Apricot Jam: And Other Stories (37 page)

“
And how did you ever get a last name like Boyev? No one could have hit on a better one. You seem to be completely at home in war. It
’
s as if you
’
ve discovered the happiness in it. I can see you firing on that bell tower as if it happened today . . .
”

I had watched it happen next to that hamlet where Ovsyannikov and I lay, unable to raise our heads because of that bell tower. Some of Boyev
’
s clever fellows could see what was going on and, under the same fire we were facing, they came out and lit a few smoke pots. A solid gray smokescreen wafted across, though it wouldn
’
t last long! Boyev himself came out with one gun, using open sights. It was a tricky and risky operation, and he had to make it work: the gun had to be changed from its traveling to its firing position; they loaded it, managed to make out the top of the bell tower when the smoke began to clear, and bang! They reloaded and— bang!—once more. A hit! Then, quick as can be they brought the gun back to its traveling position, hooked it to the tractor, and off they went. The Germans lay
down a barrage on that spot, but they were too late. And that was the last of their OP.

“
. . . For you, war is existence itself, as if you have no existence outside of war. So, may you live through all this ...
”

Boyev listens, astonished, as if he was quite unaware of all this.

We all rise. Glasses clink against tin mugs. All of us feel the fire course through our insides. Vodka after a day like that—you had to watch yourself!

What glorious, rough days! And where were they taking us?

The grand offensive! Over the whole war you could have counted the number of such days on one hand. Our spirits soared. It seemed that we had been filled to overflowing, yet there was still more to come.

Once again we stand, clink our glasses, and drink—to victory, of course!

Mygkov says:
“
When the war ends, our hearts will all be smaller somehow, just imagine.
”

The conversation shifts quickly from one topic to another, everyone putting in his word. Boyev says:
“
They were the ones to lay hands on us, and they
’
ll regret it. We
’
ll make it hot for them.
”

The adjutant:
“
We
’
ll put their feet to the fire.
”

The commissar:
“
Ehrenburg writes that the Germans are horrified when they think of what
’
s waiting for them this winter. But they should think of what
’
s waiting for them in August.
”

Everyone is filled with passion, though not with hatred. That
’
s just for the newspapers.

“
You try speaking German to the Germans and they switch to Russian. They
’
ve learned a lot over two years.
”

“
What do you think, will anyone understand us when we come back home? Or maybe no one understands us even now?
”

“
Just think, though, how much of Russia they still hold. It
’
s monstrous.
”

“
Why won
’
t they open the Second Front, the bastards?
”

“
Because they
’
re saving their own skins at our expense.
”

“
Well, they have started the invasion of Italy.
”

The commissar says:
“
Capitalist America doesn
’
t want a quick end to the war; that would end their profits.
”

I suggest something else to him:
“
It seems to me that we
’
re going too far off course, moving away from internationalism.
”

He replies:
“
Why is that? Disbanding the Third International was quite correct.
”

“
As camouflage, perhaps; as a tactical move.
”
But I change the subject:
“
Well, I can
’
t stay any longer. This is when I have to get busy.
”

Proshchenkov tells us about an incident from today
’
s firing. He believes that 423
has
been destroyed; there hasn
’
t been another shot from that position.

“
Maybe they
’
ve just shifted the position.
”

A few more things are said about shifting positions. We don
’
t know about the Germans, but sometimes even when our people are ordered to shift their
guns,
the blockheads just go on firing and firing from the same spot, out of laziness, until they get blasted to pieces by the enemy.

That
’
s not the only stupidity. What about those who fire at random just so they can report a number of shells expended?

It happens . . .

Proshchenkov says:
“
We
’
ve got ourselves well dug in now that evening
’
s come on. Let
’
s hope they don
’
t move us tonight, at least.
”

The light coming through the tiny window in the truck is fading, so the battery-run bulb on the ceiling is turned on.

“
Not a bad little shop we have here for our headquarters,
”
says Boyev, looking around.
“
What do you
think,
will the old girl take us right to Germany?
”
We begin listing the people who won
’
t be making it to Germany— one, two, three, a fourth sent to a punishment battalion where he was killed.

I
’
ve spent time with people who were more educated, but I
’
ve never spent time with people of purer heart. I
’
m happy to be among them.

“
Yes, and later when we remember one another . . .
”

We hear the distinctive hoarse and hateful crash of a six-barrel mortar.

The mortar shells howl, and then come six explosions in rapid succession.

“
Well, thanks to you, friends, and goodbye. It
’
s time for me to go.
”

And, indeed, it
’
s already twilight outside. I have to get back before dark or risk getting lost.

~ * ~

All our lines are still in operation.

