The Knocking Sound

Chapter 85 The Knocking Sound

Lorraine was awakened by a series of urgent knocks on the door.

It was still dark. The sky outside the window was a grayish-blue, without any stars. He lay there for a few seconds, listening to the sound of water from the radiator, then sat up, put on his coat, and went to the door. He opened the door, and Karl stood there, without a tray in his hand.

"Someone's looking for you downstairs," Carl said. "That girl. Anna."

Lorraine glanced at his watch. Five in the morning. He walked out of the room, down the stairs, and pushed open the embassy door.

Anna stood in the doorway. She wore a faded cotton coat, her head wrapped in a gray headscarf, and carried a bulging canvas bag, heavier than usual. Her face appeared pale in the morning light, her lips bloodless, and deep dark circles under her eyes. She saw Lorraine but didn't speak.

"What's wrong?" Loran asked.

"Misha's leaving today," Anna said softly. "The train's at six."

Lorraine paused, taken aback. "Isn't it next week?"

"It's changed. The conscription office came to my house last night and said the list has changed. They're leaving today." She looked into Lorraine's eyes. "Can you come?"

"Walk."

They walked west along the main street. It was still dark, the streetlights were on, casting a dim yellow glow. There was no one on the street, only the wind, blowing from the north, and it was cold. Anna walked beside him, her steps quick, her headscarf fluttering in the wind, but she didn't reach out to hold it down. Her face was pale, her lips were pursed, and her eyes were fixed on the road ahead.

"What time were you notified?" Loran asked.

"It was 11 p.m. last night," Anna said. "Misha was already asleep when the recruiting officers knocked on the door and told him to pack his things and assemble at 5 a.m.

Where is your mother?

"At the factory. She worked the night shift last night and hasn't come back yet." Anna paused. "I sent someone to inform her. She should go directly to the train station."

They crossed the bridge; the river beneath was dark, and they couldn't see the bottom. They passed the row of factory buildings, their chimneys tall but emitting no smoke. They walked past the small square with the Lenin statue; the benches beneath it were empty. Anna quickened her pace, and Lorraine followed beside her in silence.

The train station wasn't far from the square. They walked for about twenty minutes and arrived at the station square. The square was already crowded. Not just crowded, but very crowded. Hundreds of people, some standing, some squatting, some sitting on their luggage. Men, women, the elderly, children. Most were young, seventeen or eighteen years old, wearing ill-fitting military uniforms, carrying rifles and luggage. Their faces were thin, their cheekbones high, their lips chapped. Some were smoking, some were talking quietly, some were doing nothing, just standing there.

Anna stood at the edge of the square, scanning the crowd, looking for Misha.

"Over there," Loran pointed to the east.

Misha stood at the entrance to the waiting room, carrying a large canvas bag and wearing a military overcoat that was too big, with the sleeves extending far beyond its length and the trouser legs rolled up several times. His face was young, with a wisp of fine hair just beginning to grow on his lips, and his eyes were grey-blue, like Anna's. He was talking to a young woman who was crying, and he awkwardly wiped her tears with his sleeve.

Anna walked over, and Lorraine followed behind.

"Misha."

Misha turned his head. He saw Anna and smiled. His smile was bright, like sunshine.

"sister."

Anna walked up to him and looked at him. She neither cried nor laughed, she simply looked at him. She looked at him for a long time.

"Did you bring everything?" she asked.

"I've got everything." Misha patted the canvas bag. "Dry food, clothes, and a picture of my mother."

Anna nodded. She took a package from her pocket, wrapped in cloth, and handed it to Misha.

"This is dry food. Mom made it last night and asked me to give it to you."

Misha took it and put it in her bag. The young woman was still crying, and Misha wiped her tears with her sleeve.

"Don't cry," he said. "I'll be back."

The girl nodded, but still cried.

Anna looked at the girl, then at Misha. "Who is this?"

"Martha," Misha said, "the neighbor's."

Anna nodded without saying anything. She turned around and looked at the crowd in the square. The young people were queuing up, one by one entering the waiting room. Their figures were small and thin, like a group of shadows in the dim light.

"Mother hasn't come yet," Anna said.

"She might not make it," Misha said. "That's okay. Tell her I'll write to her."

Anna nodded.

