Brigade Commissar Osipov, on the other hand, was a very intelligent man. One moment he would crack a joke about how they had expected an easy war on the enemy's territory; an hour later he would be giving a sermon to someone who had shown signs of faintheartedness, ticking him off with stony severity. And the next day he would be announcing in his lisping voice: 'Yes, comrades, we fly higher than anyone else, further than anyone else and quicker than anyone else. Just look how far we've managed to fly.'
He spoke very lucidly about the defeats of the first months of the war, but with no more regret than a chess-player who has lost a piece. He talked freely and easily to people, but with a bluff comradeliness that seemed affected and false. What he enjoyed most was talking to Kotikov… Why was it he was so interested in Kotikov?
Osipov had vast experience; he knew people. This was very important for Yershov's underground staff, even essential. But it might also turn out to be a hindrance.
Osipov liked to tell amusing anecdotes about important military figures, referring to them familiarly as Semyon Budyonniy, Andryusha Yeremenko…
Once he told Yershov: Tukhachevsky, Yegorov and Blucher were no more guilty than you or me.'
Kirillov, however, had told Yershov that in 1937, when Osipov had been Deputy Director of the Military Academy, he had mercilessly denounced dozens of men as enemies of the people.
He was terrified of being ill, constantly prodding himself or sticking out his tongue and squinting at it in case it was furred over. But he clearly wasn't afraid of death.
Colonel Zlatokrylets was very gloomy, but a straightforward man and a real soldier. He blamed the High Command for 1941. Everyone could sense his strength as a commanding officer. He was equally strong physically. He had a powerful voice, the kind of voice one needs to rally fugitives or lead an attack. And he swore a lot.
He found it easier to give orders than explanations. But he was a true comrade, someone who would give a soldier soup from his own mess-tin.
No, there were certainly no flies on Zlatokrylets. He was a man Yershov could work with. Even if he was coarse and boorish.
As for Kirillov, he was intelligent, but somehow very weak. He noticed every trifle; his tired, half-closed eyes saw everything. He was cold, misanthropic, but surprisingly ready to forgive weakness and cowardice. He wasn't afraid of death; indeed, there were times when it seemed to attract him.
His view of the retreat was more intelligent than that of any of the other officers. Not a Party member himself, he had once said: 'I don't believe the Communists can make people better. It just doesn't happen. Look at history.'
Although he appeared to feel indifferent about everything, one night he'd just lain there and cried. Yershov had asked what was the matter. After a long time he had replied very quietly: 'I'm sad about Russia.' On another occasion he had said: 'One thing I do miss is music.' And yesterday he'd come up with a crazy grin on his face and said: 'Listen, Yershov, I'm going to read you a poem.' Yershov hadn't liked it, but the words had lodged themselves in his memory.
No need, comrade, in this unceasing pain
Of yours to call for help. Strange, but it's you
I call to help me, to warm my hands again.
Yes, on your still warm blood I'll warm mine too…
So do not worry, do not weep or bleed!
Nothing can harm you now that you are dead.
Can you help me? There's one thing I still need -
Your boots… There are still battles ahead.
Had he really written that himself?
No, he certainly didn't want Kirillov. How could he lead others if it was all he could do to keep going himself?
But as for Mostovskoy! He was astonishingly well-educated and he had an iron will. People said he'd been like granite under interrogation. Still, there was no one Yershov couldn't find fault with. The other day he'd said to Mostovskoy: 'Why do you waste so much time gossiping with riff-raff, Mikhail Sidorovich? Why bother with that gloomy Ikonnikov-Morzh and that one-eyed scoundrel of an émigré?'
'Are you afraid I'll waver in my convictions?' asked Mostovskoy teasingly. 'Do you think I'll become an evangelist or a Menshevik?'
'Who knows?' said Yershov. 'If you don't want to smell, you shouldn't touch shit. That Ikonnikov of yours was in our camps once. Now the Germans are dragging him off for interrogation. He'll sell himself, he'll sell you and he'll sell whoever's close to you…'
No one was ideal. Yershov simply had to weigh up everyone's strengths and weaknesses. That was easy enough. But it was only from a man's spirit that you could judge his suitability. And this could be guessed at, but never measured. He had begun with Mostovskoy.
71
Breathing heavily, Major-General Gudz was making his way towards Mostovskoy. He shuffled along, wheezing and sticking out his lower lip; brown folds of loose skin rippled over his cheeks and neck. At one time he had been impressively stout, and these sounds and movements were all that remained; now they seemed quite bizarre.
'My dear grandfather,' he said to Mostovskoy. 'I'm a mere milksop. I've no more right to criticize you than a major has to criticize a colonel-general. But still, let me be quite frank with you: fraternizing with Yershov is a mistake. He's politically dubious and he has no military understanding whatsoever. He likes giving advice to colonels, but he has the mentality of a lieutenant. You should be on your guard with him.'
'You're talking nonsense, your excellency,' said Mostovskoy.
'What do you expect?' wheezed Gudz. 'Of course I'm talking nonsense. But yesterday I was informed that twelve men from the general barracks have enrolled in this accursed Russian Liberation Army. Do you realize how many of them were kulaks? What I'm saying isn't just a personal opinion. I was instructed to say this by a man of considerable political experience.'
'You don't happen to mean Osipov, do you?'
'And what if I do? A theoretician like you will never be able to understand the swine we have to deal with here.'
'What a strange conversation this is,' said Mostovskoy. 'Sometimes I begin to think there's nothing left of people except political vigilance. Who'd have thought we'd end up like this?'
Gudz listened to the wheezing and bubbling of his bronchitis and said: 'I'll never live to see freedom. No.' There was something terrible about the sadness in his voice.
Watching him walk away, Mostovskoy suddenly slapped himself on the knee. Ikonnikov's papers had disappeared – that was why he had felt so anxious after last night's search.
'God knows what that devil's gone and written. Maybe Yershov's right and he is a provocateur. He probably planted the papers on me on purpose.'
He went over to Ikonnikov's place. He wasn't there and his neighbours had no idea what had happened to him. Yes, damn it – he should never have spoken to that holy fool, that seeker after God.