“I think you should,” said Sofya. “And I can get you to Saratov on our hospital truck.”
“Comrades from the obkom have offered to help,” Mostovskoy replied, “but I’m not intending to leave yet.”
“Why not?” asked Sofya. “Why stay here when every civilian left in the city is moving heaven and earth to get across the Volga?”
Mostovskoy coughed rather crossly—and Sofya understood the likely reasons for his decision to stay behind and why he might prefer not to discuss them.
Agrippina, who had been listening, let out such a deep, loud sigh that both Mostovskoy and Sofya looked round at her. Turning to Sofya, she said pleadingly, “Citizen, can I come too? I’ve got a sister in Saratov. And I’ll hardly have anything with me—just a basket and one little bundle.”
Sofya thought for a moment and said, “All right, I think we can find room for you in one of our trucks—but first thing tomorrow I have to go to the factory district.”
“Then stay here tonight. Get a proper night’s sleep. You won’t find anywhere better. Round here this is the only building still standing. Most people are living underground—the cellars are all packed solid.”
“That’s a tempting idea,” Sofya replied. “My one dream is to sleep. I’ve slept six hours in the last four days.”
“Of course!” said Mostovskoy, “I’ll make everything as comfortable as I can for you.”
“No,” put in Agrippina. “That’ll be awkward for your friend and uncomfortable for you. You must sleep in my room. Sleep as long as you like—and come morning we can set off together.”
“There’s just one thing,” said Sofya. “All our cars and trucks are on the east bank. We’ll have to hitch a lift.”
“We’ll be all right, we’ll find a way,” said Agrippina, now looking much happier. “The factories are no distance at all. What matters is to get to Saratov. And the hardest part of the journey is crossing the Volga!”
“Well, comrade Mostovskoy,” said Sofya, “so much for your twentieth century. So much for its humanity and culture. A long way the Hague Conventions have got us! All I see is unprecedented atrocities. Certainly not much sign of the protection of civilians and humane methods of waging war . . .” Sofya gestured towards the window. “Look! What kind of faith in the future do you see in these ruins? Technology may be progressing, but what about ethics? What about morality and humanity? They’re in some kind of Stone Age. Fascism is a new savagery. It’s taken us back 50,000 years.”
“You’re in a bad way,” said Mostovskoy. “Get some sleep before the bombing starts up again. You need it.”
But this night too went by without Sofya being allowed to sleep. Just as it was getting dark and they heard the first German bombers in the misty, smoke-veiled sky, there was a sharp knock at the front door.
A young soldier came in and said, “Comrade Mostovskoy, a message from comrade Krymov.” He handed Mostovskoy an envelope and then turned to Agrippina: “Can you give me some water? I’m tired. Heaven knows how I ever managed to find this building.”
Mostovskoy read the letter and said to Sofya, “This is difficult. I’m being called to the factory. The obkom secretary’s there, and it’s essential I see him.” Then he turned anxiously to the soldier: “Can you take me now? Is that possible?”
“Yes, of course. But we must go straightaway, before it’s completely dark. I’m not from round here. I blundered about for a whole hour trying to find you.”
“All right,” said Mostovskoy. “And how are things at the front?”
“A bit quieter, I think. Comrade Krymov’s been called to the Front Political Administration—he’s leaving his brigade.” The driver took the mug of water Agrippina was holding out to him, drank it down, shook the last few drops out onto the floor and said, “Let’s go. I don’t like leaving the car.”
“You know what?” said Sofya. “I’ll come with you. Otherwise, who knows how we’ll find our way there tomorrow. I’ll get my night’s sleep when the war’s over.”
“Then please take me too!” Agrippina said tearfully. “I can’t stay here all on my own. I promise I won’t get in your way. And when you’ve done what you have to do, you can take me to the other bank. Otherwise I’ll never get across.”
Mostovskoy turned to the driver. “What’s your name, comrade?”
“Semyonov.”
“Can you take all three of us, comrade Semyonov?”
