Life And Fate

to help him obtain a room in the officers' mess and perhaps given him small pats of encouragement. All this had seemed quite normal: his superiors had always been men who were ignorant of the calibres of different guns, men who were unable to read without mistakes a speech that had been written for them by someone else, men who were incapable of making sense of a map or even of speaking proper Russian. Why had he had to report to them? Their illiteracy had nothing to do with their working- class origins; his own father and grandfather had been miners, as was his brother. Sometimes he had wondered whether this ignorance of theirs was in fact their greatest strength, whether his own correct speech and interest in books was really a weakness. Before the war he had thought that these people must be endowed with more faith, more will-power than he was. But the war had shown otherwise.

Although the war had elevated him to a position of importance, he still didn't feel in charge. He still found himself submitting to a force whose presence he was constantly aware of but unable to understand. These two subordinates of his, who themselves had no right to give orders, were representatives of this force. Just now he had been purring with pleasure because Getmanov had told him a few stories about the world where this force was based. But then the war would show who Russia truly had cause to be grateful to – people like Getmanov or people like himself.

His dream had been realized; the woman he had loved for many years was to become his wife… And on the same day his tanks had been ordered to Stalingrad.

'Pyotr Pavlovich,' said Getmanov abruptly, 'while you were out and about, Mikhail Petrovich and I had a little discussion.'

He slumped back against the cushions and took a sip of beer.

'I'm a straightforward man myself and I want to talk to you frankly. We were discussing comrade Shaposhnikova. Her brother went under in 1937.' Getmanov jabbed his thumb down at the floor. 'Nyeudobnov knew him personally, and I knew her first husband -Krymov. He only survived – as the phrase goes – by a miracle. He was one of the lecturers attached to the Central Committee. Well, Nyeudobnov was saying that it was wrong of comrade Novikov to become involved with someone whose social and political background was so dubious – especially at a time when the Soviet people and comrade Stalin have expressed such great trust in him.'

'And what concern of his is my private life?' said Novikov.

'Precisely,' said Getmanov. 'That way of thinking is a hangover from 1937. We must learn to take a broader view of such matters. But please don't misunderstand me. Nyeudobnov is a remarkable man, a man of crystal purity, an unshakeable Communist in Stalin's mould. But he does have one slight fault – there are times when he fails to sense the breath of change. What matters to him are quotations from the classics. Sometimes he seems unable to learn from life itself. Sometimes he seems so full of quotations that he's unable to understand the State he's living in. But the war's taught us many things. Lieutenant-General Rokossovsky, General Gorbatov, General Pultus, General Byelov – they've all done time in a camp. And that hasn't stopped comrade Stalin from appointing them to important posts. Mitrich, the man I went to see today, told me how Rokossovsky was taken straight out of a camp and put in command of an army. He was in his barrack-hut, washing his foot-cloths, when someone came running to fetch him. The day before he'd been maltreated a little during an interrogation. He just said to himself: 'Well, they might at least let me finish my washing.' And then he found himself being taken straight to the Kremlin in a Douglas… Well, there are conclusions to be drawn from stories like that. But our Nyeudobnov's an enthusiast for the methods of 1937 – and nothing will make him budge. I don't know what this brother of Yevgenia Nikolaevna's did, but maybe comrade Beria would have released him too. Maybe he'd be in command of an army himself. As for Krymov – he's at the front right now. He's still a member of the Party and he's doing fine. So what's all the fuss about?'

At these last words Novikov finally exploded.

'To hell with all that!' he said, surprised at the resonance and forcefulness in his own voice. 'What do I care whether Shaposhnikov was or wasn't an enemy of the people? I've never even set eyes on the man. As for this Krymov – Trotsky himself said that one of his articles was pure marble. What do I care? If it's marble, then it's marble. Even if Trotsky, Rykov, Bukharin and Pushkin were all head over heels in love with him, what's that to me? I've never so much as looked at these marble articles of his. And what's it got to do with Yevgenia Nikolaevna? Did she work in the Comintern until 1937? Anyone can do your kind of work, dear comrades, but just try doing some real fighting! Some real work! Let me tell you – I've had enough of all this! It makes me sick!'

His cheeks were burning, his heart was pounding, his anger was bright and clear – and yet he felt full of confusion: 'Zhenya, Zhenya, Zhenya.' He had listened to his own words in astonishment. He could hardly believe it: for the first time in his life he had spoken his mind, without fear, to an important Party official. He looked at Getmanov with a sense of joy, choking back any stirrings of fear or remorse.

Getmanov suddenly leapt to his feet and flung open his arms. Addressing Novikov as 'ty', he cried: 'You're a real man, Pyotr Pavlovich! Let me embrace you!'

Now Novikov no longer knew where he was. They embraced and kissed.

'Vershkov!' Getmanov shouted down the corridor. 'Bring us some cognac! The commanding officer and his commissar are going to drink Bruderschaft.'

5

Yevgenia finished cleaning the room and said to herself with a sense of satisfaction: 'Well, now that's over and done with.' It was as though order had been brought back both to the room and to her own soul. The bed was made, the pillow-case was no longer rumpled, there were no more cigarette-ends on the edge of the bookcase, no more ash on the floor… Then she realized she was lying to herself and that there was only one thing in the world she really needed – Novikov. And she also wanted to talk to Sofya Osipovna – to her, not to Lyudmila or her mother.

'Oh Sonechka, Sonechka, my little Levinton…,' she said out loud.

Then she remembered that Marusya was dead… She realized that she just couldn't live without Novikov and banged her fist on the table in desperation. 'Damn it! Who says I need anyone anyway?' Then she knelt down where Novikov's coat had just been hanging and whispered: 'Stay alive!'

'It's all just a cheap farce,' she thought. 'I'm a bad woman.'

She wanted to hurt herself. Some sexless creature inside her head let loose a flood of cynical accusations:

'So the lady got bored, did she? She wanted a man around, did she? She's used to being spoiled a bit and these are her best years… She sent one packing – and quite right! Who needs a man like Krymov? He was on the point of being expelled from the Party. And now she's after the commanding officer of a tank corps. And what a man! Well, why not…? But how are you going to keep hold of him now? You've given him what he was after, haven't you? Well, you'll have plenty of sleepless nights now. You'll be wondering whether he's got himself killed, whether he's found some pretty little nineteen-year-old telephonist…'

This mean, cynical creature then came out with a thought that had never even occurred to Yevgenia herself:

'Never mind, you'll be able to fly out and visit him soon.'

What she couldn't understand was why she no longer loved Krymov. But then why should she understand? What mattered was that she now felt happy.

Then she said to herself that Krymov was standing in the way of her happiness. He was always standing between her and Novikov, poisoning her joy. Even now he was still ruining her life. Why all this remorse? Why this self-torture? She no longer loved him – and that was that. What did he want from her? Why did he pursue her so relentlessly? She had the right to be happy. She had the right to love the man who loved her. Why did Nikolay Grigorevich always seem so weak and helpless, so lost, so alone? He wasn't that weak. And he certainly wasn't so very kind.

She felt more and more angry with Krymov. No, no! She wasn't going to sacrifice her own happiness for him… He was cruel and narrow-minded. He was a fanatic. She never had been able to accept his indifference to human suffering. How alien it was – to her and to her mother and father. 'There can be no pity for kulaks,' he had said when tens of thousands of women and children were dying of starvation in villages all over Russia and the Ukraine.