'Now – first, a fighter pilot must know his machine, must know it well enough to be able to play with it; second, he must love it, love it as though it were his sister or mother; third, he must have courage – and courage means a cool head and a fiery heart; fourth, he must have the sense of comradeship that is instilled into us by the whole of Soviet life; fifth, he must be whole-hearted and selfless in combat. And success depends on each pair of aircraft working together. Follow the leading aircraft! A true pilot is always thinking – even when he's on the ground. He's always analysing the last combat, wondering if he made any mistakes.'
As they pretended to pay attention to Berman's homily, the pilots talked quietly among themselves.
'Perhaps we'll be assigned to escort the Douglases carrying provisions to Leningrad,' said Solomatin, who knew a young girl in Leningrad.
'Maybe we'll be stationed near Moscow,' said Molchanov, whose family lived on the outskirts.
'Or Stalingrad,' said Viktorov.
'I doubt it,' said Skotnoy. He didn't mind where they were sent; all his relatives were in occupied territory.
'What about you, Borya? I suppose you want to be off to Berdichev, your very own Jewish capital,' said Solomatin.
Korol's dark eyes went black with rage and he turned on Solomatin, cursing and swearing.
'Second Lieutenant Korol!' shouted Berman.
'Yes, comrade Commissar!'
'Silence!'
Major Zakabluka was renowned as a connoisseur of swear-words and would never have made an issue of anything like this himself. Every morning he would shout out to his orderly, 'Mazyukin… you damned motherfucker…,' before concluding quietly, 'Will you hand me my towel?'
But knowing how captious Berman could be, Zakabluka was afraid of pardoning Korol then and there. Berman would report that Zakabluka had discredited the political leadership in front of the pilots. He had already reported that Zakabluka had set up his own private farm while he was in the rear, that he got drunk on vodka with his staff officers and that he was having an affair with Zhenya Bondarevaya, a livestock expert from the village.
So Zakabluka had no choice but to pursue the matter. In a stern, hoarse voice he barked: 'Stand up straight, Second Lieutenant Korol! Two paces forward! What's this slovenliness?'
He then took the matter a step further.
'Political Instructor Golub, explain to the commissar why Korol has just infringed discipline.'
'Beg to report, comrade Major. He quarrelled with Solomatin -I've no idea why.'
'Lieutenant Solomatin!'
'Yes, comrade Major.'
'Report to the commissar, not to me.'
'Beg to report, comrade Commissar.'
'Go ahead,' nodded Berman without so much as looking at Solomatin. He suspected that Major Zakabluka had his own reasons for what he was doing. Zakabluka was cunning, exceptionally so, both on the ground and in the air. Up in the air he was better than anyone at guessing an opponent's tactics, at outwitting his stratagems. And on the ground he was able to play a part when necessary, to act the simpleton and laugh ingratiatingly at some feeble joke made by a stupid superior. And he knew how to keep these wild young pilots under his thumb.
During their month in reserve, Zakabluka had displayed a considerable interest in farming, particularly poultry and livestock raising. He had also exploited the resources of the forest, making his own raspberry liqueur and preparing both pickled and dried mushrooms. His dinners were famous and other squadron commanders liked to drop by in their U-2S for a drink and a bite to eat. Zakabluka was very hospitable – but not without ulterior motives.
There was another side of his character which often complicated their relations: sly and calculating as he was, there were times when he would stop at nothing, when he would act so recklessly as to endanger his life.
'Arguing with one's superior officers is like pissing against the wind,' he would say – and then act quite senselessly, leaving Berman gasping in amazement.
When they were both in a good mood, they would wink at one another as they talked, patting each other on the back or the stomach.
'Yes, our commissar's certainly a sly old fellow,' Zakabluka would say.
'And our major's a true hero,' Berman would answer.
What Zakabluka most disliked in Berman was his unctuousness – and the diligence with which he reported every careless word anyone came out with. He made fun of Berman's weakness for pretty girls, the way he loved roast chicken – 'Give us a drumstick!' – but couldn't care less about vodka. He disapproved of the way he would turn a blind eye to other people's living conditions while knowing very well how to look after his own. At the same time he valued him for his intelligence and bravery – sometimes he seemed quite unaware of physical danger – and his readiness to take on his superiors for the good of the cause.
And now here they were – these two men who were about to lead a fighter squadron into action – glancing suspiciously at one another as they listened to Lieutenant Solomatin.
'Let me say straight out, comrade Commissar, that I am to blame for Korol's infringement of discipline. I was making fun of him. He put up with it for a while, but then he forgot himself.'
'Explain what it was that you said,' interrupted Zakabluka.
'We were trying to guess which front the Squadron would be transferred to. I said to Koroclass="underline" "I suppose you want us to go to your own capital, Berdichev." '
The pilots all glanced at Berman.
'Which capital?' said Berman – and then understood.
Everyone could sense Berman's embarrassment. Zakabluka was very surprised – usually Berman was as sharp as a razor. But his next move was equally surprising.
'What's so terrible about that?' asked Berman. 'What if you, Korol, had said to Solomatin, who comes, as we know, from the village of Dorokhovo in the Novo-Ruzskiy district, that you presumed he wanted to fight above Dorokhovo? Would he have answered you with a punch in the face? I'm surprised to find the mentality of the shtetl in a member of the Komsomol.' [21]
Berman's words always had a strange, hypnotic effect on people. Everyone knew that Solomatin had deliberately offended Korol – and yet there was Berman confidently explaining that Korol had failed to overcome his nationalist prejudices and that his behaviour evinced a contempt for the friendship of peoples. And Korol should remember that it was the Fascists who exploited nationalist prejudices.
Everything Berman said was in itself quite fair and reasonable. The ideals he spoke about so excitedly were those of democracy and the Revolution. But Berman's strength at moments like this lay in the way he made use of an ideal rather than serving it, the way he subordinated it to his own – often questionable – needs of the moment.
'Do you understand, comrades?' he went on. 'Where there is no ideological clarity, there can be no discipline. That is the true explanation of Korol's behaviour.' He paused for a moment. 'Korol's disgraceful, anti-Soviet behaviour.'
By now, of course, it was quite impossible for Zakabluka to intervene: the incident had been transformed into a question of politics – and no officer dared interfere in political matters.
'And so, comrades,' said Berman, pausing again to give more weight to his final words, 'the responsibility for this incident lies with the immediate culprit, but it also lies with me, the squadron commissar, for failing to help Lieutenant Korol to grow out of his abominable nationalism. The whole affair is more serious than I at first realized. For that very reason I have decided not to punish Korol for his infringement of discipline. Instead I take upon myself the responsibility for re-educating him.'