“My tyres aren’t too good. But we’ll get there.”
They left in the gathering dusk, since Agrippina took some time to sort herself out. Agitated and out of breath, she explained to Mostovskoy where she was leaving everything, from her pots and pans to her supplies of salt, water, kerosene and potatoes. And then there were many items that had to be moved into Mostovskoy’s room: her feather bed, her pillows, a bundle of linen, a pair of felt boots, her samovar.
Mostovskoy got in beside Semyonov, and the two women sat in the back. Semyonov could drive only very slowly—the streets were littered with heaps of stone. Still-smouldering fires, invisible during the day, glimmered in the dark like will-o’-the-wisps. There was a sullen glow from pits and basements. The sight of these strange lights and fires, in burnt-out stone boxes that had once been homes, was unsettling.
As they drove down the deserted streets, past the hundreds of dead houses, the enormity of what had befallen the city became ever clearer, ever more tangible. The city was dead, yet there was no sense even of the peace of the cemetery—both the earth and the sky were gripped by the silent tension of war. There was nothing but small stars of bursting flak, the restless, shifting tent formed by the beams of searchlights, and the constant, far-off lightning of exploding bombs and artillery shells.
None of them said anything. Even Agrippina stopped her constant sobs and laments.
Mostovskoy pressed his face against the side window, trying to make out the silhouettes of the charred buildings. “I think this is where the Shaposhnikovs lived,” he said, turning to face Sofya Osipovna.
Sofya did not answer. She was asleep, her head drooping forward onto her chest, and her heavy body swaying with each bump they passed over.
They came to a road cleared of debris. To either side were small houses surrounded by trees and, every now and then, the dark figures of soldiers on their way to the factory district. Semyonov turned off to the left, saying to Mostovskoy, “I’m taking a shortcut. It’ll save time, and it’s a better road.”
They came to a large area of wasteland, drove through some sparse groves of trees and then saw more houses. A man emerged from the dark, stepped out onto the road and gesticulated at them.
Semyonov drove on without slowing down.
His eyes half-closed, Mostovskoy was thinking about Krymov: what a joy it would be to see his old friend!
Then he thought for a while about what he would say to the obkom secretary: “We need to discuss every conceivable form my work may take. It is not impossible that the Germans will capture the city, or part of the city.” His decision to stay behind was unshakable. Yes, there was much he could teach the young about the art of conspiracy; the most important thing was to stay calm and to keep one’s goal clearly in sight, no matter what the difficulties or dangers. Surprisingly, the trials and hardships of the last few days seemed only to have made him feel younger; it was a long time since he had felt such strength and inner confidence.
Then he too dozed off; there was something soporific about the dim shadows passing swiftly by. All of a sudden he opened his eyes, as if someone had shaken him violently awake. They were still on the road. Sounding concerned, Semyonov said, “Have I gone too far to the left?”
“Perhaps you should stop and ask?” said Agrippina. “I was born and brought up here, but I don’t know this road.”
Then they heard machine-gun fire, loud and distinct—probably from the ditch by the side of the road.
Semyonov looked at Mostovskoy and muttered, “We may have gone too far.”
The two women began to stir. Agrippina shouted, “What have you done? You’ve taken us to the front line!”
“I’ve done nothing of the kind,” Semyonov replied crossly.
“We must turn back,” said Sofya. “Or we’ll end up in the hands of the Germans.”
“No,” said Semyonov, braking and gazing into the darkness. “We need to turn to the right. We’ve gone too far left.”
“Turn back!” Sofya said in a commanding voice. “Call yourself an army driver? More like some village woman!”
“That’s enough orders from you, comrade military doctor,” said Semyonov. “There’s only one person driving this car, and that’s me.”
“Yes!” said Mostovskoy. “Let the driver decide.”
Semyonov turned off onto a smaller road. Once again they saw fences, low trees and the grey walls of houses.
“Well?” asked Sofya.
Semyonov shrugged. “All right, I think—only I don’t remember this bridge.”
