Half a Life

by Kir Bulychev

translated by Bill Bowler

Nadezhda Sidorova has survived WWII, endured the death of her husband in a car crash, and is struggling to raise her little girl Olya while working as a nurse. Nadezhda has paid her dues, more than her share, and seems now finally on the verge of finding a better life with the kind and loving Timofei. Events suddenly jolt Nadezhda onto a new and unexpected course. She faces a greater struggle than any she has yet endured or could even have imagined.

Chapter 4

part 1 of 4

I found this paper two months ago but could not figure out what to use to write on it. Only yesterday I realized that right next door, in the room the dummies watch, is a collection of stones resembling graphite. I sharpened one of them. And now I will write.

The following day, in Nadezhda’s cabin, Pavlysh saw long columns of scratches on the wall and guessed how she had kept track of the days.

I have wanted to keep a diary for a long time, because I want to hope that sometime in the future, even if I’m no longer alive on that beautiful day, someone will find me. It is not possible to live with no hope at all. At times I’m sorry that I am not a believer. I would have been able to trust in God and think that this was all — a trial from above.

The page ended here. Pavlysh understood that the sheets of paper were stacked in order, but this did not mean that Nadezhda wrote in her diary every day. Sometimes, no doubt, weeks would pass before she could have a chance to continue.

They were fussing about today. I felt even more miserable. I was coughing again. The air in here is dead. Surely, a person can get used to anything, even to confinement. But the most difficult thing is to be completely alone. I’ve started talking to myself out loud. At first, I was embarrassed. I was self-conscious, as if someone might overhear me. But now I even sing.

I need to write down how all this happened to me. God forbid someone should wind up in the same place. But today, I felt miserable, and when I went to the garden, I got so out of breath along the way that I had to sit and lean against the wall. The dummies had to drag me back barely alive.

Two days later, Pavlysh found what Nadezhda had called a garden. It turned out to be a large hydroponic hub and something like a botanical garden.

I am writing now because I can’t go anywhere anyway. The dummies won’t let me out. No doubt I’ll have to wait while they make a new addition to our family. Only I don’t know if I’ll see...

The third sheet was written in much smaller, more precise letters. Nadezhda was economizing on paper.

If some day, people find their way here, they should know the following about me. My full name is Nadezhda Matveyevna Sidorova. My year of birth was 1923. My place of birth — the village of Gorodishche in the Yaroslav region. I finished high school in the village and was preparing to enroll in the institute, but my father, Matvey Stepanovich, passed away.

It was hard for my mother to work at the collective farm and take care of our household by herself. Because of this, I went to work at the farm, though I did not give up hope of getting a higher education. When my sisters Vera and Valentina grew up, I fulfilled my dream and enrolled in the nursing institute in Yaroslavl. I finished in 1942, and was called to active duty. I joined the army and spent the war serving in hospitals as a nurse.

When the war ended, I returned to Gorodishche and went to work in the local hospital in the same capacity. I got married in 1948. We moved to Kalyazin, and in the next year I gave birth to a daughter Olyenka. However, my husband, Nikolai Ivanov, a chauffeur, died in an accident in 1953. So Olyenka and I were left alone.

Pavlysh sat on the floor, inside the white tent that stretched across one corner of his little cabin. He read Nadezhda’s autobiography out loud. It was not hard to decipher the handwriting. She wrote neatly, in round letters that leaned to the right. In places, the graphite had turned to powder and sprinkled off. Pavlyshev tilted the sheet to make out the letters from the impressions left on the page. He put aside one sheet and carefully picked up the next, expecting the story to continue where it had left off.

“That means, in ’53 she was already thirty years old,” said Sato.

“Keep reading,” said Dag.

“This page is about something else,” said Pavlysh. “I’ll read it through myself first.”

“Read it to us now.” Dag felt insulted.

Pavlysh thought suddenly how long it had been since Dag had envied him and how, in general, they were rarely envious of each other.

They dragged in some new ones today. They put them on the lower floor, in some empty cages. I was not able to see how many new ones there were, but I think there were several. The dummy closed the door and would not let me out.

I suddenly realized that I envied them. Yes, I envied these unhappy creatures, now torn forever from their families and homes, confined in prison for sins they had never committed. For they were many, maybe three, maybe five. And I was completely alone.

Time here passes uneventfully. If I hadn’t accustomed myself to work, I would long ago have died. And how many years have I been here? To me, it seems to be the fourth year. I’ll have to keep track, to keep count by scratches in the wall. But I’m afraid I’ll confuse the count. After all, I didn’t keep track when I was sick, and it was only the thought of Olyenka that helped me come back from the edge.

And so? I keep myself busy. The dummy brought me a thread and some wire. They understand something at least. I found a needle on the third floor, though the dummy wanted to take it from me. He was scared, the poor little guy.

“And?” asked Dag.

“I can’t read the whole thing at once,” answered Pavlysh. “Hold on. It looks like it continues here.”

I’ll put these pages in order later. I keep thinking that someone will read them. I will no longer exist. My dust will have scattered to the stars, but the pages will survive.

I ask you, please, whoever reads this, find my daughter Olga. She may already be grown up. Tell her what happened to her mother. Though she’ll never find my grave, it will still be easier for me to think she knows. If someone had told me that I would end up in a terrible prison, that I would live, but everyone would think that I was no longer alive, I would have died from horror. And yet I do live.

I hope Timofei doesn’t think I dumped my little girl on him and ran off. No, most likely they searched the channel, thinking that I had drowned. I will remember that night vividly for the rest of my days because it was so extraordinary. And not because of my misfortune, but the opposite. Something was about to change in my life... And it did change, though not that way.

“No,” said Pavlysh, putting the page aside. “It gets personal here.”

“What’s personal?”

“This part’s about Timofei. We don’t know him. Some acquaintance of hers, maybe from the hospital. Hold on, I’ll look ahead.”

“Don’t edit!” exclaimed Dag. “If you rush, you may leave out something important.”

“I won’t leave out anything important,” answered Pavlysh. “These papers are very old. We can’t find her, can’t save her. We may as well be reading cuneiform. There’s not much difference.”

After Nikolai’s death, Olyenka and I were completely alone, except for my sister. But she and her family lived far away. They had their own lives and their own worries. Olyenka and I lived modestly. I worked in the hospital and was appointed head nurse in the spring of 1956. Olyenka had to start school in the fall, first grade.

I had marriage proposals, including one from a doctor at our hospital, truly a good person, an older man. But I refused him because I thought my time had passed. Olyenka and I were fine together. I had help from my husband’s brother, Timofei Ivanov, an injured veteran who worked as a forest ranger not far from the city.

My troubles began at the end of August in 1956. I don’t remember now the exact date, but I remember what happened on that Saturday evening... We had had a lot of work at the hospital because it was the time when people took their summer vacations and I was subbing for my colleagues. Fortunately, Timofei, as always, took Olyenka to live with him in his little home. I went there on Saturdays by bus, and then walked by foot. I rested really well if it turned out I had a free Sunday. His house was in a pine forest not far from the Volga.

Pavlysh grew silent.

“Well, what’s next?” asked Dag.

“Wait a minute. I’m looking for the page.”

I will try to describe in detail what happened next, because as a nurse I understand the importance of a correct diagnosis, and someone may need to know all these details. Maybe my description, if it falls into the hands of a specialist, will help him recognize similar occurrences, if there are any.

That evening, Timofei and Olyenka came with me to the river where I washed the dishes. At that spot, the road from Timofei’s home runs right up to the water. Timofei wanted to wait for me, but I was afraid Olyenka would get chilled because the evening was not warm. I asked him to return home, and told him I’d be right there.

It was not yet completely dark. Two or three minutes after my dear ones had left, I heard a faint buzzing. I wasn’t frightened at first because I thought it must be a motorboat on the Volga, some distance from me. But then an unpleasant feeling took hold of me, as if a presentiment of something bad. I looked up the river. I saw no motorboat...

