Apricot Jam: And Other Stories (59 page)

They hemmed and hawed; nothing clear.

Ah, it
’
s their business, after all.
Probably telling each other stories about girls or the like.

He was already turning to leave, but suspected something. Up
this
late? And they certainly hadn
’
t been expecting him. And the fire in the stove was weak—it could hardly warm them.

“
Oderkov, open the door.
”

Oderkov sat right by the door of the stove, but gave a blank look: What door?

“
Oderkov!
”

Among them the lieutenant discerned junior sergeant Timonov, their section commander.

The soldiers froze. No one moved.

“
What is this? Open it, I said.
”

Oderkov lifted his arm as though it were made of lead.
Took the turn-handle, strained to lift it.

All the way to the end.

And with no less strain he pulled on the door, and pulled some more.

Inside the stove, amidst the glowing coals, was a round, soot-stained, standard-issue mess pot. A steam odor poured into the room, cutting through the foul air of drying stockings.

“
What are you boiling?
”
asked lieutenant Pozushan, still just as quietly, not to wake the platoon, but very strictly.

It became clear to the five of them that he would not drop it. No avoiding an answer.

Timonov got up.
Not very firmly.
Arms at his side, but squirming.
One step closer to the lieutenant, to be all the quieter:
“
Sorry, comrade lieutenant. We were on mess hall duty today.
Grabbed us a few raw potatoes.
”

Of course! Pozushan only now realized it: Their battalion was on duty today and tomorrow. He had forgotten that the supply sergeant ordered a team to work the mess hall. And so they went.

A darkness
slid, not over the lieutenant
’
s eyes, but into his breast. Like silt muddying the water. Like dirt.

Not swearing at them outright but with a pained voice, he let out a plea to the fighting men, all of them now on their feet:
“
Are you nuts? Do you have any idea what you are doing? The Germans are in Stalingrad. The country is starving. Every grain gets counted! And you?
”

What else to say to them, so mindless, ignorant, and unconscientious? What else to infuse into their backward heads?

“
Timonov, take out the pot.
”

With the mitten that lay nearby, Timonov took the red-hot handle and, trying not to nick the coals, carefully lifted and pulled out the pot.

The bottom of the black pot was still covered with spots of glowing ember.

The embers burned out. Timonov held on.

The other four awaited their demise.

“
An offense like this, why, this is grounds for court-martial!
”
said the lieutenant.
“
Very simple and easy: Just hand your names to the Political Department.
”

Something else unpleasant now tugged at him. Oh yes, that
’
s it: Timonov was the one who had come to the lieutenant to ask if the regiment would write to his collective farm in Kazakhstan in defense of his family; they were being hounded for something. Pozushan couldn
’
t remember what for, but it was clear he couldn
’
t help; the regiment commanders would never sign a paper like that.

It came together oddly somehow. Either it made Timonov all the guiltier, or maybe less so.

The potatoes were boiling in their skins. Looked like about twenty of them, small ones.

And they gave off a teasing smell.

“
Go pour out the water in the sink and bring the pot back.
Quickly.
”

Timonov went, but not quickly.

In the dim light, the lieutenant scanned the faces of his silent fighting men. Their expressions were gloomy, complex.
Biting their lips.
Eyes down, or to the side.
But outright repentance—no, he couldn
’
t read it on any of their faces.

Heavens, what is this coming to?

“
If we go off stealing government property, how are we going to win the war? Just think about it!
”

Dull and impenetrable they stood.

Yet this is with whom we march.
To victory.
Or to defeat.

Timonov returned with the pot. One could not even tell if all the potatoes were still in it.

Those undercooked potatoes.

“
Tomorrow we sort this out with the commissar,
”
said the lieutenant to the other four.
“
To bed.
”
But to Timonov:
“
Come with me.
”

In the hallway he ordered him:
“
Wake the supply sergeant, and put the pot in his custody.
”

He himself could hardly get to sleep afterward: a horrible episode, and in his own company! And he had almost missed it. Maybe this had occurred before? Lawlessness and theft are all around, and he didn
’
t even suspect it, just learned of it by chance.

In the morning he closely interrogated supply sergeant Guskov. The latter swore that he knew nothing. Why, nothing even remotely similar had ever happened in the company.

Looking into Guskov
’
s perceptive countenance, his little mobile eyes, Pozushan for the first time wondered: That trait, which he so liked in Guskov—his organizational capacity, prudence, and quick resolution of any difficulties that arose, all of which greatly eased the job of a company commander—could cheating also be a part of that trait?

