Apricot Jam: And Other Stories

by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn

  But it showed on people’s faces, as if a dark cloud had passed over them.

  Nikolaev, another man from Mari and the captain of a gun crew, looked on disapprovingly through narrowed eyes. He never touched vodka.

  But life goes on, and there’s still a job to be done. Captain Toplev went to brigade headquarters to find out how the deaths should be designated.

  The chief of staff, the thin and lanky Lieutenant Colonel Veresovoy, had a ready answer: “The commissar has already given instructions: ‘They fell while bravely defending their Motherland.’”

  He was busy racking his brains: Who was he going to put in the drivers’ seats when the brigade moved on?

  ~ * ~

  3

  The stunning speed with which our tanks broke through to the Baltic Sea altered the whole picture of the Prussian operation, and the heavy artillery brigade could not move quickly and had no assignment for the next day or two.

  The brigade commander had been limping about for some time now because of an abscess on his knee. The medical officer convinced him not to put it off and to go to the hospital today for an operation. The brigade commander left, handing the unit over to Veresovoy.

  There was no sound of gunfire in the distance and no aircraft—-our own or German—to be seen. It was as if the war had ended.

  It was not cold that day, but it was very cloudy. Visibility was poor. For the time being, all the troops were pulled back from their prearranged fire positions, and the three battalions closed up around brigade headquarters.

  The day moved on quietly toward twilight. Even though we had now penetrated Europe, we still kept to Moscow time, and so it didn’t get light until almost nine o’clock and it wasn’t dark until six.

  Then suddenly an encoded message arrived from the headquarters of army artillery: All three battalions were to move north immediately, to the town of Liebstadt, and upon arrival were to take up fire positions seven or eight kilometers to the east, with a general grid bearing angle 90.00.

  So they’re pulling us out anyway! And just when we’re supposed to be getting to sleep. It never fails: just when you’re looking forward to a quiet night in your new position and don’t want to move. But the 90.00 bearing was a surprise. That hadn’t happened since the war began: it was due east! No one ever thought we’d see that. We’d gotten used to angles of 250.00 to 270.00, more or less due west.

  Even before this new order the chief of staff had been worrying about replacing the drivers who had died. There were scarcely any replacements. Which ones should he take, and which units should he leave immobile? First Battalion had suffered the most losses, and Lieutenant Colonel Veresovoy requested artillery headquarters to let it stay where it was in order to make up the complements of the Second and Third Battalions.

  There was no choice, and he was granted permission.

  It’s only the first minutes that are difficult in a nighttime move. Already the twenty-four heavy-caliber gun-howitzers had been connected to their tractors, the whole operation done in the open, under the glow of headlights. The auxiliary transport fell in line behind them. All that could be heard was the growling of motors.

  The two commanders of the gun battalions in their white fur jackets and the commander of the instrument reconnaissance battalion in his long overcoat arrived to get their exact deployment locations and their objectives from the chief of staff.

  As for the objectives, the chief of staff could only guess. Army headquarters had provided absolutely no intelligence data, and they had no way of knowing the situation after such a rapid breakthrough and the cloudy weather of the past day. “Seven or eight kilometers to the east”— that leaves a lot of room for guesswork. A topographical map of 1:50,000 gave some sense of the ground in the area, but couldn’t show everything. It did show the main and secondary roads, which places had defenses and which were without; it showed the bends in the Passarge River, which flowed from south to north, and the individual farms scattered across the area. But were they all just farms? And how many small, unmarked roads were there? Were there still people on the farms or had they fled?

  The lieutenant colonel assigned the areas at random: Second Battalion would go here, to the south; Third here, farther north.

  They marked out approximate ovals for the positions.

  Major Boyev stood with his map case opened, looking gloomily at the map. How many hundreds of times over his military career had he had to come like this to be given his objective? And often enough the disposition of the enemy could not be indicated and remained unknown: once the unit begins doing its job, it’ll locate the enemy easily enough. But here, twenty-five kilometers away from that town of Liebstadt, how could you tell which ground was unoccupied and where there might be a gap in the German flank? Above all, where was our infantry? And would they be from the division assigned to this sector? Most likely they’re lagging. They can’t keep up with the tanks and are well spread out. But how far back? And how do we locate them?

  Veresovoy’s usual firm voice betrayed no doubts, however. There was a rifle division, and yes, it was probably the same one as before. Of course it’s spread out. But the Germans are still in a state of shock and will probably be pulling back toward Königsberg. Brigade headquarters will be in Liebstadt or the near vicinity. The battalions’ headquarters will be somewhere near there as well.

  What would be the sense of taking up fire positions before midnight? You can’t fix your exact position in the darkness by survey, and if you just approximate it by local landmarks, your fire is going to be approximate as well.

  And all the gun crews are short of men.

  Our logistics support is lagging well behind. Well, there’s nothing we can do about it. We’ll get resupplied sooner or later.

