The first joyful snow blanketed the town, casting a net over the thin-ribbed forest and settling on the straw-thatched caps of the villages. In the open steppe the free-flowing breeze drove raging clouds of snow and playfully curled the crests of snowdrifts.

Roads to the right

Roads to the left

Snowy wastes …

The first frosty tracery on windows.

Klyukvin exulted. The façades of little houses were decked with green boughs and crimson flags.

Somewhere beyond the fire station a band struck up. Through the narrow winding streets from the outskirts towards the centre came a steady stream of townsfolk. Children ran ahead shouting. Excited dogs bounded along. The men strode purposefully forward. The women puffed and panted as they ran, adjusting their headscarves.

‘Mother of God! … They’re coming.’

‘Yes! They’re coming … Heavens, Darya! Oh! … Praise be!’

‘Just like the dream I had …’

From the station Kapustin's partisan detachment rode into the main street. Their tired, steaming horses snorted. Scalp-locked partisans swayed in their saddles – their faces weather-beaten and their snow-covered black papakhas pushed back.

With banners flying and band playing, railwaymen, carters, weavers, bakers, tanners and needleworkers advanced across the market square to meet them.

‘Look, Mummy! Look!’

‘Some power there, brother! What a lot of people! … Ain't seen so many even at the Blessing of the Waters.’

‘That's what war does … Ought to hitch them horses to the plough.’

A vividly coloured skirt darted out from the footpath: ‘Mitroshenka …’

The young woman breasted the wave of horses … A hook-nosed, wind-burned partisan leaned down, swept her up under the arms and seated her in front of him; to a chorus of approving laughter he started kissing her tear-stained laughing face.

‘Hurrah, hurraa-aah …’

Heads thrown back, mouths wide ajar …

‘Yermolai! Brother! The devil take you …’

‘Ah, hello friend! Still alive, eh? Your Grunya's been worried sick; she's given you a brace of twins.’

An old woman grabbed at the reins of a bay horse, her eyes blazing and guttering by turns, like cheap candles in the breeze …