All Russia will recall the day of glorious Borodino.
Then printed in capitals, in Nikolka's hand:
1 hereby forbid the scribbling of nonsense on this stove. Any comrade found guilty of doing so will be shot and deprived of civil rights, signed: Abraham Goldblatt,
Ladies, Gentlemen's and Women's Tailor. Commissar, Podol District Committee.
30th January 1918.
The patterned tiles were luxuriously hot, the black clock going tonk-tank, tonk-tank, as it had done for thirty years.
The elder Turbin, clean-shaven and fair-haired, grown older and more sombre since October 25th 1917, wearing an army officer's tunic with huge bellows pockets, blue breeches and soft new slippers, in his favourite attitude - in an upright armchair.
At his feet on a stool Nikolka with his forelock, his legs stretched out almost as far as the sideboard - the dining-room was not big - and shod in his buckled boots.
Gently and softly Nikolka strummed at his beloved guitar, vaguely . . . everything was still so confused.
The City was full of unease, of vague foreboding . . .
On his shoulders Nikolka wore sergeant's shoulder-straps to which were sewn the white stripes of an officer cadet, and on his left sleeve a sharp-pointed tricolor chevron. (Infantry, No. 1 Detachment, 3rd Squad.
Formed four days ago in view of impending events.)
Yet despite these events, all was well inside the Turbins' home:
it was warm and comfortable and the cream-colored blinds were drawn - so warm that the two brothers felt pleasantly languorous.
The elder dropped his book and stretched.
'Come on, play
"The Survey Squad".'
Thrum-ta-ta-tum, thrum-ta-ta-tum . . .
'Who look the smartest?
Who move the fastest?
The Cadets of the Engineers!'
Alexei began to hum the tune.
His eyes were grim, but there was a sparkle in them and his blood quickened.
But not too loud, gentlemen, not too loud . . .
'No need to run, girls, Life can be fun, girls -'
The guitar strummed away in time to the marching feet of an engineer company - left, right, left, right!
In his mind's eye Nikolka saw a school building, peeling classical columns, guns.
Cadets crawling from window to window, firing.
Machine-guns at the windows.
A handful of soldiers was besieging the school, literally a handful.
But it was no use.
General Bogoroditzky had turned yellow and surrendered, surrendered with all his cadets.
The shame of it . . .
'No need to run, girls, Life can be fun, girls -The Survey Squad is here!'
Nikolka's eyes clouded again.
Heat-haze over the red-brown Ukrainian fields.
Companies of cadets, white with powdery dust, marching along the dusty tracks. All over now.
The shame . . .
Hell.
Elena pushed aside the drapes over the door, and her auburn head appeared in the dark gap.
She glanced affectionately at her brothers but anxiously at the clock.
With good reason; where on earth was Talberg?
Their sister was worried.
To hide it, she started to sing the tune with her brothers, but suddenly stopped and raised her finger.
'Wait.
Did you hear that?'
On all seven strings the company came to a halt.
All three listened. There was no mistaking the sound: gunfire.
Low, muffled and distant.
There it was again: boo-oo-om . . .