WHEN THEY left the Shaposhnikovs, Mostovskoy invited Andreyev to go and have a look at the town with him.
“Go out on the town with you?” laughed Andreyev. “Two old fellows like us?”
“For a quiet stroll,” said Mostovskoy. “It’s a fine evening.”
“All right,” said Andreyev. “Why not? Tomorrow I don’t start till two.”
“Is your work very tiring?” asked Mostovskoy.
“At times.”
Andreyev liked this small man, with his bald head and alert little eyes.
For a while they walked in silence. It was a beautiful summer evening. The Volga was barely visible in the twilight, but it made its presence felt everywhere; every street, every little lane, lived and breathed the Volga. All the hills and slopes, the orientation of the streets—everything was determined by the river’s curves and the steep cliffs of the west bank. And the monuments, the squares and parks, the giant factories, the little old houses on the outskirts, the tall new apartment blocks with blurred reflections of the summer moon in their windows—all had their eyes on the Volga, all were turned towards it.
On this warm summer evening, as the war raged not far away on the Don steppe, moving relentlessly east, everything in the city seemed strangely solemn and full of meaning: the loud tread of the patrols, the rumble of a nearby factory, the hoots of the Volga steamers, even the meek silence.
They sat down on an empty bench. Two young couples were sitting nearby. One of the young men, a soldier, got to his feet, walked over to Andreyev and Mostovskoy, his shoes squeaking on the gravel, took a quick look at them, went back again and said something in a low voice. There was the sound of girlish laughter. The two old men coughed in embarrassment.
“The young,” said Andreyev. He sounded both critical and admiring.
“I’ve heard that there’s a factory where some of the workers are evacuees from Leningrad,” said Mostovskoy. “I want to go and talk to them. I’m from Leningrad too.”
“Yes, the Red October steelworks. That’s where I work. I don’t think there are that many of your evacuees. But come along anyway. Come and visit us.”
“Were you in the revolutionary movement?” asked Mostovskoy. “Back in the days of the tsars . . .”
“Not really,” said Andreyev. “All I ever did was read leaflets and spend a couple of weeks in prison for taking part in a strike. And I spoke now and again to Alexandra Vladimirovna’s husband. I was a stoker on a steam tugboat and he was a student, getting a few months of practical experience. We used to go up on deck together and chat.”
Andreyev took out his tobacco pouch. There was a rustle of paper as they rolled their cigarettes. Mostovskoy’s lighter sent up a shower of sparks, but the wick obstinately refused to catch.
“The old men are giving it their all,” one of the young soldiers said loudly. “They’re trying to operate a Katyusha!”
There was more girlish laughter.
“Damn it!” said Mostovskoy. “I’ve forgotten my treasure. Alexandra Vladimirovna gave me a box of matches.”
“But tell me—what do you really make of it all?” said Andreyev. “Things are going badly, aren’t they? Say what you like about antis and Antaeuses—the Germans still keep advancing.”
“Things are going badly,” replied Mostovskoy, “but the Germans will still lose the war. I’m sure Hitler has more than a few enemies even in Germany. Germany too has its internationalists and its revolutionary workers.”
“What makes you so sure?” said Andreyev. “I’ve heard what some of our tank crew have to say—men who’ve taken their share of German prisoners. They say the Germans are all the same. Working class or not, it makes no difference.”
“We truly are in trouble,” Mostovskoy said quietly, “if an old worker like yourself thinks there’s no difference between the German government and the German working class.”
Andreyev turned towards Mostovskoy and said sharply, “I understand. You want the Soviet people to fight against Hitler. And you also want them to remember the words, ‘Workers of the World, Unite!’27 But the only thing that matters today is who’s with us and who’s against us. Your thinking’s like the teachings of Christ. All very beautiful—but nobody actually lives by them. They just soak the whole earth with blood.”
“Times change,” said Mostovskoy. “Nikolay Shaposhnikov once taught you about Marx—and he learned from the books I’d written. And now it’s your turn to teach me.”
Too sad and exhausted to argue, Mostovskoy slumped down; he could almost have been asleep. In his mind’s eye he was picturing a scene from two decades earlier: a huge congress hall, countless eyes full of excitement and joy, hundreds of faces he loved, dear Russian faces, together with the faces of fellow Communists from all over the world—France, England, Japan, India, Belgium, Africa and America, Bulgaria, Germany, China, Italy, Hungary, Latvia—who were friends of the young Soviet Republic. This huge hall had fallen silent—as if the very heart of humanity had missed a beat—as Lenin raised one hand and, with clarity and assurance, told the Comintern conference, “Soon we will witness the foundation of an international Soviet Republic.”
Feeling a sudden surge of warmth and trust towards the man sitting beside him, Andreyev quietly lamented, “My son is fighting on the front line, but his wife just wants to go to the cinema with her girlfriends and have a good time. And she and my wife, Varvara, are at each other’s throats. It’s a sorry story.”