THAT EVENING, when things quietened down, Filyashkin tried to count up the casualties. But he soon realized that it would be simpler to count the number of men still alive.
Apart from himself, the only surviving commanders were Shvedkov, who had just got back from reviewing the trenches; Company Commander Kovalyov; and Ganiev, the Tatar platoon commander.
“Overall, our losses are around sixty-five per cent,” Filyashkin said to Shvedkov. “I’ve ordered the sergeant majors and sergeants to take command of their units. They’re good fighters, they won’t panic.”
The command post had been destroyed in the first minutes of the German assault and Filyashkin and Shvedkov were sitting in a pit roofed with logs from a shed beside the station. The last few hours had blackened their faces, gluing their cheeks to their cheekbones and leaving a dark crust on their lips.
“What should we do with the dead?” asked the sergeant major. He was up above them, on all fours, looking down into the pit.
“I’ve already told you,” said Filyashkin. “Take them down to the cellar.” He went on crossly, “I knew it—we’re already short of F1 and RGD grenades.”
“The commanders separately?” asked the sergeant major.
“Why?” Shvedkov replied tersely. “They were killed together, so let them lie together.”
“Very good,” said the sergeant major. “Anyway, it’s hard to tell the commanders apart now. Men’s collars and tabs have been torn off and everyone looks much the same.”
“Two of our machine guns have been destroyed,” Filyashkin said in a preoccupied tone. “And five anti-tank rifles and three mortars are now out of action.”
The sergeant major crept off. Used cartridges lying on the ground squeaked and tinkled.
Shvedkov opened a school exercise book and began to write. Filyashkin stuck his head up out of the pit, looked around and sat down again. “They won’t start up again until morning,” he said. “What are you writing?”
“A political report for the regimental commissar,” said Shvedkov. “I’ve described the various acts of heroism, and now I’m listing the dead and the circumstances of their death. Only I’ve got muddled. Was it Igumnov who was killed by a bullet, and Konanykin by shrapnel? And which was killed first? I can’t remember. Was it seventeen hundred hours when Igumnov was killed?”
They both glanced at the dark corner where Igumnov’s body had been lying until a few minutes ago.
“No use writing a chronicle,” said Filyashkin. “You won’t get it to the regiment now. We’re cut off.”
“True,” said Shvedkov. Nevertheless, he went on writing. Then he said, “Igumnov’s death was particularly stupid. He half got to his feet to call a messenger—and that was the end of him.”
“All deaths are stupid,” said Filyashkin. “There’s no clever way to get killed.”
Filyashkin did not want to talk about dead comrades; he was well aware of the value of the stern, sometimes life-saving grace of emotional numbness during combat. If he were spared, he would recall his comrades in years to come. One quiet evening, he would feel a lump in his throat. Tears would well up in his eyes and he would say, “He was a good chief of staff. A splendid, straightforward fellow. Yes, I remember him as if it were yesterday. When the Germans attacked, he tore up some letters he kept in his pockets. It was as if he knew. And then he took out a comb and ran it over his hair, and he looked at me.”
But in combat the heart goes cold and stone-like, and it’s best to let it stay that way. In any case, no heart can comprehend all the blood and death of battle.
Shvedkov looked through what he’d written, sighed and said, “They’re fine lads. Our political work hasn’t been wasted. They’re brave, and they’ve got cool heads. One man said to me, ‘Don’t worry, comrade Commissar, we understand our work and we’ll do our duty!’ And another said, ‘Better men than us have met their deaths already.’”
There were two explosions nearby.
Shvedkov looked up. “Are they starting up again?”
“No, they’ll carry on like this until morning,” Filyashkin said condescendingly. “A few shots every now and then, just to stop us from sleeping. But it’s been hard work! Between five and six I machine-gunned a good thirty of the shits. There was no end to them.”
“Let me record the details,” said Shvedkov, moistening his copying pencil.
“Drop it,” said Filyashkin. “What’s the use of your scribbling?”
“What do you mean?” replied Shvedkov—and he began to write. Then, suddenly remembering, he said, “Comrade Battalion Commander, I’ve been entrusted with a gift for our heroic girls.” He was aware that, but for this confounded gift, he might not have been sent back so promptly. He might still be sitting in the political-department bunker, drinking tea and writing a routine report. But this thought did not occasion him either regret or annoyance. He looked questioningly at Filyashkin and asked, “Who should we give this to? Gnatyuk, perhaps? She’s shown true heroism today.”
“You know best,” Filyashkin replied, with exaggerated casualness. Shvedkov called a soldier and ordered him to summon Gnatyuk. “As long as she’s still alive,” he added.
“Of course,” the soldier replied morosely. “There’s not much I can do if she isn’t.”
“She’s alive all right, I’ve checked,” Filyashkin said with a smile. He shook the dust off his sleeve and wiped his face. He was constantly sniffing; the air was full of bitter smoke, thick, greasy soot and pulverized plaster—the disturbing, intoxicating smell of the front line.
“How about a drink?” said Shvedkov, who hardly ever drank.
Everything had turned upside down during these last few hours. The delicate and sensitive had become coarse, and the coarse and gross had softened. The thoughtless had turned thoughtful, and the usually punctilious were waiting for death with gay, despairing abandon, spitting on the floor, and laughing and shouting as if they were drunk.
“Well, how do you feel about the life you’ve led?” Filyashkin asked out of the blue. “The hour’s drawing near when we have to account for ourselves. Is everything in your Party history as it should be? Are there any incidents in your past that might compromise you? If so, speak freely. Let me write off your sins.”
“What’s got into you, comrade Filyashkin? I don’t understand such talk, especially from a battalion commander.”40
“You and your scribbling—you’re very strange,” said Filyashkin. “Anyone would think you expect to stay alive”—he thought for a moment before coming out with what, down in the pit, seemed an inconceivable length of time—“for another six months. Why don’t we talk instead? Tell me—do you think I did wrong with Lena Gnatyuk?”
“I do. But who knows? I could be mistaken,” Shvedkov replied. “If need be, the Party commission will correct me. But it’s not the conduct I expect from a commander—and that’s what I’ve written.”
“You’re right, you’re absolutely right. I’ll say it myself. There’s no need to wait for any Party commission. I did wrong and I know it.”
Feeling a sudden surge of warmth towards Filyashkin, Shvedkov said, “Oh, come on, let’s have a drink together! The regulation hundred grams,41 while it’s still quiet.”
“No, I’d rather keep a clear head,” Filyashkin replied. He laughed; Shvedkov had criticized him only too often for drinking too much.
Up above them appeared the face of Lena Gnatyuk.
“Permission to come down, comrade Battalion Commander?” she asked.
“Yes, quick, before you get yourself killed!” Filyashkin replied. He moved aside to make room for the young woman. “Give her her present, Commissar. I’ll be a witness.”
Before going to the command post, Lena Gnatyuk had spent some time trying to clean herself up. But the water from her small flask could do little to wash away black dust and soot that had penetrated deep into her skin. She had given her nose a good firm rub with a handkerchief, but that had not made it any cleaner or paler. She had polished her boots with a scrap of bandage, but that had not made them shine. She had tried to tuck her dishevelled plait under her side cap, but her hair was stiff and unruly from the many layers of dust; she looked like a little village girl with loose strands slipping out onto her ears and her forehead.
Her tunic was too tight for her full figure and it was smeared with black blood. Her trousers were too big for her and had slipped down onto her hips. She was wearing large, broad-toed boots and she had several bags hanging from her shoulders. Her fingernails were short and black, and she was trying not to show her hands, which had carried out much good, merciful work. She felt awkward and ugly.
“Comrade Gnatyuk,” Shvedkov said solemnly, “I have been asked to pass on this gift to you in recognition of your devoted service. It is a present from the women of America to our girls fighting on the Volga. The parcels were delivered by special plane, straight from America to the front.”
He held out a large rectangular parcel, wrapped in crisp parchment paper tied with a plaited silk cord.
