LIEUTENANT Colonel Darensky arrived at Southeastern Front HQ, in the village of Yama.
His former colleagues, however, were nearly all in the village of Olkhovka, to the north-west of Stalingrad. A new Front was being formed there—the Stalingrad Front.
Only towards evening did Darensky meet someone he already knew—a lieutenant colonel he had worked beside not long ago. This lieutenant colonel explained that, although Yeromenko was now commanding both the Southeastern and the Stalingrad Fronts, it was only the former that was to remain under his command. This Southeastern Front comprised Shumilov’s 64th and Chuikov’s 62nd Armies, both directly assigned to the defence of the city, and also several armies deployed in the southern steppe, in the area of salt lakes between Stalingrad and Astrakhan. The new Front—comprising the armies to the north of the city—would probably soon be under the command of Rokossovsky, who in the winter of 1941 had commanded an army near Moscow.12
When Darensky asked about the military situation, the lieutenant colonel shrugged and said, “Bad, very bad indeed.”
He went on to say that he wished he’d been posted to the HQ of the new Front, in Olkhovka. “From there you can get to Kamyshin, maybe even Saratov. But here in the Transvolga it’s just camels and thorns. And I don’t much like the people here. Everyone’s somehow . . . Well, you’ll see for yourself. Where we were before, I knew everyone and everyone knew me.”
Darensky asked about Novikov, and the lieutenant colonel answered, “I heard he was summoned to Moscow.” He winked and added, “But you’ll still be able to find Bykov.”
After asking where Darensky was sleeping, he found him a billet in a hut with a group of signals officers. The junior commanders were living in huts, and the more senior commanders in dugouts. After his first night in the hut, it was agreed that Darensky should stay there until he received his new posting.
The signals officers (the most senior was a major, the others were lieutenants and junior lieutenants) were decent fellows—and they treated Darensky with respect. When he first arrived, they brought him hot water so he could wash, made him some tea and gave him the best bed. One of them took him outside with a flashlight and pointed out the spot they used as a latrine.
Some months later, when he happened to look through a list of signals officers no longer working in the operations section, Darensky noted that every one of these officers had been killed in the line of duty. At the time, however, he had felt nothing but irritation with them. He had arrived full of enthusiasm and lofty ideals and had felt shocked by the signallers’ apparent dullness and pettiness. This had upset him more, even, than the stench, the fleas and bedbugs, the lack of space in the hut, and the danger from shell bursts.
The signallers seemed to lead strangely empty lives. There was one lieutenant who, after completing a job, could sleep for fourteen hours on end. His hair all matted, he would occasionally go out into the yard, then come back in and return to bed. The others spent their free time playing cards or dominoes, bashing the dominoes down on the table in a way that enraged Darensky. They spent an extraordinarily long time trying to divine whether it would be rice or millet kasha for supper, and whether they would be given tea with or without milk. They argued incessantly, accusing one another of stealing soap, toothpaste and boot polish. And when one of them was sent on a mortally dangerous mission to the burning city, he would remind the others to be sure to collect his breakfast ration of sugar and butter—and then set off as if this trip were the most ordinary task in the world.
While he was putting on his boots and his belt, his comrades just carried on with whatever game they were playing: “You don’t much like clubs, do you, but you’ll be getting one now. . . We won’t be seeing any more trouble from those pesky knaves. And here’s an ace of spades for you to pick up—how do you like that?”
To Darensky they seemed like passengers on a long-distance train. If the lights suddenly go out, there are a few sighs—and everyone lies down to sleep. If they come on again—people sit up, open their little suitcases and go through their belongings. One man will feel the blade of his razor; another will sharpen his penknife. And then they return to their cards or dominoes.
The signals officers read the newspapers carefully and at length, but Darensky was annoyed by the casualness with which they referred to important essays as “notes,” and half-page articles as “a few lines.”
They barely talked about their work, even though every night-time crossing of the Volga, under almost constant fire, must have been full of terrifying moments.
Darensky would ask, “How was it?”
And they would reply, “Bad. No let-up.”13
Conversations were equally dull when friends dropped by: “How are things?”
