'My darling, my beautiful, give me a kiss – and don't forget me!'
The officer with the handkerchief round his mouth seemed to be the only person able to imagine all this. But for some reason he was the one who appeared to attract the anger of the women standing beside the entrance; they kept their eyes fixed on him and ignored the remaining prisoners – despite the fact that two of them had light patches on their overcoats where their SS insignia had once been.
'So you're trying to look away, are you?' muttered a squat woman who was holding a little boy by the hand.
The officer could sense the weight of emotion in the woman's slow, penetrating look. The air was full of a hatred that needed to be discharged; it was like the electrical energy in a storm-cloud that strikes blindly and with consuming power at one of the trees in a forest.
The officer's fellow-worker was a short soldier with a thin towel round his neck and some sacking tied with telephone cable round his legs.
The Russians standing in silence by the door looked so hostile that the prisoners felt relieved to go back down again into the dark cellar. They stayed there as long as they could, preferring the stench and darkness to the fresh air and daylight.
The prisoners were on their way back to the cellar with empty stretchers when they heard the familiar sound of Russian swearwords. They carried on at the same pace, sensing instinctively that one sudden movement would be enough to make the crowd turn on them.
The officer suddenly let out a cry and the guard said irritably: 'Hey, you brat! What's the use of throwing stones? Are you going to take over if the Fritz comes a cropper?'
Back down in the cellar the prisoners had a few words together.
'For the time being, they've only got it in for the lieutenant.'
'Did you see the way that woman looked at him?'
'You stay in the cellar this time, Lieutenant,' said a voice out of the darkness. 'If they start on you, then we'll be next.'
'No, no, it's no good hiding,' the officer murmured sleepily. 'This is the day of judgment.' He turned to his fellow-worker. 'Come on now, let's be off!'
This time their burden was lighter and they walked faster than usual as they came out of the cellar. On the stretcher lay the corpse of an adolescent girl. Her body was shrivelled and dried up; only her blonde hair still kept its warm life and colour, falling in disorder round the terrible, blackened face of a dead bird. The crowd gave a quiet gasp.
The squat woman let out a shrill cry. Her voice cut through the cold air like a blade. 'My child! My child! My golden child!'
The crowd was shaken by the way the woman had cried out for a child who wasn't even her own. The woman began tidying the girl's hair; it looked as though it had only recently been curled. She gazed at her face, at her forever twisted mouth, at her terrible features; in them she could see what only a mother could have seen – the adorable face of the baby who had once smiled at her out of its swaddling clothes.
The woman got to her feet and strode towards the officer. Everyone was struck by the way she kept her eyes fixed on him and yet at the same time managed to find a brick that wasn't part of a great frozen heap – a brick that even her poor hand could pick up, her poor weak hand that had been deformed by years of labour, that had been scalded by boiling water, icy water and lye.
The guard sensed what was about to happen and knew there was nothing he could do to stop the woman; she was stronger than his tommy-gun. The prisoners couldn't take their eyes off her; the children watched her avidly and impatiently.
The woman could no longer see anything at all except the face of the German with the handkerchief round his mouth. Not understanding what was happening to her, governed by a power she had just now seemed to control, she felt in the pocket of her jacket for a piece of bread that had been given to her the evening before by a soldier. She held it out to the German officer and said: 'There, have something to eat.'
Afterwards, she was unable to understand what had happened to her, why she had done this. Her life was to be full of moments of humiliation, helplessness and anger, full of petty cruelties that made her lie awake at night, full of brooding resentment. There was the time she quarrelled with her neighbour who had accused her of stealing a bottle of oil; the time the chairman of the district soviet, not interested in her complaints about life in a communal flat, had her thrown out of his office; the time when her son began manoeuvring to get her out of the room they shared, when his pregnant wife called her an old whore… At one such moment, lying on her bed, full of bitterness, she was to remember that winter morning outside the cellar and think: T was a fool then, and I'm still a fool now.'
49
Alarming reports were reaching Novikov's headquarters from his brigade commanders. Their scouts had located German tank and artillery units that hadn't yet taken part in the fighting. The enemy was evidently bringing up his reserves.
Novikov found this information very disturbing: his forward units were advancing without securing their flanks; if the enemy should succeed in cutting the small number of passable roads, his tanks would be left with no infantry support and no fuel.
Novikov discussed the situation with Getmanov; he considered it essential to call a temporary halt to the tanks' advance and allow the forces in the rear to catch up. Getmanov was still obsessed by the idea that their corps must be the first to enter the Ukraine. In the end they agreed that Getmanov should bring up the rear while Novikov investigated the situation to the west.
Before setting off for the brigades, Novikov phoned Yeremenko's second-in-command and informed him of the situation. He knew in advance what answer he would receive; the second-in-command would never take the responsibility either of calling a halt to their advance, or of ordering them to continue.
The second-in-command said that he would alert Yeremenko and that he would request information from the intelligence service at Front HQ.
Novikov then phoned Molokov, the commander of the infantry corps next door. Molokov was a difficult, bad- tempered man who constantly suspected his neighbours of making unfavourable reports about him to Yeremenko. He and Novikov ended up arguing and even exchanging curses – not, admittedly, directed at each other, but at the widening gap opening up between the tanks and the infantry.
After that, Novikov phoned his neighbour on the left, the commander of an artillery division. He said he didn't intend to advance any further unless he received orders from Front Headquarters. Novikov could understand his point of view: he didn't want merely to play a supporting role to the tanks.
As Novikov was hanging up, Nyeudobnov came in. Novikov had never seen him looking so flustered and anxious.
'Comrade Colonel,' he said, 'I've just had a call from the chief of staff of the air army. They're about to transfer our support aircraft to the left flank.'
'What do you mean?' shouted Novikov. 'They must be out of their minds!'
'There's no mystery about it,' said Nyeudobnov. 'Some people would prefer us not to be the first to enter the Ukraine. There are more than enough men who've got their eyes on the Orders of Suvorov and Bogdan Khmelnitsky. Without air support we have no choice but to call a halt.'
'I'll phone Yeremenko straight away.'
Yeremenko, however, had left for Tolbukhin 's army. His second-in-command, whom Novikov had only just phoned, again preferred not to take any decision. He merely expressed surprise that Novikov hadn't yet moved up to his brigades.
'Comrade Lieutenant-General,' said Novikov, 'I fail to understand how you can possibly, without warning, remove all air cover from the corps that has advanced furthest towards the West.'
'Your superiors are better placed than you to decide how best to make use of the support aircraft,' came the angry reply. 'Yours isn't the only corps taking part in this offensive.'
