Mother Earth

She was walking slowly along the path amidst the stubble, wearing a light freshly laundered dress, a dark quilted jacket, and a white headscarf upon the head. Nobody was about. Summer sounds had faded. No human voices drifting across the field, no Lorries clouding the lanes, no harvesters whirring in the distance, no flock of sheep brought to graze yet.

Beyond the grey highway, far, far away stretched the autumn prairie. Noiselessly above it drifted misty ridges of cloud. Noiselessly the breeze was stealing through the field, rippling the feather grass and dry corn blades, silently departing for the river. There was a smell of grass dampened in the morning frosts. The earth was now resting after harvest. Soon it would be turning cold, the rains would come, the first snow would powder the soil and snowstorms would burst upon plains. But for the moment all was quietness and tranquillity.

Do not disturb her. There she is now, stopping, gazing long about her through time-dimmed eyes.

‘Good-morning, field,’ she quietly says.

‘Good-morning, Tolgonai. So you have come? A little older now. Quite grey. You bear a stick.’

‘Yes, I’m growing old. Another year has passed; and for you, field, another harvest. It is remembrance day.’

‘I know. I have been expecting you, Tolgonai. Yet again you have come alone?’

‘Alone again, as you see.’

‘So you have not told him yet, Tolgonai?’

‘No, my courage failed me.’

‘Do you think no one ever tell him? Do you think it won’t slip out, accidentally?’

‘No doubt. Sooner or later he’ll know it all. He’s a big lad now, he could find out from others. He’s still a child to me thought. And I’m afraid, afraid of raising the subject.’

‘A person should know the truth, Tolgonai.’

‘I realize that. But how I can tell him? After all, what I know, what you know, my beloved field, what everybody knows, he alone does not. When he does, what will he think, how will he look upon the past, will truth reach his heart and brain? He’s still a boy, you know. I do wonder what to do, how to ensure he doesn’t turn his back on life, always looks it straight in the eye.’

‘Oh, if only it were that easy, if in a couple of words I could tell it to him simply like a fairy tale. Recently I’ve thought of little else; who knows what might happen - I could drop dead tomorrow. Last winter when I took sick, I lay there thinking it was all over. It wasn’t so much death that scared me – although had it come I wouldn’t have resisted – it was that I might not have time to open his eyes. I was afraid of bearing his truth off with me. He could never have guessed why I was in such torment. He was concerned, of course, even stayed home from school, fussed about my bed - really mothered me.’

‘Gran, Gran, can I fetch you some water or medicine? Wrap you up a bit warmer?’

‘Yet I could not bring myself to speak. I was tongue-tied. He so trusts, so innocent. Time flies by so quickly and I just can’t find a way of getting down to it. I’ve tried just about everything, yet no matter how much thought I give it, I come to the same conclusion: I want him properly to judge what happened, properly to understand life. I have to tell him not only about himself, not only about his fate, but about many other people and their fates, about myself and my own times. And about you, my field, about all our lives, even about the bike he rides to school unsuspecting.’

‘Perhaps that’s the best way. That way nothing is discarded, nothing is tacked on. Life has mixed us all together in the same dough, tied us all in the one knot. And history is such that not everyone, not even every adult, can work it out. You have to experience it, be part of it. And then again I have second thoughts. I know it’s my duty, and if I could just do my duty it would be that much easier to die.’

‘Sit down, Tolgonai. Don’t stand, you old legs are frail. Sit upon the stone and let’s put our heads together. Do you recall coming here for the very first time?’

‘It isn’t easy, so much happened since then.’

‘Just try to remember. Remember how it was, Tolgonai, right from the beginning.’

I recollect very dimly that when I was tiny I was led here by the hand at harvest time and sat in the shade underneath a haycock. I’d have a crust of bread to stop me crying. And later, when I was bigger, I used to come running here to guard the crops. In springtime shepherds would drive the flocks into the hills from this field. Then I was a fleet-footed, wild slip of lass. Childhood’s such a crazy, carefree time.

I recall the shepherds coming through Yellow Valley. Flock upon flock headed for the cool hills to fresh pastures. I was silly in those days, when I think of it. The flocks would be scampering across the prairie in the great rush and you’d head them off: just see them skid to a halt, leaving a trail of dust hanging in the air a mile high. I’d hide in the wheat field and leap out all of a sudden like a scamp to scare them. The horses would rear up and the shepherds would come chasing after me.

‘Hey you, scallywag, we’ll give it to you.’

But I’d dodge them, escaping through the ditches.

Day after day the chestnut-coloured flocks of sheep would pass, their fat tails bouncing in the dust, their hoofs clattering like hail-stones. Black gruff shepherds would be driving them along. Then came camel caravans of wealthy nomads, with gourds of mare’s milk strapped to their saddles. Girls and young women all decked out in silks, riding frisky horses, would be singing songs of green meadows and clear waters. How I envied them and, forgetting everything around me, I’d be chasing after them down the trail.

‘How I’d love to wear such pretty dresses and tasselled shawls,’ I used to muse, gazing after them as they vanished out of sight.

Who was I then? The barefoot daughter of a hired farmhand. My Granddad had been made a ploughman for life when he’d fallen into debt, and so it continued in the family. Even so, though I never wore a silk dress, I wasn’t bad looking as lass. How fond I was of staring at my shadow. You know, gazing at yourself as you skip along, like admiring yourself in a mirror. I was a real beauty, God’s truth. I must have been about seventeen when I met Suvankul at harvest time. He had come down from Upper Talas that year to do some labouring. Even now I can shut my eyes and see him as clear as day. Still a young lad, about nineteen, no shirt on his back, he’d be marching along, his old quilted jacket tossed over his bare shoulders. Black from the sun like smoked ham, his cheekbones glistened like burnished copper; he seemed all skin and bone, skimpy, but what a barrel chest he had, and arms of steel. You’d go a long way to find a worker like him. He’d bite into the corn lightly, cleanly; you’d just hear the scythe ringing and the shorn wheat-heads falling. It’s a joy to watch such people work. Suvankul was like that. I was reckoned a nimble reaper, but I could never keep up with him. Suvankul would be far ahead, then glance back and return to help; that would annoy me no end, I’d get cross and yell at him.

‘Who asked you to interfere? Let me be, I’ll manage on my own, thank you.’

He would not take offence; he’d just give a chuckle and carry on silently. What did I lose my temper for, silly thing?

He was always the first at work. The sun just coming up, everyone still asleep, and we’d be already on our way to harvest. Suvankul would be waiting for me at the edge of our village, on the pathway.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ he’d say.

‘I thought you’d have been gone ages ago,’ I would say each time, knowing full well he wouldn’t leave without me.

And then we would walk along together.

As dawn ripened into day, the snow-capped hills dazzled us with their rays, and the wind from the prairie streamed to meet us in a haze of purest blue. Those summer sunrises were dawn of our love. As the two of us walked along, the whole world changed, as in a fairy tale. And the field – grey, trampled down and ploughed over – became the most beautiful field on earth. An early skylark would greet the breaking dawn with us; it would soar up high, hang suspended in the sky like a distant speck, beat and flutter its wings just like the human heart, and how much abandoned joy would ring out in its songs.

‘See, our skylark is singing,’ Suvankul would say.

Wonderful. We even had our own skylark.

And the moonlit night? Perhaps there will never be another like it. That evening Suvankul and I stayed behind to work by the light of the moon. When the moon, vast and pure, rose above the crest of the dark hill over there, the stars in the sky all opened their eyes together. I felt they could actually see us. We were lying at the edge of the field on Suvankul’s jacket, our pillow the bank of the ditch. It was the softest pillow in the world. That was our first night.

From then on a lifetime together.

Suvankul was quietly caressing my face, my brow, my hair with his toil-worn hand, as heavy as lead; even through his palm I could hear his heart pounding wildly and joyfully.

I recall whispering to him, ‘Suvan, we will be happy, won’t we?’ And he said, ‘If the land and water are divided up equally for all, and if we get our own field, and if we plough and sow and thresh our own corn, that will be our happiness. Folk need no greater happiness, Tolgon. A farmer’s happiness lies in reaping what he sows.’

His words were very dear to me, made me feel good. I hugged him tight and fondly kissed his hot, weather-beaten face over and over again. After that we bathed in the irrigation ditch, splashed about laughing. The water was cool and fresh, sparkling, smelling of the mountain breeze. And then we lay down, holding hands, silently looking up at the stars in the sky. There were so many of them that night.

And the earth rejoiced with us that clear blue night. It too enjoyed the cool and calm. A light hush hung above the whole prairie. Water lapped in the ditch. Sweet clover’s honeyed fragrance made us dizzy; the clover was in full bloom. Now and again the wormwood breath of a hot dry wind wafted to us from somewhere, making the ears of corn at the field’s edge bob and rustle softly. Perhaps such nights happen only once in a lifetime.

At midnight, in the dead of night, I glanced at the sky and saw the Milky Way, or Harvester’s Way as we call it, stretching right across the heavens in a wide silvery band amidst the stars. I remembered Suvankul’s words and felt that perhaps some kind and mighty farmer With a great armful of corn really was crossing the heavens, leaving a trail of strewn chaff and grain. And I imagined that someday, should our dream come true, my Suvankul would be carrying corn from the first threshing just like that. It would be the first wheat’s-head for our bread.

As he walked with that fragrant corn beneath his arm he would leave just the same trail of scattered chaff behind. That was my dream, and the stars dreamed with me. I suddenly felt such a desire for it all to come true that I couldn’t help but speak about it. It was then I first spoke to Mother Earth.

I said, ‘Earth, you support us all upon your bosom; if you don’t grant us happiness then why are you the earth and why are we born at all? We are your children, earth. Grant us happiness and make us happy.’

Those were the words I uttered that night.

New wheatsheaves were piled up everywhere in the stubble. I felt hurt, for I dearly wanted to work alongside him in the early hours.

‘Suvankul, why didn’t you wake me?’ I yelled.

He glanced round at the sound of my voice; I well recall how he looked that morning: stripped to the waist, his strong brown shoulders glistening with sweat. He stood there and gave me a sort of contented quizzical look, as if not recognizing me; then wiping his palm across his face, he said with a smile,’ ‘I wanted you to sleep a little longer.’

‘But I’m working for two now,’ he said.

His words hurt me even more, I all but wept, despite the warm feeling inside me.

‘Where are your promises of yesterday?’ I shouted at him. ‘You said me we would be equal in everything, like one person.’

Suvankul threw down his scythe, ran over, caught me in his arms, picked me up and, with a kiss, said, ‘From now on we shall be as one person, together in everything, my dear, kind little skylark.’

As he carried me in his arms, talking away, calling me his skylark and other funny names, I twined my arms about his neck, giggled and kicked and laughed; only little children are called skylarks. Yet how marvellous it was to hear such words.

Meanwhile the sun was only just rising, peeping from behind the hilltop. Suvankul let me down, put his arm round my shoulders and suddenly shouted up at the sun, ‘Hey, sun, look, this is my wife. Take a good look at her. Pay me for the privilege in sunshine, pay me in light.’

I don’t know whether he was serious or joking, but I suddenly began to cry. Just like that, unable to hold back the surge of joy that filled my breast.

As I think of it now I still cry, silly girl. After all, those were special tears: they come only once in a lifetime. Did you lives really turn out as we dreamed? Yes, they did. Suvankul and I fashioned that life with our own hands, we worked very hard, never letting go of the hoe come summer or winter, shedding much sweat, putting our backs into it.

And when the new times came we sey up house, got some livestock together; in short, we began to live a decent life. But the biggest joy of all was the birth of our sons, three, one after the other, all fine lads. Now and again I have such a dreadful feeling of remorse and ridiculous thoughts assail me: why did I give birth like a ewe every eighteen month, rather than every three or four years, like other people? Perhaps then it would never have happened. And maybe it would have been better if I hadn’t brought them into the world at all. My dear children, I say this out of grief and pain. I am your mother, when all’s said and done, your mother….

I recall the first time they all came here. It was the day Suvankul drove the first tractor into the village. He had spent the entire autumn and winter going back backwards and forwards across the river, doing a tractor driver’s course. We had no idea what good a tractor would be or even what it was. Whenever Suvankul was late coming home, for it was a tidy walk, I used to feel sorry and hurt at the same time.

‘What on earth are you meddling with that for?’ I used to say.

‘Wasn’t it enough to be team leader?’

Yet he just smiled as calmly as ever.

‘Calm down, Tolgon,’ he’d say. ‘Just you wait; when spring comes you’ll see for yourself. Be patient for a bit.’

It wasn’t that I was bitter; it was just that it was hard managing the kids and house on my own; and then there was my work on the farm.

But it wasn’t long before I changed my tune: I’d look at him frozen stiff and starving, and there was I making him feel guilty into bargain. Then I felt awful.

‘Never mind, come and sit by the fire, your meals long since cold,’ I’d grumble, as if forgiving him.

In my heart of hearts I knew Suvankul was not playing games. We hadn’t a single literate person in the village who could cope with studying; Suvankul had volunteered.

‘I’ll go and learn to read and write,’ he had said. ‘So relieve me of my team leader’s duties.’

It was all well and good to volunteer, but he had his share of troubles. As I now recall, it was a fascinating time with children teaching their fathers. Kasym and Maselbek were at school, yet they were teachers too: our home used to be a regular school of an evening. We had no tables in the house then. Suvankul would be lying on the floor copying letters into an exercise book while the boys clambered over him from three sides, each trying to teach him.

‘Dad, hold the pencil straighter. See, your line’s all squiggly, and mind your hand – it’s shaking. Write like this, and hold your book so.’ And all at once they’d set to squabbling, each insisting he knew best. Another time their father would have shut them up, but here he’d listen respectfully as if to real teachers. By the time he’d written one word he’d be in real lather, the sweat pouring off his face, more as if he were stacking sheaves into the threshing machine than writing words. While they were mumbling in a heap over some exercise book or primer I’d be watching, holding my sides with laughter.

‘Children, why don’t you give your dad a rest? Are you trying to make a mullah of him? As for you, Suvankul, you can’t be both, you know – it’s either mullah or tractor driver.’

That would make him cross. Without glancing up he’d shake his head and sigh heavily, ‘It’s all right for you laughing, this is a serious matter.’

In other words, it was both sad and funny. All the same, he mastered it in the end.

One day in early spring, as soon as the snow had cleared and warm weather set in, we heard a whirring and chugging beyond the village. A scared flock of sheep were rushing helter-skelter down the street. I dashed out and saw a tractor across the gardens. Black iron, belching smoke. It was making rapidly for the village street, drawing people out from all sides, some on horseback, some on foot, chattering and jostling as at bazaar. I joined the melee.

The first thing I saw was my sons: all three were standing upon the tractor beside their father, grimly holding on to each other. Other lads were whistling to them, tossing their caps into the air; how proud they must have felt. And so they should: like conquering heroes, their faces radiant. What holy terrors they were: they had got up at the crack of dawn to meet their father’s tractor at the river – without a word to me, scared I wouldn’t let them go. Truth to tell, I was afraid for them: what if something happened?’

And I yelled, ‘Kasym, Maselbek, Jainak, I’ll give it to you. Get down at once.’

But I couldn’t even hear my own voice above the din and engine’s roar. Suvankul understood me, thought. He smiled and nodded as if to say: never fear, nothing’ll happen. He was sitting at the wheel so proud and happy and youthful. Indeed, he was still a young fellow with dark moustache in those days. It was then, as never before, that I noticed how like their father my sons were. You could take the four of them for brothers, especially the eldest pair, Kasym and Maselbek. They were the spitting image of their father, just as lean, with firm brown cheekbones like burnished copper. The youngest, Jainak, was like me, fairer, with dark, gentle eyes.

The tractor left the village without stopping, and we trooped along after it, curious to see it plough. And when the three huge plough-shares cut easily into virgin soil, turning over slabs of earth as heavy as a stallion’s mane, we all clapped and yelled, pushed and shoved as we whipped an the snorting horses behind the tractor, forcing them along the furrow.

I don’t know how I got separated from the others, why I fell behind the crowd, but all at once I found myself alone, left standing there, unable to move. The tractor went on and on, while I remained, helpless, gazing after it. Yet nobody in the world was happier than me at that moment. I don’t know what gave me more joy that day: Suvankul driving the first tractor into the village, or seeing our children growing up and looking so much like their father. I watched them go, cried and murmured to myself, ‘May you always be beside your Father, my sons. If you grow up like him, I’d wish for nothing more.’

Those were my best years as a mother. Work was going well, I had always enjoyed working. If a person’s healthy, if his hands are strong, what can be better than hard work? Time was passing; our sons seemed to shoot up quickly, imperceptibly, like young poplars. Each now chose his own way in life. Kasym followed in his father’s footsteps by becoming a tractor driver; subsequently he learned to drive a combine harvester. One summer he took an apprenticeship over on the other side of the river, at Kaindy Farm in the foothills. A year later he returned home as harvester operator.

All children are equal to a mother, you carry them all in your heart without distinction; all the same I think loved Maselbek most of all: I was so proud of him. Perhaps it was because I missed him so while he was away. He was first to leave home, like a fledgling that is first out of the nest learning to fly. At school he was a good pupil right from the start, his heard forever buried in a book – give him a book any day instead of food. And when he left school he went straight to the city college, bent on becoming a teacher.

My youngest, Jainak, grew up a strong lad. The only trouble was that he was hardly ever home. The farm made him secretary of the youth group, so he was always busy with his meeting, clubs, newspapers, what have you. It made me cross to see the way he spent his days and nights always on the go.

‘Listen, you good-for-nothing,’ I’d often say to him. ‘Why don’t you take your accordion and your pillow and go and live in the farm office? You don’t seem to care where your bed down; you don’t care about your home, or your mum and dad.’

Suvankul, thought, would take his son’s side. He’d wait for me to blow myself out before slipping in, ‘Don’t you fret, Mother. Let him learn to live with people. If I caught him hanging about wasting his time, I’d soon tan his hide for him.’

By that time Suvankul had gone back to his old team leader’s post; youngsters now did the tractor drive.

Our next big event was Kasym’s wedding: our very first bride crossed the threshold. I didn’t pry into how they’d met, though they had evidently taken a fancy to each other when Kasym had been across the river working that summer. He brought her over from Kaindy.

Aliman was a young, dark-skinned lass from the hills. At first I was simply pleased that Kasym’s bride was such a fine, pretty and smart young woman. But I soon came to like her for other reasons:

Perhaps because I had secretly always dreamed of having a girl of my own. Not only for that, however, but simply because she was so sensible, a hard worker, and as honest as they come. And I grew to love her as my own. Many don’t hit it off, I know, but I was lucky, it was great good fortune to have such a lass in the house. Real, genuine happiness, as I understand it, is not something accidental, it doesn’t suddenly drop out of the sky like a summer shower; it comes by degrees, has a look to see whether it likes what it sees, whether it wants to relate to people or not. Grain by grain, bit by bit it mounts up, one adding to another, and then one day you have what we call happiness.

It was a memorable summer the year that Aliman arrived. The corn ripened early, and the river flooded early too. A few days before harvest, heavy rain had fallen in the hills. Even from afar we could see the snow melting like sugar up there. And we could hear the roaring waters gurgling in the flood lanes, rushing along in yellow foam, churning and frothing, bringing huge uprooted firs down from the hills, smashing them to pulp at the falls. The first night was particularly terrifying with the river sighing and moaning beneath the cliff until daybreak.

When we took a look next morning the old islets had vanished completely, swept away in the night.

But the days were hot. The wheat was ripening evenly, greenish near the roots and golden yellow at the top. There was no end to the ripening wheat fields, the corn swayed in the prairie to the very horizon. Harvesting had not yet started; we were inly reaping the wheat round the edges to clear way for the combine harvester. Aliman and I were working side by side, causing the other women to tease me, ‘You should be sitting at home with your feet up, not competing with your daughter-in-law. Have some self-respect, old girl.’

