Stalingrad

by Vasily Grossman

  And then came an angry voice, carrying over the water. A stocky young peasant woman, standing in a cart with a group of other refugees, was waving her fist in the air and shouting, “Cowards! You fucking crowd of cowards! They’re cranes, just a few cranes!”

  To Krymov, her thin, furious face seemed to be the face of his country.

  And the men cowering in the pits and ditches now saw a triangle of birds, high in the blue sky, flying calmly towards the river. One bird slowly flapped its wings, then a second, and a third—and they glided smoothly on.

  “It’s the wrong month,” said the commandant, looking up at the sky with childlike curiosity. “Those cranes shouldn’t be relocating now. Don’t say they’ve been displaced by the war too!”

  Krymov walked on beside his car, picking his way between the carts and trucks. Back on the road, in the steppe, among the reeds by the river, everyone was laughing in embarrassment. They were laughing at one another; they were laughing about the woman who had sworn at them from her cart; and they were laughing at the thought of refugee cranes.

  A few minutes later, when they had driven about a kilometre and a half from the river, Semyonov touched Krymov on the arm and pointed upwards. There were a number of black spots in the sky. This time it was a squadron of dive-bombers, making for the bridge.

  45

  EVENING was already drawing in. The steppe sunsets that summer were especially splendid. The dust raised by countless explosions—and by millions of feet, wheels and tank treads—hung high in the upper air, suspended in the crystalline strata bordering the cold of cosmic space.

  Refracted by this fine dust, the evening light took on a whole range of colours before reaching the earth. The steppe is immense, like the sky and the sea. And like the sky and the sea, so the hard, dry steppe—grey-blue or yellowy-grey during the day—takes on many different colours at sunset. Like the sea, it can turn from pink to deep blue, and then violet-black.

  And the steppe gives off wonderful scents; fragrant oils in the sap of herbs, flowers and bushes, vaporized by the summer sun, cling to the gradually cooling earth and move through the air in slow distinct streams.

  The warm earth gives off a smell of wormwood or of still-damp hay. Going down into a hollow, you meet the heavy scent of honey. From some deep ravine comes first the smell of young herbs and grasses, then of dry, dusty, sun-baked straw, and then, all of a sudden, something neither grass, nor smoke, nor wormwood, nor watermelon, nor the bitter leaves of the wild steppe-cherry but what must be the very flesh of the earth: a mysterious breath, in which you sense, all at once, the lightness of the earth’s dust, the heaviness of the layers of stone fixed in the lower darkness and the piercing cold of deep underground springs and rivers.

  Not only is the evening steppe full of smells and colours; it also sings. The steppe’s sounds cannot be perceived separately. Barely touching the ear, they go straight to the heart, bringing not only calm and peace but also sorrow and a sense of alarm.

  The tired, indecisive creak of crickets, as if asking whether or not it is worth making sound of an evening; the calls of the grey steppe partridges just before dark; a distant squeak of wheels; the whispering of grass as it quietens down for the night, rocked by a cool breeze; the constant hurrying of field mice and ground squirrels; the scraping sound of beetles’ hard wings. And then, alongside these peaceful signs of the day’s retreating life: the brigand-like cries of owls; the sombre hum of night hawk moths; the rustle of yellow-bellied sand boas; the sounds of predators emerging from burrows, holes and gullies, from crevices in the dry earth. And over the steppe rises the evening sky, and the earth is reflected in it; or maybe it is the sky that is reflected in the earth, or maybe earth and sky are two huge mirrors, each enriching the other with the miracle of the struggle between light and dark.

  In the sky, at a terrible height, in the indifferent astronomical silence, without smoke, without the constant din of explosions, fires light up one after another. First it is only the very edge of one calm grey cloud—but a minute later this entire high cloud is ablaze, like a multistorey building, all red brick and dazzling glass. Then more and more clouds catch fire. Huge or small, cumulus or flat as a slab of slate—all catch fire alike; they crumble, collapse, fall on top of one another.

  Nature is eloquent. Moist earth, covered in tiny shoots of young aspen and splinters from recent felling; a bog, overgrown with sharp-leaved sedge that cuts your fingers; small woods and glades on the edges of cities, threaded by roads and paths that have gone bald from the many feet passing over them; a small river losing its way amid marshy tussocks; the sun, peeping out from behind clouds to look at a freshly harvested field; misty, snow-covered mountains, more than five days’ walk away—all this speaks about friendship and loneliness, about fate, about happiness and sadness . . .

  Wanting to save time, Krymov told Semyonov to take a shortcut, turning off the main road onto a barely visible track, overgrown with grass, that looked as if it ran from north to south and so would cross all the roads running west from the Don.

  Squat stems of grey-blue feathergrass and silvery wormwood beat against the sides of the car, brushing away the dust and releasing small clouds of pollen. Krymov had hoped to save time, but this track merely passed the far side of a small hollow and then rejoined the main road—the road being taken by everyone now retreating from Chuguev, Balakleya, Valuiki and Rossosh. Other roads and tracks, from all the nearby towns and Cossack villages, also kept joining this road.

  “We’ll never get through here,” Semyonov pronounced authoritatively—and braked.

  “Keep going,” said Krymov. “Soon we’ll be able to turn off.”

  Also making their slow way through the steppe were long herds of exhausted, stumbling cows, shaking their heavy heads, and flocks of sheep that had fused into a single grey mass, a living, flowing stain of grey.

  Both on and off the road were people on foot, carrying green plywood suitcases and bundles and sacks of every kind; on their faces was a look of calm, habitual fatigue. There were slow, creaking trains of farm carts, carrying refugees in makeshift cabins covered by plywood, by bright-coloured Ukrainian sackcloth or by sheets of tin, painted red or green, from the roofs of houses.

  Within these cabins could be seen biblical beards, children’s heads of hair—pale blonde, gold and black—and women’s faces, seemingly stone calm. Old men, women and girls, children—all appeared still and silent. They had lost homes and loved ones; they had lost everything they owned. They had known heat, thirst and hunger. They were covered in dust that penetrated their bread, their clothes, their hair and each cell of their body, that grated against their teeth and scratched their reddened eyes. Their ordeals had taken away all hope of anything good but left them afraid of something still worse. They were dissolving in the vastness of this slow movement amid yellowish clouds of dust, across the hot grey-blue steppe. Everything around them was creaking, grinding and humming; it was impossible for anyone to step away from the general flow, to make a fire, take a rest or wash in some stream or pool. People still sensed the cart in front of them, the oxen’s heavy breathing and the pressure of those walking behind them, but they sensed even their own selves only as particles of a single mass moving slowly and laboriously eastwards.

  Those in front raised clouds of dust that settled on those behind. “How come they kick up so much dust?” asked those behind. “Why do they always have to keep pushing at us?” asked those in front.

  Like migrating birds or animals, the individuals in this slow-moving stream had lost much of what made them individuals. Their world had had become simpler, a matter of bread, water, dust, heat and river crossings. Even their sense of self-preservation and their fear of being bombed had become muted; they were subsumed in a stream now too vast to be blocked or erased.

  Krymov’s heart clenched tight with pain.

  Fascism wanted to subordinate all human life to rules similar in their soulless, senseless and cruel uniformity
to those that govern dead, inanimate nature, the laying down of sediments on the seabed or the erosion of mountain ranges. Fascism wanted to enslave the mind, soul, labour, will and acts of mineralized human beings. Fascism wanted its slaves, deprived of freedom and happiness, to be both cruel and obedient; it wanted their cruelty to be like that of a brick falling off a roof onto a child’s head.

  Krymov felt his heart take in the whole of this vast picture. The sunset of ancient Egypt and ancient Greece, Oswald Spengler’s Decline of the West97—these were nothing compared with the tragedy now threatening humanity’s most sacred dream. The struggle to realize this dream had occasioned incalculable suffering; its victorious embodiment held out the promise of happiness.

  Soon the twilight thickened, as if cold grey-black ash were falling onto the earth. Only in the west did the long white summer lightning of artillery salvos stubbornly continue to disturb the gloom, while high in the sky shone a few stars, as white as if cut from the bark of a young silver birch.

  46

  KRYMOV and Semyonov passed a major crossroads and continued on their way west.

  They climbed a small hill.

  “Comrade Commissar, look, vehicles are heading this way from the main bridge,” Semyonov said excitedly. “Our brigade must be moving up!”

  “No,” Krymov replied. “That can’t be our brigade.” He ordered Semyonov to stop and they got out of the car. There was a good view from the top of the hill.

  The setting sun looked out for a moment from behind the dark blue and red clouds massing in the west. Rays of light fanned out onto the evening earth.

  A stream of vehicles was heading west from the bridge, moving swiftly across the plain.

  Hauled by powerful three-axle trucks, the long-barrelled guns seemed to be creeping across the earth. They were followed by trucks carrying white cases of shells and vehicles armed with quadruple-mounted anti-aircraft guns.

  Swirling over the bridge was a wall of dust.

  “Our reserves are moving up to the front line, comrade Commissar,” said Semyonov. “The steppe to the east looks as if it’s covered in smoke.”

  That night, Krymov’s brigade took up its line of defence.

  Krymov spoke to the brigade commander, Lieutenant Colonel Gorelik. Gorelik, rubbing his hands together and shivering from the night cold and damp, told Krymov why the brigade had been brought up again so soon, without being given time to rest and refit.

  The Supreme Command had ordered two armies—complemented with tanks, heavy artillery and several of the new anti-tank regiments—to be brought forward from the reserves. The brigade’s mission was to cover the infantry units’ flank as they advanced; there was a point where they were vulnerable to attack by enemy tanks.

  “It was as if they’d all just sprung up out of the earth,” said Gorelik. “I took a different road from you, I was on the road from Kalach. At times there were eight columns of vehicles moving side by side. The infantry had to keep to the steppe. Strong young men. New equipment—sub-machine guns, anti-tank rifles aplenty. Fully equipped new units. I also saw a whole tank brigade.” Gorelik thought for a moment and added, “So you didn’t get any sleep?”

  “No, there wasn’t much time for that.”

  “Well, never mind. The army deputy commander said to me, ‘Soon we’ll be ordering your brigade back to Stalingrad to regroup and refit.’ We’ll get some sleep then. But back at Army HQ the gunners were making fun of me. ‘You lot are out of date,’ they kept saying. ‘Nowadays everyone’s pinning their hopes on these new anti-tank regiments!’”

  “So, it’s true there’s going to be a new Front?” asked Krymov. “A Stalingrad Front?”

  “Yes, but who cares what it’s called? What matters is how well we fight.”

  The noise of vehicles, the distant roar of tank engines, went on until dawn. The reserve units were deploying, taking up their positions the length of the front. Bringing life to the cold steppe night, new forces were preparing to defend the approaches to the Don.

  By morning, Brigade HQ had re-established communications with Division HQ, which had also taken up its new position in the steppe; and Division HQ was in contact with Army HQ.

  Krymov was called to the phone to speak to the member of the army military soviet. The duty officer handed Krymov the receiver and said, “Please wait—don’t hang up. He’s taking an urgent call on another line.”

  Krymov held the receiver to his ear for a long time. He loved listening, down the long lines of field telephones, to the sleepless life of the front. Girl telephonists called out to one another; their bosses shouted and blustered. Someone said, “Forward, forward! I’ve already said—there are to be no halts or rests till you’ve reached your position.” A voice, clearly a novice doing his best to observe the requirements of secrecy, asked, “Well, have you received the boxes? Are you well supplied with water and cucumber now?” A deep voice reported, “I’ve taken up position on my assigned sector.” A fourth pronounced very distinctly, “Comrade Utvenko, allow me to report that the artillery is now all in position.” A fifth asked sternly, “What’s up with you? Been asleep, or what? Are my orders clear now? Then get going!” A hoarse voice said, “Luba, Luba, you promised to connect me to fuel supply HQ! You gave me your word! What do you mean—it wasn’t you? I may never have seen your face, but I know your voice all right. I’d recognize it among a thousand.” An air-force commander was saying, “Air Support HQ, Air Support HQ—200-kilo bombs now received. Our bombers now overhead. Request permission to attack at six-zero-zero.” “Map in front of you?” asked an infantry commander, speaking extremely fast. “The enemy’s exact position? Specify your reconnaissance data.”

