Doctor Zhivago - Boris Pasternak [254]
“And you were sorry you didn’t have him shot?”
Strelnikov let this remark go unnoticed. Perhaps he did not even hear his interlocutor interrupt his monologue with his own insertion. He went on distractedly and pensively.
“Of course, I was jealous of you, and I’m jealous now. How could it be otherwise? I’ve been hiding in these parts only in recent months, after my other covers failed far to the east. I was supposed to be court-martialed on a false accusation. The outcome was easy to predict. I didn’t know myself to be guilty of anything. There was a hope that I might vindicate myself and defend my good name in the future under better circumstances. I decided to quit the field in good time, before I was arrested, and meanwhile to hide, wander about, live like a hermit. Maybe I would have saved myself in the end. A young rascal who wormed his way into my confidence did me a bad turn.
“I was going west through Siberia on foot, in winter, hiding, starving. I buried myself in the snow, spent nights in snow-covered trains, of which there were endless chains standing under the snow then along the Siberian main line.
“In my wanderings, I ran into a vagabond boy who supposedly had survived after being shot by the partisans in a line of other men executed at the same time. He supposedly crawled from under the pile of corpses, caught his breath, recovered, and then began moving about from one lair to another, like myself. At least that’s what he told me. A scoundrelly adolescent, full of vices, backward, one of those dunces who get thrown out of school for inability.”
The more details Strelnikov gave, the better the doctor recognized the boy.
“First name Terenty, last name Galuzin?”
“Yes.”
“Then all that about the partisans and the execution is true. He didn’t invent any of it.”
“The only good feature the boy had was that he madly adored his mother. His father had perished as a hostage. He learned that his mother was in prison and would share the father’s lot, and decided to do anything to free her. In the provincial Cheka, where he came pleading guilty and offering his services, they agreed to forgive him everything for the price of some important information. He pointed out the place where I was hiding. I managed to forestall his betrayal and disappear in time.
“With fantastic efforts, with thousands of adventures, I crossed Siberia and came here, to places where I’m known to everybody and am least of all expected to appear, such boldness not being presumed on my part. And indeed they spent a long time searching for me around Chitá, while I was hiding in this house or some other refuge in the area. But now it’s the end. They’ve tracked me down here, too. Listen. It’s getting dark. I don’t like the time that’s coming, because I lost my sleep long ago. You know what a torment that is. If you haven’t burned up all my candles—excellent stearine candles, right?—let’s talk a bit longer. Let’s talk as long as you can, with every luxury, all night long, with candles burning.”
“There are candles. Only one pack has been opened. I burned the kerosene I found here.”
“Do you have any bread?”
“No.”
“What did you live on? However, I’m asking a stupid question. On potatoes. I know.”
“Yes. There’s all you could want here. The owners of the place were experienced and provident. They knew how to store them. They’re all safe in the cellar. Didn