The Early Ayn Rand

"No," said the militia man, "you can't cross the street, citizen. What's the hurry? Don'tcha see there's a demonstration of the toilers?"

A string of women waddled down Nevsky, spreading to fill its broad expanse, stopping the trucks and tramways, mud flying in little spurts from under heavy shoes. The red banner at the head of the demonstration said:

"The Women of the First Factory of the Red Food-trust Protest Against the Imperialistic Greed of England and Lord Chamberlain!"

The women hid their hands in their armpits, to warm them, and sang:

"We are the young red guard

and our aim is set. We're told: don't hang your guns

and bravely march ahead..."

* * *

"No," said the drunken sailor in the darkness under the window, on the street far below, "I ain't gonna stop. I'm a free citizen. To hell with your sleep."

And he pulled the harmonica as if he were going to tear it apart, and it squealed in terror, and he sang, leaning against a lamp post, throwing his raucous words at the moon over the dark roofs above:

"Vanka 'nd Mashka fell in love

and he swore by stars above

1 will treat you good

and I'll buy you wood

and the wood is pure birch-tree

lots of heat for you and me'...

La mtsa -d ritsa -tsa -tsa!"

* * *

"No," said the Upravdom, "you can't be no exception, citizen. Even if you are a student. Social duty comes above all. Every tenant gotta attend the meeting."

So Kira sat in the long, bare room, the largest in the house, in the apartment of a tramway conductor. Behind her sat Galina Petrovna in her oldest dress, and Alexander Dimitrievitch stretching out his run-down boots, and Lydia shivering in a torn shawl. Every tenant in the house was present. The apartment had electrical connections and one bulb burned in the center of the ceiling. The tenants chewed sunflower seeds.

"Seeing as how I'm the Upravdom," said the Upravdom, "I declare this meeting of the tenants of the house... on Moika open. On the order of the day is the question as regards the chimneys. Now, comrades citizens, seeing as how we are all responsible citizens and conscious of the proper class consciousness, we gotta understand that this ain't the old days when we had landlords and didn't care what happened to the house we lived in. Now this is different, comrades. Owing to the new regime and the dictatorship of the proletariat, and seeing as how the chimneys are clogged we gotta do something about it, seeing as how we're the owners of the house. Now if the chimneys are clogged, the stoves won't burn, and if the stoves won't burn we'll have the house full of smoke, and if we have the house full of smoke — it's sloppy, and if we're sloppy — that's not true proletarian discipline. And so, comrades citizens..."

The smell of food burning came from the hall and a housewife fidgeted nervously, glancing anxiously at the clock. A fat man in a red shirt was twiddling his thumbs. A young man, with a pale mouth hanging open, was scratching his head, occasionally producing something which he rolled in his fingers and dropped on the floor.

"... and the special assessment will be divided in proportion as to the... Is that you, Comrade Argounova, trying to sneak out? Well, you better don't. You know what we think of people what sabotage their social duties. You better teach your young one the proper consciousness, Citizen Argounova... And the special assessment will be divided in proportion as to the social standing of the tenants. The workers pay three percent, and the free professions, ten, and the private traders the rest... Who's for — raise your hands... Comrade Secretary, count the citizens' hands... Who's against — raise your hands... Comrade Michliuk, you can't raise your hand for and against on the one and same proposition..."

In the mornings — there was millet and the smell of kerosene when there was no wood, and smoke when there was no kerosene.

In the evenings — there was millet, and Lydia rocking back and forth on a rickety chair, moaning:

"The pagans! The sacrilegious apostates! They're taking the ikons, and the gold crosses from the churches. To feed their damn famine somewhere. No respect for anything

sacred. What're we coming to?"

And Galina Petrovna wailed:

"What's Europe waiting for? How far do we have to go?"

And Alexander Dimitrievitch asked timidly:

"May I, Galina? Just a spoonful more?"

And Maria Petrovna came to visit, trembling by the stove, coughing as if her chest were torn into shreds, fighting with words and coughs: