“What am I meant to do with this crowd?” the doctor said crossly to his orderly. “The corridor’s jam-packed as it is. And if we don’t get bombed tonight, we’re sure to be bombed tomorrow night. They should have been sent straight on to Saratov.”
As he climbed out, the major glanced at the wounded lieutenant. His face now grimmer than ever, the lieutenant gave him another intent look.
The major waved everyone goodbye and set off down the main street, wondering why it is that dying men always stare one straight in the eye.
He walked slowly, looking sadly at the little streets and squares of this war-battered town where his beloved Tamara had once gone to school. Long ago, a skinny young thing with a long plait wound round her head, she must have walked this same way. She had probably had trysts with young boys in the little garden he could see high over the Volga and that was now packed with refugees and bristling with anti-aircraft machine guns. And there were wounded soldiers in grey gowns, slyly swapping bread and sugar for vodka and home-grown tobacco.
Then he remembered about his rations. He asked a traffic controller the way to the store.
“I don’t know, comrade Major,” said the controller, and waved his flag.
“Where’s the commandant’s office?” asked the major.
“I don’t know, comrade Major,” said the controller. To ward off a cross retort, he added, “We’re new here. We arrived during the night.”
The major went on further. His experienced eye quickly determined that either a Corps or an Army HQ had recently arrived in the town.
A sentry with a sub-machine gun was standing outside a house with columns. A number of commanders, probably waiting for their passes, were standing by a wicker gate, watching a waitress going about her business. She was gliding along, holding a tray covered with a white napkin against her high breasts.
She had round, rosy cheeks, strong, pale calves and bold black eyes.
The major let out a long, drawn-out sigh. The commanders in their green side caps and dusty boots, with their packs and map cases, sensed the depth of meaning in this sigh and smiled.
Some of the men, those who had come a long way and were very hungry, wondered what lay beneath the white napkin. Most of them, though, looked at the young woman.
The major went on further. Behind an orchard he could see a radio mast. Signallers were laying down cables and there was the staccato knocking of a small engine. Several large trucks were parked near a dilapidated crimson building—“The Comintern Cinema”—with half its windows knocked out. A captain in horn-rimmed glasses was waving his arms about and shouting at the drivers.
The major realized that this was the printing press of an army newspaper. He also understood that this was a reserve army, one that had not yet seen combat. Everyone was bustling about in a particularly agitated way. They were all in pristine uniforms. The commanders were carrying heavy drum-magazine sub-machine guns of little use to them at HQ. The trucks’ camouflage was immaculate. And drivers, sentries, signallers and commanders alike were all repeatedly glancing up at the blue August sky.
At first the major had felt intimidated by the presence in this small town of so many high-ranking commanders. Now, however, he looked at these men newly brought up from the rear with a sense of indulgent superiority.
He had fought in the summer of 1941 in the forests of western Belorussia and Ukraine. He had survived the black horror of the war’s first days; he knew everything and had seen everything. When other men told stories about the war, this modest major listened with a polite smile. “Oh, my brothers,” he would think. “I’ve seen things that cannot be spoken about, that no one will ever write down.”
Now and again, though, he would meet another quiet, shy major like himself. Recognizing him—from little signs known to him alone—as a kindred spirit, he would talk more freely.
“Remember General N.?” he might say. “When his unit was surrounded, he plodded through a bog in full uniform, wearing all his medals, and with a goat on a lead. A couple of lieutenants he met asked, ‘Comrade General, are you following a compass bearing?’ And what did he answer? ‘A compass? This goat is my compass!’”
The major came to a spot on the cliff overlooking the Volga and sat down on a green bench. He saw no reason to go about military affairs in a hurry—the war, after all, would not come to an end any time soon. He never forgot about meals and he liked to sit in the sun and smoke his pipe, giving free rein to his memories and to a quiet sadness. If he had to travel somewhere by rail, he would wait at the station for a train that was less crowded. If he needed lodgings for the night, he would go out of his way to find a welcoming landlady. And it was essential that she should have a cow.
