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From train conversations:

"And it will go on like this, until it stops: from legions —one Husband, from the darkness — one Wife."

*

"In Moscow, comrades, there's a church — the Angel of the Great Soviet."

*

A nighttime argument about God. The soldiers' hatred of icons and love of God. "Why kiss a piece of wood? If you want to pray, pray all by yourself!"

A soldier — to an officer (a former lycee type, parted hair, can't pronounce his r's.)

"And you, comrade, what faith do you adhere to?"

From the darkness, the answer: "I am the spiritualist of the socialist party."

*

The Usman Station. Going on twelve midnight.

Arrival. A tea house. Groaning tables. Revolvers, machine-gun cartridge belts, leather gear everywhere. They're cheerful and offer us something to eat. We, the guests of honor, are all bootless — on our way from the station we almost drowned. For the mother-in-law, however, they come up with a pair of the owner's ankle boots.

The proprietresses: two spiteful, terrified old ladies. Servility and hatred. One of them says to me: "What would you be then — their acquaintance?" (Winking at the mother-in-law's son.) The son: a Chichi-kovian face, cornflower blue, piggish eye slits. You feel that the skin beneath his hair is bright pink. A mix of Dutch cheese and ham. He's insolently formal with his mother: he says "Mamasha," uses the polite "You" form and then says: "Well and to blankety- blank with you."

I go unnoticed, thank God. The mother-in-law, when making introductions, lets slip a vague: "in the old days I had an acquaintance with their relatives . . ." (It turns out that about fifteen years ago she sewed for my uncle's wife. "I had my own shop ... I kept four seamstresses ... All nice and proper. And then — my husband did me in: he died!"). In short, I don't exist — I'm with . . .

Having eaten and drunk their fill, our two companions go off with the others, to sleep in the train car. The mother-in-law and I (she's the mother-in-law of my friend N., the one who talked me into this trip) settle down on the floor: she sleeps on the proprietresses' pillows and feather bed; I sleep right on the floor.

*

I wake up from a hard blow. The matchmaker's voice: "What is it?" A second boot. I jump up. Pitch dark. The ever louder stomp of feet, laughter, oaths. A resonant voice from the darkness: "Don't worry, Ma-masha, it's just the requisition detachment come to search the premises!"

The strike of matches.

*

Shouts, cries, the clinking of gold, the bareheaded old ladies, slashed feather beds, bayonets. . . They ransack everything.

"Take a good look behind the icons. Behind the saints. The gods like gold too!"

"But we ... we don't have anything . . . Son! Father! Be a father!"

"Shut up, you old bitch!"

The flame of the candle stub dances. On the wall — the huge shadows of Red Army soldiers.

*

(It turns out that the proprietresses of the teahouse had long been on the list. The son was just waiting for his mother to arrive: this was something like fleet maneuvers or a military parade in honor of the Dowager Empress.)

*

The search lasts until dawn: every time I wake up it's the same scene. In the morning, sitting down to a cup of tea, I have the sobering thought: "they could poison us. Quite simply. Add something to the tea, and the deed's done. What do they have to lose? The money's gone —the game's up. And if they get the firing squad —well, we all have to die anyway!"

And, having firmly convinced myself, I drink.

*

That very morning we move on. I wasn't the only one who had this thought.

*

The oprichniks: a Jew with a gold ingot hanging from his neck, a Jew—who's a family man ("if God exists, he doesn't bother me — if not, it also doesn't bother me"), a "Georgian" from Triumphal Square, in a red Circassian hat, who would slit his mother's throat for ten kopecks.3

*

My two companions left to go to the former estate of Prince Viazem-sky: ponds, gardens ... (A massacre notorious for its brutality.)

They left and didn't take me with them. I remain alone with the mother-in-law and my own soul. Neither of them are any help. The former is cooling toward me, the latter (in me) is already at boiling point.

*

With the teapot to the station for boiling water. A twelve-year-old "aide-de-camp" of one of the requisition officers. A round face, impertinent blue eyes against white sheep's curls — a smartly cocked cap. A mix of Cupid and a lout.

*

The mistress (the wife of the oprichnik with the ingot) is a tiny (midget!) Jewess, the swarthiest of creatures, who "just adores" gold things and silk cloth.

"Are those platinum rings you have on?"

"No, silver."

"So why do you wear them?"

"I like them."

"Don't you have any gold ones?"

"Yes, I do, but I don't really like gold: it's crass, obvious . . ."

"Oh, what do you mean! Gold is the most precious metal. Yossi told me that all wars are fought over gold."

(I think to myself, "as is every revolution!")

"And, may I ask, do you have your gold things with you? Maybe you'd part with something? Oh, don't you worry, I won't tell Yossi, it'll just be between us women! Our own little secret!" (She giggles wantonly.) "We could set up a kind of Austausch." (Lowering her voice):

"I mean, I've got good stores set by . . . and I don't always tell Yossi everything! . . . If you need lard, for instance —I could get you lard, if you need pure white flour—I can get pure white flour."

