第 33 页

“那帮野兽不相信她真疯，说她是假装的，每次提审都打她一顿。后来拉出去枪毙的时候，她都没人样了。脸给打成了紫黑色，两只眼直瞪瞪地发呆，完全像个老太婆。

“瓦莉亚•勃鲁扎克直到最后一分钟表现都很好。他们死得都像真正的战士。我不知道，他们打哪儿来的那股力量。保尔，要把他们死难的情况全说出来，难道可能吗？不可能。他们死得真惨！没法用言语形容……瓦莉亚的案情最重，她负责跟波军司令部的报务员联系，还经常到县里做联络工作。抓她的时候，又搜出了两颗手榴弹和一支勃朗宁手枪。手榴弹就是那个奸细给她的。都是事先做好的圈套，好给她安上蓄谋炸毁波军司令部的罪名。

“唉，保尔，临刑那几天的情景我真不愿意讲。既然你一定要知道，我就只好说说。军事法庭判处瓦莉亚和另外两个同志绞刑，其他同志全部枪决。

“我们原先在波兰士兵当中做过策反工作，这些士兵也受到了审判，比我们早两天。

“一个年轻的班长，叫斯涅古尔科，是个报务员，战前在洛济当过电工。他被判处枪决，罪名是背叛祖国和在士兵中进行共产主义宣传。他没有要求赦免，判决后二十四小时，就给他们杀害了。

“他们传瓦莉亚到法庭上去作证。她回来跟我们说，斯涅古尔科承认他进行过共产主义宣传，但是断然否认他背叛祖国。他说：‘我的祖国是波兰苏维埃社会主义共和国。是的，我是波兰共产党党员。我当兵是被迫的。我一向所做的工作，不过是帮助那些跟我一样被你们赶到前线的士兵睁开眼睛。你们可以为了这个绞死我，但是我从来没有背叛自己的祖国，而且永远都不会背叛。只是我的祖国跟你们的不同。你们的祖国是地主贵族的，我的祖国是工人农民的！我深信，我的祖国一定会成为一个工农大众的国家，而在我的这个祖国里，决不会有人说我是叛徒。’“判决以后，我们就都关在一起了。临刑前，把我们转到了监狱里。夜里，他们在监狱对面靠近医院的地方竖起了绞架。隔不远，靠近树林，就在大道旁边的陡坡上，又选定了一个地方作为执行枪决的刑场，还在那儿给我们挖了一个大坑。

“判决书张贴出去了，全城都知道了这件事。他们决定在大白天当众处决我们，好让每个人看了都害怕。第二天，从早晨起就把老百姓从城里赶到绞架跟前。有的人是因为好奇，虽然心里害怕，也还是来了。绞架旁边是密密麻麻的人群。一眼看去，人头攒动。监狱四面围着木栅栏，这你是知道的。绞架就离监狱不远，我们都能听到外面嘈杂的人声。在后面的街道上，架起了机枪，整个地区的宪兵队，包括骑兵和步兵，都调来了。一个营的军队封锁了大街小巷。还特地为判处绞刑的人挖了一个坑，就在绞架旁边。我们默不作声地等待最后一刻的到来，只是偶尔有人说一两句话。该说的前一天都说了，就连诀别的话也说了。只有罗莎还在牢房角落里喃喃自语，不知道说些什么。瓦莉亚因为遭到强奸，又挨了毒打，已经不能走了，大部分时间都是躺着。有两个从镇上抓来的共产党员，是一对亲姐妹。她们互相拥抱着诀别，控制不住自己，放声大哭起来。一个叫斯捷潘诺夫的小伙子，是从县里抓来的，很有力气，像个摔跤运动员，被捕的时候同敌人格斗，打伤了两个宪兵。他一再对这姐妹俩说：‘同志们，别掉眼泪了。要哭就在这儿哭吧，到外边就别再哭了。决不能让那帮吃人的豺狼高兴。他们反正是不会放过咱们的，咱们反正是要死的，那么，就让我们从容地死吧！咱们谁也不能下跪。同志们，死要死得有骨气！’“这时候，提我们的人来了。走在前面的是侦缉处长什瓦尔科夫斯基，这家伙是个残暴的色情狂，简直是只疯狗。他要是自己不强奸，就让宪兵动手，他在旁边看着取乐。从监狱穿过马路直到绞架，宪兵排成了两道人墙，都是大刀出鞘。他们肩上挂着黄色的穗带，大家都管他们叫‘黄脖狗’。

