She tried to disengage her wrist. He held it. “Do you know the place for little girls like you?”
“Yes — where men like you wouldn’t be let in through the back door.”
“You must be new here. I’d advise you to be careful.”
“Our stairs are slippery and there are four floors to climb, so be careful when you come to arrest me.”
He dropped her wrist. She looked at his silent mouth; it spoke of many past battles louder than the scar on his forehead; it also spoke of many more to come.
The “Internationale” rang like soldiers’ feet beating the earth.
“Are you exceedingly brave?” he asked. “Or just stupid?”
“I’ll let you find that out.”
He shrugged, turned and walked away. He was tall and young. He wore a cap and a leather jacket. He walked like a soldier, his steps deliberate and very confident.
Students sang the “Internationale,” its ecstatic notes rising, trembling, repeating themselves.
“Comrade,” the freckled girl whispered, “what have you done?”
The first thing that Kira heard when she rang the Dunaevs’ door bell, was Maria Petrovna’s cough. Then, the key turned. Then, a wave of smoke struck Kira in the face. Through the smoke, she saw Maria Petrovna’s tear-filled eyes and her swollen hand covering her mouth, shaking with a violent cough.
“Come in, come in, Kira darling,” Maria Petrovna hissed. “Don’t be afraid. It’s not a fire.”
Kira walked into the gray fog that bit her eyelids like a strong onion; Maria Petrovna shuffled after her, painfully spurting words and coughs: “It’s the stove ... that Soviet wood ... we got ... won’t burn ... so damp you could ... breed polliwogs.... Don’t take your ... coat off, Kira ... it’s too cold.... We have the windows open.”
“Is Irina at home?”
“She certainly is,” Irina’s clear, bright voice came from somewhere in the fog, “if you can find her.”
In the dining room, the big double-paneled windows had been sealed for the winter; but one small panel was open; a whirlpool of smoke spun around it, fighting the cold fresh air from the street. Irina sat at the table, her winter coat thrown over her shoulders, blowing at her stiff, blue fingers.
Maria Petrovna found a trembling little shadow in the corner behind the buffet and dragged her out. “Acia, say how-do-you-do to cousin Kira.”
Acia stared up sullenly, her red eyes and little wet nose showing above the collar of her father’s fur jacket.
“Acia, do you hear me? And where’s your handkerchief? Say how-do-you-do to cousin Kira.”
“How do you do,” Acia muttered, staring at the floor.
“Why aren’t you at school today, Acia?”
“Closed,” Maria Petrovna sighed. “The school’s closed. For two weeks. No wood.”
A door banged in the fog. Victor came in. “Oh, how do you do, Kira?” he said coldly. “Mother, when is this smoke going to stop? How can one be expected to study in this infernal atmosphere? Oh, I don’t care. If I don’t pass the examinations, there’ll be no bread cards for a certain family!” The door banged louder as he went out.
Kira sat watching Irina sketch. Irina studied Art; she devoted her time to solemn research into the ancient masterpieces of the museums; but her quick hand and mischievous eyes produced the impudent art of the newspapers. She sketched cartoons whenever she was supposed to, and at any other time. A drawing board on her lap, throwing her head and hair back once in a while for a swift glance at Acia through the smoke, she was sketching her little sister. On the paper, Acia was transformed into a goblin with huge ears and stomach, riding on the back of a snail.
Vasili Ivanovitch came home from the market. He was smiling happily. He had stood at the market all day and had sold the chandelier from their drawing room. He had managed to get a good price for it.
His smile widened when he saw Kira and he nodded to her cheerfully. Maria Petrovna brought him a bowl of hot soup. She asked timidly: “Would you like some soup, Kira?”
“No, thank you, Aunt Marussia. I’ve just had my dinner.”
She knew that Maria Petrovna had but one bowl of soup left, saved for Vasili Ivanovitch; she knew that Maria Petrovna sighed with relief.
Vasili Ivanovitch ate cheerfully, talking to Kira as if she were his personal guest; he spoke to so few of their guests that Maria Petrovna and Irina did not object, watching anxiously the rare sight of his smile.
He chuckled: “Look at Irina drawing. Here she is, daubing, smudging all day long. Not bad, are they, Kira? The drawings, I mean. How’s Victor at the Institute? Not one of the last, I bet.... Well, we still have something left. Yes, we still have something left.” He leaned forward suddenly over his soup, his eyes sparkling, his voice low: “Have you read the papers tonight, Kira?”
“Yes, Uncle Vasili. What was it?”
“The news from abroad. Of course, there wasn’t much in the paper. They wouldn’t print it. But you have to know how to read between the lines. Just watch it. Just mark my word. Europe is doing things. And it won’t be long ... it won’t be long now before ...”
Maria Petrovna coughed nervously. She was used to it; for five years she had listened to what Vasili Ivanovitch read between the lines of the newspapers about the salvation coming from Europe, which never came. She sighed; she did not dare to argue. Vasili Ivanovitch was grinning happily: “... and when it happens, I’m all set to start again where they’ve interrupted. It won’t be difficult. Of course, they’ve closed my store and taken all the furniture away, but ...” he leaned close to Kira, whispering, “but I’ve watched it. I know where they’ve taken it. I know where it is now.”
“You do, Uncle Vasili?”
“I’ve seen the showcases in a government shoe store on the Bolshoi Prospect; and the chairs — in a factory restaurant in the Viborgsky district; and the chandelier — the chandelier’s in the new Tobacco Trust office. I haven’t been wasting time. I’m ready. As soon as ... as soon as things change — I’ll know where to find it all and I’ll open the old store again.”
“That’s wonderful, Uncle Vasili. I’m glad they haven’t destroyed your furniture or burned it.”
“No, that’s my luck, they haven’t. It’s still as good as new. I did see a long scratch on one of the showcases, it’s a shame, but it can be fixed. And — here’s the funniest thing,” he chuckled slyly, as if he had outwitted his enemies, “the sign boards. Do you remember my sign boards, Kira, gilded glass with black letters? Well, I’ve even found those. They’re hanging over a co-operative near the Alexandrovsky market. On one side it says: ‘State Co-operative’ but on the other — on the other side it still says: ‘Vasili Dunaev. Furs.’ ” He caught the look in Maria Petrovna’s eyes. He frowned. “Marussia doesn’t believe any more. She doesn’t think we’ll get it all back. She loses faith so easily. How about it, Kira? Do you think you’ll live your whole life under a Red boot?”
“No,” said Kira, “it can’t last forever.”
“Of course, it can’t. Certainly, it can’t. That’s what I say, it can’t.” He rose suddenly. “Come here, Kira, I’ll show you something.”
“Vasili,” Maria Petrovna sighed, “won’t you finish your soup?”
“Never mind the soup. I’m not hungry. Come on to my office, Kira.”
There was no furniture left in Vasili Ivanovitch’s office but a desk and one chair. He unlocked a desk drawer and took out a bundle wrapped in an old, yellowed handkerchief. He unfastened a tight knot and, smiling proudly, happily, straightening his stooped shoulders, showed Kira neatly tied piles of large, crisp currency bills of the Czar’s days. They were large piles; they contained a fortune of many thousands.