Stalingrad

by Vasily Grossman

  As he passed the men from penal battalions, he said in a calm, cheerful voice, “Stand firm, lads, you’ll all be amnestied now!”

  His rough but good-natured joke, pronounced with unimaginable calm, did much for their morale.

  Throughout the barrage Konanykin had been keeping a close eye on these men, whom he had placed near his command post. One had kept stroking the green body of a hand grenade; a second had been frantically taking rusks from his pocket and stuffing them into his mouth, evidently finding this comforting; a third had repeatedly been trembling all over and then, all of a sudden, going dead still; a fourth had been kicking away at a brick with the toe of his boot, as if trying to chisel a hole in it; a fifth was opening his mouth very wide while blocking his ears with his fingers; a sixth was constantly whispering to himself, probably either praying or swearing.

  “Just my luck,” Konanykin said to himself. “Filyashkin was meant to be getting these heroes transferred, but now I’ll have them fighting alongside me.”

  Konanykin had no love for these men. One had deliberately shot himself. Another had run from the battlefield. All of them regularly infringed military discipline and created difficulties for Konanykin. One had lost his military-service book. Yakhontov—a common criminal with fair hair and pale blue eyes—had fallen behind during the long march; he had finally shown up, having got a lift in a passing truck, just as Konanykin was writing an official report about his desertion. Another man had a particular gift for winning the sympathy of village women and getting them to give him large quantities of rotgut. His platoon commander had written in a report that “this soldier’s conduct in matters pertaining to vodka is most excessive.”

  Now, though, Konanykin was unable to summon up his usual irritation either with Filyashkin, who had failed to get these men transferred, or with the men themselves. Instead, he felt pity for them.

  Someone tapped Konanykin on the shoulder. He looked round and saw a pale figure coated in dirt and sweat. It took him a moment to recognize Battalion Commissar Shvedkov.

  “What are your losses? How’s the men’s morale?” Shvedkov asked, breathing hotly into Konanykin’s ear.

  “Morale’s strong. We’ll fight to the end.” Konanykin then cursed and swore as a shell exploded close by.

  Konanykin now felt an uncharacteristic confidence in people and a great warmth towards them. Usually he divided the male population of the Soviet Union into two halves: those who had been professional soldiers before the war began, and those who had not. Now, though, he no longer made this distinction.

  When Shvedkov finished questioning him, wished him all the best and crept off towards Kovalyov’s company, Konanykin said to himself with feeling, “He’s a fine man, a true fighting eagle, even if he has only been serving a few months.”

  And it seemed entirely natural to him that Shvedkov, who had left before the attack for the relative safety of the regimental command post, should have returned to the battalion and was now creeping along the ground under fire, speaking straightforwardly and from the heart to soldiers and commanders alike.

  But Konanykin’s new feelings towards people were never put to the test; he was killed a few minutes before the end of the artillery barrage.

  41

  THE GREY, sharp-edged tank had a broad, sloping forehead adorned with a black cross. Somewhat jerkily, it mounted a low bank of bricks, then came to a standstill, as if to get its breath back and examine its surroundings.

  It was hard to believe that its cautious, mistrustful movements—the slow, silent rotation of its turret, the stirring of a predatory steel pupil in the eye of its machine-gun port—were being directed by people. The tank seemed a living being, with its own eyes and brain, with claws and terrible jaws, with muscles that never tired.

  A fair-haired Soviet soldier was preparing, with icy concentration, to fire his anti-tank rifle. With an almost impossible slowness he began to raise the butt. The barrel moved down and the backplate dug into his shoulder, which felt reassuring. He pressed his cheek to the cool butt and glimpsed, through the V of the backsight, the tank’s low, sloping, simian forehead, powdered with pink brick dust. Next, he saw the tank’s closed rectangular hatch. Then the side armour came into view, with its dotted line of bulging rivets; then the silvery caterpillar track and some splashes of oil. The ball of the soldier’s index finger, till then barely touching the trigger, gently took the first pressure, and the trigger began to yield. There was sweat on the soldier’s chest; he knew that he now had in his sights the most vulnerable part of the tank’s steel hide.