“We must stop,” said Sofya. “The first person you see, you must stop and ask.”
Semyonov drove on for a while without a word, then said with relief, “Good. I know where we are now. One more right turn and we’ll be at the factory.”
“All right, my anxious passenger?” Mostovskoy said condescendingly.
By way of reply, Sofya gave a kind of angry snort.
“So, first Semyonov must drop me off at the factory,” said Mostovskoy. “And then he can take you to the river crossing. I really must see the secretary soon, or he’ll be going back into the city.”
Semyonov braked sharply.
“What’s happening?” cried Sofya.
“There’s a man with a red light,” said Semyonov, pointing to a group of men standing in the middle of the road. “We’re being signalled to stop.”
“Oh my God!” said Sofya.
Men holding sub-machine guns surrounded the car. One pointed his gun at Semyonov and said with quiet authority, in broken Russian, “Hands up! Surrender!”
There was a moment of silence, a stone-like silence during which the four people in the car, now barely able to breathe, realized that the chances and mishaps of the last few hours had turned into something of another order. Now an irrevocable fate, these mishaps would determine their entire lives.
All of a sudden Agrippina wailed, “Let me go. I was only a servant. I cooked and cleaned for him for a few crusts of bread.”
“Still, Schweinehunde!” shouted one of the soldiers, pointing his gun at her. Ten minutes later, after a rough search, the four detainees were taken to the command post of the German infantry battalion whose advance outpost had halted their stray car.
45
DURING his time in Moscow, Novikov was staying with Colonel Ivanov. They had been fellow students at the Military Academy, and Ivanov was now serving in the operations department of the General Staff.
Novikov saw very little of Ivanov, who worked day and night. Sometimes Ivanov slept in his office, not coming home for three or four days on end.
Ivanov’s family had been evacuated to Shadrinsk, in the Urals.
When Ivanov did come home, Novikov would at once ask if he had heard anything new. Then they would look at the map together.
After hearing about the massive air raid and the German breakthrough to the factory district, he was unable to sleep. One moment he saw Zhenya running through smoke and flames; the next moment he saw black German howitzers and self-propelled guns on the banks of the Volga, firing on the blazing city. He wanted to rush to the central aerodrome and fly to Stalingrad at once, on the fastest possible aircraft.
He spent the night pacing about the room, looking out of the window and studying the map spread out on the table, trying to divine the future course of the battle that had just begun.
Early in the morning he rang Viktor Shtrum. He was hoping Viktor might say, “Zhenya and the rest of the family are all in Kazan. They’ve been there for several days now.” But no one answered. It seemed that Viktor was no longer in Moscow.
At such a time, few things are more difficult than having nothing to do—and Novikov was not working. On arriving in Moscow, he had gone straight to the cadres section of the People’s Commissariat of Defence. There he had been told to leave his telephone number and wait to be called. The days had gone by, and no one had called him. Novikov had no idea what his next appointment was likely to be. General Bykov, his immediate superior at the Southwestern Front, had merely handed him a sealed envelope with his personal dossier; he had said nothing about the reason for this sudden summons to Moscow.
The day promised to be infinitely long, and Novikov was afraid he’d be unable to get through it alone and with nothing to occupy him. He put on a new jacket, polished his boots and set off to the Commissariat of Defence.
There he waited for a long time in the crowded, smoke-filled reception room, where he heard one story after another about injustices suffered by unfortunate majors and lieutenant colonels. Eventually he was called to the window and issued with a pass.
He was received by the same admin-section captain, with a medal “For Merit in Combat,” who had stamped his documents when he first came to Moscow. After asking Novikov where he was staying, he said, “But you really needn’t have come today. We’ve got nothing for you. I don’t think the section head has even been told about you yet.”
A second, rather skinny, captain came in, said a few words of greeting and adjusted a small flag on a school map hanging between the windows.
The two captains then chatted briefly about the situation in Stalingrad. Their understanding of war also seemed to belong to a schoolroom.
