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Kalashnikov Cause
His gaze was mysterious.
During our conversations, it constantly seemed to me that along with
emphatic deep respect and the almost boundless benevolence typical of people
in the Arab East, I saw not only sincere care, but also friendly sorrow and
even concern over me in his eyes...
And the reason suddenly became clear.
Almost at the end, when we were already saying good-bye to each other at
the Riyadh airport, the handsome major's eyes flashed and his speech became
energetic and even impassioned. Our experienced interpreter could hardly
keep up with him: "Hasn't it ever occurred to you. Mr. Kalashnikov, that you
should change your faith? By Christian standards, you are a great sinner.
You are responsible for thousands, even tens of thousands of deaths around
the globe. They've long prepared a place for you in hell. And you will never
be absolved, even if you start praying hard to your Jesus Christ. Isn't that
right? Islam is different. I will tell you frankly: I've been observing you
for quite a while and I can tell you that you are a true Muslim. You could
become a living banner of the Arab world. And when the time of your earthly
existence is over, Allah will welcome you as a hero. You deserve that, Mr.
Kalashnikov. It's not only my personal opinion. Our supreme clergy share my
views. Some of them knew I would tell you what I have just said. Allah's
mercy is limitless. May it be so!"
After they 'declassified' me in my native land about a decade ago and I
started traveling abroad, I had got lots of most unexpected offers, but I
must admit that I was not ready for that one. Without thinking, I shifted to
a rescuing half-joking tone:
"Is that an official offer?"
His response was so hearty that I could understand him without
translation. The translator just confirmed what flashed in my mind: "Yes,
take it that way."
Me with my Russian understanding that delaying the decision was just a delicate refusal, I promised, feeling somewhat guilty:
"I will consider it."
The Major raised his open palms and lifted his chin over them, gazing into
the sultry sky above our heads: "Allah akbar! Bismillah!"
I understood that without translation: "Allah is great! In the name of
Allah!"
"You will really have to consider it," a rather young interpreter said with
a deliberately concerned look when we boarded our Boeing. "As I see it, the
game is worth it, isn't it?" His friendly joke was intended to assuage the
possible unpleasant effect of the Saudi Major's resolute statement
concerning my faith and future whereabouts.
I played along with his joke: "I will, I will."
We were flying back to Moscow pleased with the days spent at the small
arms exhibit in Riyadh. Samples of our weapons displayed at international
fairs had been off great interest to both the rank-and-file visitors and the
specialists. When our group had already had some cognac-tosts had been made
to the successful take-off and to the weather en route-and were engaged in
small talk, I fell to thinking about the parting words of the Arab.
"You are responsible for thousands, even tens of thousands of deaths
around the globe."
I've read lots of similar accusations recently: in the Russian press and
in articles translated for me and in letters sent to me. I've heard scores
of them: on the radio and television and in eye-to-eye discussions. But my
last opponent-not only a brilliant, as I had found out during our brief
acquaintance, specialist and a well-educated person-had shifted the
discussion of my guilt from the sphere of morals to a purely religious
sphere. Like many of my compatriots, I proved unprepared for debates on a
religious ground. Not only was I unprepared for polemics with him-I could
not even properly understand what he actually meant. Many of my generation,
including myself, looked on religion with a concealed, even if cautious,
respect. That was mainly out of respect for my own parents, our far-away
ancestors, and the history of our Motherland. But the life we lived, with
its strict regulations and never-ending tension, and our own purposefulness
and focus on one particular sphere of activity had made us utter atheists.
We just had no time to look beyond the officially established immutable
notion: "God does not exist." And I thought with involuntary envy or,
perhaps, involuntary anguish: haven't you really been too preoccupied with
your only cause, designing, to the detriment of all other things?
I have to admit that this has always been the case with me.
In Izhevsk, on the eve of the tour to Saudi Arabia, I invited Yevgeny
Bogdanov, a long-time locksmith, to my office. Bogdanov was on the once
monolithic team of the first developers of the AK-47. We discussed business
and then suddenly our conversation shifted to more general things. Yevgeny
said: "I always meant to tell you what our riflemen told me once. An elderly
colonel came to the testing range from Moscow. He was in bad spirits, and he
suddenly said to our guys: "Why all the shouting about your machine gun?
