Life and Fate

by Vasily Grossman

  There was something medieval about these accusations. Assassin-doctors! The murderers of a great writer, the last Russian classic! What was the purpose of such slanders? The Inquisition and its bonfires, the execution of heretics, witch-trials, boiling pitch, the stench of smoke . . . What did all this have to do with Lenin, with the construction of Socialism and the great war against Fascism?

  Viktor began to read the first sheet. Shishakov asked whether he was comfortable and had enough light. Wouldn’t he rather sit in the armchair? No, thank you, he was quite comfortable as he was.

  Viktor read very slowly. The characters pressed against his mind without penetrating it; they were like sand on the skin of an apple.

  ‘Your defence of Pletnyov and Levin – degenerates who are a disgrace not only to medicine, but to the human race as a whole – is grist to the mill of the anti-human ideology of Fascism . . . The Soviet nation stands alone in its struggle against Fascism, the ideology that has brought back medieval witch-trials, pogroms, torture-chambers and the bonfires of the Inquisition.’

  How could one read this and not go insane?

  ‘The blood of our sons shed at Stalingrad marks a turning-point in the war with Hitlerism; but you, in coming to the defence of these degenerates, have unwittingly . . .’

  I see, I see . . . ‘Nowhere in the world do scientists enjoy the affection of the people and the protective care of the State to the same degree as in the Soviet Union . . .’

  ‘Viktor Pavlovich, will it disturb you if we go on talking?’

  ‘No, no. Not at all,’ said Viktor. At the same time he was thinking: ‘Some lucky people manage to get out of this kind of thing. They fall ill, or they’re at their dachas, or . . .’

  ‘I’ve heard that losif Vissarionovich knows about this letter,’ said Kovchenko. ‘Apparently he approves of this initiative of our scientists.’

  ‘That’s why the signature of Viktor Pavlovich . . .’ began Badin.

  Viktor felt overwhelmed by disgust at his own submissiveness. The great State was breathing on him tenderly; he didn’t have the strength to cast himself out into the freezing darkness . . . He had no strength today, no strength at all. He was paralysed, not by fear, but by something quite different – a strange, agonizing sense of his own passivity.

  How strange man is. Viktor had found the strength to renounce life itself – and now he seemed unable to refuse candies and cookies.

  But how can one just push off an omnipotent hand when it strokes your hair and pats you on the back?

  Nonsense! Why was he slandering himself like this? It was nothing to do with candies and cookies. He had always been indifferent to comfort and material well-being. His thoughts, his work, all that was most precious to him, had turned out to be necessary and valuable in the struggle against Fascism. That was a true joy.

  What was all this anyway? The doctors had confessed during the preliminary investigation. They had confessed during the trial itself. How could he believe in their innocence when they themselves had confessed to having murdered a great writer?

  To refuse to sign the letter would be to show approval of the murder of Gorky! That was unthinkable. Did he doubt that their confessions were genuine? Had they been coerced into making them, then? But there was only one way of forcing an honourable and intelligent man to confess to being a hired assassin, thereby making himself liable to an infamous execution – and that was torture. And it would be insane even to hint at that.

  But it was repugnant, quite repugnant, to think of signing this vile letter. All kinds of excuses came to mind, together with the inevitable answers . . . ‘Comrades, I feel ill, I’m suffering cardiac spasms.’ ‘Nonsense, you look fine. You’re just making excuses.’ ‘Why do you need my signature, comrades? I’m only known to a very narrow circle of specialists. Very few people outside this country know my name.’ ‘Nonsense.’ (How pleasant to hear that this was nonsense.) ‘People abroad do know your name. In any case, it’s quite unthinkable to show this letter to comrade Stalin without your signature on it. He might ask: “But why hasn’t Shtrum signed?”’

  ‘Comrades, let me say quite frankly, there are certain phrases that seem rather unfortunate. They almost bring into disrepute our whole scientific intelligentsia.’ ‘Please, Viktor Pavlovich, give us your suggestions. We’ll be only too delighted to alter any phrases that you consider unfortunate.’

