"And where's the other one?" insisted the sales-clerk.

"Out there in the street, in the stroller."

The woman, who had finally got her way, rushed toward the exit, clutching the six packs of butter to her chest.

A somewhat tipsy little bystander called out merrily: "But they're not her kids! I know her. She doesn't have any kids. She's borrowed them from her sister! Ha! Ha! Ha!"

The line gave a spasmodic shudder and moved a pace forward. The manager appeared from the doorway to the storeroom, walked through the store and called toward the end of the line that was getting longer: "Don't count on it at the back there. The butter's almost run out. Only three more cases. It's not worth your waiting. There won't be enough for everyone, that's for sure. You're wasting your time."

But the people kept flocking up, asking who was the last and joining the line. And each of them was thinking: "Who knows? Maybe there'll still be enough for me!"

Tanya reached the cashier and, over the head of another woman, held out a crumpled three-ruble note and her veteran's pass. She was not expecting such a unanimous explosion. The crowd seethed and bellowed with one voice: "Don't let her go in front of the others!"

"Isn't that just typical! These veterans! Let them buy their butter in their own store!"

"They already give them parcels. And we've been waiting here with the kids for three hours!"

"My son was killed in Afghanistan. But I don't put on airs. I wait my turn like everyone else."

"Don't give her anything! They already get enough privileges."

Someone gave her a shove with a shoulder, the crowd gave a slithery twitch and slowly edged her away from the till. Tatyana did not argue, gripped the money and the book in her injured hand, and went back toward the exit to join the line. The crowd was so dense that different lines were mingling together. Afraid of losing their places, people pressed against each other. Suddenly someone tugged at Tatyana's sleeve.