Life and Fate

by Vasily Grossman

  Getmanov felt that the deepest meaning of the words ‘the confidence of the Party’ was expressed in the opinions, thoughts and feelings of Stalin. The essence of the Party line lay in Stalin’s confidence in his comrades-in-arms, his marshals and people’s commissars.

  The guests talked mainly of Getmanov’s new posting. They understood that Getmanov had expected something more important – people in his position would usually be appointed Members of the Military Soviet of an Army or Front.

  Getmanov had indeed felt upset and alarmed at being appointed to a mere corps. He had made enquiries through one of his friends, a member of the organizational bureau of the Central Committee, as to whether there was any dissatisfaction with him in higher circles. It seemed there was nothing to worry about.

  Getmanov had then begun to console himself by seeing the good sides of his appointment. Not everyone would be sent to a tank corps: it was, after all, the tank corps that were going to determine the outcome of the war, to play the crucial role in the decisive battles. Yes, they’d sooner appoint someone as a Member of the Military Soviet of some second-rate army in an area of secondary importance than as commissar to a tank corps. It was through this that the Party had expressed its confidence in him. Nevertheless he was upset – he would have liked very much, after putting on his uniform and looking in the mirror, to pronounce the words: ‘Member of the Army Military Soviet, Brigade Commissar Getmanov.’

  For some reason his most extreme irritation was aroused by the commanding officer of the corps, Colonel Novikov. He had yet to meet this colonel, but everything that he had found out so far was profoundly displeasing.

  Getmanov’s friends understood his mood; all their remarks about his new posting were very reassuring.

  Sagaydak said that the corps would most likely be sent to Stalingrad; that comrade Stalin had known General Yeremenko, the commanding officer of the Stalingrad Front, since the Civil War, even before the First Cavalry Army; that Stalin often talked to him on the telephone and received him in his own house when he came to Moscow . . . Not long ago Yeremenko had been at comrade Stalin’s dacha outside Moscow and Stalin’s conversation with him had lasted for two hours. It would be good to fight under the command of a man who enjoyed the confidence of comrade Stalin to such a degree.

  After that someone said that Nikita Khrushchev remembered Getmanov’s work in the Ukraine, and that if he were lucky he might be sent to the Front where Nikita Khrushchev was on the Military Soviet.

  ‘It’s not just coincidence,’ said Nikolay Terentyevich, ‘that comrade Stalin should have sent Nikita Khrushchev to Stalingrad. It’s the key Front – who else could he have sent?’

  ‘And is it just chance that comrade Stalin should post my Dementiy Trifonovich to a tank corps?’ Galina Terentyevna asked provocatively.

  ‘Now come on!’ said Getmanov. ‘For me to be posted to a corps is like becoming secretary of a raykom. After being first secretary of an obkom, it’s nothing to write home about.’

  ‘Far from it!’ said Sagaydak very seriously. ‘Your appointment is an expression of the confidence of the Party. It’s not just some out-of-the-way raykom, but the raykom of an industrial centre like Magnitogorsk or Dneproderzhinsk. It’s not just any old corps, but a tank corps.’

  According to Mashuk, the commanding officer of this corps had only recently been appointed – he had never before commanded such a large unit. He had been told this by an official from the Special Section of the Front, who had been in Ufa not long before.

  ‘There’s one other thing he told me,’ said Mashuk. He paused. ‘ . . . But there’s no need for me to tell you, Dementiy Trifonovich. You probably already know more about him than he does himself.’

  Getmanov screwed up his narrow, shrewd, eyes. ‘A lot more.’

  Mashuk gave an almost imperceptible smile that was nevertheless noticed by everyone at the table. Although he was related twice over to the Getmanovs, although at family gatherings he always seemed a kind, modest fellow who was fond of a good joke, the Getmanovs always felt a certain tension as they listened to Mashuk’s soft, insinuating voice and watched his calm eyes and long, pale face. Getmanov himself did not find this in the least surprising. He was well aware of the power behind Mashuk; he understood how much more Mashuk often knew about things than he did himself.

  ‘Tell us about him,’ said Sagaydak.

  ‘He’s just someone who’s jumped up during the war,’ Getmanov explained condescendingly. ‘He didn’t do anything much before.’