It's just a machine gun. I would like to see it in action." Then Volodya
Pribytkov, an Afghan war veteran, told him: "Better you not see that, old
man!" And he put down his head-set and left. He told the story to his
colleagues the next day: In Afghanistan, he had had an AK-47 in an ambush.
Three submachine gunners, as always, covered them, also with our weapons.
"And a whole unit attacked us. I then went and counted. Can you guess the
number of casualties? Sixty-seven," he said.
And Yevgeny stared at me and his stare was so sad. Yes, we had reached
the age when people begin to think about their souls. And what if you have
dealt with mortal weapons your whole life?
It turned out that the Saudi major had sowed, even if not aware of it,
already plowed ground.
We have withdrawn our troops from Afghanistan, but the civil war is
still raging on there. I was told recently that the only shops still open
across the country on Friday are the shops selling AKs. Almost every
province has its own governor, its own rules, but there is one law common to
all of them: You can buy weapons on the sacred day as well.
Had the major brought the subject up earlier, I could have at least
asked him one or two questions about Islam. Or had he specially put off the
conversation until the very last minute?
I opened my briefcase, took out a translation of an article handed to me
on the eve of our departure, and began reading it: "Kalashnikov: The Focus
of Attention at Riyadh Weapons Fair.
"A three-day exhibit of small arms and advanced means of combating crime
opened in Riyadh on September 25.
"The exhibition, held on the territory of the Arab Security and Training
Center, was attended by the world's largest companies, including Russia's
Rosvoorouzhenie whose delegation included, among others, Mikhail
Kalashnikov, the inventor of the AKM.
"At the fair there were thirty stands devoted to various aspects of
combating crime: everything from collecting evidence and identifying
finger-prints to the use of metal detectors, bullet-proof vests, and
verifying the authenticity of documents.
"But Mikhail Kalashnikov, 75, the inventor of an assault rifle bearing
his name and Hero of Socialist Labor of the Soviet Union, attracted
particular attention during the exhibit. The words The Soviet Union, the
name of the country which twice granted its highest award to him, can now
only be used within the family.
"Still, Kalashnikov was somewhat concerned about the fact that the
weapons market has become very competitive. In his opinion, small arms
have obviously been undergoing serious changes to meet the demands of the
day. Kalashnikov has visited the region before when he attended the IDEX-94
exhibit in the United Arab Emirates."
Just in case, I also had copies of stories about the previous
exhibitions held in the United Arab Emirates. Here is what one of them had
to say:
"Kalashnikov's Path
"The secret of the AK series' popularity is simple. They are perhaps the
most reliable small arms ever made. They are light, handy, easy to
disassemble and assemble, and very reliable, according to Kalashnikov, the
famous Russian who designed them.
"When designing them, Kalashnikov bore the typical soldier in mind.
Before becoming a designer of weapons, he was a soldier himself. The world's
most famous assault rifle would have never been made, if Kalashnikov, a Red
Army private, hadn't been wounded during World War II.
"Kalashnikov knew from experience what type of weapons were needed, and
a prototype was ready by the end of the war. Mass production began in 1948."
There have been lots of articles and interviews devoted to all kinds of
topics, including what the major hinted at the airport. For example, about
my feelings in connection with the fact that my weapons are in the hands of
14-year-olds in Somalia and many other countries, or in the hands of
criminals, etc. I have one answer to that sort of question: I designed
weapons for the defense of my country.
I recall that about 15 years ago, along with other leading small arms
designers, I addressed trainees from socialist and developing countries at
the Vystrel Officers' Training Academy outside Moscow-in fact they were the
military elite of the then friendly Asian and African countries. Hardly had
I wound up than a sturdy African-the defense minister of Mozambique, as it
turned out-rose, a small flag in hand. "Let me remind the esteemed designer
with gratitude that the silhouette of his weapon is engraved on the banner
of our young republic. It's become a symbol of our fight for liberation from
the foreign imperialist yoke. There is an open book to symbolize the fight
against illiteracy, and a mattock, the symbol of free labor."
I cannot say that I was too proud to accept that telltale souvenir. I
felt something different- what we used to describe as a feeling of duty
performed.
But recently, at the request of employees of the future AK-47 museum
which they have positively and seriously decided to build in Udmurtia, in
Izhevsk, I started sorting out papers in my extensive archive and numerous
souvenirs. I found the flag of Mozambique and involuntarily let out a sad
sigh.
