Life and Fate

by Vasily Grossman

  ‘It’s the same story at HQ,’ said Chalb. He paused to give his words greater effect and then added: ‘And the Commander-in-Chief’s the worst of all.’

  ‘Nevertheless,’ said Lenard, ‘there have been no deserters.’

  ‘I’ve got a question for you,’ said Chalb. ‘It has a bearing on something very important. Hitler wants the 6th Army to stand firm, while Paulus, Weichs and Zeitzler are in favour of capitulating in order to save the lives of the soldiers and officers. My task is to make discreet soundings as to the possibility of disobedience on the part of the encircled troops.’

  Aware of the gravity of this question, Lenard thought for a moment in silence. He then said he’d like to begin with a particular example and said a few words about a certain Lieutenant Bach.

  ‘There’s one rather doubtful character in Bach’s company. He used to be a general laughing-stock, but now everyone’s trying to get in with him . . . That made me start thinking about the company and its commanding officer. When things were going well, this Lieutenant Bach was wholeheartedly in agreement with the policies of the Party. But I’ve got a feeling he’s begun to think differently. And I’ve been wondering what it is that draws the soldiers in his company to someone they used to look on as a cross between a clown and a madman. How would that character behave at a critical moment? What would he say to the other soldiers? How would their commanding officer react . . . ? There are no easy answers to these questions. But there’s one thing I can say: the soldiers won’t mutiny.’

  ‘Now we can see the wisdom of the Party more clearly than ever,’ said Chalb. ‘We never hesitated not only to cut out infected tissue from the body of the people, but also to cut out apparently healthy tissue that might become infected at a critical moment. Rebellious spirits and hostile ideologues were purged from the Army, from the Church, from the cities, from the villages. There may be any amount of grumbling and anonymous letters, but there will never be a rebellion – not even if the enemy encircles us in Berlin itself. For that we can thank Hitler. We should give thanks to heaven for sending us such a man at this time.’

  He stopped for a moment and listened to the slow rumbling over their heads. In the deep cellar it was impossible to tell whether this was the German artillery or the explosion of Soviet bombs. After the rumbling had gradually subsided, Chalb said: ‘It’s quite unthinkable that you should merely be receiving the rations of an ordinary officer. I’ve entered you on a list of security officers and especially valued friends of the Party. You will receive regular parcels by courier at your divisional headquarters.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Lenard. ‘But I’d prefer to eat what everyone else does.’

  Chalb spread his hands in helpless surprise.

  ‘What about Manstein?’ asked Lenard. ‘I’ve heard he’s received some new weapons.’

  ‘I don’t believe in Manstein,’ said Chalb. ‘On that subject I share the views of our commander-in-chief.’

  In the hushed voice of a man who for years on end has dealt mainly with classified information, he went on:

  ‘There’s another list, also in my keeping, of security officers and valued friends who will be allowed a place on a plane in the event of a catastrophe. I’ve included your name. In the event of my absence, Colonel Osten will be in possession of the instructions.’

  Noticing the questioning look in Lenard’s eyes, he explained: ‘I may have to fly to Germany – in connection with a matter too confidential to be entrusted either to paper or to a radio code.

  ‘I can tell you one thing,’ he said with a wink, ‘I’ll have a few stiff drinks before we take off. Not to celebrate, but because I’ll be frightened. A very large number of our planes are being shot down.’

  ‘Comrade Chalb,’ said Lenard, ‘I don’t want a seat in the plane. I’d be ashamed to abandon men whom I myself have urged to fight to the bitter end.’

  Chalb sat a little straighter in his chair. ‘I have no right to attempt to dissuade you.’

  Wanting to lighten the over-solemn atmosphere, Lenard asked: ‘If it’s possible, I’d be very grateful if you could help me return to my regiment. I’ve no car.’

  ‘There’s nothing I can do,’ said Chalb. ‘For the first time in my life I’m quite powerless. The petrol’s in the hands of that dog Schmidt. I can’t get a single litre out of him. Do you understand? I’m powerless.’

  His face had resumed the helpless expression that had made him unrecognizable when Lenard first came in. It was quite unlike him. Or did it perhaps reveal his true self?

  34

  It got warmer towards evening and a fresh snowfall covered the soot and dirt of the war. Bach was doing the rounds of the front-line fortifications. The white snow of Christmas glittered in the flashes of gunfire, turning pink or green in the light of the signal-flares.

  The stone ridges, the caves, the mounds of brick, the fresh hare-tracks that covered the ground where people ate, relieved themselves, went in search of shells and cartridges, carried away their wounded, buried their dead – all this looked very strange in the brief flashes of light. And at the same time it looked all too familiar.

  Bach reached a spot that was covered by the Russian guns installed in the ruins of a three-storey building. He could hear the sound of a harmonica and their slow, wailing singing. Through a gap in the wall he could see the Soviet front line, the silhouettes of factories and the frozen Volga.

  Bach called out to the sentry, but his answer was drowned by a sudden explosion followed by the drumming of clods of frozen earth against the wall. A low-flying Russian plane, its engine cut out, had just dropped a bomb.

  ‘Another lame Russian crow,’ said the sentry, pointing up at the dark winter sky.

  Bach squatted down, leaning his elbows on the familiar stone ledge, and looked round. A faint pink shadow trembled against the high wall – the Russians had lit their stove and the chimney was now white-hot. It seemed they had nothing to do all day except eat, eat, eat and slurp down huge mouthfuls of hot coffee.

  Further to the right, where the Russian and German trenches were closest together, he could hear the quiet, unhurried sound of metal striking frozen earth.

  Very slowly, without ever coming up to the surface, the Russians were bringing their trench forward. This slow movement through the frozen, stony earth bore witness to a fierce, obtuse passion; it was as though the earth itself were advancing.

  That afternoon Sergeant Eisenaug had reported that a grenade from a Russian trench had smashed the chimney pipe of the company stove and filled the dug-out with dirt. Later on a Russian soldier wearing a white sheepskin and a new fur hat had leapt out from his trench, cursing and shaking his fist.

  Realizing instinctively that this was a spontaneous act, none of the Germans had opened fire.

  ‘Hey! Chicken, eggs, Russian glug-glug?’ the soldier had shouted.

  A German had then jumped up and, in a quiet voice that wouldn’t be heard in the officers’ trench, called out:

  ‘Hey! Russian! Don’t shoot! Must see Mother again. You have my tommy-gun, I have your hat.’

  The reply from the Russian trench had been curt and monosyllabic. Its sense had been unmistakeable and had enraged the Germans.

  Still later a hand-grenade had exploded in the communication trench. But no one had been bothered by this.

  All this had been reported by Sergeant Eisenaug. Bach had said: ‘Let them shout if that’s what they want. As long as no one deserts . . .’

  Eisenaug, his breath stinking of raw beetroot, had gone on to report that Private Petenkoffer had somehow managed to do a deal with the enemy: some Russian bread and lump sugar had been found in his knapsack. He had promised to exchange a friend’s razor for a chunk of fat bacon and two packets of buckwheat. For this he had demanded a commission of 150 grams of fat bacon.

  ‘That’s simple enough,’ Bach had replied. ‘Order him to report to me at once!’

  It had then emerged that Petenkoffer had been killed that mo
rning while carrying out a dangerous mission.

  ‘What do you expect me to do about it?’ Bach had said in exasperation. ‘In any case, Russians and Germans have always been trading partners.’

  Eisenaug, however, had been in no mood for pleasantries. He had been wounded in France in May 1940 and his wound still hadn’t healed. He had then served in a police battalion in South Germany. He had been flown to Stalingrad only two months before. Hungry, frozen, eaten up by lice and by fear, he had lost whatever sense of humour he might once have had.

  It was over there, where he could just make out the lacework of ruined buildings, that Bach had begun his life in Stalingrad. The black September sky and its huge stars, the turbid waves of the Volga, the huge walls that were still hot from the fire – and then the steppes of the South-East, the frontier of Asia . . .

