gymnastics classes had done us some good.
A heap of broken bricks lay in a fenced flowerbed behind the wall. A hail of bricks rained down on the detective, left behind on the other side of the wall. He shrieked, jumped back to the middle of the street, and fired. A bullet whined inanely through the air.
We hurled ourselves through the flower bed and through the passageway to the second courtyard, ran up to the fourth floor into Stanishevskii’s apartment, and in a few minutes were all lying around on the couches and hassocks in our shirtsleeves and intensely listening to the action out on the street. Stan-ishevskii’s father, a bristly gray-haired lawyer, was pacing the rooms in his dressing-gown. He was in just as militant a mood as we were, but he implored us to lie calmly, and not jump up and go to the windows.
At first we could hear someone furiously shaking the gates and cursing at the porter. Then in the courtyard we heard the voices of the shamus and other policemen. To our good luck, the courtyard of Stanishevskii’s house had a second outlet. The porter was assuring them that the schoolboys must have beat it out the back way. After making some noise, the detective and the police went away.
We fell asleep, slept like the dead, and didn’t wake up until noon. We sent spies out into the street— Stanishevskii’s sisters. There was nothing suspicious, and we dispersed to our own homes.
As strange as it may seem now, we had been saved from great danger: inevitable expulsion and a citation of political unreliability just two days before graduating. It would have been the ruin of our lives.
Finally came the marvelous day in the auditorium when the director stood at the large table covered in green felt, handed out diplomas and congratulated each of us on our graduation.
The next day there was the traditional graduation ball. All the girls who had taken the Russian literature exam with us had been invited. The school was brightly lit. Colored lanterns hung in the garden. An orchestra was playing.
Before the ball, Suboch made a speech to us:
“In your fourth year I merely endured you. In the fifth I began to nurture you, although there wasn’t much chance of making real human beings of you. In the sixth year I became friendly with you. In the seventh I came to love you, and in the eighth I even began to be proud of you. I’m an unlucky father. I have too many children, no less than forty. Besides that, every few years my children change. Some go away, others arrive. Conclusion: forty times more grief falls to my share than to the share of ordinary parents. And forty times
more trouble. Therefore I may not always have been equally attentive to all. I’m sad to part with you. I have striven to make good people of you. You in your turn have given meaning to my life. I have become younger with you. I forgive you, now and forever, all your stupid tricks and even your fights with the police. I forgive you everything. There is, of course, no magnanimity in this. But I summon you to magnanimity. Heine once said that there are more fools on earth than people. Of course, he was exaggerating. But what does that mean, nevertheless? It means that every day we meet people whose existence brings neither them nor those around them any joy or benefit. Be afraid to be useless. No matter what you might become, remember this wise advice: Not a single day without writing a line! Work hard! What is talent? Merely effort multiplied by three or by four. Love hard work, and may you always regret to part with it. Have a good journey! Don’t think ill of your instructors, who have grown gray in their battles with you!”
We rushed to him, and he kissed each of us farewell.
“And now,” said Suboch, “a few words in Latin!” He waved his arms and began singing: “Gaudeamus igitur juvenes dum sumus!”
We all joined in our first university song.
Then the ball began. Stanishevskii was master of ceremonies. He directed the schoolboy-saviors to invite for the waltz the schoolgirls they had saved. He introduced me to a thin girl with joyful eyes—Olia Bogushevich. She was wearing a white dress. Her eyes lowered, she thanked me for my help and turned pale with embarrassment. I answered that it was nothing at all. We danced. Then I brought her ice cream from the buffet.
After the ball we saw the girls home. Olia Bogushevich lived in Lipki. I walked with her at night under the warm foliage of the trees. Her white dress seemed too exquisite even for this June night. We parted friends.
I went to Fitsovskii’s, where our little circle was spending what was left of the night. We had pooled our resources for a supper with wine and invited Suboch, Selikhanovich and Ioganson. Ioganson sang Schubert songs. Suboch played a virtuoso accompaniment for him on the bottles.
We made a great deal of noise and parted after the sun had risen but when there were still long, cool shadows on the streets. We embraced each other hard in farewell and each went his way with a strange feeling of sadness and good cheer.
1. Such a document excluded the bearer from admission to university or from holding most government service positions.
Instability and Dislocation: 1914–1929
It is difficult to imagine a nation that underwent the degree of instability and dislocation that Russia did in these years (1914–1929). When it entered World War I in 1914 along with the other major European powers, it was not only difficult, but inconceivable, to imagine that the result would have a world-wide effect for the rest of the century. Put another way, it was impossible to see Stalin and Soviet totalitarianism on the horizon of 1914.
Though World War I was devastating for all the European powers, it was doubly so for Russia. The staggering losses incurred at the front quickly began to strain the support systems “at home.” The nation had increasing problems in maintaining the commitment to the war since the domestic economy could not meet obligations as basic as those of food supply. Furthermore, the government of the last tsar, Nicholas II, was not only perceived to be inept, but proving to be so. It is not an accident that the Zemstvo Union, the Union of Towns, and the War Industry Committee were more effective in aiding the army and the war effort than was the government itself. The government’s continuous effort to bypass the Duma whenever possible, even in the face of such a national crisis, was extremely telling.
The monarchy fell in March 1917. It was not merely a question of Nicholas’s abdication. The February Revolution (February 23–26, old style) was a popular revolt. Large numbers of street demonstrations, protesting lack of bread among other things, were joined by the troops and police sent against them. With the collapse of all authority, a new government was formed on March 12, 1917. Unfortunately, its very weakness was suggested in its name, the Provisional Government. It was to last only to November 7, 1917. Beset by an inability to rule, confronted with the continuation of the war, and increasingly challenged by the parallel power structure of the Petrograd Soviet,
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