'Well, we have visitors I hear. I'll get washed, then come and kiss
you.'
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We hear him grunting with pleasure and splashing about in the
kitchen. Aunt Dasha grumbling about him making a mess of the floor
again, but he keeps on grunting and snorting, exclaiming 'Ah, that's
good!', then finally he appears, his hair combed, his bare feet in
slippers, and wearing a clean Russian blouse. He drags us out onto the
doorsteps in turn to have a good look, first at me, then at Sanya. Sanya's
decoration comes in for a special scrutiny. 'Not bad,' he says, looking
pleased. 'And a bar?' 'Yes, a bar.' 'A captain, eh?' 'Yes.' He wrings Sanya's hand.
We sit at the table till late into the night, talking our heads off. We
talk about Sasha, simply and naturally, as if she were with us. She is
with us-little Pyotr becomes more and more like her with every passing
month-that same Mongolian set of the eyes, the same soft dark hair on
the temples. In bending his head, he lifts his eyebrows just as she used
to do.
Sanya talks about Spain, and a queer, long-forgotten feeling grips me.
I listen to him as though he were talking about somebody else. So it was
he, who, going out one day on a reconnaissance flight, spotted five
Junkers and closed in with them without hesitation? It was he who,
diving in among the Junkers, fired almost at random, because it was
impossible to miss? It was he who, covering his face with his glove, his
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jacket smouldering, set down his wrecked plane and within the hour
was up again in another.
We clink glasses and Sanya says in Spanish: 'Salud!' Then, 'Let's
consider that our 'voyage into life' has only just begun. The ship put out
of harbour yesterday and one can still see in the distance the lighthouse
which had sent her its farewell signal: 'Happy sailing and success!' Once
upon a time, small but brave, we walked through the dark quiet streets
of this town. We were armed with only one Finnish knife between us,
the knife for which Pyotr made a sheath out of an old boot. But we were
better armed than might appear at first sight. We went forward because
we had sworn to each other an oath:
'To strive, to seek, to find and not to yield.' We went forward and our
road has not come to an end yet.'
Saying this, Sanya raised his glass high, drained it and shattered it
against the wall...
In 1941 we moved to Leningrad, hoping it is now for good. We rent a
three-roomed summer cottage in the country with a well and a
handsome old landlord who resembles one of the ancient Russian
Streltsi and whom Pyotr immediately starts to paint. We live at this
dacha all together, one family—the two Pyotrs and the Nanny did not go
to Ensk that year—we bathe in the lake, drink tea from a real, brass pot-
bellied samovar, and I find it odd that other women do not seem to
notice this wonderful peace and happiness.
On Saturdays we go to meet Sanya. The whole family troop to the
station, and the most eager to meet Uncle Sanya, of course, is little
Pyotr, who secretly hopes he will bring him a battleship. His hope is
justified. Sanya, a magnificent ship in one hand, jumps down from the
step of a carriage, waves to us, but continues to walk alongside the
moving carriage. The train stops and he holds out his hand. A little
dried-up old woman steps down with a brisk preoccupied air, in one
hand an umbrella, in the other a canvas travelling-bag. I can hardly
believe my eyes. It is Grandma all right. Grandma in a chic pongee suit
and a cute straw hat, whom he protectively pilots through the crowd
which instantly fills the small platform...
I was very keen on having Grandma come and live with us when we
decided to make our home in Leningrad. But each time I met her I was
persuaded that it was impossible. She had less and less to say against
Nikolai Antonich and spoke of him more and more with a sort of
superstitious awe. Deep down in her heart she was convinced that he
was endowed with supernatural powers.
'The moment I think of a thing, he knows it,' she once said. 'It's
uncanny. The other day I decided to bake some pies, and he says: 'But
not with sago. It's bad for the digestion.' '
What could have happened to make Grandma show up at our
countryside station and stride briskly towards us, umbrella in one hand
and travelling-bag in the other?
After a nap and a wash she appeared at table looking younger and
spruce in a dress with leg-of-mutton sleeves and cream-coloured high
boots with pointed toes.
'Got himself a housekeeper,' she began without any preliminaries.
''Not a housekeeper, but a secretary,' he says. 'She'll help me too.' And
she goes and puts her dirty shoes on my kitchen stove. Some help!'
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The person who put her dirty shoes on the stove went by the name of
Alevtina. It was most interesting. We were sitting in the garden.
Grandma proudly telling her story, but so far it was difficult to make out
what it was all about. I could see that Pyotr was dying to sketch her, but
I wagged a finger at him warning him not to.
I did the same to Sanya, who could barely restrain his mirth. The only
serious listener was little Pyotr.
'If you're a secretary, why d'you shove your shoes where I do my
cooking. I'm not having any of that! Maybe I'll light the stove today?'
'Really?'
'And so I did.'
'You did?'
'And burnt 'em to a cinder,' quoth Grandma. 'She'll know better next
time.'
