I Beg Your Pardon, Madam!
Whenever city folks came to these parts to do a bit of hunting and asked the villagers who might show them about, they were invariably told:
"Go see Bronka Pupkov. He's good at that sort of thing. With him, there's never a dull moment."
These words were always accompanied by an odd smile.
Bronka (Bronislav) Pupkov was still a strong fellow, well-built, blue-eyed and smiling, and a great talker. He was past fifty and had fought in the Second World War, but the two fingers shot off of his right hand weren't a memento of
those years. Once, as a young fellow, he had been out hunting in the wintertime and wanted a drink of water. So he started pounding the ice by the riverbank with his rifle butt, holding the gun by the barrel with two fingers over the muzzle. The safety catch was on, but it snapped loose, and one of his fingers was blown clear off. The other was attached only by a flap of skin. That one, Bronka tore the rest of the way off himself. He brought them home-his index and middle fingers-and buried them in the garden. He even said the following words:
"My dear fingers, may you rest in peace until that bright morning when Our Savior shall return."
He wanted to put up a cross, but his father wouldn't let him.
Bronka had been a real hellraiser in his day. He was always getting in lights, and had been beaten up often and mercilessly. Whenever that happened, he would go home and lick his wounds until he was better, and the next thing you knew, he would be out tearing through the village on his deafening moped not holding a grudge against anyone, for he was an easy-going sort.
For Bronka; siting as a guide for hunters from the city was a real holiday. Whenever they came around, he was always willing to go with them for a week or even a month. He knew the area as well as he did his remaining eight fingers, and moreover he was a clever and lucky hunter.
The city folks weren't stingy with their vodka, and sometimes, they even gave him money. But if they didn't, well, that was all right, too.
"For how long?" Bronka would inquire "in a business-like tension.
"Three days or so."
"Everything will be just dandy. You'll rest your nerves and get some exercise."
So off they would go for three or four days, or for a week even. And everything would be fine. The city folks were respectable. He was never tempted to rough them up or fight them-even when they were drinking. Moreover, he loved to tell them all manner of hunting tales.
On the very last day, when they were holding their farewell party, Bronka would launch into his favorite yarn.
He waited for that day with great impatience, steeling himself as best he could. And when the great and longed-for day finally arrived, there would be a sweet pain in his chest from early morning, and Bronka would maintain a solemn silence.
"What's wrong with you?" they would ask.
"Nothing," he would reply. "Where do you want to hold the farewell party? By the riverbank?"
"That would do just fine."
...Towards evening, they would choose a cozy spot on the bank of the lovely, swift river, and build a campfire.
While the fish soup was cooking, they would down the first round and converse. o
After Bronka had made short work of two aluminum cups of vodka, he would light a cigarette and inquire, as if in passing:
"Are any of you fellows veterans, by any chance?"
Almost everyone over forty was a veteran, of course, but he would even ask youngsters, because he had to get his story started.
"Did that happen at the front?" they always asked him, meaning his maimed hand.
"No, I was a medical orderly during the war. The world's a strange place, that's for sure," Bronka added, then fell silent for a long time. "Did you hear about the attempt on Hitler's life?"
"Sure we did."
"Not that one. 'Not the one where his own generals wanted to do him in."
"Then which one do you mean?"
"There was another one."
"You don't say..."
"Yes, my friends," Bronka began, holding out his aluminum cup and saying, "Fill 'er up, fellows." He took a long swing and added, "There was another one. There certainly was. Whiz-the bullet missed his head by about this much." Here, he indicated the tip of his pinky finger.
"When was that?"
"The twenty-fifth of July in nineteen forty-three."
Another lengthy silence followed as Bronka again lapsed into reverie, as though he was recalling something quite distant but dear to him.
"Who fired the shot?"
Bronka didn't hear the question. He was smoking and staring into the flames.
"Where did the assassination attempt take place?"
Bronka didn't reply.
Surprised glances were exchanged.
"I fired the shot," he suddenly replied, speaking softly and continuing to stare into the fire for some time. Finally, he raised his eyes and looked at each of them as if he wanted to say: "Surprised, are you? Well, I'm surprised myself." Then he gave a gloomy laugh.
