We the Living

  The Comrade Commissar said: "One hundred thousand workers died in the civil war. Why--in the face of the Union of Socialist Soviet Republics--can't one aristocrat die?"

  Kira walked home very slowly and looked at the dark city; she looked at the glistening pavements built for many thousands of old shoes; at the tramways for men to ride in; at the stone cubes into which men crawled at night; at the posters that cried of what men dreamed and of what men ate; and she wondered whether any of those thousands of eyes around her saw what she saw, and why it had been given her to see.

  Because:

  In a kitchen on the fifth floor, a woman bent over a smoking stove and stirred cabbage in a kettle, and the cabbage smelt, and the woman blinked, and groaned with the pain in her back, and scratched her head with the spoon,

  Because:

  In a corner saloon, a man leaned against the bar and raised a foaming glass of beer, and the foam spilled over the floor and over his trousers, and he belched and sang a gay song,

  Because:

  In a white bed, on white sheets stained with yellow, a child slept and sniveled in its sleep, its nose wet,

  Because:

  On a sack of flour in the basement, a man tore a woman's pants off, and bit into her throat, and they rolled, moaning, over the sacks of flour and potatoes,

  Because:

  In the silence of stone walls slowly dripping frozen dampness, a figure knelt before a gilded cross, and raised trembling arms in exaltation, and knocked a pale forehead against a cold stone floor,

  Because:

  In the roar of machines whirling lightnings of steel and drops of burning grease, men swung vigorous arms, and panted, heaving chests of muscles glistening with sweat, and made soap,

  Because:

  In a public bath, steam rose from brass pans, and red, gelatinous bodies shook scrubbing themselves with the soap, sighing and grunting, trying to scratch steaming backs, and murky water and soap suds ran down the floor into the drain--

  --Leo Kovalensky was sentenced to die.

  XVII

  IT WAS HER LAST CHANCE AND SHE HAD TO TAKE IT.

  A modest house stood before her, on a modest street that lay deserted in the darkness. An old landlady opened the door and looked at Kira suspiciously: Comrade Taganov did not receive women visitors. But she said nothing and shuffled, leading Kira down a corridor, then stopped, pointed at a door and shuffled away.

  Kira knocked.

  His voice said: "Come in."

  She entered.

  He was sitting at his desk and he was about to rise, but he didn't. He sat looking at her, and then rose very slowly, so slowly that she wondered how long she stood there, at the door, while he was rising, his eyes never leaving her.

  Then, he said: "Good evening, Kira."

  "Good evening, Andrei."

  "Take your coat off."

  She was suddenly frightened, uncomfortable, uncertain; she lost all the bitter, hostile assurance that had brought her here; obediently, she took off her coat and threw her hat on the bed. It was a large, bare room with whitewashed walls, a narrow iron bed, one desk, one chair, one chest of drawers, no pictures, no posters, but books, an ocean of books and papers and newspapers, running over the desk, over the chest, over the floor.

  He said: "It's cold tonight, isn't it?"

  "It's cold."

  "Sit down."

  She sat by the desk. He sat on the bed, his hands clasping his knees. She wished he would not look at her like that, every second of every long minute. But he said calmly: "How have you been, Kira? You look tired."

  "I am a little tired."

  "How is your job?"

  "It isn't."

  "What?"

  "Reduction of staffs."

  "Oh, Kira, I'm sorry. I'll get you another one."

  "Thanks. But I don't know whether I need one. How is your job?"

  "The G.P.U.? I've been working hard. Searches, arrests. You still aren't afraid of me, are you?"

  "No."

  "I don't like searches."

  "Do you like arrests?"

  "I don't mind--when it's necessary."

  They were silent, and then she said: "Andrei, if I make you uncomfortable--I'll go."

  "No! Don't go. Please don't go." He tried to laugh. "Make me uncomfortable? What makes you say that? I'm just . . . just a little embarrassed . . . this room of mine . . . it's in no condition to receive such a guest."

  "Oh, it's a nice room. Big. Light."

  "You see, I'm home so seldom, and when I am, I just have time to fall in bed, without noticing what's around me."

  "Oh."

  They were silent.

  "How is your family, Kira?"

  "They are fine, thank you."

  "I often see your cousin, Victor Dunaev, at the Institute. Do you like him?"

  "No."

  "Neither do I."

  They were silent.

  "Victor has joined the Party," said Kira.

  "I voted against him. But most of them were eager to admit him."

  "I'm glad you voted against him. He's the kind of Party man I despise."

  "What kind of Party man don't you despise, Kira?"

  "Your kind, Andrei."

  "Kira . . ." It began as a sentence, but stopped on the first word.

  She said resolutely: "Andrei, what have I done?"

  He looked at her, and frowned, and looked aside, shaking his head slowly: "Nothing." Then he asked suddenly: "Why did you come here?"

  "It's been such a long time since I saw you last."

  "Two months, day after tomorrow."

  "Unless you saw me at the Institute three weeks ago."

  "I saw you."