It was a hot day, without a breath of wind. The Volga stretched far into the distance, shining under the clear sun. The bench, the cobbled street, the roofs and dark log walls of the houses, the layers of dust on the sun-scorched grass—everything gave off its own particular smell, as if stone, tin, dry dust and an old, dead tree were living, sweating beings. And the major could see across to the east bank, with its dense reeds and willows. The sand looked bright and was, no doubt, very hot; minuscule soldiers, who must have just got off a ferry, were plodding laboriously across it. It would be good to lie down naked for a while and then get into the water. He could swim for half an hour, then lie down again in the shade and have some beer; first, of course, he would have tied a couple of bottles to a cord and lowered them to the bottom of a cool pool.
There was just a hint of mist in the far distance, as if a few drops of milk had been added to the pale blue air. As if tired and saddened by the splendour of this hot August day, the Volga flowed slowly on towards Lugovaya Proleika, Dubovka, Stalingrad, Raigorod and Astrakhan. She understood that she had no need to hurry.
The major looked around to see if there were any high-ranking commanders nearby, then quietly undid three buttons on his tunic.
“There are cantaloupes in the market,” he said to himself, “and watermelons too. But the wretched kolkhoz workers will want goods, not money. I could swap some of my sugar, but I can hardly go to the market in this uniform . . . Oh, if only Tamara were here—she always knows what to do.”
Thinking about his family, who had all disappeared without trace in the first days of the war, he took a photograph out of his pocket and gazed at it for a long time.
A barefoot boy came by. There were holes in the elbows of his shirt and a huge lilac patch on his tarpaulin trousers.
“Hey, you there!” the major called out.
Like any thirteen-year-old, the boy had sins on his conscience. He looked at the major mistrustfully, wondering if he had done anything to anger any commanders.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“Tell me how I can buy a watermelon,” the major said affably.
“In exchange for tobacco,” the boy replied. He went up close to the major and added, “Half a packet.”
“All right then. Go and fetch me one. Good and ripe, with black pips. This is the best tobacco!”
“Boum Valley, I can see. Very good, comrade Major.”
The boy set off down the path. The major took out his tobacco pouch and some neatly cut squares of paper, covered with numbers written in purple ink. He rolled a thick cigarette, blew down the mouthpiece, which was made from aircraft glass, and squinted down the hole. He took out his German lighter and lit up.
He returned the lighter to his pocket, noting with concern that the flint was now near the end of its life.
Just then a pink-faced quartermaster came by. He stopped and looked at the major. He almost walked on but then looked at the major a second time.
“Excuse me, comrade Major,” he began. “You’re not Berozkin, are you?” And then he rushed up to him, shouting, “Yes, yes, it’s Ivan Leontievich!”
“Just a moment,” said the major. “Ah! Aristov! My former supplies boss! Well, a lot of water’s gone under the bridge since we last met!
”
“That’s right, Ivan Leontievich. I was posted to the Belorussian Military District on 11 February 1941.”
“And where are you serving now?”
“I’m head of an army supply section. Till now, our army’s been held in reserve.”
“A supplies boss for a whole army—you’ve done well for yourself!” said Major Berozkin. He looked Aristov up and down and said, “Sit down. Roll yourself a cigarette. What are you doing, still standing there?”
“No,” said Aristov, offering Berozkin a cigarette from a packet. “Here—have one of mine!” He laughed and asked, “Remember the earful you gave me in Bobruisk for not registering the hay I took from the kolkhoz?”
“I do indeed,” said Berozkin.
“Those were the days,” said Aristov. “We lived well then . . .”
Berozkin looked Aristov up and down and concluded that he wasn’t living at all badly even now. He had plump cheeks; his uniform was good-quality gabardine and he was wearing an elegant khaki cap and box-calf boots.
