NY Review of Books, OCTOBER 22, 2020 ISSUE
Speak, Memory?
by Yuri Slezkine
Young Heroes of the Soviet Union: A Memoir and a Reckoning
by Alex Halberstadt
Random House, 289 pp., $28.00
One of the mythic hero’s most important tasks is to travel to a strange
new land and come back enlightened or bewildered. One of the quest’s
most familiar destinations is the world of ancestors. And one of the
consequences of the post-1960s tribalization of America is the
proliferation of “return narratives,” in which unfulfilled seekers
travel to the old country in search of “race and inheritance,” as Barack
Obama put it. “Would this trip to Kenya finally fill that emptiness?” he
wonders as he sets off for his father’s birthplace. “The folks back in
Chicago thought so.”
Africa is “a new promised land, full of ancient traditions and sweeping
vistas.” The same is true of China, Korea, Ireland, Italy, Norway, and
most other lost homes. Some pilgrims come back disappointed (“they come
here looking for the authentic,” a Kenyan history professor tells Obama,
and “that is bound to disappoint a person”), but most realize that
disappointment is a path to wisdom. The land of forefathers contains
many regions, and some are much darker than others. Only those traveling
to the deepest pits of hell abandon all hope before entering.
Most American Jews who travel to Eastern Europe are in no doubt that
they are heading for the inferno (“holocaust” means “burnt completely”).
Their goal is to meet the ghosts of their slain ancestors and perhaps
those of the executioners. Occasionally, they run into witting or
unwitting fellow travelers whose ancestors are the executioners. The
Chicago-born journalist Silvia Foti traveled to Lithuania to write an
admiring biography of her grandfather, a war hero. The book she ended up
writing is called The Nazi’s Granddaughter: How I Discovered My
Grandfather Was a War Criminal (expected in 2021). The Lithuanian writer
Rūta Vanagaitė and Efraim Zuroff, the director of the Jerusalem office
of the Simon Wiesenthal Center, cowrote a book conceived as a
collaboration between a relative of the perpetrators and a relative of
the victims. It is called Our People.
Alex Halberstadt, born in Moscow in 1970, can do it all himself. His
mother comes from a family of Lithuanian Jews; his paternal grandfather,
an ethnic Ukrainian, was a bodyguard for Stalin. Young Heroes of the
Soviet Union is a journey to the underworld posing as a memoir. The
characters are real people; the narrator seems indistinguishable from
the author; the countries he describes can be found on the map but not
on earth.
Growing up, Alex suffered from recurrent nightmares. In 1979 he, his
mother, and her parents emigrated from the USSR to the US and settled in
New York City (his father stayed behind). The nightmares grew more
insistent and began to invade his waking life. He became “obsessively
fearful first of strangers’ footsteps in the hallway, then of noise
coming through the bedroom walls from neighbors’ apartments, then of the
neighbors themselves.” In 2004 his father phoned from Moscow and
mentioned in passing that his own estranged father, Vassily Chernopisky,
was still alive. Alex realized that his father’s call was a summons for
the questing hero and that his grandfather’s existence was a thread that
might lead him to the source of his curse. “Despite entirely reasonable
doubts,” he contacted his grandfather and bought a ticket to Moscow. His
mother had warned him that, for her, Moscow “signified little except
state-sponsored discrimination against Jews, consumer deficits,
appalling architecture, months-long stretches of uninterrupted sleet and
snow, and an overabundance of synthetic fibers.” What he found proved
more terrifying.
As the plane began to descend, Alex saw some “low cabins standing in
puddles of pea-green grass, a pond and a sluiceway and some obsolete
factory buildings dreaming in pastureland.” Suddenly, “fog rolled in
from somewhere below,” and he found himself in hell’s imitation of an
airport, “a linoleum labyrinth lit dimly by fluorescents.” Deprived of
the liberties he “hadn’t questioned the previous morning,” Alex was
gripped by the fear typical of “Soviet immigrants returning to the
motherland: the worry that the gates won’t open again when it’s time to
leave.” But it was too late to turn back: the demon wearing the uniform
of a passport-control inspector contorted his face into “a foreshadowing
of a grin” and welcomed him “home.”
In Moscow Alex has several awkward and inconclusive conversations with
his father, watches a man sitting on the sidewalk eat out of a can of
dog food, and attends a mass at the Cathedral of Christ the Savior. The
singing is “almost unbearably beautiful,” but the mood is dark. A man in
a patched suit jacket and felt boots, tears streaming down his face,
gets off his knees and shouts, “The kikes trampled Russia!” Readers
struck by the author’s good fortune in witnessing such a scene on a
brief visit to Moscow should prepare themselves for more: Alex has
Dante’s ability to be in the right place at the right time.
On the way to Vinnytsia, “a drab industrial city near Ukraine’s center,”
Alex’s train stops at Sukhinichi, southwest of Moscow. The employees of
the local toy factory have lined up along the platform, holding enormous
stuffed animals, “their hard plastic eyes glittering in the moonlight.”
The passengers file off the train to shop or marvel; Alex joins them but
“decline[s] to buy a canoe-size panther” and hurries “past a mermaid and
a leering humanoid mushroom to the train’s metal steps.” At the
Ukrainian border a guard threatens to detain Alex in an unheated shed
but is satisfied with a twenty-dollar bribe. Finally, the countryside
transform[ed] into the wreckage of a medium-size city. The train passed
the shells of buildings of indeterminate age, warehouses and waterworks,
their bricks scattered along the tracks; young, soot-darkened trees
sprouted randomly among dandelions and crabgrass. The Vinnytsia train
station, a concrete bunker under a corrugated-metal roof, waited amid
the detritus.
Vassily, at ninety-three, proved welcoming but not forthcoming:
He answered questions about his time in the OGPU and NKVD [two
incarnations of the secret police] in the middle and late 1930s by
relating vague episodes about following foreigners to restaurants and
eavesdropping on their conversations, about surveillance and stakeouts,
about filing reports.
His account of his time as Stalin’s bodyguard is equally vague. Alex
retells only two stories in some detail. On November 8, 1932, Vassily, a
twenty-one-year-old cadet at the OGPU Academy, attended a
post–Revolution Day dinner in Defense Commissar Kliment Voroshilov’s
Kremlin apartment:
He was the youngest person in the room. He sat woodenly and studied the
faces of the guests, some of whom he recognized from the pages of
newspapers. The country’s leadership was gathered around the table: the
squat, punctilious premier, Molotov; strapping Voroshilov in an ornate
uniform; the old revolutionary cavalryman Budyonny, who twisted the ends
of his walrus mustache with tobacco-stained fingers; and moonfaced
Yagoda, soon to be OGPU chief and his boss.
Stalin drank to “the destruction of the enemies of the state” and
flirted with “a slim young woman.” His wife got upset and stormed out.
The next day she committed suicide.
On another occasion, “Vassily was riding in the back of a black
limousine, one of the armored Packards that Stalin lavished on his
deputies,” when the driver, in a colonel’s uniform, slowed down, leaned
out of the window, and called to a girl of about sixteen or seventeen.
She approached shyly and peered into the dark interior:
The man inside the car who studied her with the most interest was bald
and pale; he wore a nondescript uniform and a pince-nez over acute,
intelligent eyes. Not yet a full-fledged member of the Politburo, First
Deputy Lavrenty Beria—commissar general of state security and warden of
the prison system known by the acronym GULAG—was nonetheless the most
feared person in the country.
As the girl backed away, “a three-hundred-pound Georgian who had gotten
out of the limousine—a deputy of Beria’s named Kobulov—enfolded her. He
lifted her off her feet and tossed her headfirst into the car as easily
as if she were a bundle of firewood.” At a mansion on Malaya Nikitskaya
Street, “servants had laid out a Georgian feast.” The girl was forced to
do a striptease (“the Georgians jeering and laughing”) before being
carried upstairs to Beria’s bedroom. “Vassily knew the girl wouldn’t
return home or be seen again.”
Did he? In most accounts of Beria’s predations, the victim returns home.
