Once her husband came home late, extremely intoxicated. He grasped
her hand, threw her from the bed to the floor, kicked her in the
side with his foot, and said:
"Get out! I'm sick of you! Get out!"
In order to protect herself from his blows, she quickly gathered
her two-year-old son into her arms, and kneeling covered herself
with his body as with a shield. He cried, struggled in her arms,
frightened, naked, and warm.
"Get out!" bellowed her husband.
She jumped to her feet, rushed into the kitchen, threw a jacket
over her shoulders, wrapped the baby in a shawl, and silently,
without outcries or complaints, barefoot, in nothing but a shirt
under her jacket, walked out into the street. It was in the month
of May, and the night was fresh. The cold, damp dust of the street
stuck to her feet, and got between her toes. The child wept and
struggled. She opened her breast, pressed her son to her body, and
pursued by fear walked down the street, quietly lulling the baby.
It began to grow light. She was afraid and ashamed lest some one
come out on the street and see her half naked. She turned toward
the marsh, and sat down on the ground under a thick group of aspens.
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