Stalingrad

by Vasily Grossman

  “But what about comradeship?” Vogel burst out. “Apart from anything else, there is such a thing as comradeship. Soldierly comradeship, the comradeship of the front line. Wanting to bugger off on your own after fourteen months that have bound us closer than brothers! I call it vile!”

  Always easily influenced, Ledeke joined in with Vogel. “Yes, we three have been through a lot together. And I’m not sure your plan will work anyway. There’s no guarantee they’ll accept you. Somewhere like that, they won’t just be taking whoever shows up. Whereas if you stay here in Stalingrad, you’re sure to be decorated. When the war comes to an end, there’ll be no Germans further east than we are. And there’ll be a special gold medal—for Stalingrad and the Volga. A medal that will bring us more than just honour.”

  “Will it buy us a castle in Prussia?” Stumpfe retorted. He blew his nose.

  “Ledeke, you’re missing the point!” said Vogel. “I’m talking about feelings—and you’re like a peasant selling beets in the market. These things should be kept separate.”

  And suddenly the three friends were quarrelling viciously.

  “Fuck you and your fucking feelings!” Stumpfe yelled at Vogel. “You’re a rich bourgeois. I’m afraid of having nothing to eat when I get home.”

  Shocked by the look of hate on his comrade’s face, Vogel said, “It’s not quite like that, you know. Ministry of Industry inspectors have been giving my father hell. He looks more like a frightened worker than a wealthy capitalist.”

  “I hope they really do give him hell! You too! You’re all parasites and you should be flayed alive. The Führer will show you what’s what!” Stumpfe then looked at Ledeke.

  But Ledeke, rather than agreeing in his usual way with one of the others, said, “To be honest with you—now that the war’s almost over—all this talk about the unity of the German nation is bullshit. The bourgeoisie will go on stuffing themselves. Nazis and SS, men like Stumpfe and his dear brother, are sure to do all right for themselves too. If anyone gets flayed alive, it’ll be stupid workers like me and my peasant father. So much for German unity! When the war’s over, our roads will part.”

  “Comrades, what’s come over you?” said Vogel. “What’s happened? You’ve lost your minds.”

  Stumpfe looked at Vogel intently. “All right, all right,” he said in a conciliatory tone. “Enough of all this. But please get one thing into your heads. If I don’t go through with this plan of mine, it’ll be because I care about my friends.”

  A soldier came in. He’d just been relieved from sentry duty at the entrance to the company’s basement.

  “What was that shooting just now?” came a sleepy voice from the half-dark.

  The soldier put down his sub-machine gun with a loud clatter, had a quick stretch and said, “The duty lieutenant told me that some Russian unit has captured the railway station. But it’s not in our sector.”

  One of the soldiers laughed. “They’re probably so scared they lost their way. They meant to go east but ended up going west by mistake.”

  “You’re probably right,” said Ledeke. “East and west mean nothing to them.”

  The soldier sat down on his bed, brushed some muck off the blanket and said crossly, “Listen. I’ve had to say this twice already. Before I go on duty tomorrow, I’ll be putting a grenade under this blanket. I can’t believe how little respect anyone has for other people’s belongings. I want to take this blanket back home with me—and someone’s marched all over it without even taking his boots off.”

  Calming down at the thought that he would soon be able to have a good rest, he pulled off his own boots and said, “There may be shooting going on around the station, but Lenard’s having a party. They’ve found a gramophone, they’ve got guests, and they’ve dragged in some weeping maidens. Even Bach’s joining in—seems he’s decided to lose his innocence before the end of the war. Shooting in one sector—and song and dance in another!”

  “They’ll capitulate any day now,” said a voice from the darkness. “I can feel it in the air. Home! The mere thought of home makes my heart miss a beat.”

  36

  KARL SCHMIDT was on sentry duty, just inside the courtyard of the building Captain Preifi had chosen for his battalion command post. The flickering light from the still-burning buildings made Schmidt’s thin, wrinkled face seem hard and sullen.

  A large white cat was walking along the cornice, looking around anxiously.

  Schmidt checked whether or not anyone was watching, then called out in a hoarse voice, “He du, Kätzchen, Kätzchen!”38 But this Stalingrad cat didn’t understand German. She stopped, wondering if the man standing by the wall was dangerous, then flicked her tail, leaped with a loud clatter onto the iron roof of a nearby shed and disappeared into the dark.

  Schmidt looked at his watch. He would be on duty for another hour and a half. But he did not mind being alone in this quiet yard; he had come to love solitude—and not merely because of being subjected to Stumpfe’s constant ridicule.

  Silent pink shadows—petals, half circles, ovals—were flitting across the wall, as if it were a cinema screen. A nearby building must have started to burn more brightly; probably some wooden floors had just caught.

  It was extraordinary how much people changed. Ten years ago, his wife had often got angry and upset with him for never staying at home in the evenings; he would come back from the factory, change his clothes, snatch something to eat and go straight out again, either to a meeting or to a beer cellar. Every evening would be taken up by political discussion. But if he could go home now, he’d happily lock the door and not go out again for the next year.

  In the first place, most of the people Schmidt used to see were no longer around. His fellow factory-committee activists and the senior officials from the trade union had mostly either emigrated or been sent to camps; a few had adapted and become Brownshirts. And Schmidt didn’t particularly want to see anyone anyway. Everyone lived in fear; all anyone wanted to talk about was the weather, buying a new Volkswagen on credit, what the woman next door was cooking for dinner, how stingy some of their mutual acquaintances had become, who gave their guests real tea and who palmed them off with acorn coffee. And if a friend visited at all often, then you could be sure the Blockleiter39 would soon be looking through a crack in your door or putting his ear to the wall of your room. What were these strange types up to?—he’d be thinking. Why were they sitting and talking for hours on end? Why weren’t they reading Mein Kampf?

  Nevertheless, Schmidt was unsure whether or not people really did change.

  This, he realized, was a difficult question. Who could he ask? Who could he talk it over with? Only that Stalingrad cat—but even she was keeping her distance.

  Maybe that vile Stumpfe was right? Maybe he, Schmidt, really was just a stupid blockhead? But had he always been a blockhead? Or had he only become a blockhead under the Nazis? Or was he a block-head in the eyes of the Nazis, but not in the eyes of others? There was a time when Schmidt had been seen as a leader—and not only in the factory where he worked. He had gone to Bochum for a trade union congress and been elected as a delegate representing 10,000 people. And now he was a blockhead—the laughingstock of the company.

  Schmidt kicked a piece of brick out of his way and began to pace the length of the wall. When he got to the corner, he stopped and gazed for a while at the abandoned buildings and their dead, burnt-out window sockets. He felt cold, lonely and anguished. He knew this feeling only too well; at moments like this it seemed that everything—the light of the sun and stars, the depth of the sky, the breath of the open fields—had become tormenting and oppressive. It was worst of all in the spring, when the stars, the soft breeze, the young leaves, the murmur of streams—when everything spoke of freedom.

  His son had once read aloud to him a passage from his botany textbook. Apparently there were bacteria—“anaerobic bacteria”—that did not need oxygen. Instead, they breathed nitrogen, and they lived happy, well-nourished
lives around the roots of leguminous plants. It seemed there were also people like that—anaerobic people who could breathe Hitler’s nitrogen. But he was not one of them. He was suffocating. He could not get used to nitrogen. He needed oxygen; he needed freedom.

  Schmidt found it hard to get away from the tall forehead and pale face of the man who had declared that he was Germany and that Germany was him. This face was now everywhere, looming over the innocent blood, over the sparkling brass of celebrating bands, over the drunken laughter, over the barks of guards and the howls of old women and children.

  Why was it that he, Karl Schmidt, a German soldier who loved his country, the son of a German and the grandson of a German, felt only horror when he heard news of German victories?

  And why did he feel such particular anguish tonight, on sentry duty in this ruined city, watching bright shadows flit across the walls of dead buildings?

  Real loneliness was very painful indeed.

  Sometimes he worried that he had forgotten how to think, that his brain had petrified, that it was no longer human. And there were other times when he felt frightened by his own thoughts, when he felt that Ledeke, Stumpfe and Lenard could simply look into his eyes and read everything in his mind. Or he might mutter something incorrect in a dream. His neighbour would hear him, wake some of the others and say, “Here, listen to what this red Schmidt has to say about our Leader.”

  Here, though, in this dark courtyard, where he had been alone throughout his watch, he felt calm; neither Lenard nor Stumpfe, nor anyone else could be reading his thoughts now.

  He looked at his watch again: his relief was due soon.

  For all his loneliness, Schmidt knew that there were, in fact, other blockheads in the division. There were other men who thought like he did. But how could he make contact with them? Not even the stupidest of blockheads would voice thoughts like his openly. Nevertheless, such blockheads existed. They were capable of thought, and maybe even of action. But how could he find them?

  The door half opened and the guard commander came out. His uniform was unbuttoned and in the glow from the burning buildings his shirt looked pale pink.

  Looking out from the doorway, he called quietly, “Hey, Sentry Schmidt!”

  Schmidt walked over to him. The guard commander, whose breath smelt of vodka, said with unexpected gentleness, “Listen, my friend, you’re going to have to stay here a little longer. Your relief is Hoffmann, and it’s his birthday today. He’s a little tired, he doesn’t quite feel himself. All right? After all, it is still summer. You’re not too cold out here, are you?”

  “All right,” said Schmidt.

  •

  A few hours later, Stumpfe walked over to the squat building where the officers were billeted. The sentry outside was someone he recognized.

  “How are things going?” asked Stumpfe. “How’s the commander? Is he in a good mood? I need to make an important request.”

  The sentry shook his head.

  “They were having quite a party,” he said. “Vodka and women and all. But at the very climax, so to say, the officers received an urgent summons from the colonel, and they’re not yet back.”

  “Has Moscow surrendered?”

  The sentry didn’t hear this. Instead, he gestured towards the door and winked. “I’m guarding the young women,” he said. “First Lieutenant Lenard told me, ‘We have to carry out a small operation. Just half an hour or so. We have to clear some Russians out of the station.’ He ordered me to take good care of the girls and promised to be back by noon.”

  A few minutes after this, the battalion was ordered to prepare for combat. And German tanks and artillery began to move towards the station.

  37

  AT TWO in the afternoon the Germans attacked the station. Lieutenant Colonel Yelin was drawing up a report for General Rodimtsev, his divisional commander, about the actions in which his regiment had taken part during the last few days. He was also listening with one ear to an argument between his adjutant and the head of the regiment’s medical unit about which were the sweeter watermelons—those from Astrakhan or those from Kamyshin.

  Yelin understood what was happening immediately, before hearing from his battalion commanders. The bombs and the fierce mortar and artillery barrage could mean only one thing.

  He rushed out of the bunker and saw a pale cloud of chalky dust rising over the station. Mixing with swirls of greasy smoke, it formed a thick smog, swaying over the wrecked buildings.

  Then came the sound of rifle fire, on their left flank and in the centre of the sector assigned to their division.

  “Here we go,” Yelin said to himself. And thousands of other Red Army soldiers had the same thought; they had all known this would happen.

  The tension of the last few hours had been especially painful for those who had just crossed from the east bank. It was as if they had chosen to stand on a railway line, braced for the impact of runaway trucks on a downhill gradient. A terrible blow was inevitable.

  Yelin had been through a great deal and his hair had gone white in the course of the last year. He believed this was due to the excessive demands of some of his superiors and the negligence of some of his subordinates.

  He was all the more upset because it was Filyashkin’s battalion that was bearing the brunt of the attack. He considered this battalion his weakest link; it had only recently been placed under his command and he did not know its commanders at all well.

  A messenger called him back to the bunker. Filyashkin was on the telephone: he was being bombed and shelled and he could hear the sound of approaching tanks. He was sustaining casualties and was preparing to repel the German attack.

  “Yes, I already know!” Yelin shouted into the receiver. “Take care of your machine guns. Don’t even think of retreating. I’ll support you. Can you hear me? I’ll provide full artillery support! Are you there? Are you there?”

  But Filyashkin did not hear Yelin’s promise of supporting fire—the line had gone dead.

  Yelin called Rodimtsev. He reported that the Germans were directing their main thrust against Filyashkin. “The battalion recently placed under my command,” he added. “It was formerly part of Matyushin’s regiment.”

  Yelin then turned to his chief of staff. “We’ve been ordered to hold the station at all cost. There’ll be supporting fire from the divisional artillery. Heaven knows what the Germans are cooking up now. I just hope we don’t end up going for a swim in the Volga.”

  The chief of staff nodded, thinking to himself that it was a pity they didn’t have a boat.

  Yelin summoned his battalion commanders, to check that they were ready to conduct an active defence.

  The consequences of a swift German success would be disastrous. Most of the Soviet reinforcements were still in transit. Only Rodimtsev’s division was already on the west bank. If they forced Rodimtsev into the Volga, the Germans could prevent the rest of the reinforcements from ever crossing to Stalingrad.

  Rodimtsev telephoned the commander of his right-flank regiment. Then he summoned the divisional artillery commander and the commander of the sapper battalion. After giving them their orders, he sent Belsky to inspect in person the streets along which enemy tanks were most likely to approach. Then he telephoned Chuikov, “Permission to report, comrade Lieutenant General. The enemy has launched an attack. He is concentrating his tanks and bombing and shelling my left flank. His objective is clearly the railway station.”

  Rodimtsev was no less aware of the seriousness of the threat: his right flank was exposed. If the Germans achieved a quick and easy success on his left flank, they would immediately turn to his right flank. The entire division would be endangered.

  As he listened to Chuikov’s staccato reply, Rodimtsev looked at the stone vault of the sewer and the distant light of the opening. Was he really, he wondered, destined to end his days in this dark pipe?

  “Stand firm!” Chuikov was saying. “Not one step back! If anyone retreats, they go before a tribu
nal. I’ll shoot them! Understand? In two hours Gorishny will begin the crossing. He will cover your right flank. The front line will then be secure. The situation will stabilize. As for ‘retreat’ or ‘withdrawal’—forget the words!”

  But Rodimtsev had no wish whatsoever to retreat. More than anything, he wanted to attack at once.

  Chuikov was, of course, every bit as concerned as Rodimtsev. Rodimtsev’s division had just crossed. Gorishny would cross soon. Still more reinforcements were approaching. It would be a catastrophe if the front were to break now.

  What mattered was to keep fighting, to prolong the battle, to tie down the enemy’s forces. The Germans clearly liked to complete one operation before starting another; they preferred not to leave loose ends. A drawn-out battle on Rodimtsev’s left flank would give the rest of Chuikov’s forces a breathing space. Things had already become easier for the defenders of the factory district. The pressure on them had eased. The dive-bombers had moved elsewhere.

  But if the Germans managed to isolate Rodimtsev’s division, if they prevented him from digging in, from consolidating a front line that was still little more than a dotted line on a map, if they found a way to exploit their numerical superiority and freedom of manoeuvre . . . Chuikov was hamstrung by his lack of reserves. He had been expecting this attack for some time, but he had been hoping against hope that the Germans would delay.