WINTER OAK

A STORY BY YURI NAGIBIN

he narrow path from Uvarovka village to the porch of the village soviet, the pines across the river

T school had been completely covered with snow came up the slope of the nearer bank, the wind gauge
during the night, and only the barely percepti­ at the school meteorological station whirled in the

revealed its course. The young schoolteacher stepped

middle of the field, right at Anna’s feet.
ble pattern of light and shadow on its uneven surface
A man was coming across the field. What if he won’t
cautiously, ready to draw back her foot at once if the step off the path? Anna thought with mock apprehen­
shadows proved treacherous. sion. The path was too narrow for two people, and
It was no more than half a kilometer to the school, stepping aside meant sinking knee-deep into the snow.
and the teacher had merely tied a woolen kerchief She knew, of course, that there wasn’t a man in the
round her head and thrown her short fur coat over her district who would not go out of his way to let the
shoulders. The cold was fierce, however, and fitful Uvarovka schoolteacher pass.
gusts of wind showered her with snow from head to As they drew closer Anna recognized the man as
foot. But the twenty-four-year-old teacher did not Frolov, one of the workers at the stud farm.
mind it. She even enjoyed the stinging sensation in her “Good morning, Anna Vasilyevna,” said Frolov, and
cheeks and the momentary cold touch of the wind. he raised his fur hat over his shapely, short-cropped
Averting her face from the gusts, she was amused to head.
see the small imprints her pointed overshoes left “Come on now, put that hat on! What are you think­
behind, like the tracks of some forest creature. ing in this cold!”
The fresh, sunlit January morning filled her with Probably Frolov had no intention of keeping his hat
happy thoughts. She had come here only two years off, but after the teacher’s words he took his time
ago, straight out of college, and already she was consid­ about putting it on again. A short sheepskin coat fitted
ered the district’s best teacher of Russian. In Uvarovka his trim, muscular body. In one hand he held a thin,
itself, in Kuzminki, in Black Gully village, in the peat snakelike whip, which he kept smacking against his
settlement and at the stud farm, everywhere they knew high felt boots.
her, and called her Anna Vasilyevna, adding the patro­ “How is my Lyosha behaving? Up to any mis­
nymic to show their respect. chief?” he asked conversationally.
The sun rose over the serrated outline of the distant “All children are up to mischief; it’s quite normal as
woods and the long shadows on the snow grew a deeper long as they don't overdo it,” replied Anna, savoring
blue, making faraway objects merge with those near­ her pedagogical wisdom.
by—the top of the church belfry reached up to the Frolov smiled.

79
 “ N o fear of him overdoing it. H e’s a quiet one, takes A small figure in battered felt boots covered with
after his father.” m elting snowflakes stood in the open doorway. The
He stepped off the path and immediately sank up to round, wind-reddened face glowed as if it would burst;
his knees, which made him look no taller than a twelve- the eyebrows were white with frost.
year-old boy. Anna nodded to him graciously and “ Late again, Savushkin.” Like most young teachers,
hurried on. Anna enjoyed being strict, but now an alm ost plaintive
The school, a two-story brick building with wide, note sounded in her voice.
frost-painted windows, stood a little off the highway, Considering the m atter settled, Savushkin quickly
behind a low fence. In the morning light its walls threw slid into his place. Anna saw him shove his oilcloth
a reddish tint on the surrounding snow. Children from schoolbag into the desk and, w ithout turning his head,
all over the district came to it— from nearby villages, ask som ething of the boy next to him.
from the stud farm, the oil workers’ sanatorium, and Savushkin’s unpunctuality annoyed Anna; it som e­
even the far-off peat settlem ent. Caps, kerchiefs, hats, how spoiled the fine opening of the day for her. The
hoods, and bonnets flocked to the school along the geography teacher, a small, dried-up old woman, very
highway from both directions. much like a night m oth, had once com plained to Anna
“ Good morning, Anna Vasilyevna!” about Savushkin’s often being late to lessons. She
From some the familiar greeting sounded in clear complained about other things, too— the children’s
and ringing voices, from others it was muffled and inattentiveness, their much too boisterous behavior.
barely audible, coming through thick scarves and “ Those first m orning lessons are so trying,” she said.
shawls that swathed the young faces up to the eyes. They may be, for incom petent teachers who don’t
know how to hold the interest of their pupils, thought
A nna disdainfully, and offered to change hours with
nna’s first lesson was to the twelve- and th ir­ the older woman. She felt a prick of conscience now:

A teen-year-olds in five-A form. She entered

Lthe classroom as the last peal of the bell was
announcing the beginning of the class. The children
rose, greeted her, and sat down at their desks. But it
the old teacher had doubtless sensed the challenge in
A nna’s m agnanim ous offer.
“ Is everything clear?” she asked the class.
“ Yes!” chorused the children.
took some time for them to quiet down. Desk tops “ Very well. Then give me some exam ples.”
banged, benches creaked, somebody sighed heavily, T here was a short silence and then someone said
evidently unwilling to switch off the carefree morning haltingly, “ C at.”
mood. “ C orrect,” said Anna, recalling that last year, too,
“ We shall continue to study parts of speech “ cat” had been the first example.
today.” A fter that examples poured in like a stream:
Now they became perfectly quiet. The sounds of a window . . . table . . . house . . . highway . . .
truck slowly rum bling along the slippery highway “ C orrect,” Anna assured them . The children were
could distinctly be heard in the room. excited.
Anna rem em bered how nervous she had been about It amazed Anna to see such joy at the discovery of a
this lesson last year. She had kept repeating to herself, new aspect in long-familiar words. A t first the choice
like a schoolgirl before an exam, the textbook defini­ of examples em braced only the most everyday, tangi­
tion of a noun. And how foolishly afraid she had been ble things: cart, tractor, pail, nest . . . From the back
that they would not understand! desk a fat boy called Vasya kept repeating in his thin
She smiled at those memories, adjusted a pin in her voice, “ Chicken, chicken, chicken.”
heavy knot of hair, and, sensing confidence coursing But then someone said hesitantly, “ T ow n.”
like blood itself through her body, she began speaking “ G ood,” encouraged Anna.
in a calm, even voice: “ A noun is a word that denotes a “ S treet . . . victory . . . poem . . . play . . .”
subject— that is, a person, thing, or quality. A subject “ Well, th at’s enough,” said Anna. “ I can see you
in gram m ar is anything about which you can ask the understand it.”
question W hat is it? or Who is it? For instance: Who is The voices died down reluctantly; only fat Vasya’s
it?— a pupil. W hat is it?— a book.” “chicken” still came from the back of the room. And
“ May I come in?” then suddenly, as if awakened out of his sleep, Savush­
kin stood up behind his desk and shouted eagerly,
“ W inter oak!”
Yuri Nagibin, a Soviet writer, was born in Moscow in 1920
The children laughed.
and began his literary career in 1939. During World War
II he served as a war correspondent; since that time he has “ Q uiet, please!” Anna brought her palm down hard
concentrated on the writing of stories. on the table.

80
 Winter Oak

“Winter oak!” repeated Savushkin, heedless of the “There’s only my mother, Anna Vasilyevna,” Sa­
laughter around him or of Anna’s order. There was vushkin said softly.
something peculiar in his manner. The words seemed Anna blushed. She remembered the boy’s mother,
to have burst out like a confession, like some glorious the “shower nurse,” as her son called her. A withered,
secret which could not remain unshared. tired-looking woman who worked at the sanatorium’s
Annoyed and uncomprehending, Anna asked, barely hydrotherapy section. From continuous contact with
controlling her irritation, “Why ‘winter oak’? ‘Oak’ is hot water, her hands, limp and white, looked as if they
enough.” were made of cotton. After her husband had been
“An oak is nothing. A winter oak, there’s a noun for killed in the war, she remained alone to bring up four
you.” children as best she could. She certainly had enough
“Sit down, Savushkin. That’s what coming in late worry without being bothered about her son’s conduct.
leads to. Oak is a noun, and what the word ‘winter’ is in But all the same they had to meet.
this case we have not studied yet. You will come to the
teachers’ room during the long recess."
“Now you’ll catch it,” whispered somebody behind
Savushkin.
Savushkin sat down smiling to himself, not in the
least put out by the teacher’s strict tone. A difficult
boy, thought Anna.
The lesson continued.

