The White Guard
From the album “Illustrations by Victor Prokofiev and Co”
And so, in the winter of 1918, the City lived a strange, unnatural life that might never be repeated in the twentieth century. Its ancient, native inhabitants huddled together and continued to shrink, willingly or unwillingly letting in the new arrivals who flocked to the City. The City swelled, widened, and rose like dough from a pot. Gambling clubs rustled until dawn, and inside them, people from Petersburg and locals played, as did important and proud German lieutenants and majors whom the Russians feared and respected. The ceiling spread out like a star of blue dusty silk, large diamonds sparkled in the blue boxes, and reddish Siberian furs gleamed. And it smelled of burnt coffee, sweat, alcohol, and French perfume.