‘Last Sunday I tied up my vines and secretly went to church: 6 March was Shrove Sunday. One of my writer friends was there. Apparently, you and he studied together in Moscow. He said your work is wonderful, he praised you to the skies. He even told me you’d attended a Russian-language school… How did you end up packed off here as a nationalist?
‘You should write about us, Abdulla, about the fear we feel in our throats: today it’s you here in jail, and tomorrow it’s me they’ll put inside…’ Vinokurov struck the breast pocket of his tunic with his clenched fist.
Could he be drunk? Abdulla wondered, but the only smell he could detect was that of tobacco.
‘You still don’t trust me, Abdulla, I can tell by your eyes. All right, don’t. But to make up for the wrong I’ve done you, I can offer you my help. True, you understand, I can’t let you out of here. I’m only a pawn in this game. But tell me if there’s anything you want to say to your friends.’
A whole swarm of butterflies emerging from their cocoons – no, a whole flight of doves flew out of Abdulla’s mind. He was utterly bewildered: he couldn’t understand whether this world was one of truth or of lies.
‘All right,’ said Abdulla. ‘But in Russian fairy tales you get to make not just one, but three wishes. So here are my three little wishes. First, tell Beregin I don’t bear him any grudge; second, let Yunusov know I have his gold watch; third, the most important, tell Cho’lpon that his wife came to ask me to write a letter to the authorities, but there were no authorities left to write to. I did write to Aleksei Tolstoy, but I received no answer.’
‘Then might you forgive me?’ Vinokurov asked, taking his calloused hand off the table, while still holding it palm up in offering.
—
After such a full day, sleep was the last thing on Abdulla’s mind. Was Vinokurov merely pretending to be an ally? If it was a trick, what could be the point of it? The jailer had offered to help Stoddart and his people out of self-interest, but Abdulla didn’t have any hidden gold, nor did he have the Queen of England to back him. If Vinokurov was looking after his own interests, there was no sign of it. Seemingly, he was just a man asking to be forgiven.
Did Abdulla have to accept his apology? Time may have healed his physical injuries, but what about his moral suffering? If it was true that Abdulla now held the upper hand, should he have used it to his advantage somehow? If Vinokurov could arrange a confrontation with Beregin, or Cho’lpon, then it might be possible to put some trust in him.
‘I met a writer in church,’ he’d said. ‘He praised you to the skies.’ Which writer? A Russian, obviously. Could it be Borodin? But Borodin was a Tatar. Nikitin? He’s a militant communist, wild horses couldn’t drag him into a church. Sheverdin, then? That could be it… Sheverdin was from Samarkand, but had studied in Moscow. Abdulla had seen him once or twice there at the houses of other poets. In 1931 he wrote a fairly good review of Past Days, and had contributed a foreword to the Russian edition of Obid the Pickaxe. But he was a Party loyalist; still, who knows, after hearing unbelievers like Vinokurov talk about Shrove Sunday, a writer might well go to bow and cross himself.
The order rang out: ‘Turn over onto your left side!’ Sniffling and groaning, the prisoners obeyed. Abdulla spared a thought for Jur’at, who had disappeared without trace after he had been taken out for interrogation a fortnight previously. He’d like to ask Vinokurov what had happened to the big man. After Jur’at, the notorious thief Gena of Tashkent had been moved into this cell with five of his underlings, and the thieves had soon asserted a hierarchy over the ‘politicals’. ‘Now we’ll show you what life is like in a prison camp,’ they said, and that was the end of the Chaghatai Symposiums. Jur’at would have had something to say in such circumstances: ‘The sparrow bust its gut when it tried to walk like a stork.’ Now anything sent from outside, tobacco or the like, was swiftly confiscated by Gena and his men. The most nourishing food was reserved for them. When sugar was handed out, they took it as a tax. The politicals were mostly elderly intellectuals, so the thieves had only to say ‘Chuh’ and they would give in. When Abdulla was off being interrogated, they’d even taken Professor Zasypkin’s gold-rimmed glasses.
Should Abdulla try to get involved in this business? Could he ask Vinokurov to do something about it? Don’t be naive, Abdulla! You’re as easy to catch as a cat having its fur stroked! Mightn’t Vinokurov himself have arranged for these thieves to be shoved in with the ‘politicals’?
