A Country Doctor's Notebook (19 page)

As Doctor Yashvin suddenly turned his head towards me, I noticed that his expression had become grim. He said:

‘I am at your service.'

At the same time he tugged at his tie and once again gave a crooked grin with one corner of his mouth, though not with his eyes.

We looked at him in astonishment.

‘What do you mean?' I asked.

‘I have killed a man,' he explained.

‘When?' I asked absurdly.

Yashvin pointed to the number ‘2' and answered:

‘It's an extraordinary coincidence. As soon as you started talking about death, I noticed the calendar and saw that it was the second. But in any case I remember this night every year. You see, seven years ago to the very night, and even, indeed …' Yashvin pulled out his black watch and glanced at it, ‘… yes, almost to the very hour, on the night of the 1st and 2nd of February, I killed him.'

‘A patient?' Gips asked.

‘Yes, a patient.'

‘But not deliberately?' I asked.

‘Oh, I can guess,' Plonsky, the sceptic, remarked through clenched teeth. ‘He probably had cancer and was dying in torment, and you gave him ten times the normal dose of morphine.'

‘No, morphine had nothing to do with it. Nor did he have any sort of cancer. The weather was frosty—I remember it perfectly—about fifteen degrees below zero, and there were stars in the sky. Ah, what stars there are in the Ukraine. I've been living in Moscow almost seven years, but I still feel drawn to my homeland. My heart aches, I get a terrible urge to board a train and be off. To see the cliffs covered in snow, the Dnieper … there's no more beautiful city in the world than Kiev.'

Yashvin put the calendar page in his wallet, curled himself up in the armchair and went on:

‘It was a grim city, at a grim time … and I saw terrible things, such as you in Moscow never saw. This was in 1919, on the first of February as it happens. It was twilight, about six o'clock in the evening. I found myself doing something rather strange in that twilight. A lamp was burning on the desk in my study, the room was warm and cosy, but I was sitting on the floor bending over a small suitcase,
cramming it with all sorts of rubbish, and whispering to myself:

‘ “Must get away, must get away …”

‘I would put in a shirt and take it out again—the damn thing wouldn't fit in. The case was tiny, my underpants took up so much space, then there were hundreds of cigarettes and my stethoscope, all of which were bulging out of the bag. I flung the shirt away and pricked up my ears. The windowframes were sealed with putty for the winter, so the sound was deadened, but you could still hear it … far, far away there was a low rumble, like something being dragged along—boo-oom, boo-oom … Heavy guns. The echo would die away, and then silence. I looked out of the window—I lived on a steep slope, at the top of St Aleksei's Hill, and I could see the whole of Podol, the Lower City. Night was drawing in from the west, the direction of the Dnieper, enveloping the houses, and rows of windows were lighting up. Then followed another salvo. And each time a rumble came from the far side of the Dnieper, I would whisper:

‘ “Go on, keep it up.”

‘This was the situation: the whole city knew that Petlyura was just about to abandon it—if not that night, then the next night. The Bolsheviks were advancing from the west bank of the Dnieper and rumour had it that they were in great strength. I must admit that the whole city was not merely impatient but even enthusiastic for their arrival. The atrocities committed by Petlyura's men in Kiev for the last month that they held it were beyond anything you can imagine. Pogroms were whipped up every minute and people were murdered daily, especially Jews of course. Whenever they wanted to requisition something, cars
would hurtle through the city manned by troops wearing fur hats with tassels of red braid, and there had been ceaseless gunfire in the distance for the last few days. Night and day. Everyone was in a state of something like exhaustion, with a frightened, hunted look. Only the day before, two corpses had been lying in the snow under my windows for half a day. One was wearing a grey overcoat and the other a black peasant shirt; neither had boots. Passers-by either shied away or gathered in crowds to stare, and a few bareheaded peasant women darted out of gateways, shook their fists at the sky and shouted:

‘ “Just you wait till the Bolsheviks come.”

‘The sight of these two wretched men, killed for some unknown reason, was sickening, and so in the end I too started looking forward to the Bolsheviks' arrival. They were coming nearer and nearer. Darkness was falling, and from the distance came rumblings, as if in the very bowels of the earth. So with my lamp giving out a light that was both reassuring and yet disturbing, I was completely alone in the flat; my books were scattered everywhere (for in all this chaos I had cherished the insane hope of studying for a higher degree) and I myself was crouched over a suitcase.

‘To tell you the truth, events had seized me by the hair and dragged me along with them: everything had been happening as though in some hellish nightmare. I had come back that evening from a workers' hospital in the suburbs where I was an intern in the female surgery department, and on my arrival I had found an envelope stuck in the letter-box with an unpleasantly official look. I tore it open there and then on the landing, read the contents and sat down on the top stair.

‘The note, typed in blue-black ink, was in Ukrainian. Translated into Russian it read:

‘ “On receipt of this you are to report to the Army Medical Directorate within two hours to await instructions …”

‘This was a summons from that same gallant army, led by “Boss” Petlyura, which left corpses in the street and indulged in pogroms. And I, with a red cross armband, was to join that company.

‘I did not waste much time day-dreaming on the staircase. I leaped up like a jack-in-the-box and went into my flat; this is where my suitcase came on the scene. I quickly worked out a plan: I would leave the flat, taking a change of underwear, and make my way to a
feldsher
friend of mine who lived on the outskirts, a man of doleful aspect and manifest Bolshevik sympathies. I would stay with him until Petlyura was thrown out, for there could be no doubt that he was going to be defeated. Or maybe the long-awaited Bolsheviks were a myth? Where were the guns? Silence had fallen. No, there was the rumbling again.

‘I threw the shirt away angrily, snapped the lock of the suitcase, put an automatic and a spare magazine into my pocket, and donned my greatcoat with its red cross armband. Then I looked around miserably, put out the lamp and groped my way through the shadowy twilight into the hall. There I turned on the light, fastened the hood on to my greatcoat and opened the door to the landing.

‘That instant I heard a cough, and two figures with short cavalry carbines slung over their shoulders stepped into my hall. One was wearing spurs, the other was not, and both had tall fur hats with blue tassels which dangled jauntily down to theircheeks.

‘My heart missed a beat.

‘ “Are you Doctor Yashvin?” the first trooper asked in Ukrainian.

‘ “Yes, I am,” I answered tonelessly.

‘ “You're coming with us,” he said.

‘ “What's the meaning of this?” I asked, having somewhat recovered from the shock.

‘ “Sabotage, that's what,” said the one with the loud spurs, and gave me a sly leer. “The doctors don't want to be mobilised, so they'll be punished according to the law.”

‘The hall light was switched off, the door clicked shut and we went down the stairs and out.

‘ “Where are you taking me?” I asked, stroking the cool ribbed butt of the automatic in my trouser pocket.

‘ “To the First Cavalry Regiment,” answered the man with the spurs.

‘ “What for?”

‘ “Wha' you mean, what for?” The second man was surprised. “You've been appointed our doctor.”

‘ “Who's in command of the regiment?”

‘ “Colonel Leshchenko,” the first one answered with some pride, his spurs clinking rhythmically to my left.

‘ “What an idiot I was,” I thought, “to waste so much time over my suitcase. All because of a pair of underpants … I could easily have left five minutes earlier.”

‘By the time we reached the house the city was covered by a black frosty sky studded with stars. A blaze of electric light shone through its large, ornate windows. With much clinking of spurs, I was led into an empty, dusty room, blindingly lit by a strong electric bulb under a cracked opal-glass lampshade. The muzzle of a machine-gun jutted out from a corner, and my attention was riveted by red and russet-coloured trickles on the wall by the machine-gun, where an expensive tapestry hung in shreds.

‘ “That's blood,” I thought to myself and winced.

‘ “Colonel,” the man with spurs said quietly, “we've found the doctor.”

‘ “Is he a Yid?” barked a dry, hoarse voice.

‘From behind the woven sheperdesses of the tapestry a door was silently thrown open and a man walked in. He was wearing a magnificent greatcoat and boots with spurs. A fine Caucasian belt decorated with silver medallions was tightly drawn around his waist, and at his hip a Caucasian sabre glinted in the bright electric light. He was wearing a lambskin hat with a magenta top crossed with gold braid. His slanting eyes had a cruel and curiously pained look, as though little black balls were bouncing up and down inside them. His face was riddled with pockmarks and his neat black moustache twitched nervously.

‘ “No, not a Yid,” replied the trooper.

‘Then the colonel strode up to me and looked into my eyes:

‘ “You're not a Yid,” he began in a strong Ukrainian accent, speaking a horrible mixture of Russian and Ukrainian, “but you're no better than a Yid, and as soon as the fighting's over I shall have you court-martialled. You'll be shot for sabotage. Don't let him out of your sight,” he told the trooper, “and give the doctor a horse.”

‘I stood there without saying a word, and as you can well imagine, the blood had drained from my face. Then once again everything started happening as though in a bad dream. A voice in the corner said plaintively:

‘ “Have mercy, sir …”

‘I dimly perceived a quivering beard and a soldier's torn greatcoat. Troopers' faces hovered around it.

‘ “A deserter?” croaked the now familiar hoarse voice. “God, you filthy wretch.”

‘I saw the colonel twitch at the mouth as he drew a grim, shining pistol from its holster and struck this broken man in the face with the butt. The man flung himself to one side, choking on his own blood as he fell to his knees. Tears poured from his eyes.

‘Then the white, frostbound city vanished, a tree-lined road stretched along the bank of the still, dark waters of the mysterious Dnieper and the First Cavalry Regiment was marching along the road, strung out in a long winding file.

‘At the rear of the column an intermittent rumbling came from the two-wheeled transport carts. Black lances bobbed along beside pointed hoods covered in hoar-frost. I was riding on a cold saddle, every now and then wriggling my aching toes in my boots. I breathed through a slit in my hood, which was growing a shaggy fringe of hoar-frost, and could feel my suitcase, tied to the pommel of the saddle, pressing against my left thigh. My inseparable escort rode silently beside me. Inwardly, I was as chilled as my feet. Now and then I raised my face to the sky and looked at the bright stars and in my ears, almost without cease, as though the sound had solidified, I could hear the shrieking of the deserter. Colonel Leshchenko had ordered him to be beaten with ramrods and they had beaten him in that house.

‘The distant darkness was now silent and I reflected bitterly that the Bolsheviks had probably been beaten off. My fate was hopeless. We were making our way to Slobodka, where we were to halt and guard the bridge across the Dnieper. If the fighting should die down and I ceased to be of immediate use to him, Colonel Leshchenko would have me court-martialled. At this thought I felt petrified
and cast a sad, longing glance at the stars. It was easy to guess at the verdict of a trial on a man who refused to report for duty within two hours in such a crisis. A horrible fate for a medical man.

‘Two hours later the scene had again undergone a kaleidoscopic change. This time the dark road had vanished. I found myself in a room with plastered walls and a wooden table on which there was a lantern, a hunk of bread and the contents of a medical bag. My feet had thawed out and I was warm, thanks to the crimson flames dancing in a small black iron stove. From time to time cavalrymen came in to see me and I would treat them. Mostly they were cases of frostbite. They would take off their boots, unwrap their foot-cloths and crouch by the fire. The room stank of sour sweat, cheap tobacco and iodine. Occasionally my escort left me and I was alone. Always thinking of escape, I opened the door from time to time looked out and saw a staircase lit by a guttering wax candle, faces and rifles. The whole house was so packed with people that it was difficult to run away. I was in the middle of their headquarters. I would come back from the door to my table, sit wearily down, lay my head on my arms and listen attentively. I noticed that every five minutes according to my watch a scream came from the room below mine. By then I knew exactly what was going on. Someone was being beaten with ramrods. At times the scream turned into something like a lion's roar, sometimes into gentle, plaintive entreaties—or so it sounded through the floor—as though someone were having an intimate conversation with a close friend. Sometimes it stopped abruptly as if cut off with a knife.

‘ “What are you doing to them?” I asked one of Petlyura's
men as he shivered and stretched his hands towards the fire. His bare foot was resting on a stool and I was smearing white ointment on the festering sore on his big toe, which was blue with cold. He answered: