One day, when I was taking the newspaper out of the letter box, several letters fluttered to my feet. I picked them up and opened the first one that came to hand—a triangular envelope from the front, without a stamp, slightly soiled at the edges.
"Dear Mother…" I read, and the tears rolled down my cheeks.
It was a letter from people I did not know, sailors of the Black Sea Fleet. They tried to support me in my grief, called Zoya their sister and promised to avenge her.
From that day the post brought me letters daily. Where did they not come from! From all the fronts, from all over the country, so many warm, friendly hands stretched out towards Shura and me, so many hearts turned towards us. Letters came from both children and grown-ups, from mothers who had lost their children in the war, from children whose parents had been murdered by the fascists, and from men who were now on the fields of battle. They all wanted to ease our grief by sharing it with us.
Shura and I were too badly wounded. There was nothing that could heal that wound. But—I do not know how to express it—the love and sympathy which filled every letter warmed us. We were not alone in our grief. So many people tried to lighten our grief with a sincere and gentle word—and that meant so much, it helped us so much!
Not long after I received the first few letters, there was a timid knock on the door of our room, and a strange girl entered. She was tall and thin, and her dark face, short hair and large eyes—although they were not grey but blue—reminded me of Zoya. She stood shyly in front of me, twisting her handkerchief in her hands.
"I'm from a munition plant," she said hesitantly, looking at me shyly from under her eyelashes. "I…our Komsomol members that is…we all very much want you to come! Come to one of our Komsomol meetings and tell us about Zoya. Please come! I realize it will be difficult for you but we. .
I said that I could not give a talk but that I would come to the meeting.
The next evening I went to the plant. It was on the outskirts of Moscow. Many of the buildings round it were half destroyed.
"A bomb fell. There was a fire," my guide explained briefly in answer to my mute question. When we entered the factory club the meeting had already begun. The first thing I saw was Zoya's face looking down at me from the wall behind the chairman's table. I sat down quietly on one side and began to listen.
A young lad was speaking. He was saying that for the second month the plan was not being fulfilled. He spoke angrily, heatedly. Then another lad, a little older, spoke; This one said that there were less and less experienced hands in the shop, and that all their hopes rested on the pupils of the trade reserve school.
"But it's freezing! The shop is no better than a cellar! Your hands freeze onto the metal!" came a voice from the back of the room.
"For shame!" cried my companion, turning round sharply.
On the impulse of the moment 1 stood up and asked for the floor. They invited me to go up onto a low rostrum, and as I walked towards it Zoya's eyes met mine. And now Zoya's portrait was behind me, a little to the side, as if she were standing at my elbow and encouraging me. But I did not say a word about her.
"Every day and every hour your brothers and sisters at the front are sacrificing their lives," I said. "Leningrad is starving…Every day people are being killed by enemy shells. .
No, I will not try to recall what I said then. I do not remember the words. But the young people's eyes, glued to mine, told me that I was saying the right thing.
Then they answered me, briefly and resolutely.
"We will work even harder," said the one who had spoken first.
"We will call our brigade after Zoya," said another.
A month later they telephoned me from the plant.
"Lyubov Timofeyevna, we are overfulfilling our plan now," I heard.
And I realized that to give way to grief would be to betray the memory of Zoya. There must be no giving in, no losing heart. I had no right to despair. I had to live. I had to fight for the sake of the future, for the sake of the happiness of my people.
It was very difficult for me to address people, to speak to a large audience. But I could not refuse when I was asked to come, and that happened more and more often. I did not dare to refuse because I understood: if my words helped, if they reached people, and stirred the youth, if I could make a contribution, no matter how modest, to the great struggle with the enemy—it was my duty to do so.
Next: Farewell, Shura