Life had flowed as it had to … trees had changed colors year after year, and modest dreams and wishes also had kept changing and changing. Only a short while ago, last summer it was, he had stopped at this park and reminisced. Those dear memories that tied him to this park had made his thoughts tender. Ivan Dmitryevitch had been able to see the end of the war, his son walking hand in hand with his girl, along this very alley … and sometime later Maria Nicolayevna and himself sitting again on this bench and enjoying the chatter of their little grandson. … In this new, endlessly dear life, their lives would have been flowing in a different form—not in a stormy, glittering current but in a quiet, yet deeply joyous stream.
But now the thread of life was cut. The spring was dry, the stream had stopped flowing, and everything around had died. And now he was going home to bring death into his wife’s heart. For what reason? Was it that he thought she knew how to face disaster, push it deep inside her heart where it would be met by her own soothing words and courage? Hadn’t Maria Nicolayevna always been like that? “Why worry about Mitya’s silence?” she had told him a few days ago. “People don’t get letters for years, some don’t get them at all. So what? What can one do by worrying anyway?”
He hadn’t entirely approved of her reasoning though he could excuse her—she hadn’t completely recovered from her illness. Why indeed worry her too soon? This morning, before leaving for work they had exchanged a few words about Mitya’s coming birthday, and for the first time they had disagreed on one point: about inviting guests. Maria Nicolayevna hadn’t wanted to invite anybody. “This isn’t the time,” she had said. He had been of a different opinion. “This is just the time,” he had argued, “We ought to forget our worries and find our souls among friends.” In the end, since she didn’t feel well, they had decided to invite only Cyril Ilyitch … and nobody else.
When he walked out of the park gate marred by shreds of old posters, Ivan Dmitryevitch suddenly had the impression that years had separated this morning from this very minute. A century seemed to have passed in that half-hour he had spent on the bench! And the short walk to his apartment was different, too. The few blocks he’d usually cover in a brisk march; this time every step seemed to be difficult. He walked in a kind of tottering gait, stopping quite often, breathing hard, as if he was carrying a heavy load. People turned around to look at him. When the little three-window brown house showed up at last behind the street corner, and behind it the familiar white crowns of his home-grown apple trees, Ivan Dmitryevitch had made up his mind: no, he mustn’t tell her tonight. Perhaps tomorrow, or better yet, after they’ve celebrated Mitya’s day. He mustn’t deprive her of the last bright day in her life. … There’ll always be time to tell.....Perhaps he shouldn’t mention it even to Cyril Ilyitch. Cyril Ilyitch was too impressionable; he might give himself away.
The unbearable load seemed to become lighter to carry. Ivan Dmitryevitch entered the house and dared have a good look at his wife’s wan, drawn face. Her eyes had lost their luster; he painfully realized that she had grown much thinner and older. And this evening job now, why did she take it?
Maria Nicolayevna left right after supper and he pondered how difficult it was going to be to tell her the news. How was he going to live through it? Where was he going to take the strength to raise a toast to Mitya’s health, where? The ache hadn’t grown duller as he had hoped it would this morning. Perhaps he should be sharing his sorrow with somebody. How could he bear his grief in silence when his heart wanted to shout out for the whole world to hear? Ivan Dmitryevitch decided to drop in on Cyril Ilyitch. In his little flat the two of them cried in long silence. Cyril Ilyitch agreed that it would be better not to overwhelm Maria Nicolayevna with the news until after the holiday.
What was the hurry anyway?
The birthday had drawn close. The horrible secret had to be carried over one more day. Ivan Dmitryevitch had never had any secrets from his wife, and now, how badly he wanted to postpone that moment, how badly!
It was morning. Maria Nicolayevna and he greeted each other tenderly and congratulated each other on Mitya’s birthday. Then they left in a hurry, each one to his job. Although he had noticed no joy in his wife’s sunken eyes, he thought there might have been a sparkle of a graceful if depressed spirit in them. After work, on his way home, he stopped for Cyril Ilyitch. “I won’t be able to face her all by myself,” he told him.
“Hello,” he said to his wife, skimming her pale lips.
