A Hero's Daughter

3

" 'No further retreat is possible,' he says. 'Behind us lies Moscow.' And also behind us, for God's sake, was that line of machine guns! Ha! Ha! Ha! And now Gorbachev's going to screw the lot of them. You've read what it says about Brezhnev in Izvestia! 'Stagnation,' it says. 'The mafia…' In the old days they talked of 'developed socialism.' Now that's what I'd call an about-face! And on Stalin, too. Did you read it, Vanya? Khrushchev's Memoirs… Nikita writes that when the war came Stalin was so scared he did it in his pants. He barricaded himself in his dacha and wouldn't let anyone in. He thought his number was up. They told us such fibs: 'He organized the struggle… He drew up the strategy for victory…' Some goddamn generalis-simo!

Ivan nodded his head gently, making the connection with some difficulty between the voice and the pale patch of a face hovering amid the pearly clouds of tobacco smoke. Waiters with the build of gorillas and the faces of bouncers threaded their way between the tables. Their fingers fanned out, carrying bunches of beer tankards.

By now Ivan was understanding almost nothing of what his neighbor was saying to him – the one who had served in the signal corps during the war. All he heard was: "Stalin… Stalin…" And in a confused fashion this brought back an image from the past: the frozen expanse of Red Square, on November 7, 1941, the anniversary of the revolution, the endless tide of soldiers chilled to the bone and finally himself amid these frozen ranks. The Mausoleum came into view, nearer and nearer. And already a whispering among the soldiers, like the murmuring of waves, runs through the ranks: "Stalin… Stalin…" Suddenly he catches sight of him on the platform by the Mausoleum, amid clouds of frozen breath. Stalin! Calm, motionless, unshakable. At the sight of him something almost animal thrills in each one of them. Each one of them believes Stalin is looking deeply into his eyes.

"Following this parade the soldiers went straight to the front," the confident voice of the commentator on the contemporary film footage would explain after the war. "And each of them carried in his heart the unforgettable words of the Supreme Commander of the armies: 'Our cause is just! Victory will be ours!' '

And they were marching, still marching, regiment upon regiment; with their eyes staring wide, and reflected in them the crenellated walls of the Kremlin, the Mausoleum swathed in hoarfrost, looking as if it were made of white suede, and a man of average height, whose mustache was covered in silvery droplets…

A colossus appeared beside their table, a white napkin over his arm, gave the three drunken veterans a blasé look and sang out: "All right, old-timers, shall I fill 'em up or do you want to pay?"

"Go ahead, young man. We'll have one more for the road," Ivan's neighbor bellowed. "You see, we've just met here. We're almost all from the same regiment. We were on the same front in the war. But I was in the signal corps, Vanya was a gunner and Nikolai…" Amid hiccups he started relating his war experiences with sweeping gestures across the table. The waiter picked up the empty glasses and walked away, yawning, to get their beer.

What Ivan pictured now was not Red Square but a courtyard covered in mud petrified by the cold and the dry snow, surrounded by huts or barracks. They have penned in the soldiers there and kept them out in the icy wind for several hours. They have also brought in uncouth lads from the countryside on big farm carts. Clad in padded jackets, disheveled shapkas, and down-at-the-heel felt boots. No one knows what is going to happen next – if they will be sent straight to the front line or left there and fed, or stuck in the barracks to sleep on bunks. And the blue of the low winter sky slowly hardens. Dusk descends. It snows and still they are standing there, sunk in a drowsy, silent numbness. And suddenly, somewhere near the farm carts, the strident cry of a garmoshka, a little concertina, blares forth. One of the country boys is playing it, bareheaded, with a mane of golden curls, not yet shorn, and a worn, unbuttoned sheepskin jacket… He is playing "Yahlochko," little apple, a sailors' song; he plays with desperate passion, tugging furiously on his garmoshka. His unseeing gaze is lost in the distance, somewhere above the heads. In the midst of the soldiers who surround him a sailor dances with the same reckless passion, stamping his heels fiercely on the frozen earth. He is of middling height, stocky, with a craggy face. Sailor's jersey, black marine jacket. He dances violently, baring his teeth in a wild fixed grin, and ha, too, stares at the gray horizon in blind ecstasy. The accordionist plays faster and faster, biting his lips and shaking his head in frenzy. The sailor stamps harder and harder upon the ground. Spellbound, the soldiers watch his face distorted with blissful agony. They no longer know where they are, they are no longer thinking about food, or sleep, or the front. The officer, who has come over to put an end to this merriment with one ear-splitting yell, stops and watches in silence. The sailor's boots are as heavy as if they were made of cast iron. They are laced up with lengths of telephone wire.

The waiter brings the beer, sets the glasses down amid the moist streaks on the table. Suddenly, completely clearly, as it might occur to someone who has drunk nothing, a question rings out in Ivan's head: "But where on earth can he be now, that little sailor? And that curly-haired accordionist?" And suddenly he is seized with pity for both of them. And, without knowing why, with pity, too, for his drinking companions. His chin begins to tremble and, half lying across the table, he holds out his arms to embrace them and can no longer see anything through his tears.

Before leaving, they drink the third bottle of vodka and go staggering out into the street, holding one another up. The night is full of stars. The snow crunches underfoot. Ivan slips and falls. The signalman picks him up with difficulty.

"It's nothing! It's nothing, Ivan! Don't worry. We'll take you home. You'll get there, don't worry…"

After that something strange occurs. Nikolai turns off through a gateway. The signalman sits Ivan down on a bench, goes off in search of a taxi and never comes back. Ivan stands up with difficulty. "I'll get there on my own," he thinks. "There's a store next, then the District Committee, and after that I turn left…"

But on the corner, instead of seeing the four-story apartment building and its familiar entrance gate, he sees a broad avenue with cars driving along it. He stops, baffled, leans against the wall of the house. Then he retraces his steps unsteadily, in retreat from this broad avenue that does not exist in Borissov. Yet these snowdrifts certainly exist in Borissov. He needs to skirt around them. And this bench and this fence also exist. Yes, that's it, all he has to do now is to cross this courtyard… But at the end of the courtyard an improbable apparition rears up – a vast skyscraper, like a rocket, illuminated by thousands of windows. And once more he retraces his footsteps, slips, falls, picks himself up again, holding on to a tree covered in hoarfrost. Once more he heads for the familiar snowdrifts, and the bench, without realizing that he is not in Borissov but in Moscow wandering around Kazan Station, where he got off the train this morning.

Two vehicles pulled up almost simultaneously beside the snowdrift where Ivan lay. One of them, from the militia, was collecting drunks to take them to the sobering-up station; the other was an ambulance. The first of these was doing its midnight rounds, the second had been summoned by a kindhearted pensioner, who from his window had seen Ivan lying on the ground. His shapka had flown off five yards away when he fell. None of the passersby out late at night had taken a fancy to it. Who needs a truck driver's battered old headgear? As he fell, Ivan had grazed his cheek on the edge of the bench, but the cold blood had solidified without even staining the snow.

A drowsy militiaman got down from the cabin of the van; a young nurse sprang out of the ambulance, with a coat thrown on over her white blouse. She bent over the prostrate body and exclaimed: "Oh! This isn't our responsibility. What's the point of calling us? He's a drunk! Any fool can see that. But they call you up and say 'Come quick. There's someone on the ground, in the road. Maybe knocked down by a car. Or else a heart attack…' A likely story! You can smell him a mile off."

The militiaman bent over as well, picked up the body by the collar and turned him over on its back.

"Well, we're not going to take him, that's for sure. There's blood all over his face. A boozer? Sure he's a boozer. But there's a physical injury… It's down to you to treat him. It's not our job."

"You've got a lot of nerve," cried the nurse angrily. "Treat him! He's going to throw up all over the ward. And who's going to clear up after him? It's hard enough finding cleaners as it is…"

"Well, picking up people with physical injuries isn't our job, I'm telling you. He may croak in the van. Or under the shower. He could bleed to death in there."

"What do you mean 'bleed to death'? Don't make me laugh. From that little scratch? Here, take a look at it, this physical injury…"

The nurse crouched down, extracted a little vial of alcohol and a cotton pad out of her satchel and wiped the scratch on Ivan's cheek.

"There. There's your 'physical injury,'" she said, showing the militiaman the cotton wool lightly stained with brown. "It's not even bleeding."

"Fine, fine. Since you've started treating him, you'd better finish the job. Pick him up and let's call it a day."

"No chance! Picking up drunks is your job. Otherwise what's the point of having all your sobering-up stations?"

"What's the point? If we take him in now with his mug all bloody, tomorrow morning he's going to be howling: 'The cops worked me over.' Everyone's wised up these days. At the smallest bit of trouble, wham! you get a story in the paper: 'Violation of socialist legality.' Sure thing! We've got glasnost now… Thanks to Gorbachev, the whole place is swarming with rabble-rouseirs. Under Stalin they'd soon have put you where you belonged. If that's how it is, write me a certificate testifying that he's got a bloody head. Otherwise I'm not taking him."

"But I don't have the right to make out a medical certificate until he's been examined."

"Go ahead then. Examine him…"

"No chance. We don't have anything to do with drunks!"

The argument dragged on. The driver got down from the ambulance; the second militiaman emerged from the yellow "Special Medical Service" van. He poked the body with his foot as it lay there and muttered: "Why are you wasting your breath? He may have kicked the bucket already. Let me have a look."

He bent over and brutally applied pressure behind Ivan's ears with two fingers.

"Hey, you should remember this little dodge." He laughed, winking at the nurse. "It's better than all your smelling salts. This'll wake the dead."

In response to intolerable pain, Ivan opened wild eyes and gave a dull groan.

"Alive!" chuckled the militiaman. "It'll take more than that to finish him off. He looks like he's lying under the streetlight to get a tan. All right, Seryozha, I suppose we'd better pick him up. There's no way we can leave this guy in the hands of these quacks. They do in more people than they cure."

"And you're plaster saints, I suppose!" retorted the nurse, glad to have won her battle at last. "I tell you, there was an article on sobering-up stations in Pravda the other day. When they bring a drunk in they empty his pockets. They steal his pay, his watch. They take everything…"

"All right, that's enough of that," the militiaman cut in. "We've had a bellyful as it is, what with Gorbachev and his speeches. Him and his perestroïka are a pain in the neck…"

The nurse jumped into the ambulance, slammed the door, and the vehicle drove off.

They lugged Ivan into the van and let him fall on the floor. One of the militiamen got behind the wheel, the other unbuttoned the top of Ivan's coat, searching for his papers. He took out a battered service record, held it up to the light and began to decipher it. Suddenly he uttered a whistle of surprise.

"Oh my God, Seryozha, he's a Hero of the Soviet Union! And those goddamned medics wouldn't take him off our hands! So now what are we going to do?"

"Well, what can we do? It's all the same to us if he's a Hero of the Soviet Union or even a goddamned cosmonaut. Our job's simple: we find him, we pick him up, we take him back, that's all. And at the station it's up to the officer to decide. Okay, let's go. Close that fucking door, my feet are frozen already."

Ivan had taken to drinking immediately after his wife's death. He drank a lot, fiercely, without explaining it to himself, without repenting, without ever promising himself to stop. Borissov is a small town. Soon everyone knew about the Hero turned drunkard.

The head of the motor pool called Ivan in from time to time and lectured him indulgently, as if talking to a child who has done something silly.

"Listen, Dmitrich, this is not good at all. You've got another two years before you retire and you carry on like this. That's twice they've picked you up dead drunk in broad daylight. It's lucky the local militia know you, otherwise you'd soon have been sent to the sobering-up station. I know you've got your troubles, but you're not a finished man. And don't forget you're behind a wheel. You risk either knocking someone over or getting killed yourself. And look what a bad example you're setting the young people."

They summoned him to the District Committee and also to the Veterans' Council, but in vain.

At the District Committee, Ivan listened to the Secretary's catalogue of reproaches and admonitions. Suddenly he interrupted him in a weary voice: "That's enough pettifogging nonsense, Nikolayich. You'd be better employed working out how to feed the people. Instead of which you talk a lot of rubbish – the Communist's duty, civic responsibility… It's a pain to listen to you!"

The Party Secretary burst out furiously: "Your drinking makes you forget where you are, Hero! As a member of the Party, how can you say such things?"

Ivan rose to his feet, leaned across the table toward the Secretary and observed in a low, dry voice: "As for me, now I can do anything… Understood? And as for my Party card, I could chuck it right back at you here on the table, if I chose!"

At the Veterans' Council the retired officers gathered there were looking forward with relish to some free entertainment. Ivan disappointed them all. He offered no explanation or defense, and did not argue with his irate accusers. He sat there, nodding his head and even smiling. He thought: "What's the point of offending these old men? Let them talk! Let them feel good. There's no malice in them, they're just bored. Look at that one, he's getting so worked up he's making his medals jangle. What a funny old codger. All dressed up and no place to go…"

The entertainment did not take place.

Toward May 9, as if he were observing a self-imposed fast, Ivan stopped drinking. He ran a broom over the rooms that for a long time had looked uninhabited. He cleaned his best suit, polished his medals and his Gold Star with tooth powder, and waited for the Pioneers. They usually came a few days before the Victory celebration, presented him with an invitation on a colorful card, and, after stammering out their prepared message, bolted down the staircase shouting gleefully.

He spent nearly a week waiting for them. "The little rascals must have forgotten," he thought. "They've got other things on their minds. Well, all the better for me. It was tiring in the long run, telling the same stories year after year."

But on May 8 he put on all his medals and went out. He wondered curiously: "Why haven't they invited me? If they've invited someone else, who is it?"

He walked past the school twice, but no one came out to meet him. Then he sat down in a square from which the entrance to the school could be seen. People walking past him greeted him with little disdainful smiles, as if to say: "Aha! The Hero! You've been seen dead drunk under a bench…"

In his head, inevitably, he heard the echo of phrases from his talks in days gone by: "Now then, my friends, just picture the scorching heat on the steppe in the summer of ' 42. In the distance Stalingrad is in flames and we're just a handful of soldiers…"

He kept turning to look at the school gate more and more often, was annoyed with himself, but could not overcome his curiosity. At length the gate opened wide and the stream of schoolchildren poured out into the street, shouting and squabbling. The "lesson on remembrance and patriotism" was over. Then a soldier appeared in the doorway escorted by a teacher. The soldier was holding three red carnations in his hand. Ivan went up to him in the alleyway. He was a young sergeant, the son of one of the drivers in their motor pool.

"Alexei, you're discharged already?" asked Ivan, with genial amazement.

"Since last autumn, Ivan Dmitrevich. And after that I spent ages in hospital. I had a foot blown off. You can see the kind of clodhoppers I wear now."

Ivan looked down. On one of the young sergeant's feet he was wearing a monstrously swollen orthopedic ankle boot.

"And how's it going back there in Afghanistan? It's a funny thing, but they never mention it in the papers now…"

"Well, what could they say about it? Back there we're up to our necks in shit…"

"So, you've just come from the school?"

"Yes, they invited me to the lesson on patriotism."

"So what did the children ask you?"

"They asked about the duty of internationalist soldiers and about the brotherhood of arms. And one rascal at a desk in the back row stood up and said: 'Please tell me, Comrade Staff-Sergeant, how many mujahideen did you kill yourself?' Well, there you are… The artificial limbs they make for us are just god-awful. When you walk down the street you have to grit your teeth. And when you take them off your boots are full of blood. It's as hard as… Well, Ivan Dmitrevich, have a good holiday. Happy Victory Day! Here, look at these flowers. Take them, Dmitrevich. You're a Hero, you deserve them. Give them to your wife… What…? But when…? Good God! That's terrible! I knew nothing about it. I've only been out of the hospital for five days. Well, keep your chin up, Ivan Dmitrevich. And… Happy Victory Day!"

A year later Ivan retired. The head of the motor pool heaved a sigh of relief. They bid him a solemn farewell; they presented him with a heavy gray marble writing set and an electronic watch. The watch Ivan sold almost immediately: vodka had gone up and his pension was barely adequate. No one wanted the writing set, not even for three rubles.

That year Gorbachev came to power. Ivan watched his speeches on television. It was the month of May the time for his abstinence. This animated and garrulous man, Gorbachev, created a strange impression when he spoke, forever removing his glasses, putting them on again and cracking jokes: "We must develop the system of vegetable plots," he would say, waving his hands like a conjuror seeking to hypnotize his audience. "You know, little gardens, little vegetable plots. Several million men among us want to become the owners of land but we, for the moment, cannot satisfy their demands…"

There were very few people then who suspected that what this whole scenario, all these 'vegetable plots,' amounted to really was a magician's patter to lull people's vigilance. In Russia it was always necessary to act out this drama of humility as a preliminary to climbing onto the throne. Khrushchev performed folk dances in front of Stalin, Brezhnev feigned a heart attack in front of Kaganovich, Gorbachev performed magic tricks in front of the old mafiosi of the Politburo, whom he had to overcome.

That year, as in the previous year, Ivan pulled himself together for several days. He did the housework in the apartment, walked through the town wearing all his medals, visited the cemetery. The photo of Tatyana in its oval frame set in the monument had turned yellow and the rains had warped it. But to Ivan she seemed strangely alive.

As he passed by the town's wall of honor he saw they had already removed his own photo. All that remained was an empty metal frame and the stupid remnant of an inscription "Soviet Hero… from Motor Pool No. 1…"

People did not forget that he was a Hero. For old time's sake the militia would bring him home when he was laid low by vodka. When he did not have enough money for his bottle at the store the salesclerk would give him credit.

Gradually his apartment emptied. He sold the carpet he had bought in Moscow with Tatyana in the old days. He disposed of ll the salable furniture for almost nothing. Gorbachev's speech about little vegetable plots was the last transmission he watched: he swapped his television set for three bottles of vodka. He carried all this out with a casual unconcern that surprised even himself. He actually went as far as to get rid of the rings and earrings preserved in his wife's jewel box and several silver spoons.

One day in autumn he was unable to get hold of money for drinking. The cold wind kept his drinking companions at home; there was a new salesclerk working at the store now; his neighbors laughed and slammed the door in his face when he tried to borrow three rubles. For some time he wandered through the cold, dirty streets, then went home and took his best suit, complete with all the brass, out of the wardrobe. For a moment he studied the heavy gilded and silvered disks, fingering the cold metal, and removed the Order of the Red Banner of War. He did not have the courage to try to sell it in Borissov. People knew him too well here, and no doubt no one would be tempted. He went through his pockets, gathered up ll the change, and bought a ticket to Moscow. He sold his medal there for twenty-five rubles and got drunk.

After that he went to Moscow almost every week.

The one thing he never touched was his Gold Star. He knew he would never touch it.

So it was that when they went through his clothes at the sobering-up station in Moscow they found two "For Gallantry" medals and the Order of Glory second class, all wrapped in a scrap of crumpled newspaper. On it Ivan had written in ballpoint pen: "ten rubles" for each medal, "twenty-five rubles" for the Order, so as to avoid any mistakes in his drunken state – all the more because the sale would have to be made quickly in a dark corner. The duty officer informed the criminal investigation department of this find.

In the morning they let him go. He walked along slowly, not really knowing where he was going, taking in gulps of fresh, blue air through his parched lips, his eyes screwed up against the dazzling March sun. He only desired one thing: to buy a bottle of liquor quickly and, without a glass, drinking from the neck, choking on it, to ingest a few lifesaving drafts. He felt through his pockets and took out the medals and the Order, unable to believe his luck. "They haven't taken them," he thought happily. "Hey! Don't they search you anymore at that station…?"

The militiaman detailed to catch Ivan red-handed made his move too fast. Ivan had just unwrapped his treasure. The dealer had not yet taken out his money. He saw the militiaman in plain clothes looming up in front of them and began yawning in a bored manner. "My, my, little father, so those are war medals that you've got there! No, that doesn't interest me. That's a recipe for ending up in the clink, you know. It's not my bag."

The militiaman swore in frustration, flashed his red card and indicated to Ivan a car that was waiting for them.