Was Vassily even there? Alex acknowledges that both scenes recall the
most popular and frequently rehearsed episodes in Soviet history. So how
much of this did Vassily witness and how much comes from newspaper
stories he has seen? And how much does Alex add from his own imagination
and the books he has read? The “squat, punctilious” Molotov? The
“three-hundred-pound Georgian”? Alex does not trust Vassily, but can we
trust Alex? “I’d traveled five thousand miles to meet this man,” he writes:
I imagined decoding his roles as perpetrator and victim, trying to piece
together and weigh his motives, charting his involvement in decades-old
events. I realized how naive I’d been. His culpability was an immense,
unknowable continent filled with indecipherable ambiguities.
So he writes Vassily’s story as best he can, adding some background and
filling the landscape with monsters of his own invention.
We almost never hear from Vassily directly. What we get is an omniscient
narrator’s third-person account of what Vassily did or thought (or may
have done or thought). The sole direct confession—about the deportation
of the Crimean Tatars in 1944—gets the same treatment, with no follow-up
questions:
Vassily described watching families beaten and turned out of their
homes, watching a mass rape, then described how he himself herded women
and children into unheated cattle cars and wrapped wire around the door
handles.
Added to these stories of crimes real or inferred are third-person
recollections of Vassily’s second wife and Alex’s grandmother, Tamara,
who left Vassily because “his emptiness…occupied the apartment like an
odor” and went on to marry “a taciturn, disapproving man who dressed
cadavers at a morgue.”
Framing and supporting these accounts are historical facts of unknown
provenance and questionable veracity. The “three-hundred-pound Georgian”
was, in fact, an Armenian; the city of Ufa is in the southern Urals, not
the Far East; and Alex’s great-grandfather Anany was not named “after
Onan, the Old Testament masturbator” (Onan and Ananias/Hananiah have
different Hebrew roots). Scholars use footnotes; newspapers and
magazines employ fact-checkers; the author of Young Heroes of the Soviet
Union moves from sheer nightmare to straightforward “history” in a way
that makes the myth pedestrian and history suspect.
“Vassily’s name,” writes Alex, with the benefit of “weeks in libraries”
after his return to New York, “appeared nowhere on lists of the NKVD’s
top-ranking officers, nor of that organization’s recipients of important
medals and orders, nor of its deputies to party conventions and
congresses.” But why should a low-ranking bodyguard appear on lists of
top-ranking officers or congress delegates?
A quick look at the database of Memorial (the Moscow-based human rights
organization and archive) reveals the NKVD personnel record of Vassily
Ananievich Chernopisky, including two decorations, the Order of the Red
Star in February 1945 (“for serving at the Yalta Conference”) and the
Order of the Patriotic War, Second Class, in September 1945 (“for
successfully completing a special Government assignment,” probably work
at the Potsdam Conference). There is plenty of archival information on
both events, including, quite possibly, the special government
assignment of Captain Vassily Chernopisky. But Alex does not go to the
archives, has no clue about the time and place he dreams about, and does
not ask Vassily any specific questions (from what we can tell).
Instead, we learn that “between 1935 and 1941, nineteen million Soviet
citizens were arrested, and seven million executed, many by quota” (the
actual numbers are approximately 2.3 million and 800,000, respectively);
that every morning, lines formed outside local NKVD offices “as people
waited patiently…to denounce neighbors, colleagues, family” (try to
imagine large public gatherings of secret informers, some of them
neighbors and friends chatting as they wait); and that in the late 1940s,
ninety percent of Moscow’s apartments had no heat, and nearly half had
no plumbing or running water; in winter, people going out for water
carried axes along with their buckets, to hack through the ice that grew
around the public water pumps; workers stacked firewood brought from the
countryside on street corners in piles that sometimes grew taller than a
building; siblings went to school on alternate days because they shared
a single pair of shoes.
Perhaps he meant Leningrad during the war, not Moscow several years
later. And he forgot the bears. When a foreigner asks a Russian whether
it is true that in Russia bears walk the streets, the Russian is
supposed to respond, “What are ‘streets’?”
On his way back from the Underworld, Alex returns to Moscow, a city
famous for its lack of a coherent design. “What distinguishes Moscow
from other European cities,” he writes, “is the extent to which the
needs of its residents didn’t figure in its design. More than any other
place I’ve been to, it’s a city of monuments.” Perhaps he means St.
