I looked at them with curiosity. Like many other bomber pilots I had
never set eyes on the enemy all through the war, unless it was when I
dived on to a target-hardly a position from which you can see much. But
now I was 'in luck'-fifty seven thousand six hundred of the enemy, in
ranks of twenty, passed before me in one lot, some of them gazing
wonderingly around them at Moscow, which looked its best that radiant
day, others staring down at their feet sullen-faced and indifferent.
Men from all walks of life, their every look and gesture were infinitely
alien to us.
I glanced at Katya. She was standing with her handbag pressed to her
bosom, deeply moved. Suddenly she kissed me tenderly.
'Was that your 'thank you'?' I asked.
'Yes,' she answered gravely.
We had lots of money and so took one of the best suites in the hotel
Moskva, a sumptuous affair with mirrors, paintings and a grand piano.
At first we were a bit awe-struck, but then found that it was not so
very difficult to get accustomed to mirrors, carpets and a ceiling
decorated with flowers and cupids. We felt very good in those rooms,
which were spacious and wonderfully cosy.
346
Korablev, of course, came to see us the day we arrived, looking dapper
in an embroidered white shirt which, with his smartly twirled
moustache, gave him a resemblance to some great Russian painter—
exactly which one, Katya and I couldn't for the moment remember.
He had been in Moscow in the summer of 1942 when I had knocked at
that felt-covered door of his. He had been in Moscow and nearly went
mad when he came home and found my letter telling him that I was
going to Yaroslavl to look for Katya.
'How do you like that? To look for Katya, with whom I had gone
along to the police station only the day before, because they didn't want
to register her at the Sivtsev-Vrazhek flat!'
'Never mind, Ivan Pavlovich,' I said. 'All's well that ends well. I
wasn't very lucky that summer. As a matter of fact I'm glad that we've
met now, when everything is really well. I was black, gaunt, and half-
crazy, but now you see before you a normal, cheerful man. But tell me
about yourself. What are you doing? How are you getting on?'
Korablev was never good at talking about himself. But we did learn
from him many interesting things about the school in Sadovo-
Triumfalnaya, where events of such great moment in my and Katya's
lives had once taken place. With every year that passed after leaving
school, it receded from us farther and farther, and we had begun to find
it strange that we were once those ardent children to whom life had
seemed so bafflingly complicated. But for Korablev school had gone on.
Every day he had leisurely combed his moustache before the mirror,
picked up his stick, and gone off to give his lessons, and new boys had
passed under the searchlight beam of his grave, loving, attentive gaze.
Oh, that gaze of his! I was reminded of Grisha Faber, who had
declared that 'the gaze is all-important' and that with a gaze like
Korablev's he would have 'made a career in the theatre in no time'.
'Where is he, Ivan Pavlovich?'
'Grisha's in the provinces,' Korablev said. 'In Saratov. I haven't seen
him for some time. I believe he's made good as an actor.'
'He was good. I always liked his acting. He shouted a bit, but that
doesn't matter. His voice carried, though.'
We ran through the whole list of classmates. It was both sad and
cheering to recall old friends, whom life had scattered throughout the
land. Tania Velichko was an architect building houses in Smolensk,
Shura Kochnev was an artillery colonel and had recently been
mentioned in dispatches. But there were many of whom Korablev knew
nothing either. Time seemed to have passed them by, leaving them in
our memories as boys and girls of seventeen.
So we sat, talking, and meanwhile Professor Valentin Zhukov had
phoned three times and had been given an earful for keeping us waiting,
though he pleaded in excuse some new experiment with his snakes or
fox cross-breeds.
At last he turned up, and stopped in the doorway with a thoughtful
air, finger on his nose, wondering, if you please, if he had come to the
wrong room.
'Come in, Professor, come on in,' I said to him.
He ran towards me, laughing and behind him in the doorway
appeared a tall-, portly, fair-haired lady, whom we had once known, if I
am not mistaken, under the name of Kiren.
347
First of all I was interrogated, of course. It was a cross-examination,
with Valya on the right and Kiren on the left of me. Why, in what
manner and on what grounds had I broken into another person's flat,
gone through all the rooms, and on discovering that Katya was living at
Professor V. Zhukov's, had hit on the brilliant idea of leaving a note that
was utterly senseless, since it contained no mention of where I was to be
found and how long I would be in Moscow.
'That was her bed, you ass,' Valya said. 'And the dress on it was hers.
Christ, couldn't you have guessed that only a woman's hand could keep
my den so tidy?'
'That much I guessed all right.'
Kiren burst out laughing, good-naturedly, I think, but Valya made big
eyes at me. Obviously, the ghost of the mysterious Zhenka Kolpakchi
with the variegated eyes still haunted that family hearth.
The women retired into the next room. Kiren was nursing her fourth
child, so I daresay they had plenty to talk about.
We started talking about the war. There were already numerous signs
that it would soon be over. Valya and Korablev listened to me with such
an expression as if it was I who would be called upon in the very near
future to report the capture of Berlin to the High Command. Valya
asked why they were not forcing the Vistula and was deeply pained to
hear me say I did not know. As for the North, to judge by the questions
