The White Guard

  Gazing upwards as though inspired towards a window where the last trickle of gray light was filtering through, Studzinsky went on:

  'Morale?'

  Myshlaevsky spoke again.

  'Er, h'umm ... I think the students were somewhat put off by

  the sight of that funeral. It had a bad effect on them. They watched it through the railings.'

  Studzinsky turned his eager, dark eyes on to him.

  'Do your best to raise their morale.'

  Spurs clinked again as the officers dispersed.

  'Cadet Pavlovsky!' Back in the armory, Myshlaevsky roared out like Radames in Aida.

  'Pavlovsky . . . sky . . . sky!' answered the stony walls of the armory and a chorus of cadets' voices.

  'Here, sir!'

  'Were you at the Alexeyevsky Artillery School?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Right, let's smarten things up and have a song. So loud that it'll make Petlyura drop dead, God rot him . . .'

  One voice, high and clear, struck up beneath the stone vaults:

  'I was born a little gunner-boy . . .' Some tenors chimed in from among the forest of bayonets:

  'Washed in a shell-case spent . . .'

  The horde of students seemed to shudder, quickly picked up the tune by ear, and suddenly, in a mighty bass roar that echoed like gunfire, they rocked the whole armory:

  'Christened with a charge of shrapnel, Swaddled in an army tent! Christened with . . .'

  The sound rang in their ears, boomed among the ammunition boxes, rattled the grim windows and pounded in their heads until several long-forgotten dusty old glasses on the sloping window ledges began to rattle and shake . . .

  'In my cradle made of trace-ropes The gun-crew would rock me to sleep.'

  Out of the crowd of greatcoats, bayonets and machine-guns, Studzinsky selected two pink-faced ensigns and gave them a rapid, whispered order:

  'Assembly hall. . . take down the drapes in front of the portrait . . . look sharp . . .' The ensigns hurried off.

  #

  The empty stone box of the school building roared and shook in march time, while the rats lurked deep in their holes, cowering with terror.

  'Hup, two, three, four!' came Karas' piercing voice.

  'Louder!' shouted Myshlaevsky in his high, clear tenor.

  'What d'you think this is - a funeral!?'

  #

  Instead of a ragged gray mob, an orderly file bristling with bayonets now marched off steadily along the corridor, the floor groaning and bending under the crunch of feet. Along the endless passages and up to the second floor marched the detachment straight into the gigantic assembly hall bathed in light from its glass dome, where the front ranks had already halted and were beginning to fidget restlessly.

  Mounted on his pure-bred Arab charger, saddle-cloth emblazoned with the imperial monogram, the Arab executing a perfect caracole, with beaming smile and white-plumed tricorn hat cocked at a rakish angle, the balding, radiant Tsar Alexander I galloped ahead of the ranks of cadets and students. Flashing them smile after smile redolent of insidious charm, Alexander waved his baton at the cadets to show them the serried ranks of Borodino. Clumps of cannon-balls were strewn about the fields and the entire background of the fourteen foot canvas was covered with black slabs of massed bayonets.

  #

  As the gorgeous Tsar Alexander galloped onwards and upwards to

  heaven, the torn drapes which had shrouded him for a whole year

  since October 1917 lay in a heap around the hooves of his charger.

  'Can't you see the Emperor Alexander? Keep that cadence!

  Left, left! Hup, two, three, four!' roared Myshlaevsky as the file mounted the staircase with the ponderous tread of Tsar Alexander's foot-soldiers, past the man who beat Napoleon, the battery wheeled to the right into the vast assembly hall. The singing broke off as they formed into an open square several ranks deep, bayonets clicking. A pale, whitish twilight reigned in the hall and the portraits of the last tsars, still draped, peered down faint and corpse-like through the cloth.

  Studzinsky about-faced and looked at his wrist-watch. At that moment a cadet ran in and whispered something to him. The nearby ranks could hear the words '. . . regimental commander.'

  Studzinsky signalled to the officers, who began dressing the tanks. Studzinsky went out into the corridor towards the commanding officer.

