What does this tell us? That a new trait has suddenly appeared in human nature? No, this obedience bears witness to a new force acting on human beings. The extreme violence of totalitarian social systems proved able to paralyse the human spirit throughout whole continents.
A man who has placed his soul in the service of Fascism declares an evil and dangerous slavery to be the only true good. Rather than overtly renouncing human feelings, he declares the crimes committed by Fascism to be the highest form of humanitarianism; he agrees to divide people up into the pure and worthy and the impure and unworthy.
The instinct for self-preservation is supported by the hypnotic power of world ideologies. These call people to carry out any sacrifice, to accept any means, in order to achieve the highest of ends: the future greatness of the motherland, world progress, the future happiness of mankind, of a nation, of a class.
One more force co-operated with the life-instinct and the power of great ideologies: terror at the limitless violence of a powerful State, terror at the way murder had become the basis of everyday life.
The violence of a totalitarian State is so great as to be no longer a means to an end; it becomes an object of mystical worship and adoration. How else can one explain the way certain intelligent, thinking Jews declared the slaughter of the Jews to be necessary for the happiness of mankind? That in view of this they were ready to take their own children to be executed – ready to carry out the sacrifice once demanded of Abraham? How else can one explain the case of a gifted, intelligent poet, himself a peasant by birth, who with sincere conviction wrote a long poem celebrating the terrible years of suffering undergone by the peasantry, years that had swallowed up his own father, an honest and simple-hearted labourer?
Another fact that allowed Fascism to gain power over men was their blindness. A man cannot believe that he is about to be destroyed. The optimism of people standing on the edge of the grave is astounding. The soil of hope – a hope that was senseless and sometimes dishonest and despicable – gave birth to a pathetic obedience that was often equally despicable.
The Warsaw Rising, the uprisings at Treblinka and Sobibor, the various mutinies of brenners, were all born of hopelessness. But then utter hopelessness engenders not only resistance and uprisings but also a yearning to be executed as quickly as possible.
People argued over their place in the queue beside the blood-filled ditch while a mad, almost exultant voice shouted out: ‘Don’t be afraid, Jews. It’s nothing terrible. Five minutes and it will all be over.’
Everything gave rise to obedience – both hope and hopelessness.
It is important to consider what a man must have suffered and endured in order to feel glad at the thought of his impending execution. It is especially important to consider this if one is inclined to moralize, to reproach the victims for their lack of resistance in conditions of which one has little conception.
Having established man’s readiness to obey when confronted with limitless violence, we must go on to draw one further conclusion that is of importance for an understanding of man and his future.
Does human nature undergo a true change in the cauldron of totalitarian violence? Does man lose his innate yearning for freedom? The fate of both man and the totalitarian State depends on the answer to this question. If human nature does change, then the eternal and world-wide triumph of the dictatorial State is assured; if his yearning for freedom remains constant, then the totalitarian State is doomed.
The great Rising in the Warsaw ghetto, the uprisings in Treblinka and Sobibor; the vast partisan movement that flared up in dozens of countries enslaved by Hitler; the uprisings in Berlin in 1953, in Hungary in 1956, and in the labour-camps of Siberia and the Far East after Stalin’s death; the riots at this time in Poland, the number of factories that went on strike and the student protests that broke out in many cities against the suppression of freedom of thought; all these bear witness to the indestructibility of man’s yearning for freedom. This yearning was suppressed but it continued to exist. Man’s fate may make him a slave, but his nature remains unchanged.
Man’s innate yearning for freedom can be suppressed but never destroyed. Totalitarianism cannot renounce violence. If it does, it perishes. Eternal, ceaseless violence, overt or covert, is the basis of totalitarianism. Man does not renounce freedom voluntarily. This conclusion holds out hope for our time, hope for the future.
51
An electronic machine can carry out mathematical calculations, remember historical facts, play chess and translate books from one language to another. It is able to solve mathematical problems more quickly than man and its memory is faultless. Is there any limit to progress, to its ability to create machines in the image and likeness of man? It seems that the answer is no.