J t it down,” said Anna when Savushkin entered

the teachers’ room. With evident pleasure
the boy sank into a soft armchair and rocked
a few times on its springs.
“Will you please tell me why you are always late for
school?”
“ 1 really don’t know, Anna Vasilyevna,” he said with
a gesture of surprise. “ I leave home an hour before
school.”
It seemed that even in trifling matters like this, truth
was not so easily to be established. There were many
children who lived much farther away from school, yet
none of them needed more than an hour to get there on
time.
“You live in Kuzminki, don’t you?”
“No, I live on the sanatorium premises.”
“Aren’t you ashamed, then, to tell me you leave
home an hour before school? Why, it’s fifteen minutes
from the sanatorium to the highway, and no more than
half an hour’s walk down the highway!” “ I’ll have to see your mother, then,” said Anna.
“But I don’t never go down the highway. I take a “ Please do, Anna Vasilyevna. She’ll be so glad to see
shortcut through the forest,” Savushkin said earnest­ you.”
ly- “ I doubt that. What shift does she work on?”
“ Don’t ever go,” Anna corrected him mechanically. “The second. She goes to work at three."
Why did children have to lie? she thought unhappily. “ Very well then. I finish at two. We’ll go together
Why couldn’t Savushkin tell her simply, “ I’m sorry, right after school is over.”
Anna Vasilyevna, I stopped to play snowballs with the
kids,” or something else equally straightforward. But Savushkin led Anna Vasilyevna along the path that
the boy said no more and just looked at her out of his started at the back of the school. As soon as they
large gray eyes, as if wondering what else she would entered the forest and the heavy, snowladen spruce
want of him. branches closed behind them, they found themselves in
“That’s not very good, Savushkin. I’ll have to talk to a different, enchanted world of peace and quiet. Now
your parents about it.” and then magpies and crows flew from tree to tree,

81
shaking the spreading branches, knocking off dry pine sitting on. It sways and the shadows it throws over the
cones, and occasionally breaking off a brittle twig. But ice sway with it.”
the sounds were short-lived and muffled. Anna blushed. It looked as if she had better hold her
Everything around was white. Only high up against tongue here, in the woods.
the blue sky the dainty lacework of the tall birch trees Savushkin trod on ahead, bending slightly and
stood out as if sketched in with India ink. throwing keen glances around. Anna followed behind.
The path followed a frozen brook, sometimes right The winding path led them on and on. There seemed
down along the bank, sometimes climbing up a steep to be no end to all those trees and huge snowdrifts, to
rise. Occasionally the trees fell back, revealing a sunlit that enchanted silence and sun-speckled twilight.
clearing crisscrossed with hares’ tracks that looked like Suddenly a bluish-white patch gleamed ahead. The
a watch chain pattern. There were larger tracks too, trees grew sparser. The path rounded a nut bush, and a
shaped like clover. They led away into the densest part vast clearing flooded with sunlight opened up before
of the woods. their eyes. In the middle of the clearing, in sparkling
“Elk’s tracks,” said Savushkin, following the direc­ white raiment, stood an old oak, tall and majestic like a
tion of Anna’s gaze. “ Don’t be afraid,” he added, read­ cathedral. Its branches spread far out over the clearing,
ing an unspoken question in her eyes. and snow nestling in the cracks of the bark made its
“ Have you ever seen one?” asked Anna. gigantic trunk look as if inlaid with silver. It had not
“An elk? No. No such luck,” sighed Savushkin. shed its dried foliage and was now covered to the very
“I’ve seen elk droppings, though.” crown with snow-capped leaves.
“ What?” “The winter oak!” gasped Anna. She reverently
“ Dung,” Savushkin explained, embarrassed. approached the tree and halted under its glittering
Diving under a twisted willow, the path ran down to branches.
the brook again. Parts of the brook’s surface were Unaware of the tumult in his teacher’s heart,
covered with a thick layer of snow; in other parts, its Savushkin busied himself with something at the foot of
icy armor lay clear and sparkling, and there were spots the trunk, treating the magnificent tree with the famil­
where unfrozen water stood out in dark blotches like iarity of a long-standing friendship.
evil eyes. “Come here, Anna Vasilyevna,” he called. “ Look!”
“Why hasn’t it frozen there?” Anna asked. He pushed aside a large clump of snow with earth
“ Warm springs. Look, you can see one coming up and old grass clinging to its underside. A little ball
right there.” plastered with decayed leaves lay in the hollow below.
Bending over the clear water, Anna saw a thin, quiv­ The skeletonlike remnants of the leaves were pierced
ering thread which rose up from the bottom of the with sharply pointed needles.
stream and burst into tiny bubbles before reaching the “A hedgehog!” cried Anna.
surface. It looked like a lily of the valley with a fragile “See how well he hid himself?” And Savushkin
stem and tiny white flowers. carefully restored the protective covering of earth and
“ Plenty of these springs here,” Savushkin explained snow over the immobile hedgehog. Then he dug at
eagerly; “that’s why the brook never freezes over another spot and revealed a tiny cave with icicles hang­
completely.” ing at its opening. It was occupied by a brown frog, its
They came to another unfrozen stretch, with pitch- tightly stretched skin shiny as if lacquered.
black but transparent water. Savushkin touched the frog. It made no movement.
Anna threw a handful of snow into it. The snow did “ Isn’t he a sly one?” remarked Savushkin. “Pretend­
not melt, but grew bulkier at once and sank, spreading ing he’s dead. But just watch him leap as soon as the
out in the water like some jellied greenish weeds. This sun warms him up a bit.”
pleased her so much that she started knocking the He guided Anna on through the world he knew so
snow into the water, trying to push off bigger lumps well. There were numerous other tenants in and
which took on especially fancy shapes. Carried away by around the oak: bugs, lizards, insects. Some hid among
the game, she did not notice Savushkin go on ahead. the roots, others in the deep cracks of the bark. Thin,
He perched up on a low tree branch hanging right over withered, apparently lifeless, they hibernated there all
the brook and sat waiting for her. A thin layer of ice through the winter. The powerful tree accumulated in
covered the surface of the brook there, and light, fleet­ itself a store of vital warmth, and those poor creatures
ing shadows kept moving over it. could not wish for a better shelter. Fascinated, Anna
“ Look how thin the ice is, you can see the water watched this hidden forest life, so little known to her.
flowing underneath,” said Anna, coming up to the “Oh, oh, Mother’ll be at work by now!” came
boy. Savushkin’s anxious voice.
“Oh, no, Anna Vasilyevna, it’s the branch I’m Anna looked at her watch. A quarter past three. She

