And as for Chernetsov – what if they had always done nothing but argue? What difference did that make? What was the use of such arguments? And Chernetsov had been there when Ikonnikov handed over the papers… There was a witness as well as an informer.
'You're a bloody fool – hobnobbing with scum and then throwing your life away when you're needed to fight for the Revolution,' he said bitterly to himself.
In the washroom he bumped into Osipov. Under a dim electric light he was washing his foot-cloths in a tin trough.
'I'm glad you're here,' said Mostovskoy. 'I want to talk to you.'
Osipov nodded, looked round and wiped his hands on his sides. The two of them sat down on the cement ledge by the wall.
'Just what I thought. The rascal certainly gets around,' said Osipov when Mostovskoy began to talk about Yershov's plans.
'Comrade Mostovskoy,' he said, stroking Mostovskoy's hand with his damp palm, 'I'm amazed at your decisiveness. You're one of Lenin's Bolsheviks. Age doesn't exist for you. You're an example to us all.'
He lowered his voice.
'Comrade Mostovskoy, we've already set up a military organization. We'd decided not to tell you about it prematurely so as not to risk your life. But there's no such thing as old age for a comrade of Lenin's. Still, there's one thing I must say: Yershov is not to be trusted. You must look at it objectively. He's a kulak. The repressions have soured him. All the same, we're realists – and we know that for the time being we can't get on without him. He's won himself a cheap popularity. You know better than I how the Party has always made use of people like that for its own ends. But you ought to be aware of our opinion of him: we trust him only so far, and only for the time being…'
'Comrade Osipov, you can trust Yershov all the way. I'm sure of him.'
They could hear the water dripping onto the cement floor.
'Listen, comrade Mostovskoy,' said Osipov slowly. 'There can be no secrets from you. We have one comrade who was sent here by Moscow. I can tell you his name: Kotikov. What I've been saying is his view of Yershov, not just my own. For us Communists Kotikov's directives are law – orders given to us by the Party, orders given to us, in exceptional circumstances, by Stalin himself. But we can work with this godson of yours, this "master of men's minds" as you've christened him. We've already decided that. What matters is to be realistic, to think dialectically. But you know that better than anyone.'
Mostovskoy remained silent. Osipov embraced him and kissed him three times on the lips. There were tears in his eyes.
'It's as though I were kissing my own father,' he said. 'And I want to make the sign of the cross over you, just like my mother used to do over me.'
Slowly the feeling that had tortured Mostovskoy, the sense of life's impossible complexity, was melting away. Once again, as in his youth, the world seemed clear and simple, neatly divided into friends and enemies.
That night the SS came to the special barracks and took off six men, Mikhail Sidorovich Mostovskoy among them.
PART TWO
1
When people in the rear see fresh troops being moved up to the Front, they feel a sense of joyful expectation: these gun batteries, these freshly-painted tanks seem to be the ones destined to strike the decisive blow, the blow that will bring about a quick end to the war.
Men who have been held in reserve for a long time feel a special tension as they board the trains that will take them to the front line. Young officers dream of special orders from Stalin in sealed envelopes… More experienced men, of course, don't dream of anything of the sort: they just drink hot water, soften up their dried fish by banging it against a table or the sole of a boot, and discuss the private life of the major or the opportunities for barter at the next junction.
They already know only too well what happens when a train unloads at a station in the middle of nowhere, a place apparently known only to the German dive-bombers… How the new recruits slowly lose their high spirits; how, after the monotony of the journey, you can no longer even lie down for an hour; how for days on end you don't get a chance to eat or drink; how your temples seem to be about to burst from the incessant roar of overheated motors; how your hands barely have the strength to move the gears and levers. As for the commander – he's had more than enough of coded messages, more than enough of being cursed and sworn at over the radio. His superiors just want to plug a gap in the line – they don't care how well the men did in their firing exercises. 'Forward! Forward!' That's the only word the commander ever hears. And he does press forward – at breakneck speed. And then sometimes the unit gets flung into action before he's even had time to reconnoitre the area; an irritable, exhausted voice simply orders: 'Counter-attack at once! Along those heights! We've got no one there and the enemy's pushing hard. It's a mess.'
Then, in the ears of the drivers and mechanics, of the radio-operators and gun-layers, the roar of the long march blurs into the whistle of German shells, the crash of exploding mortar-bombs.
This is when the madness of war becomes most obvious… An hour later there is nothing to show for all your work except some broken-down, burning tanks with twisted guns and torn tracks. Where are the hard months of training now? What has become of the patient, diligent work of the mechanics and electricians?
And the superior officer draws up a standard report to cover up the useless waste of this fresh unit, this unit he flung into action with such thoughtless haste: 'The action of the forces newly arrived from the rear temporarily checked the enemy advance and made possible a regrouping of the forces under my command.'
If only he hadn't just shouted, 'Forward! Forward!' – if only he had just allowed them time to reconnoitre the area and not blunder straight into a minefield! Even if the tanks hadn't achieved anything decisive, at least they'd have given the Germans a run for their money.
Novikov's tank corps was on its way to the Front. The naive young soldiers, men who had not yet received their baptism of fire, believed they were the ones who would take part in the decisive operation. The older men just laughed; Makarov, the commanding officer of the 3rd Brigade, and Fatov, the best of the battalion commanders, had seen all this too many times before.
The sceptics and pessimists had gained their knowledge and understanding through bitter experience; they had paid for it with blood and suffering. In this they were superior to the greenhorns. Nevertheless, they were wrong: Novikov's tank corps was indeed destined to play a decisive role in an operation that was to determine both the outcome of the war and the subsequent fate of hundreds of millions of people.
2
Novikov had been ordered to contact Lieutenant-General Ryutin on arrival in Kuibyshev, in order to answer several questions of interest to the Stavka. He had expected to be met at the station, but the commandant, a major with a wild and yet very sleepy look in his eyes, said that no one had asked for him. It turned out to be impossible even to telephone the general; his number was secret.
In the end Novikov set off on foot. In the station square he felt the usual timidity of a field officer in the unfamiliar surroundings of a city. His sense of his own importance suddenly crumbled: here there were no orderlies holding out telephone receivers, no drivers rushing to start up his car.
Instead, people were rushing along the cobbled street to join a newly formed queue at the door of a store. 'Who's last…? Then I'm after you.' To these people with their clanking milk-cans this queue was evidently the most important thing in the world. Novikov felt particularly irritated by the soldiers and officers; nearly all of them were carrying bundles and suitcases. 'The swine – the whole lot of them should be put straight on a train for the Front!' he said to himself.