Lorraine stood by, watching it all. He thought of his younger brother. He had no brother. But he thought of Lefevere, the young man who died in Stoney's arms. Also seventeen. Also just growing a beard. Also laughing and saying he was going to war.

"Misha," Loran said.

Misha looked at him. "Who is this?" he asked Anna.

"Mark. Friend."

Misha looked at Loran, sizing him up for a few seconds. "Are you a foreigner?"

"The French."

Misha's eyes lit up. "A Frenchman? You've fought in wars?"

"I've fought with them."

"Fight the Germans?"

"Fight the Germans."

Misha smiled. "Then we're comrades."

He extended his hand. Lorraine grasped it. The hand was young, thin, but strong.

"Take care," Lorraine said.

"Take care," Misha said.

The train pulled into the station. Its whistle blared, shattering the morning silence. The crowd began to move towards the platform. Misha picked up his canvas bag and slung it over his shoulder. He turned to look at Anna.

"Sister, I'm leaving."

Anna looked at him without saying a word. She reached out, straightened his collar, and pulled his hat up properly.

"Write a letter," she said.

"it is good."

Misha turned and walked toward the platform. He took a few steps, stopped, and looked back. His eyes were bright, as if something was gleaming within them. He smiled, then turned back and continued walking.

Anna stood there, watching his retreating figure. She didn't move, nor did she speak. Her face was expressionless, only weary. But her eyes were red, tears welling up but not falling.

Lorraine stood beside her without saying a word.

The crowd surged onto the platform and onto the carriages. The train whistled again and then slowly began to move. The wheels churned over the rails with a dull thud, clatter, clatter, clatter. Carriages passed by one after another, their windows revealing young faces—some laughing, some crying, some expressionless. Loran saw Misha behind a window; he leaned out and waved to Anna. Anna raised her hand and waved back. The train sped up, the windows blurred, and finally, it disappeared into the morning mist.

Anna lowered her hand. She looked down at her hand. It was trembling.

"Anna," Loran said.

She didn't answer. She stood there, head bowed, shoulders trembling slightly. She didn't cry out, but Lorraine could see her shoulders shaking.

"He will come back," Lorraine said.

Anna looked up. Her eyes were red, but there were no tears. She looked at Loran for a long time.

"You believe it?" she asked.

"believe."

Anna didn't speak. She turned and walked out of the square. Lorraine followed behind. They left the station square and entered a quiet street. The streetlights were still on, casting a dim yellow glow. Dawn was breaking, and a dark red light appeared on the eastern horizon, like a gaping wound.

"Mark," Anna said.

"Um."

"When are you leaving?"

Loran was stunned for a moment. "What?"

"You're a soldier too. You'll leave too." Anna looked at him. "When?"

Loran was silent for a few seconds. "I don't know. Maybe soon."

Anna nodded. She continued walking. After a few steps, she stopped and turned around.

"Mark, I'm leaving too."

Lorraine looked at her. "What?"

"I joined the army too," Anna said in a flat voice. "Last night when the recruiters came, I asked them if they needed women. They said yes. I said I would. They told me to report for duty today."

Lorraine stood there, looking at her. Her face was pale, her lips bloodless, but her eyes were bright.

"Does your mother know?" he asked.

"I don't know," Anna said. "She's still at the factory. By the time she gets back, I'll be gone."

"Anna————"

"Don't try to persuade me," she interrupted him. "Misha went. I'm going too. Mother is home alone; she'll understand."

Loran didn't speak. He looked into her eyes, those bright, resolute grey-blue eyes.

"Are you scared?" he asked.

"I'm not afraid," Anna said. "What I'm afraid of are those who stay behind."

She reached out her hand. Lorraine took it. The hand was thin and cold, but her grip was tight.

"Thank you, Mark," she said. "Thank you for carrying my bags, for coming with me to the market, for coming with me to the river. Thank you for listening to me."

Anna.

"Take care of yourself too," she said. "You're not Soviet, but you're a comrade-in-arms."

She released her grip, turned around, and walked away. Her figure was small and thin, receding into the morning light. She didn't look back.

Lorraine stood there, watching her disappear into the alley.

He stood there for a long time. The wind blew, and it was cold. He put his hands in his pockets, where there was a piece of paper. He touched it; it was the pass Stalin had given him.

