And Other Stories Of Communist Russia

by Zoshchenko,Mikhail.

  I look for a bucket. I see one citizen washing himself with three buckets. He is standing in one, washing his head in another, and holding the third with his left hand so no one would take it away.

  I pulled at the third bucket; among other things, I wanted to take it for myself. But the citizen won't let go.

  "What are you up to," says he, "stealing other people's buckets?" As I pull, he says, "I'll give you a bucket between the eyes, then you won't be so damn happy."

  I say: "This isn't the tsarist regime," I say, "to go around hitting people with buckets. Egotism," I say, "sheer egotism. Other people," I say, "have to wash themselves too. You're not in a theater," I say.

  But he turned his back and starts washing himself again.

  "I can't just stand around," think I, "waiting his pleasure. He's likely to go on washing himself," think I, "for another three days."

  I moved along.

  After an hour I see some old joker gaping around, no hands on his bucket. Looking for soap or just dreaming, I don't know. I just lifted his bucket and made off with it.

  So now there's a bucket, but no place to sit down. And to wash standing—what kind of washing is that? That's the only trouble.

  All right. So I'm standing. I'm holding the bucket in my hand and I'm washing myself.

  But all around me everyone's scrubbing clothes like mad. One is washing his trousers, another's rubbing his drawers, a third's wringing something out. You no sooner get yourself all washed up than you're dirty again. They're splattering me, the bastards. And such a noise from all the scrubbing—it takes all the joy out of washing. You can't even hear where the soap squeaks. That's the only trouble.

  "To hell with them," I think. 'Til finish washing at home."

  I go back to the locker room. I give them one ticket, they give me my linen. I look. Everything's mine, but the trousers aren't mine.

  "Citizens," I say, "mine didn't have a hole here. Mine had a hole over there."

  But the attendant says: "We aren't here," he says, "just to watch for your holes. You're not in a theater," he says.

  All right. I put these pants on, and I'm about to go get my coat. They won't give me my coat. They want the ticket. I'd forgotten the ticket on my leg. I had to undress. I took off my pants. I look for the ticket. No ticket. There's the string tied around my leg, but no ticket. The ticket had been washed away.

  I give the attendant the string. He doesn't want it.

  "You don't get anything for a string," he says. "Anybody can cut off a bit of string," he says. "Wouldn't be enough coats to go around. Wait," he says, "till everyone leaves. We'll give you what's left over."

  I say: "Look here, brother, suppose there's nothing left but crud? This isn't a theater," I say. "I'll identify it for you. One pocket," I say, "is torn, and there's no other. As for the buttons," I say, "the top one's there, the rest are not to be seen."

  Anyhow, he gave it to me. But he wouldn't take the string.

  I dressed, and went out on the street. Suddenly I remembered: I forgot my soap.

  I went back again. They won't let me in, in my coat.

  "Undress," they say.

  . I say, "Look, citizens. I can't undress for the third time. This fen't a theater," I say. "At least give me what the soap costs."

  Nothing doing.

  Nothing doing—all right. I went without the soap.

  Of course, the reader who is accustomed to formalities might be curious to know: what kind of a bathhouse was this? Where was it located? What was the address?

  What kind of a bathhouse? The usual kind. Where it costs ten kopecks to get in.

  THE PATIENT

  Anis'ia traveled thirty versts to get to the country hospital.

  She set out at dawn and at noon she paused before the white single-storied house.

  "Is the surgeon receiving?" she asked a peasant sitting on the porch.

  "The surgeon?" the peasant asked with interest. "What, you sick?"

  "Sick," Anis'ia answered.

  "Me, too, my dear," the peasant said. "I ate too much grits . .. I'm number seven."

  Anis'ia tied her horse to the post and went into the hospital.

  The medical orderly, Ivan Kuz'mich, was receiving the patients. He was small, elderly, and terribly distinguished. Everyone in the area knew him, praised him and called him, without reason, the surgeon.

  Anis'ia entered the room, approached him, bowed low, and sat down on the edge of a chair.

  "Are you sick?" Ivan Kuz'mich asked.

  "I'm sick," said Anis'ia. "That is, I'm sick through and through. Every bone pains and throbs. My heart is eating itself alive.

  "What might it be from?" the medical orderly asked indifferently. "And since when?"

  "Since fall, Ivan Kuz'mich. Since this last fall. In the fall I got sick. Since, you know, my husband Dimitrii Naumych arrived from the city, I've been sick. For example. I'm standing by the table rolling some mill cakes in flour. Dimitrii Naumych used to love these particular mill cakes. And where is he now, I think to myself, Dimitrii Naumych? He's a soviet deputy in the city ..."

  "Look, my dear woman," the medical orderly said, "don't overdo it. What are you sick from?"

  "Well, I was just telling you," said Anis'ia, "I'm standing by the table rolling mill cakes. Suddenly Aunt Agaf ia runs up like a ram and starts waving her hand. 'Go,' she shrieks, 'go quick, Anis'iushka. Your man just arrived from the city, and it looks

  like he's coming up the street with bag and stick.' My heart stopped. My knees knocked together. I'm standing there like a fool kneading the cakes . . . Then I threw down the cakes and ran into the yard. And in the yard the sun is shimmering. The air is light. And on my left near the shed a brown calf is standing scaring off flies with his tail. I looked at the calf—and the tears began to flow. Here, I think, Dimitrii Naumych will be so pleased with this particular brown calf."

  "Please," the medical orderly said morosely, "stick to the point."

  "But my dear Ivan Kuz'mich, I'm just telling you. Please don't get mad. I'm sticking to the point ... I ran out the gate. I see, you know how it is, the church on the left, a goat's walking along, a rooster is scratching away with his foot, and on the right, I see, right on up the middle—there comes Dimitrii Naumych.

  "I looked at him. My heart skipped a beat, I could feel a hiccup rising. Ah, I think, Holy Mother of God! Ah, I think, I feel a little faint! And he, he's walking along with a short, serious step. His beard is fluttering in the air. And he's wearing city clothes. And fancy shoes.

  "As soon as I saw the fancy shoes it was as though something had been torn out of me. I think, oy, where do I come in, uncultured as I am, what kind of a wife do I make for him, a first-rate man and a soviet deputy.

  "I stood like a fool at the post and my feet wouldn't move. I feel the post up and down with my fingers and I stand there.

  "And he himself, Dimitrii Naumych, the soviet deputy, comes up to me slowly and says hello.

  "He says, 'Hello, Anis'ia Vasil'evna. How many years has it been,' he says, 'how many winters, that we have not seen each other?...'

  "I should have, fool that I am, taken the bag from Dimitrii Naumych, but I just look at his fancy shoes and don't move.

  "I think, oy, it was a peasant who left me. Now he's wearing fancy shoes. He's been having talks with city folks, maybe even with Comsomol girls.

  "And Dimitrii Naumych answers in a low voice: 'Och,' he says, 'look what you're like! Dark,' he says, 'ignorant, Anis'ia Vasil'evna. What,' he says, 'am I going to talk about with you? I,' he says, *am an educated man and a soviet deputy. I,' he says, 'know maybe four rules of arithmetic. I know fractions,' he says.

  'But you,' he says, look what you're like! Probably,' he says, *you can't even sign your name on paper? Another man might very well throw you over, for your darkness and ignorance.'

  "And I am standing at the post and getting words all mixed up: look here, Dimitrii Naumych, throw me over if you like, certainly, just as you li
ke.

  "But he takes me by the hand and answers: 'I was only joking, Anis'ia Vasil'evna. Stop thinking like that. I,' he says, 'am like this. Forget it...'

  "Again my heart skipped a beat, I could feel a hiccup rising.

  " 'Dimitrii Naumych,' I say, 'be at rest. I, too, certainly, can learn fractions and the four rules. Also to sign my name on paper. I,' I say, 'will not shajtne you, an educated man . . .'"

  The medical orderly, Ivan Kuz'mich stood up from his chair and walked about the room.

  "Well, well," he said, "that's enough, you're a long way off ... What are you sick from?"

  "What am I sick from? Why nothing, now, Ivan Kuz'mich. It seems to have gotten better now. I can't complain about my health. And Dimitrii Naumych himself said: 'I was just joking,' he said. That means he said all that just as a joke."

  "Why, yes, he was joking,""said the medical orderly. "Of course he was joking . . . Can I give you some pills?"

  "I don't need any," said Anis'ia. "Thank you, Ivan Kuz'mich for your advice. I feel very much better now. Many, many thanks. Good-bye."

  And Anis'ia, after leaving a bag of grain on the table, went to the door. Then she turned.

  "Fractions, Ivan Kuz'mich . . . Where can I find out about these fractions? Should I go to the schoolteacher, or what?"

  "To the schoolteacher," the medical orderly said, sighing. "Of course, to the schoolteacher. It isn't a medical matter."

  Anis'ia bowed low and went out into the street.

  POVERTY

  Nowadays, brothers, what is the most fashionable word there is, eh?

  Nowadays, the most fashionable word that can be is, of course, electrification.

  I won't argue that it isn't a matter of immense importance to light up Soviet Russia with electricity. Nevertheless, even this matter has its shady side. I am not saying, comrades, that it costs a lot. It costs nothing more expensive than money. That's not what I'm talking about.

  This is what I mean.

  I lived, comrades, in a very large house. The whole house was using kerosene. Some had kerosene lamps with, some without a glass, and some had nothing—just a priest's candle flickering away. Real hardship!

  And then they started installing electric lights. Soon after the Revolution.

  The house delegate installed them first. Well, he installed and installed. He's a quiet man and doesn't let his tongue give him away. But still he walks a bit strangely, and he's always thoughtfully blowing his nose.

  Nevertheless, he doesn't let his tongue give him away.

  And then our dear little landlady, Elizaveta Ignat'evna Prokhorov, declares to us that she too wants to put in electric lights in our half-dark apartment.

  "Everybody," she says, "is installing them. Even the delegate," she says, "has installed them. Why should we be more backward than other people? All the more so," she says, "since it's economical. Cheaper than kerosene."

  You don't say! We too began to install.

  We installed them, turned them on—my fathers! Muck and filth all around.

  The way it was before, you'd go to work in the morning, come home in the evening, drink a bit of tea, and go to bed. And nothing of this kind was visible as long as you used kerosene.

  But now when we turned on the lights, we see, here someone's old bedroom slipper lying around, there the wallpaper torn in shreds and hanging down, there a bedbug running away at a trot, trying to save himself from the light, here a rag of who-knows-what, there a gob of spit, here a cigar butt, there a flea hopping.

  Holy fathers! You wanted to cry for help. Sad to look on such a spectacle.

  Take the couch that stood in our room, for example. I used to think, it's all right, it's a couch. It's a good couch. I often sat on it evenings. And now I was burning electricity—holy fathers! What a couch! Everything's sticking out, hanging down, spilling out from inside. I can't sit down on such a couch—my soul cries out.

  So, I think, I don't live very well, do I? Better get out of the house. I begin to develop a negative attitude. My work falls from my hands.

  I see the landlady, Elizaveta Ignat'evna, is also going around mournfully, muttering to herself, fussing around in the kitchen.

  "What," I ask, "is bothering you, landlady?"

  She waves her hand.

  "My dear man," she says, "I * never thought I was living so badly."

  I looked at her fixings—and it really wasn't what you'd call luxurious: in fact, her furniture was painful. And all around, disorder, strewings, litter, rubbish. And all this flooded with bright light and staring you in the eye.

  I began coming home kind of depressed.

  I come in, I turn on the light, stare at the bulb, and hop into the sack.

  After giving it a good deal of thought, I got my pay. I bought some whitewash and started to work. I shook out the bed, killed off the bedbugs, painted over the woodwork, banged the couch back together, decorated, decontaminated—my spirit sings and rejoices.

  In general, everything was going well, very well indeed.

  But our landlady, Elizaveta Ignat'evna, took another course. She cut the installation wires in her room.

  "My dear man," she says, "I don't want to live in the light. I 4on't want," she says, "my modest circumstances to be lit up for the bedbugs to laugh at."

  I begged and argued with her—no good. She held her own.

  "I don't want," she says, "to live with that light. I have no money to make repairs."

  I tell her: "Why, I'll do the repairs for you myself for next to nothing."

  She doesn't want that.

  "With those bright lights of yours," she says, "I have to keep busy from morning to night with cleaning and washing. I'll manage," she says, "without the light, as I managed before."

  The delegate also tried to convince her. And even quarreled with her. He called her an outmoded petit bourgeois. It didn't work. She refused.

  Well, let her have it the way she wants. Personally, I live in the electric light and I am quite satisfied with it.

  The way I look at it, the light scratches away all our litter and removes the rubbish.

  THE OVERSHOE

  Of course, losing an overshoe in a trolley car is not difficult. Especially if there's pushing from the side, and at the same time some bruiser steps on your heel from behind—there you are, without an overshoe.

  Losing an overshoe is the simplest thing in the world.

  My overshoe got Ipst in a hurry. You might say I didn't even get a chance to catch my breath.

  I boarded the trolley—both overshoes, as I now recall, were where they should be.

  But when I left the trolley—I look: one overshoe's there, not the other. My shoes, there. And my socks, I see, are there. And my underwear's where it should be. But no overshoe. One overshoe is missing.

  And, of course, you can't run after a trolley car.

  I took off the overshoe that remained, wrapped it in a newspaper, and went along. After work, I think, I'll do a little investigating. To keep from losing my property. Somewhere I'll dig it up.

  After work I went to look. But first I took counsel with a friend of mine who was a motorman.

  He straightaway gave me some hope.

  "You say you lost it in the trolley. That was lucky," he says. "In another public place, I couldn't guarantee anything. But to lose something in a trolley—that's a sacred matter. Now there is a little office we have called Lost and Found. Go there and get it. It's a sacred matter!"

  "Well," says I, "thanks." A load had been lifted from my shoulders. You see, that overshoe was practically new. This was only the third season I'd been wearing it.

  The following day, I go to the room.

  "Is it possible, brothers," I say, "to get my overshoe back. I Ipst it in the trolley."

  i, "Possible," they say. "What kind of an overshoe?"

  "Oh," I say, "the ordinary kind. Size number twelve."

  "We have," they say, "twelve thousand number twelves, Describe its features.
"

  "The features," I say, "are just the usual ones. The back, of course, is a bit torn. There's no lining on the inside. The lining wore out."

  "We have," they say, "a little over a thousand overshoes like that. Aren't there any special marks?"

  "Special marks," I say, "yes, there are. The toe looks as though it were cut clean off, but it's still hanging on. And the heel," I say, "is almost gone. The heel's worn out. But the sides," I say, "there's still nothing wrong with the sides."

  "Be seated," they say, "right here. Now we'll go look."

  And right away they bring out my overshoe.

  Naturally, I was beside myself with joy. Really touched.

  Here, I think, there's an outfit marvelously at work. And, I think, how many intelligent, responsible people have gone to so much bother about just one overshoe.

  I say to them: "Thanks," I say, "you're friends for life. Give it right here. Now it's found. I thank you."

  "No," they say, "respected comrade, we cannot give it to you. We," they say, "don't know: maybe it wasn't you who lost it."

  "Of course it was me," I say. "I can give you my word of honor."

  They say: "We believe you and fully sympathize, and it's quite probable it really was you who lost this overshoe. But we cannot give it up. Bring us some certification that you really did lose this overshoe. Let your house manager verify that fact, and then without any superfluous red tape we shall give back to you that which you legitimately lost."

  "Brothers," I say, "sacred comrades, they just don't know about this fact at home. Maybe they wouldn't give me such a paper."

  "They'll give," they say, "it's their business to give. What else are they for at your place?"

  I cast one more glance at the overshoe and left.

  The following day I approached the president of our house.

  "Give me," I say, "a paper. My overshoe's going to pot."

  "Did you really lose it?" he says. "Or are you just twisting things? Maybe you just want to lay hold of some extra consumers' goods?"

  "God almighty!" I say. "I lost it."

  He says: "Of course, I can't just go on your word. Now if you'd

  bring me some verification from the trolley park that you lost an overshoe—then I'd give you a paper. Otherwise I can't."