  The buildings to the west were buried in darkness. He could only make out the outlines of a few snow-covered ruins.

  Why had he written that letter to his mother from hospital? She’d almost certainly have shown it to Hubert. Why had he had those conversations with Lenard?

  Why do people have memories? It would be easier to die – anything to stop remembering. How could he have taken that moment of drunken folly for the deepest truth of his life? Why had he finally given in after holding back for all those long, difficult years?

  He had never killed a child; he had never arrested anyone. But he had broken the fragile dyke that had protected the purity of his soul from the seething darkness around him. The blood of the camps and ghettos had gushed over him and carried him away . . . There was no longer any divide between him and the darkness; he himself was a part of the darkness.

  What had happened to him? Was it folly, chance? Or was it the deepest law of his soul?

  35

  It was warm inside the bunker. A few of the soldiers were asleep, their bare yellow feet sticking out from under the overcoats they had pulled up over their heads; the rest were sprawled on the floor.

  ‘Do you remember?’ asked one particularly thin soldier, pulling his shirt across his chest and examining the seam with the fierce look characteristic of soldiers the world over as they inspect their shirts and underclothes. ‘Do you remember that wonderful cellar where we were quartered in September?’

  A second soldier, lying on his back, said: ‘You were already here when I joined you.’

  ‘That was a splendid cellar,’ several other voices confirmed. ‘You can take our word for it. It was a real home, with proper beds . . .’

  ‘Some of the fellows were beginning to despair when we were outside Moscow. And look what happened: we reached the Volga!’

  Another soldier split a board with his bayonet and opened the door of the stove to throw in a few bits of wood. The flames lit up his large, grey, unshaven face, turning it a reddish copper.

  ‘And a lot of good that’s done us!’ he said. ‘We’ve swapped a hole near Moscow for an even worse hole near the Volga.’

  A gay voice rang out from the dark corner where the soldiers’ packs were piled. ‘Horsemeat! You couldn’t think of a better Christmas dinner if you tried!’

  The talk turned to food and everyone grew more animated. First they discussed the best way of getting rid of the smell of sweat in boiled horsemeat. Some said you just needed to scoop the black scum off the top of the boiling water. Others said it was important to simmer the broth very gently; still others said you should only use the meat from the hind-quarters and put it straight into the boiling water while it was still frozen.

  ‘It’s the scouts who really have a good time of it,’ said one young soldier. ‘They steal provisions from the Russians and then share them with their women in the cellars. And people wonder why the scouts always get off with the youngest and prettiest ones!’

  ‘That’s one thing I no longer think about,’ said the soldier stoking the stove. ‘I don’t know whether it’s just my mood, or not having anything to eat. But what I would like is to see my children before I die. Just for one hour!’

  ‘The officers think about it, though. I met the lieutenant himself in one of their cellars. He was quite at home, almost one of the family.’

  ‘What were you doing there?’

  ‘I’d gone to get my washing done.’

  ‘You know, I was once a guard in a camp. I saw prisoners-of-war picking up bits of potato-peel, fighting over a few rotten cabbage leaves. I said to myself: “They’re not human beings – they’re beasts.” And now we’ve become beasts ourselves.’

  Suddenly the door was flung open. The mist swirled in and a loud, ringing voice shouted: ‘On your feet! Attention!’

  These words of command sounded the same as ever, calm and unhurried.

  The men in the bunker made out the face of Lieutenant Bach through the mist. Then there was an unfamiliar squeak of boots and they caught sight of the light blue greatcoat of the general in command of the division. He was screwing up his myopic eyes and wiping his monocle with a dirty piece of chamois. There was a gold wedding-ring on his white hand.

  A voice accustomed to ringing out over vast parade-grounds said:

  ‘Good evening! Stand at ease!’

  The soldiers answered in a ragged chorus. The general sat down on a crate; the yellow light from the stove flickered over the black Iron Cross on his chest.

  ‘I wish you a happy Christmas Eve,’ he said.

  The soldiers who were accompanying him dragged another crate up to the stove, prised open the lid with their bayonets and began taking out tiny Christmas trees wrappped in cellophane. Each tree, only a few inches long, was decorated with gold tinsel, beads and tiny fruit-drops.

