VANYA

The weeks in the harvest fields, living in tents and under the vast Ukrainian sky passed far too quickly for Ivan. Many of the others, especially soldiers from the cities, had grown tired of the drudgery of harvest and the bleakness of the bare countryside. The agricultural workers on the state farm, with their simple speech and muddy hands, were uninteresting to them, and in the evenings they yawned restlessly in the tents, reading or playing chess and hoping that the harvest would soon be in. But for Ivan, it was home. Not that the collective farm on which his parents worked was as large as this one, nor was the harvest similar. But the feel of the hazy afternoon sun on his back, the smell of the earth, the sound of voices calling back and forth in the open air sometimes made him forget where he was, and he would straighten his back, expecting some of his brothers or his mother to be working nearby. It had been a good time of rest and spiritual refreshment, over too soon, Ivan thought. He sat watching the tow truck ahead of him as it pulled his own Zil-164 with its disabled driveshaft. The convoy of army trucks filled with earth and returning soldiers snaked over the rolling hills of the evening countryside toward Kerch. Suddenly the peacefulness of Ivan's thoughts was dispelled by a loud banging under the truck. He honked for the attention of Fyodor Tarusov in the tow truck. They were approaching the foot of a hill. Fyodor eased the tandem to the side of the road and jumped out, along with Alexi Kuprin. “The universal joint?” Alexi guessed. Ivan nodded, hopping out into the cold evening countryside. “Give me the flashlight and repair kit. I'll just disconnect it. Put the emergency brake on, will you?” A dog howled somewhere in the distance. An owl hooted. It was a starless night. Fyodor glanced at his watch with a groan. “Ten o'clock at night. We'll never get any sleep.” Even in the poor light of the flashlight Ivan could see it was the universal joint. With a grunt of effort in the small space he finally scooted his body under it. He rummaged in his kit for a wrench, then managed to take the joint apart. The instant he felt the shift of the truck he knew Alexi had not put on the emergency brake. With a lunge he tried to roll out from under the truck as it moved forward. He let out a desperate shout: “Reverse!” The strange thing in the next few minutes of pain was that he was aware of everything. The rear wheel crushing into his shoulder and chest, the horror on Fyodor's face, the churning of the engine as Alexi tried repeatedly to get the tow truck to reverse. The smell of tire rubber and oil filled his nostrils in the intense dark under the truck. From the corner of his eye he could see the flashlight where it had rolled onto the road. In the tiny spot of its light small insects began to fly. Pain was ripping through his chest, strangling his breath. He was perfectly aware that Alexi couldn't get the truck into reverse. Surely soon he would be with the angels. “Jesus.” “Jesus.” With a slight jolt, the engine roared and the six pairs of wheels rolled back. Ivan pulled himself away from the truck and collapsed onto his mangled arm and chest in the road. *** When he opened his eyes, a hot sheet of pain seemed to be burning into him. A small group of doctors beside his bed came into focus and beyond them a white wall and a narrow window curtained in sagging white cotton. He tried to speak, but his mouth was crusted with fever. One of the doctors bent over him with interest, reading the question in his eyes. Her voice was kind. “You have been transferred to Simferopol Military Hospital, Ivan Vasilievich Moise-yev.” Her expression remained unchanged as she pulled the thermometer from under his arm. A nurse began bathing his face in cool water. He tried to suck the moisture from the cloth as it touched his lips. Smiling, she held a glass for him to drink. The slightest move seemed to fling open floodgates of pain. The shallowest breathing took enormous effort. His eyes followed her hand as the nurse set the glass down on a small table beside his bed. His right arm was lying outside the covers. He stared at it in astonishment. The whole hand and wrist and the part of the arm he could see not covered by a sling was a dusky grey. It seemed unattached to his body. It was impossible for him to will the smallest movement in the swollen fingers. With his left hand he reached through the pain and touched the right wrist and back of the hand; it was ice cold. The rest of his body was fiery hot. With the nurse raising him to a half-sitting position he thirstily gulped more water. He could see he was in a large ward. Some of the patients appeared very ill with dripping bottles and tubes and whirring machines attached to them. Some slept. Others were convalescing, stoop-ing like old men from bed to chair or cautiously sitting up reading. A few watched Ivan intently. The nurse moved away, carrying her basin and cloth with her. Ivan closed his eyes and began to pray. By the time of the evening meal a surgeon came to tell Ivan that surgery was scheduled in the morning. A specialist had been sent for to perform the operation. His right arm that was so frighteningly cold was to be amputated. Part of his crushed lung would be removed. Ivan watched the doctor leave the ward, stopping at occasional bedsides as he wearily made his way to the corridor. His white coat moved from one patient to another, pausing, nodding briefly, the back of his shoulders stooped in fatigue. When he had gone, the patients sank back into their private struggles with depression, or pain or loneliness. A desperate rejection of the surgeon's words swept through Ivan's mind. His heart pounded against his injured lung. He began to be horrified at the thought of his body without an arm. “Hear my prayer, O Lord! And let my cry for help come to Thee. Do not hide Thy face from me in the day of my distress; incline Thine ear to me; in the day when I call answer me quickly.” Somehow Ivan had to get out of bed. He felt himself falling into a grief from which he could neither pray nor hope. In a rush of anguish he heaved himself to the edge of the bed and threw his legs over the side. He staggered wildly for balance as pain blackened the room. Desperation gave him breath. Every eye in the room was fixed upon him in fear and astonishment. “I cry aloud with my voice to the Lord; I make supplication with my voice to the Lord. I pour out my complaint before Him; I declare my trouble before Him. When my spirit was overwhelmed within me, Thou didst know my path. I cried out to Thee, O Lord; I said, Thou art my refuge, my portion in the land of the living. Give heed to my cry, for I am brought very low.” A passing nurse stopped in the doorway and entered the room slowly. “Bring my soul out of prison, so that I may give thanks to Thy Name; for Thou wilt deal bountifully with me.” Guiding Ivan with her hand under his left elbow, the nurse moved him into bed. A great joy seemed to shake his body. Ivan smiled suddenly. “Thou wilt deal bountifully with me.” He remem-bered the nurse wiping his face with a wet cloth as he sank into a blessed darkness. *** It was six o'clock in the morning when he awoke. For several moments Ivan lay motionless, trying to hold onto the sweet lightness of a dream... Gradually he became aware that he was lying on his back instead of hunched on his uninjured left side. His breathing was quiet. Cautiously he took a deep breath. His arms were folded above his head and he was able to gaze at the ward still wrapped in sleep. Quietly he began to give praise to the Lord for the enormous relief of this dream. He brought his right arm down carefully from behind his head to his side. It was perfectly whole, the fingernails pink, the flesh still slightly tanned from his work in the harvest fields. With both hands he raised himself to a sitting position and got out of bed. Smiling in wonder at the reality of the dream, he lightly punched his pillow and patted the side of the bed. He waved one arm above his head playfully, then the other. With his hands on his waist, he did a few deep bends. In a supreme happiness he knelt in prayer at the end of his bed. Softly he whispered praises. “Praise the Lord. Praise the Lord, O my soul. I will praise the Lord while I live. I will sing praises to my God while I have my being. The Lord opens the eyes of the blind; the Lord raises up those who are bowed down; the Lord loves the righteous. Praise the Lord.” Eventually the man in the bed beside him began to moan. Someone on the other side of the ward was struggling to reach a glass of water. Daylight streaked the slate-coloured sky in the window. The lifelikeness of the dream amused Ivan. With a sleepy sigh he crawled into bed. He imagined himself floating into a delicious sleep. *** The day nurse reached mechanically for the thermometer in the drawer of Ivan's table. He opened his eyes and gazed sleepily at her. The thermometer remained sus-pended in air as she stared fearfully at him. In an instant she was gone. Rapid footsteps in the ward roused him a second time. The surgeon was standing beside the nurse. Some other doctors were hurrying into the room. Everyone appeared startled. Ivan sat up defensively. What was happening? Suddenly a feeling of glory rolled over him. He had sat up! He stared at his hands in front of him. The sling lay on top of his covers at the bottom of his bed. He began breathing deeply, entranced. He rubbed his hands together, then separated them in wonder. The doctor was frightened. He groped for words. The nurse backed slightly away from the bed. Finally, in a shaking voice, the doctor spoke: “Shall I take your temperature, comrade Moiseyev?” Ivan flushed with happiness. “Of course I don't need my temperature taken, comrade doctor.” The surgeon continued to stare. Finally he put the medicine on the table. Hesitantly, his fingers probed Ivan's right hand. Gently lifting the sleeve of the hospital gown he glanced at the arm, his eyes returning again and again to the radiance of Ivan's face. “I saw that you could not heal me.” Ivan noticed that the nurse's face was white and that she had been joined by a small crowd of astonished employees. “And I turned to my heavenly Doctor, Who healed me last night.” “Look!” With a grin, Ivan pulled back the blanket and stood on the floor. “Last night I was very ill. My temperature was high.” The nurse began to tremble as she nodded. “Now I shall show you what my God can do.” Ivan handed the thermometer to the doctor, who shook it down and placed it under Ivan's tongue. Some of the patients in the ward were gathering around the bottom of the bed. Others were calling softly from bed to bed, trying to discover and report what was going on. The doctor removed the thermometer. “The temperature is normal, Moiseyev. Obviously. However, please return to your bed.” It was difficult for Ivan to comply. He wanted to jump, to shout, to fill the ward with the praises of God! When the small group of staff had finally gone, he raised himself on his elbow and began telling the electrified ward what God had done while he slept. [VANYA, A True Story by Myrna Grant, Charisma House, 1974].