Free The Big Green Tent by Ludmila Ulitskaya Page A

would happen to him only three days later.
    After the solemn assembly, with copious sobbing—the teachers provided the example of sincere grief, and the children emulated them, struggling to reach the tragic note—they dispersed and returned to their classrooms. The principal tried to call the school board to find out whether school should be canceled, and for how many days, but the line was always busy. Only at one o’clock was it announced that students should be dismissed and sent home for public mourning. Later they would announce when school was to resume.
    When he was sending his students home, Victor Yulievich asked the children to remain there, at home, and to stay off the streets. The best thing of all would be for them to read some good books!
    Sanya Steklov was glad to follow his teacher’s advice. He was, it seemed, the only one who had the collected works of Tolstoy on his bookshelf at home, and during the four days of official mourning Sanya devoured all four volumes of War and Peace (though, it’s true, he did skip some of the passages). After he had read the first volume, he gave it to Mikha, but Mikha didn’t so much as open it; he had other problems. Aunt Genya had collapsed from a minor heart attack; Minna was having stomach trouble, which happened whenever the going got rough; and Mikha was run ragged, catering to his woeful aunt’s every whim for three whole days (although her mad grief was somewhat overblown).
    Ilya didn’t give a hoot about his teacher’s advice or his mother’s pleas. The alarming significance of the event lured him down into the streets. Early in the morning on March 7 he grabbed his camera and left home with the confidence of a hunter anticipating a run of luck.
    For three days Victor Yulievich never left the house, and forbade his mother to go outside as well. The bread had run out, but he said, “Bread? What are you talking about? We don’t even have any vodka.”
    Indeed, on the evening of the fifth he had drunk the bottle his mother kept on hand for special occasions. He had decided that until the moment the Leader was taken away and safely buried, he would stay right where he was.
    Dressed in his striped pajamas, he lay down on the divan behind the tapestry curtain with a pile of books beside him. The ultimate happiness.
    At ten o’clock on March 9, the body was ceremoniously removed from the Hall of Columns, where it had been lying in state. It was carried out by squat people in heavy overcoats with astrakhan collars.
    That was when Victor finally left the house—to get bread and vodka. The streets were almost deserted. Trucks were still lined up. The scene that greeted him was reminiscent of the aftermath of St. Petersburg’s infamous flood: crushed shoes and hats, briefcases forever parted from their owners, broken lampposts, smashed-in first-floor windows. By the archway to a building, there was a wall covered in blood. A trampled dog lay in front of it. Victor recalled Pushkin:
    Yevgeny—evil is his lot!—
    Runs to the old familiar spot
    Down the old street—and knows it not.
    All, to his horror, is demolished,
    Leveled or ruined or abolished. *
    He recited The Bronze Horseman to himself from start to finish:
    Upon the threshold, they had found
    My crazy hero. In the ground
    His poor cold body there they hurried,
    And left it to God’s mercy, buried.
    Just there, on a lane a good distance from his home, Victor found a little shop that was open. The stairs led down into what was nearly a cellar. Several women were talking with the proprietor in hushed voices, but fell silent when Victor entered.
    It’s as though they’ve been talking about me , Victor Yulievich said to himself, amused.
    One of the women recognized him as the teacher, and peppered him with questions.
    â€œVictor Yurievich, what happened? People are saying that the Jews were behind the stampede, that they organized it. Is