“I serve the Soviet Union,”42 she replied in a hoarse voice as she took the parcel from the commissar’s hands.
In his ordinary, everyday voice, Shvedkov said, “Open it now. We’re curious too. We want to know what the American women have sent you.”
Lena removed the cord and began to unwrap the parcel. The crinkly paper squeaked and rustled. There were many different items inside, some very small, and she squatted down to prevent anything falling out and getting lost. There was a beautiful woollen blouse, embroidered with a red, blue and green pattern; a fluffy bathrobe with a hood; two pairs of lacy trousers with matching shirts adorned with little ribbons; three pairs of silk stockings; some tiny lace-embroidered handkerchiefs; a white dress made from fine lawn, also trimmed with lace; a jar of some fragrant lotion; and a flask of perfume tied with a broad ribbon.
Lena looked at the two commanders. There was a moment of silence around the station, as if to prevent anything from disturbing the grace and delicacy of her expression. Her look said a great deal: not only that she knew she would never now become a mother but also that she took a certain pride in her harsh fate.
As she stood there in the pit, in her soldier’s boots and badly fitting uniform, about to refuse these exquisite gifts, Lena Gnatyuk looked overwhelmingly feminine.
“What use is all this?” she said. “I don’t want it.”
The two men felt troubled. They understood something of the young woman’s feelings—her pride, her understanding that she was doomed and her mistaken belief that she looked awkward and ugly.
Shvedkov felt the edge of the woollen blouse between his fingers and said in embarrassment, “This is good wool. It’s not just any old cloth.”
“I’ll leave everything here. It’s no use to me,” Lena repeated. She put the parcel down in a corner and wiped her hands on her tunic.
Filyashkin examined the contents of the parcel and said, “These stockings aren’t so very strong—they’ll ladder in no time at all. But they’re pretty. You could wear them to a ball.”
“And when will I be going to a ball?” Lena retorted.
At this point Shvedkov got angry, which helped him to resolve a thorny international issue of a kind he had not encountered before.
“All right then. If you don’t want them, don’t take them. Quite right! What’s got into those people? Do they think Stalingrad is some kind of holiday resort? Are they making fun of us? Silk stockings and bathrobes—whatever next!” He glanced at Filyashkin and said, “I’ll go and have a look round now. I need to have a word with the men.”
“All right, you go ahead, and I’ll follow,” Filyashkin said hurriedly. “I’ve just checked the area around here. Move carefully—there are German snipers only 150 metres away. The least sound—and you’re a goner.”
“Permission to leave?” Lena asked as Shvedkov crept away.
“Just a moment,” said Filyashkin. He always felt awkward when he was first left alone with a young woman, exchanging the tone of a commander for that of a lover. “Listen, Lena,” he went on, “this is important. Forgive me. During the march I behaved grossly and presumptuously. Stay here so we can say a proper goodbye. We may not live through another day. There’s nothing that won’t be written off by the war.”
“As far as I’m concerned, comrade Battalion Commander, there isn’t anything to be written off,” Lena replied. Taking a deep breath, she went on, “First, there’s no need for anyone at all to forgive you. I’m not a little girl, I know what’s what and I’m responsible for myself. When I went to your hut, I knew very well what I was doing. Second, I won’t be staying here—I must return to the aid post. Third, I’ve got my own uniform and I don’t need any of these gifts. Permission to leave?”
Her last sentence no longer sounded like a conventional formula.
“Lena,” said Filyashkin. “Lena . . . do you really not understand?” His voice sounded very strange. Lena looked at him in astonishment. He got to his feet, as if to say something important, but then he just said with a smile, “All right then.” After pointing towards the west, he went on in a calm, flat voice, “Don’t let yourself be taken prisoner. Keep that captured pistol at hand, the one I gave you, just in case . . .”
She shrugged and replied, “And fourth, I can shoot myself just as well with my own revolver.”
And she left, not looking back at the senior lieutenant, nor at the fine, useless rags now lying on the ground.