Life and Fate

by Vasily Grossman

  She was still staring at him. Viktor found her look of mingled happiness and despair almost unbearable.

  He hadn’t given in, he had stood firm against a vast and merciless force – but how weak, how helpless he felt now . . .

  ‘Viktor Pavlovich,’ she said. ‘It’s time for me to go. Pyotr Lavrentyevich will be waiting.’

  She took him by the hand. ‘We won’t be able to see each other any more. I gave Pyotr Lavrentyevich my word not to see you.’

  Viktor felt like someone dying of a heart attack. His heart, whose beating had never depended on his will, was stopping; the universe was swaying, turning upside down; the air and the earth were disappearing.

  ‘But why, Marya Ivanovna?’

  ‘Pyotr Lavrentyevich made me promise to stop seeing you. I gave him my word. I know that’s terrible, but he’s in such a state, he’s quite ill, I’m afraid he might die.’

  ‘Masha,’ said Viktor.

  There was an invincible power in her voice and her face – the same power that he had been struggling against everywhere.

  ‘Masha,’ he repeated.

  ‘Dear God, you can see everything, you understand all too well. I’m not hiding anything – but why talk about it all? I can’t, I just can’t. Pyotr Lavrentyevich has been through so much. You know that yourself. And think of Lyudmila’s sufferings. It’s impossible.’

  ‘Yes, yes, we have no right,’ said Viktor.

  ‘My dearest, my unhappy friend, my light,’ said Marya Ivanovna.

  Viktor’s hat fell to the ground. People were probably looking at them.

  ‘Yes, yes, we have no right,’ he repeated.

  He kissed her hands. As he held her small cold fingers, he felt that the unshakeable strength of her resolve went hand in hand with weakness, submissiveness, helplessness . . .

  She got up from the bench and walked away without looking back. He sat there, thinking that for the first time in his life he had seen happiness, light – and now it had left him. This woman whose fingers he had just kissed could have replaced everything he had ever wanted, everything he had dreamed of – science, fame, the joy of recognition . . .

  27

  The following day Savostyanov phoned Viktor and asked after his and Lyudmila’s health.

  When Viktor asked about the meeting, Savostyanov answered: ‘I don’t want to upset you, Viktor Pavlovich, but there are more nonentities around than even I ever imagined.’

  ‘Surely Sokolov can’t have spoken?’ thought Viktor. ‘Was a resolution passed?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, a harsh one. That certain things were considered incompatible . . . That the directors should be asked to reassess . . .’

  ‘I see,’ said Viktor. He had known very well that such a resolution would be adopted, but now it seemed somehow unexpected. He felt quite taken aback.

  ‘I’m innocent,’ he thought, ‘but still, I’m sure to be arrested. They knew very well that Krymov was innocent, and he was arrested.’

  ‘Did anyone vote against?’ he asked. In reply he heard an embarrassed silence.

  ‘No. Viktor Pavlovich, I think it was unanimous. You did yourself a lot of harm by not attending.’ Savostyanov’s voice was barely audible; he must have rung from a call-box.

  The same day, Anna Stepanovna telephoned. She had already been dismissed and no longer went in to the Institute; she didn’t know about the meeting. She said she was going to stay with her sister in Murom for two months and invited him to join them. Viktor felt touched.

  ‘Thank you, thank you,’ he said. ‘But if I go to Murom, it won’t be for a rest; it will be to teach physics in a technical college.’

  ‘Heavens, Viktor Pavlovich!’ said Anna Stepanovna. ‘What made you do all that just for me? You make me despair. I’m not worth it.’

  She had obviously taken what he had said about the technical college as a reproach. Her voice was also very faint; she too must be ringing from a call-box.

  ‘Did Sokolov really speak?’ Viktor asked himself.

  Late that night, Chepyzhin rang. All day Viktor had been like an invalid who came to life only when people spoke about his disease. Chepyzhin obviously sensed this.

  ‘Did Sokolov speak? Can he really have done so?’ Viktor asked Lyudmila. But she, of course, knew no more than he did.

  A veil seemed to have fallen between him and everyone close to him.

