“There, comrade Commanders!” said the fat soldier. “Sit down!”
Berozkin sat down at the table, gave Aristov a cheerful look and said, “You’re a good fellow, comrade Senior Lieutenant!”
Wanting to flatter Aristov, he chose to address him as a senior lieutenant, not as a quartermaster. Major Berozkin was well aware of the army’s unwritten laws. If a lieutenant colonel has been put in command of a division, his subordinates address him not as “comrade Lieutenant Colonel” but as “comrade Divisional Commander.” If a captain is in command of a regiment, his subordinates address him as “comrade Regimental Commander.” Conversely, if a man with four red bars is in command of a regiment, everyone addresses him as “comrade Colonel.” No one would be so tactless as to highlight the discrepancy between his rank and his relatively lowly position by addressing him as “comrade Regimental Commander.”
They downed a glass, had a bite to eat and downed a second glass.
Berozkin looked at Aristov and said, “Tell me, do you remember my wife and children?”
“Of course I do! In Bobruisk, you lived on the ground floor with the other commanders, while I lived in the wing of the same building. I saw them every day. Your wife used to go to the market with a blue bag.”
“That’s right. I bought it in Lvov,” Berozkin replied and shook his head sadly.
He wanted to tell Aristov all about his wife: how they had bought a mirror wardrobe the day before the war, what excellent borsch she made and how well educated she was. She knew French and English and she was always taking books out of the library. He wanted to tell him what a little hooligan young Slava was, how he was always fighting and up to mischief, how once he’d rushed in and said “Papa, you must give me a beating. I just bit the cat!”
But he was unable to say any of this. Aristov took over the conversation.
Aristov’s attitude towards men like his former commander was complex. On the one hand, he felt fear and respect. On the other hand, he felt surprised and amused by their village simplicity, by their ineptitude with regard to practical matters. “Oh, my brother,” he thought, looking at Berozkin’s faded tunic and kirza boots, “If I’d done a tenth as much fighting as you have, I’d be a top general by now.”
And so he served Berozkin generously, but without allowing him to get a word in.
“The general in command would be helpless without me,” he said. “He orders sturgeon for lunch, so that’s what he gets. And that’s only two hours after we reach the Volga! The member of the military soviet smokes a pipe—so he gets his packet of Golden Fleece every day. Not once has he had to do without. The chief of staff can’t drink vodka because of his ulcer. ‘At your command, comrade Colonel, whatever you need!’ Back then we were up north, near Vologda, in the middle of nowhere—but the chief of staff still gets his Riesling! He even gets a little suspicious, summons me specially and tells me I’m a dangerous man. So, what’s my secret? Well, it’s no good waiting for the regular supplies—you can wait till kingdom come. No, you need imagination, you need initiative, you need to act boldly. Tomorrow, for instance, I’m sending a truck to Stalingrad. And we all know there’s a distillery there, and that there’s been a fire. Well, who’s to say there aren’t still bottles to be found in that building? No, it’s no good just sitting and waiting. And if there’s anything you need yourself, Ivan Leontievich, just say. I’ll do all I can for you. I’ll fill in documents, I’ll send out trucks, I’ll take risks. And I’ll expect you to do the same for me. And men who know me say there’s no document they trust more than my word. Just once there was a senior commissar who had it in for me. He got me demoted and removed from my post. Some Armenian was put in my place. Within a week the supplies section was falling apart. The military soviet would ask for Narzan mineral water—and there wasn’t any. They’d ask for this, that and the other—and it was always the same answer. The army commander was furious. He personally ordered me to be reinstated.” He looked at Berozkin and said, “Some beer, comrade Major?”
“Well,” said Berozkin, pointing to the laden table. “You’ve certainly managed things well.”
“I do nothing I shouldn’t,” Aristov replied, and his clear blue eyes looked straight into Berozkin’s. “Certainly not! I’ve got nothing to hide. And anyway, the HQ commissar lives almost next door.”
Berozkin drank some more beer and smacked his lips. “Good stuff!”
