by Martin Amis
Contents
Cover
About the Author
Also by Martin Amis
Title Page
Dedication
PART I
The Collapse of the Value of Human Life
Preparatory
Credentials
Background
More Background
The Politicization of Sleep
More Background
Ten Theses on Ilyich
Who-Whom?
Insecure: More Background
The Collapse of the Value of Human Life in Practice – 1
Nicholas the Last
The Collapse of the Value of Human Life in Practice – 2
Getting to the Other Planet
The Epic Agony of the Gulag
The Isolator
The New Men
The Little Moustache and the Big Moustache
PART II
Iosif the Terrible: Short Course
Census
Georgia
Demian Bedny
The Grey Blur, the Yellow Eyes
The Kremlin Complexion
Rhythms of Thought
Succession
Theory
The Second October and the Breaking of the Peasantry
Women
Men and Mountains
1933: The Terror-Famine
Poison Pen
Heavy Industry
Kazakhstan
Congress of Victors – 1
Prolonged and Stormy Applause
Congress of Victors – 2
Kolyma Tales
The Kirov Murder
Children
Reason and the Great Terror – 1
Show Trial
Reason and the Great Terror – 2
Interventions
Voices from the Yezhovshchina
Ech …
In the nightmare of the dark / All the dogs of Europe bark
Zoya Kosmodemyanskaya
The Taste Inside Stalin’s Mouth
Bolshevik Bravery
It loves blood / The Russian earth
The Saddest Story
Into the Sere
The Bedbug
End
Negative Perfection
PART III
When We Dead Awaken
Letter to a Friend
The Beginnings of the Search for Decorum
Butyrki Nights
The Forty Days of Kengir
As the stars are known to the Night
Afterword: Letter to My Father’s Ghost
Permissions
Copyright
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Martin Amis is the author of two collections of stories, six works of non-fiction, and thirteen novels, most recently Lionel Asbo.
ALSO BY MARTIN AMIS
Fiction
The Rachel Papers
Dead Babies
Success
Other People
Money
Einstein’s Monsters
London Fields
Time’s Arrow
The Information
Night Train
Heavy Water
Yellow Dog
The House of Meetings
The Pregnant Widow
Lionel Asbo
Non-fiction
Invasion of the Space Invaders
The Moronic Inferno
Visiting Mrs Nabokov
Experience
The War Against Cliché
The Second Plane
Martin Amis
KOBA THE DREAD
Laughter and the
Twenty Million
To Bob and Liddie
—and to Clio
PART I
THE COLLAPSE OF
THE VALUE
OF HUMAN LIFE
Preparatory
Here is the second sentence of Robert Conquest’s The Harvest of Sorrow: Soviet Collectivization and the Terror-Famine:
We may perhaps put this in perspective in the present case by saying that in the actions here recorded about twenty human lives were lost for, not every word, but every letter, in this book.
That sentence represents 3,040 lives. The book is 411 pages long.
‘Horse manure was eaten, partly because it often contained whole grains of wheat’ (1,340 lives). ‘Oleska Voytrykhovsky saved his and his family’s … lives by consuming the meat of horses which had died in the collective of glanders and other diseases’ (2,480 lives). Conquest quotes Vasily Grossman’s essayistic-documentary novel Forever Flowing: ‘And the children’s faces were aged, tormented, just as if they were seventy years old. And by spring they no longer had faces. Instead, they had birdlike heads with beaks, or frog heads – thin, wide lips – and some of them resembled fish, mouths open’ (3,880 lives). Grossman goes on:
In one hut there would be something like a war. Everyone would keep close watch over everyone else … The wife turned against her husband and the husband against his wife. The mother hated the children. And in some other hut love would be inviolable to the very last. I knew one woman with four children. She would tell them fairy stories and legends so that they would forget their hunger. Her own tongue could hardly move, but she would take them into her arms even though she had hardly the strength to lift her arms when they were empty. Love lived on within her. And people noticed that where there was hate people died off more swiftly. Yet love, for that matter, saved no one. The whole village perished, one and all. No life remained in it.
