THE NEXT morning, Alexandra Vladimirovna, wearing her usual dark dress with a white lace collar, threw her coat over her shoulders and left the building. Krotova, her laboratory assistant, was already waiting outside. A truck was going to take the two of them to a chemical factory to test the air quality in the workshops.
Alexandra got into the cab. Krotova, who was strong and stocky, grabbed hold of the side of the truck and climbed into the back. Poking her head out of the window, Alexandra called out, “Take good care of the apparatus, comrade Krotova. It’ll be a bumpy ride!”
The driver, a puny young woman in ski trousers, a red headscarf wound round her head, put her knitting down on the seat beside her and started the engine. “It’s asphalt all the way. No ruts at all,” she said. Looking at her elderly passenger with curiosity, she added, “Once we’re on the main road, I’ll be putting my foot down.”
“How old are you?” asked Alexandra.
“Oh, I’m getting on now. I’m twenty-four.”
“Much the same as me! Married?”
“I was. Now I’m on my own again.”
“Has your husband been killed?”
“No, he’s in Sverdlovsk, working at the Urals Machine Factory. He’s found himself another wife there.”
“Children?”
“A little girl. She’s one and a half now.”
When they got to the main road, the driver, looking bright and cheerful, began asking Alexandra about her daughters and grandchildren—and then about her work: What was she going to do with all these glass cylinders, rubber hoses and angled pipes?
Next the driver said a little more about herself. She and her husband had lived together for six months. Then her husband had moved to Sverdlovsk. In his letters he had said again and again, “Very soon they’ll give me a room,” but then the war had begun. He was exempt from conscription, since his was a reserved occupation. He wrote less and less often. He’d said he was living in a hostel for unmarried workers, but then, in the winter, he wrote to say he had married again. He asked if she’d let him have their little daughter. She had kept her daughter and not answered the letter. But there had been no court proceedings—each month he sent her 200 roubles for the girl’s upkeep.
“He could send me a thousand roubles, but I still wouldn’t forgive him. And I’ll still be able to feed the girl even if he doesn’t send me anything at all. This job’s well paid.”
They sped along, past orchards, past little grey wooden houses, and past factories of all sizes. Now and again, in the gaps between trees, Alexandra could see splashes of pale blue water. Then the Volga would disappear behind fences, buildings or small hills.
On reaching the factory and receiving her pass, Alexandra went straight to the head office; she wanted them to assign her a technician who could tell her about their ventilation system and the layout of the equipment. She also wanted the help of an ordinary worker, if only for an hour; it was not easy for Krotova to carry a twenty-four-litre suction apparatus all by herself.
Meshcheryakov, the factory director, lived in the same building as Alexandra and her family. In the morning she sometimes saw him going off to work. After getting into his car and closing the door, he would wave goodbye and blow theatrical kisses to his wife, who would be standing by a window in their apartment.
Alexandra would have liked to appear affable and easy-going. She wanted to say to Meshcheryakov, “Be a good fellow. After all, we’re neighbours. Meet me halfway—help me carry out my work quickly. And who knows? Maybe I’ll be able to suggest one or two little improvements to your ventilation.”
But Meshcheryakov gave her no chance to say anything at all. Through a half-open office door, she heard him say to his secretary, “I can’t see her today. And you can also tell her that this is no time to be fussing about minor questions of health. On the front line our men are sacrificing not just their health but their lives.”
Alexandra went up to the door. If anyone who knew her had seen her pursed lips and angry frown, they would have thought that Meshcheryakov was in for an unpleasant few minutes. But she did not go inside. She merely stood there for a moment and then made her way to the workshop.
In the large, hot workshop the men watched mockingly as the two women arranged their cylinders, took air samples from different sites, sealed their rubber tubes with screw clamps and released a little water from three of the pipettes: by the technician’s desk, beside the main ventilator and above the barrels containing some strong-smelling liquid. A thin, unshaven worker in a blue gown with torn elbows said in Ukrainian, “Measuring water! You can’t get more idiotic than that!”
A young foreman, or perhaps a chemist, with a nasty, insolent look in his eyes, said to Krotova, “Why bother? Any day now German bombers will be sorting out our ventilation for us.”