Pavlysh found the next page.

... but I did see, coming in my direction, a bit higher than my head, a flying craft, similar to a submarine, with no wings. It seemed to me as if it were silver. The craft came down directly in front of me, cutting me off from the road.

I was quite amazed. During the war years, I had seen all kinds of military technology and thought at first this must be some kind of new plane making a forced landing because its motor had failed. I wanted to move aside and hide behind the pines for protection in case there was an explosion. But iron claws extended from the hull, and dummies poured out of the craft. I did not yet know that these were dummies, but at that moment I blacked out and must have fallen...

“Then what?” asked Dag, when the pause had lasted too long.

“That’s it,” answered Pavlysh.

“But what happened?”

“She doesn’t say.”

“Well what did she write next?”

I know the way to the lower floor. There’s a corridor from the garden that the dummies don’t watch. I really wanted to get a look at the new arrivals, since none of my neighbors possess the faculty of reason.

I’ve taught myself to go to the dragon in his cage. I had been afraid earlier, but I saw somehow that the dummies were feeding him grass from the garden. At that time, I thought he might eat me. I might have avoided going in to him for much longer, but somehow I was passing by and saw that he was sick.

The dummies were fussing with him, giving him food, measuring something, touching him. But he lay on his side breathing heavily. So I walked right up to the cage and looked in. After all, I’m a nurse, and my duty is to ease suffering.

I could do nothing for the dummies. They’re made of metal. I examined the dragon, although through the bars. He had a wound, probably had tried to escape and thrown himself against the bars. He was very strong, though God was stingy with his brains.

At this point I got desperate. Life is cheap, I thought. He’ll get used to me. After all, he was captured before I was. He’s seen me hundreds of times. I told the dummies not to interfere, but to bring warm water. Of course, I was taking a risk. I couldn’t diagnose him, couldn’t do anything really. But his wounds were festering, and I cleaned them, and bandaged him as best I could. The dragon did not resist. He even turned, so I could work more comfortably.

The next page, apparently, had fallen here from the bottom of another packet and seemed disconnected from the previous pages.

Today I sat down to write but my hands are shaking. The bird broke free from its cage. The dummies chased her down the corridors and caught her with a net. I also wanted to catch her. I was afraid she would hurt herself. But it was no use. The bird flew out into the big hall, hit a pipe in mid-flight, and fell.

Later, when the dummies had dragged her to their museum, I picked up a feather, long and fine, resembling a blade of grass. I felt sorry for the bird, and envied her. At least she found in herself the strength to die, if it turned out escape to freedom was impossible. Even a year ago, such an example might have had a decisive influence on me. But now, I am busy. I can’t waste myself for nothing. So what if my goal is unreal, it still exists.

And so, unnerved and pensive, I followed the dummies. They forgot to close the door to the museum behind them. I couldn’t go all the way in — there’s no air in there — but I looked through the glass wall. I saw jars, cubes, vessels, in which the dummies have preserved those who didn’t survive the journey, preserved them in formaldehyde or something similar, like deformed specimens in the science museum in Leningrad.

I understood that, let a few more years pass, and I won’t be cremated or buried, but put on display in a glass jar to be admired by the dummies and their masters. And I grew bitter. I told Bal about it. He also bristled and made me understand he feared the same thing. And so I sit with my sheet of paper, and imagine myself preserved in a glass jar.

A few days later, Pavlysh found the museum. The intense cold had frozen the liquid in which the exhibits were preserved. Pavlysh slowly walked from vessel to vessel, peering into the frozen jars. He was afraid he would find Nadezhda. In his ears, Dag and Sato impatiently interrupted each other.

“Well?”

Pavlysh shared Nadezhda’s fear. Anything would be better than a jar with formaldehyde. True, he found the jar with the bird, an ephemeral rainbow-like creation with a long tail, and a head with large eyes and no beak. And he found another jar with Bal in it. That was the subject of the following pages.

Proceed to part 2...