  The tank began to move again and the turret spun slowly round. As if sniffing out its prey, the gun turned smoothly towards the soldier lying behind the mound of bricks.

  Holding his breath, the soldier increased the pressure on the trigger. His weapon fired. The recoil was like a powerful punch to his shoulder and chest.

  He had put all his strength, all his passion into this shot—yet he missed.

  The tank shuddered, as if belching, and white, poisonous fire flashed from its gun. A shell exploded behind the soldier and to his right. The soldier opened the breech, inserted another black-nosed armour-piercing cartridge, took aim, fired—and missed. A small dust cloud rose from a heap of stone a few metres away from the tank. The tank let off a round of machine-gun fire and a flock of iron birds tore harshly through the air, just above the soldier lying flat on the ground. In despair, drawing on his last reserves of emotional strength, the soldier reloaded and fired once more.

  A bright blue flame flashed across the tank’s grey armour. The soldier lifted his head: was he imagining it or had he truly seen a blue flower flare from the grey steel? But then he saw thin yellow smoke coming out of the hatch and turret, accompanied by cracks and rumbles; it sounded as if machine-gun cartridge belts were detonating inside the tank. All of a sudden, a flaming black cloud shot up from the tank, and there was a deafening explosion.

  For a moment he felt unsure whether it was really he who had brought about the explosion, whether this black cloud really did have anything to do with the blue flame he had glimpsed on the tank’s armour. Then he closed his eyes, bent his head to his rifle, and gave the barrel a long slow kiss, feeling the blue steel, with its smell of gunpowder, against his lips and teeth.

  When he lifted his head again, the tank was still smoking. It had been blown apart by its own ammunition. There was a gash in one side, the turret had slid down onto the tank’s forehead and the drooping gun now pointed towards the ground.

  Forgetting all danger, the soldier got to his feet and repeated in a loud, passionate whisper, “Me! Look! That was me!”

  He lay down again and called out to his neighbour, “Please, lend me another cartridge!”

  Never, perhaps, in all his complex, motley, often less-than-honest life had he known such happiness. Today he was fighting not for himself, but for everyone. And the world that had deceived him so often—the world he had so often wanted to deceive—had ceased to exist.

  Death was nearby. He was confronting death in single combat. Zhora, his number two, had died already. Konanykin, his battalion commander, had been killed by shrapnel a few minutes before the tanks attacked. His section leader was almost dead too, crushed beneath a huge heap of brick, unable to give orders or even let out a groan. He was alone, with only his gun.

  Who did he remember at this moment? Did his thoughts turn to his mother and father?

  This man had never known his mother and father. Before the Revolution they had lived in Petersburg, where his father had worked as a civilian official in the Admiralty. During the Civil War his parents had tried to escape the country via Crimea, but they had both died of typhus at Melitopol railway station, in south-eastern Ukraine. Aged two, he had been taken to a children’s home. He grew up knowing nothing of his past. Although once, in the hostel of a school for future railway workers, he had a strange dream: he was standing on a slippery parquet floor, wearing a small lace-edged apron and h
olding in his hands the long warm ears of a dog. The dog’s clouded eyes were looking straight into his own, and its rough tongue was licking his cheek. A woman threw up her hands in horror and carried him away, pressing him against the slippery silk on her breast. While he kicked his legs and yelled, she wiped his cheeks with a warm sponge.

  He studied, then dropped his studies and got a job. He married, left his wife, left his job, went off his head and took to drink. One night he and two friends broke into a grocery store; they were arrested the next morning. The beginning of the war found him in a labour camp. He petitioned to be enlisted—and was sent to the front, granted the opportunity to earn his pardon.

  Today he had destroyed an enemy tank and received a shrapnel wound in the leg. He knew he would now be pardoned. But that was not what he thought about as he saw a second tank moving forward between the ruined buildings.

  Calm, sure of his strength and still rejoicing in his success, he began to take aim. He was confident of a second triumph but, before he could pull the trigger, he was hit by machine-gun fire. Finding him still alive, with a fractured spine and his stomach gashed open, two orderlies dragged him away on a greatcoat.

