Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

Chirikov’s eyes did not leave his face as he took a hunk of bread from the basket beside him and slowly tore it apart with his powerful fingers. With the minutest motion of his head the blacksmith acknowledged Goat’s Foot right to take his commission: six old nails, long enough to mend a hole on his roof. It was with a heartfelt sense of relief that the peasant backed slowly away, bowing as he left his presence, and turned his attention to the second person he had to speak to: Corporal Yfem Borisovich Blonski.

Despite the earliness of the hour, Blonski was already hunched over a half empty glass of beer. He returned Goat’s Foot’s greeting morosely.

“What is the matter, Yfem Borisovich?” the peasant enquired sympathetically. “You look really fed up.”

The soldier glared at him and spat expertly and with feeling into the battered shell casing that stood at the end of the table.

“Bastards. That’s what the matter is, old friend. I’m surrounded by bastards.”

As if in answer to his call, a movement behind the corporal’s back caught Goat’s Foot’s eye. Through the window he saw the barracks gates swing open and a troop of mounted cavalry emerge.

“Well, here’s something,” the peasant remarked. “Is the Regiment moving, or what?”

The jangling harnesses and the thud of hooves on the snow were now audible. Guiltily, the corporal looked over his shoulder and then pressed himself against the wall as the first pair of horsemen rode past the uncurtained window by which they sat.

“It’s the Captain,” he hissed. “He’s gone mad, I swear it. Ever since last Wednesday he’s had the whole company out on daily manoeuvres, covering the road from the South.”

“What? Even yesterday in the blizzard?” asked Goat’s Foot incredulously.

“I told you. He’s a lunatic,” the corporal said, peering cagily through the window. “The young ones are always the worse. Especially when they have an uncle who is a Prince.”

“Then why aren’t you out there with them?” Goat’s Foot enquired.

“That’s just it,” Blonski said, pointing an accusing finger at Goat’s Foot. “I was yesterday, and I nearly froze to death in my saddle for all the good it did me. But then, just as we were coming back into barracks for the last time, the platoon sergeant’s horse went shy and threw the bastard.”

“Is he the one with the red beard?”

“That’s him,” confirmed the corporal. “Anyway, so he goes sick and the Captain, bless his boots, has to find someone else to take his place, doesn’t he?”

Goat’s Foot settled himself more comfortably on the bench and looked at the corporal. His business had nothing to do with parades or sergeants but he was in no hurry.

“So?”

“So he only chooses Grednyin, who’s above me in the Commissariat, to take his place. Seeing as how he’s a sergeant and all. Because,” added the corporal scornfully as he took another swig of beer, “it’s a terrible responsibility, taking a platoon down to the other end of town and back. It takes at least a sergeant, otherwise the poor lambs might get lost.”

“In the blow we had yesterday, I wouldn’t doubt it,” observed Goat’s Foot. “I didn’t step outside all day.”

Lavrov appeared with the glasses of tea. Passing one over to his friend, Goat’s Foot took the other.

“Go on,” he urged.

“So,” said Blonski with a shrug, “when Grednyin was ordered to take his place, I thought everything was sweet and tidy, didn’t I? Because they still need someone to look after the Commissariat while the Company is out fighting the snow. And sure enough, the sergeant gives me the keys and tells me I’m excused parade.”

Goat’s Foot was puzzled.

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing,” said Blonski bitterly. “Except that the bastard orders me to count everything in the Commissariat and give him a complete inventory of all the equipment by tonight. And I mean everything.”

Leaning over the table, he glared malevolently at Goat’s Foot.

“Have you any idea,” he demanded, “how many boots, spurs, tins of polish – leather and metal – cap badges, buckles, buttons and belts and God know what else there is in there? That’s not to mention all the stuff for the horses: the blankets, bridles, stirrup straps and so on. It will take me until Easter to count them all.”

“But surely this Grednyin can’t be interested in how many tins of boot polish you’ve got?”

“Course he isn’t!” snorted Blonski scornfully. “He couldn’t care less. But it’s the same the whole world over. The General kicks the Colonel; the Colonel kicks the Captain; the Captain kicks the Sergeant and the Sergeant kicks me. It’s what’s called Military Law.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“Course I am.”

The two men drank silently and considered the situation.

“I’m sorry to hear what you say, Yfem,” Goat’s Foot said, “because I’ve come to add to your problems.”

“Can’t do it,” the corporal replied promptly.

“Now don’t be hasty…”

“I’m sorry, Goat’s Foot, but whatever it is, I can’t spare it. Grednyin is bound to have checked some of the stuff before I do and if anything is missing he will have my back for it.”