The equipment is in good order, all gauges showing normal. A new tape has been put on the roller. The ink in the pens has been topped up. Everyone on the new shift is rested and in good spirits. Three low-voltage bulbs light up the front part of the cellar. The white paper gleams and the shiny metal sparkles.
Also here are the two duty linesmen, telephones on their belts, carrying extra spools of cable, flashlights, wire cutters, and insulating tape. These men have it tough at night, following the cable to the break at one end and then trying to find the other end.
The far end of the cellar is dark. The children are asleep, the women have also lain down and their faces can no longer be seen. But I can hear the voice of my battery political officer there. I can’t tell where he’s found himself a place, but I can distinguish his fruity singsong:
“… Yes, comrades, now we’ve even let the church come back. Soviet power has nothing against God. Now we just have to liberate our motherland.”
“Do you really think you can smash right through to Berlin?” says a suspicious voice.
“Why not? We’ll give it to them over there. And all our things that the Germans destroyed, we’ll rebuild. Our land will sparkle even more than before. There’ll be a fine life for us after the war, comrades, the like of which we’ve never seen.”
The tape moves in the machine. The advance post had picked up something. And now all the posts were recording.
Then we hear it ourselves: a long, rolling volley. Right, let’s get to work!
~ * ~
2
And so fifty-two years later, in May 1995, I was invited to Oryol for the commemoration of the fiftieth anniversary of Victory Day. Vitya Ovsyannikov and I (Vitya was now a retired lieutenant colonel) were fortunate enough to drive and walk over the routes of the 1943 offensive, from the Neruch, from Novosil, and from our station at elevation 259.0 to Oryol.
Novosil, which we remembered as a wasteland of rubble on a hill ravaged by artillery fire, was now utterly unrecognizable. We also visited our former “regimental mascot,” Dmitry Fyodorovich Petrykin, who came out to greet us wearing a felt hat and had his picture taken with us and his whole family, children and grandchildren.
Our underground headquarters at elevation 259.0 had now been completely plowed over; not a trace of it remained, and we had no access to it. Nearby was the wooded ravine where our kitchen and our service area had been and where the unlucky Dvoretsky was killed (he hadn’t even come for his porridge; he wanted to see the medic to have a sore treated). He was hit by a tiny piece of shrapnel, but it struck him straight in the heart. The same small Y-shaped ravine and patch of woods had survived very well, both in its shape and appearance: the yearly plowing had not allowed any new saplings to spread beyond the ravine itself.
But what had happened to Krutoi Verkh ravine? It had been about three kilometers long, some fifty meters wide, and had a few gentle curves, like a calmly flowing river. It extended through our area and provided a spacious approach quite hidden from ground observation right to our front lines. Infantry, cavalry, and transport vehicles passed this way all through the day with no need to conceal themselves, and by night there were trucks with ammunition and food; they would move back to the rear by morning or be dug in, nose first, into the sides of the ravine and covered with fresh branches and camouflage nets. After yet another bend, the hill ended directly on the Neruch, and it was here that our 63rd Army was able to assemble and prepare for its breakthrough on July 12, 1943.
But how Krutoi Verkh had changed over half a century! Where had those steep banks gone? Where was its depth? Where were the firm slopes and bottom covered over with grass? It had become shallower, eroded, and had even grown bald; it had lost its harsh contours and was no longer a formidable gorge. It had been our home and refuge! But now, of course, there wasn’t a trace of the old dugouts and ramps where trucks had been hidden.
Beyond the Neruch, on the heights, there had then been a fortified German line, and it was very well fortified! There were impassable pillboxes and rows of separately dug-in armored gun turrets. There was something else that was unforgettable: the troops who made the breakthrough immediately faced a minefield. Dozens and dozens of dead, both ours and theirs, had lain there. Ours lay mostly facedown, as they had fallen or crawled forward; the Germans were more scattered, some lying where they had died defending their positions, others where they had turned to flee. They lay, their faces distorted by horror, bodies disfigured, many with half their heads torn away. We had found a German machine gunner sitting in his trench, still clutching his weapon on the spot where he was killed. Scattered across the area were heaps and heaps of scorched metal: tanks, self-propelled guns, all singed red, like living flesh.
And their dugouts were nothing like ours, d’you remember? So deep! Here and there, under ten layers of logs, there would be a little window with a few planted flowers, and to keep them alive, a small ditch dug to bring water. There was a very unpleasant smell inside the dugouts, a doggy smell that turned out to be coming from insect powder. A few brightly colored glossy magazines had been strewn about here, magazines unlike our Soviet ones. Some of them had stories about valor and honor, others pictures of pretty girls. It was a different world, one we had never seen before.
Remember how they launched two air armies at us, from dawn to dusk, to hold back the advance on Oryol for just a single day? That we can never forget. The sky was never clear of German airplanes for a moment: no sooner would one group withdraw after dropping its bombs than we’d hear the drone of another group, coming in on the same course and making the same bombing run. We could see that the same was happening on our flanks. It was an uninterrupted thrashing from the air, and it continued all through the day. Where were our planes? That day we didn’t see a single one. Between the waves of bombing you might manage to run ahead a few meters, but trying to deploy the battery was out of the question. Still, I managed to hunt through the whole of Safonov for a place to put my station. I tried a shallow little dugout, where I found three signalmen who had just opened a tin of American sausage and were arguing about how to share it. No, that wouldn’t do. I ran off a bit farther. When I came back ten minutes later, the dugout had disappeared: a direct hit.
Those things we saw only later in the war. But now we were traveling around in a jeep, much like the one that the brigade commander had used when he visited me back then (jeeps hadn’t changed much over the last fifty years), and they were taking us to Zhelyabuga Village. The jeep was the same, though it had a solid roof. We were being escorted by the heads of the regional and local administrations, carrying out their duty of hospitality.
Probably no other vehicle could have made it to Zhelyabuga. The road was nothing more than ruts, and it was good that there had been no rain for a long time so that they had become rock hard. It could scarcely be called driving: the whole vehicle was being tossed from one side to the other, while we desperately clung to the handrails.
Yes! Here was that slope that was so vivid in my memory; it hadn’t changed. Higher up on the crest, the willows still stood as they had before. There were the few houses clustered around them. But lower down, where we were, the look of the street was radically different: some of the houses had been destroyed by the war, others had simply fallen victim to time and had not been rebuilt. The street was no longer a street but merely a few islands of houses; and it was no longer a road, either: its center was grown over with weeds, and the tracks once made by wheels now stood like two pathways side by side.
The second street to the right and higher up, beyond the hollow, looked much as it had in the past, yet there seemed to be few signs of life on it.
On an open spot on the slope by the side of the road stood a broken-down wagon that had long since lost its function as a vehicle: it had only three wheels, one of the shafts was twisted to one side, and the box had been smashed. New vegetation was growing over the wheels.
What about our central station? Right here, this is w
here it must have been. But there was no sign of the brick roof and no trace left of the cellar. Had they hauled away all the bricks and filled in the pit?
We left our jeep while the administrators remained in theirs so as not to intrude upon our memories.
Farther down was the pond, a place we could certainly recognize. We walked down to it. The bank was overgrown with sharp, broad-leaved weeds. An emaciated horse was wandering alone, without a bridle and perhaps even without an owner. It seemed to be lonely.
A latticed skeleton of poles stood off to one side: Was it meant for its shelter? It was leaning awkwardly.
The water seemed stagnant, as if it had not moved in years. The bright May greenery around it made it seem bluer than it was. An evergreen branch floated motionlessly on the water along with some fallen leaves. These must have been from last year, since there were no new ones like them yet. No one ever swims here.
Across the brook was a slab retaining wall. Four or five protruding slabs provided enough to hang on to.
Here was a patch of lily of the valley, unseen by anyone, of no use to anyone.
We each picked a cluster.
Slowly, slowly we climbed back up the slope, then farther and higher, past the ruined wagon.
Past Andreyashin’s spot. . .
Three houses, side by side. One had been whitewashed and was neater. The two others were made of the same ancient gray logs. How did they remain standing? The roofs were made of crooked gray planks. One would take the houses for barns or sheds.
Somewhere a puppy was yelping in a weak voice. He wasn’t barking at us.
A few hens passed by in a row, looking for something to eat.
There were no people to be seen.
Beyond those houses was another piece of waste ground. On it stood something that could not even be called a barn; it had been thrown together in slapdash fashion, the walls covered with rough pieces of slate, the roof a piece of tin. It was already leaning and had been propped up with two logs. What was it for? Who could have needed it?
The sky was utterly silent. Here, perhaps, no airplane would ever fly again, and even the sound of one had been forgotten. Along with the sound of shells.
In those days, though, they had crashed like thunder . . .
A cow, tied by a long rope to a stake, was grazing. She started when she caught sight of us and darted aside.
We went on to the very highest houses.
Here, between two adjoining birches, a crosspiece had been nailed in to fashion a kind of bench; there was even a small beam to support the center. On that bench two old women were peacefully sitting, each nestled against a birch tree. Each held a crooked walking stick made from a peeled branch. Both wore warm headscarves and were dressed in warm, dark clothes.
Though they were under the trees, the leaves on the birches were still so tiny that the sun made its way through the sparse greenery and both could sit in the light and the warmth.
The one on the left wore a dark gray headscarf and a workman’s jacket; she had no shoes but wore some homemade footwear of thick felt or rags. Enough for dry weather, at least. She held the top of her walking stick, polished by much use, against her cheek with all the fingers of both hands.
The faces of both women were deeply furrowed; the skin around their chins was sagging; their sunken eyes made it difficult to tell whether or not they had seen us. Neither of them stirred. The second, in a colored headscarf, also clung to the walking stick she had tucked under her chin.
“Good day to you, grannies,” we said cheerfully.
No, they were not blind, they saw us as we approached. Without changing the way they held their hands, they replied, “Good day.”
“Have you lived around here for long?”
The one in the dark headscarf replied, “So long as we’ve lived, we’ve been here.”
“What about the war, when our soldiers came through?”
“Right here.”
“And how old are you, granny?”
The old woman thought for a moment: “Eighty-five, it must be.”
“What about you, granny?”
The headscarf on the second woman was very badly faded, showing only some faded pink patterns on a pale blue background. She was not wearing a jacket but a garment made of incredibly worn black velour that resembled a short overcoat. Her feet were not wrapped in rags but shod in high boots.
She moved her walking stick away from her chin and said slowly: “I was born in the year ‘23.”
Is that possible?—I almost said it aloud. Here we were, addressing her as “granny” and forgetting to look at ourselves, as if we still had all our youth. I tried to set things right again: “So I’m five years older than you.”
The sun was on her face and a bit of color came into her cheeks as they warmed under its rays. She was facing the sun but not squinting because her eyes were now set so deeply and her eyelids were swollen.
“Somehow you don’t look it,” she murmured. “Our folks don’t walk about much after seventy, they have to crawl.”
When she opened her mouth to speak, I could see that she had only two yellowed teeth left.
“Well, I’ve also seen a thing or two in my life,” I said. It was as if I was trying to justify myself to her. Her lips, now also with a touch of color, moved into a kindly smile.
“Well, may the Lord grant you more years still.”
“What’s your name?”
“Iskiteya,” she said, almost in a whisper.
I was stunned.
“And your patronymic?”
Though her patronymic was scarcely the point. That Iskiteya had been five years younger than I.
“Afanasyevna.”
“We were the ones who liberated you,” I said, growing excited. “I even remember you. Just down the way, over there, there was a cellar and you were hiding in it.”
Her eyes were clouded with the mist of old age: “There were a lot of you passing through then.”
I didn’t know what to say. I had a strange urge to say something cheerful about that time, though there was little that was cheerful about it. Only that we were young. All I could do was repeat foolishly: “I remember you, Iskiteya Afanasyevna, I remember you.”
Her lined face was in the May sun, and her words had the warmth of old age: “Well, I forget what I need to forget.” She heaved a deep sigh.
The woman in the dark headscarf was more sorrowful: “Everyone’s forgotten us. You might buy us a bit of bread.”
There was silence. Birds were chirping in the birches. The sun was mild and gentle.
From under her swollen eyelids, Iskiteya examined me with weak eyes, though I couldn’t tell if she saw me distinctly. “What was it that brought you here, then? Is there news of some kind?”
The other woman joined in: “You’re going to see what you can do about our living conditions, maybe?”
Vitya and I exchanged glances. What was there that we could do?
“No, we’re just passing through. We came to have a look at the old places from the war.”
“Some of your bosses are back there. Maybe they can ...”
The woman in the dark headscarf came to life: “Where?”
“Somewhere back there.”
Not far away a rooster crowed. No matter what is happening, a rooster’s crow is always such a joyful, rich sound that celebrates life.
As for the two of us, what should we do now? Go on with our journey?
We said our goodbyes and walked on, up to the crest of the hill. Our hearts ached.
“Our countryside is still living in misery,” Vitya said. “It’s been the same all through our trip.”
“Yes, people can’t get any more now than they did earlier.”
The land was open on all sides. Mokhovoe was not far. It was even closer now that the new buildings had crept this way.
Over to our right, toward the second street, five sheep were grazing. No one was looking after them.
We sat
on a little mound, gazing straight ahead.
“Just over there was where our forward observer was. How did he ever survive that day?”
“There was the night as well. They had his position pinpointed, and they dropped a lot of stuff on him.”
“In the morning they moved us out again.”
“The brass were just fussing about. We could have done a lot more here. Why did they shove us into Podmaslovo?”
“Are we going to Podmaslovo?”
“Not likely. There’s not enough time.”
We sat there, letting the sun warm our left shoulders.
“We should help them, but fixing up one or two isn’t the answer. The whole system in the country needs fixing.”
Apricot Jam: And Other Stories Page 23
