I experienced a feeling close to happiness from the smell of the boards, from that May day, and even from Ostapchuk’s stories. Everything that I saw and felt on that day distinctly spoke to how life was only beginning. And if life’s simplest events are so fresh and joyful, then what can be expected from outstanding events that still lie ahead? That is how things seemed to me then.
TUESDAY
Seva says to me:
‘Join the party of the Bolsheviks!’
It is already June. Sun. The sun is breaking its way through oak foliage in Petrovsky Park. We are walking along a path, stepping on last year’s acorns.
‘Why join?’
‘To organize the revolution. According to Marx, revolutions are the locomotives of history.’
It turns out Seva is now a Marxist.
‘What if,’ I am asking, ‘the locomotive heads the wrong way? After all, you’re not the one steering.’
Seva does not allow that possibility. He looks at me with anger; this gaze of his appeared some time ago.
‘The party,’ he says, ‘is strength. There are so many of us! Everyone cannot be mistaken.’
In the first place, they can.
In the second place, it is enough for the engineer to be mistaken.
In the third place, this can be a matter of intentional action. Bad-intentioned.
I don’t say any of this to Seva because I don’t want to anger him more. In another situation, I might have said something, but I don’t want to now. This summer day is dear to me, as are the whistles of steamboats on the Neva, and our walking along the path. ‘The party is strength.’ And Seva, I think as I walk alongside him, is weak. And is raging at me out of his own weakness because I know him through and through. He attaches himself to people who seem strong to him and hopes they will give him part of their strength. They will not give him anything. For a moment, it occurs to me that if Seva were to become a tyrant, I would be the first person he would destroy.
Seva, where are you now? In which grave?
WEDNESDAY
As I was carrying out the rubbish this morning, I noticed a person rummaging around in the container. Despite the wonderful name, a rubbish bin remains a rubbish bin and people are not shy about rummaging around in it, as before. This person was not shy, either. He set all the things that caught his eye on the cover of the container and examined them in more detail. He asked me to show him my rubbish. After looking over everything I had brought, he unexpectedly asked:
‘So, is it true they thawed you?’
I told Geiger about that.
‘That’s fame,’ he told me. ‘And recognition.’
FRIDAY
Geiger brought me eyeglasses today. The frames are massive and the lenses are plain glass: they’re so nobody recognizes me. He said he could have just bought dark glasses but, in the first place, they’re impractical to wear, and in the second, they attract attention in and of themselves. After the press conference, people truly have begun to recognize me on the street.
‘Keep that image in reserve,’ said Geiger. ‘Never be filmed in the glasses.’
I won’t. I removed the glasses when a television crew came to film me later that day. It took them a long time to set up the camera and lights, and powder my face. The interview itself went on for about an hour and a half, too. And I sat that whole time without glasses.
‘What are the main differences between that time and this one?’
The journalist’s face was indistinguishable because of the bright light. It is hard to speak when you cannot see your conversation partner’s face.
‘You have to understand that even sounds were different then, ordinary street sounds. The clopping of horses completely disappeared from life and if you take motors, those sounded different, too. Back then there were single shots from exhaust fumes, now there is a general rumbling. Klaxons are different, too. Oh, and I forgot something important: nobody shouts now. Before, though, junk dealers shouted, and the tinsmiths and the women selling milk, too. Sounds have changed a lot…’
‘Sounds, though, that’s only half of it. I think words changed, that’s what’s important. They changed, didn’t they?’
‘I suppose,’ I answered. ‘I suppose some changed. It’s just that it’s easier to get used to new words than to new sounds or, let’s say, smells.’
‘I keep trying to draw you out on historical topics,’ he laughed, ‘and you keep talking about sounds and about smells.’
Blood rushed to my head. Oh, how it rushed.
‘Do you really not understand that this is the only thing worth mentioning? You can read about words in a history textbook but you cannot read about sounds. Do you know what it means to be deprived of those sounds in one instant?’
I took a deep breath. I am calm when I’m alone or with Geiger. He understands I have been deprived of my own time and so does not say too much. Forgives me my hysterics. Now he gently but firmly saw the television crew out. Their bewildered mumble-mumble-mumble was audible from the hallway.
When everybody had gone, I put on the glasses and looked at myself in the mirror for a long time.
SATURDAY
I don’t know how it happens that exact opposite things can be denoted by the same name. There was one Chekist on the island, a scoundrel the likes of which the world had never known, and, well, his surname was Voronin. How can that be? Why? Or is there no logical consistency in the use of a name? I dreamt of retribution against him, inventing it during work, and that gave me strength when it seemed I already had none remaining. For a while, I wanted to ask God to enter him on those lists where nothing is ever crossed off, where there is no forgiveness if you end up on them, but I feared his name would cast a shadow on Anastasia’s father. I recalled Zaretsky and how I wished him ill, and then how Zaretsky died; I was unbearably ashamed because, essentially, Zaretsky possessed human traits, but Voronin did not. I will not describe what Voronin did.
People ask me again and again how I survived in the camp. They mean not only the physical side of life but also the side that makes a person a person. It is a legitimate question because camp is hell, not so much for the bodily torture as for the dehumanization of many who land there. In order to prevent the remnants of what is human in oneself being destroyed, one must leave that hell for at least a time, if only mentally. To think about Paradise.
SUNDAY
Oftentimes, you’ll wake up early in the morning at the dacha and everyone is still asleep. You tiptoe out to the veranda so as not to wake anyone. You step carefully but the floorboards creak anyway. That creak is soft and does not disturb the sleepers. You try to open a window noiselessly but the sash does not yield, the glass rattles, and you already regret you started doing all this. But you are happy when you open the window wide. The curtains don’t flutter, there’s not the slightest breeze. You’re surprised at how thick and pine-scented the air can be. A spider crawls along the sash. You place your elbows on the windowsill (the old paint is peeling and sticks to your skin) and look outside. The grass is sparkling with drops and the shadows on it are sharp, because it is morning. It is as quiet as in Paradise. For some reason I think it should be quiet in Paradise.
This is essentially it, Paradise. My mother, father, and grandmother are sleeping in the house. We love each other: being together is soothing and good for us. All that we need is for time to stop moving, so as not to disturb the tranquility of that moment. I want no new events: let what already exists be, is that really not enough? Because if everything continues on, those dear to me will die. Those sleeping peacefully in the house will die. Without knowing what a terrifying precipice our happiness hangs over. They will wake up, live out the events destined for them, and then the end will come. It is obvious, after all, where the course lies. It awaits me, too. But most likely it awaits my grandmother before the others; I still see no alarm in her eyes. Surely she has a hunch that our well-being is illusory, that it is only for the moment.