An old man with little red cheeks criss-crossed with blue veins took a good look at the young, well-developed Krotova and said a few evidently coarse words that Alexandra couldn’t quite hear. Krotova blushed and turned away, looking upset.
During the lunch break Alexandra sat down on a crate near the door; she was tired, partly because of the polluted air. One of the younger workers came up to her, pointed to her apparatus and asked, “Auntie, what is all this stuff of yours?”
She began to explain about noxious gases and the importance of good ventilation.
Other workers began listening too. The Ukrainian who had joked about the idiocy of measuring water saw Alexandra get out her tobacco. “Try some of this,” he said. “It’s good and strong.” And he held out a little red pouch tied with a lace.
Very soon this became a general discussion. First, there was talk about the relative dangers of different industries. The chemical workers took a certain bitter pride in their work; their conditions were generally considered more dangerous even than those of miners, furnacemen and steelworkers.
The men told Alexandra about occasions when the ventilation had broken down and people had been poisoned or asphyxiated. They talked of the vicious powers of “chemistry”—how it rusted metal cigarette cases and ate away the soles of boots, how old men coughed up so much phlegm that they choked to death. They joked about a certain Panchenko who had forgotten to put on his protective overall; by the end of the day large holes had been burnt in his trousers.
Then the conversation turned to the war. The men talked with pain and bitterness about the destruction of mines, large factories, sugar refineries, railways and the Stalino locomotive works.
The man who’d upset Krotova went up to Alexandra and said, “Mother, you’ll probably be coming back again tomorrow. You must get some passes for the canteen.”
“Thank you, my son,” she replied, “but tomorrow we’ll bring something with us.”
After addressing this old man as her son, she laughed. He understood—and replied, “I got married only a month ago.”
And in no time at all they were all talking as freely and animatedly as if Alexandra had spent not just a few hours but many long days in this workshop.
At the end of the lunch break, the workers gave them a hose, to save Krotova having to carry buckets of water from one end of the workshop to the other. They also helped the two women to move the apparatus around and set it up where the air was most likely to be polluted.
During the afternoon Alexandra remembered Meshcheryakov’s words several times and felt her face flush; she wanted to go to his office and give him a piece of her mind there and then, but she held herself back: “I’ll finish the work first—then I’ll speak to him. I’ll teach him to get on his high horse!”
After getting an earful from Alexandra Vladimirovna, many directors and chief engineers had regretted trying to brush aside her safety recommendations. Her practised eye and her sense of smell—she often used to say that a chemist’s most important instrument is their nose—had at once detected that there was something wrong in Meshcheryakov’s workshop. The indicator papers had quickly changed colour and her absorbent solutions had turned cloudy; the air was indeed seriously polluted. She could already feel how it was affecting her, how the heavy, greasy air was irritating her nostrils and making her cough.
For the journey back home they were given a different truck and driver, but the engine broke down after they’d gone only a short distance. The driver fiddled about for a long time, then came back to the cab and, wiping his hands slowly and thoughtfully on an old rag, said, “We won’t be going any further in this. I’ll have to call a breakdown truck from the garage. The pistons are jammed.”
“We were brought here by a young girl,” said Krotova, “but it seems that you, a man, can’t get us back again. And there I was, hoping to get to the food shop this evening.”
“You won’t find it hard to get a lift,” said the driver. “It’ll only be ten roubles.”
“The real problem,” Alexandra said thoughtfully, “is what to do with the apparatus.” And then she made up her mind. “I know. We’re not far from Stalgres. I’ll go and get a truck from there. You stay here, Krotova, and look after the apparatus.”
“You won’t get much help from Stalgres,” the driver replied. “I know some of the drivers there. Spiridonov signs out the trucks himself—and he’s a skinflint. You won’t get any joy out of him.”
“I think I will,” said Alexandra. “Shall we bet on it?”
“What on earth’s got into you?” the driver said crossly. He turned to Krotova. Winking at her, he said, “You stay here. We’ll sleep under a tarpaulin—it’ll be warm and cosy. Our own little holiday resort. And you can go to your food shop tomorrow.”
