The Portrayal of Jews in Modern Biełarusian Literature 9780773554153

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The Portrayal of Jews in Modern Biełarusian Literature

The Portrayal of Jews in Modern Biełarusian Literature

Zina J. Gimpelevich

McGill-Queen’s University Press Montreal & Kingston

•

London

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Chicago

© McGill-Queen’s University Press 2018 ISBN ISBN

978-0-7735-5317-0 (cloth) 978-0-7735-5415-3 (ePDF )

Legal deposit third quarter 2018 Bibliothèque nationale du Québec Printed in Canada on acid-free paper that is 100% ancient forest free (100% post-consumer recycled), processed chlorine free

We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts, which last year invested $153 million to bring the arts to Canadians throughout the country. Nous remercions le Conseil des arts du Canada de son soutien. L’an dernier, le Conseil a investi 153 millions de dollars pour mettre de l’art dans la vie des Canadiennes et des Canadiens de tout le pays.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication Gimpelevich, Zina J., 1949—, author The portrayal of Jews in modern Biełarusian literature / Zina J. Gimpelevich. Includes bibliographical references and index. Issued in print and electronic formats. ISBN 978-0-7735-5317-0 (hardcover). — ISBN 978-0-7735-5415-3 (ePDF) 1. Belarusian literature — 20th century — History and criticism. 2. Jews in literature. I. Title. PG2834.335.G56 2018

891.7'990935299240904

C2018-901265-X C2018-901266-8

For Ivonka Joanna Survilla

Contents

Acknowledgments / ix Illustrations / xiii

1 The Portrayal of Jews in Modern Biełarusian Literature / 3 2 The Creation of Biełarusian Jewish Characters from Kaetan Marašeŭski’s Comedy and Jakub Kołas’s Antoś Łata, Symon the Musician, and “Chajm Rybs” / 46

3 Janka Kupała, Natalla Arsieńnieva, and Maxim Tank: Addresses to Biełarusian Jews / 83

4 Ciška Hartny (1887–1937): The Wilted Beauty of Biełarusian Literature / 121

5 The Ingenious Michaś Lyńkoŭ (1899–1975) / 146 6 Did Vićbič Change His Heart towards Bolsheviks and Jews? / 181 7 Janka Bryl: My Best Friend Ziama / 207 8 Jewish Themes as an Aspect of Uładzimir Karatkievič’s Works: Shall Christ Come out of Galilee? (John 7:41) / 233

9 Ryhor Baradulin: Concerning the Jews / 272

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10 Georgii Musievič: People Who Used to Live among Us: Dedicated to Jewish People Who Endured So Much Suffering / 312

11 Epilogue / 339 Appendix One: Note on Biełarusian Pronunciation and Transliterations / 369 Appendix Two: Baradulin’s Poems / 374 Notes / 383 Bibliography / 441 Index / 465

Acknowledgments

There are many people to whom I am indebted for their help in the preparation of The Portrayal of Jews in Biełarusian Literature. First and foremost, my gratitude and irredeemable debt goes to over forty Biełarusian writers, whose works in various genres are the main subject of this book. I am thankful for the unique position that they, and the great majority of their colleagues, took while describing ethnic and multiple faiths during the many centuries of Jewish presence in Biełaruś. They did so despite the politics of many rulers of the country, who would have preferred them to do otherwise. The manuscript benefited immensely from many colleagues, friends, and family who generously supported me in the years of research and writing. The most valuable assistance initially came from Wolf Rubinčyk, who helped to collect and choose an immense amount of material of which I could use only a fraction. With the aim of illustrating the main theme of the book, and to demonstrate the universality of the writers’ attitudes, I purposely present authors who are the least known in the West. Moreover, in order to shorten the manuscript and to save space for less recognized writers, I exclude two chapters dedicated to the works of the best known Biełarusian authors of the twentieth century, Źmitrok Biadulia and Vasil Bykaŭ. My hope, however, is that other scholars will emerge and contribute to this topic. It is hard to find words to express my thanks and respect to the many Biełarusians in Canada and the United States who came to North America after the Second World War and to those who followed in the second and last part of the twentieth century. Each of them exemplifies the main thesis developed in the literature of their country of origin: anti-Semitism in general isn’t a stain on the Biełarusian conscience. Of course, there were exceptions, but they are barely recorded in Biełarusian literature.

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Among Biełarusians abroad, I would like to note the Canadian Biełarusian Survilla family: the late Janka Survilla; his wife, and my special friend, the stateswoman Joanna Survilla and their daughter, Professor Maria Paula Survilla. This family inspired me with their love for Biełaruś; their ongoing support truly helped me keep afloat during some of the darker times that occurred while I was completing this work. Joanna Survilla, for instance, read the manuscript twice and helped with her enthusiasm and valuable comments. Therefore, my dedication goes first to Joanna Survilla and her family, and then to a good group of Canadian Biełarusians, who also inspired and encouraged me (who trained as a Russian philologist) to develop Biełarusian literary topics. Let me name just a few compatriots from different walks of life: the late Archbishop Mikałaj; the late Dr Raisa Žuk-Hryškievič; the late Dr Barys and Liudmiła Ragulia; Mikoła and Maryja Hańko; Vijalieta Kavaliova; Valiancina and Jurka Šaŭčenka; Siarhiej Paniźnik, Dr Volha Ipatava; Vłada and Juraś Šamiećka; Dr Piotra Murzionak and Dr Natalia Barkaŕ; Natalia Kołas; Alieś Karalkievič, and many other Biełarusians from different waves of emigration and countries of residence. My warm acknowledgments of their scholarly and public activities and collegiality go to Dr Ałła Romano; Dr Jan Zaprudnik; Dr Vitaŭt Kipiel and the late Zora Kipiel; Dr Vital Zajka; Dr Liavon Jurevič; Mr Viačka Stankievič; Mr Siarhiej Šupa; Mr Kiryl Kaścian; the late Very Reverend Alexander Nadson, and many other American and European Biełarusians. Most Slavic scholars (Biełarusian, Jewish, and others) have my sincere admiration for their valuable works on various topics, which are noted in this book’s bibliography. There are many reasons why I often quote Professor Arnold McMillin. He is a renowned literary scholar who pioneered and developed Western criticism in Biełarusian literature. Most important, among “foreign” Slavic scholars named in the bibliography, Professors McMillin, Thomas E. Bird, Jim Dingley, and the late Vera Rich are the only ones fluent in Biełarusian. I am immeasurably obliged to Jim Dingley for being the voluntary reader of the first copy, for his input, healthy criticism, valuable comments, and ongoing encouragement of my work. I am deeply grateful to Professor Allan Reid for his kind suggestions and for editing some of Baradulin’s poems. I have always admitted how lucky I was to be a part of the faculty at

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the University of Waterloo, which has always stood by me. A number of students developed a taste for Biełarusian studies, and they have my heartfelt admiration. Our librarian, Helena Calogeridis, has continually worked magic in unearthing material that was extremely helpful in my work. In addition, various libraries and archives in Biełaruś, Russia, the United States, Canada, and Europe have lent their full backing on many occasions, and are highly appreciated. The University of Waterloo supported this project initially with seed money from the University of Waterloo/Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council Small Grants Program. These monies were spent with gratitude on many trips abroad for meetings with writers, for archival work, for supporting my students, and for disseminating my findings at national and international conferences. I should like to express my thanks to the editors of Canadian Slavonic Papers and Cajtšryft, in whose pages I first tried out some of the ideas used later in the book. My very special gratitude goes to my dear friend and editor, Carroll Klein. Her patience and highly professional work in “translating” my English translations of the poems of Ryhor Baradulin, Maxim Tank, and Natalla Arsieńnieva into a comprehensible standard evoke much more admiration and respect than I can possibly express. Ms Klein also recommended an editor for the current manuscript, Mr Matthew Kudelka. He courageously went through almost seven hundred pages of the first copy. I am sincerely obliged to Mr Kudelka for his dedication and professionalism. Dr Joanne Richardson, who copyedited the final version of the manuscript, deserves a lot of gratitude for her professionalism and kindness. I feel indebted to the anonymous readers who recommended the present manuscript for publication. We are trained as critics who should not agree on anything, but it is always helpful to have friends who hold the same values and aesthetic ideals. McGill-Queen’s University Press (mqup) was my first choice as a publisher for The Portrayal of Jews in Biełarusian Literature because of its superior production of my earlier book, Vasil Bykaŭ: His Life and Works (2005). It is very satisfying that my seventh academic manuscript has received similar treatment from the mqup editorial, design, and technical staff. Indeed, I have been blessed with professional guidance and congeniality from mqup, especially from Philip Cercone, who remembered me

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from the “Bykaŭ time” and kindly referred my submission to Mark Abley, Jonathan Crago, Ryan Van Huijstee, and other colleagues, whose professionalism, patience, and knowledge are remarkable. I regret any errors and omissions that might appear in The Portrayal of Jews in Biełarusian Literature. Needless to say, any misunderstandings that appear in this work, as well as any personal judgments, are my own responsibility. I have made every effort to identify, credit appropriately, and obtain publication rights from copyright holders of illustrations. Notice of any errors or omissions in this regard will be gratefully received and corrections will be made in any subsequent editions. I had the good luck to obtain the permission of the editors and publishers of the Canadian Slavonic Papers to cite and reproduce any part of my article that appeared earlier. Among many others I am indebted to numerous Canadians, friends, and members of the Canadian Relief Fund for the Children of Chernobyl in Biełaruś. This fund, which I had the honour of establishing (with Joanna Survilla and Paola Smith) in 1989, helped enormously in my understanding of, and genuine appreciation for, my fellow Canadians. It taught me to value their generosity and love for Biełarusian children, victims of Chernobyl whom we brought to Canada for visits between 1990 and 2005. The national fund was disassembled in 2005 as a response to the Biełarusian government’s attempt to meddle with our Constitution. Obviously, we couldn’t allow a foreign power to interfere with the work of a Canadian charitable foundation. Having said this, some of our former chapters (such as that in London, Ontario, chaired by Professor Charles Ruud) continue to help Biełaruś by sending medical and dental equipment, training medical doctors and nurses, and much more. Altogether, Canadians’ hunger for knowledge about Biełaruś and its culture have served as a revelation and an inspiration for my work ever since. I feel exceptionally fortunate for the financial support that the OrsaRomano Cultural and Educational Foundation, Kryčeŭski’s Foundation, and the University of Waterloo have contributed for the production of my book. To my immediate family, especially to Leo, Estella, Leonid, Lisa, Mark, Jacob, Lana, Drew, Yan, and Dominique, I am ever grateful for their love, interest, and patience.

“Neighbours,” or houses with a goat (Jewish) and a hog (Christian). Yehudah Pen, House with a Goat, ca. 1920s. Oil on cardboard. Source: Wikimedia Commons, public domain image, Tatiana Malik.

The following illustrations show the city of Vitebsk illustrated in linocuts by Sałamon Judovin in P. Furman, Viciebsk u hraviurach Sałamona Judovina, 1926. (Source: Wikimedia Commons)

The Church of Black Trinity (p. 13)

A character (p. 23)

A teacher (p. 25)

A synagogue (p. 26)

Over the Vićba River (p. 27)

Anton’s Catholic Church (p. 29)

A character (p. 33)

A shoemaker’s shop (p. 41)

The Portrayal of Jews in Modern Biełarusian Literature

1 The Portrayal of Jews in Modern Biełarusian Literature1

The beasts of the desert know from birth their lairs; birds that fly in the air know their nests; fish swimming in the sea and in the rivers sense their whirlpools; bees and their like defend their hives. In the same manner people have great love for the place where they were born and brought up according to God’s Will. –Francis Skaryna (1485?–1540?) Every artist was born somewhere, and even if later a new environment influences him, a certain essence, a certain odor of his native land will always be in his work. –Marc Chagall (1887–1985) National belonging is something that everyone carries in his/her genes. Just being born signifies national belonging. The place of birth is very important. The culture is equally important. Simple things, such as childhood dreams, are always connected with something in the past that, in its turn, is connected with the Motherland. –Vasil Bykaǔ (1924–2003)

Seven Hundred Years Together for Jewish and Christian Biełarusians Francis (Frańcišak) Skaryna, Marc Chagall, and Vasil Bykaǔ, Biełarusianborn cultural icons of different times, faiths, social backgrounds, and educations, could have written the above epigraphs for one another, so strong is their love for their birthplace, today called Biełaruś. This country has a long and complex history that encompasses the lives of people with diverse

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origins, ethnicities, and cultures. The proportions of these distinct Biełarusian groups have changed over time, but, for seven centuries, Jews have been the largest minority on the historical Biełarusian territories.2 Indeed, Biełaruś was a significant part of so-called Yiddishland.3 Furthermore, Biełaruś was the only country in the world where Yiddish was one of the state languages (1919–38).4 Nevertheless, the portrayal of Jews in Biełarusian literature has not been sufficiently investigated, unlike the depictions of their Polish, Ukrainian, and (in particular) Russian counterparts. For example, there are three scholarly journals – Polin (published in Britain and the United States), Gal-ed (Israel), and Kwartalnik Historii Žydów (Poland) – entirely dedicated to the literary, cultural, and historical relationship between Christian and Jewish Poles. A monograph by Joanna Beata Michlic, Poland’s Threatening Other: The Image of the Jew from 1880 to the Present, deals with related questions.5 Myroslav Shkandrij’s monograph, Jews in Ukrainian Literature: Representation and Identity, does justice to the subject in Ukrainian literary criticism.6 This theme is continued in Amelia Glaser’s Jews and Ukrainians in Russia’s Literary Borderlands from the Shtetl Fair to the Petersburg Workshop.7 An original scholarly work on Russian Jews is Henrietta Mondry’s Exemplary Bodies: Constructing the Jew in Russian Culture since the 1880s.8 Biełarusian culture, however, which developed the longest peaceful and multifaceted relationship between people of different faiths, is the least represented on the subject in literary critical studies. A recent Biełarusian scholarly journal, Tsaitšryft, committed to Jewish Biełarusian matters, was just relaunched in 2011.9 The only existing scholarly work in English that does address Biełarusian literature with Jewish protagonists is a monograph co-written by the late Vera Rich (1936–2009) and Jakub Blum,10 The Image of the Jew in Soviet Literature: The PostStalin Period.11 Rich’s Biełarusian chapter, “Jewish Themes and Characters in Belorussian Texts,” is mainly concerned with literature produced about the Second World War. Yet it is noteworthy that Rich’s conclusions are substantially different from Blum’s. Rich writes that Biełarusian Soviet writers often “show considerable sympathy for their Jewish characters, and this sympathy is reflected in the very considerable help extended to them by the Biełarusian heroes of these tales.”12 Also, this distinguished scholar and translator of Biełarusian and Ukrainian literatures, a poet and human rights activist, outlines the unique characteristic of Biełarusian lit-

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erature: Biełarusian literary texts often portray Jews not just with empathy but as equals. However, due to the limitations posed by the scope of her chapter, this point is not developed. It was this lacuna that gave birth to my work on how Christian Biełarusians portray Jews in Biełarusian literature. A full investigation grew into the firm conclusion presented in this book: Biełarusian literature has always reflected the relatively harmonious relationship between Biełarusians of all faiths, with Jews being the most significant minority in the country. Indeed, most Biełarusian writers, especially in the twentieth century, have treated their Jewish character not as foreigners but as entirely native. Few readers know that Biełaruś has been blessed with a rich and powerful literature, created by many talented writers. The present study includes biographies of writers from different historical periods and sociopolitical backgrounds. The examinations of literary sections are enhanced by many translations from diverse literary works, which will help readers get acquainted with various Biełarusian authors and their literary genres. Before presenting and examining individual cases, I introduce the reader to some major events in Biełarusian history so as to delineate the unstable world in which Biełarusians of different ethnicities, faiths, and generations were born, lived, and died. First, let us note that many citizens in present-day Poland, Ukraine, and Russia (what was once Yiddishland) today express genuine regret for a lot of past injustices towards Jews that took place on their territories. Political authorities, academics, and the people of these states are in general agreement that their Jewish populations encountered great sorrows during the nineteenth century, but especially in the twentieth – before, during, and after the Holocaust. Many individuals and institutions in Poland, Ukraine, and Russia now recognize and admit that their nations’ Jews suffered greatly from systemic anti-Semitism. Though there was less systemic anti-Semitism in historic Biełaruś – it flourished there only during Soviet times in the immediate aftermath of the Second World War – until very recently Biełarusian authorities have imposed a considerable silence on Jewish history. Biełarusian academics who try to pursue Jewish studies (Jewish history, language studies, Holocaust studies, and related subjects) cannot find jobs. As a consequence, younger Biełarusians are generally ignorant about that aspect of their country’s history. This is truly sad, because, as we see when we leaf through the pages of numerous lit-

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erary works, Biełarusians have inherited from their forebears a capacity for exhibiting tolerance towards their neighbours of different faiths and ethnicities. True, the Holocaust was mentioned as a part of the Great Patriotic War’s history in high school programs from 2000 to 2012. This brought a brief hope that amnesia about the country’s Jewish past would some day be healed. On the other hand, the Sixth International Congress in Kaŭnas, titled Pamiat’o kholokoste v Belarusi (Memory of the Holocaust in Biełaruś), which took place in October 2016, attracted a number of excellent scholars. They all agreed with Professor A. Smolienčuk’s statement that, after 2012, the history of the Holocaust turned from “place of memory into obliviousness.”13 The real cure for this amnesia, however, is offered by Biełarusian writers. Consequently, the present study is inspired by generations of Biełarusian authors who have faithfully tended the fires of Christian and Jewish brotherhood. Let us now acquaint ourselves with some highlights of the past during which Biełarusians of various faiths, mainly Christians and Jews, viewed one another as equals on the same land.

Nostalgia Isn’t What It Used to Be: The Christian and Jewish Common Past Such Jewish life no longer exists. The civil war hit them hard. Pogroms rolled through the shtetl. The very places where the patchedtogether huts stood were ploughed up. Hunger came in the wake of the pogroms … The Revolution destroyed Jewish lives. The old closed world was shattered. Everyday life is finished. Small merchant trade was crushed under the pressure of state Socialism and cooperatives. In the new restricted life there was nowhere to turn. On the one hand the Revolution removed the Pale of Settlement, but on the other it destroyed the most traditional traits of the Jews. –Viktor Shklovsky (1893–1984)

Shklovsky wrote these lines in a review of the 1925 movie Jewish Luck,14 which was an adaptation of an eponymous stage production based on Sholem Aleichem’s writings. Aleichem’s origins were Ukrainian, so he wrote mostly about Ukrainian Jewish life. In Biełaruś at that time, pogroms

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were nowhere near as destructive as they were in Ukraine, Poland, and other parts of the Russian Empire. Jewish lives and livelihoods were less threatened. This can be attributed to two peoples’ long-entrenched capacity to accept each other – an ability reflected in many historical documents from the time as well as in Biełarusian literature. I refer to these documents throughout The Portrayal of Jews in Biełarusian Literature; for now, I offer a historical overview. The early Biełarusian principalities flourished between the ninth and twelfth centuries, with centres in Połacak (Polotsk) and Turaŭ (Turov). All scholars of Jewish migration agree that Jews migrated to the eastern Slavic lands in the first millennium.15 Nestor’s chronicle mentions a Jewish presence in Kyivan Rus’ by 986. But that migration became substantial only in the eleventh and twelfth centuries. Tolts, in the Encyclopedia of Jews, notes that demographic information about Jews before the nineteenth century is not nearly as reliable as is more recent information. So the following data reflect scholars’ best guesses. A partial exception to this is the material gleaned from the 1764–65 census of Jews in the PolishLithuanian Commonwealth, but, most important, that gleaned from the Lithuanian Chronicles, Metrika (government documents) and Statute (a collection of juridical laws practised in the Grand Duchy of Litva).16 Metrika and Statute were written in Old Biełarusian. The thirteenth century saw an increase in Jewish migration to Biełaruś from German and Polish lands. Scholars suggest that this was mainly because of persecution, either religious or economic. It could have been a combination of both. A quick review of the history of blood libel indicates that in Germany such accusations reached their peak in the fourteenth century,17 when Jewish migration to historic Biełaruś peaked (there would be a similar surge in the sixteenth century). At that time, Biełaruś was part of the Grand Duchy of Litva (or Litvania; Lithuania; hereafter gdl) and was politically, economically, and culturally a strong European country, whose state language was Old Biełarusian. The gdl was a multiethnic but mainly Slavic state that included Baltic people with historical roots in a tribe known as the Samogitians (today’s Lithuanians). The gdl, whose capital was first Navahrudak (1253) and later Vilnia (1323),18 was the most powerful state in the region from the thirteenth century to the end of the sixteenth. The Biełarusian principalities were unique among Europe’s feudal states at the time: unlike their neighbours, they invited Jews to settle. They

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did so because the Jews, besides knowing the Bible, were accomplished craftspeople, merchants, financiers, and diplomats. So the Jews were welcomed in historic Biełaruś despite their religious and cultural differences, and were not treated as intruders. All of this is reflected in a brief biography of Symon Budny (1530–93), an influential member of the Biełarusian Renaissance. He was born into the lower Biełarusian gentry (szliachta), into a family of Orthodox Christians, near Zabłudnaje. Budny received a solid education in Italy and Switzerland. Noble families, including that of Prince Mikałaj (Black Radziwiłł), supported Budny’s relations with Jewish scholars, and, at his suggestion, they invited Jews to Biełaruś. Budny, who was fluent in Biełarusian, Polish, Czech, Latin, Italian, Greek, (Jewish) Aramaic, and Hebrew, was the first person in Europe to promote Biełarusian and Jewish studies; he was especially keen on translating the Bible and the Talmud into Biełarusian. Between 1495 and 1503, Jews were deported from the gdl after Christian merchants complained about them; but, eight years later, they were welcomed back and their citizenship was reinstated. The gdl even compensated them for the economic losses they had suffered during their exile.19 The unification of the gdl and the Kingdom of Poland took place on 1 July 1569 in Lublin. This was a political response to Muscovite expansionism, which was often carried out with Ukrainian Cossacks in the vanguard. In the new entity – called the Reč Paspalitaja in Biełarusian, the Rzeczpospolita in Polish – Biełarusian Christians were known as Litviny or Lićviny. Jews settling on these territories were known as Litvaki (Litvaks). The Samogitians, as Lithuanians were previously known, acquired their modern name after the partitions of the Commonwealth of Poland and Litva at the end of the eighteenth century.20 They accepted Christianity only in the fourteenth century, which made them the last Christian converts in Europe. After the Union of Lublin, Biełarusian remained a state language of the Commonwealth of Poland and Litva until 1696, when it was succeeded by Polish. The union brought relative safety and even prosperity to the Jews of the Reč Paspalitaja. This ended with the uprising led by Bohdan Khmelnitsky (1595–1657), which began in 1654 and had been incited by Moscow with the support of other Russian principalities. Khmelnitsky’s goal was to establish a separate Cossack state united under the Orthodox faith. The rebellion lasted for thirteen years. At first, it was

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viewed as a liberation movement directed against Polish and Catholic dominance of the Reč Paspalitaja. Initially, the hostilities were directed against Catholics, Jews, and the Biełarusian Uniate Church (Greek Catholic). However, people of all faiths, including Orthodox Christians, suffered at the hands of Khmelnitsky’s forces and the Muscovite tsar. Instead of freedom, Khmelnitsky’s Cossacks brought centuries of enslavement under the Russian Empire not only for the Reč Paspalitaja but also for the Cossacks themselves and the population of historic Ukraine. Biełarusian historians Michaś Tkačoŭ and Hienadź Sahanovič (among others) argue compellingly that this rebellion shattered the socio-political, economic, and cultural life of Old Biełaruś (Litva).21 The damage was comparable to that incurred during the First World War, the February and October Revolutions, the Russian Civil War and the Polish-Soviet War. In the seventeenth century, the Muscovites’ victory enriched Moscow immensely because most of the captives were literate Christian and Jewish Biełarusian craftspeople, skilled labourers, and productive peasants. These captives brought with them to Moscow original Biełarusian and Jewish literature as well as a Biełarusian translation of the Bible. At the time, literary Biełarusian was more advanced than literary Russian. All of these facts are omitted from tsarist, Soviet, post-Soviet, and some current Russian and Biełarusian historiography. False interpretations of past events continue to have a negative impact on the present and future of Biełaruś. Indeed, the uneasy relationship that the Reč Paspalitaja had with the Muscovite tsars (the latter were relatively weak until the early eighteenth century) is for the most part known only to historians. A core reason for the economic and cultural advantages enjoyed by the gdl was its comparative freedom from the Tatar-Mongol yoke, which had exhausted the Russian lands both socio-politically and economically for over three centuries.22 As noted earlier, Vilnia (Vilnius) became the capital of modern Lithuania only near the middle of the twentieth century. Until the Second World War, the city and its surroundings was densely populated by Biełarusians of different faiths. The Biełarusian Christian heritage can still be found there, but the city’s Jewish heritage is barely recognized in present-day Lithuania, despite the abundance of former Jewish properties, religious institutions, cultural artefacts, and former Jewish districts, which, to this day, continue to form the city centre.23 Jewish economic and cultural presence in the Biełarusian territories (which has lasted over seven centuries,

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compared to two centuries in the Russian lands) has been well documented, though knowledge of this has never been common. Notwithstanding the prosperous social and cultural history of the Jews of Biełaruś, they experienced great losses, especially during Khmelnitsky’s mutiny, the PolishSoviet War (1918–21), and the Holocaust, during which more than 800,000 Biełarusian Jews were murdered. These facts are amply presented in both Biełarusian and Biełarusian Jewish literature. There is a wealth of documents, poems, memoirs, stories, and novels about Biełarusian Jews, especially from the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, yet little scholarly attention has been paid to this subject, even though Biełarusian literature offers a deep well of information about how the region’s Biełarusian, Jewish, and other cultures interacted.24 This literature also influenced subsequent periods of enlightened public consciousness in that region, despite the actions of most Russian and some Polish rulers. After a series of occupations of the Reč Paspalitaja and its three subsequent partitions (mainly by Imperial Russia, but Prussia and Austria benefited as well) in 1772, 1793, and 1795, respectively, there was a Polish-Ukrainian-Biełarusian rebellion in the 1790s, and again in 1831 and 1863. After the final rebellion was crushed, written Biełarusian (as well as written Ukrainian) was banned. Until the 1917 revolution, the country known as the Commonwealth of Poland and the Grand Duchy of Litva became a part of the Russian Empire under a multitude of names, among which were “The North-Western Territories,” Zapadny kraj (Western land), “Western Russia,” “the Lithuanian-Russian State,” “White Russia,” or simply “Russia.” But, within Biełaruś, people continued to identify themselves as Biełarusians, or tutejšyja (locals: Lićviny [Christians] and Litvaki [Jews]), even though foreign and domestic political powers demanded that they stop. These many names for the same place often confused people. Even Marc Chagall, who’s beloved Biełarusian city Viciebsk (Vitebsk) included, along with Biełarusians, Russians, Poles, Tatars, Latvians, Latgalians, Lithuanians, Ukrainians, Jews, and others, would sometimes call his native country “Russia.”25 For Chagall, however, the “Russia” of St Petersburg and Moscow could never supersede his native “Russia of Viciebsk” in historical Biełaruś. While it was vanquishing Biełaruś, Russia simultaneously extended its rule over the non-Slavic territories of the Caucasus, Central Asia, Bessara-

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bia (Moldova), and Finland. Doubtless, it was easier to plant the Russian language among Slavic-speaking peoples, in particular the eastern Slavs (“the little brothers”: Biełarusians and Ukrainians), than among nonSlavic-speaking peoples. But, even after the partitions, nineteenth-century Russian society rarely had direct contact with the newly acquired lands and countries, unless, for example, a Russian officer or bureaucrat was assigned to the former Reč Paspalitaja or was awarded a formerly Biełarusian, Lithuanian, Polish, or Ukrainian estate. Unlike the Jews in Russia proper, the Jews of Biełaruś had closely integrated with their host societies – Biełarusian, Lithuanian, Ukrainian, and Polish. Almost every scholar of Biełarusian studies has noted the deep attachment that Biełarusians, whatever their faith, have to their homeland. It is no coincidence that some pages of The Portrayal of Jews in Biełarusian Literature are similar to the opening section of my previous book, Biełarusian Jewish Writers of the Twentieth Century.26 The major difference between the two is that the latter is about the role of Biełarusian Jewish writers within the discourse of Biełarusian literary art, whereas the former focuses on how Jews are portrayed by Christian Biełarusian writers. Both studies, however, explore the same Biełarusian culture in which, for example, Marc Chagall (a Biełarusian Jew) and Vasil Bykaǔ (a Biełarusian Christian) played similarly significant cultural and transcendent roles,27 both at home and abroad. Throughout his long and productive life, Chagall expressed his eternal bond with his birthplace in visual art, journalism, art criticism, poetry, and prose. In his poetry, Chagall ponders his emotional longing for Biełaruś and identifies the country with his yearning for a return to his childhood: “My motherland is in my soul. You understand? / I come here without an entry visa. / When I am lonely, she sees to it: / She puts me to bed, and wraps me up, as mothers do.”28 Although Vasil Bykaǔ attended the same institution at which Marc Chagall had studied, and where he had taught thirty-nine years earlier – the Art College in Viciebsk – Bykaǔ heard very little about the famous artist until later in his life.29 When he did at last discover Chagall, he fell in love with his countryman’s artistic spirit. After that, nothing could stop him from leading the campaign against anti-Semitic forces in Biełaruś. In contrast, Soviet Biełarusian officials refused to acknowledge that Chagall had been born and raised in Biełaruś. The fact that Chagall and Bykaǔ

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grew up passionately loving the same country is significant, for it underscores the unique history of Biełaruś and mirrors the mutually respectful relationship between Christians and Jews. Indeed, the pogroms of 1881–83 in the Russian, Ukrainian, and Polish territories failed to garner local support in Biełaruś. Even Alexandr Solzhenitsyn, in his rather anti-Jewish Two Hundred Years Together, often notes the Biełarusian people’s antipathy and often outright aversion towards the Nazis’ extermination of Jews.30 Among the occupied territories of the Soviet Union, Biełaruś was the only nation to evince such unified sentiments. This is confirmed by the research of the Russian and Biełarusian journalist and filmmaker Alexander Stupnikov. In an interview about his 2008-09 film Izgoi (Outcasts), which tells the story of the Jewish partisan movement in Eastern Europe, he states: “Biełaruś was the only country among all the other countries of Eastern Europe where Germans were impotent in forcing the locals to participate in pogroms; therefore the Germans started the annihilation (of Biełarusian Jews) themselves with the help of punitive German-sponsored groups from neighboring countries (mainly from Ukraine, Lithuania, and Estonia).”31 Stupnikov states what he also demonstrates in his film: not just Germany but a significant part of the population of every occupied European country took an active part in the Holocaust; they participated in punitive actions, benefited from seized Jewish property, or were simply indifferent to the tragic predicament of their Jewish neighbours. The exception to all of this was Biełaruś. This exempting of Biełaruś from “collective guilt” is founded in many accounts in Biełarusian literature concerning the relations between Christian and Jewish Biełarusians. Certainly, the quality and genres of these literary works vary. Yet, and most important, they reflect the socio-political and economic conditions of the country at the time of writing. For example – and I elaborate on this later – if Biełarusian intellectuals of Christian origin were eager to study Yiddish and Hebrew in the 1990s and during the first few years of the twenty-first century, this interest did not greatly affect the general population, among whom anti-Semitic sentiments had been heard regularly since the 1950s. Back then, the general anti-Semitic attitude in Biełaruś had been provoked first by German, later by Soviet, propaganda and was aggravated by economic difficulties; in some districts the atmosphere became almost as anti-Semitic as that found in any other part of the former Soviet Union. Almost – but not quite. Biełarusian writers,

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as a whole, never dehumanized or belittled Jews. The uniqueness of Biełarusian literature of the near past lies in the fact that even highly Soviet-decorated Biełarusian writers did not succumb to the ruling Communist Party’s anti-Semitic doctrine, which held sway from the 1950s to the 1980s; rather, throughout those trying times, they showed empathy and respect for Jews as well as nostalgia for the Biełarusian Judeo-Christian common past. Also, Biełarusian literature is clearly antagonistic towards a number of Russian authors. Thus, Solzhenitsyn’s discourse suffers greatly from excluding the true history of Biełarusian and other Jews, although a glance in this direction would have connected many loose ends in his own writings as well as in the works of some other Russian authors. Even the reprinted literature of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries suffers from some analogous omissions and oversights. Viktor Kelner, in his otherwise brilliant foreword to Evrei v Rossii (Jews in Russia), a book that comprises three prominent memoirs by Biełarusian Jews, fails to mention their origins.32 The memoirists A. Paperna (1840–1919), A. Kovner (1842–1909), and G. Slozberg (1863–1937), despite apparent personal and social differences, are united in their love for their Biełarusian Jewish heritage, which they distinguish from other personal experiences in diverse parts of the Russian Empire. Notably, Paperna starts his discourse on Jewish Biełarusian life in his native Kapyl with words of praise for the Biełarusian Christian past and its great Biełarusian princes, who represented for him the splendour of the Grand Duchy of Litva. He proudly states that the Kapyl of his lifetime had possessed remnants of its former magnificence. In the seventeenth century, Kapyl was the capital of the Alherds’ (gdl princes’) reigning house. Because of Russian censorship, Paperna did not speak openly about the reasons for his native city’s decline, but he clearly hinted at the climate in the Russian Empire, and his affiliation was certainly aligned with that of historic Biełaruś.33 Later on, Paperna recounts the story of a Jewish rabbinic court commonly used by Christian Biełarusians for business and private legal cases. He explains that Christians preferred a judgment from a local rabbi (from whom they would receive a fair ruling quickly and cheaply) over one from the Russian civil imperial courts, which were notorious for taking bribes and for dragging legal affairs out for decades.34 Due to their strong institutionalized relationship with predominantly lower-class Biełarusian Christians, the Biełarusian Jewish people’s fate

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differed greatly from that of Russian Jews (Jewish settlements were not established in Russia until the late eighteenth century). In fact, after Khmelnitsky’s mutiny and until the eve of the nineteenth century, only those Jewish communities in Biełaruś that were geographically close to the Russian territories were exposed to Russian incursions and consequent massacres. Russia’s annexation of the first two districts of the Reč Paspalitaja (Viciebsk and Mahilioŭ) in 1772 resulted in the introduction of new policies towards Jews. The government of Catherine II used these areas as a pilot project, and much more severe anti-Jewish policies followed upon the final annexation of 1795. The districts of Viciebsk and Mahilioŭ enjoyed more freedoms than did the Kahals (Jewish communities) in other former territories of the Commonwealth of Poland and Litva, which, three years later, became part of Catherine II’s new empire.35 The power of the Kahals, which had been strengthened under the Russian tsarist reign for 122 years, brought additional suffering to the Jewish masses, who were now enslaved by two administrative authorities: the Russian Empire and the local Kahals. With the ascent of each new tsar, the situation for Jews within the Russian Empire worsened (the reign of Alexander II was an exception to this). The reign of Alexander I, for example, was notable for the Vialiž Affair, in which a group of Biełarusian Jews was the victim of trumped-up charges of ritual murder.36

Cultural Affinities and Influences People who called others subhuman were themselves subhuman. Yet to deny a human being his human character is to render ethics impossible. –Timothy Snyder

There are many historic and literary examples of the primacy of humanity in Christian and Jewish Biełarusian ethics. Though it is generally – and wrongly – believed that, despite their productive economic arrangements, Biełarusians and Jews were isolated and estranged culturally and socially until the second half of the nineteenth century, this is a fiction that was concocted by tsarist and Soviet historiography. From the fifteenth century to the early eighteenth, Biełarusian-Jewish intellectual relations were pro-

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ductive, diverse, and rich. For example, The Vilnia Codices 52 and 262, consisting of five biblical scrolls (the Old Testament), was translated into Old Biełarusian in the early sixteenth century. This was one of the first translations from Hebrew into a Slavic language.37 Vital Zajka, in his entry on Biełarusian literature for the yivo encyclopedia, states: “The beginning of Biełarusian literature lay in the translations of the Books of the Hebrew Bible (most frequently Psalms) and other religious texts into the Old Biełarusian language.”38 This scholar also marks the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries as the first apex of Hebrew-Biełarusian intellectual interaction. Zajka notes in the same article that translations were “projects of local Jewish translators who worked directly from Hebrew (and Jewish Aramaic) on behalf of fellow Jews and Judaizers, or were commissioned by Christian community leaders.”39 Litvaks’ Yiddish became a powerful cultural tool of expression at exactly the same time. Though the telling title of Batya Ungar-Sargon’s recent article in the Tablet, “The Mystery of the Origins of Yiddish Will Never Be Solved,” points to a problem of language origin, we know that Yiddish, based on German grammar and the Hebrew alphabet, absorbed local phonetics and vocabulary and found its multifaceted expression in a rich local folklore. Biełarusian literature, too, had its Golden Age, from the fifteenth century to the early eighteenth. Its development went hand in hand with that of Jewish Biełarusian literature written in Hebrew and, later, in Yiddish, concurrently with literature translated into Biełarusian from Hebrew. One of the first publications by the Biełarusian, and later European, sixteenthcentury humanist Frańcišak Skaryna was The Book of Job.40 Symon Budny and his followers invited Jews to Zasłaŭl and Klieck, helped them settle, and supported intellectual interactions between the two peoples. Indeed, Biełarusian literary works reveal amicable relations between Christian and Jewish Biełarusians, and represent the humanity and humility of each character without evincing unwarranted hostility or criticism. This has its roots in interfaith interactions between Christian and Jewish neighbours in the Grand Duchy of Litva. For example, Skaryna’s fascination with the “Book” people was reflected in his interest in the Old/New Synagogue of Prague and its mysticism. In his preface to Proverbs of Salomon the Wise, King of Israel, published in Old Biełarusian (Prague, 1517), he wrote: “And these books are profitable for every man to read, wise and foolish, rich and poor, young and old, but above all for those who would attain a good way of life,

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and acquire wisdom and learning.”41 I am not trying to argue that Skaryna and other sixteenth-century Biełarusians treated contemporary Jews as though they were the people of ancient Israel. However, and once again, the fact that Biełarusian princes and many members of the upper class invited Jews predominantly for their knowledge of the Bible makes the early relations between the people of the gdl unique in terms of human values, interactions, and social and political circumstances. Yet, while Skaryna recognized Hebrew as one of the foremost languages for Christians, he also insisted on the use of local languages and their right and power to serve the people. Among these languages was, of course, his native Biełarusian. Father Nadson, in his examination of Skaryna’s deliberate use of sixteenth-century Biełarusian, informs the reader: “The decision to use the vernacular was made deliberately, as can be seen from the following passage from Skaryna’s preface to the Acts of the Apostles: The prophets were given the spirit to speak only in Hebrew or Chaldean [a form of Hebrew Aramaic].42 To the Apostles on the other hand, and to all those who believe in Christ, the Holy Spirit was given, so that they could proclaim the Divine truth, the word of salvation and the kingdom of God in all languages under the sun.”43 When, in 1569, Old Biełarusian was demoted to the nation’s second language after Polish, Biełarusian literature continued to be linked to Jewish culture through biblical themes, folklore, and the use of national characters. Throughout the eighteenth century and into the mid-nineteenth, Old Biełarusian was used among the szliachta (the minor gentry) and simple people alike. (See Marašeŭski’s Comedy [1787], and Jan Barščeŭski’s collection, Gentlemen Zawalnia or Biełaruś in Fantastic Stories [1844].)44 The economist B.D. Brutskus, summarizing the All Russia Census of 1897, tracked changes in Jewish linguistic culture in the country. He found that Yiddish was the mother tongue for 95 to 97 percent of Jews in the northwestern territories (in the Pale of Settlement’s smallest territorial zones, called uezd, this figure exceeded 99 percent). At the same time, he notes that, “in terms of Russian language literacy, the Jews are leaders amongst the peoples of the Russian empire, they yield first place to Germans, but stand far ahead of Russians (and Biełarusians).”45 He also states that, twenty years before the census of 1897, more than one-third of Jewish males were already fluent and literate in Russian.46 By the mid-nineteenth century, the Jewish bourgeoisie were educating their offspring in European

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languages and cultures, mainly German. The Biełarusian population was generally agrarian, and lower-class children had access to a couple of years of schooling in village schools run by local priests; only the middle and upper classes had access to more education than that. The Biełarusian upper classes educated their children in the Russian, Polish, German, and/ or French linguistic and cultural milieu. By 1904, only 8 percent of peasants were literate.47 Jewish females from the lower classes were barely literate as well. By the end of the nineteenth century, Russian was becoming the primary language of communication in urban Biełaruś, while spoken Biełarusian and Yiddish continued to be used in agrarian areas. In the 1860s, the influence of Russian literature on educated Jewish youth grew rapidly in the northwestern territories, replacing Biełarusian, German, French, and Polish literature. By the early 1900s, 90 percent of all readers in the Babrujsk Russian public library were Jews, and their favourite author was Leo Tolstoy. That such an overwhelming number of readers were Jews points to a linguistic change for many Jewish writers, who had begun to use Russian in their professional and cultural lives. For them, this was a move away from provinciality and the communal sway of the Jewish, Polish, and Biełarusian social milieu. Biełarusian literature lay semi-dormant for almost two centuries due to Polish and Russian domination, but it was reawakened in the second half of the nineteenth century. This development went hand in hand with the flowering of Jewish writing in Yiddish. The example of the Biełarusian national writers Janka Kupała,48 Jakub Kołas,49 and Maksim Bahdanovič (Bogdanovich),50 who participated in the Biełarusian linguistic renaissance of the early twentieth century, is also evident in the founders of Yiddish literary realism, represented by Mendele Mojcher Sfojrym (Š. Abramovič, 1836–1917, born in the Biełarusian township of Kapyl) as well as by two Yiddish writers, Sholem Aleichem (Š. Rabinovič, 1859–1916, born in historic Ukraine) and I. Perac (Perets, 1851–1915, born in historic Poland) and their followers. Biełarusian and Yiddish writers shared some major themes. Kupała, Kołas, Bahdanovič, Biadulia, Mendele, Perac, and Sholem Aleichem romanticized the glorious past of their respective nations while writing about domestic and moral themes. They wrote to awaken their compatriots’ self-respect and love for national community, and their works enjoyed immense popularity in Biełaruś. The most popular genres were

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poetry, short stories, and novellas. These writers exposed the positive characteristics of Biełarusian Christians and Jews – tolerance, compassion, and family values – alongside the negative ones: apathy, submissiveness, and ignorance. Biełarusian and Yiddish literature were very different from Russian and Russian-Jewish literature,51 largely because of clear dissimilarities in the historic, religious, social, political, and cultural perceptions of Jews in the Russian-dominated empire of the late-eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. The oppression of Christian and Jewish Biełarusians perpetrated by Russian and Polish administrations was clearly visible in Biełarusian literary works and in readers’ responses to them. Biełarusian and Yiddish cultural and literary leaders were writing for friends to whom they did not have to prove their identities and attitudes. It is interesting that the Litvaks continued to differentiate themselves in pre- and postrevolutionary times.52 In her memoir My Life as a Radical Jewish Woman, Puah Rakovsky vividly expresses this distinction: “It was painful to move suddenly to another world, in Russian Poland, where even the Jews were foreign to me; in the forty-six years I lived there, I remained a Litvak [a rationalist Lithuanian (Biełarusian) Jew] – I was absolutely unable to assimilate with my Polish brothers and sisters.”53 Classic Polish literature included Jews within its tradition. Boris Gorev writes that “such writers as [Adam] Mickiewicz, and later Bolesław Prus, but especially Eliza Orzeszkowa and Maria Konopnicka, attempted to explore the psyche of the Jew, and to find a spiritual content under the outward shell of tradition.”54 According to Gorev, Polish literature, though sympathetic to Jews, did not show the most salient Jewish traits, which were “religious inspiration and martyrdom.”55 He notes that the three most dramatic events in Jewish history under the Russians – the “abduction” of boys for Russian military training,56 pogroms, and the blood libel (the last two were often interconnected) – went unnoticed by Polish writers.57 In contrast, all three themes have been fully explored in Biełarusian literature, as I show in this study. Great Russian literature does not fully explore or seek to understand the Jewish presence in Russia. Most of the Russian writers of the nineteenth century were noblemen or of middle class origin and so were barely aware of how the lower classes lived. Pushkin, Lermontov, Gogol, Turgenev, and especially Dostoevsky (an ethnic Biełarusian) would sometimes offer an interesting and exotic but always simplified or, in Dostoevsky’s case, ugly

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image of the Jew.58 Moreover, these writers found it almost impossible to overcome their revulsion for urban dwellers who often had physical features dissimilar to those of the locals and whose social position was close to that of the petty bourgeoisie. A similar attitude attends Solzhenitsyn’s work, even though he was writing in a different era and was socially familiar with Russian Jews.59 Contrast this with the situation in Biełaruś, where impoverished and oppressed Biełarusian Christians and Jews possessed a natural compassion for their destitute neighbours. By the early twentieth century, some Jewish writers who wrote in Russian had been fully assimilated – for example, S. Nadson (1862–87) and the Biełarusian-born N. Minsky (Vilenkin, 1855–1937). Others, like L. Levanda (1835–88), G. Bogrov (1825–85), S. Frug (1860–1916), and S. An-sky (1863–1920), whose roots were in historic Biełaruś, gave birth to an apologetic type of Jewish literature. These writers cultivated readers who were often highly prejudiced and tried to explain to them alien concepts such as the Jewish Kahals and to describe the horrifying poverty faced by so many Jews. Between the 1870s and 1917, these Jewish Russian writers tried to translate their “Otherness” for the Russian reader. Then, on their heels, a new generation of Biełarusian writers born in the 1880s and 1890s began producing a great number of works in which they made no attempt (because they didn’t have to) to explain themselves or their themes since they were writing for Jewish or Biełarusian readers. This meant that the members of the next generation of Jews and Biełarusians, those born between 1910 and 1930, were brought up on a literature that had been stripped of any anti-Semitism – indeed, of any notion that Jews were a separate and exotic race. The first short story that V. Bykaŭ read in Biełarusian was “Goy” (The Gentile) by the Biełarusian writer M. Lyńkoŭ (1899–1975). Bykaŭ’s peasant father, who cherished Biełarusian literature and respected his Jewish Biełarusian neighbours, introduced him to Lyńkoŭ’s simple and compassionate stories. Bykaŭ, like most of his compatriots, had attended a school with many Jewish students, and most of his battlefield stories include Jewish characters. In his works and in those of other Biełarusian writers of his generation, Jews and Biełarusians are treated as equal beings with individual and generally tragic fates. Christian and Biełarusian Jewish writers did not drastically change their tack after the Bolshevik Revolution (also known as the October Revolution) of 1917. However, after the Soviet Union was founded, the

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Communists promptly reintroduced the tsarist policy of Russification, even though the Biełarusian Constitution honoured Yiddish as one of the republic’s state languages. Apparently, a significant portion of the literate Jewish population in Biełaruś was prepared for this. A good example may be found in Boris Gorev and his siblings. B. Gorev was the pen name of Boris Goldman (1874–1937; his pseudonym literally means “son of grief, sorrow, woe”). Gorev was born in Vilnia to a melamed (teacher) and a Jewish poet father. Gorev became a well-known Russian Marxist historian, educator, editor, and journalist as well as an active figure in the revolution. He was the oldest of five children (three brothers and two sisters), each of whom played a significant role in the Russian Empire’s political life. His brother, Mark Liber (Michael Goldman), was an organizer of bund (a Jewish-Marxist labour party founded in 1897). bund allied itself with the Russian Social Democratic Labour Party from 1898 to 1903, and from 1906 to 1917. Boris’s other brother, Leon (Akim), was Lenin’s closest associate. One of Boris’s sisters, Julia, married Felix Dzerzhinsky, the founder of the Cheka (1917–22.) The Cheka was Lenin’s legendary police force, and it was first replaced by the ogpu (Ob”edinёnnoe gosudarstvennoe politicheskoe upravlenie [Joint State Political Directorate]) and, later, by the nkvd (Narodnyī Komissariat Vnutrennikh Del [People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs]). These were the law enforcement agencies that suppressed any dissent within the country. Their function was similar but their names changed with time: Cheka (1917–18), ogpu (1922–23), nkvd (1934), and kgb (1954). These organizations were also used as instruments in power struggles within the ruling elite as well as to propagandize Soviet values abroad. Julia died of consumption in 1903. The Goldman children’s fate followed that of many Jewish intellectuals who renounced their Jewish roots. Political activists like Gorev and his siblings chose the Soviet Empire as the vehicle for carrying out their mission, which was to liberate humankind from the injustices inflicted by the rich. Thus, they turned to the Russian language to express themselves. Most of them became victims of Stalin’s purges, the first stage of which peaked in 1937, when the three Goldman brothers were executed by the Soviets. To list all of those who shared this fate would be impossible, but it is a fact that many, like the Goldmans, were born in historic Biełaruś.

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The list of Biełarusian-born Jewish intellectuals who embraced Russian culture includes Leŭ Rashon (Russian: Lev Razgon; 1908–99), one of the most talented literary witnesses to the gulag. Born and raised in the Biełarusian shtetl of Horki, he completely forgot his mother tongue – Yiddish – and functioned in Russian for the rest of his life. Even so, he loved his birthplace, and that love helped him stay cheerful despite all the hardships of the gulag. He referred to his town as Russian, in obeisance to the Soviet Empire’s linguistic policies. That aside, he described it with love, noting the tolerant, even brotherly relations between Christian and Jewish Biełarusians: “I don’t remember anyone calling me ‘žyd’ with hurtful intention, I simply do not remember.60 The town of my childhood was a town of equality. Of course I cannot judge the general situation in the town. But it seems to me that relationships among the children were undoubtedly a reflection of what took place among adults.”61 A little earlier in the same interview, Razgon described religious celebrations in Horki (which, with a population of about nine thousand, had five Orthodox churches, one Catholic church, and six synagogues). He remembered how his Christian friends celebrated Chanukkah and Purim, which, of course, involved food and games, and how much, and for the same reason, he himself loved and anticipated Christmas.62 Furthermore, he noted: “No, I was never teased as a Jew. This word was not a swear word. To say ‘he is a Jew’ was all the same as to say: ‘he is a peasant.’ Nothing was insulting in it: it was just a simple definition of a fact. ‘He is stupid’ sounded much worse.”63

Muddy Twenties, Deadly Thirties, Murderous Forties, Murky Fifties, Foggy Sixties, Gloomy Seventies, Exodus, and Afterlife Lenin saw the Jews as a persecuted nation that, once freed of all antiJewish restrictions, would integrate into non-Jewish society. Stalin’s attitude towards Jews, although influenced by communist ideology, also contained certain personal aspects. –Yitzhak Arad Stalinist anti-Semitism haunted Eastern Europe long after the death of Stalin. It was rarely a major tool of governance, but it was always

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available in moments of political stress. Anti-Semitism allowed the leaders to revise the history of wartime suffering (recalled as the suffering only of Slavs) and also the history of Stalinism itself (which was portrayed as the deformed, Jewish version of communism). –Timothy Snyder

Biełaruś was entangled in wars between Russia, Germany, and (later) Poland for almost eight years (1914–21). After the Bolshevik Revolution of 1917, the war against the Poles lasted “officially” until 1921, though many gangs continued to “visit” Biełarusian lands well into the following year. Poland, the victor, took over a large chunk of Biełarusian territory in 1921. As a result, between 1921 and 1939, many Christian and Biełarusian Jewish families found themselves divided by a national border. The Russian forces (later the Red Army) were strongly influenced by the Bolsheviks but did not have many sympathizers among the local Biełarusians by the end of the First World War: among the twenty-eight thousand Bolshevik soldiers stationed on Biełarusian territories, there were only a few ethnic Biełarusians of any faith. However, Biełarusian Jews were much more politically involved than were Christian and Muslim Biełarusians, and some of them were active in the various socialist groups and parties: the Mensheviks, the bund, Jewish labour parties, and the Socialist Revolutionaries. Before the October Revolution of 1917, the Bolsheviks had the smallest number of Jewish members (fewer than one thousand in the entire empire). The February Revolution of 1917 had brought democratic freedoms to all minorities in the Russian Empire. The Bolshevik Revolution of October of the same year confirmed the civil rights promised by the provisional government eight months earlier, including those that ended discrimination against Jews. During and after the First World War – and after the Russian Civil and Polish wars that followed it – many Jews turned to the Bolsheviks as a reaction to the anti-Semitism that prevailed in the Polish and White Russian armies. This led to much greater Jewish participation in the Soviet government by the mid-1920s. That participation peaked in the early 1930s. The disproportionate involvement of Jews in medicine, education, scholarly work, industry, and administration, as well as in the police and the military, reflected Jewish sovietization in Biełaruś and elsewhere in the Soviet Union.64 This led to a systemic anti-Semitism in the Union of Soviet

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Socialist Republics (ussr), which had been suppressed by the Soviets before the Second World War; yet this barely touched the two peoples of Biełaruś until the late 1940s and early 1950s. From the very start of their watch, the Bolsheviks were on particular alert for any independent or cosmopolitan outlook. Christian Biełarusians, whose national rebellion of 1920 (the Słucak uprising) had been cruelly suppressed, were being scrutinized even during Lenin’s rule.65 Soon after the Bolsheviks came to power in Biełaruś, it became dangerous to be a nationalist or a cosmopolitan, and this danger confronted Biełarusians of all origins and faiths. In the Biełaruskaja Narodnaja Respublika (bnr) (trans. Biełarusian People’s Republic), which opposed the Bolsheviks, Jews were well represented in the government.66 Indeed, both the bssr and the bnr had competed for Jewish support in the 1920s. From his exile in Koŭna (present-day Kaunas), the bnr’s leader, Vacłau Łastoŭski, set out to attract Zionist support. Siarhiej Šupa, in “Habrei ŭ bnr” (Jews in the bnr), thoroughly documents Łastoŭski’s successes and failures in this regard.67 The alliance between the bnr and the Zionists was based on their mutual concern about the Jewish pogroms being carried out by the Polish and White Russian armies as well as by foreign gangs conducting raids on Biełarusian territory. One of the Łastoŭski government’s memoranda of 1921 called for the following actions, which were based on autonomy for Biełarusian Jews in the bnr: 1 Both ethnic groups, Biełarusian Christian and Jewish, unite in order to work towards a democratic republic, where Jews play an important political role. 2 Jews have equal political and religious rights within the republic’s borders. 3 Government bodies include Jewish officeholders in accordance with the proportion of the Jewish population in the country. 4 In civil cases Jews have a right to their own juridical court system. 5 Land is divided in accordance with the proportion of the country’s Jewish population. 6 Both languages – Biełarusian and Yiddish – enjoy equal rights. All the state documentation, including paper currency and stamps, are printed in the following state languages: Biełarusian, Yiddish, Polish, and Russian.

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7 Everything is based on mutual trust, and arguments shall be avoided.68 Łastoŭski worked closely with Biełarusian and Lithuanian Jews in the hope that Litvaki (as Biełarusian and Lithuanian Jews had called themselves when they were one extended community in the gdl) would unite once again with Christian Biełarusians. In this matter, the bnr’s first prime minister received strong support from the Lithuanian vice-minister of foreign affairs, Symon Razenbaŭm, himself a Pinsk-born Biełarusian Jew who for many years had worked in Miensk. Through Razenbaŭm’s connections, Łastoŭski found Samuil Žytkoŭski, a Zionist, who was appointed the bnr’s minister of national minorities in 1921. On the same date, the above-quoted memorandum became law. Žytkoŭski commented: “The current act was unprecedented in the two-thousand-year history of the Jewish Diaspora.”69 This type of cooperation continued into the beginning of the “deadly thirties.” One Christian Biełarusian political activist, Liavon Savionak, arrested by the Soviets in 1933, remembered all the help he received from Biełarusian Zionists during his exile. According to Liavon Jurevič, who edited a book authored by Liavon Savionak (the pen name is Liavon Kryvičanin, a Biełarusian national and cultural figure), Savionak was warmly received by “Zionists from Miensk,” who, by the end of the 1920s, were already plentiful in all prisons, camps, and places of exile. Zionist prisoners had grown considerably in number by the early 1930s, long before the mass repressions of 1937: “Savionak spent his first five years of exile in Western Siberia, and later was moved to the Altaj district. He worked as a labourer in construction, where he became very close with Zionists from Miensk. They were very well disposed towards the Biełarusian ‘nationalist’ and offered him their help and connections. L. Savionak began gathering Biełarusians in a group but an informer denounced them, and Zionists were sent to various distant camps, and he himself got into the penalty books.”70 The western part of Biełaruś was now part of Poland, and local Jews were under the influence of secular Jewish pro-revolutionary labour organizations led by Jewish workers and the intelligentsia. Even so, it maintained its traditional education system until the Second World War. After the early 1930s, the kheyder (primary schools) and yeshivot (rabbinical

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seminaries) remained important components of Biełarusian Jewish cultural identity only in Poland. In Soviet Biełaruś, the traditional names for primary schools – kheyder, cheider, khadarim – were preserved in the Jewish lexicon only; these schools were formally renamed “Jewish state schools.” In the early 1930s, the pedagogical system in these schools became as militantly secular as what was found in every other public sphere. As a consequence, less than eighty years after the 1897 census, the most important factor in Jewish culture in Soviet Biełaruś – the influence of a Jewish education – had been lost. This dramatic loss was already apparent in eastern Biełaruś by the end of the 1920s; it existed only in the former western Biełaruś, which was now in Poland. Then, a few months later, the situation was solidified by the German invasion of Poland on 1 September 1939 and the following invasion of the ussr on 22 June 1941. The occupation of the bssr turned into the worst of nightmares – the Biełarusian Jewish Holocaust. This calamity, so terrible in itself, was only part of the tragedy that Biełaruś endured. Timothy Snyder, in his review article “Sleepwalking to War,” clearly states what the Second World War did to Biełaruś: “Between 1941 and 1945, during the German and Soviet war, half the population of Soviet Biełaruś was either killed or deported. Biełaruś was more lethally touched by the war than any other place on earth.”71 The high point of political and cultural links between Jewish and Christian Biełarusians came at the end of the nineteenth century and the beginning of the twentieth. In the early stages of the Bolshevik Revolution, the bund and other Jewish labour parties had a chaotic relationship with one another and with various Biełarusian political organizations and coalitions. There was (as mentioned earlier) strong Jewish support for the first bnr government, the Rada. The railway workers (many of them Jews) protected the Rada, which was dispersed by the Bolsheviks in 1917, and secured its first assembly in 1918. Yet the consequences of the Bolshevik victory were similar for both Christians and Jews. The political terror carried out under Stalin from the 1920s to the early 1950s – during which widespread anti-cosmopolitan campaigns were directed against Jews and the brutal collectivization of the 1930s was directed against Biełarusian peasants – involved intellectuals of both ethnicities and faiths. Soviet political forces sullied the names of Biełarusian National Democrats and Jewish nationalists with the pejorative Soviet neologism nacdem (national

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democrat: nationalist, cosmopolitan). This label included Zionists. Yet, until the mid-1930s, there were some inconsistencies within the Soviet Biełarusian government with regard to Jewish culture. For the well-known Yiddish writer Israel Joshua Singer, who visited Miensk in 1928, that city was heaven: “Everyone agrees that Miensk is a happy, lively city. Still evident is the charm of Lithuanian [Biełarusian] Jewish cities near the border, where ideas and smuggling, fearfulness, lawlessness, religiosity and heresy, modesty and dissoluteness, antiquity and modernity are compressed together in the grubby alleys and houses, and fill the city with life, dynamism, and hope. Here one is still a little provincial, a tad oldfashioned and therefore more believing.”72 Singer’s description has overtones that remind one of a port city like Isaac Babel’s Odessa. And indeed, Soviet Miensk became for a time the de facto capital of Yiddishland, wresting that traditional role from Vilnia. This phenomenon, the consequences of which I discuss during the course of this study, gave rise to a good number of Jewish secular publications and cultural institutions, including Jewish theatres that flourished in Miensk, Viciebsk (Vitebsk), and other Biełarusian cities in the 1920s and early 1930s. A literary journal, Štern (Star), and newspapers with literary content, Oktober (October), Junger Arbeter (Young worker), and Junger Leniniec (Young Leninist), were popular among Biełarusian Jews. These institutions and publications were thoroughly Soviet in orientation. Teachers were educated in the state colleges and pedagogical institutes, where departments of Jewish studies taught in Yiddish, Biełarusian, Polish, and Russian and were active until the purges that started in the mid-1930s. In addition to that, at the beginning of Bolshevik rule, the Yiddish, Polish, and Biełarusian languages and cultures were used as propaganda tools to attract Jewish, Polish, and Biełarusian workers and peasants from both sides of historic Biełaruś: eastern (Soviet) and western (Polish). But by the late 1930s, the Soviets, whose internal and external powers were waxing, had stopped heeding the sentiments of their people within the country and beyond the Polish border. As a result of the abandonment of Jewish primary schools after the Second World War and the many ruthless anti-national, anti-Semitic, and anti-cosmopolitan campaigns, Russian linguistic assimilation was almost complete among Biełarusian Jewish youth by the 1960s. Yiddish and Polish

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lost their status as state languages in 1938, and Biełarusian was demoted to a secondary state language (after Russian) for native Biełarusians of all faiths and ethnicities. These actions led to the near complete Russification of the Biełarusian majority. The 1920s was a time of political, cultural, and economic turmoil in the country, yet, when Biełarusian academic life took root, it was also a good time for Christians and Jews. The Institute of Biełarusian Culture, founded in the early 1920s, brought together scholars of many different ethnicities and political outlooks.73 This atmosphere changed drastically in 1929, after the institute was renamed the Biełarusian Academy of Sciences (coinciding with Stalin’s policy of “strengthening the class struggle”). The new institution housed about one hundred academics; eight years later, it housed 580; and by 1941, seven hundred. This increase did not necessarily reflect Soviet realities, given that Stalin’s purges reached their height in 1937. Many of the names of those who suffered and perished have yet to be unearthed due to the inaccessibility of the Biełarusian Komitet Gosudarstvennoī Bezopasnosti (kgb; trans. Committee for State Security) archives. Apparently, Biełaruś is the only country that retains this Soviet institution, which has not even changed its name since the collapse of the Soviet Empire. Some of those who died during the purges of the 1930s, and whose names are now restored, were of the following ethnicities and faiths: Christian Biełarusians (ninety-six), Jewish Biełarusians (nineteen), Russian Biełarusians (nine), Lithuanian Biełarusians (seven), and thirteen others. After the Second World War, the Nazi invasion and Stalin’s subsequent anti-Jewish campaigns reduced the number of Biełarusian Jewish scholars to zero. A similar destiny awaited many writers and other liberal professionals, both Christian and Jewish. Indeed, the second peak of repression in Biełaruś, in the late 1940s and early 1950s, once again shows that Christians and Jews were balanced in terms of their suffering. The situation was in constant flux, reflecting the general chaos in the Soviet Union. I emphasize again the Communist Party’s iron grip on all Soviet national cultures. However, even allowing that no group had a monopoly on this type of misfortune, it must be said that Biełarusian Christians and Jews suffered first and most, as I show in the course of this study. The initial high point of the trials was in the 1920s. These ordeals mainly targeted Biełarusian Christians and Jews (so-called Zionists); the

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bund and other labour parties were spared at this time due to their connections with the working class. Elissa Bemporad, in chapter 3 of Becoming Soviet Jews, explores and analyzes the “entangled loyalties [of the bund and Communist parties] in Miensk.”74 She also notes that, from the start, the Bolsheviks kept a careful record of all “converted” Bundists. Her historically sound conclusions are as follows: But a Soviet-Jewish synthesis based on the Bundist tradition could not be tolerated for long, and the option of maintaining a connection between Sovietness and Bundism, as an expression of Jewishness, progressively disappeared. In 1930, with the reorganization of the All-Union Central Committee of the Party, the Evsektsiia [Jewish section] was dissolved. This marked the refusal of the party leadership to tolerate even the mildest form of separatism and autonomy, in all its manifestations, including the Jewish section, the Polish section, and the Women’s section. Aspects of Bundism did live on even after the liquidation of Evsektsiia into the 1930s. Ultimately, however, the Bundist tradition could not fit into the Soviet universal paradigm, and the allegiance to the Bundist past had to retract more and more from the public sphere. The creeping shadow of the Bundist heritage, which probably never completely left the Jewish political and cultural leadership of Miensk, was crushed in the Great Terror together with its former affiliates and icons.75 In the traumatic years from June 1941 to May 1945, during which Stalin and Hitler fought for power over entire populations, Jewish losses changed Biełarusian demography forever. After war’s end, once the Soviet Union regained control over its empire, Stalinist prosecutions of Jews continued; indeed, they accelerated between 1946 and 1953.76 Jewish Biełarusian culture was taught a Soviet “lesson” rather early, with the ruthless murder of Sołomon (Sałamon) Michoels in January 1948 in Miensk The fact that this famous Russian and Yiddish artist and actor who directed the Moscow Jewish Theatre, a man of Biełarusian Jewish ancestry and a well-known public figure, was executed by the newly formed kgb in Biełaruś is not merely symbolic, it is also self-explanatory:77 this event destroyed any hope of a cultural revival for Biełarusian Jewish in-

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tellectuals. Michoels’ death and the tragedy of the anti-cosmopolitan campaign that followed it culminated in the Doctors’ Plot of 1952–53.78 Any serious involvement with Yiddish culture became not simply utopian but dangerous. Biełarusian Jewish unity and identity lay dormant until the Six Day War, which the Soviet Union viewed as “Israeli aggression.” This event brought significant changes to the psyche of Jewish Biełarusians.79 People started to gather during Holocaust anniversaries at Miensk’s “Jama” (the Pit), where more than 100,000 Jews were exterminated by the Nazis. In the words of Leanid Zubaraǔ: “First only a few individuals came, later tens, and hundreds of people were coming. Finally, tens of thousands of people were gathering there … In the beginning of the 1970s the colonels Aǔsiščer and Davidovič, and Lieutenant-Colonel Alšanski delivered speeches there.”80 These gatherings were heartily supported by many nonJewish Biełarusians. The main language of communication for most of the crowd was Russian. Literary Yiddish existed mainly in the Biełarusian Jewish diaspora and in the communities and families that had Biełarusian Jewish elders.

Selected Scholarly Attention to Biełarus´ Anti-Semitism is the international language of fascism. –Julian Tuwim

After long neglect, Biełarusian culture is finally achieving the recognition it deserves among scholars of history, the social sciences, and the arts. Biełarusian literary criticism has recently been enriched by Arnold McMillin’s monograph, Writing in a Cold Climate: Belarusian Literature from the 1970s to the Present Day.81 McMillin’s magnum opus includes discussion of Biełarusian writings about Biełarusian Jews during the period indicated, but his work does not focus on Biełarusian Jews. Then again, seven of his seminal books and many of his articles are dedicated to the writers of that country. They are all brilliantly written and highly informative. The last two decades have seen a sharp increase in the number and quality of books and articles produced about Biełaruś on both sides of the

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ocean. Although this scholarship is emerging mainly from historians, solid research is appearing in other disciplines as well. Much of the current research revolves around critiques of perestroika in 1986 and the Chernobyl catastrophe of April 1986, which left the Biełarusian territories devastated by radiation fallout. Western historians have been especially prolific: their projects include David Marples’s seminal book, Biełaruś: A Denationalized Nation (1999) and Timothy Snyder’s The Reconstruction of Nations: Poland, Ukraine, Lithuania, Biełaruś, 1569–1999 (2003).82 Many other scholars are producing admirable work in various disciplines. Aleksandra Shatskikh, a Moscow-based art critic, has completed an excellent study, Vitebsk: The Life of Art,83 which describes the remarkable influence of Biełarusian Jewish artists and philosophers in Europe and North America before, between, and beyond the two world wars. Elissa Bemporad’s above-mentioned Becoming Soviet Jews is a study of interwar Miensk.84 Bemporad defines in detail how this city was transformed into the Soviet Biełarusian capital, thus distinguishing it from other Biełarusian towns and shtetls. At the same time, she argues that Miensk provides a good illustration of the sovietization of many Biełarusian provincial towns and settlements. She also sheds light on a complex aspect of modern Jewish history during the formation of the new Soviet Jew: Notwithstanding the variety of settings, views, and options, the ways in which all members of the Jewish group experienced their path of sovietization in Miensk was shaped by the character of the city itself. Miensk was a historic Jewish center long before the establishment of the Soviet Union. It was located in the heart of the Pale of Settlement, densely populated by Jews, the area where the majority of Soviet Jews lived until the eve of WWII. The setting of Miensk, a historic Jewish city since the sixteenth century that was transformed into the capital of a Soviet Republic (the Belorussian Soviet Socialist Republic, or bssr) by the Bolshevik Revolution, influenced the complicated process of give and take between Jewish particularity and Soviet universal ideas that characterizes the process of becoming Soviet Jews.85 Bemporad’s work follows in the footsteps of a good number of excellent micro-historical examinations of Biełarusian Jewry. An important

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work is Arkadii Zeltser’s Evrei v sovetskoi provintsii: Vitebsk i mestechki, 1917–1941 (Jews of the Soviet province: Vitebsk and shtetls, 1917– 1941).86 Zeltser’s splendid analysis of Jewish public, religious, and socioeconomic life in and around Viciebsk (Vitebsk) has been followed by Leonid Smilovitsky’s thoughtful study, Jews in Turov,87 which offers a history of Turaŭ from the 1880s to the 1960s, touching on tsarist and Soviet policies in that particular district. Rebecca Kobrin’s Jewish Białystok and Its Diaspora takes the reader to Białystok and its environs,88 which were once part of Biełaruś. Ina Sorkina’s Miastečki Biełarusi ŭ kancy 18peršaj pałovie 19-st (Biełarusian shtetls at the end of the eighteenth and the first part of the nineteenth centuries), written in Biełarusian,89 is a real gem in terms of the history and ethnography of various Biełarusian shtetls. Sorkina shows how Biełarusians of many ethnicities were able to live together in peace and respect. The history of Biełarusian Yiddishland has recently been crowned by Andrei Zamoisky’s Transformatsiia mestechek Sovetskoi Belorussii, 1918–1939 (Transformation of shtetls in Soviet Belorussia, 1918–1939) and Azriel Shochet’s The Jews of Pinsk, 1881– 1941.90 Shochet’s volume is actually a superb continuation of Mordechai Nadav’s magnum opus, the first volume of The Jews of Pinsk, 1506 to 1880.91 Also recent is Albert Kaganovitch’s The Long Life and Swift Death of Jewish Rechitsa.92 The only drawback to these superb volumes is the authors’ choice of Russian over Biełarusian language and transliterations. This caveat aside, all of the scholarly works listed above provide solid material for a comparative historical investigation that would include all aspects of Biełarusian-Jewish geopolitics and social life. Most of today’s micro-historians present Christian Biełarusians as Judeophiles. That said, these analyses, based on thorough research, do not idealize the Jewish situation in Biełaruś during and after sovietization. Even those scholars who are nostalgic for a shared multi-ethnic past take a much more realistic and reliable tack when examining the various conflicts that arose in some shtetls between 1919 and 1939. Their research reveals that conflicts were much less severe in Biełaruś than in the Baltic States, Moldova, Russia, Ukraine, or Poland. However, at the same time, these authors do not avoid the truth, clearly discussing the causes and consequences of “smaller forms” of anti-Semitism in Biełaruś. Micro-historians’ meticulous research into many shtetls has yielded a great opportunity for macro-historians to examine the true history of Biełaruś. On the whole, micro-historians have

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not denied that, after the Second World War, anti-Semitism – grounded in German and Soviet propaganda, economic deprivation, and the individual greed of locals – led to a number of ugly incidents in Biełaruś. It is noteworthy that Biełarusian writers almost never describe such events in their artistic works. One reason for this could be that such individual cases were more the exception than the rule – an assumption that statistics confirm. Western scholars and cultural figures have shown great interest in the Jewish experience of the Holocaust in Biełaruś. Defiance: The Bielski Partisans, a meticulously researched book by historian and sociologist Nechama Tec, was made into a movie titled Defiance (Edward Zwick, 2008).93 Tec examined a number of reliable documentary sources, scholarly works, and contemporary memoirs relating to Biełaruś. Timothy Snyder, in his article “Holocaust: The Ignored Reality,” describes a number of criminal actions that the Nazis and the Soviets carried out in Biełaruś.94 These included the intentional imposition of famine on civilians of all faiths, cruelty to minorities and prisoners of war, the extermination of social groups (ranging from peasants to intellectuals), and anti-Semitism (especially under the Nazis, whose particular target was Jews). Snyder points out that the Holocaust was merely an opening gambit for Hitler, who intended to exterminate the eastern Slavs as well as the Jews, and that, during the collectivization that preceded Nazi rule, Stalin’s regime had already exterminated millions through starvation and bullets, with Biełarusians, Kazakhs, and Ukrainians being his particular victims. Snyder also directs his readers to countries where less well-known atrocities took place. He contends that the country that suffered the most throughout all of this was Biełaruś: “By starving Soviet prisoners of war, shooting and gassing Jews, and shooting civilians in anti-partisan actions, German forces made Biełaruś the deadliest place in the world between 1941 and 1944. Half of the population of Soviet Biełaruś was either killed or forcibly displaced during World War II: nothing of the kind can be said of any other European country.”95 In Bloodlands (2010), Snyder puts Biełaruś back on the European map. In a stand-alone chapter of that book he confirms the terrible events that took place there: “Biełaruś was the center of Soviet–Nazi confrontation, and no country endured more hardship under German occupation. Proportionate wartime losses were greater than in Ukraine. Biełaruś, even more than Poland, suffered social decapitation:

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first the Soviet nkvd (ogpu) killed the intelligentsia as spies in 1937– 1938, then Soviet partisans killed the schoolteachers as German collaborators in 1942–1943. The capital Minsk was all but depopulated by the German bombing, the flight of refugees and the hungry, and the Holocaust; and then rebuilt after the war as an eminently Soviet metropolis.”96 Biełarusian Holocaust research is brilliantly enhanced by Waitman Wade Beorn’s book, Marching into Darkness: The Wehrmacht and the Holocaust in Belarus (2014).97 It offers a detailed, thoughtful, and reliable set of case studies that focus on the German army’s active participation in killing Biełarusian Jews during 1941–42. The study proves that the common belief about the Wehrmacht’s “innocence” with regard to killing Jews and the civil population of different Biełarusian ethnicities is a myth. In fact, each case presented in Marching into Darkness vividly demonstrates the Wehrmacht soldiers’ willingness to initiate and carry out such killings. Leonid Smilovitsky’s Holocaust in Belorussia, 1941–1944 (2000), written in Russian, adds valuable details to the history of the Holocaust in Biełaruś.98 And Smilovitsky’s recent volume, also in Russian, Censorship in Postwar Belorussia, 1944–1956 (2015), sheds light on how censorship has influenced language politics in Biełaruś.99 The Biełarusian Jewish acceptance of the Russian language continued to strengthen after the war. In the 1970s, the Biełarusian census generated the following figures relating to Biełarusian Jews: for 17.8 percent, the mother tongue was still Yiddish; for more than 80 percent, Russian; for less than 2 percent, Biełarusian. Biełaruś had a population of over 14 million in 1913. At the beginning of the twentieth century, over 14 percent of Biełarusians were Jews; by the Second World War, 10 percent. The 1979 census found more than 7 million people living in the country: 79.4 percent of them were Christian Biełarusians and only 1.8 percent Jewish Biełarusians. In other words, in less than a century the Biełarusian Jewish population had fallen by twelve-thirteenths. I maintain that the Biełarusian population as a whole had been halved right after the war and that, even before the war, brutal collectivization and Soviet prisons and camps had taken a great many lives. The question as to why anti-Semitism reared its head in postwar Biełaruś is complex and falls outside the scope of this book. However, an unexpected parallel comes to mind: the Dominican Republic offered European Jews shelter during the war; after the war most

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of them moved to the United States, and some returned to Europe. In the Dominican Republic, as in Biełaruś, the rise in anti-Semitism was connected to the shrinking of the Jewish population. The same phenomenon was observed in Poland after thousands of Poles of Jewish ancestry were exiled in 1968, and it can also be linked to reverse discrimination and a negative type of nostalgia. After the 1950s, relations between people with Christian and Jewish ancestry visibly soured: mistrust and misunderstandings were mutual. In fact, during these years, which climaxed in the late 1970s and early 1980s, one could hear hateful remarks in public and even see Nazi symbols drawn on pavements and on the walls of derelict dwellings. True, compared to neighbouring countries, there were fewer visible signs of anti-Semitism in Biełaruś. And, despite those signs, personal friendships and professional alliances between the two ethnicities continued to grow, as did the number of interfaith marriages. Also, Biełarusian writers continued to commemorate the Holocaust, as well as Biełarusian and Jewish resistance to it, despite the chilly socio-political climate that preceded perestroika. A good example of this is found in Janka Bryl’s memoirs, which I discuss later. In one of his short documentary stories written in 1984, he comments: “Sabibor [Sobibor]. Until May of 1942 it was just an ordinary village on the Polish bank of the Bug River (seventy-four kilometres from Biełaruś). After 1942 it became a camp of death and destruction for Jewish people. They were war captives or were simply taken from their peaceful nests, brought from nearby and faraway places. They were from Austria, Belgium, Czechoslovakia, France, Holland, Germany itself, and from the Soviet Union. But, first and foremost, they were from Poland.”100 Bryl depicts the 1943 rebellion of Jews in this camp, weaving his narrative into the Biełarusian Jewish Holocaust. During this revolt, which was led by Soviet Jewish military prisoners, twenty guards and three hundred Jews were killed, but six hundred were able to escape and to experience freedom, if only for a short while. Only fifty-three prisoners survived and saw Victory Day. Nevertheless, Bryl’s story defies the common perception that Jews met their deaths meekly, like cattle. Biełarusian Jews were early émigrés, bravely leaving their country en masse before Jews from other regions of the former Soviet Empire decamped. If the emigration of the 1970s and 1980s was generally political and social, the final exodus, in the 1990s, was driven mainly by the Cher-

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nobyl catastrophe, failures of perestroika in Biełaruś, and economic hardship. Despite the numerical decline of Jews, Biełarusians of both Christian and Jewish origin have resisted burying their common past. This is visible in their social behaviour as well as in literature and the arts.101 Such conclusions, however, vary between the academic literatures of different periods, so it is important to consider scholarly omissions of the historical Jewish presence in Biełaruś. Aleksei Bratochkin elaborates on this in his article “Vsegda drugie ili kak naiti ‘mesto’ dlia evreev v belorusskoi istorii” (They are always the “Others,” or, how to locate a “place” for the Jews in Biełarusian history).102 The third paragraph of his article (written in Russian) claims that “Biełarusian Jewish history as a whole, though it is noted and even commemorated in passing, is still perceived as not a rightful part of Biełarusian history; it is more like an ‘abstract’ history of the ‘Other’ who you might recall from time to time but, preferably, not too often.”103 Bratochkin bases his overview on a large number of recent Biełarusian academic studies. According to him, those studies often ignore the history of Biełarusian Jews.104 He shows that Biełarusian history has been rewritten a number of times since the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991. At first, Biełarusian historians tended to present Biełarusians as a national entity with no ties – genetic, cultural or otherwise – to the people of the Soviet and Russian empires. The next approach to the past – an approach that did not last long – suggests that Biełarusians belong to “eternity” (i.e., to the origins of humanity): some works show Biełarusians to be a nation at a time when nations and statehoods did not yet exist. According to Bratochkin, twenty years later, the concept of “eternity” was replaced by an understanding of the modern Biełarusian nation as one that emerged only in the late nineteenth century, without much past history. Bratochkin builds his case, illustrating it with a short animated film, Budźma biełarusami: Historyja Biełarusi za piać chvilin (Let’s be Biełarusians: Biełarusian history in five minutes). He notes that this captivating account of Biełarusian history, with accompanying texts in Biełarusian, Russian, and English, completely ignores women and all Biełarusian minority groups. Bratochkin notes that Biełarusian historians have provided only marginal information about Jewish communities in their works and that only a few of them include the Holocaust. He observes that this attitude is also evident in the six-volume History of Biełaruś.105 The author laments that, even in that academic project, which comprises

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more than four thousand pages, barely fifteen pages are devoted to the Biełarusian Jews, even though they were the country’s largest minority for seven centuries. Having noted earlier in his article that this oversight can be directly correlated with the political, social, and cultural situation in Biełaruś, he tells us that this situation worsened after 1994, the year Aliaksandr Lukašenka came to power, and that it continues to this day. But he does not elaborate on the fact that twenty-first-century Biełaruś has a very small Jewish population. According to yivo’s table, there were 910,900 Jews in Biełaruś in 1897 – 14.2 percent of the population.106 On the eve of the twenty-first century, in 1999, there were only 27,810 – 0.3 percent (down from 1979’s 1.8 percent). So present-day statistics do not inspire much investigation. Many young Biełarusians who do not know about their past, and who did not experience the sufferings of their forebears, are indifferent to or dismissive of Jews – when they are not openly anti-Semitic. Such was the angry response of some of Bratochkin’s readers: “I have better things to do than think about how to maximize comfort for Jews in ‘post-national’ Biełaruś.”107 The tendency to exclude Jews from Biełarusian history continues in today’s popular histories of Biełaruś – something that is clear in Uładzimir Arłoŭ’s 2003 history of the country, An Illustrated History: This Country Called Biełaruś,108 which is brilliantly translated by Jim Dingley and illustrated and designed by Źmicier Hierasimovič. But Even Arłoŭ’s version of Biełarusian history, and he wrote a number of excellent short stories with Jewish characters, does not embrace the reality of the Jewish past and presence or, indeed, that of other Biełarusian minorities. Siarhej Bohdan’s article, “The Biełaruś of Jews and Muslims,” tends to dismiss Bratochkin’s complaints about the absence of the history of Jews and other minorities in contemporary Biełarusian history.109 This article, written in a popular style without academic references, gives a nod towards two minorities, Jewish and Tatar, and their contributions to Biełarusian history and society. Bohdan points to historical events that displayed the Biełarusian attitude of mutual acceptance and appreciation of one’s neighbours. The first part of the article, subtitled “Every Tenth Biełarusian Was Jewish,” examines Jews and their involvement in and contributions to Biełarusian life: “Today, about 30,000 Jews live in Biełaruś which has a population of 10 million. Although that is much more than in neighbouring countries, it is significantly less than in the past. At

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least a third of the population of nearly all Biełarusian cities used to be Jewish. Numerous yeshivas and synagogues were found all over Biełaruś. Chabad Hasidism was founded in the 19th century by Menachem Mendel of Viciebsk and Shneur Załman of Liady. Labor Zionism was also founded in Biełaruś, and Minsk held the second convention of Russian Zionists in 1902.”110 To underscore Biełarusian acceptance of their Jewish neighbours, Bohdan recounts how Baruch Spinoza was sheltered by the Biełarusian Jewish community during his conflict with his native community in Holland.111 In the same breath, he tells the reader about Marcin Mikałaj Radziwiłł, an enlightened eighteenth-century Biełarusian who converted to Judaism.112 Bohdan also notes that Jews played an important role in Biełarusian economy, culture, and science. And he mentions that, “even today, older Biełarusians remember their Jewish neighbours and some Yiddish words.” He goes on to state that, after the calamity of the Second World War and the Holocaust, Soviet rulers carried out yet another extermination, this time a cultural one: “Both Biełarusians and Jews began to renounce their languages – Biełarusian and Yiddish – in favour of Russian.”113 Bohdan ends the “Jewish” part of his article with a long list of Biełarusian Jews who made considerable contributions to world culture, science, and politics. A monograph by Georgii Musievič (George Musevich), Narod, kotoryi zhil sredi nas: Mnogostradal’nomu evreiskomu narodu posviashchaetsia (People who used to live among us: Dedicated to Jewish people who endured so much suffering), contains substantial sociohistorical documentation. It recognizes the significance of Christian and Jewish Biełaruś as well as its peoples’ strong nostalgia for a common existence.114 This multifaceted local history is a sincere tribute to Jewish life in KamianiecLitoŭsk and its environs (the Brest district).115 Musievič’s work is a valiant attempt by a Christian Biełarusian to offer his compatriots a true account of Biełarusian Jewish history. So vivid and poignant is his book that I discuss it in a later chapter. Immediately after perestroika, many Biełarusian Christian writers revisited the “golden” years before the revolutions, the wars, and Soviet rule, when their ancestors’ peaceful and productive cohabitation with Biełarusian Jews was the normal way of life. They were aware that during Biełaruś’s turbulent history, Biełarusians of all ethnicities and faiths could count only on one another. Biełarusians profoundly understood a statement

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by Julian Tuwim that became a popular saying in postwar Biełaruś: “There are two kinds of blood, the blood that flows in the veins and the blood that flows out of them.”116 Tuwim also notes that only the second type of blood unites the victims of atrocities. Biełarusian blood had been flowing out of the veins of people for generations, independent of their faith or ethnicity, as we can see in the following publications, which cover different eras and genres. I use them here as a prologue to the main body of The Portrayal of Jews in Biełarusian Literature.

Instead of a Prologue: A Runaway Ideal “Where would you prefer to die?” Slava said. “In Minsk. I don’t want English on my headstone and I don’t want Hebrew on my headstone. In Russian ‘Iosif Abramson. Date of birth, date of death. The tea was bitter and he blamed existence.’” He broke into hoarse laughter. –Boris Fisher

In a special edition of the Biełarusian cultural journal ARCHE (2000), Habrejski numar (Jewish issue), the editorial claims that there is a unique equilibrium between Biełarusians of the Christian and Jewish faiths.117 The entire volume displays a spirit of unity and balance between Christian and Jewish Biełarusians with regard to their heritage, society, and religious practices. It has sixteen sections. The first one, titled “Tema” (subject or theme), includes essays and a memoir; the other fifteen are of a more literary bent, consisting of works by Biełarusian Christian and Jewish writers. I focus on “Tema.” Andrej Dyńko, the journal’s editor, introduces “Tema” by identifying the common ground that Christian and Jewish Biełarusians have shared throughout their mutual history: “A great number of Biełarusian Christians (Litviny; Lićviny) and Jews (Litvaks) in the eighteenth century had high expectations of amalgamation with Russia,118 hoping that this union would save them from the common abuses of the Reč Paspalitaja rulers; in the twentieth century the very same Biełarusian population followed the Bolsheviks, believing that they could help rid them of the socio-religious and economic oppression of the imperial Russian regime. All of them paid an equally heavy price for these dreams.”119 Dyńko adds that, “after two lost

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centuries [of suffering Russian and Polish oppression], the era of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania (gdl) seemed to be a genuine Golden Age to Biełarusian Jews and Christians.”120 Every contributor to this volume fully agrees with this statement. Dyńko goes on to explain why each lower- or middle-class inhabitant of Biełaruś needed at least some knowledge of both Biełarusian and Yiddish in order to survive. He also notes that the end of the twentieth century saw the beginning of a sad farewell to Christian and Jewish Biełarusian accord. Ryhor Baradulin follows Dyńko’s editorial with an essay titled “Tolki b habrei byli!” (If only Jews were still among us!).121 In his review of the two faiths, coloured by warm humour, Baradulin (a poet) points to the mutual influences of Biełarusian and Yiddish: “Our languages enriched each other. Words flew from one branch to the other like birds.”122 Baradulin dwells on the similar fates of Christian and Jewish Biełarusians, and he finishes his heartfelt essay with the hope that Jews will return to Biełaruś. In other words, Baradulin feels strongly that the survival of Biełarusian Christians is directly linked to that of Biełarusian Jews. Źmitrok Biadulia’s essay “Žydy na Biełarusi” (Jews of Biełaruś) was written seventy-three years before Baradulin’s, and it is three times as long.123 In spirit and principles, these two essays, both of which are highly lyrical, advance the same values: both encourage a balanced relationship between Christian and Jewish Biełarusians. Biadulia’s scholarly achievement ensures that his essay will have a place in the classical canon, while Baradulin’s works dedicated to his Jewish compatriots are unprecedented in quality and quantity. The first of the four parts of Biadulia’s long essay presents a concise outline of Biełarusian Jewish history and then quickly moves on to discuss the common enemy of different Biełarusian faiths: the Muscovite Empire. Biadulia writes that, from the perspective of those who annexed Biełarusian territories at the end of the eighteenth century, Biełarusians of all faiths and ethnicities were not just foreigners but recent former enemies.124 The first part of Biadulia’s essay ends with a statement issued in 1917 by a number of Biełarusian Jewish political parties at the All Biełarusian Congress, where their representatives paid tribute to Christian Biełarusians for their acceptance of all Biełarusian ethnicities and faiths, including Jews and Judaism. The second part of Biadulia’s essay focuses on Christians’ and Jews’ economic, cultural, and psychological affinities and on their

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shared love for Biełarusian nature. As an illustration, he points to the stories, poems, and music that Jews and Christians borrowed from each other, whether knowingly or not. In the third part of the essay, “Jews of Biełaruś,” Biadulia notes that Biełaruś became a cradle of modern Jewish culture and produced many spiritual leaders to serve Jewish religious institutions worldwide. Later, in the nineteenth century, that same provision was extended to the world’s secular and scholarly cultures. Biadulia remarks that, in 1863, at a time when Jewish Biełarusian children were still free to study Hebrew and Yiddish, the Russian Empire prohibited the Biełarusian language. Despite this, the rural Jewish majority, unlike urban merchants and craftspeople, continued to use Biełarusian instead of Russian or Polish. The fourth part of his essay discusses the strong support that Jewish intellectuals demonstrated towards the Biełarusian Renaissance and its principal outlet between 1912 and 1915, Naša Niva (Our field).125 He also points out that J. Kupała, M. Harecki, and other Biełarusian authors were translated into Hebrew and published in an anthology known as Litva.126 This anthology became an international bestseller in Jewish communities with Biełarusian roots. Like his Christian friend Kupała, Biadulia calls upon Jews to support Biełarusian independence.127 In his summary, the poet expresses his hope that their common past will unite Christian and Jewish Biełarusians in the future.128 Vital Zajka’s essay, “Niekalki zapoźnienych i niekalki zaŭchasnych dumak pra hebrajaŭ i biełarusaŭ” (A few late and some timeless thoughts about Biełarusian Jews and Christians), has two sections,129 the first being purely historical. Zajka begins by informing the reader that, before the First World War, most of the world’s Jews lived in Biełaruś; he then provides a sober account of some of the negative events that took place between Jews and Christians over more than seven hundred years. He also lists both shared and separate struggles as well as some mutual accusations of “bad faith.” Zajka observes that, while some pogroms broke out in Biełaruś and were not without cruelty, they were not as brutal as they were elsewhere and were never murderous. He concludes the first part of his essay with a rhetorical question: “It doesn’t make much sense to bring up these mutual allegations. After all, who else except for a Biełarusian Jew holds dear to his heart our common nature, our cities and villages, and, at last, our language? Who else, on earth, in the whole wide

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world, gives a damn about us?”130 In the same breath, he adds that Biełarusians should not expect understanding or compassion from “Big Brother,” their Russian neighbour. The second (literary) part of Zajka’s essay is a witty polemic in the form of an interview with his doppelgänger, a Biełarusian Jew called Feitl (a Yiddish variant of Vital). Zajka introduces a moderator into Vital and Feitl’s discussion, one with a “strong, staccato-like Moscow accent.”131 This artistic device generates sharp political overtones into the “discussion,” but it also immediately unites “Vital” and “Feitl” and makes them forget their personal differences. The narrator ends his essay on a lyrical note: I did not succeed in saying the main thing due to the length of my ‘self-interview.’ Some time ago, a magical, colourful, and exotic bird flew under our grey Biełarusian roof. She was saying something in her language but we, Biełarusians, threw stones at her. She flew away then, and only now have we managed to understand her words. This bird, as you have probably already guessed, was Jewish culture. She will surely return, forgetting old misunderstandings in order to help us to enrich our Biełarusian nation and to overcome the oppression of the mighty Russian culture; it will enhance our national surroundings with new images and concepts.132 Ihar Marzaliuk’s essay, “Chryściane i habrei Vilikaha Kniastva Litoŭskaha” (Christians and Jews of the Grand Duchy of Litva), is dedicated to the Golden Age of Biełarusian statehood. The historian plays devil’s advocate as he examines anti-Semitism in the gdl from the sixteenth to the eighteenth centuries.133 He reviews the anti-Semitic prejudices in the world of that time and applies them to the gdl. But Marzaliuk quickly goes on to say that every single case of anti-Semitism in the gdl was less toxic than it was in bordering countries. His illustrations of prejudice and discrimination against Jews are set mainly in the historic Polish and Lithuanian lands of the gdl; he can find almost no examples relating to historic Biełaruś proper. The one example that he does unearth relates to a stubbornly ideological seventeenth-century Biełarusian anti-Semite, Trafim Surta.134 But this “anti-Semite” not only

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laments the Jewish pogrom launched by the Cossacks of Kanstancin Pałonsky against the Jews of Mahilioŭ in 1654 but also condemns it. He accuses the Cossacks of killing solely due to bloodlust and the desire for easy gain.135 Marzaliuk ends his examination of Biełarusian antiSemitism in the gdl by stating that, without acknowledging the existence of some anti-Semitism in historic Biełaruś, Biełarusians will never understand their distinctiveness in this regard: for even though this particular type of racism existed in the gdl, it never came close to the evil practised by some of Biełaruś’s neighbours. The next essay in Habrejski numar, the special edition of ARCHE , is by Wolf (Uładzimir) Rubinčyk (1977– ) and is titled “Internet, jaŭrei i Biełaruś” (Internet, Jews, and Biełaruś); it ushers the subject matter into the twenty-first century.136 Despite the author’s initial laments concerning insufficient online information about Biełarusian Jews, his many sources speak for themselves. He offers the reader an annotated list of names, addresses, and descriptions of seventy-three websites partly or entirely dedicated to Biełarusian Jews. These sites vary in quality, but most of them are excellent, ranging in subject matter from general accounts of Judaism to specifically Biełarusian Christian and Jewish history. They include facts about diverse regions, religions, and cultures as well as about individual artists and scholars. All of the websites he examines date from the end of the 1990s; most of them are still active and relevant and are growing in both quantity and quality. Rubinčyk makes it clear that information about Biełarusian Jewry is plentiful and that the internet offers a multitude of rich material. “Narod knihi” (The People of the Book) by Halina Siniła (1957– ), a scholar of Hebrew and German studies, provides Habrejski numar with vivid historical colour.137 In this three-part essay, Siniła resorts to a populist narrative style, tempered by humour yet enriched by scholarship. In the first part, she introduces her reader to the Tanah, or Torah, also known as the first five books of the Old Testament. In the second part, “The Unseen Light of Talmud,” she tells the story of the Hebrew exile, the division of Jews into Sephardic (those who settled among Spanish and Muslim peoples) and Ashkenazi (those who settled in Germanic and other European lands), and how, for ages, the Torah and the Talmud kept the dispersed nation together. She also explains the Jewish educational system

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in ancient times of exile. The third part, “Biełaruskija staronki jaŭrejskaj kultury” (Biełarusian pages of Jewish culture), complements the first two: it is true to the letter and highly educational. “Jidiše šprixverter un glajxvertlex” (Yiddish sayings and proverbs) by Aliaksandr Astravuch (1959– ) addresses the special issue’s main theme: the sincerity, mutuality, and distinctiveness of Christian Biełarusian involvement in Jewish Biełarusian culture.138 Astravuch’s contribution, unique in the Slavic world, grew into a 928-page Yiddish-Biełarusian dictionary, published in 2008. This dictionary is beautifully formatted and illustrated; and, despite its size and weight, it is easy to use. Currently, Astravuch is working on a similar Yiddish-Russian dictionary. Astravuch has no Jewish blood in his veins, yet he considers both Biełarusian and Yiddish to be his ancestral languages – and in equal degree. His devotion to Biełarusian culture is obvious in the gratitude he expresses towards his immediate Christian family for their full support of his work.139 Taken from his article, here are some samples of Yiddish sayings, with Biełarusian translations: “A behejme und a vajb fun ejn štetl zol men nit nemen [Nie biary karovu i žonku z rodnaha miastečka; choć sava aby z druhoha siała; To avoid trouble (inbreeding), don’t buy a cow from your neighbour and don’t marry his daughter]; A bisl und a bisl vert a fule šisl” [Patrošku, patrošku і poŭnaja miska; Many a little makes a mickle; Every little bit adds up]; A blind hindle gefint ojx amol a kerndl [Traрicca і ślapoj kurycy ziarniatka znajści; Even a blind chicken may find a grain of corn].”140 Andrej Skurko translated a Polish article written by Stanislaŭ Krajeŭski, “Paraŭnańnie Judaizmu z Chryścianstvam: Niekalki prykładaŭ” (A few examples: Comparing Judaism with Christianity).141 This seven-page mini-essay, a review of Judeo-Christian spiritual unity, completes the first section of the special edition of ARCHE . The rest of the journal consists of artistic and literary works by Biełarusian and Biełarusian-Jewish authors and artists. Most of these entries are tinged with nostalgia and ponder the same soulful question: Why did the mutual destiny of Christian Biełarusians and Jews disintegrate in the mid-twentieth century? Yet so much of what the two sides say and do denies this disintegration. Indeed, in the spirit of humour typical of the two major Biełarusian faiths, this special issue of ARCHE should have been titled “A Departed Ideal.” The entire issue reminds one of an elderly couple

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on the evening during which one of them will depart the physical plane. Simultaneously, and independently of each other, these two people suddenly realize that, even though, due to arguments, misunderstandings, and even an occasional betrayal, it seemed they were often “together alone,” they are in fact each other’s dearest and closest. Meanwhile, the enigma of Jewish Biełarusian attachment to their ancestors’ country remains. This attachment goes hand in hand with the nostalgia felt by many well-educated Christian, Jewish, and Muslim Biełarusians. The explanation for this phenomenon can be found only by carefully studying the social and literary histories of Biełarusians. In the words of Viktor Golosov: “The history of Biełaruś is a book that has been leafed through but never read. One of this book’s unread chapters is a history of Biełarusian Jewish people … All the disasters that have descended like an avalanche upon the inhabitants of the Biełarusian territories over the centuries have affected this enigmatic people who preserved their faith and language, and who believed in the future with much more force than others.”142 Biełarusian and Jewish Biełarusian literature continues to produce valuable material on this subject. This literature, along with many comparatively recent memoirs, has revitalized this barely examined bond. Though Biełarusians of different faiths lived together for more than seven centuries, their society was essentially ended not only by the deliberate policies of the Russian tsars, the Bolsheviks, the Nazis, and the Soviets but also by various political, social, and economic upheavals, including the Chernobyl catastrophe and the collapse of the Soviet Union. Yet, despite the current lack of attention to this subject in Biełarusian academic studies, countless Biełarusians of many faiths are deeply nostalgic about the past relationship between Jews and Christians. This nostalgia, of course, is “not what it used to be” and is often manifested in unexpected and modern forms. For example, Alexander Rybak’s victory at Eurovision 2009 and his great popularity since is often attributed to a huge lobby organized by former Biełarusians, mainly Jewish residents and new citizens of Europe, Israel, Canada, and the United States.143 For some Jewish Biełarusians, love for the country of their birth and a strong affinity for their Biełarusian home are connected to nature, people, and culture. For others, as expressed in Mark Chagall’s poem, Biełaruś is a paradise lost:

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The green gardens are growing inside me, Next to the timeworn and gloomy fences, And those crooked narrow lanes … The houses are not there, however, My childhood dwells in them, And, like my youth, they simply disappeared. Where are those dwellings? If only in my wounded soul …144 Nostalgia, a principal motif in Chagall’s poem, is plentiful in the texts I discuss throughout this book. Some chapters focus on individual writers, others on common genres, themes, or characters from different periods. This variety is evident in the next chapter, in which Kaetan Marašeŭski (a little known eighteenth-century writer) and Jakub Kołas (a prominent twentieth-century writer) are represented by their individual plays. To the extent that they are relevant to the writer’s work, I also consider historical backdrops and personal biographies. From an abundance of excellent writers and the over two hundred titles that appeared on my initial list, I have selected only a few in order to present at least a general idea of this subject matter. I also aim to offer the reader a taste of the original works. Therefore, I provide abundant excerpts in translation. I take this approach because most readers will not have had much opportunity to read Biełarusian literature. If The Portrayal of Jews in Biełarusian Literature convinces readers that Biełarusian literature is valuable, and that one of its strengths is its rich use of Jewish characters, I will have succeeded in my purpose. But, most important: this rich, multifaceted topic presents vast potential for scholarly studies on every level, and I sincerely hope that these pages will ignite interest. For now, however, I simply invite you to enter my book.

