Life and Fate

by Vasily Grossman

  ‘It’s all because of that damned Seryozha!’ muttered Polyakov. He was unable to understand what had happened, to grasp that there was now no one left in house 6/1. Klimov’s cries and sobs merely irritated him.

  23

  During the initial air-attack, a bomb had fallen on top of the underground pipeline that housed one of Byerozkin’s battalion command-posts; Byerozkin himself, Battalion Commander Dyrkin and the telephonist had been trapped. Finding himself in complete darkness, deafened and choking with dust, Byerozkin had thought he was no longer in the land of the living. Then, in a brief moment of silence, Dyrkin had sneezed and asked: ‘Are you alive, comrade Lieutenant-Colonel?’

  ‘Yes,’ Byerozkin had answered.

  On hearing his commander’s voice, Dyrkin had recovered his customary good humour.

  ‘Well then, everything’s fine!’ he said, hawking and spitting. In fact, things seemed far from fine. Dyrkin and the telephonist were up to their necks in rubble; it was impossible for them even to check whether they had any broken bones. An iron girder above them prevented them from straightening their backs; it was this girder, however, that had saved their lives. Dyrkin turned on his torch for a moment. What they saw was quite terrifying: there were large slabs of stone hanging right over their heads, together with twisted pieces of iron, slabs of buckled concrete covered in oil, and hacked-up cables. One more bomb and all this would crash down on top of them.

  For a while they huddled in silence, listening to the furious force hammering at the workshops above. Even posthumously, these workshops continued to work for the defence, thought Byerozkin; it was difficult to destroy iron and reinforced concrete.

  Then they examined the walls. There was clearly no way they could get out by themselves. The telephone was intact but silent; the line must have been cut.

  It was also almost impossible to talk – they were coughing constantly and their voices were drowned by the roar of explosions.

  Though it was less than twenty-four hours since he had been in delirium, Byerozkin now felt full of strength. In battle, his strength imposed itself on all his subordinates. Nevertheless, there was nothing essentially military or warlike about it; it was a simple, reasonable and very human strength. Few men were able to display strength of this kind in the inferno of battle; they were the true masters of the war.

  The bombardment died down. It was replaced by an iron rumble. Byerozkin wiped his nose, coughed and said: ‘Now the wolves are howling. Their tanks are attacking the Tractor Factory . . . And we’re right in their path.’

  Perhaps because he couldn’t imagine anything worse, Dyrkin began singing a song from a film. In a loud voice, he half-sang, half-coughed:

  ‘What a beautiful life we lead, what a beautiful life!

  Things can never go wrong, never go wrong with such a wonderful chief.’

  The telephonist thought Dyrkin had gone mad. All the same, coughing and spitting, he joined in:

  ‘She’ll grieve for me, she says she’ll grieve for me all her life,

  But soon another man, another man, will make her his wife.’

  Meanwhile, up in the workshop filled with dust, smoke and the roar of tanks, Glushkov was tearing the skin off his hands and fingers as he rooted up slabs of stone, iron and concrete. He was in a state of frenzy; only this allowed him to clear away heavy girders it would normally have taken ten men even to shift.

  The rumble of tanks, the shell-bursts, the chatter of machine-guns grew still louder – and Byerozkin could see light again. It was a dust-laden, smoky light; but it was the light of day. Looking at it, Byerozkin thought: ‘See, Tamara? You needn’t have worried. I told you it wouldn’t be anything terrible.’ Then Glushkov embraced him with his powerful, muscular arms.

  Gesturing around him, his voice choked with sobs, Dyrkin cried out: ‘Comrade Lieutenant-Colonel, I’m in command of a dead battalion. And Vanya’s dead. Our Vanya’s dead.’

  He pointed to the corpse of the battalion commissar. It was lying on its side in a dark crimson puddle of blood and machine-oil.

  The regimental command-post was relatively unscathed; there was just a dusting of earth on the bed and the table.

  Pivovarov leapt up, swearing happily, as Byerozkin came in. Byerozkin immediately began questioning him.

