Tursun was now
nineteen. He looked every inch the dzhigit:
tall, handsome, serious like his father, equally hard-working and with a pure
nature. Now the story of his love began. One of his fellow students at the
Zharkent pedagogical institute was Saadat, who also came from Bolshoy Chigan. They
became friends, then fell in love, then swore that they would spend their lives
together. So Tursun the dzhigit planned
that once their studies were over, he would make a formal proposal of marriage,
sending a matchmaker to Saadat’s home. But meanwhile there had come this terrible
– interruption. No more studying for him, no more thoughts of marriage – he had
to prepare to leave for the front.
On the day before his departure he
and Saadat met for the last time in the garden of her house. The young man and
woman stood with their gaze fixed upon each other. The warm evening darkened
into night. Tursun embraced Saadat tightly and kissed her lips; she laid her
head on his chest, and so they stood together beneath an apple tree. They heard
a nightingale singing and they felt the beating of their own hearts. Tursun’s
arms were strong but tender, and there was a soft aroma in Saadat’s hair of
peach and honey.
‘Saadat, do you know how many men
and their girls are saying goodbye right now?’
‘Damn this war! It’s ruined our
lives. I’m afraid, Tursun!’
‘Yes, it’s hard for us to endure.’
‘If something happens to you in the
fighting I won’t be able to live. I’ll die.’ Her voice was trembling and her eyes
were filled with tears.
‘Don’t talk like that. We’ll win and
come home victorious. Then we’ll invite the whole village to our wedding, and
afterwards we’ll live together for the rest of our lives.’ He held her still
tighter.
‘I just hope so much that you’re
right.’
‘When I come back, you’ll probably already
be working as a teacher.’
‘No, I probably won’t be able to
finish my studying because of the war.’
‘Well in that case we’ll both finish
our studies together. Then we’ll teach children and educate them. Other
people’s and our own.’ He looked into Saadat’s eyes.
‘That would be so wonderful,’ she
sighed. Her reddened eyes moistened again.
‘Come on, let’s walk round the
streets so I can say goodbye to them.’
They wandered at length through the
familiar streets and corners, holding hands, then at last returned to the
garden. Saadat went back to the apple tree and took her bag from a branch,
where she had hung it while they went walking. From the bag she took out a togach – a small round nan, and turned to her dzhigit: ‘Bite off a piece. I will keep
the rest until you come back.’
Tursun looked at her tenderly.
‘Let’s each eat a piece, and then we’ll finish it – but only after the war.
Shall we?’
That endless night of farewell, they
each took one bite of the togach. Then
Saadat wrapped the remainder in a kerchief, placed it in her bag and again hung
the bag on the branch. The full moon, an involuntary witness to their vows, now
hid behind a cloud. They settled down beneath the apple tree. Saadat took a
white handkerchief from her pocket and gave it to Tursun. Tursun unfolded it,
and saw a picture embroidered in coloured stitches: a bird flying towards a
bush, in which another bird sat waiting.
‘That’s a very wise piece of
stitching,’ he grinned.
‘The bird in the bush is me,’ Saadat
explained, slightly embarrassed. ‘I hope that you will come home from the war
and back to this garden. I will be waiting for you here. Just be sure to come
back!’
‘I shall keep this handkerchief like
the pupil of my eye,’ said Tursun, as he folded the handkerchief and placed it
in the inside pocket of his jacket.
Unable to bear to part, they sat for
a long time under the tree, and after a while they found themselves overcome by
tenderness, passion and despair. Saadat melted into her beloved’s arms and gave
herself up to him. Afterwards, confused and agitated, they could not look each
other in the eye, but sat a while in silence. The moon, emerging from the
clouds for a moment, seemed to ask them: ‘Hey, happy ones! What’s life going to
bring you now, what lies in store for you?’ Then it paled a little and slid
away through the night sky.
It began to grow light; the garden
turned from black to grey, and then all its bright colours began to show. Now
Tursun was more consumed by trepidation than ever. ‘Oh Allah,’ he thought,
‘Will I ever see my home again, my father and mother, my friends, my
sweetheart?’ He pulled at a flower and placed it in Saadat’s hair, then lay his
head in her hands and closed his eyes. She felt two hot tears on her palms, and
she also wept softly. After a while Tursun kissed her again, took her wet face
in his hands and looked at her and went on looking. She sank into his gaze that
was so full of longing and tenderness.
‘Look after yourself, and whatever
happens, come back,’ she whispered at last, and went towards the house, looking
back at him time and time again.
Tursun was just entering his house
when he met his father coming out. ‘Have you only just come home? You’ve got to
travel today, you should have got some sleep.’
‘I couldn’t sleep,’ Tursun answered.
Kurvan-aka sat Tursun down beside
him. Maysimyam also sat down with them. ‘Son, this war is like a wildfire that
is consuming people’s lives. But you’re going there for our sakes, for the sake
of your motherland. So guard the honour of your parents. Remember where your home
is, and beat back those Fascist reptiles without mercy. We will be waiting for
you and for victory. I hope to be going to the front soon as well. But you’re
my firstborn, and if I don’t come back, you will be the senior of the family.’
Kurvan
embraced his son strongly. Maysimyam came up to her son from behind and pressed
herself to him. The war was taking her son. She could not contain her sobbing.
That
day, the young men of all the villages between the ages of eighteen and
twenty-one gathered at the military commissariat. They were registered and then
began the long march to the railway town of Saryozek, two hundred kilometres
away. Sorrowful fathers and mothers, brothers, sisters, brides, relatives and
fellow villagers accompanied the dzhigits
as far as the Usek river. This crowd of followers then stood and watched for a
long time as the line of draftees moved further and further away. Saadat was
among them, watching until her eyes could make the men out no more. It seemed
to her that while she watched him, her beloved might be protected.
After
some time, a letter arrived from Tursun addressed both to his parents and to
Saadat. Tursun told them in the letter that they had travelled from Saryozek to
Kharkov on a goods train. They would receive training there for four months and
then go to the front.
Soon
another worry was added to those Saadat already had to bear. A month after Tursun
had left, she realised that she was pregnant. She began to suffer from a sense
of heaviness in her body, dizziness and nausea. Saadat felt guilty for what had
happened in the garden on the night of their parting. If only Tursun had been
able to make the marriage proposal and if only the marriage ceremony of Nikah
had already taken place, her conscience would have been clear. She realised
that others would soon see what was happening, and she was pierced by a sense
of shame. No longer was she the cheerful girl student who was fun to be with.
Her friends assumed that she was simply missing Tursun. But Saadat went out
with the others to the harvest and did her best to hide the way she felt.
The first autumn of the war drew in, with a
mixture of weather – sometimes sunny, sometimes overcast. And though the war
was far away, life in the rear was lived fully in accordance with the laws of
wartime. The villagers thought constantly about their men at the front. There
was an immense amount to do; some of them worked on the harvest, while others
joined in the winnowing. Small children went gleaning in the fields for
leftover ears of wheat, while the women loaded sacks of grain onto carts and
sent them in convoys to Zharkent. The old people encouraged the young: ‘Go and
get busy, it’ll be a lean time if there’s no harvest!’ Finally, with immense
effort, the villagers brought in the whole of the harvest and submitted it to
the authorities under their red banner with the slogan ‘All for the front, all
for Victory!’ Then, tossing their spades and pitchforks onto their shoulders,
they returned home empty-handed.
Now
that the work in the fields was done, the villagers started preparing for
winter: drying the vegetables from their plots and storing them in cellars,
laying in a stock of hay for the animals and gathering brushwood. Aware that
there would be no help from the kolkhoz
this year, each person had to rely on his own strength. If they were not to die
of hunger they would have to make their supplies last through until springtime.
To general dismay, the price of flour at the bazaar had gone up. Still, maize
could be used in place of flour. And so the people set to thinking about how
they would cope with the difficulties ahead.
When
term started, Saadat went back to living in college accommodation. After
classes she did not mix with the others but concentrated on studying. She could
not sleep at night because of the unhappy thoughts that crowded her mind. She
would pray tearfully: ‘O Lord, let Tursun come home safe’.
It
was not long before her rounded belly became obvious. She wrote to Tursun that
she was pregnant, and anxiously waited for his response. She did not know what
to say to her mother – a widow with three children to look after. Her mother
had placed high hopes on Saadat as the eldest in the family. Time and time
again she would say: ‘Daughter, you must marry with honour, and only after you
have your diploma. Make sure you don’t shame me in front of other people’.
‘Whatever
am I going to say to my poor mother? She’s so ill – will she be able to take
it?’ She struggled with these thoughts at length. Finally a letter arrived from
Tursun: ‘I have told my parents everything truthfully. Don’t worry. They will
send matchmakers to your mother. When the baby is born my family will help you.
We’re going into battle now. I kiss you, my love.’ It was a short letter,
written in a hurry.
That
same day, Kurvan-aka and his family also received a letter from Tursun. When
the younger son Turgan read it out to his parents, a change came over
Kurvan-aka’s face.
‘I
wouldn’t have expected this of a son of mine,’ he said, tight-lipped. ‘Clearly
all my guidance has been to no avail. How can we look Imyarahan in the eye? And
those two want to educate children? Teachers are supposed to set examples for
the rest to follow.’ He gave Maysimyam, who had grown very quiet, a menacing look.
‘So that’s how you bring up your children, is it?’
‘Don’t
get so angry, Kurvan. Remember he’s at the front. Don’t curse him – it might
come true.’ She said nothing more.
She
asked Turgan to read the letter again. As soon as he had finished, Maysimyam
took the letter and put it in her pocket. ‘Do you also know this girl, son?’
she asked Turgan.
Turgan
took his mother in his arms and wiped away her tears. ‘Aha, Saadat-hada – she’s
very beautiful and she’s a good person. My brother’s been seeing her for over a
year. When they were in Zharkent together they promised they’d marry and spend
their lives together. Tursun has asked me to keep an eye on Saadat for him.’
This
calmed Maysimyam a little.
Kurvan-aka
did not come home until it grew dark, and then he went to bed without speaking
to anyone. Maysimyam, as though guilty of something, could not look him in the
eye.
Kurvan-aka
was a highly respected man in the village. He had been noted for his honesty
and directness since he was a child. Often he would say to his sons: ‘I have
had a hard life. But never once did I let my honour be compromised, never did I
go against my conscience. So you too, you should never steal and never lie,
never play with hashish and never indulge in gambling.’ There were five children
in his family, but it was on his sons that he placed his highest hopes.
And
now Tursun had done something inexcusable. Kurvan-aka tossed and turned in his
bed until morning. Then at breakfast he said to his wife: ‘This evening we’ll
go to see Imyarahan. We don’t need anybody from outside, we’ll just take my
sister and Gyuli. We can arrange everything ourselves. What lengths don’t you
go to for your own son!’
Sensing
that her husband had cooled a little, Maysimyam sighed with relief. She went
into the end room and opened the chest in which she had kept everything that
would be needed for her son’s marriage. Modangul followed her mother and asked
her:
‘Mama,
what have you got in this box?’
‘If
we go to pay our respects to Imyarahan, kizim,
we’ll have to take her presents. I’m looking for a nice piece of material. I
know what, I’ll give her this white lacy shawl.’
Maysimyam
untied a small knot and showed Modangul a golden ring with a red stone set in
it. ‘My mother gave me this ring for my wedding. I’ve kept it to pass down to
our eldest daughter-in-law, the one Tursun will marry. And we’ll give the
nicest of these four lengths of cloth to Saadat, and another one to Imyarahan.’
‘Mama,
how did you manage to collect all this?’
‘I’ve
kept them all for a long time, hoping that they will come in useful some day.’
‘And
these other two pieces of material – who are they for?’
‘One
is for your father’s sister, Adalyat, and the other is for Gyuli, your kichik-apa.
‘But why do you wear a patched-up dress, Mama?
You could sew yourself a new one from some of this?’
‘Daughter,
your chon-apa and kichik-apa will also be bringing gifts
for Imyarahan, so I have to give them something as a thank-you. That’s our
custom.’
‘Are
you taking them tonight?’
‘No,
today we’re going to make Tursun’s proposal of marriage to Saadat. First we
will listen to what she has to say, and then your father will discuss the day
of engagement with her. On the day they agree we must show our thanks by
killing a sheep, giving out presents and inviting people to tea. Imyarahan will
then invite the elders of the village. When Tursun-zhan comes home safe, if God
wills, we will arrange a wedding and hold the Nikah ceremony.’ Maysimyam
stroked her daughter’s long black hair. ‘I hope that all of you can set up your
own nests happily while your father and I are still alive.’
Modangul
hugged her mother and gave her a kiss. ‘Apa,
you are wonderful, as well as us you’re looking after your grandchildren too,’
said the girl to her mother in a serious tone. ‘So you should wear this
yourself.’ Modangul handed her mother a beautiful new shawl from the chest.
‘No,
kizim. We’ll need that shawl later.’
Maysimyam put the shawl back and closed the chest.
At
dusk Adalyat arrived and greeted them with ‘Assalam!’
Maysimyam invited her sister-in-law to sit in the place of honour. At once
Modangul put out the dzhoza and laid
a cloth on it.
‘No
need to make tea for us, daughter. We’ve only come briefly,’ anticipated
Adalyat.
‘Well,
really, hada, surely you’ll have some
tea with us? You don’t come here very often,’ responded Maysimyam. ‘Gyuli’s on
her way here at the moment. Soon we’ll all be going out.’
Adalyat
gave a sigh and shook her head. ‘You know, Kurvan came round yesterday. He told
us about Tursun.’
‘I
thought he must have gone to see you.’
‘Well,
I said to him, “There’s nothing you can do, aka.
You’ll just have to invite the elders for tea and then take the baby on as your
grandchild. Then people will say that Kurvan did the right thing. And then when
Tursun-zhan comes back, we’ll put on a big wedding.”’
At
that point Gyuli came in and looked questioningly at the women.
‘Sit
down for a while, Gyuli, we’re waiting for Kurvan,’ said Adalyat.
While they were drinking their tea,
Kurvan arrived.
‘Aka,
may all be well with you,’ smiled Gyuli.
‘Thank you, hada. Today I wanted to go to the commissariat and ask to go to the
front, but now there’s all this fuss here. We need to sort this out first.’
‘Why are you in such a hurry to go
to the war?’ asked Adalyat reproachfully. ‘My Mahmut’s gone, and now I’m in a
state of constant anxiety, it’s like living in a dream. I’ve only had three
letters from him.’
Adalyat-hada had reason to be
worried. Her only son had gone to the front on the same day as Tursun. Meanwhile
her husband Abdul-aka was in poor health and could not work on the kolkhoz; his daughters had to replace
him in the fields. And in the last few years Adalyat herself had suffered chest
pains from time to time and shortness of breath. She and her husband were
hoping that their son would take care of them, and when the time came, bury
them. But now this accursed war had shattered their hopes, and Adalyat could
think of nothing but her son.
It was beginning to get dark
outside: time to set off to visit Imyarahan.
The marriage proposal
was accepted. Kurvan-aka and Maysimyam slaughtered a sheep and invited the
villagers to tea at Imyarahan’s house. Their respect for Kurvan only grew when
they learnt that he had made the decision to help his future daughter-in-law. The
chairman of the kolkhoz came up to
him and shook his hand, saying: ‘You did right, brother, like a man.’
Now that Kurvan-aka had fulfilled
Tursun’s request, he went to the war commissariat’s office. His plea was
declined, however: ‘We will call you when we need you, but for now, carry on
working here.’
A harsh winter set in. The troubles
of the villagers did not cease. Every morning Kurvan-aka walked seven
kilometres to the ‘machine and tractor station’ in Zharkent where the kolkhoz tractors were repaired. He came
home very late in the evenings.
The women were now working on the
farm in the daytime, and in the evenings they spun, knitted socks and mittens
and sewed sheepskins for the soldiers at the front. Alahan was a skilled
seamstress; she taught Gyuli, Zaynaphan, Mariyam and Sariyam how to cut out and
sew quickly, and they were soon declared the top team. Often the women would
receive letters of gratitude from the front. The soldiers’ encouraging words
warmed their hearts and gave them a sense that every sheepskin they sent would
keep warm a son, a husband or a father. Despite the difficult times, people had
not grown hard or lost spirit.
The villagers’ food was meagre:
pumpkin, potatoes and a pottage of corn meal. Yet they were grateful. All they
wanted was for the war to end and for their loved ones to return home alive. Students
from the pedagogical institute in Zharkent would come to the village, give
concerts and tell the villagers about the situation at the front.
Kurvan-aka’s second son, the
sixteen-year-old Turgan, was also a first-year student at the pedagogical
institute. He was a tall and slim young man who could bring people to the brink
of tears when he sang the folk song Ilahun
in his soulful manner. And this happened more and more as time passed since the
beginning of the war, when villagers started to receive ‘killed in action’
notifications. One could not but feel their pain on hearing the grieving of
mothers and fathers, old people and children when such a letter arrived. The
high spirits of their pre-war lives was now far away and more like something
from a fairy tale.
The first notification of death in
action was delivered by the postman Masim-aka to the parents of Dzhelil Iminov.
The official document informed them that ‘…the hero Iminov, Dzhelil fell during
fierce fighting in the Ukraine’. So now Dzhelil’s four children were orphaned.
From this point, the villagers began to dread the arrival of the postman.
Although the bloody fighting was far away from the village, it was echoed in
the groans and weeping that issued from each house.
No more letters came from Tursun.