2 The Creation of Biełarusian Jewish Characters from Kaetan Marašeu˘ ski’s Comedy and Jakub Kołas’s Antos´ Łata, Symon the Musician, and “Chajm Rybs” During the years when Kołas was working on Symon the Musician, an old Biełarusian play, the Comedy of Kaetan Marašeŭski, dating from 1787, was first published. This too places the Jew firmly as an integral part of Biełarusian life. –Vera Rich

Apart from the focus on the emergence of the Jewish characters in drama, this chapter includes some historic background on Biełarusian theatre. This is followed by analyses of the renowned eighteenth-century Biełarusian play, Kamiedyja (Comedy) by Kaetan Marašeŭski’s (?–?).1 I then show how it influenced Jakub Kołas’s (1882–1956) early twentieth-century comedy Antoś Łata.2 In addition to this play, I also introduce the reader to two more works by Kołas: the narrative poem Symon-Muzyka (Symon the musician) (1918–54) and a 1921 short story titled “Chajm Rybs.”3 Biełarusian dramatic arts go back many centuries. They include genres of poetry, the telling of stories and fairy tales (with and without musical accompaniment), the recounting of myths and legends, and other theatrical performances; all of these were often associated with festivities. In early times, the common people conducted rituals both in song (individuals and choruses) and in dance (most popularly, with collective round dances). The fifteenth and sixteenth centuries saw an abundance of wandering actors, called skamarochi (minstrel-buffoons). Their images are found in the principalities of Połacak (Polack) and Miadziel as well as in other historic Biełarusian and Slavic territories. Their popularity reached its peak in the sixteenth century. These folk theatre productions combined satire and parody with crude language, open mockery, and verbal abuse. The performers resorted to various types of humour and satire to entertain audiences, to

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release their everyday stresses, and to speak to the harsh injustices inflicted on the poor. In this respect, Biełarusian folk theatre differed little from other European folk acts. The skamarochi were banned in Muscovite Russia in the mid-seventeenth century, but in historic Biełaruś, they continued to perform in many genres throughout the nineteenth century.4 Later the skamarochi introduced puppet shows, called batliejka, that had domestic and religious themes. These shows resembled Italian puppet theatre both in structure and in their religious and domestic content. We can assume that the Biełarusian educator Francis (Frańcišak) Skaryna, who received his medical degree from the University of Padua, helped popularize this genre, along with other Western cultural traditions.5 Such an assumption is even more plausible when we compare Biełarusian and Russian iconography, where the difference is tremendous. Beginning in the fourteenth century and continuing into the eighteenth, Biełarusian icons drew strongly from Italian and other Western iconography. In the foreword to Icon Painting in Biełaruś, we read that, while Biełarusian icons and paintings obviously showed Byzantine and other influences, they also stood out for their ingenuity: Biełarusian icon paintings of the fifteenth to eighteenth centuries are a unique phenomenon in European arts. One of the most interesting of their peculiarities is the parallel practice of the altar and secular painting traditions, which was fully explored during those four centuries of icon paintings. This type of icon has a precedent only in Biełaruś, and was never observed in Eastern and Western European traditions. The roots of this phenomenon may be found in the circumstances of Biełarusian geography and political development. The country was always a crossroads of the Latin West and Orthodox East, which encouraged close artistic connections between both cultures.6 The argument that Biełaruś was already culturally distinct at the time can be extended to the theatrical world, both drama and comedy. In terms of language, lower-class audiences preferred performances in vernacular Biełarusian. Circus elements, including trained animals (especially bears) were a prominent part of the entertainment at seasonal trade fairs and were loved by spectators of all ages.7

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Historical circumstances were such that Biełarusian drama developed in tandem with Ukrainian and (later) Polish theatrical arts. Bearing in mind Biełarusian history and culture, I argue that the Biełarusian dramatic arts played an important role in the development of modern Slavic drama and often served as a role model and inspiration for the drama of neighbouring nations. The first recipient of this gift was the Principality of Moscow, whose own progress had been delayed by almost three centuries of Tatar–Mongol hegemony.8 According to Simon Karlinsky, Russian drama (mainly in the Moscow and Novgorod principalities) had its roots in the gdl and the Reč Paspalitaja.9 Karlinsky’s only failing is that he has picked up a deep-rooted Russian habit: the tendency to label the Grand Duchy of Litva and the Reč Paspalitaja as simply “Russia” or “Poland.” Thus, he attributes a play written in vernacular Biełarusian first to Russia, then to Kyivan Rus’ (the historic centre of the Eastern Slavs), and, finally, to Poland. In the same breath he recognizes that, at the time, the Russian language did not possess “a system of versification.” Furthermore, he blithely refers to Old Biełarusian as “a strange language.” Here is a typical excerpt from Karlinsky that betrays his misunderstanding: “The earliest manuscript of a non-Latin Kievan drama that we have is an anonymous work called Saint Alexis, the Man of God. It was performed in 1673 and is written in a strange language that tries to be Ukrainian and/or Church Slavic, but despite its Cyrillic letters ends up being more Polish than anything else.”10 Such linguistic confusion is understandable. In the seventeenth century, Biełarusian and Polish already possessed a secular literary tradition and a highly evolved system of verification. The Russian literary language did not take definite shape until the eighteenth century. Before that time, only religious literature was taken seriously in Russia, and all of it was in the official language of the Orthodox Church, an archaic South Slavic dialect called Church Slavic.11 The Polish dramatic arts undoubtedly influenced the Russian arts, but this happened indirectly, through Biełaruś and Ukraine, which, in terms of geography, religion, and culture, were much closer to Russia proper than they were to Poland. At the time, historic Biełaruś and Ukraine already possessed a secular literary tradition and a highly evolved system of versification in Cyrillic and Latin (Łacinka). While most of the gdl’s population practised either Uniate Christianity or Biełarusian or Ukrainian Orthodoxy (Lithuanians accepted Christianity only in the fourteenth

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century), Polish culture was under Latinate Roman influence, and it was not until the sixteenth century that its early native dramaturgy was fully developed. Put simply, between the twelfth and sixteenth centuries, Polish theatre in the Polish language was not as strong in Poland proper as Biełarusian and Ukrainian (both spoken and written) were in the gdl. In the Reč Paspalitaja, Polish dramatists used Latin; in historic Biełaruś and Ukraine, playwrights expressed ideas and worldviews in their audiences’ respective vernaculars. Though Biełarusians often used Łacinka, Cyrillic letters were more common among literate people. At the same time, Biełarusian Łacinka was sometimes mixed in with Polish and/or Latin. So when we discuss the origins of Russian drama, remember that Karlinsky’s twelfth-century “Poland” was actually historic Biełaruś, Ukraine, and Lithuania, with Old Biełarusian being the state language of the gdl. Karlinsky does mention, albeit fleetingly, Biełarusian and Ukrainian contributions to the development of Russian drama: “With all these handicaps, school drama managed to attract a whole pleiad of successful practitioners by the end of the seventeenth century, poets and dramatists among whom we find three non-Russian churchmen – one Belorussian and two Ukrainians – who may be considered the earliest Russian literary playwrights.”12 In the following chapter, Karlinsky then names that “Biełarusian, playwright” as Siamion Polacki (Simeon Polatskii, Simeon of Polotsk, 1629–80). And, after a rather controversial discussion of Polacki’s literary works, Karlinsky describes him this way: “A very prolific writer, author of huge quantities of verse (much of it unreadable),13 Simeon of Polotsk has the uncontested honor of being the first modern Russian poet and the first Russian literary playwright. It was he who systematized and codified Russian syllabic versification, imposing the elevenand thirteen-syllable couplets with feminine rhymes, and with an obligatory caesura in the middle, that became standard for all later school drama. All of Russian poetry between the 1670s and 1740s is traceable to his pioneering activity.”14 A similar tendency to name Poland as a wellspring of Russian dramatic art (instead of the gdl and the Reč Paspalitaja) is found in the following document, dated 1906:15 The religious drama in its earliest form, Mysteries, was introduced into Russia from Poland at the beginning of the twelfth century. As Tiechonravoff states in his Origin of the Russian Theatre, they were

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known under the name of Religious Dialogues, or simply as Histories, and were at first played exclusively in monasteries; not until 1603 do we read of their being performed by students in the universities and public schools in Polish or Latin. The earliest Latin Dialogue that has come down to us is entitled Adam, and bears on its title page the date of 1507; the earliest in Polish is The Life of the Savior from His Entry into Jerusalem, and was written by a Dominican from Cracow, in the year 1533. The latter describes the closing events in Christ’s earthly career so minutely that it consists of more than a hundred scenes, and four days were required for its presentation.16 As we can see, literary historians of Russian drama are jumping from the twelfth to the sixteenth century, overlooking the centuries in between. I attribute this to the Tatar-Mongol invasions and their consequences for historic Russian lands. Nevertheless, besides Mysteries (Religious Dialogues, Histories), scholars mention a genre that was popular between the twelfth and eighteenth centuries: intermiedyia (Interlude). These short dramatic pieces, also borrowed from the gdl and later the Reč Paspalitaja, were often performed before high holidays and during seasonal fairs as well as to commemorate rulers. Karlinsky notes that these intermiedyia had been introduced by Simeon of Polotsk. On Russian soil, however, some of these performances expressed Russian prejudices against religious minorities (which was uncharacteristic for the gdl): In an allegorical play performed at the religious seminary in Tver in 1745 in honor of the Empress Elizabeth, the satirical barbs are aimed at Old Believers (whose movement was gathering new momentum in the eighteenth century), Jews (Elizabeth was quite outspoken in her detestation of them), and Gypsies. In the Interlude, a grotesque Jew, who intersperses his lamentations with exclamations in Yiddish, gathers an international army of dancing Jews in order to liberate Jerusalem from the Turks. In the ensuing ballet, this dancing Jewish army is scattered by a single Russian policeman wielding a club.17 Such sentiments were quite foreign to the gdl and to the historic Biełarusian territories of the Reč Paspalitaja, which were known for their

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religious tolerance. This was evident during the Biełarusian Baroque era and is reflected in the writings of Biełarusian academician Adam Maldzis.18 Prior to Maldzis’s seminal study, Na skryžavańni słavianskich tradycyj (At the crossroads of Slavic traditions), tsarist and Soviet scholars viewed Biełarusian literary and theatrical culture of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries as insignificant – as both provincial and completely subjugated to Polish and Russian influences. Through meticulous archival work, Maldzis showed this perception to be groundless. Indeed, Biełarusian culture at that time had a separate existence, one in which the Arabic, Biełarusian, Hebrew, Old Slavonic, Ukrainian, and Yiddish languages were fused. This was especially apparent during the gdl’s statehood and the Reč Paspalitaja period as well as throughout the early eighteenth century. In addition to the above-mentioned languages, the culture of the Reč Paspalitaja included writings in Polish and Latin; later, in the mid-eighteenth century, writings in Russian were added to this linguistic bouquet. However, Russian cultural influence increased gradually with each partition of the Reč Paspalitaja and became dominant soon after the last one. Assembling these facts, Maldzis proved that, in historic Biełaruś from the fourteenth to the eighteenth centuries, literary and vernacular Biełarusian reflected a unique culture. According to Maldzis, this was the reality not only for poly-Slavonic cultural icons of Biełarusian origin like Siamion Połacki and Andrej (Jan) Biełabocki (?–1712?) but also for many other educators, who wrote in their native Biełarusian. McMillin also underscores this phenomenon: “Such variety, a characteristic feature of transitional periods in cultural history, is presented as a highly fertile cross-fertilization of Byzantine-Orthodox and Roman Catholic traditions.”19 We should also note the cultural influence of religious schools in historic Biełaruś. Those schools, and especially the Catholic ones (mainly Dominican until the eighteenth century),20 when staging a religious and/or morality play for a religious holiday, often included a Devil character. During holidays, Biełarusian Orthodox and Uniate monasteries and schools were fully involved in their own such productions. Religious drama and comedy (at that time these terms were interchangeable), often based on biblical and apocryphal themes, were especially popular in Biełarusian theatre during and after the seventeenth century. Thus, McMillin sums up Maldzis’s findings:

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Dr Maldzis believes that in the period of Biełarusian Baroque there existed fourteen school theatres from which about a hundred dramatic works have survived … Though not complete, the number of known productions in this period presents very considerable interest: Połacak 28, Hrodna 26, Pinsk 19, Navahrudak 13, Niaśviž 11, Brest 10, Viciebsk and Orša both 6, Miensk 5, Mahilioŭ 4, Žodiški 3, and Słucak, Babrujsk, and Mścislaŭ 1 each. Much attention is also given to the Orša Codex and Brűckner’s Koŭna collection amongst other sources, and without a doubt, this study takes us further into the world of Biełarusian intermedyi than even Paulina Lewin’s excellent monograph (Intermedia wschodniosłowiańskie XVI-XVIII wieku, Wrocław, 1967) or the early parts of Ja. K. Usikaŭ’s Biełaruskaja Kamedyja (1964) had done.21 In his discussion of Maldzis’s treatise, McMillin admits that Maldzis’s findings and analyses helped him to re-evaluate Biełarusian dramatic culture from the sixteenth to the eighteenth centuries (until reading Maldzis, McMillin had relied on Soviet scholarship). Soviet academics, following the lead of their tsarist predecessors, had long attributed most original Biełarusian, Ukrainian, and/or Polish influences to Russian literature; this attribution, in turn, influenced Western critical reception. Maldzis has called out those misinterpretations, and his research, along with McMillin’s subsequent re-evaluation, has found its way to presentday scholarship. We now understand that Biełarusian drama was of high quality during the Baroque and the Enlightenment periods (1600 to 1800) and that it influenced its neighbours more than it was influenced by them. But neither McMillin nor Maldzis paid much attention to the political situation in seventeenth-century Reč Paspalitaja, which had changed dramatically with the accession to Moscow’s throne of the second Romanov, Tsar Alexis.22 Ukrainian Cossacks were deeply unhappy with the Reč Paspalitaja’s rulers, whereas they trusted Alexis. The tsar’s propaganda was directed at the large number of Reč Paspalitaja’s inhabitants who practised the Orthodox and Uniate faiths, but it gained little traction among Biełarusians. Alexis, as the head of the Russian Orthodox Church, had promised his co-religionists full protection from those who followed the Catholic, Protestant, Jewish, Uniate, and Muslim faiths. And he promised the same to all inhabitants of the Reč Paspalitaja who converted to Russ-

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ian Orthodoxy. Alexis never kept these promises. Indeed, Biełarusian historians have concluded that almost 50 percent of the Biełarusian population was eradicated during the course of Alexis’s military and political advances. Alexis promised his subjects a wealthy and peaceful future once the “infidels” had been vanquished. Throughout all of this, Warsaw (the capital of the Reč Paspalitaja since 1596) and its rulers procrastinated. They knew full well the tsar’s intentions, yet they delayed appointing a military commander. Alexis was aware of the political turmoil in the Reč Paspalitaja, and he exploited it. While transferring his forces to Smaliensk (Russian: Smolensk, one of the gdl’s major cities and on the Reč Paspalitaja frontier), he wrote to his family: “My dearests, I am in a hurry to capture Smolensk since, as reconnaissance people report, there is nobody [no defence] in and around the city.”23 Smaliensk became a part of Russia proper in 1654, but Moscow’s policies towards the locals remained the same as they had been in the farthest reaches of Biełaruś: those who refused to convert to Russian Orthodoxy, and those who shared their faith with the Russians but refused to pledge loyalty to the tsar, were annihilated. The “preferred” way to deal with Biełarusians was to burn them and their dwellings. Many sources, including those of Russia and those of the Reč Paspalitaja, describe how these conquered people were treated. The conquest of Mścisłaŭ (Amścisłaŭ; Mstsislavl) was typical: up to fifteen thousand people were tortured and their remains burned. “These were szliachta [gentry], artisans and Jews, and simple people [peasants].”24 Those who converted (most of them peasants and artisans from the lower classes who agreed to become Alexis’s subjects) were consigned to serfdom and transported to the Principality of Moscow. Converted nobles who had sworn allegiance to the tsar were rewarded. In Smaliensk, Alexis was especially cruel to Jews: “He was merciless to Jews. By the tsar’s order they were all gathered together and offered baptism. Those who accepted were spared but the rest were put into wooden houses, and burnt.”25 Once again, Biełarusians of all walks of life suffered greatly. Their losses during the seventeenth century can be fully compared to those incurred during the Second World War. Among those who volunteered, or were compelled, to serve the Russian tsar was the Biełarusian Siamion Połacki (Simeon Polatskii), mentioned earlier. He was a significant cultural figure: a poet, a writer, a scholar, an educator, and a diplomat, who almost single-handedly founded

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Russian classicism and may be considered one of the fathers of Russian literature. He was born Samuil Piatroŭski-Sitnianovič in 1629, probably in Połacak (Polotsk). Like his predecessors in the Biełarusian Baroque – Francysk Skaryna, Vasil Ciapinski,26 Symon Budny,27 and others – he was a biblical scholar who also looked beyond the scriptures for knowledge. Siamion Połacki began his studies at home, then continued them in the Kyiv-Mohyla Collegium for seven years. Upon graduating, he moved to the Vilnia Collegium, where he joined the Uniate Order. Until the end of his life, he would sign his name in Latin as Simeonis Piotrowski Sitnianowicz Jeromonachi Polocencis, Ordinis Sancti Basilii Magni. The “Silent War” between Moscow and the Reč Paspalitaja, which transpired from 1654 to 1667, interrupted his studies, and he had to return to Połacak. There he became a monk in the Epiphany monastery, where his older friend, Ihnaci Ievlievič, was an abbot.28 This monastery gathered a highly influential group of scholars, not only ecclesiasts (preachers) and ecumenists (pluralists) but also experts in mathematics, physics, astronomy, chemistry, and many other secular disciplines.29 Połacak also had a well established Catholic monastery that was under Jesuit jurisdiction. The monks at the Epiphany monastery favoured Orthodoxy and were, therefore, sympathetic to Alexis. Nevertheless, Siamion Połacki, the Uniate, volunteered to greet the tsar on his arrival in Połacak in 1654. The tsar was extremely impressed with the monk and offered him a prominent post in his Moscow court. Ten years later, Połacki accepted this post and was well received by his new benefactor. Among many other duties, Połacki was head tutor to the tsar’s children. As to the main legacy of his time in Moscow: “Siamion Połacki was the central figure not only in the establishment of his own literary school but of an entire literary direction, which, according to the academician D.S. Likhachev, functioned as an original Russian renaissance.”30 Połacki also blazed the path taken by Moscow’s theatre by emulating productions from the gdl and the Reč Paspalitaja, which he had known since childhood and during his period of Biełarusian literary activity. And he excelled in other genres, ranging from panegyrics to satire, moral dramas, educational comedies, and beyond. All of this demonstrates how much Russian culture gained from Połacki’s labours and how much his native country lost. But Połacki was also a man of his times: a humanist, an educator, and, like Skaryna before him, much more than any single nation’s

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treasure. He never forgot his Biełarusian roots or his Ukrainian studies and monastic work. After his death at the untimely age of fifty-one, besides providing for his Biełarusian family and his best students, he bequeathed his immense material wealth, acquired during his Russian service, to Biełarusian and Ukrainian monasteries and educational institutions. His final act was an expression of respect for his Biełarusian roots. During those troubled times, historic Biełaruś lost to Russia leaders in every socio-political, economic, and cultural sphere. In the wake of the geopolitical upheavals, survivors continued to rebuild their lives and their culture, including their performance arts. As Maldzis explained in his lectures at Miensk’s Biełaruski Kaliehijum (Biełarusian College), theatre played an educational role during the eras of the Biełarusian Baroque and the Enlightenment.31 Court theatres made extensive use of local authors who wrote in Biełarusian, especially from the sixteenth century to the mid-seventeenth, after which the Polish language became dominant in some Biełarusian areas. Still, as Maldzis argues convincingly, the multilingual character of the “high” panegyric of the Biełarusian Baroque was still evident even at the end of Biełarusian classicism and sentimentalism: “A similar turn to the tradition of Old Biełarusian poetry left some traces in a tribute poem, written in 1784 on the occasion of a visit by King Stanisłaŭ-Aŭgust to Palieśsie (Duboj).32 Stanisłaŭ was born near Brest (historic Biełaruś) and was fluent in Biełarusian. During his stay in Niaśviž, he felt an urge to address the nobility with a poem in Biełarusian. And local lords, when receiving him in different districts of Paliessie, addressed him with poems in five languages: Hebrew, Old Biełarusian, Latin, Polish, and Yiddish.”33 This multilingualism was just as evident in the school drama genre performed in the “serfs’ theatres” (whose actors were the property of local feudal lords) as it was in the more prestigious theatres.34 This genre was also performed in private city theatres in which the actors were free citizens, predominantly of the lower classes. The repertoire of these theatres included translated Western dramatic works from the era’s most popular genres as well as religious/moral plays. In his lecture, Maldzis emphasizes the role of Biełarusian theatres, including the privately owned serf companies: The serf (court) theatre was a particularly interesting phenomenon in the history of Biełarusian arts during the Enlightenment. The

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court theatres in Niaśviž, Słonim, Hrodna (Harodnia), Ružany, Škłoŭ, and other Biełarusian cities enjoyed not only Pan-Slavic but European fame. Later, in Warsaw, these serf actors and actresses formed the seed of the National Polish Opera and Ballet. The Reč Paspalitaja’s four best theatres (situated in historic Biełaruś), Niaśviž, Białystok [Biełastok], Słonim, and Harodnia (Hrodna, Grodno); they were located precisely where there were grand estates with strong feudal powers. Compared to the Baroque, Biełarusian literature of the Enlightenment had a strong multilingual character, and Biełarusian was no longer the dominant language. Though Polish acquired dominance in writing and performing, books in Old Slavonic, Latin, Hebrew, Yiddish, German, and French, and some handwritten manuscripts, often included Ukrainian, Lithuanian, and Tatar texts. After 1772, and particularly in the 1790s, the Russian language was popularized by the tsardom of victorious Russia. Biełaruś was a true literary Babylon in a rather small territory!35 In Na skryžavańni słavianskich tradycyj (1980), Maldzis proves that artistic movements such as classicism and sentimentalism played a more significant role in the visual arts and in architecture than they did in literature. But he also describes how Marašeŭski’s Kamiedyja thematically, stylistically, and linguistically belonged to the short-lived period of Biełarusian neoclassicism.36 Indeed, that play expresses black-and-white concepts, a clear style, and a rational aesthetics oriented largely towards neoclassicism. However, we should bear in mind that, like any transitional cultural movement, Biełarusian neoclassicism was eclectic and incorporated the entertaining characteristics of the Baroque as well as the naturalistic and romantic characteristics of sentimentalism. This mixture, as I note when I analyze the play, is present in Marašeŭski’s dramaturgy. Kaetan Marašeŭski was a cultural ancestor of the Biełarusian and (to a lesser degree) Polish playwrights of the earlier centuries. We know little about his life because documentation is lacking – a consequence largely of the chaos that consumed Biełaruś during his lifetime. Marašeŭski’s play was first performed by students at the Kaliehijum, who were children of Biełarusian nobles (szliachta). I note earlier a rather curious aspect of Biełarusian literary history: Marašeŭski’s play Kamiedyja is considered

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the beginning of modern Biełarusian dramatic art – indeed, its highest achievement in the eighteenth century – yet the author himself eludes us to this day. All we know is that he was a Dominican monk and a professor of rhetoric and poetry at the Dominican College in Zabielsk (now the village of Vałyncy, Viciebsk region). This college had eighty students and six professors at the time of Marašeŭski’s tenure. With two other colleagues, Michail Ciacierski and Ju. Jurevič, Marašeŭski organized the school theatre and presented a handful of plays that he wrote himself or with others.37 Unfortunately, only three of these plays have been preserved. The first is a Biełarusian adaptation of a Polish comedy by Michail Ciacierski, Doktar pa prymusu (The doctor despite himself). Ciacierski, for his part, had borrowed the plot of Molière’s Le Médecin malgré lui for his version, which he wrote in Polish. Ciacierski collaborated with Marašeŭski on his Biełarusian version. Kamiedyja, written mainly in the Biełarusian vernacular with bits of Polish vernacular,38 was followed by a drama that contains elements of tragedy, Svaboda ŭ niavoli (Freedom in captivity), which is predominantly in Polish with some Biełarusian inserts. Unlike Polish and then Biełarusian adaptations of Molière, the latter two works have only Marašeŭski’s name on the title page. These three plays have been preserved, along with various other hand-written manuscripts attributed to the college. This is what Maldzis has to say in a lecture about Marašeŭski’s importance to Biełarusian drama, and the significance of Zabielsk to Biełarusian dramatic arts: School dramaturgy reached its logical conclusion in works staged at Zabielsk’s szliachta Kaliehijum, in the Połacak region. Here, on the basis of the Intermedyia [Interlude] tradition, the very first modern Biełarusian play was born: Kamiedyja [Comedy] by Kaetan Marašeŭski. Zabielsk’s school theatre was an exceptional phenomenon, unique in several ways. First, it was the only [Biełarusian] school theatre from the 1780s to the 1790s. Second, it was the only theatre remaining under the active order of Dominicans in Biełaruś at that time. And third, the variety of its repertoire was truly extraordinary. The szliachta children had been staging tragedies, comedies, and even original operas. They also performed juridical dialogues. Overall, almost all the plays portrayed the ideology of the Enlightenment as it related to Classicism.39

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Kamiedyja has ten characters, which Marašeŭski lists in his manuscript according to their degree of importance: a Peasant (later in the play he is called Dźiomka), a Jew, a Devil, a First Village Fool, a Second Village Fool, a Third Village Fool, Aliaksandr, Kliofas, Zosimas, and a Martyr. As is typical in neoclassical literature, seven characters are given no personal names: they represent types more than personae. Even Dźiomka is referred to more often as “Peasant” rather than by his first name, as if to underscore his commoner status. The only protagonists with names are three brothers: Aliaksandr, Kliofas, and Zosimas. These given names suggest the closeness of the family they represent, however minor their importance to the play. In terms of its unity of time and place, Kamiedyja is a typical neoclassical play. It is entertaining, and all of the protagonists are vividly drawn. Marašeŭski’s play continues to influence Biełarusian drama even two centuries after its first performance. (After Kołas’s play, Frańcyšak Aliachnovič wrote his own version of Marašeŭski’s Kamiedyja, Ptuška ščaścia [Bird of happiness].40 This play, however, is even less known than Marašeŭski’s and Kołas’s plays.) Act 1 opens with the Peasant’s monologue, largely a lament about his unlucky lot. He blames the biblical Adam, whose sins have affected every person on earth: “Oh, how hapless my life is! I am walking and walking all day long, my legs are numb, I cannot feel my hands from hard work, and threshing is the worst job in the world. I do it from the first rooster till noon, and I am always alone.”41 Focusing on his own fate, the Peasant mentions that he cannot count on his wife: she either plays sick or goes drinking at the village inn. His son is no help either: he is a hunchback. The Peasant’s wish for hired help will never come true: he is broke. His scapegoat is Adam, whom he constantly blames for all of humankind’s misfortunes: If only our first father, Adam, hadn’t sinned, we wouldn’t have to work so hard! Oh, stupid, stupid Adam! Why did he have to take an apple from that cursed tree! Hell with it! If I was in his place, I would never have done it, never, ever! Then we would be living in heaven, carefree, like lords here on earth do. There would not be a need for a shirt in heaven. If something happens to my shirt now, there is no way to get another one, and most importantly, where to find the money for one? And here is winter approaching. Oh, what

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a shame! And I do not have a penny to my soul, my God, I don’t even have a soul! Adam, Adam, you really did us in … Oh, if only I was in your place back then!42 The innkeeper, a Jew, now enters. He speaks perfect Biełarusian but pronounces his soft consonants differently than does the Peasant. This points to his Jewish origin and, simultaneously, introduces comic effects. For the same reasons, the Jew often speaks in Yiddish, which the Peasant seems to follow without trouble. These two are the only characters in the play who are fluent in Biełarusian, and their language is vivid and imaginative. The author seems to want to underscore their belonging to the land (they are the only characters whose parts are written in Cyrillic – all the rest are in Biełarusian Łacinka, with some infrequent insertions of Polish words). Dźiomka owes the innkeeper money for vodka, and the latter is after him to collect. Dźiomka is in debt to the same landlord as is the Jew. At first, the two protagonists idly argue; later, as they get on each other’s nerves, the poverty-stricken men shove each other, but out of frustration and helplessness, not anger – indeed, they sympathize with each other. The third part of act 1 belongs entirely to the Peasant, who goes back to blaming Adam. Dźiomka accuses Adam of being too heedful of Eve instead of “teaching” her obedience with a whip, as he does with his own wife. The Peasant is adamant that if he had been in Adam’s place, he would have spent all his time “productively” by drinking vodka to his heart’s content. Next in act 1, we are introduced to the Devil who, at first, is incognito. He asks Dźiomka what he has to do with Adam. The Peasant at first cannot offer a coherent response; then, suddenly, he finds himself in a profound ecclesiastic dialogue with the Devil about his soul. Instead of playing the seducer or the accuser, the Devil turns out to be a moralist and a pedagogue who has genuine empathy for Dźiomka’s daily struggles. He explains to the Peasant how important it is to understand oneself. When the Peasant asks him how he can do that, the Devil suggests: “It is not enough to look at yourself with the eyes of your body; you need to use the eyes of your soul.”43 The Peasant is so taken with this new concept that he jealously tries to drive away the Jew, who has returned with his demand for payment. Meanwhile, the Devil reverts to his more familiar tricks: he tries to win Dźiomka’s trust and offers him a one-hundred-ruble bet. If the Peasant

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can stay silent for a whole hour, the Devil will increase the one-hundredruble bet to which Dźiomka first agreed, promising him a two-hundredor even three-hundred-ruble win if he maintains his silence. Dźiomka is certain that he will be able to hold his tongue and asks the Jew to be their witness. The Jew gladly agrees and even prays for him. The Devil exposes himself right after he and the Peasant shake hands. Both Dźiomka and the Jew are terrified, and at first the Jew takes flight, but he soon returns with a needle and a thread, with which he offers to sew the Peasant’s lips shut. Meanwhile the Devil explains to the Peasant that if he wins, his prize will be Dźiomka’s soul. The fifth part of act 1 starts with the Peasant’s long monologue: Oh, if I only knew his art, he wouldn’t fool me then! And now what to do, what to do?! However, I have to keep up my side for he is a tough customer! Oh, he fooled me all right! If I could, I would have given up the bet, but he wouldn’t agree. What a misfortune! On the other hand, my part is not so difficult. I can be silent for an hour; this isn’t such a big deal. Sometimes, when I am alone in the field, I don’t talk all day long, so it won’t be hard. And, if I win, I would have a hundred rubles, even more, he himself said so. Then I will buy myself a few cows, will pay the landlord what I owe him, and on my way home from doing threshing, I will have enough to buy vodka. And the innkeeper would not deny me then. Let him try! If only he would, then I would punch him in his mug, yes, I would; in one hand I would hold his sidelocks, and with the other I would show him money. Then he would behave better [while talking, he shows how he would beat the Jew]. Then neighbours would bow in front of me as soon as they found out that I am rich. And my old enemy, Hierasim, would also bow from his waist, and he would ask to borrow money for vodka. Oh, no, never, ever will he get it! Even if he would eat a devil, no! First he should smarten up and learn respect!44 Part 6 of act 1 presents a dialogue between the Devil and the Peasant. The former clarifies all the rules of the bet, and the Peasant once more agrees to them. Part 7 consists of a short monologue in which Dźiomka promises himself to keep silent for an hour. Part 8 introduces three village fools who

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think that they are about to join God’s kingdom;45 the problem is that they don’t know how to get there. Miraculously, a rope ladder comes down from the sky, and the three fools hurriedly try to climb it. When they cannot figure out how to climb the ladder, the Peasant, unable to hold his silence, explains to them how to do so. In part 9 of act 1, the Devil appears and captures Dźiomka. The Peasant pleads with the Devil for forgiveness and is repeatedly refused. At long last, the Devil’s educational purpose seems to be clear. He asks Dźiomka whether he now repents cursing Adam for his sins since he couldn’t keep his word either. Dźiomka says he does repent, and after much deliberation, in the tenth and final part of the act, the Devil gives him a second chance. Act 2 begins with a monologue by Dźiomka. Later, the Jew asks Dźiomka how he succeeded in ridding himself of the Devil, and the Peasant lies, saying that he won the bet. The Jew then asks him when he will get his money. The Peasant dissimulates, then tells the Jew that the Devil has agreed to pay his debt directly to him. The frightened innkeeper refuses to receive his payment from the Devil, and takes flight when he arrives.46 This scene has an exaggerated comic effect, since Jews don’t recognize the Devil’s authority, and Marašeŭski’s Jew is acting more like a good Christian than like an Orthodox Jew. In part 3 of act 2, the Devil admonishes Dźiomka, telling him to keep his word. In fact, the behaviour of Marašeŭski’s Devil’s is closer to Judaism than to Christianity in that he is not an enemy of the Almighty. Indeed, he openly subjugates himself to God and recognizes His supremacy. As in Judaism, he behaves like one of the archangels, loyal servants of God. Furthermore, the Devil is trying to direct the Peasant to choose good over evil and to accept the glory of the Almighty.47 The Peasant now blames all the demons for preventing him from glorifying God. The Devil seems astonished by Dźiomka’s capacity to deny his own culpability and to shift the blame away from himself. This tolerant, pragmatic Devil reiterates his function on earth. He says that righteous humans have no reason to be afraid of him or other dark forces. Virtuous and God-fearing people are not his concern, as they are for Dźiomka. When Dźiomka at long last gets his second chance, he repeats his firm intention to keep his side of the bargain with the Devil. The Jew appears in part 5 of act 2 and asks Dźiomka to pay him directly and not through the Devil. Dźiomka promises to do so for a free shot of vodka. The Jew

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agrees. Despite Dźiomka’s assurances that the Devil need not be feared (for he can be outsmarted), the Jew, being unwilling to deal directly with the Devil, once again seems to behave like a better Christian than the Peasant. After drinking some vodka, Dźiomka finds more courage, and he mocks the Jew for fearing the Devil. As if to underscore his own independence, he even goofily informs the Devil of the Jew’s fears. In part 7, Dźiomka’s courage is rationalized by his understanding that even Devils can vary: some represent good, others evil. The Peasant is appreciative of “his” Devil’s goodness, yet he is ready to cheat him. Indeed, he is plotting to steal from the Devil should the opportunity arise. The time for the Peasant’s silence comes just as three brothers, Aliaksandr, Kliofas, and Zosimas, join the scene. They have come to recover the family treasure, which their recently deceased father bequeathed to them. Kliofas, the middle brother, seems to be the prodigal son: he the only one who is not ready to pay his late father’s debts from his share of the inheritance. The brothers meet the Peasant in part 9 of act 2 and at first decide he is slow-witted. After finding the hidden treasure, the brothers try to wriggle into the hiding place, but the opening is too small. The Peasant is beside himself: he wants to help but is afraid to speak up. Finally, in part 10, he breaks his silence and explains to the brothers how to get to their inheritance. The Devil appears in part 11. He is about to take the Peasant to hell but feels obliged to further instruct Dźiomka on his bad morals. In parts 11 through 15, the Devil brings the brothers to Dźiomka, and they admit that he spoke with them. However, the Devil realizes that the Peasant was only trying to help them, just as he had intended to help the village fools. Dźiomka made no personal gain from either of these encounters, and the Devil forgives his adversary for “the very last time.” Once again he proves to be a much more “moral” and dependable character than the Peasant. Act 3 finds the Peasant in the same place. He feels discouraged and lonely and has lost every trace of his former arrogance. In the second part of this act, Dźiomka concludes that the only comfort available to him is the Jew’s companionship. Certainly, the chance to get more vodka plays a significant role in this, but there is more to it: no one but the Jew knows the miseries of poverty and of complete dependence on a landlord’s mercy. Meanwhile, Dźiomka’s darker side prompts him to involve the Jew in dealings with the Devil; if there is another glitch, he will find a way to

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send the Jew to hell in his stead. When he arrives, the Jew at first refuses to deal with the Peasant, but, little by little, he finds himself seduced by Dźiomka’s proposal that the Devil’s money be divided equally. They close the deal with a bottle of vodka, which Dźiomka respectfully calls “Sabbath vodka” for its high quality. The Peasant explains to the Jew that this particular Devil has some scruples and is therefore worth dealing with. He persuades the Jew to return in an hour’s time. The Jew leaves, and the Devil returns to witness Dźiomka’s third attempt to keep an hour of silence. Once again, the Devil declares that this time there will be no excuses for Dźiomka, that he had forgiven him twice before only because of the Peasant’s naivety. As before, the Devil dwells on the subject of Adam, explaining to the Peasant why Dźiomka is much worse than Adam. The Peasant sends the Devil away and calls for the Jew, who immediately appears with vodka, his part of the bargain, and once again asks the Peasant to swear to keep their agreement. Dźiomka does so, drinks his vodka, and sends the Jew away. An alarm clock signals the hour of silence; immediately after this, the Martyr appears. The Martyr’s monologue tells of his wish to serve the Creator and to deny himself personal pleasures. He imagines that he is in a desert, but, instead of God, he is commemorating Lucifer. After realizing this, half mad, he punishes himself for such a sin. In his delirium, the Martyr imagines that a Biełarusian musical pipe is Lucifer in the form of a snake and tries to battle it. Once again, the Peasant cannot stand to watch someone else’s incompetence, and he demonstrates the Martyr’s mistake by playing the pipe. The Devil appears immediately, and though the Martyr tries to justify the Peasant’s act, the Devil declares that the deal is done – the Peasant belongs in hell. In part 10, the Peasant, who finally realizes his faults, repents his sins of laziness, drunkenness, deceit, and intrigues and warns the others against such behaviour. In particular, he cautions against badmouthing God and His first human creation, Adam. In fact, the Peasant seems to finally understand the role of personal responsibility that the Devil had been trying to teach him. But not for long: in part 11 of act 3, he is still trying to persuade the Devil to substitute the Jew for himself. The Devil replies that when the Jew’s time comes, he will take him, but now it is the Peasant’s turn. The Devil’s final monologue is as didactic as are all of his previous teachings. He responds to the peasant’s pleas with a firm, moralizing sermon:

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Looking at you, everyone who does not take care of their responsibilities will have to understand what awaits them. And this must concern not only you, the peasants. The same misfortune could, and I will foretell even more, will certainly fall on your lords if they don’t behave according to wise laws, given by God and taught by His Church. I am saying it now to everyone, and I am warning you: from now on stop holding the Devil responsible for seducing you. It is true that we like to tempt you. However, we have no claims on those who are obedient, who keep in their head and heart God’s laws, and try to live by them. God protects those people. [Addresses the Peasant] You, for example, cannot complain about God because He in His goodness even allowed me to warn you. But you in your shallowness showed thoughtlessness in your acts, and did it contrary to my warnings, and for that you, at last, will reach your unhappy end. Come with me and meet your eternal fate. [He drags the Peasant to hell]48 The peasant, unexpectedly, has a screaming fit: “Kvas, bring me kvas immediately!”49 This ending, besides offering comic relief after the Devil’s long speech, shows the Peasant’s late repentance – instead of his much loved vodka, he asks for a non-alcoholic drink. Kamiedyja shows Marašeŭski’s ability to give depth to stock characters, while making them perfectly recognizable in our modern world. The two main characters – the Peasant and the Jew – represent the Biełarusian lower classes. Their Biełarusianness is expressed not only in the fact that the Peasant and the Jew speak a beautiful vernacular language but also in their love of their birthplace. Indeed, there is nothing “foreign” in either of these characters, and the Peasant and the Jew are often united in the comfort of each other’s familiarity. Both are petty crooks, but seemingly more by necessity than by inclination: despite their hardships, they are industrious survivors. Both are kind, complaisant, and family-oriented. They are also hard-working and humorous and aspire towards a better life. But instead, they might meet again: apparently the Devil is interested in the Jew, and it is evident from the plot that the latter is going to be his next acquisition. Indeed, historically, Biełarusian Christians and Jews had already experienced a living hell together: first during the “Unknown War”

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with Moscow in the seventeenth century and then many times over the following centuries.

Jakub Kołas (1882–1956) Kołas, of course, had the very considerable advantage not only of talent but of personal experience both of the conditions of life in tsarists’ prisons but also of a time when Belorussia had a Jewish population of more than 10 percent. –Vera Rich

Jakub Kołas’s twentieth-century comedy Antoś Łata was closely modelled on Marašeŭski’s play. Unlike his predecessor, Kołas’s personal and literary biography is well known to his compatriots and to Western scholars.50 Arnold McMillin describes Kołas’s stature in modern Biełarusian literature: “Dramatist, short-story writer and lyric poet, Kołas achieved greatest distinction in epic forms: the trilogy At the Crossroads [Na rostaniach (1921-54)] comprises in many ways the first Byelorussian novel of depth and substance, whilst in his narrative poems The New Land [Novaja ziamlia (1911–23)] and Symon the Musician [Symon-muzyka (1911-25)], Kołas produced masterpieces which have remained unsurpassed to this day.”51 Maxim Bahdanovič (1891–1917), however, expressed a different opinion of his fellow writer back in 1913: “Jakub Kołas is a calm writer, simple and unfailingly even: one may always be sure of the worth of his works. There is nothing very strong, bright or unexpected, but nor is there anything weak or worthless. Never rising to great heights, he never crashes to the ground. His verse is not highly original, but always carefully thought out and technically strong.”52 Bahdanovič, a great Biełarusian and Slavic poet, scholar, literary critic, ethnographer, and folklorist, did not live long enough to appreciate all of Kołas’s gifts. For example, he did not live to read even the first versions of The New Land, Symon the Musician, and the trilogy At the Crossroads, which Kołas revised repeatedly over thirty-three years. However, Bahdanovič was accurate when he described some of Kołas’s early lyrics, drama, and prose as somewhat mediocre. Antoś Łata, his first attempt at

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writing for the theatre, is certainly one of Kołas’s minor works. But this 1917 comedy is not without merit, especially with regard to expressing the author’s moral stance and ideology, which were also a reflection of his childhood and education. Kanstancin Mickievič (Jakub Kołas) was born on 3 November 1882 in the village of Akinčycy, near Miensk. The Mickievičes were peasants, but literate ones – something uncommon in this stratum of Biełarusian society. His father held a variety of minor posts before being hired as a forester on one of the Radziwiłł estates. Kołas’s first literary language was Russian; however, he fell in love with Biełarusian verse quite early while studying at the village school – his idol was the Biełarusian poet Janka Lučyna.53 Mickievič was a diligent student, and he continued his education at the teachers’ college in Niaśviž, where his efforts at poetry were supported by his instructors and fellow students. Teaching was a highly respectable vocation among peasants, as one of Vasil Bykaŭ’s “progressive” characters notes with regard to the fate of Biełarusian village teachers before the Bolshevik Revolution: “And what did village teachers do in our schools? What did their work mean for our peasant country back then, living in darkness in the tsar’s time, under Polish dominance, during the war, and last but not least, after the war?”54 This quotation is relevant to Kołas, who, after graduating from college in 1902, taught in various village schools until he was imprisoned for three years for participating in an illegal teachers’ meeting. Though he began writing poems in Russian, his first published verse, “Naš Rodny kraj” (Our native land [1906]), was in Biełarusian. Jakub Kołas became his principal pseudonym. Kołas means “an ear of grain.” With this pen name, the writer was emphasizing his bonds to the country’s peasantry, to which he belonged by birth and soul. Kołas was allowed to return to teaching in 1912. During the First World War, he and his family were evacuated to Moscow; in 1916, he graduated from a military college there. The Soviet government discharged him in 1918, at a time when many teachers and other professionals were being released from military service. He continued to work as a teacher and regional instructor in Russia before moving back to Biełaruś in 1921. There, he was immediately promoted to the level of university instructor. As soon as the Biełarusian Academy of Sciences was established in 1929, Jakub Kołas became its vice-president, a position he held for the rest of his life. During the Second World War, his family was evacuated first to

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Moscow and later to Tashkent. The writer and his family returned to Miensk in 1944. Jakub Kołas never fell out of favour with the Soviet authorities, and, unlike most leading Biełarusian writers – Janka Kupała, Źmitrok Biadulia, and the rest of the Naša Niva group – he seemed to accept the Bolsheviks from the start. Yet as McMillin (and before him Anthony Adamovič) has pointed out, nothing was black and white in 1921, and the fact that the writer joined the Communist Party only in 1943 suggests that he had his doubts about the new rulers.55 Back in 1921, he was writing poems like the sinister “Cieni-strachi” (Shadows and fears); “Biełaruskamu ludu” (To the Biełarusian people), in which he wrote, “we know the grip of the Moscovites”; and “Rodnyja maliunki” (Native sketches). These works convey Kołas’s apprehension and dismay in unequivocal terms: “The blacksmiths are different / But the chains are the same / The songs are all old ones / In an unconquered key.”56 Kołas abandoned any dissident ideas after he wrote his novel Dryhva (Quagmire [1933]), in which he generally avoids stereotypical characters. After this novel, most of his prose and lyrics are contaminated with “correct” protagonists. The Soviets always paid him back for his loyalty: five Orders of Lenin, an Order of the Red Banner, an Order of the Labour Red Banner, and many other medals decorated the national poet’s chest. He became the People’s Poet of the Soviet Union in 1926 and the Biełarusian Soviet Socialist Republic’s Honoured Figure of Sciences. He was honoured twice with the Soviet Union’s State Award (in 1946 and 1949). However, he did not receive these prizes simply for becoming a Communist Party lapdog. His literary and cultural arsenal contained plenty of heavy armaments. Besides being a prolific writer, he produced many first-rate translations into and from Biełarusian, and he is remembered as a literary critic and textbook author. Kołas also excelled in children’s literature. The first edition of his collected works was published in 1952, in seven volumes; it was followed by a second (twelve volumes) between 1961 and 1964, and a third and final one (fourteen volumes) between 1972 and 1978. His selected works can still be found in Biełarusian bookshops. It is also worth noting that, in the 1930s, his work was often translated into Yiddish.57 Kołas was not a prolific playwright. In 1917, besides Antoś Łata, he produced a one-act play, Na darozie žyćcia (On the road of life). These plays were followed by Zabastoŭščyki (The strikers [1925]), Vajna vajnie

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(War against the war [final version, 1938]), and U puščach Paleśsia (In the virgin forests of Paleśsie). All of his plays were staged, including Antoś Łata, but none was ever as popular as the works of some other Biełarusian dramaturges. As McMillin points out: “Unlike Kupała, Kołas did not possess an outstanding dramatic talent and his plays fall a long way below the level of his best poetry and prose.”58 Antoś Łata Antoś Łata is a two-act play. It has eight characters, who belong to one of three different groups. First, there are three peasants: Antoś Łata, Habruś, and Ryhor. They are drunks who spend most of their time at the local tavern. Next, there are Berka, the tavern keeper, and his wife, Lea. Third and finally, we have the mystic Incognito and two other numinous creatures, Ghost One and Ghost Two, the former representing drunkenness, the latter, sobriety. Act 1 is set in a decrepit tavern. Berka, an old Jew, occupies one of the tables. He wears glasses and reads the Book. Berka behaves as if he is alone in the room, but he is not. Nearby, knitting, sits his old wife, Lea. A second table, on which an empty bottle stands, is occupied by Habruś and Ryhor, who are both drunk. Habruś is singing a sad song and complaining about his life – trouble at home, a sick wife, and heavy debts. Ryhor offers his recipe for survival: never give up on life and sing merry songs. He orders another half bottle, which Lea obediently brings. The peasants start to pick on Lea, who in a friendly but firm manner responds that they should appreciate her because she has always served them only good alcohol. Lea then continues with a lament about her poverty. Ryhor tells her to bring some food, and she fetches them bread, herring, and onions. Meanwhile, Habruś tells Ryhor that it is pointless to argue with Lea: “Women will always be women, no matter whether she is a Jew or one of ours, a Christian. You cannot win an argument with any of them.”59 Berka asks the men to be quiet. They start gossiping about the Jew and whether his prayers will bring him salvation; they then briefly discuss a move to America (where people, according to what they’ve heard, earn a lot of money for little work). Habruś later offers Ryhor a common Christian superstition about how Jews die. According to him, a chapun (a catcher of souls, a devil) grabs a Jew by the neck when it is his time to die. Ryhor knows this story

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but does not believe it. Habruś insists that his tale is true, and adds: “Oh, you don’t believe me just because you are stupid. And I am telling you that the chapun is a reality, and every year he takes one Jew from the Kahal [local Jewish community]. You see, Jews didn’t have money, and, as you know, any Jew loves money, and he loves it a lot. So they made a pact with the devil: he gives them money, and they, instead of interest, pay him with the life of a Jew each year. And this tax collector is called chapun.”60 Ryhor appeals to Berka to ignore his partner’s drinking stories. He adds that, if Berka dies, there will be no place for them to relax, to drink and eat a little: “Where could we find a shelter? We will be orphans without him.”61 The friends end up singing drunken songs. Antoś Łata appears only late in act 1. He greets everyone in the tavern but gets no response. Antoś now laments that he misses his “real” friends, those with whom he used to drink in the past. Apparently, he is the only survivor of that group. He approaches Berka, teasing him first about being married to the same woman; soon after, he tears the Book from Berka’s hands. Berka calls him a crazy drunkard and tries to recover his Book. Antoś continues to mock Berka, Lea, Habruś, and Ryhor, then has a sudden change of heart. The act ends with a long, sermon-like monologue by Antoś, written in much the same neoclassical style as Marašeŭski’s Kamiedyja: Forgive me, dear lads! And you, Berka, forgive me. You know that this is my nature flowing out from me like lava, but I am not an angry person. [Suddenly he changes his tone of voice.] Oh, if only I was a literate man! I would have written about our people’s dark lives with tears and blood! You are laughing: Antoś is a comedian, he entertains you, and you are laughing! But have you ever seen how Antoś has cried? Have you ever heard how Antoś cursed the hour of his birth, and his dog-like lot? Oh, this pig-like life! [He grinds his teeth.] And who ever benefited from me? I lived and lived, and now I have lost count of my years. My sons are dead, and my grandsons are growing sickly. And my wife? [He is lost in thought.] My dear dove! You should have lived, and you would have had to bury me if I hadn’t taken your health from you. You had to hide from me in your only shirt while my head was taken over by alcohol! I am a dog, a sand snake, a killer! My hut is empty, everyone around me is dead, and I am left alone … I am alone! I

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feel terrified and lonely in my hut! My only companion is you, my poison, you are my slaughterer! [He shakes the bottle.] You are my destroyer! Because of you I beat my family, this is your fault, you, predator! [He lifts his hand against the bottle.] No, I have not enough strength to smash you to smithereens. [He drinks again from the bottle.] The Devil married us, you and I!62 This monologue makes it clear that, despite his late arrival, Antoś Łata is the play’s main character. This passionate individual represents the antithesis of reason and restraint. Antoś is manipulated by supernatural forces to demonstrate to others the danger of his choices and to teach them, by his unfortunate example, not to repeat his alcohol-fuelled mistakes. Also, and typically for neoclassicism, Antoś is a black-and-white sort of character who repents his sins but is too weak to follow a righteous path. The structure of Kołas’s play – long monologues and moral themes (e.g., personal restraint, the role of the individual, the social hierarchy) – adhere to neoclassicism, much like that of Marašeŭski’s play. The only difference is that Marašeŭski’s neoclassicism was “right on time,” while Kołas wrote almost two centuries later, when neoclassicism was to be found mainly in minor vaudevilles. The second act is also a good example of neoclassicism, with its prominent use of contrasting light and dark, real life and supernatural forces. The three peasants, Antoś, Habruś, and Ryhor, find themselves deep in the Biełarusian forest at night. A drunken Antoś can hardly walk on his own and is being supported by the other two. Habruś and Ryhor are frightened of wolves and of the darkness and seem lost, while Antoś continues to stagger around. This very short act omits Berka and Lea, who are replaced by three fleeting supernatural characters: the Incognito and the two Ghosts. Habruś is the only one who sees and speaks to the Incognito, a strange figure wrapped head to toe in dark cloth. Frightened, Habruś returns to his companions and reports to Ryhor that he has met either a ghost or the Devil himself. Antoś admits that he has sold his soul to the Devil and asks them to leave him. A direct association with Dźiomka the Peasant is obvious here; the only difference is that Kołas’s Antoś is a much more schematic figure than Marašeŭski’s Dźiomka. The two Ghosts are females and are not interested in Antoś’s companions – only in him. One represents Drunkenness, the other calls herself Sobriety. They perceive

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themselves as different sides of the same entity, but both claim him as their own property. Drunkenness seems to be stronger and more “rational,” and Antoś, who is trying to slip away, suddenly remembers Berka, who could have consulted the Bible on Antoś’s behalf. Ryhor and Habruś try to drag Antoś away, but he wants his last words to be heard and tells Drunkenness the following tale: Once upon a time there was a musician who played a pipe. He had a wonder-pipe, which played a heartbreaking melody, and no one could listen to it without tears. This is because the pipe-musician installed a sad heart inside the pipe. And if someone asked for joyful music, that heart would be replaced by another, joyful heart. Was this pipe a happy one? You [Drunkenness] took my heart away by poisoning my internal organs. Do you hear me? I am asking this eternal forest, clear moon, and distant stars to be my witnesses: be cursed, you, the devil’s servant! You came to make fun of me even at this last moment of my life, as if it wasn’t enough for you to mock my entire existence!63 Right after this powerful monologue, the sun rises, but by then Antoś is dead. Habruś and Ryhor are frozen with fright, and the stillness of their bodies is typical for the finales of neoclassical works. The same could be said for the play’s moral message: Antoś’s example should have taught the peasants a lesson. Overall, Antoś Łata is an epigonic work. Its characters’ motives and morals are similar to those of Marašeŭski but are not as vividly drawn. Dźiomka develops into a multifaceted individual, while Antoś is largely static. Both peasants, however, despite being from different times, manifest similar behaviour: neither accepts personal responsibility until his final moments; both blame outside circumstances and supernatural worlds for their mistakes. However, Dźiomka exceeds Antoś in his industriousness and his compassion for others. Marašeŭski’s Jew and Kołas’s Berka are the closest associates to Dźiomka and Antoś, respectively, but Berka is rather dull, while Dźiomka’s friend is much more multifaceted. Marašeŭski’s Kamiedyja fits perfectly within the neoclassical practice of unifying time and space (chronotope). Also, because there is a clear historical backdrop to Marašeŭski’s play, the reader understands that the action takes place

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when serfdom first took root in historic Biełaruś. The readers and spectators of Kołas’s play do not have a clue whether the action is taking place before, during, or after the abolition of serfdom in the tsarist empire. In short, Antoś Łata loses to Kamiedyja in every respect. Having said that, Antoś Łata is still entertaining, and its brevity and accessibility would have made for a pleasant interlude during pre-revolutionary seasonal fairs or folk festivals. Nonetheless, the sentiments expressed by both comedies regarding their two main characters – a Biełarusian Christian peasant and a Biełarusian Jew – are analogous. Kołas’s play is also a good example of how Jews were presented in Biełarusian literature. Though Berka has to sell alcohol to make a living, he does not drink himself, nor does he advise others to drink. Berka is monogamous, and he lives with Lea in mutual love and respect. He is literate, and he serves God by keeping the Almighty’s gift of the Torah. Berka also understands Antoś’s “sickness” and does not really judge him – he only advises him to stop drinking for his own sake. Note also that all three peasants treat Berka fairly. Their relationships with each other are supported by the mutual understanding that they are embedded in one another’s lives. An atmosphere of tolerance and acceptance of personal differences prevails in Antoś Łata. And these are not the play’s only positive qualities: the reader will remember Antoś’s last monologue about a pipemusician, during which some artistic spark reminds us of Kołas’s brilliant narrative poem Symon-muzyka (Symon the musician).64 Jakub Kołas’s Symon-Muzyka No work of Kołas is more lyrical [than Symon-Muzyka], and the poem may be read as a personal statement about the role of the artist in society, and the philosophical, aesthetic and psychological questions arising from his position there. The sophistication of form and no less remarkable emotional content make Symon the Musician a unique and fascinating work, revealing major new facets of Kołas’s technical and spiritual development as a poet. –Arnold McMillin

Even the most critical eye would not find artistic fault in the original version of Kołas’s masterpiece, Symon the Musician. There are three principal versions of the poem, which the author continued to revise throughout his

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life. They are all very different, and the altered versions reflect the country’s political transformations. Almost 50 percent of the final text is completely new. The original was written between 1908 and 1911 (the years of the poet’s imprisonment) but was completed only in 1917 and published in 1918. This long gestation is explained by the author’s difficulty in finding teaching jobs after his imprisonment; his temporary jobs didn’t leave much time for writing. The poem was considerably revised during the Soviet period, but a first copy of the second version (1918–24) was never printed. Kołas’s letter to his wife, written from a medical spa in the summer of 1924, confirms the completion of the second version and his satisfaction with it.65 However, his suitcase containing the manuscript was stolen on his way home, and he had to rework the entire poem. This second copy of the second version was only completed and published in 1925. The third major version was completed in 1954. The second and third versions are tainted by significant sovietization. In my discussion, I use the “pure” text of the original first copy, titled Kazki Žyćcia (Fairytales of life). Kołas’s verse, in all its beauty and suppleness, is grasped in Vera Rich’s excellent translation of the poem.66 Two of its principal themes – love of nature and devotion to one’s native land – are powerfully rendered in her translation of the introduction to part 3 of the first version: O my land, my land so lovely, Well-loved corner of my race! What in God’s world is more beloved Than these banks, with brightness graced, Where the rivers glitter silver, Where the woods hum murmuring song, Where buckwheat breathes honey, quivering Cornfields murmur on and on; Than the monuments unending Of the marshes, of thy pools, Where wide space its thoughts is blending Under freshets gushing cool, Where the osiers weep in autumn, Where in spring bright meadows blow, Where birch trees in a path long-trodden Like a lovely highway grow.

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Ah, you grave mounds, old past counting, Witness of ages deaf and still, Who has raised you here, abounding? By what hand and by whose will, As guardians of old-time causes, Were ye scattered on the plain? What the centuries have taught ye, You will not reveal again! In uneven paths you sally Forth where distances invite, On towards the wondrous Vialla, And where Dźvina shimmers bright. My native land! In earth’s abundance Where another to be found, Where beside such waste and rubbish Beauty rises to confound? Where among poverty, there blossom Wondrous riches, bright and clear, And where are human fate and fortune Met with laughter as but here?67 As McMillin notes, the poem’s main theme is the role of the artist in society; it permeates the narrative and is expressed in an individualistic and romantic style. This theme gives structure to the poem’s plot, which explores the love of nature and the love of one’s native land – two well balanced elements that are ever present during the life struggles of the main character, the musician Symon. His fate represents not only the artist’s turbulent relationship with a corrupt society but also the life upheavals of a lower-class prodigy. Symon embodies what it means to strive to answer an artistic calling against all odds. Social conditions are far from favourable for Symon – mediocrities at all levels of society resist his gifts. The most typical romantic feature of the poem is the societal challenge of mutual misunderstanding. Only two peasants are sympathetic to Symon: a shepherd, Kuryła, and Hanna, the love of his life. As is typical in this type of romantic poetry, Hanna, who symbolically represents Biełaruś, dies in the original version; however, the poet resurrects her in the Soviet versions.

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Symon flees his stagnant village life, where he gets nothing but disrespect from his family and from other peasants. It is interesting that Jewish musicians from Eastern Europe, who included Biełarusian artists known today as Klezmer poets (Yiddish: badchons), singers, and instrumentalists, had been subjected to the same treatment as had Kołas’s protagonist.68 Dźmitry Sliepovich, in “Klezmer kak fenomen evreiskoi muzykalnoi kultury v vostochnoi Evrope” [Klezmer as a phenomenon of Eastern European Jewish musical culture], writes that “the art of music has always been loved by Jews, but musicians, in particular the young ones, do not enjoy societal respect: they are looked at as frivolous people who are lacking moral scruples and religious values.”69 Sliepovich adds that Jewish musical groups performed mainly at Christian and Jewish weddings. Competition was sometimes the reason for a conflict between Jewish and Christian performers;70 according to Sliepovich, this often ended amicably in Biełaruś, with both groups performing together.71 Another common feature of Kołas’s Symon and Jewish instrumentalists is social. Symon, and Jewish musicians in general, belonged to the lowest social level and did not make much money: “a glaring contradiction between the natural musicality of people and their aspirations towards music, on the one hand, and lack of respect for this profession, on the other hand, had a purely social character.”72 Most Jewish musicians had to work in a more “serious” profession in order to sustain their families. Also uniting Kołas’s Symon with Klezmer musicians is the fact that they had to travel in order to earn a living. As Sliepovich notes: “professional Jewish musicians never stay in one place. Travelling from one shtetl to another was a typical way of life, right until the shtetls disappeared in the twentieth century.”73 Symon’s life as a wandering musician began with a blind beggar who used the boy to make money. The beggar starved him and exploited his talent while hiding the money he made. Repelled by the beggar’s conduct, and bored by the unchallenging music he had to perform for this “impresario,” Symon left him. Symon’s next two employers also treated him badly, and, in turn, he left them as well. Symon’s exploiters exemplify the main prerevolutionary Biełarusian allegiances, faiths, and social positions. He starts with the peasant, a beggar who was most probably Biełarusian Orthodox; he then moves on to a Jewish innkeeper and ends with a Biełarusian Catholic prince. All three characters are recognizable types; however, the innkeeper

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is not stereotyped as strongly as are the others. His actions and characteristics change over the course of the poem, and he is the only one who is described and referred to by other characters. Note also that, in the poem’s final version, written in Soviet times, the innkeeper has vanished. Symon had found the tavern after leaving the beggar and wandering for a spell in the countryside. He is happy only in the interim, between abandoning the beggar and meeting the innkeeper. His joy is threefold: it arises from the beauty of Biełarusian nature, his memories of Hanna, and his fiddle, which he plays to express his love for both. One day during his wanderings he grows hungry and stops in at the tavern, where “the little Jew called Šlomka [Šloma] had been a well-known innkeeper in the area.”74 The narrator lightly and humorously unwraps the story: Šlomka has often been screamed at and thrashed, However, it has been done without a rage, Because he was really loved, And in his home everyone was welcomed. And how could it be otherwise? No matter how rude you are – He will always offer you help and will give advice, With drink he does not stint, Though it is better if you pay for it, But he will trust you if you can’t. In a word, he is a good Jew, Even if you are in debt.75 The poet praises Šlomka highly, noting that people from all walks of life end up at his tavern. Kołas also describes how difficult and complicated the innkeeper’s job is: “Šloma, prompt and swift, makes rounds, / Quick to jump from one table to others, / With a face as red as a lobster’s, / Cleaning everywhere, like a sweeper.” Symon, confused, hungry, and intimidated by the abundance of food and drink, and by the raucous good cheer and arguments taking place at the inn, is about to continue on his journey when he is stopped by the allseeing innkeeper, who offers him food and money in return for entertaining his guests. When Symon starts to play, the crowd becomes enchanted. When he has finished, Symon is overwhelmed by their emotional – and

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financial – generosity. Šloma, besides paying him well, invites Symon to play for a few hours each day. He promises the boy food, clothing, and money. These promises, however, are never fully kept. Indeed, besides playing the whole night long, Symon finds himself working without pay for Šloma’s wife and children. Šloma employs another hired man, Jachim the peasant, who works hard but doesn’t let himself get pushed around. Symon, who never talks back to the innkeeper, becomes demoralized and starts to physically waste away. What is really making him ill is that Šloma takes away his fiddle when he is not playing for the public. But the last straw for Symon is not Šloma’s behaviour but, rather, his audience’s indifference to his original compositions and their mundane taste in music. A couple of drunken peasants badmouth Symon’s playing and demand that he plays popular folk songs instead of his “boring” tunes. The musician’s integrity is so hurt that, despite his physical frailty, he courageously stands up to his tormentors. Symon tells them that they can beat him or even kill him but he will never play for them again. His response evokes respect from his tormenters. Symon then swiftly does what he has always done when his soul cannot endure attacks on his music: he leaves the tavern, just as he had left his father and then the beggar. Hungry and weak, Symon is beckoned once again by the Biełarusian countryside. Wrapped in the comfort of his native land and sky, he falls asleep, only to awaken to more magic: his dear Hanna is at his side, waiting patiently for him to stir. The two young people delight in being together again and talk about their lives. Symon complains about his hardships at the innkeeper’s. Hanna, who has always intuitively understood him, listens with compassion and is rewarded with beautiful music dedicated to her and to Biełarusian nature. In the poem’s next section, Hanna and Symon part ways. The musician now encounters a prince, who, like the beggar and the innkeeper, uses the young musician’s talent to satisfy his own egotistic desires. Of the three principal exploiters, only Šloma the Jew has a backstory – a family life, many children (who are named in the poem), a livelihood, co-religionists, and friends. In contrast, the old beggar doesn’t have a proper name, nor does the prince. The innkeeper is also described more realistically than are the other protagonists. Šloma’s character is established not only visually but also through the voices of other protagonists. Symon is not as vocal as Jachim, the innkeeper’s hired help. Jachim talks

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back to Šloma and even curses him, but he also wants to keep his job. Jachim could be working for the landlord, but he has chosen to stay with Šloma, whose supposedly “Jewish” characteristics – greed, deviousness, and adherence to his faith and to his co-religionists – are often the subject of Jachim’s conversations with Symon. The narrator, who at first is rather tolerant of the innkeeper, is quick to show Šloma’s “otherness” in many details, most of which reflect superstitions. As he did in Antoś Łata, Kołas introduces (through Jachim) the mythical figure of the chapun, describing this “soul catcher” as party to an agreement to send Jewish souls to hell in exchange for money for the Kahal. In reality, the chapun signifies a very different aspect of Jewish history. Here, “catcher” alludes to a contemporary Russian tsarist military policy: In 1825, two years after Nicholas I rose to the Russian throne, his regime began press-ganging Jewish boys from eight to twelve years old into the army, in which they were expected to serve for twenty-five years. Chapuns travelled in covered carriages, catching “loose” Jewish children. Some of these unfortunate children were only six years old, but these catchers didn’t care: their job was to fill their quota. More than fifty thousand Jewish children were forcefully baptized between 1827 and 1856. Their “education” consisted mostly of being beaten and tortured. The children who converted to Christianity earliest had the best chance of survival.76 Alexander Herzen, one of Russia’s greatest democrats, spoke with pain about this phenomenon in one of the episodes of his celebrated Byloe i dumy (Bygone days and thoughts).77 This tsarist policy, and similar ones, remind us of the otherness of the innkeeper and his co-religionists as well as of the play Antoś Łata, in which the author describes the peasants’ dark ignorance in pre-revolutionary times. Another important point of contention between the simpleton, Jachim, and the prodigy, Symon, relates to their different views of family. Jachim, who is an orphan, reproaches Symon for serving the innkeeper instead of returning to his father. Symon is so terribly offended by this that he cannot sleep. In his view, an artist is more likely to be misunderstood and mistreated by one’s own father than by an employer. This brings us closer to Alieś Barščeŭski’s interpretation of Symon’s musical genius, his typicality as a romantic hero, and his low social status.78 Barščeŭski, however, does not examine the third part of the first version of the poem, in which the focus is on Symon and the innkeeper. This part also describes broader mis-

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understandings, which show how the romantic hero’s nature precludes him from integrating with the rest of society. The fact is that only beautiful Hanna, who doesn’t seem to belong to reality (given her angelic features and characteristics), accepts him without reservation. Barščeŭski does not note the fiddler’s egotism – a prominent characteristic of the romantic hero – which creates victims of almost everyone whom he encounters. Starting with his father, Symon repeatedly betrays other people’s expectations. His family needed a son, someone who would contribute to the household, which an obedient and loyal peasant son was expected to do. The beggar, whose life changes for the worse with Symon’s departure, laments Symon’s “betrayal.” The innkeeper and the prince, as the poem narrates, also view Symon as disloyal. The conflict between society and the individual ego is at the heart of this poem, and the narrator sympathizes more with the latter – that is, with Symon. The author makes it clear that Symon represents artistic vision and aspirations, while Jachim’s emotions are invested with Symon’s peasant father: “You see, Jachim, my father and I are strangers, / We will never hold each other’s hands. / You see, Jachim, there are borders / In each soul, which shall never be cut across.”79 Jachim, in turn, harshly judges Symon for this attitude: “Hey, you are talking rubbish, / And you cannot even recognize the truth, / This is obvious to me: you may thoughtlessly betray your kind, / While any stranger can push your around!”80 Symon’s romantic nature is stung by this misunderstanding on the part of someone who at first sincerely wished him well. Yet he continues to stand his ground. In so doing, he illustrates a fact of life: what to one person is an act of betrayal can to another be an act of loyalty. In terms of the poem’s genre, I follow McMillin, who was the first to emphasize the poem’s romanticism: “The work’s genre is an organic fusion of romantic and folk elements. The lonely, outstandingly gifted hero wandering in search of an ideal that contrasts sharply with harsh reality, is ostensibly a typical romantic figure, going back to the Jena school of Wackenroder and Tieck. Common to romanticism and folk literature are the elevation of art and virtue: particularly in the later parts of the poem Symon’s strength of purpose and moral courage are directly associated with his exceptional gifts.”81 Another common feature of romanticism is the presence of exotic characters. Unlike Kołas’s play, which is a derivative of Marašeŭski’s genuine neoclassical work, Kołas’s poem depicts Šloma the innkeeper as half local

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and half foreign (i.e., half exotic). Perhaps this is why this brilliant part of the first version of the poem vanished from the final two versions. Note also that Kołas was the only classic Biełarusian writer of the Naša Niva who used exotic features in some of his depictions of Jews – though not in his 1921 short story “Chaim Rybs.”82 “Chajm Rybs” was first published as a feuilleton (a short, fact-based satire) and later reworked into a short story. Its plot, structure, and main character describe an early stage of the Bolshevik political system. The short story, which is rooted in a realist tradition, underscores that most Jews did not care for the Bolsheviks and, instead, were loyal to their Biełarusian Christian and Muslim neighbours. Its main protagonist, Chajm Rybs, has escaped Soviet persecution by sheer luck. He is a typical Biełarusian of any faith: a hard worker who is just and benevolent to his family and neighbours alike. He loves his land and his people and is loyal to them. He muses that political systems come and go but that the land will endure. The story unwinds in the provincial setting of a small shtetl. The thirdperson narrator informs the reader that Chajm was elected the settlement’s headman at a general meeting that he did not even attend. His neighbour, Icka Šperal, tells him of his election after the fact. Rybs is angry when he hears about it, until he understands that Icka is only the messenger. With a light, ironic pomposity, the narrator describes Chajm’s human qualities, which are what made the people of the shtetl choose him. “What did the participants of the meeting have in mind when they were electing Rybs? Some put forward his maturity and literacy (his handwriting, and he himself recognized it, was very nice); others distinguished his intelligence; and the third group, confirming all of the above, also added his genuine knowledge of the inhabitants, among whom the elder had lived for so long and, with decency and integrity, had worked hard for their well-being.”83 Chajm’s understanding of his election is rather different: “Oh, meshuggeneh cop [crazy heads], you are happy to harness a person just because he missed that stupid meeting and couldn’t, dear neighbours, join in your tongue wagging!”84 Chajm quiets down and returns to business as usual, cleaning the yard and the corner store, which is his current job. While performing his chores, Chajm never stops thinking. Most of the protagonist’s thoughts are about pre-revolutionary times, when he was the owner of the corner store, which used to be always packed with customers. But now, what a difference! “Naked walls in the shop, and empty shelves that used to cave in

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under the weight of different goods but now had, here and there, two or three empty rusty jars and other waste, looking awful. Everything there breathed desolation and futility. And all the various problems that had been hanging over the heads of local inhabitants? And this loss of the former way of life? Can any of this be a cause for good thoughts?”85 This interior monologue, indeed, all of the protagonist’s thoughts, are in the same vein: they clearly indicate passive resistance to the Bolsheviks. Remember that Kołas was one of very few important Biełarusian writers who did not suffer severely from Soviet repressions. (Also, Chajm’s monologue would have been impossible to publish in the 1930s without dire consequences). The story has three parts. The first ends with Chajm’s Homeric laughter, which is the last of three responses that are evoked by orders from the local Bolshevik central committee to their “headman.” The first response is anger, rooted in pride; the second is a marriage of irony and sarcasm; the last is laughter. A local Christian named Jazep, who serves as messenger for the Bolshevik Central Committee, hears this laughter. Jazep is a childhood friend who is genuinely happy for Chajm’s high position, yet he cannot understand his reaction to the authorities. The second part of the story begins with the arrival of a Soviet junior functionary, who approaches Chajm with an order stating that he is to be provided with a horse carriage. Chajm amicably tells him that he would be better off going on foot since his destination is quite near. When the young man insists that he is entitled to the carriage, Chajm vaguely agrees, but immediately forgets about “the authority” of the Bolshevik Central Committee and his promise. When the angry young official returns and insists that Chajm respect his right to a horse carriage, Chajm manages to get rid of him. In the third part of the story, retribution from various Soviet bosses pours down on Chajm. A multitude of Bolshevik superiors demand that Rybs supply them with labour and carriages. Chaim collects many orders, mandates, and requisition papers from different organizations and files them all neatly in one place. Soon the highest authority visits Chajm, and they exchange words, at the end of which the boss arrests Chajm. Chasia, Chajm’s wife, supplies him with two pounds of bread, and off he goes. In prison, which turns out to be a cold room in a militia headquarters, Chajm finds himself in the company of local peasants and craftspeople. All of them know one another well and greet Chajm as a good friend. Chajm, in

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turn, is pleased to see everyone. The prisoners exchange stories, and later, like a fastidious housemaster, Chajm takes an inventory of the place. When he finds a full bottle of moonshine, Chajm calls everyone in to share the bottle: “The bottle went around. Everyone’s mouth was pressed to it in turn, as if the bottle was a source of life. Faces suddenly brightened up, tongues were loosened, and conversation flowed without interruption. After a second round, there was very little left in the bottle. However, all the inmates became incredibly happy, and their souls opened up. What emerged: these people were not so simple; on the contrary, they all had souls of exquisite kindness and great quality. Now all of them were brothers and sisters, ready to go to the cross for each other.”86 Chajm also opens his heart to his fellow prisoners: “Comrades! … I am in this prison because of you, because I was staying on guard for your interests. Let them jail me every day, I will not go against my people, and I will not send you to work for nothing …” – “You are a good fellow, God knows, you are!” – “Listen, listen … I didn’t follow their orders, and to them I am – a saboteur and a convict; however, I treated you with moonshine …” Chaim Rybs didn’t finish his speech and started to laugh.87 His friends join him and they all laugh uncontrollably, yet no one in the room knows why. Clearly, Chaim truly is their headman at that moment. So when he starts to sing and dance the freilex (a traditional up-tempo Jewish dance), everyone noisily joins in. This wakes up the head of the militia and two of his officers. One look at the empty bottle (which they had obviously planned to drink themselves) is enough for them to understand what happened. This brings about an unexpectedly happy ending: everyone is allowed to go free, and “Chajm Rybs joyfully reminisces about all of this, and he likes to tell the story about his service as the headman.”88 Like some other prominent twentieth-century Biełarusian writers, Kołas portrays many Biełarusian Jewish characters, three of whom I have considered in this chapter. In these and other works, he not only shows his skill at portraying such characters but also expresses his hope that Biełarusians of different faiths will someday be free from their various oppressors.

3 Janka Kupała, Natalla Arsien´ nieva, and Maxim Tank: Addresses to Biełarusian Jews

The fear of death is still here. Do you feel it? Beating in cold black wings and freeing the roots of your hair And here and there look! Eyes, mute eyes are staring. They are the souls of the slain. Outcasts, lost souls that have assembled here, And stare at you with their mute eyes, Silently repeating the ancient plaint that has not yet reached heaven. Why? Why? And once again, why? –Chajm N. Bialik

This chapter includes three poems about Jews written by prominent twentieth-century Biełarusian poets: Janka Kupała (1882–1942), Natalla Arsieńnieva (1903–1997), and Maxim Tank (1912–1995). I begin with Janka Kupała, the poet, translator, and playwright.

Janka Kupała: No Time for Prayers When the House Is on Fire Janka Kupała occupies a unique place in the hearts of the Biełarusian people. A writer of great natural gifts, he rapidly acquired the stature of a truly national poet, and both before and after the Russian revolution of 1917 represented the hopes and longings of all those who aspired towards the creation of a just society free from internal and external oppression. –Arnold B. McMillin

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Indeed, Kupała is an iconic Biełarusian writer, and he had a tremendous impact on the national and cultural conscience of his nation. His pen name celebrates Kupallie (the Biełarusian version of the Summer Solstice), and he has often been referred to as a troubadour, a tribune, a civic poet, a national prophet, and a symbol of Biełaruś. Along with Maxim Bahdanovič, Jakub Kołas, and Źmitrok Biadulia, Kupała was a leading writer in the modern Biełarusian literary renaissance of the twentieth century, and he is viewed as the central figure in the short-lived Biełarusian Rebirth Movement, whose heyday was from the early 1900s to the early 1920s (its demise coinciding with the end of the Polish-Soviet War [1918–22]). Some critical voices, from a variety of ideological positions, contend that Kupała was treasured by the Soviets and that he served them loyally. Certainly, it is true that, in 1925, he was the first Soviet poet to receive the honourary title of People’s Poet. It is also true that, even though he lacked any formal education and was very much an autodidact, he was appointed to two academic benches: the Biełarusian Academy of Sciences and the Ukrainian Academy of Sciences. But even a cursory examination of his life and work reveals that, despite the many government awards bestowed upon him, he was not a naturally loyal and trusted citizen of the nascent Soviet Empire. Indeed, neither in his life nor in his work did he ever willingly express acceptance of either tsarist and Polish rule or of the Bolsheviks who came to rule his motherland. In fact, as a protest against Bolshevik rule – against these “strangers” in his beloved Biełaruś – he attempted suicide in 1930. Lenin’s and Stalin’s regimes did everything in their power to win Kupała to their side, and most literary critics and historians agree that, by the time of Stalin’s purges, the Soviets had succeeded in breaking his spirit with their ongoing surveillance. I reject this view and try to show in this chapter that there were issues that Kupała consistently faced head on. One of these was Soviet anti-Semitism. Paradoxically, during his life and after his death, Kupała was sometimes labelled Judeophobic, but he was more often considered Judeophilic. Given this, I choose his poem “Žydy” (Jews [1919]) to show that, as Biełaruś’s national poet, he called for unity between Biełarusians of different faiths. And he continued to do so in the face of strong Soviet anti-Semitic campaigns and relentless Nazi propaganda. Janka Kupała has been the subject of many biographies, and they have shed light on various angles of his life.1 Most of these helpful profiles

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come close to calling him a samarodok (prodigy) but that is not their focus. The view of Kupała as a samarodok is examined in the short biography I provide; I also discuss it in connection with his artistic production. Janka Kupała was born on 25 June 1882 and was baptized on 12 July as Jan (Jaś, Janka, and later Ivan) Damimikavič Łucevič. He was the second-born but first surviving son of Daminik and Bianihna Łucevič.2 The family belonged to the Biełarusian “lesser gentry” (šliachta, szliachta). Despite this status, they were impoverished and landless. Daminik Łucevič had to support his family by working land that he rented from landowners. Those leases lasted anywhere from a few months to nine years, and, as a consequence, the family led a semi-nomadic existence and the children’s education was sporadic. During one of their longest periods of relative stability, from 1891 to 1895, Daminik Łucevič rented land in the township of Prudence (Miensk province). That is where Jaś started educating himself, a process that included reading incessantly – a habit he would carry throughout his life. His father also arranged a series of “principal-teachers” for him: under this system, an itinerant teacher stays in the home of an underprivileged family and teaches the children what is learned in elementary school. Kupaɫa remembers these “principals,” who themselves were often no more than primary school graduates. But they were the only choice for villagers as schools were rare and very difficult to enter. Geopolitical circumstances were such that Kupała’s principals taught him mainly in Polish – a language that, unlike Biełarusian and Ukrainian, was not then officially prohibited. Around this time, Polish rule was almost as oppressive to Biełarusians as was Russian rule.3 The Łucevičs moved to Seliśčy in 1895 and lived there until 1904. Life in Seliśčy was no easier than in other places, but it offered Jaś an opportunity to educate himself. There, he met Sihismund Čachovič (1831– 1907), an exile who had taken part in the uprising of 1883. In the words of Kupała: “He had a huge library, predominantly in Polish. Here a real treasure was opened to me.”4 But then came the tragic year of 1902, when the Łucevič family lost their father and twenty-year-old Jaś had to assume the responsibility of being head of his family. That year, they endured three more burials: Jaś’s younger siblings Kazimir (1891–1902), Sabina (1893– 1902), and Hekia (1893–1902). According to the surviving sisters, Hanna (1886–1962), Maryja (1887–1966), and Jasia Leakadzija (1890–1970), their brother never recovered from the loss of these four family members.

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His surviving sisters, especially Jasia, left detailed memoirs relating to their famous brother. Without a hint of sibling rivalry, they state that he was their parents’ favourite. Jasia also informs the reader that he was a musical prodigy as much as a literary one: “Besides books, Jaś was also best with music. He pleaded with our father to buy him a fiddle. Soon father bought him an old one from a local herdsman for fifty kopeks. It brought so much joy not only to him but also to all of us! The moment Jaś finished his chores at night, he would take his fiddle and play all night long.”5 Jaś also became an accomplished flautist. All of the Łucevičs got along well with their neighbours, whatever their faith or social status. Thus, Jasia remembered visiting Abramka, a Jewish shopkeeper in the township – a visit for which she felt the same pleasant anticipation as she would have for a visit to her grandparents. This important characteristic of Christian Biełarusians – their feelings of mutual affection towards neighbours of diverse backgrounds – prevailed in Janka Kupaɫa’s generation and only began to weaken later on. This quality is evident in Kupała’s “Žydy” (Jews) and in his unfinished poem “Dzieviać asinavych kollaŭ” (Nine aspen stakes [1941–42]). Both works, written twenty-three years apart, demonstrate with exceptional clarity that, like most Biełarusians of that time, Kupaɫa never changed his views about his Jewish compatriots. Kupała’s first poems, written in Polish, the language of his earliest schooling, appeared in 1902. It was in 1904 that he grasped that his artistic calling was to be a Biełarusian national and civic poet, and he transformed himself from Jaś Łucevič into Janka Kupała. He wrote in his autobiography: “I became acquainted with Biełarusian political leaflets and brochures in 1904, which became decisive in understanding that I am first and foremost Biełarusian and that my call is to serve my people with all of my soul and heart.”6 In 1904, he met Jadvihin Š. (Anton Liavickij), a Biełarusian writer, educator, and political activist. In the same autobiography, written in 1928 for L.M. Klejnbart, a Petersburg Jew who was Kupała’s early patron and who had a strong interest in the nascent Biełarusian artistic world, the poet informs his correspondent that the years from 1904 to 1915 were his most productive. During this time he wrote up to three hundred lines a day.7 Kupała realized early on that he had much to learn about writing poetry. Consequently, after 1904 his theoretical understanding of poetry deepened. Indeed, in 1904 and the first half of 1905 he produced

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many important works, which were published in two of his early volumes of poetry, Huślar (The minstrel [1910]), and his largest collection, Šlacham žyćcia (On the road of life [1913]). McMillin notes that this latter anthology “comprised a total of 216 works, notable for their great variety of theme, style, genre, intonation and, above all, wonderfully varied, subtly flexible rhythms. The social themes of earlier cycles now gave way to the idea of national resurgence, which rapidly assumed a central place in the poet’s work.”8 By 1915, Kupała had become an authority on Biełarusian literature; that same year, he was named the editor of a semi-legal Biełarusian newspaper, Naša Niva, which was constantly being raided and harassed by tsarist authorities. In 1916, he married fellow Biełarusian modernist poet Uɫadzisłava Stankievič. The horrors of the First World War and the Russian Civil War, the consequences of which were especially dire for Biełarusians (Biełarusian Jews were a favourite target of the White and Polish armies and of bandit gangs), plunged Kupała into a two-year period of lethargy. His creativity was reawakened with the declaration of the Biełarusian People’s Republic on 25 March 1918. Starting with his poem “Baćkaŭščyna” (Fatherland [19 March 1918]), Kupała’s literary productivity rose steadily until 1929.9 His political stance during this new period has been described by Stankievič10 and confirmed by McMillin;11 his anger at the Biełarusian oppressors of that era, the Germans, Poles, and Russians, is apparent in the works he wrote at that time. He was also unforgiving of compatriots who collaborated with foreign powers. By the time Kupała returned to Miensk on 21 January 1919, he was openly expressing his hostility towards the German and Polish occupiers. This was notable in his third anthology, “Spadčyna” (The heritage [1922]). Kupała’s most heartfelt and polemical works – “Žydy,” “Paǔstań z narodu našaha, Prarok!” (Arise from our people, oh, prophet! [1919]), “Perad budučyniaj” (Before the future [1922]), “Paet i cenzar” (The poet and the censor [1922]) – were not approved by the Soviet censors because they amounted to calls to resist the Soviet rulers. Their particular targets were Russian nationals and Russified or Polonized Biełarusians who supported the Russification or Polonization of the country. In his strongest voice, in “Time to pay back our debt to Biełaruś,” the poet called for a new vision for Biełaruś and for the rise of its prophet, as Naša Niva had declared back in 1913.12 A similar tone and worldview are evident in Tutejšyja (The natives [1922]), the last and most sombre of his

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four plays: it is utterly lacking in the characteristic light humour and lyricism of his earlier plays and poetry. The years 1921 to 1929 were marked by a narrow Biełarusification of the poet’s native land. These steps were clumsy – as any steps are when orchestrated from above – but even so, they did much to nurture academic and cultural activities in the Biełarusian language. But, in late 1929, patriots’ hopes were shattered, and Kupała had to endure a brief but traumatic arrest and interrogation by the nkvd. This preceded his suicide attempt in 1930. Afterwards, he was placed under relentless surveillance by the Soviet secret police. Though the poet saw two editions of his collected works published, first in 1925 and then in 1932, the last twelve years of his existence were marked by depression in all spheres of his life, but especially in his creative life.13 Kupała’s writings during these years could be defined as “anti-Kupała” for they largely lacked the sincerity, musicality, innovation, romance, lyricism, and general brilliance of his earlier works. Nevertheless, like most writers and cultural figureheads in the Soviet Empire at that time, Kupała continued to shine in his translations. With regard to these, he focused mainly on his beloved Taras Shevchenko (Šaǔčenka) and Aleksandr Pushkin. Later in his life, Kupała developed a genuine love and understanding of the latter’s work. Translating enabled Kupała’s continued development and showed his great sensitivity to languages, his mastery of rhythm, and his innate musicality. Certainly his translations immensely enriched Biełarusian literature. When the Second World War began, Kupała was evacuated first to Moscow, then to Kazaǹ, and then back to Moscow for propaganda purposes. By then, his name was revered among his war-ravaged compatriots. By the end of 1944, over one-quarter of the Biełarusian population would be wiped out, and about one-half displaced. He did not live to see the final accounting of Nazi crimes. McMillin notes that, even during the decades of Kupała’s forced Soviet servitude, his nationalist poetry showed “no trace of narrow chauvinism.”14 Indeed, Kupała expressed his understanding of pan-Biełarusian duty in his article “Pay Your Debt” (Splačvajcie doǔh): “No time for prayers when the house is on fire.”15 I now turn to Janka Kupała’s ballad, “Žydy.” This poem was first published in the newspaper Biełarus (A Biełarusian).16 Vera Rich translated it into English, minus stanzas 4 to 7: she died before she could complete

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the translation, which has disappeared from the internet and is preserved only in our correspondence and in the present study. I have translated the four missing stanzas (4 to 7) from the original 1919 version and added them to Rich’s translation. “Žydy,” written during the turbulent first year of the bssr, clearly expresses Kupała’s political, artistic, and civil values. It is written in iambic hexameter, and each of the fourteen stanzas is a quatrain, with a feminine/masculine rhyme and a rhythm scheme of a b a b. The ballad is highly emotional, uses biblical messages, and is written in a solemn style. “žydy” [jews] 1. O Jews, you “vagabonds and Saviour-vendors” Glory to you, O Jews of Biełaruś! I trust in you, though slave and mighty emperor, Old and young, spit at You with black mud’s abuse. 2. Today as prisoners we bear affliction, One on the weary soil of Biełaruś, Where black abuse, with icon-benediction, Crushes us – beasts caught in a cruel noose. 3. You Jews will rise when Biełaruś has risen, Your banner and our beacon-fire will live, Although our tomb is garlanded with blossom, And deadly plague boasts we shall not survive. 4. Your candles were not extinguished, alas, they will never die: You gave us Christ and everlasting life. And we, our Shepherd’s poor sinful lambs, Build altars and bow in prayer to Him eternally. 5. But then you humiliated and crucified Him. You thought that Christ was your country’s enemy, You wanted to spread your own powerful word All over the entire world. 6. You were deprived of your homeland by nations, You were diminished by exile and ostracism, And your tribes were scattered all over, And you were forced to find your bread among strangers. 7. Back then you were received as our welcomed guests

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In Biełarusian North, and East, and South, and West. Everyone treated you as brothers: This mutuality protected you from harms and ills.17 8. When once in Spain the people in rebellion Drove you, a laughing-stock, from out their realm, Your breast could breathe at ease in the quiet meadow Of Biełaruś; refuge was here and calm. 9. The days passed by, and you were thrown in fetters By despot-tsar and God-blaspheming king, But Biełaruś alone, till times grew better, Honoured, respected you like closest kin. 10. Your name was spat upon by Moscow, Warsaw, They spurred the savage crowd with hate for you, But Biełaruś gathered and nursed your children, Beneath her wings she warmed and sheltered you. 11. Later, O Jews, you turned against the nation Who’d sheltered you with all sincerity; You sought a life of ease and adulation From strong ones – who gave rank and gallows. 12. Scattered throughout the world, prosecuted, perishing, You still await the Promised One, O Jews; For Him the sons of Biełaruś are pining, And thither all will go, together: us and you! 13. Your torch is bright where Palestine is waiting, Our torch is bright – in Mother-Biełaruś. The time will come when chains will fall and vanish; Our chains will fall – and spring will flower for us! 14. Now in the tempest, yours is the decision, To come or not into the light with us. The time has come, Jews, masters of creation, Time to repay your debt to Biełaruś! Kupała completed this poem on 10 October 1919; it was first published on 7 November, on the second anniversary of the Bolshevik Revolution.18 At that time, Kupała harboured doubts about the new rulers, the Bolsheviks. But he also questioned his own allegiance to the short-lived bnr, which had been overpowered by the Bolsheviks.19 Both the bssr and the

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bnr claimed to have Kupała’s allegiance. During the bnr’s short time in power, Kupała was struggling to recover from a physical illness and psychological depression, and he absented himself from the political scene. His melancholy was deepened by the Russian Civil War and the German and Polish occupations. As a result, he contributed little to the first efforts to found a modern Biełarusian democratic state, steered by the bnr. His personal feelings of guilt partly explain his appeal to Biełarusian Jews to join in common cause with the progressive Biełarusian nationalists. This poem’s solemn mood evokes a bond with the people closest to him, a bond based on mutual social and economic hardships and love of one’s homeland. He is appealing to Biełarusian Jews in the belief that they are well attuned to the problems that, for centuries, have overwhelmed their native land: social injustice and political and economic upheaval. I add to the above a fear of the unknown, represented by the Bolsheviks. Also, at this time, there was tension between Biełarusian Christian political parties and the bund after the latter’s representatives left the bnr’s Rada.20 Yet even after this split, the predominantly Jewish Biełarusian railway workers, together with their Christian colleagues, provided the security for the Rada’s historic evening session of 24–25 March 1918. They drove back those who were loyal to the Bolshevik military forces and guarded the Rada’s assembly throughout the night. As history shows, the collective fate of the Biełarusian Jews has differed sharply from that of Russian, Polish, Ukrainian, and other Jews of the region. Źmitrok Biadulia wrote about the unique relationship between Biełarusian Christians and Jews in his pamphlet Žydy na Biełarusi (Biełarusian Jews) and in his artistic works.21 All of this should be borne in mind, along with Kupała’s patriotic, civic, and artistic intentions, as a backdrop to our examination of “Žydy.” Also telling are the rare appearances of this poem in print (both in the East and in the West) and the common omission of four full stanzas (sixteen lines). Ironically, this seventy-year censorship has united Biełarusians, whatever ideologies they might hold. It has also brought together Soviet and post-Soviet citizens in what verges on a campaign of political correctness with regard to Kupała’s rendering of Jews. For the Soviets, and even for some post-Soviet Biełarusians, the ever-present images of Christ, the messiah and prophet, interspersed with morality-based allusions to one’s debt and duty to the motherland, have been perceived as

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a “forbidden” aspect of Kupała’s oeuvre. While generally recognizing the poet’s ceaseless struggle against anti-Semitism in the Russian and Soviet Empires, the followers of these different ideologies consider the imagery of the entire poem to be tainted. But such ideologues seem to forget that Janka Kupała’s approach was always primarily didactic; indeed, we find the same heavily symbolic imagery of the messiah, the prophet, Christ, and national symbols in all of his patriotic works together with heavy criticism of Biełarusian anti-nationalism. Between 1905 and 1913, they are ever present in his work, which was dedicated to a national awakening. In the words of Arnold McMillin: “Those of Kupała’s compatriots who remained indifferent to national questions were vehemently attacked in poems like ‘Tutejšy’ (The native, 1913) and ‘Biełarusu’ (To a Biełarusian), as were the bureaucratic servants of autocracy in ‘Słuham ałtarnym’ (To servants of the altar, 1911).”22 To this list we should add almost the entire cycle of Zabrany kraj (Taken away country), which includes one of the poet’s early “prophets,” portrayed in the poem “Prarok.”23 The eighteen stanzas of this poem end with devastating statements that point to individuals and communities who, as Theodora Dragostinova puts it elsewhere in relation to European nationalism, were not only “stubbornly national-blind persons, but also individuals who were in between and often switched sides.”24 “prarok” [prophet] Thus spoke the prophet, He called people to abandon slavery, And, trembling, he waited For his people to respond. And people looked up at the sun, And said altogether, spoken as one: If we will follow your call How much money will be our reward?25 The Biełarusians in this poem are depicted as weak and shameless pragmatists, without pride, decency, or a national life. These striking last lines also accuse the poet’s compatriots of being ready to sell their sacred souls for immediate financial gain. “Prarok,” and other nationalist poems

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by Kupała, include sharply contrasting images: they gather together his unique national and patriotic semantic arsenal, some of the constants of which have been difficult for many to interpret, especially in relation to the Jews. Some Biełarusian Jews reacted to “Žydy” with mild antipathy but largely accepted it as a passionate address to friends. To the best of my knowledge, only two articles have focused on this poem; both have been published online on Russian websites, and their authors are Biełarusian Jews. The first is by Wolf Rubinčyk, the second by Uładzimir Liŭšyc.26 Rubinčyk’s examination of Kupała’s relationship to Jews in “Janka Kupała i Evrei” (Janka Kupała and Jews [2001]) is still the best attempt to analyze the poem. Liŭšyc’s article was used, successfully, to support a campaign to name a street in Israel after Kupała. Rubinčyk’s critique is enriched by an excellent translation into Russian. In it, the author offers a précis of Kupała’s Judeophilic sentiments and actions. Rubinčyk also focuses on his personal perception of “Žydy,” providing valuable insights. He notes that even the most recent edition of Kupała’s complete poems (an edition that includes stanzas 4 to 7, which had gone missing for seventy years) does not offer any sort of comprehensive analysis.27 Indeed, that edition offers only a couple of trivial remarks with respect to “Žydy.” However, the publishers have included first drafts of the poem (pages 281 to 285). These drafts, which are identified below by the letter “D,” are of the utmost importance to our understanding of the ballad. They are invaluable to the researcher because they provide direct access to the author’s thinking and artistry. Besides including the long-vanished stanzas 4 to 7, these drafts clarify and decode the poem’s main ideas and shed light on Kupała’s work habits. Certainly, the poet rarely revised his work before 1919–22. “Žydy” was the first poem in which he changed not only the plot but even the meaning – drastically so – between the first and final versions. For example: “O Jews, you ‘vagabonds and Saviourvendors’ / Glory to you, O Jews of Biełaruś!” [F] “O Jews! They call you ‘Judas, vagabonds and Saviour-vendors’! / Oh, Glory and the peoples respect to you, O Jews of Biełaruś!” [D] Occasionally the drafts delve slightly more into the contrast between “us, Biełarusians of different faiths” and the “Other” (Moscovites, Poles, etc.) In both the many drafts of the poem and its final version, Kupała distinguished Biełarusian Jews not only from other Jews but also from all other nations. A striking contrast heightens the unification of all Biełarusians under the multifaceted poetic

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“I” in that line of the final version: “I trust in you, though slave and mighty emperor, old and young, / Spit at You with black mud’s abuse.” [F]. The persistent contrasts with the “Other” in the first three stanzas strengthen the similarities between Biełarusian Christians and Jews. An examination of the poem’s many drafts makes it very clear that Kupała carefully polished every word of every line. Thus, he replaced the epithet niavolnyja (enslaved; suppressed people) with the noun niavolniki (prisoners, inmates) in the second stanza of the final version: “Today as we bear affliction on the weary soil of Biełaruś.” [D] “Today as prisoners we bear affliction / One on the weary soil of Biełaruś.” [F] The poet reminds Jews that, to those who oppress their land, they were “Warsaw’s garbage and Moscow’s mud.” [F] He persists in this vein, saying that, when other nations were against Jews, Biełarusians behaved differently: “And Biełarusians hid you. / We treated you like family, for better or for worse.” [D] Kupała consistently reminds Biełarusian Jews that only among Biełarusians have they found kindred spirits. Please compare a draft and final version of stanza nine: “And only in a Biełarusian hut / On a Biełarusian field your heart / Found some rest.” [D] “But Biełaruś alone, till times grew better, / Honoured, respected you like closest kin.” [F] When he juxtaposes Biełarusian Jews with various nations – albeit most often with two symbolic villains (Moscow and Warsaw) – the poet is emphasizing that Biełarusians of all faiths share a fate that was largely imposed upon them by Russians and Poles. His imagery alludes to the Jews’ messianic past – indeed, Kupała uses images of Christ throughout the ballad. Here, the drafts offer many images that might be considered vulgarisms if taken out of context. In light of his representation of the figure of Christ, one needs to keep in mind Kupała’s complicated relationship with all organized religions, especially with the various branches of Christianity. However, in “Žydy” Kupała plays down the involvement of the Romans in the crucifixion of Christ, replacing it with the familiar, seemingly anti-Semitic mythology of Jewish “guilt” with regard to Christ’s crucifixion. Nonetheless, this imagery serves primarily as a blunt poetic device, one that is semantically and ideologically directed at a call for Biełarusian Jews to pay their debt to the motherland, Biełaruś. Thus, he says in his drafts: “You crucified your own brother. / You left your own brother to die on the cross.” [D] Yet, in the following lines, Kupała immediately justifies and even approves of this action for, according to him, Jews did this in order to protect their motherland: “For this brother

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of yours / Became your motherland’s worst enemy.” [D] “But then you humiliated and crucified Him / You thought that Christ was your country’s enemy.” [F] Christ, slavery, betrayal, a country taken away, the similarities between Jewish and Biełarusian history, common hardships and common joys – all of these themes pertaining to unity appear in Kupała’s “Žydy” as an important part of his national and civic poetry. Indeed, on the one hand, he clearly warns Jews against turning their backs on the only country that has respected them throughout their common history and calls on them to be more like their brother, Christ. Indeed, in the drafts, he fleetingly juxtaposes the image of Christ with that of their other brother, Judas. Yet, on the other hand, his drafts are infused with lenience towards Jews for their crucifixion of Christ for he understands this act as part of their struggle for their motherland. The poet goes so far as to introduce his own striving for a new Biełarusian prophet, expressing in his drafts a hope that Jews will give birth to a new Biełarusian messiah. “You gave the wise Christ to all the people / You will give a new prophet to Biełarusians.” [D] In his drafts, Kupała incorporated Biełarusian Jews into world history. These drafts culminate in the poet’s view that Jews reflect the roles that God has assigned them – roles that embrace propagating a monotheistic religion and, most important, bringing the new figure of Christ first to Biełaruś and then to the world. Every nationalistic artistic work has a certain political agenda. This agenda can easily be observed in the final version of “Žydy,” in which Kupała calls on Biełarusian Jews to view themselves first as Biełarusians for, according to his vision, there should be neither Jews nor Christians in the future Biełaruś. The only “Other” that all Biełarusians might agree upon and share is the enemy of their country’s common ideals. A few years later, this dramatic issue of Biełarusian and Jewish communality would be targeted by official Soviet ideology. As a consequence, the Soviet political system attempted to bury questions raised by Kupała’s “Žydy”; however, it was not entirely successful. Six years later, in 1925, Kupała wrote the following: “Jewish people live in Biełaruś for ever and ever. Their fate was as difficult as other Biełarusians: everyone was mocking us and treated us badly. However, we always lived together well and our togetherness is forever because today, as always, we continue to share the same destiny and will.”28

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The war with Germany changed Biełarusian life forever. When Janka Kupała learned of the German atrocities in Biełaruś and of the fate of its Jews, he wrote incessantly against the Biełarusian Holocaust and the mistreatment of Biełarusian civilians.29 This work includes the writer’s powerful 1941 Russian-language essay “Narod-mstitel” (The avenger nation). “Narod-mstitel” is mainly about the Biełarusian partisans,30 but whenever he wrote about Biełarusians, Kupała included the Jews. Thus, in “Narodmstitel,” a German officer orders the peasants in one Biełarusian village to dig a huge pit. When the officer is asked what the pit is for, he responds with a laugh that they are digging a grave for Jews from a neighbouring village. When the Biełarusian peasants realize that this is not a joke and see twenty badly beaten Jews with whom they had grown up, they refuse to dig the pit. As a result, these peasants share their Jewish neighbours’ fate: they are shot by the Germans along with the Jews. Kupała rendered this true event in his unfinished poem “Dzieviać asinavych kollaŭ” (The nine aspen stakes).31 This poem was one of the last things he wrote before his death (perhaps by murder). Once again, its theme is the common destiny of Christian and Jewish Biełarusians. Artistically, its twelve stanzas are uneven. Indeed, whenever the poet tried writing like a “good” Soviet patriot, it was hard to differentiate between his work and that of any other Soviet hack writer. But the moment his narration turns to heartfelt grief as he contrasts Nazi atrocities with the goodness of his compatriots, his writing strengthens. Some of the lines in this poem reverberate with his lyricism and effortless intonation, and speak with the same extraordinary force as do those in his early works. Nine of mine Biełarusians were brought close to that pit Nine of mine Jewish brothers were standing near it They are people of Biełarusian land, their moustaches are grey, They are innocent folks, I know them, I love them: they must not be evil’s prey.32 The raw emotion with which Kupała unites Biełarusians of both faiths in “Dzieviać asinavych kollaŭ” confirms his earlier formula: “No time for prayers when the house is on fire.” As in that essay, so in “Dzieviać asinavych kollaŭ”: Christian Biełarusians refused to kill their Jewish neighbours, the result being that they were hanged, together with the Jews, on

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nine aspen stakes. The poem also demonstrates that, when it comes to people who recognize their Biełarusian heritage, Kupała consistently treats them with dignity, love, and care. Kupała’s personal involvement in this poem is so high that it surpasses “Žydy” and his other national lyrics; his constant use of the first-person plural “we” (the Biełarusians) pointedly adds to his multifaceted poetic personal “I” and his use of the possessive pronoun “mine.” This symbolizes complex feelings of individual loss and pays respect to Biełarusian Jewish and Christian deaths, which he sees as a unique chapter in a national tragedy. This same approach is deeply rooted in the poems that Natalla Arsieńnieva and Maxim Tank dedicate to the Biełarusian Jewish Holocaust.