“All right. The colonel’s off on a mission today. Be sure to go round to the quartermaster’s. They’ve just received an issue of fur waistcoats, and the major says that operations-section staff are first in the queue.”
“Any news of the supplementary ration?”
“Seems it’s not here yet.”
One of the lieutenants, a strong, handsome young man by the name of Savinov, was strangely envious of front-line company and battalion commanders. “The division or army commander hands out orders and medals the moment the fighting’s over. It’s not like that for us. A recommendation has to be passed by the Front decorations section. Then the commander must sign, and then the member of the Military Council. Up on the front line, you have your own hair-dresser. The cook will give you whatever you ask for. Jellied meat, fried liver—you name it . . . You can get a trench coat made to measure. And as for the pay you get in the Guards . . .”
Savinov appeared not to realize that all these advantages, imaginary and real, came at a price: long marches; superhuman exertions; having to endure extreme cold and heat; blood; wounds; death.
Darensky also found it irritating that these officers said so little about women, and that what they did say was so boring. Darensky, for his part, was always ready to admire women, to be astonished by them or to condemn their frivolity and cunning. Like all true womanizers, he could feel excited by the greyest, plainest and dullest of women. The presence of any woman was enough to bring him to life, to make him witty and animated.
And in male company there was no topic of conversation he found more interesting than that of women.
Even in his depressed state, he had already been twice to the signals section to admire the sweet faces of the telegraph and telephone operators and the girls who handled the post. Whereas the handsome Savinov, when he was at leisure, could think of nothing better to do than take some tinned fish from his suitcase, twiddle the tin about in his hands, let out a sigh, open the tin with his penknife, use this same penknife to harpoon small morsels of fish and keep eating till he’d polished off the whole tin. He would then crush the jagged lid, exclaim, “Not bad at all!” place a sheet of newspaper at the end of his bunk and lie down with his boots on.
Darensky was aware that his irritation with the signallers was unwarranted. He did, after all, only see them when they were resting after risking their lives on some dangerous mission. And more importantly, he was feeling low; his excitement and thirst for activity had yielded to apathy.
His interview with the plump, red-haired colonel in charge of the Front HQ cadres section had upset him.
The colonel had small, attentive eyes with flecks of red-brown, and a slow, singing Ukrainian manner of speech. As they talked, he went methodically through the large file in front of him, which had notes and underlinings, in blue and red pencil, on every page. The man sitting only a few feet away appeared not to interest him; it was as if his voice got lost in the half-darkness and never reached him. What mattered, what he studied with something close to reverence, were the typed lines of Darensky’s service record, the neatly handwritten additional notes, Darensky’s responses to questionnaires and the details of his personal biography.
Now and again he would raise an eyebrow, frown thoughtfully or give a little shake of the head. Darensky would wonder anxiously which page of his service life was evoking such doubt or perplexity.
The colonel asked him all the questions that are customary at such interviews.
Darensky felt angry and overwrought. He wanted to say to the colonel that there were more important things than these petty details. Why he had been excluded from such and such a list, why he had not been entrusted with such and such a mission, why there were minor inconsistencies in his responses to questionnaires—none of this really mattered. Why did this man not take more interest in Darensky’s true self, in his desire to give all his strength to his work?
It looked as if he would be offered administrative work in the rear—not the operations posting he so longed for.
“And your wife?” asked the colonel, tapping some document with his finger. “Why isn’t she mentioned here?”
“Because we separated before the war. At the time of that—what people call—unpleasantness. When I was in the camp. That, really, was when our marriage broke down.” And then, with a little smile, “Not my initiative, needless to say.”
This conversation about matters of little military import took place to the accompaniment of shell bursts, the rumble of long-range artillery, quick bursts of anti-aircraft fire and the heavier, deeper sound of exploding bombs.
When the colonel asked the date of Darensky’s reinstatement in the Red Army, there was such a loud explosion somewhere close by that both men involuntarily ducked and looked up at the ceiling, wondering whether loose earth and oak logs were about to crash down on them. But the ceiling remained in place, and they went on talking.
“You’ll have to wait a little,” said the colonel.
“Why?” asked Darensky.
“Just a few points I need to clarify.”
