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face was in shadow but her eyes, with a gold-leaf flame in each pupil, looked straight out at me with innocence and joy. And I immediately recalled Blok’s poem.
Little boys and little girls Cradling candles and pussy willows
Set off for home. The flames glimmer, Passersby cross themselves,
And it smells of spring.
“Do you remember?” I asked. And right away, reading my mind, she answered:
Playful little wind, Light, little rain,
Don’t put out my flame. I’ll be first to rise On Palm Sunday morrow
For the sacred day.
Then it was my turn to read her mind and I saw what she saw: our first and only kiss, which never really counted as real for we did not really kiss but performed a socially accepted ritual.
Near the festively decorated table with tall Easter cakes, pink shavings of hyacinth, colored eggs in a bed of watercress, a baked ham, and a silver bottle of raspberry liqueur produced by the Brothers Shustov, stood my beloved girl. Her eyes were sleepy after the all-night Easter services, but her face was fresh and turned to me with expectation. Her arms were raised. The lace cuffs of her dress half-covered her fingers with their polished nails. She was looking at me without concealing her curiosity: what would I do? That was the first time I had seen her out of her school uniform. She was wearing a fine blouse that was a little big on her. It was honeycombed with tiny perforations through which pink silken shoulder straps showed. The outfit did not suit her at all, giving her slim figure a matronly appearance.
“Christ is Risen!” I said with more conviction than the circumstances demanded and stepped toward her with hesitation—washed clean, brushed, short on sleep, perfumed with my aunt’s cologne “Brocar,” with my hair larded stiff with Vaseline and my new shoes screeping.
“Truly He is risen!” she responded and asked smiling, “Do we have to kiss?”
“I guess we have to,” I said, barely controlling my breaking voice.
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She placed the palms of her hands on my shoulders. Her hands smelled of old-fashioned elder blossom perfume, either hers or wafting from the lace sleeves become a bit yellow with time. We kissed primly and I saw close-up her lips pressed together and stretched into a cool smile with a tiny beauty mark and her eyes revealing absolutely nothing, not even self-consciousness.
It was then that I saw her father for the first time, although I had been a frequent visitor to their home. He was never there, having just left or not yet returned from the nobleman’s club.
He stepped forth in a new frock-coat and white vest, slipping starch-white cards into his billfold, ready for his upcoming round of visits. She presented myself to him saying my last name and the diminutive of my first. We kissed three times. He looked at me with too much attention and a strange curiosity, shook my icy hand, and poured two green cordial glasses of raspberry liqueur. We clinked glasses and drank. I, never before having had wine, sensed an immediate intoxication from the very aroma which filled my nostrils and throat with a wonderfully evanescent raspberry taste. Outside, beyond the windows with their dry, cracked putty, the air resounded with the constant Easter chiming of the bells of St. Michael’s Monastery above the sparrows in the lilac bushes ready to burst into flower. White clouds scudded across the watery azure sky and the sun glistened in the quicksilver bubble of the outdoor Reaumur thermometer. A resurrected fly crawled along the painted windowsill and I stared at her father with pickled eyes, at his stiff snow-white cuffs and golden cufflinks, his crewcut and powerful head well set on the compact, thickset torso of a retired cavalry officer who was squandering his wife’s Moldavian estate at the gaming tables of the Catherine Yacht Club.
“You remember my deceased father?” she asked, uncannily continuing to read my mind.
“I remember it all,” I responded wistfully.
“So do I,” she said and we both grew silent.
Chapter Thirty
Kirill Kostsinskii [K.V. Uspenskii], A Dissident’s Trial
Kiril V. Uspenskii (Kostsinskii is his pseudonym) was born in Petrograd in 1915. Both his parents were active Party members after the Bolsheviks took power in 1917. The author was a military officer, though this did not forestall his first arrest in 1938. He was released and subsequently served in military intelligence. He was dropped behind German lines in the Ukraine to activate the local partisans. Captured by the German forces, he managed to escape, only to return and be excluded from the Communist Party. After World War II he devoted himself to literature. He was arrested again in 1960 and served a four-year sentence for “excessive fraternization” with foreigners. He became active in the human rights movement after his release from prison and was forced to leave the Soviet Union in 1978. Taken from K.V. Uspenskii, “Iz vospominanii” [From my Memoirs] in Pamiat’, Paris, 1982.
In actuality, what was I accused of by the KGB? Why were they so angry with me? To answer this question I will have to digress somewhat.
I grew up in a family of intelligentsia Bolsheviks which was fully convinced that the concepts of humanism and communism were synonymous. During the days when Lenin and Zinoviev were hiding in the famous “lean-to,” N.I. Bukharin found refuge in my parents’ apartment. Naturally, I don’t remember this, but I do remember Bukharin’s rare visits in the 20’s and the beginning of the 30’s. They were always important to my parents. Humanism, elevated moral principles, and friendship with Bukharin—in that order but not without a shade of deference—did not later hinder my father along with everyone else, though not so forcefully, from being indignant at the vile crimes of Bukharin as well as other heroes (or victims) of “The Great Purges.” My mother, a sweet and selfless woman, admired Stalin’s courage
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and wisdom. She had forgotten how in 1928 or 1929, after a routine visit by Bukharin, she let fall a phrase in the presence of us boys: “If that is so, then Nikolai Ivanovich is undoubtedly right: he is a paranoiac.” It was completely clear from the context of whom she was speaking.
These contradictions were forming in the sub-conscious rather than in the conscious. “The Great Purges” elicited a morbid curiosity and a desire to understand what psychological motives induced Lenin’s comrades-in-arms to take up counterrevolution and betrayal. The study of party congresses, the works of Bukharin (miraculously preserved in our home, though later destroyed), and then, after the war, Rosa Luxemburg, Kautsky and Bernstein, led to the formation of views which later, fully coincided with Dubcek’s program, encompassing the total spirit of the “Prague Spring.” I was not the only one to undergo a shift based on various phases of the party line. But we were living in an age of the Great Silence when open servility in science or art was labeled civic consciousness. Any pronouncement which required real civic courage and was supported by quotations from the classics of Marxism-Leninism in an adequate manner almost invariably ended with “serious unpleasantness.”
Realistically, nothing of essence changed later, other than that the “unpleasantness” became less catastrophic.
At about 8:00 AM on September 30, I was taken to a building in the political prison where I was “welcomed” by the MVD [Ministry of Internal Affairs]. As at my arrest, I was taken to a neighboring windowless room. One of the guards told me to undress, squat, bend over, spread, while another, meanwhile, carefully examined the contents of my pockets.
“And what is this?”
“The accusation and notes on my case.”
“That’s not allowed.”
“What do you mean, not allowed? You’re taking me to court.”
I declared that if my papers were taken away from me, I would not go to court.
“You’ll go,”—and the handcuffs clinked in his hands. Luckily, the officer on duty came around and explained to the sergeant that I was right.
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A prison “black mariah” stood in the yard. I must say that the soldiers of my escort unit—even though they were rotated daily—radically changed their attitude toward me after the first day. They brought me parcels, notes, cigarettes, and expressed their sympathy in many ways. When alone, and without informers around, they asked me many questions. On the way to court and back, they left a door open in the vehicle and I hungrily peered at
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the life of the city. I reveled in the beauty of Leningrad with an unexpected painful acuity.
The trial went on for five days. My request to subpoena the experts who labeled my unfinished works as being anti-Soviet was summarily dismissed. I asked that three well-known writers, Iu. P. German, V. F. Panova, and A. I. Panteleev, who could provide an objective analysis of my literary work, be called. This solicitation was also refused. Subsequently, everything flowed within the predetermined channel. With minor exceptions, all witnesses repeated what they had said at the preliminary inquest.
I began my testimony poorly, declaring that I recognized the objective harm of many of my pronouncements. But I could not have or did not have any “desire” or “intent” to “weaken the Soviet State.” If I had been intent on an anti-Soviet line, I would have been secretive to the maximum. Furthermore, I assumed that the decrees of the Twentieth Party Congress signified a return to Leninist norms of democracy. That was why I had spoken openly regarding those deficiencies which impeded the normal development of our society, specifically in literature. I was trained as an intelligence officer and knew well the techniques of counter-espionage. I knew that my mail was being read, that the phone was tapped, and via an anonymous letter, that my apartment was bugged.
“What kind of listening devices?” examined the judge.
“What form of bugging?” roared the prosecutor.
“What are you talking about,” screamed the female attorney, grabbing her head.
“I’m only speaking of the letter which I received.” I continued: “The charges against me, with reference to the witness, Pavlovskii, state that ‘in the Writer’s Union everyone knew of Uspenskii’s anti-Soviet feelings.’ But even the tendentious characterization of me sent by this very same union does not contain this assertion. This fact was not confirmed by a single witness. All this speaks of the tendentiousness of the investigation which rejected testimony favorable to me. What anti-Soviet element was there in my pronouncements concerning the necessity of greater freedom in literature? Lenin and Gorky spoke of this as did even Stalin in his famous letter to Bel’-Belotserkovskii.”
I also spoke of collective farms and the right to leave them, of the necessity of a free market, and of workers’ councils in factories and enterprises. Why can’t we introduce this type of experiment at one or two of our factories so we can verify the experiences of Yugoslavia which is, as Khrushchev recently announced, a fully socialist country. I also spoke of a two party system; such an arrangement had already existed under Soviet rule.
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Then Gorbenko, the city’s assistant prosecutor, with scholarly accuracy, traced my long-term anti-Soviet convictions. He evaluated my criminal activity as being worth seven years of incarceration.
Otliagova, the defense attorney, gave an excellent speech and asked that a punishment be chosen which did not entail loss of freedom. She was applauded.
I said something very brief in my last remarks. By this point nervous tension had become so overwhelming that I simply do not remember my own words.
Finally, on October 3, at about seven in the evening, the verdict was finalized. I was led via stairs, corridors, and connecting passageways to the main hall on the first floor complete with marble fireplace and columns. Through the mirror-like windows I could see the engineers’ union building and the gold and red leaves of maple trees.
