occasion the orderly whispered excitedly to the old man, “General—kaput! Fly front line. Russkies—Tara-tara! General—kaput!”
And the Germans never saw their divisional commander again.
Then a black marketeer from Kharkov passed through. He told them what the prices were for
makhorka
, bread, and peas. He told them about an outbreak of typhus among the German soldiers. Then he bent down and whispered in the old man’s ear, “I’ve seen it in leaflets and I’ve heard it on the radio: the Reds are on their way back. They’ve already recaptured thirty towns. They’ll be here any day.”
In response, the old man went to a secret place, dug a jar of honey out of the earth, and gave it to the black marketeer. “There!” he said. “For your good news!”
Then came an evening when the orderly rushed in and hurriedly began packing.
“
Zurück, zurück
,” he explained, gesticulating in the direction ofPoltava.
Some signalers came and quickly removed the telephone. There was no sound of shooting, but the Germans were in such a rush you would have thought that they were under fire already. They were running down the street with armfuls of all kinds of stuff, falling down in the snow and shouting. The village women saw several orderlies weeping. They were gasping for breath. Their frozen fingers kept losing their grip on the officers’ heavy cases. They were worn out before they had even reached the edge of the village—but they had to keep going on foot, across the steppe. Their vehicles were stuck in the snow, with no fuel; the officers had already taken the last sledges.
The old men, who had served in the militia during the First World War, explained to the women, “Looks like our boys are back on the offensive!”
The divisional staff left while it was still dark. They were replaced by retreating machine gunners. With unkempt red-and-black beards, their noses peeling, their cheeks burned by the frost, they talked in loud barks. When they went out into the street, they kept firing random bursts into the air. And every night they pestered the young women and girls.
The fighting started early one morning. The villagers crept down into their cellars. There was the sound of machine-gun fire and of shell bursts. The women screamed and the children cried, while the old men said calmly, “All right, all right. There’s no need to make such a racket. It’s our own boys, with their fifteen-pounders.”
Semyon Mikheich was sitting on an upturned bucket, saying nothing at all. He was thinking.
“Well, Mikheich,” said old Kondrat, who had won a George Cross back in 1905, during the Japanese war, “it seems no one can escape the sound of fighting—not even a quiet soul like you.”
Mikheich did not reply.
The fighting grew fiercer. The pounding grew so loud that the old women wrapped shawls around the little children. And then, not far away, they heard a muffled voice.
“It’s our boys, it’s our own boys!” shouted Galya Yakimenko. “Who’ll come up with me?”
“I will!” replied Semyon Mikheich.
They climbed up out of the cellar. Evening was already drawing in. A vast sun was sinking into snow made pink by blazing fires. In the middle of the yard stood a Red Army soldier with a rifle.
“Good people,” he said quietly, “help me. I’m wounded.”
“My darling boy!” Galya shouted, and rushed to the soldier. She embraced him and led him quickly toward the hut. Semyon Mikheich just walked on.
“My darlings,” said Galya, “you boys have been shedding your blood for us! Now it’s our turn to do something. Soon we’ll have you lying down in the warm!”
From somewhere near the well came the sound of shooting. A German submachine gunner came running toward the hut. He saw a wounded Red Army soldier and a woman with her arms around him. Still running, he fired a shot. The wounded soldier, suddenly heavy, began to sink to the ground, slipping out of the arms of the woman, who was
And the Germans never saw their divisional commander again.
Then a black marketeer from Kharkov passed through. He told them what the prices were for
makhorka
, bread, and peas. He told them about an outbreak of typhus among the German soldiers. Then he bent down and whispered in the old man’s ear, “I’ve seen it in leaflets and I’ve heard it on the radio: the Reds are on their way back. They’ve already recaptured thirty towns. They’ll be here any day.”
In response, the old man went to a secret place, dug a jar of honey out of the earth, and gave it to the black marketeer. “There!” he said. “For your good news!”
Then came an evening when the orderly rushed in and hurriedly began packing.
“
Zurück, zurück
,” he explained, gesticulating in the direction ofPoltava.
Some signalers came and quickly removed the telephone. There was no sound of shooting, but the Germans were in such a rush you would have thought that they were under fire already. They were running down the street with armfuls of all kinds of stuff, falling down in the snow and shouting. The village women saw several orderlies weeping. They were gasping for breath. Their frozen fingers kept losing their grip on the officers’ heavy cases. They were worn out before they had even reached the edge of the village—but they had to keep going on foot, across the steppe. Their vehicles were stuck in the snow, with no fuel; the officers had already taken the last sledges.
The old men, who had served in the militia during the First World War, explained to the women, “Looks like our boys are back on the offensive!”
The divisional staff left while it was still dark. They were replaced by retreating machine gunners. With unkempt red-and-black beards, their noses peeling, their cheeks burned by the frost, they talked in loud barks. When they went out into the street, they kept firing random bursts into the air. And every night they pestered the young women and girls.
The fighting started early one morning. The villagers crept down into their cellars. There was the sound of machine-gun fire and of shell bursts. The women screamed and the children cried, while the old men said calmly, “All right, all right. There’s no need to make such a racket. It’s our own boys, with their fifteen-pounders.”
Semyon Mikheich was sitting on an upturned bucket, saying nothing at all. He was thinking.
“Well, Mikheich,” said old Kondrat, who had won a George Cross back in 1905, during the Japanese war, “it seems no one can escape the sound of fighting—not even a quiet soul like you.”
Mikheich did not reply.
The fighting grew fiercer. The pounding grew so loud that the old women wrapped shawls around the little children. And then, not far away, they heard a muffled voice.
“It’s our boys, it’s our own boys!” shouted Galya Yakimenko. “Who’ll come up with me?”
“I will!” replied Semyon Mikheich.
They climbed up out of the cellar. Evening was already drawing in. A vast sun was sinking into snow made pink by blazing fires. In the middle of the yard stood a Red Army soldier with a rifle.
“Good people,” he said quietly, “help me. I’m wounded.”
“My darling boy!” Galya shouted, and rushed to the soldier. She embraced him and led him quickly toward the hut. Semyon Mikheich just walked on.
“My darlings,” said Galya, “you boys have been shedding your blood for us! Now it’s our turn to do something. Soon we’ll have you lying down in the warm!”
From somewhere near the well came the sound of shooting. A German submachine gunner came running toward the hut. He saw a wounded Red Army soldier and a woman with her arms around him. Still running, he fired a shot. The wounded soldier, suddenly heavy, began to sink to the ground, slipping out of the arms of the woman, who was
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