The express only stopped for a few minutes, then moved on smoothly. The red light on the end carriage flashed past the window and again I found myself staring at the yellow walls of the station.
Soon we moved on too.
Pecheritsa had not returned. I still had his ticket and travel warrant.
When it got light, I took a look at the warrant. The first thing I noticed was that it had been made out not for Pecheritsa, but for a second-year student at the agricultural institute, Prokopy Shevchuk. Across the bottom of the warrant ran the flowery signature of the director of district education Pecheritsa. Hum, something underhand about that! Pecheritsa was the only man in our town who had the right to issue warrants for free travel on the railways. I remembered how even before Pecheritsa had ordered the closing of the factory-training school, we had asked him to send a few of the very best pupils for a trip round the factories of the Donbas during the holidays. Pecheritsa had refused. "The factory-training school won't get a single warrant out of me. They are only for students." And the blighter was travelling with one himself! I made up my mind that as soon as I got back I would show Pecheritsa up, if only on this score.
But where had he got to! The destination on the warrant was Millerovo. . . If I was not mistaken, that was the other side of Kharkov. He couldn't have missed the train— we had stopped too long in Zhmerinka. There had been time to have breakfast and dinner as well. All I could think of was that Pecheritsa had bought a fresh ticket and changed on to the express.
IN KHARKOV
The line was snowed up in places and our train did not reach Kharkov until evening, ten hours late. Crossing the street with some care, H walked down Yekaterinoslav Street towards the centre of the
city.
Lighted trams rolled past, scattering greenish sparks from their collector-arms.
"Evening Radio! Evening Radio! Latest report - from Rome! Mussolini still alive!" a little news-boy was shouting at the top of his voice.
The shop signs dazzled me. The windows were heaped with nuts, ginger, heaps of pastila, baskets of Caucasian salad, sultanas, dates, Antonovka apples, oranges and lemons wrapped in tissue-paper. On the door of a shabby two-storey house I noticed a wooden placard: Eva Kapulskaya's Delicious Dinners Home-Cooked in Pure Butter. Tasty. Simple. Cheap!!!
Delicious odours of roast lamb and garlic steamed through the open window of the cook-shop.
"O for some dinner!" I thought, and licked my lips. It was two days since I had eaten a hot meal. All the journey ;I had fed on sausage and cold milk—except for my little treat at Zhmerinka, of course.
Today I had hardly had anything to eat since morning... But on the very threshold of Eva Kapulskaya's fairyland I changed my mind. I didn't know yet what "cheap" meant. What was cheap for her, a private restaurant-keeper, might not be at all cheap for me. I must not waste public money. Who could tell how many days I might have to stay here!
Perhaps from hunger, my legs felt light as air and my head swam as if I had just come out of hospital.
I strode on, not knowing the way, but guessing that Yekaterinoslav Street would bring me to the centre. Splashes flew from under my feet—the pavement was covered with melting slush. What a good job I had borrowed Sasha's new galoshes for the journey!
The narrow side-street brought me out on to a broad square and before me I saw the yellow columned building of the All-Ukrainian Central Executive Committee. It was surrounded by little snow-sprinkled fir-trees that seemed to guard it. Now and then a hooting omnibus drove past; sledges with bear-skins thrown over the seats trotted by, their bells jingling. In the distance I could read sparkling letters in the sky—VISTI—the biggest government paper in the Ukraine in those days.
At that moment I remembered our little far-off border town and the school hostel on its quiet outskirts. Perhaps right now the chaps were talking about me, hoping that I would bring them good news. Perhaps they were still sitting on the long benches in the Komsomol club in Kishinev Street. Of course, they would be there now! Tonight they were holding a show. They had been rehearsing it a long time.
And what was more, there was going to be a musical scene called "Troika" with my friends in it—Galya Kushnir, Monka Guzarchik, Furman the "philosopher," and even Sasha Bobir.
I felt sad at the thought of not seeing the performance of our dramatics circle, and missing a chance of laughing with the other chaps at Sasha's acting. But as I stood there, on the square of this strange city, I knew that even though they were having a good time, my friends would be sure to remember me.
Peeping at the lighted windows, I wandered on to the next square—Rosa Luxemburg Square, it was called.
The latest edition of a Kharkov newspaper was pasted on a board near the House of Ukrainian Trade Unions.
A small head-line caught my eye:
MUSSOLINI ATTACKED
At 11 a.m. today an unknown elderly woman fired a revolver almost point-blank at Mussolini. He was coming out on to the ; Capitol Square from the building where the 5 International Congress of Surgeons is being held. The bullet grazed Mussolini's nostril.
The woman who fired the shot has been arrested.
"What a shot!" I thought. "No better than Sasha! Fancy getting that close to a dirty fascist like Mussolini and not finishing him off! She shouldn't have taken the job on, if she couldn't shoot. Grazed his nostril! ... So that's why the kid was shouting 'Latest report from Rome!' I wonder if there's anything more about it."
Next to the report from Rome there was a column about the outrages committed by the Bulgarian fascists on the Communist Kabakchiev. Below it I read that the airship Norway would soon be flying from Italy to Leningrad. In the centre of the next page, I saw a picture of a man with a beard. Above the picture was a head-line:
CURRENT TASKS OF THE PARTY
From the Concluding Speech of the General Secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Ukraine at the Plenary Meeting.
I scanned the portrait of the General Secretary and noticed his kind, smiling eyes. Hadn't I seen him somewhere before? But of course—on the cover of the magazine Vsesvit in our hostel.
I strolled along the pavement, swinging my brief case. "I'm in Kharkov! I'm in Kharkov!" the thought drummed in my temples. People hurried past me and I tried to be like them in every way. I marched on confidently, showing no surprise at anything, and little by little I began to feel I was an old inhabitant of this large, capital city...
Ever since I had left the train, I had been pursued by the thought that Pecheritsa would suddenly pop up in front of me just as unexpectedly as he had appeared in my compartment.
A street sign was flashing on a building ahead of me:
New American Thriller!
SHARKS OF NEW YORK
Both parts in one programme
Nervous people and children not admitted
At the sight of this enticing notice I lost my head for the second time since I started on my journey. Forgetting all about my hunger, I made a bee-line for the cinema. When should I get a chance of seeing such an interesting film in our little town!
The box-office was in a dark, damp-smelling archway. From the commotion that about half a dozen lads were making round the box-office I realized that there were very few tickets left. A bit of shoving and pushing got me a place in the queue.
Clutching my brief case under my arm, I unfastened the safety-pins with trembling fingers. It would be my turn soon.
"Next! What row?" the ticket-seller snapped at me from her box.