November 19, 1935. The expedition has been approved! Professor V.,
the well-known Arctic scientist, wrote an article in which he expressed
the conviction that, judging by the diaries of Navigator Klimov, 'the
materials collected by the Tatarinov expedition, if found, could
contribute to our present knowledge of the Arctic'.
This idea, even to me, sounded rather daring. Unexpectedly, though, it
received confirmation and it was this that tipped the scale in favour of
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Sanya's plan. After studying the chart of the St. Maria's drift between
October 1912 and April 1914, Professor V. expressed the opinion that
there must be as yet undiscovered land at latitude 78°02'and longitude
64°. And this hypothetical land, which V. had discovered without
moving from his study, was actually found during the 1935 navigation
season. True, it wasn't much of a place, just a small island lost amidst
the creeping ice and presenting a dismal picture, but, be that as it may,
this meant one more blank space filled in on the map of the Soviet
Arctic, and this had been done with the aid of the chart showing the drift
of the St. Maria.
I don't know what other arguments, if any were needed to put Sanya's
plan through, but the fact remains that 'a search party attached to an
expedition into the high latitudes for the study of Severnaya Zemlya'
was included in the plan for next year's navigation season. Sanya was to
come to Leningrad in the spring, and we arranged to meet there, in
Leningrad, where I had never been before.
May 4, 1936. What thoughts and fancies thronged in my mind
yesterday morning as my train drew into Leningrad, where, the next
morning, that is today. May 4th I was to meet Sanya! Though the
carriage was a rattling, creaking fair—it must have been an old one— I
slept all night like a top, and when I woke up, I started daydreaming.
How good it was to lie and dream, listening to the monotonous rumble
of the wheels and the sleepy breathing of my fellow passengers! I had a
feeling that all my dreams would come true, even that my father was
alive and that we would find him and all come back together. It was
impossible of course. But there was such peace and serenity in my heart
that I could not help dwelling on the thought. In my heart, as it were, I
commanded that we find him-and now, there he stood, grey-headed and
erect, and he had to be made to go to sleep, otherwise he would go mad
with excitement and joy.
The men who shared the compartment with me were by this time out
in the corridor, smoking. I suppose they were waiting for me to get
dressed and come out, but I was still lying there, daydreaming.
We had arranged that Sanya's sister (whom I always called Sasha in
my letters to distinguish her from my Sanya) was to meet me at the
railway station—she, 'or Pyotr, if I am unwell', she had written. She had
several times made passing mention of her indisposition, but her letters
were so cheerful, with little drawings in them, that I attached no
importance to these remarks. I had an inkling of what it was about,
though. In one of her letters Pyotr was depicted with a paint brush in
one hand and an infant in the other, the two of them being remarkably
alike.
Everybody had their hats and coats on now, and my fellow travellers
helped to get my suitcase down from the rack. It was rather heavy,
because I had taken with me everything I possessed, even several
interesting specimens of rock. I was so excited. Leningrad! Suddenly,
between the passengers' heads, the platform came into view, and I
began looking out for the Skovorodnikovs. But the platform slid past
and there was no sign of them. Then I recollected with annoyance that I
had not wired them the number of my carriage.
A porter lugged my case out and we stood together on the platform
until everybody had walked past. The Skovorodnikovs were not there.
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Sasha in one of her letters had described in detail, even giving a
sketch, how to get to their place in Karl Liebknecht Prospekt. But I got it
all mixed up and coming out into Nevsky Prospekt I asked a polite
Leningrader in a pince-nez: 'Can you please tell me how to get to
Nevsky Prospekt?'
It was a disgraceful blunder, and I have never told a living soul about
it.
Then I got into a tram crush, and the only thing I noticed was that the
streets were rather empty compared with Moscow. So was the one I got
off at and down which I dragged my suitcase. And there was house No.
79. 'Berenstein, Photographic Artist'. This was the place.
I was standing on the second floor landing, rubbing my fingers, which
were numb from carrying that accursed suitcase, when the front door
banged downstairs and a lanky figure in a mackintosh with his cap in his
hand dashed past me, taking the steps two at a time.
'Pyotr!' I cried.
He was worlds away at the moment from any thought of me, for he
stopped, glanced at me, and, finding nothing of interest in me, made a
movement to run on. Some dim recollection, however, made him pause.
'Don't you recognise me?'
'Why, of course I do! Katya, I'm coming from the hospital,' he said in
a tone of despair. 'Sasha was taken in last night.'
'No, really?'
'Yes. Come along in. That's why we couldn't come to meet you.'
'What's the matter with her?'
'Didn't she write you?'
'No.'
'Come along, I'll tell you all about it.'
Evidently the family of the photographic artist Berenstein took a great
interest in the affairs of Sasha and Pyotr, for a slight, smartly dressed
woman met Pyotr in the hall and inquired with some agitation: 'Well,
how is she?'
He said he knew nothing, he had not been allowed to go in, but at that
moment another woman, just as slight and elegant, came running out
