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The Felix Dzerzhinsky was on her way to Rostov-on-Don from the Crimea and we were to make the
stormy voyage on her to Mariupol, where a district Komsomol conference was being held.
Not being used to rough weather, we felt rather scared of putting out to sea on a night like this...
A tall sailor appeared on the upper deck and shouted: "Hi, Selezen! Get the boats ready!"
The sailor's voice had a familiar ring but I could not see his face.
Tolya Golovatsky, who was standing near me, said: "It's going to be tough, chaps! The barometer's
falling."
"The wind seemed a bit quieter to me..."
"Don't you believe it, Mandzhura. Take a look at the weather tower. There were only eight balls
hanging up there, this afternoon. Now there are nine."
"Yes, if the captain has ordered them to get the lifeboats ready, the sea must be really rough,"
Kolotilov, the freckled secretary of the customs Komsomol group, agreed with Golovatsky.
We mounted the creaking gangway and the officer of the watch checked our tickets. Golovatsky
suggested going up on deck.
"The cabins are stuffy, you'll feel rotten down there," he said, glancing at Kolotilov who was already
looking rather pale.
Having stacked our things near the stern life-boat, we went to the rail. We could make out distant
signal lights somewhere near Kobazovaya Hill.
Soon the gangway was taken in. The stevedores cast off the bow line. There was a hiss of steam, the
engine burst into life and the ship moved slowly away from the granite harbour wall. The stern line slipped
off the mooring post and was thrown on to the deck. Its paddles churning swiftly, the ship manoeuvred
out into the harbour. The rudder chain clanked. Slowly the grey hump-backed warehouses dwindled in
the distance.
Striving to make his voice heard above the roar of the wind, Golovatsky shouted: "Shall we have a
song, chaps?"
And taking our answer for granted, he struck up in a deep pleasant voice:
Forward, young sailors and Communists all,
Arise to build the new age!. . .
Looking back affectionately at our little harbour, we picked up the refrain in ringing voices that were
at once borne away on the wind.
Dotted with twinkling yellow lights our town slipped past along the sandy Azov shore. As I sang my
favourite song, I tried to pick out the lighted window of our little house. Sasha and Petka had volunteered
to see me off, but I had refused. It had not been certain that the ship would leave on time, and they had
to work the next day.
I also wanted to spot Lika's ivy-covered window in the house next door. Now I was sure that she
would carry out her promise. At dinner today, Maria Trofimovna, our landlady, had unwittingly
confirmed my conviction.
"There's been a terrible crying to-do next door," she had said. "The lady's sobbing her heart out and
the engineer's black as thunder. Their daughter wants to go to Leningrad and they've been trying to talk
her out of it. Her mother says she'll give her anything. 'You don't need that .. . what d'ye call it ...
"conservatoire," ' she says. 'We'll teach you at home. I'll hire two teachers and the choir-master from the
Liski church will come round too. You'll die of consumption in Leningrad. But their daughter won't give
in. Dead set on the idea, she is. She's a stubborn little miss."
Maria Trofimovna was a reliable source of information about next door and as I listened to her I felt
glad Lika was going away, yet sorry that she would go without my being there to see her off. I had
wanted to talk to her frankly about everything and say good-bye to her and wish her success in her new
life of independence.
Children of workers and sailors, we march
With hearts that are strong and loyal.
No fear have we of tempest or storm,
Nor of long hard days of toll. . .
sang the boys.
The ship was pitching hard. Now it would plunge down from a billowing, foam-capped wave, so that
your heart rose to your throat and your legs suddenly felt as if they had been filled with air, now it would
rear up on a mountain of angry water and-the paddles would lash the long broken ridges of the waves.
The rising wind howled at us from the pitch blackness of the open sea which was broken only by the
flashing beam of the beacon on the headland.
One by one, the shore lights disappeared and the light of 'the beacon showed us that we were leaving
the bay.
But we sang in spite of the storm:
Let the storm winds rage and the tempest blow,
The tide of the workers is high.
Forward, young sailors and Communists all,
Forward to conquer or die!...
"Your singing's fine, but do you mind clearing your stuff away from the boats. We might have to lower
them if things get worse." Again I heard that familiar voice, this time at my elbow.
I turned. For an instant the beam from the lighthouse showed up the face of a young navigating officer
and I recognized my old friend.
"Weasel!"
I gave such a shout that all our delegates turned round.
The sailor fell back a pace and his quick gypsy eyes widened. Obviously it was a long time since
anyone had called him by his childhood nickname. For a moment he rubbed his forehead in a puzzled
fashion, as if trying to remember something, and only when the beam from the lighthouse swept again
over the heaving deck did he run towards me with outstretched arms.
"Mandzhura!. . . Where did you spring from?" & Something caught in Yuzik's throat. He glanced
round helplessly, then mastering his excitement, he spoke more quietly.
"Fancy meeting you here? Well, I'm darned! Vasya!. . ." I could hardly believe it myself. On a ship's
deck, in a storm like this! But he it was, my old friend Weasel!
Half an hour later, the Felix Dzerzhinsky rounded the harbour bar and set course across the open sea
for Mariupol. Yuzik was relieved from his watch and invited me to the officers' saloon. Golovatsky and
several of the other delegates went with me.
With great difficulty, clutching hand-rails and banging our elbows on the bulkheads, we made our way
to the saloon.
"I've found a friend, Nikolai Ivanovich!" Yuzik said joyfully to an old waiter in a white apron. "Haven't
seen each other for years!. . . How long is it since we met, Vasil?"
"Over five years."
Weasel put his arm round my shoulders and said reproachfully: "You couldn't even write to me!
You're a fine pal!"
"But we did write to you! Petka and I, both of us! You answered once, then dried up. We we're a bit
sore about it, thought your naval training had made you stuck-up."
"Me stuck-up!" Yuzik laughed. "I kept on writing and the letters came back to me all the time."
"What address did you write to, I wonder?"
"To 37, Zarechye."
"So that's what it was!" I said with relief. "We had moved to a flat in the Party School."
"Now I understand," Weasel said, also with a kind of relief in his voice, and again his face brightened
with joy.
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