A year later Ivan retired. The head of the motor pool heaved a sigh of relief. They bid him a solemn farewell; they presented him with a heavy gray marble writing set and an electronic watch. The watch Ivan sold almost immediately: vodka had gone up and his pension was barely adequate. No one wanted the writing set, not even for three rubles.
That year Gorbachev came to power. Ivan watched his speeches on television. It was the month of May the time for his abstinence. This animated and garrulous man, Gorbachev, created a strange impression when he spoke, forever removing his glasses, putting them on again and cracking jokes: "We must develop the system of vegetable plots," he would say, waving his hands like a conjuror seeking to hypnotize his audience. "You know, little gardens, little vegetable plots. Several million men among us want to become the owners of land but we, for the moment, cannot satisfy their demands…"
There were very few people then who suspected that what this whole scenario, all these 'vegetable plots,' amounted to really was a magician's patter to lull people's vigilance. In Russia it was always necessary to act out this drama of humility as a preliminary to climbing onto the throne. Khrushchev performed folk dances in front of Stalin, Brezhnev feigned a heart attack in front of Kaganovich, Gorbachev performed magic tricks in front of the old mafiosi of the Politburo, whom he had to overcome.
That year, as in the previous year, Ivan pulled himself together for several days. He did the housework in the apartment, walked through the town wearing all his medals, visited the cemetery. The photo of Tatyana in its oval frame set in the monument had turned yellow and the rains had warped it. But to Ivan she seemed strangely alive.
As he passed by the town's wall of honor he saw they had already removed his own photo. All that remained was an empty metal frame and the stupid remnant of an inscription "Soviet Hero… from Motor Pool No. 1…"
People did not forget that he was a Hero. For old time's sake the militia would bring him home when he was laid low by vodka. When he did not have enough money for his bottle at the store the salesclerk would give him credit.
Gradually his apartment emptied. He sold the carpet he had bought in Moscow with Tatyana in the old days. He disposed of ll the salable furniture for almost nothing. Gorbachev's speech about little vegetable plots was the last transmission he watched: he swapped his television set for three bottles of vodka. He carried all this out with a casual unconcern that surprised even himself. He actually went as far as to get rid of the rings and earrings preserved in his wife's jewel box and several silver spoons.
One day in autumn he was unable to get hold of money for drinking. The cold wind kept his drinking companions at home; there was a new salesclerk working at the store now; his neighbors laughed and slammed the door in his face when he tried to borrow three rubles. For some time he wandered through the cold, dirty streets, then went home and took his best suit, complete with all the brass, out of the wardrobe. For a moment he studied the heavy gilded and silvered disks, fingering the cold metal, and removed the Order of the Red Banner of War. He did not have the courage to try to sell it in Borissov. People knew him too well here, and no doubt no one would be tempted. He went through his pockets, gathered up ll the change, and bought a ticket to Moscow. He sold his medal there for twenty-five rubles and got drunk.
After that he went to Moscow almost every week.
The one thing he never touched was his Gold Star. He knew he would never touch it.
So it was that when they went through his clothes at the sobering-up station in Moscow they found two "For Gallantry" medals and the Order of Glory second class, all wrapped in a scrap of crumpled newspaper. On it Ivan had written in ballpoint pen: "ten rubles" for each medal, "twenty-five rubles" for the Order, so as to avoid any mistakes in his drunken state – all the more because the sale would have to be made quickly in a dark corner. The duty officer informed the criminal investigation department of this find.
In the morning they let him go. He walked along slowly, not really knowing where he was going, taking in gulps of fresh, blue air through his parched lips, his eyes screwed up against the dazzling March sun. He only desired one thing: to buy a bottle of liquor quickly and, without a glass, drinking from the neck, choking on it, to ingest a few lifesaving drafts. He felt through his pockets and took out the medals and the Order, unable to believe his luck. "They haven't taken them," he thought happily. "Hey! Don't they search you anymore at that station…?"
The militiaman detailed to catch Ivan red-handed made his move too fast. Ivan had just unwrapped his treasure. The dealer had not yet taken out his money. He saw the militiaman in plain clothes looming up in front of them and began yawning in a bored manner. "My, my, little father, so those are war medals that you've got there! No, that doesn't interest me. That's a recipe for ending up in the clink, you know. It's not my bag."
The militiaman swore in frustration, flashed his red card and indicated to Ivan a car that was waiting for them.
That evening he went home to Borissov. At the police station they had decided not to pursue it. To begin with he had not been caught red-handed. Besides, he was a Hero, after all. He traveled back on an overcrowded train. Sweating heavily and dazed with exhaustion from standing in line in Moscow, people were carrying great bundles of provisions. March 8, International Women's Day, was drawing near. Standing there, squeezed against a creaking door, Ivan was absently drumming on the smooth, round medals in his pocket and thinking: "If only someone would speak to me… There they all are, with their sour faces… Their mouths shut tight and their bags crammed with fodder… It'd be good to kick the bucket here and now. They'd bury me and it'd be all over and done with. Spring's on the way now, the earth's good and soft already It thaws quickly…"
From Moscow they sent a report on Ivan to the District Committee of the Party. They recounted the episode at the sobering-up station and the trafficking in medals. The matter went all the way up to the Party's Central Committee. "How's this! The Hero of Stalingrad has become an alcoholic who sells his war medals! And just as we're coming up to the fortieth anniversary of the Victory!" Furthermore Gorbachev's magic tricks were turning out not to be magic tricks at all; heads were beginning to roll. It was Year One of the Gorbachevian Revolution.
From the Central Committee they had telephoned to the Regional Committee, from the Regional Committee to the District Committee. The reproaches snowballed. The Party District Committee Secretary, having received a warning shot, nervously dialed the number of the Regional Military Committee. Ivan was summoned to it by a simple notice. The officer who saw him instructed him to hand over his army documents and his Hero of the Soviet Union certificate. "They're going to stick another bit of anniversary scrap metal on me," thought Ivan.
Without even opening the army papers, the officer handed them back to Ivan; the Hero's certificate he tossed into the safe with a brisk gesture and slammed the thick little door shut.
"For the time being your certificate will stay with us," he said drily. And in grave tones he added: "In accordance with the instructions of the Party District Committee."
In a futile impulse, Ivan gestured toward the safe, as if reaching for the little door. But the officer stood up and shouted into the corridor: "Sergeant, escort this citizen to the exit."
At the District Committee Ivan thrust aside the switchboard «operator who tried to bar his way and burst into the Party Secretary's office. The latter was talking on the telephone and when Ivan accosted him with a shout he put his hand over the receiver and said in a low voice: "I'll have you thrown out by a militiaman."