This is the frontier — two posts facing one another in silent hostility, each standing for a world of its own. One of them is planed and polished and painted black and white like a police box, and topped by a single-headed eagle nailed in place with sturdy spikes. Wings outspread, claws gripping the striped pole, hooked beak outstretched, the bird of prey stares with malicious eyes at the cast-iron shield with the sickle-and-hammer emblem on the opposite pole — a sturdy, round, rough-hewn oak post planted firmly in the ground. The two poles stand six paces apart on level ground, yet there is a deep gulf between them and the two worlds they stand for. To try to cross this no man's land means risking one's life.
This is the frontier.
From the Black Sea over thousands of kilometres to the Arctic Ocean in the Far North stands the motionless line of these silent sentinels of the Soviet Socialist Republics bearing the great emblem of labour on their iron shields. The post with the rapacious bird marks the beginning of the border between Soviet Ukraine and bourgeois Poland. It stands ten kilometres from the small town of Berezdov tucked away in the Ukrainian hinterland, and opposite it is the Polish townlet of Korets.
From Slavuta to Anapol the border area is guarded by a Frontier Guard battalion.
The frontier posts march across the snowbound fields, push through clearings cut in forests, plunge down valleys and, heaving themselves up hillsides, disappear behind the crests only to pause on the high bank of a river to survey the wintry plains of an alien land.
It is biting cold, one of those days when the frost makes the snow crunch under the soles of felt boots. A giant of a Red Army man in a helmet fit for the titans of old moves away from a post with the sickle-and-hammer shield and with heavy tread sets out on his beat. He is wearing a grey greatcoat with green tabs on the collar, and felt boots. On top of the greatcoat he has a sheepskin coat reaching down to his heels with a collar of generous proportions to match — a coat that will keep a man warm in the cruellest blizzard. On his head he wears a cloth helmet and his hands are encased in sheepskin mittens. His rifle is slung on his shoulder, and as he proceeds along the sentry path, the tail of his long coat wearing a groove in the snow, he pulls at a cigarette of homegrown tobacco with obvious relish. On open stretches the Soviet border guards are posted a kilometre apart so that each man can always see his neighbour. On the Polish side there are two sentries to the kilometre.
A Polish infantryman plods along his sentry path toward the Red Army man. He is wearing rough army issue boots, a greenish grey uniform and on top a black coat with two rows of shining buttons. On his head he has the square-topped uniform cap with the white eagle emblem; there are more white eagles on his cloth shoulder straps and the collar tabs, but they do not make him feel any warmer. The frost has chilled him to the marrow, and he rubs his numb ears and knocks his heels together as he walks, while his hands in the thin gloves are stiff with cold. The Pole cannot risk stopping his pacing for a moment, and sometimes he trots, for otherwise the frost would stiffen his joints in a moment. When the two sentries draw together, the zolnierz turns around to walk alongside the Red Army man.
Conversation on the frontier is forbidden, but when there is no one around within a kilometre — who can tell whether the two are patrolling their sectors in silence or violating international laws. The Pole wants a smoke very badly, but he has forgotten his matches in the barracks, and the breeze wafts over from the Soviet side the tantalising fragrance of tobacco. The Pole stops rubbing his ear and glances back over his shoulder, for who knows when the captain, or maybe Pan the lieutenant, might pop up from behind a knoll with a mounted patrol on one of their eternal inspection rounds. But he sees nothing save the dazzling whiteness of the snow in the sun. In the sky there is not so much as a fleck of a cloud.
"Got a light, Comrade?" The Pole is the first to violate the sanctity of the law. And shifting his French magazine rifle with the sword bayonet back on his shoulder he laboriously extracts with stiff fingers a packet of cheap cigarettes from the depths of his coat pocket,The Red Army man hears him, but the frontier service regulations forbid conversation across the border. Besides, he could not quite catch what the soldier wanted to say. So he continues on his way, firmly treading down on the crunching snow with his warm, soft felt boots.
"Comrade Bolshevik, got a light? Maybe you'll throw a box of matches across?" This time the Pole speaks Russian.
The Red Army man looks closely at his neighbour. "The frost has nipped the Pan good and proper," he says to himself. "The poor beggar may be a bourgeois soldier but he's got a dog's life.
Imagine being chased out into this cold in that miserable outfit, no wonder he jumps about like a rabbit, and without smoke either." Not turning around, the Red Army man throws a box of matches across to the other. The soldier catches it on the fly, and getting his cigarette going after several unsuccessful attempts, promptly sends the box back across the border.
"Keep it. I've got some more," says the Red frontier guard, forgetting the rules.
From beyond the frontier comes the response:
"Thanks, I'd better not. If they found that box on me I'd get a couple of years in jail."
The Red Army man examines the match box. On the label is an airplane with a sinewy fist instead of a propeller and the word "Ultimatum".
"Right enough, it won't do for them."
The soldier continues to walk, keeping pace with the Red Army man. He does not like to be alone in the midst of this deserted field.

