We the Living

by Ayn Rand

  Irina kissed Acia and Marisha. Victor approached her, his face frozen in anxious concern: "Irina, I'm so sorry. . . . I don't understand. . . . I'll see what I can do and . . ."

  Her eyes stopped him; they were looking at him fixedly; they looked suddenly like the eyes of Maria Petrovna in the old portrait. She turned and followed the soldiers, without a word. She went first; Sasha and Vasili Ivanovitch followed.

  Vasili Ivanovitch was released in three days.

  Sasha Chernov was sentenced to ten years in a Siberian prison, for counter-revolutionary activity.

  Irina Dunaeva was sentenced to ten years in a Siberian prison, for assisting a counter-revolutionary.

  Vasili Ivanovitch tried to see officials, got a few letters of introduction to a few assistant secretaries, spent hours huddled in the corners of unheated waiting rooms, made telephone calls, trying to keep his voice from trembling. Nothing could be done and he knew it.

  When he came home, he did not speak to Victor. He did not look at Victor. He did not ask for Victor's help.

  Marisha, alone, greeted Vasili Ivanovitch when he came home. She said timidly: "Here, Vasili Ivanovitch, have some dinner. I cooked the noodle soup you like--for you, specially." She blushed, grateful and embarrassed, when he answered with a silent, absent-minded smile.

  Vasili Ivanovitch saw Irina in a cell of the G.P.U. He locked himself in his room for many hours and cried silently, happily, on the day when he arranged for her last request to be granted. She had asked permission to marry Sasha before they were sent away.

  The wedding was performed in a bare hall of the G.P.U. Armed guards stood at the door. Vasili Ivanovitch and Kira were the witnesses. Sasha's lips twitched. Irina was very calm. She had been calm ever since her arrest. She looked a little thinner, a little paler; her skin seemed transparent; her eyes too big; her fingers were steady on Sasha's arm. She raised her face for his kiss after the ceremony, with a tender, compassionate smile.

  The official whom Vasili Ivanovitch saw on the following day said: "Well, you got what you wanted. Only I don't see what good that fool rigmarole will do them. Don't you know that their prisons are three hundred and fifty kilometers apart?"

  "No," said Vasili Ivanovitch and sat down heavily. "I didn't know that."

  But Irina had expected it. That had been the reason for the wedding; she had hoped it would influence the decision. It had not.

  It was Vasili Ivanovitch's last crusade. No one could appeal a sentence of the G.P.U. But a prison assignment could be changed; if he could get the proper influence, the proper connections. . . . Vasili Ivanovitch rose at dawn. Marisha forced him to swallow a cup of black coffee, stopping him in the lobby on his way out, pushing the mug into his hands, trembling in her long nightgown. Night found him in a casino lobby, pushing his way through a crowd, crumpling his hat in both hands, stopping an imposing figure he had been expecting for hours, saying softly: "Comrade Commissar . . . just a few words . . . please . . . Comrade Commissar . . ." He was thrown out by an attendant in uniform, once, and lost his hat.

  He made appointments and obtained interviews. He entered a solemn office, his old, patched coat brushed thoroughly, his shoes shined, his white hair parted neatly. He stood before a desk, and his tall shoulders that had carried a heavy rifle through many dark nights, through many Siberian forests, many years ago, sagged helplessly. He looked into a stern face and said:

  "Comrade Commissar, that's all I ask. Just that. It's not much, is it? Just send them to the same place. I know they've been counter-revolutionaries and you have a right to punish them. I'm not complaining, Comrade Commissar. It's ten years, you know, but that's all right. Only send them to the same place. What difference does it make to you? What difference does it make to the State? They're so young. They love each other. It's ten years, but you know and I know that they'll never come back--it's Siberia, and the cold and the hunger, and the conditions . . ."

  "What's that?" a stern voice interrupted him.

  "Comrade Commissar, I . . . I didn't mean anything . . . No . . . I didn't mean . . . Only suppose they get sick or something? Irina is not very strong. They're not sentenced to death. And while they're alive--couldn't you let them be together? It would mean so much to them--and so little to anyone else. I'm an old man, Comrade Commissar, and she's my daughter. I know Siberia. It would help me, if I knew that she wasn't alone--there--that she had a man with her, her husband. I'm not sure I know how to ask you, Comrade Commissar, but you must forgive me. You see, I've never asked a favor in my life. You probably think that I'm indignant and hate you all in my heart. But I don't. I won't. Just do that one thing--that last thing--send them to the same prison--and I'll bless you as long as I live."

  He was refused.

  "I heard the whole story," said Andrei, when Kira spoke to him about it. "Do you know who denounced Irina?"

  "No," said Kira, and turned away, and added: "I suspect it, though. Don't tell me. I don't want to hear it."

  "I won't."

  "I didn't want to ask for your help, Andrei. I know I can't expect you to intercede for a counter-revolutionary, but couldn't you ask them to change her prison assignment and have them sent to the same place? It wouldn't be treason on your part, and it really makes no difference to your officials."

  He held her hand and said: "Certainly. I'll try."

  In an office of the G.P.U., the executive looked at Andrei coldly and asked:

  "Pleading for a . . . relative, aren't you, Comrade Taganov?"

  "I don't understand you, comrade," Andrei answered slowly, looking straight at him.

  "Oh, yes, I think you do. And I think you should understand that keeping a mistress who is the daughter of a former factory owner, is not the best way to strengthen your Party standing. . . . Don't look startled, Comrade Taganov. You really didn't think it was unknown to us, did you? And you working in the G.P.U.! You surprise me."

  "My personal affairs . . ."

  "Your what kind of affairs, Comrade Taganov?"

  "If you're speaking of Citizen Argounova . . ."

  "I am speaking of Citizen Argounova. And I'd suggest that you use some of the methods and authority which your position gives you, to investigate Citizen Argounova a little--for your own sake, while we're on the subject."

  "I know everything I have to know about Citizen Argounova. You don't have to bring her into this. She is absolutely blameless politically."

  "Oh, politically? And in other respects?"

  "If you're speaking as my superior, I refuse to listen to anything about Citizen Argounova except her political standing."

  "Very well. I don't have to say anything. I was speaking merely as a friend. You should be careful, Comrade Taganov. You don't have many friends left--in the Party."

  Andrei could do nothing to change Irina's sentence.

  "Hell!" said Leo, dipping his head into a basin of cold water, for he had come home very late the night before, "I'm going to see that skunk Syerov. He has a big boy friend in the G.P.U. He'll have to do something if I tell him to."

  "I wish you'd try, Leo," said Kira.

  "The damned sadists! What difference should it make to them if the poor kids rot together in their infernal prison? They know they'll never come back alive."

  "Don't tell him that, Leo. Ask him nicely."

  "I'll ask him nicely!"

  In Pavel Syerov's outer office, the secretary sat typing intently, biting her lower lip. Ten visitors were waiting before the wooden railing. Leo walked straight through the office, swung the little gate open and threw at the secretary:

  "I want to see Comrade Syerov. At once."

  "But, citizen," the secretary gasped, "you're not allowed to . . ."

  "I said I want to see him at once."

  "Comrade Syerov is very busy, citizen, and there are all these citizens here waiting, and he can't see you out of turn . . ."

  "You go and tell him it's Lev Kovalensky. He'll see me fast enough."

  The secretary
rose and backed into Syerov's office, staring at Leo, as if she expected him to draw a gun. She returned, looking more frightened, and said, gulping: "Go right in, Citizen Kovalensky."

  When the door closed and they were alone, Pavel Syerov jumped up and hissed at Leo, his voice a muffled roar: "You damn fool! Are you insane? How dare you come here?"

  Leo laughed, his icy laughter that was like a master's hand slapping an insolent slave's face. "You're not speaking to me, are you?" he asked. "Particularly when you're worried about caution?"

  "Get out of here! I can't talk to you here!"

  "You don't have to," said Leo, sitting down comfortably. "I'll do the talking."

  "Do you realize whom you're talking to? You're demented or else I've never seen insolence in my life!"

  "Repeat that to yourself," said Leo, "with my compliments."

  "Hell!" said Syerov, dropping into his chair. "What do you want?"

  "You have a friend in the G.P.U."

  "I'm glad you remember that."

