CORNER HOME

Evening Post, Volume CXI, Issue 130, 4 June 1931, Page 8

CORNER HOME

HOW RUSSIA LIVES ' MEAT ON SUNDAYS CHEERFUL PEOPLE Living in a. "corner" is not leading tlio life of Biley, but it has its advantages and draws a lot of laughs except from the hardened cynic, writes Henry Wales, the Paris correspondent of the "Chicago Tribune," in an account of a visit to Russia. A "corner" lodger is a man, or may: lie a ivoina.ii, who rents the corner of a rb'om in which some happy family is domiciled in oius chamber of what was formerly an apartment. Six feet or .so above the floor, depending on how high the ceiling is, in the angle formed by two of the walls, a shelf is solidly constructed and that forms the bed, like the upper berth in a Pullman, except thaf it. does not fold up, and the mattress is usually some cotton ticking. Below the bunk is a chair, always a chair, am! sometimes, in .do luxe corners •where the Jodger has lots of company there are two cliair. Sometimes there is a tiny table, and always there is a. Ijox or chest or some receptacle where he keeps his belongings. . There is no chalk line marked out on the floor to demarcate clearly the exact confines of the corner boarder s clomain, and his—or her—access to the jest, of Hiu room depends largely on how much of tlio floor is occupied by other pallets, tables, chairs, bureaux, or other furniture, and also on the degree of friendship in' his—or her— relationship jvith the proprietor of the room. "REAL HOME."

The corner lodger whose "home I Visited" to-day works in a State co-op-erative and is married. He slept; m in the cellar beneath .the. State shop during tho summer, but when autumn came and the weather grew cold he decided he needed "a reaL home. _ A friend put him in touch with a married couple with a ten-year-old child who needed extra money. They rented him tho corner for 10 dollars a- month. We -went "home" about 6 o'clock end the rest of the family Vere there, papa and mamma and the child. The mother was busy in the community kitchen, which had been the kitchen; in, the apartment-house and was'now used by the six families who occupied the Six rooms of the flat. -She'was getting supper on tho kerosene stove. There .were big. greetings .when we Tvent in, with introductions and handshakings all around, even with the child, and then the landlord proceeded with tho task he was busy on, sewing a lot of extra cotton batting into his overcoat, already bulging with tufted quilt-work. . ■ ....... "Sit down," said my host, and pointed to one of two chairs under tho bunk in his corner. We had to sit down, because you couldn't stand under the bed fis the ceiling was only about eight feet high, and the berth was installed about five feet from'the floor.