  She waited, but he did not explain, and she tried to ignore it, her words almost a plea: "I came because I thought . . . because I thought maybe you wanted to see me."

  "I didn't want to see you."

  She rose to her feet.

  "Don't go, Kira!"

  "Andrei, I don't understand!"

  He stood facing her. His voice was flat, harsh as an insult: "I didn't want you to understand. I didn't want you to know. But if you want to hear it--you'll hear it. I never wanted to see you again. Because . . ." His voice was like a dull whip. "Because I love you."

  Her hands fell limply against the wall behind her. He went on: "Don't say it. I know what you're going to say. I've said it to myself again and again and again. I know every word. But it's useless. I know I should be ashamed, and I am, but it's useless. I know that you liked me, and trusted me, because we were friends. It was beautiful and rare, and you have every right to despise me."

  She stood pressed to the wall, not moving.

  "When you came in, I thought 'Send her away.' But I knew that if you went away, I'd run after you. I thought 'I won't say a word.' But I knew that you'd know it before you left. I love you. I know you'd think kindlier of me if I said that I hate you."

  She said nothing; she cringed against the wall, her eyes wide, her glance holding no pity for him, but a plea for his pity.

  "You're frightened? Do you see why I couldn't face you? I knew what you felt for me and what you could never feel. I knew what you'd say, how your eyes would look at me. When did it start? I don't know. I knew only that it must end--because I couldn't stand it. To see you, and laugh with you, and talk of the future of humanity--and think only of when your hand would touch mine, of your feet in the sand, the little shadow on your throat, your skirt blowing in the wind. To discuss the meaning of life--and wonder if I could see the line of your breast in your open collar!"

  She whispered: "Andrei . . . don't. . . ."

  It was not an admission of love, it was the confession of a crime: "Why am I telling you all this? I don't know. I'm not sure I'm really saying it to you. I've been crying it to myself so often, for such a long time! You shouldn't have come here. I'm not your friend. I don't care if I hurt you. All you are to me is only this: I want you."

  She whispered: "Andr
ei . . . I didn't know. . . ."

  "I didn't want you to know. I tried to stay away from you, to break it. You don't know what it's done to me. There was one search. There was a woman. We arrested her. She rolled on the floor, in her nightgown, at my feet, crying for mercy. I thought of you. I thought of you there, on the floor, in your nightgown, crying for pity as I have been crying to you so many months. I'd take you--and I wouldn't care if it were the floor, and if those men stood looking. Afterward, perhaps I'd shoot you, and shoot myself--but I wouldn't care--because it would be afterward. I thought I could arrest you--in the middle of the night--and carry you wherever I wanted--and have you. I could do it, you know. I laughed at the woman and kicked her. My men stared at me--they had never seen me do that. They took the woman to jail--and I found an excuse to run away, to walk home alone--thinking of you. . . . Don't look at me like that. You don't have to be afraid that I'd do it. . . . I have nothing to offer you. I cannot offer you my life. My life is twenty-eight years of that for which you feel contempt. And you--you're everything I've always expected to hate. But I want you. I'd give everything I have--everything I could ever have--Kira--for something you can't give me!"

  He saw her eyes open wide at a thought he could not guess. She breathed: "What did you say, Andrei?"

  "I said, everything I have for something you can't. . . ."

  It was terror in her eyes, a terror of the thought she had seen for a second so very clearly. She whispered, trembling: "Andrei . . . I'd better go. . . . I'd better go now."

  But he was looking at her fixedly, approaching her, asking in a voice suddenly very soft and low: "Or is it something you . . . can . . . Kira?"

  She was not thinking of him; she was not thinking of Leo; she was thinking of Maria Petrovna and of the red bubble on dying lips. She was pressed to the wall, cornered, her ten fingers spread apart on the white plaster. His voice, his hope were driving her on. Her body rose slowly against the wall, to her full height, higher, on tiptoe, her head thrown back, so that her throat was level with his mouth when she threw at him:

  "I can! I love you."

  She wondered how strange it was to feel a man's lips that were not Leo's.

  She was saying: "Yes . . . for a long time . . . but I didn't know that you, too . . ." and she felt his hands and his mouth, and she wondered whether this was joy or torture to him and how strong his arms were. She hoped it would be quick.

  The street light beyond the window made a white square and a black cross on the wall above the bed. Against the white square, she could see his face on the pillow; he did not move. Her arm, stretched limply against his naked body, felt no movement but the beating of his heart.

  She threw the blanket off, and sat up, crossing her arms over her breasts, her hands clutching her bare shoulders.

  "Andrei, I'm going home."

  "Kira! Not now. Not tonight."

  "I have to go."

  "I want you here. Till morning."

  "I have to go. There's . . . there's my family. . . . Andrei, we'll have to keep this very secret."

  "Kira, will you marry me?"

  She did not answer. He felt her trembling. He pulled her down and tucked the blanket under her chin.

  "Kira, why does that frighten you?"

  "Andrei . . . Andrei . . . I can't. . . ."

