“I volunteered for the militia to defend the homeland, not to cover up other people’s stupidities,” said Chentsov.
“And the rest of us?” said Galiguzov. “Do you think we’re not willing to sacrifice our lives for the motherland?”
Shortly before they moved out to the steppe, the rapport between Seryozha and Chentsov had soured. Seryozha’s boyish outspokenness seemed to alarm Chentsov.
“Don’t you ever feel like smashing Kryakin’s face in?” Seryozha had asked, addressing a group of his comrades. After waiting in vain for an answer, he had said resolutely, “I do—the man’s a shit.”
The others had laughed, but in the evening one of them said to Seryozha, “You shouldn’t say things like that about the company commander. You could be sent to a penal battalion!”25
And Chentsov joined in, saying, “Yes, this should be reported to Politinstructor Shumilo!”
“A fine comrade you are!” said Seryozha.
“It would be the act of a true comrade. You need to be taught a lesson or two, before it’s too late. You’ve been educated pretty well, but you lack political awareness.”
“I think—” Seryozha began, both embarrassed and angry.
“You think the world of yourself,” Chentsov yelled furiously, “but you’re just a snot-nosed brat.” Seryozha had never seen him like this before.
But once they had left Stalingrad and moved to the steppe, it was the turn of Polyakov the carpenter to come into his own. The Shaposhnikovs would, no doubt, have been astonished to learn that Polyakov considered their dear Seryozha as anything but well educated. All day long Polyakov criticized Seryozha and told him what to do: “If you’re going to sit down for a meal, you should first take your cap off . . . No, not a bucket of water—a pail of water . . . What are you doing—call that a way to cut bread? . . . Whatever next? Flinging out your garbage just as a man’s coming down into the dugout! . . . No, no, no, there are no dogs round here—they’re not going to clean up the bones you throw out! And I’m not a donkey—don’t keep saying ‘Hey!’ to me!”
Polyakov imagined that Seryozha placed a loaf of bread the wrong way up not only because military life exempted him from ordinary rules of human behaviour but also because he lacked respect for simple working people. It did not occur to him that Seryozha might never have been taught rules and customs known to every little boy in the workers’ settlement where he himself had grown up. His own philosophy of life was unsophisticated but fundamentally decent: a belief that working people have the right to be free, happy and properly fed. He could speak eloquently about bread still warm from the oven, about cabbage soup with sour cream, and about the joys of drinking cold beer in summer or, in winter, coming in out of the cold into a clean, well-heated room, sitting down at table and downing a glass of vodka: “Cool to the lips, warm to the heart!”
Polyakov loved his work. When he spoke about his tools, about planks of ash and beech, about working with oak and maple, it was with the same sensuous joy, the same gleam in his small, bright eyes—embedded deep in his many wrinkles—as when he talked about drinking vodka with his dinner. He thought of his work as a way of giving pleasure to people, of making their lives easier and more comfortable. He loved life and life had evidently returned his love, treating him generously and not hiding its charms from him. He went regularly to the cinema and the theatre and he had planted a small orchard beside his house. He loved football and some of the other soldiers already knew who he was, having often glimpsed him at the stadium. He had a small rowing boat of his own, and he usually went on fishing trips during his holidays, spending two weeks in the reeds by the east bank of the Volga, enjoying the silent excitement of fishing and the magical riches of the water—water that could be cool and sad in the misty silence of dawn, soft and golden as sunflower oil on a moonlit night, or sparkling and boisterous on a day of sun and wind. He fished, slept, smoked, made fish soup, fried fish in a pan, baked fish between burdock leaves, drank vodka and sang songs. He would return home tipsy, smelling of smoke and the river, and for many days to come he would discover stray fish scales in his hair and be emptying tiny pinches of white sand from his pockets. There was a particular fragrant root that he liked to smoke and, when he needed new supplies, he used to make a special journey to an old man he knew in a village forty kilometres away.
