Sokolov’s brother-in-law, the historian Madyarov, spoke calmly and unhurriedly. He never openly defended Trotsky or the senior Red Army officers who had been shot as traitors to the Motherland; but it was clear from the admiration with which he spoke of Krivoruchko and Dubov, from the casual respect with which he mentioned the names of commissars and generals who had been liquidated in 1937, that he did not for one moment believe that Marshals Tukhachevsky, Blücher and Yegorov, or Muralov, the commander of the Moscow military district, or Generals Levandovsky, Gamarnik, Dybenko and Bubnov, or Unschlicht, or Trotsky’s first deputy, Sklyansky, had ever really been enemies of the people and traitors to the Motherland.
No one had talked like this before the war. The might of the State had constructed a new past. It had made the Red cavalry charge a second time. It had dismissed the genuine heroes of long-past events and appointed new ones. The state had the power to replay events, to transform figures of granite and bronze, to alter speeches long since delivered, to change the faces in a news photograph.
A new history had been written. Even people who had lived through those years had now had to relive them, transformed from brave men to cowards, from revolutionaries to foreign agents.
Listening to Madyarov, however, it seemed clear that all this would give way to a more powerful logic – the logic of truth.
‘All these men,’ he said, ‘would have been fighting against Fascism today. They’d have sacrificed their lives gladly. Why did they have to be killed?’
The landlord of the Sokolovs’ flat was a chemical engineer from Kazan, Vladimir Romanovich Artelev. Artelev’s wife worked late. Their two sons were at the front. He himself was in charge of a workshop at the chemical factory. He was badly dressed and he didn’t even have a winter coat or fur hat. He had to wear a quilted jerkin under his raincoat, and he had a dirty, crumpled cap that he always pulled right down over his ears when he went out.
When Viktor saw him come in, blowing on his numb, red fingers, smiling shyly at the people round the table, he could hardly believe that this was the landlord; rather than the head of a large workshop at an important factory, he seemed like some beggarly neighbour coming to scrounge.
This evening, Artelev was hovering by the door, hollow-cheeked and unshaven, listening to Madyarov; he must have been afraid the floorboards would squeak if he walked right in. Marya Ivanovna whispered something in his ear on her way to the kitchen. He shook his head timidly, evidently saying he didn’t want anything to eat.
‘Yesterday,’ said Madyarov, ‘a colonel who’s here for medical treatment was telling me he has to appear before a Party Commission for hitting a lieutenant in the face. That sort of thing never happened during the Civil War.’
‘But you said yourself that Shchors had the members of a Revolutionary Military Commission whipped,’ said Viktor.
‘Yes,’ said Madyarov, ‘but that was a subordinate whipping his superiors. That’s a little different.’
‘It’s the same story in industry,’ said Artelev. ‘Our director addresses everyone in the familiar form, but he’d take offence if you addressed him as “Comrade Shurev”. No, it has to be “Leontiy Kuzmich”. The other day in the workshop he got angry with one of the chemists, an old man. Shurev swore at him and said: “You do as I say – or I’ll give you a boot up the arse that will send you flying onto the street.” The old man is seventy-one years old.’
‘And doesn’t the trade union say anything?’ asked Sokolov.
‘What’s the trade union got to do with it?’ asked Madyarov. ‘Their job is to exhort us to make sacrifices. You know: first we had to make preparations for the war; now it’s “everything for the Front”; and after the war we’ll be called upon to remedy the consequences of the war. They haven’t got time to bother about some old man.’
‘Maybe we should have some tea now?’ Marya Ivanovna whispered to Sokolov.
‘Yes, of course!’ said Sokolov. ‘Let’s have some tea.’
‘It’s amazing how silently she moves!’ thought Viktor, gazing absent-mindedly at Marya Ivanovna’s thin shoulders as she glided out through the half-open door to the kitchen.
‘Yes, comrades,’ said Madyarov suddenly, ‘can you imagine what it’s like to have freedom of the press? One quiet morning after the war you open your newspaper, and instead of exultant editorials, instead of a letter addressed by some workers to the great Stalin, instead of articles about a brigade of steel-workers who have done an extra day’s work in honour of the elections to the Supreme Soviet, instead of stories about workers in the United States who are beginning the New Year in a state of despondency, poverty and growing unemployment, guess what you find . . .! Information! Can you imagine a newspaper like that? A newspaper that provides information!