  ‘He wasn’t in the nomenklatura?’fn2 asked Galina’s brother with a smile.

  ‘The nomenklatura!’ Getmanov gave a disparaging wave of the hand. ‘But he’s a useful fellow. I’ve heard he’s a good soldier. And his chief of staff is General Nyeudobnov. I met him at the eighteenth Party Congress. He’s very competent.’

  ‘Nyeudobnov, Illarion Innokyentyevich?’ exclaimed Mashuk. ‘Well, well. He was the first man I worked under. Then we went our different ways. And before the war I once met him in Lavrentiy Beria’s reception room.’

  ‘Different ways,’ repeated Sagaydak with a smile. ‘You should approach the matter dialectically – look for the identity and unity, not just the contrast.’

  ‘Everything goes crazy during the war,’ said Mashuk. ‘Some colonel or other is the commanding officer of a corps and General Nyeudobnov is made his subordinate!’

  ‘He’s got no wartime experience,’ said Getmanov. ‘That does have to be taken into account.’

  ‘I don’t believe it! Nyeudobnov! Why, there was a time when one word from him could decide anything. A Party member since before the Revolution, with a vast experience of both public and military service! He was expected to go right to the top.’

  The other guests all agreed with Mashuk. Condoling with Nyeudobnov was the easiest way for them to express their sympathy for Getmanov.

  ‘Yes, the war’s turned everything upside down,’ said Galina’s brother. ‘I hope it comes to an end soon.’

  Getmanov pointed towards Sagaydak. ‘Did you ever meet Krymov, a Muscovite? He once gave a talk about international affairs to the lecture group of the Kiev Central Committee.’

  ‘A few years before the war? A deviationist? Used to work in the Comintern?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. Well, this corps-commander of mine intends to marry his ex-wife.’

  For some reason this piece of news made everyone laugh, although no one present had met either Krymov’s ex-wife or the corps-commander who intended to marry her.

  ‘Yes, it wasn’t for nothing that our friend received his first training in the security organs,’ said Mashuk. ‘Is there anything he doesn’t know?’

  ‘There are no flies on him,’ said Galina’s brother. ‘That’s for sure.’

  ‘Of course. The High Command’s got no time for scatterbrains.’

  ‘Yes, our Getmanov’s certainly no scatterbrain,’ said Sagaydak.

  In a serious, matter-of-fact tone, as though he were back in his office, Mashuk said: ‘Yes, that Krymov . . . I remember him from his visit to Kiev – a dubious character. He’s been mixed up for years with all kinds of Trotskyists and Bukharinites.’

  He spoke straightforwardly and openly, seemingly as straightforwardly as the manager of a knitwear factory or a teacher at a technical institute might talk about their work. But they all understood that this openness and freedom were only apparent – he knew better than any of them what could, and what could not, be talked about. Getmanov, who also loved to shock people by his boldness and candour, was well aware of the depths concealed beneath the surface of this animated and spontaneous conversation.

  Although normally very thoughtful and serious, Sagaydak now tried to restore to the conversation its earlier note of lightness. Turning to Getmanov he said: ‘That’s why his wife’s left him – she thinks he’s an unreliable element.’

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ said Getmanov. ‘But it seems to me that this corps-commander of mine is marryi
ng an alien and unreliable element himself.’

  ‘Well, let him!’ said Galina Terentyevna. ‘What strange things you worry about. What matters is whether or not they love each other.’

  ‘Love, of course, is fundamental,’ agreed Getmanov. ‘Everyone knows that. But there are other matters that certain Soviet citizens tend to forget about.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Mashuk, ‘and we should be aware of everything.’

  ‘Right. And then people wonder why the Central Committee hasn’t ratified a new appointment, why this and why that . . . But what have they done to deserve the confidence of the Party?’

  ‘You are a strange lot!’ interrupted Galina Terentyevna in a sing-song voice. ‘Anyone would think you’d quite forgotten about the war. All you seem to worry about is the ex-husband of the future wife of some corps-commander. Who are you fighting against, Dima?’

  She looked mockingly at the men. Her beautiful brown eyes were somehow similar to the narrow eyes of her husband – perhaps because they were equally penetrating.

