brother. It looked as if I'd have to face the music on my own.
'Big Varfolomeyev comes up to me and says: 'Well, Volodya, you dirty rat, if you've come to see us, you might as well sit down.'
' 'Thanks,' I says, 'I think I will.' And I sat down on the edge of a chair.
' 'Well, give the honoured guests something to eat,' says the older Varfolomeyev to the merchant.
'And Buchilo comes forward carrying glasses and vodka and boiled bacon. And there are his daughters sitting in the corner, as if they're going to be betrothed. Both of 'em were engaged to the Varfolomeyevs. They were looking very pale—they must have known something was brewing.
'I looked Varfolomeyev straight in the eye. I felt scared, but I didn't show it, I knew I'd got Soviet power to back me up. Young Varfolomeyev whispered something to Buchilo and I tried to hear what he was saying.
'And meanwhile, Luska Varfolomeyev pours me out a glass of vodka and says: 'Have a drink, old man!'
' 'Why should I drink first?' I says. 'Perhaps it's poisoned. Drink it yourself.'
' 'What do you mean!' Luska hisses. 'Are you scared? And you dare to insult the master of the house! We make you welcome, you dirty tramp, and you...' And he whipped out a knife.
'I saw what was coming, so I gave Kolya Smorgunov a wink. But instead of taking a pot at him, he smashes the lamp with the butt of his gun! Well, when that happened, I knocked big Varfolomeyev backwards over the table and heard him crash to the floor. The glasses rolled off the table, the girls screamed, and it was black as pitch all round. 'If only the others come soon!' I thought. And II pulled out my Browning to fire at the window. But just then a stool whizzed past my ear. 'Aha,' I think, 'the heavy artillery's gone into action!' And I started crawling towards the door. I could hear someone breathing close by and then I got a whiff of leather. So it was someone in a leather jerkin beside me. 'Here, take that!' I thought to myself. And I lashed out with the butt of my Browning. It landed right on the back of his head. There was a groan from one of the brothers. 'Hold the door, Kashket,' someone shouts. 'We'll show him!' And he lets fly at the ceiling. Then he stopped being shy too and let 'em have it with the Browning, into the corner where the shot had come from... Then there was screaming and firing and a smell of kerosene from somewhere. And Smorgunov shouts out from the door: 'Go it, Volodya, get their guns off 'em! I won't let 'em out!' It was all right for him to say 'get their guns!' There were four of them, not counting the daughters, and I was alone! II went on crawling towards the door. Suddenly I heard someone coming at me and caught the smell of vodka. I crouched down and covered my head with my hand. And just as I did so—zip! Something smacked into my hand!
'At first I didn't feel any pain, you know. Even though the knife had cut right through the sinews and touched my skull! 'I pulled my hand away and tried to find a handkerchief! But I knew I was in a bad way—my fingers wouldn't 'work. I covered the wound with my other hand and felt the sweat breaking out on my forehead. I began to feel very weak.
'With the last strength I could muster I yelled out to Kolya Smorgunov: 'Let 'em have it, the kulak blood- suckers, I'm wounded!' And just then Kashket swept the vases off the window-sill, smashed the window with his head and jumped out into the snow. Kolya saw him off with a blast from his carbine. Then our mates arrived. They'd heard the shots and they arrested both the Varfolomeyevs and the merchant. But as for me, I was crippled. I can hardly lift a glass of water. The food was bad in those days and the sinews didn't heal up properly. Even now my hand's sort of paralysed...'
'Look here, Volodya,' Gladyshev asked. 'Why does Kashket swank that he got wounded at the front when he was defending Yekaterinoslav from the Whites?'
'At the front?' Volodya laughed. 'Haven't you ever been swimming with him? No? Well, try it when you get the chance. You'll see where the bullet hit him. People don't get wounds like that at the front, except the deserters who try to run away when no one's looking...'
The dandy we had met in the personnel department strolled past our bench in his long sharp-pointed shoes.
'Why, there's Zuzya!' Volodya said loudly.
'Hullo there!' The dandy turned and waved to the driver as he passed.
'That Zuzya didn't want to take us on at the works!' Petka remarked grimly.
'Is that so!' Volodya exclaimed.
'Yes, it is,' I said, supporting Petka.
'Queer!' Gladyshev said. 'Surely Zuzya isn't getting uppish? I've been told he's pretty decent towards the working class.'
'Decent!' Sasha cried indignantly. 'Why, if it hadn't been for the director of the works... Just listen to this...' And he recounted how Zuzya had spoken to us in his office.
'A real bureaucrat, lives on red tape!' I put in.
'And was thinking of asking him for a job in the transport department!' Volodya said.
'If he'd only explained things, advised us a bit! 'Allez!' he says. 'Go to Kharkov,' ' Sasha went on indignantly. 'Not like the director! He asked about everything like a human being, tested us on how much we knew... '
'No flies on our director,' Luka said. 'You won't find a director like him all the way along the coast, from Sevastopol to Rostov! He's been asked to take over the Ilyich Works and the Ukrainian Trust, but he wouldn't go. 'Let me get this works into shape,' he says. 'I want to introduce proper working methods here and get rid of the legacy the foreigners left us.' It was his idea to raise the foundry roof. 'Let the most harmful shop have the most fresh air,' he says. Haven't you seen the fettling shop we've built since he's been director? It's a lovely sight! In the old days, under Caiworth, people working in that fettling shop used to die of consumption by the hundred. They used to clean the castings in little huts, all the dust used to get in their lungs. But now it's a pleasure to look at. It's light, it's clean, and all the dust is sucked out by pipes... And the pasting he gave those Trotskyites last year! He made their feathers fly all right! Don't try to compare Ivan Fyodorovich with Zuzya, lad.'
'What is he, does he come from the working class?'
'Ivan Fyodorovich?'
'No, Zuzya!'
'He's a footballer,' Luka said calmly.
'What's football got to do with it?' Petka put in.
'Just this,' said Luka. 'Zuzya was the best centre forward in the whole of Zaporozhye, but at the Communard Works they didn't think much of him—used to work as la stoker, or something. But our chief engineer, he's crackers on football. He went to Zaporozhye once and watched Zuzya playing.
When he saw Zuzya was a nippy fellow, he got him to come here. Of course, as soon as Zuzya arrives, he gets promoted—assistant manager of the personnel department. Now he draws a decent salary, enough to feed himself up for kicking that ball about...'
'The chief engineer—he's a grey-haired man, isn't he?' I asked cautiously, remembering what Angelika had said about her father.
'That's him,' Volodya affirmed, 'your neighbour. Rather a queer chap, but he likes football.'
'His daughter's a good-looker,' Petka put in with some satisfaction. 'Vasil knows her already. They've been holding hands on the beach.'
'Well, I'm blowed!' Volodya looked at me with surprise and respect. 'You're a fast-worker, I see, don't let the grass grow under your feet! But watch your step—if Zuzya gets to know about, he'll break your shins for you. His kick's like a cannon-ball, lad. He can break a cross-bar with one of his shots...'
Not far away, in the harbour, a ship gave a sharp blast on its siren. Then another, and a third.
'The Dzerzhinsky's off to Yalta,' Luka said.
We had never seen a real steamer in our lives, only in pictures. I very much wanted to run down to the harbour and watch the ship leave, but Petka would go on trying to take the rise out of me. Nudging Bobir, he asked Volodya: 'Is Zuzya a friend of the engineer's daughter?'
'Sure he is! He's always going round there taking her out on his bicycle. One of the family.'
'I think they must like him because he's a footballer,' Luka remarked.
'You don't mean to say the engineer's daughter plays football?' Petka gasped.
'She's a football fan! If you ever go to a match, don't sit in front of her,' Luka advised, 'she'll punch your back till it's black and blue. Football's the only thing she cares about, like her old man.'
'Now, now you're going a bit too far. . .' Gladyshev, who had been silent until now, came to the defence of my acquaintance. 'If you ask me, she knows her own mind all right, that girl does. She's read a lot of books. As for
