We the Living

by Ayn Rand

  "If I weren't drunk, you'd what? You seem sober. And yet not sober enough not to be making a fool of yourself over a woman you have no right to approach."

  "Well, listen to me, you . . ."

  "You'd better listen, Leo," Kira interrupted again. "Andrei finds this the proper time to tell you something."

  "What is it, Comrade G.P.U.?"

  "Nothing," said Andrei.

  "Then you'd better leave her alone."

  "Not while you seem to forget the respect that you owe to . . ."

  "Are you defending her against me?" Leo burst out laughing. Leo's laughter could be more insulting than his smile, more insulting than a slap in the face.

  "Come on, Kira," said Andrei, "I'll take you home."

  "Yes," said Kira.

  "You're not taking her anywhere!" Leo roared. "You're . . ."

  "Yes, he is!" Irina interrupted, stepping suddenly between them. Leo stared at her, amazed. With sudden strength, she whirled him about, pushing him into a window niche, while she nodded to Andrei, ordering him to hurry. He took Kira's arm and led her out; she followed silently, obediently.

  Irina hissed into Leo's face: "Are you insane? What were you trying to do? Yell for all of them to hear that she's your mistress?"

  Leo shrugged and laughed indifferently: "All right. Let her go with anyone she pleases. If she thinks I'm jealous, she's mistaken."

  Kira sat silently in the cab, her head thrown back, her eyes closed.

  "Kira," Andrei whispered, "that man is no friend of yours. You shouldn't be seen with him."

  She did not answer.

  When they were driving by the palace garden, he asked: "Kira, are you too tired to . . . stop at my house?"

  She said indifferently: "No. I'm not. Let's stop."

  When she came home, Leo was sprawled on the bed, fully dressed, asleep. He raised his head and looked at her.

  "Where have you been, Kira?" he asked softly, helplessly.

  "Just . . . just driving around," she answered.

  "I thought you had gone. Forever. . . . What was it I said tonight, Kira?"

  "Nothing," she whispered, kneeling by his side.

  "You should leave me, Kira. . . . I wish you could leave me. . . . But you won't. . . . You won't leave me, Kira . . . Kira . . . will you?"

  "No," she whispered. "Leo, will you leave that business of yours?"

  "No. It's too late. But before . . . before they get me . . . I still have you, Kira . . . Kira . . . Kira . . . I love you . . . I still have you. . . ."

  She whispered: "Yes," pressing his face, white as marble, to the black velvet of her dress.

  VI

  "COMRADES! THE UNION OF SOCIALIST SOVIET REPUBLICS is surrounded by a hostile ring of enemies who watch and plot for its downfall. But no external enemy, no heinous plot of world imperialists is as dangerous to us as the internal enemy of dissension within our own ranks."

  Tall windows checkered into small square panes were closed against the gray void of an autumn sky. Columns of pale golden marble rose spreading into dim vaults. Five portraits of Lenin, somber as ikons, looked down upon a motionless crowd of leather jackets and red kerchiefs. A tall lectern, like the high, thin stem of a torch, stood at the head of the hall; above the lectern, like the flame of the torch spurting high to the ceiling, hung a banner of scarlet velvet with gold letters: "The All-Union Communist Party is the leader of the world fight for Freedom!" The hall had been a palace; it looked like a temple; those in it looked like an army, stern, silent and tense, receiving its orders. It was a Party meeting.

  A speaker stood at the lectern. He had a little black beard, and wore a pince-nez that sparkled in the twilight; he waved long arms with very small hands. Nothing moved in the hall before him, but drops of rain rolling slowly down the window panes.

  "Comrades! A grave new danger has been growing among us in the last year. I call it the danger of over-idealism. We've all heard the accusations of its deluded victims. They cry that Communism has failed, that we've surrendered our principles, that since the introduction of NEP--our New Economic Policy--the Communist Party has been retreating, fleeing before a new form of private profiteering which now rules our country. They claim that we are holding power for the sake of power and have forgotten our ideals. Such is the whining of weaklings and cowards who cannot face practical reality. It is true that we've had to abandon the policy of Military Communism, which had brought us to the brink of total starvation. It is true that we've had to make concessions to private traders. What of it? A retreat is not a defeat. A temporary compromise is not a surrender. We were betrayed by the spineless, weak-kneed, anemic socialists of foreign countries who sold out their working masses to their bourgeois masters. The World Revolution, which was to make a pure world Communism possible, has been delayed. We, therefore, have had to compromise, for the time being. We have had to abandon our theories of pure Communism and come down to earth, to the prosaic task of economic reconstruction. Some may think it a slow, drab, uninspiring process; but loyal Communists know the epic grandeur of our new economic front. Loyal Communists know the revolutionary value and significance of our ration cards, our Primuses, the lines at our co-operatives. Our great leader, Comrade Lenin, with his usual farsightedness, warned us several years ago against the danger of being 'over-idealistic.' That perilous fallacy has smitten some of our best heads. It has taken from us the man who had been one of our first leaders--Leon Trotsky. None of his past services to the Proletariat could redeem the treachery of his assertion that we've betrayed Communism. His followers have been thrown out of our ranks. That is why we've had Party purges. That is why these purges will continue. We must follow, with absolute discipline, the program dictated by our Party--and not the petty doubts and personal opinions of the few who still think of themselves and of their so-called conscience in terms of bourgeois individualism. We don't need those who take a selfish, old-fashioned pride in the purity of their own convictions. We need those who are not afraid of a little compromise. We don't need the obstinate, unbending Communist of iron. The new Communist is of rubber! Idealism, comrades, is a good thing in its proper amount. Too much of it is like too much of a good old wine: one's liable to lose one's head. Let this be a warning to any of Trotsky's secret sympathizers who might still remain within the Party: no past services, no past record will save them from the axe of the next Party purge. They are traitors and they will be kicked out, no matter who they are or what they've been!"

  Hands applauded clamorously. Then the still, black rows of jackets broke into motion; men rose; the meeting was closed.

  They gathered in groups, whispering excitedly. They giggled, muffling the sound with a hand pressed to a mouth. They pointed furtively at a few solitary figures. Behind the huge checkered windows, the lead of the sky was turning to a dark blue steel.

  "Congratulations, pal," someone slapped Pavel Syerov's shoulder. "I heard you've been elected vice-president of the Railroad Workers Union's Club of Leninism."

  "Yes," Syerov answered modestly.

  "Good luck, Pavlusha. You're an example of activity for all of us to follow. No worries about Party purges for you."

  "I've always striven to keep my Party loyalty above suspicion," Syerov answered modestly.

  "Say, pal, you see, it's still two weeks till the first of the month and I've . . . well . . . I'm slightly in need of cash . . . and . . . well . . . I thought maybe. . . ."

  "Sure," said Syerov, opening his wallet, "with pleasure."

  "You never turn a friend down, Pavlusha. And you always seem to have enough to . . ."

  "Just being economical with my salary," Syerov said modestly.

  Comrade Sonia was waving her short arms, trying to plough her way through an eager group that followed her persistently. She was snapping at them: "I'm sorry, comrade, that's out of the question. . . . Yes, comrade, I'll be glad to give you an appointment. Call my secretary at the Zhenotdel. . . . You will find it wise to follow my suggestion, comrade.
. . . I'd be happy to address your Circle, comrade, but unfortunately, I'm giving a lecture at a Rabfac Club at that hour. . . ."

  Victor had taken the bearded speaker of the meeting aside and was whispering eagerly, persuasively: "I received my diploma at the Institute two weeks ago, comrade. . . . You understand that the job I'm holding at present is quite unsatisfactory for a full-fledged engineer and . . ."

  "I know, Comrade Dunaev, I know the position you desire. Personally, I know of no better man to fill it. And I'd do anything in my power for the husband of my friend Marisha Lavrova. But . . ." He looked around cautiously, over the rim of his pince-nez, and drew closer to Victor, lowering his voice. "Just between you and me, comrade, there's a grave obstacle in your way. You understand that that hydroelectric project is the most stupendous undertaking of the republic at present, and every job connected with it is assigned with particular caution and . . ." his voice dropped to a whisper, "your Party record is magnificent, Comrade Dunaev, but you know how it is, there are always those inclined to suspicion, and . . . Frankly, I've heard it said that your social past . . . your father and family, you know . . . But don't give up hope. I'll do all I can for you."

  Andrei Taganov stood alone in an emptying row of chairs. He was buttoning his leather jacket slowly. His eyes were fixed on the flaming scarlet banner above the lectern.

  At the top of the stairs, on his way out, he was stopped by Comrade Sonia.

  "Well, Comrade Taganov," she asked loudly, so that others turned to look at them, "what did you think of the speech?"

  "It was explicit," Andrei answered slowly, all the syllables of his voice alike, as grains of lead.

  "Don't you agree with the speaker?"

  "I prefer not to discuss it."

  "Oh, you don't have to," she smiled pleasantly. "You don't have to. I know--we know--what you think. But what I'd like you to answer is this: why do you think you are entitled to your own thoughts? Against those of the majority of your Collective? Or is the majority's will sufficient for you, Comrade Taganov? Or is Comrade Taganov becoming an individualist?"

  "I'm very sorry, Comrade Sonia, but I'm in a hurry."

  "It's all right with me, Comrade Taganov. I have nothing more to say. Just a little advice, from a friend: remember that the speech has made it plain what awaits those who think themselves smarter than the Party."

  Andrei walked slowly down the stairs. It was dark. Far below, a bluish gleam showed a floor of polished marble. A street lamp beyond the tall window threw a blue square of light, checkered into panes, on the wall by the staircase; little shadows of raindrops rolled slowly down the wall. Andrei walked down, his body slender, erect, unhurried, steady, the kind of body that in centuries past had worn the armor of a Roman, the mail of a crusader; it wore a leather jacket now.

  Its tall, black shadow moved slowly across the blue square of light and raindrops on the wall.

  Victor came home. He flung his coat on a chair in the lobby and kicked his galoshes into a corner. The galoshes upset an umbrella stand that clattered down to the floor. Victor did not stop to pick it up.

  In the dining room, Marisha sat before a pile of opened volumes, bending her head to one side, writing studiously, biting her pencil. Vasili Ivanovitch sat by a window, carving a wooden box. Acia sat on the floor, mixing sawdust, potato peelings and sunflower-seed shells in a broken bowl.

  "Dinner ready?" snapped Victor.

  Marisha fluttered up to throw her arms around him. "Not . . . not quite, darling," she apologized. "Irina's been busy and I have this thesis to write for tomorrow and . . ."

  He threw her arms off impatiently and walked out, slamming the door. He went down a dim corridor to Irina's room. He threw the door open without knocking. Irina stood by the window, in Sasha's arms, his lips on hers. She jerked away from him; she cried: "Victor!", her voice choked with indignation. Victor wheeled about without a word and slammed the door behind him.

  He returned to the dining room. He roared at Marisha: "Why the hell isn't the bed made in our room? The room's like a pigsty. What have you been doing all day?"

  "But darling," she faltered, "I . . . I've been at the Rabfac, and then at the Lenin's Library meeting, and the Wall Newspaper's Editorial Board, and then there's this thesis on Electrification I have to read tomorrow at the Club, and I don't know a thing about Electrification and I've had to read so much and . . ."

  "Well, go and see if you can heat something on the Primus. I expect to be fed when I come home."

  "Yes, dear."

  She gathered her books swiftly, nervously. She hurried, pressing the heavy pile to her breast, dropped two books by the door, bent awkwardly to pick them up, and went out.

  "Father," said Victor, "why don't you get a job?"

  Vasili Ivanovitch raised his head slowly and looked at him. "What's the matter, Victor?" he asked.

  "Nothing. Nothing at all. Only it's rather foolish to be registered as an unemployed bourgeois and be constantly under suspicion."

  "Victor, we haven't discussed our political views for a long time, you know. But if you want to hear it--I will not work for your government so long as I live."

  "But surely, Father, you're not hoping still that . . ."

  "What I'm hoping is not to be discussed with a Party man. And if you're tired of the expense . . ."

  "Oh, no, Father, of course it isn't that."

  Sasha passed through the dining room on his way out. He shook hands with Vasili Ivanovitch. He patted Acia's head. He went out without a word or a glance at Victor.

  "Irina, I want to speak to you," said Victor.

  "What is it?" she asked.

  "I want to speak to you--alone."

  "Anything you have to say, Father may hear it."

  "Very well. It's about that man," he pointed at the door that had closed behind Sasha.

  "Yes?"

  "I hope you realize the infernal situation."

  "No. I don't. What situation?"

  "Do you know with what type of man you're carrying on an affair?"

  "I'm not carrying on any affair. Sasha and I are engaged."

  Victor jerked forward, opening his mouth and closing it again, then said slowly, with an effort to control himself: "Irina, that's utterly impossible."

  She stood before him, her eyes steady, menacing, scornful. She asked: "Is it? Just exactly why?"

  He leaned toward her, his mouth twitching. "Listen," he hissed, "don't make any useless denials. I know what your Sasha Chernov is. He's up to his neck in counter-revolutionary plots. It's none of my business. I'm keeping my mouth shut. But it won't be long before others in the Party discover it. You know the end for bright lads like him. Do you expect me to stand by and watch my sister marrying a counter-revolutionary? What do you think it will do to my Party standing?"

  "What it will do to your Party standing or to yourself," Irina said with meticulous precision, "concerns me less than the cat's leavings on the back stairs."

  "Irina!" Vasili Ivanovitch gasped. Victor whirled upon him.

  "You tell her!" Victor roared. "It's hard enough to get anywhere with the millstone of this family tied around my neck! You can roll straight down to hell, if you all enjoy it so nobly, but I'll be damned if you're going to drag me along!"

  "But, Victor," Vasili Ivanovitch said quietly, "there's nothing either you or I can do about it. Your sister loves him. She has a right to her own happiness. God knows, she's had little enough of it these last few years."

  "If you're so afraid for your damn Party hide," said Irina, "I'll get out of here. I'm making enough for myself. I could starve on my own on what one of your Red clubs considers a living salary! I've have gone long ago, if it weren't for Father and Acia!"

  "Irina," Vasili Ivanovitch moaned, "you won't do that!"

  "In other words," Victor asked, "you refuse to give up that young fool?"

  "And also," Irina answered, "I refuse to discuss him with you."

  "Very well," said Victor, "I've warned
you."

  "Victor!" Vasili Ivanovitch cried. "You're--you're not going to harm Sasha, are you?"

  "Don't worry," Irina hissed, "he won't. It would be too compromising for his Party standing!"

  Kira met Vava Milovskaia in the street, but could hardly recognize her, and it was Vava who approached timidly, muttering: "How are you, Kira?"

  Vava wore an old felt hat made over from her father's derby, with a broken brim that looked as if it had not been brushed for days. One black curl hung carelessly over her right cheek, her mouth was smeared unevenly with a faded, purplish lipstick, and her little nose was shiny, but her eyes were dull; her eyes looked swollen, aged, indifferent.

  "Vava, I haven't seen you for such a long time. How are you?"

  "I'm . . . I'm married, Kira."

  "You . . . Why, congratulations. . . . When?"

  "Thanks. Two weeks ago." Vava's eyes were looking away; she muttered, staring at the street: "I . . . we . . . we didn't have a big wedding, so we didn't invite anyone. Just the family. You see, it was a church wedding, and Kolya didn't want that known at the office where he works."

  "Kolya . . . ?"

  "Yes, Kolya Smiatkin, you probably don't remember him, you met him at my party, though. . . . That's what I am now: Citizen Smiatkina. . . . He works at the Tobacco Trust, and it's not a very big job, but they say he'll get a raise. . . . He's a very nice boy . . . he . . . he loves me very much. . . . Why shouldn't I have married him?"

  "I didn't say you shouldn't have, Vava."

  "What is there to wait for? What can one do with oneself, these days, if one isn't . . . if one isn't a. . . . What I like about you, Kira, is that you're the first person who didn't say she wished me to be happy!"

  "But I do wish it, Vava."

  "Well, I'm happy!" She tossed her head defiantly. "I'm perfectly happy!"

  Vava's hand in a soiled glove rested on Kira's arm; she hesitated, as if she feared Kira's presence, and closed her fingers tighter over Kira's arm, as if she were afraid to let her go, as if she were hanging on desperately to something she did not want to utter. Then she whispered, looking away: "Kira . . . do you think . . . he's happy?"

  "Victor is not a person who cares about being happy," Kira answered slowly.

  "I wouldn't mind . . ." Vava whispered, "I wouldn't mind . . . if she were pretty. . . . But I saw her. . . . Oh, well, anyway, it doesn't concern me at all. Not in the least. . . . I'd like you to come over and visit us, Kira, you and Leo. Only . . . only we haven't found a place to live yet. I moved into Kolya's room, because . . . because my old room . . . well, Father didn't approve, you see, so I thought it would be better to move out. And Kolya's room--it's a former storage closet in a big apartment, and it's so small that we . . . But when we find a room, I'll invite you to come over and . . . Well, I have to run along. . . . Good-bye, Kira."