The Jewish Biełarusian Ghetto in the Consciousness of Natalla Arsiennieva (1903–1997) and Maxim Tanks (1912–1995) ´ The longer you live, the more you suffer. –Jewish proverb

Natalla Arsieńnieva’s Poem “Akcyja” Akcyja (action) is the euphemism the Germans used for their atrocities. Initially they employed this evasive term when murdering Jews, Roma, gays, and the disabled. As soon as the Second World War came to Biełaruś, the Germans also began using it to refer to the annihilation of partisans and civilians. Natalla Arsieńnieva was a twentieth-century Biełarusian poet who is renowned both at home and abroad. Many respected voices have declared Arsieńnieva’s “landscape lyrics equal to those of the masterpieces of Maxim Bahdanovič, Źmitrok Biadulia, and Janka Kupała.”33 Her narrative poem “Akcyja” was written in 1944. I examine this poem after offering an introduction to Natalla Arsieńnieva’s stormy but productive life. Despite her lifelong dedication to Biełaruś, Arsieńnieva lived in her native country for only twenty of her ninety-four years. It is not a surprise, therefore, that her name is absent from the anthology of Biełarusian poetry compiled and translated by Vera Rich (1936–2010), the reputable British poet and translator of Biełarusian and other Slavic literature.34

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Rich’s superb work focuses on the poets who lived most of their lives in Biełaruś proper. It is in Arnold McMillin’s equally valuable Belarusian Literature of the Diaspora that we find an abundance of discussion of Arsieńnieva’s poetry.35 To strengthen his readers’ appreciation of her, McMillin discusses Arsieńnieva’s predisposition towards the literary arts: her father was a descendent of Mikhail Lermontov (1814–41), a Russian poet beloved by almost all Russians, Soviets, and post-Soviets.36 Although born in Baku, Azerbaijan, Natalla Arsieńnieva’s birth was registered in her favourite place in the world, the polyglot city of Vilnia, where her parents moved when she was still an infant. This unique city was populated by Litvaks (Biełarusian Jews, 40 percent), Poles (many of them Biełarusians who had converted to Catholicism, 30.1 percent), Russians (some of whom were Biełarusians who had converted to Russian Orthodoxy, 20.9 percent), Biełarusian Orthodox (4.3 percent), Lithuanians (2.1 percent), Germans (1.4 percent), Tatars (0.5 percent), and Ukrainians (0.3 percent). This demographic was rather different in the surrounding province, where most of the population (largely peasants) lived. Thus, in the province of Vilnia, the population was 56.1 percent Biełarusian, 17.6 percent Lithuanian, 12.7 percent Jewish, 8.2 percent Polish, 4.9 percent Russian, and 0.2 percent German. The rest, including Tatars, Ukrainians, and others, accounted, respectively, for only 0.1 percent of the rural population, which at the time amounted to 1,591,207.37 In short, close to 60 percent of the rural area was populated by ethnic Biełarusians. Biełarusian history is closely connected with that of Vilnia, the second capital (after Navahrudak) of the gdl. At the beginning of the sixteenth century there were fourteen Orthodox churches, twice as many as there were Catholic churches, and many synagogues and Jewish prayer houses. Just before the Second World War, Vilnia had 105 synagogues and Jewish prayer houses. Moreover, the Jewish and Biełarusian literary cultures are closely linked to Vilnia, which was home to the prominent Biełarusian cultural figures Frańcišak Skaryna (1490–1552) and Leŭ Sapieha (1557–1633). Centuries later, many modern Biełarusian writers published in the Vilnia newspaper Naša Niva.38 Vilnia University (1803–32; 1919–45) educated many outstanding Biełarusian figures and accepted students from throughout the Russian Empire. The city was incorporated into that empire in 1795; since then, at various times, it has been a hotbed of Biełarusian, Polish, Jewish, and (later) Lithuanian and Russian cultural activities. All of

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these groups cooperated with each other in their economic, cultural, and political lives. Vilnia was named the capital of the Lithuanian-Biełarusian Soviet Socialist Republic in 1919 for the brief four months of its existence. Even after it was annexed by Poland in 1921, the city continued to play a central cultural role for Biełarusians and Jews alike. Many Biełarusian political parties, publications, and cultural institutions continued to headquarter themselves in Vilnia. In 1939, after Western Biełaruś was incorporated into the Biełarusian Soviet Socialist Republic, the Soviet government handed Vilnia to Lithuania. Back in 1903, however, Vilnia’s Biełarusian and Jewish cultural life was rich. To summarize, the Arsieńnieva family was well aware that the Biełarusian cultural renaissance, and the religious and cultural enlightenment of Biełarusian and Lithuanian Jews (Litvaks), had strong historic roots in Vilnia. Arsieńnieva wrote in her autobiography that her childhood was happy and secure. Her loving family was headed by her noble father, a government official, and her strict but fair mother (a teacher who quit her job to home-school four of her children). Natalla’s mother prepared her children for the local school’s entry exams, and the poet remembers that she received 100 percent in all of them. The First World War led to the family’s forced exile. They spent almost five years in Yaroslavl, where the children attended local schools. Arsieńnieva wrote her first poems there – in Russian – when she was fourteen. She writes that her true poetic voice did not appear until she was repatriated to Vilnia in 1918. That year she started to write in Biełarusian.39 Natalla was seventeen at the time, and, thanks to her exceptionally talented teachers at the First Biełarusian Gymnasium, she fell in love with everything Biełarusian, especially the language. Among her teachers was the renowned Biełarusian writer Maksim Harecki (1893–1938), who became Arsieńnieva’s strict but loving mentor. Arsieńnieva graduated from the gymnasium in 1921 with a diploma that entitled her to teach in primary schools, which she did. At the same time, she entered the University of Vilnia and became a welcome contributor to local Biełarusian publications. In 1922, she married Frańcišak Kušal (1895–1968), a Biełarusian national and an officer in the Russian Army and, later, the Polish Army. They had two sons and shared a blissful existence in Słonim, a Biełarusian township with a predominantly Jewish population, until the Second World War.

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The gdl’s rulers had invited Jews to Słonim in 1388, and they were recognized as important contributors to the area’s economic development, which peaked in the fifteenth century. One grand synagogue that was erected in the sixteenth century still stands, although it is considerably run-down. There were also ten smaller synagogues, which were destroyed either before or after the Second World War. Słonim’s Jewish population grew to over ten thousand (about 62 percent of the total) in the late nineteenth century. This proportion dipped to around 53 percent before the First World War, but, owing to the mass migration of Biełarusian Jews after the Polish-Soviet War, it rose rapidly in the decades before the Holocaust. Słonim was under Polish rule for seventeen years, from 1922 to 1939, which coincided with the Kušals happy family life. Those were also good years for the Jewish population. And then, in 1941, the Germans invaded. When the Second World War began, Frańcišak Kušal took part in the Polish Army’s short-lived battle against the Germans. He retreated to the Soviet Union with the remnants of his detachment, all of whom were arrested by the Soviet secret police, the nkvd. Kušal was sent to a concentration camp near Viatka with four thousand other Polish citizens. He was one of the few in that group to survive; instead of being killed, he was moved and imprisoned in Moscow, where it has been alleged that he served as a “decoy” for the Soviets. Many harsh judgments have been made about Kušal’s activities during the war; even the Biełarusian cultural society Spadčyna (Heritage), which currently takes a rather benevolent stance towards Biełarusian emigration, claims that Kušal willingly collaborated with the Soviets. It should be noted that most of the stories that attack Kušal in this regard are anonymous. That said, some published sources confirm that he cooperated with the nkvd. Two of these have been published recently by Liavon Jurevič in Šmathałosy epistaliaryjum.40 The most important witness is General Władysław Anders (1892–1970), who was the commander of the Polish Army, which was the military wing of the London-based Polish government-in-exile (1939–90). After the war, Anders continued to play a prominent role in this government, which remained in London. He wrote in his memoirs that Frańcišak Kušal had been sent to his prison cell at Lubyanka as an nkvd informer.41 In Jurevič’s Šmathałosy epistaliaryjum, Jurka Vićbič had even harsher things to say about Kušal.42 However, Vićbič’s criticisms could have been due to polit-

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ical differences, which, among the Biełarusian exile community, were often heated. The nkvd freed Kušal in 1941, just before Germany attacked the Soviet Union and invaded Biełaruś. In 1940, Arsieńnieva was arrested by the nkvd together with her two sons and sent to a collective farm in Kazakhstan to work the fields. After a few months, she and her sons were released, almost at the same time as her husband was freed by the nkvd. Her liberation was the result of the successful petitions of Janka Kupała, Źmitrok Biadulia, and other prominent Biełarusian writers. The family was reunited in Miensk, where Kušal was already serving the new order. He held a high position under the German occupation: since 1941, he had been chief of the Police School in Miensk. In 1943, he became a senior member of the Biełarusian Central Rada (bcr). On 28 June 1944, just as Biełaruś was about to be liberated from the Germans by the Red Army and partisan units, a special train organized by the bcr transported eight hundred Biełarusians to Germany. These were people from various walks of life. Some were Biełarusian cultural and political figures who for obvious reasons preferred Hitler’s defeated Germany to Stalin’s Soviet Union. Natalla Arsieńnieva and her younger son were on that train, thanks to Kušal’s position as the commanding general of the bcr Defence Army, a position he had been given when the army was organized on 23 February 1944. (The Kušals had lost their elder son in 1943 during a partisan-organized explosion at the Miensk Opera.) Having sent his family abroad, Kušal went to Poland to organize the exodus of those Biełarusians who were trapped there. In 1945, when the family was united once again, this time in Germany, Kušal was appointed as a commander of the 30th Waffen Grenadier Division of the SS (First Biełarusian). Biełarusian historian Uładzimir Arłoŭ notes that, by the end of the war, Kušal was leading his Grenadier Division against his former German associates, as a result of which action the Biełarusian Division joined the American forces.43 Soon after the unification, this division was dismantled by the Americans, and Biełarusian soldiers were sent to Allied prisoner of war camps (pows). All of this and more can be found in Kušal’s memoir and in his extensive correspondence.44 Of much interest to historians and the general public alike is Kušal’s correspondence with the Biełarusian Canadian writer Kastuś Akuła (1925–2008).45 This correspondence includes Kušal’s autobiography and an abundance of first-hand knowledge about the Second World War in Biełaruś and the fates of many

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Biełarusian soldiers after the war. In his many letters, Kušal provided material for Akuła’s first novel, Zmaharnyja darohi (Combat trails [1962]). These same letters show Kušal to be a much better writer than his correspondent. Kušal’s style and intellectual acumen ensure that his letters read like short stories told by an omniscient narrator. The same qualities are found in his prose, produced in emigration.46 Despite or perhaps because of his important positions during the German occupation, Kušal and his family were allowed to immigrate to the United States in 1950. It is likely that he had proved to the Americans that he was not so much a German ally as a victim of the Bolshevik regime as well as a fearless fighter against Soviet rule. Note also that Kušal, whose last years were complicated by severe health problems, including a series of strokes, was treated mainly by Jewish doctors. Arsieńnieva wrote in her letters to an intimate friend that these doctors, in particular a female doctor named Fieldman, helped her immensely in surviving the long sickness and death of the man who had been her loyal husband and friend for so many difficult years.47 Natalla Arsieńnieva, for her part, showed no interest in politics and took no sides in the war. Instead, she immersed herself in Biełarusian cultural affairs. She worked hard to introduce the Biełarusian language into the productions of the Miensk Opera House, and she succeeded. Among her other literary efforts, she translated more than ten world-renowned librettos into Biełarusian in 1943 alone. She also wrote two original librettos for the operas of the Biełarusian composer Mikoła Kulikovič-Ščahłoŭ (1890–1969). Natalla Arsieńnieva was a gracious poet who glorified life and nature. She began publishing poetry while still a student in Vilnia, but her first anthology, Pad sinim niebam (Beneath the blue sky), did not appear until 1927. This work was lauded in Eastern (Soviet) and Western (Polish) Biełaruś for its strong lyricism and musicality as well as for its infectious optimism. Further to this, the poet somehow managed not to offend any political group, even during the turbulent 1920s and 1930s. On the contrary, her deep patriotic love for the people and landscapes of Biełaruś inspired empathy, nostalgia, and affection in her readers. The publication of her second collection, Žoŭtaja vosień (Yellow autumn), was blocked by the outbreak of the Second World War. Her third collection, Siahońnia (Today), marked the height of her lyrical prowess; it appeared in Miensk in 1944, just before she left her beloved motherland forever.

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After immigrating to Europe and then to the United States, Arsieńnieva retained her formidable stamina. Even during this period, McMillin notes, she continued “writing dignified and melodious poems on notable religious and secular occasions.”48 Her contributions while living abroad deserve even more credit: composers Mikoła Kulikovič-Ščahłoŭ, Alieś Karpovič (1909–92), and Mikoła Ravienski (1886–1953) set her poems to music. These collaborative efforts are still being performed at Biełarusian community gatherings and performances around the world. Arsieńnieva’s acclaimed poem “Mahutny Boža” (Oh, God almighty), set to M. Ravienski’s music, has become part of the liturgy in Catholic, Orthodox, and Uniate Biełarusian churches. We don’t know the degree of Arsieńnieva’s knowledge of German atrocities from 1941 to 1944, but I assume that, due to her husband’s involvement with occupied forces and their many Jewish acquaintances and friends, she knew of certain “actions.” The very first German action in Słonim was carried out twenty-three days after the occupation began: the Germans rounded up twelve hundred men, pillars of the Jewish community, and killed them. By 14 November 1941, nine thousand Słonim Jews had been murdered. Nachum Alpert describes this slaughter in his book, which has been translated from Yiddish into English.49 Despite the fact that the poet couldn’t know Alpert’s account, her “Akcyja” closely resembles his heartbreaking narrative. The final destruction of the Słonim ghetto took place in 1942.50 Arsieńnieva was in Miensk at the time but may well have heard about the mass killings of Jews in Słonim and elsewhere in Biełaruś. Indeed, the events described in “Akcyja” could have been drawn from any number of similar killings in any Jewish ghetto. According to David Meltser in The Holocaust Encyclopedia, “some 200 ghettos were created on Biełarusian territory. The largest was in Miensk.”51 German planes had begun bombing Miensk in the early morning of 26 June 1941, and by the beginning of August all of Biełaruś had been conquered. Most of the city’s ghetto population was murdered in 1941 and 1942, although the Miensk ghettos continued to exist until 1943. The extermination of the Jews of Miensk started very soon after the Germans arrived, just as in Słonim. A mere few days after the German occupation began, three thousand Jewish intellectuals (a significant portion of the Biełarusian cultural elite and technical intelligentsia) were shot. Although Arsieńnieva must have known many of them personally, there

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is no mention in her poem about that particular massacre. Since the imagery in “Akcyja” includes autumn leaves, rain, and slush, she is probably referring to October 1941, when it was reported to Hitler that thirty thousand Jews from the Miensk ghettos had been liquidated (in addition to Jews in other Biełarusian ghettos). In Miensk, the gassing of Jews in vans started on 7–8 November 1941. This was the first time the Germans had resorted to this method of killing. Clearly, those two days were timed to coincide with the anniversary of the Bolshevik Revolution. Gassing resumed on 20 November 1941. “Approximately 27,000 persons were killed over those three days alone.”52 This number is close to the number of Jews who were shot by Germans during the first four months of the occupation. Gassing people and burning their bodies in a specially built crematorium in the village of Mały Traścianiec, near Miensk, became the standard procedure for annihilating Jews. For smaller groups, machine gunning remained the favoured method of extermination. The smallest groups were hanged in public view. When shooting or hanging smaller groups of Jews, the Germans would round up local people to watch. This instilled fear in those who witnessed, and, after the killings, Biełarusian Christians were forced to “clean up” the execution site. Although written as part of the collection Siahońnia in early 1944, Arsieńnieva’s poem “Akcyja” was not published in the first edition, for one obvious reason: it describes one of the massacres of Biełarusian Jews. “Akcyja” is, however, present in two later editions of Arsieńnieva’s poetry.53 This poem expresses not only the victims’ utter helplessness but also the profound trauma experienced by local Christians. The first image is that of the most powerful symbol of the Almighty – a fire. Mikhail Gershenzon, in Kliuch very (The key of faith), speaks of his firm conviction that God is signified by fire: “One thing is absolutely certain, and this is that the Almighty’s nature is fire. The Old Testament manifests the diverse conditions of God with distinctive kinds of fire.”54 Indeed, many writers, including Mikhail Bulgakov, have referred to the cleansing power of fire and attributed that power to God: “‘Then the fire!’ cried Azazello. ‘The fire – that starts and ends everything!’”55 However, Arsieńnieva often resorts to the imagery of the Inquisition as well as that of God: in her poem,

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fire is frequently a means of senseless mechanical slaughter. There is, however, a significant difference between the Inquisition and the Holocaust: the Inquisition spared the lives of Jews who converted to Christianity (i.e., who repented), while the Germans spared no one. I now offer a translation of “Akcyja.” When analyzing the text, the reader should of course remember that a translation is only a pale shadow of the original. Note also that, in the original Biełarusian, “Akcyja” differs from Arsieńnieva’s other poems both thematically and stylistically. Her other poems are written in a classic lyrical style, whereas “Akcyja” is asymmetric blank verse. This underscores the sombre reality of the times. “akcyja’ [action] Those days brought flames not just to maple trees – Everything that had the essence of God was contorted in fires, And wounds from those inhuman and perplexing days One cannot heal or cast spells against … The last leaves from the wet branches Were thrown down convulsively to dampness and mud. The Jews were thrown into a square Like a handful of leaves. It seemed that yellow patches began to dance … The wind was wailing But they were ordered to sing. And for an hour, everyone was clapping, singing: Sitting on the pavement, the machine gun barked its steel orders Straight into their faces, In order to please him – A flame with red tongues Began to lick the prayer house. And straight to the sky Tallits rocketed with the smoke of Torah. As if Tallits were dancing in time to the Rabbi’s singing And the Rabbi had to sing, Squeaking like crushed stone, Under the heels of dancers and everyone …

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Except for Josielie. The mother pushed him to sing, But his fingers caught the emptiness of the universe. Hysterical, he trembled. And all the same, even when His baby-face was burnt by a whip, When his mother fell down, As if she were an oat-sheaf. And when he, Like a puppy, crawled to hide under her skirt, While they tore off from the girls’ necks and hands Proud corals and stubborn rings, While together with blood on the pavement a scream was floated, Its cutting edge was thin … When subsiding noise froze in their ears With burning desperation, Pierced the heart with horror, He, Josielie, was crying. And around, it seems that people were singing their souls out In their very last song … And darkness came … This fall day Was crawling out Behind a barn … Then everyone got a shovel, And rustled, splashed on water Heavy, so heavy that sand ... Later people were told to shake off the remnants of shame, And stacks of cloth began to heap up, And suddenly light sprayed at interlaced, thick, naked bodies. And bullets were clapping in concord. For two hours a machine gun was barking in the dank air Until the night shot down its ugly mouth. Leaves stopped, fell, and covered the bodies, And even Josielie’s cries died away. From behind his eyelids, though he did not know Him,

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Christ was looking with unearthly and mysterious melancholy. He gazed at those who would not rise from the bloody sand, And at butchers covered by the blood … Slush. And autumn’s end ... “Akcyja” suggests that whatever purposes the Nazis (or before them, the Inquisition) might have been serving, they worshipped impious idols. Yet here, the fire carries a double symbolism: it shows the inhumanity of the killers but it also unites the Jews with their Maker. The central section of the poem contains images of people wearing Talliths, symbolizing their connection to God: “Tallits [Jewish prayer shawls] rocketed to the sky together with the smoke of Torah.” In this way, Jews returned to their Creator, accompanied by their Book. The next striking image in the poem represents autumn. In the best of her verses, Arsieńnieva employs an arsenal of poetic devices to bring her favourite season to life.56 This poem features a palette of both warm and cool colours, light, shadow, and precipitation – the last sometimes benign but more often not. In “Akcyja,” autumn is cold, cruel, and indifferent to humans. Jews are compared first to autumn leaves, a comparison that is followed by a hint of the yellow patch of the Star of David, which evokes a haunting image of forced motion: “The Jews were thrown into a square / Like a handful of leaves. / It seemed that the yellow patches began to dance.” Also in this poem, the machine gun is juxtaposed to life: its fire is not merely godless – it is like a rabid dog. Throughout this horror, the behaviour of both victims and murderers is as mechanical and uniform as is that of the machine gun. Except for little Josielie, no one defies the marionettelike behaviour of the Germans and Jews. The baby’s natural reaction to what is happening – terror – inflames the reader’s emotions. The narrator seems stunned, overwhelmed with compassion for the victims. The only indication that she is a Gentile is that she treats Christ as though he were a complete stranger to Jews (which overlooks the fact that Christ was born and died a Jew). In this, she presents the common Christian notion that Christ is the Messiah, whom Jews, unless they have converted to Christianity, do not accept. However, with the genius of a true poet, she declares Christ to be embodied in Josiele alone

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and for all: “And even Josielie’s cries died away. / From behind his eyelids, though he did not know Him, / Christ was looking with unearthly and mysterious melancholy.” There are many possible reasons that Natalla Arsieńnieva, with her powerful literary gifts, wrote just one poem about the Holocaust. We can only speculate. But a very credible answer is found in the second stanza of her 1941 poem from the collection Siahońnia (Today). The title poem, “Siahońnia,” profoundly expresses Arsieńnieva’s poetic credo relating to war: In any case, my poetry will not extinguish wild fires, Will not wash the crimson blood from people’s souls. What should one write, in truth, what do you think? You cannot resurrect corpses with a sonnet about spring … The funereal sound of my poems rings loudly: You cannot fill a hungry mouth with the best of verses.57 Natalla Arsieńnieva did not turn her back on the Biełarusian Holocaust; rather, she soulfully and skilfully portrayed an event that was replicated in over two hundred of other Biełarusian ghettos. “Akcyja” reveals several important points about this remarkable poet. First, it counters the view that she excluded Biełarusian Jews from her motherland’s culture. Second, most Biełarusians – in particular the younger generations who grew up without Jewish neighbours – have little knowledge of the Holocaust and therefore have a narrow, if not twisted, understanding of it. Third, Arsieńnieva’s “Akcyja” is as unique in her works as is “Malitva” (The prayer [1943]), which also belongs to the genre of poetic liturgy. Like “Malitva,” whose prayer-like cadences turn it into a hymn, “Akcyja” is simultaneously a sermon and a requiem. That it belongs to the genre of liturgy (the original meaning of liturgy is “public duty”) is both obvious and telling. Arsieńnieva knew that her poetry “would not wash the crimson blood from people’s souls,” but she did not avoid the painful topic of the Biełarusian Holocaust. Indeed, she performed the highest service to her country by writing this fine example of illustrious poetic liturgy: singular, honest, and powerful. Maxim Tank, who was nine years younger than Arsieńnieva, also reacted to the Biełarusian Holocaust with empathy and anguish. Though his

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upbringing and destiny were very different from Arsieńnieva’s, his poem “Hieta” (Ghetto) clearly shows the similarity of his conscience to that of many Biełarusians who lived through the tragic events of the Second World War: they refused to forget their Jewish neighbours and friends, who were being senselessly murdered by the German occupiers. Maxim Tank: “Hieta” (Ghetto [1944, 1946]) Maxim Tank is without doubt a major poet, whose best works date from his early years in Western Biełaruś but who, nonetheless, contributed inventively to many of the main strands of Soviet Belarusian poetry in the 1950s and later. His status was re-emphasized in 1987 when he was made an honorary citizen of Minsk. His death seven years later was more widely mourned than that of many of his contemporaries. –Arnold McMillin

Every Biełarusian knows Jaŭhien Ivanavič Skurko (1912–95) mainly by his pen name, Maxim Tank. This poet, prose writer, translator, and public figure often used other pseudonyms, among which are Aŭheń Bura, Viktar A. Granit, Žeńka, and A. Siver. Tank, however, became his best-known pen name after 1932. Before I introduce his life and work, we must note that he is one of Biełaruś’s cultural icons. Arsieńnieva and Tank both belong to the Biełarusian pantheon, but Arsieńnieva is largely viewed as the poet of the elite (the intelligentsia), while Tank is known and loved by all. Jaŭhien (Ženia, Žeńka) Skurko was born into a typical peasant family. The Skurkos, like most Biełarusians of the troubled twentieth century, had to migrate to new places at different times. Each time they seemed to find a permanent home in their native Biełarusian territory that territory was often renamed Russia, Poland, the Soviet Union, Germany, and/or Lithuania. As noted in chapter 1, before the Second World War, the people of Vilnia and its environs were mainly Christian Biełarusians (Lićviny), Biełarusian Jews (Litvaki), and Poles. Many Biełarusians went there for their education (both formal and informal), and among them was the future poet Maxim Tank. The Biełarusian village of Piłkaŭščyna, where Jaŭhien was born, had been occupied by Russia since 1793. It was swallowed by Poland in 1921

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in accordance with the Riga “peace agreement” between the Bolsheviks and Poland.58 These developments had an impact on the language, culture, and schooling of Biełarusian children. They also resulted in a great many Biełarusian families being divided by a political border. In 1916, during the First World War, Jaŭhien’s parents were miraculously reunited in Moscow. His father was working at a factory that produced military uniforms, and he and his mother turned up there by accident when Jaŭhien was four years old. They were refugees from German-occupied Biełaruś. Three years later, the boy began attending school in Moscow, where the language of instruction was Russian. Faced with hunger as a result of the revolutions, the Russian Civil War, the Polish-Soviet War, and, especially, the Treaty of Riga, which left the Skurko family stateless, they returned to their native village of Piłkaŭščyna. There, Jaŭhien continued his education at a Polish primary school, starting in 1923. Three years later, he entered a Russian gymnasium (a secondary school that prepared students for university) in the small town of Vialiejka. It was while he was living there that his first poems appeared in a literary journal. After the Poles closed the school, Jaŭhien was accepted at the Biełarusian Gymnasium in Radaškovičy. There, he became intensely involved in politics, which led to his first prison sentence. On his release, he crossed the Polish border into Soviet Biełaruś, where he was immediately arrested and interrogated by the nkvd; for a short time, he was able to compare a horrid Soviet prison to a horrid Polish one. The nkvd recruited the young romantic and sent him back to Poland to continue spreading Communist propaganda and to conduct other subversive activities against the Polish government. After the unification of Biełaruś in December 1939, he returned to the Soviet eastern and central parts of his motherland. Tank was posted to Vialiejka, where he was employed by two state departments: education and culture. Tank regularly contributed his excellent verses and highly patriotic articles to the newspaper Vialiejskaja praŭda. He also helped Natalla Arsieńnieva find work at a time when she was in the Soviet authorities’ bad books. Biełarusian poets have always been inspired first and foremost (and sometimes finally) by the natural glories of their motherland, and Tank’s works reflect this. What makes him unique is the fact that his verses attracted interest and praise even from readers who were contemptuous of lyricism. Thus, his first collection, Na etapach (Staging posts [1936]), pub-

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lished in the illegal Biełarusian paper Prałom (Breakthrough), didn’t just “make a great impact upon Biełarusian readers and other writers of the time. Unlike most of the writings of minority peoples under Polish rule, it attracted the attention of the normally indifferent Polish press which, with no hint of condescension, hailed it as an outstanding, indeed unique, cultural phenomenon.”59 From the start of his writing career, Tank was able to balance his proSoviet political views with his ambivalence about Soviet dictatorship over the arts. This is obvious in his use of sophisticated poetic devices, including – most significantly – his choice of language. In the following extract, he explains why he chose to express himself in Biełarusian, even though, when he began writing, he was equally fluent in Russian and Polish: Not for this cause alone I took up this language, That rivers and primeval woods are speaking it, The meadows’ grasses, field’s grain-ears are rustling in it, And birds in their nests communicate with others, And using it you may be anything you wish: A singing violin, A crane, A poet. But the major reason I took up this language Was this: it had too many sorrowful songs in it. And I aspired to bring to it A profusion of human joy and more sunshine. Also it was harder for me than for others To become a poet in this language.60 After listing his reasons for choosing Biełarusian, this Marxist philosopher and poet ends his confession with the stubborn logic of a person who defies all odds in order to pursue his vocation. And Tank definitely felt not only the need but also that he had the power to become a poet, a prophet, and a citizen of his beloved country. Emotionally and visually, his sophisticated lyricism was nourished by one of the most beautiful parts of Biełaruś – Lake Narač and its surrounding forests. Indeed, this huge, clear lake, with its supremely picturesque shores, has been fantastically and magnetically attractive to many human souls who have encountered it. No visitor could

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have expressed his or her feelings about that part of the world as well as did Tank. In two of his earlier collections, Na etapach (Staging posts [1936]) and Žuravinavy ćviet (Cranberry blossom [1938]), in which he expresses the struggles of ordinary Biełarusians, who comprised an underclass in Poland (Western Biełaruś), he often paints nature in the colours of mourning. But let us also note the richness and novelty of the themes, metres, and genres in these two anthologies. His third collection, Pad mačtaj (Under the mast [1938]), which appeared the same year as the second, crowned the poet’s pre-Soviet period. It also shows Tank’s mastery of rhythm, melody, and metre in Biełarusian. Though his work is predominantly lyrical, he was also an adept satirist and prose writer. His epic narrative Narač (1937) combines folk and political motifs with wildly romantic notions about the glorious life in Soviet Biełaruś and the rest of the Soviet Union.61 Yet, this poem, about a fishers’ strike, carries so much potent criticism of politically powerful rulers that it could not be published in its entirety on either side of the Biełarusian-Polish border. As a result, this narrative has some loose ends. Tank was living with his family in Białystok during the first period of its unity with the rest of the bssr (1939–41). This unity was short lived, ending on 22 June 1941 with the German invasion of the ussr.62 On the day of the German attack, Tank and his family left home. They were lucky enough to board the last train out and were evacuated to Saratov, where the poet immediately entered a military college. Soon he was summoned to Moscow, where he worked under Michaś Lyńkoŭ, the editor-in-chief of the Russian-language newspaper Za Savieckuiu Biełaruś (For Soviet Biełaruś). The paper was published mainly for Biełarusians living under the German occupation and for Soviet partisans; it was delivered to the occupied territories by aeroplane. Za Savieckuiu Biełaruś also addressed regular army soldiers and officers of Biełarusian origin, and a smaller number of copies were distributed among those on the front lines. In the summer of 1942, Tank, while continuing to work for Za Savieckuiu Biełaruś, joined the editorial staff of a satirical Biełarusian newspaper, Razdavim fašysckuju hadziny (Russian version: Razdavim fashistskuiu gadzinu; Let’s crush the fascist vermin).63 His journalistic work often led to many long days and sleepless nights as he often visited the front lines. Despite his sincere dedication to the Soviet motherland, Tank continued to be watched closely by the Soviet political police after unification

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and until Stalin’s death – that is from 1939 to 1953. Even though he worked hard for what he saw as genuinely revolutionary and socialist ideals, the Soviets could not “forgive” his Polish citizenship from 1921 to 1939. And this surveillance was conducted even though he had not chosen to be separated from his native land or from his family and neighbours. Clearly, the Soviets suffered from amnesia when it came to the fact that the first separation of Poland from the bssr occurred in1921 and had been the result of a decision by Lenin’s regime. Even so, Tank, like most other “Westerners,” lived under a perpetual cloud of suspicion. To survive, he would have to tailor his talents to the demands of the Soviet rulers. And that is what he did. Much of his Soviet literary output, such as the collection Hatuj svaju zbroju (Prepare your weapons [1945]), was pure hackwork and didn’t survive the times. His poetic talent, however, was still obvious and was apparent in such publications as Praz vohnenny niebaschil (Through the fiery horizon [1945]) and Kab viedali (That they would know [1948]. Just as before the war, at this time many of the poet’s lyrical compositions were dedicated to nature and the joy of productive labour. Here is one of his postwar poems, a typical hymn to collective labour and the individual contributions of happy Soviet Biełarusian peasants. It depicts nature as an expression of all the “good” that surrounds an honest worker in his Socialist motherland. The poem is also sincerely optimistic about the future.64 good morning Good morning, out in the wide fields to The wind, blowing sweetly, To the tall grain-ears, rich yielding. To the girls reaping. Good day to larks in the clear heavens, To kvass, coolly flowing. To bread, earned by honest toil ever, To the farm, the fields growing. Good evening to tracks leading homeward, To the cart, daily driving, To the lights twinkling out in friends’ homes, and To dew

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and stars shining. Goodnight to the clubhouse accordion, Nightingales in woods winging, And to all who, till dawn, find melodious Their singing.65 This sunny poem brings joy to the reader due to its optimism, musicality, and evocation of natural beauty. Even the title, “Good morning” (though the reader is greeted with all four parts of a day in this poem), elicits positive emotions. The four greetings induce feelings of respect for and recognition of the poet’s world. Indeed, no matter how politicized he had to be at times, Tank may be distinguished from many other Biełarusian writers by his genuine artistry. From 1948 until 1967, Maxim Tank served as editor-in-chief of the bssr’s most important literary journal, Połymia (The flame). During those years, he was a friend, patron, and educator of two generations of young Biełarusian poets and prose writers. Starting in the mid-1950s, he held many important positions in the cultural and political administrations of both the bssr and the ussr. Tank was the first secretary of the ussr’s Writers Union (1966); he was also chair of the bssr’s Writers Union (1971–90). As a politician, he was a member of the Central Committee of the Biełarusian Communist Party (1955–90); he was also a deputy in the Supreme Soviet of the ussr (1969–89) and served as chair of the Supreme Soviet of the bssr (1947–71). In addition, he was chosen, elected, or appointed to many other high-ranking positions in Soviet state life. Tank often travelled to Europe and the United States as a prominent Soviet public figure. Three times he was the Soviet representative to the United Nations; he also represented the ussr at the First World Peace Congress. Maxim Tank was a highly decorated Soviet citizen: among his many awards were four Orders of Lenin, the Order of the October Revolution, and the Baraćbitu Za Mir (To a Fighter for Peace). He was awarded the title of Biełarusian Peoples’ Writer in 1962. After Stalin’s death, Tank (unlike most Biełarusian writers of his generation) was able to turn his talent around 180 degrees. He found new poetic forms, metres, images, and devices, and he mastered different literary approaches. This is apparent in the following publications: Ślied bliskavicy

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(A trace of lighting [1957]), Moj chlieb nadzionny (My daily bread [1962]), Hłytok vady (A gulp of water [1964]), Chaj budzie śviatło (Let there be light [1972]), Naračanskija sosny (Pines over the Narač [1972]), Daroha, zakałychanaja žytam (The rye’s lullaby to a road [1976]), and Za majim stałom (At my table [1984]). Arnold McMillin indicated one unique feature of Tank’s post-Second World War works that distinguishes him from many other writers who were honouring the memory of that ordeal: “Tank’s poems of the 1950s and 1960s relating to the war often approach the topic indirectly.”66 McMillin also notes that “Žeton” (The identity disc [1955]) and “Kanaŭka” (The goblet [1959]) express strong anti-war sentiments. The poet’s discourse demonstrates that, for any nation, enduring sadness is the consequence of any war. Thus, his artistic and philosophical metaphor of a bullet that kills a German soldier being transformed into a goblet has multiple layers of meaning. That bullet-goblet could be an epitaph for an unknown soldier. It could also signify a talisman: by killing this unknown German, the bullet prevented him from killing others. That bullet turned into a goblet evokes other symbolic considerations as well. One can imagine drinking from that goblet to the memory of a fallen German soldier and thus, metaphorically, to the memory of all soldiers, both known and unknown. McMillin’s point about Maxim Tank’s literary work – that it “often approach[es] the topic indirectly,” should not, however, be applied to some of the poet’s postwar production. For example, in “Hieta” (Ghetto), written in 1944–46, Tank is totally engaged in the situation, and his approach is so clear that it leaves no space for multifaceted interpretation. The event – the destruction of the Jewish ghetto – is too personal for him, and therefore he, the poet, is ever present in the particular space he is portraying. In this poem, the author is rooted in the past, the present, and the future. In his solemn requiem to his “brothers,” Biełarusian Jews, Tank feels that he is simultaneously underground with the deceased (past), on the surface of the earth with their graves (present), and together with their souls in heaven (future). With its graphic, sculpture-like mode of representation, the poem reminds the reader of Antoni Gaudí’s (1852–1926) highly atmospheric neo-Gothic architecture as well as of Alfred Hrdlicka’s anti-war and anti-Fascist 1988 memorial in Vienna. Once again, let me note that my translation is not able to evoke the rich nuances of the original Biełarusian.

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“hieta” [ghetto] The last circle of hell was shown to me, But I would’ve found it myself, anyway. Both sky and land were burning, Those fires breathing straight into my face. The trees were in agony, convulsing. Indeed, I would’ve recognized this ruined place: My brothers are here, greeting me by Stretching their hands from their graves. Why did I come to this kingdom of death? I, whose desire to live is so strong … Shall I bring our children some pebbles from these graves? Our hearts are already burdened by so many heavy stones … Or maybe I hope to bring to life those dearest ghosts With the most powerful of my words … Oh, this is all in vain! Even Jeremiah’s cry Isn’t able to resurrect the dead. So, why am I here? I know why I had to visit this saddest of places. I am here to bring tablets with their names Carved into memory And the desert’s hot sand. These tablets carry a message: “You, passerby, you, brother, please don’t cry, no need for tears. You better bring our rage straight into the world And spread its seeds with every single plough as does a sower. Our vengeance will bring the greatest harvest to those Who took the sun from us … Let them all be damned, and stay in hell forever.”67 The first two stanzas have eight lines each; the second presents selfdirected questions, which are followed immediately by “negative” selfresponses. Tank is seeking to understand what brought him to this place, the Jewish communal graveyard. He reminds himself that he belongs in the world of the living. Here he, the Christian, practises the Jewish custom of placing pebbles on gravestones as a sign of commemoration, respect, and mourning. The poet debates with himself whether or not to bring the

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pebbles to the Biełarusian Christian children as a sign of remembrance; in doing so, he would reverse an old Jewish custom and pass it on to Christians. Tank’s self-reply to his question of whether he is in the graveyard to resurrect the dead with his words elicits a negative answer: the poet, in all humility, understands his own powerless humanity. The last and the longest of the stanzas reveals the poet’s mission: he has been called to the place of the dead in order to keep their memories alive. By fulfilling this duty, he becomes the memory keeper, the avenging knight for his murdered compatriots. His moral obligation, as he sees it, is to deliver those who deserve hell to that destination. “Hieta” is the most straightforward and at the same time the most intimate rendering of Tank’s feelings about the Biełarusian Holocaust. The poem is saturated with the author’s deep knowledge of Jewish customs. Since Jews don’t believe in hell, the poet uses that image metaphorically, as a poetic symbol. The reader “meets” the poet’s “brothers” in hell, which, in Tank’s rendering, turns out to be a euphemism for the Holocaust. The poem’s solemn rhythm echoes the pulse of the Holocaust, as do the circles of hell Dante utilizes in the structure of his Divine Comedy. Besides resorting to visual, sculpture-like imagery, “Hieta” seems to be inspired by Dante’s masterwork. Tank wrote “Hieta” at a time when expressions of sympathy towards Jewish suffering during the Holocaust were punishable by the Soviet government. At the time, the Soviet Union was about to rekindle an antiJewish campaign – one that had started during the 1930s. Soviet antiSemitism peaked before the Second World War, in 1938, and had been reinforced in Russia, Ukraine, and other parts of the Soviet Union immediately after liberation from German occupation. The Soviet rulers didn’t wait until long after the war to rejuvenate anti-Semitism at the state level. Judeophobia has always been a useful tool for Soviet authorities, helping them to cover their failure to effectively run the empire: they needed this tool to distract the populace from difficult economic conditions. In this, the Soviets had a good example to follow. After all, Hitler’s Germany had succeeded in only one of its projects – the destruction of Jews – and the rest of their failures they blamed on those same people, most of whom were dead.68 Antonella Salomoni provides an excellent and up-to-date bibliography on the fate of the Jews in the postwar Soviet Union in her article titled

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“State-Sponsored Anti-Semitism in Postwar ussr.”69 Here are some of her points: Kostyrchenko himself has produced a fundamental collection of archive sources that allows us to follow step by step the development of Soviet anti-Semitism from 1938 to Stalin’s death. Set in great chronological periods, the collection offers – among others – invaluable material on Mikhoels’ murder and the liquidation of eak (Jewish Anti-fascist committee), the destruction of Jewish literature and the purges in the scientific and industrial sector, the fight against “cosmopolitism” and “international Zionism,” the orchestration of legal enquiries and criminal trials – including the indictment of Maria Veitsman (sister of Chajm Weizmann, first Israeli president) and the denunciation of the “Doctor’s Plot.”70 In tandem with the anti-Semitic actions of the Soviet rulers and their “happy” marriage with some local anti-Semitic movements (mainly in Ukraine and “independent” Poland), there was a general anti-intellectual campaign, launched by Zhdanov in the Soviet Union, in the course of which many Soviet Jews suffered as well – albeit, this time, because they were intellectuals rather than because they were Jews.71 Anti-Semites took obvious pleasure in persecuting these people; meanwhile, Tank remained one of a handful of Soviet cultural figures who risked refusing to follow the directives of the Soviet authorities. As noted earlier, Tank always wrote about the same region of Biełaruś, Lake Narač and its surrounding forests. There were four local ghettos in that area (the Miadziel district), and between three and five hundred Jews were killed in each of them. Here are the names of these ghettos, with numbers of the dead: Budsłaŭ (310 Jews), Miadziel (500), Narač (Kabylnik, 320), Kryvičy (336). The small Biełarusian town of Kabylnik (currently Narač) was typical of the area, therefore we might view it as a plausible setting for Tank’s poem. The Soviets restructured this area demographically as soon as they reclaimed Western Biełaruś from Poland in 1939. Kabylnik had once been part of the Grand Duchy of Litva. Back then, in 1463, it was called Miadzeł Mały (Latin: Medal Minor; Polish: Medał Mniejszy), but it was renamed Kabylnik back in 1527. The Soviets renamed it Narač (Russian: Naroch) in 1965. This picturesque Biełarusian

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lake region is quite near Tank’s birthplace and childhood home. The Russian Empire occupied Kabylnik in 1793 (in the second partition) and made it part of the Pale of Settlement. In 1866, there were 370 inhabitants, among them 190 Catholics (mostly converted Biełarusian Uniates), 164 Jews, seven Biełarusian Orthodox, six Muslims, and four Russian Old Believers. Kabylnik was a crossroads for many wars after the gdl era: the Napoleonic War of 1812, then the First World War, the revolutions, the Russian Civil War, the Polish-Soviet War, and the Second World War. The Germans established a police station in Kabylnik in early July 1941. It was served mostly by their own gendarmes and some local collaborators. A few Jewish males saved themselves from Kabylnik’s Jewish communal grave by running off to join the Red Army or the partisans. Germans and the police also rounded up Jews from the nearby small town of Sviŕ and the village of Kamai and sent them to the ghetto in Kabylnik. The first execution of Jews took place on 12 July 1941. This was followed by a second, performed by a special German group, which appeared in the village on 5 October 1941. One of the survivors, Josef Blindered, remembered: “At 3 pm the doomed people were walking along the Vilnia’ street to the place of their execution. They were forced to take off their clothes and shoes. Chajka Batvinik was imploring them to spare her infant. A German grabbed her baby and bashed his head against a tree … Chajka was shot almost immediately. Shooting started. People were falling into the pit, the wounded were shot again in the pit, but some were covered by earth alive.”72 The final liquidation of Jews in Kabylnik took place in 1942. Out of the 375 Jews who lived there before the German occupation, 320 were murdered. Despite the tight security on the part of the Germans and their collaborators, and notwithstanding the death sentences imposed on those who helped Jews, some, like Josef Tunkievič, Jan Vałaj, and Adolf Žełuboŭski, did just that. These three Gentiles from Kabylnik are in the record kept by Yad Vashem (The World Holocaust Remembrance Center) honouring the Righteous among the Nations. There were probably more, but people didn’t advertise their heroism towards Jews during Soviet times. The old life was lost forever. The four Biełarusian poems discussed in this chapter – “Žydy,” “Dzieviać asinavych kolliaŭ,” “Akcyja,” and “Hieta” – separately and together, tell us much about Christian Biełarusians’ attitudes towards their

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Jewish compatriots. These poems commemorate Biełarusian Jews with passion, sincerity, and love. Though “Žydy” was written almost a quarter century before the other two, the sentiment is the same. Each of the poets addresses his or her own people directly, as if using Kupała’s painful possessive pronoun “mine.” “Dzieviać asinavych kolliaŭ,” “Akcyja,” and “Hieta” (written a few years apart) make it clear that the destruction of their Biełarusian Jewish neighbours left scars on Janka Kupała, Natalla Arsieńnieva, and Maksim Tank that would not fade. Each of these Biełarusian poets transformed her or his feelings into a searing moral indictment of racism and inhumanity, and for all the biographical and stylistic differences between them, their poems are more similar than different. They were separated from one another by Kupała’s death, Arsieńnieva’s emigration, and Tank’s embrace of Soviet ways. Yet the poets managed to express very similar feelings – indeed, they shaped those feelings with very similar poetic images. Through Joselie’s behaviour and death, Arsieńnieva transformed catastrophic events into the eternal unity expressed by the Jewish faith in God. Tank powerfully expresses the tragic death of adults who didn’t have a chance to defend their families. Both poets use fire as a hellish symbol of death as well as a possible sign of God’s vengeance upon the killers of His people. The reader will of course have noticed many other linguistic, symbolic, and emotional similarities between “Akcyja” and “Hieta.” For example, Arsieńnieva and Tank describe contorted trees, which appear as though animated by the pain of fire; also, both poets refer to Jewish customs, clothing, habits, and religious distinctiveness. Kupała was the first Soviet writer to appeal to his Jewish neighbours to consider their motherland first and their faith second. He was also the first to raise his poetic voice against German atrocities against Jews. And though “Dzieviać asinavych kolliaŭ” is unfinished and therefore not as refined as “Akcyja” and “Hieta,” the Biełarusian prodigy’s work paved the way for younger poets. Reading these poems, one tends to believe that Janka Kupała, Natalla Arsieńnieva, and Maxim Tank expressed and perhaps formalized the feelings of the Biełarusian majority. And for this alone they belong, at least in spirit, to those Righteous among the Nations. Indeed, their masterpieces, depicting the destruction of Biełarusian Jews during the German occupation, keep the memory of innocent souls alive. This is the only honour available to the dead: to be remembered by the living, who, one can only hope, will not allow history to repeat itself.

4 Ciška Hartny (1887–1937): The Wilted Beauty of Biełarusian Literature

Goodness and innocence are paid for with woe. –Ciška Hartny The shtetl Kapyl, as some of you must know, lies in a corner on the other, faraway side of the world. Indeed, Kapyl is isolated from the beaten paths; there is no mail, no bells are heard, besides one: the ringing of the assessor’s bell on his carriage. Nonetheless it is not a foolish town. Though quiet, calm and law-abiding, it is concerned mainly with studying Torah, praying and other important work. –Mendele Mojcher Sfojrym I don’t know whether any one of my readers had either ever seen or even heard about Kapyl, my dear native town; I fell in love with it for its gorgeous location on a high hill, lavishly surrounded by opulent and fruitful fields, many-coloured meadows and woody hills. As to my fellow citizens, Kapyl’s Jews, they were too serious to waste time on the beauties of nature that surrounded them. Nevertheless, they also loved their habitat, ascribing healing powers to the local flora. –Abraham Jacob Paperna

This chapter is mostly about Źmicier Chviodaravič Žyłunovič (1887– 1937), a Biełarusian poet, dramatist, literary critic, novelist and short story writer, journalist, academician, and political leader, better known as Ciška Hartny.1 Like Mendele Sfojrym (1835/36–1917) and Abraham Jacob Paperna (1840–1919), he was born in the Biełarusian shtetl of Kapyl.2 Unlike Sfojrym and Paperna, Hartny lived in Kapyl’s Christian neighbourhood. Christian Biełarusians in Kapyl were as poor as the local Jews. I

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introduce the Jewish writers Sfojrym and Paperna in this chapter so that readers can better understand Hartny’s roots as well as how he presents Jewish characters in his works. All three writers would go on to make great contributions to social and cultural life in their native land. Sfojrym and Hartny would focus on individual characters in their writings; Paperna would write a history of Kapyl that expresses the rich panorama of local life. Paperna affectionately describes Kapyl’s population during his time: From the 1840s to 1917, the population of Kapyl was about three thousand, and consisted of three groups, differentiated by ethnicity and faith: Jews, Biełarusians, and Tatars. These three groups, united by territory and rulers, were absolute strangers to each other in terms of language, customs, faith, and historical background. While they varied in appearance, and represented three vastly different communities, they were peaceful and amicable neighbours. Inevitably, it was economic and local situations that brought them together. There was no envy between them, simply because there was nothing to be envious about: everyone was in the same strained situation. But the main thing was that there wasn’t competition between them since each group, as if through a mutual understanding, had its own area of expertise. If anything, they contributed to each other’s lives.3 Sfojrym’s year of death, 1917, is symbolic in that this was the year that gave birth to a new regime that, over time, would turn out to be even worse than the tsarist regime. Paperna, who by then was living in the politically turbulent city of Odessa, followed his co-religionist to the grave in 1919. This refined intellectual had no sympathy for the Bolsheviks. Hartny, who had enthusiastically joined the Bolsheviks very early and welcomed them in 1917, died in their custody in a no less symbolic year, 1937, at the height of the purges, when people of all faiths and ethnicities were executed in Biełaruś and in the rest of the Soviet Empire. All three writers, however, were united in their undying love for their birthplace and revered their hometown in all their artistic, documentary, and journalistic works. Kapyl had a rich and turbulent history. It was called by various names, depending on the ruler as well as on the preferences of the various groups who lived there. For the Russians and Poles, it was Kopyl; for the Jews, it

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was Kapil or Kapulie; for the Biełarusians – Kapyl. The town was first mentioned in the historical record in 1274.4 It was a part of the gdl and, until 1612, was the property of the gdl’s Alelkovič princes. In 1652, the town was granted its own seal and coat of arms, which put it on the European map. Kapyl’s textiles, especially its velvet, were considered to be among the best in Europe. Its tanning industry was also highly developed. Kapyl became part of the Russian Empire after the second partition of the Reč Paspalitaja in 1793, after which its fortunes declined. Prince Wittgenstein inherited Kapyl in 1832. Thus, Mendele Sfojrym, Abram Paperna, and Ciška Hartny were born too late to enjoy the past glory and prosperity of their native town. Every historical source confirms Paperna’s claim that Kapyl’s Jewish population was in the majority. According to the Geographical Dictionary of the Polish Kingdom and Other Slavic Countries,5 there were nearly 360 homes in the town and more than two thousand Jewish residents by the end of the nineteenth century; in 1900, the Jewish population had increased to 2,671. This figure is supported by Shlomo Even-Shoshan’s article about Jewish shtetls in the Miensk area. Regarding the famous people born in the area, he writes: “Mendele Mojcher Sfojrym and A.Y. Paperna were born in the town of Kapyl; 2,671 Jews comprising 59% of the population.”6 When the Germans invaded Poland in 1939, many Polish and Western Biełarusian Jews migrated to Soviet Biełaruś, and their numbers almost doubled in many shtetls, including Kapyl. However, most of those who ended in Kapyl were killed by the Germans. Emmanuel Ioffe, in his article “Evrei Kapyla v gody Velikoi Otechestvennoi voiny” (Kapyl’s Jews during the Great Patriotic War) follows some Soviet and Israeli sources: “According to the Biełarusian historian M. Botvinnik and Israel’s historian G. Vinnits, altogether over three thousand five hundred Jews were killed in Kapyl and the surrounding area during the war.”7 Mendele Sfojrym, Abram Paperna, and Ciška Hartny, however, did not live to see this. Mendele Mojcher Sfojrym showed great promise as a Hebrew scholar (he knew the Torah by heart at the age of ten). But his father died when he was fourteen, and to continue his studies, he had to rely on the charity of the Jewish communities of Kapyl, Vilnia, Słucak, and other places. Because of his independent, unconventional, and proud character, which expressed itself in his refusal to submit to anything and anyone (including Kahal discipline), he never finished his formal schooling. Sfojrym had

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been writing mostly in Yiddish, and he returned to writing in Hebrew only in 1886. Sfojrym and Hartny overcame their terrible poverty and lack of social status in very similar ways. Both worked at low-paid, blue-collar jobs while relentlessly educating themselves. They gained knowledge through books and through their own carefully honed intuition, the latter gifted to them by the dual nature of their society: Biełarusian Christian and Jewish. Unlike Sfojrym and Hartny, Abraham Jacob Paperna didn’t have to perform hard labour in order to get a formal education: he was the grandson of a well-respected rabbi in Kapyl and the first-born son of a successful businessman. He studied the Torah (in Moses Mendelssohn’s translation), Hebrew grammar, and the Talmud. All the while, he educated himself in secular subjects – languages and literature. Paperna graduated from the rabbinical school of Vilnia in 1867, worked as a teacher and a principal at a number of Jewish schools, and wrote for the liberal Hebrew and the Russian press. He was an early adherent of the Haskalah movement.8 In his scholarly and literary works, Paperna articulated for Russian readers the character of his economically backward but culturally rich town and those of the rest of the Pale of Settlement. Sfojrym and Hartny did not have to translate this unique culture for their Jewish and Biełarusian readers since it was already familiar to them. Paperna, Sfojrym, and Hartny were freedom-loving social justice advocates both in their public lives and in their artistic works. Although their paths never crossed, they were genuinely close to one another in their understanding of social injustice and each of them waged war against it. From their lives and writings, one cannot doubt that the town of their birth played a significant role in the development of their character and principles. All three writers were inspired by Kapyl’s natural beauty, its old architecture, and, especially, the characters and fates of their fellow citizens. Having said this, we need to note that, while Hartny had less literary talent than the other two, his soul was far from ordinary, and his genius was clear to see in his actions. As a writer, he too often had to please Soviet political rulers, but he was still able to introduce and develop new themes and genres in Biełarusian literature. Of the three writers discussed here, only Hartny was drawn to politics early, which is understandable and, indeed, rather typical for someone of his background. He came from a hard-working but landless peasant house-

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hold. His family didn’t own a horse, a cow, or a field. They worked on other people’s land or in the households of farmers who were better off. To help his widowed mother, Hartny worked as a cowherd as soon as he turned ten (the unofficial working age in the tsarist empire). His education was determined by his social status: for boys in his position, formal schooling was a rarity, and only the most capable and determined individuals were able to acquire even basic literacy, which he achieved through perseverance and self-education. Considering his circumstances, it was something of a miracle that he reached the academic heights that he did. Hartny’s unusual destiny began with his poverty-stricken mother’s support of his passion for education; he successfully completed a two-year college program in 1905 after learning basic skills at home from so-called “directors.”9 Then, unlike most Biełarusian peasants, he became politically active very early. Yet he refused to join a peasant political party, such as the Socialist Revolutionaries. Instead, from the start, he involved himself in the labour movement. From here, Hartny came to be the first president of the Biełarusian Soviet Socialist Republic (1919). He became a full member of the Biełarusian Academy of Sciences in 1928, the year it was founded. Soon after, though, he became one of the first victims of the Bolsheviks. Accused of “sympathy” for the national democrats (Nacdems), Hartny was expelled from the Communist Party in 1931. By the end of the 1920s, in the minds of Biełarusian communists, “Nacdem” had become a curse word. For those who were branded with it, the most common fate was death in a Soviet prison. Hartny was arrested in 1936 and mercilessly tortured by the nkvd (a forerunner of the kgb). In 1937 he was declared insane and moved from Miensk’s interrogation centre to Mahilioŭ’s lunatic asylum. According to one informant, Hartny took his own life there; other sources say he died of “natural” causes, though there is nothing “natural” about the sad end of this man, whose rich soul and creativity would had brought him a better life in any place free of dictatorship. Let us now take a closer look at his life and works.10 While in college, Hartny was attracted to Kapyl’s Social Democratic Party (sdp), which he joined in 1904 after attending his first meeting. He was one of that party’s most ardent members – something that denied him entrance to the Teachers’ College in Niaśviž as his SDP membership meant that the tsarist police would not grant him a certificate of loyalty. Indeed, without this document, all formal education was closed to him. So Źmicier Chviodaravič

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Žyłunovič (Hartny) began working as an apprentice at a tannery. By 1910, he became a driving force behind Kapyl’s handwritten political and literary journals. Between 1909 and 1912, Źmicier Žyłunovič looked for work in shtetls and in many cities in Biełaruś, Latvia, Litva, and Ukraine. Wherever he went, he kept in touch with politically like-minded people. In 1912, Žyłunovič found a tanner’s job in a shtetl called Vilkamir (Wilkomir; close to Koŭna and about eighty kilometres from Vilnia).11 While working there, Źmicier Žyłunovič involved himself in anti-government propaganda and other political activities. Žyłunovič moved to Petersburg in 1913, where he worked in a factory and, simultaneously, as a full-time correspondent for the Bolshevik newspaper Pravda (Truth). That same year brought him into a close relationship with the Social Democratic Labour Party. Later, he added to his journalistic résumé another Russian newspaper, Novyi chelovek (A new man). Although he often wrote his political articles in Russian, he never abandoned his native language. His first poems in Biełarusian were written in 1904 and published in 1909. By then, his most common Biełarusian pen names were Ciška Hartny and Jazep. Hartny’s acquaintance with the Biełarusian press began with the daily newspaper Naša Niva in 1908. He was drawn to its national spirit, and he regularly contributed poems to it until the tsarist government closed it down in 1915. Meanwhile, he was developing a reputation not just as a poet but also as a literary innovator in Biełarusian. Hartny was the first to establish industrial labour as a theme in Biełarusian literature. His first anthology, Peśni (Songs [1912]), was published in Petersburg. This collection has three parts – “Peśni pracy” (Songs of labour), “Peśni harbara” (Songs of a tanner), and “Žalby i Žadańni” (Sorrows and desires) – and it marks the appearance of the first Biełarusian proletarian poet: something that is especially noticeable in “Peśni harbara.” The other two sections are more lyrical and emotionally intense, and they are rooted in the themes of peasant labour, nature’s beauty, and love. While the poet’s next volume, Peśni kachańnia (Songs of love), has some excellent lines, it lacks lyricism and psychological depth. Hartny’s 1922 collection, Peśni pracy i zmagańnia (Songs of work and struggle), shows some advances in lyricism. These are even more pronounced in a number of verses from his 1925 collection, Uračystaść (A triumph). Uračystaść has two parts: “Uračystaść revalucyji” (A triumph of the revolution) and “Uračystaść žyćcia” (A triumph of life).

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In the first of these, Hartny’s labour propaganda and sloganeering dominates; the second is more musical, more serene, and more passionate about nature. This is especially evident in the titles of some of the poems in “Uračystaść žyćcia”: “Maja duša” (My soul), “Ja žyć chaču” (I want to live), “Ja žyvu” (I am living), “Simfonija” (Symphony), and “Biełym matyločkam” (As a small white butterfly). The latter has a playful and childlike refrain: “I would love to fly / I would love to fly / as a small, white butterfly.” Hartny spent 1921 in Berlin, where he organized a Soviet (Biełarusian and Russian) press that published books, journals, and pamphlets in Biełarusian and Russian. On his return from Germany, he served as the editor-in-chief of the daily newspaper Savieckaja Biełaruś (Socialist Biełaruś). In 1927 he organized a Biełarusian literary society, Połymia (Flame), which published an eponymous journal. Overall, his political and administrative activities were closely linked to his country’s cultural politics throughout the 1920s. He was the head of the Biełarusian state press and played an important role in developing an educational system in Biełaruś. If not in terms of quality then certainly in terms of quantity, Ciška Hartny was one of the leading pre- and post-revolutionary Biełarusian playwrights. According to Arnold McMillin: “Apart from plays devoted to Byelorussia’s distant past, a number were also set in the early years of the twentieth century, two of the earliest examples being Hartny’s political dramas Chvali žyćcia (Life’s waves, 1918) and Sacyjalistka (The Socialist girl, 1923). Slow moving and with a preponderance of monologues, their lovely vernacular language did not compensate for Hartny’s failure to achieve convincing characterization. The same faults are also evident in his later plays dealing with Soviet life, Na styku (At the parting of ways, 1926) and Dźvie siły (Two forces, 1927), and it is plain that the novelist was not a natural playwright.”12 McMillin also notes that Hartny’s plays opened the door to twentieth-century Biełarusian drama and that his brilliant vernacular and knowledge of pre-revolutionary peasant life would later be appropriated by more talented playwrights. A good example is Michaś Hramyka’s Kalia terasy (Near the veranda [1927]). Hartny helped develop longer prose forms in Biełarusian. His novel Baćkava volia (A father’s will [1914–17]), which appeared on the eve of the February Revolution, is considered the first long narrative in Biełarusian literature. Baćkava volia turned out to be the most popular instalment

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of a four-part epic under the umbrella title Soki caliny (Saplings of the virgin soil [1917–29]). Hartny intended this epic to illustrate the formation of the Biełarusian people’s revolutionary conscience. However, its plot and style are often overwhelmed by the political strictures he faced at the time he wrote it. After the first instalment, much of this tetralogy suffers from a lack of psychological depth, mediocre literary devices, weak narration, and clumsy plotting. The main character in Baćkava volia is Ryhor Niazvyčny, whose last name translates as “unusual,” “unconventional,” or “remarkable.” The story reminds us of Hartny’s own; the name is therefore subtly symbolic – indeed, it is one of Hartny’s many pen names. Like Hartny, the character Ryhor also lost his father early in life. He, too, helped out his poor mother from the age of ten, working as a cowherd for neighbours. At the age of fifteen, he is hired by a Jewish neighbour, a bałahoł(a) (Biełarusian and Yiddish: cart driver) named Berka Škłiar, and works for him for two years before leaving for Riga, where he finds factory work as a labourer. Niazvyčny is described as a very capable individual with a zest for knowledge and social justice. Like Hartny, Ryhor becomes literate early in life and teaches himself advanced arts and sciences. Ryhor is presented to the reader after a number of the shtetl’s inhabitants have already been introduced. Most of them are connected to Ryhor’s beloved, Zosia. But not all. The “Jewish” presence is hinted at from the first lines of the story, long before Ryhor appears. Zosia’s father, apparently a clothes horse, is wearing boots made by the best Jewish shoemaker in Kapyl.13 The first person to meet Ryhor at the station when he comes home for a visit is the bałahoł Šeja. Ryhor understands the cart driver’s difficulties well, having been one himself; he remembers that this is not a nine-to-five job, but one that requires a twenty-four-hour commitment. Šeja’s job is also marked by bad roads, poor clientele, and traffic accidents. The characters’ mutual respect and goodwill are evident in their language: each shows his esteem for the other by inserting the phrase “dear neighbour” before their proper names. And both look each other directly in the eye. Baćkava volia has two main themes. The first concerns the romantic love between two young people who cannot marry because of their social differences: Zosia’s father will not allow the landless Ryhor to join his family. The second concerns the social and political struggle of Biełarusian

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youth, which, according to the plot, unites all of the Russian Empire’s young people against the tsarist regime. These two themes are intertwined. Not only does Zosia’s family own land, horses, and cows as well as having other material and financial assets but there is also a love triangle: Vasil Bierah, Zosia’s social and financial equal, wants to marry her. And, of course, Vasil has a better chance with the girl’s parents than does the impoverished Ryhor. Zosia’s character is badly underdeveloped. Superlatives about her beauty, strengthened by her household skills, fly off the pages in rapid succession. This clearly betrays the young author’s lack of experience: Zosia is heavily romanticized and is presented as the ideal peasant wife. Yet, despite this obvious lack of artistry, Zosia, Vasil, and Ryhor are still more alive than are the characters in Maxim Gorky’s Mat’ (Mother), the first Russian proletarian novel, written in 1906.14 The younger generation has to deal with pragmatic parents: Zosia’s father is adamant about living by traditional rules. The innovation in Hartny’s novel is rooted in the writer’s understanding that Ryhor, who often refers to himself as half-peasant and half-labourer, is already estranged from traditional peasant ways. Baćkava volia’s second theme – social struggle and the labour movement – though rather schematic, vividly shows the main character’s interests, intentions, and aspirations. Icka, a Jewish friend, sympathizes with Ryhor and his mother despite their different inclinations. His mother is deeply upset about Ryhor leaving the shtetl, but, after his short holiday back home, Ryhor feels ready for his new working and political life in Riga. By the end, Icka is so taken with Ryhor’s stories about Riga’s labour movement that, despite his empathy for Ryhor’s mother, who doesn’t want to part with her son, he approves of Ryhor’s decision and, indeed, will soon follow him. In the meantime, Icka is Ryhor’s bridge to the political life of their hometown. Ryhor’s other two friends, Piatruś and Siomka, tell Ryhor that, together, Christian and Jewish youth often hold secret political meetings deep in the nearby forest.15 The novel ends when Ryhor, on his way back to Riga, looks back at his hometown with deep tenderness. Momentarily, his thoughts move forward to future struggles against the tsarist regime in Riga, which he anticipates with excitement. The same characters are at the core of the following three novels in this epic tetralogy, in which the writer further describes situations in the villages and cities just before and after the Bolshevik Revolution.

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Stalin forced collectivization on the Soviet Union between 1928 and 1940. Hartny, in his fiction, never raises his voice against it. His short novel in Russian, Zelenyi shum (A green uproar [1930]), supports and indeed glorifies collectivization.16 (It is noteworthy that Zelenyi shum, as well as other of Hartny’s works about peasant life, are all written in Russian.) The fact is that Hartny, along with many of his friends both Christian and Jewish, truly believed they were building a new and free society, not replacing one form of slavery with another. The pre-revolutionary lives of Biełarusian peasants and Jewish tradespeople in the poverty-stricken Pale were hard, but the Soviet regime that followed it was harder still. Under the tsars, both ethnicities could find seasonal work abroad or simply leave the country for good; under the Bolsheviks, the peasants were utterly enslaved. Overall, on the rare occasions Hartny dared to express any dissent regarding the Soviets, it was feeble, and his post-revolutionary work never reached the level of his pre-revolutionary work. Hartny’s short story “Bezdel’nik” (Lounger), written in Russian, takes place before the revolution in a shtetl much like his native Kapyl. It begins with an interaction between a Christian woman and a Jewish man: “It was already about ten in the morning when Pałuta came home. Once again she was lucky: the guard missed her, and she had harvested two huge sacks of choice meadow grass. Jankiel, the owner of the inn, looked at her bags, and bought both of them without question. He even thanked her.”17 Pałuta is a landless widow with two always hungry sons; she has sent her eldest, Janka, to work for their Polish landlord, Zamyžny, with the understanding that the boy will be fed and clothed in return for his work. Instead, Zamyžny exploits and even tortures Janka but never feeds him. When Janka runs home to Pałuta (who at that moment has food only for her younger son), she doesn’t believe him; calling him “Bezdelnik,” she sends him back to his monstrous landlord, whereupon Janka commits suicide. Hartny’s short story “Velikodnaja karobka” (An Easter box), also set in a small town, was written in Biełarusian.18 It is about a poor, landless man who cannot feed his children even at Easter. “On Maundy Thursday, as soon as Antoś Stupa came home from the seasonal work that he did for Icka, two of his kids, Siomka and Pruzia, asked him in one voice: ‘Daddy, oh dear daddy, would you buy some flour for pies and a little piglet? Everyone was bringing piglets and flour from the shtetl’s market today but

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our mama didn’t buy anything!’”19 Antoś promises the children they will have a festive dinner as well as a Velikodnaja karobka. So he makes the rounds to borrow money. He starts with Icka, who could give him an advance for tannery work but does not. He continues on to his friends, also seasonal workers, most of whom have spent their last pennies on the coming holiday. In the end he makes an unfortunate attempt to steal someone else’s Velikodnaja karobka and is beaten and arrested. The next two stories were written after the revolution. Like most of Hartny’s literary writings, they have autobiographical themes and motifs. One of them, “Haspadar” (The good manager),20 is written in Biełarusian, and its plot is based on the writer’s experiences at factories in Miensk, Riga, Petersburg, and other large cities. The main character, Jakaŭ Husik (in Biełarusian, his last name means “button”), comes from a small shtetl and is working as a metal worker at a factory. He feels responsible for the factory’s success and is truly upset if he finds an unused piece of metal in the garbage when he could have made a good number of nails from it. His constant concern for the factory’s production pays off, and he is promoted to the position of deputy director. Two people supported his promotion: Jaŭsiej, the head of the factory’s Communist Party Committee, and Lazar, the factory foreman. Judging by their names, both men are likely of Jewish origin. The last name of the factory director is Fanarnik, which also sounds Jewish. At first, Fanarnik doesn’t like Jakaŭ, but the latter’s ability to get the full support of the workers at a factory meeting encourages him to take his new deputy seriously. Overall, “Haspadar” is a typical production story, at the centre of which is a struggle between something good and something perfect, with the latter winning. The only two things in this story that might be of artistic interest to the reader are the use of the vernacular and the lack of national and racial prejudice. But this is a minor work, of most interest because it stands as an example of socialist propaganda from bygone times. “Smert’ Germana Vassermana” (The death of Herman Wasserman) was written in Russian and is rooted in Hartny’s time in Berlin. But the story actually takes place nine years later, in 1930, just before the Nazis come to power in Germany. The title character, Herman Wasserman, is an ardent anti-fascist and a member of the German Communist Party (Kommunistische Partei Deutschland [kpd]). In his letters to Soviet friends, he

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expresses high hopes that the German Communists will win the coming elections. His best friend, Nikolaj Altman (a typical Jewish last name), works in Germany, and, like Hartny in 1921, he is establishing a Soviet press in Berlin. At a pro-Communist demonstration, the friends are separated by a gang of young fascists. Wasserman, who stands up to them, is badly beaten. While in the hospital, and despite his intense pain, his thoughts are only for the Communist Party; he dies without knowing that the kpd came in only third in the German elections. This story is a stronger one than “Haspadar,” but it still reads like propaganda, despite its foreign setting. Largely, “Smert’ Germana Vassermana” expresses the close bonds between the international labour movement and its Soviet “brothers” and “sisters.” Artistically, it is not as strong as Hartny’s later short stories, which are written mainly in fluent Biełarusian and are set in shtetls. These stories are also rich with local humour, and their narratives are more freeflowing. They often contrast the loneliness of adults with the happiness of children, and they are full of nostalgia for family life. Most of them, like “U majsterni” (In the shop), present two characters, one Christian and one Jewish, who are engaged in the same drudgery. In this story, two small boys, who are learning how to tan hides at a Jewish shop, could be twins if their first names didn’t indicate different ethnicities: “two little boys – apprentices, Ryhor with his friend, Icka, were moving quickly near a wide black table.”21 The short story “Mest’” (Vengeance), written in Russian, stands apart from many others for its keen plotting and surprise ending.22 The main character, Ihnaś Viła, plans to visit his elderly parents’ hut just before the feast day known as the Protection of Our Most Holy Lady, the Mother of God and Ever-Virgin Mary.23 Five months earlier he had escaped from a prison, where he had been incarcerated for his political activities: agitating against the regime and working for an underground press. If caught, he will be hanged or, at best, receive a sentence of ten years hard labour in an unbearable climate. Besides his parents, only three people knew about Antoś’s arrival. One of them, Alieś Capa, reads Antoś’s letters to his illiterate parents and responds on their behalf. The other two are Trafim Zacirka, a member of the same Bolshevik organization (“Iskra”) to which Ihnaś belongs, and Fejga Šamies from the local bund chapter. These two have been his friends since childhood, and their mutual trust is unbreak-

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able. Ihnaś shares his thoughts with Trafim and Fejga about leaving their lawless country and going to the United States. Indeed, many subjects of the Russian Empire from all walks of life – especially Jews from the Pale, Biełarusian and Ukrainian peasants, and political activists – had been hoping to emigrate. Many went as seasonal workers to European and North and South American farms; others were hired as temporary or permanent factory labourers. Some returned home with money to support their families; others brought their families to their new land. By the end of the nineteenth century, just before the years of revolution, as well as during the First World War, many Biełarusian peasants and shtetl inhabitants had left their home countries. Political outcasts like Ihnaś were also leaving, individually or in groups. Ihnaś now consults with Trafim and Fiejga. Both of them know very well what will happen if their friend is caught by the tsarist police. Trafim, and even more so Fiejga, shared Ihnaś’s fears. In their correspondence they strongly advised him to seriously consider moving to the United States. Their letters provided Ihnaś with support and justification. “I shall go,” he concluded after long deliberations. “And, of course, on the way I shall stop at the place of my birth. So many things are connected with my small town! My beloved nature, school, the tannery, my friends and comrades! I had ten years of struggle with the regime there. At first, I was only singing revolutionary songs with comrades. Later, I attended secret meetings, and in no time I joined the Iskra circle,24 and soon after became a member of the organization.” Indeed, in 1905, Ihnaś made a few speeches to the inhabitants of the little town and to the peasants in the surrounding villages. Everyone listened to him with trust, considered him their own, and later protected his elderly parents from the police’s “special attention.”25 This story also describes at length the loving relationships within a Biełarusian family – in particular, the trust and love between Ihnaś and his rather apolitical brother Chryś, and the tender parental love of their mother Akseńnia and father Mikita. In a highly emotional, expressive, even exalted style, Hartny shifts suddenly to a description of Ihnaś’s parents’ thoughts and feelings about their son. His parents, who have been warned by their son Chryś not to share the news of Ihnaś’s visit with his friends and other relatives, are anticipating the forthcoming meeting:

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Mikita’s [Ihnaś’s father’s] chest was about to explode with overwhelming emotion. After all, he hadn’t seen his son for so long, and had lived through many hours with terrible thoughts about Ihnaś’s fate. Mikita’s thin and heavily veined hands, tight as strings, were nervously trembling while he moved his weaver’s shuttle from right to left and back. His hunchbacked body, which had been bent for forty years due to working the marshes and poor fields of [Biełarusian] Palieśsie, the same body that for fifty winters was tied to a weaver’s machine in order to produce sacking material for a customer, was in terrible and continuous pain. His thoughts were drifting like smoke from a pipe. They were driving him to Miensk, to Białystok, and anywhere else where Ihnaś could be at the moment. Very often, when his son was in particular trouble, huge tears ran along the deep wrinkles of Mikita’s waxcoloured face. And the mother, Akseńnia, was probably the most compassionate mother on earth. She definitely loved Ihnaś more than her other children, and her soul was always wherever her son was. Akseńnia wept during the long summer days when she was working somebody else’s gardens, as well as during winters, when she was weaving linen.26 Ihnaś longs to see his parents, but as much as they missed each other, he is aware that he could be betrayed to the police. His worst fears come true when their neighbour, Marylia, sees him slipping into his parents’ hut. Out of spite over a petty quarrel with Mikita, Marylia decides to inform the local police about the visit. Hartny carefully renders the psychology of this woman, who is acting badly more out of stupidity than evil intent: “On the one hand, something seemed to encourage her and gave her incentive for her plans. But, on the other hand, a certain anxiety filled her body and mind with doubts, fears, and apprehension about her cruel act. The first feeling was driving Marylia forward, and the second was pushing her back, into the thick darkness, where each shadow seemed surreal.”27 Soon after Marylia reports Ihnaś, she grasps the consequences of her act. But her attempt to warn the neighbours does not succeed: the police follow her and are about to arrest Ihnaś when he thwarts them by committing suicide. Ihnaś is not ready to die on his enemies’ terms: he will not endure either hanging or years of hard labour; his revolver is his last recourse,

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and he shoots himself. When the police move in, they see his blood-covered body lying on the bench, surrounded by the white, death-like faces of Trafim, Chryś, and Fiejga. This type of short story, written in what was a common Soviet genre known as “optimistic tragedy,” was often employed by writers telling prerevolutionary or revolutionary tales. The same approach, representing the “healthy” genre of socialist realism, is also found in Hartny’s post-revolutionary short story “Svaje blincy” (One’s own pancakes [1926]),28 which tells how Vincuś Šavel, a former junior officer in the Red Army, changes the life of his hometown. The story is set during the time of the New Economic Policy.29 Of course, Šavel doesn’t bring about these changes single-handedly: he is supported by the Communist bosses and by the shtetl’s inhabitants. Šavel wants to restore an old mill. There is one working mill in the town, and it belongs to Chajm Krokes, a Jewish nepman (minor entrepreneur), who has profited greatly from it. Šavel is contemplating a state-operated mill. He dreams that it will employ the residents and produce cheaper and better-quality flour for the locals and, he hopes, for the surrounding districts. At first it seems that Krokes will come out on top for the party bosses are not inclined to help Šavel. But when one of them, Platovič, gives him a hand, the little town’s life is transformed forever. Besides restoring the old mill, the excellent output of which brings down Krokes’s business, Šavel organizes a good number of other state enterprises. The mill, besides flour, produces first-rate groats and cereals. Šavel also establishes a new sawmill and a weaver’s shop. Here is how this new Soviet man explains himself to Platovič a year after he has gained the support of the local party’s committee: You think I am doing it for myself, comrade Platovič? Not at all. All of this serves only our common purpose. Trust me, I am doing it only in the name of our motherland. For me there is enough satisfaction in the fact that I was able to contribute to our country’s success. After all, it is not plans and talk that matter but an ability to pull together through work. Soviet rule, in my opinion, is a living creative force. Soviet people will reconstruct and rebuild everything … And this constructive spirit shall pierce all the hearts of our republic’s population because what are we good for if, instead of moving forward, we behave like the dead?30

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However platitudinous this sounds, Hartny seems sincere in his support of small deeds for the sake of the collective. Looked at in these terms, Chajm Krokes, who works only to enrich himself, loses ground on every issue in his arguments with Vincuś Šavel. Yet it seems hard to believe that Vincuś, until recently a junior officer in the Red Army, could outfox this experienced entrepreneur. Krokes, who acts against Soviet principles, is presented as a despicable individual not because he is a Jew but because he is an enemy of the new proletariat. In short, he is alien to the philosophy that Hartny considered the right one for all people, whatever their origins, ethnicity, or faith. The main character in the next short story, “Chilščyk” (The tanner), is a Jew, Šloma Brykier. Šloma is a simple and even gullible person, but he is also a hard-working proletarian as well as being honest, neighbourly, and family-oriented. He clearly fits the new Soviet mode of thinking: he served in the Red Army and sympathizes with the Bolsheviks. The story spans the years from before the First World War and leads the reader to a happy socialist future. The plot focuses on the nep, which, for people like Šloma, ushered in a difficult period. There were few jobs available in his shtetl, and Šloma’s one-person enterprise wasn’t profitable. But, as the story unfolds, it becomes clear that he isn’t the simpleton he first seemed and that he is able and very willing to be the family breadwinner. He got acquainted with a nice, quiet village girl, Etlia Čuches, who was a seamstress. She had a great attitude and was willing to do any work. Šloma really liked her; it didn’t matter that she was poor, that her father had died and that therefore there wasn’t any dowry, and that she herself had to deal with the business of her own boots, dress, and coat. So what? This is an old way to think about a dowry. After all, was Šloma a vulgar, narrow-minded Philistine? Had he ever thought about it? How could these types of thoughts find a place in his head? He had been a democrat and a blue-collar worker since he had turned sixteen. He was drafted into the army and went through military service and political activities. Of course he was with the Bolsheviks from the start. Šloma always supported them in everything and would certainly have joined them officially if his life had gone differently, more normally. But he was badly wounded and spent a year and a half in different hospitals; though his phys-

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ical pain was very intense, he always endured it without complaint. But all of these things exhausted him and dampened his mood. Life was moving quickly, and he was left behind … Did this happen to him alone? And still, on the one hand, he dreamed about the [Communist] party while, on the other, he was beset by the uncertain and barely definable thought that he was not good enough for the party’s responsible and disciplined work … Overall, in his heart he was with the Bolsheviks, for the Soviets, and for the revolution … Certainly, before that revolution, he had had to endure so much grief.31 Hartny is quite clear-headed in this story. He shows why Šloma and his equally hard-working wife cannot support their family of two children during Bolshevik rule. Even in the 1920s they do not have their own hut and have to live in a rented one-room basement, which also serves as a tannery. Etlia and the children suffer from allergies in their sunless, chemical-filled basement. In addition, it is hard for them to find work because everyone around them is in a similar situation and leather goods are not an essential product. Šloma and Etlia are desperate, but, being proud people, they do not want to ask for help from Šloma’s sister, Lea, who has moved with her family to the United States. After all, they know that Lea’s husband is currently unemployed. Reluctantly, at long last, Šloma does ask his sister for help: there is a half-built hut for sale, which could become their home. The seller, Liejba, is willing to wait for a few months in return for an advance on the property. Three months after sending the letter to Lea, and three days before the Feast of the Trinity, a response arrives:32 “His sister informed them that she had sent them one hundred thalers. She had been collecting the money for a long time, saving for her own family’s necessities. She was sorry she could send them only a hundred thalers. – Here we are! Why is she saying she is sorry?! She, Lea, resurrected and saved them! After all, they had almost lost their last ray of hope.”33 It is interesting to note that Hartny is using the Christian Orthodox Church calendar and terminology even in the second half of the 1920s. Furthermore, he applies Christian holiday magic to people of Jewish origin. Moreover, he recognizes that many Biełarusian citizens of all origins relied on their relatives who had to immigrate to North America and elsewhere to find work. Just a few years later, in the second half of the 1930s, many Biełarusians from all walks of life, particularly those who lived in

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rural and semi-rural areas, were prosecuted as “foreign spies” for the “crime” of writing to their relatives who were living abroad. But that was later. In the story, the money is a godsend and helps the Brykiers buy the half-finished hut. By late fall, Šloma had managed to put glass in two of the hut’s four windows; he has made a wooden table and beds and has installed a stove. As a result, he has become the happiest of men. His children have gained weight and are able to breathe better air. By happenstance he has met Taras,34 an old comrade-in-arms who, judging from his appearance, has become one of the area’s party bosses. The friends haven’t seen each other for twelve years, and when Taras comes for a visit, they are happy to remember their younger days in the Red Army. Šloma is proud of his new dwelling and tells his friend that, despite some difficulties, Biełarusians are much better off under the Soviets than they were under the tsars. “Taras looked at his comrade and thought: ‘What a golden nature! What a sincere soul! How many people like him could you meet in the entire world?’ And an old, dented, and shabby samovar on the table was sizzling while emitting steam.”35 It would appear that this telling imagery describes the author’s genuine pain for his people’s economic devastation, poor leadership, and lack of economic improvements. Once again, Hartny shows his understanding of the diverse faiths and customs of Biełarusian ethnicities, even though he paints his compatriots in black and white, distinguishing them solely on the basis of their morality. The same attitude is evident in his unfinished novella, “Za svaju voliu, za voliu krainy” (For my own freedom, for my country’s liberty), a copy of which lay undiscovered for more than thirty-five years in a safe in the bssr’s State Library.36 The descriptive title states this novella’s theme: the struggle against the tsarist system. It has a complicated plot and an abundance of characters. Hartny relies mainly on the third-person omniscient narrator, but this piece is so clearly autobiographical that we can distinctly hear the voice of a first-person narrator recounting his personal experience. The main character, Samuś Šyba, is a Christian who was born in a predominantly Jewish shtetl. As was the case with any literary Biełarusian of that time, Samuś’s working language is Russian. He is also a man of letters, but success comes to him only when he starts to publish in his native Biełarusian in the same year (1908) and in the same newspaper (Naša Niva) as Hartny. Samuś’s yearning for knowledge drives him to constantly educate himself. He is highly political and heavily involved in revolution-

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ary propaganda in his shtetl. So it is no surprise that Samuś’s first job is as a tanner: From the very beginning, since the art of tannery was imported to Žłoby, this skill evoked suspicions from the residents and petty bourgeoisie; first, because the first craftsmen were mostly outsiders. Everyone remembers that, not so long ago, not a single local Jew or Christian in Žłoby belonged to the community of tanners. It was only recently that this profession had become acceptable not only for the children of poverty, who were grabbing the chance to become tanners, but also for the offspring of well-to-do parents. True, their earnings were better than those of tailors and shoemakers. Young chaps were attracted by the strong comradeship and feelings of unity among the tanners; they were also known as inveterate socialists and the most militant atheists. The local petty bourgeoisie even made up a saying that if anyone is interested in political news, this person should go either to Saŭka or to Chajm.37 Saŭka and Chajm are Samuś Šyba’s closest friends. Besides these two, there is a group of like-minded young locals who, whatever their origins, are united by close friendship. Among them are Ihnaś (a Christian); Chava (a Jewess); Icka, David, and Sroł (Jews); Chroł (a Christian); and Samuś’s beloved, a local member of the bund, Roza Winkler (a Jewess). Roza is passionately in love with Samuś, and he, in turn, writes love poems that he dedicates to her, his only muse. Chroł, who is popular among the Jewish women of the shtetl, also likes Roza, but she considers Chroł just a friend and doesn’t elicit any amorous feelings from anyone but her beloved. Roza, despite her modesty, is so liberated that she is the first to admit her passionate love: “‘Oh, I love you so much, my darling Samuś!’ – Roza was opening up to him. Samuś didn’t respond, but happiness overwhelmed him; he sat quietly, but the music of new singing poems played in his soul. And Roza held her tongue, thinking that maybe she was being intrusive with her feelings.”38 When she summons her resolve and asks Samuś directly whether her love is unrequited, he responds passionately: “Didn’t I tell you that I could never ever part from you? Let’s move to a city, to a large one, I will work at the factory, you will also find what to do; we will work during the day and conduct party business after work. We will attend

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the Educational Society, meetings, and theatres for workers; we will go everywhere together!”39 Samuś asks Roza which city she would prefer to move to, and she reminds him that, as a Jew, she is not allowed to leave the Pale. They continue to discuss which city to choose, and Roza says that any within the Pale will do but that, for her mother’s sake, she and he ought to leave the shtetl separately. Samuś objects to this: he is afraid of losing her. She, however, feels that her family duty should come first: “Samuś, darling, even if our plans don’t work out immediately, please do not allow any bad thoughts to cross your mind. It is easier for you to do as you wish but the same is more difficult for me. My father is dead, and my old mother is lonely, and I am her youngest … How can I leave her alone? Now I am making money as a seamstress. And if I go, who would make her dinner and take care of the hut? My brother is leaving soon for America, and mama can’t stay alone.”40 Hartny makes it clear that these two young people possess a sense of decency and personal freedom: they anticipate their future together and believe strongly in their right to choose each other. This idea was not new for the well-educated classes, but for shtetl inhabitants it was revolutionary. Also significant is the writer’s repeated use of the familiar motif of leaving one’s home for the United States as the only way out of Biełaruś, which, at the time, was being crushed under the twin weights of poverty and police brutality. The characters openly discuss ethnic and religious differences. It is also notable that Roza touches on these questions much more infrequently than does Samuś. He is aware that Roza’s origins are different from his; and it sometimes seems that he feels that hers are inferior to his. This inferiority, he senses, can be elevated, and, since her prejudices are based on age-old habits and superstitions, Roza can be re-educated: And though Samuś truly valued Roza’s thoughts and advice, and often couldn’t do without them, this didn’t mean that he would accept all of her opinions without reservations or analyses. In fact, the main factor in his decisions was always his own judgment. Samuś took into account that Roza, though a socialist and a member of the bund, was a Jew, who still harboured national prejudices, which were deeply engraved in the psyche of every Jew. True, Roza, who was a firm and self-contained socialist, had already man-

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aged to part with many parochialisms, yet some of the influences of national distinctions and socio-economic conditions were still powerful in her life. This narrowness also affected her behaviour because she was a woman. But, I shall say this, the intoxication of love covered over all her imperfections. In fact, he was magnetically attracted to Roza, and her words, and, even more so, her advice, meant a lot to Samuś given his state of mind and the activities in which he was involved.41 These naive and even biased deliberations regarding the supposedly specific Jewish and female characteristics of Samuś’s beloved await a scholar in racial and feminist studies. Indeed, it seems that Samuś is less free from prejudices than is his girlfriend. But Hartny’s main point is that these two young people are brave and strong enough to overcome cultural prejudices by falling in love with each other. Samuś and Roza are ready to act on both their love and their principles: they have pledged themselves to each other and plan, against all odds, to leave the shtetl. One strong feeling that Samuś is eager to share with Roza is his overwhelming sense of national belonging, which he acquired by reading the Biełarusian newspaper Naša Niva. He insists that his newly acquired Biełarusianess will play a part in their relationship, declaring: “To love the nation of the other, one must know who one is.”42 He hopes that Roza will not be as indifferent to his newly acquired sense of being Biełarusian as is his friend Saŭka, whose attitude is especially surprising, given that it was he who introduced Samuś to Naša Niva. Indeed, Saŭka does not respond as strongly as Samuś to that publication, and he continues to prefer Russian periodicals and books. Roza’s reaction is hardly indifferent, but it is also, in Hartny’s view, purely feminine: she wholeheartedly supports her beloved in whatever he chooses to feel or be: – My darling, my Roza, you, most probably, do not know that I feel and became Biełarusian; from now on I will write poems and everything else in Biełarusian only! Don’t you know yet that I am not a Russian, but a Biełarusian, which is a very different nation? I myself found it out only yesterday … So, will you stop loving me because of this transformation? Maybe now all our feelings for and responsibilities to each other will be destroyed? After all, you

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admitted your love to me thinking that I am Russian, and I am not … Here, hear me out, Roza: I am a Biełarusian … – Oh, Samuś, what are you saying? Why are you torturing my soul and trying my sacred feelings with your jokes? I didn’t ask you before who you were, and it doesn’t matter to me now. My love is limitless, and it is impossible to describe or diminish my passion … You are mine … Do you doubt my sincerity, Samuś?43 This sudden burst of national awareness, these strong hints at Biełarusian and Russian national differences, must have reflected a mix of feelings that Hartny himself had experienced. Note also that the antagonism between Biełarusians and Russians in his country seems stronger to Samuś than it does to his Biełarusian friends, Christians and Jews alike. The story’s crisis occurs when Roza admits to her beloved that she is ill and must leave home to seek treatment. We don’t know Roza’s diagnosis, but most probably it is consumption (a killer disease in the Pale of Settlement). Samuś, shocked by this news, asks Roza not to leave the shtetl until he reads his poems in Biełarusian to her and to a group of his closest friends. At the reading, Samuś’s poetry is warmly received by his friends. Chajm calls Samuś a Biełarusian Shevchenko.44 Roza is elated by the poems and proud of her beloved, and, after the reading, she summarizes everyone’s positive impressions: “I told him a long time ago that he must write exclusively in Biełarusian. He is completely at home with his native language and uses it without tension or dutiful words.”45 All of Samuś’s friends – there are around ten at the poetry reading – are involved in organizing the town’s first workers’ strike. It lasts two weeks and ends with a complete victory for the strikers, although Chajm, as one of its leaders, is arrested. This unfinished story ends before the reader is told what happens to the main characters and their families. We only know that, after the strike, Samuś continues promoting his propaganda among the tanners and other workers in his town. He also collects money for Chajm’s elderly parents. The local police show an increased interest in his activities after the “evil tongues” of some of the townspeople inform on him. His comrades warn him he may be arrested, but he doesn’t want to leave his parents destitute by leaving town. Nor does he want anyone to think him a coward. A few weeks later the police come to arrest him.

