'Is it true ...
Is it true ...
Is it true ...
Is it true . . .?' *
A reconnaissance troop of Bolbotun's force, led by Sergeant Galanba, was trotting down the deserted Millionnaya Street.
Then, if you can believe it, a front door opened and out of it, straight towards the troop of five lancers, ran none other than Yakov Grigorievich Feldman, the well-known army contractor.
Had he gone mad, running out into the streets at a time like this?
He certainly looked crazy.
His sealskin fur hat had slipped down on to the back of his neck, his overcoat was undone and he was staring wildly around him.
Yakov Grigorievich Feldman had reason to look crazy.
As soon as the firing had begun at the Military Academy, there came a groan from his wife's bedroom.
Another groan, and then silence.
'Oi, weh', said Yakov Grigorievich as he heard the groan. He looked out of the window and decided that the situation looked very bad indeed.
Nothing but empty streets and gunfire.
There came another groan, louder this time, which cut Yakov Grigorievich to the heart.
His stooping old mother put her head round the bedroom door and shrieked:
'Yasha!
D'you hear?
She's started!'
All Yakov Grigorievich's thoughts turned in one direction - to the little house on the corner of Millionnaya Street with its familiar, rusting sign with gold lettering: E.
T. Shadnrskaya Registered Midwife
It was dangerous enough on Millionnaya Street, even though it was not a main thoroughfare, as they were firing along it from Pechorskaya Square towards the upper part of town.
If only he could just hop across ...
If only. . . .
His hat on the back of his head, terror in his eyes, Yakov Grigorievich started to creep along close to the wall.
'Halt!
Where d'you think you're going?'
Sergeant Galanba turned around in the saddle.
Feldman's face turned purple, his eyes swivelling as he saw that the lancers wore the green cockades of Petlyura's Ukrainian cavalry.
'I'm a peaceful citizen, sir.
My wife's just going to have a baby.
I have to fetch the midwife.'
'The midwife, eh?
Then why are you skulking along like that? Eh? You filthy little yid?'
'Sir. I....'
Like a snake the sergeant's whip curled around his fur collar and his neck.
Hellish pain.
Feldman screamed.
His colour changed from purple to white and he had a vision of his wife's face.
'Identity papers!'
Feldman pulled out his wallet, opened it, took out the first piece of paper that came to hand and then he shuddered as he suddenly remembered . . .
Oh my God, what have I done?
Why did he have to choose that piece of paper?
But how could he be expected to remember, when he has just run out of doors, when his wife is in labor?
Woe to Feldman!
In a flash Sergeant Galanba snatched the document.
Just a thin scrap of paper with a rubber stamp on it, but it it spelled death for Feldman:
The Bearer of this pass, Mr Y. G. Feldman, is hereby permitted freely to enter and leave the City on official business in connection with supplying the armored-car units of the City garrison. He is also permitted to move freely about the City after 12 o'clock midnight.
Signed: Chief of Supply Services Illarionov, Major-General
Executive Officer Leshchinsky, 1st Lieutenant.