I sit down on the couch. The nervous tension lessens. A dull sensation of fatigue comes over me. “Give me a cigarette,” I say to Kamenev. In those years I still smoked, but only spasmodically. I take one or two puffs, but suddenly, with the words, “Only this was lacking!” I faint. As I come to, I see Kamenev’s frightened face bending over me. “Shall I get some medicine?” he asks. “It would be much better,” I answer after a moment’s reflection, “if you got something to eat.” I try to remember when I last had food, but I can’t. At all events, it was not yesterday.