In an equally authoritative tone Vera replied, “Nonsense, I’m not going anywhere.” She added, “Come and have lunch—the soup’s almost ready.”
That day marked the beginning of a prolonged battle between the workers of Stalgres and the German bombers and gunners. The workers’ courage and obstinacy astonished even the most hardened Red Army soldiers.
Day after day, the moment the first smoke rose from the main chimney, the German artillery opened fire. Shells crashed through the main walls; sometimes splinters whistled through the engine and turbine rooms. Shattered glass littered the stone floors, but the smoke still curled stubbornly up from the chimney, as if laughing at the German guns. As for the Stalgres workers and engineers, they saw nothing to laugh at, but their determination did not waver. Day after day, fully aware that this would attract the attentions of the German heavy artillery, they diligently raised the pressure in the boilers. Sometimes workers standing by furnaces, switchboards and water-level controls saw German tanks on the crest of the surrounding hills, moving towards the Obydino church. There were moments when tanks seemed about to break through to the power station itself and Spiridonov had to order the electricians to prepare to detonate “the soap boxes” with which all the main units were mined. These boxes of TNT caused no small anxiety to anyone who remembered about them during artillery barrages: should one of them be hit by a shell, the whole building would be blown to smithereens.
The families of the remaining Stalgres workers and engineers had been evacuated to the east bank, and everyone working at the power station now also lived there, under martial law. Their work had not changed, but they lived the lives of soldiers. And there were no human ties that were not altered by this new communal existence, by this combination of ordinary work and military discipline, to the accompaniment of shell bursts and the howls of German aircraft. No matter how long people had known one another—on shop floors, in offices, in meetings and committees of every kind—their relationships developed in unexpected ways.
With the fragility of human life now so apparent, the value of every individual emerged more clearly than ever.
Nikolaev, the fair-haired Party organizer, was well aware of the extent of his new responsibilities. But he had never taken a deeper interest in the minutiae of people’s lives than during these terrible September days. He told Kapustinsky, one of the engineers, that he should not smoke on an empty stomach if he had an ulcer. He talked about the kindness and magnanimity of Suslov, one of the electricians. He pointed out that Golidze the guard, though certainly quick-tempered, was cheerful, responsive and generally good-natured; and that Paramonov, the duty technician on the second floor, knew a great deal about literature and should, perhaps, study humanities instead of thinking only about transformers. He insisted that Kasatkin the accountant liked a good joke, was fond of children and was not in any way a bad person; if his view of family and marriage was alarmingly bleak, this was simply because he had been unfortunate in his personal life.
Differences of age, profession and social standing—differences that so often make it difficult for people to draw close to one another—ceased to be of importance. The Stalgres workers and engineers became a single family.
Sometimes Spiridonov felt that whole years had passed since his wife’s death. Every day of this last month had brought more deaths; every hour had brought crises. Day after day, fearing he was unlikely to see the sun rise again, he had given his all to dealing with difficulties that appeared overwhelming. And his memory of Marusya was like a flame. Every now and then it scorched him—and he would take a photograph of her from his pocket and gaze at it, unable to believe that he would never see her again.
Was it really possible that he would never again talk to her, or ask her advice? Never again discuss some escapade of Vera’s with her? Never again joke with her, fly into a temper or rush home to see her? Never again take pride in one of her newspaper articles? Never again bring back some cloth for a new dress and say, “No, don’t be angry with me, it hardly cost a kopek!”? Never again go to the theatre with her and grumble, “Marusya, it’ll soon be the third bell. As usual, we’re going to be late”?
As for Vera, she had undergone surgery but had recovered well. She had fully regained her sight in both eyes and the only trace of her burns was a small pink spot on one cheekbone. The faint scar left on one eyelid by her recent operation was barely noticeable.
There was a new tenderness between Vera and her father, and this was a source of great joy to him.
Spiridonov did not talk to Vera about what he was going through, and she almost never spoke to him about her mother, but everyone who knew them could see that their relationship had changed.
