makes me feel bitter to think of all I could have accomplished if I had
been-I would not say helped-but at least not hindered. What's done
cannot be undone. My one consolation is that through my labours
Russia has discovered and acquired large new territories. I cannot tear
myself away from this letter, from my last conversation with you, dear
Maria. Look after our daughter, don't let her grow up lazy. That is a trait
of mine. I was always lazy and too trustful.
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Katya, my little daughter! Will you ever learn how much I thought
about you and how I wanted to have at least one more look at you before
I died?
But enough. My hands are cold, otherwise I would go on writing and
writing. I embrace you both.
Yours forever.
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CHAPTER FIVE
THE LAST PAGE
Looking back on the winter of 1943-1944 at Polarnoye I see that it was
the happiest winter we had ever had together. This may seem strange
considering that nearly every other day I flew out to bomb German
ships. But it was one thing to fly on missions without knowing what had
become of Katya, and quite another, to know that she was at Polarnoye,
alive and well and that in a day or two I would see her pouring out tea at
table. A green silk lampshade to which Ivan Ivanovich had pinned the
little paper devils cut out of thick paper hung over his table, and
everything that Katya and I took delight in that memorable winter is
floodlit by that bright circle cast by the green shade, leaving all the fret
and worry hidden away outside in the dark corners.
I remember our evenings, when, after long, vain attempts to get in
touch with the doctor, I caught the first launch that came along and
went to Polarnoye, where friends gathered within that circle of light, no
matter how late the hour. Who thought of night when the day was night
too!
Never before had I talked, drunk and laughed so much. The feeling
that had come over me when I first saw Katya here seemed lodged in my
heart now for all time—and the whole world went hurtling along.
Whither? Who knows! I believed that it was towards happiness.
The three of us—the doctor, Katya and I—spent all our free time
studying and sorting the records of the St. Maria expedition.
I don't know which was the more difficult-developing the films or
reading the documents of the expedition. A film, as we know, is liable to
fade with the years, and that is why the makers usually indicate the date
limit after which they cannot guarantee full quality. For the St. Maria
films this date was February 1914. Moreover, the metal containers were
full of water and the films were soaked through and had evidently been
in that condition for years. The Navy's best photographers declared it to
be a hopeless case, and even if they (the photographers) were wizards
they would never be able to develop the film. I persuaded them to try.
As a result, out of hundred and twelve photographs, dried with infinite
precautions, about fifty were adjudged 'worth further handling'. After
repeated printings we succeeded in obtaining twenty-two clear pictures.
I had once succeeded in deciphering Navigator Klimov's diary, written
in a crabbed, illegible, sprawling hand and smeared with seal-oil. Still
they had been separate pages in two bound notebooks. Not so
Tatarinov's papers. Apart from his farewell letters, which were better
preserved, his papers were found in the form of a compact pulpy mass,
and transforming this into a chronometric record, a logbook, maps,
charts and survey data, was, of course, beyond my powers. This was
done in a special laboratory under expert supervision. No room will be
found in this book for a detailed account of what was found in the
canvas-bound notebook which Captain Tatarinov had listed among his
enclosures. I will only say that he managed to draw deductions from his
observations and that the formulas which he put forward enabled us to
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calculate the speed and direction of the ice drift in any part of the Arctic
Ocean. This seems
almost incredible, considering the comparatively short drift of the St.
Maria which took place in areas which do not seem to offer any data for
such far-reaching deductions. But then the insight of genius does not
always need many facts to work upon.
'You have read the life of Captain Tatarinov,' I had said to myself,
'but its last page has remained sealed.'
'This is not the end yet,' had been my answer. 'Who knows, there
may come a time when I shall succeed in turning and reading that page
too.'
That time had come. I had read it, and found it immortal.
CHAPTER SIX
THE HOME COMING
In the summer of 1944 I was granted leave, and Katya and I decided to
spend three weeks in Moscow and the fourth in Ensk, visiting the old
folk.
We arrived on July 17-a memorable date. It was the day the huge
column of German prisoners-of-war passed through Moscow.
We had light suitcases and so decided to make our way to the centre
of the city by Metro, but when we came out of the Metro station on
Leningradsky Prospekt we were unable to cross the road for a good two
hours. First we stood, then, getting tired, we sat down on our suitcases,
then stood up again. And still they came on. The clean-shaven generals
with sickly arrogant faces, among whom were some notorious torturers
and hangmen, must have been at Krimsky Bridge, miles away, but the
soldiers kept on coming and coming, shambling along—some in rags
and barefooted, others with their army coats thrown open.
