November 1916

by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn

  Comes down heavy? What does that mean? Comes down heavy!

  But those words lodged in Katya’s head. A mystery—but there, somewhere, was the answer.

  She had been worried about it ever since, sure that there was something worth knowing.

  What if Senka came back not just the dear man he had always been but somehow … frightening? No, not frightening. More masterful, say.

  Before the war it sometimes happened that a gang of boys would go girl hunting, and when they caught one they would lift her skirt and rope it around her arms and above her head. Sometimes it was just horseplay—making a girl run around blindfolded and half naked, just for fun. But sometimes it was to punish a girl who, as they saw it, had misbehaved. In such cases they would also whip their victim with their belts. When word of it reached the other girls, they would cluck like frightened hens. There would be such oohing and aahing. Could any punishment be more dreadful and more shaming? They asked God to spare them such rough handling, and cursed and vilified those young men. Whoever they might be: their captive would not have recognized them in the dark. Katya joined in the chorus, throwing up her hands, clutching her head, screwing up her eyes in horror, but behind her closed eyelids, in a secret place that nobody else could see, she wondered: What if he were the one? What if she knew him by his voice or his hand, or because her heart told her? Told her he was doing it not to shame her in the eyes of the village, but to make her know her future master? Her arms would be pinned, her eyes would see nothing, all she could do would be to run—but what if her legs wouldn’t work, what if her will failed her, and she just crashed to the ground?

  Delicious terror.

  We see how furiously the cock treads a hen, anyone would think he’d claw her to death … but she picks herself up, shakes herself as if after a bath, and effortlessly lays an egg.

  Arseni, big and strong as he was, far from using his strength on Katya, was afraid of crushing her in his great paws, and anyway he used to say, thinking of others as well as her, “Women, even while they’re girls, have to be treated gently.” Katya sometimes said, “Senya, you’re too easy on me! If you overdo the kindness, I may turn bad,” but he would only laugh: “Turn bad? Never, not you.”

  It was true, of course—all the tricks she got up to, all her anxious efforts, had one purpose only—to win his approval.

  But in the second year of the war Katya had got that funny idea into her head. Would she ever dare mention it when her husband came home? Mention what? She couldn’t have said herself.

  When he did come, it was out of the blue. No letter. All of a sudden—there he was, on the doorstep. Too big to fit in any doorway, head higher than any lintel—her lord and master! Katya was in a spin, she rushed around three times faster than usual, finished her chores, got the bathhouse ready, and all the time she was tripping and skipping her heart was pounding. What now? What should she expect?

  She didn’t think for a moment that he would thrash her. It was to have been a joke: “You aren’t going to thrash me, are you?” But what came out was: “Aren’t you going to thrash me?” She lifted the twigs slowly, suddenly numb with horror, she didn’t really mean it, her hands were shaking, but they raised the twigs of their own accord.

  “You mean you’ve …” Senka yelled.

  As if she would! How could he think it of her! It was a game she was playing.

  “No, don’t!” Katya screamed, shaking her head violently, hair flying.

  But he was already taking the birch from her. Now he was holding it.

  “No, no!” Katya screamed again and again, but she had closed her eyes tight. Closed her eyes. Why? If she had looked him in the eye he would have believed her! As it was …

  He did not believe her!

  The voice she heard was a new and frightening one, not Senka’s voice at all.

  “All right, pull your dress up!”

  She only had to open her eyes and speak up, say no, I never did … But her voice had gone. Her head went down, lower, lower, without her willing it. Her hands too—down, down, gripping her skirt.

  Then Senka was saying still more harshly, “Higher! Higher! And get down on the floor!”

  A voice so ferocious there would be no pity.

  At the last moment, her head still uncovered, she looked into his eyes … eyes dilated with rage!

  “No, Senya love, no! There never was anybody else!”

  She didn’t know whether it was a shout or a whisper.

  “Get down, I said,” he thundered, brandishing the birch twigs.

  He didn’t push her, though. Didn’t press her down onto the floor. If he had she would have sprung up. But he didn’t.

  Submissively, covering—and uncovering—herself, she sank to her knees, then lower until she was prone, her unseeing head and her elbows on the bathhouse floor.

  Then—a searing sensation, this way, that way, a scorching pain, not like the glow you get from the twigs on the bathhouse shelf. She hadn’t expected it to be so painful, to burn like that! Again and again and again! And she couldn’t defend herself with her hands, her hands had gone into hiding! She resented being beaten, and for nothing, but she did not cry out again.

  He went on whipping her, without a word.

  She was sorry for herself, her defenseless self, and she shed silent tears. But she did not cry out. She wept into her hands, and into her skirt, just wriggling slightly at each broad, stinging stroke of the forty-twig broom, but not trying to dodge it.

  From hamstring to midriff she felt a burning, tearing pain—for offenses never committed, for others yet to come—or rather so that they wouldn’t. For no fault at all. Humbling herself to her master.

  She wept and waited for him to stop, for his anger to pass.

  For mercy to prevail.

  He paused. Said, still furiously, “Why don’t you tell me? Who was it?”

  She wept. She sobbed.

  He waited.

  Brought down the birch twice, more gently. Straight along the spine, more like a bathhouse caress.

  “Who’ve you been with? Why don’t you tell me?”

  She went on sobbing. Couldn’t get a word out in answer.

  He bent down low, close to her, and said, no longer angry, but frightened, “Katya, little one?!”

  He it was who drew back her skirt from her head. He turned her face toward his—and she said, “There wasn’t anybody, Senya love! I shut myself up all the time you were away.”

  Senya was stupefied.

  “So why didn’t you say so?”

  “I did, I shouted to you!”

  “Well, you didn’t shout loud enough!”

  Katya turned to lie on her skirt with her cheek against the floor.

  “So why didn’t you jump up? Why didn’t you get out of the way?”

  Katya went on crying.

  Then he bent right down to the floor, his face close to hers, and said in a low voice, “Why did you lie there so quiet?”

  “Quiet? You ought to try it!”

  “So why was I beating you?” he asked, frowning.

  She smiled through her last tears.

  “It’s all right. You’re my master. I know now I have to obey you.”

  She brought her lips close to him and began kissing him. Over and over again.

  As for Senya …

  He picked her up and carried her like a child.

  Nursed her.

  Kissed better the place where the birch had hurt her. Her dress had clung to her back and softened the blows.

  … They forgot that Fenya might be waiting for Katya, and that her mother-in-law might want her help at the stove, but they no longer cared what the others might think, or whether neighbors had gathered … they just stayed on and on in the bathhouse.

  It had never been like that before. That fierce glow from head to foot.

  Days are short after the Feast of the Protection, dusk comes early. By now there was little light through the small bathhouse window. They cou
ld have lit the wicks standing in saucers of mutton fat on the window ledge, but the reflected light from outside was enough for eyes accustomed to it, and more than they needed.

  It was dark when they left the bathhouse and went over to the hayloft. No one had looked for them, and no one noticed. There was no light in the cottage now, nor in neighbors’ houses. Almost the whole village was in darkness.

  The children were left in the cottage for Domanya to look after. In the hayloft Katya made up a bed on a feather mattress she herself had stuffed, and laid a sheepskin coat on top.

  The sheepskin alone was enough to make them feel unbearably hot, and they uncovered themselves again.

  There were no gaps in the roof overhead and it was darker up there than outside. But the light slanting through cracks lower down showed that there was a moon behind the clouds.

  They felt no desire to sleep. They talked far into the night. It was a rambling conversation. Katya kept interrupting Arseni to tell him about the children’s little ways and how clever they were and how much Sevastyan, young as he was, was like his father in character. Or else to ask him something about army life.

  But what they talked about most, and agreed on most readily, was their future. The war was bound to end someday, and Senka, God willing, would come home unhurt. What sort of life would they make for themselves then? Senka had brought with him a rumor that George medalists would be given allotments after the war, seven desyatins a man. Life would really be worth living! Yes, but, Senya, people around here are saying every peasant will be given a bigger allotment after the war. But where will they get all the extra land from? From the landowners, of course, and the Crown Lands Office, and all those different banks. They’ll find it all right. Who says Russia’s short of land? It’s just that those who’ve got it don’t want to let go of it. But even if they cheat us again we won’t sit back with our arms folded. We’ll move onto a spread of our own, maybe buy a bit more land, it’ll be paid for sooner or later, and the two of us together, loving each other, and with the children God’s sent us … it’ll be pure happiness, working to pay the debt off first, then to make ourselves comfortable. All good things have to be worked for. And what you work hard for isn’t a rolling stone—it’s brick laid on brick. Katya was saving up her family allowance already, she didn’t spend what her father-in-law handed back on gewgaws, it would all be kept and would come in handy. Only—money was worth less all the time. They had to have a separate holding—nothing else would do, had to have their land around them, within a single boundary, not in different strips moving around every few years. They were young and healthy, and they had every chance if, God willing, Senya came through unhurt. Maybe his father would like to join in and make it a bigger holding? Well, there was time to think about that. He’d most likely want to stay put, but he’d help just the same. That would be safest. Starting a separate holding would take a lot of money.

  Was there anything Katya didn’t know about farm work? She could do it all. But what she liked best was geese. They would build their home close to a stream, or at any rate a pond, or in a pinch they’d dig themselves a pond. And raise lots of geese.

  Katya could go on about geese till you told her to stop. What clever birds they were! If, say, a goose was sitting on eggs and the stove hadn’t been lit for two days, she wouldn’t drink! She had the sense to know that if she had to go out into the yard the eggs would get cold. Geese never made water indoors. Katya knew the right time for everything. At first snow, you fed male goslings grain for twelve days, then killed them right away. Let it go a single day longer and feathers started forming, then you’d have to wait another twelve days, twice as long. Once a goose started laying, you had to feed her chaff, no hard grain at all. The proper way for geese to live was three females to a male. Four, and the gander would wear himself out. For five geese you needed two ganders. Where the real skill came in, though, was in choosing your ganders, judging their points as males. If a gander’s got nineteen feathers in his tail, he’s fine; if he’s got eighteen, don’t keep him. Open his wing feathers out: little black spots at their base mean he’s strong, white patches mean he’s a weakling. The layers of feathers under the wing—it could be two or three or four—showed you how many geese he can tread.