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In this story Hartny expresses his strong feelings regarding the herd mentality of provincial towns: “Goodness and innocence are repaid with woe!”46 It is perhaps because of his notion – a heretical one for the times – that the masses are inert and do not follow those who suffer for them that he did not finish this promising work. The last narrative I will discuss is Hartny’s bittersweet 1933 short story “Nadzvyčajny dzień u Achronima Bliuma” (Achronim Blum’s unusual day).47 Achronim Blum was a cart driver before the revolution, and now, in his retirement, he sometimes picks up extra money by moving things for people. The year is 1932, and of course he does not own a horse, but he still has a small carriage, more like a trolley, that he pushes himself. Hartny notes ironically that Achronim learned this trade from his old horse and doesn’t consider the work to be difficult. One morning, Achronim has a client who wants to move some furniture. He wakes up early and goes to inspect his carriage, finding to his grief and dismay that someone had broken his cart’s right shaft. Achronim tries to wake up his wife, Fruma, in order to seek her advice. Then he knocks on the door of their Gentile neighbour, Illia Tupik, who manages to bind together the broken parts of the shaft with a rope. When Fruma finally wakes up, she reminds her husband that their only son had asked them to move in with his family. Achronim replies roughly that he is able to work and feed them both, which ends the conversation. Fruma, a good wife, then makes his lunch and asks him to come home for dinner on time. Unfortunately, the shaft breaks again under the weight of the heavy chairs, which spill onto the ground. Achronim almost succeeds in putting the shaft back together, but then another accident occurs: a truck appears out of the blue, strikes the load, breaks it, and hurts the carter’s back. These events climax with the mysterious appearance of Ajzik, the Blums’ only son. He takes his injured father home and persuades his parents to move in with his family. Achronim agrees, but on the condition that his son find him a job, any job, at the factory. Hartny loves his hard-working character, the elder Blum, and describes him with the kind of tenderness that might be reserved for his own father. He admires the carter for his resilience and decency and for his desire to work hard. The characters in this story are highly sentimentalized; but, to the good, they are not vehicles of propaganda. Also noteworthy is the

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relationship between the Blums and their Christian neighbours, the Tupiks. The two families have shared the same yard for over forty years, and their relations are like those of loving siblings. More important, there is no bad blood between them, as there so often is even among relatives. First, Ajzik suggests giving to Illia their old hut (the land belonged to the state, but, under the Soviets, the dwelling itself could be private). Illia, for his part, is committed to sending to the Blums whatever old rags they want from their place. The tenderness of their farewell is heart-warming: – Good luck to you, Achronim Boruchavič, good luck! And you too, Fruma Jankielieŭna! – Illia was nodding his head in farewell. – Thank you, dear neighbour, thank you, darling! Please forgive us if we accidently offended you or something. We have shared this yard for forty years, some wrongdoing could had taken place. People are not angels, you know, … – I cannot remember a single problem between us, dear neighbours. Here is the thing that matters: there was nothing bad ever, I will remember you only with kind words and feelings.48 I end this short review of Ciška Hartny’s life and literary work by introducing one of his satirical poems. By 1932, when this poem was written and dedicated to Hartny’s old-time friend and comrade-in-arms, the Biełarusian poet and writer of Jewish origin Źmitrok Biadulia, the Stalinist grip on culture left little hope for humanitarian ideals. Both writers saw the de facto death of their beloved Biełarusian and Yiddish culture in the late 1930s. But in the early 1930s, they hadn’t imagined how much worse things would soon become. Jazep49 was lost in the thickets of scrubland, He saw then his friend, a nightingale.50 Under a bush he sat quiet and sad. And lovingly Jazep addressed the nightingale: – My brother, my comrade, we have identical fates. Both of us have been travelling Many complicated pathways, And now only one of them still remains:

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To sing our swan song To our past, our glory days.51 Hartny, who lovingly calls Biadulia “brother,” seeks comfort in the past and invites his friend to do the same. Only five years later, even this comfort would be taken away from them: Hartny was stripped of all his former elevated positions and physically tortured. Biadulia underwent excruciating moral torments. As a result, they were left with the last fragment of freedom: to be able to choose to die.52 One cannot imagine how hard it would be for a person to commit suicide while locked in a Soviet mental hospital with its tight security, especially for “political” inmates. But he succeeded: Źmicier Chviodaravič Žyłunovič, known as Ciška Hartny, showed his jailers as well as his nation that his soul belonged to him and his maker only, and not to those who repaid his goodness with woe. By and large, Hartny’s most important contribution to his country’s culture was to introduce long prose narratives and drama to Biełarusian literature. In this, he blazed a trail for other Biełarusians, many of whom, including Michaś Lyńkoŭ, would soar much higher artistically than did their esteemed predecessor.

5 The Ingenious Michas´ Lyn´ kou˘ (1899–1975)

You were talking about today’s children. Here’s what Isaiah said: “I have nourished and brought up children.” You bring them into the world, they make your life miserable, you sacrifice yourself for them, you slave away night and day, and what comes of it? So I figured that with my daughters it would surely work out. Why? First of all, God blessed me with pretty daughters, and as you yourself have said, a pretty face is half the dowry. –Sholem Aleichem (“Tevye the milkman”) We know what we are, but know not what we may be. –Shakespeare (Hamlet)

The difference between Ciška Hartny’s and Michaś Lyńkoŭ’s destinies isn’t only that the latter died in his own bed and received a huge state funeral.1 Both were heavily decorated individuals, but Lyńkoŭ’s accolades, unlike Hartny’s, were bestowed on him throughout his life. The high state honours he received included three Orders of Lenin, one Order of the October Revolution, three Orders of the Labour Red Banner, the Order of the Red Star, and many more. Lyńkoŭ was also awarded the title of Biełarusian Peoples’ Writer (1962), and many streets are named after him in various cities. To commemorate his centennial, the Biełarusian State Bank issued a jubilee coin in 1999. However, it would be wrong to think of Lyńkoŭ as just a Soviet favoured son or as a party lapdog. His life circumstances were often as harsh as were those of ordinary Biełarusians. Every member of his generation who survived the atrocities of Stalin and Hitler can be considered fortunate not to have died, as so many millions of Biełarusians did. At the same time, setting aside those occasions when Lyńkoŭ had to

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abandon his principles to ensure his personal survival and even that of Biełarusian literature, his life and work demonstrate that his motives were never purely self-interested. This is confirmed in Miatlicki’s interview with him.2 The interviewer insists that, thanks to the writer’s respectable position and his politically correct rhetoric and diplomatic wisdom, he was able to save a considerable number of Biełarusian writers from the Stalinist purges both before and after the Second World War. Certainly, Hartny and Lyńkoŭ died in very different circumstances – the former apparently by suicide in a Stalinist mental asylum, the latter in secure old age. But there are also strong similarities between them: both were Biełarusian proletarian writers, the sons of landless peasants who joined the labouring class early in life. Consequently, Lyńkoŭ, like Hartny, could have described himself as half-peasant and half-proletarian. Lyńkoŭ’s parents worked at a railway station: his father made road repairs, and his mother was a switchwoman. Both writers lost their fathers early: Hartny, when he was an infant, and Lyńkoŭ, when he was a child (his father died in a train accident). Michaś helped around the house, babysat his younger siblings, and took care of the family’s only cow. He attended a two-year school attached to a teachers’ college in Rahačoŭ, graduating from it with a teaching diploma. While in college, he supported himself and helped his family financially. He did menial seasonal labour for the railway and gave private lessons to the village children. Hartny and Lyńkoŭ also had a similar education, although it was Hartny, the first proletarian Biełarusian writer, who would pave the way for Lyńkoŭ and other Biełarusian writers of similar origins. Lyńkoŭ’s turbulent youth, combined with his country’s stormy history, explains his service in the Red Army from 1919 to 1922 and his participation in the Polish-Soviet War. In 1918, during the First World War, Lyńkoŭ had organized the first partisan brigade in his district, one that successfully fought the Germans. Even before then, while teaching in the Lipiničy village school, he had been politically active. He had helped organize the first cooperative enterprise in his village, conducted propaganda among the peasants, and wrote incessantly. In 1922, after he was demobilized from the Red Army, Lyńkoŭ continued to work as a teacher in the Babryjsk district. Lyńkoŭ’s first published work, a poem, appeared in 1919 in Smalensk’s Russian paper Bor’ba (The struggle).3 His many articles about socio-

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political and economic progress in Soviet villages were welcomed by Babryjsk’s district newspaper, Kamunist (The communist). After his first short story, “Z peražytych hadoŭ” (From my past years [1926]), was published in the same newspaper, his professional status rose. Lyńkoŭ became a full-time journalist (1922–25) and assistant editor (1925–28). Soon after, he was named editor-in-chief of Kamunist (from 1928 to 1930). During his tenure, Kamunist became one of the best newspapers in the country and was published in four languages: Biełarusian, Yiddish, Russian, and Ukrainian. In the Babrujsk district, he organized and led the local section of Maładniak and, later, Belapp.4 In 1930, Lyńkoŭ was invited to join the bssr’s state press in Miensk, and he moved to the capital with his young family. He had married Hanna Abramaŭna Arenkova in 1927, and their son Marek was born a year later. Hanna Abramaŭna, a well-educated Biełarusian Jew, became not only the writer’s muse but also his researcher, critic, and editor as well as his best friend during his most artistically productive years (1926–29). But times were changing in the Soviet Union, and, for writers, the restrictions on artistic freedom had tightened considerably by the early 1930s. These restrictions would remain in place until the end of Lyńkoŭ’s life. Here I note all of Lyńkoŭ’s artistic periods, but my focus is on four short stories from his earliest period, the first three of which were written in 1927 and the fourth in 1928. These stories are “Goj” (The Gentile), “Homa,” “U miastečku” (At the shtetl), and “Bienia-bałahoła” (Bienia the carter).5 The first three were published in the anthology Apaviadańni (Short stories [1927]); all four of them then appeared in his next collection, “Goj” (The Gentile [1928]). They have been chosen because they bear directly on the subject of this book – the portrayal of Jews in Biełarusian literature. Another reason for choosing these stories is that all four are brilliantly written. Lyńkoŭ’s first-period writings are also his most autobiographical, sincere, and hopeful. His language is rich with symbolism, spiced with local dialect, and has a masterful flow. It is also well integrated with his stories, which are told confidently in the third person. These early stories are heady with romanticism, and all of them revolve around the years of postwar reconstruction in Biełaruś; only rarely is the Russian Civil War mentioned. The reason for this is simple enough: the bloody wars, the pogroms, and even the bitter victory did not evoke the optimism prom-

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ised by the new vision of the Bolsheviks – freedom from poverty and the sorrows of the Pale. Also, his first mature stories, which he began to publish in 1926, did not yet reflect his need to disseminate historical propaganda. A.M. Adamovič describes the immediate postwar period of Biełarusian literature: “These were times in Biełarusian literature when everyone was captured by an epic spirit. This was expressed by poeticizing words like ‘revolution’ and ‘proletarian’ as well as by emotionally damning capitalists and bourgeoisie; the prose first turned to artistic and psychological oeuvres of modernity and events that in the past were either simply named or stated. Literature paid more attention to life under socialism and to people’s psychology. Soviet prose writers showed more respect for individual characters in their works.”6 The anonymous author of Lyńkoŭ’s comprehensive literary biography in Biełarusian extends Adamovič’s ideas: “Overall, literature [during those times], and the prose in particular, was returning to its traditional functions and experiences. The second part of the 1920s was truly the most intensive time in terms of the use of literary traditions. Even very distant world literary civilizations were often utilized. And, if not exactly applied to the process, at least these traditions had to pass muster in terms of their possible aesthetic employment in the literary process.”7 Further on, the author of this biography alludes to the pathos of revolutionary romanticism; he discusses the significant role that romanticism played in the 1920s and notes that this literary movement, although it changed its colours, lingered in Soviet literature for some years. He does not suggest, however, that Slavic romanticism was closely tied to modernism (1893–1939) or that it played a key early role in modernism’s principal mode of expression: symbolism. He does, though, establish that romanticism had become less visible by the early 1930s, when pro-socialist and realist tendencies eclipsed some of the freethinking associated with modernism. Lyńkoŭ’s earlier stories did not cling as tightly to Soviet protocols as did those of other Biełarusian writers. His “first period” prose is profoundly psychological, and its “foreground” is so dazzling that its small but important symbolic details are at first barely discernible. Especially in his love stories, the feelings of Lyńkoŭ’s characters are deeply poeticized; he writes in the language of symbolism and utilizes the musicality of blank verse.

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Pushkin defined the translator as “the post horses of enlightenment.”8 I ask the reader’s forgiveness for my lack of “horse power.” It is truly difficult to do justice to Lyńkoŭ’s musical language in translation.

“Goj” (The Gentile; the stranger) “Goj” begins with a description of the feelings that have overwhelmed a young woman named Ryva (Ryŭka). And Ryva was crying … She was weeping quietly, with those choking tears that are hard to contain and impossible to dry because they are coming from the deepest part of the heart … Ryva was crying … She had fallen in love with a goy … It was dark and sad outside the window. The autumn rain fell as if sowing seeds through a sieve onto a dirty street. The wind moaned with loneliness, and it knocked the window with the wet branches of a snowball tree. Window frames were ringing frightfully, and it seemed to Ryva that the wind was teasing her: – Goy, goy, goy … And old Motyl, Ryva’s father, had finished his daily work and put the last boot under his shoemaking table. He was praying. Sometimes he did it quietly-quietly, his voice was hardly heard while he was asking his antiquated God to help him in his strenuous life, to help him earn a piece of bread. Sometimes Motyl’s voice rose as if he was angry with God, for the soles of boots were expensive, nails were expensive, and waxed threads were expensive. Ryva was listening to his prayer, and it seemed to her that instead of praying, her father was saying: – Goy, goy, goy … Her mother was turning and tossing in her bed, stretching her old bones; she was coughing, moaning, as if she was complaining about her life. And Ryva seemed to hear the same terrifying word in each of her mother’s sighs, moans, and whimpers: – Goy, goy, goy …

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The wind in the stove hummed pitifully, window frames cried softly, as small autumn raindrops fell – the words of her father’s prayer poured out both quietly and loudly. And all of this, mixed with her mother’s laments, was a heavy stone on Ryva’s heart, the heart that had fallen in love with a goy.9 The repetition of the girl’s feelings, expressed in phrases and words such as “Ryva was crying” and “goy,” and the subtle use of melodic Biełarusian vowels together establish a lyrical rhythm. The wistfully archaic images provide the story with significant symbolism. Romantic nature, which weeps with the young woman, is strengthened through the juxtaposition of tradition and modernity, reflecting the generation gap portrayed in the narration. Romanticism has plenty of other traditional devices: a troubled love story, dark societal forces that prevent the lovers’ happiness, and contrasting and conflicting situations. Lyńkoŭ also uses a deftly concealed poetic device that suggests the possibility of a happy ending; it lies in the intimation that whatever is currently happening reflects reality only through Ryva’s remembered perceptions. The result amounts to a literary rondo, typical of neo-romanticism and symbolism. Ryva’s tears and broken heart represent her love-related troubles not only at the start of the circle (the exposition of the story) but also at its happy ending (resolution). “Goj” is a novel-in-miniature, consisting of a series of very brief short stories (which I refer to as sections), each with its own introduction (characters and setting are presented), rising action (plot development), climax (principal event), falling action (the event’s consequences), and ending (a resolution, usually unexpected; sometimes a “zero” ending, with the reader deciding how the story ends). Also, there are more characters in “Goj” than in most short stories or even novellas. Thus, the opening section (which describes events in medias res) introduces most of the major characters, establishes their settings, and presents a problem: Ryva’s love for a Gentile. The rising action in this section concerns family relationships. The climax depicts the conflict between Ryva’s feelings and her father’s faith. Motel, the father, refuses to recognize his daughter’s love for a person of a different faith and threatens to renounce her if she doesn’t abandon her love. The falling action and resolution of the first section

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closely resemble each other. Ryva stops communicating with her parents, yet her thoughts are free and active: “Ryva is silent … She does not say a single word. But her thoughts are outspoken, they fly like frightened birds over that great wall that was built between people by the old way of life.”10 The second section starts as follows: And everything happened during that summer. Palieśsie was dreaming softly under the warm breath of the sun. The shtetl was lost among immeasurable forests and marshes, in which lazy days descended into evening; nothing special, nothing noisy was happening on the shtetl’s streets. Only Mojšes, Jankis, Ickis, and Jazeps, the little lads who didn’t yet differentiate their own gods from others, were flying along the streets in a small flock. Since most of them didn’t wear pants yet, even parents would sometimes mistakenly call Icka “Sora,” and Janka was called “Hanulia.”11 Here, the rising action describes the friendships between Christian and Jewish children, their pastimes, and their shared lives. This idyll is interrupted by a crisis. A Biełarusian elder, Pankrat, and his neighbour, Motel, Ryva’s father, hear explosions in the distance, and both have an immediate, identical, and frightening thought: war is approaching their homes. They decide on similar actions: if the Poles are coming, they will hide their valuables. Pankrat will hide his horses deep in the forest, and Motel will bury his samovar and two silver candlesticks somewhere in the yard. But the dénouement relieves their anxieties: instead of the feared Poles it is the soldiers of the Red Army who appear. Apparently, the shtetl inhabitants consider the Reds to be friendly, and everyone, above all the children, sincerely and happily welcome the newcomers. As this section ends, the reader learns that Motel’s family has a new tenant, Michaś, a commander of the Red Army detachment. The remaining fourteen sections have exactly the same composition. By the third section, the reader understands that Michaś is the “goj” of the title. Motel is the first to notice a spark of attraction between Ryva and Michaś. Indeed, these two young people are together every possible moment and talk to each other incessantly. Old Motel is irritated by their behaviour and asks himself what a nice Jewish girl and a good Christian boy can talk about for hours. He doesn’t allow himself to imagine that it might

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be love. Motel tells himself it is just mutual sympathy, which, in his culture, is still inappropriate between two people of different origins. He is well aware of the differences between ethnicities in the Pale: “And Motel remembered how fifteen or maybe fourteen years ago his sister died in Umań [Ukraine]. Back then he received a telegram from relatives: ‘Pray to the Lord. Your sister was killed yesterday during the pogroms. Be happy.’” Ever since then he has been unable to erase from his heart a deep antipathy towards “Russians.” He talks to them easily, and he always behaves well towards them, but deep in his soul lurks an animosity towards them – the goys. These feelings include Michaś.12 Here, with masterful conciseness, Lyńkoŭ penetrates the psychology of an old Jew, conflating a tragic event with the comic renderings of Motel’s barely literate relatives. Yet, for all their fear of the pogrom, they have taken the time to inform Motel about the death of his sister. The short letter, written like a telegram, in which tragic news and best wishes share the same brief lines, demonstrates the young writer’s skills. Motel does not share his doubts with his daughter, but he orders her to stop being friendly with Michaś. He also called him a Russian, which is a significant detail: for the poorly educated Jews of the Pale of Settlement, every Orthodox Christian is a “Russian,” and every Catholic is a Pole. In effect, Motel attributes Ukrainian pogroms in Umań to the Russians. This telling detail speaks volumes about the author’s understanding of the psychology of shtetl inhabitants, which was often rooted in prejudice. Michaś begins to feel Motel’s change of heart towards him. Realizing that the old Jew doesn’t approve of his relationship with Ryva, he develops uneasy feelings towards his beloved’s parents. Yet the young commander’s feelings for Ryva cannot but grow, and he notices that she is responding to them. This encourages him to ask for a rendezvous. The section describing Michaś and Ryva’s first open declaration of love, which occurs during that rendezvous, is one of the most powerful in Biełarusian literature of any period. As with most of the stories in “Goj,” this section opens with an anthropomorphic description of nature that almost results in a marriage proposal between the two young people who are hopeful but also fearful of their own feelings – that is, they are afraid that marriage will not succeed in binding them together. The colours of the evening inject even more romance into the scene:

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The July evening cloaked the shtetl’s meadows with blue twilight. The silence covered the straw roofs with its heavy, silky braids; under a lovely but pale moon the yellow crowns of the huts glowed, and the forest darkened beyond the river. Ryva’s heart: tach-tachtach … here is the spruce tree, and … here is he! He is approaching. – Is it you, Ryva? – Yes … They were silent for a minute.13 The rising action occurs during their conversation about nature, shtetl life, and family relations. This talk seems simultaneously light-hearted and profound, but, all the while, nature speaks for them by illustrating their feelings. Their own and nature’s “conversations” presage the coming crisis in the story: How pleasant it is here and how much magic around! – Ryvačka! [Loving nickname for Ryva]– What? – I’ve wanted to talk to you for a long, long time. – What about? – Oh, what about? Is it possible to tell at once, what about? Ryvačka … well, I … And his words carried so much warmth and affection that they intoxicated her heart and made her turn to him. Her eyes looked straight into Michaś’s, and they reflected a flame of golden stars. – I … love … you, Ryvačka, I love you, my darling! The sudden song of a rooster rang over the shtetl. Ryva swiftly stood up, and nervously looked around.14 The girl, wakened to the sad reality of her parents’ disapproval by the symbolic crow of the rooster, asks her beloved to let her leave for the shtetl first so that no one will see them together. By the end of this tryst, Michaś feels angry about her parents’ stubborn traditionalism: “‘I am just a goy, a hateful goy to her parents,’ – this insulting thought descended on him like a black cloud.”15 The rest of the narrative concerns the parents’ efforts to marry their daughter to a co-religionist. Apparently, Ryva has an abundance of suitors. Jews of different ages and social classes from the shtetl and beyond are

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practically standing in line, ready to propose. According to the narrator, this interest is justified: Ryva is beautiful and an excellent housekeeper, and she comes from a decent traditional family. But she rejects all of these candidates and remains devoted to her beloved. The sweethearts continue to meet in secret, and both are unhappy about their circumstances: And here she is, his Ryva. – Oh, my Michaś, you are probably tired of waiting for me; you see, darling, it was hard to sneak out of the house. Either I have housework or the street is full of people. It is hard to pass through the crowd. – Ryva, why do we continue to hide? Will we play hide and seek with your parents for the whole of eternity? Let’s tell them, and everything will be fine. – Oh, my dear, my Michaś, what are you saying? As if you don’t know my parents? Try to tell them, and it will be the end of all: they will never let me leave the hut.16 Despite these disagreements, at the end of this section Michaś and Ryva still hope for the best. But instead comes the worst: someone reports them to Ryva’s parents, and the next sections deal with the emotional upheavals in her domestic life. Soon after, Michaś and his detachment are sent to fight the army of Bułak Bałachovič, who is one of the rare anti-Semites among Bolshevik fighters of Biełarusian origin. His soldiers were involved in the Jewish pogroms as well as in various forms of banditry against civilians.17 Ryva has become the centre of shtetl gossip, having revealed her feelings during her tearful farewell to Michaś in front of not just her parents but the entire street. That she does not hear from her beloved Michaś for over a month does not improve either her mood and or her social position. To make things worse, Bałachovič’s “boys” reached the shtetl. Since Lyńkoŭ himself played an active role in military actions against Bałachovič’s gangs, the reader trusts him when he writes about a pogrom in the shtetl and the deaths of nine Jews from the neighbouring village: “Bring them here, against that wall! Put them by the synagogue.” … Nine Jews were brought from the neighbouring village; they

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had been tortured, and they were in rags. The Jews were tied to each other with sharp wire and looked hardly alive. Bałachovič’s thugs put them against the synagogue wall. The living human raft was silent, one of the Jews fell down, but was lifted back into a standing position. “Well, why are you silent, where are your tongues, or maybe the joy of seeing us shut your mouths?” “You are animals, you are not human, and that is why we don’t talk to you.” Two black French grenades quietly chinked near the feet of the captives. And the shtetl trembled heavily, pitifully ringed windows in the straw huts. And the synagogue was blinded: all the window glass was shattered and gone. The whole square was enveloped in a huge high cloud of black smoke and dust.18 This scene makes it clear that these unarmed and physically exhausted people were not submissive when they met their fate; rather, they show their moral superiority to the thugs and killers. All of this is expressed through lavish poetic devices – for example, the phrase “a living human raft.” This particular image indicates the horrific situation of the Jews, who are dehumanized by their torturers, who treat them as bound pieces of lumber. The same horror is evoked by the intruders’ brutal behaviour at the hut of Ryva’s parents. The thugs force their way into this humble home and demand that Motel give them his silver and gold. He offers them his silver, but when he says he has no gold, they begin to torture him. Ryva tries to defend her father, and the thugs are about to violate her as her mother attempts to shield her. The crisis reaches its height as one of the pillagers raises his sabre over the old woman’s head. Except – here comes the unexpected but perfect 1920s Hollywood ending. Michaś enters the scene and single-handedly vanquishes the thugs, while his detachment does the same with the rest of the bandit gang. After the rescue, Ryva’s parents begin to treat their saviour as a desirable son-in-law. Ryva and Michaś are radiantly happy. Another startling turnaround in old Motel’s behaviour relates to the changing times in Biełaruś: “This day old Motel forgot to light up the Sabbath candles. He forgot to do it because now he didn’t see in their flame the happiness and truth of life.”19 The final chapter describes the peaceful life of the shtetl six years later. Michaś is happily married to Ryva; he has also organized

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the local Communist Party unit and created many co-operatives in the shtetl. He is adored not only by his family but also by all the local Jews, who praise him highly: “Oh, this is our dearest chaver,20 he did a lot to help us.”21 Michaś’s father-in-law, while playing with his little granddaughter, looks into her blue eyes: “‘These are the darling eyes of my dear goy,’ whispers grandfather.”22 The final paragraph of “Goj” is shared by the narrator and Motel: “And years are passing by in an unstoppable progression. New years are healing old life’s wounds, and when old Motel is asked: ‘How is Ryva doing with your son-in-law?’ He responds: ‘Oh, my son-in-law! I wish everyone could have such a person in the family!’”23 Some of the melodramatic elements in this story may be justified by the realities of the Russian Civil War and the Polish-Soviet War, when the unspeakable happened every day. Because Lyńkoŭ, like his namesake Michaś, was fighting the Bałachovič gang, it is most probable that he won the hearts of his own beloved wife’s Jewish parents only after the PolishSoviet War, which brought with it seemingly endless pogroms – something that Biełarusian Jews had never before experienced. The narration, which includes a programmatic social motif – friendship between peoples – is greatly enriched by the touching love of the two youngsters. It is also enhanced by the writer’s personal knowledge of life as experienced by both ethnicities.

“Homa” The title of the next story is the first name of the main character, “Homa.” This short story (one-third the length of “Goj”) is divided into five brief sections. “Homa,” like “Goj,” is also set in a shtetl. In its exposition, Lyńkoŭ applies his favourite device of intertwining nature and the inhabitants lives as he describes the evening of a typical day. Homa appears in the final paragraph of the first page as part of the first section’s rising action. It seems that he is an eternal feature of twilight in the shtetl. There is something unusual about him: he is dressed in rags yet carries a thick book under his arm. His limited ability to talk is also noted. In fact, Homa is willing to converse only about perfidy and love, and his pointed stare adds to the impression that he is mentally unbalanced. However, a conversation with him would assure anyone that Homa is not violent and is more like

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the shtetl’s Holy Fool. Little children may tease him with the cruelty typical of their age, but the adults truly love their fool, as the reader soon comes to realize in the next section. Here the storyteller hands over the narration to a neighbour, who apparently has known Homa since childhood. According to him, Homa had once been not a charity case but the pride of the shtetl: “Oh, what a mensch he once was,” says my neighbour, the old cutter Ševel. “Who?” I asked. “Homa, nobody else. A piece of gold he was, nothing less. And now, you see, he is a pity to look at. We feel sorry for him but imagine how his parents feel … Oh, it is impossible to endure … Would they have expected from their little Homa that he would become like this?”24 The narrator masterfully imitates the intonation of the old Jew, who tells him what great expectations Homa’s parents, tailor Yosel and his wife Basia, had for their only child. Those hopes had been ignited by the boy’s melamed (teacher), Pinia, who thought the boy a genius and prophesied a great future for him. Pinia advised Yosel to send his son to a yeshiva.25 And here the writer allows the old Jew to strike a rather artificial note: he expresses distaste for that institution, which is something that would certainly not have been the case for Orthodox Jews of the time: “Homa is growing, playing ball with other boys. With Homa’s growing up his father’s anxieties and unquiet thoughts are growing and turning over: where to send him to school? To yeshivot? No, Yosel does not really like how the holy fathers conduct their business.”26 Here “holy fathers” is a euphemism for Catholic priests, who, of course, have nothing to do with teaching in Jewish religious schools. Besides, either a Jewish teacher or a Rabbi would have little to do with “holiness.” A melamed was a teacher of primary and middle-school children; a rabbi was a teacher and scholar of Jewish law. This mild dissonance, though, is softened by some light humour, when Yosel thinks about prospective professions for Homa. These range from a reznik to a medical doctor.27 After long deliberations (entertainingly rendered by the writer), Yosel decides that his son should become a medical doctor. The long journey towards this goal soon becomes the family’s goal in life, starting with

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Homa’s entrance to the gymnasium (a local high school, predominantly for Christians).28 Here the writer shows his genuine knowledge about the hardships of Jews who attempted to gain this type of education in the Pale of Settlement. Restrictions included a stern Jewish quota and crushingly high tuition fees for the poor. But Homa’s family members scrimp and save, and seven years later they celebrate their victory: And Homa is growing up, each year he puts on a larger size of formal overcoat. He doesn’t wear a primary schoolchild’s knapsack anymore, and his mother doesn’t worry about the wet spot under his nose either. One more year – and Homa has his diploma. Imagine, Yosel’s Homa has a diploma! What a joy, what a miracle for the whole crooked hut, what a sensation for the entire neighborhood! And everyone was happily smiling at Yosel in the synagogue: the stocky, self-important shopkeeper Aron, and tailors, and cutters, and the redheaded blacksmith Nejluch, and an old stove cleaner, the perpetually dirty-looking Abram.”29 This joyful mood is richly described with various images of the animated hut, which becomes a part of the celebration, and epithets that express the good cheer of those attending the local synagogue. There follows a colourful description of the festive reception at the home of Homa’s parents: “And what didn’t they have at the table that Saturday? And what a smell came from the steam of that red and golden tsimes [a sweet carrot and prune dish], served on special, festive plates; yes, the red tsimes, but the wine, a whole bottle of which Yosel put on the table with a joyful and ceremonial gesture, was redder. This wine was a symbol of great happiness: his son was on his way to becoming a mensch!”30 The story’s rising action, which continues in a philosophical mode, complements the author’s deep understanding of the father’s psychological dilemma. “Happiness reigned in the hut. However, when a person holds it in his hands, exactly at that moment, that person could lose it. This new happiness is swimming from afar in his thoughts, it is growing, getting wider, but is afraid to come closer to him, and he, once again, must stretch his hands towards it, to stubbornly move ahead and go against all the odds, overcoming the obstacles on life’s difficult roads.”31

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This happiness actually poses a new and challenging question for the family: What is Homa to do now that he has graduated from the gymnasium? The cost of a university education is exorbitant, and they place a quota on Jews. But Homa and his father both understand what their “new happiness” requires of them: Homa must enter the university. This is the climax of the section, the falling action of which involves every member of the family. Once again they begin to work around the clock to save money: Yosel and Basia cut and sew, and Homa busies himself giving private lessons around the shtetl. The whole family grows thinner than ever before, but they collect enough for registration, the first-year tuition fee, and a student’s uniform. Homa now goes to the big city, becomes a good student, and regularly writes to his parents. Even while getting excellent marks, he continues to earn money by giving private lessons in order to ease his parents’ financial burden. His parents are blissful; they read his letters with tears of joy in their eyes. This section of the story, though, ends with a premonition: “But happiness is just a dream, as the old people say. You look at it with blind eyes – and only dust and smoke remain of that happiness; it will melt and die somewhere on the pathways of life, especially if those roads are broken and covered with rampant weeds. There was happiness, and now there is none. It melted and died.”32 The subsequent section shows Homa’s next form of happiness or, rather, his dream of it: Lea had brown eyes and black braids that were darker than the night of darkest blue, burnished steel. Her eyebrows were like two falcon’s wings, raised in a heavenly wingspread. Her lips were ripe cherries, reddened under the flame of a morning sun; her cheeks were made for kisses only, and her breasts, her breasts – but enough, enough is said. And there is not just one person who admired her in that way, and not just one person dreamed about her brown eyes and her black silk-like curly hair. When Lea laughs, two dimples, such beautiful, attractive, charming dimples, appear in her cheeks. Lea laughs, her dimples tremble, and young men’s hearts are in pain.33 The description of Lea’s beauty goes beyond the symbolic and romantic: it is full of earthy sensuality. This in itself amounted to an innovation in Biełarusian literature. The colourful language of Lyńkoŭ’s earlier works,

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his expressive ability, has rarely been matched since. So, unlike his earlier portraits, his portrait of Lea also hints at her character faults: her primitive nature, emotional immaturity, and animal instincts. She seems indifferent to everything except fashionable dresses and sweets, preferably chocolates. Lea responds to everyone and everything with the same phrase: “Whatever papa says.” Her “papa,” old Załman, the owner of the two finest shops in the shtetl, has authority not only over his only child, Lea, but also over most of the shtetl’s inhabitants. He is especially stern with every underprivileged boy who comes to ask for his daughter’s hand. Homa is only one among many who are infatuated with Lea. When his status is elevated to that of a university student, Lea’s father’s attitude softens: he begins offering him a friendly welcome. The author continues to describe the student’s emotions from within the tradition of romanticism, with Homa’s heart being the central symbol: And finally Homa was a student. And Homa has a heart, a young, warm heart. But can a heartbeat survive alone? Certainly not – it will get sick in that case. Homa loved Lea, and it was a sincere and passionate love. He loved her in the same way he loved his thick, silent books. When Homa came home from the great city, she looked intently at his fine student jacket, even touched the golden epaulettes, and laughed joyfully. Old Załman also laughed, and congratulated Homa on his success. Homa visited Lea every day during that summer. Endless conversations ensued. Homa told interesting stories; sometimes he brought fragrant, beautiful flowers and sighed with longing. And once, right before the house lamp went on, when they were sitting close to each other, Homa shyly and unexpectedly kissed her red lips. She didn’t even manage to say, “Oh, what will daddy say,” as her lips were covered by his.34 We remember, however, that Homa is not the only candidate for Lea’s hand of whom old Załman approves. Chajm, the kosher butcher, a giant who loves his job, also “has a heart” for Lea and Załman considers him an even better candidate. And to everyone but Homa, who is blinded by love, Chajm is indeed a better match for Lea: instead of useless field flowers, Chajm brings her expensive chocolates. Even better, he doesn’t bore Lea with elevated ideas, as Homa does when he reads to her from his

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books. The fourth section is the shortest in the narration. It describes the beautiful fall days before Homa’s departure for university and tells the reader about his love. The young student is certain that his beloved shares his feelings for she happily responds to his kisses, and Homa’s hope for their future together seems secure, as if sealed by those kisses. The fifth and last chapter closes the story’s circle. As expected, Homa returns home in the spring, and he immediately pays a visit to his beloved: Homa went to see his happiness – Lea. He needed to look into the bottomless darkness of her brown eyes. He stood under her window, peered in, and was startled by the noise, joyful dancing, and music. But his astonishment didn’t last long. He quickly understood why the [violin’s] strings were laughing and crying, and he realized that they were laughing not for him, that they were crying not for him. As this awareness overcame him, his shoulders drooped, the flame in his eyes extinguished. He dropped his hat, and swaying from side to side, muttering under his breath, he dragged himself along to the poor dwelling of his father.35 Later, old Yosel will recount that everything started that very night.36 This “everything” sees Homa begin to lose his mind. This progression is masterfully described: “Homa became an insomniac, his dry lips murmured something about the pitiful sound of strings, about burning songs, about some kind of magic love. His lips were dry but his eyes were full of tears. And he must have wept many tears, for his eyes sank deeply; they became cold, unmoving and secretive in their darkness. His mother cried every morning, and Yosel wiped his tears too. Homa said nothing most of the time, though he would sometimes mention love and perfidy.”37 Doctors cannot help, and soon there is no money for them and their useless and expensive prescriptions. During the day, Homa helps his father a little with ironing. During his evening wanderings, he often visits Lea, who now has children. Lea always asks her eldest son, Sałamon, to give Homa a piece of challah bread, and the boy obliges. Homa sits for a few minutes and then returns to the streets. The writer tells the reader that Homa still understands a few concepts. He knows, for example, that people aren’t supposed to push other people around and that if anyone is hurting him, he can always count on a militia officer to defend him:

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Today Homa wanders around the streets as usual. His grey jacket is a bit wet from the small drops of autumn rain, but Homa isn’t afraid of this rain. He is reading a wide, red [theatre] poster, glued to the wall; his grey eyes drill into the black letters, and Homa’s entire body trembles – these are dreadful letters and frightening words for Homa, they mean: “Perfidy and Love.” Homa felt wounded in the deepest part of his dark soul, and an unclear thought moved into his head: “Who has the right to hurt Homa?” Homa approaches a militiaman and asks him to bring things to order. The latter unwillingly approaches him. “What is it?” “Why is there ‘Perfidy and Love,’” Homa asks. The militiaman is angry. Who wants to stick his neck out in the rain for no reason at all? “Open your eyes, blind man, and you will see that there is no kind of perfidy or love, this is just a poster with dead words on it.” It is easy to say “Open your eyes,” but is it possible to do it now, when he couldn’t do it before? So Homa goes home, and on his way he carefully – glancing around like a criminal – tears down the hateful poster. He will read it later at night, but for now he will put it under his pillow. Later he will find Lea’s challah bread, will eat it, and without a single thought he will fall asleep, tired of his long walks. But tomorrow he will roam the streets once again.38 In “Homa,” Lyńkoŭ enters the troubled mind of his main character while also describing the livelihood and customs of ordinary people of the shtetl. At times he parodies Friedrich Schiller’s 1783 melodrama Kabale und Liebe (Perfidy and Love) in that, besides addressing social inequality, he writes about the sufferings of unrequited love. But the parallels end there. Irony reigns in almost every paragraph of this story, which shows Lyńkoŭ to be a skilful modernist, whereas Schiller’s play is decidedly the work of a sentimentalist and is completely free of irony. Translations of Schiller’s play into Biełarusian (and most other Slavic languages) use the word “perfidy” rather than the more common “intrigue.” And in Lyńkoŭ’s story it is not the woman but the man who loses his mind over an unhappy love affair. This is enhanced by what amounts to a “Soviet”-style ending, which occurs during the “happy” times of the “socialist paradise.” Lyńkoŭ carefully introduces into the state’s collectivist credo the idea that human passion can destroy one’s soul. In this story he employs his virtuoso writing

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abilities by injecting a tragic love story into what is, at least in part, a socialist tract. “Homa” ends much more realistically than does “Goj”: the Soviets do not cure Homa’s heartbreak, and there is no relief for him or for his unfortunate parents. It is also worth noting that faith is not one of “Homa”’s themes: this alone underscores the story’s universality and allows it to speak to all, not only to Biełarusians.

“U Miastecˇku” (In the Shtetl) Like “Goj” and “Homa,” “U miastečku” features few Gentiles.39 This long short story is mostly about Jewish children who have replaced their parents’ faith with an ardent belief in revolution, Soviet rule, the Communist Party, and the party’s youth wing, the Komsomol.40 They are fanatically ready to sacrifice their own futures for the sake of a bright Communist tomorrow. Working-class women’s embrace of the new regime was a common literary theme at the time. Lyńkoŭ resorted to a similar theme – a Biełarusian Christian girl’s conversion to Bolshevism – in his 1928 story “Rado.” During the first stages of collectivization, Rypina Skvarčuk, a Komsomol zealot and the story’s main character, acts cruelly towards peasants. As a consequence of this, she loses her only son, her little Rado, who is kidnapped and brutally murdered. The authorities never solve the crime. “Rado” functions as a strong warning against treating peasants inhumanely. It has a more tragic ending than does “U miastečku,” and it is certainly one of the first attempts in Soviet literature to sympathize with the sufferings of the peasantry under collectivization. “U miastečku” offers no hint of the Komsomol’s negative role in collectivization for it is set in a time when many young people passionately embraced Bolshevik ideals. Lyńkoŭ’s good humour and obvious love for his characters reminds us of Sholem Aleichem’s (1859–1916) stories about the Ukrainian shtetls. Both writers allow their Jewish characters to stay distinctly Jewish; therefore, it is not a great stretch to read Lyńkoŭ as the Biełarusian Sholem Aleichem of his time. Of course, Aleichem was writing his stories mainly in Yiddish and for Jews, while Lyńkoŭ was writing in Biełarusian for his own linguistic audience, which very much included Biełarusian Jews, who were fluent in their country’s native language.

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The story begins with a philosophical reflection on the need for the head of the family to work hard to support his wife and children. Šolem (the Biełarusian version of Sholem), the source of the following thoughts, reminds one of Tevye the milkman. Indeed, Šolem thinks and speaks as if he and Tevye were twin brothers: Whether lady luck is with you or not, you must find and do your work, never mind those unending blisters. If one is to lose heart – he isn’t a man anymore but a piece of an old shoe-lining that chickens peck at in the garbage pit. So, remember that the awl and other tools are always waiting for your hands. And an awl is friendly with a hammer at all times. And I should add to the awl and hammer a piece of leather, a skein of waxed thread – and there is nothing else needed. Indeed, with all of these you will have food; your wife will smile at you more often, and the children will ask you merrily: “Papa, dear daddy, could you please spare us some change for apples?!” And you give it to them, of course you do … They are children, and you have to give them money for apples. Otherwise you are not a daddy, and not even a person.41 Šolem is prone to bouts of depression, which envelop him during his long hours of shoemaking and repairing, but especially when he hears his children’s ongoing requests: “‘Mommy, bread … Mom, something to eat … Pickle … Onion … Radish, radish, radish …’” And the youngest loves herring, oh, he adores it; in fact, he has a preference, and it is not just any part of a herring he wants, he must have the herring’s tail.”42 Finally, Šolem gets tired of the constant harping. His depression, caused by noise, physical pain, and lack of money, comes suddenly, and whenever it does, he cures himself in a rather original way: he jumps up and runs around the shtetl. When he returns to work after his run, he feels much better – indeed, he is content. Like Tevye, who has seven daughters and has to feed nine mouths (counting himself and his wife Golda), Šolem has eight children. Also like Tevye, he has only one pair of blistered hands with which to feed them. True, unlike his Ukrainian counterpart, his children are not just daughters: half of them are sons, and males don’t require a dowry. Now, quite quietly, Lyńkoŭ brings Gentiles into the story in the person of Ivan,

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who needs new boots; Ściapanida; and old Haŭryła, whose shoes and felt boots require serious repair. Thinking of this makes Šolem smile – these clients will bring in money, and he will then be able to buy food and necessities for his family. So he works harder and harder, and each year grows thinner and thinner. A central character emerges in Ejdlia, the eldest daughter, a nice-looking girl with “eternally thoughtful” eyes and two long black braids. She is poorly but cleanly and plainly dressed. Ejdlia is a studious twelve-yearold who helps around the house and takes care of her younger siblings. She spends every free second of her life reading: “Here she is, sitting on an old sofa with a book, and as soon as Ajzik [her baby brother] stopped sobbing, she buried herself in the book again, as if glued to those small letters and white paper. Ejdlia is motionless, only her lips move sometimes, or occasionally her eyebrows tremble, or her cheeks turn red; and one page flies after another like little snowflakes.”43 She is reading Mark Twain’s The Prince and the Pauper (probably in Russian, since the book hadn’t been translated into Biełarusian or Yiddish at the time in which Lyńkoŭ’s story is set). While she is reading, she imagines the characters inhabiting her inner world. She asks her mother about the rich and the poor and why their family is so destitute even though they work so hard. When Ester puts an abrupt stop to these questions, Ejdlia continues to ponder them herself. Her inner world is truly different from that of her parents. She knows about the Young Biełarusian Pioneer Organization (founded in 1922) and hopes to join it someday. She thinks about the rich and the poor in her shtetl. She categorizes the Pinsy family as rich: they have a gramophone because their son, who is working in the United States, regularly sends money home to his parents. The narrator describes the life of the shtetl through the eyes of this naive young girl. Ejdlia notices that all of the shtetl’s self-employed craftspeople are unhappy with the new Soviet regime. They have removed the signs from their small businesses because otherwise the Soviet rulers would tax them to death as entrepreneurs. According to Ejdlia, Šolem’s voice is the loudest among these Jews. Indeed, he is the soloist in this choir of the disaffected: Usually papa speaks for all of them, his speech is very steadfast, and he constantly speeds it up, helping himself with waving hands, head, and his entire stooped body. “Well, what will you say? Is it a

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life? This is – please pardon me for this word – is a waste, it is not a life.” Šolem raises his finger up. Pińka is blowing out clouds of smoke and, noticing Šolem’s finger, responds with his bass voice: “Obviously …” And Simon, holding his right hand under his waistcoat, waves his left in the air, and says: “Well, my sentiments exactly!” “And what do you say? Is it possible to live like this? O-o-oh, what a waste! It was different when we had our own harbour and a dock! People were working there and we also had visitors! Listen, between us, I had never had any troubles back then! God is my witness: I wish I could have had as much health as I used to produce boots! And if you don’t believe me, just ask Pinchus.” “Obviously …” “Well, my sentiments exactly!”44 Šolem, fully supported by his friends and co-religionists, continues to complain about the new Soviet order for several more pages. One of his comrades, Nisan, an old melamed, interrupts to talk about immigration to Palestine. The group listens to him politely, but no one seems to believe his propaganda about Palestine. However, that doesn’t silence old Nisan, who continues: “And people live there not the way we do. And land there is darker than a chocolate, and a Jew – isn’t just – a nobody, but his own boss: he lives in a Jewish land, under our own law and customs. And these customs and laws come to us straight from our own Almighty. And that land also came to us from God, and that is why there is a lot of happiness and bliss over there.”45 Lyńkoŭ is quite candid about these two notions: anti-Soviet feelings in the shtetl and pro-Palestinian propaganda. Both trains of thought would clearly have been rejected by the Soviet rulers of Biełaruś. He also depicts the shtetl’s inhabitants as hard-working but destitute. His characters are likable and sympathetic people, most of whom have already lost their old way of life but are not yet ready to embrace the unknown. Furthermore, as Lyńkoŭ reveals in this story, the Soviet rulers have little sympathy for tradespeople, whom they view as petty bourgeoisie. The author resolves this confrontation between the two worlds by bridging it with Ejdlia’s aspirations. On the one hand, she is an obedient daughter, but, on the other, she supports the new regime and attends a soviet school. This, together with her incessant reading and her constant analysis of ideas and social conditions, leads her to question her father’s attitudes.

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The next time the reader meets Ejdlia it is two years later; she is now fourteen and harbours doubts about her father’s perception of their new life under the Soviets. She and her brother Liova are active in the Pioneers. At one point, Šolem is about to raise his hand against his children – he is against everything to do with the Soviets – but when he sees Ejdlia’s face suddenly turn pale, he stops. He realizes that the Pioneers had simply been an excuse for him to vent his personal frustrations: “He doesn’t like pioneers in the same way he cannot stand and couldn’t get used to the present conditions because they undermined the shtetl, scattered his dear clients, closed the shops of his relatives and neighbours. How can he make a living? How can he bring bread to his children? And whose fault is it? Maybe those who brought in this Soviet power, which turned all their habitual livelihoods upside down? And what about food? How could we feed the children? And what is also important: Where is truth?”46 The welfare of his children is always on Šolem’s mind, and, two years later, he concludes that it is time for Ejdlia to learn the trade of a seamstress. Once she is able to work on her own, the next step is to find her a good husband. Ejdlia’s dream is rather different from her father’s: she acknowledges his traditional values, but she wants to go to the city with her childhood friend, Mania, and get a better education. Indeed, she wants to earn the highest degree her academic gifts will allow her. At first, Šolem is adamant about preparing her for a traditional future. But the poor father is half-maddened by his failure to provide in the way required by tradition. Lyńkoŭ now chronicles an unexpected twist in Biełarusian Jewish history. The Soviets, finally grasping the desperate circumstances in Biełarusian and Ukrainian shtetls, offered Jews a new life: for a while they could exchange their traditional trades for a peasant life. To this end, the Soviets would help to relocate Jews to Crimea. Jewish history in the Crimea goes back to the first century ce. The YIVO Encyclopedia of Jews in Eastern Europe offers details in an article titled “Jews in Crimea,” which discusses the modern history of Jews and the Soviet resettlement program.47 Here is a brief excerpt from this article: “Starting in 1924, a foreign-funded agricultural settlement movement of Jews from the former Pale brought significant population growth and a shift in residence patterns. According to the 1939 Soviet census, 65,452 Jews lived in Crimea (5.8% of the population). Of these, 19,000–20,000 resided in 86 agricultural colonies, most of which were located in two Jewish autonomous districts.”48 The

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Soviets were shrewd in their approach to Jewish colonization of the Crimea. First, they financed it mainly with American money donated by American Jews who were trying to address hunger in the shtetls. Most of these donors were first- or second-generation immigrants who had begun arriving in the United States from the Russian Empire during the 1880s and were still arriving in the early 1920s. Second, the Soviets, who mistrusted both Jews and peasants because neither belonged to the labouring class (supposedly the true soldiers of the revolution), treated these “petty bourgeois” tradespeople and peasants as a single layer of the new society. In other words, the Soviets folded together all of the socially doomed as a way of consolidating their own power. Also, their first attempt to collectivize Crimea’s agriculture involved settlers who had already experienced collective life under the centuries-old Kahal system. As it turned out, Soviet collective farms did well in Crimea, and, right up until the Germans invaded during the Second World War, agricultural production was higher in the Jewish settlements there than in any other part of the Soviet Union. At first, Šolem and his friends are opposed to the Soviets’ offer. Ejdlia’s father dismisses it in his daily talks with his friends. But gradually, with their shtetl’s economy declining, the inhabitants begin to warm to the idea, which at least offers them some hope of growing their own bread. By then, Šolem is also starting to heed Ejdlia’s words about free education in the city. So, along with around half the shtetl’s residents, he signs up to receive land in Crimea. He also gives his blessing to Ejdlia to study in the city. Though its ending is unexpectedly happy (just like the ending of “Goj”), this story reveals many socio-political and economic problems that the inhabitants of the former Pale of Settlement had to endure under the Soviets. Their struggle to survive under the Leninist-Stalinist system would last until Hitler’s invasion, which ended Jewish life in Crimea. In “U miastečku,” the shtetl has about sixteen years before the catastrophe of Nazism, and its people, especially the young, who hope to better themselves through education, see a bright future ahead of them. The last paragraph speaks of Ejdlia’s feelings while she is on her way to the city. Lyńkoŭ describes her happy mood through the lens of an early autumn day: “And quiet joy pours from everywhere. It reaches one’s heart. And over there, on a hill, under a green forest, near young and green birch trees, red whortleberries are glowing and ripening in the sun. Red whortleberries are glowing … Golden-red whortleberries … There is the

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sun bathing its early flames in drops of morning dew.”49 Like most of Lyńkoŭ’s early works on Jewish themes, “U miastečku” ends on a note of hope, which always seems to be strongest among those with a long history of misfortune.

“Bienia-Bałahoła” (Bienia the coachman) The last short story I consider in this chapter is “Bienia-Bałahoła.” Like the others, it is set in the late 1920s and revolves around shtetl life and the Russian Civil and Polish-Soviet wars.50 This strongly compressed story is only three-and-a-half pages long and focuses on a single event and a single character. Similar to Anton Chekhov’s “Toska” (Woe [1885]), in Lyńkoŭ’s “Bienia-Bałahoła” the only living creature who really understands the main character, Bienia, is his horse, Blackie. At first, Błackie seems to have his own mind. As the story progresses, the reader comes to realize that Bienia’s moods are reflected in his horse’s behaviour, and vice versa. The third-person narrator begins this story with gentle humour. Bienia, in his driver’s seat, whistles to Błackie to go forward, but the horse does not respond. Bienia tries many tricks to get him moving, all in vain. The passengers advise the coachman to beat Błackie, but he argues strongly against that. At one point, his horse unexpectedly turns around as if to return to the city. “Finally, they turned again in the right direction, and Błackie, probably considering that he couldn’t escape his obligations, went slowly and steadily down the bumpy road. It is possible that there were other considerations in the horse’s head. He might have been thinking about his evening portion of oats or his cozy stable; or maybe something else made Błackie finally start moving. Whatever it was, everyone was glad. The passengers buried themselves in the straw and were as happy as Bienia, who was glued to his driver’s seat, muttering under his breath some kind of a song without words.”51 This is followed by a poetic description of a summer night. Beautiful stars can be seen through the many holes in the carriage’s roof. Suddenly, the narration turns to Jewish history, rendered as gracefully as the summer night: “The carriage’s bast-made cover and stars were carrying thoughts far, far away, and it seemed that there was not just the squeaking of the carriage along the path, but that Jewish field tents were sailing along an-

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cient Egypt’s dusty roads, and these tents were moving along with the wind, and ahead of them was an unmeasured, distant road and an unknown future.”52 At some point the passengers are awakened by many voices and find that their carriage has stopped moving. Apparently, half a dozen of Bienia’s colleagues have caught up with him; they are eating together and remembering various adventures they had with looters during the recent wars. Every one of them has at least one story to tell. Bienia, Błackie, and the passengers part with this company and resume their journey, now along a forest road. Though this part of the journey is more pleasant, Bienia’s behaviour now changes, which leads to the story’s crisis. First, he asks his passengers whether anyone has any firearms and knows how to use them. Then he begins to drive Błackie hard, mercilessly, without a trace of his earlier kindness. As Błackie is speeding along with all his might, Bienia suddenly becomes his old self: once again he is gentle with his horse, and he tells his passengers (without explanation) that the danger is over. The dénouement comes with the sunrise, when the company reaches the shtetl. The village innkeeper explains to the passengers that Bienia had suffered an incident three years earlier, at a time when bandits were marauding in and around the shtetl. One particularly dangerous place nearby was Załataja horka (Golden hill), where Bienia had barely escaped death while his friend had been killed. The innkeeper adds that, most of the time since this incident, Bienia has behaved normally. She also explains that the place that still frightens him, Załataja horka, got its name from the many robberies that had taken place there. “Bienia-bałahoła” belongs to a group of stories about daily life in a Biełarusian shtetl, and it focuses on the kind of event that was experienced by many Jews during and immediately after the Polish-Soviet War. This story is written in the brilliantly lucid prose of which Lyńkoŭ was capable at the time, and, unlike his later works, it doesn’t glorify the Soviet social order. Michaś Lyńkoŭ’s two first-period collections, Apaviadańni (Short stories [1927]) and Goj (The Gentile [1928]), were followed in his second period (1930–35) with: Andrej Liatun (1930), Apošni zvierajadaviec (The last carnivore [1930]), Saŭka agicirnik (Saŭka the agitator [1933]), Na vialikaj chvali (On a huge wave [1934]), and Bajan (1935). The third period started with Sustrečy (Encounters [1940]). After the 1930s, Jews no longer

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figure as primary characters in Lyńkoŭ’s works. Sometimes there are Jewish characters in the Biełarusian towns that he depicts and that completely replace the shtetls in his later short stories and novellas. In his unfinished novella Na čyrvonych liadach (On the red cuttings [1934]), for example, there is a fleeting character, Ałter, a poor buyer of rags, who has lived through terrible times and has lost his entire family. Despite his travails, Ałter is an optimist, and, like many of Lyńkoŭ’s characters, his source of endless optimism is Biełarusian nature. Ałter tells himself he doesn’t have the right to weep while the sun is smiling on him. Due to Lyńkoŭ’s selfcensorship, this novella, made up of many little stories about the inhabitants of a small Biełarusian farming town, was never finished. Lyńkoŭ, a renowned cultural figure in the 1930s, was profoundly influenced by the political restrictions of the time. By that decade, the class struggle was the central motif at all levels of Soviet politics and society, and literature was deeply affected by this. Lyńkoŭ’s proclivity for Gentile characters reflected the political situation of the time. Many Jews had left the shtetls: jobs and land were scarce in Biełaruś, which had been largely destroyed by revolutions and wars. Unlike the peasants, who had been severely affected by collectivization and couldn’t leave their collectives, Jews could abandon their old habitat and move to the cities. In this oppressive climate, Lyńkoŭ, like many of his colleagues, began writing about prewar and pre-revolutionary Biełaruś. Na čyrvonych liadach is a good example of this. Lyńkoŭ’s final creative period, and his longest, lasted from the Second World War until his death and was marked by strict self-censorship, as was required by Soviet political and social life. His collection Sustrečy was completed after Western Biełaruś had been reunified with the rest of the country (on 17 September 1939). Lyńkoŭ was drafted into the Red Army the day the Germans invaded Biełaruś. For him, as for the majority of Soviet citizens, this was the Great Patriotic War (1941–45). He lost his younger brother Ryhor in this war.53 After their father died prematurely in 1920 and their mother in 1923, Ryhor and his other siblings had found a home with Michaś and, later, with his wife, Hanna Abramaŭna. Ryhor, as the second eldest, cared for the younger siblings while Michaś served in the Red Army in the early 1920s. Ryhor also took over most of Michaś’s editorial and educational work in Babrujsk when the latter moved to Miensk in 1930. Ryhor, too, left his home on the first day of war; he didn’t have a chance to say farewell to his own young family. Ryhor was soon

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lost in action, and his burial place is unknown. His wife was probably of Jewish origin: she and her infant were also killed by the Germans in 1941. Michaś Lyńkoŭ’s other and most painful loss also occurred in 1941, when Hanna and their only son, Marek, were killed by Germans because she was a Jew. Michaś Lyńkoŭ never remarried. In 1945, Janka Maŭr,54 Michaś Lyńkoŭ’s friend and neighbour, wrote a short story titled “Zavošta?” (What for?) and dedicated it to the memory of Lyńkoŭ’s only son.55 The story is about Marek and his mother Hanna. Maŭr “baptized” them in his story as Miša (Michaś) and Sara. Apparently, Maŭr knew the boy well and observed him not just as a neighbour and a writer but with the loving eye of an adult who admired his inquisitive mind and rich inner world. The narrator observes Miša’s fascination with nature as well as his strong love for both his parents. He is intrigued by the boy’s refusal to fight a smaller boy, even when the latter asks to be punished for his aggression. The author first thinks Miša is spineless, but later, when he sees Miša in action, he is convinced otherwise: the boy turns out to be a brave lad who fights only those who are the same size or bigger than he is. Miša is constantly “saving” flies that are stuck on flypaper, and he once saved a mouse from a trap and brought it home. When he was little, the boy discovered a dead puppy in the snow, cleaned it up, and brought it home, hoping to revive it. His parents told him to take the puppy out because it was dead. Instead, Miša, still hoping to revive the animal, gave it milk. Only after being convinced that the miracle of resurrection would not happen did he bury the puppy. In short, the boy is depicted in such a way that anyone would want him for a son. The second part of the story starts with the first day of the war. This section is seen through the eyes of Miša, whose father kisses him and his mother farewell. The boy watches his despondent mother wandering around their apartment after his father’s departure. The next horrible event is the German aerial bombardment of Miensk, on 24 June 1941, when three mighty raids set the entire city on fire. Miša and his mother find themselves on the open bed of a truck, packed tightly with other people. When the road is bombed, the passengers run for cover into a nearby forest. Here Miša sees his first human casualty: “Sonia, the girl from a neighbouring house, was sitting beside him. She wasn’t frightened at all, she even laughed. And then she cried out, and she began to bend lower, and lower. And red spots appeared on her white dress … Everyone around

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screamed out: ‘They killed Sonia! – Sonia is dead!’ How many times Miša heard and said this word himself in children’s games, but he had never thought that death was such a simple thing. As if there was nothing frightening in it.”56 Soon after this tragedy, the mother and son, like other displaced people around them, begin wandering the countryside, begging the villagers for a night in a barn and a piece of bread. A few days later they come to a village in which the father’s sister Aleisia is living, and she takes them in. Aliesia and the neighbour, eighty-year-old Karniła, manage to get them false documents: Sara is “baptized” as a Ukrainian, Chryścia, and is presented as the Ukrainian wife of Aliesia’s brother. Miša grows close to his older cousins, Ściopka and Tania, and because he is also dressed like a peasant now, he looks like them. However, there is one way that he does not: “Just too beautiful and deep were his dark eyes, and his facial expression remained the same – serious, thoughtful, and touched by irony, as if he saw and understood something that we cannot see and know. And what a beauty his mama became when she covered her hair with a white peasant head scarf! Her black hair was covered, but her black eyes became even more noticeable. Except these eyes were too often filled with tears.”57 Miša’s mother has good reason to cry: by the fall of 1941, Biełaruś is under German occupation. She cannot contact her husband, and all the Jews from the nearby shtetl are dead. Although Aliesia declares Miša to be her own son, Sara (Hanna) is terrified of betrayal. And her worst nightmares came true: someone from the village denounces her and the boy. Sara sees a chance for her son to survive; when a German officer with two Biełarusian policemen come for her, they show little interest in her son. As she follows her captors, her bearing is proud and serene. Sara is looking ahead: “People were standing by two sides of the road; some were sighing, others crying, and the rest were clenching their fists. Here, among them, is her Miša, the boy who, whoever meets him, immediately and sincerely falls in love with him. Here he is, very close to her, she will pass him now, she might even touch him … But no, she mustn’t even look in that direction lest she collapse … What is worse – he might not endure.”58 And Miša cannot help himself: he cries out for his mother, betraying them all. The boy feels truly happy when he is united with his mother in the back of a truck; he is also content when he is cold and hungry for many days in the camp, waiting for the inevitable. Back then

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Jews had to wait their turn to be shot as the Germans hadn’t yet established their final means of mass destruction. Janka Maŭr depicts the death of Michaś Lyńkoŭ’s son and wife realistically: it is presented almost photographically, and the result is heartbreakingly true to the facts. Maŭr had thoroughly researched the events by interviewing individual survivors of many executions. The ending, though, seems tarnished by melodramatic propaganda: “Herod from Berlin could celebrate that day a victory over the boy called Miša, the same Miša who would never fight a weaker child. But his victory didn’t last more than a day. You see, the next day Miša’s father came to Berlin, and he brought many of our people along with him. They destroyed Herod’s lair, and destroyed thousands and thousands of fascists. But no one could bring Miša back. Let these lines serve as his everlasting memory.”59 While the ending weakens an otherwise well-written story, it also highlights how Biełarusians were united in their postwar perceptions of the Holocaust. Indeed, this Biełarusian part of the tragedy was felt personally by most Biełarusians of all faiths. And Janka Maŭr shows this in his story. Michaś Lyńkoŭ, who had been drifting towards realism in the 1930s, was a highly successful Soviet propagandist during the war. His literary talent proved useful against the Germans, especially during the earliest Soviet battles with the aggressors. From the very first days of catastrophic Soviet losses, Lyńkoŭ edited the newspaper Za Savieckuiu Biełaruś (For Soviet Biełaruś); he also wrote many guest editorials, columns, short stories, and articles in Biełarusian and Russian for every important newspaper and journal in the Soviet Union. His work was welcomed by the following Russian language press: Pravda (The truth), Izvesiia (News), Ogonek (Little light), Slaviane (The Slavs), and Sovetskaia Biełaruś (Soviet Biełaruś). His ardently patriotic but still fascinating short stories were written and published in 1942, when the Soviets were still losing the war. Among these stories are “Vasilki” (Blue cornflowers),60 “Iryna,” “Dziciačy bašmačok” (A baby’s bootie), “Niedapietyja peśni” (Unfinished songs), “Pacałunak” (A kiss), and various other stories about German atrocities and the heroic vengeance of Biełarusians. These were useful and timely pieces; however, the Jewish shtetl, its streets and homes, had disappeared from Lyńkoŭ’s world. To survive, he had to align his work with Soviet propaganda: a Soviet citizen had only one nationality, and one state – the ussr. The adage that, in God’s kingdom, everyone is equal, Jew or Greek, was adopted by

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the Soviet propaganda machine in its own twisted way. And Lyńkoŭ dutifully conformed. After his demobilization, Lyńkoŭ returned to Miensk, where he continued as chairman of the bssr’s Writers’ Union. While holding that chair, he tried to provide basic living standards for writers in the city, which had been destroyed during the war. At the same time, he was a Dyrektar Instytutu literatury, movy i mastactva pry Biełaruskaj akademii navuk (Chair of the Biełarusian Academy of Sciences Institute of Literature, Language, and Arts). These posts and others made for a highly active public life. Among his many duties, he played a significant role on the committee that collected and analyzed materials pertaining to German atrocities in Biełaruś. He was also a long-standing representative of his country at the UN. Lyńkoŭ’s pro-Soviet leanings after the war resulted in his literary productions becoming more stilted than ever. When it came to the West, he was uncompromisingly critical. In his works, he constantly espoused Soviet ideals by comparing them positively to Western ones, in spite of what he had seen on his way to Berlin with the Soviet Army: Europeans, for all their losses and ruined economies, were much better off than were Soviet workers and peasants. Remember also that, compared to the great majority of even upper-level communists in the Soviet Union, Lyńkoŭ had considerable access to the West, often travelling there freely. The Communist Party’s 1946 pogrom against two leading Leningrad publications, Zvezda and Leningrad, and their leading authors, Anna Akhmatova and Michail Zoshchenko, served as a strong warning to any Soviet artist who wouldn’t subjugate her or his art to the political needs of the Soviet bosses.61 The following excerpts from the Central Committee’s resolutions illustrate the witch hunt the Soviet leaders launched that year: The Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union determines that the publishing of the Leningrad literary-artistic magazines Zvezda and Leningrad is being carried out in a wholly unsatisfactory manner. Recently in Zvezda magazine, along with important and worthwhile works of Soviet writers, appeared many worthless and ideologically harmful works. A crude mistake of Zvezda is the offering of a literary platform to the writer [M.M] Zoshchenko, whose productions are alien to Soviet literature. The

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editorial staff of Zvezda is well aware that Zoshchenko has long specialized in writing empty, vapid, and vulgar things, in spreading putrid nonsense, vulgarity, and indifference to politics so as to mislead our young people and poison their consciousness. Lately in the press, Zoshchenko’s story “Adventures of an Ape,” Zvezda nos. 5 and 6 (1946), presents a vulgar libel on the Soviet way of life and on Soviet people. Zoshchenko portrays Soviet order and Soviet people in a freakishly caricatured way, slanderously presenting Soviet people as primitive, lacking culture, stupid, with narrow minds and tastes and tempers. Giving the pages of Zvezda over to such literary pretenders and riff-raff as Zoshchenko was especially intolerable because the editors of Zvezda well knew Zoshchenko’s physiognomy and his unworthy behaviour during the war, when Zoshchenko, doing nothing to aid the Soviet nation in its struggle against the German invaders, wrote such a loathsome thing as “Before Sunrise,” an assessment of which, as well as an assessment of all of Zoshchenko’s literary “works,” has been given in the pages of the journal Bolshevik. Zvezda in every way popularizes work by the authoress Akhmatova, whose literary and socio-political physiognomy has been known to Soviet people for a long, long time. Akhmatova is a typical exponent of empty, frivolous poetry that is alien to our people. Permeated by the scent of pessimism and decay, redolent of old-fashioned salon poetry, frozen in the positions of bourgeoisaristocratic aestheticism and decadence – “art for art’s sake” – not wanting to progress forward with our people, her verses cause damage to the upbringing of our youth and cannot be tolerated in Soviet literature. From a resolution of the Central Committee of the All-Union Communist Party (Bolsheviks), 14 August 194662 Soon after this resolution was published, as free thought became ever more elusive, Lyńkoŭ began work on his most challenging project, a novel in four volumes, Viekapomnyja dni (Unforgettable days [1949–56]). This novel is about the Biełarusian partisan struggle against the Germans. The writer’s military career had had nothing to do with the partisan war; however, he was one of a very few who had complete access to archives.

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Despite the passion, monumental labour, inspiration, talent, and professional tools that the writer applied to this work, it has left only a limited mark on the history of Biełarusian literature. The reason is obvious and understandable: self-censorship, determined by the tumult of recent events. Like Chekhov’s Nina Zarechnaia in The Seagull, his later characters come to some momentary life: “There were split seconds, when she would scream or die with talent, but those were just passing moments.”63 Chekhov’s character, Nina Zarechnaia, ends up as a great actress, while Michaś Lyńkoŭ never matches his brilliant beginnings in his later literary works, characterized as they are by party doctrine and unrealistic tedium. While Viekapomnyja dni has a good number of Chekhovian moments, Lyńkoŭ doesn’t tell the entire story of the partisans, despite having all the facts at hand. Indeed, being a chairperson of the committee that researched German atrocities in Biełaruś, he had to know that the partisan movement, to a significant extent, had been launched by Biełarusian Jews from all walks of life. The underground (which also had many Jewish members) was formed as early as July 1941 and continued to develop through March 1942. At first Jewish partisans, including women, children, and elders, were more like family groups. They outnumbered other Biełarusian partisan groups, such as soldiers and officers of the Soviet army, many of whom had been wounded and encircled during the German blitz. Throughout the winter of 1941, most of the Jewish partisans were still organized as family-type detachments: fighting Germans was their second task; keeping Jews alive was their first. By mid-1942, Stalin had understood the benefits of a partisan war, and instructors from Moscow, sponsored by the Soviet government, landed in Biełaruś. At least a year before the first groups of ruled-from-Moscow Soviet partisans formed their own detachments in March 1943, Jewish family and fighting groups had been separated. Some fighters guarded helpless youth and elders; the rest took part in subversive activities. Since their major task was to fight Germans and police behind the lines, many young Jewish survivors of both genders, as well as local Christians, joined the Soviet partisans, who were sponsored by the Kremlin. Jewish partisans, armed with pistols, grenades, rifles, Molotov cocktails, and machine guns, which they took from both the Germans and the police, changed their action from defence to offence. First they fought Germans on their own; later, they collaborated and sometimes united with Soviet groups. Cer-

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tainly, Lyńkoŭ was well aware of Cholam (Šolem) Zorin’s and Tuvia Bielski’s large family camps and military divisions as well as with other smaller but active partisan groups and units.64 The family camps were actively subsidizing the economy of the whole area. For example, Bielski’s family camp alone had twenty-four shops or small enterprises that provided surrounding villages and cities with goods and services. Overall, Jewish Biełarusian participation in the partisan movement was quite strong, accounting for 15 percent of the entire Biełarusian partisan force.65 This percentage is truly amazing when we remember that there were many soldiers and officers in the Soviet army of Biełarusian Jewish origin. This despite a horrific loss of 800,000 Biełarusian Jews, most of whom had been killed by 1942. The reader does not learn any of these facts from Lyńkoŭ’s novel. He doesn’t mention that many Christian Biełarusians were persecuted by the Germans and the Biełarusian police for attempting to help Jews. Of twenty-three thousand individuals in the world who have been designated “righteous” for helping Jews, close to seven hundred are Biełarusian Christians. There may well have been more, but most of them took their secrets to the grave, like the great-grandparents of Janina and Aliaksandr Kryvicki.66 Janina only learned about her great-grandparents’ courageous deeds from the descendants of the Jews whom they saved. Aliaksandr said that his grandmother was afraid of Soviet anti-Semitic and anti-Israeli policies, and therefore she never told anyone that her parents had saved Jews during the war. We understand that this poor woman, who died in 1995, kept her “secret” in order to survive and to avoid leaving her descendants with the mark of “Jew lovers” in the anti-Semitic ussr. Lyńkoŭ obviously acted on his own survival instinct. None of this is to suggest that survivors should be harshly judged. As a reader and lover of Biełarusian literature, I am glad that Michaś Lyńkoŭ survived and did not, like so many of his compatriots, become a victim of Hitler or Stalin. In fact, we don’t know who helped Tuvia Bielski and so many other Biełarusian Jewish partisans leave the Soviet Union through Poland. It was not an easy thing to do, even for a less controversial figure than Tuvia Bielski or for other Jewish partisans and the remnants of their families. Considering that Lyńkoŭ worked behind the scenes to keep Biełarusian literature alive in troubled times, perhaps he also helped the Bielskis to escape. This is speculation, of course, but it is based on the fact

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that the writer was helping some people leave the country even in the early 1970s. Finally, I should also mention Lyńkoŭ’s Mikolka-paravoz (Mikolka, the locomotive [1936]) as part of his artistic legacy. This novella paved the way to conscious realism in Biełarusian children’s literature. Also, in his 1932 short story “Saŭka-agicirnik,” Lyńkoŭ was the first to show that collective farms were hotbeds of injustice and deceit. Viekapomnyja dni (1949–56), the first attempt in Biełarusian literature to produce an epic about the Great Patriotic War, was produced within a rigid cultural atmosphere. After all, good writing about the war, the so-called “lieutenants’ prose,” based on the personal experiences of soldier-veterans, gained popularity only fifteen years after the war, ten years after Stalin’s death. By 1965, more than twenty Soviet writers had associated themselves with battlefield literature and were writing without glorifying war. A Biełarusian, Vasil Bykaŭ, was one of these leading writers, and Lyńkoŭ’s Viekapomnyja dni, for all its questionable artistry, did, in a sense, pave the way. Overall, Biełarusian and Soviet literatures were enormously enriched by Lyńkoŭ. Indeed, his unique treatment of the pre- and post-revolutionary life of Biełarusian shtetls, villages, and towns, as well as the events of the Russian Civil War and the Polish-Soviet War, can be compared only to the writings of Sholem Aleichem, Isaak Babel, and Źmitrok Biadulia.

6 Did Vicbic ´ ˇ Change His Heart towards Bolsheviks and Jews?1

If within a lifetime a man changes his skin an infinite number of times, almost as often as his suits, he still does not change his heart; he has but one. –Ilya Ehrenburg Vićbič was the man who gave more of his strength, his thoughts and blood for the Biełarusian cause than anyone else. –Alieś Sałaviej I am completely satisfied with being the best witness of my own private life. –Jurka Vićbič

Just as the skin and the heart are vital to human life, so too is the individual ego of those who practise the literary arts. In daily life and in literature, skin and heart often serve as metaphors and symbols for both real and literary characters. Ilya Ehrenburg’s (1891–1967) observation is regularly applied to the miracle of his own physical and/or moral survival during Soviet rule, especially throughout its darkest time, from the 1930s to 1953. Alexandr Solzhenitsyn and Yevgeny Yevtushenko are vivid examples of writers who managed such societal changes in their lifetimes – indeed, the latter has often mentioned Ehrenburg as his generation’s beloved teacher of survival techniques. Biełarusian literature also has its survivors: some blended themselves entirely into Soviet life and literature, while others, like Jurka Vićbič (1905–75), displayed local characteristics and nuances. Jurka Vićbič, a prolific Biełarusian poet, writer, historian, and journalist, is often accused of having changed his skin.2 However, although ethnically

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a minority (a Biełarusian of Russian origin), when it came to his motherland, Biełaruś, or its people, he never changed his heart.3 His attitude towards Biełarusian Jews, however, is one of the most contested questions relating to his biography as well as to his literary, historical, and journalistic work. Since this has been the key controversy in discussions of his legacy, Vićbič’s position merits revisiting. In this chapter, I also show how, throughout his artistic writings, Vićbič created his alternative autobiography. Some of his articles, tainted by anti-Semitic innuendo and written during the Second World War-era German occupation of Biełaruś, stand in stark contrast to his pre- and postwar works of fiction and creative non-fiction, which demonstrate an intimate and sincere relationship with the Jews of his country. As I examine Vićbič’s creative works from this perspective, I must once more emphasize a few important facts. Biełaruś was the only country in the world in which Yiddish was a state language (1919–38). Moreover, before the First World War, Biełaruś was home to the world’s largest Jewish population (over 14 percent of Biełarusians were Jewish). However, the country’s records were often destroyed during invasions, revolutions, and wars. Consequently, it was easier to construct alternative autobiographies in Biełaruś than it would have been in regions unfamiliar with such frequent acts of destruction. In his autobiographical writings, his fiction, and his creative non-fiction, Jurka Vićbič was constantly writing about his past and that of his fellow Biełarusians. The task of examining his writings is facilitated by several important recent collections of his works and by his prolific correspondence.4 These materials clarify whether it was possible for Vićbič to “change his skin” over the course of his eventful life. The writer’s works combine patriotism with cosmopolitanism and nationalism; yet sometimes he treats these matters not just as separate but as polar opposites. Like most writers and artists of his time and place, he attempted, at the start of his career, to adapt his writings to Soviet political demands; but, unlike many, he survived. Vićbič wrote a great many published and as yet unpublished articles, short stories, travel books, essays, and short novels. He also collected and published local histories and semi-fictional literary works and left behind a rich epistolary legacy. His journalism and literary works are often strongly ideological and political. Indeed, he has been one of the most controversial literary figures among Biełarusian exiles since 1944. For a great number of Biełarusian readers, especially Biełarusian exiles since the Sec-

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ond World War, and for some members of the cultural elite in his homeland, Vićbič is a highly esteemed prophet, a pre-eminent Biełarusian historian and literary figure. To others, he is an insignificant scribbler, a bigot, and a traitor who does not deserve to be called a Biełarusian. Some critics consider him to be a Judeophobe, others regard him as a Judeophile. Then there are voices that liken him to a chameleon, always changing colour with the political fashion of the moment. Each of these camps has its supporters, but there is an even larger audience of undecided readers. For them, this chapter provides material that enables them to decide for themselves this writer’s place in Biełarusian culture and his ethical position. Once again, the main purpose of this chapter is to enunciate Vićbič’s attitude towards Biełarusian Jews in his writings before, during, and after the Second World War, which he expresses through the mechanism of creating his own alternative biography. Alternative biography is a familiar genre for many writers, and this was especially true in Soviet times. Anna Akhmatova, Mikhail Bulgakov, and Boris Pasternak are only three Russian examples among many who practised it. Dmitri Segal considers the protagonist of Pasternak’s Doctor Zhivago to be a direct projection of the author’s poetic biography: I am allowing myself to guess that Pasternak was trying to show us how the biography of a great poet or an artist would have been developed if it were his own real biography. Apparently a conflict existed for Pasternak between his own life and his idea of how poets should live their life … Most probably, Dr Zhivago is a character that must incarnate the poet par excellence, who would have had the life that the poet had to have under those circumstances, and, therefore, it is impossible to say that he betrayed someone or did not show solidarity; in his reality the poet remains loyal to his own poetic vocation, and this is the only basis of his development.5 A theoretical discussion of alternative biography as a genre and literary device is beyond the scope of The Portrayal of Jews in Biełarusian Literature, but it should be noted that writers – especially those who, like Vićbič, lived during troubled times – have often written alternative biographies, showing the reader how they would have lived had circumstances been different. Vićbič’s biography will help us understand what influenced

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his life and formed his worldview. I follow an analysis of Vićbič’s short novel Lšono Haboo Bijrušałajm (Next Year in Jerusalem),6 which describes life in a predominantly Jewish town in Biełaruś, with a commentary on his collection of essays, Antybalšavickija paŭstańni i partyzanskaja baraćba na Biełarusi (Anti-communist uprisings and resistance in Biełaruś).7 Both these works (each of which represents a different genre) focus on the historical events that occurred between 1914 and 1921 in Biełaruś and express Vićbič’s benevolent attitude towards Biełarusian Jews. In addition, the chosen chronology underlines his autobiographical narrative, which embraces both Biełarusian and Biełarusian Jewish history. I conclude with a sample of his rich correspondence.

Jurka Vicbic ´ ˇ: Biography and Historical Background Jurka Vićbič was born in 1905, the year of the First Russian Revolution, in Vialiž, Viciebsk province. (After the Second World War, Vialiž became the region of Smolensk in Russia; its present Russian transliteration is Velizh.) Georgii Shcherbakov (Hieorhij Ščarbakoŭ) was born into a privileged, loving, and well-educated family with roots in the Russian gentry. Vićbič’s father was a priest, and both his parents came from a long line of Russian Orthodox priests. There were two other children in the family, Sergei and Evgenii, and the boys enjoyed a typical childhood for their social circle, in which education and high morals had been cultivated for generations. The children were initially educated at home (their mother was a teacher); later they had private tutors, and all three boys passed the entrance exam for the local gymnasium. But after the Bolsheviks came to power, the Shcherbakovs’ situation changed drastically, as it did for the entire educated and well-to-do population. Father Shcherbakov was arrested for being of noble origins and for being a priest. He perished in a concentration camp in 1934. The Shcherbakov children were deprived of a postsecondary education because of their status as disenfranchised individuals, the Bolsheviks having branded them as part of the anti-social, anti-soviet, or anti-socialist element.8 Jurka Vićbič was only twelve years old when the October Revolution broke out, first in Petersburg then spreading slowly but relentlessly throughout the tsarist empire. By that time, Biełaruś had become a major

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battleground of the First World War. And that war was followed almost immediately by the Polish-Soviet War of 1919–21, which was fought mainly on Biełarusian and Ukrainian territory and which devastated the local population of all social classes and faiths. This disaster brought about countless deaths, razed villages and towns, and a flood of Biełarusian refugees (most of whom fled to Russia). Indeed, communal and individual graves, many of them without markers, dominated the Biełarusian landscape from 1914 to 1921. The catastrophic consequences of those times can be compared only to the 1915 Armenian tragedy. It is noteworthy that, in the ensuing years, Soviet Biełaruś paid little attention to this part of its history, while the Biełarusian regions of Poland (mainly the Białystok area) have kept it alive in memory. Only recently have Biełarusian historiographers begun to view the First World War as a significant part of the Biełarusian individual and collective memory.9 All of the respondents to Vitaly Karnyaljuk’s publication (most of them from the Białystok region) agree that about 60 percent of Biełarusian refugees from the Russian territories returned home by 1923. When they did so, they found themselves facing a disastrous social and economic situation, during which people of different ethnicities shared what little they had. Michał Konan, from the village of Traščotki, recalls: “Normal living conditions did not exist for us upon our return from Russia. The land had not been worked, most of the villages were burnt down, and there was nothing to eat.” And here is an excerpt from Zinaida Niadzelskaja’s 1923 interview: “Life was very hard when we returned to Orla. Jews were living in our hut; it was late fall when we came, before St John’s. We did not have any potatoes, and hunger was a real threat. In order to survive we lived together with our Jewish tenants until spring.”10 Niadzelskaja’s unassuming narration describes the results of marauding military units and violent gangs from 1914 to 1921 and shows that Biełarusian Christians and Jews cooperated with one another during this time of need. Biełarusian Jews were a particular target for the White Army, the Polish Army, and various marauding gangs even in 1922. A bulky collection of documents produced by the Russian Academy of Sciences is titled Kniga Pogromov. (The book of pogroms: Pogroms in Ukraine, Belorussia, and the European part of Russia during the Russian Civil War, 1918–22.)11 Regrettably, this volume’s introductory article suggests that, regardless of the country, there was not much difference in locals’ attitudes towards

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these terrifying events. The documents themselves, however, reveal that, while in other territories of the former Russian Empire anti-Jewish sentiment was often supported by local people, this was not the case in Biełaruś. It is difficult to discuss ethnic violence dispassionately, but the documents written by eyewitnesses are telling. Unlike in Russia, Poland, and Ukraine, there was little support for anti-Semitic actions in Biełaruś. Thus, almost every single document in this collection related to the Biełarusian territories expresses a similar sentiment: “Compared with the bloody pogroms in Novgorod-Seversk (Russia) and Hlukhiv (Ukraine), the pogrom in Viciebsk (Biełaruś) had a mild character: there were no severe injuries or death.”12 All of the reports that follow – based on multiple eyewitness accounts – confirm this statement. The documents published in Moscow as well as Karnyaljuk’s independent study make it clear that Biełarusian Christians of all social orders, intelligentsia and peasants alike, continually protested against the pogroms. One of these documents states that “many Christian women gave their gold earrings to the intruders in order to save the Jewish population.”13 There is also an abundance of assertions such as: “We should note that local Christians did not take part in robberies. Many gave shelter to Jews and hid their possessions [from the looters].”14 It was common practice for churchgoers of different denominations (Catholic and Orthodox alike) to approach a group of new “authorities” with icons raised, to hold a public prayer service, and then to sincerely request that their Jewish neighbours not be harmed. In fact, every delegation of Christians that tried to protect the Jewish population included a local priest.15 Vićbič’s writings and correspondence often state that the Shcherbakov family, known for its social and educational work in Vialiž, always sided with the underdog. The same is stated in his essay collection Antybalšavickija paŭstańni i partyzanskaja baraćba na Biełarusi (Anti-communist uprisings and resistance in Biełaruś).16 Many biographies, both long and short, have been written about Vićbič. The authors of these are united on only one point – their regret that there are so few concrete details available about his life. Because the Biełarusian archives were so badly damaged by the Soviet and German authorities and their military forces, the material about Vićbič that does exist is largely autobiographical and therefore occasionally evokes suspicion. Even Vićbič’s responses to US government questionnaires are misleading. For example, in one of them, he changes his place of birth from Vialiž to Bi-

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ałystok (historic Biełaruś, but, after 1921, Poland).17 Many Soviet émigrés changed their birthplace and family name to cover their true identity. The Allies were not as insistent on repatriating people born in Poland (before 1939) as they were on repatriating those born in the Soviet Union. Changing a family name was a different matter; this was often done to protect a loved one back home, mainly from nkvd and kgb persecution. Remember that Vićbič’s family, like so many others, was tragically divided during the Second World War: his younger brothers, Sergei and Evgenii, were serving in the Red Army, and there was no communication between them and those who, like Vićbič, lived in the occupied territories. When Vićbič, his mother, and his wife left home in 1944, they did not know whether Sergei and Evgenii had survived.18 The family left first for Germany, then, five years later, in 1949, moved to the United States. Like many émigrés, they lived through the Allied pow camps and “Operation Keelhaul.”19 Biographers’ debates about Vićbič focus on two major issues: his education and his personal conduct during the German occupation of 1941– 44. In terms of education, some sources (e.g., Lidzija Savik) insist that he graduated from a teacher’s college;20 others, such as Arkadii Podlipskii, insist that he did not.21 Needless to say, these critics also take opposing positions on the writer’s views on Biełarusian Jews. Recently, thanks to Jurevič’s findings and my correspondence with historians in Vialiž, the question of Vićbič’s education has been partly clarified. I sought an answer to this question (offered below) in order to understand the extent to which Vićbič stretched the truth about himself when he created his alternative biography.22 Lidzija Savik’s comprehensive biographical article strongly praises Vićbič’s literary achievements and points to his impact on Biełarusian literary organizations at home and later in emigration: “During his time in exile, Jurka Vićbič founded a literary organization, Šypšyna [The dog rose], which included almost all Biełarusian writers in emigration. He also edited two journals: Źviniać zvany Śviatoj Safiji [The bells of St Sophia are ringing], Šypšyna, and a newspaper, Biełaruskaje slova [Biełarusian word]. He worked extensively for many other papers and for the radio while publishing a great number of works.”23 But Savik’s principal sources are the writer’s own autobiographies, and her article does little to examine their veracity. This is clear from her unfounded conviction that Vićbič did in fact graduate from Viciebsk Pedagogical College. Also, she offers little

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detail about his activities during the German occupation. In this regard, we know that those articles of Vićbič that were written during the war and that contained overt anti-Jewish sentiments were quite in accordance with the policies of the German occupiers. One such article, written by Vićbič in Russian during the German occupation, was ominously titled “Narod zolotogo tel’tsa: Evrei Belorussii” (The people of the golden calf: Biełarusian Jews). In this article he contends that greed is a Jewish national characteristic.24 One should keep in mind, however, that most of Vićbič’s works of this period were more anti-Soviet than anti-Semitic and that he was writing in survival mode during the Nazi occupation. It is interesting to note that when he wrote sympathetically about Jews he did so in Biełarusian. Also, a bibliography of his works clearly demonstrates that, even during the Nazi occupation, he focused largely on literary, lyrical, religious, historical, and purely patriotic themes.25 Furthermore, Savik’s contention that Vićbič’s family lived in constant fear of Nazi persecution because he had written the short novel Lšono Haboo Bijrušałajm is rather naive. Vićbič was hardly the only Biełarusian writer who wrote positively about Biełarusian Jews during the early Soviet period and into the 1930s. Overall, though most of her article is acceptable, it is still full of gaps and misinterpretations. In contrast to Savik, Podlipskii is relentlessly negative in his writings about Vićbič, portraying him as a villain incarnate and an anti-Semite; he accuses him of launching witch hunts against Jews and profiting from doing so.26 Also, Podlipskii is adamant that the writer never graduated from a pedagogical college. He insists that he searched thoroughly for Vićbič’s family name at the Viciebsk Pedagogical College and did not find it. In fact, Vićbič claimed to have graduated from the Vialiž teachers’ college, not the one in Viciebsk. Podlipskii, however, denies the existence of the former and only searched the archives of the latter. Actually, my research confirms that, between 1918 and 1941, there was a teachers’ college in Vialiž; therefore, Vićbič could have graduated from it. This college did not reopen after the war, and documents about its graduates are meagre, having been destroyed during the war.27 Podlipskii’s blistering accusations that Vićbič behaved savagely towards Biełarusian Jews lack documentation: there is no solid evidence that Vićbič was an anti-Semite.28 Moreover, in Vićbič’s correspondence with Jewish Biełarusians, collected in Epistaliaryjum, the writer strongly denies insinuations that he collaborated with

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the Germans against the Jews. In fact, like most Biełarusian émigré writers, he soberly addressed anti-Semitism in all of his works (both pre- and postwar). His sentiments are comparable to those found in Boris Ragula’s memoirs.29 Ragula, a renowned Canadian medical doctor, commanded a Biełarusian cavalry squadron during the German occupation. A fiery antiSoviet youth who passionately loved his motherland, Ragula to this day is regarded as an “enemy of the people” in Lukašenka’s Biełaruś.30 Ragula, like Vićbič, was a typical Christian Biełarusian émigré in that almost every childhood friend he recounted had a Jewish last name. We find the same sentiments in Zora Kipel’s diaries as well.31 In the many interviews with Biełarusian émigrés from all walks of life that I have conducted over the years, every single interviewee has seen him- or herself as a victim of the Russian, Polish, Soviet, and German regimes. From their perspective, both Christians and Jews were victimized, though they recognize that the Jewish Holocaust in Biełaruś was utterly without parallel because Biełarusians were not murdered just for being born Biełarusians, but Jews were murdered just for being Jews. Like Ragula, most Biełarusians abroad do not deny the presence of anti-Semitism in wartime Biełaruś, but they insist that it was more the exception than the rule in Biełarusian culture: “Anti-Semitism, in all its loathsome forms, did exist in Biełaruś. There was even a Biełarusian Nazi Party (which ultimately failed to gain widespread support). However, the majority of Biełarusians demonstrated a subtle passive resistance toward the unsavoury German directives. Organizations like the Biełarusian Independence Party (bnp) and various youth groups and cultural clubs found ways to undermine or sabotage German acts of aggression by providing false documents, publishing illegal journals or hiding victims.”32 About five years ago, in a history book for Biełarusian high schools, I came across some pages about Ragula. Without presenting a single fact, and relying entirely on spiteful hearsay, this book accuses Ragula of every possible wartime crime, including involving his cavalry in the massacre of Jews. One wishes that Biełarusian children would instead read the following passage from Ragula’s own book: “One spring day we [the members of his cavalry unit] had wonderful news. The Jews had escaped from the ghetto! They had tunnelled under the fence, and with the help of local sympathizers they had joined the partisans.”33 Needless to say, the Soviet portrayal of the same events was entirely different. To this day, it is difficult

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to trust any unverified information coming from the former Soviet Union. Yitzak Arad’s The Holocaust in the Soviet Union helps to clarify things.34 His analysis is strikingly similar to the facts found in Kniga pogromov: “It was easier in east and west Belorussia to help Jews than in the Baltic States because the population had fewer anti-Soviet and antiSemitic tendencies.”35 In the next paragraph he states: “In west Ukraine widespread anti-Semitism and collaboration with Germans made conditions for rescuing Jews harder than in Belorussia.”36 And two pages later: “An exceptional act that took place in east Belorussia involved the rescue of several Jewish children from orphanages in Minsk.”37 But most of all, there is Arad’s subchapter “Jews in the Forest,” in which he praises Christian Biełarusians for supporting Jewish partisan detachments and family camps.38 The reader can find similar sentiments and facts in Il’ia Altman’s study.39 All of the above fits well with Vićbič’s cultural context, which is quite clearly expressed in his artistic writings and forms a significant part of his autobiographies. Resolving the question of Vićbič’s formal education could help clarify his character.40 In his writings and letters, Vićbič mentions having received a university education: sometimes completed, but more often not. A 1965 autobiography, recently published by Jurevič, challenges some of the previous data and doesn’t mention a university education or a diploma. That autobiography (around four printed pages) is masterfully written in the third person. It starts with a strong statement regarding the author’s occupation and confirms familiar data: “The writer Jurka Vićbič (Jury Stukalič) was born 2 June [old style] 1905 to the family of a priest in the city of Vialiž, Viciebsk area.”41 This is followed by reports that he studied at the local gymnasium and teachers’ college.42 The next sentence, however, emphasizes the real source of Vićbič’s learning: his parents’ substantial library. We can only infer that he was accepted by the college after graduating from a Soviet high school and that he was expelled from it because of his social origins. That is, he was expelled by the college, not the university (which he had never entered). It is not difficult to understand why Vićbič would have concealed the truth about his lack of higher education. He could well have felt ashamed about not having been able to follow his dream. It is clear enough that he was eager for an advanced education and that the status of “class enemy” deeply pained him. To overcome this status, he did the only thing he could in the circumstances: he went to

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Moscow, where his uncle was a physician, and worked there as a labourer in a chemical factory while looking for a way to enter university. He worked at the factory for ten years, was poisoned by gas during an accident there, and returned home in 1932 after the ogpu arrested his uncle on trumped-up charges. Indeed, a university education would have promised him a decent position in the world into which he was born and that he knew best: the world of his parents. That world had disappeared with the deaths of his father and uncle, and in the world that had replaced it, sons and nephews had to prove their worth. Education seemed to be their only chance. Thus, a higher education became part of Vićbič’s alternative biography and a substitute for his lost birthright. While noting this, we should keep in mind that, although he “changed his skin” many times in Moscow, unlike his brother Sergei, he did not denounce his father and uncle. Moreover, it was he who cared for his mother until her last days in the United States.

Writing Career Prior to the Second World War Two of the main features of Vićbič’s writing may be found in Lšono Haboo Bijrušałajm (Next Year in Jerusalem) which shows both the typical Biełarusian tolerance towards others (here, especially Jews) which was so characteristic of Vićbič himself, and at the same time a deep regret at the destruction of sacred places such as the Church of Mary Magdalene. –Arnold McMillin

Coming of age in Soviet Biełaruś, followed by the hardships of blue-collar work in Moscow, did not make Vićbič a “proletarian” writer in the eyes of the authorities. Nor did it leave much time for his hope of becoming a professional writer. Even so, he became just that. Some of his Moscow writings were published, starting in 1929. His literary talent was recognized by a number of writers’ organizations in Moscow and Miensk. Vićbič often states that he was offered memberships in the government’s favoured literary associations, mapp and Belapp.43 But he preferred the Biełarusian literary union Uzvyšša, which published an eponymous journal.44 One of his earliest published stories, “Jak zahinuŭ Jaś” (This is how Jaś perished

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[1929]), appeared in this journal. The writer claimed that he joined the Uzvyšša group at a time when it was dangerous to do so as a number of members had already been arrested by Stalin’s nkvd. Vićbič gave Uzvyšša a considerable part in his alternative biography. In fact, he didn’t join the organization until the hour before it closed. However, one thing is very clear: his loyalty to Uzvyšša was genuine. Throughout his life Vićbič showed unstinting respect for its members, especially Źmitrok Biadulia; however, his short-term membership did not considerably influence his life. Also, serious prosecutions against Uzvyšša’s membership began six years after the organization had become history. In 1929, Stalin and his henchmen tightened their grip on all aspects of Soviet society, including culture, politics, agriculture, industry, and the economy. With regard to culture, that crackdown started with Nikolai Bukharin, a well-educated communist known for his liberal attitude towards pluralism in the arts.45 Stalin launched a campaign against Bukharin in 1929, and the intelligentsia in every part of the Soviet Empire immediately felt the consequences of the so-called “Bukharin Affair.” Uzvyšša did not escape this.46 Of its seventeen members, seven lost their lives in Soviet labour camps. The carnage was even more horrendous for the Maładniak group (1923–28). Maładniak was the most talented assembly of proletarian artists and writers in Biełaruś: 90 percent of them were killed during the 1930s. All members of Uzvyšša faced various degrees of persecution. Kuźma Čorny was imprisoned and then “re-educated” by his nkvd torturers. Vićbič was denied membership in the Biełarusian Writers’ Union, though later, in 1939, he was accepted. At that time, he claims, he did not even apply. An anomalous fact is that, in his laments over the fate of Uzvyšša and the destruction of its cultural aspirations, Vićbič does not mention the events of “Black September,” during which leading Biełarusian Christian and Jewish writers were executed. Leanid Marakoŭ, in the preface to Vyniščeńnie (Annihilation), writes: “On September 29 1937 (the founding anniversary of Lenin’s Komsomol) and, probably, in honour of the October coup d’état, an event unprecedented in world history took place in Miensk, the Biełarusian capital. During that night, twenty-two Biełarusian writers of Christian and Jewish origin were shot.”47 Seven of them – one-third – were Jews. Even in emigration Vićbič never raised his voice against this lethal persecution of Biełarusian intellectuals of both Christian and Jewish backgrounds. Marakoŭ brings up another alarming

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point in his preface: among the two thousand writers murdered by Stalin, five hundred were Biełarusian. Considering that the Biełarusian population was only 5 percent of that of the ussr, this number is startling. Vićbič’s own literary fate was not easy, but it was certainly not as tragic as that of many of his compatriots. His first prose anthology, Smierć Irmy Lajming (Irma Lajming’s death), appeared in 1932. It was followed by a short novel, Lšono Haboo Bijrušałajm, the publication of which was delayed until 1933, when the author acquiesced to the harsh editorial changes imposed by Soviet censors. The notorious year of 1937 saw the publication of another one of his books, Formuła sapraciŭlieńnia kaściej (A formula for the resistance of bones). Vićbič claims in his autobiographies that he refused to allow the Soviet press to publish his next manuscript, Jak ezdziŭ u Konga pan Pruńie (How Mr Prunier visited the Congo), due to his strong disagreements with the editors.