I thought differently. What sort of self-respect was it sitting at home? They wouldn’t catch me with my feet up. I loved harvesting too much. So there were Aliman and I toiling together in the fields. It was then I saw something that stuck in my mind to this day. At the edge of the field were some wild hollyhocks blooming amongst the ears of corn. The great white and pink blooms fell to the scythes together with the wheat. As I watched, Aliman picked a bunch of hollyhocks and took it off somewhere, no doubt thinking I hadn’t noticed. I kept an eye on her, wondering what she was going to do with the flowers. And then I saw her run up to the combine, put the flowers on the bottom step and run back. The combine was standing ready for work, waiting for harvesting to start at any time; but no one was on it, Kasym had gone off somewhere for the moment.

I pretended not to have seen anything so as not to embarrass the girl – she was shy enough as it was. But in my heart I was very happy: it meant she loved him dearly.

‘Thank you, dear daughter,’ I said to myself, ‘for being so kind.’

To this day I can see her as she was then, in her red headscarf and white frock, with a big bunch of hollyhocks, her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkling with joy and mischief. Ah, how lovely it is to be young. Oh Aliman, my dear unforgettable daughter. Lover of flowers like a little girl. In springtime when snowdrifts still lay piled high she would bring us the first prairie snowdrops. Oh Aliman!

Harvesting commenced next day. The first day of harvest is always a holiday, never have I seen a gloomy person on that day. No one ever proclaims it a holiday, yet it feels like one to the people themselves, in their walk, their voice, and their eyes. There is a holiday spirit in the bounce of the carts and the brisk canter of the sleek horses. As a matter of fact no one does a full day’s work on that first day; it’s a great time for banter and playing about. That morning, too, as always, it was noisy and crowded. Happy voices called out from one end of the field to the other. Ours was the cheeriest group of all. The hand reapers, since we were a whole bunch of young girls and women. A mischievous lot. Poor old Kasym was just riding by on his bike the farm had awarded him when those cheeky girls ambushed him.

‘Come on, driver, off your bike. Why aren’t you greeting the harvesters, giving yourself airs and graces now? Well, let’s have a bow from you, a bow for your wife.’

They crowded round him, forcing him to bow low to Aliman, begging forgiveness. He went along with them for a while.

‘Pray pardon me, dear harvesters, I crave forgiveness. Henceforth I shall bow to you a mile away.’

That did not let him off the hook.

‘Now,’ they said, ‘give us a ride of your bicycle, like city girls, with the wind whistling in our ears.’

And, vying with one another, they scrambled on the bike, running behind it, shoving it along with a laugh. If they had sat tight, all well and good, but no, they had to twist and turn and squeal.

Kasym could hardly stand, holding his sides with laughter. ‘Come on, pack it in, let go, you devils,’ he pleaded.

But no, as soon as one had had a ride, another grabbed the bike. Finally, Kasym lost patience. ‘What are you playing the fool for? The dew is drying out and I have to get the combine going. Leave off.’

What fun we had that day. And what a sky we had – as blue as blue can be, with sun shining so brightly.

We set to work, sickles flashing, the sun baking down, the air thick with the sound of cicadas chirruping over the prairie. It’s always tough reaping until you get the hang of it, but the morning’s mood stayed with me all day long. My heart felt light and free. All that my eyes saw, all that I heard and felt it all seemed made just for me, for my happiness, full of extraordinary beauty and joy. It was a real thrill to see someone galloping along, disappearing into the tall waves of wheat – could it be Suvankul? It was a real joy to hear the ringing of the scythes and the swish of the falling wheat, the voices and laughter of the reapers. It was a real delight to see Kasym’s combine passing close by, its engine drowning out all else. Kasym was standing at the wheel, his hands cupped beneath the steady stream of threshed corn falling into the drum, and bringing the grain to his face to breathe in its aroma. I felt that I too smelt that warm, still milky, heady fragrance of ripe corn. And when the combine halted opposite us for a moment, Kasym gave a yell as it from a hilltop, ‘Hey, mule train, giddy-up. Get a move on!’

Aliman snatched up a pitcher of buttermilk.

‘I’ll run and give him a drink,’ she said.

And off she dashed to the combine, running over the fresh stubble, so young and lithe in her red headscarf and white frock; she seemed to be bearing the song of a devoted wife instead of a pitcher in her hands. Everything about her spoke of love. And I thought involuntarily to myself, I ought to give Suvankul a drunk of butter-milk. But when I glanced about he was nowhere to be seen. Once harvesting has begun you won’t find the team leader, he spends his days in the saddle, riding to and fro, up to his neck in work and responsibility.

That evening at the field camp we ate the first bread of the new harvest. The flour had been ground earlier from ears of corn cut a week before. Mani’s the time I’ve tried the first bread of a new harvest, and each time I put the first piece in my mouth it seems like some sacred rite. Though the bread is dark and tacky, as if baked from loose dough, nothing on earth can compare with its sweetish taste and extraordinary aroma: it smells of the sun, of fresh hay and smoke.

The sun was already setting by the time the ravenous reapers gathered at the field camp and flopped on the grass at the edge of the field. The wheat at the far and of the field seemed aflame in the setting sun. It promised to be a lingering evening. We spread out upon the grass by the tent. True, Suvankul was not there yet, he would be arriving soon, and Jainak had vanished as always; he had gone off to the club on his brother’s bike to hang some posters.

Aliman spread a cloth over the grass, dropped some early apples on it, brought out hot rolls and poured kvass into the bowls. Kasym meanwhile was washing his hands in the ditch and, taking a seat by cloth, unhurriedly crumbled the rolls into pieces.

‘Still hot,’ he said. ‘Here, Mother, you be first to try the new bread.’

I blessed the bread and, as I took a bite, I sensed a strange taste and smell. It was the smell of the combine harvester’s hands – fresh grain, hot metal and paraffin. I took more bites and they all had a faint tang of paraffin; yet I had never tasted such delicious bread. It was my son’s bread. My son had held in this driver’s hands. It was the people’s bread, it belonged to those who had grown it, those sitting right there at the field camp alongside my son. Sacred bread. My heart overflowed with pride in my son, yet nobody knew. At that moment I was thinking that a mother’s happiness grows from people’s happiness like a stern from the roots. There is no life for a mother apart from that of new own people. I will never renounce that simple truth, even now, despite all I’ve gone through, no matter how steep my road in life has been. My people go on living, and so do I.

That evening Suvankul did not arrive until late, he was so busy. It grew dark. The lads lit bonfires on the riverbank and sang songs. Amidst the many voices I recognized that of Jainak. He was playing the accordion and invariably led the singing. As I listened to my son’s familiar voice I said to him under my breath, ‘Sing, dear son, sing while you’re young. Singing purifies the heart, brings people together. Sometime you’ll hear that song somewhere and remember those who sang it with you this summer night.’

Once more my thoughts turned to my children, for such is a mother’s nature. I thought of Kasym, already independent, thank goodness. Next spring he and Aliman would leave us, they’d already started building their house and buying furniture. Before you knew it, there’d be grandchildren. I had no fears for Kasym: he was a worker like his father and would never rest. Though it was already dark he was still messing with the harvester – just a bit more to finish in the light of the tractor headlights; Aliman was there beside him. Every moment was precious at harvest time.

My thoughts turned to Masalbek and I felt a pang of anguish. The week before I had had a letter to say he couldn’t be home for the holidays that summer as he was being sent with children somewhere to Lake Issyk Kul, to a youth camp for teaching practice. Ah well, it couldn’t be helped, since he’d chosen the life himself, it was his business. Wherever he was, the main thing was for him to be fit and well, I reckoned.

Suvankul came back late. He rushed his meal, and we both went home. The household chores would have to wait until morning. I had asked our neighbour Aisha to tend to the animals that evening. She, poor soul, was often sick: one day on the farm, two at home. She had awful backache, so she stopped home with her only son, Bektash.

It was night when we finally got home. As light breeze was blowing, the moonlight was glimmering over the ears of corn. The stirrups brushed against the feather tips of ripening bulrushes, raising pungent waves of heady pollen. I could tell by the smell that sweet clover was in bloom. There was something so familiar about that night; it made the heart ache. I was astride the horse behind Suvankul, riding on the saddle bag. He always wanted me in front, but I liked riding behind, gripping his belt. He was very tired and silent as we rode along; from time to time he nodded off, then shuddered and spurred the horse on.

All this was very dear to my heart. I looked at his rounded shoulders and, leaning my head against him, I thought sadly, ‘We’re getting old, Suvan.’ Ah, well, time passes. It’s all been worthwhile, thought. That’s the main thing. It seems only recently we were young. How swiftly the years fly by. All the same, it’s wonderful to be alive, it’s too soon to retire, there’s too much to do. I want to live on with you for many, many years.

With these thoughts I straightened up, lifted up my head and gazed into the heavens: high among the brilliant stars was Harvester’s Way stretched across the sky in a broad silvery band. Again I fancied that someone really had passed by with a great armful of fresh corn, strewing bits along the way. Up above the golden straw, the beards and chaff swayed as it touched by the wind. You could even make out the grain spilled with the chaff. ‘Goodness me!’ I exclaimed to myself, at once remembering that first night so long ago, our love, our youth, and that mighty harvester of whom I had dreamed. So our dreams had come true, after all. Yes, the land and the water had become ours; we had tilled, sown and threshed our own grain. All we had thought about that first night had come true. Of course, we had not known that new times were in the offing, that a new life would dawn. Yet people’s innermost hopes had evidently matched those of the times, the desire for goodness and justice. Engrossed in those thoughts, I sat there rigid and silent.

Suddenly Suvankul looked round and said, ‘Are you asleep, Tolgonai? You must be tired. Never mind, we’ll soon be home. I’m all in too.’

He was quiet for a bit before asking, ‘Shall we turn down the new road?’

The new road was being built on waste ground at the edge of the village. Actually there was no real road as yet. In spring they had marked out the plots for newlyweds. Here and there walls already stood. Kasym and Aliman had also received a plot here, so we wanted to take a look on our way home to see how things were developing. During the day it wasn’t always easy to snatch any spare time at all, what with the harvesting. That spring Kasym, Aliman and Jainak had made some clay bricks, and now the stacks were drying out. They had dug trenches for the foundations and last week had carted stones and gravel from the river. A good job they’d done it before the floods. Now the stones lay oiled up in a great heap in the yard. Suvankul was pleased with their work.

‘Well now, that’s a start. They’ll have plenty of stone, more than enough. After the harvest we’ll put up the walls and do the roof, and all the bits and pieces can be finished off in the spring. We won’t manage by winter anyway. What do you think, Tolgonai?’

‘Right,’ I said. ‘The main thing is to put up the walls and finish the roof, the rest is plain sailing.’

All at once I thought of Jainak and gave a smile.

‘Now take our Jainak, he’s incorrigible; he says his meeting passed a resolution calling it Young Communist Street. Aliman couldn’t resist calling him the old dreamer Nasreddin: giving the baby a name before it’s born. ‘Just you marry first,’ she said, ‘build your house, lay your road, and then give it a name.’ Jainak told her she didn’t understand a thing.

Suvankul nodded his head, chuckling.

‘True enough, we’re bred an impatient devil. He’s thought up the right name for the road thought. All the houses belong to the young masters. As we expand there are more and more young folk each year; there’s no room in the village now, so we have to lay out new streets. That’s a good thing. And when the road’s finished you’ll see your son was right.’

As we stood there talking we could never have suspected that this night was the most accursed of all nights.

‘Lift up your head, Tolgonai, pull yourself together.’

‘It’s all very well for you to say that. I’ll do my best. Do you remember that day, dear field?’

‘I do indeed. I forget nothing, Tolgonai. Since the beginning of time I bear the traces of all ages. Not all history can be found in books, not all history is in people’s memories. But it is within me. Your life too, Tolgonai, is within me, in my heart. I hear you, Tolgonai. Today is your day.’

Next morning we started work before daybreak. That day we began reaping a new row of corn on the steep slope of the riverbank. The strip of land was too awkward for the harvester to turn, yet the ears were already dry – they always ripen faster along the edge of the field. Just we had turned in single file and cut the corn, no more than two sheaves each, a horseman suddenly appeared on the other side.

He had galloped out from behind the last horses beyond the river and, raising a trail of dust, was riding headlong through the brushes and reeds as if someone was chasing him. His mount brought him down to the rocks along the bank. Yet unflinchingly he drove the horse straight over the rocks into the river.

We straightened up in amazement: what need was driving this man, why wasn’t he making for the bridge a mile or so downriver? It was a young Russian lad. All the while he was urging his chestnut stallion into the water, and we all gasped: was he going to drown himself? You don’t jest with the river at this time of year: at floodtide the waters would carry off a camel, let alone a horse, and not leave hair nor hide.

‘Something must have happened, Mother,’ Aliman cried as she broke into a run.

Her words pierced my heart.

‘Someone must have fallen under the blade! Or got caught up in the drum. Quick!’

And all the reapers rushed after Aliman.

‘Hold on, dear God, hold on,’ I prayed, wringing my hands as I ran. Jumping over the ditch I missed my footing and went sprawling in the dust, quickly scrambled to my feet and ran on. Oh, how I ran through the wheatfield. I wanted to shout for them to wait, but I couldn’t, I had lost my voice.

When I finally reached the combine, a crowd was milling about. I couldn’t hear a word, couldn’t make out a thing. Pushing through the crowd, yelling, ‘Out of my way, let me pass,’ I finally caught sight of Kasym and Aliman together beside the combine; I held out my trembling hands to my son like a blind woman. Kasym took a step forward and caught me.

‘It’s war, Mother.’

I heard his voice from far, far away. I looked at him incredulously. ‘War? Did you say war?’

‘Yes, Mother, war,’ he replied.

I still could not grasp the full meaning of the word.

‘What do you mean war? What war?’ I said, repeating the strange word; and then all at once I gasped in horror and quietly wept from the fright I had just had from this startling news.

The tears streamed down my face, as women, taking their cue from me, began to wail and moan.

‘Quit. Shut up!’ a man’s voice cut through the din.

Everyone fell silent together, as if half-expecting the fellow to say it was not so. But he said nothing. And no one else said anything. It became so quiet in the prairie that the water’s booming roar could be clearly heard from the river. Someone sighed loudly and gave a shudder. It all went quiet again, expectant, though no one uttered a word. And once more the prairie became so still you could sense the heat, like a mosquito’s shrill whine in your ear. And then, glancing at the people about him, Kasym muttered, half to himself. ‘We’ll have to hurry if we’re to get the corn in before the snow comes.’

He was silent for a moment, then all at once, in a sharply raised tone, he shouted to the driver, ‘What are you standing there for? Start the engine. And you all, what are you staring at? If we don’t get the harvest in, you’ll be the ones to suffer. Let’s go.’

The crowd began to disperse. It was only then that I spotted the Russian lad from across the river. He stood there in his clothes, wet through from top to toe, holding his dark damp stallion by the bridle. The movement of the crowd seemed to jolt the young messenger; he slowly raised his drooping fair head and began to adjust the saddle girths. I realized he was just a lad, no older than my Jainak, only a bit taller, broader in the shoulders. Wet strands of hair were plastered to his forehead; his lips and face bore fresh bruises, while his youthful eyes stared out the world in that instant with such acute suffering that I sensed he had just left his boyhood behind and reached manhood, today, that very morning. He sighed deeply, put his foot into the stirrup and called to one of our village boys, ‘ Listen, mate, ride off and fetch the farm chief and team leaders, tell them they’re wanted urgently at the district office. I must get on; I’ve got two farms to go yet.’

With that he mounted up and was about to give the reins a flick when the lad he’d spoken to checked him.

‘Wait, you’ve lost your cap. Here, take mine. It’s hot today.’

We gazed long after the young herald, harkening to the dry road urgently drumming beneath the heels of the chestnut horse, bearing him off like the wind. Dust soon hid him from view. Meanwhile we still stood there at the roadside, each of us preoccupied with our own thoughts, and when the tractor and combine engines roared in unison, people gave a start and stared at each other.

From that moment a new life began, the life of wartime.

We did not hear the battle’s roar, but we hear our own heart beats and people’s cries. In all my life I never knew such searing heart, such an intense summer. If you spat on a stone it sizzled.

The wheat ripened all at once, in three to four days: a solid mass, dry and yellow, stretching to the very ends of the earth and awaiting the reaper’s scythe. What a treasure. Yet how terrible it was to see so much bounty being lost in the hurry. How much we trampled underfoot, or was cast to the breeze, scattered along the road. We were in such haste that we had no time even to bind the sheaves, we simply forked the wheat into carts and off it went to the threshing machine, with countless ears spilling out all along the way.

That wasn’t the worst of it. It was much harder to see people suffering. Every day men were being called up, while those who stayed behind kept on working. In the noonday sun and all through the sultry stifling nights the harvested, threshed, carted, everyone working, getting no sleep, not a moment’s rest. And the jobs mounted up, since fewer and fewer men remained.

Kasym, my poor son, did him really think he could cope with it all? We were hopelessly behind with the harvest, yet he drove his combine up and down the fields like a madman. His machine never ceased day or night, reaping row after of wheat, racing about in clouds of scorching dust from one field to another. In all those days Kasym remained at the wheel. Day after day he stood on the bridge exposed to the burning wind, peering hawk-like into the murky haze that concealed other wheat fields waiting to be harvested. It was terrible and pitiful to see my son, to see his darkened face, his sunken unshaven cheeks. My heart bled for him.

‘He’ll surely die of sunstroke,’ I thought. Yet I had no heart to tell him. I knew from the steely glitter in his eyes that he would not quit, he would stay at his post until the very last.

That moment finally came. One day Aliman ran off the combine and returned crestfallen.

‘He’s got his papers,’ she said softly.

‘They just sent a note from the rural council.’

Of course, I knew that sooner or later Kasym’s turn would come, like many others. Even so, when I heard the news my legs began to buckle under me. Such a sharp pain shot through my weary arms that I dropped the sickle and sank to the ground.

‘Then what’s he doing there?’ I muttered. ‘He must get ready.’ I was barely able to control my trembling lips.

‘He says he’ll be back around evening,’ Aliman said. ‘I’ll go home, Mother, while you tell Father. Jainak’s nowhere to be seen: where has he got to?’

‘Go, Aliman, go,’ I said. ‘And prepare some pastry. I’ll be back soon’. But I remained sitting in the stubble. I sat there for a long time, without the strength to pick up the scarf that had fallen from my heard. My eyes were fixed on a line of ants scurrying along the path; they too were working, dragging bits of straw and grain, not suspecting that alongside was a human being, suffering deeply, a worker like themselves, at any rate no less than them, a worker who at that moment envied them, ants, those tiny busy creatures able to go calmly about their work. If it hadn’t been for war would I really have envied the ant’s life? I’m ashamed to think of it.

Meanwhile, Jainak was rolling along in his cart. At the time he was working on youth transport, taking grain to the station. Obviously he’d heard of his brother’s news and had come for me; he leapt down from the cart, picked up the headscarf and put it on my head.

‘Let’s go home, Mother,’ he said, helping me up.

We rode home in silence. Of late Jainak had altered beyond recognition, grown serious. In some way he reminded me of the Russian lad, the messenger. Just the same sombre spirit now dwelt in his young eyes. He too had parted with youth in those few days. Many were the same. Thinking of Jainak, I remembered that I hadn’t had any news from Maselbek for ages. What could have happened? Had he joined up, or what? Why didn’t he write, why couldn’t he send at least a short note? He had probably grown apart from his home, forgotten his mother and father, become swallowed up by city life. Anyway, this was no time to be studying. Better off at home, there was nothing left in town for him. Those were my gloomy thoughts as I bumped along in the cart.

