During the night he was woken by the telephone. He picked up the receiver, expecting to have to repeat the words he had already said so many times: “Colonel Ivanov is not at home tonight. Please phone him at work.” But it was Colonel Novikov, not Colonel Ivanov, whom the caller asked to speak to.
And from the caller’s very first words, Novikov realized that his future was being decided at a higher level than he had imagined—and certainly not in the room where Lieutenant Colonel Zvezdyukhin examined index cards bearing the dates on which he had sent out requests for attestations. Novikov was being summoned to the General Staff.
This night-time telephone call lasted only a minute, but Novikov was to remember it again and again.
At the General Staff he learned that his memo had been passed on to the Supreme Command; it had been considered important.
During the next two days Novikov had several conversations with senior members of the Armoured Directorate. On the third day a car came to collect him around midnight; he was to be interviewed by General Fedorenko, the head of the directorate.
As he sat in the car, Novikov wondered if, just as his fate as a soldier was being decided, a terrible personal tragedy might be about to befall him. What a joy it would be to receive a telegram saying that the Shaposhnikovs—and Zhenya—were all safe and sound. But there was no answer to his telegram, and no news from Kazan.
The general talked to him for about two hours; they had so much in common, so many shared thoughts and ideas, that Novikov felt as if they had known each other for years. The general turned out to be well informed not only about Novikov’s service as a tank commander but also about his recent work on the Southwestern Front staff.
There were moments when it seemed strange that this good-natured, round-faced elderly man could be the head of a formidable branch of the armed forces, destined to play a crucial role in a great war, and that he could cite such illustrious names as Rybalko, Katukov and Bogdanov56 as casually as a head teacher might mention teachers of history, natural sciences and the Russian language.
Nevertheless, Novikov was well aware that this conversation, however relaxed and pleasant it might feel, had not been set up on a mere whim. The head of the Red Army Armoured Forces Directorate clearly had his reasons for calling Novikov in the middle of the night and listening to him so attentively, not once even looking at his watch. Novikov, however, was scrupulously honest. He did not say a single word simply to please or impress the general; he did not try to present himself as better than he was.
Eight days went by. Novikov appeared to have been forgotten. No one called round; no one telephoned. He began to think he must have made an unfavourable impression. Sometimes he woke in the night, watched the pale blue searchlight beams moving about the dark sky and recalled some remark of his that now seemed particularly unfortunate: “No, I hadn’t thought about that”; “No, I didn’t know”; “I tried to understand, but I couldn’t.”
What came to mind most often was a conversation about the use of mass tank formations. Fedorenko had asked, “What are your views on the training and preparation of new tank formations?” Novikov had replied, “I think the first priority in the near future is the use of mass tank formations in active defence.” Fedorenko had laughed and said, “On the contrary! The foundation for the combat training of tank companies, battalions, regiments, brigades, corps and entire armies must be the use of mass tank formations in an offensive! That’s our task for tomorrow.”
One after another, Novikov recalled every detail of the conversation. As if mirroring his agitated state, the searchlight beams swayed, trembled, went still and then swept silently across the whole of the wide sky.
Novikov sent two more telegrams to Stalingrad and one to Kazan, but no one answered. His anxiety deepened.
On the ninth day after the interview, a car drove up to the building. A thin, narrow-shouldered lieutenant got out. Seeing him hurry towards the main entrance, Novikov realized that he was about to learn his fate and went out to meet him. As he was opening the door, the lieutenant rang. He smiled and asked, “Were you expecting me, comrade Colonel?”
“Yes,” answered Novikov.
“You are being summoned immediately to the General Staff. I’m to take you by car.”
On his arrival, he received written orders: Colonel P. P. Novikov was instructed to proceed to a sector of the Urals Military District and supervise the formation of a tank corps.
For a second Novikov thought these orders must have been meant for some other Novikov. His deepest wish, something he had always looked on not as a realistic possibility but as the wildest of dreams, was set out so clearly and simply that it seemed it must be a mistake. His own surname seemed to belong to someone else.
He reread the orders. In two days he was to fly to the Urals.
He longed to speak to Zhenya—straightaway, before he spoke to anyone else. Not only did he want to share his news; he also wanted her to understand the constancy of his love—to understand that he loved her as much at a moment of proud success as at one of trial and failure.
Later, when he recalled this day, Novikov would feel surprised how quickly and straightforwardly he came to take for granted what for so long had seemed inconceivable.
Two hours after receiving his orders, he was discussing a variety of practical concerns in the Armoured Directorate, speaking on the telephone to one of General Khrulyov’s adjutants and arranging to meet the head of the tank school. His head was full of ideas; dozens of notes, questions, telegraph addresses, telephone numbers and other figures had appeared in his notebook. And dozens of questions that, until the previous day, had seemed purely theoretical were now matters of life and death, issues of burning importance to which he needed to apply all the intellectual and emotional energy at his command.
Questions of recruitment; the numbers required to complement each battalion, regiment and brigade; the speed with which both operational and radio equipment could be delivered; fuel allocations; financial matters; food and uniform supplies; study plans and instruction methods; billets and living quarters—there were countless issues to be resolved, some simple, some complex, some of only minor importance and others that were very important indeed.
The day before he was due to leave Moscow, Novikov stayed until late evening in the office of the general in charge of ordnance; he was discussing tank fuel and lubricating oils with a group of military engineers. And his final meeting with General Fedorenko was scheduled for midnight.
In the middle of a discussion about the ash content of different fuels, Novikov asked the general for permission to make a phone call. He dialled Ivanov and found him at home.
“Still hard at it, are you?” said Ivanov.
Novikov told Ivanov that he would come by at dawn to say goodbye. Then, expecting the answer no, he asked, “Any letters or telegrams for me?”
“Hang on a moment,” said Ivanov. “Yes, there’s a postcard.”
“Who’s it from? Look at the signature.”
There was a brief silence. Ivanov was clearly struggling to decipher the handwriting. Finally, he said, “Shturm, or maybe Shtrom, I’m not quite sure.”
“Please read it to me!”
“‘Dear comrade Novikov, yesterday I returned from the Urals, where I was called on urgent business.’” Ivanov coughed and said, “I must report that the handwriting is atrocious.” He then continued, “‘I am writing with sad news . . . We have heard from Alexandra Vladimirovna that Marusya was killed during the first day of the bombing.’” Ivanov hesitated, struggling to make out the next words. Novikov, however, assumed that Ivanov didn’t want to tell him that Zhenya had died too.
At this point Novikov’s usual self-restraint failed him. He forgot that he was in the office of a general from the Armoured Directorate and that four men he barely knew couldn’t help hearing every word he said. His voice trembling, he cried out, “Keep reading, for the love of God!”
The engineers fell silent, looki
ng at Novikov.
“‘Zhenya and her mother have reached Kuibyshev, where Zhenya will remain for the time being. We received a telegram from her yesterday,’” Ivanov continued. The engineers all began talking again—Novikov’s face was transformed. His sense of relief was obvious. And Novikov himself was aware how, the moment he heard about Zhenya, the tight hoop round his heart sprang open and, with no obvious connection to anything said before, he thought, “I mustn’t forget to mention Darensky.”
Shtrum went on to say that they had no news of Spiridonov and Vera. Ivanov was still reading rather slowly, and Novikov had time to think, “It could be quite a battle to get Darensky posted to Corps HQ. Maybe I should start by trying to get him into a Brigade HQ.” Then, with an inner smile, he said to himself, “You too, brother—it seems you too have your share of the administrative soul.”
Ivanov finally got to the end and said jokingly, “Message transmitted by telephone. Duty officer—Colonel Ivanov.”
