It was the end of February. We had bought tickets for the circus. We did not take the children to the cinema and the circus often, and every such outing was a real treat.
The children waited for Sunday to come with an impatience that knew no bounds. They dreamed of how they would see the performing dog count up to ten, the dainty-footed horse gallop round the arena, his arched neck decked with silver spangles, the learned seal flop from barrel to barrel and catch the ball thrown to him by the trainer…
The whole week they talked of nothing but the circus. But on Saturday, when I came home from school, I was surprised to find Anatoly Petrovich already at home and in bed.
"Why are you back so early? And why are you lying down?" I asked, frightened.
"Don't worry, it will pass. I just don't feel very well, that's all."
I cannot say that this comforted me much: I could see that Anatoly Petrovich was very pale and had somehow grown thin all at once, as if he had been seriously ill for a long time. Zoya and Shura sat close by, looking at their father in alarm.
"You will have to go to the circus without me," said Father, forcing a smile.
"We won't go without you," said Zoya.
"No, we won't!" added Shura.
The next day Anatoly Petrovich grew worse. He began to feel a sharp pain in his side and develop a fever. As always restrained outwardly, he did not groan or complain, just bit his lip hard. A doctor was needed but I was afraid to leave my husband alone. I knocked at our neighbours' door but no one answered; they must have gone for a walk—it was Sunday. I came back very upset, not knowing what to do.
"I will go for the doctor," said Zoya suddenly, and before I could answer, she had already put on her little coat and hat.
"You mustn't…it's a long way off," said Anatoly Petrovich with difficulty.
"No, I will go…I know where he lives! Please!" And without waiting for an answer Zoya ran down the stairs.
"Well, let her…she's a sensible girl…she'll find him. . ." whispered Anatoly Petrovich, and turned away to the wall to hide his face, which was grey with pain.
An hour later Zoya returned with the doctor. He examined Anatoly Petrovich and said laconically: "Intestinal obstruction. An immediate operation is required."
He stayed with the patient while I ran for an ambulance, and half an hour later they took Anatoly Petrovich away. When they were carrying him down the stairs a sudden groan escaped him, but he checked himself as he saw the startled faces of the children.
The operation was a successful one, but Anatoly Petrovich did not feel any better. Every time I came to visit him his lifeless face frightened me. I was accustomed to seeing my husband cheerful and sociable, but now he lay silent, and only occasionally raised a pale thin hand and placed it on mine, and just as silently and weakly squeezed my fingers.
On March 5 I came as usual to visit him.
"Wait a minute," an attendant I knew said to me in the hall, looking at me somehow strangely. "The nurse or the doctor will come out in a moment."
"But I have come to see patient Kosmodemyansky," I reminded him, thinking that he had not recognized me. "I have a permanent pass."
"Just a moment, please, the nurse will come at once," he repeated.
A minute later, a nurse entered hurriedly.
"Sit down, please," she said, avoiding my eyes.
And then I understood.
"He is…dead?" I spoke the impossible, unbelievable words.
Silently, the nurse nodded her head.
It is bad enough to lose someone who is dear to you even when you know long before the end that his illness is fatal and you must lose him. But there is nothing more terrible than the sudden, merciless death of a loved one…Only a week ago he, a man who had never been ill since childhood, was full of strength and the joy of life! And now, now he was in his coffin, unlike himself, silent and unresponsive.
The children did not leave me for a minute. Zoya held my hand, Shura clung onto the other.
"Mummy, don't cry!" Zoya kept repeating, looking at her father's still face with dry red eyes.
On a cold dreary day the three of us stood together in Timiryazev Park, waiting for my brother and sister. They were to attend the funeral. We stood under a tall wintry tree, the sharp cold wind buffeted us, and we felt lonely and abandoned.
I do not remember my relatives' arrival or how we lived through that cold, sorrowful, endless day. I can recall only vaguely how we went to the cemetery, how suddenly and with heart-rending despair Zoya burst into tears, and the thud of the earth on the coffin…
Next: Fatherless