'What am I going to say to my soldiers when the Germans start pounding them?' demanded Novikov. 'How am I going to cover them? With your instructions?'
Instead of losing his temper, the second-in-command adopted a conciliatory tone.
'I'll report the situation to the commander. You set off for your brigades.'
Then Getmanov came in; he had already put on his cap and overcoat. When he saw Novikov, he threw up his hands in astonishment. 'Pyotr Pavlovich, I thought you'd already left.'
His next words were more gentle. 'You say the rear's lagging behind. Well, the officer responsible says we shouldn't be wasting trucks and precious petrol on wounded Germans.' He gave Novikov a meaningful look. 'After all, we're not a section of the Comintern. We're a fighting unit.'
'What on earth's the Comintern got to do with it?'
'Comrade Colonel,' said Nyeudobnov entreatingly, 'it's time you left. Every moment's precious. I'll do everything in my power to sort things out with Headquarters.'
Since his conversation with Darensky, Novikov had been watching Nyeudobnov constantly, following his every movement. 'Not with that very hand? I can't believe it!' he would think to himself as Nyeudobnov took hold of a spoon, speared a piece of pickled cucumber on a fork or picked up the telephone.
Now, though, Novikov had forgotten about all that. He had never seen Nyeudobnov so friendly, so concerned – so likeable even.
Getmanov and Nyeudobnov were ready to sell their souls to the devil if only they could be the first to enter the Ukraine, if only the brigades could continue their advance without delay. But there was one risk they wouldn't run: that of taking responsibility themselves for an action that might lead to a setback.
In spite of himself, Novikov had succumbed to this fever. He too wanted to be able to radio to HQ that his advance units had been the first to cross the frontier. In military terms this meant very little and certainly would not occasion the enemy any particular harm. But Novikov wanted it none the less – for the glory of it, for the Order of Suvorov, for the rank of general it would certainly assure him. He wanted to be thanked by Yeremenko, to be praised by Vasilevsky, to hear his name over the radio on Stalin's order of the day. He even wanted his neighbours to be jealous of him. Such thoughts and feelings had never governed his acts before; it was perhaps for this very reason that they were now so intense.
There was nothing reprehensible in this ambition of his… Everything was the same as in Stalingrad and during 1941: the cold was just as pitiless, the soldiers were still half-dead with exhaustion, death was still as terrifying. And yet the whole spirit of the war was changing.
And Novikov, who hadn't yet understood this, was surprised to find himself in agreement for once with Getmanov and Nyeudobnov. He no longer felt irritated or resentful; he seemed quite naturally to want the same things as they did.
If his tanks advanced faster, the invaders would indeed be driven out of a few Ukrainian villages a few hours sooner. It would make him happy to see the joy on the faces of the children and old men. Some old peasant woman would fling her arms round him as though he were her own son; his eyes would fill with tears.
But, at the same time, new passions were ripening; the spirit of the war was changing. What had been crucial in Stalingrad and during 1941 was coming to be of merely secondary importance. The first person to understand this change was the man who on 3 June, 1941, had said: 'My brothers and sisters, my friends…'
Getmanov and Nyeudobnov were egging Novikov on; he shared their excitement, but for some strange reason kept putting off his departure. It was only as he got into his jeep that he realized it was because he was expecting Zhenya.
It was over three weeks since he had heard from her. Each time he made his way back to HQ, he hoped to find Zhenya waiting for him on the steps. She had come to share in his life. She was with him when he talked to his brigade commanders, when he was called to the telephone by Front Headquarters, when he drove up to the front line and felt his tank trembling at the shell-bursts like a young horse. Once, telling Getmanov the story of his childhood, he had felt as though he were telling it to her. He would say to himself: 'God, I really stink of vodka. Zhenya would notice in no time.' Or: 'Now, if only she could see that!'
He had wondered anxiously what she would think if she knew that he had sent a major before the military tribunal. Among the clouds of tobacco smoke and the voices of telephonists in an observation post on the front line, among the gunfire and the exploding bombs, he would be thinking of her…
Sometimes he felt jealous of her past. Sometimes he dreamed of her; he would wake up and be unable to get back to sleep. At times he felt sure their love would last for ever; at others he was afraid of being left on his own again.
As he got into his jeep, he glanced round at the road leading back to the Volga; it was deserted. He suddenly thought angrily that she should have arrived long ago. Perhaps she had fallen ill? Once again he remembered the day in 1939 when he had heard the news of her marriage and almost shot himself. Why did he love her? He had had other women who were just as good. Was it a joy or a kind of sickness to think so obsessively about one person? It was a good thing he hadn't got involved with any of the girls on his staff. Yes, he had a clean slate. Though there had been one night three weeks ago… What if she stopped on the way and spent the night in that hut? The young woman might start talking to Zhenya. She might describe him and say: 'Yes, that colonel's a splendid fellow!' What nonsense goes through one's head, what nonsense!
50
Novikov returned to his headquarters at noon on the following day. He was aching all over – in the small of his back, in his neck and spine, – after being shaken about on icy, pot-holed roads that had been ploughed up by the treads of tanks. It was as though the soldiers had infected him with their own exhaustion, with the stupefaction they felt after so many days without sleep.
As they drew up, he saw a group of people standing on the porch. There was Yevgenia Nikolaevna standing beside Getmanov, watching the approaching jeep. He felt a flame burning into him, he gasped with a mad joy that was close to pain. He was about to leap out of the still-moving jeep when Vershkov, who was sitting behind him, said:
'So the commissar's taking the air with that doctor of his. We should take a photo of them. That would make his wife happy.'
Novikov went inside. He took the letter held out to him by Getmanov, turned it over, recognized Zhenya's handwriting, and stuffed it into his pocket.
'All right,' he said to Getmanov. 'I'll tell you how I see the situation.'
'But what about the letter? Don't you love her any longer?'
'Thank you. That can wait.'
Nyeudobnov came in and Novikov began.
'The only problem is with the men themselves. They're falling asleep in their tanks during combat. They're worn out. The brigade commanders included. Karpov's not too bad, but Byelov fell asleep while he was talking to me – he hasn't stopped for five days. The drivers and mechanics are falling asleep on the move. They're too exhausted even to eat.'
'But Pyotr Pavlovich,' Getmanov broke in, 'how do you see the general situation?'
'There's no risk of a counter-offensive in our sector. The Germans have lost their nerve. They're taking to their heels as fast as they can.'
As he spoke, he could feel the envelope between his fingers. He let it go for a moment and then quickly grasped it again; he was afraid it might escape from his pocket.
'Very well,' said Getmanov. 'That seems clear enough. Now listen to what I've got to say. The general and I have been right to the top. I spoke to Nikita Sergeyevich himself. He gave his word that we would not lose our air support.'
'But Khrushchev has no direct military authority,' said Novikov.
'Yes and no,' said Getmanov. 'The general's just received confirmation from Air Army Headquarters. The aircraft are staying with us.'
