Just then Seryozha rushed in.
“At last!” Alexandra exclaimed joyfully. “Where have you been?”
“Grandma, can you put a few things in a knapsack for me? I’m leaving the day after tomorrow with a labour battalion. We’ll be digging trenches,” Seryozha announced breathlessly. He took out a slip of paper from inside his student card and put it on the table. He was like a gambler, startling the other players by suddenly producing the ace of trumps.
Spiridonov unfolded the paper and, with the air of a man who knows all there is to know about paperwork, began to examine it, starting with the date and the number of the stamp.
Confident that his document was entirely in order, Seryozha watched Spiridonov with a condescending smile.
Marusya and Zhenya forgot their quarrel and exchanged concerned looks, glancing surreptitiously at their mother.
Alexandra Vladimirovna adored her grandson. His handsome eyes, a childish directness coupled with a powerful adult intelligence, a timidity that did not preclude expressions of strong feeling, a simple trustfulness that went hand in hand with a biting scepticism, his kindness, his quick temper—all this inspired her devotion. On one occasion she had said to Sofya Osipovna, “Here we are, Sofya, we’re getting old and we’re coming to the end of our lives. The life we’re leaving is no garden of peace. War rages, the entire world is on fire, and I’m an old woman, but I still believe as passionately as ever in the power of the Revolution. I believe we shall defeat fascism, I believe in the strength of those holding aloft the banner of the people’s happiness and freedom, and it seems to me that Seryozha is cut from the same cloth as I am. That’s why I love him so much.”
But what mattered more was that Alexandra’s love was unquestioning and unconditional; it was, therefore, true love.
Everyone close to Alexandra was aware of her love for her grandson. It both touched and angered them; it made them feel protective towards her but also jealous. Sometimes her daughters would say anxiously, “If anything happens to Seryozha, Mama will never get over it.” Sometimes they would say angrily, “Heavens, the fuss she makes over that boy!” Or, with a slight laugh, “Yes, now and again Mama tries to be fair, to treat Tolya and Vera the same as she treats Seryozha—but she can never quite manage it.”
Spiridonov returned the slip of paper to Seryozha and said casually, “I know it’s signed by Filimonov, but don’t worry. Tomorrow I’ll have a word with Petrov, and we’ll get you transferred to Stalgres.”
“Why?” asked Seryozha. “I volunteered. We’ll be equipped with rifles as well as spades and everyone in good health will soon be transferred to a regular battalion.”
“So . . . you really. . . you truly volunteered?” asked Spiridonov.
“Of course I did.”
“You’re mad!” Marusya said furiously. “What about your grandmother? If, God forbid, anything happens to you, it’ll be the end of her—as you well know!”
“You’re not even old enough to have a passport,”36 said Sofya. “God, what a fool!”
“And Tolya?”
“What’s Tolya got to do with it?” Sofya replied. “Tolya’s three years older than you are. Tolya’s an adult. Tolya’s obliged to carry out his duty as a citizen. And so is Vera—I certainly haven’t tried to stop her from working. Your turn will come in due course. When you’ve done your ten years at school, you’ll be called up. And that’ll be that—no one will try to stop you. I can’t believe they let you register. They should have just given you a good hiding!”
“There was one boy even shorter than me,” said Seryozha.
“Well,” said Spiridonov, with a smile. “What can I say to that?”
“Mama, why aren’t you saying anything?” asked Zhenya.
Seryozha looked at his grandmother and said quietly, “Well, Granny?”
Seryozha was the only member of his family who ever made fun of Alexandra Vladimirovna. He argued with her quite often, in a tone half jocular, half touchingly indulgent. Ludmila, on the other hand, only rarely argued with her mother, even though she was naturally assertive, the eldest of the three sisters, and unfailingly certain that in all family matters she always knew best.
Alexandra looked up, as if sitting before a tribunal, and said, “Seryozha, you must do as you . . . I . . .” She faltered, got quickly to her feet and left the room.
There was a moment of silence. Vera, whose heart that day was so open, so ready to show kindness and sympathy, scowled crossly to hold back her tears.
