This awakening of national consciousness can be related to the tasks facing the State during the war and the years after the war: the struggle for national sovereignty and the affirmation of what is truly Russian, truly Soviet, in every area of life. These tasks, however, were not suddenly imposed on the State; they appeared when the events in the countryside, the creation of a national heavy industry and the complete change in the ruling cadres marked the triumph of a social order defined by Stalin as ‘Socialism in One Country’.
The birthmarks of Russian social democracy were finally erased.
And this process finally became manifest at a time when Stalingrad was the only beacon of freedom in the kingdom of darkness.
A people’s war reached its greatest pathos at the time of the defence of Stalingrad; the logic of events was such that Stalin chose this moment to proclaim openly his ideology of State nationalism.
20
A new article, ‘Always with the People’, appeared on the wall-newspaper in the hall of the Physics Institute.
This article said that the Soviet Union – under the leadership of the great Stalin, who was guiding the country through the tempest of war – attached immense significance to science; that the Party and Government honoured and respected scientists as nowhere else in the world; and that even during the current difficult times the Soviet state was providing scientists with all the conditions necessary for normal, productive work.
It went on to list the great tasks now facing the Institute: the new building work, the expansion of the old laboratories, the bringing together of theory and practice, and the importance of scientific research for the armaments industry.
Mention was made of the patriotic élan that had seized the collective of scientists; the collective was determined to justify the concern and trust of the Party and of comrade Stalin himself, determined not to disappoint the hope with which the people looked on this glorious vanguard of the Soviet intelligentsia.
The final part of the article was about the unfortunate fact that there were certain individuals in this healthy and fraternal collective who lacked a sense of responsibility to the People and the Party – individuals who were isolated from the great Soviet family. These individuals were opposed to the collective and considered their personal interests of greater importance than the tasks entrusted to them by the Party; they tended to exaggerate their own scientific achievements, real or imaginary. Deliberately or not, some of these individuals became mouthpieces for alien, anti-Soviet views and attitudes; the ideas they spread were politically dangerous. These individuals often called for an ‘objective attitude’ towards the idealist, reactionary and obscurantist theories of foreign idealists. They even boasted of their links with these idealists, thus belittling the achievements of Soviet science and offending the patriotic pride of Russian scientists.
Sometimes these individuals posed as defenders of a supposedly flouted justice, trying to win a cheap popularity among the shortsighted, the gullible and the naïve; in fact they were sowing seeds of discord, seeds of a lack of faith in Russian science, of a lack of respect for its splendid past and great names. The article called on scientists to liquidate every sign of decadence, everything alien and hostile, everything that might hinder the fulfilment of the tasks with which, during the Great Patriotic War, they had been entrusted by the Party and the People. The article ended: ‘Forward, towards new peaks of science, following the splendid path lit by the searchlight of Marxist philosophy, the path we have been shown by the great Party of Lenin and Stalin.’
No names were mentioned, but the article was obviously about Viktor. It was Savostyanov who first told him about it. At that moment Viktor was with a group of colleagues putting the last touches to the new apparatus. Instead of going to read it immediately, he threw his arms round Nozdrin’s shoulders and said: ‘Come what may, this giant will do its work.’
Nozdrin responded with a volley of curses. For a moment Viktor wasn’t sure who they were aimed at.
Towards the end of the afternoon Sokolov came up to Viktor.
‘Viktor Pavlovich, I admire you. You’ve been working all day as though nothing had happened. You’re a real Socrates.’
‘If a man’s born blond, his hair won’t turn brown just because he’s been abused on a wall-newspaper,’ said Viktor.
He was by now so accustomed to his feeling of resentment towards Sokolov as to be almost unconscious of it. He no longer reproached him for his excessive caution. Sometimes he said to himself, ‘He does have many good qualities – and, besides, we all have our failings.’
‘Yes,’ said Sokolov, ‘but there are articles and articles. Anna Stepanovna felt quite ill after reading it. First she went to the first-aid post and then she was sent home.’
‘What on earth have they written?’ thought Viktor. He preferred not to ask Sokolov, and no one else mentioned it to him. He might just as well have had terminal cancer.
That evening Viktor was the last to leave the laboratory. Alexey Mikhailovich, the old caretaker now working as a cloakroom attendant, said:
‘That’s how it is, Viktor Pavlovich. There’s no peace in this world for an honest man.’
Viktor put on his coat, went back up the stairs and stopped in front of the board.
When he had read the article, he looked round in confusion. For a moment he thought he was going to be arrested then and there – but the hall was quiet and empty.
He could feel quite tangibly the difference in weight between the fragile human body and the colossus of the State. He could feel the State’s bright eyes gazing into his face; any moment now the State would crash down on him; there would be a crack, a squeal – and he would be gone.
The street was full of people, but there seemed to be a strip of no man’s land between them and Viktor.
In the trolleybus a man in a soldier’s winter cap turned excitedly to his companion. ‘Have you heard the latest news?’
‘Stalingrad!’ someone else shouted from one of the front seats. ‘The enemy’s been crushed.’
A middle-aged woman stared at Viktor. She seemed to be reproaching him for his silence.
