“I can’t imagine any child running away from your school to go begging in this cold,” I said.
“Of course not,” she smiled, “but all schools are not like mine. Besides, the Russian children of today are different from others. They are not quite normal—the products, of long years of war, revolution, and hunger. The fact is, we have many defectives and much juvenile prostitution. Our terrible heritage,” she added sadly.
The boys and girls crowded about Mme. Lunacharskaya, and seemed happy to be petted by her. Bending over to kiss one of them, she noticed on the child’s neck a tiny silver chain to which was attached a cross. “What is it you wear? Let me see it, dear,” she said kindly. The girl grew shamefaced and hid the cross. Mine. Lunacharskaya did not insist.
XII
Sights and Views
I walked to the Hotel Savoy to meet a friend whom I expected from Petrograd. Nearing the Okhotny Ryad I was surprised to find the raided market in full operation again. All day long women and children are huckstering their wares there, and great crowds are about, trading and bargaining. One cannot tell buyer from seller. Everyone seems to have something for sale, and everyone is pricing things. An old Jew is offering to exchange secondhand trousers for bread; a soldier is trading a new pair of high boots for a watch. Colored kerchiefs and laces, an antique brass candlestick, kitchen utensils, chairs—every imaginable object is collected there, awaiting a buyer. In the store windows meat, butter, fish, and flour, even wheat, are exposed for sale. I know that soldiers and sailors sell their surplus, but the quantities to be seen on the Okhotny, the Sukharevka, and other markets are very large. Could the rumors be true that trainloads of provisions often disappear? I have heard it whispered about that some commissars in charge of food supplies are in league with the traders. But such commissars are always Bolsheviki, members of the Party. Is it possible that the Communists themselves, rob the people: secretly aid speculation while officialy punishing it?
Passing the corner where I fell into the raid last week, I was hailed by a young voice:
“Zdrasmuite, tovarish! Don’t you know me?”
It was the girl with the red lips that I had seen arrested.
“You’re quick to recognize me,” I remarked.
“No wonder—those big heavy glasses you wear—I’d know you anywhere. You must be American, aren’t you?”
“I came from there.”
“Oh, I thought so the first time I spoke to you.”
“Where is the other girl that was selling cigarettes?” I inquired.
“Oh, Masha? That’s my cousin. She’s sick at home. Came back sick from the camp.”
“What camp?”
“The camp for forced labor. The judge gave her two weeks for speculation.”
“And you?”
“I gave up all the money I had, and they let me go. They took my last rouble.”
“Aren’t you afraid you’ll be arrested again?” I asked, glancing at the package of cigarettes in her hand.
“What can I do? We’ve sold everything else we had. I must help feed the children at home.”
Her big black eyes looked honest. “I’m going to see a friend,” I said, “but I’ll return in two hours. Will you wait for me?”
“Of course, tovarish!”
In the Savoy the admission ceremony proved a complicated matter. I spent half an hour in line, and when I finally got to the little window behind which sat the barishnya, she began asking about my identity, occupation, place of residence, and the purpose of my visit. Her supply of questions apparently inexhaustible, I urged speed. “What difference does it make why I want to see the man?” I remarked; “he’s my friend. Isn’t that enough?”
“That’s our orders,” the girl said curtly.
“Stupid orders,” I retorted.
She motioned to the armed guard nearby. “You’ll be sent to the Cheka if you talk like that,” she warned me.
“Ne razsuzhdait!” (no argument) the militzioner ordered.
My friend K⸺ came down the stairs, carrying his suitcase. The Savoy was crowded, and he was asked to leave, he explained; but he had secured a room in a private house, and he proceeded there.
We entered a large, beautiful apartment containing fine furniture, china, and paintings. One person occupied the five rooms, the smallest of which, of comfortable size, my friend had secured by recommendation. “A big speculator with powerful connections,” he remarked.
An appetizing odor of things frying and baking pervaded the house. From the adjoining room the sound of voices reached us, loud and hilarious. I heard the clatter of dishes and clinking of wine glasses.
“Na vashe zdorovie,9 Piotr Ivanovitch!”
“Na zdorovie! Na zdorovie!” half a dozen voices shouted.
“Did you hear?” my friend whispered, as there came the popping of a cork. “Champagne!”
There was another pop, and then another. The talking grew louder, the laughter more boisterous, and then someone began reciting in a hoarse, hiccupy voice.
“Demian Bedni,” K⸺ exclaimed. “I know his voice well.”
“Demian Bedni, the popular poet the Communist papers eulogize?”
“The same. Drunk most of the time.”
We went out into the street.
Fresh snow had fallen. On the slippery sidewalk people were jostling and pushing about, walking hunched up to keep out the bitter cold. At the Theatralnaia Square, near the railway ticket office, dark shadows stood in a long queue, some leaning against the wall, as if asleep. The office was closed, but they would remain on the street all night to guard their place in line, on the chance of securing a ticket.
On the corner stood a little boy. “Who’ll buy, who’ll buy?” he mumbled mechanically, offering cigarettes for sale. An old man of lean, ascetic face, was heavily pulling a small log tied to his arm with a string. The wood slid from side to side on the uneven ground, now striking against the sidewalk, now getting caught in a hole. Presently the cord broke. With numbed fingers