Thus: 11,860 lives. Cannibalism was widely practised – and widely punished. Not all these pitiable anthropophagi received the supreme penalty. In the late 1930s, 325 cannibals from the Ukraine were still serving life sentences in Baltic slave camps.
The famine was an enforced famine: the peasants were stripped of their food. On 11 June 1933, the Ukrainian paper Visti praised an ‘alert’ secret policeman for unmasking and arresting a ‘fascist saboteur’ who had hidden some bread in a hole under a pile of clover. That word fascist. One hundred and forty lives.
In these pages, guileless prepositions like at and to each represent the murder of six or seven large families. There is only one major book on this subject – Conquest’s. Again: it is 411 pages long.
Credentials
I am a fifty-two-year-old novelist and critic who has recently read several yards of books about the Soviet experiment. On 31 December 1999, along with Tony Blair and the Queen, I attended the celebrations at the Millennium Dome in London. Touted as a festival of high technology in an aesthetic dreamscape, the evening resembled a five-hour stopover in a second-rate German airport. For others, the evening resembled a five-hour attempt to reach a second-rate German airport – so I won’t complain. I knew that the millennium was a non-event, reflecting little more than our interest in zeros; and I knew that 31 December 1999 wasn’t the millennium anyway.1 But that night did seem to mark the end of the twentieth century; and the twentieth century is unanimously considered to be our worst century yet (an impression confirmed by the new book I was reading: Reflections on a Ravaged Century, by Robert Conquest). I had hoped that at midnight I would get some sort of chiliastic frisson. And I didn’t get it at the Dome. Nonetheless, a day or two later I started to write about the twentieth century and what I took to be its chief lacuna. The piece, or the pamphlet, grew into the slim volume you hold in your hands. I have written about the Holocaust, in a novel (Time’s Arrow). Its afterword begins:
This book is dedicated to my sister Sally, who, when she was very young, rendered me two profound services. She awakened my protective instincts; and she provided, if not my earliest childhood memory, then certainly my most charged and radiant. She was perhaps half an hour old at the time. I was four.
It
feels necessary to record that, between Millennium Night and the true millennium a year later, my sister died at the age of forty-six.
1 The millennial moment was midnight, 31 December 2000. This is because we went from B.C. to A.D. without a year nought. Vladimir Putin described the (pseudo) millennium as ‘the 2000th anniversary of Christianity’.
Background
In 1968 I spent the summer helping to rewire a high-bourgeois mansion in a northern suburb of London. It was my only taste of proletarian life. The experience was additionally fleeting and qualified: when the job was done, I promptly moved into the high-bourgeois mansion with my father and stepmother (both of them novelists, though my father was also a poet and critic). My sister would soon move in too. That summer we were of course monitoring the events in Czechoslovakia. In June, Brezhnev deployed 16,000 men on the border. The military option on ‘the Czech problem’ was called Operation Tumour … My father had been to Prague in 1966 and made many contacts there. After that it became a family joke – the stream of Czechs who came to visit us in London. There were bouncing Czechs, certified Czechs, and at least one honoured Czech, the novelist Josef Skvorecky. And then on the morning of 21 August my father appeared in the doorway to the courtyard, where the rewiring detail was taking a break, and called out in a defeated and wretched voice: ‘Russian tanks in Prague.’
I turned nineteen four days later. In September I went up to Oxford.
The first two items in The Letters of Kingsley Amis form the only occasion, in a book of 1,200 pages, where I find my father impossible to recognize. Here he is humourlessly chivvying a faint-hearted comrade to rally to the cause. The tone (earnest, elderly, ‘soppy-stern’) is altogether alien: ‘Now, really, you know, this won’t do at all, leaving the Party like that. Tut, tut, John. I am seriously displeased with you.’ The second letter ends with a hand-drawn hammer and sickle. My father was a card-carrying member of the CP, taking his orders, such as they were, from Stalin’s Moscow. It was November 1941: he was nineteen, and up at Oxford.