Alexandra set off down the road. On the uphill slope the wind-screens of trucks speeding towards the city shone dazzlingly bright. The road was a cold greyish lilac where it dipped towards the east, but the spots still in the sun were a clear blue, and there were swirls of dust from the passing trucks. After a while, she caught sight of the tall buildings of Stalgres. The office building and the great apartment blocks were pink in the setting sun; clouds of steam and smoke shone over the workshops. Walking along the side of the road, past the little houses with their flower and vegetable gardens, were young men in boots and overalls and young women in wide trousers and shoes with high heels. All were carrying some kind of little knapsack or bag; a new shift must have been about to start work.
It was a quiet, clear evening. The leaves shone in the sun’s last rays.
And, as always, the calm beauty of nature made Alexandra think of her son.
Aged sixteen, Dmitry had joined the Red Army to fight against Admiral Kolchak. He had then studied at Sverdlovsk University and, young as he was, had been put in charge of an important branch of industry. In 1937 he was arrested, accused of links with conspirators and enemies of the people. His wife was arrested soon afterwards. Alexandra had gone to Moscow and returned to Stalingrad with Seryozha, her twelve-year-old grandson. She had then made two further visits to Moscow, to petition on Dmitry’s behalf. His former friends, people who had once depended on him, refused to see her and did not reply to her letters.
Her husband, Nikolay Semyonovich Shaposhnikov, had died of pneumonia during the Civil War. There was just one high-placed figure, a man who remembered him, who agreed to receive her. He obtained permission for her to visit her son, now working in a labour camp, and he assured her that his case would be reviewed.
The only time that those close to Alexandra ever saw her cry was when she was recounting her subsequent meeting with Dmitry. She had stood for a long time on a jetty, waiting for the launch that would bring him. When he arrived, she walked towards him and they stood there in silence, on the shore of the cold sea. They held each other’s hands and looked into each other’s eyes; they might have been two small children. Afterwards she had wandered about on the empty shore; the waves had flung white foam at the rocks and seagulls had cried high above her white head . . . In autumn 1939 Dmitry stopped replying to her letters. She sent further petitions and made more trips to Moscow. People promised to review Dmitry’s case. Time passed and the war began.
As she hurried along the road, Alexandra felt slightly dizzy. She knew that this was not only because of the passing vehicles and the sudden flashes of light; it was also from age, exhaustion, her state of constant nervous tension and the poisoned air she had been breathing. Towards the end of each day her feet swelled and her shoes started to pinch; it seemed that her heart was now finding it hard to cope.
•
Her son-in-law was walking past the main entrance to the power station. There were people all round him and he was waving a sheaf of papers about, as if trying to ward off some official making importunate requests.
“No,” he was saying. “If I try to connect you, it’ll burn out the transformers. The entire city will be without electricity.”
“Stepan Fyodorovich,” Alexandra said quietly.
Spiridonov stopped dead.
“Has something happened at home?” he asked quickly, taking Alexandra to one side.
“No, we’re all well,” she replied. “Except that Tolya left yesterday evening.” And she went on to tell him about the truck breaking down.
“So much for Meshcheryakov—not one truck in proper working order!” said Spiridonov, with a certain satisfaction. “Well, we can sort this out for you easily enough.” He looked at his mother-in-law and added more quietly, “You’re looking very pale, that’s not good.”
“I feel dizzy.”
“What do you expect? You’ve been on your feet all day. You haven’t eaten since this morning. You should know better,” he said crossly. And Alexandra noticed that here in Stalgres, where he was the boss, her son-in-law was speaking to her in a tone of patronizing solicitude she had not heard before. Usually he was more deferential.
“I’m not letting you leave in a state like this,” he said. He thought for a moment, then continued, “So, I’ll send out a truck for your laboratory assistant and the apparatus. And as for you, you’re going to rest in my office. I’ll be leaving for a Party meeting in an hour and I’ll take you back home in my car. But first you must have something to eat.”
Before Alexandra could say a word in reply, he was shouting out, “Sotnikov, tell the garage superintendent to send a small truck out towards Krasnoarmeisk. After about a kilometre he’ll see a broken-down vehicle by the side of the road. It’s transporting some scientific apparatus. He’s to take the apparatus and the laboratory assistant back into town. All right? And no dawdling! And as for that Meshcheryakov. . .” Next, he called to an elderly lady, probably one of the cleaners, “Olga Petrovna, take this guest to my office. Tell Anna Ivanovna to let her in. I’ll be back in quarter of an hour, as soon as I’m free.”
