The Naked Year

by Boris Pilnyak

  And the soldiers after the lecture would submit notes:

  “But what will happen to Grishka in the heavenly Kingdom?” “Comrade lecturer! And wot’ll ‘appen wiff me wife, if I vote at the front for an S. R. and she for Purishkevich?” “I ask you to explain if it’s possible to belong to two parties at the same time, the SR’s and the Bolsheviks?!” “Comrade Lecturer! I ask you to explain about the Bolsheviks’ program would the crops in the fields be insured or is an expropriation of capital envisaged?” “Mr. Comrade! Will women be freed from an eight-hour day during their period and please briefly explain the biography of Victor Hugo. Comrade Erzov.”

  And Semyon Matveev Zilotov often had to rescue the lecturers–somewhere in a farm barn–climbing onto a table and shouting:

  “Comrades! I, as your people’s elected representative, ask you not to write foolish stupidnesses!”

  This was in our dear Polesye, where there are lakes, boulders, hills, fir trees and a pale sky. Summer was leaving with its peaceful August and peaceful long evenings. In the day the soldiers wrote stupidities, and in the evening, somewhere behind the parapet or in the window yard of the farm, soldiers heated their billy-cans and–told stories: about their own affairs and fairy tales. The soldiers spoke in their simple muzhik words about Ivanushka-the-Fool, where simplicity and truth fight untruth, about our quiet fields, the sadness of the fields, about the woods, about cottage Russia–their words were clear and pure, like these August evenings, images clear and bright, like these August stars, and their dreams beautiful.

  Two souls, the East and West, popular wisdom, primordial, our beautiful, stupidity and wisdom, fabulous truth, interwoven with grief and untruth, having lain for centuries under a roaring stone and unwound–by truth. Semyon Matveev Zilotov saw all this close up. But–oh, books!–Semyon Matveev Zilotov saw here– –Riding around the trenches with an orator, one morning Semyon Matveev Zilotov was drinking tea behind a parapet, the parapet was hit by a German shell, Semyon Matveev was buried together with a saucer, then he was thrown right out by another shell (the saucer remained intact)–and Semyon Matveev came to, returned to the world of realities only after a month in his native Ordinin; Semyon Matveev’s physical appearance was distorted: his face keeled over to one side, one side of his moustache began to seem larger than the other, he lost his right eye, his body became wizened, and Semyon Matveev Zilotov began to walk the way emaciated hunting dogs, eaten away by old age, walk; Semyon Matveev Zilotov’s dried-up brain, eaten away by a month of death, eaten away by books from Varygin’s locker (in leather covers and with bug smells), not having perceived the wisdom of cottage Russia, perceived a great secret:–two souls, a great secret, black magic, the pentagram, the pentagram from the book “The Pentagram, or the Masons’ Sign, translated from the French!” (Varygin in those days was already locked up in prison.) On Red Army caps in those days there already appeared a five-pointed red star. Russia. Revolution. The books told of how people were ordered to think a hundred years ago. And there she is, Russia, disturbed, turbid, crawling, leaping, poor! One must, one must crossbreed Russia with the West, mix the blood, a man must come–in twenty years! On the Red Army caps the pentagram (“translated from the French”) flared up with a mystical shout–it will bring, it will deliver, it will save. Black Magic–the Devil! The Devil–and not God! Trample over God. In the church, on the altar, Russia will crossbreed with the West. Russia. Revolution. Save Russia!–dreams of youth and a brain dried-up in dreams.

  Comrade Laitis signed orders for the arrest of Olenka Kuntz and Sergey Sergeevich.

  The ordinary citizen Sergey Sergeevich. Really–was Sergey Sergeevich just an agent provocateur and petty bourgeois? On the evening before his arrest Sergey Sergeevich, having spread out the table napkin, ate tomatoes from Zilotov’s kitchen garden, with vinegar and pepper. Then Sergey Sergeevich got undressed, lay down to sleep and before sleep, alone before himself–thought. Sergey Sergeevich was suffering, genuinely and deeply, and, like any suffering, and, like all sincerity–his pain was beautiful. Sergey Sergeevich hated, like a coward–these days, Comrade Laitis, everyone, everything– –and was afraid, afraid to the point of horror, to the point of physical pain, to the point of numbness…–

  And below, on the stairs, soldiers’ boots banged along. When the soldiers entered Sergey Sergeevich’s room, Sergey Sergeevich was sitting, huddled into a corner of the bed, his eyes were open painfully wide, his widely swollen jaw hung down, and he whispered:

  “What for? What for?”

  “I’ve a vague idea but I don’t know exactly!” said the soldier. “Get dressed. You’ll find out there!”

  Furthermore the COM. PARTY gave the order to arrest Laitis.

  And the Bolshevik’s community, having evicted the Ordinin princes, settled in the house on the old rise.

  “Dong! dong! dong!” –the stones of the bells fall into the town creek.

  Com-mu–tators, a-accumu-lators. Some get one thing, some another.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  DEATHS (TRIPTYCH THE FIRST)

  THE DEATH OF THE COMMUNE

  AND IN THESE DAYS THE COMMUNE AT PORECHYE PERISHED: it perished suddenly, in a few days, in August. It was raining, the nights were silent and noiseless–and at night there came to the commune unknown, armed men, in Caucasian fur caps and felt cloaks, the unknown, swarthy Comrade Gerry brought them. A week before this Shura Stetsenko had left the commune, he returned with Gerry. At dusk a storm came, it rained noisily, the wind blew. Andrei had been riding since morning to a distant field, at dusk he found Yuzik, Semyon Ivanovich and Gerry in the library; they were stoking the hearth, burning papers. Semyon Ivanovich went out quickly. Yuzik was standing, his slender legs spread apart, one hand placed on his waist. Gerry, in a Caucasian fur cap, was squatting opposite the fire.

  “You don’t know each other?–Comwade Andwei–Comwade Gewwy.”

  Gerry silently offered a huge hand and spoke to Yuzik in English. Yuzik contemptuously shrugged his shoulders and kept silent.

  “Comwade Andwei doesn’t understand English,” said Yuzik.

  “Pleash excush me, Comrade Andrei, but I am very tired,” –Gerry’s lips, unaccustomed to smiling, parted in a sneer, but his pitch-like eyes remained heavy and cold as before, very concentrated.

  “Gewwy came from the Ukwaine, there’ll soon be an uprising there. Gewwy and I starved together for a long time in Canada. Then in the Ukwaine I saved his life. When the Haydamaks took Yekatewinoslav, Gewwy, not knowing how to aim, opened fire on the town with a cannon–not knowing how to aim! Gewwy, they say, were you drunk? Gewwy was caught and they wanted to execute him. But in the evening I came with my detatchment and saved Gewwy’s life. I love life vewy much, Comwade Gewwy–just like you. I want nothing from others, but I won’t allow anyone to touch me.”

  “Comrade Joseph, when old age comes, we will remember. You’re very talkative!”

  “I love life vewy much, Gewwy, for I have fwee will!”

  “You’re very talkative, Comrade Joseph!”

  “So be it!” –Yuzik contemptuously shrugged a shoulder.

  Gerry stood up, flexing his muscles. The fire in the hearth was dying out. Yuzik stood motionless, with his hands on his slender high waist, he looked into the fire. Into the study came Oskerko, Nikolai, Kirill, Natalya, Anna, Pavlenko. Stassik in the drawing room had begun to play Ukrainian dances on the piano, he broke off immediately. Natalya was coming up to Yuzik from behind, she placed her hands on his shoulders, lowered her head and said:

  “Dear Comrade Yuzik! There’s no need to be sad. What rain! We met in order to be together this evening.”

  In came Stassik in a dressing gown with tassels, bellowing:

  “Yuzka, don’t be sad! You’re a fool, perhaps?!”

  Yuzik turned round and spoke loudly, calmly and contemptuously.

  “Comwades! Shuga Stentsenko–is no comwade and no wevolutionary. He’s just a bandit. Gewwy’s a guest. Let’s enjoy ourselves!”


  In the commune, in the old prince’s house, they enjoyed themselves recklessly, fervently and youthfully. Through the windows stood black darkness, the rain lashed, the wind howled. In the drawing room they lit the lamps, last lit for sure under the princes, they danced, sang, played charades, danced a jig. Pavlenko and Natalya secretly brought in a ham, bottles of cognac and vodka and a basket of apples. Gerry and those who had come with him were no longer there, and because beyond the walls there were strangers, because over the earth moved autumnal, already cold clouds–in the hall it was especially cozy and jolly. They made hot punch, handed round a goblet to everyone, they split up into various corners, and regrouped, joked, argued, talked. They parted after midnight–Andrei went out onto the terrace, listened to the wind, watched the darkness, thought about how the earth was moving towards autumn. Towards our gray, nostalgic Autumn, bogged down in misty fields, yellow dried-up riverbeds. In the drawing room they had all already dispersed. Yuzik was saying to Oskerka:

  “Guawds must be stationed everywhere. You’ll conceal yourselves in the house–you, Pavlenko, Sviwid and Nikolai. With wifles and bombs.” –Yuzik turned to Andrei, smiled. “Comwade Andwei! You and I will stay the night here, in the cowner woom, in the divan-room. I’ll accompany you.”

