The pain was burning in Zostchenko’s hip. The foxhole was like a grave. Mistily he saw the tallow light and dark shadows on the walls. Shadows all around. Feverish heat on his skin. He begged for water, and got no answer. One of the enemy soldiers passed him a tin cup: a drop that hissed away on the fire. His throat was rattling. He listened to his breathing: a gurgle. All the wounded were gurgling. Air, air! Surely the grave had to open some time. He rolled on to his side, but that didn’t help.
‘Tovarich?’ he asked into the dark. Nothing. The enemy soldiers didn’t understand him. The light burned more dimly. The shadows on the walls started to reach towards him. Beads of sweat stood out on his brow. He reached into the filth on which he lay, groped into bloody filth, but the filth at least was cool. That eased the pain. His hand dug itself deeper. He clawed at the wet earth, brushed his lips with his damp fingers. With one hand he stroked his wound. His hip felt dead. Beside him lay a shadow that wasn’t sweating. He found an inert hand in the dark. Pulled it towards his brow. The hand didn’t move. It was cold. Suddenly, he flung it from him with disgust. Fever gripped him harder. The grave was warm. He wanted it cold. The light was dark. He wanted it bright. He gurgled. The shadows in the tomb gurgled with him. Fever came with a white rush. Washed over him. The candle flickered. He felt liquid on his lips, in his throat. He thought he could hear a hissing on his hot gums. A hand brushed against his forehead.
‘Have we got control of the heights?’
The enemy soldier didn’t understand what he was saying . . .
‘The heights are strategically important,’ said Zostchenko. ‘The General himself said so. The General knows everything. There are too many soldiers, and not enough heights.’ ‘I’ll give you the heights,’ said a shadow. ‘Thank you.’ He took the heights in his two hands, and carried them to the General. ‘A hero, a hero!’ exclaimed the General. He stood in a steel cage. His voice came out of the cage. It sounded hollow, but it could be heard all over. Around the cage was a protective wall of soldiers. He felt his way carefully through them. He had to be careful of the heights in his hands. The soldiers were bleeding from many wounds. ‘Set down the heights, and stand with your back in front of the hole, so that your body shields me when I take control of the heights,’ commanded the General. He obeyed. The General quickly opened the hole, took the heights, and slipped back into the cage. ‘You are a hero, and I need heroes in the wall of soldiers around me,’ said the General. He obeyed. The enemy charged. ‘Be loyal and die,’ boomed the voice from the cage. The soldiers were loyal, and died. The human wall weakened. ‘I will come to your aid,’ said the General. But the cage did not open. ‘May we live?’ asked the soldiers. ‘No,’ answered the General, ‘you must never break your oath.’ There was hand-to-hand fighting between the soldiers and the enemy. ‘No one is to surrender,’ came an angry voice from the cage. He received a blow. Saw blood flowing from a wound. ‘Let me into the cage,’ he implored the General. ‘Back you go!’ shouted the General. He was afraid of the General. He fought on, but his strength was ebbing away. The enemy broke into the wall of soldiers. The soldiers fell. The enemy came ever closer to the cage. He was swimming in blood. Blood mixed with a stream of tears. An army of children was weeping for the soldiers. The General in his cage covered his ears. ‘Is everyone dead now?’ asked the General. ‘I’m still alive,’ he admitted. ‘Fight till you die,’ commanded the General. Zostchenko crawled among the bodies of the dead soldiers, and didn’t answer when the General asked his question a second time. The enemy knocked on the cage. ‘I surrender,’ said the General cheerfully. He saw him step outside. The General was sweating, because it was hot in the cage. The General left the heights behind. He had forgotten all about them . . .
Zostchenko couldn’t breathe, and he opened his eyes. There were now two tallow lights burning in the tomb. One of the shadows had been pulled into the light. They started to strip him. His face was in the dark. He was whimpering with pain. They cut his tunic from him. It was stiff with filth. His hairy chest was exposed in the candlelight. In his shoulder was a sharp metal splinter. They tugged it out. The shadow roared with pain. A wave of blood broke through the open wound. Then it became unbelievably quiet. Zostchenko could hear the whisper of the burning candle . . .