“他们用枪托把我们赶到监狱的院子里，四个人一排站好队，然后打开大门，把我们押到街上。他们让我们站在绞架跟前，亲眼看着自己的同志被绞死，然后再枪毙我们。绞架很高，是用几根原木搭成的。绞架上吊着三根粗绳子，头上系成圈套。下面是带小梯子的平台，用一根活动的木桩子支撑着。人群像海一样，不住地蠕动着，发出勉强可以听到的嗡嗡声。他们的眼睛全盯在我们身上。我们能够辨认出自己的亲友。

“在稍远一点的台阶上，聚集着一帮波兰小贵族，手里拿着望远镜，跟他们在一起的还有几个军官。他们都是来欣赏怎样绞死布尔什维克的。

“脚下的雪是松软的，树林一片白茫茫，树枝像落上了一层棉絮。雪花在空中飞舞，慢慢落下来，飘到我们灼热的脸上，就融化了。绞架下面的平台上也铺了一层雪。我们的衣服差不多全给剥光了，但是谁也没有感到冷。斯捷潘诺夫甚至没有注意到他脚上只穿着一双袜子。

“军事检察官和高级军官们都站在绞架旁边。最后，终于把瓦莉亚和另外两个判绞刑的同志押出了监狱。他们三个人互相挽着胳膊，瓦莉亚夹在中间。她已经没有力气走路了，那两个同志搀扶着她。不过，她记住了斯捷潘诺夫的话：‘死要死得有骨气’，还是竭力想自己走。她没有穿大衣，只穿着一件绒衣。

“侦缉处长什瓦尔科夫斯基看来很不满意他们挽着胳膊走，推了他们一下。瓦莉亚不知道说了句什么，一个骑马的宪兵立即扬起马鞭，朝她脸上狠狠地抽了一鞭子。

“就在这个时候，人群中有一个女人惨叫了一声，呼天抢地地挣扎着，拼命想挤过警戒线，冲到这三个人跟前去。但是她让宪兵抓住，不知道给拖到什么地方去了。大概这是瓦莉亚的母亲。快走到绞架的时候，瓦莉亚唱了起来。我还从来没有听见过这样的歌声——只有视死如归的人才会这样满怀激情地歌唱。她唱的是《华沙之歌》，那两个同志也随着她一起唱。宪兵用马鞭抽他们，这帮没人性的畜生就像发了疯似的，鞭子不断落到咱们同志的身上，他们都好像没有什么感觉。宪兵把他们打倒在地上，像拖口袋一样拖到绞架跟前，草草念完了判决书，就把绞索套在他们脖子上。这时候，我们大伙就高唱起《国际歌》来：起来！饥寒交迫的奴隶……

“他们从四面八方向我们扑过来。我只看见一个匪兵用枪托把支着平台的木桩推倒，咱们的三个同志就全让绞索给吊了起来……

“当我们在刑场上准备受刑的时候，他们向我们宣读了判决书，说将军大人开恩，把我们当中九个人的死刑改判为二十年苦役。其余十七个同志还是全给枪毙了。”

说到这里，萨穆伊尔扯开了衬衣领子，好像领子勒得他喘不过气来似的。

“三位同志的尸体整整吊了三天，日夜都有匪兵在绞架旁边看守。后来我们监狱里又送进来几个犯人，据他们说，第四天托博利金同志的绞索断了，因为他身体最重，他们这才把另外两具尸体也解下来，就地掩埋了。

“但是绞架一直没有拆掉，我们往这儿押解的时候，还看到了。绞索还吊在半空，等待着新的牺牲者。”

萨穆伊尔沉默起来，呆滞的目光凝视着远方。保尔都没有觉察到他已经讲完了。

那三具尸体清晰地呈现在保尔眼前，他们的面目很可怕，脑袋歪在一边，在绞架上默默地摆动着。

突然，街上吹起了集合号，号声惊醒了保尔，他用低得几乎听不见的声音说：“咱们到外边去吧，萨穆伊尔！”

