26
PARTISAN REVIEW
To Krymov, the fire in the power station was somehow remi–
niscent of the bonfires in Okhotniy Ryad on that night in January
1924 when they had buried Lenin.
Everyone else who had stayed behind seemed to be already
asleep .
It
was pitch-dark. Krymov lay there with his eyes open,
thinking and remembering . . .
There had been a harsh frost for some days. The dark winter sky
over the cupolas of Strastnaya monastery. Hundreds of men wear–
ing greatcoats, leather jackets, caps with ear-flaps, pointed helmets
.. . At one moment Strastnaya Square had suddenly turned white.
There were leaflets, government proclamations, lying all over it.
Lenin's body had been taken from Gorki to the railway station
on a peasant sledge. The runners squeaked, the horses snorted. The
coffin had been followed by his widow, Krupskaya, wearing a round
fur cap held on by a grey headscarf, his two sisters , Anna and
Maria, his friends, and some of the village peasants. It might have
been the funeral of some agronomist, of a respected village doctor or
teacher.
Silence had fallen over Gorki . The polished tiles of the Dutch
stoves had gleamed; beside the bed with its white summer bedspread
stood a small cupboard full of little bottles with white labels; there
was a smell of medicine. A middle-aged woman in a white coat had
come into the room; out of habit she walked on tiptoe. She had gone
past the bed and picked up a ball of twine with a piece of newspaper
tied to the end. The kitten asleep in the empty armchair had looked
up as it heard the familiar rustle of its toy; it had looked at the empty
bed, yawned and then settled down again.
As they followed the coffin, Lenin's relatives and close com–
rades had begun reminiscing. His sisters remembered a little boy
with fair hair and a difficult character. He had teased them a lot and
been impossibly demanding. Still, he had been a good boy and he
had loved his mother and his brothers and sisters.
His widow remembered him in Zurich, squatting on the floor
and talking to the little granddaughter of Tilly the landlady . Tilly
had said, in the Swiss accent that Volodya found so amusing:
"You should have children yourselves."
He had stolen a quick, sly look at Nadyezhada Konstantinovna.
Workers from the 'Dynamo' factory had come to Gorki. Volodya
had forgotten his condition and got up to meet them . He had wanted
to say something, but had only managed to give a pitiful moan and a
despairing wave of the hand. The workers had stood around in a cir-
