me asked: ‘And now, how do you feel after your reunion?’ ‘Like a live fox in a fur shop’ . . . I never found out the day, or even the year, of his death. They arrested him again (for the seventh time) in ’39 and after that I didn’t hear anything. They told me he had been sentenced to ten years in the camp without the right to correspondence: at the time no one dared imagine what was hidden in that sinister phrase. I should have realized—the dead can’t write. He died in 1938—I only found out after he had joined the ranks of the ‘posthumously recovered.’ But I still don’t know where he’s buried.” He took a sip of water. “It’s a horror, isn’t it? Old people crying. It puts me off too.”
“Where are you going?” “To see Shklovsky.” “Again?” . . .
Proud that Viktor Borisovich had placed his trust in me, pleased that he addressed me as “Serenochka,” I ventured: “How would you explain why the younger generations consider you a writer, so to speak, of the establishment?” His face drained, his stern and forbidding Dantonesque voice returned, and he shook his cane at me. “Get out of here!” he yelled. That same evening, he called to apologize.
“Where are you going?” “To see Shklovsky.” “You’re working today too?” “No, I just have to ask for forgiveness.” The elevator attendant shrugged.
“I wrote so much just to survive. I’ve written mediocre, even terrible things. There’s only one thing future generations will never find my name on: reports and denunciations. You must certainly think I’m a very healthy man, given that I’ve reached such a ripe old age. I have to disappoint you: I’ve been ill so often in the last thirty years that I should have been put underground long ago. My health got worse, for example, when they called meetings to expose, to censure a fellow writer. I wasn’t always able to get out of them. Nor did I always want to. In ’43, I too defined Zoshchenko’s Before Sunrise as a work not ‘in accordance with the interests of the people.’ Zoshchenko, my pupil, one of my Serapion ‘brothers.’ And when they gave Pasternak the Nobel I happened to be in Yalta. I sent him a telegram with my congratulations. But then the storm broke: a ‘traitor for the foreigner’s coin,’ they called him. And I wrote a letter to the editor at a small local newspaper allying myself with the general indignation. Why? The most terrible thing is that I don’t remember anymore. The times? Sure, but we’re the times, I am, millions like me. One day everything will come to light: the records of those meetings, the letters from those years, the interrogation procedures, the denunciations—everything. And all that sewage will also dredge up the stench of fear.”
“Where are you going?” “To see Shklovsky.” “But what-all do you have to say to each other?” I brushed off the old busybody.
Viktor Borisovich Shklovsky died in December of 1984. Recently a letter surfaced that he wrote to try to save one of his students at the Literature Institute, Arkady Belinkov, who was arrested in 1944 at twenty-three for the manuscript of Chernovik Chuvstv (A Notebook of Feelings), the novel he wrote for his thesis. Shklovsky wrote to the powerful writer Aleksey Tolstoy, the “Red Count,” knowing that every letter sent to him was read at the Lubyanka first; his intervention saved the young man from execution, and he was only (only!) sentenced to eight years in the gulag. And in ’49 he appealed to the writer Konstantin Simonov, secretary of the Writers’ Union, advocating a commutation of Belinkov’s sentence: “This is a person of talent. Literary talent is not very common, people who possess it shouldn’t be wasted . . .” There’s a hint of goodness there, in those old papers.
From the Record of Case no. 71/50
Interrogation of February 15, 1944. Begun at 10:00 A.M. Concluded at 10:30 P.M.
Investigator: When did you meet Shklovsky?
Belinkov: In July or August of 1943.
Investigator: Under what circumstances?
Belinkov: The Literature Institute encouraged us to consult writers for advice on our work.
Investigator: Why did you choose Shklovsky?
Belinkov: Because he’s my favorite writer.
Investigator: What was Shklovsky’s opinion of your A Notebook of Feelings?
Belinkov: He didn’t consider it a success, but he did not say that it contained anti-Soviet material.
Investigator: Did you let Shklovsky in on your anti-Soviet ideas?
Belinkov: Yes, I did.
Investigator: How did Shklovsky react when you revealed these ideas?
Belinkov: He criticized them.
Investigator: Are you certain of that?
Belinkov: I’m certain.
Investigator: Did Shklovsky systematically declare his anti-Soviet views on literature and the world?
Belinkov: I repeat, when he spoke with me, Shklovsky never indulged in any anti-Soviet criticism.
Interrogation of April 12, 1944. Begun at 10:30 A.M. Concluded at 5:00 P.M.
Investigator: How did you meet and become acquainted with the writer Shklovsky?
Belinkov: In late May or early June 1943, when I was finishing at the Literature Institute and preparing to present my thesis, I was obliged to consult the writer Shklovsky for advice on my thesis, which consisted of the novel A Notebook of Feelings. The choice was entirely my own, and I decided to consult Shklovsky for two reasons: 1) I intended to devote myself not only to writing but also to literary theory. 2) In that period, my ideas corresponded with Shklovsky’s, Tynyanov’s, and Eikhenbaum’s, much more than they did with other writers’.
Investigator: All three ringleaders of formalism . . . But Soviet criticism condemned formalism long ago as an enemy of the real world and socialist realism in literature . . . It is commonly known that Shklovsky has a hostile stance towards the world around him and it is also commonly known that he has engaged in anti-Soviet activities for some time. It is also commonly known that after a certain point your relationship with Shklovsky had the same anti-Soviet character. I advise you to testify honestly and openly about this matter during your next interrogation . . .
December 29, 1978; 29 degrees below zero. “Better to die of fear than of cold,” I decided, leaving the hotel and heading for the Mayakovskaya metro station (which was thirty-three meters underground). This novelty—usually I walked back and forth in front of the hotel for ten minutes or so waiting for a taxi—alarmed my escorts. For a week, eight young men in fake leather jackets (lined, I assume, but how on earth did their legs, their behinds, not freeze?) had been following me in a pair of mouse-colored Moskviches. Every morning they followed me all the way to the courtyard in front of the Writers’ House, and when I left the Shklovskys’ in the afternoon or evening, I would find them just where I had left them. Then they followed me back to the “Pekin,” (a KGB-cooperative hotel, right in the center of town on the corner of Sadovaya and Gorky). I had learned the pointlessness of “whys” by then, and as an official guest of the Union of Soviet Writers, complete with a contract from the VAAP (All-Union Copyright Agency, Literary Branch of State Security) and the approval of Counselor Veselitsky, I felt almost at ease. He had come to pick me up at the airport, almost solemn, and after a courteous squeeze he led me to “Table
