April 25, 1919

I love Petrograd! Through the car window one can already see the chimneys, the churches, and the roofs, roofs, roofs. And the vast, smoke laden sky stretches over it all. God, how my heart is beating! One minute more and I shall be there!

I jumped out on the platform and was at once over-come. People are shouting, hustling, and running about. I have brought some food with me. I am taking it to my hungry papa, and it seems that, at the weighing-stations, every bit of food is being requisitioned. A large crowd has gathered around the militiamen. The people cry and curse. Will they really requisition my supplies, too?

Thank God! I slipped by the weighing-station successfully. Heavens, what is this? It is already ten minutes to six by the station-clock! And the tram runs only till six. And I have far to go! To the Port! Will I make it?

I hurry through the station, paying no heed to anyone. Elbowing my way, right and left. And I know, I know, that my two pitiful braids are swinging disgracefully behind me. I am sure everybody is laughing. And I am wearing a hat, at that. … I have come to Petrograd to work. I am now fifteen years old.

Like one possessed, I ran out upon Znamenski Square. How brazen those boys are! How they pester me, “Miss, Miss, a wagon!”

“Now then, you wildcats, away with you! There, you’ve got the young lady all upset.”

I raise my eyes and thank the man, almost with tears.

His face is plain, broad, red-cheeked. His eyes are remarkably kind. And he has a long, blond beard. Surely, he will not cheat me.

“Let me carry your things, miss. Don’t worry, everything will be all right. … Just come over to the tram.”

“Thank you, thank you. I want Number Five. Which one is it? … Please. … Lord, where are you putting me? I have to go to the Port! And where does this go to? Where?”

“Hurry up, hurry up, lady! You’ll miss the last tram. This is just the right one! To Vasilievski.” And I hear someone on the platform saying:

“To Vasilievski; this goes to Vasilievski.”

Thank God, I have made it. I look back and see that the muzhik has his hand outstretched:

‘‘How ’bout a little tip, miss?”