“Out where?”
“Outstanding. The program.”
“All right then—outstanding. I’m not one to argue. Why would I rock the boat over a few split hairs? And we could add: An Outstounding Triumph.”
“Astounding, I think you mean.”
“You ladies and your delicate nerves! So now you don’t want your ‘Out’ after all. Well, neither do I. After all, everyone writes ‘upstanding’—why would I want to stand out!”
Suddenly he stopped, looked around and asked in a whisper, “Perhaps you need some foreign currency?”
“No. What for?”
“For Constantinople.”
“But I’m not leaving Odessa.”
“Aren’t you?”
He looked at me doubtfully.
“Are you sure? Well, if that’s what you say…”
It seemed he did not believe me.
“What makes you think I’m going to Constantinople? Who put that idea into your head?”
Gooskin’s reply was enigmatic: “Perhaps I have ideas in my head anyway.”
I was at a loss. I just stared at the dove-gray Gooskin, at the impatient tails of the donkeys, at the fiercely grinning negroes. Was it those dark faces that had turned Gooskin’s thoughts to Constantinople?
Strange…
15
THE DAYS began to fly faster still, as if fleeing in fright.
How many more days were there? Not many. Three? Four? Perhaps six? I don’t remember.
But one morning I was woken by voices, stamping feet, and slamming doors.
I got up.
I was met by a strange sight. Everyone scurrying about, dragging trunks, suitcases, bundles, and cardboard boxes down the corridor. Doors left wide open. Scraps of paper everywhere, and pieces of string.
Were all of these people being thrown out? Well, I’d find out soon enough.
The lobby was a great heap of baggage—baggage of every kind. People were bustling about, exchanging anxious whispers, pressing money on one another, talking about passes and travel permits. And all in a state of great alarm. Flushed, eyes on stalks, arms spread, hats pushed to the back of their heads.
Clearly the military headquarters was about to arrive: Did this mean I was going to be thrown out too?
Just in case, I went back, took my dresses from the wardrobe and my linen from the chest of drawers, quickly stuffed everything into my trunk, and set off toward the editorial office.
There they were sure to know everything.
But what I saw out on the street was still more unexpected. Once again the black soldiers were driving the donkeys along, only this time the donkeys were going back down toward the sea, their tails to the city. The soldiers were beating them with sticks, and they were going at a fast trot.
What could all this mean?
Out of a laundry, with an armful of wet washing, runs a French soldier. At his heels are two shrieking washerwomen: “No! Stop! You’re not getting away with this! No! Might not even be yours!”
Steam billows out through the open door. Inside the laundry I see French soldiers snatching clothes from the hands of washer-women. Everyone screaming and shouting. And a solitary gentleman in a bowler hat.
What on earth is going on? Has war now been declared against washerwomen?
As I remember it, Odessa washerwomen truly were the scourge of God. What didn’t these women try to get away with? I remember one who refused to return half a dozen of my own handkerchiefs.
“You’ll be compensated,” she said haughtily.
“In what way?”
“I’m not charging you for the laundering of those handkerchiefs!”
At another laundry I saw more hand-to-hand combat.
“Madame Teffi!”
I turned round.
It was a man I barely knew—from Our Word, I think. He’d been running and he was out of breath.
“A fine state of affairs, isn’t it? They’ve unleashed a real panic. And here you are—strolling around as if you haven’t a care in the world. Don’t tell me you’ve done all your packing already!”
“Packing? Where for?”
“Where for? Constantinople.”
Why was everyone so eager to send me to Constantinople?
But he’d already run on ahead, waving his arms about and wiping his forehead.
What on earth had happened?
I had had visitors the day before—and not one of them had said a word about Constantinople. Was the whole of Odessa being evacuated? But why so suddenly?
The editorial office was in chaos.
“What’s happened?”
“What do you mean, ‘What’s happened?’? The French have abandoned us, that’s what’s happened. We’ve got no choice—we have to run.”
Constantinople. Now I understood.
We had rolled our way down the map, all the way from the north. We had thought we’d just stay a little while in Kiev, then go back home. I’d even joked with my fellow writers. I’d said, “See! Our tongues really have led us to Kiev!”[88]
We’d been forced all the way down the map. Now there was only the sea. We would have to swim for it. But where to?[89]
All kinds of schemes were being concocted.
Our Word was going to charter a large schooner, take all the staff, along with the rotary press and supplies of printing paper, and head under full sail for Novorossiisk.
But no one really believed even the words coming out of their own mouths.
“What about you?” they asked. “Where are you going?”
“Nowhere at all. I’m staying in Odessa.”
“But they’ll string you up.”
“That will be tiresome. But what else can I do?”
“Find some way to wangle yourself a pass—so they’ll let you on board some steamer or other. And get on with it—don’t waste time!”
I had absolutely no ability to “wangle” things for myself.[90]
Sitting on a windowsill in one of the editors’ rooms was Alexander Kugel.[91] He looked pale and unkempt and was evidently thinking aloud: “Where’s there to go? If they are already here… If no one can protect us… They seem to have the might. What if they have right on their side too?”
I went up to him, but he went on talking to himself, not even seeing me.
Still, it seemed most people really were leaving Odessa. And I couldn’t just stay there all on my own. I had to find a way to get out.
Only a month earlier, kind people had been exclaiming—with tears of rapture “of which they were not ashamed”—that should Odessa be evacuated they would see to it that I was first to board one of the ships. This was the moment to remind them about their promises.
I telephoned A, the lawyer. His daughter answered, “Papa’s not here.”
“Are you leaving?”
“N-no, nothing’s at all clear. I don’t know.”
I rang B.
His landlady answered. “They’ve left. All of them.”
“Where to?”
“To the ship. They got their passes long ago, from the French.”
“Oh! Really! Long ago…”
They too had made promises, and with tears in their eyes.
I wanted to have a word with one or two of my literary friends, but much of the city had been cordoned off by soldiers. Why? No one knew. No one knew anything at all.
“Why are the French leaving?”
“There’s been a secret telegram from France. France is having a revolution too. Now they’ve gone Communist, their troops can’t go on fighting our Bolsheviks.”
Revolution in France? What nonsense![92]
“They’re not really leaving,” said someone else. “They’re only pretending to leave. To fool the Bolsheviks.”
88
“Your tongue will lead you to Kiev” is the Russian equivalent of the English “He who has a tongue goes to Rome.” That is, if you ask enough questions, you will receive an answer.
89
On April 3, 1919 the French government decided to evacuate all French troops and the city’s civilian administration. This caused widespread panic. The evacuation was largely completed by April 6, though there was probably no military necessity for such speed.
90
Here we are translating
91
Alexander Kugel (1864–1928) was a critic. In 1908 he co-founded The Crooked Mirror, a Petersburg theater that specialized in parodies and put on two of Teffi’s plays. He remained in the Soviet Union, still directing this theater, till his death.
92
Not as nonsensical as one might think. Some French units did indeed refuse to fight the Bolsheviks and there were revolutionary movements on board some of the ships: http://militera.lib.ru/h/civilwar_black-sea/02.html.