  Turning and glancing at Tsar Alexander, his spurs ringing, Colonel Malyshev mounted the staircase towards the entrance to the assembly hall. His curved Caucasian sabre with its cherry-red sword-knot bumped against his left hip. He wore a black parade-dress service cap and a long greatcoat with a large slit up the back. He looked worried.

  Studzinsky marched rapidly up to him, halted and saluted.

  Malyshev asked him:

  'Have they all got uniforms?'

  'Yes, sir. All orders carried out.'

  'Well, what are they like?'

  'They'll fight. But they're completely inexperienced. For a hundred and twenty cadets there are eighty students who have never handled a rifle.'

  A shadow crossed Malyshev's face, but he said nothing.

  'Thank God, though, we've managed to get some good officers,' Studzinsky went on, 'especially that new one, Myshlaevsky. We'll make out somehow.'

  'I see. Thank you, captain. Now: as soon as I have inspected the battery I want you to send them home with orders to report back here in time to be on parade at seven o'clock tomorrow morning, except for the officers and a guard detachment of sixty of the best

  and most experienced cadets, who will mount guard over the guns, the armory and the buildings.'

  Paralysed with amazement, Studzinsky glared at the colonel in the most insubordinate fashion. His mouth dropped open.

  'But sir . . .' - in his excitement Studzinsky's Polish accent became more pronounced -'. . . if you'll allow me to say so, sir, that's impossible. The only way of keeping this battery in any state of military efficiency is to keep the men here overnight.'

  Instantly the colonel demonstrated an unsuspected capacity for losing his temper on the grandest scale. His neck and cheeks turned a deep red and his eyes flashed.

  'Captain', he said in a furious voice, 'if you talk to me like that again I will have an official notice published that you no longer rank as a staff-captain but as an instructor who regards it as his job to lecture senior officers. This will be most unfortunate, because I thought that in you I had an experienced executive officer and not a civilian professor. Kindly understand that I am in no need of lectures, and when I want your advice I shall ask for it. Otherwise it is your duty to listen, to take note - and then to carry out what I say!'

  The two men stared at each other.

  Studzinsky's face and neck turned the color of a hot samovar and his lips trembled. In a grating voice he forced himself to say:

  'Very good, colonel.'

  'Now do what you're told. Send them home. Tell them to get a good night's sleep; send them home unarmed, with orders to report back here by seven o'clock tomorrow morning. Send them home - and what's more, make sure they go in small parties, not whole troops at a time, and without their shoulder-straps, so that they don't attract any unwelcome attention from undesirable elements.'

  A ray of comprehension passed across Studzinsky's expression and his resentment subsided.

  'Very good, sir.'

  The colonel's tone altered completely.

  'My dear Studzinsky, you and I have known each other for

  some time and I know perfectly well that you are a most experienced regimental officer. And I'm sure you know me well enough not to be offended. In any case, taking offense is a luxury we can hardly afford at the moment. I apologise for showing you the rough side of my tongue - please forget it; I think you rather forgot yourself, too. . . .'

  Studzinsky blushed again.


  'Quite right, sir. I'm sorry.'

  'Well, that's in order. Let's not waste time, otherwise it will be bad for their morale. Everything depends on what happens tomorrow, because by then the situation will be somewhat clearer. However, I may as well tell you now that there's not much prospect of using the mortars: there are no horses to pull them and no ammunition to fire. So as of tomorrow morning it's to be rifle and shooting practice, shooting practice and more shooting practice. By noon tomorrow I want this battery to be able to shoot like a Guards regiment. And issue hand-grenades to all the more experienced cadets. Understood?'

  Studzinsky looked grim as he listened tensely.

  'May I ask a question, sir?'

  'I know what you're going to ask, and you needn't bother. I'll tell you the answer straight away-it's sickening. It could be worse - but not much. Get me?'

  'Yes, sir!'

  'Right then.' Malyshev raised his voice: 'So you see I don't want them to spend the night in this great stone rat-trap, at an uncertain time like this, when there's a good chance that by doing so I would be signing the death warrant of two hundred boys, eighty of whom can't even shoot.'