‘Jainak, you go to the station often,’ I suddenly said. ‘What’s it like there, any news of the war finishing soon?;

‘No, Mother, it won’t. There are hard times. The Jerries’ keep driving us back farther and farther. If only lads could dig in somewhere and break the Hun’s back, we’d be able to push him back. I reckon it won’t be long now.’

He fell silent, urging on his horses; then he glanced round, saying, ‘Are you frightened, Mother? A lot, eh? Don’t you worry, not a bit, cheer up. Everything’ll be fine, you’ll see.’

Oh, my silly little boy, trying to console me, is feeling sorry for me.

How could one not think and worry? Shut your eyes and block your ears, but it didn’t stop you thinking.

When we came home we found Aliman sitting there crying; she hadn’t yet mixed the dough. That irked me: I felt like shaming her, telling her she was no worse off than others, her husband wasn’t the only one being called up. She sat there snivelling, her arms hanging limply be her sides. That wasn’t the way. How were we to live? But I thought better of it, I wouldn’t chide her. I took pity on her youth. Maybe I did wrong; maybe I should have scorched her soul from the start to make it easier for her later. I don’t know; all I know is that I said nothing then.

Kasym arrived late, almost at sundown. As soon as he appeared in the gateway Aliman set to stocking up the fire, then rushed to him in tears, flinging her arms around his neck.

‘I won’t stay behind, not without you. I’d rather die.’

Kasym had come straight from the combine, dusty, dirty, greasy. He took his wife’s arms from his neck and said, ‘Hold on, Aliman, I’m absolutely filthy. Give me soap and a towel, I’ll go and wash in the river.’

Aliman turned to look at me and I understood. Handing her an empty bucket, I said, ‘Fetch some water while you’re at it.’

The moon had already made three quarters of its journey by the time they returned from the river. I had managed at home my myself with Jainak giving me a hand. Around midnight Suvankul put in an appearance: I’d been waiting and waiting, wondering what had become of him. He had evidently ridden into the hills that afternoon to bring down the light brown horse with black mane and tail we’d bought as a foal for Kasym when he had started work as tractor driver. It was a fine horse, a fast pace, with strong echoing hoofs and white socks on his legs. The whole village knew the horse; the girls even sang songs about it:

Father had wanted his son to ride his mount at last a day or two before departing.

Early next morning we all left the village for the enlistment office: Aliman and I in Jainak’s cart, Kasym and his father on their horses. It was a time when everyone was on the move, a lot of men leaving the villages for the front. As I stared down the highway I saw it was like a black ribbon, one end in the Great Gorge, the other out of sight. People from all over the countryside were travelling on horseback and in ox-drawn carts. At the district centre you couldn’t move for people and carts. There were small children, and old men and women, all clustered round their beloved, not leaving them for a moment. Some were weeping, some slightly tipsy. The old saying’s right enough: people are like a sea, with depths and shallows. So here, amidst the hubbub and grief of war, were bold, clear-eyed young men who conducted themselves well, spoke out bravely and even cheered the others up, singing and dancing to the accordion. Kirgiz and Russian tunes followed one another, and everyone sang ‘Katyusha’; that was when I first heard it.

The large enlistment office yard couldn’t cope with all the enlisted men, so they had to line up in the middle of the main street waiting for the roll call. When it began the crowd at once fell silent, holding its breath. I gazed at those who were going off to war, and a hot lump came to my throat. They were all like: strong, fit young men. They had long lives ahead of them, wishing only to live and work.

Each time someone’s name was called, he answered ‘Here’ and looked an our direction. I couldn’t help shuddering when I heard ‘Suvankulov, Kasym’, and a fresh wave of intense pain seared my heart. ‘Here’ replied Kasym. Meanwhile Aliman squeezed my hand hard.

‘Mother,’ she murmured.

What could I do? I knew how hard and terrible it was for her to be separated, but who could stand aside from one’s people in their hour of need? Oh, my Aliman, Aliman. She too knew it was the need of the country. Never in my life have I known a woman who loved her husband as she did.

We returned home the same day, having learned that the men would leave in twenty four hours. Kasym had talked us into going home, saying there was no sense in hanging around and he would stop by on the way to say goodbye since our farm was near the highway. We left Suvankul’s horse for Aliman and departed the others in the cart. Jainak was also staying behind to take the recruits to the station in his cart.

At night, on entering the deserted house, I gave vent to my feelings and wept bitterly. Suvankul made some tea, poured me out a strong cup and made me drink it. Then he sat down beside me and said, ‘Who were we, Tolgonai? Together with these people we’ve become something. So let’s share everything equally with them – the good times and the bad. When times were good everyone was content; would you now have everyone think only of himself and bewail his fate? No, that would be dishonest. You are a mother, remember that. And then again, mark my words, if the war drags on, I’ll have to go too, and Maselbek’s getting on for drafting age, he may go as well.

The column set out the next afternoon. Kasym and Aliman over-took the others and came galloping up. Kasym had been given leave to ride home to say his farewells. Aliman’s eyes were so swollen she’d obviously wept the whole way. Kasym tried to bear up and put on a brave face, but it wasn’t easy. I’ve no idea what made him invent the story he did: either he did it for Aliman’s sake in the hope it would make their parting easier, or else he’d actually been instructed so, but as soon as he dismounted he asked us not to go the station. He said he might return home after all, since they had decided not to call up the tractor and combine drivers until after the harvest. So if the order came through in time he might still return from the station. Now I guess he was making it easier for Aliman and the rest of us. It was almost a day’s ride to the station, so what would the trip home be like? An unending vale of tears. Yet at the time I believed him: they say hope springs eternal. But when we accompanied him to the highway I began to have my doubts.

All who worked on the harvest were there to bid him farewell. The reapers, carters, threshers from the shed all came running, and the combine harvester was close by; Kasym’s mate had pulled up and come running to say goodbye.

They say that when a blacksmith goes off to war he says goodbye to his hammer and anvil. My Kasym was a craftsman, a smith of his trade. And when the combine ground to a halt he was deep in conversation with fellow villagers; he glanced quickly up the road. The winding column of recruits with the horse-drawn wagons and red banner at the head had just turned the bend.

‘Here, Dad, hold him,’ Kasym yelled, handing over the horse’s reins as he made for the combine. He walked round it as if on inspection from all sides, then he briskly hopped on to the bridge.

‘Come on, Esenkul,’ he shouted to the tractor driver. ‘Start her up. Let her rip.’

The engines which had just been ticking over began to hum and roar, the combine rumbled into life, rattled its chains and began devouring the wheat and casting a stream of hay out of the thresher. Kasym, meanwhile, set his face to the hot wind, laughed loudly, threw back his shoulders and seemed oblivious to everything around him. He and the tractor driver exchanged shouts, nodding their heads; they turned about the end of the field and headed back again. The machine flew over the field like a prairie bird. For a moment the war was forgotten, he stood there, eyes shining, though Aliman’s pride was greatest. She walked slowly towards the combine, a flicker of smile upon her lips. The combine stopped. Once again we grew sombre. Meanwhile Bektash, our neighbour Aisha’s son, who was about thirteen at the time and had spent the summer helping on the combine, rushed up to Kasym and began hugging him, crying. I bit my lip to keep back the tears, but recalling Suvankul’s admonition, dared not cry. Kasym picked up young Bektash, embraced him, seated him behind the wheel and slowly stepped down. We clustered round. First he said goodbye to his workmates, the combine drivers and the tractor drivers. Time was short: the column on the highway had drawn level with us.

So that’s how we saw Kasym off. When it was time for him to mount up, Aliman, poor Aliman, paying no heed to her elders or the children, gave a cry and clung to him desperately. Her face was drained of blood, just her eyes glowed wildly. We had to tear her away by force. But she broke free and again rushed towards her husband. Every time he went to put his foot in stirrup she kept tugging at his hand and imploring him like a child, ‘Wait. One second. Just one more second.’

Kasym kissed her, begging, ‘Don’t cry now, Aliman. You’ll see, I’ll be back tomorrow. Believe me.’

Then Suvankul spoke up, ‘You go, Aliman, see him to the road.

Suvankul took his son by the hand and said softly, ‘Look me in the eye.’

They looked deep into each other’s eyes.

‘Understood?’ Father asked.

‘Right. God be with you.’

Suvankul mounted his horse and galloped off without a backward glance.

As we kissed goodbye, Kasym said, ‘If you hear from Maselbek, please send on his address.’

Kasym and Aliman left for the highway, leading the horse by the reins. I stared after them, watching as the column disappeared from view. At first Aliman run alongside, holding on the stirrup, then Kasym bent low, kissed her for the last time and bounded forward on his horse. Poor Aliman kept running and running in the dust of its hooves. I ran after her and led her home.

Next day when Jainak returned from the station towards evening Kasym’s horse was tired to the back of the cart.

The battle was far off, much blood was being spilt, but our battle-field was here on the farm. Kasym was right to warn us: no matter how hard we tried, snow caught the last corn in the field and on the threshing floor. Potatoes also remained under the snow here and there as we had no time to dig them up. One after another the menfolk left for the front, day after day, while back on the farm all out talk was of war, how it was going, what was happening. The postman became the most welcome person in every house.

A week after seeing Kasym off, we had a letter from Maselbek. In his first he had written that he and his fellow students had been called up, though their destination was still uncertain. He asked us not to worry that he hadn’t been able to say goodbye – who could have known it would happen? There was no sense dwelling on it, the main thing was to return home victorious. His second letter came from Novosibirsk. He said that he was at an officer training school, and he enclosed a photo of himself. It still hangs in its glass frame on the wall, faded with the years. A handsome portrait: the uniform suits him, his thick hair is combed straight back and his eyes have a faraway look of sadness. That is how I still see him in my dreams….

Aliman had only seen Maselbek once when he came home for his brother’s wedding.

‘Mother, see what a handsome fellow our Maselbek is, ‘she said, looking at the photograph. Last time he was here I only took a peep at him from behind the curtains, it was awkward for a bride to stare at another man. I was much too shy. Wouldn’t it be nice if he came back and found himself a girl as educated as himself, and pretty too? That would be nice, wouldn’t it, Mother?’

I agreed and fell to dreaming of the day myself.

Up to midwinter I was more or less easy in my mind, there were letters from my sons and they kept me happy. But then I had a letter from Kasym to say his unit was being moved up to the front, and my heart sank, fear gripped me. On the top of that, the army HQ was forever pestering Suvankul: first he had to go for a check-up, then for registration, then yet again for re-registration. He was running to and fro, tearing himself between journeys to HQ and business on the farm. Somehow I never thought he would be called up: a farm without the chief is like a body without arms. But he was. I learned of it at the threashing shed where we were grinding the last of the wheat. When I heard I stuck the fork into the hay, leaned my face against the cold handle and just stood there, utterly at a loss. What now? How were we to live? Two sons already gone, now my husband was going.

Just then Suvankul himself rode up, dismounted it silence and came up to me.

‘Let’s go home. I have to pack.’

I rode his horse while he walked alongside, saying it would be easier to talk on the way. But we couldn’t find the right words, and were silent most of the way. Not that we had nothing to talk about. It was because our hearts were so full, being crushed in a vice, malking it agony to squeeze each word out. Thus we moved along – I on horseback, he on foot. Leaden grey clouds obscured the sky. A blizzard was blowing up from Yellow Valley, the ground wind was picking up force and the reeds were whistling in the wind. As I glanced about the fields lay bleak and empty. No people, no sounds, no movement; it was cold and cheerless.

Suvankul was walking along, smoking cigarette after cigarette. Then he took my hand. ‘Cold?’

I said nothing. And he, about to speak, changed his mind. Perhaps he wished to share a thought with me.

‘Well, here I go off to join our sons. How will it turn out? Will fate bring me back or not? Maybe we’re parting for good. If so, well, we’re had a decent run, barely a cross word. Forgive and forget the bad. Who knows what’s in store?’

Who can tell whether he wanted to utter those words? At the time he only stood there in silence, gazing at me, holding his tongue. For the first time I noticed grey hairs in his dark moustache.

I was thinking how Suvankul and I had met in this field when we were young, how we’d worked together here for twenty-two years, by the sweat of our brow, raising our children, growing corn, and now our whole lives were flashing before our eyes. I had never thought, never even dreamed this was how we would part, perhaps forever. I was thinking how one summer night on the first day of harvest we had ridden along this same track. Now I saw the new street at the edge of the village, unkempt and abandoned. I saw the pile of bricks and stones on Aliman’s and Kasym’s plot. And I fell forward on to the horse’s mane and sobbed my heart out. I wept for a long time.

Suvankul patiently waited in silence before saying, ‘Tolgon, you go on and cry, get it out of your system, there’s no one about. But from now on show your tears to no one. You’ll be more than head of the household, more than a mind and brains for Aliman and Jainak, you’ll have to take over my job as team leader as well. There’s nobody else.’

My tears flowed even more freely.

‘What do I want your team for? How can you even talk of it at a time like this? I don’t want it. I don’t even want to hear about it!’

That evening, however, I was summoned to the farm office and met by our new farm chief, Usenbai, disabled from the army. Suvankul and several village elders were there too. Usenbai did not mince words.

‘This is how it is, old girl, you’ve got to do men’s work now, hitch your breeches up and saddle the chief’s horse. No one knows the soil, the water, the folk of our village better than you. We put our trust in you, especially as you have the trust of our best leader whom we’re now seeing off, though it grieves us greatly. It can’t be helped. You start tomorrow, Tolgonai.’

The elders advised me to accept and finally talked me into it. How could I refuse? I knew full well that times were hard. I did the right thing if only because it was my Suvankul’s last wish. That night he didn’t sleep a wink, giving me insructions all night long. Start preparing for spring sowing, give the draught animals a breather, mend the ploughs, the harrows, the carts. See to the large families, the old folk. Do this, do that. Oh, what a restless fellow, my dear husband, love of my heart.

Outside the snow storm continued unabated until early morning, the wind howled in the chimney.

We accompanied Suvankul to the highway. He climbed into Jainak’s cart along with other men of his age, and they slowly disappeared into the swirling snow. Oh, how cold it was, the piercing wind seared my face. I walked along slowly, glancing round all the while, sobbing, the tears unchecked.

From that day on, as Usenbai had said, I had to hitch up my breeches, saddle the horse and get on with my duties. Even now it isn’t the easiest work, not everyone’s cup of tea, but then far more so, it was sheer murder. No able-bidied men remained – just the sick and the lame. It was the women, girls, children and old folk who had to do the work. Everything we produced went towards the war effort. We had to manage on wagons with rusty wheels, harnesses patched up with string, broken horse collars, and a smithy without coal. We began to burn thorny bramble which we gathered from hollows in the dry valley to keep the forge going.

Hunger now stalked the homestead as never before. Even so, we did our best to keep the farm going, we toiled as long as we had strength. As I now recall, to get people to work I’d use a kind word with some, a harsh word with others, and with some I’d virtually have to drag them kicking and screaming. There were all sorts of people. All the same, even today I go on my knees to people for not giving in, for standing firm. The women of those days are now old women, the children are long since fathers and mothers themselves; many have probably forgotten those days, yet every time I see them I remember how they were then – ragged and hungry, how they worked on the farm, how they longed for victory, how they wept and how courageous they were. They do not know they performed immoral deeds. And never, no matter what, no matter how overburdened I was, do I regret working as team chief. I was up and about in the farm office from the break of dawn, then all day in the saddle, going back and forth into the prairie and hills; from evening until late at night I was calling in at the farm office, never noticing the days fly by.

Maybe that’s what saved me. And though here were times when people cursed me, would gladly have throttled me or stopped work, I hold no grudges. No, in such cases I would pile more work on Jainak and Aliman, giving them no peace night or day, and I don’t regret it either, driving them so mercilessly. If not we would have given in to fear and depression, for three out of one family had gone off to war, it didn’t bear thinking about. We had had no word at all from Kasym in two month. Aliman and I avoided each other’s gaze to keep from speaking out thoughts aloud. Whenever we did talk it was of trifles, of the farm, of housework; like children we tried to avoid the subject. One winter’s morning early I set out for smithy. The black-smith was reshoring our draught horses. And I saw Usenbai flying along his horse with scrap of paper in his hand; he said it was an urgent telegram for me. I caught my breath. All I heard was the smith’s hammer beating on the avail, as if hitting me in the chest. I must have looked terrible.

‘It’s all right, Tolgonai,’ he yelled. ‘It’s a telegram from Maselbek, from Novosibirsk. Come and get it, don’t be afraid.’

And reaching down from the saddle, he handed me the paper. ‘Go to the station at once,’ he said. ‘Your son will be passing
through; he want to see you, asks you to meet the train. I’ve told them to fix you up with a cart, with hay and oats for the horses. Don’t just stand here, get going.’

Off home I ran. I still didn’t fully understand what was going on. All I knew was that Maselbek had asked me to come to the station, that he wanted to see me. So there I was running down the street, hot from frost, breaking out in a sweat. As I ran I was talking to myself like a mad thing, ‘What does that mean,’ ‘asks me to meet the train?’ Yes, yes, my son. I’d run a thousand miles to see you.’

A mother is always a mother. I didn’t stop to think where he was heading.

Once home I hurriedly made some bits and pieces to eat, cooked some meat; Maselbek would certainly not be alone, he’d have his friends with him; let him treat them to some cooking. I packed it all into a saddlebag and left for the station that very day with Aliman. At first I had intended to go with Jainak, but he himself declined.

‘No, Mother, it’d better if Aliman went; I’ll stay and keep an eye on things here. That’d be best.’

I later realized my youngest boy had done the right thing. He may have been just a kid, but he had his head screwed on. He seemed to know what was going on in her mind, what she was going through and suffering. And off he dashed to the hayrick where Aliman was working to call her. It was a long time since I’d seen her so happy. She brightened up at once, beamed and fussed about even more than me, hurrying me up.

‘Make haste, Mother, let’s get going. Here’s your coat, here’s your warm scarf, put them on and we’ll be off,’

Even on the way she didn’t stop fussing. ‘Faster, faster,’ she pestered the cart driver, and at times she snatched the reins out of his hands and urged on the horses herself with a whoop.

The cart rolled softly over the solid snow, the horses galloped along briskly, the cart wheels lightly rattling in their greased axles. It snowed all the way, crisp and even. The day was pleasantly frosty. Aliman was covered in snow though she had no inkling how well it suited her. The snowflakes stuck thickly to her head, to her shawl, to dangling strands of hair, to her collar, enhancing her golden wheat complexion, her rosy cheeks, her shining black eyes and white teeth. Everything is becoming when you’re young, even snow.

Aliman would not let up the whole journey. First she was asking me not to say anything about when Maselbek got off the train: let’s see if he’d recognize her or not. Then she decided to creep up on him from behind and clap her hands over his eyes. What would he say? He’d probably take fright and ask who was playing silly tricks on him. And she gave a giggle, laughing at her own jokes. Oh, realized I saw through her conduct. Anyway, she soon gave herself away: all at once, she went quiet, stopped laughing and murmured, ‘Maselbek is very like Kasym, isn’t he? They’re like twins.’

I pretended I hadn’t heard. And she said nothing more. Then she seized the reins from the lad again and whooped on the horses.

We reached the station towards evening. The moment the cart stopped; out she jumped and ran to the track as if Maselbek were arriving at any moment. There was no one around. We stared in all directions and felt quite miserable, standing there like orphans, not knowing where to go or what to do. The wind rushed over the sleepers between the rails. A locomotive was crawling backwards and forwards, screeching and clanking, shunting trucks stuck fast with hoarfrost. The breeze whistled in the wires.

We had never had occasion to meet a train before, and we didn’t even think of inquiring when the train due. Meanwhile we heard a hoot in the distance and a train appeared.

‘It’s coming, Mother,’ cried Aliman.

My knees were knocking, I felt so scared. The train swiftly drew near and its engine passed us in a shower of snow as the train came to a halt. We rushed helter-skelter along the length of the train: the carriages were jam-packed with people – women, children and lots of troops too. God only knows who they were and where they were bound. We stopped at each carriage, calling, and ‘Is Maselbek Suvankulov here? Can you tell us if Maselbek Suvankulov is here?’

Some said they didn’t know, others were silent, and some just smiled. While we were running up and down, the train started up again. It was evidently only a three-minute stop. We were left standing there like birds fallen from the nest, and out of the steam appeared an elderly Russian railwayman in a black sheepskin coat and felt boots. I had spotted him earlier as he met the train. Now he asked us what we were waiting for, and we showed him Maselbek’s telegram. He put his glasses and moved his lips slowly as he read.

Then he spoke, ‘Your son is on troop train. Which one and at what time it’ll pass through I don’t know. If it isn’t late it should be tonight or tomorrow. It may have passed already. Tons of trains pass every day now in one direction or another; some don’t stop at all, just thunder on through.’

We were crestfallen.

‘Oh, the war, the war,’ sighed the railwayman. ‘It’s turned everything topsy-turvy. What are you standing in the wind for? Come into the station, we’re a waiting room there. Take a seat and when a train pulls in you can pop out to meet it. You’ve no option anyway.’ There were about ten people in the station room, lying on benches.

Life must have driven them up hill and down dale, from station to station. They were probably used to wandering and felt at home here. Some were sound asleep, others were chatting or smoking; in one comer a couple were drinking something hot from tin cups that burnt their lips, and they were blowing on them. One man was strumming a guitar and singing softly it himself. And old oil lamp with cracked and dirty glass was flickering and smoking. Peering into the semi-darkness, Aliman and I made room for ourselves on the edge of a bench. We hadn’t been sitting there long before we heard the sound of a train, and we made a dash for the door. In the darkness the wind tore at the hems of our coats. The train was nothing but goods wagons and, although we saw no soldiers in them, we ran the length of the train, shouting, ‘Is Maselbek Suvankulov there?’

‘Maselbek Suvankulov, is he there?’

No one replied, nobody was there. When we got back to the waiting room everyone was asleep.

‘Mother, lie down a bit and rest,’ Aliman said. ‘I’ll watch out for the train.’

So I rested my head on her shoulders thinking I’d have a nap; but how could I sleep? How could I even think of sleep when not only in my ears, but in my heart and mind as well I was listening for approaching trains; even my feet sensed that first faint trembling of the floor, making me start. Whatever the direction the train was coming from, we would jump up, grab the saddlebag and run outside. Troop trains came and went, but Maselbek wasn’t on any of them.

At midnight the ground began to shake again, we jumped up and dashed outside. From both directions at once we heard the shrill blasts of a train: two trains were approaching from different directions. We panicked, rushed this way and that, and found ourselves caught between the two tracks. With a deafening roar the trains came together and, without stopping, gathered speed and flashed through. The wheels rattled, the wind howled, enveloping us in a snowy whirlwind that tried to drag us under the wheels.

‘Mother,’ screamed Aliman and, gripping my arm, she pressed me against the lamppost, hugging me tight, not letting me go.

I peered into the windows as they flew by: what if I caught a glimpse of Maselbek, what if my son had been there and I’d not known? The rails groaned under the racing wheels and my heart echoed them in fear for my son. The train had flashed past in a cloud of snow while we stood pressed to the lamppost for a long while after. We did not sit down until dawn, what with racing to and fro the length of the trains. Just before dawn as the blizzard momentarily ceased, yet another troop train was approaching from the west – but a very strange-looking one: the carriages were all charred, the roof was torn off, its doors were jagged and splintered. Not a living soul was on it. The vacant coaches were as silent as the grave; they smelt of smoke, hot iron, charred wood and paint.

Our acquaintance of the previous day, the man in the black sheep-skin coat, came up, swinging a lamp.

To Aliman’s whispered question about the train he replied, also in a whisper, ‘It’s been bombed.’

‘Where are the carriages going?’

‘For repair,’ he answered just as reverently.

As I listened to the conversation I thought of those who had travelled in the carriages, those who had lost their lives amid smoke, screams and flames, those who had had arms and legs blown off, who had been deafened and blinded for life. Yet those bombs were a mere splinter of war. What was war itself like then?

The shattered train was at the station for some time, then quietly started up and, rumbling sadly, moved off somewhere or other. I gazed after it with heavy heart: Maselbek had been posted to where the bombed train had come from. What about Kasym? And Suvankul? He had written that he was somewhere near Ryazan; as likely as not that wasn’t far off the front.

Morning dawned. It was time to be going; the horses’ hay had given out. But what if Maselbek were to pass? It would be a terrible shame to miss him after waiting so long. Aliman and I thought it over and decided we dare not leave yet.

The weather was, as the previous day, cold and windy. No wonder they called the station the caravanserai of the winds. All of a sudden, however, the clouds dispersed and the sun peeped through.

‘Ah,’ I thought, ‘if only my son were to appear like a ray of sun-shine from behind the clouds. Just for one fleeting moment.’

At that instant we heard the rumble of a train in the distance. It was coming from the east. Two loud blasts from the whistle echoed round the hollow.

The ground beneath our feet began to shake, the rails hummed, and two black engines with red wheels roared through the clouds of steam; they were pulling platforms with tarpaulin-covered tanks and guns guarded by soldiers in grey coats, rifles at the ready. Soldiers flashed by in half-open doorways of heated goods vans and we caught a glimpse of faces, grey coats and snatches of song, words, sounds of concertinas and balalaikas – vanload after vanload. We stood rooted to the spot. In the meantime some fellow with red and yellow signal flags came running over, shouting at us, ‘Out of the way, out of the way. Get back, get back from the track!’

And he tried to shove us back.

Right at the moment we heard a shout, ‘Mother-r-r! Alima-a-a-n!’

It was him! Maselbek! Oh my God, my God.

He was flying past to close, hanging out of a goods van, holding on to the door with one hand and waving his fur hat with other, yelling, shouting farewell. All I remember is shrieking ‘Maselbek!’ And in that brief instant I saw him so plainly, so vividly: the wind was ruffling his hair, his coat tails were flapping like wings, and in his face and eyes were such joy and sorrow, regret and farewell. Not taking my eye off him for a second, I began running after the train. The last goods van rumbled by, but I kept running along the sleepers until I fell down. Oh, how I moaned and wept! There was my son leaving for the battlefield with me bidding him farewell embracing a cold iron railway. The tapping of the wheels grew fainter and fainter and eventually died away.

Even now at times I can see that train and hear its wheels clanking. Aliman came running up, tears streaming down her face; she crouched over me, vainly trying to pick me up, choking back her sobs, her hands shaking. At that moment a Russian woman from the signal box bustled up. She too cried, ‘Mother, Mother!’

And she hugged and kissed me. The pair of them helped me to the trackside and, as we were leaving the station, Aliman handed me a soldier’s hat.

‘Here, Mother,’ she said. ‘Maselbek left it for you.’

Evidently he had thrown me his hat as I ran after the train. I travelled home in the cart holding the fur hat tightly, pressing it to my heart. It hangs on the wall to this day. Just a common grey soldier’s hat with a little star. Sometimes I take it down and bury my face in it to try to bring back my son’s smell.

‘I don’t know, Tolgonai. The word has never known such a war as in you time.’

‘Then may I be the last mother to await her son like that. Dear God, never again let anyone embrace iron rails and beat their head upon the sleepers.’

‘When you returned home, I could tell from afar you hadn’t met your son. Your face was sallow and there were deep ring under your tortured eyes, like after a long illness.’

‘Indeed, I would rather have been struck down with a fever.’ ‘My dear Tolgonai, your hair turned grey that year. How heavy and thick your plaits once were. You became silent then, withdrawn. You would come here in silence and leave, clenching your teeth. But I understood, I could tell by your eyes how it was getting harder with each visit.’

‘Yes, Mother Earth, life can change a person so much. I wasn’t the only one; there was not a single family, not a single person unaffected by the war. And when the black-edged papers arrived, what wailing and weeping there would be in two or three homes at once, and then my blood would boil and vengeance would dim my eyes, and sear my heart. I’m proud to have been the team chief at that time, partaking in my own and other’s grief, sharing all misfortunes with people, their hunger and hardship. That’s why I survived, withstood it for the sake of others; otherwise I would have gone under and the war would have trampled me into the dust. I realized then that there was only one way to win the war and that was to fight, to battle on, and to triumph. The alternative was death. That’s why, my beloved field, I always came here on horseback, never disturbing you, greeting you silently and turning away in silence.’

Then certainly needed cheering up. We hadn’t had a line from him in over two months, had no idea how he was. In his letter he said that twice he had defended the approaches to Moscow, and both times emerged unscathed. He said the Germans had been checked, had had a kick in the teeth, and his regiment was now taking a breather.

Aliman was overjoyed. She leapt down from the cart and came racing towards me, overtaking Jainak on the way.

‘Mother, here’s honey on your tongue,’ she cried, seizing the letter with trembling hands, beside herself with joy, unable even to read it. All she could say was, ‘He’s alive. Alive and well!’

Women came running up, clustering round.

‘Come on, Aliman, what does he say? Does he mention my man?’

‘Just a second,’ she said. ‘Hold on.’

But she was still unable to read a word.

Jainak could bear it no longer.

‘Give it here, others want to know what he says.’

And taking the letter he began to read it out.

Aliman meanwhile squatted down, gathering handfuls of snow and putting them to her brow. As Jainak finished reading, she stood up, forgetting even to wipe her face, standing there flushed with joy and with rivulets of melting snow running down her face.

‘Right, let’s get back to work,’ she said softly as she moved slowly through the snow.

As she walked along she glanced about her, deep in thought. Who knows what she was thinking at that moment: maybe of ow she had run across the stubble that summer with a pitcher for her husband. Or how Kasym had said goodbye to his combine on this spot. I felt she was reliving all that was dear to her, all her treasured memories. Her eyes smiled and dimmed in turn. For a long time she gazed towards the highway, probably remembering the horse departing down the road, its hooves clattering and herself running after Kasym.

Jainak was walking alongside her, teasing her, pulling her leg. ‘When are you going to come to your senses? You’ll be the laughing stock of the village now. Fancy not being able to read the letter! I’m going to write to Kasym and tell him I had to send his wife back to school, back to grade one to learn her ABC.’

Aliman gave him a playful push and they ran off to the cart, chasing after each other.

I followed them deep in thought. Who else would defend the nation if not such son as mine? Just let them return victorious and alive. As for the rest we can grin and bear it, be reduced to skin and bones as long as we live to see victory. But let it come soon, oh let it come soon! It wasn’t my wish alone, it was the dream and fervent desire of the whole nation for which people were giving everything they had, accepting every hardship.

Even when my last and youngest son left for the war, though he wasn’t yet eighteen, I gritted my teeth, kept silent and bore it.

Towards the end of winter he was often being summoned to the recruitment office. He wasn’t the only one, there were many lads doing their basic training. Well, it was the common thing at the time, so I wasn’t overly worried. They marched about for some ten days at a time and then were packed off home. One day, however, he came back early, on the second day.

‘Why did they let you off so early?’ I asked. ‘Or have they finished with you for good?’

‘No, Mother. I’m off again tomorrow. I’ve been granted a day’s leave. This time we’ll be a bit longer there, so don’t you fret.’

And I believed him, never suspecting the truth. All the same, he acted rather oddly that day, as if preparing for a long journey. He walked about all morning with hammer and nails, hammering and fixing things. Then I noticed he’d chopped up a pile of logs, carted the manure to the back yard, raked and dried the hay spread out on top of the shed. When I came home that night I saw he had swept the yard clean and mended the broken crib; we’d needed it when father was home, he liked to keep a horse handy.

‘What are bothering with that for?’ I said. ‘You can fix it in the summer.’

He said it needed doing now, when he had time – he might not have the opportunity later. The truth didn’t enter my head, didn’t dawn on me even then. The fact was he had volunteered for the front on the Youth League Appeal. We only found out when he was already on his way. He passed on a letter through friends at the station. What a rascal, my poor little boy: for even though you wrote me a letter, you should not have gone without saying goodbye. I may have been beside myself with grief, but still you should have told me. In his letter he begged forgiveness for slipping off without a word;

Who knows, perhaps he was right. It certainly would have been hard for him to tell me outright, or maybe he was afraid I’d break down and cry, plead with him to change his mind and stay.

And now that he is no longer here and so many years have passed I speak to him as I do with Mother Earth.

‘Jainak, mind what I say. Don’t let your conscience bother you. I’m not upset, not at all. I forgave you then and there. Jainak, my youngest son, my little foal, my merry little soul, do you think I didn’t realize why you left without a word, why you left me all alone, why you gave up your childhood, your youth, your future life? You were sometimes a cheeky, mischievous young devil, and not everyone knew how much you loved people. You couldn’t look dispassionately at our suffering, so you left. You so wanted people to remain human, to prevent war from crippling the living human soul, from exterminating all goodness and compassion. You did what you did for that. Only noble deeds live on, the rest disappears. And your noble deed lives on. You are long gone, ‘missing in action’, so the army said. You wrote that you were a paratrooper, three times dropped behind enemy lines. Then some dark night in ‘44 when you and your comrades jumped from the aircraft to help the partisans you went missing. Whether you fell in battle or caught a stray bullet, or were taken prisoner or drowned in some swamp, nobody knows. But if you were alive you would at least have sent a few words in all these years.

Yes, Jainak, so you are gone forever. You left us very young, only eighteen, and not so firmly rooted in people’s minds. I remember you though and each time I recall how you left for war, not daring to tell me because you loved and pitied me. I remember you once giving a young boy your sheepskin coat at the station; you saw a family of evacuees – a mother and four ragged children, and you gave up your coat to the eldest, coming home in just your jacket, your teeth chattering. Perhaps he, too, a grown man now, sometimes remembers you as the boy who gave him a coat, for you are now much younger than him, and he much older. Yet you were his teacher. Goodness, you see, doesn’t lie at the roadside waiting to be picked up. One person learns it from another.

Oh, what’s the use of talking now? Words won’t help. How many people did the war destroy! If it hadn’t been for war what a handsome, kind person my Jainak would now be.

Dear son, I’m so sorry that you didn’t pluck a single one of the twelve flowers of life. You were just setting out in life and I don’t even know which girl you liked best.

The last candle is burning in my soul, and soon it will die. But I still remember, I remember that ill-fated day when the old man came for me as I was ploughing.

It was early springtime. The snowdrops were still out and the harrowing had just begun. A warm breeze was blowing from Yellow Valley drying out the autumn plough land, and the grass was turning green in the sun.

That day we had only just started the ploughing. I was following behind the tractor on horseback, breathing in the earthy smell of the furrow and thinking to myself how long it had been since I’d heard from Suvankul or Kasym.

Meanwhile one of our elders arrived, apparently in no special hurry. ‘You’re just in time, aksakal,’ I said, ‘to get the ploughing off to a good start with a blessing.’

He spread his palms, stroked his beard and muttered, ‘May Dyikan—aba, patron of harvesters, be among us. May the harvest be as a river at high water?’

Then he added, ‘Some district chief wants you, Tolgonai. He wants you in the office; I’m here to let you know.’

‘Fine, I won’t be a moment, aksakal.’

Riding over to the ploughers, I told them I’d be back that evening to check on the work, and off we rode for the village. There was nothing surprising in me being sent for by an official; it was common enough, especially at the start of sowing – we had all sorts of people coming round. We rode along unhurriedly, chattering about this and that, about our lives, and then the old man inserted a note of caution into the conversation. ‘Thanks Tolgonai, for serving people in their time of need. Although you’re a woman we all look to you for guidance. So keep your pecker up, hold tight to the reins. If anything happens you can rely on us and we on you. It certainly isn’t easy for you, we know that. Human destiny is like a mountain path, plenty of ups and down, then all of a sudden a precipice ahead. You can’t always cope with it by yourself, you know, take on the whole world alone; but if people rally round you’ll get over it. Life can take a nasty turn sometimes.’

We were now riding down the street, and I noticed a crowd of people by our yard. I could see their heads over the fence. But for some reason I didn’t pay it any particular attention.

The old man suddenly took my horse’s lead and said, averting his eyes, ‘Down you get, Tolgonai, you must make haste.’

I looked at him in surprise, but he was already dismounting and, taking me by the arm, repeated, ‘You have to dismount, Tolgonai.’

Still not taking it in, yet already gripped by some terrible foreboding, I slowly slid from my horse and caught sight of Aliman going to the house with three women. That day they had been cleaning out the ditches. Aliman was carrying a hoe over her shoulder, but one of women now took it from her. In an instant it dawned on me.

‘What are you up to? Why are you all there?’ I shouted for the whole street to hear.

At the sound of my voice, women came running from my next door neighbour Aisha’s yard. Silently they approached me, took my hands and said, ‘Brace yourself, Tolgonai; we’ve lost our brave falcons. Suvankul and Kasym have been killed.’

At that moment I heard Aliman’s screams and voices wailing all at once, ‘Boorumoi – our brothers! Boorumoi!’

I heard nothing more. I was completely numb, probably deafened by my own scream. The street began to spin; the faces seemed to be falling, the houses tumbling. In that eerie silence the clouds in the sky, then some dumb, convulsed faces flashed before my eyes. I twisted and turned, desperately trying to free my arms held tight by someone’s hands. I could not understand who was holding me, what the crowd was doing at the gate. I saw only Aliman. I saw her with merciless clarity. She looked terrible, her face streaming with blood, her hair dishevelled. Women were trying to restrain her, holding her hands behind her back while she was struggling to reach me with all her force, and screaming so loudly I could hear nothing. I too was trying to get to her. I had but a single desire: to come to her aid as quickly as possible. But it seemed an eternity before we finally came together. And only when Aliman threw herself on my neck did I hear at last her heart-rending scream, ‘Mother, we’re widows. Mother, poor widows. Our sun has gone out. Black day! Mother, black day!’

We were widows all right. Two widows, mother and daughter. And we bewailed our fate, embraced each other and poured hot tears upon one another.

But we were not left to mourn alone. On the seventh day the farm workers all came to honour the memory of the dead, telling us, ‘To be in mourning a whole year would not nearly suffice. We shall remember them, but the living must go on living. What they missed in life, let Maselbek and Jainak live for them (we were still getting letters from Jainak almost weekly). May they return in victory? As for you, we have come to ask you to return to work. It’s time for spring sowing, the earth won’t wait. Grit your teeth. Work with us, and let that be our revenge on the enemy.’

Aliman and I talked it over and agreed. Next morning as we were getting ready for work, the farm chairman, Usenbai, brought me two slips of paper. He said they were the death notices and we should preserve them safely. Kasym’s had evidently arrived at the farm a good fortnight back: he had died in the village of Orekhovka during the offensive near Moscow. While the office was wondering how to break the news, Suvankul’s death notice arrived. He too had been killed in a major offensive, near the town of Yelets. Our fellow - villagers had no choice but to give us the double blow at once. There isn’t much to say about the events that followed. Once again I buckled down and mounted my team leader’s horse.

After all, if I were to sit and mourn, bewail my fate and wring my hands, what I would have happened to Aliman? As it was she was in such a state I got really frightened. My grief was no less than hers, for I had lost both a husband and a son, a double blow; yet all the same my situation was different. No matter how you looked at it, Suvankul and I had had a full life together. We’d seen and been through a lot, had lived through happiness and pain. We had had our children, brought up a family and had toiled together. And if it hadn’t been for the war we’d have spent the rest of our days together. But how much had Aliman and Kasym to show? Life for them was all in the future, all in their dreams. War had felled them with an axe in the very bloom of youth. No doubt time would heal the wounds in Aliman’s heart. The earth is not without good people, she might even have found someone whom she could have loved. And life would have returned with fresh hope. Other war widows had done so: with the war’s end they had remarried. Some happily, some not, yet they were not alone, they are all wives and mothers now. Many of them had found happiness. But people are different. There are some who get over their grief quickly, soon switch to something else, while others merely mark time in torment and desolation, unable to find the strength in them to escape the memory of the past. So with Aliman, to her cost, she could not forget the past, could not reconcile herself to her lot. In some way I was to blame, I was too weak, unable to overcome my pity for her.