  ‘Are we still in touch with the battalions? What about the encircled house? How’s Podchufarov? Dyrkin and I got caught in a mouse-trap. We couldn’t see and we lost touch with everyone. I don’t know who’s dead and who’s alive. Where are the Germans? Where are our men? I’m completely out of touch. We’ve just been singing songs. Quick, give me a report!’

  Pivovarov began by telling him the number of casualties. Everyone in house 6/1, including the notorious Grekov, had perished. Only the scout and one old militiaman had escaped.

  But the regiment had withstood the German assault. The men still alive were still alive.

  The telephone rang. From the signaller’s face, they all realized it was Chuykov himself.

  Byerozkin took the receiver. It was a good line; the men in the suddenly quiet bunker recognized Chuykov’s low, serious voice.

  ‘Byerozkin? The divisional commander’s wounded. His second-in-command and chief of staff are dead. I order you to take command yourself.’

  Then, more slowly, and with emphasis:

  ‘You held their attack. You commanded the regiment through hellish, unheard-of conditions. Thank you, my friend. I embrace you. And I wish you luck.’

  In the workshops of the Tractor Factory the battle had only just begun. Those who were alive were still alive.

  House 6/1 was now silent. Not one shot could be heard from the ruins. It had evidently borne the brunt of the air-attack; the remaining walls had now collapsed and the stone mound had been flattened. The German tanks firing at Podchufarov’s battalion were screened by the last remains of the building. What had once been a terrible danger to the Germans was now a place of refuge.

  From a distance the heaps of red brick seemed like chunks of raw, steaming flesh. Grey-green German soldiers were buzzing excitedly around the dead building.

  ‘You must take command of the regiment,’ said Byerozkin to Pivovarov. ‘Until today, my superiors have never been satisfied with me. Then, after sitting around all day singing songs, I get Chuykov’s thanks and the command of a division. Well, I won’t let you off the hook now.’

  But the Germans were pressing forward. This was no time for pleasantries.

  24

  It was very cold when Viktor, Lyudmila and Nadya arrived in Moscow. Snow was falling. Alexandra Vladimirovna was still in Kazan; Viktor had promised to get her a job at the Karpov Institute, but she had wanted to stay on at the factory.

  These were strange days, days of both joy and anxiety. The Germans still seemed powerful and threatening, as though they were preparing some new offensive.

  There was no obvious sign that the war had reached a turning-point. Nevertheless, everyone wanted to return to Moscow. It seemed right and natural – as did the Government’s decision to send back various institutions that had been evacuated.

  People could sense that spring was in the air, that the worst days of the war were over. Nevertheless, the capital seemed sullen and gloomy during this second winter of the war.

  Heaps of dirty snow covered the pavements. The outskirts of the city were just like the country – there were little paths linking each house with tram-stops and food stores. You often saw the iron pipes of makeshift stoves smoking away through a window; the walls of these buildings were covered in a frozen layer of yellow soot. In their short sheepskin coats and scarves, the Muscovites looked very provincial, almost like peasants.

  On the way from the station Viktor looked round at Nadya’s frowning face; they were both perched on top of their baggage in the back of a truck.

  ‘So, mademoiselle,’ he said, ‘this isn’t the Moscow you dreamed of when we were in Kazan?’

  Annoyed that Viktor had guessed her fee
lings, Nadya didn’t answer.

  Viktor began to hold forth:

  ‘Man never understands that the cities he has built are not an integral part of Nature. If he wants to defend his culture from wolves and snowstorms, if he wants to save it from being strangled by weeds, he must keep his broom, spade and rifle always at hand. If he goes to sleep, if he thinks about something else for a year or two, then everything’s lost. The wolves come out of the forest, the thistles spread and everything is buried under dust and snow. Just think how many great capitals have succumbed to dust, snow and couch-grass.’

  Viktor suddenly wanted Lyudmila, who was in the cab with the driver, to have the benefit of his reflections too. He leant over the side of the truck and asked through the half-open window:

  ‘Are you comfortable, Lyuda?’

  ‘What’s all this about the death of cultures?’ asked Nadya. ‘It’s just that the janitors haven’t been clearing away the snow.’

  ‘Don’t be silly!’ said Viktor. ‘Just look at that ice!’

