Apricot Jam: And Other Stories Read online

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  Apricot Jam

  and Other Stories

  Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn

  No copyright 2013 by MadMaxAU eBooks

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  contents

  APRICOT JAM

  EGO

  THE NEW GENERATION

  NASTENKA

  ADLIG SCHWENKITTEN

  ZHELYABUGA VILLAGE

  TIMES OF CRISIS

  FRACTURE POINTS

  NO MATTER WHAT

  glossary

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  APRICOT JAM

  1

  …MY mind is all awhirl right now, and if some of the things I say don’t seem quite right I want you to keep reading, you won’t be wasting your time. I’ve heard that you’re a famous writer. I got a little book of your articles out of the library. (I’ve been to school—the one in our village.) I had no time to read the whole book, but I did read a piece of it. You say that the foundation of happiness is our collectivized agriculture and that now even the most miserable peasant is riding around on his own bicycle. You say also that heroism is becoming a part of our everyday lives and that the purpose and meaning of life is labor in a communist society. To that I reply that there is queer small substance to this heroism and this labor because it comes from driving people like us nigh to we drop. I don’t know where you saw all the things you write about. You also say a lot about other countries and how bad things are there and how often you noticed people looking at you with envy: Look, there’s the Russian. Well, I’m also a Russian and I recommend me to you. My name is Fedya (Fyodor Ivanovich, if you like), and I want to tell you about myself.

  As long as anyone can remember, our family lived in the village of Lebyazhy Usad in Kursk Province. But then they put an end to the way we thought to live. They called us kulaks because we had a house with a galvanized iron roof and four horses, three cows, and a fine orchard by the house. The first thing in the orchard was a spreading apricot tree, and there would be heaps of apricots on it every year. My younger brothers and I would climb all over that tree. Apricots were our most favorite fruit, and I never ever tasted any as good as ours. In the summer kitchen in the yard my mother would make us apricot jam, and my brothers and I just couldn’t get enough of that sweet foam. Before they deported us as kulaks, they tried to make us tell them where we had hidden our goods. Otherwise, they said, we’ll chop down your apricot tree. And they chopped it down.

  They took our whole family and a few others besides to Belgorod in carts. There they shoved us into a church they had confiscated for a prison, and they brought people there from a lot of other villages. There was no room to lie down on the floor, and they didn’t give us anything to eat, though a few folks had brought a bit of food with them. At night a train pulled into the station, and there was a deal of heaving and shoving while we were aboarding it, with guards rushing here and there and lanterns flickering. My father told me: “You, at least, can make a run for it.” And I did manage to slip away through the huge crowd. The rest of my family went on into the taiga, where they were left to live as best they could, and I never heard from them again.

  For me began a life filled with one pain atop the other. Where was I to go now? I couldn’t go back to the village, and though this town wasn’t small, there was no place for me here, and how could I ever hide out in it? Who would give me shelter in their house and risk grievous troubles? Though I was near to full grown, I did find a sojourning among a band of street kids—orphans and runaways. They had their own secret dwellings in abandoned houses and barns and sewer manholes. The police wouldn’t bother with these ragged, barefoot kids because they had nowhere to put them and no means to feed them all. They were all dirty, smudgy-faced, and dressed in tatters. They would go abegging from house to house. But the quicker ones would band together, and the crowd of them would run to the market, tip over the trays, and jostle the sellers so that a few of them could pick up some goods. Another might slit a woman’s purse, and another grab someone’s wallet right out of his hand and disappear in a flash. Or they might rush into a dining hall, running among the tables and spitting in people’s plates. Some of the people didn’t manage to cover their plates. Others would stop eating. And that’s all these raggedy kids needed—they’d polish off whatever they could grab. They would also rob people at the railway station, and they could warm themselves by the kettles of asphalt when the streets were being paved. But I stood out for being too healthy, not ragged enough, and I wasn’t a kid anymore. I could have become the boss of the whole lot, sitting in a cozy spot and sending the others out to bring back some loot, but my heart’s too soft for that.

  Before long, a task force from the GPU picked me out of the gang and took me to prison. At first I didn’t betray my design—they’d picked me up, and that was that, so I spun them a few stories, but then they threatened to lock me away in a solitary cell and let me rot. I could see it was no good trying to deny it—lying is also an art and one I had not mastered, so I confessed: I was the son of a kulak. They kept me there until the beginning of winter. Then they changed their minds: Maybe they should send me away to my family, but then how could they find that family of mine they’d destroyed? I expect there was a great confusion in their paperwork. And so it was: I was to go to the town of Dergachi near Kharkov and present the local authorities with my certificate of release. The GPU people never asked how I, with ne’er a kopek to my name, was to make my way there, and all they did was make me sign a paper not to say a word to anyone about what I’d seen and heard during these months in a GPU prison, else they would put me back in jail with no investigation and no trial.

  I went out of the prison gate without a clue of what to do. Where now could I take my miserable life? How to get to Dergachi? Or should I just flee in all haste, farther away this time? Then two women came up to me from a little street forenenst the prison where they must have been keeping watch: Had the GPU just let me go? They had, I replied. Had I seen such-and-such a man? He wasn’t in our cell, I said, though it was more than afull with others. Then the older woman, the mother-in-law, asked if I was hungry. Living ahungered has become a habit, I said. They took me home with them. It was a damp little place in a cellar. The older woman whispered to her daughter-in-law, and she left, while the mother-in-law set about cooking three potatoes for me. I tried to refuse: “They’re probably the last ones you’ve got.” “Feeding a prisoner is the right thing to do,” she said. She also put a little bottle of hemp oil on the table for me. And I have to say that I fell on those potatoes like a hungry wolf. The older woman said, “We may not have much, but at least we’re not in prison, and feeding one like you is God’s own command. Someday you may be able to feed one of ours.” Then the young woman came back and gave me a ruble bill and two rubles in change. It’s for your trip, she said, but it’s all we could collect. I didn’t want to take it, but the older woman shoved it in my pocket.

  When I saw the food at the snack bar in the railway station my whole body ached. The minute I started eating I couldn’t stop. And so I spent all the money on food. It was no matter, though—there wasn’t enough for the trip anyway. That night I squeezed into the train before they could check for my ticket, but a few stations later, the ticket collector found me. Being without a ticket, I showed him my certificate of release from the GPU. He and the conductor looked at each other, and the conductor took me into his tiny room. “Any lice on you?” “Is there a prisoner who doesn’t have lice?” I said. The conductor told me to crawl under a bench and to let him know when to wake me.

  Dergachi left me with no good impression, but it was not my lot to live there. I reported to the local soviet, and there they registere
d me and told me to go immediately to the military enlistment office, though I wasn’t yet of draft age. A doctor gave me a quick look-over and then handed me a little cardboard booklet with a gray stamp and the letters “T/O” on it. That meant “Logistical Support Forces.” They sent me to another building, and sitting there was a man from the construction office of the Kharkov Locomotive Works. I told him that all our good clothes were taken away when my family was deported. All I had were some castoffs— a worn-out jacket and some homemade pants with the soles of my boots so cracked that I would soon be walking barefoot. He told me that this was no cause for evadement. “When you’re serving on logistical support, they’ll give you some decent used clothes and boots as well.”

  I pondered it a time. It seemed easy enough: all I had to do was to prove my age, and then my sufferings would be ended. But now they had me trapped, no one would listen to me and they sent me away. They had put up some barracks for the logistical support troops near the Locomotive Works. The walls were two layers of planks with sawdust between them. The sawdust would drop out from the gaps between the planks or where a knot had fallen out, and the wind blew through the barracks. The mattresses were filled with wood shavings and the little pillows they gave us were stuffed with straw. Each barracks held what they called a platoon of the support forces. Four thousand people or more had been collected here, and that was what they called a regiment. There was ne’er a bathhouse or laundry, and no one was given any uniform. They marched us off to work straightaway. What they told us in the support force for the Locomotive Works was: “You keep going till you drop.” We dug foundation pits for three repair shops. For some reason they were built almost entirely underground so that when they were finished you could see naught but the roofs. We carried the earth in barrows, one man at each end, and walked along the whole line like a living conveyor belt. We’d march along the foundation pit, one pair after another, and as we went, each digger would toss on a spadeful of earth. A whole row of diggers would throw so much earth on your barrow that it was too heavy to carry. Still, we had to sweat and strain and learn to live with it. They were digging twenty-four hours a day so that the earth wouldn’t freeze overnight, and sometimes they made people work longer shifts. It was like being in the army: reveille, lights-out, form up for work, and they’d blow a bugle just like they did in the army. The mess hall held 600 people, but they served the thousand free employees first and the 4000 in the support force later. There was no breakfast in the morning, and lunchtime didn’t come until near to supper. They’d herd off our group for lunch and some other group would be eating, so we’d stand outside the mess hall stamping our feet to keep them from freezing, sometimes in a blizzard, and all this for a bit of lukewarm soup. When you came back from working the cold and into the barracks, the lice would all come right lively and we’d spend some time squashing them. And there was not a scrap of industriosity left in our lives. A fellow who wasn’t used to this would fall to pieces very quickly.

  Apart from the torment of the work, there were the political officers always harping on how we mustn’t slacken off. In the evening, or sometimes on our day off, they’d come to the platoon and start filling our heads with all sorts of ideological gas to make us understand the essence of productive labor so that we would finish the Five-Year Plan in four years. The head of all these political officers was the commissar of the work camp, Mamaev, a fellow who wore a badge with the words “Member of the All-Russian Central Executive Committee” and three bars on his collar tabs.

  There were also some sons of NEP-men among the workers. They had arrived with big suitcases and were warmly dressed and well seen with food parcels from home. Then there were some proper criminals, but the court had deprived them of their voting rights. There were also some local folk, and they would be let home on the days off. But most of us were sons of kulaks, almost all of us dressed in rags after we’d worn out our clothes, though the bosses seemed to pay no heed to this. There were holes through the elbows of my shirt and my jacket, one knee had been torn in my pants, and the toes of my boots were so worn that you could see my foot wraps, such was the beggar I was.

  Because of that tormenting life I broke out in boils, though the camp doctor just painted them with iodine and sent me back to work. I began to weaken and was already beginning not to care what would happen to me, my own body having become bereft of feelings, as if it belonged to someone else. My hair grew out, I stopped shaving.

  Suddenly one evening the bugle called us out to form up. We all formed ranks on the snowy field behind the barracks. The commissar came up with his pistol on his hip, along with a few political officers and a clerk with a paper. The commissar roared out a fearsome speech telling about what was going on in the country and saying that from now on there would be no mercy for those shirking work and there would even be trials and executions. Then he began moving down the ranks pointing at people here and there while the clerk took down the man’s name, company, and platoon. He also pointed at me: “This man as well.” The clerk wrote it down. Then we were dismissed. That evening the platoon commander came to the barracks: “The commissar has put you down to work on your day off for malingering. I don’t know who reported you. I told HQ that no one had come to me about it. No one can countermand the commissar’s order. Just go to work tomorrow, and we’ll get you the next day off, on the quiet.”

  This was in February. A powerful blizzard blew in that night, then it rained, but by morning frost had set in. That morning I wrapped some rags around my feet and went to work. Eleven of us were sent to work in the timber yard. There was a stack of long, thin poles there, and we were ordered to shift it to a different spot about forty meters away. “If you finish the job early you can go back to the barracks, if you don’t you’ll be working into the night.” I said not a word because I was well past caring. The others, though, were all sons of NEP-men, city kids, well fed and warmly dressed. They made out that since this was a day off, they weren’t going to do any work. A platoon commander, not my own, went off to report this to HQ, but it was some distance away. There was only one path that had been trodden down across the snowy field, and it was no easy job to navigate it.

  In my rags and tatters, the icy wind was blowing right through me. “Listen, boys,” I said, “you do what you please, but if I don’t go to work I’ll soon freeze.” One smart fellow jumped up and said: “You’re a provocateur! You’re undermining our solidarity.” “You swap me your clothes for mine and I won’t work,” I told him. Then the others spoke up: “Let him be. Let him work if he likes. When the platoon commander comes back he’ll think we’ve all been working.” I picked up a stake and pried up the top layer of the frozen logs. I set them up to make a ramp and began rolling the poles down it. They were frozen and rolled down nicely. I went on working and even got myself warm.

  Suddenly I heard a shout and some strong cursing coming from the other end of the yard. It was the commissar, who had sneaked up from behind using a roundabout way; plowing along behind him were the platoon commander and some people from HQ. The lads were expecting them by the path and hadn’t seen them coming.

  The commissar had drawn his pistol and was waving it around, kicking up a row and cursing: “I’ll have you all arrested, you bourgeois scum! Off to the guardhouse! You’re going on trial!” And they were herded off. To me he said, “Why are you looking like such a beggar?” “I’m the son of a kulak, Citizen Commissar.” He poked at my bare knee with his black leather glove: “What’s the matter, don’t you have any proper underwear?” “I do, Citizen Commissar, but only one pair. There’s nowhere to wash clothes, and my underwear’s dirty. Wearing it all the time makes my whole body ache. My undershirt is as stiff as rubber. So I bury my underwear in the snow by the barracks for a day to disinfect it and then I put it on again for the night.” “Have you got a blanket?” “No, Citizen Commissar.” “Well, I’m giving you three days’ rest.”

  They issued me a blanket, two pairs of long underwea
r, some worn, padded pants and new boots with wooden soles that didn’t bend—it was hard to walk over icy places in them.

  But I’d already suffered so much, and I was covered with boils as well. A few days later, I fell down in a faint at work. When I came to, I was in the city hospital, and I’m writing you from there. The doctor took me to the boss’s office: “This man is so exhausted and emaciated that if we can’t improve his living conditions, I can guarantee he’ll die within two weeks.” The boss just said, “You know we have no room for patients like him.” But they still haven’t released me. And so I’m explaining my situation to you—who else can I write to? I have no family, no support from anyone, and I’ve got no way to set myself right on my own. I’m a prisoner here, near hand to dying and trapped in a life that brings one hurt after the other. Would it cost too much for you to send me a food parcel? Please take pity on me . . .

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  2

  Vasily Kiprianovich, a professor of cinema studies, had been invited to advise a famous Writer on types of screenplays and techniques used in writing them. The Writer, evidently, was considering writing something in this genre and wanted to borrow from someone else’s experience. The professor was flattered by the invitation, and one sunny day, in an excellent mood, he set off on a Moscow suburban train. He was well prepared to make an impression on the Writer with his knowledge of the latest developments in writing for the screen, and he was curious to see the Writer’s well-appointed dacha, a house even equipped for year-round living. (He himself dreamed of having at least a small summer place, but his earnings were still insufficient for that; he had to save his family from Moscow’s summer heat by renting a tiny place somewhere as distant as Tarusa, 130 kilometers away. In these times of food shortages everywhere, he would have to take with him suitcases and baskets of sugar, tea, pastries, smoked sausage, and brisket purchased from Yeliseev’s.)