And, like a geography teacher surrounded by pupils, intermittently moving either a pencil or his index finger over the map, Yeromenko began his account: “You’re strong men, I’ve no wish either to frighten you or to comfort you. And the truth has never yet harmed anyone. So, this is the situation today. Here to the north the enemy has reached the right bank of the Don. This is his 6th Army, which comprises three army corps and twelve infantry divisions. There’s the 79th Division, the 100th and the 295th—I could almost call them old friends by now. There are also two divisions of motor infantry and two armoured divisions. All this is to the north and the west. Commanding these forces is Colonel General Paulus. So far he has achieved more successes than I have, as you well know. Now—to the south-west. Here we have a tank army threatening to break out from Kotelnikovo. Supporting it is another German army corps and one of the Romanian corps. Their aim, it seems, is to advance on Krasnoarmeisk and Sarepta. Here’s where they want to attack, along the Aksay River and the railway line from Plodovitoye. The enemy’s intentions are very simple—to concentrate their forces, make their preparations and strike. Paulus from the north and the west, and this tank army from the south and the south-west. Apparently, Hitler has publicly declared that by 25 August he will be in Stalingrad.”
“And what forces do we have to pit against this colossus?” someone asked.
Yeromenko laughed. “That’s not something you’re supposed to know about. All I can say is that we have the forces, and we have the ammunition. We will not yield Stalingrad.” And then, turning to Parkhomenko, he said in a voice choked with rage, “Who the hell dared send my belongings across the Volga? I want every last thread, every last scrap of paper brought back by this evening! Is that clear? And I can tell you—someone will pay for this!”
Parkhomenko stood to attention. The men standing nearby looked at Yeromenko questioningly. Just then Barulin hurried up to Pryakhin’s desk and said in a loud whisper, “You’re being called to the telephone.”
Pryakhin got quickly to his feet and said, “Comrade Commander, this is a call from Moscow. Please come with me.”
Yeromenko followed Pryakhin towards the door.
16
THE DOOR, which was covered in black oilcloth, had barely closed behind Pryakhin and Yeromenko when everyone began talking. At first the conversation was subdued, but it soon became livelier. Several men went over to the map and began examining it closely, as if trying to find traces left by Yeromenko’s finger. There was much headshaking as they exchanged views: “Yes, the Germans have assembled quite a host!” “But if our forces try to hold out on the east bank of the Don, it’ll be the same old story—the Germans will be on a high cliff and we’ll be down by the water,” “And then it’ll be the same here on the Volga,”17 “I’ve heard the enemy’s already established a bridgehead this side of the Don,” “If you’re right, it’s only too clear what’ll come next,” “When he started listing the German divisions, it was like being stabbed in the heart,” “We’re not children, we need to know the truth.”
Marfin, the short, thin, hollow-cheeked raikom instructor, said sharply, “You never fail to attend obkom meetings, Stepan Fyodorovich, but you seem to think the raikom’s beneath you.”
“I am indeed at fault, comrade Marfin,” Spiridonov replied. “Still, I do have a lot on my shoulders. Evacuating a raikom’s not so difficult. You pack up your records, remove the red and green felt from a few tables, put everything into a truck—and off you go. What do you think it’s like for me? I can’t just carry my turbines out onto a truck.”
They were joined by two other men: the head of one of the main Tractor Factory workshops and the director of a cannery.
“The man himself, producer of a million tractors and great guzzler of electricity!” said Spiridonov.18
“Why have you still not sent me any electricians, Spiridonov? The factory’s working day and night. I’ll pay them the highest rate.”
In a low voice the cannery director said, “You’d do better, comrade Tractor, to pay them with places on the launches ferrying people to the east bank.”
“You think too much about those launches,” said Marfin. “I fear, comrade Cannery, that you may have caught yellow fever.”
The man from the Tractor Factory shook his head and said, “My soul aches day and night. At present we’re overfulfilling the plan. But if we move everything beyond the Volga, the collective will fall apart. We’ll never re-establish it out in the steppe. The workers are staying day and night on the shop floor—and what am I doing? Drawing up lists of names for evacuation. And making preparations for special measures I can’t bear to even think about! I’d rather die than go on talking about this evacuation. And Spiridonov’s taken to giving me all the electricity I ask for. He was a lot less generous before the war—there were always ‘objective reasons’. . .”
He turned towards Spiridonov and said crossly, “But this evacuation fever’s contagious, isn’t it? What do you think?”
“You’re absolutely right. Comrade Pickled Gherkins here has already had his family evacuated, and I keep thinking I should do the same. The thought’s gnawing away at me, I can’t deny it. What do you think, Marfin? Is there a cure for contagious evacuation fever?”
“There is, and it’s very simple,” Marfin replied. “But it’s a surgical intervention—not just a pill.”
“You’re a hard man!” said Spiridonov. “Comrade Cannery King, did you see the way Marfin looked at you then? Watch out. He might decide to cure you any moment.”
“I can cure him all right. Spreaders of panic are the last thing we need. At a time like this, they must be dealt with at once.”
Then everyone fell silent. The door was opening.
Pryakhin and Yeromenko returned to their chairs. After clearing his throat several times and waiting for complete silence, Pryakhin resumed in a severe tone, “Comrades! During the last few days, the deteriorating situation at the front has given rise to a pernicious tendency: we are preparing too much for evacuation and thinking too little about what our factories must do to defend our country. It is as if there has been a tacit agreement that we will all soon be crossing to the east bank.” Pryakhin looked around the room, paused, gave a little cough and continued, “This, comrades, is a grave political error.”
He got to his feet, put his hands on the desk and leaned forward a little. Very slowly, with emphasis, as if printing each word in the largest and boldest of scripts, he said, “No one defends an empty city. Alarmists, panic-mongers and anyone concerned only with saving their own skin will be dealt with mercilessly.” He then sat down and continued in his usual, somewhat colourless voice, “Such are the orders given us by our motherland, comrades, in the most terrible hours of the struggle. Every factory, every enterprise is to continue working as usual. There is to be no talk of special measures or evacuation. Is that clear? Clear to everyone present? This means that there should not be—and will not be—any further conversation about such matters. We must work. We must work and work. There is not a minute to be lost, since every minute is precious.”
He turned to Yeromenko.
Yeromenko shook his head and said, “This is no time for lectures. I will say only that my orders from the Stavka are to hold Stalingrad no matter what the cost. Simple as that. I’ve no more to say.”
There was a brief silence. This was broken by a sullen, ominous rumble. The windows in the neighbouring room burst inwards and there was the sound of broken glass tinkling onto the floor. Papers lying on Pryakhin’s desk were blown about the room. “An air raid!” someone yelled.
In his most commanding tone, Pryakhin said, “Stay calm, comrades. Remember—the work of every enterprise must continue without a minute’s interruption.”
The rumble quietened, then grew louder again, shaking the walls of the office. The cannery director, standing in the doorway, said, “Our ammunition dump in Krasnoarmeisk has exploded!”
Next came the voice of Yeromenko,
furious and still more commanding, “Parkhomenko, my car!”
“Your car—understood, comrade General!” said Parkhomenko. He rushed out of the office.
Yeromenko walked quickly towards the door. Everyone stepped aside for him.
As the last men were leaving, Spiridonov glanced at Pryakhin and began to walk towards the door too: Pryakhin probably now had more urgent concerns than the private conversation he had mentioned earlier. But Pryakhin called out after him, “Where are you going, comrade Spiridonov? I asked you to stay behind.” Then he went on, with a knowing smile, “A comrade from the front, an old friend of mine, was asking yesterday whether I’d come across the Shaposhnikov family here in Stalingrad. He seemed particularly concerned about your wife’s younger sister.”
“Who was this friend of yours?” asked Spiridonov.
“Nikolay Krymov. I think you know him.”
“I do indeed,” said Spiridonov. He looked around at the window, wondering if there was going to be another explosion.
“Krymov’s coming round tonight. He hasn’t said anything, but I really do think she ought to come and see him.”
“I’ll pass this on,” said Spiridonov.
Pryakhin put on his side cap and an army raincoat. Without looking at Spiridonov and probably without giving him another thought, he walked quickly towards the door.
17
THAT EVENING, in a large room in Pryakhin’s apartment, Pryakhin and Krymov sat together drinking tea. On the table, beside their cups and the teapot, were a bottle of wine and some newspapers. The room was in a chaotic state—the sofa and the armchairs in the wrong place, the bookcase doors wide open, and the floor littered with leaflets and newspapers. Next to the sideboard were a pram and a rocking horse. A large rosy-cheeked doll with tousled blonde hair was sitting in one of the armchairs, with a toy samovar and some tiny cups on a little table in front of her. Leaning against this table was a sub-machine gun, and lying across the back of the armchair was a soldier’s greatcoat, along with a brightly coloured summer dress.
Amid all this clutter, the two tall men, with their calm movements and measured voices, seemed out of place. Wiping the sweat from his forehead, Pryakhin was saying, “The loss of the ammunition dump is a real blow. But there’s something else I need to talk to you about. This city will soon be a battleground, no doubt about it. One worry we could do without is nurseries and children’s homes. So, the obkom has ordered them to be evacuated—unlike our factories, which are not to stop work for one minute. And I’ve had my family evacuated too—I’m here on my own now.” He looked around the room, then at Krymov. “Well, well, well,” he said with a shake of the head. “A lot of water has flowed under the bridge.”
He looked around the room again and said, “My wife’s very house proud. She notices every cigarette butt, every last speck of dust—but now that she’s gone . . . Look!” And he gestured around the room. “Devastation! And this is just one apartment! What can it be like in the rest of the city? A city with great furnaces! A city renowned for its steel! We have workers here who know enough to be elected to the Academy of Sciences! And our guns! Have a word with the Germans—I’m sure they’ll have something to say about the quality of our artillery. But I want to tell you about Mostovskoy. He really is one hell of an old man! I went to see him, to try and persuade him to leave. He just wouldn’t listen! ‘Why?’ he says. ‘I’ve had enough of being evacuated, I’m not moving another inch. And should the need arise,’ he goes on, ‘I could be of use underground. Yes, I could teach you youngsters a thing or two about clandestine work—I put in a good few years of that before the Revolution.’ And he spoke so forcefully that in the end it was he who talked me round, rather than me him. I gave him some contacts and personally introduced him to one of them. No, I’ve never met anyone like him!”
Krymov nodded. “I’ve been thinking a lot about the past too. And I certainly remember Mostovskoy. At one time he was living in our own small town, as an exile. And he liked to meet young people—I was only a boy then. To me he was like a god. I believed in him like a god. One day he and I went for a walk together, just outside the town. And he read the Communist Manifesto aloud to me. There was a little hill, and a summerhouse often used by lovers. But it was autumn when he and I were there. It was raining, and now and again the wind blew the rain inside. There were dead leaves flying about—and there he was, reading aloud to me. And I was so excited. I was overwhelmed. On the way back it got dark. He took my hand and said, ‘Remember these words: “Let the ruling classes tremble before a Communist Revolution. The proletarians have nothing to lose but their chains. And they have a world to win.”’ And there he was, with holes in his galoshes—I can still hear him squelching along. I wept.”
Pryakhin got to his feet, went up to the wall, pointed to the map and said, “And that’s just what we did. We won the world. Look! Here we are—Stalingrad! See these three factories? These three titans! Come November, Stalgres will have completed its first ten years. And here’s the city centre, and the workers’ settlements, the new buildings, the asphalted streets and squares. And here are the parks on the outskirts—the city’s ring of green.”
“This morning those parks came under fire from German mortars,” said Krymov.
“And building this city wasn’t all plain sailing!” Pryakhin continued. “It took blood and sweat. The opposites that came together—it’s hard to grasp such contradictions. There were prisoners, former kulaks, and, working right beside them, young boys and girls, Komsomol members still at school who’d left their home and family and travelled a thousand miles to help build a great factory. The cold, of course, was the same for everyone. Forty degrees below, and a wind to knock you off your feet. At night, in the workers’ barracks, you could hardly breathe . . . Smoke, oil lamps, torn, tattered clothing hanging down from the bed boards, the foulest of foul language, sentries rattling their rifles . . . It was as if we were cave dwellers, back in the Stone Age—yet look what it brought us! Fine buildings and theatres, parks and factories, our new industrial might . . . But there in the barrack you’d hear someone cough and see their bare feet hanging down. You’d look up and see some bearded old fellow, clutching his chest, his eyes shining in the half-dark. His neighbour would be fast asleep, letting out terrible groans. And I’d have to track down the work superintendent and ask why he was behind schedule with digging the foundation pits. And I knew, of course, that the man was doing all he could. He was no sentimental Christian socialist and he was at his wit’s end himself.”
“And what happened?” asked Krymov. “Did you fulfil the plan?”
“Of course! I told the work superintendent he’d better get up off his arse. Otherwise I’d have him expelled from the Party and he’d be out there with the rest of them, hacking away at the frozen earth with a crowbar. What else could I say to the man? Life was difficult. Difficult. Difficult as it gets . . . So you might think it was more fun to be creating parks and orchards. Cherries, apple trees . . . Apples of every kind—Antonovka, Oporto, Crimean, Rosemary Russet . . . Well, we invited an old scientist to the city. He was a famous man. He used to get letters from admirers all over the world—Belgium, the south of France, America. He was full of enthusiasm, excited at the thought of establishing sweet orchards on sand and clay, on the outskirts of a city of dust and sandstorms. In all the history of horticulture, he said, there’d never been a project on such a scale. The Hanging Gardens of Babylon, in comparison, were a mere kitchen vegetable patch. And he was such a sweet old man—it was as if he smelled of apples himself. We made our plans and got down to work. The scientist drove out to visit the site. Once, twice, a third time. I could sense his enthusiasm souring. Conditions were harsh. There were Komsomol volunteers, but alongside them were whole brigades of former kulaks. In the end the scientist left—he couldn’t cope. And without him we made our share of mistakes. Young apple trees died in the frosts. I sent young men to tribunals and, to be honest, I sent a good few into exile
myself. And then, last spring, we invited this scientist back. We put him in a car and drove him out to see our ring of green. The orchards were in blossom, thousands of Stalingraders were going out to see them. No barracks, no mounds of filth—just heavenly gardens. Butterflies, streams, the sound of bees. Where there had been only ravines, dust, barrack huts, and rusty wire. As he was leaving, he said, ‘Really, I don’t understand a thing. I don’t understand the limits of life’s goodness. I don’t understand where evil comes to an end, where it changes to good.’ Back in the old days, the least wind off the steppe used to shroud the city in dust—but now it brings with it a breath of apples. Just like that sweet old man. Yes, what we made there is quite something. A ring of green, hundreds of thousands of workers enjoying the fresh air. Sixty kilometres of park and garden.”
“First, a ring of sand and clay,” said Krymov. “Then, a ring of green. And now, a ring of iron and steel. Remember that song from 1920? ‘Our foes crowd in from every side. / We stand here in a ring of fire.’”
“I do. But let me finish. The old man was astonished. More than that, the world was astonished! And in the meantime three new factories have come online, the Tractor Factory’s annual production is now up to 50,000 units, several thousand hectares of bog have been drained and the fertility of the Akhtuba floodplain has overtaken that of the Nile Delta. And you know as well as I do how all this was accomplished. We pitted poverty against poverty. With our teeth, with our twisted, frozen fingers we tore out a new future for ourselves. Former kulaks built libraries and institutes under armed guard. In bare feet or bast shoes they created monuments to the working class. Sleeping in barns and barracks, they constructed aircraft factories. We raised Russia—all her trillion tons—to a new height. Compared with us Bolsheviks, Peter the Great was a mere child—though it may be decades before people fully grasp what a geological shift we’ve effected! And what is it that the fascists are trampling underfoot? What is it they’re burning? It’s our own sweat, our own blood, our own great work, the unparalleled achievement of workers and peasants who fought against poverty with their own bare hands, whose only weapon against poverty was poverty itself. And this is what Hitler wants to destroy. No, never before has the world seen such a war.”
Stalingrad Page 55