Part 42 (1/2)
”One is to arrive from Warsaw,” persisted the Jew. ”It will take the rest of the wounded and such of the citizens as want to go.”
”Who said so?”
”Our Rabbi.”
”What does he know about it?”
”He had it from the transport officer.”
Ostap, listening, looked at the Jew with mingled scorn, wonder and admiration.
”You Jews are strange people,” was his verdict. ”Here have we been trying to get information from the authorities for half an hour, one a great gentleman in these parts, the other a Cossack officer anxious to rejoin his troop, and n.o.body will give us a good word. Yet this Jew horse-dealer here knows everything.”
”He may be wrong,” said Ian. ”They often are.”
”But I am right,” said Hermann. ”You'll see for yourself I am right if you wait in the station. Meanwhile, I must go, for a messenger calls me home.” And off he went.
Ostap looked down the forlorn road which led from the station to the town and pointed to a Red Cross flag flying from a distant building.
”There are wounded left. Our people will try to get them away. We may not have to tramp after all. I'll go to that transport officer again.”
”Don't. He'll only swear at you. Let us get on the train, if it comes, without asking anybody's leave.”
Ostap gave him a quick look of alarm; he had spoken in a listless tone the Cossack heard from him for the first time since they met.
”You're ill?”
”Nothing. A pain in my side and the devil's own thirst.”
”It's the broken ribs. Go to one of the hospital tents and get a bandage put around you. It helps a lot.”
”They've something else to do than see to a trifle like that. I'll go and get a drink.” And he rose from a trunk, abandoned by some hasty traveler, which stood near the station steps.
”Good. Do you go get your drink at the station pump and await me.
There must be food in this town and I mean to have it.”
Ian produced a banknote, but the other waved it aside.
”No. Let this be my meal. Besides, I don't count to spend money.” And he hurried down the forlorn road.
Ian went to the pump, slaked his thirst with its cool water, soused his head and began to feel better. The long summer twilight still lingered and, as he sat down on the bank, he saw a vaguely familiar figure come towards him. It was a Cossack, grizzled, thin as a rake, hard as nails.
As the newcomer began to work the pump he recognized the bluff colonel who had refused to have him as a volunteer at the beginning of the war.
He waited till the man had drunk and washed, baring himself to the waist, showing strong muscles that stood out from his fair skin and a large scar on his right arm. Then he said:
”Are you still refusing volunteers?”
The Cossack turned sharply.
”Who the devil are you?” was his greeting.