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Afterwards we visited collective farms in the Don and Volga areas and then set out for the Urals. During the last war, as a correspondent at the front, I saw a great deal, but for some reason it was the youngsters that made the biggest impression on me-the homeless, destitute boys who marched grimly along the war-torn roads.
When construction of the Dnieper hydroelectric power station began I went there together with the poet Demyan Bedny.
I said good-bye to Demyan Bedny and jumped down from the carriage. This was a manifestation of the great humanism of the Soviet man.
I remember that when our train stopped at Mount Magnitnaya in the Urals I was so impressed by what I saw that I decided to leave the train at once and remain in the town of Magnitogorsk. "If I were younger and didn't have to get back to Moscow I'd stay here with pleasure." I was struck by all I saw in Magnitogorsk, by the great enthusiasm of the people building for themselves. I saw exhausted, grimy, hungry Russian soldiers pick up the unfortunate children.
I witnessed the fighting on the barricades, I saw overturned horse-trams, twisted and torn street wires, revolvers, rifles, dead bodies.
At the time of the Russian revolution of 1905 I was just a boy of eight, but I clearly remember the battleship Potemkin, a red flag on her mast, sailing along the coast past Odessa.
It's highly unlikely that my name will live for centuries, and so that part doesn't apply either.
On my piece of paper was written: "The Phoenix sings before the sun. It is difficult to alter the will of the Empress, but your name will live for centuries." We haven't got an Empress, and so that part of the prophecy does not apply.
All summer long Petya had run about practically naked. But instead of the white flag of surrender they ran up a crimson flag which they improvised from pieces of cloth of different shades of red. In my short story The Flag, which is based on a wartime episode, the nazis have surrounded a group of Soviet fighting men and called on them to give up. A piercing, penetrating sound that seemed split into hundreds of musical strands, it flew out through the apricot orchard into the deserted steppe and towards the sea, where its rolling echo died mournfully along the bluff. Strictly speaking, there was no one to bid farewell to. THE FAREWELL The blast of the horn came from the farmyard at about five o'clock in the morning.
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Then the woman would ask you what number page was marked on the stick, and turning to her book for reference, she would find the appropriate page, tear it out and give it to you.