Ivan studied the hastily handwritten note for a long time. "Seriously wounded…" he repeated, feeling something grow tense within him. "The arm? The leg? Why not spell it out clearly?"
But along with pity he felt something else that he did not want to admit to himself
He had already exchanged the hundred Austrian schilling gold pieces for rubles, had already breathed the air of this Europe, devastated but still well ordered and comfortable. On his tunic the Gold Star shone, and the deep red enamel of the other two orders and the bluish silver of the medals "For gallantry" glittered. And, passing through liberated towns, he was aware of the admiring looks of young women throwing bunches of flowers on the tanks.
He was already dreaming of finding himself as quickly as possible back in a railroad freight car among his newly discharged companions, amid the acrid smell of tobacco, looking out through the wide-open sides at the dazzling greenery of summer, running out at halts in search of boiling water. Apart from his knapsack he had a little wooden coffer reinforced with steel corners. In it a length of heavy moiré material, half a dozen wristwatches found in a ruined store, and, best of all, a big roll of first-class leather to make boots from. The mere scent of this leather, with its fine grain, made his head spin. Just imagine putting on creaking boots and strolling down the village street with your medals jingling… And indeed a comrade from his regiment did invite him to go and settle with him, in Ukraine. But before that? It would be an idea first to visit those of his nearest and dearest who were still alive, before seeking his fortune in a new place. "I could find a pretty girl down there, and besides the people there are much wealthier and more generous…"
Again he read that letter and the same voice whispered to him: "I promised… I promised… Well, so what? We weren't married in church. I did go a bit too far, it's true… But that was what the situation called for! And now what? Do I have to commit myself for the rest of my life? This letter's a riddle. Let the devil make head or tail of it if he can. 'Seriously wounded…' What does that mean? After all, what I need is a wife, not a cripple!"
Very deep within him another voice made itself heard. "You're pathetic, Hero, that's what you are. All mouth and no action. You'd have been a dead duck without her. You'd be rotting away in a communal grave with a Fritz on one side and a Russian on the other…"
Finally Ivan decided: "All right! I'll go there. It's pretty much on my way in any case. I'll do the right thing. I'll go see her. I'll say thank you to her one more time. I'll explain to her: 'Look, this is how it is…' " And he decided to think about "this" on the journey.
When he walked into the hospital ward he did not notice her right away. Knowing she was seriously wounded, he pictured her lying there, swathed in bandages, unmoving. It had not occurred to him that the news was two months old.
"There she is, your Tatyana Averina," said the nurse who showed him in. "Don't stay too long. The meal's in half an hour. You can go into the little garden."
Tatyana was standing at the window; her hand hung at her side, holding a book.
"Good day, Tatyana," he said in rather too jovial a voice, offering her his hand.
She did not stir. Then she put the book down on the windowsill and clumsily offered him her left hand. Her right arm was bandaged. From all the beds curious stares focused on them. They went down into the dusty little garden and sat on a bench with peeling paint.
"So. How's your health? How are you? Tell me," he said in the same overly cheerful voice.
"What's there to tell? You can see. I was hit just toward the end."
"Hit, hit you say… but that's nothing at all. And there was that nurse talking about a serious wound! I thought you…"
He lost his composure and fell silent. She gave him a long look.
"I've got a piece of shrapnel lodged under my fifth rib, Vanya. They don't dare touch it. The doctor says the shrapnel's of no account – a cobbler's nail. But if they begin tinkering with it, there's a risk it could make things worse. If they leave it alone maybe it'll give no trouble."
Ivan seemed to be on the brink of saying something, but simply sighed and began to roll a cigarette.
"So there it is… It has to be said that I'm disabled. The doctor's warned me: I won't ever be able to lift heavy weights. And no question now of ever having children…" She pulled herself up short, afraid that might have sounded like an untoward allusion, then continued hastily: "My left breast's all scarred. It's not a pretty sight. And I'm missing three fingers from my right hand."
Tight-lipped, he puffed at his cigarette. Both of them were silent. Then, with bitter relief, she finally let fall what she had perfected at length during long days of convalescence: "Look, Ivan, that's how it is… Thank you for coming. But what's past is past. What sort of a wife would I be for you now? You'll find a good healthy one. Because, in my case… I'm not even allowed to weep. The doctor told me in so many words. For me emotions are even worse than carrying heavy weights – if the splinter pierces it, the heart's finished…"
Ivan studied her out of the corner of his eye. She sat there, her head lowered, not taking her eyes off the gray sand of the avenue. Her face looked so serene… There was just a little bluish vein throbbing on her temple, where her closely cropped hair began. Her features were softened and, as if lit by an inner light, utterly different from the radiant, rosy-cheeked girls throwing bunches of flowers on the tanks.
"She's beautiful," thought Ivan. "What a tragedy!"
"Now listen! You're wrong to take it like this!" he said at last. "Why are you so downhearted? You're going to get better. A fine dress and you'll find as many fiances as you want!"
She flashed a quick look at him, stood up and held out her hand.
"Well, Vanya, it's time for the meal. Once again, thank you for coming…"
He went out through the hospital gates, walked down a street, then swiftly retraced his footsteps. "I'll give her my address," he thought. "Then she can write to me. It won't be so hard for her."
He went back into the hospital and started climbing the stairs.
"Did you forget something?" the caretaker called out to him in a friendly way.
"Yes. That's right. I forgot something."
Tatyana was not in the ward, nor in the canteen, either. He was about to go back downstairs and ask the caretaker. But at that moment he spotted her dressing gown tucked away in a corner behind a pillar.
She was weeping silently, for fear of the echo between the floors. Behind the pillar a narrow window looked out over the tiny garden and the hospital gates. He went up to her, took her by the shoulders, and said to her in muted tones: "What's going on, Tanya? Look, here's my address, so you can write to me…"
She shook her head and murmured with a gulp through her tears: "No, no, Vanya. There's no point. You don't want me around your neck… What use can I be to you?"
She sobbed still more bitterly, just like a child, turned toward him and pressed her brow against the cold metal of his medals. This frailty, these childish tears, suddenly stirred something within him and prompted a surge of joyous gallantry.
"Listen, Tanya," he said, shaking her gently by the shoulders, "when are they going to sign your discharge note?"
"Tomorrow," she murmured, drunk with tears and misery.
"Good! Well, tomorrow I'm taking you away. We'll go to my home and we'll get married there."
Again she shook her head. "What use can I be to you?" But without asking himself whether it was his head or his heart ruling him, he happily barked out a laughing order: "Silence in the ranks! To your duties, dismissed!"
Then, leaning forward, he whispered in her ear: "You know, Tanya, I'll love you all the more with your wound!"