Usually a long silence followed while everyone looked at Bronka. He smoked and shoved burning coals back into the fire with a stick... This was the most intense moment of all-it was as if a glass of pure grain alcohol was coursing through his veins. "Are you serious?"
"What do you think? I know perfectly well how history gets distorted sometimes. Yes, I do, comrades."
"That's a bunch of nonsense..."
"Where did it happen? How did you do it?"
"With a Browning. Just like this," he said, bending a twig as if he were pulling a trigger. Finally it snapped. Bronka looked both serious and gloomy just then-why were people 50 distrustful? He wasn't kidding around with them or playing the fool, after all.
The doubting Thomases didn't know what to say.
"So why doesn't anyone know about it?"
"A hundred years hence, there will be even more people that don't know. Do you understand? And what you don't know... The tragedy of it is that so many heroes remain unsung."
"That sounds like a bunch of..."
"Wait a minute. Tell us how it happened."
Bronka knew they wanted to hear his tale all the same. They always wanted to hear it.
"You have to promise not to tell anyone."
Another round of amazement.
"We promise not to tell..."
"Do you give your word of honor?"
"We won't say anything. Now fell us how it happened."
"No, you have to give your word of honor first. You don't know what kind of folks live in our village... They'll all be jabbering about it in a heartbeat."
"You don't have to worry about us. We'll carry your secret to the grave!" they exclaimed, itching to hear what he had to say. "Just tell us what happened."
"Then fill 'er up, fellows," Bronka said, holding out his cup. He looked absolutely sober. "As I already mentioned, it was on the twenty-fifth of July in nineteen forty-three. We were attacking, you see. And an attack always meant more work for the orderlies. I must have dragged a good dozen people to the field hospital that day. I brought a badly wounded lieutenant into the ward. Some general was getting his bandages changed just then. A major-general.
His wound wasn't serious-he'd gotten hit just above the knee. Well, that general saw me, and he says to me:
" Wait a minute, orderly. Don't leave yet.'
"I thought he had to go somewhere and wanted me to help him get there. So I waited. Life was a lot more interesting with a general around: things always got done fast whenever one said the word."
His audience was all ears. The merry flames were sizzling and popping. Twilight was creeping from the forest toward the river. It rolled over the water and reached the middle of the stream where the current was swiftest. The water there still sparkled and shimmered like some giant fish with a long silvery body cavorting in the dusk.
"So they finished bandaging up the general, and the doc says to him: 'You should lie down and rest.' 'Like hell I wild' the general replied. We were mighty afraid of the doctors in those days, but the generals weren't. So anyway,
the general and I climbed into his jeep and headed off somewhere. He asked me where I was from and where I used to work. He- wanted to know how many grades of
school I had finished. So I answered all his questions: I told him where I was from (I was born in these parts, you know) and that officially, I worked on the collective farm, but that I really spent most of my time hunting. "That's fine,' the general says to me. 'Are you a good shot?' Yes,' I said, keeping it short and sweet. 1 can snuff out a candle at fifty paces.' But I admitted I was a bit weak on the book learning, because my father had started taking me along with him to the taiga when I was still a tadpole. He said that didn't matter, because I wouldn't need a higher education there anyway. Then he says to me. If you can snuff out one rotten candle that's been starting forest fires all over the world, your homeland will never forget you.' Something terribly important was afoot, but I hadn't caught on yet.
"We came to a big dug-out. The general kicked everybody out and started asking me more questions. 'Do you have any relatives abroad?' he asked. I told him of course not. My kin had lived in Siberia for centuries. We were descended from the Cossacks who had built the Biya-Katun Fortress, which is not far from where we are just now. That was in the days of Peter the Great. And that's where my people hailed from-the pride of the whole village."
"So where did you get a name like Bronislav?" one of the hunters piped up.
"The village priest had a bad hangover when he christened me, and that's what he named me. But I gave that long-maned gelding a few thumps when we turned him over to the security ""it of Dzerzhinsky's Cheka in thirty-three."