  In the corner room, by the mirror a candle was murkily burning. From both sides through large windows, with arc-shaped tops, blew the wind; surely the frames were badly secured–the wind walked through the rooms, whistled mournfully. Yuzik took a long time washing and cleaning himself, then addressed Andrei:

  “Please, Comwade Andwei, keep quiet. I’ll be busy for another half hour.” –He took the candle and went away, put the candle in the neighboring room, in the study, footsteps died away in the distance. The dim candle light fell from behind the door-curtain.

  There was silence for a long time. Andrei lay down on the divan. And suddenly in the study they began talking–Andrei had not heard the returning footsteps.

  “Yuzik, you must tell everything,” said Kirill.

  “Quiet,” –Andrei did not recognize the second voice.

  “O.K. I’ll tell,” –Yuzik was speaking in a whisper, lengthily, calmly, Andrei heard fragments.

  “Gewwy and Stetsenko came up to me, and Gewwy said:–‘You’re under awwest.’ But I put my hand into my pocket and answered: ‘Comwade Gewwy, I love life just as you do, and anyone who lifts his hand, will die before me.’ I spoke and walked away, but they wemained standing there, because they are bandits and cowawds…”

  “…Gewwy demands those millions which we took in the expwopwiation of the Yekatewginoslav bank… Gewwy has fowgotten Canada…”

  “…I’ll give him nothing. The wevolution and death gave birth to me, blood.”

  The whispering was long and wearisome, then Yuzik said loudly, just as always:

  “Pavlenko, send Gewwy to me. Tell Kiwill and Sviwid to hide in this woom, with awms.”

  Pavel’s footsteps faded away, silence reigned, the two men came, rattling their rifles. Svirid went and stood by the door-curtain near Andrei. Then in the distance Gerry’s heavy footsteps began to thunder.

  “Comrade Yuzef, yiz called me?”

  “Yes. I wanted to tell you that you won’t get anything fwom me. And I ask you to leave the commune immediately,” –Yuzik turned round and walked smartly into the room in the corner.

  “Comrade Yuzef!”

  Yuzik made no response, for a moment the orphan wind was heard–Gerry’s soled boots clicked. Andrei pretended to be asleep. Yuzik silently undressed and lay down, immediately began to snore.

  At dawn shots awakened Andrei. –Bang, bang!–there were cracking noises in the next room, answered by a distant thud, shots were coming from the yard, on the porch a machine-gun chattered and immediately fell silent. Andrei jumped up–Yuzik stopped him. Yuzik was lying in bed with one arm dangling and in his hand was clutched a Browning.

  “Comwade Andwei, don’t be alawmed. This is a misunderstanding.”

  In the morning there was no longer anyone in the commune. The house, the yard, the park were empty. Anna told Andrei that in the lodge by the gate with the lions lay killed–Pavlenko, Svirid, Gerry, Stetsenko and Natalya.

  In the daytime a detail of soldiers came to the commune from the Soviet.

  The last night Andrei spent at St. Nicholas’s, which is at Belye-Kolodezy. Yegorka, in the evening, went to have a look at the fishing rod, brought back a pike. They sat with a lighted torch, the night came black, dense, rainy. Andrei went to the spring for water, in St. Nicholas’ [ILLEGIBLE] tower the bells, with the wind, groaned mournfully, the church in the darkness seemed even more sunken into the ground, even more decrepit. The pines swished. And from the pines out of the darkness came a rider in a Caucasian fur cap, a felt cloak and with a rifle.

  “Who goes there?”

  “Here I am!”

  “Comrade Yuzik?”

  “Is that you, Comwade Andwei?”

  Yuzik stopped the horse. “I’ve come to you.” –he fell silent. “You must get away from here. They’ll catch you in the morning and are bound to shoot you. Tomowwow we’ll go away from hewe–to the Ukwaine. Come with us.”

  Andrei refused to go. They said goodbye.

  “It’ll soon be autumn. There are no staws. The worldly pwison–do you wemember? May God give you evewy happiness! To live!”

