By November 1, I will have written a chronicle of events, and I’ll work on an exhibit the whole next month. I like this cooperation with American consultants. We have a lot to learn from them in the area of production organization. But I’ll be freed up after November. I’m lagging behind in my reading these days—I want to read literature, economics, mathematics, and other things. Interacting with colleagues is terribly interesting. People of my status.
What about your article on Gogol, and why was he being commemorated? Was it an anniversary of some sort?
I want to emphasize again that you don’t have to be a staff member—independent literary work is sufficient. Vigilyansky doesn’t have a regular position. Try to get admitted to the Writers’ Union, get involved with the activities of the House of Printing. They have a wonderful library there, where you can even borrow books to take home, and they have a good dining hall.
Marusya, I beg you to buy and send me a Handbook of Labor in the USSR. You will most likely find it in the store at the Communist Academy, which used to be located on Mokhovaya, opposite the university.
I kiss you, my dearest one. Soon I’ll be sending you some extra money, so that you may eat well. J.
FEBRUARY 7, 1933
Two years have gone by, and it is eight months since the last time I saw you. Your visit, despite all the joy it brought me, left me with a feeling of sadness and bitterness. There is a crack, a fissure between us that seems to be growing wider. Only one thing will heal this fissure: you must come here again! For a week, for three days, for three hours. It is so important: looking at each other, touching each other … Marusya, a marriage will not survive on postage stamps alone. Come! I’m not only summoning you because I long for my beloved wife and girlfriend. Every life has some sort of foundation on which it stands, grows, from which it feeds. You are my soil, my foundation. But there is a sense of alienation emanating from your letters. And mere letters will not allow us to overcome this alienation. Sometimes I get the feeling that you either read only superficially the long letters I write, or you don’t read them at all. Our correspondence is becoming chaotic, and keeps missing the mark.
Marusya, my love! Please come to me!
APRIL 18, 1933
My next postal money transfer will be delayed by several days. The book is nearing the end, but I can’t seem to finish it. Don’t be alarmed about my authorship: the book is truly a collective publication. I wrote to the publisher to make sure that the actual part of the work of each author was stipulated for each under collective conditions. I have learned something through this work. Several useful technical conventions have taken shape, and many new themes have suggested themselves, so work has played a big role. It can’t come out under my own name, of course, and perhaps I don’t even want that. One should write in solitude, not as part of a crowd. But the collective is on very amiable terms. There are several people with whom a serious discussion is possible. I hope that the publisher pays as they have promised to. I await with certainty good news from you. I kiss you, my friend. J.
APRIL 20, 1933
Your constant refrain—that the GTO physical-culture badge (“Readiness for Labor and Defense”) carries weight, and we can’t do without it—makes me wary. If you think carefully about it, this preoccupation with physical culture is really a replacement for culture, a substitute. You know that I have exercised and practiced gymnastics my whole life, and I believe that one must stay in good physical condition if one is to live a full life; but it isn’t valuable in itself. Thinking this way is understandable in an adolescent, but you could analyze the situation more deeply: why are efforts made to promote mass physical culture instead of intellectual culture?
I often read in your letters: “Why am I going through all this? I’m a proletarian,” etc. I can’t write you about this in detail—we need to have a long talk about it—but this phrase is absolutely meaningless. Think about it. The question is much deeper and more serious … You need another label for your unhappiness. Neither you nor I belong to the proletariat. We come from the professional class, the class of master craftsmen—this is not our achievement, nor is it our fault. Of course, if you want to represent yourself as a proletarian, that is your prerogative. But you are an actress, an artist, a bohemian of sorts, an intellectual—and there is more truth in this than there is in your desire to be a proletarian. Nadezhda Krupskaya is not a proletarian, either. Teachers and specialists are crucially necessary to the government, and the proletariat can’t move forward without specialists. But I love you, Marusya, despite whatever social portrait you choose for yourself. With what joy I would speak to you on this subject, hour upon hour. I kiss you, my dearest little friend. J.
SEPTEMBER 1, 1933
Dear friend, it’s a pity you didn’t accept the job offer at the toy magazine. You’re making a mistake. It’s applied, not pure, journalism. Whether you stayed involved in production would depend on you alone. Moreover, you would have a lot of free time there. You would be able to read and write. Working at some newspaper would be journalism without a particular subject; but a magazine with a very narrow application would be very much in keeping with your principles. Think about it, and weigh all the pros and cons again in your mind. I’m certain you’re making a mistake. But the main thing is that you need time for thinking and reading. Otherwise, nothing will come of it. Writing insignificant, random articles doesn’t add up to real authorship. If you work at a magazine, you’ll be expected to do something bigger—a series of stories or a book.
A small circle of like-minded people, with broad interests, has taken shape here. Two more new comrades, besides Lavretsky and Dementiev, have joined. At our last meeting we discussed Mikhail Zoshchenko, and there was a doctor with some very interesting ideas about aging as loss. Our gatherings continue; we present papers, and occasionally small communiqués. It livens up our routine existence.
SEPTEMBER 25, 1933
Dear Marusya, things are close to completion. There is just a bit of time to wait. About myself I can say the same things I said in previous letters. I finished my work on the museum. I translated tons of technical literature, and I can truly say that I have become highly qualified. The collection of articles about labor under conditions of modern mechanized production has also been submitted to a publishing house. I am healthy, energetic; I am studying history and mathematics. I practice gymnastics every day, and take a cold sponge bath. Between studies, I listen to marvelous ancient Cossack songs. My thoughts circle around folklore—it is an extremely undervalued source, and it contains great riches. No one studies it now! But it needs to be systematically studied and recorded.
All my anxiety concerns you and Genrikh. As soon as I return, I will immediately appeal to secure a reversal of my case. I would be disinclined to do this, but for Genrikh’s sake I’ll make the rounds of all those organizations. I hope the relatives won’t deprive you of support. As soon as I get out, I’ll take care of all the debts. I kiss you, sweet dear friends. Your Jacob. (An unsent letter, expropriated during the search and arrest of Jacob Ossetsky on October 14, 1933.)
OCTOBER 14, 1933
With each month, with each day, the end of my term, and my release, gets nearer. Only twelve weeks remain from my three-year term. I am summing up everything in my mind. I am making plans for the future. I wrote several letters to colleagues, and I have asked them to describe the current situation. I have broadened my skills significantly. I am able to do serious translation work, as well as publishing. My participation in the organization of the STP museum has given me new qualifications. I didn’t achieve terribly much during these two and a half years, but I haven’t lost any of my former knowledge, either. I’ve followed all the scholarly journals—Russian, German, and English—that I could find in the library. I couldn’t find any in French, but I’ve been able to keep up the level of my French through those two books by Anatole France that you sent me along with your disappointed critique. I truly long for music, and I haven’t lost the hope of finding some work in Moscow connected to music, in addition to my basic professional pursuits.