curls protruding from under it, and placed two hundred rubles on the
table.
In those days this was an unheard of sum of money and Mother
covered it with her hands in an involuntary gesture of greed.
But it was not the money that staggered me and Pyotr and all the boys
in our yard—oh, no! It was a different thing altogether. On the sleeve of
his army tunic were embroidered a skull and crossbones. My stepfather
had joined a Death Battalion.
A man with a drum would suddenly appear at a public gathering or
outdoor fete-wherever a crowd assembled. He would beat his drum to
command silence. Then another man, usually an officer with the same
skull and crossbones on his sleeve, would begin to speak. In the name of
the Provisional Government he called upon all to join the Death
Battalion. But though he declared that everyone who signed on would
receive sixty rubles a month plus officer's kit and dislocation allowance,
nobody cared to die for the Provisional Government and only rogues of
my stepfather's type joined the death battalions.
But that day, when he came home solemn and grim in his new
uniform, bringing two hundred rubles, nobody thought him a rogue.
Even Aunt Dasha, who loathed him, came out and bowed to him in a
stiff, unnatural way.
In the evening he invited guests and made a speech.
35
'All these procedures carried out by the authorities,' he said, 'are
designed to safeguard the liberty of the revolution against the paupers,
the absolute majority of whom consists of Jews. The paupers and the
Bolsheviks are scheming a vile adventure, which is bound to jeopardise
all the fruits of the existing regime. For us, champions of freedom, this
tragedy is dealt with very simply. We are taking arms into our hands,
and woe to him who, for the sake of gratifying his personal ambition,
shall make an attempt upon the revolution and freedom! We have paid a
high price for freedom. We will not surrender it cheaply. Such in general
outline is the situation of the moment!'
Mother was very gay that evening. In her white velvet jacket, which
became her so well, she moved round the guests with a bottle of wine
and kept refilling each glass. Stepfather's friend, an amiable little fat
man, who was also in the Death Battalion, stood up and respectfully
proposed her health. He had laughed heartily during my stepfather's
speech, but was now very grave. Raising his glass aloft, he clinked
glasses with Mother and said briefly, 'Hurrah!'
Everyone shouted 'Hurrah'. Mother was embarrassed. Slightly
flushed, she stepped into the middle of the room and bowed low in the
old-fashioned way.
'What a beauty!' the fat little man said aloud.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
JOURNEY'S END
It must have been some time past two; I had been asleep for quite a
while and was awakened by a cry. Tobacco smoke hung motionless over
the table; everyone had left long ago, and my stepfather lay asleep on
the floor, his arms and legs spread wide. The cry was repeated. I
recognised Aunt Dasha's voice and went to the window. A woman was
lying in the yard and Aunt Dasha was blowing noisily into her mouth.
'Aunt Dasha!'
Not seeming to hear me, Aunt Dasha jumped up, ran round our house
and knocked on the window.
'Water! Pyotr Ivanovich! Aksinya's lying out here!'
I opened the door. She came in and started to rouse my stepfather.
'Pyotr Ivanich! Oh, my God!' My stepfather did nothing but mumble.
'Aksinya-she must be carried in - she must have fallen in the yard and
hurt herself. Pyotr Ivanich!'
My stepfather sat up with closed eyes, then lay down again. We
couldn't wake him and had to give it up.
We spent the whole night trying to bring Mother round and she did
not come to herself until dawn. It had been an ordinary fainting fit, but
in falling she had struck her head on the stones. Unfortunately we learnt
of this from the doctor only the following evening. The doctor ordered
36
ice to be applied. But we all thought it odd to buy ice, and Aunt Dasha
decided to apply a wet towel instead.
I remember Sanya running out into the yard to wet the towel in a
bucket, and coming back wiping the tears away with the flat of her hand.
Mother lay still, as pale as she always was. Not once did she ask about
my stepfather, who the next day had joined his battalion, but she would
not let me or my sister out other sight. She was racked by fits of nausea
and kept screwing up her eyes every minute as though trying to make
something out. This, for some reason, upset Aunt Dasha very much. She
was laid up for three weeks and seemed to be on the mend. And then
suddenly it 'came over' her.
One morning I woke up towards daybreak to find her sitting on the
bed, her bare feet lowered to the floor.
'Mum!'
She looked at me sullenly, and it dawned on me that she could not see
me.
'Mum! Mamma!'
Still with the same intent, stern expression, she pushed my hands
aside when I tried to get her back into bed.
From that day she stopped eating and the doctor ordered her to be fed
forcibly with eggs and butter. It was excellent advice, but we had no
money and there were neither eggs nor butter to be had in the town.
Aunt Dasha scolded her and wept, but Mother lay brooding, her black
plaits lying across her breast, and not uttering a word. Only once, when
Aunt Dasha announced in despair that she knew why Mother wasn't
eating—it was because she did not want to live-Mother muttered
something, frowned and turned away.