  Yuzik was silent for a while, then he turned his horse sharply and rode off at a trot.

  At dawn Andrei was already at the station, at “Mar loop-station,” he elbowed his way through to the suitcases in the heated freight car. In the dawn gray murkiness a child was crying orphan-like, and a tediously happy voice cried out tediously, monotonously:

  “Gavrila, turn! Tur–n, Gavryu-ska!…”

  The train stood a very long time, then slowly moved off weary and muddy, like a pig.

  So perished the anarchists’ commune at Porechye.

  –And here is the story of how the landowner’s Porechye perished: this was in the first days of the Revolution, in the first campfires of Revolution, since then many campfires have burnt themselves out, and the days have sung many blizzard songs, carrying people away. Here is the story–

  THE FIRST DYING

  –However, surely in the Revolution it wasn’t the dead that died?! This was in the first days of the Revolution. Here is the story.

  First extract. This is genealogical–the Ordinins, without the Popkovs.

  In through the windows, through the empty autumnal park, the sun looked for a long time. In the empty autumnal silence over the fields the “crows’ weddings” cried out. In this house, so it seemed, his whole life had passed, now it was necessary to go away, for ever: the chairman himself, Ivan Koloturov-Kononov, brought the final order, those strangers had already settled in the kitchen.

  In the morning he got up with the blue dawn, day came golden, clear. with a fathomless, blue firmament–on days like this then fathers used to go hunting with borzois. Now everything in the fields is bare, dead rusty arrows stick up, probably the wolves are already whimpering. Yesterday evening they nailed a red signboard next to the front door:–

  –Chernorechensky Poor Peasants’ Committee–

  –and there were noises all night in the hall, something was being put into position. The drawing room remains as before, in the library behind the panes there still gleam the gilt backs of the books–oh, books! surely your poison and your sweetness will not be superfluous!

  In the morning with the blue dawn arose Prince Andrei Ordinin, the old man’s younger brother–and went off into the field, wandered about all day, drank the last autumn wine, listened to the crow’s weddings: in his childhood, whenever he saw this autumnal ornithological carnival, he would clap hands and shout frenziedly: “Keep away, I’m off to my wedding! Keep away, I’m off to my wedding!” There was never any such wedding, the days are already being counted, he lived for love, there were many loves, there was pain, and there is pain�
�and emptiness and desolation. There was the poison of the Moscow Povarskaya, books and women–there was the sadness of autumn Porechye, he always lived here in autumn. These were his thoughts. He was walking through empty fields without roads, the aspens burned crimson in the hollows, behind him under Uvek stood a white house, in the lilac clumps of the thinning park. Immeasurably distant were the distant lands, blue, crystal. The temples have thinned and are going gray–you can’t stop it, put it back.

  In the field a muzhik turned up, primordial, typical, with a cartload of sacks, in a sheepskin–a silencing wall–took off his cap, brought the nag to a halt, while–the master passed.

  “Good day, Your Excellency!” he said, making a clicking noise, he pulled the reins, drove off, then again stopped, shouted:–“Master! Listen, Sir, I’ve something to say!”

  He turned back. The muzhik’s face was all covered in hair, and furrowed–an old man.

  “What will you do now, master?”

  “It’s difficult to say!”

  “When will you go away? They’re taking the grain away–the poor committees. No matches, no textiles–I light a burning torch!… They forbid the sale of grain–d’you hear, sir–I’ll take you to the station on the sly! From Moscow arrived–EE!… Thirty-five–thirrty-five!.. What can you do with that? It’s all lots of fun though, lots of fun!.. Have a smoke, master.”

  He had never smoked shag–he rolled a cigar. All around there was the steppe, I don’t think anyone would have seen how the muzhik pitied him, and he needed pity. He shook hands bidding him farewell, turned sharply, went home. In the park in the pond the water was mirror-like, blue–the water in the pond was always cold, transparent, like glass: it still wasn’t time for it to freeze completely. The sun had already moved westwards.

  He walked through into the study, sat down at the desk, opened the drawers with letters in–all your life, you can’t take it with you. He shook the drawers out onto the desk, walked into the drawing room up to the hearth. On the album table stood an earthenware pot of milk, bread. He lit the fire, burned the papers, stood near and drank the milk, ate the bread–he had starved all day. Already the bare evening shadows were entering the room, a lilac mist stood outside the windows. The fire burned pale yellow, the milk was not fresh, the bread had gone stale.