Not merely discussed it, but explored his underlying convictions. That’s why she knew her decision was right: it was grounded in Vladimir’s own principles.
‘He told me a person’s past isn’t crucial,’ she declared. T come from the former exploiting classes, so my present personality may still harbor some frivolous strains. But social origin can always be mastered by application of will. Look at Dzershinsky. At Lenin himself. My vital task now is simply to fall in step with the working class. Then my lineage can’t deflect me.
Whatever advice he actually gave, Vladimir himself was powerless to make Oktyabrina a working woman. She still lacked a labor book and all prerequisite documents. Any-208
one with reasonable contacts and roughly two hundred rubles could have fixed this easily enough - but Vladimir was hardly the man to negotiate a bribe.
As Oktyabrina's impatience swelled, Gelda realized that she alone could provide the longed-for job. With considerable misgiving, she arranged for the bookshop to hire Oktyabrina. She was to work the regular salesgirls' week but be paid from the manager’s fund, a small account achieved from profits, so that her name need not appear on the books. Gelda's sole quid pro quo was that Oktyabrina attempt no innovation in the shop's routine. Flushed with enthusiasm over her ‘new position', Oktyabrina had considered leading the sales force in morning callisthenics, to the radio's daily ration of music for this purpose.
She began work on a Monday, having asked me not to visit her for the first week. ‘Even the largest udders won't fill the pail in a new bam,' she explained. She made the motions of running her hand through her hair, but there was little to grasp. It had been cut short and bleached to look as close as possible to her natural dirty blonde. This was part of her new Proletarian Look, which also featured a secondhand overcoat and frayed ‘salesgirl's’ sweater. The effect of this costume, shared by literally millions of Moscow women, was ambiguous. It was conventional enough to let her pass unnoticed in a crowd. But the conventionality was so pointed — and her eyes so big and shining — that the first impression was of impersonation: the old Oktyabrina. The final touch was a kerchief with the Kremlin emblazoned in crimson and gold.
On the Saturday evening after Week One, Oktyabrina and Vladimir visited me in the apartment, on their way to a movie. Oktyabrina said she'd rather not talk about work, but about Vladimir, who was responsible for her first genuine contribution to the first socialist state in the world.
‘Vladik has helped me shape my personal will to History's,' she said. ‘By putting me in step with our society -meaning in step with mankind’s march to a far better world.'
But her week behind the counter left her too exhausted to continue.
When she went to the bathroom, I persuaded Vladimir to remove his hat and try his first sip of bourbon. "All joking aside, he said, she s working too hard, and I don’t understand why. I wish I could get exhausted for her.’
Vladimir told me that Oktyabrina insisted on paying him a kind of tithe of a quarter of her wages — to represent the taxes, union dues and Young Communist League contributions paid by official employees of the shop. Oktyabrina didn t want to give Vladimir the idea that she was working foi mere material compensation. Sacrifice was necessary . . . and besides, she said a little more money in my pocket might help me with Mama/
Vladimir shrugged his shoulders and manfully tried the bourbon again.
The following Monday, I went to see Oktyabrina at work. She had transmitted her final requests by telephone.
Look to your hearts content, Zhoseph — but please do not talk. Don t even show me your dear face unless absolutely necessary. Distraction fills me with dread when I’m toiling/
I walked to the bookshop after lunch. According to the exacting regulations for the protection of State property, the old door was festooned with iron padlocks and rusted bolts — although only a desperate burglar could have looked twice at these premises. Several bookshops in neighboring districts were closed again for inventory or repairs, making Number 44 more crowded than usual. Someone had dropped a jar of marinated mushrooms on the floor and the shopping herd obliviously wallowed through, spreading the slime with their boots. It was so slippery that two old ladies grasped each other for fear of falling and begged for help.
Gelda looked up from her abacus and nodded towards the rear of the store. Oktyabrina’s black rayon smock — the uniform of Soviet salesgirls - blended with the darkness, 210
obscuring her momentarily. She was in continual, fluttering motion, causing her glasses, which I hadn’t seen since spring, to keep sliding down her nose.
The usual crowd was pressed up against her counter. Everyone in it seemed amused except a large man in the center. By contrast, he was choking with spleen.
T said Mussolini ,’ he snorted. ‘Mus-so-li-ni. Want to hear it again?'
Tt’s not necessary, Citizen,’ replied Oktyabrina ingratiatingly. T’m not sure we have any volumes on that particular subject. Is it something those people eat?’
Tt is a man’ he bellowed. ‘The leader of Fascist Italy. I want a biography of him. Bi-o-gra-phy.’
‘Of course, Citizen. I’ll be delighted to fill your order instantly. We keep a list of every book.
T know you keep a fist,’ the man broke in. ‘For God’s sake, look at it.’
Oktyabrina whirled as if she’d just misplaced something and was trying frantically to remember where. Then she made her hallelujah gesture and dashed to the master catalogue at an adjoining counter. The deep bite of her lip brought no help to her nervous fingers as she tried to flip through the cards. The thumb-worn cards seemed both unintelligible and impossibly sticky. Long minutes passed in the examination of a single tray, and after she’d advanced to a second one, Oktyabrina suddenly returned to the first.
At last she went radiant. ‘We’ll be delighted to satisfy your quite proper request,’ she shouted, waving a card triumphantly. ‘With patience and hard work. . . . I’m certain you remember the old saying. Comrade.’
His appeasement was brief. Oktyabrina now struggled to navigate the ladder through narrow, book-strewn aisles. This was a tiring operation, but amusing exercise compared with the ensuing ordeal of climbing. With a safe ladder, Oktyabrina might have been calmer; this one was as old as anything in the shop.
Each step higher required an act of will. Oktyabrina
clutched the rungs like lifelines and tried not to look at the dusty floor below. Each time she did, an interval for recovery was needed. Her handbag dangled from her wrist, adding to her confusion about where to put what. The crowd at the counter grew tense.
Chance had placed the wanted book on the next-to-top shelf. Oktyabrina recognized the title and planned the move to net it, like someone confronted with a leap promising safety or death. Calculations of timing and balance registered on her face, together with deep sighs of do-it-noio resolution. But they all came to nothing: she could not force her hand to leave the ladder and reach for the book. Her attempts were successively more feeble, sapping her courage
not only to make the next one, but simply to remain on the ladder.
Real danger — of panic and played-out limbs — now faced her. But when she began to wobble, Gelda locked her drawer, climbed from her stool and drove ruthlessly through the crowd. She coaxed Oktyabrina down the ladder and into her arms.
Gelda herself then mounted the ladder and fetched the book, moving quickly despite her physique. "Who requested this volume?' she asked joylessly. The fat man snatched it without answering - and roared again.
I said Mussolini, he thundered. ‘Not Muscovy — Mus-so-H-ni. You people are idiots. I’m going to write a complaint/