Stalingrad

by Vasily Grossman

  For some time Krymov looked at Pryakhin in silence. Then he said, “I’m thinking how much you’ve changed. I can hardly believe it. I remember you as a young lad in a greatcoat, and now you’ve become a man of the state. You’ve been telling me about all you’ve built. And you’ve certainly climbed high in the world yourself, up into the stratosphere. But what can I say about my own life? I was a member of the international workers’ movement. I had friends in every country—friends who were workers and Communists. And now I see fascist hordes—Germans, Romanians, Italians, Hungarians and Austrians—approaching the Volga, the same Volga where I served as a commissar twenty-two years ago. You tell me you’ve built factories and planted orchards. I can see you have a family and children. But as for me and my own life . . . Why did my wife leave me? Can you tell me? I’m sorry, brother, I’m saying the wrong thing. But you’ve certainly changed. I can hardly believe it!”

  “People are always growing and changing,” Pryakhin replied. “It’s nothing to be surprised about. But I recognized you at once. You’re the same man you’ve always been. In your cotton tunic and your boots with worn-down heels, though you could certainly get yourself something better. The man I remember from twenty-five years ago, on his way to the front to subvert the tsar’s army.”

  “You’re right. Times change, but I don’t. I don’t know how to change. I’ve been criticized for this. But what do you think? Is that a plus or a minus, a good quality or a bad quality?”

  “Always the philosopher! Another respect in which you haven’t changed!”

  “Don’t make fun of me. Times change—but a human being’s not a gramophone. I can’t just play whatever record another man chooses. I’m not made that way.”

  “A Bolshevik must do what the Party—and therefore the people—requires him to do. If his understanding of the needs of the time is in accord with the Party’s, then he will do the right thing.”

  “I led 200 men out of encirclement. How? Because I had the faith of a revolutionary, for all my grey hairs. Because these men believed in me! They followed me! For them I was Karl Marx and Dmitry Donskoy.19 I was both a Red Army general and a village priest. We were behind German lines. We had no radio. The Germans were telling the villagers that Leningrad had fallen and that Moscow had surrendered: no Red Army, no front, everything finished . . . And I made my way east with 200 men—ragged, with dysentery, swollen from hunger, yet still hanging on to their grenades and machine guns. Every last one of us still bearing arms. At a time like that, people don’t follow a man who’s no more than a wind-up gramophone. Nor would a man like that try to lead them. Don’t tell me you’d send just anyone behind German lines!”

  “True enough.”

  Krymov got to his feet and paced about the room.

  “Yes, my friend, it is true.”

  “Sit down, Nikolay. Listen! We have to love life, all life—the earth, the forests, the Volga, and our people, and our parks and gardens. It’s as simple as that, we have to love life. You’re a destroyer of the old, but are you a builder of the new? And moving from the general to the particular, what about your own life? What have you done to build that? Sometimes, when I’m at work, I think about how I’ll soon be back home. I’ll see the children and I’ll bend down and kiss them! That’s something good. A woman, a wife, needs a great deal—and she needs children . . . And now the fascists are at the gates of this city we’ve struggled so hard to build. We can’t allow them to wreck it. They have to be stopped.”

  The door opened and Barulin came in. After waiting for Pryakhin to finish, he cleared his throat and said, “Ivan Pavlovich, it’s time you left for the Tractor Factory.”

  “Very well,” said Pryakhin. He looked at his watch and stood up. “Comrade Krymov, Nikolay, sit down, take your time. Yes, have a rest. Stay as long as you like. There’ll be someone on duty here till I get back.”

  “I’m going too. Has my car arrived?”

  “Yes,” said Barulin. “I’ve just come in off the street—I saw it waiting outside.”

  Pryakhin went over to Krymov and said, “You know, I really think you should stay here a little longer. Sit down for a while!”

  “What’s going on? Why this earnest advice?”

  “I know what you’re like. You won’t go to the Shaposhnikovs yourself, not for anything in the world. You’re too proud. But you need to talk to her, you really do.” He bent down and said in Krymov’s ear, “You love her, you know you do.”

  “Wait a moment,” said Krymov. “Just why do you want me to stay?”

  “Because she’ll be here any minute. The Shaposhnikovs know that you’re here. I’m certain she’ll come.”

  “What do you mean? Why? I don’t want to see her.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “All right, I do want to see her. But what’s the point? What can she say to me? Why would she come? To comfort me? I don’t want to be comforted.”

  Pryakhin shook his head. “I really think you should talk to her. If you love her, you must fight for your happiness.”

  “No, I don’t want to. Anyway, it’s not the right time. If I stay alive, maybe we’ll meet some other time.”

  “That’s a great pity. I thought I could help you to rebuild your life.”

  Krymov went up to Pryakhin, put his hands on his shoulders and said, “Thank you, my friend.” He smiled and added quietly, “But it seems it’s impossible, even with the help of an obkom first secretary, to arrange my personal happiness.”

  “All right,” said Pryakhin. “It’s time we were off.”

  He called Barulin and said to him, “If a young, beautiful female comrade comes and asks for comrade Krymov, please apologize on his behalf and say he was called back to his unit on urgent business.”

  “No, comrade Barulin, please do not apologize. Just say that Krymov’s gone, and that he did not leave a message.”

  “It seems you really have been wounded,” said Pryakhin, as he made his way towards the door. “Badly wounded.”

  “Yes,” said Krymov, “very badly indeed.” And he followed Pryakhin out.

  18

  IN THE late afternoon of 20 August, after finishing work, old Pavel Andreyev went to see Alexandra Vladimirovna. She wanted to give him some rosehip tea, for the vitamins, but he was in a hurry. He wouldn’t even sit down.

  “You really must leave Stalingrad,” he said. He went on to say that some tanks had been brought to them that morning for repairs and that the lieutenant in command of one of the tank crews had told him that the Germans had now crossed the Don.

  “And you?” asked Alexandra. “Are you leaving?”

  “No.”

  “And your family?”

  “They leave the day after tomorrow.”

  “And if the Germans come? If you’re cut off from your family?”

  “If I’m cut off, then I’m cut off. Comrade Mostovskoy’s staying, and he’s older than I am,” said Andreyev. He then repeated, “But you really must leave, Alexandra Vladimirovna. The situation is serious.”

  After Andreyev had left, Alexandra began taking out shoes and items of underwear from the cupboard. She opened a trunk full of winter clothes scattered with mothballs. Then she returned the shoes and underwear to the cupboard and began putting books, letters and photographs into a suitcase. Feeling more and more anxious, she rolled one cigarette after another. Her home-grown tobacco behaved like a green log in a stove, hissing, crackling and letting out sparks.

  By the time Marusya got back, the room was full of smoke.

  “What are people saying in town? Have you heard any news?” asked Alexandra. She went on, in a preoccupied tone, “I’ve decided to start on a little packing. But I just can’t find the letter about Ida Semyonovna. I’m upset. Seryozha will want to see it.”

  Marusya tried to calm her mother. “No, I haven’t heard anything new. It’s probably just those explosions—they must have scared you. Stepan’s been at an obkom meeting. Everyone’s staying in the c
ity, and the factories are to go on working as usual. Only hospitals, nurseries and children’s homes are being evacuated. The day after tomorrow I’m accompanying the Tractor Factory children’s home to Kamyshin. I’ll sort out the premises and other arrangements with the raikom and then come back by car two days later. We can discuss everything then, but I can assure you there’s no need to rush.”

  “All right—but please help me find this letter. Where on earth can it be? What will I say to Seryozha?”

  They began going through papers and letters, looking in every drawer of Alexandra’s desk.

  “I wonder if Zhenya’s got it. Ah, here she is.”

  Looking at Marusya, Zhenya made a pained face as she came in. The room was so full of smoke she could hardly breathe, but she didn’t dare say anything. Not long ago she had told her mother that she shouldn’t smoke any of her awful, poisonous tobacco after they’d put up the blackout curtains—and her mother had flown into a rage.

  “You didn’t take the letter about Ida Semyonovna, did you?” asked Alexandra.

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Heavens, I’ve just turned the whole place upside down. Give it to me.”

  “I’ve already sent it to Seryozha,” Zhenya said rather loudly. She felt childishly embarrassed, and this made her angry.

  “You put it in the post?” said Alexandra. “But it might get lost. And anyway we decided it was best not to send it yet. A shock like that when you’re only seventeen, alone in the trenches, surrounded by strangers . . .”

  “I didn’t put it in the post,” said Zhenya. “I gave it to someone who’ll deliver it in person.”

  “How could you!” Marusya shouted angrily. “We agreed not to tell him. It was a joint decision! Idiot! Cruel, infantile, anarchistic idiot!”

  “I did what was right,” said Zhenya. “Seryozha’s chosen to put his life on the line. We can’t keep treating him like a baby. And just because you’re now a candidate member of the Party, you don’t need to keep calling us all petty bourgeois or anarchists!”

  Marusya felt too furious even to look at Zhenya—she wanted so badly to say something vicious and wounding.

  “All right, girls,” said Alexandra Vladimirovna. “Enough of that. Party member or not, you’re each as bad as the other. Marusya, you really haven’t heard any cause for alarm, either in the factory or in the city?”

  “Absolutely not. I’ve already told you about the general mood in the city.”

  “Strange. Andreyev came round only an hour ago. Some commander had brought his tank along for repairs and he advised everyone who could to cross to the east bank. He said the Germans have crossed the Don.”

  “Just some rumour,” said Marusya. “It makes no sense. Everyone’s quite calm.”

  “No,” said Zhenya. “It’s not just some rumour. And what about Vera? Isn’t she back yet? That’s worrying too.”

  “Maybe they’ve already started evacuating the hospitals?” said Alexandra. “But hang on—Vera’s working late today anyway.”

  Alexandra went to the kitchen. No one had turned on the light there, and so the window hadn’t been blacked out. She opened it and listened for a long time. There was a rumble of trains from the station, and flashes of summer lightning in the dark sky. Back in the room again, she said, “The shooting sounds much louder and clearer than it used to. Oh, Seryozha, Seryozha!”

  “There’s no need to panic,” said Marusya. “Especially since the day after tomorrow will be Sunday,” she added, as if the war took a rest on Sundays.

  Late in the evening Spiridonov came round. “Things are going badly,” he said, lighting a cigarette. “You must all leave immediately.”

  “Then you must warn Ludmila,” said Alexandra. “Send her a telegram.”

  “Forget it,” he replied irritably. “You and your intelligentsia affectations.”

  “Stepan!” Marusya exclaimed. “What’s got into you?”

  She had often used exactly these words about her mother, but hearing her husband repeat them was another matter.

  But Spiridonov’s face had changed. He seemed lost—just a simple boy from a village.

  “What am I going to do with you all?” he said. “The Germans are right here. How are you going to get to Kazan all on your own? Anything could happen—I might never see you again.”

  He insisted that they should all start packing straightaway.

  “You must speak to Mostovskoy,” said Alexandra. “Impress on him how serious things are. And you absolutely must warn Tamara. You’ve got an all-night pass, so you can go right now. And please calm down a little.”

  “Stop ordering me about!” Spiridonov shouted. “I came here to warn you, not to be given instructions. And I don’t have an all-night pass—I’ve been infringing the curfew.”

  “Calm down,” Alexandra repeated. “We’ve had enough of your hysterics.” She straightened the sleeves of her dress, then added, as if Spiridonov weren’t there, “I always thought of Stepan as a true proletarian, with nerves of steel, but it seems I was wrong.” Turning to him again, she said condescendingly, “Maybe you’d like a few drops of valerian?”

  Marusya said quietly to Zhenya, “Mama really is very angry.”

  Mama’s rages were nothing new. The two sisters could remember how, when they were little, the whole family would take cover and wait for the storm to pass.

  Muttering and gesturing angrily, Spiridonov went to his wife’s room.

  In a loud, clear voice, Zhenya said, “Guess who I went to see this evening. Nikolay Grigorievich Krymov!”

  Simultaneously, and in the same tone of voice, Marusya and Alexandra said, “Nikolay Grigorievich! Well, how did it go?”

  Zhenya laughed. Speaking very fast, she said, “Very well indeed. Could hardly have gone better. I was turned away at the door.”

  Marusya and Alexandra exchanged silent looks. Spiridonov came back in, went up to his mother-in-law and asked, “May I have a light?” After letting out a large cloud of smoke, he said quietly, “I may have been over-insistent a minute ago. Please don’t be angry. Best to get some sleep now and we can have another think in the morning. I have to go to the obkom again first thing. We’ll get the latest information, I’ll send Ludmila a telegram, and I’ll have a word with Tamara and Mostovskoy. I do understand your feelings.”

  Marusya immediately guessed what lay behind her husband’s abrupt change of mood. She went to her room and opened the cupboard. Stepan had indeed taken a large swig of vodka—or, as he now called it, a dose of anti-bombitis.

  Marusya sighed, opened her medicine chest and, silently moving her thin lips, began counting out drops of strophanthin.20 She now took her heart medicines secretly—since applying to join the Party, she had come to see her use of strophanthin and lily of the valley as a petty-bourgeois weakness.

  She heard Zhenya, who was still in the dining room, say, “All right, so it’s agreed that I’ll travel in my skiing clothes.” And then, with no apparent connection, “Well, we’re all going to die sooner or later.”

  Stepan laughed and said, “You, with your ineffable beauty—never will I allow you to die!”

  Usually Marusya felt irritated when Stepan joked with Zhenya like this. This time, though, she did not mind. “My family, my dear ones,” she said to herself, and tears spilled from her eyes. The world was full of sorrow; with all their weaknesses, these people were more precious to her than ever.

  19

  IN THE second half of August, units of the Stalingrad people’s militia, drawn from clerks and factory workers, Volga sailors and dock workers, took up defensive positions on the city’s outskirts. A regular division of internal troops also received orders to prepare for combat.21

  This regular division had no combat experience, but it was full strength, well armed and well trained; soldiers and commanders alike were professionals, not volunteers or recent conscripts.

  As the militia regiments moved towards the city’s western outskirts, units from the
front were retreating towards them. These battered units, exhausted by constant fighting and a long, difficult retreat, were what remained of two infantry armies—the 62nd, to the west, and the 64th, further south. They were now positioned on the east bank of the Don, on the defensive line constructed by the towns-people of Stalingrad.

  Before crossing the Don, these units had been some distance apart from one another, linked only tenuously. Now they stood close together, ready to fight side by side.

  The German forces, however, were also drawing together as they approached Stalingrad. As before, they outnumbered the Russians and were better equipped, both in the air and on the ground.

  Seryozha Shaposhnikov had by then completed one month of military training in a militia battalion just outside the city, in Beketovka. One morning his company was woken early and ordered to march west, bringing up the rear of their regiment. By noon, they had reached a gully to the west of the factory settlement of Rynok. Their dugouts and trenches were in a low-lying part of the steppe; Stalingrad itself was no longer visible. In the distance they could see only the small grey houses and grey fences of the village of Okatovka and a little-used back road running towards the Volga.

  After marching thirty kilometres under the hot steppe sun, through long, coarse, dust-covered grass that clung to their legs like strands of wire, Seryozha and his comrades, still unused to army life, were exhausted. The march had seemed endless and every stride had required effort. All a man can think of during a march like that is whether or not he has the strength to reach the next telegraph pole, and the steppe had appeared infinite—certainly too vast to be measured by the gaps between telegraph poles.