  Savostyanov had been afraid to talk about what most concerned Viktor. He hadn’t wanted to be the one who told him. He was probably worried that Viktor would meet people from the Institute and say: ‘I know everything already. Savostyanov’s given me a detailed report.’

  Anna Stepanovna had been very affectionate, but she should have done more than just phone him; at a time like this she should have called at his home. And as for Chepyzhin, he should have offered Viktor a job at the Astro-Physics Institute, or at least mentioned it as a possibility.

  ‘They all upset me, and I upset them,’ thought Viktor. ‘It would be better if they didn’t phone at all.’

  He felt still more offended, however, with the people who hadn’t phoned. He waited all day long for calls from Gurevich, Markov and Pimenov. He even felt a sudden burst of anger at the electricians and technicians who were setting up the new apparatus. ‘The swine!’ he said to himself. ‘They’ve got nothing to fear. The workers are all right.’

  As for Sokolov – Viktor couldn’t bear even to think about him. He had told Marya Ivanovna never to phone! Viktor could pardon everyone else – colleagues, old acquaintances, relatives. But his friend! He felt so angry when he thought about Sokolov, so deeply and painfully upset, that he could hardly breathe. Without realizing it, however, he was pleased to find in Sokolov’s betrayal a justification for his own betrayal of Sokolov.

  Viktor was so nervous that he wrote a quite unnecessary letter to Shishakov asking to be informed of the decision taken by the directors of the Institute; he himself was ill and would be unable to come to work for several days.

  The phone didn’t ring once during the whole of the following day.

  ‘What does it matter? I’m going to be arrested anyway.’ By now, this thought was more of a consolation than a torment. Invalids console themselves in the same way, saying: ‘Illness or no illness, we all die in the end.’

  ‘The only person we hear any news from is Zhenya,’ Viktor said to Lyudmila. ‘But then that’s from the NKVD – straight from the horse’s mouth.’

  ‘I’m sure of it now,’ said Lyudmila. ‘Sokolov must have spoken at the Scientific Council. That’s the only way I can explain Marya Ivanovna’s silence. She feels ashamed. In that case, I’ll phone her myself – while he’s out at work.’

  ‘No!’ shouted Viktor. ‘You mustn’t do that. You absolutely mustn’t.’

  ‘Your relations with Sokolov have nothing to do with me,’ said Lyudmila. ‘I’m friends with Masha.’

  Viktor couldn’t explain why she must not phone Marya Ivanovna, but he felt ashamed at the idea of Lyudmila unwittingly becoming a link between them.

  ‘Lyuda, from now on our contact with people has to be one-sided. If a man’s been arrested, his wife can only visit people who’ve invited her. She doesn’t have the right to say: “I want to come round.” That would be humiliating for both her and her husband. You and I have entered a new epoch. We can no longer write to anyone ourselves; we can only reply to letters. We can no longer phone anyone; we can only pick up the receiver when it rings. We don’t even have the right to greet acquaintances – they may prefer not to notice us. And if someone does greet me, I don’t have the right to speak first. He might consider it possible to give me a nod of the head, but not to talk to me. I can only answer if he speaks first. You and I are pariahs.’

  He paused for a moment. ‘Fortunately for the pariahs, however, there are exceptions. There are one or two people – I’m not talking about family, about Zhenya or your mother – whom a pariah can trust. He can contact these people without first waiting for a s
ign. People like Chepyzhin.’

  ‘Yes, Vitya,’ answered Lyudmila, ‘you’re absolutely right.’

  Viktor was amazed. It was a long time since Lyudmila had agreed with anything he said.

  ‘And I have a friend like that myself – Marya Ivanovna,’ she went on.

  ‘Lyuda!’ said Viktor. ‘Do you realize that Marya Ivanovna’s given her word to Sokolov not to go on seeing us? Now phone her! Go on! Phone her after that!’

  He snatched up the receiver and held it out to Lyudmila. As he did so, a small part of him was hoping: ‘Perhaps she will phone. Then at least one of us will hear Marya Ivanovna’s voice.’

  ‘So it’s like that, is it?’ said Lyudmila, putting down the receiver.

  ‘What can have happened to Zhenevyeva?’ said Viktor. ‘Our troubles have brought us together. I’ve never felt such tenderness towards her as I do now.’

