lit.remark-three-comrades.txt

The sky was yellow as brass, not yet hidden by the smoke
from the chimney stacks. Behind the roofs of the factory the
radiance was especially bright. The sun must be just rising. I
looked at my watch; not eight o'clock. A quarter of an hour
too early.
Still I opened the gate, and put the petrol pump in readiness. There was always a car or two passing at that hour wanting a fill.
Suddenly I heard behind me a harsh, high-pitched
squeaking—like the sound of a rusty hoist being turned somewhere down under the earth. I stood still and listened. I
walked back across the yard to the workshop and cautiously
opened the door.
A ghost—stumbling about in the gloom! It had a dirty
white cloth wound about its head, its skirt was hitched up to
give its knees clearance; it had a blue apron, a pair of thick
slippers, and was wielding a broom; it weighed around fourteen stone, and was in fact our charwoman, Matilda Stoss.
I stood watching her. With all the grace of a hippopotamus, she made her way staggering among the radiators,
singing in a hollow voice as she went "the Song of the Bold
Hussar." On the bench by the window stood two cognac
bottles, one of them almost empty. Last night they had been
full. I had forgotten to lock them away.