Stalingrad

by Vasily Grossman

  Zhenya decided to go out for a walk and try to imagine this new painting more clearly.

  As she put on her hat, the bell rang. She opened the door—and saw Novikov.

  “You!” she said, and burst out laughing.

  “What is it?”

  “Where have you been all this time?”

  “The war,” he replied, with a helpless shrug.

  “And there we were, about to arrange for the sale of your possessions.”

  “You look as though you’re just going out.”

  “Yes, I absolutely must. Will you come with me?”

  “Only too glad!”

  “You’re not too exhausted?”

  “Certainly not!” Novikov replied with absolute sincerity, although in the last three days he had slept less than five hours. Smiling broadly, he added, “Today I got a letter from my brother.”

  •

  They came to a corner. “Which way?” Novikov asked.

  Zhenya looked back. “Doesn’t matter. What I was going to do can wait till later. Let’s go down to the river.”

  They walked past the theatre, through the park and down to the statue of Viktor Kholzunov.143

  “I knew him in Moscow,” said Novikov, pointing up at the statue. “He was a good man. Strong, intelligent. We need him now—a shame he’s no longer with us.”

  They walked to and fro along the waterfront, looking out at the river. Each time they passed the bronze airman, they spoke more loudly, as if wanting him to hear them.

  It turned dark. They were still walking and talking.

  “I’m glad it’s got dark,” said Zhenya. “You won’t have to keep on saluting. It must be exhausting.”

  Novikov was in the excited, euphoric state that sometimes comes over people who are usually very reserved. It wasn’t merely that he was being open and straightforward; he was speaking the words of a hitherto silent man who now believes that his life is of interest to someone else.

  “I’ve been told I’m a born staff officer, but really I’m a combat officer, a tank man. My place is on the front line. I have the knowledge and the experience, but there always seems to be something holding me back. It’s the same when I’m with you—I don’t seem able to say anything that makes sense.”

  “Look at that strange cloud,” Zhenya said quickly, afraid that Novikov was about to come out with a declaration of love.

  They sat down on a broad stone parapet. The rough stone was still hot. Panes of glass in buildings on the grassy slope still shone in the sun’s last rays, but there was already a cool breath coming from the Volga and the pale new moon. A soldier and a young girl were whispering together on a nearby bench. The girl was laughing—and from the sound of her laughter, from her slow, half-hearted way of fending off her admirer, it was clear that nothing else in the world existed for her at this moment but the evening, the summer, youth and love.

  “How good everything is, yet how troubling,” said Zhenya.

  A nearby pavilion housed a military canteen. The door opened wide, and a woman in a white gown came out, holding a bucket. Bright light immediately fell on the pavement and roadway, and it seemed to Zhenya as if the young woman had poured out a bucket of light and that weightless, sparkling light was now flowing across the asphalt. Then a group of soldiers came out. One of them, probably imitating someone they knew, began to sing in a silly voice, “Ju-une night, whi-ite night . . .”

  Novikov wasn’t saying anything, and this made Zhenya apprehensive: any moment now he would clear his throat, turn to her and say helplessly, “I love you.” She was getting ready to put a hand on his shoulder and gently admonish him: “No, really, it’s best not to say such things.”

  Then Novikov said, “I got a letter today from my elder brother. He works in a mine, far beyond the Urals. He says he gets good pay, but that his daughter keeps falling ill. She can’t get used to the climate. I hope it isn’t malaria.”

  Zhenya sighed, watching Novikov warily. And then he really did clear his throat, turn abruptly towards her and say, “I’m in a difficult position now. I filed a memo, asked for a transfer, and then I quarrelled with my boss. He said, ‘I am not giving my approval to your transfer, and I appoint you head of my archive section.’ I replied, ‘I do not accept your orders.’ Then he threatened to send me before a tribunal. He was just trying to frighten me, of course, but still, it’s a bad business. After that, I came straight round to see you.”

  Now Zhenya felt upset and angry. What had been troubling Novikov, it turned out, was his work.