  ‘Please understand, comrades. Here it says: “the writer Babel, an enemy of the people; the writer Pilnyak, an enemy of the people; the director Meyerhold, an enemy of the people; Academician Vavilov, an enemy of the people . . .” I’m a theoretical physicist, a mathematician. Some people consider me schizophrenic, my field of study’s so abstract. I’m really not competent to judge these other matters. It’s best to leave people like me in peace.’ ‘Nonsense, Viktor Pavlovich. You have a logical mind and you understand politics extremely well. You know yourself how often you talk about politics and how apt your remarks always are.’

  ‘For the love of God! Please understand that I have a conscience. I feel ill, I find all this very painful. I’m under no obligation . . . Why should I have to sign this letter? I’m exhausted. You must allow me the right to a clear conscience.’

  But he couldn’t get away from a sense of impotence, a sense that he had somehow been hypnotized. He was as obedient as a well-cared-for animal. And then there was fear – fear of ruining his life once again, fear of living in fear.

  Could he really oppose himself to the collective again? Go back to his former solitude? It was time he took the world seriously. He had obtained things he had never even dreamed of. He could work in complete freedom; he was treated with solicitous attentiveness. And he hadn’t had to beg for any of this; he hadn’t repented. He had been victorious. What more could he ask for? Stalin had telephoned him.

  ‘Comrades, this is a very serious matter. I need to think about it. Allow me to put off my decision until tomorrow.’

  Viktor immediately imagined all the torment of a sleepless night: doubts, indecision, sudden decisiveness followed by terror, more doubts, another decision. All that was so exhausting. It was worse than malaria. Did he really want to prolong such torture? No, he had no strength. It was better to get it over and done with.

  He took out his pen. As he did so, he saw a look of amazement on Shishakov’s face. How docile this rebel had now become!

  Viktor did no work that day. There were no distractions, no telephone calls. He was simply unable to work. His work seemed dull, empty, pointless.

  Who else had signed the letter? Chepyzhin? Ioffe had, but Krylov? And Mandelstam? He wanted to hide behind someone’s back. But it had been impossible for him to refuse. It would have been suicide. Nonsense, he could easily have refused. No, he had done the right thing. But then, no one had threatened him. It would have been all right if he had signed out of a feeling of animal fear. But he hadn’t signed out of fear. He had signed out of an obscure, almost nauseous, feeling of submissiveness.

  Viktor called Anna Stepanovna to his office and asked her to develop a film for tomorrow. It was a control film of experiments carried out with the new apparatus.

  She finished noting everything down, but didn’t move. Viktor looked at her questioningly.

  ‘Viktor Pavlovich,’ she began, ‘I once thought this was impossible to put into words, but I feel I have to say it: do you realize how much you have done for me and for others? What you’ve done for us is more important than any great discovery. I feel better just knowing that you exist. Do you know what the mechanics, cleaners and caretakers say about you? They say that you’re an upright man. I often wanted to call at your home, but I was afraid. Do you understand? Even during the most difficult days I had only to think of you and everything seemed easier. Thank you for being the man you are!’

  Before Viktor had time to say anything, she had left the office.

  He wanted to run down the street and scream . . . Anything, anything at all rather than this sha
me, this torment. But this was only the beginning.

  Late in the afternoon his telephone rang.

  ‘Do you know who it is?’

  He did indeed. Even his cold fingers on the receiver seemed to recognize the voice. Once again Marya Ivanovna had appeared at a critical moment.

  ‘I’m speaking from a call-box. I can hardly hear you,’ said Marya Ivanovna. ‘Pyotr Lavrentyevich is feeling better. I’ve got more time now. If you can, come to the square at eight o’clock tomorrow.’

  Suddenly her voice changed.

