Life and Fate

by Vasily Grossman

  When she came to her own home, she found that the wall facing the street was still there. Through the gaping windows, her farsighted eyes could make out the light blue and green walls of her flat. But the rooms had no floors or ceilings and there was nothing left of the staircase. The bricks had been darkened by flames; here and there they had been scarred by splinters.

  With a terrible clarity, she was aware of all that life had been for her: her daughters, her unfortunate son, Seryozha, her many irrevocable losses, her present homelessness. There she was, looking at the ruins of her home – an old, sick woman in an old coat and trodden-down shoes.

  What was in store for her? Although she was seventy years old, she had no idea. What was in store for the people she loved? Again she had no idea. Through the empty windows of her house she could see the spring sky looking down at her.

  The lives of those close to her were unsettled, confused, full of doubts and mistakes, full of grief. What would happen to Lyudmila? What would be the outcome of her family troubles? Where was Seryozha? Was he even alive? How hard things were for Viktor Shtrum! What would happen to Vera and Stepan Fyodorovich? Would Stepan be able to rebuild his life again and find peace? What path would Nadya follow – that clever little girl who was so difficult and so kind-hearted? And Vera? Would she be broken by the hardships and loneliness she had to endure? And Zhenya? Would she follow Krymov to Siberia? Would she end up in a camp herself and die the same death as Dmitry? Would Seryozha forgive the State for the deaths of his innocent mother and father?

  Why were their destinies so confused, so obscure?

  As for those who had been killed or executed, they were still alive in her memory. She could remember their smiles, their jokes, their laughter, their sad lost eyes, their hopes and despairs.

  Mitya had embraced her and said: ‘It doesn’t matter, Mama. Please don’t worry yourself about me. There are good people even in camp.’ And there was young Sonya Levinton with her dark hair and the down over her upper lip. She was declaiming poems with a fierce gaiety. There was Anya Shtrum, as pale and sad as ever, as intelligent and full of mockery. And young Tolya, stuffing down his macaroni cheese – she had got quite annoyed with him for eating so noisily and for never helping Lyudmila: ‘Is it too much to ask for a glass of water?’ ‘All right, all right, but why ask me? Why don’t you ask Nadya?’ And Marusya. Marusya! Zhenya always made fun of your preaching. And you tried so hard to make Stepan into a good, right-thinking Communist . . . And then you drowned in the Volga with little Slava Byerozkin and old Varvara Alexandrovna . . . And Mostovskoy. Please explain to me, Mikhail Sidorovich . . . Heavens, what could he explain now?

  All of them had been unsettled; all of them had doubts and secret griefs. All of them had hoped for happiness. Some of them had come to visit her and others had just written letters. And all the time, in spite of the closeness of her large family, she had had a deep sense of her own isolation.

  And here she was, an old woman now, living and hoping, keeping faith, afraid of evil, full of anxiety for the living and an equal concern for the dead; here she was, looking at the ruins of her home, admiring the spring sky without knowing that she was admiring it, wondering why the future of those she loved was so obscure and the past so full of mistakes, not realizing that this very obscurity and unhappiness concealed a strange hope and clarity, not realizing that in the depths of her soul she already knew the meaning of both her own life and the lives of her nearest and dearest, not realizing that even though neither she herself nor any of them could tell what was in store, even though they all knew only too well that at times like these no man can forge his own happiness and that fate alone has the power to pardon and chastise, to raise up to glory and to plunge into need, to reduce a man to labour-camp dust, nevertheless neither fate, nor history, nor the anger of the State, nor the glory or infamy of battle has any power to affect those who call themselves human beings. No, whatever life holds in store – hard-won glory, poverty and despair, or death in a labour camp – they will live as human beings and die as human beings, the same as those who have already perished; and in this alone lies man’s eternal and bitter victory over all the grandiose and inhuman forces that ever have been or will be . . .

  Vera and Alexandra Vladimirovna were in a state of feverish anxiety during the whole of the last day. As for Spiridonov, he had been drinking since early in the morning. Workers were continually coming round and demanding to see him, but he was always out. He was sorting out his remaining affairs, calling at the raykom, ringing up friends, having his papers stamped at the military commissariat, talking and joking as he walked round the workshops; once, when he found himself alone for a moment in the turbine-room, he pressed his cheek against a cold fly-wheel and closed his eyes in exhaustion.

  Meanwhile Vera was packing up belongings, drying nappies over the stove, preparing bottles of boiled milk for Mitya and stuffing bread into a bag. She was about to part for ever with both Viktorov and her mother. They would remain for ever alone; no one here would ask after them or spare them so much as a thought.

  She was steadied by the thought that she was now the oldest in her family. She was calmer now, more reconciled to hardship than anyone else.

  Looking at her granddaughter’s tired, inflamed eye-lids, Alexandra Vladimirovna said: ‘That’s the way things are, Vera. There’s nothing more difficult than saying goodbye to a house where you’ve suffered.’

  Natalya had promised to bake some pies for the journey. She had gone off that morning, laden with wood and provisions, to a woman she knew who still possessed a proper Russian stove. There she began preparing the filling and rolling out the dough. Her face turned bright red as she stood over the oven; it looked young and extremely beautiful. She glanced at herself in the mirror, laughed and began to powder her nose and cheeks with flour. But when her friend went out of the room, she wept into the dough.

  In the end her friend noticed her tears. ‘What’s the matter, Natalya? Why are you crying?’

  ‘I’ve grown used to them. She’s a splendid old woman. And I feel sorry for Vera and her little boy.’

  Her friend listened attentively and said: ‘Nonsense. You’re not crying because of the old woman.’

  ‘I am,’ said Natalya.

  The new director promised to release Andreyev, but he wanted him to stay on for another five days. Natalya announced that she’d stay till then and then go back to her son in Leninsk. ‘And then,’ she said, ‘we’ll see how things go.’

  ‘What will you see?’ asked Andreyev.

  She didn’t answer. Most likely, she had been crying because she couldn’t see anything at all. Andreyev didn’t like his daughter-in-law to show too much concern over him; she had the feeling that he still hadn’t forgiven her for the quarrels she’d had with his wife.

  Spiridonov came back towards lunchtime. He told them all how the workers in the machine-room had said goodbye to him.

  ‘Well, there’s been a real pilgrimage here,’ said Alexandra Vladimirovna. ‘At least five or six people have come to see you.’

  ‘Well, is everything ready, then? The truck will be here at five sharp.’ He gave a little smile. ‘We can thank Batrov for that.’

  His affairs were all in order and his belongings were packed, but Spiridonov still felt a sense of nervous, drunken excitement. He began redoing the bundles, moving the suitcases from one place to another; it was as though he couldn’t wait to be off. Then Andreyev came in from the office and asked:

  ‘How are things? Has there been a telegram from Moscow yet about the cables?’

  ‘There haven’t been any telegrams at all.’

  ‘The swine! They’re sabotaging the whole thing. We could have had the first installations ready for May Day.’

  Andreyev turned to Alexandra Vladimirovna and said: ‘You really are foolish. Setting off on a journey like this at your age!’

  ‘Don’t you worry yourself! I’ve got nine lives. Anyway, what else can I do? Go back t
o my flat on Gogol Street? And the painters have already been round here. They’re about to start the repairs for the new director.’

  ‘The lout! He could have waited one more day!’ said Vera.

  ‘Why’s he a lout?’ asked Alexandra Vladimirovna. ‘Life has to go on.’

  ‘Well? Is lunch ready? What are we waiting for?’ asked Spiridonov.

  ‘We’re waiting for Natalya and her pies.’

  ‘We’re going to miss the train waiting for those pies,’ he grumbled.

  He didn’t feel like eating, but he’d put some vodka aside for their final meal and he did feel like a good drink. He also very much wanted just to go and sit in his office for a few minutes, but it would have been too awkward – Batrov was having a meeting with the heads of the different shops. The bitterness he felt made him still more desperate for a drink. He kept shaking his head and saying: ‘We’re going to be late, we’re going to be late.’