‘You begin reading: there’s an article about the bad harvest in the region of Kursk, the inspector’s report on conditions inside Butyrka Prison, a discussion about whether the White Sea canal is really necessary or not, an account of how a worker called Golopuzov has spoken out against the imposition of a new State loan.
‘In short, you learn everything that’s happened in the country: good and bad harvests; outbursts of civic enthusiasm and armed robberies; the opening of a new mine and an accident in another mine; a disagreement between Molotov and Malenkov; reports on the strike that has flared up in protest against a factory director who insulted a seventy-year-old chemical engineer. You read Churchill’s and Blum’s actual speeches instead of summaries of what they “alleged”; you read an account of a debate in the House of Commons; you learn how many people committed suicide in Moscow yesterday and how many were injured in traffic accidents. You learn why there’s no buckwheat in Moscow instead of being told that the first strawberries have just been flown in from Tashkent. You find out the quantity of a kolkhoz-worker’s daily ration of bread from the newspapers, not from the cleaning-lady whose niece from the country has just come to Moscow to buy some bread. Yes, and at the same time you continue to be a true Soviet citizen.
‘You go into a bookshop and buy a book. You read historians, economists, philosophers and political correspondents from America, England and France. You can work out for yourself where these writers are mistaken – you’re allowed out onto the street without your nanny.’
Just as Madyarov reached the end of his speech, Marya Ivanovna came in with a great pile of cups and saucers. And at the same moment, Sokolov banged on the table and said: ‘That’s enough! I absolutely insist that you bring this conversation to an end.’
Marya Ivanovna’s mouth dropped open as she stared at her husband. The cups and saucers she was carrying began to tinkle; her hands were trembling.
‘There we are,’ said Viktor. ‘Freedom of the press has been abolished by Pyotr Lavrentyevich. We didn’t enjoy it for long. It’s a good thing Marya Ivanovna wasn’t exposed to such seditious talk.’
‘Our system,’ said Sokolov testily, ‘has demonstrated its strength. The bourgeois democracies have already collapsed.’
‘Yes,’ said Viktor, ‘but then in 1940 the degenerate bourgeois democracy of Finland came up against our centralism – and things didn’t turn out too well for us. I’m no admirer of bourgeois democracy – but facts are facts. And what about that old chemist?’
Viktor looked round and saw Marya Ivanovna gazing at him very attentively.
‘It wasn’t Finland, but the Finnish winter,’ said Sokolov.
‘Come on, Petya!’ said Madyarov.
‘We could say,’ Viktor went on, ‘that during the war the Soviet State has demonstrated both its strengths and its weaknesses.’
‘What weaknesses?’ asked Sokolov.
‘Well,’ said Madyarov, ‘for a start there are all the people who’ve been arrested when they could be fighting against the Germans. Why do you think we’re fighting on the banks of the Volga?’
‘What’s that got to do with the system?’
‘What on earth do you mean?’ asked Viktor. ‘I suppose you, Pyotr Lavrentyevich
, think that the corporal’s widow shot herself in 1937?’fn1
Once again Viktor felt Marya Ivanovna’s attentive gaze. He thought to himself that he’d been behaving strangely in this argument: when Madyarov first began criticizing the State, he had argued against Madyarov; but when Sokolov attacked Madyarov, he had begun arguing against Sokolov.
Sokolov enjoyed the odd laugh at a stupid speech or an illiterate article, but his stance on any important issue was always steadfast and undeviating. Whereas Madyarov certainly made no secret of his views.
‘You’re attempting to explain our retreat in terms of the imperfections of the Soviet system,’ pronounced Sokolov. ‘But the blow struck against our country by the Germans was of such force that, in absorbing this blow, our State has demonstrated with absolute clarity not its weakness but its strength. What you see is the shadow cast by a giant, and you say: “Look, what a shadow!” You forget the giant himself. Our centralism is a social motor of truly immense power, capable of achieving miracles. It already has achieved miracles. And it will achieve more!’
‘If you’re no use to the State,’ said Karimov, ‘it will discard you; it will throw you out together with all your ideas, plans and achievements. But if your idea coincides with the interests of the State, then you’ll be given a magic carpet.’
