Sometimes she used to quote amusing Yiddish expressions she had heard from her neighbours; most of the town’s population was Jewish. She wrote the words in Cyrillic letters, but Viktor knew very few words of Yiddish and usually had to ask for a translation. She also used to tell Viktor about her patients and her young pupils, about their relatives, about local events and about the books she had been reading.
There was an old wild pear tree just outside her window, and she used to tell her son every detail of this tree’s life—branches broken by winter storms, the appearance of new buds and leaves . . . In the autumn she would write, “Will I ever again see my old friend in blossom? Her leaves are turning yellow. They’re falling now.”
Her letters were always very calm. There was just one occasion when she wrote that she felt so lonely she wanted to die. Viktor replied at length, asking if he should come and visit. She then assured him that everything was all right, that she was in good health and had simply been feeling low on that day.
But in March 1941 she wrote another strange letter. “First, it turned unseasonably warm—as if it were already May. The storks arrived—there have always been a lot of them around here. But the day they came, the weather changed for the worse. In the evening, as if sensing the approach of misfortune, the storks all huddled together in a bog on the outskirts of town, not far from the tannery. And then, that night, there was a terrible snowstorm. Dozens of the storks perished. Many staggered out onto the highway, dazed and half-dead, as if seeking help from mankind. Some were run over by trucks. The local boys beat others to death in the morning, perhaps for fun, perhaps wanting to put an end to their misery. The milkwoman said there were frozen birds all along the road, their beaks half-open and their eyes glazed over.”
In the same letter, she also said that she missed him very badly and dreamed of him almost every night. She would, without fail, come to visit him in the summer. She now thought that war was inevitable. Every time she turned on the radio, it was with trepidation. “My only support is the letters and cards we send each other—the thought of being cut off from you is terrifying . . . You have no idea what anxious thoughts I have as I lie in bed at night and look into the darkness and think. I think and think. I can’t sleep . . .”
In reply Viktor had written that he thought her fears were exaggerated. Soon after this she had written to say that it had now turned warm again. Her tone had been calm and quietly humorous. She had told little stories about her pupils and, along with the letter itself, she had sent him a violet, a blade of grass and a few petals from her pear tree.
Viktor had expected his mother to join him and his family in their dacha in early July, but the war had intervened. The last card he received had been dated 30 June. She had written only a few lines, evidently hinting at air raids, “Several times a day we are deeply agitated and my neighbours help me down into the cellar. But whatever happens, my dearest son, it’ll be the same for all of us.” In a postscript, in a trembling hand, she asked him to convey her greetings to Ludmila and Tolya. And she asked after Nadya, her favourite, telling him to kiss “her sweet, sad eyes . . .”
36
ONCE AGAIN, as the train headed towards Moscow, Viktor’s thoughts returned to the months before the German invasion. He was trying to bring together the vast events of world history and his own life—his own worries, his own grief, his own loved ones.
Hitler had conquered a dozen West European countries, and it was clear that he had achieved this at almost no cost, expending hardly any of his military strength. His huge armies were now concentrated in the east. Every day brought rumours of some new political or military manoeuvring. Everyone was waiting, expecting to hear something important on the radio, but all they heard were long and solemn accounts of The Children’s Olympics in Bashkiria; the announcers said barely a word about fires in London or air raids on Berlin. Owners of good radios listened at night to foreign broadcasts and heard Hitler’s words about how the fate of Germany and the world was at this moment being determined for a thousand years to come.
In Soviet family circles, in houses of recreation and higher-education institutes, almost every conversation had touched on politics and war. The storm was approaching; world events were bursting into people’s everyday lives. Questions of every kind—about going for a summer holiday by the sea, about whether to buy a winter coat or some item of furniture—were being decided according to military news bulletins or newspaper accounts of speeches and treaties. Decisions about marriages, about having a baby, about which institute of higher education a child should apply to—everything was considered in the light of Hitler’s successes or failures, speeches by Roosevelt or Churchill, or the laconic statements or denials of Tass, the main Soviet news agency.
