Gadfly in Russia by Alan Sillitoe
‘Look at that long queue, though. I wouldn’t get in till tomorrow.’
‘Oh no,’ she said, ‘you can walk in straightaway, as a special guest.’
I didn’t care to see the embalmed Lenin. What could his body mean to me? He was dead already, wasn’t he? ‘Perhaps we’ll see it some other time,’ I said, to her disappointment, as if she might have liked another look at it.
Monday, 11 September
Russia is a difficult country if you don’t speak the language, or want to send a telegram, or travel on the Underground, or dine at a place where the menu is printed or written by hand only in Cyrillic, but no problems are insurmountable, or so I supposed when, to save time, I went alone to draw 500 roubles from my savings.
The huge building housing the bank was on Gorki Street, and the more I looked at its palatial structure the less sure was I of being able to make the transaction. Dozens of counters in the grand though somewhat intimidating hall were each for a different sort of business, and I walked behind people filling in forms trying not to appear as if casing the place for a robbery, looking at my passbook in the hope of finding a word corresponding to one above a particular counter. I felt foolishly conspicuous, though no one took any notice. The atmosphere was stuffy and hot, and I had to be back at the hotel soon and meet George, who would take me to explore the Kolomenskoye district.
Coming to what seemed a possible place, I was told to fill in a white form from a pile by the opening. Setting my briefcase down, and pulling out my fountain pen, I inscribed name, address, serial number of bankbook, the date of issue, and the amount to be extracted, then sent the completed form through the pigeonhole to the woman clerk. I stood by to await results.
Such simple business should have been as easy as in any other country, but I was wrong. She eased the book back, jabbed her finger at the form on top of my passport, and said something I didn’t understand. She smiled at least, pointed further along the hall, and went back to shifting her beads from side to side of an abacus frame.
I guided my briefcase to the next guichet with my feet, and was given a blue form from the pile and told to fill in that as well. The last place must have been for depositing money, and now I was at the right one. Sweating with concentration I picked out the salient words, and did a tolerable job on that chit also, even managing my name in Russian script under the English version. Proud of my accomplishment I wondered whether it shouldn’t have been written above, a minor infringement, but it might have been sufficient reason for the woman banishing me to another position. Too late now. I handed the form through as if giving my first novel to a publisher, because back it came, I didn’t know why but, keeping the two forms in my hand I went to the next place along, by now fully engrossed in their dour game of ‘pass the tourist’. A woman with a briefcase and shopping bag stood before me and, without my asking, paused from filling in her own form and handed me another to complete. I set to work, weary from having to deal with so much bullshit, and hoping that matters would now accelerate.
A hopeful sign was that actual money was being counted for the woman in front. Meanwhile I wondered about her status or profession, but didn’t get many clues before she went away. Grateful that she did so without taking time to check her cash, I pushed the blue form, plus the others filled in, as well as my bankbook, passport, and driving licence for good measure across the wood.
A motherly figure, wearing steel spectacles, her grey hair in a bun – much like the other women clerks – she flattened the bankbook, after a glance at my passport, fingered through a file box to her left, and lifted out a card which must have had my details on it. She stamped other entries in the book, which I later discovered took care of interest. I admitted to myself that things were now going well. ‘I’ve read your novel,’ she said. ‘How much money would you like to take out?’
I had written the amount three times, but supposed she wanted a chat during her monotonous work. I wedged the money into my wallet and wished her farewell. Worn out, though the day had hardly begun, I went off to find George.
I was asked to lunch by an American from the Associated Press who, having his ear sufficiently to the ground, had heard something of what I had said in my lecture, so wanted to interview me. He was good at his job, and knowledgeable about goings-on in Moscow. We talked awhile, correctly assuming that I needed him as much as he needed me.
In any case I invariably got on well with Americans, being old enough to appreciate what their nation had done for the rest of us during the Second World War. It was true of course that the Soviet Union had borne the brunt of the fighting, but I had never, as with the majority of other left-wing people, uttered the infantile cry of ‘Yanks Go Home’.
Over the excellent meal he asked if I agreed with Graham Greene, who recently said that royalties from his books, which could not be taken out of Russia, should be given to Daniel and Sinyavsky who were now in prison, and their works banned.
I recalled that before leaving London the BBC Russian service asked me to say a few words about the matter, but I turned them down knowing I would shortly be able to make my views known on native ground. At the same time I wondered why no one from the BBC had phoned me a few years before to talk about Christopher Logue and Bertrand Russell who had also been sent to prison for their beliefs.
I had no hesitation in telling the American that I would be only too glad to donate whatever was available of my royalties to the two writers behind bars for the wrong reasons, and hoped they would soon be released. As we ate and drank I came out with much more, but nothing I didn’t want to be recorded.
Tuesday, 12 September
An article in the Daily Worker gave an undistorted account of what I had said to the American. This was much to its credit. Other Western newspapers carried reports, but they didn’t concern the authorities since they weren’t on sale for people to read.
