Kitabı oku: «Everything Begins In Childhood», sayfa 13

Chapter 31. The Battle Near the Old Fortress

There are, most likely, no boys in the world for whom the notion “a useless thing” exists. Boys have their own ideas, scale of values, and needs. A bent nail thrown out by someone can be either an excellent piece for a slingshot or a fishhook. An empty shampoo bottle can be turned into a spray bottle – you just need to make a hole in the lid. Cherry pits can serve as excellent bullets for a sawed-off shotgun handmade out of all sorts of “useless things.” That was what we were busy with that morning.

I had just parted with Grandpa, who had gone to work, when Yura, still sleepy and disheveled, yet businesslike and anxious, darted out into the yard.

That evening, we were supposed to take part in a battle, a big battle near the Old Fortress behind the CentCom building. And our arms, those very sawed-off shotguns, were not ready. We had no time to lose.

We started with some cherry pits, which I had had the foresight to save from the preserve making: bullets always came in handy. I had kept them in a paper bag, so they were somewhat damp with bits of pulp stuck to some of them. We spread the cherry pits on the table near the trestle bed so they could dry out in the sun. Bullets had to be very dry.

Now, we could get busy on our weapons.

A wooden barrel, approximately twenty centimeters long formed the base of a shotgun. A clothespin could be attached to the front end of the wooden barrel. An elastic band from lingerie or, even better, a rubber band like they used in stores for packing, could be nailed to each side of the rear end. A pit, or rather bullet, was placed in the rubber band just as in a slingshot. But that was its only similarity to a slingshot.

A shotgun was more complex to use. The rubber band with the pit had to be pulled back cautiously and clutched in the clothespin. Then, you took aim, pressed the clothespin, and … b-b-bang! In a word, our shotgun could shoot almost like a real gun. One only needed to make it properly, so that the rubber band held firm and the clothespin didn’t move.

It was easy to find pieces of wood for the barrels in the pile of scraps near the summer shower. Then, we needed nails, and not just any nails, but a certain size. We knew perfectly well where to find them. We just needed to figure out how to get to them.

Nails, large and small, and special shoemaker’s nails were kept in Grandpa’s storage room in the yard, not far from the lavatory. We weren’t allowed to enter it. Yura, of course, had done so without permission more than once, more than twice. Since I was a visitor, I had entered the storage room with Grandpa in the past. We needed to sneak into the storage room quickly and remain unnoticed, but we couldn’t figure out how, for the storage room door was terribly squeaky.

“Last time I opened it, Jack was barking,” Yura remembered. “Let’s tease Jack.”

We jumped around Jack, making faces, but he lay calmly, glancing at us lazily from time to time. Perhaps he was thinking, “Who knows what you want?… Now don’t bark… Now bark suddenly…”

Yura picked up some small pebbles and began throwing them at Jack. One of the pebbles hit the kennel. Jack couldn’t take it any longer, jumped up and burst into loud deep barking. I wasted no time and darted into the storage room, leaving the door ajar.

The rays of light that penetrated the storage room through the crack lit the dark little shed with its low ceiling and earthen floor. The old cabinet was on the wall across from the door. It seemed to be looking sullenly at us, not expecting anything good from these uninvited visitors. It was a very old, unvarnished cabinet without a single scratch. Perhaps the darkness that always surrounded it protected it well.

Yura held back the door so that it wouldn’t squeak, and I flung open the door of the cabinet. What couldn’t you find in there! Everything you would need for starting a shoe factory right in our yard.

Rolled strips of leather that looked like scrolls of ancient parchment were on the upper shelves. They gave off a pleasant smell. The lower shelves were filled with paper bags full of heels, soles, taps, laces, and other small items used in shoe repair.

“Hurry up, you’re so slow! Look on the lower shelf!” My cousin pushed me.

But when I got to the bag of nails, I couldn’t find the ones we needed right away. Nails, like hedgehog’s quills, pricked all my fingers, and I moaned and yelped slightly while Yura hopped up and down impatiently at the door.

