unbearable. Romashov made a crutch for him out of a tree branch. But
Sanya could not walk all the same, so Romashov went alone-not
forward, but back to the train in the hope of finding those Stanislav
girls. But he did not get to the train, the Germans opened fire on him on
the edge of the marsh. He went back.
266
"I got back in an hour, maybe a little more," Romashov said, "and I
didn't find him. It was a small wood and I searched the length and
breadth of it. I was afraid to shout but nevertheless I did, several times.
There was no answer. I searched all night until finally I dropped down
and fell asleep. In the morning I found the spot where we had parted.
The moss was torn up and trampled down, and the crutch lay under a
tree..."
Afterwards Romashov had got caught in an encirclement, but broke
through to our troops with a detachment of sailors off the Dnieper
Flotilla. He never heard about Sanya again.
I had pictured to myself a thousand times how I would get to know
about this. A letter would come, an ordinary letter without a stamp, and
I would open it—and the world would be blotted out. Or Varya would
come—Varya, whom I had tried so many times to comfort—and she
would try to break the news to me gently, starting from afar with: "If he
were killed, what would you do? " And I would answer:
"I wouldn't survive it." Or I would be standing in a queue with other
women at the Military Registration Office, and we would be looking at
one another, all thinking the same thing: "Who would it be today? " I
had thought of everything, but never had it entered my mind that I
would hear about this from Romashov.
It was all nonsense, of course. He had made it up or read something
like it in a magazine. Most likely he had made it up. The calculated
cunning so characteristic of him was evident in his every word. But how
unfair, how painful it was to have this stupid, this harrowing game
played out at my expense! To have this man turn up in Leningrad,
where life was hard enough without him, in order to deceive me so
meanly!
"Misha," I began very calmly, "all this is a lie and you know it. If you
don't admit it and ask my forgiveness, I'll drive you out like the cad you
are. When did this happen-all you've been telling me? "
"In September."
"There, you see—in September. And I received a letter dated the
twentieth of October in which Sanya writes that he is alive and well and
may fly in to Leningrad for a day or two if his chiefs permitted. Now
what do you say to that, Misha? "
I don't know where I got the strength to lie at such a moment! I had
received no letter dated October twentieth. I had not heard from Sanya
for over a month.
Romashov smiled wryly.
"It's a good thing that you didn't believe me," he said. "Never mind,
it's all for the best."
"So it was all a lie, then? "
"Yes," said Romashov, "it's a lie."
He should have argued with me, should have tried to convince me, lost
his temper, he should-like that time in Dogs' Place-have stood before me
with trembling lips. But he said impassively: "Yes, it's a lie."
My heart sank, went cold and leaden within me.
He must have sensed it. He came up and took my hand-easily and
boldly. I wrenched it free.
"If I wanted to deceive you I would simply have shown you the
newspaper, which reports in black and white that Sanya was killed. But I
told you what nobody else in the world knows. It is ridiculous," he said
267
haughtily, "to think that I did this for base personal motives. Or that I
believed that such news could help me win your favour? But it's the
truth, and I dare not conceal it from you."
I still sat motionless, but everything around me began to drift away-
Sasha's table with the brushes in the tall glass and that red-haired
soldier at the table, whose name I had forgotten. I was silent, I didn't
want anything, but the soldier for some reason hastily left the room and
came back with a grey, elegant little woman, who clutched her head
when she saw me and cried: "Katya, my God! Give me some water!
What's the matter, Katya? "
December 30, 1941. Bertha died a fortnight ago, on one of our "alert"
days, when the bombing started first thing in the morning, or rather
continued from overnight. She did not die from starvation—poor
Rosalia repeated a dozen times that starvation had nothing to do with it.
She wanted to have her sister buried the same day, as the ritual
required. But it was impossible. So then she hired a long, mournful Jew,
and he read prayers all night over the dead woman, who lay on the floor
in a shroud made from two separate bedsheets - this, too, was in
accordance with the ritual. The bombs were falling very near, not a
single pane of glass was left whole that night in Maxim Gorky Prospekt,
and the streets were bright and ghastly with the lurid glow of
conflagrations, while that mournful man sat mumbling prayers, then
quietly fell asleep. Coming into the room at daybreak I found him
peacefully sleeping next to the dead woman with his prayer-book under
his head.
Romashov managed to obtain a coffin—at that time, a fortnight ago, it
was still possible—and when that thin little old woman was laid into that
huge, rough-hewn box, it looked as if even there, in the coffin, she were
cowering with terror in a corner.
One had to dig the grave oneself-the grave-diggers, Romashov
thought, demanded an "outrageous" price. He hired boys to do it — the
same boys whom Rosalia had taught to paint.
Very animated, he ran downstairs ten times, held whispered
conferences with the house manager, patted Rosalia on the shoulder,
and ended up by getting angry with her for insisting on having Bertha
buried in a shroud of two separate bedsheets.
"Sheets can be bartered for bread! " he shouted. "She doesn't need
them. In any case somebody will take them off her in a day or two."
I sent him about his business and told Rosalia that everything would
be the way she wanted it.
It was early morning. Tiny brittle snowflakes eddied in the air, then
suddenly, as if in a hurry, fell to the ground, when Romashov and the
boys carried the coffin out, bumping against the walls and turning
awkwardly on the landings, and placed it on a hand sled in the yard. I
wanted to give the boys money, but Romashov said he had arranged to
pay them with bread.
"A hundred grams per head in advance," he said gaily. "Okay, boys? "
The boys nodded consent without looking at him.
"Are you going upstairs, Katya? " he went on. "Will you please fetch
the bread. It's in my coat."
I don't know why he put the bread in his coat—maybe to conceal it
from Rosalia or that Jew. The coat hung in the hall.
268
I remember thinking as I went upstairs that I ought to dress warmer.
I had been feeling a bit feverish in the night and I daresay it would be
better for me not to go to the cemetery, which was said to be a good
seven kilometres away. But I was afraid that without me Rosalia would
drop on the way.
The piece of bread, wrapped in a bit of paper, was in the coat pocket.