Vera was now remarkably thoughtful and caring towards her father. In the past, she had treated domestic matters with mocking contempt. Anything to do with health, rest and nutrition had been beneath her, but she now checked constantly whether her father had had enough to eat, whether he had drunk his tea and whether he had had at least a few hours of sleep. She would make his bed for him and bring him hot water for washing. There was no longer the least hint of the accusatory manner so common in young people’s attitudes to their parents: “You may like to think you’ve got something to teach me, but I’m not so sure. To my mind, you’ve got more than enough problems yourself.” Instead, Vera chose to close her eyes to her father’s weaknesses and to say in a comradely tone, “You’ve had a hard day, Papa, you need to get some vodka inside you!”
She now admired everything about him, and she was proud of how he managed to keep the power station in operation in spite of the constant shelling. She also discovered that, for all his heroism, he was often surprisingly helpless with regard to more everyday matters.
Aware of all this, Spiridonov began, without fully realizing it, to look on her differently. Until recently, everything she did had caused him anxiety. He had seen her as a foolish, unreliable child, always likely to put her foot in it. Now, though, he saw her as a clear-headed, sensible adult. He asked her advice, talked freely to her about his doubts and mistakes and felt a little apprehensive if, instead of going back to have lunch with her, he snatched a bite to eat with some of the engineers or Party workers. In view of the severity of wartime conditions, this would be accompanied not with the regulation 100 grams of vodka, but with 150 grams.44
They now lived not in a spacious apartment but in a small room in a semi-basement below Spiridonov’s office. It had thick walls and windows that looked east, into the power-station yard and away from the German artillery.
Immediately after the fire, Spiridonov had found a temporary home for Vera a few kilometres from Stalgres, in a small house belonging to one of his accountants. The house was in a safe place, just above the Volga and far from the main road and any of the factories. He repeatedly begged Vera not to return to Stalgres. He wanted her to go to Kazan and live with her aunt Ludmila, but she refused point-blank. Nevertheless, she was pleased by her father’s concern; it made her feel she was a little girl again, as in the irrevocably lost days of peace, and this was both sweet and painful.
Sometimes she did want to go to Kazan and live with Ludmila. She wanted to see Nadya and her grandmother. She wanted not to hear gunfire and shell bursts. She wanted not to wake in the night, wondering in horror if she could hear German soldiers outside. Nevertheless, something in her heart told her that she would find life in Kazan still harder. Not only would it mean leaving her dead mother; it would also mean losing all hope of ever seeing Viktorov again. She was certain he would come to Stalgres to look for her, or send her a letter there, or at the very least ask some comrade to pass on his greetings. Whenever she looked up and saw Soviet fighters, her heart missed a beat: could it be Viktorov, high in the sky above her?
She asked her father to find work for her in Stalgres, but he kept delaying, not wanting to expose her to danger.
Then she said that, unless he arranged something soon, she would go to the medical unit
of the nearest division and ask to be sent to the front, to a regimental aid post. He promised to find her a job in one of the workshops in the next few days.
One morning, Vera went to the abandoned building that had once housed the Stalgres engineers. She went up to the second floor, to the apartment with wide-open doors and smashed windows where she had lived with her parents. She went into her mother’s room, sat on the metal frame of the bed and looked around. The carpet, the paintings and the photographs had all gone, but pale rectangles on the walls showed where they had once hung. And then everything—her sense of loss, her guilt at how rude she had been to her mother during the last months of her life, the roar of the Soviet artillery, even the sky’s deep blue—everything was suddenly more than she could bear. She got to her feet and ran down the stairs.
Vera crossed the square to the checkpoint at the main entrance to Stalgres. For a moment she imagined that her father was about to come out, put his arms around her and say, “Ah, here at last—someone’s just brought you a letter!” But the guard told her that Spiridonov had left a few minutes ago, on his way to Army HQ with some major. And there was no triangular letter for her.45
She walked through into the yard. Then she saw Nikolaev coming towards her. He was wearing a soldier’s tunic and a worker’s cap.
