Random Precision
2nd June 2008, 06:10
This is a story by the Soviet writer Isaac Babel about one of his encounters with the Ukrainian anarchist leader Nestor Makhno during the Russian Civil War. It was included in his famous Red Cavalry Cycle of short stories. I thought, given the level of interest in Makhno and the Civil War, that some comrades might find Babel's account of him and his partisans intriguing.
"A Hardworking Woman" by Isaac Babel, translated by Peter Constantine, edited by Nathalie Babel, published in The Complete Stories of Isaac Babel, W.W. Norton & Company, 2002.
***
Three Makhno fighters- Gniloshkurov and two others- had come to an agreement with a woman about her love services. For two pounds of sugar, she agreed to take on the three of them, but when the third's turn came, she couldn't hold out and went reeling around the room. The woman scrambled out into the yard, where she ran straight into Makhno. He lashed her with his whip, tearing her upper lip, and Gniloshkurov got it too.
This happened in the morning, at nine o'clock. After that the day went by with much activity, and now it's night, the rain is drizzling, whispering and unyielding. It is rustling beyond the wall. In front of me, outside the window, hangs a single star. The town of Kamenka has drowned in the haze- the teeming ghetto is filled with teeming darkness and the inexorable bustling of the Makhno fighters. Someone's horse neighs softly like a pining woman; beyond the edge of the shtetl sleepless tachankas creak, and the cannonade, falling silent, lies down to sleep on the black, wet earth.
Only Makhno's window us ablaze in a faraway street. It cuts through the gloom of the autumn night like an exhilarated searchlight, flashing, drenched with rain. There, in Makhno's headquarters, a brass band is playing in honor of Antonina Vasilevna, a nurse who was spending her first night with Makhno. The thick, melancholy trumpets blow louder and louder, and the partisans, huddled together beneath my window, listen to the thundering of old marches. Three partisans are sitting beneath my window- Gniloshkurov and his comrades- and the Kikin, a crazed Cossack, comes rushing over to join them. He kicks his legs up in the air, does a handstand, chirps and sings, and has difficulty calming down, like an epileptic after a fit.
"Oat-head!" Gniloshkurov suddenly whispers to Kikin. "Oat-head," he repeats remorsely. "How can it be that she let two more have a go after me without so much as batting an eyelash? There I was, putting my belt back on, and she looks at me and says to me, 'Merci for spending some time with me, Papa, you are so charming! My name is Anelya- that's what I'm called, Anelya.' So you see, Oat-head, I think to myself she must have been chewing some bitter herbs since the morning, and then Petka wanted to have a go at her too!"
"Then Petka wanted to have a go at her too," fifteen-year-old Kikin chimes in, sitting down and lighting a cigarette. "'Young man,' she tells Petka, 'would you please be kind enough, I'm at the end of my rope!' And she jumps up and starts spinning like a top, and the boys spread their arms and won't let her out the door, and she keeps begging and begging." Kikin stands up, his eyes flash, and he begins to laugh. "She escapes, Kikin continues, "and then right there at the door, who does she run into? Makhno himself. 'Halt!' he yells. 'I bet you have the clap! I'm going to hack you up here and now!' And he starts lashing her, and she- she still wants to give him some lip!"
"It must also be said," Petka Orlov's pensive and tender voice interrupts Kikin, "it must also be said, that there is greed among people, ruthless greed! I told her- 'There's three of us, Anelya! Bring a girlfriend along, share the sugar with her, she'll help you!' 'No,' she says, 'I can cope well enough, I have three children to feed, it's not like I'm a virgin or something.'"
"A hardworking woman!" Gniloshkurov, still sitting beneath my window, assures Petka. "Hardworking to the last!"
And he falls silent. I can still hear the sound of water. The rain is continuing to stutter, bubble, and moan on the roofs. The wind grabs the rain and shoves it to the side. The triumphant blowing of the trumpet's falls silent in Makhno's courtyard. The light in his room has dimmed by half. Gniloshkurov rises from the bench, splicing the dim glimmer of the moon. He yawns, tugs his shirt up, and scratches his remarkably white stomach, and then goes over to the shed to sleep. Petka Orlov's tender voice floats after him.
"In Gulya-Pole there was this out-of-town muzhik called Ivan Golub," Petka says. "He was a quiet muzhik- no drinking, he was cheerful when he worked, lifted too much of a load, got himself a rupture, and died. The people of Gulya-Pole mourned him and the whole village walked behind his coffin. They walked, even though he was a stranger."
And at the door of the shed, Petka begins muttering the story of the late Ivan, muttering more and more softly and tenderly.
"There is ruthlessness among people," Gniloshkurov says to him, yawning, "there really is, I tell you."
Gniloshkurov falls asleep, and the two others with him, and I remain alone by the window. My eyes explore the soundless dark, the beast of memory tears at me, and sleep will not come.
... She had sat in the main street selling berries since the morning. The Makhno fighters had paid her in abolished banknotes. She had the plump, airy body of a blonde. Gniloshkurov, his stomach jutting out, was sunning himself on a bench. He dozed, waited, and the woman, anxious to sell off her wares, gazed at him with her blue eyes, and blushed slowly and tenderly.
