The Commissar (42 page)

‘Think we can make it?’ shouts Gregor in a voice which echoes between the houses.

‘How the fuck should I know?’ squeals ‘Frostlips’, sending an idiotic burst through a plateglass window. It breaks up into a million pieces and sets a burglar alarm going.

‘Burglars!’ shouts Gregor. ‘They’ve got a nerve with both the German an’ the Red Army in town!’

‘Shut your stupid bloody mouth!’ rages the Commissar, wiping spittle from his face.

The snarl of a
Kalashnikov
cuts him short. The windows on the far side of the market-place disintegrate, and all six tyres on the lorry parked under cover of the long house, go off with deafening explosions.

In the confusion I throw two hand-grenades. One of them goes into the cabin of the lorry which immediately catches fire.

‘What the’ell’s goin’
on
?’ shouts Tiny, staring round him in confusion. ‘What kind of bleedin’ idiots are shootin’? An’ who the bleedin’’ell they shootin’
at
? We’re
friends
!’

A long, raging burst from a pair of machine-guns answers him.

‘This is bloody well
enough
!’ shouts Porta resentfully, losing his yellow topper.

‘Those bastards have mounted guns up there on the third
floor,’ screams Albert, pointing wildly. ‘I don’t think they know we’re friendly!’

‘I’m not taking any more of this shit,’ shouts Porta, lifting his machine-pistol.

The shutters splinter. Snow, ice and shards of glass fly in all directions, as he empties the
Kalashnikov’s
entire magazine into the window in one long burst.

A very fat and very angry lady in a bright yellow nightdress, and with a red nightcap on her head, appears at the shattered window.

‘Sons of bitches!’ she screams, furiously. ‘You’re going to have to pay for every bit of what you’ve smashed! Cowardly mongrels! Go out and shoot Germans, and leave us Russians in peace!’ She lifts a large pottery floor-vase above her head, goes back a little way and runs forward to get more distance on her throw. Unfortunately for her she gets too much distance. She forgets to let go of the vase and goes with it out of the window. With a shrill scream she lands in a snowdrift. The vase flies out of her hands and hits ‘Frostlips’ on the head. He gulps, and goes out like a light.

‘Wow!’ cries Tiny.

‘Right on the coconut!’ laughs Porta, happily.

‘Wow!’ repeats Tiny. ‘Was that lady
mad
?’

‘I should think so, too.’ replies Barcelona. ‘Who wouldn’t be, with a gang of gun-crazy bums going round shooting people’s windows up in the middle of the night?’

‘Was it’er as shot off the gun?’ asks Tiny.

‘No, we must’ve been wrong,’ says Porta, shaking his head. He cranes to get a better view of the fat lady, who is crawling round swearing in the middle of the snowdrift. ‘God, what a lovely creature! Just my style! Between her legs the Thirty Years War wouldn’t seem a minute too long! Hej! Olga!’ he yells,’ come on over here and let’s have a jump together!’

‘Let’s try shootin’ the other way and see what happens,’ suggests Gregor, his fighting blood up.

A long MG burst kicks up the snow along the whole length of the market-place. A bullet burns a furrow in
Porta’s left boot.

‘Ow-ow-ow! Blood!’ howls Albert. A ricochet has slashed his cheek.

‘Frostlips’ has regained consciousness, after his meeting with the floor-vase. He jumps back and takes cover behind Porta. He holds out the heavy
Nagan
in front of him, clenched in both hands. Unwittingly he is aiming it directly at Porta.

‘Jesus. Son of Mary!’ cries Porta, turning round and looking straight into the black muzzle of the
Nagan
. He can see the rifling clearly, and can sense the round-headed 11 mm bullet waiting down there to be fired.

‘You’re
dead
!’ howls ‘Frostlips’, quite out of his mind with fear.

Porta ducks just as the gun goes off. The bullet passes only a fraction of an inch from his cheek. His eyes turn up, showing the whites, and he falls backwards into the snow. He claims he is dead.

‘Hell, man! That bullet went straight through me! I never heard a bang like that before in all my life!’