  There was something agreeable about this fear of being late, this anxious waiting for Natalya. He didn’t realize that it was because it reminded him of times before the war when he’d gone to the theatre with his wife. Then too he had looked constantly at his watch and repeated anxiously: ‘We’re going to be late.’

  He very much wanted to hear something nice about himself. This need made him still more depressed.

  ‘Why should anyone pity me?’ he moaned. ‘I’m a coward and a deserter. Who knows? I might even have had the cheek to expect a medal “For the defenders of Stalingrad”.’

  ‘All right then, let’s have lunch!’ said Alexandra Vladimirovna. She could see that Spiridonov was in a bad way.

  Vera brought in a saucepan of soup and Spiridonov got out the bottle of vodka. Alexandra Vladimirovna and Vera both said they didn’t want any.

  ‘So only the men are drinking,’ said Spiridonov. ‘But maybe we should wait for Natalya.’

  At that moment Natalya came in with a large bag and began spreading her pies out on the table. Spiridonov poured out full glasses for Andreyev and himself and half a glass for Natalya.

  ‘Last summer,’ said Andreyev, ‘we were all eating pies at Alexandra Vladimirovna’s home on Gogol Street.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure these will be every bit as delicious,’ said Alexandra Vladimirovna.

  ‘What a lot of us there were on that day,’ said Vera. ‘And now there’s just you, Grandmama, and me and Papa.’

  ‘We certainly routed the Germans,’ said Andreyev.

  ‘It was a great victory – but we paid a price for it,’ said Alexandra Vladimirovna. ‘Have some more soup! We’ll be eating nothing but dry food on the journey. It will be days before we see anything hot.’

  ‘No, it’s not an easy journey,’ said Andreyev. ‘And it will be difficult getting on the train. It’s a train from the Caucasus that stops here on its way to Balashov. It’s always crammed with soldiers. But they will have brought some white bread with them.’

  ‘The Germans bore down on us like a storm-cloud,’ said Spiridonov. ‘But where are they now? Soviet Russia has vanquished them.’

  He remembered how not long ago they could hear German tanks from the power station. And now those tanks were hundreds of kilometres away. Now the main fighting was around Belgorod, Chuguyev and Kuban.

  But he was unable to forget his wound for more than a moment. ‘All right, so I’m a deserter,’ he muttered. ‘But what about the men who reprimanded me? Who are they? I demand to be judged by the soldiers of Stalingrad. I’m ready to confess all my faults before them.’

  ‘And Mostovskoy was sitting right next to you, Pavel Andreyevich.’

  But Spiridonov wouldn’t be diverted. His resentment welled up again. He turned to his daughter and said: ‘I phoned the first secretary of the obkom to say goodbye. After all, I am the only director who stayed on the right bank through the whole of the battle. But his assistant, Barulin, just said: “Comrade Pryakhin’s unable to speak to you. He’s engaged.”’

  As though she hadn’t even heard her father, Vera said: ‘And there was a young lieutenant, a comrade of Tolya’s, sitting next to Seryozha. I wonder where he is now.’

  She wanted so much to hear someone say: ‘Who knows? Maybe he’s alive and well, still at the front.’ Even that would have consoled her a little. But Stepan Fyodorovich just went on with his own thoughts.

  ‘So I said to him: “I’m leaving today. You know that very well.” “All right then,” he said, “you can address him in writing.” To hell with them all! Let’s have another drink! We’ll never sit at this table again.’

  He turned to Andreyev and raised his glass. ‘Don’t think badly of me when I’m gone!’

  ‘What do you mean, Stepan Fyodorovich? We workers are on your side.’

  Spiridonov downed his vodka, sat quite still for a moment – as though he’d just surfaced from under the sea – and then attacked his soup. It was very quiet; the only sound was Spiridonov munching his pie and tapping away with his spoon. Then little Mitya started screaming. Vera got to her feet, walked over to him and took him in her arms.

  ‘You must eat your pie, Alexandra Vladimirovna!’ said Natalya in a very quiet voice, as though it were a matter of life and death.

  ‘Certainly!’ said Alexandra Vladimirovna.

