I’m feeling half crazy, not knowing what is going on in your life right now, which only adds to Shura’s and my sense of alarm. I’m writing from the editorial offices; Shura is in the sanatorium. She is feeling much better. She sends you kisses.
Marusya, please, send us word that you’ve received this letter. Otherwise, if the already infrequent correspondence doesn’t arrive, I’ll be at my wits’ end.
As I’m writing, we’ve heard the most wonderful news about the war. They say that the major Allied powers have decided to surround Wilhelm and bring him to his knees once and for all. So Jacob is sure to return home soon.
What does Genrikh say? Wah-wah?
Write me about everything. I send you endless hugs. Papa, Mama, write me!
Have everyone write me.
Your Mikhail GREBENKA, POLTAVA GUBERNIYA–KIEV JACOB TO MARUSYA
OCTOBER 8
The train car had no coal or flour. It was an ordinary freight train, like 400,000 others. Cold. No one was there to hold me close, and the person sleeping next to me stank. I got up, found a spot near the single dim lantern (only one for the whole car), and started to do some calculations. We have been married for thirty-four months, and how many days out of these months have we spent together? Half of them? No, even fewer! We can count them up by our letters. But, without engaging in such petty accounting, we can say that for twenty-seven months the two of us were together, and for the last seven of those months there were three of us. It’s a miracle of miracles to see that Genrikh’s little ear is mine, and his gray eyes are yours, and his hair grows like mine, in a spiral on the top of the head, and his fingers are yours, long, with short nails … Over time, other traits will emerge—of your brothers’, and mine, in particular my dear brother Genrikh, whom no one on earth will ever be able to replace for me.
I kiss all the Ossetsky lips. J. KHARKOV–KIEV JACOB TO MARUSYA
OCTOBER 12
Hello, little one. We’ll begin this new period in our lives with this Letter No. 1. And so—a separation again; and again letters and more letters … The one good thing in all of this is that there are pen and paper within reach. You and I will write a lot of them now. It’s the best kind of self-reflection, catching all our weakly flickering thoughts in passing. If we can’t kiss each other, the only thing left is this self-reflection—and the thoughts we can share provide some comfort.
… In the reading room at the Public Library.
I kiss you, little one, on your hands and forehead. And Genrikh—on his little foot! October is here, and the steady, needlelike rain outside soaks you through and through. Yesterday I wandered around town, and spent piles of money. I came back to the barracks loaded down with purchases, which the other soldiers viewed with deferential curiosity. When I laid all the shining, pretty objects and leather supplies out on the clean bed, I felt like an accomplished household manager.
The other day I bought Rubakin a new book, apples, and shoe polish for kid-leather boots.
The library I’m now writing from is large and comfortable. There are many books, including books in foreign languages. The subscription fee for the library is merely five kopecks a month. In the library, a lady asks me: “Are you borrowing the books for yourself? Aren’t they sending you off to war soon?” There are only women working in the library—old women, young ladies, girls.
One day, I had quite a “woman’s day.” In the morning, I saw a crowd of prostitutes on Banny Lane. During the afternoon, I read a feuilleton by Doroshevich about women (I even shed some tears). And in the evening, there were the wholesome, pure ladies in the library, and the stories Garkovenko tells me that awaken horror.
My little one, I am filled with such pity for the poor bodies of women, I have no words to express it. What they do here with this work of art I cannot begin to describe to you. I have strong nerves, I have grown accustomed to many things in military service—but I couldn’t bear what I heard in these stories.
Doroshevich wrote about a woman who was visiting a soldier. It’s not an unusual story, but it was difficult to read about this class of people who are so united by common work, trust, and a common bed.
The ladies in the library represent another social layer, united not only by love, but by their common intellectual commitment. I immediately felt like writing a story about such a marvelous aging “girl” who lives her life in books, since she has nothing else to call her own. I’m determined to write it one of these days.
I’m writing you about myself, and more about myself, but all the while I’m thinking of you. You remember that I don’t like to make inquiries about things in letters. You know best what to tell me—about the state of your health, about your emotional state, about our baby boy. Who is my hope … I am here, but my fragile life is in Kiev. Remember that I always repeat this phrase, and I am always afraid. My sweet one, my own little life, be strong, keep well! I kiss my own little family. Jacob JACOB TO MARUSYA
From the Field Forces
Military Clerk Detachment
Second Reserve Sappers Battalion
OCTOBER 19
Good day, little one. Again, the days rush by, as they always do when we don’t cherish them, value them fully. I am now indifferent to the passage of time.
I’m hurrying to tell you good news: the day before yesterday, I was summoned to the battalion headquarters, where the commander-elders had learned about my musical inclinations from my files, and ordered me henceforth to join the regiment band in the capacity of flautist. Tell the others, especially Father, that my musical pursuits were not in vain—they are even required in the army. It’s not the kind of music I dreamed about before; but I never dreamed at all about a rifle and a clerk’s pen, so you might say that it’s better than nothing.
My day is organized like this: Today I got up at 6:00 a.m. The rest of the detachment gets up later. My morning ablutions are finished by 7:00. My glass is washed, and my boots are cleaned. Practice begins at 8:00. Each one takes up his instrument and plays exercises. The result is an earsplitting cacophony. The basses roar, the clarinets squeak, the French horns quack. I’m studying French. My flute is being repaired, and I’m using my time wisely. I’ve already learned not to pay attention to my surroundings. I’m making good progress, and speak much more fluently.
This is the unexpected surprise that military service has given me! But you, Marusya—watch out! In a few months, I’ll write you a letter full of compliments in French.
I like your Tartarin. After I’ve finished a lesson I read aloud, savoring every nuance of the pronunciation. I’m very happy about my studies. In the library, I borrow books on three subjects: war, history, and literature. The other day I bought Rubakin—an excellent book. Strange to think that in the field of library science there is a branch that is concerned with lively ideals, happy pastimes, and creative undertakings. He’s a good person, even though he works and writes permanently in Switzerland.
Marusya, if my letters are delayed by a few days, please don’t worry. It may happen, since it’s not easy to get them out of the barracks. KHARKOV–KIEV JACOB TO MARUSYA
OCTOBER 21
I wanted to write about the people who surround me. Today I thought about how many scoundrels there are among ordinary people. Every person has some stain on his conscience, of course. Bezpalchin, my neighbor in the barracks, laughed today when he told me how, many years ago, after spending the night with a fashionable Moscow prostitute, he stole the five rubles he had paid for her services from her stocking, and, at the same time, her silk handkerchiefs. This fat animal was so proud of his fine pranks he didn’t even blink when he told me. “We frolicked and rolled in the hay, and I still came out ahead! Ha-ha-ha!”