S.E. Solov’ev, chair of the Leningrad Municipal Court (and currently Leningrad’s chief prosecutor), holding sheets of paper in hand—the verdict— looked in my direction. His calmness, his irony during the course of the proceedings seemed to be saying: “What is all the fuss about, brothers? What nonsense are you speaking? Everything has been decided long ago. And not even by me . . .”
“In the name of the Russian Soviet Federal . . .”
He suddenly stopped and looked at the door. Soundlessly, bending slightly as if somebody would suddenly shoot at them, Joseph Brodsky and Anatolii Naiman were stealing into the hall [a brave act, considering the era].
“What is it you want here?” asked Solov’ev just as calmly as he had spoken of everything prior. “Were you summoned?”
“No, but we . . .” began Brodsky.
“Leave here.”
“In the name of the Russian Soviet Federal Socialist . . .”
. . . I came to my senses out of the blessed, soothing darkness. I was lying on the floor between the benches. One of the guards was sticking a vial of ammonia into my nose (what foresight!). I had lost consciousness. A weakling, egghead intellectual, in the words of the great leader.
I felt hurt and ashamed, the more so in that I had not yet heard what they had decided. Perhaps . . .
“In the name of the Russian Soviet . . .” began Solov’ev for the third time. Grabbing onto the railing and trying to look as calm as possible, I listened attentively. No, old buddy, the preamble bodes nothing good . . .
“. . . to be deprived of freedom for five years.” A strange buzz was heard in the hall. It was Pavlovskii fainting. This time Solov’ev did not stop and continued in the same even voice. “The sentence is to commence from . . .”
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“You were nailed with a good one,” said one of the soldiers sitting across from me on a bench in the black mariah as I was being driven “home.”
“I’ve been serving here three years, seen a lot go through here, all kinds of low-life, but nothing like this!” added a second.
“After all, they don’t imprison anyone for such stuff these days,” the first one said, shaking his head.
Chapter Thirty-One
Iurii Krotkov, The KGB in Action
Krotkov’s colorful narrative moves one to think of a film plot. KGB secrets, sex and spying, blackmail, compromising a foreign ambassador, a picturesque cast of characters. It is easy to lose sight of the pernicious intent of these activities. The KGB did have clear purpose and a defined goal. Krotkov’s story is punctuated by remarkably cogent and revealing observations. He speaks of an occasional desire to forget where he was, what he was doing, to forget politics and ideology, all the reasons for the task at hand.
Taken from Iurii Krotkov, “KGB v deistvii” [The KGB in Action]. New York: The New Review, No.111, June, 1973.
The painstaking preparatory work began anew. For Kunavin it was the labor of Sisyphus. First he met with Georgii Mdivani, one of the leading Soviet playwrights and screenwriters (a one-hundred-percent “patriot,” a pillar of the Soviet establishment). I personally knew him quite well and had included him on the list, certain that this one would let himself be “co-opted” easily and even eagerly. I wasn’t mistaken. Kunavin had a conversation with him on the subject, and after that Zhorzh [diminutive for Georgii] came to be at my disposal. It’s interesting that, while moving in the same artistic circles, having taken up the same craft of producing party plays and screenplays, he and I never touched on our other “personae” in private conversations. A strict line of demarcation separated the two realms.
Zhorzh had a wife, Taisiia Savva, formerly a famous artist of the popular stage (her act was called “artistic whistling”—that is, she whistled). In my youth, I must confess, I was in love with her. But by now she was already past her prime and had gone into retirement, though she remained an endearing conversationalist. Furthermore, she knew French reasonably well. Taichik
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[Taisiia] had also been made a participant. And Kunavin had the same conversation with Nadia Cherednichenko and Larisa Kronberg-Sobolevskaia. They too agreed without objection to be “co-opted” as KGB workers, and became members of my team.
On the eve of the appointed day, Kunavin and I went to the Praga Restaurant to see the director, who had been made a direct subordinate of the KGB. In the director’s office, with the doors closed, we discussed all practical concerns. He assigned two waiters to us, also KGB subordinates, and gave us the best private room in the restaurant, the “Rotonda,” specially equipped for our use.
Kunavin’s assistants brought in a new little Grundig tape recorder and some jazz recordings. (It’s amusing to note that this tape recorder was owned by one of Kunavin’s co-workers by the name of Enver, who had not long before returned from abroad, working in the KGB First Sector, and had, of course, stocked up well. He begged me to assure him that I would be the only one to turn the tape recorder on and off, to make sure it wouldn’t get broken.)
Kunavin spread out his agents, blond men with tousled hair sporting identical dark blue suits, on all floors of the restaurant. He himself, in a new dark blue suit paced up and down the fourth-floor corridor, where the Rotonda was located. The table was set for a tsar. The entire operation at the Praga Restaurant most likely ran the KGB around 1000 rubles in pre-reform currency. After all, there were ten people present: Mdivani and his wife, Lida, Nadia, Lora (Larisa), myself, along with two French couples, De Jean and Gerard.
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