  When his daughter came in, Viktor said: ‘Nadya, I’ve had a talk with Mama. She’ll tell you about it in detail herself. Now I’m a pariah, you must stop going to the Postoevs’.’

  [ ................................................................................]

  28

  Darensky felt a strange mixture of feelings as he looked at the German tanks and lorries that had been abandoned in the snow, at the frozen corpses, at the column of men being marched under escort to the East.

  This was retribution indeed.

  He remembered stories about how the Germans had made fun of the poverty of the peasant huts, how they had gazed in surprise and disgust at the simple cradles, the crude stoves, the earthenware pots, the pictures on the walls, the wooden tubs, the painted clay cocks, at the beloved and wonderful world in which the boys then fleeing from their tanks had been born and brought up.

  ‘Look, comrade Lieutenant-Colonel!’ said his driver.

  Four Germans were carrying one of their comrades on a greatcoat. You could tell from their faces, from their straining necks, that soon they too would fall to the ground. They swayed from side to side. They tripped over the tangled rags wound round their feet. The dry snow lashed their mindless eyes. Their frozen fingers gripped the corners of the greatcoat like hooks.

  ‘So much for the Fritzes,’ said the driver.

  ‘We never asked them to come here,’ said Darensky.

  Suddenly he felt a wave of happiness. Straight through the steppe, in a cloud of mist and snow, Soviet tanks were making their way to the West. They looked quick and fierce, strong and muscular . . .

  Soldiers were standing up in the hatches. He could see their faces and shoulders, their black helmets and their black sheepskins. There they were, tearing through the ocean-like steppe, leaving behind them a foaming wake of dirty snow. Darensky caught his breath in pride and happiness.

  Terrible and sombre, a steel-clad Russia had turned her face to the West.

  There was a hold-up as they came to a village. Darensky got out of his jeep and walked past two rows of trucks and some tarpaulin-covered Katyushas. A group of prisoners was being herded across the road. A full colonel who had just got out of his car was watching; he was wearing a cap made from silver Astrakhan fur, the kind you can only obtain if you are in command of an army or if you have a quartermaster as a close friend. The guards waved their machine-guns at the prisoners and shouted: ‘Come on, come on! Look lively there!’

  An invisible wall separated these prisoners from the soldiers and lorry-drivers. A cold still more extreme than the cold of the steppes prevented their eyes from meeting.

  ‘Look at that!’ said a laughing voice. ‘One of them’s got a tail.’

  A German soldier was crawling across the road on all fours. A scrap of torn quilt trailed along behind him. The soldier was crawling as quickly as he could, moving his arms and legs like a dog, his head to the ground as though he were following a scent. He was making straight for the colonel. The driver standing beside the colonel said: ‘Watch out, comrade Colonel. He’s going to bite you.’

  The colonel stepped to one side. As the German came up to him, he gave him a push with his boot. The feeble blow was enough to break him. He collapsed on the ground, his arms and legs splayed out on either side.

  The German looked up at the man who had just kicked him. His eyes were like those of a dying sheep; there was no reproach or suffering in them, nothing at all except humility.

  ‘A fine warrior that shit makes!’ said the colonel, wiping the sole of his boot on the snow. There was a ripple of laughter among the onlookers.

  Everything went dark. Darensky was no longer his own master; another man, someone who was at once very familiar to him and yet utterly alien, someone who never hesitated, was directing his actions.

  ‘Comrade Colonel,’ he said, ‘Russians don’t kick a man when he’s down.’

  ‘What do you think I am then?’ asked the colonel. ‘Do you think I’m not a Russian?’

  ‘You’re a scoundrel,’ said Darensky. He saw the colonel take a step towards him. Forestalling the man’s angry threats, he shouted: ‘My surname’s Darensky. Lieutenant-Colonel Darensky – inspector of the Operations Section of Stalingrad Front Headquarters. I’m ready to repeat what I said to you before the commander of the Front and before a military tribunal.’

  In a voice full of hatred, the colonel said: ‘Very well, Lieutenant-Colonel Darensky. You will be hearing from me.’