  Boyev looked at Veresovoy out of the corner of his eye. There was no negotiating with your commanders, even those closest to you. Just the way your commanders listen to their commander. The commander is always right.

  They had to make it safe and sound to that Liebstadt, about three hours away, using a winter road that still had a bit of ice on it. The moon must already be up behind those clouds. Let’s hope it won’t be all in pitch darkness.

  The tractors roared in unison. The whole column, dozens of headlights blazing, moved out of the village toward the highway.

  It was nearly half an hour before they all reached it. Then the noise receded into the distance.

  ~ * ~

  4

  What a lift a victory gives you!

  And this silence all around is also a sign of victory, just as are the riches, still warm to the touch, abandoned everywhere by the Germans. Pick up what you can, make a parcel to send home—five kilos for a soldier, ten for an officer, fifteen for a general. But how do you choose the very best and not make a mistake? There’s more here than anyone could want.

  Every house used for billets was a wonder. Every night you spent in one was like a holiday.

  Lieutenant Colonel Vyzhlevsky, the brigade commissar—now he was called the deputy political officer—had taken the most prominent house in the village. The lower level was not just a room, it was a large hall lit up by a dozen electric lights on the ceiling and the walls. The electricity was still coming from somewhere, and the fact that it hadn’t been cut off was also a wonder. The radio-record player there (that’s going home with us!) was softly playing some dance music.

  When Veresovoy came in to report, Vyzhlevsky—broad-shouldered, with a large head and prominent ears—was sunk in a soft sofa by an oval table, an expression of bliss on his rosy face. (A military forage cap didn’t suit a head like his; he should have a broad-brimmed hat.)

  Sitting on the same sofa beside him was the brigade SMERSH officer, Major Tarasov, always quick-witted, watchful, and active. His face wore a permanent decisive expression.

  Both the double doors to the dining room to one side were opened wide, and supper would soon be served there. Two or three women passed back and forth, one wearing
a bright blue dress, evidently a German. There was also a woman from the political section who had changed out of her uniform—those Prussian wardrobes were stuffed with clothes. The air was filled with the aroma of hot food.

  Why had Veresovoy come here? In the absence of the brigade commander he was formally the senior officer and could make decisions on his own. But after fifteen years of army service he had learned very well that nothing should be decided without the political officer. He always had to know what they thought and not get on their wrong side. And so, what about moving the headquarters? Should he leave immediately?

  It was clear, though, that this was absolutely impossible. Supper and other delights were on their way. Sacrifices such as this should not be expected from human beings.

  The commissar listened to the music, his eyes half closed. He replied benevolently: “Well, Kostya, where can we go right now? It’s the middle of the night—what are we going to do there? Where will we stay? We’ll get up early tomorrow and then be off.”

  And the SMERSH officer, always confident in his every gesture, gave a clear nod of agreement.

  Veresovoy neither objected nor agreed. He continued to stand stiffly.

  Then Vyzhlevsky, to make his idea more attractive, said: “Why don’t you come and eat with us. Another twenty minutes and we’ll be ready.”

  Veresovoy stood and thought. He wasn’t eager to go, himself; these Prussian nights soon made you soft. And there was another factor: First Battalion was here, and it was very short-handed; he shouldn’t abandon it.

  Still, we could catch a lot of flak over this.

  Tarasov was the one who found a solution: “Just break off communications with the army and the battalions. Then, as far as everyone else is concerned, we’re on the move.”

  Well, if an officer from SMERSH is suggesting this, he’ll hardly be the one to turn me in.

  And truly, a trip like that at night was more than he could handle.

  ~ * ~

  5

  Fine snow fell through the evening, covering the icy road. They moved slowly, not only because of the ice but to make sure the horses didn’t get overtired.

  They said their goodbyes in Liebstadt, and Boyev embraced the commander of Third Battalion, who had taken the northern area.

  Along the way he used his flashlight to check his map. Boyev had to cross to the east bank of the Passarge River and then follow a dirt track for another kilometer and a half. He would probably position his guns beyond the village of Adlig Schwenkitten to leave at least 600 meters clear between them and the forest. That would make it safe to fire at low trajectories.

  The bridge across the Passarge was reinforced concrete and in good shape; there was no need to check that it was passable. The left bank was steep, and there was a ramp down to the bridge.

  They left a beacon to mark the spot for the horse-drawn sleds. Motorized units were not authorized to have horses or sleds, and the higher command assumed that such units had none. But ever since the Oryol offensive, all the batteries would collect any stray, German, ownerless and sometimes owned horses as they advanced and use them to haul their supplies in carts. You just had to put a competent sergeant in charge of such a supply train and he would always catch up with his battery. The Allis-Chalmers tractors were wonderful, of course, but if they were all you had you’d never make it. Later, and particularly as we drew closer to Germany, we got hold of the powerful German draft horses to replace our own medium-sized ones. Those German horses were gigantic. Sleds replaced the carts in winter. Today, for instance, without the sleds, everyone from the gunners to the observers would have had to sweat their guts out along these snowy roads.