‘That’s true enough,’ said Artelev. ‘I was once posted for a month to a factory of special military importance. Stalin himself knew about each new workshop that opened – he was in telephone contact with the director . . . And what equipment! Raw materials, special components, spare parts – everything just appeared quite miraculously . . . And as for the living conditions! Bathrooms, cream brought to the door every morning! I’ve never known anything like it. And a superb canteen. And above all, there was no bureaucracy. Everything could be organized without red tape.’
‘Or rather,’ added Karimov, ‘the State bureaucracy, like the giant in a fairy-tale, was placed at the service of the people.’
‘If such perfection has already been attained at factories of military importance,’ said Sokolov, ‘then it will clearly eventually be attained throughout the whole of industry.’
‘No!’ said Madyarov. ‘There are two distinct principles. Stalin doesn’t build what people need – he builds what the State needs. It’s the State, not the people, that needs heavy industry. And as for the White Sea canal – that’s no use to anyone. The needs of the State are one pole; people’s needs are the other pole. These two poles are irreconcilable.’
‘You’re right,’ said Artelev. ‘And outside these special factories there’s total chaos. People here in Kazan need a certain product, but according to the plan I have to deliver it to Chita – and from there it’s sent back to Kazan. I need fitters, but haven’t used up the funds allocated for children’s nurseries – so what do I do? I put my fitters down in the books as child-minders. We’re stifled by centralism! Some inventor suggested a method for producing fifteen hundred articles where we now produce two hundred. The director simply threw him out: the plan’s calculated according to the total weight of what we produce – it’s easier just to let things be. And if the whole factory comes to a standstill because of a shortage of some material that can be bought for thirty roubles, then he’ll close the factory and lose two million roubles. He won’t risk paying thirty roubles on the black market.’
Artelev looked round at his listeners and, as though afraid they wouldn’t let him finish, went on hurriedly:
‘A worker gets very little, but he does get paid according to his labour. Whereas an engineer gets almost nothing – you can earn five times as much selling fizzy water on the street. And the factory directors and commissariats just go on repeating: “The plan! The plan!” It doesn’t matter if you’re dying of hunger – you must fulfil the plan. We had a director called Shmatkov who was always shouting: “The factory’s more important than your own mother. Even if you work yourself to death – you must fulfil the plan! And if you don’t – I’ll work you to death myself.” And then one fine day we hear that Shmatkov is being transferred to Voskresensk. “Afanasy Lukich,” I asked him, “how can you leave us like this? We’re behind with the plan!” He just said quite straightforwardly, “Well, we’ve got children living in Moscow and Voskresensk is much closer. And then we’ve been offered a good flat – with a garden. My wife’s always getting ill and she needs some fresh air.” I’m amazed the State can trust people like that, while workers – and famous scientists, if they’re not Party members – have to beg for their bread.’
‘It’s quite simple really,’ said Madyarov. ‘These people have been entrusted with something far more important than factories and institutes. These people have been entrusted with the holy of holies, the heart, the life-force, of Soviet bureaucracy.’
‘I can truly say,’ Artelev continued, without acknowledging Madyarov’s joke, ‘that I love my workshop. And I work hard – I don’t spare myself. But I lack the most important quality – I don’t know how to work human beings to death. I can work myself to death, but not the workers.’
Everything Madyarov had said made sense; and yet, without understanding why, Viktor still felt a need to contradict him.
‘There’s something twisted in your reasoning,’ he said. ‘How can you deny that today the interests of the individual not only coincide with, but are one and the same as, the interests of the State? The State has built up the armaments industry. Surely each one of us needs the guns, tanks and aeroplanes with which our sons and brothers have been armed?’
‘Absolutely!’ said Sokolov.
Footnotes
fn1 An allusion to Gogol’s play, The Inspector: the governor tries to make out that a widow, whom he has had whipped, has in fact whipped herself.
64
Marya Ivanovna poured out the tea. The discussion turned to literature.
‘Dostoyevsky’s been forgotten,’ said Madyarov. ‘He never gets reprinted and the libraries try not to lend out his books.’
‘Because he’s a reactionary,’ said Viktor.
‘That’s true,’ said Sokolov. ‘He shouldn’t have written The Devils.’
