'We ought to go straight off to the bazaar now and smash in some of the Yids' shop windows.
I once did . . .'
'Don't speak Russian.'
'This woman's suffocating!
Clear a space!'
'Kha-a-a-a
Shoulder to shoulder, unable to turn, from the side chapels, from the choir-lofts, down step after step the crowd slowly moved out of the cathedral in one heaving mass.
On the wall frescoes the brown painted figures of fat-legged buffoons, of unknown antiquity, danced and played the bagpipes.
Half suffocated, half intoxicated by carbon dioxide, smoke and incense the crowd
flowed noisily out of the doors, the general hum occasionally pierced by the strangled cries of women in pain.
Pickpockets, hat brims pulled low, worked hard and with steady concentration, their skilled hands slipping expertly between sticky clumps of compressed human flesh.
The crowd rustled and buzzed above the scraping of a thousand feet.
'Oh Lord God . . .'
'Jesus Christ . . .
Holy Mary, queen of heaven . . .'
'I wish I hadn't come.
What is supposed to be happening?'
'I don't care if you are being crushed . . .'
'My watch! My silver watch! It's gone!
I only bought it yesterday . . .'
'This may be the last service in this cathedral . . .'
'What language were they holding the service in, I didn't understand?'
'In God's language, dear.'
'It's been strictly forbidden to use Russian in church any more.'
'What's that?
Aren't we allowed to use our own Orthodox language any more?'
'They pulled her ear-rings off and tore half her ears away at the same time . . .'
'Hey, cossacks, stop that man!
He's a spy!
A Bolshevik spy!'
'This isn't Russia any longer, mister.
This is the Ukraine now.'
'Oh my God, look at those soldiers - wearing pigtails . . .'
'Oh, I'm going ... to faint . . .'
'This woman's feeling bad.'
'We're all feeling bad, dear.
Everybody's feeling terrible.
Look out, you'll poke my eye out - stop pushing!
What's the matter with you?
Gone crazy?'
'Down with Russia!
Up the Ukraine!'
'There ought to be a police cordon here, Ivan Ivanovich. Do you remember the celebrations in 1912?
Ah, those were the days . . .'
'So you want Bloody Nicholas back again, do you?
Ah, we know your sort ... we know what you're thinking.'
'Keep away from me, for Christ's sake.
I'm not in your way, so keep your hands to yourself . . .'
'God, let's hope we get out of here soon . . . get a breath of fresh air.'
'I won't make it.