Free Doctor Zhivago by Boris Pasternak Page B

hand, stopped directing, put his hat on, and, turning his back to the procession, began to listen to what the rest of the leaders marching beside him were saying. The singing faltered and broke off. You could hear the crunching steps of the numberless crowd over the frozen pavement.
    Some well-wishers informed the initiators of the march that there were Cossacks lying in wait for the demonstrators further ahead. There had been a phone call to a nearby pharmacy about the prepared ambush.
    “So what?” the organizers said. “The main thing then is to keep cool and not lose our heads. We must immediately occupy the first public building that comes our way, announce the impending danger to people, and disperse one by one.”
    They argued over which would be the best place to go. Some suggested the Society of Merchant’s Clerks, others the Technical Institute, still others the School of Foreign Correspondents.
    During the argument, the corner of a government building appeared ahead of them. It also housed an educational institution, which as a suitable shelter was no whit worse than the ones enumerated.
    When the walkers drew level with it, the leaders went up onto the semicircular landing in front of it and made signs for the head of the procession to stop. The many-leafed doors of the entrance opened, and all the marchers, coat after coat and hat after hat, began pouring into the vestibule of the school and climbing its main stairway.
    “To the auditorium, to the auditorium!” solitary voices shouted behind them, but the crowd continued to flow further on, dispersing through the separate corridors and classrooms.
    When they managed to bring the public back and they were all seated on chairs, the leaders tried several times to announce to the assembly that a trap had been set for them ahead, but no one listened to them. This stopping and going into the building was taken as an invitation to an improvised meeting, which began at once.
    After all the marching and singing, people wanted to sit silently for a while and have someone else do the work and strain his throat for them. Compared to the chief pleasure of resting, the insignificant disagreements among the speakers, who were at one with each other in almost everything, seemed a matter of indifference.
    Therefore the greatest success fell to the worst orator, who did not weary his listeners with the necessity of following him. His every word was accompanied by a roar of sympathy. No one regretted that his speech was drowned out by the noise of approval. They hastened to agree with him out of impatience, cried “Shame,” composed a telegram of protest, then suddenly, bored by the monotony of his voice, they all rose to a man and, forgetting all about the orator, hat after hat, row after row, thronged down the stairs and poured outside. The march continued.
    While they were meeting, it had begun to snow. The pavement turned white. The snow fell more and more heavily.
    When the dragoons came flying at them, those in the back rows did not suspect it at first. Suddenly a swelling roar rolled over them from the front,as when a crowd cries “Hurrah!” Cries of “Help!” and “Murder!” and many others merged into something indistinguishable. At almost the same moment, on the wave of those sounds, down a narrow pass formed in the shying crowd, horses’ manes and muzzles and saber-brandishing riders raced swiftly and noiselessly.
    Half a platoon galloped by, turned around, re-formed, and cut from behind into the tail of the march. The massacre began.
    A few minutes later the street was almost empty. People fled into the side streets. The snow fell more lightly. The evening was dry as a charcoal drawing. Suddenly the sun, setting somewhere behind the houses, began poking its finger from around the corner at everything red in the street: the red-topped hats of the dragoons, the red cloth of the fallen flag, the traces of blood scattered over the snow in red threads and