‘I am wasting my own time too,’ said Shishakov.
Viktor felt glad that Shishakov had abandoned his conciliatory tone; now he could give free rein to his anger.
‘What strikes me as particularly unpleasant is that these conflicts have arisen principally around people with Jewish surnames.’
‘Very well, Viktor Pavlovich,’ said Shishakov, taking the offensive. ‘The Institute is faced with a number of very important tasks. As you know, we have been entrusted with these tasks at a very difficult time. I consider your laboratory unable at present to assist us with these tasks. And your own work – as disputable as it is interesting – has received far too much attention.
‘This is not merely a personal point of view,’ he went on, a note of authority appearing in his voice. ‘There are comrades who consider that the excessive attention paid to your work has disrupted scientific research. All this was discussed in considerable detail only yesterday. The view was put forward that your theories contradict the materialist view of the nature of matter and need to be reconsidered. You are to be asked to give a speech to that effect yourself. Certain people – for reasons that are obscure to me – would like to establish various doubtful theories as central tenets of our science – and at a time when we need to focus all our energies on the tasks imposed on us by the war. All this is extremely serious. And now here you are making terrible insinuations concerning a certain Loshakova. Excuse me, but I was unaware that Loshakova was a Jewish name.’
At this, Viktor lost his head. No one had ever spoken to him about his work with such undisguised hostility – least of all an Academician who was the director of his own Institute! No longer afraid of the consequences, Viktor blurted out everything that was on his mind.
He said that it was of no concern to physics whether or not it confirmed philosophy; that the logic of mathematical proof was more powerful than that of Engels and Lenin; that it was for Badin of the Scientific Section of the Central Committee to accommodate Lenin’s views to mathematics and physics, not for mathematicians and physicists to accommodate their views to Lenin’s. He said that an excessive pragmatism would always be the death of science – though it were commanded ‘by the Lord himself’: only a great theory could give birth to great practical achievements. He was confident that the principal technical problems – and not only technical problems – of the twentieth century would be resolved through the theory of nuclear reactions. He was only too willing to give a speech to that effect if this should be considered necessary by the comrades whose names Shishakov preferred not to reveal.
‘As for the matter of people with Jewish surnames, that’s not something you can laugh off quite so easily – not if you consider yourself a member of the intelligentsia. If my requests are denied, I shall be compelled to resign from the Institute immediately. I am unable to work under these conditions.’
Viktor took a breath, looked at Shishakov, thought for a moment and said: ‘It’s very difficult for me to work under these conditions. I am a human being as well as a physicist. I feel ashamed before people who expect my help, who count on my protection against injustice.’
This time, Viktor had only said: ‘It’s very difficult.’ He no longer had the nerve to repeat his threat of immediate resignation.
Shishakov obviously noticed this. Perhaps for this very reason he insisted: ‘There’s no point in continuing this conversation in the language of ultimata. It is my duty, of course, to take your requests into consideration.’
Throughout the rest of the day Viktor had a strange feeling of both joy and depression. The laboratory equipment, the new apparatus – already nearly assembled – seemed a part of his life, a part of his brain, a part of his body. How could he exist without them?
It was terrifying even to think what heresies he had uttered to the director. At the same time, however, Viktor felt strong. His very helplessness was a source of strength. How could he ever have guessed that on his return to Moscow, at the moment of his scientific triumph, he would be having a conversation like this?
Although no one could have heard about his confrontation with Shishakov, his colleagues seemed to be treating him with a particular warmth.
Anna Stepanovna took his hand, squeezed it and said:
‘Viktor Pavlovich, I don’t want to appear to be thanking you – but I do know that you’ve been true to yourself.’
Viktor stood beside her in silence. He felt very moved, almost joyful.
‘Mother, mother,’ he thought suddenly, ‘can you see?’
On the way home Viktor decided not to say anything to Lyudmila. However, his habit of sharing everything with her proved too strong; as he came through the door and began taking off his coat, he said:
‘Well, Lyudmila, it’s happened. I’m leaving the Institute.’
