LITMIR.BIZ

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their things. I also got my clothes, folded them up. My red badges for my honest labor, and my lucky kopeika that I had. Such sadness! It filled my heart. Let me be struck down right here if I’m lying. And then I hear about how the soldiers were evacuating one village, and this old man and woman stayed. Until then, when people were roused up and put on buses, they’d take their cow and go into the forest. They’d wait there. Like during the war, when they were burning down the villages. Why would our soldiers chase us? [Starts crying.] It’s not stable, our life. I don’t want to cry.

      Oh! Look there—a crow. I don’t chase them away. Although sometimes a crow will steal eggs from the barn. I still don’t chase them away. I don’t chase anyone away! Yesterday a little rabbit came over. There’s a village nearby, also there’s one woman living there, I said, come by. Maybe it’ll help, maybe it won’t, but at least there’ll be someone to talk to. At night everything hurts. My legs are spinning, like there are little ants running through them, that’s my nerve running through me. It’s like that when I pick something up. Like wheat being crushed. Crunch, crunch. Then the nerve calms down. I’ve already worked enough in my life, been sad enough. I’ve had enough of everything and I don’t want anything more.

      I have daughters, and sons . . . They’re all in the city. But I’m not going anywhere! God gave me years, but he didn’t give me a fair share. I know that an old person gets annoying, that the younger generation will run out of patience. I haven’t had much joy from my children. The women, the ones who’ve gone into the city, are always crying. Either their daughter-in-law is hurting their feelings, or their daughter is. They want to come back. My husband is here. He’s buried here. If he wasn’t lying here, he’d be living in some other place. And I’d be with him. [Cheers up suddenly.] And why should I leave? It’s nice here! Everything grows, everything blooming. From the littlest fly to the animals, everything’s living.

      I’ll remember everything for you. The planes are flying and flying. Every day. They fly real-real low right over our heads. They’re flying to the reactor. To the station. One after the other. While here we have the evacuation. They’re moving us out. Storming the houses. People have covered up, they’re hiding. The livestock is moaning, the kids are crying. It’s war! And the sun’s out . . . I sat down and didn’t come out of the hut, though it’s true I didn’t lock up either. The soldiers knocked. “Ma’am, have you packed up?” And I said: “Are you going to tie my hands and feet?” They didn’t say anything, didn’t say anything, and then they left. They were young. They were kids! Old women were crawling on their knees in front of the houses, begging. The soldiers picked them up under their arms and into the car. But I told them, whoever touched me was going to get it. I cursed at them! I cursed good. I didn’t cry. That day I didn’t cry. I sat in my house. One minute there’s yelling. Yelling! And then it’s quiet. Very quiet. On that day—that first day I didn’t leave the house.

      They told me later that there was a column of people walking. And next to that there was a column of livestock. It was war! My husband liked to say that people shoot, but it’s God who delivers the bullet. Everyone has his own fate. The young ones who left, some of them have already died. In their new place. Whereas me, I’m still walking around. Slowing down, sure. Sometimes it’s boring, and I cry. The whole village is empty. There’s all kinds of birds here. They fly around. And there’s elk here, all you want. [Starts crying.]

      I remember everything. Everyone up and left, but they left their dogs and cats. The first few days I went around pouring milk for all the cats, and I’d give the dogs a piece of bread. They were standing in their yards waiting for their masters. They waited for them a long time. The hungry cats ate cucumbers. They ate tomatoes. Until the fall I took care of my neighbor’s lawn, up to the fence. Her fence fell down, I hammered it back up again. I waited for the people. My neighbor had a dog named Zhuchok. “Zhuchok,” I’d say, “if you see the people first, give me a shout.”

      One night I dreamt I was getting evacuated. The officer yells, “Lady! We’re going to burn everything down and bury it. Come out!” And they drive me somewhere, to some unknown place. Not clear where. It’s not the town, it’s not the village. It’s not even Earth.

      One time—I had a nice little kitty. Vaska. One winter the rats were really hungry and they were attacking. There was nowhere to go. They’d crawl under the covers. I had some grain in a barrel, they put a hole in the barrel. But Vaska saved me. I’d have died without him. We’d talk, me and him, and eat dinner. Then Vaska disappeared. The hungry dogs ate him, maybe, I don’t know. They were always running around hungry, until they died. The cats were so hungry they ate their kittens. Not during the summer, but during the winter they would. God, forgive me!

      Sometimes now I can’t even make it all the way through the house. For an old woman even the stove is cold during the summer. The police come here sometimes, check things out, they bring me bread. But what are they checking for?

      It’s me and the cat. This is a different cat. When we hear the police, we’re happy. We run over. They bring him a bone. Me they’ll ask: “What if the bandits come?” “What’ll they get off me? What’ll they take? My soul? Because that’s all I have.” They’re good boys. They laugh. They brought me some batteries for my radio, now I listen to it. I like Lyudmilla Zykina, but she’s not singing as much anymore. Maybe she’s old now, like me. My man used to say—he used to say, “The dance is over, put the violin back in the case.”

      I’ll tell you how I found my kitty. I lost my Vaska. I waited a day, two days, then a month. So that was that. I was all alone. No one even to talk to. I walked around the village, going into other people’s yards, calling out: Vaska. Murka. Vaska! Murka! At first there were a lot of them running around, and then they disappeared somewhere. Death doesn’t care. The earth takes everyone. So I’m walking, and walking. For two days. On the third day I see him under the store. We exchange glances. He’s happy, I’m happy. But he doesn’t say anything. “All right,” I say, “let’s go home.” But he sits there, meowing. So then I say: “What’ll you do here by yourself? The wolves will eat you. They’ll tear you apart. Let’s go. I have eggs, I have some lard.” But how do I explain it to him? Cats don’t understand human language, then how come he understood me? I walk ahead, and he runs behind me. Meowing. “I’ll cut you off some lard.” Meow. “We’ll live together the two of us.” Meow. “I’ll call you Vaska, too.” Meow. And we’ve been living together two winters now.

      At night I’ll dream that someone’s been calling me. The neighbor’s voice: “Zina!” Then it’s quiet. And again: “Zina!”

      I get bored sometimes, and then I cry.

      I go to the cemetery. My mom’s there. My little daughter. She burned up with typhus during the war. Right after we took her to the cemetery, buried her, the sun came out from the clouds. And shone and shone. Like: you should go and dig her up. My husband is there. Fedya. I sit with them all. I sigh a little. You can talk to the dead just like you can talk to the living. Makes no difference to me. I can hear the one and the other. When you’re alone . . . And when you’re sad. When you’re very sad.

      Ivan Prohorovich Gavrilenko, he was a teacher, he lived right next to the cemetery. He moved to the Crimea, his son was there. Next to him was Pyotr Ivanovich Miusskiy. He drove a tractor. He was a Stakhanovite, back then everyone was aching to be a Stakhanovite. He had magic hands. He could make lace out of wood. His house, it was the size of the whole village. Oh, I felt so bad, and my blood boiled, when they tore it down. They buried it. The officer was yelling: “Don’t think of it, grandma! It’s on a hot-spot!” Meanwhile he’s drunk. I come over—Pyotr’s crying. “Go on, grandma, it’s all right.” He told me to go. And the next house is Misha Mikhalev’s, he heated the kettles on the farm. He died fast. Left here, and died right away. Next to his house was Stepa Bykhov’s, he was a zoologist. It burned down! Bad people burned it down at night. Stepa didn’t live long. He’s buried somewhere in the Mogilev region. During the war—we lost so many people! Vassily Makarovich Kovalev. Maksim Nikoforenko. They used to live, they were happy. On holidays they’d sing, dance. Play the harmonica. And now, it’s like a prison. Sometimes I’ll close my eyes and go through the village—well,

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