From the start, then, Ivan was conceived as a tragedy, a Soviet version of Boris Godunov which would contain a terrifying commentary on the human costs of tyranny. However, because everybody knew what Stalin did with people who made parables like this, the film's tragic nature and contemporary theme could not be revealed until the end.159 In Part One of the film Eisenstein depicts the heroic aspects of Ivan: his vision of a united state; his fearless struggle against the scheming boyars; his strong authority and leadership in the war against the Tatars of Kazan. Stalin was delighted, and Eisenstein was honoured with the Stalin Prize. But at a banquet to celebrate his triumph Eisenstein collapsed with a heart attack. Earlier that day he had put the final touches to Part Two of his epic film (not publicly released until 1958). He knew what lay in store. In Part Two the action switches from the public sphere to Ivan's inner world. The Tsar now emerges as a tormented figure, haunted by the terror to which he is driven by his own paranoia and his isolation from society. All his former allies have abandoned him, there is no one he can trust, and his wife has been murdered in a boyars' plot. The parallels between Ivan and Stalin were unmissable. Stalin, too, had lost his wife (she had killed herself in 1932) and the effect of her death on his own mental condition, which doctors had already diagnosed as paranoia and schizophrenia, no doubt contributed to the terror he unleashed.160
When Stalin saw the film he reacted violently. 'This is not a film -it is some kind of nightmare!'161 In February 1947 Stalin summoned Eisenstein to a late-night interview in the Kremlin at which he delivered a revealing lecture on Russian history. Eisenstein's Ivan was weak-willed and neurotic, like Hamlet, he said, whereas the real Tsar had been great and wise in 'preserving the country from foreign influence'. Ivan had been 'very cruel', and Eisenstein could 'depict him as a cruel man, but', Stalin explained,
you have to show why he had to be cruel. One of Ivan the Terrible's mistakes was to stop short of cutting up the five key feudal clans. Had he destroyed these five clans, there would have been no Time of Troubles. And when Ivan the Terrible had someone executed, he would spend a long time in repentance and prayer. God was a hindrance to him in this respect. He should have been more decisive.162
Part Two of Ivan was banned by Stalin, but Eisenstein was permitted to resume production on Part Three on the understanding that he incorporate approved material from the previous film in it. On Stalin's instructions, he even promised to shorten Ivan's beard. At a screening of Part Two at the State Institute of Cinema, Eisenstein gave a speech in which he criticized himself for the 'formalistic deviations' of his film. But he told his friends that he would not change his film. 'What re-shooting?' he said to one director. 'Don't you realize that I'd die at the first shot?'163 Eisenstein, who had never lacked bravura, was evidently preparing an artistic rebellion, culminating in the confession scene of the film's third and final part, a terrifying commentary on Stalin's madness and his sins:
Tsar Ivan bangs his forehead against the flagstones in a rapid sequence of genuflections. His eyes swim with blood. The blood blinds him. The blood enters his ears and deafens him. He sees nothing.164
When they shot the scene the actor Mikhail Kuznetsov asked Eisenstein what was going on. 'Look, 1,200 boyars have been killed. The Tsar is "Terrible"! So why on earth is he repenting?' Eisenstein replied: 'Stalin has killed more people and he does not repent. Let him see this and then he will repent.'165
Eisenstein took inspiration from Pushkin, whose own great drama Boris Godunov had served as a warning against tyranny in the wake of the suppression of the Decembrist revolt by Tsar Nicholas I. But there is a deeper sense in which his brave defiance as an artist was rooted in the whole of the Russian humanist tradition of the nineteenth century. As he explained to a fellow director, who had pointed out the connection to Boris Godunov:
'Lord, can you really see it? I'm so happy, so happy! Of course it is Boris Godunov: "Five years I have governed in peace, but my soul is troubled…" I could not make a film like that without the Russian tradition - without that great tradition of conscience. Violence can be explained, it can be legalized, but it can't be justified. If you are a human being, it has to be atoned. One man may destroy another - but as a human being I must find this painful, because man is the highest value… This, in my opinion, is the inspiring tradition of our people, our nation, and our literature.166
Eisenstein did not have enough strength to complete his film. The heart attack had crippled him. He died in 1948.