  "I do. That's why I'm here. I have two friends sentenced to ten years in Siberia. They've just been married. They're being sent to prisons hundreds of kilometers apart. I want you to see that they're sent together, to the same place."

  "Uh-huh," said Pavel Syerov. "I've heard about the case. A beautiful example of Party loyalty on the part of Comrade Victor Dunaev."

  "Don't you think it's slightly ludicrous, you talking of Party loyalty to me?"

  "Well, what are you going to do, if I don't lift a finger about the case?"

  "You know," said Leo. "I could do a lot."

  "Sure," said Syerov complaisantly. "I know you could. I also know you won't. Because, you see, to drown me, you'd have to be the stone tied around my neck, and I don't think you'll go that far in your noble unselfishness."

  "Listen," said Leo, "drop the official pose. We're both crooks, and you know it, and we hate each other, and we both know it, but we're in the same boat and it's not a very steady one. Don't you think it would be wiser if we helped each other as much as we could?"

  "Yes, I sure do. And your part of it is to keep as far away from here as you can. And if you weren't so damn blinded by your old patrician arrogance, which it's about time to forget, you'd know better than to ask me to intercede for any cousins of yours, which would be as good as posting on a poster my exact connection with you."

  "You damn coward!"

  "Well, maybe I am. And maybe it would do you good to acquire some of the same quality. You'd better not come around demanding any favors from me. You'd better remember that even if we are chained together--for the time being--I have more opportunities than you to break the chain."

  Leo rose. At the door he turned and said: "As you wish. Only it would have been wiser of you--in case the chain is ever in my hands. . . ."

  "Yes. And it would have been wiser of you if you hadn't come here--in case it's ever in mine. . . . And listen," he lowered his voice, "you can do something for me and you'd better do it. Tell that hog Morozov to send the money. He's late again on the last deal. I told him I'm not to be kept waiting."

  Marisha said hesitantly, trying not to look at Victor: "Listen, don't you think that if I saw someone and asked . . . You know, just to send them to the same prison . . . it wouldn't make any difference to anyone . . . and . . ."

  Victor seized her wrist and swung her around so savagely that she squealed with pain. "Listen," he said through his teeth, "you should keep as far out of it as your fool legs will carry you. It would be fine for me, wouldn't it? My wife begging for counter-revolutionaries!"

  "But it's only . . ."

  "Listen! You breathe only one word--understand?--just one to any friend of yours--and you'll get a divorce notice the next morning!"

  That night, Vasili Ivanovitch came home, looking calmer than usual. He took off his coat and folded his gloves neatly, meticulously on the mirror-stand in the lobby. He did not look at the dinner Marisha had set out for him in the dining room. He said: "Victor, I want to speak to you."

  Victor followed him reluctantly to his office.

  Vasili Ivanovitch did not sit down. He stood, his hands hanging limply by his sides, and looked at his son.

  "Victor," said Vasili Ivanovitch, "you know what I might say. But I won't say it. I won't ask questions. It's a strange time we're living in. Many years ago, I felt sure of what I thought. I knew when I was right and I knew when to condemn. I can't do it now. I don't know whether I can condemn anyone for anything. There's so much horror and suffering around us that I don't want to brand anyone as guilty. We're poor, bewildered creatures--all of us--who suffer so much and know so little! I can't blame you for anything you might have done. I don't know your reasons. I won't ask. I know I won't understand. No one understands each other these days. You're my son, Victor. I love you. I can't help it, as you can't help being what you are. You see, I've wanted a son ever since I was younger than you are now. I've never trusted men. And so I wanted a man of my own, at whom I could look proudly, directly, as I'm looking at you now. When you were a little boy, Victor, you cut your finger, once, a deep cut, clear to the bone. You came in from the garden to have it bandaged. Your lips were blue, but you didn't cry. You didn't make a sound. Your mother was so angry at me because I laughed happily. But, you see, I was proud of you. I knew I would always be proud of you. . . . You know, you were so funny, when your mother made you wear a velvet suit with a big lace collar. You were so angry--and so pretty! You had curly hair . . . Well, all that doesn't matter. It's only that I can't say anything against you, Victor. I can't think anything against you. So I won't question you. I'll only ask you for one favor: you can't save your sister, I know it; but ask your friends--I know you have friends who can do it--just ask them to have her sent to the same prison with Sasha. Just that. It won't interfere with the sentence and it won't compromise you. It's one last favor to her--a death-bed favor, Victor, for you know you'll never see her again. Just do that--and the book will be closed. I'll never look back. I'll never try to read some of the pages which I don't want to see. That will settle all our accounts. I'll still go on having a son, and even if it's hard, sometimes, not to think, one can do it, these days, one has to, and you'll help me. Just one favor, in exchange for . . . in exchange for all that's past."