That evening he went home to Borissov. At the police station they had decided not to pursue it. To begin with he had not been caught red-handed. Besides, he was a Hero, after all. He traveled back on an overcrowded train. Sweating heavily and dazed with exhaustion from standing in line in Moscow, people were carrying great bundles of provisions. March 8, International Women's Day, was drawing near. Standing there, squeezed against a creaking door, Ivan was absently drumming on the smooth, round medals in his pocket and thinking: "If only someone would speak to me… There they all are, with their sour faces… Their mouths shut tight and their bags crammed with fodder… It'd be good to kick the bucket here and now. They'd bury me and it'd be all over and done with. Spring's on the way now, the earth's good and soft already It thaws quickly…"

From Moscow they sent a report on Ivan to the District Committee of the Party. They recounted the episode at the sobering-up station and the trafficking in medals. The matter went all the way up to the Party's Central Committee. "How's this! The Hero of Stalingrad has become an alcoholic who sells his war medals! And just as we're coming up to the fortieth anniversary of the Victory!" Furthermore Gorbachev's magic tricks were turning out not to be magic tricks at all; heads were beginning to roll. It was Year One of the Gorbachevian Revolution.

From the Central Committee they had telephoned to the Regional Committee, from the Regional Committee to the District Committee. The reproaches snowballed. The Party District Committee Secretary, having received a warning shot, nervously dialed the number of the Regional Military Committee. Ivan was summoned to it by a simple notice. The officer who saw him instructed him to hand over his army documents and his Hero of the Soviet Union certificate. "They're going to stick another bit of anniversary scrap metal on me," thought Ivan.

Without even opening the army papers, the officer handed them back to Ivan; the Hero's certificate he tossed into the safe with a brisk gesture and slammed the thick little door shut.

"For the time being your certificate will stay with us," he said drily. And in grave tones he added: "In accordance with the instructions of the Party District Committee."

In a futile impulse, Ivan gestured toward the safe, as if reaching for the little door. But the officer stood up and shouted into the corridor: "Sergeant, escort this citizen to the exit."

At the District Committee Ivan thrust aside the switchboard «operator who tried to bar his way and burst into the Party Secretary's office. The latter was talking on the telephone and when Ivan accosted him with a shout he put his hand over the receiver and said in a low voice: "I'll have you thrown out by a militiaman."

Having finished his conversation he gave Ivan a nasty look and intoned: "We shall be addressing a request to the higher authorities, Comrade Demidov, to seek the revocation of your award as Hero of the Soviet Union. That's all. This interview is at an end. I shall detain you no further."

"It wasn't you that gave me that award and it won't be you that takes it away from me," muttered Ivan dully.

"Precisely. It's not my responsibility It's within the competence of the Supreme Soviet. That's where they'll review whether a depraved alcoholic has the moral right to wear the Gold Star."

Ivan greeted these words with a heavy shout of laughter.

"No. Not the Star. You won't take that away from me, you bunch of bastards. Even the Fritzes at the camp never found it on me. Though they searched me enough times! I screwed it into the palm of my hand. They shouted: 'Hands up!' And I spread my fingers but it stayed in place. Look! Like this!"

And with a bitter smile Ivan showed the Secretary the five points of the Star embedded in his palm. The Secretary was silent.

"That's how it is, Citizen Chief," repeated Ivan, who was no longer smiling. "What? You didn't know I'd been a prisoner of war? Well, no one knew. If it had come out I'd have been rotting in a camp at Kolyma long ago. Go ahead! Call the Military Committee. Let those rats do a bit of research. They might find a little two-month gap in '44. And as for the Star, you'll never take it from me. You'll have to rob my corpse for it…"

Ivan could not bring himself to go home. He dreaded seeing again the empty coat stand in the corridor, the gray pile of dirty linen, the washbasin yellow with rust. For a long time he walked around in the muddy spring streets, and when he noticed someone coming toward him turned aside. Then he made his way around the furniture factory, beyond which there was already an expanse of open country, and emerged in a wasteland that smelled of damp snow. Close by, beneath a layer of spongy ice, a stream murmured softly On the sloping verge the snow had already melted in places, uncovering dark, swollen earth. This earth gave way underfoot in a soft and supple manner. And once more it seemed to Ivan not frightening but warm and tender, like river clay.

"I've lasted too long," thought Ivan. "I should have gone sooner. They'd have buried me with full honors." He realized that throughout that time he had been hoping for a brutal and unexpected end, an end that would have happened of itself and would have swept everything into the void, the dead apartment, the dark entrance where drunkards lingered, himself. That was why he was destroying himself with such abandon, almost joyfully. But the end did not come.

When dusk was beginning to fall Ivan went back into the town, walked along the streets once more – the "Progress" Cinema, the District Committee, the militia. Beside the Gastronom store there was a long, serpentine line. One of the men at the end of the line dropped a bag full of empty bottles. He started picking up the pieces, cut his fingers, and swore in a weary, monotonous voice. "If only I could buy half a liter and down it first… otherwise I don't think I'll have the courage," thought Ivan. But he had nothing to pay with. "Okay, I'll try to find the sleeping pills. But it'll have to be done later, or else the neighbors will suspect something."

And he continued wandering. When night came the cold made the stars glitter. The icebound snow crackled underfoot. But there was already a smell of spring on the wind. Close to his home Ivan lifted his head – almost all the windows were already dark. It was dark, too, in the courtyard beside the apartment building. Dark and silent. In the silence Ivan heard the light crunch of the snow beneath the feet of a stray dog. Happy at the thought of being able to stroke it and look into its anxious, tender eyes, he turned around. The night wind was causing a ball of crumpled newspaper to roll along the ground…

Ivan went in through the main door and was preparing to climb up to his apartment on the third floor but remembered he should look at the mail. He hardly ever opened his box for weeks at a time, knowing that if something was dropped in it, it was almost certainly by mistake. His daughter sent him three cards a year: on Soviet Army Day, his birthday, and Victory Day. The first two dates were already past, the third was still a long way off. This time he found a letter. Only the upper floors were lit, and where the box was almost total darkness reigned. " Moscow," Ivan made out on the envelope. "It must be the bill from the sobering-up station. Hell's bells! They don't waste any time. That's the capital for you…"

In the course of his wanderings through the town he had had time to gather his thoughts. He had been thinking about it all with surprising detachment, as if it concerned someone else. He recalled where there was a razor amid the chaos in the kitchen, and in which of the drawers in the chest the pills were kept. He was no longer on good terms with his neighbors on the same floor. Which is why he decided to slip the note asking for someone to come and see him under the door of the apartment below, where Zhora, a robust warehouseman lived. He got on well with him and occa-sionally they had a drink together. "It's all right, he's tough. He's not one to be scared," thought Ivan. "That's important. Someone else might have a heart attack…"

As he climbed up the stairs he was fingering his neck, trying to find where the blood throbbed most strongly. "That must be it, the carotid. Oh! It's really pounding away there. The main thing's to hit it first time off. Otherwise you're going to be running around like a chicken with its throat half cut!"

In the apartment he took out the razor and found the sleeping pills. On a piece of paper he wrote: "Zhora, come to number 84. It's important." Then he went and slipped the note under the door.

Back at home, he made a tour of the apartment, glanced at a photo in the wooden frame: Tatyana and himself, still very young, and in the background palm trees and the misty outline of the mountains. Then, he filled a glass with water from the tap and began to swallow the pills one after the other.

Soon Ivan felt a thick fog that muffled all sounds revolving slowly in his head. He opened the razor and, as if to shave himself, lifted his chin.

At that moment he remembered he had slammed the door shut and that he needed to leave it unlocked, otherwise Zhora would not be able to get in. His mind was still functioning and this afforded him an absurd satisfaction. In the entrance hall he took the medals, wrapped in an old piece of newspaper, out of his coat pocket, together with the letter from the Moscow sobering-up station. He tossed the medals into the drawer and, holding the letter up to the light, opened the envelope unhurriedly. There was nothing official there. The page, covered in regular feminine handwriting, began with these words: "Dear Dad! It's been a long time since I last wrote you, but you've no idea what life is like in Moscow…"

Ivan picked up the envelope and read the sender's address with difficulty: " Moscow, 16 Litovsky Avenue, Flat 37, Demidova 0.I." Feverishly, muddling up lines of text that were already growing blurred, his eye seized upon fragments of sentences: "I've got to know a nice young man… We're thinking of getting married in July… His parents would like to meet you. Come for the May celebrations… You can stay with us for a week or two…"

Ivan could never recall the very last sentence in the letter, even though he saw it absolutely clearly, even repeated it, as it seemed to him, whispering, "The bells are ringing in Moscow… The bells are ringing… And who's going to hear them?"

It was not until the afternoon that Ivan came to. He opened his eyes, then screwed them up against the blinding sunlight beating on the window panes. He was lying on the floor. Above him crouched Zhora, shaking him by the shoulder.

"Dmitrich, Dmitrich! Wake up now, you goddamned veteran! You've sure been boozing it up! Where did you get plastered like that? No, don't shut your eyes, you'll nod off again. Why did you send for me? What's this urgent business, then? To wake you up? Eh? D'you think I've got nothing better to do than come and sober you up?"

Listening to him and scarcely grasping the import of his words, Ivan smiled. Then just as Zhora was preparing to go, Ivan forced open his swollen lips and asked softly: "Zhora, let me have five rubles. I'll pay you back next pension day."

Zhora whistled softly to himself, got up and thrust his hands into his pockets.

"My lord, Dmitrich, you've got some nerve! Now you've found yourself a Pioneer who's done his good deed for the day, I guess you'll be wanting me to bring you the occasional bottle and give you the nipple to suck…"

Then he glanced around the shabby, empty apartment and at Ivan, his thin face devoured by his beard, and said in a conciliatory voice: "Look, I don't have five rubles. Here's three. That'll be enough to take care of your hangover. Yesterday at the Gastronom they had a strong one in at two rubles seventy a bottle. The guys say it's fine…"

Feeling a little better, Ivan doused his head pleasurably under the cold tap for a long time, then went out into the springtime street and made his way unhurriedly to the store, smiling at the warm sunshine.

On his return he cooked some noodles in a saucepan. He ate them slowly with some cheap canned fish. After the meal he emptied a whole packet of washing powder into the bathtub, gathered up all the linen and clothes and did a great, clumsy wash, the way men do.

When Ivan caught sight of Olya at the railroad station, in the middle of the dense, teeming crowd, she had changed so much it took his breath away. As they made their way toward the subway he could not get used to the idea that this svelte young woman was his daughter. Everything about her was so simple and naturally harmonious – neat light gray shoes, black stockings, a full jacket with broad shoulders.

"Goodness, Olya! You've turned into a real westerner!" he said, shaking his head.

She laughed.

"That's right, Dad. 'When in Rome do as the Romans do'! I can't help it. You know what big fish I have to deal with. Only yesterday I was just having my last session with a capitalist who's got factories in seven different countries. With people like that we have to look reasonably presentable or they don't sign our contracts."

"And look at me, a real peasant. You must be ashamed to walk beside me."

"Nonsense, Dad. What are you saying? Not at all! Your Star alone is worth all the rest of them. And as to clothes, don't worry. Tomorrow we'll sort things out. You see, you couldn't visit Alexei's parents in that suit. And, most of all, you need a new shirt."

Ivan actually thought his shirt was the best thing he had on. He had bought it some days before his departure and trying it on had cheered him up – he had felt rejuvenated and dashing, like in the old days. What he liked particularly was that the shirt did not constrict his neck; although he buttoned it up right to the top.

During the past few weeks he had tidied up the apartment and one warm April day had even washed the windows. He washed them slowly, delighting in the freshness and lightness of the air coming into the rooms…

On the following day Olya took him into a big store where a sickly-sweet, suffocating scent hung on the air.

"You know, Dad, we could have bought everything at a Beriozka, of course. I've got vouchers for that. But, you see, first of all my parents-in-law are such snobs that nothing impresses them. And secondly, your Star wouldn't look right on an imported suit. So we'll find something made at home but good quality."

Wearing this navy blue suit that fitted him well, Ivan looked in the mirror and did not recognize himself.

"There we are," joked Olya, "a real retired general. Now we'll go and buy a couple of shirts and some neckties."

Back at home she tormented him by tying and untying his tie and searching for the best place to fix the Star.

"Leave it, Olya," Ivan finally begged. "It's fine like that. You're fussing over me as if I were a young lady. Anyone would think I was the one getting married…"

"Oh, if only you knew, Dad." Olya sighed. "Nothing's simple. You have to think of everything, plan everything. You have no idea of the circles these big fish move in. They're forever traveling abroad. Their apartment's like a museum. They drink coffee from antique china and the people they mix with are all like that: diplomats, writers, ministers… Hold on a minute, don't move! I'm going to take a little tuck here, while you're wearing it and I'll stitch it up afterward; otherwise the shirt will gape and that won't look very nice… You see, they're really the cream of Moscow society. Alyosha's father went to college with Gorbachev at Moscow State and they're still on first-name terms. Just think! There, one last try and I'll leave you in peace. Goodness, Dad, you're very thin. You're all skin and bone. I suppose you can't find anything in the stores in Borissov… There. That's it. Take a look in the mirror. A real superman! Tomorrow we'll go and buy you some suitable shoes. Then I'll take you out. No. The Star's too high up. Hold on. I'll move it down a bit…"

The visit to the future parents-in-law was due to take place on May 9, Victory Day. Olya had thought this date an excellent choice. They would be showing some documentary or other on television. Her father would recall the old days and would talk about his memories. This would be a good topic of conversation. They certainly wouldn't be discussing the latest Paris exhibition with him…

It was true. Nothing was totally simple.