When he was young, Polyakov had seen a great deal; he had served in the Red Army, both in the infantry and the artillery, and he had taken part in the defence of Tsaritsyn. He would point to an overgrown ditch, now almost filled in by sand, and swear to the other soldiers that this was the very trench in which he had sat twenty-two years earlier, his machine gun trained on the White cavalry.
Politinstructor Shumilo took it into his head to organize an evening discussion, so that the old veteran could talk about the defence of Tsaritsyn. Soldiers were invited from the other units, but the discussion did not turn out as planned. Intimidated by the sight of dozens of people all come to listen to him, Polyakov stuttered for a while, then fell silent. After a moment or two, he recovered himself, sat down on the ground and, as if just chatting over a glass of beer with one of his mates, continued with wild vivacity. With astonishing recall of every detail, encouraged by the smiles of his audience, he talked about what they had been given to eat, listing the exact quantity of millet, the number of sugar lumps and the weight of their rations of corned beef and dried rusks. He spoke with particular feeling about a certain Bychkov, who, twenty-one years ago, had stolen a bottle of moonshine and a pair of new boots from his haversack.
Shumilo had to take over and give a proper lecture about the defence of Tsaritsyn, although he himself had been only two years old at the time.
The other soldiers did not forget this evening, and Polyakov became the butt of much banter. And the regimental commissar, for his part, would sometimes say to Shumilo, “Well, who do you think we should send as a lecturer? Polyakov?” And then, with a wink, “Yes, there are no flies on that old fellow!”
After the Civil War, Polyakov had worked in Rostov and Yekaterinoslav, and then in Moscow and Baku. He did indeed have much to reminisce about. He spoke freely and directly about women, but with a straightforward admiration, a kind of fearful astonishment that was somehow very appealing.
“You’re still children,” he would say, “still wet behind the ears. But the power of a woman is something to be reckoned with. To this day, a beautiful girl sets my ears ringing and makes my heart miss a beat.”
During the company’s fifth day in the steppe two cars arrived: a green Emka and an elegant black saloon. Their passengers turned out to be members of the State Defence Committee, along with the colonel in command of the Stalingrad garrison. They went straight to HQ, leaving the soldiers chatting excitedly.
The visitors soon emerged from HQ and began to inspect the trenches and dugouts and to talk to the soldiers. The colonel examined the machine-gun nests at length, settled himself behind one of the guns, took aim and even fired a few rounds into the air. Then he moved on to the mortarmen.
“Stand to attention!” shouted Kryakin, before saluting. The lean, elegant colonel at once called out, “At ease!” Seeing Polyakov, he smiled and went over to him.
“Well met, my good carpenter!”
Polyakov stood to attention again and said, “Good day, comrade Colonel!”
Bryushkov, the platoon commander, felt relieved: Polyakov’s response had been correct to the letter.
“Your position here?” asked the colonel.
“Mortar loader, comrade Colonel.”
“Well, brother Slav, will you fight off the Germans? You won’t let the professionals down?”
“Not if I’m properly fed,” Polyakov replied brightly. “But where are these Germans? Are they close yet?”
The colonel laughed and said, “Well, soldier, let’s have a look at your famous tin!”
Polyakov took a round tin from his pocket and gave the colonel some tobacco from his specia
l root. The colonel took off his gloves, rolled a cigarette and puffed out a cloud of smoke. In the meantime, his adjutant quietly asked the other soldiers, “Is there a Shaposhnikov here?”
“He’s gone to fetch our rations,” said Chentsov.
“I’ve got a letter for him,” said the adjutant, “from his family in the city.” Waving an envelope in the air, he said, “Shall I leave it at HQ?”
“Leave it with me, we’re in the same dugout,” said Chentsov.
After the visitors left, Polyakov said to his comrades, “I’ve known him a long time. He’s a good sort. A man like us—for all his smart gloves and high rank. Not long before the war I was laying a parquet floor in his office. He came to take a look at my work, then said, ‘Pass me the sander. I want to have a go too.’ And he knew what to do with the machine all right. He told me he’s from Vologda. His father was a carpenter, and his grandfather too, and he even worked six years as a carpenter himself, before all his military schools and academies.”
“His Chevrolet is a dream,” Chentsov said thoughtfully. “What an engine—it really purrs.”
“The number of houses I must have built in Stalingrad,” Polyakov went on. “It’s hard to imagine. And the garrison HQ—I did a parquet floor for them too. The best beech, beautifully sanded.” When Polyakov talked about all the schools, hospitals and club rooms he had helped construct, when he listed all the buildings where he had laid floors or installed doors, windows and partition walls, it was as if the whole city belonged to him—as if this spirited, cantankerous old man were the master of all Stalingrad. And now here he was out in the steppe, behind the barrel of a heavy mortar turned to the west: what lay behind Polyakov was his own realm—so who in the world could defend this realm better?
Everyone in the various militia HQs and command posts felt cheered by the colonel’s visit. And two days later, a new division took up position nearby. Clouds of dust rose over the steppe and there was a constant rumble of trucks. The steppe roads were packed with close columns of infantry; with sub-units of sappers, machine-gunners and anti-tank riflemen; with large-calibre motor artillery; with batteries of heavy mortars; with heavy machine guns and anti-tank guns. There were three-tonners full of shells and mortar bombs, their suspensions barely able to cope. Field kitchens rattled past; field radio stations and ambulances stirred up yet more dust.
Polyakov and his militia comrades watched excitedly as these new battalions deployed, as signallers passed by, trailing their long cables, and rapid-firing cannon were installed in their fire positions, their long barrels all pointing west.
To a soldier preparing to meet the enemy it is always a joy when new comrades take their place at his side, close by and ready for combat.
21
GRADUSOV was summoned to regimental HQ. Late in the afternoon he came back and, without a word to anyone, began packing his knapsack. With a mock-sympathetic smile, Chentsov asked, “Why are your hands shaking? Being transferred to the paratroopers, are you?”
Gradusov looked around. He seemed almost drunk with excitement. “People haven’t forgotten about me after all,” he replied. “I’m being sent to Chelyabinsk, to help build a military factory. My family will accompany me. All agreed just like that!”
“Ah!” said Chentsov. “Now I understand. Your hands are shaking with joy. I’d thought it was fear.”
Gradusov smiled meekly. Rather than taking offence, he still expected others to delight in his success. “Just think,” he said, unfolding a document he had in his hand. “A man’s life depends on a slip of paper! That’s it now! Yesterday the best I could hope for was a position as a clerk, but now I’m off to Siberia. With luck, I’ll get a lift on a truck to Kamyshin tomorrow. Then to Saratov by train. There I’ll join my wife, and my son—and off we all go to Chelyabinsk. Farewell, comrade Kryakin, you won’t be able to get at me there!” He laughed again, looked at his comrades, waved his document in the air, put it in one of his tunic pockets, did up the button and then, to make doubly sure, fastened the pocket with a large safety pin. He ran his hand over his chest and said, “There—all in good order!”
“Yes,” said Polyakov. “You’re lucky to be able to see your family. I wish I could do the same—I’d love to spend an hour with my old woman.”
Gripped by a magnanimous pity towards those he was leaving behind, Gradusov opened his knapsack and said, “Here you are, my friends—my army kit! I won’t be needing it where I’m going now. Help yourselves!” Taking some neatly folded foot cloths and holding them out towards Chentsov, he said, “Please, take these! Brand new, clean as napkins.”
“No,” said Chentsov. “I don’t want your brand-new napkins.”
But Gradusov was feeling more and more intoxicated by his own generosity. He took out a razor in a white cloth and said, “This is for you, Shaposhnikov, something to remember me by—even if you do seem to have a grudge against me!”
Seryozha did not reply.
“Take it, Shaposhnikov, feel free!” Seeing Seryozha hesitate, he added, “Don’t worry, I’ve got another one back at home, an English razor. This one here is my old one—I didn’t bring my new one in case someone made off with it.”
Seryozha was unsure whether or not it was right to say something hurtful to a man offering him a gift. He even wondered about saying that he didn’t need a razor because he hadn’t yet started to shave—not an easy thing to admit when you’re already seventeen. But in the end he said, “No. I don’t want it. I look on you now. . . as a deserter.”
