The man was indeed dead when I reached him. He had a package of
something wrapped in paper--so I took it,--I thought it might be
something belonging to Ls.
All that was pretty bad, and I did not know how to get away,--my
position being really a poor one in a strategic sense of the word.
I had to escape without attracting too much attention. When I was
thinking over how to do it--a voice called:
"Bist du dort, Swartz?"
"Ja wohl!" I answered as nonchalantly as I could, having covered my
mouth with my glove, "soll' ich noch warten?"
"We'll be through in a minute. Wait a while!"
I did not wait. Through wind and snow, crawling like an Indian, I
passed the dangerous spot near the gate where I could be seen, then
hurried home, almost crying for the poor Ls., and Pasha--such a sweet
girl, probably at that moment being nationalized--condemning all and
everything and especially the impossibility of helping my unfortunate
friends. All was frozen inside of me, due to the cold and this fear of
a helpless creature.
When I was about a score of yards from the house--shooting started
behind me--just as idiotic as in Petrograd or Moscow: in every
direction, bullets cracking the windows, the street lamps, the
passers-by,--on this occasion myself,--I got a bad one in the sleeve,
right near the elbow.
I did not have to knock at the door as I feared running home: the door
flew open, and Lucie dragged me in, closing the door behind me on the
lever.
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