‘Are you sure, Pyotr Lavrentyevich, that he shouldn’t have written The Devils?’ enquired Viktor. ‘Perhaps it’s The Diary of a Writer he shouldn’t have written?’
‘You can’t shave the edges off genius,’ said Madyarov. ‘Dostoyevsky simply doesn’t fit into our ideology. Not like Mayakovsky – who Stalin called the finest and most talented of our poets . . . Mayakovsky is the personification of the State even in his emotionality. While Dostoyevsky, even in his cult of the State, is humanity itself.’
‘If you’re going to talk like that,’ said Sokolov, ‘there’ll be no room in the official canon for any of the literature of the last century.’
‘Far from it,’ said Madyarov. ‘What about Tolstoy? He made poetry out of the idea of a people’s war. And the State has just proclaimed a people’s war. Tolstoy’s idea coincides with the interests of the State. And so – as Karimov would say – the magic carpet is whisked in. Now we have Tolstoy on the radio, we have literary evenings devoted to Tolstoy, his works are constantly being reprinted; he even gets quoted by our leaders.’
‘Chekhov’s done best of all. He was recognized both by the last epoch and by our own,’ said Sokolov.
‘You’ve hit the nail on the head!’ exclaimed Madyarov, slapping his hand on the table. ‘But if we do recognize Chekhov, it’s because we don’t understand him. The same as Zoshchenko, who is in some ways his disciple.’
‘I don’t understand,’ objected Sokolov. ‘Chekhov’s a realist. It’s the decadents that we criticize.’
‘You don’t understand?’ asked Madyarov. ‘Well then, I’ll explain.’
‘Don’t you dare say anything against Chekhov!’ said Marya Ivanovna. ‘He’s my favourite writer.’
‘And you’re quite right, my dear Masha,’ said Madyarov. ‘Now I suppose you, Pyotr Lavrentyevich, look to the decad
ents for an expression of humanity?’
Sokolov, by now quite angry, gave a dismissive wave of the hand. Madyarov paid no attention. He needed Sokolov to look to the decadents for humanity. Otherwise he couldn’t finish his train of thought.
‘Individualism is not the same as humanity,’ he explained. ‘Like everyone else, you confuse the two. You think the decadents are much criticized now? Nonsense! They’re not subversive of the State, simply irrelevant to it. I am certain that there is no divide between Socialist Realism and the decadent movement. People have argued over the definition of Socialist Realism. It’s a mirror: when the Party and the Government ask, “Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all?” it replies, “You – Party, You – Government, You – State, you’re the fairest of them all!” While the decadents’ answer to this question is, “Me, Me, Me, I’m the fairest of them all.” Not so very different. Socialist Realism is the affirmation of the uniqueness and superiority of the State; the decadent movement is the affirmation of the uniqueness and superiority of the individual. The form may be different, but the essence is one and the same – ecstatic wonder at one’s own superiority. The perfect State has no time for any others that differ from it. And the decadent personality is profoundly indifferent to all other personalities except two; with one of these it makes refined conversation, with the other it exchanges kisses and caresses. It may seem that the decadents with their individualism are fighting on behalf of man. Not a bit of it. The decadent are indifferent to man – and so is the State. Where’s the divide?’
Sokolov was listening with his eyes half-closed. Sensing that Madyarov was about to infringe still more serious taboos, he interrupted:
‘Excuse me, but what’s all this got to do with Chekhov?’
‘I’m just coming to that. Between him and the present day lies a veritable abyss. Chekhov took Russian democracy on his shoulders, the still unrealized Russian democracy. Chekhov’s path is the path of Russia’s freedom. We took a different path – as Lenin said. Just try and remember all Chekhov’s different heroes! Probably only Balzac has ever brought such a mass of different people into the consciousness of society. No – not even Balzac. Just think! Doctors, engineers, lawyers, teachers, lecturers, landlords, shopkeepers, industrialists, nannies, lackeys, students, civil servants of every rank, cattle-dealers, tram-conductors, marriage-brokers, sextons, bishops, peasants, workers, cobblers, artists’ models, horticulturalists, zoologists, innkeepers, gamekeepers, prostitutes, fishermen, lieutenants, corporals, artists, cooks, writers, janitors, nuns, soldiers, midwives, prisoners on the Sakhalin Islands . . .’
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