Could he ask Vinokurov to arrange a visit from Rahbar? Would such a thing even be within his power? He had himself said ‘I’m just a pawn in this place.’ No, Abdulla was raving. Never mind bringing his wife here, she had to be sent off to the country, well out of sight. As far away from Samarkand as possible.
—
On the evening of 13 March Abdulla was taken again to Trigulov’s office. The setting sun soaked in through the drawn curtains, penetrating the secret space of the room. Seeing sunlight for the first time in two and a half months, Abdulla had to screw up his eyes, and his flesh shivered. But an inexplicable feeling of joy arose in his heart.
This time, as well as Trigulov and a sergeant, a third person was in the room. Abdulla allowed himself a frivolous thought: They’re going to marry me off again! The third man turned his face towards Abdulla. He vaguely remembered this person, his smooth round face, his broad shiny forehead, his barely discernible staring eyes, the imperceptible smile always ghosting his lips. Where had he seen him before?
Sitting down, Abdulla remembered: he was a teacher of literature at a pedagogical institute. In 1935, when this institute had been set up in Tashkent’s Mirobod quarter, a group of writers had come there for a meeting organised by this teacher, whose name was…
‘Do you know this person?’ asked Trigulov, nodding towards Abdulla.
‘Yes, it’s the famous writer Abdulla Qodiriy.’
Abdulla was embarrassed. If he was asked now, what name would he give?
‘Do you know Nazrulla Inoyatov?’ asked Trigulov, almost as if he had read Abdulla’s thoughts.
‘Yes,’ Abdulla hastily replied, and trying to overcome his embarrassment, said with more respect than was needed: ‘He’s a teacher of literature at the pedagogical institute.’
The slight smile did not leave Inoyatov’s smooth face, and this too gave Abdulla an involuntary spark of joy.
‘Inoyatov,’ said the interrogator, ‘do you confirm what you earlier admitted, that you were part of an anti-Soviet bourgeois-nationalist organisation?’
Nazrulla’s face didn’t change. ‘Yes, I confirm everything in full!’ The smile still lit up his face.
‘What have you got to say about the accused Qodiriy?’
‘I know Abdulla Qodiriy as a dyed-in-the-wool nationalist. Our organisation valued him highly as the most prominent representative of the Uzbek bourgeois-nationalist movement. Because his works served the aims of our organisation. I have no doubt that, even now, Abdulla Qodiriy is of those same opinions.’
So much for you! thought Abdulla. They’ve really worked you over!
‘Accused Qodiriy, do you admit this?’
‘I admit the nationalist part. Up to 1932 my writing was nationalist. I don’t deny opposing the Soviets – then. But in my novel written in 1932 I had moved to support the Soviets…’
‘Inoyatov, were you a member of the nationalist counter-revolutionary organisation “National Independence”?’
Inoyatov didn’t frown even for a moment. ‘Yes,’ he said softly, ‘I was a member.’
‘Was Abdulla Qodiriy also a member of “National Independence”?’
‘According to one of its leaders of the organisation, yes.’
‘Very good. Qodiriy, do you admit to being a member of this counter-revolutionary organisation?’
‘No, I don’t. I’ve never been a member of any organisation. I have never even heard
about this so-called “National Independence”, never mind been a member of it; as I’ve explained, the nature of my writing means I couldn’t have had any connection to it.’
‘You can see, Inoyatov, that Qodiriy denies what you yourself have demonstrated and shown. How do you explain this?’
‘Abdulla Qodiriy is lying. The leaders openly and publicly talked about his being a member.’ Inoyatov’s face maintained its friendly smile, while Abdulla’s was frozen in disbelief: the promise of springtime had disappeared without a trace. Abdulla was prepared to accept the charges of nationalism, of counter-revolution and a thousand other political crimes, but the charges which this man had sprung on him – an accusation based on lies – was something he was not going to put up with under any circumstances.
—
The first time he was arrested, Abdulla had ended his last speech to the court with the following words:
I request the judges of this just court: even if I have been slandered in every possible way, personally, and by falsification, because of a misunderstanding, I shan’t be acquitted, but will be found guilty. At the very least, perhaps because of the prosecutor’s negative attitude, you may also intend to sentence me to the highest measure of punishment. Since there isn’t a trace of malice in his heart, a simple, naive, young man with a clear conscience much prefers death to such humiliation. As certain persons will have hoped, I have already died a moral death. Now physical death no longer frightens me. This is what I await and this is what I request from the justice of the court.
Now he was utterly bewildered, as he ran these words through his memory. Preoccupied by his thoughts, he didn’t even notice that Inoyatov had been taken away, and that his place had been taken by the teacher Yunusov.
‘Qodiriy, do you know this man? Who is he?’ Trigulov had to repeat his demand.
Abdulla shuddered. He leapt to his feet and tried to offer his hand to Yunusov. Trigulov took fright.
‘Get back down!’ he yelled, his voice breaking. Abdulla hastily complied.
‘I repeat, Qodiriy! Do you know this man?’
‘Yes, I know him. How are you, sir? This person is the teacher Yunusov.’
‘How about you, Yunusov, do you know this man?’
‘Yes, I do. This is the writer Abdulla Qodiriy.’ The teacher’s face was wan and had lost all colour. He had been one of the very first to be arrested. I expect he’s been inside for a year now, thought Abdulla. What vicious things have they done to transform a man who used to be so full of life? It must have been in the 1930s when the two of them made a trip to Samarkand and Bukhara. Abdulla was looking for material for a story about a concubine, and Yunusov, then a respected teacher, was collecting folk stories. Abdulla remembered his constant loud laughter as they trekked round the towns and villages with Elbek and Cho’lpon. Now this same man was swollen like a pumpkin, like a man stung by wasps.
‘Yunusov, under the leadership of the enemies of the people Akmal Ikromov and Fayzulla Xo’jayev, you…’
The same old record on the same old gramophone: how many hundreds of times has he repeated such interrogations? After so many times, you might well begin to believe it. Saying ‘halva’ once doesn’t bring a sweet taste to your mouth, but after a hundred times, your teeth will start sticking together.
‘Qodiriy, Qodiriy! Do you confirm what Yunusov has said?’
‘Yes, I do. Some of it. Yes, I have written from a nationalist point of view, but I’ve never been a member of any organisation. My novella Obid the Pickaxe, which I wrote in 1932, is very pro-Soviet…’
‘You’re lying! You finished writing Obid the Pickaxe in 1935 when it was published. But you promote nationalistic ideas in it. Do you admit your guilt?’
‘I consider the novel Obid the Pickaxe, which I finished in 1935, excuse me, to be neither nationalistic nor anti-Soviet.’
‘Yunusov, tell me, what nationalist anti-Soviet organisation was Qodiriy a member of?’
‘Both Abdulla Qodiriy and I were members of the To’ron society in 1919. He took part in that organisation’s meetings.’
‘Qodiriy, do you admit this?’
‘I do not.’
No, Abdulla thought, staring at Yunusov’s exhausted expressionless face, Vinokurov didn’t pass on my words to him, and even if he did, my friend has already said goodbye to this world. Without bothering to check what it said, Abdulla signed the piece of paper that the interrogator put in front of him.
The confrontations meant Abdulla had missed the midday and evening meals of soup and scraps, and nobody had thought to put a bit of bread aside for him. If only there were something to chew on, he thought, as he resigned himself to fasting until breakfast the next morning. Abdulla went back to the confrontations as he sucked his teeth. Then he recalled what he had been thinking about and went over to Kosoniy.
‘I hope my question doesn’t seem rude, but have you ever in your life sold anyone?’ he asked.
‘In what sense? Do you mean as a slave-trader?
‘No, no: in the sense of telling lies about them.’