At last, the nails were in my pocket, but I didn’t feel like leaving this very interesting little shed. It was filled with boxes of old household utensils – kettles, basins, a beautiful copper pitcher with a long, thin, swan-like neck and a decorative lid. There were many other wonderful things there. “Oh, look,” we whispered, rummaging through boxes. Yura had propped the door open with a brick and joined me in this absorbing pastime. We felt like treasure hunters about to find a box of gold coins, a Damascus steel saber or at least an old pistol. Our finds were much more modest, of course, but a roll of insulation wire wasn’t a bad find. We could use it when we make slingshots.

We managed to make our sawed-off shotguns quite quickly. Now we needed to test them, and to practice.

The yard offered many targets. We could shoot at leaves or an old bucket near the duval, but we preferred a live, moving target, like Jack, for instance. At that moment, he was sniffing at something near his kennel.

That sniffing, it should be mentioned, wasn’t a random occupation or the result of finding something whose smell attracted Jack. No, it was a part of the special canine ritual Jack performed after he woke up. Since Jack took quite a few naps throughout the day, we witnessed the ritual often.

After waking up, he would sit with his rear paws wide apart and lick his groin and stomach clean. Jack was cleanly, and he did it without haste, conscientiously. Then, he would begin to stretch with great force until he turned into a kind of arrow. His fur, pressed to his body, became smooth and shiny. Even the tip of his shaggy tail became smooth. And what true delight his snout expressed! Jack’s ears were pressed to his head, he would squint blissfully, and he had a broad smile – there’s no other way to express what would happen to his snout.

No matter how many times I watched Jack stretching, it always seemed to me that he could stretch endlessly. If I tied his hind paws to something and stepped away from him with a tasty morsel in my hands, sausage, for example, Jack would begin to move his front paws as he advanced forward. One meter, two, three… he would move closer to me, and his body would stretch and stretch, becoming a thin tape about to break… Then I, of course, wouldn’t be able to resist any longer and would give him the sausage.

So far, I had performed such experiments only in my mind. And Jack, after stretching safely to his heart’s content, proceeded to sniffing. I think he was performing a test, and a thorough one at that, to see if everything was all right throughout the territory that belonged to him, Jack. Had anything unexpected happened there while he had been asleep? Had a treacherous, camouflaged enemy invaded his area? Had it been mined, to put it in military terms.

As far as I know, this is an ancient custom of dogs, inherited from their wild ancestors, just like the invariable rule of marking the border of their property by irrigating it… Taking into account Jack’s fellow yard dwellers, that rule was not superfluous. It took no effort on Yura’s part to sneak up on the poor dog while he was asleep and attach an empty tin can to his tail or play some other mean trick. It wasn’t Jack’s fault that Yura didn’t understand about his “marking” and didn’t obey “the laws of the jungle.”

Usually, when Jack inspected his property, he didn’t discover anything alarming. He may now and then have come across harmless border violators, ants or beetles. They were harmless all right, but they had to be punished. Jack did that with great pleasure. Bringing about the demise of a poor ant was a joyful, absorbing game for Jack. With his front legs bent and his chest near the ground, he would stand motionless, wagging his raised tail, then jump up and begin to frolic. That was something! It was a real dance. Even as Jack danced around his prey, he didn’t look blood thirsty. On the contrary, his snout would express sheer childlike joy. Jack would lean over an intruder and begin to sniff it, snorting and yelping slightly. His moist black nose twitched in all directions, his nostrils would expand and contract. Then he would put his nose down close to the insect, his eyes cocked… Woooop! His red tongue flashed at incredibly high speed, and the ant was gone. Sometimes, Jack, as a change of pace, would press some poor little thing into the ground.

* * *

As we searched for a target, Jack froze near his kennel, his tail erect, sniffing a beetle or ant. His beautiful fluffy tail was a perfect target. Yura was the first to shoot; I followed. The dog continued enjoying himself. We had missed! The second shot was successful. Jack jumped up, made himself comfortable and began chewing on his tail. Perhaps he thought he had been bitten by a flea.

We decided that Jack had had enough, and we switched to more complex moving targets: flies and gnats. It was great to shoot at gnats as they swarmed, a dense cloud in the air. When we shot at such a cloud, we could see how the “bullet” cut across it. The cherry pits hit the leaves on the trees and the walls of the outbuildings. The hissing of bullets and their clicking, so pleasant to a boy’s ear, filled the yard for several hours. We practiced to our hearts’ content.

It was time to go to the tower. We requested permission to go – we didn’t want to take off without it this time – and left the yard.