19
THAT NIGHT, the city was suddenly filled with noise: hoots, loud shouts, the sound of car and truck engines.
Everyone awoke in alarm, then lay there in silence, trying to work out what was happening.
They were all asking themselves the same questions: Had something awful just happened? Had the enemy broken through somewhere? Was the Red Army retreating? Should they all get dressed as fast as they could, bundle a few things together and make a quick getaway? Now and again they felt real terror: What were those strange voices? There hadn’t been a German parachute landing, had there?
Zhenya, who was sleeping in one room with Vera, Sofya and her mother, propped herself up on one elbow and said quietly, “It’s like when I was in Yelets with our artists’ brigade.37 We woke up one fine morning—and the Germans were already on the outskirts of town! We didn’t get a word of warning.”
“A grim thought,” said Sofya. Then they heard Marusya, who had left the door open to make it easier to wake everyone if there were an air raid: “Stepan, wake up! Quick, find out what’s happening! Damn you and your Olympian calm!”
“Sh!” whispered Spiridonov. “I’m not asleep. I’m listening.”
There was the rumble of a truck just beneath their window. The engine stalled. A voice—as distinct as if the speaker were there in the room with them—said, “What’s the matter with you? Are you asleep? Get the engine started again!” Then came a few furious words that momentarily embarrassed the women but left no doubt that the speaker was a bona fide Russian.
“What blessed sounds!” said Sofya.
In their relief, everyone started talking at once.
“It’s all because of Zhenya,” said Marusya. “If it weren’t for her and her stories about Yelets, we’d have been all right. But my heart’s still racing. I can still feel a pain under my shoulder blade.”
Spiridonov, embarrassed by his frightened whispers of a minute before, said loudly, “Yes, how on earth could it have been the Germans? That sort of thing just doesn’t happen. Our defences are solid concrete—even as far away as Kalach. And anyway, I’d have been informed at once if it was anything serious. Oh, you women, you women!”
“Everything’s all right,” said Alexandra Vladimirovna. “And there really isn’t anything to worry about, but things like that have been known to happen. Or so I was thinking.”
“Yes, Mama,” said Zhenya. “They certainly have.”
Spiridonov threw his tweed coat over his shoulders, padded across the room, tugged at the blackout curtain and opened the window.
“Windows flung wide in the first days of spring,” said Sofya. Listening to the racket outside, to the cars, trucks and people, she went on, “Clatter of wheels, patter of voices and the church bells ring.”38
“Gabble of voices,” said Marusya. “Not patter.”
“Oh let them just patter,” said Sofya—and everyone laughed.
“There are a lot of cars,” said Spiridonov, looking down at the street, which was lit by a dim moon. “I can see Emkas and even a few ZISes.”39
“Must be reinforcements on their way to the front,” said Marusya.
“I don’t think so,” said Spiridonov. “They’re going the other way.” And then, lifting a finger: “Sh!”
There was a traffic controller on the corner. Drivers were asking him questions, but it was impossible to make out their words. And the controller simply answered with a wave of his flag, pointing them down the right roa
d. There were not only cars but also large trucks, piled high with tables, boxes, stools and camp beds. In the backs of some of the trucks were groups of soldiers, wearing greatcoats and waterproof capes and swaying about sleepily as their vehicles accelerated or decelerated. Then a ZIS-101 stopped beside the controller. This time Spiridonov heard every word.
“Where’s the commandant?” asked a thick slow voice.
“The city commandant?”
“No! The Front HQ commandant!”
At this Spiridonov closed the window, stepped back and announced from the middle of the room, “Well, comrades, we are now a front-line city. The Southwestern Front.40 Stalingrad is now the location of Southwestern Front HQ.”
“Seems there’s no getting away from the war,” said Sofya. “It’s always present, right on our heels. But let’s get some sleep! I have to be at the hospital by six.”
She had barely said this when the bell rang.
“I’ll go,” said Spiridonov. Putting his coat on properly, he went to the door. It was the fine tweed coat that he usually wore only on trips to Moscow and during the October holidays. He now kept it hanging over the bedhead so as to have it to hand in case of an air raid. Next to it hung his new suit; beside the cupboard, also in combat readiness, stood a suitcase with Marusya’s fur coat and dresses.
