Life And Fate (Orange Inheritance)

Karimov was an ugly man with a pock-marked face. His swarthy skin made his hair look still greyer, while his grey hair made his skin look still swarthier. He spoke Russian very correctly, and only the most attentive listener could detect his slight oddities of pronunciation and syntax.

Viktor had never heard his name before, but it appeared to be well-known even outside Kazan. Karimov had translated The Divine Comedy and Gulliver’s Travels into Tartar; at present he was working on The Iliad.

At one time, before they had been introduced, they often used to run into one another at the University, in the small smoking-room on the way out of the reading-room. The librarian, a loquacious, slovenly old woman who used a lot of lipstick, had already told Viktor all about Karimov. He knew that Karimov had studied at the Sorbonne, that he had a dacha in the Crimea, and that he had formerly spent most of the year at the seaside. His wife and daughter had been caught in the Crimea by the war; Karimov had had no news of them since. The old woman had hinted that Karimov had been through eight years of great suffering, but Viktor had only looked at her blankly. It was clear that the old woman had also told Karimov all about Viktor. The two of them felt uneasy at knowing so much about each other without having been introduced; when they did meet, they tended to frown rather than smile. Finally, they bumped into each other one day in the library cloakroom, simultaneously burst out laughing and began to talk.

Viktor didn’t know whether Karimov enjoyed his conversation; he only knew that he himself enjoyed talking when Karimov was listening. He knew from experience that a man who seems intelligent and witty at first often proves terribly boring to talk to.

There were people in whose presence Viktor found it hard to say even one word; his voice would go wooden and the conversation would become grey and colourless – as though they were both deaf-mutes. There were people in whose presence even one sincere word sounded false. And there were old friends in whose presence he felt peculiarly alone.

What was the reason for all this? Why is it that you occasionally meet someone – a travelling companion, a man sleeping next to you in a camp, someone who joins in a chance argument – in whose presence your inner world suddenly ceases to be mute and isolated?

Viktor and Karimov were walking side by side, talking away; Viktor realized that there were times now when he didn’t think of his work for hours on end, especially during these evening talks at the Sokolovs’. He had never experienced this before; he normally thought about his work the whole time – in the tram, listening to music, eating, while he was drying his face after getting washed in the morning.

Yes, he must have got himself into a blind alley. Now he was unconsciously pushing away any thought of his work . . .

‘How’s your work gone today, Akhmet Usmanovich?’ he asked.

‘My mind’s gone quite blank. All I can think of is my wife and daughter. Sometimes I think that everything’s all right and that we will see each other again. And then I have a feeling that they’re already dead.’

‘I can understand,’ said Viktor.

‘I know,’ said Karimov.

How strange it all was: here was someone Viktor had known for only a few weeks – and he could talk to him about what he couldn’t even talk about with his wife or his daughter.

Almost every evening, people who would never have met in Moscow gathered together in the Sokolovs’ small room.

Sokolov, though outstandingly talented, always spoke in a rather pedantic way. No one would have guessed from his smooth, polished speech that his father was a Volga fisherman. He was a kind, noble man, and yet there was something in his face that seemed sly and cruel.

There were other respects in which Sokolov differed from the Volga fishermen: he never drank, he hated draughts, and he was terrified of infection – he was constantly washing his hands and he would cut the crust off a loaf of bread where he had touched it with his fingers.

Viktor was always amazed when he read Sokolov’s work. How could a man think so boldly and elegantly, how could he elaborate and prove the most complex ideas with such concision – and then drone on so tediously over a cup of tea?

Viktor himself, like many people brought up in a cultured, bookish environment, enjoyed dropping phrases like ‘a load of crap’ or ‘bullshit’ into a conversation. In the presence of a venerable Academician, he would refer to a shrewish female lecturer as ‘an old cow’ or even ‘a bitch’.

Before the war Sokolov had always refused to allow any discussion of politics. As soon as Viktor even mentioned politics, Sokolov had either fallen into a reserved silence or else changed the subject with studied deliberateness.

