Several days later we read in the local newspapers Joseph Stalin’s oath at Lenin’s bier on Red Square in Moscow. It was a short, almost liturgical promise to follow in the path indicated by the dead leader and it moved me as the oratory at our memorial gathering had not done. Stalin was a member of the all-powerful Political Bureau, Secretary General of the Party, and had been an important figure in the new regime from the beginning. Yet this was the first time that I had become acutely aware of his existence. Strange, I thought, that his portrait was not even on our walls.
From that day forward the name Stalin grew so big, so inescapable, that it was difficult to recall a time when it had not overshadowed our lives.
Chapter Nineteen
Vasilii Ianov, The Heart of a Peasant
From the 1890’s to persecutions of the mid-1930’s there existed a movement in Russia which, in varying degrees, reflected the social, ethical, and religious ideas of Leo Tolstoy. Though labeled “Tolstoyism,” the movement was not monolithic, nor could any of its factions claim exclusive rights to Tolstoy’s legacy. There were groups of adherents, discussion circles, and publications of various kinds. Pacifism was certainly a major binding force. Vasilii Ianov (1897-1971) was a peasant and a follower of what he fervently professed to be Tolstoy’s views. Memoirs of a peasant are quite rare. And certainly, even more so of one who was an ardent believer in Tolstoy’s moral stance. Taken from Vasilii Ianov, “Kratkie vospominaniia o perezhitom” [Brief Memoir of my Experiences] in Pamiat’. Paris: YMCA Press, 1979.
MY BIRTH AND DEATH OF MY FATHER
I was born in 1897 at the end of July in Kaluga Province, district of Zhizdrensk, village of Bol’shaia Rechka. The latter is now called Malaia Pesochnia.
For some reason I do not remember all of the talk and circumstances regarding my birth, thus I will relate what I heard from others.
On this day, my father and his oldest daughter had just returned from tilling potatoes and he was unharnessing the sweaty horse. A neighbor came up to him and with a mix of bashfulness and joy said to him: “Well, Vasilii Ivanovich, I congratulate you on the birth of a son!”
“Well, thank God, thank God,” answered father. And the neighbor said: “Now the family is large, your health is poor, may the Lord take the child quickly.”
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“It is a sin to think that way aunt Mar’ia,” said father. “On the contrary, we must make all effort to raise and bring him up to be a good person and a hardworking peasant.”
Father was carrying the harness to the fence when aunt Mar’ia again came up to him. “He is a real copy of you, you can’t get a cry out of him. I moved him this way and that, but he stayed quiet. He’s not sensitive to pain. He’s forbearing like his father.”
“That’s good. He feels that it’s silly to be irritated by trifles. Nervousness and caprice don’t lead to anything good. This experience will benefit him in life.” Father went into the izba [peasant hut] and walked up to mother who was lying on the bed. Greeting him with her large, tear-stained, but happy eyes, mother said, “Vasia, how nice he is; hurry up and look at him!”
“Thank God, thank God, and how are you doing?”
“Oh, I’m fine. I’m happy for him because he is so loveable.” Father kissed mother gently. That was how my parents initially welcomed me into this world.
“We’ll name our newborn Vasia, my name. I don’t have long to live and I’m getting weaker all the time. I’m not a worker anymore, you can’t make it too long with consumption.”
“You sure gladdened me, telling me you’ll die soon. And what am I to do with five of them?” said mother.
“It’s good that I’ll die first. What would I do with them without you? I know you’ll make it with them. They won’t be hungry, you’ll train them, and you’ll be like a bee with them. They’ll have it good with a mother like you.”
“Why did we make children if we feel we’re not able to raise them?” asked mother.
“You’re right. For momentary earthly pleasures we became blind and we did not think of the harsh consequences. We can’t bring back the past. I’m to blame, forgive me.”
“Don’t take all the blame on yourself. I’m not a seventeen-year-old girl and have just given birth for the ninth time. It wasn’t sweet each time and I bit my lips till they bled. I repented and swore not to repeat this. So, I can’t blame anybody. Get up, girl, and get to work.”
And my mother began to get up from the bed. But father put her back.
“Rest for a week, I’ll take care of the kids.”
After one year, father died from consumption. Before death, he said that he would die that day. Though mother was used to father’s illness, she nevertheless burst into tears and all of us children were also crying.
The neighbors and village friends gathered more often in the house to see father one last time. He was a kind man, a superb storyteller, and probably the only person in the village who could read the Gospels.
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All who came tried to move up closer, to be seen by father and hear a final word of wisdom. But at the sight of his great suffering, all became petrified and filled the izba in total silence. Then father called Mar’ia, our neighbor. She approached, all in tears and, looking at father, did not move. Mother was also standing next to him.
“Good people,” said father with a deep sigh, “I’ll soon be dying, but at the end I’d like to say my wishes. Listen, Nastia, don’t give the children away, raise them yourself. Have the most pity for the little one. He’ll be your breadwinner, though now he is the weakest of all. Don’t marry off the girls early. They’ll have enough time to experience sorrow and suffering. It would be better if they didn’t marry at all in their life, as I now understand it. That would be the very best. The boys would do well if they didn’t marry either, but their road is different. They’ll be drafted as soldiers and they will be corrupted there in many ways.”
HOME
And so I am again with my beloved family, among my fellow villagers, amidst my native fields. Around me I do not hear the sound of commands or interrogations, but calm human speech. Nor are there marches, jumping, and convulsive movements by command, but the reasonable labor so essential for all people, a labor without which no minister, poet, scholar, general, or accountant can survive—all those whose own so-called labor is frequently valued above that of the peasant. I settled into my work, but the past, again and again, inevitably rose before me. Why? Why was all this necessary? According to Tolstoy, each person is a messenger of God, of the most elevated element that one recognizes in oneself. And each of us is allotted labor in fulfillment of this supreme law of life. In carrying out this labor, one must forget and discard all that is personal, the egotistical aspirations, desires, goals. It will then be easy to accomplish God’s will. There will be no doubts, disappointments, fear, sadness, or loneliness.
I only did my duty, that which the highest attributes of my essence demanded from me. I did not wish for anything personally and things went easily. I did not become infected by the spirit of malice and hostility which surrounded me everywhere in my life, neither in jail, during interrogations, in the barracks, nor on the march. I did not get angry, was not envious, was unafraid, and felt no burden. I was also happy and at peace and observed that people with whom I had contact found this catching and were kind and well disposed toward me. If I was displeased at times, it was only with myself, that much that was egotistical was still within me, that I was not fully of God’s will.
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MY SISTER
So I lived in my home. Suddenly I received a letter from my sister who was at the Kamenskii factory. She wrote that there was famine in their region. Her husband went for bread and died en route. Her children were swelling from hunger. What to do? How could I help my sister in such a calamity? You could not feed four people, a mot
her with three children by sending parcels. We had to bring her to her homeland, but where to put them?
I had to consult with family. First I spoke to my own brother. “Brother, what are we going to do? How can we help our sister and save her and her children from starvation?”
“I don’t know,” answered my brother. “I have my own family of four.”
I then asked my sister’s father-in-law. He answered in the same way: “I barely have enough for myself.” Nevertheless, I decided to bring my sister, but where to get the money for the trip? We had one rich person in our village and I went to him. I explained my sister’s difficult situation.
“How much money do you need for all of this?”
I told him.
“No, you won’t get by with that,” and gave me double the amount, wishing me success.
I told mother I had obtained the money and would now be going for my sister. Through her tears, mother said: “I am happy for you in all this, but I’m afraid that it will be hard for you with your sister. You don’t know her character yet.” But I went.
My sister’s situation was truly difficult. The two youngest children had already died from hunger, and the other three, though they could walk, swayed from weakness. Seeing me, they roused themselves. Their pale little faces shone with happiness, and they all hung on my neck. Nudging me with their sharp elbows and knees, they climbed up on my lap hugging me and kissing me. When I told my sister why I had come, they all yelled: “Dear mother, we will all go with uncle!”
Having questioned me as to how everyone was living and what they were saying about her arrival, she told me she was not going. “I’d rather die here from hunger than live satiated under hateful looks.” The children began crying.
“Why are you bawling? Here we have a roof over our heads but where will we live there? Uncle himself lives in a room of five people, my father-in-law refused us totally, and everyone in their village says his house is crowded. Who needs us?”
I expected that in saying this my sister would cry bitterly but during this period she had lived through so much that her suffering had dried up her tears
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and she merely looked at a single spot with sad eyes. The children kept repeating the same thing:
“We are going with uncle.”
“Well, go alone, I am staying here.”
The kids agreed to this as well.
“We will plant potatoes with uncle over there; we’ll cook them and bake them in the ashes, and we’ll send you letters that we are comfortable, that we eat our fill of baked potatoes.”
My sister smiled.
“You’ll eat potatoes, all right, but where will you sleep? You have no roof or clothes.” Little Kuz’ka cried out delightedly: “I will take an axe, chop some wood, and bring it in. Then we’ll make a big bonfire with my uncle and we’ll sleep by it.” Little Masha: “And I’m going to make fritters from the potatoes and eat them with uncle.”
“And you’re going to live next to the fire?” asked their mother. “Wherever uncle is, that’s where I’ll be,” answered Mania [Masha].
The oldest girl, Ira [diminutive of Irina], said, “And I, uncle, will cook for all. I will do the laundry, knit socks, and darn and patch everything. I’ll do spinning with grandma and we’ll weave sackcloth.”
“What about school?” asked the mother.
“Three grades is enough for me. When I grow up, if I have to, I’ll take courses.”
“Where are you going to live?” her mother asked again.
“With uncle, and grandma will live with us too,” answered Ira.
