Jacob knew a secret that a casual friend, the field doctor Kostya Govorunov, had divulged to him. Somewhere in these ditches, among thousands of others, lay the Orthodox philosopher Karsavin, until recently a professor at the University of Vilnius. A Lithuanian doctor, also one of the convicts, who had performed the autopsy, had secreted in the stomach of the deceased a small dark-glass flacon containing a piece of paper with the philosopher’s name written on it. Kostya was present during the procedure, and saw it with his own eyes. This doctor hoped that the time would come when the exhumation of bodies would begin, this note would be found among the remains of the nameless bodies left there to rot, and a monument would be erected to the philosopher.
For a long time already, Jacob had been trying on for size the intolerable idea that he would be buried here, near the Arctic Circle, in a common grave under a peg. This had been the fate of many in his immediate and extended family, of his people. They lay in a common grave in Kiev, at Lukyanovo cemetery—his murdered younger brother, four of his girl cousins … Altogether, twenty-nine blood relatives. And all over Europe, many millions he was not directly related to.
It was the second year that he had been living in Abez, after his left leg had refused to work and he had been able to walk only on crutches. The camp was the worst of all those he had been forced to live in, and he now recalled his previous years in exile as paradise. Meaningful, solid years, shot through with hope, full of plans, a variety of projects and ideas, work. The only thing that Jacob didn’t feel he was lacking here was company. Human interaction. The camp was populated with members of several generations who had been plucked out and earmarked for annihilation. Scholars, scientists, poets, artists—the flower of the Russian intelligentsia, branded by the founder of the Soviet government as the “shit of the nation.” Among this multinational “shit,” Jacob found several very precious acquaintances. His neighbor in the barracks was an elderly hydrogeographer, Richard Werner. Conversations with him were an inspiration and a pleasure. They read German poetry to each other. He introduced Jacob to Rilke, whom Jacob hadn’t known, or appreciated, before. After they had been acquainted for about three months, they began talking about Sudak, where Werner and his wife had vacationed earlier. Word by word, Marusya and little Genrikh were drawn out of the depths of Werner’s random recollections. In the camp, a fleeting moment or coincidence, a long-forgotten crossing of paths, acquires great significance. Richard suddenly became like a long-lost relative to Jacob, and was a source of joy. Half a year later, Richard Werner died of pneumonia. Then Jacob began to gather material for his future work. He had not thought of a title, but he had subject matter in abundance. It would be a demographic analysis of this labor-camp “shit”—the most erudite, highly educated members of society, whose lives ended in Abez.
Being a librarian was very much in keeping with his scholarly interests. He had at his disposal not only the card catalogue, but also the personal library cards of all the readers, on which his predecessor had scrupulously written their professions and titles. He had finished the demographic analysis in two weeks and then ran out of material. He hit upon the idea of a special educational index and envisioned doing the same for the camp authorities and wards, but there was no material whatsoever on them. This demographic of the camp population did not visit the library; they read their own newspapers for political education.
His post as librarian, which was in some sense the nadir of his life, was among the safest and most secure in the camp. The library holdings were more or less rubbish. They consisted primarily of books confiscated from convicts. The best of the collection was the second volume of Alpatov’s work, devoted to the Renaissance, and sent to the camp to Nikolai Nikolayevich Punin. The book survived with Punin for a year, but ultimately ended up in the library. Jacob put a stamp in it, appropriated the inventory number, and gave himself over to the Renaissance for several days, all the while lamenting that the Northern Renaissance was so poorly represented, and that the Italian Renaissance was so clearly valorized. He was already mentally developing an idea about the differences in perception of the human image in paintings of the Italian and the Northern Renaissance; but, recalling the death of the manuscript of his novel when he was convoyed to Abez from his previous camp, he stopped himself. In his heart, he had abdicated from his favorite pastime—writing.
Since he didn’t know how to exist without big projects or tasks, he began studying Lithuanian. It proved easy for him; besides its being an Indo-European language, he was surrounded by many native speakers he could consult.
He was already sixty-three years old, and old enough to start contemplating the years he had lived with the benefit of hindsight. The Boustrophedon of My Life—he laughed to himself. But there wasn’t even anyone to share this with. Marusya … He still wanted to write letters to her, but she had imposed a ban on correspondence, even one-sided, with him. Warming his frozen hands with his breath, by force of habit, he composed letters with no addressee, and categorized them under the empty term “Texts.”
Everything changed in the space of a single day. The copy of Pravda that reported the Leader’s illness, dated March 4, 1953, reached the camp, as usual, one day late—on March 5, when the radio was already announcing his death. Kostya Govorunov rushed over from the dispensary to tell Jacob, “Stalin is dead!”
A commotion started up, quiet but widespread. The workday was in progress, but people spilled out onto the street, hobbling out as though they had been called to a task.
Agitated by the announcement, Jacob even limped over to see Samuil Galkin, a Jewish poet whom he had gotten to know in the Jewish Anti-Fascist Committee in 1947. He had to discuss the astounding news. Galkin waved his hands. “Be quiet, Jacob—hold your tongue. Don’t jinx it.” And he commanded an interlude, as usual, by reading a poem in Yiddish. He valued Jacob as perhaps his only listener who didn’t need a translation.
But Jacob was unable to listen: the prospect of return held him captive, tantalizing him. Was it really possible that he would make it back, that he would be able to see his sisters, his mother, his cousins—his heart quaked—perhaps even Genrikh, and his granddaughter, whom he had never met before? Here his thoughts faltered, and he was brought up short.
He didn’t sleep that night. His leg, as usual, ached, as did all his joints. But his head felt as clear as a bell. Of course, he should begin writing letters to all the appropriate organizations, and he tried to go down the list, deciding whom to write, why, about what—a review of his case; rehabilitation; pardon? Then his thoughts turned in another direction. His demographic theory found a practical application. The death of Stalin should serve as a point of departure for the birth of a new generation. No matter how the history of the Soviet Union unfolded in the future, the era that began on this day would be known as “post-Stalinism,” and the children born in 1953, after the death of Stalin, would no longer be called “postwar,” but would be known as the “post-Stalin” generation. He wouldn’t live much longer, his days were numbered … but how fascinating it might be, what a turn things might take! Yes, I have an idea how this research project should be organized. I’ll ask Urlanis, Kopeishchikov, Zotov … Hold on, I’m getting carried away.