It is not impossible to imagine the machine of future ages and millennia. It will be able to listen to music and appreciate art; it will even be able to compose melodies, paint pictures and write poems. Is there a limit to its perfection? Can it be compared to man? Will it surpass him?
Childhood memories . . . tears of happiness . . . the bitterness of parting . . . love of freedom . . . feelings of pity for a sick puppy . . . nervousness . . . a mother’s tenderness . . . thoughts of death . . . sadness . . . friendship . . . love of the weak . . . sudden hope . . . a fortunate guess . . . melancholy . . . unreasoning joy . . . sudden embarrassment . . .
The machine will be able to recreate all of this! But the surface of the whole earth will be too small to accommodate this machine – this machine whose dimensions and weight will continually increase as it attempts to reproduce the peculiarities of mind and soul of an average, inconspicuous human being.
Fascism annihilated tens of millions of people.
52
Inside a large, bright, clean house in a village in the Urals surrounded by forest, Novikov, the commanding officer of the tank corps, and Getmanov, his commissar, finished reading the reports of their brigade commanders. They had just been ordered to prepare to leave for the front.
The present moment was a brief lull after the feverish activity of the previous few days.
As is always the case, Novikov and his subordinates felt they hadn’t had enough time to complete their training programme. But now there was no more time to study optics, radio equipment, the principles of ballistics or the workings of motors and running parts. They had finished their exercises in the evaluation of targets, the determination of the correct moment to open fire, the observation of shell-bursts, the adjustment of aim and the substitution of targets. A new teacher – the war itself – would soon fill in the blanks and catch out anyone who had been left behind.
Getmanov stretched out his hand towards the small cupboard between the windows, tapped it with his finger and said: ‘Come on, friend. Let’s see you in the front line!’
Novikov opened the cupboard, took out a bottle of cognac and filled two large blueish glasses.
‘Well then, who shall we drink to?’ said the commissar thoughtfully.
Novikov knew who they were supposed to drink to, and why Getmanov had asked this question. After a moment’s hesitation, he said: ‘Comrade Commissar, let’s drink to the men we’re about to lead into battle. Here’s hoping they don’t shed too much blood!’
‘That’s right. Let’s drink to the lads. They’re the most precious capital of all.’
They clinked their glasses and drained them. With a haste he was unable to conceal, Novikov refilled the glasses and said: ‘And here’s to comrade Stalin. May we justify his faith in us!’
Novikov saw the hidden mockery in Getmanov’s friendly, watchful eyes. Cursing himself, he thought: ‘Damn it! I shouldn’t have been in such a hurry.’
‘Yes, let’s drink to the old man,’ Getmanov replied good-humouredly. ‘Under his leadership we’ve marched to the banks of the Volga.’
Novikov stared at the commissar. But what could he hope to read in the slit eyes, bright but without kindness, of this intelligen
t forty-year-old man with his large smiling face and high cheekbones?
Suddenly Getmanov began to talk about their chief of staff, General Nyeudobnov.
‘He’s a fine fellow. A Bolshevik. A true Stalinist. A man with experience of leadership. And stamina. I remember him from 1937. Yezhov sent him to clean up the military district. Well, I wasn’t exactly running a kindergarten myself at that time, but he really did do a thorough job. He was an axe – he had whole lists of men liquidated. Yes, he certainly merited Yezhov’s trust – as much as Vasily Vasilyevich Ulrich.fn1 We must ask him to join us now or he’ll be offended.’
Getmanov’s tone of voice made it seem as though he was condemning the struggle against the enemies of the people, a struggle in which – as Novikov knew – he had himself played an important role. Once again he looked at Getmanov and felt baffled.
‘Yes,’ he said slowly and reluctantly. ‘Some people did go too far then.’
Getmanov made a gesture of despair. ‘We received a bulletin from the General Staff today. It’s quite appalling. The Germans have almost reached Mount Elbruz, and at Stalingrad they’re forcing our troops into the river. And let me say this straight out: those lads are partly to blame for all this. They shot our own men, they destroyed our own cadres.’