People had quarrelled a great deal, and nearly always hysterically. Long-established friendships were abruptly severed. There was no end to the arguments about Germany. Just how strong was Hitler’s Germany? And if Germany was strong, was this a good thing or a bad thing?
Around this time, Maximov the biochemist had returned from a working trip to Austria and Czechoslovakia. Viktor did not especially like Maximov. To Viktor, this man with pink cheeks and grey hair, with his rounded movements and quiet way of speaking, seemed timid, weak-willed and starry-eyed. “With a smile like his, you wouldn’t need to put sugar in your tea,” Viktor used to say. “Just two smiles per glass.”
Maximov had reported to a small meeting of professors but had said next to nothing about the scientific aspect of his visit, speaking more about his conversations with colleagues and his general impressions of life in German-occupied cities.
When he spoke about the predicament of science in Czechoslovakia, his voice began to quaver. Then he shouted, “It’s impossible to describe, you have to see it with your own eyes! Scientific thought is in fetters. People are afraid of their own shadows. They’re afraid of their fellow workers. Professors are afraid of their students. People’s thoughts, their inner lives, their families and friendships—everything is under fascist control. A man I once studied with—we sat at the same table and worked through eighteen organic chemistry syntheses together, we’ve known each other for thirty years—this friend of mine begged me not to ask him any questions whatsoever. He’s the head of an important faculty, but he behaves like some petty criminal, afraid the police might collar him at any moment. ‘Don’t ask me anything at all,’ he said. ‘It’s not only my colleagues I’m afraid of. I’m afraid of my own voice. I’m afraid of my own thoughts.’ He was petrified I might quote something he’d said and that even if I didn’t mention his name—or his university or even his city—the Gestapo would be able to trace this back to him. You can learn more from simple people—from chambermaids and porters, from drivers and footmen. They think they’re anonymous and so they have less to fear from talking to a foreigner. But intellectuals and scientists have lost all capacity for freedom of thought—they’ve lost the right to call themselves human beings. In science, fascism now rules. Its theories are terrifying, and tomorrow these theories will become practice. They already have become practice. People talk seriously about sterilization and eugenics. One doctor told me that the mentally ill and the tubercular are being murdered. People’s hearts and minds are going dark. Words like freedom, conscience and compassion are being persecuted. People are being forbidden to speak them to children or to write them in private letters. That’s fascism for you—and may it be damned!”
He yelled out these last words and, swinging his arm, thumped his fist hard down on the table; he seemed more like an enraged Volga sailor than a soft-spoken professor with grey hair and a saccharine smile.
His speech made a strong impression.
The director of the institute broke the silence, saying, “Ivan Ivanovich, if you are not too tired, perhaps you should tell us about the scientific fruits of your visit.”
Viktor interrupted angrily. “Ivan Ivanovich has already told us the most important fruits of his visit. N
othing else is of any account. Ivan Ivanovich, you must write down your observations and publish them. That is your duty.” He paused, then added, “I’m willing to publish them in the Physics Institute bulletin, along with your scientific findings.”
In the voice of an adult quietly addressing a child, someone else said, “None of this is new, it’s all somewhat exaggerated, and no one is likely to publish it now. It’s in our interest to reinforce the politics of peace, not to undermine them.”76
Viktor had argued a great deal during these months with Yakovlev, a professor of theoretical mechanics he had known a long time. Yakovlev asserted that Germany had hit upon a perfect form of social organization and was now the strongest power in the world. He told Viktor he was stuck in an old-fashioned world view and had no understanding of anything.
Viktor had begun to wonder if this might be true. He wished he could have a good talk with Krymov. Krymov always spoke intelligently about politics and usually knew a great deal more than was written about in the newspapers. “I really can’t understand why Zhenya left Krymov,” he said crossly to Ludmila. “Now I don’t know how to find him. Anyway, I’d feel awkward. I can’t help feeling guilty because of your beautiful idiot of a sister.”
