23
RODIMTSEV’S division did not waste a minute. As soon as the men were out of their trucks, the sergeants were opening crates of cartridges, sacks of dried rusks and boxes of tinned and dried food, and then handing out fuses, cartridges and grenades, along with rations of sugar and foodstuffs.
Without further delay, the men began to climb onto launches, barges and ferries. The soft sound of footsteps on wet sand gave way to the dry staccato of boots on planks and boards—it was as if they were embarking to the accompaniment of a muted, yet ominous rumble of drums.
A ragged yellow fog spread over the water—from smoke candles being burned at the landing stages. Gaps in this fog allowed glimpses of a sunlit city. High on the cliffs of the west bank, it looked clean and white, elegantly patterned, almost castellated. It could have been all palaces, without a single ordinary house or hut. But there was something strange and terrible about this white city. It was blind and voiceless. Its windows did not shine in the sunlight, and the soldiers could sense the death and emptiness behind this eyeless, blinded stone.
It was a bright day. Carefree and generous, the sun was joyfully sharing its riches with everything on earth, great or small.
Its warmth penetrated everywhere—into the boats’ rough gunnels, into soft deposits of tar, into the green stars of side caps, into sub-machine-gun drums, into the barrels of rifles. It warmed belt buckles, the glossy leather of map cases and the holsters of the commanders’ pistols. It warmed the swift water, the wind over the Volga, the osiers’ red twigs, their sad yellow leaves, the white sand, the copper cases of shells and the iron bodies of mortar bombs waiting to be ferried across the river.
Barely had the first boats reached the middle of the river when anti-aircraft guns began to fire from the bank. Flying south to north, at full throttle and only feet above the water, was a squadron of Messerschmitts, yellow-grey with black swastikas, their engines howling, their machine-gun fire sounding like the caws of sinister birds.
The leading plane banked sharply and once again, howling and cawing, tore towards the barges and small boats scattered across the river. And then, after the planes, came shells and mortar bombs, all with their different voices, followed by wild gurgles and splashes.
A heavy mortar bomb fell on a small boat. For a moment it was hidden by fire, dirty smoke and a veil of spray. Then the smoke cleared and the men on the other boats and barges saw their fellow soldiers silently drowning. Already deafened and crippled by the explosion, they were dragged to the bottom by the weight of the cartridges in their packs and the grenades tied to their belts.
Rodimtsev’s division was nearing Stalingrad. Is it possible to convey what these thousands of soldiers felt and thought as they gazed at the ever-growing expanse of water now separating their boats from the low east bank, as they listened to the splashing waves and the shells and mortar bombs, as they saw the white city slowly emerge from the haze?
Throughout these long minutes the men were silent; only occasionally did anyone say even a word. There was nothing the men could do; they could neither shoot, nor dig trenches, nor rush into the attack. They could only think.
There were young men and fathers of large families, city dwellers, men from workers’ settlements around huge factories and men from villages in Siberia, Ukraine and the Kuban. What was it these men shared? What brought them together? Is it possible to find a common element in the whirl of hopes, fears, loves, regrets and memories of these thousands of soldiers?
24
WHEN THEY cast off, Vavilov made his way to the side of the barge—his instinct was to stand as close as he could to the shore.
After so much noise—the constant hooting, the rumble of trucks, the stamp of boots and the shouts of the crew—the silence felt strange. There was only the lapping of water against the hull and, now and again, the sound of the tugboat’s engine.
He could feel a moist breeze on his hot, sunburnt face, on his dry, cracked lips and his inflamed, dust-clogged eyelids.
Vavilov looked at the river, and at the shore, still almost within reach. The other soldiers were also looking around them, not saying a word. The barge was moving unbearably slowly, but the distance from the shore was increasing rapidly—Vavilov could no longer see sand on the riverbed and the water had turned grey and metallic. Yet the city wrapped in white haze was no closer; it felt as if this crossing might take more than a day.
Sometimes the barge was caught by a sudden current, and the cable shook and jerked. Then, when the tug turned a little, the cable slackened and dropped into the water—and it seemed that a sharp pull might snap it once and for all. The barge would float downstream, away from the silent city. They would come to quiet shores where there was only white sand and birds. Then there would be no shores at all. They would sail out to sea—there would be only blue water, and silence, and clouds. For an instant this was what Vavilov wanted—to slip away into peace, silence and solitude. If only for a day, if only for an hour, he wanted to push the war away from him.
There was a jerk on the cable that made his heart miss a beat, but the barge continued on its slow course towards Stalingrad.
Usurov was standing beside Vavilov. He gave his knapsack a shake and said, “Empty—just a change of underwear, a sliver of soap, and a needle and thread. Nothing I can’t hold in one hand. I got rid of everything else on the way.”
Usurov had not spoken to Vavilov since the incident with the shawl. Vavilov looked at him uncertainly. Was Usurov wanting to make peace with him?
“Too heavy to carry, was it?” Vavilov asked.
“No, it wasn’t just that. When I left home, it was heavier than my wife could lift. But I’ve thrown all that rubbish away. Possessions aren’t going to get me anywhere now.”
Vavilov realized that Usurov wanted to talk seriously; this was not just idle chatter. Gesturing toward the west bank, he said, “True. No flea markets there any longer!”
“Yes,” said Usurov, contemplating the huge city. It stretched for dozens of kilometres along the Volga—and there were no markets, no cafés or beer joints, no bathhouses, no schools or kindergartens.
Moving closer to Vavilov, he said quietly, “We’re entering into mortal combat. We don’t need any of this rubbish.” And he gave his empty knapsack another shake.
The barge was now halfway across the Volga. To Vavilov, these words, spoken by a man far from sinless, felt like a refreshing breeze. He felt sadder yet calmer.
There was not a cloud in the sky over Stalingrad—a city with grief and misery on every street, where there was no smoke or noise from the factories, no goods being sold in the shops, no quarrels between husbands and wives, no children attending schools, no one singing to the accompaniment of a squeeze-box in a garden outside their workplace.
Just then the Messerschmitts appeared. Shells and mortar bombs burst in the water. The air was torn apart by the whistling of shrapnel.
Then something strange happened to Vavilov. First, along with everyone else, he rushed to the stern. He wanted to be closer, even just a step closer, to the shore they had left behind. He tried to guess the distance: Could he swim for it? Everyone around him was jammed so close together that he could hardly breathe. The smell of sweat and stale air, of soldiers’ boots and dirty underwear was stronger than the breeze off the Volga; it was as if the heavens had disappeared and they were standing beneath the low ceiling of a railway carriage. Some of the men were talking, but most were silent. Eyes were darting about anxiously.
The city the tugboat was pulling them towards was grim and forbidding. The sands of the east bank looked calm and sweet—as if even the dust there were kinder.
He remembered their long march: the last stretch before they reached the Volga; before that, the never-ending road from Nikolaevka. It was like some hellish vision: whirling dust; inflamed eyes staring out, as if from under the earth, from beneath dust-plastered foreheads; patches of white salt on the steppe; the serpentine necks of camels; their
strange cries and their bald, naked thighs; refugee women with grey hair; the desperate faces of young mothers carrying small, howling babies.
He remembered a young Ukrainian woman who must have lost her mind; she was sitting by the road with a knapsack on her shoulders, gazing with mad eyes at the dense yellow dust whirling over the steppe and shouting, “Trokhym! The earth is on fire! Trokhym! The sky is on fire!” An old woman, probably her mother, was gripping her hands, as if to prevent her from tearing her clothes.
The road stretched still further back. He saw his sleeping children, his wife’s face as they said goodbye, as he set off towards the red dawn.
And still further back—past the cemetery where his mother and father and elder brother were buried, through fields where the rye stood green and merry like the days of his youth. And then into the forest, towards the river, towards the city. . . There he was again—he could see himself walking along, strong and cheerful, with Marya at his side, and little Vanya trying to keep up on his bandy legs.