When she had written to her father that the wedding was planned for July she had been slightly anticipating events. Alexei talked about this marriage in a somewhat evasive manner. His parents, for their part, were very kind to her. But in their very worldly kindness Olya scented the risk of all her plans collapsing. Indeed it would not even be a collapse as such. Simply a friendly smile, a sweet and mildly surprised look from beneath a raised eyebrow. "But, you poor little idiot, how could you ever hope to take your place in our milieu?"

She had noticed this smile for the first time when she had told them she was working as an interpreter at the Center. Alexei's mother smiled absently, stirring her coffee with a little spoon. Meanwhile his father grinned broadly and exclaimed in somewhat theatrical tones: "Ha! You don't say!" And they exchanged rapid glances.

"Do they know exactly what my work is?" wondered Olya, in torment. "Of course they do. But maybe they don't give a good goddamn? Or do they put up with me on account of Alyosha? Because they don't want to upset him? Surely even he must know…"

Of late this marriage had become an obsession with her. It seemed to her that if she succeeded in getting Alexei to marry her it would not only be a new era but a completely different life. Good-bye to snow-covered Yassenievo, good-bye to that room in the system-built apartment building! Now it would be downtown Moscow and a prestige building and an entrance hall with a caretaker and her husband's official car parked under the window. All this assembly line espionage would come to an end; Alexei's parents would find her honorable employment in some export trade department. And perhaps Alexei would be posted abroad, to an embassy; she would go with him and it would be her turn to pass through those customs barriers at Sheremetevo, from beyond which her clients generally waved her good-bye. Or rather not through the same barrier but straight in at the diplomats' entrance.

She had talked to Svetka about all this one day in winter. The latter, spinning her hula hoop furiously, said to her: "The main thing, Olya, you know, is not to let yourself go. You haven't got there yet. Do you remember Chekhov's story, 'The Eel'…? There it is, already caught by the gills but it gives a flick of its tail and, presto! it heads for the open sea… Now, listen carefully to my advice: get them to invite your father. He's a Hero, after all. Get him to put on ah his medals and take him along to your future parents-in-law. So it'll be a bit like a family gathering already… Well, what's embarrassing about that? The only embarrassing thing in the whole world is trying to put your pants on over your head. Go for it! I know them, these little diplomats… they're as slippery as eels. Don't believe it's happened till you've got the stamp on your passport."

She stopped spinning and the hula hoop slipped lazily to her feet. Picking up the tape measure she measured her waist.

"Oh, for heaven's sake! I just can't work off all those goodies from the New Year! That's right, laugh. Go ahead and make fun of a poor, sick old woman. I find you a fiance and you don't even thank me! Once you're married you "won't know me anymore. You'll be driving around in a limousine with your little spouse. But I don't care. By then my Vovka will have become a general in Afghanistan. We'll be just as good as you… Right, I must get spinning again, otherwise the capitalists won't love me anymore."

In the morning Olya went off to work and Ivan spent the whole day strolling about Moscow. He felt like an impressive retired officer ambling with a measured tread along the springtime streets. The passersby eyed his Gold Star and people gave up their seats to him on the subway. Sitting on a bench in the park he would have liked to get into conversation with someone and quite by chance mention his daughter. Here's how it had happened. The two of them had been simple workers and their daughter was such a highflier that now she was working with foreign diplomats.

He would have liked to tell how they had bought his suit, talk about her future parents-in-law, about the leather wallet she had given him. Within its fragrant folds he had found a hundred-ruble note. "That's for your meals, Dad," Olya had explained. "I don't have time to cook lunch for you…"

One day walking past the Bolshoi Theater, he had overhead a conversation between two women who had a provincial look about them.

"No chance, I've asked. Because of Victory Day they're only selling tickets to veterans. And foreigners, of course, who pay in currency."

"Maybe you need to grease the administrator's palm," said the other one.

"Oh sure. Then he'll sell us some! You bet. I guess he's desperate for our crumpled old rubles!"

Near the Bolshoi box office, across the square from the Kremlin, Ivan saw an enormous buzzing crowd, seething angrily. It began in the tunnel leading from the subway, stretched up the staircase and spilled out into the open toward the glass doors of the box office.

"It's always like this," grumbled one woman. "You come to Moscow once in a lifetime, and what happens? All the tickets go to the veterans!"

"What do you mean – the veterans?" someone else cut in. "Everything's put on one side, to be sold at three times the price."

"That's all poppycock. What they're after is foreign currency. There's no oil left, so they're selling culture!" shouted a third from the heart of the throng.

Unbuttoning his raincoat so his Star could be seen, Ivan threaded his way toward the box office. "I'll give Olya a surprise," he thought happily. "I'll come home and say in an offhand way: Why don't we go to the theater this evening? To the Bolshoi, perhaps?' She'll be amazed. 'But how? We'll never get any tickets.' And then, with a wave of my wand, 'Never get any?' says I. 'Look, here they are.' "

Outside the crowd was pressing against a metal barrier, beside which stood three militiamen. Seeing the Hero's Gold Star, they opened the barrier a little and let Ivan through toward the box office. There, in front of the doors that were still shut, a few dozen veterans had gathered. Ivan studied the rows of decorations on the lapels of their jackets and even noticed a couple of Gold Stars on one of them. Several of them looked as if they had been waiting for a long while and, to pass the time, they were telling one another about their war experiences. The sky had been overcast since the morning and now damp snow was falling, brought on by an icy wind. People shivered, turned up their coat collars. Near the door stood a disabled man in a worn overcoat, all hunched up, supported on his single leg.

"Hey there, old guard!" called out Ivan. "What are we waiting here for? Aren't there any more tickets?"

"We're waiting to be called," came the reply. "At midday they'll count us again and let us in."

And indeed at noon precisely the door opened and a sleepy woman with a discontented air announced: "There are a hundred and fifty tickets on sale. The rule is two tickets per person, which means one for the veteran and one for a member of his family. Those who've got numbered tickets form a line. The others, go to the back."

Large snowflakes were falling and a bitter wind was blowing. Not far away, emerging from the gates of the Kremlin, came a cavalcade of official cars, as long and gleaming as pianos. And there stood the crowd, thrust back by the barriers and the militiamen, a crowd awaiting a miracle and eyeing the veterans with fierce jealousy, as they formed into line.

"Thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three…" mumbled the drowsy woman in haughty tones.

And the old men, giving a start, bustled up and hastily took their places in the column.

"Is this what we spilled our blood for?" called out a mocking voice in front of Ivan.

Looking more closely Ivan saw the face of a man of the people crinkled up in a smile. It was the disabled man who stood several places in front of him. The face struck him as familiar.

