was no longer part of the game but
something altogether different.
Motya climbed carefully out of the pit and they strolled back to the
yard. They were embarrassed; they nudged each other with their shoulders,
yet at the same time they discreetly refrained from holding hands.
Over the immortelles of the pasture glided the cool shadow of the
cloud.
The minute they climbed the fence, however, Petya came to his senses.
"Seen you!" the sly boy cried wildly, and he raced for the stick so as
to rap the napping girl with it.
In a word, it was all so unusual and so engrossing that Petya at first
paid no attention to Gavrik when he came up to them at the height of the
game.
"Say, Petya, what was that sailor's name?" Gavrik asked with a
preoccupied frown.
"Which sailor?"
"The one who jumped off the Turgenev."
"I don't know."
"But don't you remember you told me how that skunk with the moustaches,
the detective, called him by his name?"
"Why, yes, that's right! Zhukov. Rodion Zhukov. And now don't bother
us, we're playing."
Gavrik left, wearing the same preoccupied frown. As to Petya, he was so
completely absorbed in his new love affair that this conversation
immediately flew out of his mind.
Soon after, Motya's mother called them to supper.
"Motya, invite your gentleman friend to come in and have some gruel
with us," she said. "He must be hungry."
Motya blushed furiously, then turned pale and drew herself as erect as
a stick, the way she had before. "Would you like to have some gruel with
us?" she said in a choky voice.
Only then did Petya realise that he was hungry. Why, he hadn't had any
dinner that day!
Never in all his life had he eaten such thick, delicious gruel with
hardish, smoke-flavoured potatoes and little cubes of pork.
After that marvellous supper in the open air, under the mulberry tree,
the boys set out for home.
Terenti accompanied them back to town. He ran into the house for a
moment and came out wearing a short jacket and a lustrine cap with a button
on the top of it. He carried a thin iron rod from an umbrella, the kind
Odessa artisans usually took with them when they went out walking on a
holiday.
"Don't go, Terenti dear, it's late," his wife pleaded as she saw him
off to the gate.
The anxiety in her eyes made Petya feel somehow uneasy.
"Stay at home instead. You can never tell what-"
"I have things to do."
"You know best," she said submissively.
"Everything'll be all right," Terenti said with a gay wink.
"Don't go past the goods station."
"Never fear."
"Good luck, then."
"Same to you."
Terenti and the boys set out for town.
But the route they took was altogether different from the one by which
the boys had come. Terenti led them through vacant lots, backyard vegetable
patches and side streets. This route turned out to be much shorter, and they
met fewer people on the way.
Quite unexpectedly they came out on familiar Sennaya Square. Here
Terenti said to Gavrik, "I'll drop in later this evening," and with a nod of
his head he disappeared in the crowd.
The sun had already set. In some of the shops the lamps were being lit.
"What will they say at home!" Petya thought in horror.
His happiness was over. Now he would have to pay for it. He tried to
keep his thoughts from dwelling on this, but he found it impossible.
Lord, what his new shoes looked like! And his stockings! Where had
those big round holes in the knees come from? They hadn't been there in the
morning. His hands were a sight-as filthy as a cobbler's. And the spots of
tar on his cheeks. Good God!
No doubt about it; there'd be a terrific row when he got home!
If they'd only give him a whipping it wouldn't be so bad. But the whole
trouble was they would never do that. They would groan and moan and wring
his heart with reproaches-and the worst of it was that the reproaches would
all be just.
Father might even grab him by the shoulders and shake him as hard as he
could, shouting, "Where have you been, you good-for-nothing! Do you want to
drive me to my grave?" And that, as everybody knew, was ten times worse than
the worst possible whipping.
These and similar bitter thoughts put the boy into a thoroughly
depressed mood, aggravated by infinite regret at the burst of passion which
had moved him so foolishly to give away those pictures to the first girl he
met.
"I WAS STOLEN"
No power on earth, it seemed, could save Petya from an unprecedented
row. It was not for nothing, however, that the hair on Petya's crown grew in
two whorls instead of one, as it does on most boys, and this, as anyone will
tell you, is the surest sign of luck. Providence sent Petya an unexpected
deliverance.
He could have expected anything under the sun, but never this.
Not far from Sennaya Square, in Staro-Portofrankovskaya Street, he saw
Pavlik running along the pavement. He was all by himself.
He stumbled as he ran, and tears streamed down his grimy cheeks as
though they were being squeezed out of a rag. His pink little tongue
quivered ruefully in the open square of his mouth. From his nose hung two
pearly drops.
He was emitting a steady wail, but since he was running at the same
time what he produced was not a smooth "Ahhhh" but a jerky and hiccupy "Ah!
Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah!"
"Pavlik?!!"
At sight of his brother, Pavlik ran up to him as fast as he could and
clutched his sailor blouse with both hands.
"Petya! Petya!" he cried, trembling and panting. "Oh, Petya dear!"
"What are you doing here, you bad boy?" Petya asked sternly.
Instead of replying, Pavlik began to hiccup. He could not utter a word.
"Answer me: what are you doing here? Well? Where have you been, you
good-for-nothing? I see you want to drive me to my grave, eh? Say something
or else I'll have to slap some sense into you."
Petya seized Pavlik by the shoulders and shook him until he cried out
through his hiccups, "I-hie!-I was- st-stolen!"
Then again he gave way to tears.
What had happened?
Petya was not the only one, it appeared, who had got the happy idea of
taking a stroll on his own the day after returning to town. Pavlik had
dreamt of the same thing a long time.
He had not intended, of course, to wander off as far as Petya did. His
plans included a visit to the rubbish-heap, and, at the outside, a walk
round the corner to watch how the soldiers at the entrance to Army Staff
building presented arms.
Unfortunately, who should come into the yard just then but
Vanka-Rutyutyu, or Punch.
Together with the other children, Pavlik watched the show from
beginning to end. But he found it too short. A rumour spread, though, that
in the next yard a longer performance would be given.
The children followed Vanka-Rutyutyu into the next yard, but there the
show was still shorter. It came to an end at the part where Vanka-Rutyutyu-a
long-nosed puppet with the stiff neck of a paralytic, wearing a cap that
looked like a pod of red pepper-killed the policeman with a blow of his
stick. But absolutely everybody knew that after that there must come a
horrible monster- something halfway between a furry yellow duck and a
crocodile-and this monster would seize Vanka-Rutyutyu's head in its jaws and
drag him off to the nether regions.
This part, however, was not shown. Perhaps it was because not enough
coppers had been thrown from the windows. In the next yard, though, business
was certain to be better.
Their eyes fixed on the wicker basket where the puppets lay
mysteriously hidden, the bewitched children moved from one courtyard to the
next in the wake of the loudly-dressed woman with a street organ slung over
her shoulder and the hatless man carrying a screen under his arm.
Pavlik, devoured by curiosity, trudged along beside the other children
on his sturdy little legs, his tongue sticking out and his light
chocolate-coloured eyes, with their large black pupils, open wide. He forgot
everything -Daddy and Auntie Tatyana, and even Kudlatka whom he had not had
time to put in the stable or give a good portion of oats and hay.
The boy lost all sense of time. When he came out of his trance he
discovered with a start that night was falling and that he was following the
street organ along totally unfamiliar streets. All the other children had
long since disappeared. He was quite alone.
The loudly-dressed woman and the man with the screen walked along
quickly, evidently in a hurry to get home. Pavlik could scarcely keep up
with them. The streets became more and more strange and suspicious. It
seemed to Pavlik that the man and woman were whispering something in a
sinister manner.
They turned a corner and then suddenly wheeled round, and Pavlik
noticed in alarm that there was a cigarette in the woman's mouth. Terror
swept over him. He began to tremble as he suddenly remembered. Absolutely
everybody knew that organ-grinders enticed little children away from home,
broke their arms and legs, and then sold them to the circus as acrobats.
How, oh how could he have forgotten that! It was as well known as the
fact that sweets manufactured by "Krakhmalnikov Bros." could poison you, or
that the ice-cream sold in the streets was made of milk in which sick people
had bathed.
Here there could be no doubt. Only Gipsy women and other women who
stole children smoked. In another minute they would seize him, stuff a rag
into his mouth, and carry him off to Romanovka, where they would twist his
arms and legs out of their sockets and turn him into an acrobat.
With a loud wail Pavlik turned and fled. He ran as fast as he could,
until suddenly he bumped into Petya.
After giving his little brother a good spanking Petya triumphantly
dragged him home by the arm. At home, panic reigned. Dunya was running
frantically through the neighbouring courtyards, her cheap taffeta skirts
swishing. Auntie Tatyana was rubbing her temples with a migraine stick.
Father was getting into his summer coat to go down to the police station to
report his children missing.
Upon seeing Pavlik safe and sound, Auntie rushed up to him, undecided
whether to laugh or to cry.
She did both at the same time. Then she spanked the little vagrant
soundly. Then she planted kisses all over his smudgy little face. Then she
spanked him again.