•
On Sunday, 15 June 1941, Viktor and his family had gone to their dacha. They had been expecting Viktor’s mother to come and stay, along with Alexandra Vladimirovna and Seryozha. Over lunch, Viktor and Ludmila had quarrelled about where to put their three guests. Viktor wanted to put “the two mamas” on the ground floor. Tolya and Seryozha—he added—would enjoy being together on the first floor. Ludmila wanted Alexandra Vladimirovna and Seryozha on the ground floor and Viktor’s mother on the first floor.
“But you know Mama finds it hard to climb those steep stairs,” said Viktor.
“She’ll be more comfortable up there. No one will disturb her. And she likes having a balcony.”
“You are being thoughtful. Might there, perhaps, be something you’re not quite saying?”
“Well, yes, I suppose I would like Tolya to have a room to himself. He’s worn out from his exams and he needs to prepare for next year. Seryozha will get in his way.”
“Ah, so now, at last, we get to the true reason. A threat to the sovereignty of the dauphin!”
“For the love of God!” said Ludmila. “When my mother comes to stay, it’s all quite straightforward. But if it’s Anna Semyonovna, then everything becomes a matter of principle. There’s more than enough space—the old woman will be happy wherever we put her.”
“Why the old woman? Doesn’t my mother have a name?” Aware that he might be about to start shouting, Viktor closed the window looking out towards their neighbours.
“Your mother’s hardly a young girl,” Ludmila retorted. She knew that Viktor was getting angry, but she wanted to needle him. She too was feeling angry, upset that her husband was not giving enough thought to Tolya.
Tolya had done his last school exam two days before this. Viktor had congratulated him on completing his ten years of schooling—but only in the most casual of manners. And he had forgotten to buy him a present, even though she had reminded him twice, saying that finishing school was, perhaps, still more important than completing one’s higher education.
What mattered still more was Tolya’s future. He had told her he was interested in the subject of radio communication with planes and that he wanted to study at the Electro-Technical Institute. This upset Ludmila, who saw the applied sciences as unworthy of her gifted son. Since Viktor was the only person whose authority Tolya recognized, she wanted him to intervene, but he was failing to do this.
Tolya found his parents’ quarrels deeply tedious. He would yawn uncontrollably and mutter, “I won’t ever marry, I won’t ever marry.” But when Viktor shouted and blustered, his voice shaking, he had to look the other way; he found it hard not to laugh. Nadya’s response was very different. She would turn pale. Her eyes would open very wide, as if she were afraid of something terrifying and beyond her understanding. During the night, she would weep and ask, “Why? Why?”
•
Viktor, Tolya and Nadya had been sitting in the garden when Nadya heard the squeak of the little gate and shouted out joyfully, “Someone’s coming. Ah, it’s Maximov!”
Maximov could see that Viktor was pleased to see him. Nevertheless, he asked anxiously, “I’m not disturbing you? Are you sure you weren’t about to lie down for a rest?”
Next, he tried to make sure that Viktor hadn’t been meaning to visit anyone or to go out for a walk. There was an imploring note in his voice. Viktor began to get angry. “I assure you I’m glad to see you. Glad, glad, glad. Please don’t say any more.”
In the same uncertain tone, Maximov went on, “Remember what you said after my little report? Well, I’ve written down my impressions.” He took out a thick manuscript that had been rolled into a tube, smiled apologetically and said, “It’s ended up eighty pages long. I’d very much like to know what you think of it . . . If you’re still interested and you can find a spare hour. Only please don’t think it’s anything urgent . . . What I’m giving you is a copy, you can hang on to it as long as you like . . .”
This marked the beginning of another long and exhausting argument. The more Viktor insisted that he was genuinely interested, the more obstinately Maximov begged him to wait until he had an unusual amount of free time. Once again Viktor felt exasperated. “Ivan Ivanovich, I really don’t quite understand why you’ve brought me these pages. If you’d rather I didn’t read them, you could have left them at home.”
