Translation by Steven Volynets
Ilya Ilf, born Iehiel-Leyb Arnoldovich Faynzilberg, was a Soviet literary icon famous for two satirical novels, The Twelve Chairs and The Little Golden Calf, all co-authored with Yevgeniy Petrov (Yevgeniy Kataev). They are among the most widely read and quoted books in the Russian language. Before teaming up with Petrov, Ilf wrote hundreds of his own short stories, essays, editorials, and war dispatches. Most remain obscure and untranslated. Ilf was born in Odessa in 1897 and died in 1937.
When thinking about the onset of literary modernism, the name Ilya Ilf is unlikely to come up. In fact, "Fisherman of the Glass Battalion" and his countless other stories remain mostly obscure even to his Russian-language readers. That's because most of Ilf's work would eventually be eclipsed by the success of those two satirical novels. Another reason is that Ilf, a believer in Leninist vision, also explored themes of Jewish mysticism, which made some of his work too ideologically subjective once Stalin took the reigns of the USSR.
Still, the story's narrative depth, rich allusions, and unorthodox style place it squarely among the best in the Russian symbolist tradition. Swan (Лебедь), the name of the Red Army soldier at the heart of the story, represents beauty, loyalty, and grace. But World War I, which introduced the machine gun into modern warfare, inverted these ideals. In the years to come, automatic weapons would unleash violence on a scale never before seen in human history. The Russian Civil War would also skew the notion of loyalty. And grace and beauty were suddenly illusive and strange, not unlike Swan himself, who constantly wanders off to fish in a local swamp. Other soldiers ridicule him because there have never been any fish in that “half-dried puddle.” But Swan's obsessive delusion—likely caused by combat-related shock—ultimately saves the battalion from a surprise attack. The fish, not surprisingly, is an ancient symbol of salvation.
The disassociation and futility of life in wartime is also reflected in the language itself. Swan seems to meander, as if in a daze. His head "floats" in the wheat field; trains "appear" and “disappear;” even the wind “wobbles” (шатаясь)—a phrase Ilf, a painstaking stylist, chose to evoke the confusion and randomness of intermittent combat. Like the wind, life itself seems to wobble between sporadic battles, but also between political ideologies of the 1917 Bolshevik revolution that split the country and plunged it into civil war. The only thing that's fixed is the Granite Station, a pushpin on a field map.
Words and sentences are at times illogical; Ilf uses them to rationalize the irrational, namely the impact of war on human perception.
Fisherman of the Glass Battalion
by Ilya Ilf
“I looked at that fish…"
The person saying this was thirty years old. The rest of us were sprawled out at different corners of the train car trying not to listen.
“It's nice to have some tea after fish,” the voice went on.
We were the first platoon of the battalion. Nobody knew which regiment our battalion belonged to. There were only sixty of us, but we were called a battalion.
“The Glass Battalion!” said the Commandant of the Granite Station when he saw us.
“Rags!” he added. “I thought they'd send some decent boys, instead they're all wearing glasses!”
We were there to guard the Granite Station. The commandant would later change his mind, but the nickname stuck, and so we remained the Glass Battalion.
“I looked at the fish…"
No one moved. A wind wobbled from the blazing asphalt platform. Hot air came down like sand.
The year was 1919.
I got up and walked out. Swan walked after me. He was the one telling the story about the fish. He always talked about it. Him and his damn fish.
I went to the station. Swan headed in the opposite direction. I knew where he was going.
It was very boring and hot. Guarding a station is a dull task and it had been two weeks since the newspapers stopped coming.
Scorching asphalt burned the soles of our feet. Crackling and destroying all things, heat descended everywhere.
I stood in the shade by the wall. Nearby, a uniform draped the machine gun. Swan was already far away. All I could see was his head floating in the wheat field.
“Where are you going?” I yelled.
The head turned, shouted something and kept moving. Still, I knew where he was headed.
He had just over a kilometer to cover. To the pond. That's where he fished.
“He still goes there?” the gunner asked, yawning.
“He does,” I said. “What's the word?”
“Nothing much. They say Makhno set up by Tatarka. They're lying. Why would he come here? It's not his neighborhood. As for the fish, sure, Swan has been running mad. The switchman told me. Said there has never been any fish there.”
I left.
Here is the story about the fish. Swan was the only one who saw it in that pond.
“Long and thick. Like a pike.”
Everyone laughed at him. How can you have fish in a dry puddle? Boredom, nothing to do, so we laughed at him, one night even put on a play about it.
Act I. Swan sits, professes his love to the fish. Act II. Fish professes its love to Swan. Act III. Here comes the baby, the product of all that professing.
Not too witty. Borrowed the baby from the custodian's wife. That's how hot and boring it was.
All this drove Swan mad. So he sat there, saying the same thing:
“I looked at that fish.”
