22
A thin stream of hot water dribbled into the bath; if you turned the tap any further, the water became cold. The bath was filling very slowly, but the two sisters felt as though they’d hardly had time to exchange a word.
While Yevgenia was in the bath, Lyudmila kept coming to the door and asking: ‘Are you all right in there? Do you want me to rub your back for you? Keep an eye on the gas – it might go out.’
A few minutes later she’d be back, banging on the door and asking impatiently: ‘What’s going on in there? Have you gone to sleep or something?’
Yevgenia came out of the bathroom in her sister’s towelling dressing-gown.
‘You look like a witch,’ said Lyudmila.
Yevgenia remembered how Sofya Osipovna had once called her a witch – on the night of Novikov’s visit to Stalingrad.
‘It’s strange,’ she said. ‘After two days in a crowded train I’ve at last had a bath. I feel as though I should be in ecstasy, and yet . . .’
‘What’s brought you here so suddenly? Is something wrong?’
‘I’ll tell you in a moment,’ said Yevgenia with a wave of the hand.
Lyudmila told her sister about Viktor’s troubles and about Nadya’s unexpected and amusing romance; she told her about their friends who no longer rang up and pretended not to recognize Viktor on the street. Yevgenia in turn told Lyudmila about Spiridonov; he was now in Kuibyshev and he wouldn’t be offered a new job until the commission had completed its report. Somehow he seemed both noble and pathetic. Vera and her son were in Leninsk; Spiridonov couldn’t so much as mention his little grandson without crying. Yevgenia went on to tell how Jenny Gerikhovna had been exiled, how Limonov had helped her to get a residence permit and what a sweet old man Shargorodsky was.
Her head was still full of tobacco smoke, conversations from the journey and the rumble of wheels; it was strange to be looking into her sister’s face, to feel the soft dressing-gown against her newly-washed body, to be in a room with a carpet and a piano.
In every word the two sisters said, in all the sad, joyful, absurd or touching events they related, they could sense the presence of friends and family who had died but who would always be bound to them. Whatever they said about Viktor evoked the shade of his mother Anna Semyonovna; Dmitry and his wife, who had both died in camps, loomed behind any mention of their son Seryozha; and Lyudmila herself was always accompanied by the steps of a shy young man with broad shoulders and full lips. But neither of them mentioned any of this out loud.
‘I haven’t heard any news of Sofya Osipovna. She seems to have vanished into thin air,’ said Yevgenia.
‘The Levinton woman?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘I never did like her . . . Are you doing any drawing?’
‘I did in Stalingrad. But not since I moved to Kuibyshev.’
‘Viktor took two of your pictures when we were evacuated. You should be flattered.’
‘I am,’ said Yevgenia with a smile.
‘Well, madam general, you haven’t said a word about what matters most of all. Are you happy? Do you love him?’
Fingering her dressing-gown, Yevgenia replied:
‘Yes, I am happy. I’m fine. We love each other . . .’
She glanced quickly at Lyudmila.
‘Shall I tell you why I came to Moscow? Nikolay Grigorevich has been arrested. He’s in the Lubyanka.’
‘Good Lord! What on earth for? He’s such a hundred-per-cent Communist.’
‘What about our Dmitry? Or your Abarchuk? He was a two-hundred-per-cent Communist.’
‘But your Nikolay was so harsh. He was quite ruthless at the time of general collectivization. I remember asking what on earth was happening. And he just said: “The kulaks can go to the devil for all I care.” He had a lot of influence on Viktor.’
‘Lyuda,’ said Yevgenia, a reproachful note in her voice, ‘you remember only the worst about people and you always bring it up at the wrong moment.’
‘What do you expect of me? I’ve always been one to call a spade a spade.’
‘Fine,’ said Yevgenia, ‘but don’t imagine that’s always a virtue.’
She lowered her voice to a whisper.
‘Lyuda, I was summoned for interrogation.’
She took her sister’s scarf and draped it over the telephone. ‘Apparently the mouthpieces can be bugged. Yes, I’ve had to make a statement.’
‘You and Nikolay were never officially married, were you?’
‘No, but what of it? They interrogated me as though I were his wife. Let me start from the beginning. I was sent a summons to appear at the office and to bring my passport. I went through hundreds of names – Dmitry, Ida, Abarchuk, everyone I knew who’d ever been arrested – but I can tell you I didn’t once think of Nikolay. I was told to come at five o’clock. It was just an ordinary office with huge portraits of Stalin and Beria on the wall. The investigator was a very ordinary-looking young man, but he looked straight through me as if he knew everything and said: “Are you aware of the counter-revolutionary activities of Nikolay Grigorevich Krymov?” Several times I thought I’d never be allowed out of the building. Once – can you imagine it? – he even hinted that Novikov . . . that I had become involved with Novikov in order to elicit information from him, and report it to Krymov. I felt quite paralysed. I said: “But Krymov’s such a fanatical Communist. Just to be in his company was like attending a Party meeting.” The investigator replied: “If I understand you correctly, you’re implying that Novikov himself isn’t a true Soviet citizen.” I said: “You are strange. At the front people are fighting the Fascists, while you, young man, sit in the rear and sling mud at them.’ I thought I’d get a slap in the face, but he actually blushed and looked embarrassed. So, Nikolay’s been arrested. The accusations are quite crazy: Trotskyism and links with the Gestapo.’
‘How appalling!’ said Lyudmila, thinking to herself: ‘What if Tolya’s unit had got surrounded? Then he’d have had the same accusations levelled against him.’
‘Vitya will take this very badly,’ she said. ‘He’s incredibly nervous at present. He thinks he’s about to be arrested. He keeps going back over everything he’s ever said, who he said it to and when. Especially during that unfortunate time in Kazan.’
Yevgenia stared at her sister for a while. Finally she said:
‘Shall I tell you the most terrible thing of all? This investigator said to me: “How can you claim to be ignorant of your husband’s Trotskyism when he himself told you Trotsky’s verdict on one of his articles: ‘Splendid, that’s pure marble’?” On my way home I remembered Nikolay saying to me, “You’re the only person who knows those words.” That night it suddenly hit me – I told that story to Novikov when he came to Kuibyshev in the autumn. I was horrified. I thought I was going out of my mind . . .’
‘You poor woman. But then that’s the sort of thing that would happen to you.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Yevgenia. ‘It could just as well have happened to you.’
‘No. You left one man for another. Then you told the second man about the first. What do you expect?’
‘You’ve probably done the same. You left Tolya’s father. I’m sure you’ve talked about him to Viktor Pavlovich.’
‘You’re wrong,’ said Lyudmila emphatically. ‘Anyway that’s different.’
‘Why’s it different?’ asked Yevgenia, feeling suddenly irritated. ‘What you’re saying now is just plain stupid.’
‘Maybe it is,’ answered Lyudmila calmly.
‘Have you got the time?’ asked Yevgenia. ‘I’ve got to go to 24 Kuznetsky Most.’
Giving vent to her anger, she went on:
‘You’ve got a difficult character, Lyuda. I can understand why Mama lives like a gypsy in Kazan instead of staying with you in your four-room flat.’
Yevgenia immediately regretted these harsh words. Wanting Lyudmila to understand that the trust between them was stronger than any chance mis
understanding, she said:
‘I do want to trust Novikov. But still . . . Who else could have told the security organs? It’s terrible. It’s like being lost in a fog.’
Yevgenia would have given so much to have her mother beside her. She would have leant her head on her shoulder and said: ‘Dearest, I’m so tired.’
‘You know what might have happened?’ said Lyudmila. ‘Your general might have mentioned this conversation to someone else who then reported it.’
‘Yes,’ said Yevgenia, ‘of course! How strange I never thought of something as simple as that.’
In the quiet calm of Lyudmila’s home, Yevgenia felt even more conscious of the confusion inside her . . . The thoughts and feelings she had repressed, the secret pain and anxiety from the time she and Krymov had separated, the tenderness she still felt for him, the way she still felt somehow accustomed to him – everything had flared up with renewed intensity during these last weeks.
