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said, even though, apart from not quite being able to roll his
r
’s, he had a clear voice. The people standing beside her were almost gasping as they listened. An old man in a padded jacket was crying.
    Just what had happened to her on that square, beneath the dark walls, she did not know. Once, at night, she had wanted to talk about it to
him
, to her taciturn one. She had felt he would understand. But she had been unable to get the words out...And as the men made their way from the square to the Bryansk Station,
this
was the song they had been singing.
    Looking at the faces of the singing cadets, she lived through once again what she had lived through two years before.
    The Magazaniks saw a woman in a sheepskin hat and a greatcoat running down the street after the cadets, slipping a cartridge clip into her large gray Mauser as she ran.
    Not taking his eyes off her, Magazanik said, “Once there were people like that inthe Bund. Real human beings, Beila. Call us human beings? No, we’re just manure.”
    Alyosha had woken up. He was crying and kicking about, trying to kick off his swaddling clothes. Coming back to herself, Beila said to her husband, “Listen, the baby’s woken up. You’d better light the Primus—we must heat up some milk.”
    The cadets disappeared around a turn in the road.

A Small Life *

    Moscow spends the last ten days of April preparing for May Day. The cornices of buildings and the little iron railings along boulevards are repainted, and in the evenings mothers throw up their hands in despair at the sight of their sons’ trousers and coats. On all the city’s squares carpenters merrily saw up planks that still smell of pine resin and the damp of the forest. Supplies managers use their directors’ cars to collect great heaps of red cloth.
    Visitors to different government institutions find that their requests all meet with the same answer: “Yes, but let’s leave this until after the holiday!”
    Lev Sergeyevich Orlov was standing on a street corner with his colleague Timofeyev. Timofeyev was saying, “You’re being an old woman, Lev Sergeyevich. We could go to a beer hall or a restaurant. We could just wander about and watch the crowds. So what if it upsets your wife? You’re an old woman, the most complete and utter old woman!”
    But Lev Sergeyevich said goodbye and went on his way. Morose by nature, he used to say of himself, “I’m made in such a way that I see what is tragic, even when it’s covered by rose petals.”
    And Lev Sergeyevich truly did see tragedy everywhere.
    Even now as he made his way through the crowds he was thinking how awful it must feel to be stuck in a hospital during these days of merriment, how miserable these days must be for pharmacists, engine drivers, and train crews—people who have to work on the First of May.
    When he got home, he said all this to his wife. She began to laugh at him, but he just shook his head and carried on being upset.
    Still turning over the same thoughts, he continued to let out loud sighs until late into the night. His wife said angrily, “Lyova, why do you have to feel so sorry for the pharmacists? Why not feel sorry for me for a change and let me sleep? You know I’ve got to be at work by eight o’clock.”
    And, the next day, she did indeed leave for work while Lev Sergeyevich was still asleep.
    In the mornings he was usually in a good mood at the office, but by two in the afternoon he would be missing his wife, feeling anxious and fidgety and constantly watching the clock. His colleagues understood all this and used to make fun of him.
    “Lev Sergeyevich is already looking at the clock,” someone would say—and everyone would laugh except for Agnessa Petrovna, the elderly head accountant, who would pronounce with a sigh: “Orlov’s wife is the luckiest woman in all Moscow.”
    This day was no different. As the afternoon wore on, he grew fidgety, shrugging his shoulders in disbelief as he watched the minute hand of