  The truck gave a sudden jolt. The bundles and suitcases flew up into the air, together with Nadya and Viktor. They looked at each other and burst out laughing.

  How strange it all was. How could he ever have guessed that he would do his most important work in Kazan, during a war, with all the suffering and homelessness that entailed?

  He had expected them to feel only a solemn excitement as they drew near to Moscow. He had expected their sorrow over Tolya, Marusya and Anna Semyonovna, their thoughts of the victims claimed from almost every family, to blend with the joy of homecoming and fill their souls.

  But it hadn’t been like that at all. On the train Viktor had been upset by all kinds of trivia. He had even been annoyed with Lyudmila for sleeping so much instead of looking out over the earth that her own son had defended. She had snored very loudly; a wounded soldier passing in the corridor had heard her and exclaimed: ‘There’s a true soldier of the guard!’

  He had been equally annoyed with Nadya: she had chosen all the most delicious-looking biscuits out of the bag and left her mother to clear up the remains of her meal. She had put on an absurd, mocking tone of voice whenever she spoke to him; he had overheard her in the next compartment saying: ‘My father’s a great admirer of music. Sometimes he even tinkles on the piano himself.’

  The people they had shared the compartment with talked about such matters as central heating and the Moscow sewers; about people who had gaily neglected to pay their rent and so lost their right to live in Moscow; about what were the best foodstuffs to bring with them. Viktor didn’t like these conversations, but in the end he too was talking about janitors and water-pipes; when he couldn’t sleep at night, he wondered if the telephone had been cut off and remembered that he must get ration-cards for the Academy store.

  The bad-tempered woman in charge of the coach had found a chicken-bone under Viktor’s seat when she was sweeping out the compartment.

  ‘What pigs!’ she had muttered. ‘And they think of themselves as intelligentsia!’

  At Mourom, Viktor and Nadya had gone for a walk along the platform and run into some young men wearing long coats with Astrakhan fur collars. One of them had looked round and said: ‘Look, Old Father Abraham’s coming back from evacuation.’

  ‘Yes,’ laughed the other, ‘he wants to get his medal for the defence of Moscow.’

  At Kanash they had stopped opposite a train full of prisoners. Pressing their pale faces against the tiny barred windows, the prisoners had shouted, ‘Tobacco!’ or ‘Give us a smoke!’ The sentries patrolling up and down the train had cursed at the men as they pushed them away from the windows.

  In the evening Viktor had gone to the next coach to see the Sokolovs. Marya Ivanovna, a coloured shawl round her head, was getting their bedding ready. She was sleeping in the top bunk, and Pyotr Lavrentyevich down below. Worried about whether Pyotr would be comfortable, she answered Viktor’s questions quite randomly and forgot to ask after Lyudmila.

  Sokolov himself had just yawned and said how exhausting he found the heat. For some reason Viktor had been offended by this lukewarm welcome.

  ‘It’s the first time in my life,’ he said in an irritated tone that surprised even himself, ‘that I’ve seen a man sleep below and make his wife climb up on top.’

  ‘It’s what we always do,’ said Marya Ivanovna, kissing Sokolov on the temple. ‘Pyotr Lavrentyevich gets too hot up on top – but it’s all the same to me.’

  ‘Well,’ said Viktor, ‘I’m off.’ The Sokolovs didn’t ask him to stay; once again he felt offended.

  It was very hot in the carriage that night. All kinds of memories had come back to him – Kazan, Karimov, Alexandra Vladimirovna, his conversations with Madyarov, his tiny office at the university . . . What a charming, anxious look had come into Marya Ivanovna’s eyes when Viktor had discussed politics at their evening gatherings. Very, very different from their preoccupied look just now.

  ‘Would you believe it?’ he said to himself. ‘Taking the bottom bunk, where it’s cool and comfortable. What a tyrant!’

  Then he got angry with kind, meek Marya Ivanovna whom he liked more than any other woman he knew. ‘She’s a little red-nosed rabbit. But then Pyotr Lavrentyevich is a difficult man. He seems so gentle and measured, but really he’s arrogant, secretive and vindictive. Yes, the poor woman has a lot to put up with.’