Everything dear to him, he realized with anguish, lay to the west, where the tugboat was dragging them. There ahead of him were life, his native earth, his wife and children. Behind him lay only orphan-hood and yellow dust. The roads of the east bank would never take him back home; if he were to follow them, his home would be lost forever. Here, on this river, two paths had met—only to part once and for all, as in the fairy tales he had heard as a child.
Vavilov left the crowd huddled in the stern and walked along the side of the barge, watching the splashes from shell bursts.
The Germans did not want him to go back home. They had driven him into the Transvolga steppe. They hurled shells and mortar bombs at him. They were attacking him from the air.
The city was already close. Everything was now clearly visible: half-collapsed walls; streets filled with rubble; windows like gaping eye sockets; the remains of charred rafters; warped sheets of tin hanging from roofs; beams and girders sagging between the floors of large buildings. On the quay, close to the water, was a car with wide-open doors—as if it had been about to enter the river and then changed its mind at the last minute.
Nowhere could Vavilov see any people.
The city kept growing, broadening, revealing its details, drawing the soldiers deeper into its sad, severe silence.
The barge had already entered the shadow of the high cliff and the buildings standing on top of it. This broad, slanting band of water was dark and calm; the shells were all flying high overhead.
The tug began to turn upstream. Caught by the current, the barge moved swiftly towards the shore.
By then many more men had moved to the bow and the port side. Standing in the cold, stern shadow of buildings gutted by fire, they looked sadder and more thoughtful than ever.
“Home again,” someone said in a low voice. “Russia!”
And Vavilov understood that here in Stalingrad he was being given back the key to his native land, the key to his home, to everything most holy and dear.
For Vavilov this was all clear and simple—and thousands of other soldiers may well, in their heart of hearts, have felt something similar.
25
THE 13TH Guards Division completed the crossing at dawn on 15 September. Rodimtsev reported only minor losses: in spite of heavy mortar and artillery fire, they had successfully crossed to the west bank.20
Rodimtsev himself embarked a little later, in the afternoon. The signals-battalion boat set off at the same time, only a few metres behind him.
Everything shone and sparkled: the ripples in calm backwaters; the waves where the river’s two streams met below Sarpinsky Island; the medals and the gold star on the young general’s chest; the empty yellow can, lying on the bottom of the boat, that they used for bailing out water. It was a crystalline day, rich in warmth, light and movement.
“Vile weather!” said the grey-haired, pockmarked artillery colonel sitting beside Rodimtsev. “If we can’t have rain, they could at least let us have a little haze. As it is, the air’s like glass. The only good thing is that the sun’s in the Germans’ eyes.”
The German gunners, however, did not seem bothered by the sun. With their second shot they scored a direct hit on the boat carrying the signals battalion.
There was one survivor. He had been sitting at the bow. The blast sent him straight into the water and he managed to swim back to the east bank. Everyone else was drowned. All that remained of them was a lone side cap rocking on the water and a mess tin with flaking green enamel, its lid firmly closed.
When this lone signaller reached the shore, a small car sped down to the sand and General Golikov, the Stavka representative at Front HQ, ran down to the water and yelled, “Is the general alive?”
The signaller was shaking the water out of his heavy sleeves. Deafened by the explosion and overwhelmed by the miracle of his own survival, he stammered out, “I’m the only one left. I was thinking we were sure to be hit—and then it happened. Heaven knows how I’m still alive. I didn’t even know which way to swim.”
Only an hour later was Golikov informed that Rodimtsev had crossed safely and reached his command post.
This temporary command post was located five metres from the shore, among heaps of brick and charred logs, in a shallow pit covered by sheets of corrugated iron.
Rodimtsev and Divisional Commissar Vavilov, a stout, pale-faced Muscovite, stumbled a little on the many stones. Outside the command post stood a soldier in well-worn boots, a sub-machine gun across his chest.
