And it turns out it was all made up. I mean, naturally Dzhambul Dzhabayev existed as a person, and the Russian texts of his poems existed too, the translations, that is. Only the originals never existed.
Dzhambul Dzhabayev may have been a good man, but he was no poet.
I suppose he might have been, but no one cared, because the so-called translations of the nonexistent poems were written by Russian poets and they didn't even ask our great folk singer for permission. And if they had wanted to ask they couldn't have, because these translators didn't know a word of Kazakh and Dzhambul didn't know a word of Russian.
No, that's not true. He knew one Russian word, the word for "fee."
They explained it to Dzhambuclass="underline" every time he signed his name (it goes without saying that Dzhambul was illiterate, but they taught him how to make a squiggle that represented his signature), he should say the magic word "Fee" and he would get money and he could buy many new sheep and camels.
Every time Dzhambul put his sign on a contract he got a fee, and he got richer and richer. He liked that. Once, though, there was a problem. They brought him to Moscow and as part of the itinerary of conferences, receptions, and banquets, they arranged for a meeting with children, a squad of Pioneers. The Pioneers surrounded Dzhambul 209
and begged for his autograph. It was explained to him that he had to write his famous squiggle. He did, but kept saying, "Fee." He was sure that it was his signature that he was paid for, he didn't know anything about "his" poems. He was very disappointed when it was explained that there would be no fee this time and that his riches would not increase.
How sad that Gogol wasn't around to write about this-'-a great poet, known by the entire country, who doesn't exist. However, every grotesque story has its tragic side. Maybe this pathetic Dzhambul really was a great poet? After all, he plucked away at his dombra and sang something. But no one was interested. Magnificent odes to Stalin were needed, compliments in the Oriental style for any occasionbirthdays, the inauguration of the Stalin Constitution, then the elections, the Civil War in Spain, and so on. Dozens of reasons for rhyming, none of which the illiterate old man knew anything about. How could he have known, what did he care, about the "miners of Asturias" ?
An entire brigade of Russian poetasters labored for Dzhambul, including some famous names, like Konstantin Simonov. And they knew the political situation well and wrote to please the leader and teacher, which meant writing mostly about Stalin himself. But they didn't forget his henchmen, Y ezhov* for instance.
I remember that at the time the song about Yezhov was highly praised. It sang in pseudo folk style about the secret police and Yezhov, its glorious leader, and expressed the wish that "my song spread universal fame for our warrior around the world." Yezhov's fame was widespread, but not for the reasons they thought.
They wrote fast and prolifically, and when one of the "translators"
dried up, he was replaced by a new, fresh one. That way production never halted, and the factory was closed down only on Dzhambul's death.
As usual, people will say that none of this is typical, and I'll reply: Why not, it's very typical. There's nothing here against the rules; on the contrary, everything followed the rules, everything was as it should be. The great leader of all the peoples needed inspired singers from all
*Nikolai Ivanovich Yezhov (1 895-1939), major Party worker, and from 1936, Chief of Security Organs. In 1939, on Stalin's orders, Y ezhov was apparently shot. Historians calculate that during the years of "Yczhovism," close to three million people were annihilated in the U.S.S.R.
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the peoples, and it was the state's function to seek out these singers. If they couldn't find them, they created them, as they did Dzhambul.
And the story of the appearance of the new great poet is also typical, as I see it, and educational. A Russian poet and journalist, working in the thirties on a Kazakh Party newspaper (published in Russian), brought in a few poems which he said he had written down from the words of some folk singer and translated. They liked the poems and printed them. Everyone was happy. Just then an exhibition of the accomplishments of Kazakh art was being planned in Moscow. The Party leader of Kazakhstan read the poems of the "unknown poet" in the paper and ordered him to be found and made to write a song in honor of Stalin immediately.
They approached the journalist-where's your poet? He hemmed and hawed· and it became clear that he had lied. They had to get out of the fix and they needed a "native Kazakh poet" to praise Stalin anyway. Someone remembered that he had seen an appropriately colorful old man who sang and played the dombra and who would photograph well. The old man didn't know a word of Russian, there would be no problems. They would just have to find him a good "translator."
They found Dzhambul and a hurried song in his name praising Stalin was sent off to Moscow. Stalin liked the ode, that was the most important thing, and so Dzhambul Dzhabayev's new life began.
What is there atypical or unexpected in this story? Everything is as it should be. Everything develops smoothly, as planned. The story was so typical that it had even been predicted and captured in fiction, so to speak. My friend Yuri Tynyanov wrote a long story called Lieutenant Kije, based supposedly on historical material professedly from the reign of Tsar Paul. I have no idea what things were like in Paul's reign, but for our day this story was a reality. It tells how a nonexistent man becomes an existent one, and an existent one becomes nonexistent. No one is surprised by this-because it is usual and typical and could happen to anyone.
We read Lieutenant Kije with laughter-and fear. Every schoolboy knows the story now. A clerical error creates a mythical figure and that figure, Lieutenant Kije, goes through a long career, marrying, falling into disfavor, and then becoming the "emperor's favorite" and dying with a general's rank.
Fiction triumphed because a man has no significance in a totalitar-21 1
ian state. The only thing that matters is the inexorable movement of the state mechanism. A mechanism needs only cogs. Stalin used to call all of us cogs. One cog does not differ from another, and cogs can easily replace one another. You can pick one out and say, "From this day you will be a genius cog," and everyone else will consider it a genius.
It doesn't matter at all whether it is or not. Anyone can become a genius on the orders of the leader.
This mentality was reinforced fiercely. A popular song that was played on the radio several times a day insisted, "Anyone can become a hero here."
Mayakovsky, "the best, the most talented,'' often published his poems in Komsomolskaya pravda. Someone called up once and wanted to know why that day's paper didn't have a poem by Mayakovsky. "He's on vacation," they explained. "All right, but who's replacing him?"
asked the caller.
I don't like Mayakovsky, but this is significant. The psychology is that every creative figure must have a replacement, and that replacement his own replacement. And they should always be ready, at any moment, to replace "the best, the most talented,'' as Stalin termed him.
So remember, yesterday you were the best, the most talented, and today you're no one. Zero. Shit.
We're all familiar with that sensation-numerous nameless "replacements" standing behind your back, waiting for the signal to sit at your desk and write your novel, your symphony, your poem. Worthless composers were called "Red Beethovens" in the magazines. I don't compare myself to Beethoven, but it's impossible to forget that at any moment a new "Red Shostakovich" can appear and I'll disappear.