The Flight of the Dancing Bear

By Mark Rascovich

The Flight of the Dancing Bear, first published in 1959, is an exciting novel set in Soviet Russia. The story centers on Ur Kamak and Natacha, his performing bear, beloved by the Russian people, but who get into trouble when the aging bear bites a Red Army general. Rather than obey orders to kill the animal, Ur and the bear decide to flee to the safety of neighboring Finland. Also involved are a host of others including Kamak’s niece and the young British diplomat who loves her, the members of a collective that produces illegal vodka, a Russian sharpshooter who hates the present regime, the inmates of a pioneer colony, a lady engineer and her train, and two foreign correspondents. Before Kamak, his niece, Natacha and their odd entourage Finland, they are beset with adventures ranging from the tragic to the hilarious. Combining laughter with tears, The Flight of the Dancing Bear is a fascinating look at life in the former Soviet Union.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Burtyrki Books
• Release date: Jan 30, 2020
• ISBN: 9781839742507

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Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.

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THE FLIGHT OF THE DANCING BEAR

MARK RASCOVICH

The Flight of the Dancing Bear was originally published in 1959 by Doubleday & Company, Inc, Garden City, New York. All of the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

• • •

To Flosy...without whose devoted help

this story could not have been told

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Contents

TABLE OF CONTENTS 4

1. SCANDAL IN MOSCOW 5

2. THE NIBLISK APPARAT 37

3. THE FOUL WEATHER OF TAMOTORSK 125

4. BORDER INCIDENT 166

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 184

1. SCANDAL IN MOSCOW

Ur Kamak’s world came to an end on a gray winter afternoon last year when he reported to the director’s office at the Ministry of Culture. He had been there often before but always as an important person, a successful person, and one of those rare citizens of the Soviet Union who need fear neither importance nor success. He had often entered that huge office with a certain smug feeling of security which he knew very few others enjoyed.

On this day he had been received with courtesy and even the deference due a man holding the Order of Artists of the Soviet Union. But there was a tinge of embarrassment in the reception. The director, Sergei Ilyanovitch Branoff, was the kind of official who had a great deal of trouble in unbending unless he was drunk, in which case he would become coarse and boisterous. A trace of that coarseness remained even when he was sober. He was a swarthy hulk of a man who contrasted sharply with the waspish, moonfaced little Uzbek seated in front of him. After polite small talk the director had cleared his throat and fingered a folder on his desk as if very unwilling to get down to business. So Ur helped him:

Comrade Director, I will come to the point....Natacha and I have not received our contract yet. I presume the season is opening on the usual date here in Moscow?

Oh yes, of course, the director quickly answered, then coughed and looked out of the window.

Let us not bandy words. Natacha and I are not included this year. Is that not so, Sergei Ilyanovitch?

The director continued to stare out of the window and his expression became as wintry bleak as the scene on the other side of the glass. Yes, that is so, Ur Baltarovitch....It pains me to inform you we are forced to exclude your wonderful act.

Ur’s Asiatic face did not betray a flicker of the sudden agony he felt. With an even voice he asked: Why?

The director abruptly got up out of his chair and moved around the massive desk. Natacha has been active for almost thirty years. That is a long time. She is getting old. Too old, I think.

Natacha is beloved, Ur stated flatly.

Natacha is a legend. Let us not spoil it by allowing her to publicly display the senility and decay of old age. Then, suddenly struck by the harshness of his words, the director paused and tried switching to a lighter tone: After all, last year she fell off her bicycle in front of virtually the entire Presidium of the Supreme Soviet.

Even that she carried off well.

In a pathetic way, yes. If you find it funny to see an old lady fall off her bicycle in front of a large crowd. Obviously he did think it funny, because a chuckle rumbled up from under his bulging vest. But at the same command performance she bit a colonel of the Red Army.

A drunken soldier who molested her, Ur protested.

My dear Ur Baltarovitch! A colonel of the Red Army is never a drunken soldier regardless of how drunk he may be. And biting him is no laughing matter. At least not officially. Unfortunately we now must deal with Natacha officially.

Ur sighed deeply and rose from his chair with a shrug. We are not here to beg, Comrade Director, he said, and started to move toward the door.

But the director blocked his way. Do not think us ungrateful, Ur Baltarovitch! You are both members of the Order of Artists of the Soviet Union and are due every respect.

Ur said: Thank you, then tried to push on toward the door. But the director, who towered above him, continued to block his way.