“Hello, Maria Nicolayevna,” Cyril Ilyitch said, handing her a little bouquet. “This winter,” he added, “begins to look like a harmless little orphan.” Cyril Ilyitch bit his tongue and frowned as he sat at the table.
They toasted the birthday boy, the country, and the fighting armies. So far so good, Ivan Dmitryevitch thought … like in old times. In the dim kerosene lamp, the bouquet adorned Mitya’s portrait, the night was clear and moonlight seeped through the lace curtains and stretched on the floor. They sat at the table, chatting about everything but Mitya. Ivan Dmitryevitch rose to do an errand for Maria Nicolayevna; he stepped into the moonshine path, and suddenly he moaned out. Doubling up as if in grave pain, he dropped to a chair, and covered his face with his hands. “Mitya’s gone, gone,” he mouthed mournfully, crying like a baby. “He’s gone and won’t pass this moon-path anymore. …”
By the time Maria Nicolayevna and the guest rushed up to him, Ivan Dmitryevitch had managed to recover. He was about to comfort his wife but she already stood in front of him with a glass of medicine, wiping her tears and comforting him in an affectionate whisper, “It’s all right Vanya, it’s all right.”
Ivan Dmitryevitch glanced at Cyril Ilyitch staring through the window at the silver-snow dunes and wiping his tear-soaked moustache. “A whole week,” he whispered, “a whole week since the news came. … I just couldn’t. …”
There was a long silence. Then Maria Nicolayevna went to the chest of drawers. “Here,” she said, handing him a letter, “Mitya’s last. … It came before New Year. He asked me to read it to you. … Here, everything’s in it, Vanya.”
Ivan Dmitryevitch took the letter and was about to read, but his hands began to tremble. “You read it,” he said, giving it to Cyril Ilyitch. His friend put on the glasses and began to read aloud.
“Dear, dear Mama. Read this letter first by yourself (I’m afraid of Daddy’s heart), then I’ll tell you. I’m writing from a room into which the sun’s shining brightly. Everything around me is white—the walls, the ceiling, the sheets, and coats. Outside everything is white too; a white smoke rises over the white chimney. For some reason it brings back to my mind the white-blooming apple blossoms in our orchard.
“The light smoke rises to the sky in a gay column … but what has it got to do with me? Me—I’ve got to talk about life and death.
“Yes, dear Mom. It’s been the second year we step shoulder to shoulder. I’ve met her many times, and now I’ve met her once more. But this time we’re not going to part. Therefore, I’ll have to try to be brief because Death is hurrying me. She’s trying to confuse me. But let me forget Death for a while, let us speak about life.”
Cyril Ilyitch had been reading at an uneven clip, at times hard, at times soft, breaking off often in loud sobs. He’d stop, shake his silver-grey head, wipe off his glasses, and begin to read again. …
“Farewell,” he read, “my beloved. Please give my last regards to our friends and above all to our foremost, dear. …” Cyril Ilyitch couldn’t finish. Maria Nicolayevna took the letter from him. “There he came to us, our Mitya boy,” she said in a voice choked with tears. “Now we won’t part … for ever,” she added in a whisper, laying the letter carefully in the drawer.
The moon disappeared and Mitya’s day was coming to an end. As the chilly winter night drew on and on, the three friends sat at the little lamp, talking in whispers, waiting for the crisp morning to arrive.
1957
Happiness Is Not Far Away
by Yevgenya Le
vakovskaya
Yevgenya Vladimirovna Levakovskaya-Loginova, born in 1914 in a white-collar family, a graduate of the Literary Institute, had her first book The Steppe, published in 1938. Her memories of active participation in World War Two are fictionalized in the collection It Was In Our Company.
The scouting platoon was celebrating. Its commander, Ilya Shirayev, had returned from the officers’ training course with his first star. A mountain of spongy pancakes was piled up in the pan; ration lard and fried potatoes were spread on German leaflets. The guests were hooking up snacks with their pocket knives.
“So now you’re an officer,” Captain Tshernikhov, the commander of the automatic riflers company said to Ilya. “To your health, Second Lieutenant. Before you know it this star will be joined by another.”
“Star or no star, our scouts’re known throughout the whole division,” Ilya suddenly felt like boasting. It wasn’t like him—he never bragged. But nobody seemed to mind.
“Of course we’ve made a name for ourselves,” Tshernikhov seriously acknowledged.
They clinked with the tin mugs. “Have a bite, Comrade Second Lieutenant,” said Sergeant Fedka, passing Ilya the frying pan. Fedka, an experienced scout, had always liked to humble himself before Ilya who twice had notices written up about him in Sovinformbureau bulletins. Now he liked to flatter his commander with his new title.
“What’s this?” Ilya asked, sinking his strong teeth into a hot morsel.
“This? A hare, Comrade Second Lieutenant.”
“Are you sure it isn’t a rabbit?”
“No, siree!”
“And what’s this, a hare too?” Ilya pulled out a little wing.
“Oh this is a pigeon, a wild pigeon, Comrade Second Lieutenant.”
“Uh, uh,” Ilya started manacingly, flashing his green eyes. “I see you’ve been running loose here while I was away.” But he checked himself. After all, he thought, in a way I’m still new here. Slowly shaking his mug, he listened to Fedka and the others filling him in on the casualty list (there had been hard battles) and on all the regimental gossip. The decorations for the Baltic campaign had arrived—there was a medal of the Fatherland War, First Class, waiting for him. Vera, the medsister who replaced the recently killed medic, was apparently quite serious about the commander of the second battalion—they were planning to be discharged together.
Vera, Ilya thought, a nice girl, but what was she to him? As far as everybody was concerned this war would be over soon—everybody would go home, but where would he go? He had come back to the regiment today, well rested, caught up on his sleep, proud of his commission, his first star. During those four years he had been on the front he had never dreamed of anything; then at the courses he saw his wife almost nightly. The dreams were so tantalizing that he had begun to interpret them as an omen—there’d be a letter waiting for him in the regiment, he had thought. And today, as he was walking up to the dugout on the fourth post, he smiled. He had almost been able to see his wife’s firm, tiny handwriting with which her letters were packed.
“Sorry, Comrade Sergeant—sorry again, Comrade Second Lieutenant” he was told at post number four. “There’s no reply to your last inquiry. No word from your wife as yet. …”
Ilya couldn’t find peace of mind. The party was going on for a while but he hardly smiled. As usual, he was the first to hear Vera’s steps. A wave of fresh air rippled the veil of smoke inside the hut as she came in. Right away a seat was made free for her at the table—she had been with the regiment since its formation and was liked by everybody. Over her old, soiled tab on her pullover tunic she had a new, red ribbon.
“Got another scrape?” Ilya asked. “My, my, somebody must be praying hard for you.”
The moment she noticed Ilya’s sullen face, Vera knew she had come at an inopportune time. She thanked the boys for their treat and rose. “Anybody hasn’t been to the bath yet?” she asked.
“You’ve got time for that,” Fedka offered her a lard-covered pancake. “Sit down and have some fun.”
“Come on, have some fun,” Ilya added. “Of course, they aren’t as good as the batcom’s.” The moment he said it he knew he had blundered. The scouts became silent and Captain Tshernikov gave him a strange look. A year or two ago he would have been able to restrain himself.
“If you feel miserable why try to bite everybody’s head off?” Vera raised conciliatory eyes at him. She knew Ilya hadn’t received any letter yet. The room became so quiet that one could hear the crackle of the pasteboard in the trophy lampions.
“That wasn’t necessary,” Captain Tshernikhov said after Vera left. He got up. Everybody was getting ready to leave, too. Ilya lay down, covered himself with his sheepskin and fell asleep.
He was jostled up by Fedka. “Major Prostakov wants to see you, Comrade Second Lieutenant,” the sergeant said. Vice-politoff Prostakov was the political officer of the regiment. What does he want, Ilya thought, glancing at his watch. He had been under the impression it was late—it was only ten.
“You ought to wash, Comrade Second Lieutenant,” Fedka suggested. “Let’s go out and I’ll pour it on for you.”
It was bright moonlight, a little nippy. “On the head,” Ilya challenged, snorting into his cupped hands and setting his feet wide apart. The dugout felt hot after the cold head shower. “Fedka,” he asked, “you know what Prostakov wants?”
Fedka shrugged his shoulders. What if some of the festive menu was procured by the sergeant without the assistance of the regimental caterers, Ilya thought? What if the vice-politoff got wind of it? What a shame! He wanted to ask, but Fedka had such an innocent look on hs face that Ilya decided to ask for the vice-politoff’s dugout instead. Once again he checked his appearance and left.
Prostakov was alone. He was a stout fellow with a pale, swollen face and red eyelids—the kind of man who behaves in battle like an irrational fool, rising at the right moment and forcing those super-rational know-alls to follow them. He had come to the regiment way back on the Dnyeper in the Ukraine—everybody liked him.
“Sit down, Comrade Shirayev,” Prostakov said after shaking Ilya’s hand and congratulating him on his promotion. “I want to talk to you about your plan of action on German soil. You see,” he continued after a pause, “I’ve learned that what you intend to do is drive the Germans knee-deep into the ground or pull their legs out. How do you matter-of-factly plan to go about it?”
Ilya felt a stone roll off his chest. So that’s what it is, he thought. Fedka hadn’t let him down after all. “And who took my happiness away, Comrade Major?” he smiled mirthlessly. “Only a man born blind doesn’t know what happiness is. People feel sorry for him but what does he care! But the man who felt it, cherished it. …”
“We all knew happiness and cherished it,” Prostakov interrupted him. “There are, of course, people here and there on whom it has dawned only now that it ever existed. But you, Comrade Shirayev, think for a moment, do you believe you can go it all by yourself?”
“When are you going to quit enlightening the likes of me, Comrade Major?” Ilya asked with a sharpness not permissible even to a master scout.
“Never!” was Prostakov’s simple reply.
Ilya took another look at the major’s tired, sickly face and felt ashamed. He wasn’t the only one. “I’m sorry,” he apologized.
“Have you been to the fourth?” the vice-politoff suddenly asked.
Ilya nodded.
“There’s still hope. We’ll make another inquiry. They’ll start coming back from Germany now.”
“She couldn’t have,” Ilya blurted vehemently, then stopped. His words had sounded cruel, even to himself. He had become callous to humane ideas and peacetime habits a long time ago, yet his mind couldn’t reconcile itself to the thought that his beloved wife, the gentlest and dearest creature in the world, might have been plunged, too, into that terrible holocaust of war.
“She’s going to be inquiring about you, too,” Prostakov suggested with
an alarming persistence, sensing that the moment of warm, down-to-earth trust was rapidly slipping away. He knew he shouldn’t have said it—in spite of his endurance powers Shirayev was a man in anguish. He tried to think of something else to say to undo the damage, but what? “Anything I can do?” he asked.
“I don’t see what you can do, Comrade Major,” Ilya said in a hollow voice, getting up.
“Well, at 23:00 report to the regiment commander,” the vice-politoff said stiffly, checking his time. “We’re moving back into the first echelon.”
Prostakov was dissatisfied with himself. The conversation turned out to be a fiasco. Having lost all his family in Minsk, he knew how Shirayev must feel. It was not only Shirayev, but every soldier in the regiment might become a terror in his Nemesis once they crossed over onto German soil. The anguish of a whole nation had become an onus, pressing down on his shoulders, and no fine line could be drawn as to where his personal woe ended and the grief of the blood-stained Motherland started.
Ilya, too, was disturbed when he left the major. Nothing unusual had been said; it was just harder and harder to accept those “No letters” for an answer, especially when the end of the war seemed close at hand and everybody was readying to go home. Why did Prostakov say, “She’s going to be inquiring?” Why wasn’t she inquiring now? And why, indeed, hadn’t it occurred to him that she, too, ought to have done some inquiring about her husband?
Now all suggestions, guesses, and reasons turned around like weather cocks to point in unison that it was easier to find something if one wanted to find it.
The regiment slept in the quiet forest. Ilya decided to enjoy the fresh air; he lay down on the snow-powdered ground at the side of his dugout. He inhaled deeply, to air the oppressive intoxication from his lungs. Tomorrow it would be back to the battles—that might be good. In a fight he could get rid of his anger and there’d be no time to remember it at all.
Treasury of Russian Short Stories 1900-1966 Page 9