Apricot Jam: And Other Stories (36 page)

The linesmen come back. Great job, lads!

The sound of the German guns is still indistinct, though. The sun is fierce and saps all our strength. Some cumulus clouds have appeared, but they don
’
t seem to be gathering.

Botnev has taken over the central station from me.

Ovsyannikov is back. He
’
s covered in sweat and his shirt has dark, wet spots on it. He
’
s heard about Andreyashin over the phone. On his way back, he came under some heavy fire. He was lying out on some level ground without any cover. Our forward observer has now found a spot behind some stones but is still having a heavy time of it and can
’
t even raise his head.

Ovsyannikov has taken off his sweaty field cap, and his hair is sticking out in all directions. Still, he gives a very clear account of
all that
he
’
s done, speaking in his broad Vladimir accent.

“
Go grab a bit of sleep, Vitya,
”
I tell him. And he goes.

The hours flow by, and from
all the
racket, the confusion, and the trying to do three things at once, the extreme strain under which you
’
ve been working begins to sink you into torpor. Your whole being seems to be in fog; your head feels
swollen, both from the lack of sleep and the effects of the shell bursts that haven
’
t yet passed; your head droops, your eyes are red. It
’
s as if the various parts of your brain and your soul have been torn to pieces and will simply not move back to their proper places.

When night comes, though, you need a particularly clear head. So now I, too, go off to get some sleep in one of the houses. There
’
s a dirty, ragged blanket on the bed, and the pillow is no better. And there are lots of flies. I put my head down and I
’
m gone.
Sleeping the sleep of the dead.

How long was I asleep? The sun has now moved well across to the other side and is sinking.

I hurry back to the station. There
’
s Pashanin with his mess tin, just had supper.
“
Are they
back
yet?
”

In a voice filled with compassion and sorrow, as if he himself were to blame, he tells me:
“
He died as soon as they got him to the aid station. He was just full of holes.
”

So . . . now we know. That
’
s how it is.

I go down the steps to our instruments to check on the work. All the men look downcast. The new shift is already busy at the tables. The women have stopped their chatter; there
’
s been a death in the house.

“
Anything that could be coming from 415?
”

“
Not a thing,
”
says Konchits from the plotting table.

While I was sleeping, it turns out, our boys have twice given the German forward area a heavy shelling, Mokhovoe in particular. And I never heard a sound.

There had been a few breaks in the lines, but our lads were right there to repair them.

Now where
’
s Ovsyannikov?

He
’
s gone to our right-hand posts. There
’
s no stopping that man.

It seems that they
’
ve stopped plaguing us with their shelling. Still, the torpor hasn
’
t left me. If they
’
d just leave us in peace for a bit,
I
could get back on my feet again.
And before it gets dark.

I
’
ve got no appetite and don
’
t bother with supper.

A call comes from Boyev to remind me that he was expecting the Forty-second at 2000 hours.

Yes, better not forget that
..
. It
’
s just a bit more than a kilometer, and I can walk it. It
’
ll soon be after six . . .

Now the firing seems to have almost died out. Everyone
’
s exhausted.

We
’
re not making any move forward. And there are no planes in the sky, neither ours nor theirs.

I sit down under a tree. Maybe I should jot down a few things in my diary? I haven
’
t added a line since yesterday, when I mentioned the gypsies who were with us. But no thoughts will come to me. I don
’
t have even the energy to move my pencil.

These past four days? A person isn
’
t equipped to cope with so much. What day was it when that happened? The time frame becomes completely muddled.

Ovsyannikov comes back and sits down on the grass beside me. Neither of us speaks about Andreyashin.

“
What day was it when Romaniuk shot the tip off his finger?
”

“
That idiot thought we
’
d strike him off strength so easily. Now he
’
s in front of a tribunal.
”

“
Kolesnichenko was smarter. He ran off even before we began the offensive.
”

“
And no one
’
s heard of him since.
”

We go down to the stream, strip to the waist, and wash.

So, evening is coming on. The sun is dropping behind the higher houses in the village, behind the ridge, and will soon be behind the Germans. All our observers will be blinded in a moment.