The Ministry will make special arrangements for you to replace Natacha, he said with an expansive smile. We will allow you ample time and money to lavish your genius on a new Natacha.

Ur squinted up at the director with a stony expression, but his twinkling little eyes suddenly glowed with hatred. No, thank you, Comrade Director, he said, and firmly pushed his way to the door and opened it.

Wait! the director commanded.

Ur stopped on the threshold and waited, but without turning around.

We do wish to do Natacha honor, the director’s voice intoned with an officious affability. "The committee has passed a resolution which will guarantee her place in the annals of Soviet artistry. She will have a permanent niche in the Great Hall. We shall have her mounted!"

Ur spun around and stared at Branoff, his impassive face suddenly wrinkled with alarm. Mounted? he echoed with a high-pitched voice. You mean...stuffed? With hay and sawdust? Bent into some idiotic pose with glass eyes staring back at stupid, morbid throngs who come to gape at her death?...Is that the honor you have prepared for my Natacha?

The directors olive complexion drained to a bilious white and he started to swell like an angry bullfrog. "Comrade Kamak! You are profaning something reserved only for our very great!" Then the door slammed in his face.

Ur Baltarovitch Kamak stalked past the startled secretary in the reception room and out into the marble corridors of the Ministry. He walked with quick determined steps down the enormous staircase leading to the main vestibule with its ornate columns. He hurried through the crowds of visitors who were heading for the Artists’ Museum in the Great Hall, but before leaving the building he suddenly veered off and went into the toilet located behind the huge bronze of Lenin. There he stepped into one of the booths and carefully unpinned from his vest the Order of Artists of the Soviet Union and dropped it into the bowl. Then he relieved himself and flushed it down.

That very night Ur Kamak and Natacha were slated to perform at a reception at the British Embassy. Usually Ur very much enjoyed these affairs, and he preferred the Western diplomatic functions to those of the satellite countries, who were always reluctant to make any show of luxury before their Russian masters. The functions at Spasso House, the American Embassy, were often the most lavish but they were conducted with a complete disregard for protocol and formality. Even the ambassador himself would usually walk about in an ordinary business suit slapping his guests on the back. Ur had the orientals liking for luxury attended by a certain formality and therefore he preferred the British parties. Also the British seemed tremendously fond of Natacha and would in fact abandon their reserve in her favor.

Up to the point of his meeting with the director at the Ministry of Culture Ur had been looking forward to the evening, but now he approached the affair with a heavy heart Even Natacha had somehow sensed his despair, and when he had let her out of her cage to dress her she nuzzled her huge shaggy head on his shoulder and made unhappy rumbling sounds. He noticed that her eyes were red and tears stained the grizzled cheeks with unattractive dark streaks. And the large raw spot on her rump where the fur had worn off looked unusually scaly and sore. And when she stood up on her hind legs to allow him to tie the wide peasant skirt around her waist she groaned stiffly with the effort. But when she made it to her fully erect height she stood almost seven feet tall.

Come, my darling! Ur murmured to her, standing on tiptoe to adjust the skirt. ‘Tonight you must be your best!"

The broad embroidered skirt hid the bare spot. The bright red blouse with its built-in bosom covered up the most scraggly part of her chest. And before tying the bandanna over her head he wiped her eyes and face clear of stains.

Ah, you look as young and beautiful as ever, my sweet Natacha, Ur told her. She blinked at him in disbelief and sat down on her haunches to rock from side to side like an old lady disavowing flattery.

Ur turned his back on her to hide the deep sigh which welled up from his chest and adjusted his own costume. He always dressed simply for these affairs. A traditional Russian workman’s garb of coarse material, black floppy breeches, black boots, a patched white blouse, and a sweaty leather cap. Ur left the brilliant Cossack uniforms to other and lesser bear trainers who cracked their whips over entire menageries. His act was one of sheer simplicity, infinite subtlety, and sublimely apart from all other dancing bear performances. Natacha and Kamak, members of the Order of Artists of the Soviet Union—he frowned as he remembered what he had done with his own medal. But he took hers out of its little velvet-lined box and pinned it to her blouse. Then he led her up the stairs out of her basement quarters.

In the front hall Velia, Ur’s beautiful niece, was waiting to perform her customary ritual of seeing them off. She was just twenty-one years old and would grace any diplomatic function with her delicate Uzbek charm, but she accompanied Ur and Natacha only to such major performances as the Moscow Circus. Velia was a gentle, shy girl who did not like crowds. But she loved Natacha and Natacha loved her. Although Velia had seen Natacha in her dress several thousand times, she always expressed delight at the sight.

Oh, how beautiful you are! she exclaimed. You will lay them at your feet! Then she held out a huge piece of barley candy and Natacha took it with grunts of delight.

That is not good for her, Ur grumbled at his niece. Her eyes run. I think perhaps it is too much sugar.

You fuss too much, Uncle, Velia answered with a laugh, and scratched Natacha’s forehead.

And you think too little, Ur snapped back, and reached for the great leather muzzle and chain which hung on the hat-rack by the door.

Velia’s almond eyes grew wide and frightened. What is the matter with you this evening, Uncle? she asked.

Nothing, Ur answered, and stared at the muzzle in his hands, inwardly damning the Red Army colonel who had made Natacha bite him. Since then the muzzle had been ordered for all public performances. After eighteen years Natacha had to wear that cruel piece of leather and steel which chafed her face and paralyzed those wonderful expressions which had made her famous. The fools did not know that the real danger in a bear is its forepaws with their six-inch-long claws. In these lay the strength of ten human arms, the strength to break a man’s back and rip him open from belly to chest. So the idiot bureaucrats order a muzzle because she nipped a drunk! Ur suddenly decided that the embassy affair was not a public function, and with an angry snort he threw the muzzle and chain into a corner.

Uncle, Uncle! What is the matter? Velia asked again.

Nothing that should trouble you, dear Niece, he answered her with a more gentle tone. We will be back soon....Come, Natacha!

Somehow the youngsters who lived in the neighborhood of Ur’s suburban Moscow home always knew when he and Natacha would be coming out. Even though it was a raw night with flakes of wet snow lacing the wind, there were a half dozen boys and girls waiting at the gate. As soon as the front door opened and Natacha and Ur stepped outside the children squealed with delight and sloshed forward through the snow. And instantly Natacha and Ur assumed their roles.

The great bear reared up on her hind legs and became transformed into a nagging, domineering peasant woman, browbeating her fumbling little husband. She stood over him, impatiently stamping her foot and grumbling loudly as he shut and locked the front door.

Ay, Natacha! Give it to him! a little boy yelled.

Ur pantomimed a man who had got his key stuck in the lock and made a ludicrous face expressing his helplessness. Natacha stamped her feet, fussed, then waddled down the walk with her wide skirt flapping in the breeze. She put her paw on the back door of the specially built Ziv limousine in which she always drove to her engagements. Then she stamped her feet again and bellowed at Ur to hurry up. The children became convulsed and started imitating her, fussing and stamping their feet at Ur.

Hurry up, you lazy lout! a girl shouted. We are late for the party!

Ur had by now dislodged the key and hurried down the walk, moving with nervous skipping steps, the perfect picture of a henpecked husband being driven to distraction. Then, with the casual skill of a fine acrobat, he took a tremendous pratfall which sent him sprawling in the snow. The children came close to hysterics.

On your feet, you oaf! Look what you’ve done to your party suit! one of them shrieked.

But any pratfall by Ur was a special cue for Natacha to pick him up. This she did by waddling over to his spraddled form and taking him with pretended roughness by the nape of the neck and pulling him back to his feet and shoving him ahead of her to the limousine. With delightful lampooning of bourgeois formality, Ur then opened the door for her and helped her into the back seat; there she settled down with an expression of aloof dignity while he tucked the voluminous folds of her skirt around her.

The whole act was one Ur and Natacha had performed several hundred times for these children. But a complete deadpan expression was part of it, and he never let a flicker of the delight he felt ripple his stolid Uzbek face. He tipped his cap and bowed to the children and climbed into the driver’s seat and started up the engine. He then reached back and checked the two back doors to make sure the double locks were secure, but camouflaged the action by pretending to make Natacha more comfortable. Then Ur let out the clutch and swung the great black limousine down the driveway and through the gate. As the children’s laughter ebbed into the dark winter night an unbearable melancholy gripped his clown’s heart.

By prearrangement with the first secretary of the embassy, Ur pulled up to the driveway exactly an hour and a half after the official reception had begun. As with all great clowns, timing was a matter of supreme importance to Ur and he had to make his entrance at the precise moment, which in this case meant when the two-hundred-odd guests had mellowed with the servings of caviar and several rounds of drinks. Being the embassy of Her Britannic Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II, there was no fear that proceedings would become boisterous. No drunken colonel to cause any incidents here!

