The daily worker. [volume] (Chicago, Ill.) 1924-1958, 1924-03-12
Are You Reading "A Week?


that jerked in his cheek. But
when the Battalion Commander in
terrupted her disconnected narra-
tive with brief report that
connection with the railway station
had been established, and that
Comrade Gornuikh, the Checklist,
was there with fifty railwaymen
of the Communist Company, Kar-
aulov comma an d e d in reply,
abruptly:
"Danilov! Go for them with the
bayonet. Now l permit it. Finish
them off, sons of dogs! Begin
with the left flank. Seletskyl
Fire down the streets with the
machine guns. Take no pris-
oners."
And then he caught Danilov,
who was delighted at the command,
by the hand, held him moment.
and whispered: ibid you hear?
They have killed Robeiko.
When the town is taken, l shall
drink like sand. But now,
advanced
CHAPTER XIII.
n YER the purple-brown distance
~ Of the fields, catching at the
grey roofs of the houses, slowly,
hanging low, heavy, damp, quiet
masses of clouds foated up. They
sowed a thin drizzle, hesitating,
timorous, but joyful, like the first
caress of love, like the trembling
approach Of a youth to the naked
female body. The hills were in
visible-the misty net of rain hid
them, and under the low cloudy
canopy the world was small and
CONSTRUCTED. but the air was grow
ing warm and saturated with mois-
ture, just as it is under the glass
of a garden frame, dimmed with
dull film of tiny drops Of water.
The light wind, lazy and ca
priciously changing direction, car
ried from the fields to the town
the Intoxicating aroma Of the dis
solution of the old life and the be-
ginning of the new, and, from the
town to the fields, noises, knock
ings, whistles and church bells.
Konstantin Petrovich was drink
ing in both one and the other with
his whole being: he was standing
on the sandy hill-there is a soli-
tary weather-beaten rock there
and looked down at the pile Of
houses and the ratings, the mass
of churches, and the picture of the
quiet little town, tedious, familiar
in all its details, seemed to him
transparent, and sewn with tarnish-
ed thread on an ancient faded
curtain.
Some one strong and bold would
finally tear it up, and there would
shine out from under it the varie-
gated colors of a new life, alien
and hostile to Konstantin Petro-
witch, and glowing with beauty
that he would not be able to UNDER
stand. Life, like an aged snake,
was once more changing its skin,
throwing off the old one, faded and
wrinkled, and under it were being
revealed the bright patches of the
never yet seen pattern of the new
life. Were not these the bright
patches that even now were lighting
up the grey picture seen thru the
smoke and rain, the scarlet flag
on the building of the Circus, yes,
and the red placard over the chem
ists's shop in the square?
And Konstantin Petrovitch look
ed back on the past life Of the Rus
sian people, that went on on the
background of those wild misty
fields, in little grey towns, in the
innumerable villages, the life that
had been painted by Pushkin, Tur-
genev, Chekhov and hundreds
of other Russian writers, who wept
over that life that was row for
ever gone, described it so truly,
and continually enchanted Kon-
stantin Petrovitch with its melan-
choly beauty. For twenty years
he had taught literature in the
Gymnasium of the town, for twenty
years, year by year, he had read
thru the elegantly bound books
that filled two cases in his little
study. Their ranks had grown
much thinner since the Revolution.
!. Margarita Semenova, the
elderly woman who was for him
both wife and servant, was ex-
changing them for meat, greats,
-four and eggs.
ITO Be Continued Thursday.)