﻿576 
  

  

  THE 
  NATIONAL 
  GEOGRAPHIC 
  MAGAZINE 
  

  

  A 
  BURIAT 
  BOY 
  AND 
  HIS 
  MOTHER 
  HOMEWARD 
  BOUND 
  AFTER 
  THE 
  DAYS 
  MARKETING 
  

  

  IN 
  CHITA 
  

  

  babies 
  all 
  have 
  slept 
  on 
  it, 
  but 
  they 
  are 
  

   gone 
  now 
  and 
  we 
  can 
  sleep 
  on 
  the 
  floor. 
  

   We 
  have 
  not 
  much 
  longer 
  to 
  go 
  and 
  we 
  

   don't 
  need 
  much." 
  

  

  HIS 
  PET 
  RABBIT 
  FOR 
  SALE 
  

  

  Two 
  little 
  boys 
  were 
  backed 
  against 
  one 
  

   of 
  the 
  frame 
  sheds, 
  as 
  if 
  fearing 
  they 
  

   might 
  be 
  seen. 
  One 
  of 
  them 
  stroked 
  a 
  

   fat, 
  blinking 
  rabbit. 
  The 
  other 
  was 
  af- 
  

   fording 
  consolation 
  and 
  encouragement. 
  

  

  "Papa 
  says 
  I 
  must 
  sell 
  it, 
  for 
  we 
  haven't 
  

   any 
  flour," 
  he 
  explained, 
  starting 
  to 
  cry. 
  

   "A 
  dog 
  killed 
  my 
  other 
  rabbit, 
  and 
  papa 
  

   says 
  this 
  one 
  may 
  get 
  killed. 
  But 
  I 
  must 
  

   have 
  4 
  silver 
  roubles 
  (57 
  cents) 
  for 
  it." 
  

  

  The 
  actors 
  and 
  the 
  scenery 
  change, 
  but 
  

   the 
  tragedy 
  under 
  the 
  surface 
  of 
  comedy 
  

   is 
  the 
  same. 
  There 
  is 
  a 
  barakholka 
  in 
  

   every 
  Siberian 
  city, 
  every 
  place 
  with 
  an 
  

   industrial 
  population, 
  which 
  must 
  sell 
  the 
  

   clothes 
  off 
  its 
  back 
  to 
  get 
  the 
  food 
  which 
  

   the 
  peasants 
  and 
  Chinese 
  traders 
  have. 
  

   Food 
  is 
  plentiful 
  and 
  cheap 
  in 
  Siberia; 
  

   but 
  even 
  the 
  cheapest 
  of 
  food 
  is 
  unob- 
  

   tainable 
  for 
  those 
  without 
  a 
  single 
  kopeck. 
  

   The 
  meager 
  rations 
  which 
  the 
  govern- 
  

   ment 
  doles 
  out 
  is 
  all 
  that 
  saves 
  most 
  of 
  

   the 
  city 
  populations 
  from 
  starvation. 
  

  

  A 
  white-haired 
  woman, 
  with 
  a 
  neat 
  

   black 
  cap 
  on 
  her 
  head 
  and 
  a 
  black 
  hat 
  in 
  

   a 
  trembling 
  hand, 
  was 
  talking 
  to 
  a 
  girl 
  in 
  

  

  her 
  later 
  'teens, 
  the 
  first 
  time 
  I 
  went 
  

   through 
  the 
  Chita 
  barakholka. 
  The 
  girl 
  

   was 
  pretty 
  and 
  her 
  light 
  cotton 
  dress 
  was 
  

   neat, 
  though 
  mended 
  and 
  faded. 
  She 
  had 
  a 
  

   pair 
  of 
  high 
  leather 
  shoes, 
  still 
  serviceable 
  

   for 
  the 
  bleak, 
  wet 
  days 
  of 
  Chita, 
  to 
  sell. 
  

   She 
  wore 
  white 
  slippers, 
  scooping 
  sand 
  

   with 
  every 
  step, 
  and 
  her 
  white 
  stockings 
  

   were 
  generously 
  patched 
  and 
  darned. 
  

  

  "Why 
  are 
  you 
  selling 
  your 
  shoes?" 
  I 
  

   asked. 
  

  

  "Oh, 
  warm 
  weather 
  is 
  here 
  and 
  I 
  don't 
  

   need 
  them 
  now," 
  she 
  replied, 
  blushing 
  

   and 
  turning 
  away. 
  

  

  "And 
  there 
  are 
  other 
  things 
  I 
  need 
  

   more 
  than 
  shoes," 
  she 
  added 
  with 
  twitch- 
  

   ing 
  lips. 
  

  

  Two 
  weeks 
  later 
  I 
  was 
  taking 
  a 
  short 
  

   cut 
  through 
  the 
  barakholka 
  and 
  noticed 
  

   the 
  white-haired 
  woman 
  with 
  the 
  little 
  

   black 
  cap. 
  She 
  had 
  another 
  piece 
  of 
  her 
  

   wardrobe 
  to 
  offer, 
  but 
  the 
  girl 
  was 
  not 
  

   there. 
  I 
  inquired 
  for 
  her. 
  The 
  little 
  

   woman 
  explained, 
  calmly 
  and 
  as 
  a 
  matter 
  

   of 
  fact: 
  

  

  "She 
  was 
  a 
  good 
  girl 
  and 
  came 
  from 
  a 
  

   good 
  home. 
  Her 
  father 
  and 
  mother 
  died 
  

   and 
  her 
  brother 
  was 
  killed 
  by 
  Semenov's 
  

   men, 
  who 
  took 
  everything. 
  There 
  was 
  

   no 
  work. 
  She 
  sold 
  her 
  jewelry, 
  then 
  her 
  

   furs, 
  her 
  clothes, 
  and 
  everything 
  except 
  

   what 
  she 
  wore. 
  Winter 
  always 
  comes, 
  

  

  