For the sake of the thundering glory of the coming ages,
For the sake of the lofty tribe of men.’
I have been deprived of the cup at the feast of my fathers,
Of merriment and honor.
The age-wolfhound jumps on my shoulders,
But I am not a wolf by blood,
Better stuff me, like a hat, into the sleeve
Of the hot fur coat of the Siberian steppes.
So as not to witness the quaking, or the slushy filth,
Or the bloody bones in the wheel,
So as the blue lynxes shone all night
In their primeval beauty,
Take me into the night where the Yenisey flows
And the pine reaches out to the star,
Because I am not a wolf by blood
And only by an equal shall I be killed.
Osip Mandelstam, 1932
Not long afterward I was sent a notice asking me to go to the post office at Nikita Gate. Here I was handed back the parcel I had sent to M. in the camp. “The addressee is dead,” the young lady behind the counter informed me. It would be easy enough to establish the date on which the parcel was returned to me-it was the same day on which the newspapers published the long list of Government awards-the first ever-to Soviet writers.
My brother Evgeni went that same day to tell the Shklovskis in the writers’ apartment building on Lavrushinski Street. They went to call Victor from the apartment downstairs-Katayev’s, I think it was-where Fadeyev and other “Fellow Travelers” were drinking on the occasion of the honor done them by the State. It was now that Fadeyev shed a drunken tear for M.: “We have done away with a great poet!” The celebration of the awards took on something of the flavor of a surreptitious wake for the dead. I am not clear, however, as to who there (apart from Shklovski) really understood what M.’s destruction meant. Most of them, after all, belonged to the generation which had changed its values in favor of the “new.” It was they who had prepared the way for the strong man, the dictator who was empowered to kill or spare people at his own discretion, to establish goals and choose whatever means he saw fit for their fulfillment.
In June 1940, M.’s brother Alexander was summoned to the Registry Office of the Bauman district and handed M.’s death certificate with instructions to pass it on to me. M.’s age was given as forty-seven, and the date of his death as December 27, 1938. The cause was given as “heart failure.” This is as much as to say that he died because he died: what is death but heart failure? There was also something about arteriosclerosis…Recently I heard an argument as to who was more likely to survive the camps: the people who worked, or those who managed not to. Those who worked died of exhaustion, and those who didn’t starved to death. This much was clear to me, though I had neither arguments nor personal observations of my own to support either side in the discussion. The few people who survived were exceptions who proved the rule. In fact, the whole argument reminded me of the Russian folk ballad about the hero at the crossroads: whichever way he goes, he will perish. The main feature of Russian history, something that never changes, is that .every road always brings disaster-and not only to heroes. Survival is a matter of pure chance. It is not this that surprises me so much as the fact that a few people, for all their frailty, came through the whole ordeal like heroes, not only living to tell the tale, but preserving the keenness of mind and memory that enables them to do so.
- Nadezhda Mandelstam Hope Against Hope
Mounds of human heads are wandering into the distance.
I dwindle among them. Nobody sees me. But in books
much loved, and in children’s games I shall rise
from the dead to say the sun is shining.
- Osip Mandelstam, Voronezh Notebooks