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320 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1923
Our armored car rushed pellmell through the city. The dark streets were alive with people, standing around in small groups. They said that the police were shooting here and there.
They had been standing on the Sampsonievsky Bridge, had seen some policemen, but the police hadn’t succeeded in shooting at them: they had all scattered. In some places people were already breaking into wine cellars.
After the explosion, the soldiers, surrounded by enemies and waiting for the rolling stock, began to collect and put together the bodies of their friends that had been torn into pieces.
This took a long time.
Of course, many body parts got confused. An officer went up to a long row of corpses lying side by side.
The final corpse was assembled from leftover pieces.
He had the trunk of a big man. Attached to it was a small head, and on his breast, there were two small uneven arms, both of them left.
The officer looked at this for quite a while, then he sat down upon the earth, and roared, and roared, and roared with laughter…
The train carried several wagons of coffins with black inscriptions in tar, in quick cursive writing:
COFFINS BACK
If you die, they’ll bring you to Kursk and bury you in a burned down forest. The coffin goes back. Recycling.
We came to a station and saw a passenger train packed with people, with compressed masses. They were climbing into the windows, which was dangerous: others could take your boots off while you were climbing in.
First, I was sitting on the buffer; an abundance of people was on the roofs; Russia flowing somewhere, slowly like black pitch.