The saddles creaked rhythmically as the horses trotted along at an even, soothing pace, their breath congealing into momentary plumes of white vapour in the frosty air.

A hoary rime stood out around the nostrils of the black stallion. Stepping gracefully, her fine neck arched, the Battalion Commander's dappled mare was playing with her bit. Both horsemen wore army greatcoats belted in at the waist and with three red squares on the sleeves; the only difference was that Battalion Commander Gavrilov's collar tabs were green, while his companion's were red.
Gavrilov was with the Frontier Guards; it was his battalion that manned the frontier posts on this seventy-kilometre stretch, he was the man in charge of this frontier belt. His companion was a visitor from Berezdov — Battalion Commissar Korchagin of the universal military training system.
It had snowed during the night and now the snow lay white and fluffy, untouched by either man or beast. The two men cantered out from the woods and were about to cross an open stretch some forty paces from border posts when Gavrilov suddenly reined in his horse. Korchagin wheeled around to see Gavrilov leaning over from his saddle and inspecting a curious trail in the snow that looked as if someone had been running a tiny cogwheel over the surface. Some cunning little beast had passed here leaving behind the intricate, confusing pattern. It was hard to make out which way the creature had been travelling, but it was not this that caused the Battalion Commander to halt.
Two paces away lay another trail under a powdery sprinkling of snow — the footsteps of a man.There was nothing uncertain about these footprints — they led straight toward the woods, and there was not the slightest doubt that the intruder had come from the Polish side. The Battalion Commander urged on his horse and followed the tracks to the sentry path. The footprints showed distinctly for a dozen paces or so on the Polish side.
"Somebody crossed the border last night," muttered the Battalion Commander. "The third platoon has been napping again — no mention of it in the morning report!"

Gavrilov's greying moustache silvered by his congealed breath hung grimly over his lip.
In the distance two figures were approaching — one a slight man garbed in black and with the blade of a French bayonet gleaming in the sun, the other a giant in a yellow sheepskin coat. The dappled mare responded to a jab in her flanks and briskly the two riders bore down on the approaching pair. As they came, the Red Army man hitched up the rifle on his shoulder and spat out the butt of his cigarette into the snow.
"Hullo, Comrade. How's everything on your sector?" The Battalion Commander stretched out his hand to the Red Army man, who hurriedly removed a mitt to return the handclasp. So tall was the frontier guard that the Commander hardly had to bend forward in his saddle to reach him.
The Pole looked on from a distance. Here were two Red officers greeting a soldier as they would a close friend. For a moment he pictured himself shaking hands with Major Zakrzewski, but the very thought was so shocking that he glanced furtively over his shoulder.
"Just look over, Comrade Battalion Commander," reported the Red Army man.
"Seen the track over there?"
"No, not yet."
"Who was on duty here from two to six at night?"
"Surotenko, Comrade Battalion Commander."
"All right, but keep your eyes open."
As the Commander was about to ride on he added a stern word of warning:
"And you'd better keep away from those fellows."
"You have to keep your eyes open on the border," the Commander said to his companion as their horses cantered along the broad road leading from the frontier to Berezdov. "The slightest slip can cost you dearly. Can't afford to take a nap on a job like ours. In broad daylight it's not so easy to skip the border, but at night we've got to be on the alert. Now judge for yourself, Comrade Korchagin. On my sector the frontier cuts right through four villages, which complicates things considerably. No matter how close you place your guards you'll find all the relatives from the one side of the line attending every wedding or feast held on the other.

