The Complete Works of Isaac Babel Reprint Edition by Isaac Babel, Nathalie Babel, Peter Constantine (120 page)

She laughs and curses.

There is a mug nailed to the threshing machine with a sign on it: “To Reach the Goals of our Cultural Battle for Swearing—One Kopeck in Gold.”

The spirited girls throw kopecks into the mug.

The sacks gradually fill with grain pouring out of the threshing machine.

The young men carry away the sacks on their sweaty muscular shoulders.

On a gigantic haystack:

Cherevkov.

Seen from the haystack, the serene Russian plain—harvested fields, a wood, a stream.

Steel cables carry the hay to Cherevkov.

The sun shines and moves over the wires.

Teryosha the shepherd is still studying. He has buried himself in the golden hay. He copies a problem from his arithmetic textbook: 4 + 4 + 4 + 7, which, according to Teryosha, equals 24.

Barefoot urchins on foaling mares are taking the hay to the haystack. Their feet dangle playfully on the bulging sides of the mares.

The urchins have brought the hay. Cherevkov pulls it up with the cables and . . .

. . . also drags up diligent Teryosha with his arithmetic book, notebook, and pencil.

Next to the threshing machine, sacks filling with grain.

The village church, turned into a granary.

The young men carry the sacks there.

The church is filled with grain up to the eyebrows of St. Nicholas. A grimy little banner with the letters “R.S.F.S.R.”
⁴

The banner has been fastened to a locomotive. By Panyutin the engineer.

He is tinkering around with the locomotives blazing firebox.

The wild rolling of the locomotives wheels.

The sacks filling with grain.

A boy of about ten wearing a belt. On his belt hangs a saber. Sitting on a sheaf of hay, he is riding up to Cherevkov.

He hands him a note.

The note: The agenda of the plenary session of the Povarenshino Komsomol Village Cell:

1. The international situation in China—speaker, Comrade Zhivtsov.

2. The electrification of the water mill and, if possible, global electrification—speaker, Comrade Zhivtsov.

3. Sexual excesses and deviation in the unit—speaker, Comrade Varya.

The boy jumps off the haystack and hands Zhivtsov the note.

He reads it in the light of some burning hay.

Sheaves flying up into the sky.

The boy with the saber has gone over to the girls on the threshing machine.

The girls, black with dust, their eyes and lips sparkling like those of Negroes.

They read the note with religious solemnity.

Replay from Part One—a Chinese rickshaw coolies agonizing, endless climb up a mountain.

In front of the dilapidated, shattered mill wheel, next to the mill-race destroyed by pigs and filled with every kind of village refuse—animal skeletons, buckets without bottoms, the rotting rims of military caps—stands Zhivtsov.

He is bending over a Chinese issue of Prozhektor.

Yeryoma is standing dreamily by the door of the mill. With his whip he counts . . .

. . . jackdaws flying in the sky.

Yeryomas horse is tearing apples off somebody s apple tree and eating them.

Zhivtsovs contorted face above some photographs.

Close-up: the face of the rickshaw coolie, covered in sweat.

Flying sheaves.

WORK’S OVER!

The young men throw the last sheaf.

The area around the threshing machines where the Komsomols had been working is deserted. Not a single person is in sight. (Zoom in.)

The Komsomols have finished their threshing and are washing themselves by a barrel.

The water becomes blacker than soot, but the sun and laughing faces are reflected in it.

The haystack. A round ditch.

The cook sets down an enormous bowl of cabbage soup.

Floating in the middle of the bowl, among the greasy cabbage, the shimmering disk of the sun.

Close-up: the climbing rickshaw coolie.

Zhivtsovs face leaning over the photograph. Seen through the mesh of his tousled hair, the newspaper page showing Chinese workers killed in a skirmish with foreign troops.

The cheerful meal of the Komsomols, chewing mouths, laughing eyes, glittering drops fall from spoons. The young men crack jokes and

. . . the mug that collects fines in the “Cultural Battle” against swearing dances as if possessed.

The bowl of cabbage soup is half empty, but the sun floats in it as before.

Zhivtsov appears on top of the haystack.

His face is contorted with sorrow and inspiration. He proclaims from the haystack:

“AT THE VERY MOMENT WHEN ..

The face of the rickshaw coolie.

“. . . WHEN THE CHINESE REVOLUTION IS AWAITING YOUR

HELP ..

Teryoshas full mouth, his motionless cheeks, his goggling eyes.