'"Pretty good job,."' remarked my host as I examined his "upper." "We put that up ourselves. I got.the wood from a packing case in the store." Home of the boards still bore the stencil of'tiic Rod Triangle Rubber Coop, of Leningrad and had contained a shipment of galoshes. HIS BOOTS. Ho took off his felt Loots and ,un■wound some rags twisted; round liis legs, revealing a pair of pretty dirty feet, and then carefully withdrew a pair of gaunt gray.socks and some cai;-, 31ft slippers, from -little box in the corner. ■ . . "When do we cat?" he asked the landlord,' who was still busy with his needle. . ' : "Right away," said little Ivanovitch. He rushed out to the kitchen to tell mo to get ready. They put four soup plates on the table and four tabospoons. .; I was invited,, but the father • didn't eat at home. He.had his big meal of the tiny at the-company, restaurant in the Slate, electrical shop. :wh.erc lie worked. Soon the mother .eamoiuY ■ They introduced me and u^shopk hands after she had set down'^prig tureen full of soup. It was "bortseh," meaning cabbage and potato soup, but there was no cream to pour in it, as in the Russian restaurants outside. "I had bortseh with meat in it at the shop to-day," remarked the father. "You lucky thing," remarked the corner boarder, or words to that effect in. Russian. .Little Ivan hauled a. loaf of black bread from a cupboard containing clothes and what not, and the boarder cut. ofl' four fair-sized pieces with his jackknifo. The soup was undoubtedly hot and was certainly cabbage and surely need-" cd more salt. MEAT ON SUNDAY. Tlie mother went out to the kitchen with a kettle and soon.came back with ten. Ivan put four glasses and four, spoons on the table and then produced a cracked bowl of granulated sugar : from the cupboard. "Xot a bad meal,". remarked the boarder, and I agreed. The soup was not bad and the tea was pretty good, strong and hot. ''Last night -lvc-had pickled cucumbers," said Ivan. "We -will have meat on Sunday," remarked the mother grimly, to irn--2U-OSS us with the importance of that. "Horse meat?" I asked hopefully. "Nitchcvo," meaning "no," replied the boarder, "mutton—chachlyk." That sounded good, too. They serve chachlyk in Russian .restaurants ' in Paris, bits of lamb-or mutton skewered on the blade of a Cossack's sword, and with plenty of onions and horse radish. "Dmitry is going out to-morrow," ihe mother remarked to the boarder. Dmitry, it. seems, was a young man, a member of a large family, who lived down -the hall in what was originally the parlour of this flat. '•'Who cares?" I thought, wondering wlmt was impressive about the fact that. Dmitry was going out. Then I caught on. "Has ho been sick or something1?" I inquired. * ,-.■•■■ "JN To, but to-morrow is his younger brother's day off from the office, so Dmitry can go out." MYSTERY EXPLAINED. Dmitry has to stay. home, and mind thy baby, I decided, thinking bitterly; of those modern dancing mothers who £0 to card fights, and neglect tho infants. Wrong again. "No, but Dmitry has no shoes and no overcoat and he can only go out when his brother stays home and lends him his," the" boarder explained.' "Dmitry can't go. and look for a job because it's too cold to go out in carpet slippers and with no overcoat." There was no denying that. "Dmitry can get a job when we get warm weather," said the woman philosophically. "Then,, if he can s.'ive enough during the su-.iiiner to buy some boots and an overcoat he can keep working next winter." That seemed a simple solution of Dmitry's troubles. ■ "W>y doesn't Dmitry look for a job when he goes out to-morrow on his brother's.day off?" I.inquired. AVrong again. . . "Dmitry must go to the store to get *. : food to-morrow," replied the mother. '*"*""'*>., "He will have to stand in line at three shops and that will take all da??" • ■Dmrby'a father, it seemed-, worked

in the railroad yards, his mother was a conductress on a tramcar, his two younger brothers went to school, and "his sister was a stenographer in a Government office.

"How (lid Dmitry lose his overcoat and boots?" I asked, since this was apparently a Dmitry evening.

' Mile didn't lose them, he never had anyV' replied the father, butting in on the '.conversation from his , sewing. '' They all grew up and there were never enough to go round, and as all the others had jobs except Dmitry, they had to wear the overcoats and boots that were there." BED. - ' . - . N •.■ I produced another package of cigarettes and everybody dug in. Even little Ivan took one and lit it. "How do you get up-in bod?" I asked the corner man.. I. was tired of Dmitry's troubles. "That's easy," answered tlio land-lord'-hastily., entering the'conversation again. "He puts that cliair you're sitting on t oh the other chair he's sitting on, and,climbs right up, scat." "That's ivhy I get two chairs in my corner," explained the boarder. I looked at the three-quarter bod, next the table-, where the father and mother slept, and. glanced around^ to sec where Jittloi Ivan did his snoozing. ; "He sleeps will) .us," said the woman, then added, "he's only 10." We were getting so' chummy I do-' eided to ask tho question that had been perplexing me. '• "Do you get undressed before you climb up to- bed, or after you get up there?" I asked the boarder. I had

recollections of acrobatics in Pullman uppers in America. A laugh greeted that remark, however, even tho übiquitous little Ivan joining in, and. the sombre-eyed landlord had to lay down his needle to enjoy the question. "Why wo don't undress —any of us," explained the boarder. "When wo open that little trap in, the double window to get a bit of air before we go to bed, this room gets pretty cold." I could believe that. The room was chilly already and only the hot soup had stopped my shivering. "I take off my jacket," he continued, "and they all take off their outside clothes. -Then we turn out the light," and he pointed to the bare electric bulb glowing over our heads, "and take off :i few other things—and we just hap into bed."