‘I’ve already given instructions to that effect to the staff.’
‘That’s not enough. I want it to be the personal responsibility of each commanding officer. They’re to report back in person not later than 1600 hours.’
‘The appointment of Sazonov to the post of brigade chief of staff has been confirmed.’
‘That’s remarkably quick,’ said Novikov.
Instead of avoiding his eyes, Nyeudobnov was smiling. He was aware of Novikov’s embarrassment and irritation.
Usually Novikov lacked the courage to defend his choice of commanding officers to the end. As soon as anyone cast aspersions on their political reliability, he went sour on them. Their military abilities seemed suddenly unimportant. This time, however, he felt angry. He no longer wanted peace at any price. Looking straight at Nyeudobnov, he said:
‘My mistake. I allowed more importance to be attached to a man’s biographical data than to his military abilities. But that can be sorted out at the Front. To fight the Germans, you need more than a spotless background. If need be, I’ll send Sazonov packing on the first day.’
Nyeudobnov shrugged his shoulders. ‘Personally I’ve got nothing whatsoever against this Basangov. But one should always give preference to a Russian if possible. The friendship of nations is something sacred – but you must realize that there is a considerable percentage, among the national minorities, of people who are unreliable or even positively hostile.’
‘We should have thought of that in 1937,’ said Novikov. ‘One man I knew, Mitka Yevseyev, was always strutting about and repeating: “I’m a Russian, that’s all that matters!” A fat lot of good it did him – he was sent to a camp.’
‘There’s a time for everything,’ said Nyeudobnov. ‘And if this man was arrested, then he must have been an enemy of the people. People don’t get arrested for nothing. Twenty-five years ago we concluded the Treaty of Brest-Litovsk with the Germans – and that was Bolshevism. Today comrade Stalin has ordered us to annihilate the German aggressors who have invaded our Soviet homeland – and that’s Bolshevism too.
‘Today a Bolshevik is first and foremost a Russian patriot,’ he added sententiously.
All this irritated Novikov. His own sense of Russian patriotism had been forged during the most difficult days of the war; Nyeudobnov’s appeared simply to have been borrowed from some office – an office to which he himself was denied admittance.
He went on talking to Nyeudobnov, felt irritated, thought about hundreds of different things . . . And all the time his heart was thumping, his cheeks burning as though he had been in the wind.
It was as if a whole battalion was marching over his heart, as if thousands of boots were beating out the words: ‘Zhenya, Zhenya, Zhenya.’
Vershkov looked into the compartment. By now he had forgiven Novikov and his tone of voice was conciliatory.
‘Beg leave to report, comrade Colonel. The cook’s giving me a hard time. He’s been keeping your dinner hot for over two hours.’
‘Very well then, but make it quick!’
The cook rushed in, covered in sweat. With a look of mingled suffering, resentment and happiness on his face he laid out various dishes of pickles that had been brought from the Urals.
‘And I’d like a bottle of beer,’ said Nyeudobnov languidly.
‘Certainly, comrade Major-General,’ said the cook.
Novikov suddenly felt so hungry, after his long fast, that tears came to his eyes. ‘Yes, the commander has forgotten what it’s like to go without meals,’ he thought to himself, remembering the cold lilac.
Novikov and Nyeudobnov both looked out of the window. A policeman, a rifle hanging from his shoulder strap, was marching a drunken soldier across the tracks; the soldier was stumbling, lurching about and letting out piercing screams. He tried to hit out and break free, but the policeman just grabbed him firmly by the shoulders. Then – God knows what thoughts were passing through his befuddled mind! – he began kissing the policeman’s cheek with sudden tenderness.
‘Find out what the hell all that’s about,’ Novikov ordered Vershkov, ‘and report back immediately!’
‘He’s a saboteur. He deserves to be shot,’ said Nyeudobnov as he drew the curtain.
You could see a number of different feelings on Vershkov’s usually simple face. In the first place, he was sorry that his commanding officer had had his appetite spoiled. At the same time he felt sympathy for the soldier, a sympathy that included nuances of amusement, approval, comradely admiration, fatherly tenderness, sorrow and genuine anxiety. After saluting and saying that of course he’d report back immediately, Vershkov began embroidering:
‘His old mother lives here and . . . Well, you know what we Russians are like. He was upset, he wanted to mark his departure and he misjudged the dose.’
Novikov scratched the back of his head and pulled his plate towards him. ‘Damn it, that’ll be my last chance to get away on my own,’ he said to himself, thinking of Zhenya.
Getmanov came back shortly before their departure, red-faced and merry. He said he didn’t want supper and just asked for a bottle of fizzy orange, his favourite soft drink. He pulled off his boots with a grunt, lay down and pushed the door shut with his foot.
Then he told Novikov the news he had received from an old comrade, the secretary of an obkom, who had recently returned from Moscow; he had been received by someone who had a place on the mausoleum on public occasions in Red Square, though not, of course, at Stalin’s side by the microphone. This man didn’t know everything and, needless to say, hadn’t told all of what he did know to the secretary of the obkom, someone he had previously known only as a raykom instructor in a small town on the Volga. The secretary of the obkom, weighing Getmanov up on some invisible chemical balance, had told him only a small part of what he had heard. And then Getmanov had passed on to Novikov only a small part of what he himself had been told.
Nevertheless, he was speaking in a particularly confidential tone he had never used before with Novikov. He seemed to take it for granted that Novikov was au fait with the secrets of the great; he talked though Novikov must be aware that Malenkov possessed enormous executive power, that Beria and Molotov were the only people who addressed comrade Stalin as ‘ty’, that comrade Stalin strongly disliked unauthorized personal initiatives, that comrade Stalin liked sulguni cheese, that on account of the poor state of his teeth comrade Stalin always dipped his bread in wine, that his face, incidentally, was very pock-marked from the smallpox he had had as a child, that comrade Molotov had long ago fallen from his position as number two in the Party, that Iosif Vissarionovich had been far from well-disposed towards Nikita Sergeyevichfn1 recently and had even given him a good dressing-down over the telephone . . .
The confidential tone of these remarks about people in positions of supreme power, about the way Stalin had joked and crossed himself during a conversation with Churchill, about Stalin’s displeasure at the high-handedness of one of his Marshals – all this somehow seemed more important than Getmanov’s veiled hint as to what the man with the place on the mausoleum had said. This news was something Novikov had long and eagerly expected: soon they were to launch a counter-offensive. With a stupid, self-satisfied smile he felt quite ashamed of, he thought to himself: ‘Well, I seem to have become part of the nomenklatura myself!’
With no warning of any kind, the train moved off.
Novikov walked to the end of the corridor, opened the door and stared out into the darkness that now covered the city. Again he could hear marching boots beating out the words ‘Zhenya, Zhenya, Zhenya.’ From the front of the train, he could hear snatches of song.
The thunder of steel wheels on steel rails, the clatter of wagons carrying steel tanks to the Front, the young voices, the cold wind from the Volga, the starry sky – suddenly they all took on a different tone, different from that of a moment before, different from that of the whole of the past year. He felt an arrogant happiness, a joyful sense of his own harsh str
ength. It was as though the face of the war had changed, as though it no longer expressed only hatred and agony. The mournful snatches of song that were wafted out of the darkness suddenly sounded proud and threatening.
This happiness, however, did not make him feel in any way kind or forgiving. On the contrary, it aroused anger, hatred and a desire to show his own strength, to annihilate whatever stood in his way.
He went back to the compartment. Just as he had been surprised earlier by the charm of the autumn night, so he was now by the stifling closeness, the tobacco smoke, the smell of rancid butter, shoe polish and the sweat of well-fleshed staff officers. Getmanov was still stretched out across the seats; his pyjama top was open and you could see the white skin on his chest.
‘Well, how about a game of dominoes? The general’s willing.’
‘Certainly,’ said Novikov. ‘Why not?’
Getmanov gave a discreet burp and said anxiously: ‘I’m afraid I must have an ulcer somewhere. As soon as I have a bite to eat, I get the most terrible heartburn.’
‘We shouldn’t have left the medical officer behind to come on the other train,’ said Novikov.
