Krymov shrugged his shoulders, as if to say: ‘So he’s had a stroke of luck. Well, that’s that.’
Ogibalov lowered his voice.
‘The head of the Special Section thinks he may still be alive. He may have gone over to the enemy.’
Krymov found a note waiting for him at home: he was to report to the Special Section. So the Grekov affair wasn’t yet over and done with.
Krymov decided to postpone what was bound to be a very disagreeable conversation until his return. After all, a posthumous affair could hardly be so very urgent.
37
The Stalingrad obkom had decided to celebrate the twenty-fifth anniversary of the Revolution with a special meeting at the ‘Sudoverf’ factory. This was situated in the hamlet of Beketovka to the south of the city.
Early on the morning of 6 November, the obkom officials met in their underground command-post in a small oak wood on the left bank of the Volga. After an excellent hot breakfast, the first secretary, the secretaries of the different sections and the members of the bureau set out by car along the main road leading to the Volga.
It was the same road that had been used during the night by tank and artillery units on their way to the Tumansk crossing. Ploughed up by the war, dotted with frozen mounds of brown dirt and puddles that seemed like sheets of tin, the steppe looked painfully sad. As you approached the Volga, you could hear the grating of drift-ice. A strong wind was blowing from downstream – crossing the Volga on an open iron barge would be no joy-ride.
The soldiers waiting to cross had already taken their places in the barge. Their coats whipped by the wind, they huddled together and tried to avoid touching the icy metal. They drew in their legs under the bench and beat out a mournful tap-dance with their heels. When the wind got up, they just sat there and froze; they no longer had the strength to wipe their noses, to blow on their fingers, to clap their sides. Wisps of smoke from the tug’s funnel spread out across the river. Against the ice, the smoke seemed very black indeed; the ice itself, under the low curtain of smoke, seemed very white. As it drifted across from Stalingrad, the ice seemed to be bringing the war with it.
A crow with a large head was sitting thoughtfully on a block of ice. On the neighbouring block lay the tail of a burnt greatcoat; on a third block stood a stone-hard felt boot and a carbine whose twisted barrel had frozen into the ice.
The cars from the obkom drove onto the barge. The secretaries and members of the bureau got out and stood by the railings, listening to the ice as it moved slowly by. The old soldier in charge of the barge came over to the obkom transport-secretary, Laktionov. His lips were quite blue and he was wearing a black sheepskin coat and an army cap. In a hoarse voice – brought about by the damp of the river on top of many years of vodka and tobacco – he announced:
‘The first trip we made this morning, comrade Secretary, there was this soldier lying there on the ice. The boys needed pick-axes to get him out – some of them almost got drowned themselves. Look, there he is – on the bank, under that tarpaulin.’
The old man indicated the bank with a dirty mitten. Unable to see the corpse and feeling somewhat ill at ease, Laktionov pointed at the sky and asked abruptly: ‘So what’s he up to these days? Does he have any favourite time?’
The old man gave a dismissive wave of the hand.
‘Hm! He’s not up to real bombing any more.’ He began to curse the now feeble Germans, his voice suddenly becoming clear and ringing.
Meanwhile the tug drew slowly closer to the Stalingrad bank. Covered with small booths, huts and supply-dumps, it seemed quite ordinary and peaceful.
The obkom officials soon tired of standing in the wind. They got back into their cars, lit cigarettes, scratched themselves and started chatting. The soldiers gazed at them through the glass as though they were fish in a warm aquarium.
The special meeting took place that evening.
The invitations were no different from those sent in peacetime – except for the poor quality of the soft grey paper and the fact that there was no mention of the venue.
The Stalingrad Party leaders, the guests from the 64th Army, the workers and engineers from nearby factories were all accompanied by guides who had a good knowledge of the way: ‘Left here, and again here. Careful now – there’s a bomb crater. And now some rails. And very careful here – there’s a lime-pit . . .’
The darkness was full of voices and the tramping of boots.