He had bolted the door from inside. The barracks was asleep. Only the sentry was still patrolling up and down the corridor. Light brushed over the icon. A spider crawled over the wall. The hundred lights of the cathedral were reflected in the window panes. They were showing a new film in the nave. Now the spider was sitting on the icon. It looked as though she was admiring the wonder of glass and gold. The red and green pansy-coloured pearls. The mysterious cross, that was like the marking on the spider’s back. It pulled in its legs. Remained motionless. He knelt down, in the way he’d been taught to do as a child. ‘Lord, give me a sign,’ he prayed, ‘just a tiny sign to indicate that You are really there. There is mystery and infinity around You. Show me, make something happen. Forgive me for my doubts.’ He folded his hands, and looked down at them. His hands looked unfamiliar to him. There was no sign. The icon did not move. The candles slowly burned down. The sentry paced slowly along the corridor. He looked to check the bolt on the door. The bolt was firm. He had nothing to fear. When the knock came, his heart stopped. He didn’t dare to budge. Knelt down, as though crippled. ‘Why won’t you answer?’ asked the voice – it was the voice of the Commissar, not the sentry! ‘I can see a light in there, what are you doing with candles? Is there something the matter with the electricity supply?’ The Commissar rattled the door handle. ‘Let there be a miracle now,’ he prayed. He glanced around the room. He was looking for a place to hide the icon. It was hopeless. The cupboard didn’t have a door. The pallet bed was too high over the ground. Four bare walls. No hiding place for God. The rancid smell of tallow hung in the air. The electric bulb in its rusty socket hung implacably down into the room. The Commissar was knocking loudly. He had to open. When he got up, his joints cracked. He pushed back the bolt. The door leapt open. ‘Oh,’ exclaimed the Commissar in surprise, ‘an icon.’ Candle flames played over his leather coat. He was waiting for a collision of two worlds. ‘An icon,’ repeated the Commissar in disbelief, and quietly pulled the door shut behind him. It was as though they were sharing the secret together. The Commissar pushed the cap back on his head. ‘May I touch it?’ he asked. He didn’t understand what was happening. He was expecting abuse and mockery. ‘We had one of those too,’ said the Commissar in a voice full of awe, and tenderly he stroked the picture. ‘I – it’s only because it’s a work of art,’ he stammered. ‘It’s more than that.’ The Commissar’s peaked cap threw a huge shadow on the wall. The spider drew itself together for an attack, and dropped like a pebble to the floor. The Commissar stroked the icon. He crushed the insect under his toecap. ‘Where are your parents living, Comrade?’ ‘They’re both dead.’ ‘A memory, eh?’ The Commissar was referring to the icon. ‘I’ve had it for twelve years,’ he admitted. ‘Twelve years ago, I was in China.’ The Commissar began to reminisce: ‘In China, they worship idols!’ The Commissar puffed out his cheeks, as if to show what an idol looked like. He had to smile. ‘Don’t laugh! Do you know what he looks like?’ ‘He? Who?’ ‘God.’ ‘I – I don’t believe in God.’ ‘But you’re afraid of him.’ ‘No – definitely no,’ he tried to deny. ‘Damned bloody fear,’ said the Commissar, and hung the icon back on the wall, turned the light on, blew out the candles. They were standing in the light of the bare electric bulb. The atmosphere of warmth and home was gone. ‘Sometimes it grips us, and we don’t know why,’ said the Commissar, a little pompously. He wiped his brow, as though he had just emerged from a boiler-room. ‘You can keep it there. There’s no rules against it.’ He tried frantically to ward him off: ‘Honestly, it doesn’t mean anything to me. I told you I just keep it because it’s valuable. Like a gold ring, or something.’ He stalled. Looked up at the icon. In the electric light, he saw what an inferior piece of work it was. Worthless glass beads. Kitschy face. His attitude to the icon began to change. To see it hanging there on the whitewashed wall, it was just the imitation of a superstition. He felt offended. ‘What’s on your mind?’ asked the Commissar. Then he walked up to the wall, took the icon down, started to turn it over in his hands undecidedly. The Commissar stalked across the room thoughtfully. He felt warned by his cunning smile. He said: ‘It’s nothing but a form of propaganda.’ ‘Quite so,’ affirmed the Commissar. He went up to the window, and opened it in the very instant that the cathedral lights went out. ‘I’m not going to subject myself to its influence any more,’ he said. Took the icon, and threw it out of the window. It plummeted down like a shot bird, smacked down on the barracks yard, and broke in pieces. He took a step back, and looked at the Commissar: ‘Satisfied?’ The Commissar responded: ‘I am – but what about God?’ In his leather coat, the Commissar looked like a bronze statue. ‘His icons are up there,’ and he pointed out of the window, up at the stars. ‘You’re more dangerous than I suspected,’ said the Commissar furiously, and banged the door shut after him, plaster dust trickled on to the floor . . .
