He then took the matter a step further.

'Political Instructor Golub, explain to the commissar why Korol has just infringed discipline.'

'Beg to report, comrade Major. He quarrelled with Solomatin -I've no idea why.'

'Lieutenant Solomatin!'

'Yes, comrade Major.'

'Report to the commissar, not to me.'

'Beg to report, comrade Commissar.'

'Go ahead,' nodded Berman without so much as looking at Solomatin. He suspected that Major Zakabluka had his own reasons for what he was doing. Zakabluka was cunning, exceptionally so, both on the ground and in the air. Up in the air he was better than anyone at guessing an opponent's tactics, at outwitting his stratagems. And on the ground he was able to play a part when necessary, to act the simpleton and laugh ingratiatingly at some feeble joke made by a stupid superior. And he knew how to keep these wild young pilots under his thumb.

During their month in reserve, Zakabluka had displayed a considerable interest in farming, particularly poultry and livestock raising. He had also exploited the resources of the forest, making his own raspberry liqueur and preparing both pickled and dried mushrooms. His dinners were famous and other squadron commanders liked to drop by in their U-2S for a drink and a bite to eat. Zakabluka was very hospitable – but not without ulterior motives.

There was another side of his character which often complicated their relations: sly and calculating as he was, there were times when he would stop at nothing, when he would act so recklessly as to endanger his life.

'Arguing with one's superior officers is like pissing against the wind,' he would say – and then act quite senselessly, leaving Berman gasping in amazement.

When they were both in a good mood, they would wink at one another as they talked, patting each other on the back or the stomach.

'Yes, our commissar's certainly a sly old fellow,' Zakabluka would say.

'And our major's a true hero,' Berman would answer.

What Zakabluka most disliked in Berman was his unctuousness – and the diligence with which he reported every careless word anyone came out with. He made fun of Berman's weakness for pretty girls, the way he loved roast chicken – 'Give us a drumstick!' – but couldn't care less about vodka. He disapproved of the way he would turn a blind eye to other people's living conditions while knowing very well how to look after his own. At the same time he valued him for his intelligence and bravery – sometimes he seemed quite unaware of physical danger – and his readiness to take on his superiors for the good of the cause.

And now here they were – these two men who were about to lead a fighter squadron into action – glancing suspiciously at one another as they listened to Lieutenant Solomatin.

'Let me say straight out, comrade Commissar, that I am to blame for Korol's infringement of discipline. I was making fun of him. He put up with it for a while, but then he forgot himself.'

'Explain what it was that you said,' interrupted Zakabluka.

'We were trying to guess which front the Squadron would be transferred to. I said to Korol: "I suppose you want us to go to your own capital, Berdichev." '

The pilots all glanced at Berman.

'Which capital?' said Berman – and then understood.

Everyone could sense Berman's embarrassment. Zakabluka was very surprised – usually Berman was as sharp as a razor. But his next move was equally surprising.

'What's so terrible about that?' asked Berman. 'What if you, Korol, had said to Solomatin, who comes, as we know, from the village of Dorokhovo in the Novo-Ruzskiy district, that you presumed he wanted to fight above Dorokhovo? Would he have answered you with a punch in the face? I'm surprised to find the mentality of the shtetl in a member of the Komsomol.' [21]

Berman's words always had a strange, hypnotic effect on people. Everyone knew that Solomatin had deliberately offended Korol – and yet there was Berman confidently explaining that Korol had failed to overcome his nationalist prejudices and that his behaviour evinced a contempt for the friendship of peoples. And Korol should remember that it was the Fascists who exploited nationalist prejudices.

Everything Berman said was in itself quite fair and reasonable. The ideals he spoke about so excitedly were those of democracy and the Revolution. But Berman's strength at moments like this lay in the way he made use of an ideal rather than serving it, the way he subordinated it to his own – often questionable – needs of the moment.

'Do you understand, comrades?' he went on. 'Where there is no ideological clarity, there can be no discipline. That is the true explanation of Korol's behaviour.' He paused for a moment. 'Korol's disgraceful, anti-Soviet behaviour.'

By now, of course, it was quite impossible for Zakabluka to intervene: the incident had been transformed into a question of politics – and no officer dared interfere in political matters.

'And so, comrades,' said Berman, pausing again to give more weight to his final words, 'the responsibility for this incident lies with the immediate culprit, but it also lies with me, the squadron commissar, for failing to help Lieutenant Korol to grow out of his abominable nationalism. The whole affair is more serious than I at first realized. For that very reason I have decided not to punish Korol for his infringement of discipline. Instead I take upon myself the responsibility for re-educating him.'

Everyone settled down again in their chairs, sensing that the affair had now been resolved. Korol looked at Berman. Something in his look made Berman frown, twitch and turn away.

That evening Solomatin said to Viktorov: 'You see, Lenya, it's always like that. They stand up for each other all right – but on the sly. If it had been you or Vanya Skotnoy, you'd have ended up in a penal unit.'

That night, instead of going to sleep, the pilots were lying about on their bunks, smoking and chatting. Skotnoy, who had had a farewell ration of vodka at supper, began to sing:

'The plane's in a nose-dive – The earth's rushing to meet her. Don't cry for me, love; Forget me, my sweetest.'

In the end Velikanov couldn't keep his mouth shut. He blurted out that they were to be stationed near Stalingrad.

The moon rose over the forest; you could see its bright, restless light through the trees. Two kilometres away the village seemed silent and dark, as though covered in ashes. The pilots sitting by the entrance to the bunker gazed at the wonderful world of the earth. Viktorov looked at the faint shadows cast by the wings and tails of the planes out on the runway and joined in with Skotnoy: 'They'll drag out our bodies From the twisted metal. The hawks will escort us On our last flight of all.'

The pilots lying on the bunks carried on talking. It was too dark to see, but they all knew each other's voices.

'Demidov was always volunteering for missions. He'd have wasted away if he hadn't been able to fly.'

'Remember that dogfight near Rzhev when we were escorting the Petlyakovs? Eight Messers went straight for him – and he fought them off for seventeen minutes.'

'He used to sing when we were in the air. I remember those songs of his every day. He even used to sing Vertinsky.'

'Yes, he was a cultured man – a Muscovite.'

'He certainly wasn't the kind of fellow to leave you in the lurch. He always kept an eye on anyone who was behind.'

'You hardly even knew him.'

'Nonsense! You get to know your mate from the way he flies. I knew him all right.'

Skotnoy came to the end of another verse. Everyone fell silent, expecting him to start up again. Instead he repeated a well-worn saying comparing the length of a fighter pilot's life to that of a child's shirt.