Stalingrad

by Vasily Grossman

  •

  Darensky began looking through his notes from the first days of the war.

  “A battalion commissar was making out that Kutuzov’s retreat was brilliant strategy. I had the thought that Kutuzov’s retreat might have been no different from ours, and that His Highness Lev Tolstoy might simply have thrown fine robes over the bloody body of war. If so, he did the right thing—yes, he did! The army is holy—and so is the motherland! A commander is an apostle, and his authority must be absolute. There is only one question—discipline! And only one answer—discipline! The great Stalin can save us—and he will! Yesterday I read the text of his speech in a leaflet. What calm, what confidence!

  “Everyone’s suddenly an expert. Every conversation is about grand questions of strategy. Novelists, poets, film directors, still more important figures—they all get criticized . . . Yesterday, in the operations section, a major waved a book in the air and said, ‘Like to know what this fellow predicted? That we’d smash the Germans in the first ten hours!’. . . I’ve just been reading about Gastello—a true Russian hero!2 Now we’ve survived a blow like this, nothing can frighten us. France has collapsed. She’s lying on the ground as if dead, legs twitching. But the French armies were fully mobilized. They had sound defences and were ready to go on the offensive themselves. So, we Russians should congratulate ourselves. There’s been no knockout blow. We’re still on our feet.

  “Morale, in general, is low. Men seem more frightened of German flares than they are of shells. There’s constant talk of spies sending up flares, of encirclements, of German paratroopers and motorcyclists penetrating deep behind our lines. I’m sure this paranoia will soon evaporate and that our men will make the Germans pay a thousand-fold for what they have done.

  “Our men have no songs. And they aren’t interested in women. Only cooks and clerks seem not to have forgotten that they are men. The army retreats in silence. I heard that K. surrendered of his own free will. Just waved a white handkerchief in the air. I remembered the day in 1915 when we saw Papa off to the war. Mama was wearing a black veil. We took a cab and the driver was a woman. Today, in an army newspaper, I read, ‘Badly battered, the enemy continued his cowardly advance.’ Certainly an interesting way to put it . . . What will happen come winter? They expect to be finished with Russia in ten weeks. No way! Still, the bastards are smart tacticians.

  “I read a propaganda leaflet. Apparently, German officers have been taking pedigree dogs with them, in their cars. Some nerve—it’s hard not to admire them!

  “Bayonet attacks are all very well, but we need something different. Mobile artillery, rapid deployment of tanks!

  “Today the corps commander invited me to his table. Throughout the meal all I heard was criticism of commanders afraid of encirclement.

  “What’s Guderian up to with his panzers? Is he aiming to meet up with Kleist?3

  “I saw Red Army soldiers marching on foot and German prisoners being transported by truck. I stopped a truck and ordered the prisoners out. They were genuinely surprised. They truly believed that representatives of a higher race had the right to be driven, while their captors plodded along on foot. A strange lot, these Fritzes . . .

  “I’m certain that the old Russian army would have collapsed after a blow like this. And the whole tsarist regime with it. But we endure. So we’ll go on enduring. And we’ll win!

  “I’ve been thinking about Alexander Nevsky, Suvorov and Kutuzov.4 Oh, if only Papa were still alive!”

  “Yes,” Darensky said to himself as he closed his notebook. “No doubt about it—I’ve certainly got a head on my shoulders!”

  The injustice he had suffered still rankled deeply. Why, he kept asking himself, had he been posted to the reserves? And then he would answer his question: “Because I was right. Because I assessed the situation correctly when that was not what Bykov wanted. But where’s Colonel Novikov, what’s happened to my one defender? Well, I suppose you could say it was wrong of me to be right . . . Anyway, I’m certainly not like Bykov myself. I know a good man at first glance and I know how to value him.”

  Darensky remembered the year 1937. He remembered his time in prison, the night-time interrogations and the investigator. He remembered the moment in 1940 when, after being summoned from the camp to Moscow, he was told that his case had been reviewed and he had been judged innocent.