骑兵押着波兰俘虏，从大街上走过。团政委站在监狱大门旁边，在军用记事本上写了一道命令。

“给你，安季波夫同志。”他把命令交给矮壮结实的骑兵连长。“派一个班，把俘虏全部押解到诺沃格勒—沃伦斯基方向去。受伤的要给包扎好，用大车运，也往那个方向去。送到离这儿二十俄里的地方，就让他们滚蛋吧。咱们没时间管他们。你得注意，绝对不许有虐待俘虏的行为。”

保尔跨上战马，回头对萨穆伊尔说：“你听见没有？他们绞死咱们的同志，咱们倒要送他们回自己人那儿去，还不许虐待。这怎么办得到？”

团长回过头来盯着他。保尔听见团长好像在自言自语，但是语气却坚定而严厉：“虐待解除了武装的俘虏是要枪毙的。我们可不是白军。”

保尔策马离开监狱大门的时候，想起了在全团宣读的革命军事委员会的命令，命令最后是这样说的：

……故此命令：

１．以口头的和书面印发的形式不断地、反复地向红军部队，特别是向新组建的部队宣传解释：波兰士兵是波兰和英法资产阶级的牺牲品，他们本人也是身不由己。因此，我们的责任是，把被俘的波兰士兵当作误入歧途的、受蒙骗的兄弟一样来对待，以后要把他们作为醒悟了的兄弟遣返回解放后的波兰祖国。

２．凡有有关虐待波兰战俘以及欺凌当地居民的传闻、消息、报告，要一查到底，严查严办，不论这些传闻、消息来自何种渠道。

３．各部队指挥人员和政工人员要充分意识到，他们对严格执行本命令负有责任。工农国家热爱自己的红军。红军是它的骄傲。它要求红军不要在自己的旗帜上染上一个污点。

“不要染上一个污点。”保尔小声对自己说。

正当骑兵第四师攻下日托米尔的时候，戈利科夫同志统率的突击部队的一部——第七步兵师第二十旅也在奥库尼诺沃村一带强渡了第聂伯河。

由第二十五步兵师和巴什基尔骑兵旅组成的一支部队奉命渡过第聂伯河，并在伊尔沙车站附近切断基辅到科罗斯坚的铁路线。这次军事行动的目的是截断波军逃离基辅的唯一通路。舍佩托夫卡共青团组织的一个团员米什卡•列夫丘科夫在这次渡河时牺牲了。

当部队在晃荡的浮桥上跑步前进的时候，从山背后飞来一颗炮弹。它在战士们头顶上呼啸而过，落在水里爆炸了。就在这一瞬间，米什卡栽到搭浮桥的小船底下，让河水吞没了，再也没有浮上来。只有淡黄色头发的战士亚基缅科看见了，这个戴着一顶掉了檐的破军帽的战士，一见这情景，惊叫起来：“哎哟，不好了，米什卡掉到水里去了！连影都没有，这下完了！”他停住脚步，吃惊地盯着黑沉沉的流水。后面的人撞在他身上，推着他说：“你这傻瓜，张着嘴巴看什么？还不快走！”

当时根本没有工夫去考虑个别人的吉凶，他们这个旅本来就落后了，兄弟部队已经占领了对岸。

米什卡的死讯，谢廖沙是四天以后才知道的。他们旅经过激战攻下布恰车站后，随即向基辅方面展开攻势，当时他们正在阻击企图以猛烈的冲锋向科罗斯坚突围的波军。

亚基缅科在谢廖沙身边趴下来。他停止了猛烈的射击，好不容易才拉开灼热的枪机，然后把脑袋贴着地面，转过来对谢廖沙说：“步枪要缓口气，烫得像火一样。”

枪炮在轰鸣，谢廖沙勉强才听到他说的话。后来枪炮声小了一点，亚基缅科像是顺便提起似的说：“你的那位老乡在第聂伯河里淹死了。我没看清他是怎么掉到水里去的。”他说完，用手摸了摸枪机，从子弹带里拿出一排子弹，一丝不苟地压进了弹仓。

