think even he realized the futility of his words.
We sat him down amongst us in the village street and tore at strips of the roast meat with our bare hands. The barrels of liquor were passed round freely. All differences were soon forgotten. Barcelona fetched the Russian an affectionate blow on the shoulder with the butt of his revolver and shouted 'Vive Moscow!' The Russian belched and shouted encouragement to Little John, who was doing his drunken best to violate a fat, trousered lady of the village.
'Vive Stalin!' cried Barcelona.
'Vive Stalin!' echoed the Russian. 'Long life to Lenin, protector of the proletariat!'
He lost his balance and fell on his side in the snow, and the Legionnaire pulled him upright again. The Russian pointed a finger at him.
'You're under arrest,' he told him. 'All of you, under arrest. I've had my eye on you for some time... filthy Trotskyists!'
He cleared his throat, spat over his shoulder, informed the Legionnaire that Karl Marx was a habitual drunkard, fell over again and clutched amorously at Porta. Then he looked all round him, as if to ensure himself of a degree of privacy, leaned forward and whispered hoarsely.
'Tovaritch, tell me one thing: where did you learn to speak Russian?'
'Why, at home,' hissed Porta, with an equal air of secrecy. There was a pause, then the Russian rocked with loud laughter.
'You must teach me some day!'
'Gladly,' said Porta. 'Or perhaps you'd rather learn German?'
The Russian became suddenly sullen once again. 'Where are your papers?' he demanded. 'I haven't seen your papers... Do you have any papers?'
'Naturally,' said Porta. 'But it's not worth the bother of showing them to you. They're all forgeries.'
In the midst of the general mirth, the joke seeming to be much appreciated by our friend Piotr, Fjodor shuffled up to Alte and muttered urgently in his ear. By a mixture of sign language and pidgin Russian the old man was able, in a limited way, to converse with us, and I knew at once from the expression on Alte's face as he turned towards me that the time had come to cease merrymaking and return once again to the sordid business of war.
'Sven! On your feet, and make it snappy! According to Fjodor there's an N.K.V.D. patrol on its way here.'
'Right! I'll get the sledge ready straight away.'
Already the news had communicated itself to the villagers. They were as anxious to be rid of us as we were to be gone, eager to eliminate all traces of our presence. Alte dragged Little John away from his lady friend, shook the Professor out of a drunken trance, picked Heide bodily off the ground and prepared ourselves for a hasty departure. The Russian sat watching us, cradling an empty barrel of alcohol on his lap, obviously at a loss to understand the sudden breaking up of the party.
'What about him?' demanded Porta, jerking his thumb towards him.
Heide would have disposed of him there and then, but Fjodor showed signs of such agitation at the thought of a dead Russian left behind in the village that we had no alternative but to take him with us.
'You shoot later,' begged Fjodor. 'Much later. But you shoot all right. You cut throat, maybe. Bury in snow.'
'With the greatest of pleasure,' said Heide. 'I'll take care of him.' He seized the Russian by the shoulder. 'Come on, you! Time to be off.'
Apathetically, the Russian strapped on his skis and reached out for his abandoned machine gun. Heide promptly took it from him.
'Voina plenny (prisoner-of-war)', he told him. 'No need for guns any more. You do what you're told from now on.'
The dog team was harnessed, Paul was made comfortable on the sledge, the whole village assembled to wave us farewell. With a crack of the whip and a cry of 'Ohai!' from Alte, we were off. The leader of the team bounded forward, the sledge moved away. The village was left behind and the usual combination of snow and wind quickly dissipated the remaining effects of the drink and the roast pork that had warmed our bellies and
We sat him down amongst us in the village street and tore at strips of the roast meat with our bare hands. The barrels of liquor were passed round freely. All differences were soon forgotten. Barcelona fetched the Russian an affectionate blow on the shoulder with the butt of his revolver and shouted 'Vive Moscow!' The Russian belched and shouted encouragement to Little John, who was doing his drunken best to violate a fat, trousered lady of the village.
'Vive Stalin!' cried Barcelona.
'Vive Stalin!' echoed the Russian. 'Long life to Lenin, protector of the proletariat!'
He lost his balance and fell on his side in the snow, and the Legionnaire pulled him upright again. The Russian pointed a finger at him.
'You're under arrest,' he told him. 'All of you, under arrest. I've had my eye on you for some time... filthy Trotskyists!'
He cleared his throat, spat over his shoulder, informed the Legionnaire that Karl Marx was a habitual drunkard, fell over again and clutched amorously at Porta. Then he looked all round him, as if to ensure himself of a degree of privacy, leaned forward and whispered hoarsely.
'Tovaritch, tell me one thing: where did you learn to speak Russian?'
'Why, at home,' hissed Porta, with an equal air of secrecy. There was a pause, then the Russian rocked with loud laughter.
'You must teach me some day!'
'Gladly,' said Porta. 'Or perhaps you'd rather learn German?'
The Russian became suddenly sullen once again. 'Where are your papers?' he demanded. 'I haven't seen your papers... Do you have any papers?'
'Naturally,' said Porta. 'But it's not worth the bother of showing them to you. They're all forgeries.'
In the midst of the general mirth, the joke seeming to be much appreciated by our friend Piotr, Fjodor shuffled up to Alte and muttered urgently in his ear. By a mixture of sign language and pidgin Russian the old man was able, in a limited way, to converse with us, and I knew at once from the expression on Alte's face as he turned towards me that the time had come to cease merrymaking and return once again to the sordid business of war.
'Sven! On your feet, and make it snappy! According to Fjodor there's an N.K.V.D. patrol on its way here.'
'Right! I'll get the sledge ready straight away.'
Already the news had communicated itself to the villagers. They were as anxious to be rid of us as we were to be gone, eager to eliminate all traces of our presence. Alte dragged Little John away from his lady friend, shook the Professor out of a drunken trance, picked Heide bodily off the ground and prepared ourselves for a hasty departure. The Russian sat watching us, cradling an empty barrel of alcohol on his lap, obviously at a loss to understand the sudden breaking up of the party.
'What about him?' demanded Porta, jerking his thumb towards him.
Heide would have disposed of him there and then, but Fjodor showed signs of such agitation at the thought of a dead Russian left behind in the village that we had no alternative but to take him with us.
'You shoot later,' begged Fjodor. 'Much later. But you shoot all right. You cut throat, maybe. Bury in snow.'
'With the greatest of pleasure,' said Heide. 'I'll take care of him.' He seized the Russian by the shoulder. 'Come on, you! Time to be off.'
Apathetically, the Russian strapped on his skis and reached out for his abandoned machine gun. Heide promptly took it from him.
'Voina plenny (prisoner-of-war)', he told him. 'No need for guns any more. You do what you're told from now on.'
The dog team was harnessed, Paul was made comfortable on the sledge, the whole village assembled to wave us farewell. With a crack of the whip and a cry of 'Ohai!' from Alte, we were off. The leader of the team bounded forward, the sledge moved away. The village was left behind and the usual combination of snow and wind quickly dissipated the remaining effects of the drink and the roast pork that had warmed our bellies and
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