VASILY GROSSMAN
31
sun was warm; the soldier obviously preferred not to enter the damp
building.
The prisoner on duty came up to Mostovskoy.
"Good morning, dear comrade Mostovskoy."
Mostovskoy let out a cry of astonishment: in front of him stood
Brigade Commissar Osipov; he was wearing a uniform jacket with a
band on the sleeve and waving an old rag in his hand.
They embraced.
"I managed to get myself a job in the bath-house," Osipov ex–
plained hurriedly. "I'm standing in for the usual cleaner. I wanted to
see you. Kotikov, the general and Zlatokrylets all send their
greetings. But first, how are they treating you, how are you feeling,
what do they want from you? You can talk while you're undressing."
Mostovskoy told him about his interrogation.
Osipov stared at him with his dark, prominent eyes.
"The blockheads think they'll be able to win you over."
"But why? Why? What's the point of it all?"
"They may be interested in information of a historical nature,
in the personalities of the founders and leaders of the Party. Or they
may be intending to ask you to write letters, statements and appeals."
"They're wasting their time."
"They may torture you, comrade Mostovskoy."
"The fools are wasting their time," repeated Mostovskoy. "But
tell me - how are things with you?"
"Better than could have been expected," said Osipov in a
whisper. "The main thing is that we've made contact with the factory
workers. We're stockpiling weapons- machine-guns and hand–
grenades."
• • •
Yevgenia got off the trolleybus by the Bolshoy Theatre,
now covered in camouflage, and walked up Kuznetsky Most. With–
out even noticing them, she went past the exhibition rooms of the
Artists'Foundation; friends of hers had exhibited there before the
war and her own paintings had once been shown there.
It was very strange. Her life was like a pack of cards shuffled by
a gypsy. Now she had drawn "Moscow."
She was still a long way away when she recognized the towering
granite wall of the Lubyanka. "Hello, Kolya," she thought. Perhaps