There was a strange streak of submissiveness in him, a passive acceptance of the terrible cruelties of collectivization and the year 1937. He seemed to accept the anger of the State as other people accept the anger of Nature or the anger of God. Viktor sometimes thought that Sokolov did believe in God, and that this faith showed itself in his work, in his personal relationships, and in his humble obedience before the mighty of this world.

Sokolov’s brother-in-law, the historian Madyarov, spoke calmly and unhurriedly. He never openly defended Trotsky or the senior Red Army officers who had been shot as traitors to the Motherland; but it was clear from the admiration with which he spoke of Krivoruchko and Dubov, from the casual respect with which he mentioned the names of commissars and generals who had been liquidated in 1937, that he did not for one moment believe that Marshals Tukhachevsky, Blücher and Yegorov, or Muralov, the commander of the Moscow military district, or Generals Levandovsky, Gamarnik, Dybenko and Bubnov, or Unschlicht, or Trotsky’s first deputy, Sklyansky, had ever really been enemies of the people and traitors to the Motherland.

No one had talked like this before the war. The might of the State had constructed a new past. It had made the Red cavalry charge a second time. It had dismissed the genuine heroes of long-past events and appointed new ones. The state had the power to replay events, to transform figures of granite and bronze, to alter speeches long since delivered, to change the faces in a news photograph.

A new history had been written. Even people who had lived through those years had now had to relive them, transformed from brave men to cowards, from revolutionaries to foreign agents.

Listening to Madyarov, however, it seemed clear that all this would give way to a more powerful logic – the logic of truth.

‘All these men,’ he said, ‘would have been fighting against Fascism today. They’d have sacrificed their lives gladly. Why did they have to be killed?’

The landlord of the Sokolovs’ flat was a chemical engineer from Kazan, Vladimir Romanovich Artelev. Artelev’s wife worked late. Their two sons were at the front. He himself was in charge of a workshop at the chemical factory. He was badly dressed and he didn’t even have a winter coat or fur hat. He had to wear a quilted jerkin under his raincoat, and he had a dirty, crumpled cap that he always pulled right down over his ears when he went out.

When Viktor saw him come in, blowing on his numb, red fingers, smiling shyly at the people round the table, he could hardly believe that this was the landlord; rather than the head of a large workshop at an important factory, he seemed like some beggarly neighbour coming to scrounge.

This evening, Artelev was hovering by the door, hollow-cheeked and unshaven, listening to Madyarov; he must have been afraid the floorboards would squeak if he walked right in. Marya Ivanovna whispered something in his ear on her way to the kitchen. He shook his head timidly, evidently saying he didn’t want anything to eat.

‘Yesterday,’ said Madyarov, ‘a colonel who’s here for medical treatment was telling me he has to appear before a Party Commission for hitting a lieutenant in the face. That sort of thing never happened during the Civil War.’

‘But you said yourself that Shchors had the members of a Revolutionary Military Commission whipped,’ said Viktor.

‘Yes,’ said Madyarov, ‘but that was a subordinate whipping his superiors. That’s a little different.’

‘It’s the same story in industry,’ said Artelev. ‘Our director addresses everyone in the familiar form, but he’d take offence if you addressed him as “Comrade Shurev”. No, it has to be “Leontiy Kuzmich”. The other day in the workshop he got angry with one of the chemists, an old man. Shurev swore at him and said: “You do as I say – or I’ll give you a boot up the arse that will send you flying onto the street.” The old man is seventy-one years old.’

‘And doesn’t the trade union say anything?’ asked Sokolov.

‘What’s the trade union got to do with it?’ asked Madyarov. ‘Their job is to exhort us to make sacrifices. You know: first we had to make preparations for the war; now it’s “everything for the Front”; and after the war we’ll be called upon to remedy the consequences of the war. They haven’t got time to bother about some old man.’

‘Maybe we should have some tea now?’ Marya Ivanovna whispered to Sokolov.

‘Yes, of course!’ said Sokolov. ‘Let’s have some tea.’

‘It’s amazing how silently she moves!’ thought Viktor, gazing absent-mindedly at Marya Ivanovna’s thin shoulders as she glided out through the half-open door to the kitchen.