  Viktor hadn’t been able to get to sleep. He had tried to imagine the reactions of Chepyzhin and his other friends. Many of them knew about his work already. How would it all go? What would Gurevich and Chepyzhin say? He was, after all, a conquering hero . . .

  Then he had remembered that Markov wouldn’t be in Moscow for another week. He had made detailed arrangements for setting up the laboratory and it would be impossible to start work without him. It was a pity that he and Sokolov were such theoreticians, that they had such clumsy, insensitive hands.

  Yes, a conquering hero . . .

  But somehow he hadn’t been able to hold on to this train of thought. He kept seeing the prisoners begging for tobacco and the young men who had called him ‘Old Father Abraham’. And then there was that strange remark of Postoev’s . . . Sokolov had been talking about a young physicist called Landesman and Postoev had said, ‘Who cares about Landesman now Viktor Pavlovich has astonished the world with his discovery?’ Then he had embraced Sokolov and said, ‘Still, what matters is that we’re both Russians.’

  Would the telephone and the gas be working? And had people thought about trivia like this a hundred years ago – on their way back to Moscow after the defeat of Napoleon?

  The truck came to a stop not far from their house. Once again the Shtrums saw the front door, the four windows of their flat with the blue paper crosses that had been pasted on last summer, the linden trees on the edge of the pavement, the sign saying ‘Milk’ and the board on the janitor’s door.

  ‘Well, I don’t suppose the lift will be working,’ said Lyudmila.

  She turned to the driver. ‘Can you help take our things up to the second floor?’

  ‘Why not? You can pay me in bread.’

  They unloaded the truck; Nadya stayed to watch over their things while Viktor and Lyudmila went up to their apartment. They went up the stairs very slowly, somehow surprised that everything had changed so little: the letter-boxes were still the same, the door on the first floor was still covered with a piece of black oil-cloth. How strange that streets, houses and things you forgot about didn’t just disappear; they came back and there you were in the midst of them again.

  Once, too impatient to wait for the lift, Tolya had run up to the second floor and shouted down to Viktor: ‘Ha ha! I’m home already!’

  ‘Let’s stop for a moment on the landing. You’re out of breath,’ said Viktor.

  ‘My God!’ said Lyudmila. ‘Just look at the state of the staircase! I’ll have to go down tomorrow and get Vasily Ivanovich to have the place cleaned.’

  There they were, husband
and wife, standing once more before the door of their home.

  ‘Perhaps you’d like to open the door,’ said Viktor.

  ‘No, you do it. You’re the master of the house.’

  They went inside and walked round all the rooms without taking off their coats. Lyudmila took the telephone receiver off the hook, blew into it and said: ‘Well, the telephone seems to be working all right.’

  Then she went into the kitchen. ‘We’ve even got water. We can use the lavatory.’ She went over to the stove and tried to turn on the gas. It had been cut off.

  Lord, Lord, it was over at last. The enemy had been halted. They had returned to their home. That Saturday, 21 June, 1941, seemed only yesterday. How much – and how little – everything had changed. The people who had just entered the house were different. Their hearts had changed; their lives had changed; they were living in another epoch. Why was everything so ordinary, and yet such a source of anxiety? Why did their pre-war life, the life they had lost, seem so fine and happy? And why was the thought of tomorrow so oppressive? Ration cards, residence permits, the electricity rental, newspaper subscriptions, the state of the lift . . . And when they were in bed, they would hear that same old clock striking the hour.

  Following at his wife’s heels, Viktor suddenly remembered how he and pretty young Nina had had a drink here in the summer. The empty wine bottle was still beside the sink.

  He remembered the night after he had read the letter from his mother that had been brought by Colonel Novikov; he remembered his own sudden departure to Chelyabinsk. This was where he had kissed Nina; where a pin had fallen out of her hair and they hadn’t been able to find it. He felt suddenly anxious. What if the pin suddenly turned up? What if she had forgotten her powder-puff or her lipstick?

  Just then the driver came in. Breathing heavily, he looked round the room and asked: ‘And all this belongs to you?’