When I got home everything seemed still warm with Zoya's recent presence. The books stood in the bookstand just as she had arranged them. Her hands had placed the linen in the wardrobe, the pile of notebooks on the table. The window frames neatly puttied for the winter, and the branches of dry autumn leaves in a tall glass—every little thing reminded me of her.
In about ten days a postcard came with just a few words, "Dear Mummy! Am alive and well and feeling fine. Hope you are well. Love and kisses. Your Zoya. "
Shura stared at the postcard for a long time, reading and rereading the number of the field post office, as if trying to commit it to memory.
"Mum!?" was all he said, but that exclamation was enough to convey his surprise, reproach and bitter resentment. Proud and self-willed, he asked no questions. He was amazed and deeply hurt that Zoya had not shared her secret with him, had left without telling him a word.
"When you went away in July you did not tell Zoya anything, either. You did not have the right to do so then, and it was the same with her."
And he answered me with words such as I had never heard from him before. I had never even thought he could speak like that. "Zoya and I were one," he said, adding after a pause, "We should have gone away together."
We spoke no more about it.
The light had gone out of my life. I would sit up till late every night, sewing military uniforms and thinking: Where are you now? what are you doing? are you thinking about us…?
One day I had a spare minute and began to put the table drawer in order. I wanted to make room for Zoya's copybooks so that they would not get dusty.
At first I came across sheets of paper closely covered with Zoya's handwriting—pages from a rough draft of her essay about Ilya Muromets. This is how it began:
"The endless sweep of the Russian land. Three giants stand guard over its peace. In the middle, on a mighty horse, sits Ilya Muromets. The heavy mace in his hand is ready to descend upon the enemy. Beside him, on either flank, ride his trusty friends—Alyosha Popovich with the twinkling eyes, and the handsome Dobrynya."
I remembered the time when Zoya had read the ancient legends about Ilya Muromets, how she had brought in one day a reproduction of Vasnetsov's famous picture and gazed at it for a long time. It was with a description of this picture that she had begun her essay.
Another page read: "The people treat him with love and affection, and weep for him when he is wounded in battle. When the 'wicked infidel' overcomes him, the Russian earth itself gives him strength: 'Whilst Ilya lay on the ground his strength became thrice as great.'
And on the other side of the page:
"And now, centuries later, the people's desires and aspirations have come true: our land has its own worthy defenders from among the people—the Red Army. Not for nothing does the song say, 'We are born to make legends true.' We are making a wonderful legend come true, and the people sing of their heroes with the same deep love as they once sang of Ilya Muromets."
I placed these sheets carefully in Zoya's composition notebook and noticed that the essay about Ilya Muromets had been copied out neatly there and at the end of it, in Vera Sergeyevna's clear handwriting stood the word "excellent."
Then I began to put away the whole pile into the drawer and felt that something was in the way in one of the corners. My fingers touched something, and I pulled out a little notebook. I opened it.
On the first pages there were written names of writers and titles of books. Many of these had crosses against them to show that they had been read. There were Zhukovsky, Karamzin, Pushicin, Lermontov, Tolstoy, Dickens, Byron, Moliere, Shakespeare…Then came several pages covered with pencilled writing—half obliterated, almost illegible lines. And suddenly, in tiny ink lettering, in Zoya's clear hand:
"Everything in man should be beautiful: his face, his clothes, his soul and his thoughts (Chekhov)."
"To be a Communist means to dare, to think, to thirst, to venture (Mayakovsky)."
On the next page 1 noticed a hastily scribbled note in pencil: "Othello expresses the struggle of man for the high ideals of truth, moral purity and sincerity. The theme of Othello is the victory of lofty, genuine human feeling!"
And again: "The death of a hero in Shakespeare's works is always accompanied by the triumph of a high moral principle."
As I turned over the pages of the small, slightly frayed book I seemed to hear Zoya's voice, see her searching serious eyes and shy smile.
Here was an extract from Anna Karenina, about Seryozha, Anna's son:
"He was nine years old, he was a child; but he knew his own soul, it was dear to him; he cherished it as the eyelid cherishes the eye; and without the key of love he allowed no one to enter his soul."
It seemed to me that the words had been said of Zoya herself. And as I read I thought I could see her behind every line.
"Mayakovsky is a man with a great temperament, open and straight. Mayakovsky instilled new life in poetry. He is a poet-citizen, a poet-orator."
"Satin: 'When labour is a pleasure, life is good! When labour is a duty, life is slavery!' 'What is truth? Man—there's your truth!' 'Lies are the religion of slaves and bosses…Truth is the god of the free man! Man! That is tremendous! How proud the word rings—MAN! A man should be respected. Not pitied…pity is degrading… but respected! I have always despised people who worry too much about their bellies. That's not the point. Man is superior to that. Man is superior to his belly!' (Gorky, The Lower Depths.)"
And as I went on turning the pages I read:
"Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra. Don Quixote. Don Quixote is will, self-sacrifice, intelligence."
'A book is, perhaps, the most intricate, the greatest miracle of all the miracles created by man on his road to the happiness and might of the future (Gorky)."
"Reading a good book for the first time is like gaining a great sincere friend. To read what you have read again is like meeting an old friend once more. To finish reading a good book is like parting with one's best friend, and who knows whether one will meet him again (a Chinese adage)."
"He who travels reaches the end of the road."
"In character, manners, style, in everything—it is the simple that is beautiful (Longfellow)."
And once again, as on the day I had read Zoya's diary, I felt as if I were holding in my hands a throbbing heart —a heart which passionately wanted to love and believe.
I went right through the book, thinking for a long time over each entry, and it seemed to me that Zoya was at my side, that we were together again.
And here are the last lines, dated October 1941.
"The Secretary of the Moscow Committee is a modest and simple man. He speaks briefly but clearly. His telephone number is K 0-27-00, extension 1-14."
And then large extracts from Faust, and the whole of the chorus in praise of Euphorion:
"My slogan now—
Is battle, the cry of victory.
Yes! On my wings
I will soar there!
I will soar into the fire of war,
Into battle I will soar."
"I love Russia, my heart bleeds for her, and I cannot even imagine myself anywhere but in Russia (Saltykov- Shchedrin)."
And suddenly on the last page, like a blow straight at the heart, were the words from Hamlet:
"Adieu, adieu, adieu! Remember me!"
Next: Tanya