Grain, sugar, soap, raw materials, all taken away to Germany in trains.
The muzhik and his wife had no use for a grand piano, an old Dutch canvas, or a Chinese teapot.
All they could do was to eye the forelocks, drooping moustaches, blue cloaks, and red-crowned fur caps of the Gaidamaks, and rub shoulders in the principal street with the blue-jowled, bowler-hatted dealers in air and currency, sigh heavily, and go home no better off than they had set out.
And on the way home, the train would stop,—the axles getting overheated after the first twenty miles, and there being no machine oil, for the Germans had taken it all.
Sand would be sprinkled, they would go on again, only to be stopped once more by the overheating of the axles.
It was all this which made the women wail with the crumpled Reichsmarks in their hands, and the men hide the cattle in forest gullies, out of harm's way—who could tell what sort of a notice would be pasted up on the morrow!
There were no lights in the village, all the huts were dark, but beyond the copse, on the other side of the lake, the windows of the great house shone brightly.
The bailiff was giving a supper in honour of the German officers.
There were sounds of military music, and the strains of German waltz tunes floated eerily over the dark village.
Like a burning string, a rocket soared high up in the sky for the amusement of the German soldiers, as they stood about the courtyard of the mansion, where a barrel of beer had been rolled out for them.
The burning string exploded, and straw thatches, orchards, willow trees, the white belfry, and the wattle fences were lighted up by the slowly falling stars.
Many a glum countenance was raised towards them.
Their light was so brilliant that every sullen wrinkle stood out.
A pity they could not have been photographed in such moments by some invisible camera!
Such photographs would have given the German General Staff much food for thought.
Even in the fields, over a mile from the village, it was as light as day.
A few persons stole up to a lonely haystack and immediately threw themselves on the ground.
Only one of them did not lie down behind the haystack.
Raising his head to look at the lights falling from the sky, he laughed:
"Just look at that!"
The lights went out before they reached the ground, and it was pitch-dark again.
The men around the haystack drew closer, their rifles clattering as they let them drop.
"How many altogether?"
"Ten sawed-off guns, Comrade Kozhin, four rifles."
"Not enough."
"There wasn't enough time. We'll bring some more tomorrow night."
"And where are the cartridges?"
"Here they are—in our pockets. There's plenty of cartridges."
"Hide them under the stack, then, lads. Grenades, bring grenades! The sawed-off gun is only fit for old men hiding in a ditch behind a bush.
They shoot once, wet their trousers, and it's all over.
The young fighter needs a rifle, and above all, hand grenades.
Understand?
And a sword for those who know how to handle it.
That's the weapon of weapons."
"We could start this very night, Comrade Kozhin, strike me dead, if we couldn't!"
"We could raise the whole village.... There's such a lot of ill feeling.... Look, they've taken our very hearts' blood.... We'd go against them with pitchforks and scythes, we'd use all our everyday implements.... It'd be as easy as easy to do them in while they're sleepy...."
"Who's the commander—you?" cried Kozhin in cutting tones.
Then he fell silent.
When he spoke again his voice, at first soft and insinuating, grew louder and louder:
"Who's the commander here?
I should like to know that.... Am I speaking to fools? That's what I want to know....
Shall I go away this instant, and let the Germans and Gaidamaks beat and plunder you?" (Here he let out a string of obscenities.) "Haven't you any discipline?
Many a head have I cut off with my own sword for this very thing!
When you join the detachment you'll have to swear complete, unconditional obedience to the Ataman. Otherwise you'd better stay behind.
There the rule is—sing, amuse yourselves, but when the Ataman cries: To horse!', you'll no longer belong to yourselves.
Understand?" (He fell silent, and his next words, though still severe, were conciliatory.) "The Germans mustn't be touched yet, not today, nor yet the next day.
Great strength is needed for that."
"Comrade Kozhin, if we could only get our hands on Grigori Karlovich—he never gives us a moment's peace."
"You can have a go at the bailiff, but not before next week, or I won't be able to manage.
The other day a German raped one of the women in Osipovka.