攻打别尔季切夫的第十一师，在城里遇到了波军的顽强抵抗。

大街上正在浴血苦战。敌人用密集的机枪子弹阻挡红骑兵的前进。但是这个城市还是被红军占领了。波军已经溃不成军，残兵狼狈逃窜。车站上截获了敌人的许多列火车。但是对波军来说，最可怕的打击还是军火库爆炸，供全军用的一百万发炮弹一下子全毁了。全城的玻璃震得粉碎，房屋好像是纸糊的，在爆炸声中直摇晃。

红军攻克日托米尔和别尔季切夫以后，波军腹背受敌，只好分作两股，撤出基辅，仓皇逃遁。他们拼命想为自己杀出一条路，冲出钢铁包围圈。

保尔已经完全忘却了他自己。这些日子，每天都有激烈的战斗。他，保尔，已经溶化在集体里了。他和每个战士一样，已经忘记了“我”字，脑子里只有“我们”：我们团、我们骑兵连、我们旅。

战局的发展犹如狂飙，异常迅猛，天天都有新的消息传来。

布琼尼的骑兵以排山倒海之势，不停顿地向前挺进，给敌人一个又一个沉重的打击，摧毁了波军的整个后方。满怀胜利喜悦的各骑兵师，接二连三地向波军后方的心脏诺沃格勒—沃伦斯基发起猛烈的冲锋。

他们像冲击峭壁的巨浪，冲上去，退回来，接着又杀声震天地冲上去。

无论是密布的铁丝网，还是守城部队的拼命顽抗，都没能挽救波军的溃败。六月二十七日早晨，布琼尼的骑兵队伍渡过斯卢奇河，冲进诺沃格勒—沃伦斯基城，并继续向科列茨镇方向追击溃逃的波军。与此同时，亚基尔的第四十五师在新米罗波利附近渡过斯卢奇河，科托夫斯基骑兵旅则向柳巴尔镇发起了攻击。

不久，骑兵第一集团军的无线电台接到战线司令的命令，要他们全军出动，夺取罗夫诺。红军各师发起强大攻势，把波军打得七零八落，他们只能化成小股部队，四散逃命。

有一天，旅长派保尔到停在车站的铁甲列车上去送公文。

在那里他竟遇见了一个根本没想到会碰见的人。马跑上了路基。到了前面一辆灰色车厢跟前，保尔勒住了马。铁甲列车威风凛凛地停在那里，藏在炮塔里的大炮露出黑洞洞的炮口。

列车旁边有几个满身油垢的人，正在揭开一块保护车轮的沉重的钢甲。

“请问铁甲列车的指挥员在哪儿？”保尔问一个穿着皮上衣、提着一桶水的红军战士。

“就在那儿。”红军战士把手朝火车头那边一指说。

保尔跑到火车头跟前，又问：“哪一位是指挥员？”

一个脸上长着麻子、浑身穿戴都是皮制品的人转过身来，说：“我就是。”

保尔从口袋里掏出公文，交给了他。

“这是旅长的命令，请您在公文袋上签个字。”

指挥员把公文袋放在膝盖上，开始签字。火车头的中间车轮旁边，有一个人提着油壶在干活。保尔只能看到他宽阔的后背和露在皮裤口袋外面的手枪柄。

“签好了，拿去吧。”指挥员把公文袋还给了保尔。

保尔抖抖缰绳，正要走，在火车头旁边干活的那个人突然站直身子，转过脸来。就在这一瞬间，保尔好像被一阵风刮倒似的，跳下马来，喊道：“阿尔焦姆，哥哥！”

满身油垢的火车司机立即放下油壶，像大熊一样，抱住年轻的红军战士。

“保尔！小鬼！原来是你呀！”阿尔焦姆这样喊着，简直不敢相信自己的眼睛。

铁甲列车指挥员用惊奇的目光看着这个场面。车上的炮兵战士都笑了起来。

“看见没有，兄弟俩喜相逢了。”

八月十九日，在利沃夫地区的一次战斗中，保尔丢掉了军帽。他勒住马，但是前面的几个骑兵连已经冲进了波军的散兵线。杰米多夫从洼地的灌木丛中飞驰出来，向河岸冲去，一路上高喊：“师长牺牲了！”

