tracks leading into the snowy wastes. Soon they will disappear, but a
trail has been blazed, we have acquired a new banner, and this deed will
shine forever through the ages.'
V. Kaverin
9
BOOK ONE
10
PART ONE
CHILDHOOD
CHAPTER ONE
THE LETTER. IN SEARCH OF THE BLUE CRAB
I remember the big dirty yard and the squat little houses with the
fence round them. The yard stood on the edge of the river, and in the
spring, when the flood-water subsided, it was littered with bits of wood
and shells, and sometimes with things far more interesting. On one
occasion, for instance, we found a postman's bag full of letters, and
afterwards the waters brought down the postman himself and deposited
him carefully on the bank. He was lying on his back, quite a young man,
fair-haired, in postman's uniform with shining buttons; he must have
polished them up before setting out on this last round.
A policeman took the bag, but Aunt Dasha kept the letters-they were
soaking wet and of no further use to anybody. Not all of them were
soaked though. The bag had been a new one, made of leather, and was
closed tight. Every evening Aunt Dasha used to read one of the letters
out, sometimes to me alone, sometimes to the whole yard. It was so
interesting that even the old women, who used to go to Skovorodnikov's
to play cards, would drop the game and join us. There was one letter
which Aunt Dasha used to read more often than any other, so often, in
fact, that I soon got to know it by heart. Many years have passed since
then, but I can still remember it from the first word to the last. 'Dear
Maria Vasilievna,
'I hasten to inform you that Ivan Lvovich is alive and well. Four
months ago, on his orders, I left the schooner along with thirteen of the
crew. I hope to see you soon, so I shall not describe our difficult journey
across the pack-ice to Franz Josef Land. We suffered terrible hardships
and privations. I will only say that I was the only one of our party to
reach Cape Flora safely (not counting a pair of frostbitten feet). I was
picked up by the St. Phocas, of Lieutenant Sedov's Expedition, and
taken to Archangel. Although I have survived, I have little reason to
rejoice, as I shall soon be undergoing an operation, after which I can
11
only trust in God's mercy, for God alone knows how I'm going to live
without feet. What I have to tell you is this.
The St. Maria became icebound in the Kara Sea and since October 1912
has been drifting steadily north with the Arctic icefields. When we left
the schooner she was in latitude 82° 55'. She is standing in the middle of
an icefield, or rather that was where she was from the autumn of 1912
until the day I left her. She may be free of the ice this year, but I think
this is more likely to happen next year, when she will be round about the
spot where the Fram broke free. The men who have remained in her
have enough victuals to last until October or November of next year. In
any case, I hasten to assure you that we did not leave the ship because
she was in a hopeless plight. I had to carry out Captain's orders, of
course, but I must admit that they fell in with my own wishes. When I
was leaving the ship with the thirteen men, Ivan Lvovich gave me a
packet addressed to the Head of the Hydrographical Board—who has
since died-and a letter for you. I dare not risk mailing them, because,
being the only survivor, I am anxious to preserve all evidence of my
honourable conduct. I therefore ask you to send for them or come to
Archangel yourself, as I shall be spending at least three months in
hospital.
'Awaiting your reply, I remain your obedient servant.
'I. Klimov, Navigating Officer.'
The address had been washed away, but had obviously been written in
the same bold upright hand on the thick yellowed envelope.
This letter must have become for me something in the nature of a
prayer, for I used to repeat it every evening while waiting for my father
to come home.
He used to come in late from the wharf. The steamers arrived now
every day and took on cargoes, not of flax and grain as they used to do,
but of heavy cases containing cartridges and gun parts. Burly, thickset
and moustached, he used to come in wearing a cloth cap and tarpaulin
trousers. Mother would talk and talk, while he ate in silence, once in a
while clearing his throat or wiping his moustache. Then he would take
us children-my sister and me—and lie down to sleep. He smelt of hemp,
sometimes of apples or grain, and sometimes of rancid machine-oil, and
I remember what a depressing effect that smell had on me.
It must have been on one such cheerless evening, as I lay beside my
father, that I first became aware of my surroundings. The squalid little
room With its low ceiling, its walls pasted over with newspapers, and a
big crack under the window through which drew cold air and the tang of
the river-such was our home. The dark, beautiful woman with her hair
let down, sleeping on the floor on two sacks filled with straw, was my
mother. The little feet sticking out from under the patchwork quilt
belonged to my sister. The dark skinny boy in the outsize trousers who
crept shivering out of bed and stole into the yard was me.
A likely spot had been selected long ago, string had been prepared and
even dry twigs piled up at the Gap; all I needed now to go out after the
blue crabs was a piece of rotting meat. The bed of our river was all
different colours, and so were the crabs in it—black, green, and yellow.