  Kostyukov, the brigade chief of staff, then asked, “Why are you smiling like that, comrade Commissar?”

  Putting one hand over the receiver, Krymov replied, “Everyone’s talking about bombs and tanks, asking about the enemy’s precise position—and suddenly I hear a crying baby. It must have been asleep in one of the huts with a telephone. And now it’s hungry.”

  “No getting away from nature,” said the duty officer.

  Then the member of the military soviet came on the line. He asked a few questions to which Krymov gave brief replies: “The brigade is fully supplied with fuel and ammunition. No, the enemy has not been sighted on this sector.”

  Then he asked if the brigade had any other needs. Krymov said that vehicles on the way to the front had been delayed more than once by punctures. The member replied that he would order a truck-load of new tyres to be delivered immediately to the support-services dump in Stalingrad.

  After he had put the phone down, Krymov said to Kostyukov, “There we were, only yesterday morning, wondering if we’d get any reinforcements. And now a whole new Front has come into being—there hasn’t been a moment’s quiet all night.”

  “Yes,” said Kostyukov. “It’s impressive.”

  As the sun rose, Krymov and Gorelik drove off to inspect the gun emplacements.

  Camouflaged by bunches of dust-covered feathergrass, the gun barrels were all pointing determinedly west. In the dawn sun’s slant light, people seemed to be frowning. Cool, clean and fresh, the steppe shone with dew. There was not a speck of dust in the clear air. From horizon to horizon the sky was the calm, pale blue only to be seen early on a summer’s morning. There were just a few pink clouds, warmed by the sun.

  While Gorelik talked to his battery commanders, Krymov went to have a word with the gunners.

  Seeing their commissar approach, the men stood to attention. Their eyes were smiling.

  “At ease, stand at ease!” said Krymov, and leaned his elbow on one of the gun barrels. The gunners gathered around him. “Well, Selidov,” he said to a gun-layer, “You must have had another night without sleep. Here we are again, back on the front line.”

  “Yes, comrade Commissar,” Selidov replied. “There was no end to the racket. A lot of fresh troops have come up. But we kept thinking the Germans were ab
out to attack. We got through a lot of tobacco—now we’ve run out.”

  “A quiet night—and not a sign of the enemy,” said Krymov. “And what a splendid morning!”

  “First thing in the morning’s the best time to be fighting, comrade Commissar!” said a very young gunner. “When the enemy fires, you can see where they’re firing from.”

  “True,” said Selidov. “You can see everything, especially if they fire tracer.”

  “So you’re ready for battle?” said Krymov.

  “You won’t see any of us abandoning our guns, comrade Commissar! There was a moment a few days ago when there were German sub-machine-gunners only a few metres away. Our infantry turned tail, but we kept on firing.”

  “And a lot of good that did us!” said the very young gunner. “We’re still retreating. Any day now we’ll be crossing the Volga.”

  “It hurts to yield our own soil,” said Krymov. “But there’s a new Front now, the Stalingrad Front. New equipment of every kind, tanks, new anti-tank regiments. No one should have any doubt at all—the Germans will advance no further! More than that, we’ll drive them back! And we’ll take no prisoners! We’ve retreated enough. I mean what I say—behind us lies Stalingrad!”

  The gunners listened in silence, watching a small, brightly coloured bird circling above the barrel of the farthest gun.

  The bird appeared about to settle on the sun-warmed steel. But then, suddenly alarmed, it flew away.

  “She doesn’t like guns,” said Selidov. “She’s flown off to the mortars, to Lieutenant Sarkisyan.”

  “Look, look!” someone shouted.

  Heading west, spreading across the whole breadth of the sky, were squadrons of Soviet dive-bombers.

  Within an hour the morning sun had lost its brilliance. Soldiers with dust- and sweat-covered faces were dragging up shells, reloading their guns and adjusting the aim, pointing the guns’ muzzles at German tanks racing towards them in swirls of dust. And far above the dust raised by these tanks, the thunder of terrestrial combat echoed high in the pale blue sky.