He turned around and walked towards the embassy.

The streets were starting to fill with people. Several women were queuing for bread, a few elderly people were strolling in the park, and several children were running and playing. Everything seemed normal, as if the war didn't exist. But Loran knew the war was real. He had just seen two people off: a seventeen-year-old boy and an eighteen-year-old girl. They had gone to fight. They might not come back.

He walked to the embassy entrance, where Karl stood holding a cup of tea.

"You're back," Carl said.

Loran nodded. He walked up the steps, pushed open the door, and entered the hallway. The hallway was quiet; the carpet was still so red, and the wall lamps were still so dim. He went up to the third floor, entered his room, and closed the door.

He took off his coat, hung it on the hanger, walked to the table, and sat down. He took out the letter and continued writing. He wrote that Misha was gone, and Anna was gone too. He wrote that he didn't know where they had gone, but they would go to war. He wrote that they were young, younger than him. He wrote that they were not afraid of death, but they were afraid of those left behind.

After he finished writing, he folded the letter and put it in his suitcase. Then he stood up and walked to the window.

Outside the window, the Moscow sky was overcast and sunless. The red star atop the Kremlin spire still shone, a dark red, like a flame about to go out.

He stood there and watched for a long time.

Then he turned around and walked out of the room.

He went to find Zhukov.

Loran boarded a truck heading west. The truck was loaded with ammunition boxes, covered with tarpaulins. The driver was a young soldier with a round, ruddy face and a heavy accent. He said his name was Vasily, that he was from Siberia, and had just been transferred to Moscow. He said he used to drive a tractor on a collective farm, and now he drove a truck. He said he liked driving trucks; they were faster than tractors. He said he hadn't fought in a war yet, but he wanted to. He said he wanted to fight all the way to Berlin.

Loran leaned against the ammunition box, listening to him speak without replying. The truck bounced violently; with each bump, his back was jolted, causing pain. He looked out the window; the fields receded, a greyish-yellow hue covered with patches of snow. In the distance, a few wooden houses stood, smoke billowing from their chimneys. Several children stood by the roadside, watching the truck drive by, waving their hands.

After driving for about two hours, the truck stopped in front of a village. The village was small, with a dozen or so wooden houses huddled together.

At the village entrance stood an old oak tree, its trunk thick and its bark cracked. Several soldiers were squatting under the tree, smoking. Upon seeing the truck, they stood up, walked over, and helped unload the ammunition boxes.

Lorraine jumped out of the car and walked into the village. The command post was located in a wooden house at the east end of the village, where two guards stood at the door, rifles at the ready. Lorraine showed his pass, the guards glanced at it, saluted, and stepped aside.

He pushed open the door and went inside.

Zhukov stood in front of the map, his back to the door. He wore a dirty military overcoat, the collar turned up, and the brim of his hat pulled low. Hearing footsteps, he turned around.

"Lorraine," he said, "what brings you here?"

"General, I'm going to the front lines."

Zhukov looked at him. "The front lines? Where?"

"Anywhere is fine. To the west, the direction the Germans came from."

Zhukov was silent for a few seconds. He walked to the table, took a cigarette from the pack, put it in his mouth, and struck a match.

The light from the match illuminated his face. His face was tired, with heavy bags under his eyes and high cheekbones.

"What did you see?" he asked.

"I saw a lot of people heading east," Lorraine said. "Soldiers, civilians. They were tired."

Zhukov took a drag of his cigarette. "Anything else?"

"There were two other young men. One was seventeen, and the other was eighteen. They left this morning to join the army."

Zhukov looked at him. "You know them?"

"know."

Zhukov stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. He walked to the map and pointed to a spot west of Mozhaisk.

"The German army is advancing in this direction. Their vanguard has already crossed Vyazma. If they take Mozhaisk before winter, Moscow will be exposed. Our troops are withdrawing, but not withdrawing, they are retreating. Retreating to the east of Mozhaisk to reorganize the defensive line."

He turned around and looked at Loran.

"You want to go to the front lines. I can let you go. But what can you do there? You won't have a gun, no soldiers, no command. You can only watch. And what good will that do?"

Loran did not speak.

Zhukov walked back to the table and sat down. He rubbed his eyes.

He suddenly had the illusion that it would be good to let this Frenchman see it.