We have to show him his face in a mirror, so that he can see there is noentrance hole, before he realizes he is still alive and that ‘Frostlips’ has missed. It takes him a while to get over the shock.

‘Reminds me a lot of a fight I was in once in Wedding in Berlin,’ he says, ducking under a burst of machine-pistol fire. ‘Me old dad comes home blind-o an’ thinks the long-haired’s been having a bit on the side! While he was punishing her for that, he finds out the pork roast has got itself burnt. So he makes up his mind to smash up the whole street,
before
he goes back to knocking the old woman about. Well, then the coppers turn up and
they
start in beating
him
up and everybody else with him. They never thought to ask where the blame lay!’

‘Let’s get over there,’ shouts Tiny. He grabs a
Schmeisser
and starts off at top speed across the market-place, careless of the bullets that are flying round his ears.

The crazy Maxim gunner on the far side of the houses
knocks snow into the air again with a new long burst. He is traversing the square.

Porta rushes down the street, stops at a cellar window and sends a whole magazine through it. Suddenly the machine-gun stops firing, and everything becomes strangely still.

Tiny goes up the long cement stairway in two big jumps. He crashes the door in with his boot.

‘Shut the door, you fool,’ roars a voice. ‘There’s a crowd of madmen out there shooting at us!’

Tiny grips the long magazine of the
Schmeisser
firmly, and presses the stock in under his elbow.

A captain with green OGPU shoulder-boards gives a shout, and goes down behind a desk with both hands clamped down on top of his head.

A big figure stands in the middle of the room, waving a ’45 around. A single shot sounds, but from another direction. Tiny believes for a moment that he is dead, so shocked is he. He swings the snub-nosed German machine-pistol in a half-circle.

The big Russian with the’45 gives a shout, as he looks down the black barrel of the
Schmeisser
. He drops his pistol and raises his hands in the air.

Along the filthy wall stand a group of half-dressed supplies soldiers, staring in astonishment at Tiny and the
Schmeisser
.

A corporal goes forward a couple of steps, and blinks his eyes. Realizing that what he sees is really there, he stops and pulls his head down between his shoulders like a tortoise.

The
Schmeisser
chatters like a runaway circular saw. Blue flames spit: long gashes appear across the walls. Chalk-dust comes down like heavy snow.

A little soldier, who is very drunk, zig-zags across the room at top speed, dives across a table and crashes headfirst into the floor. He stays down there, with both hands protectively covering the back of his neck. Cautiously, he turns his head to see if what he thought he saw was really what he did see. It was.

A group of Russians sit there staring, quite paralysed by
the number of things which have happened in such a short space of time. Then they fall over backwards, the legs of their chairs shot out from under them.

A funeral party, armed with black umbrellas, comes running up the stairs to see what is going on. They need a little amusement after the melancholy atmosphere of the churchyard, and push forward behind Tiny to peer over his shoulder. Those in the lead catch sight of the
Schmeisser
with its bulldog snout and long magazine. Then they see the ugliest face they have ever set eyes on, and quickly realize that something is happening which should
not
be happening. They fall over one another’s feet to get away: slip on one another’s hats and galoshes, which have fallen off, and involve themselves inextricably in wet black umbrellas, some of which have turned inside out.

A large, damp, unbelievably ugly dog lollops over and sniffs at Tiny. It looks up at him and licks his hand. It seems as if it is smiling at him. It closes its eyes when the firing starts. Splinters of glass fly through the air and are pulverized into powder. Woodwork splinters. Stray bullets gouge into walls. The dog opens its eyes again, and is so happy its tail seems ready to fall off.

Roars and hysterical screams are heard, in time with the flaying, raging stutter of the German mpi. Bullets ricochet and fan out, whining across the room. A waterpipe bursts, and water spouts in all directions.

A large oval object rolls to rest in front of Tiny’s feet.

The wet dog sniffs at it cautiously, and backs away.

‘Holy Mother of Kazan,’ howls Tiny, in terror. ‘A rifle-grenade, a bleedin’ rifle-grenade!’ With a well-aimed kick he sends the dangerous thing into the furthest corner of the room. There is an earsplitting explosion. Then a 6-foot tall, red-hot stove comes flying through the air.