Petersburg, or has never been to Washington, D.C. What is remarkable is
that, as a New Yorker, he does not realize that “the apotheosis of
Stalinist architecture,” the tower of the Moscow State University, was
modeled on the Woolworth and the Manhattan Municipal Buildings in New
York City. His mother languished in that tower as a student:
I thought of her stories about cramped dorm rooms where listening
devices were hidden in the closets, about ventilation so bad that the
smell of cabbage boiled on the floor below by exchange students from Ho
Chi Minh’s Democratic Republic of Vietnam permeated her room, about the
thirty-three kilometers of dark corridors, about unexplained sounds in
the night, about suicides. Many believed the building was haunted.
Gothic tales are close relatives of mythic descents to the Underworld.
Alex’s last day in Russia provides a perfect bookend to the trip (which
was paid for by GQ magazine). On his walk through the center of Moscow,
he gets swept up in a march of mostly elderly people celebrating
Revolution Day:
Under a granite monument to Karl Marx, a strikingly tall woman stood on
another truck bed, her chest covered with gold- and silver-colored
medals. In a booming voice, she intoned a speech about an empire that
once blanketed half the globe, about squandered wealth and military
might, about encroaching decadence and Westernization. “These criminals
sold our nation!” a woman in a rabbit-fur hat shouted beside me, shaking
her fist in the direction of the Kremlin’s tomato-soup-colored battlements.
It was time to flee.
Alex’s second journey is to Lithuania, the land of his mother’s family.
The trajectory is similar: the growing anxiety, the irresistible urge to
reenter the nightmare, the plunge (marked, in this case, by brief
self-isolation in the “concrete bunker” of Vilnius’s municipal archive),
and the subterranean journey consisting of a historical introduction,
two meditative travelogues, and a family history centered on the
attractive and vividly drawn character of Grandfather Semyon. The
introduction is in Lonely Planet style, with an occasional detour into
personal discovery:
The early Litvaks (as the Lithuanian Jews called themselves) whom I
encountered in histories turned out to be unlike the famous secular Jews
in Semyon’s stories: Horowitz, Wittgenstein, Freud and the Nobel
laureates in chemistry and physics…. In their insularity from and
apparent indifference to the gentile society in which they lived, these
eastern European small-town Jews reminded me of the Lubavitcher Hasidim
I came to know in Brooklyn.
The travelogues are mostly about Jewish homes occupied by oblivious
strangers and crumbling tombstones with fading Hebrew letters. The
family history culminates in the Holocaust and—once again—combines
third-person biographical narratives with the macrohistorical summaries
the reader has grown used to. But there is a difference. In the chapter
on Vassily, the narrator is surrounded by “indecipherable ambiguities”
and qualifies most statements with “Vassily described” and “Tamara
said.” In the Lithuanian chapter, the inner state of the characters is
entirely transparent to the narrator: “Semyon’s friends marveled at his
absence of meanness and bitterness,” “he was lost in conflicted
thoughts,” and “he dreamed most often about his mother and, especially,
about his brother. Shy, dark-eyed Roma looked up at him accusingly, and
Semyon woke with a start, his heart heaving in his chest.”
The unease the reader feels over such novelistic passages is made more
acute by the obvious implausibility of some elements of the background.
Did the Soviets really write “Traitors to the Homeland” in white paint
on the sides of the train cars filled with deportees in June 1941 (it
was a secret operation, and no such designation was used in deportation
decrees)? Did Red Army soldiers in the streets of Kaunas really offer
chocolate bars to children in return for promises to renounce parochial
superstitions? (“‘Did Jesus give you this chocolate bar, or did I?’ they
asked.”) In the flow of Semyon’s colorful and not always reliable
reminiscence, such an episode might have made sense; as part of the
historical narrative, it does not. When locating hell in countries with
names, pasts, and flesh-and-blood inhabitants, writers—especially
memoirists—are expected to set limits to their imagination.
