After my father died, Mama and I fulfilled a respectful and bitter duty: We met with Andrei Dmitrievich Sakharov. Papa had studied at Moscow University with him, when it was evacuated during the war deep into the rear. Later fate separated them. Papa became a famous specialist in his own field, and their scientific paths did not cross. He always followed Andrei Dmitrievich’s scientific career closely and with pride and later suffered for him during his years of tragic exile in Gorky. Papa was tormented that he couldn’t help or support him. Soviet power dealt ruthlessly with everyone who rose to Sakharov’s defense. You had to be either very famous or absolutely fearless to put up with it. Papa was afraid—for all that he had achieved through honest and at times exhausting labor and for us. Pm not justifying his behavior. I just clearly understand how deep- seated that fear was because it is in my bones, too, to this day.
When Andrei Dmitrievich returned to Moscow, Mama asked my father if he wanted to see him, to recall their college days, and to express his support. Papa replied that it was too late now. It should have been done when Sakharov was alone and in trouble. He said it in a way that made it clear there could be no return to this conversation.
Still, we did return to it, but without Papa. We decided that we would tell Andrei Dmitrievich, “Yes, he really did want to see you, but he was afraid and in torment, but he was with you in his thoughts constantly.”
Andrei Dmitrievich, with the sensitivity of a true member of the Russian intelligentsia, found time for us right away. I’m
sure that it was not easy with the hectic pace of his new life. And so we went to the famous two-room apartment that was the cynosure of the world. Andrei Dmitrievich was dressed simply in a homey way—old jogging pants and a warm-up jacket. At first we spoke a bit about Papa and how his life had gone. Then we tried to tell him what we wanted to say gently without excessive emotion. Andrei Dmitrievich, of course, understood us, but we saw that Papa had been right: It was too late for him to come to Sakharov. He and his wife spoke bitterly about how alone they had been in those difficult days, when even their close friends turned away. I thought about the silent support of thousands of families like ours. But what good did that do them in those grim and courageous days? Andrei Dmitrievich said that the authorities had spread nasty and silly rumors about him and his wife, for instance, that he had been selling American jeans. “That’s not so insulting; at least it’s quality goods,” I said attempting a little joke. He smiled.
Then we talked about what Papa had told us from his college years. They had lived on the verge of poverty in evacuation, with many of the students barefoot. At least they were in Central Asia, where it wasn’t too cold. The auditoriums had signs, NO BAREFOOT STUDENTS MAY TAKE EXAMS. They borrowed shoes to go in for their orals. On graduation day Papa and Andrei Dmitrievich celebrated the event: They went to a mineral water vendor and got a glass each for a couple of kopecks. They added a few grams of wine to flavor it.
Papa was gone. He had worked up to the end. He couldn’t believe that there were limits even for the strongest and hardest- working person. I asked Andrei Dmitrievich what he would prefer now: to continue his political activity or to pursue science
and read books in the quiet of his apartment. He thought and replied, as if thinking aloud, that he probably preferred the latter. But it was clear that there would be no quiet study, that Andrei Dmitrievich had made his choice long ago and for the rest of his life. As we were leaving, Mama said that when the history of our age would be written, people would call it the Sakharov century.
A year later Andrei Dmitrievich tried to speak over the shouts of the “patriots” at the Congress. And in another six months after that he was gone.
APRIL 21. One of the components of our life in Kaluga was trips to the woods. As soon as it grew warm, we headed for the neighboring village of Annenki. Early in the morning Grandmother would pack food and worry about forgetting something. She always thought about details—what if someone’s hot, or someone else is cold, or someone wants a candy and someone else wants something savory. All those possibilities made her pack several bags.
After breakfast my grandparents, my cousin, and I went off to Store No. 6 to wait for the suburban bus. The bus was almost always full, and we had to squeeze in. The woman conductor managed to maneuver through the crowd with amazing agility; a big leather bag with rolls of tickets of various colors hung from her shoulder. She had to tear off several tickets to get the right fare. The tickets cost mere kopecks.
After fifteen minutes of torture in the hot, bumpy bus we got off at the edge of the village. We headed for the wide road
that led into the forest. I don’t think any landscape is more Russian than that around Kaluga—mixed heavy forest, brush, high grass with lovely wild flowers. From time to time the forest cleared, and we entered a meadow. The meadows, especially on hot days, held the spicy, honey aroma of forest carnations. Bees buzzed, crickets chirped, my cousin and I tried to catch grasshoppers. I can shut my eyes and bring back all the sounds and smells. My skin can even feel the caressing warmth of the sun. I didn’t feel nature as fully at any exotic beach on the Black Sea or the Mediterranean as I did in an ordinary Russian forest.
After walking for a couple of hours, we settled on the edge of a meadow in the shade. Grandmother took out blankets, laid out the food, and our feast began. It was never anything special—cucumbers, green onions, black bread, and meat patties, which Grandmother managed to keep warm by wrapping them in lots of paper. But everything tasted delicious outdoors, and our appetites were strong. We drank milk from little bottles. Each had his or her own. Grandmother used bottles that medicine had come in, corking them tightly and wrapping them in white paper, which somehow gave its taste to the milk. We had one ironclad rule: Never finish your milk; you might get thirsty on the way back.
After the meal we stretched out luxuriously on the blankets. Grandfather often told us stories from his life. He had an astonishing memory; for instance, he could tell you what had happened that day twenty years ago. He could recite entire Chekhov stories by heart and chapters from Jules Verne’s books. In addition, he knew more than five foreign languages. He had learned German and French at school and English, Italian, and Spanish on his own. He also knew Esperanto, but he didn’t talk too
much about that, since for decades Esperanto speakers were persecuted in the Soviet Union and put into camps as potential spies. It was amazing that Grandfather hadn’t been arrested under Stalin since he fitted all the requirements: noble birth, good education, member of the intelligentsia. Apparently he was saved by living a poor and unnoticed life, so that he had no envious enemies. Perhaps God preserved him, for Grandfather was profoundly devout. His inner spiritual wealth helped him retain his vivacity even at the grimmest and most tragic times. I think his love of nature helped too. He was a different man in the forest, imbued with special energy.
After lying in the grass, we headed on, with lighter packs. Grandfather was a tireless traveler, despite his bad leg. When I was very little, thieves got into the room on Pushkinskaya Street. Trying to catch them, Grandfather jumped out the window and broke his leg. Ever since then it was always swollen and often hurt, so that he had to use a cane. It was from Grandfather that I learned to feel and understand nature. He didn’t teach us anything in particular. He simply walked, limping down the paths and pointed to trees, flowers, berries, anthills with his cane and told us the names of things and about the animals living in the woods. He loved butterflies—with a Nabokovian passion. On the way back we picked heaps of wild flowers so that the apartment was filled with forest scents in the evening. Often the flowers lasted until our next expedition.