Lyudmila was very upset, but she still managed to say something wounding.
‘You’re behaving as though you were Lomonosov or Mendeleev. If you leave, then Sokolov or Markov will just take your place.’
She looked up from her sewing.
‘Besides, why can’t your Landesman go to the Front? Otherwise it really does look to a prejudiced observer as though one Jew’s looking after another.’
‘All right, all right,’ said Viktor. ‘That’s enough. Do you remember that line of Nekrasov’s? “He hoped to be admitted to the temple of fame – and then was glad to be admitted to hospital.” I thought I had earned my daily bread – and now they’re asking me to repent my sins and heresies. More than that – they want me to make a public confession! It’s madness. And at a time when I’ve been nominated for a Stalin Prize, when students are seeking me out . . . It’s all Badin’s doing. No, it’s nothing to do with Badin. Sadko doesn’t love me!’
Lyudmila came up to him, straightened his tie and turned down the collar of his jacket.
‘You look pale. Did you have any lunch?’
‘I don’t feel like eating.’
‘Have some bread and butter while I warm up your supper.’
She poured out a few drops of his heart-medicine and said:
‘I don’t like the look of you. Drink this. And let me check your pulse.’
They went through to the kitchen. As he chewed his bread, Viktor kept glancing at the mirror Nadya had hung by the gas-meter.
‘How strange it all is,’ he said. ‘How could I ever have guessed that I’d have to answer drawerfuls of questionnaires and hear what I’ve heard today? What power! The State and the individual . . . The State raises a man up, then throws him effortlessly into the abyss.’
‘Vitya,’ said Lyudmila, ‘I want to talk to you about Nadya. Almost every night she comes home after curfew.’
‘You told me about that the other day.’
‘I know I did. Well, yesterday evening I happened to go up to the window and lift up the black-out curtain. What do you think I saw? Nadya and some soldier! They walked down the street, stopped outside the dairy and began kissing.’
‘Well I never!’ Viktor was so astonished he stopped chewing the food in his mouth.
Nadya kissing a soldier! After a few moments’ silence, Viktor began to laugh. He was quite stunned; probably nothing else could have distracted him from his own sombre preoccupations. For a moment their eyes met; to her surprise, Lyudmila burst out laughing as well. Their empathy was complete, that rare understanding that needs neither thoughts nor words.
It was no surprise to Lyudmila when Viktor, apparently apropos of nothing at all, said: ‘Mila, I was right to have it out with Shishakov, wasn’t I?’
His train of thought was quite simple, though not so easy for an outsider to follow. Several things had come together: memories of his past; the fate of Tolya and Anna Semyonovna; the war; the fact that, however rich and famous a man may be, he will still grow old, die and yield his place to the young; that perhaps nothing matters except to live one’s life honestly.
And so he asked: ‘I was right, wasn’t I?’
Ly
udmila shook her head. Decades of intimacy can also divide people.
‘Lyuda,’ said Viktor humbly, ‘people who are in the right often don’t know how to behave. They lose their tempers and swear. They act tactlessly and intolerantly. Usually they get blamed for everything that goes wrong at home and at work. While those who are in the wrong, those who hurt others, always know how to behave. They act calmly, logically and tactfully – and appear to be in the right.’
Nadya came in after ten o’clock. As she heard the key in the lock, Lyudmila said: ‘Go on, have a word with her.’
‘It’s easier for you,’ said Viktor.
But as Nadya came into the room, with dishevelled hair and a red nose, it was Viktor who said: ‘Who were you kissing opposite the front door?’
Nadya looked round as though about to run away. For a moment she just gaped at Viktor. Then she shrugged her shoulders and said calmly: ‘A-Andryusha Lomov. He’s at military school. He’s a lieutenant.’
‘Are you going to marry him then?’ asked Viktor, astonished at Nadya’s self-possession. He looked round to see Lyudmila’s reaction.
