'Sounds like nonsense to me,' Novikov had said. 'It doesn't make sense technically.'
Now Nyeudobnov launched into his other favourite topic -domestic life. After testing the heating pipes in the carriage, he began to describe the central heating system he'd installed, not long before the war, on his dacha. All of a sudden Novikov found this surprisingly interesting; he asked Nyeudobnov to draw a sketch of the system, folded it up and placed it in the inside pocket of his tunic.
'Who knows? One day it might come in useful,' he said.
Soon afterwards Getmanov came in. He greeted Novikov loudly and heartily.
'So our chief's back, is he? We were beginning to think we'd have to choose a new ataman. [38] We were afraid Stenka Razin had abandoned his companions.'
He looked Novikov up and down good-humouredly. Novikov laughed, but as always, the presence of the commissar made him feel tense.
Getmanov seemed to know a great deal about Novikov, and it was always through his jokes that he allowed this to show. Just now he had even echoed Yevgenia's parting words about rejoining his companions – though that, of course, was pure coincidence.
Getmanov looked at his watch and announced: 'Well, gentlemen, if no one minds, I'll take a look round the town myself.'
'Go ahead,' said Novikov. 'We can manage to entertain ourselves without you.'
'That's for sure. You certainly know how to entertain yourself in Kuibyshev,' said Getmanov, adding from the doorway of the compartment: 'Well, Pyotr Pavlovich? How's Yevgenia Nikolaevna?'
His face was now quite serious; his eyes were no longer laughing.
'Very well, thank you,' said Novikov. 'But she's got a lot of work to do.'
To change the subject, he asked Nyeudobnov: 'Mikhail Petrovich, why don't you go into Kuibyshev yourself for an hour?'
'I've already seen all there is to see.'
They were sitting next to each other. As he listened to Nyeudobnov, Novikov went through his papers, putting them aside one by one and repeating every now and then: 'Very good… Carry on…'
All his career Novikov had reported to superior officers who had gone on looking through their papers as they repeated absent-mindedly: 'Very good… Carry on…' He had always found it very offensive and had never expected to end up doing it himself.
'Listen now,' he said. 'We need to make out a request for more maintenance mechanics. We've got plenty for the wheeled vehicles, but hardly any for the tanks.'
'I've already made one out. I think it should be addressed to the colonel-general himself. It will go to him anyway to be signed.'
'Very good,' said Novikov, signing the request. 'I want each brigade to check their anti-aircraft weapons. There's a possibility of air-attacks after Saratov.'
'I've already given instructions to that effect to the staff.'
'That's not enough. I want it to be the personal responsibility of each commanding officer. They're to report back in person not later than 1600 hours.'
'The appointment of Sazonov to the post of brigade chief of staff has been confirmed.'
'That's remarkably quick,' said Novikov.
Instead of avoiding his eyes, Nyeudobnov was smiling. He was aware of Novikov's embarrassment and irritation.
Usually Novikov lacked the courage to defend his choice of commanding officers to the end. As soon as anyone cast aspersions on their political reliability, he went sour on them. Their military abilities seemed suddenly unimportant. This time, however, he felt angry. He no longer wanted peace at any price. Looking straight at Nyeudobnov, he said:
'My mistake. I allowed more importance to be attached to a man's biographical data than to his military abilities. But that can be sorted out at the Front. To fight the Germans, you need more than a spotless background. If need be, I'll send Sazonov packing on the first day.'
Nyeudobnov shrugged his shoulders. 'Personally I've got nothing whatsoever against this Basangov. But one should always give preference to a Russian if possible. The friendship of nations is something sacred – but you must realize that there is a considerable percentage, among the national minorities, of people who are unreliable or even positively hostile.'
'We should have thought of that in 1937,' said Novikov. 'One man I knew, Mitka Yevseyev, was always strutting about and repeating: "I'm a Russian, that's all that matters!" A fat lot of good it did him – he was sent to a camp.'
'There's a time for everything,' said Nyeudobnov. 'And if this man was arrested, then he must have been an enemy of the people. People don't get arrested for nothing. Twenty-five years ago we concluded the Treaty of Brest-Litovsk with the Germans – and that was Bolshevism. Today comrade Stalin has ordered us to annihilate the German aggressors who have invaded our Soviet homeland – and that's Bolshevism too.
'Today a Bolshevik is first and foremost a Russian patriot,' he added sententiously.
All this irritated Novikov. His own sense of Russian patriotism had been forged during the most difficult days of the war; Nyeudobnov's appeared simply to have been borrowed from some office – an office to which he himself was denied admittance.
He went on talking to Nyeudobnov, felt irritated, thought about hundreds of different things… And all the time his heart was thumping, his cheeks burning as though he had been in the wind.
It was as if a whole battalion was marching over his heart, as if thousands of boots were beating out the words: 'Zhenya, Zhenya, Zhenya.'
Vershkov looked into the compartment. By now he had forgiven Novikov and his tone of voice was conciliatory.
'Beg leave to report, comrade Colonel. The cook's giving me a hard time. He's been keeping your dinner hot for over two hours.'
'Very well then, but make it quick!'
The cook rushed in, covered in sweat. With a look of mingled suffering, resentment and happiness on his face he laid out various dishes of pickles that had been brought from the Urals.
'And I'd like a bottle of beer,' said Nyeudobnov languidly.
'Certainly, comrade Major-General,' said the cook.
Novikov suddenly felt so hungry, after his long fast, that tears came to his eyes. 'Yes, the commander has forgotten what it's like to go without meals,' he thought to himself, remembering the cold lilac.
Novikov and Nyeudobnov both looked out of the window. A policeman, a rifle hanging from his shoulder strap, was marching a drunken soldier across the tracks; the soldier was stumbling, lurching about and letting out piercing screams. He tried to hit out and break free, but the policeman just grabbed him firmly by the shoulders. Then – God knows what thoughts were passing through his befuddled mind! – he began kissing the policeman's cheek with sudden tenderness.
'Find out what the hell all that's about,' Novikov ordered Vershkov, 'and report back immediately!'
'He's a saboteur. He deserves to be shot,' said Nyeudobnov as he drew the curtain.
You could see a number of different feelings on Vershkov's usually simple face. In the first place, he was sorry that his commanding officer had had his appetite spoiled. At the same time he felt sympathy for the soldier, a sympathy that included nuances of amusement, approval, comradely admiration, fatherly tenderness, sorrow and genuine anxiety. After saluting and saying that of course he'd report back immediately, Vershkov began embroidering:
'His old mother lives here and… Well, you know what we Russians are like. He was upset, he wanted to mark his departure and he misjudged the dose.'
Novikov scratched the back of his head and pulled his plate towards him. 'Damn it, that'll be my last chance to get away on my own,' he said to himself, thinking of Zhenya.
Getmanov came back shortly before their departure, red-faced and merry. He said he didn't want supper and just asked for a bottle of fizzy orange, his favourite soft drink. He pulled off his boots with a grunt, lay down and pushed the door shut with his foot.