The asymmetry between perpetrator and victim stories is perhaps
understandable: one is about uncovering the truth, the other, preserving
the memory. But what is the relationship between them? In what way are
the two journeys and two families connected, other than by the figure of
the troubled narrator? Whose nightmares has he inherited? Alex
disapproves of the Lithuanians’ inability to come to terms with the
legacy of the Holocaust, but what would he like to see them do, besides
caring for graves and updating museum displays? On a visit to the
Žaliakalnis Jewish cemetery in Kaunas, he spots a small group of neatly
dressed teenagers:
A boy in a ski jacket read something in German from a handheld device,
and when he finished, the others clapped. I walked over to ask who they
were. The teacher, a tall, blondish man in clear-plastic spectacles,
told me in English that they were a high school class on a field trip
from Berlin. They came to the cemetery to “learn about the darker
aspects of our country’s history.” These students chose to come here,
the teacher assured me; the remainder of the class went to Morocco. I
thanked him, and he shook my hand a touch too firmly, telegraphing his
solidarity. Then he blinked away the tears in his eyes.
In his capacity as a descendant of the victims, Alex accepts—indeed,
welcomes—an act of penance by a descendant of the perpetrators. So what
should he do—he asks himself—as the grandson of a man “who took part in
arrests, interrogations, disappearances and, in Crimea, what amounted to
a genocide?”
The question turns out to be rhetorical. The idea of a pilgrimage to
Crimea (where a memorial to the Tatar victims of the deportation is
currently under construction) does not occur to the narrator. Instead,
he brings his two halves together in a chapter about his parents’
courtship and his own unhappy childhood. Each unhappy childhood is
unhappy in its own way. Here, the sickly, sensitive boy and his aloof
father and sad, hard-working mother live in a ghostly city where the
interiors of bakeries and furniture stores are “plastered ceiling to
floor with identical group portraits of the Politburo,” the audiences at
New Year’s variety shows on TV are “party nomenklatura in black suits
and ties,” textbooks about young heroes instruct seven-year-olds “how to
halt a train laden with Nazi munitions by throwing yourself under its
wheels,” student rock bands are fronted “mainly by sons of party
officials and diplomats,” and secret-police informers posing as neighbors
assume that where there was new children’s furniture, there must also be
a stack of samizdat verse or a pornographic magazine or maybe even a
shortwave radio used to tune in to the bourgeois propaganda on Voice of
America.
Every one of these observations is inaccurate. Covering store walls with
Politburo portraits would have been interpreted as subversion; party
nomenklatura members would not have jeopardized their dignity at New
Year’s variety shows (the guests—who drank champagne, sang songs, and
told jokes—included actors, dancers, athletes, scientists, cosmonauts,
and an occasional award-winning worker); no collection of stories about
young heroes would have been assigned as a textbook (as opposed to
extracurricular reading); no textbook would have instructed children how
to throw themselves under trains (any more than children attending
Catholic schools would be instructed to throw themselves to the lions);
and some of my best nonparty friends in the 1970s played in rock bands
(and bought beds for their children).
None of this would have mattered in a book called Alex in Wonderland,
but the author claims to have written “a memoir and a reckoning,” and
keeps making historical judgments. Or does he? “In Russia,” he declares,
“appearances always mattered more than reality.” So perhaps he does
describe a “curious dream” after all. Readers can make what they will of
a “Moscow” without love, friendship, laughter, or engrossing
conversations. “The bunker-like building” of Alex’s kindergarten “sat
low in an earthen depression”; the grocery store next to his apartment
was “a poured-concrete bunker that sold vodka and Moroccan port” (he
means Algerian dry red); and next to a supermarket that may or may not
have looked like a bunker, men in groups of three huddled around trash
cans “passing around 750 milliliters of vodka” (they would have been
sharing half a liter, a tradition that goes back to the days of my
childhood when three rubles—one per person—could buy you a bottle). The
attendance of Alex’s mother at the top school in Vilnius (“among
children of local party officials and the well connected”) and Alex’s
own at the best school in Moscow (“for the children of diplomats and the
well connected”) are mentioned without comment. Perhaps they too are
appearances, not reality.
Finally, the Halberstadts (Alex, his mother, Grandfather Semyon, and
Grandmother Raisa) emigrated to New York City, and Alex found a home.
Semyon died in August 2001. After seeing him for the last time, Alex
hailed a cab and headed for the Brooklyn Bridge:
The city teemed with life and motion…. Semyon once told me that New York
was the happy ending to the twentieth century, and it never looked more
so than on that night, with Manhattan’s megawatt landscape set against a
moonless sky. I took out my phone and called my boyfriend. “I’m coming
home,” I said.