  “Listen—what made you remember my back?”

  “I remember every bit of you.”

  “If I get killed, will you still remember?”

  She snuggled up close, as close as she could.

  It was late, and they were at peace, and should have been going off to sleep. But no. The itch was there again.

  “Only, Senya dear, my back hurts terribly,” Katya said.

  “I’m not surprised!”

  “Only, Senya dear, what if … what if there’s another one?”

  “He’s just what we need,” Senya said lightheartedly.

  “What if it’s a girl again?”

  “Let them all come!”

  “And another one after that?”

  “Why not!”

  Life could be beautiful!

  * * *

  IF HEART AND HEAD ARE STRONG,

  YOU WON’T WANT FOR LONG.

  * * *

  [37]

  Their meetings in the Stüssihof restaurant were known as the Skittle Club, although there was no skittle alley.

  “… The Swiss government is the executive committee of the bourgeoisie …”

  “Skittle Club” was somebody’s idea of a joke: their politics made no sense, but plenty of noise.

  “… The Swiss government is a pawn in the hands of the military clique …”

  But they had cheerfully adopted the name. We’ll knock the capitalists down like ninepins!

  (He had educated them. He had cured them of religion. He had implanted in them an appreciation of the historical role of violence.)

  “… The Swiss government is shamelessly selling out the masses to the financial magnates.”

  It was some years now since Nobs had started the discussion table in the restaurant on Stüssihof Square. He had brought together the younger people, the activists. Then Lenin had gradually started coming.

  (How many humiliations he had had to endure in this conceited country! The Social Democrats in Bern had always looked down on him. When he had moved to Zurich last spring he had tried to get a few Russian émigrés together for lectures—but the few who came at all had soon drifted away. Then he had transferred his attentions to the young Swiss. Some men of forty-seven might think it beneath their dignity—fishing for baby-faced supporters and working them over one by one—but if you could wrest a single one of them from the opportunist Grimm it was time well spent.)

  “… The Swiss government is toadying to European reaction and encroaching on the democratic rights of the people.”

  Across the table sits simpleminded, broad-faced Platten, the fitter (since he had broken his arm he had been a draftsman, but fitter sounded more proletarian). His big face is busy absorbing what is said—it is all so difficult. His brow is knotted and his soft ripe lips pursed with effort, helping his eyes and ears not to miss a word.

  “… Swiss Social Democrats must show complete lack of confidence in their government …”

  The table has been made longer for a jolly Swiss gathering. No cloth covers, its planed surface pitted with knotholes, polished by a century of elbows and plates. All nine of them have arranged themselves on two benches, giving themselves plenty of room, and one place is blocked by a pillar. Some have ordered snacks, some beer, just to keep up appearances, and because the Swiss always do. (Everyone pays for himself.) A lantern hangs from the pillar.

  That elongated, triangular face under the unruly lick of hair, the keenest face there, belongs to Willi Münzenberg, the German from Erfurt. He is very quick on the uptake, and in fact it’s all much too slow for him. His long restless hands reach out for more. These are the clichés he rings out himself at public meetings.

  (He’d had luck with the younger
people in Zurich. There were half a dozen of them here—all youth leaders. Not like in 1914, when he had sent Inessa to see the Swiss leftists—Naine was fishing, Graber helping his wife to hang the washing out—and nobody wanted to know.)

  “… We must learn not to trust our governments …”

  Lenin is at the corner of the table by the pillar, which conceals him from one side. Nobs is at the far end, diagonally opposite, as far out of range as possible, watchful, ingratiating, catlike. He started it all—does he now regret it? In years he is one of them—they are all around thirty—but in party status, in self-importance, and even in girth he has ceased or is ceasing to belong.

  Over every table hangs a lamp of a different color. The one over the Skittle Club is red. A reddish light plays on every face—Platten’s broad open features, the black forelock and starched collar of the self-assured and foppish Mimiola, Radek’s unkempt and tousled curls, his irremovable pipe, his permanently parted wet lips.

  “… In every country stir up hatred of your own government! This is the only work worthy of a socialist …”

  (Work with the young was the only thing worth doing. There was nothing humiliating about it. It was simply taking the long view. Grimm wasn’t so very old—he was eleven years Lenin’s junior—but he already had a handhold on power. He wasn’t stupid, but theory was over his head. He didn’t want an armed rising, yet he had leftish hankerings. When Lenin had entered Switzerland in 1914, mentioning Greulich’s name, and established himself there with Grimm as his sponsor, they had met and talked far into the night. Grimm had asked, “What do you think the Swiss Social Democrats should do in the present situation?” To see what he was made of, Lenin had answered in a flash, “I would immediately declare civil war!” For a moment Grimm was scared. But then he had decided that it was just a joke.)

  “… The neutrality of Switzerland is a bourgeois fraud and means submission to the imperialist war …”