I, timidly: "But I don't have anything with me. Two empty baskets for wheat. . . And ten lengths of rose-colored chintz . . ."

She, almost cheeky: "And where did you leave your gold things? How can you leave gold behind and just take off?"

I, distinctly: "I not only left my gold, but. . . my children!"

She, amused: "Ach, ach, ach! You're so funny! Are children so valuable? Everyone leaves their children nowadays, they set them up somewhere. What children, when there's nothing to eat?" (Sententiously): "There are shelters for children. Children are the property of our socialist Commune . . ."

(I think to myself: "just like our gold rings . . .")

*

Having convinced herself of my gold insolvency, she tells her story breathlessly. Before —she was the owner of a knitting atelier in "Petro-grad."

"Oh, what an apartment we had. A little gem, not an apartment! Three rooms and a kitchen, and a storage room for the servant. I never allowed the maid to sleep in the kitchen — it's not hygienic, hair can fall in the pots. One room was the bedroom, another was the dining room, and the third, sky blue —was the parlor. I had very important customers, you know, I dressed the best women in Petrograd in my jackets ... Oh, we made a very good living, we had guests every Sunday: and there was wine, and the best produce, and flowers. . . Yossi had a whole smoking set: a little filigreed table from the Caucasus, with all kinds of pipes and things, and ashtrays, and match boxes. . . We bought it second-hand from a factory owner . . . We played cards and, I assure you, the sums were no joking matter . . .

"But everything had to be left behind: we sold off all the furniture, hid a few things. . . Of course, Yossi's right, the people can't languish in the fetters of the bourgeoisie any longer, but still, with an apartment like that. . ."

*

"But what are you doing here, when it's raining, when all your people are out on requisition? You're reading?" "Yes . . ."

"What are you reading?" "Marx's Capital, my husband won't let me have any novels."

*

Usman Station, Tambov Gub., where I've never been and never will be. Thirty versts on foot over cut fields, in order to barter chintz (rose-colored) for grain.

*

Peasant women.

Sixty huts —one response: "No, no, there's nothing at all, we don't sell, we don't barter. Whatever there was —the comrades took. Lord knows how we'll stay alive ourselves."

"But I'm not taking anything for free and I'm not paying with Soviet money. I have matches, soap, chintz . . ."

Chintz! The magic word! The first (after the serpent!) passion of our foremother Eve. The blazing of eyes, clearing of foreheads, stretching of hands. Even the great-grandmothers won't leave me alone, toothless lips spray: "A little bit of chintz would do nicely! For a shroud!"

And so I find myself in a suffocating ring of grandmothers, great-grandmothers, girls, young ladies, girlfriends, granddaughters. On my knees before the basket — I rummage. The basket is tiny—I'm exposed.

"Is the soap perfumed? Do you have any plain soap? How much are the matches? Does the chintz wear good? Manka, Manka, you could make a blouse! How many lengths did you say? Te-en! There's not even eight here!"

Fondling, smelling, pulling, smoothing, watch it —or they'll test it with their teeth.

And suddenly, one of them bursts out: "Look at the color! The color! Just like Katka got for a skirt last week. Another one of them from Moscow was selling. Damask—like silk! It gathers so even . . . Mama, Ma-manka, should we take it? Merchant lady, how much do you want for a length?"

"I'm not selling for money."

"You're not se-elling? How's that, you're not selling?"

"That's the way it is. You all know — money isn't worth anything."

"What do we know? We live in the dark. Another girl who came said that money's good in Moscow."

"Go there and see for yourself."

(Silence. Side glances at the chintz. Sighs.)

"What would you be needing then?"

"Wheat, lard."

"La-aaard? No, we don't have any lard. What lard! We eat everything dry ourselves. How about some honey?"

(A lightning vision of myself, covered with dripping honey, and from this vision, almost rage!)

"No, I want lard — or wheat."

"And how much, if you want wheat, will you take for the chintz then?" (By the way, it isn't chintz at all, but purebred, rare, rationed, rose-colored damask.)

I, immediately growing timid: a half pood (they taught me to say three!).

"A haaa-lf pood? There's no such price. What is this chintz you've got, silk or something? The color's beautiful, that's all. Look at it, it rubs off, it'll all wash out."

"How much will you give for it?"

"Your goods — your price."

"I already said: half a pood."

Ebb-tide. Whispers . . .

I look around the cottage: everything's brown, as if made of bronze: the ceilings, floors, benches, cauldrons, tables. Nothing superfluous, everything eternal. The benches seem to have grown into the walls, rather —to have grown out of diem. And die faces match: brown! And die amber necklaces! And the necks themselves! And on all this brown-ness — the last blue tint of a late, woman's summer.4 (A cruel expression!)
*

3: Terror, as if faced with oprichniks. The oprichniks were the special secret police of Ivan the Terrible; Triumphal Square is in Moscow.

4: And on all this brownness—the last blue tint of a late, woman's summer. The Russian expression "woman's summer" is the equivalent of the English "Indian summer."