The little man ran up to us. With what seemed like a habitual movement he hitched up his trousers with his left hand, then raised his right hand high in the air with inspired rapture, and exclaimed, “Are you Teffi? Are you Averchenko? Bravo, bravo, and bravo! Here I am at your service, the commissar of arts for this shtetl,[20] here at your service! Our cultural needs here are immense. You, our dear guests, will stay with us and help me to organize a series of cultural evenings—you will give readings and the local proletariat will act out your plays, under your supervision.”
The actress with the little dog gave a quiet gasp and sank down onto the platform. I looked around me. Dusk. A tiny station building with a small garden. Beyond it—miserable little houses, a boarded-up food stall, mud, a bare willow and a crow. And this Robespierre.[21]
“We would, of course, love to,” Averchenko said calmly, “but unfortunately we have booked a theater in Kiev for our performances, and we really do have to hurry.”
“Out of the question!” cried Robespierre. Abruptly lowering his voice, he added, “You will never be allowed across the border unless I put in a special request on your behalf. And what might induce me to make such a request? The fact that you have responded to the needs of our proletariat. Then I will even be able to arrange for your luggage to be let through!”[22]
At this point Gooskin suddenly darted forward and said, “Mister commissar! Of course they agree. Even though I’m losing enormous capital from this delay, I shall personally undertake to persuade them, although I could see at once that they are already overjoyed at the prospect of serving our dear proletariat. But you must understand, Mister commissar—only one evening. But what an evening it will be! Yes, an evening that’ll have you licking every one of your fingers in delight! Believe me! So tomorrow the public performance—and the following morning we go on our way. Well, that’s all settled then—everyone’s happy. But where are we to put our guests for the night?”
“You stay here. We’ll sort everything out right away,” cried Robespierre and rushed off, his beaver coat brushing away his footprints. He was followed by the other three figures, evidently his entourage.
“Now we’re in real trouble,” said Gooskin. “Slap into the hornet’s nest. Executions every day. Only three days ago a general was burnt alive. And they make off with every last piece of luggage. We must get out of here fast.”
“Maybe we’ll have to go back to Moscow.”
“Shush!” hissed Gooskin, before saying with frightening emphasis, “You think they’re going to let you go back to Moscow so you can tell everyone there how you’ve been robbed? A likely story!”
Averchenko’s impresario came back, his head pulled down into his neck, constantly looking around him and keeping as close as he could to the wall.
“Where’ve you been?”
“Carrying out a little reconnaissance. It’s going to be difficult. There’s no space anywhere. The shtetl is crammed with people.”
I looked around in surprise. These words did not tally with the emptiness of the streets, the silence, and the deep-blue twilight, against which the solitary streetlamp made no impression.
“But where are all the people? And what are they doing here?”
“What do you think? They’re stuck here. They’re having to stay here for two or three weeks. They’re not allowed to go on and they’re not allowed to go back. The things I’ve heard! But not now… Shush!”
Like a bird with outstretched wings, our Robespierre—followed by his entourage—was flying down the platform in his beaver coat.
“Accommodation has been found for you. Two rooms. Evictions are being effected as we speak. The rooms were jam-packed. Children too. Everyone howling and wailing! But I have a warrant. I am requisitioning for the needs of the proletariat.”
Once again he hitched up his trousers with his left hand and stretched out his right hand, forward and up, as if pointing the way to distant stars.
“You know what?” I said. “This really isn’t what we want. Can you please not evict them? We just can’t take their rooms from them like this.”
“I agree,” said Averchenko. “You said they’ve got children there. It’s not right.”
Gooskin immediately gave a cheerful shrug.
“See what these artists of ours are like! There’s nothing to be done about it. But don’t worry—we’ll find somewhere to put ourselves. Yes, it’s just the way they are.”
While cheerfully inviting Robespierre and the rest of our station audience to marvel at our eccentricity, he did, of course, share our feelings.
Robespierre didn’t know what to do. And then, unexpectedly, someone else stepped forward. Until then he had been keeping modestly out of sight behind the other members of the entourage.
“I c-can of-offer my roo-oo…”
“What?”
“Roo-rooms.”
Who was this man? But then, what did it matter?
We were led somewhere behind the station building to a small house that looked as if it had been built for some government employee. The stutterer turned out to be the son-in-law of someone who had once worked on the railway.
Robespierre was triumphant.
“There you are, I have provided you with accommodation. Get yourselves settled in, and I’ll drop by in the evening.”
The stutterer mumbled something and bowed.
We settled in.
The actresses and I were to share one room. The stutterer took Averchenko into his own room and the two pseudonyms were tucked away into some kind of storeroom.
The house was very quiet. There was a pale and exhausted-looking elderly woman who wandered about as if with her eyes shut. We could hear someone else moving about in the kitchen, but we never saw them. Very likely it was the stutterer’s wife.
We were given some tea.
“We could get some h-h-am,” the stutterer whispered, “while it’s still light.”
“No, it’s already dark,” the old woman murmured in response—and closed her eyes.
“Ma-mama. What if I go without a lantern? Just with matches.”
“All right, if you’re not frightened.”
The stutterer shivered and stayed put. What did all this mean? Why did they only eat ham during the day? I didn’t like to ask. It seemed best not to ask anything at all. Our hosts took fright at the simplest of questions and never gave a direct answer. And when one of the actresses asked the old woman if her husband was here, she looked horrified, raised a trembling hand, quietly shook a finger at her and stared out through the window into the blackness beyond.
We sat there, silent and tense. It was Gooskin who saved the day. After loud huffing and puffing he began, in a loud voice, saying some remarkable things:
“I can see that you’ve had rain here. It’s wet outside. When there’s rain, it always gets wet outside. When it rains in Odessa, it’s Odessa that gets wet. It’s never the case that it rains in Odessa but it gets wet in Nikolaev. Hah! Yes, where it rains, that’s where it gets wet. And when there’s no rain, then God only knows how dry it can get. And who likes rain, I ask you. Nobody does, and that’s God’s truth. Well, why would I lie? Hah!”
Gooskin showed true genius. He spoke simply and with animation. And so, when the door burst open and Robespierre flew in, now with an entourage of six, what he saw was a group of friends sitting cosily round a table, drinking tea and listening to an engaging storyteller.
“Magnificent!” Robespierre exclaimed. He hitched up his trousers with his left hand and, without taking off his fur coat, joined us at the table. His entourage squeezed in too.
20
The Russian word
21
Maximilien de Robespierre (1758–1794) was one of the most important figures of the French Revolution. Accused of being the “soul” of the Reign of Terror, he was arrested and executed in July 1794.
22
The shtetl Teffi and her companions have just reached is Unechka, in Bryansk province. For a few months this unremarkable town assumed great importance, as the frontier station on the main route between Moscow and Kiev. The Cheka was exceptionally active there, not only seizing valuables from those trying to leave Soviet Russia but also guarding against infiltration from the Ukraine, which, from March until December 1918, was under German occupation.