Only after that did she turn a threatening face to Petya.
"And what about you, my friend?"
"Where were you gadding about, you bandit?" Father shouted, seizing the
boy by the shoulder.
"I was looking for Pavlik," Petya replied modestly. "I ran all over the
city before I found him. You ought to thank me. If not for me he would have
been stolen long ago."
Then and there he launched into a magnificent tale of how he had chased
the organ-grinder, how the organ-grinder had tried to escape him down back
alleys, and how he had finally seized the organ-grinder by the collar and
shouted for the police. Then the organ-grinder became frightened, let go of
Pavlik, and ran away.
"Otherwise I'd have had him put in jail, by the true and holy Cross!"
Although Petya's story, contrary to his expectations, aroused not the
slightest admiration, and Father even wrinkled his nose in disgust and said,
"Aren't you ashamed to talk such nonsense?" there was nothing anyone could
do about it, for it was Petya, and Petya alone, who had found the missing
Pavlik. Thanks to that Petya got off scot-free.
That's what came of being a lucky boy with two whorls on his crown!
Meanwhile Gavrik had returned to the hut to find Grandpa and the sailor
greatly excited. A little while before, some officials had come to the hut,
supposedly from the city council, to check up on Grandpa's fishing permit.
The papers had been in order.
"Who's that on the bed?" the gentleman with the brief case had suddenly
asked, noticing the sailor.
Grandpa did not know what to say.
"Is he ill? If so, then why don't you take him to the hospital?"
"No," said Grandpa, putting on an air of cheerful indifference. "He's
not ill; he's drunk."
"Drunk, is he? Your son?"
"No."
"A stranger?"
"I tell you he's a drunk, Your Honour."
"Yes, I understand. But where did he come from?"
"Where?" Grandpa repeated, pretending he was a half-witted old man.
"He's a drunk, I tell you. You know, a drunk. He was lying in the weeds,
that's all."
The gentleman looked closely at the sailor.
"Was he lying in the weeds like that, in nothing but his underdrawers?"
"That's how I found him."
"Hey, you! Let me smell your breath!" the gentleman shouted, putting
his face down close to the sailor's.
Zhukov made believe he did not hear. He turned his face to the wall and
covered his head with a pillow.
"Strange! A drunk who doesn't smell of alcohol," the gentleman
remarked. Then he added, regarding Grandpa severely, "You'd better look out,
there!"
With that the officials departed.
Gavrik did not like the looks of this at all.
Passing by the restaurant he had seen the district police inspector,
the nasty one whom the local fishermen called "our boat snooper", seated at
a table.
The inspector had been drinking beer, and his heavy mug stood on a
thick round piece of cardboard with the inscription "Sanzenbacher's Beer".
He had seemed less interested in the beer, however, than in the time shown
by his silver watch.
The sailor felt much better. Evidently the crisis had passed. He was no
longer feverish.
He sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his stubbly cheeks.
"I'll have to get out of here at once," he said.
"Where'll you go without trousers?" Grandpa asked sadly. "Stay here
until dark. No other way out. Hungry, Gavrik?"
"I had supper at Terenti's."
Grandpa raised his eyebrows. Think of it! His grandson had already been
at Terenti's. Quick work!
"How are things there?"
"He's planning to drop in today."
The old man chewed his lips and raised his eyebrows still higher,
marvelling at how quick-witted his grandson was. Why, he grasped things
better than many a grown man. And on top of everything, he was shrewd. Oh,
how shrewd he was!
Although only nine and a half, Gavrik really did have a better
understanding of some things than many adults. This was not surprising, for
from his earliest years he had lived among fishermen, and the fishermen of
Odessa did not differ essentially from the sailors, stokers, shipyard
workers and dockers, that is to say, from the poorest and most
freedom-loving section of the city's population.
They all had more than their share of life's trials and tribulations,
the children no less than the adults-and perhaps even more.
This was the year 1905, the year of the first Russian revolution.
The poor, the disinherited, the oppressed were rising to fight tsarism.
And not the last among them were the fishermen.
It was a fierce struggle that had started, a struggle to the death. And
a struggle that taught them to be shrewd, cautious, vigilant, daring.
All these qualities had gradually, imperceptibly, grown and developed
in our little fisherman.
Gavrik's brother Terenti had also been a fisherman. After his marriage,
however, he had gone to work in the railway shops. From many signs Gavrik
could not help guessing that his elder brother had something to do with what
in those times was vaguely and significantly called "the Movement".
