Life and Fate

by Vasily Grossman

  ‘Why are you being sent with the infantry anyway? You’re a mortar man.’

  ‘Why’s Grekov keeping you here, for that matter? Your wireless set’s been smashed to pieces. You should have been sent back to the regiment ages ago. You should have been sent to the left bank. You’re just hanging around doing nothing.’

  ‘At least we see each other every day.’

  Seryozha gave a wave of the hand and walked away.

  Katya looked round and saw Bunchuk looking down from above and laughing. Seryozha must have seen him too. That was why he’d left so abruptly.

  The Germans kept the building under artillery fire until evening. Three men were slightly wounded and a partition wall collapsed, blocking the exit from the cellar. They dug out the exit – only for it to be choked with rubble again after another shell smashed into the wall.

  They dug their way through a second time. Antsiferov peered into the dust-filled darkness and asked: ‘Hey! Comrade radio-operator! Are you still with us?’

  ‘Yes,’ answered Katya, sneezing and spitting out red dust.

  ‘Bless you!’ said Antsiferov.

  When it got dark, the Germans sent up flares and opened up with their machine-guns. A plane flew over several times, dropping incendiary bombs. No one in the building slept. Grekov himself manned a machine-gun; the infantry sallied out twice to repel advancing Germans, swearing for all they were worth and shielding their faces with spades.

  It was as though the Germans had foreseen the impending attack on the nearby building they had just occupied.

  When the firing died down, Katya could hear the Germans calling out to one another. She could even hear their laughter. Their pronunciation was very different from that of her German teachers.

  She noticed that the cat had crawled off its pile of rags. Its back legs were quite motionless; it was dragging itself along on its fore-paws, trying desperately to reach Katya. Then it came to a stop; its jaw opened and closed several times . . . Katya tried to raise one of its eyelids. ‘So it’s dead,’ she thought in disgust. Then she realized that the cat must have thought of her when he realized he was about to die; that he had crawled towards her when he was half-paralysed . . . She put the body in a hole and covered it over with bits of brick.

  The cellar was suddenly lit up by a flare. It was as though there were no longer any air, as though she were breathing some blood-coloured liquid that flowed out of the ceiling, oozing out of each little brick.

  Maybe the Germans would appear any moment out of the far corners of the cellar. They would come up to her, seize her and drag her away. Or maybe they were cleaning up the first floor right now – the rattle of their tommy-guns sounded closer than ever. Maybe they were about to appear through the hole in the ceiling.

  To calm herself down, she tried to picture the list of tenants on the door of her house: ‘Tikhimirov – 1 ring; Dzyga – 2 rings; Cheremushkin – 3 rings; Feinberg – 4 rings; Vengrova – 5 rings; Andryushenko – 6 rings; Pegov – 1 long ring.’ She tried to imagine the Feinbergs’ big saucepan standing on the kerosene stove with its plywood cover, Anastasya’s washing tub with its cover made of sacking, the Tikhimirovs’ chipped enamel basin hanging from its piece of string . . . Now she would make her bed; where the springs were particularly sharp, she would spread out an old torn coat, a scrap of quilt and her mother’s brown shawl.

  Then her thoughts turned to house 6/1. Now the Germans were so close, now they were actually tunnelling their way through the ground, she no longer felt upset by the soldiers’ foul language. She didn’t even feel frightened by the way Grekov looked at her; previously not only her cheeks had blushed, but even her neck and shoulders. Yes, she certainly had heard some obscenities during her months in the army. There had been one particularly unpleasant conversation with a bald lieutenant-colonel who had flashed his metal fillings at her as he had explained what she must do if she wanted to stay on the left bank, at the signals centre . . . She remembered a mournful little song the girls used to sing under their breath:

  Under a fine autumn moon

  The commander took her to bed.

  He kissed her till it was dawn

  And now she belongs to the men.

  The first time she had seen Seryozha he had been reading poetry; she had thought to herself, ‘What an idiot!’ Then he had disappeared for two days. She had kept wondering if he had been killed, but had been too embarrassed to ask. Then he had suddenly reappeared during the night; she’d heard him tell Grekov how he’d left Headquarters without permission.

  ‘Quite right,’ said Grekov. ‘Otherwise you wouldn’t have rejoined us until the next world.’

  After that he had walked straight past her without even a glance. She had felt first upset and then angry; once again she had thought, ‘What an idiot!’

  Soon afterwards she’d heard a discussion about who was likely to be the first man to sleep with her. Someone had said: ‘Grekov – that’s a certainty!’

  ‘No, that’s not for sure,’ someone else had said. ‘But I can tell you who’s at the bottom of the list – young Seryozha. The younger a girl is, the more she needs someone with experience.’

  Then she noticed that the other men had stopped joking and flirting with her. Grekov made it very clear that he didn’t like anyone else making a play for her. And once Zubarev called out: ‘Hey! Mrs house-manager!’

  Grekov was in no hurry, but he was very sure of himself. She could feel this all too clearly. After her wireless set had been smashed, he had ordered her to make her home in one of the far corners of the cellar. And yesterday he’d said: ‘I’ve never met a girl like you before. If I’d met you before the war, I’d have made you my wife.’

  She’d wanted to reply that he’d have had to ask her view on the matter first. But she’d been too frightened to say anything at all.

  He hadn’t done anything wrong. He hadn’t even said anything coarse or brazen. But she was frightened.

  Later on in the day he’d said sadly: ‘The Germans are about to launch their offensive. Probably not one of us will be left alive. This building lies right in their path.’

  He had then given her a long, thoughtful look – a look that Katya found more frightening than what he’d said about the German offensive – and added: ‘I’ll come round some time.’

  The link between this remark and what he’d said before was by no means obvious, but Katya understood it.

  He was very different from any of the officers she’d seen round Kotluban. He never threatened people or shouted at them, but they obeyed him. He just sat there, smoking and chatting away like one of the soldiers. And yet his authority was immense.

  She’d never really talked to Seryozha. Sometimes she thought he was in love with her – but as powerless as she herself before the man they admired and were terrified by. She knew he was weak and inexperienced, but she kept wanting to ask for his protection, to say: ‘Come and sit by me.’ And then there were times when she wanted to comfort him herself. Talking to him was very strange – it often seemed as though there were no war, no house 6/1 at all. Seryozha appeared to understand this and tried to adopt a coarse, soldierly manner. Once he even swore in her presence.

  Now she felt that there was some terrible link between her own confused thoughts and feelings and the fact that Seryozha had been ordered to join the storming-party. Listening to the tommy-gun fire, she imagined Seryozha lying across a mound of red brick, his lifeless head and unkempt hair drooping. She felt a heart-rending sense of pity for him. Everything merged together: the many-coloured flares, her memories of her mother, her simultaneous fear and admiration of Grekov – this man who, from a few isolated ruins, was about to launch an assault on the iron-clad German divisions.

  She felt ready to sacrifice everything in the world – if only she could see Seryozha again alive.

  ‘But what if I have to choose between him and Mama?’ she thought suddenly.

  Then she heard footsteps; her fingers tensed aga
inst the bricks.

  The shooting died down; there was a sudden silence. Her back, her shoulders, her legs all began to itch. She wanted to scratch them but was afraid of making a noise.

  People had kept asking Batrakov why he was always scratching himself. He’d always answered: ‘It’s just nerves.’ And then yesterday he’d said: ‘I’ve just found eleven lice!’ Kolomeitsev had made fun of him: ‘Batrakov’s been attacked by nerve-lice!’

  She had been killed. Soldiers were dragging her corpse to a pit and saying: ‘Poor girl! She’s covered in lice!’

  But perhaps it really was just her nerves? Then she saw a man coming towards her out of the darkness – and not just someone she had conjured up out of the strange noises and the flickering light.

  ‘Who is it?’ she asked.

  ‘Don’t be afraid,’ said the darkness. ‘It’s me.’

  17

  ‘The attack’s been put off till tomorrow. Today it’s the Germans’ turn. By the way, I wanted to tell you, I’ve never read La Chartreuse de Parme.’

  Katya didn’t answer.

  Seryozha tried to make her out in the darkness; as though in answer to his wish, her face was suddenly lit up by a shell-burst. A second later it was dark again; as though by unspoken agreement they waited for another shell-burst, another flash of light. Seryozha took her by the hand and squeezed her fingers; it was the first time he had held a girl’s hand.

  The dirty, lice-ridden girl sat there without saying a word. Seryozha could see her white neck in the darkness.

  Another flare went up and their heads drew together. He put his arms round her and she closed her eyes. They’d both of them heard the same saying at school: if you kiss with your eyes open, you’re not in love.

  ‘This is the real thing, isn’t it?’ asked Seryozha.

  She pressed her hands against his temples and turned his head towards her.

  ‘This is for all our lives,’ he said slowly.

  ‘How strange,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid somebody may come by. Until now I was only too delighted to see any of them: Lyakhov, Kolomeitsev, Zubarev . . .’

  ‘Grekov,’ added Seryozha.

  ‘No,’ she said firmly.

  He kissed her on the neck and undid the metal button on her tunic. He pressed his lips to her thin collar-bone, but didn’t touch her breasts. She stroked his wiry unwashed hair as though he were a little boy; she knew that all this was right and inevitable.

  He looked at the luminous dial of his watch.

  ‘Who’s leading you tomorrow?’ she asked. ‘Grekov?’

  ‘Why ask now? Who needs a leader anyway?’

  He embraced her again. He felt a sudden cold in his fingers and chest, a sudden resolute excitement. She was half lying on her coat; she seemed to be hardly breathing. He felt the coarse, dusty material of her tunic and skirt, then the rough fur of her boots. He sensed the warmth of her body. She tried to sit up, but he began kissing her again. Another flash of light lit up Katya’s cap – now lying on some bricks – and her face – suddenly unfamiliar, as though he’d never seen it before. Then it became dark again, very dark . . .

  ‘Katya!’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing. I just wanted to hear your voice. Why don’t you look at me?’

  He lit a match.

  ‘Don’t! Don’t! Put it out!’

  Once again she wondered who she loved most – him or her mother.

  ‘Forgive me,’ she said.

  Failing to understand her, Seryozha said: ‘It’s all right. Don’t be afraid. This is for life – if we live.’

  ‘No, I was just thinking of my mother.’

  ‘My mother’s dead. I’ve only just realized – she was deported because of my father.’

  They went to sleep in each other’s arms. During the night the house-manager came and looked at them. Shaposhnikov had his head on the girl’s shoulder and his arm round her back; it looked as though he were afraid of losing her. Their sleep was so quiet and so still they might have been dead.

  At dawn Lyakhov looked in and shouted:

  ‘Hey, Shaposhnikov! Vengrova! The house-manager wants you. At the double!’

  In the cold, misty half-light Grekov’s face looked severe and implacable. He was leaning against the wall, his tousled hair hanging over his low forehead. They stood in front of him, shifting from foot to foot, unaware they were still holding hands. Grekov flared his broad nostrils and said: ‘Very well, Shaposhnikov, I’m sending you back to Regimental Headquarters.’

  Seryozha could feel Katya’s fingers trembling; he squeezed them. She in turn felt his fingers trembling. He swallowed; his tongue and palate were quite dry.

  The earth and the clouded sky were enveloped in silence. The soldiers lying in a huddle on their greatcoats seemed wide awake, hardly breathing, waiting. Everything was so familiar, so splendid. Seryozha thought to himself: ‘We’re being expelled from Paradise. He’s separating us like two serfs.’ He gave Grekov a look of mingled hatred and entreaty.

  Grekov narrowed his eyes as he looked Katya full in the face. Seryozha felt there was something quite horrible about this look, something insolent and merciless.

  ‘That’s all,’ said Grekov. ‘And the radio-operator can go with you. There’s no need for her to hang around here with nothing to do. You can show her the way to HQ.’

  He smiled.

  ‘And after that you’ll have to find your own ways. Here, take this. I can’t stand paperwork so I’ve just written one for the two of you. All right?’

  Seryozha suddenly realized that never in all his life had he seen eyes that were so sad and so intelligent, so splendid, yet so human.

  18

  In the end, Regimental Commissar Pivovarov never visited house 6/1.

  Radio contact had been broken off. No one knew if this was because the wireless set was out of action or because the high-handed Grekov was fed up with being ordered about by his superiors.

  Chentsov, a Party member, had provided them with some information about the encircled house. He said that ‘the house-manager’ was corrupting the minds of his soldiers with the most appalling heresies. He didn’t, however, deny either Grekov’s courage or his fighting abilities.

  Just when Pivovarov was about to make his way to house 6/1, Byerozkin, the commanding officer of the regiment, fell seriously ill. He was lying in his bunker; his face was burning and his eyes looked transparent and vacuous. The doctor who examined him was at a loss. He was used to dealing with shattered limbs and fractured skulls. And now here was someone who’d fallen ill all by himself.

  ‘We need cupping-glasses,’ he said. ‘But where on earth can I find any?’

  Pivovarov was about to inform Byerozkin’s superiors when the telephone rang and the divisional commissar summoned him to headquarters.

  Pivovarov twice dropped flat on his face because of nearby shell-bursts; he arrived somewhat out of breath. The divisional commissar was in conversation with a battalion commissar who had recently been sent across from the left bank. Pivovarov had heard of him before; he had given lectures to the units in the factories.

  Pivovarov announced himself loudly: ‘Pivovarov reporting!’ Then he told him of Byerozkin’s illness.

  ‘Yes, that’s a bit of a bastard,’ said the divisional commissar. ‘Well, you’ll have to take command yourself, comrade Pivovarov.’

  ‘What about the encircled house?’

  ‘That matter’s no longer in your hands. You wouldn’t believe what a storm there’s been over it. It’s even reached Front Headquarters.’

  He paused and held up a coded message.

  ‘In fact, that’s the very reason I called you. Comrade Krymov here has instructions from the Political Administration of the Front to get through to the encircled house, take over as commissar and establish Bolshevik order. If any problems arise, he is to take over from Grekov . . . Since this is in the sector covered by your regiment, you are to provide comrade Krymov with whatever help
he needs to get through and remain in communication. Is that clear?’

  ‘Certainly,’ said Pivovarov. ‘I’ll see to it.’

  Then in a conversational tone of voice, he asked Krymov: ‘Comrade Battalion Commissar, have you dealt with anything like this before?’

  ‘I have indeed,’ smiled Krymov. ‘In the summer of ’41 I led two hundred men out of encirclement in the Ukraine. Believe me – I know a thing or two about all this partisan nonsense.’

  ‘Very well, comrade Krymov,’ said the divisional commissar. ‘Get on with it and keep in touch. A State within a State is something we can do without.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Pivovarov, ‘and there was also an unpleasant story about some girl who was sent as a radio-operator. Byerozkin was very worried when the transmitter went dead. Those lads are capable of anything – believe me!’

  ‘Very well. You can sort that one out when you get there. I wish you luck,’ said the divisional commissar.

  19

  On a cold clear evening, the day after Grekov’s dismissal of Shaposhnikov and Vengrova, Krymov, accompanied by a soldier with a tommy-gun, left Regimental HQ on his way to the notorious encircled house.

  As soon as he set foot in the asphalt yard of the Tractor Factory, Krymov felt an extraordinarily acute sense of danger. At the same time he was conscious of an unaccustomed excitement and joy. The sudden message from Front Headquarters had confirmed his feeling that in Stalingrad everything was different, that the values and demands placed on people had changed. Krymov was no longer a cripple in a battalion of invalids; he was once again a Bolshevik, a fighting commissar. He wasn’t in the least frightened by his difficult and dangerous task. It had been sweet indeed to read in the eyes of Pivovarov and the divisional commissar the same trust in his abilities that had once been displayed by all his comrades in the Party.

  A dead soldier was lying on the ground between the remains of a mortar and some slabs of asphalt thrown up by a shell-burst. Now that Krymov was so full of hope and exaltation, he found this sight strangely upsetting. He had seen plenty of corpses in his time and had usually felt quite indifferent. This soldier, so full of his death, was lying there like a bird, quite defenceless, his legs tucked under him as though he were cold.