  “You know what I’ve just been thinking?” she said, with a mocking look. “The days of great romantic love are now gone forever. A love like Tristan and Isolde’s. Do you know the story? For her sake he abandoned everything—his native land and the friendship of a great king. He disappeared into the forest, slept on branches and felt happy. And she, the queen, lived happily in the forest with him. That’s how the story goes, isn’t it? Centuries of literature glorified those who gave up fame for love—who, for love’s sake, renounced all earthly and heavenly joys. Now all that just seems funny, and hard for us to understand. Not only Tristan, but even a story like Lermontov’s ‘Taman.’144 Read it again and you’ll find yourself saying, ‘It’s impossible. An officer, on active service—and he loses his head, falls in love, forgets his duties and sails off with a pretty young smuggler. All utterly inconceivable.’ Either we’ve all lost the capacity we once had for love, or else our passions now take a very different form.”

  She spoke quickly and with feeling, as if she had prepared this whole speech in advance. She was surprised at herself, unable to understand what lay behind her vehemence. But she continued, with barely a pause, “No, no one loves like that now! You, for example, could you slip away from work for a day for the sake of the woman you love? Would you be willing to incur the wrath of your general? No, you wouldn’t want to be even two hours late for him—not even twenty minutes! And as for sacrificing a kingdom!”

  “It’s not just fear of the authorities,” Novikov replied. “It’s a matter of duty.”

  “Say no more. I’ve heard it already. Nothing can be more important, more sacred, than one’s public duty. All quite true.” Zhenya looked at Novikov condescendingly. “And yet . . . between you and me . . . What you say is true—but all the same, people really have forgotten how to love madly, blindly, absolutely. Love like that has been replaced by something else, by something new maybe, and good, but all too safe and reasonable.”

  “No,” said Novikov, “you’re wrong. True love does exist.”

  “Yes,” she said angrily, “but it’s no longer a question of fate. Love is no longer a whirlwind.” Momentarily putting on the voice of a very sensible schoolteacher, she went on, “Yes, of course, love is a very good thing. Shared thoughts, shared lives, true love outside working hours.” And then, more sharply, “Rather like going to the opera—when did you last hear of an opera-lover absconding from his workplace for the sake of his beloved music?”

  Novikov frowned. He looked at her and then, smiling trustfully, said, “If I could believe you’re angry with me for not coming to see you for so long—”

  “What’s got into you? Don’t think anything of the sort. I’m talking in general. I’m no romantic either.”

  “Yes, yes, I understand,” he said, eager to show his readiness to obey.

  She looked up. She could hear a mournful sound—air-raid sirens coming from the railway station and the factories.

  “The sound of life’s prose,” she said. “Let’s go back home.”

  56

  ZINA MELNIKOVA was aware that Vera’s family disliked her and disapproved of Vera’s friendship with her. Zina was only three years the older, but to Vera she seemed a model of worldly wisdom. She had been married for two years, she had visited Moscow several times, and she and her husband had lived not only in Kiev and Rostov but also in Central Asia. In 1940 she had managed to travel to Lvov145 and had come back with shoes and
dresses, white rubber boots, a transparent pale blue raincoat, round sunglasses to wear on the beach and some fashionable check scarfs. She had also brought back an unusual hat, shaped rather like a large telescope. Her girlfriends, however, had rolled about laughing when she showed it to them, and so she had never worn it.

  In the course of the last year Zina had seen a great deal. In autumn 1941 she had been in Rostov with her mother. She had failed to leave the city in time and had lived for a while under the Germans, before the Red Army recaptured the city in late November. During those weeks, Zina had travelled to Kiev and Kharkov. She had intended to go on to the Baltic republics, but she had returned to Rostov with supplies of food for her mother, meaning to stay for only a day or two—and just then the Red Army had retaken the city.

  In late July 1942, when Zina, once more in Stalingrad with her husband, heard that the Germans had captured Rostov a second time, she had said to Vera, “It doesn’t matter. The trains will be up and running again in a couple of months. Either I’ll bring my mother here or I’ll go and visit her again in Rostov.”

