Soloviev / Varila When the Gods are silent

The Revolution & The Red Army
1. Auflage 2023
ISBN: 978-952-80-6439-8
Verlag: BoD - Books on Demand
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 624 Seiten

The writer Mikhail Soloviev is one of the most prominent Soviet writers who chose freedom under incredibly difficult circumstances. This work is a unique and truthful description of the greatest upheaval of our time - the three decades of the Russian Revolution. Essentially, the book is the autobiographical account of the author, Mikhail Soloviev, about his experiences during Stalin's time in the Soviet Union. Through his eyes we see the pain of a generation and the crucifixion of an entire nation. The core of this wonderful book is the author's chosen direction of life and the nation's hopes for the future. The events of Stalin's time are told vividly; in the descriptions of the events, you can already see indications of the future development of the country's history and the solutions of the current Russian leadership. The coercive measures of a government with no regard for human life put Soloviev's love for his country to the test. Hatred of Stalin's regime grows and eventually leads him to choose freedom in the West when the opportunity arises. The work is full of scenes, action and death, passion, and tenderness, it has unforgettable characters and it is illuminated by a humble faith in human dignity and the innermost power of the spirit.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Soloviev, Mikhail

Varila, Reijo

Leseproben

Everybody thought the revolution was over and done with; they did not realize that it was only beginning. They thought that now everything would go on peacefully and quietly: one authority had been replaced with another. Then came November, with its second evolution. Now all the talk was Lenin, or the Bolsheviks. It was rumoured that in the town the authorities had been changed again.

In the old days the village head had run affairs through the secretary. No one had fought for power, no one resisted the new authority, and only a small group of rich peasants, gathered round the land owner, was hostile to all that had occurred. And the people excused them, for everybody realized that the revolution had upset them by taking land.

But somewhere, a long way off from the steppe villages, clouds were gathering. Vague rumours reached those villages, of brothers fighting brothers. The rumours grew more plentiful, more detailed; the menacing clouds of civil war spread across the sky to hang over the steppe. The peasants went about with gloomy faces; the front-line men had anxious looks. The Soloviev’s house was filled with alarm. Kornei was hardly ever at home; he had transferred to the house occupied by the Red guards, taking the machine gun with him. In the early days Kornei had allowed Mihail to go into that house, had given him a rifle to hold, and once had even allowed him to fire it. Mihail told all his friends he had fired a real rifle, but he said nothing about the pain he had in the shoulder. Now, all this was changed; whenever Mihail went near the Red guards’ house, Kornei shouted at him:

– Go home, Mihail! Stay with your mother.

That was highly insulting. Mihail could not understand what was going on all around him. Occasionally Simon came home, but he never opened his mouth. Someone was coming – Mihail and Ivan knew that for certain; but who the someone was, and why he was coming, they had no idea.

– Are they coming? their father would ask Simon.

– Yes, they are coming, Simon would answer moodily. All Mihail and Ivan knew was that Whites were coming. But why should everybody be afraid of them?

They were all expecting misfortune, yet in the end it came unexpectedly. It reached the village from the neighbouring districts, from the Don and the Kuban Cossack areas. Led by General Pokrovsky, a large force of Whites marched into the steppe and ruthlessly suppressed the peasant revolt.

The dawn crept in slowly through the tiny windows, and Mihail woke up to the babe1 of voices that filled the house. As he lay, he could hear his mother crying, Kornei’s voice gurgling with fury, Simon’s calm remarks. His father was sitting at the table deep in thought, not listening to his sons. They were discussing how best to defend themselves, and whether defence was possible at all. The house was crowded with front-line men. From various remarks Mihail realized that the Whites were quite close. During the night someone had secretly posted proclamations on the telegraph poles; the notices said the Whites were coming to restore order and destroy the ‘revolutionary scum.’ And they bore a list of the inhabitants who would be hanged as soon as they fell into the hands of the Whites. There were twenty-six names, chiefly of front-line men, including three of the Soloviev’s-Kornei, Simon, and old Timothy.

That day the village was like a disturbed anthill. In the administration meetings went on all day. Toward evening Red guards from other villages already occupied by the Whites, began to arrive, bringing with them stories of the harsh measures being taken by the counterrevolutionaries. No one was spared, Red guards were shot on the spot, the peasants were driven out into the square and beaten with whips and bayonets, even to death. The Whites were in great force and there was no possibility of resisting them. Fear hung over the village, and only the former rich peasants went about with their heads high – their time was coming. And yet, although everybody realized that they had linked up with the Whites no one even thought of taking vengeance on them.