Maybe the sensational stories published over the past years hit the
nail on the head? "Kalashnikov's Cause Lives and Prevails: the AK is
depicted in the national emblems of six countries." "The Caliber of
Death-5.45: Afghanistan-Baku-Dubossary. A thread of blood links Afghanistan,
the capital of Azerbaijan, and a small Moldovan town. The thread is wound up
into one ball by 5.45 mm caliber bullets for Kalashnikov assault rifles."
"Kalashnikov Incantation: The way to scare a South African... Just pronounce
one word: Kalashnikov. A new expression has appeared there: to AK, meaning
to kill."
Like it or not, you have to live with that, like a shell-splinter in
one's body. You forget about it in the daily routine, working and coping
with life's problems: it is there in your body, long encased in your
hardened tissue. But what if it suddenly turns, causing acute pain.
Once Americans wrote that a "Russian sergeant had armed the whole Warsaw
bloc."
The last few years, there has been a rash of crime stories, chillers,
endless TV series about "godfathers" and bloodletting by the Mafia on
Russian TV. Naturally, I don't like to watch all that, but sometimes
professional curiosity prevails. I switch from one channel to another to see
another savage shoot-out, and I involuntary want to know what those villains
and criminals are armed with. True, one can see all kinds of weapons, but
the most arrant murderer is always holding the dear AK in hand. I sometimes
think: what a numerous and terrible unit those rascals could form, if they
pooled their efforts. Real scum.
But what has been happening in reality is even more violent than all
those TV thrillers.
When in 1941, I was a wounded tank crew member in a hospital, nightmares
tortured me. In the morning, I would take a pencil and paper and start
drawing my future assault rifle. That helped me forget those nightmares, and
the constant pain would seemingly go away for a while. That was not only a
sort of self-protection-scores of us then quickly recovered because of the
undying desire to defend our homeland. Could I have ever imagined then that
a new weapon design would bring back the nightmares, even if in a different
form?
I am now compelled to think that it cannot be otherwise, unless you are,
fortunately, a gardener, an agronomist, or a veterinarian like one of my
close friends. I am a gunsmith, and that explains everything. Before I had
had no time to think about whether I would go to hell and, as it turns out,
not because of my personal qualities, but only because of the fact that, by
profession, I belong to the enemies of society.
Maybe he was right-Islam is the only way out for me. I don't know if
that will really help in the future life, if that future life really exists,
but that could guarantee peace of mind here, in this earthly life. No matter
how shaky those illusions are, a man can build a fortress of those illusions
which nothing can destroy.
I find life in the Arab East quite attractive, and if faith helped the
Arabs cement together advanced achievements with ancient traditions, doesn't
it deserve respect? Its stability is even more strange to a Russian, given
that Russia has lived through scores of abrupt turns and shocks over the
past century. Who hasn't taught poor Russians over that period? In Arab
states one feels the self-respect which makes the very idea of interference
in the spiritual sphere impossible. The rules of that monastery built in the
Arab sands are steadfast, I thought. They're really steadfast.
We are used to never-ending bustle and jitters, constant lack of order
and daily humiliation, which we-perhaps subconsciously out of
self-protection-prefer not to notice or to pay little attention to.
Therefore, many things seemed miraculous there, like an extension of A
Thousand and One Nights. I remember the magic way my rather voluminous
suitcase moved about the Emirates, whereas it nearly tore away my hands in
my homeland despite the friendly efforts of my younger colleagues. But after
checking it in at Moscow's Vnukovo airport, I no longer carried it during my
whole stay in Abu Dhabi: I just had to open it. And I still wonder at how it
always was at hand at the right moment. Everything was done as if by a wave
of the wand. I just had to believe that a good jinn really existed, even if
I had never seen one.
The same was true about towels and bed-linen in my hotel room. You just
had to touch a towel and a fresh one would suddenly appear.
Once I sat for a minute on the edge of my bed, then went up to the
window deep in thought, and involuntarily feasted my eyes on the beauty of
the city at night. When I finally began taking off my clothes, getting ready
to go to bed, I suddenly realized that, in a way that was beyond my
comprehension, the bed-linen had been changed.
Okay, one good turn deserves another.
One morning a porter, apparently very worried, began peppering me with
questions via an interpreter: Is anything wrong with my room? Has anything
kept me from sleeping? I answered with a saying I learned from my parents:
No, I was fast asleep as if "having sold oats"... Is it possible to really
translate that? Okay, let us say "having sold oil."
The porter was all friendly smiles and then suggested: "Perhaps Mr. AK
slept in the armchair." "Why? I slept in the bed," I responded. "Why has the
bed remained untouched then?" he was puzzled.
Then it was my turn to smile: I had made my bed perfectly. It was all that good experience I had got as a soldier.
I recall that in the book In Search of Weapons written by my first
teacher, the outstanding Russian gunsmith Vladimir Fyodorov, there is such
an episode: In the summer of 1915, in the heat of World War I, the author
came to an army unit stationed not far from the front line to examine the
soldiers' rifles and the officers welcomed him with the joke: "Look, the
Perpetual Motion Machine has come."
That, perhaps, is the fate of many weapons designers, including myself:
we have to perpetually be on the run. From factory to factory. From testing
range to testing range. From one army unit to another. From west to east.
From north to south.
Life on wheels! At first I thought that expression was at best a hundred
years old or slightly more. But then I read in one book that the Scythians,
our ancestors, used to sleep on ox hides in four-wheeled carts. Maybe that
nomadic life which easily becomes a habit comes from our forefathers? And
you travel around the same places as if down the same old rut.
Naturally, that way of life teaches a person to be well-organized and
that liking for order becomes your second self. Once during field tests I
had to go back to an officers' tent, and I noticed three rookie soldiers by
the entrance. Craning their necks, they were looking hard at something. Then
one of them said with approval bordering on admiration: "That is
Kalashnikov's bed. Look, it's better made than the other ones. Can't you
see?"
It turns out that it cannot be otherwise.
And it came in handy there, in the Emirates: We are quits now.
Or perhaps, if we go deeper into the problem, we and the Arabs are
really on the same wavelength?
Even though I am a blue-eyed Russian, my roots stretch from the faraway
Altai to the Kuban. I regard mountain people as next of kin, and from the
Caucasus, Persia, today's Iran, and the Arab East are within easy reach.
Maybe it's my genetic memory, the memory of my forefathers, that makes Arab
faces so pleasant to me? Or have I acquired that liking for them in the
course of life? Perhaps it is because each of them observes age-long
traditions of hospitality. Or are there other reasons?
What if really?..
Anyway, the Saudi major, despite all of his courtesy, really hit a sore
spot. "The Prime Minister of the Republic of Egypt was killed with a Russian
AK-47..." and Kalash has been growing increasingly popular as a boy's name
in South Africa."
And you wonder: who are those boys? Quite unexpected christened
children of mine? Or, on the contrary, a general symbol of alienation and
orphanhood having swept the planet?
Or take the video film Kalashnikov's Hunt made by British journalists.
Another name would be more appropriate-The Hunt for Kalashnikov. But several
of my friends and I are the only persons who know the whole truth about the
film. We involuntarily witnessed the BBC crew's stay in Izhevsk. But scores
and scores of other people who have seen the film on all continents-and
hundreds of millions are reported to have seen it-are left thinking that the
Russian gunsmith is a monster, an inveterate war criminal.
But can Islam really relieve the suffering of your soul, dispel doubts,
and protect you like with a shield?
"Am I really the only one with such problems?" I thought with a sad
smile.
Unfortunately, few people in today's Russia and, as they say now, in the
former Soviet Union realized exactly what they were changing and what they
would eventually get. The only thing that mattered was to make a change
without delay. And that was considered a goal in itself. That became
fashionable and prestigious. Why should anyone lag behind? I am not a
die-hard conservative. I have always had a keen sense of innovation. So why
not go ahead!
Involuntarily, I recalled quite recent times when I was not allowed to
leave the country. Maybe they were wright to not let me travel abroad.
It was not just a matter of forbidden fruit being the sweetest. No, that
feeling is foreign to me. It's just that as a designer it would have been
interesting for me to have a look at the way our allies had organized AK
production in their countries. Would it have been so bad if I had seen
something of interest there, even if with half an eye?
