by Teffi
“Not much.”
“But how about you giving a public reading now? I’d advertise it, in great big letters, on every post and pillar and on every wall. Ri-ight? Yes, in great big letters: An Upstanding Program . . .”
“Outstanding, I think you mean.”
“Out where?”
“Outstanding. The program.”
“All right then—outstanding. I’m not one to argue. Why would I rock the boat over a few split hairs? And we could add: An Outstounding Triumph.”
“Astounding, I think you mean.”
“You ladies and your delicate nerves! So now you don’t want your ‘Out’ after all. Well, neither do I. After all, everyone writes ‘upstanding’—why would I want to stand out!”
Suddenly he stopped, looked around and asked in a whisper, “Perhaps you need some foreign currency?”
“No. What for?”
“For Constantinople.”
“But I’m not leaving Odessa.”
“Aren’t you?”
He looked at me doubtfully.
“Are you sure? Well, if that’s what you say . . .”
It seemed he did not believe me.
“What makes you think I’m going to Constantinople? Who put that idea into your head?”
Gooskin’s reply was enigmatic: “Perhaps I have ideas in my head anyway.”
I was at a loss. I just stared at the dove-gray Gooskin, at the impatient tails of the donkeys, at the fiercely grinning negroes. Was it those dark faces that had turned Gooskin’s thoughts to Constantinople?
Strange . . .
15
THE DAYS began to fly faster still, as if fleeing in fright.
How many more days were there? Not many. Three? Four? Perhaps six? I don’t remember.
But one morning I was woken by voices, stamping feet, and slamming doors.
I got up.
I was met by a strange sight. Everyone scurrying about, dragging trunks, suitcases, bundles, and cardboard boxes down the corridor. Doors left wide open. Scraps of paper everywhere, and pieces of string.
Were all of these people being thrown out? Well, I’d find out soon enough.
The lobby was a great heap of baggage—baggage of every kind. People were bustling about, exchanging anxious whispers, pressing money on one another, talking about passes and travel permits. And all in a state of great alarm. Flushed, eyes on stalks, arms spread, hats pushed to the back of their heads.
Clearly the military headquarters was about to arrive: Did this mean I was going to be thrown out too?
Just in case, I went back, took my dresses from the wardrobe and my linen from the chest of drawers, quickly stuffed everything into my trunk, and set off toward the editorial office.
There they were sure to know everything.
But what I saw out on the street was still more unexpected. Once again the black soldiers were driving the donkeys along, only this time the donkeys were going back down toward the sea, their tails to the city. The soldiers were beating them with sticks, and they were going at a fast trot.
What could all this mean?
Out of a laundry, with an armful of wet washing, runs a French soldier. At his heels are two shrieking washerwomen: “No! Stop! You’re not getting away with this! No! Might not even be yours!”
Steam billows out through the open door. Inside the laundry I see French soldiers snatching clothes from the hands of washer-women. Everyone screaming and shouting. And a solitary gentleman in a bowler hat.
What on earth is going on? Has war now been declared against washerwomen?
As I remember it, Odessa washerwomen truly were the scourge of God. What didn’t these women try to get away with? I remember one who refused to return half a dozen of my own handkerchiefs.
“You’ll be compensated,” she said haughtily.
“In what way?”
“I’m not charging you for the laundering of those handkerchiefs!”
At another laundry I saw more hand-to-hand combat.
“Madame Teffi!”
I turned round.
It was a man I barely knew—from Our Word, I think. He’d been running and he was out of breath.
“A fine state of affairs, isn’t it? They’ve unleashed a real panic. And here you are—strolling around as if you haven’t a care in the world. Don’t tell me you’ve done all your packing already!”
“Packing? Where for?”
“Where for? Constantinople.”
Why was everyone so eager to send me to Constantinople?
But he’d already run on ahead, waving his arms about and wiping his forehead.
What on earth had happened?
I had had visitors the day before—and not one of them had said a word about Constantinople. Was the whole of Odessa being evacuated? But why so suddenly?
The editorial office was in chaos.
“What’s happened?”
“What do you mean, ‘What’s happened?’? The French have abandoned us, that’s what’s happened. We’ve got no choice—we have to run.”
Constantinople. Now I understood.
We had rolled our way down the map, all the way from the north. We had thought we’d just stay a little while in Kiev, then go back home. I’d even joked with my fellow writers. I’d said, “See! Our tongues really have led us to Kiev!”[88]
We’d been forced all the way down the map. Now there was only the sea. We would have to swim for it. But where to?[89]
All kinds of schemes were being concocted.