* * *

The heat was subsiding. The intensity of the sultry, desert-like air was lessening. It was growing milder, cooling off gradually. It was the asphalt that still emitted waves of hot air, releasing the daytime heat. Metal roofs, made red hot during the day, were now shrinking and “firing occasional shots” as if complaining about the trials they endured. Birds began to wake up after their day’s rest in secluded corners – sparrows were chirping, doves cooing.

Korotky Lane, where we lived, was a third of a kilometer long, matching its name: “short.” It was shaped like a “T,” and three streets bounded the lane. Shelkovichnaya (Mulberry) and Severnaya (Northern) Streets could be seen to the left and right of our gate, and Herman Lopatin Street, formerly Shedovaya Street, was at the end, at the bottom of the T. That’s where we headed, stopping on the way to pick up our friend Kamil.

Kamil, who was my age but tall beyond his years, was a calm, modest, quiet boy. He never bragged, though he had reason to.

His yard looked like ours but a bit smaller and impeccably clean. It was a typical Uzbek yard, cozy and inviting.

On the path leading from the gate to the house and into the garden there was a big trestle bed covered with padded blankets. Every time I visited Kamil, his grandpa and grandma would welcome me like an esteemed guest. The old man would take me to the trestle bed, tapping his walking stick, sit me down and begin to ask about my parents and the way we lived in the new town. And Grandma would come to the trestle bed bringing bowls filled with fragrant tea. I felt awkward and embarrassed.

I would try to sneak away and play with Kamil, but Grandpa and Grandma followed the old customs strictly. Besides, they must have missed the company. And I always had my tea along with many stories that were so interesting that I no longer wanted to leave. I sometimes spent hours on the trestle bed with the old folks and Kamil, listening, now about the basmachs (members of an anti-Soviet movement) during the civil war, now about earthquakes, then about Timur, the awesome conqueror.

That beautiful, hospitable yard was also amazingly quiet. No one yelled or argued here. Grandpa and Grandma talked to each other respectfully and affectionately. I was sometimes surprised – how could they have lived together for so many years and not grown tired of each other? And I remembered my grandpa and grandma… I thought that was the reason Kamil had grown up to be so calm and sympathetic.

By the way, his uncle was also like that. That short potbellied man was very popular among the local boys. Uncle Sayid had a rifle. Well, it was an air rifle loaded with little pellets. Uncle Sayid allowed his nephew’s friends to use that rifle, when he was around, naturally. And he acted as a shooting instructor.

“Press it… harder, close to your shoulder,” he would say, standing next to me. The heavy rifle in my weak hands would sag and I couldn’t aim properly. The patient teacher levelled the rifle as he continued to instruct me.

“Good. Well done. Close your left eye. Do you see the target? Freeze.”

“Freeze,” I thought, desperately fighting the force that kept pulling the rifle down. “I can’t freeze, I can’t…”

“Don’t breathe, and press the hammer smoothly,” I heard him command.

I squinted and pressed the hammer. A shot was heard… Missed!

“It’s all right,” Uncle Sayid said calmly. “We’ll try one more time.” The barrel was opened, the shotgun loaded. The lesson continued…

* * *

This time we didn’t have tea with his hospitable grandparents. Kamil was ready and armed, so we set out for the Fortress.

When we reached the CentCom building, we remembered the rumor that all the old houses on our streets would be torn down, and multi-story buildings made of prefab units, similar to the CentCom building, which was considered the acme of modern urban development, would be erected instead. Perhaps the city authorities liked the idea, but we couldn’t even imagine such a thing. Who would voluntarily exchange their own adobe house, perhaps without all the modern conveniences but with fruit and vegetable gardens, small barns with various kinds of livestock, chickens, sheep, goats, and yard dogs, for the comfort of tiny apartments devoid of all the joys of unrestricted living?

Even at our place in Chirchik, it was better. At least, we had verandas and vegetable gardens.

“Well, if they tear down the private houses, we won’t have a choice. They’ll make us move,” prudent Kamil said.

We reached the grove where the Fortress, or rather its ruins, was located. Only the cylindrical brick tower with its narrow embrasures, or openings, had survived and was in rather good shape. It wasn’t too tall, just three stories high, but it still towered over the treetops. A bit farther away, the tall beautiful gate remained. It was made of bricks, crowned on both sides with turrets and an ornate pediment over its center arch.