‘Yes, comrades,’ said Madyarov suddenly, ‘can you imagine what it’s like to have freedom of the press? One quiet morning after the war you open your newspaper, and instead of exultant editorials, instead of a letter addressed by some workers to the great Stalin, instead of articles about a brigade of steel-workers who have done an extra day’s work in honour of the elections to the Supreme Soviet, instead of stories about workers in the United States who are beginning the New Year in a state of despondency, poverty and growing unemployment, guess what you find . . .! Information! Can you imagine a newspaper like that? A newspaper that provides information!

‘You begin reading: there’s an article about the bad harvest in the region of Kursk, the inspector’s report on conditions inside Butyrka Prison, a discussion about whether the White Sea canal is really necessary or not, an account of how a worker called Golopuzov has spoken out against the imposition of a new State loan.

‘In short, you learn everything that’s happened in the country: good and bad harvests; outbursts of civic enthusiasm and armed robberies; the opening of a new mine and an accident in another mine; a disagreement between Molotov and Malenkov; reports on the strike that has flared up in protest against a factory director who insulted a seventy-year-old chemical engineer. You read Churchill’s and Blum’s actual speeches instead of summaries of what they “alleged”; you read an account of a debate in the House of Commons; you learn how many people committed suicide in Moscow yesterday and how many were injured in traffic accidents. You learn why there’s no buckwheat in Moscow instead of being told that the first strawberries have just been flown in from Tashkent. You find out the quantity of a kolkhoz-worker’s daily ration of bread from the newspapers, not from the cleaning-lady whose niece from the country has just come to Moscow to buy some bread. Yes, and at the same time you continue to be a true Soviet citizen.

‘You go into a bookshop and buy a book. You read historians, economists, philosophers and political correspondents from America, England and France. You can work out for yourself where these writers are mistaken – you’re allowed out onto the street without your nanny.’

Just as Madyarov reached the end of his speech, Marya Ivanovna came in with a great pile of cups and saucers. And at the same moment, Sokolov banged on the table and said: ‘That’s enough! I absolutely insist that you bring this conversation to an end.’

Marya Ivanovna’s mouth dropped open as she stared at her husband. The cups and saucers she was carrying began to tinkle; her hands were trembling.

‘There we are,’ said Viktor. ‘Freedom of the press has been abolished by Pyotr Lavrentyevich. We didn’t enjoy it for long. It’s a good thing Marya Ivanovna wasn’t exposed to such seditious talk.’

‘Our system,’ said Sokolov testily, ‘has demonstrated its strength. The bourgeois democracies have already collapsed.’

‘Yes,’ said Viktor, ‘but then in 1940 the degenerate bourgeois democracy of Finland came up against our centralism – and things didn’t turn out too well for us. I’m no admirer of bourgeois democracy – but facts are facts. And what about that old chemist?’

Viktor looked round and saw Marya Ivanovna gazing at him very attentively.

‘It wasn’t Finland, but the Finnish winter,’ said Sokolov.

‘Come on, Petya!’ said Madyarov.

‘We could say,’ Viktor went on, ‘that during the war the Soviet State has demonstrated both its strengths and its weaknesses.’

‘What weaknesses?’ asked Sokolov.

‘Well,’ said Madyarov, ‘for a start there are all the people who’ve been arrested when they could be fighting against the Germans. Why do you think we’re fighting on the banks of the Volga?’

‘What’s that got to do with the system?’

‘What on earth do you mean?’ asked Viktor. ‘I suppose you, Pyotr Lavrentyevich, think that the corporal’s widow shot herself in 1937?’fn1

Once again Viktor felt Marya Ivanovna’s attentive gaze. He thought to himself that he’d been behaving strangely in this argument: when Madyarov first began criticizing the State, he had argued against Madyarov; but when Sokolov attacked Madyarov, he had begun arguing against Sokolov.

Sokolov enjoyed the odd laugh at a stupid speech or an illiterate article, but his stance on any important issue was always steadfast and undeviating. Whereas Madyarov certainly made no secret of his views.

