Life and Fate

by Vasily Grossman

The greater the burden, the stronger his shoulders became. He didn’t know his own strength. Submissiveness just wasn’t a part of his nature. The stronger the force against him, the more furious his determination to fight.

  Sometimes he wondered why it was he felt such hatred for the Vlasovites. What Vlasov said in his appeals to the prisoners was exactly what he had heard from his father. He knew it was true. But he also knew that on the tongues of the Germans and Vlasovites this truth turned into a lie.

  He was certain that he was not only fighting the Germans, but fighting for a free Russia: certain that a victory over Hitler would be a victory over the death camps where his father, his mother and his sisters had perished.

  Now that his background was no longer relevant, Yershov had proved himself a true leader, a force to be reckoned with; this realization was at once pleasant and bitter. High rank, decorations, the Special Section, personnel departments, examination boards, telephone calls from the raykom, the opinion of the deputy chief of the Political Section – none of this meant anything any more.

  Mostovskoy once told him: ‘In the words of Heinrich Heine, “we’re all of us naked beneath our clothes.” But while one man looks miserable and anaemic when he takes off his uniform, another man is disfigured by tight clothing – you only see his true strength when he’s naked.’

  His dreams had become a concrete task. He was constantly going over everything he knew about people, weighing up their good and bad points, wondering whom he should recruit, whom he should entrust with what position. Who should he include in his underground staff? There were five names that came to mind. Petty human weaknesses and eccentricities suddenly took on a new importance; trivial matters were no longer trivial.

  General Gudz had the authority of his rank, but he was weak-willed, cowardly and obviously uneducated; he must have needed a good staff and an intelligent second-in-command. He took it for granted, never showing the least gratitude, that the other officers should do him favours and give him presents of food. He seemed to remember his cook more often than his wife and daughters. He was always talking about hunting, about ducks and geese; all he appeared to remember about the years he had served in the Caucasus was the wild goats and boar he had hunted. From the look of him he had drunk a lot. And he boasted. He often talked about the defeats of 1941: everyone else, including his neighbours on either side, had made countless mistakes – while he himself had always been right. But he never blamed the top brass for the disasters of that year . . . He had seen a lot of service. Yes, and he knew how to get on with the right people . . . If it had been up to him, Yershov wouldn’t have trusted Gudz with a regiment, let alone a whole corps.

  Brigade Commissar Osipov, on the other hand, was a very intelligent man. One moment he would crack a joke about how they had expected an easy war on the enemy’s territory; an hour later he would be giving a sermon to someone who had shown signs of faint-heartedness, ticking him off with stony severity. And the next day he would be announcing in his lisping voice: ‘Yes, comrades, we fly higher than anyone else, further than anyone else and quicker than anyone else. Just look how far we’ve managed to fly.’

  He spoke very lucidly about the defeats of the first months of the war, but with no more regret than a chess-player who has lost a piece. He talked freely and easily to people, but with a bluff comradeliness that seemed affected and false. What he enjoyed most was talking to Kotikov . . . Why was it he was so interested in Kotikov?

  Osipov had vast experience; he knew people. This was very important for Yershov’s underground staff, even essential. But it might also turn out to be a hindrance.

  Osipov liked to tell amusing anecdotes about important military figures, referring to them familiarly as Semyon Budyonniy, Andryusha Yeremenko . . .

  Once he told Yershov: ‘Tukhachevsky, Yegorov and Blücher were no more guilty than you or me.’

  Kirillov, however, had told Yershov that in 1937, when Osipov had been Deputy Director of the Military Academy, he had mercilessly denounced dozens of men as enemies of the people.

  He was terrified of being ill, constantly prodding himself or sticking out his tongue and squinting at it in case it was furred over. But he clearly wasn’t afraid of death.

  Colonel Zlatokrylets was very gloomy, but a straightforward man and a real soldier. He blamed the High Command for 1941. Everyone could sense his strength as a commanding officer. He was equally strong physically. He had a powerful voice, the kind of voice one needs to rally fugitives or lead an attack. And he swore a lot.