Saadat was no longer embarrassed in front of the villagers, but her heart was
heavy. She was expecting soon. She stroked her swollen belly and whispered:
‘You’ve got to meet your father, my boy. We’ll wait for your father to come
home when the war is won!’ But then, when she thought about Mervanam, who had
been widowed at an early age, she would be overcome with fear.
Harsh as the
winter was, it passed into spring as though by appointment. The world turned
green once again. Before the collective work began in the fields, each family
prepared the soil of their own plots; and then, once more, the women in their
teams took up their ketmens on their
shoulders and set out to dig new aryk
ditches and to clear out the old ones. From early morning to late evening,
Kurvan-aka ploughed and sowed. Sometimes his tractor rumbled up and down close to
the village, and sometimes it was far away. The villagers kept in mind that
they were labouring not only for themselves but for the men who had gone to the
front.
That spring Saadat gave birth to a
boy. When her sister Rihanbuvi came running with the news to Maysimyam, she
gave her a beautiful shawl and even wept for joy. ‘Thank you, daughter, for
this wonderful news. May God bring my Tursunzhan home and let him hold his son
close to him.’
That evening Maysimyam prepared a
tasty korum shova from a small piece
of meat that she had carefully kept for an occasion such as this. She chopped
the meat finely, fried it in a hot kazan
with onion, garlic, pepper, dried tomato and spices, then added water and
boiled the broth a little. When the entire house was filled with the teasing
aroma, she poured the broth into a small pot and wrapped a towel around it to
keep it warm.
‘Modangul, please will you take your
father his dinner and tell him the good news at the same time. And on your way
back, tell your kichik-apa that we’ve
got a grandson,’ said Maysimyam to her elder daughter. She then took the
younger, Mahinur, with her to her daughter-in-law Saadat’s house.
Imyarahan opened the door to them.
She was beaming with happiness.
‘Congratulations!’ Maysimyam
embraced her. ‘I’m not coming into your house until twelve days are past. But
please give this broth to your daughter.’
Imyarahan was insistent, however,
and finally Maysimyam was persuaded to go inside. Seeing her, Saadat got up
from her bed.
‘Lie down, kizim. I congratulate you with all my heart.’ Maysimyam kissed her
daughter-in-law on the forehead and stroked her head. ‘With God’s will may you
and Tursun bring the child up to be a good man.’
Imyarahan handed the baby to
Maysimyam. ‘Congratulations, svatka. May
your son grow up to be a noble dzhigit!’
Maysimyam
took the child in her arms. He bore a striking resemblance to her son. Mahinur,
sitting beside her, looked into the face of her baby nephew and whispered ‘He’s
the very image of Tursun’. She also held the infant for a while. Imyarahan
meanwhile gave the nourishing broth to Saadat, who was still weak and pale
after giving birth.
‘Daughter, you should drink it up
now, while it’s still hot. Get up your strength, and then you’ll produce milk,’
Maysimyam said to her gently.
Maysimyam and her daughter sat and
talked for a while with the in-laws and then returned home. ‘We’ve seen the
child. Oh Allah, he’s so like Tursun. God give him good health!’ she said to
her daughters afterwards.
At that moment there was a creak and
the door opened again. In came Cholpan, Adalyat’s daughter. Her eyes were red
from crying. Maysimyam and the girls stared at their unexpected visitor.
‘My brother’s come back,’ she said.
‘Mahmut’s back?’
‘Yes. But he’s lost an arm.’ Cholpan
broke down in tears.
‘Oh, Allah, when will this war be
over?’ said Maysimyam to herself. Then, thinking of her son fighting somewhere
far away, her insides felt pierced by cold.
She looked at the weeping Cholpan.
‘Daughter, the main thing is he’s alive. Come on, let’s go and see him.’
Adalyat’s house was full of people.
Adalyat did not know whether to be pleased about this or unhappy. Her son had
come home from the war but was disabled. The people sitting with him expressed their
sympathies to Mahmut and plied him with questions. The mothers asked him
whether he had seen their sons, the old men asked how the war was progressing
and when would our side win. He answered their questions carefully and without
hurrying.
Mahmut was now shorn of his previous
youthful ardour. No longer did he resemble the tall, pale-faced twenty-year-old
who had set out for the front. The empty sleeve of his soldier’s blouse was
tucked under a belt. The people listening hung on to his every word; images of
brutal battles appeared before their eyes. After a while the chairman of the kolkhoz, Imyar-aka, called in. He
greeted them all and sat down next to Mahmut.
‘Don’t tell the old folk these
stories, uka,’ he said, putting his
hand on the young veteran’s shoulder. ‘It’s good that you’ve come back. We
can’t get enough strong dzhigits. The
women, the old people and the children are working themselves to the bone.
Look, rest a little and recover, and then you can come and be the brigadir for the irrigation. There’s so
much to do. I’ll always be there to help you.’
A glimmer of hope appeared in
Mahmut’s eyes. ‘Thank you, Imyar-aka. I’ll give it all I’ve got.’
Two more men
appeared in the village the following evening. They plodded slowly up the
street, emaciated, exhausted, their eyes sunken. People came out of their
houses to look at them but did not recognise them. Then one of the men said to
them: ‘Don’t you recognise us? It’s me, Kasim, and this is Askar.’
The women sighed and rushed towards
the haggard wanderers. Kasim and Askar fell straight into their arms. The
villagers took the pair to Kasim’s house, where they were met with shouts and
tears by grandmother Rozihan, mother Alahan and the children. They lay them
down, let them come round a little and gave them something to drink.
Askar propped himself up on one
elbow and glanced about the room, trying to see his wife Tadzhigul and their
children among the people gathered.
‘Make them some tea. They’re dying
of hunger,’ Rozihan ordered.
Alahan brought two large apkurs of aktyan-chay and the old people contributed pieces of nan. They propped the two returnees up
so that they could eat more easily. ‘Drink something hot, it’ll bring you some
strength back,’ Rozihan-aka kept saying.
‘Thanks be to Allah! You’ve come
home alive,’ said old Zair.
Alahan found some clothes for the
two men. The villagers went outside, discussing what had happened. Kasim’s
children, Hasan and Husan, took the torn jackets and trousers from their father
and Askar and helped them change into clean ones. Askar slowly got up.
‘I’m going home now to my family.
They don’t seem to know we’re back.’
Nobody had yet found it in themselves
to tell Askar that Tadzhigul had died. Some villagers helped him walk to his
house. The elders went into the house with him. Old Zair-buva sat down in the
place of honour and sighed heavily.
‘Askarzhan, you have come home, and
that will be the greatest joy for your children. But you know the saying that
life is always followed by death. We have had to bury Tadzhigul in your
absence. She was a good wife and mother. But her time came very early. Try to
be strong!’
Dropping to his knees, Zair-buva read
a passage from the Qur’an, then all present said a prayer in memory of
Tadzhigul. Askar clenched his teeth and did not speak. The tears on his sunken
cheeks had a fearful look.
Finally he released his jaw. ‘O Lord
above, why do you pour all this misery on me? Have I not suffered enough
humiliation already? And now I’ve lost Tadzhigul as well…’
The people sitting with him could
only sigh.
‘Take courage, son,’ old Rozihan
said a number of times. ‘Allah will help you raise the children.’ She looked
with pity on the frail Askar.
‘You need to build up your strength,’
she said, getting up and turning to the others. ‘Come to our house. Alahan will
cook you something to eat.’
In the meantime, Alahan, her
daughters and the other women had prepared supper. Kasim and Askar, sitting at
the table surrounded by their family and friends, seemed unable to believe what
was happening. They ate, unable to eat their fill, and looked at those around
them, insatiable in their hunger to see their loved ones again.
After the meal the old men asked the
two ex-convicts about their five years spent in faraway exile. Kasim pushed the
empty bowl away from him and passed his hand through his hair.
‘Well, what can I tell you? It was
five years of brutality and survival. We were sent to a labour camp in Siberia.
Fifty degrees below zero, and we were hungry, frostbitten and in torn clothes.
The political prisoners were kept separately, they had armed soldiers with dogs
with them all the time. Anybody who collapsed out of weakness was shot where he
fell, because this was considered an attempt to escape.’ Kasim looked down, and
linked the fingers of his two hands together tightly. ‘What else can I tell
you? They shot political prisoners in front of the ordinary criminals. They
didn’t regard us as humans. People died ten at a time, mostly from cold and
hunger. But they released us a month ago. We got as far as the station by
train, and the rest of the way we walked. We slept where we could. There was no
food anywhere. We just held on to each other and kept walking.
There was silence in the room. The
villagers were drained of spirit. If it wasn’t war, it was forced labour. Where
could anyone hope to live in peace?
For several days after that, people
from the village came to see Kasim. Again and again he told them about his
ordeals in exile. His health was poor; a deep-seated cold sapped at his
strength.
‘Well goodness me, the whole village
has been to see you and welcomed you home. The only one who hasn’t been is
Shavdun,’ said Alahan with some surprise.
