sort of speech to deliver in the middle of this terrible battle.
Suddenly Krymov caught sight of him. He had stepped down from the dais and was standing beside Shumilov. He was staring straight at Krymov. When he saw Krymov looking at him, he turned away.
'What on earth does that mean?' wondered Krymov.
38
After the meeting, Krymov got a lift to the Central Power Station. That night, after a recent raid by German bombers, it looked particularly sinister. The explosions had blasted out huge craters and thrown up great ramparts of earth. Some of the windowless workshops had subsided; the three-storey administrative building was in ruins.
The transformers were still smoking. Little fangs of flame were playing lazily about them.
A young Georgian sentry took Krymov through the yard, still lit up by the fire. Krymov saw his guide's fingers shake as he lit a cigarette -stone buildings weren't the only things to have been devastated by the massive bombs.
Krymov had been hoping to see Spiridonov ever since he had received instructions to go to Beketovka. Perhaps Zhenya would be here. Perhaps Spiridonov would know something about her. Perhaps he had had a letter from her and at the end she had written: 'Have you heard anything about Nikolay Grigorevich?'
He felt excited and happy. Perhaps Spiridonov would say: 'But Yevgenia Nikolaevna seemed very sad.' Or perhaps: 'She was crying, you know.'
He had been getting more and more impatient all day. He had wanted to drop in on Spiridonov during the afternoon. Instead he had gone to the command-post of the 64th Army – despite the fact that a political instructor had whispered to him, 'There's no point in hurrying, you know. The Member of the Military Soviet's been drunk since morning.'
It had indeed been a mistake to visit the general. As he sat in the waiting-room of the underground command- post, he had overheard the general, on the other side of the thin plywood partition, dictating a letter of congratulation to his neighbour, Chuykov.
'Vasily Ivanovich, soldier and friend!' he began solemnly.
Then he burst into tears and, sobbing, repeated the words several times: 'Soldier and friend, soldier and friend.'
'What's that you've written down?' he asked the typist, his voice suddenly severe.
'Vasily Ivanovich, soldier and friend.'
Her bored tone must have seemed inappropriate. By way of correcting her, he repeated, with still greater exaltation:
'Vasily Ivanovich, soldier and friend!'
Once again he was overwhelmed by emotion. Then, with the same severity as before: 'What have you written?'
'Vasily Ivanovich, soldier and friend,' replied the typist.
There had indeed been no point in hurrying.
The dim flames served more to obscure the way than to illuminate it. They seemed to be coming from the depths of the earth; or perhaps the earth itself had caught fire – the low flames were certainly heavy and damp enough.
They reached the director's command-post. Bombs had fallen nearby and thrown up great mountains of earth; the path had not yet been properly trodden down and was barely distinguishable.
'You've got here just in time for the party,' said the guard.
Krymov knew he wouldn't be able to speak freely to Spiridonov in the presence of other people. He told the guard to tell the director that a commissar from Front Headquarters was here to see him. Left on his own, a wave of uncontrollable anguish swept over him.
'What is all this?' he said to himself. 'I thought I was cured. Can't even the war exorcize her? What can I do?'
'Drive her away, drive her away! Get out of it or it will be the end of you!' he muttered.
But he didn't have the strength to leave – any more than he had the strength to drive her away.
Then Spiridonov appeared.
'Yes, comrade, what can I do for you?' he asked impatiently.
'Don't you recognize me, Stepan Fyodorovich?'
'Who is it?' Spiridonov sounded nervous. He looked Krymov in the face and suddenly cried out: 'Nikolay! Nikolay Grigorevich!'
His arms were trembling as he flung them round Krymov's neck.
'My dearest Nikolay!' he said with a loud sniff.
Krymov felt himself beginning to cry. He was shaken by this strange meeting in the middle of the ruins. And he felt alone, utterly alone… Spiridonov's trust and joy brought home to him how close he was to Yevgenia Nikolaevna's family. And this brought home his pain. Why, why had she left him? Why had she caused him so much suffering? How could she?
'You know what the war's done?' said Spiridonov. 'It's destroyed my life. My Marusya's dead.'
He told Krymov about Vera. About how, only a few days before, she had finally crossed to the left bank. 'The girl's a fool.'
'What about her husband?' asked Krymov.
'He probably died long ago. He's a fighter pilot.'
Unable to restrain himself any longer, Krymov asked:
'What about Yevgenia Nikolaevna? Is she still alive? Where is she?'
'She's alive all right. She's either in Kuibyshev or Kazan.'
He looked at Krymov and said:
'She's still alive. That's what matters.'
'Yes, yes, of course,' said Krymov.
He himself no longer knew what really mattered. All he knew was that he was in pain. Everything to do with Yevgenia Nikolaevna brought him pain. It would hurt him to know that some tragedy had happened to her; it would hurt him to be told that she was well and happy.
Spiridonov began to talk about Alexandra Vladimirovna, Lyudmila and Seryozha. Krymov just nodded and muttered: 'Yes, yes… Yes, yes…'
'Come on, Nikolay!' said Spiridonov. 'You must come and visit my home. It's all I have left.'
The cellar was crammed with pallets, cupboards, equipment, sacks of flour and huge bottles. The flickering oil lamps lit up only a small part of it. There were people sitting everywhere – on the pallets, on boxes and benches, along the walls. The air was stifling and full of the buzz of conversation.
Spiridonov started to pour alcohol into glasses, mugs and the lids of pots. Everyone fell silent, watching him attentively. The look in their eyes was calm and serious, full of faith.
As he looked round, Krymov said to himself: 'It's a pity Grekov's not here. He deserves a drink.' But Grekov had already drunk all he was ever to drink.
Glass in hand, Spiridonov got up.
'Now he'll go and spoil everything,' thought Krymov, 'like Pryakhin.'
But Spiridonov just sketched a figure of eight in the air with his glass and said: 'Well, lads, it's time for a drink. Cheers!'
There was a clinking of glasses and tin mugs. The drinkers cleared their throats and nodded their heads.
There were all sorts of people here. Before the war, the State had somehow kept them apart; they had never sat down at one table, clapped each other on the shoulder and said: 'No, you just listen to what I'm saying!' Here, though, beneath the remains of the burning power station, they had become brothers. And this simple brotherhood was so important that they would happily have given their lives for it.
A grey-haired night-watchman began to sing an old song. Before the Revolution, when Stalingrad was still