保尔哆嗦了一下。列图诺夫，他的英勇的师长，一个具有大无畏精神的好同志，竟牺牲了。一种疯狂的愤怒攫住了保尔的心。

他使劲用马刀背拍了一下已经十分疲惫、满嘴是血的战马格涅多克，向正在厮杀的、人群最密的地方冲了过去。

“砍死这帮畜生！砍死他们！砍死这帮波兰贵族！他们杀死了列图诺夫。”盛怒之下，他扬起马刀，连看也不看，向一个穿绿军服的人劈下去。全连战士个个怒火中烧，誓为师长复仇，把一个排的波军全砍死了。

他们追击逃敌，到了一片开阔地，这时候波军的大炮向他们开火了。

一团绿火像镁光一样，在保尔眼前闪了一下，耳边响起了一声巨雷，烧红的铁片灼伤了他的头。大地可怕地、不可思议地旋转起来，向一边翻过去。

保尔像一根稻草似的，被甩出了马鞍，翻过马头，沉重地摔在地上。

黑夜立刻降临了。

Part One Chapter 9

The octopus has a bulging eye the size of a cat's head, a glazed reddish eye green in the centre with a pulsating phosphorescent glow. The octopus is a loathsome mass of tentacles, which writhe and squirm like a tangled knot of snakes, the scaly skin rustling hideously as they move. The octopus stirs. He sees it next to his very eyes. And now the tentacles creep over his body; they are cold and they sting like nettles. The octopus shoots out its sting, and it bites into his head like a leech, and, wriggling convulsively, it sucks at his blood. He feels the blood draining out of his body into the swelling body of the octopus. And the sting goes on sucking and the pain of its sucking is unbearable.

Somewhere far far away he can hear human voices:

"How is his pulse now?"

And another voice, a woman's, replies softly:

"His pulse is a hundred and thirty-eight. His temperature 103.1. He is delirious all the time."

The octopus disappears, but the pain lingers. Pavel feels someone touch his wrist. He tries to open his eyes, but his lids are so heavy he has no strength to lift them.

Why is it so hot? Mother must have heated the stove. And again he hears those voices: "His pulse is one hundred and twenty-two now." He tries to open his eyelids. But a fire burns within him. He is suffocating.

He is terribly thirsty, he must get up at once and get a drink. But why does he not get up? He tries to move but his limbs refuse to obey him, his body is a stranger to him. Mother will bring him some water at once. He will say to her: "I want to drink." Something stirs beside him. Is it the octopus about to crawl over him again? There it comes, he sees its red eyes. . . . From afar comes that soft voice: "Frosya, bring some water!"

"Whose name is that?" But the effort to remember is too much for him and darkness engulfs him once more. Emerging presently from the gloom he recalls: "I am thirsty."

And hears voices saying: "He seems to be regaining consciousness." Closer and more distinct now, that gentle voice: "Do you want to drink, Comrade?"

"Can it be me they are addressing? Am I ill? Oh yes, I've got the typhus, that's it." And for the third time he tries to lift his eyelids. And at last he succeeds. The first thing that reaches his consciousness through the narrowed vision of his slightly opened eyes is a red ball hanging above his head. But the red ball is blotted out by something dark which bends towards him, and his lips feel the hard edge of a glass and moisture, life-giving moisture. The fire within him subsides.

Satisfied, he whispers: "That's better."

"Can you see me, Comrade?"

The dark shape standing over him has spoken, and just before drowsiness overpowers him he manages to say: "I can't see, but I can hear. . . ."

"Now, who would have believed he would pull through? Yet see how he has clambered back to life! A remarkably strong constitution. You may be proud of yourself, Nina Vladimirovna. You have literally saved his life." And the woman's voice, trembling slightly, answers: "I am so glad!"

After thirteen days of oblivion, consciousness returned to Pavel Korchagin. His young body had not wanted to die, and slowly he recovered his strength. It was like being born again. Everything seemed new and miraculous. Only his head lay motionless and unbearably heavy in its plaster cast, and he had not the strength to move it.

But feeling returned to the rest of his body and soon he was able to bend his fingers.

Nina Vladimirovna, junior doctor of the military clinical hospital, sat at a small table in her room turning the leaves of a thick lilac-covered notebook filled with brief entries made in a neat slanting handwriting.

