SERGEI DOVLATOV
115
upon dry land could understand me."
"I understand," said the captain. "But there's a way out. You're a
Gennan. You can emigrate to West Germany."
"Theoretically, that's possible. But practically, no. True, my father's
a Russified German from Courland. And my mother's from Poland. But
both have been in the Party since 1936. Both are Stakhanovites, true ser–
vants of the regime. They'd never sign the necessary papers."
"I understand," insisted the captain. "But there's another way out.
Join the merchant marine, become a sailor. Somehow get an exit visa.
And then, when you land in some Western port, run. Ask for asylum."
"That's fiction. I have a bad record. They'll never give me a visa.
I've already tried, begged.... In short, I've had it. I'm doomed to a
slow death."
"I understand. . .. But I could hide you on the
Edelweiss.
But it's
risky. If something happened, you'd be sentenced as a traitor. ... "
By this time Busch was totally drunk. He was making speeches: "He
who battles the regime is not free. Nor is he who conquers fear. Only he
who knows no fear is free. Freedom is a function of the organism. This
is something you'll never understand, Paul! Because you were
born
free,
free as a bird!"
"I understand," replied the captain.
Around midnight, Busch walked down the gangplank. Now and
then he would half turn around and raise his fist: "Die rote front!" And
then he'd spread apart his first two fingers: "Victory!"
The captain, full of understanding, followed him with his eyes. The
next day Busch appeared at the office. He was excited, but sober. He
passed around smooth-tasting cigarettes. A Parker fountain pen peeped
from his breast pocket. Busch gave his manuscript to the typists.
It
had a
long, beautiful title: "1 Shall Return to Taste Again That Good Rye
Bread." The article began as follows:
I found Captain Paul Rudi in the engine room. The merchant ship
Edehlleiss
was preparing to sail. The worn-out machinery required
extra attention. "The boss cares only about profit," complained the
captain. "I've advised him a dozen times to replace the cylinders. I'm
afraid they'll crack on the open sea. But the boss just travels around in
his yacht. And here we fry like poor devils in hell ..."
The ending went like this:
The captain put his arm around my shoulder: "Remember, friend!