‘You’re attempting to explain our retreat in terms of the imperfections of the Soviet system,’ pronounced Sokolov. ‘But the blow struck against our country by the Germans was of such force that, in absorbing this blow, our State has demonstrated with absolute clarity not its weakness but its strength. What you see is the shadow cast by a giant, and you say: “Look, what a shadow!” You forget the giant himself. Our centralism is a social motor of truly immense power, capable of achieving miracles. It already has achieved miracles. And it will achieve more!’

‘If you’re no use to the State,’ said Karimov, ‘it will discard you; it will throw you out together with all your ideas, plans and achievements. But if your idea coincides with the interests of the State, then you’ll be given a magic carpet.’

‘That’s true enough,’ said Artelev. ‘I was once posted for a month to a factory of special military importance. Stalin himself knew about each new workshop that opened – he was in telephone contact with the director . . . And what equipment! Raw materials, special components, spare parts – everything just appeared quite miraculously . . . And as for the living conditions! Bathrooms, cream brought to the door every morning! I’ve never known anything like it. And a superb canteen. And above all, there was no bureaucracy. Everything could be organized without red tape.’

‘Or rather,’ added Karimov, ‘the State bureaucracy, like the giant in a fairy-tale, was placed at the service of the people.’

‘If such perfection has already been attained at factories of military importance,’ said Sokolov, ‘then it will clearly eventually be attained throughout the whole of industry.’

‘No!’ said Madyarov. ‘There are two distinct principles. Stalin doesn’t build what people need – he builds what the State needs. It’s the State, not the people, that needs heavy industry. And as for the White Sea canal – that’s no use to anyone. The needs of the State are one pole; people’s needs are the other pole. These two poles are irreconcilable.’

‘You’re right,’ said Artelev. ‘And outside these special factories there’s total chaos. People here in Kazan need a certain product, but according to the plan I have to deliver it to Chita – and from there it’s sent back to Kazan. I need fitters, but haven’t used up the funds allocated for children’s nurseries – so what do I do? I put my fitters down in the books as child-minders. We’re stifled by centralism! Some inventor suggested a method for producing fifteen hundred articles where we now produce two hundred. The director simply threw him out: the plan’s calculated according to the total weight of what we produce – it’s easier just to let things be. And if the whole factory comes to a standstill because of a shortage of some material that can be bought for thirty roubles, then he’ll close the factory and lose two million roubles. He won’t risk paying thirty roubles on the black market.’

Artelev looked round at his listeners and, as though afraid they wouldn’t let him finish, went on hurriedly:

‘A worker gets very little, but he does get paid according to his labour. Whereas an engineer gets almost nothing – you can earn five times as much selling fizzy water on the street. And the factory directors and commissariats just go on repeating: “The plan! The plan!” It doesn’t matter if you’re dying of hunger – you must fulfil the plan. We had a director called Shmatkov who was always shouting: “The factory’s more important than your own mother. Even if you work yourself to death – you must fulfil the plan! And if you don’t – I’ll work you to death myself.” And then one fine day we hear that Shmatkov is being transferred to Voskresensk. “Afanasy Lukich,” I asked him, “how can you leave us like this? We’re behind with the plan!” He just said quite straightforwardly, “Well, we’ve got children living in Moscow and Voskresensk is much closer. And then we’ve been offered a good flat – with a garden. My wife’s always getting ill and she needs some fresh air.” I’m amazed the State can trust people like that, while workers – and famous scientists, if they’re not Party members – have to beg for their bread.’

‘It’s quite simple really,’ said Madyarov. ‘These people have been entrusted with something far more important than factories and institutes. These people have been entrusted with the holy of holies, the heart, the life-force, of Soviet bureaucracy.’

‘I can truly say,’ Artelev continued, without acknowledging Madyarov’s joke, ‘that I love my workshop. And I work hard – I don’t spare myself. But I lack the most important quality – I don’t know how to work human beings to death. I can work myself to death, but not the workers.’

Everything Madyarov had said made sense; and yet, without understanding why, Viktor still felt a need to contradict him.

‘There’s something twisted in your reasoning,’ he said. ‘How can you deny that today the interests of the individual not only coincide with, but are one and the same as, the interests of the State? The State has built up the armaments industry. Surely each one of us needs the guns, tanks and aeroplanes with which our sons and brothers have been armed?’