The Daily Worker was a different matter, and from then I was pestered – there’s no other word for it – to write an article for Pravda: only a short one. ‘Just say something about not believing in what you said, or that you were misquoted, or your words were maliciously taken out of context, or even that you hadn’t said such things at all.’
I played innocent and naïve, as if not knowing what they were getting at, and denied nothing. I was my own man. I was on holiday.
Wednesday, 13 September
In the evening I was invited for drinks at Valentina Ivasheva’s. We toasted Russia – as who would not? – Uncle Dima joining in with a smile hard to describe, though he was no fool, and knew what I had done. Valentina gave a few leery and almost pleading looks, but maybe she was afraid to tax me directly in case I showed my true proletarian colours and broke a few bottles in the vestibule on leaving. I knew what was troubling her, but had no intention of getting into a discussion.
Later, at Tanya Kudraevzeva’s – who worked for Foreign Literature Magazine – I got on well with the young people, all of us relishing the food and drink of the party. One or two who realised I would be leaving for London in the morning still badgered me to recant.
About midnight I stood in a group by the lift door waiting to go down to street level, and though more people could fit comfortably inside, a young writer was pushed in so that we two could descend together. When the door closed he said: ‘Please don’t deny anything in the article about Daniel and Sinyavsky.’
I patted him on the shoulder. We may have been slightly drunk, and I was surprised he felt the need to ask. ‘Don’t worry,’ I told him. ‘Nobody will get anything out of me.’
Thursday, 14 September
Even at the airport terminal Oksana wanted me to hurry off a short piece before boarding the plane. It was obvious why we had arrived an hour or so early. I looked sorry at disappointing her, and said I couldn’t.
When the plane lifted from the runway the prospect of getting home and resuming work on my novel A Tree on Fire began to absorb me, so the problems of Russia could be forgotten fo
Part Three
A Nest of Gentlefolk
1968
9 November
Could it have been a case of ‘come home, all is forgiven’? Whatever it was, Ruth and I were invited to attend the 150th Anniversary Celebrations of the birth of Ivan Turgenev. The prospect of going to Russia again was too good to miss. I had just published Love in the Environs of Voronezh, as well as a book of stories called Guzman, Go Home. Whatever else was in progress could wait awhile.
Another English writer in the group was James Aldridge, whom we had met at the Hampstead house of Ella Winter and Donald Ogden Stewart. His 600-page novel The Diplomat, set in the Persian region of Azerbaijan just after the Second World War, had long been popular in the Soviet Union.
We waited in the airport terminal for our luggage, till despondently realising that one of the suitcases was not going to come on to the carousel, a new experience for us – up to that time. I had visions of it being motored to the Moscow flat of a fence who would sell the contents at one of the street markets. Or it was already being loaded on to a plane for disposal in Irkutsk. Scarves and heavy sweaters were in it, and God knew what else, so it would be hard to endure the winter temperatures without them.
Oksana, with her expressive all-knowing eyes, tried to put us at our ease. ‘Don’t worry. The case will come to your hotel in the morning. But now we must leave, because the others are already waiting in the bus.’
At least we’d had the sense to wear our Russian fur hats, though the first touch of outside air was a knifely shock to the skin. The rest of those on board were mainly writers from communist countries, or from Latin America.
Soon after being installed in one of the 3,000 rooms of the new Hotel Rossiya, George came to welcome us. As always full of life’s enjoyments, he kissed Ruth’s hand like a true cavalier. And then, in his Georgian prince manner, he telephoned room service and asked them to bring champagne and caviar, aware of course that it would be paid for by the state.
We invited him to join us at dinner but he said, with the wink of an amateur conspirator, that he had a date with someone who would never forgive him if he let her down.
Sunday, 10 November
The missing suitcase did not turn up as had been promised, so we entreated long suffering and by now worried Oksana to do her best and make sure it did before we froze to death. Meanwhile we put on all the clothes we had and walked up Gorki Street with James Aldridge, glad to have a companion who knew more Russian than we did.
Back at the hotel there was still no sign of the suitcase, and I (laughingly) told Oksana in the evening that there soon would be if large notices were displayed at the airport explaining, in no uncertain terms, that unless it was found, and quickly, we would perish from the cold, and then a few baggage handlers would be sent to Siberia – or shot.
Monday, 11 November
After breakfast Oksana telephoned from the lobby saying a car was waiting to take us to the airport, where we could identify our case. Did that mean it had been found? She couldn’t be sure, but on arrival we were shown into a room with other missing luggage stacked around the walls.
Ruth spotted ours right away and, on making sure no one had opened it, we produced the identifying docket, signed several forms in at least triplicate, and had it sent to the car.
Tuesday, 12 November
Chairman Skobelev, head of the Turgenev celebrations, asked if I would give a short speech from the stage of the Bolshoi, where the proceedings were to be officially opened. Mr Brezhnev would be there, and many other Soviet notables.
When I agreed to do it Oksana said I should write the speech beforehand and then show it to her. They were taking no chances. I scribbled some notes, and borrowed a typewriter from the hotel, to make the text plain for reading.
