Ch 34 Night

If, during that evening, Ivan could have looked out from his sister's apartment window, he would be able to see the person that occupied his heart for day and night was standing across the street by the nursery. But until Wang Yao and "General" Elizaveta kissed goodbye and left the street, he was still leaning against the window without a clue. People often passed by each other unknowingly.

His big sister, niece and mother—whom came from Bereza to Moscow to look after her pregnant daughter—were all pleasantly surprised by his visit. They blamed him for keeping his hospital stay a secret and only dropping by on the day before returning to duty. "Because I wanted to spend some time alone." Ivan explained apologetically.

Orignally, he planned to stay for a few hours, but ended up staying from morning to evening. He knew that as soon as he left here, he would go directly to his original troop, to hug that lean body one more time and kiss those solitary dark eyes. After that, he would walk away in a soldier's manner and never look back.

No, Vanya, do not disappoint the bullet's kindness. This uninvited guest dived into his left shoulder to bestow them a hurried parting, for the sole purpose of preventing them from drowning in the agony. For people destined to part, tasting the pain alone was kinder and easier on the mind than pouring out to each other. It was exactly based on such regard that fate sent forth a small bullet. It did not treat them too harshly.

Fate would not give him a chance of reversing the destined order. Wang Yao was going to be transferred—maybe he was already on the road by this time. He heard the news from a wounded soldier from the same company just two days prior to his discharge.

"I'm a man of happiness. Whatever I wish to do can all be accomplished!"

The precious, childish pride! It never appeared on him ever since he realized that Wang Yao would leave him one day.

Ivan talked to his mother and big sister with such a state of mind and with a tone of an adult man, not shying away from their womanly look of keenness and sympathy. His sister sighed, "Vanechka…maybe I shall call you Vanya from now on. You are a grown man after all…"

His eyes fell on the wall above his sister's head where her wedding photo was hanging. In the photo, his sister was wearing that favorite dress, and was happier and more beautiful than any moments in her brother's memory. Beside her stood the young and handsome pilot, Andrei Orlov. It was this man who brought his sister to Moscow seven years ago.

"Andrei!" he exclaimed without words to his brother-in-law's lively and cheerful eyes, "You are the one who got it all…"

Just then, the door bell rang. Little Lyuba ran to the door like always. The postman's silhouette flashed through the door, then Lyuba waved a letter in her hand triumphantly, about to run back to them—in a split of second, Ivan saw it clear as day. Regular letters from the frontier would be folded into triangles, but this one was contained in a white, rectangular envelope.

"Stop!"

Ivan yelled with a terrifyingly loud voice, then rushed there in large steps and grabbed the letter from his dumbfounded niece. Now, he could already see the military postmark and typewritten address. He ripped open the envelope and, after finished reading the first line, crumbled the letter inside his spasdic palms.

"Come back!" He ran to the window and waved his fist to the street covered in dusk, yelling furiously, "Wrong address! We don't accept stuff like this!"

But the postman already got out from the next unit, mounted his bicycle and fleet as if running for his life. A heart-broken howling came from next door.

He turned around with weakness, finding his sister stiffly lying in bed and her face became bloodless. His mother's white-haired head snuggled next to her daughter's face and whimpered something in low voice. Only little Lyuba was staring at him in fright with eyes wide-open. His clenched fist loosened and the crumpled letter fell on the floor. It was a letter that could not possibly be false. The letter could not be crumpled, amended, torn or burned. It was a piece of paper of eternal proof—"killed in action".

The night outside suffused into the room.

"Let me draw up the curtain and turn on the light." Ivan finally broke the dead silence.

He heard his sister's tiny voice, "What does light have to do in a widow's room…"

"There needs to be light. A hero's soul is bright. How can we mourn for him in darkness?"

As the room was lit up once again, little Lyuba walked to Ivan and pulled his sleeve. "Uncle," she whispered, "What's a widow?"

In Lyuba's five years' of life, this was the first time she heard the word. Before he figured out how to reply, his sister's screaming outcry scared Lyuba to have fearfully grabbed his body.

The first thought came into his mind was to send her to the hospital. But as an experienced woman, his mother instead said, "Lyuba! Go upstairs to fetch aunt Ilinichna! Vanya, you go sit in the study…"

…He was sitting in the study, hearing all the sounds from outside: his sister's crying and screaming from the unbearable pain; the instructions from Ilinichna, the obstetrician; the bustling commotions from his mother and other female neighbors who came over to help; little Lyuba's bewildered sobbing…At this moment, among the women's nervousness and grief, Ivan felt absolutely useless. He fixed his eyes on a photo underneath the glass top of the desk—there, air force captain Andrei was looking at him with a broad smile. How handsome, confident, brave and full of joy—Ivan Branginsky's brilliant brother-in-law.

"Andrei…would a person like you die, too? Yao, would a person like you die, too? And me…would a person like me die, too…"

The boundless passion and faith towards the youthful life inside his heart broke open a crack in that very second. He just wanted to cry out loud. But then, from the top shelf he brought down a box full of paints, brushes and canvas. Influenced by her uncle, five-year-old little Lyuba already started her painting lessons.

Where seperated by a wall was the mourning for death and the welcome of a new life. In this very moment, an extraordinarily fierce emotion urged Ivan Braginsky to make the painting. It was not the sketch made by half a pencil on a small piece of paper at the frontline; it was like the times before the war when he used to paint formally with brushes on canvas. He couldn't stop, as if all the inspirations from the past and future all joined together under his brush in this sorrowful night.

"Vanya! You are life itself!"

His loved one's voice abruptly came up in this small room, overwhelming the scream and crying from a wall's distance away, overwhelming the rumbling sound of bombing in the faraway battlefield, overwhelming the roaring wind above the tombs of deceased soldiers, overwhelming all imaginable honours, and death. And life.

"This, is life…"

As he finally put down the brush, he could no longer hold back and hot tears rolled down his face.

In front of him was a true portrait. Solemn, bright, tender and frank—Wang Yao was staring at him from the canvas like a real person. The dark round eyes were painted last and, just as Wang Yao had said, were truly like drawing eyes for a dragon.*

"This is life…"

When the paint had dried, the day broke out the first light outside the window. He rolled up the canvas with great care and carried it under his coat. Just then, he heard a loud and clear cry, and then, his big sister's weak but firm voice, "Bring me my little Andrei…"

It was decided at that moment that this little boy would grow up bearing his deceased father's name. Ivan walked out of the study, looked over everyone's shoulders at that small baby with warmheartedness, then quietly sneaked out the door. He almost bumped into Natasha at the doorway.

"Vanya! I was finally permitted to leave. I hurried over there, but they said that you were discharged. So I thought you must've come here…" With another sound of the baby's cry, Natasha's face first flashed through a moment of astonishment, then smile, "What a surprise! A nephew or a niece?"

"Aunt Natasha!" Lyuba ran to her like a little bird. Natasha leaned down, then Lyuba said in a low, mysterious voice, "I have a little brother! And there was a letter yesterday, and mama said she's widow now. She's so sad! But nobody told me what a widow is. I don't want to see mama being sad, so I decide to be a widow with mama together. Auntie, come and be widow with us. Everybody be widow so mama won't feel so lonely…"

Lyuba chattered without stop, but Ivan already ran down the street as if running for his life, like that postman who delivered death notices.

*"Drawing eyes on a dragon" = Chinese proverb meaning to put the finishing touch