Summer 1995 • Vol. XVII No. 3/4 European Voices |

Katya

'In old Russia,' says Katya, raising blue eyelids, 'There were no thieves. You would knock on a door, If you were traveling on pilgrimage, Then people would open, at all times of day. They would give you a bed, for God's sake, and your supper— It is very hard, now, to find somewhere to stay.' 'I have three fridges,' says Katya, 'a big one In which I have put—do you say? half a cow? Oh and milk; many things. When the winter has gone April is dirty. The snows melt and run. But it is not as cold as when I was a child—Thirty-eight below zero. Why are you not Christian?' The rattling train slows. 'No one calls me Katya, But my close friends, my mother, and so. Ykaterina Vladimirovna!' She chants to the rails. At their trancing pace Boris, in charge, pads the corridors With his long cigarette, his creased, brown, anxious face. Her silver cross glints. 'Though I live with Boris, I never would call him familiar names. In Russia, you know, we respect one who is Older than u

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Count Orlov

By Alison Brackenbury

'In old Russia,' says Katya, raising blue eyelids, 'There were no thieves. You would knock on a door, If you were traveling on pilgrimage, Then people would open, at all […]

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