When he visited Terenti at Near Mills, Gavrik often heard him use words
like "committee", "faction", "password". Although he did not know what they
meant, he sensed that they were connected with words like "strike", "police
agent" and "leaflet", words everyone understood.
Gavrik knew especially well what leaflets were, those sheets of rough
paper with small grey letters printed on them. Once Terenti had asked him to
distribute some along the shore, and he had put them, at night, in the
fishing boats, trying to do it so that no one saw him.
Terenti had said, "If anyone sees you, throw them into the water and
run. If they catch you, say you found them in the bushes."
But everything had gone off all right.
And so, that was why Gavrik had decided to go straight to his brother
about the sailor. He knew that Terenti would arrange everything. He also
understood, however, that his brother would have to consult someone else,
and to go somewhere, perhaps even to that "Committee".
That meant they must wait. But waiting was becoming dangerous.
Several times the sailor opened the door a crack and cautiously peeped
out. It was fairly dark by now, but not dark enough to risk going out the
way he was without attracting attention, especially since there were still
many people on the beach and they could hear singing from rowing-boats on
the water.
The sailor returned to the bed. "The rats! The damned bloodhounds!" he
said in a loud voice, no longer wary of the old man and Gavrik. "Just let me
get my hands on them! I'll-I don't know what I'd do to them! I'd risk my
head but I'd pay them back-" And he quietly struck the bed with his massive
fist.
THE PURSUIT
Night had already fallen when the door of the hut was suddenly pushed
open, and for an instant the body of a big man shut out the stars. The
sailor sprang to his feet.
"That's all right," Gavrik said. "It's our Terenti."
The sailor sat down again, peering into the darkness at the newcomer.
"Evening," came Terenti's voice. "It's so dark I can't see a soul. Why
don't you light the lamp? What's up, out of paraffin?"
"There's a few drops left." Grandpa rose with a grunt and lighted the
lamp.
"Hello, Grandpa, how are things going with you? I was in town today and
I thought, what about looking my own folk up? Why, I see you've got a
visitor as it is. Hello, there."
Terenti gave the stranger a quick, close glance in the flickering light
of the wick lamp.
"He's the one we fished out of the sea," Grandpa explained wryly, with
a good-natured grin.
"So I hear."
The sailor said nothing. He eyed Terenti with glum suspicion.
"Rodion Zhukov, I take it?" Terenti said, a gay note in his voice.
The sailor gave a start but instantly controlled himself. He braced
himself more firmly against the bed with his fists and narrowed his eyes.
"What about it?" he said with a defiant smile. "Why do I have to tell
you? I answer only to the Committee."
The grin faded from Terenti's pock-marked face. Never had Gavrik seen
his brother so grave.
"You may take me for the Committee," Terenti replied after a moment's
reflection. He sat down on the bed beside the sailor.
"Prove it," the sailor said stiffly, edging away.
"First prove who you are."
The sailor indicated his underdrawers with an angry glance. "Can't you
see for yourself?"
"That's not enough."
Terenti walked over to the door, opened it a crack and said in a low
voice, "Will you come in for a minute, Ilya Borisovich?"
There was a rustling in the bushes, and then a short frail young man
wearing pince-nez on a black ribbon looped behind one ear entered the hut. A
black sateen Russian blouse belted with a leather strap showed beneath his
old, unbuttoned jacket. Atop his shock of hair perched a flat engineering
student's cap.
The sailor felt that he had seen this "student" somewhere before.
The young fellow turned sidewise, adjusted his pince-nez and squinted
at the sailor with one eye.
"Well?" Terenti asked.
"I saw this comrade on the morning of June the 15th at the Platonov
jetty guarding the body of the sailor Vakulinchuk who was brutally murdered
by officers," the young fellow said quickly, without stopping for breath.
"You were there, Comrade, weren't you?"
"Right you are."
"There. I knew I wasn't mistaken."
Without saying a word Terenti produced a bundle from under his jacket
and laid it on the sailor's knees.
"Trousers, a belt and a jacket, couldn't get boots, sorry, so you'll
have to go without until you can buy some, and now get dressed and don't
lose any time about it, we'll turn our backs," the young fellow said all in
one breath, adding, "I've an idea this place is being watched."
Terenti gave a wink. "Get going, Gavrik."
Gavrik understood at once and quietly slipped out of the hut into the
darkness. He stopped and listened. He thought he heard a rustle among the
dry potato bushes in the vegetable patch.
He crouched and tiptoed forward. Suddenly, when his eyes became
accustomed to the darkness, he clearly saw two motionless figures in the
middle of the patch.
