Heads had begun to turn towards him from all the seats, and it grew quiet in the carriage.
A soldier, who had his rifle with him, said with assurance:
"I know who you are—you're partisans—Makhno men."
The one-eyed man paused for a moment, smiling slyly into his moustache.
"You've got the wrong sow by the ear, brother."
Thrusting his horny hand sideways beneath his moustache, as if to wipe off the smile, he continued, not without a certain solemnity: "Makhno... that's a kulak organization....
He works round Ekaterinoslav.
Nobody farms less than a hundred acres there.
We're different.
We are Red partisans."
"And what do you do?" asked the gay-visaged fellow traveller from the top bunk.
"The Chernigov Region is the field of our activities, and the northern parts of the Nezhin Region, see?
We're Communists.
In our eyes Germans, Polish landowners, hetman haidamaks, and our own village kulaks, are all one.... So we mustn't be confused with the Makhno men.
See?"
"We see! We're not fools—get on with your story!"
"Very well then—it was like this: after this battle with the Germans we lost heart.
We retreated to the Koshelev forest, right into the heart of it, where nothing but wolves live.
There we rested a bit.
People from the neighbouring villages began coming to us.
They told us life was getting impossible for them.
The Germans had started clearing the district of partisans, in earnest.
And the haidamaks were sent to help the Germans. There wasn't a day they didn't rush into the village and thrash anyone the kulaks pointed out.
These stories made our lads so furious, they almost choked.
By now another detachment had joined us, and there was quite an army in the woods, about three hundred and fifty altogether.
We elected Sublieutenant Golta, a Venkiev guerilla fighter, commander of our group.
Then we began wondering what direction to carry on further operations in, and decided to set up observation posts along the Desna, because military supplies were sent along it to the Germans.
So off we went!
We took up positions where the steamers passed close to the riverbank."
"Eh-h-h!
And then what?" came from the top bunk.
"Then—a steamer approaches.
'Stop!' shout our first lines.
The captain does not obey the command and—bang! bang!
Of course the steamer moves inshore.
We're on deck in a trice; sentries are posted, papers examined."
"That's the way!" said the soldier.
"The steamer had a cargo of saddles and harness.
Two colonels were in charge—one of them just a dodderer, the other a fine upstanding young man.
There was a consignment of medical supplies as well as the harness.
And that was just what we needed.
I was on deck, going through papers, when suddenly I saw two Communists coming up to me—Pyotr and Ivan Petrovsky, from the Borodyan District.
I understood at once what was up, but gave no sign of knowing them.
I treated them quite officially, strictly:
'Your papers....' Petrovsky hands me his passport, with a note in it on a cigarette paper:
'Comrade Pyavka, my brother and I are leaving Chernigov for Russia—be sure to be very ruthless with us, so as not to attract attention—there are spies all round....' Very well.... After examining all papers we unloaded the harness and the saddles and the medical supplies, as well as fifteen crates of wine as a tonic for our wounded.
You've got to hand it to the ship's doctor, he behaved like a hero.
'I'm not going to give up the medical supplies!' he shouted. 'It's against all laws, and it's contrary to the international code, I would have you know!'
Our reply was short and to the point:
'We have wounded soldiers ourselves, so you're observing not the international, but the human code, in giving up your medical supplies.'