  "Father," said Victor, "you must believe me, I'd do anything in my power, if I could. . . . I've tried, but . . ."

  "Victor, we won't argue. I'm not asking whether you can do it. I know you can. Don't explain. Just say yes or no. Only, if it's no, Victor, then it's the end for you and me. Then I have no son any longer. There's a limit, Victor, to how much I can forgive."

  "But, Father, it is thoroughly impossible, and . . ."

  "Victor, I said if it's no, I have no son any longer. Think of how much I've lost these last few years. Now what is the answer?"

  "I can do nothing."

  Vasili Ivanovitch straightened his shoulders slowly, the two lines that cut his cheeks, from his nostrils to the corners of his mouth, looked set, firm, emotionless. He turned and walked to the door.

  "Where are you going?" Victor asked.

  "That," said Vasili Ivanovitch, "does not concern you any longer."

  In the dining room, Marisha and Acia were sitting at the table, staring at the plates of a cold dinner they had not touched.

  "Acia," said Vasili Ivanovitch, "get your coat and hat."

  "Father!" Marisha's chair clattered back as she leaped to her feet; it was the first time she had ever addressed that word to Vasili Ivanovitch.

  "Marisha," Vasili Ivanovitch said gently, "I'll telephone you in a few days . . . when I find a place to live. Will you then send my things over . . . what's left of mine here?"

  "You can't go!" said Marisha, her voice breaking. "With no job and no money and . . . This is your house."

  "This is your husband's house," said Vasili Ivanovitch. "Come on, Acia."

  "May I take my stamp collection along?" Acia muttered.

&nbs
p; "Take your stamp collection along."

  Marisha knelt on the window sill, her nose flattened against the glass, her back heaving in silent sobs, and watched them go. Vasili Ivanovitch's shoulders drooped and, under the street lantern, she could see the white patch of his bare neck, between the collar of his old coat and the black fur cap on his bowed head; he held Acia's hand, and her arm was stretched up to his, and she seemed very small next to his huge bulk; she shuffled obediently, heels first, through a brown slush, and clutched the big stamp album to her breast.

  Kira saw Irina in a cell of the G.P.U. on the evening of her departure. Irina smiled calmly; her smile was soft, wondering; her eyes, in a face that looked like wax, stared at Kira gently, vaguely, as if fixed, with quiet astonishment, on something distant that she was struggling to understand.

  "I'll send you mittens," said Kira, trying to smile, "woolen ones. Only I warn you, I'll knit them myself, so don't be surprised if you won't be able to wear them."

  "No," said Irina, "but you can send me a snapshot. It will look nice: Kira Argounova knitting!"

  "And you know," said Kira, "you've never given me that drawing you promised."

  "That's right, I haven't. Father has them all. Tell him to let you select any that you want. Tell him I said so. Still, it's not what I promised you. I promised a real portrait of Leo."

  "Well, we'll have to wait for that till you come back."

  "Yes." Then she jerked her head and laughed. "It's nice of you, Kira, only you don't have to fool me. I'm not afraid. But I know. Remember, when they sent those University students to Siberia? You don't hear of any of them coming back. It's the scurvy or consumption, or both. . . . Oh, it's all right. I know it."

  "Irina . . ."

  "Come on, we don't have to be emotional, even if it is the last time. . . . There's something I wanted to ask you, Kira. You don't have to answer, if you don't want to, it's just curiosity: what is there between you and Andrei Taganov?"

  "I've been his mistress for over a year," said Kira. "You see, Leo's aunt in Berlin didn't . . ."

  "It's just as I thought. Well, kid, I don't know which one of us needs more courage to face the future."