The boy caught his breath. His ears began to ring so loudly that he no
longer heard the sea. Biting his lips savagely, he made his way without a
single sound to the rear of the hut to see if there was anyone on the path.
On the path stood two other men, one of them in a white jacket.
Gavrik crawled towards the hill and there he saw several men. He could
tell at once they were policemen by their white jackets. The hut was
surrounded.
He was just about to run back when a big, hot hand firmly seized him
from behind by the scruff of the neck. He broke away, but the next instant
he was tripped up and sent sprawling into the bushes.
A pair of strong hands gripped him. He twisted round, and, to his
horror, found himself face to face with Moustaches; he was staring into an
open foul-breathed mouth and at a chin as rough as a pine board.
"Plee-eease," Gavrik whined in a thin little voice.
"Shut up, you dog!" hissed Moustaches.
"Let me go, plee-eease, let me go!"
"I'll teach you to shout, you little rat," Moustaches muttered through
his teeth, seizing Gavrik's ear in fingers of steel.
Gavrik shrank back and, turning his face to the hut, screamed in a wild
voice, "Hook it!"
"Shut up or I'll kill you!"
Moustaches yanked Gavrik's ear so savagely that it cracked. Gavrik felt
as though his head had split. It was stabbed by horrible, unimaginable pain.
At the same time he was swept by a wave of hatred and anger that turned
everything black before his eyes.
"Hook it!" he shouted again at the top of his voice, writhing with
pain.
Moustaches threw himself on Gavrik. Continuing to twist his ear
savagely, he used his other hand to stop the boy's mouth. But Gavrik rolled
on the ground, biting the sweaty, hateful, hairy hand. Weeping, he shouted
frenziedly, "Hoo-ook it!"
Moustaches violently flung Gavrik aside and raced towards the hut. A
long police whistle sounded.
Gavrik got to his feet and saw at once that his shouts had been heard,
for three figures-two tall and one short -dashed out of the hut and across
the vegetable patch, stumbling as they ran.
Two white jackets barred their way. The fugitives wheeled about, only
to find that they were surrounded.
"Halt!" an unfamiliar voice cried out of the darkness.
"Shoot, Ilya!" Gavrik heard Terenti yell in desperation.
The next instant there were three flashes and three revolver shots one
after the other, sounding like the cracking of a whip. The shouts and grunts
told Gavrik that a scrimmage was going on in the darkness.
Would they be caught? So overcome with horror that he did not know what
he was doing, Gavrik dashed forward, as if he could help them in some way.
He had not run more than ten paces when he saw the same three
figures-two tall and one short-tear themselves away from the tussle, run
towards the bluff and disappear in the darkness. "Stop them! Stop them!"
There was a flash of red light, followed by the loud report of a
policeman's Smith & Wesson. Police whistles shrilled at the top of the
bluff. It looked as if a cordon had been posted all along the shore.
Gavrik listened with a sinking heart to the hue and cry of the pursuit.
It was beyond him why Terenti had chosen to run in that direction. Only a
madman would have climbed the bluff. Straight into a trap, where they would
all be caught. It would have been better to try to escape along the beach.
He ran on a bit farther. He thought he could make out three figures
crawling up the sheer wall of the bluff. They were done for!
"Oh, Terenti, why did you go that way!" the boy whispered in despair.
He bit his hand to keep from crying, but scalding tears tickled his nose and
stung his throat. Then all of a sudden Gavrik understood why they had chosen
the bluff. He'd quite forgotten. And yet it was so simple! The point was
that-
At this very moment Moustaches flung himself at Gavrik, caught him
under the arms and dragged him backwards, tearing the boy's shirt. He pushed
him into the hut, near which two policemen were now standing. Gavrik struck
his cheek painfully against the door and fell on top of Grandpa, who was
sitting on the floor in the corner, his legs crossed under him.
"If they get away, I'll have your heads!" Moustaches yelled at the
policemen, and ran out.
Gavrik sat down beside Grandpa, crossing his legs under him in the same
way. They sat in silence, listening to the whistles and cries gradually
dying away in the distance.
At last all was silence.
Only then did Gavrik become aware of his ear. He had forgotten all
about it, but it ached terribly. It felt as if it were on fire. Even
touching it was painful.
"That devil! Almost tore my ear right off!" he muttered, trying his
hardest to hold back the tears and to appear indifferent.
Grandpa glanced at him without turning his head. The old man's eyes
were motionless and horrifyingly blank. He softly chewed his lips. For a
long time he was silent. At last he shook his head and said reproachfully,
"Who ever saw the likes of it? Tearing off a child's ear! Is that the way to
act?"
He drew a heavy sigh and took to chewing his lips again. All at once he
bent anxiously over Gavrik, looked fearfully at the door to see whether
anyone was listening, and whispered, "Did you hear anything? Did they get
away?"
"They went up the bluff," Gavrik said rapidly in an undertone. "Terenti
took them to the catacombs. If they're not shot down on the path they're
sure to get away."
Grandpa turned his face to the icon of the miracle worker, closed his
eyes, and slowly crossed himself with a sweeping gesture, pressing his
folded fingers hard against his forehead, his stomach and both shoulders.
A tear, so tiny that it was almost invisible, crept down his cheek and
disappeared in a wrinkle.
GRANDPA
Many cities of the world have catacombs-Rome, Naples, Constantinople,
Alexandria, Paris, Odessa.
Some fifty years earlier, Odessa's catacombs had been limestone
quarries. To this day they run in a labyrinth beneath the entire city, with
several exits beyond its limits. Everyone in Odessa knew, of course, that
the catacombs were there, but few had ever gone down into them, and fewer
still had any idea of their layout. The catacombs were, in a way, Odessa's
mystery, its legend.
Terenti, however, had once been a fisherman. He knew the Odessa
shoreline perfectly, and had made an exact study of all the catacomb exits
there.
One of these exits was located a hundred paces behind the hut, halfway
up the bluff. It was a narrow opening concealed by growths of sweet-brier
and spindle tree. A brook trickled out of the opening and ran down the
bluff, causing the creepers and weeds to tremble.
After repulsing the first attack of the policemen and the detectives,
Terenti led his comrades straight to the opening in the bluff.
Their pursuers knew nothing of its existence. They thought the
fugitives were trying to make their way to town through the villa district.
This played into their hands, for they had the district surrounded and the
fugitives would be trapped for certain.
And so, after the first shots the policemen were ordered to hold their
fire.
When he had waited below for about a quarter of an hour, the chief of
the Alexandrovsky police station, who was directing the raid personally,
sent the district police inspector to find out if the criminals had been
caught.
The inspector took the easy but roundabout path to the top of the
bluff, and another quarter of an hour passed before he returned to report
that the fugitives had not been seen up there. It thus turned out that they
were neither at the top nor at the bottom. Then where were they? It was
utterly impossible to think they were sitting in the bushes somewhere
halfway up the bluff, waiting to be caught.
Nevertheless, the chief ordered his men to climb up and search every
bush. Then, no longer trusting "those fools", he himself followed them,
letting out strings of oaths as his patent-leather boots slipped on the
grass and clay.
They combed the bluff from bottom to top but nothing did they find. It
seemed a miracle. The fugitives couldn't have been swallowed up by the
earth!
"Your Honour!" a frightened voice suddenly cried from above. "Could you
please come here?"
"What's the matter?"
"It's the catacombs, Your Honour."
The chief of police reached up and caught hold of the thorny bushes
with his white-gloved hands. An instant later he was seized by strong hands
and pulled up to a small ledge.
Moustaches struck one match after another, and by their light they
could make out a long black crevice overgrown with bushes.
The chief saw at once that he had lost. What a catch had escaped him!
He shook with rage; he stamped his elegant boots; his white-gloved fists
struck out right and left, hitting random noses, cheekbones and moustaches.
"What are you standing there for, you idiots!" he blustered in a voice
hoarse from shouting. "Forward, march! Search all the catacombs! Catch those
scoundrels or else I'll tear your heads off! I'll smash your damned mugs to
a pulp! Forward, march!"
But he knew that it was hopeless. To search all the catacombs would
take a fortnight at least. And it was useless even to start, for they had
already lost more than half an hour and the fugitives had undoubtedly
reached the other side of town long since.
Several policemen unwillingly crawled through the opening. Lighting
matches continually, they hovered not far from the entrance, examining the
damp limestone walls of the underground passage that disappeared into
sepulchral darkness.
The chief spat on the ground in disgust and ran down the side of the
bluff, his spurs jingling. He was choking with fury. He tore so violently at
the over-starched collar of his white pique uniform jacket that the hooks
flew off.
He strode through the crackling bushes to the hut, and savagely
wrenched open the door. The policemen sprang to attention in fright. The
chief stepped into the little room and halted, his feet wide apart and his
twitching fingers behind his back. He was followed through the door by
Moustaches.
