My surprise at his blunt critique must have appeared on my face.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Are you surprised to hear me say these things? Are you surprised to hear me say what I think and feel? If so, you should attend some of the student meetings I have been at recently. Many times, such a tumult is raised that the professors must end the meetings, because they simply cannot control them anymore.”
I had heard the student tumult in Moscow, and it was gratifying to hear a young historian speak of similar eruptions in Leningrad.
Sasha called, and we agreed to meet at a small café on the Nevsky called the Seagull, named no doubt after Chekhov’s play. Up to this point, with few exceptions, we had talked mostly about literary matters, but on this occasion Sasha also wanted to talk about politics.
“We may never see each other again,” he began, startling me, “and I want to say I shall never forget you. You are the first American I ever met, the first one with whom I have spoken at length. You are so different from what I expected.”
“What did you expect?” I asked. “I mean, did you believe what you read in your papers?”
“Well, not everything, but I do believe that certain circles rule your government and determine American policy.”
“Who are these circles, Sasha. Describe them to me.”
“Everyone knows that certain circles of capitalists are interested only in making enormous profits and finding these profits in the manufacture of military weapons and guns. These circles are on Wall Street, and they run Congress.”
Sasha’s entire frame of reference was Marxist. He saw everything through the prism of Marxism: large crowds of workers, growing larger but getting poorer, dominated by a small class of monopolists, growing smaller and getting richer. There was no difference between the Democratic and Republican parties—both reflected only capitalist interests. Corruption and misery—everywhere. Slums for the workers, Park Avenue for the capitalists, and no road between the two worlds.
He summarized his views. “Your country is technically very powerful, very productive economically. We know that your workers live better than ours. That is because you have a higher technology. We believed that if communism took over in America, there would be a real paradise on earth there, because you have such an advanced technology.”
Average American workers, I explained, were not socialists, and certainly not communists. They were very bourgeois in their tastes and attitudes. In this respect, American workers resembled Hungarian workers. Neither wanted socialism. Sasha seemed incredulous. “Surely this is impossible,” he insisted. “Workers love socialism. Socialism is a worker’s doctrine. Socialism was created for workers. How can they not like socialism?”
“Sasha, let’s face it: you are an intellectual, not a worker. You do not share their hopes and miseries. Hungary reveals one thing very clearly: the workers did not want socialism, at least Soviet-style socialism.”
“But you must admit they did not want a return to fascism.”
“In fact, I don’t know what they wanted, but they did not want socialism. In the long term, maybe they had a plan, maybe they didn’t. As in many revolutions, emotions carried the day.” I paused for a moment. “They did not have a doctrine for tomorrow, only a hatred of yesterday.”
Sasha weighed my argument carefully. When he did formulate a reply, it sounded prosaic, as if he was recalling Pravda editorials and regurgitating them. It was the safer way. “The Red Army had to move into Hungary,” he began. “If it hadn’t, the Western armies would have. We had to stem the rise of fascism. We hate fascism. The workers were misled by black reactionaries, and mistakes were committed. Honest communists were killed.” He rambled on, his voice listless. He spoke as if he wanted to justify a doctrine on which his life had been based. To abandon it, in the absence of a sensible alternative, would translate quickly into ideological bankruptcy, a kind of emptiness, for which he was not ready.
He continued: “Capitalists distort news and information about the Soviet Union, about my country. The bourgeois press twists the truth almost beyond recognition. That’s why you think this is a bad country. It is really a very good country. You write about a reign of terror, about fear, about misery, about a lack of culture.”
“Sasha, it’s true that we have written about a reign of terror, about fear, misery, and many other things. Some of these reports have been exaggerated, but basically they are true. Are they not?”
“No, they are false. They are all false.” His voice reached a falsetto pitch.
“Sasha,” I said in a whisper, “come back to the hotel with me.”
My question seemed to stun him. “What did you say?”
“I asked you to come back to the hotel with me for a drink. Will you?”
Sasha grew defensive. “No, I don’t think I shall.”
“But why? Why, Sasha? In America, this would be the normal thing.”
“Someone might misinterpret my visit.”
“But who, why?”
“Oh, someone might. Someone might.” His voice trailed off, his shoulders slumped, and his face looked twenty years older. He looked up at me after a while. I saw tears in his eyes. His hands, trembling, reached out toward mine. “Oh, my friend, my dear friend,” he said. “It is not easy. It is not so easy. Life is hard, very hard,” and he held both of my hands in his for a long time before we both decided we needed a breath of fresh air.
Outside we were greeted with a burst of frigid air. It felt like a reprieve from political exile. We walked quickly through dark streets, past a large cathedral, past the spot where Alexander II was assassinated, heading back toward the Nevsky. “Sasha, have you ever seen the Russian moderns?” I asked, wanting to change the subject and lighten the mood. I had heard these priceless wonders were stored on the third floor of the Russian Museum, not open for public exhibition. “No, I have not, but would you like to see them?” Sasha had a friend, he said, who might be able to get me in. At the hotel, he said he would call me in the morning if he succeeded.
Sasha did call the following morning. He spoke in a quiet voice. “I saw my friend this morning,” he said, “but I did not ask her for permission. And I did not ask her for permission for the same reason I did not come to your hotel for a drink last night.” His voice started to crack. I assured him I would find a way to see the Russian moderns on my own, some other time perhaps, and I urged him not to be upset. “But I would have liked to help you, my friend, but I can’t.” He seemed to be taking a deep breath. “You’re right, and I’m wrong, but what can I do?” Sasha then started to cry. He cried for a few second, and then I heard a click on the phone. He had hung up.
What more was there for me to do? I returned to the Saltykov-Shchedrin Library, where I found the uchenyi sekretar to be friendly and cooperative.
“You’re early,” he remarked.
“I was in the neighborhood,” I fibbed, “and wondered if the microfilm was ready.”
“No,” he replied, “but I am expecting it back very soon.” He confessed that he had sent the Uvarov file to a colleague at another library, where the microfilm machine was functioning, and he expected it to be returned by 5:00 p.m., the agreed-upon time for pickup. I said I’d be back, and then spent the next few hours walking through the city, soaking up last-minute impressions of Peter’s “window on the West” and wondering, once again, whether Western values such as freedom and democracy would ever be enjoyed by Russians.