‘He won’t come. It was him who got
us sent away. He was the informer,’ said Kasim harshly and broke into a fit of
coughing. Beads of sweat broke out on his brow.
‘Oh Allah, what are you saying?
Shavdun informed on you? Well if that’s the truth, then God has already
punished him. His wife Zorabuvi died – he’s been left a widower with an elderly
mother and his sons.’
The sound of crying could be heard
from outside. Alahan rushed out and saw that Tadzhigul’s parents and their
grandchildren had arrived to see Askar. Amina and Omar embraced their father,
then began sobbing out loud. Alahan, glancing towards the garden, called softly
to her mother-in-law: ‘Apa, come over
here. Patam-ana and her husband are here.’
They greeted each other and went
into the house. Grandfather Momun and grandmother Patam looked with pity at the
emaciated Askar.
‘Let me read from the Qur’an,’ said
Momun.
While the prayer was being recited,
Aminam and Omar clung to their father, afraid to let go of him.
‘Askarzhan, son, thank God you’ve
come home. Now we don’t have to worry about our grandchildren,’ said Patam.
‘These are dark times. However did
you survive in that hell?’ added Rozihan.
‘We thought about our families,’
Askar replied. ‘I was longing with all my mind to be with Tadzhigul. But she’s dead,
and my hopes are gone.’
‘We’ll all be moving on to the next
world sooner or later,’ said old Momun, glancing at the children sitting next
to Askar.
The nine-year-old Aminam poured some
water into the kazan and lit the
flame in the oven. Alahan brought a whole apkur
of milk with kaymak and prepared an
excellent aktyan-chay. Patam put a
plate of manty onto the dzhoza as well.
‘Rozihan, Kayman, Askarzhan, come
and eat. I’m not even sure what’s happened. It’s so long since I made manty that I could have forgotten how
to.’ The old woman served the manty
onto plates.
Alahan placed a large bowl of the
tea in front of each person, then broke a large thin nan and placed a piece in each of the bowls.
‘Sit down with us, daughter. Thank
you for the tea, it’s delicious. You’re a wonderful neighbour. Tadzhigul always
said good things about you.’ Patam smiled at Alahan approvingly.
Kasim broke into a fit of coughing,
and sweat appeared on his brow. ‘I saw Mahmut this morning. He’s only got one
arm! That’s the end of the fighting for him.’
Grandmother Rozihan now joined the
conversation. ‘We’ve already had three killed-in-action letters in the village
now.’
‘And where we are in Zharkent, just
our part, Donmiallia, more and more people are getting them. Oh God, let them,
whoever they are, just come home again alive and unharmed,’ sighed Momun-buva.
‘Anyway, it’s time to get ready for evening prayers.’ He stood up, and the
others followed.
‘Come and see us again, Patamhan.
Thank you for coming,’ said Rozihan, as she put on her overshoes.
‘Thank you. We’re going to be here
for a few days, to see Askarzhan recover a little.’
After seeing the neighbours off,
Patam-moma lit a candle, then, whispering something under her breath,
consecrated the house.
‘Apa,
is dada going to stay now? He isn’t
going away ever again, is he?’ asked Omar once they were in the street.
‘No, my boy. He’s going to be with
you now always.’
‘And you, are you leaving?’
‘We’re already very old. You need to
live just with your father,’ said Patam, wiping away tears with the end of her
shawl.
Aminam, Omar’s sister, now burst
into the conversation. ‘Apa, the
apples and apricots in the garden have really come on, the spring onions are up, and Mama’s flowers
are in full blossom, you must come and see them! And I’ve seen Gyuli chon-apa. She was carrying a big bundle
of wood on her back. She kissed me and told me I’d really grown. She said she’d
come and see us in the next day or two.’
‘That’s good! Tomorrow we’ll make porya and invite Gyuli, Hadzhyar-han and
the children round.’
When Gyuli got home she found Hadzhyar-ana
and her friend Zaynaphan sitting under the awning in the garden. After washing
her face and drinking a little water, she came into the arbour and greeted the
two elderly women. Selimyam placed a bowl of suyuk ash in front of her.
‘Will you share this with me?’
offered Gyuli.
‘No, thanks, we’ve just eaten. But
you, have your supper, daughter. You’re working from dawn to dusk after all,’
said Hadzhyar, shaking her head.
‘Well that’s how it is for everyone
these days,’ answered Gyuli, then, looking at Zaynap-apa, asked after her
health.
‘My soul deserted me after my daughter
died. I cry all the time, I’m even worried about what’s happening to my eyes.’
‘You can wear your eyes out with
tears, but grieving won’t help,’ said Hadzhyar-han.
‘You’re right, Hadzhyar-han. I’m
living for the sake of the grandchildren. The elder one’s already eight and the
younger’s six. They can do everything at home by themselves.’
Finally Zaynaphan-ana, a little embarrassed
and looking now at her friend and now at Gyuli, came to the main purpose of her
visit. ‘Gyuli, daughter, you’re from a good family. You suffered terribly when
Tair was taken from you, but you kept on looking after your children and knew
no peace. And then you took in Hadzhyar like a mother.’
Gyuli tried to work out what
Zaynaphan was hinting at. Zaynap continued:
‘Since my Zorabuvi died I’ve been
getting weaker every year. I don’t know if I’ll have the strength to bring up
my grandsons. Please don’t be angry with an old woman, but I’ve come to offer
you a marriage proposal from Shavdun. He’s a widower too. You could be the
mother to Shavdun’s children and he could be father to yours.’ Zaynaphan-ana
looked shyly at Gyuli and then moved her gaze to Hadzhyar, hoping for support.
Gyuli said nothing for a moment.
Then: ‘Zaynaphan-ana, I love you as I love my own mother. I see you want to
become related to us, but I’m never going to marry again. I want to dedicate
myself to my children.’
‘But listen, daughter, you’re still
young,’ added Hadzhyar, ‘don’t let your life waste away. Shavdun’s not a bad
man. Give it some thought, then let us know.’
‘You’re still strong at the moment
and you can be both mother and father to the children. But what if, God forbid,
something happens to you?’ persisted Zaynaphan-ana.
‘Like the old people say, widows
have three chances to marry. A woman should live under a man’s care,’ Hadzhyar
added again.
Gyuli cleared the bowls from the
table, frowning. ‘I don’t want to hear any more of this,’ she snapped, and went
off to the kazan.
The two old women exchanged glances
in silence. Zaynaphan got up, wished them goodnight and, leaning on her stick,
moved towards the gate. Gyuli rushed after her, hugged her and said: ‘Ana, don’t be upset. But I mean what I
say. Look, it’s dark now. Selimyam will walk you home.’
Next day, as they were working in
the fields, Shavdun rode up to Gyuli. ‘How’s the irrigation going, Gyuli?’
‘It’s already finished, I’ve just
got to cut off the water,’ she said, and taking a large armful of grass and
mud, stopped up the branch of the aryk.
Then she picked up her ketmen and set
off along the path. Shavdun dismounted his horse and placed himself in front of
her.
‘Gyuli, my mother-in-law came to see
you last night, and I know what you told her.’
‘That’s how it is, and I’ve nothing
to add. And please don’t stand in my way,’ said Gyuli resolutely.
‘I’m off to the front tomorrow. I
wanted to apologise to you.’
‘What?’ Gyuli took a step back.
‘I know what I have done is
unforgivable, and I am guilty beyond hope,’ the brigadir continued, faintly.
Gyuli dropped her ketmen to the ground, not understanding
him.
‘Before the war started the Party
organs called me in and offered me work. I couldn’t refuse them because they
threatened reprisals against me and my family. I had to accept. To cut a long
story short, it was me who informed on Tair. I can never forgive myself for
this. Now I’m going to the front, and maybe I can expiate my guilt before Allah
by dying.’
Gyuli stood fixed, shaken. Then,
swallowing a lump in her throat, replied: ‘I would not wish what my children
and I have been through even on you.’
‘I thought you were going to curse
me,’ said Shavdun, bewildered.
‘I never curse anyone. But look,
people who play with fire will get their fingers burnt.’ She turned and walked
away.
Clenching the bridle in his hands,
Shavdun stood and watched her for a long time. Neither of them was to know that
a notification would shortly arrive that he had been killed in action.
*
* *
‘So Shavdun did have a troubled
conscience after all?’ said Ruth thoughtfully.
‘There’s no forgiveness for him and
his kind,’ said Mehriban. ‘What use is there in meekly confessing to having
informed on someone when that has ruined lives and caused good men to die? How
many mothers have been condemned to suffering because of informers like
Shavdun? Some men go and defend and die for their motherland, while others
creep and fawn, then do vile things and profit from other peoples’ grief. And
all for the sake of saving their own skin.
‘I’d like to tell you about another
cowardly informer who lived in the village. But you could meet someone like him
anywhere.’
‘Do tell, I’d love to hear more.’
Ruth leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes.