As Ur swung off the boulevard and into the embassy gate he came to a brief stop. It was long enough to get checked by the inevitable MVD guards. And long enough to lean into the rear compartment and prod Natacha in the stomach. Of late she had taken to falling asleep in the back seat, sprawling there in a roly-poly heap of clothing and fur. But with the prod she awoke and sleepily sat up, blinking like a grizzled old peasant woman.

Ur wheeled on up the paved driveway and parked under the brilliantly lighted canopy of the main entrance. A uniformed doorman moved to open the back door of the limousine, then quickly shied back and started to laugh. He was a Russian employee of the embassy and a sergeant in the MVD Foreign Section who knew Natacha well. Hounds of hell! he exclaimed. It’s the guest of honor!

The double glass doors with their gilded British lions swung open on well-oiled hinges. A starched butler in livery held them while the Honorable George W. Faversham, first secretary, came striding out in his splendid Whitehall full dress. He was a young balding Old Etonian with a sandy mustache and blue eyes which twinkled with controlled anticipation.

I say, you’re right on time! Mr. Faversham exclaimed, then added in atrocious Russian, Welcome, Mr. Kamak...and welcome, Natacha!

Ur politely tipped his cap to the English diplomat as he clambered out of the front seat Then he opened the back door and Natacha came out on all fours in a very unladylike fashion. But before Ur had time to whisper a reprimand she got to her feet and recovered her dignity somewhat. Yet there was a certain weariness in her action and Ur noticed that her eyes were running again.

Natacha! You have shamefully rumpled your dress, Ur scolded her, and started roughly to adjust her blouse and straighten out the bandanna across the three-foot expanse of forehead. Natacha growled and licked him from chin to brows with a great slurping swipe of her tongue.

I say, Faversham said, don’t you use a muzzle or something? I mean, is she perfectly safe and all that?

The doorman translated to Ur, who shook his head and said: No. No muzzle.

This is positively smashing, Faversham giggled with a nervous tremor in his voice. Well, shall we proceed? His Excellency and his guests are waiting!...Mr. Wiggins, you will announce Natacha just as we rehearsed it.

Mr. Wiggins, the senior staff butler, had a slightly appalled look on his florid face, but any desire to take to his heels was firmly held in check by a strong sense of British duty. He flared out his elbows and with erect bearing led the way inside the embassy. Natacha put a paw on Ur’s left arm and the two of them followed Mr. Wiggins. The act was on again, and for the last time.

The banquet hall was about two hundred feet long with gilded columns supporting a vaulted ceiling suspended with glittering crystal chandeliers. The assembled guests were enjoying one of those semi-formal diplomatic receptions peculiar to the Western embassies, and most of them were gathered at the far end of the room where an enormous buffet table was set up. There was a smattering of diplomatic and military uniforms, including several Russian ones, in the crowd. But mostly they were dressed in dinner jackets, short evening gowns, and dark business suits.

When Natacha and Ur were announced and came waddling into the room, she with a ridiculous rump-waving gait and a sort of slobbery smile on her face, he trotting alongside her in his baggy trousers and his leather cap pulled low over his deadpan face, a roar went up from the assembly. Simultaneously a small orchestra perched in an alcove above the buffet table struck up Peter and the Wolf. This piece had been doubtfully chosen by Mr. Faversham after hours spent in search of suitable bear music. Realizing that it was not entirely suitable, he made frantic signals to the musicians to keep it down. But Ur and Natacha were the instant hit which brought life into an otherwise routine and protocol-ridden party.

The ladies squealed with delight, the men clapped and cheered, and His Excellency was heard to bellow above all the rest: By Jove! Only a couple of timid old women and one spineless commercial attaché of the French Embassy were heard to make noises indicating anything but delight over the appearance in their midst of a huge bear in peasant costume.

A respectfully wide circle formed around Ur and Natacha as they advanced through the throng, making their way toward His Excellency, who was standing near the buffet together with some Soviet officials. Ur had a clever way of guiding Natacha so that the illusion that she was steering him was never lost. His sharp eyes had quickly spotted the ambassador and in spite of his fumbling manners and pretended confusion he brought himself and Natacha to a stop in exactly the right position. While he looked around the room with a vacant expression, as if searching for the host, Natacha made a broad and clumsy curtsy to His Excellency without any evident prompting whatever. Then she gave her escort a rather violent prod to wake him up to the fact that he was forgetting his manners and disgracing her before such an august personage. Ur did a double-take and, doffing his cap, bowed to the ambassador, who became convulsed with laughter.

