him for not making the path straight enough. He made him redo it twice. For the first time in his life Semyon Mikheich used foul language.
The old couple’s hut was requisitioned for a doctor, a thin man with a small bald head. The old couple had to move into the entrance room, which was so cold at night that they were unable to sleep. Instead, they heard
der Arzt
shouting down the telephone in a rasping voice,“Kamyshevakha! Kamyshevakha!”
The doctor was demanding coaches for the evacuation of the wounded. There were many soldiers suffering from wounds and frostbite, and very few trains indeed, since the partisans were destroying the tracks. “That must be Prokofy’s doing,” the old man said to himself. “He’s hard at it!”
Der Arzt
shouted hoarsely at everyone who came in to see him. Every now and then he called the orderly and sent him on some errand. The orderly was scared to death of him. The look on the orderly’s face when he entered the room was always so pale and anguished that Semyon Mikheich couldn’t help but feel sorry for him.
Der Arzt
had ordered Semyon Mikheich to chop wood for the stove. He liked listening to the sound of the ax. Sometimes he summoned the orderly during the night and told him to send Semyon Mikheich out to chop wood.
“Why is the Russian not working? The Russian sleeps too much.”
And so Semyon Mikheich would chop wood beneath the German’s window. He turned gloomy and taciturn, sometimes not saying a word for days on end. He even stopped sighing. Silently, as if made of stone, he would just stand and stare. His old woman would look at him in fear: Had he lost his mind?
One night he said to her, “You know, Filippovna, a wild beast will devour what it needs. It may slaughter a cow or destroy a hive—and that’s life. But these...these ones have been spitting on my soul—and beasts don’t do that. I used to think that these ones are not people. But now I can see they’re not even beasts. They’re worse than beasts.”
“Pray to God,” said Filippovna. “That will help.”
“No,” said the old man. “It won’t help.”
In the morning one of their neighbors, Galya Yakimenko, came by. She was in tears. In a whisper, looking around all the time at the door—on the other side of which was sitting the terrible
Arzt
—she began talking about the five staff officers now quartered in her hut. “They’re like bears. They eat and drink all day and all night. They get drunk, they shout, and they throw up. They have no shame. They walk about naked in front of me. And now, now it’s turned cold, no, you wouldn’t believe it...They’ve begun soiling their beds. Until now, at least, they used to do it on the floor, but now they don’t even get out of bed. Then they pull the fouled sheets off the bed and tell me to wash them. I say, no, I’m not going to, not even if you beat me to death. So they beat me. You can do what you like, I say, but it’ll make no difference. I’m not going to shame myself. And off I went. What are they—people or beasts?”
Semyon Mikheich said nothing. A dark cloud of shame and suffering was hanging over the village. It seemed as if life had come to an end, as if the sun had stopped shining, as if there were no air left to breathe. Most terrible of all, worse than the cold nights in cellars and dugouts, were the humiliations to the soul.
Deep in the soul of the old beekeeper something was changing. Any time at night that
der
Arzt
wanted to hear the sound of the ax, the old man had to get up, put on his hat, and go out to chop wood. His ax resounded against the frozen logs. Sometimes the old man would stop for a moment to straighten up and get his breath back. At once the division’s senior doctor would go to the window. He would look out into the yard, wondering why the ax had gone silent. A moment later the orderly would dart out. In a terrified voice, he would shout, “Chop wood, Russki! Chop, Russki, chop wood!”
On one
The old couple’s hut was requisitioned for a doctor, a thin man with a small bald head. The old couple had to move into the entrance room, which was so cold at night that they were unable to sleep. Instead, they heard
der Arzt
shouting down the telephone in a rasping voice,“Kamyshevakha! Kamyshevakha!”
The doctor was demanding coaches for the evacuation of the wounded. There were many soldiers suffering from wounds and frostbite, and very few trains indeed, since the partisans were destroying the tracks. “That must be Prokofy’s doing,” the old man said to himself. “He’s hard at it!”
Der Arzt
shouted hoarsely at everyone who came in to see him. Every now and then he called the orderly and sent him on some errand. The orderly was scared to death of him. The look on the orderly’s face when he entered the room was always so pale and anguished that Semyon Mikheich couldn’t help but feel sorry for him.
Der Arzt
had ordered Semyon Mikheich to chop wood for the stove. He liked listening to the sound of the ax. Sometimes he summoned the orderly during the night and told him to send Semyon Mikheich out to chop wood.
“Why is the Russian not working? The Russian sleeps too much.”
And so Semyon Mikheich would chop wood beneath the German’s window. He turned gloomy and taciturn, sometimes not saying a word for days on end. He even stopped sighing. Silently, as if made of stone, he would just stand and stare. His old woman would look at him in fear: Had he lost his mind?
One night he said to her, “You know, Filippovna, a wild beast will devour what it needs. It may slaughter a cow or destroy a hive—and that’s life. But these...these ones have been spitting on my soul—and beasts don’t do that. I used to think that these ones are not people. But now I can see they’re not even beasts. They’re worse than beasts.”
“Pray to God,” said Filippovna. “That will help.”
“No,” said the old man. “It won’t help.”
In the morning one of their neighbors, Galya Yakimenko, came by. She was in tears. In a whisper, looking around all the time at the door—on the other side of which was sitting the terrible
Arzt
—she began talking about the five staff officers now quartered in her hut. “They’re like bears. They eat and drink all day and all night. They get drunk, they shout, and they throw up. They have no shame. They walk about naked in front of me. And now, now it’s turned cold, no, you wouldn’t believe it...They’ve begun soiling their beds. Until now, at least, they used to do it on the floor, but now they don’t even get out of bed. Then they pull the fouled sheets off the bed and tell me to wash them. I say, no, I’m not going to, not even if you beat me to death. So they beat me. You can do what you like, I say, but it’ll make no difference. I’m not going to shame myself. And off I went. What are they—people or beasts?”
Semyon Mikheich said nothing. A dark cloud of shame and suffering was hanging over the village. It seemed as if life had come to an end, as if the sun had stopped shining, as if there were no air left to breathe. Most terrible of all, worse than the cold nights in cellars and dugouts, were the humiliations to the soul.
Deep in the soul of the old beekeeper something was changing. Any time at night that
der
Arzt
wanted to hear the sound of the ax, the old man had to get up, put on his hat, and go out to chop wood. His ax resounded against the frozen logs. Sometimes the old man would stop for a moment to straighten up and get his breath back. At once the division’s senior doctor would go to the window. He would look out into the yard, wondering why the ax had gone silent. A moment later the orderly would dart out. In a terrified voice, he would shout, “Chop wood, Russki! Chop, Russki, chop wood!”
On one
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