Ch 45
The Volga river turned outside the village of Topol, like a mother cradled her child in her arm. A quiet, beautiful and blooming village. It was hard to believe that sixty years ago when the Fascists were driven away, inside the Mother Volga's arm was a wasteland soaked in blood.
"To get control of Topol, we played tug of war with the enemy for a whole week outside the city of Stanlingrad." The old professor accompanied by his family and Mrs. Beilschmidt was filled with complex emotions after stepping on the land of Topol and seeing the tremendous change. "So the war has really been over for sixty years…"
The war had been over for sixty-six years and he hadn't seen Wang Yao for six-nine years.
"Are you looking for that Chinese man? Yes, he's always been young. He's in my home, I can take you there…"
The woman leading them was walking fast, remaining silent for the whole time. Afterwards, the professor couldn't recall how he felt then. All he remembered was that as soon as he walked into the woman's home, the portrait painting hanging on the living room wall dived right into his heart.
It was a true work of art that cannot be replicated, just like his youth and his love. It was like a real person, especially those dark round eyes—dignified, clear, tender and direct, just like seventy years ago.
"This is life itself!" The professor heard Mrs. Beilschmidt exclaimed behind him, "This is life itself…"
"My grandmother Nina Vasilyevna Samoylova was a nurse in the Volkhov division during the war. In 1945, she brought this portrait painting from the front." The housewife of this home handed a letter to the professor, "Last year before she passed away, she instructed us that if anyone comes here asking for the person in the painting, give him this letter."
…
…I want to write down the story about this portrait painting—not only is it my only memento from the frontline, but as a generation that is slowly leaving this world, I have the responsibility to leave to my children those memories that shall never be forgotten.
In the spring of 1944 during the battle reclaiming Novgorod, I pulled down a young reconnaissance lieutenant from the battleline. He had fatal injury in his abdomen. Before he died, he was still comforting me, "Don't cry…dying isn't scary…dying…is going back to mother…the land is mother…"
But I fell on his body and cried out loud. Over the three years, there were so many young, beautiful and brave people that I couldn't save and I thought that I had run out of tears…These are the things I found from his body: officer identification, two letters that were sealed in envelopes with addresses written on them, and a small note that wrote "If I died, please send the letters to my family and my lover on the day of victory. Reconnaissance lieutenant, Wang Yao."
I was in Moscow on the day of victory and sent out the two letters. One was to Yan'an in China and the other one was to Bereza that was 150 kilometers away from Moscow. Then, I returned to my homeland of Topol on the Volga carrying only this lieutenant's portrait on me. I carried this portrait on my body for over a year. It was found in his chest pocket when I was preparing his body along with a family photo and a star chart drawn in pencil. I burried the last two items with him, but couldn't for the life of me part with this portrait painting. That dignified and tender look and that faint smile eluting from his eyes all called out to me, that the land merely burried his body. The young man's beautiful soul still lived inside this vivid portrait…
I was planning to donate the painting to the war museum, but couldn't bear the thought of letting him live all alone inside the cold exhibition window. He's alive and should have gone home with me, even though all my families were killed during Nazi occupation…Life was hard after the war, but whenever I looked at the portrait on the wall and to those vivid eyes, I felt the utmost solace. "Little Nina, good Nina. Be brave. You have family here…" Later, I finally got married and had children. Day after day, year after year, this foreign young man was like my closest brother, witnessing how my family that had been destroyed by the war slowly rebuilt and bloomed into prosperity…
I lived in Topol for decades. When I worked in the field, I looked at the land that never surrendered under the iron hoof and continued feeding her children after warfire, I couldn't help but remember his last word, "The land is mother". To be able to speak such words, he must have understood and loved the land very much. I read from books that his homeland, the land of China, was also like our Russian land that had endured much burden but still flower in the spring.
I don't know about painting. But I always thought that to create such a marvelous portrait painting for such a young man, it requires much more than technique! And the older I get, the more I am convinced by the idea that this portrait's creator must have the deepest understanding and love of the entirety of his soul. Because on this soldier's foreverly young face, there is the deep thought and loneliness caused by the war's torment, but also boundless hope and faith towards life and future which was a result of his youtful nature—and that, my dear, is the love that belonged to our generation…
The most comforting thing for our generation heading to old age was that the people later on never forget about the war. Take our relative's child for instance—ten years ago, the little guy was no more than three years old, but he stared at the portrait in deep thought. Two years later when I visited him in Moscow, he asked me, "Grandma Nina, how come that uncle isn't coming with you?" Then, I realized that whether a person had gone through war or not, that portrait was alive to him. I didn't correct the child's apparently confused memory and just simply said, "Dear boy, he's very well. He's always together with us…"
Last year, I heard that the boy got into the Moscow Art Academy. I believe that he'll be a brave person all his life, because whoever had been touched by that portrait's youthful soul will never surrender in life's struggle.
My dear children, do you understand now? That is life…
…
"I'm going back to mother…"
There was only one short sentence in the letter he received in 1945. If he was indeed as Nina Samoylova had said, "with deepest understanding and love of the entirety of his soul", then he should had realized by then.
He should had realized all along! When Wang Yao lied in his arms, he had told him that the land is mother.
But he didn't. As a punishment, the injury from the spring of 1944 had tortured him with angina for the rest of his life.
Ivan gingerly walked near, and placed his wrinkled face closed to his lover's foreverly young face.
"This is life…"
This is life itself. It had escaped all obligations and worries from this world and joined as a part into the all-loving land. The land was never divided by borders. She spreaded herself from the Volga river plain that was covered in bird cherry flowers to the bank of the Yellow River where iris blossomed.
"Please, my lady." Ivan reached out his clumsy hands to wipe away the rolling tears from Elizaveta Beilschmidt's face, "He doesn't need tears…"
Before leaving Topol, Ivan left the little white horse pendant which was tied with a hair band to the young housewife of the Samoylova's. "We will cherish this white horse pendant, just as we do with the protrait." The housewife said solemly, "He has always been a part of our family."
The education expert Mrs. Beilschmidt said goodbye to him at the train station.
"When you get old, you got to believe in those magical things." She said embarrassedly, "Although we only get to be young once…professor, may I ask you a favor? Could you call me 'general' one more time…"
He complied. The old former scout raised his shaky hand and saluted solemly to "General Elizaveta".
"How nice…" She smiled like a little girl with her green eyes glistering tears, "I can give orders again. Comrade, I order you to be young once more…"
May 8, 2011, Ivan Braginsky went home to Moscow. Without a second of rest, he sat in front of that unfinished portrait for a long time and stared at the non-existent eyes below those handsome brows.
"One only get to be young once." He said, "But you have been young for so many years, and you shall continue to be young, forever and ever… "
With a brief moment of thought, the professor took up the brush and painted under those brows, as if wary of the fleeting time. At the age of ninty years, it had been long since he painted with a young man's agile mind as he did today.
The next day was May 9. The professor entrusted his son to carry the protrait to the exhibit. By evening, his students came to Braginsky's apartment, cheering downstairs to let their respected teacher know what a great success this painting had achieved.
The professor quietly looked over to them from the balcony. Each of them were very young.
As the last trace of laughter had retreated from the campus, the brilliant Milky Way had lay high above him, like a brilliant trail of footsteps, crossing over the field-like night sky and spreading out into the faraway distance.
"Stars are the footprints of scouts. The Milky Way is the road of us scouts…"
A dull pain was pounding in his chest, and what accompanied was a buzzling noise by his ears. He covered his hands on his chest and murmured,
"For the sake of an old man, just let go of me once. You have been torturing me for sixty years anyway…"
He slowly walked down the stairs, pushed open the door and immersed himself into the lovely lukewarm night of May. The buzzling noise gradually transformed into a clopping sound of a horse. In the whole wide world, there was only one horse with such crisp and powerful clops.
"Kostya, my good boy!" He called out in tenderness, "My dear Kostya!"
Suddenly, a giant shadow casted on him. He raised his old eyes—there, a white horse with long silver mane was standing faithfully in front of him. The horse was muscular and in perfect build, truly a magnificent steed that could catch the stream of time. And he, the magnificent rider Vanya. Only such white horse could match as his ride.
A foreverly young scout was sitting on Kostya's back and reached out his hand to him,
"Come, Vanya! Let's go back to our own people!"
The thick white birch leaves rustled above his head, as if all the years and ages had fleet from his body.
Just as the all-knowing, all-being "General Elizaveta" had ordered, scout Vanechka had been young once again. He held onto Wang Yao's hand, hopped on the saddle and flied away on the starry road of the scouts, chasing after their own people.
[End]
Ivan: 1921—2011
Wang Yao: 1923—1944
Toris: 1922—2005
Natasha: 1923—2005
Tonya: 1916—1978
Elizaveta: 1935—
Wang Chunyan: 1930—
Music suggestions:
Tchaikovsky 5th symphony
Rachmaninoff 2nd piano concerto
Shostakovich 7th symphony