  With drunken, joyous solemnity, Spiridonov announced:

  ‘Natalya, let me say this in everyone’s presence! There’s absolutely nothing to keep you here. Go back to Leninsk for your son – and then come and join us in the Urals! It’s not good to be on one’s own.’

  He tried to catch her eyes, but she lowered her head. All he could see was her forehead and her dark, handsome eye-brows.

  ‘And you too, Pavel Andreyevich! Things will be easier for us if we stick together.’

  ‘What do you mean? Do you think I’m going to begin a new life at my age?’

  Spiridonov glanced at Vera. She was standing by the table with Mitya in her arms, crying. For the first time that day he saw the walls of the room he was about to leave. Everything else became suddenly of no importance: the pain of dismissal, the loss of the work he loved, his loss of standing, the burning shame and resentment that had prevented him from sharing in the joy of victory.

  The old woman sitting next to him, the mother of the wife he had loved and now lost for ever, kissed him on the head and said: ‘It doesn’t matter, Stepan my dear. It doesn’t matter. It’s life.’

  61

  The stove had been lit the previous evening and the hut had felt stuffy all night. The tenant and her husband, a wounded soldier who’d only just come out of hospital, didn’t go to sleep until it was nearly morning. They were talking in whispers – so as not to wake up the old landlady or the little girl who was sleeping on top of a trunk.

  The old woman was unable to sleep. She was annoyed by all this whispering. She couldn’t help but listen. She couldn’t help but try to link together the odd phrases she overheard. If only they’d talk normally! Then she’d just listen to them for a little while and fall fast asleep. She wanted to bang on the wall and say: ‘What’s all this whispering about? Do you really think what you’re saying is that interesting?’

  She kept making out odd phrases here and there:

  ‘I came straight from hospital. I couldn’t get you any candies. It would have been another story if I’d been at the front.’

  ‘And all I had to give you was potatoes fried in oil.’

  Then the whispering became inaudible again. Probably the woman was crying.

  Then she heard the words:

  ‘It’s my love that kept you alive.’

  ‘I bet he’s a real breaker of hearts!’ thought the old woman.

  She dozed off for a few minutes. She must have been snoring – when she woke up, the voices were louder.

  ‘Pivovarov wrote to me in hospital. I’d only just been made a lieutenant-colonel. And now they’re putting me forward for promotion again. It’s the general’s doing – he put me in command of a division. An
d I’ve been awarded the Order of Lenin. And all for that day when I was buried under the ground! When I had lost touch with my battalions and all I could do was sing stupid songs. I keep feeling as though I’m an impostor. I can’t tell you how awkward I feel.’

  Then they began whispering again. They must have noticed that the old woman was no longer snoring.

  The old woman lived on her own. Her husband had died before the war and her one daughter lived in Sverdlovsk. She didn’t have anyone at the front herself and she couldn’t understand why she had been so upset by this soldier’s arrival.

  She didn’t much like her tenant; she thought of her as a stupid, empty woman who couldn’t cope on her own. She always got up late and she didn’t look after her daughter – the girl went around in torn clothes and never ate proper meals. Most of the time her tenant seemed just to sit at the table, looking out of the window and not saying a word. Now and then, when the mood took her, she did get down to work – and then it turned out she could do everything. She sewed, washed the floors and made excellent soup; she knew how to milk a cow – even though she was from the city. Something was obviously wrong in her life. As for the girl, she was a strange little brat. She loved messing about with grasshoppers, cockroaches and beetles. And she didn’t play with them like ordinary children – she was always kissing them and telling them stories. Then she would let them go and start crying, calling for them to come back. Last autumn the old woman had brought her a hedgehog from the forest. The girl had followed him wherever he went. He only had to give a little grunt and she was beside herself with joy. And if he went under the chest of drawers, she’d just sit there on the floor and wait for him. She’d say to her mother: ‘Sh! Can’t you see he’s asleep?’ Then the hedgehog had gone back to the forest and the little girl hadn’t eaten for two whole days.

  The old woman had lived in constant fear that her tenant was going to hang herself – and that she’d be left with the little girl. The last thing she wanted at her age were new anxieties.