  Studzinsky said nothing.

  'So that's it. I'll tell you the rest later on this evening. We'll pull through somehow. Let's go and have a look at 'em.'

  They marched into the hall.

  'Atten-shun!' shouted Studzinsky.

  'Good day, gentlemen!'

  Behind Malyshev's back Studzinsky waved his arm like an

  anxious stage director and with a roar that shook the windowpanes the bristling gray wall sang out the Russian soldier's traditional response to their commanding officer's greeting.

  Malyshev swept the ranks with a cheerful glance, snapped his hand down from the salute and said:

  'Splendid! . . . Now gentlemen, I'm not going to waste words. You won't find me at political meetings, because I'm no speaker, so I shall be very brief. We're going to fight that son of a bitch Petlyura and you may rest assured that we shall beat him. There are cadets among you from the Vladimir, Constantine and Alexeyevsky military academies and no officer from any of these institutions has ever yet disgraced the colors. Many of you, too, were once at this famous school. Its old walls are watching you: I hope you won't make them redden with shame on your account. Gentlemen of the Mortar Regiment! We shall defend this great city in the hour of its assault by a bandit. As soon as we get Petlyura in range of our six-inchers, there won't be much left of him except a pair of very dirty underpants, God rot his stinking little soul!'

  When the laugh from the ranks had died down the colonel finished:

  'Gentlemen - do your best!'

  Again, like a director off-stage, Studzinsky nervously raised his arm and once more the Mortar Regiment blew away several layers of dust all around the assembly hall as they gave three cheers for their commanding officer.

  *

  Ten minutes later the assembly hall, just like the battlefield of Borodino, was dotted with hundreds of rifles piled in threes, bayonet upwards. Two sentries stood at either end of the dusty parquet floor sprouting its dragon's teeth. From the distance came the sound of vanishing footsteps as the new recruits hastily dispersed according to instructions. From along the corridors came the crash of hobnailed boots and an officer's words of command -Studzinsky himself was posting the sentries. Then came the

  unexpected sound of a bugle-call. There was no menace in the ragged, jerky sound as it echoed around the school buildings, but merely an anxious splutter of sour notes. On the landing bounded by the railings of the double staircase leading from the first floor up to the assembly hall, a cadet was standing with distended cheeks. The faded ribbons of the Order of St George dangled from the tarnished brass of the bugle. His legs spread wide like a pair of compasses, Myshlaevsky was standing in front of the bugler and instructing him.

  'Don't blow too hard . . . look - like this. Fill your cheeks with air and blow out. No, no, hopeless. Now try again-sound the "General Alarm".'

  'Pa -pa-pah -pa-pah', shrieked the bugle, reducing the school's rat population to terror.

  Twilight was swiftly advancing over the assembly hall, where Malyshev and Turbin stood beside the ranks of piled rifles. Colonel Malyshev frowned slightly in Turbin's direction, but at once arranged his face into an affable smile.

  'Well, doctor, how are things? Is all well in the medical section?'

  'Yes, colonel.'

  'You can go home now, doctor. And tell your orderlies they can go too, but they must report back here at seven o'clock with the others. And you . . . (Malyshev reflected, frowned) ... I should like you to report here tomorrow at two o'clock in the afternoon. Until then you're free. (Malyshev thought again) And there's one other thing: you'd better not wear your shoulder-straps. (Malyshev looked embarrassed) It is not part of our plans to draw attention to ourselves. So, in a word, just be back here at two o'clock tomorrow.'

  'Very good, sir.'

  Turbin shuffled his feet. Malyshev took out a cigarette case and offered him a cigarette, for which Turbin lit a match. Two little red stars glowed, emphasising how much darker it had grown. Malyshev glanced awkwardly upward at the dim white globes of the hall's arc-lamps, then turned and went out into the passage.

  'Lieutenant Myshlaevsky, come here, please. I am putting you

  in full charge of the electric light in this building. Try and get the lights switched on as quickly as possible. Please have it organised so that at any moment you can not only put all the lights on, but also switch them off. Responsibility for the lighting is entirely yours.'

