A crow with a large head was sitting thoughtfully on a block of ice. On the neighbouring block lay the tail of a burnt greatcoat; on a third block stood a stone-hard felt boot and a carbine whose twisted barrel had frozen into the ice.
The cars from the obkom drove onto the barge. The secretaries and members of the bureau got out and stood by the railings, listening to the ice as it moved slowly by. The old soldier in charge of the barge came over to the obkom transport-secretary, Laktionov. His lips were quite blue and he was wearing a black sheepskin coat and an army cap. In a hoarse voice – brought about by the damp of the river on top of many years of vodka and tobacco – he announced:
'The first trip we made this morning, comrade Secretary, there was this soldier lying there on the ice. The boys needed pick-axes to get him out – some of them almost got drowned themselves. Look, there he is – on the bank, under that tarpaulin.'
The old man indicated the bank with a dirty mitten. Unable to see the corpse and feeling somewhat ill at ease, Laktionov pointed at the sky and asked abruptly: 'So what's he up to these days? Does he have any favourite time?'
The old man gave a dismissive wave of the hand.
'Hm! He's not up to real bombing any more.' He began to curse the now feeble Germans, his voice suddenly becoming clear and ringing.
Meanwhile the tug drew slowly closer to the Stalingrad bank. Covered with small booths, huts and supply-dumps, it seemed quite ordinary and peaceful.
The obkom officials soon tired of standing in the wind. They got back into their cars, lit cigarettes, scratched themselves and started chatting. The soldiers gazed at them through the glass as though they were fish in a warm aquarium.
The special meeting took place that evening.
The invitations were no different from those sent in peacetime -except for the poor quality of the soft grey paper and the fact that there was no mention of the venue.
The Stalingrad Party leaders, the guests from the 64th Army, the workers and engineers from nearby factories were all accompanied by guides who had a good knowledge of the way: 'Left here, and again here. Careful now – there's a bomb crater. And now some rails. And very careful here – there's a lime-pit…'
The darkness was full of voices and the tramping of boots.
Krymov arrived with the representatives of the 64th Army; he had visited their Political Section immediately after crossing the river.
Something about the way all these people were walking through the labyrinth of the factory, in small groups and under cover of night, made Krymov think of clandestine celebrations before 1917. He was almost breathless with excitement. He was an experienced orator and he knew he could give an impromptu speech there and then; he could share with everyone his excitement and joy at the similarity between the defence of Stalingrad and the revolutionary struggle of the Russian workers.
Yes, yes! This war, and the patriotic spirit it aroused, was indeed a war for the Revolution. It had been no betrayal of the Revolution to speak of Suvorov in house 6/1. Stalingrad, Sebastopol, the fate of Radishchev, the power of Marx's manifesto, Lenin's appeals from the armoured car near the Finland station – all these were part of one and the same thing.
He caught sight of Pryakhin, the first secretary of the obkom and an old friend of his. He seemed as calm and unhurried as ever, but somehow Krymov was unable to find an opportunity to talk to him.
There were a lot of things he wanted to talk about; he'd gone to see him as soon as he'd arrived at the command-post of the obkom. But the telephone had kept ringing and people had kept dropping in. Pryakhin had spoken to him only once, asking suddenly: 'Did you ever know someone by the name of Getmanov?'
'Yes. In the Ukraine. He was a member of the bureau of the Central Committee. Why do you ask?'
Pryakhin hadn't answered. Then there had been all the bustle of departure. Krymov had been offended that Pryakhin hadn't offered him a lift in his own car. Twice they had almost bumped into each other, but Pryakhin had looked straight through him.
The soldiers were now going down a lighted corridor: Shumilov, the Army commander, a flabby man with a large chest and a large stomach; General Abramov, a Siberian with brown, bulging eyes, the Member of the Military Soviet… In this group of men, in the good-hearted comradeliness between them, in the steam rising from their tunics, padded jackets and coats, Krymov again sensed the spirit of the first years of the Revolution, the spirit of Lenin. He had felt it as soon as he returned to the right bank.
The members of the Presidium took their places. Piksin, the chairman of the Stalingrad Soviet, leant forward and directed a slow, chairmanlike cough towards the noisiest part of the hall. He then announced the opening of this special meeting of the Stalingrad Soviet and Party organizations, attended also by representatives of the military units and workers from the local factories, in celebration of the twenty-fifth anniversary of the Great October Revolution.
You could tell from the sound of the applause that the hands clapping belonged to men, to soldiers and workers.
Then Pryakhin spoke, as slow and ponderous as ever… Any connection between the present moment and what had happened in the past vanished at once. It was as though Pryakhin had entered into a polemic with Krymov, as though he had deliberately adopted these measured tones in order to dash Krymov's excitement.
The factories in the oblast were fulfilling the State plan. The agricultural districts on the left bank had satisfactorily, though with slight delays, provided their quota of grain for the State. The factories within the city and to the north of it were situated within the zone of military operations; their failure to carry out their obligations to the State could therefore be understood…
And this was the same man who had once stood beside Krymov during a revolutionary meeting at the front, who had torn off his cap and shouted: 'Comrades, soldiers, brothers, to hell with this war and its blood! Long live freedom!'
Now he gazed calmly around the hall and explained that the sudden drop in the quantity of grain supplied to the State was caused by the fact that the Zimovnichesky and Kotelnichesky districts had been unable to furnish supplies because they were part of the arena of military operations – while the Kalach and Kurmoyarsk regions were partially or completely occupied by the enemy.
He went on to say that the population of the oblast, while continuing to work hard to fulfil their obligations to the State, had at the same time played an important part in military operations against the Fascist invaders. He quoted figures: first, the number of workers from the city enrolled in militia units, and second – with the proviso that his data was incomplete – the number who had been decorated for their exemplary courage and valour while carrying out the tasks entrusted to them.
As Krymov listened to the calm voice of the first secretary, he thought that the glaring disparity between his words and his real thoughts and feelings was far from senseless. It was the very coldness of his speech that confirmed just how absolute was the State's triumph.
The faces of the workers and soldiers were grave and sullen.
How strange and painful it was to remember people like Tarasov and Batyuk, to recall his conversations with the soldiers in house 6/1. It was particularly unpleasant to think of Grekov and how he had met his death.
But why should Grekov matter to him? Why was that remark of his so troubling? Grekov had fired a shot at him… And why should the words spoken by Pryakhin, his old comrade, the first secretary of the Stalingrad obkom, sound cold and alien? How complicated it all was.