Andrei Makine - A Hero's Daughter

This was how the memory of that spring night had stayed with him. They worked in darkness, simply lighting the monument with their vehicle headlamps. A fine rain was falling that had the bitter smell of poplar shoots. The cast-iron statue of the Great Leader glistened like rubber. The pulley on the crane began to do its work: Stalin found himself hanging in midair, somewhat askew, gently swaying, staring hard at the people scurrying about beneath him. And already the workmen were tugging him by his feet toward the Zis's open side panel. The foreman of the team, close beside Ivan, grunted: "Sometimes we were lying there on our bellies at the front and they were throwing so much at us you couldn't even lift your head up from the ground. The stuff was whistling over. A hail of bullets like a shower. Then the political commissar jumps to his feet with his little revolver, you know, like those kids' pistols. And once he yells: 'For our Country, for Stalin, forward!'… then it grabbed us, you know, goddamn it! We jumped up and went over the top… All right, you guys! Steer the head toward the corner. Otherwise it won't fit in. Steady she goes…"

A fresh breeze could be sensed in the air, with something sparkling and joyful about it. In Moscow, it appeared, passions were being unleashed. Things were coming to the boil in kitchens at the highest level. Ivan even acquired a taste for reading newspapers, which he had never looked at before. All about them everything was relaxing, gaining a new lease of life. An endless procession of Fidel Castros, bearded and smiling, marched through the newspapers, as well as drawings of blacks with great white teeth, smashing the chains of colonialism, and the engaging faces of Belka and Strelka, the pioneer dog cosmonauts. All this added savor to life and caused joyful hopes to be reborn. As he sat behind the wheel, Ivan often hummed the song that could be heard everywhere:

Cuba, my love,

Isle of purple dawn…

And it seemed as if both Fidel and the blacks on the posters, breaking free from colonialism, were intimately linked to the life of Borissov, to their own existence. It seemed as if the world was about to be shaken and an endless festival would begin, here and everywhere on earth.

To crown it all, Gagarin had taken off into space.

And at the Party Congress Khrushchev made the pledge: "We shall build Communism in twenty years."

At the end of this happy year two important events occurred in the Demidov family. In November they had a daughter and just before the new year they had bought a Zaria television set.

At the maternity ward the doctor said to Ivan: "Now listen, Ivan Dmitrevich, you may well be a Hero here, all the town knows you. But I'm going to speak frankly. With a war wound like that no one should have children! Her heart missed a beat three times during the birth…"

But it was a time for optimism. They had no thoughts of anything troublesome. On New Year's Eve Ivan and Tanya sat in front of the television, their arms around each other's shoulders, to watch Carnival Night, starring the popular actress Gurchenko, then in the flush of youth and trilling away merrily. They were perfectly happy. In the dim light the dark green glint of a bottle of champagne glowed on the table. The snow crunched under the feet of passersby outside. From the neighbors' rooms could be heard the hubbub of guests. Behind the wardrobe in- a little wooden cradle their newborn was sleeping silently and diligently. They had called her Olya.

In the spring of the following year they were given an apartment of their own with two rooms.

During these years a whole generation who had not known the war came into the world and grew up. Ivan was more and more often invited to the school at Borissov just before the national celebration on May 9, Victory Day.

Now they addressed him as "Veteran." This amused him. To him it seemed as if the war had only just ended and he was still that former Guards staff sergeant, recently demobilized.

At the entrance to the school he was met by a young teacher, who greeted him with a radiant smile and led him into the classroom. He followed her in, his medals tinkling on his chest, and thought: "How quickly time passes! The truth is I really am a veteran now. She's young enough to be my daughter and she's a teacher already!"

As he entered the noisy classroom silence fell. The pupils stood up, exchanging glances, whispering and staring at his decorations. They were impressed by the Gold Star of the Hero of the Soviet Union. A Hero. You don't meet one of those every day!

Then the teacher made some appropriate remarks about the great national celebration, and the twenty million lives sacrificed for the sake of the radiant future of these pupils, distracted as they were by the May sunlight, taking as her text: "No one is forgotten, nothing is forgotten." After that her voice adopted a warmer, less official tone and she addressed Ivan, who was standing somewhat stiffly behind the table: "Honored Ivan Dmitrevich, on your chest shines our country's highest award, the Gold Star of a Hero of the Soviet Union. We should like to hear about the part you played in the war, your achievements in battle, and your heroic contribution to the Victory."

And Ivan cleared his throat and began his story He already knew by heart what he would tell them. Once he had started receiving invitations he had grasped what he had to say so that the class remained attentive for the regulation forty minutes, much to the delight of the young teacher. He even knew that at the end of his talk – after which there would be a tense silence for several seconds – she would rise nimbly to her feet and pronounce the expected words: "Now then, children, put your questions to Ivan Dmitrevich." Once again there would be an embarrassing silence. But in obedience to a look from the teacher, a radiant girl would stand up in the front row, wearing a smock as white as whipped cream, who would say, as if she were reciting a lesson: "Honored Ivan Dmitrevich, please will you tell us what qualities of character you valued most in your wartime comrades?"

After the reply, to which no one paid much attention, the most presentable boy would stand up and ask Ivan, in the same conscientious tones, what advice he would give to future defenders of their Country.

At the end of this patriotic-military demonstration there would often be an unexpected diversion. Urged on by the whispers of his fellows, a great scruffy youth would rise to his feet in the back row. And without any preliminaries would stammer out: "So how thick was the armor on the German Tigers? Thicker or thinner than on our T-34?" "The gun. Ask him about the gun…" his neighbors prompted him. But the boy bright red, was already collapsing on his chair, proud of his excellent question. Ivan answered him. Then the bell rang and the much relieved teacher congratulated the veteran once more and gave him three red carnations, taken from a vase that stood on the desk. Impatiently the whole class jumped to their feet.

On the way, Ivan Dmitrevich always had a few confused regrets. Each time he wished he had told them about a small detail: the wood he went into after the battle and the spring water that had reflected his face back at him.

Journalists sometimes came to see him as well, most often for the anniversary of the start of the Battle of Stalingrad. The first time, responding to a question about the battle, he began to talk about everything: Mikhalych, who would never know his grandchildren; Seryozha, who looked so serene, so carefree in death, the machine-gunner who had only one digit left on each hand. But the journalist, adroitly seizing the moment when Ivan was drawing a breath, interrupted him: "So, Ivan Dmitrevich, what impression did the ' Heroic City on the Volga ' make on you in that year of fire, 1942?" Ivan was disconcerted. Admit that he had never seen Stalingrad, never fought in the streets there? "All Stalingrad was burning," Ivan replied evasively.