Stalingrad

by Vasily Grossman

  The boy shook his head and asked, “Have there been any letters from Papa?”

  Realizing her mistake, Marusya quickly replied, “No, not yet, no one knows his address. But Mama sends her love—she misses you very much.”

  “Thank you—and how’s Luba?” Slava thought for a moment and added, “I like it here. Tell Mama not to worry.”

  “Do you have some friends here now?”

  Slava nodded. Realizing that he was not going to receive any reassurance from the adults and that it was, rather, up to him to reassure them, he added, “I’m not really that sick, you know. The nurse has promised to let me get up the day after tomorrow.”

  He did not ask to be taken away from the children’s home, since he knew that life was not easy for his mother. He did not ask her to come and visit him, since he knew it was out of the question for her to take a whole day off work for the journey. Nor did he ask if she had sent him a present of anything sweet, since he knew that was equally impossible.

  “What would you like me to tell your mama?” asked Marusya.

  “Tell her I’m well,” he said sternly.

  As she was saying goodbye, Marusya ran her hand over his soft hair, and over the thin, warm back of his neck.

  “Auntie!” he burst out, “I want Mama to take me back home!” And his eyes filled with tears. “Auntie, tell her I’ll do everything I can to help, and I will eat very, very little, and I’ll go and stand in queues for her.”

  “Your mother will take you home with her as soon as she possibly can—I give you my word,” Marusya replied, shaken.

  Tokareva then took Marusya behind the partition, to a bed by the window. A dark-eyed young woman in a white gown was spoon-feeding a little boy with a shaven head. When she raised the spoon to his mouth, the movement uncovered the whole of her beautiful dark forearm.

  “And this is Grisha Serpokryl,” said Tokareva.

  Marusya looked at the boy. He was ugly, with large fleshy ears, a knobbly skull and blue-grey lips. He was swallowing down the porridge obediently, but with effort, as if he were being forced to eat lumps of dry clay. The contrast between his grey, pale skin and his brilliant, burning eyes was so extreme as to seem painfully unnatural. Only the mortally wounded have such feverish eyes.

  Grisha’s father had had a cataract, and for this reason he had not been conscripted. Once, during the first weeks of the war, a commander had wanted to spend the night in their hut, but after looking inside, he had shaken his head and said, “No, I’ll go and find somewhere a bit less cramped.” For Grisha, however, that hut had been finer than any palace or temple on earth. There this timid, strange-looking boy had known love. His mother, who had one leg shorter than the other, had limped up to him when he lay asleep on the stove and covered him with a sheepskin coat. His father had wiped his nose with his rough palm. Two or three months before the war his mother had baked him a special Easter cake in a little tin and had given him a decorated egg; and for the First of May his father had given him a yellow belt with a white buckle that he had bought in the district town.

  Grisha knew that the other boys in the village made fun of his mother because of her limp, and this made him love her all the more. On the First of May his parents had dressed him up in his smartest clothes and taken him out visiting; he had felt proud of them, and proud of himself and his new belt. His father was strong and important, and his mother elegant and beautiful. He had said, “Oh Mama, oh Papa, you look splendid. You look so smart.” They had looked at each other and smiled sweetly and uncertainly.

  There was no one who knew how intensely, how tenderly, he had loved them. He had seen them after the air raid—lying there covered with charred sacking . . . His father’s sharp nose, a white earring in his mother’s ear, a thin strand of her fair hair . . . And in his mind his mother and father were united forever, lying dead side by side or exchanging sweet, embarrassed looks when he said how splendid they looked—his father in his new boots and a new jacket, his mother in a brown dress with a starched white kerchief and a bead necklace.

  Grisha could not tell anyone his pain, nor could he understand it, but it was more than he could bear; the two dead bodies, and the two sweet, embarrassed faces on that First of May holiday formed a single knot in his heart. His brain clouded over: if he was being burnt by pain, this could only be because he was moving, because he was pronouncing words, because he was chewing and swallowing. He froze, paralyzed by this pain now clouding his mind. And so he could easily have died, silently, refusing food, carried to his death by the horror with which the world and everything in it—the wind, the songs of birds, the sound of children talking, shouting and running about—now filled him. The teachers and nurses had been unable to do anything for him; neither books nor pictures, nor rice porridge with apricot jam, nor a goldfinch in a cage were of any help. The doctor ordered him to be sent to a clinic, so he could be fed through a tube.

  The evening before Grisha was due to leave, one of the cleaners went into the sickbay to wash the floor. She gazed at the boy for a long time, then suddenly fell to her knees, held his shaven head to her breast and began to keen and wail, “My child, my child, there’s no one who needs you, no one in the whole wide world to pity you.”

  And he had let out a cry and begun to shake.

  She had carried him in her arms to her own room, sat him on her bed and sat there beside him for half the night. Grisha had talked to her, and he had some bread and tea.

  “How are you doing, Grisha?” Marusya asked. “Are things getting a little easier for you?”

  The boy did not answer. He stopped eating. Instead, he stared patiently at the white wall.

  The woman put down the spoon and stroked Grisha’s head, as if to say, “Don’t worry. Just wait a little. This auntie will be gone soon.”

  And Marusya, sensing all this, quickly said to Tokareva, “All right, let’s not get in their way.” Out in the corridor, she sighed loudly and quietly checked her pulse, afraid she might be having a heart attack.

  They went back through the yard. Marusya said, “Seeing children like him, you really do sense the horror of war.”

  But in Tokareva’s office, wanting to calm herself down, to dispel the anguish she now felt, Marusya said sternly, “So, to sum up: discipline and more discipline. As you know, this is war, and these are difficult days. This is no time for laxity!”

  “I know,” said Tokareva, “but I find the work difficult. I’m not really managing. I haven’t got things under control, and I don’t know enough. Maybe it would be better if I went back to the bread ovens. To be honest, that’s what I sometimes say to myself.”

  “No, no, that’s not true. To me, the home seems to be in a very good state. I was deeply moved by that cleaner, the woman who’s been nursing Serpokryl. I can tell you straightaway that in my report I’ll be drawing attention to all the positive, healthy elements of the home, to its generally healthy atmosphere. As for the failings, you can correct them easily enough.”

  Marusya wanted, as she left, to say something particularly kind and encouraging. But there was something irritating about the look on Tokareva’s face, and about her half-open mouth, as if she were about to yawn. And as Marusya was putting her various documents back in her briefcase, she came across the letter she’d been handed as she left the education section. Shaking her head, she said, “Only it seems we still haven’t got to the end of the various questions relating to your cadres. This Sokolova really does have to be dismissed: she sings songs in an inebriated state and some man comes to visit her at night. How can you turn a blind eye to such things? A strong, healthy collective—nothing is more important. You really must get a firm grasp of these basic matters.”

  “Yes, of course, but it’s the same woman . . . You saw her yourself, the woman who was feeding Serpokryl. She’s the only person he’ll speak to.”

  “The same woman?” Marusya repeated, not understanding. “The same woman? Well, what of it? I—”

  She
looked at Tokareva and broke off mid-sentence. It was as if she had been walking along a broad path—and, out of nowhere, an abyss had opened before her.

  Tokareva stepped closer to Marusya, laid a hand on her shoulder and said quietly, “It’s all right, don’t worry.” And she gently ran her hand down the senior inspector’s arm.

  But Marusya was unable to hold back her tears. And she was muttering, “It’s so hard, so hard to understand. Why, why is it so hard?”

  15

  ONE MORNING in August 1942, Ivan Pavlovich Pryakhin entered his office and paced about it for several minutes, from the door to the window and back again. Then he flung open the window—and the room filled with noise. It wasn’t just the usual city hubbub. There was a struggling car engine, the tramp of feet, the rumble of wheels, the neighing of horses, the angry voices of the horses’ drivers, the grinding and clanking of tanks and, now and again—obliterating all these terrestrial sounds—the piercing howl of a fighter in a steep climb.

  Pryakhin stood for a while by the window, then went over to the large safe in the corner. He took out a stack of papers, sat down at his desk and pressed the bell. Barulin appeared immediately.

  “So, how did you get on?” asked Pryakhin.

  “Very well, Ivan Pavlovich. Once we’d crossed the Volga, I took the road to the right and we got there almost without trouble. There was just one moment when we nearly ended up in the ditch. We were driving without headlights. We grazed the back axle.”

  “Has Zhilkin got everything organized?”

  “Yes. And he couldn’t have chosen anywhere better. Safe—not too close to the railway. Zhilkin says he hasn’t once seen a German plane overhead.”

  “And the countryside there? What’s it like?”

  “There’s one hell of a lot of it . . . That is, there’s all the countryside you could ask for. Of course, it’s a full sixty kilometres from the Volga, but there’s a pond. Zhilkin says the water’s clean. And an orchard. With an above-average apple harvest—I made inquiries. Needless to say, a reserve battalion was stationed there—and I’m afraid they did help themselves a bit . . . So, just give the command and we’ll move the whole obkom straightaway.”

  “Are people starting to arrive for the meeting?”

  “Yes, they are.”

  Just then came a knock on the door. A voice called out, “Open up, boss, there’s a soldier to see you!”

  Pryakhin tried to put a name to the voice: Who could be speaking to him with such self-assurance?

  The door opened and Colonel General Yeromenko walked in with his usual limp. He greeted Pryakhin, then rubbed his forehead, straightened his glasses and asked, “Has Moscow phoned you?”

  “Greetings, Commander! But the answer’s no—I’m expecting a call any minute. Please sit down.”

  Yeromenko sat down and began to look around the office. He picked up the heavy inkwell, weighed it in his hand, nodded his head respectfully and returned it carefully to its place. “Quite something,” he said. “Before the war I was trying to get hold of one like that for myself. I saw one at Voroshilov’s.”15

  “Comrade General, we’re holding a meeting here in fifteen minutes. For Party workers and factory directors. Please say a few words to the comrades about the situation at the front.”

  Yeromenko looked at his watch. “Certainly, but I won’t have much in the way of good news.”

  “Has the situation deteriorated during the night?”

  “The enemy has crossed the Don near Tryokhostrovskaya. According to my reports, only isolated sub-machine-gunners got across, and they have already been eliminated. But I doubt this. There were also determined attacks further south. I fear some isolated comrades may not have been reporting the full truth. I understand them: they’re afraid of the Germans, but they’re afraid of their superiors too.”

  “So the Germans have broken through our line of defence?”

  “What line of defence?”

  “We’ve been constructing defences all year. The whole city, the whole province has been working on them. A quarter of a million cubic metres of earth has been moved. It was a strong line of defence, I think, but it seems that our forces have been unable to exploit it to the full.”

  “Out in the steppe there’s only one effective line of defence—and that’s men and firepower,” said Yeromenko. “The one plus is that our ammunition stores are still intact. Artillery fire, that’s the only thing that keeps the enemy back. Thank heavens we still have ammunition.” Once again he picked up the inkwell and weighed it in his hand. “Quite something. Almost an optical device, I’d say. Is it crystal?”

  “Yes, probably from the Urals.”

  Yeromenko leaned forward toward Pryakhin and said dreamily, “The Urals, autumn. There’s fine shooting out there. Geese, swans. But not for us. For us soldiers it’s just blood and mud. Oh, if only they’d send me two fresh infantry divisions, two full-strength divisions!”

  “I understand, but we must start to evacuate the factories, before it’s too late. In a single day the Barricades produces enough guns to equip an artillery regiment. The Tractor Factory sends out a hundred tanks each month. These factories are our giants, our titans. Is there still time to save them?”

  Yeromenko shrugged. “If one of my army commanders comes and says, ‘I’ll defend my sector, but please allow me to move my command post further back,’ then I know he doesn’t really believe he can hold out. And the divisional commanders then come to the same conclusion: ‘That’s it, now we’re retreating.’ The same thing happens with the regiments, the battalions, and the individual companies. Deep down, everyone ends up believing they’re about to retreat. It’ll be the same here. If you want to stand your ground, then stand your ground. Don’t allow a single vehicle to move east. Don’t look behind you—that’s the only way. And if anyone crosses to the east bank without authorization, you must have them shot.”

  Pryakhin replied at once, in a loud voice, “For you, comrade General, a defeat means the loss of a line of defence, of a commanding height, of a hundred vehicles—but here in Stalingrad defeat means the loss of an industry of national importance. Stalingrad is no ordinary line of defence.”

  “Stalingrad . . .” At this point Yeromenko got to his feet. “What we are defending here, on the Volga, is not an industry. What we are defending here is Russia herself!”

  “Comrade Commander, I’ve put my heart and soul into building these factories and this city. And this city is named after Stalin. Do you think it was easy for Kutuzov to abandon Moscow? Remember the council of war at Fili? I was reading Tolstoy again yesterday. There were many people then who saw Moscow as a final line of defence.”

  “It’s good that you’re doing your homework. Nevertheless, we fought on the outskirts of Moscow, and we’d have gone on fighting even inside the city.”

  Pryakhin was silent. Then he said, “For us Bolsheviks, while we still live, there can be no final line of defence. We stop fighting only when our hearts stop beating. Nevertheless, no matter how hard this may be for us, it is our duty to take the current military position into account. The enemy has crossed the Don.”

  “I’ve made no official statement to that effect. Our intelligence data is being checked as we speak.” Yeromenko then leaned forward again and asked, “Have you evacuated your family from Stalingrad?”

  “The obkom is about to transfer a number of families to the east bank, including my own.”

  “Quite right. What’s happening now is not for families. It’s more than many soldiers can bear—let alone women and children. Send them to the Urals! Those bastards won’t be able to bomb them there. No—not unless I let them get through to the Volga!”

  The door opened a little. Barulin announced, “The directors and workshop heads, all present.”

  And the organizers of the city’s economic life, the Party officials, factory directors and workshop heads made their way in and sat themselves down on chairs, armchairs and sofas. As they exchanged g
reetings with Pryakhin, some said, “I’ve carried out your orders,” or “The Defence Committee’s instructions have been passed on to the workshops.”

  Spiridonov was last to come in. Pryakhin said to him, “Comrade Spiridonov, I need to have a few words with you in private. Stay behind after the meeting.”

  As if he too were now a soldier, Spiridonov acknowledged this: “After the meeting—understood!”

  Gently making fun of him, someone else said, “Our Spiridonov would make a fine Guards commander!”

  When everyone was settled and the noise made by their chairs had subsided, Pryakhin said, “Everyone here? Then let’s start. Well, comrades, Stalingrad is now a front-line city. Today we must check how well each of us has prepared our sector for the conditions imposed by the war. How prepared are our people, our enterprises and our workshops? What have we achieved so far as regards the transition to new working conditions, and the evacuation of our factories? Here with us is the commander of the Stalingrad Front. The obkom has asked him to speak about the situation at the front. Comrade Commander!”

  Yeromenko smiled. “It’s easy enough now to find out about this for yourselves. Just get on a lorry heading west. A few minutes’ drive—and you’ll be at the front.” Yeromenko then looked around the room, caught sight of Parkhomenko, his adjutant, who was standing by the door, and said, “Give me the map, not the working map—the one you were just showing to the journalists.”

  “It’s already been taken across the Volga. Allow me to go and fetch it in a U-2.”

  “You must be joking. You carry too much weight for one of those maize-hoppers. The plane would never get off the ground.”16

  “I fly like a god, comrade Commander,” Parkhomenko replied, adopting the same jocular tone as his boss.

  But this seemed only to annoy Yeromenko. He glared at Parkhomenko, then addressed the meeting as a whole, “Come over here, comrades, we can use this map on the wall. It’ll do just as well.”