He touched the tomatoes, hoping to find one that was fully ripe but not going soft. Then he felt embarrassed, thinking sadly how Tamara used to tell him off for doing exactly this. She didn’t like him fingering the tomatoes or cucumbers on a shared dish.
Just then there was a buzz from a field telephone standing on a chest of drawers. Aristov picked up the receiver. “Quartermaster Aristov here!”
The call was clearly from a high-ranking commander. Aristov looked tense and was standing very upright, using his free hand to straighten his tunic and brush off crumbs. His only part in the conversation was to repeat four times, “Orders understood!” Then he replaced the receiver and hurriedly put on his peaked cap.
“Excuse me! Eat all you want, and feel free to lie down and rest. This is urgent—I have to leave you.”
“Yes, of course,” said Berozkin. “Only please don’t forget about the truck tomorrow morning.”
“Don’t worry!” And Aristov hurried to the door.
By then Berozkin had already drunk a fair amount. To remain without company was unthinkable. He went over to the door of the small room to which the landlady had retired and called out, “Grandma, come and join me!”
The old woman came out.
“Sit down, Antonina Vasilievna,” said Berozkin. “Have a glass with me, to keep me company!”
“Only too glad!” she replied. “In the old days people would have been shocked to see a woman drink. But now we women all drink, young and old alike. Yes, round here we make our own vodka and drink our own vodka. What do you expect in this vale of tears?”
She knocked back a glass of vodka and ate a tomato.
“So, how have things been here? Are you being bombed badly?” Berozkin asked—just as countless majors, captains, lieutenants and rank-and-file soldiers had asked women of every age in front-line villages and towns all over Russia.
And, like all these other women, she answered, “We’re being bombed all the time, my dear.”
“That’s bad,” Berozkin said sadly. Then he asked, “Grandma, do you happen to remember a General Saltansky? He used to live here in Kamyshin.”
“I do indeed,” she replied. “My old man was a fisherman, and I used to take the fish round to his family.”
“Did you know the whole family?”
“I certainly did. His woman died during the other war. And there were two daughters. Tamara was the younger and Nadya the elder. Nadya was always falling ill. They used to take her abroad for treatment.”
“You don’t say!” said Berozkin.
“Are you from these parts?” asked the landlady. “Do you know the Saltanskys?”
“No,” said Berozkin, after a moment’s thought. “I don’t.”
The landlady knocked back a second glass.
“May God grant you return home alive!” she said, and wiped her lips.
“What were they like?” said Berozkin. “Tell me about them.” “About who?”
“About the Saltanskys.”
“The general was a difficult man. Everyone here was afraid of him. He was a real general, always ordering everyone around. But his wife was a good woman, she had a kind heart. She cared about other people. She did what she could to help them and she was always giving big gifts to the children’s home.”
“And the two daughters? Did they take after their mother?”
“Yes, they were good girls. Both rather skinny, and without airs and graces. They used to wear brown frocks and go out for walks down Saratov Avenue. Sometimes they went to Tychok—there was a little park there, overlooking t
he Volga.” The landlady sighed, then went on, “Their old cook, Karpovna, was a neighbour of mine. She died last Sunday, there was an air raid in the afternoon. She was on her way back from the market. She’d bartered a kerchief for some potatoes, and a bomb landed right at her feet. She used to tell me all about the Saltanskys. Nadya died during the Revolution. Tamara couldn’t get a job and they wouldn’t let her join a trade union. But then she found herself a good man. A carpenter, I think, someone simple and modest.”
“Really?” said Berozkin. “A carpenter?”
“That’s right. They say he got into trouble for marrying her. His comrades said he should find someone else—there were plenty of other young women in Russia and he’d do better to ditch her. But he just repeated, ‘I love her, and that’s that.’ And so they married and had a good life together, with children.”
“Well, well, well!” said Berozkin.
“But now our lives are in ruins,” said the landlady. “It’s just one death after another. I’ve received a ‘killed in action’ letter for two of my sons, and it’s a year since I last heard from the third. ‘Missing in action,’ no doubt. And so I get by. I barter a few things at the market and sometimes I’ve got lodgers helping me out.”
