A somewhat tipsy little bystander called out merrily: "But they're not her kids! I know her. She doesn't have any kids. She's borrowed them from her sister! Ha! Ha! Ha!"
The line gave a spasmodic shudder and moved a pace forward. The manager appeared from the doorway to the storeroom, walked through the store and called toward the end of the line that was getting longer: "Don't count on it at the back there. The butter's almost run out. Only three more cases. It's not worth your waiting. There won't be enough for everyone, that's for sure. You're wasting your time."
But the people kept flocking up, asking who was the last and joining the line. And each of them was thinking: "Who knows? Maybe there'll still be enough for me!"
Tanya reached the cashier and, over the head of another woman, held out a crumpled three-ruble note and her veteran's pass. She was not expecting such a unanimous explosion. The crowd seethed and bellowed with one voice: "Don't let her go in front of the others!"
"Isn't that just typical! These veterans! Let them buy their butter in their own store!"
"They already give them parcels. And we've been waiting here with the kids for three hours!"
"My son was killed in Afghanistan. But I don't put on airs. I wait my turn like everyone else."
"Don't give her anything! They already get enough privileges."
Someone gave her a shove with a shoulder, the crowd gave a slithery twitch and slowly edged her away from the till. Tatyana did not argue, gripped the money and the book in her injured hand, and went back toward the exit to join the line. The crowd was so dense that different lines were mingling together. Afraid of losing their places, people pressed against each other. Suddenly someone tugged at Tatyana's sleeve.
"Kuzminichna, come in front of me. Maybe we can get some of this butter."
It was the old caretaker from their factory, Aunt Valya. Tatyana stood beside her and, so as to lull the vigilance of the people behind, they began chatting quietly together. After a moment Tatyana slipped into the throng without anyone noticing. Aunt Valya was halfway along.
"It's not too bad. This lot won't take more than an hour," she remarked. "We'll get there before they close. As long as there's still some butter left!"
Tatyana looked at her watch. It was six o'clock. "It's a shame, I'm going to miss the film about Ivan," she thought. "But it's on again tomorrow morning."
"That's odd," thought Ivan. "Tatyana's still not back. She must be traipsing around the shops. Never mind. She'll see it tomorrow."
On the screen a marshal was already talking in a solemn bass voice and a restless reporter with prying eyes was asking him questions. This was followed by the jerky sequence of documentary footage from the period: the buildings of Stalingrad gently collapsing amid black clouds, as if in a state of weightlessness, beneath silent explosions.
When these shots were shown Ivan could not hold back his tears. "I've become an old man," he thought, biting his lip. His chin trembled slightly. From time to time he made silent comments to the soldiers running across the screen: "Just look at that idiot running along without keeping his head down! Get down, get down for heaven's sake, imbecile… Pooh! And they call that an attack! They're rushing straight into the enemy machine gun fire without artillery support! By the look of it, there are so many people in Russia that soldiers don't matter!"
At length Ivan himself appeared on the screen. He froze, listening to every one of his own words, not recognizing himself. "And then, after that battle," he was saying, "I went into… there was this little wood there… I look and what I see's a spring. The water's so pure! I lean over and see my own reflection… It was very strange, you know. I'm looking at myself and I don't recognize myself…" Here his story broke off and the voice-over, warm and penetrating, took up the tale: "The native soil… the soil of the Mother Country… this was what gave strength to the weary soldier, this was the truly maternal care that nurtured his courage and bravery. It was from this inexhaustible wellspring that the Soviet fighter drew his revivifying joy, the sacred hatred of the enemy, the unshakeable faith in Victory…"
The salesclerk, trying to be heard above the noise of the crowd, shouted in a strident voice: "The butter's finished!" and, turning toward the cashier added, in even more ringing tones: "Lyuda, don't make out any more tickets for butter."
Tanya was handed two packs from the bottom of the third case. The last two went to Aunt Valya. They smiled at each other as they put them into their bags and began to elbow their way toward the exit.
The disappointed crowd froze for a moment, as if unable to believe that all that time had been spent in vain, then shook itself and began to trickle slowly through the narrow door. Meanwhile there were people trying to squeeze in from outside who did not know the sale of butter was finished. At that moment a rumor began to circulate. Sausage had been delivered. The whole crowd flowed back toward the counter, forming into a line once more. More people than ever piled in from the street.
The news reached the manager's ears. She emerged from the storeroom again and bellowed out in a mocking voice, as if she were speaking to children: "What's all this then? You must be out of your minds. What's all this about sausage? There's not a scrap of sausage here. And anyway, we're closing in half an hour."
And now all anyone could think of doing was getting away. It was stiflingly hot in this compact mass of humanity. Tatyana was trying not to lose Aunt Valya, who was weaving her way very adroitly toward the door.
Everyone was infuriated. They took a malign pleasure in jostling one another, eager for an opportunity to exchange insults. Tatyana was already close to the exit when she was swept away, as if by a whirlwind, and pinned up against a wall. Someone's shoulder – she was aware of a woman's blue raincoat – pressed hard into her breast. She tried to break free but did not succeed, so densely packed was the crowd. Her very powerlessness seemed to her ridiculous. She tried to transfer her bag to her other hand, but just at that moment was surprised to feel she could no longer breathe. Suddenly there was a silence, as if deep under water, and now she could make out all too clearly the gray cloth of the coat barring her way. When, with the time lag of a distant explosion, the pain swept over her, she could not even utter a cry.
She was borne to the front of the building by a closely packed crowd… No one had noticed a thing. It was only on the steps that, as it dispersed, the crowd let her go. Tatyana collapsed gently. The butter and the veteran's pass fell out of her bag. People stumbled against her body. Some moved away hastily, others bent over her. The merry little bystander roared with laughter: "Well, what do you know? The little mother's taken a drop too many in advance of tomorrow's celebration!" Aunt Valya pushed aside the gaping onlookers, came up to her and called out in piercing tones: "Help! Look! This woman's been taken ill! Quickly, someone call an ambulance!"
Ivan arrived at the hospital wearing the jacket of his best suit. He had hurried through the evening streets accompanied by the jangling of his decorations. He was not allowed into intensive care. He stared at the doctor who was making reassuring remarks to him but took nothing in. His Gold Star, which had turned back to front as he ran, looked like a child's toy.
The following morning, May 9, the same doctor, reeking of» tobacco, his face hollow from being on night duty, emerged and sat down in silence with Ivan on the wooden benches in the corridor. In some arcane corner of his mind, Ivan had already had time, not to consider what his life would be like without Tatyana, but to have a sharp and desperate presentiment of it. As this feeling welled up, the echoing void terrified him. He sat there without asking the doctor anything, following with an absent gaze the actions of an old cleaning woman as she wiped the dusty windows.