"Lots of working class people can write well nowadays," said her husband, who saw some good in Communism.
"And what does it get them? I haven't seen a priest in sixteen years and two months."
"Shut up, old woman," said the old postmaster, rather kindly. The package was interesting. It was addressed:
Hold for Comrade I. Loginov
Due to Report for Work at Nakhtakhu this Summer Nakhtakhu, Maritime Territory, R.S.F.S.R.
He shook the package. Nothing rattled. Then he shook his head. "Drop it on the floor, Ivan," said the old woman, "accidentally, like."
Ivan lifted the package high above his head and brought it down with a slam against the floor, so that a corner of the paper wrapping burst open. The elaborate criss-cross of knotted string — four or five kinds of string, tied tightly together — kept the package intact except for the corner.
Husband and wife looked at the corner.
At last he spoke, "It's a jacket. A leather jacket."
"But it's an old one," she said.