Vasily Grossman - Life And Fate

'Comrades, let me say quite frankly, there are certain phrases that seem rather unfortunate. They almost bring into disrepute our whole scientific intelligentsia.' 'Please, Viktor Pavlovich, give us your suggestions. We'll be only too delighted to alter any phrases that you consider unfortunate.'

'Please understand, comrades. Here it says: "the writer Babel, an enemy of the people; the writer Pilnyak, an enemy of the people; the director Meyerhold, an enemy of the people; Academician Vavilov, an enemy of the people…" I'm a theoretical physicist, a mathematician. Some people consider me schizophrenic, my field of study's so abstract. I'm really not competent to judge these other matters. It's best to leave people like me in peace.' 'Nonsense, Viktor Pavlovich. You have a logical mind and you understand politics extremely well. You know yourself how often you talk about politics and how apt your remarks always are.'

'For the love of God! Please understand that I have a conscience. I feel ill, I find all this very painful. I'm under no obligation… Why should I have to sign this letter? I'm exhausted. You must allow me the right to a clear conscience.'

But he couldn't get away from a sense of impotence, a sense that he had somehow been hypnotized. He was as obedient as a well-cared-for animal. And then there was fear – fear of ruining his life once again, fear of living in fear.

Could he really oppose himself to the collective again? Go back to his former solitude? It was time he took the world seriously. He had obtained things he had never even dreamed of. He could work in complete freedom; he was treated with solicitous attentiveness. And he hadn't had to beg for any of this; he hadn't repented. He had been victorious. What more could he ask for? Stalin had telephoned him.

'Comrades, this is a very serious matter. I need to think about it. Allow me to put off my decision until tomorrow.'

Viktor immediately imagined all the torment of a sleepless night: doubts, indecision, sudden decisiveness followed by terror, more doubts, another decision. All that was so exhausting. It was worse than malaria. Did he really want to prolong such torture? No, he had no strength. It was better to get it over and done with.

He took out his pen. As he did so, he saw a look of amazement on Shishakov's face. How docile this rebel had now become!

Viktor did no work that day. There were no distractions, no telephone calls. He was simply unable to work. His work seemed dull, empty, pointless.

Who else had signed the letter? Chepyzhin? Ioffe had, but Krylov? And Mandelstam? He wanted to hide behind someone's back. But it had been impossible for him to refuse. It would have been suicide. Nonsense, he could easily have refused. No, he had done the right thing. But then, no one had threatened him. It would have been all right if he had signed out of a feeling of animal fear. But he hadn't signed out of fear. He had signed out of an obscure, almost nauseous, feeling of submissiveness.

Viktor called Anna Stepanovna to his office and asked her to develop a film for tomorrow. It was a control film of experiments carried out with the new apparatus.

She finished noting everything down, but didn't move. Viktor looked at her questioningly.

'Viktor Pavlovich,' she began, 'I once thought this was impossible to put into words, but I feel I have to say it: do you realize how much you have done for me and for others? What you've done for us is more important than any great discovery. I feel better just knowing that you exist. Do you know what the mechanics, cleaners and caretakers say about you? They say that you're an upright man. I often wanted to call at your home, but I was afraid. Do you understand? Even during the most difficult days I had only to think of you and everything seemed easier. Thank you for being the man you are!'

Before Viktor had time to say anything, she had left the office.

He wanted to run down the street and scream… Anything, anything at all rather than this shame, this torment. But this was only the beginning.

Late in the afternoon his telephone rang.

'Do you know who it is?'

He did indeed. Even his cold fingers on the receiver seemed to recognize the voice. Once again Marya Ivanovna had appeared at a critical moment.

'I'm speaking from a call-box. I can hardly hear you,' said Marya Ivanovna. 'Pyotr Lavrentyevich is feeling better. I've got more time now. If you can, come to the square at eight o'clock tomorrow.'

Suddenly her voice changed.

'My love, my dearest, my light, I'm afraid for you. Someone came round about a letter – you know the one I mean? I'm sure it was you, your strength, that helped Pyotr Lavrentyevich stand his ground. Anyway, it went all right. But I immediately began thinking how much harm you've probably done yourself. You're so awkward and angular. You always come out bleeding, while everyone else just gets a slight knock.'

Viktor put down the receiver and buried his face in his hands. He now understood the position he was in. It wasn't his enemies who were going to punish him, but his friends, the people who loved him. It was their very faith in him that would wound him.

As soon as he got home he phoned Chepyzhin; he didn't even take his coat off. As he dialled his number, he felt certain that he would be wounded yet again – by his dear friend, by his loving teacher.

Lyudmila was standing right there, but he was in too much of a hurry even to tell her what he had done. God, how quickly she was going grey! That's right, that's right, have a go at someone when their hair turns grey!

'All right, I've just heard the bulletin on the radio,' said Chepyzhin. 'But I haven't got much to say about myself. Oh yes, I quarrelled yesterday with certain prominent officials. Have you heard about this letter yet?'

Viktor's lips were quite dry. He licked them and said: 'Yes, vaguely.'

'Yes, yes, it's not something to talk about on the phone. We can discuss it when we next meet – after your trip,' said Chepyzhin.

But all this was nothing. Soon Nadya would be back. Heavens, what had he done?

Viktor didn't sleep that night. His heart ached. He felt weighed down by an unimaginable gloom. A conquering hero indeed!

Even when he had been afraid of the woman in the house-manager's office, he had felt stronger and freer than he did now. Now he no longer dared to take part in a discussion, to express the slightest doubt about anything. He had sacrificed his inner freedom. How could he look Chepyzhin in the eye? Or perhaps he would find it no more difficult than all the people who had greeted him so brightly and warmly on his return to the Institute?

Everything he remembered only added to the torture. There was no peace anywhere. Everything he did, even his smiles and gestures, no longer seemed a part of him; they were alien, hostile. Nadya had looked at him that evening with an expression of pitying disgust.

Only Lyudmila – who in the past had annoyed him and ticked him off more than anyone – had been of any comfort. She had simply said: 'Don't torture yourself, Viktor. To me you're the most intelligent and honourable man in the world. If that's what you did, then it's what you had to do.'

Why did he always want to approve of everything? Why had he become so accepting of things he had never been able to tolerate before? Why, whatever people were talking about, did he always have to be the optimist?

The recent military victories had corresponded to a change in his own life. He could see the power of the army, the grandeur of the State; there was light at the end of the tunnel. Why had Madyarov's thoughts come to seem so banal?

He had refused to repent when they threw him out of the Institute. How happy, how full of light he had felt. And what joy he had felt then in the people he loved! Lyudmila, Nadya, Chepyzhin, Zhenya… But what would he say now to Marya Ivanovna? He had always been so arrogant about Pyotr Lavrentyevich and his timid submissiveness. And now! As for his mother, he was afraid even to think of her. He had sinned against her too. He was afraid even to touch that last letter of hers. He realized with sorrow and horror how incapable he was of protecting his own soul. The power that had reduced him to slavery lay inside him.