The Early Ayn Rand

She did not feel Michael's hungry eyes. She was smiling at Commandant Kareyev.

Commandant Kareyev did not say a word. He walked to the altar. He turned the radio dial without looking at it, his eyes on her. He turned until he found a voice speaking in stern, familiar, Party accents:

"... and in closing this meeting of the workers of the first Moscow Textile factory, let me remind you, comrades, that but one devotion has a place in our lives: our devotion to the great aim of the world revolution."

The radio coughed applause. Another voice announced:

"Comrades! We shall close this meeting by singing our great anthem — the Internationale.'"

The slow, majestic notes of the red hymn marched solemnly into the air.

"All men — stand up!" ordered Commandant Kareyev.

It seemed that red banners unrolled under the vaults, under Jesus' white robes. It seemed that drums beat through the singing chorus, drums and footsteps of men marching gladly, steadily into battle, their lives a ready sacrifice to the call of the song.

Commandant Kareyev did not say a word. He looked at Joan, a little wrinkle of a smile in the corners of his mouth, the song giving her his answer.

Joan stood up. She leaned over the radio. She looked at him, calm, undefeated. Her lips parted in a slow, mysterious, indulgent smile.

------IV-----

Snow was falling beyond the library windows. It gathered on the sills outside, rising slowly, closing the barred squares one by one. White flakes crashed silently into the glass panes and stayed there like fluffy, broken stars. It made the library darker. New candles burned at the altar.

Commandant Kareyev's hand had long, sinewy fingers. They grasped things tightly, precisely, as if closing over the trigger of an aimed gun. Commandant Kareyev was turning the radio dial impatiently.

"I can't get it, dear," he said. "No one seems to be playing our 'Song of Dancing Lights' today."

Joan's hand covered his and led it, turning the dial slowly, together. She bent over the radio, her cheek pressed to his forehead, her blond hair brushing his temple, blinding him, getting tangled in his dark eyelashes.

They caught the familiar tune in the middle of a laughing sentence. It came like the unseen hand of the outside world, drawing a curtain of tumbling notes over the snow-laden windows, making Commandant Kareyev's lips smile gaily, eagerly, a young happiness relaxing his stern wrinkles.

The library was deserted. He sat on the altar steps, drawing Joan close to him.

"Here it is," he said, "the anthem of our duty."

Her finger was wandering over his forehead, following the veins on his temple. She said:

"They play it well tonight. It's night in Japan now."

"And there are lights... dancing lights..."

"Not candles, like here."

"If we were there tonight, I'd take you to this place where they are playing our song. And if there's snow on the ground, like here, I'd carry you out of the car in my arms so that the snow wouldn't touch your little slippers."

"They have no snow there. They have cherry trees in blossom — all white."

"Like your shoulders under the lights. There are men sitting at tables there, the kind of men who wear black suits and diamond studs. They'll look at you. I want them to look at you. At your shoulders. I want them to know you're mine."

"Cherry blossoms and music... no footsteps on the wall outside; no groans from the pit."

"But you came to all this — and to me. And you've stayed with me."

"I came because I was desperate. I stayed because I found something I didn't expect."

Her hand moved slowly from his forehead down to his chin, studying tenderly every line.

"It's strange, Joan... I've tracked a cross over Russia, through forests and swamps, with a gun and a red flag. I thought I was marching toward the dawn of the world revolution. It has always been there, ahead of me. And now, when I look ahead, the golden dawn is nothing but," he finished with a laughing tenderness, drawing her closer, "a lock of your hair loose in the wind because you forgot to comb it."

He sat on the altar steps. She knelt by his side, erect, her hands on his shoulders. Behind them tall candles burned before golden saints; above them was the picture of Lenin; the radio played the "Song of Dancing Lights."

Through the windows where the rising snow was growing whiter against a darkening sky came the shrill whistle of a boat. He did not seem to notice it, but Joan started.

"The boat," she said. "The last boat before the sea freezes."

He did not turn to look at the window. He smiled slyly, happily.

"I have a little surprise for you, Joan. And will you do something for me? Will you wear tonight, for dinner, the blue dress I like?"

She walked to the window and peered through the frosted pattern. The boat had stopped at the old landing. Most of the prisoners had been ordered to unload the cargo; there was more freight than usual.