“Yes,” said Berozkin. “A lot of blood has been shed.”
He got up from the table and sat down again by the window. He took a small white metal tin from his knapsack, spread out a sewing kit on his knees, found a thread that matched his tunic and set about darning a hole in the elbow. He worked quickly and skilfully, screwing up his eyes now and then to check what he’d done.
“You’re a deft hand with a needle, my boy,” said the landlady. Now that he’d taken off his army tunic, this man in a neat shirt, with a balding head, grey-blue eyes, high cheekbones and a tanned face looked like a simple working man from the Volga. At first she had addressed him more formally, as Vy rather than Ty but now this felt awkward and wrong.1
“Yes, I know how to sew all right,” he said quietly, and smiled. “In peacetime my comrades used to make fun of me and say, ‘Our captain’s a dressmaker.’ I can cut out a pattern. I can backstitch on a machine, and I can make a dress for a child. My wife was no good with a needle, so I took care of the children’s clothes myself. It was a joy. And once I made a summer dress for her. She wore it two years. The other commanders’ wives all liked it so much they copied the pattern. I can still remember measuring my Tamara. I couldn’t stop laughing. And she was stroking my hands and saying, ‘Golden heart and golden hands!’”
“Were you a tailor before you joined up?”
“No, I’ve been a soldier since 1922.”
He put his tunic back on, buttoned his collar and walked across the room.
Addressing him once again as Vy, the landlady said, “I can see the kind of man you are. Men like you are the backbone of our state.” With a knowing wink, she went on, “But as for that mate of yours—what does he know about fighting? If everyone fought like him, the Fritzes would already be in Siberia. He thinks spirits are the backbone of the state. And to him the state’s just a giant office.”
The major laughed and said, “There are no flies on you, Grandma!”
“And why would there be?” the landlady replied tartly.
Berozkin went out for a walk. He went to the house opposite, where a little girl was hanging out some yellowing soldier’s underwear. “Where did old Karpovna live?” he asked.
The girl looked round and said, “She’s gone. And her apartment’s been boarded up, and her daughter-in-law’s taken everything to her village.”
“And where’s Tychok?”
“Tychok?” the girl repeated. “Don’t ask me.”
Berozkin walked on further. He heard the girl laugh and say, “Someone wanting Karpovna. Must be after her belongings. And then he asked about some Tychok or other.”
Berozkin walked as far as the corner, took a photo from his tunic pocket, looked at it, heard the plaintive sound of an air-raid alert and went back to Aristov’s apartment for a rest.
It was night before Aristov returned. He bent down over Berozkin, shone his flashlight at him and asked, “Are you asleep?”
“No, I’m not,” Berozkin replied.
“Well, I’ve been rushing about all day. General Zhukov’s arriving tomorrow. Straight from Moscow, by Douglas. There’s been a lot to get ready.”
“No joke,” Berozkin replied sympathetically. “But I’ll be more than grateful if you can get some provisions ready for me too.”
“The truck will be here at nine o’clock in the morning,” said Aristov. “And don’t worry about the food—I’m not the kind of man to forget his former boss.”
Aristov began to pull off his boots. He let out a little groan, bustled about for a minute, then fell silent.
There was a sound, some kind of sob or sigh, from behind the partition wall.
“What on earth’s that?” thought Berozkin. Realizing it was the landlady, he got up, walked in his socks to the door of her room and asked rather severely, “What’s up? Why are you crying?”
“Because of you,” she replied. “Two of my sons are dead, and the third’s gone missing. And now you. You’re on your way to Stalingrad. A lot of blood will be shed there. And you’re a good man.”
Berozkin didn’t know what to say. He walked about for a while, sighed and went back to bed.
6
LIEUTENANT Colonel Darensky had completed his medical treatment and was on his way to the Stalingrad Front’s Rear HQ.
The treatment had not helped; he felt no better than beforehand.
