The Town By The Sea

THE NOTE UNDER THE STONE

Two days after our wall newspaper went up in the foundry, Petka, setting out to work after me, found a white envelope under a stone on the garden path. It contained a note, which deserves to be quoted in full:

"Look here, you half-baked khokhol! You've got very quarrelsome rather sudden. Didn't you know that Old Man Makhno and his men will be coming home very soon. We'll be knocking the stuffing out of all these Party members and Komsomolites. So you'd better keep quiet, or better still—get out of here while your legs can still carry you. Make tracks for your Podolia, where the devil brought you from. And if you breathe a word about this letter to anyone, don't expect any mercy. We'll stop your mouth for good!"

In place of a signature a skull and cross-bones had been drawn at the bottom of the page.

When I came in from work, Petka handed me the envelope.

"The snakes are threatening you! Read this, Vasil!" he said worriedly.

I glanced through the badly-written note, and burst out laughing.

"I don't see anything to laugh at!" Sasha grunted. Like a cottage-weaver with her wool, he was winding thin strands of rubber for the flying club on the backs of two chairs.

I scanned them both keenly.

"You aren't pulling my leg, are you, chaps?" I said.

Petka flared up indignantly. "Why, you disbelieving Thomas! He thinks we sent him the rotten thing on behalf of Makhno and his men!"

And Petka told me how he had found the envelope under the stone.

Petka's story convinced me. It would have been hardly the thing for Komsomol members to play a joke of that kind.

"Who do you think wrote it, Vasil?" Petka asked. "Could it have been someone in the foundry?"

"Of course it was. One of the shirkers. We've trodden on their toes and now they're trying to scare us," I replied.

"If you're sure it was Kashket," Sasha said in a low voice, "go and report it. It's a political matter!"

"If I knew for sure. . . But no man's a thief till he's caught, you know. He'd wriggle out of it, and I'd look a fool."

But Sasha went on confidently: "Never mind that! ' They'll sort things out. The people there know what they're doing. They can find a man anywhere just by his handwriting."

"Sasha's right, Vasil," Petka broke in again. "Show that note to the right people. They'll do something about it. That's a piece of sabotage, you know it."

Until late in the evening we discussed the wretched anonymous letter. We could talk of nothing else.

In the end we came to the conclusion that it wasn't their prosperity or strength that made our enemies resort to such low methods, but rather weakness and failure.

Only a short time ago I used to be very offended when people treated me as a boy. How I had wanted to skip ahead of my years and become grown-up like Turunda, or even Golovatsky! Yet today the offensive word "half-baked," which hinted at my youth, did not affect me so much as the insulting and hated nickname "khokhol." Under tsarism it was the police and the gentry who used to call Ukrainians by that name. I had often heard the Denikin boy scouts speaking contemptuously of us workers' children as khokhols. Nowadays the term was hardly ever used and on any document I wrote my nationality as Ukrainian with a feeling of pride. I liked to go to the club of an evening and sing Ukrainian songs. I spoke Ukrainian. Now I could see that the scoundrel who had written this anonymous letter was sneering at my nationality, and that offended me more than anything.

.. . Sasha and Petka had been silent for some time. Sasha was breathing heavily. A yellow moon, like a thin slice of pumpkin, peeped in at the wide-open window. A light wind blew from the east. It being Saturday, there was still much noise coming from the park. As I lay listening to the sounds of the evening, I heard the gate click. Footsteps crunched on the gravel path leading from the gate to the house. Who could it be? The landlady had gone to bed long ago. She was rarely disturbed by visitors so late at night.

I called out of the window at the man coming up the path.

"Telegram! For Vasily Mandzhura," came the reply.

I dashed down the stairs. While I signed for the telegram and climbed back into the attic, my awakened friends had put the light on. Their faces were sleepy and impatient.

By the light of the lamp I read the sender's address: "Sinelnikovo." But that didn't make sense! I didn't know anyone in Sinelnikovo. Perhaps my father had decided to pay me a visit and was on his way from Cherkassy to spend a holiday by the sea?

"Open it, can't you! Don't keep us on edge!" Sasha groaned.

The printed letters danced before my eyes. At first I could scarcely piece them together, then I shouted:

"Chaps! Nikita's coming here!"

"Nikita coming to see us? You're joking? It's a mistake!" Petka cried, standing on tip-toe and peering at the telegram over my shoulder.

"No, it isn't! Listen!" And I read the message out loud:

ARRIVING GOODS TRAIN TOMORROW MIDDAY MEET ARRANGE IMMEDIATE RECEPTION OF FREIGHT STOP KOLOMEYETS

"What a pity I can't be there!"

"Are you crazy?" I swung round on Sasha. "Aren't you going to meet Nikita?"

"I can't, Vasya. I've got an important job to do," Sasha answered plaintively.

"How can there be anything important on Sunday?" Petka chimed in, backing me up.

But Sasha would not give in.

