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out, but it was as though a thousand fiends were tearing my leg to pieces

and lacerating the half-healed wounds on my back with iron scrapers. I

took another step, then a third.

"Well," I said to the fiends.

I took a fourth step.

The sun stood fairly high in the sky by the time I reached the edge of

the wood, beyond which lay the marsh, intersected by a single strip of

wet, trampled grass. Green tussocks, like beautiful globes, were visible

here and there, and I remembered how they had turned over under the

girls' feet yesterday.

Some men were walking about on the embankment. I wondered who

they were-our own or Germans. Our train was still burning; the flames,

pale in the sunlight, licked the blackened walls of the trucks.

Should I go back to it? What for? The rolling thunder of gunfire

reached me, muffled by distance, coming seemingly from the East. The

nearest station along the line, some twenty kilometres distant, was

Shchelya Novaya. Fighting was going on there, and this meant our

troops were there. I directed my steps that way, if you could call that

agony steps.

The wood came to an end, giving place to bushes of blue-black berries,

the name of which I had forgotten. They looked like bilberries, only

much bigger. A welcome sight, seeing that I had not had anything to eat

since the day before. Something dark and motionless lay in the field

beyond the bushes, probably a dead body, and every time I reached for a

berry, leaning on my crutches, that dark object worried me. After a time

I forgot about it, only to remember it again with a cold shiver. Several

berries dropped into the grass. I lowered myself carefully to look for

them, and a stab went through my heart—it was a woman. I made my

way towards her as fast as I could.

She was lying on her back with outspread arms. It wasn't Katya, it was

the other girl. She had been shot in the face, and her beautiful black

eyebrows were drawn together in a look of suffering.

It was then, I believe, that I first noticed I was talking to myself, and

saying rather odd things at that. I recollected the name of those blue-

black berries that resembled bilberries-whortleberries they were called-

and was overjoyed at the discovery. I began speculating aloud about

287

how this girl had been killed. Probably she had been going back to fetch

me, and the Germans on the embankment had fired a burst at her from

a submachine-gun. I said some kind words to her to buck her up, as

though she were not dead, hopelessly dead, with those eyebrows drawn

together in an expression of pain.

Then I forgot her. I hobbled along, babbling, and I didn't at all like the

way I was babbling. This was delirium, it had crept upon me unawares

and I did not even try to fight it because I needed every ounce of

strength to fight an irresistible desire to fling away my crutches, which

had blistered my armpits, and to lie down on the ground, where I would

find peace and happiness.

I must have stopped seeing anything around me long before I lost

consciousness, otherwise where could that fine pale-green head of

cabbage have come from alongside my own head? I was lying in a

vegetable garden gazing rapturously at the cabbage. Everything would

have been fine if not for that scarecrow in the tattered black hat which

wheeled slowly above me. The crow sitting on its shoulder circled with

it, and I thought that but for that bird with the flat blinking eye

everything in the world would be fine. I shouted at it, but my voice was

so hoarse and feeble, that it just looked at me and stirred its wings, as

though shrugging its shoulders.

Yes, everything would have been fine, if only I could stop the world

from making those slow circles round me. I would then perhaps have

been able to make out that unpainted log-built cottage at the top of the

garden, with the porch, and that tall well-sweep in the yard. One of the

windows kept darkening now and again. Somebody I couldn't see was

walking about the house, looking anxiously out of the window.

I got to my feet. The doorstep was about forty paces from me-a trifle

compared with the distance I had covered the previous day. But those

forty steps cost me dear. I dropped exhausted on the porch amid a

clatter of my crutches.

The door opened slightly. A boy of about twelve stood on his knee

behind a stool. Lying on the porch, it was some time before I could make

him out in the depths of the darkish room with its low ceiling and large

double-tiered bunks screened off from the rest of the room by cotton

curtains. He was aiming straight at me, one eye screwed up and the butt

pressed to his cheek.

"Look, I need help," I said, trying to stop the room, which was also

spinning round me in that slow accursed manner. "I'm a wounded

airman from the hospital train."

"Kirill, stop!" said the boy with the gun. "He's one of ours."

He appeared to become duplicated at that moment. Another boy

exactly like him peeped out from behind the curtains. He had a hunting

knife in his hand. He was still puffing and blinking with excitement.

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE BOYS

288

I hardly remember what happened afterwards. The days I spent with

the boys are wreathed, as it were, in clouds of vapour. It was real

vapour, too, coming from a big kettle that boiled from morning till night

on a trivet in the Russian stove. But there was also another, visionary

vapour, which made my breathing rapid and hoarse and left me in a

drenching sweat. Sometimes it would clear a little, and then I would see

myself in bed with a mound of coloured pillows under my leg. The boys

had done that to keep the flow of blood away from the wound. I knew

already that their names were Kirill and Vladimir, that they were the

sons of a pointsman named Ion Leskov and that their father had gone to

the station and told them to lock the door and let nobody in. They were

twins, and though I knew it, I got scared every time I saw them together.

They were so exactly alike that I thought I was being delirious again.

It was as though two selves were struggling within me—one a

cheerful, blithe soul who tried to conjure up vivid memories of all the

good things of life, the other a sombre and resentful person harbouring

a grievance and brooding over his humiliation.

At times I saw a tall bearded man, so still with cold that he could not

even shut the door behind him, coming into the cottage where my sister

and I were living. It wasn't Doctor Ivan Ivanovich though. It was myself.

I dropped exhausted on the porch steps, the door was flung open, boys

aimed a gun at me, then said: "He's one of ours."

And I kept thinking that the reason they were so kind to me was

because once, many years ago, my sister and I-lonely, neglected children

in a remote, snowbound village-had helped the doctor.

At other times I saw myself with teeth bared in hatred, gun in hand,

crouching under a railway carriage. People lay all round me in queer

attitudes, with arms flung out. What had I done, what sin of omission

was I guilty of? What important thing, the most important thing in life,