A girls fat, barefooted leg prods one of the young mens legs under the table. More playful prodding.

Zhivtsov begins sinking into the haystack. His speech becomes increasingly angry:

.. WHEN PRIVATE CAPITAL GRABS US BY THE THROAT AND

BRAZENLY GRINDS OUR PROLETARIAN WHEAT ..

The Komsomols put down their spoons.

Two gypsies look out of the forge: one of them is a blacksmith, the other has brought his horse to be shod.

Zhivtsov has sunk up to his knees in the hay, he is waving his arms:

“. . . WHEN INTERNATIONAL CAPITAL WILL NOT LET US

REBUILD OUR MILL...”

A semicircle of laid-down spoons.

Under the table, a girl is kicking her neighbor. The young mans leg does not move.

The horse s hoof twitches in the blacksmiths hand.

Zhivtsov stands waist-deep in hay. Dust and sun . . .

. . WHEN THE BLOOD OF OUR CHINESE BROTHERS IS

BEING SHED ..

The face of the rickshaw coolie—dreadful, bare, black, round, like a polished cast-iron ball, sun and sweat glistening on it.

The Komsomols stand up and approach the haystack.

Young backs, young heads, curly forelocks.

“WHILE YOU HERE—YOU ..

A slice of raisin cake.

The rickshaw coolie falls and crawls on all fours, he crawls right up to Zhivtsov. Zhivtsovs face. His eyes move, his inspiration seeks an escape, his inspiration has to break free, and it manages to break free.

“. . . AND THIS IS WHY I DECLARE THE MOBILIZATION OF

ALL VOLUNTARY MEMBERS OF THE LENINIST KOMSOMOL

FOR THE DEFENSE OF THE CHINESE REVOLUTION. ALL

VOLUNTEERS RAISE THEIR HANDS!”

The hands of the Komsomols fly into the air.

Sasha Panyutin lifts his crippled hand.

In the sky, against a fiery cloud, Panyutins hand with a chopped-off finger.

Komsomol member Varya, who had been tying sheaves, heartily kisses the woman next to her.

The horse has torn its hoof away from the blacksmith.

The gypsy jumps onto the shod horse and rides off.

A festive, swaying forest of raised hands is closing in on Zhivtsov.

The Komsomols look as solemn as if they are about to take an oath.

While Zhivtsov . . . Zhivtsov realizes that he has managed to pull off an unusual, completely unexpected feat.

Somewhat perplexed, up to his waist in hay, he shrinks back from the exultant comrades who are closing in on him.

The gypsy rides wildly through the village streets. Two old women carrying buckets on yokes come toward him. One old woman is large, the other small.

“WAR!”

the gypsy shouts to them, and rides on.

The small old woman is drenched from head to toe by water from her large companions bucket.

Clouds of dust behind the galloping gypsy.

(Parttfbur

Night in Povarenshino. A strange and significant night. Flames flicker in the windows.

Smoke rises from all the chimneys and spreads into the starry sky.

The meadow. Flowers sway beneath the moon. The gypsy rides through the flowers on his horse.

The flowers beneath the horses hooves.

A campfire rises toward the sky.

Around the campfire in a clearing in the forest, a gypsy camp.

An old man, illuminated by the flames of the fire, is telling the young people a tale of great horse thieves and great singers.

The village cemetery. Crosses bathed in moonlight.

Yeryoma is hurriedly digging.

The horses mouth is foaming.

The gypsy rushes toward the campfire.

Circling around and around on his foaming horse, he shouts:

“war!”

The face of an old gypsy woman looks out from inside a covered wagon facing the campfire.

The reflection of a new moon ripples in a puddle of rainwater in the forest near the camp.

On the floor, mountains of worn-out village shoes that need mending.

A dim oil lamp lights the cobbler s hovel.

He and his daughter, a girl of about ten, are working feverishly.

An old mans hand and a childs hand are alternately hammering shoe soles with all their might.

Somebodys hand darts in the window and throws three more gigantic pairs of shoes onto the pile.

The girl, waxed threads in her mouth, turns her serious, absorbed face toward us':

Flames flicker in the houses.

A map of China lit by wavering candlelight.

A large finger moves over the map.

Cherevkov, Teryosha, and one other “volunteer” are leaning over the map.

Cherevkov is running his finger over the map. He explains the following strategic plan:

“WE WILL HEAD RIGHT ON TO PEKING THROUGH SZECHUAN....”

Teryosha is leaning toward a more careful strategy:

“NO! WE NEED TO GO AROUND THE DAMN PLACE!”