  42

  THAT EVENING, when things quietened down, Filyashkin tried to count up the casualties. But he soon realized that it would be simpler to count the number of men still alive.

  Apart from himself, the only surviving commanders were Shvedkov, who had just got back from reviewing the trenches; Company Commander Kovalyov; and Ganiev, the Tatar platoon commander.

  “Overall, our losses are around sixty-five per cent,” Filyashkin said to Shvedkov. “I’ve ordered the sergeant majors and sergeants to take command of their units. They’re good fighters, they won’t panic.”

  The command post had been destroyed in the first minutes of the German assault and Filyashkin and Shvedkov were sitting in a pit roofed with logs from a shed beside the station. The last few hours had blackened their faces, gluing their cheeks to their cheekbones and leaving a dark crust on their lips.

  “What should we do with the dead?” asked the sergeant major. He was up above them, on all fours, looking down into the pit.

  “I’ve already told you,” said Filyashkin. “Take them down to the cellar.” He went on crossly, “I knew it—we’re already short of F1 and RGD grenades.”

  “The commanders separately?” asked the sergeant major.

  “Why?” Shvedkov replied tersely. “They were killed together, so let them lie together.”

  “Very good,” said the sergeant major. “Anyway, it’s hard to tell the commanders apart now. Men’s collars and tabs have been torn off and everyone looks much the same.”

  “Two of our machine guns have been destroyed,” Filyashkin said in a preoccupied tone. “And five anti-tank rifles and three mortars are now out of action.”

  The sergeant major crept off. Used cartridges lying on the ground squeaked and tinkled.

  Shvedkov opened a school exercise book and began to write. Filyashkin stuck his head up out of the pit, looked around and sat down again. “They won’t start up again until morning,” he said. “What are you writing?”

  “A political report for the regimental commissar,” said Shvedkov. “I’ve described the various acts of heroism, and now I’m listing the dead and the circumstances of their death. Only I’ve got muddled. Was it Igumnov who was killed by a bullet, and Konanykin by shrapnel? And which was killed first? I can’t remember. Was it seventeen hundred hours when Igumnov was killed?”

  They both glanced at the dark corner where Igumnov’s body had been lying until a few minutes ago.

  “No use writing a chronicle,” said Filyashkin. “You won’t get it to the regiment now. We’re cut off.”

  “True,” said Shvedkov. Nevertheless, he went on writing. Then he said, “Igumnov’s death was particularly stupid. He half got to his feet to call a messenger—and that was the end of him.”

  “All deaths are stupid,” said Filyashkin. “There’s no clever way to get killed.”

  Filyashkin did not want to talk about dead comrades; he was well aware of the value of the stern, sometimes life-saving grace of emotional numbness during combat. If he were spared, he would recall his comrades in years to come. One quiet evening, he would feel a lump in his throat. Tears would well up in his eyes and he would say, “He was a good chief of staff. A splendid, straightforward fellow. Yes, I remember him as if it were yesterday. When the Germans attacked, he tore up some letters he kept in his pockets. It was as if he knew. And then he took out a comb and ran it over his hair, and he looked at me.”

  But in combat the heart goes cold and stone-like, and it’s best to let it stay that way. In any case, no heart can comprehend all the blood and death of battle.

  Shvedkov looked through what he’d written, sighed and said, “They’re fine lads. Our political work hasn’t been wasted. They’re brave, and they’ve got cool heads. One man said to me, ‘Don’t worry, comrade Commissar, we understand our work and we’ll do our duty!’ And another said, ‘Better men than us have met their deaths already.’”

  There were two explosions nearby.

  Shvedkov looked up. “Are they starting up again?”

  “No, they’ll carry on like this until morning,” Filyashkin said condescendingly. “A few shots every now and then, just to stop us from sleeping. But it’s been hard work! Between five and six I machine-gunned a good thirty of the shits. There was no end to them.”

  “Let me record the details,” said Shvedkov, moistening his copying pencil.

  “Drop it,” said Filyashkin. “What’s the use of your scribbling?”