Kamil’s uncle had told us about the Fortress. It was built in the second half of the nineteenth century between the former Shedovaya Street and the Anhor embankment. It was a real defensive fortress with thick walls, the embrasures, the corner bastion and tall ramparts around it. It protected the whole city. In former times, a cannon shot was fired every day at noon.

There were many buildings inside the Fortress – barracks, officers’ quarters, a powder magazine, and an infirmary.

Uncle Sayid told us, and he had heard it from old people, that at the beginning of our century, there had already been unrest in the Fortress. Soldiers of the Tashkent garrison, quartered in the Fortress, rioted and staged a real uprising during the 1905 revolution. There was also fighting here during the civil war. I don’t know whether the Fortress was ruined at that time or later. It was a pity. But Tashkent residents continued to call the romantic ruins “the Fortress,” just as it had been called in the past. And, of course, it attracted all the boys in the neighborhood – what could possibly be a better place for battles? There was still a grove near the Fortress; it wasn’t big, but it was dense. Perhaps there had been a big park here at one time, but it had gradually been chopped down, particularly when the CentCom building was under construction. Still, many old trees with thick trunks and wide crowns survived. Oaks, poplars, maple trees, chinaras (Eastern plane trees), and acacias stood, along with winter apple, cherry, apricot and mulberry trees.

That was where we were headed.

* * *

On this occasion, there were about ten boys at the Fortress, everyone we knew from the neighboring streets. Each one arrived with a weapon; some of them had slingshots besides their sawed-off shotguns. This battle was not going to be a laughing matter.

“You’ve got quite a shotgun… It’s first-class!” Sasha said to Kamil. He and his brother Slava lived across the street from us. “Even the barrel is polished.” Kamil gave Sasha his shotgun, and Sasha took aim with the air of an expert.

“My uncle helped me make it,” our friend answered timidly, flushing from the praise. “We polished it to remove any splinters.”

Kamil had reason to be proud; the shotgun was splendid. And it had a rubber band from the store, not one taken from underpants.

“Well, shall we begin?” Kamil said. “Is everyone here?”

Kamil, even though he wasn’t a braggart or a show-off, was usually our leader. It just seemed natural to choose him.

“Don’t shoot at anyone’s head,” Kamil warned us.

“Or at their balls,” someone cried out.

Laughter rang out.

“And slingshots don’t count.”

After everybody had expressed their opinions, we divided into two groups. The terms of the battle were simple – one group had to withdraw beyond the edge of the grove to give their opponents time to hide, and then they would begin their offensive by sneaking up on the hidden group.

The goal was to destroy as many enemy soldiers as possible. Everything counted – bumps, bruises and, during the battle itself, any “ahs,” “ouches” or other evidence of direct hits.

The winner would be determined after the battle, when the casualties were counted. Of course, that’s when arguments would arise, and it wasn’t always possible to determine the truth.

Now, we needed to decide which group would stay near the tower and which would go on the offensive. We did it by coin toss, which was our substitute for the medieval warriors’ custom of having a duel between two bogatirs (Russian epic heroes) to determine which army would begin the offensive.

Our bogatirs, Kamil and Ahmad, who was as tall as Kamil, with dark hair and a weather-bitten face, stepped forward for the coin toss.

A coin shone in Kamil’s hand.

“Which do you choose?” he asked Ahmad. “Heads or tails?”

“Heads,” Ahmad answered.

It was assumed that the winning side would stay at the tower. It was easier and more advantageous to defend than to sneak up on the enemy.

Another of Kamil’s abilities was tossing a coin as skillfully as a juggler in the circus. He could toss a five-kopek coin so that, after flying high in the air, it would land on a table on its edge and spin for a long time, like a top, in one spot.

The coin flew straight and high. Kamil caught it, slamming it onto the back of his hand.

“Tails,” our leader stated calmly, showing Ahmad and the rest of us the coin on his hand. “All right, after you leave the grove, count to one hundred and… Forward!”

“Hide! Camouflage!” Sergey, a boy from the CentCom building, said. “We’ll win for sure.”

Sergey would always get angry about all sorts of trivial things.

We deliberated on how to hide while Ahmad was taking his army away.