  The snow began to ease, but enough had fallen to reach halfway to your knees. Caps of snow had built up on the covers of the guns.

  There wasn’t a soul to be seen anywhere. Dead silence. And no tracks.

  Using the headlights sparingly, they came to a tree-lined road. There was no one here either. At last, there was Adlig. Again, those foreign buildings. All the houses were dark, with not a light showing anywhere.

  He gave orders for the houses to be checked. The houses in the village were abandoned, but all of them were heated. The inhabitants must have left only a few hours ago. They couldn’t be far away, then. You could expect the young women to run off to the forest, but here everyone had gone.

  Boyev positioned eight guns along the eastern edge of Adlig, but not all twelve—that would have made no sense. He ordered battery commander Kasyanov to position his Six Battery about 800 meters to the south, falling back at an oblique angle, near the little village of Klein Schwenkitten.

  Still, there wasn’t a soul to be seen. They hadn’t searched Liebstadt, but they hadn’t spotted anyone moving in the village. Now where was our infantry? Not a single one of our brothers-in-arms had showed up.

  It was a real puzzle: If we positioned our guns here, would we be too far away from the Germans? Or, to the contrary, would we be too close? They might be waiting for us right here, in this patch of forest. For the time being, we’ll put in a screening force toward that forest.

  What else could be done? The tractors were roaring. Six Battery was extended along the side road to Klein Schwenkitten. Four and Five Batteries were deploying side by side to form a single front. Each of the crews was busy with their own gun, changing over from column to combat formation and setting out their shells. (And, of course, they’d already scouted out the houses on the edge of the village for a bit of shelter and a nice kip.)

  This little house was like a toy. Could it really be a farmer’s house in a village? It looked like a house in town, everything set out neatly, curtains, pictures on the walls. The electricity had been cut off, but they found two kerosene lamps and set them on the table. Boyev sat down with his map. A map can always tell you a lot. If you look at it long enough, you can always find some way out, even from the most hopeless situation.

  Boyev didn’t hurry anyone on. They’d have to wait for the sleds in any case. He’d had to work without reconnaissance before. He’d done it, but it had been in his own country.

  The radio operator had already made contact with brigade headquarters. They replied that they’d be leaving soon. (They hadn’t left yet!) Any news or orders? Nothing for the moment.

  Suddenly he heard footsteps in the entry. A man in a neat officer’s overcoat, the commander of the sound-ranging battery that was under Boyev’s operational command, came in. He was an old friend from the days they had served together near Oryol, a mathematician. Immediately he unfolded his map case by the lamp. Here, he explained, was a direct road leading northeast toward Dietrichsdorf, just over two kilometers away. That’s where we’ll set up our central station and string out our lines from there.

  Boyev looked at the map. He could read a topographical map faster than he could read a book.

  “Right, we’ll be somewhere nearby. I’ll be on the right. I’ll run a line out to you. What about the surveyors?”

  “I’ve got a section with me. But we can’t do much fixing at night. They’ll do a rough fix and then come back here.”

  So that was how they would be firing—approximately.

  There was no time for chatting, he had to rush off. They shook hands warmly, like old friends.

  “Later?”

  Something remained unsaid. His battery commanders were already busy at their jobs and didn’t need him telling them what to do. Now it was a matter of waiting for the horses.

  Boyev lay down on the little sofa: It wasn’t proper to lie in a bed with your boots on, and with your boots off, what kind of soldier are you?

  ~ * ~

  6

  For some the war began in ‘41, but for Boyev it began with Lake Khasan, in ‘38. Then the Finnish War. And so the past seven years of his life had been nothing but war. He’d been off twice recovering from wounds, but with the war on there was no leave to go back home. It had been eleven years now since he’d been able to get back to his
native Ishim steppe, with its hundreds of mirror-like lakes and huge flocks of game birds, or gone to Petropavlovsk to see his sister.

  Only when he’d gone into the army had Pavel Boyev seen some real life. What was there for him outside the army? Southern Siberia was a long time in getting back on its feet after the Civil War and the crushing of the Ishim rebellion. In a good many places in Petropavlovsk the fences along the streets and around the gardens still hadn’t been rebuilt; many had been burned, and those that had been repaired were leaning. Broken window-panes were stuffed with rags or pasted over with paper. The felt strips of insulation around the doors hung in shreds or had been replaced with straw or bark. Housing was really scarce, and he lived with his married sister, Praskovya. The problem of footwear was no better, and you went on and on mending the soles of your boots but your toes would still stick out. The food supply was worse yet: the bread you got on your ration card did nothing to fill a hungry working man . . . And you had to stand in line for everything, from five in the morning in some places. A mob would rush up to a store, not even asking what they’d be selling. Once a line formed they’d find out. The streets were filled with beggars.