82
 W in te r O a k

felt trapped. Ashamed for her human frailties and and there that he would never be late again, but hesi­
inwardly begging forgiveness of the oak, she said, tated, because he was afraid he might not keep his
“ Well, Savushkin, this only proves that a shortcut is promise. He only raised his collar and, pulling down
not always the best way to choose. You’ll have to go his hat, said, “ I’ll walk you back to school.”
along the highway from now on.” “No, don’t, I can find the way myself.”
Savushkin looked down and did not reply. He looked at her in some doubt, then picked up a
Heavens! thought Anna, isn’t this the clearest proof long stick, broke off its thinner end, and offered it to
of my incompetence! Anna. “Take this,” he said. “ If an elk comes your way,
The morning lesson flashed through her mind. How just hit him on the back and he’ll run for all he’s worth.
dull and lifeless her explanations were, how utterly Though better not hit him, just wave the stick at him.
devoid of feeling. And she was teaching the children He might get angry, you know, and leave the woods for
their native language, so beautiful, so rich in shades, good.”
color, and meaning! An experienced teacher, indeed! “ Don’t worry, I shan’t hit him,” she promised.
She’d taken no more than a few faltering steps along She took a few steps back, then stopped and turned
the path that might well require a whole lifetime to to take one last look at the winter oak, tinged with pink
cover. And how is one not to swerve aside but follow by the setting sun. A small dark figure stood at the foot
the correct path? Yet the joy with which her pupils of the trunk. Savushkin did not go home. He stayed to
shouted familiar words, a joy she had not fully appreci­ guard his teacher’s way, even if from a distance.
ated or shared, told her now that she had not strayed And suddenly Anna knew that the most wonderful
too hopelessly after all. being in that forest was not the winter oak but this
“Thank you, Savushkin, for the lovely walk,” she small boy in battered felt boots and patched clothes,
said. “ I didn’t mean what I just told you. Of course you the son of a “shower nurse” and a soldier killed in the
can take the forest path to school.” war.
“Thank you, Anna Vasilyevna.” Savushkin blushed She waved to him and went on her way.
with pleasure. He wanted to promise his teacher then — Translated by Valentina Jacque

/ An Epitaph \
/ for Lovell, Our Dog \
by Martha Bacon \
On the evening of her death, our dog, young Lovell,
Stood and the hair pricked on her spine,
A spaniel, paler than German wine.
Lovell, go seek! Blonde elf-locks and brook-brown eyes.
The partridge rustles, the pheasant flies.

In the last look of September, when the cold quickens

On the day when I first see breath,
When geese feather their shafts and sight the south,
In the last of the leaf, the first of the fog,
Then I remember Lovell, our dog.

She scented the quarry, stiffened, curled her forefoot,

Pointed her questing nose,
Snarled at her prey and froze
And, marking her own mortality upon the wing
Seized the distinguished thing.

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