That spring our team was digging ditch heads, and I was working with them. We finished work early one day, before sunset, and people began drifting homewards. I still had to call in on the ploughers, so I told Aliman not to wait for me. Their tent was not far off, and I caught them at supper. I had a few words with them and, as I came out, I was just about to mount up when I saw Aliman. She hadn’t gone home after all. She stayed behind all by herself and was now walking to and fro in the field, picking tulips. She was just like a little girl in her love for flowers. Oh, Aliman, Aliman, my dear hapless daughter!

She was holding about a dozen large tulips, presumably to take home with her. The moment I saw her with flowers I broke into a cold sweat, recalling her at the edge of the meadow picking wild hollyhocks, standing just as she was now. Only her headscarf had then been red, the flowers white, while now her head was tied in a black scarf and her hands held red flowers. That was only difference. But how it cut my heart!

She glanced up at that moment, gazed about her, and then hung her head, staring miserably at the flowers as if wondering whom she could give them to. All at once her whole body shuddered and she threw herself face down on the ground, tearing her flowers to pieces, pounding the earth with them. After a while she grew still, buried her head in her hands and lay like that, her shoulders shaking. Quickly I dodged out of sight behind the tent, not wanting to intrude upon her grief. Let her cry herself out, I thought, she’ll feel better for it. Then she jumped to her feet and dashed wildly across the field towards the highway. I was so scared I jumped on my horse and bounded in pursuit. It was an awful sight: her running away like that, running in her black scarf across the red field.

‘Aliman, stop! What’s the matter? Stop, Aliman,’ I cried. But she didn’t.

Only when she reached the road along which Kasym’s horse had once galloped away did I catch her up.

‘Mother, don’t say a word,’ she cried. ‘Mother, not a word. Please.’ As I reined in the horse she came running up, seized hold of the horse’s mane, buried her head in my leg and sobbed her heart out. I said nothing. What could I have said? After a time, she lifted her head, her face caked in mud and tears. Gulping back her tears, she said, ‘Mother, see the sun shining. See the lovely sky and the prairie all in bloom. Will Kasym come back? Won’t he ever return?’

‘No, he won’t,’ I replied.

She sighted forlornly.

‘Forgive me, Mother,’ she said softly. ‘I wanted to run away and die there together with him.’

I could stand it no more. I burst into tears, unable to speak. But if I’d have had any sense, if I’d have been a wiser mother, I should have told her firmly, ‘Get a grip of yourself, you’re not a little girl any more. You’re not the only one; how many have been widowed like you – countless women. However dreadful it may sound, you must put Kasym out of your mind. What’s past is past. You can’t bring back what’s gone forever. In time you’ll find someone you can love. If you don’t take a hold of yourself you’ll suffer all the more. You’re still young; you’ve got your life ahead of you…’

How I now regret not telling her that brutal but singular truth. And afterwards, how many times the opportunity presented itself and the words were on the tip of my tongue yet I couldn’t bring myself to speak them. Some irresistible force prevented me. In my case, Aliman would not have listened. Every word evidently has its time, when it is as pliable as white-hot iron; and if you let the moment slip, the word goes cold, ossifies and lies on the soul like a heavy burden that you can’t easily cast off. I say this now when so many years have passed, yet then in everyday turmoil, in the farm’s every day cares and needs, there were simply no time to sit down and think things out clearly. All our aspirations, all our intensions were focused on one thing only: to see victory quickly, to see an end to the war urgently, the rest could wait. I reckoned that once the war was over, everything would fall naturally into place. But that wasn’t how things turned out.

‘Mother Earth, why don’t the mountains crumble, why don’t the lakes overflow when men such as Suvankul and Kasym are killed? They were both, father and son, great farmers. The world eternally relies on such people; they feed and nourish it, and in wartime protect it. They are the first to answer the call to arms. If not for war, how much would Suvankul and Kasym have accomplished? How many more people would have benefited from the fruits of their labour? How many more fields would have been sown? How much more wheat would have been harvested? And they themselves, rewarded a hundred-fold by the labours of their fellow men, would have known so much happiness.

‘Tell me, Mother Earth, speak truly: can people live without war?’ ‘You pose a difficult question, Tolgonai. There have been nations who vanished without trace in wars; there have been cities consumed by fire and buried under the ashes; there have been barren centuries when I yearned for human company. And each time people went to war I told them, ‘Stop, spill no blood!’ I say it again now: ‘ you people beyond the mountains and the seas, you people of the world, what is it you want – the earth? Here I am – take me. I am the same for all of you, and you are all equal in my eyes. I have no need of your quarrels, I need your friendship, your labour. Cast a single grain into a furrow and I’ll give you a hundred back. Stick a twig in me and I’ll grow you a tree. Plant a garden and I’ll shower you with fruit. Breed your cattle and I’ll be your grass. Build homes and I’ll be your walls. Reproduce and multiply and I shall be a splendid abode for you all. I am endless, I am infinite, I am deep and tall, there’s more than enough for everyone.’

‘And you, Tolgonai, you ask if people can live without war. But that depends on you human beings, not me, upon your will and common sense.’

‘You’re right, dear earth, war does kill your very best labourers, your best craftsmen. That’s a terrible crime, my whole being revolts against it. People can, people must bar the way to war.’

‘Do you think I don’t suffer from war? I suffer cruelly. I miss the farmer’s hands. I am forever mourning for my children, tillers of the soil, I shall forever miss Suvankul, Kasym, Jainak and all the fallen heroes. Whenever I’m left untilled, whenever the harvest remain unreaped and the corn unthreshed, I call out to them: ‘Where are you now, my tillers? Where are you now, my sowers? Arise, my children, my toilers. Come to my aid, I am choking, I am dying.’

‘If only Suvankul would then appear hoe in hand; if only Kasym would bring his combine; if only Jainak would come in hi cart. But they do not hear.’

‘Thank you, earth, for all that you have said. So you miss them too, as I do. You weep for them too, as I do. Thank you.’

The third and fourth years of war brought their joys and hardships. Step by step we drove back the foe. Our hearts exulted, but life became harder and harder with every day. It was just about bearable in autumn when you could pick ears of corn from the stubble and dig up potatoes in the garden, but hunger really set in about midwinter. The worst we spring and golden summer when life got really tough. Some families barely kept themselves alive, living off wild roots, grass and milky water. Aliman and I both worked and we had no little ones clinging to our skirts. Perhaps it would have been better if there had been. It was heart breaking to see other people’s children, though, especially the big families, with their swollen bellies and puffed-up faces staring at you silently, begging for bread. If someone had told me: you go to the front and die there, and the war will end and children be fed, I wouldn’t have hesitated. Anything to avoid their hungry eyes. When I once said that to Aliman, she looked at me and said, ‘I’d do the same. What hurts most is that children don’t understand why they must go hungry. Grown-ups at least can console themselves, knowing the reasons why, knowing there’ll be an end to it sometime. But kiddies don’t understand. Until their dads return we have to provide for them, you and I, Mother, that’s all that’s left to us.

Otherwise life isn’t worth living, is it?’

Everything belonged utterly and completely to the war: life, work, will and even the children’s porridge – everything, everything to the last grain went down the insatiable gullet of war. There were people, however, who would have preferred to give nothing. Why conceal the fact? There were. They too snatched the food from our hands.

It must have been in forty-three, round about midwinter, or was it towards winter’s end? Anyway, patches of bare soil were already darkening the prairie, windows still frosted up at night.

Who knows what hour of the night it was; everyone was fast asleep when there came a loud bang at the window, I thought the pane would break.

‘Tolgonai, get up! Wake up!’ came a voice from outside.

We got a dreadful fright, and both Aliman and I leapt from our beds. ‘Mother!’ whispered Aliman in the dark, so alarmed you’d think she expected a miracle to happen.

Oh, accursed hope! My heart too was in my mouth from fear and suffused excitement – could one of them have returned? I edged towards the window.

‘Who’s there? Who are you?’

‘Come out, Tolgonai, quick! They’ve taken the horses,’ answered the voice behind the window.

Aliman was lighting the lamp, I hastily pulled on my boots and coat and dashed outside. As I ran to the stable I could see people already there, including the farm chairman himself. Evidently the thieves had taken three horses; one of them was Kasym’s horse which I given to the farm. They had been out team’s best geldings that we had been getting ready for spring ploughing. The stable girl said she had gone to the hayloft to fetch the midnight feed for the horses and when she’d returned the stable was in darkness, the lamp was out. Thinking the wind had blown it out, she had made no hurry to relight it; when she did she saw three stalls were empty.

At that time losing three working horses was about the same as losing ten tractors now. And when you think of it, that’s like depriving each soldier of his daily ration. We saddled our horses, some took along their rifles, and we set out in pursuit. If we’d caught those horse thieves we wouldn’t have shown any mercy, I can tell you. My God, we’d have murdered the swine’s.

Once beyond the village we split up into small bands and took different routes. My mount was a pedigree stallion, a mettlesome beast forever tugging at the reins. So I gave him his head and I remember us leaping over the highway and heading for the hills. Two riders were some way behind me. Yet as I glanced back they were nowhere to be seen: either they’d turned off or I had lost them.

It wasn’t hard to go astray, for although the moon was out its light was deceptive – another twenty paces on and all could be pitch black. At the time, though, my only thought was to catch the horse thieves. I was so angry and upset I didn’t notice where my horse was heading, and when he suddenly stopped I realized we were at the edge of a deep ravine. I was right in the foothills. The moon was gliding cautiously above the dark ridge; the stars were misting over, not a glimmer anywhere. Down below I could hear a gusty wind blowing, stirring the deadwood reeds to a shrill whistle. Owls were hooting in the ruins of an old clay tomb.

As I edged my horse down the steep slope I heard nothing but a vixen’s soft whine: she leapt out of some reeds and loped away, silvery blue in the moonlight. There was not another living creature in sight. So I turned for home. As I rode along the edge of the ravine I remembered talk of a certain Jenshenkul who used to live in the village. Folk said he has deserted the army and joined up with a pair of fugitives from Yellow Valley; they were said to be hiding out in the hills. I didn’t put much store by the rumours. I couldn’t really understand how someone could bury their head in the sand when others were in danger. Could someone really go to fight and die while another hid behind his back? No, surely no one could act so shamelessly, or so I thought.

Then doubts assailed me. In the village we all know one another like the backs of our hands. It wasn’t likely anyone would stop to stealing horses. Anyway, a horse wasn’t a needle you could hide in a haystack. To say nothing of three horses. So the thieves could have come from somewhere else. Thy must be prowling like wolves about the prairie and in the hills. If it was true that Jenshenkul was on the run, he could well have had a hand in this, I reckoned. I couldn’t be certain, of course: you’re not a thief until caught and proven guilty. And nobody had actually seen him.

Three horses made up a two-share plough team. We somehow managed to make up a scratch team by breaking in four colts and harnessing them to the plough. It broke our hearts, but we had no choice. It was time for spring sowing and we had too much on our hands to give thought to thieves, God help us. It was probably the hardest spring of my life. It was not the people; they weren’t to blame. People Wanted to work and did their best, but you can’t do much on an empty belly. What we had once done in a day now took us a week. We got behind with the work and were late with the spring sowing. Another problem was that the farm hadn’t enough seed grain. As it was we had swept up the last grains, raked through the granary and somehow managed to meet the team quota.

During that time I often fell to thinking about our life. We were not receiving anything for our work and had long since used up all the stores. What were we to do? Leave the farm and roam the land? No, then we would be lost forever. But what was to be done? Even if we held out until autumn and struggled through the winter, spring would come round again and we’d have to make half-starving people toil again. Not to work was out of the question.

All sorts of thoughts came to me, I didn’t sleep at night, and I finally hit upon an idea: why not plough up the fallow land? We had a small field lying fallow some way from the village and could portion out the harvest among the families. I talked it over with the chairman And it went up to the district where I explained that we had me out target, and this would be extra, by our own efforts, as payment for our workdays, a means of support. Someone across the table objected that I was violating the Stalin Collective Farm Charter; that riled me.

‘So what? Who’ll feed you if we hungry?’

‘You know there rash talk like that will get you,’ he said.

‘Yes, you can get rid of me if it will make you feel better. Only think first who’s going to sow grain to feed the troops.’

It kicked up quite a fuss. In the end we took it up with district Party committee and they gave the go ahead, but held me personally responsible if anything went wrong.

It was a matter of seeds, not responsibility! The farm was as dry as a bone; we’d sown all there was to sow…. I mulled it over and called my team together, little’uns and big’uns; it was more of a family council than a work meeting.

‘Right, let’s decide what to do,’ I said. ‘It’s no use counting on the crops in the fields. You know yourselves they’re all for troops, and what remains is for seed grain. But we do have the chance, if only we can find some seed, to sow grain to help the large families, the old folk and orphans. If you trust me, I’ll undertake to see it through myself. I’m asking each of you to give up the last precious grains you still have at the bottom of your sacks and bins. Don’t be put out; even though we deny ourselves a last crust and go hungry, and manage somehow on milk until harvest, each grain will be returned a hundred-fold. Tighten your belts, dear friends, grit your teeth and find the courage to make this last sacrifice for yourselves and your children. You won’t regret it. Trust my word as a mother. Help me while there’s still time to sow.’

Everyone at the gathering seemed to back me up, yet when it came to it, how awful, how simply dreadful it was. I found it especially tough to see the mothers of large families running out of their yards, Cursing everything under the sun: the war, their lives, their children, the farm and me. Yet they tore a bleeding lump from their hearts, each whatever she could: some as much as a dozen kilos, others just a handful. I realized well enough they were giving up the very last grains, yet I look it from them. I collected it all and put I into sacks, a handful at a time. I went round the houses in a cart, pleading, chiding, arguing, and snatching it from their hands. My only consolation was that come autumn people would be grateful; come autumn each handful would be repaid many times over.

I’ll never forget how I treated my poor neighbour Aisha. After all, she was pretty sick woman, having been widowed young: her husband Jamanbai had died even before the war, leaving her lonely and frail, with a son to bring up. Whenever she was up to it she worked on the farm or in her garden, tending her cow; that helped her make ends meet and feed her son. By then Bektash was doing his share and was a reliable lad. It was his cart we were using that day as we went round the houses. As we reached their house I asked him whether they had anything left.

‘A tiny bit,’ he said reluctantly. ‘In a sack behind the stove.’ ‘Go and fetch it then,’ I said.

‘No, Auntie Tolgonai, please go you.’

Aisha was poorly at the time. She was sitting on a felt cushion with warm shawl wound about her waist.

‘Aisha, I’ve come for what everyone’s giving,’ I said.

‘All we have is over there,’ she murmured, pointing to the sack behind the stove.

‘Whatever there is. We’re not playing games,’ I blurted out. ‘It’s for seed, the field’s all ready, waiting to be sown, don’t hold us up, Aisha.’

She bit her lip and stared silently at the floor. Oh, accursed war, what it brings us to!

‘Aisha, just think, it would only last you another ten to fifteen days anyway. Think of next winter and spring. I’m asking for your son’s sake, Aisha. He’s waiting outside with the cart.’

She looked up imploringly.

‘If I had anything to give do you think I’d begrudge it? You know me, Tolgonai, I am your neighbour.’

I felt on the point of yielding to her pleas, but straightaway I cast aside all pity.’

‘I’m here as your team leader not your neighbour,’ I said sharply. ‘On the people’s behalf I’m commandeering this grain.’

With that I stood up and took the sack.

The sack contained about seven kilos of wheat. I wanted to take it all, but did not dare. So I poured half of it into an empty pail, saying,

‘Look, Aisha, I’m only taking half. No hard feelings.’

As she turned towards me I could see tears streaming down her face. I felt terrible and rushed blindly out of the house. Oh why didn’t I put the sack back? How was I to know what would happen to grain I’d collected?

In all there were two big sacksful. We sifted the grain, cleaned it of weeds and picked it out seed by seed. I myself took the seed to the field. Perhaps I should have waited – we still had to plough up the edge of the field. But I couldn’t wait to sow the grain. At dawn I was there eager to sow by hand. All was ready: the seeds and the field, all was going to plan.

That evening when I returned home from work I felt ill at ease somehow. During the day I had told Bektash and another lad to cart the harrows to the field. But boys will be boys. I couldn’t be sure they had done what I’d instructed. So I told Aliman I’d pop over and see what they were up to. I mounted up and was away.

Once out of the village I broke into a gallop since it was twilight and fast getting back. As I rode up to the field I saw the oxen were still harnessed to their yoke with no one around. ‘Wait until I get my hands on those plough lads,’ I thought. ‘I’’ roast them for leaving the poor beasts in harness until now.’ Setting out in search of the lads I suddenly spotted the overturned cart and harrows, with no one in sight here either.

‘Hey there, lads. Where are you? Answer me,’ I yelled.

Nobody called back, there didn’t seem to be a soul anywhere. What on earth was up with them? Where had they vanished? I was beginning to get quite scared. Riding up to the tent I jumped down and by the light of a match discovered the boys lying inside, tied up and covered in blood, badly beaten and gagged. I tore the gag from Bektash’s mouth and cried hysterically, ‘The seed? Where’s the seed?’

‘They took it. Beat us up,’ he wheezed, jerking his head towards where the thieves had fled.

I don’t recall much else. I had never ridden as hard as I did that night, even though it was as pitch black as a tomb. I wouldn’t have said a word if my house had burned down and been looted; I would have got over ten sacks of grain being stolen from the barn in autumn, for mice also filched our corn. But for that seed, for this our future bread I would gladly have strangled with bare hands.

By chance I was hot on the heels of the thieves and soon caught sight of them and the sparks flying from their horse’s hoofs. They had the sacks on their saddles in front; they were heading for the hills.

I started yelling the moment I saw them, pleading, ‘leave us the sacks; it’s seed grain. Leave it, its seed. It’s seed!’

They did not even turn round. As the gap between us rapidly closed I noticed that one of them, on the outside, was riding Kasym’s young horse. I recognised it at once. How could I fail to tell our own light brown pacer; I knew him by his gait and the white socks on his hind legs.

‘Stop,’ I shouted. ‘I know you. You’re Jenshenkul. You’re Jenshenkul! You won’t get away from this time. Stop!’

It was Jenshenkul all right. Veering away from the others, he turned to meet me head on. There was a flash in the darkness and a loud retort. Even as I fell from my horse I realized it was a shot. For a moment, though, I thought my horse had stumbled.

When I came to felt a dull, heavy ache in my back. Blood oozed from my head, tricking down the back of my neck and forming a cold puddle. Beside me my horse was gasping and choking in its death agony, still kicking and trying to rise. A death rattle gurgled up from its chest and its head hit the ground with a thud: the animal lay still. All around grew quiet; no life remained. I lay there without stirring, not even trying to get up. I no longer cared about anything at that moment. Life had no meaning. My only thought was to kill myself. If there had been a cliff at hand I would have crawled to the edge and thrown myself over. I could not imagine how I would ever be able to look anyone in the face again.

And then I saw Harvester’s Way in the sky. The dim, hazy river of the Milky Way reminded me of the silent tears that had flowed down Aisha’s cheeks. I got to my knees, then to my feet, swayed and fell back; sobbing from grief and pain, I began to fling curses into the night.

‘May the blood of war damn you, Jenshenkul! May the dead damn you, Jenshenkul! May the children damn you, Jenshenkul!’

I wept and hollered until my strength gave out.

I must have lain there for ages when I heard steps and a voice calling to me, ‘Auntie Tolgonai, where are you? Auntie Tolgonai.’