Still early, before breakfast, the lieutenant went to battalion commissar Fatianov. This was a crystal soul, remarkably pleasant, straightforward, with big clear eyes. He conducted excellent political instruction with the men, not by rote, not in a mechanical voice.

Their battalion
staff were
assigned to two little rooms in a small house, across the wide square, which was used to place the entire reserve regiment in general formation, when necessary, or for marching drills.

It was a cold, dank November morning, foggy with drizzle. (And what is it like today in Stalingrad? The morning reports gave no clear picture.)

In the first room sat two middle-aged clerks, who hardly noticed the lieutenant
’
s entry. Is the commissar in? They nodded toward the second room.

Knocked on the door.
And opened it.

“
Permission to enter.
”
He crisply brought his hand to his temple (he was getting good at saluting).
“
Permission to address you, comrade major.
”

Major Fatianov sat at the battalion commander
’
s table, but along the side. The commander was not in. At a second larger table by the window, all covered in
papers, sat the quiet, mild-mannered captain Krayegorsky, the chief of staff. The major was without his overcoat, but in a cap. The captain was dressed for indoors, his carefully trimmed graying hair exposed neatly on his head.

“
What
’
s new, lieutenant?
”
asked the major, as ever both kindly and with a hint of a laugh, while leaning back in his chair.

Pozushan, with trepidation, reported everything. Four or five pounds of potatoes carried off from the kitchen and pocketed. There is suspicion that this could have occurred other times when his company was on kitchen duty. It is possible that this occurred in other companies, as well. The episode is directly suited for court-martial, but how can we go that far? (Not only out of pity for them, the fools, but heading for the front, it is also unwise to thin one
’
s own ranks.) What measures, then? What punishment? Should the episode be made public within the company?
Or within the battalion?
Or not public at all?

The major narrowed his wide, clear eyes. He gazed attentively at the lieutenant. He was thinking it over.

Or was he?

He took his time with an answer. First he sighed. Clutched the back of his head—and here his cap shifted forward, its peak toward his forehead.
Sighed once more.

“
An exemplary case,
”
he uttered with great strictness.

And sat silent.

Was the next step forming inside him?
Some punishment?

“
You know, lieutenant, you weren
’
t with us the summer of
‘
41. You didn
’
t see what huge warehouses were burned. And what looting went on as it happened.
Both in the cities and in the army itself.
Good heavens, what a hauling-off!
”

“
True, I did not see that, comrade major. But even from military school I know: People steal.
From the quartermasters to the kitchen-hands to the supply sergeants.
We students were always like hungry dogs, always getting the short end. It
’
s all the more reason to fight it! If everyone is going to steal, we will collapse the army
’
s own supports.
”

The major yawned slightly.

“
Ye-e-s.
You have the right perspective on it. Educate your men that way; your company has a weak political officer as it is.
”

The lieutenant stood, a bit disheartened. He expected a firm and immediate decision from the commissar—and instead all was adrift. This was nothing like the commissar
’
s own words during their political instruction.

The door now opened wide, and the battalion supply sergeant entered with dispatch, wearing a brand new padded jacket. In his left hand he carried by the handle an identical round mess pot, without a lid, except that it was a pure, clean olive green.

“
Comrade
commissar
!
”
with a swing of his right hand to touch his ear-flapped hat.
“
The sample!
Be so good as to taste it.
”

Taking the
sample
was indeed the job of the commissar of the battalion on duty. But this sample was over half a pot of creamy hot millet, enough to serve four, and heavily buttered, too, like nothing ever seen in the regiment
’
s mess hall.

“
Ye-e-s,
”
prolonged the commissar once more, took off his cap, and laid it on the table. This revealed his wavy, slightly curled dirty blond hair, which always kept his appearance agreeable and well-disposed.

The supply sergeant carefully placed the pot on an unoccupied corner of the table. Next to it he set out three wooden spoons, still freshly painted.

“
Have a seat, captain,
”
the commissar invited the chief of staff. And Krayegorsky started shifting over, together with his chair.

The sergeant saluted and left.

The pot was steaming and giving off a delicious smell.

“
The battalion commander is not here, why
don
’
t you
join us, lieutenant,
”
kindly offered the commissar, with a glint in his bright eyes, as if he was having a laugh.
But not at lieutenant Pozushan
’
s expense, no . . .