Our Word was going to charter a large schooner, take all the staff, along with the rotary press and supplies of printing paper, and head under full sail for Novorossiisk.
But no one really believed even the words coming out of their own mouths.
“What about you?” they asked. “Where are you going?”
“Nowhere at all. I’m staying in Odessa.”
“But they’ll string you up.”
“That will be tiresome. But what else can I do?”
“Find some way to wangle yourself a pass—so they’ll let you on board some steamer or other. And get on with it—don’t waste time!”
I had absolutely no ability to “wangle” things for myself.[90]
Sitting on a windowsill in one of the editors’ rooms was Alexander Kugel.[91] He looked pale and unkempt and was evidently thinking aloud: “Where’s there to go? If they are already here . . . If no one can protect us . . . They seem to have the might. What if they have right on their side too?”
I went up to him, but he went on talking to himself, not even seeing me.
Still, it seemed most people really were leaving Odessa. And I couldn’t just stay there all on my own. I had to find a way to get out.
Only a month earlier, kind people had been exclaiming—with tears of rapture “of which they were not ashamed”—that should Odessa be evacuated they would see to it that I was first to board one of the ships. This was the moment to remind them about their promises.
I telephoned A, the lawyer. His daughter answered, “Papa’s not here.”
“Are you leaving?”
“N-no, nothing’s at all clear. I don’t know.”
I rang B.
His landlady answered. “They’ve left. All of them.”
“Where to?”
“To the ship. They got their passes long ago, from the French.”
“Oh! Really! Long ago . . .”
They too had made promises, and with tears in their eyes.
I wanted to have a word with one or two of my literary friends, but much of the city had been cordoned off by soldiers. Why? No one knew. No one knew anything at all.
“Why are the French leaving?”
“There’s been a secret telegram from France. France is having a revolution too. Now they’ve gone Communist, their troops can’t go on fighting our Bolsheviks.”
Revolution in France? What nonsense![92]
“They’re not really leaving,” said someone el
se. “They’re only pretending to leave. To fool the Bolsheviks.”
A lady I knew darted out of a hairdresser’s.
“It’s outrageous! I’ve been waiting for the last three hours. All the hairdressers are jam-packed. . . . Have you had your curls done already?”
“No,” I replied in bewilderment.
“What’s got into you? The Bolsheviks are coming and we have to leave. Are you telling me you’re going to leave without having your hair done first? Zinaida Petrovna’s no fool. She said: ‘I realized yesterday that things were getting serious, so I went and had a Marcel wave and a manicure straightaway!’ Now the hairdressers are all jam-packed. Well, I’m off . . .”
I was passing the home of the lawyer I’d phoned earlier, so I decided to call in and see if he could tell me anything.
His daughter opened the door.
“Papa’s still out. He’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
Their entire hall was heaped with clothes, linen, hats, and shoes. There were open trunks and suitcases, still only half full.
“Are you leaving?”
“I think so . . .”
“Where are you going?”
“Constantinople, I think. Although we don’t have any passes—Papa’s trying to arrange for some now. Very likely, we won’t go at all.”
The phone rang.
“Yes!” she shouted into the receiver. “Yes, yes. Together. Are the cabins next to each other? Wonderful! Papa’s coming to pick me up at seven.”
To spare the girl the embarrassment of realizing I would have overheard, I quietly opened the door and slipped out.
Out on the street I had another encounter.
It was a woman I knew, a native of Odessa. She was very excited, even elated.
“Darling!” she exclaimed. “You won’t believe it! It’s strong as hide. Quick—before it’s all gone.”
“What? Where?”
“Crêpe de chine. Wonderful quality! I’ve got myself a dress length. But what are you looking so surprised about? It’s an opportunity we can’t afford to miss. They’re selling it off cheap—otherwise it will all get confiscated by the Bolsheviks. Don’t just stand there! What are you waiting for?”
“Thank you, but I’m not quite in the mood.”
“Well, the shopkeeper’s not going to stand around waiting for your mood to change. And believe me—we may not know what the future holds in store, but we can be sure there’ll be no getting by without crêpe de chine.”
I called on some other friends, the Ns.
They didn’t know anything. They didn’t even know that the French troops were leaving. Nevertheless they too had seen troubling signs.
“Our friend Hammerbeak has moved in now. He’s taken over the living room. Listen!”
I listened.
The living room was at the far end of the corridor. I could hear the sound of a very unpleasant and rusty voice, singing:
Madame Lou-lou . . .
I love you-ou . . .
I understood. It was the voice of “Hammerbeak,” a very suspicious character indeed, who in the past used to scurry down the corridor with his face turned to the wall. One of the Ns’ visitors had recognized him and even told them his Party alias. Hammerbeak was a Bolshevik from Moscow.
