The real colonel

Nearly five years ago I graduated from the Chicago Humanity Institute. There  was a Chair of Medical Knowledge. What it was for - who knew! The institute trained future linguists and the discipline organized for us called Safety of Living or Common Defense… Simply absurd, indeed. The head of the chair was a Russian man, called Kozyуl. It was not his nickname but the real last-name. Funny thing, really, for I and some students studied Russian and knew that his name was equal to the English word ‘goat’. Besides that was the rarest case when one’s name accorded to his/her intelligence. Kozyol had been a doctor in the Russian army. Serving like that he became a colonel. He told us to address towards him calling something like Anatolius George. We could scarcely pronounce it and called him in our usual way ‘Dr. Kozyol’. He was not angry on that subject, but each time we called him so, he got pink.
He hardly knew English and the science to teach, spoke in English-Russian mixture. Only some of us were able to understand him. At the lectures we used to hear no clever things: a good many slips of a tongue bordering with foolishness. For instance: «Getting into trouble when swimming, don’t be shy to shout for help», or when talking on hygiene: «Your boots should be washed in the evening and put on the fresh head in the morning» - I don’t know whether it is sensible in Russian. The most shocking statement was: «During the fight our rockets were set up within the distance of the visual memory».
The first lecture might be called a miracle. We were sent in the room we had never been before. It was not far away from the building in which we had our other classes. Having settled at our desks, we waited for half an hour. Then we were about to leave, when a fat self-respecting person entered. Now we were sitting still. The newcomer stared at us, keeping mum. Then he shouted:
«Cheevo you siditye down? Your dolg yest stand up and give me your chest!»
We touched our chests automatically. What did he want them for? Some of us asked:
«Why the chests exactly? Why not the hands, the heads, the legs?»
Later we saw that by the word ‘chest’ he meant honor. But there were some more difficulties, for saying ‘give one’s honor’ he and we meant quite different things. The circus went on.
«My imya yest Anatolius George Kozyol. My course yest (that ‘yest’ was instead of each ‘am’, ‘are’, ‘is’) Commonovskaya oborona. I byl (‘was’ shto-li? Sorry, speaking Russian myself) in russkaya army doctorom (a real Cicero, by the way) and have many opyta in bezdanger of zhizn. After the lyectsiy you give me examen.»
We could only guess what he wanted to say. Then he wanted to check how much students there were. He called our names and after each of us said ‘here’ he stared at us and asked: «Gdye?». When he found the person whom called, he said: «Tak stand up and govori ‘I’».
Then the first lesson began. None of us understood that delirium of a madman.
* * *
Half of the term had passed. The quality of our classes had not changed. Kozyol had not mastered his English better. But we were already used to his language and there were no global problems in communication. Once I came to our class the first of the others. I expected the room to be free. There were four men. One of them was Kozyol. Even now I do not know what made me stop and listen to their voices, hiding myself. One of them said:
«Look here, Col. Kozyol. D’ you reckon you’re allowed to make any joke you please?»
«I nye want joke…»
«Stop it. None forced you to take the text to translate into English.»
«I znayu Englishskiy v sovershenstve! I mogu eto translate.»
«Yes, of course. You gotta large sense of humor, Dr. Kozyol! Is that translation what you’ve done?»
«The best of luchshih!»
«My dear Kozyol! You forget that your title of colonel doesn’t save you from responsibility.»
A long uncomfortable pause. Kozyol’s trembling voice afterwards:
«What’re you namereny do?»
«To fuck you!*»
«What! A-ah! No!»
«Cut it. It won’t do!»
«Don’t touch! Leave mienya!»
There was a noise of fight. At the moment the rest of our student gathered. We entered the class and saw rather a wild scene. Three naked men were upon and under our Kozyol, dressed in the same way.
«Here you are, blood!» - the men shouted, working Kozyol out. Having prepared their ‘apparatuses’, they were trying to enter Kozyol in every way which was possible. The latter tore his way out away from his violators. We all were there but none of us was about to help any side, either active or passive. Some of the students were beating out the most well-known rhythm, singing youth motto:
We will we will fuck you
We will we will fuck you**
The men were still proceeding. Sometimes one of them screamed:
«Oh, he’s kicking! We’ll tear your ass, blood! Here you’re your translation. Here, here, here…»
At last two violators hold tightly Kozyol’s arms and legs while the third took his aim right against his mouth. The colonel was simply screaming:
«Help, narod! Avtomat examen to anyone kto uroyet those bloodei!»
Presently a woman came into the class:
«Tolya… - she only could have said before stood stock-still. But then… - Ah!.. Tak ty nye tolko s babami! Nu i muzhik popalsya!»
«Dura! Nye ori - vynyakivai menia iz-pod nih!»
The woman, who turned out to be Kozyol’s wife, took a besom in the corner and… The situation was the most critical. The men enjoyed themselves upon Kozyol while his wife beat him on his head with the besom. Then she seized her dear husband and dragged him out of the class. That was the end of the lesson.
 * * *
One day, when we all gathered for our class, Kozyol called me and one of my fellow-students and delivered spades.
«Listen suda. - he explained. - See that polie? I lost tam rezinku, when m-m… obshchalsya s prepodavatelnitsei. If you naidyote eyo, then I’ll set to you avtomat examen. But if my zhena… she is namerena pereryt vsyu ziemlyu excavatorom. I am troop then.»
