Doctor Zhivago (67 page)

"
When did I moan?
"

"
All the time. Especially when we were being pressed by Vitsyn.
"

The doctor recalled the autumn, the shooting of the rebels, Pamphil
'
s killing of his wife and children, the whole senseless murderous mess to which there seemed to be no end. White and Red atrocities rivalled each other in savagery, outrage breeding outrage. The smell of blood was in his nose and throat, it choked him, it nauseated him, it mounted to his head, it made his eyes swim. That wasn
'
t moaning, that was something entirely different, but how could he explain it to Liberius?

The dugout was lit by torches made of sticks stuck into a metal holder. They gave off an aromatic smell of charcoal. As a stick burned down, the cinder dropped into a bowl of water standing underneath, and Liberius lit a fresh one.

"
See what I have to burn
"
? There
'
s no more oil. And the wood is too dry, it burns too quickly. Sure you won
'
t have some veal? About the scurvy. What are you waiting for to call a staff meeting and give us a lecture on scurvy and the means of dealing with it?
"

"
Stop tormenting me, for God
'
s sake. What exactly do you know about our people?
"

"
I
'
ve told you. There is nothing certain in the report. But I didn
'
t finish telling you what I
'
ve learned from the latest communiqués. The civil war is over. Kolchak
'
s forces are smashed. The main part of the Red Army is in pursuit, it is driving him eastward, along the railway, into the sea. Another part of it is hurrying over this way, and we are joining forces to mop up the considerable scattered numbers of Whites in the rear. The whole of southern Russia is clear of the enemy. Well, why aren
'
t you glad? Isn
'
t that enough for you?
"

"
I am glad. But where are our families?
"

"
Not in Varykino, and that
'
s a very lucky thing. Not that there is any confirmation of that crazy business Kamennodvorsky told you about—you remember that rumor last summer about mysterious strangers raiding Varykino? I always thought it was nonsense. But the village is deserted. So it looks as if something did happen after all, and it
'
s a very good thing they got out in time, as they evidently did. That is what the few remaining inhabitants think, according to my source.
"

"
And Yuriatin? What happened there? Who is holding it?
"

"
That
'
s another absurdity. It can
'
t possibly be true.
"

"
What
'
s that?
"

"
They say the Whites are still there, but that
'
s a sheer impossibility. I
'
ll prove it to you, you
'
ll see for yourself.
"

He put another stick in the holder and, getting out a tattered map and folding it so that the district he was talking about was on top, explained the position, pencil in hand.

"
Look. All these are sectors where the Whites have been thrown back—here, and here, and here, all over this region. Do you follow?
"

"
Yes.
"

"
So they can
'
t possibly be anywhere near Yuriatin, because if they were, with their communications cut, they couldn
'
t avoid being captured. Even their commanders must realize this, however incompetent they may be. Why are you putting on your coat? Where are you going?
"

"
I
'
ll be back in a moment. There
'
s a lot of smoke here, and I
'
ve got a headache. I
'
ll just go out for a breath of air.
"

When he was outside, the doctor swept the snow off the wooden block that served as a seat at the entrance to the dugout and sat down, his elbows on his knees and his head propped on his fists.

The taiga, the camp, his eighteen months among the partisans, went right out of his head. He forgot all about them. Memories of his dear ones filled his mind and crowded out all else. He tried to guess their fate, and images rose before him, each more frightening than the last.

Here is Tonia walking through a field in a blizzard with Sasha in her arms. She keeps wrapping him up in a blanket, her feet sinking into the deep snow. She can barely drag along, using all her strength, but the blizzard knocks her down, she stumbles and falls and gets up, too weak to stand on her feet, the wind buffeting her and the snow covering her up. Oh, but he is forgetting. She has two children with her, and she nurses the little one. Both her hands are busy, like the fugitives at Chilimka who broke down and went mad with grief and strain.

She has both her hands full and there is no one near to help her. Sasha
'
s father has vanished, no one knows where he is. He is away, he has always been away, all his life he has remained apart from them. What kind of father is he? Is it possible for a real father always to be away? And what about her own father? Where is Alexander Alexandrovich? And Niusha? And the others? Better not ask, better not think about it.

The doctor got up and turned to go back into the dugout. Suddenly his thoughts took a different direction and he changed his mind about returning to Liberius.

Long ago he had cached a pair of skis, a bag of biscuits, and other things he would need if a chance to make his escape should ever come. He had buried them in the snow just outside the camp, at the foot of a tall pine. To make doubly sure of finding it he had marked the tree with a notch. Now he turned and walked along the footpath trodden between the snowdrifts in the direction of his buried treasure. It was a clear night with a full moon. He knew where the sentries were posted and at first avoided them successfully. But when he came to the clearing with the mound and rowan tree a sentry hailed him from a distance, took a run on his skis, and standing straight up on them glided swiftly toward him.