"What's that again? Where was it you took him?"
"To the city. We arrested him, but there was no one to take him in. So the other fellows said to me, 'Go ahead, Bronka. You've got a bone to pick with him after all. So you take him in.' "
"Why? Bronislav is a fine name, after all."
"Yeah, but you need a proper last name to go with it. My name is Bronislav Pupkov. Whenever we had roll call in the army, all the boys laughed their heads off when they called out my name. But if I had been plain old Ivan Pupkov, no one would have thought a thing of it."
"So what happened after that?"
"Anyway, this is what came next. Where did I leave off?"
"The general was asking you questions..."
"Oh, yes. Well, he asked about lots of things and then said: 'Comrade Pupkov, the Party and government are entrusting you with a very important mission. Hitler has come to the forward positions incognito. He is not far away.
And we have a chance to eliminate him.' Then the general explains, "We've taken prisoner a certain spy who was sent across the frontline to our side to fulfill a special assignment. He fulfilled his assignment but got caught red-handed.
He is supposed to cross back over the frontline and deliver some extremely important documents to Hitler himself. Personally. The only catch is that Hitler and all his scum know this man on sight.' "
"So where did you fit in?" the hunters inquired.
"Hold your horses, fellows. Don't get me off track, or I'll never get to the point. And while you're at it, slosh a little of that fire water into my cup here. Ha! So then I find out the reason: me and that spy look as alike as two peas in a pod. And then the fun really started, brothers!"
Bronka lapsed into his reminiscences with such sweet abandon, with such fervor, that his listeners were also involuntarily caught up by this exceptional and pleasant sensation. They began to smile, and a certain quiet ecstasy took hold of them. "Right then and there, they gave me a private room in the field hospital and appointed two orderlies to look after me. One of them was a sergeant, mind you. But I says to him, 'Hand me my boots, comrade,' and he gives them to me. Orders are orders, you see, so he had no choice but to do what I say. They were getting me ready for my special mission. I was going through training..."
"What kind?"
"Special training. But I can't tell you about that, because I signed a paper saying I wouldn't reveal any secrets. After fifty years have passed, it's all right to tell. But only..." he paused in mid-sentence, and his lips moved
soundlessly. "But only twenty-five have passed. But never mind! Anyway, the fun continued! When I got up in the morning, what a breakfast-three full courses! My orderly would bring me some port, and I would send him packing! So then he'd bring pure grain alcohol-there was plenty of it at the hospital. I took the spirits and diluted it to taste and gave him the port to drink. A week passed, and I wondered how much longer this would go on. Finally, the general sent for me and asked. Well, how are things going, Comrade Pupkov?' I told him I was ready. 'Fine,' he says. 'May 'God be with you. We're waiting for you to return a
Hero of the Soviet Union. Just make sure you don't miss!' I told him if I missed. I'd be the worst traitor in history and an enemy of the people to boot! Either I'll die along with Hitler, or I'll return as Hero of the Soviet Union Bronislav lvanovich Pupkov. The thing is, a big Soviet offensive was being planned with infantry on the flanks and a mighty head-on tank assault at the center."
Bronka's eyes were burning like tiny coals in the darkness. He even forgot to ask the men to fill his aluminum cup. The reflections of the flames played on his slightly wisened face with its regular features. He was handsome and taut as a bowstring.
"I won't tell you, my dear comrades, how they dropped me on the German side of the front-line and how I got to Hitler's bunker. The main thing is, I got there!" Bronka said, rising. "I got there).. I went up the last step and found myself in a large hall of reinforced concrete. Bright electric lights were glaring, and there was a swarm of generals...I quickly took my bearings: where was Hitler?" Bronka was so tense his voice was cracking. He would speak first in a whistling whisper then in a grating, tormented howl. He spoke unevenly, pausing frequently in midword, swallowing his spittle...