And no wonder — it's only a couple of dozen paces from cottage to cottage and the creek's shallow enough for a chicken to wade across. And there's some smuggling being done, too. True, much of it on a petty scale — an old woman carting across a bottle or two of Polish vodka and that sort of thing. But there is quite a bit of large-scale contraband traffic — people with big money to operate with. Have you heard that the Poles have opened shops in all the border villages where you can get practically everything you want? Those shops aren't intended for their own pauperised peasants, you may be sure."
As he listened to the Battalion Commander, Korchagin reflected that life on the border must resemble an endless scouting mission.
"Probably there's something more serious than smuggling going on. What do you say, Comrade Gavrilov?"
"That's just the trouble," the Battalion Commander replied gloomily.

Berezdov was a small backwoods town that had been within the Jewish pale of residence. It had two or three hundred small houses scattered haphazardly, and a huge market square with a couple of dozen shops in the middle. The square was filthy with manure. Around the town proper were the peasant huts. In the Jewish central section, on the road to the slaughter house, stood an old synagogue — a rickety, depressing building. Although the synagogue still drew crowds on Saturdays, its heyday had gone, and the rabbi lived a life that was by no means to his liking. What happened in 1917 must have been evil indeed if even in this Godforsaken corner the youngsters no longer accorded him the respect due his position. True, the old folk would still eat only kosher food, but how many of the youngsters indulged in the pork sausage which God had cursed. The very thought was revolting! And Rabbi Borukh in a fit of temper kicked viciously at a pig that was assiduously digging in a heap of manure in search of something edible. The rabbi was not at all pleased that Berezdov had been made a district centre, nor did he approve of these Communists who had descended on the place from the devil knows where and were now turning things upside down. Each day brought some fresh unpleasantness. Yesterday, for instance, he had seen a new
design over the gate of the priest's house: "Berezdov District Committee, Young Communist League of the Ukraine," it had read.
To expect this sign to augur anything but ill would be useless, mused the rabbi. So engrossed was he in his thoughts that he did not notice the small announcement pasted on the door of his synagogue before he actually bumped into it.
A public meeting of working youth will be held today at the club. The speakers will be Lisitsyn, Chairman of the Executive Committee, and Korchagin, Acting Secretary of the Komsomol District Committee. After the meeting a concert will be given by the pupils of the nine-year school.

In a fury the rabbi tore down the sheet of paper. The struggle had begun.
In the centre of a large garden adjoining the local church stood an old house that had once belonged to the priest. A deadly air of boredom filled the musty emptiness of the rooms in which the priest and his wife had lived, two people as old and as dull as the house itself and long bored with one another. The dreariness was swept away as soon as the new masters of the place moved in. The big hall in which the former pious residents had entertained guests only on church holidays was now always full of people, for the house was the headquarters of the Berezdov Communist Party Committee. On the door leading into a small room to the right just inside the front hall the words "Komsomol District Committee" had been written in chalk. Here Korchagin spent part of his working day. Besides being Military Commissar of the Second Universal Military Training Battalion he was also Acting Secretary of the newly-organised Komsomol District Committee.
Eight months had passed since that gathering at Anna's, yet it seemed that it had been only yesterday. Korchagin pushed the stack of papers aside, and leaning back in his chair gave himself up to his thoughts. ...
The house was still. It was late at night and the Party Committee office was deserted. Trofimov, the Committee's Secretary, had gone home some time ago, leaving Korchagin alone in the building. Frost had woven a fantastic pattern on the window, but the room was warm. A paraffin lamp was burning on the table. Korchagin recalled the recent past. He remembered how in August the shop Komsomol organisation had sent him as a youth organiser with a repair train to Yekaterinoslav. Until late autumn he had travelled with the train's crew of a hundred and fifty from station to station bringing order into the chaotic aftermath of war, repairing damage and clearing away the remnants of smashed and burnt-out railway carriages. Their route took them from Sinelnikovo to Polog, through country where the bandit Makhno had once operated leaving behind him a trail of wreckage and wanton destruction. In Gulyai-Polye a whole week went into repairing the brick structure of the water tower and patching the sides of the dynamited water tank with iron sheets. Though lacking the skill of a fitter and unaccustomed to the heavy work, Pavel wielded a wrench along with the others and tightened more thousands of rusty bolts than he could remember.
Late in the autumn the train returned home and the railway shops again were the richer for a hundred and fifty pairs of hands. . . .
Pavel was now a more frequent visitor at Anna's place. The crease on his forehead smoothed out and his infectious laughter could again be heard.
Once again the grimy-faced fraternity from the railway shops gathered to hear him talk of bygone years of struggle, of the attempts made by rebellious but enslaved peasant Russia to overthrow the crowned monster that sat heavily on her shoulders, of the insurrections of Stepan Razin and Pugachov.
One evening at Anna's, when even more young people than usual had gathered there, Pavel announced that he was going to give up smoking, which unhealthy habit he had acquired at an early age.
"I'm not smoking any more," he declared firmly.
It all came about unexpectedly. One of the young people present had said that habit — smoking, for instance — was stronger than will power. Opinions were divided. At first Pavel said nothing, but drawn in by Talya, he finally joined the debate.
"Man governs his habits, and not the other way round. Otherwise what would we get?"
"Sounds fine, doesn't it?" Tsvetayev put in from his corner. "Korchagin likes to talk big. But why doesn't he apply his wisdom to himself? He smokes, doesn't he? He knows it's a rotten habit. Of course he does. But he isn't man enough to drop it." Then, changing his tone, Tsvetayev went on with a cold sneer: "He was busy 'spreading culture' in the study circles not so long ago. But did this prevent him from using foul language? Anyone who knows Pavel will tell you that he doesn't swear very often, but when he does he certainly lets himself go. It's much easier to lecture others than to be virtuous yourself."
There was a strained silence. The sharpness of Tsvetayev's tone had laid a chill on the gathering.
Korchagin did not reply at once. Slowly he removed the cigarette from between his lips and said quietly:
"I'm not smoking any more."
Then, after a pause, he added:
"I'm doing this more for myself than for Dimka. A man who can't break himself of a bad habit isn't worth anything. That leaves only the swearing to be taken care of. I know I haven't quite overcome that shameful habit, but even Dimka admits that he doesn't hear me curse very often. It's harder to stop a foul word from slipping out than to stop smoking, so I can't say at the moment that I've finished with that too. But I will."