"
Halt or I shoot! Who are you? Password.
"

"
What
'
s come over you, man? Don
'
t you know me? I
'
m the camp doctor, Zhivago.
"

"
Sorry, Comrade Zhelvak. I didn
'
t recognize you, no offense meant. All the same, Zhelvak or not, I
'
m not letting you go any farther. Orders are orders.
"

"
As you wish. The password is
'
Red Siberia,
'
and the reply,
'
Down with the Interventionists.
'
"

"
That
'
s better. Go ahead. What are you chasing after at this time of night? Anyone sick?
"

"
I was thirsty and I couldn
'
t sleep. I thought I
'
d go out for a breath of air and eat some snow. Then I saw the rowan tree with iced berries on it. I want to go and pick a few.
"

"
If that isn
'
t just like a gentleman
'
s notion! Who
'
s ever heard of picking berries in winter! Three years we
'
ve been beating the nonsense out of you others but you
'
re still the same. All right, go and pick your berries, you lunatic. What do I care.
"

And as swiftly as he had come, the sentry took a run, stood straight up on his long skis, and whistled over the untrodden snow into the distance beyond the bare winter shrubs as thin as thinning hair.

The footpath brought the doctor to the foot of the rowan tree, whose name he had just spoken. It was half in snow, half in frozen leaves and berries, and it held out two white branches toward him. He remembered Lara
'
s strong white arms and seized the branches and pulled them to him. As if in answer, the tree shook snow all over him. He muttered without realizing what he was saying, and completely beside himself:
"
I
'
ll find you, my beauty, my love, my rowan tree, my own flesh and blood.
"

It was a clear night with a full moon. He made his way farther into the taiga, to the marked tree, unearthed his things, and left the camp.

Merchant Street rambled crookedly downhill, overlooked by the houses and churches of the upper part of Yuriatin.

At the corner there was the dark gray house with sculptures. The huge square stones of the lower part of its facade were covered with freshly posted sheets of government newspapers and proclamations. Small groups of people stood on the sidewalk, reading in silence.

After the recent thaw it was dry and frosty. Now it was light at a time of day when only a few weeks before it had been dark. The winter had just gone, and the emptiness it had left was filled by the light that lingered on into the evenings. The light made one restless, it was like a call from afar that was disturbing, it put one on one
'
s guard.

The Whites had recently left the town, surrendering it to the Reds. The bombardment, bloodshed, and wartime anxieties had ceased. This too was disturbing, and put one on one
'
s guard, like the going of the winter and the lengthening of the spring days.

One of the proclamations pasted on the wall and still readable by the light of the longer day announced:

"
Workbooks are obtainable by those qualified at the cost of 50 rubles each, at the Food Office, Yuriatin Soviet, 5 October Street (formerly Governor Street), Room 137.

"
Anyone without a workbook, or filling it in incorrectly, or (still worse) fraudulently, will be prosecuted with the utmost rigor of the wartime regulations. Detailed instructions for the correct use of workbooks are printed in I.Y.I.K. No. 86 (1013) for the current year and are posted at the Yuriatin Food Office, Room 137.
"

Another proclamation stated that the town had ample food supplies. These, it said, were merely being hoarded by the bourgeoisie with the object of disorganizing distribution and creating chaos. It ended with the words:

"
Anyone found hoarding food will be shot on the spot.
"

A third announcement read:

"
Those who do not belong to the exploiting class are admitted to membership in Consumer Associations. Details are obtainable at the Food Office, Yuriatin Soviet, 5 October Street (formerly Governor Street), Room 137.
"

Former members of the military were warned:

"
Anyone who fails to surrender his arms or who continues carrying them without having the appropriate new permit will be prosecuted with the utmost severity of the law. New permits are obtainable at the Office of the Yuriatin Revolutionary-Military Committee, 6 October Street, Room 63.
"

The group in front of the building was joined by a wild-looking, emaciated man, black with grime, with a bag flung over his shoulder, and carrying a stick. There was not yet any white in his long, shaggy hair, but his bristly, dark-blond beard was graying. This was Yurii Andreievich. His fur coat must have been taken from him on the road or perhaps he had bartered it for food. His thin, tattered, short-sleeved coat, which did not keep him warm, was the result of an exchange.

All he had left in his bag was the remnant of a crust of bread that someone had given him out of charity, in a village near the town, and a piece of suet. He had reached Yuriatin somewhat earlier, but it had taken him a whole hour to trudge from the outskirts through which the railway ran to this corner of Merchant Street, so great was his weakness and so much had the last few days of the journey exhausted him. He had often stopped, and he had barely restrained an impulse to fall to his knees and kiss the stones of the town, which he had despaired of ever seeing again, and the sight of which filled him with happiness, like the sight of a friend.

For almost half his journey on foot he had followed the railway track. All of it was out of use, neglected and covered with snow. He had passed train after train abandoned by the Whites; they stood idle, stopped by the defeat of Kolchak, by lack of fuel, and by snowdrifts. Immobilized and buried in the snow, they stretched almost uninterruptedly for miles on end. Some of them served as strongholds for armed bands of highwaymen or as hideouts for escaping criminals or political fugitives—the involuntary vagrants of those days—but most of them had become mortuaries and mass graves for the victims of the cold and of the typhus raging all along the line and mowing down whole villages.