I put in a few remarks from my talk of the previous year, and of course also mentioned what a great novelist Turgenev had been, and how he had lived at a time when it was comparatively easy to travel in and out of Russia, which should be possible for writers today. The latter part of this sentence was something that, under the circumstances, could not be used, since Mr Brezhnev might not approve. I had expected as much, though was told that the rest would pass all right. As a guest I agreed to the cut, but at least won a little that was worth saying. The speech was put into Russian by George.
Other delegates spoke – everything simultaneously translated – and from my position on the stage I took in the greyish unmoving features of Brezhnev in his box, seemingly bored by whatever was said, though later he enjoyed and applauded the dramatic excerpts from Turgenev’s works, as well as the singing and dancing.
Wednesday, 13 November
Nothing was too much trouble to keep foreign guests busy and content. Those who made sure the hospitality was as well arranged as possible – such as Oksana – deserved our thanks. I told myself that the price to be paid was never onerous, on being asked to talk at the Writers’ Union on Turgenev’s novels, where I was careful to get in what had not been possible at the Bolshoi.
Their response was to say that foreign travel was not as impossible as I imagined, because Soviet writers – such as Mikhail Sholokhov and Yevgeny Yevtushenko – were often allowed abroad to give lectures and readings. This I well knew, having met them at various times in London, but I didn’t consider it enough, because they were only let out under stringent conditions. I felt sorry for Oksana, who had to do all the interpreting.
George came with us to the savings bank – no difficulty for me this time – to help me take out 800 roubles from my account, which left 969 still there and never collected.
As I was folding the notes George met one of his former professors, a dignified smartly dressed elderly man carrying the inevitable briefcase and wearing spectacles. It was interesting to see so much deference, bowing and hand kissing on George’s part, though he seemed to have enduring respect and affection for the old man who was very happy to receive it.
Ruth and I passed the evening with the well-known poet Rimma Kazakova at the Writers’ Club, and spent some hours talking with her about the current situation.
Thursday, 14 November
We obtained transit visas for our return journey at the Polish consulate, and did the same business at the office of the German Democratic Republic. Our plan was to go home by overlanding to Holland, for the experience of a long train journey.
We then went to Maxim Gorki’s house on Kachalova Street, where he had lived from 1931 until his death in 1936. I had read many of his works, but found the last novel Klim Samgin impossible to get into. The suspicion had always been that he hadn’t died a natural death, but was poisoned on Stalin’s orders for being too outspoken against the regime – though Gorki had nevertheless supported the slave-labour project of the White Sea Canal in the 1920s.
It was an opulent residence for a writer who endured such poverty as a child and young man, comfortable and elegantly furnished in the art deco style, with many artefacts and pictures of his time. The writing desk seemed still to be glowing with use. He also had a museum to himself on Vorovska Street, in a building put up for Prince Gagarin in 1820, where books and manuscripts and much else was on show, but there was no time to see it.
At the Tetryakov gallery, the first time for us, we concentrated on seventeenth-century icons and the landscapes of Levitan. The gallery was presented to the city in 1892 by the brothers Pavel and Sergei Tetryakov, who were patrons and connoisseurs. Ten years later they gave another fifteen hundred items, and by 1914 it housed four thousand, thus earning an asterisk in Baedeker. It now had fifty thousand paintings and sculptures, which made it a good place for the study of Russian art.
In the afternoon I kept an appointment for an interview at the hotel, but forgot what it was for no sooner had it ended. We managed half an hour’s sleep, then attended the theatr
Friday, 15 November
I was shown around a ‘typical’ Soviet school at which children learned foreign languages. Neatly dressed and smiling pupils unselfconsciously spoke a few words in clear English.
When they wanted to know what jobs I’d done in my life I mentioned that of wireless operator, which interested them more than anything else. Followed by a lady teacher I was shown into a room full of radio equipment, and very good it was. They communicated, by shortwave voice and telegraphy, with amateur clubs throughout the Soviet Union. One wall was decorated by colourful QSL (receipt of signal) cards, some from places beyond the borders of their country.
Ruth and I lunched at the Writers’ Club with Boris Polevoi, editor of the influential magazine Yunost (devoted to youth). He it was who, in 1960, had taken a chance on publishing Colleagues by Vasily Aksyonov, a novel unlike any that had so far appeared in the USSR, and for that reason it became immensely popular. One knew from this that Polevoi was very much a liberal as far as new writing was concerned.
Wounds from the war had left his features slightly distorted, especially about the eyes, but he rarely failed to put on a smile when speaking. It was obvious that he worried much, and though times might be easier it was still a fight to publish what he wanted.
On my last visit to Moscow I had been told that Pasternak’s great novel Dr Zhivago would shortly be published in Russia.
‘And so we all hoped,’ Polevoi said, ‘and still do hope, because I’d be delighted to publish it in my magazine. What else can I say?’ Students we met later at the university were in much the same mind.