  “You really think the Red Army will retake Rostov?” Vera had asked in surprise.

  “I can’t say I’m counting on it,” Zina replied, with a mischievous smile.

  “You’re not meaning to stay here in Stalingrad under the Germans, are you? There’ll be terrible fighting. If it were me, I’d die of fear alone.”

  “I’ve seen fighting. Last year in Rostov. It’s not as bad as you think.”

  “Well, I certainly feel terrified myself. I can’t bear the thought of bombs and blazing buildings. I’d panic. I’d drop everything and run.”

  “You’ve been reading too many newspapers,” Zina said with a patronizing smile. “It’s not like that in real life. And anyway, it’s people one should be afraid of. They’re more dangerous than any incendiaries.”

  The evening she’d shouted at Zhenya and thrown a gramophone record on the floor, Vera had gone straight round to Zina’s. Viktorov had been discharged from hospital that very morning, sooner than expected, and sent on to the transfer point in Saratov. After completing her shift, Vera had happened to see a list of names signed by the hospital director. The original list of twelve had been typed out, in alphabetical order, but then one more name had been written in by hand: Viktorov. They had not even been able to say a few last words in private; she’d rushed straight to his ward, but he was already making his way down the stairs with eight other patients. The hospital bus had been waiting below.

  Vera had never known such grief in her life. The only person she felt able to confide in was Zina. They talked until two in the morning. Then Zina made up a bed for Vera on the sofa, turned out the light and said, “Let’s go to sleep!”

  Vera lay there in silence, sleepless, gazing into the darkness with wide-open eyes. She thought Zina was asleep, but after an hour or so Zina suddenly said, “Are you awake?”

  “Yes,” Vera replied—and they carried on talking till dawn.

  After that, Vera called round every evening, sitting and talking with Zina until shortly before the curfew.

  Sometimes people become friends because they are similar, but often it is because they are different.

  Vera saw Zina as a striking and romantic figure, a woman of great heart and soul. As for her brightly coloured dresses, her dozens of unusual items of clothing that made men say “What a woman!” while more plainly dressed girls looked on in envy—these were merely a fitting backdrop, an appropriate outer expression of Zina’s emotional depths. It never occurred to Vera that it might be the other way round, that Zina’s romantic talk and extravagant behaviour might be no more than a carefully chosen accompaniment to her striking looks.

  For her part, Zina was both attracted and amused by Vera’s evident purity and simplicity. She saw in Vera a kind of essential salt—a clarity of thought and feeling—that she valued in others but was unable to find in herself.

  People who are very similar often feel a mutual dislike; their similarities engender only envy and ill will. And polar opposites are sometimes united by their very differences. It is the same with understanding; it too does not always bring people closer. Sometimes, one person sees another’s secret failings all too clearly; the second person is aware of this and resents it. Conversely, people sometimes feel grateful and affectionate towards those who do not understand them, who are blind to their weaknesses.

  Zina Melnikova may not have understood Vera, but she understood very well how Vera imagined her. And she took care to show Vera the particular qualities—the freedom from calculation and convention—that she knew Vera most wanted to see in her.

  •

  One day Vera came round to find Zina lying on a sofa and reading.

  She was young and beautiful—and she saw it as her duty to be young and beautiful. This was clear from her every look and gesture.

  She put down her book and moved up a little to make room for Vera to sit down. Taking Vera’s two hands between her palms, as if they were icy cold and needed warming, she said, “Life’s a struggle, isn’t it?” And without giving Vera a chance to answer, she went on, in the tone of an experienced doctor resolved to tell the whole truth to a patient, “I’m afraid it’s not going to get any easier.”

  “If only I’d known earlier! Then I could have said a proper goodbye to him. It’s awful—I just can’t think about anything else.”

  “He’ll write as soon as he gets to the hospital in Saratov.”

  “What do you mean? He’ll be sent straight to the front. He’ll be flying again in a week. I know it—I’ll never see him again.”