  He remembered the month he had spent unloading barges in Kozmodemyansk5 while he waited for his documentation. He remembered the wonderful day when he put on military uniform once again.

  “If they gave me a regiment,” he thought, “I’d be a good regimental commander. And if they entrusted me with a division, I’d command that just as well. But I’m sick to death of Bykov and his pettifogging archival work.”

  As he fell asleep, he imagined himself sitting in a front-line command post. Bykov, now only a major, would come in. “At your command, comrade General,” he would say. Recognizing Darensky, he would turn pale.

  After this, there were a number of possible variations. Darensky’s favourite scenario had him greeting Bykov with the words, “Ah, an old friend! So we meet again!” And then, after a brief silence, “Sit down, sit down! And, as they say, let bygones be bygones! Here, have some tea and a bite to eat—you must be hungry from the journey! And we must have a think about your duties here. What would you prefer?”

  And he would see his former boss almost tremble from gratitude.

  Surprisingly, the man who had done him such harm no longer seemed like an enemy.

  Darensky was probably no vainer or more ambitious than most people, but since his pride had been trampled on so very often, he found it difficult to get over such episodes as his quarrel with Bykov.

  So it was that this serious thirty-five-year-old lieutenant colonel consoled himself with fantasies of childish triumphs.

  7

  IT WAS morning. One after another, trucks and infantry platoons were approaching the river at Kamyshin, waiting to cross to Nikolaevka on the east bank.

  The hot August air shimmered over fields of yellow-brown wheat stubble and the wilted leaves of melon plantations.

  Traffic controllers sheltered from the sun beside buildings, waving their flags and shouting at the drivers of approaching trucks, “Stop! Are you blind? The barge has already left! Don’t crowd so close together!”

  The drivers leaned out of their windows, wondering where best to pull up. Depending on which road they’d taken—down the clay slope or through the fields of black earth—their dust-covered faces looked either yellow or dark grey.

  Anti-aircraft gunners lay in shallow trenches beside the thin, raised barrels of their guns, trying to ward off the sun with tarpaulin ground-sheets. Soldiers sat in the backs of the trucks, touching the black bodies of the bombs lying beside them and joking sleepily, “You could fry eggs on these—let’s hope they’re not about to explode!”

  This convoy of dusty trucks, all bearing heavy loads of 200-kilo bombs, was on its way to airfields in the Transvolga steppe.

  One of the drivers let out a mischievous cry and stepped on the accelerator. His truck left the wooden platform and moved towards the water, its overloaded suspension knocking and jolting. The traffic controllers all rushed forward, shouting, “Stop! Get back!”

  One of the controllers, a very tall man, raised his rifle butt in the air, as if to take a swing at the radiator. The driver hurriedly explained something, pointing to the rear axles.

  Two more controllers ran up. Everyone began shouting at once. It seemed this would go on forever, but the driver took a metal tin from his pocket and the three controllers, after tearing off pieces of newspaper, took some tobacco from this tin, rolled themselves cigarettes and lit up. The driver took the truck down to the water, positioning it so as not to hinder any vehicles coming from the east bank on the next barge. Then he lay down in the shade, on some large stones.

  Agreeing that he would be first to board, the controllers drew on their cigarettes.


  A very new black pickup appeared. Sitting beside the driver was a thin-faced lieutenant colonel who looked so bad-tempered and haughty that the controllers just let out cross sighs, not daring to say a word.

  On the bench in the back were three other commanders: a major, smoking a proper cigarette from a packet; a lieutenant, a smart great-coat flung over his shoulders, whom the soldiers immediately identified as from the supplies section; and another lieutenant, a handsome young man who must have just graduated from military school. He was wearing a new uniform and he had a pained look in his eyes.

  The controllers took a few steps back. They heard the lieutenant colonel say, “Keep an eye on the sky, comrades.”

  One of the controllers said mockingly, “They know how to look after themselves all right. Ready-made cigarettes and tea in a thermos!”

  A detachment of Red Army soldiers marched right down to the water’s edge. The men in front were looking around for their commander. They slowed their steps. They had not been ordered to halt, but they were hardly going to be able to get across the Volga on foot. As for their commander, he was some distance away, getting a light from one of the controllers and asking whether the crossing was being bombed.

  “Halt!” he finally shouted. “Halt! Striding straight into the water—what the hell’s got into you all!”

  The soldiers sat down on stones near the water and put down their knapsacks, rifles and greatcoat rolls. Instantly a distinct smell wafted into the air—the smell of strong tobacco, fresh sweat and sweat-impregnated clothes peculiar to an infantry unit on its way to the front line.

  The soldiers were a motley crowd: thin city dwellers, unused to long marches; broad-cheeked Kazakhs, pale from exhaustion; Uzbeks wearing tunics and side caps instead of long gowns and brightly coloured skullcaps, and with a pensive look in their velvet eyes; freckled young lads hardly any taller than their rifles; kolkhoz workers; fathers of families; men accustomed to heavy physical labour, their sinewy necks and muscles now standing out firmer than ever, as if to exemplify the austere life of a soldier. There was an Armenian with thick, black hair; a young man with a twisted mouth; and an agile, stocky fellow with a ruddy face and a broad smile; the long, arduous march seemed to have affected him no more than river water affects the well-oiled wing of a young drake.

  Some went straight to the water’s edge, then squatted down and filled their mess tins. One man set about washing his handkerchief, causing a black cloud to spread through the clear water; another first washed his hands and then splashed water over his face. Some sat on the ground, chewing on dried rusks, scratching inside their trousers or beneath their tunics, or rolling cigarettes, trying not to let others see their tobacco pouches. Most of the men, however, lay down, some on their backs and some on their sides, closing their eyes and going so still that, but for their look of utter exhaustion, they could have been taken for dead.

  There was just one dark-skinned, lean but broad-shouldered man in his forties who remained on his feet, gazing for a long time at the river. It was absolutely smooth, like a flat, heavy slab of rock. All the fierce heat of this August day seemed to have emanated from this huge mirror at the foot of the high sandy cliff. In the cliff’s shadow the mirror was a velvet black; where the sun beat straight down on it, the mirror was slate grey, with a hint of blue.

  The soldier looked long and intently at the meadows on the far bank, from which the barge had already moved off again. He looked upstream and downstream and then turned round to look at his comrades.

  The driver got out of the pickup and went up to the soldiers by the river.

  “Where have you lot just come from?” he asked.

  “Some of us have been digging trenches, some have been doing other auxiliary work,” the standing soldier replied, hoping to win the driver’s sympathy. “We’ve marched quite a distance, men are collapsing from sunstroke. Can you spare some baccy, comrade driver, and some pages from Red Star? One of the dates it was printed on super-fine paper!”6

  The driver took out his tobacco pouch and some slips of newspaper. “On your way to Stalingrad, are you?” he asked.

  “Who knows? Right now it’s back to Nikolaevka. Our division’s being held in reserve there.”

  A second soldier, annoyed that he hadn’t been quicker to cadge a smoke himself, said, “There’s nothing worse than being separated from your unit. No hot meals, only dry rations. And it’s two days since they last gave us any baccy.” Turning to the first soldier, he went on, “Leave a few drags for your comrade!”

  Without moving or even opening his eyes, a third soldier said, “Wait till we get to Stalingrad. You’ll get your hot meal there all right.” As he spoke, his teeth looked very white.

  “Yes,” said the second soldier. “Blood will be shed there. That’s for sure.”

  The pickup truck with the commanders, the trucks with the bombs and several kolkhoz carts drawn by oxen all went onto the barge. Barely had the crossing commandant ordered the infantry platoons to embark when there was a burst of activity in the sky above them. Soviet fighters were patrolling over the Volga and the sands to the east, filling the air with the roar of their engines. The soldiers looked around, slowing their step, expecting to be ordered to wait, but the crossing commandant merely urged them on and shouted, “Quick! Get on board!”

