Life And Fate (Orange Inheritance)
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.
Could he really be about to see her? Today? ‘Zhenya! Hello!’
His interview with General Ryutin was extremely brief. They had barely started when the general received a telephone call from the General Staff – he was to fly to Moscow immediately.
Ryutin apologized to Novikov and then made a call on the local exchange.
‘Everything’s been changed, Masha. I’m flying by Douglas at dawn tomorrow. Tell Anna Aristarkhovna. We won’t be able to bring any potatoes – they’re still at the State farm.’
His pale face took on a look of suffering and disgust. Then, evidently interrupting a flood of complaints, he snapped, ‘So you want me to inform the General Staff that I’m unable to leave until the tailor’s finished my wife’s coat?’ and hung up.
‘Comrade Colonel,’ he said to Novikov, ‘give me your opinion of the suspension of these tanks. Do they answer to the requirements we originally laid down?’
Novikov found this conversation wearisome. During his months in command he had learned to evaluate people very quickly. He had learned to weigh up the importance of all the inspectors, instructors, heads of commissions and other representatives who had come to see him. He understood very well the importance of such simple phrases as ‘Comrade Malenkov told me to inform you . . .’ And he knew that there were generals covered in medals, full of bustle and eloquence, who were powerless even to obtain a ton of fuel-oil, appoint a storekeeper or fire a clerk.
Ryutin’s position wasn’t on the top level of the pyramid of State; he was merely a statistician, a provider of information. During their conversation Novikov looked repeatedly at his watch.
The general closed his large notebook.
‘I’m sorry, comrade Colonel. I’m afraid I have to leave you. I’m flying at dawn tomorrow. I don’t know what to do. Perhaps you should come to Moscow yourself?’
‘Yes, comrade Lieutenant-General. Together with all the tanks under my command,’ said Novikov coldly.
They said goodbye. Ryutin asked him to give his regards to General Nyeudobnov; they had once served together. As Novikov walked down the strip of green carpet leading towards the door of the large office, he heard Ryutin back on the telephone:
‘Get me the director of kolkhoz number one.’
‘Poor man,’ thought Novikov. ‘He’s got to rescue his potatoes.’
He left the building and set out for Yevgenia Nikolaevna’s. In Stalingrad he had visited her on a stifling summer night; he had come straight from the steppe, covered in the smoke and dust of the retreat. There seemed to be an abyss between the man he had been then and the man he was now. And yet here he was, the same person, about to visit her once again.
‘You’ll be mine!’ he said to himself. ‘You’ll be mine!’