What was in store for her? Although she was seventy years old, she had no idea. What was in store for the people she loved? Again she had no idea. Through the empty windows of her house she could see the spring sky looking down at her.
The lives of those close to her were unsettled, confused, full of doubts and mistakes, full of grief. What would happen to Lyudmila? What would be the outcome of her family troubles? Where was Seryozha? Was he even alive? How hard things were for Viktor Shtrum! What would happen to Vera and Stepan Fyodorovich? Would Stepan be able to rebuild his life again and find peace? What path would Nadya follow – that clever little girl who was so difficult and so kind-hearted? And Vera? Would she be broken by the hardships and loneliness she had to endure? And Zhenya? Would she follow Krymov to Siberia? Would she end up in a camp herself and die the same death as Dmitry? Would Seryozha forgive the State for the deaths of his innocent mother and father?
Why were their destinies so confused, so obscure?
As for those who had been killed or executed, they were still alive in her memory. She could remember their smiles, their jokes, their laughter, their sad lost eyes, their hopes and despairs.
Mitya had embraced her and said: 'It doesn't matter, Mama. Please don't worry yourself about me. There are good people even in camp.' And there was young Sonya Levinton with her dark hair and the down over her upper lip. She was declaiming poems with a fierce gaiety. There was Anya Shtrum, as pale and sad as ever, as intelligent and full of mockery. And young Tolya, stuffing down his macaroni cheese – she had got quite annoyed with him for eating so noisily and for never helping Lyudmila: 'Is it too much to ask for a glass of water?' 'All right, all right, but why ask me? Why don't you ask Nadya?' And Marusya. Marusya! Zhenya always made fun of your preaching. And you tried so hard to make Stepan into a good, right-thinking Communist… And then you drowned in the Volga with little Slava Byerozkin and old Varvara Alexandrovna… And Mostovskoy. Please explain to me, Mikhail Sidorovich… Heavens, what could he explain now?
All of them had been unsettled; all of them had doubts and secret griefs. All of them had hoped for happiness. Some of them had come to visit her and others had just written letters. And all the time, in spite of the closeness of her large family, she had had a deep sense of her own isolation.
And here she was, an old woman now, living and hoping, keeping faith, afraid of evil, full of anxiety for the living and an equal concern for the dead; here she was, looking at the ruins of her home, admiring the spring sky without knowing that she was admiring it, wondering why the future of those she loved was so obscure and the past so full of mistakes, not realizing that this very obscurity and unhappiness concealed a strange hope and clarity, not realizing that in the depths of her soul she already knew the meaning of both her own life and the lives of her nearest and dearest, not realizing that even though neither she herself nor any of them could tell what was in store, even though they all knew only too well that at times like these no man can forge his own happiness and that fate alone has the power to pardon and chastise, to raise up to glory and to plunge into need, to reduce a man to labour-camp dust, nevertheless neither fate, nor history, nor the anger of the State, nor the glory or infamy of battle has any power to affect those who call themselves human beings. No, whatever life holds in store – hard-won glory, poverty and despair, or death in a labour camp – they will live as human beings and die as human beings, the same as those who have already perished; and in this alone lies man's eternal and bitter victory over all the grandiose and inhuman forces that ever have been or will be…
Vera and Alexandra Vladimirovna were in a state of feverish anxiety during the whole of the last day. As for Spiridonov, he had been drinking since early in the morning. Workers were continually coming round and demanding to see him, but he was always out. He was sorting out his remaining affairs, calling at the raykom, ringing up friends, having his papers stamped at the military commissariat, talking and joking as he walked round the workshops; once, when he found himself alone for a moment in the turbine-room, he pressed his cheek against a cold fly-wheel and closed his eyes in exhaustion.
Meanwhile Vera was packing up belongings, drying nappies over the stove, preparing bottles of boiled milk for Mitya and stuffing bread into a bag. She was about to part for ever with both Viktorov and her mother. They would remain for ever alone; no one here would ask after them or spare them so much as a thought.
She was steadied by the thought that she was now the oldest in her family. She was calmer now, more reconciled to hardship than anyone else.
Looking at her granddaughter's tired, inflamed eye-lids, Alexandra Vladimirovna said: 'That's the way things are, Vera.
There's nothing more difficult than saying goodbye to a house where you've suffered.'
Natalya had promised to bake some pies for the journey. She had gone off that morning, laden with wood and provisions, to a woman she knew who still possessed a proper Russian stove. There she began preparing the filling and rolling out the dough. Her face turned bright red as she stood over the oven; it looked young and extremely beautiful. She glanced at herself in the mirror, laughed and began to powder her nose and cheeks with flour. But when her friend went out of the room, she wept into the dough.
In the end her friend noticed her tears. 'What's the matter, Natalya? Why are you crying?'
'I've grown used to them. She's a splendid old woman. And I feel sorry for Vera and her little boy.'
Her friend listened attentively and said: 'Nonsense. You're not crying because of the old woman.'
'I am,' said Natalya.
The new director promised to release Andreyev, but he wanted him to stay on for another five days. Natalya announced that she'd stay till then and then go back to her son in Leninsk. 'And then,' she said, 'we'll see how things go.'
'What will you see?' asked Andreyev.
She didn't answer. Most likely, she had been crying because she couldn't see anything at all. Andreyev didn't like his daughter-in-law to show too much concern over him; she had the feeling that he still hadn't forgiven her for the quarrels she'd had with his wife.
Spiridonov came back towards lunchtime. He told them all how the workers in the machine-room had said goodbye to him.
'Well, there's been a real pilgrimage here,' said Alexandra Vladimirovna. 'At least five or six people have come to see you.'
'Well, is everything ready, then? The truck will be here at five sharp.' He gave a little smile. 'We can thank Batrov for that.'
His affairs were all in order and his belongings were packed, but Spiridonov still felt a sense of nervous, drunken excitement. He began redoing the bundles, moving the suitcases from one place to another; it was as though he couldn't wait to be off. Then Andreyev came in from the office and asked:
'How are things? Has there been a telegram from Moscow yet about the cables?'
'There haven't been any telegrams at all.'
'The swine! They're sabotaging the whole thing. We could have had the first installations ready for May Day.'
Andreyev turned to Alexandra Vladimirovna and said: 'You really are foolish. Setting off on a journey like this at your age!'
'Don't you worry yourself! I've got nine lives. Anyway, what else can I do? Go back to my flat on Gogol Street? And the painters have already been round here. They're about to start the repairs for the new director.'
'The lout! He could have waited one more day!' said Vera.