I recognised Bektash’s voice and called back; he came running, all out of breath, fell upon his knees and lifted my head.

‘Auntie Tolgonai, what’s the matter? Are you badly hurt?’

‘No, just bruised,’ I said to reassure him. ‘They shot my horse.’

‘Well, it could have been worse,’ he said in more cheerful tones.

‘Here, let me help you up.’

After a pause, he added, ‘The meat will come in handy; we can share it out among the families.’

The boys drove me home in the cart. I was bedridden for three days with backache. It still gives me trouble now when the weather is bad. A lot of people dropped in to see me and find out how I was doing; I was grateful for that. But I was even more grateful to them for not reproaching me, for not saying anything, as if nothing had happened. Perhaps they guessed how bad I felt about it.

Whenever I thought that all our hard work had been for naught, that the field lay unsown, and that the grain I had snatched from the wailing children had ended up with those vile bandits, a searing pain would grip my heart and veil my eyes.

‘Yes, Tolgonai, and not only you; I too felt that pain. That barren field was like a throbbing ache all summer; it didn’t go away for a long time. I suffer most when my fields remain barren, Tolgonai. How many fields were laid waste because of war! My most mortal foe is he who starts war.’

‘You’re right, Mother Earth. Wasn’t that what my son Maselbek wrote? Earth, do you remember his letter?’

‘I do, Tolgonai.’

‘Yes, we do both. Today is Remembrance Day, Mother Earth. Today we shall remember them.’

‘We shall, Tolgonai. For Maselbek was not only your son, he was mine as well, son of the soil. Remind me of his letter, Tolgonai.’

Aisha dropped in one day with a bowl of cream. I felt bitterly ashamed the moment she came through the door: I didn’t know what to say as I sat propped up in bed, lost for words.

She was first to speak, ‘Try not to think of it, Tolgonai. Please forgive my weakness. I bear no grudge. If it came to it I’d gladly give my life for you. My Bektash is old enough now to give a hand around the house for both of us. You know, Tolgonai, he loves you more than he does me. And I’m glad. That means he’ll grow up to be a decent fellow.’

All I could murmur was, ‘Thanks for your kindness, Aisha.’

Next morning I felt a liitle better and went outside for a look around the yard. But I quickly tired and had to sit by the window in the sunshine. Aliman was home with me, going the washing; though I had told her to go to work she said the farm chairman had given her a day off to look after me.

Those spring the big old apple tree that Suvankul had planted blossomed so profusely it seemed to have gained new strength and youth. When the garden is in bloom and the air is so pure all vistas open up. There I was sitting admiring the view when our postman, old Temirchal, called in. He asked how I was, yet seemed ill at ease and in an uncommon hurry; he kept coughing and complaining of his chest, saying he had caught a chill the week before and it was getting him down. Then, as if in passing, he added, ‘I fancy there’s a letter here for you.’ And he produced it from his bag.

I was hurt by his off-handedness.

‘Why didn’t you say so right away?’ I said. ‘Who from?’

‘From Maselbek, I reckon,’ he muttered.

In excitement I didn’t initially notice it was not the usual type of soldier’s triangular envelope, but a stiff one with typewritten words. Meanwhile our war-invalided neighbour Bektursun was hobbling over on crutches; it looked like his gammy leg was playing him up, for he could hardly get about. He used to come over now and again for chin-wag. Now he greeted us and weighted up the envelope.

‘From Maselbek,’ he decided.

‘Why are your hands shaking?’ I asked. ‘Don’t just stand there on your crutches, sit down and read it to me.’

He had difficulty sitting down, since his leg wouldn’t bend. With trembling fingers he opened the envelope and started to read. Oh my dear son, I understood everything from the very first words.

‘You see, Mother,’ he wrote, ‘time will pass and you will understand me, you’ll know I did the right thing. Yes, I’m sure you’ll say your son did the proper thing. And yet, even though you understand, somewhere deep in your heart your unspoken words will remain: ‘My son, how could you depart this world so lightly? Why did I wean you, bring you up? What for?’

‘Yes, Mother, you are a mother and justly deserve an answer: one day history will supply the answers. For now I can only say we did not want this war and did not start it. It is terrible calamity for all of us, for all humanity. We have to shed our blood and give our lives to crush and destroy this monster. We will unworthy of the name of humanity if we do not. I never wanted to be a war hero, I was studying for a very modest profession – I wished to be a teacher. Very much. Instead of chalk and pointer, though, I had to take up a rifle and become a soldier. It is not my fault. It is times we live in. I had no chance to give children a single lesson.

‘In an hour I am going on a mission for my country. I am unlikely to return alive. I am going out there to save the lives of many of my comrades in the coming offensive; I am going for the people’s sake, for victory’s sake, for all that’s good in human beings.

‘This is my last letter, there are my last words. Mother, yes, I shall say your name a thousand times and still be unable to repay my debt of gratitude to you. Forgive me, Mother, for the sorrow I cause you. I want you to understand, Mother, that this is no reckless sacrifice, it is not. This is how life itself has taught me to live. And this is my first and last lesson to the children I was to have taught. I am going of my own free will and conviction. I am proud to carry out my greatest duty to my fellow men.

‘Don’t cry, Mother. I do not wish anyone to cry. In such cases nobody ought to cry.’

‘Sorry, Mother, and goodbye.’

‘Farewell, my Ala Tau Mountains. How I loved you

‘I lifted my heavy head as in daze. A silent crowd of people was standing in the yard; nobody was crying. Maselbek had asked us not to. Women helped me up. As I got to my feet a gust of wind shook our apple tree, sending a shower of white blossom down. It dropped noiselessly upon our heads. Beyond the white apple tree, beyond the white distant mountain peaks the endlessly pure and bottomless sky shone blue. A scream welled up within me, in my very soul. I felt like crying out for the whole world to hear.

But I was silent. I would obey my son’s last wish: he had asked me not to cry. I do not know what Aliman was doing; I could see her slowly coming towards me, arms outstretched. She came right up to me, looked into my eyes, turned about and walked away, her hands covering her face.

That is how I lost my middle son. All I had was his hat.

‘Yes, Mother Earth, that is true. And the farm bears his name to this day. Maselbek’s comrades sent a letter to the rural council along with his final letter. They said they would never forget him and always be proud of his heroism; our country would forever honour his memory. They said that he had blown up an enemy munitions dump just before the assault; he blast had wiped out everything in sight. I bow my head before heroes and my son Maselbek whose glory I am proud of. All the same, nothing, no glory, can ever replace him. Ask my mother: no mother dreams of such glory. Mothers bring children into the world to live, to enjoy simple, earthly happiness.’

‘You are right, Tolgonai. I’ll never forget the springtime of our victory. I’ll never forget the day you people welcomed home the soldiers returning from war. Yet to this day I cannot whether it brought more joy or sorrow.’

‘Mother, come quickly, they’re meeting the soldiers.’

We abandoned the plough and harnessed oxen in the field. True enough, the entire village, on foot and horseback, bent old men and women, children and invalided ex-soldiers on crutches, were all hurrying in the same direction, passing on the news as they bustled along. Someone passing through (evidently from over the river) had told someone else that the troops were coming home, that two troop trains were at the station right now, that lads from all the local villages had arrived; they were already on their way and would be arriving in an hour or so. No one asked whether it was true or not. People wanted it to be true. People had dreamed of this long awaited day; no one had any doubts.

We ran to the outskirts of the village where they had started to lay out the new street before the war. The riders did not dismount, those on foot climbed a slope by the irrigation ditch to get a better view, and boys perched on the house ruins and stared down the highway. Some, impatiently interrupting one another, were recounting the happy dreams of the night before; others gathered handfuls of pebbles to tell the future. In all of it, the dreams and the fortune-telling, and in other premonitions and omens, people saw only the good portents the wanted to see.

As I remember it now, I’m thinking that if only people the world over were always to wait in such common feeling and always to love their sons, brothers, fathers and husbands do dearly, as we did then, there might never be another war.

Whenever the hubbub died down, each person would be lost in his own thoughts, head bowed. They were waiting for the judgement of fate, asking themselves who would return and who would not. On that depended life and their future destiny?

It was at just such a moment that a boy abruptly shouted from a tree, ‘Here they come.’

Everyone went taut in silent expectation, like strings of the komuz; Then we all took up the cry together, ‘Here they come!’

We lapsed into silent anticipation again, all was still. So very still. Yet then, as if coming to our senses, we all began to clamour, ‘Where? Where are they?’

It went quiet again. A cart came into view on the highway, clattering along, stopping at the fork in the road where the dirt track leads off to our village. A solitary soldier hopped out. Picking up his greatcoat and kitbag, he bade farewell to the driver and stepped out towards us.

No one in the crowd uttered a sound; everyone stared, silent and puzzled, down the road along which the lone soldier with greatcoat and kitbag over his shoulder was advancing. As he came closer none of us moved. Bewilderment was imprinted on every face. We were all still expecting some miracle. We did not believe the truth of our own eyes, for we were waiting for many, not the one.

The soldier was coming nearer and nearer; then he stopped, uncertain. He too was shocked at the sight of the silent crowd outside the village. He was probably wondering who these people were, why they were so silent, why they were standing there motionless. Could they be waiting for someone? Once or twice he glanced back down the road, but apart from himself there was not a soul about. Once more he moved towards us, then halted again and looked back down the highway.

A barefoot girl in front of us suddenly let out a yell, ‘It’s my brother, Ashiraly! Ashiraly!’ And tearing her headscarf off she rushed headlong to him.

God knows how she recognized him, but her yell was like a shot that brought us to our senses. Little boys and girls ran after her.

‘It’s him, all right, Ashiraly! It’s him,’ voices rang out.

Then everyone, young and old alike, surged towards the soldier.

Some mighty force picked us up and bore us on its wing; as we ran towards the soldier with outstretched arms, we bore our entire lives with us, all we had suffered and lived through, our torments of waiting and our sleepless nights, our grey hair, our young girls grown old, our widows and orphans, our tears and groans, and our courage. All that we bore to the conquering hero. And suddenly realizing we were there to welcome him home, he broke into a run.

As we all surged forward, I suddenly fancied I saw a train thundering by; wind beat in my face and I heard a cry, ‘Mother-r-r! Alima-a-a-an!’

And in my ears the wheels clattered and clattered.

The riders were first to reach the soldier, they snatched up his greatcoat and kitbag, and grabbed both his hands in theirs.

Oh Victory, we have waited so long. Welcome, Victory, welcome. Forgive us our tears. Forgive Aliman for beating her head against Ashiraly’s chest and shaking him by the shoulders, demanding to know where he was, her Kasym. Forgive us everything, Victory. We sacrificed so much for you. Forgive us our cries of ‘Where are the others? Where my son? My husband? Where are all the others? When are they coming home? Forgive Ashiraly for telling us they would come back, they would all return soon, tomorrow. Forgive us, Victory, forgive us. As I hugged and kissed him I thought at once of Jainak, of Maselbek, of Kasym, of Suvankul. None of them would ever return. Forgive me, Victory…..

We walked along in silence. Now and then Aliman would be seized by a fit of sobbing accompanied by fitful heart-rending sights as if she would choke. Her face was a picture of misery, eyes cast down, head bowed, lost in her own thoughts. I could easily read her gloomy thoughts. Yes, Aliman was suffering torment. I could see it on her face, in her misery-filled eyes, upon her swollen lips. I knew what she was thinking, and I murmured to myself, ‘Well, daughter, the time has surely come for us to part now that you’re buried Kasym once and for all. What else can you do? You cannot follow the dead to the grave or remain a widow all your life. It’s all over. You’ll leave, it can’t be helped, and you’re bound to leave. I don’t hold it against you. You aren’t going because you want to, on some sudden whim. That’s fate. Oh destiny, destiny… If only you knew, Aliman, how hard it is to say goodbye. We’ve been like mother and daughter. When you go I’ll give you my blessing as my daughter and pray for your happiness.

You’re all your life ahead of you; you’re young and pretty, you’ll find someone. The main thing is to find a good man. Will he be able to take Kasym’s place in your heart? Who knows? There’s nothing I can do to help. My only wish is for you to remember me now and then; when you go I’ll have no one left. I’ll be quite alone at home now, all alone in the world. It hardly bears thinking about. There’s no comfort for my old age: you had no time to give me a grandchild. Perhaps it is for the best. Pay no attention to me. Don’t waste your youth on an old woman like me, I’ve lived my life yours is still ahead of you. Just tell me when you decide to go; you’re free to leave at any time, go with a clear conscience. I shall remember you always; I shall love and be grateful to you.

Those were my thoughts as I walked along, mustering my courage to put them into words. She probably knew what was in my mind: when folk are so close they understand each other by a half spoken word or a glance. And yet I was unprepared for what she said.

We were passing the abandoned side road when, to my misfortune, I happened to glance at the plot intended for Aliman and Kasym. Now, as five years before, a huge grey pile of stones lay there in the yard; but the bricks had long since turned to rubble. Ever since war broke out the half built side road had been left to rot. Each summer brought a fresh crop of burdock and goosefoot, the walls had sunk and in places collapsed; thistle were even growing inside the houses, poking out of the empty window sockets. Right up to autumn tethered calves would graze here and hoopoes would crake forlornly – how those crested birds enjoyed the graveyard’s desolation. At that very moment they were sitting in the ruins, as on tombstones, basking in the gentle warmth of spring and calling to each other softly in doleful voices.

‘Dear God,’ I told myself, starring at the emptiness, ‘whatever happened to the people who were to live here? Who were to build fires in their own hearths?’

My poor Kasym was not destined to build his first home here. My heart became empty and sad. Aliman took my hand and smiled gently. ‘Mother,’ she said, ‘come now, what’s bothering you? You haven’t lost faith in life, have you? Don’t do that, Mother, I know how hard it is. But you’re strong, you’re…’

She hesitated, as if wanting to say something more; then, changing her mind, she smiled guiltily.

‘You’re so good,’ she said. ‘Come, let’s sit down here on this mound and have a talk.’

Now she’ll out with it, she’ll say she’s leaving, I thought. A burning wave of self-pity and pity for her swept over me as I spoke, trying to keep my shaking voice steady, ‘All right, let’s sit down and talk.’ We sat down on a mound by the roadside. There we were, just the two of us, mother and daughter-in-law, trying to decide out destiny. Aliman sighted before beginning almost nonchalantly, ‘So there we are, Mother, the terrible war is over. You’re probably wondering where we go from here.’

She fell silent, and I held my peace. Then she looked up and gazed gravely and frankly into my eyes.

‘Don’t grieve, Mother,’ she said with a wan smile. ‘Do you think we’ve no happiness left, not even the tiniest bit? I cannot believe that of four men not one will return. No, wait, Mother, don’t interrupt me, hear me out. Frankly, it’s not for me to console you with false promises or to deceive you. Believe me, Mother, my heart tells me that Jainak is bound to return. Missing in action means he’s alive. No one saw him die. Maybe he was taken prisoner or hid in the forests with the partisans, and he’ll turn up out of the blue one day. Or he’s lying somewhere badly wounded unable to write to let us know. Anything could have happened. You’ll see, he’ll drop down one day like snow upon your head. Let’s wait, Mother, let’s not bury him too soon.

‘There have been cases, you know yourself, when men have turned up alive and well, not only after going missing, but after being officially declared dead. Why, in the next village and somewhere else among the Kazakhs of Yellow Valley they’d already mourned and we wake, and then the dead turned up alive and well. I believe, I’m convinced our Jainak is alive and will return soon. It’s just not possible that of four men not one would return. Let’s wait awhile, Mother. It’s been a long time, just give it a bit more time. Don’t worry about me: until now I’ve been only a daughter-in-law to you, I’ll now be a son to replace your sons.’

She fell silent, and we sat quiet for a long time. It was already mid-May. Far, far away the clouds were gathering into a storm cloud that seemed to be filling with black smoke. Thunder rumbled in the distance and a chill gust of rain reached us. On the far horizon we could see light rainfall turning to streaming torrents that glittered in the sun and were striding across the land in huge invisible steps; first the rain would vanish into the hills, then descend into the valley, now rise into the hills again, and drop to the prairie once more. I gazed transfixed into the distance, the approaching rain-drenched breeze cooling my hot face. I said nothing to Aliman: all my words for her were there, as bountiful and radiant as that bright distant shower.

Yes, the rains would come, the corn would grow, and people would go on living. It was not because Aliman had felt sorry for me that I felt so, not because out of the kindness of her heart she had said she would not leave. No, I rejoiced at something else. Who says that war makes people cruel, base, greedy and empty? No, War, you may trample people down for forty years, kill, plunder, burn and destroy, but you won’t break people, you won’t humiliate or conquer them.

My Aliman was just such a person. What made her redouble her belief that our Jainak, who had parachuted one dark night behind enemy lines and gone missing that same night, was bound to be alive and would return? Why did she keep telling herself that the world was not as unjust as it seemed? I did not dare destroy that faith, dash her hopes; I even believed her. What if Jainak really was alive? It would not be such a miracle if he were to return one fine day. Like a little child I believed her. It was what I wanted to believe. I was even dreaming about that day, when Aliman broke the silence. She was the first to remember we had yet to finish ploughing our field.

‘Mother, I’ve just remembered we left the plough idle. Let’s hurry, the soil will dry out.’

We ran off towards the field. The oxen had long since dragged the plough to the grass verge where they were busy grazing. Aliman drove them back and we set the ploughshare into the furrow again before continuing with the ploughing. Funny, isn’t it, how little a person needs. Sometimes one kind word is enough to resurrect the dead. That was true of Aliman. Or was I just imagining it? All of a sudden, she became the Aliman of old, of pre-war days; everything about her brightened up, and her every word, every smile and movement was as it once had been. Tossing her jacket on to the ground, she tucked up her dress, rolled up her sleeves, pushed her headscarf back on her head and skilfully drove the oxen along.

‘Hey, Whitey, tsob-tsobe! Hey, Pigtail, tsob-tsobe!’ she shouted, cracking the long whip sharply.

Aliman wanted to cheer me up a bit, she wanted me to work and live. That’s why she behaved as she did that memorable day. She would keep turning round as she worked, calling with a smile, ‘Mother, don’t lean on the handles so heavily, you’ll turn up the rocks. Save your strength.’

It started to rain just when we had a couple more turns to go; it was a noisy, cheery shower that first sprinkled the oxen’s back with scattered drops, then paused for breath before raining down in dancing streams, playing games and clapping, drenching the entire village in an instant. It sent the hens clucking and flapping their wings as they ran for cover with their chicks. Women grabbed their washing and ran with it indoors. Only dogs and children skipped about in the street, chasing each other in the pouring rain, the children chanting,

‘We’ll be soaked. Run for it,’ I said to Aliman.

But she shook her head.

‘Never mind, Mother, it won’t dissolve us.’

She giggled like a little girl, tickled by the rain, and she drove the oxen on even harder.

I was infected by her mood, delighted to see her so happy; I was murmuring to myself, ‘My bright little rain girl, how happy you could have been. Oh life, life….’

I know now she was doing it all for me. She so wanted me to forget the war and the sorrow and to look on the bright side of life. She lifted up her face and hands to the raindrops, saying, ‘Look at the rain, Mother. See how clean it is. It’ll be a good harvest this year. Tsob-tsobe, rain, pour down in bucketful’s, tsob-tsobe.’

And she cracked the whip at the raindrops and the oxen’s steaming backs.

And she laughed she could not have known how lovely she looked in the rain, in her soaking dress, so slim, with firm breasts and strong hips, eyes shining with joy and flushed cheeks. May you be thrice accursed, War!

When the shower ceased and ran off elsewhere to play, Aliman fell silent. Regretfully she watched the rain depart, listening for its fading drops beyond the river, perhaps thinking how rain too is not eternal, how it swiftly passes. She gave a sad little sigh: I’ve no idea whether it was for Kasym or something else, but glancing over to me, she smiled again.

‘Now we can plant some maize while the soil is moist,’ she cried, running off home.

She brought back a small pail of soaked maize and, taking a handful of the large, swollen grains, she said, ‘Mother, may Jainak return before the first corn cobs ripen.’

So saying she cast the first handful into the soil.

I shall never forget that day. Like a new-born babe, the clean, rain-fresh sun peeped out from behind the clouds as Aliman stepped barefoot and smiling along the dark, moist furrows, sowing a handful of grain at every other step. It was not simple seeds she was planting, but seeds of hope, of goodness, of expectation.

‘You’ll see, Mother,’ she said as she worked. ‘My words will come true. I’ll bake corn on the cob in hot ashes for Jainak myself. Do you remember how he always used to fight me for the cobs? Once he pulled a hot cob from the ashes, stuck it down his shirt and ran away from me. But it burned his tummy so badly he hopped about as if he’d been stung. He poured a whole pail of water down his shirt; I couldn’t do anything to help for laughing and yelling, ‘Serves you right. Serves you right!’ Do you remember that, Mother?’

And she chuckled at the memory.

I thank her for that as well.

‘I did indeed, Mother Earth. The maize ripened not once, but two or three times; yet our Jainak never returned. There was never a word from him. Do you recall how often I came to you in tears, sharing my grief?’

‘You did, Tolgonai. Yes, many times you came. You cried, asked me what to do about your daughter-in-law, how to stop her running her young life. But there was no way I could help you. So many years have passed since then, but I still cannot say anything to you.’

Aliman and I kept on working at the farm; but as soon as the soldiers came back I handed over my team leader’s job to someone younger.

‘I’ve been doing the job for three years,’ I told them. ‘I’ve borne my cross; now you’re back you can take over the reins. Give me a breather, I’ve grown old in the meantime. But I’ll help you out when need be.’

The youngsters of the time still call me ‘Brigadier Apa’, which shows they respect me, I suppose.

Thought life returned more or less to normal, Aliman and I could find no peace. No one noticed, but inside we suffered constantly, our thoughts ever focused on the same thing. At first glance it seemed nothing could be simpler than for us to have a heart-to-heart talk, to accept the inevitable and go our own way, each of us arranging our own life. Yes, it all seemed so wretchedly simple. If I had had someone else for a daughter-in-law, or if Aliman had not been so good to me, I wouldn’t have thought twice about telling her candidly she shouldn’t let the years slip by, she should find herself a husband and leave before it was too late.

Yet I couldn’t bring myself to tell her, Aliman of all people, for no matter how you soften the words or how carefully you choose them, the sense remains the same – hard and cruel. I had no right to drive her away against her will. Once her relations from Kaindy called in and, since I wanted my conscience to be clear, I forced myself to tell them that as far as I was concerned Aliman was free and could leave with my blessing.

But she cut me short so brusquely, I was embarrassed for both of us; she would not allow us to bring it up again, saying she had a mind of her own and whether she left or not or when was her business, so we weren’t to meddle in her affairs. I very much regretted my hasty words and couldn’t look her in the eye. But she, my wise darling, understood everything and didn’t utter a word, as if nothing had happened.

So that’s how we lived, feeling sorry for each other, deceiving ourselves by hopes of Jainak’s return; when this hope, too, faded and time passed on, it was already too late…

How it came about I’m not sure. Our village lies on the sheep road; from days of old the shepherds have been driving their flocks along this road to the hills in springtime and down to the prairie again come autumn. Now and again the drovers call in at our village for a few days to give their flocks and themselves a rest.

In the autumn of forty-six a young shepherd from a nearby village was driving his flock across the dry valley to the meadowlands. You could tell he had been a soldier by the way he still wore his grey greatcoat, rode a fine horse with a rifle slung over his shoulder and had a sheepskin coat tied to his saddle. He would often trot through the village and I paid little attention; there were so many people who used to ride back and forth. I didn’t even know who he was.

That autumn there had been a few weddings in the village, and someone had arranged a good-hunting party to celebrate his son’s wedding. This young shepherd turned out to be a skilful horseman. As Aliman and I were getting ready to go to the wedding, and she was dressing, someone galloped down the street and there came a load thud of our gate. I ran out to take a look. It was the young shepherd. With his horse prancing and rearing under him he certainly cut a fine figure in the saddle, the whip in his teeth and his tunic sleeves rolled up. The goat’s carcass lay on the ground at our gate – the hunt victor has right to cast it into any yard he likes. I was so flustered I didn’t know what to say.

‘What’s this for, lad?’ I blurted out before I knew it.

‘Anyone home?’ he asked.

‘Who in particular?’ I said.

Then he mumbled something about dropping the goat accidentally, bent down to pick it up, turned about and sped back up the road. Just then the pursuers came into view and, seeing him ride off with the goat, they galloped after him. That was it. I never saw him after that. I was a bit put out, since it’s the custom for people of the house to keep a goat dropped at their gate. Had he really dropped it by accident? Then why was it lying inside and not outside our gate? What did it mean?

When Aliman emerged from the house, all was clear. She was wearing a flowered shawl and silk dress. Darting a glance at me, she lowered her eyes in shame.

‘Let’s go, Mother,’ she said softly.

It was only too clear why the shepherd lad had come to our house. I recalled that for several days past Aliman had been going to the river for water of an evening, though the ditch outside our yard had plenty enough; and she had been returning late. My heart sank. Not because I was jealous – or perhaps I was – it was something else. After all, I myself had prayed for her not to remain a widow forever, for her to find a husband soon; I wished it with all my heart. Yet now, all of a sudden, I was afraid. I was as concerned as if was my own daughter I was marrying off. I feared lest she was making a mistake. I wondered how life would be in a new house, what her in-laws would be like. Indeed, I wondered what sort of husband he would be. Those thoughts nagged me all through the wedding celebrations, on the way home and when we finally were back in the house.

My pleas to her under my breath were well meant.

‘Do you know him well, Aliman? What sort of fellow is he? Don’t rush into it, darling daughter, don’t make a mistake. Get to know him better first.’

I desperately hoped I wouldn’t be a barrier in the couple’s way. How could I make Aliman bold enough to tell me about it? How could I gently convince her she was free to do as she felt best? As I tried to conceal my own anxiety, I talked to her as normally as I could, even laughed and joked so as not to raise her suspicions or even, Heavens above, let her think I disapproved. None the less she well knew of my anguish.

That evening when she picked up the pail and went for water I heaved a sigh of relief, as if a load had fallen from my shoulders. Good, she’d have a chance to see him. But she was back in no time: she had fetched water from the ditch, not the river.

‘Mother,’ she said, setting it down, ‘I’ll heat some water for you to wash your hair.’

But she interrupted me.

‘You have to go to work tomorrow and won’t have time. You wash your hair, Mother, and I’ll brush it for you.’

Having heated a saucepan of water Aliman fussed about me as she would a little girl who didn’t know how to wash her own hair. First she made me wash my hair in sour milk, then with soap, rinse it and re-soap it; all the while she hovered over me, changing the water, mixing cold with hot and ladling it over my head. At any other time I would have lost patience and told her to leave off, but not that evening. I felt guilty because I was to blame for her not keeping her date.

‘What a shame,’ I thought, vexed at myself and at her. ‘Why on earth didn’t she go?’

Yet she seemed quite content and as she brushed my hair she mused wistfully, ‘Mother, your plaits were probably thick once, when you were young.’

Tenderly she stroked my head and her fingers gently brushed my face. I couldn’t raise my tear-filled eyes. ‘She’s saying farewell,’ I thought sadly.

Then she plaited my hair and fetched her much-treasured perfume from the trunk; Kasym had bought it for her and she had been saving it. ‘Certainly not, Aliman, God forbid,’ I protested. ‘I don’t need that. People will laugh at an old woman wearing perfume.’

She would not even listen, she just gave a merry laugh, dabbed it on my face, neck and head, using up the whole bottle. Then she hugged me and began to inspect me from all sides.

‘See how young and pretty you are,’ she said, happy at her own handiwork.

I cheered up too. After tea, she said, ‘It’s time for bed, Mother. I’ll make your bed up.’

That night neither of us slept a wink. Aliman was troubled by her own thoughts, sighing in her corner, tossing and turning. And my heart was full of thoughts of her. First I’d picture her running though the wheat field to the combine with a bunch of wild hollyhocks, putting it on the step and flying off again mischievously. Then I’d see

Her trying to pull Kasym from his horse and holding fast tearfully to his hand like a tiny child. Next I recalled our trip to the station: riding along in the cart, Aliman beside me, he cheeks flushed in the frost, all covered in snow; it had clung to her shawl, to strands of hair flying in the wind and to her collar, making her even prettier. Then I pictured her rushing towards me with outstretched arms, crying ‘We’re widows, Mother, poor widows!’ I saw her in her black headscarf racing across the red field of tulips.

I had stored in my memory everything that bound us, and I suddenly imagined her leaving with the young shepherd as he drove his flock through the dry valley. I could hear her saying, ‘ I’m leaving, Mother, do forgive me. Think kindly of me. Goodbye, Mother.’

And there I was running along the steep slope after her, waving goodbye.

‘Farewell, my little star. The light has gone out of my life. Goodbye, Aliman. Be happy. Goodbye.’

‘Hey, young man,’ I shouted to the shepherd, ‘treat her well, take good care of my daughter-in-law. I’ll lay a terrible curse on you if you don’t.’

Tears were coursing down my cheeks, soaking the pillow. I wept softly, my head under the sheet to stop her hearing me.

When Aliman came home from work next day, she stayed indoors all evening. Not long after that the shepherd drove off his flock and did not come back. She was obviously upset and out of sorts.

‘You should have ignored me and gone off with him if you were fond of him,’ I chided her to myself, though feeling sorry too. Oh my poor dear, why were you born to such suffering?

But the days slipped by and little by little the memory faded.

Early next spring he returned. I recognised him in the meadow where his sheep were grazing. Now and again Aliman would go off of an evening, returning late, but I said nothing. She had to decide her fate for herself.

One night I waited up late for her. The village was asleep, and I had gone to bed, turning down the lamp, though I couldn’t get to sleep: I was restless and heavy at heart, listening out for every rustle as I waited for her. It was a quiet spring night, the moon was out and clouds occasionally shadowed its edges. I shivered, more from loneliness than cold. Wrapping my sheepskin coat about me, I dopped off half sitting up. Then I awoke with start, alarmed by something. There was Aliman framed in the doorway, the buttons torn off her dress, her bosom bare, hair dishevelled, her eyes glazed. It was the very first time I had seen her drunk. She stepped through the door, swayed, almost fell, caught hold of the stove and shook her head. A chill ran down my spine.

‘What are you staring at?’ she asked, looking up. ‘Well, have you had your eye full? Yes, I’m drunk. All right, I’ve had a drink. What else is there for me? Who should drink if not me? Well, why don’t you say something, eh?’

I was so numb I could not utter a word. It was ghastly to see what she had come to. She was just standing there, hanging on to the stove.

Hanging her head suddenly, she mumbled, ‘Mother, you know nothing, while I…. today I…. Remember when we saw Kasym off, we went down to the river. Over there…’

Before she could finish she cried out, seized her head in both hands and fell sobbing to the floor.

Only then did I come to my senses. Rushing to her I caught her up and pressed her to me.

‘What’s the matter, Aliman?’ Why you are crying? Tell me, what’s the trouble? Has someone hurt you? Do tell me. Is it me? If so, tell me what it is.’

‘No, no, Mother, dear Mother,’ she sobbed. ‘My poor, unhappy, lonely darling. You have no idea; even if you did, what could you do?

Oh, Mother, Mother, Oh Mother.’

For several minutes she wept and moaned, her wet face buried in my bosom. Finally her weeping gradually subsided and she fell asleep. Yet even in her sleep she sobbed and groaned piteously. Until daybreak I sat by her bed, wondering how we were to go on, what we were to do. I decided to have it out with her once and for all. Next morning, however, she would not talk. She was sick enough as it was. Silently her eyes begged me not to remind her on the night before; only as we were passing through the gate on our way to work did she say softly, ‘Forgive me, Mother.’

I didn’t want to upset her further.

Three month passed. That summer we had an investigation into the case of Jenshenkul, the deserter. After the war he had not dared return to the village openly, but had been paying furtive visits home by night. He had hidden out somewhere in Kazakhstan, making money by selling stolen sheep. Now he’d been caught. His past had come to light and he’d been brought to our village for identification. And now a messenger from the court had come for me as witness.

On my way there I bumped into Aliman coming home from work. She looked tired and unwell as she trudged along all by herself. Her face had sallowed that summer. Feeling sorry for her and not wanting her to wait at home alone I suggested she join me.

‘Come, child, let’s go to the court and return home together.’

‘No thanks, Mother,’ she replied. ‘There’s nothing for me there, I’ll go on home; my head aches.’

There was a Black Maria outside the court. A crowd of witnesses and onlookers on their way home from had gathered on the porch. I hadn’t seen Jenshenkul for quite some time, seven years it must have been. Evidently his evil ways agreed with him, for he looked heavy-yowled and stocky as he sat on a bench by the window, staring sullenly about and snarling back at someone, ‘So I’m a thief, am I? But have you any proof? Seen me yourself? No. So don’t go slandering my good name. You can talk until you’re blue in the face, but its all rubbish. Facts, where are you facts?’

I entered the room and right away blurted out, ‘You’re right, we never caught you at it. We had no time to go chasing after the likes of you, since we were ploughing the land with our bare hands growing grain for the war, gathering up ears of corn to feed our starving children. But you stole our horses, ripped our draught horses from the plough. You snatched from our hands the last seeds we had collected grain by grain, the grain we’d taken from little children; and you stole it from us. That made you the enemy. And when I chased after you, I yelled to you to stop, I said I recognized you, Jenshenkul, I told you to stop. But you turned round and shot at me. There are your facts.’

As I fell silent, the investigator said, ‘Thank you, Mother. You are free to go now. You may go home.’

As I was leaving, Jenshenkul’s wife suddenly rushed towards the door, flew at me in a rage, shrieking, ‘You are scarecrow! You think you seek truth everywhere, but it will punish you in the end, and that’ll serve you right. You’ll soon have something else to wait about. Where’d your girl get her big belly from, eh? The slut did it right under your nose, while you were looking for the truth. Why don’t you both look for the truth now, you shameless bitches!’

People dragged her away into a corner, blocking up her mouth, but I told them to let her go. And I started for home.

Whether it was the hot dust on the road that day or shame that burned my feet I don’t know, but at first I found myself almost running. I slowed down, trying to gather my thoughts. It had never entered my head, though I should have guessed. Recently Aliman had become rather strange, untalkative, unsociable, and wary even of her girlfriends. I had put it down to the unhappy affair with the shepherd lad: he had left for the hills that spring and that was the last we saw of him. I had thought things hadn’t worked out and she was taking it badly.

But it turned out to be quite different. Oh, how terrible. Who’d have known this would happen? I was at a loss, and didn’t know what to do. Next evening Aliman called me over to have a talk. During the tea and conversation she mentioned casually that Jenshenkul’s wife had left the village the night before.

I said nothing. What was it to me? It was up to her where she went: people were free. It was only later, after a couple of years, that I discovered that villagers had gone to her house in the night, dumped her belongings in a cart and sent her packing, telling her they didn’t want her sort in the village.

After the court business not a soul ever mentioned our misfortune. Maybe they said something to Aliman, some may have felt sorry for her, others scornful, but no one ever said a word to me, and I’m mightily grateful for that. So many years have passed, yet I’m still respected as of old.

Nothing changed between us after I learned she was pregnant. We lived and worked and sought each other’s advice on everything as before. She never spoke of the child she was expecting: either unable to bring herself to mention it or biding her time. Nor did I speak of it, sparing her feelings. Most importantly, I did not condemn her in my heart. I had no right, for her entire life had passed before my eyes. I had seen everything, understood everything and felt somewhat to blame myself. That is why I told myself straightway, if Aliman has sinned, it is my sin too; if she bears a child, t will be my child too, and I shall take all the shame, all the hardship and suffering upon myself.

I knew as well as she did that sooner or later we would have to speak of it and forgive each other our long silence. None the less, we kept putting it off from one day to the next, from the morrow to the day after. But it had to come.

Towards late summer, when Aliman was five or six months gone, I was taking our cow to the herd one morning early when I heard the little cowherd, as bright as bell that morning. As his herd of cows was drawing level with our gate he gave me the broadest of smiles.

‘Auntie Tolgonai,’ he said. ‘Suiunchu. Give me something for the good news. Grandad Jorobek’s daughter-in-law had her baby this morning.’

‘Girl. They say they’ll call her Skylark because she was up with the dawn.’

‘That’s good. May she have a long life! Thanks for the news.’

I was very touched that this orphan boy should be so happy at a baby being born. Feeling pleased I turned back towards the house. How could I have been so thoughtless, clean forgetting all my worries of the previous days and nights? From the gate I shouted as I ran into the house, ‘Aliman, did you hear the news? Jorobek’s daughter-in-law Had a girl! Do you hear? The poor girl’s had a rough time; thank God it’s all over.’

I broke off abruptly, as if I had touched a raw nerve.

She was standing there silent, looking down, and biting her lip until it showed white. What was going through her mind at that moment? Perhaps that when she had her baby no one would bear the news with such joy? I was burning with shame at my stupidity. Not daring to look at her, I sat down before the fire and began piling on logs, though the fire didn’t need it. When I turned round she hadn’t moved, she was still standing there against the wall, her head hanging. My heart ached with pity and I forced myself to get up and go over to her.

‘What’s the matter? Are you poorly?’ I asked.

‘If the work’s too hard, why not take a rest?’

‘No, it’s not that. It isn’t hard stringing tobacco leaves.’

With that she went off to work.

I decided then we could not put it off any longer. It had to be said right away, there was nothing to be ashamed of, all new-born babies were the same and her child would be mine too; I would care for it as my own. Let that be clear. She mustn’t hang her head; she had to be proud, look people boldly in the eye. She had every right to be a mother.

Those were my thoughts as I ran after her, crying, ‘Aliman, wait for a minute. I want to talk to you. Wait.’

Pretending not to hear, she hurried on without a backward glance. All day long I worried about it, thinking it couldn’t go on, I’d tell her that night for certain, it would be easier for both of us. But it was not to be. When I got home from work that evening she was not there. After a while I began to get worried: what could have happened? Why was she so long? Just as I was going out to look for her I ran into Bektash coming through the gate with a great armful of green grass. Dumping it morosely into the trough he muttered to me in an undertone, ‘Auntie Tolgonai, Aliman asked me to tell you not to look for her. She said she was going back to her folk in Kaindy.’

My legs buckled under me as I sank on to the doorstep.

‘When did she go?’

‘After lunch, about two hours ago. She left in a passing lorry.’

I felt crushed, sick at heart, utterly miserable, as if my last hour had come. Meanwhile Bektash was doing his best to comfort me.

‘No, don’t you worry, Auntie Tolgonai, the driver took her into the cabin; it’s nice and warm there.’

‘Oh, Bektash, Bektash, if it were only that,’ I thought to myself. Still I was grateful to him for his clumsy attempt to console me.

He had become quite a strapping fellow by that time, working as horseman on the farm. As I gazed at him I marvelled how tall and broad-shouldered he’d grown. His walk and voice were manly, and he had a calm and friendly face. I had been fond of him as a child and was so glad he was with me at such a trying time. Bektash fetched some water from the ditch, put on the kettle, settled the yard dust with water and began to sweep up.

‘You sit back and rest, Auntie Tolgonai,’ he said. ‘I’ll spread a rug under the apple tree. Mother will be over shortly. She says she misses your tea; she won’t be long.’

