“This here is Stas,” Uncle Yura went on. “Stas fought in the war, he did—tell him! No, tell him: Did you fight or didn’t you?” Uncle Yura demanded, fervently grasping Stas around the shoulders and swaying in time with him.
“Heh! Ho!” Stas responded, straining every fiber to demonstrate that he did fight, that he fought real hard, that no words could express how hard he fought.
“He’s drunk right now,” Uncle Yura explained. “He can’t stand it when there’s no sun… Where was I? Right! You ask this fool what he’s doing hanging around here… There are guns. There are boys with fire in their belly. What more do you need, I ask you?”
“Hang on,” said Andrei. “What is it you want?”
“That’s what I’m telling you!” Uncle Yura said intensely, letting go of Stas, who immediately drifted off to one side, following a long, gentle curve. “What I’m trying to get through to you! Hammer the bastards just once, that’s all! They haven’t got any machine guns! We’ll trample them with our boots, smother them under our caps.” He abruptly stopped talking and slung his machine gun back over his shoulder: “Let’s go.”
“Where to?”
“We’ll go have a drink. We’ve got to drink this damned nonsense to hell and get out of here, go back home. What’s the point in wasting time? I’ve got potatoes rotting back there… Let’s go.”
“No, Uncle Yura,” Andrei said in an apologetic voice. “I can’t right now. I’ve got to go into City Hall.”
“Into City Hall? Let’s go! Stas! Stas, fuck you…”
“Hang on there, Uncle Yura! You’re… you know… they won’t let you in.”
“Mmme?” Uncle Yura roared with his eyes glittering. “Right, let’s go! We’ll see who’s not going to let me in. Stas!”
He put his arm around Andrei’s shoulder and dragged him across the empty, brightly lit space, straight toward the line of policemen.
“Understand this,” he muttered ardently straight into Andrei’s ear as Andrei tried to resist. “I’m afraid, OK? I haven’t told anyone, but I’ll tell you. Terrified! What if the fire never flares up again, eh? They’ve dragged us here and dumped us… No, let them explain, let them tell us the truth, the bastards—we can’t live like this. I’ve stopped sleeping, got it? That never happened to me even at the front… You think I’m drunk? No damned way am I drunk—I’ve got fear running through my veins.”
Andrei felt a shiver run down his spine at this delirious muttering. He stopped about five steps from the police line, feeling as if everyone in the square had gone silent and all of them, policemen and farmers, were watching him. Trying hard to sound convincing, he declared, “I’ll tell you what, Uncle Yura. I’ll just go in for a minute and settle one question to do with my paper, and you wait for me here. Then we’ll go to my place and have a proper talk about everything.”
Uncle Yura shook his beard furiously. “No, I’m with you. There’s a certain question I have to settle too.”
“But they won’t let you in. And because of you they won’t let me in!”
“Come on, let’s go… Let’s go…” Uncle Yura repeated. “What does that mean—they won’t let us in? Why not? We’ll be quiet… and dignified.”
They were already right beside the line, and a stout police captain in a natty uniform, with an unbuttoned holster on the left side of his belt, stepped toward them and inquired drily, “Where are you going, gentlemen?”
“I am the senior editor of the City Gazette,” said Andrei, furtively shoving away Uncle Yura so that he wouldn’t embrace him. “I have to see the deputy political consultant.”
“May I see your credentials?” A palm clad in kidskin was extended toward Andrei.
Andrei took out his editor’s pass, handed it to the captain, and squinted at Uncle Yura. To his surprise, Uncle Yura was now standing there calmly, sniffing and occasionally adjusting the strap of his machine gun, although there was absolutely no need for that. His eyes, which didn’t look drunk at all, ran along the police line in casual curiosity.
“You can go through,” the captain said politely, handing back the pass. “Although I should tell you…” But without finishing what he was saying, he turned to Uncle Yura. “And you?”
“He’s with me,” Andrei said hastily. “A representative, so to speak… er… from the farmers.”
“Credentials!”
“What kind of credentials can a peasant have?” Uncle Yura asked bitterly.
“I can’t let you in without credentials.”
“Why can’t I go in without credentials?” asked Uncle Yura, totally distressed now. “Without some lousy piece of paper, I’m not even a human being, is that it?”
Someone breathed hotly on the back of Andrei’s neck. It was Stas Kowalski, still twitching belligerently and swaying about as he brought up the rear. Several more men were feebly straggling across the brightly lit space, as if reluctant to cross it.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen, don’t group together!” the captain said nervously. “You go through, sir!” he shouted angrily at Andrei. “Gentlemen, go back. Congregating is forbidden!”
“So, if I haven’t got a piece of paper with scribble on it,” Uncle Yura lamented despondently, “that means I won’t be let through anywhere at all.”
“Smash him in the face!” Stas suggested from behind in a surprisingly clear voice.
The captain grabbed Andrei by the sleeve of his raincoat and jerked, so that Andrei immediately found himself behind the backs of the police line. The line quickly closed up, blocking out the farmers who had crowded together in front of the captain, and without waiting to see how events developed, Andrei strode quickly toward the gloomy, feebly lit portal. He heard a buzz of voices behind him.
“Give them grain, give them meat, but if we want to get in anywhere…”
“If you please, do not congregate! I have orders to arrest…”
“Why won’t you let our representative through, eh?”
“The sun! The sun, you bastards, when are you going to light it again?”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen! Now what has that got to do with me?”
More police came spilling down the snow-white marble steps toward Andrei, with their metal boot tips clattering. They were armed with rifles with bayonets fixed. A tense voice ordered, “Grenades at the ready!” Andrei reached the top of the steps and looked back. Men were scattered across the brightly lit space now. Farmers, some moving slowly and some at a run, were advancing from their camp toward the large black throng that was gathering.
With an effort, Andrei pulled open the door—tall and heavy, bound in copper—and walked into the vestibule. It was dark in here too, and the air had the distinctive harsh smell of a barracks. Policemen were sleeping jammed up against each other, covered with their greatcoats, in the luxurious armchairs, on the sofas, and right there on the floor. Indistinct figures of some kind hovered on the feebly lit gallery that ran around three sides of the vestibule below the ceiling. Andrei couldn’t make out if they had guns or not.
He ran up the soft carpet runner to the second floor, where the press office was, and set off along the broad corridor. He suddenly felt overwhelmed by doubt. There was something too quiet about this huge building today. Usually there were scads of people hanging around here, typewriters clacking, telephones jangling, the air was filled with the buzz of conversation and imperious shouting, but now there was none of that. Some of the offices were wide open, with darkness inside, and even in the corridor only every fourth lamp was lit.
His premonition hadn’t deceived him: the political consultant’s office was locked, and two strangers were sitting in the deputy’s office, wearing identical gray coats, buttoned right up to the chin, and identical bowler hats, tipped forward over their eyes.