"Well, there is something," he said mysteriously. "But for the time being it's a secret."

"You won't come to meet Nikita, your old Komsomol secretary? But he's bringing us iron, you mut!...

You've got to be at the station! It's a matter of Komsomol discipline, understand?" Petka shouted, as if it were an order.

"Well, I can't!" Sasha insisted firmly. "Midday's just when I've got to.. .''

And nothing would move him. No matter how we reproached him for keeping a date instead of meeting his old friend and teacher, Sasha could not be persuaded.

The next day, taking Golovatsky with us, Petka and I went to the station. The passenger train from Ekaterinoslav had arrived in the morning and its empty green carriages had long ago been shunted into a siding. Weighers, pointsmen, stall-keepers—everyone had taken refuge from the midday heat in the cool station building which only a short time ago had seemed so new and strange to us. Today this seaside terminus with its hot rails gleaming in the sun seemed as if we had known it for ages. How quickly you get used to a new town if you meet good people there! I found myself regarding the young freckled stationmaster, like a toadstool in his red railwayman's cap, as an old acquaintance.

The steel wires beside the rails hummed faintly, and far away up the line the signals clicked to "Go Ahead." We heard the distant whistle of an engine.

"What's Nikita like now?" I thought, fixing my eyes on the growing billow of smoke in the distance. "Will he still talk down to us, or will he treat us as equals?"

The goods train hauled by a massive engine charged out of the steppe towards the sea. At last, belching clouds of hot steam over the already sun-scorched platform, it rumbled into the station, a great mass of oily, glistening iron with la grimy young engine-driver hanging out of the cab window.

Brown trucks loaded with timber, crates, potash, and coal lumbered past us until I thought there would be no end to them. Suddenly on one of the trucks I caught sight of a figure in a straw hat who did not look like a guard. The next second I recognized Kolomeyets. Dressed in blue overalls, he was standing on what looked like a huge lathe.

As our eyes met, Nikita ripped off his hat and waved it in greeting. Thin and amazingly sunburnt, his hair flying in the wind, he shouted something to us but his voice was drowned by the rumble of the wheels. Before the train stopped, Nikita had leapt agilely on to the platform.

"Hullo there, chaps!" he shouted.

At first Nikita simply shook hands with me, but then, after a moment's hesitation, he took me in his arms and kissed me on both cheeks. He smelt of the open steppes, of wormwood and meadow-sweet. Nikita embraced Petka too. Then I introduced him to Golovatsky.

Nikita glanced at Tolya merrily, gripping his hand.

"I've heard of you, of course! Vasil wrote me about you. Thanks for making our chaps welcome... What about the reapers, can you do them?"

"What about the iron, can you do that?" Tolya said with an answering smile.

Nikita turned and pointed to three trucks at the end of the train.

"Won't that be enough?" he said with a touch of pride.

"More than enough!" Tolya decided. "But I see Dzerzhinsky's words haven't reached your parts yet. 'Treat iron as gold.' Looks as if you've got a whole ironfield there. I must say, I thought Vasil was exaggerating a bit."

"Until we got your telegram, we somehow never thought of collecting it all," Nikita replied. "Thanks

for giving us the tip."

"But how quick you were about doing it!" Petka chimed in.

"We had to be. Harvests don't wait for you. We even collected at night by torch-light. Now everything rests with you!"

"What's that thing, Nikita?" I asked, pointing at a broken metal hulk in one of the trucks.

"It's not a 'thing,' my lad, it's a machine for printing money!"

"Not the one they used to have in the seminary?" I said, remembering the old days.

"The very same!" Nikita affirmed, and turning to Golovatsky, he explained: "At one time, you know, Petlura took over our town. This is the machine that the Germans sent him from Berlin for printing his currency. Petlura printed so many bank-notes on it that the local people are still using them to paper their rooms with. Afterwards, it was left lying in the cellar of the agricultural institute. When we got Vasil's telegram, we searched every cellar in the town. Our Komsomol chaps found this beauty behind a pile of wood. Can you use it?"

"Isn't it a pity to break up a machine like that for scrap?" Golovatsky said slowly. "Couldn't one of our print-shops make use of it?"

"We thought of that, but it would be wasted labour!" Nikita replied. "The German instructors who ran away with Petlura took all the valuable parts with them and wrecked what was left. It'd be easier to make a new one than repair this."

Golovatsky went to the stationmaster and asked him to uncouple the trucks of scrap-iron and send them over to the works.

"Take your guest home, lads. He's hungry, I expect. And it wouldn't do him any harm to have a wash," Tolya said, taking the bills from Nikita. "I'll fix things up here by myself."

"Yes, I could do with a wash," Nikita remarked and ran his hand over his sunburnt neck.

"Surely you didn't come all the way in an open truck," Petka asked as we went out on to the station square.