Working himself up into a rage, he said to himself: ‘I decided to promote Darensky; Fyodorenko frowned and I began to lose confidence. I told Getmanov and Nyeudobnov; they said we could do without former zeks and I quite lost my nerve. I proposed Basangov; they wanted a Russian and I gave way again. Do I have a mind of my own or not?’ He looked at Getmanov and thought, with deliberate absurdity: ‘Today he offers me my own cognac; tomorrow, if she comes on a visit, he’ll be wanting to sleep with my woman.’
Why, if he was so sure that he, and no one else, was destined to break the back of the German war machine, did he always feel so timid and weak when he talked to Getmanov and Nyeudobnov?
He could sense the anger and hatred that had been welling up for years, his resentment at the way people who were militarily illiterate – but accustomed to power, good living and the tinkle of medals – had graciously intervened to help him obtain a room in the officers’ mess and perhaps given him small pats of encouragement. All this had seemed quite normal: his superiors had always been men who were ignorant of the calibres of different guns, men who were unable to read without mistakes a speech that had been written for them by someone else, men who were incapable of making sense of a map or even of speaking proper Russian. Why had he had to report to them? Their illiteracy had nothing to do with their working-class origins; his own father and grandfather had been miners, as was his brother. Sometimes he had wondered whether this ignorance of theirs was in fact their greatest strength, whether his own correct speech and interest in books was really a weakness. Before the war he had thought that these people must be endowed with more faith, more will-power than he was. But the war had shown otherwise.
Although the war had elevated him to a position of importance, he still didn’t feel in charge. He still found himself submitting to a force whose presence he was constantly aware of but unable to understand. These two subordinates of his, who themselves had no right to give orders, were representatives of this force. Just now he had been purring with pleasure because Getmanov had told him a few stories about the world where this force was based. But then the war would show who Russia truly had cause to be grateful to – people like Getmanov or people like himself.
His dream had been realized; the woman he had loved for many years was to become his wife . . . And on the same day his tanks had been ordered to Stalingrad.
‘Pyotr Pavlovich,’ said Getmanov abruptly, ‘while you were out and about, Mikhail Petrovich and I had a little discussion.’
He slumped back against the cushions and took a sip of beer.
‘I’m a straightforward man myself and I want to talk to you frankly. We were discussing comrade Shaposhnikova. Her brother went under in 1937.’ Getmanov jabbed his thumb down at the floor. ‘Nyeudobnov knew him personally, and I knew her first husband – Krymov. He only survived – as the phrase goes – by a miracle. He was one of the lecturers attached to the Central Committee. Well, Nyeudobnov was saying that it was wrong of comrade Novikov to become involved with someone whose social and political background was so dubious – especially at a time when the Soviet people and comrade Stalin have expressed such great trust in him.’
‘And what concern of his is my private life?’ said Novikov.
‘Precisely,’ said Getmanov. ‘That way of thinking is a hangover from 1937. We must learn to take a broader view of such matters. But please don’t misunderstand me. Nyeudobnov is a remarkable man, a man of crystal purity, an unshakeable Communist in Stalin’s mould. But he does have one slight fault – there are times when he fails to sense the breath of change. What matters to him are quotations from the classics. Sometimes he seems unable to learn from life itself. Sometimes he seems so full of quotations that he’s unable to understand the State he’s living in. But the war’s taught us many things. Lieutenant-General Rokossovsky, General Gorbatov, General Pultus, General Byelov – they’ve all done time in a camp. And that hasn’t stopped comrade Stalin from appointing them to important posts. Mitrich, the man I went to see today, told me how Rokossovsky was taken straight out of a camp and put in command of an army. He was in his barrack-hut, washing his foot-cloths, when someone came running to fetch him. The day before he’d been maltreated a little during an interrogation. He just said to himself: “Well, they might at least let me finish my washing.” And then he found himself being taken straight to the Kremlin in a Douglas . . . Well, there are conclusions to be drawn from stories like that. But our Nyeudobnov’s an enthusiast for the methods of 1937 – and nothing will make him budge. I don’t know what this brother of Yevgenia Nikolaevna’s did, but maybe comrade Beria would have released him too. Maybe he’d be in command of an army himself. As for Krymov – he’s at the front right now. He’s still a member of the Party and he’s doing fine. So what’s all the fuss about?’