Spiridonov was not gone for long. He came back laughing. In a mock whisper he said, “Zhenya, you’ve got a gentleman caller—a handsome commander! I’ve left him just outside our front door.”
“Me!” said Zhenya in astonishment. “You’re talking nonsense—I don’t understand!” But she clearly felt agitated and embarrassed.
“Jakhshi!” Vera said brightly. “Here’s to our Auntie Zhenya!”
“Stepan, go outside for a moment,” Zhenya said quickly. “I must get dressed.” Jumping to her feet like a young girl, she put the blackout curtain back in place and turned on the light.
She put on her shoes and her dress in only a few seconds, but her movements slowed when she began to apply her lipstick.
“You’re mad,” Alexandra said crossly. “Making a man wait outside while you paint your lips in the middle of the night.”
“And she hasn’t washed, and she’s got sleep in her eyes—and her hair’s in such a tangle anyone would think she’s a witch,” said Marusya.
“It’s all right,” said Sofya. “Our Zhenya knows very well that she is a young and lovely witch. Washed or unwashed, she’s beautiful.”
Sofya herself was now stout and grey-haired. She was fifty-eight years old and still a virgin. In all likeliness, she had never in her life felt her heart start to race as she coloured her lips in preparation for some such encounter.
She could work like an ox; she had travelled half the world with geographical expeditions; she took pleasure in using curses and swear words; and she read the works of poets, philosophers and mathematicians. One might have expected this masculine woman to look on the beautiful Zhenya with mockery and contempt—but she showed only tender admiration and a kind of touching, very gentle envy.
Still looking agitated, Zhenya went towards the door.
“Can you guess who it is?” came a voice from outside.
“Maybe, maybe not,” said Zhenya.
“Novikov,” said the voice.
As she walked towards the door, Zhenya had felt almost certain that it was Novikov. She answered as she did because she didn’t know whether or not she should reprimand him for the unceremoniousness of this visit.
And then, as if looking on from outside, she became aware of the poetry of this encounter. She saw herself—half-asleep, still warm from the bed she shared with her mother—and, there at the door, this man just emerged from the threatening dark of the war, bringing with him a smell of dust, leather, petrol and the freshness of the steppe.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s stupid of me to appear like this in the middle of the night.” He bowed his head, like a prisoner before an army commander.
“Well, I certainly know who you are now. Glad to see you, comrade Novikov!”
“The war’s brought me here. Excuse me, I’ll come back again during the day.”
“Where are you going to go now, in the middle of the night? You’re staying here!”
Novikov began to make excuses. She ended up getting cross with him not for bursting in on them in the middle of the night but for not wanting to stay. And so Novikov, turning to the dark stairwell, called out quietly, in the tone of someone accustomed to giving orders and confident of being obeyed, “Korenkov, bring up my case and my bedroll.”
“I’m glad you’re alive and well,” she said. “But I won’t ask you anything now. You’re tired. You’ll be wanting to wash, and to have some tea and a bite to eat. There’ll be time to talk in the morning. You can tell me your news then. And I’ll introduce you to my mother, my sister and my niece.”
And then she took his hand, looked him in the face and said, “You’ve changed a lot. Especially your eyebrows—they’ve grown fairer.”
“It’s the dust,” he said. “There’s dust everywhere.”
“Dust and sun. And it makes your eyes look darker.” Zhenya was still holding his large hand. She felt it tremble a little. Laughing, she said, “Well, I’ll leave you for now with our menfolk. And tomorrow—the world of women.”
A bed was made up for Novikov in Seryozha’s room. Seryozha showed Novikov to the bathroom, and Novikov said, “So you’ve even got a working shower, have you?”
“For the time being, at least,” said Seryozha, watching their guest take off his belt, a revolver and a tunic with a colonel’s four red bars, and then take a razor and a bar of soap from his little suitcase.
Tall and broad-shouldered as he was, Novikov looked as if he had been born to put on military uniform and bear weapons. In the presence of this stern son of the war, Seryozha felt puny. Yet he too would soon be a son of the war.