Oh, good heavens! His Excellency exclaimed. Oh, good Lord! Oh, damn! How bloody funny! Then his mirth became so liquid that he was forced to pull a handkerchief out of his sleeve and blow his nose most violently.

After paying her respects to the host, Natacha proceeded to curtsy to the rest of the company, and although he never stopped playing the part of her oafish escort, Ur took the opportunity to quickly gauge his audience. His crinkly black eyes flashed across the laughing faces and he immediately spotted the Russians present. The two with the ambassador were Foreign Ministry officials. Another one in blue serge and trailing a hefty wife in a shapeless print of clashing colors was from the Ministry for Foreign Trade. An admiral. A general. Several staff colonels from the 1st Moscow Military District. For a moment Ur felt that there was nobody present from the Ministry of Culture, but then his heart missed a beat as he spotted Sergei Ilyanovitch Branoff peering out from behind a column. His face showed no amusement at all....Sol Well, he would show him! Natacha would put on such a performance tonight that they would be forced to give her back her billing at the Moscow Circus. At least so good that they could not possibly order her...mounted!

Ur tripped on Natacha’s skirt as she made her final curtsy and executed a magnificent pratfall at her feet. There was a roar of laughter and applause as she picked him up and shook him with a scolding rumble.

Mr. Faversham stepped out into the wide circle, evidently reassured by the bears antics and convinced that no animal with such a sense of humor could be dangerous. He moved in close to her and held up his embroidered arms for silence. The laughter faded and the orchestra ended its rendition of Peter and the Wolf with an abrupt sour note on the piccolo. The first secretary addressed the guests: Ladies and gentlemen, if you have not already guessed it, this is Natacha, the most famous dancing bear in all Muscovy! Jolly well in the whole world, for that matter! His Excellency was frightfully clever in negotiating her appearance here tonight with Mr. Kamak. No doubt most of you have taken in Natacha’s wizard performance at the circus, and— He stopped with a puzzled expression as a fresh ripple of laughter went through the banquet hall. Natacha had blithely sat down on her haunches and was staring at the first secretary with a look of unbearable boredom. The action and the pathetic expression were both so natural and genuine that it completely broke up the dull little speech.

His Excellency roared with laughter. By Jove, Faversham, he exploded, you’ve been diddled!

Faversham stared at the bear and became convulsed. His face turned red and his adam’s apple started bobbing in and out of his choke collar; his voice squeaked forth between high-pitched giggles: I say...I say...I say, old girl! Really!

Natacha casually leaned toward him and suddenly sloshed her tongue across his face in a very wet kiss, then sank down on the floor and rolled over on her back with one leg stuck up in the air and a look which pleaded with the astounded Mr. Faversham to do something besides talk. The banquet hall shook with howls of delight and His Excellency turned purple and suddenly had to be supported by two of his Russian guests.

Ur stared at Natacha and a fleeting expression of worried surprise crossed his face. This hilarious action was not part of the act and he knew it instantly for what it really was—a sign that poor old Natacha had already tired and wanted nothing more than to lie down and go to sleep. But only he knew this. To the others it was the funniest thing they had ever witnessed. But the bear had washed all the humor off the first secretary’s face.

Really, old girl! he stammered in mortification. Really! Then remembering his role, with a supreme effort he blurted out the last lines of his speech:...and now, ladies and gentlemen, Natacha will entertain you with her incomparable routines!" His words were completely lost in the uproar, but the first secretary did not tarry to repeat them. With undignified haste he fled for the nearest washroom.

Ur quickly got the act under way without betraying his fears to either the audience or Natacha, and their antics kept the merriment at a high pitch for the next twenty minutes. He could not use his most famous circus routines because for those he needed a full stage. But they had some hilarious bits of comedy specifically designed for functions of this sort. Natacha and Ur had often been called to command performances at private parties even in the Kremlin. They had on several occasions evoked a rumble of mirth out of Stalin himself, and roars of laughter from many of his satraps who had long since been embalmed in the mausoleums of the Red hierarchy.

They always played a clownish husband-and-wife team in which the huge bear, dressed in her flowing and bosomy peasant costume, dominated the browbeaten and long-suffering little man in the