  He found it easier to give orders than explanations. But he was a true comrade, someone who would give a soldier soup from his own mess-tin.

  No, there were certainly no flies on Zlatokrylets. He was a man Yershov could work with. Even if he was coarse and boorish.

  As for Kirillov, he was intelligent, but somehow very weak. He noticed every trifle; his tired, half-closed eyes saw everything. He was cold, misanthropic, but surprisingly ready to forgive weakness and cowardice. He wasn’t afraid of death; indeed, there were times when it seemed to attract him.

  His view of the retreat was more intelligent than that of any of the other officers. Not a Party member himself, he had once said: ‘I don’t believe the Communists can make people better. It just doesn’t happen. Look at history.’

  Although he appeared to feel indifferent about everything, one night he’d just lain there and cried. Yershov had asked what was the matter. After a long time he had replied very quietly: ‘I’m sad about Russia.’ On another occasion he had said: ‘One thing I do miss is music.’ And yesterday he’d come up with a crazy grin on his face and said: ‘Listen, Yershov, I’m going to read you a poem.’ Yershov hadn’t liked it, but the words had lodged themselves in his memory.

  No need, comrade, in this unceasing pain

  Of yours to call for help. Strange, but it’s you

  I call to help me, to warm my hands again.

  Yes, on your still warm blood I’ll warm mine too . . .

  So do not worry, do not weep or bleed!

  Nothing can harm you now that you are dead.

  Can you help me? There’s one thing I still need –

  Your boots . . . There are still battles ahead.

  Had he really written that himself?

  No, he certainly didn’t want Kirillov. How could he lead others if it was all he could do to keep going himself?

  But as for Mostovskoy! He was astonishingly well-educated and he had an iron will. People said he’d been like granite under interrogation. Still, there was no one Yershov couldn’t find fault with. The other day he’d said to Mostovskoy: ‘Why do you waste so much time gossiping with riff-raff, Mikhail Sidorovich? Why bother with that gloomy Ikonnikov-Morzh and that one-eyed scoundrel of an émigré?’

  ‘Are you afraid I’ll waver in my convictions?’ asked Mostovskoy teasingly. ‘Do you think I’ll become an evangelist or a Menshevik?’

  ‘Who knows?’ said Yershov. ‘If you don’t want to smell, you shouldn’t touch shit. That Ikonnikov of yours was in our camps once. Now the Germans are dragging him off for interrogation. He’ll sell himself, he’ll sell you and he’ll sell whoever’s close to you . . .’

  No one was ideal. Yershov simply had to weigh up everyone’s strengths and weaknesses. That was easy enough. But it was only from a man’s spirit that you could judge his suitability. And this could be guessed at, but never measured. He had begun with Mostovskoy.

  71

  Breathing heavily, Major-General Gudz was making his way towards Mostovskoy. He shuffled along, wheezing and sticking out his lower lip; brown folds of loose skin rippled over his cheeks and neck. At one time he had been impressively stout, and these sounds and movements were all that remained; now they seemed quite bizarre.

  ‘My dear grandfather,’ he said to Mostovskoy. ‘I’m a mere milksop. I’ve no more right to criticize you than a major has to criticize a colonel-general. But still, let me be quite frank with you: fraternizing with Y
ershov is a mistake. He’s politically dubious and he has no military understanding whatsoever. He likes giving advice to colonels, but he has the mentality of a lieutenant. You should be on your guard with him.’

  ‘You’re talking nonsense, your excellency,’ said Mostovskoy.

  ‘What do you expect?’ wheezed Gudz. ‘Of course I’m talking nonsense. But yesterday I was informed that twelve men from the general barracks have enrolled in this accursed Russian Liberation Army. Do you realize how many of them were kulaks? What I’m saying isn’t just a personal opinion. I was instructed to say this by a man of considerable political experience.’

  ‘You don’t happen to mean Osipov, do you?’

  ‘And what if I do? A theoretician like you will never be able to understand the swine we have to deal with here.’

  ‘What a strange conversation this is,’ said Mostovskoy. ‘Sometimes I begin to think there’s nothing left of people except political vigilance. Who’d have thought we’d end up like this?’

  Gudz listened to the wheezing and bubbling of his bronchitis and said: ‘I’ll never live to see freedom. No.’ There was something terrible about the sadness in his voice.

  Watching him walk away, Mostovskoy suddenly slapped himself on the knee. Ikonnikov’s papers had disappeared – that was why he had felt so anxious after last night’s search.

  ‘God knows what that devil’s gone and written. Maybe Yershov’s right and he is a provocateur. He probably planted the papers on me on purpose.’

  He went over to Ikonnikov’s place. He wasn’t there and his neighbours had no idea what had happened to him. Yes, damn it – he should never have spoken to that holy fool, that seeker after God.

  And as for Chernetsov – what if they had always done nothing but argue? What difference did that make? What was the use of such arguments? And Chernetsov had been there when Ikonnikov handed over the papers . . . There was a witness as well as an informer.

  ‘You’re a bloody fool – hobnobbing with scum and then throwing your life away when you’re needed to fight for the Revolution,’ he said bitterly to himself.

  In the washroom he bumped into Osipov. Under a dim electric light he was washing his foot-cloths in a tin trough.

  ‘I’m glad you’re here,’ said Mostovskoy. ‘I want to talk to you.’

  Osipov nodded, looked round and wiped his hands on his sides. The two of them sat down on the cement ledge by the wall.

  ‘Just what I thought. The rascal certainly gets around,’ said Osipov when Mostovskoy began to talk about Yershov’s plans.

  ‘Comrade Mostovskoy,’ he said, stroking Mostovskoy’s hand with his damp palm, ‘I’m amazed at your decisiveness. You’re one of Lenin’s Bolsheviks. Age doesn’t exist for you. You’re an example to us all.’

  He lowered his voice.

  ‘Comrade Mostovskoy, we’ve already set up a military organization. We’d decided not to tell you about it prematurely so as not to risk your life. But there’s no such thing as old age for a comrade of Lenin’s. Still, there’s one thing I must say: Yershov is not to be trusted. You must look at it objectively. He’s a kulak. The repressions have soured him. All the same, we’re realists – and we know that for the time being we can’t get on without him. He’s won himself a cheap popularity. You know better than I how the Party has always made use of people like that for its own ends. But you ought to be aware of our opinion of him: we trust him only so far, and only for the time being . . .’

  ‘Comrade Osipov, you can trust Yershov all the way. I’m sure of him.’

  They could hear the water dripping onto the cement floor.

  ‘Listen, comrade Mostovskoy,’ said Osipov slowly. ‘There can be no secrets from you. We have one comrade who was sent here by Moscow. I can tell you his name: Kotikov. What I’ve been saying is his view of Yershov, not just my own. For us Communists Kotikov’s directives are law – orders given to us by the Party, orders given to us, in exceptional circumstances, by Stalin himself. But we can work with this godson of yours, this “master of men’s minds” as you’ve christened him. We’ve already decided that. What matters is to be realistic, to think dialectically. But you know that better than anyone.’

  Mostovskoy remained silent. Osipov embraced him and kissed him three times on the lips. There were tears in his eyes.

  ‘It’s as though I were kissing my own father,’ he said. ‘And I want to make the sign of the cross over you, just like my mother used to do over me.’

  Slowly the feeling that had tortured Mostovskoy, the sense of life’s impossible complexity, was melting away. Once again, as in his youth, the world seemed clear and simple, neatly divided into friends and enemies.

  That night the SS came to the special barracks and took off six men, Mikhail Sidorovich Mostovskoy among them.

  PART TWO

  1

  When people in the rear see fresh troops being moved up to the Front, they feel a sense of joyful expectation: these gun batteries, these freshly-painted tanks seem to be the ones destined to strike the decisive blow, the blow that will bring about a quick end to the war.