Old Mrs. Cherevkov, in tears, is packing pies into a bag. Cherevkov, trying to console his mother, takes her in his arms and starts dancing with her:

“AH, MAMA! WE’LL GET SOMETHING GOING HERE!”

The old woman dances, laughs, cries.

The face of the village sorceress.

Inside a rich mans cottage.

The sorceress pours a brew made of flies into glasses, and hands them to the horrified young men.

“DRINK THIS WITH A PRAYER.... LORD WILLING, YOU WILL VOMIT IT OUT TOMORROW ... AND YOU WON’T GO TO NO WAR!”

The sorceress, a mistress of her trade, spits in all four directions and whispers a spell.

A young man, crazed with fear, paces about frantically, crosses himself, and drinks.

Cherevkov is still dancing with his crying and laughing mother. “AH, MAMA! WE’LL GET SOMETHING GOING HERE!”

The boy is writhing on the floor . . .

... his face is contorted with spasms, there is foam on his lips.

A snow-white model of the Volkhovstroi Power Station, carved by the inspired chisel of Sasha Panyutin. Through the mica window of the model electric power station, the flame of a one-kopeck candle.

The heads of Zhivtsov and Panyutin, seen through the window of the electric power station.

In Zhivtsovs room. A dilapidated bunk, a bookcase filled with books, a briefcase, dried ears of wheat. The only good thing in the room is the splendid Volkhovstroi model and the shelves of books.

The bookcase is filled with the collected works of Lenin.

The spines of numerous Lenin books.

With Zhivtsov is Sasha Panyutin, who is very much aware that something momentous but dubious has taken place.

“THIS TIME YOU’VE REALLY STARTED SOMETHING, EGOR!”

Panyutin says, looking around glumly.

His eyes fall on a three-legged chair.

Sighing, he takes the chair, examines it, and starts working.

Zhivtsov himself is aware that he has started something. He paces about the room, deep in thought.

Panyutin is fixing the chair. He sighs.

“YOU’VE REALLY MESSED THINGS UP, EGOR!”

The village fool is sounding the alarm in the belfry.

The band of gypsies, lamps flickering in their covered wagons, cross the river.

The abandoned gypsy camp. Pegs stuck in the ground, manure, the smoldering embers of the campfire.

In the cemetery Yeryoma is digging with all his might.

Zhivtsovs abundant, inexhaustible hair. He runs his pensive, irresolute fingers through it.

“EGOR, YOU’VE REALLY MESSED THINGS UP!”

Panyutin says, engrossed in repairing the chair.

The spines of the Lenin books.

Zhivtsov walks hesitantly to the bookcase, takes a book, opens it.

The title page. A picture of Lenin, squinting, sly.

Zhivtsovs head leaning over Lenin’s picture. He tosses his abundant hair out of the way.

In a shed, furrowed with moonlight—tiny, tipsy Gerasim Cherevkov. He is looking through the harnesses for a strap.

Cherevkovs tiny, tattered father bursts into his sons hut. He rushes at his giant of a son, brandishing his strap.

TM GOING TO WHIP YOU THIS VERY MINUTE FOR THIS

MESS YOU MADE!”

The young giant carefully sits his old father on a bench and hands him a pie.

Without letting go of the strap, the little old muzhik resentfully starts eating, but is somewhat delighted, as this is such an unusual situation.

A slow leafing-through of the Lenin book.

Light falls on Panyutins humorous
⁵
face.

“WHEN THE SECRETARY OF A VILLAGE KOMSOMOL UNIT

DECREES A GENERAL MOBILIZATION—WHAT CHOICE

DOES ONE HAVE?”

Panyutin says.

Cherevkovs bewildered fingers running through his hair.

Lenins sly, squinting face.

A slow leafing-through of the book.

Zhivtsov s face above the turning pages.

Panyutin, humming a tune, attaches the fourth leg to the chair.

A page turns, stays. Here a quote from Lenin should appear that bears relation to the unusual situation in Povarenshino.

Quote.

Cherevkov s decrepit grandfather lies huddled in sheepskins on the sleeping bench in Cherevkovs hut. He also demands some pies. His grandson gives him some.

A quote from Lenin.

Zhivtsovs brightening face.

The grandfather lying on the bench is chewing the pies. Peas fall onto the sheepskin.

Yeryoma’s horse is wandering about the village, knocking on windows, looking for its master.

A window opens, and a voice shouts: