"Tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow," he was thinking, "we'll be in Moscow. We'll have dealt with Russia. It'll be warm and clean. I'll get a medal…" A solitary flare went up, momentarily eclipsing the starry sky. Then their eyes had adjusted to the dark once more. And once more the stars began to shine and the deep black of the sky was restored. Trying to think of nothing, he reached out toward the stove, mentally repeating: "Tomorrow we'll be in Moscow. It'll be warm, and clean…" But the thought he was trying to keep at bay returned. It returned not in words but in a vivid, instinctive flash: this snow-filled ditch dug in the earth, floating away into the dark of the night, among the stars. And all of them in this ditch, who have already seen death, who have already killed. And over there in a similar ditch, covered in hoarfrost, those whom they will have to kill. And this stove into which all the heat in the universe is concentrated that night. And the grains of sand from all the shores of Europe mixed up together in a little grayish mound on the lawn in a German town that has recently come to know the whistle of falling bombs…
In the bedroom the silence of the night reigned. Only from time to time the hiss of a car disappearing up Gorky Street and apart from that, somewhere up on another floor, the short, sharp creak of a floorboard. From the Kremlin tower came the airborne melody of the chimes, then three solemn and measured strokes.
Olya was comfortable in her armchair. She observed the German as he slept and with difficulty restrained an incomprehensible impulse – to approach the bed on tiptoe and run her hand lightly over that plaster mask and bring it back to life.
Almendinger was automatically counting the vibrant strokes from the chiming clock in the tower: "One, two, three. Three o'clock… They're spending a long time searching. They're testing it by radio, they're listening with a stethoscope. No, it's better not to think about it. Once you focus your mind on it for a minute you realize the totally phantasmagoric nature of everything around us. The night… and them. They've put their gloves on and now they're fingering, reading, taking photos. Red-eyed, yawning, their shirt sleeves rolled up. And I'm lying here stupidly motionless. I who, forty years ago, lay on the frozen earth, dreaming of warmth and rest in Moscow… And her. She's still so young; I have a daughter older than her. She sits there in her armchair, waiting for that idiotic briefcase. Absurd!"
Once more he remembered how, as a prisoner, he had been led through the streets of Moscow in that interminable column with other German prisoners. On both sides of the road, the people of Moscow stood on the sidewalk, staring at the gray tide of soldiers with somewhat wary curiosity. After them, following in their footsteps, came a slow-moving water cart, more or less symbolically washing the streets of the capital clean of the "Fascist plague." It suddenly seemed to Almendinger that he was starting to picture the faces of the Muscovites standing in the street, to hear snatches of their conversation…
The door lock clicked softly He realized he had fallen asleep for a moment. Furtive footsteps glided over the carpet, the attaché case returned to its place beside the desk. As he fell asleep Almendinger felt the coolness of a light palm upon his face. But he was already so engulfed in his sleep that all he could do was to turn his face with closed eyes toward this hand, and smile, already dreaming, and murmur a few words in German.
By noon it was very hot in the colorful streets, awash with people and sunlight. You could already smell the summer, the scent of hot dusty asphalt.
Ivan walked along slowly, dazed by the noise from the streets, the scorching sun, the red patches of the slogans, flags, and banners. The words of the passersby the honking of the cars and, above all, the blinding glare of the sun caused him acute pain. It seemed to him that it would take only a word, or a little laugh, and his head would explode. He tried not to look at the bustling pedestrians. He had an impulse to stop and shout at them: "Shut up, won't you?" or to hit someone, so that for a moment, at least, the noise splitting his brain might cease.
In his suit and raincoat he was horribly hot. He felt his shirt and pants sticking to his skin and his throat smarted from a dry tickle. But he walked on like an automaton, without taking off his raincoat, in the hope that at the next turning a cool breeze would at last be blowing and these noisy outbursts of merriment would fade away.
The night came back to him in confused snatches, with the hallucinatory insistence of that bare bulb at the ceiling. As soon as he began to remember, the light from it swelled, became ever brighter, even harsher, and burned his eyes even more than the May sunshine. With his eyes half closed, Ivan pressed on.
He remembered how, after returning to Semyonov's room the night before, they had pulled out the suitcase, with its store of liquor, from under the bed and begun to drink. Ivan drank without saying a word, ferociously, constantly fixing Semyonov with his heavy, hate-filled stare. This look frightened Semyonov, who blurted out in a low voice: "What do you expect, Vanya…? We've been taken for a ride like filthy pigs in a farmyard! Good God! They stuck all those medals on our chests and we were complete assholes. We were happy. Hero! Just you try showing your face in that bar where the Fritzes drink. They'll sweep you away with a yard broom. Even if you were a Hero three times over…"
Then through the mists of the alcohol, without being able to hear himself any more, Ivan was shouting something at Semyonov and thumping on the table with his fist. This thumping was suddenly echoed by a furious banging on the door and the shrill voice of the woman in the next room: "Semyonov! I'm going to phone the militia. They'll take you away, you and your drunken pal! You're waking the whole house with your din…"
Semyonov went out into the corridor to do some explaining. Ivan remained alone. There was complete silence now. From the ceiling the lemon-yellow bulb threw stark shadows: the bottles on the table, Semyonov's crutches at the head of the bed. Somewhere above the rooftops the strokes of three o'clock rang out…
Coming toward Ivan were retired army officers who had put on their full dress uniforms in honor of the celebrations. They were decked out in the armor plating of their decorations. Ivan stared almost in horror at their swollen necks, their cheeks pink from shaving, their monumental torsos, tightly swathed in belts and cross straps. From a gigantic banner a soldier, a sailor, and an airman beamed formidable smiles beneath a fluorescent inscription: "Long live the fortieth anniversary of the Great Victory!" Ivan wanted to stop and to shout out: "This is all rubbish. It's a great big con!" He'd have liked one of the passersby to shove him or insult him, or a fat army officer to puff out his scarlet neck and start spitting out something threatening at him. Oh, how he would have responded to them! Reminded them of how all these bloated ex-officers had been lurking to the rear of the lines, pointed out the American trademarks sported by the arrogant young whippersnappers walking past him.
But no one shoved him. On the contrary, at the sight of his Star shining on the lapel of his jacket, people stepped aside to let him pass. Indeed, when Ivan crossed the road where it was not allowed, the militiaman refrained from blowing his whistle, averted his head and looked the other way With his energy flagging, Ivan turned down an alley and saw a cluster of trees at the bottom of it. But when he got to the end he found himself in a noisy and cheerfully animated avenue. Once again a vivid banner caught his eye: