“No, it isn’t. But it is orthodox Bolshevism.”
His voice turned hard, almost confrontational, and I realized, as he did, that we had unintentionally allowed ourselves to slip into an argument. I apologized immediately—that was never my intent. But I could not understand Sasha’s defense of the Russian crackdown in Hungary. “How can you condone such brutality?” I asked.
“What else am I to do?” Sasha said. For a few minutes, he bent over the table, his head down, his elbows on his knees.
On only one issue was Sasha unabashedly critical of his government. He wanted more artistic exchanges between the Soviet Union and the West, especially the United States. “My friends want books from the West. They want artistic exchanges. They do not believe that artistic freedom should be constrained by communist doctrine.” His voice grew stronger as he continued. “We all feel that socialism is inevitable throughout the world. It is a law of history. It is inexorable. But at the same time we do not feel that art follows inexorable rules. We believe that socialist realism should be abolished as an artistic doctrine. It is harmful and restrictive.”
Sasha reached across the table and held my hands. “You simply cannot imagine,” he said, his eyes moist with emotion, “how happy we were this past summer, seeing so many foreigners in Russia, hearing and enjoying your great artists, like Isaac Stern, Jan Peerce, and the Boston Symphony Orchestra. We would like all of this to continue. We don’t want a change to the old days.” I reminded Sasha again of the tone of the lecture I had heard. “It looks to me like we are heading backwards, not forwards,” I said.
Sasha disagreed. “I think you are too pessimistic,” he said. “This won’t happen. This cannot happen.”
We had been talking for a long time. The waitresses were beginning to give us dirty looks. I suggested we go for a walk. Nevsky Prospekt was our destination. It was crowded and noisy. After a few blocks Sasha steered me toward a bus stop and we got on a bus. After a short ride he walked me to the front of the Astoria, but not into the lobby. He told me that he was grateful for the time we had spent together, and he promised to call me in a few days. I knew I had met a wonderful human being, a Russian I would like to call a friend, a Russian deserving of open borders and free exchanges. But I was left wondering whether he would call me in a few days, as he had promised.
Over the next few days, with my Russia clock quickly running out of time, I spent a great deal of my days at the Saltykov-Shchedrin Library and the Institute for Russian Literature, where I had been granted access to Uvarov’s papers. My immediate problem was no longer bureaucratic but just time: I had too little of it to finish the job, no matter how much effort I put into the task. I took notes on the many documents I read, but there were simply too many documents and not enough time. I had an idea. During one break for tea and dark bread, I asked the uchenyi sekretar if I could microfilm the documents, letters, and papers I would not have the time to read during my stay in Leningrad. After finishing my research I would give the microfilm to Harvard’s Widener Library as the opening of an exchange of scholarly data and documents between the Soviet Union and the United States.
His eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. He loved the idea, but neither of us had the authority to consummate any such deal. And we knew it. The uchenyi sekretar proposed instead that he would, on his own hook, microfilm the Uvarov papers I had before me, and I would then promise to deliver them to the Widener Library once I was finished with them. Not only was this an unorthodox proposal (Soviet officials, even uchenyi sekretary, did not negotiate on their own, and certainly not with foreign diplomats). It was also a very brave and generous act, considering the rigid, unyielding nature of the Soviet bureaucracy, especially when foreigners were involved.
“Thank you,” I said, shaking his hand. “That was very kind of you.” He laughed. “No one has ever shown an interest in Uvarov,” he said, “so I wanted to help, if I could.” We had a deal, sort of. Except for a little problem that we should have foreseen. We had both foolishly assumed that the library’s microfilm apparatus would be working, but like so many other pieces of modern technology in Russia, that day it was “on remont”—being repaired. After a few telephone calls, the embarrassed uchenyi sekretar assured me that the microfilming of the Uvarov papers would be completed “tomorrow, late in the day.” His use of the word “tomorrow” left me limp with anxiety.
“Do not worry,” he assured me. “You have my word.”
“What time tomorrow?” I asked.
“Five in the afternoon,” he said. “No doubt about it.”
His assurance left me more anxious than ever, but I had no alternative. He was doing me a favor. He knew it; I knew it. “See you tomorrow at five,” I said, emphasizing the word “tomorrow.” He again smiled. We agreed on the documents to be microfilmed and shook hands once more, and I returned to the Astoria, where, much to my surprise, I spotted Sasha pacing near the taxi line to the right of the main entrance.
“Come with me,” Sasha said, putting his right hand under my left arm. “I want to show you what Leningrad is really like.”
I had not expected to see Sasha until the following day—that is, if he called me at all, which I considered far from certain. “Were you waiting for me long, Sasha? I am so happy to see you.”
“No, only a few minutes,” he lied poorly.
“But where are we going?”
“I’ll show you soon enough.”
We walked briskly to a bus stop on the Nevsky Prospekt and boarded a waiting bus. After a few minutes, as I stared out the window, I had a feeling that we had just been transported in time and place, suddenly finding ourselves in another city. The streets were narrower, and dirtier, and the people were dressed in shabby clothes, looking nothing like the comparatively well-dressed members of the nomenklatura strolling along the Nevsky. I spotted a street sign—Prospekt Gaza, named for a Bolshevik worker at a nearby factory.
Sasha pointed out the window. “Further down this road are the Putilov Works. You remember, they played a very prominent role in the revolution.” I did remember, of course, but Sasha continued anyway. “It’s very important, this factory, because in 1917, Stalin spoke there twice.” It was his sort of political humor.
We never did get to the Putilov Works. To my left, as we entered the vast Narva Square, I saw the historic Narva Triumphal Arch, constructed in 1814 to commemorate Russia’s historic victory over Napoleon, and I wanted to get off the bus and see it more closely. Sasha was delighted to oblige. “In the old days, before the revolution, I’m told, the gate was in a park filled with trees, and it was very beautiful. But now, as you can see, it is surrounded by apartment houses, and it is not pretty at all.” Maybe not pretty, I agreed, but it was impressive and powerful, a reminder of a great moment in Russian history. I had read somewhere that during the Nazi siege the huge columns blocked German tanks from entering the center of the city.
We walked through the vast square, stopping every now and then to look more closely at an interesting frieze or cornice, and then we entered dark narrow streets, crowded with early-evening shoppers, the women wearing heavy woolen scarves over their heads and shoulders and the men wearing fur hats with ear flaps left defiantly open. Each person seemed to be carrying a loaf of bread, essential for their dinner. They moved past old, small houses with cracked walls and broken windows. Children played on the ice, sliding down small inclines on the seat of their pants. They were having a good time.