At these last words Novikov finally exploded.
‘To hell with all that!’ he said, surprised at the resonance and forcefulness in his own voice. ‘What do I care whether Shaposhnikov was or wasn’t an enemy of the people? I’ve never even set eyes on the man. As for this Krymov – Trotsky himself said that one of his articles was pure marble. ‘What do I care? If it’s marble, then it’s marble. Even if Trotsky, Rykov, Bukharin and Pushkin were all head over heels in love with him, what’s that to me? I’ve never so much as looked at these marble articles of his. And what’s it got to do with Yevgenia Nikolaevna? Did she work in the Comintern until 1937? Anyone can do your kind of work, dear comrades, but just try doing some real fighting! Some real work! Let me tell you – I’ve had enough of all this! It makes me sick!’
His cheeks were burning, his heart was pounding, his anger was bright and clear – and yet he felt full of confusion: ‘Zhenya, Zhenya, Zhenya.’ He had listened to his own words in astonishment. He could hardly believe it: for the first time in his life he had spoken his mind, without fear, to an important Party official. He looked at Getmanov with a sense of joy, choking back any stirrings of fear or remorse.
Getmanov suddenly leapt to his feet and flung open his arms. Addressing Novikov as ‘ty’, he cried: ‘You’re a real man, Pyotr Pavlovich! Let me embrace you!’
Now Novikov no longer knew where he was. They embraced and kissed.
‘Vershkov!’ Getmanov shouted down the corridor. ‘Bring us some cognac! The commanding officer and his commissar are going to drink Brüderschaft.’
Footnotes
fn1 Cossack chieftain.
fn2 Khrushchev.
5
Yevgenia finished cleaning the room and said to herself with a sense of satisfaction: ‘Well, now that’s over and done with.’ It was as though order had been brought back both to the room and to her own soul. The bed was made, the pillow-case was no longer rumpled, there were no more cigarette-ends on the edge of the bookcase, no more ash on the floor . . . Then she realized s
he was lying to herself and that there was only one thing in the world she really needed – Novikov. And she also wanted to talk to Sofya Osipovna – to her, not to Lyudmila or her mother.
‘Oh Sonechka, Sonechka, my little Levinton . . . ,’ she said out loud.
Then she remembered that Marusya was dead . . . She realized that she just couldn’t live without Novikov and banged her fist on the table in desperation. ‘Damn it! Who says I need anyone anyway?’ Then she knelt down where Novikov’s coat had just been hanging and whispered: ‘Stay alive!’
‘It’s all just a cheap farce,’ she thought. ‘I’m a bad woman.’
She wanted to hurt herself. Some sexless creature inside her head let loose a flood of cynical accusations:
‘So the lady got bored, did she? She wanted a man around, did she? She’s used to being spoiled a bit and these are her best years . . . She sent one packing – and quite right! Who needs a man like Krymov? He was on the point of being expelled from the Party. And now she’s after the commanding officer of a tank corps. And what a man! Well, why not . . . ? But how are you going to keep hold of him now? You’ve given him what he was after, haven’t you? Well, you’ll have plenty of sleepless nights now. You’ll be wondering whether he’s got himself killed, whether he’s found some pretty little nineteen-year-old telephonist . . .’
This mean, cynical creature then came out with a thought that had never even occurred to Yevgenia herself:
‘Never mind, you’ll be able to fly out and visit him soon.’
What she couldn’t understand was why she no longer loved Krymov. But then why should she understand? What mattered was that she now felt happy.
Then she said to herself that Krymov was standing in the way of her happiness. He was always standing between her and Novikov, poisoning her joy. Even now he was still ruining her life. Why all this remorse? Why this self-torture? She no longer loved him – and that was that. What did he want from her? Why did he pursue her so relentlessly? She had the right to be happy. She had the right to love the man who loved her. Why did Nikolay Grigorevich always seem so weak and helpless, so lost, so alone? He wasn’t that weak. And he certainly wasn’t so very kind.