Krymov arrived with the representatives of the 64th Army; he had visited their Political Section immediately after crossing the river.
Something about the way all these people were walking through the labyrinth of the factory, in small groups and under cover of night, made Krymov think of clandestine celebrations before 1917. He was almost breathless with excitement. He was an experienced orator and he knew he could give an impromptu speech there and then; he could share with everyone his excitement and joy at the similarity between the defence of Stalingrad and the revolutionary struggle of the Russian workers.
Yes, yes! This war, and the patriotic spirit it aroused, was indeed a war for the Revolution. It had been no betrayal of the Revolution to speak of Suvorov in house 6/1. Stalingrad, Sebastopol, the fate of Radishchev, the power of Marx’s manifesto, Lenin’s appeals from the armoured car near the Finland station – all these were part of one and the same thing.
He caught sight of Pryakhin, the first secretary of the obkom and an old friend of his. He seemed as calm and unhurried as ever, but somehow Krymov was unable to find an opportunity to talk to him.
There were a lot of things he wanted to talk about; he’d gone to see him as soon as he’d arrived at the command-post of the obkom. But the telephone had kept ringing and people had kept dropping in. Pryakhin had spoken to him only once, asking suddenly: ‘Did you ever know someone by the name of Getmanov?’
‘Yes. In the Ukraine. He was a member of the bureau of the Central Committee. Why do you ask?’
Pryakhin hadn’t answered. Then there had been all the bustle of departure. Krymov had been offended that Pryakhin hadn’t offered him a lift in his own car. Twice they had almost bumped into each other, but Pryakhin had looked straight through him.
The soldiers were now going down a lighted corridor: Shumilov, the Army commander, a flabby man with a large chest and a large stomach; General Abramov, a Siberian with brown, bulging eyes, the Member of the Military Soviet . . . In this group of men, in the good-hearted comradeliness between them, in the steam rising from their tunics, padded jackets and coats, Krymov again sensed the spirit of the first years of the Revolution, the spirit of Lenin. He had felt it as soon as he returned to the right bank.
The members of the Presidium took their places. Piksin, the chairman of the Stalingrad Soviet, leant forward and directed a slow, chairmanlike cough towards the noisiest part of the hall. He then announced the opening of this special meeting of the Stalingrad Soviet and Party organizations, attended also by representatives of the military units and workers from the local factories, in celebration of the twenty-fifth anniversary of the Great October Revolution.
You could tell from the sound of the applause that the hands clapping belonged to men, to soldiers and workers.
Then Pryakhin spoke, as slow and ponderous as ever . . . Any connection between the present moment and what had happened in the past vanished at once. It was as though Pryakhin had entered into a polemic with Krymov, as though he had deliberately adopted these measured tones in order to dash Krymov’s excitement.
The factories in the oblast were fulfilling the State plan. The agricultural districts on the left bank had satisfactorily, though with slight delays, provided their quota of grain for the State. The factories within the city and to the north of it were situated within the zone of military operations; their failure to carry out their obligations to the State could therefore be understood . . .
And this was the same man who had once stood beside Krymov during a revolutionary meeting at the f
ront, who had torn off his cap and shouted: ‘Comrades, soldiers, brothers, to hell with this war and its blood! Long live freedom!’
Now he gazed calmly around the hall and explained that the sudden drop in the quantity of grain supplied to the State was caused by the fact that the Zimovnichesky and Kotelnichesky districts had been unable to furnish supplies because they were part of the arena of military operations – while the Kalach and Kurmoyarsk regions were partially or completely occupied by the enemy.
He went on to say that the population of the oblast, while continuing to work hard to fulfil their obligations to the State, had at the same time played an important part in military operations against the Fascist invaders. He quoted figures: first, the number of workers from the city enrolled in militia units, and second – with the proviso that his data was incomplete – the number who had been decorated for their exemplary courage and valour while carrying out the tasks entrusted to them.
As Krymov listened to the calm voice of the first secretary, he thought that the glaring disparity between his words and his real thoughts and feelings was far from senseless. It was the very coldness of his speech that confirmed just how absolute was the State’s triumph.
