第 29 页

一个炎热的中午，谢廖沙跑进车厢里找到丽达，把保尔的信念给她听，又向她讲了自己这位好朋友的事。临走的时候，他随便说了一句：“我要到林子里去，在湖里洗个澡。”

丽达放下手里的工作，叫住他说：“你等等，咱们一起去。”

他们两人走到水平如镜的湖边，停住了脚步。温暖而透明的湖水清爽宜人。

“你上大路口去等一会儿。我到湖里洗个澡。”丽达用命令的口气说。

谢廖沙在小桥旁边的一块石头上坐了下来，脸朝着太阳。

他背后响起了溅水声。

透过树丛，他看见冬妮亚•图曼诺娃和宣传列车政委丘扎宁正顺着大路走来。丘扎宁长得很漂亮，穿着十分考究的弗连奇军装，系着军官武装带，脚上是吱吱响的软皮靴子。他挽着冬妮亚的胳膊，一边走，一边跟她谈着什么。

谢廖沙认出了冬妮亚。就是她有一回给他送过保尔写的条子。冬妮亚也目不转睛地看着谢廖沙，显然，她也认出他来了。当冬妮亚和丘扎宁走到他身边的时候，他从口袋里掏出一封信，叫住冬妮亚说：“同志，您等一等，我这儿有一封信，跟您也有点关系。”

他把一张写得满满的信纸递给了她。冬妮亚抽出手，读起信来。信纸在她手中微微颤动着。她把信还给谢廖沙的时候，问：“他的情况，你就知道这些吗？”

“是的。”谢廖沙回答。

丽达从后面走来，碎石在她脚下响了一下。丘扎宁看见她在这里，立即小声对冬妮亚说：“咱们走吧。”

但是丽达已经把他叫住了。她轻蔑地嘲讽他说：“丘扎宁同志！列车上成天都在找您呢！”

丘扎宁不满地斜了她一眼。

“没关系，没有我，他们照样能办事。”

丽达看着丘扎宁他们两人的背影，说：“这个骗子，什么时候才能把他撵走啊！”

树林在喧闹，柞树摇晃着强劲的脑袋。湖水清澈凉爽，令人神往。谢廖沙也情不自禁地想跳入水中，洗个痛快。

洗完之后，他在离林间小道不远的地方找到了丽达，她正坐在一棵伐倒的柞树上。

两个人一边谈话，一边向树林深处走去。他们走到一小块青草茂盛的林间空地上，决定在这里休息一会儿。树林里静悄悄的。只有柞树在窃窃私语。丽达在柔软的草地上躺了下来，弯过一只胳膊枕在头下。她那两条健美的腿和一双补了又补的皮鞋，没在又高又密的青草里。谢廖沙的目光无意中落到她的脚上，看到她的皮鞋上打着整整齐齐的补丁，再看看自己的靴子，上面有一个大窟窿，已经露出了脚趾。他不禁笑了起来。

“你笑什么？”

谢廖沙伸出一只靴子，说：“咱们穿着这样的靴子，怎么打仗啊？”

丽达没有回答。她轻轻咬着草茎，心里正在想着别的事。

“丘扎宁是个坏党员，”她终于开口说。“我们所有的政工人员都穿得又旧又破，可他却只关心自己。他是到咱们党里来混混的……现在，前线情况确实严重，咱们国家得经受激烈战斗的长期考验。”她沉默了片刻，又接着说：“谢廖沙，咱们不单要用嘴和笔战斗，也要拿起枪来。中央已经决定，动员四分之一的共青团员上前线，你知道吗？谢廖沙，我估计，咱们在这儿不会待很久了。”

谢廖沙听她说着，从她的话里听出一种不寻常的音调来。

他感到很惊奇。她那双水汪汪的又黑又亮的眼睛一直盯着他。

他几乎要忘情了，想对她说，她的眼睛像一面镜子，从里面能看见一切，但是他及时控制住了自己。

丽达用胳膊肘支着，欠起身来。

“你的手枪呢？”

谢廖沙摸了一下皮带，难过地说：“上回在村子里，叫那帮富农给抢去了。”

丽达把手伸进制服口袋，掏出一支发亮的勃朗宁手枪。

“你看见那棵柞树没有，谢廖沙？”她用枪口指了指离她有二十五六步远的一棵满是裂纹的树干。然后举起手枪，同眼睛取平，几乎没有瞄准，就开了一枪。打碎的树皮撒落在地上。

“看到了没有？”她得意地说，接着又放了一枪。又是一阵树皮落地的簌簌声。

“给你，”她把手枪递给谢廖沙，用逗弄的口吻说。“现在该看看你的枪法了。”

谢廖沙放了三枪，有一枪没有打中。丽达微笑着说：“我还以为你不会打得这么好呢。”

她放下手枪，又在草地上躺下来。制服上衣清晰地显出了她那富有弹性的胸脯的轮廓。

“谢廖沙，你到这儿来。”她轻轻地说。

他把身子挪到她跟前。

“你看到天空没有？天空是碧蓝的。你的眼睛和天空一样，也是碧蓝的。这不好。你的眼睛应该是深灰色的，像钢铁一样才好。碧蓝色未免太温柔了。”

突然，她一下紧紧搂住了他那长着淡黄色头发的头，热烈地吻着他的双唇。

这个举动对谢廖沙来说太突如其来了，即便他在刑场面对枪口，也未必会这样心慌意乱。他只知道丽达在吻他，除此之外，他什么也无法理解。这个丽达，他连握她的手超过一秒钟都不敢。

“谢廖沙，”她稍稍推开他那晕乎乎的头说，“我现在把自己交给你，是因为你充满青春活力，你的感情跟你的眼睛一样纯洁，还因为未来的日子可能夺去我们的生命。所以，趁我们有这几个自由支配的时辰，我们现在要相爱。在我的生活里，你是我爱的第二个人……”

谢廖沙打断她的话头，向她探过身去。他陶醉在幸福之中，克服着内心的羞涩，抓住了她的手……

曾经难以理解的丽达如今成了他谢廖沙心爱的妻子。一股巨大的激情闯进了他的生活，这是他对丽达深沉而又博大的同志情谊，它占据了他那颗渴望火热斗争的心。开头几天，他的生活常规完全给打乱了。可是紧张繁忙的工作不等人。不久他又全身心投入了工作。

直到眼前的这个秋天，生活只赏赐给他们三四次见面的机会，这几次见面令人心醉，永生难忘。

过了两个月，秋天到了。

夜悄悄降临，用黑色的帷幕盖住了树林。师参谋部的报务员俯在电报机上，忙着收报。电报机发出急促的嗒嗒声，一张狭长的纸条从他的指缝间穿过，他迅速将那些点和短线译成文字，写在电文纸上：

第一师师参谋长并抄送舍佩托夫卡革委会主席。命令收到电报后十小时内，撤出市内全部机关。留一个营，归本战区指挥员×团团长指挥。师参谋部、政治部及所有军事机关，均撤至巴兰切夫车站。执行情况，即报来。

师长（签名）

十分钟后，一辆点着电石灯的摩托车飞速穿过寂静的街道，突突突地喷着气，在革委会大门口停了下来。通讯员把电报交给了革委会主席多林尼克。人们行动起来了。特务连马上开始整队。一小时过后，几辆马车满载着革委会的物品，从街上走过，到波多尔斯克车站，装车准备出发。

谢廖沙听完电报，跟着通讯员跑了出去，对他说：“同志，捎个脚，带我上车站，行不？”

“坐在后面吧，把牢了。”

宣传鼓动科的车厢已经挂到列车上，谢廖沙在离车厢十步左右的地方抓住了丽达的双肩。他感到就要失去一件无比珍贵的东西，低声地说：“再见吧，丽达，我亲爱的同志！咱们还会见面的，你千万别忘了我。”