Next Year in Jerusalem The view of Jerusalem is the history of the world; it is more, it is the history of earth and of heaven. –Benjamin Disraeli

Vićbič’s short novel Lšono Haboo Bijrušałajm (Next Year in Jerusalem) is one of his major prewar literary works. Its Jewish characters are presented as active participants in Biełarusian society, and it is set in a typical Biełarusian shtetl.48 Vićbič thought of Lšono Haboo Bijrušałajm as a novella; however, given its length, its large number of characters, and its complicated story, it is structured more like a short novel. The symbolism of this novel begins with the title, which, on its own, requires separate study. While it is written in Biełarusian, Vićbič intermittently resorts to Yiddish, Polish, Latin, and Russian, reflecting the Biełaruś of that time. This linguistic bouquet, which provides the narration with a unique aura and demonstrates the author’s perfect fluency in the languages and customs of his many neighbours, was harshly criticized by the Soviet literary elite. Most of them, including Izi Charyk, labelled its language archaic, convoluted, and close to the style used by the Naša Niva circle of 1906– 15.49 As Charyk puts it: “It is good that Jurka Vićbič began to illustrate

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life in a Jewish small town. However, Vićbič overwhelmed his narration with chauvinistic and clerical Jewish words, and, as a result, he idealized the synagogue and the Jewish religion.”50 And Charyk was less harsh than other Biełarusian literary figures of that time. Andrej Aleksandrovič, Michaś Klimkovič, Michaś Lyńkoŭ, and Piatruś Broŭka – to name a few – found much tougher words with which to criticize this work, its language, and its author. Later, the literary expert and academician Adam Maldzis joined Vićbič’s detractors: “The works of Vićbič are noted for their excessive complexity, impulsiveness, and arrogant character.”51 But it is telling that Maldzis, like most of his compatriots, did not have access to Vićbič’s works even in the early 1990s and was forced to rely on Soviet sources. Currently, Biełarusian exiles of different waves and generations, as well as new readers in Biełaruś, highly value Vićbič’s style, which strikes them as close to the highest form of modernism: symbolism. Even words like uzvyšša (hill, uphold) and šypšyna (dog rose), which often recur in the novel, carry symbolic weight. Both are names of the literary movements to which Vićbič belonged: first, during his final years in Moscow (Uzvyšša) and, later, during his first years in exile (Šypšyna).52 The writer’s correspondence with the members of Šypšyna and with many of his Jewish compatriots reveals how important to him this novel continued to be. The most notable evidence of this includes the novel’s deep symbolism, its Jewish protagonists, and, especially, its main character, Staś Halkievič.53 The story revolves around Halkievič, an ideal Biełarusian – a deepthinking scholar of his country’s history who is kind, benevolent, tolerant, and just. He belongs to the impoverished Biełarusian gentry and is a true democrat, for whom morality and the human heart count more than faith or national origins. His thoughts often travel to other times, beginning with the glorious days of his motherland, when Biełaruś was known as the Grand Duchy of Lithuania. Vićbič has this character inconspicuously introduce the novel’s time and place by recounting centuries of Biełarusian history and by naming his home town as Hrajronak. But Staś’s noble heart does not protect him from his tragic fate. He was a foundling child and was raised by the Catholic priest who discovered him. He never knew his mother and grew up with the profound belief that his mother was the Virgin Mary, under whose icon he was found. Later in life, he loses his faith, but he continues to respect his benefactor, Father

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Jeranim. Their differences are revealed in many conversations: the priest is adamant about Polish supremacy and dreams about the restoration of the Polish kingdom. Staś reminds his benefactor that Hrajronak is not Poland: “Only Jews live in Hrajronak, and, around it, the villages are populated by Biełarusians; the only Poles are you, Ms. Małgoržata [Father Jeranim’s housekeeper], the organ-players, the consumptive pharmacist, and about thirty members of the szliachta (gentry).”54 The priest retorts with a cliché: “There is no need for more szliachta, for their role is to rule. Biełarusians are almost Poles, who with the help of the Uniates [Eastern Catholic Church] will finally turn into black Poles, the kind of minor Poles who will do hard labour. Jews will still be allowed to keep small businesses and serve as craftsmen.”55 Father Jeranim is introduced to the story after a long line of Jews who are all friendly with Staś and happy to see him again during his university holidays. With most of them he communicates in Yiddish; not, though, with Jankiel Mojžas, an old playmate and the brother of his sweetheart, Bliuma Mojžas. Jankiel, to whom the reader is introduced right after Staś, immediately informs him that he is now a blacksmith. Although he had effortlessly passed all of the high school entrance exams, Jankiel had not been accepted because of the Jewish quota. Meanwhile, Baranbaŭm, a blockhead who happens to be the son of a Jewish second-guild merchant, took Jankiel’s place in the school after his father bribed the school inspector. So Jankiel recounts this story to his friend, and he ends it by declaring his bitter hatred for anyone rich and powerful, making no distinction between the Jew Baranbaŭm and the Christian school director. Jankiel is not the only Jew who confides in Staś about the injustices to which his people are constantly subjected by the authorities. The cart driver who brings Staś home from the train station tells him about the physical abuse that he and his son have experienced. He laments the fate of Biełarusian Jews, yet he has no desire to leave for the Holy Land: “And who is a Jew? Hey, some horses work less compared to certain Jews. And yet, Master Stanisłaŭ, I love this country, and even if I was offered the chance to go to Canaan, I would never do it. I love Viciebsk, Hrajronak, the Dzvina River, and this road. This is my fatherland; and why do some people say I am a stranger here? My great-great-grandfather, Lejba Harelik, also a cart driver, is buried at the Hrajronak cemetery, and everything here is familiar to me from the cradle.”56

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It is hard to understand why the Soviet critics did not view Lšono Haboo Bijrušałajm as an archetypal class-struggle novel with a strong dose of social realism. The first chapter closes with a description of class antagonism. Staś and Jankiel observe the same powerful thunderstorm (a symbol for what to expect in the future). Continuing the symbolism, Vićbič depicts the characters as seeing the storm from different perspectives, literally from different windows: Staś from the mansion of the Catholic priest, and Jankiel from the humble dwelling of his impoverished father, a tailor. There are some flaws in the depiction of these two major characters: Staś and Jankiel are drawn as perfect class adversaries, and sometimes they are too “perfect” to be true. Some minor characters, on the other hand, are drawn with great depth and sympathy. Miejer Mojžas, for example, the father of Bliuma, Jankiel, and Gienia, is a vivid and believable character – hardworking, law-abiding, a loving father, a good neighbour, religious, and respectful without being submissive. Indeed, Miejer could be a twin brother of Tevye the milkman but absent the comic relief provided by Sholem Aleichem’s character.57 Almost all of Lšono Haboo Bijrušałajm’s minor characters are powerfully three-dimensional and show vivid development. Even the district’s clown and entertainer, Chacia Kamar, becomes a brave and committed Red Army soldier. Only those characters who are deeply committed to the Bolsheviks (Jankiel) or to their antagonists (the policeman Skrabka) have stilted, prefabricated personalities. However, when the story focuses on Biełarusian or Hebrew history, it flows naturally and poetically: “They are older than Troy and Carthage and senior to Athens and Rome, these Jewish people who have been chosen by God. For a long time, they wandered the face of the earth until they found themselves in the wilderness at the foothills of Sinai. And from the top of the mountain, through the tempest’s roar, through crushes of thunder and bolts of lightning, Elohim offered the Jews the tablets with His Law. Countless nationalities have been lost, and only Jews wading through floods of blood and tears, torture and catastrophes, have reached modernity. They did not die and will never perish.”58 In the second and third chapters the action intensifies, and the young blacksmith puts the class conflict between Staś and himself into words: “‘Oh, childhood friends, childhood friends,’ Jankiel almost sang with irony, ‘it is true – our friendship was possible only when we were little. And now – you are a nobleman, Master Stanisłaŭ Halkievič, a student of

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the imperial university and the charge of the priest Vajnoŭski; and I am a Jew, a disgusting kike, a tailor’s son, a blacksmith who looks like a beggar. We cannot be friends. At best we will stay as ordinary acquaintances.’”59 The novel’s rising action, tied to the First World War, develops into its first climax. Staś, as a university student, is exempt from the draft, but Jankiel is drafted with several thousand other poor Jews of Hrajronak. The town’s atmosphere soon changes drastically as news begins to arrive of the war’s death count. By the time the February Revolution breaks out, Jankiel has deserted the army and become an ardent Bolshevik. Bliuma falls out of love with Staś, who is now a medical doctor with a practice in a neighbouring town. Though Vićbič does not display much artistry in explaining Bliuma’s change of heart, it is clear that class and cultural differences have separated her from Staś. She notices a trace of happiness on Staś’s face when he receives news that the Polish Army is approaching their town (although he is a member of the Biełarusian gentry by birth, he was raised by and as a Pole). By now, the Polish-Soviet War has broken out and Bliuma has become her brother’s right hand in Hrajronak. The war has brought with it frequent “visits” by gangs of thugs, who treat the local Jews atrociously. Among those gangs, only those of Stanisłaŭ BułakBałachovič and Paŭliuk Nilionak are of Biełarusian origin. The class struggle in the novel is underscored by Nilionak’s ordering his men not to harass the rich Jew Baranbaŭm. When Nilionak’s gang occupies the town, Bliuma is raped and killed. This brings to an end the brief reconciliation between Jankiel and Staś. Many people, mainly Jews, are killed during Nilionak’s raid. Jankiel drafts Staś for the Bolsheviks’ battle against the gang, and Staś takes up arms to avenge Bliuma’s death. He fights well and is almost certain that it is his bullet that kills Nilionak. But among Nilionak’s bandit gang is Staś’s biological father, Kazimir Halkievič. Staś, who has been wounded, faints after realizing that he may have murdered his real father. The next chapter glorifies the Socialist reconstruction of Biełaruś, but it also brings Staś’s suicide. He had left his medical practice immediately after Bliuma’s death and replaced the works of Karl Marx (the gospel of his university years) with the Gospels of the Bible. But even in the Bible he can’t find any explanation for what happened to his people and why they had accepted the Bolsheviks. In the final and shortest chapter of the novel, “Resolution,” Jankiel and his younger sister Gienia, an engineer, go to visit Bliuma’s grave. While

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there, they also remember Staś. Jankiel declares that no one laments their childhood friend. The falsity of this statement is clear from the fact that Bliuma’s siblings, even while standing at her grave, are talking mostly about her beloved. And Miejer, their father, sincerely misses Staś. Staś’s benefactors, the priest and his housekeeper (who raised him), are devastated by their charge’s death. Indeed, for them he was the only son they ever knew. The most sincere lament, however, comes from the author, Vićbič, whose real and alternative biographies share many features with Staś. Both the author and his protagonist read the same books and had Jewish childhood friends, and, throughout the novel, there are other clear parallels between them. For example, Vićbič pointedly provides Staś’s mother’s death certificate, which shows that her death date is the same as his birth date: 15 June 1905. This “coincidence” not only partially reveals the reason Staś was abandoned but also underlines the author’s profound inner connection to his family. Furthermore, both Staś and Vićbič chose Biełarusian national values over those of Russia and Poland. Such parallels lead us to conclude that the author is presenting readers with his own alternative biography. Because of the many cuts this novel suffered at the censors’ hands, its story is sometimes clumsily told. The original version has not been found; however, we know from the writer’s autobiographies that Lšono Haboo Bijrušałajm was rejected a number of times by major Soviet presses.60 Nevertheless, overall, the novel expresses a solid recognition of the right of Biełarusian Jews to call themselves Biełarusians. Furthermore, it expresses a heartfelt nostalgia for the common past of Biełarusians of many faiths as well as the pain of the losses they suffered throughout the century’s wars. Despite the obstacles put in his way by the Soviet system, Vićbič continued to write and was regularly published right up to the beginning of the German-Soviet War. For example, from 1939 to 1941 the journal Litaratura i Mastactva (Literature and art) published excerpts from his novel pertaining to Napoleon’s 1812 invasion. For Vićbič, the pinnacle of success came with an enthusiastic suggestion from leading Biełarusian writers that he rework his historical short stories into an epic novel. This unanimous endorsement came four months prior to the Second World War.

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The Second World War and Emigration Tempora mutantur, nos et mutamur in illis (Time moves on, and we move on with it) –Latin saying

During the Second World War, Vićbič worked for a number of Germansponsored publications. As noted earlier, he dutifully produced some anti-Semitic but primarily anti-Soviet articles during this time. It is important to underscore that these articles were written only in Russian: Biełarusian remained the language of his heart and was what he used for historical and artistic works. These articles were hackwork, and though they definitely indicated a “change of skin,” there are other aspects of his work that strongly suggest that he never embraced the savage bigotry and anti-Semitism alluded to by Podlipskii and Fridman.61 Vitaŭt Tumaš, the founder of the Biełarusian Institute of Arts and Sciences in the United States, completed a large number of concise biographies of his fellow Biełarusian émigrés, members of the political and intellectual elite.62 In these biographies, Tumaš focuses largely on his subjects’ activities during emigration. Even though they were quite amicable in their letters to each other, Tumaš portrays Vićbič in a predominantly negative light, largely in relation to his political activities. According to him, Vićbič was responsible for many schisms and splits among Biełarusian émigrés. Though Tumaš recognizes some literary talent in his compatriot, he asserts that, due to Vićbič’s alcoholism, he didn’t produce much after 1946. This statement is easy to challenge by examining Vićbič’s extensive bibliography, compiled by Aliona and Liavon Jurevič.63 This document proves that, notwithstanding Vićbič’s weakness for alcohol, he “kept on writing through thick and thin” and that he was one of the most prolific and talented writers in emigration.64 To continue this point, according to McMillin: “It would be difficult to imagine the Biełarusian émigré literary scene without the pungent but remarkably objective journalism of Jurka Vićbič, whose major works were all historical. Particularly important was a book, Antybalšavickija paŭstańni i partyzanskaja baraćba na Biełarusi (Anti-communist uprisings and resistance in Biełaruś), published in 1996, an intensely personal account of a little-known Biełarusian history. Although he was mainly

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an immensely prolific journalist and historian, Vićbič also produced numerous examples of literary prose.”65 One of the important features of Antybalšavickija paŭstańni is that it expresses overt sympathy for the Jews of Biełaruś and discusses their inclusion in the Biełarusian body politic – a position that Vićbič had advanced eight years before the German invasion in Lšono Haboo Bijrušałajm. Part of Antybalšavickija paŭstańni was written during the Second World War, the remainder after the author’s emigration. Vićbič claimed that he had started to collect materials for it as early as 1918.66 This work covers Biełarusian life before the revolutions, the First World War, the Russian Civil War, and the Polish-Soviet War, and it focuses mainly on the years from 1918 to 1921. Though written earlier and in a different genre, Lšono Haboo Bijrušałajm covers a longer time frame than does Antybalšavickija paŭstańni: its epilogue covers the 1930s. Both works show Vićbič’s ability to write both personal biography and collective Biełarusian alternative biography equally well and in any genre he might choose. One difference between the two is that Antybalšavickija paŭstańni is more about the fate of Christians, while Lšono Haboo Bijrušałajm is predominantly about Biełarusian Jews. Nevertheless, the two texts are strongly interdependent in their themes, and in both the author shows his deep knowledge of and fondness for all Biełarusian minorities. Antybalšavickija paŭstańni is significant among his writings because it includes several real-life stories about borderland identity and the challenges of the “past,” besides offering some elements of émigré self-invention.67 It also sheds light on the distinct unity of Biełarusians of different faiths and ethnicities and demonstrates that anti-Semitism in Biełaruś was predominantly foreign in character. According to the author, it was brought to the country during the Russian Civil and Polish-Soviet wars by foreign invaders and by soldiers of the White, Red, and Polish armies and Polish and Ukrainian gangs. This point has been elevated to a marker of the Biełarusian past. The fact that the first pogroms in Biełaruś were political in character and were launched mainly by invaders is confirmed by documents collected in Kniga pogromov. Some of those documents point to a generally unacknowledged but noteworthy political alliance between a very few Jews and members of the gangs.68 Antybalšavickija paŭstańni is comprised of complex literary-historical writings, and some of its material was engraved in Vićbič’s excellent emotional memory. This material dates from 1918 (before the author’s time in

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Moscow [1922–32]), continues through the occupation of Biełaruś (1941–44), and ends with his early years as an émigré in Europe and the United States. Vićbič completed his research and writings in 1954. The result is a multifaceted, cross-genre book, remarkable for its diversity. It includes interviews, history, myths, and legends as well as regional, ethnic, cultural, political, and economic lore. In effect, Vićbič created an alternative biography for Biełarusians of different faiths and ethnicities, with a focus on the tragic events of both the First World War and the Polish-Soviet War; the emphasis, though, is on the Bolshevik victory in Biełarus. He challenges the conventional wisdom that the Biełarusians were a docile nation. In the words of Vitaŭt Kipel: “For the first time in Biełarusian literary-historical writing, attention is being focused on the fact that the Soviet regime in Biełaruś was not welcomed.”69 Indeed, in sixteen chapters of different lengths, starting with his native Vialiž, Vićbič vividly describes the terrible events that followed the Bolshevik takeover of Biełaruś.70 Each chapter is written as a short story, an essay, or a study. Although most of these chapters are based on interviews, the narrator’s voice dominates and unites the plot. This narration expresses the author’s own findings, imagination, comments, and analyses. This creative technique makes the work more literary than documentary. One clue to Vićbič’s artistic devices appears in his letter to Anton Adamovič (8 September 1962), in which he reveals that critical writings bore him. Thus, when he is asked to write a piece of criticism, he prefers to replace conventional analysis with a short story, an episode, or even an anecdote that reveals the essential humanism of the subject matter: It goes entirely against my nature to review the artistic works of our writers even though I know them well. Instead, what I really like is to show a living, real person by bringing up his major characteristic in details. And it seems to me that our countrymen will have a better sense of “Uncle” Źmitrok Biadulia when they learn how Biadulia searched in vain for an old Hebrew school in Mahilioŭ; and the reader will truly empathize with Janka Kupała when he learns of the poet’s low opinion of his own Nad rakoj Aresaj;71 and one will reach a deeper understanding of Jakub Kołas when he hears how he would quietly sing, for his own soul, and with violin accompaniment, an old hymn, Martyr Varus.72

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In the preface to Anti-Communist Uprisings, Vićbič offers a concise history of Biełaruś, including the percentages of its ethnic populations. He states that, before the First World War, there were about 15 million Biełarusians, of whom 77 percent were Christians, over 14 percent were Jewish Biełarusians, and 4 percent were Russians; the rest were Poles, Latgalians, Lithuanians, and Tatars. In the 1920s, the numbers changed to 10 million, with the following ethnic and religious distribution: 80.9 percent Biełarusian Christians, 8.2 percent Jews, 7.7 percent Russians, and the rest Poles, Ukrainians, Latgalians, Lithuanians, and Tatars.73 In his preface, the author is especially attentive to Biełarusian Jews: The border of the Jewish Pale of Settlement in the Russian Empire divided this territory, and while the majority of Vialiž’s poor population was Jewish, only a handful of Jewish first-guild merchants with families lived in Pareččy and Biełaje. Besides Biełarusians and Jews, Russians and Latgalians formed their own settlements.74 Thus, there were Old Believers who escaped to the Grand Duchy of Lithuania (Litva) from Russian religious persecution as far back as the seventeenth century, and the latter were Latvian Catholics. And all of them – Biełarusians, Jews, Russians, and Latgalians – were poor. Jews were suffocated in the Pale of Settlement, and a significant number existed in terrifying poverty where a family had only one herring, two onions, and ten potatoes per day. Russian Old Believers were subject to religious harassment from any policeman. Latgalians were fighting to have their own language in schools but never succeeded. It seemed that the Bolsheviks’ slogans about dividing the churches’ and landowners’ lands among the poor, national equality, and freedom of faiths would be welcomed there. In reality, less than a year after the cruiser Aurora’s signal, the Vialiž revolt (against the Bolsheviks) flared up.75 Starting with the Vialiž uprising and continuing throughout the book, Vićbič is careful not to succumb to popular anti-Semitic views about Jewish involvement in the Bolsheviks’ actions. On the contrary, he often emphasizes the strong local support for the rebels among citizens of different ethnicities and faiths. Indeed, in his Vialiž chapter he never discusses a

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single anti-Semitic action during the uprising.76 In the case of Vialiž, he says that the so-called “international” brigade of Bolshevik police that fought against the rebels consisted of Latvians (not the local Latgalians) and Chinese. And though the names of the senior Bolshevik police are often Jewish, Latvian, and Biełarusian, Vićbič holds Biełarusians, Jews, Latvians, Latgalians, Poles, Russians, Ukrainians, and others responsible (in that order and according to their percentage of the population) for the Bolshevik victory in Biełaruś. Vićbič also accuses his otherwise favourite group of anti-Bolshevik fighters, among whom were the White Army and his beloved Biełarusian general Stanisłaŭ Bułak-Bałachovič, of savagely anti-Semitic actions:77 There is dark, or better to say, dirty spots in the history of the White Army, and that is … the Jewish pogroms. At that time all the armed forces, without exception, behaved viciously towards the peaceful Jewish population. It is known that a chekist [Bolshevik security officer], a sailor of the Baltic fleet, who seized the city of Hluchaŭ [Gluchov] of Čarnihaŭ [Chernigov] district after a battle with the Ukrainian Rada [government], murdered one by one not only all the Jews, but “rich” priests and officers; he also ordered the killing of all the local high school students as potential “rich men.” The Polish regular army, during its first and second advances, was also guilty of savage Jewish pogroms in Vilnia, Miensk, Babrujsk, Barysaŭ, Pinsk, and other Biełarusian cities and townships. In a particularly terrible pogrom in Lida, one hundred and fifty Jews were killed. These horrific events (performed by the Reds and Jósef Piłsudski’s solders) do not justify by any means the actions of the White Army. There are no justifications for dumping the blame on the “self-will” of those who later joined Bułak-Bałachovič. It is well known, for example, that when his people took the township of Kapiatkievičy, the pogrom was led by his battalion commander from the St George regiment, Captain Paškievič. While blaming Bułak-Bałachovič, one should also remember Savinkov, who assumed the role of Pontius Pilate at the trial, and said that he had nothing to do with these actions.78 The killing of peaceful, apolitical Jews remains an indelible stain on the history of the White Army.79

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The best-known resistance to the Bolsheviks in Biełaruś was the Słucak uprising of 1920. According to Vićbič, the Bolsheviks organized local “Biełarusians, Jews, Russians, and Tatars” into a military detachment that was supposed to support them. However, four months later, that same detachment was fighting the Bolshevik forces. The rebels were fighting a fully trained regiment of Miensk security officers, which had five times as many troops as the locals.80 The heroic resistance to the Bolsheviks by Biełarusians of all faiths raises a question that is also introduced in Vasil Bykaŭ’s short story “Na čornych liadach” (Blackened woodland clearings) about the Słucak rebels. On the one hand, Bykaŭ’s story is about the Bolsheviks’ callousness towards Biełarusians of all walks of life. Yet, despite the rebels’ apparent differences, they all carry the common pain of this unanswered question: Why do their people support the Bolsheviks, who enslave them, instead of the actual and genuine defenders of Biełaruś? In spite of everything, just before and after the Bolshevik victory, there are only a few Biełarusians among them. Vićbič’s Antybalšavickija paŭstańni wittingly or unwittingly provides the answer. His account clarifies why Biełarusians of all faiths, and Jews in particular, considered the Bolsheviks a lesser evil. At first the Bolsheviks’ language seemed more comprehensive, more inclusive, than that of other political powers. Their brilliant early slogans about equality, decrees that promised “Peace, Bread, and Land,” and assurances of a democratic society rang sweetly in the ears of the oppressed Biełarusians. Vićbič’s favourite member of Uzvyšša, Biadulia, did not at first accept Bolshevism; it was not until after the Polish-Soviet War that he ultimately did so.81 Overall, and despite their apparent differences in genre, both of Vićbič’s major works, Lšono Haboo Bijrušałajm and Antybalšavickija paŭstańni, served as benevolent messages to readers regarding the common cause and struggle for Biełarusians of all faiths during those troubled times. After reading them, one tends to believe Vićbič’s 1971 statement to his correspondent Fryda Barysaŭna: “Let me assure you that I have not a drop of Jewish blood on my hands; I have always felt and continue to relate to the Jewish people with exceptional sympathy; and, like an old warrior, I would love to join the heroic Israeli soldiers at the Suez Canal.”82 Vićbič left a rich legacy in the form of letters, all of them masterfully composed. In fact, his letters read much like short stories. They usually

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focus on a single event (theme), then continue on with a complication, a crisis, and a dénouement, which is often followed by either a reinforced ethical statement or, less commonly, a surprise ending. Many of his letters mention Jews, are addressed to Biełarusian Jewish correspondents, or carry a positive message about Jews.83 The following response to Vacłaŭ Panucevič is a good example of Vićbič’s mastery of the epistolary form.84 You are proposing that I defame L. Prokša on the pages of Biełarus due to his Jewish origin.85 I am not completely sure that he is a Jew; however, and even if in reality he is, I see nothing dishonourable in it for him in particular or harmful for our national affairs. In the past, as you know, Jews joined the Poles in bringing down the Biełarusian third state, which would have brought national rebirth 200-300 years earlier, even during the times of the Mamonič and the Vaščyła.86 However, descendants of these Jews are not responsible for their forefathers. When later on Jews helped “Ivan”87 to bring to us their “October,”88 they themselves suffered from this action the most. In God’s words: For they have sown the wind, and they shall reap the whirlwind.89 After all, I also recall the unforgettable and brilliant “Uncle” Źmitrok Biadulia – Samuil Plaŭnik – I had the honour to be his friend, and we belonged to the same association, Uzvyšša. The point is that Stalin’s politics not only helped Hitler to destroy millions of Jews in Biełaruś,90 but also that today the world’s greatest number of anti-Semites are Bolsheviks: both inside the ussr and in relation to the state of Israel. It happens that today the common front of humanity against communism is located not only on the shores of the Mekong but also the river Nile.91 In short, defamation of anyone due to his Jewish origin would be grist to the Bolshevik mill, and what’s more, we would be sticking a spoke in our own wheel. Such an action would discredit not L. Prokša but Jurka Vićbič, Biełarus, and our Biełarusian political emigration.92 The prose used in this letter sometimes involves creating and repeating legends and myth, and though the reader is captivated by the content, one must be careful when negotiating the many different and contradictory

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“truths” that Vićbič unwraps. This letter is truly Judeophilic, though a vigilant reader might question why this rather indecent proposition was addressed to Vićbič in the first place. The main theme, however – Vićbič’s stand against anti-Semitism – is clear in this letter, and it is constantly reinforced in the writer’s many other correspondences. Slavic literatures of the twentieth century have always maintained the traditions of their past: strong morality as well as didacticism. Most Biełarusian writers have been aware of the role they play for their people as “teachers of life.” But what is one supposed to do during times of trouble when it is impossible to survive by adhereing to proper and familiar principles? After all, heroism, unlike physical survival, is not a genetic impulse. And if Bykaŭ could earnestly say, “My biography is in my books,” Vićbič’s case is different.93 He would more likely say, “My alternative biography is in my books.” McMillin was the first Western scholar of Biełarusian studies to find a rightful place for Jurka Vićbič in Biełarusian literature: “For all the centrality of his position, however, it is notable that Vićbič in emigration always chose his own path, avoiding all kinds of collectivism.”94 He later concluded: “What is certain is that the wide pan-European range of Vićbič’s interests, his genuine learning and clarity of expression give his work, fictional, semi-fictional and nonfictional alike, a strong educative value. By presenting Biełarusian history, ethnicity and identity metaphorically, often exaltedly, he played a major role in the development of not only émigré but also metropolitan Biełarusian prose.”95 In this respect and according to Ehrenburg’s proclamation, Vićbič did not change his heart towards his compatriots. Indeed, “he had but one.”

7 Janka Bryl: My Best Friend Ziama

In all the senses of right and wrong, it is impossible for me even to envisage Hitler’s deputy, by the name of von Kube, in our country … How could he, this principal butcher of captured, destroyed, and completely blood-soaked Biełaruś, live with what he had done? What did he feel during his visits to the ghetto while he was giving candies to little Jewish kids, who through his direct orders were about to be sent to burn in those accursed crematoria? Maybe some of these kids would smile back at him? Oh, sacred innocence … Maybe some other kid also smiled, the one who sat on the lap of yet another murderer, not a principled sort like Kube, just an average slaughterer, there were so many of them … It could be that before throwing another child into the fire of the next burning village, he held a baby for a moment in his lap, in his almost human hands, just one more girl, like that Nataška, Lienačka, or my own, my Aliesia? –Janka Bryl

The Biełarusian writer and academician Janka (Yanka; Ivan Antonavič Bryl; 1917–2006) had a turbulent but productive personal, social, and professional life. At different times he was a teenage partisan, a soldier, a schoolteacher of Biełarusian language and literature, a poet, a journalist, a literary critic, a scholar, and a politician. Above all, Janka Bryl was an excellent popular writer and an intimate and sincere memoirist. His short stories (many of them about the Second World War and the partisan movement in Biełaruś) have been praised for their perfect form, impeccable narration, psychological acuity, and expressive language. He was a highly decorated cultural figure, especially during Soviet times. Even so, he died

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after a long illness without any official acknowledgment from Aliaksandr Lukašenka’s government.1 Though ethnically Biełarusian, Janka Bryl was born in Odessa (Ukrainian: Odesa; Biełarusian: Adesa), which at the time was part of the Russian Empire. His father was a railway labourer. When Janka was five years old, his parents moved back to their native village of Zahora in the Kareličy district of Hrodna (Harodnia, Grodno). Their oldest son, Vałodzia, was left behind with relatives to attend high school as Odessa offered more in terms of education and opportunities. Zahora, Kareličy, and the entire Hrodna district are today part of western Biełaruś, but, between 1921 and 1939, these places were under Polish rule.2 As a consequence, the family lived under different rulers in different states, and the Bryls’ children were educated in different languages. Vałodzia’s language was Russian (with some Ukrainian), while Janka’s first literary language became Polish – Biełarusian and Russian were his second and third languages, respectively. Janka’s father loved Russian literature, and the family often read from one of their most valuable possessions: a thick volume of Pushkin’s selected works. Rather early, Janka was taught the Russian and Biełarusian alphabets by his elder brother Raman, and, fairly soon, he was able to read to his family from Pushkin’s volume. Even so, quite early on Biełarusian became the language that inspired him: impromptu poetry began pouring from him in his native tongue when he was only six. There was yet another language, spoken Yiddish, which he, like everyone else in his country, learned as naturally as spoken Biełarusian. Indeed, Yiddish was the mother tongue of most of his schoolmates, including one of his lifelong friends, Ziama Kasmovič. The Bryls were neither rich nor poor before unification with Soviet Biełaruś in 1939. Unlike many people around them at that time – especially urban dwellers – they did not know hunger. A small plot of land and some livestock kept them warm and considerably well fed. As noted earlier, Janka attended a Polish school for his first seven years of education. In 1931, he passed the entrance exams for the local gymnasium (a high school that offered advanced classics), but the family could not afford the fees. From this point until he entered the Pedagogical Institute in 1945, Bryl educated himself. He was drafted into the Polish Army in 1939; six months later, on 1 September, the Second World War began and he was taken captive by the Germans. In the late fall of 1941, Bryl escaped from a German pow camp and returned home in time to join the partisans,

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along with his entire family. This was in early 1942. Even before then, he had served as messenger for the partisans, but soon he became a full-fledged partisan scout. Simultaneously, he edited two underground newspapers. After the partisans and the Red Army drove the Germans from Biełarusian lands, he served briefly in the army and was badly wounded. In October 1944, after a stay in hospital, Bryl was honourably discharged and returned to Biełaruś. He soon joined the editorial staffs of various Biełarusian newspapers, journals, and publishing houses, and he became a member of the Biełarusian Writers’ Union in 1945. Between 1966 and 1971, he served as executive secretary of the Biełarusian Writers’ Union. He was twice elected as a deputy of the bssr Supreme Soviet (1963–67, 1980–85); he also served as president of the Biełarusian chapter of the Biełaruś-Canada Friendship Society. Bryl joined the Biełarusian office of pen (Poets, Essayists, Novelists) in 1989. In both wartime and peacetime, he received a number of decorations and orders from both the Soviets and the Poles. His early poetry and journalism appeared in 1938 in Vilnia’s Biełarusian journal Šliach moładzi (A path of youth). The writer’s first published collection of fiction, Apaviadańni (Short stories), came out in 1946. After 1949, further collections, mostly short stories and novellas, but also some novels and non-fiction, began appearing in the national and international press. To all of these works we must add many excellent translations (from Russian, Ukrainian, and Polish) into Biełarusian, which also were published every year or two. After perestroika, in 1986, Bryl turned to writing his memoirs – a genre in which he had excelled during the 1970s. As an innovation, these memoirs include anecdotes, vignettes, and tales as well as novellas and short novels. In his memoirs, Bryl demonstrates sincerity as well as a deep knowledge of his times. He also paints many portraits of his Jewish friends and neighbours. In his earlier memoir-type short novels, Nižnija Bajduny (The Lower Bajduny [1974–75]) and Zołak, ubačany zdaliok (Bygone dawn [1978]), a good number of the principal characters are Jews.3 Nižnija Bajduny Nižnija Bajduny is a book of first-person short stories. The title refers to an eponymous village of Christian peasants; the nearby shtetl, Miltačy, is inhabited mainly by Jewish labourers, tradespeople, craftspeople, merchants,

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and their families. Bryl mentions Biełarusian Jews in almost all of these stories. I quote at length from two of them in order to acquaint the reader with the author’s unique writing style (albeit in translation) and love for his neighbours, both of which are reflected in his personality. By getting acquainted with the characters, the reader acquires a clear knowledge of Biełarusian rural life between the wars. The first story I discuss is “Molka,” which is the name of a small mongrel female dog. According to the narrator, Molka is good-for-nothing kind of creature: it is even hard to tell whether she is a dog or a cat. She belongs to a poor peasant, Areś. The narrator and two other peasants, Hramuzda and Zajac, pay a visit to the shtetl’s Jewish cobbler, Hirš-Elija Kumahierčyk. But Hirš is not home, so Janka (the narrator), Zajac, Hramuzda, and Areś patiently wait for the master of the hut to return. Areś, out of politeness, leaves Molka at the small entrance room. All the male adults have two things in common: they were soldiers in the First World War, and, many years later, none of them remembers its horrors. Instead, they remember their military service as the only source of pride in their otherwise bleak, poor lives. The narrator wistfully recounts his encounter at the cobbler’s hut: Once, when Hramuzda and Areś were in our small town, they came to visit Hirš, and there, at his place, Jaŭchim Zajac and I were already waiting for the master of the house. Jaŭchim was quiet, as always, and I, a school-boy of the sixth grade, was too shy to start a conversation. Hirš-Elija Kumahierčyk was a cobbler. His job was to repair old shoes. People would go to the shoemaker Velvel for a new pair, while Hirš only patched and resoled. He combined this job with being a shames [caretaker] at a synagogue, which was called a “school.”4 Short and bustling, Hirš would run around the town square, from one house of his co-religionists to the other, and with a fireman’s voice shout under the windows: “Cajt licht bentshn! In shul arajn!” The first call was addressed to women, and reminded them it was time to light candles and to start a blessing for Sabbath prayer. The second call sounded as if it was an order to men: “Come to school immediately!” Hirš was also a fireman, and not just an average one but the

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commander of the axe brigade.5 That winter when the village Chlupičy was burning and volunteer fire brigades from all the neighbouring villages were rushing there, our principle team, the town brigade, was in so much of a hurry that it either lost or forgot its hottest member – Hirš-Elija. He ran after them on foot, covering nine kilometres so fast that he was on time to join his team, which was about to start its part of the job with axes. Later he got a medal for that. Good-natured and loud Hirš-Elija … My boots back then, during my school years, always wore out first in the middle, where the small bones are located. And the cobbler, turning his head (always in a cloth cap, called a kipa), would hold and turn my boot, very familiar to him, and lament: “Hey Janka, oh, you, Janka! Are the dogs tearing you up, or what?! – I just patched this boot, and now I have to do it again!” And I did not respond, though I was a bit afraid that he at last would ask me, “Well, why did you scream and shpryngen [Yiddish: jumped] around the school?!” Their “school,” an old wooden synagogue, was near our school, and, recently, we noticed that Kumahierčyk had gone somewhere and the “school” was not locked. Our exploration of it, inside out, was so much fun that poor shames, as soon as he reached us, not only screamed so that the whole wide world could have heard him but then ran after us with his broom and also found our school director in the teachers’ room. Screaming, he told everyone how we jumped all over the sacred synagogue’s staircase and benches. Hirš’s elder son was a rabbi’s assistant; he was studying in Mir in order to become a rabbi himself, and people would say about him, “Oh, heta kepele!” [Yiddish-Biełarusian; Oh, this one has a good head on his shoulders!] I saw only once or twice this “kepele,” his scholarly head under his black skull-cap [kipa] and long pejsy. That happened when he was visiting his parents during the holidays. The younger son was not an anonymous person to me; in fact, I knew him well. Hirš’s Berka was studying to become a tailor. He was a good chap, quick and able, always in a joyful mood. I saw Berka more often not in his own home but at Nochim the tailor’s place, where he was studying his trade. I was frequenting that place because of my friend Tepsik, Nochim’s son.

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So, you see, Jaŭchim and I were waiting for Hirš in silence, and, later on, Hramuzda and Areś arrived. The remaining time was passed more vibrantly due to a conversation among the adults. Then, at long last, came the master of the house. Hirš rushed in from the small cubicle of an entrance, and, together with him, inconspicuously, in between his feet, slipped in something that looked like a cat or a dog, it was hard to say. Before anyone could understand that it was Molka, left in the entrance by Areś, who minded his manners, Hramuzda suddenly stood up, jumped on the bench, and wildly screamed: “It’s a mad dog. Save yourself!” Hirš-Elija, former soldier and present-day fireman, was immediately awakened by this scream. He rushed to get a poker and simultaneously ordered his wife in Yiddish: “Ente, Mach dy tyr cu!” (Ente, hide yourself!). Feeble and hunched Ente was standing, as usual, near the back door. She quickly dove into the bedroom and immediately closed the door behind her. Jaŭchim, Areś, and I did not move. “Look, she is drinking from a cast-iron pot,” shouted Hramuzda. “Hit her, Hirš! What are you waiting for?” There were two cast-iron pots near the stove, one containing water, the other cleaned potatoes. Hirš raised his poker and struck a pot, potatoes started to roll all over, and the water was spilled. “There is foam on her muzzle,” yelled Hramuzda, “She is mad, Hirš!” The poker was aimed again at the little bitch, but once more Hirš’s blow fell either too short or too far. He missed her again and again! But here Areś came out of his stupor. He quickly caught Molka and put her under his shirt. With lightning speed, he raced past Hirš, jumped to the entrance, and fled. “Hirš, do not follow him,” roared Hramuzda. “He will do her in himself, it is not the first time for him; he is used to it.” Hramuzda jumped from the bench to the floor. “Well, thank God,” he said while sitting down. “Everything turned out fine. After all, you didn’t even break a pot. Infantryman, brother Hirš, you are worth a whole world! Another in your place would have fainted, but you … Here, look at Zajac – he is still not entirely himself.” Jaŭchim did not utter a word even then. He just shook his head and smiled. Even I did not laugh this time and managed to compose myself. Meanwhile Hirš came to himself, laid down his “arms” near the stove, put on his cobbler’s apron, sat in

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front of his instruments, and shouted towards the back room: “Ente, mach a paradak!” [Ente, everything is in order!] Quietly and obediently, but obviously still a bit afraid, she began to clean up the mess around the stove. “Infantry,” said Hirš-Elija. “And what, Hramuzda, you think you were a real fighter with your horse and your cavalry? You think you Russians could be good soldiers? All you could do was cross yourself, close your eyes, lay down on the ground, and where were you? Farfaln mit dy gance budynkami [You disappeared at once]. And I?” – Suddenly the spirit of an infantryman was reawakened in him: he stood up and ordered: “Ente, gib a haršečnik!” [Ente, give me an oven fork!] Hirš, who did not take off his dirty, oversized apron, was already screaming military orders to himself: “On foot! Horizontal position! Attack! Forward! Hurray!” He reached the threshold and fiercely directed his oven fork into the corner, jumped there, then put it in its place. He came back to his working corner, a bit breathless, and concluded proudly: “That’s how I served!” And here I suddenly and vibrantly imagined how horrified Uncle Areś is running somewhere with his little bitch in his bosom,6 and how he is fearfully glancing back, afraid of a possible chase. And I could not hold it in anymore, and laughed heartily. However, no attention was paid to this laughter: after all, what do you expect from a boy? The uncles started to talk about their cobbler’s business, taking it for granted that I, the boy, could wait … It would be easier to end my recollections right here. But I think I have no right to stop. I want to share with you all that I remember from the life of a small Jewish shtetl. My memories embrace both joyful and not so joyful events, and each and every one of the Jewish people, some who were closer to me and others whom I did not know so well … All of this was suddenly ended by that unprecedented, extraordinarily terrifying tragedy that German occupation brought to our sunny corner of the Biełarusian forest country.7 This poignant short story was written at a time when it was not fashionable in the Soviet Union to write as truthfully and warmly about Jews as did Janka Bryl. Portraying his Jewish character, Hirš-Elija, a former soldier and now a cobbler, with such humanity, light humour, and sincere

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nostalgia was undoubtedly a courageous act on his part. Consider that, in the 1970s, Jewish emigration from the Soviet Union soared, and the Soviet authorities kept a careful eye on those who sympathized with that exodus. Despite the unfavourable political conditions under which it was written, Nižnija Bajduny is saturated with Biełarusian Jewish characters and motifs as well as Yiddish words and terms, even when Jewish Biełarusians do not play leading roles. Thus, in one of the briefer stories, two ethnic Biełarusian tailors from Nižnija Bajduny – Cimoch and Janka’s godfather Rafałak – are working side by side while having a casual conversation. Cimoch jokingly suggests that Rafałak serve as a stud for his neighbour, who is a priest. The priest has beautiful daughters but not a single son, while Rafałak has strong and handsome sons and is longing for daughters. Cimoch tells him: “Maybe he can make you three or four daughters … You should talk to Father Arsieni. You can make him sons, and he will return you a favour with the girls. Talk to him, like only good neighbours could do.” “Daughters,” wistfully, and as if thinking about Cimoch’s words, said the godfather. “Arsieni’s daughters are so white and delicate, as if they are made from matzo.” “Fine,” said Cimoch, “his are like matzo, and yours will be like challah: he is built saintlier but you are kind of stocky” … The godfather’s wife said from above the stove: “Cimoch, we are rather old for daughters. Oh, no, let us bring up the boys with God’s help, that’s enough.” But Cimoch goes straight to the “highest authority.” This time it is not even the New but the Old Testament itself. “And what about Sorka [Biełarusian version of Biblical Sarah] and that Aŭraam [Abraham],” he asked? “She was ninety years old, an old girl. And your master, Rafałak, is not ninety-nine like that Aŭraam was when God circumcised him!”8 This episode, like many others in Bryl’s fiction, tells the reader that Biełarusian Christians were as “fluent” in the Old Testament as Biełarusian Jews were in the New Testament. Their daily lives and folklore were interrelated in the same way as were their working and social relations. Bryl’s writings preserved that vanished way of life. One only wishes that

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a good professional translator would bring more of his writings to English-speaking readers. Bryl’s next memoir-type novel, Zołak, ubačany zdaliok (Bygone dawn), was written in 1978, at the peak of the Jewish emigration from Biełaruś. Unlike Nižnija Bajduny, this memoir does not provide titles for its fifteen short stories; instead, each is presented as a numbered chapter. In the ninth story, the narrator (Janka Bryl), who is called Jurka in this novel, introduces a little boy who does not live in Jurka’s village and, unlike most of his other playmates, is not his relative.9 Ziama Kasmovič, a Jewish lad about Jurka’s age, has come to the village with his grandmother, baba (old woman, grandma) Rocha, from the small shtetl of Miltačy, where he lives with his mother and sister. Like Jurka, Ziama does not have a father – his father was a soldier – who was killed in the First World War. In a preamble to chapter 9, Bryl describes commercial life in his native village. There is no general store, so, instead, the villagers rely on travelling tradespeople. With delicious humour, Bryl remembers every detail of some of these visits. These travelling merchants are the only people who can break the tedium of village life. They seem exotic: they arrive with heavyily loaded carts and trade mostly the same types of goods. Villagers of all ages, however, know how to recognize which trader is coming before they see the cart and driver. For example, Mojška and Liokim, two rag-and-bone merchants, sell soap, needles, and paint in exchange for eggs, milk, old rugs, and animal hides. Money was never part of trading at the time of Jurka’s (Janka’s) childhood. Though their goods are much the same, the manners of these two salesmen differ as much as does their individual appearance. Mojška is young, short, curlyhaired, quick, and shabbily clothed. But he has a very strong, ringing voice that mesmerizes customers. Lokim is a solid older man, good looking, with a white beard, and the villagers call him “Sabaoth” (Hebrew: God of Angels): Our people were teasing him: “Oh, my Liokim! Everyone loves him, you know: married and, especially, unmarried women …” That is how his first wife, the diseased one, boasted about him. Liokim was always very well dressed, especially after he took a new and very young wife. He surprised everyone. People said this

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new beauty was not even from Miltačy or close to our area but from faraway Kliocak. And about his huge, long white beard with yellow highlights that peeked through grey patches … People said that Polish soldiers tortured him badly during the war. They tied his arms and set fire to his beard.10 Here Bryl skilfully injects a mix of a human drama (the death of Liokim’s wife) and various strands of humour that include a simile for Sabaoth (God Almighty). He also speaks of the tragic events of the war years, when this God-like human barely survived his Polish torturers. The boy sums up the accounts of rag-and-bone merchants by saying that his village saw many of these sorts of merchants besides Mojška and Liokim but that these two were the villagers’ favourites. These merchants were wealthy compared to other kinds of traders and travelling vendors, called “miašočnik” and “miašočnica” (sack-man and sack-woman). Literally, “miašočnik” means “speculators” or “profiteers.” However, back then the reality in Biełaruś was that they were living from hand to mouth, like everyone around them. They were the agents of ragand-bone merchants, but, unlike their bosses, miašočnik and miašočnica travelled on foot, working for tiny commissions. The miašočnik and miašočnica carried on their backs heavy sacks full of needles, thread, soap, salt, scissors, and other small goods and home necessities. Many of these vendors wandered through the village, but the narrator talks about just two. First was the miašočnik nicknamed for his social awkwardness as Dzičok (the loner); then there was his opposite, sociable and bubbly, always with some companion, the baba named Rocha (short for Rachel). Baba Rocha was a friend of Hanna, Jurka’s mother, and when visiting the village, she always used their little hut as a shelter and resting place. “Baba Rocha spoke Biełarusian without a trace of a Jewish accent; hers was the delicious, thick and sweet voice of a good-natured village woman.”11 Baba Rocha felt so at home with Hanna that she had never hesitated to ask for food, and forgetting about the kosher diet required by her faith, she would wolf down lard with cabbage, like a good Christian. Once she brought her nephew, Tepsik, whom she considered a lazy blockhead. Still, she felt sorry for the hopeless lad, and she was grateful to Hanna for feeding him the same delicious meal she ate. Soon Baba Rocha brought one more visitor:

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Another time, one Sunday of the same spring but two weeks after her visit with Tepsik, Baba Rocha appeared once more, and again, she did not come alone. Baba brought along a boy, who looked like he was my age. As usual, she started talking as soon as she opened the door: “Hanna, you little sister of mine, hello! As if my nephew was not enough of a burden for you … Well, here is another addition, my grandson. Baby and nanny are inseparable, you know! As soon as he heard that you have a boy of his age, he wanted to come so badly! Ziama, greet the people with ‘Good day!’” The chap nicely and fearlessly said hello to all of us: mama, my elder brother Raman, and me. Then he approached me, gave me his hand and said, “Hey, man!” And I gave him mine and said the same, “Hey, man!” Meanwhile Baba Rocha explained to my mother about Ziama: “This is true: he cannot carry a full sack yet, but it is also not so lonely with him. That idiot, Tepsik, does not want to help: it is ‘beneath him,’ you see. Also he finds my business shameful for such a grand person as himself. And this one is a son of my poor deceased son Chajm. A little orphan like yours he is. His father, you know my dear sister, was killed by a German: let that killer beat his stupid head against a metal angle for the rest of his scummy life!”12 The boys quickly became inseparable. Bryl’s deep emotional memory vividly brings back the distant past, including his and Ziama’s first day together. While the adults go about their business, Jurka and Ziama mind their own. The narrator remembers details such as Baba Rocha’s worries that Ziama, whose mother keeps strict kosher, would report her, and how Hanna, his mother, intuited her worries. Hanna tells her old friend there will be “allowable” food for dinner: goose with haricot beans. Jurka notices that Baba Rocha finds a piece of meat in her stew and puts it on Ziama’s bread. And Jurka is delighted to have met Ziama, who is nothing like the other villagers yet already feels like a brother to him. In fact, he does not want to part with his new friend and hopes to accompany him to the small town. His mother needs him to take care of the cows and at first is not happy with this request, but Baba Rocha persuades her that the boys should develop their friendship. She reminds Hanna that next year they will be going to school together in Miltačy. She then adds a few feathers

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to Ziama’s cap by telling her he is not just a studious boy but an excellent artist who draws and paints wonderful pictures. Raman supports his younger brother, and Hanna, who understands friendship well, allows Jurka to go. Bryl presents the boys’ brief excursion as a magical journey to a glamorous world. The road is beautiful, the day is dazzling, and the boys, who have just met, drink fully from the cup of new friendship. Ziama teaches Jurka his first Yiddish words. He also introduces him to a colourful figure, Šyman, a former soldier and Jewish cowboy. The boy enjoys learning the difference: Jews hire their cowboys, while Christian children do this work as part of their daily chores. Ziama is happy to show off “his” Šyman to Jurka. The cowboy is adept with a whip and can kill a gopher with it; he plays a mouth organ better than anyone else in the world. Ziama also introduces Jurka to their biehiejme (Yiddish: a cow) named Blumiele (little flower). Blumiele recognizes Ziama and accepts Jurka. She is a gentle beast and looks exactly like Jurka’s cow, Padłaska. Baba Rocha soon catches up with the boys and shows them a crowd has gathered in the town, which they can now see from a hill. It turns out that seven huge bears have been brought into town by seven Roma. Jurka, who has never seen either male Roma or bears, is elated. And now another beautiful tale unfolds about the proud and colourful Biełarusian Roma and their favourite animals: horses and bears. The end of the chapter focuses on the boys’ friendship, which grows stronger over the years even though for one year they rarely see each other because they attend different schools. Jurka’s regular fourth year starts in the small town. That year (as the author describes in chapter 10), Ziama and Jurka even share the same school desk. And later: “After the summer holidays, when we saw each other in the fifth grade, something happened in my life for the first time: I kissed a boy. I did it because I was so happy to see him. He was not a family member but just a wonderful, joyous and loyal friend.”13 Ziama is also a significant figure in chapter 11, where the narrator tells about his other friends, who have been left fatherless by the war. It is interesting that all of them, independently of their gender (two of them are girls), become his lifelong best friends. At the end of the chapter, the author confirms once more that Ziama’s is one of the most important friendships in his life.

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Chapter 12 opens with a description of migrating birds returning home to Biełaruś from their winter grounds in eastern and western Africa, the western part of Europe, and other faraway places. Special attention is paid to the stork, the Biełarusian national symbol of home. A second symbol of domesticity that appears in this chapter is the starlings, along with their “houses.” When Bryl visits Ziama in a distant unnamed town, the first thing that draws his attention is a nine-storey starling house in a pear tree that shades a rough-hewn table: Ziama, serene and mature Zalman Chajmavič Kasmovič [Ziama’s full name and patronymic], a respectable teacher of Biełarusian language and literature, took an early retirement due to health problems caused by two life-threatening war wounds. Ziama had grandchildren who were already attending schools, therefore, they could have made this starling-house themselves; however, looking at his hopelessly pale face, I asked him: “Is it your work?” “Oh, it is just a small project,” he smiled in response. It was tranquil, a calm but wistful sunny day, and my entire soul was wrapped in melancholy. We did not see each other for a long time, and God knows when we would meet again … In fact, we, his relatives and friends, had known already what he pretended not to.14 During this meeting – apparently their final one – the two friends’ recollections are not about school or their postgraduate years (after the war, they had graduated from the same faculty in the same pedagogical institute). They wistfully remember another “colourful bird,” the Jewish cowboy Šyman, who had returned home to Miltačy after the First World War. Šyman had come back to his Jewish Biełarusian nest despite the better opportunities available to him in Russia, where he had a steady job as a postal worker right after the war. And Janka Bryl remembers: In my entire life I had never heard anyone playing the mouth organ, that seemingly childish instrument, so masterfully as Šyman did. He played for himself, for those who would respectfully ask him and who were happy while listening. Ziama and I listened, and he played for us two or even three times. These were times when I

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attended the small town’s school, and Ziama often saw me off after classes. Šyman played serenely and with inspiration and always stood while performing, and we were sitting on the grass, and we felt so good at that moment!15 The final chapter tells about German atrocities committed against Biełarusians of all faiths. One of its paragraphs concerns Ziama’s family, whose fate was typical of that of Biełarusian Jews: “During the war Ziama Kasmovič was serving in the ranks of the Red Army. He found out how his family died only when he came back home. His mother was shot. His beautiful sister, Šejna, was first raped, and then shot. They made Baba Rocha, who had started her ninetieth year and did not travel to the villages with her sack anymore, climb a telegraph pole. First they merely laughed out loud, and made fun of the elder who could not climb the slippery wood, but as soon as they got bored with this entertainment, they finished her off.”16 Clearly, there is no need to comment on Janka Bryl’s attitude towards Biełarusian Jews. And evidently his views did not differ much from those of other Biełarusian writers of his generation, who also depicted Jews as equals – indeed, often as the best among equals. Undoubtedly there were as many scoundrels and immoral people among the Biełarusian Jews as there were among Biełarusian Christians and Muslims. But in his homage to the victims of the Holocaust, during which Jews were murdered simply for being Jews, however secular or religious they were, Bryl, like most Biełarusian writers of his time, had only the warmest memories of his Jewish friends and neighbours.

Pišu Jak Žyvu (I write as I live) Everyone writes as one hears, Everyone hears as one breathes, Everyone breathes as one writes With no attempts to please … Nature wants it to be like this, And why so? – We cannot know. And what for? – We cannot guess. –Bulat Okudzava

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Janka Bryl’s last and most psychologically intense collection, Pišu jak žyvu, is also a memoir.17 Its contents encompass a variety of genres – a novella, short stories, essays, and various vignettes and anecdotes. What unites all of these pieces is the role played by fear in the individual and collective lives of Biełarusians. Many Russian and Biełarusian authors have written extensively about fear. For example, fear is a constant element in Vasil Bykaŭ’s fictional works. To quote from my earlier monograph: All of Bykaŭ’s battlefield stories could be united by a common subtitle: “Fear,” as in Anatoly Rybakov’s novel Tridtsat’ piatyi i drugie gody (1935 and other years; The Fear).18 In many of Bykaŭ’s works a protagonist either overcomes fear or fear conquers an individual. Fear plays the role of a sixth sense; smell, taste, touch, hearing, and sight are often placed in subordination to it in Bykaŭ’s prose. The majority of cases of fear in this writer’s literary works are represented by fear of the state and/or the state’s watchdog – the secret police. In his short story “Pałkavodziec” (The commander), Bykaŭ describes the philosophy of fear practised by the Soviet leaders.19 These leaders knew well that “only with an ever-greater terror might one bring pressure to bear upon people stupefied and stunned by fear.”20 From the time of the inception of the secret police, and throughout its existence, this was exactly one of the types of fear employed by the secret service in every corner of the former Soviet Union. In Ściuža,21 however, Bykaŭ was the first writer to recognize and chronicle a reverse sense of fear: the Bolsheviks’ fear of ordinary people in connection with Soviet collectivization. As a consequence of this fear, there was no trust, not between Biełarusian peasants and their communist leaders – indeed, not among the leaders themselves.22 Besides pondering the question of fear, Pišu jak žyvu reveals intimate recollections that differ greatly from those found in the two works discussed earlier, Nižnija Bajduny and Zołak, ubačany zdaliok. Abandoning his nostalgic tone, in Pišu jak žyvu Bryl probes human fate and relationships in times of political stress. His earlier two memoir novels present mainly childhood memories and do not focus on the fears that permeate Pišu jak žyvu. Childhood fears during times of peace are more mystical,

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more imaginative, than are the fears an adult harbours when living in a totalitarian society. Also, the first two memoirs are rarely judgmental, while Pišu jak žyvu is. Here Bryl focuses on the type of fear that led millions of Soviets to inform on their relatives and friends. Quite often, these informers were later tortured until they denounced themselves. Fear of the regime had dehumanized those who lived under it, and this established a particular type: the well-educated informer. Bryl brilliantly portrays this kind of person in his final memoir. In his short novel Forever Flowing, Vasily Grossman describes four types of informers in Stalinist Russia.23 Interestingly, his chapter on those types differs from his other chapters in terms of narrative mode. It is surrealist, and it resorts to Gogol’s typical blend of artistic devices: symbols, grotesqueries, irony, and mockery mingle with tragic and sometimes melodramatic elements. Grossman names all of the informers “Judas” and numbers them “Judas Number One,” “Judas Number Two,” and so on. Of the four, only Judas Number One turns informer because of direct pressure from the secret police. The second Judas denounces people for the thrill of delighting in his own power. The third and fourth Judases help round up others in the hope of saving their own skins. In the end, the narrator proposes that all four types are nothing but “poor folk,” mere victims of the fear the regime has forced them to suffer. Grossman feels sorry for these people even while foisting on them a harsh moral judgment: “But how shamed and how grieved we must remain, face to face with our human indecency, unworthiness, obscenity!”24 Bryl introduces a fifth type of informer – one who is initially a victim of someone else’s fear, and who, against his own moral judgment, implicitly or explicitly supports another informer, a zealous devotee of the state’s secret police. Indeed, one could say that, during Soviet rule, most Soviet informers were of this fifth type. But compared to the blunter judgments of Grossman, Bryl’s judgment of informers is more empathetic. Bryl’s Pišu jak žyvu describes the deeply personal and painful experience of an adult who must come to terms with fear, and with the shame of others who have given in to it. He asks, in effect, a truly honest question: “How would I, Janka Bryl, have behaved differently?” There is no answer. No one actually knows how she or he might behave in such circumstances. However, it is unfortunate that so few people have the courage to ask

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themselves this painful question. Bryl insists that, for the sake of truth, people should consider why people betray one another, and he hopes that, armed with such knowledge, they might avoid betraying others in the future and, thereby, prevent any nation from creating a dictatorial system that breeds informers. Pišu jak žyvu begins with the novella “Muštuk i papka” (A cigaretteholder and a file). Its story centres on the life and death of Bryl’s elder brother, Uładzimir (Vałodzia). As I mention earlier, Vałodzia had been left behind in Odessa to complete his education. The rest of the immediate family returned to Biełaruś, hoping to make ends meet by working their own land. This was the only way to survive that was available to the Bryl family, which had been blessed with many children at a time when hunger was part of urban life. This decision, which seemed a sound one at the time, left the family divided between two states: the Soviet Union (Vałodzia and other relatives and friends) and Poland (the Bryls with six younger children and many relatives and friends). The 1921 Treaty of Riga had left numerous families and other close relations divided, while Poland, the victor, had been awarded significant parts of western Biełaruś and Ukraine.25 The insanely suspicious Soviet secret police saw “Polish spies of imperialism” everywhere, and Vałodzia, among many others, was easy prey for them. “Muštuk i papka” is based on a true story. It opens in 1949, when Janka Bryl, whose star as a young and talented Biełarusian Soviet writer is rising, visits Odessa, the city of his early childhood. It is just after the war, and many of his relatives, former neighbours, and family friends are still living there. Janka does not know precisely what happened to his brother. He knew about the family’s plan when it left Vałodzia in Odessa: he and his siblings, when they were old enough, would be sent to stay with Vałodzia and receive a decent education. Due to Vałodzia’s arrest and consequent death, this plan was never realized. Janka’s other impressions are based on his mother’s recollections of Vałodzia, her darling son, so capable and honest, so spirited and proud. Her words are confirmed by Nadzeja, Vałodzia’s widow, when the writer visits her in 1949. Somehow, before Vałodzia was killed, she managed to arrange a rendezvous with her husband – an unheard-of feat under the circumstances. And during that short meeting on the eve of his execution,

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Vałodzia achieved another impossible thing: he whispered to his wife that he did not sign any documents to incriminate himself or others. This act of courage was unique during those troubled times and dovetailed with the image created by their mother, who would often declare, “My darling boy was so proud!”26 Another meeting in Odessa in 1949, this one with the author’s Uncle Pavel (who turns out to be a controversial figure), makes Bryl launch his own investigation into Vałodzia’s fate. He is spurred to do this when his writer’s eye notices how isolated his Uncle Pavel is from everyone around him, including their immediate family. Also, besides Vałodzia, the family had many other members who were victims of Stalin’s repression, such as Bryl’s Uncle Ihnat, a former priest, who has wanted nothing to do with his brother Pavel since being released from prison. Pavel’s bigotry also raises his nephew’s brow. When asked what happened to Vałodzia, his Uncle Pavel is too quick with a common anti-Semitic comment: “Oh, kikes destroyed him!” This attitude, together with the fact that Pavel has never helped Vałodzia’s impoverished widow and children and has never mentioned Ihnat and other victims of Stalinism, makes Janka Bryl care less about Pavel than about his other relatives. On the heels of the 1949 visit, Vałodzia’s widow and children become favourite relations for Bryl and his immediate family. Meanwhile, Bryl continues his research into Vałodzia’s fate for years after 1949. But only in the early 1980s is he allowed to examine his brother’s file. It turns out that Vałodzia, who had been subjected to horrifying tortures, not only admitted to every single hideous trumped-up charge against him but also denounced innocent people. After four long months of brutal torture, Vałodzia wrote a confession in which he admitted the following nonsense: “He served in Dzianikin’s [Denikin’s] White Army and later, after joining the Red Army, he became a deserter.27 Vałodzia ‘admitted’ to having become a German spy in 1928 and that he had connections with the German Embassy in Kyiv.”28 However, Bryl notices that the signature under his brother’s confession was forged: it obviously belonged to a different hand. This confession was utterly detached from reality: Vałodzia had never been in Dzianikin’s Army, and he wasn’t a spy. His family members had lived in poverty, the same as his neighbours, and there had been nothing to confiscate from their bare apartment; clearly, his only earnings came from his day job. As soon as Janka Bryl gets hold of his brother’s file, he makes some notes from it, including the following:

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Veterinarian A. Kislenka was arrested the same day and with similar charges as Vałodzia, but, later, they added new charges to Kislenka, incriminating him for telling anti-Soviet jokes. He did not sign any confessions, and was released from the prison two months later, but he and Vałodzia had a confrontation over incriminating people who told anti-Soviet jokes. Kislenka: – Bryl confirmed incriminating people over jokes. At the corridor I asked him with indignation, “How could you do it?” And he told me, “If you were beaten and tortured the way I was, you would have told more.” Observing Bryl [Bril: Russian and Ukrainian spelling], I noticed how extremely stressed he was; he was indifferent to his surroundings. Suddenly he hurled at me the following phrase: “If you only knew what I lied about myself! I will not survive, I’m almost blind.” Bryl impressed me as a half-mad person.29 Most people undergoing torture will tell outrageous lies about themselves or others, hoping that their torturers will know that they were doing so out of pain and fear. But the Soviet torturers had no interest in the truth: they knew they were dealing mainly with innocent people; they themselves lived in constant fear that they would survive only if they reached their quota of victims for the state to annihilate. Janka Bryl well understands why and how they broke his elder brother, and why and how they broke his Uncle Pavel, and why they could not break his Uncle Ihnat, the priest. His research also leads him to realize that fear of physical pain can be neither judged nor understood by anyone who has not suffered torture in a Soviet prison. Bryl’s detective work leads him to a sentimental discovery: Vałodzia’s cigarette holder. It had been found on his brother’s corpse and had been preserved in a prison warehouse. Bryl learns about the cigarette holder from his brother’s file, which he was allowed to read fifty years after Vałodzia was shot. The story ends dramatically: many years later, Bryl is able to recover the cigarette holder from the authorities, and it has become for him a symbol of the truth about what happened to his brother and millions of others. Bryl does not love his brother any less now that he has learned the truth. He also understands the fear and moral transformation of his favourite Biełarusian classic writer, Źmitrok Biadulia, who, during the First World War, survived the horrors of the pogroms. Though

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at first Biadulia could not stand the Bolsheviks, by the end of his life he had become their obedient servant. Biadulia’s early death was most likely the result of the obeisance he had had to perform to the Soviet state in order to endure. Pasternak expressed his understanding of the consequences of being forced to give in in this way: “Nowadays there are more cases of small cardiac hemorrhages. They are not always fatal. Some people get over it. It’s the common illness of our time. I think its causes are chiefly moral.”30 Biadulia did not “get over it,” and his heart gave out. Through his research, Bryl comes to understand the power of fear inflicted by physical and moral tortures, and he feels empathy and sadness for those who succumbed to unbearable sufferings. His brother’s cigarette holder becomes a constant reminder to him not to judge harshly those who went through the ordeals he himself had been able to avoid. In his final book, Bryl includes many vignettes that are often based on real-life stories about how various people felt compelled to change sides and, in doing so, abandoned their moral principles. Here is one of them: Some autumn day in 1941 someone warned Jews in the ghetto that the next morning the Germans would liquidate them. Several men escaped; one of them was captured and, under interrogation, he named the person who had warned them: “It was Oswald, the translator of the Chief of Police.” The Chief was surprised to learn that his translator was a Jew; initially he had been told that his translator was half-German and half-Polish. However, he had grown attached to the guy (everything is possible in life) – in fact, he genuinely felt sorry for him – so he told him: “You will disappear, and I will be pretending to search for you.” Oswald went to the north, where Nalibockaja pušča [the forest] is located. At one of the farmsteads he was so warmly received by the owners, who were impoverished nobles, that he didn’t just stay and work for them but converted to his hosts’ Catholic faith. When, some time later, two partisans, both members of the Communist Party, one was a Biełarusian and the other a western Biełarusian Jew from Białystok, came to fetch him, he justified his new-found Christianity by saying that his own people had betrayed him while he felt completely at home with this new-found family and faith. In short, Oswald refused to join the partisans.

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Seventeen years later, after the war, one of my Polish friends, the exact same Jew who visited Oswald at the time, told me how the story continued. A famous Brother Daniel, a preacher and a member of the Catholic Carmelite order, appeared in Warsaw. Around four thousand believers gathered to listen to him in the city’s biggest cathedral, and all of them were crying during his sermon. Once my friend received a phone call from a representative of this “Brother” with a request for a meeting. And how surprised this friend of mine was when he recognized that that monk was Oswald. “Brother Daniel” asked my friend, who was the Communist Party authority at the time, to help him leave for the Catholic monastery located on Mount Carmel in Israel. My cautious friend promised to help, but first he asked for advice from his comrades. They said: “Oh, let him go, we will have one less saint.” True, ten years later my friend left for the “Promised Land” himself. But that is another story.31 One of the most personal and heartfelt stories in Pišu jak žyvu is “The Cognac.” It is dedicated to two of Bryl’s colleagues, the Biełarusian Jewish writers Codzyk (Codyk, Tsodzik) Daŭhapolski (1879–1959) and Hirš Reles (1913–2004).32 “The Cognac” opens with a poignant contemplation of the disappearance of Yiddish in Biełaruś in the 1940s and how this affected Biełarusian Jewish writers, who were thus compelled to write in Russian. Most of these writers, like Reles and Daŭhapolski, spoke basic Biełarusian and Russian but not enough to make them anything but thirdrate writers in those languages, though they were brilliant in Yiddish. According to Bryl, no specific order had been issued for Yiddish writers to switch to Russian. But the Soviets had closed all of the prewar Yiddish publishing houses, journals, and newspapers. Biełarusian had a parallel fate, though some presses were preserved. As a result, former Yiddish writers and poets, when they were lucky even to be mentioned in Soviet literary encyclopaedias, were identified as “Jewish and Russian Soviet writers.” Bryl, an established Biełarusian writer who was far more fluent in Russian than most of his Yiddish colleagues, at first did not understand their dramatic and even tragic circumstances during and after the mid-1940s. This was not something he grasped until later in his own life. Though Bryl was quite fluent in spoken Yiddish, he did not know how to read and write in

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that language. Even so, he was drawn to his Jewish comrades, especially to Relies and Daŭhapolski, for he admired their kindness, good humour, integrity, and perpetual collegiality. One reason for his attachment was pure nostalgia: they reminded him of his childhood and of his young adult friends and their families. With much warmth and humour, he remembered his many encounters with them. Bryl writes about visiting Daŭhapolski when the latter was near death. Daŭhapolski was living his last days in Leningrad with his daughter, a medical doctor, and Bryl was invited to see the elder writer by another Biełarusian, who had moved to that city. Daŭhapolski was bedridden and looked shrunken; he was paralyzed, and his eyes remained shut during the whole visit. When his daughter told him about the visitors, he unexpectedly screamed one word: “Who?” As soon as Bryl and his companion named themselves, he immediately ordered in the same ringing voice: “Cognac!” His daughter lovingly lamented that they didn’t have any, but her father never responded. After the visit, Bryl was thinking again about the fate of Biełarusian Jewish writers in connection with the sovietization of Christian Biełarusians and Jews and their respective languages and cultures. The Biełarusian and Polish word for Jew had been “žyd” for as long as they lived together, but the Soviets assigned it a pejorative meaning, equivalent to “kike,” and banned it; instead, Biełarusians had to use the Russian form of the term: “evrei” (jaŭrej; habrej). We were living together like good neighbours do, we valued each other by reference to human qualities and everyday terms: “dobry žydok” (what a good person this Jew is), “łaskavaja žydovačka” (nice little Jewess), “dahliedžanaje žydzeniatka” (well cared for little Jewish kid). I stood there and thought … how the closest person to me, my darling mother, would think about this … Oh, dear, dear, you are my kind, jolly, tolerant, good, and old žydok. You are cheerful and pleasant till the end, till your last word – cognac! How difficult his life was, how impossible it was for him to write when his native tongue was replaced with a “higher” nationality, “jaŭrej.”33

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Bryl had lofty principles: scruples meant everything to him. Of course, he preferred Biełarusians, whatever their faith or ethnicity, because for him they were his natural milieu. But at the same time, if a Biełarusian – Christian or Jew – turned out to be scum, he would treat that person accordingly. So he was an open enemy of Jakaŭ Hiercovič, a Biełarusian Jew and an influential adviser to the Central Committee of the Biełarusian Communist Party. Hiercovič had served as a journalist during the Second World War and had been highly decorated for his bravery. He was born in a former Jewish agricultural colony, Sialiba. Despite his wartime heroism, for most of his adult life Hiercovič acted as a “true” communist and never questioned the party’s directives. Hiercovič was a talented writer, but he had been infected by fear of the party he served. Bryl accused Hiercovič of being a party lapdog who badmouthed honest and talented Biełarusian writers – those, that is, who dared to have their own opinions.34 Bryl’s memoirs also touched on the dubious actions of Soviet partisans against a peaceful population. On many occasions, for various reasons, they refused Jewish and Christian civilians shelter or did not accept them as partisans.35 There is a short story about a Jewish commander, Čyrlin Edzit Jankielievič, who was so suspicious of spies that he did not allow Volha Minič to join his partisan brigade. Many years later, this woman could not forgive him for it and took him to court. But, writes Bryl, “Čyrlin did not kill her. Instead, he assigned two partisans to accompany her to a safer place.”36 And Bryl adds more in defence of this commander, noting that his brigade was in a difficult situation and that fear of spies was so strong at the time that most people in Volha’s position would have been shot. From Bryl’s point of view, Čyrlin had spared her life. Bryl wrote about Biełarusian Jews in all his works. But, after the Holocaust, when Biełarusian Jews had been reduced to a small group, he became especially sensitive to the fate of his Jewish compatriots. By now, most of his Jewish characters were not just equal to Christians but were the best among equals. In this way he defied the rulers of his Soviet motherland. All three of Bryl’s memoirs are deeply nostalgic and express the concern that if he did not write about Biełarusian Jews, their important role in Biełarusian history might disappear. To illustrate this, I present here a few humorous vignettes from Pišu jak žyvu. The first centres on a

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Biełarusian girl of Christian descent. The narrator is coming home from some distant Biełarusian place that has no regular bus service. The only way to travel to and from it is by hitchhiking. He finds himself in the company of a few mature women, a child, and a young girl. All of them are waiting for a ride, which finally arrives in the form of a farm truck with an open bed. Travelling in an open bed is against the law, but, out of necessity, everyone violates that law. A red-headed young policeman stops the truck. He seems to have been drinking, and most probably is looking for a bribe to buy more alcohol. In any event, almost every passenger feels uneasy about this unexpected stop: It seemed that only one passenger was not upset: the quiet blond girl, whom I thought was a university correspondence student; she was completely engrossed in reading while sitting on her small suitcase. The book seemed to be familiar to me – are those blue hard covers?...37 Well, maybe I would calm down as well if I had those vivid and joyful pages at hand … The policeman got interested in the girl with the book. “Who is she? She doesn’t seem to be upset, like the others; she doesn’t approach him, and doesn’t ask for the favour of continuing her travel; maybe she isn’t in a hurry? Oh, by the way, she is not bad looking, actually, one might say …” He approached her, moved from one foot to another, and asked: “Are you reading?” The girl took her eyes from the book, calmly looked at the policeman and again loweredher huge blue eyes (as it seemed to me from afar, they were clever eyes). “And what are you reading, little citizen?” “This is Sholem-Aleichem,” responded the girl and, looking straight into the chap’s eyes, evenly added: “The great Jewish writer.” The red-headed policeman unexpectedly exploded with idiotic laughter. Suddenly he looked around and stopped: no one supported him! The girl shrugged her sharp shoulders under a multicoloured dress and put her eyes down to the book again. Then the policeman, in order to highlight his authority and to show that he was a rather interesting young man, absolutely seriously, even importantly, concluded: “Well, Jews are not so bad in general, they can write well …” I could not hold it in anymore, and exploded with laughter.38

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The other vignette came to Bryl from his long-time Jewish friend, Ryhor Biarozkin:39 “Ryhor Biarozkin once told a story that, soon after Stalin’s death, he gave a newspaper to his next plank-bed neighbour (also a political prisoner), a priest; it had a picture of the new Central Committee, standing at the Kremlin’s Mausoleum. Stalin’s recent ‘orphans,’ Mołataŭ, Beryja, Malienkoŭ, and others, were standing there. The priest carefully and thoughtfully looked at this crowd, then concluded with a sigh: ‘These faces are lacking any goodness, you know!’”40 In the next two vignettes, the women are Biełarusian Christians, and the men are Biełarusian Jews. The first vignette is about a married couple, the second is about two partisans fighting in the same detachment. The first: “Hobbies could be of different kinds. Professor of philosophy, bold little Jewish man, knows by heart the licence plate numbers of all of his bosses, who – in turn – are well known to his wife, a fat and childless Biełarusian woman who used to be a highly placed Party member before retirement.”41 While the first vignette is a bittersweet story of ordinary conformism, expressed in two sentences, the second is full of warm humour. The following is one of the tales that was not included in the documentary Ja z vohniennaj vioski (Out of the fire, or, literally, “I came from a burnt village”) that Bryl compiled with Alieś Adamovič and Uładzimir Kalieśnik.42 All three writers were teenagers when they joined the partisans. The book consists of many interviews with former partisans and villagers that the three conducted both together and individually. Ja z vohniennaj vioski is deeply personal for all three compilers. It is also clearly expresses the Biełarusian tragedy fomented by the Second World War. A brief excerpt: Habitually women were much better storytellers than men in the book Ja z vohniennaj vioski. There were some exceptions, of course. However, one of them was truly special … Well, it happened in one of Mahilioŭ’s district centres. Two people were sent to meet us at the Communist Party’s district building. One was some kind of a high-positioned party member who, whether or not she was married, was a real pain in the neck. The other was a quiet and rather short [Jewish male], Wolf Lvovič, who was working as a guard at the local bank. He was a partisan from early September 1941, and she joined the partisans much later;

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however, she was trying to give the impression that she was more pious than the Roman pope. Wolf Lvovič was tranquil, and didn’t talk much, but the woman was responding to all the questions eagerly. She, however, repeated the same banality: “Everyone was fighting Germans as real patriots should, I just do not remember their names …” That general answer of hers freed her of all personal responsibilities. But suddenly she added her own five cents … “Here you, the writers are always writing that love was present during the war, and that there were all kinds of infatuations and relationships. But this is not true. There was no love, we just fought! After all, Wolf Lvovič and I were sleeping in the same dugout in the forest, but nothing ever happened!” Vałodzia Kalieśnik, member of the underground and a highly decorated partisan, responded with a smile: “But, dear woman, this is entirely Wolf’s fault!” And Wolf just sat there and smiled in a nice but embarrassed way.43 Clearly, Bryl’s sympathy is with Wolf, whose eloquent silence is truer, more sincere, and more trustworthy than the loquaciousness of the pitiful yet annoying woman. Of course, we do not question her right to happiness, which that terrible war stole from her and from millions of other women. But her insincerity and her high position in the Soviet bureaucracy render her less worthy of our sympathies than the modest Wolf. Another important detail: Wolf had joined the partisans almost at the start of the German invasion and had survived the destruction of the Biełarusian Jews. Consequently, he had a particular attitude towards the invaders. He had been a brave and mature man, and for Bryl – who had joined the movement as a teenager – he was a familiar type. Indeed, Biełarusian partisans of all faiths, though there were some bad apples among them, heroically stood up to the Nazis. And most of them were like Wolf and the Bryl family – ordinary, unassuming Biełarusians. Janka Bryl’s treatment of Jewish characters indicates that he must be counted among the righteous Biełarusians – those who stood tall in their firm opposition to Soviet anti-Semitism and told the truth about the past egalitarian nature of Christian-Jewish relations.

8 Jewish Themes as an Aspect of Uładzimir Karatkievicˇ’s Works: Shall Christ Come out of Galilee? (John 7:41) I was. I am. I shall be Because, as always, as one cursed, I live in a state of fathomless alarm Because my heart is crucified For all the millions of bipeds. –Uładzimir Karatkievič (translated by Arnold McMillin) He was very generous in life and wise in literature, and this way he will remain with us forever. –Vasil Bykaŭ

Uładzimir Karatkievič (1930–84) was only fifty-four years old when he died. Ever since, the Biełarusian nation has mourned him as one of its most talented and innovative twentieth-century artistic figures. Karatkievič’s legacy is rich and broad in both poetry and prose, and he remains a popular writer not only in Biełaruś but far beyond its borders. He had a talented and sensitive soul, and he could not endure injustice. His social and personal gifts were clearly evident in his writings, distinguishing him from many other writers of his generation. Though he was as much a product of the Soviet system as his contemporaries, he was by nature a nonconformist who did not hide his views of the harshness of the only political and socio-economic system he knew. Karatkievič was a solid member of the Soviet Biełarusian intelligentsia, and he embodied the typical romantic characteristics of that segment of Biełarusian and Soviet society. His adherence to socialist romanticism was visible mainly in his historical fiction, in which all Biełarusian ethnicities and faiths, including the Roma, were richly represented. This chapter focuses on Karatkievič’s

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portrayal of Biełarusian Jews. But before I start, I offer a brief biography of him. Uładzimir Karatkievič – poet, novelist, short story writer, essayist, playwright, scriptwriter, artist, and educator – was born in the city of Orša in the Viciebsk district. He was the third and youngest child in an ethnic Biełarusian but Russian-speaking family, among whom the liberal traditions of the intelligentsia had prevailed for generations. His father, Siamion Karatkievič (1887–1959), was an accountant, and his mother, Nadzeja (née Hrynkievič; 1893–1977), taught in both tsarist and Soviet schools; later, after their children were born, she become a housewife and stay-at-home mother. Her oldest son, Valery (1918–41), was killed at the beginning of the Second World War; her daughter, Natalla, was born in 1922. The family was close and loving, and Valery’s untimely death probably made the two surviving children more appreciative of each other despite their age difference.1 Uładzimir (Vałodzia) was a gifted child – he was born with perfect pitch, could draw exceptionally well, and wrote poetry from the age of six. When the war began, Vałodzia was visiting Natalla in Moscow. It was only in 1943, after three years of war privations, that the two remaining Karatkievič children were reunited with their parents in the Russian city of Orenburg. The family returned to its native city as soon as it was liberated in 1944. Uładzimir was accepted in 1949 by Kyiv University, where he studied Russian philology; he graduated with honours in 1954. Karatkievič then worked as a teacher of Russian, first near Kyiv (1954– 56) and later in his native Orša (1956–58). He then continued his education in Moscow, completing the requirements for the highest literary courses in 1960. Two years later he graduated from Moscow’s Institute of Cinematography, Vsesoiusnyī gosudarstvennyī institut kinemаtоgrafii (All-Union State Institute of Cinematography).2 All the while, Karatkievič continued educating himself, and to augment his linguistic and cultural fluency in Russian, Biełarusian, and Ukrainian, he learned Polish and French. Indeed, he may be regarded as one of the best-educated Soviet writers of his generation. Karatkievič returned to his home country in 1963 and lived in Miensk for the rest of his life, practising his writing craft. He excelled in poetry rather early, and, starting in 1951, his verses were at first occasionally and then more regularly published in various periodicals. Professional recog-

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nition, however, came with his prose writing. We can safely assert that, in Biełaruś, Karatkievič enjoys a literary standing rivalled only by the late Vasil Bykaŭ. And, like Bykaŭ, he was a major architect of the Biełarusian Renaissance of the 1980s and beyond.3 Moreover, both Karatkievič and Bykaŭ were Soviet heretics in that both were “guilty” of initiating and signing the “Open Letter to Gorbachev,” along with twenty-six other prominent figures of Biełarusian science and culture.4 This letter expressed their growing concern about the situation regarding Biełarusian language and culture, which had long been suppressed by the imposition of the Russian language. Much like Bykaŭ, Karatkievič took special pride in using Biełarusian as a signifier of his personal, professional, and social identity. This stance was especially important for the country in which, in 1981, 89.9 percent of all printed literature was in Russian. By 1984, this figure had reached an even higher percentage: 95.3 percent. Bykaŭ, Karatkievič, and other Biełarusian writers would have found success and recognition more readily had they written first and only in Russian. For example, Karatkievič’s novel Kałasy pad siarpom tvaim (Spikes under your reaping-hook) was published with a print run of ten thousand in Biełarusian, followed immediately by 180,000 copies in Russian translation. Both editions sold out overnight. By printing their works first in their native Biełarusian, writers introduced Biełarusian readers to their native language and taught them to enjoy and respect its legacy; in effect, they were creating their audience. I am certainly one of many such “converts.” Karatkievič was also highly attuned to the national cultures of others. Because of this, Soviet Ukrainian authorities labelled him as a “Ukrainian nationalist,” even back in the 1950s, and this label was dangerous for a Soviet citizen. Like Bykaŭ, Karatkievič used Biełarusian characters of all the major faiths, including Biełarusian Jews. But unlike Bykaŭ and some other of his colleagues, whose Jewish protagonists were their contemporaries, Karatkievič was primarily a historical writer. Therefore, his Jewish characters both typify their times and exhibit the familiar characteristics of contemporary Jewish Biełarusians. In this respect, Milan Kundera’s thoughts about the tasks of historical writers fit well with Karatkievič’s artistic intentions: “If the writer considers a historical situation a fresh and revealing possibility of the human world, he would describe it as it is.”5 And Karatkievič certainly did: he used Biełarusian history as his principal

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source for revealing the Biełarusian cultural world. His readers and critics, including Adam Maldzis in his monograph about the writer, often comment on these tendencies.6 The best discussion of Karatkievič’s life and works in English may be found in Arnold McMillin’s criticism.7 However, Wolf Rubinčyk is the only critic to have produced a concise overview, in which he pays special attention to the writer’s Biełarusian Jewish protagonists.8 Rubinčyk underscores the writer’s attention to Jews not only in prose but also in poetry: “Jewish characters accompanied Karatkievič’s works almost from the start of his writing career. In his early poem ‘To a Jewish girl’ (1957), the poet not only addresses the girl with poetic compliments but compares the fate of Biełarusian [Christians] with that of Jews.”9 In this poem, it is obvious that Karatkievič is thinking about the Jewish people’s long history in the Biełarusian lands. It amounts to an open polemic against those who would divide people into “us” and “them,” with the racists preferring not to notice that these “strangers” have been living beside them for many centuries.10 The poem opens by romantically addressing an unknown young woman, then begins to speak to the mutual suffering of Christians and Jews in Biełaruś. Like any translation, this one only provides the sense of the poem; I make no claims to being able to convey the music and natural flow of the original. to a jewish girl A blue lilac over the roofs is losing its mind, It is in tune with a running wind. And I remembered with tranquility and solace The deepness of your biblical eyes. There are clouds of smoke in them, And rivers of blood, lament, and battles, The fires of your old motherland, And love for new shores, new land. I look with silent thrills Into the depth of these two bottomless wells And I believe with passionate striving, My people also will survive. (1957?)11

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In the final lines, the poet separates Biełarusian Jews and Christians; but he also unites them where it matters most – in the arena of physical and national survival. In Karatkievič’s poetry, the reader encounters frequent allusions to Jewish and Hebrew (biblical) themes, motives, images, and characteristics. These elements, most of them from the Old Testament, are familiar to educated Biełarusians, both Christian and Jewish, Soviet and post-Soviet. They are evident, for example, in “Potop” (The flood),12 in which images of ancient Hebrews and Biełarusians are transferred to the eighteenth century. Their characters are portrayed predominantly in connection with each other, sometimes in healthy contrast but mostly entirely interlaced. Another illustration of this harmony may be found in the first lines of an untitled poem: “Peace to your home / Where we were happy all.” Indeed, this poem could simply have as its title the Hebrew greeting “Shalom” (Peace to you).13 Even more telling is the poet’s call to Biełarusians of all faiths: “Brothers, link your hands!”14 This longer poem proclaims brotherly love for all, and it also asks rhetorical questions about Biełarusian interfaith relations: “Who said that tears are needed? / Who said that our fates are different? / And just because we have a different type of nose / You have to feel like punching mine?!”15 Karatkievič’s poetry always invites the reader to reflect on love and nature. That is the road upon which his lyrical characters set out in search of beauty, while seeking answers to many enduring philosophical questions, including, of course, questions about truth and the meaning of life. Karatkievič’s themes and concerns continue to deepen in his prose, as conveyed by his protagonists. Through the eyes of his many protagonists, he searches for answers in the broad canvas of the world and Biełarusian history. Some of these characters are based on real historical and/or cultural figures, while others are entirely or partly fictional. In his autobiography, Karatkievič declares that patriotism is his main focus: “I shall work not for myself but for my native land, Biełaruś, which I will serve, if fate allows it, for as many days as I am given – many or few – but till my very last breath.”16 This patriotism is vividly expressed in all of his essays, which are important for more than just their high professionalism: after all, his early training was in literary criticism. All of his essays are deeply moral. They employ mainly Biełarusian and some Ukrainian literary figures of various periods – Frańcyšak Skaryna, Taras Shevchenko, Lesya Ukrainka,17 Janka Kupała, Janka Bryl, and others – to sharply illustrate

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his own incisive worldview. Those cultural icons, who serve as characters in his essays, are what drove Karatkievič to dedicate himself to his people: they moulded him into an oracle. Some of his research, such as that on the Biełarusian Palieśsie (marshlands), is devoted strictly to Biełarusian geopolitical history. Karatkievič wrote two other essays to commemorate the millennia of Viciebsk and Turaŭ, respectively. Besides celebrating these important dates, he passionately insisted on the importance of resurrecting Biełarusian language and culture for those of all three major faiths: Christian, Jewish, and Muslim. He also underscored the importance of multiculturalism for his country’s various ethnicities: Biełarusian, Jewish, Latgalian, Latvian, Lithuanian, Polish, Russian, Tatar, Ukrainian, and others. This is why, in his many historical writings and public works, he promotes unity among all segments of the Biełarusian population. And this unity, for him, had to be based on the primacy of the Biełarusian language. In 1988, after his death, Karatkievič’s efforts led to the founding of the public movement known as Dziady (Grandfathers).18 This movement gathered together thousands of Biełarusians who were passionate about Biełarusian history, literature, and culture. Dziady united Biełarusians from all walks of life, and they, in turn, founded the Biełarusian Popular Front a few months later. McMillin, and before him Adam Maldzis, Anatol Vierabiej,19 and Gimpelevich, have all noted Karatkievič’s strong influence on the renewal of the modern Biełarusian intelligentsia. Again, he was inspired mainly by Biełarusian history. Beginning with his first prose publications in 1961, the writer’s work fits Nabokov’s description of the intelligentsia as showing “the spirit of self-sacrifice, intense participation in political causes or political thought, intense sympathy for the underdog of any nationality, fanatical integrity, tragic inability to compromise, and a true spirit of international responsibility.”20 Indeed, Karatkievič took personal responsibility for everything he said, both in private and in his literary works. Being by choice part of a suppressed linguistic culture (his early home life and education were in Russian), he sought to bring Biełarusian ways to his readers through the tool he valued most – the Biełarusian language. In his works, as in the literary output of earlier members of the Biełarusian, Russian, Jewish, and Polish intelligentsia, language does more than reveal the protagonist’s origins: it demonstrates their attitude towards the people who use it as well as towards the country’s socio-political system.

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As noted earlier, it is sometimes claimed that, unlike Biełarusian writers of the 1920s and 1930s, and some of his contemporaries, Karatkievič never assigned Jewish Biełarusians leading roles in his works. But according to Rubinčyk, Karatkievič was “an intimate friend of Navum Kislik, did not avoid Jews, and planned to write an entire novel about them.”21 Rubinčyk then lists some of Karatkievič’s major works that do embrace them, starting with his first play, “Młyn na sinich virach” (The mill on the blue whirlpools [1959]) and continuing to his final play, published posthumously, “Maci ŭrahanu” (Mother of the hurricane [1985]). There are also the novels Nielha zabyć (It must not be forgotten [1962]), Chrystos pryziamliŭsia ŭ Harodni: Evangiellie ad Iudy (Christ landed in Hrodna: The Gospel of Judas [1966]), and the novella “Liście kaštanaŭ” (Chesnutt leaves [1973]). By the time Karatkievič began to publish his major works, Biełarusian Jews, who, at the time of his birth, had been the largest Biełarusian minority, had become numerically insignificant, and their numbers would further decrease by the end of his life. Jews had started to emigrate from the bssr right after the Second World War and continued to do so (at first in small numbers) after the Soviet Union took the Arab side in the Six Day War of 1967. Emigration peaked five years before Karatkievič’s death in 1979 and again in the early 1980s. Also, as Rubinčyk notes, during Karatkievič’s thirty years of literary activity, the Soviet leadership did not approve any research or scholarly work concerning Soviet Jewry.22 The Soviet authorities did not distinguish between Jewish deaths during the Holocaust and Soviet losses during the war – from their ideological perspective, all of the dead had simply been Soviet citizens. It is sad that this “equality” ended right there, for Jewish quotas existed in many areas, including education, employment, politics and administration, and culturerelated areas in general. Rubinčyk associates a general assumption that Karatkievič seemed to have kept to a strict quota with regard to Jewish characters in his works with the fact that even Michail Hierčyk (himself a Jew) replaced his Jewish protagonist with a Christian Biełarusian so that his novel would be published.23 In 1959, Viktor Nekrasov became the first prominent literary voice in the Soviet Union to defy Soviet lies and distortions regarding the Holocaust.24 On 26 September 1966, at a meeting to discuss the German slaughter of Soviet citizens of various ethnicities at Babi Yar,25 Nekrasov

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responded passionately to the xenophobic Soviet stance on the catastrophe: “Indeed, the Germans and police shot not only Jews at Babi Yar; however, only Jews were shot because of their Jewish origin.”26 Evgenii Yevtushenko shared Nekrasov’s outlook, which he predated in 1961 with his powerful poem “Babi Yar.”27 This poem, in turn, inspired Dmitrii Shostakovich’s Thirteenth (Choral) Symphony, which included its text. These works were followed by Anatol Kuznetsov’s 1966 novel Babi Yar, dedicated to the memory of Jews. Most Soviet shestidesiatniki (1960s intelligentsia) condemned the government for counting Soviet Jews not as specific German targets but merely as Soviet citizens. Among many Biełarusian writers, Vasil Bykaŭ also defied the government in this matter by including Jewish protagonists in most of his military prose.28 Here is what Bykaŭ says in his introduction to Karatkievič’s eight-volume collected works: “Even during his lifetime Karatkievič enjoyed an unshakeable reputation as one of the most talented of literary masters. It was only after his death, however, that the scope of our loss became particularly evident. He was equally talented in almost all literary genres – which may be natural for literature in the past, with its rich and highly developed literary genres, but it is a great rarity in contemporary literature.”29 What Bykaŭ notices here is the multifaceted, Renaissance quality of Karatkievič’s works. Indeed, Karatkievič developed his own Biełarusian (modern) Renaissance. Regrettably, Bykaŭ did not speak of Karatkievič’s interest in Biełarusian people of different ethnicities and faiths. Nevertheless, the aim of this chapter is not just to revisit Karatkievič’s legacy but also to show that Jewish protagonists have a more prominent place in his works than is usually credited. True, much of Karatkievič’s fiction is set in historic Biełaruś – that is, at the time of the Grand Duchy of Litva (Lithuania). Yet the characters’ language, ideas, and social behaviour are vividly modern. This is shown in his narratives, which are distinguished by healthy combinations of archaisms, modernity, and Biełarusian locales. In terms of minorities, Karatkievič introduces Biełarusian Roma characters, who, like Jews, were also outcasts under the tsarist and Soviet regimes. They, too, have largely disappeared from Biełaruś – indeed, as early as the second partition of Reč Paspalitaja, most of the Roma left for the Ottoman Empire. In his novella “Cyhanski karol” (The Gypsy king [1961]), Karatkievič fully and lovingly describes these people as a signifi-

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cant part of the Biełarusian past.30 In what follows I show that he has a similar attitude towards Jewish characters. In most of his historic and contemporary writings, Karatkievič inserts a Jewish presence into at least a line or a paragraph if not more. Sometimes it is a Jewish geographical name, or the location of a “Jewish” school, or an allusion to traditional Jewish occupations, or a reference to Jewish economy or culture.31 On other occasions – for example, in his historical play Maci ŭrahanu (Mother of the hurricane) – Jews play both leading and supporting roles. The setting of Maci ŭrahanu is Kryčaŭ, and the plot is built around the peasant uprising (1743–44) against two heartless bailiffs of Prince Radziviłł, the Jewish brothers Hdal and Šmujł Ickavič. The rebellion is led by Vasil Vaščyła, who, with his followers, fights the villainous brothers. The brothers are captured by Vaščyła, but after they have forgiven the debts of the enslaved peasants, their lives are spared. To balance this picture of Biełarusian Christian “moral supremacy,” Karatkievič immediately shows the wicked acts of the rebels, which include extortion and anti-Jewish pogroms. Vaščyła has two allies, Vaśka and Vasil Viecier, who are also his cousins. Vaśka and others (to the dismay of Vasil Vaščyła) have started a pogrom, and Vaščyła confronts them about it: “While we dealt with merchants, money-lenders and these villain usurers, while we were burning their damned bills, well, your dear cousin, drunk like a skunk and together with a new bailiff, Chryptovič, who is also of our blood, you were burning the poor huts of destitute Jews.”32 There is also the dramatic story of a Jewish smith, Mendl, whose hands were intentionally burned by Vaśka and his gang during the pogrom. Vaščyła asks Vasil Viecier’s company to help the Jews build new huts, and he promises Mendl justice. Vasil, in turn, sends Vaśka to do this work and threatens to kill him if he ever again raises his hand against innocent Jewish people. Keeping in mind Karatkievič’s lack of prejudice against any segment of Biełarusian society, one must trust Rubinčyk when he says that only a premature death prevented the author from writing a novel about Biełarusian Jews. Below, I follow some Jewish protagonists in two of Karatkievič’s works, Chrystos Pryziamliŭsia ŭ Harodni: Evangiellie ad Iudy (Christ landed in Hrodna: The Gospel of Judas) and Liście kaštanaŭ (Chestnut leaves). I hope this deepens the reader’s understanding of Karatkievič’s attitude towards this Biełarusian minority. Indeed, Jewish characters in his

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works are more common than his literary critics think. I start with Chrystos pryziamliŭsia ŭ Harodni (1966), which McMillin rightly considers “one of Karatkievič’s most imaginative and far-ranging novels, a tragi-comic medieval romp that has great resonance for all times.”33

Chrystos Pryziamliu˘sia u˘ Harodni: Evangiellie ad Judy (Christ landed in Hrodna: The Gospel of Judas) Possession of the name of the father can transform a son into a father. Those who have the name of the father no longer seek for the truth but have found it. –The Gospel of Philip

And God he was not then but a human. However, for us, people, particularly those who knew him, he was God. –Uładzimir Karatkievič

In Chrystos pryziamliŭsia ŭ Harodni, Karatkievič claims to present a new gospel about a Biełarusian Christ-figure known as Juraś Bratčyk. The seed of this story is Maciej Strykoŭski’s 1582 Chronicle,34 which briefly mentions the appearance of a false Christ during the reign of Zygmunt I the Elder.35 In the foreword, two apostles of Bratčyk – one of them literate, the other illiterate but with a phenomenal memory – declare that all Biełarusian Christian denominations have proclaimed Juraś Bratčyk to be a false Christ. The two apostles are not writing individual gospels; rather, they are working together on the same one. Their goal is to challenge the lies that have been told about Juraś Bratčyk-Christ. They are also challenging the official silence with which the Christian churches, the wealthy, and the powerful have surrounded their hero. After the prologue, the writer steps forward to take the role of the narrator of the gospel of BratčykChrist. From that point on, the novel reads like a Biełarusian folk version of Christ’s Second Coming. The subtitle of this novel is The Gospel of Judas. Bykaŭ viewed this as “ironic,”36 but somehow it has not generated much curiosity among readers and literary critics. Yet the importance of this subtitle is clear in

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two prominent ways: the first concerns the novel’s gospel-like story (the author is writing first “on behalf” of Judas, then Judas and Thomas, but mainly on behalf of himself); the second concerns the most prominent “apostle,” Juraś Bratčyk, a Jew whose real name is Joshua (Iosija) Ben Ravvuni.37 Later in the novel, Joshua is “baptized” by Biełarusian Christian and papal clerics as “Judas.” This character is the most knowledgable and faithful of Bratčyk’s twelve followers. His thoughtfulness, originality, empathy, heretical attitude towards rulers, and universal compassion for the underdog not only make him a good match for Karatkievič’s “Christ” but also present him as the group’s chief ideologue. In addition, JoshuaJudas’s deep academic knowledge of the Old Testament and fluency in Hebrew, Spanish, Biełarusian, Yiddish, Ladino, Polish, and other languages make him a prime candidate for co-writing the gospel with the illiterate apostle, whose name is Thomas. Indeed, Joshua Ravvuni’s role in the novel matters as much as does that of Juraś Bratčyk, who represents Christian Biełarusians (mainly peasants and poor tradespeople), whereas Ravvuni represents the impoverished Jewish minority. The leading character, Bratčyk, has been “appointed” as Jesus Christ by the same group of clerics who named Joshua as Judas; the other “apostles” are named after those in the New Testament. But if Juraś Bratčyk’s “Christ” and “human” sides have been thoroughly analyzed by major critics, Joshua (Judas) has been almost completely overlooked: even Rubinčyk’s article only mentions him a few times. A curious sidebar to this lack of interest in the novel’s “Judas” – who, according to the subtitle, is one of the narrator’s of Karatkievič’s gospellike novel – is that The Gospel of Judas actually exists.38 It was discovered in 1945 among fifty-two Gnostic texts in Upper Egypt near the town of Nag Hammadi.39 However, the texts, which were written in Coptic, were not made available to scholars until 1972, the Vatican having prevented it. The texts of The Gospel of Judas were translated in the 1970s into the major European languages, though not the Slavic ones. Because of the Soviet cultural blockade of the West, Karatkievič could not have known about the existence of The Gospel of Judas and other Gnostic religious texts at the time he wrote his novel. Furthermore, for about sixteen hundred years, only a few people knew of the existence of these texts, and knowledge of them came mainly from opponents of early Gnostic scripts. In 180 ce, Irenaeus, the orthodox Bishop of Lyons, branded the authors of these early

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Gnostic texts as heretics.40 So the Gnostic writings must have predated those of Irenaeus, whose work couldn’t have been known to Karatkievič. Also, the fact that Irenaeus and other early Catholics declared Gnostic texts to be heretical displays an obvious prejudice. As Pagels notes, the Gnostics saw themselves as having their own insights into Christ’s teachings.41 They resembled, in fact, the Talmudists who interpreted the Torah. Pagels clearly explains the main difference between the Gnostics and their detractors: Orthodox Jews and Christians insist that a chasm separates humanity from its creator: God is wholly other. But some of the Gnostics who wrote these gospels contradict this: self-knowledge is knowledge of God; the self and the divine are identical. Second, the “living Jesus” of these texts speaks of illusion and enlightenment, not of sin and repentance, like the Jesus of the New Testament.42 Instead of coming to save us from sin, he comes as a guide who opens access to spiritual understanding. But when the disciple attains enlightenment, Jesus no longer serves as his spiritual master: the two have become equal – even identical. Third, orthodox Christians believe that Jesus is Lord and Son of God in a unique way: he remains forever distinct from the rest of humanity whom he came to save. Yet the gnostic Gospel of Thomas relates that as soon as Thomas recognizes Him, Jesus says to him that they both received their being from the same source.43 In many ways, then, Gnostic teachings, as mysterious as they are, are more democratic than those of the official Christian religion and its different branches of the time. This democratic quality is also found in the teachings and actions of “Christ” and “Judas” in Chrystos pryziamliŭsia ŭ Harodni. Indeed, the similarities between Karatkievič’s novel and the Gnostic Gospel of Judas are not just surprising but also easy to see. Thus, as in the Gnostics’ writings, Joshua and Juraś proclaim the equality of all living things. Another sentiment similar to that found in the historic Gospel of Judas is also found in the novel: of all the apostles, only Judas is able to understand the true message of Christ because he is not as consumed as are the others by the world of the senses. In other words, the Gnostic understanding that “the soul was one’s inner life while the spirit was divine in origin” permeates Karatkievič’s narration.44 Seen in the light of Gnostic

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philosophy, this and other fragments of the Coptic texts are very similar to Karatkievič’s interpretation of the Judas character. In addition, his novel carries analogous notions of the “Other.” It also explains the starting point of heresy and how it develops into social unrest, revolutions, and wars. Karatkievič’s characters (individually and collectively) act within precisely the same milieu as did their Gnostic predecessors. And not only this: they also open Biełaruś’s borders and show its true cosmopolitan ethnic, social, and political identity as well as its national peculiarities. A few words should be said about the novel’s genre before I begin my analysis of Christ and Judas. This multifaceted novel is by turns a chronicle, a hagiography, a romance, a love story, a memoir, an adventure story, and an existential and Gnostic-like theological treatise. At various points it embraces secularism, doctrinism, and historiography. It mixes philosophy and political theory with slapstick, and tragedy with melodrama. The characters are by turns honest and criminal, hard-working and lazy. Romantic love is entangled with prostitution; religious wars with common sense and, indeed, heresy; and so on. In short, the novel revolves around multiple contrasts, much like a Bakhtinian carnival, with laughter as its main thread: this laughter is, in turn, juxtaposed with tragedy. And the novel has one more important quality: it brings hope. In other words, Karatkievič balances laughter with hope, and he bases both on faith in humanity and divine love. Juraś and Judas carry this hope on a personal level while connecting their burlesque behaviour with individual longing for divine intervention on behalf of all people in need. Judas and Christ For thousands of years, Christians have pictured Judas as the incarnation of evil. Motivated by greed and inspired by Satan, he is the betrayer whom Dante placed in the lowest circle of hell. But The Gospel of Judas shows Judas instead as Jesus’s closest and most trusted confidant – the one to whom Jesus reveals his deepest mysteries and whom he trusts to initiate the passion. Startling as this sounds at first, the perceptive reader will note that the familiar New Testament gospels have long offered hints at this. All the New Testament gospel writers agree that Jesus anticipated, even embraced, his own death. The Gospel of Mark says that right before Jesus led his followers toward Jerusalem,

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where he would suffer and die, he secretly told them that it was necessary for all these things to happen (Mark 8:31). The Gospel of John suggests that Jesus himself was complicit in the betrayal, that moments before Judas went out, Jesus had told Him, “Do what you are going to do” (John 13:27). The Gospel of Judas follows these hints to their logical conclusions. And yet it, too, does not resolve the issue finally but only succeeds in raising again – and more forcefully than ever – the question of why Jesus was betrayed and what his death means.

–Pagels and King Karatkievič’s story addresses many of the same questions as does the historic Gospel of Judas, but it resolves them quite differently. Judas never betrays his Christ; in fact, both characters, in particular Judas, are ready to die for each other. The first three chapters radiate divine hope while describing natural disasters as well as the various horrors and injustices committed by clerics (mainly Roman Catholic) and by wealthy Biełarusian, Lithuanian, and Polish landowners. The novel’s early descriptions verge on the apocalyptic. It seems that the events of these early chapters are about preparing souls, and the Biełarusian soil itself, for the Second Coming of Christ. Many of the characters tell stories about Christ’s Second Coming from their own perspectives as well as from those of their group. Each of these characters plays a significant role in the novel. They include two unscrupulous Jesuits – the Roman bishop Łotr (a secret Jesuit) and his deputy Basiacki, both of whom plan to convert the Biełarusians into Catholics who will serve the Jesuits.45 The main characters – Bratčyk, Joshua, and the rest of the twelve apostles – appear only in chapter 4, though the village fool annouces their coming in the final words of chapter 3: “He is on his way! Christ is coming!”46 And what a motley crowd they are when they first appear! They look what they are: roving actors. And the play they are about to present to their rustic audience is a religious drama about Christ’s crucifixion. Here is the scene as described in McMillin’s translation:47 In front with a false beard and moustache went the only slightly distinguished looking member of this entire company. On his shoulders he was carrying a huge cross. Behind him went another twelve

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men, all in sackcloth, their faces showing anything but holiness. Their faces revealed signs of hunger and cold nights in the rain and of other nights near the fire in an inn with a pot of drink. It was a life which somehow or other was supported by trickery … If the truth be told, this was a real rabble: fond of boozing and gluttony, and of sleeping in barns when the owner was away. They were comedians, tricksters, swindlers, ne’er-do-wells, lovers of their stomachs, mischief-makers, and mockers. On their faces they were wearing looks of fasting, dignity, and piousness – which seemed inappropriate and ridiculous. Behind them rumbled a pitifully battered cart, and before them went a man … with a crown of thorns on his brow.48 Indeed, there is nothing divine in their appearance, nor is there any hint of the supernatural. But the man who trails behind them is immediately identified by his crown of thorns. The actors approach a market square in Hrodna, where they intend to perform scenes from Christ’s life – a typical play put on by the wandering theatrical troupes of the time. They hope to find a better reception than they had in the previous town, where the audience had been offended by the scene of crucifixion and punished the actors for their blasphemy. The people of Hrodna are on the verge of rebellion due to a lack of bread and other essentials. They are overwhelmed by poverty and have nothing left but hope, so their expectations of the Second Coming are high. Yet the new arrivals are met at first with laughter. Bishop Łotr and his deputy Basiacki take the newcomers seriously: they arrest the troupe members as impostors. At first, the arrest, too, provokes laughter from the crowd. Later, though, the people realize that the arrest is to be followed by a show trial, and they change their minds about the newcomers. Hrodna’s commoners are not as simple-minded as the clerics and the wealthy consider them to be; for example, they have not been duped by the staged ecclesiastical trial of mice, who had been accused of consuming all the city’s flour and bread. The inhabitants have started to laugh at anathemas, whether they are addressed to poor mice or to newcomers. Chapter 5 begins by listing all of the different types of anathemas that have been issued by clerics in Rome, Moscow, and Hrodna. And if Rome anathematized Luther and his followers, and if Hrodna anathematized

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mice, Moscow’s usual targets were a group of fourteenth- to sixteenthcentury Biełarusian Christians – the so-called zhydovstvuiushchie (Jewlike ones). These people were devotees of ancient Hebrew mathematics, geometry, astrology, geography, philosophy, philology, and mysticism, and were against Christian ecclesiastic teachings and practices. As Karatkievič wittily puts it, “zhydovstvuiushchie negated monasteries and Church landownership; they said that Christ is Christ without a bishop, but a bishop without Christ is not worth a fart, and what need is there for a bishop, anyway?”49 In fact, this idea that there is no need for priests has survived into the present day in many Christian alliances, including two Canadian groups: the Doukhobors and the Mennonites. It is also the prevailing idea of Chrystos pryziamliŭsia ŭ Harodni, first pronounced by Joshua-Judas but soon adopted by Bratčyk-Christ and his followers. The same is expressed by the people of Hrodna once they realize that priests of both Catholic and Orthodox confessions have united in a decision to murder Bratčyk-Christ and his “apostles.” Meanwhile, Łotr and Basiacki are chairing Hrodna’s “Sanhedrin,” as the author calls the administrative council that presides over the trial. This trial opens with an interrogation of the accused, who relates her or his personal stories to the court. The investigators first confront Bratčyk. Łotr’s response to Bratčyk’s cross-examination is surprising. As in Pontius Pilate’s interrogation of Christ, in particular the version told by Mikhail Bulgakov in The Master and Margarita, Bratčyk seems to hypnotize the cardinal and the Sanhedrin with his sincere and gentle eyes. All of the judges feel uncomfortable after Bratčyk finishes answering questions while telling his life story. The next in line is Joshua. Bratčyk listens to his tale with empathy and concern, feeling “fear, compassion, and offence.”50 Though Joshua opens his story with the statement that he had been exiled from Słonim’s Kahal, he immediately moves to the history of his family’s two-hundred-year exile from Spain after the horrors of the Spanish Inquisition and its forced conversions. He continues his and his family’s arrival in historic Biełaruś, which offered them and other Jews shelter and protection. The examination of Joshua is conducted mainly by Basiacki, who is a secret admirer of the Spanish Inquisition. Basiacki seems to take physical pleasure in his investigation of Joshua, smiling in anticipation of the horrible death awaiting him and his entire troupe, which the investigators have decided in ad-

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vance: burning at the stake. Note that Joshua’s interrogation lasts much longer than does that of the other members of the troupe. Joshua now approaches the part of his story in which he must tell about his troubles with the Kahal. The kernel of his conflict with his co-religionists was his stiff resistance to the greedy and immoral Šmuel, a merchant – and tax collector and bailiff – who sucks the blood from Jews and Christian peasants alike. Though the poor people of Słonim’s Kahal agreed that Šmuel was unscrupulous, they were afraid to openly support Joshua. The economically downtrodden Jews knew how powerful Šmuel was, that he gave money to the Kahal, and they feared damnation and exile.51 Juraś, who sees how tired his friend has become during the interrogation, at times takes over and describes events of Joshua’s life that he has witnessed. For example, he recounts an ugly incident in which Joshua was banished from the community. Juraś says: “I admit, I liked him at once: it is always appealing to me when one can stand courageously against many.”52 When the wealthy men of the community evicted Joshua, Juraś approached him and lifted him from the ground, uttering these compassionate words: “Let’s go, brother.” This moment and others – for example, those times when Joshua and Juraś confide their thoughts in each other – indicate that their relationship is built on complete trust. Joshua’s scholarship, everyday “naivety,” and charitable nature are depicted, along with his gift as a prophet. His refusal to tolerate any injustice is in perfect balance with Juraś’s kindness and empathy towards the working poor. The investigators’ examination of Joshua differs from that of the others not only in length but also in spirit. These features closely reflect the Coptic Gospel of Judas. Indeed, as Pagels and King reveal in their analysis of the historic Judas, the writer of that gospel shows Judas to be a devoted servant of Christ’s teachings and his only true confidante. He is also portrayed as a passionate rebel against the leaders of the Christian Church. Pagels and King consider Judas to be the kindest of the apostles but also, at the same time, an angry man who has rebelled against social conventions and the establishment: The Gospel of Judas, as no other surviving work from earliest Christianity, exposes the agonizing passion and the anger some Christians felt at the horrible, violent deaths of their family and friends – fellow believers who were put to death to entertain the

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Roman crowds and to cower any resistance into submission. But their anger was directed less against the Romans than at their own leaders for encouraging Christians to accept martyrdom as God’s will, as though God desired these tortured bodies for his own glory. We can feel their visceral denial that such a God was worthy of any honor. The Gospel of Judas shows us that the God they worshipped – and the religion they were ready to die for – was different. Jesus taught about the mysteries of the kingdom, about the realm of the luminous God beyond this world of chaos and death, the God who had prepared an eternal home in a great house made of living greenery and light above. As the age of martyrdom closed with the conversion of Constantine, stories glorifying the martyrs came to dominate the history of Christian origins, providing spiritual heroes for the new imperial church. The Gospel of Judas restores to us one voice of dissent, a call for religion to renounce violence as God’s will and purpose for humanity.53 Let us compare once again the above treatment of the historic Judas with Karatkievič’s Joshua-Judas. During the trial, everyone observes that “the fire of ancient prophets is burning in this feeble body … These hands are not able to strike a person but no one could ever extinguish that inner flame of his.”54 After Joshua tells Hrodna’s Sanhedrin his story, “he stood like a living statue of despair and rage.”55 Joshua’s emotions show that he, like Judas in the Pagels and King interpretation, is angriest of all at his own people for their failure to show courage and to defy the immoral deeds of the wealthy in their own communities. Juraś’s support during Joshua’s interrogation is also significant in terms of his adherence to justice and truth. When the investigators ask Joshua in which language he prefers to answer, he says that, although he knows Biełarusian, Yiddish, Judeo-Spanish (Ladino), and Spanish, he can express himself best in Hebrew. This statement evokes another round of mockery from the judges, ending with Basiacki’s question: “Who needs this language, Hebrew?” Juraś replies: “And why do you need Latin? After all, it would be good for you to know the language of the Bible. I am sorry, for instance, that I do not know it.”56 In one of his conclusions about the similarity between himself and Joshua, Juraś states: “I am the same type of outcast as he is. I also lost my tribe. What kind of a world is it where Izgoi [an outcast] is the only worthy

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one?57 I was happy not to be alone [after I met him], and it gave me strength.”58 Juraś’s narration continues with the new friends’ first meeting with two fishermen, Siła Garnec and Liavon Kanaŭka, who join them. While Siła and Liavon are telling their simple tale about the injustices and absurdities of their lives, the story moves to Hrodna. A few of the townspeople are stirring up the locals with strong words favouring Christ and his apostles, who have come to Hrodna to save people but are in danger of being executed by clerics and other rich and powerful citizens. At first, this propaganda touches only a few, but soon, hundreds of inhabitants respond to the appeal, then thousands. Typically for Biełaruś, an innkeeper (of Jewish origin) joins the ranks. Meanwhile the judges continue the trial, this time interrogating a Biełarusian member of the szliachta’s family, Bahdan Roskaš. He claims that his family has been impoverished by the Grand Duke Mindaŭg, who has given their lands to a Samogitian family.59 In fact, Bohdan and his family are having to rent their former lands from that family. When one of its members approached him demanding rent money, Roskaš, who had none, “reminded” him that his own family was significantly nobler than his landlord’s. When the landlord disagreed, his next powerful argument was typical of Karatkievič, relating as it does to the primacy of the Biełarusian language and the fact that Samogitians became Christians only in the fourteenth century: “We conquered your people. Which language do you use, you savage!”60 Roskaš’s next move was to frighten the landlord’s horse into throwing its rider; a second later, Bohdan was standing in front of his tormenter’s dead body. Roskaš then left to go wandering in the forest. The next to testify is Akiła Kijovag, a woodcutter whose seventy-yearold tree “accidently” landed on a tax collector. He is followed by a former tax collector, Danel Kaduševič, who hated his job and eventually resigned from it voluntarily. The examiners are showing less and less patience with each of their prisoners, making it clear to them what Juraś and Joshua have felt from the start: their death sentences are predetermined. And the next prisoners – an actor, Miron Žarnakrut; a former deacon, Jakub Šałfiejčyk; a conjurer, Jan Katok; and a Roma, Michał Ilijaš – have very little time to tell their dramatic life stories. But what they all have in common – lives of hardship and an iron will to live without being enslaved to local magnates and clerics – is enough for the judges to condemn all of them to death. The harshest accusations, which include blasphemy, are levelled at

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Juraś Bratčyk: “This, Bratčyk, is your heretical kindness to foreigners, your doubts in faith … In addition, you, together with the Jew, are guilty of slandering superiors and tax collectors.”61 At the moment when Łotr announces the time of execution, everyone in the castle hears a noise from outside. Karniła, the captain of the guard, bursts into the hall and tells the judges that the people, almost seven hundred of them, are demanding that “Christ and his apostles” be freed. Everyone in the room observes that the judges are frightened. Joshua’s immediate reaction – he calls them a herd of swine – raises Juraś’s spirits. At this point the Jesuit Basiacki makes a decision that is accepted first by Bishop Łotr, then by the others: he proposes that they hand over the prisoners on the condition that they assume the roles of Christ and his apostles for one month. After that, “Christ,” along with Bratčyk, will be required to disappear. This proposal is vehemently opposed by Bratčyk and then by the rest of the group. The judges bring the group to the torture room, where, after Bratčyk’s first round of torture, they “convince” him not to subject his friends to the same treatment. As soon as Bratčyk and his retinue agree to play their game, Łotr sighs: “Oh, well. This is way better. Truth and talent are armaments of the weak.”62 Then Łotr single-handedly “baptizes” the apostles. Bahdan Roskaš becomes “Apostle Thomas”; Liavon Kanaŭka, Peter; Siła Garnec, Jacob; Aŭtuch Garnec, Andrew; Jakub Šalfiejčyk, Jacob junior; Ładyś Garnec, John; Akiła Kijovag, Philip; Danel Kaduševič, Matthew; Miron Žarnakrut, Barthołomew; Jan Katok, Thaddeus; Michał Ilijaš, Simon. The last “appointee” is Joshua Ravvuni – Judas. Soon after, Łotr and the other judges present “Christ” and the “apostles” to the crowd, which now numbers in the thousands. Rejoicing in their victory, the crowd glorifies both parties – the judges and their recent prisoners. They demand miracles and, shrewdly, Christ produces them. First he and his apostles expel all the mice from Hrodna; next, he makes the merchants produce bread, fish, and other produce to feed the people. The next chapters introduce secular and heretical philosophical concepts and their followers to Biełaruś. The instigator of this is Bratčyk. When Łotr promises him Rome’s benevolence in return for his service, Bratčyk says he is not interested in papal Rome but has a burning desire to meet one person who resides there. Neither he nor Łotr ever names this person; however, Bratčyk’s description of the man brings to mind Leonardo da Vinci (1452–1519): “He does not have power. However, he

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knows more than anyone on earth, though he brings to people only a part of his knowledge. They do not understand him. You wouldn’t understand either. He came too early. He is probably very old now. I would love to see him.”63 Łotr, who would do anything to control Bratčyk, sends a messenger to Ałbin Kryštofič and Kašpar Bekieš.64 Both know Leonardo and are intrigued by Bratčyk’s request: “How would he know that this person bequeathed to people the understanding of how to fly, that there was something from God in his ability to paint?”65 The messenger returns to Łotr and Bratčyk with a devastating message from Kryštofič: Leonardo has recently died. Chapter 13 introduces the idea of love; it also discusses Renaissance philosophy, represented by Kryštofič, Bekieš, and, certainly, Bratčyk. In the same chapter, two women enter “Christ’s” life: Magdalena (Łotr’s concubine) and Aneja. Bratčyk “has a choice” between two women, each of striking beauty, and he chooses the innocent Aneja, whom he calls his own Mary. Both Magdalena and Aneja have much in common with their biblical namesakes; however, Karatkievič presents them with yet more irony and Bible-mocking. Magdalena’s role in the novel is twofold: she is, for the most part, the Magdalena described in the New Testament (in which she is at first a great sinner but repents under Christ’s influence), but she also displays elements of the Gnostic Maria Magdalena.66 In both the Gnostic Gospels and Karatkievič story, Maria Magdalena is strong, smart, and self-confident. The New Testament, the Gnostic Gospels, and Karatkievič’s own prose all emphasize the feminine aspect of this disciple. In the Gnostic Gospel of Mary, she is the first apostle; in the New Testament, she is a less significant figure. Scholars still argue over which Mary is portrayed in the Gospel of Mary. Karatkievič’s novel does not raise this question; however, in it she is depicted as the third most important disciple after Judas and Thomas. Aneja, a symbol of innocence and an exemplary Christian, gives herself to Bratčyk only because she is under his Man-God spell. And he, who realizes this, takes her not only to satisfy his physical needs but also because a small part of him believes his own myth. And so he accepts her adoration. For the most part, though, Bratčyk is down-to-earth and commonsensical, and this side of him does not accept Aneja’s gift. More than anything else, he hopes to become her real husband, but only after she comes to realize her mistake in thinking him to be the Son of God. He

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seeks guidance from God and begins to study the Bible. “And he understood only a single thing: the Bible entirely advocates love for one’s neighbour, but only if he is not a heretic, of a different faith, or does not belong to a different tribe. He also knew that everyone garnered this impression from the Book, too.”67 Spiced with much humour, Karatkievič’s heavy verdict on Christianity is supported by letters of loyalty to “Christ” from Pope Leo X; the Grand Duke of Moscow, Vasil III; and his Patriarch. Letters from these powerful political and religious dignitaries are presented in the novel as parodies of everything these rulers represented. Indeed, Karatkievič brings into the story two profoundly incompatible rulers: Pope Leo X (1475–1521), who was a patron of the arts and sciences, and the Grand Duke of Moscow, Vasil III (1479–1533), who was far from an enlightened ruler but was a strong military leader. Clearly, these two figures are injected into the story simply to shame the rulers of the two major Christian faiths, Catholic and Orthodox, for their general love of power and indifference to humanity. Bratčyk thinks about running away from all of this but is stopped by his obligation to his “apostles.” Once again, the utterance of an unexpected thought, a thought that echoes the words of Christ, revives the notion of his being a messiah: “Oh, Lord! Why did you forsake me?!”68 Bratčyk forgets the whole world as soon as he encounters Aneja, his “Mary,” whom he cannot convince of his human origin even after they make love. However, her trust brings him to decide to leave Hrodna and to start a new life with her and the apostles somewhere deep in the Biełarusian forest. Only two apostles understand his call: Thomas and Judas. And only one of them – Judas – immediately promises to follow him. Soon Aneja is kidnapped and taken to a monastery by Łotr’s gang, and Bratčyk goes to find her. Bratčyk is met by a boy, who tells him that his lover was taken away under guard. It is not clear to Bratčyk whether she was taken by force or went willingly. When he returns to his retinue, everyone except Ravvuni rejoices that they are staying in Hrodna, which means a good supper that night with women for company. Roskaš (Thomas), with Bratčyk’s permission, goes out to collect the women for an evening’s orgy. Bratčyk is adamant that he will not have any woman. Devastated, he confides only to Joshua about his loss and seeks his advice. Joshua tells him that, despite their lack of understanding of Aneja’s situation, they must go and find her, and this search must be conducted outside Hrodna. Joshua also assures his

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friend that his life, which Bratčyk saved in Słonim, belongs to him both physically and spiritually. As soon as Roskaš brings a company of beautiful women, the orgy begins; everyone has a woman except Bratčyk. Ravvuni, who has chosen a chestnut-haired beauty, observes with sadness his friend’s loneliness. The nobleman Roskaš (Thomas), like Bratčyk and Ravvuni (Judas), bears no prejudice towards other races or faiths. “When a woman who looked with curiosity at Ravvuni said, ‘And this one does not look like ours … he seems to come from biblical lands. Oh, my God! This is so-o-o interesting!’ – She was immediately reprimanded by Thomas [Roskaš]: There is nothing special about him. – He is exactly the same as us.’”69 In the midst of the orgy, when everyone except Juraś and Ravvuni is drunk, Magdalena appears, and, as usual, her beauty overwhelms the men with humility and admiration. Magdalena has come as Łotr’s agent and is supposed to play a major role in the conspiracy against the Biełarusian Christ. Łotr and his gang’s plan is that she will seduce Bratčyk and report his moves and actions via carrier pigeon. The reader will immediately note that the traditional New Testament role of Judas is now transferred to Magdalena. However, the reader will also be aware that Karatkievič is a multifaceted writer; there is still, therefore, some suspense written into Magdalena’s otherwise predictable behaviour. Magdalena pledges loyalty to Christ and declares her desire to follow him. She quickly attains his full attention by gossiping about Aneja. According to her and various rumours, Aneja willingly married a wealthy and powerful landlord. On hearing this, Juraś faints and then, after waking up, gets blind drunk. The only person who tries to bring his friend back to his senses is Judas, who insists that staying in Hrodna would be deadly for Juraś, his followers, and, especially, the town’s poor people. He tries everything – pleas, requests, begging, and offensive words – all in vain. It seems that his friend will listen only to Magdalena. Judas gives up and turns his friend over to Magdalena: “‘Do not leave him. Give him your warmth,’ Judas implored her.”70 And Magdalena gives Bratčyk hope. When they are alone, she tells him a different story about Aneja: some people say she was taken against her will. She suggests that Bratčyk leave Hrodna and search for his love. At night, resting beside the sleeping Bratčyk, who shows no interest in physical relations, she thinks about him. In fact, she truly likes the man and regrets that she has been ordered to kill him.

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The next day, when Bratčyk and his retinue are about to leave Hrodna, he receives an unexpected gift. He is approached by Kliajonik, Marka Turaŭ, Cichan Vus, and Kiryk Viastun. These are the city dwellers who had launched the rebellion against the clerics and the wealthy that had freed Bratčyk and his friends from torture. Their pledge of brotherhood raises Bratčyk’s spirits. As soon as they part, Bratčyk and his retinue go wandering around Biełaruś. With each settlement they pass, Bratčyk’s hope of finding Aneja weakens. Tired and disappointed, he begins to tell his company that he no longer loves Aneja and is seeking her solely out of vengeance. Judas is the only one who does not believe him – his friend’s eyes tell him otherwise. During their journey, Bratčyk re-enacts the deeds of Christ. His actions, however, are performed in a “laughter-through-tears” manner. For example, he resurrects a drunkard, ironically named Lazar, and brings down the papal industry of selling indulgences. Meanwhile, Judas is also active: when they pass villages stricken by hunger, he gives money to famished children. Soon, as a result of his charity, the troupe has almost exhausted its funds. On their way to Navahradak, they stay at a Jewish inn, where they spend their last money on a rich and delicious supper. After that, they lazily observe the Jewish innkeeper’s work and workplace: A huge fireplace was roaring. Chickens were turning on metal skewers, and sizzling drops of fat were falling into the fire. The innkeeper was standing behind the counter, and he was surrounded by baskets, weights, bottles, barrels, kegs. He poured wine; he measured, weighed, and served food on clay plates; he cut meat from a hanging beef carcass, while skilfully holding it with a clean cloth. It was beautiful to watch him – it seemed that ten people would not have been able to do what he did with such ease.71 Only one person pays no attention to anything around him: Judas, who is completely immersed in writing. When Philip asks his friend what he is writing about, Judas replies: “A gospel about us … Someone has to do it.”72 And though by now, due to many textual hints, including the subtitle, the reader may have guessed the authorship of the gospel, the writer of this document is named here for the first time.

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While the members of the company look for ways to find money before their planned trip to Navahradak, Magdalena, who is slavishly reporting Bratčyk’s moves and moods to Łotr, is preparing a contingency plan for herself. “Just in case,” she seduces a wealthy heir named Ratma and stays with him. She is also happy to encounter Karniła, the military commander from Hrodna and Łotr’s subordinate, and hopes he will take her back to the Cardinal. Karniła is about to arrest Bratčyk: “But suddenly Ravvuni savagely shrieked, and he yelled as if it were the Day of Judgment: ‘Oh, I will get you! Did you lose your mind, scoundrel,’ lamented Judas. ‘You, villain, against whom did you raise your dirty hand!? Do you hear me, idiot!?’”73 Bratčyk immediately identifies himself as Christ, and Thomas at once supports his claim. Karniła counters by demanding a miracle from Christ. And Bratčyk delivers: he notices a few beggars, who are pretending to be blind, and makes a silent agreement with them. In front of Karniła and the surrounding crowd, he uses his “magic” to bring sight to the blind. The crowd, mainly local craftspeople, is convinced, but not Karniła. At this point the inhabitants throw Karniła and his detachment out of Navahradak. Magdalena, observing their pitiful departure, loses hope of abandoning Bratčyk. However, she now faces a challenge from Ratma’s bride, who has brought with her a mob of women who intend to stone Magdalena to death. They succeed in wounding her, but Christ and Thomas save her life. After this, Magdalena stops spying on Bratčyk and his group, who, after getting all of the townspeople drunk and robbing both Catholic and Orthodox churches, leave for Vilnia. Soon the travellers enter a village in which an Inquisition is being conducted. Christ and Judas observe this with mutual and deep compassion. The Sanhedrin is being protected by soldiers, and Bratčyk’s group is too weak to overcome the guard, so they can only watch the procedure with pain and disgust. Meanwhile, Karatkievič discusses the institution of informers – its roots, its actions, and its consequences for people’s psyches. He describes the Inquisition – and all other forms of autocracy – as presuming to know everything about its victims: “The informer knew the person he informed about better than the person knew himself.”74 One informer, a madman who has informed on obviously innocent people, has also slandered himself. He ends up in the same fire that consumes the lives of four other “heretics.” Christ, Judas, and Thomas are

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not as afraid for themselves as they are for the other apostles, and they are overwhelmed with compassion for those who are engulfed in flames. The next village they visit brings them even more troubling questions: it has been burned to the ground by the Inquisitors due to its “inhabitants’ heresy.” Still farther on, they meet a group of Satanists, some militant Crimean Tatars, and many Biełarusians of different origins, all of whom are equally in need of food, clothing, and other necessities. Without realizing it, the troupe reaches the little monastery where Aneja is being held captive. This monastery and its young nuns have been bequeathed by Łotr to a militant brigade of Crimean Tatars as part of the Biełarusian indemnity to invaders. Christ, using the monastery’s bees, single-handedly evicts the gang of Tatars from the monastery. Tired after this “battle,” he and his group immediately fall asleep. Judas is asked to guard them. Christ has a dream in which he experiences a complete and radiant love. This feeling includes not only people but animals: even wolves and deer feel and express love and harmony towards one another in his dream. In fact, this dream seems to be Karatkievič’s version of Dostoevsky’s short story “The Dream of a Ridiculous Man.” The dream embodies a similar, glowing love, and waking from it brings to Juraś Bratčyk the same apocalyptic surprise as it had to Dostoevsky’s character. Meanwhile, crowds of Biełarusian refugees running from the Tatar raids pass along the road. When these hungry and ragged people appeal to Christ, Judas and Thomas support their plea, and Christ decides to defend them. His native cunning, the loyalty of Judas and Thomas, and the faith of the peasants help Christ and his supporters win major battles. The narrator underscores each aspect of the trinity: Christ signifies his people’s heart and soul, Judas their intelligence and ideology, and Thomas the powerful body of the Biełarusian populace. But when the time comes to till the land, most of Christ’s peasant-soldiers ask his permission to go home and answer the earth’s call; others simply leave without asking. As soon as Christ, his apostles, and Magdalena (now a true part of the group) are abandoned by almost all their army, Łotr’s envoy arrives in the form of a detachment of soldiers, headed by Karniła and Basiacki. Christ sends Magdalena to meet them, and she bravely and with honour receives Basiacki’s icy and poisonous comments. While Basiacki and Karniła debate with Christ and Thomas, Judas writes incessantly, but

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he also contributes to the debate by summarizing the others’ commentaries. Basiacki then informs them that, due to church propaganda, people will believe that victory over the Tatars had been achieved due to the church’s military leadership and Christian devotion. “No matter,” Ravvuni says, “there is always the highest truth.”75 When Basiacki asks irritably what he is writing, Judas answers: “I am writing down exactly what has been said here,” Ravvuni [said as he] serenely continued to write. “And also, your weak mind isn’t able to understand us. You see, I am not simply a Jew. Christ is not just a Catholic. Thomas isn’t only an Orthodox …” “Oh, how interesting, and who are you, then?” “We are – people,” answered the little man. “We are people because we are rejected and tortured by your world of lies. And we, being rejected, slandered, and beaten up by you, in truth, and only by truth are the only real people. And there is no different truth on earth – there is no Šmuel’s truth, Łotr’s truth, there is no Jehovah or Christ’s truth … But if there is, and you are truly the carriers of it then …” “Then screw that truth,” Thomas finished for him. “My sentiments exactly,” said Judas.76 Basiacki, tired of these polemics, signals to Karniła, who is immediately neutralized by a group of peasants who, having noticed that their leaders were in danger, have returned. Because of the peasants’ support, Basiacki and his clique have to retreat. The rest of the peasants then leave, and Bratčyk and his apostles leave for Vilnia. Meanwhile, Łotr, Basiacki, and other wealthy and powerful characters decide to conquer the Biełarusians (most of whom are now followers of Christ-Bratčyk) by imposing a famine. They also send an assassin, who almost succeeds in killing Bratčyk, who is only saved by the twenty golden coins he has sewn into his tunic as the group’s emergency fund. He has kept the coins as a secret from Judas, knowing that his friend would have given them away to the poor. Bratčyk confesses this to Juda-Joshua as the latter attends the severe wounds that the assassin has inflicted upon him. Judas’s attitude towards money, once again, brings to mind the Gnostic Gospels. As soon as he is able, Bratčyk once more agrees to lead his people, this time in order to relieve the famine. Before marching with his

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peasant army back to Hrodna, where the rich have hidden food supplies, he tells his followers: “There are plenty of gospels in the world. But there is only one truth for us, people!”77 The next chapter underscores the symbolic link between the Jewish six-pointed Star of David and the ancient Biełarusian coat of arms with its six-pointed cross. It also describes a meeting of various Christian confessions, which Łotr has called in order to determine how to deal with Bratčyk-Christ and his forces. They decide to try to buy Christ’s loyalty with 100,000 gold coins. In the meantime, Magdalena confesses her spying to Bratčyk, whose response shocks her: he had already guessed, and he has also noticed that she has stopped spying. Magdalena declares her sincere loyalty and leaves. During Bratčyk-Christ’s journey back to Hrodna, a number of individuals, mainly peasants and craftspeople, pledge fidelity to him. But all of his apostles, except for Judas and Thomas, are planning their after-Christ future. They complain about being penniless, and they accuse Judas of being far too charitable: whenever they come by money, he habitually gives it to the poor. As Christ, the apostles, and about ten thousand hungry and poorly armed followers (including women, children, and the elderly) approach Hrodna, visitors approach them on horseback – about two hundred of Hrodna’s petite bourgeoisie, headed by Kiryk Viastun. They managed to leave Hrodna just before the city’s gates were closed on Łotr’s order. Viastun greets Christ and all the apostles together, but Thomas, and especially Judas, he greets separately: “Hey, hello, Brother-Judas! How is it going? You’re not planning to betray us yet, are you?”78 Judas, who was the first to identify Viastun’s cavalry as friendly, thereby preventing an attack on them, replies: “Well, I don’t think so. It was tried once, and the result was not too joyful for others.”79 Judas’s rather bitter response tells Viastun that his friend has been offended, and his immediate response is to embrace and kiss him. Karatkievič’s approach here is interesting: Ravvuni and Viastun recognize but do not fully accept the Christian Church’s doctrine about Judas. Viastun’s life and education have been built on the church’s doctrine, and so he has grown up with both figures, Christ and Judas, as a part of his religious and cultural understanding. Nevertheless, he feels that the Jew Ravvuni is his brother and considers most clerics to be his and the people’s enemies. In short, Karatkievič does not intend

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that Ravvuni’s origins and education in Judaism should lead one to identify Christ as any sort of Messiah, or Judas as his betrayer. Though there are many places in this novel where Judas’s humanity is illustrated, it is worth looking at Judas through the eyes of the narrator’s favourite character, Bratčyk, the Biełarusian peasantry’s Christ: And Bratčyk looked at him. This scrawny and wilful man possessed a barely perceptible and premature-for-this-earth quality of utter kindness, which was supposed to be here and present, but its time had not yet come. For this quality he was subjected to death together with a handful of others, including himself, Juraś. Ridiculous, with thousands of shortcomings, weak, incapable of adapting to everyday life, helpless in the face of the powerful, kind to a fault, sometimes I want to shake or even slap him in order to bring him back to reality. And still, he is immeasurably better than most. He [Joshua] was – in what really matters – like those people from his [Juraś’s] dream, and that quality could be identified as his complete inability to be indecent. And this integrity of his always resulted in feelings of helplessness regarding the dishonourable actions of others. Oh, how his pure and trustworthy soul was used by scoundrels and rats! All of them, donkey-like šmuels, łotrs, basiackis, patriarchs, popes, “sigismunds” [rulers], and other crooks! Oh, well … the main thing is to stand up to them. As long as those people from my dream, Ravvuni, Thomas, and others, who are like them, survive – then the time will come when they will be needed most of all. We will not have to deal with the indecency of strangers any more. And we will be in terrible need of such people, who have suffered so much but have never ever disgraced themselves.80 This hymn to the few who have never abandoned their integrity is presented as a tribute to the one who, for Bratčyk, symbolizes this quality: his best friend, his equal, and his confidant, Joshua ben Ravvuni. Any readers who doubt Karatkievič’s involvement in the “Jewish question” in Biełaruś would do well to heed his portrayal of Ravvuni. This excerpt alone is worth volumes, and there are many in his work that contain the same sentiments.

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The remaining hundred pages (around one-fifth of the novel) concern Bratčyk’s victory over the better trained and equipped armies of Łotr and his company. All of the victories of the peasants’ Christ are achieved in open battle. And during every battle, Judas and Thomas are on the front lines, at the head of the action, always strategizing and consulting with Bratčyk. As soon as they capture Hrodna, Aneja unexpectedly turns up, apparently having managed to escape from the monastery. Under Bratčyk’s rule, Hrodna becomes “the Land of Justice” (which is the title of chapter 18).81 But this happy life is threatened in the next chapter, “The Last Supper,” in which a number of intrigues are hatched by Łotr (who leads an assault on Hrodna from outside the city) and Basiacki (who works from inside the city). Basiacki succeeds in winning over Hrodna’s wealthy merchants and ten of the twelve apostles. Basiacki gave each of those ten thirty silver pieces in return for their betraying their leader, and he threatens to torture them to death if they change their minds. Judas and Thomas, who are constantly fortifying the city’s defences, do not suspect the other apostles of duplicity. Christ, together with loyal Judas and Thomas, join the other ten apostles for what turns out to be their “Last Supper.” He asks his ten apostles whether they are still loyal to him, and all ten shamelessly lie to him, pledging their fidelity. Bratčyk tenderly asks Ravvuni, who has not slept for forty-eight hours, to take a nap. He addresses the ten traitors differently, hinting that he suspects their betrayal.82 While Judas is fast asleep, the apostle Mathew re-enters the room and, anticipating that he will make a profit from Judas’s writings, steals his gospel. Judas is the first in the city to awaken, and when he looks for his writings, he immediately grasps the situation. His first thought is to protect Aneja (Bratčyk is by now her husband) from Łotr’s followers. The battle for the city is cruel and bloody, but also short and predictable. Due to Basiacki’s spies, Łotr’s forces are well aware of the city’s situation. Thus, they know that most of Christ’s peasant army has once again left him to work the land. In fact, there are only a handful workers and craftspeople left in the city to courageously resist the overwhelming might of Łotr’s professional soldiers. Aneja and Judas are captured, and Łotr demands that they tell Bratčyk and his supporters to surrender. Judas strongly protests this, replying that he, unlike his captors, does not sell people. Bratčyk and his few supporters are captured later: he surrenders himself when Basiacki promises to free Aneja and Judas. These two are

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given a small boat and, despite their resistance and lamentations, are sent down the river. As soon as Bratčyk gives himself up, faster boats pursue Aneja and Judas. Bratčyk screams Ravvuni’s name three times, as if asking for a miracle. And his friend delivers: he fashions a sling from his belt and uses it to hurl stones at the pursuers – King David’s weapon is the only one he knows how to use. His pursuers, who have only swords and knives, are helpless against him. Christ, who sees this, starts to laugh: “Hey you, pastors, your case is hopeless! Since you managed to make this little lamb bite, this one who has never hurt a fly – let me tell you, you are in deep shit, indeed you are!!!”83 On the other side of the river, Aneja and Judas are met by Kiryk Viastun, Mark Guraj, and Kliajonik. Together they strike off down the road, having held a council to formulate a plan to rescue Christ. Suddenly Judas observes the familiar figure of Matthew on the road. He fights the traitor, takes from him his thirty silver pieces, and notes with irony that, at last, all is according to the New Testament: Matthew has the gospel, and Judas the money. The next chapters describe the cruelty of the victors, the tortured captives, and the preparations for Christ’s trial and execution. The novel’s dénouement begins with the trial, which, despite its travesty, shows Christ’s moral superiority over that of “the most ignoble Sanhedrin.”84 The witness, Maryna Kryviec (Magdalena), proudly calls him the best man she has ever known and pledges her love for him. Magdalena tells Juraś that she had married Ratma, the wealthiest and most powerful person in the land, mainly as revenge against Bratčyk’s captors. In the end, she asks forgiveness for the past and expresses her heartfelt farewell. The rest of the witnesses have been well prepared by the Sanhedrin and give false evidence. Juraś, however, pays little attention to them. Miraculously, the apostle Thomas, though wounded, has survived. Thomas encounters a messenger, who has brought the order to burn Bratčyk at the stake. He gets him drunk and replaces the order of the Inquisition – burning – with “an easier” death: crucifixion.85 A few hundred people, led by Kiryk Viastun, Mark Guraj, and Kliajonik, plot to kidnap their friend from the scaffold. The crowd mocks Christ but then is stopped by his passionate warnings to Łotr, Basiacki, other clerics, and their followers. Meanwhile, Thomas’s arrow flies straight through Basiacki’s heart. Thomas prays ardently for his Christ, and suddenly, so he thinks, his prayers are answered. He hears terrible thunder

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and thinks that lightning has struck the precise centre of the scaffold and somehow, miraculously, taken his friend away. In fact, Bekieš is the only one who sees what really happens: Viastun’s, Guraj’s, and Kliajonik’s detachments carry out the near-impossible – they snatch Bratčyk away right in front of Łotr. Kliajonik’s bride, Faŭstyna, has a farmstead that now serves as a safe haven for all the refugees. Three days later, Thomas and Vus join the party. Those who had thought them dead are elated by the sight of these loyal and courageous friends, who have brought interesting information. Apparently Karniła has for some time been doubting his bosses, Łotr, Kamar, and Basiacki. The trial has convinced him of the moral superiority of Bratčyk and his doctrine that truth and justice apply to all living beings irrespective of their faith, social status, or any other differences. Karniła now challenges Łotr and Kamar to a simultaneous duel. Ratma, who is present, judges this battle of the two well-trained and well-equipped military clerics against Karniła; he is supposed to set them free if Karniła fails. However, Karniła, though wounded, wins the duel, and chooses the fair Ratma as his next superior. Meanwhile, Bratčyk and his team help Kliajonik, Faŭstyna, and Mark settle down on the homestead. They renovate an old hut, build agricultural buildings, salt the meat of wild game, and cut and dry wood for the wood carver, Kliajonik. “Judas went somewhere, talked to someone, and brought two wagons of an excellent, ripe and dry wood Kliajonik could work during the winter to his heart’s content.”86 Christ intends to leave the farmstead, Kliajonik, Faŭstyna, and Mark (the latter having decided to stay with his newly married friends). The rest of the company decide to join Christ and Aneja and move to the forest of Biełaja Vieža. This is the dense forest of Juraś’s childhood, parts of which he intends to clear for fields. He also plans to build a home for himself and his friends. The final task before they leave the farmstead is to help those remaining plant a winter crop. Thomas, the noble farmer, is looking forward to such peasant work. But he adds wistfully that, after the fieldwork, he would really enjoy some alcohol. Juraś replies that, until they dig up their hidden money, there will be no chance of a drink, but he is unexpectedly contradicted by Judas. Judas points out that they do have money, those thirty pieces of silver he took from Matthew, and he offers to spend it on drink. Everyone splits their sides with laughter while listening to Judas’s story. Christ’s comment

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once again defies the New Testament: “This is truly the most unexpected end of the story: to celebrate life together by spending thirty pieces of silver on vodka.”87 The finale of Karatkievič’s Chrystos Pryziamliŭsia ŭ Harodni: Evangiellie ad Judy is heavy with symbolism, showing Christ and the others sowing the seeds of good in their native soil, where Catholics, Orthodox, and Jews have the same desires and needs and strive for a higher truth: “And the sowers climbed a rounded hill, as if they were reaching the top of the world. And ahead of them, towards the sunset, went Christ. His sowing movements were well-balanced. And seed, ready for a new life, fell into the warm, soft soil. A sower was going to sow his land.”88 The story now shifts to a first-person narrator, who declares that, at some future date, he may tell the reader about the contents of Judas’s and Thomas’s gospel of Christ (which they have been writing in their old age) as well as the story of how Christ and Aneja lived after the described events. In conclusion, I emphasize that Judas’s character is one of the most positive in Biełarusian literature with regard to the depiction of Jews. Some Biełarusian authors present Jews as equal to Christians and other parts of the population; Karatkievič, as usual, chooses “his own way.” The writer has excelled in this novel, Christ Landed in Hrodna: The Gospel of Judas, in depicting Ravvuni as the best among equals. Most important, he realizes his plan to introduce a Biełarusian Jew as a major character.

Lis´ cie Kaštanau˘ (Chestnut leaves)89 His novella Liście kaštanaŭ [Chestnut leaves] stands to the side of Karatkievič’s other works. This is one of his most autobiographical texts, written about his postwar years in Kyiv. The characters of teenagers, living in this great city and in the harsh postwar world, are portrayed with ease and complete verisimilitude. These characters have real prototypes, and even the tragic finale is taken from real life, built on factual material. This novella is full of challenging and bitter truths, relations, and circumstances. His favourite romantic motif, though presented within a cloud of drama, is felt perhaps only in the early signs of adolescent first love. –Vasil Bykaŭ

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Another fully drawn Jewish character appears in Karatkievič’s 1973 novella, Liście kaštanaŭ. Arnold McMillin writes that, “like almost all Karatkievič’s prose, Liście kaštanaŭ is very fluently written, and the unmistakably autobiographical narrator convinces by the authenticity of his perception.”90 Since Liście kaštanaŭ has not been sufficiently examined, I provide here both a synopsis and a fuller analysis. In the course of the analysis I highlight some of the self-censorship that the author obviously applied while alluding to a “Jewish street” in this largely urban story. The autobiographical elements, noted earlier by Bykaŭ and McMillin, seem to overpower Karatkievič’s otherwise unlimited intuition and artistic imagination. Once again, the novella’s Jewish character is portrayed as equal to the other characters, which contradicts any notion that Karatkievič cared little about his compatriots of Jewish descent. The novella opens with a poetic description of the sea and cherry orchards. The narrator then confesses to his own rather odd dislikes: You might not believe me but I myself have a strong antipathy to one of the most beautiful phenomena on earth. I dislike chestnut leaves. They are of yellow and gilded colour, with wide outstretched arms, and you can see through them the blue, blue sky of the golden autumn. Leaves rustle when put into heaps; love-stricken teenagers adore this time. Their rapture is so strong that it creates an impression: one should die after seeing it because hearts break from the beauty of its fading … And also, and simultaneously, death might come from unbearable anguish, inevitable memories, late regrets, irreparability, and … from hate.91 This refined prose is continued by the first-person narrator, who tells a story that is both typical and atypical for a person of his time. But before the fifteen-year-old narrator names his Biełarusian origin, the reader learns of two more of his dislikes: he cannot stand thistle bushes, and he would never domesticate a squirrel. These feelings were formed when he saw blood on a bush by a railway, and when his friend’s pet squirrel outlived her owner. Both “dislikes” hint at the teenager’s partisan past. Indeed, as soon as the Germans closed in on his city, his family fled to the forest, where his father joined a reconnaissance patrol and the boy worked as a runner. In early 1944, when Biełaruś was liberated, his father was sent to

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another dangerous locale to continue fighting the Germans. The boy’s uncle, an army colonel who had a few days rest at home after being treated for wounds in a hospital, is returning to the front. Because their home in Biełaruś has been destroyed, this uncle takes his sister and her boy along with him to settle them in Kyiv, which has recently been liberated. There are plenty of empty houses and apartments in Podol, Kyiv’s Jewish quarter. The first restraint the author imposes upon himself occurs when he fails to mention why the district was so empty at that time and why the newcomers could find living quarters so easily: “There was an empty house that was entirely swimming in a thicket of lilac in a huge and spacious yard. It was known that the owners had been killed. And we took it. And we began to live there.”92 Unlike in his historical prose, here Karatkievič does not begin by particularizing the fate of the Jews. He makes not a single reference to the fact that by the time Kyiv was liberated on 3 January 1944, the city’s Jewish life had practically vanished. Admittedly, Karatkievič’s contemporaries didn’t need to be schooled about the war’s painful realities. Vasil Stasievič, the narrator, mentions his name only after he meets his new friends. These teenagers are three Ukrainian boys and a girl: Rałand Dzmitrenka, Bahdan Car (Tsar), Jaŭhen Kulba, and Nonka Junickaja. After he drops a few words about his partisan past, Vasil is well received by them. Nonka, an all-knowing busybody, gains more respect for Vasil by offering the boys some information about his uncle, the army colonel. The teenagers asked Vasil whether he has seen the former Jewish marketplace and offer to accompany him there. The four new friends walk to the Dnieper River, and Nonka, the greatest rascal among them, trails behind, singing popular songs from early twentieth-century Odessa. This brings us to another “Jewish” connection “hidden” by the narrator: he wonders how Charlie Chaplin got hold of Nonka’s melody, and why he used it in his 1931 film City Lights.93 On their way the friends observe how the city, which still looks ghostlike, is starting to show signs of revival. The most visible mark of this is the first tram they see. The four are extremely hungry, and the only food available is burdock with salt, which they gorge on, considering themselves lucky because one of them has some salt, which they share. Food is scarce in the recently liberated city, and ration cards are the only way to get even a few grams of bread a day. And here is another example of the

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author’s self-restraint when it comes to depicting the city’s former Jewish life: he describes a realistically painted advertisement for challah (a ritual Jewish bread), complete with fat bakers, and then moves on. The scene that follows is psychologically complex: the hungry boys, feeling offended, destroy the signboard in a fit of temper because they cannot stand being reminded how hungry they are. On their walk to the river and the market, the boys discuss a plan to run away from home and organize their own partisan detachment behind German lines. All of them are too young for regular service. Among other things, they talk about recruiting more young people into their company and how to get arms. On their way back, the boys encounter some “fascists,” a group of teenagers who “control” their own district, just as Rałand (who seems to be a natural leader), Bahdan, and Jaŭhen do theirs. These “fascists,” who outnumber Rałand’s gang twice over, hold a mock execution of a starving girl named Lisa (a partisan). In this inconspicuous way, by describing the children of Kyiv, Karatkievič alludes to how the Ukrainians collaborated more with the Germans than did the Biełarusians. Vasil, who saw a number of real killings while serving as a messenger for the partisans, immediately has flashbacks, the following one being especially vivid: “And here is the wooden barracks of Jewish road labourers. Someone had conducted an ambush about five kilometres from here. And to vent their anger on Jews, German motorbikes stopped in front of the barracks; their machine guns shot incessantly, and people fell and fell.”94 This sentence includes a detail that is typical of what we find in Biełarusian writers’ depictions of the war: most Biełarusian writers of all generations use the word “people” rather than “Jews,” as if to emphasize their common humanity. Karatkievič uses the same word for his Biełarusian protagonist; furthermore, it is no accident that it is Vasil and not Rałand, the natural leader, who cannot stand the “fascist” insult and initiates Lisa’s “liberation.” The battle is won despite the uneven forces. However, the victory is sealed with the unexpected help of a blond boy, who seems to both belong and not to belong to the fascists: though he had been sitting near them, he had taken no part in the “action.” The blond boy turns out to be a strong fighter, who neutralizes Hnat, the “fascist leader,” as well as several other teenagers from Hnat’s company. Lisa tells her “saviours” that Karl, who happens to be an ethnic German, is an orphan who has been adopted by an old veteran, a disabled soldier named Taras. She adds that Karl always

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helps younger children in this neighbourhood, which is controlled by Hnat’s gang. After this street fight, Rałand offers a hand to Karl, and he becomes the fifth male member of the “international team.” The sixth, Navum Finees, is a friend of Žeńka (Jaŭhen). He is accepted by the group because of his bitter and vocal hatred of the Nazis. Here is how Navum is perceived by Vasil: “Tall, skinny due to many years of hunger – and if one is undernourished for a few years, it is impossible to get back to normal weight even with good food. In short, one could see his veins. There was nothing in his face that would indicate specific Jewish characteristics: straight nose, ears of an average size and form, lips – beautiful and thin hair – dark chestnut eyes – light brown. His looks were probably helpful in surviving the war.”95 Navum, after some deliberation, is accepted into the group with a somewhat ambiguous statement: “‘Let it be five nations in our group!’”96 This number “five” carries more meaning than might at first seem to be the case. First, there are six males (three Ukrainians, one Biełarusian, one German, and one Jew) as well as two Ukrainian females in this group – in other words, there are four and not five nationalities in total. The number five here carries slightly pejorative undertones regarding Navum’s origin. For many decades under the Soviet system, from the 1930s to the 1980s, there was a line item in Soviet passports, metaphorically referred to as the “passport’s fifth line” and indicating the ethnicity of the document’s owner. This fifth line was painful for Jews as it related to restrictions on their ability to get a higher education or to find a better job. There was a sad joke relating to this situation: a Jew would respond to the question about his/her nationality with this short answer: “number five.” It is telling that, under the Soviets, only Jews were singled out according to the faith of their ancestors, even though the country had supposedly been “liberated” from religion in 1917. Also, the “fifth line,” or “fifth column,” in Slavic languages has exactly the same connotation as it does in English and other languages. It was only by the very end of the 1990s that perestroika and emigration brought an end to this racial quota. Keeping this in mind, we could assume that Karatkievič was playing with this latter notion and thus showing less sensitivity than was usual for him. As the story unfolds, it is Navum who almost destroys the unity of the group since he does not at first accept Karl and thereby divides the group’s sympathies. This uneasiness continues until Lisa, the girl they have

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“saved” from the fascists, finds a way to show the group Karl’s military awards, among which are two medals “for bravery.” These medals are rare awards, even for partisan leaders, and the boys know their value. So the medals prove Karl’s courage, humility, and humanity. Navum, who had strongly doubted Karl, feels terribly ashamed. But this episode reunites the group; indeed, they are more strongly bound together than before. The narrator describes the group’s adventures in detail and in the best tradition of social romanticism. The company once more tries its strength in a battle with “fascists,” and they emerge victorious over the much more numerous “enemy.” This victory allows them to visit any part of Kyiv. Furthermore, they now have more freedom to prepare their journey across the front line. Before the victory, in which “smart-ass” Navum plays a decisive role thanks to his strategies, the group has a chance to hear the boy’s story, which is both typical and atypical of Ukrainian Jews in prewar and occupied Kyiv. The following passage brings to light Karatkievič’s knowledge of and compassion for the Jewish tragedy in Kyiv. It also displays his aspiration to show solidarity with all the people of the Soviet Union and to underline the fact that good and evil are individual – not national, religious, or racial – characteristics: “But what shall I tell you? I had a typical childhood, the war, and Babi Yar …” Indeed, it was truly a typical story for thousands and thousands of his fellow-tribesman; to voice it meant to repeat it hundreds and thousands of times over and over. At first I was just surprised at how he escaped from the ghetto, survived on his own for some time and, later, was sent back to the ghetto. Apparently he was identified and betrayed by some scum from the Jewish police. Again he endured three more months of hell, and once more he managed to run away. This time it was from the place of death, Babi Yar. “I saw it all with my own eyes. The shooting and how the earth was moving. Since then I can see if someone is in trouble. Even when others do not feel it, I do, I see it from the first glance. Later they, the Judenrat,97 police, and that scum were brought to the same place – Babi Yar. I saw it myself. Filth! To sell out … the blood of their own people …”98

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Soon after Karl and Navum tell their life stories, and after the company’s rout of the “fascists,” the narration takes an unexpected turn. Teenage love – passionate, genuine, and bittersweet – penetrates the soul of each member of the future partisans. Three of them, Vasil, Karl, and Rałand, are in love with Nonka. Lisa is in love with Rałand, while Navum loves Lisa; only Bohdan and Žeńka are not yet besotted. Rałand and Karl confront Nonka, who earlier had received Vasil’s poetic declaration of love, and demand that she choose between the two of them. Nonka laughs off Rałand and Karl, though she is kinder to Vasil. As a gesture of male solidarity, the three friends decide to ignore her. This “manly” pact once more ignites the company’s decision to fight the Germans behind the lines, and they begin to look for arms and equipment. The result is catastrophic: they don’t realize that the area in which they are searching for these supplies has been mined by the Germans. Žeńka, Vasil, and Nonka are spared the explosions, but Lisa, Navum, and Rałand are never found. The remnants of Bahdan are later unearthed. Vasil leaves for Biełaruś four days after the accident, and he does find a way to fight the Germans and the anti-Soviet gangs. He survives, grows up in postwar Biełaruś, and visits Kyiv three years later. He finds Nonka, and over time their romance matures into love; they marry right after graduating from university. But neither of them can stand Kyiv in the autumn, when the chestnut trees are losing their leaves. They have never stopped mourning their friends’ deaths. Vasil’s sorrow is just as strong for every individual who perished on the minefield. Race and faith are not mentioned and do not matter to him – he misses them all equally: “Now they lie together, bound by the strongest of earth connections. I would not be tormented so badly if they were not such pure, loyal friends, so genuinely wonderful and kind, and such exceptional individuals. The time when chestnuts lose their leaves has come again. And during these gloomy days I always remember our scorched, lost, war-ravaged childhood, and our violently deprived youth.”99 Thus a prose narration ends. Navum’s character is earthier and more modern than Judas’s, but, unlike the latter, which is portrayed as the best among the best, Navum’s character is more in line with the main tendency of Biełarusian literature – he is equal to any other person in Karatkievič’s temple, which is dedicated to all humanity.

9 Ryhor Baradulin: Concerning the Jews

The leading Biełarusian poet, Ryhor Baradulin is a remarkably prolific and varied, indeed protean, writer whose verse encompasses a prodigiously wide range of genres, meters, styles, and themes. –Arnold McMillin

According to his oldest friend, Vasil Bykaŭ, Ryhor Baradulin (1935–2014) was the greatest of all Biełarusian poets.1 Many readers have agreed. Compatriots have loved Baradulin for his comic verse as much as for his “serious” poetry, prose, and journalism. Baradulin’s talent and versatility have filled many voids in modern Biełarusian culture, enriching literary criticism, scholarship, and journalism. His translations into Biełarusian from ten Western languages (in addition to Russian, Ukrainian, Polish, and other Slavic languages) range from Shakespeare to Byron and Brecht. He also distinguished himself with superb translations from Yiddish. Besides all of this, Baradulin bequeathed his countrypeople an invaluable humanistic tradition: he was a tireless Biełarusian patriot who fought fiercely for his country’s freedom. Baradulin was born to a peasant family on 24 February 1935 in the village of Vierasoŭka, in the Vušačy (Vušača) district of Viciebsk province. His father, Ivan, had joined the Biełarusian partisans and was killed in 1944; the nine-year-old would have to rely on the love of his mother, Akulina, for the rest of his life. Baradulin graduated from Vušačy’s high school in 1954; the same year he entered the philology faculty of the Biełarusian State University (bsu). Baradulin graduated from bsu with flying colours in 1959 and found work as a journalist and editor for various Biełarusian periodicals. Among other posts, Baradulin was an editor for

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the newspaper Saveckaja Biełaruś and the journals Biarozka and Polymia. His editorial skills were also highly valued by the most prominent Biełarusian publishing houses, including Mastackaja Litaratura. Baradulin’s poetry was first published by bsu’s newspaper Čyrvonaja zmiena a year before he began attending university. His first poetry collection, Maładzik nad stepam (A new moon over the steppe), appeared in 1959. In this collection could be found almost all of his major themes and poetic devices, which he would continue to develop until the end of his life. Among these themes are love for his mother, adoration of his country’s land and culture, the horrors of war (as seen through the eyes of a young boy), worries about the present and future of humanity, and love for his compatriots of every ethnicity and faith. He could also be very funny, and all of his works express a huge zest for life. But above all, his poetic writings resonate with the joyful mastery of his native language. The key poem of Maładzik nad stepam, titled “Na ziamlie calinnaj” (On the virgin land [1956–57]), received a silver medal at the World’s Sixth Festival of Youth and Students in 1957. Baradulin published close to seventy books, including poetry, essays, and a multitude of translations. He has written poetry for both adults and children, some of it satiric. A 1992 bibliography of his works found in Bełaruskija piśmeńniki: Biblijahrafičny sloŭnik u šaćci tamach, is twenty-five pages long.2 The author was a member of the Biełarusian Writers’ Union and the Biełarusian chapter of pen (which he served as president from 1990 to 1999). Together with Bykaŭ, Baradulin was a member of the executive of the Biełarusian Popular Front. He was the last Biełarusian to be awarded the title of People’s Poet (1992). Baradulin received many other prizes and honours for his translations and poetry books. However, his official recognition ended when Aleksandr Lukašenka rose to power in 1994. Lukašenka did not appreciate the poet’s talent and love of freedom. Baradulin was nominated for the Nobel Prize for Literature twice (the last time was in 2006). I am certain that only a dearth of adequate translations into major European languages deprived him of this well-deserved honour. The poet’s search for God is not as pronounced as are his other main poetic themes until the late 1970s. Like many Soviet-born citizens, Baradulin had a complicated relationship with religion. Thanks to his mother, a devout Christian, Baradulin had never been a militant atheist. As a child, he

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had been baptized as a Biełarusian Roman Catholic, but in the 1980s he found himself closer to the traditional Biełarusian Christian faith of the Uniates, and he converted. His burial service was performed according to the rites of both traditions. Baradulin, as I demonstrate later, leaned towards the Old Testament in his studies, philosophical thinking, and literary work. Also, his use of metaphors (often biblical) was well noted by McMillin. “Metaphors play a major role in all Baradulin’s writing,” McMillin writes. “Indeed, the poet himself declared in an interview, ‘Everything in the world is a metaphor. A world itself thinks, sees and feels in metaphors,’ going on to say that comparisons lie at the basis of metaphors and that everything is seen differently through metaphors.”3 McMillin’s study of Baradulin’s versatile literary work is doubtlessly the best in English criticism as well as the most thorough. It covers in detail the majority of his work. But, in 2009–10 McMillin could not have known about Baradulin’s forthcoming book of 2011, Tolki b habrei byli! Kniha pavahi i siabroŭstva (If only Jews were here! The book of respect and friendship).4 This volume’s title is eponymous with Baradulin’s 2010 essay “Tolki b habrei byli!” (If only Jews were here!),5 and it clearly establishes that, besides being inspired by the Old Testament, which Biełarusian Jews brought to Christian Biełarusians, Baradulin was as enthusiastic about Yiddish literary culture as he was about his native Biełarusian culture. Baradulin had childhood memories of prewar shtetl life, and he learned more from his beloved mother’s many Biełarusian Jewish friends. Tolki b habrei byli! Kniha pavahi i siabroŭstva is an extended metaphor for his feelings about Biełarusian Jews. Baradulin had never read Mark Twain’s short essay Concerning the Jews as it was never translated and thus not included in Twain’s collected works during tsarist, Soviet, and post-Soviet times.6 Nevertheless, in his philosophy, humanity, and morality, he and Twain were extremely close. Twain’s essay has six parts, which are as interesting, direct, and innovative as they were when they were first published in 1898; however, after the two world wars and the Holocaust, this essay was all but forgotten. The last part of Concerning the Jews is so intellectually provocative and engaging that I quote from it below in the hope that later on the reader will favourably compare Twain’s perspective with Baradulin’s: If the statistics are right, the Jews constitute but one percent of the human race.7 It suggests a nebulous dim puff of star dust lost in the

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blaze of the Milky Way. Properly the Jew ought hardly to be heard of, but he is heard of, has always been heard of. He is as prominent on the planet as any other people, and his commercial importance is extravagantly out of proportion to the smallness of his bulk. His contributions to the world’s list of great names in literature, science, art, music, finance, medicine, and abstruse learning are also a way out of proportion to the weakness of his numbers. He has made a marvelous fight in the world, in all the ages; and has done it with his hands tied behind him. He could be vain of himself, and be excused for it. The Egyptian, the Babylonian, and the Persian rose, filled the planet with sound and splendor, then faded to dream-stuff and passed away; the Greek and the Roman followed, and made a vast noise, and they are gone; other peoples have sprung up and held their torch high for a time, but it burned out, and they sit in twilight now, or have vanished. The Jew saw them all, beat them all, and is now what he always was, exhibiting no decadence, no infirmities of age, no weakening of his parts, no slowing of his energies, and no dulling of his alert and aggressive mind. All things are mortal but the Jew; all other forces pass, but he remains. What is the secret of his immortality?8 Twain, an agnostic, and Baradulin, a believer in Christ, agree on major points: Jewish contributions to the world and to local cultures are high in proportion to their numbers;9 the Jews’ miraculous survival as a people can hardly be accidental and seem to hint at God’s Will. Both writers refer to the harmful effect of anti-Semitism on any society, but they treat the phenomenon differently. Twain’s entire article is a brilliant argument against this form of racism, whereas Baradulin approaches the subject on a more personal and poetic level. The first pages of Baradulin’s essay about Biełarusian Jews are nourished with linguistic parallels that highlight their positive impact on Biełarusian culture. Baradulin also notes that Jewish merchants treated their customers fairly. However, most of all, both Twain and Baradulin decry the injustices with which, throughout their history, Jews have had to contend. This position coincides with Ursula Franklin’s later statement that justice is “essentially a moral and a religious concept.”10 And at its heart, Baradulin’s essay and book are about justice and the immorality of withholding it.

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Baradulin states early in his book that, historically, Biełarusians were never anti-Semitic. He offers an example from Biełarusian folklore that suggests that Biełarusian Christians placed great faith in Jews: “When someone is very sick, offer charity for a Jewish school or to a rabbi. If anyone can help, it is they, who can ask God directly and do that best; Jews may implore Him to give health back to a sick person.”11 He also offers a number of historic examples of how, in their common past, Biełarusian Christians and Jews were mistreated by foreign rulers. And he provides examples of outsiders’ contempt for both the Yiddish and the Biełarusian cultures: One painful vision of my early childhood, which occurred, before the war of 1941–1945, is still with me. I remember how, through the windows of closed Jewish schools, books were flying; they were like birds with broken wings. Letters like birds’ little feet on snow were crowding pages of these homeless books, overwhelmed with fervent despair and forced muteness. Later I realized that Jewish books were repeating the gloomy fate of our ancient Biełarusian Uniates’ books, the volumes of which were riddled with the old Kryvičs’ spirit.12 Indeed, the anti-Semitism and chauvinism of those in power are twin-brothers.13 Because the writer’s feelings were formed by his mother, he always shared his thoughts with Akulina, whose understanding of morality and human values was not based on race or on religious differences.14 One example relates to the use of the Biełarusian, Ukrainian, and Polish word žyd (Jew): the Soviets declared it to be a swearword, equivalent to “kike.” But, in 1938, the Soviets prohibited the use of Hebrew and discouraged the use of Yiddish, destroying books written in these languages. Yet, in their fanaticism, which for them represented “righteousness,” they introduced a five-year term of imprisonment for anyone using the word “žyd.” At the same time, rather cunningly, the Soviets began playing Biełarusian Christians and Jews against each other. Nevertheless, most Biełarusians of Akulina’s age, when they felt themselves in safe company, continued to use the older Biełarusian word from their childhood. Baradulin recalled his and Akulina’s friend, the Yiddish poet Chajm Malcinski (1910–86). One weekend, he and Malcinski went to visit a place where more than

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two thousand of Vušačy’s Jews had been murdered by the Nazis. On their way back from this sad place, which had no markers, they met a woman who, as soon as she saw Chajm, ran up to him, hugged him, and joyously cried: “Oh, I am so happy to see a living žyd! They entirely destroyed our Jews, no one is left here, you know.”15 Soon after this episode, the poet offers a new (post-Holocaust) folk saying about Biełarusian past livelihood: “Oh, those were the times when we had plenty of fish in our rivers and as many Jews in our shtetls.”16 The first part of Baradulin’s book, titled “Stvaralnikam vysokajie krasy (To creators of high beauty), presents, over sixty-one pages, twelve essays dedicated to Jewish Biełarusians of different times.

Stvaralniki vysokajie krasy (Creators of high beauty) Baradulin is wistful about these past times, and he finishes his opening essay-style chapter of Stvaralniki vysokajie krasy with the sentiment that Biełaruś became a sad place after it lost its Jews: “If only Jews would come back home to Biełaruś!”17 The remaining forty-six pages in the first part of Baradulin’s book consist of eleven short essays. They are mostly devoted to Biełarusian-Jewish cultural figures, whose poetry Baradulin translates from Yiddish in the second part of his book. The first of these is a tribute to Mark Chagall, who was born in the Viciebsk area and received a traditional (Hassidic) Jewish education.18 Ryhor Baradulin became fascinated with Chagall’s artistic and literary work in the early 1980s, at a time when the artist’s name was still taboo for Soviet citizens. In Stvaralniki vysokajie krasy’s first essay, “Pastajaliec niabiosaŭ” (Lodger of heavens), Baradulin offers a powerful thesis: “Mark Chagall followed in the footsteps of the great Renaissance artists, therefore, he is also a poet. He wanted to leave us a word because a word is stronger than a canvas … A word goes straight to God since the Word Itself is God.”19 The poet is convinced that the Word can do anything. Later, as only poets and gods can do, he unexpectedly takes the Word away from the biblical God and gives it to heathens and pagans with the conviction that every artist and poet is a pagan and heathen at heart. To confirm this, the poet points to the recurring image of Chagall’s rooster (the god of fire according to some heathens). Quickly, but with poetic elegance, Baradulin

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returns to the first notion of the Almighty. Quoting Chagall’s memoirs, he insists on the primacy, for Chagall, of the Word from heavent. “And back in 1944 Mark Chagall wrote: ‘Tens of years while I travelled in the skies clearly showed me what has been happening on earth.’”20 Baradulin also underscores Chagall’s biblical upbringing: “The Bible, within whose aura Mark Chagall was educated, dictated to him images and dressed up in words the artist’s ingenuity.”21 The poet concludes this paragraph with a startling metaphor: “This lodger of heavens brought together sound and colour, which before were separated … He joined them in an angelic way by forming them into two wings.”22 The poet also notes that, throughout his life, Chagall sought a colour that signifies love. It seems that this pursuit made Baradulin once again fall in love with his countryman. The next essay is about Izi (Isak) Charyk (1898–1937), long considered the most talented Yiddish poet of his time.23 The essay’s title, “I kožny ŭ mur cahlinaj lioh žyvoj” (Like a living brick each of us was placed in a constructing wall),24 is a partial line from one of Charyk’s poem.This line was prophetic of the poet’s fate and of that of many other Soviets of his generation. Baradulin starts his essay about Charyk by noting that he was a sincere and authentic poet who was beloved by his readers. He continues: “Devotion to his people, language, even to revolution made Izi Charyk stand tall among other poets created by that revolution. The son of a shtetl’s tailor gave his faith to the Bolsheviks. He trusted their promises that the language of his people would survive, that everyone would be equal (in duty and benefits), that the new social order would bring happiness.”25 But the moment the poet stopped whistling the required Soviet tune, he remembered the unity of everything on earth, including the living horse and the mechanical tram: “The last tram creeps out / it sleeps on its way / like a horse.”26 Further on, Baradulin tells the reader that poets as brilliant as Charyk should be read in the original. Then he immediately responds bitterly to his own statement maxim: “But the Bolsheviks didn’t just slaughter the poet, they killed his language. Dead poet and dead language are no longer a threat to any ideology. My guts are turning cold from this oxymoron, ‘dead’ language.”27 Then Baradulin, who presents Charyk as possessing eternal life due to his poetic talent, cheers the reader up with some translations, which essentially share both poets’ love for the motherland and hope for a better future for all: “ I know you, Biełaruś, like my own fingers and palms, / I can recognize even at night your small-

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est lanes and bumpy roads, / And soft, singing sunsets, / Sensing the burning pine tar of the pine woods, / And trees in a snowy drizzle, and rivers, and ancient roads.”28 Throughout his essay, Baradulin never misses a chance to place the word “poet” in front of Charyk’s name: “We have words by the poet Izi Charyk, which in their virtuoisic sophistication and energy are in high accord with Yiddish … He also left us his dreams.” A poem that Baradulin translates at the end of his essay mentions a parallel between Charyk’s and Chagall’s artistic visions: “Charyk, too, placed two angelic wings behind his poetic dreams.” The essayist also suggests that the reader should “read the Bible” if she or he wishes to understand Charyk’s poetic dreams.29 The following essay, unlike the previous two, which pay homage to great Biełarusian-born compatriots of a more distant past, is a tribute to the poet’s friend and is titled “Chajm Malcinski.” This essay is much more intimate than the others and reads like a memoir. Chajm Malcinski (1910– 86), a Yiddish poet, prose writer, and playwright, was born in Paniaviežys. This shtetl (now part of Lithuania) was a Christian and Jewish centre during the sixteenth century, at the time of the gdl. Malcinski was twentyfive years older than Baradulin, which made him closer in age to Akulina, Baradulin’s mother. So it is not surprising that the Yiddish poet became great friends with Akulina (Kulina), who, like many Christian Biełarusians at the time, spoke Yiddish well.30 Baradulin starts his account of Malcinski with a statement about the poet’s integrity: “Chajm Malcinski was a Jewish poet until his last days; he wrote in Yiddish at a time when the majority of Jewish writers were forced in ‘volunteer’ fashion to forget their native language.”31 He listed Malcinski’s most important qualities as: humour, personal bravery, integrity, and resistance to injustice. Malcinski received many high military awards, among which were two Orders of the Great Patriotic War (First and Second Degree) and the Order of the Red Star. He lost his leg in the last days of the war during the Allies’ advance on Berlin. When he was arrested under the bizarre charge of making “an attempt to sell the Russian Far East to the Americans,” this disabled war hero couldn’t climb up to his cell’s wooden bunk; he had to sleep beside his cell’s waste bucket. Baradulin also tells how Malcinski fought for the right to immigrate to Israel with his son’s family, and how he won. Baradulin’s Malcinski seems to have been a lively, kind, and principled man; it is truly remarkable how much compassion, love, and intimate knowledge of his

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countryman Baradulin is able to express in this short essay. He underscores many times how his entire family valued Malcinski’s friendship, and he adds that translations of his poetry immensely enriched his own. Then Baradulin introduces his friend, Zair Azhur. The Soviet encyclopaedia of 1979, under “Azgur, Zair Isaakovich,” provides a barebones account of this Biełarusian-Jewish sculptor.32 Here is how Baradulin transforms this man into flesh and blood: “Zair Azgur worked incessantly; he was an incurable workaholic. Zair was a sculptor, witty conversationalist, and remarkable memoirist. Every visit to his art studio brought happiness; the same feeling one gets in a museum, as the master himself seemed to be a living monument.”33 Baradulin writes with warm humour about Azgur’s inclination to sculpt portraits of Communist Party idols. Here is his satirical look at his friend’s “weakness”: “Azgur was the first to see about his commitment, / He tried with all his might / To populate our planet / With communists’ idols / Instead of living beings. / Indeed, it is easier for idols to solve the heavy task / Of bringing communism to all of us.”34 Vasil Bykaŭ’s opinion was very important to Baradulin, and he offers it in the last paragraph of his essay: “Azgur was born as a communist, but died as a Jew.”35 To these woeful words Baradulin adds his own: “The master had enough inspiration for all and everything, and everyone. His best works will live for a long time.”36 Baradulin dedicates his essay, “Iskra ŭ popielie” (A spark in ashes), to Hirš Relies (1913–2004).37 Its title is borrowed from Relies’s early poem. The essayist begins with a memory of one of his early visits to Relies, who belonged to the same generation as Chajm Malcinski. Baradulin was a young poet and translator back then, and he had just been entrusted with his first translation, which happened to be Relies’s Yiddish collection, “Bereza pod oknom” (A birch tree under the window [1961]): Wooden house at Engel’s street. The floors are cold: they are too close to the soil. There are pears on the windowsill; they are ripe and juicy, like bałahołas [coachmen’s] arguments. We are drinking home-made wine in an apartment belonging to the tall, thin, and well-balanced teacher and poet. The wine is neither strong nor weak. Besides the host, there is Chajm Malcinski, who had been thanked by his motherland with a prison term and exile for his

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heroic participation in the war and loss of a leg, and I, a young poet with a sharp Adam’s apple and a cowlick of straw-like hair. The poems were thoughtful and wise; they carried a typical Jewish combination of astute and keen cleverness, and sensitivity; these poems were transmitting the unforgotten colours of a shtetl. The translation was hard (I was translating an entire book for the first time in my life) and, simultaneously, comforting; I recognized my own shtetl in it. Vušača and Čašniki – motherland of Ryhor Relies – geographically and soul-wise are very close.38 Baradulin complained about censorship and confessed his own weaknesses with regard to making the translation. He comments that his translations are “like synthetically condensed milk compared to milk from a freshly milked cow.”39 But Baradulin was happy that the book became a bestseller, and he would translate Relies’s other literary works: “Later I was translating collections of the poet’s verses and poems. I became engrossed in the poetic world of the last (unfortunately so) Yiddish poet of Biełaruś. After all, Biełaruś was practically a cradle of Yiddish poetry.”40 Besides being a guardian of Yiddish, Relies – according to Baradulin – was a meticulous ethnographer and a collector of Biełarusian-Jewish artefacts. He knew personally many masters of Yiddish culture, and, until his last days, he possessed a phenomenal memory. His mind held an abundance of stories, anecdotes, and historical facts, some of which he retold in his above-mentioned memoir, Habrejskija Biełaruskija piśmeńniki, which was written in Yiddish and translated into Russian in 2006. Baradulin translated Relies’s lovely, lively, and thoughtful poems, many of which, like “Iskra ŭ popielie,” had been banned in the 1930s. In one of his last comments about Relies, Baradulin refers once more to his poems: “The poetry of Ryhor Relies is like a spark in ashes. It doesn’t allow his native language to turn cold.”41 The next two essays in the collection, “Na paliach večnaści” (On the meadows of eternity [1981]) and “A pisać Hryša ŭmee” (Indeed, Hryša knows how to write [1993]) are about Baradulin’s friend and mentor, Ryhor Biarozkin (1918–81).42 Born in Mahilioŭ, Biarozkin became a poet, literary critic, journalist, editor, and educator; his most popular pen names were Baruta and S. Tarasaŭ. In his professional life, he used mostly Russian

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but also Biełarusian and Yiddish. From 1933 to 1938, Biarozkin studied at the Department of Literature at the Miensk Pedagogical Institute. His first arrest came in 1941, when he was accused of anti-Soviet propaganda. Unexpectedly, his column of prisoners was dispersed by a German air and ground attack. He immediately volunteered for the Red Army, and, like Relies, Biarozkin fought in Berlin. During and after the war he worked for a number of periodicals and was on the staff of the newspaper Sovetskoe slovo (Soviet word), which was published in Russian by the Soviet military administration in Germany. This highly decorated war hero was arrested again in 1949 on further trumped-up charges and was only rehabilitated in 1956. After his return from the Soviet gulag, he helped exhume the names and works of writers and cultural figures who had been prohibited by Stalin’s regime. His literary criticism focused on the lives and works of contemporary Biełarusian writers: P. Broŭka, A. Kuliašoŭ, M. Tank, P. Pančanka, and others.43 Baradulin’s two essays about Biarozkin were written eleven years apart. In them, the reader finds as much love and appreciation directed towards Biarozkin as Baradulin directs towards his mother, Akulina.44 Here is how the first essay begins: He was madly in love with life. This immeasurable love was pouring out of him, as if replacing the time that had been taken by the war and complicated turns of fate. He loved life so much because he knew that roads along the native pastures are not endless. He tried to love life on behalf of those friends and comrades-in-arms who didn’t return home after war. He was equally imaginative and witty at parties among friends and official meetings, and in his articles, papers, remarks, and comments. He possessed a rare ability, almost forgotten in literary circles – to be sincerely happy for his colleagues’ and associates’ success. In fact, he celebrated these as if they were his own. Someone’s good line, a word, an unexpected rhythm would bring happiness to this sophisticated master and connoisseur of world poetry. Somehow, through knowledge and intuition, and genius, Hryša could simultaneously be a wise man and a naive youth in love, an intellectual and a witty entertainer, a scholar and a publicist.45

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Baradulin’s first essay about Biarozkin celebrates his friend’s professional and human qualities and becomes a mourning cry for his premature death. At the end, Baradulin simply writes: “He will always stay alive for me.” His second essay about Biarozkin, “A pisać Hryša ŭmiejie,” is the longest in the collection. Though it is written over eleven years after Biarozkin’s death, Baradulin writes as though everything happened just yesterday. Thus, he recalls how, at his wedding, Akulina shared with everyone her son’s high opinion of Biarozkin: “‘Only when Ryhor Biarozkin says that I am a poet, will I have the honour of being one.’”46 The first part of this essay describes the unjust arrests and investigations that Biarozkin had suffered under Stalinism: “And no one who met or heard Biarozkin could ever guess that this man, so erudite in thought and word, went through all the circles of hell, and not Dante’s romanticized hell but the Soviet one.”47 After this, Baradulin laments the loss of Biarozkin and retells some of his anecdotes. Here is one of them, a parody of writers who made the Biełarusian partisan movement the source of their earnings: “I am hiding in a hayrick, surrounded by Germans. I am dying for some moonshine, but there isn’t a penny in my pockets.”48 But mostly Baradulin offers examples of Biarozkin’s deep and wide knowledge of world poetry, ranging from ancient to modern times. He also notes his talent as a performer, pointing out that his friend possessed unique declamatory skills. Despite all of this: “Soviet authorities didn’t employ him, and for a long time forbade publication of his work. He was getting by with writing reviews, and was like a blue-collar labourer in literature. But they never managed to break him.”49 Baradulin concludes his second essay on Biarozkin with the humorous story of Malcinski’s and Biarozkin’s “quarrel”: First they exchanged friendly greetings. Next, word after word was said, and they soon switched to Yiddish. The argument gained force. The poet [Malcinski] raised his crutch threateningly. Biarozkin ran into my office and demanded to be given his foreword to Malcinski’s collection: he wanted to tear it up. I was the editor of the book, and I had to submit everything to the press the next day. So I hid the foreword. Biarozkin ran out. Sometime later Malcinski came in. He was calm by then, and he asked to read the foreword.

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Malcinski read it, brightened up … and, as if nothing had happened, thought aloud: ‘No matter what you say, Hryša knows how to write.’”50 Two essays are dedicated to Navum Kislik (1925–98). Like Biarozkin, he was a Biełarusian but mainly Russian Biełarusian poet of Jewish origin; he was also a prose writer, educator, editor, critic, and translator.51 Baradulin’s first essay, “Zaklinalnik i garanilščyk slova” (An enchanter and carver of words), was written in 1985. This five-page piece tells of a long friendship that began badly: for a year, Baradulin considered Kislik to be his worst enemy and could not forgive him for not having accepted some of his verses for publication. But, after a year, he had matured enough to accept Kislik’s criticism with gratitude. Eventually, he saw Kislik as one of his few real friends, someone whom he would trust with his life: “The difference in our situations was substantial. I, as a young poet, was writing about everything and in a general way, but Navum Kislik was writing about what he had personally experienced, felt, touched, and understood.”52 The most significant influence on Kislik was the demise of most of his generation. Here is how Baradulin describes Kislik’s first visit to one of the military newspapers, in which his first verses were published in 1944: “Major Aliaksandr Kavalienkaŭ, who, like Kislik, had just left the hospital, greeted him: ‘Oh, you brought your little exercise book. Give it to me.’ Three days later the young poet saw his first poem, ‘To the memory of those killed in action,’ published. And he, now a well-known Biełarusian (Russian) poet, is writing today about his contemporaries who didn’t return from that war.”53 However, according to Baradulin, it was not only war memories that Kislik was preserving but also memories of prewar Viciebsk, which came alive in his rich and vivid language: “Carriage-drivers rumbled / And they argued / At once in four languages.”54 Indeed, before the war, and until the end of 1938, Biełarusian, Yiddish, Russian, and Polish were state languages, and almost all Biełarusians, whatever their ethnicity, could communicate in any of them. After providing many examples of Kislik’s excellent poetry, Baradulin talks about his friend’s gifts as a translator and underlines the fact that Kislik’s work in that area became a solid part of his successful career. One of the first poets to pay no heed to the unwritten Soviet law that barred Jews from national culture was the Peoples’ Poet, Arkadź Kuliašoŭ

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(1914–78). Kuliašoŭ, who grew up in a typical Biełarusian shtetl, had the village intelligentsia for parents. His best friend, the Yiddish poet Judal (Juli) Taŭbin (1911–37), was exiled by the Soviets and executed after his second arrest in 1936. Kuliašoŭ was the first Biełarusian of stature to give Kislik his own verses for translation. This act literally saved Kislik’s life and gave him a chance to earn his bread. There were many other writers of Jewish origin whom Kuliašoŭ assisted in difficult times. Despite the hardships of the translator’s profession, people were grateful for this professional work. Baradulin knew well the hard life of a translator and described it based on his own experiences: “A translator’s work is like penal servitude; oh, it is truly a hard labour! … To work on your own words is gruelling enough, but it is a backbreaking experience to translate from Biełarusian into Russian; it is like crossing a minefield.” And this despite the fact that Kislik possessed impeccable knowledge of the Russian and Biełarusian languages. Regardless of this, he was always surrounded by dictionaries and little brochures of poetry and prose. The former frontline soldier never took a rest or enjoyed an indulgence: he now felt he was on the front line of literary life. This workaholic addressed the idea of a native word with almost savage prayer in his own poem: My native word55 is a great ocean Beside which my listless voice is weakened. Why did I swim after that imagined pearl? I always seem naked by the ocean In front of this word, Smelling with the salt of life. My native word, For this skill, these words, earned through my labour, Please accept a low bow from the one Who was always missing in action. You were not aware That you are my thunderstorm, forever.56 This essay ends with words of high praise for Navum Kislik, the poet. In the essay that follows it, “Prysudžany da najvyšejšaj kary” (Sentenced to death), Baradulin begins by honouring Kislik as a friend. He describes his apartment, where books (including those autographed by prominent

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authors) were the only things the owner valued. Baradulin underscores that Kislik had translated superbly into Russian all of the Biełarusian poetry and prose classics. Kislik’s apartment was a safe haven for many dissidents during “the stagnation” (i.e., Brezhnev’s rule). Among them was Alieś Adamovič: “Starting with his student days and until his last days, Alieś Adamovič treasured and cherished his friendship with Navum Kislik.”57 Most of the friends who frequented Kislik’s apartment eventually left Miensk; they either emigrated or died. But Kislik’s bachelor life was not completely lonely: books kept him company. And not only books: Kislik would dream about his friends – some, like Ryhor Biarozkin (Grisha Berezkin), were long gone but continued to return to him in his poetry: Alive and healthy, Grisha Berezkin58 Enters my home. He brings friends along – Valku, Fiediu, Igoria, Sashu59 – And we pull down all the walls, Continuing to disentangle the wrongdoings of others. Hiding our eyes, We tell each other our dreams.60 By the time he wrote his second essay about Kislik, the poet’s formerly wide circle of friends had shrunk. As he grew older, the Bible became his favourite book. He found in it an understanding of eternity.61 Here it is necessary to assert once again that Kislik and his close friends detested racism and valued humanity, friendship, and truth in human relations. The same notion is found in the next essay, “Radaść bliskavicy” (Joy of summer lightning [1991]). It is about an acquaintance from Baradulin’s university days, David Simanovič (1932–2014), a Biełarusian Yiddish but mostly Russian poet and prose writer, who was born in Naroŭlia.62 Baradulin begins his account of Simanovič with their distant university years, when it seemed that the latter was reading his poetry (mainly to female students) all around the university: “this medium-built young poet with a huge shock of hair like a fur hat was singing his verses in the reading and lecture halls, in the auditoriums, and in the university’s little park.”63 But what really came as a surprise was the fact that Konstantin

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Simonov (1915–79), the famous Soviet writer and editor-in-chief of the most popular literary journal, Novyi mir, published David Simanovič’s verses in 1955. However, this great honour opened no doors to a career in literature for this young poet of Jewish origin. After graduating, he was sent to teach in the village of Krynki in Viciebsk district. Simanovič wasn’t disappointed by this turn of events: he loved teaching. At the same time, no one prevented him from writing and occasionally publishing his poetry, even during the anti-Semitic 1950s and on into the no less anti-Semitic 1980s. In fact, Simanovič viewed his placement near Viciebsk, and later in the city itself, as a godsend. Viciebsk was in the former Pale of Settlement, and many famous Biełarusians, both Jewish and other, came from there. Simanovič did an extraordinary job of popularizing Chagall in his beloved Viciebsk. He launched a successful campaign to rehabilitate the artist’s name, which the Soviets had buried, and to associate it with his birthplace. Incidentally, for both Bykaŭ and Baradulin, the Viciebsk region was a “small” motherland, so they immediately took Simanovič’s project to heart. Baradulin speaks about this in his essay. Bykaŭ provided his own account of Chagall’s return to Viciebsk in the 1980s in an interview I conducted with him in Frankfurt in 2001.64 Below are some excerpts pertaining to Chagall, in which Bykaŭ downplays his own role and emphasizes that of Simanovič and Baradulin:65 “It’s really a good book, a labour of love, and it is a credit to Simanovič. Baradulin was a driving force, as well as the Russian poet Andrei Vaznesenski [Voznesenskī]. Such a good group of people defended Chagall. On the other hand, why did he need to be defended? Who can even try to explain to an obscurantist the greatness of his genius?”66 Liudmila Rublevskaja, in her article in Russian about Simanovič, “Vitebskie progulki s Davidom Simanovichem (Vitsebsk walks with David Simanovič),”67 brings out the flavour of his character. She writes: “While David quickly showed me his Vitebsk via a dear-to-his-heart route (Pushkin-Chagall-Korotkevich-Bykov), over twenty people approached him with greetings and conversations. He practically returned Chagall to the city.”68 Rublevskaja underscores Simanovič’s passion for life, expressed in his joyful poetry. Here she follows in the footsteps of Baradulin, who, in his essay, shows the reader the way to the poet’s heart. For Baradulin, Simanovič life and poetry personifies joy. He articulates what Simanovič’ expresses: “Joy that he survived dark times, joy that he met

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real friends, joy that he lives against all odds!” This joy becomes an extended metaphor for his friend’s character. To prove his point, Baradulin cites Simanovič’s lines, confirming that his joy is able to see even a small apple: A little apple fell down – Its strike made the ground tremble. Autumn emerged from a warm entryway, And threw away its bright casing. Now it stands naked.69 Baradulin responds to his question about where Simanovič’s joy and passion for life came from with the sensitivity of a true poet, and he finds emotions in Simanovič that are similar to his own. According to both poets, the passion for life comes from their birthplace, Biełarusian Palieśsie, its natural bounty and the inhabitants’ multiculturalism. On the next page he quotes his friend: “Three languages: Biełarusian, Russian, and Yiddish surrounded me and entered me early in life. Friends, neighbours, and my parents were using them, and without hesitation they were mixing up the words of all three languages in one sentence.”70 On the same page Baradulin emphasizes Simanovič’s Jewishness by noting how the latter’s emotional memory – summer lightning – raises memories of Friday evenings when Jewish families were preparing to greet the Sabbath’s morning: On Friday, near our front steps, I fly about, like a martin. On Friday they light candles, On Friday they respectfully eat fish. On Friday there are grandma’s whispers, Her prayers are like dreams. All of this is so distant, All of this happened before the war.71 The two poets died in 2014, and their celebrated friendship continued until their last days.