  The general watched as the soldiers unwrapped the cellophane, then beckoned the lieutenant towards him and mumbled a few words in his ear. The lieutenant announced in a loud voice:

  ‘The lieutenant-general would like you to know that this Christmas present from Germany was flown in by a pilot who was mortally wounded over Stalingrad itself. The plane landed in Pitomnik and he was found dead in the cabin.’

  36

  The soldiers were holding the trees in the palms of their hands. As they warmed up, a fine dew appeared on the needles and the bunker was filled with the smell of resin. The usual smell of the front line – a cross between that of a morgue and that of a blacksmith’s – was quite blotted out. To the soldiers it was as if this smell of Christmas emanated from the grey-haired general sitting beside the stove.

  Bach felt the beauty and sadness of the moment. These men who defied the power of the Russian heavy artillery, these coarse, hardened soldiers who were dispirited by their lack of ammunition and tormented by vermin and hunger had all understood at once that what they needed more than anything in the world was not bread, not bandages, not ammunition, but these tiny branches twined with useless tinsel, these orphanage toys.

  The soldiers sat in a circle round the old man on the crate. Only that summer he had led the vanguard of the motorized infantry to the Volga. Everywhere, all his life, this man had been an actor. He had played a role not only in front of the soldiers or during conversations with a superior officer, but also when he was at home, when he was with his wife, his daughter-in-law or his grandson, when he went for a walk in the garden. He had played a role when he lay alone in bed at night, his general’s uniform spread out on the chair beside him. And of course he had been playing a role when he had asked the soldiers about their mothers, when he had made coarse jokes about their affairs with women, when he had looked inside their cooking-pots and tasted their soup with exaggerated seriousness, when he had bowed his head austerely before still uncovered graves, when he had given heartfelt, fatherly speeches to the new recruits. And all this hadn’t been a pose; it had been a part of his inner nature, infused into all his thoughts. He was quite unconscious of it; it could no more be separated from him than salt can be filtered out of sea-water. It had been there as he entered the bunker, as he flung open his greatcoat, as he sat down on the c
rate in front of the stove, as he looked calmly and sorrowfully at the soldiers and wished them a happy Christmas Eve. But now, for the first time in his life, he became conscious of this theatricality; and – just as salt crystallizes when water freezes – it deserted him, leaving him to his melancholy, to his sense of pity for these hungry, exhausted men. Now he was just a weak, helpless old man sitting with a group of other men who were equally helpless, equally unhappy.

  One soldier quietly began to sing.

  ‘O, Tannenbaum, O, Tannenbaum,

  wie grün sind deine Blätter.’

  Two or three more voices joined in. The scent of pine-needles was enough to make you feel dizzy; the words of the children’s song were like fanfares of heavenly trumpets.

  ‘O, Tannenbaum, O, Tannenbaum . . .’

  Out of the cold darkness of oblivion, as though from the depths of the sea, long-dead thoughts and feelings rose slowly up to the surface. They brought no joy, no relief, but their strength was a human strength, the greatest strength in the world . . .

  One after another came the explosions of large-calibre Soviet shells. Ivan must have been annoyed about something – perhaps he had guessed that the besieged soldiers were celebrating Christmas. None of these soldiers, however, paid the least attention to the plaster falling from the ceiling or to the clouds of red sparks belched out by the stove.

  Then there was a burst of furious, metallic hammering; the earth seemed to be screaming. That was Ivan playing with his beloved Katyushas. Then came a crackle of machine-gun fire.

  The old man sat there with his head bowed; he looked like thousands of other men who have been exhausted by a long life. The footlights had faded; the actors had taken off their make-up and gone out into the grey light of day. Now they all looked the same: the legendary general, an insignificant corporal, even Private Schmidt who had been suspected of harbouring dissident thoughts . . . Bach suddenly thought of Lenard. A man like him would never have surrendered to the charm of this moment. There was too much in him that was German, that was dedicated only to the State; now it was too late for that to be made human.