Touching one of them on the shoulder, she said, “Tovarish, these tovarishes want to know who you are.”
At that not only he but all of them jumped to their feet, as though at military drill. One after the other gave his name, each with a “vich” or a “ski” on the end of it, stating also his occupation. As he finished he turned his head to the next, who took up the recital. The little woman with bobbed black hair and a curious bodice of blue proudly said she wore the Cross of Lenin on her dress because with him she had fought for Russia. This was the highest honor any woman in Russia could be paid; only a hundred had it.
Then the first man bowed politely to Tanya and with dignity said something to her. She interpreted to us, “They want to know who you are.”
“Tell them we’re Americans.”
“North Americans?” with great enthusiasm.
“Yes.”
Then question after question spattered like a machine gun. “Are you from Seattle? Portland? How did you get here? What way did you come? How long did it take you? How much did it cost? What has happened to Dillinger? What’s the latest news of the seamen’s strike on the Pacific Coast? How soon comes the Revolution?”
We were rather dazed at the degree of current information they had gleaned—chiefly from posters in the parks. Their bombardment continued. “Do women in America have as much freedom as men?” We all disagreed on that. “Can married women work for the Government? Can they teach school?” Some of us answered “No,” others, “Yes.” On every inquiry of theirs we were divided, but on whatever we asked them they were united.
“Who is your favorite American author?”
I answered, “I like Sinclair Lewis.”