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The longest essay in the book, “Jak u p’ianku ŭciahvaiešsia ŭ Paryž” (Paris charms you like a drinking party charms an alcoholic), is dedicated to Barys Abramavič Zaboraŭ, Baradulin’s friend from the mid-1950s.72 Note that while Baradulin and his friend loved to drink when they were younger, they both stopped completely in their mature years. Zaboraŭ (Russian and French: Boris Zaborov; 1935– ), the Biełarusian Jewish artist, was born in Miensk. He was evacuated with his family in 1941. Three years later, as soon as Miensk was liberated from the Germans, they returned to their ruined homeland. Zaboraŭ was first educated in Miensk’s Art Institute (1950–53). He continued his studies at Leningrad’s Academy of Fine Arts (1954–57) before moving on to the Surikov Art Institute in Moscow. With a diploma from that leading Soviet visual arts institution, where he excelled in both painting and sculpture, the artist returned to his home city. In Miensk Zaboraŭ worked mainly as a book illustrator and was awarded a multitude of national and international prizes for his work. Despite these honours and his high professional reputation, the artist felt the consequences of Soviet anti-Semitism. It drove him to leave the Soviet Union for Paris with his family in 1980. His first exhibition of paintings in one of Paris’s most prestigious art galleries, the Claude Bernard Gallery, brought him world fame and consequent shows around the globe, in galleries in Tokyo, London, Moscow, Washington, New York, and his hometown, Miensk (2010). Today, Zaboraŭ is one of the most celebrated “French” artists, with an international reputation. Some critics consider him the equal of Chagall. Baradulin begins his essay about Zaboraŭ with a hymn to Paris: “Paris is like a sky. There is enough of Paris for everyone. And each person has his own Paris. Paris is like a destiny. A person waits all his life to encounter the city. And one feels the happiest when, at long last, this dream comes true.”73 The poet declares that his personal encounter with the city of his dreams will stay with him for the rest of his life. One of the most pleasant surprises that Paris had for him in 1987 was an unexpected phone call from a person whose voice he recognized at once: It was a phone call from a friend of my youth, with whom there had been plenty to share during those times, including drinking. But the main thing was that it was easy to learn about the world with him

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(his lightness of being matched the depth of his knowledge); just to see him, travel together, simply be with each other … With his voice Barys Zaboraŭ physically returned to me; he was the artist who literally revolutionized Biełarusian graphic art and book illustration in the 1960s, at the time of the so-called “Khrushchev’s Thaw”; he was the same master who was forced to leave his motherland due to his personal love for freedom; he was not welcomed during the dark cold polar nights of Brezhnev’s stagnation.74 Baradulin describes in detail Zaboraŭ’s role in Biełarusian, Russian, and Soviet visual arts. His stories range from humorous accounts about raging anti-Semites who were ready to “forgive” the artist’s Jewish origins for the chance to work with him to descriptions of a school of followers who tried to copy Zaboraŭ’s unique graphic style. The poet’s mother, Akulina Baradulin, who often received her son’s friend with love and hospitality, was, of course, a litmus test for his many friendships. Baradulin also mentions in this essay two other prominent Biełarusian cultural figures from his “small” motherland, Vušača district – Piatruś Broŭka (1905– 80) and Vasil Bykaŭ. Both, according to Baradulin, had the greatest respect for Zaboraŭ’s talent, tried to protect him from anti-Semites, and helped him leave the Soviet Union. A meeting in Paris with Zaboraŭ showed Baradulin that his friend, like most Biełarusian émigrés, was nostalgic for his motherland and its forests and lakes. Baradulin is positive that “the artist sees the world with the eyes of a Biełarusian. Zaboraŭ over and over again returns to Biełarusian themes and subject matter.”75 Baradulin also repeats his contention (first made during their youth) about a direct link between his friend and Chagall. He is positive that people around the world are getting to know Biełaruś through the images produced by Zaboraŭ, just as Biełarusians recognize their native country in Chagall’s works. Baradulin proposes this maxim: “A true artist should be continually hungry for his childhood.”76 In the same breath, he points to Zaboraŭ’s own confession that he misses his childhood, which he lost at the age of six when the war began. Baradulin muses that childhood, national belonging, and place of birth are essential ingredients for creating and developing artistic talent. Baradulin presents Zaboraŭ through the prism of Paris (he was there twice, and the two friends were very generous about making time for each

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other), but he is also careful to comment on Zaboraŭ’s personal and artistic affairs. His essay includes many of Zaboraŭ’s autobiographical details, like this one: “I came [to Paris] with an ardent desire to start my life over with a blank page. In reality this city of romantic dreams was just a desert for me. I looked at the myriad lit Parisian windows at night and felt isolated from life. I was really on my own. I had no connection to this new world.”77 But seven months later, the artist had his tremendous success at the Claude Bernard Gallery, and his fame and confidence grew thereafter. Baradulin was keenly attuned to his friend’s feelings, which included a longing for the motherland and nightmares about the Chernobyl disaster’s consequences for Biełaruś. Baradulin expresses his own nostalgia for Biełarusians who, for different reasons, had to leave their motherland: “I listened to Barys Zaboraŭ, and unwillingly thought to myself of how many talents we lost, gave to other nations, other cultures. Is it our national obduracy or inability to value treasures given to us by God? This is not a sign of our generosity, certainly not. Will Biełaruś ever stop throwing away its treasures and feeding its exiles with nostalgia alone?”78 Overall, however, the poet is selflessly proud of his friend’s achievements, of his artistic freedom, and he is happy for his children, who have had choices they would never have had in the Soviet Union or in Lukašenka’s Biełaruś. The second section of the text, titled “Hałasy nieŭmiručaha choru” (Voices of an immortal choir), provides some of Baradulin’s translations of leading Biełarusian poets from Yiddish into Biełarusian. In tone, this section corresponds to the collections’s subtitle: “The Book of Respect and Friendship.” Indeed, in quantity (one hundred and thirty-five pages), quality, and value, it surpasses all the works ever translated from Yiddish by one individual, not just into Biełarusian but into other Slavic languages as well.

“Hałasy Nieu˘ mirucˇaha Choru” (Voices of an immortal choir) This unique collection starts with Baradulin’s translations of Chajm Nachman Bialik’s poems. Bialik (1873–1934) was an iconic cultural and social figure who was later awarded the title of Israel’s National Poet for his pioneering achievements in Modern Hebrew. Chajm’s father, Yitzhak Yosef Bialik, was a scholar and businessman, albeit more successful as the former

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than as the latter. When he died, the seven-year-old Chajm was sent to the Ukrainian city of Žytomir, where he was placed under the care of his stern Orthodox grandfather, Jacob (Yaakov Moshe) Bialik. The boy received a traditional education under this man’s strict supervision and was a great Jewish scholar by the time he was thirteen. In fact, he was considered a prodigy, and, despite his tender years, he was regularly consulted on questions of Jewish law. Though born in Ukraine, the Biełarusian page of Bialik’s life was tremendously important for his education. When he was fifteen, he persuaded his grandfather to send him to the famous Biełarusian yeshiva of Valožyn.79 While there, Bialik, for all his immersion in Talmudic learning, became attracted to the Haskalah movement (i.e., the Jewish Cultural Enlightenment). When he was eighteen, without telling his grandfather, he went to Odessa to pursue his secular studies. At that time, Odessa was the centre of Haskalah activities in the Russian Empire. Though he continued his self-education for the rest of his life, Valožyn’s yeshiva remained the only formal level of higher education he ever received. Baradulin translated nineteen of Bialik’s poems. Among them we find the excerpt “Prarok” (The prophet), which is from his long narrative poem of 1902, Apošniajie słova (The last word, or prophecy). This famous poem – in particular, “Prarok” – has been translated by many poets into major European languages. To my knowledge, the finest translation into Russian of this poem and its excerpt was achieved by Samuil Marshak (1887–1964), the Russian and Soviet writer, poet, and incomparable translator (from English, German, and Yiddish) as well as a founder of modern Russian and Soviet literature for children.80 Yet I cannot decide which translation I personally prefer: Marshak’s, with its intelligence and refinement, or Baradulin’s, which in addition to Marshak’s qualities expresses Bialik’s fearless manifestation of God’s will and word. The same can be said of Baradulin’s brilliant interpretations of the other eighteen Bialik poems. Nature, romantic ideas, personal and collective Jewish struggles, victories, defeats, and every single human emotion – all of this and more are rendered in Baradulin’s Biełarusian translations of one of the greatest Jewish poets. In fact, the entire range of Shakespearian artistry that Bialik demonstrates in his poetry is “Biełarusized” by Baradulin to the point at which, in these translations, the Jewish poet seems completely naturalized. Baradulin’s survey and translation of Bialik’s poetry is followed by a few poems by two of Bialik’s contemporaries: Mojše Nadzir (real name:

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Yitzchak Rayz; 1885–1943) and Michł Gordon (1823–90). Gordon was a Litvak, born in Vilnia; Nadzir was, like Bialik, Ukrainian-born. Both wrote poetry and prose in Hebrew and Yiddish. But, unlike Bialik’s, Nadzir’s and Gordon’s popularity flourished only in Yiddish. The translations of these two poets into Biełarusian make the reader smile, for these pieces of poetry are entertaining, full of humour, and very folk-like. One of the poems, attributed to Gordon but also considered by many to be a folk song, is called “Tumbałałajka.” Baradulin’s Biełarusian version is certainly closer to the original Yiddish than are the Russian and English versions. In the English translation, a young man asks questions of the “right” girl before making up his mind to propose marriage. The original (and it is well rendered in Baradulin’s version) is basically the story of the princess Turandot – a woman who seems much smarter than her suitors. The next three poems – little fairy tales or lullabies – are translations of Itzhak Katzenelson (Icchak-Lejb Kacenelson; 1886–1944), a Biełarusianborn Jewish scholar, poet, and dramatist. He was born in the shtetl of Kareličy near Miensk. Officially, he was a Polish citizen as the family had moved to Warsaw. Katzenelson and his son were murdered in Auschwitz six weeks before the concentration camp was liberated by the Red Army. Katzenelson’s lovely, wise, thoughtful, and gentle lyricism is brilliantly translated into Biełarusian by Baradulin, so now it can be read in the land of his birth. Izi Charyk (1898–1937), a poet from early Soviet times, was spiritually closer to Baradulin than were any of the other poets whom he translated. Charyk’s social conscience, love of justice, and optimism for his beloved Biełaruś were intense, as is apparent thanks to his talented and faithful translator. Baradulin published a collection of Charyk’s works, ranging from excerpts of long narrative poems to traditional sonnets and love verses. These poems and their translations are a homage to the motherland. Baradulin provides translations of the Biełarusian Yiddish poet Ruva Rejzin (1911–42). Rejzin was born in London, England. His family was originally from Biełaruś, and when he lost his parents early in life, he was brought back to the country of their birth, where he grew up in an orphanage. Rejzin graduated in 1937 from the Department of Literature at Miensk Pedagogical Institute. He was drafted by the Red Army in 1940 and lost his life in military action during the war. His wife and child were murdered in the Miensk ghetto.81 “Fańka” is a narrative poem written by Rejzin and

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translated by Baradulin, and it is named after its heroine. It is a three-part narrative about the first female housepainter who has just joined a crew of high-rise painters. The poem, which is written in a fairy-tale style, expresses an optimistic belief in socialism and in the right of women to choose their own destiny. There is not a single false note in this poem (at least, there are none in the translation). Fańka’s “victory” is predictable from the start. She, who aspires to become the best painter on the male crew, is compared with the early morning sun and a queen: Both are young, and both are lovely: Morning sun and Fańka, And both Can see everything from their height. Both are friends with daily lives. Fańka’s eyes are like black sparks, That burst the boys’ hearts into flames. Among her new friends, in her light dress, Fańka looks like a queen.82 Next in Baradulin’s collection is Sara Kagan (Kahan; 1885–1941). This poet and prose writer was born in the village of Maksimavičy. She was educated as a librarian and worked in that capacity first in Babrujsk and later, beginning in 1935, in Miensk. While in Miensk, she balanced her day job with evening classes at the Miensk Pedagogical Institute, Department of Philology. She wrote mainly poems in Yiddish, and she was murdered in the Miensk ghetto in 1941.83 Z. Biadulia translated into Biełarusian and published Kagan’s Apaviadańni (Short stories [1940]). In his collection, Baradulin offers translations of two of Kagan’s earlier poems: “Siabie maładziej adčuvaju” (I feel myself younger) and “Sustreča” (Rendezvous). Both are joyful examples of socialist poetry, expressing family happiness, the poet’s pride in her children, and her delight in her own contribution to the growth of her beloved country. She feels lucky to be living in “heavenly times,” or so she tells her mother in “Sustreča.” And her mother understands her and shares her feelings: “Be well, my golden mommy! / I flew in just for a moment, / And now I am on my way back to the skies. ‘Be happy, my darling daughter!’”84

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It might seem as if Baradulin is choosing these optimistic lyrics for the sake of contrasting them with the reality of death that was just around the corner for Biełarusians of that generation, especially for Jews. Nevertheless, Kagan’s optimism is genuine as she is writing for people who, within their lifetimes, had been freed from the Pale of Settlement’s centuries of suppression. Kagan’s two poems are followed by seven pages of Henadź Švedzik’s verses in translation. Švedzik (1914–42), a Yiddish and Biełarusian poet and writer, was born in Babrujsk. He joined the Red Army in 1941 and a year later was killed in action.85 Besides Baradulin, E. Ahniacviet and A. Volski translated Švedzik’s Yiddish work into Biełarusian. His fascination with the sea and the labour of fisherfolk is reflected in Baradulin’s translations: “Pa kietu” (After salmon), “Farby” (Colours), “Mora” (A sea), “Mora i ziamla,” (A sea and a land), “Mora i ptuška” (A sea and a bird), “Majo razvitańnie z moram” (My farewell to the sea), and others. Some of the poems, like “Pa kietu,” are a solemn hymn to the hard work of fisherfolk, while others, like the following “Mora i ptuška,” are joyful hymns to nature and friendship: I was lucky to observe a surprising bond, A friendship between the Black Sea And a little bird. From a wet hand it fed its friend – And admired the small harmless creature. And the sea, it is so huge – that at once, If it is so desires – it may extinguish the fire Of the sun. The little bird is a piece of down, But their friendship is genuine. Oh, the sea is, probably, awfully desolate, It is brave and free, Trying to escape its own shores. That is why it was crying all of yesterday. Now it is blue like the little bird, And stillness admires these two friends. Whenever I am blue,

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And my heart is sad, Let this friendship remind me Of the Black Sea And the little bird.86 With his translations, Baradulin has resurrected Švedzik’s and other Yiddish poets’ works. He does this with the assistance of his own unjustly suppressed language. His translations demonstrate the Yiddish poets’ unwavering love for life and motherland as well as their humanity and humility in the face of eternity. These sentiments are very strong in the work of two more poets, Lieŭ Tałałaj (1906–42)87 and Zachar Barsuk (1915– 42),88 whose works Baradulin brought back from oblivion. There is little biographical information about these two poets; what we do have points to a number of similarities in their fates. First, both were Yiddish and Russian poets, received a pedagogical education, and served in the Red Army in the Second World War. Both were killed in the same notorious year of 1942, when Soviet citizens died by the millions. Ryhor Baradulin translated and included in his monograph Tałałaj’s “Teŭje-małočnik” (Tevye the milkman). The lively verses of this poem do more than copy the ideas and story of Sholem Aleichem: they present the main character as symbolic of every good man. Tałałaj ends his poem with warm wishes for his character and other hard-working poor people: “Well, Teŭe, do as your heart desires / All good people should be happy.”89 The titles of the next two poems Baradulin provides – “Razvitańnie” (Parting) and “Na maršy” (On the march) – refer to the poet’s military service. “Razvitańnie” is about saying farewell to everything that is dear to the recruit before he leaves home for the army; “Na maršy” describes a pre-battle march. Below are two stanzas (out of eight) in which Tałałaj tells the story of his parting from everyone, starting with a little calf, continuing with a little colt, then his friend Jankiel, his beloved Chanele, his father, and, finally, his mother. What is interesting in the structure of this particular poem is that his farewell to his father and mother occur at the very end of the poem. For the poet, parting with them is the last drop of grief: 1. The most difficult for me, More than anything else

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Is parting and saying farewell To a little red-coloured calf. His face is stained with tears, He looks at me with such grief, As if I am his daddy. 2. The most difficult for me, More than anything else Is parting and saying farewell To a young little colt. As soon as I call him quietly, With all his strength He runs to me, Bringing along His swift shadow.90 These moments in the poet’s life echo those of every young farm boy going off to war. Baradulin, who had a similar childhood, deeply understood such sentiments, as is evident in his excellent translations. There are two poems by Zachar Barsuk in Baradulin’s translation, “Kali padumajieš …” (And when you have afterthoughts …) and “Ja razvitaŭsia z žyćciom” (I parted with life). Both are about the inner life of a soldier, reveal fears as well as the joy of survival, and describe daily life during the war. “Kali padumajieš …” begins with morbid thoughts: When I think that I will never see my home again, Then, all my soul feels the yoke of oppression. There is nowhere to run from this darkness. But in the middle of battle, When the enemy runs, There aren’t enough words To describe happiness. At that moment I am born again. The next stanza is about a reconnaissance; the poet-narrator is seriously wounded, and his dead friends are lying nearby:

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Death is playing jokes With the wounded, But it allows us To live a little longer. Its terrible surprise Bandages you. Fearful, your skin trembles. The poem’s ending is very realistic and describes the humanity and humility of a serviceman by expressing not false patriotism but, rather, honest human emotions: When, through fire and clouds, You return from a reconnaissance, As if from non-existence, You lean like a miser over the hoard of your life, And you are as glad As a child.91 The next poem, “Ja razvitaŭsia z žyćciom,” is no less powerful. It tells of a wounded soldier, who, like two of his dead friends, is blanketed with snow. He is full of premonitions of his own mortality. The soldier is simultaneously afraid for his life and in mourning for his friends. The ending is unexpected: right after these expressions of humanity, fear, and woe, the poet has a “heroic” thought that is jarring in this context: “And I swear / To fight the enemy / For myself / And for my friends.”92 Yet these last lines, as primitive as they sound, show patriotism and a desire for vengeance for German atrocities. A feature that unites Biełarusian-born poets and writers is their strong emotional dependence on and love for nature, culture, family, and neighbours. One Biełarusian cultural figure who, throughout his life, wrote incessantly about his motherland was Marc Chagall.93 In Baradulin’s book there are twenty-four pages of his translations of Chagall’s writings, predominantly poetry. Only one of the pieces in this collection is translated by Simanovič. There is too much material to present here, so I offer only samples, which I translate into English from Baradulin’s translation. In “Majie sliozy” (My tears), the poet confronts a premonition of his own

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death. Chagall does not fear physical death; nevertheless, he is in no hurry to depart his troubled but beloved earthly life. “Ja malavaŭ płafon i ścieny” (I paint plafonds and walls) is untitled, and so I name it by its first line. This poem, like most of Chagall’s lyrics, expresses his artistic credo. Note that in this poem, written during his sunset years, the artist and poet uses only present and future tenses: I paint plafonds and walls. There are fiddle players and dancers on stages, A green bull, a crazy rooster. This rooster has sky wings, everyone knows He is immortal, The creative spirit, That no one can defy. I lead you to the stars, My silent brothers, To where the night is ever tired from timeless light. This Light is a meeting with eternity, Determining a season for the reunion Of every person, and all the tribes who have lived beneath the skies: Everything That Hears everything Everything That Sees everything Will Hear and See you, then and there.94 “Pamiaci mastakoŭ – achviaraŭ Chałakostu” (To the everlasting memory of artists – the Holocaust victims) is the next translation. Unlike the previous ones, not all of it is translated by me from Baradulin’s translation. The part of this excerpt that starts with the line “They were led to the baths of death” is taken from Jackie Wullschlager’s Yiddish-toEnglish translation of Chagall’s excellent biography.95 Her excerpt, titled “To the Slaughtered Artists,” lacks the powerful ten-line beginning that we find in Baradulin’s translation. This passage, which Wullschlager skips in her translation, expresses Chagall’s sincere and ardent attempt to come to terms with his personal survival during the Holocaust. He asks why he survived (why not his kin? or the person next to him?). This question has consumed most Holocaust survivors: every memoir and every critical

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study about the Holocaust raises it. The psychological pain of having no answer has mentally and/or physically destroyed many survivors. As Wullschlager notes, Chagall’s resistance to visiting postwar Germany despite many invitations was also typical behaviour for Holocaust survivors: “The chords of cultural revival, renaissance, repentance, and hope that his art struck across postwar Europe were especially resonant in Germany. That he continued to refuse to set foot in the country was a stark statement that the Holocaust could never be forgotten; that he sent his art nevertheless was a symbol of reconciliation and peace-making. In his poem ‘To the Slaughtered Artists’ he describes his own dreams as a young man, recalling his mother’s and Bella’s [his first wife’s] empowering love as typical of those of the Jews of his generation who had then been led to slaughter.”96 Chagall was able to transfer this anxiety creatively by paying homage to the dead until the end of his life. And he did so not so much in the visual arts – the medium in which he most excelled – but in memoir and poetry. The English version that follows is a combination of Wullschlager’s translation of two excerpts and my translation of Baradulin’s Biełarusian version of “To the everlasting memory of artists – the Holocaust victims.” Like Chagall’s original, Baradulin’s Biełarusian version starts with rhetorical questions: Didn’t I know them all? Didn’t I visit all their ateliers? Didn’t I see their works from near and from far? Now I emerge from my years and from myself, And I go to visit their unknown graves And they summon me to their dark fates, I, who am guilty without guilt. They ask me: “Where were you?” “I ran away ...”97 They were led to the chambers of death, Where they learned the taste of their own sweat. And where they saw the light Of their unfinished paintings. They counted the unlived years

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Which they had hoped for, and waited To fulfill the dreams They would lose in their final sleep. In their heads they sought out The corner of the nursery where, encircled by stars, The full moon had promised them a bright future. Young love in dark rooms In the mountains and valleys, on the grass Enchanted fruit coated with milk, covered with flowers Promised them Paradise. Their mother’s hands, and eyes Accompanied them to the train, to their distant fame. Now I see them: barefoot and in rags, plodding Along mute alleys: Pissarro, Soutine, And Modigliani, our brothers – They are being led with ropes By the descendants of Durer and Holbein – to death in the ovens. To death in the ovens. How am I supposed to cry? My eyes fill with tears turned to brine.98 They have been dried by mockery. And I have lost my last hope.99 Baradulin’s translation masterfully renders thirty-one more lines of his compatriots’ requiem to the slaughtered Jewish artists:100 How can I cry, When every day I hear The last planks being ripped off my roof,101 When I feel so debilitated by war By the devastation of the lands on which I stand, The lands where I will have my final repose?102 And I see the fire, the smoke, the gas Reaching up for the heavens Turning blue to black. I see:

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Torn hair and teeth. They give rise to anger on my palette. I am standing on a wasteland near mountains Of shoes, garments turned to rags, ashes. I am whispering a prayer for souls of the innocent I am standing, and suddenly David Comes out to me from my paintings. He is holding a lute. He wants to help me weep By playing Psalms. And after him Comes Moses, telling me not to be afraid. He orders us to be calm Until he writes new tablets for this new world. The last spark has gone out, The last body has disappeared, only my fear Remains, as if before a new deluge. And I arise, and bid you farewell, And I am going in the direction of the New Temple Where I will light a candle For each and every soul.103 In my view, Baradulin translates Chagall’s poetry as only a soulmate can.104 Chagall and Baradulin, two countrymen with similar poetic perceptions and inspirations, shared an undying love for Biełaruś. This goes a long way to explaining why so many of Chagall poems, translated by Baradulin, are dedicated to that country. Here is an excerpt to confirm this point – the first stanza of Chagall’s “Da vysokaj bramy” (Towards a tall tower): “My motherland is in my soul, / You understand? / I am coming here without an entrance visa. / When I am lonely, she sees to it, / She puts me to bed and wraps me up as only mothers do.” One more important connection between these two poets, patriots, and humanists should be mentioned: their intense and unshakeable faith in God. So it is not incidental that Baradulin’s final translation from Chagall is “Pra hetuju jasnaść (About this clarity):

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My God, for this clarity, That You willed to my soul, Thank You. My God, for this peace, That You gave to my soul, Thank You. My God, night is coming, My eyes close till sunrise, And then I will paint anew, Pictures for You Of earth and sky.105 Baradulin translated from Yiddish four poems by Isak Płatner (1895– 1961), a writer, critic, journalist, and translator.106 Płatner (also known as Ajzik), wrote in Yiddish, Biełarusian, and, later, Russian, English, and German. Born in Sakaloŭ-Padliašski (in today’s Poland), Płatner left his home country for the United States in 1922. He returned to Biełaruś in 1932 and served on the Biełarusian State Radio Committee while contributing Yiddish writings to October and Štern. During the war, he worked in Russia. Płatner returned to Biełaruś in 1944 and five years later was imprisoned. He spent the years 1949 to 1956 in a Soviet labour camp, which broke his health. Płatner was an excellent translator from English and German into Biełarusian. His translations of the Grimm Brothers’ fairy tales are still popular in Biełaruś. Each of the four poems that Baradulin includes in his collection presents reminiscences about different periods of the poet’s life: childhood, youth, and maturity. In his poems, he never alludes to his ten years in the United States: all are rooted in Płatner’s motherland. However, the last stanza of the first untitled poem shows some bitterness towards his labour camps days and ends as follows: “The fire of war drove everyone away from home / One’s heart is overwhelmed with memories and pain. / And I, most probably, will end up in a cattle car, / Leaving behind my poor cows.” The second poem, also written in Russian, “Osennie vechera” (Autumn evenings [1957]), begins as a wistful reminiscence as an older man achieves peace in his life and expresses gratitude for his personal survival. This

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poem is musical, philosophical, and reflective; it is pleasant reading for all ages and seasons. The same lyrical warmth is expressed in the opening lines of the poem that follows, “Pesnia pro mesiats” (A song about the moon [1960]): “For a long time an inquisitive moon / That lives in a spring sky, doesn’t sleep. / At that time I need to fall in love again / In order to sing to the moon once more.” This poetic beginning continues into the second stanza, but in the third Płatner unexpectedly switches his romantic interests to Soviet achievements in space (i.e., moon travel). This enthusiastic Soviet propaganda is unsatisfactorily mixed up with repeated expressions of the poet’s intention to fall in love with a woman about whom he has dreamed. The poem is interesting mainly as a reflection of standard Soviet cultural directives. The last of Płatner’s poems translated by Baradulin is “Moj adkaz” (My response [1960]), a self-justification and a personal biography presented in well-rhymed verses. The positive side of this autobiographical poem is that it reflects the life story of many who, like Płatner, lived in troubled times. Płatner’s enthusiasm for the Soviet system and its rulers indicates that they had made a slave of him, though he had been so strong and free in his early years. Baradulin then translates the works of Hirš (Ryhor) Relies. Unlike Płatner, Relies was not broken by the Soviet system; in terms of content, quality, and poetic mastery, his sixteen poems, which take up eighteen pages of Baradulin’s volume, are of impressive quality.107 Indeed, Relies’s work does not strike a single false note. The first line of “Takaja dolia” (Such a fate) is a well-developed artistic metaphor that sets the mood of the entire poem: The house left its foundation a long time ago And there are no neighbours any more. Trees, heavy with wretched apples, Have turned wild, their untamed trunks covered by vines. They are burned by heat, beaten by heavy rains and hail. A dreadful cold captures them, the dispossessed. There is one tree that stands alone, deserted. All the maps are leading to it, drawn to it.

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Its dry branches are twisted like human arms. Everything stands against it: stones and heavy sticks. This tree recalls the sounds of youth, Recalls when nightingales were young. Why is fate so evil? Why does the tree endure these torments? Why can’t it run away to a meadow? Its apples used to have the taste of paradise …108 Allegorically, the entire poem presents a common Biełarusian and Jewish fate during the Second World War. The final stanza, which repeats the question “Why?” three times, can be found in the works of many Biełarusian writers of both Jewish and Christian origins. This question most often goes hand in hand with a second question, “What for?,” which Biełarusian writers ask on behalf of their people. Metaphorically, Relies’s translated poem goes deeper than this. Instead of melodramatically asking “What for?” he links the reader with the apple tree of paradise, which “incidentally” happens to grow in his home country. The poem’s sophisticated and simultaneously clear images depict the torments of dark Jewish fate alongside symbols of a familiar Biełarusian landscape. In his poetry Relies constantly resorts to a few stock symbols of Biełaruś. An apple, for example, signifies Biełarusian land as much as does a potato and the forest’s seasonal gifts (mushrooms and berries); a blue cornflower symbolizes childhood; while a stork represents home, childbirth, and family happiness. These symbolic images occur throughout Relies’s poetry and, in tandem with his lyricism and sincerity, give every reader a taste of a happy and safe childhood. The poems “U dziacinstvie” (Childhood) and “Dom” (Home) evoke similar emotions through the use of familiar images: Years do not change my home. The stork calls without cease. And though the house isn’t so remote, No one can just drop by here. The windows are always sparkling clean,

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And in the oven are mushrooms, “Slippery Jacks,” A ray of light streams across the floor, A ficus plant stretches out its branches. The lock works, And the doors don’t squeak. This house, built by my father To last forever, Lives only in my memory, In the fragrance of living wood. My home won’t ever give a shelter To anyone, not even to me.109 In “Saliut” (The fireworks), the victorious fireworks of 1944 conjure an image of Relies’s murdered mother.110 The poet imagines fireworks resurrecting his mother, and, in his lyrical monologue, he consoles the dead and promises an end to the catastrophe perpetrated by Germany. Even though the fireworks were conducted in Moscow, only half a sentence mentions the Soviet capital; the lines that follow then send greetings to the poet’s native land: “Good day to you, Biełaruś / My native home!” The three poems of 1944 are dedicated to Relies’s personal losses and to those of his country. With humble respect, he persuades himself to continue to live despite all the deaths and misfortunes around him. In “Saładziej ad miodu” (Sweeter than honey [1957]), he tells his childhood friend, the Christian Biełarusian Mikita Padrez, who writes to him often and invites him to visit their birthplace, how important this connection is for his soul. Mikita tells him in detail about their apple orchards, and about other people of their common childhood, and about the local news. Despite these frequent invitations, Relies can visit his birthplace only in his dreams and poetry: a physical visit would be far too painful for him as his home, with its stork’s nest on the roof, had been destroyed. The poet artfully depicts these emotions in his biographical narrative poem “Pa Prystupkach” (On the steps), whose excerpts Baradulin translates brilliantly. Translations of Chajm Malcinski’s poetry end this section of Baradulin’s collection. Malcinski is honoured with twenty-two pages. There are more untitled than named poems in the collection – an indication of the communality of Malcinski’s poetry, which is sophisticated and intellectually challenging compared to some of Baradulin’s other translations

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from Yiddish. Baradulin reminds the reader that Malcinski, who had been a war hero, an invalid, and a prisoner in a Soviet labour camp, preserved his humanity, humility, and passionate love for life. Despite the pain of losing his family, neighbours, and way of life, Malcinski did not hate the murderers, racists, and Soviet criminals. One finds no trace of bitterness in his poetry, which is optimistic without being blindly or slavishly patriotic. He is grateful for the birth of his son, for old and new friends, for nature, and for life itself. Malcinski also possesses an exquisite sense of humour. The above-mentioned qualities are probably the reason Baradulin chose to end his collection of translations with twenty-seven poems by Malcinski. The poet consistently brings his reader close to nature. His method is evident in the first translated poem, “Jadzierca” (A little kernel). The nut’s kernel symbolizes a happy childhood and the beginning and continuity of life: it signifies new life for a tree and, simultaneously, for a child, who tries to understand the laws of nature. Indeed, all of the poems that follow intertwine nature and humans. In “Staraja, śto z bazaru cicha idzie …” (An old woman who slowly walks from the market …), a typical street is turned into a picturesque and joyful sight by the unexpected detail of an old woman returning from the market loaded with local goods. She carries Biełarusian “Anton” apples, potatoes, onions, and other seasonal produce. Nothing indicates her Jewish origin except Malcinski’s happy reaction: she is old and alive! And here is his wish for her: Be well tomorrow, granny, be. Please go to market, be in town, Be healthy, please don’t let me down. I cannot fall asleep, you know, And when I do, evil flames consume my nightmares.111 Though many of Malcinski’s poems and vignettes are in the first person, the poet’s sense of humour makes the reader feel as if she or he is listening to a third-person narrator. Even when the poet imagines himself in a coffin in his poem “Budu liažać ja ŭ trunie” (I will be in the coffin), what worries him the most is that he won’t be able to smile anymore: I will be in my coffin, peaceful and gentle, Not even able to smile,

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Is this me? Like a laughing drunkard I used to sway And the forest would endure, Ringing with my fiery tongue.112 Baradulin’s onomatopoeia, and the melodic renderings of his translations into Biełarusian, are impeccable but not translatable into English. Another example of this is found in a poem dedicated to his son, “Skolki piesień u mianie” (How many songs for you I have): How many songs do I have For you, My sunny son? As many as the rain in May gives us. When you count its drops My little bird, Then I will fill Your head with the sun. Little bunnies will run to you Early, with the first rays, Just to glance at the sun Through their looking glasses. And if one little bunny Turns into a sunray,113 And wakes you up. Don’t frighten it, Just listen to daddy. The sunray, like a bunny, Will shift and leap, And this, my son, Is my song to you, and all.114 Malcinski often returns to the same theme. Thus, there is another long poem dedicated to his son, “Zdzivić mianie chočacca piacihadovamu chłapčuku …” (A five-year-old wants to surprise me …). This is not to suggest that he inclines towards repetitiveness. There are, for example, four poems in the collection dedicated to the sea, and despite the same

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theme and sometimes similar imagery – pebbles, sun, wind, waves – all four carry diverse messages and portray different but always positive emotions. Similar warm feelings penetrate Malcinski’s “Biełaruskamu paetu” (To a Biełarusian poet), in which he expresses his intimate friendship with a Christian friend and colleague: It seems to me we are in a bit less trouble now, And I am sure you understand well what that means. I know I am not mistaken, dear brother. Today, in the forest you heard me while I spoke Yiddish to the trees. Oh, what a joy! A ringing echo flew around, It woke up the autumn forest, entirely gold. And your soul was touched by the sound Of my language, and you understood All, from the first to the very last word.115

Niezabytajie, Viekaviecˇnajie (Unforgettable, Immortal): Part 1 The rest of Tolki b habrei byli! Kniha pavahi i siabroŭstva, titled “Paplečnikam pa duchu, siabram pa žyćci” (To the spiritual brothers-in-arms and friends in life) contains Baradulin’s own poems. This section of the collection has two parts, with the common subtitle “Niezabytajie, viekaviečnajie” (Unforgettable and immortal). The first part has eleven poems dedicated to the Almighty, Jesus Christ, the city of Jerusalem, and the Biełarusian landscape. It expresses the unity of Biełarusian people of all faiths and ethnicities. This section is profoundly philosophical and at the same time deeply personal. I present samples of Baradulin’s tribute to the Almighty and His Son together with other poems from this section in appendix 2. But I now draw the reader’s attention to a few exceptional features of Baradulin’s perceptions of God, Christ, and Biełarusian Jews. First, Baradulin is not one of those Christians who just leafs through the Old Testament: he gives it as much or even more consideration than he does the New Testament. Thus, his inspiration to rewrite King David’s Psalms in Biełarusian bridges the poet of the Old Testament with the poet of modernity.116 This project succeeds owing to Baradulin’s sincere religious

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feelings, clear philosophical ideas, and natural musicality. Second, unlike many poets, he directly connects modern Judaism with biblical Judaism. Third, it never shocked Baradulin that Christ was born and died as a Jew – for him, it was a simple fact of his own religious, poetic, and quotidian life. There are different genres of verse in the first part of this section. Some, like the first verse, show a familiar domestic landscape and serenity, while others display an original philosophy.

Niezabytajie, Viekaviecˇnajie (Unforgettable, Immortal): Part 2 The second part of “Niezabytajie, viekaviečnajie” is just as personal as the first but more casual, and it is directly addressed to Baradulin’s cultural heroes and to his many friends of Biełarusian Jewish origin. Some addressees, like Chagall, are spiritual entities, but most are people with whom Baradulin travelled the many roads of life in the flesh. For some individuals the poet created a single verse; others received more. Altogether there are fifty poems in this part of the book, and, though it would be nice to translate them all, this is not feasible. So I limit myself to providing a list of the people to whom the poems were addressed, with their dates of birth and death. The first five poems are dedicated to Mark Chagall (1887–1985): “Sustrecha” (Meeting), “Mark Chagall,” “Viartańnie snoŭ” (Return of dreams), “Da partreta Marka Šahała” (To Mark Chagall’s portrait), and “Cviki” (Nails). Two untitled poems addressed to Ryhor (Hirš) Relies (1913–2004) are related to the poet’s nineteenth birthday. To Zair Azgur (1908–95) and Ryhor Biarozkin (1918–81), Baradulin devotes one poem each: “Naturščyki” (Models) to the former and an untitled one to the latter. Navum Kislik (1925–98) is honoured with nine poems, but only the first is titled: “Chvała papery” (Praise to a paper). The poet wrote his poem “Na vystavie” (At the exposition) for the Biełarusian-born artist Abram Rabkin (1925–2013), and two for Alexander Drakachrust (1923–2008); the first is untitled, but the second carries the dedication “Pamiaci Aliaksandra Drakachrusta” (To the everlasting memory of Alexander Drakachrust). Vankarem Nikifarovič (1934–2012), the editor of Baradulin’s book, is given ten poems. Three of these (the first, third, and last) are titled “Mikrarajon” (Micro-city-district), “Inteliekt ziamli” (Intellect of

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the earth), and “Radzima snoŭ” (Motherland of dreams). Jakaŭ Serper (1938–94) and Mira Serper (1938–) are noted with four longer poems, the last of which is dedicated to the memory of Jakaŭ Serper, the poet’s childhood friend and neighbour. Six poems are addressed to Barys Zaboraŭ (1935– ), the second and third of which are titled “Saliut Paryžu” (Salute to Paris) and “U majsterni Barysa Zaborava” (In Barys Zaboraŭ’s atelier). Two poems, “Cyhanskaja prafesija” and one without a title, are written for Samson Paliakoŭ (1938– ). Michail Hierčyk (1932–2008) has two verses dedicated to him, but only the first has a title, “Čałaviek” (A man). David Simanovič (1932–14) receives four poems, among which only the third has a title, “Zorka Davida” (Star of David). To Iryna Sliepovich (1952– ), who edited his volume, and Uładzimir Idelson (1926–2005), Baradulin dedicates one poem each. Our journey into Baradulin’s exploration of his Biełarusian Jewish countrymen and countrywomen shows that his feelings concerning the Jews were shared by most of the preceding and of his own generation. Like Mark Twain before him, Baradulin ponders the question “What is the secret of his [a Jew’s] immortality?”117 In his view, it is their respect for whatever time and space in which they find themselves: this includes reverence for the past (the pact with the Almighty and the remembrance of their ancestry), love of the present (the high value they place on human life), and hope for the future (investment in their children’s health and education). Baradulin has an almost mystical sense of God’s purpose in bringing Jews to Biełaruś. He thinks that Biełaruś’s distinctiveness might vanish if the Jews were to disappear from his country’s memory. Indeed, Ryhor Baradulin bequeathed his compatriouts an invaluable humanistic tradition. He had no prejudices regarding race, colour, or caste. In his view, for much of the past two centuries, Biełarusian Christians and Jews were the first targets of the rulers of the Russian and Soviet empires. To conclude this short journey into Baradulin’s exploration of his Biełarusian compatriots, I would like to cite Michele Somerville’s notion about a poet’s role in a society: “Poets keep the world safe for imagination, and imagination preserves the liberty of even those who care as little for it as for poetry.”118 Baradulin certainly took care to bequeath us this liberty, one of many marks of which is his Book of Respect and Friendship.

10 Georgii Musievicˇ: People Who Used to Live among Us: Dedicated to Jewish People Who Endured So Much Suffering The darkest places in hell are reserved for those who maintain their neutrality in times of moral crisis. –Dante When the war was lost, Hitler called the mass murder of the Jews his victory. –Timothy Snyder

In a slightly more covert way than Hitler, Stalin also celebrated his victory over Soviet Jewry; this was particularly obvious during the first peak of the Cold War.1 His triumph was manifested in many ways. One of the most powerful was to create a state of emotional, intellectual, and cultural amnesia with regard to the Jewish victims of the Second World War; in the ussr, this ruling sentiment became an unwritten law. In the words of Timothy Snyder: “If the Stalinist notion of the war was to prevail, the fact that the Jews were its main victims had to be forgotten. Also to be forgotten was that the Soviet Union had been allied to Nazi Germany when the war began in 1939, and that the Soviet Union was unprepared for the German attack in 1941.”2 The results of these policies are explored in a book by Georgii Musievič, which has the long and self-explanatory title: Narod, kotoryi zhil sredi nas: Mnogostradalnomu evreiskomu narodu posviashchaetsia (People who used to live among us: Dedicated to Jewish people who endured so much suffering).3 Musievič vividly limns a small Biełarusian territory and shows how traditional Jewish livelihoods were destroyed by the tyrannical systems of Stalin and Hitler. The author plainly describes how local rulers prohibited the memory of the Holocaust. Musievič articulates a positive societal relationship in the common past of Christians and

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Biełarusian Jews in two Biełarusian towns, Kamianiec-Litoŭsk(i) and Vysoka-Litoŭsk, as well as a few Jewish agricultural colonies and settlements in the Brest region. Consequently, through the lens of Musievič’s work the reader is able to consider the genuine history of Biełarusian Jews in these Biełarusian locations. Ultimately, his work enhances the historiography of cultural relations and adds to our knowledge of Biełarusian Jewish communities. Against all odds, the author confronts the Stalinist and post-Soviet political systems, describing in plain terms how Soviet postwar rulers never allowed painful memories of the local Holocaust. Musievič writes that Jews and Christians had once got along well in the city of Brest and its province.4

Context: Framing Origins A few survivors of the Holocaust from those lands under the authority of the Soviet Union, who right before and after the war managed to immigrate to Australia, Canada, Israel, the United States, and other places, contributed to a book compiled by Sefer Yizkor, Kameints de-Lita: A Memorial Book of Kamenets Litovsk, Zastavye, and the Colonies (Kamianiec, Biełaruś), which was written in Hebrew and Yiddish but almost immediately translated into English.5 Yizkor’s collection is a tribute to a vanished Biełarusian Jewish way of life and is written predominantly from Jewish memories and for Jewish commemoration. In his contribution, Musievič pays tribute to the lives of local Jews and confronts their violent deaths. However, he is writing mainly for Biełarusian Christians who, in the generations since, have been deprived of the knowledge of their common history with Jews. In a short preface, the author provides a concise history of the Jews who lived in ancient Palestine and who lost their lands to the Romans during the first century ce: After losing their Promised Land and their state, the Hebrews endured misfortunes, exiles, and persecutions for many centuries. However, two thousand years later they managed to return to their primordial historic motherland and to re-established their independent state – Israel. Verily, these people endured many sufferings. At the same time, it is impossible to refuse them their huge

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intellectual potency. And they successfully used it for the good of their people. There are many strong-hearted individuals among them, if I may say so, of a truly passionate kind. However, their passion was never directed at war or conquests but at peaceful purposes. The Hebrew religion is one of the most ancient. It originated during the first century bce and gave birth to two mighty branches of the world religions: Christianity (first century ce) and Islam (seventh century ce).6 The second introduction to Musevič’s work is also historical. It presents the author’s rendering of Hebrew life in Palestine before the Jews were exiled and dispersed by the Romans; later, the author follows and describes Hebrew migration and settlement over the past two thousand years. He examines what shaped the Jewish people’s national character and created typical occupations, formed their customs and community, worldview, education, and more: Circumstances were such that Jews had to learn international trade and create commercial centers, protecting it all via diplomatic routes and military forces of the states where they were living at the time, covering territories from the Pyrenees to China. Jews, as history shows, were often in symbiosis with those in power. The rulers needed money and Jews were looking after trade opportunities, banking-credit systems, and development of craftsmanshiptrade. Thus, their wellbeing depended entirely on good relationships with heads of states. This happened in Persia, Khazar’s Empire, Spain, France, Germany, and other countries.7 In the course of this overview, Musevič notes the many kinds of suffering and persecution that Jews have endured. He explains to the reader what brought them to the Slavic lands, in particular to the gdl and the Kingdom of Poland. He also, by giving many examples to the contrary, defies the common opinion that Jews were living in closed communities and did not take part in Slavic affairs. One of these examples is the life of Colonel Berka Ioselevič, who formed a Jewish regiment that became one of the bravest military units during the Tadeusz Kościuszko (Tadevuš Kasciuška) uprising against the Russian Empire.8

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About the Author: Biography, Regional Links, and Motivation Georgii Musievič was born in Dmitrowicze (Biełarusian: Dzmitravičy), near Kamianiec-Litoŭski. All his life he was closely connected to that town and its area, which is currently a part of the Biełarusian Brest region. Kamianiec-Litoŭski had many different rulers since it was founded by the Volhynian prince of Kyivan descent, Vladimir, in 1276. Ever since, many princes of Kyivan Ruś, the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, the Moscow Principality, and the Commonwealth of Both Nations (Rzeczpospolita/Reč Paspalitaja) have claimed this place at different times. A majority of the population was Biełarusian and Jewish. After the partitions, a victorious Russian Empire reigned there, and, later, in accordance with the Treaty of Riga, 1921, Kamieniec Litewski (Litoŭski) became a part of Poland. Before 1921, Biełarusians, Polish, and Ukrainians of many faiths, as well as other Slavic and non-Slavic peoples – Latvians, Lithuanians, Tatars, and Jews – were living there in peace. In 1939 the area was given back to Soviet Biełaruś. It was not by accident that Kamianec-Litoŭski got his second name, “Litoŭski.” At the time of the Biełarusian, Lithuanian, and Polish commonwealth, known as Reč Paspalitaja, Kamianiec-Litoŭski had the royal palace, and it was a meeting place of royals, nobles, and their subjects. Kamianiec is located near Brest, which made the town a natural crossroad between the north and the south, the west and the east of the gdl. This town was located in the centre of both the Grand Duchy of Lithuania and Reč Paspalitaja, and, naturally, it became a resting place for many merchants and travellers on the main road that led from Viĺnia to Lwów. During the rule of Prince Vladimir in the thirteenth century, the town’s landmark was the main defence tower, called Biełaja vieža (the White Tower). This tower also gave its name to “Biełaviežskaja pušča” (the White Tower’s thicket), a huge, dense forest where ancient bisons (Biełarusian: zubry) had been at home for millennia. While Georgii Musievič admired and treasured his home area, he also balanced his rich professional life with an intense and productive preoccupation with the history and genealogy of his own family and the history of his native land. His family records start with the year 1660. His grandfather, Piotr Elenetskii, was a Russian Orthodox priest. Father Elenetskii was also an exceptionally well-educated person and bibliophile, whose library comprised close to five hundred tomes and collections of three major

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Russian journals that had been published in the nineteenth century and the first two decades of the twentieth century. The library’s volumes were of diverse genres, from history books to belles-lettres. Many were rare, particularly those in Old Church Slavonic. All of this was preserved with the intention that it would be passed down to the grandchild, Georgii Musievič. The boy was only four years old when this home library became his favourite place – by then, he could read. But in 1944 the family had to flee their home for a few days when the war’s front line came within a kilometre of them. When they returned, there was no more library. Hungarians, who had taken over their house, had used the books as fuel for the kitchen’s stove. Only a few volumes have survived, including a treasure from the grandfather’s library – a Russian translation of World History, edited by H.F. Helmolt.9 Through books, mostly historical in nature, and his own meticulous commitment to self-education, Georgii Musievič, fluent in Russian, Biełarusian, Ukrainian, and Polish, became a true expert in local lore. His formal schooling, however, was in physical education and culture. He graduated from the five-year university program as a qualified high school physical education instructor. After graduation Musievič worked in this capacity for five years, and his students excelled in various sports. As a result of this success, he was appointed director of a children’s sport school, called “Pušča.” Musievič held this position for thirty years until his retirement. His students often took part in sport competitions in the larger cities of the former ussr. Then, in his spare moments, he would run to an antique or a second-hand book store, hunting for rare books in Russian, Biełarusian, Ukrainian, and Polish. His first choice was history books; however, any rare book would make his collector’s heart rejoice. In his early eighties, Musevič began to part with his treasures by donating them to libraries and Biełarusian cultural centres and institutions. Elena Danilova’s article in the newspaper Zaria (Sunrise) is dedicated to some of these donations: Brest’s regional library, named after M. Gorkii, received in 2012 two hundred eighty books from Georgii Stepanovich Musevich (Musievič), a well-known historian from Kamenets. It is mainly historical literature (an old passion of Georgii Stepanovich) in Russ-

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ian, Biełarusian, Polish, and Ukrainian. There are some real rarities among these gifts. Thus, the library got Vinogradov’s Vseobshchaia istoriia [World history], published in 1871, Illovaiskii’s Rukovodstvo po vseobshchei istorii [World history textbook], dated 1876, Frantsussko-russkii slovar’ [French–Russian dictionary], which was produced in Petrograd in 1917 – altogether, over thirty old manuscripts [were donated]. One hundred sixty books Georgii Musevich gave to a district library, named after V. Ignatovskii; a hundred more went to the church library of Saint Simeon. But the richest collection went to Poland. Georgii Stepanovich sent eight hundred books to Białystok (!).10 This valuable gift was accompanied abroad by Natalia Herasimiuk, the librarian of the Center of Biełarusian culture in Hajnaŭka (Hajnówka.).11 Indeed, the richest part of his collection, eight hundred books, went to Hajnówka, in the Białystok region (currently Poland). This donation of Georgii Musevič is particularly symbolic. Biełaruś had been first linguistically and to some extent culturally colonized by Polish and Russian rulers in the seventeenth and the eighteenth centuries. However, only the Soviet “tsars” managed the almost complete Russification of Biełarusian lands. And while Poland was none too benevolent towards Biełarusian culture, there is still more cultural recognition of a Biełarusian presence in a town like Hajnówka than there is in similar places in today’s Biełaruś. Indeed, this gift is a true tribute to the people who are trying to preserve their Biełarusian roots. Young Georgii was accustomed to hearing Yiddish in his favourite city until all the Jewish inhabitants vanished from his world in 1942. This disappearance had a profound long-term impact on him and inspired Musievič to concentrate on writing about his former neighbours, and to dedicate his work to his country’s lost population. Here is what the author wrote in the first foreword to his 105-page treatise, which took him eight years to complete (from 2001 to 2009): “I am standing at the threshold of eternity, therefore I cannot, I have no right to, take along with me everything that I know, what I found in documents, what I heard from people who couldn’t stay indifferent, and what I learned from their memories.”12 Further on, the author lists thirty-four contributors who supplied him with

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information in many interviews and presented him with documentation. He expresses his gratitude for their remarkable efforts to tell the truth. It should be underlined, once again, that, due to the absence of Jews, most of his contributors were local Biełarusians of Christian origin. Though most of the responses to Musievič’s book were positive, an anonymous author published a single article containing overtly antiSemitic sentiments. This person paraphrased Musievič’s title as: “Pravda o narode, kotoryi zhil sredi nas: V Kamentse – Holokost? Chto takoe – Holokost?” (Truth about the people who used to live among us: Holocaust in Kamenets? What is it – Holocaust?).13 The anonymous author is a ferocious Holocaust denier, whose animosity ranges freely in his two-part treatise (only the first part is available and posted). This shadowy individual – my request for his name was never answered – “bravely” criticizes Musievič’s work, resorting to the most typical anti-Semitic slurs. He contends that various anti-Semitic slanders are his own coinage and presents them as new. On the one hand, he stands alone in his anti-Jewish outrage; on the other, he must have had some support from those who allowed this corrupt text and distorted information to appear on their site.14 In any event, with the knowledge that this isolated case exists, let us now discuss Musievič and his useful book.

Historical Framework Musievič begins with the year 1500, which, according to him, marks the birth of active Jewish life in Kamianiec-Litoŭski. He tells the reader that, although some sources mention Jews living in the city as far back as 1465, there is no confirmation of their existence until Šloma Ichielievič, a Jewish merchant from Brest, purchased a house.15 It is significant that there are few historical facts available about Kamianiec’s Jewish history. Every contribution of local Jewish memories to the website www.jewishgen.org, including an excellent memoir by Leybl Goldberg (Sarid), A Short History of Kamenentz-Litovsk, laments the fact that, because of the Holocaust, there are no Jewish records pertaining to this place. For this reason, everyone who is interested in the subject should use Lithuanian chronicles.16 According to these sources, as Goldberg states at the beginning of his ar-

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ticle, “in 1878 there were 6885 inhabitants in Kamenetz and the adjoining villages; 5900 (90%) of them were Jews.” Though Goldberg and Musievič are using the same sources, their involvement comes from different vantage points. Goldberg is searching for his roots, while Musievič, who was never uprooted from his motherland, is doing more than just lending a hand to people who, like Goldberg, are seeking documented facts about their ancestors. In his book, Musievič creates a new repository of Jewish life in historic Biełaruś – a life that was wiped out in the mid-twentieth century. His accomplishments are especially stimulating and important because even the most authoritative sources have missed the eradication of Jews from the region during the Second World War. The Holocaust Encyclopedia, for example, gives data only about Brest-Litoŭski.17 Because of the dated interviews and named contributors, Musievič’s work stands out as a historic chronicle and solid academic contribution. But by Western standards, which are much stricter than Soviet and post-Soviet standards, some scholars might not accept People Who Lived among Us as an academic work.18 Nevertheless – and this is of paramount importance – Musievič’s book includes valuable tables that provide impeccable data. Most of these tables are from 1939 and are accompanied by the author’s comprehensive comments. The first table is titled “References to Jewish habitations in 1939.”19 It shows that 92.1 percent of Kamianiec-Litoŭsk’s inhabitants were Jews, and it lists twenty-three names of nearby places that Jews called home. Altogether, there were 6,921 Jews in the district. The numbers varied from two thousand Jews in the neighbouring town, Vysoko-Litoŭsk, to a single person in the village of Liešanka. The second table is titled “Professions of Kamianiec-Litoŭsk’s residents.”20 Here Musievič presents a comparative study that shows that, out of forty-eight professional occupations, nineteen excluded Biełarusian Christians. These nineteen purely Jewish professions included house painter, glazier, watchmaker, harness maker, leather dresser, butcher, tailor, hat-maker, and baker. The most common profession, also exclusively Jewish, was carter (bałagoła/bałahoła). Shopkeeper, teacher, and labourer were also popular occupations among local Jews, as were various types of trade, reflecting the many farmers’ markets in town. Trading stopped in Kamianiec-Litoŭsk only one day a week – Saturday – and during the Jewish High Holidays.

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Jewish trade had its own, time-honoured methods, characteristics, and approaches. First, there was narrow specialization in produce and goods. Second, there was stiff competition, the result of which was always a winning situation for the customer in terms of variety, quality, and price. Third, Jewish tradesmen could sell on credit if a customer did not have money. Fourth, Jews did not mind intermediary work. For example, a second-hand dealer could buy a chicken from a peasant and sell it for more to wealthier Jews. The Jewish vendor was not idly waiting for a customer to visit his little shop. He insistently called out, almost dragging a potential customer in, and did not let him leave without a purchase. They particularly valued returning customers. Jews did not mind serving others. Thus, a landowner, Mankovskii from Chodoos Dolnych, on his way to the Catholic Church on Sundays or Christian High Holidays, would stop by the shop of Mojše Vapniarski and tell him what he wanted. On his way home, Mankovskii would pick up his orders, and, as a result, Vapniarski made a small profit.21 Christians dominated in agriculture (made up of the peasantry) and in the municipal bureaucracy (made up of members of the upper classes). Musievič’s table and comments demonstrate that most Jews were labourers or tradespeople, impoverished and therefore socio-economically closer to the peasantry than to the ruling class. Though a minority in KamianiecLitoŭski’s agricultural landscape, Jewish peasants loomed large in nearby agricultural colonies and settlements such as Volčyn, Abramovo, Sarovo, and others.22 The next table, “Jewish and Christian homes in Kamianiec-Litoŭski,” is extremely telling in a number of respects, including living conditions.23 There were 541 houses on forty streets in Kamianiec-Litoŭski. Of these, 163 were owned by Christians (out of 335 individuals) and 378 belonged to Jews (out of 3,909 individuals). This suggests that there were around eight Jewish dwellers per house, while, on average, there were only two people in Christian houses. There are no data to tell us how many well-todo inhabitants of both faiths rented out their properties to impoverished apprentices and others who could not afford their own homes. Nevertheless, the numbers that Musievič provides convincingly illustrate Jewish poverty in his hometown before the Second World War.

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When the Soviets took over the town, many streets were renamed. Musievič’s next table is titled “Names of streets in Kamianiec-Litoŭski.”24 His comment is that sixteen streets (out of forty) and three squares disappeared after the Second World War, and the remaining twenty-six streets were renamed. These familiar names vanished just as did the prewar Jewish population.

Breadth of Themes Narod, kotoryi zhil sredi nas has sixty-seven parts, each with a selfexplanatory title. Every one of them amounts to a concise exposition of a specific topic, be it history, economics, culture, religion, or some other aspect of daily life. For example, chapter 3 is titled “Occupations of Jews in Kamianiec.” Each subject in a chapter is well developed, based on verifiable facts, and of exceptional literary quality. Every chapter reads like a short story and could be recognized as such had it not been an account of what is presented in fact-based events and documents. For example, chapter 5, “Industry and Craftsmanship,” names and describes all the industries and factories of the area that had Jewish owners, lessees, or labourers. There were three hundred tradespeople in Kamianiec-Litoŭski alone: forty-eight of them were shoemakers and thirteen were tailors. A merchant of the second guild,25 Lejba Vargaftik, opened a textile factory in Vysoko-Litoŭsk in the nineteenth century. This enterprise employed seventy-seven people, seventy-two of whom were Jews. Before the Second World War, a good number of businesses belonged to local Jews. Among these were such important ones as the hydroelectric plant, seven mills, three blacksmith shops, a brickwork, and a leather factory. Many Jews, as Musievič’s table shows, were either keepers of corner stores or experienced tradespeople. Most Jews, according to the author, were poor labourers who lived from hand to mouth. Chapter 6, “Agricultural Colonies,” narrates the unique history of Jewish involvement in local farming. Musievič tells us that, due to tsarist restrictions, most Jews were not involved in working the land and that there were a number of Jewish agricultural colonies. Some, like Volčyn, had Slavic names, and others had the biblical names of Abramovo, Sarovo, Lotovo, and others.26 Musievič describes in detail Jewish life in these set-

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tlements, giving pertinent historic references dating as far back as 1700. For example, in 1700 there were twenty-four families in Saravo, who initially received about sixty-two acres each from the Russian government. At the beginning of this venture, there was enough land to feed these families. However, as they grew, the land did not, and many colonists were forced to sell or rent their land and to move to the cities, where they entered their traditional trades. Some engaged in seasonal labour in Europe, the United States, and Canada and, upon returning home, invested in family farms. Others left their country for Palestine – for example, Izrael Ahkienazi, who, in addition to his own work, taught newcomers from Europe how to farm. Musievič underscores the role spiritual education played for Jewish children. The colonists, who did not pay taxes to the Jewish communities in the towns, had to provide this education themselves. “The main element of the colonists’ living, their spiritual life, was religion and the education of their children. That is why the first colonists, as soon as they constructed their huts and agricultural buildings, had erected a Beit Midrash, which combined the functions of a synagogue and a religious school.”27 The author describes in detail the exterior and interior of a typical Beit Midrash – its modest straw roof and the festive blue ceiling, decorated with stars and signs of the Zodiac. Prayers were said three times a day, and colonists took turns performing them. Musievič devotes even more attention to the particulars of children’s education. The reader learns not only about the thirteen-hour school day, which lasted from 7:00 a.m. to 8:00 p.m., but also the names of the four rabbis who taught there. He notes that one of those Rabbis, Lejzer Vełveł, was also a religious judge and a charity activist who collected farm produce for the poor. Even though colonists were eligible for free education in Russian or Polish elementary schools (depending on who was ruling Biełaruś at the time), they preferred their own private schools (Beit Midrash). Colonists who did not have money to pay the school fees would borrow it against future harvests. Colonies existed until 1941, and, according to the documents and many oral witnesses that Musievič collected and presented, Christians and Jews lived in peace and in mutual respect. In Saravo, for example, Jews lived together with Biełarusian Ukrainians: children played together, Christians went to Jewish doctors and lawyers, and, until the Nazi invasion, there was no trouble among locals of various ethnicities and

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faiths. At the end of this extended chapter, the author expresses sorrow regarding Jewish sufferings during the Second World War and laments the loss of decency between ethnicities – a decency upon which life in Biełaruś had long been based. Chapter 7, “Transport Is a Window to the World,” tells the history of transportation in Kamianiec-Litoŭski and Vysoko-Litoŭsk. This account is not complicated: the first trucks and buses appeared only in the 1930s; before that, inhabitants had used the services of carters – bałahołas or bałagołas, as everyone called them in Yiddish. With the building of a bus station, the town acquired a central meeting place for all its inhabitants and, simultaneously, a parting place for those who were leaving in search of a better life in the United States, Australia, Canada, Cuba, Palestine, and other places. Chapter 8, “Labour Conditions,” is one of the shortest in the book. It tells the reader that, although there were many highly qualified blue-collar workers in town, they could hardly make ends meet, and only one-third of them could afford even a hovel. The first trade union was formed in town by tailors and seamstresses; these professions were the only ones that prevailed during a strike, resulting in an eight-hour workday. Chapters 9, 10, and 11 discuss “Enterprises (86),” “Shops” (113), “Small Retail” (73), “Restaurants” (2), and “Tea-houses” (13). Every small business had a name that described its specialty; there were, for example, grocery shops (48), one bookstore, apothecaries (2), and ice-cream shops (2). Chapter 12, “Public Affairs,” starts with a long list of public and charitable organizations, ranging from trusteeships for elders and orphans to an emigration society; it also lists a number of cultural and educational charities.. There were a number of political parties, such as Zionists, Jewish People, Jewish Labour, Independent Jewish, Poalej Cion (Syjon, a Social-Democratic Labour Party), the bund, Hordonija, and Bejtar (members of the latter also formed a volunteer crew of firefighters) as well as a fifty-four-member wind orchestra.28 The Jewish involvement in Polish elections in Kamianiec-Litoŭski and Vysoko-Litoŭsk was truly impressive. In Kamianiec-Litoŭski, 87.5 percent of eligible inhabitants took part in the 1927 election, and, that same year, 80 percent showed up at elections in Vysoko-Litoŭsk. Twelve seats were available in each town, and eleven were elected from different Jewish parties in Kamianiec-Litoŭsk; only one seat was won by a member of the Christian Independent Party.

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Jewish Education and Culture Chapters 13 to 16 concern Jewish education. Each lists all the schools, including private schools, attended by children of different ages. These chapters describe gender and studying conditions in Jewish colonies and villages in the towns of Kamianiec-Litoŭsk and Vysoko-Litoŭsk. Chapter 14, “Schools,” shows that “no (male) child was left behind” in the Jewish education system of that district. A considerable number of girls were educated, but only a few stayed in school after age fourteen. Chapter 15, “Public School in Vysoko-Litoŭsk,” provides detailed information, including two tables, pertaining to the curricula, students, and teachers of that school, which closed only after the Nazi invasion. In Chapter 15, “Kamianiec-Litoŭski’s Yeshiva,” Musievič discusses the yeshiva with pride and recounts its history. He equates this religious institution, whose students range in age from sixteen to twenty-five, to a university. Each student had to pass a difficult entrance exam and attend ten hours of classes every day for up to ten years, after which he was qualified as a rabbi.29 The historian draws a clear picture of the place, names leading teachers of the yeshiva, tells their life stories, and notes their many academic, civil, and charitable achievements. He also discusses the quality of the students, their origins, and much more. Indeed, judging from the geographical origins of the students – Poland, the United States, Italy, Belgium, Germany, Denmark, Latvia, England, Czechoslovakia, Russia, and other countries – Kamianiec-Litoŭski’s yeshiva, which had 413 students in 1939, was a popular place and played an important role in Jewish education. A number of its students and teachers immigrated to the United States (especially New York) and Israel, where they continued the school’s tradition by naming the newly established schools after their favourite Biełarusian town. In Yizkor’s Kameints de-Lita, Charles Raddock contributes a brief chapter titled “The Kamenetzer Yeshivah of America.”30 In it, he describes the yeshiva’s difficult road to New York and, later, to Israel. He confirms that the yeshiva of Kamianiec-Litoŭski functioned much like a university. He tells a fascinating story of changes the yeshiva had to undergo in order to survive, and he names each of its relocations. According to Raddock, the yeshiva was founded in 1897 in Kremenchug, re-established itself in Miensk in 1905, and then returned to Kremenchug to escape the horrors

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of the First World War. The yeshiva’s next move was to Koŭno, then Vilnia, after which, as we know, Kamianiec-Litoŭski became its last home on Slavic lands. Here the school established its high reputation for Jewish scholarship. The yeshiva’s educators and students alike hoped this Biełarusian town would be their last destination, but those hopes were crushed by the outbreak of the Second World War. They left their beloved town, faced great difficulties, and buried many students as well as their highly cherished leader, Rabbi B.B. Leibovitz (Rav Baruck Baer), on their way through the Far East and Mongolia to the United States and Israel. Rabbi Leibovitz was considered the greatest Talmud scholar of the twentieth century, and his loss was irreparable. Raddock also elaborates on what distinguished Kamianiec’s graduates from those of other schools: “Kamenetz, it seems, does not produce mere Rabbis or other ecclesiastical functionaries. Its emphasis is on research and scholarship, much like Princeton’s University Institute for Advanced Study under the directorship of Prof. Robert Oppenheimer concentrates on scientific research for the enhancement of science.”31 The author stresses that the higher status achieved by this yeshiva’s students was due to their exceptional teachers and the rigorous pursuit of advanced knowledge. This school also offered unlimited years of study dedicated to Judaism: “What sets apart Kamenetzer yeshivah from other yeshivoth is that its disciples are competent to carry on in the absence of their late celebrated dean, hewing to the course laid down during the four creative decades of his regime. The first principle of his teaching was this, that the study of Talmud, Hałacha [Jewish Law, based on the Talmud] and related subjects must be pursued for its own sake, without regard for material gain or reward.”32 To prove his point, Raddock points to a unique publication: “The anthology just published by Kamenetzer Kotel [university] titled Degel Naphtali[,]33 and containing original monographs of the most profound rabbinic problems, attests to the scholarship of that learned fraternity.” 34 The author is positive that this publication is the most innovative in terms of Talmudic tradition and thus provides the necessary continuity so essential to scholarship. Over time, however, the “Kamenetzer Kotel” of New York lost its importance in the United States and transferred its credentials to its sister institution in Israel. According to my private correspondence with an American researcher, Henry Neugrass, the American branch has been closed. The branch in Israel continues to thrive, but it is a closed, somewhat monastic

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Orthodox institution that preserves its traditions by sealing itself off from contact with the outside world, including the world of secular Jews. The next four chapters, “Kahal Life,” “Historic References,” “Kahal Life in Kamianiec-Litoŭski,” and “Kahal Council in Vysoko-Litoŭsk in 1936,” present, with tables, an examination of Jewish life from its earliest inception to Soviet times in Biełaruś. Musievič often addresses the uneasy relationship that developed between Jews and the kings and other rulers of the gdl and the Reč Paspalitaja as well as the harsh competition with the Christian middle classes. This competition, he notes, was reflected in many Lithuanian chronicles and decrees. These documents confirm his view that life was not easy for Jewish Kahals: “sometimes privileges were given easily (for a considerable fee – that’s why rulers called Jews ‘chickens with golden eggs’),35 but very often prohibitions and negligence were in place. That was a way of life.”36 By the end of the nineteenth century, Kamianiec-Litoŭski had changed ownership five times, and, in 1887, it was sold to a Jewish merchant from Białystok, Abram Niemcovič. During the First World War, the town was captured by the Austrians and then occupied by German troops, who, in turn, gave way to the Polish Army (1918) and, still later, to the Red Army (1920). As mentioned earlier, Kamianiec-Litoŭski became a part of Poland once again with the Treaty of Riga, 1921, and changed hands twice in 1939: first the Germans came, then a week later they were replaced, for about two years, by the Soviets. Chapter 23 offers comparative historical figures for four ethnic and religious minority groups that inhabited Kamianiec-Litoŭski: Poles, Russians, Ukrainians, and Jews. These data start with 1764 and end with 1939. The only puzzling feature of this table is the complete absence of Biełarusians (Lićviny) from their home city, Kamianiec-Litoŭski. My guess is that Musievič lumped Catholic and Uniate (Eastern Catholic Church) Biełarusians and Ukrainians with Poles, and Orthodox Biełarusians and Ukrainians with Russians, due to the fact that the people themselves found it easier to identify themselves according to religion rather than according to nationality. Such was the illness of “Zabrany kraj” (A country taken away): people never knew which country they would wake up to in the morning, but their faith was a given and sure inheritance. Musievič, who considered himself a Russian-speaking Biełarusian, and who had a typical

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Biełarusian last name, tended to simplify things in order to make them more understandable. Regarding the Jewish population, his table presents a clear picture of its prevalence in the towns and colonies of the area from 1897 to 1941. Chapters 24 to 28 are devoted to Jewish religion. They describe synagogues and burial places and tell stories about a local cantor by the name of Jaffe. These chapters clarify the central role of religion in the history of Biełarusian Jews, as reflected in the large number of synagogues and prayer houses. Musievič tells the reader about the strong, simple architecture of the area’s synagogues. Even the smallest synagogues and prayer houses, made of wood and roofed with straw, were notable landmarks in villages and towns. Choral, grand, and great synagogues had modest exteriors but were built with thick stone and had very impressive interiors, decorated with beautiful religious artefacts, many of them made out of pure silver. Musievič describes synagogues in such detail that anyone can imagine them. Most of them were destroyed by the Germans or the Soviets, but some are still standing, though they have been “renovated” for use as schools, warehouses, and workshops. Musievič often asks painful rhetorical questions: “Why are most of the former synagogues not included in a Soviet edition of Historical Monuments and Architecture of Biełaruś? Why have they not found a rightful place there? Is it just an accident?”37 He provides detailed descriptions of the synagogues and prayer houses in most towns, villages, and settlements in the area (unless no one remembers their exact locations, as in Viarchovičy and Lotovo). When former religious and prayer houses are still in use, Musievič provides their addresses. Chapter 26, which is about Jaffe, a local cantor, reads like a poem: “On the eve of Yom Kippur [Judgment Day], the synagogue was overcrowded and brightly illuminated by hanging candelabras. A forest of burning candles cast shadows. Along the Eastern Wall old men from the town, dressed in white, were praying, slowly bowing like forest trees. Suddenly silence fell, and everyone held their breath, waiting for Kol Nidre [All Vows Prayer] to start.”38 The author then tells of the many talents of Cantor Jaffe, whose artistry made even those who barely understood Hebrew feel united with God and community. And, though the story makes much of the traditional phrase “Next Year in Jerusalem,” Musievič, who laments the needlessly lost lives of his Biełarusian Jewish compatriots, underlines this

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forever-lost part of the Biełarusian landscape and culture: “When one thinks back on those bygone times, one understands how many talents perished in our town, and how much they could have achieved if they had lived somewhere else and under different conditions.”39 Chapter 27, “Jewish Graveyards,” provides a detailed and solemn description of Jewish graveyards and traditional gravestones and their lost (and sometimes) found locations. It is followed by a table listing the names of the rabbis and cantors who served the community. Musievič was able to uncover the names of twenty-eight such individuals. He notes that, due to difficulties collecting materials, he could not establish the names of the many other people who served the communities. Chapters 30 to 35 are about Jewish culture in Kamianiec-Litoŭsk. The author emphasizes that, though the political and economic significance of the area decreased considerably after Russia seized the town in 1795, Jewish cultural life continued to be strong. It was supported by libraries, resident authors, scholars, a local wind orchestra, and individual musicians as well as by theatre groups. Visiting religious and cultural stars loved to perform for the grateful local audience. This excursion into past Jewish cultural life is enhanced by Yekheskl Kotik’s memories of his early years in the town of his birth and in other Biełarusian and Russian cities where he lived in later years.40 Kotik writes with warmth and humour about his hometown and his country, but he sounds cold and lonely when he writes about other places, especially those in Russia proper. Though Musievič’s Russian text shows much more talent than does Kotik’s English translation, his sentiments precisely echo Kotik’s and those of another countryman, Falk Zolf, who wrote about early twentieth-century Biełarusian Jewish life.41

The Dreadful Twentieth Century Musievič’s translation of Kotik’s memoirs links the relatively peaceful nineteenth century to the troubled early twentieth. Chapter 38, “The Dreadful Twentieth Century,” recounts the hardships that the local people endured in those decades, lingering on the First World War and the deportations to Russia proper of all Biełarusians of different faiths. These people endured exile, starvation, the destruction of their homes, and other warrelated atrocities. Yet even this was merely a prelude to the catastrophes

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of the Second World War. Musievič testifies that the Germans, who arrived on the sixteenth day after they attacked Poland and started the war, at first behaved in a civil manner. A week later, German troops were replaced by Red Army divisions (a result of the Hitler-Stalin Pact). In the chapter titled “Arrival of the Red Army,” Musievič notes that these newcomers turned everything in the town upside-down. The new authorities immediately nationalized Christian and Jewish properties, including shops, industrial enterprises, and even private homes. Synagogues were closed (as well as the yeshiva), and all religious festivities were banned. This ban included traditional Saturdays: now Jews were obliged to work on their holy day. The new occupants even changed the names of the towns from Biełarusian to Russian. Kamianiec-Litoŭski was now called Kamenets, and VysokoLitoŭsk became Vysokoe. Musievič’s account then turns to the Holocaust, and he tells us how this catastrophe transpired in and around Kamianiec-Litoŭsk. The Soviets had changed traditional Jewish and Christian life in places like Kamianiec overnight, but they were not as murderous as were the Germans, who returned twenty-one months later. The Germans reached Kamianiec-Litoŭski on 22 June 1941, the day that Hitler declared war on the Soviet Union: “German motorbikes arrived in town at ten o’clock in the morning. They were not those civilly behaving German soldiers that locals saw in 1939. These were murderers.”42 Indeed, shootings started on the very first day of the Germans’ arrival. They were witnessed by local Christians, from whom some interviews were collected right after the war (these may be found today in Biełarusian archives). Many years later, Musievič conducted interviews himself (the most recent in the 2000s). His interviewees described the murder of individual Jews and their families as well as mass killings in the ghettos. All of this is told in chapters 39 to 43: “The War,” “First Shootings of Jews,” “Deportation to Pružany and the Return to Kamianiec,” “The Ghetto in Kamianiec,” and “The Shooting Continues.” For these chapters, in addition to archival materials and interviews, Musievič relies on solid academic sources pertaining to the Holocaust in Biełaruś. These chapters are interlaced with and enhanced by the personal story of Dora Halpieryna, a Holocaust survivor. Chapter 44 is the first of a number of chapters devoted to Dora and is titled “The Epic of Halpieryna Dora.” Her tragic life is recounted in ten chapters: “Terrible Days and Years,” “Ghetto,” “Courage,” “Escape from the Hands of Murderers, Suf-

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ferings,” “Liberation,” “Out of the Frying-Pan into the Fire,” “In a Soviet Prison,” “Trial,” “Prison Again,” and “End of the Epic.” All of these are based on her memories of those terrible days under German and Soviet rule, when her life hung by a thread and she repeatedly contemplated suicide. Her story concludes in Chapter 54, “Author’s Comment,” in which Musievič reveals the names of people who helped Dora survive. After Dora’s liberation from a Soviet prison, she fled first to Poland and later to Australia, where she died. This tragic story is followed by two chapters, “Labour Deportation of Jewish Lads” and “Liquidation of the Ghetto.” These chapters complete the story of the erasure of Kamianiec’s Jews. Regarding the dead, Musievič gives the following numbers: 6,921 Jews and more than 1,500 Christians. Besides Dora Halpieryna, he names two other survivors: Leon Goldring from Kamianiec-Litoŭski and Šloma Kantarovič from Vysoko-Litoŭsk. The author notes that some people had immigrated to Australia, New Zealand, the United States, Canada, England, and other countries before the war. And these people did more than just survive: they fostered the memories of their ancestors and homelands. This attention to the past is found in Sefer Yizkor’s book, in particular the chapter on the Kamianiec societies in the United States. Reports by Vełveł Kustin, Sarah Hurvitz, and Meir Mendel Visotzky (Vysocki) are of interest and cover the history of different waves of Jewish emigrations and activities.43 Vełveł Kustin talks about the humble beginnings of the first Jewish community in the United States: A large-scale Jewish immigration from Eastern Europe to the United States began in the seventeenth century in the eighties. Jews from Kamianiec were among those coming to America’s shores. The first newcomers from Kamianiec were poor and quite miserable. They suffered common hardships and were homesick. This and the fact that the Jewish population in the US was as yet small, made them cling together. When the number of Kamianiec townspeople in the “new country” grew, they acquired a Torah-Scroll and established a society, centred round their own synagogue, Kokhav Ya’acov [Jakob’s star]. The society was founded in 1891 in New York City. It became the oldest Kamianiec organization and one of the first Jewish societies of that kind in America. One of the fixed rules stated that meetings must be conducted in Yiddish.44

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In 1900, the Kamianiec Litoŭski’s Aid Society in America was founded by non-Orthodox Jews. It was very helpful to the people of that town both before and after the First World War. According to Mendel Visotzky, it was ready to repeat its charitable work after the Second World War: “The Kamianiec Society, together with all other Kamianiec organizations, set up a relief committee once again, in the hope of helping the war victims of our town. Great were our pain and sorrow when we learned about the enormous proportions of the catastrophe.”45 In other words, there were no Jews left to help. An activity report written by Sarah Hurwitz discusses another Jewish association, organized in 1923 by Jewish women whose roots were in Kamianiec. Her report tells us that this society was run overwhelmingly by women and was oriented mainly towards charities and cultural events.46

Thirty Years Later in Kamianiec The next chapter in Musievič’s Narod, “Thirty Years Later in Kamianiec,” is a careful and loving retelling of a story written by a former resident of Kamianiec, Dov (Bertschik) Schmidt (Shemida), “My Journey to Kamenetz (Kamianiec) in 1965.”47 Dov, like so many of his townspeople, left Kamianiec to earn some money and came to the United States in 1940. When he got his first job, Dov sent a ticket to his sweetheart, Elia, and, as soon as she arrived, they married. It was the eve of the Second World War. The young family later moved to Israel, and many years later, in 1965, Dov, who earned a PhD, was invited to a scholarly conference in Moscow. Dov had many questions, and he decided to go to Poland to meet with his childhood friend, Dora Halpieryna, who had lived through the Holocaust in their native town. After they met, he decided to visit Kamianiec. He knew there would be no traces of his family or their graves, but he needed this closure. The Soviets allowed him only five hours in the town. Dov knew the road from Brest to Kamianiec well, and though it had changed and even improved under the Soviets, almost everything around him looked familiar: The road which leads through Ciechanowczyce is wide and covered with asphalt. On my way I stopped at Ciechanowczyce, which I

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knew from the many trips I used to make from Kamianiec to Brest. Rachel Leah’s Inn is still standing and so are all the Jewish houses – only the Jews are no longer in their houses. In fact, nothing seems to have changed there, except the asphalt road. The wooden houses with thatched roofs looked as low and humble as ever and peasants with tired looks could be seen in the houses’ backyards.48 When Dov (Bertschik) Schmidt arrived in Kamianiec, he did not find the windmills and Jewish cemeteries, the old Catholic church, or other landmarks of his native town. Dov only recognized the place when he reached the marketplace because almost all the old Jewish homes and other buildings were still there, looking older, but intact. In the words of the author: “I paid a short visit to Yuzek Grigorevsky. Yuzek had saved Dora by hiding her in various places. He did it endangering his own life and the life of his own family. When we met, Yuzek was even more moved than I was. All the time he kept on repeating: ‘They murdered everybody and I was able to save only one! Not a single one of your family remained!’”49 Dov talks about the reactions of various people whom he met during his stroll with Yuzek and his sons around the town. They varied from fear to anger, from pity to indifference. Here are three illustrations of his encounters. I shall never forget the only person who met me with tears during my visit to Kamianiec. While I was walking in Litevska Street with Yuzek’s children, an old Christian woman came out of the yard of the house opposite Yuzek’s and asked me: “Aren’t you the son of Hajm Schmidt, the butcher?” When I said, “Yes, that’s right,” she burst into tears and flung herself at me to kiss me. The woman wailed loudly: “How the wild beasts murdered you! Why was your fate so bitter! Your father and mother and all your family were good, upright people! Why did they murder you? Have any Jews from Kamianiec remained in the world?” So this simple, honest Christian woman lamented and cried together with me.50 The second emotional moment occurred when he went to visit his parents’ home, where he had spent the first nineteen years of his life:

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I knocked softly on the door and opened it even before I heard an answer. An old woman came out of the second room, which had been my parents’ bedroom. Tears choked me. I felt paralyzed and unable to utter a word. Apparently, the woman understood my feelings and she began whispering, as if she were talking to herself: “Yes, I knew the owners of this house, Hajm and Rachel and their children and grandchildren. They were good people and did only favours to others. The Nazi beasts murdered them! I thought not one of you was left. Oh, my God, is it our fault that the authorities allocated the houses?” After this heartbreaking visit, Dov “lost it” and just wandered around the familiar streets for a while. When he pulled himself together, he decided to acquire some information about the Jewish catastrophe from the town’s officials: I entered the Secretariat and turned to the Soviet official who was sitting at the table. I told him about the purpose of my coming from Israel and about my desire to hear from him something about the fate of the five hundred Jewish families, among whom were my parents, sister, uncles, and aunts, who perished with other inhabitants of the town. With marked coolness and reserve the official responded: “Citizen! You can see all that there is, and what happened here in the past does not concern us anymore. You are allowed to look around and to receive your own impressions. That is all.” Lives had been smothered and the graves disappeared. But I shall remember! We shall remember and tell the story to the generations to come! I felt as if I were returning from a funeral. This was the funeral of my parents, my sisters, my uncles and aunts, my friends and acquaintances and all the Jews who had lived in Kamenetz, my hometown.51 The Soviet bureaucrat reflected the Soviet Union’s administrative and political attitude towards the murder of the Jewish population. After Germany’s surrender, the Soviet Union and its satellites did not recognize

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the Jewish deaths as ethnic cleansing but simply as casualties of the war. However, not everyone in Biełaruś shared the opinion of this Biełarusian bureaucrat: it seems that Musievič purposefully included the next three chapters as an antidote to that person’s poison.

“An Open Letter”; “Native Homes That Are No More”; “Summer Flowers for a Doctor” These three chapters (58, 59, and 60) are short, factual, and united by the same subject matter – memories of local Jews. “An Open Letter” is a letter of protest written by Musievič to the local authorities.52 In it he asks the authorities why they sold a former Great Synagogue to a local farmer and what right they had to do so. He received a formal reply from the district chief, who states that this matter is none of Musievič’s business. “Native Homes That Are No More” begins as follows: “There is no more Kamianiec-Litoŭski, which used to be populated mainly by Jews. There are no more Jews with their culture, way of life, and labour. They were shot or burned in crematoria. Kamianiec exists but now it is entirely different.”53 Despite this surrealistic situation of “no more,” the Kamianiec Jews who survived by moving to foreign lands before the war, and their descendants, continue to visit the place of their ancestry. Musievič poses the following three-part question, for which he himself supplies a heartfelt answer: “Why are they coming here, what do they need, and what are they looking for? They come in order to see their ancestral town, or the place of their own birth; to walk around old streets and alleys; to find their parents’ homes; to go with hat in hand to the graves, the cemeteries, to look at the prayer houses, to reach out to the river along which lived previous generations, to breathe the air that their fathers, mothers, close and distant relations once breathed.”54 However, Musievič adds unhappily, the only thing they can do is to breathe the air because the rest – the atmosphere, the culture, the prayer houses, the cemeteries, all the traces of old Jewish lives and deaths – is no more. But his greatest regret is that neither Kamianiec-Litoŭski nor Vysoko-Litoŭsk, nor places where local Jews were shot during the Holocaust (Roviec, Piesčany, and the Varachoŭski forest), have a memorial, a monument, or any kind of tribute to the murdered inhabi-

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tants of the area. After all, “there are almost no more living witnesses to the Kamianiec tragedy.”55 “Summer Flowers for a Doctor” is written in the form of a story within a story and is based on real events.56 The narrator is one of its minor participants, a teacher, Mr Mamus. It opens with a concise history of Jewish professional occupations in Kamianiec-Litoŭsk: “Jews were magnificent masters of clothing, shoemaking, confectionery, meat products, various kinds of flour, and agricultural machinery. They were superb merchants, wholesale dealers of livestock and raw materials. They even rented land and produced good crops.”57 The next paragraph concerns a “Jewish doctor” named Golberg, who, the narrator says, was well known not only in his native Kamianiec-Litoŭski but far beyond: “Golberg was a doctor sent by God.”58 His treatments combined the latest Western medicines with homeopathy, massages, and much more. For evidence of this, the narrator refers the reader to the doctor’s former patients, who assure anyone who is ready to listen that doctors like him have almost disappeared. The plot thickens when a peasant family brings a baby boy to the local hospital, only to be told by the staff doctor, Bogutsky, that the baby has a slim chance of survival if he is treated by Dr Golberg. Golberg confirms the child’s grave condition and immediately applies a treatment, to which the baby responds, raising the parents’ hopes that he will get well. Golberg takes the baby and his mother into his house. The story ends happily a week later. The child turns out to be the baby brother of Michail Mamus, Ivan Mikalajievič Mamus, who, years later, would follow in the footsteps of his rescuer: Ivan Mikalajievič becomes a doctor and serves in that capacity for forty-two years. The second climactic moment relates to the tragic murder of Dr Golberg, his wife, their son Hirš, their daughter Janečka, their son-in-law Liudvih, and many others of their kinfolk. Musievič simply says that they were cruelly murdered because they were Jews. The story ends with a heartfelt tribute to the Golbergs and words that memorialize the Jewish tragedy of the Holocaust: “During my brother’s visits with his family, we always go to the place where his saviour and members of the Golberg family are buried. Ivan kneels in front of the grave and lays flowers. His wife and two sons bow their heads low before His Majesty, the Doctor.”59

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The Concluding Chapters and the Epilogue This heartbreaking story is followed by five informative chapters dedicated to geography, politics, and the lives of Jewish professionals – topics I have already discussed. The final chapter serves as an epilogue, portraying Musievič’s philosophical position on the question of the Holocaust in Kamianiec-Litoŭski, Vysoko-Litoŭsk, and other parts of Biełaruś. The epilogue also offers a journey into Musievič’s personal conscience, which represents that of his own generation and that of his ancestors. The situation in Biełaruś today is once again grave in terms of political, economic, and cultural freedoms. The rights of Biełarusians to use and respect their own language are even more diminished than they were in Soviet times. Besides the survival of native Biełarusian culture, there are many other topics that are not condoned in Lukašenka’s Biełaruś. One of them is the Biełarusian Jewish past. Biełarusians developed amnesia about the Holocaust largely as a consequence of Stalinist policies. So Musievič’s conscience, which shows no “neutrality in times of moral crisis,” is particularly important for this country, whose honour is under constant assault by its own leadership. What is most gratifying in Musievič’s writings is that he is not afraid of the truth: he clearly points at Stalin, Hitler, and their henchmen as the main sources of the Biełarusian tragedy. The author’s straightforward, unassuming narration reflects his courage as well as his duty, as he sees it, to pass on his knowledge. His feelings may well stem from the notion so clearly expressed by Timothy Snyder: “The dead are remembered but the dead do not remember.”60 Musievič has chosen to remember the murdered Jewish citizens of his country and to bring this memory to the younger generations. I hope the reader will agree that, for this, the author deserves a place among the righteous. Below are some excerpts from Musievič’s final chapter: In the world we constantly interact with light and darkness, white and black forces, good and evil. Some individuals are good people and others are not. But is it possible for entire nations and people to be wicked? Our Lord created the people in His own image. God is the One but there are many faiths [many ways to serve Him]. Shall people be despised or destroyed for the reason of different

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blood [ethnicity)], of other faith? There is only one answer: No, and Not again. One day, old Vasil and an old Jew from Komaroŭščsyna were talking while sitting on bench. It happened in 1938. The old Jew had some terrible forebodings even back then. He said: “We will have a catastrophe, Vasil. We are already in a sack. They only need to tie the sack, and that is all.” Old people can often intuit a coming thunderstorm or a change of weather. Anxieties were gradually growing in the city, and in 1941 the dreadful word “war” was heard. The premonition of the old Jew began to come true. A black wave approached every home. Soon fascists enclosed Jews, as if they were cattle, in a ghetto behind barbed wire, and, later, brought them to the incinerators. One does not want to believe that nowadays few inhabitants of Kamianiec (former Kamianiec-Litoŭski), Vysokoe (former VysokoLitoŭsk), and many other small and large localities have ever heard about the ghetto, the barbed wire, about shooting Jews, about the complete destruction of them, incinerators, crematoria, and the Holocaust that was initiated by the fascists. Years have passed by, power has changed hands, but there is still silence around this topic. As soon as the Jews were annihilated by the Germans, Kamianiec and Vysokoe felt empty. It was a terrible void. Everyone felt that. Other culture began but that the old one will never return to our area or the forests near Kamianiec: Murynski, Pruskoŭski, Chiermierskoj; near Vysokoe: Pieniečka, Borok, and old forgotten cemeteries. What did people search for while they were crushing tombstones?61 Why did they bother the souls of dead Jews? And even if they found something, they simultaneously lost more! Scoundrels took by force what belonged to eternity. Sixty-six years have passed since those sad days when the Holocaust took place on Kamianiec soil. These heartbreaking events are moving farther and farther beyond the horizon. The grass is rising higher and higher, and stones, covered by moss, are growing deeper and deeper down into the earth. And only spectres of the dead are wandering about. Let this book help the new generations find out that there were such people, Jews, who lived among us.62

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Musievič proves in his work that the cause of Biełarusian Christian and Jewish separation lies in historical circumstances, with its peak dating back to the Holocaust. But he also shows that the main reason for the indifferent silence that now characterizes Biełarusian Christian and Jewish historiography has been due to the Soviets. Changes in Biełarusian demography have also played a significant role: by 1946, less than half the prewar Biełarusian population was still alive and living in Biełaruś. Slowly but surely the population has grown again, but its members are newcomers who have not absorbed the history and affinities of Christian and Jewish Biełarusians. Both faiths were suppressed by the victorious Russians and Poles but predominantly by the Soviet system. Needless to say, the present regime, though it seems to be of local origin, has inherited all the policies imposed by past invaders. It seems, though, that some of the children and grandchildren of local Biełarusians are relearning their history from their parents and grandparents. Some, like Musievič, have strong childhood memories. These people remember the past and doubtlessly share the idea expressed by Musievič: “God is One but there are many faiths (many ways to serve Him).” Once all of these individuals understand the truth about the common past of Biełarusians, they will want to preserve it and to pass it to future generations. Or so we can hope.

11 Epilogue

The fear of death is still here. Do you feel it? Beating with cold black wings and freeing the roots of your hair. And here and there, look! Eyes, mute eyes are staring. They are the souls of the slain. Outcasts, lost souls that have assembled here, And stare at you with their mute eyes, Silently repeating the ancient plaint that has yet reached heaven. Why? Why? And once again, why? –Chajm N. Bialik No man is an island, no work, particularly a work of scholarship, can be conceived or carried through in isolation. –Vera Rich

Poets and prose writers of Christian origin created a multitude of texts in different genres that described the unique neighbourly relationship between Christians and Jews in Biełaruś. No monograph could be long enough to discuss every worthy Biełarusian writer who described that relationship in his or her works – the amount of material is simply too vast. A research institution would be an ideal place for undertaking a fuller exploration of this phenomenon from the perspective of different disciplines: philosophy, psychology, linguistics, history, economy, sociology, translation, and so on. But this idea, however attractive, is pie-in-the-sky in terms of present-day Biełarusian realities – as absurd as hoping that Lukašenka will introduce democracy to the country. But the fact remains that, in Biełarusian artistic

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(not academic) literature, Biełarusian-Jewish relations are central to the national conscience of self-understanding, be it historical, moral, artistic, economic, religious, or other. This brings hope for future investigations. In this extended epilogue I consider more Biełarusian authors who have written about Biełarusian Jews, but even this effort does not cover them all, so, at the end of this chapter, I provide a short list of writers whose worthy works do not appear in this monograph. This list does not reflect the quality of their works but, rather, provides samples of the available material and my personal choices. One of the main tasks of The Portrayal of Jews in Biełarusian Literature is to give voice to Biełarusian writers by translating significant excerpts of their works, but, I repeat, lyrical works are impossible to translate without depleting their meaning and poetic force. I begin with Vincent Dunin-Marcinkievič (1808–84), a poet, prose writer, playwright, theatre director, bureaucrat, and social activist, long considered a founder of modern Biełarusian literature.1 He was born at a time when all Biełarusians had been subjugated by Russian and Polish rulers. His family members belonged to the gdl’s impoverished nobility and they placed a high value on cultural traditions, which included education in multiple languages. Besides Latin, French, and German, he was equally adept in Biełarusian, Polish, and Russian. Though he wrote in both Biełarusian and Polish, his preference was for Biełarusian, the language of his soul. Dunin-Marcinkievič attended St Petersburg University’s medicine program but never completed his studies because he could not bear to watch dissections conducted at the university’s anatomical theatre. So he switched to law school, after which, beginning in 1827, he held a number of bureaucratic positions in Miensk. In his spare time, DuninMarcinkievič wrote and, together with like-minded Biełarusians, ruminated on the unfortunate social and political developments in his beloved motherland. He spent more than a year in prison (1864–65), having been suspected of participating in a Biełarusian-Polish uprising against the Russian regime (1863–64). His daughter was exiled and placed in a psychiatric institution for her anti-Russian activities. In fact, the whole family was heavily persecuted, and Dunin-Marcinkievič wasn’t allowed to leave his estate in order to practise law. Thus he was deprived of professional earnings until the end of his life. In 1840, after he acquired a small estate, writing became his main vocation. In 1846, Dunin-Marcinkievič composed Іdylija (Idyll), his first

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dramatic work, written largely in modern Biełarusian (with some Polish insertions). In 1855, he wrote Hapon, a long narrative in verse, written entirely in Biełarusian. Both Idylija and Hapon have Jewish characters. Vera Rich writes in relation to these classic works of Biełarusian literature: “It is important to note that, throughout what may be termed ‘classical’ Biełarusian literature, Jewish characters, even if negative, are not presented as stereotypes: even minor characters are given a sound psychology and motivation. Thus, in Dunin-Marcinkievič’s long narration Hapon, the action of the poem is initiated by a somewhat complicated chain of events, in which the Jewish innkeeper is an important link.”2 It seems that innkeeping was the most familiar Jewish occupation Dunin-Marcinkievič encountered, and the Jewish character in Hapon, Łachman, never plays an evil role. In Hapon, the poet’s verse narrative, which is set during the days of serfdom, the innkeeper and his wife are shown to be spotless housekeepers and exceptionally good cooks and bakers. The Łachmans are known to everyone for their service and hospitality. Źmitrok, a dimwitted local peasant, is happy to visit the Łachmans’ inn. He drops by on his way from the market, where he has been sent to sell a calf by his owner’s bailiff. The poor chap, after a couple of drinks, accidently puts the money he got for the calf under a bagel and a piece of herring served on paper. He is so hungry that he eats the paper, which smells like bagels and seems edible, and accidently swallows the money along with it. His only “excuse” is that the bagels and herring served by the Łachmans are irresistibly delicious. And the poet, who remembers how tasty bagels were in the past, describes them to the reader: The hostess cleaned the table, In front of Źmitrok she put a quarter of a bottle And she added a glass and a couple of bagels. Oh, those bagels, which she put on the table, Back then they were not like our days!3 Łachman feels sorry for Źmitrok and advises the young peasant as follows: Here is my advice: pay for whatever you drank, Summon your courage, go home and stay honest. Tell the whole truth to your wife and your manager-chief.

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Throw yourself at his feet, ask him to forgive. Let’s hope he will.4 This innkeeper, at least, shows fatherly compassion, unlike the three landlords whom the peasant meets on his way home. They insult the poor lad and indulge themselves by making him feel stupid. But, for the poet, even these three pranksters are not real “villains.” In fact, as Rich points out, the real evil for the author is the social system of the time, which has made many local people, who have been deprived of social justice, feel cowardly and stupid. In this regard Dunin-Marcinkievič is following in the footsteps of Adam Mickiewicz, his associate and friend, as well as the best-known Slavic poet of the time.5 Mickiewicz was politically active until his last days. In fact, he went to Istanbul when the Crimean War began in 1853 in order to organize Biełarusian, Polish, and Jewish military detachments to fight Russia.6 In 1859, Dunin-Marcinkievič translated into Biełarusian Mickiewicz’s epic romantic poem, Pan Tadeusz (initially published in Paris in 1834). This was the first translation of that poem, which has many fantastic elements, most of which are rooted in Biełarusian folklore. A minor character in Pan Tadeusz is the innkeeper Jankiel. Besides being a social equal of the revolutionaries, he is openly adored by every sympathetic character in the poem. Jankiel is shown to be a gifted and also decent human being. This is evident in his well-kept inn, where anti-government meetings are held. He encourages equality and solidarity among the characters of different origins who visit him: the poorest peasants sit together with members of the szliachta. All of these people are united by an ardent love for their motherland, but Jankiel is the most vocal patriot. He is also a talented player of the cembalo (a traditional Biełarusian instrument), which is doubly symbolic in the poem. Instead of a traditional Jewish fiddle, he plays an instrument modelled on King David’s lyre. Many Biełarusians and Jews firmly believe that Mickiewicz was a Polonized Biełarusian on his father’s side and that he had Jewish blood on his mother’s side.7 With regard to this idea, they argue about Mickiewicz’s friendship with Armand Levy (together they formed a Jewish legion in Istanbul). Although Jankiel is a romantic figure, Mickiewicz humanizes him, thus establishing a literary tradition of romantic realism. In this context, let us read what Rich says about him:

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Nevertheless, even the poem’s most idealized descriptions bear a certain relation to reality – the colors are heightened, the dull and sordid details of agricultural life are tidied away out of sight – but it is still, recognizably, Biełarusian land. And Jankiel, the innkeeper of Dobrzyń, also as Professor Friedberg rightly notes, a “fairy-tale” character, bears the same kind of relation to reality. His patriotism for the land of his birth, his efforts to reconcile the quarreling szliachta and to implement Father Robak’s plans for a rising may be painted larger than life – but in a Biełarusian setting they are credible, and the heightening of the effect is no more than that of the poem as a whole. Jankiel may be a “fairy-tale” character, but he is a credible one. Like almost all the Jewish characters whom the Biełarusian student of literature will encounter in his basic reading, he is presented as an integral part of society, not as some strange interloper.8 Mickiewicz’s narrative is artfully non-realistic; it is also typical of romantic realism in its use of marvellous and idyllic elements. The author of the Іdylija, which is written in the same vein (i.e., full of both fantasy and a yearning for social justice), exploits these ideas, which DuninMarcinkievič shared with his mentor and friend. The more Biełaruś withdrew from the gdl’s culture, the more a mild form of anti-Jewish prejudice, brought by Russian and Polish rulers, appeared in Biełarusian literature. This is evident in two short poems by the nineteenth-century Biełarusian writer Frańcišak Bieniadzikt Bahuševič (1840–1900): “Niemiec” (A German)9 and “Padarožnyja zydy” (Travelling Jews).10 Like Dunin-Marcinkievič’s works, Bahuševič’s poems were written in a manner typical of a person of his time and social position. In A History of Byelorussian Literature,11 Arnold McMillin provides an excellent biographical and literary essay on Bahuševič, in which he examines his works, starting with his major collections: Dudka Beiłaruskaja (The Biełarusian pipe [1891]), Tralalonačka (Little tra-la-la [1892]), and Smyk Biełaruski (The Biełarusian bow [1894]). McMillin also mentions those works of Bahuševič that, for various reasons (mainly political), have been lost. In McMillin’s words: “Bahuševič is without a doubt the most striking and colorful figure in nineteenth-century Biełarusian Literature.