  “What do you mean?” replied Shvedkov—and he began to write. Then, suddenly remembering, he said, “Comrade Battalion Commander, I’ve been entrusted with a gift for our heroic girls.” He was aware that, but for this confounded gift, he might not have been sent back so promptly. He might still be sitting in the political-department bunker, drinking tea and writing a routine report. But this thought did not occasion him either regret or annoyance. He looked questioningly at Filyashkin and asked, “Who should we give this to? Gnatyuk, perhaps? She’s shown true heroism today.”

  “You know best,” Filyashkin replied, with exaggerated casualness. Shvedkov called a soldier and ordered him to summon Gnatyuk. “As long as she’s still alive,” he added.

  “Of course,” the soldier replied morosely. “There’s not much I can do if she isn’t.”

  “She’s alive all right, I’ve checked,” Filyashkin said with a smile. He shook the dust off his sleeve and wiped his face. He was constantly sniffing; the air was full of bitter smoke, thick, greasy soot and pulverized plaster—the disturbing, intoxicating smell of the front line.

  “How about a drink?” said Shvedkov, who hardly ever drank.

  Everything had turned upside down during these last few hours. The delicate and sensitive had become coarse, and the coarse and gross had softened. The thoughtless had turned thoughtful, and the usually punctilious were waiting for death with gay, despairing abandon, spitting on the floor, and laughing and shouting as if they were drunk.

  “Well, how do you feel about the life you’ve led?” Filyashkin asked out of the blue. “The hour’s drawing near when we have to account for ourselves. Is everything in your Party history as it should be? Are there any incidents in your past that might compromise you? If so, speak freely. Let me write off your sins.”

  “What’s got into you, comrade Filyashkin? I don’t understand such talk, especially from a battalion commander.”40

  “You and your scribbling—you’re very strange,” said Filyashkin. “Anyone would think you expect to stay alive”—he thought for a moment before coming out with what, down in the pit, seemed an inconceivable length of time—“for another six months. Why don’t we talk instead? Tell me—do you think I did wrong with Lena Gnatyuk?”

  “I do. But who knows? I could be mistaken,” Shvedkov replied. “If need be, the Part
y commission will correct me. But it’s not the conduct I expect from a commander—and that’s what I’ve written.”

  “You’re right, you’re absolutely right. I’ll say it myself. There’s no need to wait for any Party commission. I did wrong and I know it.”

  Feeling a sudden surge of warmth towards Filyashkin, Shvedkov said, “Oh, come on, let’s have a drink together! The regulation hundred grams,41 while it’s still quiet.”

  “No, I’d rather keep a clear head,” Filyashkin replied. He laughed; Shvedkov had criticized him only too often for drinking too much.

  Up above them appeared the face of Lena Gnatyuk.

  “Permission to come down, comrade Battalion Commander?” she asked.

  “Yes, quick, before you get yourself killed!” Filyashkin replied. He moved aside to make room for the young woman. “Give her her present, Commissar. I’ll be a witness.”

  Before going to the command post, Lena Gnatyuk had spent some time trying to clean herself up. But the water from her small flask could do little to wash away black dust and soot that had penetrated deep into her skin. She had given her nose a good firm rub with a handkerchief, but that had not made it any cleaner or paler. She had polished her boots with a scrap of bandage, but that had not made them shine. She had tried to tuck her dishevelled plait under her side cap, but her hair was stiff and unruly from the many layers of dust; she looked like a little village girl with loose strands slipping out onto her ears and her forehead.

  Her tunic was too tight for her full figure and it was smeared with black blood. Her trousers were too big for her and had slipped down onto her hips. She was wearing large, broad-toed boots and she had several bags hanging from her shoulders. Her fingernails were short and black, and she was trying not to show her hands, which had carried out much good, merciful work. She felt awkward and ugly.

  “Comrade Gnatyuk,” Shvedkov said solemnly, “I have been asked to pass on this gift to you in recognition of your devoted service. It is a present from the women of America to our girls fighting on the Volga. The parcels were delivered by special plane, straight from America to the front.”