L. Kosmodemyanskaya
The Story of Zoya and Shura
The Gadfly
Spring. There is a warm wind blowing, full of the scent
of freshness and damp earth. It is good to have a
breath of spring! I get out of the stuffy tram before my
stop. It's not far to our house, I'll 'do the rest on foot.
I see that I am not the only one who is glad spring is
here. The passers-by smile more often, their eyes are
brighter, their voices sound louder and more lively.
The Republican advance at Cordova developed
successfully," I catch a passing phrase. "And in the province of Estremadura…
Yes, Spain is in everyone's heart and on everyone's
lips these 'days. The winged words of Dolores Ibarruri, "It
is better to die standing, than to live on your knees!"
have flown round the world and have roused the heart of
every honest-minded man.
In the morning, scarcely before she is awake, Zoya
runs to the letter 'box for the newspaper, to see what is
happening today on the front in Spain.
And Shura…he's not thirteen yet—that's what is
worrying him, that's what stops him from making a 'bee-line for Madrid. Every evening, 'having read in the paper
about a girl fighting bravely in the Republican ranks or
having heard something on the radio about a young Spaniard who went to the front against the will of his family,
Shura brings up the same subject:
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While studying in the sixth grade (she was then thirteen) Zoya kept
a notebook with a list of the books she read. The page reproduced
here shows that Zoya had read Pushkin's "Gypsies." "The Fountain
of Bakhchisarai," "Poltava," "Belkin's Tales," "The Robber Brothers" and "The Blackamoor of Peter the Great"; Turgenev's "Asya"
and "Rudin"; Chekhov's "The Chameleon," "Warrant Officer Prishibeyev," "Peasants," "Thin and Fat" and "The Death of an Official";
Pomyalovsky's "Notes on a Religious School." The last column headed "Whether I liked it or not" records a "yes" for nearly every book and a "yes, very much" for "Gypsies," "Poltava," "Belkin's
Tales," "Asya," "Rudin" and "Notes on a Religious School."
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"And he turned out to be such a fine fighter! Once a
fascist shell smashed their dugout and wrecked the anti-tank gun. But this boy—Emeterio Cornejo, they call him—
he grabs a grenade and jumps out of the trench! Then he
runs towards the tank and throws the grenade right at
it …! It blew up under the caterpillar, and the tank went
spinning round on one spot …! Then the others brought
up a box of grenades. Cornejo began throwing them one
after another. Another tank keeled over, then a third, and
the rest turned round and went back. So there you are!
And you would have thought there's nothing more terrible
than a tank."
"And how old is this Cornejo?"
"Seventeen," answers Shura.
"And how old are you?"
It is cruel of me to ask such a question.
Shura heaves a great sigh.
"Mama!" a ringing voice at my side rouses me from
my thoughts. "Why so late? We've grown tired of waiting!"
"Is it so late? I promised to be home at seven…
"And now it's ten to eight. I was beginning to get
worried."
Zoya takes my arm and lengthens her stride to fall in
step with me. She has grown a lot in the last two years.
Very soon she will be as tall as I am. Sometimes I find it
strange that I have such a grown-up daughter. Her skirt
is already too short, and her embroidered blouse is getting
tight; it is time to think of a new one.
Since I brought the children to Moscow in 1931 we
have scarcely been apart. Whenever any one of us left the
house, be it for only a short time, he would say where he
was going and when he would be back. If I promised to be
home from work not later than eight o'clock, I would do
my best to keep my word. If someone delayed me, Zoya
would begin to get worried, come out to meet me at the
tram stop and wait—just as she had today.
If Shura did not find his sister at home when he arrived,
his first question was, "Where's Zoya? where's she gone?
Why is she taking so long?"
"Where's Shura?" Zoya would ask almost before she
was inside the room.
And I, if I happened to come home before the children, would feel strange and uneasy until I caught the familiar sound of their footsteps on the stairs. And in spring
I would stand at the open window and wait … I have
only to close my eyes now to see them: there they are, together as always, talking hard about something—and my
heart at once grows warm.
Zoya gently takes my paper case and handbag.
"You must be tired. Let me carry them."
We walk slowly, rejoicing in the glorious spring evening, and tell each other about everything that has happened during the day.
"The paper says the Spanish refugee children have
been taken to the Artek Young Pioneer Camp," says Zoya.