A hand reached into his face. A shell burst had knocked over the candles. A shadow was feeling its way among the wounded. Another shadow began to sing in the dark.
‘Quiet!’ ordered Zostchenko. He unzipped his flies, and urinated. He felt the warm liquid spreading between his legs. What a blessing, to be relieved of the pressure. Gradually, his urine cooled. Zostchenko was lying in his own excrement. A layer of vapour hung over his belly. The acrid smell itched his face.
Just as unappetizing was the kitten as she crawled out of her mother’s belly in a caul of slime. He had flung it through the air, and smashed it against the wall. (Or was he thinking of the icon?) The frail little skull shattered like an egg. Blood had soiled his hand. The old cat began to yowl piteously. She trailed after him, along the village street, to his quarters. He looked for a stone, but could only find a long stick. He waved it at her threateningly. She sat on the street, with hair on end, snarled at him like a street dog. He turned and walked on. She followed him at a safe distance. Out of the corner of his eye, he looked back at her, suddenly spun round and charged at her. She retreated on all fours, green eyes fixed on his stick. He had never seen that before, a cat running backwards. The distance diminished. Now. The stick flew through the air, missed her head, struck the cat on the tail. A high-pitched wail. The beast was pinned to the spot. Her back arched like a Cossack sabre. The slime of her young that she had licked off it still clinging to her whiskers. She was unspeakably disgusting. He couldn’t bring himself to strangle her. But it cost him something to turn his back on her. Maybe she would jump on him, drive her claws into his neck. He walked faster. Trotted, ran. In panic, he looked round. The cat was running after him. Out of breath, he reached his quarters. Slammed the door. After a gulp of vodka, he felt better. He stared out on the street from his dark room. The cat was sitting in the dirt, not taking her eyes off the door. He reached for his rifle. Devil knows why, but he couldn’t get the animal in his sights! Also he was bothered by the window glass. He didn’t dare open the window for fear she might leap in. He stood a chair on the table, rested the rifle barrel between the seat and back. Now he got a fix on the cat’s head. (Or was it the icon?) The beast was sitting in the dirt, motionless, yowling. He could see her little teeth flashing. He squeezed the trigger and fired. The window shattered, the cat flew up into the air. Turned over. Lay there motionless. He felt profound satisfaction. Then he saw the animal getting to its feet again. The cat reeled, stared at the smashed window. Screamed. Eerily loud, like a child’s death screams. She trailed around in circles. He had to shoot free-handed. Bullet after bullet lashed into the road. But he didn’t hit her. (He didn’t hit the icon.) A dog came bounding out from next door. With tongue hanging out. He stopped shooting. Still the dog stayed at some distance from the cat. It was scared. Slithered about on its butt, restlessly. As though tormented by worms. His hands were damp with sweat. He reached for the bottle of vodka. The alcohol was going to his brain. Suddenly he thought it was all wonderful. The cat in its agony, the dog in its fear. He reached for his bayonet, and ran out. He stabbed at the cat till it no longer moved. He felt like giving it to the dog as well, but he had slunk away, yowling. He looked happily at his handiwork. Cat’s blood on his uniform. Red Guards had assembled round him and his victim. In spite of his drunkenness, he could sense their revulsion. He laughed, laughed loud at the sky.
The soldiers in the foxhole were up to something. They shone a light in Zostchenko’s face. They pretended they had lost one of their men. He had got used to the stench of his urine by now. His trousers clung to his thighs. It was more bearable when he squeezed his thighs together. He was dozing away. The soldiers’ voices tore him out of his doze. He couldn’t understand what they were saying. He only sensed that they meant him. The disgust with which they grabbed hold of him betrayed their intentions. They dragged him through the passage. Fresh pains ran through his hip. He tried desperately to clutch on to the damp earth. They tore him loose. For them, he was already a cadaver, decomposing.
Daylight struck his ash-grey face. He cursed the sun where he would soon breathe his last. He wanted to return to the tomb, where he felt sheltered. Not die like the cat in the dirt. Not like the icon on the barracks yard. He felt remorse and self-disgust. If the icon had moved then, his life would have been different. The kitten would have remained alive. He cursed the icon that had failed to give him a signal . . .