V

The Gambrinus had its own song hits of the season.

During the Boer War the melody in vogue was the “Boer Match” (it was then, it seems, that the famous fight between Russian and British seamen occurred). Sashka had to play the heroic piece about twenty times each evening, and when he had finished caps would be waved, cheers would ring out, and those who appeared indifferent would be glared at in a most unfriendly way, which was often a bad sign at the Gambrinus.

Then came the festivities in connection with the Franco-Russian alliance. Sourly the governor gave permission for the Marseillaise to be played. It also was asked for daily, but not so frequently as the “Boer March” had been; the cheers were thinner, and no caps were waved at all. The reason was, on the one hand, that there were no grounds for heartfelt sentiment and, on the other, that the customers of the Gambrinus did not sufficiently realize the political importance of the alliance; besides, it was always the same people who clamoured for the Marseillaise and cheered it.

Once the melody of the cake-walk became fashionable for a short while, and a chance customer, a carousing merchant, even danced it one night among the barrels, without taking off his raccoon overcoat, high galoshes and fox cap. But this Negro dance was soon forgotten.

The great Japanese war quickened the heartbeat of the Gambrinus customers. Newspapers began to appear on the barrels, and every evening there were discussions about the war. The most unenlightened and peaceful people turned into politicians and strategists, but each of them deep in his soul was afraid for himself or for his brother, or, more often still, for a friend: those days brought out the strong invisible bonds between people who had long shared work, danger and daily encounters with death.

At first no one doubted that Russia would win. Sashka had somewhere come by the “Kuropatkin March,” which he played for about twenty nights with some success. But one night the march was ousted for ever by a song brought by Balaklava fishermen – ”salty Greeks” or “Pindoses,” as they were known.

 

They took me from you, Mother dear,

And sent me far away —

A babe-in-arms but yesterday,

A man-in-arms today.

 

From then on they wanted no other songs at the Gambrinus. Throughout the evening the demand would be made again and again, “Give us that sad one, Sashka! The Balaklava stuff! That soldier song, you know.”

They would sing and weep, and drink double the usual amount, as did, in fact, the whole of Russia at that time. Every night someone came to say goodbye; he would strut like a rooster, dash his cap down on the floor, threatening to lick all the Japs single-handed, and tearfully finish with the heart-rending song.

One day Sashka came earlier than was his custom. After pouring him his first mug of beer, the barmaid said as she always did, “Play something of your own, Sashka, will you?”

Suddenly his lips twitched and the mug shook in his hand.

“You know what, Mme Ivanova?” he said, as if in wonder. “They’re calling me up. For the war.”

She wrung her hands.

“You don’t say so! You must be joking.”

“I’m not.” Sashka shook his head in meek dejection. “I mean it.”

“But aren’t you over age, Sashka? How old are you?” That was a question which somehow no one had asked till then. Everyone imagined that Sashka must be as old as the beerhouse walls, the marquesses, the Ukrainians, the frogs, and Gambrinus himself, the painted king who guarded the entrance.

“Forty-six.” Sashka reflected. “Or perhaps forty-nine. I’m an orphan,” he added dolefully.

“Then why don’t you go and tell that to the authorities?”

“I did, Mme Ivanova.”

“Well?”

“Well, they said to me, ‘Shut up, you dirty Yid, or we’ll put you in the cooler.’ And they let me have it.”

That evening everyone at the Gambrinus knew, and out of sympathy for Sashka they plied him with beer till he was dead drunk. He tried to show off, to grimace and squint, but his meek, droll eyes looked sad and terrified. A brawny workman, a boiler-maker by trade, suddenly volunteered to go to war instead of Sashka. Everyone saw the absurdity of the offer, but Sashka was moved to tears; he hugged the man and presented him there and then with his violin. And Snowdrop he left to the barmaid.

“Mme Ivanova, please take care of the little dog. I may not come back, then you’ll have her to remember me by. Snowdrop, my little dog! See how she’s licking her chops. You poor dear! And there’s something else I want to ask you, Mme Ivanova. The proprietor owes me some money – please get it and send it to the addresses I’ll give you. I’ve got a cousin in Gomel – he has a family – and then there’s my nephew’s widow who lives in Zhmerinka. I’ve been sending them money every month. That’s the way with us Jews – we like our relatives. I’m an orphan, and single. Goodbye, Mme Ivanova.”

“Goodbye, Sashka! Let’s kiss each other goodbye. We’ve been together for so many years. And – please don’t take it amiss – I’ll cross you for good luck.”

Sashka’s eyes were deeply sorrowful, but he could not help a final clownish joke.

“Don’t you think, Mme Ivanova, that the Russian cross might strike me dead?”

VI

Now the Gambrinus had a lonely, deserted look, as though it were orphaned without Sashka and his violin. The proprietor tried to use as a decoy a quartet of strolling mandolin-players, one of whom, attired as a music-hall comedian with red whiskers and a false nose, in checked trousers and a collar rising above his ears, sang comic songs with lewd gestures. But the quartet was a complete failure; in fact, customers booed or flung bits of sausage at the musicians, and the comedian was once given a good hiding by Tendrovo fishermen for a disrespectful comment about Sashka.

Nevertheless, from habit, the house was still frequented by those young men from sea or harbour whom the war had not dragged to suffering and death. At first Sashka’s name was mentioned every night.

“I wish Sashka was here! The old place is so lonely without him.”

“Yes, I wonder where he is now, poor Sashka.”

“In far-away Manchurian fields” someone would start a new season hit, then break off, embarrassed, and someone else would say all of a sudden, “There are three kinds of wounds: perforated, punctured, and incised. And there are also lacerated wounds.”

 

I’m coming home with victory

And you without an arm —

 

“Stop whining, will you? Any news from Sashka, Mme Ivanova? A letter or a postcard?”

Mme Ivanova had got into the habit of reading the newspaper every night, holding it at arm’s length, her head tipped back and her lips moving, while Snowdrop snored peacefully in her lap. The barmaid no longer looked like a cheerful skipper standing on the bridge – far from it – and her crew, listless and sleepy, wandered aimlessly about the house.

When asked about Sashka’s fate she would slowly shake her head.

“I know nothing. There are no letters, and the papers don’t say anything, either.”

Slowly she would take off her spectacles, put them down along with the newspaper beside the warm, snug Snowdrop and, turning away, weep softly.

Sometimes, bending over the little dog, she would say in a small pathetic voice, “Well, Snowdrop my doggie? How’s everything, my pet? Where’s our Sashka? Hey? Where’s your master?”

Snowdrop would raise her delicate little nose, blink her moist black eyes and whimper softly along with the barmaid.

But time takes the edge off everything. The mandolin-players were followed by balalaika-players, and then by a Russo-Ukrainian chorus with girls, and finally Lyoshka the accordion-player established himself at the Gambrinus – more firmly than anyone else had. He was a thief by trade, but since he got married he had decided to take the path of righteousness. He had long been known in various eating-houses, and therefore he was tolerated at the Gambrinus; indeed, he had to be tolerated, for business was very slack.

Months went by – a year passed. No one ever remembered Sashka now, except Mme Ivanova, and even she did hot cry any more at the mention of his name. Another year rolled by. Sashka must have been forgotten even by the little white dog.

However, contrary to Sashka’s fears, the Russian cross did not strike him dead; he was not once wounded, although he took part in three big battles and once even went into action at the head of a battalion, as member of a band in which he played the flute. At Wafangkou he was taken prisoner, and after the war a German steamship brought him to the port where his friends worked and made merry.

The news of his arrival spread like wildfire to all the harbours, piers and shipyards. That night the Gambrinus was so crowded that most people had to stand; the mugs of beer were passed overhead from hand to hand, and although many customers left without paying, business was brisker than it had ever been before. The boiler-maker brought Sashka’s violin, carefully wrapped in his wife’s shawl, which he there and then gave away for a couple of drinks. Sashka’s last accompanist was dug up from somewhere and brought in. Lyoshka, touchy and conceited, tried to stand his ground. “I’m paid by the day, and I’ve got a contract!” he said doggedly again and again. But he was simply thrown out, and would have got a thrashing if Sashka had not intervened.

Probably no hero of the Russo-Japanese War was accorded so hearty and enthusiastic a welcome as Sashka. Strong, horny hands caught hold of him, lifted him from the floor and tossed him up with such force that they almost dashed him against the ceiling. And the shouts were so deafening that the tongues in the gas-jets went out, and the policeman on the beat came in several times to ask them to “take it easy, because it’s too noisy outside.”

That night Sashka played all the favourite Gambrinus songs and dances. He also played some Japanese songs he had picked up in captivity, but the audience did not like them. Once again Mme Ivanova, who seemed to have come back to life, rose cheerfully on her captain’s bridge, and Snowdrop sat on Sashka’s knees and yelped with joy. At moments, when Sashka stopped playing, some simple-minded fisherman, who had just grasped the meaning of Sashka’s miraculous return, would suddenly exclaim in naive and joyful amazement, “Why, it’s Sashka back again!” That would bring uproarious laughter and a volley of merry oaths, and once again people would snatch up Sashka, toss him to the ceiling, shout, drink, clink mugs, and spill beer over each other.

Sashka did not seem to have changed or aged during his absence; time and misfortune had as little effect on his appearance as on that of the sculptured Gambrinus, the patron and protector of the house. But, with the sensitiveness of a kind-hearted woman, Mme Ivanova had noticed that Sashka’s eyes still held the look of terror and anguish which she had seen in them before he went away, except that the look had become deeper and more significant. Sashka struck attitudes as he had always done, winked and wrinkled his forehead, but Mme Ivanova saw he was pretending.