"Your Honour," Moustaches whispered mysteriously, his round eyes
indicating Grandpa, "he's the owner of this undercover place and that's his
brat."
Without glancing at Moustaches the chief stretched out his arm, put the
flat of his white hand against the man's sweaty face, and pushed it away in
furious disgust.
"No one's asking you, you fool! I know that myself!"
Gavrik was horror-stricken. He felt something dreadful was about to
happen. Small, pale, his ear red and swollen, he stared unblinkingly at the
erect, broad-shouldered officer in the blue breeches and black
patent-leather shoulder belt.
After standing like that fully a minute, a minute that seemed an hour
to the boy, the chief sat down on the edge of the bed. Without taking his
eyes off Grandpa he stretched out a patent-leather boot, drew a silver
cigarette case and an orange-coloured matchbox from his tight breeches'
pocket, and lit a yellow cigarette.
"He smokes Asmolovs," Gavrik thought.
The chief blew the smoke through his nostrils, drawling out a
"Ss-o-o-oo!" together with the smoke. Then he suddenly shouted at the top of
his lungs, in a voice so loud that Gavrik's ears rang. "Stand up in the
presence of an officer, you scoundrel!"
Grandpa nervously sprang to attention. Standing on his bent, bare black
legs and adjusting the shirt over his frail chest, he stared at the chief
with dull, expressionless eyes.
Gavrik could see Grandpa's taut neck trembling; the dry skin, on which
there was an old scar, stretched like two reins.
"So you're hiding outlaws, eh?" the chief said in an icy voice.
"No, sir," Grandpa whispered.
"Speak up, now. Who was just here?"
"I don't know, sir."
"You don't know, eh?" The chief slowly rose to his feet, compressing
his lips. With a clipped, precise swing he gave the old man a blow in the
ear that flung him against the wall.
"Speak up! Who were they?"
"I don't know, sir," the old man repeated firmly, his jaw muscles
twitching.
Again the fist in the white glove flashed through the air. Two trickles
of blood began to flow from Grandpa's nostrils. He closed his eyes, hunched
his shoulders, and caught his breath with a sob.
"What's this beating for, Your Honour?"
Grandpa's voice was low but stern. He wiped his nose and showed the
chief his blood-stained hand.
"None of your lip!" cried the chief, turning pale.
The large velvety birth mark stood out black on his plaster-white face.
He glanced disgustedly at his spoilt glove.
"Speak up! Who were they?"
"I don't know."
Grandpa had time to cover his face with his hands and turn to the wall.
The blow struck him on the head. His trousers bagged out at the knees.
Slowly he sank to the floor.
"Don't hit him! He's an old man!" cried Gavrik with tears of despair,
flinging himself at the chief.
But the chief was already striding out of the hut. "Take this scoundrel
into custody!" he shouted.
The policemen seized the old man and twisted his arms behind his back.
They dragged him out of the hut as though he were a bundle of straw. Gavrik
dropped to the floor and, gnawing at his fists, burst into sobs of rage.
For some time he sat motionless, listening with one ear to the noises
and stirrings of the night. His other ear was deaf.
Every now and then he deliberately put his finger in his good ear, and
a profound silence enveloped him. It was a terrifying silence, in which some
nameless danger seemed to lurk.
He would then uncover his ear, as if hurrying to release the imprisoned
sounds. One ear, however, could not take in all the different sounds at the
same time.
First he would hear the deep infrequent sighs of the sea, and nothing
else. Then the tinkling music of the crickets would break in, shutting out
the sound of the sea. A warm breeze, passing over the weeds, would fill the
night with rustling, and leave no place either for the crickets or the sea.
Then there would be only the sputtering of the lamp, in which the paraffin
had burnt out.
All at once a realisation of his loneliness swept over the boy. He
sprang to his feet, blew out the lamp, and dashed off to look for Grandpa.
A luxuriant August night enveloped the world. The twinkling black sky
showered its stars upon the running boy. The chirp of the crickets streamed
as high as the Milky Way itself.
But what did all that indifferent beauty matter to the tortured,
outraged child since it had no power to make him happy!
Gavrik ran as fast as he could.
By the time he caught up with Grandpa and the two policemen they were
already in Staro-Portofrankovskaya Street, just outside the police station.
They were riding in a droshky, one of the policemen sitting and the other
standing. Grandpa had fallen off the seat. He lay on the floor at the
policeman's feet, his head bobbing helplessly against the step. The light
from the gas lamps flickered across his face, streaked with dust and blood.
