606-914
Consulting hours: 4 pm to 6 pm.
He stuck a piece of paper over it, altering the consulting hours to:
'5 pm to 7 pm', and strode off up St Alexei's Hill.
'Voice of Liberty!'
Turbin stopped, bought a paper from a newsboy and unfolded it as he went:
THE VOICE OF LIBERTY. A non-party, democratic newspaper.
Published daily.
December 13th 1918.
The problems of foreign trade and, in particular of trade with Germany, oblige us . . .
'Come on, hurry up!
My hands are freezing.'
Our correspondent reports that in Odessa negotiations are in progress for the disembarkation of two divisions of black colonial troops - Consul Enno does not admit that Petlyura ...
'Dammit boy, give me my copy!'
Deserters who reached our headquarters at Post-Volynsk described the increasing breakdown in the ranks of Petlyura's bands.
Three days ago a cavalry regiment in the Korosten region opened fire on an infantry regiment of nationalist riflemen.
A strong urge for peace is now noticeable in Petlyura's bands.
Petlyura's ridiculous enterprise is heading for collapse.
According to the same deserter Colonel Bol-botun, who has rebelled against Petlyura, has set off in an unknown direction together with his regiment and four guns.
Bolbotun is inclined to support the Hetmanite cause.
The peasants hate Petlyura for his requisitioning policy.
The mobilisation, which he has decreed in the villages, is having no success.
Masses of peasants are evading it by hiding in the woods.
'Let's suppose . . . damn thiscold . . .
Sorry.'
'Hey, quit pushing.
Why don't you read your paper at home . ..'
'Sorry.'
We have always stressed that Petlyura's bid for power . . .
'Petlyura - the scoundrel.
They're all rogues . . .'
Every honest man and true Volunteers - what about you?
'What's the matter with you today, Ivan Ivanovich?'
'My wife's caught a dose of Petlyura.
This morning she did a Bolbotun and left me . . .'
Turbin grimaced at this joke, furiously crumpled up his newspaper and threw it down on the sidewalk.
Then he pricked up his ears.
Boo-oom, rumbled the guns, answered by a muffled roar from beyond the City that seemed to come from the bowels of the earth.
'What the hell?'
Alexei Turbin turned sharply on his heel, picked up his scrap of newspaper, smoothed it out and carefully re-read the report on the first page:
In the Irpen region there have been clashes between our patrols and groups of Petlyura's bandits . . .
All quiet in the Serebryansk sector.
No change in the Red Tavern district.
Near Boyarka a regiment of Hetmanite cossacks dispersed a fifteen-hundred strong band.
Two men were taken prisoner.
Boo-oo-oom roared the gray winter sky far away to the south west.
Suddenly Turbin opened his mouth and turned pale.
Mechanically he stuffed the newspaper into his pocket.
A crowd of people was slowly moving out of the boulevard and along Vladimirskaya Street.
The roadway was full of people in black overcoats . . .