'The lieutenant's philosophy?' Yevgenia interrupted.
She was taken aback by Nadya's answer:
'In three weeks he'll be at the front. There's philosophy for you: alive today, dead tomorrow.'
Talking to Nadya, Yevgenia often remembered Stalingrad. Vera had also talked to her; Vera had also fallen in love. But what a difference between the clear simplicity of Vera's feelings and the confusion of Nadya's! And how her own life had changed! What a difference between her view of the war then and her view of it now, in these days of victory. Nevertheless, the war went on, and what Nadya had said was still true: 'Alive today, dead tomorrow.' What did the war care whether a lieutenant played the guitar and sang, whether he believed in the bright future of Communism and volunteered for work on the great construction sites, or whether he read the poetry of Annensky and had no faith whatsoever in the imaginary happiness of future generations?
Once Nadya showed Yevgenia a handwritten copy of a song written in one of the camps. It was about the freezing holds of the transport ships, the roar of the ocean, the way 'the zeks, suffering from seasickness, embraced like blood-brothers,' and how Magadan, the capital of Kolyma, rose up out of the mist.
When they first got back to Moscow, Viktor had lost his temper if Nadya so much as mentioned these subjects. Now, however, he had changed completely. Unable to restrain himself, he would complain in Nadya's presence how impossible it was to read these unctuous letters addressed to 'the great teacher, the best friend of all gymnasts, the wise father, the powerful coryphaeus, the brilliant genius,' a man who in addition to all this was kind, compassionate and modest. It began to seem as though Stalin himself ploughed fields, forged metal, fed babies in their cradles and handled a machine-gun – while the workers, students and scientists did nothing but pray to him. But for Stalin, a whole great nation would have perished long ago like helpless cattle.
One day Viktor counted eighty-six mentions of Stalin's name in one issue of Pravda; the following day he counted eighteen mentions in one editorial. He railed against the illegal arrests, the absence of freedom, and the way semi-literate Party members had the right to give orders to scientists and writers, to correct them and tick them off.
Something had indeed changed in Viktor. His growing horror at the destructive fury of the State, his increasing isolation and helplessness, his sense of doom – all this sometimes engendered fits of recklessness, a contempt for the dictates of prudence.
One morning Viktor ran into Lyudmila's room. She felt quite taken aback by his unaccustomed look of excitement and joy.
'Lyuda, Zhenya! I've just heard on the radio. We've set foot once more in the Ukraine!'
That afternoon, when Yevgenia came back from Kuznetsky Most, Viktor saw the expression on her face and asked – just as Lyudmila had asked him in the morning: 'What's happened?'
'They've taken my parcel! They've taken my parcel!' said Yevgenia.
Even Lyudmila could understand how much a parcel from Yevgenia would mean to Krymov.
'A resurrection from the dead,' she said, and added: 'I think you really must still love him. I've never seen you with eyes like that before.'
'Probably I really am mad,' Yevgenia whispered to her sister. 'I'm happy first because Nikolay will get my parcel, and secondly because I've realized today that there's absolutely no question of Novikov having informed. Do you understand?'
'You're not just mad,' said Lyudmila angrily. 'You're worse than mad.'
'Vitya, darling, do play us something on the piano,' said Yevgenia.
Viktor hadn't sat down at the piano for a long time. But now, instead of making excuses, he fetched some music, showed it to Yevgenia and asked: 'Is that all right?' Lyudmila and Nadya both disliked music; they went out into the kitchen. Viktor began, and Yevgenia listened. He played for a long time. When he'd finished, he just sat there without saying a word or even looking at Yevgenia; then he began another piece. There were moments when Yevgenia had the impression that Viktor was sobbing, but she couldn't see his face. Suddenly Nadya flung open the door and shouted:
'Turn on the radio! That's an order!'
The music stopped and was replaced by the metallic roar of Levitan's voice; at that moment he was announcing: 'The town was taken by storm, together with an important railway junction…'
Then he listed the generals and units which had distinguished themselves in combat, beginning with General Tolbukhin. Suddenly he said in an exultant voice: 'And also the tank corps commanded by Colonel Novikov.'
Yevgenia gave a quiet sigh. Then, as the announcer went on in his powerful, measured voice, 'Eternal glory to the heroes who have died for the freedom and independence of the Motherland,' she began to cry.
40
Yevgenia left. Now there was nothing to lighten the gloom in the house.
Viktor just sat at his writing desk for hours on end; often whole days went by without him even leaving the house. He was frightened: he felt sure he would meet people who had it in for him; he would be unable to avoid their merciless eyes.
The telephone was now absolutely silent. If it did ring – once every two or three days – Lyudmila would say: 'That's for Nadya.' And she would be right.
Viktor hadn't immediately understood the gravity of what had happened. At first he had even felt relieved to be sitting among his beloved books, in silence, far away from those morose, hostile faces. Soon, however, the silence at home began to oppress him; it made him feel anxious and gloomy. What was happening in the laboratory? How was the work going? What was Markov doing? He grew quite feverish at the thought that he was just sitting at home doing nothing at a time when he might be needed. But it was equally unbearable to imagine them getting on fine without him.
Lyudmila bumped into a friend of hers on the street – Stoinikova, who had a secretarial job in the Academy. She told Lyudmila every detail of the meeting of the Scientific Council; she had taken it down in shorthand from beginning to end.
The most important thing was that Sokolov hadn't spoken. Shisha-kov had said: 'We'd like to hear what you think, Pyotr Lavrentyevich.
You've been a colleague of Shtrum's for a long time.' Sokolov had answered that he had had heart trouble during the night and found it difficult to speak.
Strangely, this news brought Viktor no joy whatsoever.
Markov had spoken on behalf of the laboratory. He had been more measured than anyone else, avoiding political accusations and dwelling instead on Shtrum's unpleasant personality. He even mentioned his talent.
'He's a Party member. He had to speak,' said Viktor. 'He's not to blame.'
Most of the speeches, however, were terrible. Kovchenko had called him a cheat and a rogue. 'And now this Shtrum hasn't even deigned to appear,' he had said. 'He really has gone too far now. We'll have to speak to him in a different language. He's asking for it, after all.'
Grey-haired Prasolov, who used to compare Viktor's researches with those of Lebedev, had said: 'Certain people have managed to draw a quite indecent amount of attention to Shtrum's dubious theorizings.'
Doctor Gurevich had delivered a particularly unpleasant speech. After admitting his own grave mistake in overestimating Shtrum's work, he had remarked on his racial intolerance and said that a man who goes astray in politics must also go astray in the realm of science.
Svechin had spoken of 'the worthy Shtrum' and had quoted words of his to the effect that physics was a unity, that there was no German physics, American physics or Soviet physics.