They sat down on a bench in the shade. Viktor began asking, in an undertone, about important matters that Maximov would have been unlikely to mention in writing.
But just then Ludmila came out into the garden. Maximov hurried towards her, launched into a lengthy greeting, kissed her hand, apologized again for his intrusion and repeatedly insisted that he didn’t want any tea.
After the three of them had finished their tea, Ludmila took Maximov to see her strawberry bed, with its six kinds of strawberries, and her little apple tree that bore up to five hundred apples each year. To buy this apple tree, she had made a special journey to an elderly disciple of Michurin’s in Yukhnov.77 Then she showed Maximov her gooseberry bush, which bore gooseberries as big as plums, and her plum tree, which bore plums as big as apples.
The two of them evidently got carried away. Maximov was a keen gardener too. He promised to bring Ludmila some flame phlox and a special kind of lily, rather like an orchid.
“What you’ve got here is remarkable,” Maximov said to Ludmila as he got ready to go. “If everyone had two little apple trees like this, I believe there’d be no need for wars. Fascism would be impotent. These knobbly little branches are like honest arms and hands. They could save the world from war, savagery and disaster.”
Once again Maximov apologized to Viktor and Ludmila for disrupting their day and all the inconvenience he had caused. He begged Viktor not to look at his notes until he truly had nothing better to do. And the conversation about fascism never took place.
After Maximov had left, Viktor launched into a tirade against the Russian intelligentsia. All too many of them talked too much, did too little, had no strength of will and were oversensitive to the point that their sensitivity was an excruciating burden to others.
When he went back to Moscow, Viktor left Maximov’s article in the dacha, intending to read it the following Sunday.
But the following Sunday, there was no time for thoughts of Maximov.
And a month later Viktor heard from someone he knew that this fifty-four-year-old professor had given up his chair, joined a division of Moscow militia and gone to the front line, as a rank-and-file soldier.
•
Would Viktor ever forget those June and July days? Dark smoke hanging over the streets. Black ash falling on Red Square and Sverdlov Square as offices and commissariats burned their archives. It had seemed to many people t
hat there was no future and that there could no longer be any plans.
All memory of the Revolution’s first years was being destroyed. The memory of the first Five Year Plan, of the difficulties and enthusiasm of those years, was also being turned to black ash. Trucks rumbled by all through the night, and in the morning people whispered gloomily about yet another commissariat being evacuated to Omsk. The advancing tide was still far away, nearing Kiev, Dnepropetrovsk, Smolensk and Novgorod, but in Moscow disaster already felt inescapable.
Every evening the sky had taken on an ominous look. Nights passed in painful expectation of the morning light, and the six o’clock radio bulletin invariably brought grim news.
Now, a year later, in the train taking him to Moscow, Viktor remembered that first bulletin from the Red Army Supreme Command, those words forever engraved in his memory: “On 22 June 1941, at dawn, regular troops of the German army attacked our border units along a front stretching from the Baltic to the Black Sea.”
23 June brought reports of battles along the whole of that vast front—on the axes of Shavli, Kaunas, Grodno-Volkovyssk, Kobrin, Vladimir-Volyn and Brody.
And every day after that, at home, on the street, or in the institute, there was talk of some new German offensive. Comparing the different bulletins, Viktor would wonder gloomily, “‘Fighting in the Vilnius region’—but what does that mean? To the east of Vilnius? Or to the west?” And he would stare blankly at the map or newspaper.
In the course of three days, apparently, the Soviet Air Force had lost 374 aircraft, and the enemy 381. And Viktor would try to divine something from these numbers, to find some clue in them as to the future course of the war.
A German submarine had been sunk in the Gulf of Finland. A prisoner of war, a German pilot, had said, “We’re sick of the war. No one has any idea why we’re fighting.” Captured German soldiers had said that they were being given vodka immediately before each battle. Another German soldier had deserted and written a flyer calling for the overthrow of the Nazi regime.
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