Then the chairman of the city Osoaviakhim12 came in. He was a peevish man who lived with a constant sense of grievance, convinced that the other officials did not take his work seriously enough and failed to treat him with proper respect. Today, though, his usual stoop had disappeared and there was a new businesslike confidence in his voice and demeanour. Followed by two young lads carrying posters—“A Hand Grenade and its Mechanism,” “A Rifle,” “A Sub-Machine Gun”—he went up to Barulin, showed him the posters and said, “Zhuravlyov’s already given his approval.”
“You can take them to the printer’s then,” said Barulin. “I’ll speak to the director straightaway.”
“But please understand that it’s urgent—for the militia regiments, before they get sent into battle!” said the Osoaviakhim chairman. “I needed posters last year and it took me a month to get them to do me a mere hundred. They were busy with school textbooks.”
“Your posters will be printed at once,” said Barulin. “It’ll be their next task.”
The Osoaviakhim chairman rolled up the posters and left the room with his entourage. He glanced absent-mindedly at Spiridonov, as if to say, “I know who you are, my friend, but right now I have more important things on my mind.”
The telephones were all ringing incessantly.
There were calls from the Political Administration of the Front HQ, from the director of the city’s anti-aircraft defences, from the chief of staff of the brigades now constructing fortifications, from the commander of the militia regiment, from the city hospitals’ administration, from the fuel-supply administration, from an Izvestia war correspondent, and from two factory directors whom Spiridonov knew well—one was now producing heavy mortars, the other Molotov cocktails. There was a call from a factory fire-brigade boss. The war had indeed reached Stalingrad and the Volga. Here, in this familiar waiting room, this was more apparent than ever.
Today the waiting room seemed little different from his office at Stalgres. His office had always been full of noise and bustle: conversations with agitated foremen, supplies directors and the heads of individual workshops; telephone calls from the boiler room; a visit from some blustering bureaucrat; some complaint or other from Spiridonov’s always dissatisfied driver. People were constantly rushing in to tell him of some new problem: the steam pressure had fallen, the voltage had dropped and a client was making furious accusations; an engineer had dozed off on the job; a supervisor had overlooked something important. All this without a break, morning till night, to the accompaniment of the constant ringing of internal and external telephones.
Spiridonov had understood that it was not like this everywhere. In Moscow, he had more than once been received by the people’s commissar. The calm of the waiting room and the commissar’s office had been a revelation—a far cry from conditions at Stalgres, where his every conversation was interrupted by telephone calls or excited whispers about the latest drama unfolding in the canteen.
The people’s commissar had questioned him for a long time, speaking slowly and carefully, as if he had no more important concern in the world than the efficient functioning of Stalgres. And even in Stalingrad the obkom secretary’s waiting room had usually been relatively peaceful, although the secretary was responsible to Party and state not only for dozens of major enterprises but also for Volga shipping and the whole of the province’s harvest. But now the whirlwind of war had burst in. Only a few months ago, throughout the province, people had been bringing virgin land under cultivation, laying the foundations of power stations, building schools and mills, drawing up reports of repairs to tractors, recording the number of hectares now under plough and meticulously collecting data for the obkom about the sowing of crops. Today, however, buildings and bridges were collapsing, the province’s stores of wheat were burning, and bellowing cattle were fleeing the machine guns of Messerschmitts.
The war was no longer confined to articles, news bulletins or stories told by evacuees. Victories and defeats were now a matter of immediate life and death—for Spiridonov, for his family, for everyone close to him, for his turbines and motors, and for the buildings and streets of his city.
Filippov, deputy chairman of the executive committee, came over to Spiridonov. Like everyone else, he was now wearing a military tunic and carrying a revolver at his side.
For the previous eighteen months Filippov had had it in for Spiridonov because of his refusal to supply electricity to a new construction site of particular concern to him. They barely greeted each other when they met and at plenums Filippov would criticize the Stalgres leadership for what he called their “penny-pinching accounting.” To his friends, Spiridonov would say, “Yes, I enjoy the constant support of comrade Filippov. He only narrowly failed to win me a severe reprimand.”
Today, however, Filippov came straight up to him, asked, “How are you doing, Stepan?”—and gave him a firm handshake. Both men were moved, realizing that, in comparison with the tragedies of the day, their mutual hostility was something very petty indeed.
Filippov looked towards the door of Pryakhin’s office and asked, “Are you going in soon? If not, we could go to the canteen together. Zhilkin’s brought in some good beer, and the sturgeon’s excellent.”
“Only too glad,” Spiridonov replied. “I’ve got plenty of time.”
They went to the canteen reserved for the obkom staff.
“Things aren’t looking good,” said Filippov. “Today, my friend, I heard that the Germans have taken Verkhne-Kurmoyarskaya. That’s the village where I was born. It’s where I first joined the Komsomol. I’m sure you understand . . . But you’re from Yaroslavl, aren’t you? You’re not a Stalingrader yourself . . .”
“We’re all Stalingraders now,” said Spiridonov.
“We are indeed!” said Filippov, impressed by these simple words. “We’re all Stalingraders—today’s news bulletin was very grim.”
To Spiridonov it felt as if everyone around him had suddenly become very close. All were friends and comrades.
The head of the military section, a bald fifty-year-old, walked through the canteen. “Mikhailov!” Filippov called out. “Like a beer?”
Mikhailov had never, in peacetime, been one to allow work to burden him. Men who barely slept at night, men struggling to fulfil factory production targets or kolkhoz harvest plans, would smile wryly at mention of his name and say, “Yes, Mikhailov certainly isn’t one to be late for his lunch.” Today, though, Mikhailov replied, “Beer! You must be joking. I’ve been two nights without sleep. I’m just back from Karpovka. In forty minutes I’m off to the factories. And then at two in the morning I have to report.”
“A new man,” said Spiridonov. “I’ve never seen him like that.”
“He’s a major now,” said Filippov. “He got his second bar only yesterday. Thanks to Pryakhin.”
Spiridonov had always detested careerists who dropped those who had once been their friends. He himself still loved and remembered all his former comrades—boys from his village, young electricians he’d known, fellow students from the Workers’ Faculty. Now, though, he felt more tenderness towards them than ever.
And he was also aware of something very different—of an alien, hostile force bearing a leaden hatred toward the world he so loved: factories and cities, friends, colleagues and family, the old waitress now so carefully bringing him a pink paper napkin.
But he had neither the words nor the time to say any of this to Filippov.
•
Back in the waiting room Spiridonov asked Barulin if he’d be seeing Pryakhin soon.
“You’ll have to wait a bit longer, comrade Spiridonov. Mark Semyonovich has to go before you.”
“How come?”
“That’s just the way it is, comrade Spiridonov.”
Barulin’s tone was impersonal—and usually he addressed Spiridonov by his name and patronymic: Stepan Fyodorovich.
Spiridonov was aware of Barulin’s remarkable ability to distinguish very important visito
rs from the merely important, to distinguish the important from the unimportant, and then to divide the latter into three distinct categories: necessary and urgent, necessary but not urgent, and those who could happily be left to sit and wait. Barulin would show the very important visitors straight into his boss’s office, announce the arrival of the important ones without delay, and ask the unimportant to wait. And his conversations with the latter varied greatly in tone. He would ask one man how his children were getting on in school, talk business to another, give a quick smile to a third, pore silently over his papers in the presence of a fourth and say reproachfully to a fifth, “This, comrade, is not a smoking room.”
Stepan Fyodorovich understood that today he had been demoted from important to unimportant, but he did not feel resentful. Far from it—he was thinking, “Barulin’s a good lad—he keeps at it day and night, day and night!”
12
WHEN SPIRIDONOV entered Pryakhin’s office, he understood at once that Pryakhin had not changed; he was still the man he always had been.
Everything about him, his nod of the head, his attentive yet seemingly absent-minded gaze, his particular way of laying his pencil on his inkstand as he prepared to listen to someone—all were the same as ever. His voice and his movements were calm and confident.
He had a characteristic way of introducing “the state” into a discussion about some problem or other. When the directors of factories or kolkhozes complained to him about some difficulty, about how they were struggling to meet a particular demand in the given time, he would say, “The state needs metal. The state is not asking whether this is easy or difficult for you.”
His large bowed shoulders, his broad, obstinate forehead, his alert, intelligent eyes—all seemed to declare that he was the mouthpiece of the state. His hand was sure, sometimes severe; there were many directors and chairmen who had felt its weight.
He knew not only about people’s work but also about their personal lives. Sometimes, during a meeting where the talk was all of tons, percentages and work plans, he would ask, “Well, have you been fishing again?” Or, “So, are you still quarrelling with your wife?”
As Spiridonov went in, he imagined for a moment that Pryakhin might get to his feet, come up to him, throw his arms round his shoulders and say in an emotional tone, “Yes, brother, these are hard times. But do you remember, back in the days when I was working for the raikom . . . ?”
But Pryakhin was as severe and businesslike as ever, and Spiridonov found this oddly calming and reassuring: it seemed the state was still calm and confident, and not in the least inclined to flights of lyricism.
On one wall, instead of charts and tables detailing tractor and steel production, there now hung a large map of the war. Stalingrad province’s vast spaces, instead of being given over to wheat, vegetables, orchards and flour mills, were now cut up by primary and secondary lines of defence, anti-tank ditches and other defensive constructions, some concrete, some made simply from earth and wood.
Pryakhin’s long red baize–covered desk no longer displayed steel ingots, jars of wheat, and giant cucumbers and tomatoes from the Akhtuba floodplain. In their place were more recent products of local industry: hand-grenade sleeves, detonators, firing pins, a sapper’s spade, a sub-machine gun, and tweezers for disarming an incendiary bomb.
Spiridonov spoke briefly about Stalgres and its work. He said that, unless they were provided with better-quality fuel, he would have to close part of the station in three months’ time for repairs. This was not an exaggeration. Spiridonov went on to say that there were stores of high-quality fuel in Svetly Yar. If granted permission, he would take personal responsibility for fetching this fuel, originally intended for Kotelnikovo and Zimovniki.
Spiridonov knew that Pryakhin genuinely admired the Stalgres turbines. When he visited the power station, he always spent a long time in the engine room, questioning the technicians and senior electricians, showing a particular admiration for the most complex and sophisticated units. One day, standing in front of the red and blue indicator lights on the white marble switchboards that directed lightning-swift rivers of electricity to the three giant factories, the shipyard and the city itself, he had said to Spiridonov, “I take my hat off to you. All this is truly magnificent!”
Given the latest military developments, Spiridonov had been certain that Pryakhin would support his proposal. Instead, Pryakhin shook his head and said, “Always the good housekeeper, Spiridonov proposes to turn the current military situation to the advantage of Stalgres. The state has its line—and Spiridonov has a line all of his own.”
Pryakhin looked silently at the edge of the table.
Spiridonov realized that he was going to be assigned some new task; this was why he had been summoned.
“So,” Pryakhin continued, “the People’s Commissariat has, as you know, supplied us with a plan for dismantling Stalgres. The City Defence Committee has asked me to inform you that it is, in reality, almost impossible to dismantle the turbines and boilers. You’re to continue working until the last possible moment, but you must, at the same time, make all necessary preparations to dynamite the turbines, the boiler room and the oil transformer. Understood?”
Spiridonov was appalled. He had considered it unpatriotic to think about evacuation and only the very closest of his Stalgres comrades knew that his family would soon be leaving. He had told them only in an undertone, afraid of the rumours that might spread if anyone overheard. He did indeed have a copy of the officially approved evacuation plan in his safe, but he had always thought of this plan as merely hypothetical. The few times his engineers had brought up the subject, he had responded angrily, “Get on with your work and stop spreading panic.”
He had always been an optimist. When the war first started, he had not believed that the Red Army would keep on retreating. Day after day he had clung to the belief that the Germans were about to be halted.
And more recently he had consoled himself with the thought that Stalingrad was not like Leningrad. Leningrad had been encircled, but here the Germans would penetrate no further than the outlying districts. There would, of course, be air raids, and even shelling from long-range artillery. He had had moments of doubt after talking to soldiers and refugees, but any alarmist talk from his own family had upset him. And now—here in the obkom, of all places—he was being told not about evacuation, not about skirmishes on the city’s outskirts . . . He was being ordered to prepare to dynamite Stalgres.
Shaken, he asked, “Ivan Pavlovich, are things truly as bad as that?”
Their eyes met. Momentarily, Pryakhin’s calm, confident face seemed distorted by some deep anguish.
Pryakhin took his pencil from the inkstand and noted something on his desk calendar.
“I understand,” he said. “For the last twenty-five years, comrade Spiridonov, you and I have been engaged in construction. We’re not used to thinking about demolition. But similar instructions have just been given to the factories—to the three giants. Did you come here in your own car?”
“Yes.”
“Drive to the Tractor Factory then. They’ll be discussing this at a meeting there. Take a couple of sappers along with you—and perhaps Mikhailov as well.”
“Three’s too many,” said Spiridonov. “The suspension’s not up to it.” He had already decided he must call Marusya straightaway. As an education-section inspector, she needed to visit the Tractor Factory children’s home and for several days now she’d been asking him for a car. He could take her there himself, and on the way he could let her know what he had just heard.
“All right, Mikhailov can go in an obkom car,” said Pryakhin, as he rose from his chair. “But remember that Stalgres must now work harder than ever. As for this conversation—it’s a state secret, with no bearing whatsoever on your day-to-day work.”
Spiridonov hesitated. He would have liked to ask about arrangements for the evacuation of families.
Both men were now on their feet.
“No, everything’s clear enough,” Spiridonov replied.
“You’ll need the best possible underground command post,” Pryakhin called out as Spiridonov left the office. “You’ll be getting more than your fair share of bombs.”
13
WHEN THE car stopped outside the children’s home, Spiridonov said to Marusya, “So, here you are. I’ll come back for you in a couple of hours, after the meeting.” And then, in an undertone, after a quick glance at the two other passengers, “I need to talk to you about something extremely important.”
Marusya got out of the car. She had enjoyed the fast drive and she was bright-eyed and flushed. The soldiers in the car had been telling jokes, and she had been laughing.
But when she got to the front door and heard the hum of children’s voices, her face took on a more troubled look.
Tokareva, the children’s-home director, was not doing her job properly. It was a large and—so they said in the city education section—difficult orphanage. The children were of all ages and many nationalities. There were several children from the families of Volga Germans,13 two Kazakh girls with just a few words of Russian, a little girl from Kobrin who spoke only Polish, and a Jewish boy from a small village who spoke only Yiddish and Ukrainian. Many of the children had been brought to the home in the course of the last year, after terrible air raids during which they had lost their parents. Two of these children had been diagnosed with psychological problems. It had been suggested to Tokareva that she send them to a psychiatric hospital, but she had refused.
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