So, once I decided to go ahead and begin with Bulgaria. People of my
generation and even those younger than me know the saying: "The hen is not a
bird, nor is Bulgaria a foreign state." True, the Slavic sister has
separated almost completely from us now. And today each of around a dozen
sovereign states in the near abroad-Ukraine, Belarus, or whichever can
fit into the proverb. But let me get to the point.
So, I decided to begin with Bulgaria and to ask the then defense
minister, Dmitry Ustinov, for permission.
Ustinov and I got along well. It was easy and a pleasure to work with
him. He was quick on the uptake. He never made rash decisions, but once he
made a decision, he never changed his mind. He was very reliable and never
let you down, never stopped half-way, and never left you in trouble. When he
came to Izhevsk, one did not have to ask to see him: he found you himself
right off. He liked to be photographed, and I believe it was because he
realized perfectly well that people were proud to see themselves in photos
beside him. And he always invited rookie engineers and old-timers to come
up. "Let me stand by your side, guys," he would say.
Naturally, people liked that easy manner, even though they knew quite
well that Ustinov could be very tough when necessary. Before leaving, Dmitry
Fyodorovich would always remind me: When you come to Moscow, do visit me.
Regional and city authorities often took advantage of Ustinov's liking
me and weapons producers in general. Once three of us went to see Ustinov.
The regional Communist Party leader and the factory director urged me on
ahead. As soon as I had appeared in the doorway, Dmitry Fyodorovich rose
from behind his desk, stretched out his arms, and came up to me, saying:
"Uncle Misha has come!"
I was ten years younger than Ustinov, but I heard his obvious respect
for me in those words. He embraced me, lifted me up slightly, and began
whirling me around his study. Given those relations, it seemed that it would
be easy as pie for him to move me across the border with Bulgaria.
But hardly had I started to say that I wanted to see a weapons factory
in Bulgaria, when Ustinov became gloomy and frowned. He said in a low voice:
"Comrade Major!"
I was in civvies as usual, but the minister's tone made me want to rise
from the armchair and stand at attention.
It should be mentioned that this happened precisely at the time when the
Americans had published an insulting story about "the Russian sergeant
having armed the whole of the Warsaw Pact," and they started rapidly raising
my military rank. In the morning, I found out that I had been given the rank
of senior lieutenant, and in the evening I was already a captain.
Obviously, Ustinov personally monitored my "military career," and that
was the case when I found out that I had been made a Major.
But that didn't change anything.
I felt a chill go down my spine when the minister said distinctly: "You
have not said that. I have not heard you say that. Anything else?"
That's the way it used to be then.
And now you can travel anywhere you like. And I'd just got an offer to stay
in Riyadh, even if it was indirect. Or maybe I took it wrong and the Saudi
major had just suggested that I become a Muslim and stay in my native
Izhevsk. Then the only difference would be that my driver Anatoly and me
would have a new route-to a mosque recently built in the famous part of the
city known as Tatar Bazaar.
I have lots of good acquaintances and close friends among Tatars-imagine
their surprise when they hear the news. There's an old saying that changing
one's faith is not as easy as changing a shirt.
Still, what didn't seem like a very important event before my departure
from Riyadh home, caused me to think a lot afterwards and see many things in
a different light.
I cannot rule out that my airport conversation with the Saudi major was
the drop that made the cup run over. I decided to write a book about myself,
my comrades, my long-suffering homeland, and our planet with endless wars
tearing it apart. After all, it was not myself that I cared about. There is
a very reassuring wise folk saying: "Hell is not that awful once you get
used to it." Our crazy conviction of always being right has split the world
up into ours and theirs, and unchallenged selfishness
prompting people to try to privatize the earthly heaven may eventually
result in hell and high water for everyone.
I began thinking of writing a book of reminiscences long ago. Sometimes I
would get so worked up over the thought that I would put aside everything I
could and take out a sheet of paper to write, write, and write again, rather
than draw another part of my assault rifle.
I've had to reply to hundreds, to thousands of letters during my
lifetime. Couldn't I write one very long letter? A letter to everyone.
But fate obviously had different plans for me at the time. Production
and designing problems would pile up, forcing me to put what I had written
aside. I hit the road again. Excerpts written at one go on days of
irreparable grief or a sudden burst of energy have long waited in my desk.
When will I be able to bring all those dear to me pieces together and
assemble the finished product? I sometimes found the road to publishing my
recollections as long and full of thorns as that of organizing mass
production of this or that weapon. Each of them required so much time and
effort. But I was young then and I could wait.