“Verochka, has Spiridonov come back yet?”
“Not yet,” said Vera. “Why? Has something happened?”
“No, no,” said Nikolaev. “Everything’s all right.” Pointing at the smoke rising from the chimney, he added, “Vera, there’s no smoke without fire. Don’t wander about the yard. The Germans will start shooting any minute.”
“What of it?” she replied. “I’m not afraid.”
Nikolaev took her by the arm and said half jokingly and half crossly, “Come on now. In the director’s absence, I have to assume the responsibilities of a father.” He went with her to the main office, then stopped by the door and asked, “What’s the matter? Something’s wrong—I can see it in your eyes.”
“I want to start work.”
“That goes without saying. But it’s more than that.”
“Sergey Afanasievich, surely you understand?” Vera said sadly. “You know what’s happened, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course,” he replied, “but there’s something else, isn’t there? You look lost.”
“Lost? I’m not in the least lost and I never will be.”
Just then a shell whistled by. It exploded on the eastern side of the yard.
Nikolaev hurried off to the boiler room. Vera stayed where she was, by the office door. The entire yard seemed changed by this shell. Earth, iron, the walls of the workshops—everything had become tense and grim, like people’s souls.
Her father returned only late in the evening.
“Vera!” he called out. “Are you still up and about? I’ve brought back a very dear guest.” She ran out into the corridor. For an instant she thought she saw Viktorov, standing beside her father.
“Hello, Verochka,” came a voice from the dark.
“Hello,” she said slowly. It was a voice she knew, but it took her a moment to recognize who it was: Pavel Andreyevich Andreyev.
“Pavel Andreyevich, come in! I’m so glad to see you!” There were tears in Vera’s voice; in only a few seconds she had experienced a whirlwind of emotions.
Spiridonov excitedly explained how he’d met up with Andreyev. They’d been driving along and all of a sudden he’d seen him on the side of the road—walking up from the river towards Stalgres. And so he’d picked him up. “Really, Vera, you wouldn’t believe it! Two days ago, he and his fellow workers were ferried to the east bank, under fire from German machine guns. The steelworks is being evacuated to Leninsk. His wife, his daughter-in-law and his little grandson are already there. But instead of going to join them, Pavel Andreyevich walked to Tumak and got into a boat with some soldiers. And now here he is!”
“Can you find work for me, Stepan Fyodorovich?” asked Andreyev. “Here in Stalingrad I’ll feel myself again.”
“Shouldn’t be difficult,” replied Spiridonov. “There’s more than enough that needs doing.” Turning to Vera, he added, “Look at him—he’s indomitable. Clean-shaven—and he hasn’t even lost weight!”
“A soldier was having a shave this morning, just before we crossed. I asked him to shave me too. But how are things here? Do you get many bombs?”
“We get more trouble from shells. As soon as they see smoke from the chimney, their artillery starts pounding away.”
“There’s no end of bombs at the factories,” said Andreyev. “You can’t stand up straight for one moment.”
Vera placed a teapot and some glasses on the table. Glancing in her direction, Andreyev said quietly, “So Vera’s in charge now, is she?”
Spiridonov smiled and said, “I battled with her for a long time. I kept telling her to go to her aunt in Kazan, but in the end I capitulated. There’s no getting round her. She’s like you—she says she can’t live anywhere else. Pass me the knife—I’ll cut some bread.”
“Remember how Papa always used to slice up the pie?” asked Vera, wondering whether or not Andreyev already knew about her mother.
“Of course I do,” said Andreyev, with a nod of the head. “But I’ve got some white bread in my bag and it’s already going a little hard. It needs eating.” He untied his bag, put the bread on the table, and said with a sigh, “The fascists have pushed us to the edge of the abyss, Stepan Fyodorovich, but we’ll crush them yet.”
“Take your jacket off, it’s warm in here,” said Vera. “Did you hear about my grandmother’s home? It burned to the ground.”
“I know. And our little house has gone too. It was destroyed on the second day of the air raids. A direct hit by a large bomb. It smashed the trees too, and the garden fence. Everything I own now is inside this bag. But never mind—I’m still alive and I’ve got no white hairs yet.” He smiled and added, “At least I didn’t listen to my dear Varvara Alexandrovna. She told me not to go out to work—she wanted me to stay at home and guard our belongings. If I’d done as she said, that house would have been my grave.”
Vera poured out the tea and moved the chairs up to the table.
“And I’ve heard news of your Seryozha,” said Andreyev.
“What news?” father and daughter asked with one voice.
“Yes, how could I forget! There was a man from the factory militia in the boat with me. He’d been wounded, but he said he’d been in the same mortar battery as my friend Polyakov, who used to work as a carpenter. I asked about the other men in the battery and he told me their names. One was Seryozha Shaposhnikov—‘a young lad from the city,’ he said. I’m sure he was your Seryozha.”
“But how is our Seryozha?” Vera asked impatiently.
“All right. Alive and kicking. The militiaman didn’t say much about him, just that he’s a brave lad, and that he and Polyakov are good friends. People joke about the two of them being inseparable—the oldest man in the battery and the youngest.”
“Where are they now? Where’s their battery?” asked Spiridonov.
“Here’s what he told me. First, they were in the steppe for some time. Then they fought their first battle. Then they were at the foot of Mamaev Kurgan. And then they withdrew to the workers’ settlement by the Barricades Factory. That’s where they are now, in a building with good strong walls. They fire their mortars from the cellars and they’re well protected from bombs.”
“But how is our Seryozha?” Vera repeated. “How does he look? Has he got enough clothes? Is he in good spirits? What does he have to say for himself?”
“I don’t know what he has to say for himself, but I’m sure he’s all right for clothes, wearing the same Red Army uniform as everyone else.”
“Yes, of course. Sorry—I was being stupid. What I mean is—is he all right? Not wounded, not suffering concussion? Nothing the matter with him?”
“So the man said: alive, healthy,
not wounded, and not suffering concussion.”
“Please, Pavel Andreyevich, say all that again. From the beginning: a brave lad, good friends with Polyakov, not wounded, and not suffering concussion. Go through all that again, Pavel Andreyevich, I beg you.”
Andreyev smiled. Speaking very slowly, lengthening each syllable to give weight to his words and make them last longer, he repeated everything he’d heard from the wounded militiaman about Vera’s cousin Seryozha.
“We must tell Grandma as soon as we can. She’ll be worrying about him. She’s probably lying awake all night.”
“I’ll do what I can,” said Spiridonov. “I’ll ask at Army HQ. Maybe they’ll let me send a telegram to Kazan.”
He took a flask from a drawer of his desk and poured out two large glasses of vodka—for himself and Andreyev—and a third, smaller, glass for Vera.
“Not for me,” Vera said quickly.
“Not even half a glass, Verochka,” said her father, “to drink to an old friend?”
“No, no, I really don’t want to. I mean, I can’t.”
“How things change!” said Spiridonov. “When you were a little girl, there was nothing you wanted more than to down a glass on your birthday. Everyone laughed and said you’d turn into a drunkard. And now, all of a sudden, ‘I don’t want to. I mean, I can’t.’”
“Seryozha’s alive and well!” said Vera. “That’s wonderful!”
“We don’t have long, Pavel Andreyevich,” said Spiridonov. He looked at his watch. “I’ll have to go back to work soon.”
Andreyev got to his feet. He raised his glass, his large hand entirely steady, and said in a loud, strong voice, “Marya Nikolaevna. Our dear Marusya. Memory eternal!” Spiridonov and Vera rose to their feet, looking at the old man’s stern, solemn face.
Before he left, Spiridonov tried to persuade Andreyev to stay the night, but Andreyev insisted on going to the room where the guards slept. Spiridonov also suggested that, to begin with, Andreyev should work at the checkpoint, examining and issuing passes.
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