Comrade Lieutenant, races ahead of the ideal,” Fidel said.
The political instructor had a proud, handsome face and broad shoulders. In the army barracks he wasn’t much liked.
“Comrades,” Khuriyev said, “a great honour has befallen us. In these days, we guard the peace of Soviet citizens. For example, you there, Lopatin—”
“And why Lopatin? Why Lopatin? Always Lopatin, Lopatin. All right, so I’m Lopatin,” Andrei Lopatin said in a bass voice.
“What is the reason that you, Lopatin, stand at your post? So that the kolkhoz* workers in your native village, Bezhany, may sleep peacefully.”
“Political work ought to be concrete.” This had been explained to Khuriyev during courses in Syktyvkar.
“Did you understand, Lopatin?”
Lopatin thought a moment and said loudly, “I’d like to burn down that native village and the kolkhoz with it.”
Alikhanov did not join in the drinking. He went to the soldiers’ quarters, crowded with bunks. Then he pulled off his felt snow boots and climbed onto a top bunk.
In the neighbouring bunk, wrapped in a blanket, lay Fidel. Suddenly he sat up in bed and started talking. “Know what I was just doing? Praying to God. I thought up the prayer myself. Wanna hear?”
“Well, go on.”
Fidel lifted his eyes and began, “Dear Lord! You see this whorehouse, I hope? You understand what guard duty means, I hope? If so, let it be that I get transferred to aviation. Or else, if worse comes to worst, to a construction battalion. And also, see to it that I don’t drink myself to death. For as it is, the trusties have vats of moonshine, and everything goes against the Moral Codex for Building Communism.
“Dear Lord! What do You hate me for? Even though I’m a no-good shit, I’m clean before the law. After all, I’ve never stolen anything. I just drink. And even that not every day.
“Dear Lord! Do You have a conscience, or not? If You’re not a phoney, let it be that Captain Prishchepa kicks the bucket as soon as possible. But the main thing, get rid of this melancholy… What do you think, is there a God?”
“Unlikely,” Alikhanov said.
“And I think that while everything is okay , maybe He really doesn’t exist. But when your back’s against the wall, maybe He does exist. So maybe it’s better to establish contact with Him ahead of time.”
Fidel leant over to Alikhanov and said softly, “I would like to get into paradise. Since Constitution Day I’ve set that goal for myself.”
“You’ll get in,” Alikhanov assured him. “You don’t have much competition in the guard section.”
“That’s just what I think,” Fidel agreed. “Our crowd here is hard to beat. Thieves and thugs. No paradise for them. They couldn’t get into a disciplinary battalion. So maybe with them for a backdrop I could just squeeze in, as a non-Party member.”
Towards ten o’clock, the whole company was completely drunk. The next guard shift was chosen from among those who could still walk. Sergeant Major Yevchenko assured them that the cold would sober them.
Security men wandered through the barracks, dragging machine guns and guitars behind them.
Two soldiers had already been tied up with telephone wire. They were carried to the drying room and set down on a pile of sheepskin jackets.
The guards in the Lenin Room were playing a game called “The tiger’s coming”. Everyone sat down at the table. Drank down a glass of vodka. Then Lance Corporal Kunin would say, “The tiger’s coming!”
The players slid under the table.
“As you were!” Kunin commanded.
Then the players would crawl out from under the table. Again drink vodka. After which Lance Corporal Kunin said, “The tiger’s coming!” And everyone again crawled under the table.
“As you were!” Kunin commanded.
This time, someone stayed under the table. Then a second and a third. Then Kunin himself keeled over. He could no longer say, “The tiger’s coming!” He dozed, resting his head on
The political instructor had a proud, handsome face and broad shoulders. In the army barracks he wasn’t much liked.
“Comrades,” Khuriyev said, “a great honour has befallen us. In these days, we guard the peace of Soviet citizens. For example, you there, Lopatin—”
“And why Lopatin? Why Lopatin? Always Lopatin, Lopatin. All right, so I’m Lopatin,” Andrei Lopatin said in a bass voice.
“What is the reason that you, Lopatin, stand at your post? So that the kolkhoz* workers in your native village, Bezhany, may sleep peacefully.”
“Political work ought to be concrete.” This had been explained to Khuriyev during courses in Syktyvkar.
“Did you understand, Lopatin?”
Lopatin thought a moment and said loudly, “I’d like to burn down that native village and the kolkhoz with it.”
Alikhanov did not join in the drinking. He went to the soldiers’ quarters, crowded with bunks. Then he pulled off his felt snow boots and climbed onto a top bunk.
In the neighbouring bunk, wrapped in a blanket, lay Fidel. Suddenly he sat up in bed and started talking. “Know what I was just doing? Praying to God. I thought up the prayer myself. Wanna hear?”
“Well, go on.”
Fidel lifted his eyes and began, “Dear Lord! You see this whorehouse, I hope? You understand what guard duty means, I hope? If so, let it be that I get transferred to aviation. Or else, if worse comes to worst, to a construction battalion. And also, see to it that I don’t drink myself to death. For as it is, the trusties have vats of moonshine, and everything goes against the Moral Codex for Building Communism.
“Dear Lord! What do You hate me for? Even though I’m a no-good shit, I’m clean before the law. After all, I’ve never stolen anything. I just drink. And even that not every day.
“Dear Lord! Do You have a conscience, or not? If You’re not a phoney, let it be that Captain Prishchepa kicks the bucket as soon as possible. But the main thing, get rid of this melancholy… What do you think, is there a God?”
“Unlikely,” Alikhanov said.
“And I think that while everything is okay , maybe He really doesn’t exist. But when your back’s against the wall, maybe He does exist. So maybe it’s better to establish contact with Him ahead of time.”
Fidel leant over to Alikhanov and said softly, “I would like to get into paradise. Since Constitution Day I’ve set that goal for myself.”
“You’ll get in,” Alikhanov assured him. “You don’t have much competition in the guard section.”
“That’s just what I think,” Fidel agreed. “Our crowd here is hard to beat. Thieves and thugs. No paradise for them. They couldn’t get into a disciplinary battalion. So maybe with them for a backdrop I could just squeeze in, as a non-Party member.”
Towards ten o’clock, the whole company was completely drunk. The next guard shift was chosen from among those who could still walk. Sergeant Major Yevchenko assured them that the cold would sober them.
Security men wandered through the barracks, dragging machine guns and guitars behind them.
Two soldiers had already been tied up with telephone wire. They were carried to the drying room and set down on a pile of sheepskin jackets.
The guards in the Lenin Room were playing a game called “The tiger’s coming”. Everyone sat down at the table. Drank down a glass of vodka. Then Lance Corporal Kunin would say, “The tiger’s coming!”
The players slid under the table.
“As you were!” Kunin commanded.
Then the players would crawl out from under the table. Again drink vodka. After which Lance Corporal Kunin said, “The tiger’s coming!” And everyone again crawled under the table.
“As you were!” Kunin commanded.
This time, someone stayed under the table. Then a second and a third. Then Kunin himself keeled over. He could no longer say, “The tiger’s coming!” He dozed, resting his head on
Similar Books
The I.P.O.
Dan Koontz
Doctor Knows Best
Ann Jennings
To Wed A Viscount
Adrienne Basso
Beautiful Bad Man
Ellen O'Connell
Your Magic Touch
Kathy Carmichael
I.D.
Vicki Grant
Unexpected
Lori Foster
One More Little Problem
Vanessa Curtis