"Lovely trip!" Nikita exclaimed, throwing back his dark locks. "Like Jack London's hobo! The only difference was that no one tried to kick me off the train. At night, during the long runs, the guards used to gather in my truck as if it was a club."

"Had a good time, did you?" I asked, with a touch of envy.

"I should say! A real holiday on wheels! As soon as the sun got up, I'd take off my overalls and do a spot of sunbathing. A pleasant breeze to keep you cool and the chance of seeing the whole Ukraine—rivers, villages, fields, everything. . . Gosh, ours is a rich country! When we were nearing Ekaterinoslav the glare from the furnaces spread right across the sky! Talk about industry—it just takes your breath away! Yes, I had a wonderful trip. Never enjoyed anything so much in my life!"

"But what's this about Pecheritsa, Nikita?" Petka asked.

"Pecheritsa? ..." Nikita at once assumed a mysterious air. "That's rather a long story, old chap. I couldn't tell you all about that if I talked all night." And changing the subject, he asked: "But where's Sasha, chaps? Where's our dearly-beloved Comrade Bobir?"

"Sasha's busy. He'll be coming later," Petka grunted.

At that moment a roaring sound was heard from Kobazovaya Hill. The sound increased until it became a howl. Turning our heads towards the hill, we saw a small aeroplane leave the ground and climb above the town.

The plane banked and headed towards the sea. As it flew low over our heads, we saw the broad-shouldered figure of the pilot in leather helmet and goggles, and also another figure sitting behind him—a thin figure with wildly ruffled hair who looked surprisingly like someone we knew. The passenger waved his hand and suddenly Petka shouted:

"It's Sasha, chaps! I'm sure it is!"

His eyes fixed on the plane, Petka gabbled out the story of how for the past two weeks four Komsomol members from RIP had been helping Commissar Rudenko overhaul the training aircraft that he had brought from his squadron. Sasha's frequent disappearances in the evening and his mysterious refusal to meet Kolomeyets were now explained. Not knowing whether they would succeed in repairing the plane, the conspirators of the flying club had kept their maiden flight secret until the last minute. But how had they managed to move the plane secretly from the club to Kobazovaya Hill?

Meanwhile the aeroplane was heading out to sea. It was already over the breakwater. I watched its flight and— needless to say!—envied Sasha with all my heart. How I should have liked to be up there, in his cockpit looking down on our little town from the sky. In a couple of minutes Sasha had flashed right across the town, and we who were walking had not yet reached the centre. Nikita gave a spur to my envy.

"Surely that isn't Sasha?"

"Of course it is!" Petka cried. "That's why he was boasting about being a flying mechanic. 'How can you be a flying mechanic, when you've never flown!' I said. 'You'll see,' he says. 'I'll be flying one of these days.' And so he has! Look, look—they're making for the lighthouse! ..."

"Brave lad, our Sasha!" said Nikita. "So he's not such a funk as we thought he was after that unfortunate turn of sentry-duty at headquarters. To fly a plane you need strong nerves and a clear head. Yes, Sasha's put one across you this time!"

The aeroplane faded into the blue sky until it looked like a big dragon-fly that had been blown out to

sea.

"They'll land on the bar, you see if they don't!" Petka prophesied.

And indeed the plane headed towards the sand bar, but then turned back towards the town, flew over the sanatoriums, and circling above the station, dipped its wings in greeting.

"He's greeting you, Nikita!" I cried. "He thinks you're still at the station, by the train."

"Perhaps, perhaps..." Nikita agreed excitedly, watching the plane fly away towards Kobazovaya Hill.

A second later the plane had disappeared over the crest of the hill.

While our guest unhurriedly washed his dust-caked hair in the sea, Petka and I splashed about in the water. I cupped my hands and deluged Petka with clouds of spray. He snorted and choked and splashed me back, but could not beat off my attack. Then we swam out into calm water and started duck-diving. Opening my eyes under water, I saw the sandy folds of the sea bed, a rusty anchor, and clumps of seaweed that looked like wild grasses growing under water.

We enjoyed our bathe all the more because we knew our old friend Nikita was washing himself near

by!

Sasha burst into the room when the three of us, fresh from our bathe, were eating the okroshka that our landlady had made for us out of strong ice-cool kvass. Flushed with excitement, his face and hands begrimed with oil, Sasha greeted Nikita as if he had parted with him only the day before.

"Did you see us flying?" he panted.

"We did, we did, Sasha, old chap! I must admit I didn't think you had it in you," Nikita replied with a wink at us.

Sasha was up in arms at once.

"Who hadn't! ... When we've tested the engine properly we'll be flying to Nogaisk or Genichesk. We're going to make a propaganda flight. Rudenko said so himself. And I'm going to be flying mechanic. Yes, I am... Rudenko wouldn't let any of the other chaps assemble the engine with him except me..."

"Congratulations, Sasha. And I believe you'll be flying farther than Nogaisk one of these days. Now you've started it, keep on climbing and never stop!" said Nikita.