Just before the frosts set in, rafts of firewood drifting down the river jammed the channel. Then the autumn floods broke them up and the much-needed fuel was swept away by the rushing waters. And again Solomenka sent its people to the rescue, this time to save the precious wood.
Unwilling to drop behind the others, Korchagin concealed the fact that he had caught a bad chill until a week later, when the wood had been piled high on shore. The icy water and the chill dankness of autumn had awakened the enemy lurking in his blood and he came down with a high fever. For two weeks acute rheumatism racked his body, and when he returned from hospital, he was able to work at the vice only by straddling the bench. The foreman would look at him and shake his head sadly. A few days later a medical board declared him unfit for work and he was given his discharge pay and papers certifying his right to a pension. This, however, he indignantly refused to accept.
With a heavy heart he left the shops. He moved about slowly, leaning on his stick, but every step caused excruciating pain. There were several letters from his mother asking him to come home for a visit, and each time he thought of her, her parting words came back to his mind: "I never see you unless you're crippled!"
At the Gubernia Committee he was handed his Komsomol and Party registration cards and, with as few leave-takings as possible, he left town bound for home. For two weeks his mother steamed and massaged his swollen legs, and a month later to his great joy he was able to walk without the cane. Once again sunlight pierced the gloom. Before long he was back in the gubernia centre; three days there and the Organisational Department sent him to the regional military commissariat to be used as a political worker in a military training unit.
Another week passed and Pavel arrived in a small snowbound town as Military Commissar assigned to Battalion Two. The Regional Committee of the Komsomol too gave him an assignment: to rally the scattered Komsomol members in the locality and set up a youth league organisation in the district. Thus life got into a new stride.

