Then her mother had gently pushed her away.
'Go on, Katya. It's time you left.'
And Katya had left – like millions of others, both young and old. She had left her mother's house, perhaps never to return, perhaps to return only as a different person, cut off for ever from her harsh and beloved childhood.
And now here she was, sitting next to Grekov, 'the house-manager', looking at his large head, at his frowning face and thick lips.
58
That first day, the telephone was still working; there was nothing for Katya to do. The feeling of being excluded from the life of the building became increasingly oppressive. Nevertheless, that day did much to prepare her for what lay in store.
She learned that the observation-post for the artillery on the left bank was situated in the ruins of the first floor. It was commanded by a lieutenant in a dirty tunic whose spectacles kept slipping down his snub nose.
The angry old man who swore a lot had been transferred from the militia; he was very proud indeed to be in command of a mortar team. The sappers were installed between a high wall and a heap of rubble; they were commanded by a stout man who groaned and grimaced when he walked, as though he was suffering from corns.
The single piece of artillery was in the charge of Kolomeitsev, a bald man in a sailor's tunic. Katya had heard Grekov shout: 'Kolomeitsev! Wake up! You've just slept through yet another golden opportunity!'
The infantry and the machine-guns were commanded by a second lieutenant with a blond beard. The beard made his face seem very young – though he no doubt imagined it made him look mature, perhaps in his thirties.
In the afternoon she was given something to eat – bread and mutton-sausage. Then she remembered she had a sweet in her tunic-pocket and slipped it quietly into her mouth. After that – in spite of the firing nearby – she felt like a nap. She soon fell asleep, still sucking her sweet; but even in her sleep she still felt a sense of anguish, of imminent disaster. Suddenly she heard a slow, drawling voice. Her eyes still closed, she listened to the words:
'Past sorrow is to me like wine, Stronger with every passing year.' [31]
In this stone well, lit by the amber evening light, a dirty young man with dishevelled hair was sitting reading out loud from a book. Five or six men were sprawled around him on piles of red bricks. Grekov was lying on his overcoat, resting his chin on his fists. One young man, probably a Georgian, listened with an air of suspicion. It was as though he were saying: 'Come on now – you won't get me to buy this rubbish.'
An explosion close by raised a cloud of dust. It was like something from a fairy-tale; the armed men, sitting on blood-coloured bricks and surrounded by this red mist, seemed to have sprung from the day of judgment recorded in the Lay of Igor's Campaign.[32] Suddenly Katya's heart stirred in an absurd expectation of some future happiness.
The following day, an event took place which appalled even these hardened soldiers.
The 'senior tenant' on the first floor, Lieutenant Batrakov, had under his command an observer, Bunchuk, and a plotter, Lampasov. Katya saw them all several times a day: sullen Lampasov, cunning yet simple-hearted Bunchuk and the strange lieutenant with glasses who was always smiling at his own thoughts. When it was quiet, she could even hear their voices through the hole in the ceiling.
Lampasov had reared chickens before the war; he loved telling Bunchuk about the intelligence and treacherous ways of his hens.
Peering through his telescope, Bunchuk would report in a sing-song voice: 'Yes, there's a column of vehicles coming from Kalach… a tank in the middle… Some more Fritzes on foot, a whole battalion… and then three field-kitchens just like yesterday… I can see smoke and some Fritzes with pans…' Some of his observations were of greater human than military interest: 'Now there's a German officer going for a walk with his dog… the dog's sniffing a post, it probably wants to pee… Yes, it must be a bitch… The officer's just standing there, he's having a scratch… Now I can see two girls chatting to some Fritzes… they're offering the girls cigarettes… One of them's lit up, the other's shaking her head… She must be saying: "I don't smoke".'
Suddenly, in the same sing-song voice, Bunchuk announced: 'The square's full of soldiers… and a band… there's a stage in the middle… no, a pile of wood…'
He fell silent. Then, in the same voice, now full of despair, he went on: 'Comrade Lieutenant, I can see a woman in a shift… she's being frog-marched… she's screaming… the band's struck up… they're tying the woman to a post… Comrade Lieutenant, there's a little boy with her… Ay… they're tying him up… Comrade Lieutenant, I can't bear to look… two Fritzes are emptying some cans of petrol…'
Batrakov hurriedly reported all this by telephone to the left bank. Then he grabbed the telescope himself.
'Ay, comrades, the band's playing and the whole square's full of smoke…'
'Fire!' he suddenly howled out in a terrible voice and turned in the direction of the left bank.
Not a sound from the left bank…
A few seconds passed, and then the place of execution was subjected to a concentrated barrage by the heavy artillery. The square was enveloped in dust and smoke.
Several hours later, they were informed by their scout, Klimov, that the Germans had been about to burn a gypsy woman and her son whom they suspected of being spies. The day before, Klimov had left some dirty washing with an old woman who lived in a cellar together with her granddaughter and a goat; he had promised to come back for it later when it was ready. Now he intended to ask this woman what had happened to the two gypsies – whether they had been burned to death on the pyre or killed by the Soviet shells.
Klimov crawled through the ruins along paths known to him alone – only to find that the old woman's dwelling had just been destroyed by a Russian bomb. There was nothing left of the old woman, her granddaughter or the goat – or of Klimov's pants and shirt. All he found among the splintered beams and lumps of plaster was a kitten, covered with dirt. It was in a pitiful state, neither complaining nor asking for anything, evidently believing that life was always just a matter of noise, fire and hunger.
Klimov had no idea what made him suddenly stuff the kitten into his pocket.
Katya was astonished by the relations between the inmates of house 6/1-. Instead of standing to attention to give his report, Klimov simply sat down next to Grekov; they then talked together like two old friends. Klimov lit up from Grekov's cigarette.
When he had finished, Klimov went up to Katya. 'Yes, my girl,' he said, 'life on this earth can be terrible.'
Under his hard, penetrating stare, Katya blushed and gave a sigh. Klimov took the kitten out of his pocket and placed it on a brick beside her.
During the course of the day at least a dozen men came up to Katya and started to talk about cats; not one of them spoke about the gypsies, though they had all been deeply shocked. Some of them wanted a sentimental, heart-to-heart conversation – and spoke coarsely and mockingly; others just wanted to sleep with her – and spoke very solemnly, with cloying politeness.