Ivan ended up as number sixty-two. He received two tickets for The Stone Guest. Emerging from the crowd, he went into the tunnel and headed for the subway. Passing a dark corner near some broken-down vending machines, he once more noticed the disabled veteran. Confronting him were two smartly dressed young men passing remarks at him while interrupting each other. Ivan stopped and pricked up his ears. Grasping the old man by the lapel, one of them barked at him sneeringly: "Listen, Pops, don't try to get smart with us. We don't want the prices to go sky high, do we? You always sell them for five rubles. Why are you screwing us around? Take ten and fuck off and buy a bottle. You're never going to find a anyone who'll give you fifteen, you old crook. They're not even in the orchestra."

"Well, in that case, I'm not selling them. You can take it or leave it," replied the veteran.

He swung around on his crutches and tried to move away. But one of them pushed him toward the vending machines and seized his collar.

"Now listen to me, you goddamned Hero of Borodino. I'm going to smash your goddamned crutches for you. You'll have to crawl home."

Ivan went up to them and asked in conciliatory tones: "Now then, what's going on? Why are you young fellows badgering this old soldier?"

One of the fellows, rolling his chewing gum around in his mouth took a step toward Ivan.

"Are you looking for a pair of crutches, too, Grandpa?"

And he gave Ivan a careless shove with his shoulder.

"That's enough. Leave it, Valera!" the other one intervened. "Let them go to hell, them and their Victory! Look, that one's a Hero of the Soviet Union. Let's go. Here come the cops."

And then they swaggered off toward the subway.

Ivan held out his hand to the man on crutches. Shaking his hand in return, the latter, half embarrassed and half mischievously, said: "Well, I recognized you right away, just now in the line, but I didn't make myself known to you. My, my. You've gone up in the world with your necktie and your Star… You must be a colonel at least, Vanya…"

"You're joking! I'm a general, old friend! Now… I remember your surname well enough. But I've forgotten your first name. Sasha? Yes, of course. Alexander Semyonov. It comes back to me now. As if I could forget those great big ears of yours. Do you remember? We were always pulling your leg about them. We said you'd have to have a gas mask made to measure. And then the sergeant used to tease you: 'Could you just tune in with your radar, Sasha, and find out if the Fritzes are coming over on a bombing raid?' But what about your leg? Where did you lose it? If I remember correctly, it wasn't serious, just a scratch. Back in the ranks we even used to say you'd done it yourself."

"You've got no right to say that, Vanyusha. Look, what happened to me I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. I'll tell you about it, but come to my place. We'll have a chat over a glass or two. I can't stay here long, all the militia know me. They keep moving me on, as if I had the plague! Don't worry, you'll have time to get back to your Yassenievo. Come on. It's my treat. I live in a kommunalka just around the corner."

In the little room there was a touching sense of order.

"Look, Vanyush, they'd hardly finished butchering me when my wife left me. The way it happened… you see… was it all started with one toe. It was smashed up by a bit of shrapnel. They applied a tourniquet, but good God, it was so cold – do you remember? – minus forty, and the leg froze. Then gangrene set in. They amputated my foot… They look again and it's already gone black farther up. Then they cut it below the knee and it's started to rot above the knee. They cut it still higher, just leaving a stump they can fix an artificial leg to. It didn't work. So then they took it back just below the stomach… But what's the good of dredging all that up? Come on, Vanya, let's drink to the Victory!"

"Well, what do you know! The guys used to tell ah kinds of stories about you… You see, there we were in the trench frozen to the bone. Your name would come up and we'd say things like: 'Just think, that bastard Semyonov… his toe was buggered up and now he's snug in bed with his wife under a warm quilt…' So that was the truth of it…"

'Yes, Vanyush. Believe me, I'd rather have had five years in the trenches than this. And I'd have been happy to spend all my life single. From the age of twenty… And now that's it. It's all over. You know, at the hospital they were bringing us in by the wagonload, in whole trainloads. They had just enough time to disembark us. And of course they were hacking us about in double-quick time. Do you know, they severed all the nerves at the base of my stomach? It was just as if they'd castrated me. What woman would have wanted me after that?"

Semyonov switched on the television.

"Oh, look. Misha Gorbachev's on again. I like him a lot, that joker. He's a smooth talker and it's all off the cuff. Now Brezhnev, toward the end, was almost tongue-tied; you couldn't help feeling sorry for the guy. Even though, when all's said and done, he was an absolute son of a bitch. When you think, he made himself a Hero of the Soviet Union three times over! All those medals he stuck on himself. While all I've got is one medal – for the defense of Moscow – plus all that anniversary ironware. And my pension's eighty rubles…!

"So how on earth do you survive?" asked Ivan in amazement.

"I survive because I've got the knack for it. I've a strong enough grip to make me the envy of anyone at all. It just happened to be today that I got myself stuck with those twp idiots. Normally it goes like clockwork. If you're a veteran, especially one on crutches, they give you tickets without your having to stand in line. You've hardly walked away from the box office and people come running after you. 'Sell us your tickets.' They'll take them off you at any price you like. And I owe something else to Gorbachev. He passed the dry law, but how can people do without vodka? After seven in the evening people will part with twenty-five rubles for a ten-ruble bottle without batting an eye. Most of the hotel doormen know me: I do a good trade with them. Take a look at my stock, Vanya."

Semyonov bent over on his chair and dragged a great dusty suitcase out from under the bed. Inside it, tightly packed together, were rows of bottles of all shapes and sizes, with labels of many colors.

"So you see, Vanyush, there's no need to hold back. Don't be shy. I've enough here for a whole regiment!"

But Ivan was no longer drinking. He already felt a pleasant and joyful numbness: already all the objects in this modest room radiated a warm well-being. He became voluble, talked about Stalingrad, the hospital, Tatyana. Semyonov was an excellent listener, did not interrupt him, made comments at the right moment and at the right moment expressed astonishment. In his bitter and turbulent life he had contrived to learn how to listen to people attentively. Everyone can tell stories but listening intelligently and without upstaging the speaker… now that is an art in itself!

Finally and without managing to conceal his delight, Ivan remarked: "And as for me, Sasha, I'm not here in Moscow for the celebrations. I'm here to marry off my daughter. Yes, old friend, just that. 'Come to Moscow, Dad. My fiance's parents want to meet you.' When you have to, you have to. 'And their family,' she says, 'is really top drawer: some in the diplomatic corps, others in ministries.' She's fixed me up very well, you see. I arrived here in an ancient suit I bought long ago in the days of old rubles."

"And your daughter, Vanyush, where does she work?" asked Semyonov, neatly opening a can of sardines.

Unable to conceal his pride but with offhand joviality, Ivan replied: "Well, you know, my daughter's a real highflier, Sasha. You could say she's in the diplomatic world, too. It's such a shame her mother didn't live to see her married. It'd have been a real thrill for her. Where she works is the International Trade Center. You've heard of it?"

"Sure I know it! It's over by the Trekhgorka textile works near the river. Gray skyscrapers, just like America. You'd think you were in New York. So what does she do there?"

"How can I explain? Well, let's say an industrialist or a financier arrives, you see. He comes to sign a contract, to sell us some stuff; well, my daughter meets him, and translates everything our people say to him. In fact, she goes everywhere with him. And do you know how many foreign tongues she knows, Sasha?"

Ivan began to count them off but Semyonov was already listening somewhat absently, simply nodding his head from time to time and murmuring: "Mmm, mmm…"

"Of course, it's a tiring job, that goes without saying," continued Ivan. "Everything's planned to the last minute: conversations, negotiations. And what's more, night duty sometimes. But on the other hand, as I'm always telling her, you're not forever being sprayed with sawdust and there's no stink of gas. And the pay's really good. I never earned that, not even when I was driving trucks long distance."

Semyonov was silent as he absently poked with his fork at a little gleaming fish on his plate. Then he glanced uneasily at Ivan and, as if he were talking to someone else, muttered: "You know, Vanya, it's a filthy business, if the truth be told."

Ivan was dumbfounded.

"Filthy? What do you mean by that?"

"By that I mean, Vanyush, that… but don't be angry… I have to tell you… it's not their tongues those interpreters use for their work there. They use something else. That's why they're well paid."

"Hey, Sasha! You shouldn't have drunk wine after vodka. Mixing the two's confused your brain. You're talking nonsense. It's laughable listening to you."

"Don't listen if you don't want to. But the fact is I'm telling you the truth. And what's more, I'm not drunk at all. Down there, buried in your countryside, you know nothing. But I traipse all over Moscow with my crutches, through all the entrance gates; so they can't fool me. 'Night duty.' Are you kidding? Those businessmen have their way with the interpreters. They're there to service them!"

"That's filthy gossip! So you are saying they're all prostitutes?"

"You can call it what you like. There are prostitutes in business on their own account. The militia hounds them from pillar to post. And then there are the others, the official ones, if you like. They're real interpreters, with diplomas, work permits, salary, the lot. By day they interpret and by night they service the capitalists in return for dollars."

Semyonov was growing heated, he had a tousled and angry air. "He's not drunk," thought Ivan, "and suppose what he says were true…?"

With a forced laugh he said: "But Sasha, why the devil would the State go in for this nasty business?"

They began arguing again. With the feeling that something inside him was dying, Ivan realized that Semyonov was speaking the truth. And in his fear of believing him he jumped up, knocking over his glass, and with a hoarse shout grabbed hold of the man. He let go at once, so pitiful and light did his crippled body feel. Semyonov began yelling: "You idiot, don't you understand? I'm trying to open your eyes. You strut about like a peacock with your shining Star. You don't understand that we've been had. We'll go together tomorrow. I'll shpw you this 'night duty.' I know one of the guys in the cloakroom at the Intourist Hotel. He'll let us in… Yes, I promise you, they'll let us in, you'll see. I'll go without crutches, I'll take a stick. Here, take a look at this artificial leg I have…"

Semyonov scrambled off the chair onto the floor, rummaged under the bed and pulled out a metal leg with a huge black leather shoe. It seemed to Ivan as if he were living through a horrible and absurd dream. Semyonov let himself fall back on the bed and began to fit on his false leg, calling out: "I'm only a half-portion. What goddamned good am I to anyone? They gave me the false leg for free. If you wear it for a day your stomach bleeds all week. But for you, Vanya, I'll put it on. Tomorrow you'll see, I'll show you what your Star's worth…Under a warm quilt with my wife, you said… Ha! Ha! Ha!"

The cloakroom attendant let them settle down in a dark corner, hidden behind the dusty fronds of a palm tree growing in a big wooden plant holder. From there could be seen the elevators, a small part of the restaurant, and, through the dark French doors, the rear courtyard filled with trash cans from the kitchen. Also visible were the two panels of the sliding doors to the inner entrance hall that opened automatically. That evening, possibly because of the wet snow, these doors were not working properly. They kept opening and closing all the time, with a mindless mechanical obedience, even when no one came near them.

Ivan was sitting beside Semyonov behind the palm tree, on the polished wooden planks that concealed the radiators. Semyonov was leaning sideways with his rigid leg stretched out. From time to time he gave explanations to Ivan in a low voice: "There, you see, in the basement behind the cloakroom, they have a valyutka, a currency bar. It's reserved for capitalists. And the girls, of course. You see that couple there walking toward the elevator? And there, look at that tight-fitting dress. She's going to go with him. Ten minutes' work and she'll pocket what you used to earn in a month driving trucks."

Ivan saw people coming and going who were unusual not only in their language and clothes but even in the way they moved.

Silently the elevator doors opened and closed. A very young girl ran up to the cloakroom, meowing like a cat: "You wouldn't have a packet of Marlboros, would you?"

"He trades, that one. He's no fool," Semyonov explained to Ivan. "She doesn't want to spend her currency, and maybe she hasn't earned it yet. She's very young…"

A large, dazzling woman sailed past, her bosom opulent beneath a fine knit dress. She walked on heels so high and pointed that her calves looked as if they were tensed with cramp. A young man in an elegant suit, a newspaper in his hand, stopped near the cloakroom desk. He exchanged a few offhand words with the attendant, glancing now at people emerging from the lifts, now at those entering the hotel. "A guy from the KGB," whispered Semyonov.

Ivan was wearied by the uninterrupted parade of faces and the mechanical creaking of the malfunctioning door. The blond woman in the tight dress emerged from the elevator and made for the cloakroom. "Job done," thought Ivan. The woman put on some lipstick in front of the mirror and headed for the exit. Absently he watched her go.

At that moment Ivan saw Olya.

She was walking beside a tall man, whose face Ivan did not have time to notice, such was the fascination with which he was staring at his daughter. Olya was talking to her companion, relaxed and natural. Semyonov nudged Ivan with his elbow and murmured something to him. Ivan heard nothing. He felt a horrible tensing inside himself and a salty taste tightening his jaws. He understood he ought to react, leap up, cry out, but he could not. When he began to hear again he caught a remark of Semyonov's: "They're talking German, Ivan, can you hear…?"

At the same moment the elevator doors began to slide shut behind Olya and her companion. Reflected in the mirror in the cabin, Ivan saw a man's face with short gray hair, neatly trimmed. The elevator doors closed smoothly.

Ivan tried to get up but was overcome with such a fit of trembling that his knees gave way. And once more he felt a salty lump in his throat. He had never before experienced such a painful, almost physical pang. He did not realize that what he was suffering from at this moment was a kind of jealousy.

Semyonov tugged at his sleeve, exclaiming in a muted voice: "Vanya, Vanya, what is it? What's the matter with you? You've gone as white as a sheet…"

Stunned, Ivan gazed at him without seeing him and, unable to control a quivering at the corner of his mouth, breathed softly: "That's my daughter."