1941. Kingsley, let us assume, was sturdily ignorant of the USSR’s domestic cataclysms. But its foreign policies hardly cried out for one’s allegiance. A summary. August 1939: the Nazi-Soviet Pact. September 1939: the Nazi-Soviet invasion-partition of Poland (and a second pact: the Soviet-German Treaty on Borders and Friendship). November 1939: the annexation of Western Ukraine and Western Belorussia, and the attempted invasion of Finland (causing the USSR’s expulsion, the following month, from the League of Nations). June 1940: the annexation of Moldavia and Northern Bukovina. August 1940: the annexation of Lithuania, Lativa and Estonia; and the murder of Trotsky. These acquisitions and decapitations would have seemed modest compared to Hitler’s helter-skelter successes over the same period. And then in June 1941, of course, Germany attacked the Soviet Union. My father rightly expected to participate in the war; the Russians were now his allies. It was then that he joined the Party, and he remained a believer for fifteen years.
How much did the Oxford comrades know, in 1941? There were public protests in the West about the Soviet forced-labour camps as early as 1931. There were also many solid accounts of the violent chaos of Collectivization (1929–34) and of the 1933 famine (though no suggestion, as yet, that the famine was terroristic). And there were the Moscow Show Trials of 1936–38, which were open to foreign journalists and observers, and were monitored worldwide. In these pompous and hysterical charades, renowned Old Bolsheviks ‘confessed’ to being career-long enemies of the regime (and to other self-evidently ridiculous charges). The pubescent Solzhenitsyn was ‘stunned by the fraudulence of the trials’. And yet the world, on the whole, took the other view, and further accepted indignant Soviet denials of famine, enserfment of the peasantry, and slave labour. ‘There was no reasonable excuse for believing the Stalinist story. The excuses which can be advanced are irrational,’ writes Conquest in The Great Terror. The world was offered a choice between two realities; and the young Kingsley, in common with the overwhelming majority of intellectuals everywhere, chose the wrong reality.
The Oxford Communists would certainly have known about the Soviet decree of 7 April 1935, which rendered children of twelve and over subject to ‘all measures of criminal punishment’, including death. This law, which was published on the front page of Pravda and caused universal consternation (reducing the French CP to the argument that children, under socialism, became grownups very quickly), was intended, it seems, to serve two main purposes. One was social: it would expedite the disposal of the multitudes of feral and homeless orphans created by the regime. The second purpose, though, was political. It applied barbaric pressure on the old oppositionists, Kamenev and Zinoviev, who had children of eligible age; these men were soon to fall, and their clans with them. The law of 7 April 1935 was the crystallization of ‘mature’ Stalinism. Imagine the mass of the glove that Stalin swiped across your face; imagine the mass of it.2
On 7 April 1935, my father was nine days away from his thirteenth birthday. Did he ever wonder, as he continued to grow up, why a state should need ‘the last line of defence’ (as a secret reinforcing instruction put it) against twelve-year-olds?
Perhaps there is a reasonable excuse for believing the Stalinist story. The real story – the truth – was entirely unbelievable.
2 It will be as well, here, to get a foretaste of his rigour. The fate of Mikhail Tukhachevsky, a famous Red commander in the Civil War, was ordinary enough, and that of his family was too. Tukhachevsky was arrested in 1937, tortured (his interrogation protocols were stained with drops of ‘flying’ blood, suggesting that his head was in rapid motion at the time), farcically arraigned, and duly executed. Moreover (this is Robert C. Tucker’s précis in Stalin in Power: The Revolution from Above, 1928–41): ‘His wife and daughter returned to Moscow where she was arrested a day or two later along with Tukhachevsky’s mother, sisters, and brothers Nikolai and Aleksandr. Later his wife and both brothers were killed on Stalin’s orders, three sisters were sent to camps, his young daughter Svetlana was placed in a home for children of “enemies of the people” and arrested and sent to a camp on reaching the age of seventeen, and his mother and one sister died in exile.’
More Background
It was in the following summer of 1969, I think, that I sat for an hour in the multi-acre garden of the fascist mansion in southern Hertfordshire with Kingsley Amis and Robert Conquest. A scrap of the conversation sticks in my mind, because I pulled off a mildly successful witticism at a time when I was still (rightly) anxious about my general seaworthiness in adult company. Kingsley and Bob (a.k.a. ‘Kingers’ and ‘Conquers’, just as Bob’s future translatee, Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, would be referred to as ‘Solzhers’ – pronounced soldiers), were deploring a recent production of Hamlet in which the Prince was homosexual and Ophelia was played by a man. In retrospect that sounds almost staid, for 1969. Anyhow, I said, ‘Get thee to a monastery.’ No great thing; but it seemed to scan.
In 1967 Kingsley had published the article called ‘Why Lucky Jim Turned Right’. The ex-Communist was developing into a reasonably active Labourite – before becoming (and remaining) a markedly noisy Tory. In 1968 Bob had published The Great Terror, his classic study of Stalin’s purges of the 1930s, and was on the way to assembling a body of work that would earn him the title, bestowed at a plenum of the Central Committee in Moscow in 1990, of ‘anti-Sovietchik number one’. Both Kingsley and Bob, in the 1960s, were frequently referred to as ‘fascists’ in the general political debate. The accusation was only semi-serious (as indeed was the general political debate, it now seems. In my milieu, policemen and even traffic wardens were called fascists). Kingers and Conquers referred to their own weekly meetings, at Bertorelli’s in Charlotte Street, as ‘the fascist lunch’; here they would chat and carouse with other fascists, among them the journalist Bernard Levin, the novelists Anthony Powell and John Braine (an infrequent and much-feared participant), and the defector historian Tibor Szamuely. What united the fasci
st lunchers was well-informed anti-Communism. Tibor Szamuely knew what Communism was. He had known them: purge, arrest, gulag.
I didn’t read The Great Terror in 1968 (I would have been more likely, at that time, to have read Conquest’s poetry). But I spent an hour with it, and never forgot the cold elegance of the following remark about ‘sources’: ‘1. Contemporary official accounts require little comment. They are, of course, false as to essentials, but they are still most informative. (It is untrue that Mdivani was a British spy, but it is true that he was executed.)’ I have recently read the book twice, in the first edition (which I must have successfully stolen from my father), and in its revised, post-glasnost form, The Great Terror: A Reassessment. When asked to suggest a new title for the revised work, Conquest told his publisher, ‘How about I Told You So, You Fucking Fools?’ Because the book, itself revolutionary at the time of its appearance, has since been massively vindicated. In the mid-1960s I joined in hundreds of conversations like the following (the interlocutors here are my father and A. J. Ayer):
‘In the USSR, at least they’re trying to forge something positive.’
‘But it doesn’t matter what they’re trying to forge, because they’ve already killed five million people.’
‘You keep going back to the five million.’
‘If you’re tired of that five million, then I’m sure I can find you another five million.’
And one can, now. One can find another 5 million, and another, and another.
Alongside all this there was, in England then, a far hotter debate: the one about Vietnam. A certain urbanity was maintained in arguments about the USSR. It was in arguments about Vietnam that people yelled, wept, fought, stalked out. I watched my father forfeit two valuable friendships over Vietnam (those of A. Alvarez and Karl Miller). For he, and most but not all of the frequenters of the fascist lunch, broadly backed American policy. And this was, of course, the position of a minuscule and much-disliked minority. In my first term at Oxford (autumn, 1968) I attended a demonstration against the resuppression of Czechoslovakia. About a hundred people were there. We heard speeches. The mood was sorrowful, decent. Compare this to the wildly peergroup-competitive but definitely unfakeable emotings and self-lacerations of the crowds outside the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square, where they gathered in their tens of thousands.