  ‘My love, my dearest, my light, I’m afraid for you. Someone came round about a letter – you know the one I mean? I’m sure it was you, your strength, that helped Pyotr Lavrentyevich stand his ground. Anyway, it went all right. But I immediately began thinking how much harm you’ve probably done yourself. You’re so awkward and angular. You always come out bleeding, while everyone else just gets a slight knock.’

  Viktor put down the receiver and buried his face in his hands. He now understood the position he was in. It wasn’t his enemies who were going to punish him, but his friends, the people who loved him. It was their very faith in him that would wound him.

  As soon as he got home he phoned Chepyzhin; he didn’t even take his coat off. As he dialled his number, he felt certain that he would be wounded yet again – by his dear friend, by his loving teacher. Lyudmila was standing right there, but he was in too much of a hurry even to tell her what he had done. God, how quickly she was going grey! That’s right, that’s right, have a go at someone when their hair turns grey!

  ‘All right, I’ve just heard the bulletin on the radio,’ said Chepyzhin. ‘But I haven’t got much to say about myself. Oh yes, I quarrelled yesterday with certain prominent officials. Have you heard about this letter yet?’

  Viktor’s lips were quite dry. He licked them and said: ‘Yes, vaguely.’

  ‘Yes, yes, it’s not something to talk about on the phone. We can discuss it when we next meet – after your trip,’ said Chepyzhin.

  But all this was nothing. Soon Nadya would be back. Heavens, what had he done?

  55

  Viktor didn’t sleep that night. His heart ached. He felt weighed down by an unimaginable gloom. A conquering hero indeed!

  Even when he had been afraid of the woman in the house-manager’s office, he had felt stronger and freer than he did now. Now he no longer dared to take part in a discussion, to express the slightest doubt about anything. He had sacrificed his inner freedom. How could he look Chepyzhin in the eye? Or perhaps he would find it no more difficult than all the people who had greeted him so brightly and warmly on his return to the Institute?

  Everything he remembered only added to the torture. There was no peace anywhere. Everything he did, even his smiles and gestures, no longer seemed a part of him; they were alien, hostile. Nadya had looked at him that evening with an expression of pitying disgust.

  Only Lyudmila – who in the past had annoyed him and ticked him off more than anyone – had been of any comfort. She had simply said: ‘Don’t torture yourself, Viktor. To me you’re the most intelligent and honourable man in the world. If that’s what you did, then it’s what you had to do.’

  Why did he always want to approve of everything? Why had he become so accepting of things he had never been able to tolerate before? Why, whatever people were talking about, did he always have to be the optimist?

  The recent military victories had corresponded to a change in his own life. He could see the power of the army, the grandeur of the State; there was light at the end of the tunnel. Why had Madyarov’s thoughts come to seem so banal?

  He had refused to repent when they threw him out of the Institute. How happy, how full of light he had felt. And what joy he had felt then in the people he loved! Lyudmila, Nadya, Chepyzhin, Zhenya . . . But what would he say now to Marya Ivanovna? He had always been so arrogant about Pyotr Lavrentyevich and his timid submissiveness. And now! As for his mother, he was afraid even to think of her. He had sinned against her too. He was afraid even to touch that last letter of hers. He realized with sorrow and horror how incapable he was of protecting his own soul. The power that had reduced him to slavery lay inside him.

  How base he had been! Throwing stones at pitiful, defenceless people who were already spattered with blood!

  All this was so painful. He could feel it in his heart. And there were beads of sweat on his forehead.

  How could he have been so arrogant? Who had given him the right to boast of his purity and courage, to set himself up as a merciless judge of the weaknesses of others?

  Good men and bad men alike are capable of weakness. The difference is simply that a bad man will be proud all his life of one good deed – while an honest man is hardly aware of his good acts, but remembers a single sin for years on end.

  Viktor had been so proud of his courage and uprightness; he had laughed at anyone who had shown signs of weakness or fear. And now he too had betrayed people. He was ashamed of himself; he despised himself. The house he lived in, its light and warmth, had crumbled away; nothing was left but dry quicksand.