  ‘What are you saying?’ Sagaydak replied mournfully. ‘Our sons and brothers are setting out to the war from every corner of the country, from the last hut in a kolkhoz to the Kremlin itself. This war is a war for the Fatherland, a great war. Comrade Stalin’s son, Vasiliy, is a fighter-pilot. Comrade Mikoyan’s son’s in the Air Force too. I’ve heard that Lavrentiy Beria has got a son at the front, but I’m not sure which service. I think Timur Frunze is a lieutenant in the infantry . . . And then what’s her name – Dolores Ibarruri – her son was killed outside Stalingrad.’

  ‘Comrade Stalin had two sons at the front,’ said Nikolay Terentyevich. ‘The younger one, Yakov, was in command of an artillery battery . . . No, Yakov’s the elder brother. Poor man – he’s been taken prisoner.’

  He stopped short, sensing that he’d touched on a matter his senior comrades preferred not to talk about. To break the awkward silence, he announced in a carefree tone: ‘By the way, I’ve heard the Germans have been dropping ridiculous propaganda leaflets. They’re making out that Yakov Stalin has given them information of his own free will.’

  The void surrounding Nikolay Terentyevich grew still more unpleasant. He had spoken about something that should never be mentioned, even in jest. To express indignation at lying rumours about Iosif Vissarionovich’s relationship with his wife would be as serious a blunder as to spread the same rumours – any word at all about such matters was inadmissible.

  Turning suddenly to his wife, Getmanov said: ‘My heart lies where comrade Stalin has taken the battle into his own hands, and with such a firm grip that he really has put the wind up the Germans!’

  Guiltily and apologetically, Galina’s brother caught Getmanov’s eye. But these people hadn’t met together just to pounce on some conversational gaffe. They weren’t petty-minded.

  In a good-natured, comradely tone of voice, as though defending Nikolay Terentyevich from Getmanov, Sagaydak said: ‘That’s all very well, but we must all take care not to slip up in our own work.’

  ‘And not to speak without thinking,’ added Getmanov.

  The explicitness of Getmanov’s reproach was a sign that he would think no more of Nikolay Terentyevich’s blunder. Sagaydak and Mashuk nodded approvingly.

  Galina’s brother understood that this stupid, trivial incident would be forgotten; he also understood that it would not be forgotten entirely. One day, during a meeting to discuss a nomination for some particularly responsible post, Getmanov, Sagaydak and Mashuk would all nod their heads at mention of Nikolay Terentyevich; at the same time, however, they would give the merest hint of a smile. In reply to a question posed by an observant comrade, they would say, ‘Perhaps just a trifle indiscreet,’ measuring this trifle on the tip of their little finger.

  Deep down they all understood that the Germans were probably not lying so very blatantly. That was why Yakov was best not discussed.

  Sagaydak had a particularly fine grasp of such matters. He had worked on a newspaper for a long time; first he had been responsible for the news pages, then for the agricultural section. After that he had worked for about two years as editor of one of the Kiev papers. He considered that the aim of his newspaper was to educate the reader – not indiscriminately to disseminate chaotic information about all kinds of probably fortuitous events. In his role as editor Sagaydak might consider it appropriate to pass over some event: a very bad harvest, an ideologically inconsistent poem, a formalist painting, an outbreak of foot-and-mouth disease, an earthquake, or the destruction of a battleship. He might prefer to close his eyes to a terrible fire in a mine or a tidal wave that had swept thousands of people off the face of the earth. In his view these events had no meaning and he saw no reason why he should bring them to the notice of readers, journalists and writers. Sometimes he would have to give his own explanation of an event; this was often boldly original and entirely contradictory to ordinary ways of thought. He himself felt that his power, his skill and experience as an editor were revealed by his ability to bring to the consciousness of his readers only those ideas that were necessary and of true educational benefit.

  When flagrant excesses occurred during the period of out-and-out collectivization, Sagaydak – before the publication of Stalin’s article ‘Dizziness from Success’fn3 – wrote that the reason for the famine of this period was that the kulaks were burying their grain and refusing to eat, that whole villages – little children, old people and all – were dying, simply to spite the State.

