them to the front line. Young officers dream of special orders from Stalin in sealed envelopes… More experienced men, of course, don't dream of anything of the sort: they just drink hot water, soften up their dried fish by banging it against a table or the sole of a boot, and discuss the private life of the major or the opportunities for barter at the next junction.
They already know only too well what happens when a train unloads at a station in the middle of nowhere, a place apparently known only to the German dive-bombers… How the new recruits slowly lose their high spirits; how, after the monotony of the journey, you can no longer even lie down for an hour; how for days on end you don't get a chance to eat or drink; how your temples seem to be about to burst from the incessant roar of overheated motors; how your hands barely have the strength to move the gears and levers. As for the commander – he's had more than enough of coded messages, more than enough of being cursed and sworn at over the radio. His superiors just want to plug a gap in the line – they don't care how well the men did in their firing exercises. 'Forward! Forward!' That's the only word the commander ever hears. And he does press forward – at breakneck speed. And then sometimes the unit gets flung into action before he's even had time to reconnoitre the area; an irritable, exhausted voice simply orders: 'Counter-attack at once! Along those heights! We've got no one there and the enemy's pushing hard. It's a mess.'
Then, in the ears of the drivers and mechanics, of the radio-operators and gun-layers, the roar of the long march blurs into the whistle of German shells, the crash of exploding mortar-bombs.
This is when the madness of war becomes most obvious… An hour later there is nothing to show for all your work except some broken-down, burning tanks with twisted guns and torn tracks. Where are the hard months of training now? What has become of the patient, diligent work of the mechanics and electricians?
And the superior officer draws up a standard report to cover up the useless waste of this fresh unit, this unit he flung into action with such thoughtless haste: 'The action of the forces newly arrived from the rear temporarily checked the enemy advance and made possible a regrouping of the forces under my command.'
If only he hadn't just shouted, 'Forward! Forward!' – if only he had just allowed them time to reconnoitre the area and not blunder straight into a minefield! Even if the tanks hadn't achieved anything decisive, at least they'd have given the Germans a run for their money.
Novikov's tank corps was on its way to the Front. The naive young soldiers, men who had not yet received their baptism of fire, believed they were the ones who would take part in the decisive operation. The older men just laughed; Makarov, the commanding officer of the 3rd Brigade, and Fatov, the best of the battalion commanders, had seen all this too many times before.
The sceptics and pessimists had gained their knowledge and understanding through bitter experience; they had paid for it with blood and suffering. In this they were superior to the greenhorns. Nevertheless, they were wrong: Novikov's tank corps was indeed destined to play a decisive role in an operation that was to determine both the outcome of the war and the subsequent fate of hundreds of millions of people.
2
Novikov had been ordered to contact Lieutenant-General Ryutin on arrival in Kuibyshev, in order to answer several questions of interest to the
In the end Novikov set off on foot. In the station square he felt the usual timidity of a field officer in the unfamiliar surroundings of a city. His sense of his own importance suddenly crumbled: here there were no orderlies holding out telephone receivers, no drivers rushing to start up his car.
Instead, people were rushing along the cobbled street to join a newly formed queue at the door of a store. 'Who's last…? Then I'm after you.' To these people with their clanking milk-cans this queue was evidently the most important thing in the world. Novikov felt particularly irritated by the soldiers and officers; nearly all of them were carrying bundles and suitcases. 'The swine – the whole lot of them should be put straight on a train for the Front!' he said to himself.
Could he really be about to see her? Today? 'Zhenya! Hello!'
His interview with General Ryutin was extremely brief. They had barely started when the general received a telephone call from the General Staff – he was to fly to Moscow immediately.
Ryutin apologized to Novikov and then made a call on the local exchange.
'Everything's been changed, Masha. I'm flying by Douglas at dawn tomorrow. Tell Anna Aristarkhovna. We won't be able to bring any potatoes – they're still at the State farm.'
His pale face took on a look of suffering and disgust. Then, evidently interrupting a flood of complaints, he snapped, 'So you want me to inform the General Staff that I'm unable to leave until the tailor's finished my wife's coat?' and hung up.
'Comrade Colonel,' he said to Novikov, 'give me your opinion of the suspension of these tanks. Do they answer to the requirements we originally laid down?'
Novikov found this conversation wearisome. During his months in command he had learned to evaluate people very quickly. He had learned to weigh up the importance of all the inspectors, instructors, heads of commissions and other representatives who had come to see him. He understood very well the importance of such simple phrases as 'Comrade Malenkov told me to inform you…' And he knew that there were generals covered in medals, full of bustle and eloquence, who were powerless even to obtain a ton of fuel-oil, appoint a storekeeper or fire a clerk.
Ryutin's position wasn't on the top level of the pyramid of State; he was merely a statistician, a provider of information. During their conversation Novikov looked repeatedly at his watch.
The general closed his large notebook.
'I'm sorry, comrade Colonel. I'm afraid I have to leave you. I'm flying at dawn tomorrow. I don't know what to do. Perhaps you should come to Moscow yourself?'
'Yes, comrade Lieutenant-General. Together with all the tanks under my command,' said Novikov coldly.
They said goodbye. Ryutin asked him to give his regards to General Nyeudobnov; they had once served together. As Novikov walked down the strip of green carpet leading towards the door of the large office, he heard Ryutin back on the telephone:
'Get me the director of
'Poor man,' thought Novikov. 'He's got to rescue his potatoes.'
He left the building and set out for Yevgenia Nikolaevna's. In Stalingrad he had visited her on a stifling summer night; he had come straight from the steppe, covered in the smoke and dust of the retreat. There seemed to be an abyss between the man he had been then and the man he was now. And yet here he was, the same person, about to visit her once again.
'You'll be mine!' he said to himself. 'You'll be mine!'
3
It was an old two-storey house, one of those obstinate buildings that never quite keep up with the seasons; it felt cool and damp in summer, but its thick walls retained a close, dusty heat during the autumn frosts.
He rang; the door opened and he felt the closeness inside. Then, in a corridor littered with trunks and broken baskets, he caught sight of Yevgenia Nikolaevna. He saw her, but he didn't see her black dress or the white scarf round her head, he didn't even see her eyes and face, her hands and her shoulders. It was as though he saw her not with his eyes but with his heart. She gave a cry of surprise, but she didn't step back as people often do at some unexpected sight.
He greeted her and she answered. He walked towards her, his eyes closed. He felt happy; at the same time he felt ready to die then and there. He sensed the warmth of her body.
He realized that this previously unknown feeling of happiness had no need of eyes, thoughts or words.
She asked him about something or other and he answered. As he followed her down the dark corridor, he clung