August 26, 1920

Some serious cases were brought in today by ambulance train. One of them has a very ugly head wound. We put him in the corner by the window. He is only seventeen. They gave me an envelope with the papers found in his pockets and the case history. His name is Korchagin, Pavel Andreyevich. Among his papers were a well-worn membership card (No. 967) of the Young Communist League of the Ukraine, a torn Red Army identification book and a copy of a regimental order stating that Red Army man Korchagin was coinmended for exemplary fulfilment of a reconnaissance rnission. There was also a note, evidently written by himself, which said: "In the event of my death please write to my relatives: Shepetov-ka, Railway Junction, Mechanic Artem Korchagin."

He has been unconscious ever since he was hit by a shell fragment on August 19. Tomorrow Anatoli Stepanovich will examine him.

August 27

Today we examined Korchagin's wound. It is very deep, the skull is fractured and the entire right side of the head is paralysed. A blood vessel burst in the right eye which is badly swollen. Anatoli Stepanovich wanted to remove the eye to prevent inflammation, but I dissuaded him, since there is still hope that the swelling might go down. In doing this I was prompted solely by aesthetic considerations. The lad may recover; it would be a pity if he were disfigured.

He is delirious all the time and terribly restless. One of us is constantly on duty at his bedside. I spend much of my time with him. He is too young to die and I am determined to tear his young life out of Death's clutches. I must succeed.

Yesterday I spent several hours in his ward after my shift was over. His is the worst case there. I sat listening to his ravings. Sometimes they sound like a story, and I learn quite a lot about his life.

But at times he curses horribly. He uses frightful language. Somehow it hurts me to hear such awful cursing from him. Anatoli Stepanovich does not believe that he will recover. "I can't understand what the army wants with such children," the old man growls. "It's a disgrace."

August 30

Korchagin is still unconscious. He has been removed to the ward for hopeless cases. The nurse Frosya is almost constantly at his side. It appears she knows him. They worked together once.

How gentle she is with him! Now I too am beginning to fear that his condition is hopeless.

September 2, 11 p.m.

This has been a wonderful day for me. My patient Korchagin regained consciousness. The crisis is over. I spent the past two days at the hospital without going home.

I cannot describe my joy at the knowledge that one more life has been saved. One death less in our ward. The recovery of a patient is the most wonderful thing about this exhausting work of mine.

They become like children. Their affection is simple and sincere, and I too grow fond of them so that when they leave I often weep. I know it is foolish of me, but I cannot help it.

September 10

Today I wrote Korchagin's first letter to his family. He writes his wound is not serious and he'll soon recover and come home. He has lost a great deal of blood and is as pale as a ghost, and still very weak.

September 14

Korchagin smiled today for the first time. He has a very nice smile. Usually he is grave beyond his years. He is making a remarkably rapid recovery. He and Frosya are great friends. I often see her at his bedside. She must have been talking to him about me, and evidently singing my praises, for now the patient greets me with a faint smile. Yesterday he asked:

"What are those black marks on your arms, doctor?" I did not tell him that those bruises had been made by his fingers clutching my arm convulsively when he was delirious.

September 17

The wound on Korchagin's forehead is healing nicely. We doctors are amazed at the remarkable fortitude with which this young man endures the painful business of dressing his wound.

Usually in such cases the patient groans a great deal and is generally troublesome. But this one lies quietly and when the open wound is daubed with iodine he draws himself taut like a violin string.Often he loses consciousness, but not once have we heard a groan escape him.

We know now that when Korchagin groans he is unconscious. Where does he get that tremendous endurance, I wonder?

September 21

We wheeled Korchagin out onto the big balcony today for the first time. How his face lit up when he saw the garden, how greedily he breathed in the fresh air! His head is swathed in bandages and only one eye is open. And that live, shining eye looked out on the world as if seeing it for the first time.

September 26

Today two young women came to the hospital asking to see Korchagin. I went downstairs to the waiting room to speak to them. One of them was very beautiful. They introduced themselves as Tonya Tumanova and Tatiana Buranovskaya. I had heard of Tonya, Korchagin had mentioned the name when he was delirious. I gave them permission to see him.