  At the same time he included material about how the children in kolkhoz crèches were fed chicken broth, pirozhki and rissoles made from rice. In reality they were withering away, their bellies distended.

  Then came the war, one of the most cruel and terrible wars that had befallen Russia during the thousand years of her history. The ordeals of the first weeks and months brought the true course of events into the open; the war was now the arbiter of all fates, even that of the Party. But, as soon as this terrible period came to an end, Korneychuk explained the reason for the military disasters in his play The Front: incompetent generals had failed to carry out the orders of the infallible High Command . . .

  Nikolay Terentyevich was not the only one to experience some unpleasant moments that evening. Mashuk had been leafing through the thick pages of a large leather-bound photograph album. He suddenly raised his eyebrows so expressively that everyone craned over to look. It was a photograph of Getmanov in the office he had before the war as secretary of the obkom; he was wearing a semi-military Party tunic and sitting at a writing-desk as vast as the steppes; above him hung a portrait of Stalin of such huge dimensions as could be found only in the office of the secretary of an obkom. Stalin’s face in the portrait had been scrawled over in coloured pencil; a blue pointed beard had been added to his chin and light-blue ear-rings hung from his ears.

  ‘What has the boy gone and done now!’ exclaimed Getmanov, wringing his hands womanishly.

  Galina Terentyevna fell into utter confusion; she kept looking round and repeating: ‘But before he went to sleep last night, he said, “I love Uncle Stalin as much as my own papa.”’

  ‘It’s just a child’s prank,’ said Sagaydak.

  ‘It’s not just a prank, it’s malicious hooliganism,’ said Getmanov with an angry sigh.

  He looked searchingly at Mashuk. They were both thinking of an incident that had occurred before the war: a polytechnic student, the nephew of someone they knew from Kiev, had fired an air-rifle at Stalin’s portrait in the student hostel.

  They knew that this halfwit of a student had been playing the fool, that there was no political or terrorist motive behind his act. Their friend from Kiev, a splendid fellow, the director of the Machine and Tractor Station, had asked Getmanov to intervene on behalf of his nephew.

  After a committee meeting Getmanov had mentioned this affair to Mashuk. Mashuk had replied: ‘We’re not children, Dementiy Trifonovich. Whether or not he’s guilty is hardly the point. If I
do get this case dropped, someone will inform Moscow – they might even tell Lavrentiy Beria himself – that Mashuk took a liberal attitude towards someone shooting at a portrait of the great Stalin. Today I’m here in this office – tomorrow I’ll be dust in a labour-camp. Will you take the responsibility? They’ll say the same thing: today the student’s shooting at portraits, tomorrow he’ll be shooting at Stalin himself; and as for Getmanov – either he likes the boy for some reason, or else there’s something about the act that appeals to him. So? Is that what you want?’

  A month or two later Getmanov had asked Mashuk: ‘Tell me, what happened to that student with the air-rifle?’

  Mashuk, looking at him very calmly, had replied: ‘Don’t trouble yourself about him. He turned out to be a scoundrel, the son of some kulak whore. He confessed everything during the investigation.’

  Now, Getmanov stared at Mashuk and repeated: ‘No, it’s not just a prank.’

  ‘Come on!’ said Mashuk. ‘The boy’s only four. You have to make allowance for his age.’

  With a warmth and sincerity that everyone could feel, Sagaydak said: ‘Let me say it straight out: I just don’t have the strength to be strict with children. I ought to, but I haven’t the heart. All I care about is that they should be in good health . . .’

  They all looked at Sagaydak with compassion. He was not a happy father. His eldest son, Vitaliy, had been a troublemaker even while he was in the ninth class. He had once been picked up by the police during some brawl in a restaurant. His father had had to phone the Deputy People’s Commissar for Internal Affairs in order to hush up a scandal that turned out to involve the children of several prominent people – the daughter of a writer, the daughter of the People’s Commissar for Agriculture and the sons of various generals and Academicians. During the war young Sagaydak had decided he wanted to join the army as a volunteer; his father had managed to fix a place for him on a two-year course in an artillery school. He had been expelled for indiscipline and sent straight to the front.