In the manner of someone used to being in control, both of his own feelings and of other people’s, he suddenly added in a quite different tone of voice:
‘Once, when we were based near Kotluban, I had to drive a lecturer from Moscow to the front – Pavel Fyodorovich Yudin.fn2 The Member of the Military Soviet had said it would be the end of me if he lost so much as a hair off his head. Now that really was hard work. We had to dive straight into the ditch if a plane came anywhere near. But comrade Yudin certainly knew how to take care of himself – I’ll say that for him! He showed true initiative.’
The other listeners laughed. Krymov knew it was him they were making fun of.
As a rule, he was able to establish good relations with officers in the field, tolerable relations with staff officers, and only awkward, rather insincere relations with his fellow political-workers. It was the same now: he was irritated by this commissar. He’d only just been sent to the front and he put on the airs of a veteran. He probably hadn’t even joined the Party till just before the war.
On the other hand, there was obviously something about Krymov that got under Vavilov’s skin.
After the lecture, people began asking questions. Belsky, Rodimtsev’s chief of staff, who was sitting beside the general, asked: ‘When are the Allies going to open a second front, comrade lecturer?’
Vavilov, who had been stretched out on a narrow bunk fixed to the stone facing of the conduit, sat up, raked aside some straw with his fingers and said: ‘Who cares about that? What I want to know is when our own Command intends to act.’
Krymov glanced at him in irritation. ‘Since the commissar puts the question in that form, it seems more appropriate that the general should answer it.’
Everyone turned to Rodimtsev.
‘A tall man can’t even stand up in here,’ he began. ‘This is a dead end if ever there was one. You can’t launch an offensive from out of a pipe. I’d be only too glad – but how can you effect a concentration of troops in a pipe?’
The telephone rang. Rodimtsev picked up the receiver.
Everyone’s eyes were on him.
He put down the receiver, leant over towards Belsky and whispered a few words in his ear. The latter reached out for the receiver himself. Rodimtsev put his hand over it and said: ‘Why bother? Can’t you hear?’
Up above they could hear frequent bursts of machine-gun fire and the explosions of hand-grenades. The conduit amplified every sound. The gunfire was like the clatter of carts going over a bridge.
Rodimtsev said a few words to various staff officers and again picked up the impatient telephone-receiver. He caught Krymov’s eye for a moment, smiled calmly and said: ‘The weather’s turned fine here on the Volga.’
The telephone was now ringing incessantly. Krymov had gathered what was happening from the conversations he had overheard. Colonel Borisov, the second-in-command, went up to the general and leaned over the crate where the plan of Stalingrad was spread out. With a sudden, dramatic gesture he drew a blue perpendicular through the red dots of the Soviet front line right up to the Volga, then looked pointedly at Rodimtsev. A man in a cape came in out of the darkness and Rodimtsev got up to meet him.
It was obvious enough where he had come from. He was shrouded in an incandescent cloud and his cape seemed to be crackling with electricity.
‘Comrade General,’ he said plaintively, ‘the swine have forced me back. They’ve reached the ravine and they’re almost at the Volga. I need reinforcements!’
‘You must stop the enemy yourselves, at whatever cost,’ said Rodimtsev. ‘There are no reserves.’
‘At whatever cost,’ repeated the man in the cape. He clearly understood what this meant.
‘Just here?’ asked Krymov, pointing to a spot on the map.
Rodimtsev didn’t get a chance to answer. From the mouth of the conduit came the sound of pistol-shots and the flashes of hand-grenades.
Rodimtsev blew a piercing blast on his whistle. Belsky ran towards him, shouting: ‘Comrade General, the enemy have broken through to the command-post!’
Suddenly the respected general, the man who had coloured in troop dispositions on a map with almost theatrical calm, was no longer there. And the war in these overgrown ravines and ruined buildings was no longer a matter of chromium-plated steel, cathode lamps and radio sets. There was just a man with thin lips, shouting excitedly: ‘Divisional staff! Check your personal weapons, take some grenades and follow me!’