  His friendship with Chepyzhin, his affection for his daughter, his devotion to his wife, his hopeless love for Marya Ivanovna, his human sins and his human happiness, his work, his beloved science, his love for his mother, his grief for her – everything had vanished.

  Why had he committed this terrible sin? Everything in the world was insignificant compared to what he had lost. Everything in the world is insignificant compared to the truth and purity of one small man – even the empire stretching from the Black Sea to the Pacific Ocean, even science itself.

  Then he realized that it still wasn’t too late. He still had the strength to lift up his head, to remain his mother’s son.

  And he wasn’t going to try to console himself or justify what he had done. He wanted this mean, cowardly act to stand all his life as a reproach; day and night it would be something to bring him back to himself. No, no, no! He didn’t want to strive to be a hero – and then preen himself over his courage.

  Every hour, every day, year in, year out, he must struggle to be a man, struggle for his right to be pure and kind. He must do this with humility. And if it came to it, he mustn’t be afraid even of death; even then he must remain a man.

  ‘Well then, we’ll see,’ he said to himself. ‘Maybe I do have enough strength. Your strength, Mother . . .’

  56

  Evenings in a hut near the Lubyanka . . .

  Krymov was lying on his bunk after being interrogated – groaning, thinking and talking to Katsenelenbogen.

  The amazing confessions of Bukharin and Rykov, of Kamenev and Zinoviev, the trials of the Trotskyists, of the Right Opposition and the Left Opposition, the fate of Bubnov, Muralov and Shlyapnikov – all these things no longer seemed quite so hard to understand. The hide was being flayed off the still living body of the Revolution so that a new age could slip into it; as for the red, bloody meat, the steaming innards – they were being thrown onto the scrapheap. The new age needed only the hide of the Revolution – and this was being flayed off people who were still alive. Those who then slipped into it spoke the language of the Revolution and mimicked its gestures, but their brains, lungs, livers and eyes were utterly different.

  Stalin! The great Stalin! Perhaps this man with the iron will had less will than any of them. He was a slave of his time and circumstances, a dutiful, submissive servant of the present day, flinging open the doors before the new age.

  Yes, yes, yes . . . And those who didn’t bow down before the new age were thrown on the scrapheap.

  He knew now how a man could be split apart. After you’ve been searched, after you’ve had your buttons ripped off and your spectacles confiscated, you look on yourself as a physical nonentity. And then in the investigator’s office you realize that the role you played in the Revolution and the Civil War means nothing, that all your work and all your knowledge is just so much rubbish. You are indeed a non
entity – and not just physically.

  The unity of man’s physical and spiritual being was the key to the investigators’ almost uninterrupted run of successes. Soul and body are two complementary vessels; after crushing and destroying a man’s physical defences, the invading party nearly always succeeded in sending its mobile detachments into the breach in time to triumph over a man’s soul, to force him into unconditional capitulation.

  He didn’t have the strength to think about all this; neither did he have the strength not to think about it.

  Who had betrayed him? Who had informed on him? Who had slandered him? Somehow these questions no longer interested him.

  He had always been proud of his ability to subordinate his life to logic. But now it was different. Logic said that Yevgenia Nikolaevna had supplied the information about his conversation with Trotsky. But the whole of his present life – his struggle with the investigator, his ability to breathe and to remain himself, to remain comrade Krymov – was founded on one thing: his faith that she could not have done this. He was astonished that he could have lost this certainty for even a few minutes. Nothing on earth could have made him lose faith in Zhenya. He believed in her, even though he knew very well that no one else had known of his conversation with Trotsky, that women are weak and treacherous, and that she had abandoned him at a critical period in his life.

  He described his interrogation to Katsenelenbogen, but without making any mention of this incident.

  Now Katsenelenbogen no longer clowned and made jokes.

  Krymov had been right about him. He was intelligent. But what he said was often both strange and terrible. Sometimes Krymov thought it quite just that the old Chekist should now himself be in a cell in the Lubyanka. He couldn’t imagine it otherwise. Sometimes he thought Katsenelenbogen was mad.