The admin-section captain advised Novikov to go and see Lieutenant Colonel Zvezdyukhin, the commander responsible for his file. He might be able to tell him a little more.
The captain picked up the telephone, checked that Zvezdyukhin was in his office, told Novikov how to get to him and sent him on his way.
Lieutenant Colonel Zvezdyukhin, a stooped man with a pale face, ran his long white fingers over the cards in his index drawer and said, “I have not completed the report, comrade Colonel, because the necessary attestations from Front HQ have yet to arrive.” He looked at the card and added, “I’ve noted that the request was sent off without delay, the day following your arrival. The documents, therefore, will be received five days from now. I shall then report to my superior forthwith.”
“Might the commander be able see me today?” asked Novikov. “Could you help make this possible?”
“Only too glad, comrade Colonel,” Zvezdyukhin replied with a smile. “I’d be only too glad, if that served any purpose, but questions of this nature cannot be decided on the basis of mere verbal explanations. We need documents. Nothing can be determined without documents.”
He gave a particular weight to the word documents. Against the background of his habitual monotone the word sounded almost succulent.
Understanding that these wheels turned at their own slow speed and that there was nothing he could do to change this, Novikov said goodbye to Zvezdyukhin, who promised to call as soon as he had any news.
When Zvezdyukhin glanced at his watch and signed Novikov’s pass, Novikov felt sad that their conversation had been so brief. On any other day, Novikov would probably have got very angry with Zvezdyukhin, but his sense of loneliness was now so unbearable that he felt grateful to anyone who relieved it for even a moment. He had even felt grateful to the sentry who checked his pass and the clerk who first issued it.
Back out on the street, Novikov went into a kiosk and tried again to phone Viktor Shtrum; again there was no reply. For the next few hours he walked about the city. A passer-by would have thought he was a man in a hurry, dealing with some urgent task; no one would have imagined that he was simply going for a walk. Until then he had gone out very seldom; strolling around Theatre Square or sitting on a boulevard would have felt shameful. Women would have seen him and thought, “Who’s this fine col
onel? Strolling about on boulevards while our husbands fight on the front line!”
When Ivanov asked why he didn’t go to the cinema or for a walk in the surrounding countryside, Novikov said, “You must be joking. How can one laze about at a dacha when the country’s at war?”
“Personally, I’d give a lot for an evening in the fresh air,” said Ivanov. “For some fresh air and a bottle of cool beer.”
Novikov called at Viktor’s. The elderly concierge was sitting outside the main entrance. Novikov asked if the tenant of apartment nineteen was at home.
“No, he left,” the old woman replied. She laughed for some reason, then added, “Yes, he’s been gone for ten days now.”
Next, Novikov went to the post office and sent a telegram to Alexandra Vladimirovna, though he doubted he would receive a reply. There and then he wrote a postcard to Viktor in Kazan, asking if he had any news of his family in Stalingrad.
He realized that his tone left little doubt as to his true feelings, but then Viktor would almost certainly have guessed these already.
Since he had no more tasks and no wish to return to an empty apartment, he spent the rest of the day walking, probably covering about twenty kilometres. He walked from Kaluga Street to Red Square, from there to the Krasnopresnensky Gate, and then along the Leningrad Highway towards the airport. He watched transport planes climbing into the sky—some, no doubt, on their way to Stalingrad. From the Leningrad Highway he went through Petrovsky Park to the Savyolovsky railway station, and then back along Kalyaev Street to the city centre.
He did not stop once; walking briskly helped to calm his nerves. From time to time he remembered his feelings on the first day of the war, his sense that life was preparing difficult trials for him and that he must brace himself in anticipation. He remembered how, as bombs crashed down on the fighter regiment HQ, he had forced himself to buckle his belt properly and fasten the buttons on his tunic. Once again he began to feel resolute, ready to confront his destiny.
By the time Novikov returned to Ivanov’s empty apartment, it was dark.
Stalingrad Page 71