On November 7, anniversary day of the October Revolution, my children were out of bed before it was light: Father had promised to take them to the demonstration, and they had been waiting for this day with great impatience.
They finished their breakfast in record time. Anatoly Petrovich began shaving. The children just could not wait for him to finish. In vain did they try to occupy themselves somehow.
At last we put on our coats and went out into the street. It was a windy day, not very pleasant, light rain was falling mixed with snow…But we had not gone ten paces before we heard ahead of us the noise of the festivities: music, songs, talk, laughter. The nearer we came to the centre of the town the more noisy and cheerful the streets became. Luckily, the rain soon stopped; as for the grey sky, neither children nor grownups noticed it—there were so many blazing scarlet banners and bright colours all round.
At the sight of the first procession of demonstrators Zoya and Shura went wild with delight and did not stop rejoicing until the end of the demonstration. They read out every placard loudly, although some of the words did make them stumble, joined in every chorus and began to dance to the music of every band. They did not simply walk—they were carried along by the full warm wave of rejoicing, with glowing cheeks and shining eyes, their caps falling off the backs of their heads (they had to keep looking upwards!), their talk a series of exclamations.
"Look, look! How pretty! What a star! Over there, over there! There go the balloons! Look now!"
When we reached the Red Square the children grew quieter, turned their heads to the right, and then their eyes never wavered from the Mausoleum.
"Mama, who is that there?" asked Shura, speaking in a whisper for some reason, and pressing my hand as tight as he could. "Is Stalin there? And Voroshilov? And Budyonny?"
The Red Square! How much thought and feeling was linked with those words! How we had dreamed in Aspen Woods of the day when we should see it! The most wonderful place on earth! The place held sacred by millions of people throughout the world! A year ago, when I arrived in Moscow for the first time, I went to the Red Square. Although I had heard and read so much about it I had never imagined that it was so simple and so magnificent. Now, at this solemn moment, it seemed quite new to me.
I see the battlements of the Kremlin Wall, the sombre, pensive fir trees by the graves of the heroes of the revolution, the immortal name—LENIN—on the marble slabs.
An endless stream of people keeps on flowing in a hot wave round the severe, simple walls of the Mausoleum. And it seems to me that all the faith, all the hope and love of humanity is surging hither in an endless flood, to the great beacon which points the way into the future.
In our column someone shouted loudly:
"Long live Comrade Stalin!"
Joseph Stalin smiled and waved his hand. A mighty "hurrah" echoed over the square. Shura was dancing rather than walking along beside me now. Zoya skipped along too, holding tightly onto her father's hand, and waving so hard in the air with her free hand that it really did seem as if they would notice her from the plinth of the Mausoleum.
We went down to the embankment. Suddenly the sun peeped out from behind a cloud, and the towers and cupolas of the Kremlin were reflected in the river in quivering streaks of colour and gold. By the bridge we saw a balloon peddler. Anatoly Petrovich went up to him and bought three red and two green balloons—they made a lovely bright bunch. He gave one balloon to Zoya and one to Shura.
"And what shall we do with the others?" he asked.
"Let them go!" Zoya cried.
And as we walked along Anatoly Petrovich began lb release one balloon after another. They floated upwards, smoothly and gently.
"Let's watch them!" shouted Zoya and Shura.
Other people stopped too, grownups and children. And we stood for a long time with our heads back, watching our gay bright balloons as they floated away into the clearing sky, growing smaller and finally disappearing from view.
Next: Our Evenings