Tiny and the dog duck in unison as the stove passes over them, and stare after it fearfully as it goes crashing on, taking the double doors with it, and making the civilian funeral party run even faster. They think the red-hot stove is the devil himself out collecting souls to take back down to hell!

A hand-grenade comes flying through the air, hits the door-post and screws back again like a billiard ball which has been given wrong side. It explodes on top of a buffet. Blood flows everywhere. It resembles a butcher’s block.

A sergeant, wearing only one boot, and with his helmet on the back of his head, comes rushing along with wildly staring eyes and throws his arms round Porta, who is on his way through the swing doors,

‘
Tovaritsch, Tovaritsch
, do something or other!’ he screams, beside himself with fear.

‘We
are
doin’ something!’ answers Porta, tearing himself from the man’s embrace.

‘You’re all wrong,’ roars the sergeant at the top of his voice, although he is only an inch or two away from Porta. ‘We are Russians! We are
friends
!’

‘That’s just what we
thought
,’ screams Tiny, equally loudly. ‘We’re
Germans
, man!’

‘I know it,’ roars the sergeant. ‘You belong to the Volga Brigade!’

‘What’re you shooting at us for then?’ asks Porta, in a ringing voice. ‘We thought you were counter-revolutionaries that we were supposed to shoot the heads off of?’

‘No, no! You’re wrong!’ shouts the sergeant. ‘We are all in a service and supplies company! We never do nothing to
nobody
?

‘Come on out then,’ shouts Tiny, waving invitingly with the
Schmeisser
. ‘It’s all over. All a mistake!’

‘Mistake?’ sighs the Old Man, his eyes widening as he looks at the wreckage around him. ‘Preserve us! What a mess you’ve made out of this place!’

‘It was their own fault.’ Porta defends himself. ‘It was them that started with grenades!’

A Russian with his fur cap right down over his eyes and his cloak fluttering out from his shoulders, comes rushing down the steep street as if the devil were at his heels.

‘Paratroops, paratroops,’ he screams in panic fear. He misses his footing and slides a long way on his stomach. When he finally gets up enough courage to look up from the snowdrift in which he has ended he stares, paralysed, into
Albert’s coal-black face. He makes some strange noises, and then his heart stops beating. He has, quite simply, died of fright.

‘Well I’m damned,’ cries Porta in amazement. ‘Before we know where we are Albert’ll be our secret weapon. We hold him out in front of us and they all die a natural death. Their hearts stop beating at the sight of him!’

‘
Job tvojemadj
! curses a sergeant, picking bits of glass from his face. ‘And one
Schmeisser
can do all that! If I hadn’t got down behind that cupboard quick that fucking machine-shitter’d have cut me in two. Shot every bit of rotten life I’ve got out of me, it would have!’

‘I was close to shitting myself, when that sod started up with the
Schmeisser
,’ admits a corporal, his face chalk-white. ‘If I hadn’t fell down the stairs it would’ve been all up with me.’

A white-haired warrant officer is sitting in a heap of broken glass and wall tiles. He is holding his leg, which has been slashed open from the instep to above the knee.

‘My leg! My leg!’ he gasps in despair,’ and those cursed liars told me it was a piece of cake in supplies! I’d never hear a shot fired in anger, they said. In the last five minutes I’ve heard more shots fired than ever there was in the whole of the First World War!’

Suddenly a new burst of fire rakes across the market-place, and a guttural voice rings through the night:

‘Pull in your heads, you pigs! Here comes Michael Yakanashi! And he’s not coming alone!’

A long shimmering salvo from a
Kalashnikor
terminates the threatening message.

‘It’s that crazy captain again,’ explains the pale corporal, crawling under a bench. ‘I wish the devil’d crawl down his throat with a sack o’ dynamite on his back! He won’t give up till he’s killed the lot of us. He can thank his good connections he hasn’t been strung up long since. It was “shiverin’ pig” that caused it all!’