他害怕自己马上就会放声哭出来。该走了。他再也说不出话来，只有紧紧地握住她的手，把她的手都握疼了。

第二天早晨，被遗弃的小城和车站已经是空荡荡的了。最后一列火车的车头拉了几声汽笛，像是告别似的。留守城里的那个营，在车站后面铁路两侧布成了警戒线。

遍地都是黄叶，树枝上光秃秃的。风卷着落叶，在路上慢慢地打转。

谢廖沙穿着军大衣，身上束着帆布子弹带，同十个红军战士一起，守卫着糖厂附近的十字路口，等待波兰军队的到来。

阿夫托诺姆•彼得罗维奇敲了几下邻居格拉西姆•列昂季耶维奇的门。这位邻居还没有穿好衣服，他从敞开的房门里探出头来，问：“出了什么事？”

阿夫托诺姆•彼得罗维奇指着持枪行进的红军战士，向他的朋友使了个眼色。

“开走了。”

格拉西姆•列昂季耶维奇担心地看了他一眼，问：“您知不知道，波兰人的旗子是什么样的？”

“好像有只独头鹰。”

“哪儿能弄到呢？”

阿夫托诺姆•彼得罗维奇烦恼地搔了搔后脑勺。

“他们当然无所谓，”他想了一会儿说。“说走就走了，可是苦了咱们，要合新政府的意，又得大伤脑筋。”

突然，一挺机枪嗒嗒地响了起来，打破了四周的寂静。车站附近有一个火车头拉响了汽笛。同时从那里传来了一下沉重的炮声。接着重炮弹划破长空，呼啸着飞过去，落在工厂后边的大道上。道旁的灌木丛立刻隐没在蓝灰色的硝烟里。闷闷不乐的红军战士沿着街道默默地撤退，不时回头看看后边。

一颗凉丝丝的泪珠顺着谢廖沙的脸流了下来。他急忙擦掉泪珠，回头向同志们看了一眼，幸好谁也没有看见。

同谢廖沙并肩走着的是又高又瘦的锯木厂工人安捷克•克洛波托夫斯基。他的手指扣在步枪扳机上。安捷克脸色阴沉，心事重重。他的眼睛碰到了谢廖沙的目光，便向他诉说了自己的心事：“这回咱们家里的人可要遭殃了，特别是我家的人。他们一定会说：‘他是波兰人，还同波兰大军作对。’他们准会把我父亲赶出锯木厂，用鞭子抽他。我劝老人家跟咱们一起走，可是他舍不得扔下这个家。唉，这帮该死的家伙，赶紧碰上他们打一仗才好呢！”安捷克烦躁地把遮住眼睛的红军军帽往上推了推。

……再见吧，我的故乡，再见吧，肮脏而难看的小城，丑陋的小屋，坎坷不平的街道！再见吧，亲人们，再见吧，瓦莉亚，再见吧，转入地下的同志们！凶恶的异族侵略者——无情的白色波兰军队已经逼近了。

机车库的工人们穿着油污的衬衫，用忧愁的眼光目送着红军战士们。谢廖沙满怀激情地喊道：“我们还要回来的，同志们！”

Part One Chapter 8

The river gleams dully through the early morning haze; softly its waters gurgle against the smooth pebbles of the banks. In the shallows by the banks the river is calm, its silvery surface almost unruffled; but out in midstream it is dark and restless, hurrying swiftly onward. The majestic Dnieper, the river immortalised by Gogol. The tall right bank drops steeply down to the water, like a mountain halted in its advance by the broad sweep of the waters. The flat left bank below is covered with sandy spots left when the water receded after the spring floods.

Five men lay beside a snub-nosed Maxim gun in a tiny trench dug into the river bank. This was a forward outpost of the Seventh Rifle Division. Nearest the gun and facing the river lay Sergei Bruzzhak.

The day before, worn out by the endless battles and swept back by a hurricane of Polish artillery fire, they had given up Kiev, withdrawn to the left bank of the river, and dug in there.

The retreat, the heavy losses and finally the surrender of Kiev to the enemy had been a bitter blow to the men. The Seventh Division had heroically fought its way through enemy encirclement and, advancing through the forests, had emerged on the railway line at Malin Station, and with one furious blow had hurled back the Polish forces and cleared the road to Kiev.

