The Story of a Life

25

Autumn Battles

Back at school both the teachers and my schoolmates gave me as warm a welcome as I had received from Borya. Even Father Tregubov expressed some fitting words about the return of the prodigal son. Suboch cross-examined me about my living arrangements and promised to set me up with lessons within the month. Inspector Bodyansky emitted the terrifying snort that he used to frighten the swarm and said: ‘Guilty, but with extenuating circumstances. Off to class with you but stay out of trouble!’

Somehow I still managed to get into trouble again.

Every form in our school was divided into two sections. The first was considered ‘aristocratic’, the other ‘democratic’. Those in the first section were mainly blockheads – the sons of generals, wealthy landowners, prominent officials and financiers. In our second section were the sons of the intelligentsia, middle-class types, Jews and Poles. The division was clearly deliberate and ordained from above.

The hostility between the first and second sections was constant and expressed itself in mutual disdain. Every autumn a battle was traditionally fought between the two sections involving every boy except for the swarmers and those in the top form. These were already considered adults, almost university students, and so brawling seemed by now beneath them. It was only once in a great while that the battles did not take place.

The date of the battle changed every year, which we did to throw off the watchful school authorities. Nevertheless, they somehow managed to guess when the big day was approaching and then they began to worry and resort to all manner of tricks to try to avert the bloody clash: without warning they would dismiss the entire form suspected of instigating the brawl immediately after the first period of the day, or they would send two or three forms at the same time on a trip to the local art gallery, or they suddenly locked all the doors to the garden, our favourite place for the fight. But none of their cunning ploys worked. The battle always occurred on the appointed day and always during the midday break.

Some of the boys were ‘exempted’ from the fighting. Namely, the sick, the weak and those who couldn’t stomach the day-to-day pushing and shoving, let alone organised violence. Exemptions were freely granted, and no one was made to feel bad about it. I was one of those boys exempted for that last reason. We were required to remove our uniform sashes to signal our neutral status. According to the iron rules of school warfare, no one was permitted to touch a boy without a sash. Nevertheless, we preferred not to even venture out into the garden, but to watch the battle from inside. You could see it better from the classroom windows.

A sudden deadly silence marked the beginning of the battle. In the blink of an eye, the corridors emptied as the schoolboys raced to the garden. Then came a menacing, muffled roar. Upon hearing this, Inspector Bodyansky turned white and crossed himself. Through the clouds of dust raised by the attacking formations, volleys of chestnuts whistled like grapeshot. All the proctors – Kazimir, Maxim (a.k.a. ‘Cold Water’) and a few others – tore into the garden, a jostling crowd of terrified supervisors right behind them. Doors slammed. The corridors echoed with the agitated voices of teachers.

Throwing on his coat and pulling his cockaded hat down tight on his head, Inspector Bodyansky ran down the stairs as he hurried to the battlefield. Once Father Olendsky, the Catholic priest, came racing after Bodyansky into the garden. We climbed up onto the windowsills. We wanted to see Olendsky raise his crucifix aloft and appeal to the warring sides to lay down their weapons. But instead, Olendsky rolled up the sleeves of his cassock and then began to pull the combatants apart and fling them left and right. He did this with amazing dexterity and ease, literally tossing the boys aside as if they were balls. No doubt Olendsky was reliving his childhood. Huffing and puffing, the good father returned to the teachers’ common room. His shining red face left no doubt that participating in this battle, even if only as a peacemaker, had given him enormous satisfaction.

As soon as the fighting erupted, the proctors and supervisors threw open all the doors to the garden. It was one of their cunning military tactics. By opening the doors, they could then divide the boys into small groups and drive them back into the school.

‘It’s begun at the First Gymnasium!’ the street boys yelled.

From the windows it was difficult to tell just what had begun and what was happening. Dirt flew, branches shook. There came shouts and dull thuds, as if two herds of elephants were trampling each other. Then, at long last, obliterating all else and resounding through the long corridors, there arose the cry of victory that swelled in a tumultuous, roaring crescendo. This meant that the second section had won, and the first had been forced to beat a hasty retreat. As best I recall, the first section never won.

Almost always in the front rank of the victors was a boy with a pert snub nose – the future writer Mikhail Bulgakov. He rushed into battle where the fighting was at its most dangerous. Victory followed him, crowning him with a golden wreath of his own dishevelled hair. The blockheads from the first section were afraid of Bulgakov and tried to slander him. After one battle they began a rumour that Bulgakov had violated the established rules of combat by using his metal belt buckle as a knuckle-duster. No one believed this lie, however, not even Inspector Bodyansky.

I myself took part in this particular battle because I had a score to settle with a boy by the name of Khavin, the son of a broker on the Kiev stock exchange. He was tall and gangly and loved to use the word ‘sacramental’ in practically every sentence even though he sounded ridiculous given his pronounced burr. On his trips to the theatre, he would blow languid kisses to the girls. He rode to school in his own carriage and pair and had nothing but contempt for us plebeians.

The cause of the affair was Pani Kozlovskaya. The old lady could barely see and was afraid to go out. I escorted her to church almost every Sunday. She felt badly about causing me so much trouble and, blushing like a young girl, was forever apologising. I usually led her by the arm to keep her from bumping into the other pedestrians. Lieutenant Romuald took my place on occasion, but only rarely. I suspected he was ashamed of his aged mother, of her old-fashioned clothes, her helplessness. At any rate, most Sundays the lieutenant was ‘devilishly busy’. On one of those Sunday mornings I was accompanying Pani Kozlovskaya to church along Mikhailovskaya Street. We came face to face with Khavin. Raising an eyebrow, he gave me a look of scornful amazement. Next, Khavin slowly looked Pani Kozlovskaya up and down, after which he grinned, snapped his fingers, whistled and walked on.

When the battle began, I rushed to the garden. Khavin was standing off to the side. He was not wearing a sash, and neither was I. Both of us had been ‘exempted’. Nevertheless I walked straight up to Khavin and slapped him in the face. He let out a strange squeak. Supervisor Dolt grabbed me by the arm. The next day Inspector Bodyansky summoned me.

‘What is all this?’ he asked. ‘I might understand had you been fighting according to the established rules just like the rest of you wild animals, but to go and slap someone out of the blue! Whatever for?’

‘I had my reasons, Pavel Petrovich. You know I’ve never fought before in my life.’

‘Yes, yes, quite true! But now you risk having to pay school fees in the second half of the year. Why did you hit him?’

I dug in my heals and didn’t want to say anything more. ‘It was worth it. You may or may not believe me, Pavel Petrovich, but that’s all I’m going to tell you.’

‘Fine, I believe you,’ said Bodyansky. ‘Now go! May this all simply be forgotten.’

After every battle Bodyansky and the director had to have unpleasant conversations with the school board and the parents of the beaten blockheads.

‘This is all the result of your having no respect for authority,’ Bodyansky would tell us angrily after these conversations. ‘You’ve been reading too much Ibsen and Leonid Andreev,fn1 that’s the problem! Enlightened youth! Future pillars of society! Ha! Savages and troglodytes, that’s what you are!’