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429 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1924
‘Russia acknowledges only one Orthodox faith and one Tsar!’ shouted Myshlaevsky, swaying.
‘Right!’
‘Week ago... at the theater… went to see Paul the First’, Myshlaevsky mumbled thickly, ‘and when the actor said those words I couldn’t keep quiet and I shouted out “Right!” – and d’you know what? Everyone clapped. All except some swine in the upper circle who yelled “Idiot!”’
‘Damned Yids’, growled Karas, now almost equally drunk.
A thickening haze enveloped them all… Tonk-tank… tonk-tank… they had passed the point when there was any longer any sense in drinking more vodka, even wine; the only remaining stage was stupor or nausea. In the narrow little lavatory, where the lamp jerked and danced from the ceiling as though bewitched, everything went blurred and spun round and round. Pale and miserable, Myshlaevsky retched violently. Alexei Turbin, drunk himself, looking terrible with a twitching nerve on his cheek, his hair plastered damply over his forehead, supported Myshlaevsky.
‘Are you deaf? Run!’
Nikolka felt a strange wave of drunken ecstasy surge up from his stomach and for a moment his mouth went dry.
‘I don’t want to, colonel’, he replied in a blurred voice, squatted down, picked up the ammunition belt and began to feed it into the machine-gun.
Far away, from where the remnants of Nai-Turs’ squad had mine running, several mounted men pranced into view. Their horses seemed to be dancing beneath them as though playing some game, and the gray blades of their sabres could just be seen. Nai-Turs cocked the bolt, the machine-gun spat out a few rounds, stopped, spat again and then gave a long burst. Instantly bullets whined and ricocheted off the roofs of houses to right and left down the street. A few more mounted figures joined the first ones, but suddenly one of them was thrown sideways towards the window of a house, another’s horse reared on its hind legs to an astonishing height, almost to the level of the second-floor windows, and several more riders disappeared altogether. Then all the others vanished as though they had been swallowed up by the earth.
Nai-Turs dismantled the breech-block, and as he shook his fist at the sky his eyes blazed and he shouted:
‘Those swine at headquarters – run away and leave children to fight…!’


"- هل سيدفع أحد ثمن الدم؟
- لا، لن يدفعه أحد.
سيذوب الثلج فحسب، وسينمو العشب الأوكراني الأخضر، وسيضفر الأرض، وستنبجس البادرات النضرة الناعمة، ويترجرج القيظ فوق الحقول، ولن يتبقى أي أثر للدم. الدماء رخيصة في الحقول القرمزية، ولن يشتريها أحد .."
"لا يجوز الاستسلام إلى الكآبة، الكئابة هي خطيئة كبيرة، ولو أنني أعتقد أن البلايا ستحدث، حقاً، بلايا كبيرة.."
"كل شيء سيمضي مع الأيام. المعاناة والآلام والدموع والجوع والوباء. وسيختفي السيف، أما النجوم فستبقى حين لن تبقى ظلال أجسادنا وأفعالنا على الأرض. ولا يوجد أي إنسان لا يعرف هذا. فلماذا لا نريد أن نوجه أنظارنا إليها؟ لماذا؟"
El año 1918 del nacimiento de Cristo y segundo del comienzo de la revolución fue grande y terrible. El verano fue abundante en sol y el invierno, en nieve. Muy alto, en el cielo, brillaban dos estrellas: la Venus vespertina de los pastores y Marte, rojo y tembloroso.

Great and terrible was the year of Our Lord 1918, of the Revolution the second. Its summer abundant with warmth and sun, its winter with snow, highest in its heaven stood two stars: the shepherds' star, eventide Venus; and Mars – quivering, red.
But the brightest light of all was the white cross held by the gigantic statue of St Vladimir atop Vladimir Hill. It could be seen from far, far away and often in summer, in thick black mist, amid the osier-beds and tortuous meanders of the age-old river, the boatmen would see it and by its light would steer their way to the City and its wharves. In winter the cross would glow through the dense black clouds, a frozen unmoving landmark towering above the gently sloping expanse of the eastern bank, whence two vast bridges were flung across the river. One, the ponderous Chain Bridge that led to the right-bank suburbs, the other high, slim and urgent as an arrow that carried the trains from where, far away, crouched another city, threatening and mysterious: Moscow.
The snow would just melt, the green Ukranian grass would grow again and weave its carpet over the earth... The gorgeous sunrises would come again... The air would shimmer with heat above the fields and no more traces of blood would remain. Blood is cheap on those red fields and no one would redeem it.
No one.