Seven thirty. In an hour and a half our real work will begin. Seven thirty. I
’
m supposed to go somewhere at eight. That
’
s right, Boyev called. Should I go? He
’
s not my commander, but he
’
s a good neighbor.

“
OK, Botnev, take over for a while. I
’
ll be back in an hour or so.
”

My head still isn
’
t working properly.

It
’
s easy to find my way there—just follow the wire. (Don
’
t go astray where the wires cross, though.)

I
drop through the hollow and then follow the straight road above it. There are about a dozen houses along it, still standing. None of the shells have hit the road. Now that evening
’
s come on, there is the odd villager here and there, tending to their household chores. A few of them still have some livestock. Farther on,
there
’
s a small potato field. Then another slope, and among the bushes sits the battalion staff truck, a ZIS, its bed roofed over by a homemade canvas cover. They
’
ve obviously come here straight across the fields, not by road.

Battery commander Myagkov and the battalion commissar are standing by the truck smoking.

“
Is the battalion commander here?
”

“
He is.
”

“
Any idea why he called me?
”

“
Climb aboard, you
’
ll see.
”

They
’
re also getting in. We climb up the small ladder attached to the back of the truck and go through a low plywood door.

All the map cases, maps, and papers that were on the table in the middle have been cleared away and placed in the corners. The table, bolted to the floor, has been covered with a pair of towels sewn together to make a tablecloth; on it are a white, unlabeled bottle and some open tins of preserved food—American sausages and our own tinned fish; some sliced bread and cookies lie on a plate. And there are glasses and mugs of various calibers.

On the left side of his chest, Boyev wears two Orders of the Red Banner, something you rarely see; on the right he has one Order of the Fatherland and one Red Star; he
’
s not wearing some of his lesser medals. His head isn
’
t quite round and looks as if a bit has been trimmed off each side, which adds to the solidity of his chin and forehead. He grasps your hand firmly and powerfully; it
’
s always a pleasure to shake hands with him.

“
So you made it, Sasha?
Wonderful.
We
’
ve been expecting you.
”

“
What are you celebrating? We still haven
’
t taken Oryol.
”

“
It
’
s my birthday, you see, the last one before I turn thirty. And this next year will go by so fast, I just can
’
t put off celebrating.
”

Proshchenkov, commander of Four Battery, is shorter than Boyev and is both like and unlike him: he has the same unyielding solidity in his jaw and shoulders, a masculine strength. And there
’
s also something very simple and innocent about him.

Yet who among us isn
’
t simple and innocent at heart? Until the war, I had never rubbed shoulders with people like this. Thanks to the war, I came to know them and to be accepted by them.

Myagkov is something else entirely: He is
myagkii
,
a gentle, kind fellow. He
’
s like a son to Boyev. Their last names absolutely suit them— Boyev, the
boyevoi
,
the fighting man.

The commander of Six Battery has been left at the observation post.

Here I begin to feel myself grow steady and stable. I
’
m happy I
’
ve come.

There are benches fastened to either side. People can sleep on them, but now they are seating six—the battalion adjutant, a captain, had also come.

We don
’
t take off our hats. We are all covered with dust, and the sweat hasn
’
t dried on a few of us.

Boyev calls me by name, but I address him as
“
Com
’
Major,
”
though he
’
s only four years older than I. But I can
’
t transgress these army manners and, in any case, I don
’
t want to.

“
Com
’
Major! If there aren
’
t any toasts already planned, may I make one?
”

Now at last I feel some relief from this whole day of madness and stupefaction. It
’
s come not from my peaceful walk getting here; it
’
s from this place itself, from the firm handshakes, from the unexpected little gathering around a folding table and, to be sure, from the fact that no one knows where we
’
ll be a year from now (I remember
Andreyashin
’
s
plan to visit Oryol). Boyev and I have never been close before, yet here we are, friends—all of us, a group of friends.

“
Pavel
Afanasyevich
! In two years of war, I
’
ve been blessed to meet people like you! And people like you, one doesn
’
t meet every day.
”

I look with admiration at his invariably erect bearing and at his face: How can he have such iron determination and self-forgetfulness when life itself now seems so cheap? Yet he never loses his soldier
’
s mannerisms for a moment.