Alone in her son-in-law’s office, Alexandra sat down in a chair and looked at the large sheets of blue tracing paper on the walls; at the couches and chairs with covers still pristine and starched, as if no one had ever sat on them; at the dust-covered water jug, standing on a dish with yellow stains, which looked as if it had hardly ever been drunk from; and at the crookedly hung paintings—probably also seldom noticed—depicting celebrating crowds at the inauguration of Stalgres. She then glanced at her son-in-law’s desk. On it lay papers, technical drawings, pieces of cable, porcelain insulators, a small pile of coal on a sheet of newspaper, a set of drafting pencils, a voltmeter and a slide rule. There was an ashtray full of cigarette butts and there were phones with dials so worn that the numbers had all been erased; all you could see was white metal. It was clearly a desk on which someone carried out real work, day and night.
Alexandra wondered if she might be the first person who had ever come to this office for a rest—it seemed that no one had ever done anything here but work.
Indeed, Spiridonov had barely returned when there was a knock on the door and a young man in a blue jacket appeared. Placing a lengthy report on the desk, he said, “For the night shift”—and went on his way. A moment later an old man with round glasses and black oversleeves handed Spiridonov a folder. “A request from the Tractor Factory,” he announced—and he too went on his way. Then the telephone rang. Spiridonov picked up the receiver: “Yes, of course I know your voice . . . And I’ve told you. I can’t help. Why? Because Red October has priority—you know very well what it produces. Well? Now what?” Spiridonov was clearly about to break into curses. His eyes narrowed; Alexandra had never seen him so furious. After a quick glance in her direction, he went on, “No, don’t try to scare me with talk of higher authorities. In an hour or two I’ll be seeing those authorities myself. So you’re going to denounce me, are you? Yet you still ask for favours? Well, I’ve told you—the answer’s no.”
His secretary came in, a woman of about thirty, with beautiful, flashing eyes.
She bent down and whispered something in her boss’s ear. Alexandra looked at her dark hair, her splendid dark eyebrows, and her large, rather masculine, ink-stained hand.
“Of course, she can come in,” said Spiridonov, and the secretary went to the door and called out, “Nadya, come in.”
Heels clacking, a girl in a white gown brought in a tray covered with a towel.
Spiridonov opened a drawer in his desk and took out half a white loaf wrapped in newspaper and held it out to Alexandra.
“I can also offer you something stronger,” he said—and tapped on the drawer. “Only don’t go telling Marusya. You know what she’s like—she’ll eat me alive.” And he at once began to look like the usual Stepan, the man she had known for many years.
Alexandra took a sip of vodka, smiled and said, “You have interesting ladies here, that young girl’s a delight, and not every drawer in your desk is filled with plans and diagrams. And there I was, imagining you work round the clock, day and night.”
“Well, there is a little work to be done now and again,” he said. “And talking of young girls—you’ll never guess what our Vera’s been up to. I’ll tell you when we’re in the car.”
Somehow it seemed very strange to Alexandra to be hearing family talk in this office.
Spiridonov glanced at his watch. “We’ll be off in half an hour, but first I must check a few things in the workshops. You stay here and have a rest.”
“Can’t I come with you? This is my first time here.”
“What’s got into you? There are a lot of stairs—I’ll be going up to the first and second floors. Stay here and rest.” It was clear, though, that Spiridonov was pleased. Really, he very much wanted to show Alexandra Vladimirovna the power station.
They walked across the yard in the twilight. Pointing out the different buildings, Spiridonov explained, “Those are the transformers, oil-filled transformers . . . The boiler room, the cooling tower . . . Here’s where we’re building an underground command post. Just in case . . . as the phrase goes.”
He looked up at the sky and said, “It’s terrifying. What if they really do bomb us? With the equipment we have now . . . With turbines like these. . .”
