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tsarist officials, priests, private traders and all those who hoped for the return of the tsarist regime one
day.
Lowering storm-clouds gather above us,
Sinister forces threaten us still. . .
the marchers struck up a fresh song.
How I longed to tell the fellows beside me that I had just come back from Kharkov where I had
talked with no less a person than the Secretary of the Central Committee himself. How I longed to tell
everyone that the secretary had called Pecheritsa a "landscape-painter." If only I could have related how
I had seen Saksagansky acting in a play called Vanity! But my neighbours went on singing and took no
notice of me.
Even Panchenko had not asked about my trip. From the way he had greeted me you would think I
had been to the next village, not the capital... Panchenko was marching at the side of the column. I could
make out his deep, soft voice among the other voices.
Along the other side of Hospital Square, near the dark building of the factory-training school, another
torch-light column was moving towards the centre of the town.
Was it the factory-school chaps? Of course it was! Only our group had such bright torches.
"Cheerio, chaps! Thanks for your company! I'm off to my own group!" I shouted to the railwaymen
and, breaking away from the column, I sped across the square.
My feet dragged in the muddy clay. What a fuss Sasha would make if I lost his galoshes! Splashes of
ice-cold water flew out on all sides. My trouser-legs were wet through already. Nearer and nearer came
the light of the torches. I gasped for breath. Everything would be all right as long as I didn't get caught on
the barbed wire! There was a gap in it somewhere round here. Yes, here it was. . . One last spurt and I
was running along the firm road, overtaking the rear of the column.
"Hey there, chaps! Hurrah!" I shouted, waving the heavy brief case so joyfully that the paper flew off.
But who cared! No one would call me a bureaucrat now. "Pugu!" I shouted like a Cossack, spotting
Sasha's ginger mop. "Take your galoshes, Sasha!"
"Vasil's back. . . Mandzhura's here!" came excited voices.
"Fall in here, with me," Nikita shouted from the head of the column.
I pushed into the front rank and gripped our secretary's hand firmly.
There were familiar faces all round me Sasha Bobir, fatty Maremukha, Furman the know-all. I
glanced back and saw the dejected face of Yasha Tiktor in the rear.
"Well, what's the news?" Nikita said, glancing into my face.
"Everything's all right, Nikita!" I answered simply. "We'll be going to the Donbas. Listen..." Choking
with excitement and trying not to trip over, I told Nikita hurriedly about my visit to the Central
Committee. A drop of tar from a torch dripped on my nose. I rubbed it off with my fist and gasped out
my story in bits and pieces. The ranks were very close together and it was difficult to march. Trying to
hear what I was saying, the chaps kept treading on my heels and pushing me from behind.
"Is that what he said, 'your dreams will come true'?" Nikita interrupted me.
"That's right. And then the secretary said: 'Very soon young intelligent workers like you will be
needed everywhere both in Yekaterinoslav and in the Donbas.' "
"Splendid! So there's justice in the world after all Polevoi was right, wasn't he? See what a clever
bloke h is?" Nikita said triumphantly, and turning to the rest o| the column, he shouted: "We'll soon be
going to the Don-f bas, chaps! What did I say? Let's have a song to mark the occasion our school
song!" In one voice we struck up with the trainees song composed by a young worker-poet Teren
Masenko. "We'd toss you, Vasil, but it's a bit too muddy," Nikita shouted. "We're so grateful, we might
drop you you'd get yourself dirty if you fell, you know." Proud and happy, I sang with the others. "Is
Pecheritsa back yet?" I asked Nikita. "Try and find him!" Nikita flung back grimly. "What, have they
sacked him already? By telegraph, I suppose?"
"He's sacked himself." "When I was with him in the train..." "Where?" Nikita exclaimed, fixing his eyes
on me. "Where? Why, we travelled together as far as Zhmerinka, then..."
"What's that?" Nikita snapped, very alert suddenly. "You went as far as Zhmerinka with Pecheritsa?"
Before I had time to tell how I had met Pecheritsa in the train, Nikita swung round and shouted right
in my face: "You ass! Don't you realize this is very important! Why didn't you say anything about it
before? Come with me... Furman, take charge of the column!"
We slipped out of the ranks. The group marched on with their blazing torches towards the stands on
Soviet Square carrying a big portrait of Kabakchiev. Nikita and I dashed off at top speed to the house in
Seminary Street.
A CALL FROM MOSCOW
I had always known that Nikita liked making a mystery of things.
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