He was troubled by the thought of returning to the reserves, where he knew he would be a long time with no real work.
On his way he had to stop off in Kamyshin, now the HQ of an army just brought up from reserve. His friend Colonel Filimonov, deputy to the artillery chief of staff, arranged a lift for Darensky in a truck going to Stalingrad the following morning, along the east bank of the Volga.
After lunch, Darensky felt the onset of his usual stomach pains and went back to his room. He lay down and asked his landlady to heat up some water and fill up a bottle for him. The pains proved relatively slight, but he was still unable to sleep. Then there was a knock at the door—Filimonov’s adjutant, inviting him to come round.
“Tell Ivan Korneyevich,” said Darensky, “that I can’t come. I’m not well. And please remind him about the truck tomorrow morning.”
The adjutant left. Darensky lay there with his eyes closed, listening to some women outside the window. They were criticizing a certain Filippovna, apparently a malicious gossip who had been telling people that Matveyevna had quarrelled with her neighbour Niura “because of some senior lieutenant.”
Darensky winced; he was in pain and he felt bored. To amuse himself, he imagined the most improbable of scenes—the army commander and his chief of staff calling round, sitting at his bedside and questioning him with touching solicitousness.
“Well, my dear fellow, how are you doing?” the chief of staff would ask. “You know, you do look rather pale.”
“You need a doctor, you really must see a doctor,” the army commander would say, looking around the room and shaking his head. “And you must come and join me in my own quarters, Lieutenant Colonel—I’ll have your things moved. Why lie here all on your own? You’ll be better off staying with me.”
“No, no, it’s all right. It’s nothing serious. I need to be on my way tomorrow—that’s all that matters.”
The commander and his chief of staff each took one of his arms. Their adjutants followed, carrying Darensky’s suitcase and knapsack. And as they all walked through the town, they crossed paths with everyone who had ever annoyed Darensky or done him harm. A vile person who had once denounced him in writing. Then Skurikhin, who had occasioned Darensky no end of difficulties by ferreting out and making public something that Darensky himself had entirely forgotten: that his father, an engineer and the author of a textbook about the re
sistance of materials, had held a high rank in the tsarist civil service. A senior inspector of the Moscow City Soviet housing section, a balding Jew, who had once refused Darensky’s request for accommodation with the words, “My dear comrade, we have people more important than you who’ve been waiting their turn for two years now.” And a man who’d upset him only today—the pink-faced junior quartermaster who’d refused him entry to the senior commanders’ canteen and only given him coupons for the general canteen.
Yes, there his tormentors were—all now smiling pathetically. All looking at the medals glittering on the commander’s chest as he asked Darensky how he was feeling and whether there was anything he and his chief of staff could do to make him feel more comfortable. To hell with the lot of them . . . And Ulanova, the ballerina, was there too, asking, “Who is this lieutenant colonel? He must be severely wounded—his face looks tanned but it’s still terribly pale.”
Nevertheless, the hours went by, and no generals appeared. Instead, the landlady came in, checked whether or not he was asleep, and began to sort through a pile of newly ironed linen beside the sewing machine.
As it got dark, Darensky felt more depressed than ever. He asked the landlady to turn on the light. “In a moment,” she replied. “First I must put up the blackout. We don’t want to call up the Antichrist.”
With extraordinary diligence she began draping shawls, blankets and old blouses over the windows. It was as if she thought Junkers and Heinkels were bugs and flies that might slip through cracks in the rickety old window frames.
“Grandma, I need to get down to work!”
The landlady muttered that she was running short of kerosene. First he’d wanted hot water—now he needed light.
This made Darensky angry. The woman evidently had food squirrelled away and was doing quite well for herself, but she was extremely stingy—she had asked him to pay rent for the room and she charged more for milk than he had paid in Moscow.
As if that weren’t enough, yesterday she’d kept pestering him to find her a truck. She wanted to go to the village of Klimovka, seventy kilometres away, and fetch the flour and firewood she’d stored there last autumn. As if he could get hold of a truck just like that . . .
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