3
The prisoner of the Caucasus
They had of course not been dying of hunger as on the Dnepr, but all the same, all the same, all the same. Something dreamt wearily and delightful, plum lipstick and plum oil. They even had a deal, in all their make-up, not a word about food. He who ate before the war, be silent. And there a huge parcel came for Gianni Bekyana, forty pieces of huge pomegranate. They crowded round the box. Dark red bombs on a canvas cloth.
‘You can’t eat this,’ said the skinny Gianni smiling. ‘Now I will show you what to do.’
They squashed them by their hands, they strained them through cloth, added spirit and they haven’t known anything sweeter since. Seryozha didn’t drink anything else even after the war, the pitiful luxurious KVVK hasn’t tempted him. He washed the spiri