She thought of Krymov when she was at work, when she was in a tram, when she was queuing for food. She dreamed of him almost every night, moaning, crying out in her sleep, waking up repeatedly.
She had terrible nightmares, full of fires and scenes of war. There was always some danger threatening Nikolay Grigorevich – and she was always powerless to protect him.
And when she got washed and dressed in the morning, afraid of being late for work, she would still be thinking of him.
She didn’t think she loved him. But is it possible to think so incessantly of someone you don’t love? And if she didn’t love him, how could she feel such distress over the tragedy that had overtaken him? And why – when Limonov and Shargorodsky made fun of the supposed non-entities who were his favourite artists and poets – did she always want to see Nikolay, to run her fingers through his hair, to comfort and fondle him?
She no longer remembered his fanaticism, his lack of concern over people who had been arrested, the anger and hatred in his voice when he had talked about the kulaks. Now she only remembered his good side; she only remembered what was sad, touching and romantic about him. It was his weakness that gave him power over her. There had always been something helpless in the way he smiled, his movements were awkward and his eyes were those of a child.
She saw him sitting there with his shoulder-tabs torn off and his face covered in grey stubble; she saw him lying on a plank bed at night; she saw his back as he walked up and down the prison yard . . . He must be thinking she had had a premonition of his fate and that was why she had left him. All night he was thinking about her. Madam general . . .
She had no idea whether these thoughts sprang from love, pity, a guilty conscience or a sense of duty.
Novikov had sent her a pass and arranged by radio for a pilot he knew to take her by Douglas to Front HQ. Her superiors had given her three weeks’ leave to visit him.
She tried to reassure herself, telling herself over and over again, ‘He’ll understand. He’s sure to understand. There just wasn’t anything else I could do.’
She knew very well how badly she had behaved towards Novikov. There he was, still waiting for her.
She had written him a mercilessly truthful letter. After sending it off, she had realized that the letter would be read by the military censors. All this could make terrible problems for him.
‘No, no, he’ll understand,’ she repeated to herself.
Yes, of course he would understand – and leave her for ever.
Did she really love him, or was it just his love for her that she loved?
When she thought about the inevitable break with him, she was overwhelmed by fear, melancholy and a sense of horror at the thought of being left on her own. It was unbearable to think that she had destroyed her happiness with her own hands. It was equally unbearable, on the other hand, to think that there was nothing she could do about it, that it was now up to Novikov whether or not they finally separated.
When the thought of Novikov became unbearable, she tried to imagine Nikolay Grigorevich. Perhaps she would be summoned for a confrontation . . . Hello, my poor darling . . .
Novikov was tall, strong, broad-shouldered and in a position of power. He didn’t need her support; he could take care of himself. She thought of him sometimes as her knight in armour. She would never forget his handsome, charming face. She would always grieve for him, always grieve for the happiness she had destroyed. But what of it? She wasn’t sorry for herself. She wasn’t afraid of suffering.
But then she knew that Novikov wasn’t really so very strong. Sometimes she had glimpsed a timid, almost helpless look on his face . . . Nor was she really so pitiless towards herself, so indifferent to her own sufferings.
As though she had just read her sister’s thoughts, Lyudmila asked:
‘So what’s going to happen about this general of yours?’
‘I can’t bear to think.’
‘What you need is a good hiding.’
‘But there just wasn’t anything else I could do,’ pleaded Yevgenia.
‘I don’t like your continual wavering. If you leave someone, you should make a clean break of it.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Yevgenia. ‘Take good care of yourself and keep out of trouble. I’m afraid I can’t live like that.’
‘That’s not what I mean. I don’t like Krymov, but I respect him. And I haven’t even set eyes on your general. But now you’ve decided to be his wife, you do have a certain responsibility towards him. And you’re not behaving responsibly at all. An important officer with a wife sending parcels to someone in camp? You know how that could end.’
‘I do.’
‘Do you love him or not?’
‘Leave me alone!’ said Yevgenia, sounding as though she were about to cry. At the same time she asked herself, ‘But which of them do I love?’
‘No, I want you to answer.’
‘There was nothing else I could do. People don’t cross the threshold of the Lubyanka just for the fun of it.’
‘You shouldn’t think only of yourself.’
‘I’m not thinking only of myself.’
‘Viktor agrees with me. Really, it’s just pure egotism.’
‘You do have the most extraordinary sense of logic. It’s amazed me ever since I was a child. Is this what you call egotism?’
‘But what can you do to help? You can’t change his sentence.’
‘If you ever get arrested, then you’ll learn what someone who loves you can do to help.’
To change the subject, Lyudmila asked:
‘Have you got any photographs of Marusya?’
‘Just one. Do you remember? It was taken when we were in Sokolniki.’
Yevgenia put her head on Lyudmila’s shoulder. ‘I’m so tired,’ she said plaintively.
‘Go and lie down for a while. You need a rest. You shouldn’t go anywhere today. I’ve made up the bed.’
Yevgenia shook her head. Her eyes were still half-closed.
‘No, no. There’s no point. I’m just tired of living.’
Lyudmila went to fetch a large envelope and emptied a heap of photographs onto her sister’s lap. Yevgenia went through them, exclaiming:
‘My God, my God . . . yes, I remember that, it was when we were at the dacha . . . How funny little Nadya looks . . . That was after Papa had come back from exile . . . There’s Dmitry as a schoolboy, Seryozha looks so like him, especially the upper part of his face . . . And there’s Mama with Marusya in her arms, that was before I was even born . . .’
She noticed that there weren’t any photographs of Tolya, but didn’t say anything.
‘Well, Madam,’ said Lyudmila, ‘I must give you something to eat.’
‘Yes, I’ve got a good appetite. Nothing affects that. It was the same when I was a child.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Lyudmila, giving her sister a kiss.
23
Yevgenia got off the trolleybus by the Bolshoy Theatre, now covered in camouflage, and walked up Kuznetsky Most. Without even noti
cing them, she went past the exhibition rooms of the Artists’ Foundation; friends of hers had exhibited there before the war and her own paintings had once been shown there.
It was very strange. Her life was like a pack of cards shuffled by a gypsy. Now she had drawn ‘Moscow’.
She was still a long way away when she recognized the towering granite wall of the Lubyanka. ‘Hello, Kolya,’ she thought. Perhaps Nikolay Grigorevich would sense her presence. Without knowing why, he would feel disturbed and excited.
Her old fate was now her new fate. What had seemed lost for ever had become her future.
The spacious new reception-room, whose polished windows looked out onto the street, had been closed; visitors now had to go to the old room. She walked into a dirty courtyard, past a dilapidated wall, and came to a half-open door. Everything inside looked surprisingly normal – tables covered in ink-stains, wooden benches along the walls, little information-windows with wooden sills.
There seemed to be no connection between this ordinary waiting-room and the vast, many-storeyed stone building that looked out over Lubyanka Square, Stretenka, Furkasovsky Lane and Malaya Lubyanka Street.
There were lots of people there; the visitors, mostly women, were standing in line in front of the windows. A few were sitting on the benches, and there was one old man, wearing glasses with thick lenses, who was filling in a form at a table. Looking at these faces – young and old, male and female – Yevgenia noticed that the expression in their eyes and the set of their mouths all spoke of one thing. If she had met any of these people on the street or in a tram, she could have guessed that they frequented 24 Kuznetsky Most.
She turned to the young man by the door. He was dressed in an army greatcoat, but for some reason he looked very unlike a soldier. ‘Your first time?’ he asked, and pointed to one of the windows. Yevgenia took her place in the queue, passport in hand, her fingers and palms damp with sweat. A woman in a beret who was standing in front of her said quietly:
‘If he’s not here in the Inner Prison, you must go to Matrosskaya Tishina and then to the Butyrka – but that’s only open on certain days and they see people in alphabetical order. If he’s not there, you must go to the Lefortovo military prison, and then back here again. I’ve been looking for my son for six weeks now. Have you been to the military prosecutor yet?’
Life and Fate Page 81