They entered a large, brightly lit hall—and at once felt caught up, gently but inescapably spellbound, by the supercharged atmosphere of a large power station. Nowhere else—neither a blast furnace, nor an open-hearth furnace, nor a rolling mill—evokes the same emotions. The vastness of the work being done in a steel-making plant is only too obvious; it can be sensed in the heat of the molten iron, in the roar of the furnace, in the dazzling brightness of the vast blocks of metal. What Alexandra saw here was very different—electric light that was clear and steady, a cleanly swept floor, white marble switchboards, the stillness of the steel and cast-iron housings, the subtle curves of the turbines and control wheels, and the workers’ calm, attentive eyes and measured movements. The warm gentle breeze, the dense, low hum, the barely perceptible flicker of copper and steel—these expressions of the silent speed of the turbine blades, of the springy resilience of steam, testified to a mysterious power. The energy created by this power was something higher and nobler than mere heat.
Most overwhelming of all was the dull sheen of the silent dynamos; their apparent stillness was profoundly deceptive. Alexandra breathed in the warm breeze coming off the flywheel. This was rotating so swiftly and silently that it might not have been moving at all. The spokes appeared to have merged, as if covered by a fine grey cobweb—and only the flickering of this cobweb betrayed the speed of the wheel’s movement. There was a faint, slightly bitter smell of ozone, or garlic. The atmosphere was like in a field after a thunderstorm, and Alexandra thought how different it was from the greasy atmosphere of chemical factories, the stifling heat of a forge, a cloudy dust-filled mill or the dry airless heat of sewing workshops and clothes factories.
And once again this man she thought she knew so well—who had been married for so many years to her own daughter—seemed entirely new to her.
It was not only his movements, his voice, his smile and general expression that were different; at a deeper level he seemed still more different. When she heard him talking to the workers and engineers, when she watched their faces, she could see that he and they were united by something of crucial importance to all of them. When he walked through the different halls, speaking to fitters and mechanics, listening to motors, leaning over flywheels and instruments, his face always wore the same look of quiet attentiveness. It was a look that could be born only of love; at moments like this Spiridonov and his workers and engineers seemed to have left behind all their usual thoughts and worries, all their domestic joys and sorrows.
Slowing his pace as they approached the central control panel, Spiridonov said, “And now we come to our holy of holies.”
On a high marble column, mounted on sheets of heavy copper and glossy plastic, was an array of switches, rheostats and acorn-shaped indicator lights—some red and some pale blue.
Close by stood a thick-walled steel case, half as tall again as a human being, with a narrow observation slit.
“This is in case we get bombed—for the man on control-panel duty,” said Spiridonov. “Armour-plated, like a battleship.”
“A Man in a Case,” said Alexandra. “But not quite what Chekhov had in mind.”34
Spiridonov went up to the control panel. Patches of blue and red light fell on his face and jacket.
“Connecting the city!” he said, pretending to move a massive lever. “Connecting the Barricades . . . The Tractor Factory . . . Krasnoarmeisk . . .”
His voice trembled with emotion; in the strange blue and red light his face looked excited and happy. Silent and serious, the workers nearby were all watching.
A little later, in the car, Spiridonov leant over towards Alexandra and, too quietly for the driver to hear, whispered, “Remember the cleaning woman who showed you to my office?”
“Olga Petrovna, wasn’t it?”
“That’s right, Olga Petrovna, she’s a widow. Well, she had a young man living in her apartment who worked for me as a fitter. This young man went to flying school—and then he ended up in hospital, here in Stalingrad. And now he’s written to Olga to say that the daughter of the director of Stalgres—our very own Vera—is working as a nurse in the hospital, and that the two of them want to get married. Can you believe it? And Vera hasn’t yet said a word to me. I only know all this from my secretary, Anna Ivanovna. And she only knows because she heard from Olga Petrovna. Really, can you believe it?”
“Well,” said Alexandra, “that all sounds very good. As long as he’s a decent man, as long as he’s kind and honest.”
“Yes, but at a time like this, for the love of God! And anyway she’s still only a girl. Wait till it happens! Wait till the day you’re a great-grandmother—I’d like to hear what you have to say then!”
It was too dark for Alexandra to make out his expression, but his voice was the voice she had known for many years. The look on his face, she was sure, would be no less familiar.
“And not a word to Marusya about the bottle—all right?” he said very quietly, and laughed.
Alexandra was seized by a sudden, sad, maternal tenderness towards her son-in-law.
“And you, Stepan, may soon be a grandfather,” she said gently—and patted him on the shoulder.