Everything about him was equally smart: a lighter with a little amethyst button, a small amber cigarette holder with an embossed gold beetle, a shiny-topped fountain pen peeping out of his tunic pocket, a map case—made from the very best red leather—hanging at his side and a penknife in a little suede case. Aristov took the penknife from his pocket, fiddled with it and then put it back again.
“Let’s go to my billet,” said Aristov. “It’s not far.”
“I have to wait here a bit longer,” said Berozkin. “A boy’s doing an errand for me. I sent him off to the market, to barter half a packet of tobacco for a watermelon.”
“Heavens!” said Aristov. “There’s no need to send little boys on errands! I’ve got any number of watermelons—real giants, laid in for the military soviet.”
“I promised I’d wait here,” said the major. “Just give me a minute.”
“Comrade Major! Let this damned boy of yours keep the watermelon for himself—I’m sure he’ll be grateful!”
And Aristov picked up Berozkin’s green knapsack.
During his long military career Berozkin had all too often had reason to feel resentful towards admin and supplies-section officers. “Lucky guys,” he would say with a slow shake of the head. “There’s clearly no supplies problem for a supplies officer.”
Now, though, he was only too glad to follow Aristov.
And as they went on their way, Berozkin began to tell his story. His war had begun at five in the morning on 22 June 1941. He alone in his division had managed to withdraw his guns and even rescue a dozen fuel trucks and two batteries of 152-millimetre guns abandoned by a neighbouring unit. He had walked through swamps and forests, contested hundreds of heights and fought on the banks of dozens of rivers large and small. He had taken part in combats near Brest, Kobrin, Bakhmach, Shostka, Krolevets, Glukhov, Mikhailovsky Hamlet, Kromy, Oryol, Belyov and Chern. During the winter he had fought by the Donets and taken part in the Savintsy and Zaliman offensives, the breakthrough towards Chepel and the advance on Lozovaya.
He had been wounded by shrapnel and treated in hospital. He had received a bullet wound and been treated again. Now he was on his way to rejoin his unit.
“And so here I am,” he said with a smile.
“But, Ivan Leontievich,” asked Aristov, “how come you’ve done so much fighting yet got nothing to show for it?” And he pointed to Berozkin’s tunic. It was bare of medals and looked as if it had gone grey from age.
“Oh,” Berozkin said slowly, “I’ve been recommended four times for medals and orders. But I always end up being transferred before they get to fill in all the different forms and attestations. The same with promotion to lieutenant colonel—before they’re done with the documents, I get moved on. Everyone says a motor infantry unit is like a band of gypsies. Here today—and God knows where tomorrow!” He smiled again, then went on with feigned indifference, “Men who graduated from the academy with me in 1928 are in command of divisions now. They’ve all got two or three medals on their chest. Mitya Gogin’s already a general—he’s in Moscow, on the General Staff. If I ran into him now, I’d be saluting smartly and saying, ‘Comrade General, your orders have been carried out, may I be dismissed?’ And about-turn. And so here we are—that’s the life of a soldier for you.”
5
THEY ENTERED a neat little yard, and a sleepy-looking soldier quickly straightened his crumpled tunic, shook off the straw stuck to his trousers and gave an energetic salute.
“Asleep again?” said Aristov crossly. “Lay the table.”
“At your command!” the soldier replied. He took Berozkin’s green knapsack and went inside.
“The first time in the war I’ve seen a fat soldier,” said Berozkin.
“He’s a smart man,” Aristov replied. “He used to be an admin clerk, but we discovered he was a first-class chef. First, I’m trying him out here. Then we’ll send him to the military soviet canteen.”
They went into a half-dark entrance room with board walls painted pale blue in accord with Volga tradition. There they were met by Aristov’s landlady—a stocky elderly woman with a grey moustache.
She wanted to bow to her new guest. Instead, broad and short as she was, she half lost her balance and tottered forward.
Berozkin saluted politely and glanced around the room. There was a hibiscus, a table with an embroidered tablecloth and a double bed with a neat white blanket.