  "I love you."

  "Andrei . . . there's my family. You're a Communist. You know what they are. You must understand. They've suffered so much. If I marry you--it would be too much for them. Or if they learn--about this. We can spare them. Does it . . . does it make any difference to us?"

  "No. Not if you want it that way."

  "Andrei!"

  "Yes, Kira?"

  "You'll do anything I want?"

  "Anything."

  "I want only one thing: secrecy. Complete secrecy. You promise?"

  "Yes."

  "You see . . . with me--there's my family. With you--there's the Party. I'm not . . . I'm not the kind of a . . . mistress your Party would approve. So it's better . . . You see, it's a dangerous thing we're doing. A very dangerous thing. I want to try not to let it . . . not to let it break our lives."

  "Break our lives? Kira!" He was laughing happily, pressing her hand to his lips.

  "It's better if no one--not a soul anywhere--knows this, but you and I."

  "No, Kira, I promise, no one will know but you and I."

  "And now I'll go."

  "No. Please don't go tonight. Just tonight. You can explain to them somehow--make up a reason. But stay. I can't let you go. . . . Please, Kira. . . . Just to see you here when I awaken. . . . Good night . . . Kira. . . ."

  She lay very still for a very long time, until he was asleep. Then she slipped noiselessly out of bed and, holding her breath, her bare feet soundless on the cold floor, she dressed hurriedly. He did not hear her open the door and slip out.

  There was a wind whistling down the long, empty streets and a sky like pencil lead. She walked very fast. She knew there was something she had to escape and she tried to hurry. The dead, dark glass panes were watching her, following her, rows and rows of them, on guard along her way. She walked faster. Her steps beat too loudly and the houses of the whole city threw echoes back at her, echoes screaming something. She walked faster. The wind whirled her coat, raising it high over her knees, hurling it between her legs. She walked faster. She passed the poster of a worker with a red banner; the worker was laughing.

  Suddenly she was running, like a shivering streak between dark shop windows and lamp posts, her coat whistling, her steps beating like a machine gun, her legs flashing and blending, like the spokes of a wheel, into one circle of motion carrying her forward. She was running or flying or being rocketed through space by something outside her body, and she knew it was all right, everything was all right if only she could run faster and faster and faster.

  She came panting up the stairs. At the door, she stopped. She stopped and stood looking at the door knob, panting. And suddenly she knew that she could not go in; that she could not take her body into Leo's room, into his bed, close to his body. She ran her finger tips over the door, feeling it, caressing it uncertainly, for she could come no closer to him.

  She sat down on the steps. She felt as if she could hear him--somewhere behind that door--sleeping, breathing with effort. She sat there for a long time, her eyes empty.

  When she turned her head and saw that the square of the window on the landing was a dark, bright blue which was not night any longer, she got up, took her key and went in. Leo was asleep. She sat by the window, gathered into a tight huddle. He would not know what time she had come home.

  Leo was leaving for the south.

  His bag was packed. His ticket was bought. His place was reserved in a private sanatorium in Yalta and a month paid for in advance.

  She had explained about the money: "You see, when I wrote to your aunt in Berlin, I also wrote to my uncle in Budapest. Oh, yes, I have an uncle in Budapest. You've never heard him mentioned because . . . you see . . . there's a family quarrel behind it--and he left Russia before the war, and my father forbade us ever to mention his name. But he's not a bad fellow, and he always liked me, so I wrote him, and that's what he sent, and he said he'd help me as long as I need it. But please don't ever mention it to my family, because Father would--you understand."

  She wondered dimly how simple and easy it was to lie.

  To Andrei, she had mentioned her starving family. She did not have to ask: he gave her his whole monthly salary and told her to leave him only what she could spare. She had expected it, but it was not an easy moment when she saw the bills in her hand; then, she remembered the comrade commissar and why one aristocrat could die in the face of the Union of Socialist Soviet Republics--and she kept most of the money, with a hard, bright smile.

  It had not been easy to convince Leo to go. He said he would not let her--or her uncle--keep him. He said it tenderly and he said it furiously. It took many hours and many evenings. "Le
o--your money or my money or anyone's money--does it really matter? Who made it matter? But you want to live. I want you to live. So much is still possible to us. You love me. Don't you love me enough to live for me? I know it will be hard. Six months. All winter. I'll miss you. But we can do it. . . . Leo, I love you. I love you. I love you. So much is still possible!"

  She won.

  His train was to leave at eight-fifteen in the evening. At nine, she would meet Andrei; she had asked him to take her to the opening of a new cabaret.

  Leo was silent when they left their room, and in the cab on the way to the station. She went into the car with him to see the wooden bench on which he was to sleep for many nights; she had brought a pillow for him and a warm plaid blanket. Then, they stepped out again and waited on the platform by the car. They had nothing to say.

  When the first bell rang, Leo said: "Please, Kira, don't let's have any nonsense when the train starts. I won't look out of the window. No waving, or running after the train, or anything like that."