If Not by Bread Alone had been published immediately after Khrushchev’s anti-Stalin speech, it might have met a happier fate. But, published as it was in August, September, and October 1956, when Khrushchev was already facing powerful conservative pressures to scale back de-Stalinization, the book ran into an ugly and unavoidable buzz saw—which sealed its fate, at least for a time. Though many literary critics loved the book and hailed Dudintsev as a major writer, the Kremlin labeled it “unhealthy, tendentious, and noxious” and denounced Dudintsev as a writer who “one-sidedly and incorrectly understood the essence of party [read Khrushchev’s] criticism of Stalin’s ‘personality cult.’” On December 2 the government newspaper, Izvestia, blasted Dudintsev, echoing the criticism leveled by Khrushchev himself—that Dudintsev felt a “narcissistic joy in describing the negative side of Soviet life.” Obviously, in any battle between a writer and his boss in the Kremlin, the boss won. Dudintsev’s novel was not published in book form until late the following year, and then only in a limited print run. Dudintsev, the man and the writer, was the subject of frequent assaults in the Soviet press. He stopped writing. He lived alone. His colleagues no longer called.
And yet, his book continued to send waves of excitement and defiance through the literary and political worlds in Moscow. One sign was that copies of Novy Mir, where it had first appeared, were impossible to find. Months later students in the Lenin Library were still arguing about the book. Many wondered whether Molotov, as the new literary czar, was cleverly using the book as a weapon against Khrushchev. Just as important, the Communist Party felt the need to defend its attacks on Dudintsev publicly, as though its criticism was not being accepted by the people, especially young people.
On the evening of December 11, I happened to be present at one such defense in the Lenin Library. The talk, “Latest Tasks of Modern Soviet Literature,” was a serious party effort to ease student skepticism toward official criticism of Dudintsev. The speaker was identified in the announcement as a “literary critic of the Soviet Union” and a leading member of the Union of Writers. A tall man of supreme self-confidence, Grigory Brovman had a receding hairline accentuated by an already large forehead. He wore small, horned-rimmed glasses. His audience was not limited to students. Librarians, teachers, and professors also attended. This was a standing-room-only event. Everyone apparently wanted to hear Brovman, who announced strict guidelines for attending his lecture. No reading allowed! No talking allowed! “If you want to read, go outside now, before I start,” he bellowed. “If not, sit still and listen.” Literary critic Brovman was not to be messed with.
He began by admitting that much of his criticism might be wrong. “I shall try to be objective,” he stressed, “but you may not accept my analysis.” For several minutes he sounded not like a respected critic but rather like a party hack. He told a story about the year 1956 that might have been persuasive earlier but that now, after the Hungarian suppression, sounded stale. “A more objective approach to modern Soviet literature is the most outstanding feature of 1956,” he said. Ilf and Petrov, the legendary writers of popular tales, were again being published. So, too, was Ivan Bunin, who had incurred Stalin’s displeasure. The works of other writers who had been suppressed were again appearing in bookstores, especially those who were writing favorably about the “little person,” rather than the “big man,” so characteristic of an earlier time.
Then, as though building to a climax, Brovman proclaimed that the masses have again begun to be featured in novels, the proletariat again portrayed as the vanguard of the socialist movement. These were positive developments. In a loud voice, he added, “Those who continue to speak about old truths do not deserve our respect.” A happy ripple of excitement flowed through the audience. To my right, a student muttered with satisfaction, “Maybe he’s actually going to say something. Maybe he’s different.”
Brovman continued, hitting the same theme. “There have been many books published this year, comrades, which continue to echo old truths. These are bad books. One must regard literature as the expression of new, dynamic truths.” Much to my surprise, students around the room rose to their feet, clapping and smiling with joyful anticipation.
“One writer of note,” he went on, “is Vladimir Dudintsev, who wrote the book which has raised so much clamor and fuss and hullabaloo. Not by Bread Alone, published in Novy Mir, must be discussed seriously.” Many in the audience nodded. “It is a fine piece of writing,” Brovman continued, “and it has a provocative theme. Dudintsev is a writer of very considerable talent.” The audience moved to the edge of their seats. It looked as though they were hoping that Brovman would change the party’s critique of Dudintsev—indeed, perhaps praise him, which Brovman in fact proceeded to do. “Dudintsev is a very exceptional writer. His characters are varied and brilliantly portrayed. He paints a very good picture of Drozdov, the bureaucrat, as well as Lopatkin, the inventor. Some of his chapters are absolutely wonderful and rank with the finest in Russian literature.”
Brovman was indeed complimentary of Dudintsev, and yet I feared there was going to be a “but” in his praise, even though he continued to sound positive. “Anyone who seeks to find a simple and clear solution to questions raised in this book will be disappointed,” he said. No one could argue with that proposition. “There are no simple solutions in life,” he continued, “and there are no simple solutions in this book. People simply are not that simple.” The audience burst into applause, grateful for Brovman’s positive tone and approach, and they did not let up for five minutes or so.
Summoning in his concluding comments the full majesty of the moment and the proper dignity accorded to his title and position, Brovman then dropped his “but” bombshelclass="underline" “One thing, however, is clear, and in this respect we must all be keenly objective. The book has a major shortcoming of considerable importance. It is the fact that over the span of eight years Lopatkin did not once turn to the collective. We know that as a fighter Lopatkin can at times struggle alone, and this is satisfactory. But over eight years, certainly once, twice, he should have turned to the collective.” Like a tire suddenly deflated, the audience seemed all at once to lose air, their sense of joy and hope gone, leaving them feeling once again that change, real change in the system, might in fact be impossible.
Brovman continued as though he had said nothing of special note. “Surely, comrades, in Lopatkin’s place, would you not have turned to the collective at least once in eight years? Yes, of course, but Lopatkin does not, and this is a very bad feature of this book. One must in this country turn to the decisive truth of life, the party, once in eight years. It is only normal. By not having the character to do this, Dudintsev created a non-Soviet type, an egoist, an individualist of major proportion.” Brovman understood that although he could not persuade the audience of the rightness of his argument, still, in his view, they had to realize that Dudintsev, as a writer and novelist, had to be approached in an “objective” manner. “Whether we say that Not by Bread Alone is written in the style of socialist realism, or not, is not very important. Large-scale discussions of whether a volume is socialist realism or not is child’s play, for which we do not have the time.”