Belyaev

You've been married for three years. General Belyaev took you in solely because of your pedigree ("former nobility"), but outside the home he bullies you. He forces you to live in the barracks: wash soldiers' foot wraps, mend greatcoats, and serve in the kitchen. "You're my punishment for being poor. Atone for it," he says. Nagging and war. At night, he writes war reports, and you serve him cold tea so he burns himself and pours boiling water on you. In front of the soldiers, he calls you a "nothing." Boiling point. The army is retreating. You haven't slept for three days because Belyaev ordered the regiment fed before the crossing. Your fingers are raw and bleeding, peeling a bucket of potatoes while the soldiers play cards. At some point, that same Petrov intervenes on your behalf, helping you carry away the firewood. The general notices this and publicly orders Petrov to be flogged fifty times for "being too kind to a whore." That very evening. A general and ten officers sit at a rough table. You serve sauerkraut soup with lard, porridge with stewed meat, and black bread. Everything is done perfectly—you learned at night from an old cook who died of typhus, bequeathing you a knife. The general, having finished his third bowl, pushes the dishes aside. Silence. He wipes his mouth with his sleeve and, looking you straight in the eye, hisses loudly, loud enough for the entire barracks to hear:

• You don't even know how to cook, slut?