Outside it was stifling hot. The branch of a cherry-tree peeped in through the open window of the Executive Committee Chairman's office. Across the way the gilded cross atop the gothic belfry of the Polish church blazed in the sun. And in the yard in front of the window tiny downy goslings as green as the grass around — the property of the caretaker of the Executive Committee premises — were busily searching for food.
The Chairman of the Executive Committee read the dispatch he had just received to the end. A shadow flitted across his face, and a huge gnarled hand strayed into his luxurious crop of hair and paused there.
Nikolai Nikolayevich Lisitsyn, the Chairman of the Berezdov Executive Committee, was only twenty-four, but none of the members of his staff and the local Party workers would have believed it. A big, strong man, stern and often formidable in appearance, he looked at least thirty-five. He had a powerful physique, a big head firmly planted on a thick neck, piercing brown eyes, and a strong, energetic jaw. He wore blue breeches and a grey tunic, somewhat the worse for wear, with the Order of the Red Banner over the left breast pocket.
Like his father and grandfather before him Lisitsyn had been a metalworker almost from childhood, and before the October Revolution he had "commanded" a lathe at a Tula munitions plant.
Beginning with that autumn night when the Tula gunsmith shouldered a rifle and went out to fight for the workers' power, he had been caught up in the whirlwind of events. The Revolution and the Party sent Lisitsyn from one tight spot to another along a glorious path that witnessed his rise from rank-and-file Red Army man to regimental commander and commissar.
The fire of battle and the thunder of guns had receded into the past. Nikolai Lisitsyn was now working in a frontier district. Life went on at a quiet measured pace, and the Executive Committee Chairman sat in his office until late night after night poring over harvest reports. The dispatch he was now studying, however, momentarily revived the recent past. It was a warning couched in terse telegraphic language:
"Strictly confidential. To Lisitsyn, Chairman of the Berezdov Executive Committee.
"Marked activity has been observed latterly on the border where the Poles have been trying to send across a large band to terrorise the frontier districts. Take precautions. Suggest everything valuable at the Finance Department, including collected taxes, be transferred to area centre."

From his window Lisitsyn could see everyone who entered the District Executive Committee building. Looking up he caught sight of Pavel Korchagin on the steps. A moment later there was a knock on the door.
"Sit down, I've got something to tell you," Lisitsyn said, returning Pavel's handshake.
For a whole hour the two were closeted in the office.
By the time Korchagin emerged from the office it was noon. As he stepped out, Lisitsyn's little sister, Anyutka, a timid child far too serious for her years, ran toward him from the garden. She always had a warm smile for Korchagin and now too she greeted him shyly, tossing a stray lock of her cropped hair back from her forehead.
"Is Kolya busy?" she asked. "Maria Mikhailovna has had his dinner ready for a long time."
"Go right in, Anyutka, he's alone."
Long before dawn the next morning three carts harnessed to well-fed horses pulled up in front of the Executive Committee. The men who came with them exchanged a few words in undertones,and several sealed sacks were then carried out of the Finance Department. These were loaded into the carts and a few minutes later the rumble of wheels receded down the highway. The carts were convoyed by a detail under Korchagin's command. The forty-kilometre journey to the regional centre (twenty-five of them through forests) was made without mishap and the valuables safely deposited in the vaults of the Regional Finance Department.
Some days later a cavalryman galloped into Berezdov from the direction of the frontier. As he passed through the streets he was followed by the wondering stares of the local idlers.
At the gates of the Executive Committee the rider leapt to the ground, and, supporting his sabre with one hand, stamped up the front stairs in his heavy boots. Lisitsyn took the packet with a worried frown. A few minutes later, the messenger was galloping back in the direction whence he had come.
No one but the Chairman of the Executive Committee knew the contents of the dispatch. But such news had a way of getting round, especially among the local shopkeepers many of whom were smugglers in a small way and had almost an instinct for sensing danger.
Two men walked briskly along the pavement leading to the headquarters of the Military Training Battalion. One of them was Pavel Korchagin. Him the watchers knew; he always carried a gun.
But the fact that his companion, the Party Committee Secretary Trofimov, had strapped on a revolver looked ominous.
Several minutes later a dozen men ran out of the headquarters carrying rifles with bayonets fixed and marched briskly to the mill standing at the crossroads. The rest of the local Communist Party and Komsomol members were being issued arms at the Party Committee offices. The Chairman of the Executive Committee galloped past, wearing a Cossack cap and the customary Mauser.
Something was obviously afoot. The main square and sidestreets grew deserted. Not a soul was in sight. In a flash huge medieval padlocks appeared on the doors of the tiny shops and shutters boarded windows. Only the fearless hens and hogs continued to rummage among piles of refuse.
The pickets took cover in the gardens at the edge of the town where they had a good view of the open fields and the straight road reaching into the distance.
The dispatch received by Lisitsyn had been brief:
"A mounted band of about one hundred men with two light machine-guns broke through to Soviet territory after a fight in the area of Poddubtsy last night. Take precautionary measures. The trail of the band has been lost in the Slavuta woods. A Red Cossack company has been sent in pursuit of the band. The company will pass through Berezdov during the day. Do not mistake them for the enemy. Gavrilov, Commander, Detached Frontier Battalion.

No more than an hour had passed when a rider appeared on the road leading to the town, followed by a group of horsemen moving about a kilometre behind. Korchagin's keen eyes followed their movements. The lone rider was a young Red Army man from the Seventh Red Cossack Regiment, a novice at reconnaissance, and hence, though he picked his way cautiously enough, he failed to spot the pickets ambushed in the roadside gardens. Before he knew it he was surrounded by armed men who poured onto the road from the greenery, and when he saw the Komsomol emblem on their tunics, he smiled sheepishly. After a brief confab, he turned his horse around and galloped back to the mounted force now coming up at a trot. The pickets let the Red Cossacks through and resumed their watch in the gardens.
Several anxious days passed before Lisitsyn received word that the raid had failed. Pursued by the Red cavalry, the riders had had to beat a hasty retreat across the frontier.
A handful of Bolsheviks, numbering nineteen in all, applied themselves energetically to the job of building up Soviet life in the district. This was a new dministrative unit and hence everything had to be created from bottom up. Besides, the proximity of the border called for unflagging vigilance.
Lisitsyn, Trofimov, Korchagin and the small group of active workers they had rallied toiled from dawn till dusk arranging for re-elections of Soviets, fighting the bandits, organising cultural work, putting down smuggling, in addition to Party and Komsomol work to strengthen defence.

From saddle to desk, and from desk to the common where squads of young military trainees diligently drilled, then the club and the school and two or three committee meetings — such was the daily round of the Military Commissar of Battalion Two. Often enough his nights were spent on horseback, Mauser at his side, nights whose stillness was broken by a sharp "Halt, who goes there?" and the pounding of the wheels of a fleeing cart laden with smuggled goods from beyond the border.
The Berezdov District Committee of the Komsomol consisted of Korchagin, Lida Polevykh, a girl from the Volga who headed the Women's Department, and Zhenka Razvalikhin, a tall, handsome young man who had been a Gymnasium student only a short time before. Razvalikhin had a weakness for thrilling adventures and was an authority on Sherlock Holmes and Louis Boussenard. Previously he had been office manager for the District Committee of the Party, and though he had joined the Komsomol only four months before, posed as an "old Bolshevik".
Someone was needed in Berezdov to take charge of political education work, and since there was no one else to send, the Regional Committee, after some hesitation, had chosen Razvalikhin.

The sun had reached its zenith. The heat penetrated everywhere and all living creatures sought refuge in the shade. Even the dogs crawled under sheds and lay there panting, inert and sleepy.
The only sign of life in the village was a hog revelling in a puddle of mud next to the well. Korchagin untethered his horse, and biting his lip from the pain in his knee, climbed into the saddle. The teacher was standing on the steps of the schoolhouse shading her eyes from the sun with the palm of her hand.
"I hope to see you soon again, Comrade Military Commissar," she smiled.
The horse stamped impatiently, stretched its neck and pulled at the reins.
"Good-bye, Comrade Rakitina. So it's settled: you'll give the first lesson tomorrow."
Feeling the pressure of the bit relax, the horse was off at a brisk trot. Suddenly wild cries reached Pavel's ears. It sounded like the shrieking of women when villages catch fire. Wheeling his mount sharply around, the Military Commissar saw a young peasant woman running breathlessly into the village. Rakitina rushed forward and stopped her. From the nearby cottages the inhabitants looked out, mostly old men and women, for all the able-bodied peasants were working in the fields.
"0-o-oh! Good people! Come quickly! Come quickly! They're a-murdering each other over there!"
When Korchagin galloped up people were crowding around the woman, pulling at her white blouse and showering her with anxious questions, but they could make nothing of her incoherent cries. "It's murder! They're cutting them up..." was all she could say. An old man with a tousled beard came up, supporting his homespun trousers with one hand as he ran.
"Stop your noise," he shouted at the hysterical woman. "Who's being murdered? What's it all about? Stop your squealing, damn you!"
"It's our men and the Poddubtsy crowd . . . fighting over the boundaries again. They're slaughtering our men!"
That told them all. Women wailed and the old men bellowed in fury. The news swept through the village and eddied in the backyards: "The Poddubtsy crowd are cutting up our fellows with scythes.... It's those boundaries again!" Only the bedridden remained indoors, all the rest poured into the village street and arming themselves with pitchforks, axes or sticks pulled from wattle fences r............