The Daily Worker Newspaper, April 26, 1924, Page 13

(Continued from Last Saturday.) I. On Christmas Eve a special mes- senger called at certain houses and delivered the following confidential note: Please do not confound us with the numerous Fakers now common. “Ladies and Gentlemen: If you wish to have the following goods: Sugar, refined ........ 1000 rbls. Sugar, pulverized 800 “ Mutton OOO ee Pork fae ees ees ee Meat, Cherkask ..225 “ “ * Meat, Russian WOO Hse Cn oe —you will please state the quantity desired to our messenger, who will call 6 p. m, (old time) and the speci- fied goods will be promptly delivered to you. No deposit is required. We trust your honesty. Your Friends.” per Ib. “ “ Christmas Eve. - A big. bright star was to rise on Christmas Eve to unite all men—but no star could yet be seen. The mother of Doctor Federoff was busy making pies and was happy because a Christmas star would rise in the evening, because there would be pel- menis* in the house, and for once, no potatoes at all, and, above all, be- cause Vassia was her only son—her all. And there would be napkins, and a table cloth, and kerosene oil, and sweets, and pelmenis—the best pel- menis in the city. Joy mixed with deepest sorrow— was the mother’s; sorrow mixed with keenest joy—was the son’s. The Doctor chopped wood and heated the stove for his mother, and his heart was overflowing with a fervent ten- derness, with a fervent love for his mother. His mamma, his mammy, troubled and happy at the same time, was fussing around the _ pelmenis, sweets and the mutton pie. On Christmas Night a ball was given at the Voyenkom’s. There was an orchestra, waiters, geese, pork, cognac, cavalry, jjonka*, cakes, pies, candy, tableaux vivants, games of for-. feit, charades, flying post, speeches. It was a joint meeting of the third element, i. e., the Intelligentzia, and the representatives of the Communist munist Party. But nothing special was happening on Christmas at the house of Ivan Petrowitch Bekesh, for if some people could and did find various provisions in the starving city, Bekesh was com- pletely helpless. Together with his wife, mother, god-mother, and child he was forced to live on potatoes which, altho including ail his rations up to July, were in just sufficient quantity to end the starving family’s days by certain death in spring. Early on Christmas Eve Doctor Fe- doroff and the writer Iakov Kamynin stepped in to see Ivan Petrovitch Be- kesh, In the blue twilight they came, walking in the crisp snow along many side-streets. Skirting the fields they dame thru the suburbs and past houses buried in snow to the roof. They found Ivan Petrovitch playing vingt-et-un with his wife, mother, and god-mother. He took his guests into his study containing a double-bed, a Japanese fan, and a table with postal cards arranged in symetric order. Ka- mynin who nearly reached up to the ceiling, sat down without removing his hat. Ivan Petrowitch knew why the writer and the doctor had come. Still he said: AT THE DOORS - really, of what use is it to you? Amusement, I suppose.” “T need it” said Kamynin and drew the smoke. “It is for Olga Veralskaya, for my dear Olenka”—Doctor .edoroff was thinking with acute pain. “Yes, I suppose, as material for your writing.” “That's it, I need it as material.” “But allow me to ask, Iakov Serge- yevitch, what you found interesting in it.” “Well, you know... Quite a lot, yes.” “Are you going to write ‘a novel around it?” “Well, I do not know. They remained silent. “How about the diary?” “I am afraid I can not give it to you at this price.” “What price?” “The one agreed upon. I am sel- ling it to you only because you are a writer. I would not sell it to any one else.” ““But nobody else would buy it ex- cept as wrapping paper.” “You are right. You are absolutely right.. Remember, however, that I put all my soul into it, all my life.” “May be.” : “And you want it for a thousand roubles!” Doctor Fedoroff looked at the trem- Perhaps.” .. THE AMERICAN a khorka is quite strong... Well, much, then? “There is some of my poctry here, too.” “All right, how much do you want for the whole thing?” “Oh, you want to know the price? Upon my word I did not intend sell- ing it. I really do not know.” “What human wretchedness” thought Doctor Federoff. “And what if one believes in nothing? Olga Ve- ralskaya believes in nothing, and yet her comb is sewn up ¢arefully with cotton so that no one may notice it is broken: And mother, mammy dear, is busy making pelmenis in the city. And all for him, for Doctor Fedoroff. But the diary is for Olga Veralska- ya.” Then the Doctor said aloud: “Listen, it is getting late, I have a headache. Hurry up’ with that busi- ness.” : Ivan Petrovitch was watching Ka- mynin turn the pages, and suddenly his face brightened. “All right, I accept your offer; only, please, leave me this copy book. It is quite small; it contains the story of my love for Olga Veralskaya. Her own notes on the margin are a pre- cious memory for me. My first love. It is nothing to you. But to me her notes are most important. She wrote them in pencil. Leave them there.” how \ ARN \" a R' sew lS Moros They Are Safe While He Sleeps bling hand of Ivan Petrovitch Bekesh and at his pale forehead. Ivan Pet- rovitch sat unnaturaly erect, fidget- ing as if he were on strings. And in the movements of his body, in the sweat of his forehead there was something loathsome, something cringing, calculating, Ivan Kamy- nin, who had written fifteen books, and who looked like another Don Quixote, sat there with his bony legs spread wide apart, with his hat on, smoking wearily, speaking slowly and also wearily. “Olenka, Olenka, dear- est, precious” thought Fedoroff and his heart was filled with love and Well, how did you blow in? It’s|Pain. quite an age since I saw you.” “On foot” answered . Kamynin, "Yea, “Ha, ha ha,” Bekesh snickered, “of course.” “Have a smoke; the makhorka * * *. is quite strong; how aré you getting on? “Hm... poor business. We live and eat, tho, truth to tell, there is pre- cious little to eat.” Silence. Smoke. : “We came to see you about the diary.” “Oh, I see, about the diary. All right, I have not changed my mind, but...” “Then you agree to sell it?” “TI have not changed my mind, but, “Show me.the diary, anyway.” Ivan Petrovitch turned to get up, then remained in his place. “Upon my word, lIakov Sergeye- vitch, I do not know where it is. Parts of it are in the lumber room and you have other parts. Let us speak of something else.” “Nonsense; let us have done with that first.” Ivan Petrovitch got under the table and took out a bundle of copy books. “How disgusting all this. Very dis- gusting. And what if one believes in nothing”—thought Doctor Federoff and turned his glance away. Kamy- nin rolled up another cigarette and began to undo the bundle. “Have another smoke! The .Ma- “Yes, I can leave them” said Ka- mynin. “No, no, take them too,” said the doctor with emotion. _ “Leave them, doctor,” said Kamy- nin; “it’s a trifle.” “Vassia, you are the friend of my childhood days, leave them with me” —pleaded Bekesh, “All right, it’s all the same to me, all the same, Still I am very sorry” —said Doctor Fedoroff. “All right.” “My soul. And so cheap!”—this from Bekesh. And again the two walked silently thru side streets, in the deep snow, in the blue twilight. Only the red light in the West had now gone out, and the twilight was driving the starry Christmas nails into the firma- ment. A beautiful woman was com- ing, towards them. She was wrapped in a shawl and two pails were hang- ing from a beam accross her should- ers. Ivan Sergeyevitch looked intent- ly at her and stopped, spreading his legs wide apart—which made him look like Don Quixote and a pair of scissors at the same time, Then he said: “Have a smoke... There is beauty even in pain. What a beautiful wo- man, Yes... and do you know, I’ve got three poods**** of cod liver oil **** Pood—Forty Russian pounds, _By BORIS PILNIAK and potatoes, and I can go on living and cultivating beauty for two years. I must write a book. I have written fifteen books already and each about a different woman. My wife, I think, is living with Tanatar. What does Olga Veralskaya really represent? She is very beautiful. What a beautiful woman—the one with pails!” “It is the wife of Bekesh’—said Fedoroff, “Maybe. But. Bekesh is already selling his diary and I have still plen- ty of cod-liver oil.” “Iakov Sergeyevitch, afraid?” “I am, but I must write the book.” —Kamynin added that he had beside potatoes and cod-liver oil also some denatured alcohol. Then the two se- parated. “Kamynin’s wife was absent. Keep- ing his hat and coat on, Kamynin found an old sword, peeled some po- tatoes with it and cooked them. He was crouching on the floor, and as he went into his work his mouth twisted convulsively to one side. He drank some denatured alcohol, some cod- liver oil, and soon fell asleep. His - face now bore a calm and bright ex- pression, tho his lips were still ner- vously contracted. And Doctor Fedoroff had pelmenis. There were also pies, napkins, a big lamp, and his mother was fussing about and repeating: “Eat, Vassenka, eat, my darling, have some more, my boy.” The food was nice, but there were not enough pelmenis to appease his hunger. And his mother had been too busy to do her hair up for Christ- mas or-to remove her old apron. But all over the earth people were celebrating the holiday when Satan cast his spell over the earth for the last time before the coming of spring, sunlight and joy. A note was brought to Doctor Fe doroff. “The Soviet of the Workers’ and Peasants’ Deputies of the village Po- povka are you not Certificate This is to certify that the refugee from Popovka, citizen Anton Iusofat Panashchiuk wants to be vaccinated against catching the cholera on his journey. His mother, who is in the city, wishes the same. For the County Soviet, President I. PTITZIN. T CHRISTMAS people usually dress in their best clothes, go vis- iting their friends, retire at 4 in the morning, make merry, organize soirees, five o’clock teas, balls, make love and feel reborn as it were, tho in reality they remain the same; they suffer exactly as they did before or dodge suffering—also as they used to do. On this particular Christmas day everybody went to the Communist Club. All day long comrade Tanatar was driving thru the city im his troika,* giving rides to every girl he knew. And all night long Tanatar, the handsome Caucasian, Tanatar, lay like a huge tired cat before the holy images in the empty house of his father. The image lamps were burn ing in front of him, the silver of the ikons was shining dimly. Comrade Tanatar lay there ¢rouching as if ready to leap, and his eyes, deep-set under the eyebrows, intense black spots on his dark thin face, seemed frenzied with the yellow reflection from the image-lamps. His wife, pale and white, appeared on the threshold and said noiselessly: “Get up, Samuel.” And Tanatar pressed more closely to the floor in maddening, agonizing fear, Once, at the front beyond the Volga, Tanatar stepped accidentally on a black lizard, Its bowels leaked out, its eyes started from its head; if Tanatar’s wife had seen that lizard then, she would have noticed that Samuel’s eyes on this Christmas night were exactly like the eyes of the lizard on that day in the steppe, “Get up, Samuel.” His wife, all white was wandering that night thru *Team of three horses, (Continued on Page 8.)