Life And Fate

No, what Viktor felt was a sense of pride – pride that he had been victorious over his persecutors. Not long ago he had felt quite free of resentment. Even now, he had no desire to occasion these people harm, to get his revenge. But he did take great joy in remembering their acts of dishonesty, cowardice and cruelty. The worse someone had behaved, the sweeter it was to think of him now.

When Nadya arrived back from school, Lyudmila shouted out:

'Nadya, Stalin's just telephoned Papa!'

Nadya rushed into the room, her scarf trailing on the floor, her coat half on and half off. Seeing her reaction made it easier for Viktor to imagine everyone's consternation when, later today or tomorrow, they heard what had happened.

They sat down to lunch. Viktor suddenly pushed his spoon away and said: 'I really don't want anything to eat.'

'It's a complete rout for all your detractors and persecutors,' said Lyudmila. 'Just think what must be going on now in the Institute and the Academy!'

'Yes, yes.'

'And the other women in the special store will say hello to you again, Mama, and smile at you,' said Nadya.

'That's right,' replied Lyudmila with a little laugh.

Viktor had always detested bootlickers. Still, it pleased him to think how obsequiously Shishakov would smile at him now.

There was just one thing he didn't understand. Mixed with his joy and his feeling of triumph was a sadness that seemed to well up from somewhere deep underground, a sense of regret for something sacred and cherished that seemed to be slipping away from him. For some reason he felt guilty, but he had no idea what of or before whom.

He sat there, eating his favourite buckwheat-and-potato soup and remembering a spring night in Kiev when he was a child; he had watched the stars looking down at him between the chestnut blossoms and wept. The world had seemed splendid then, the future quite vast, full of goodness and radiant light. Today his fate had been decided. It was as though he were saying goodbye to that pure, childish, almost religious love of science and its magic, saying goodbye to what he had felt a few weeks before as he overcame his terror and refused to lie to himself.

There was only one person he could have talked to about all this; but she wasn't there.

There was one other strange thing. He felt impatient and greedy; he wanted the whole world to know what had happened. He wanted it to be known in the Institute, in the auditoriums of the University, in the Central Committee, in the Academy, in the house management office, in the dacha office, in the different scientific societies. But Viktor felt quite indifferent as to whether or not Sokolov knew. And deep down, quite unconsciously, he would have preferred Marya Ivanovna not to know. He had the feeling it was better for their love that he should be persecuted and unhappy.

He told Nadya and Lyudmila a story they had all known even before the war. One night Stalin appeared in the metro, slightly drunk, sat down beside a young woman, and asked: 'What can I do for you?'

'I'd love to look round the Kremlin,' the woman replied.

Stalin thought for a moment and said: 'Yes, I can certainly arrange that for you.'

'See!' exclaimed Nadya. 'You're such a great man now that Mama let you finish the story without interrupting. She's already heard it a hundred and ten times.'

Once again, for the hundred and eleventh time, they all laughed at the simple-minded woman in the metro.

'Vitya,' said Lyudmila. 'Maybe we should have something to drink to celebrate the occasion?' She went to fetch a box of sweets that had been set aside for Nadya's birthday. 'There,' she said. 'But calm down, Nadya. There's no need to throw yourself on them like a starving wolf!'

'Papa,' said Nadya, 'what right have we got to laugh at the woman in the metro? After all, you could have asked Stalin about Krymov and Uncle Dmitry.'

'What do you mean? How could I?'

'I think you could. Grandmother would have said something straight away. That's for sure.'

'Maybe,' said Viktor. 'Maybe.'

'Don't be silly,' said Lyudmila.

'We're not being silly,' said Nadya. 'We're talking about the life of your own brother.'

'Vitya,' said Lyudmila. 'You must phone Shishakov.'

'I don't think you've quite taken in what's happened,' said Viktor. 'There's no need for me to phone anyone.'

'You should phone Shishakov,' said Lyudmila obstinately.

'Me phone Shishakov? When Stalin's wished me success in my work?'

Something had changed in Viktor. Until now he had always felt indignant at the way Stalin was idolized, the way his name appeared again and again in every column of every newspaper. And then there were all the portraits, busts, statues, oratorios, poems, hymns… And the way he was called a genius, the father of the people…

What had made Viktor particularly indignant was the way even Lenin's name had been eclipsed; Stalin's military genius was often contrasted with Lenin's more civic genius. There was a play of Aleksey Tolstoy's where Lenin obligingly lit a match so Stalin could have a puff at his pipe. One artist had portrayed Stalin striding up the steps of the Smolny with Lenin darting along behind him like a bantam cock. And if Lenin and Stalin were portrayed together in public, then the children and old people would be gazing tenderly at Lenin while a procession of armed giants – workers and sailors festooned with machine-gun belts – marched towards Stalin. Historians describing critical moments in the life of the Soviet State made it seem as though Lenin were constantly asking Stalin for advice – during the Kronstadt rebellion, during the defence of Tsaritsyn, even during the invasion of Poland. The strike at Baku, which Stalin had participated in, and the newspaper Bdzola, which he had edited, seemed more important in the history of the Party than the whole of the revolutionary movement that had gone before.

'Bdzola, Bdzola,' Viktor had repeated angrily. 'What about Zhelayabov, Plekhanov and Kropotkin? What about the Decembrists? All we ever hear about now is Bdzola.'

For a thousand years Russia had been governed by an absolute autocracy, by Tsars and their favourites. But never had anyone held such power as Stalin.

Now, though, Viktor no longer felt angry or horrified. The greater Stalin's power, the more deafening the hymns and trumpets, the thicker the clouds of incense at the feet of the living idol, the happier Viktor felt.

It was getting dark and Viktor didn't feel afraid.

Stalin had spoken to him. Stalin had said: 'I wish you success in your work.'

When it was fully dark, Viktor went out for a walk. He no longer felt helpless and doomed. No, he felt calm. The people who counted already knew everything. He found it strange even to think about Krymov, Abarchuk and Dmitry, about Madyarov and Chetverikov. Their fate was not his fate. He felt sad for them, but he felt no empathy.

Viktor was happy in his triumph: his intelligence, his moral strength had brought him victory. It didn't matter that this happiness was so different from what he had felt when he had been on trial, when he had felt his mother standing there beside him. He no longer cared whether Madyarov had been arrested or whether Krymov had informed on him. For the first time in his life he was free of anxiety about his careless talk and seditious jokes.

Late at night, when Lyudmila and Nadya were already in bed, the telephone rang.

'Hello,' said a quiet voice. Viktor felt an even greater excitement than he had earlier in the day.

'Hello,' he answered.

'I need to hear your voice. Say something to me.'

'Masha, Mashenka,' Viktor began. Then he fell silent.

'Viktor, darling,' she said. 'I can't lie to Pyotr Lavrentyevich. I told him I love you. I promised never to see you.'