  He stalked away. Some prisoners came up and dragged their comrade to one side. After that, wherever Darensky turned, he kept meeting the eyes of the prisoners. It was as though something attracted them to him.

  As he walked slowly back to his jeep, he heard a mocking voice say: ‘So the Fritzes have found a defender!’

  Soon Darensky was on his way again. But they were held up by another column of prisoners being marched towards them, the Germans in grey uniforms, the Rumanians in green.

  Darensky’s fingers were trembling as he lit a cigarette. The driver noticed this out of the corner of his eye and said: ‘I don’t feel any pity for them. I could shoot any one of them just like that.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Darensky. ‘But you should have shot them in 1941 instead of taking to your heels like I did.’

  He said nothing more for the rest of the journey.

  This incident, however, didn’t open his heart. On the contrary, it was as though he’d quite exhausted his store of kindness.

  What an abyss lay between the road he was following today and the road he had taken to Yashkul through the Kalmyk steppe. Was he really the same man who, beneath an enormous moon, had stood on what seemed to be the last corner of Russian earth? Who had watched the fleeing soldiers and the snake-like necks of the camels, tenderly making room in his heart for the poor, for the weak, for everyone whom he loved?

  29

  The command-post of the tank corps lay on the outskirts of the village. Darensky drove up to the hut. It was already dark. They’d obviously only recently moved in: soldiers were unloading suitcases and mattresses from a truck and signallers were installing telephones.

  The soldier on sentry-duty reluctantly went inside and called for the duty-officer. He came reluctantly out onto the porch. Like all duty-officers, he looked at the new arrival’s epaulettes rather than his face.

  ‘Comrade Lieutenant-Colonel, the corps commander’s only just got back from visiting one of the brigades. He’s having a rest. He can see you later.’

  ‘Report to the corps commander that Lieutenant-Colonel Darensky has arrived. Is that clear?’

  The officer sighed and went back into the hut.

  A minute later he came out again and called: ‘This way please, comrade Lieutenant-Colonel.’

  Darensky climbed the steps up onto the porch and saw Novikov coming to meet him. For a few moments they just looked at one another, laughing.

  ‘So we meet again,’ said Novikov.

  It was a good meeting.

  Two intelligent heads bent over the map, just as they had in the old days.

 
‘I’m advancing as fast as I once retreated,’ said Novikov. ‘Even faster on this bit of the course.’

  ‘And this is winter,’ said Darensky. ‘Just wait till the summer!’

  ‘I know.’

  It was wonderful to study the map with Darensky. He grasped things immediately and he was interested in details that no one except Novikov ever seemed to notice.

  Lowering his voice, as though he were about to come out with some personal confidence, Novikov said: ‘Of course we have scouts in the zone of operations. Of course we have a co-ordinated system of reference points for the terrain. Of course we liaise with other arms of the service. But the operations of every other arm are subordinated to one god – the T-34. She’s the queen!’

  Darensky was familiar with the maps of the other military operations then in progress. He told Novikov about the campaign in the Caucasus, the contents of the intercepted conversations between Hitler and Paulus, and about the movement of General Fretter-Piko’s artillery units.

  ‘You can already see the Ukraine through the window,’ said Novikov. He pointed to the map. ‘I think I’m nearer than anyone else. But Rodin’s corps is right on my heels.’

  Then he pushed the map aside and said: ‘Well, that’s enough tactics and strategy for one day.’

  ‘How’s everything else?’ asked Darensky. ‘Still the same?’

  ‘No,’ said Novikov, ‘very different indeed.’

  ‘You haven’t got married, have you?’

  ‘I’m expecting to any day. She should be here soon.’

  ‘Well, well,’ said Darensky. ‘Another good man gone. But I congratulate you with all my heart! As for me, I’m still single.’

  ‘How’s Bykov?’ asked Novikov abruptly.

  ‘Bykov? He’s surfaced with Vatutin. Doing the same job.’

  ‘He’s a tough bastard, isn’t he?’

  ‘A rock.’

  ‘To hell with him,’ said Novikov. He shouted in the direction of the other room: ‘What’s up, Vershkov? Have you decided to starve us to death? And you can call the commissar. We’ll all eat together.’