“Soon dad will go to the front”, Yurka said confidently. — And I will ask to join him. If he doesn’t take me I will go on my own. After all Vit’ka Timokhin and I decided long ago to go to the front. Vit’ka is not tall enough but they will let me do that for sure because I’m the tallest in my class! It’s a pity you, Aunty Anya, aren’t going to the front, otherwise I would be heading off there with you. It is never too late to study. Once we smash the Fascists you can study as much as you want…”
That night there was an air-raid warning in the city but we decided not to go to an air raid shelter — so we talked all night long. In the morning, sending Yurka to school and getting ready to go to the train station myself, I asked him to pledge his word not to make a step towards the front without my knowledge. Yurka promised but on one condition: if I managed to get to the front I would not fail to make arrangements for him to join me but in the meantime he would be studying at school and would do his best to master the rifle and the machine-gun. With that we parted.
Yuri waited in vain for my call to the front and his father’s visit. He would see his father many years after the war when my brother received banishment after ten years of imprisonment. Vasya as well as many other ‘political’ prisoners survived thanks to the kindness of Zavenyagin, the director of construction and then director of the Norilsk mining and processing operation. To provide the construction works with high-level professionals, he recruited specialists from amongst the political prisoners, softening their regime. My brother was brought to Moscow under escort by plane more than once to get some plans approved. Of course, he wasn’t allowed to visit his family on the Arbat or even ring them. He would stay in a NKVD hotel in the Mayakovskiy Square… I often called Katya, my brother’s wife, a dekabristka67. When her husband received banishment, at her own risk she took Yurka with her and headed to faraway Norilsk by water: it was cheaper that way. It took them three months to get there — they barely survived. But the joy of the meeting instilled faith and hope into the family… In 1953 Vasya was fully rehabilitated but he stayed in Norilsk with his family. Now he worked as a deputy director of the Zavenyagin Mining and Processing Operation in Norilsk, and Katya in a tailoring shop. At the age of 75 my brother retired, but nowadays the third generation of the Egorovs works in Norilsk — my brother’s grandchildren, Victor and Andrey. Life goes on…
11. Closer to the front
It was extremely sultry in the carriage. People sat pressed against each other. You don’t stay silent long in such ‘close unity’ and I got into talking with my middle-aged neighbour, a military cadre all over. Of course, the conversation was about what was going on at the front — there was no other topic then. I was mostly asking questions — I was keen to find out everything from someone in the know — and the officer was answering. He asked only one question: “What are you, young lady, riding towards the front line for?” I showed him my orders.
“Strange people”, the commander marveled, “what aeroclub could there be in Stalino now? The city’s been evacuated…”
“It can’t be!” I exclaimed.
My neighbour sighed heavily, “Nevertheless it can, my girl…”
Indeed, I found no one at the aeroclub: everyone had been evacuated. The officer was right. The wilful air of the steppe played through the empty premises of the aeroclub, resonantly banging the doors and windows. I was taken aback: what should I do, who should I turn to? I didn’t have the fare back, or travel documents, or anything! I went outside, got my bearings and rushed downtown hoping to find there some office that would be useful, or simply to meet people capable of giving me sensible advice.
I didn’t have the road to myself long. I hadn’t walked even a block when someone grabbed me by a sleeve of my blouse. “What a fast walker you are!” A young sprightly voice said above my ear. “I barely managed to catch up with you…”
“Was it worth it?” I answered roughly, quickly turning on the stranger. I hated the street molesters, who were especially out of place in a frontline city.
“Now don’t you take it the wrong way”, the voice of the man, who turned out to be quite young, placated me. “I saw you go into the aeroclub. I thought it was no coincidence, some business must have brought you there. Let me introduce myself”, the guy stretched out his hand, “local trainee pilot Petr Nechiporenko.”
Not very willing, I returned his greeting all the same. But my caution had not passed yet and that didn’t go unnoticed.
“You don’t believe me, do you? Here are my papers. I am heading to the voencomat68 and then to the front…”
“To the front?” I asked again, now with respect.
“Where else? But it’s none of your concern — it’s men’s business. But I was trying to catch up with you because I noticed the ‘birds’ on your collar patches69. I wanted to say that I’d heard tomorrow some of the commanders would come. So don’t miss out…”
“Tomorrow… And what am I supposed to do today?”
The guy smiled, “To the theatre, for example. An opera. The last show is on — Carmen — and then the theatre will be evacuated. It’s here in the centre, just nearby.”
I accompanied the guy to the city voencomat, wished him a victorious homecoming and felt some envy that he was already going to the war to defend the motherland. And I indeed went to the theatre then, but I remember that I was seeing the stage as if through frosted glass. Everything seemed vague and misty but after all I was sitting in the fifth row of a half-full auditorium. I didn’t care much about the show: my thoughts were far, far away. Spain, toreadors, passion and love… It wasn’t touching and stirring me. I watched indifferently as the beautiful Carmen began her famous habanera but at the highest note the orchestra suddenly broke off and an unexpected silence fell onto the hall. The singer froze with her mouth open in bewilderment. A small scrawny man walked across the stage, stopped just before the orchestra pit and rumbled into the silence, “Comrades, it’s an air-raid warning! All of you are requested to go down into the air raid shelter. But please maintain order.”
Such was the finale of that performance… From the air raid shelter I returned to the aeroclub premises and settled in for the night in one of the offices on a cushion upholstered with black leatherette.
In the morning someone knocked on the door and a broad-shouldered well-built man in Air Force uniform immediately appeared in the door. There were three cubes on his collar patches: hence he was a senior lieutenant. He didn’t notice me straightaway for I was lying on a cushion behind a barricade of desks.
“What are you doing here?” He asked sternly.
“I am from Moscow, I have orders to report to the local aeroclub. And here I am, waiting for someone in charge.”
The military man’s face cleared: “Consider us here on the same business. I’m looking for someone in charge too. I’ve come to pick up pilots…” here the senior lieutenant made an expressive gesture with his hand — it was clear that our hosts had long left the palace of aviation…
“What shall we do then?” I asked him anxiously, and at that moment a sudden idea came to my mind. “So you’ve come to find pilots? Take me! Here are my papers. They are in complete order!”
The senior lieutenant read my orders from the Central Aeroclub attentively. “Well, your references are suitable. I’ll take you, Egorova. But we have to make all the arrangements legally! Let’s go to the voencomat.”
67
Translator’s note — a historical name for the wives of