  Myshlaevsky saluted and faced sharply about. The bugler gave a squeak and stopped. Spurs jingling - ca-link, ca-link, ca-link - Myshlaevsky ran down the main staircase so fast that he seemed to be skating down it. A minute later the sound of his hammering fists and barked commands could be heard from somewhere in the depths of the building. This was followed by a sudden blaze of light in the main downstairs lobby, which threw a faint reflected glow over the portrait of Alexander I. Malyshev was so delighted that his mouth even fell open slightly and he turned to Alexei Turbin:

  'Well, I'm damned . . . Now there's an officer for you! Did you see that?'

  A figure appeared at the bottom and began slowly climbing up the staircase. Malyshev and Turbin were able to make out who it was as he reached the first landing. The figure advanced on doddering, infirm legs, his white head shaking, and wore a broad double-breasted tunic with silver buttons and bright green lapels. An enormous key dangled in his shaking hand. Myshlaevsky was following him up the staircase with occasional shouts of encouragement.

  'Come on, old boy, speed it up! You're crawling along like a flea on a tightrope.'

  'Your . . . your', mumbled the old man as he shuffled along. Karas emerged out of the gloom on the landing, followed by another, tall officer, then by two cadets and finally the pointed snout of a machine-gun. The white-haired figure stumbled, bent down and bowed to the waist in the direction of the machine-gun.

  'Your . . . your honor', muttered the figure.

  The figure arrived at the top of the stairs, and with shaking hands, fumbling in the dark, opened a long oblong box on the wall from which shone a white spot of light. The old man thrust his

  hand in, there was a click and instantly the upper landing, the corridor and the entrance to the assembly hall were flooded with

  light.

  The darkness rolled away to the ends of the corridor. Mysh-laevsky immediately took possession of the key and thrust his hand inside the box where he began to try out the rows of black switches. Light, so blinding that it even seemed to be shot with pink, flared up and vanished again. The globes in the assembly hall were lit and then extinguished. Two globes at the far ends of the corridor suddenly blazed into life and the darkness somersaulted away altogether.

  'How's that?' shouted Myshlaevsky.

  'Out', sever
al voices answered from downstairs.

  'O.K.! On!' came a shout from the upper floor.

  Satisfied, Myshlaevsky finally switched on the lights in the assembly hall, in the corridor and the spotlight over the Emperor Alexander, locked the switchbox and put the key in his pocket.

  'All right, you can go back to bed now, old fellow,' he said reassuringly, 'all's well now.'

  The old man's near-sighted eyes blinked anxiously:

  'But what about the key, your . . . your honor . . . Are you going to keep it?'

  'That's right. I'm going to keep the key.'

  The old man stood trembling for a few moments longer then began slowly going downstairs.

  'Cadet!'

  A stout, red-faced cadet snapped to attention beside the switch box.

  'You are to allow only three people to have access to the box: the regimental commander, the executive officer and myself. And nobody else. In case of necessity, on the orders of one of those three officers, you are to break open the box, but carefully so as not to damage the switchboard.'

  'Very good, sir.'

  Myshlaevsky walked over to Alexei Turbin and whispered:

  'Did you see him - old Maxim?'

  'God, yes, I did . . .' whispered Turbin.

  The battery commander was standing in the entrance to the assembly hall, thousands of candle-power sparkling on the engraved silver of his scabbard. He beckoned to Myshlaevsky and said:

  'Lieutenant, I am very glad you were able to join our regiment. Well done.'

  'Glad to do my duty, sir.'

  'One more thing: I just want you to fix the heating in this hall so that the cadets on sentry-duty will be kept warm. I'll take care of everything else. I'll see you get your rations and some vodka -not much, but enough to keep the cold out.'

  Myshlaevsky gave the colonel a charming smile and cleared his throat in a way that conveyed tactful appreciation.

  Alexei Turbin heard no more of their conversation. Leaning over the balustrade, he stared down at the little white-haired figure until it disappeared below. A feeling of hollow depression came over Turbin. Suddenly, leaning on the cold metal railings, a memory returned to him with extreme clarity.