“No, Seryozha!” Polyakov interrupted angrily. “You’re not a teacher, and we all have our own lives to live.” He turned to Gradusov and said, “Give it to me. It can be our kolkhoz razor, our collective property.”
Polyakov took the black razor case from Gradusov and put it in his pocket. “What are you all getting so upset about?” he asked brightly. “So what if there’s one militiaman less in our company! I’ve just been outside. I’ve seen our new divisions deploying. There’s a whole host taking up position. They just keep on coming—no beginning and no end to them. Parade-ground uniforms, box-calf boots, ruddy cheeks. Strapping young men, real warriors. What’s the matter with you all? We can get by without Gradusov!”
“True enough,” said Gradusov.
“Where do you think you’re going now?” asked Polyakov, seeing Gradusov put on his knapsack. “It’s almost dark. You’ll lose your way in the steppe and end up getting shot by one of our sentries. Stay here till morning. The field kitchen will be here any moment—why miss out on your rations? We’re getting meat soup tonight—good and rich. Come morning, you can go on your way.”
Gradusov gave him a quick look, then shook his head. He didn’t say a word, but everyone understood what he was thinking: “No, my friends, I’m sorry—but what if the Germans attack during the night? Soup or no soup—it could be the end of me!”
Gradusov left. There may have been men who envied him, but there was no one who did not, in some way, feel superior to him.
“Why did you accept a gift from him, comrade Polyakov?” asked Chentsov.
“Why not?” replied Polyakov. “It’ll come in useful. Why let the fool go off with a good razor?”
“I think you were wrong,” said Seryozha. “And you shouldn’t have given him your hand. I didn’t.”
“Shaposhnikov’s right,” said Chentsov. Seryozha gave him a warm smile—this was their first moment of understanding since their quarrel.
Aware of this, Chentsov went on, “You got a letter today. Was it anything important? No one else has had one yet.”
Seryozha looked up again and said, “Yes, I did get a letter.”
“Are you all right? Is something wrong with your eyes?”
“They’re sore,” said Seryozha. “It must be the dust.”
•
Dark steppe, and two diffuse glows in the sky—from the furnaces of the Stalingrad factories and from the fighting to the west of the Don. Silent stars and wanton new int
erlopers—red and green German rockets, temporarily blinding men to the stars’ eternal light. In the dark up above—the troubling hum of planes, maybe Soviet, maybe German. The steppe is silent, and to the north, where there is no source of light, earth and sky have merged—dark, sullen and anxious. Sultry heat—rather than bringing peace and cool, the night is full of alarm. It is a night of steppe warfare. Any slight rustle is frightening, but silence is no less frightening. The darkness to the north is terrifying, but the uncertain glow from beyond the Don is worse still—and drawing nearer.
A seventeen-year-old boy with narrow shoulders stands with his rifle at a company advance post. He stands there, doing nothing, thinking and thinking. But what he feels is not childish fear, not the fear of a lost, helpless bird; for the first time in his life he feels that he is strong, and the warm breath of this vast and severe land—this land he is here to defend—fills him with love and pity. He too is severe, strong, frowning and resolute, a defender of the small and the weak, of a land now lying hushed and wounded.
He raises his rifle and shouts hoarsely, “Stop or I shoot!” He stares at a shadow in the feathergrass. The shadow freezes. The grass rustles. The boy squats down and calls softly, “Fear no fear, timid hare!”
•
Later that night Chentsov let out a terrible scream, throwing everyone nearby into a panic. Dozens of men jumped to their feet, seizing their weapons. It turned out that a whip snake had got onto the bedboards and then under his tunic. Then Chentsov had rolled over in his sleep and begun to squash the snake. The snake had struggled to break free, first slipping under Chentsov’s neck and then down his trousers.
“Like a steel spring, only made of ice,” said Chentsov, his nostrils flaring. “It’s incredibly strong.” He was holding a match between his trembling fingers and gazing with horror into the far corner of the dugout, where the snake had disappeared.
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