Well, that was quite interesting proposal. Kozyol’s condom did not had to be deep enough and the field was not so large. Let the students have their lesson and we spend all the time outdoors digging. We started and worked too fast. Five, ten, twenty minutes. No result. We had begun from the borders of the fields and were about to meet each other in the center of the field, when clanking of machinery was heard. An excavator drove in the yard. The woman-driver looked at us out from the window and shouted:
«Hey, babies, fuck out of here!»
We only had to leave the field for it was Kozyol’s wife. Now she dug herself. We watched the madwoman turn the ground until at last…
«Found! Here it is.»
Kozyol’s wife, shining triumphal, held the condom we had been searching for. Kozyol stood over there quite pink. Then he was rather pale when his wife picked up just-used vibrator still wet. My friend and I only sighed with realization that we weren’t going to get our exam passed automatically. At the moment Kozyol’s wife presented her dear husband with pretty sharp blows on his cheeks and other places. It lasted until Kozyol roared and ran away bravely. His wife flew into the excavator and drove running after him around the yard. Sometimes she was able to struck poor Kozyol with the bucket. Then he ran into the auditorium. Without getting off the woman drove in. We were afraid to follow them. In a minute or so one of the windows broke and Kozyol sprang back into the yard. The wall behind him lay down under the machine and the haste went on. When they ran away into the street that was the last time we saw them that day.
* * *
The last day of the term came. We gathered in the auditorium to have our exam in Kozyol’s discipline. We were waiting for him a good deal of time; maybe half an hour had passed before he came. The reader can only imagine what was in the room. None had understood all the material, given during the term. None was ready to pass. But we should pass it to be not thrown out from the institute.
Kozyol appeared.
«Well, - said he, - what are we namereny do? A-ah! Examen sdavat. Nachniom s avtomatov.
Then he called some of our students. They got their automatic exam in different ways. Some of them got for English-Russian and Russian-English translation of the material for our lessons - Kozyol had given up translation after being fucked for it. I was among those students. Then there were some girls who used to make ‘sweet home’ in bed for him. Kozyol called those girls tiolki, we called them bloods. Everyone was marked as ‘excellent’. Then he proceeded.
«Well, and now I’ll rasprodam some otsenok in auction. Kak po-angliysky otsenka?» - he asked one of the students.
«I don’t speak Russian,» - the answer was.
«Dva! Peresdacha tomorrow!»
The student left swearing.
«Mark! It’s mark in English!» - a friend of mine said.
«Tvoy test-list, please. Piat,» - Kozyol announced.
The happy student left.
Then the selling out began.
«Well, mark «piat». Start tsena twenty dollars. Who bolshe?»
«Twenty-five!»
«Thirty!»
«Forty!»
«Eighty!»
«Two thousand!» - the fattest student in the group cried out.
Silence, then Kozyol’s voice:
«Two thousand - one, two thousand - two, two thousand … three. Prodano to John Bold. Mark «four». Start tsena… e-er… fifteen dollars.»
«Twony!»
«Thirty!»
«Hundred!» - Jack Catter shouted.
Silence.
«Hundred - one, hundred - two, hundred …» But…
«Hundred and one!» - hearing that, Jack left the auditorium banging the door behind himself.
«Hundred and one - one, hundred and one - two, hundred and one … three!»
Jeremiah Clock paid and left full of happiness.
«Mark «tree». Start tsena ten dollars…»
Very long pause. Afterwards…
«Eleven.»
Silence for a bit longer.
«Twelve.»
One brightly painted girl wiped a tear rolling from her eye:
«Thirteen.»
Another bright girl cried out:
«Fifteen!»
The first girl burst into tears:
«Thirteen and full sex service. Please…» - without finishing she took out her pocket-book and threw out all its contents on the table. There was $13 sharp.
«Well, - Kozyol said, - tonight in the park A. at ten o’clock. Prodolzhaem rasprodazhy.»
«Twony.»
«Tweny - one - two - three. Sold to Jecky Cуloron. All the rest got «bad», because tak, kak ya obyasnyal during the term you may ni figб nie znat. Peresdacha tomorrow.»
The next evening my fellow students told me the happy-end of that story.
Reexamination was organized quite in the same way. Some students were excited because of an unknown reason. Kozyol glad no less than they were, rubbing his hands, took his place at the desk and (a strange thing!) speaking literary English announced:
«Mark ‘excellent’. Start price’s a thousand dollars.»
«Isn’t it too much?» - asked the rector of the institute while entering the class.
Kozyol extremely got pink.
«What d’you mean?»
«No more than the report given to me by some of the students. Here it is, - he waved his hand with a sheet. - So, bribing, yeh?»
Kozyol could hardly stand upon his feet.
«It’s nonsense what you say» - murmured he.
«Well, Mr. Kozyol, the picture I have found here will do. You’re fired!»
«NO!!»
«Shut up!!! That’s the least I want to do. Naturally, I should send you to prison for that. And before it I should have your prick cut and put directly into your ass.»
«Stop it!»
«Got frightened! It’s not Russia, where you’re the cleverest among the fools.  It’s America, sir! And none here likes to be considered as a fool. Wanna taste an omelet prepared with your balls? I can easily manage it right here and now.»
Saying this he seized his little knife out of his pocket and aimed it against Kozyol’s groin.
«No!» - shouted Kozyol and flew out through the door.
«No!» - he was heard from the lobby.
«No!» - he was heard from the yard.
«No!» - he was heard from the street.
The last ‘No!’ hardly heard from the starting bus drowned in the laughter of the students.