Kaverin snuffles and then extracts a handkerchief from his pocket to blow his nose.
“The memoirs,” he says, “have not yet been published, as no one dared to. But they will be and very soon.” Again he blows his nose. But shouldn’t someone get him to stop? He is not feeling well, and tomorrow we’ll have to come back again to commemorate another poet… The auditorium echoes to Filipp Semyonych’s enthusiastic voice:
“Venyamin Aleksandrovich, please, go up on the podium!
There you will find all the texts you chose to read us!”
Kaverin pushed back his chair to get past; he wanted to take back the microphone from Artamonov, but the latter pointed out that up there was one on the podium – everything had been carefully prepared. The lighting was switched off, except for a spot that illuminated the podium with a bluish light. The skeletal old man stumbled up the steps. The murmurings died down and the auditorium filled with complete silence. Kaverin leafed through the file on the lectern, stood in silence to collect himself and then opened his mouth to recite the first line. In that instant, the microphone let out an unpleasant metallic whistle. It was a plaintive, modulated and savage squeal. It seemed to have been produced by a human voice, rather than an inanimate thing. Kaverin was horrified and froze before he could articulate any sound. The committee sitting behind the table began to look troubled. And before the electricians could get to the podium and repair the fault, all the members of the audience turned to each other in dismay. Was this the voice of Mandelshtam, a sign from the next world of a poet eager for revenge?… Eventually the frightening screech was silenced. Kaverin smiled and with a good-natured nod he thanked the shaman-electricians who had returned that soul to the deathly peace from which it had been roused, and then without giving any sign, he started to read. He read badly in a tremulous voice, but no one in the auditorium appeared to notice: the music of the lines was too strong as they came one after another like the tinkling strings of a harp. Tanya, like everyone else, smiled sadly when she heard, “With the world of the powerful I had but childish links,” and closed her eyes involuntarily when the decrepit reader and contemporary of the century murmured, “Oh my century, you wild beast, who could on your eyes a stare affix?” But above all, she shuddered at those words loaded with a bleak premonition: “Sensing the future torments”, and at the end, Kaverin’s voice became as thin as that of a child, and evoked a magical, lunar landscape:
“Death, as in the fairy tales, comes like a wolf…”
When the lights came back on and the reader, stumbling once more, went down the podium steps towards the mineral water that awaited him on the table, the audience applauded him for an eternity. Then Artamonov took up the microphone again and began to speak.
“It is the custom here in Russia – on occasions such as these – that those who have questions for the panel, send up a note. I can see that plenty of you are already busy writing.
However, we have decided to organise this evening differently, because it is not for us to answer your questions, but rather we would like to hear you talk. Today, as we know, a new expression is in fashion: ‘Speak up!’ Well then, speak up all of you. Anyone who has something to say can come here, pick up the microphone and speak.”
For some time, Oleg had been attentively observing the large, white-haired man in a blue pinstriped suit, seated right in front of him. As far as he could see, this man had a considerable dislike for Filipp Semyonych, and every time the latter spoke, he would writhe around in his seat. It’s true that the seats are not comfortable in the Minsk, which was built at the time when there was no television and people would have stood through a film just to get three hours in the warmth and watch a film… Now the man grumbled a few words, but did so quite distinctly, so Oleg and others seated close by could understand him perfectly, “Artamonov, who the fuck do you think you’re kidding?”
Then, realising that others had taken notice of him, he turned around and winking at no one in particular, but in general at Oleg, Tanya and perhaps Sergey, commented, “We’re all democrats now, eh? How wonderful.”
Oleg and Tanya exchanged a look. What a weirdo… But they were going to see plenty of other weirdos. Following a period of disorientation and restlessness – Shall I go or not?
No, no, I couldn’t possibly go! – a middle-aged woman finally gets up and determinedly advances towards the table. Filipp Semyonych, as quick as a thought, leaps to his feet to offer her the microphone.