“You’ve landed a good billet!” he said to Aristov.
“It’s no use making life hard for yourself, comrade Major. And rest’s all the more important when you’re at the front.”
“Of course,” said Berozkin. Looking round the room once again, he thought, “Yes, I wouldn’t mind serving on a front like this myself.”
He took his soap dish and towel from his knapsack, removed his tunic, asked the landlady to pour some water onto his hands and began soaping his strong, red neck and shaven, already balding head. He asked the landlady her name.
“Till now, I’ve always been called Antonina Vasilievna,” she said in a slow, singing voice.
“And so you always will be,” Berozkin replied. “But keep going, don’t stint on the water!”
Berozkin slapped his cheeks and the back of his neck, puffing, snorting, grunting and chuckling in his enjoyment of the slow stream of cool water.
Then he went through into the main room, sat down in an armchair and fell silent, relishing the sense of peace and comfort that comes to a soldier suddenly whisked from a world of dust, wind, noise and eternal movement into the quiet half-light of an ordinary human dwelling.
Aristov also fell silent. They watched the fat soldier lay the table. The landlady brought in a large dish of splendid beef tomatoes.
“Here you are! Eat all you want—there’s no salt or vinegar, so we won’t be able to put them up for the winter. But tell me, comrade Commanders, when will all this grief be over?”
“When we’ve smashed the Germans,” Aristov replied with a yawn.
“There’s an old man here in Kamyshin,” said the landlady, “who can tell the future. He told me the war will come to an end on 28 November. So it says in his book. And the Volga’s spring floods said the same. And he has two roosters—one’s black and the other’s white, and they keep fighting.”
“What does your old man know?” said the fat soldier, putting a plate of ham and a bottle of vodka on the table.
Berozkin looked with childish delight at the vodka and at the lavish spread on the table. As well as the ham and tomatoes, there was caviar, lampreys, pickled mushrooms, cold mutton and a meat jelly. Turning to the landlady, he said, “You should stay away from those old charlatans, Antonina Vasilievna. They’re only after your chickens and eggs. Back in Kupyansk there was an old man who said what day the war would come to an end. And when the day came, there was a massive air raid. The women set on him and pulled out his beard.”
“Quite right!” said Aristov. �
��Telling the future’s not Marxist.”
“I’m in my sixty-fourth year now,” said the landlady. “My father lived to be eighty-four, and my father’s father to be ninety-three. We’re all from these parts, but not once in any of our lifetimes have French or German invaders broken through to the Volga. But this summer some fool has let the Germans through to our Russian heartlands. I keep hearing things about German technology. They say Hitler’s planes are more powerful than ours. And they say he’s got some special powder. You just add it to water and it’s as good as petrol. Well, that’s as may be. But only this morning I spoke to an old woman from Olkhovka. She’d come to the market to barter flour. She told me a prisoner of war—a German general—had been kept in her hut and she heard him say he’d received orders direct from Hitler: ‘If we take Stalingrad, all Russia will be ours. But if we fail, we’ll be pushed right back to our borders.’ What do you think? Will we hold Stalingrad?”
“No doubt about it!” said Aristov.
“It’s war,” said Berozkin. “Nothing’s for sure. But we’ll do what we can.”
Aristov slapped himself on the forehead. “I’ve just remembered,” he said. “I’ve got a truck going to Stalingrad tomorrow—to a distillery. Lieutenant Colonel Darensky will be in the cabin. And then there’ll just be two others—my storekeeper and some boy, a lieutenant straight from military school. Someone asked me to help him out. So you can spend the night here in my billet and then they’ll come and pick you up in the morning.”
“Perfect,” said the major. “Somehow there’s always a quick way to the front.”
The two men sat for a few minutes in silence—a silence familiar to anyone used to drinking with friends. They wanted to talk heart-to-heart. They knew they couldn’t do this until they’d drunk their first glass and so they preferred to stay silent.
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