So she was crying, was she! Novikov felt a sudden fury. The filthy bitch! The snake! He wanted to punch her on the jaw, in the eyes. He wanted to crack that whore's nose of hers with the butt of his revolver…
Suddenly, unbearably suddenly, he felt helpless. There was nothing in the whole world that could help him, only Zhenya, and she had destroyed him…
He looked in the direction she should have been coming from and said: 'What have you done to me, Zhenechka? Can you hear me? Look at me, Zhenechka! Look what you've done to me!'
He stretched out his hands to her. Then he thought: 'All this is a waste of time.' Yes, he had waited all those years, but now she had made up her mind. She wasn't a little girl. She had dragged it out for years, but now she had made up her mind. She had made up her mind -he must try to understand that.
A few minutes later he was again trying to find refuge in hatred: 'No, no, of course you didn't want me when I was an acting major in Nikolsk-Ussuriysk. But it was another story when I was promoted. You wanted to be the wife of a general. Well, women are all the same…' He soon realized what nonsense this was. She had left him for a man who was on his way to a camp, to Kolyma. What would she get out of that…? '"Russian women" – a poem by Nekrasov. [53] She doesn't love me, she loves him. No, she doesn't love him, she pities him. It's just that she pities him. But doesn't she have any pity for me? No one in the Lubyanka, no one in the camps, no one in hospital with a missing arm or leg can be more unhappy than I am. Very well, I'll go to a camp myself. Which of us will you choose then? Him! You two are the same breed, but I'm a stranger. That's what you called me – a stranger. Yes, I'll always be a peasant, a miner. Even if I become a marshal, I'll still never be an intellectual. I'll still never be able to make head or tail of all that painting of yours…'
In a loud hate-filled voice he asked: 'But why? Why?'
He took his pistol out of his back pocket and weighed it in the palm of his hand. 'I'm going to shoot myself. And not because I can't live without you – but to torment you with guilt. You whore!'
He put his pistol back in its place.
'She'll have forgotten me in a week.'
No, he was the one who needed to forget. He mustn't look back. He mustn't give her another thought.
He went up to the table and began to read the letter again. 'My dearest, my poor darling…' It wasn't the cruel words that hurt, it was the ones that were full of pity, full of affectionate, humiliating pity. He felt as though he could hardly breathe.
He could see her breasts, her shoulders, her knees. There she was – on her way to that wretched Krymov. 'But what can I do?' She was travelling in a crowded, airless wagon. Someone asked her a question and she answered: 'To join my husband.' She had the sad, docile eyes of a dog.
And he had looked out of this very window to see if she was on her way to him. His shoulders shook. He sniffed and gave a kind of bark; he was choking back his terrible sobs. He remembered how he'd ordered some chocolate and nougat from the Front Commissariat. 'Don't you dare touch them,' he'd said to Vershkov, 'or it'll be the end of you!'
Once again he muttered: 'See what you've done to me, my Zhenechka, my little one! You might have some pity!'
He suddenly dragged his suitcase out from under the bed. He took out Zhenya's letters and photos – the ones he'd been carrying around for years, the one she'd sent in her last letter, and the very first, cellophane-wrapped passport photo – and began tearing them to shreds with his large, powerful fingers. On tiny shreds of paper he recognized words he had read hundreds of times, words that had made his head spin. He watched her face, her neck, her eyes, her lips, all slowly disappear. He was working as fast as he could. When it was done he felt better; he felt as though he had eradicated her, as though he had stamped out the last trace of her, as though he had freed himself from a witch.
He had lived without her before. He could get over it! In a year or so he'd be able to walk straight past her without his heart so much as missing a beat. He needed her as much as a drunk needs a cork! But he understood all too quickly how vain these thoughts were. How can you tear something out of your heart? Your heart isn't made out of paper and your life isn't written down in ink. You can't erase the imprint of years.
He had allowed her to share in his thoughts, in his work, in his troubles. He had allowed her to witness his strengths and his weaknesses…
And the torn-up letters hadn't disappeared. The words he had read hundreds of times were still in his memory. Her eyes were still gazing at him from the photographs.
He opened the cupboard door and poured out a large glass of vodka. He drank it down and lit a cigarette. He lit it a second time -though it hadn't gone out. His head was full of clamouring grief; his insides were on fire.
'Zhenechka, my dearest, my little one, what have you done, what have you done, how could you?'
He stuffed the torn shreds of paper back into the suitcase, put the bottle back in the cupboard and thought: 'Well, that's a little better.'
Soon his tanks would reach the Donbass. He would visit the village where he had been born and the spot where his old people had been buried. His father would be proud of his Petya now; his mother would be full of pity for her unfortunate little son. When the war came to an end, he would go and live with his brother's family. His little niece would say: 'Uncle Petya, why are you so quiet?'
He suddenly remembered a moment from his childhood. The dog had gone off after a bitch on heat and had come back all chewed up. He had a torn ear, his mouth was crooked, one eye was half-closed because of a swelling, and tufts of his long hair had been torn out. He had stood there by the porch, his tail between his legs. Petya's father had looked at him and said good-naturedly: 'So you were just the best man, were you?'
Vershkov came in.
'Are you having a rest, comrade Colonel?'
'Just for a few minutes.'
He looked at his watch and thought: 'All brigades to halt until seven o'clock tomorrow morning. To be transmitted in code.'
'I'm going to visit the brigades again,' he told Vershkov.
A fast drive was a welcome distraction. They were going at eighty kilometres an hour on an appalling road. The jeep swayed wildly as it careered over the pot-holes. The driver kept looking at Novikov pathetically, begging to be allowed to drive more slowly.
They reached the headquarters of the 1st brigade. How everything had changed in only a few hours! How Makarov had changed – it was as though they hadn't seen each other for years.
Quite forgetting the usual formalities, Makarov threw up his hands in bewilderment and said: 'Comrade Colonel, Getmanov has just transmitted an order direct from Yeremenko. Your own order has been rescinded and we're to press on with the offensive immediately.'
51
Three weeks later Novikov's tank corps was withdrawn from the front line and placed in reserve. It was time to overhaul the tanks and bring the brigades up to their full strength. Both men and tanks were exhausted after covering four hundred kilometres, fighting all the way.
At the same time Novikov received a summons from Moscow. He was to report to the General Staff and to the Central Administration for Senior Field Ranks. It was uncertain whether or not he would be returning to his command.
During his absence General Nyeudobnov was to take over the command. A few days before this Getmanov heard that the Central Committee had decided to retire him from active service. He was to be appointed secretary of the obkom in a newly-liberated part of the Donbass; this was a post to which the Central Committee attached particular importance.