But the lovely city had been given up and the Red Army men were downcast.

The Poles, having driven the Red units out of Darnitsa, now occupied a small bridgehead on the left bank of the river beside the railway bridge. But furious counterattacks had frustrated all their efforts to advance beyond that point.

As he watched the river flowing past, Sergei thought of what had happened the previous day.

Yesterday, at noon, his unit had given battle to the Poles; yesterday he had had his first hand-tohand engagement with the enemy. A young Polish legionary had come swooping down upon him, his rifle with its long, sabre-like French bayonet thrust forward; he bounded towards Sergei like a hare, shouting something unintelligible. For a fraction of a second Sergei saw his eyes dilated with frenzy. The next instant Sergei's bayonet clashed with the Pole's, and the shining French blade was thrust aside. The Pole fell. . . .

Sergei's hand did not falter. He knew that he would have to go on killing, he, Sergei, who was capable of such tender love, such steadfast friendship. He was not vicious or cruel by nature, but he knew that he must fight these misguided soldiers whom the world's parasites had whipped up into a frenzy of bestial hatred and sent against his native land. And he, Sergei, would kill in order to hasten the day when men would kill one another no longer.

Paramonov tapped him on the shoulder. "We'd better be moving on, Sergei, or they'll spot us."

For a year now Pavel Korchagin had travelled up and down his native land, riding on machine-gun carriages and gun caissons or astride a small grey mare with a nick in her ear. He was a grown man now, matured and hardened by suffering and privation. The tender skin chafed to the raw by the heavy cartridge belt had long since healed and a hard callus had formed under the rifle strap on his shoulder.

Pavel had seen much that was terrible in that year. Together with thousands of other fighting men as ragged and ill-clad as himself but afire with the indomitable determination to fight for the power of their class, he had marched over the length and breadth of his native land and only twice had the storm swept on without him:

the first time when he was wounded in the hip, and the second, when in the bitterly cold February of 1920 he sweltered in the sticky heat of typhus.

The typhus took a more fearful toll of the regiments and divisions of the Twelfth Army than Polish machine guns. By that time the Twelfth Army was operating over a vast territory stretching across nearly the whole of the Northern Ukraine blocking the advance of the Poles.

Pavel had barely recovered from his illness when he returned to his unit which was now holding the station of Frontovka, on the Kazatin-Uman branch line. Frontovka stood in the forest and consisted of a small station building with a few wrecked and abandoned cottages around it. Three years of intermittent battles had made civilian life in these parts impossible. Frontovka had changed hands times without number.

Big events were brewing again. At the time when the Twelfth Army, its ranks fearfully depleted and partly disorganised, was falling back to Kiev under the pressure of the Polish armies, the proletarian republic was mustering its forces to strike a crushing blow at the victory-drunk Polish Whites.

The battle-seasoned divisions of the First Cavalry Army were being transferred to the Ukraine all the way from the North Caucasus in a campaign unparalleled in military history. The Fourth, Sixth, Eleventh and Fourteenth Cavalry divisions moved up one after another to the Uman area, concentrating in the rear of the front and sweeping away the Makhno bandits on their way to the scene of decisive battles.

Sixteen and a half thousand sabres, sixteen and a half thousand fighting men scorched by the blazing steppe sun.

To prevent this decisive blow from being thwarted by the enemy was the primary concern of the Supreme Command of the Red Army and the Command of the Southwestern Front at this juncture. Everything was done to ensure the successful concentration of this huge mounted force.

Active operations were suspended on the Uman sector. The direct telegraph lines from Moscow to the front headquarters in Kharkov and thence to the headquarters of the Fourteenth and Twelfth armies hummed incessantly. Telegraph operators tapped out coded orders: "Divert attention Poles from concentration cavalry army." The enemy was actively engaged only when the Polish advance threatened to involve the Budyonny cavalry divisions.

The campfire shot up red tongues of flame. Dark spirals of smoke curled up from the fire, driving off the swarms of restless buzzing midges. The men lay in a semicircle around the fire whose reflection cast a coppery glow on their faces. The water bubbled in messtins set in the bluish-grey ashes.