Gavrik made a dash forward but the droshky came to a stop in front of
the police station. The policemen dragged the stumbling old man through the
gate.
"Grandpa!"
One of the policemen rapped Gavrik across the back of the neck with the
scabbard of his sword. The gate swung closed. The boy remained alone.
STUBBORN AUNTIE TATYANA
Petya's moment of supreme happiness and triumph had come.
By one o'clock in the afternoon he had already made the round of all
his acquaintances in the 'house to show his new Gymnasium cap and give an
excited account of the exam he had just passed.
To be quite truthful, there was almost nothing to tell. There had been
no actual examination but merely a simple entrance test lasting fifteen
minutes. It began at half past ten, and by five minutes past eleven the
bowing, smiling assistant in the shop next door to the Gymnasium was handing
the boy his old straw hat wrapped in paper.
From the moment he put it on before the shop mirror and right through
until evening, Petya did not remove his new cap.
"What a grand showing I made in that exam!" Petya declared excitedly as
he hurried down the street beside Auntie Tatyana.
He kept looking in all the windows to catch glimpses of himself in his
new cap.
"Calm yourself, my dear," Auntie Tatyana remarked, her chin quivering
with suppressed laughter. "It wasn't an exam but only a test."
"Why, Auntie Tatyana, how can you say that!" Petya cried at the top of
his voice. He turned red with anger and stamped his feet, ready to burst
into tears. "You weren't there, yet you talk! It was a real examination. You
were waiting in the reception room, so you have no right to say it wasn't. I
tell you it was an exam!"
"To be sure. I'm the fool, and you're the clever one. It was only a
test."
"It wasn't! It was an exam!"
"You will insist that the beard was clipped."
Auntie Tatyana was referring to the old Ukrainian joke about the
stubborn fellow who argued with his wife as to whether the volost clerk's
beard was clipped or shaven. Despite all evidence to the contrary he kept
insisting it was clipped. Finally his infuriated wife picked him up and
threw him into the river. He continued to shout "It was clipped!" and as his
head went under the water he raised one hand and made clipping motions with
his fingers.
But Petya did not take the hint. In a tearful voice he kept repeating,
"It was an exam! It was an exam!"
Auntie Tatyana was a kindhearted woman, and now she began to feel sorry
that she was depriving her nephew of the most precious part of his triumph.
If the word "exam" meant so much to the boy, then let him have his joy of
it. Why irritate him on this happy day?
And so, she made a bargain with her conscience. "On second thought, I
probably was mistaken," she said with a subtle smile, "I do believe it
really was an exam."
Petya beamed. "And what an exam!"
Yet deep down inside Petya was consumed by doubts. It had all been much
too quick and easy for an exam.
True, the children had been lined up in twos and led into a classroom.
Also, there had been a long table covered with a blue cloth. And behind that
table had sat stern examiners in blue uniforms with gold buttons, wearing
gold-rimmed spectacles, medals, starched shirt-fronts that looked as stiff
as egg-shells, and cuffs that crackled. Among them had stood out the silk
cassock and womanish curls of a priest.
Petya had felt his stomach sink; his feet had turned clammy; an icy
sweat had broken out on his temples. All the symptoms known since time
immemorial had been there.
But as to the exam itself- No, Petya now clearly saw that it was only a
test, after all.
The minute the boys had seated themselves at the desks one of the
examiners buried his nose in a big sheet of paper on the table and said,
rolling out each word beautifully and distinctly, "Well, let us begin. These
boys will please step forward: Alexandrov, Boris; Alexandrov, Nikolai;
Batchei, Pyotr."
When he heard his name pronounced in full, sounding so strange and
forbidding in that bare, echoing classroom, Petya felt as if someone had
punched him in the pit of the stomach. He had never dreamt the terrifying
moment would come so soon.
Taken completely by surprise, he turned a fiery red and almost fainted
as he walked across the slippery floor to the table.
Each of the three boys was turned over to an examiner.
Petya fell to the priest.
"Well, now," drawled the huge old man, rolling back the wide sleeves of
his cassock.
Then he pressed against his narrow chest the dagger of a crucifix
hanging from his neck on a silver chain. The chain was made of flat links
with grooves like those in coffee beans.
"Come closer, son. What is your name?"
"Petya."
"Not Petya but Pyotr, my dear boy. You left Petya at home. And your
last name?"
"Batchei."
"The son of Vasili Petrovich who teaches in the trade school?"
"Yes."
The priest leaned back in his chair in the dreamy attitude of a man
smoking.
He squinted at Petya with an ironical smile that the boy did not