  “No!” said Zina. “None of us knows anything. I’ve seen so much that is extraordinary. I’ve seen miracles. More than miracles, really. Love cannot be calculated or predicted.” And she went on to tell Vera about a German officer who had fallen in love with a young Russian girl. The day the Germans withdrew from Rostov, this officer had been elsewhere. He had been unable to take the girl with him. The two had been separated. And then, a month after this, someone had knocked at the young woman’s door. It was the German officer. For the sake of the girl he loved, he had abandoned everything—uniform, medals, family and country. He was not afraid of being cursed by his parents. The girl had fainted. Then they had spent the night together. Come morning, he had gone to the commandant’s office and given himself up. He said he had crossed the front line for the love of a Russian woman. They had asked him to name her, but he had refused. They had accused him of espionage, saying that if he named the woman, he’d be treated as a prisoner of war—but if not, he’d be shot as a spy. He had remained silent. And then, just before he was shot, he had said, “Oh, if only I could let her know that I have no regrets!”

  Zina’s story made a deep impression on Vera. Wanting to hide this, she said, “No, that kind of thing doesn’t happen. It’s just a story someone’s made up.”

  Zina smiled such a strange, sad smile that Vera’s heart missed a beat. She suddenly wondered if the story might have been about Zina herself, but she didn’t dare ask—and a moment later Zina was talking about something else.

  Then Zina showed Vera some stockings she had bought in the market, in exchange for sugar off her ration card. Vera looked at Zina’s delicate fingers, at her almond-shaped eyes and her slim legs—still slimmer in these semi-transparent stockings—and thought that the German who had given up his life for her love had done right.

  “If there’s one person I can’t understand,” Zina suddenly began, “it’s your Aunt Zhenya. She must be blind to her own power. Why on earth doesn’t she dress better? With a face and a figure like hers, and her wonderful hair, she could be quite something! She could have whatever she wants in life.”

  “I believe she intends to marry a colonel,” Vera replied quietly. “A staff officer.”

  Zina failed to understand that this was meant as a criticism. She took it as a sign not of excessive pragmatism but of Zhenya’s naiveté, of her repeated f
ailure to make the most of her opportunities. “I don’t believe it,” she said. “She could marry someone from one of the embassies. She could live wherever she chooses, somewhere without blackouts, without ration cards and endless queues for every least item of clothing. As it is, she’ll be sent off to some dump like Chelyabinsk. She’ll be living on a thousand roubles a month and have to stand in a queue to buy milk for her baby.”

  “Oh!” said Vera. “There’s nothing I want more than to stand in a queue to buy milk for my baby.”

  They both laughed. But once again Zina failed to understand her friend. She thought Vera was joking; she did not realize that Vera was trying not to show that she had tears in her eyes.

  Vera had a burning desire to become a mother, to give birth to a child with Viktorov’s eyes, with his slow smile, with the same delicate neck, and—despite poverty, despite deprivation—to tend this child as one tends a flame in the dark. Never before had Vera known such feelings, and they were both bitter and sweet, a source of both joy and shame. But there was no law forbidding a young girl to love and be happy. No! She had no regrets and she never would have regrets; she had acted as it was right and proper to act.

  All of a sudden, as if reading Vera’s mind, Zina asked, “Are you expecting?”

  “Don’t ask,” Vera said quickly.

  “All right, all right, I just wanted to take advantage of being older and wiser and say one thing. Being with a pilot is no joke. Alive today, dead tomorrow—and there you are on your own with a baby. A grim business!”

  Vera put her hands over her ears and shook her head. “No, no, I’m not listening!”

  On her way home, Vera thought about Zina’s story. Now that Viktorov had been discharged and would soon be flying again, wild, reckless love felt like the only real and meaningful thing in the world. At night, she imagined all kinds of fantastic scenarios. Viktorov would be lying on the ground wounded. She would rescue him and take him away to safety, further and further east. Remembering books she had read as a child, she dreamed of a little house in a northern forest or a hut on an uninhabited island. Life in a wilderness, in a hut surrounded by bears and packs of wolves, seemed an idyll compared with life in a city soon to be attacked by the Germans.