“Are you Zhenya’s brother?” asked Novikov.
Seryozha felt embarrassed to say he was her nephew—she was too young to be the aunt of a young man about to join a labour battalion. Novikov would think either that Zhenya must be older than she looked or that her nephew was still just a whippersnapper.
As if not hearing the question, he answered, “Here, use the rough towel!”
He did not like Novikov’s way of talking to his driver, a rather hunched man who must have been in his forties.
After making tea on the little oil stove, Seryozha said, “We can make up a bed for the comrade driver just here.”
“No,” said Novikov. “He’ll be sleeping in the car. We can’t leave it unguarded.”
The driver grinned and said, “We’ve reached the Volga, comrade Colonel. The car’s no use now—it won’t get anyone across the river.”
Novikov merely replied, “Go back down to the car, Korenkov!”
Novikov sat down and began drinking his tea. Spiridonov, yawning and scratching his chest, sat down opposite him. He too was holding a mug of tea. He felt troubled. The arrival of the Front HQ, in the middle of the night, had unsettled him.
From the other room came the voice of Zhenya: “Everything all right in there?”
Novikov quickly got to his feet and, as if addressing an important superior, said, “Thank you, Yevgenia Nikolaevna.41 And, once again, please forgive me for this night-time invasion.” His eyes took on a guilty look that seemed out of place on his imperious face with its broad forehead, straight nose and firm lips.
“Goodnight, then,” said Zhenya, “see you tomorrow!” And Seryozha realized that Novikov was listening to the clack of her heels as she walked away.
Spiridonov, sipping his tea, offered their guest something to eat and studied him with eyes accustomed to assessing others. He was trying to decide what job Novikov would be best suited for if he were a civilian. He would certainly be out of place in a small factory; probably he ought to be in charge of some industrial enterprise of national importance.
&nbs
p; “So, Front HQ is to be located in Stalingrad, is it?” asked Spiridonov.
Novikov gave him a sideways look. He seemed a little irritated.
“A military secret, is it?” said Spiridonov. And he was unable to stop himself from boasting, “I knew anyway because of my work. I provide power to three giant factories, and these factories supply the Front.”
But his boasting, like all boasting, stemmed from a sense of weakness and uncertainty: he was confused by the cold, calm look in Novikov’s eyes. It was as if this colonel were saying to himself, “Even if you are in the know, this isn’t something you should be repeating—and certainly not in the presence of this boy. He isn’t providing anybody with power.”
Spiridonov laughed. “All right, let me tell you the truth. Here’s how I really found out!”
And he told Novikov about the conversation between the man in the ZIS and the traffic controller.
Novikov shrugged.
Seryozha asked, “And when did you first meet our Zhenya? Was it before the war began?”
“More or less,” Novikov replied quickly.
“Another military secret,” said Spiridonov, this time with a smile. And to himself he thought, “Well, Colonel, you are tight-lipped!”
Novikov was looking at a painting on the wall, an old man in green trousers and with a green beard. “What happened?” he asked. “Did the old man turn green from age?”
“It’s by Zhenya,” Seryozha answered. “She thinks that old wanderer’s one of her best works.”
Spiridonov suddenly took it into his head that Zhenya and this colonel must have been having an affair for a very long time, and that the entire scene—Novikov’s apparently unexpected arrival, the formality with which he and Zhenya had addressed each other—had been pure theatre. And this somehow annoyed him. “No, Mister Soldier, she’s a great deal too good for you,” he said to himself.
After a brief silence, Novikov said quietly, “You know, this city of yours is unusual. I spent a long time trying to find your street and I discovered that there are streets here named after every city in the Soviet Union. There’s a Sevastopol street, and a Kursk street. There’s Vinnitsa and Chernigov and Slutsk and Tula. There’s Kiev and Kharkov and Moscow. There’s Rzhevsk.” He smiled. “I’ve seen combat in and around many of those cities. I was stationed in others before the war. Yes. And suddenly it turns out that every one of these cities is here in Stalingrad.”
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