“Received by Novikov,” Novikov replied, and he thanked his colleague. By the time he hung up, he felt entirely calm, as if already accustomed to the good news he had just heard. “Yes, of course. How could it have been otherwise?” he was thinking. But he knew very well that it could easily have been otherwise.
An elderly major from the technical department was going to be flying with him. “You’ve been to the Urals before, haven’t you?” Novikov asked him. “What route do we fly?”
“Via Kirov,” the major replied. “One can go via Kuibyshev—but sometimes they have fuel shortages there. One can get stuck. Not long ago I had to spend over twenty-four hours at the airport.”
“Understood,” said Novikov. “Kirov it is—no need to take risks!” And to himself he said, “Thank God Zhenya can’t hear me—or I’d be in hot water.”
Shortly before he was due to meet Fedorenko, Novikov was sitting in the waiting room, listening to the quiet conversations of the other commanders and glancing now and again at the duty secretary, who was sitting behind a desk with a large number of telephones.
During the last few days, Novikov had begun to see both people and events rather differently. Past events now appeared to him in a new light, and he saw new connections between them.
A series of tragic defeats had led the Soviet forces to retreat to the Volga, but other developments pointed in a very different direction. Soviet workers and engineers were bringing ever closer the day when Soviet tank production would overtake that of the Germans.
In almost every conversation, every phone call, every order and memorandum, Novikov sensed something new, something he had not felt at the front.
He heard a military engineer speak on the phone to the director of a tank factory located far to the east. He heard a bald, wrinkled major general telephone the director of a firing range to discuss the orientation of future research work. He heard people talk at meetings about the impending increase in steel production, about the commanders who would graduate this winter from the Dzerzhinsky Academy and about changes soon to be introduced to the tank-schools’ curriculum.
The engineer general sitting beside Novikov said to him, “We have to build a second workers’ settlement straightaway or, come winter, people will have nowhere to live. And when we open a second assembly workshop next March, this settlement will have to become a town.”
And Novikov thought he understood what lay behind this sense of movement and change. Throughout this last year he had seen the war as linear; all that counted was the front line—its movement, its curves and bulges, and the holes sometimes punched in it. The war’s only reality had been a narrow strip of land and the narrow strip of time within which reserves in the immediate rear could be deployed on this land. Nothing mattered but the correlation of forces on the front line during a strictly limited time span.
Now, though, Novikov understood that war had another dimension: it had depth. Its true reality was not to be measured in tens of kilometres or hundreds of hours. The real planning was being undertaken at a depth of tens of thousands of hours. What truly mattered were the tank corps and the artillery and aircraft divisions now taking shape in Siberia and the Urals. The war’s reality was not only the present day; it was also the brighter day that would dawn six months or a year from now. And this day still hidden in the depth of space and time was being prepared in countless ways and countless places—it was not only today’s defeats or victories that would determine the future course of the war. Novikov had, of course, understood all this before, while still at the front—but his understanding then had been merely theoretical, not a part of his inner being.
This future—these battles of the year ahead—was already being brought nearer through the development of new production-line methods, through the expansion of quarries and mines, through discussions between designers, engineers and technical experts, through improvements to military-school curricula and through teachers’ assessments of the work done by students at tank, artillery and air academies.
What did Novikov know about the battles of 1943? Where, on what borders, would they be fought?
The future lay behind a curtain of dust and smoke, hidden by the din of the battle above the Volga.
But Novikov understood that he was now one of those thousands of commanders to whom the Supreme Command was entrusting the outcome of tomorrow’s war.
His meeting with General Fedorenko was different in tone from the previous meeting; Novikov sensed this at once. Fedorenko was brisk and businesslike and he made several critical remarks. At one point he said crossly, “I was expecting you to have done more by now. You must move faster.” Novikov, however, saw all this as positive: Fedorenko had accepted him as one of the family—as a fellow tank man.
While they were talking, Fedorenko’s adjutant came in to report the arrival of Dugin, the commander of an illustrious tank formation.
“I’ll receive him in a few minutes,” said Fedorenko. And he looked intently at Novikov, surprised by the sudden smile on his face.
“An old colleague, comrade General.”
“Ah,” said Fedorenko, clearly not wanting to discuss his subordinates’ past. “So, any questions?” And he looked at his watch.
Novikov asked for Darensky to be appointed to his Corps HQ staff. Fedorenko asked a few quick questions, all of them to the point, thought for a moment and said, “We can decide that later. Ask me again before you move up to the front line.”
As Novikov left, Fedorenko did not ask him if he felt up to the task. That would have seemed wrong. They both understood that Novikov now had to be up to the task.
Glad to see each other, Novikov and Dugin talked in the waiting room for several minutes.
They had served together before the war. Novikov remembered Dugin as a connoisseur of mushrooms; he loved foraging for them and was a true artist when it came to salting them. Now, though, Dugin was a formidable commander who had pushed back the German assault troops advancing on Moscow. Novikov looked at the thin, pale face of his former peacetime companion. It was hard to take in that this was the face of a war hero.
“And how are you getting on with your boots?” Novikov asked quietly. A comrade had told him that Dugin had vowed to keep on wearing the same boots, not allowing himself a new pair until the day of victory.
“Well, I haven’t had to mend them yet,” Dugin replied with a smile. “So, the story’s got around, has it?”
“As you can see.”
Just then, the adjutant asked Dugin to go through.
“Straightaway,” Dugin replied. He then said to Novikov, “And you’ll be in command of a corps?”
“I will indeed,” said Novikov.
“Married?”
“Not yet.”
“Doesn’t matter—you will be. And see you again soon. Maybe we’ll fight side by side.”
And they said goodbye.
At six o’clock in the morning Novikov arrived at the central aerodrome. As his car drove through the gates, he turned to lo
ok back at the grey strip of the Leningrad Highway, at the dark green of the trees, at the city he was leaving behind him—and he recalled how unsure of himself he had felt three and a half weeks earlier, as he walked out through these same gates. Could he have ever imagined, as he stood in the queue by the window where passes were issued, as he spoke to Colonel Zvezdyukhin, that his cherished dream was about to be realized—that he was to be appointed a front-line tank commander?
They drove on into the aerodrome. In the pale light of the summer dawn the statue of Lenin gleamed white. Novikov felt hot in his chest; he could feel his heartbeat.
The sun rose as Novikov and the other commanders made their way out to the plane. The broad concrete runway, the dusty yellow grass, the glass in the cabin windows, the celluloid files in the hands of pilots and navigators walking towards their planes—everything gleamed, as if smiling in the sunlight.
The pilot of the green Douglas walked up to Novikov, gave him a free and easy salute and said, “It’s clear skies all the way, comrade Colonel. We’re ready to fly.”
“Let’s fly then,” said Novikov, and he sensed how the other commanders were, now and again, glancing at him in the inquisitive, slightly tense manner with which junior commanders steal a look at the commander of a division, a corps or an army. Novikov knew this look well, but he had always seen it directed at others, never at himself. Many people, he now realized, were going to take note of him—his general appearance, his clothes, even the little jokes he made.
Say what you like about modesty, but when a powerful, twin-engine plane is first placed at your disposal, when you realize that people are looking at you, when the flight mechanic comes up to you, salutes and asks if you might prefer to change seats so the sun won’t be in your eyes—like it or not, you sense a tingle going up your spine.
•
Novikov began to read some of the documents he had been given in the directorate.
He looked several times through the window at the sparkling thread of the River Moscow, winding towards the Volga, at the calm green of oak and pine forests, at the autumn birch and aspen groves, at the bright green of the winter crops in the morning sun, at the curly clouds and the plane’s grey shadow sliding along below, never deviating from its course.
Stalingrad Page 72