Yemelyanov calls from the advance post:
“
Now we
’
re digging in right and proper. But the German
’
s sending up a lot of flares.
”

Even back in the village, we
’
re being lit up by red flares and white-and-gold ones that hang in the air for a long time.

We
’
ve recorded the six-barrel mortar, though not very accurately— mortars are always difficult to pick up. Then there
’
s a gun, target 428, probably a seventy-six, that fires a single shot. We pick it up at once and get a precise fix on it.

The equipment is in good order, all gauges showing normal. A new tape has been put on the roller. The ink in the pens has been topped up. Everyone on the new shift is rested and in good spirits. Three low-voltage bulbs light up the front part of the cellar. The white paper gleams and the shiny metal sparkles.

Also here are the two duty linesmen, telephones on their belts, carrying extra spools of cable, flashlights, wire cutters, and insulating tape. These men have it tough at night, following the cable to the break at one end and then trying to find the other end.

The far end of the cellar is dark. The children are asleep, the women have also lain down and their faces can no longer be seen. But I can hear the voice of my battery political officer there. I can
’
t tell where he
’
s found himself a place, but I can distinguish his fruity singsong:

“…
Yes, comrades, now we
’
ve even let the church come back. Soviet power has nothing against God. Now we just have to liberate our motherland.
”

“
Do you really think you can smash right through to Berlin?
”
says a suspicious voice.

“
Why not?
We
’
ll give it to them over there. And all our things that the Germans destroyed, we
’
ll rebuild. Our land will sparkle even more than before. There
’
ll be a
fine
life for us after the war, comrades, the like of which we
’
ve never seen.
”

The tape moves in the machine. The advance post had picked up something. And now all the posts were recording.

Then we hear it ourselves: a long, rolling volley. Right, let
’
s get to work!

~ * ~

2

And so fifty-two
years later, in May 1995, I was invited to Oryol for the commemoration of the fiftieth anniversary of Victory Day. Vitya Ovsyannikov and I (Vitya was now a retired lieutenant colonel) were fortunate enough to drive and walk over the routes of the 1943 offensive, from the Neruch, from Novosil, and from our station at elevation 259.0 to Oryol.

Novosil, which we remembered as a wasteland of rubble on a hill ravaged by artillery fire, was now utterly unrecognizable. We also visited our former
“
regimental mascot,
”
Dmitry Fyodorovich Petrykin, who came out to greet us wearing a felt hat and had his picture taken with us and his whole family, children and grandchildren.

Our underground headquarters at elevation 259.0 had now been completely plowed over; not a trace of it remained, and we had no access to it. Nearby was the wooded ravine where our kitchen and our service area had been and where the unlucky Dvoretsky was killed (he hadn
’
t even come for his porridge; he wanted to see the medic to have a sore treated). He was hit by a tiny piece of shrapnel, but it struck him straight in the heart. The same small Y-shaped ravine and patch of woods had survived very well, both in its shape and appearance: the yearly plowing had not allowed any new saplings to spread beyond the ravine itself.

But what had happened to
Krutoi
Verkh
ravine? It had been about three kilometers long, some fifty meters wide, and had a few gentle curves, like a calmly flowing river. It extended through our area and provided a spacious approach quite hidden from ground observation right to our front lines. Infantry, cavalry, and transport vehicles passed this way all through the day with no need to conceal themselves, and by night there were trucks with ammunition and food; they would move back to the rear by morning or be dug in, nose first, into the sides of the ravine and covered with fresh branches and camouflage nets. After yet another bend, the hill ended directly on the Neruch, and it was here that our 63rd Army was able to assemble and prepare for its breakthrough on July 12, 1943.

But how
Krutoi
Verkh
had changed over half a century! Where had those steep banks gone? Where was its depth? Where were the firm slopes and bottom covered over with grass? It had become shallower, eroded, and had even grown bald; it had lost its harsh contours and was no longer a formidable gorge. It had been our home and refuge! But now, of course, there wasn
’
t a trace of the old dugouts and ramps where trucks had been hidden.

Beyond the Neruch, on the heights, there had then been a fortified German line, and it was very well fortified! There were impassable pillboxes and rows of separately dug-in armored gun turrets. There was something else that was unforgettable: the troops who made the breakthrough immediately faced a minefield. Dozens and dozens of dead, both ours and theirs, had lain there. Ours lay mostly facedown, as they had fallen or crawled forward; the Germans were more scattered, some lying where they had died defending their positions, others
where they had turned to flee. They lay, their faces distorted by horror, bodies disfigured, many with half their heads torn away. We had found a German machine gunner sitting in his trench, still clutching his weapon on the spot where he was killed. Scattered across the area were heaps and heaps of scorched metal: tanks, self-propelled guns, all singed red, like living flesh.