Novikov felt a sudden surge of trust in Getmanov.
‘Yes, comrade Commissar, many fine men were destroyed. Real damage was done to the Army then. Look at General Krivoruchko – he lost an eye during interrogation. Though he did split open his interrogator’s skull with an inkpot.’
Getmanov nodded in agreement. ‘Lavrentiy Pavlovich Beria thinks very highly of Nyeudobnov. And Lavrentiy Pavlovich is an intelligent man: he never misjudges people.’
‘Yes, yes,’ thought Novikov resignedly. He didn’t say anything.
For a moment they were both silent, listening to the low voices next door.
‘Nonsense, those are our socks.’
‘What do you mean, comrade Lieutenant? Have you gone blind or something? And don’t you touch those – those are our collars.’
‘Nonsense, comrade Political Instructor! Look! Can’t you see?’
The two orderlies were sorting out Novikov’s and Getmanov’s laundry.
‘I keep an eye on those devils the whole time,’ said Getmanov. ‘Once the two of us were on our way towards Fatov’s battalion to watch their firing exercises. I crossed the river by some stepping-stones, while you jumped across and then stamped your feet to shake off the mud. I looked round and saw our two orderlies doing exactly the same thing: mine used the stepping-stones, while yours jumped across and stamped his feet.’
‘Hey, you fire-eaters!’ called Novikov. ‘Try swearing a bit more quietly.’ The two orderlies immediately fell silent.
General Nyeudobnov, a pale man with a high forehead and thick grey hair, came into the room. He looked at the bottle and glasses, put down his file on the table, and said to Novikov:
‘Comrade Colonel, we need a new chief of staff for the second brigade. Mikhalev won’t be back for six weeks; I just received a certificate from hospital.’
‘And even then he’ll be missing his guts and part of his stomach,’ said Getmanov. He poured out some cognac and offered it to Nyeudobnov.
‘Have a drink, comrade General, while your guts are still in one piece.’
Nyeudobnov raised his eyebrows and looked questioningly at Novikov.
‘Please, comrade General, feel free!’
Novikov was annoyed by the way Getmanov always seemed to be in control of every situation. At meetings he held forth at length about technical matters he knew nothing about. And, with the same assurance, he would invite people to lie down for a rest on someone else’s bed, offer them someone else’s cognac, or read through papers that had nothing to do with him.
‘We could appoint Major Basangov temporarily,’ said Novikov. ‘He knows what’s what. And he was taking part in tank-battles right at the beginning of the war, near Novograd-Volynsk. Does the commissar have any objections?’
‘Of course not,’ said Getmanov. ‘It’s not for me to object . . . There is one thing, though. The second-in-command of the second brigade is an Armenian; you want the chief of staff to be a Kalmyk – and we’ve already got some Lifshits as chief of staff of the third brigade. Couldn’t we do without the Kalmyk?’ He looked at Novikov, then at Nyeudobnov.
‘That’s how we all feel,’ said Nyeudobnov. ‘And on the face of it you’re right. But then Marxism’s taught us to look at things differently.’
‘What matters is how well the comrade in question can fight the Germans,’ said Novikov. ‘That’s what Marxism tells me. I’m really not interested in where his grandfather prayed – whether he went to church, to a mosque . . . ,’ he paused for a moment to think, ‘. . . or to a synagogue. What matters in war is how well you can fight.’
‘Quite right,’ said Getmanov brightly. ‘We’re certainly not having synagogues and meeting-houses in our tank corps. We are, after all, defending Russia.’
A frown suddenly appeared on his face. ‘Quite frankly,’ he went on angrily, ‘all this makes me want to vomit. In the name of the friendship of nations we keep sacrificing the Russians. A member of a national minority barely needs to know the alphabet to be appointed a people’s commissar, while our Ivan, no matter if he’s a genius, has to “yield place to the minorities”. The great Russian people’s becoming a national minority itself. I’m all for the friendship of nations, but not on these terms. I’m sick of it!’