The Whites’ mounted reconnaissance patrols were already on the outskirts. But still the decision was not taken whether to defend the village or evacuate it. The soviet held the decisive meeting in the Soloviev’s’ house, where Mihail was a silent participant. He lay on the stove, his head dangling half out from the ledge. His brother Simon spoke quietly, as always, but the stump of his left arm twitched spasmodically, and his white face worked painfully. He said aloud what all were thinking: they must withdraw.

– If we try to defend the village, we shall not be able to hold it, and we will lose our force. It is hard to part from our wives and children, but what can we do? After all, the Whites are Russians like us, and they will not harm the women and children. We must retreat to the sands of Astrakhan, to the Kalmuck steppe, and there assemble our forces.

Kornei’s detachment slipped out of the village during the night. Timothy Soloviev did not want to leave his home, but his sons insisted on taking him with them. It was hard for his wife to part from her husband and sons, but she wrapped Timothy’s neck with a stout green scarf and said through her tears:

– You go, Timothy, you go, or they will kill you.

– But how about you and the little ones?

– Do not think of us. God is not without mercy. No one will hurt us.

Very few were left at home. All the older Soloviev’s went off, even Philip and Taras, who had not been in the army at all so far. Only Ivan, Mihail, and the four women – their mother, Simon’s wife Barbara, Olga, and Tatiana remained behind. A feeling of dread settled in the house and did not leave it. And not only in their house. All the village grew suddenly still, silent.

The Whites entered the next evening. Unlike the Red guards, they were armed to the teeth, were well clothed, and had cannon. They dispersed into the houses, readily falling into talk with the peasants. The village felt rather reassured. There was little to distinguish the Whites from the Reds. They were front-line men, too, they were Russians, too, men from the neighbouring Cossack districts.

The difference was revealed the following day. Small squads of officers and Cossacks passed along the streets, with lists of Red guards and of all who had shown sympathy for the soviet regime. Houses were searched, and many people were taken off to the village prison. An officer and two Cossacks visited the Soloviev’s. The visit was expected, and the women and children shrank into the corners and were very still. Bowing their heads to avoid the low lintel, the Cossacks followed the officer inside and sat down on a bench without removing their caps. From the stove ledge Mihail saw the officer’s thin, tired face, the fastidiously twisted lips. The Cossacks were older men, and seemed very similar to the ordinary peasants of the steppe. They looked about the house unconcernedly, and one of them remarked to no one in particular

– They are poor here; you can see that.

Vera Ivanovna stood in the middle of the room, her hands dangling helplessly. These men did not seem so very terrible, yet they frightened her. Everything depended on what they had come for.

– Get yourself ready, auntie, we are taking you to the staff, the officer said indifferently. And everybody else in the house must come with us.

The two weeping women prepared to go with the officer. Vera Ivanovna put on her one Sunday skirt, dressed Mihail in his jacket, and tied a kerchief round Barbara’s head. As she bent over Mihail, a rain of tears fell on his face; they scalded intolerably, and he clung to her even more tightly. The officer and his men turned and stared out of the windows. But one of the Cossacks could not stand the crying, and turned round.

– There is nothing to cry about! They will just question you and let you go.

He felt in the pocket of his baggy blue breeches and took out a candy. Blowing the tobacco off it, he held it out to Mihail:

– Here, do not cry, sonny. Everything will be all right. A big boy like you, crying!

They were escorted through the streets – the mother, Barbara, and Mihail. Ivan had vanished; Olga and Tatiana had taken shelter betimes with neighbours. Mihail would not fall one step behind his mother. He was wearing a pair of her old boots, and they made walking difficult, but he kept up with her. His mother and Barbara cried all the way, and as the neighbours stared through the windows, they shook their heads pityingly. Never had they seen women and children being taken off under armed escort.

Next to the village administration, a small house with barred windows stood behind a stone wall. In the old days it had been used to hold peasants who failed to pay their taxes, while on Sundays the policemen had collected the drunk and disorderly and locked them up for the night. But as a rule, it was empty, and the children found it an excellent playground; they would climb over the wall and take possession of the house. The soviet had decided that the prison was to be pulled down, for in a proclamation Simon had read that one of the tasks of the revolution was to destroy the prisons czarism had built for the toiling people. But they had not had the time to do it.

Now the prison was tumultuous with voices. It had only two rooms, and both were filled to overflowing. All the prisoners were relations of Red guards. Among them was old Frolov, with his handsome, patriarchal beard. He was...