  Men who have been held in reserve for a long time feel a special tension as they board the trains that will take them to the front line. Young officers dream of special orders from Stalin in sealed envelopes . . . More experienced men, of course, don’t dream of anything of the sort: they just drink hot water, soften up their dried fish by banging it against a table or the sole of a boot, and discuss the private life of the major or the opportunities for barter at the next junction.

  They already know only too well what happens when a train unloads at a station in the middle of nowhere, a place apparently known only to the German dive-bombers . . . How the new recruits slowly lose their high spirits; how, after the monotony of the journey, you can no longer even lie down for an hour; how for days on end you don’t get a chance to eat or drink; how your temples seem to be about to burst from the incessant roar of overheated motors; how your hands barely have the strength to move the gears and levers. As for the commander – he’s had more than enough of coded messages, more than enough of being cursed and sworn at over the radio. His superiors just want to plug a gap in the line – they don’t care how well the men did in their firing exercises. ‘Forward! Forward!’ That’s the only word the commander ever hears. And he does press forward – at breakneck speed. And then sometimes the unit gets flung into action before he’s even had time to reconnoitre the area; an irritable, exhausted voice simply orders: ‘Counter-attack at once! Along those heights! We’ve got no one there and the enemy’s pushing hard. It’s a mess.’

  Then, in the ears of the drivers and mechanics, of the radio-operators and gun-layers, the roar of the long march blurs into the whistle of German shells, the crash of exploding mortar-bombs.

  This is when the madness of war becomes most obvious . . . An hour later there is nothing to show for all your work except some broken-down, burning tanks with twisted guns and torn tracks. Where are the hard months of training now? What has become of the patient, diligent work of the mechanics and electricians?

  And the superior officer draws up a standard report to cover up the useless waste of this fresh unit, this unit he flung into action with such thoughtless haste: ‘The action of the forces newly arrived from the rear temporarily checked the enemy advance and made possible a regrouping of the forces under my command.’

  If only he hadn’t just shouted, ‘Forward! Forward!’ – if only he had just allowed them time to reconnoitre the area and not blunder straight into a minefield! Even if the tanks hadn’t achieved anything decisive, at least they’d have given the Germans a run for their money.

  Novikov’s tank corps was on its way to the Front. The naïve young soldiers, men who had not yet received their baptism of fire, believed they were the ones who would take part in the decisive operation. The older men just laughed; Makarov, the commanding officer of the 3rd Brigade, and Fatov, the best of the battalion commanders, had see
n all this too many times before.

  The sceptics and pessimists had gained their knowledge and understanding through bitter experience; they had paid for it with blood and suffering. In this they were superior to the greenhorns. Nevertheless, they were wrong: Novikov’s tank corps was indeed destined to play a decisive role in an operation that was to determine both the outcome of the war and the subsequent fate of hundreds of millions of people.

  2

  Novikov had been ordered to contact Lieutenant-General Ryutin on arrival in Kuibyshev, in order to answer several questions of interest to the Stavka. He had expected to be met at the station, but the commandant, a major with a wild and yet very sleepy look in his eyes, said that no one had asked for him. It turned out to be impossible even to telephone the general; his number was secret.

  In the end Novikov set off on foot. In the station square he felt the usual timidity of a field officer in the unfamiliar surroundings of a city. His sense of his own importance suddenly crumbled: here there were no orderlies holding out telephone receivers, no drivers rushing to start up his car.

  Instead, people were rushing along the cobbled street to join a newly formed queue at the door of a store. ‘Who’s last . . . ? Then I’m after you.’ To these people with their clanking milk-cans this queue was evidently the most important thing in the world. Novikov felt particularly irritated by the soldiers and officers; nearly all of them were carrying bundles and suitcases. ‘The swine – the whole lot of them should be put straight on a train for the Front!’ he said to himself.

  Could he really be about to see her? Today? ‘Zhenya! Hello!’

  His interview with General Ryutin was extremely brief. They had barely started when the general received a telephone call from the General Staff – he was to fly to Moscow immediately.

  Ryutin apologized to Novikov and then made a call on the local exchange.