6
The Leningrad to which Akhmatova returned in 1944 was a shadow of its former self. For her it was a 'vast cemetery, the graveyard of her friends', Isaiah Berlin wrote: 'it was like the aftermath of a forest fire - the few charred trees made the desolation still more desolate'.167 Before the war she had been in love with a married man, Vladimir Garshin, a medical professor from a famous nineteenth-century literary family. He had helped her through her son's arrest and her first heart attack in 1940. On Akhmatova's return to Leningrad she was expecting to be with him again. But when he met her at the station there was something wrong. During the siege Garshin had become the chief coroner of Leningrad, and the daily horror which he experienced in the starving city, where cannibalism became rife, stripped away his sanity. In October 1942 his wife had collapsed from hunger on the street and died. He had recognized her body in the morgue.168 When Garshin met Akhmatova at the station, it was only to tell her that their love affair was over. Akhmatova returned to the Fountain House. The palace had been half-destroyed by a German bomb. Her old apartment had large cracks in the walls, the windows were all smashed, and there was no running water or electricity. In November 1945, her son Lev came to live with her, having been released from the labour camp to fight in the war, and he resumed his studies at the university.
During that same month Akhmatova received an English visitor. In
1945 Isaiah Berlin had just arrived as First Secretary of the British Embassy in Moscow. Born in Riga in 1909, the son of a Russian-Jewish timber merchant, Berlin had moved in 1916 with his family to Petersburg, where he had witnessed the February Revolution. In 1919 his family returned to Latvia, then emigrated to England. By the time of his appointment to the Moscow embassy Berlin was already established as a leading scholar for his 1939 book on Marx. During a visit to Leningrad, Berlin was browsing in the Writers' Bookshop on the Nevsky Prospekt when he 'fell into casual conversation with someone who was turning over the leaves of a book of poems'.169 That someone turned out to be the well-known literary critic Vladimir Orlov, who told Berlin that Akhmatova was still alive and residing in the Fountain House, a stone's throw away. Orlov made a telephone call and at three o'clock that afternoon he and Berlin climbed the stairs to Akhmatova's apartment.
It was very barely furnished - virtually everything in it had, I gathered, been taken away - looted or sold - during the siege; there was a small table, three or four chairs, a wooden chest, a sofa and, above the unlit stove, a drawing by Modigliani. A stately, grey-haired lady, a white shawl draped about her shoulders, slowly rose to greet us. Anna Andreevna Akhmatova was immensely dignified, with unhurried gestures, a noble head, beautiful, somewhat severe features, and an expression of immense sadness.170
After conversing for a while, Berlin suddenly heard someone shouting his name outside. It was Randolph Churchill, Winston's son, whom Berlin had known as an undergraduate at Oxford and who had come to Russia as a journalist. Churchill needed an interpreter and, hearing that Berlin was in the city, had tracked him down to the Fountain House. But since he did not know the exact location of Akhmatova's apartment he 'adopted a method which had served him well during his days in Christ Church'. Berlin rushed downstairs and left with Churchill, whose presence might be dangerous for Akhmatova. But he returned that evening and spent the night in conversation with Akhmatova - who, perhaps, fell in love with him. They spoke about Russian literature, about her loneliness and isolation, and about her friends from the vanished world of Petersburg before the Revol
ution,
some of whom he had since met as emigres abroad. In her eyes, Berlin was a messenger between the two Russias which had been split apart in 1917. Through him she was able to return to the European Russia of St Petersburg - a city from which she felt she had lived apart as an 'internal exile' in Leningrad. In the cycle Cinque, among the most beautiful poems she ever wrote, Akhmatova evokes in sacred terms the feeling of connection she felt with her English visitor.
Sounds die away in the ether,
And darkness overtakes the dusk.
In a world become mute for all time,
There are only two voices: yours and mine.