‘Marry him?’ Nadya sounded very grown-up: irritated, but basically unconcerned. ‘Maybe. I’m thinking of it . . . And then maybe not. I haven’t made up my mind yet.’
At last Lyudmila said something.
‘Nadya, why did you tell all those lies about Mayka’s father and his lessons? I never told lies to my mother.’
Viktor remembered how, when he was courting Lyudmila, she would come to meet him and say: ‘I’ve left Tolya with Mother. I told her I was going to the library.’
All of a sudden, Nadya was a child again. In an angry, whining voice, she shouted: ‘And do you think it’s right to spy on me? Did your mother spy on you?’
‘Don’t you dare be so insolent to your mother, you little fool!’ roared Viktor.
Nadya gave him a look of patient boredom.
‘So, Nadezhda Victorovna, it seems you haven’t yet decided whether to marry the young colonel or to become his concubine?’
‘No, I haven’t – and he’s not a colonel.’
Could some young lad in a military greatcoat really be kissing his daughter? Could he be falling in love with this brat of a girl, this ridiculous, sharp-witted little idiot? Could he be kissing her puppy-like eyes?
But then, this was an old story . . .
Lyudmila said nothing more. She knew that Nadya would only get angry and clam up. She also knew that, when they were alone, she would run her fingers through her daughter’s hair and Nadya would sob without knowing why. She herself would feel a sharp pang of pity for Nadya, also without knowing why – after all, there were worse things for a young girl than to be kissing a young man. Then Nadya would tell her all about this Lomov; she would continue to run her fingers through Nadya’s hair, all the time remembering her own first kisses and thinking of Tolya – yes, now she linked everything to Tolya.
There was something terribly sad about this girlish love, this love poised over the abyss of war. Tolya, Tolya . . .
Viktor was still ranting away, consumed by fatherly anxiety.
‘Where’s this man serving? I’m going to have a word with his commanding officer. Chasing after babes-in-arms! He’ll teach him a lesson!’
Nadya didn’t say anything. As though bewitched by her haughtiness, Viktor fell silent too. Then he asked: ‘Why are you staring at me like that? You look like some member of a higher race studying an amoeba.’
Somehow, the way Nadya was looking at him reminded him of Shishakov. He had watched Viktor with the same calm self-confidence, looking down from his position of academic and political grandeur; his clear gaze had at once brought home to Viktor the futility of his indignation, the futility of his protests and ultimatums. The power of the State reared up like a cliff of basalt. Yes, Shishakov could well afford to watch Viktor’s struggles with such indifference.
In some strange way this girl in front of him seemed also to understand the senselessness of his anger and indignation. She too seemed to understand that he was trying to achieve the impossible, to halt the flow of life itself.
That night Viktor felt as though he had ruined his whole life. His resignation from the Institute would be seen as a political gesture. He would be considered a source of dangerous oppositional tendencies – at a time when Russia was at war, when the Institute had been granted Stalin’s special favour . . .
And then that terrible questionnaire. And that senseless conversation with Shishakov. And those discussions in Kazan. And Madyarov . . .
Suddenly he felt so terrified that he wanted to write to Shishakov and beg for forgiveness. He wanted the events of the day to be forgotten, blotted out.
55
Returning from the store in the afternoon, Lyudmila saw a white envelope in the letter-box. Her heart, already fluttering after climbing the stairs, began to beat still faster. Holding the letter in her hand, she went down the corridor, opened Tolya’s door and looked in – the room was still empty, he hadn’t returned.
Lyudmila glanced through pages covered in a handwriting she had known since childhood – her own mother’s. She saw the names Zhenya, Vera and Stepan Fyodorovich, but the name of her son was not there. Once again hope ebbed away – for the time being.
Alexandra Vladimirovna said almost nothing about her own life – only a few words about her difficulties with the landlady; apparently Nina Matveevna had behaved very unpleasantly since Lyudmila’s departure. She wrote that she had heard nothing from Seryozha, Stepan Fyodorovich or Vera. And she was worried about Zhenya – something quite serious seemed to have happened to her. She had written a letter hinting at various problems and saying she might have to go to Moscow.
Lyudmila didn’t know how to feel sad. She only knew how to grieve. Tolya, Tolya.
Stepan Fyodorovich was now a widower . . . Vera was a homeless orphan. Seryozha might or might not be alive. Perhaps he was crippled? Perhaps he was lying in some military hospital? His father had either died in a camp or been shot; his mother had died in exile . . . Alexandra Vladimirovna’s house had burnt down; she was alone, with no news of either her son or her grandson.
Alexandra Vladimirovna didn’t say a word about her own health. She didn’t say whether her room was heated. She didn’t say whether her rations had been increased. Lyudmila understood the reason for this all too well.
Lyudmila’s home was now cold and empty. The warmth had drained out of it; it was a ruin. It was as though it had been destroyed by terrible, invisible bombs.
She thought a lot about Viktor that day. Their relationship had gone sour. Viktor was angry and treated her coldly. The saddest thing of all was that she didn’t mind. She knew him too well. From the outside everything about him seemed exalted and poetic – but she didn’t see people that way. Masha saw Viktor as a noble sage, as a martyr. Masha loved music and would go pale when she listened to the piano. Sometimes Viktor played for her. She obviously needed someone to adore. She had created for herself an exalted image, a Viktor who had never existed. But if she were to watch Viktor day in and day out, she’d be disenchanted soon enough.
Lyudmila knew that Viktor was moved only by egotism, that he cared for no one. Even now – though his confrontation with Shishakov filled her with fear and anxiety on his behalf – she felt the usual irritation: he was ready to sacrifice both his work and the peace of his family for the selfish pleasure of strutting about and posing as the defender of the weak.
Yesterday, in his anxiety about Nadya, he had forgotten his egotism. But was he capable of forgetting his troubles and showing the same anxiety on Tolya’s behalf? She herself had been mistaken yesterday. Nadya hadn’t been fully open with her. Was it just a childish infatuation? Or was this her destiny?
Nadya had spoken quite freely about the circle of friends where she had first met Lomov. She had told Lyudmila how they read futurist and symbolist poetry, how they argued about art, even about their contemptuous mockery for th
ings which, in Lyudmila’s eyes, deserved neither contempt nor mockery.
Nadya had answered Lyudmila’s questions with good grace and seemed to be speaking the truth: ‘No, we don’t drink – apart from one evening when someone was leaving for the front’; ‘We talk about politics now and then. No, not in the same language as Pravda . . . but only occasionally, just once or twice.’
But as soon as Lyudmila began asking about Lomov himself, Nadya had become edgy: ‘No, he doesn’t write poetry’; ‘How do you expect me to know about his parents? I’ve never even met them. What’s strange about that? Lomov doesn’t know anything about Father. He probably thinks he works in a food store.’
What was all this? Was it Nadya’s destiny? Or would it be quite forgotten in a month’s time?
As she got the supper ready and did the washing, she thought in turn about her mother, Vera, Zhenya and Seryozha. She rang Marya Ivanovna, but no one answered. She rang the Postoevs – the domestic answered that her employer was out shopping. She rang the janitor about the broken tap, but apparently the plumber hadn’t come in to work.
She sat down to write a long letter to her mother. She meant to say how sad she was that she had failed to make Alexandra Vladimirovna feel at home, how much she regretted her decision to stay on alone in Kazan. Lyudmila’s relatives had given up coming to stay with her before the war. Now not even the very closest of them came to visit her in her large Moscow flat. Lyudmila didn’t write the letter – all she did was spoil four sheets of paper.
Towards the end of the afternoon Viktor phoned to say that he’d be staying late at the Institute; the technicians he’d wanted from the military factory were coming that evening.
‘Is there any news?’ asked Lyudmila.
‘You mean about all that? No, nothing.’
In the evening Lyudmila read through her mother’s letter again and then got up and went over to the window.
Life and Fate Page 71