The desire to take up the pen was especially sparked by
out-of-the-ordinary events. My making the acquaintance of Edward Clinton
Easell, an American weapons historian, was one of those events. Just imagine
what I felt when I held his voluminous book The History of the AK-47 in my
hands. The following words were printed on the jacket: "For more than a
decade, military historian Edward Clinton Easell did some detective work
trying to unveil the secrets surrounding Kalashnikov's life." "Okay," I said
to myself, "you've got all the cards up your sleeve, and you keep mum!"
After we had started corresponding, he suggested in a letter of his:
"The Smithsonian plans to do a documentary video history as part of its
research program devoted to inventors and developers of advanced equipment.
I would like to ask you to invite me for a talk which our people will film
in the hopes of showing the creative process, the designer's development,
his motives, methods, and working conditions determining his train of
thought and his potential. Besides being of great scientific and
humanitarian interest, that sort of knowledge would have great educational
and enlightening value for the younger generation and, in my opinion, could
promote mutual understanding and mutual respect between the peoples of our
two countries.
"Eugene Stoner, whom you know quite well, will also be filmed for the
project. Other outstanding weapons designers of our times may also join the
program."
The letter was sent to me on April 28, 1989; we met in Moscow, at the
Ministry of Defense Industry's House of Optics, on July 11.
I was particularly impressed by Edward's talent as an organizer. He
brought a team of colleagues armed to the teeth with video and cine
equipment to Russia. I constantly recall his words "value for the younger
generation."
Just compare it to the slogan daily knocked into the heads of our
children: "The new generation chooses Pepsi."
That may be true. Or is it?
When we had become good friends, Easell insisted that I begin writing a
book about myself. Some parts of my book were written under the pressure
that the tireless man who got everything done with driving energy put on me
to hurry and write it.
Edward is no more. Perhaps he was so energetic because he tried to
accomplish as much as possible within the short time allocated to him by
fate.
In one of my writing surges I wrote a chapter I entitled My Black Box
Data Recorder. It is devoted to the tragedy our family lived through during
the years of the collectivization of agriculture and some peculiarities of
my youth I preferred to forget in the past out of a feeling of
self-protection.
Naturally, that confession already put down on paper made me think even
harder: "Had the time really come for me to tell the truth about everything
I had lived through in my life?" And another question: "Will that time ever
come?"
But I am older now and the situation has changed. The free press as if
tried to make up for what they had missed over the years of my life in
secrecy. Articles started piling up in another thick folder, and their
headlines as if competed in their crushing, sledgehammer effect: Yeltsin
Keeps Holding Out His Hand to Kalashnikov; The AK Man; Last Legend In
Weapons Technology; Kalashnikov, A Belgian; Let Us Raise Money For a Suit
for the Poor Guy.
The number of letters I receive has snowballed and I, who always
considered it a must to answer letters, can no longer answer all of them.
And I sometimes find it indecent not to answer a letter: how can I refuse to
answer a foreigner who not only paid for an envelope and a stamp, but also
generously enclosed one dollar with the letter?
In my youth I used to write verses, lots of them, including long poems,
and I think I know what inspiration means. But it turned out that enthusiasm
began helping me in activities far from poetry, moreover, in activities
hostile to it. Am I alone to blame for that?
Years ago, in the middle of the 1960s, I became acquainted with a
popular poet. He is still prosperous. We conversed, and it seemed a cordial
conversation. I admitted-and that was unexpected even for myself-that I also
sometimes write. "So, I bet you know what an iamb and trochee are," he said
with irony he did not even try to conceal. "What metrical foot do weapons
developers prefer? Brief bursts of machine gun fire? Or long ones?"
I like jokes and I perfectly realize that his joke hit the target, but I
did not like his tone and his look full of superiority. It was obviously
meant to indicate that every person should mind his own business and stick
to his profession.
Still, I dare to submit my imperfect work for my readers to judge.
Perhaps some of you will find my bursts of word fire too long, others may
regard them too brief and broken. What matters is if my words hit the
target.
But that will depend not only on myself, but also on those prepared to
make their way through my book.
In my rural childhood I heard legends of skillful hand-to-hand fighters
who could catch a flying bullet.
The task here is both easier and more complicated: one just has to get
the meaning of the words.
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