Then he told Novikov the news he had received from an old comrade, the secretary of an obkom, who had recently returned from Moscow; he had been received by someone who had a place on the mausoleum on public occasions in Red Square, though not, of course, at Stalin's side by the microphone. This man didn't know everything and, needless to say, hadn't told all of what he did know to the secretary of the obkom, someone he had previously known only as a raykom instructor in a small town on the Volga. The secretary of the obkom, weighing Getmanov up on some invisible chemical balance, had told him only a small part of what he had heard. And then Getmanov had passed on to Novikov only a small part of what he himself had been told.
Nevertheless, he was speaking in a particularly confidential tone he had never used before with Novikov. He seemed to take it for granted that Novikov was au fait with the secrets of the great; he talked as though Novikov must be aware that Malenkov possessed enormous executive power, that Beria and Molotov were the only people who addressed comrade Stalin as 'ty', that comrade Stalin strongly disliked unauthorized personal initiatives, that comrade Stalin liked sulguni cheese, that on account of the poor state of his teeth comrade Stalin always clipped his bread in wine, that his face, incidentally, was very pock-marked from the smallpox he had had as a child, that comrade Molotov had long ago fallen from his position as number two in the Party, that Iosif Vissarionovich had been far from well-disposed towards Nikita Sergeyevich [39] recently and had even given him a good dressing-down over the telephone…
The confidential tone of these remarks about people in positions of supreme power, about the way Stalin had joked and crossed himself during a conversation with Churchill, about Stalin's displeasure at the high-handedness of one of his Marshals – all this somehow seemed more important than Getmanov's veiled hint as to what the man with the place on the mausoleum had said. This news was something Novikov had long and eagerly expected: soon they were to launch a counter-offensive. With a stupid, self-satisfied smile he felt quite ashamed of, he thought to himself: 'Well, I seem to have become part of the nomenklatura myself!'
With no warning of any kind, the train moved off.
Novikov walked to the end of the corridor, opened the door and stared out into the darkness that now covered the city. Again he could hear marching boots beating out the words 'Zhenya, Zhenya, Zhenya.' From the front of the train, he could hear snatches of song.
The thunder of steel wheels on steel rails, the clatter of wagons carrying steel tanks to the Front, the young voices, the cold wind from the Volga, the starry sky – suddenly they all took on a different tone, different from that of a moment before, different from that of the whole of the past year. He felt an arrogant happiness, a joyful sense of his own harsh strength. It was as though the face of the war had changed, as though it no longer expressed only hatred and agony. The mournful snatches of song that were wafted out of the darkness suddenly sounded proud and threatening.
This happiness, however, did not make him feel in any way kind or forgiving. On the contrary, it aroused anger, hatred and a desire to show his own strength, to annihilate whatever stood in his way.
He went back to the compartment. Just as he had been surprised earlier by the charm of the autumn night, so he was now by the stifling closeness, the tobacco smoke, the smell of rancid butter, shoe polish and the sweat of well-fleshed staff officers. Getmanov was still stretched out across the seats; his pyjama top was open and you could see the white skin on his chest.
'Well, how about a game of dominoes? The general's willing.'
'Certainly,' said Novikov. 'Why not?'
Getmanov gave a discreet burp and said anxiously: 'I'm afraid I must have an ulcer somewhere. As soon as I have a bite to eat, I get the most terrible heartburn.'
'We shouldn't have left the medical officer behind to come on the other train,' said Novikov.
Working himself up into a rage, he said to himself: 'I decided to promote Darensky; Fyodorenko frowned and I began to lose confidence. I told Getmanov and Nyeudobnov; they said we could do without former zeks and I quite lost my nerve. I proposed Basangov; they wanted a Russian and I gave way again. Do I have a mind of my own or not?' He looked at Getmanov and thought, with deliberate absurdity: 'Today he offers me my own cognac; tomorrow, if she comes on a visit, he'll be wanting to sleep with my woman.'
Why, if he was so sure that he, and no one else, was destined to break the back of the German war machine, did he always feel so timid and weak when he talked to Getmanov and Nyeudobnov?
He could sense the anger and hatred that had been welling up for years, his resentment at the way people who were militarily illiterate -but accustomed to power, good living and the tinkle of medals – had graciously intervened to help him obtain a room in the officers' mess and perhaps given him small pats of encouragement. All this had seemed quite normaclass="underline" his superiors had always been men who were ignorant of the calibres of different guns, men who were unable to read without mistakes a speech that had been written for them by someone else, men who were incapable of making sense of a map or even of speaking proper Russian. Why had he had to report to them? Their illiteracy had nothing to do with their working-class origins; his own father and grandfather had been miners, as was his brother. Sometimes he had wondered whether this ignorance of theirs was in fact their greatest strength, whether his own correct speech and interest in books was really a weakness. Before the war he had thought that these people must be endowed with more faith, more will-power than he was. But the war had shown otherwise.
Although the war had elevated him to a position of importance, he still didn't feel in charge. He still found himself submitting to a force whose presence he was constantly aware of but unable to understand. These two subordinates of his, who themselves had no right to give orders, were representatives of this force. Just now he had been purring with pleasure because Getmanov had told him a few stories about the world where this force was based. But then the war would show who Russia truly had cause to be grateful to – people like Getmanov or people like himself.
His dream had been realized; the woman he had loved for many years was to become his wife… And on the same day his tanks had been ordered to Stalingrad.
'Pyotr Pavlovich,' said Getmanov abruptly, 'while you were out and about, Mikhail Petrovich and I had a little discussion.'
He slumped back against the cushions and took a sip of beer.
'I'm a straightforward man myself and I want to talk to you frankly. We were discussing comrade Shaposhnikova. Her brother went under in 1937.' Getmanov jabbed his thumb down at the floor. 'Nyeudobnov knew him personally, and I knew her first husband -Krymov. He only survived – as the phrase goes – by a miracle. He was one of the lecturers attached to the Central Committee. Well, Nyeudobnov was saying that it was wrong of comrade Novikov to become involved with someone whose social and political background was so dubious – especially at a time when the Soviet people and comrade Stalin have expressed such great trust in him.'
'And what concern of his is my private life?' said Novikov.
'Precisely,' said Getmanov. 'That way of thinking is a hangover from 1937. We must learn to take a broader view of such matters. But please don't misunderstand me. Nyeudobnov is a remarkable man, a man of crystal purity, an unshakeable Communist in Stalin's mould. But he does have one slight fault – there are times when he fails to sense the breath of change. What matters to him are quotations from the classics. Sometimes he seems unable to learn from life itself. Sometimes he seems so full of quotations that he's unable to understand the State he's living in. But the war's taught us many things. Lieutenant-General Rokossovsky, General Gorbatov, General Pultus, General Byelov – they've all done time in a camp. And that hasn't stopped comrade Stalin from appointing them to important posts. Mitrich, the man I went to see today, told me how Rokossovsky was taken straight out of a camp and put in command of an army. He was in his barrack-hut, washing his foot-cloths, when someone came running to fetch him. The day before he'd been maltreated a little during an interrogation. He just said to himself: "Well, they might at least let me finish my washing." And then he found himself being taken straight to the Kremlin in a Douglas… Well, there are conclusions to be drawn from stories like that. But our Nyeudobnov's an enthusiast for the methods of 1937 – and nothing will make him budge. I don't know what this brother of Yevgenia Nikolaevna's did, but maybe comrade Beria would have released him too. Maybe he'd be in command of an army himself. As for Krymov – he's at the front right now. He's still a member of the Party and he's doing fine. So what's all the fuss about?'