Russian is spoken here.

I like this story very much, just like the unforgettable childhood learned some lovely childish words, a think of warm people heart. When Martin said that about Petya, I looked at him with a smile. But Petya was frowning, shrugging his shoulders and frowning. Martin rummaged in the drawer and gave him the best cigarettes in the shop. But this did not dispel Petya's gloom.

Six months later, I returned to Berlin. One Sunday morning, I thought I'd go and see Martin. If it was a weekday, I could walk right through the store because his apartment -- three rooms and a kitchen -- was at the back of the store. But of course the shops were closed on Sunday mornings and the bars on the Windows were down. I took a quick peek through the gap in the security window: a large red-and-gold cigarette case, a dark cigar, a medium-sized sign in the corner that read "Russian Spoken here." I noticed that the display cases looked better than ever. I went around the back and entered Martin's house through the yard. The strange thing was that Martin, too, looked as if he were happier, more proud, and glowing than ever. Petya, on the other hand, was completely unrecognizable to me. His thick, glossy hair was neatly brushed back, and a shy smile never left his open lips. He seemed happy to be silent, as if some strange pleasure had happened to him, as if he had a treasure in his arms, and he had to move gently. Only Petya's mother was as pale as ever, and her face, as usual, fluttered like a faint summer lightning. As we sat in the neat sitting-room, we could see at once that the other two rooms -- Petya's and his parents' -- were just as clean and comfortable. I found it pleasant to think so. As I sipped my lemon tea slowly and listened to Martin's sweet words, I couldn't shake off the impression that something was going on at home, something happy and mysterious, that was disturbing. For example, when someone in the family is going to be a mother, they are so happy. Once or twice Martin gave his son a premeditated look, at which the boy rose immediately and left the room, returning with a cautious nod to his father, as if to say that everything had gone so well.

There were other novelties in the old man's conversation which I found difficult to understand. When we were talking about Paris and the French, he suddenly asked me, "Tell me, my friend, which is the largest prison in Paris?" I said I didn't know, and told him about a French revue about women in prison.

"What's the big deal about that," Martin interjected. "For example, they say women in prison scrape plaster off the walls and use it as foundation on their faces, necks, etc." To confirm his story, he ran into his bedroom and fetched a large book written by a German criminologist. He turned to a chapter devoted to daily life in prison. I tried to change the subject, but Martin deftly turned it back to whatever topic I chose, and we unwittingly had a discussion about whether life imprisonment is as humane as summary execution, and what tricks criminals can come up with to escape to the free world.

The more I look, the more confused I become. Petya, a mechanical man, was fiddling with the spring of his watch with his pocketknife, and chuckling to himself as he did so. His mother was sewing and occasionally nudging bread and jam in front of me. Martin clenched his scruffy beard under his chin with his fingers. His tawny eyes glanced sideways at me, and suddenly the words he had hidden in his heart came pouring out. He clapped his hand on the table and turned to his son: "I can't bear it any longer, Petya. I'll tell him all about it before I break." Petya nodded silently. Martin's wife got up and started to go to the kitchen. "Look at that mouth of yours." 'she said, shaking her head. Martin put a hand on my shoulder and gave me a hard shake. If I had been an apple tree in the garden, he would have shaken all the apples off me. He looked me in the face and said, "I promised. I'm about to tell you a secret, a big secret... I don't know how to say this. Remember -- keep your mouth shut! Do you understand?"

He leaned over to me and soaked me in the smell of tobacco and his characteristic old man's smell. But the story he tells is certainly unusual. (4)

"It happened shortly after you left that day," Martin began, "when a customer came in. He apparently did not notice the sign in the window because he greeted me in German. Let me stress: if he had seen the sign, he would not have set foot in a shop run by an exile. As soon as I heard his pronunciation, I recognized him as a Russian. The face was also a Russian face. I spoke Russian, of course, and asked him what price and what kind of cigarettes he wanted. He looked at me as if surprised and unhappy. 'What makes you think I'm Russian? 'I remember giving him a very friendly answer and then starting to count his cigarettes. At that moment Petya came in. When he saw my customer, he said in a very calm voice, "It is really a late encounter! 'With these words, my Petya stepped up to the man and hit him in the face with his fist. The man froze. Petya later explained to me that what had happened had not been a blow that knocked a man to the ground, but a particular kind of attack: the power of this blow, it turned out, had not been revealed until later. The man got up and went out, looking as if he had fallen asleep standing up. Then he began to slowly fall back like a Leaning Tower. Petya came round behind him and supported him under his arm. This is a very unexpected thing. "Father," said Petya, "come and help me. 'I asked him what he was doing, and Petya only added:' Give me a hand. 'I know my Petya -- what a giggle, Petya -- I know that he has his reasons, that he does everything thoughtfully, and that he doesn't knock people out for no reason. We dragged the unconscious man out of the shop into the passage, and then into Petya's room. Just then I heard a bell -- someone came into the shop. Of course, luckily no one had come in earlier. I went back to the shop and finished my business. Just then my wife came back from shopping, and I pushed her onto the counter to wait for her. Without saying a word myself, I hurried back to Petya's room. The man was lying on the ground, his eyes closed, and Petya was sitting at the table, rummaging through some things: a large leather cigarette case, five or six pornographic postcards, a purse, a passport, an old pistol, but clearly in good working order. He explained at once: I know you must be imagining things. These things were taken out of my pocket. It was none other than the diplomat - you remember Petya's story - who had said such strange things about the remnants of the White Army. Yes, yes, it was the same man! Besides, according to some papers, he was a Gerberau, the kind of man I had seen before. 'Well said,' I said to Petya, 'that's why you hit people in the face. Whether he deserves it or not, explain to me what you intend to do now. Apparently you forgot your aunt is still in Moscow. "" Yes, I forgot that," said Petya. "We must do something. '