“Good day, little sister,” he answered.
“Would you drive me to the city?” I asked.
“Great God! How is it possible? The Bolsheviks are fighting in front of the city, and they don’t let anybody pass,” he said.
“But people do go sometimes, don’t they?”
“Yes, sometimes they do.”
“Well, I will give you fifty roubles for driving me to the city,” I offered.
The moujik scratched his neck, reconsidering the matter.
“But aren’t you a political?” he inquired cautiously.
“No,” I assured him, “I am not.”
He went into the cabin to talk it over with his baba. It was a tempting offer and her consent was apparently quickly obtained, for he soon returned and said: