Throughout the last few days, since events had rained down on his family like stones, Nikolka had been preoccupied with a solemn obligation, an act bound up with the last words of his commanding officer, who had died stretched out on the snow. Nikolka succeeded in discharging that obligation, but to do so he had had to spend the whole of the day before the parade running around the city and calling on no less than nine addresses.
Several times during this hectic chase Nikolka had lost his presence of mind, had given up in despair, then started again, until eventually he succeeded.
In a little house on Litovskaya Street at the very edge of town he found another cadet who had served in the second company of their detachment and from him he learned the first name, patronymic and address of Colonel Nai-Turs.
As he tried to cross St Sophia's Square, Nikolka struggled against swirling waves of people.
It was impossible to get across the square.
Frozen, Nikolka then lost a good half-hour as he tried to struggle free of the grip of the crowd and return to his starting point - St Michael's Monastery.
From there Nikolka tried, by making a wide detour along Kostelnaya Street, to work his way round to the lower end of the Kreshchatik, and from there to get through to Malo-Provalnaya Street by devious backstreets.
This too proved impossible.
Like everywhere else, Kostelnaya Street was blocked by troops moving uphill towards the parade.
Then Nikolka made an even bigger and more curving sweep away from the center until he found himself completely alone on St Vladimir's Hill.
There, along the terraces and avenues of the park, Nikolka trudged on between walls of white snow.
His way took him past the open space around St Vladimir's statue, where there was much less snow, and from where he could see, in the sea of snow on the hills opposite, the Imperial Gardens. Further away to the left, stretching towards Chernigov, lay the endless plains in their deep winter sleep divided from him by the river Dnieper - white and majestic between its frozen banks.
It was peaceful and utterly calm, but Nikolka had no time for calm.
Fighting his way through the snow he made his way down from terrace after terrace, surprised by the occasional tracks in the snow which meant that someone beside himself had been wandering about the park in the depths of winter.
Finally, at the end of an avenue, Nikolka sighed with relief as he saw that there were no troops at this end of the Kreshchatik, and he made straight for the long-sought goal: No.
21 Malo-Provalnaya Street.
This was the address that Nikolka had taken so much trouble to find and although he had not written it down, that address was deeply etched into his brain.
Nikolka felt both excited and shy.
'Who should I ask for?
I don't know anything about them . . .'
He rang the bell of a side door at the far end of a terraced garden.
For a long time there was no answer, but at last came the slap of footsteps and the door opened a little to the extent of a short chain.
A woman's face with a pince-nez peered out and asked brusquely from the darkness of the lobby:
'What d'you want?'
'Could you tell me, please - does the Nai-Turs family live here?'
The woman's face became even grimmer and more unwelcoming, and the lenses of her pince-nez glittered.
'There's no one here called Turs', said the woman in a low voice.
Blushing, Nikolka felt miserable and embarrassed.
'This is Apartment 5, isn't it?'
'Well, yes, it is', the woman replied suspiciously and reluctantly. 'Tell me what you want.'
'I was told that the Nai-Turs family lived here . . .'
The face thrust itself out a little further and glanced rapidly around the garden in an attempt to see whether there was anyone else standing behind Nikolka . . .
Nikolka found himself staring at a fat female double chin.
'So what d'you want?
Tell me . . .'
With a sigh Nikolka glanced around and said:
'I've come about Felix Felixovich ... I have news.'
The expression on the face changed abruptly.
The woman blinked and said:
'Who are you?'
'A student.'
'Wait there.' The door slammed and footsteps died away.
Half a minute later came the click of heels from behind the door, which opened to let Nikolka in.
A light from the drawing-room fell into the lobby and Nikolka was able to make out the edge of a soft upholstered armchair and then the woman in the pince- nez.
Nikolka took off his cap, at which another woman appeared, short, thin, with traces of a faded beauty in her face.
From several slight, indefinable features about her - her forehead, the color of her hair - Nikolka realised that this was Nai-Turs' mother, and he was suddenly appalled - how could he tell her . . .
The women stared at him with a steady, bright gaze which embarrassed Nikolka even more.
Another woman appeared, young and with the same family resemblance.
'Well, say what you have to say', said the mother firmly.
Nikolka crumpled his cap in his hands, turned to look at the older woman and stammered: