The woman opened her eyes.
On the whole she was a sensible, practical woman. At different moments she could be tender, sly, patient, calculating, submissive, quick-tempered. Sometimes she seemed morose and stupid – as though something had broken her; sometimes she sang arias from Faust and Carmen in Russian.
Bach had never tried to find out what she had done before the war. He had come to see her when he felt like sleeping with her; otherwise he had never given her a thought. He had never worried about whether she had enough to eat, whether she might have been killed by a Russian sniper. Once he had given her a biscuit he happened to find in his pocket; she had seemed grateful and had then offered the biscuit to her elderly neighbour. At the time he had been touched, but he had seldom remembered to bring her anything to eat.
She had a strange, very un-European name – Zina.
Until the war, Zina seemed not to have known the woman who lived with her. She was an unpleasant old woman, amazingly hypocritical, full of insincere flattery, and obsessed with food. At this moment, with a wooden pestle and mortar, she was methodically grinding some mouldy grains of wheat that smelt of petrol.
Until the encirclement, the Germans had quite ignored the Russian civilians; now they visited their cellars frequently and got the old women to help with all kinds of tasks: washing clothes – with cinders instead of soap – cooking up bits of garbage, darning uniforms… The most important people in the cellars were the old women, but the soldiers did call on the younger women as well.
Bach had always thought that no one knew of his visits to this cellar. One day, however, he had been sitting on the bunk, holding Zina's hand between his own, when he had suddenly heard German being spoken behind the curtain. A voice that seemed familiar was saying: 'No, no, don't go behind that curtain. That's the lieutenant's Fraiilein.'
They lay there, side by side, without saying a word. His friends, his books, his romance with Maria, his childhood, his ties with his birthplace, his school, his university, the Russian campaign itself- his whole life had become insignificant… All that was simply the path he had followed on his way to this bunk fashioned from the remains of a charred door… The thought that he might lose this woman was appalling. He had found her, he had come to her; everything that had happened in Germany, in the whole of Europe, had been merely a prelude to this meeting. Until now he had failed to understand this. He had often forgotten her. He had enjoyed seeing her simply because he had thought there was nothing serious between them. But now she was all that remained of the world. Everything else lay buried under the snow… There was only this wonderful face, these slightly dilated nostrils, these strange eyes, the tired, helpless, childish look on her face that drove him so crazy. In October she had visited him in hospital; she had found out where he was and had come all the way on foot. And he hadn't even got out of bed to see her.
She knew he wasn't drunk. But he was on his knees, kissing her hands, kissing her feet, pressing his forehead and cheeks against her knees; he was talking quickly, passionately, but she couldn't understand, he knew she couldn't understand, she didn't know that terrible language of his.
Soon the wave which had carried him to this woman would tear him away from her, would separate them for ever. Still on his knees, he threw his arms round her legs and looked into her eyes. She listened, trying to guess what he was saying, trying to understand what had happened to him.
She had never seen such an expression on the face of a German. She had thought that only the eyes of a Russian could look so tender, so imploring, so mad, so full of suffering.
He was telling her that here, in this cellar, as he kissed her feet, he had understood love for the first time – not just from other people's words, but in his heart, in his blood. She was dearer to him than all his past, dearer to him than his mother, than Germany, than his future with Maria… He had fallen in love with her. Great walls raised up by States, racist fury, the heavy artillery and its curtain of fire were all equally insignificant, equally powerless in the face of love… He gave thanks to Fate for having allowed him to understand this before he died.
She couldn't understand what he was saying. All she knew, all she had ever heard was 'Halt, komm, bring, schneller, kaputt, brot, zucker'. But she could see how moved he was; she could guess what he was feeling. The German officer's hungry, frivolous mistress sensed his helplessness and felt both tender and indulgent. She knew Fate would separate them and she was reconciled to this. But now, seeing his despair, she sensed that their liaison was developing into something unexpectedly deep and powerful. She could hear it in his voice, she could see it in his eyes, in the way he kissed her.
As she played dreamily with his hair, she felt a sudden fear that this obscure force might seize hold of her too, might cause her to stumble, might be her ruin… Her heart was throbbing; it didn't want to listen to the cynical voice of warning.
39
Yevgenia got to know a new circle of people – people from the prison queues. On seeing her, they would ask: 'Well? Any news yet?' By now she had become quite experienced; instead of listening to advice, she gave it to others: 'Don't worry. Maybe he's in hospital. The conditions in hospital are very good. Everyone in the cells dreams of being sent there.'
She had managed to find out that Krymov was in the Lubyanka. None of her parcels had been accepted, but she hadn't lost hope: at Kuznetsky Most they would often refuse a parcel the first time, even the second time, and then suddenly say: 'Come on then, give us your parcel.'
Yevgenia went to Krymov's flat. A neighbour said that the house-manager had come round two months before with two soldiers; they had gone into Krymov's room, taken a lot of books and papers, put a seal on the door and left. Yevgenia looked at the wax seals and the bits of string; the neighbour, who was standing beside her, said: 'But for the love of God – I never told you anything.'
Then, as she showed Yevgenia to the door, she plucked up courage and whispered: 'What a fine man he was! He even volunteered to go to the front.'
Yevgenia didn't once write to Novikov.
How confused she was! She felt pity, love, repentance, joy at the Russian victories, guilt about Novikov, anxiety on his behalf, fear that she would lose him forever, an aching feeling of having surrendered all her rights…
Only a little while ago she had been living in Kuibyshev. She had been about to go to the front to visit Novikov; the bond between them seemed as necessary, as inevitable, as Fate itself. Yevgenia had been horrified at the idea that she was bound to him for ever, separated for ever from Krymov… There had been moments when everything about Novikov had seemed alien to her. His hopes, his worries, his circle of friends had nothing whatsoever in common with hers. There was something absurd about the idea of her pouring out tea at his table, receiving his friends, talking to the wives of colonels and generals.
She remembered Novikov's indifference towards Chekhov's 'The Bishop' and 'A Boring Story'. He preferred the tendentious novels of a Dreiser or a Feuchtwanger. But now that she knew her separation from Novikov was final, she felt a surge of tenderness; she thought many times of his obedient readiness to agree with everything she said. Then she felt overwhelmed by grief – would his hands never again touch her shoulders, would she really never see his face again?