"Well, there it is, Ivan! It'll have to be rebuilt. For the moment there are only four men here, including yourself. There's a horse of sorts. But that's how it goes. I think we can have a housewarming before the fall."

"The first thing to be done, Stepanych," said Ivan, gazing at the weathered remains of his father's izba, "is for you to marry us."

The marriage was celebrated at the kolkhoz soviet. Everyone who lived in Goritsy – twelve people in all – was there. The bridal couple were seated, a trifle awkward and solemn, beneath the portrait of Stalin. Everyone drank samogon, the rough vodka made in the village. Merrily they cried out: "Gorko!" inviting the couple to kiss. Then the women, with voices somewhat out of tune, as if they had lost the habit, began to sing:

Someone's coming down the hill, My lover true, my handsome boy! Yes he's the one, now heart be still, Beating madly in my joy!

He has his khaki tunic on: The star shines red, the braid shines gold. Why did we meet on life's long road? Now tell me why. It must be told.

The dense summer night grew deeper outside the uncurtained windows. Two oil lamps glowed on the table. And the people gathered in that izba, far away in the heart of the forest, sang and laughed; and wept, too, happy for the young couple but bitter about their broken lives. Ivan wore his tunic, arefully washed, with all his decorations; Tatyana a white blouse. It was the gift of a tall woman with a swarthy complexion who lived in the ruins of an izba at the end of the village.

"This is for you, bride-to-be," she had said in a harsh voice. "It's for your wedding.