The faces of the workers and soldiers were grave and sullen.
How strange and painful it was to remember people like Tarasov and Batyuk, to recall his conversations with the soldiers in house 6/1. It was particularly unpleasant to think of Grekov and how he had met his death.
But why should Grekov matter to him? Why was that remark of his so troubling? Grekov had fired a shot at him . . . And why should the words spoken by Pryakhin, his old comrade, the first secretary of the Stalingrad obkom, sound cold and alien? How complicated it all was.
Pryakhin was summing up.
‘And so we are delighted to be able to report to the great Stalin that the workers of the oblast have carried out their obligations to the Soviet State . . .’
Krymov looked out for Pryakhin as he made his way through the crowd towards the exit. No, that was not the sort of speech to deliver in the middle of this terrible battle.
Suddenly Krymov caught sight of him. He had stepped down from the dais and was standing beside Shumilov. He was staring straight at Krymov. When he saw Krymov looking at him, he turned away.
‘What on earth does that mean?’ wondered Krymov.
38
After the meeting, Krymov got a lift to the Central Power Station. That night, after a recent raid by German bombers, it looked particularly sinister. The explosions had blasted out huge craters and thrown up great ramparts of earth. Some of the windowless workshops had subsided; the three-storey administrative building was in ruins.
The transformers were still smoking. Little fangs of flame were playing lazily about them.
A young Georgian sentry took Krymov through the yard, still lit up by the fire. Krymov saw his guide’s fingers shake as he lit a cigarette – stone buildings weren’t the only things to have been devastated by the massive bombs.
Krymov had been hoping to see Spiridonov ever since he had received instructions to go to Beketovka. Perhaps Zhenya would be here. Perhaps Spiridonov would know something about her. Perhaps he had had a letter from her and at the end she had written: ‘Have you heard anything about Nikolay Grigorevich?’
He felt excited and happy. Perhaps Spiridonov would say: ‘But Yevgenia Nikolaevna seemed very sad.’ Or perhaps: ‘She was crying, you know.’
He had been getting more and more impatient all day. He had wanted to drop in on Spiridonov during the afternoon. Instead he had gone to the command-post of the 64th Army – despite the fact that a political instructor had whispered to him, ‘There’s no point in hurrying, you know. The Member of the Military Soviet’s been drunk since morning.’
It had indeed been a mistake to visit the general. As he sat in the waiting-room of the underground command-post, he had overheard the general, on the other side of the thin plywood partition, dictating a letter of congratulation to his neighbour, Chuykov.
‘Vasily Ivanovich, soldier and friend!’ he began solemnly.
Then he burst into tears and, sobbing, repeated the words several times: ‘Soldier and friend, soldier and friend.’
‘What’s that you’ve written down?’ he asked the typist, his voice suddenly severe.
‘Vasily Ivanovich, soldier and friend.’
Her bored tone must have seemed inappropriate. By way of correcting her, he repeated, with still greater exaltation:
‘Vasily Ivanovich, soldier and friend!’
Once again he was overwhelmed by emotion. Then, with the same severity as before: ‘What have you written?’
‘Vasily Ivanovich, soldier and friend,’ replied the typist.
There had indeed been no point in hurrying.
The dim flames served more to obscure the way than to illuminate it. They seemed to be coming from the depths of the earth; or perhaps the earth itself had caught fire – the low flames were certainly heavy and damp enough.
They reached the director’s command-post. Bombs had fallen nearby and thrown up great mountains of earth; the path had not yet been properly trodden down and was barely distinguishable.
‘You’ve got here just in time for the party,’ said the guard.
Krymov knew he wouldn’t be able to speak freely to Spiridonov in the presence of other people. He told the guard to tell the director that a commissar from Front Headquarters was here to see him. Left on his own, a wave of uncontrollable anguish swept over him.
‘What is all this?’ he said to himself. ‘I thought I was cured. Can’t even the war exorcize her? What can I do?’