‘Then, my dear boy, you really must cast the noose a little wider,’ Kosoniy began. ‘In al-Ghazali’s book The Revival of Religious Sciences, the third chapter ‘Way to Perdition’, the section ‘The Tongue’s Calamities’, there are twenty misfortunes that can befall because of one’s tongue. Among them are empty talk, spite, debauchery, reciting poetry, scolding, cursing, telling lies, gossiping, slander and similar misfortunes. We need to talk only about the couple that interest you. When you say “selling people”, primarily you would have spiteful talk in mind. Spiteful talk, in al-Ghazali’s opinion, comes from being inclined to arguing and protesting. As Allah’s Prophet, peace be upon him, said in one of his hadiths, “Anyone ignorant enough to indulge in spiteful talk incurs the wrath of Allah until he renounces it or dies.” There is another misfortune of interest to you: the inability to keep a secret. In our prophet’s hadiths it is said, “A man who says something in an assembly while looking around him is entrusting his words to his listeners.” According to tradition, Muawiya told a secret to Walid son of Utbah. Walid went up to his father and said, “The Emir of the Faithful has told me a secret, let me reveal it to you.” His father said, “Don’t tell me under any circumstances! Secrets must be kept secret. Don’t be a slave to sin!” There’s another misfortune relevant to our conversation: that of telling lies. “Preserve yourself from lies, they are the same as debauchery, and both of them are hell,” said our magnanimous Prophet. Yet another: “Lies are one of the doors to quarrelling.”
‘Luqman the Wise told his sons, “Son, preserve yourself from lies, because they taste better than sparrow meat. Not many people are free from them.” But in sharia law, there are situations where lies are permissible. Our magnanimous Prophet apparently said, “If a man has put things right between any two persons, or has spoken well to exalt what is good, he is not a liar.” Ato ibn Yasar relates, “A person asked our Prophet: ‘Messenger of Allah, may I tell my wife a lie?’ The Prophet decreed, ‘There’s nothing good about lying.’ The man asked, ‘May I promise to give my wife a few things, one way or another?’ The generous Prophet decreed, ‘There’s no harm in that.’”
‘These things lead to what we call a happy relationship, my dear boy. But this not all there is to it. As for the misfortune of gossip, we must include this in the question you asked. In our merciful Qu’ran’s Sura al-Hujurat, Allah the all-Highest commanded: “Do not say bad things behind one another’s backs. Would any of you like to eat the flesh of his brother when dead?” Our magnanimous Messenger has said, “On the night I was ascending to heaven, I saw a group of people who were scratching their faces with their fingernails. I asked the angel Gabriel, ‘Who are these people?’ and Gabriel said, ‘These people were gossiping and revealing each other’s secrets’.” Al-Ghazali cites eight reasons for gossip: vindictive denial, trying to please s
omeone, taking advantage of something, blaming another person for one’s own disgrace, showing off, envy, playing a joke, or mocking someone, belittling someone…’
‘For the sake of good relations, so that I don’t cause you any upset, I shan’t speak to you of other misfortunes of the tongue, listed by al-Ghazali, which include invention, literature, poetry; let me just cite a legend from Kashifi’s Education of the Just. “The tyrant Hajjoj was threatening everyone. When it was the turn of a mulla, the latter responded: ‘O Emir, don’t kill me, because I have been truly faithful to you!’ ‘What have you actually done for me?’ Hajjoj demanded to know, and the mulla said, ‘Your enemy so-and-so was gossiping about you and spoke about your debauchery. I forbad him to do so and protected you from being abused in the future.’ When asked for a witness, the mulla pointed to another person present at this session. This person confirmed his story. ‘Yes, he was telling the truth, he saved that man from the sin of gossiping!’ Hajjoj then questioned this second man. ‘Then why didn’t you join him in opposing my enemy?’ The reply came, ‘Because I, too, am your enemy. It was out of the question for me to take your side!’ After that Hajjoj ordered both men to be released – one for his loyalty, the other for his honesty. And thus the saying came about: ‘A lie can sometimes serve a man, but the truth will serve him better.”’
—
That night, hunched over with hunger, listening to his empty stomach rumbling, Abdulla wondered: had Kosoniy actually answered his question? Then his thoughts went further back to the teacher Yunusov. Anyone writing in their native language was by extension a nationalist. If a man didn’t love his people, if he didn’t value his own language, why would he become a writer? But this didn’t mean believing that one’s own people and one’s own language were the only ones in the world! Every trader praises his own wares in the market. Only, what was meant by an ‘organisation’? True, many years ago Fitrat had formed a group called the Chaghatai Symposium, but if those utterly frivolous sessions of literary chat and gossip could be called an organisation, then all of Uzbekistan was up to its neck in them; every tea-house a rebel headquarters, every town quarter where people wore national headgear a military detachment.
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