Both his voice and eyes had the burning cold of alcohol. His strength no longer lay in his military experience or his knowledge of the map, but in his harsh, wild, impetuous soul.
A few minutes later, staff officers, clerks, signallers and telephonists were pushing and shoving each other as they streamed out of the conduit. Following the light-footed Rodimtsev, they ran towards the ravine. It was full of the sound of shots and explosions, of shouting and cursing.
Krymov was one of the first to reach the ravine. As he looked down, breathing heavily, his heart gave a shudder of mingled disgust, fear and hatred. Dim figures appeared out of the darkness, rifles flashed, red and green eyes gleamed momentarily, and the air was full of the whistle of iron. He seemed to be looking into a vast pit full of hundreds of poisonous snakes that were slithering about in confusion, hissing and rustling through the dry grass.
With a feeling of revulsion and fury, Krymov began firing at the flashes below and the quick shadows creeping their way up the slope.
Thirty or forty yards away a group of Germans appeared on the crest. They were making for the mouth of the conduit. The rumble of exploding grenades shook both the air and the earth.
It was as though a huge black cauldron were boiling and Krymov were immersed, body and soul, in its gurgling, bubbling waters. He could no longer think or feel as he had ever thought or felt before. For a moment he seemed to be in control of the whirlpool that had seized hold of him; then a thick black pitch seemed to pour into his eyes and nostrils – there was no air left to breathe, no stars over his head, nothing but this darkness, this ravine and these strange creatures rustling through the dry grass.
And yet, in spite of the confusion around him, he retained a clear sense both of his own strength and of the strength of the men beside him; he felt an almost palpable sense of solidarity with them, and a sense of joy that Rodimtsev was somewhere nearby.
This strange clarity, which arose at a moment when it was impossible to tell whether a man three yards away was a friend or an enemy, was linked to an equally clear and inexplicable sense of the general course of the fighting, the sense that allows a soldier to judge the true correlation of forces in a battle and to predict its outcome.
Footnotes
fn1 A political officer was attached to each unit. The lowest rank was ‘political instructor’, the highest ‘Member of the Military Soviet’ for an Army or a Front. The intermediate ranks were ‘battalion commissar’, ‘regimental commissar’, etc. There was frequently friction between these political officers and the corresponding commanding officers.
fn2 P. F. Yudin was one of Stalin’s favourite hack philosophers.
11
The intuition of a deafened and isolated soldier often turns out to be nearer the truth than judgements delivered by staff officers as they study the map.
An extraordinary change takes place at the turning-point in a battle: a soldier looks round, after apparently gaining his objective, and suddenly finds he has lost sight of his comrades; while the enemy, who had seemed so weak, scattered and stupid, is now united and therefore invincible. A deep change in perception takes place at this mysterious turning-point: a gallant, intelligent ‘We’ becomes a frail, timid ‘I’, while the enemy changes from a hunted, isolated prey to a terrible, threatening ‘Them’.
As he overcame the enemy resistance, the advancing soldier had perceived everything separately: a shell-burst here, a rattle of machine-gun fire there, an enemy soldier there, hiding behind that shelter and about to run .
. . He can’t not run – he’s cut off from that isolated piece of artillery, that isolated machine-gun, that isolated soldier blazing away beside him. But I – I am we, I am the mass of infantry going into the attack, I am the supporting tanks and artillery, I am the flare lighting up our common cause. And then suddenly I am alone – and everything that was isolated and weak has fused into a solid roar of enemy rifle-fire, machine-gun fire and artillery fire. This united enemy is now invincible; the only safety lies in my flight, in hiding my head, in covering my shoulders, my forehead, my jaw . . .
Often, it is the understanding of this transition that gives warfare the right to be called an art. This alternating sense of singularity and plurality is a key not only to the success of night-attacks by companies and battalions, but to the military success and failure of entire armies and peoples.
One sense almost entirely lost during combat is that of time.
