Read Ebook: Exiles of the sky by Spewack Samuel Tomaso Rico Illustrator

Font size: 10 px 15 px 20 px 25 px 30 px 35 px

Background color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Text color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Apply/Save settings

Ebook has 122 lines and 7256 words, and 3 pages

Vladimir nodded.

The old man regarded him for a moment, then puffed and spoke again:

"You're the second one that's dropped outside our door within the past two years," he announced. "That girl who found you was the first. She didn't fly to us. My wife found her exactly where that girl found you."

The old peasant looked at the pilot, sucked his pipe a moment, and turned to the door.

"That girl covered your bird with straw," he said, and left.

Covered his bird with straw? Why? The plane was probably smashed to bits....

"Excuse me for bringing my dirty shoes and your milk in at one time."

"You are Russian?" Vladimir asked unsteadily.

"Yes, I'm Russian," the girl answered as she approached his bed. "I knew you were because when I found you, you cried out in Russian. And now no more questions. Drink your milk."

The girl lifted the pilot's head and supported it with a strong right hand, while with the left she held the glass against his mouth. The sick man drank obediently, but his questioning eyes never left her face.

It was a lovely face with dark eyes that brought back to Vladimir the sound of silver laughter, of troika bells, and the sight of gilt domes, the blue sky and snow-covered streets of Moscow.

"Most of us went to Paris, but I chose Pomerania," the girl explained easily. "And now sleep. Tomorrow we'll talk."

But the next day, the girl didn't stop to talk, despite her promise. She placed Vladimir's food on a stool near his bed and left, smiling her lip smile, as she slipped her feet into the wooden shoes at the door.

When he finished his food, he felt so much stronger that he arose and dressed. He found his clothes neatly folded on a shelf. Cautiously he stretched arms and legs and twisted his neck about. Miracle of miracles, he was all sound and unhurt. A deep, grateful sigh burst forth unbidden from his heart but died on his lips as that lost look which had shrouded his eyes in the fog crept back.

"What is going to happen to me?" he cried out in agony. "I'm afraid--again. Why couldn't I die when I crashed?"

His eyes suddenly caught the glint of a razor blade on the floor. Why, it was his own razor blade, evidently dropped from his pocket when he had dressed. His teeth bit into his indrawn lips as he reached for it. He would show them if he was afraid!

There was a sudden knock at the door, and the peasant girl entered.

"What!" she cried. "Up and dressed! Then you can have supper with us below. You'd better go down now. Food's on the table."

The razor slid from Vladimir's fingers and buried itself in the bed.

The man felt curiously ashamed of himself. Had she seen the razor?

He looked up anxiously at the girl. But her back was turned to him as she adjusted the little curtain to the tiny window. She had evidently not seen. He felt relieved.

"Thank you," he said.

"Better hurry," the girl advised, without turning around. "You'll find soap and towel near the pump outside."

When he had gone, the girl reached for the razor in the bed and hid it under a loose plank in the floor, for she had seen.

The meal of black bread and thick potato soup was eaten in silence. At its close the old peasant offered Vladimir a puff at his pipe, but Vladimir refused, remarking that he preferred a cigarette. The old peasant woman disappeared, and the girl in the far corner of the kitchen washed the dishes, putting them on the stove ledge to dry.

Having finished his smoke, the old man rose.

"There's still enough light for you to look around," he suggested. "My pigs are the best in all Pomerania. You must see them."

As Vladimir followed his host out, the girl called out in Russian:

"A few feet away from the barn is your plane."

When Vladimir did not return with the old peasant a half-hour later, the girl threw a shawl over her shoulders and ran out into the field. It was now completely dark. With difficulty she made out his figure, dim and uncertain in the distance.

She continued to run until she was a few feet away from him, and then she slowed down into a leisurely walk.

"Your plane all right?" she asked.

But there was no answer.

The girl's hands felt for the man's face.

"Why do you cry?" she demanded as her hands fell to her sides.

"Because I can never fly again." The man's answer was low and bitter.

"And why not?"

"You felt the answer with your hands. Can a man fly who bursts into tears like a baby?"

"You are afraid of something," the girl said.

"I'm afraid of myself," Vladimir cried. That confession wrested from him by the impersonal sympathy of the girl's voice now made him long to pour forth words of explanation, of supposition, of self-justification. But he found he could not, for his cracked and trembling voice hinted at a renewed outburst of self-pity.

"Did you ever crash before?" The girl's voice was still gently impersonal.

The man winced.

"Yes," he replied. "But only once before."

And in a voice as shrill as a girl's he told her of the little merchant, the director, the dismissal--everything!

"I stole the plane to prove to them that I could fly her at her record speed and bring her back safely," Vladimir concluded bitterly. "And what did I do? I crashed again. I am a wreck--a ruin. I have no right to live."

There was no murmur of pity, no cry of scorn from the girl beside him. She stood there silent, almost lost in the darkness.

"You see you turn away from me," Vladimir was moved to cry out.

There was a long silence; then the girl spoke. "You have suffered," she said. "You say you are wrecked, you are ruined. Do you think you know what it is to be wrecked? To be ruined? You say you can no longer fly again--the sky is barred to cowards.... Do you know that I too once flew? Not in a plane, but in dreams. I flew so high I never touched earth--until the revolution came. My father died. My mother followed him. My brother was killed. And I ran away.

Vladimir wanted to cry out for the girl to stop, but his voice stuck in his throat.

The colorless voice suddenly broke.

"Don't cry," the man begged.

Share on: WhatsApp @Hash Facebook Tweet