ss of weak tea and eat
little Polish cakes, and look over the English and French periodicals.

It is dark when we go out into the street again, and the air is frosty.
The officers wear short gray coats, braided and lined with fur, and fur
caps. The women are muffled in seal and sable, which make the skin look
clear and white and their eyes brilliant. Even the peasants wear
sheepskin coats, bell-shaped and richly embroidered. Marie has winter
clothes, but the warmest thing I possess is my traveling suit I wore
here in June, which has been getting thinner and thinner ever since. My
feet, in low summer pumps, are swollen and burning with chilblains. I
must get some high shoes when our next money comes. You see, that is the
trouble. We are promised our passports from day to day, and, expecting
to go at any time, we try to get along with what money we have, and wait
to buy clothes till we get back to Bucharest. But our passports are not
given us and our money gets low. We are waiting for money now, and, of
course, a cold snap has set in just when we can't possibly buy anything.
Peter's summer suit hangs on him in folds. The heaviest iron couldn't
crease it into even temporary shape. When we went to the cinematograph
last night he wore Marie's black fur coat to keep from freezing.

"Look at that man," we heard a woman say in the street. "He's wearing a
woman's coat!"

Yes, we go from cafe to cinematograph and try and keep warm.

I've never liked moving pictures before. Here they are presented
differently than in America. Some of the plays I've seen have the
naivete and simplicity of a confession. Others interpret abnormal,
psychopathic characters whose feelings and thoughts are expressed by the
actors with a fine and vivid realism. There is the exultation of life,
and the despair, the aggression and apathy, the frivolity and the
revolt. The action is taken slowly. There are no stars. You look at the
screen as though you were looking at life itself. And the films don't
always have happy endings, because life isn't always kind. It often
seems senseless and cruel and crushes men's spirits. I wish we could
have these films in America instead of the jig-saw puzzles I've seen.

_October._

There is a gypsy who sells fruit at the corner of Institutska Oulitza, a
woman so enormous that she resembles a towering mountain, and her
customers look, beside her, like tiny Russian toys. Every one loo