A stray tongue of flame leaped out suddenly from beneath a burning log and licked at someone's tousled head. The head was jerked away with a growl: "Damnation!" And a gust of laughter rose from the men grouped around the fire.

"The lad's so full of book-learning he don't feel the heat of the fire," boomed a middle-aged soldier with a clipped moustache, who had just been examining the barrel of his rifle against the firelight.

"You might tell the rest of us what you're reading there, Korchagin?" someone suggested.

The young Red Army man fingered his singed locks and smiled.

"A real good book, Comrade Androshchuk. Just can't tear myself away from it."

"What's it about?" inquired a snub-nosed lad sitting next to Korchagin, laboriously repairing the strap of his pouch. He bit off the coarse thread, wound the remainder round the needle and stuck it inside his helmet. "If it's about love I'm your man."

A loud guffaw greeted this remark. Matveichuk raised his close-cropped head and winked slyly at the snub-nosed lad: "Love's a fine thing, Sereda," he said. "And you're such a handsome lad, a regular picture. Wherever we go the girls fairly wear their shoes out running after you. Too bad a handsome phiz like yours should be spoiled by one little defect: you've got a five-kopek piece instead of a nose. But that's easily remedied. Just hang a Novitsky 10-pounder ( The Novitsky grenade weighing about four kilograms and used to demolish barbed-wire entanglements.) on the end of it overnight and in the morning it'll be all right."

The roar of laughter that followed this sally caused the horses tethered to the machine-gun carriers to whinny in fright.

Sereda glanced nonchalantly over his shoulder. "It's not your face but what you've got in here that counts." He tapped himself on the forehead expressively. "Take you, you've got a tongue like a stinging nettle but you're no better than a donkey, and your ears are cold."

"Now then, lads, what's the sense in getting riled?" Tatarinov, the Section Commander,admonished the two who were about to fly at each other. "Better let Korchagin read to us if he's got something worth listening to."

"That's right. Go to it, Pavlushka!" the men urged from all sides.

Pavel moved a saddle closer to the fire, settled himself on it and opened the small thick volume resting on his knees.

"It's called The Gadfly, Comrades. The Battalion Commissar gave it to me. Wonderful book,Comrades. If you'll sit quietly I'll read it to you."

"Fire away! We're all listening."

When some time later Comrade Puzyrevsky, the Regimental Commander, rode up unnoticed to the campfire with his Commissar he saw eleven pairs of eyes glued to the reader.

He turned to the Commissar:

"There you have half of the regiment's scouts," he said, pointing to the group of men. "Four of them are raw young Komsomols, but they're good soldiers all of them. The one who's reading is Korchagin, and that one there with eyes like a wolfcub is Zharky. They're friends, but they're always competing with each other on the quiet.

Korchagin used to be my best scout. Now he has a very serious rival. What they're doing just now is political work, and very effective it is too. I hear these youngsters are called 'the young guard'. Most appropriate, in my opinion."

"Is that the political instructor reading?" the Commissar asked.

"No. Kramer is the political instructor." Puzyrevsky spurred his horse forward.

"Greetings, Comrades!" he called.

All heads turned toward the commander as he sprang lightly from the saddle and went up to the group.

"Warming yourselves, friends?" he said with a broad smile and his strong face with the narrow,slightly Mongolian eyes lost its severity. The men greeted their commander warmly as they would a good comrade and friend. The Commissar did not dismount.

Pushing aside his pistol in its holster, Puzyrevsky sat down next to Korchagin.

"Shall we have a smoke?" he suggested. "I have some first-rate tobacco here."

He rolled a cigarette, lit it and turned to the Commissar: "You go ahead, Doronin. I'll stay here for a while. If I'm needed at headquarters you can let me know."

"Go on reading, I'll listen too," Puzyrevsky said to Korchagin when Doronin had gone.

Pavel read to the end, laid the book down on his knees and gazed pensively at the fire. For a few moments no one spoke. All brooded on the tragic fate of the Gadfly.