Pure nonsense. Swan swore that he would catch that fish and prove it.
A man can do anything he sets his mind to. From some rubbish, Swan cobbled together a fishing rod and for days sat over his sewer-puddle.
Commandant called him a fisherman, even cursed at him — nothing helped. He would finish his duty, talk about the fish and go off on his date, carrying his fishing rod and the rifle. We were not permitted to leave the station without one.
The sun tumbled obliviously toward the dusk. Telegraph wires wailed and whistled. Hurling white smoke, a steam engine appeared from around a bend and disappeared behind another. Some paltry bird scum creaked and cried in the wheat field. The sun kept shrinking, getting smaller and falling relentlessly. The moon yellowed. The wind picked up.
The battalion crawled out of dark corners where they hid from the heat. The track signal awoke and opened its green eye.
The long-awaited evening came. Swan was still gone. Black shadows clung to the station houses and fell onto the tracks.
“He didn't see a fish, he saw a mermaid! Said so himself, that he only saw the tail! Would a man go crazy over a fish? Fish, fish...only her tail was fishlike.”
When Commandant came back from the telegraph house, stuffing tiny telegram strips into his pockets, he was astir. What seemed like a fable at noon became the truth in the evening. There were gangs in Tatarka.
The lights went out with a hiss. The Granite Station was slammed with darkness. First Platoon scowled and strapped on their rifles.
First Platoon, mine and Swan's, was the designated security outpost one kilometer from Tatarka.
“Where is Swan?” Commandant screamed. “I'll show that fisherman! He is never at his…"
The commandant never finished. A shot cracked and rolled from the direction of the pond. Then two more. The rest happened in a moment.
First Platoon didn't move. By then there was nowhere to go; they were coming to us.
The machine gun started rattling over the platform in a sideways swivel. I looked into the face of a man who had fallen next to me. It was yellow from the yellow moon. The gun resumed its beating in an instant. The Makhnovites did not pull off their surprise attack. We were warned with shots from the pond.
The silence vanished. Everything rang, rumbled and droned. Into the black enameled sky flew white, pink and green rockets. Shots sprayed from the line. The moon was flittering across the sky like a chained dog. The silence was gone. The attack was gone. They didn't even get as close as three hundred meters. The machine gun was cutting after them. Bullets catching up to their backs. We repelled the attack.
We repelled the attack, but the next day we were burying Swan.
“I am not very good at these speeches, comrades,” said Commandant. “What's there to say? If not for him sitting at that pond, who knows what would have happened? They could have been there all night! They could have taken us by surprise!”
The Glass Battalion was throwing earth on the fisherman's grave. But in the stories that followed, they no longer called him a fisherman. And even the custodian's wife was crying.
***
Ilf’s story was first published in "The Toot" ("Гудок"), a newspaper of the railroad workers, 1923, No. 1064, USSR.
Рыболов стеклянного батальона (Fisherman of The Glass Battalion)
Илья Ильф (Ilya Ilf)
— Посмотрел я на эту рыбу... Человеку, который это говорил, было тридцать лет. А мы валялись по углам вагона и старались не слушать.
— После рыбы хорошо пить чай, — продолжал голос.
Мы, это — первый взвод батальона. Никому не было известно, какого полка мы батальон. Числом мы тоже подходили всего шестьдесят человек. Но нас называли батальоном.
— Стеклянный батальон! — сказал комендант Гранитной станции, когда нас увидел.
— Рвань! — добавил комендант. — Я думал, хороших ребят пришлют, а они все в очках!
Мы остались на охране Гранитной. Потом комендант переменил свое мнение, но кличка пошла в ход, и мы так и остались стеклянным батальоном.
— Посмотрел я на эту рыбу...
Никто даже не шевельнулся. От пылающего асфальтового перрона, шатаясь, брел ветер. Горячий воздух сыпался как песок.
Это был девятнадцатый год.
Я поднялся и вышел. Лебедь пошел за мной. Это он рассказывал про рыбу. Он всегда говорил о ней. Далась ему эта рыба.
Я пошел на станцию. Лебедь двинулся в противоположную сторону, и я знал, куда он идет.
Было очень скучно и очень жарко. Охрана станции — дело простое, а газеты не приходили уже вторую неделю.
Разгоряченный асфальт обжигал подошвы, с неба, треща и все разрушая, сыпалась жара.
У стенки, в тени, где стоял накрытый гимнастеркой пулемет, я обернулся. Лебедь уже был далеко. Виднелась только его плывущая в пшенице голова.
— Куда пошел? — закричал я.
Голова обернулась, что-то прокричала и унеслась дальше. Впрочем, я знал, куда пошел Лебедь.
Ему было идти версты полторы. До пруда. Там он удил рыбу, о которой говорил.
— Все к ней ходит? — спросил пулеметчик, зевая.
— Ходит, — сказал я. — А что слышно?