After dancing all night at a New Year’s ball, a girl will be unable to say whether the time passed quickly or slowly. Similarly, a man who has done twenty-five years in the Schlüusselburg Prison will say: ‘I seem to have been a whole eternity in this fortress, and at the same time I only seem to have been here a few weeks.’
The night at the ball is full of looks, smiles, caresses, snatches of music, each of which takes place so swiftly as to leave no sense of duration in the girl’s consciousness. Taken together, however, these moments engender the sense of a long interval of time that contains all the joys of human existence.
For the prisoner it is the exact opposite: his twenty-five years are composed of discrete intervals of time – from morning roll-call to evening roll-call, from breakfast to lunchtime – each of which seems unbearably long. But the twilight monotony of the months and years engenders a sense that time itself has contracted, has shrunk. And all this gives rise to the same sense of simultaneous quickness and endlessness felt by the girl at the ball.
The distortion of the sense of time during combat is something still more complex. Here there is a distortion even in the individual, primary sensations. One second can stretch out for eternity, and long hours can crumple together.
The sense of duration is linked to such fleeting events as the whistle of shells and bombs, the flashes of shots and explosions. The sense of quickness, on the other hand, is linked to protracted events: crossing a ploughed field under fire, crawling from one shelter to another. And as for hand-to-hand fighting – that takes place quite outside time.
In this chaos of blinding light and blinding darkness, of shots, explosions and machine-gun fire, in this chaos that tore into shreds any sense of the passing of time, Krymov could see with absolute clarity that the German storming-party had been routed.
12
It was morning. The bodies of the dead were lying in the burnt grass. The river lapped heavily and joylessly against its banks. Looking at the ploughed-up earth and the empty shells of buildings, one wanted to weep.
A new day was beginning and the war was about to fill it to the brim with smoke, rubble, iron and bloodstained bandages. Every day was the same. There was nothing left in the world but this battered earth and this blazing sky.
Krymov, perched on a crate, his head propped against the stone facing of the conduit, was dozing. He could hear voices and the clinking of cups; the commissar and the chief of staff were exchanging a few sleepy words as they drank their tea. Apparently yesterday’s prisoner was a sapper; his battalion had been flown in from Magdeburg only a few days ago. Krymov suddenly remembered a picture from a school textbook: two vast cart-horses, whipped on by drivers in pointed caps, were trying to separate two empty hemispheres containing a vacuum. This image made him feel as bored now as it had when he was a child.
‘That’s a good sign,’ said Belsky. ‘They’re bringing up their reserves.’
‘A very good sign,’ said the commissar, ‘especially with the divisional staff having to take part in a counter-attack.’
Then Krymov heard Rodimtsev’s low voice:
‘There’ll be flowers, there’ll be flowers,
There’ll be berries in the factories.’
The night attack had exhausted Krymov. He would have to turn his head to look at Rodimtsev – and he was too tired. ‘This is what a well must feel like after being drained,’ he thought to himself. He dozed off again; the low voices fused with the sounds of explosions and gunfire into a monotone hum.
Then something new entered Krymov’s consciousness: he dreamed he was lying in a room with closed blinds, watching a patch of morning sunlight on the wallpaper. This patch crept to the edge of the mirror and then expanded into a rainbow. The boy’s heart trembled; the man with greying temples, the man with a heavy pistol hanging at his waist, opened his eyes and looked round.
Someone was standing in the middle of the conduit, wearing an old tunic and a forage cap with the green star of the Front. His head cocked to one side, he was playing a fiddle.
Noticing that Krymov had just woken up, the commissar leant over towards him and said: ‘That’s our barber, Rubinchik – a re-eal expert!’
Now and then someone would interrupt the music with a jocular curse. People would shout, ‘Beg leave to report!’ – and speak to the chief of staff. A spoon would clink against a tin mug. Or someone would give a long yawn and begin to shake up his straw bedding.
The barber was anxious not to disturb the officers; he was ready to break off at any moment.