But he didn’t really. The nightmares continued, the bunkers beckoned,
and T magazine was willing to pay. In 2007 Alex traveled to the
confluence of the Volga and the Akhtuba near the Caspian Sea to join his
father on one of his annual fishing expeditions. The train station
“appeared to be sculpted out of mud. Several bulbs dangled from a wire,
casting eerie aureoles on the packed dirt beside the train tracks.” Just
beyond was “a row of single-story cinder-block bunkers.” Alex was back
in the Underworld, armed with new questions, but his father would not
respond. A short car trip to Old Sarai, the site of the vanished capital
of the Golden Horde and Russia’s “formative trauma,” provided the
explanation:
In psychic terms, nearly a millennium ago this place became the
wellspring of an unstoppable chain reaction—a multigenerational
transmission of fear, suspicion, grief, melancholy and rage that, in
turn, curdled into new historical calamities, new traumas to pass on to
the young.
Russian history, Alex decides, is “a cyclical drama of victimization and
submission,” from the Mongols, who came like Gog and Magog, to the
peasants, who “proudly showed off bumps on their foreheads that rose
from bowing to their betters,” to the many “seemingly novel features of
Soviet totalitarianism.”
The curse could not be lifted: “Some of the Russians’ peculiarities that
gall and mystify Westerners also date back centuries, sometimes all the
way back to the Tatar occupation.” One of them is
the conviction, voiced so often in Russia, that foreigners and certain
internal outsiders schemed to undermine the country and were to blame
for its problems. At various times, these foreign and domestic
antagonists included Swedes, Lithuanians, Turks, Japanese, Germans,
Masons, Jews, Chechens, Americans, Protestants and, more recently,
Chinese, Estonians, Georgians, Ukrainians and LGBT people.
Even “the trope of ‘the decadent West,’” Alex claims, came to the
Russians “from the Muslim culture of their conquerors” (not true, but
that is not the point).
On the night Alex finally understood that his father “wouldn’t, or
couldn’t, give me the answers I’d come for,” he had one of his recurring
nightmares. When he woke “with a yell in his throat,” his father told
him that Vassily used to scream in his sleep, too, and that Alex sounded
just like him. He is not Orpheus, in other words, but Eurydice. He will
never fully wake up, never escape the multigenerational transmission of
fear, never return home to a happy land where people do not believe that
foreigners and certain internal outsiders scheme to undermine their country.
The book begins with an account of a lab experiment in which a team of
researchers at Emory University administered electric shocks to the feet
of baby mice enjoying the scent of cherry blossoms. Eventually, the mice
began to tremble with fear whenever they smelled cherry blossoms. “The
surprising part, though, came after they had babies of their own. When
exposed to the scent, the second generation also trembled, though they
had never been shocked.” Studies of human subjects done by other
researchers seemed to confirm these findings: the children of Holocaust
survivors and of pregnant mothers who were near the World Trade Center
on September 11, 2001, “showed changes to the genes that determined how
they responded to stress—changes identical to those found in their parents.”
But what constitutes trauma? Alex’s examples refer to cataclysmic public
events, but his narrative suggests a broader definition. One
interpretation he seems to favor is that Russia, perhaps uniquely, is “a
nation of individuals fearful of foreigners, each other and the prospect
of greater freedom, a people trembling seemingly without cause, like the
lab mice at Emory.” Alex may be doomed by his connection to his
grandfather (who is Ukrainian, but never mind) and a succession of
peasants with bumps on their foreheads, but others might not be so
unlucky. In Rome, his mother “caught the first glimpses of what felt to
her like authentic freedom,” and in New York, “the tread of history
pointed to the future instead of the past.” And the future, everyone
knows, is above the past:
In Moscow, the metro ran below the streets, and the stations doubled as
bomb shelters; in parts of New York, the subway ran on girders high
above the sidewalks, up near the billboards, neon and postmodern pediments.
The other interpretation, inescapable in the book and in most of today’s
America, is that trauma lurks behind every corner, history’s tread
spares no one, and most subway tracks begin and end underground. Add to
that the misadventures of our ancestors, and Alex can relax. We all live
in hell
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