After Aliman left the days dragged by interminably. How could I have thought I was lonely earlier? I had never known true loneliness. I stuck it for three days and no longer. My house was no home, my life wasn’t worth living. I might just as well up and wander about the world. Whenever I thought of Aliman and how she was faring, I felt even worse. It wouldn’t be so bad if her family at Kaindy received her well, but what if they taunted her about the time she’d refused to listen and told them not to meddle? Now here she was crawling back in shame, suddenly finding she needed them. They could say such things, they could indeed. And if they did, how was she taking it? She was so proud, could she bear the reproaches? God help us if she decided to end it all.

Oh Aliman, Aliman, if only you were here with me, I’d take the shame upon myself and never let anyone hurt you. I looked at it this way and that and finally made up my mind to go and see for myself, to try to coax her back. How wonderful if she were to return. But if not, well then, there’s nothing I could do. I’d give her my blessing, shed a tear and come home.

I decided to set out next day leaving Aisha to keep an eye on the house and cow. Bektash stopped a passing lorry for me, in I climbed and off I went to Kaindy.

When we had left the village behind and were driving along the dirt track, I spotted a women walking along the path through the stubble. I recognized her at once. It was Aliman, my dear, darling Aliman, coming back home to me. I banged my fists on the roof of the cabin, yelling ‘Stop, stop!’ But the lorry was going too fast to stop at once, and when it did I grabbed my bag and slid over the side.

The billowing dust enveloped everything around us in dense clouds. I even began to wonder if I’d dreamed it; but when the dust rolled off after the lorry there she was again.

‘Alima-a-an!’ I cried at the top of my voice.

I can’t remember how I reached her. All I know is that we hugged and kissed and cried. We had missed each other so badly that we couldn’t find words to express our feelings of the past few days. I embraced and stroked her face, repeating over and over again, ‘You’ve come back. You’ve come back, my little girl. You’ve come back to me, to Mother. You’ve come back.’

‘Yes, I have,’ she said. ‘I’ve come back to you, Mother. I’ve come back.’ While we stood there hugging each other, the child inside her suddenly moved, giving a couple of kicks. We both felt them. Aliman put her hands on her stomach an began to stroke it gently. The expression in her eyes at that moment seemed to alter my whole life: how could such awful thoughts about her have entered my head? Oh sacred motherhood! A single drop of happiness is worth a sea of sorrow. I pressed my face against her cheek and wept in shame.

‘My darling, sweetheart, dear gentle girl, how worried I was for you.’ ‘Don’t cry, Mother,’ she said. ‘Forgive me for being so silly. I cannot leave you, even if I tried, I can’t. I missed you so much.’ I felt that now was the time to have it out.

‘Why did you go? Were you angry with me?’

She was silent, as if weighting her words. Finally, she said with a sigh, ‘Please don’t press me, Mother. Why should you know? Say nothing and I’ll say nothing as well. Don’t torment me, Mother; it’s bad enough as it is.’

Once again she had avoided the issue. It was always the same. Why couldn’t she understand it only made things worse?

Autumn lingered long in rainy days that year; not a day passed without rain. Most of the time we sat home during those long, grey, drizzly spells. Aliman was as gloomy as the autumn weather: she became more and more morose, ceased talking and laughing altogether, ever lost in her own silent thoughts. I put it down to her being in the last days of pregnancy. No matter how I tried to cheer her up, crack a joke or show tenderness, it was all futile. She wasn’t a child any more to have her pain eased by jokes. I wasn’t the only one to try, others did their best to hep her over the worst, but it didn’t work.

Bektash brought us some straw one day and said his mother had taken to her bed again. I went to see her and found she was running a fever and had a bad chest.

‘It’s your own fault,’ I gently scolded her. ‘You know you have to take care of yourself and not go gallivanting round the countryside, especially in weather like this.’

She smiled guiltily. She could hardly complain since she and three other women had recently been to some wedding in the next village in Bektash’s cart. Just as I was on the point of leaving, Aisha kept me back.

‘Just a second, Tolgonai. There’s something I want to tell you; but don’t get angry.’

‘Well, what is it?’ I said, turning back from the door.

‘We didn’t go to any wedding. I’ve no relatives in that village and you know it. We decided we had to do something, even though we didn’t have your permission. We beg your pardon, Tolgonai, it was for the best. We found that fellow, you know, that young shepherd, and gave him a piece of our mind. We told him Aliman was expecting the child any day now, yet he hadn’t shown his face in the village again, not once. How could he do it? It was a disgraceful affair!’

‘But it didn’t have any effect. First, he has a wife already; and second, he couldn’t care less. He denied it all and didn’t want to know, not a scrap. At that juncture his wife realized what all the fuss was about. She turned out to be a real hussy, screaming blue murder, and the language! She swore at us and threw us out. On the way back home we got caught in a shower and were soaked to the skin. That’s how I caught cold; but that’s immaterial. What are we to do about Aliman?’

With that Aisha broke down and cried.

‘Don’t cry, Aisha,’ I said. ‘I’ll see no harm comes to her as long as I live.’

And I left. What else could I have said?

The days to come were difficult, her time was drawing near and from then on I didn’t let her out of my sight. If she went out I’d be right behind her, not more than a step behind. I was afraid of not being around to help her in labour. Otherwise I wouldn’t have got on her nerves as I did.

One day she wrapped herself up and put on her shawl. ‘Where are you going, my love?’ I said.

‘Down to the river.’

‘I wouldn’t if I were you. It’s a filthy day, especially by the river. Why don’t you stay at home?’

‘No, I’m going out,’ she muttered.

‘All right then, only I won’t let you go alone,’ I told her.

The look she gave me – as if all the pain she’d been nursing these past few days had turned to venom.

‘You’re not tied to me, you know!’ she cried. ‘What do you want of me? Why do you shadow me all the time? Leave me alone. Do you think I’ll drop dead or something?’

She slammed the door and was gone.

It was as if a door had slammed in my heart. I felt so wounded. Still, I could hardly sit at home, so I went outside to see where she was. She was nowhere to be seen; she must have gone down to the meadow.

The drizzle was no fine, it was almost invisible, more like cold steam. The wind was tugging at the grey shreds of cloud. The orchard looked forlorn, its trees bare and shivering, the branches wet and dark. Folk sat home on a day like this. The street was deserted. I could barely make out the ridges of the dark hills through the hazy mist.

After waiting for a few moments I went in pursuit. I didn’t care how cross she’d be, it would be worse if she were to lie down somewhere in the damp when her time came. As I came out on to the path behind the garden I saw her coming back, walking slowly, barely dragging her feet along, and her eyes cast down. I rushed back home, put the kettle on for some tea and whisked up some eggs and cream for pancakes. Then I spread a clean cloth on the rug and fetched some winter apples, choosing the rosiest. As she came in and saw the cloth, she gave a sad little smile.

‘You must be frozen stiff, my love,’ I said. ‘Come and have some tea and hot pancakes.’

‘No, I’m not hungry, Mother. I’ll have an apple though.’

‘Does it hurt very much? Do tell me,’ I said, trying to get it out of her. But she only said, ‘Don’t ask me, Mother. I don’t know what’s come over me. I hate myself. I had no right to shout at you like that. Better leave me in peace.’

And she gave a helpless wave of her hand.

Night fell and, as I was getting ready for bed, I kept mulling over the miserable fact that Aliman would find fault with whatever I said. I dropped off in that unhappy state of mind. Normally I’d wake up several times to see how she was, but that night sleep crushed me like a stone. If only I had known I’d never have shut my eyes – I wouldn’t have let my head touch the pillow for ten nights running.

I can’t remember when or why I suddenly woke up. As I looked around I saw she was gone. I was still half asleep and unable to take it in. At first I thought she’d popped outside, so I waited a bit. No, not a sound. Then I went over and felt her bed: it was cold. My heart froze – that meant she had been up for some time! Throwing some clothes on I rushed outside, searched every corner of the yard, ran round the garden, even out into the street. I have a shout, ‘Aliman, Aliman!’

But she did not answer. It only started dogs barking in the yards. Everything went black: she was gone. Where could she gave got to on such a dark night?

Dashing back indoors I lit a lantern and took it with me as I went in search of her. But just as I passed through the door I thought I heard a groan and cry over in the barn. Flying across the yard I tore open the barn door and all but dropped the lantern, unable to believe my eyes: she was lying on her back upon the straw; she was in labour and was tossing feverishly.

‘What are you up to?’ I shouted, crouching over her. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

I did my best to help, trying to lift her head, but couldn’t help shuddering as the blood soaked hem of her dress stuck to my arm. She was as hot as fire and gasped hoarsely and in pain, ‘I’m dying, I’m dying.’

She had obviously been there for some time.

‘God no, God no,’ I prayed, realizing she would never manage the birth by herself, that only a doctor could save her.

Leaving her for a moment I ran to Aisha’s, banging on the window as hard as I could.

‘Get up, get up quick! Bektash, harness the horses. Aliman’s in a bad way. Hurry, please, she’s very bad.’

Haven woken them I ran back to give Aliman some water. Her teeth rattled on the cup, she was shaking so violently she could hardly take two sips before starting to twist and moan again. At that moment Aisha arrived, all out of breath and hardly able to stand. The instant she saw Aliman she turned white and began to wail, ‘Aliman, darling, what it is then? Aliman, my child, don’t worry, we’ll have you in hospital soon.’

Oh, that rutted autumn road. Oh, that black accursed night. In those days the only hospital was over the river and the bridge was far downstream.

The moment we left the village her pains began again, she shrieked out and threw off the blankets. I was holding her head on my lap and kept covering her up, holding the lantern up to her face, looking into her eyes, trying to reassure her. Bektash did his best to comfort her as well.

‘Hold on, Aliman,’ he kept calling. ‘We’ll soon be there. You’ll see, we’ll be there in no time, we’re almost at the bridge now.’

In fact we were a fair distance from the bridge yet; we couldn’t whip up the horses too much as that would have shaken Aliman. Then the rain came down in buckets. It was as if all the elements were against us: the blackness of night, the freezing rain, the mud and potholes. All the while she was shaking with convulsions, groaning, shrieking; then abruptly she quietened down and began to gasp for air.

‘Aliman, Aliman, what’s the matter?’ I cried in alarm, putting my arm round her and holding up the lantern.

Her burning eyes stared at me.

‘Stop! I’m dying. Stop!’ she gasped through black, parched lips. And she began to choke.

‘Lift my head higher,’ she said. ‘I can’t breathe.’

She started to cry. Then hastily gulping back her tears, she began to speak, ‘Mother, dearest Mother….My insides are in fire, I’ve no strength left… I’m dying. Thanks for all you’ve done. Forgive me… if only Kasym were here….O-h-h, Kasym, I’m dying….Forgive me..’ ‘I began to plead, ‘No, my darling, you won’t die. Just hold on a bit longer, my love. We’re already at the bridge. Do you hear me, you won’t die.’

She was racked with pain. Clenching her teeth and fading fast, she fought hard with her remaining strength.

‘Bektash,’ I cried, ‘take her under the arms and lift her up. Hurry. And for God’s sake don’t be embarrassed about it.’

As he raised her up I tried to help the baby; but it was too much for Bektash and he burst into tears. Once again I heard all at once the roar

Of the troop train and the wheels clattering in my ears, the wind bearing the shout to us, ‘Mother-r-r! Alima-a-an!’

In that instant a baby’s cry rang out.

Oh life, why are you so cruel? Why are you so blind? Aliman’s child was born as she lay dying. I had time only to wrap the wet, naked little body in my skirt before glancing at the mother and seeing her hanging limply in Bektash’ arms, her head dangling sideways, her eyes as loose as un-cracked whips.

‘Aliman!’ I cried in strangled tones, grabbing her hand: there was no pulse.

In an instant life and death had clashed before our eyes.

When we turned back it was nearly dawn. Large white snowflakes were swirling in the twilight, falling softly to the ground. All was silent – not a sound, a white silence ruled the world. And through this white silence the weary horses with their white manes and white tails were plodding soundlessly: Bektash was sobbing noiselessly as he sat there in the cart, unable to drive the horses. They went homewards by themselves. He wept the whole way. I walked alongside, the child wrapped up against my breast beneath the warm jacket: I saw black instead white upon the ground.

That was my last reminder of war. The road I trod that morning was the hardest of my life; I felt more like dying than living. But the infant, warmed by my arms, was a wriggling, war, soft bundle that cried without cease. As I carried him I was telling him how unfortunate he was, how his first cry had been a farewell to his mother. Then, suddenly, from afar, came the thought; but the life has not died completely, a new shoot is growing.

Yet I immediately thought to myself, what sort of life is it without even tasting your mother’s milk? No, you won’t last long.

All the same, I so longed for the child to live that I prayed to fate, ‘At least let this one live. Please Don’t let him die. Maybe you can spare him somehow?’

Thus I trudged along, despairing, hoping, and despairing again, while day dawned unnoticed as we reached the village.

It was still snowing heavily and soundlessly, and the same white silence hung about us. Amid the silence the abandoned ruins of the unbuilt street were more terrifying than ever. Hardly a trace remained of the work begun seven years before. The snow swirled above the lifeless street, thickly covering the yawning gaps of the ruins and the forlorn clumps of dry nettles and reeds. In what was to have been Aliman’s and Kasym’s yard lay a heap of stones and rubble as a monument to their cares and dreams.

At peace forever, Aliman lay there pale, her eyes closed. Her head rocked from side to side as snow fell upon her face, unmalting.

As we reached the first houses, Bektash jumped down from the cart and for the first time in his life cried out loudly in a man’s wailing voice, announcing a death. Villagers came running out of their houses, crowding round us with tears in the eyes. Aisha came running too, wailing at the top of her voice; she took the child from me and carried it home.

We buried Aliman the next day. By custom a woman is not supposed to enter the cemetery, but I went and no one said a word. I had no men at home to keep me to tradition. I buried Aliman myself, laid her at the bottom of the grave and cast down the first handful of earth. The snow was thick and fluffy that day, and soon the red pile of clay became a white mound.

I planted flowers on her grave in springtime. I plant them every spring. She was so fond of flowers.

Well, life went on. At first Zhanbolot was nursed by old man Jorobek’s daughter, and then he began to take goat’s milk. We had our fair share of ups and downs, but that’s by the way. In short, fate had willed him to survive, and survive he did. And I thank fate for that. He is twelve now. The doctor who cared for him when he was little, now a famous man in these parts, always says when he meets me now, ‘Well, Grannie, how’s that grandson of yours coming along?’

‘He’s grand fellow now, thank God’, I say.

‘That’s good; bring him up a good man.’

He has known Zhanbolot and me a good few years now. The boy was only eighteen months then; he was a sickly child, naturally; once he caught a bad chill and was near to death’s door: his lips turned blue, he couldn’t open his eyes and could hardly breathe. I bundled him up and rushed him to hospital. It was the middle of the night again, and winter too, and I waded across the river. The doctor was only a young fellow, just out of college, I expect. When he saw me shivering from cold and drenched to the skin, he got quite a fright.

‘You must be mad,’ he said angrily. ‘Who let you cross the river? Where are his parents?’

‘I’m his father and mother, lad’, I said. ‘Don’t let him die. If he does, I shall too.’

‘All night long he stayed with the baby, giving him injections every two hours. He gave me some dry clothing and some medicine, but by morning I was all hot and coughing blood. I lay there in a burning haze, barely conscious. I only remember the doctor coming to my bed, putting his hand on my forehead and saying, ‘Don’t give in, Mother, hold on. Your grandson is already sitting up and laughing, he’s fine.’

‘Then I’ll recover too,’ I murmured.

That may be why I came through, because my grandson had lived. An interesting event occurred last summer. During the holidays Zhanbolot was playing outside and before I knew it had dragged Kasym’s old bike out into the yard, the one that had been hanging in the shed for twenty years. Well, he fetched it out and set to mending it. I didn’t say anything, thinking boys will be boys; he’d mess about with it for a while, and then forget it. There was hardly anything left to fix: the metal was all rusty and the tyres were cracked. When his playmates came over they laughed and said it was a pile of junk. He was stubborn though and kept at it. I don’t know if anything would have come of it if it hadn’t been for Bektash. He too set to work with exactly the same serious expression as a little kid, though he now has a family of his own. He’s very fond of Zhanbolot and always ready to pop inti the school to talk to the teachers. He married when his mother was still alive; she died about three years later.

I missed my dear neighbour. How much sorrow we’d been through together. Bektash had grown up into a fine man: intelligent and hard working. He has three children of his own now, and his wife Gulsun is a good neighbour to me. Bektash has been driving the combine for a good few years now.

So one day Zhanbolot showed up with his bike all cleaned and oiled, and all covered in grease himself.

‘Gran,’ he said, ‘see what Dad’s bike is like now.’

My hands went numb: his words made me both happy and sad. But he was bursting with pride.

‘I can ride it too. Just watch.’

His feet didn’t reach the pedals when he sat on properly, so he rode it side-saddle, leaning over. And off he went, wobbling from side to side, threatening to fall off at any moment.

‘Get off, you’ll fall, I shouted.

But that only made him go faster. Through the gate and into the street, with me in pursuit. He was pedalling fast down the street when he suddenly lurched and fell headlong, bike and all. He came a real cropper.

As I ran up I helped him to his feet, scolding him, ‘Do you want to kill yourself, or what? Don’t you dare ride it again?’

‘I won’t fall off again, Gran,’ he said. ‘I just wanted to have a go, I’ve never fallen off before.’

I burst out laughing. Then I noticed Bektash at the gate. Just standing there, as if by chance, standing and looking on. He said nothing, nor did I, yet we understood each other.

Shortly after that, harvesting got underway. One evening Bektash dropped in and asked if he could take Zhanbolot to give him a hand with the combine.

‘If you think he’ll manage, take him,’ I said.

Though I gave my permission, two days later I went to see how he was doing. He was still a child, after all. Harvesting could be tough work.

I found him helping out on the combine, and when he saw me he yelled as if from mountain top, ‘Gran, over here!’

Bektash gave a wave from behind the wheel, and a happy nod.

I sat in the shade of a tree by the ditch until late evening watching the harvesting. Lorries kicked up clouds of dust as they drove back and forth, taking the grain for threshing.

At dusk the drivers came over for a rest. Zhanbolot looked weary and proud as he walked along, trying to copy Bektash; then just as silently and snorting just as noisily began to wash to the waist in the ditch. And when he saw the little bundle in my hand, he cried out happily, ‘Gran, did you bring some apples?’

‘Yes, I did,’ I said.

He ran over, put his arms round me and gave me a kiss. Bektash chuckled.

‘What are you acting so big for? You should have done that right away. Go on, give your Grannie a hug, you won’t have time to hug her later.’

We had some supper on the grass by the field van. The bread was hot, straight out of the oven. Zhanbolot crumbled the rolls.

‘Here, Gran,’ he said.

I blessed the bread and, taking a bite, tasted the familiar flavour of the combine operator’s hands: paraffin, metal, hay and ripe grain. Yes, exactly as it had been before. The tears in my throat washed it down as I thought: Bread is immortal. Do you hear me, Kasym my son? Life is immortal and labour is immortal.

The men would not let me go home, saying I was their guest and ought to stay the night in the field. They made me up a bed of straw. As I gazed up at the sky that night I fancied I saw the Milky Way sprinkled with fresh golden straw, strewn grain and chaff. Amid the starry heavens, across Harvester’s Way, like a distant song, a troop train was fading into the distance, its wheels very faint. I fell asleep to the fading sound, happy that today a new farmer had taken his place in the world. May he live long! May he have as much grain as there are stars in the sky!

I rose at dawn and started for home, not wanting to disturb the combine operators.

It was a long time since I had seen such a wonderful sunrise over the hills. It was a long time since I had heard a skylark singing so sweetly. It flew higher and higher into the brightening sky, hanging suspended like a grey speck, beating and fluttering like the human heart, its song ringing out across the prairie.