“Let me introduce myself: Tamara Dmitrievna Korzhavina, teacher,” the woman started. There was silence in the auditorium. “Well, what is it I want to say? You have told us about how Anna Akhmatova went to see Nadezhda Yakovlevna, following Mandelshtam’s arrest. You have told us that for many years it was impossible to publish this story. I congratulate those who banned it, and I am sorry that in the end it will be published. For many of us, Anna Akhmatova is an idol, a woman to be respected; she was for me too, until this evening. Now an idol is primarily a model – someone to be imitated and whose life is to be approved of. And now we are told that this idol had a fondness for the bottle and a weakness for vodka. Well, that is a really fine model!
Nadezhda Yakovlevna and Anna Akhmatova would down – please note the elegance of this expression – would down a whole bottle between them! And what is more they would smoke cigarettes. What an edifying example! It will be no surprise then, if our teenage girls, who one day will be mothers, start smoking and drinking! There is little point in adding further comments!”
Well, thought Oleg, if it was up to me, the evening would already be over: so this is what you lot are like. Sort yourselves out and just stew in your own juice! But this was unjust, as the public was protesting and whistling: Tamara Dmitrievna was not meeting with approval. A very small man stood up next to Artamonov and took the microphone from the indignant woman. He started to speak while she was returning to her place with her head held high and without deigning to listen to him: “My esteemed Tamara Dmitrievna, our venerable countrywoman! This is how you renounce your love for Anna Akhmatova. As good luck would have it, you came here this evening and need no longer remain in ignorance. You will not have to repeat, as everyone else does, that Anna Akhmatova is the greatest poet of our century! So we have heard that Akhmatova used to smoke and was known to accept the occasional shot of vodka. My God, how awful! Of course, they had shot her husband, they had thrown her son in prison, and Nadezhda Yakovlevna’s husband had just been arrested, but is that any excuse? But it gets worse: they have just published the poetry of Olga Berggolc. Perhaps you have heard of this writer; she too suffered during the years of the personality cult. She was pregnant when she was arrested, and following an interrogation she delivered a stillborn baby. But when she was released, the wretch did not think of setting an example: instead she tells us that she ended up smoking with a janitor in a hallway, and drinking vodka in a tavern. So where are you going to find your idol!”
So, you’ve saved the evening, brother; here’s another who’s been round a bit. My God, they’ve opened a Pandora’s box, right enough! Another woman rushes to the table and doesn’t even bother to introduce herself: “Sorry, but it’s not right to make fun of those who have spoken. We haven’t been able to speak for so long! And generally speaking, is it so wrong that we should look for an idol amongst the intellectuals and poets? Are they to be found elsewhere?” There’s a buzz of approval in the hall. “For precisely this reason, they have a terrible responsibility, and I’m not sure that they are up to it! In Russia they killed off all the poets who knew how to write and all the professors who knew how to teach, and replaced them with others: intellectuals, they said, who have been drawn from the people! Instead of defending the Russian language, these intellectuals produced propaganda using the worst kind of slang, the one spoken by the dregs of society. I have heard them myself, and they are not ashamed to blaspheme and use swear words!”
Artamonov, the little guy and perhaps even Kaverin wanted to reply,
as did others at the table, but it was impossible: there was now a queue, and the microphone was passed from one speaker to another without ever going back. Everyone waited their turn. They jostled a bit, elbowed each other, but then accepted the rules of the queue. “Limonov, Ph.D.! I would like to say this: for seventy years Soviet power has fought against those who distinguished themselves from the others: here the workers are in command, so don’t give us any of your airs! The result is there for everyone to see: schools where you can’t learn a thing and incompetent doctors. We make up for this by having the best concentration camps in the world!”
Then the word passed to an old man; his face was ruddy with good drinking, his moustache was white and his eyes blue and watery with age and perhaps a glass or two of wine. Five or six medals were pinned to his grey jacket, and you could see the striped veteran’s vest under his black shirt with an open collar. On his head, he wore a peaked oilcloth cap and when he was about to speak, he realised he was still wearing it and removed it. But there was nowhere to put it down, so he defiantly put it back on his head.
“For seventy years, I have just heard, Soviet power has fought …” the old man coughed and cleared his throat. “But what seventy years are these? Soviet power died and was buried long ago! In the thirties it was different, but now the traitors and scoundrels go unpunished!”
Cries from the hall: Who’s a traitor? Who’s a scoundrel?
“You, I mean you, bastards!” the old man’s fury was taking hold of him. “Tonight I have heard from professors and doctors of philosophy; they have had the chance to study as they wanted, and they dare to talk in this manner – to throw mud at the fatherland! And before that, there were thanks to Mikhail Sergeyevich for what he has done. But what has he done? It is Stalin who you should be thanking, you scoundrels! If it weren’t for him, we wouldn’t be sitting here peacefully discussing these things. But no, you are blaming Stalin for all the violations of socialist legality.
Shame on you! After the war, I continued military service in the Kremlin Guard. While I was on duty next to Stalin’s coffin, I saw the people grieving for that loss, I saw them thank Stalin for how he had led our country and for our victory over the fascists. And I thought: the people will always remember him and build worthy monuments in his honour. Now look: what a disgrace!”
It isn’t only the old people who think like this. Here is another: well dressed with moustache and glasses, having left behind in the audience his little wife who is seven or eight months pregnant and wearing a smock: “Denis Nikolayevich Polyakov, engineer. I congratulate the organisers of this meeting. What a splendid evening, so very splendid! Here are the results of your liberalism: no one cares a damn about anything and no one is frightened of anything! No, a people, and especially our people, needs a rigid, harsh and demanding leadership; because our people, if left leaderless, has the wonderful ability to transform into a herd of drunken animals, dirty pigs ready for drunkenness, theft and shitting anywhere they please!”
Hoy! Now they’re beating him up! The wife, her hands on her mouth, has leapt to her feet with her large belly, and they really have grabbed dear Denis Nikolayevich by his jacket. Artamonov has rushed to the podium and is screaming with all his strength into the microphone up there, because there is no longer any hope of retrieving the other one. Scream away as much as you want, no one is listening… The other guy has finally broken free and, red as a beetroot, has returned to his seat. Everyone is hissing and booing: that’s enough! Ignoramuses! Illiterates!
While the hall was calming down, another man came forward and took the microphone and cleared his throat. He looked oafish, but it was obvious that he was not embarrassed and had found the courage to speak in public.
“So far I have listened carefully, but I have not heard what I wanted to hear. They say, no more slips of paper and let everyone have their say – quite freely. But I came here to hear those who have studied history, who have something to say. History is the people’s mother. You learn everything from history, as you do from your mother. You can’t choose it; it is what it is, but it is ours, and produced and nourished us. With her, our mother-history, we cut the fascists’ throats, and everyone knows this. But you have to understand that it takes more than a couple of words when it comes to discussing history and the past. People used to tell this story. When the Congress denounced the personality cult, a slip of paper arrived from the hall: ‘Nikita Sergeyevich, but where were you during that time?’ Khrushchev looked at the delegates seated in the hall and shouted, ‘Who wrote this? Does the creep have the guts to show himself!’ Everyone sat in the hall and no one said a word. Then Khrushchev said, ‘Oh, so you’re afraid! Well, I too was afraid.’” As usual, some of the public are laughing and others are whistling, but the orator is not to be intimidated.
“I wrote to a newspaper, to Ogonyok, and they published my letter. The academician Samsonov wrote a reply, and anyone can read it: the truth always comes out in the end, try as you might to suppress it! And yet many don’t want to mention Stalin. Letters arrive at my address containing insults of this tenor, ‘Ivan! You bring dishonour to all the combatants of the Great Patriotic War! You write, but you have no understanding of what you write about!’ Some letters refer to me as a ‘Stalinist lickspittle’. There are letters that call Stalin wicked and artful. Oh yes, people are very interested in the past. Some ask me, ‘Ivan! Why hasn’t the KGB taken you away yet?’ And I say, ‘Why should they do that?’ ‘Because they say you’ve been writing about Stalin.’ It’s mainly young people who say that. Well then, what hope can there be of better things?”
Artamonov had suddenly regained his self-assurance.
Must have been the mineral water… He took advantage of the instant in which the man drew in his breath to interrupt him: Get to the point, comrade, what is it exactly that you are trying to say?
The orator looked down on him while stroking his chin.
“The point? I give you the point. We want to know why the historians have nothing to say about this? Now it is all up to them, and yet they remain silent. They wait, and when someone has said A, they will then say B!”
Artamonov would have liked to recover the microphone, but a young woman – blonde, heavily made-up and wearing a miniskirt – had come up behind the man. The hall was whistling dementedly. “You’ll excuse me!” she started. “What has just been said is right! They, the historians, should tell us the truth! The historians and not my mum and my dad – or my grandparents! What could they ever tell me? I’ve asked them plenty of times, and they reply that when Stalin was about, life was sweetness and light; there was everything, and it was all cheap; there was order and there was no disorder (laughter) and in his name they threw themselves under tanks and all that stuff. They assure me that compared with the eighties, the thirties and forties were a paradise!”
The woman ran off, and it seemed she was about to burst into tears; the microphone went to a grey-haired soldier. “Nikolay Yefremovich Vaynshtein, lecturer at the Chemical Defence Military College at Kostroma, retired colonel. The citizen spoke of her parents and her grandparents.
I am of their age. And to some extent I understand them. Try telling people for twenty years that Stalin is a god, then go quiet for three, and then for another eight systematically demolish his memory, and spend yet another twentytwo years saying half-heartedly that he wasn’t quite so bad after all! What do you think the result will be?”
“That’s right!” someone shouted.
“Hey! Scoundrel! Traitor!” many others retorted. Still others wouldn’t dare to shout out, but a hum of voices spread around the hall: the Jew’s got a brass neck… The speaker had regained his thread.
“One more thing. The names of our cities were imposed by the authorities; could anyone express their dissent by any chance? Now the inhabitants of Kalinin want their city to be called Tver once again, and they’re right. There is even a city called Brezhnev; you can just imagine how happy its inhabitants are with t
hat! And beforehand, it had such a poetic name… But that is not all. In Kostroma and surely also here in Moscow and indeed all the other cities in the USSR, there is a Zhdanov Street. But everyone knows that Zhdanov was one of those most responsible for establishing the personality cult of Stalin; in fact, he was the most zealous propagandist and torch-bearer of that cult. He could not open his mouth without some servile evocation of our great leader, our guide and the inspiration behind all our victories! I recently read the shorthand records of Zhdanov’s report to the 1946 party conference in Leningrad, which appeared in a newspaper. It is no exaggeration to say that it is shameful just to quote them. He too was responsible for what was happening at the time, just like all the others.
Today we are rehabilitating all those they had shot or sent to die in the camps. Who, then, would want to live in Zhdanov Street? Not me!”
While the applause was thundering around the hall, the Judaean-cum-colonel wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, pressed his peaked cap onto his grey hair and left the podium, but another man was already pushing his way forward and climbing the steps. Look, it could have been anyone and he looked as though he didn’t have two kopecks on him. Yet he was full of indignation, boiling with anger … “Here you are systematically dragging those who worked for Stalin through the mud; they were men of iron, and you are trying to make them out to be criminals!” he started in a high-pitched voice. “But those who lived through those years would not recognise themselves in your lies. The man who has just spoken refuses to live in Zhdanov Street; good, and this is what I have to say to him. I would be very happy to live in Zhdanov Street. Zhdanov was one of Lenin’s most loyal and fervent disciples. Throughout his life, he was working himself to death in the pursuit of one thing: to serve the people. If the Party officials today took an example from him, things would be turning out very differently, and perestroika would not be encountering so many obstacles. Yes, I would like to live in Zhdanov Street, because he was right when he was judging Zoshchenko and Akhmatova, and I’m sure that he would not have authorised the publication of an absurd travesty like The Children of the Arbat. In his times they printed books by Aleksey Tolstoy, Gorky, Sholokhov and Mayakovsky. I would like to live in Zhdanov Street because I don’t want to witness the vilification of the leaders who built our great socialist state. I still remember the day in which we were able to celebrate our victory in spite of all the enemies inside and outside our borders. I want to live in a Zhdanov Street in Stalingrad, in Molotov and in Kalinin, but I don’t want to live in Tsarism Street, Imperialism Street or Zionism Street! Who carried out the October Revolution and who did they do it for? The people did it! Just remember that!”
The Anonymous Novel Page 14