Viktor thought about Sokolov almost tenderly now. ‘Yes, we all of us have our failings.’
But no one ever sincerely believes his own failings to be equal to those of other people. Soon Viktor was thinking: ‘Yes, but his views depend on his success, on the love shown him by the State. Now the tide’s turning, now it looks like victory, he won’t utter a word of criticism. But I’m not like that: whether the State’s strong or weak, whether it beats me or caresses me, my convictions remain the same.’
When he got home, he would tell Lyudmila all about the article. Yes, they really did have it in for him now. ‘So much for the Stalin Prize, Lyudochka’, he would say. ‘An article like that means you’re going to be arrested.’
‘We share one destiny,’ he thought. ‘She’d accompany me if I was invited to lecture at the Sorbonne – and she’ll accompany me to a camp in Kolyma.’
‘Well, you can’t say you haven’t brought it on yourself,’ Lyudmila would say.
He would reply coolly: ‘I don’t need criticism. I’ve had enough of that at the Institute. I need understanding and affection.’
Nadya opened the door. She flung her arms round him and buried her face in his breast.
‘What’s the matter? Let me take my coat off. I’m cold and wet.’
‘Haven’t you heard yet? Stalingrad! There’s been a tremendous victory! The Germans have been surrounded! Come on, come on!’
She helped him off with his coat, took him by the hand and dragged him down the corridor.
‘This way. Mama’s in Tolya’s room.’
She opened the door. Lyudmila was sitting at Tolya’s desk. Slowly she turned her head and gave Viktor a sad, solemn smile.
He couldn’t bring himself to talk about what had happened at the Institute. Instead, they all sat down at Tolya’s desk; Lyudmila drew a diagram showi
ng how the Germans had been encircled and explained her plan of operations to Nadya.
That night, when Viktor was alone in his room, he thought:
‘Oh God! Why don’t I write a letter of repentance? That’s what everyone else does in a situation like this.’
21
It was several days since the article had first appeared. Work in the laboratory was going on as usual. Sometimes Viktor sank into depression; sometimes his spirits revived and he paced animatedly up and down the laboratory, tapping out his favourite tunes on the windowsill and the metal pipes.
He said jokingly that an epidemic of shortsightedness had broken out in the Institute; people he knew looked straight through him and passed by without so much as a word. Once, on the street, Gurevich caught sight of Viktor in the distance; he looked thoughtful, crossed to the other side and started reading a notice. Viktor had seen all this; he and Gurevich then looked round at the same moment and their eyes met. Gurevich waved at him, pretending to look pleased and surprised. All this was far from amusing.
Svechin said hello when they met. He even made an effort to walk more slowly. But from the look on his face he might have been greeting the ambassador of a hostile power. Viktor kept count of who turned away, who just nodded and who shook hands with him.
As soon as he got home, he would ask his wife: ‘Has anyone rung?’
And Lyudmila would nearly always answer: ‘Only Marya Ivanovna.’
Knowing what he usually asked next, she would add: ‘And there’s still no letter from Madyarov.’
‘Do you see?’ said Viktor. ‘The people who used to ring up every day now only ring occasionally – and the people who used to ring occasionally have stopped altogether.’
He even thought he was being treated differently at home. On one occasion he was drinking tea and Nadya walked past without saying anything.
‘You might say hello,’ he called out. ‘Do you think I’m an inanimate object?’
He looked quite pathetic. Instead of coming out with some harsh retort, Nadya said hurriedly: ‘Dear Papa, I’m very sorry!’
That same day he asked: ‘Listen, Nadya, are you still seeing your great strategist?’
She simply shrugged her shoulders.
‘I just wanted to warn you. Please don’t talk politics with him. All I need is to be criticized on that count too.’
Again, instead of replying sarcastically, Nadya said: ‘You don’t need to worry, Papa.’
On his way to the Institute in the morning, Viktor tried to avoid meeting people; he would look round to assess the situation, then walk either more quickly or more slowly. When he arrived he would make sure the corridor was empty and then rush down it as quickly as he could, his head bowed. If one of the doors opened, his heart almost stopped beating. As he reached the laboratory, he would heave a sigh of relief – like a soldier regaining his trench under enemy fire.
One day Savostyanov came into Viktor’s office and pleaded with him.
‘Viktor Pavlovich, I entreat you, we all of us entreat you: write a letter, say you repent! I can assure you that will help. Just think: you’re throwing away everything – and at a time when an important – no, a truly great – work lies before you, a time when all that is genuine in our science looks to you with hope. Write a letter, admit your errors.’
‘What errors? What do you want me to repent of?’
‘Who cares? It’s what everyone does – writers, scientists, political leaders, even your beloved Shostakovich. He admits his errors, writes letters of repentance – and then returns to work. It’s like water off a duck’s back.’
‘But what do you want me to repent of? And who to?’
‘The director, the Central Committee . . . It doesn’t matter – as long as you repent! Something like this: “I have committed errors and I admit my guilt. I am now conscious of this and I promise to mend my ways.” That sort of thing – you know what’s expected. That’s bound to help; it always helps.’
Savostyanov’s bright, laughing eyes were for once quite serious. They even seemed to be a different colour.
‘Thank you, thank you, my friend,’ said Viktor. ‘I’m grateful to you for your concern.’
An hour later Sokolov said:
‘Viktor Pavlovich, there’s going to be an open meeting of the Scientific Council next week. I think you should say something.’
‘What about?’
‘I think you need to make some explanations. To be more precise, you must make a confession of error.’
Viktor paced up and down the room. Suddenly he stopped by the window, his eyes on the door.
‘What if I write a letter, Pyotr Lavrentyevich? That would be easier than spitting at myself in public.’
‘No, I think you need to make a speech. I spoke to Svechin yesterday. He led me to understand that they . . .’ Sokolov made a vague gesture in the direction of the cornice above the door, ‘require a speech rather than a letter.’
Viktor turned round to face Sokolov.
‘No, I’m not going to make a speech and I’m not going to write a letter.’
In the patient voice of a psychiatrist talking to someone mentally ill, Sokolov said:
‘Viktor Pavlovich, for you to remain silent is the equivalent of suicide. There are political accusations hanging over your head.’
‘You know what torments me most of all?’ said Viktor. ‘Why does all this have to happen at a moment of victory, a moment of general rejoicing? Now any son of a bitch can say that I openly attacked the foundations of Leninism at a time when I imagined the Soviet regime was about to collapse. As though I attacked people when they were down.’
‘I have heard that opinion expressed.’
‘No,’ said Viktor. ‘To hell with it. I’m not going to repent.’
That night he locked himself in his room and began to write the letter. Suddenly overwhelmed with shame, he tore it up – and began writing the text of his speech to the Scientific Council. He then read it over, thumped his elbow on the table, and tore that up too.
‘Well that’s it!’ he said out loud. ‘If they want to arrest me, they can.’
He sat there for a while without moving, mulling over the import of this decision. Then he had the idea of writing a rough draft of the letter he would have sent if he had repented. There was nothing humiliating about that. No one would ever see it. No one.
He was alone, the door was locked, everyone in the house was asleep, and it was quiet outside. There was no traffic, no car horns.
But an invisible force was crushing him. He could feel its weight, its hypnotic power; it was forcing him to think as it wanted, to write as it dictated. This force was inside him; it could dissolve his will and cause his heart to stop beating; it came between him and his family; it insinuated itself into his past, into his childhood memories. He began to feel that he really was untalented and boring, someone who wore out the people around him with dull chatter. Even his work seemed to have grown dull, to be covered with a layer of dust; the thought of it no longer filled him with light and joy.
Only people who have never felt such a force themselves can be surprised that others submit to it. Those who have felt it, on the other hand, feel astonished that a man can rebel against it even for a moment – with one sudden word of anger, one timid gesture of protest.
It was for himself that Viktor wrote this letter. He intended to hide it away and never show it to anyone. Deep down, though, he knew that it might come in useful. He would hang on to it.
Next morning, as he drank his tea, he kept looking at the clock; it was time to go to the laboratory. He felt a chilling sense of isolation. It was as though no one would ever come round to see him again. And it wasn’t simply fear that stopped people from ringing him up; it was the fact that he was so dull, so boring and talentless.
‘I don’t suppose anyone asked for me yesterday,’ he said to Lyudmila. Then he quoted the lines: ‘I’m alone at the window, I don’t expect guests or friends.
’
‘Oh yes, I forgot to say. Chepyzhin’s back. He phoned and said he wants to see you.’
‘How could you forget to tell me?’ He began to tap out a solemn tune on the table-top.
Lyudmila went over to the window. Viktor was walking unhurriedly down the road – tall, bent forward, giving his briefcase an occasional swing. She could tell that he was thinking about his coming meeting with Chepyzhin. In his imagination, they had already exchanged greetings and were now deep in conversation.
She felt very sorry for Viktor, very anxious about him, but she couldn’t forget his faults, least of all his egotism. How could he declaim, ‘I’m alone at the window’ – and then go off to a laboratory where he had real work to do, where he was surrounded by people? In the evening he’d go and see Chepyzhin; he probably wouldn’t be back before midnight. And would he give her a moment’s thought? Would it occur to him that she would be alone all day, that she would be standing by the window in an empty flat, that she was the one who wasn’t expecting friends or guests?
She went into the kitchen to do the washing-up. She felt more depressed than ever. Marya Ivanovna wouldn’t be phoning; she had gone to see her elder sister in Shabolovka.
How anxious she felt about Nadya! She still went out every evening, even though it had been forbidden. And of course she didn’t say a word about it. As for Viktor, he was wrapped up in his own troubles. He didn’t have time to think of Nadya.
Suddenly the bell rang. It must be the carpenter she had spoken to yesterday. He was coming to repair the door of Tolya’s room. Human company – how wonderful!
Lyudmila opened the door. A woman in a grey fur hat was standing in the half-lit corridor, suitcase in hand.
‘Zhenya!’ she cried.
Her voice was so loud and so tragic that it took even her aback. She kissed her sister, flinging her arms round her shoulders and sobbing: ‘He’s dead, he’s dead. My Tolya’s dead.’
Life and Fate Page 80