“Very well,” said Darensky. “Only I beg you—please don’t post me somewhere in the rear. I’m an operations officer, a combat officer. And please don’t drag all this out for weeks.”
“Your request will be taken into account,” said the colonel, in a tone that filled Darensky with despair.
“So,” asked Darensky, “shall I come back tomorrow?”
“No, no. Don’t bother. Where are you billeted?”
“With the signals officers.”
“I’ll send someone round in due course. Otherwise, is everything in order? Do you have a pass for the canteen?”
“Yes,” said Darensky. “No difficulties there.”
He went back to his hut and looked at the hazy city on the far side of the Volga. Things could hardly be going worse. He would be stuck in the rear for months. The signals officers would cease to notice him; soon he would be begging to join in their card games and their attempts to divine what kind of kasha would be served that day and whether or not they would get milk with their tea. The waitresses would say behind his back, “Ah, our poor out-of-work lieutenant colonel again.”
Back in the hut, he lay down on his bunk. Without taking his boots off, and without looking at anyone, he turned to the wall and closed his eyes, clenching his teeth so tight it seemed they would splinter.
In his mind, he went slowly over every word of the interview. He remembered the look on the colonel’s face. It was all very unfortunate. There was no one here who knew him, no one who knew his abilities. The colonel had only his papers—and the picture they presented was far from perfect.
Someone gave him a gentle nudge on the shoulder.
“Comrade Lieutenant Colonel, go and have your supper,” said a quiet voice. “There’s rice pudding with sugar today, and the canteen will be closing soon.”
Darensky lay there without moving.
A second voice said crossly, “Leave the comrade lieutenant colonel alone. Can’t you see he’s resting? And if he looks ill in the morning, go to the medical unit and find him a doctor.” And then the same voice added very quietly, “Better still, go and fetch the lieutenant colonel his dinner. Maybe he’s in a bad way. It’s 600 metres to the canteen, and that’s quite a distance. I’d go myself, but I have to cross to the other bank. A package for Chuikov. You can pick up my dinner too—dry rations, and don’t forget the sugar.”
Darensky recognized the voice—Savinov’s. He let out a sigh and felt sudden tears behind his tight-shut eyelids.
The following morning, as the men who hadn’t been sent anywhere during the night were washing, cleaning their boots or darning their collars, an orderly came in. Somewhat out of breath, he looked around, quickly identified the most senior commander present, and rattled out, “Comrade Lieutenant Colonel, may I ask which of you is comrade Lieutenant Colonel Darensky? You’re to go forthwith to the cadres section. The colonel wants to see you before breakfast. May I be dismissed, comrade Lieutenant Colonel?”
The cadres-section colonel immediately told Darensky that he was being posted to the Artillery HQ. It was an important and responsible position—the kind of work Darensky had never even dared hope for.
“Colonel Ageyev orders you to report to Artillery HQ at fourteen hundred tomorrow,” the colonel said sternly.
“Report to Artillery HQ at fourteen hundred—understood!” replied Darensky.
Correctly guessing Darensky’s thoughts, the colonel went on, “And there you were, thinking that those wretched bureaucrats would keep you hanging on forever. Well, we didn’t do so badly after all. We may be bureaucrats, but we do understand that time’s precious during a war.”
That evening, Darensky talked heart-to-heart for the first time with the young signals officers and felt astonished that he’d taken so long to realize what splendid fellows they were: modest, courageous, straightforward, well read, hard-working, outgoing and friendly.
They went on talking and playing cards late into the night and Darensky continued to discover more and more virtues in them. There was no end to their merits.
He could hardly believe how happy he now felt. Here in this peasant hut in the dismal, saline steppe beyond the Volga, amid the sullen rumble of artillery, beneath the constant hum of aircraft, he at last felt he could breathe freely. His dreams were being realized. He had been given an important, responsible job. He had no doubt that his boss would be gifted, intelligent and experienced and that his future colleagues would be clever, conscientious and quick-witted. Every difficulty in the world had melted away.
So it is when things go well for someone. Darensky’s own life was now unusually successful and full of meaning; the situation at the front no longer so profoundly menacing.