The faces of Russians were drawn last week. Not only high cheekbones, not only the Slavic nose, not only whiskers identified 175,000,000 Russian faces. Anxiety lined all those faces. It was not terror that made their lips tight, their eyes tired; not despair, not resignation. It was the awful waiting.
There was so much of importance in abeyance that waiting for the little things —for the factory whistle, for the streetcar, for Pravda with its reassurances—had be come almost intolerable.
When would the glorious Red Armies win? For years one had watched tanks clanking through the streets, and outside the villages...
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