“… Later, everything later,” thought Artiom, patting the walls.
It was as though he were in a half-drunk state that had not yet aired itself out and was still confusing his head; he hadn’t yet come back to sufficient consciousness to remember what had happened yesterday.
The walls were covered in crude whitewash — the Bolsheviks, as the new masters, had probably covered the icons.
He had to understand how and with what he could get warm here — until the time it should all end — after all, it would end. Galia would come up with something, his mother would beg him free, or anything else might happen — the important thing was not to freeze right now. For now, nothing came into his mind.
They had forced everyone to take their shoes and clothes off to their undies at the entrance to the chu