Krymov thought of Jan Kubelik with his silver hair and his black dinner-jacket. But how was it that the famous violinist now seemed overshadowed by a mere barber? Why should this simple tune played on a cheap fiddle seem to express the depths of the human soul more truly than Bach or Mozart?
For the thousandth time Krymov felt the pain of loneliness. Zhenya had left him . . .
Once again he thought how Zhenya’s departure expressed the whole dynamic of his life. He remained, but there was nothing left of him; and she had gone. There were many harsh truths he had to admit to himself. Yes, he had been closing his eyes for too long . . .
Somehow the music seemed to have helped him to understand time. Time is a transparent medium. People and cities arise out of it, move through it and disappear back into it. It is time that brings them and time that takes them away.
But the understanding that had just come to Krymov was a very different one: the understanding that says, ‘This is my time,’ or, ‘No, this is no longer our time.’ Time flows into a man or State, makes its home there and then flows away; the man and the State remain, but their time has passed. Where has their time gone? The man still thinks, breathes and cries, but his time, the time that belonged to him and to him alone, has disappeared.
There is nothing more difficult than to be a stepson of the time; there is no heavier fate than to live in an age that is not your own. Stepsons of the time are easily recognized: in personnel departments, Party district committees, army political sections, editorial offices, on the street . . . Time loves only those it has given birth to itself: its own children, its own heroes, its own labourers. Never can it come to love the children of a past age, any more than a woman can love the heroes of a past age, or a stepmother love the children of another woman.
Such is time: everything passes, it alone remains; everything remains, it alone passes. And how swiftly and noiselessly it passes. Only yesterday you were sure of yourself, strong and cheerful, a son of the time. But now another time has come – and you don’t even know it.
In yesterday’s fighting, time had been torn to shreds; now it emerged again from the plywood fiddle belonging to Rubinchik the barber. This fiddle told some that their time had come and others that their time had passed.
‘I’m finished,’ Krymov said to himself. ‘Finished!’
He looked at Commissar Vavilov’s calm, good-natured face. He was sipping tea from a mug and very slowly chewing some bread and a piece of sausage. His inscrutable eyes were fixed on the patch of light at the mouth of the condu
it.
Rodimtsev, his face clear and peaceful and his shoulders hunched against the cold, was gazing at the musician. A grey-haired, pock-marked colonel, the commander of the divisional artillery, seemed to be looking at a map spread out in front of him; there was a harsh frown on his face, and it was only his kind sad eyes that showed he was listening to the music, not studying the map at all. Belsky was hurriedly drawing up a report for Army Headquarters; he seemed quite absorbed in this, but he had his head bent to one side so as to hear better. Further away sat the signallers, telephonists and clerks; you could see the same expression of seriousness on their exhausted faces as on the face of a peasant chewing a piece of bread.
Suddenly Krymov remembered one summer night: the large, dark eyes of a Cossack girl and her hot whisper . . . Yes, in spite of everything, life was good.
The fiddler stopped and a quiet murmur became audible: the sound of the water flowing by under the wooden duckboards. It seemed to Krymov that his soul was indeed a well that had been dry and empty; but now it was gently filling with water.
Half an hour later the fiddler was shaving Krymov. With the exaggerated seriousness that often makes a customer laugh, he was asking whether the razor was too harsh and then stroking Krymov’s cheekbones to see if they were cleanly shaven. The smell of eau-de-cologne and powder seemed heart-rendingly out of place in this sullen kingdom of earth and iron.
Narrowing his eyes, Rodimtsev looked Krymov over – he had by now been thoroughly sprinkled with powder and eau-de-cologne – and nodded with satisfaction. ‘Well, you’ve certainly done a good job on our guest. Now you can give me the once-over.’
The fiddler’s dark eyes filled with happiness. He inspected Rodimtsev’s head, shook out his white napkin and said: ‘Maybe we should just tidy up your sideburns a little, comrade General?’