"My heart was right here ... in my throat. Where was Hitler? I had studied this fox's ugly mug microscopically and had decided just where to shoot. I was planning to aim for the mustache. I saluted and snapped: "Heil, Hitler!" I had a large, thick packet in my hand, and in that packet was a loaded Browning. One of the generals walked up to me and reached for the packet, but I gestured politely with my hand that, I beg your pardon, madam, it was for the Fuhrer himself. I barked out in perfect German: "For the Fuhrer!" Bronka paused to swallow. "And then... He came out. An electric shock ran through me... I remembered my distant homeland... My ma and pa... I didn't have a wife back then..." He always fell silent for a while, at this point ready to weep, howl, and rip his shirt from his chest... "You know how sometimes your whole life flashes before your eyes in an instant... Like when you're all alone in the woods, and you come face to face with a bear! I can't stand it!" he exclaimed and began weeping.
"So what happened next?" someone asked quietly.
"He walked toward me, and all the generals snapped to attention... He was smiling. I suddenly tore the packet open. Wipe that grin off your face, you rat! Now you're going to get it for all our sufferings! For all our wounds! For the blood of the Soviet people! For the cities and villages you've destroyed. For the tears of our wives and mothers!" Bronka was veiling and holding his hand as if he were about to fire a pistol. Everyone was feeling a bit peculiar by then. "You dared to laugh, but now you'll bathe in your own blood! You filthy, slithering snake!!" This last was a soul-rending scream. Then followed the silence of the grave. And after, a hurried, almost inaudible whisper: "So
I fired a shot..." Bronka's head collapsed onto his chest, and he wept in silence for some time, whining, grinding his healthy teeth, and shaking his head inconsolably. When he finally looked up, his face was covered with tears. Again quietly, very quietly, he said with horror:
"I missed."
No one said a word. Bronka's state of distress affected and surprised them all so much they felt it would be wrong to say anything.
"Fill 'er up, fellows," Bronka demanded quietly. He drained his cup, then walked down to the water where he sat by himself for a long time, tormented by the agitation he had just experienced. He sighed and cleared his throat, plaintively refusing to have any of the fish soup.
...Usually, the villagers would find out that Bronka had been telling the telling the tale of his "assassination attempt" again.
After that, Bronka would come home gloomy, prepared to give and take offense 'in equal measure. His wife, an unattractive, thick-lipped woman, would take up the attack at once:
"Why are you coming home like a whipped dog with its tail between its legs? Have you been at it again).."
"Go to hell!.." Bronka would growl limply in reply. "Give me some grub."
"You don't need food! What you need is a crowbar upside the head!" his wife shouted. "I can't even leave the house for shame at what people are saying about you!"
"So stay at home and don't go galivanting about!"
"No, I'm leaving right now!.. I'll go to the village council this instant. Let them call you in for another dressing down! If you don't watch out, they'll take you to court, you eight-fingered idiot! They'll put you in prison for falsifying history!"
"They don't have the right to: it's not down in print anywhere. Understand? Now quit squawking and give me some grub!"
"The whole village is laughing about you-behind your back and to your face even. But you could care less. You filthy curl You louse! Don't you have any conscience at all, or did you blow it away along with your fingers?" With that, she spit at him and added, "You and your shameless eyes! You ass-hole!"
Bronka turned a stern gaze upon his wife and said softly but with considerable force:
"I beg your pardon, madam, but if you don't shut up, I'll knock your teeth in!"
His wife slammed the door behind her as she left. She was going to complain about her wayward husband.
She was wrong when she said Bronka didn't care, for he did. He suffered the torments of the damned and hated himself.
He would drink at home for a full two days, sending his teenaged son to the store for vodka.
"Don't listen to what anybody is saving there," he would tell his son angrily. "Just get the vodka and come straight home."
He really did get called into the village council a couple of times. There, the local officials attempted to shame him and threatened to take measures... But Bronka, who would be dead sober by then, without looking the chairman in the eye, would say morosely:
"OK, that's enough. The heck with it. It's not worth worrying about."
After the browbeating was over, he would "have a nip" at the village store and sit on the porch waiting for the drink to take effect Then he would rise, roll up his sleeves, and announce loudly:
"Well, are there any takers? Of course, if I mutilate you a bit, don't take offense. I beg your pardon, madam."
And truth to tell, he really was a fine shot.
|