And to the almost bell-like sound
Of the wind from invisible Lake Ladoga,
That late-night dialogue turned into
The delicate shimmer of interlaced rainbows.171
'So our nun now receives visits from foreign spies,' Stalin remarked, or so it is alleged, when he was told of Berlin's visit to the Fountain House. The notion that Berlin was a spy was absurd, but at that time, when the Cold War was starting and Stalin's paranoia had reached extreme proportions, anyone who worked for a Western embassy was automatically considered one. The NKVD stepped up its surveillance of the Fountain House, with two new agents at the main entrance to check specifically on visitors to Akhmatova and listening devices planted clumsily in holes drilled into the walls and ceiling of her apartment. The holes left little heaps of plaster on the floor, one of which Akhmatova kept intact as a warning to her guests.172 Then, in August 1946, Akhmatova was attacked in a decree by the Central Committee which censored two journals for publishing her work. A week later Andrei Zhdanov, Stalin's chief of ideology, announced her expulsion from the Writers' Union, delivering a vicious speech in which he described Akhmatova as a 'left-over from the old aristocratic culture' and (in a phrase that had been used by Soviet critics in the past) as a 'half-nun, half-harlot or rather harlot-nun whose sin is mixed with prayer'.173
Akhmatova was deprived of her ration card and forced to live off
food donated by her friends. Lev was barred from taking his degree at the university. In 1949, Lev was re-arrested, tortured into making a confession and sentenced to ten years in a labour camp near Omsk. Akhmatova became dangerously ill. With rumours circulating of her own arrest, she burned all her manuscripts at the Fountain House. Among them was the prose draft of a play about a woman writer who is tried and sentenced to prison by a writers' tribunal. It was an allegory on her own tormented position. Because the tribunal consciously betrays the freedom of thought for which, as fellow writers, they are meant to stand, its literary bureaucrats are far more terrifying than the state's police.174 It is a sign of her utter desperation that, in an attempt to secure her son's release, she even wrote a poem in tribute to Stalin.* Lev was only released, after Stalin's death, in 1956. Akhmatova believed that the cause of his arrest had been her meeting with Berlin in 1945. During his interrogation Lev was questioned several times about the 'English spy' - on one occasion while his head was being smashed against a prison wall.175 She even managed to convince herself (if no one else) that their encounter was the cause of the Cold War. She 'saw herself and me as world-historical personages chosen by destiny to begin a cosmic conflict', Berlin wrote.176
Berlin always blamed himself for the suffering he had caused.177 But his visit to the Fountain House was not the cause of the attack on Akhmatova, nor of Lev's arrest, though it served as a pretext for both. The Central Committee decree was the beginning of a new onslaught on the freedom of the artist - the last refuge of freedom in the Soviet Union - and Akhmatova was the obvious place to start. For the intelligentsia she was the living symbol of a spirit which the regime could neither destroy nor control: the spirit of endurance and human dignity that had given them the strength to survive the Terror and the war. Zoshchenko believed that the decree had been passed after Stalin had been told of a literary evening at the Polytechnic Museum in Moscow during 1944 at which Akhmatova had received an ovation from a 3,000-strong audience. 'Who organized this standing ovation?' Stalin was said to have asked - a question so in keeping with his character that nobody could possibly have made it up.178
* She later requested that it be omitted from her collected works.
Attacked by the same decree as Akhmatova was Mikhail Zoshch-enko. Like Akhmatova, he was based in Leningrad, a city whose spiritual autonomy made Stalin suspicious. The suppression of these two writers was a way of demonstrating to the Leningrad intelligentsia its place in society. Zoshchenko was the last of the satirists -Mayakov-sky, Zamyatin and Bulgakov had all perished - and a major thorn in Stalin's side. The immediate cause of the attack was a children's story, 'Adventures of a Monkey', published in Zvezda (one of the journals censured in the decree) in 1946, in which a monkey that has escaped from the zoo is retrained as a human being. But Stalin had been irritated by Zoshchenko's stories for some years. He recognized himself in the figure of the sentry in 'Lenin and the Guard' (1939), in which Zoshchenko portrays a rude and impatient 'southern type' (Stalin was from Georgia) with a moustache, whom Lenin treats like a little boy.179 Stalin never forgot insults such as this. He took a personal interest in the persecution of Zoshchenko, whom he regarded as a 'parasite', a writer without positive political beliefs whose cynicism threatened to corrupt society. Zhdanov used the same terms in his vicious speech which followed the decree. Barred from publication, Zoshchenko was forced to work as a translator and to resume his first career as a shoemaker, until Stalin's death in 1953, when he was re-admitted to the Writers' Union. But by this stage Zoshchenko had fallen into such a deep depression that he produced no major writings before his death in 1958.
The attack against Akhmatova and Zoshchenko was soon followed by a series of decrees in which a rigid Party line was laid down by Zhdanov for all the other arts. The influence of Zhdanov was so dominant that the post-war period became known as the Zhdanovsh-china ('Zhdanov's reign'). Even though he died in 1948, his cultural policies remained in force until (and in some ways long after) the Khrushchev thaw. Zhdanov's ideology reflected the Soviet trium-phalism which had emerged in the communist elites following the victory against Hitler and the military conquest of eastern Europe in 1945. The Cold War led to renewed calls for iron discipline in cultural affairs. The terror of the state was now principally directed at the intelligentsia, its purpose being to impose an Orwellian conformity to
the Party's ideology on all the arts and sciences. Zhdanov launched a
series of violent attacks against 'decadent Western influences'. He led a new campaign against the 'formalists', and a blacklist of composers (including Shostakovich, Khachaturian and Prokofiev), who were charged with writing music that was 'alien to the Soviet people and its artistic taste', was published by the Central Committee in February 1948.180 For the composers named it meant the sudden loss of jobs, cancellation of performances and their virtual disappearance from the Soviet repertoire. The declared aim of this new purge was to seal off Soviet culture from the West. Tikhon Khrennikov, the Zhdanovite hardliner at the head of the Composers' Union, stamped out any signs of foreign or modernist (especially Stravinsky's) influence on the Soviet musical establishment. He rigidly enforced the model of Tchaikovsky and the Russian music school of the nineteenth century as the starting point for all composers in the Soviet Union.
Immense national pride in the cultural and political superiority of Soviet Russia went hand in hand with anti-Western feeling during the Cold War. Absurd claims for Russia's greatness began to appear in the Soviet press. 'Throughout its history', declared Pravda, 'the Great Russian people have enriched world technology with outstanding discoveries and inventions.'181 Absurd claims were made for the superiority of Soviet science under the direction of Marxist-Leninist ideology, which led to the promotion of frauds and cranks like the pseudo-geneticist Timofei Lysenko, who claimed to have developed a new strain of wheat that would grow in the Arctic frost. The aeroplane, the steam engine, the radio, the in
candescent bulb - there was scarcely an invention or discovery which the Russians did not claim as their own. Cynics even joked that Russia was the homeland of the elephant.*
This triumphalism also found expression in the architectural style which dominated plans for the reconstruction of Soviet cities after 1945. 'Soviet Empire' combined the neoclassical and Gothic motifs of the Russian Empire style that had flourished in the wake of 1812 with the monumental structures that trumpeted the magnificence of
* Andrei Sakharov records a joke in scientific circles at that time. A Soviet delegation attends a conference on elephants and delivers a 4-part report: (1) Classics of Marxism-Leninism-Stalinism on Elephants; (z) Russia - the Elephant's Homeland; (3) The Soviet Elephant: The Best Elephant in the World; and (4) The Belorussian Elephant - Little Brother to the Russian Elephant (A. Sakharov, Memoirs (London, 1990), p. 123).
the Soviet achievement. 'Stalin's cathedrals', the seven elephantine wedding-cake-like structures (such as the Foreign Ministry and the Moscow University ensemble on the Lenin Hills) which shot up around Moscow after 1945, are supreme examples of this ostentatious form. But metro stations, 'palaces of culture', cinemas and even circuses were also built in the Soviet Empire style, with massive forms, classical facades and porticoes, and neo-Russian historical motifs. The most striking example is the Moscow metro station Komsomolskaia-Kol'tsevaia, built in 1952. Its huge subterranean 'Hall of Victory', conceived as a monument to Russia's military heroes of the past, was a model of the Russian baroque. Its decorative motifs were largely copied from the Rostov Kremlin Church.182
Soviet pride in Russian culture knew no bounds in the post-war period. The Russian ballet was pronounced the best, the Russian classics in literature and music the most popular in the world. Russia's cultural domination was also imposed on the satellite regimes of eastern Europe and on the republics of the Soviet Union, where Russian became a compulsory language in all schools and children were brought up on Russian fairy tales and literature. Soviet 'folk' choirs and dancing troupes made frequent tours to eastern Europe, whose own state-sponsored 'folk' ensembles (the Lado and the Kolo in Yugoslavia, the Mazowsze in Poland, the Sluk in Czechoslovakia and the Hungarian State Ensemble) sprang up on the Soviet design.183 The stated aim of these 'folk' groups was to promote regional and national cultures within the Soviet bloc. Soviet policy, since 1934, had been to foster cultures that were 'national in form and socialist in content'.184 But these groups had little real connection with the folk culture they were meant to represent. Made up of professionals, they performed a type of song and dance which bore the clear hallmarks of the ersatz folk songs performed by Red Army ensembles, and their national character was reflected only in their outward forms (generic 'folk costumes' and melodies).
NATASHA Page 58
