And you will hear this, like music—for the first time on the whole of your journey from the West up till then.
Now Roslavl is choked and drowned. There is neither sugar nor salt in the town. In the streets fugitives stop you and ask,
"Friend, where can I buy any salt here? I've been trying to get some all day."
"Little father, where can we get any sugar? Even if it's only half a pound or a quarter of a pound."
You go into a baker's shop and ask:
"Have you any white bread?"
The shopman looks at you in wonder.
"We bake no white. Only black, and even that's all taken for the fugitives."