"Anelya," I whisper her name. "Anelya."
"A Hardworking Woman" by Isaac Babel, translated by Peter Constantine, edited by Nathalie Babel, published in The Complete Stories of Isaac Babel, W.W. Norton & Company, 2002.
***
Three Makhno fighters- Gniloshkurov and two others- had come to an agreement with a woman about her love services. For two pounds of sugar, she agreed to take on the three of them, but when the third's turn came, she couldn't hold out and went reeling around the room. The woman scrambled out into the yard, where she ran straight into Makhno. He lashed her with his whip, tearing her upper lip, and Gniloshkurov got it too.
This happened in the morning, at nine o'clock. After that the day went by with much activity, and now it's night, the rain is drizzling, whispering and unyielding. It is rustling beyond the wall. In front of me, outside the window, hangs a single star. The town of Kamenka has drowned in the haze- the teeming ghetto is filled with teeming darkness and the inexorable bustling of the Makhno fighters. Someone's horse neighs softly like a pining woman; beyond the edge of the shtetl sleepless tachankas creak, and the cannonade, falling silent, lies down to sleep on the black, wet earth.
Only Makhno's window us ablaze in a faraway street. It cuts through the gloom of the autumn night like an exhilarated searchlight, flashing, drenched with rain. There, in Makhno's headquarters, a brass band is playing in honor of Antonina Vasilevna, a nurse who was spending her first night with Makhno. The thick, melancholy trumpets blow louder and louder, and the partisans, huddled together beneath my window, listen to the thundering of old marches. Three partisans are sitting beneath my window- Gniloshkurov and his comrades- and the Kikin, a crazed Cossack, comes rushing over to join them. He kicks his legs up in the air, does a handstand, chirps and sings, and has difficulty calming down, like an epileptic after a fit.
"Oat-head!" Gniloshkurov suddenly whispers to Kikin. "Oat-head," he repeats remorsely. "How can it be that she let two more have a go after me without so much as batting an eyelash? There I was, putting my belt back on, and she looks at me and says to me, 'Merci for spending some time with me, Papa, you are so charming! My name is Anelya- that's what I'm called, Anelya.' So you see, Oat-head, I think to myself she must have been chewing some bitter herbs since the morning, and then Petka wanted to have a go at her too!"
"Then Petka wanted to have a go at her too," fifteen-year-old Kikin chimes in, sitting down and lighting a cigarette. "'Young man,' she tells Petka, 'would you please be kind enough, I'm at the end of my rope!' And she jumps up and starts spinning like a top, and the boys spread their arms and won't let her out the door, and she keeps begging and begging." Kikin stands up, his eyes flash, and he begins to laugh. "She escapes, Kikin continues, "and then right there at the door, who does she run into? Makhno himself. 'Halt!' he yells. 'I bet you have the clap! I'm going to hack you up here and now!' And he starts lashing her, and she- she still wants to give him some lip!"
"It must also be said," Petka Orlov's pensive and tender voice interrupts Kikin, "it must also be said, that there is greed among people, ruthless greed! I told her- 'There's three of us, Anelya! Bring a girlfriend along, share the sugar with her, she'll help you!' 'No,' she says, 'I can cope well enough, I have three children to feed, it's not like I'm a virgin or something.'"
"A hardworking woman!" Gniloshkurov, still sitting beneath my window, assures Petka. "Hardworking to the last!"
And he falls silent. I can still hear the sound of water. The rain is continuing to stutter, bubble, and moan on the roofs. The wind grabs the rain and shoves it to the side. The triumphant blowing of the trumpet's falls silent in Makhno's courtyard. The light in his room has dimmed by half. Gniloshkurov rises from the bench, splicing the dim glimmer of the moon. He yawns, tugs his shirt up, and scratches his remarkably white stomach, and then goes over to the shed to sleep. Petka Orlov's tender voice floats after him.
"In Gulya-Pole there was this out-of-town muzhik called Ivan Golub," Petka says. "He was a quiet muzhik- no drinking, he was cheerful when he worked, lifted too much of a load, got himself a rupture, and died. The people of Gulya-Pole mourned him and the whole village walked behind his coffin. They walked, even though he was a stranger."
And at the door of the shed, Petka begins muttering the story of the late Ivan, muttering more and more softly and tenderly.
"There is ruthlessness among people," Gniloshkurov says to him, yawning, "there really is, I tell you."
Gniloshkurov falls asleep, and the two others with him, and I remain alone by the window. My eyes explore the soundless dark, the beast of memory tears at me, and sleep will not come.
... She had sat in the main street selling berries since the morning. The Makhno fighters had paid her in abolished banknotes. She had the plump, airy body of a blonde. Gniloshkurov, his stomach jutting out, was sunning himself on a bench. He dozed, waited, and the woman, anxious to sell off her wares, gazed at him with her blue eyes, and blushed slowly and tenderly.
"Anelya," I whisper her name. "Anelya."