He used to call on the Ns’ landlady, so he could eavesdrop and spy on everyone. At the same time he had whispered sweet nothings to her and flirted with her, since she wasn’t so very old and went about all day in a dress with a plunging neckline. The flesh this revealed was always generously dusted with a coating of flour-like powder. Her eyes bulged out from beneath their plump lids and she had a nose like an awl. In a word—love’s young dream.
Late in the evening, when she was done with the prose of denunciations, she would let out little dove-like coos: “Oh, oh! And where is my love? Where is my true joy?”
“Your true joy is right here beside you!” the rusty voice would reply.
And now her “true joy” was no longer in hiding. Her true joy had moved in the day before, with its basket of things, and had bellowed into the kitchen, “Annushka! Clean my breeches!”
The Bolsheviks were no longer in hiding.
The omens did indeed bode ill.
The Ns were not preparing to go anywhere. It was reassuring to know that at least some people were staying put.
I went back to my hotel.
The doormen had all disappeared. Almost all the rooms were empty, their doors wide open.
I’d only just got back when there was a knock at my door.
In flew K, someone I knew from Moscow.
“Ah, I came round a while ago. You don’t happen to have any money, do you? The banks are all closed and we’ve got no money for the journey. My wife’s at her wit’s end.”
“Where are you going?”
“Vladivostok. We’re leaving tonight on the Shilka. What about you?”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“You’re joking! You’re mad! Staying behind in a city that’s going to be handed over to gangsters! They say the Moldavanka’s already sharpening its knives. They’re just waiting for the last of the French troops to leave—then they’ll take over the whole of Odessa.”
“But what can I do?”
“We were quite certain you’d already arranged something. Come with us to Vladivostok. We’ve got a pass for the Shilka. We can take you with us.”
“Thank you. I’m very grateful.”
“Then be at the harbor at eight sharp, with all your luggage. Don’t forget—eight sharp!”
“Yes, of course. And give Leila a kiss from me.”
Now that something had been arranged, I realized just how much I wanted to leave. Now that I could gather my thoughts, I felt frightened. I could see what life would be like for me if I stayed. It wasn’t death itself that I was afraid of. I was afraid of maddened faces, of lanterns being shone in my eyes, of blind mindless rage. I was afraid of cold, of hunger, of darkness, of rifle butts banging on parquet floors. I was afraid of screams, of weeping, of gunshots, of the deaths of others. I was tired of it all. I wanted no more of it. I had had enough.
16
I OPENED my window.
I could hear shooting on one of the side streets.
I packed my things, then went downstairs.
The lobby had quieted down. There were still a few suitcases against the walls, but people were no longer bustling about. Even the hotel staff had disappeared. There was just a messenger boy, hanging about by the front door.
“Who’s doing the shooting?” I asked him.
“They’re just scaring the shpeculators away.”
“What speculators?”
“Currency shpeculators. The streets are full of ’em—just look round the corner. They sell foreign currency to the people who’re leaving. That’s why they’re shooting at ’em.”
The boy seemed to think this a good thing.
I went outside and glanced round the corner. A little way off, there were indeed many small groups of people, talking and waving their arms about.
A shot would ring out. The groups would slowly break up, then quickly re-form.
The boy stopped me. “No, not that way,” he said, “you might get shot. And you can’t go left neither—that way’s roped off.”
“Why?”
“ ’cos of the looters—to keep them from the International and the London. Them bourgeois and foreigners make rich pickings. The hotels is always first to get looted.”
This was not a comforting thought.
“Are there many people still here in the hotel?”
“Nope. Hardly anyone. All gone.”
To save time in the evening, when I’d have my luggage with me, I decided to go down to the harbor and see where the Shilka was moored.
The road down to the sea was still open.
The harbor seemed empty.
Further out, at anchor, lay the big ships: the Kherson, the Caucasus, the various ships from
other countries.
Among the barges moored to the quay I found the Shilka. It looked rather small. Had it really come all the way from Vladivostok? Across the Indian Ocean?
There wasn’t a soul on board, nor was there any smoke coming out of its funnel . . .
Well, I thought, there’s still plenty of time before eight o’clock.
After memorizing the location, I went back to the hotel.
I tried to telephone my friends, but the line was dead.
I tracked down the young messenger boy, and together we pulled my luggage down the stairs.
“Do you think I’ll be able to find a cab?”
“A cab? Well, er . . . If you want a cab, you must flag one down by the quay. You won’t find no cabs round here.”