Novikov thought for a moment, glanced at the papers on the table, then tapped a fingernail against his glass. ‘So that’s how it is. You think I discriminate against Russians out of a particular sympathy for Kalmyks?’
He turned to Nyeudobnov. ‘Very well, I’m appointing Major Sazonov as temporary chief of staff of the second brigade.’
‘A fine soldier,’ said Getmanov quietly.
Yet again, Novikov, who had always been rude, harsh and high-handed with people, realized how uncertain of himself he felt with Getmanov. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he told himself. ‘Politically, I’m illiterate. I’m just a proletarian who happens to know about war. My task is very simple – to smash the Germans.’
But however much he laughed at Getmanov’s military ignorance, Novikov couldn’t deny that he was afraid of him.
Getmanov was short and broad-shouldered. He had a large stomach and a large head with tousled hair. He was very active, quick to laugh, and he had a loud voice. He appeared inexhaustible. Despite the fact that he had never served at the front, people said of him: ‘Yes, our commissar’s a true soldier.’ He enjoyed holding meetings and his speeches went down well with the troops: he made lots of jokes and spoke very simply, often quite coarsely.
He walked with a slight waddle and often made use of a stick. If an absent-minded soldier was slow in saluting him, he would stop in front of him, leaning on his famous stick, take off his cap, and make a deep bow – like some old man in a village.
He was quick-tempered and resented it if someone answered him back; if anyone did argue with him, he would at once start puffing and frowning. He once lost his temper and punched Captain Gubyonkov, the chief of staff of the heavy artillery regiment; the latter was rather obstinate and – in the words of his comrades – ‘terribly high-principled’.
On this occasion, Getmanov’s orderly had simply remarked: ‘The swine – he really drove our commissar crazy.’
Getmanov felt no respect for people who had gone through the terrible first days of the war. He once remarked about Makarov, the commander of the First Brigade and a favourite of Novikov’s, ‘All that philosophy of 1941 – I’ll shove it down his throat!’ Novikov hadn’t said anything, though he enjoyed talking to Makarov about that terrible but fascinating time.
On the surface, Getmanov, with his bold, sweeping judgements, seemed the very antithesis of Nyeudobnov. Nevertheless, there was something similar about them that brought them together.
Nyeudobnov’s calm, deliberate manner of speaking, his blank, but expressive expression, were truly depressing. Getmanov, on the other hand, would laugh and say: ‘We’re in luck. The Fritzes have done more to put the peasants’ backs up in one year than we Communists in twenty-five.’ Or ‘What can we do? The old boy really likes it when people call him a genius.’ But this boldness of Getmanov’s, far from being infectious, usually quite unnerved the man he was talking to.
Before the war, Getmanov had been in charge of an oblast. He had given speeches about the production of fire-bricks and the organization of scientific research at the Coal Institute, about the quality of bread from the municipal bakery, about the faults of a story entitled ‘Blue Flames’ that had been printed in the local almanac, about the reconstruction of the municipal garage, about inadequate storage facilities in the local warehouses, and about an epidemic of fowl-pest in the kolkhozes.
Now he spoke with the same authority about the quality of fuel and the rate of deterioration of engines, about tactics in battle, about the co-ordination of tanks, artillery and infantry if they broke through the enemy front, about medical assistance under fire, about radio codes, about the psychology of the soldier in combat, about the relations between one tank-crew and another, and between the individual members of each crew, about running repairs and major overhauls, and about the removal of damaged tanks from the battlefield.
Once, after a gunnery exercise, Novikov and Getmanov had stopped in front of the winning tank. As he answered their questions, the soldier in command had gently caressed the side of the tank. Getmanov had asked if he had found the exercise difficult.
‘No, why should I? I love my tank very much. I came to the training school straight from my village. The moment I saw her, I fell in love. Impossibly in love.’
‘So it was love at first sight, was it?’ said Getmanov. He burst out laughing.
Life and Fate Page 28