“It would be great to climb up there,” Sasha said looking at the tower. “Why did they have to board up the door?”

“Why… why… Of course, they store arms there,” Slava, Sasha’s elder brother said. “Otherwise, they would have turned it into a museum long ago, wouldn’t they? It’s a relic from the past. Why board it up?”

We were naïve, and we couldn’t imagine how many ancient churches, monasteries, mosques, and other wonderful relics of the past had perished all over the country, how many of them had been neglected, destroyed, boarded up, turned into warehouses for gasoline or storage for potatoes…

We stared at the tower thinking about the wonderful arms that might be hidden there.

“A Mauser cartridge holds twenty-five bullets,” I sighed. “You can shoot and shoot, and you’ll still have lots of them left.”

“A Mauser is heavy. A Luger is a different story. I saw one at the museum. That’s quite something. It’s light, and they say it’s not loud…” Slava began his story. But Kamil interrupted him, “Enough about Mausers, guys. Load your shotguns. Take your places. Hurry up, hurry up!”

It was really time to get ready. We could hear from the distance, “Ninety-five…” as we were splitting, camouflaging and hiding behind the wall of the tower.

I squatted with one knee pressed against the ground behind an oak. Not far from me, Kamil and Yura puttered about in the crown of a tree, settling in the branches. It grew very quiet. My finger was tensed, holding the clothespin. A cherry pit couldn’t wait to fly out.

I scrutinized the thick green foliage, trunks and branches till my eyes hurt. It seemed that someone was to my right… Branches stirred. A figure dashed to the next tree but failed to hide.

“Ouch, ouch! My head!” The runner yelled. “You’re not allowed to shoot at the head!”

But it wasn’t just his head, he was also holding his knee. It meant he was out of the game.

Yura’s laughter was heard from the tree. A pit hit the bark of my oak, and another. I had come under fire. I bent down and ran to the nearest thick tree trunk, reloading my shotgun on the run.

As I made myself comfortable, something hit me on the head and fell to my feet… It was a green apricot. I looked up and saw Yura’s laughing face among the branches of the apricot tree. He was a person who could have fun under any circumstances. I shook my fist at him.

“Look behind you,” Kamil’s restrained whisper was heard. Just in the nick of time. I looked over my shoulder. Ahmad was aiming as he ran toward me. He had managed to come up from behind us.

Everything that happened after that occurred at incredible speed. Something happened to my eyesight. It seemed to me that it wasn’t Ahmad but rather our beloved Uncle Robert, running with a piece of hose in his hands. Ahmad’s face was distorted with the same absurd fury that had distorted our uncle’s face as he chased Yura. The only thing that was missing was Robert’s moustache.

Three shots rang out in quick succession. A pit whistled by my ear, hit the trunk and ricocheted into the back of my head.

Yura’s and my shots turned out to be more successful – the enemy leader was wounded twice. I saw him bend down, hold his stomach and curse. Well, two cherry pits weren’t just a flick on the nose.

I didn’t manage to enjoy my achievement for very long. I felt a sting on my hand, groaned and dropped the shotgun, so unexpected was it. The battle was over for me.

“Valery, how are you?” Yura yelled, his voice anxious.

I had no time to answer. Someone started shooting at the apricot tree, perhaps not even seeing Yura but shooting at the spot from which his voice emanated. He fell out of the tree like a ripe fruit and began hopping on one leg in a strange pose – he held his stomach with one hand and his bottom with another. One would have thought that an enemy’s bullet went right through him.

Actually, as we later learned, a pit had cut into Yura’s tender bottom with such force that Yura pulled his trigger accidentally. His own bullet hit a branch with such force that it ricocheted treacherously into his belly.

After jumping up and down, Yura maliciously cursed his absolutely innocent shotgun, which was lying under the tree, and hurled it against the brick wall of the tower with all his might.

Fortunately, Yura’s and my “deaths” didn’t do the enemy any good. While they were shooting at us, Kamil, Slava and Sasha defeated them completely.

The survivors triumphed. The defeated gradually returned to their senses.

“So, Sergey, who defeated whom?” Slava asked proudly.

“Next time…” a gloomy Sergey promised.

I don’t remember why, but the next time never arrived.

That was a pity. The tower, at least, must have missed our childish combats, echoes of previous real battles…