The Samovar Girl

by Frederick Ferdinand Moore

Peter checked his thoughts in that direction. It seemed strange that he should refer to himself as an American. America was now very far away, a dim vista in his memory, hard to realize, like an old dream faintly remembered. It seemed odd that America had receded so far into the background of his mind. For was he not a Russian? Yes, he knew that he was Russian to the core. His Americanism had never been anything but an outer shell, a readjustment to new conditions, a learning of new things, and a new life. But he had not changed—only the clothes upon his back. True, he thought, the clothes would serve a purpose. Who would ever suspect that an American officer had come to Chita to do what he hoped to do? Who would ever suspect that the American lieutenant, Peter Gordon, could be Peter Petrovitch Gorekin, the son of an unfortunate?

He entered the city again, this time far to the right of where he had gone up the slope, and rambled along the Sofistkaya till he came to the old post-house again—the restaurant. He went in, and found a few soldiers sitting about tables talking and playing games. He took a table to himself and when the gypsy girl came for his order, he called for vodka. He was chilled by his walk on the hill and his spirits were depressed by the prison. The liquor warmed him.

The restaurant was a dirty place. The old plank floors were spotted with mud where the ice-balls from the heels of patrons had melted, and the blackened log rafters were cobwebby and sooty. There was an ancient icon in the corner. The walls had been partly stripped of a moldy old paper so that the yellow plaster showed through the gashes. And here, as in the hotel, there were bullet craters.

Peter finished his glass of vodka and went out again. He hurried back toward the hotel, but he had not gone far when he espied in between two modern buildings and well back from the street, an old hut—an isba of the old days. He stopped in his tracks and stared at it. The building was not more than eight feet square, of single story, with a small window under the eaves. There was a rude chimney of stones at one end. A sign over the door told that cigarettes, matches, and holy cards were sold within.

Peter went in between the two buildings and pushed open the low and sagging door of the hut. There was an old man sitting on a bench under the window with a newspaper—a thin old hulk of a graybeard with a face shrouded in white whiskers that were stained yellow about his hidden mouth. He wore a tiny black skullcap on his head which brought out the bleached whiteness of his whiskers and the pallor of his crinkled forehead. His hands were tucked in the sleeves of his ragged old coat, and he huddled up toward the smoldering fire in the ancient fire-pit.

Startled by Peter’s entrance, the old man thrust the newspaper behind him quickly. As he got to his feet he kicked the paper out of sight behind a box. He stood looking at Peter with questioning eyes, knowing that there was something strange about the visitor but not being able to tell what in the vague light coming through the frosted window.

“Do you sell cigarettes here?” asked Peter.

“Yes, I sell cigarettes here,” croaked the graybeard. “Is it that you have come for cigarettes to this poor place—you, who are dressed in odd clothes?”

“What else should I come for?” asked Peter pleasantly. “Do you think I have come to rob you?”

The old one appeared relieved, but he was still on his guard.