In the morning, my sister said: “You came here to get us, but did you think where we will live?”
“Wherever I live, there all of you will be. That is how I thought of it, and still do, and I came for you with this in mind.”
“All right. We’ll see what will come of your thinking and how we’ll all live in poverty.”
We left on the following morning. We experienced many difficulties during the trip but my sister did not reproach me with a single word. Probably it is difficult for some people to move from dead center but then, with each step, involuntarily, they begin to get accustomed to the new. The children also, seeing my calmness, seemingly decided internally that this was the way it should be, and peacefully gave themselves up to their impressions. They were happy and absorbed themselves in everything, knowing that their loved ones, whom they fully trusted, were with them.
Similar to these children sometimes are adults who believe in their God— love, who vigilantly looks after each one of them through their conscience. Then, loving this God in themselves and in all living things, people are assuaged,
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knowing that God is constantly with them, preserving them with his love and blessing them.
And so we came home. Mother greeted all with her inherent motherly concern about each person and did everything possible to make things well. My older brother and his wife were, likely, not very pleased, but seeing misfortune they contained themselves and, therefore, everything was quiet and peaceful.
Things became very crowded in our house, more precisely in our room, just like in a railroad car. But extreme need did not violate the feelings of prudence and compassion and life went on its way. I occupied myself with the usual work and also with crafting wood, metal, and clay. The local youth treated me well, respectfully. I was known not only in our whole village but in the surrounding ones as well. The older peasants did not have any particular striving to understand the meaning of life. After a long and agonizing military experience and separation they had things to do and their household concerns engaged them totally.
But the young were not fully subject to life’s inertia. Their inquisitiveness led in many directions and some of them were even interested in religious questions. They started coming to see me, to talk and even asked for booklets to read. I gave whatever I had read, principally Leo Tolstoy. The clear and simple language of Leo Tolstoy was accessible to all. His words addressed life’s questions and they responded with concern and sympathy.
Yes, Tolstoy is a universal miracle. He emanates the light of a godly, virtuous life and raging human egoism is incapable of smearing him with mud or trampling him down. I can’t say anything about the future. Perhaps Tolstoy will yet be compelled to dwell in caves, covered by misunderstanding and anger. But at some point, this godsend will be found under heaps of stone and the new humanity will sigh joyously seeing the light emanating from underneath and dissipating the gathering darkness of ages.
Yes, the future will be as it must. For now we must be grateful that in our own lives, thanks to Tolstoy, we have perceived the truth.
Dimitrii Ivanovich Grishin agreed with me more than anyone. I told him of my plans to leave the village commune in spring, leave the peasant fields, which, due to a shortage of land, were always a source of unhappiness and enmity. I decided to go build myself a “castle” on the forested lands, at the edge of the forest, like that of any bird (except the cuckoo), to clear a garden, plant some fruit trees, and live off this. Mitia [Dimitrii] happily joined me. We decided to take nothing from our homes besides saws and axes and to leave all the household goods to our brothers.
One-and-a-half kilometers from the village there was a thicket with a swampy ravine near a stream. We picked this swampy place to drain and live on so as not to incur envy, that we had taken good land.
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The work went full swing. We cleared the thicket, dug a garden, and built ourselves a “skyscraper”—four meters wide and six meters long. But at the very height of our labor we were both taken to the Briansk prison which was far stronger than our castle.
The prosecutor began interrogating us as to the basis of our violation of governmental laws—building a house, cutting wood. I replied that I was ashamed to realize th
at there were people who imagined that the whole world belonged to them. I did not wish to affirm their sick, abnormal opinion and ask their permission to weave my own nest of marshland brushwood in a foul swamp. Having said this, I stopped. We remained standing while the prosecutor and another person consulted quietly. Then the prosecutor turned to us and said:
“Well, go! But where will you be going and what are you going to do?”
“We are going to go to our nest, try and finish it before winter, and tend to the garden so that we have something to eat this winter.”
We left the office silently and were released from prison. By winter we truly did finish our “castle.” We cut some shingles, covered our roof, cut up boards for the floor, made bricks, and built a Russian stove. We harvested our garden and took in my sister and her children for the winter. The kids jumped for joy and chirped happily about me. Mitia, being cheerful, also paid attention to the children and our swamp nest became a corner of paradise.
Many of the curious came to see us to find topics for their idle chatter. They were not shy about giving us all kinds of advice, how we should live so that things would be even better. We lived thus for a year when I once accidentally heard a gossipy woman telling my sister:
“Yes, all would be fine if you had milk and meat. In the village, some neighbor could spare some. Here there is no one and you can’t get it from anybody.”
“Yes, in the village I could earn some money for milk and meat; here there is no one even to talk to,” she complained about her life isolated from any company.
In the summer, when the peasants began to reapportion land, I went to them and asked them to parcel out a farmstead for me. The commune measured one out for me with cheerful joking.
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