Apricot Jam: And Other Stories (39 page)

Vitya and I exchanged glances. What was there that we could do?

“
No, we
’
re just passing through. We came to have a look at the old places from the war.
”

“
Some of your bosses are back there. Maybe they can ...
”

The woman in the dark headscarf came to life:
“
Where?
”

“
Somewhere back there.
”

Not far away a rooster crowed. No matter what is happening, a rooster
’
s crow is always such a joyful, rich sound that celebrates life.

As for the two of us, what should we do now? Go on with our journey?

We said our goodbyes and walked on, up to the crest of the hill. Our hearts ached.

“
Our countryside is still living in misery,
”
Vitya said.
“
It
’
s been the same all through our trip.
”

“
Yes, people can
’
t get any more now than they did earlier.
”

The land was open on all sides. Mokhovoe was not far. It was even closer now that the new buildings had crept this way.

Over to our right, toward the second street, five sheep were grazing. No one was looking after them.

We sat on a little mound, gazing straight ahead.

“
Just over there was where our forward observer was. How did he ever survive that day?
”

“
There was the night as well. They had his position pinpointed, and they dropped a lot of stuff on him.
”

“
In the morning they moved us out again.
”

“
The
brass were
just fussing about. We could have done a lot more here. Why did they shove us into
Podmaslovo
?
”

“
Are we going to
Podmaslovo
?
”

“
Not likely. There
’
s not enough time.
”

We sat there, letting the sun warm our left shoulders.

“
We should help them, but fixing up one or two isn
’
t the answer. The whole system in the country needs fixing.
”

But who will do it? Such people haven
’
t been seen for a long time.

A very long time.

We went on sitting.

“
I was such a fool, Vitya. Remember how I used to go on about world revolution . . . ? But you were the one who knew the countryside—from the bottom up.
”

Vitya
’
s
a modest man. No matter how you praise him, he never lets it go to his head. And even though life has dragged him through many rough spots, he
’
s still the same Vitya, with his patient smile.

“
Over there, on the right, was where we celebrated Boyev
’
s birthday that day. He said that he didn
’
t know whether he
’
d live to see his thirtieth. And he never did make it to his thirty-first.
”

“
Yes, that Prussian night, that was something,
”
Ovsyannikov recalled.
“
Dead silence, not a soul to be seen, so how did they mount an offensive? I went across that whole lake, and there was no one and nothing on it. And then—Shmakov gets killed.
”

“
How did we ever pull ourselves out of that
Dietrichsdorf
? God must have been helping.
”

Ovsyannikov, now with an ironical smile, said:
“
And from
Adlig
, across that ravine, through the snow, running and tumbling head over heels ...
”

We looked to the left and saw our two jeeps coming toward us, bumping and rocking across the fields around the edge of the village. They must have worried when we disappeared.

Both the administrators were in white shirts and ties. The local one was more plainly dressed, with a rain jacket over his suit. The man from the region wore a blue tie and a good gray pinstripe suit with nothing over it. He had a broad, bony face with a rather sullen expression. His hair was pitch-black and very thick; it gleamed in the sun.

“
The people here are being neglected,
”
we told them.

“
What more can we do?
”
said the man from the region.
“
We pay their pensions. We provide electricity. Some of them have televisions.
”

The local administrator—from what had formerly been the village soviet—had obviously risen from among the local people. He still had a good deal of the peasant in him. He had a long face, long ears, fair hair, and reddish
brows
. He added:
“
Some of them have cows.
And chickens.
Everyone
’
s got a garden. They do the best they can.
”

We got into the jeeps and, the administrators leading the way, we drove along the bumpy road through the village itself and down our slope.

But what
’
s this? Four women, side by side, had come out to stand across the road in a tight row. They
’
d brought an old fellow with them, for support, a frail old man in a peaked cap. Three more women came up from various directions, leaning heavily on their sticks. One had a very bad limp. There was not a single younger person.

So, the word about the administrators must have gone round. And it had drawn in a crowd.

There was no way to drive around them. The jeeps stopped.

The place was only about twenty paces above the spot where Andreyashin was killed.

The local fellow got out:
“
What
’
s the problem? Has it been that long since you
’
ve seen anybody from the administration?
”

They had blocked the road so no one could pass. There were now six women standing in a row. They would not let him through.

The regional administrator also got out. Vitya and I followed.

The women were wearing gray or brown kerchiefs, and there was one of bright cabbage green. Some had their kerchiefs wrapped right to their
eyes,
others had their foreheads uncovered so you could see every movement in their wrinkled skin. Right behind the others was a burly, large woman in a red and brown
kerchief,
her feet planted solidly and not moving. The old man was behind all the others.

The women all began speaking at once:

“
Why don
’
t we have any bread?
”

“
You
’
ve got to bring in bread for us!
”

“
We
’
re living on just one scrap of bread a day . . .
”

“
We can
’
t last long on that...
”

The village soviet man was embarrassed, particularly in the presence of the regional administrator.

“
Right.
First
Andoskin
was bringing in bread, right from the shop.
”

A woman wearing a gray and violet kerchief, in a sleeveless sweater over a bright blue blouse, said:
“
But you weren
’
t paying him enough. When the price of bread went up he said he wouldn
’
t bring in any more
for what you gave him. It takes me a whole day, he says, and I don
’
t want to do it. So he quit.
”

“
That
’
s right,
”
said the village soviet man.

“
Not, it
’
s not right,
”
said the woman in the blue blouse.

The young man shook his head:
“
What I
’
m saying is that
’
s what happened, it
’
s true. But now, for a time, Nikolai will be bringing in the bread. He has to come here to pick up milk and he
’
ll bring bread as well.
”

“
He
’
s not going to do it for nothing, neither. I
’
ll take your milk first, he says, and next time I
’
ll bring your bread.
”

The woman in the dark gray kerchief, the one we met earlier, was straining to see and hear what they
’
d say: Were they going to come to some decision?

The one in the light brown kerchief said:
“
And if you don
’
t sell milk, then what do you do? You ask Kolya—please, just a loaf. I
’
ve only got one salary, he says. I can only give bread to those on the list.
”

A woman in a gray checked kerchief spoke up, with a lot of emotion:
“
Us
folks in the village have come to the end of our rope. There
’
s no living for us here, there
’
s nothing to eat.
”

The small woman in the green kerchief said:
“
There
’
s no proper road here, we know that...
”

The village soviet fellow had to justify himself before the regional man and quickly said:
“
I always keep an eye on things, you know. Nikolai, I say, are you bringing in the bread? I am, he says.
”

The woman in blue spoke up now, sharply:
“
So you keep an eye on us, do you? When did you ever pay us a visit? You, the chairman of the village soviet, haven
’
t been here even a single time . . . None of you people have been here since Adam was a boy.
”

Others now added their complaints:

“
Things have gone to rack and ruin ...
”

“
Everybody
’
s forgotten we
’
re still here ...
”

The clean-shaven old fellow in the second row stood silently, not seeming to understand what was happening. He yawned and then went on standing with his mouth open.

Ovsyannikov had bowed his balding head. His peasant heart ached.

“
Wait a minute, now,
”
the village soviet man hastened to say.
“
Why didn
’
t you tell me before that he hasn
’
t been bringing in the bread?
”

“
We don
’
t quite know how to go about it,
”
said the woman in green.

“
We
’
re afraid,
”
said Iskiteya.

At this point the regional administrator joined in, in a powerful voice:
“
I
’
m telling you, you have to speak up. You
’
re afraid to tell Nikolai, you
’
re afraid to tell Mikhail Mikhailovich, you
’
re afraid to tell me. What are you afraid of?
”