— Да ничего. Мохна, говорят, у Татарки стоит. Врут. Чего ему сюда идти? Не его район! А насчет рыбы Лебедь, конечно, запарился. Мне стрелочник говорил. Никогда ее там и не водилось.
Я ушел.
История рыбы такая. Видел ее в этом пруду один только Лебедь.
— Длинная и толстая. Вроде щуки.
Смеялись над ним сильно. Ну, откуда же в пересохшей луже рыба? Дела нет, скучно — и пошел смех, один раз вечером даже спектакль об этом устроили.
Первый акт. Сидит Лебедь и свою любовь к рыбе доказывает. Второй акт. Рыба свою любовь к Лебедю доказывает. Третий акт. Показывают ребенка грудного, который от этих доказательств произошел.
Совсем неостроумно. Ребенка у сторожихи одалживали. Очень скучно уж было и жарко.
Однако Лебедя этим довели до каления. Сидит и только об одном:
— Посмотрел я на эту рыбу.
Просто бред. Поклялся Лебедь, что эту рыбу поймает и все докажет.
Если человек захочет, то все сможет. Из всякой дряни Лебедь сколотил себе удочку и днями сидел над своей помойницей-лужей.
Комендант и рыболовом его называл и вообще крыл — не помогало. Дежурство кончит, о рыбке поговорит и сейчас же к ней на свидание. Удочку несет и винтовку. Без винтовки нам отходить от станции не позволяли.
Солнце в беспамятстве катилось к закату. Телеграфные провода выли и свистели. Швыряя белый дым, вылез из-за поворота, паровоз и снова ушел за поворот. В пшенице кричала и плакала мелкая птичья сволочь. Солнце сжималось, становилось все меньше и безостановочно падало. Луна пожелтела, и поднялся ветер.
Батальон вылез из темных углов, где прятался от жары. Семафор проснулся и открыл зеленый глаз.
Пришел долгожданный вечер. Лебедя все не было. Черные тени уцепились за станционные постройки и попадали на рельсы.
— Не рыбу он видел, а русалку! Сам же он говорил, что только хвост видел! Разве человек из-за рыбы станет, как головешка? Рыба, рыба... У ней только хвост рыбий.
Комендант вышел из телеграфа, засовывая в карманы узенькие ленточки телеграмм, и сейчас же пошел переполох. То, что казалось выдумкой днем, вечером сделалось правдой. В Татарке сидели банды.
Фонари шипя погасли. Гранитную захлопнуло темнотой. Первый взвод нахмурился и забросил за спину винтовки.
Первый взвод, мой взвод и взвод Лебедя, выступал в сторожевое охранение на версту в сторону Татарки.
— Где Лебедь? — кричал комендант. — Ну, я этому рыболову покажу! Никогда его на месте...
Комендант не кончил. Со стороны пруда грохнул и покатился выстрел. Потом еще два. Остальное сделалось вмиг.
Первый взвод никуда не пошел. Идти было уже некуда: шли к нам.
Пулемет затарахтел по перрону и пошел в бок. Я посмотрел в лицо залегшего со мной рядом. Оно было желтое от света желтой луны. И сейчас же ударил пулемет. Внезапная атака махновцам не удалась. Гранитная уже была предупреждена выстрелами с пруда.
Тишина пропала. Все наполнилось звоном, грохотом и гулом. В черное лакированное небо полетели белые, розовые и зеленые ракеты. Из цепи брызгали залпами. Луна носилась по небу, как собака на цепи. Тишина пропала. Атака пропала. Они не дошли даже на триста шагов. Вслед резал пулемет. Вслед в спину нагоняли пули. Атака была отбита.
Атака была отбита, но на другой день мы хоронили Лебедя.
— Я, товарищи, плохо такие речи говорю, — сказал комендант. — Что говорить? Не сиди он там у пруда вчера — еще неизвестно, что было бы! Может, их сила была бы! Могли взять врасплох!
А стеклянный батальон кидал землю на могилу рыболова. Но в тех рассказах, которые шли потом, его больше рыболовом не называли. А сторожиха плакала даже.
1923
STEVEN VOLYNETS was born in Soviet Ukraine and raised in South Brooklyn. His fiction, essays, reviews, and translations appear in J Journal, Writing Tomorrow Magazine, Per Contra Journal, Works & Days Quarterly, Read Russia!, Asymptote, HTMLGIANT, Construction Literary Magazine, Moment Magazine, and New York Observer, among others. He spent several years as a writer at PC Magazine, where his reporting earned nominations for a number of awards, including the Annual Jesse H. Neal Award. His translations have appeared in various literary journals and received mention in the Paris Review’s online “Staff Picks: No Conscience, No Hope, No October” (March 6, 2015). Steven graduated from Brooklyn College and attended the MFA program in fiction at the City College of New York.