  Either this man with the red armband was eager to see the last of this huge barge laden with 200-kilo bombs or else he had seen so many air raids that they meant nothing to him.

  There were several hundred men on the barge and they all instinctively tried to get as far away from the trucks as they could, crowding towards the bow and the stern, looking warily at the bomb containers’ cylindrical grills and at the two lifebelts hanging on the bridge. Some of the men, no doubt, were wondering which of them would manage to seize one of these lifebelts and dive into the water.

  There is no fear worse than a new fear; being bombed on water seemed infinitely more frightening than being bombed on land. It was clearly the same for all of them—both for the foot soldiers and for the commanders in the pickup. And it really was simply a matter of the novelty of this particular fear. The sailors were eating juicy tomatoes and smacking their lips. A sad-looking boy was holding a fishing rod, keeping a watchful eye on his float, and an elderly woman with red hair, sitting close to the helmsman, was knitting either a stocking or a mitten.

  “Well, comrade Lieutenant, how are you feeling?” asked the major, blowing down his cigarette holder. “Are you a good swimmer? Will you be needing a lifebelt?”

  The lieutenant colonel got out of the pickup. Pointing to the tightly parked trucks with their loads of bombs, he said, “If a bomb hits those trucks, the lieutenant will be better off with a parachute!”

  After that, his face turned very stern again. He did not want his little joke to prompt the major to get too familiar with him.

  Infringing the usual rules of behaviour for men of his age, the young lieutenant said with absolute frankness, “I’m terrified, I can’t deny it. What are all those fighters doing in the sky?”

  “Clear enough,” said the major. “There must have been a radio notification of approaching German bombers. They’ll catch us right in midstream.” Remembering the tomatoes Antonina Vasilievna had given him as he left, he put his hand to his knapsack.

  The fighters went on hurtling about the sky. There were MIGs, LaGGs and American Airacobras.7

  The barge moved painfully slowly. The small tug seemed to be at the end of its strength. The west bank was slipping further and further away, but the east bank still seemed beyond reach, infinitely distant. The soldiers kept an anxious eye on the barge’s progress, while repeatedly scanning the western sky, afraid that German bombers might appear at any moment.

  “What’s got into our fighters? Why are they circling around like that?” muttered one of the younger soldiers.

  “They’re guarding the melon plantations,” replied an older soldier, the man who had remained
on his feet when they first reached the river. “The plantations on the east bank are very special. Understood?”

  “Very funny,” said a younger soldier. “And you say you’re a family man. You won’t be laughing when we’re all in the water.”

  No one on the barge knew, or could have known, that the fighters were waiting to escort a passenger plane on its way from Moscow to Stalingrad.

  8

  THE CREW of the Douglas arrived at Moscow’s central aerodrome at dawn.

  The pilot, a major with a crumpled, capricious-looking face, and the navigator, who was pale and stooped, walked side by side. Each had a huge map case on a long strap, thrown casually over one shoulder and knocking against his thighs.

  “Say what you like, she’s a fine woman,” said the pilot. “And as for her legs!”

  “I’m not saying a word against her,” said the navigator. “Only that she drinks. You can’t deny that.”

  Following behind were a radio operator and two senior sergeants.

  The duty officer went out to meet the pilot and said with a smile, “Ah, comrade Major!”

  “Greetings, Lieutenant Colonel!” said the pilot, and walked on, his boots squeaking on the stone tiles.

  He was well used to the small anxieties that went with having an important passenger. He inspected the soft seats with their starched covers, straightened the strip of carpet that ran down the aisle, used the sleeve of his jacket to polish the already sparkling window where his passenger usually sat, and went through to his cabin.

  Twenty minutes later, General Zhukov, deputy people’s commissar for defence, arrived in his car.

  The plane took off to the south-east. The men behind Zhukov sat in silence, looking at the back of his large, closely shaven head. What was the general thinking as he gazed out of the window?