‘Drive her away, drive her away! Get out of it or it will be the end of you!’ he muttered.
But he didn’t have the strength to leave – any more than he had the strength to drive her away.
Then Spiridonov appeared.
‘Yes, comrade, what can I do for you?’ he asked impatiently.
‘Don’t you recognize me, Stepan Fyodorovich?’
‘Who is it?’ Spiridonov sounded nervous. He looked Krymov in the face and suddenly cried out: ‘Nikolay! Nikolay Grigorevich!’
His arms were trembling as he flung them round Krymov’s neck.
‘My dearest Nikolay!’ he said with a loud sniff.
Krymov felt himself beginning to cry. He was shaken by this strange meeting in the middle of the ruins. And he felt alone, utterly alone . . . Spiridonov’s trust and joy brought home to him how close he was to Yevgenia Nikolaevna’s family. And this brought home his pain. Why, why had she left him? Why had she caused him so much suffering? How could she?
‘You know what the war’s done?’ said Spiridonov. ‘It’s destroyed my life. My Marusya’s dead.’
He told Krymov about Vera. About how, only a few days before, she had finally crossed to the left bank. ‘The girl’s a fool.’
‘What about her husband?’ asked Krymov.
‘He probably died long ago. He’s a fighter pilot.’
Unable to restrain himself any longer, Krymov asked:
‘What about Yevgenia Nikolaevna? Is she still alive? Where is she?’
‘She’s alive all right. She’s either in Kuibyshev or Kazan.’
He looked at Krymov and said:
‘She’s still alive. That’s what matters.’
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ said Krymov.
He himself no longer knew what really mattered. All he knew was that he was in pain. Everything to do with Yevgenia Nikolaevna brought him pain. It would hurt him to know that some tragedy had happened to her; it would hurt him to be told that she was well and happy.
Spiridonov began to talk about Alexandra Vladimirovna, Lyudmila and Seryozha. Krymov just nodded and muttered: ‘Yes, yes . . . Yes, yes . . .’
‘Come on, Nikolay!’ said Spiridonov. ‘You must come and visit my home. It’s all I have left.’
The cellar was crammed with pallets, cupboards, equipment, sacks of flour
and huge bottles. The flickering oil lamps lit up only a small part of it. There were people sitting everywhere – on the pallets, on boxes and benches, along the walls. The air was stifling and full of the buzz of conversation.
Spiridonov started to pour alcohol into glasses, mugs and the lids of pots. Everyone fell silent, watching him attentively. The look in their eyes was calm and serious, full of faith.
As he looked round, Krymov said to himself: ‘It’s a pity Grekov’s not here. He deserves a drink.’ But Grekov had already drunk all he was ever to drink.
Glass in hand, Spiridonov got up.
‘Now he’ll go and spoil everything,’ thought Krymov, ‘like Pryakhin.’
But Spiridonov just sketched a figure of eight in the air with his glass and said: ‘Well, lads, it’s time for a drink. Cheers!’
There was a clinking of glasses and tin mugs. The drinkers cleared their throats and nodded their heads.
There were all sorts of people here. Before the war, the State had somehow kept them apart; they had never sat down at one table, clapped each other on the shoulder and said: ‘No, you just listen to what I’m saying!’ Here, though, beneath the remains of the burning power station, they had become brothers. And this simple brotherhood was so important that they would happily have given their lives for it.
A grey-haired night-watchman began to sing an old song. Before the Revolution, when Stalingrad was still called Tsaritsyn, it had been a favourite of the young lads from the French factory. He sang in the thin, high voice of his youth. This voice was unfamiliar to him now and he listened to himself with the amused astonishment of a man listening to a stranger who’s had too much to drink.
Another old man, with black hair, frowned as he listened to this song about love and the pain of love.
There was something wonderful about this singing, about this terrible moment that had brought together the director, the orderly from the bakery, the night-watchman and the sentry, that had brought together the Kalmyk, the Georgian and the Russians.