As he went in, Rodimtsev bent down and asked, “What about communications with the regiments?” He had been worrying about this both during the crossing and while still on the east bank.
Major Belsky, the chief of staff, looked up. Adjusting his side cap, which had slipped to the back of his head, he reported that there were good communications with two of the three regiments. The third had disembarked further north and communications had yet to be established.
“And the enemy?” asked Rodimtsev.
“Still attacking?” asked Vavilov, sitting down on a large stone to get his breath back. Seeing the calm, workaday look on Belsky’s face, he nodded in satisfaction; he admired Belsky, both for his imperturbable good nature and for his capacity for hard work. Belsky was the subject of many fanciful stories. One such story had a German tank positioned on top of the HQ bunker, slowly crushing it with its tracks, and Belsky, half crushed himself, shining his flashlight onto the map and drawing a neat diamond, with the note: “Enemy tank on divisional command post.”
“Belsky the bureaucrat,” people liked to joke.
And now, with his feet on the floor of the pit and his chest at ground level, he pushed aside a sheet of corrugated iron and looked at Rodimtsev. His eyes calm and serious, he seemed no different from a week earlier, when he came to report to Rodimtsev on clothing allowances.
“The man’s worth his weight in gold,” Vavilov said to himself, as he listened to Belsky’s report.
“I’m setting up our new command post in a sewer,” said Belsky. “It’s big—we’ll almost be able to stand upright. There’s flowing water, but I’ve ordered the sappers to put in some decking. And the main thing is we’ll have ten metres of earth over our heads—quite something.”
“Quite something,” Rodimtsev repeated thoughtfully. He was studying the city plan Belsky had just handed him. The positions occupied by the division were already marked in.
The regimental command posts had been set up twenty or thirty metres from the shore. The battalion and company command posts, along with the guns and mortars, were located in pits, in a gully and in some bombed-out buildings on top of a cliff. There were also small infantry units nearby.
Aware of the danger to which they were exposed, the soldiers were determinedly constructing bunkers or digging trenches and foxholes in the stony soil.
Rodimtsev had no real need to study the city plan—the positions of the artillery pieces and the two infantry regiments were all
clearly visible even from the edge of the water.
“Long-term defensive positions,” said Rodimtsev, gesturing towards where the soldiers were working. “And you didn’t even say a word to me.”
“We don’t even really need telephone cables,” said Belsky. “We can shout out orders to the regimental command posts—and they can pass them on to the battalions and companies.”
He looked at Rodimtsev and broke off. Seldom had he seen him looking so grim.
“Nice and cosy,” said Rodimtsev. “All huddled together, and only a few steps from the water!”
Rodimtsev began to pace about the shore, which was littered with slabs of stone, charred logs and sheets of corrugated iron.
A number of paths led up the steep, stony slope into the city, towards the tall windowless buildings on the cliff above them.
It was relatively quiet, with only the occasional mortar bomb whistling past, making everyone lower their heads. Now and then a yellow-grey Messerschmitt would fly low over the Volga, letting out bursts of machine-gun fire and tapping insolently away with its small quick-firing cannon.
Most of the men, however, were used to the sound of machine guns and mortar bombs. It was the silences that terrified them. Everyone in the division, from General Rodimtsev to the rank-and-file soldiers, understood that they were positioned on the main axis of the German offensive.
The young HQ commandant appeared and brightly reported that the new command post was now fully equipped.
Rodimtsev scowled and snapped out, “What’s that round hat on your head? You look like you’re on your way to a village wedding. Where’s your side cap?”
The smile disappeared from the man’s broad face. “Understood, comrade Major General,” he replied.
Rodimtsev set off towards the new command post, accompanied by his staff.
Soldiers were bustling about, carrying logs, planks and bits of metal towards their trenches and bunkers. “Anyone would think they’re beavers,” Rodimtsev said to Vavilov, who was already out of breath again. “Who else constructs long-term defences right by the water?”
Stalingrad Page 91