"The fascists nearly sank their ship before they got there.
How I should love to see those children… Just think,
after all that bombing and everything, to find yourself
suddenly in the Crimea! Is it nice and warm there now?"
"Yes, it's quite warm in the South in April. The roses
are blooming. Yes, just look at yourself: even in Moscow
you have managed to catch the sun, your nose is peeling."
"You see, we've begun planting the garden round the
school. I spent half a day in the air and got sunburnt.
Everybody has to plant a tree. I'm planting a poplar, 1
like to see poplar snow falling. And a poplar's got such
a lovely smell, hasn't it? Ever so fresh and a little bitter…
Well we're home! Have a wash quick, and I'll warm up
the dinner."
I go to wash, and without looking I know what Zoya
is doing. Walking noiselessly about the room in her slippers she is lighting the stove to warm the soup, laying
the table quickly and skillfully. The room is spotlessly
clean, the floor has recently been washed and gives off a
fresh smell. On the window in a tall glass there are two
sprigs of pussy willow like twigs with sleeping fluffy
silver bumblebees.
The cleanliness and comfort in our house are Zoya's
doing. All the housework, cleaning up and shopping, rests
on her. In winter she keeps the stove burning, too. Shura
also has his duties: he carries the water, chops wood and
goes to the shop for kerosene. But he does not concern
himself with "trifles"; like many boys he is convinced
that it does not befit his sex to sweep the floors and run
to the shops: "Any girl can do that!"
And here he is!
The door flies open with a crash, and Shura stands
on the doorstep: red of cheek, arms up to the elbows in
mud, and, alas, a black eye again.
"We've been playing!" he explains cheerfully. "Good
evening, Ma! Have you had a wash yet? Here's a chair
for you. Now I'll wash."
He spends a long time splashing and snorting, telling
us at the same time about the football game with such
delight that one would think nothing else in the world
mattered.
"And when will you do your German translation?"
asks Zoya.
"Can't a man eat first?"
I start my late dinner; the children have their supper.
Now all the talk is about what the school garden will be
like. I listen and realize that the children are ready and
willing to plant round their school every kind of tree they
have ever heard of.
"Why do you say a palm won't grow? In the magazine Ogonyok I saw a photo of some palms with snow
all round them. That means they stand the cold wonderfully."
"Fancy comparing the Crimean winter with ours,"
Zoya retorts calmly. Then she turns to me, "Mama, did
you bring me something to read?"
Silently I take The Gadfly out of my case. Zoya flushes
with pleasure.
"Oh, thank you!" she says, and unable to resist the
temptation begins to turn over the pages of the book reverently. But only for a moment. She lays the book aside
and quickly clears the table, washes the crockery, and sits
down to her lessons.
Alter a little grumbling and sighing ("Won't tomorrow morning do?") Shura sits down beside her.
Zoya begins with what she finds most difficult—mathematics. Shura opens his German textbook, putting aside
his problems: he finds them easy.
Alter half an hour Shura closes his textbook with a
snap and pushes back his chair noisily.
"Finished! And the problems can wait till tomorrow
morning."
Engrossed in her work, Zoya does not even turn her
head. Beside her lies The Gadfly, a book she has been asking me to bring her for a long time, but I know that until
Zoya has finished her lessons she will not start reading.
"Let's have a look at your translation, Shura," I say.
"Hm...Is that supposed to be the dative case?"
"Yes...that's a howler."
"There you are… And here you need not 'u' but 'ü.'
And look at this: Garten is a noun, isn't it? Why have you
put a small letter? Three mistakes. Sit down, please, and
copy it out again."
Shura looks out of the window with a sigh; his chums
are sitting on the steps waiting for him to come out. It
is not so very late, they could have one more game...
But facts are facts: three mistakes…you cannot argue
about that! And with a sigh of resignation Shura sits
down at the table once again.
At night I wake up with a feeling that something in
the room is not quite as it should be. And I am right. The
table lamp is alight and covered with a newspaper: Zoya
with her cheeks in her hands is bending over The Gadfly.
Her face, hands and the pages of the book are wet
with tears.
Feeling my glance she raises her eyes and smiles silently at me through her tears. We do not say anything to
each other, but we are both thinking of the day when Zoya
said to me reproachfully, "Fancy you, a grownup, crying."
Next: The Girl in Pink