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In his stories, journalism, and, especially, poetry, Bahuševič demonstrated a new and positive way of looking at social, national and literary problems. Thus it is with some justification that Bahuševič is often called the leader of the national revival and father of modern Biełarusian literature.”12 By the time Bahuševič was born, his native gdl had been under tsarist rule for fifty years, both a home and a prison for Christian and Jewish Biełarusians. Bahuševič’s family belonged to the minor gentry, which owned two small Biełarusian villages, and therefore he could afford to enter St Petersburg University in 1861. However, political repression forced him to return home, where he took part in an uprising against the tsar. Bahuševič later received a legal education and practised law in Vilnia, where he often helped peasants pro bono. Bahuševič knew Biełarusian, Polish, Russian, and Ukrainian equally well, but for writing poetry, he chose his native Biełarusian. “Niemiec” and “Padarožnyja zydy” differ greatly from the poet’s usually cheerful verses about peasants.13 They also reveal a typical Polish and (even stronger) Russian scepticism towards “the Jewish other.” Note here that the classic Russian writers of the nineteenth century, in particular the Russified ethnic Biełarusian Fyodor Dostoevsky, barely acknowledged Russia’s different ethnicities. These writers regularly expressed strong sympathy for the peasants on their own estates. But they found it hard to overcome their aversion to the inhabitants of small towns and shtetls, which were often populated by Jews and other ethnicities with physical features unlike their own. Bahuševič’s “Niemiec” (German) reflects these prejudices. That said, the poet’s lack of sympathy for Germans and Jews is mild compared to Dostoevsky’s, and it is directed mainly at the German – the Jew is portrayed with more humour than resentment. Moreover, this poem shows indignation towards the Russians, who don’t care about Biełarusians and who are poor custodians of Biełarusian lands. The poet assumes the voice of a Biełarusian peasant who accuses Germans and Jews – but mainly Russians – of bringing corruption and poverty to his motherland. The poem satirizes ethnic characteristics. The narrator of “Niemiec” begins by coming directly to the point: “I don’t like a town” (a shtetl), and then describes the inhabitants of such places as unfathomable strangers:

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It is hard to recognize a German and a Jew Each could be either a lord or a foreigner. A Jew and a German – are children of the same mother – They speak a similar language and show a trickster’s behaviour, Both are ready to grab what isn’t theirs, And maybe they even eat together their bloody matzos.14 Later, the narrator informs the reader that a Biełarusian landowner was too trustful of both a Jew and a German when he made the former an estate manager and rented out his mill to the latter. When the landowner died, his estate was bought cheaply by a Russian, who didn’t care about his Biełarusian subjects. Furthermore, this new landowner passed most of the responsibilities on to the German and some to the Jew, who built himself a stone house in town. The most poisonous indignation is directed at the German, who, according to the author, is a true villain and thief and much more alien to the Biełarusian landscape than the Jew. First, Bahuševič tells the reader that, unlike the Jew, who is a local, the German is a newcomer, a poor wanderer who came to Biełaruś with nothing but two fiddles in his luggage. In contrast to the Jew, he keeps company just with high-born Russians and speaks the Russian language only. By the end, the German has got rid of the Russian landlord and become the sole owner of the Biełarusian estate. Bahuševič’s message to the reader is simple enough: as long as Biełarusians allow strangers to rule them, “locals will die while an enemy will strive!” In the second poem, “Padarožnyja zydy” (Travelling Jews), Bahuševič expresses how difficult it is for those who are subject to the more powerful to escape injustice. He then presents two Biełarusian Jews who find themselves subjected to discrimination by their Christian coachmen. The two travelling protagonists are caught in a standoff on a narrow road, with neither of the coachmen being willing to yield the way. The coachmen unexpectedly vent their anger on each other’s passengers, beating them with their whips: “The Jews in vain implored them to end this. / How could those coachmen stop?! / They were impossible to reason with. / The beating is so strong, that Jewish blood is flowing: / ‘You are beating mine, so yours will get much more!’”

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But the victims outsmart the bullies by changing coaches. In this way, each coachman gets to drive towards home, and the Jews can travel to their destinations in peace. Bahuševič praises the two Jews for arriving at this brilliant idea, which helps them escape the bullies. He concludes by asking his compatriots: “And what if we were able to do the same and to agree with each other / Maybe then the powerful ones would also stop beating us?” Bahuševič’s involvement in Biełarusian culture and national unity debates did not prevent him for pointing out the appalling situation facing Biełarusian Jews in the Pale of Settlement. Though he was not completely lacking in prejudice, in “Padarožnyja zydy” he did justice to this layer of Biełarusian society by noting the severe conditions facing Jews. Overall, we accept McMillin’s conclusion regarding Bahuševič’s role in Biełarusian culture: “Highly esteemed by contemporaries and successors alike, Bahuševič’s writing had a particularly great effect on the work of Hyrynovič, Łučyna, and Ciotka, while his embryonic treatment of the peasant hero and of the Biełarusian national question found a strong creative response in Kupała and Kołas. Indeed, the influence of Bahuševič remained a vital force throughout the entire pre-revolutionary period.”15 Maksim Harecki (1893–1938) and Andrej Mryj (1893–1943), two masters of twentieth-century Biełarusian literature, were also influenced by Bahuševič. Born the same year, these two pillars of prewar Biełarusian literature had more in common with Bahuševič than just ethnicity, spirituality, and cultural heritage. Harecki and Mryj received good educations, and, like Bahuševič, they were lifelong autodidacts. Also like Bahuševič, they preferred the Biełarusian language though they were fluent in Russian and Polish (the languages in which they were educated). Bahuševič was a political opponent of the tsarist regime, and he suffered significantly for this, although the regime didn’t take his life. In contrast, the Soviets labelled the patriots Harecki and Mryj as dissidents and murdered them along with millions of other Biełarusians. Harecki and Mryj often wrote about Jews; however, in contrast to Bahuševič, their perception of Jews wasn’t based on observation, empathy, or class prejudices. They had grown up among Jews and knew their struggles first-hand. After the revolution, when, for a short time, ethnic and religious differences were officially abandoned, young people of both ethnicities became freer in all their interactions, including those involving

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romance and marriage. Since Harecki and Mryj developed their themes and narratives based on their roots, I present concise biographies of their state-shortened lives and name some of their major works. For biographical information pertaining to both writers, the best academic source is the Biełaruskija piśmeńniki: Biblijahrafičny sloŭnik u šaści tamach (Biełarusian bibliographical dictionary).16 Maxim Harecki was born into a peasant family and had four siblings. Maxim was educated in a local school and then in the two-year Land Survey and Agricultural College in Hory-Horeck. He was able to study at the latter because of his excellent school marks and high academic standing, for which he received a government grant. While at the college, he began contributing to the Biełarusian publication Naša Niva, where, almost immediately, his achievements in native prose approached those of such Biełarusian icons as Kołas, Kupała, and Biadulia. The stories in his first prose collection, Ruń (Spring shoots [1914]), were about what, for him, was familiar ground: the lives of peasants and the first generation of Biełarusian intelligentsia. The volume was published in Vilnia, where he had moved after graduating and where he worked first as a draftsman and later as a land surveyor. Harecki was drafted by the Russian Army in 1914; after being severely wounded, he was honourably discharged. Following his long recuperation at various hospitals and medical spas, he returned to Vilnia, where he worked in a Biełarusian high school and lectured to audiences from all walks of life. He also began to collect vast amounts of material on Biełarusian ethnography and lexicology, took a leading part in Biełarusian political life, and, of course, continued to write. His major pre-revolutionary and immediate post-revolutionary theme was the First World War and its consequences for women and children, as in the stories “Zavošta” (What for?) and “Cichaja plyń” (A quiet current). The same themes are prominent in the writer’s diary Na impieryjalistyčnaj vajnie (At the imperialist war [1914–19]). Also notable are his short stories about the horrors of serfdom, published in the collection Došvitki (Before dawn [1926]). A section of his unfinished novel Kryž (The cross [1916–28]), titled “Mełancholija” (Melancholy), shows the same thematic tendency. The highest artistic development of this theme was Harecki’s short novel Dźvie dušy (Two souls [1919]), “in which the author reveals a remarkable grasp of political tendencies at a time when much was still completely uncertain.”17 Harecki’s

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rich and productive life was interrupted by his early arrest and exile (1930– 35); this was followed by a second arrest in 1937 and his death in 1938. As a result, this writer, incisive literary critic, and professor, who wrote the first comprehensive literary criticism in Biełarusian literature, Historyja Biełaruskaj litaratury (History of Biełarusian literature [1920]), became taboo for many generations of Biełarusians. Among the many still buried treasures from Harecki’s oeuvre is his short story “Krasavaŭ jaźmin” (Jasmine was blooming). It was published in his first collection, Ruń.18 He wrote it in 1913, four years before the Pale of Settlement restrictions on Jews were finally lifted. The story has three protagonists: a twenty-year-old Christian peasant named Jura; a sixteen-year-old Jewish girl, named Musia; and her unnamed girlfriend. Jura has known Musia’s family for five years, but the two young people have only just begun going out when the story begins. Jura seems to want Musia only as a friend and doesn’t share her obvious affections. “Krasavaŭ jaźmin,” written in the first person, has similarities to Chekhov’s 1887 drama Ivanov (a play about the lost love of a converted Jewess) and to Chekhov’s short story “Dom s mezoninom” (The house with the mezzanine [1896]).19 The latter is about the unconsummated love between an adolescent girl, Zhenia, and a young artist. Zhenia is called by the affectionate nickname Misuś, which phonetically coincides with the tender Biełarusian Jewish nickname for Musia. In another allusion, Harecki’s Musia shows considerable talent as a visual artist. Both characters, Zhenia and Musia, though loved by their families, are not taken seriously by them: they are treated as immature and childlike. At first, both young men, the artist and Jura, do not accept the girls’ feelings. They realize that Zhenia and Musia were their true loves only when they are separated from them (Chekhov’s character by the family’s will, Harecki’s by Musia’s sudden suicide). Time makes the artist and Jura alike realize what they have lost: life will not give them a second chance to experience such strong feelings. The two stories end in similar ways. Alone, the two men voice the names Misuś and Musia, asking similar questions: “Where are you?” and “Why?”20 In Jura’s case, his feeling is stronger during the season of blooming jasmine, when he saw his Musia for the last time. “Krasavaŭ jaźmin” has no nationalistic tendencies, though there are frequent allusions to the youngsters’ different origins. Thus, Musia “tortures” Jura with questions, such as whether upon graduating from a gymnasium (high school) she, as

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a Jew, will be allowed to teach non-Jewish Biełarusians in a village school. Jura’s thoughts are not sympathetic: “At that time I was already very annoyed by nationalists’ and religious questions, tired of all the whining and moaning of insincere people. I rarely met deep and true people. ‘Maybe Musia too is pretending in front of me for some reason?’ – crept this repulsive thought from somewhere.”21 Harecki describes love affairs better than anyone else in the Biełarusian literature of that time. He accurately shows Musia’s nervous and deep nature, her romantic feelings, her dreams of love, and her wilful but impractical nature. Musia, who is physically and mentally unwell, is not a typical shtetl Jewess. She is well educated and an accomplished artist, though that profession is not acceptable in Jewish culture, even for men. She wants to be a teacher, but she doesn’t want to educate poor Jewish children or children of both faiths; she wants to teach only Biełarusian peasant children. Musia is suffocating in the Pale, and her love for Jura is rooted in her desire to escape by joining the majority in her motherland, even if it means converting. Her love object is more interested in friendship with her, and Musia intuits that she is in the weaker position in their relationship. Harecki describes all of this skilfully, displaying a sharp understanding of inexperienced young women. He shows the same gifts in his novella Dźvie dušy (Two souls [1919]),22 in which he masterfully describes Musia’s counterpart, a Gentile woman. But that must be the subject of a different study. I conclude by pointing out that Harecki’s talent, like jasmine, has too short a period in which to bloom. Even so, he flourished brightly in Biełarusian literature and became a master at depicting Biełarusian Jewish and Christian characters, both their differences and their bonds. Andrej Mryj (1893–1943; real name: Andrej Antonavič Šašalievič) was a Biełarusian satirist and journalist.23 He was born in the village of Paviež in Mahilioŭ province to the lower ranks of the Biełarusian intelligentsia. His father was a clerk, and his mother came from a long line of village deacons. He had siblings, three of whom – Natalla (an excellent artist), Nastaśsia (a talented actress), and his younger brother Vasil Šašalievič (a leading Biełarusian playwright, who became Andrej’s literary godfather) – left a significant mark on Biełarusian culture. The family lost their father in 1903 and fell into poverty. Even so, they were not “proletarian” enough for the Soviets, who viewed the Šašalievič children as potential enemies because of their capacity to think for themselves. All

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of them were persecuted by the authorities; Vasil and Andrej both died at the state’s hands. Before the revolution, because of their extraordinary intellectual abilities, all of the Šašalievič children received a special professional college education that was sponsored by government grants. Andrej studied at the priest’s college, from which he was drafted as a soldier at the beginning of the First World War. Soon after, he was promoted to ensign (a junior officer in the tsar’s army). In 1918, after the revolution, he volunteered for the Red Army and was honourably discharged four years later, at the end of 1921. From 1921 to 1926, Mryj taught French and history in Krasnapollie. His siblings, Nastaśsia, Aksińnia, and Vasil, were teaching in the same school, and together they became the core of local cultural life. In 1926, he moved to Miensk, where he was employed as an instructor at the central bureau of local history and economics. By then, he was publishing short stories and feuilletons in the newspaper Savieckaja Biełaruś. The turning point of his literary career came about two years later, in 1926, when he joined the elite Biełarusian writers’ and literary critics’ association Uzvyšša (Hill, Rise, or Upload [1926–31]), which published an eponymous journal. During the “Dirty Thirties,” most of Uzvyšša’s members were persecuted for the “crime” (as bizarre as it sounds) of maintaining high aesthetic and moral values in their work – this, even though they were reliable citizens who served the Soviets with utmost sincerity. Uzvyšša’s members were against the unsophisticated rendering of Soviet values and stood for the development of knowledge and creativity in art. Mryj, for instance, continually and thoughtfully wrote in his satirical works only about what he had observed during his rich experiences in the college and the army, as a schoolteacher and as a cultural worker, and in various jobs and situations. Unlike his colleagues, Mryj never descended to the vulgar, albeit fashionable, ridicule of religion. Thus, his short story “Rabin” (The rabbi), published in Uzvyšša’s second issue in 1929, does not excoriate any faith; rather, it shows the blasphemy, promiscuity, hypocrisy, and lack of spirituality of an individual who happens to be a Jew.24 The narrator in “Rabin” is tired of the noise and dust of the big city, where he works as an instructor for the local government office. The reader trusts his thoughts and feelings because they are described honestly and through emotions that are comprehensible to any decent person. The nar-

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rator decides to take a vacation not in an exotic place (Crimea or the Caucasus) but, rather, in his native Biełarusian miastečka (having a large Jewish population), Hilieŭka. He has chosen this place because it is on the bank of the picturesque River Sož and he knows the local Jewish innkeeper, Hirš Karasik. He has a pleasant journey across the river, which is artfully described through the eyes of a nature lover: “A boat trip took me a whole day; the day was peaceful, sunny, filled with fragrances and blue sky. I was passing beautiful oak woodlands, birch groves, thick forests, and measureless meadows. The miastečka drew the eye from afar with the height of the old town hall’s tower, the elegant walls of two [Catholic] cathedrals, and the cupolas of two [Orthodox] churches. As soon as I settled in, I opened the window and the murmur of the local market and the merry games of Jewish children immediately poured into the quiet yard of the inn.”25 The narrator instantly likes the place, yet he is seeking solitude. After a couple of days at the inn, he resolves, with Hirš’s help, to rent a cottage by the river. Meanwhile, the beauty of the river attracts him, and he decides to go for a swim. As soon as he leaves his room, he bumps into another guest, who is carrying a swim towel. “It was a Jew in his late forties with a very wide and long, well-groomed beard, touched by grey in a few places. The Jew was wearing an old-fashioned but clean frock coat. There was an unusual skullcap [kippah] on his head. He had a fearless and somehow mocking stare.”26 The Jew piques his curiosity, and he wants to learn more about him. This doesn’t take long – after a few carefully crafted questions, the guest is quite willing to talk about himself: “I am a rabbi,” very simply and with a certain honour answered the Jew. “Rabbi?” I repeated, a bit disappointed, and thought to myself: “Of course! How stupid of me and why didn’t I guess it? After all, I am someone who studies the lives of different social layers!” – “Yes, I am the rabbi! I stay here for over a week, and this shtetl disgusts me. Oh, what a miserable place! The only thing that makes me happy is Sož.” – “Why, you don’t have enough respect?” – “No, this is different! I am the rabbi who is well known all over Litva,27 Poland, Austria, and Germany! There is still plenty of respect for me! Maybe you heard my name, Marduchovič?!”28

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Apparently, the narrator has heard the name. Marduchovič keeps answering his questions and tells him about the huge fees for his services; besides conducting religious rituals, his job includes propagandizing about religion among youth. He criticizes young people and is strongly reproofed by the narrator, who also works with young people and has formed a completely opposite opinion of them. This is the first negative trait that the narrator has observed in the rabbi. Marduchovič, who talks incessantly, confides to the narrator that he is madly in love with his own wife. He misses her terribly and is jealous, fearing that she might find someone else during his three-month absence. According to him, she is a beautiful woman of thirty-seven years. Marduchovič tells an anecdote that apparently supports his own forebodings: “When a woman is twenty, she is like a savage Asia; when she turns thirty, she becomes a hot Africa; at forty, she is like a free America; and at the age of fifty, she is a forgotten Australia.”29 This conversation pains the narrator, who suspects his own wife of infidelity. Even though the narrator isn’t a saint with regard to his marriage, this anecdote puts him in a bad mood. The rabbi, who relentlessly talks about his own strong morals, swears that he lives by the law and has never touched his “neighbour’s” woman. After the swim, their conversation moves in a different direction – religion – and Marduchovič unexpectedly admits that his faith in God disappeared after the revolution and that he could had been an ideal antireligious agitator for the new rulers. When the narrator asks why he doesn’t live by his new convictions, Marduchovič piously explains that he continues to preach to his co-religionists for the sake of keeping them attuned to morality. The narrator, who detects a false note in Marduchovič’s musings, grows angry with him again. By now it is dinnertime, and Cyla, Hirš’s attractive wife, offers them a meal: Cyla was a young, dark-eyed, and very beautiful woman. She had nice white plump hands and cherry lips; her teeth were white as garlic, and she had a feminine figure. Just a single look from her beautiful eyes was able to stir the blood of any healthy man. Cyla was the complete opposite of her husband, Hirš, who was thin, physically weak, and rather old; all day long he dandled their baby, little Josielie, who hardly breathed and lived. It was truly strange that this healthy mother had produced such a weakling.30

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Cylia offers the narrator dinner, and Marduchovič, without ceremony, joins him. This annoys the narrator, who likes Cyla and hopes to enjoy her company by himself. However, Marduchovič’s presence is not really the main reason for the narrator’s steadily growing enmity towards the rabbi, nor is it triggered by the generational and ethnic gap between them. Rather, it is based on behaviour and ethics, as well as on their divergent outlooks on every topic they discuss, be it religion, youth, or human values. The narrator intuits the rabbi’s insincerity, egotism, and narcissism. Little by little, he gathers proof that, although Marduchovič claims to be highly moral, he is not. Thus, the rabbi, as he rambles on about his honesty, comes up with a telling example that proves the opposite. Marduchovič declares that, though he no longer believes in God, other people, who are not as brilliant as he is, need God’s law in order to stay moral. When the narrator states that humans act better when they are ruled by civil laws, the rabbi offers yet another observation: “Here is another example,” said the rabbi. “I had a lot of money during the old times, and was often lending cash to people who needed it for home, business, or trade.” – “Did you earn interest?” – “Naturally, I did. Here is my conclusion: those who lived by God’s law had never hidden a single penny, but others, who didn’t, who had more stamina and thought freely, often disappeared, and I had to search for them via law enforcement and court orders.”31 At one point, the rabbi is called by a stranger, and they begin whispering to each other like conspirators. The narrator, disgusted by this chatter, takes a walk around the picturesque shtetl. His suspicions about the rabbi’s insincerity are confirmed during the first night at Hirš’s inn. Apparently, the rabbi’s co-conspirator has used some pretext to lure Hirš out of his home for the night so that the rabbi can be with Cyla. This exposes another of Marduchovič’s lies – his claim that he never touched other men’s wives. The narrator, who doesn’t hide his own interest in Cyla, is honest in revealing his feelings and the fact that he and his own wife are living in an open marriage (typical for early Soviet society). Nevertheless, he finishes the story with an appropriate Latin aphorism regarding physical desires: Facilisest descensus averni! (The road to evil is easy!)

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“Rabin” is an artfully written anti-religious satire. Mryj exposes a libertine usurer who hides behind the mask of an intelligent and well-respected rabbi. Orthodoxy, the most common religion among Biełarusians of different ethnicities, had been quelled by the early 1930s. The Soviets were more careful with Biełarusian Catholics and Jews because of the sensitivities of their co-religionists in the Polish territories (1921–39). Yet Soviet publications often “exposed” Catholic priests, typically in a vulgar manner. Marduchovič is portrayed realistically as a deeply flawed human and a terrible role model. That he professes fidelity to his beautiful wife while conniving at having an affair with a married woman makes his perfidy evident to every reader. But this character is a believable renegade only on the surface. Actually, a rabbi like him could not have existed in the time and place about which the author is writing. The political climate would not have allowed it, and in any case, Jews – especially a rabbi – were forbidden to lend money with interest to other Jews under any circumstances. Lenders (who, again, couldn’t be rabbis) could lend money to non-Jews, but only at minuscule interest, lest they be called to account by Jewish elders. This Jewish law had been established during the Middle Ages and was still in force in the Pale. This and other laws and rules have always been quite explicit in rabbinical literature. Mryj was following in the footsteps of many now-classic writers who portrayed Jews negatively, such as Shakespeare (Shylock, a moneylender) and Dickens (Fagin, a thief). However, the motif was different: Mryj was just as set on supporting an anti-religious campaign among Biełarusian Jews and Christians. Andrej Mryj’s satirical novel Zapiski Samsona Samasuja (Notes of Samson Samasuj) was first published in 1929. After harsh criticism at home, it reappeared only in 1953 when it was published by Munich’s Biełarusian émigré press Baćkaŭščyna.32 This work is the first modern Biełarusian satire. The title character, a simpleton, unwittingly exposes the ideological and bureaucratic nonsense of early Soviet rule. Throughout, the author merges two seemingly incompatible languages – spoken Biełarusian and the new Soviet jargon – to great comic effect. Samasuj is in love and comes up with a three-year plan for winning the heart of his beloved. The woman, Krejna Šufer, who has stolen Samson’s heart, is a Jewess. Her first name is the Yiddish word for crane. Most of the names in this novel, both Biełarusian and Jewish, have zoological roots, often related to fish, birds, or other animals. Samson’s first and last names, though not

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zoologically inspired, are also telling: both have the root “sam” (myself), hinting at the main character’s extreme narcissism. Samson falls in love with Krejna the moment he sees her, and though there is light humour in the portrayal of his first feelings, satire and sarcasm soon take over. Samson writes down his first impression: “Her image immediately left an imprint on my memory. Slightly elongated face with widely opened, dark, and glittering eyes, curly black city-cut hair, nose with a barely noticeable bump, and a figure to kill for with beautiful hills of breasts – all of this immediately stirred my blood and brought some energy, which I had kind of lost the previous night.”33 The following night, Samson’s feelings are expressed in a rather mundane dream, and, in the morning, his desire for Krejna rules his thoughts: “Oh! She, most probably, had never thought about it herself, instead I know it well: never ever was there another girl with such a fresh, peaches-and-cream face as Krejna had! No one ever had such deep, mystical eyes as hers or such a full, soft, leech-like mouth. Her entire figure, attractively built, brings ardour to me, fills my blood with the fire of desire, and promises mad tenderness and boiling insanity. What shall I do? All my physical stamina tells me that first I have to win her sympathy and understanding and compassion and, later, to try to achieve the results I desire.”34 The contrasting linguistic layers of each utterance – even her “leech-like” mouth attracts Samson’s desire – do a good job of expressing the protagonist’s nature. Samson is an adventurer who, in tsarist times, had served many prison sentences for petty crimes. He is utterly vain and contributes nothing to his community. Though of peasant stock, he doesn’t know how to harness a horse or do any peasant work. Instead, he has become a gifted con man whose “professional” skills turn out to be very useful under the Soviet system. In fact, the entire system fits him like a kid glove. You could send him to any field of Soviet activity, from propagandizing among the peasants to acting in a theatre, and he would make a mess of it – and, unlike his more knowledgable compatriots, thrive while doing so. In fact, with each failure he rises higher in the Soviet bureaucracy. His love life, for all his earthy energy, is constantly out of balance. Krejna turns out to be as promiscuous as any of her female friends in the shtetl, Gentile or Jewish. She is a coquette who prefers the shtetl’s married party boss, whose last name is Som (Catfish). Samson, for all the sincerity of his feelings for her, doesn’t let any skirt get past him.

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His second “serious” passion is Soša-Doša, a local amateur actress with a feline appearance. She is also Jewish and, like Krejna, ends up with a party boss. The novella ends with Samson’s being rapidly promoted up the Communist Party ranks. Samson Samasuj is a brilliant satire that exposes the moral stagnation of one Biełarusian shtetl. Neither Jews nor Gentiles are spared, neither the smart nor the stupid. Labourers, peasants, civil servants, the local intelligentsia, parents and children – all have been dehumanized by the Soviet regime. Samson is a typical representative of the new system’s evils in that he thrives in its poisonous atmosphere. But even this ultimate scoundrel has a human quality – the capacity to fall in love. The novel does not stress the fact that his two most serious love objects are Biełarusian Jewesses as much as it does his perpetual womanizing. It is worth noting that, in passing, Samson considers that his mother might question his choice should he marry Krejna. But he does not brood on this, instead entertaining another thought: everyone loves Krejna, and his mother might learn to as well. In other words, Samson, a scoundrel and an ex-con, still represents a common Biełarusian quality: he is not xenophobic. To summarize Mryj’s portrayal of Jews, based on “Rabin” and Samson Samasuj, it should be noted that this genuinely innovative writer treats Jews fairly. It is not origins, ethnicity, race, or occupation that interest Mryj, but how people behave in a society that is utterly new to them. Obviously, Marduchovič and Samasuj are both scoundrels, brutes, and crooks, but they are such by choice, not by birth, ethnicity, religion, or circumstance. Viktar Kazłoŭski’s (1905–75) long narrative poem Rachil (Rachelle [1932]) is not well known even in Biełaruś. Viktar (Biełarusian: Vincuś, Vinceś) Kazłoŭski was born in the year of the October Revolution. Though he lived to be seventy – a respectable age for that part of the world35 – his creative life ended with the Soviet terror of 1938, when he was only thirtythree. Shocked by the Soviet treatment of his fellow citizens, he couldn’t overcome his own fears and fell into mental illness. Relatives from his home village, Mročki, took him in and cared for him for the rest of his life. Kazłoŭski’s beginnings, however, were brilliant. He graduated from Kapyl’s high school in 1924 and from a teacher’s college in 1927; his diploma, which he received in 1931 from the Biełarusian State University, was with highest honours. Kazłoŭski started to publish poetry and practise journalism in 1925. Even during his university years he worked as a full-

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time journalist for the state press. His most productive year as a creative writer was 1932, when Rachil was first published.36 It is thirty-six pages long and tells the story of the love between a Gentile Biełarusian peasant and Rachil, a village seamstress and the daughter of a poor Jewish tailor, Abram. This love is rendered lyrically and romantically. Most of the action is set during the Polish-Soviet War (1918–21) and shows the massive upheaval this war brought to ordinary Biełarusians. Rachil has four parts. Following Maxim Bahdanovič’s lead, each part is titled “Vianok” (crown; wreath) and is numbered. The first three stanzas of the first part, “Vianok 1,” describe the difficulties faced by the narrator’s homeland during the First World War, the Russian Civil War, and the Soviet-Polish War. Rachil is introduced in the fourth stanza: Yet again it seems to me: Rachil stands In her usual silence Near a run-down entrance. Magic flourishes in her, Starry eyes Under Black arched eyebrows.37 The poet’s beloved is seemingly a beautiful woman and a hard-working one. She loves nature, flowers, Biełarusian and Jewish songs, and she takes care of her elderly father, who, in turn, lives solely for his only daughter. Rachil is modest, timid, sweet-looking, and vaguely exotic. When she trusts people, the fear recedes from her eyes and she is transformed into a beauty: When every evening I returned from the haying, She stood silently By the window And her father, Grey-haired Abram, Was bending His head in front of her.38

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The poet loves to listen to Rachil’s Yiddish songs: And first I learned to recognize The secret of these Unknown words. And they brought Unknown bliss, While I went to her With this song in my soul.39 The narrator often inserts Yiddish into his Biełarusian narration, indicating Kazłoŭski’s fluency in the language. This Biełarusian phenomenon – that peasants and other lower rural classes of this predominantly agricultural country knew Yiddish almost as well as Biełarusian, Polish, and Russian (the knowledge of the latter two depended on the local rulers) – was evident in Biełarusian Jews. The narrator, for example, highlights how his beloved Rachil sang to him beautifully in Biełarusian.40 The first section, “Vianok 1,” flows flawlessly and lyrically as it describes the young lovers; their feelings blend with the beauties of Biełarusian nature. This flow is interrupted only by an indication of Abram’s and Rachil’s hard work, which often lasts from dawn to dusk. “Vianok 2” opens with reminiscences of a lost paradise. Stanza 5 grips the reader with Kazłoŭski’s intimate admission of what differentiates him from most people: “I am not able to mock or insult others… / And I can’t understand those who get satisfaction from doing so.”41 This serves as an intimation of Kazłoŭski’s later mental illness. His empathy for other people recalls that of Prince Myshkin in Dostoevsky’s The Idiot, whose sensitive soul breaks down after his long journey over the oceans of human cruelty. In “Vianok 2,” the narrator reflects wistfully on his beloved Rachil: “You were such / A peaceful and lovely soul / Oh, my Rachil! / Beloved Rachil!”42 “Vianok 3” is subtitled “Mirages of the Past.” This section starts with a description of the weather that introduces a mood of nervous foreboding: Fog, fog, Fog, And gloom,

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And cold. Fog, fog. And rustle of the pine-woods. The laughter and happiness Of young hearts stop.43 The animals and birds are also unhappy, and scream in unison with the narrator: “My land is burning with fire, / Oh, my poor land!”44 Biełarusian sufferings during the Polish-Soviet War are described in terms of “oceans” of tears and blood. One murky dawn, when Abram, with his sewing machine, goes out in the hope of finding work, the unthinkable happens: Four wicked, Malicious officers, With sabres on their sides, And pistols in their hands, Broke windows, The same with the door…45 These Polish officers rape the narrator’s beloved: They took away her fire of life, They grabbed the bouquet of flowers, And dragged her out of the village. Rachil, half-conscious, called to Abram: “Oh, mein fater!” [Oh, my father!], She tearfully cried.46 The rest of this section is a lament for the sufferings of the people and the Biełarusian land. In the poet’s rendering, Rachil’s character often symbolizes innocent and beautiful Biełaruś. The first three parts of “Vianok 3” are impeccably composed. Each is written in the form of a musical rondo. As a reader and a critic, I wish the author had stopped at the end of the third part as the fourth is heavily sovietized and thus lacks the literary qualities and intellectual clarity of what has gone before. Yet “Vianok 4” is two and a half times longer than the first

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three parts. The poet uses an amalgam of poetic devices, the effect of which is to transform the predominantly sunny lyricism of the previous parts into a heavy and tortuous litany. Part 4 mixes madness with unexpected miracles and psychologically questionable statements. Having said this, both the critic and the reader will remember the times Kazłoŭski lived through and the methods of the Soviet police state. Also, it is not really fair to label the entire fourth part as a mistake since some of its pages are rendered with talent and taste. Pages twelve to eighteen, about Abram’s return to his burned hut, from which his daughter has vanished, and his grief, which gives way to madness, are as strong as anything we find in the poem’s first three parts. The false notes begin to appear when Abram’s sanity suddenly returns once he realizes that he is a proletarian. And, as a proletarian, he joins the Red Army in order to vanquish those who offended his daughter and his land. All of this changes the rhythm and rhyme of the poem: Kazłoŭski replaces the classic Bahdanovič-type verse at the end of the fourth part in favour of Mayakovski-like revolutionary versification.47 The story ends happily but in a somewhat twisted way: Rachil has been rescued by Biełarusian Red Partisans; she is nursed back to health and becomes the Soviet Army’s standard-bearer. Abram, who has just joined the Reds, proudly tells his daughter to hold the red banner high. Clearly, the ending has been rigged to be in compliance with the political rules of the time. Furthermore, as previously mentioned, the poet’s obvious talent comes through in patches even in part 4, the propagandizing part of the poem. Consequently, Kazłoŭski’s works, including Rachil, are now being resurrected is a promising sign for Biełarusian literary history and culture. Vera Rich points out that Biełarusian writers inherited their goodwill towards their Jewish neighbours from their pre-Soviet literature: “This acceptance of the Jew as part of the social scene of Biełaruś, and the presentation of Jewish characters with empathy and interest in their motivation is a keystone in the treatment of such characters in the older Biełarusian literature, the literature to which any writer who chooses Biełarusian as the medium of expression must, consciously or unconsciously, consider himself as the heir.”48 Her statement is correct; indeed, even writers of different ethnicities who “converted” to the Biełarusian national culture absorbed this open-minded attitude. One telling example is Ryhor Jakaŭlievič Kobiec (1900–90; pen names: Hryška Lachmaty, Ryhor Lachmaty). Kobiec was a Biełarusian playwright, prose writer, filmmaker, and

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ethnographer. He was born out of wedlock to a Ukrainian Cossack woman who had been impregnated by a Moldavian nobleman. His city of birth was Yelisavetgrad, which the Soviets renamed a few times, most recently as Kirovohrad. Kobiec’s beginnings were modest, and, due to his turbulent life, he had to change names as often as his birth city. Thus, he was registered as Michail Drač by his single mother, who worked as a cook for rich people. Later he was adopted by his Biełarusian stepfather, and after 1915 he carried his stepfather’s patronymic and surname: Michajła Musievič Sandyha. His parents believed in education, and the boy started school at the age of eight. For five years he excelled in his studies, gaining fluency in French and German. In 1913, when his impoverished parents could no longer pay for his education, he ran away, joining the army in 1914. He was wounded and, after recuperating, returned home. For some time, he worked as a labourer while continuing to educate himself. Meanwhile, he became socially and politically active. Michajła Sandyha had chosen the “wrong” party – one made up of anarchists who were later persecuted by the Soviets. To avoid this persecution, he changed his name one last time: after 1928 he became Ryhor Jakaŭlievič Kobiec. Even though he had been “re-educated” after the Bolshevik Revolution while serving in the Red army, the nkvd continued to watch him closely. Kobiec’s first works were published in 1918. He tried different genres and was successful in all of them. Kobiec often resorted to labour themes in his poems, tales, and feuilletons. His first play, Huta (1929), became very popular all over the Soviet Union. At that time the Biełarusian Film Studio was located in Leningrad, and Kobiec worked there as a consultant, director, producer, and, of course, scriptwriter. His films, which included Dvojčy narodžany (Born twice [1933]) and Šukalniki ščaścia (In pursuit of happiness [1936]), were highly popular both in the Soviet Union and abroad. The writer’s many works, which included lecture series and ethnographies, were popular among his fellow citizens from all walks of life. All of these activities stopped after his first arrest, in 1938, on trumped-up charges that he had been spying for Japan, England, and Poland. He was released the same year but rearrested on the same false charges in 1941. Kobiec was allowed to return to Miensk in 1958 but was completely rehabilitated only in 1960. In 1967, at the request of Kirovohrad’s historical and folkloric museum, he wrote an autobiography, which was published in Biełaruś only in 1973. In his autobiography, as in his 1964 novella “Nojieŭ kaŭčeh” (Noah’s ark),

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Kobiec recounted the horrific living conditions in Stalin’s concentration camps and showed that human dignity and courage were present even in those places.49 Most of his works have been preserved. He was lucky to see his famous movie, the comedy Šukalniki ščaścia, restored and re-released in 1987, at which time it was shown all over the Soviet Union. The film is about the founding of a Soviet Jewish Autonomous oblast (district), Birabidžan (Russian: Birobidjan), as a home for Jews from the former Pale of Settlement. Kobiec undertook a research trip to Birabidžan in 1933, where he worked alongside the new Jewish settlers at the local gold mines, hunted with them on the taiga, planted fields, and caught fish in the Amur River. Over the course of his visit, he learned Jewish customs and lifeways. The film was made in Biełarusian with Russian subtitles. Aliona KobiecFilimonava, his daughter and herself a Biełarusian writer of merit, wrote about her father’s film:50 What is a secret of this movie’s popularity? First of all, the script is exceptionally talented in its brilliant imagery. Indeed, any film starts with the script. Catchwords and phrases from that script immediately became street folklore, and continue to be popular today. Dunaevskii’s music, which adorned the movie, also added to its fame. Songs from this movie have been sung by many generations and are heard even today. And the actors and actresses shall not be forgotten either. Who are they, those artists who brought recognition to the movie? M. Bliumental-Tamaryna (Aunt Dvojra), V. Zuskin (Pinia), I. Bij-Brodski (Šloma), L. Šmidt (Roza), N. Val’iano (Liova), L. Tajc (Basia), S. Jaraŭ (Karniej), B. Žukoŭski (old fisherman) … And also, S. Michoels, famous artist and theatre director, was a consultant for the movie.51 Indeed, the constellation of Soviet movie stars and other contributors involved in the filming and post-production is impressive. Aliona Kobiec draws attention to the tragic fate of the film’s creators: most of them were imprisoned unjustly, tortured, and exiled; others (V. Zuskin and S. Michoels) were murdered by the Soviet regime. Aliona Kobiec talks about her father’s life at length, lovingly revealing a host of unknown facts. She also discusses the quality of her father’s writings. She notes the natural flow of the Biełarusian language and how en-

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thusiasm for building a new society permeates the script. All of this made for a highly successful film despite the requirements of socialist realism: most of the characters are committed altruists who find joy in giving everything they have to the common good. Notwithstanding the strictures he faced, Kobiec succeeded in instilling in the film a light-hearted atmosphere that emphasizes the neighbourly relations between different ethnicities. The story centres on a Jewish family whose wanderings from the Pale of Settlement are long and painful. First they go to Palestine, but they cannot find work there, so they try their luck in Birabidžan. The head of the family, Dvojra, is surrounded by her three children: Basia, who is married to Pinia, and two younger unmarried siblings, Liova and Roza. Pinia is a typical romantic villain. He is a small person inside out, truly egotistic, lazy, and ever ready to exploit anyone and anything for his own purposes. On their way to Birabidžan, the family members meet Natan, the head of a Jewish collective farm known as Rojte Feld (Red field), who invites them to join this growing Soviet enterprise. Pinia reads in the paper that there are gold mines nearby and agrees to go there, hoping to get rich. The rest of the family members are happy with the possibility of finding any honest job. All the members of the collective farm, Jew and Gentile alike, welcome the newcomers into their extended family. Among the members of Rojte Feld are Šloma, a labourer, and Karniej, a handsome and hard-working peasant who also manages the fishery and the hunting. Friendships and romances develop instantly. Both Šloma and Karniej are interested in Dvojra’s daughters. Karniej is in love with Roza. He has an accident in the taiga, and is found by Liova, who brings him to Dvojra, who is known in her family as a healer. Natan, meanwhile, develops feelings for Basia, as does Šloma. Neither pays much attention to the fact that Basia is married to Pinia. This alone shows the moviegoer how free Soviet contemporaries had become since tsarist times: under the latter regime, marriages were expected to be stable and, indeed, unshakeable. The poetic striving for self-betterment is presented by Dvojra’s children. There is so much for them to do: hunting on the taiga, cutting logs, clearing and planting fields, fishing, building homes and communal buildings, and more: “Everyone has a job. Everyone found their place on the collective farm. All but Pinia.”52 Kobiec underscores the differences within the family as follows: “Combines and seeding machines are moving along the field. Pinia goes along the river with a washbowl and a

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shovel. Roza puts sheaves [of straw] on a cart. Liova comes down from a thresher. Pinia, covered in sweat, is digging wet sand. Basia feeds chickens. Pinia digs in a different place [in his search for gold].”53 A moment comes when Pinia thinks he has found what he desires most – gold. Liova, whom he meets on the way back from his discovery, isn’t impressed with Pinia’s intentions and suggests that he give the gold to the state. They fight, and Pinia hits Liova from behind with his heavy shovel, knocking him out. Pinia, thinking he has killed his brother-in-law, accuses the innocent Karniej. Liova, however, survives and tells Rosa about Pinia. Meanwhile, Pinia is stopped, along with his treasure (which turns out to be not gold but copper), when he tries to cross the Soviet border. He has hired a fisherman to row him across the river to China, but his hire (who turns out to be Karniej’s father) is a good Soviet citizen and brings him to a Soviet border guard. The story ends with the wedding of Rosa and Karniej, at which Dvojra gives a speech: “Everyone in the shtetl considered me a good housewife. I could share one small herring for nine mouths. Well, while cutting that herring, I felt I was cutting my own heart. Children were watching my hand, each wanted a larger piece, and I felt for each of them but there was nothing more in the hut except this small old herring … I don’t wish anyone ever to feel the way I did.” Dvojra’s voice trembles, and tears are flowing from her eyes. “Could my poor deceased husband Aŭrum Ber ever dream that his old Dvojra would live to see such bright days as today!” Dvojra raises her glass. She continues, and her voice is full of soulful warmth directed to all. “Please eat, dear guests, please eat, my children. All of you are my children. Pour some wine, and we will drink to our motherland! We will drink to a happy life for all!”54 Aliona Kobiec-Filimonava, while compiling her father’s selected works, found a place for some short memoirs that had been written for him. People from different walks of life and culture remembered her father as a talented soul and a great mind, as open to good and closed to evil. Every one of his surviving contemporaries noted his goodwill towards Biełarusians and people of all nations, faiths, and ethnicities. Thus, he was close

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to Ryhor Relies, the Yiddish poet, who wrote a brief essay about him titled “He Survived Thanks to His Laughter.” Relies writes that his friend, who didn’t have a drop of Jewish blood, spoke only Yiddish with him and had a deep knowledge of Jewish humour and folklore. He ends his essay this way:55 As soon as I finished writing about my unforgettable meetings with Kobiec, I remembered a recent interview article, “Ethnic Russians Celebrate Sabbath and Pesach,” about Birabidžan, published in Izvestiia. It started like this: – Journalist: “How many Jews are living in Birabidžan?” – Governor of Birabidžan: “And how many do you need?” And further on, regarding the “national arithmetic” of Birabidžan, the essence of which is clear: the more Jews are leaving for Israel, the more remain. This happens because Russians (and other ethnicities) convert to Judaism since the desire to leave the former ussr is strong among locals. In order to do so they keep Sabbath, celebrate Pesach, and dance the Freilex. I wasn’t surprised that the author, Dmitrii Filimonov, is a grandson of Ryhor Kobiec, who inherited from him and his mother literary talent, humour and interest in Jewish lives.56 Indeed, it was the Kobiec family’s tradition to appreciate the various Biełarusian ethnicities and generations. This reflects the Biełarusian nation as a whole, which, in turn, is revealed in Biełarusian literature. In this monograph I could have discussed many other Biełarusian writers whose works support this thesis. Hopefully, their works, and others that I had no room to examine, will be taken up by younger researchers and readers. They could, for example, look to the writings of the following authors, who offer works of various genres: 1 Svietłana Alieksievič (Svetlana Alexievich). U voiny ne zhenskoe litso (War’s unwomanly face). Moskva: Progress Publishing, 1988; Vremia sekond hend (Time second hand). Moskva: Vremia, 2013. Collected works in five volumes. 2 Lidzija Arabiej (1925–2015). Chałodny maj (A cold May).

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3 4

5 6

7 8 9 10 11

12 13

14 15

Miensk: Mastackaja litaratura, 1993, which includes the short stories “Chalodny maj,” “Płač pa radzimie” (Cry for the motherland), and “Trećcia dačka” (Third daughter). There are an abundance of Jewish themes in Arabiej’s book, Pošuki iściny (Search for highest truth). Miensk: Viktar Chursik, 2005. Michał Aniempadystaŭ (1964– ). Narodny albom (The people’s album). Miensk: Miedysont, 2008. Uładzimir Arłoŭ (1953– ). “Vova Cymerman” and the short story “Praroctvy Rozy Hiercyković” (Predictions of Roza Hiercyković), both in Orden biełaj myšy (The order of the white mouse). Miensk: Mastackaja litaratura, 2003. Volha Babkova (1961–). “Krumkač i Franka” (Raven and Franka), Naša Niva, 27 December 2002, 15–17. Henadź Buraŭkin (1936–2014). “Rabina Rabina” (Rabbi’s ash tree), Polymia 8 (1995). This also appears in My jašče tut 10 (2005): 2. Jazep Dyła (1880–1973). Junak z Krošyna (A youth from Krošyn). Miensk: Mastackaja litaratura, 1981. Michael Goldenkov (1962– ). Polet dubovogo lista (Flight of an oak leaf). Miensk: Lohvinaŭ, 2007. Adam Hłobus (1958– ). “Tutejšyja” (Locals). Habrejski numar [Jewish issue]. ARCHE 3 (2000): 140–4. Uładzimir Hniłamiodaŭ (1937– ). Ulis z Pruski (Ulysses from Pruski), Miensk: Mastackaja litaratura, 2006. Sakrat Janovič (1936–2013). “Usie my patrochu žydy” (Part of our being is Jewish). Habrejski numar [Jewish issue], ARCHE 3 (2000): 135–44. Alieksiej Karpiuk (1920–92). Danuta. Miensk: Khud. Literatura, 1963. Pavał Kaściukievič (1979– ). Dušpastarskija spatkańni dlia dačnikaŭ (Emotional meetings of cottages dwellers), Vilnia: Instytut Biełarusistyki, 2008. Artur Klimaŭ (1965– ). Šalom. Miensk: Lohvinaŭ, 2005. Ilia Kurkoŭ. “Jaŭrei ŭ bssr: iluzii nadziei” (Jews in bssr: Illusions and hopes). Habrejski numar [Jewish issue]. ARCHE 3 (2000): 163–7.

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16 Jazep Liosik (1883–1940). “Nie ŭsie ž razam, jahamości!” (Not all together, dear sir!), in Tvory (Works). Miensk: Mastackaja litaratura, 1994. 17 Uładzimir Malcaŭ. “Pragramny spektakl jaŭrejskaha teatru” (A performance of Jewish theatre). Habrejski numar [Jewish issue]. ARCHE 3 (2000): 173–9. 18 Barys Mikulič (1912–40). Viecier na śvitańni (Wind at sunrise). Miensk: Junactva, 1991. 19 Uładzimir Niakliajieŭ (1946– ). Łabuch (A free-spirited musician). Miensk: Niakliajieŭ, 2003. 20 Valiancin (Valentin) Taras (1930–2009). Ballada o kerosinshchike Ziamie (The ballad of Ziama, a kerosene vendor) and the short story “Nepokhozhie” (No resemblance), Aviv 3 (May 1992). 21 Illa Złotnik (1922–2006). Miastečka (the script of a musical play), music score: Alieś Symanovič (1960– ), translated from Yiddish by Fielix Chajmovič (1948– ). Lida: Baćka M., 2010. 22 Aliona Vasilievič (1922– ). “Chaškielie,” Aviv 1 (May 1991): 5-7. 23 Źmicier Višnioŭ (1973– ). Veryfikacyja naradžeńnia: Maja pomsta voraham habrejskaha pahodžańnia (A birth verification: My vengeance against enemies of Jewish origin). Miensk: Lohvinaŭ, 2005. I should also mention a grandiose new project, a translation of the Old Testament from Hebrew into modern Biełarusian. This project is highly symbolic: Biełarusian literature was launched by translations from the Hebrew Bible that were done mainly by Jews who had learned Biełarusian. Today, it is mainly Biełarusians like Siarhiej Šupa (1961–), who is fluent in Hebrew, translating the Book into modern Biełarusian. Šupa’s translation of “Peśnia Peśniaŭ” (The Song of Solomon) was presented at the academic congress of 2014 in Koŭna (Lithuanian: Kaunas). During that congress, which pondered many academic disciplines, Biełarusian literature and Biełarusian-Jewish connections were well presented. Yet the question remains: Why is Biełarusian literature so uniquely benevolent towards Jews? I am not saying that relations between Jews and Christians have always been good, and local historians have sometimes pointed out conflicts. But Biełarusian literature has little to say about such

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incidents. In any event, readers will have to answer this question themselves. My own answer is that Biełarusian literature reflects widespread tendencies, not exceptional cases. Also, it has focused largely on something truly good that its people have shown over the centuries: love and respect for family and compatriots of all faiths and ethnicities. To paraphrase an old Jewish Biełarusian proverb: “racism is like talent, health, and money; you either have it or you don’t.” And Biełarusian writers have shown their readers that theirs is not a racist society. I conclude by quoting Vera Rich’s introduction to her anthology of Biełarusian literature, Like Water, Like Fire: “The discovery of a new and ‘different’ poet is undoubtedly one of the most exciting events in the life of any poetry-lover. The discovery of a whole new literature of poetry is incomparably more so.”57 I sincerely hope that Western readers will continue to discover the Biełarusian land, people, and culture through its unique literature, which rejects racism and militancy and is rich in the beauty and power of life.

1 Appendix One Notes on Biełarusian Pronunciation and Transliterations The Biełarusian language uses two alphabets, Kirylica (Cyrillic) and Łacinka (Latin), but modern Biełarusians use mostly the Cyrillic alphabet. Spelling in the Cyrillic alphabet has two versions. The first one, Taraškievica, is based on the method elaborated by the linguist Branisłaǔ Taraškievič (1892–1938). It was prohibited by the Soviets and replaced by the Soviet Narkomaǔka (the “Communist one”), a heavily Russified version of the Biełarusian language. The written Biełarusian language of the Taraškievica tradition (unlike Narkomaǔka) has its own Łacinka (Biełaruskaja abeceda) and Cyrillic. Though attempts are being made to introduce Łacinka into the Library of Congress (LoC), it still uses a heavily Russified form of transliteration. Even the latest Biełarusian transliteration, offered by LoC, slavishly shadows the Russian one. The reader may see several forms of Biełarusian transliterations, as reflected in different spellings of the Biełarusian language: Byelorussian, Byelarussian, Belarusian, Bielarusan, Belarusan, and a few more. Another good example is the spelling of the Biełarusian capital: Miensk turned into Minsk under the Soviets in 1938; the country’s present leaders have kept this spelling; the opposition and émigrés use the original Miensk. Unlike LoC, all variants of Łacinka incorporate diacritical marks, similar to the Czech, Polish, Serbian, Sorbian, and other alphabets in Latin conversion. Though variants of Łacinka were used from the sixteenth century, The Portrayal of Jews in Biełarusian Literature uses the transliteration system, based on the Taraškievica because Taraškievič’s Łacinka innately reflects Biełarusian sounds compare to any other systems. I hope the following charts will be of help to English speakers and will allow the reader to experience the richness of Biełarusian phonetics.

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app endix o ne

Cyrillic

Łacinka

Pronunciation

LoC

Aa

a (in ah)

Aa

b (in bid; bow) v (in vim; in vow) h (in how) d (in dean; deaf)

Bb Vv Hh Dd Ee

Дз дз Дзь дзь

A a; see charts and notes below Bb Vv Hh Dd see notes and charts below see notes and charts below Dz dz Dź dź

Дж дж Жж Зз Зь зь

Dž dž Žž Z Źź

Іі

Кк Лл

I I; see charts and notes below J j; see charts and notes below Kk Łł

Ль ль

Ll

Мм Нн Нь нь Оо

Mm Nn Ńń O o; see charts and notes below

Бб Вв Гг Дд Ее Ёё

Йй

Io io dz (in aze) dź (followed by soft sign ь: palatalized) j (in jet) sue (in pleasure) z (in zorro) z (palatalized in shorten eu of Zeus) I i (in machine)

absent absent

y (in boy)

Ĭĭ

absent Zh zh Zz absent Īī

k (in cat) Kk l (in lamp); followed Ll by hard vowels: a, o, у, ы, э l (in million) followed absent by soft vowels or soft sign: я, ё, ю, і, е, ь; please see the chart below m (in mom) Mm n (in no) Nn n (in onion) absent o (in horse) Oo

Biełarusian Pronunciation and Transliterations

Пп Рр

Pp Rr

Сс Сь сь Тт Уу Ўў Фф Хх Цц Ць ць Чч Шш Шч шч Ыы ь

Ss Śś Tt U u; see charts and notes below Ǔŭ Ff Ch ch Cс Ćć Čč Šš Šč šč Yy ‘

ъ

’

Ээ Юю

Ee see notes and charts below see notes and charts below

Яя

p (in pot) r ( close to Scottish ‘r’ in row) s (in so) s (Sirius: palatalized) t (in to) u (in rule) w (in how) f (in fat) ch (in Scottish loch) ts (in tsetse) t (palatalized) ch (in church) sh (in shine) Please see note 1 y (in Mary) Soft sign “ь” palatalizes a consonant, as in: ź, ś, ń, and others, and/or divides it with a following vowel: ź’ia. Hard sign divides a consonant and a vowel. e (in ten)

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Pp Rr Ss absent Tt Uu Uu Ff Kh kh Ts ts absent Ch ch Sh sh Shch Yy ‘

‘’ Ėė Iu iu Ia ia

Notes and charts: Note 1 *[Щ щ] is absent in modern Biełarusian but is replaced by a diagraph шч*

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After Consonants (other than Ł/ł and L/l). Cyrillic

Łacinka

Pronunciation

LoC

Яя Ее Ёё Юю

Ia ia Ie ie Io io Iu iu

ya (in yah) ye (in yet) yo (in yonder) yu (in tune)

ia e ё iu

After the consonant L/l, the following vowels are always soft. Cyrillic

Łacinka

Pronunciation

LoC

Яя Ее Ёё Юю

Lia lia Lie lie Lio lio Liu liu

ya (in yah) ye (in yet) yo (in yonder) yu (in tune)

ia e ё iu

After the consonant Ł/ł the following vowels are always hard. Cyrillic

Łacinka

Pronunciation

LoC

лa ло лу лэ

ła łо łu łe

la (in latitude) lo (in lonely) lu (in looney) laj (in lady)

N/A N/A N/A N/A

Biełarusian Pronunciation and Transliterations

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After vowels or beginning of the word Cyrillic

Łacinka

Pronunciation

LoC

Ii Ее Ёё Юю Яя

ji je jo ju ja

yi (in yield) ye (in yet) yo (in yonder) yu (in you) ya (in yah)

N/A Ee Io io Iu iu Ia ia

Sources Biełarusian Łacinka: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Belarusian_Latin_alphabet. Gimpelevich, Z. Vasil Bykaŭ. His Life and Works. Montreal & Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2005. Kasaty, P. “Belarusian Alphabets and Transliteration.” http://www.belarus-misc. org/bel-alpha.htm. Kipel, V., and Z. Kipel, eds. Byelorussian Statehood. New York: Byelorussian Institute of Arts and Sciences, 1988. McMillin, A. Belarusian Literature in the 1950s and 1960s. Vienna: Böhlau Verlag, 1999. – A History of Byelorussian Literature. Giessen: Verlag, 1977. Rich, V. Like Water, Like Fire. London: Allen and Unwin, 1971.

1 Appendix Two Baradulin’s Poems

Some translations from Niezabytajie, Viekaviecˇnajie (Unforgettable, Immortal), Part 11 a springtime sketch on the shore of va ŬČ enskajie lake The lake stands still. A hut sets over the water, Its floor nailed through to the lake So the lake cannot move. Like a little bud bursting from a pine tree, The mistrustful hedgehog rushes about, His snub-nosed face full of worry. He is sniffing: a field mouse could be near … A blackbird on its squeaky wings Drives the mist straight back to the lake. The harrier-hawk (like she didn’t do it enough during the day), Continues to scream as if she has wounded her tail. The fog above has a fishy smell, The thawing land offers a scent of mint … Oh, good evening to you, my friend, the nightingale! You found your way into this choir! Do you remember the old Icka? He went to the village, bringing a barrel of tar. The devil jumped in, and pulled the barrel’s plug, And the road was covered with tar … That was you who warned him from the birch tree:

Baradulin’s Poems

– Icka, Icka – –The tar is out – Drip, drip-drip! Chirp-chirp-chirp! All of our neighbours Flew out with buckets But there wasn’t a drop left. I felt so sorry for old Icka … Thank you for the memory, my old friend, the nightingale!2

untitled The last Jewish poets: Who could listen to their Yiddish poems? Maybe the wind in the fields, Or the tree, whose branches, Out of sadness, bend so low? Each verse in Yiddish Is like a foundling – There is no one to sing a lullaby to this child. The elders have had enough of laughter, misfortune, and tears, Now they join their forefathers. But those who are trying To prolong their short lives Are deaf, weaned, deprived Of their painful, native words. The young are like strangers. Even the shtetl dogs have stopped responding to Yiddish. Sparrows do not chirp in Yiddish. Now even they don’t remember: the sparrows have forgotten That Biełarusians jokingly called them Jews. No more Jewish schools, No more students. Just a few words dropped along the road Found their way to the warm hands of the Biełarusian language;

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I barely remember, and see through the mist Books with unreadable letters. How noiselessly they flew from the windows And landed on the prewar pavements. It seemed that those letters were not unknown. Instead, I imagined them to be the many feet of little birds That left their imprints on the snow, right near our own huts. The schools were closed. One language for all was installed for the “common good” – But it was done before the evil winter Which turned everyone speechless and numb. Though, in our common past – Janka and Jankiel, Zosia and Zelda – Everyone sounded, spoke, talked In their own way and understood each other. … Now like Harrier-hawks with sad wings Jewish books flew to the pavement of forgetfulness Before that awful war. Now I look at Biełarusian Harrier-hawks And remember those sad wings, outcasts With helpless guilt. I remember and I am frightened. Oh, what a liberty it is to live in Biełaruś without freedom …3

nad jamaj (over the pit) 4 We bow our heads Before this terrifying Pit. The Pit is mute Because it’s bottomless. The Pit swallowed so many victims! And we stay motionless over it, This most insatiable Pit. Moses’s great-great-great-grandchildren Are resting here, In life they were sad and merry,

Baradulin’s Poems

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But they came back as sorrowful grass While the earth grew emptier. Mines of thoughts Disappeared in the mute Pit, The Egyptian exodus ended here. Sparks of faith, poisoned by despair Remained to be extinguished last. With the pouring rain the skies wept, Eternity held the immortal flame So the Old Testament, With woe and patience, Could transfer the light of Torah Into the seven candles. Like a swift ray of light Or slow as a clam One will end up In that country of shadows. And we, your brothers through joys and troubles, Are standing now together over the infernal Pit.5

untitled Shalom, Jerusalem, Shalom, you sacred place. Suffuse me with your light and bring me back to health. As if in a kneading trough,6 your soul Rises like dough So the bread of faith Won’t disappear from the earth. And our dreams, Like earthly swallows, are gathering Here for winter. Flying through starry skies And heavy showers They are searching for

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The Elixir of Life. Like an empty eye-socket, The abyss is yawning. Here is our tomorrow That left yesterday. And God is near, He can hear it all …7

From a Cycle: “And the Heart Will Turn into Bethlehem”8 untitled Kneel down In God’s Home, And kiss the dust, Like a leaf that leaves the tree While blessed by thunderstorms. The tombstone is frozen like eternity, United with my soul. Silence Will hit with such an icy cold That, while still here, you will At once remember the other world. We know whose God Has suffered for everyone. Fate is laughing: There is no other way. When old, we will all Turn simply into Jews, Like Jesus Christ.9

Baradulin’s Poems

untitled He has been walking Young, barefoot, on the earth, Savior. A small piece of coal still flickers in His home, Native smell overwhelms His feelings. He left His naked footprints On hot stones and in Good souls. Today His Lean Shadow Grows, every evening When the dust is still fresh. Cloaking the people Not burnt by the Fire10 With God’s clemency He walks the sacred land Till the end of the world Keeping the earth high Like an Icon in His hand!11

the western wall This wall didn’t divide. It is Named by the future as The Western Wall. The whole world can see this: It is the Lord’s Table. And here, everyone thinks, I will drop my sadness, And my guilt will turn into innocence. Beyond the Wall Can He hear our sorrowful cries? And see our woe?

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Walls confine our homes And prisons. Only God Alone Is our Secure Foundation. Everything He planned, Everything He designed, Was ruined like our temples. And, maybe, this is all Before our parting. Our silent clouds of tears Will carry on the wind. We will turn into a living Western Wall And stop death. But we are fearful. Mystery is as silent as the Wall. Perhaps Eternity’s backbone is broken.12

jerusalem The Milky Way is like a joyful kilim, It loves to unwrap the skies at midnight So a soul who travels to Jerusalem Won’t be lost in darkness But, rather, be grateful for the light. Colours flame at sunrise, Colours dress up for a moment of eternity And measure time with scales. The city lodges On the durable stars The way it lies on hills Where mornings spent their nights. It is close to a ravine, Where God will gather all For the Judgment Day. Not all roads lead to Rome But to Jerusalem.

Baradulin’s Poems

Devotees visit cemeteries Where, like petrified smoke, Stand tombstone-pilgrims. Here one is closer to God Than anywhere on earth. Every ear can hear The Inevitable, its invisible breath. A clear eye sheds a tear, And a quiet heart turns towards Jerusalem.13

untitled You cannot shake your fear off like dust It is hard to look into the eyes of death. The road to Golgotha is long and difficult, Unexpected, unwanted, Like orphans’ nightmares. You will burn yourself, You will bring on your own catastrophe, You will have to carry your own cross, You will have to ascend your own Golgotha. And people will reveal Their own Magic and madness, And weakness. The road to Golgotha is short and hard, But it is enough for all mankind.14

a sacred light: triptych ii Hands, thrown open and nailed to the cross Like stretched-out wings, are ready to fly. There is the voice of an Archangel Coming from the Source of Thirst. You will drink and gather strength …

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And you will see, in yourselves, such things That you will be afraid to move your eyes away. Once you have entered Jerusalem You cannot ever leave.15

untitled The closer God is to earth, The more He belongs to the skies And here, Acting with His magical powers, He removes, effortlessly, His sky-washed clothing. Invisible to others, He is perfectly seen by paupers and the blind. He comes off like a breath from the Evangelic wind, Forgiving these nails for the pain of his Son.16

1 Notes

ch apt er o ne 1 The current study follows transliteration based on the Biełarusian Latin alphabet, called Łacinka, which has diacritical marks, like Polish, Serbian, Sorbian, and Czech. The Library of Congress (LoC) system of transliteration from Biełarusian is based on Soviet Biełarusian spelling – thus, it is heavily Russified. Łacinka reflects Biełarusian phonetics, morphology, and spelling much better than does any other transliteration system and is becoming more acceptable on both sides of the ocean. The Russified form “Belarus” as the name of the country was adopted by the United Nations (UN) after 1991, but this form and the derived adjective “Belarusian” is being replaced by the Łacinka equivalents “Biełaruś” and “Biełarusian” for the sake of consistency with the proposed transliteration system. Please see this book’s appendix, “Notes on Transliteration.” When the transliteration comes from Russian, I follow the LoC system. All transliterations and translations from Biełarusian and Russian are mine (unless otherwise indicated). 2 Biełarusian Jews initially spoke and wrote a northeastern dialect of Yiddish for secular purposes but used Hebrew and (Jewish) Aramaic in their religious scholarly practices. Biełaruś (in Yiddish, “Raysn” or “Vaysrusland”) has had many names, including the Grand Duchy of Lithuania (Biełarusian: Litva; gdl). The gdl was a multiethnic and multiconfessional state. The gdl became a part of Reč Paspalitaja (a union with the Kingdom of Poland from 1569 to 1795), where Old Biełarusian was second to Polish. Tsarist Russia overtook Reč Paspalitaja three times, and it was part of the Russian Empire until 1918. Modern Biełaruś declared independence on 25 March 1918 and was named the Biełarusian People’s Republic (Biełaruskaja Narodnaja Respublika [bnr]). In 1919, the bnr’s government was exiled, and the country was forced to join the newly formed Soviet Union and was renamed the Biełarusian Soviet Socialist

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3

4

5 6 7 8 9

10 11 12 13 14

note s to pages 4 –6

Republic (bssr, 1919–91). In July 1939, the Soviets changed the traditional name of the capital city Miensk to Minsk. The country became an independent state in 1991; its current name is the Republic of Biełaruś. It inherited the same borders as its predecessor, the bssr. The abovementioned historical facts are fleshed out over the course of this book. Yiddishland is an umbrella term for the Pale of Settlement in Tsarist Russia; it included modern Biełaruś, Estonia, Lithuania, Latvia, Moldova, Poland, Ukraine, and Austro-Hungarian Galicia. In the Biełarusian Soviet Constitution of 1927 (which followed the first Bolshevik Biełarusian Constitution of 1919), Articles 21, 22, and 23 of the primary law (Chapter 1) confirmed the declarations of the 1919 Constitution in terms of its unique (indeed, unprecedented) equality of the Biełarusian, Yiddish, Russian, and Polish languages in education, public, and government services. Please visit: http://old.pravo.by/lawhistory/konst _1927.htm. This law was reiterated in the third Biełarusian Constitution in 1937, in Article 25. Please see http://old.pravo.by/lawhistory/konst_ 1927.htm. A year later a 1938 amendment removed the privileged status from Yiddish and Polish. In practice, these languages, as well as Biełarusian, had long been forced to yield primacy to Russian. For this reference to the constitutions I am grateful to S. Šupa and W. Rubinčyk. Michlic, Poland’s Threatening Other. Shkandrij, Jews in Ukrainian Literature. Glaser, Jews and Ukrainians in Russia’s Literary Borderlands. Mondry, Exemplary Bodies. Tsaitšryft is a yearbook dedicated to studies of Biełarusian Jewish history, demography, economics, literature, language, and ethnography. It is published in Miensk and Vilnia by the European Humanities University (ehu). The title page of the 2011 issue states that it is volume 6, number 1. The editorial note on page 4 adds that the yearbook is to be regarded as a continuation of the journal with the same title, published in Miensk between 1926 and 1931. Five issues of the journal have appeared, despite severe financial difficulties. No data are available about Jacob Blum, who wrote the Russian part. Blum and Rich, Image of the Jew. Ibid., 241. Please see Bratochkin, Pamiat’o kholokoste. In Wullschlager, Chagall, 265.

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15 See Rosenthal, “Kiev.” That article makes note of Jewish settlements as early as 776 in the lands of pre-Kyivan Rus’, which was the first East Slavic state (ninth to thirteenth centuries). 16 Tolts, “Population and Migration.” A good source of information on the official use of Biełarusian is the Lithuanian Metrika, a 556-volume archive of documents – both copies and originals – emanating from the State Chancellery of the gdl in the period 1386 to 1794. The Chronicles of the gdl, compiled in the fourteenth through to the end of the eighteenth centuries and written in the Biełarusian of the time, also provide strong evidence of the validity of the old Biełarusian culture. These chronicles offer reliable historical data on that part of Europe during those centuries. The three editions (1529, 1566, and 1588) of the Statute of the Grand Duchy of Litva (Lithuania) are among the greatest achievements of European law (after Roman law). This statute determined the legal system of the gdl and the Reč Paspalitaja for about 250 years, until it was abolished by Tsar Nicholas I of Russia in the first half of the nineteenth century. Written in Old Biełarusian, the statute was the only full code of laws in Europe before France adopted the Napoleonic Code in 1804. 17 Gottheil, Strack, and Jacobs, “Blood (Libel) Accusation.” 18 Vilnia/Wilno has a very rich history and has connections with many states and nations, including Biełaruś, Poland, Lithuania, Ukraine, Latvia, and Russia, as well as with Jews, Tatars, and Germans. The city was renamed Vilnius by the Lithuanians in 1939, when Stalin transferred it to Lithuania after the dismemberment of the Second Polish Republic. Since 2005, Lithuania, among other benevolent acts towards former compatriots from the gdl, has hosted the exiled Biełarusian campus of the ehu. 19 Marzaliuk, “Chryścijanie,” 46–7. 20 Kipel and Kipel, Byelorussian Statehood, 3. 21 Tkačoŭ, “Vajna Rasii,” 70; Sahanovič, Nieviadomaja vajna. 22 In the thirteenth century, Russia and part of historical Ukraine were invaded and subjugated by a combined force of Mongols and Tatars. For several centuries, they paid taxes to the invaders, and their ruling princes were forced to travel to the Golden Horde in order to receive the blessing of the Khanate. In 1453, Rus’ was still nominally under the rule of the Khanate even though the Russians and other East Slavs had won a famous victory at the Battle of Kulikovo in 1380. Notwithstanding that victory and others, military incursions continued until the seventeenth century.

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The Biełarusian and Lithuanian princes had ambiguous relations with both sides, often supporting the Russians and other East Slavs in their battles against the Khanate regardless of their treaties with the Khans. Lisauskas, Vilnius. Most former Jewish sites have been renamed, and generations of Lithuanians have no clue as to the origins and previous ownership of their properties. Indeed, at the beginning of this project, I collected close to two hundred titles written by Biełarusian Christian authors who included Biełarusian Jewish characters in their works. Marc Chagall (Mark Šahal, 1887–1985). Chagall’s childhood in his native Viciebsk was steeped in Hasidic, Biełarusian, and Russian cultures. The Biełarusian language had been banned in its written form in 1863 and was officially replaced by Russian. But the peasantry continued to speak it, and Chagall, whose relatives lived in villages and spoke Biełarusian, understood the “village language” that surrounded him. Because the Russian language had been imposed on Biełarusian towns and schools after the mid-nineteenth century, young Chagall could write only in Yiddish and Russian, though he spoke Biełarusian well before moving to France. Gimpelevich, Biełarusian Jewish Writers of the Twentieth Century, 144–6. Vasil Bykaŭ (1924–2003) is a renowned twentieth-century Biełarusian writer. He is often referred to as the “conscience,” the “prophet,” and the “moral protector” of the Biełarusian people. See Gimpelevich, Vasil Bykaŭ: Life and Works; Gimpelevich, Vasil Bykaŭ, Knigi i sud’ba; and Gimpelevich, “Changing a Canon.” Chagall, Moia žizn’, 179. Unless otherwise indicated, hereafter all translations from Biełarusian and Russian are mine. Chagall was an outcast in the Soviet system. This attitude, which manifested itself in official slander or silence, was cultivated by Soviet officials during the 1930s and continued until the artist’s death in 1985. Solzhenitsyn, Dvesti let vmeste, 374–7, 383–4. Indeed, it is not without reason that much of this work is available in English translation on a white supremacist website (see bibliography). I am grateful to Jim Dingley for this reference. Stupnikov, Izgoi. Stupnikov finished part 2 of Izgoi in 2014. His findings and sentiments regarding Christian and Muslim Biełarusians’ attitudes towards Biełarusian Jews during the Second World War did not change

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in the second film. There were times when Estonians refused to do the Nazis’ bidding; the Ukrainians and Lithuanians seem to have been more compliant. Kelner, in Evrei v Rossii, provides valuable information in his foreword, comments, and Hebrew-Russian dictionary (5–23; 497–558). A serious drawback, however, is that he calls all three contributors to his compilation “Russians” or “Russian Jews,” even though by origin they were Biełarusian Jews. This misrepresentation can be easily explained by a common saying attributed to Napoleon: “History is written by the conqueror.” In the case of Biełaruś, those conquerors were, at various times, Russia and Poland. It would be simpler, but misleading, to refer to Russia or Poland instead of the gdl or Reč Paspalitaja. Kelner’s study has far fewer shortcomings than most. He sometimes mentions Biełaruś and one of its old names, Lithuania or Litva, as well as the Commonwealth of Poland and Litva. Kelner, Evrei v Rossii, 31. Ibid., 37. See two comprehensive articles on the Kahals: Klier, “Jewish Kahal”; and Aniščanka, “Benyamin Špeer,” 34–42, 55–9. Klier’s Russia Gathers Her Jews offers an excellent examination of the Jewish question in the Russian Empire. This affair lasted for over twelve years (from 1823 to 1835) and finally ended with the complete acquittal of the Jewish group. In fact, this blood libel was only the first of many to follow in the Russian Empire. All strata of Russian society picked up on the Judeo-phobic myths emanating from Germany and Poland. The same myths were not popular in the gdl. See Reznik, Rastlenie nenavist’iu. Altbauer, Five Biblical Scrolls. Zajka, “Biełarusian literature.” Ibid. Skaryna, a native of the powerful Biełarusian city of Połacak, received his education first in Vilnia, then in Kraków, Prague, and Padua. He returned to his native land with a medical degree but subsequently abandoned medicine and excelled in various other occupations. Later in life he dedicated himself almost entirely to translating religious and secular texts. His vernacular translation of the Bible was reprinted in Vilnia by the brothers

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Mamonič, who established the first printing shop there in 1525. The first twenty-three books in Biełarusian were published by Skaryna between 1517 and 1519. The first Russian book, Apostle, was printed by Ivan Fedorov (1520?–1583) in 1565. Fedorov (also known by the typical Biełarusian surname Fiadarovič) had direct connections to the cultural heritage of the Grand Duchy of Litva. See Nadson, “Francis Skaryna.” Pichura, “Engravings.” The Chaldeans were a Semitic/Hebrew people who ruled for a brief time in Babylonia. A symbolic coincidence is that they originated in the Mesopotamian marshes and that the Biełarusians were known as a marshlands nation. Chaldean is also referred to as Jewish Aramaic. Nadson, “Francis Skaryna,” 3. Zajka, “Self Perfection,” 19–30. See Lvov-Rogachevsky, History of Russian-Jewish Literature, 71–2. As noted earlier, the Biełarusian language was prohibited in 1863 after the uprising led by Kastuś Kalinoŭski. However, spoken Biełarusian survived in rural areas and, alongside Yiddish, served as a language of communication among Biełarusian Jews and peasants. Lower-class and poverty-stricken Jews (i.e., most of them) had access only to elementary schools, which were run by local melamedes (teachers). But exceptionally gifted children from the poorest families were often supported by communal charities in order to further their education. Preference was given to religious education. Janka Kupała (born Lucevič Ivan Daminikavič, 1882–1942) was a Biełarusian poet, playwright, political activist, and the founder (with Kołas and others) of contemporary Biełarusian language and literature. Janka Kupała was his best-known pen name. Others included Januk Kupała, Marka Biazdolny, Kupalski, Januk z pad Miensku, and Zdanec. Jakub Kołas (born Mickievič Kanstancin Michajlavič, 1882–1956) was a poet, prose writer, playwright, journalist, educator, scholar, and literary critic, and was closely associated with Kupała. Indeed, they were comrades-in-arms in their efforts to found a modern Biełarusian language and literature. Kołas also used the following pseudonyms: Agarak, Adzinoki, Taras Hušča, Tamaš Bułava, Hanna Hrud, Dziam’ianaŭ Huz, Hanna Krum, Karuś Łapać, Liesavik, Marcin, Mikałaevič, Stary šut, and Svoj čalaviek.

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50 Maksim Bahdanovič (1891–1917) was also one of the founders of modern Biełarusian literature. Together with Janka Kupała, he is today viewed as a fountainhead of Biełarusian lyrical, urban, and landscape poetry. His status in Biełarusian literature is equivalent to that of Alexander Pushkin and Mikhail Lermontov in Russian literature. Bahdanovič grew up in a family that highly esteemed Biełarusian social ethnography, language, and literature. He had his literary debut in the Biełarusian newspaper Naša Niva (1907) with a short story entitled “Muzyka” (A musician). The same newspaper published his first poems in 1909. In 1911, he wrote Karotkaja historyja biełaruskaj piśmennaści da 16 stahodździa. His first book of poetry, Vianok, was published in 1913. In 1914 he became a full member of the All Russia Society for Periodicals and Literature. Bahdanovič was fascinated by the language and culture of other Slavic and non-Slavic linguistic traditions in the empire, and he introduced to Biełarusian literature many new literary forms and motifs. 51 Though they hardly exhaust the subject, two studies – Lvov-Rogachevsky, History of Russian-Jewish Literature, and Solzhenitsyn, Dveste let vmeste – describe the phenomenon from different perspectives. 52 Zajka, “Origins,” 50–2. 53 Rakovsky, My Life, 47. 54 Gorev, “Russian Literature and the Jews,” 15. 55 Ibid. Certainly, there are some exceptions. For example, as was shown by Juraś Garbinski (Warsaw), Adam M-ski (real name Zofia Trzeszkovska, 1847–1911), the Polish author born near Słucak (historical Biełaruś), depicted Jews as persevering idealists. In her poem “Z łanu” (From the field), Adam M-ski called a typical Jew “my brother.” See Garbinski, “Viadomy i nieviadomy.” 56 Juvenile military schools (cantons) were first introduced in 1805. At first they were intended solely for children of Russian soldiers, but they soon evolved into slave camps for Jewish children. I examine this topic in Biadulia’s story, “The Colonel,” in Gimpelevich, Źmitrok Biadiula. 57 The “blood libel” was the tsarist government’s favourite trumped-up accusation against the Jews, and it often succeeded in estranging them from the rest of the empire’s population. This phenomenon is well described in Reznik, Rastlenie nenavist’iu. 58 Tsypkin’s novel, Summer in Baden-Baden, offers many intellectual

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insights into Dostoevsky’s anti-Semitism. Tsypkin, a Biełarusian Jew, was a doctor and a distinguished medical researcher whose great love was Russian literature. He was a typical Jewish intellectual (Litvak) of Biełarusian origin. His parents (both were also doctors) moved to Moscow, leaving behind many family graves in postwar Biełaruś. Tsypkin’s son was allowed to emigrate from the Soviet Union in 1977; he and his wife, his parents, and his grandmother were forced to stay. Gimpelevich, “Dimensional Spaces,” 233–60. “Žyd” was a native Biełarusian and Polish word for “Jew.” In Russian, it has a pejorative meaning, equivalent to “kike”; more “polite” is the Russian word evrei. Biełarusians use habrej, iaŭrej, and jaŭrej. Pališčuk, “S Razgonom o Razgone,” 51. This idyllic world, unknown to any Russian-born Jew, came to an abrupt end for children of any faith after the Soviet Union took root. Pališčuk, “S Razgonom o Razgone,” 51. Altshuler, Soviet Jewry on the Eve of the Holocaust, 311–12. There had been a few anti-Semitic actions in Biełaruś in 1919–20 (near Viciebsk). The Słucak Biełarusian uprising had only one registered case of anti-Semitism before the Second World War. These events are fleshed out in the chapter on Jurka Vićbič. The bnr was founded in Miensk on 25 March 1918 and was overthrown by the Bolsheviks on 5 January 1919. The bnr government fled but continues to exist in exile. It is, in fact, the longest-surviving post-Bolshevik governing body in exile. Its current president is Mme Ivonka Survilla, a Canadian citizen and Sorbonne-educated linguist, translator, artist, and public figure who grew up in France in a freedom-loving Biełarusian family. Vacłaŭ Łastoŭski (1883–1938), the bnr’s first prime minister, was a statesman, editor, poet, writer, literary critic, journalist, bibliographer, politician, and ethnographer, but primarily a renowned historian. Šupa, “Habrei ŭ bnr.” Ibid. Ibid. Jurevič, Liavon Kryvičanin, 7. Snyder, “Sleepwalking to War,” 10. Singer, Nay Ruskand, 50, 256. Vozvrashchennye imena, 9. This edition provides articles on Soviet law

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along with other relevant information on most academic figures who were persecuted during Stalin’s rule. Bemporad, Becoming Soviet Jews, 51–80. Ibid., 81. The peak of persecution was reached in 1952 with the postwar liquidation of the Jewish Anti-Fascist Committee. For many years, this affair was obscured in a cloud of myth. See Rubinstein and Naumov, Stalin’s Secret Pogrom, for original documents and an excellent account of those events. Among other things, they present the long-suppressed transcript of the trial and expose the Kremlin’s machinery of destruction. Fifteen Jewish writers were subjected to humiliation and torture in the notorious Lubyanka prison and were subsequently executed. In October 1955, during a UN National Assembly session in New York, a high Soviet official continued to deny the “rumours” about the disappearance of these Yiddish writers. Sałamon (Šlioma) Vovsi (1890–1948; pseudonyms: Michoełs, Mikhoels) was born in Dźvińsk (Daugavpils) in the Biełarusian Viciebsk district, which became part of Latvia after 1946. He studied law in St Petersburg but left school in 1918 to join Alexander Granovsky’s Jewish Theatre Workshop, which had set out to create a national Jewish Yiddish theatre in Soviet Russia. This attempt succeeded, and Michoełs’s talents did much to develop that studio into a first-rate theatre. Lenin’s initial support for national minorities brought the theatre to Moscow. Michoełs and his theatre garnered international acclaim with its performances of Shakespeare’s plays. Thus, his appointment as chairman of the Jewish Anti-Fascist Committee was a smart move on the part of the Soviet government. Michoełs was often sent abroad (he visited the United States) to acquire financial and military help for the Soviet Union. Among the first leading Soviet physicians to be arrested was Stalin’s personal doctor and Michoełs’s brother, Miron Vovsi. This war was the first since the initial Arab attempt to destroy Israel. In 1948, Egypt, Jordan, Lebanon, Iraq, and Saudi Arabia united their forces. Nineteen years later, between 24 May and 4 June 1967, the same countries began to encircle Israel, and by 5 June they had completed this action. Israel struck pre-emptively a few hours before the Arab attack, and the Arab forces were defeated by 10 June 1967.

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80 In Rubinčyk, Anakhnu Kan. 81 McMillin, Writing in a Cold Climate. A Biełarusian translation appeared in late 2012. 82 Marples, Biełaruś; Snyder, Reconstruction of Nations. 83 Shatskikh, Vitebsk. 84 Bemporad, Becoming Soviet Jews. 85 Ibid., 1. 86 Zeltser, Evrei v sovetskoi provintsii. 87 Smilovitsky, Jews in Turov. 88 Kobrin, Jewish Białystok. 89 Sorkina, Miastečki Biełarusi. 90 Zamoisky, Transformatsiia; Shochet, Jews of Pinsk. 91 Nadav, Jews of Pinsk. 92 Kaganovitch, Long Life. 93 Tec, Defiance. 94 Snyder, “Holocaust.” 95 Ibid., 7. 96 Snyder, Bloodlands, 404. 97 Beorn, Marching into Darkness. 98 Smilovitsky, Holocaust in Belorussia. 99 Smilovitsky, Censorship in Postwar Belorussia. 100 Bryl, Večar i ranica, 3:465. There were a lot of Biełarusian Jews in this camp. 101 Boris Fishman wrote his renowned novel A Replacement Life about Miensk’s Jewish families in New York. The narrator, like the author, is a Yale graduate, and he was nine years old when he left Biełaruś. However, he is as nostalgic as are his family and friends about their home country. The following chapters demonstrate Biełarusian writers’ nostalgia as it relates to Jewish Biełarusian emigration. 102 Bratochkin, “Vsegda drugie.” 103 Ibid., 1. 104 Bułgakaŭ, Istoriia belorusskogo natsionalisma; Tereshkovich, Etnicheskaia istoriia Belarusi; Akudovič, Metafizika; Janoŭskaja, Na šliachu; Kravtsevich, Smolenchuk, and Tokt, Belorusy. Note that the transliterations have been done according to the authors’ original Biełarusian and/or Russian spellings (the majority of works are in Russian). 105 Encyklapedyja historyi Biełarusi.

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106 See “Belarus” in YIVO. I am aware that these data change from source to source and indicate this throughout. 107 Bratochkin, “Vsegda drugie,” 11. 108 Arloŭ, This Country Called Belarus. 109 Bohdan, “Biełaruś of Jews and Muslims.” Siarhej Bohdan is an alumnus of the Biełarusian State University and European Humanities University in Lithuania. He is a regular contributor to Naša Niva. As a fellow of Europäische Journalisten-Fellowships he is currently occupied with a research project at Berlin’s Humboldt University. Bohdan comes from Maładziečna, Biełaruś. 110 Ibid., 3. 111 Baruch Spinoza (1632–77), a Jewish and Christian religious philosopher, was brought up as an Orthodox Jew in Holland but converted to Christianity. However, he was cast off by leaders of both faiths because of his firm belief in pantheism and his declaration that God is present in all things and forms. 112 Marcin Mikałaj Radziwiłł (1705–85) was a poet and a writer as well as a lieutenant-general in the gdl army. 113 Bohdan, “Biełaruś of Jews and Muslims,” 4. 114 Musievič, Narod. This new book about the Jews of Kamianiec, written in Russian, presents unique data on the Biełarusian Jewish Holocaust as well as information about Jewish livelihoods centuries before the catastrophe. 115 Among others, the following spellings are common for different cultures and residents of the town: Kamianiec-Litoŭski, Kamieniec Litewski, Kamenets Litovskiy, Kamenetz-Litovsk, Kamyanets, and Kamenets. 116 Julian Tuwim (1894–1953), Polish poet and playwright of Jewish origin. See http://www.goodreads.com/quotes/117105. See also Polonsky, “Julian Tuwim,” in which, on page 53, the author cites and deliberates on Tuwim’s ideas regarding two types of blood and national belonging. 117 Dyńko, “Introduction.” 118 Remember that Biełarusian Jews started to call themselves “Litvaks” when their new European home, the gdl, emerged as a state that embraced many ethnicities and faiths. Biełarusian history has been manipulated by many powers since the twelfth century, and this continues to the present. A number of Lithuanian and Russian historians, and to a lesser extent Polish, Latvian, and Ukrainian ones, prefer to exclude historic and contemporary Biełaruś from the gdl. The following site is recommended

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for its comprehensive data: “The Origins of the Grand Duchy of Litva (Lithuania): http://www.belarusguide.com/as/history/vklintro.html. Dyńko, Habrejski numar, 5. Ibid. Ryhor Baradulin (1935–14), a Biełarusian poet, translator, prose writer, essayist, and political activist, was nominated twice for the Nobel Prize for Literature. Baradulin, “Tolki b habrei byli!” in Habrejski numar, 5–7. See also chapter 9, which is dedicated to Baradulin. Baradulin, “Tolki b habrei byli!,” 7. Źmitrok Biadulia (pseudonym of Samuel Plaŭnik; 1886–1941) was a Biełarusian, Hebrew, Russian, and Yiddish poet, writer, essayist, and translator. See his biography and an examination of some of his works with Jewish themes in Gimpelevich, “Źmitrok Biadulia.” Biadulia, “Žydy na Biełarusi,” 24. This essay was first published in 1917. With all due respect to Biadulia’s discourse, it would be fair to add that Russia proper – most of which was as agrarian as Biełaruś at the time of imperial Russia’s colonization of the gdl territories – was already under serfdom. In fact, Russian peasants had been serfs for almost two centuries, whereas for Biełarusians serfdom was a burden that had fallen on them only since the partitions. The new rulers were especially cruel in their efforts to crush the locals, whatever their faith or ethnicity. Naša Niva is one of the oldest Biełarusian newspapers (1906–15); it was re-established in 1991. The inaugural editor-in-chief, Andrej Dyńko, was succeeded by Andrej Skurko. The second issue of Litva was confiscated by the Russian imperial government during the First World War. A few months later, the Hebrew and literary Biełarusian languages were banned, as was the press that published in those languages. See Janka Kupała’s (1882–1942) poem “Žydy,” this volume. Remember that Biadulia’s pamphlet was written at the end of the First World War and the beginning of the Russian Civil War as well as on the eve of the Polish-Soviet War. Clearly, Biadulia’s essay is a call for solidarity among Biełarusians of different ethnicities and faiths. Vital Zajka (1961–), a Christian Biełarusian, is a poet, writer, essayist, and Biełarusian and Jewish scholar. Currently, he is an information manager at the yivo Institute. See Zajka, “Niekalki zapoźnienych,” 33–9. Ibid., 35.

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Ibid., 36. Ibid., 39 Marzaliuk, “Chryściane i habrei.” Ibid., 48. Biełaruskija lietapisy i kroniki, 292. Rubinčyk, “Internet.” Siniła, “Narod knihi.” Astravuch, “Jidiše šprixverter un glajxvertlex”; Astravuch, Idyš-biełaruski sloŭnik. The dictionary includes about 25,000 entries with more than 50,000 words, 5,000 sayings and proverbs, and a great number of idioms and quotations from literary works in Yiddish and their Biełarusian translations. Ibid., 73. Ibid. Krajeŭski, “Paraŭnańnie Judaizmu.” Golosov, “Kul’tura i byt evreev,” 94. Aliaksandr Iharavič Rybak, a Norwegian singer, composer, violinist, pianist, writer, and actor, was born in the bssr on 13 May 1986. He represented Norway in the 2009 Eurovision Song Contest in Moscow, where he won, with 387 points – the highest in the competition’s history. Chagall, Moia zhizn’, 179.

ch apt er t wo 1 Kaetan Marašeŭski’s play was first published by V. Perets (Biełarusian: U. Perac) in Izv. otd. Russkogo jazyka i slovesnosti imperatorskoi Akademii nauk 16, 3 (1911), 274–319. The original is kept in the Manuscripts Department, Library of the Lithuanian Academy of Sciences, fol. B4, no. 201. I use a reprint from that library published in Chrestamatyja pa historyi Biełaruskaha teatra i dramaturhii (Anthology: History of Biełarusian theatre and dramaturgy), 1:58–116. 2 Antoś Łata is also published in full in Chrestamatyja pa historyi Biełaruskaha teatra i dramaturhii, 1:323–37. The play was first performed in Miensk in 1918. 3 Kołas, Kazki Žyćcia; Kołas, Symon-muzyka; and Kołas, “Chajm Rybs.” 4 The first images of Skamarochi are found in Kyiv and belong to the eleventh and twelfth centuries. 5 Skaryna could be called the Leonardo da Vinci of Biełaruś and Eastern

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Europe. He was also a well-known cultural figure in Western Europe. In addition to his achievements in publishing, writing, translation, medicine, and gardening, Skaryna, with other Biełarusian educators, modernized the Biełarusian language. In 1504 he graduated from the arts faculty of the University of Kraków, and in 1512 he earned a doctorate in medicine at the University of Padua in Italy. In 1517 he organized a printing shop in Prague. That same year, Skaryna published his first book in Old Biełarusian and translated parts of the Bible into Biełarusian. He published the latter in twenty-two books between 1517 and 1519. Around 1522, Skaryna moved to Vilnia, where he founded the first printing press in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania. Skaryna spent his last years as a personal physician for Ferdinand I of Germany. Ikanapis Biełarusi 15–18, 5. Biełarusian Roma specialized in training bears, as did the wandering artists of other Biełarusian faiths and ethnicities. The Tatar/Mongol subjugation of Russian and Ukrainian lands lasted for more than two centuries, from 1237 to 1480. Ryazan, Kolomna, Moscow, Kyiv, and many other principalities were the first to be conquered and the last to be freed from the Mongol yoke. The Biełarusian principalities were often spared by the Khans through diplomatic agreements, though this relationship was never simple. Biełarusian (Lithuanian) princes often allied themselves with Russian or Tatar leaders, and their lands didn’t suffer as much as did those of historic Russia and Ukraine from these invasions. A large group of “peaceful” Tatars settled in Biełaruś, and, in the sixteenth century, they translated the Koran into Old Biełarusian. Karlinsky, Russian Drama, 7. Ibid. Ibid., 10. Ibid., 11. They are all fully comprehensible to people who read Old Biełarusian. Ibid., 12. I do not dispute the contribution of Kraków, noted in the excerpt below. This Polish city became a part of the Reč Paspalitaja in 1569 but was never part of the gdl. See The Origin of Russian Drama. http://www.theatrehistory.com/ russian/bates001.html, 1. This document was first published in Bates, Drama, 6–11.

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17 Karlinsky, Russian Drama, 33. 18 The Baroque period and the Enlightenment in the Biełarusian territories, which included the use of Biełarusian as the literary language, is best presented in Maldzis, Na skryžavańni słavianskich tradycyj (At the crossroads of Slavic traditions). See also McMillin, “Baroque and Enlightenment.” 19 Ibid., 46. 20 Biełaruś – unlike Russia, which was more inclined towards dealing with Jesuits, especially after the Order was reinstated there in 1749 – would, like Poland, deal predominantly with the Dominican Order. Having said that, there were Jesuits in Vilnia in the seventeenth century, where many Biełarusian representatives of the Enlightenment were educated. 21 McMillin, “Baroque and Enlightenment,” 46–7. 22 Tsar Alexis I (1629–76), a shrewd politician and excellent military tactician, greatly expanded Russia during the mid-seventeenth century. By the end of his rule, his kingdom comprised almost 8,100,000 square kilometres. His reign saw an alliance with the Ukrainian Cossacks of Bohdan Khmelnitsky (1595?–1667), and together, early in his reign, they subjugated some parts of the Reč Paspalitaja. But his reign also saw a schism in the Russian Orthodox Church and a major Don Cossack and peasant rebellion in southeastern Russia (1670–71) under Stephan (Stenka) Razin (1630–71). 23 In Sahanovič, Nieviadomaja vajna, 14. 24 Ibid., 17. 25 Ibid., 25. Alexis, as the Russian tsar, was also the head of the Russian Orthodox Church. 26 Vasil Ciapinski (1540?–1603?) was a humanist, a writer, and one of the first Biełarusian translators and publishers of the New Testament. His translations include the Gospel of Matthew and most of the Gospel of Luke. Ciapinski translated Old Slavonic into Biełarusian vernacular for the lower classes. 27 Symon Budny (1530?–93), like his friend Ciapinski, was a humanist and writer as well as one of the first Biełarusian translators of the entire New Testament; he was also an experienced publisher. A reformer and philosopher, Budny invited Jews to translate the Old and New Testaments from Hebrew, (Hebrew) Aramaic, and Greek. He criticized the Biełarusian and Russian Orthodox churches for being remote from the people, and he propagated the Biełarusian vernacular for use in the church. Budny was

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equally against the Polonization and Russification of his country, and he converted to Protestantism from his native Orthodox faith. He accepted the authority of God the Father and God the Spirit, but he did not believe in Christ’s divine origin. Ihnaci Ievlievič (1619–86/87?) was born in Mahilioŭ to a modest family of craftspeople. He received his primary education in Škłoŭ and studied theology and medicine in the Zamojski Academy. Later he became a professor of the Kyiv-Mohyla Collegium when Połacki was studying there. At the Epiphany monastery, he gathered not only monks and scholars of the Orthodox faith but also scholars of other Christian faiths. At his collegium, Catholic scholars of different orders had equal rights and obligations. The abbot also collected what at the time was one of the world’s great libraries. Bylinina and Zvonareva, Siamion Polotskii, 7–8, 11. Ibid., 20. Maldzis, “Šliacheckaja kultura.” In Biełarusian, Stanisłaŭ-Aŭgust; in Polish, Stanisław II August. He was born in Voŭčyn near Brest in 1732. This last king (1764–95) of the Reč Paspalitaja died in semi-captivity in St Petersburg in 1798. His efforts to retain the independence of the Reč Paspalitaja were thwarted by Russia, Austria, and Prussia. With the Russians in the lead, those three states dismembered his nation in 1795. This led to Stanisłaŭ-Aŭgust’s abdication. Maldzis, “Šliacheckaja kultura.” Serfdom in Biełaruś was established only after the Russian invasion and the partition of the Reč Paspalitaja. Biełarusian peasants enjoyed two more centuries of relative freedom from serfdom than did their counterparts in Russia proper and in much of Ukraine. Only Siberia and the Urals (at that time the most recent acquisitions of the Russian Empire) were freer of serfdom longer than were the peasants of the Reč Paspalitaja. Maldzis, “Šliacheckaja kultura.” Neoclassicism, with its revival of Greek and Roman aesthetics, developed first in literature (in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries), then in architecture, and still later in music. Neoclassicism in literature emphasized the notion of universal truth and was often used in satirical and/or didactic forms of comedy. Michail Ciacierski (? –1797) was a Biełarusian and Polish educator and

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playwright. He was Marašeŭski’s colleague and friend. At present, there is no information about Ju. Jurevič. For a discussion of Biełarusian alphabets, see the appendix to this book. Maldzis, “Šliacheckaja kultura.” Frańcyšak Alachnovič (1883–1944), a Biełarusian writer and journalist and “father of modern Biełarusian dramaturgy,” was born and died in Vilnia. He was the first author in world literature to describe the horrors of Stalin’s concentration camps, which he did in his novella “U kapciurach ogpu” (In nkvd [ogpu] clutches, 1937). Ptuška ščaścia (Bird of happiness) was written and staged in Vilnia in 1922. Marašeŭski, Kamiedyja, 58. Ibid., 59. Ibid., 65. Ibid., 70. Eastern Slavs believed in the divinity of village fools, whose simplicity was considered holy. Judaism does not recognize the Devil and Hell in Christian terms. It does, however, acknowledge Satan (a generic term for God’s servant, who functions as an “accuser,” “challenger,” or “distractor”). Satan appears in Genesis 6:5, Kings 22:22; Zechariah 3:1–2; 1 Chronicles 21:1; and Job 2:1. However, Satan here is an archangel without free will and a loyal servant of God. Demons, spirits, and minor devils exist only in Jewish folklore and are alien to official Judaism, which is strictly monotheistic and recognizes only the authority of the Almighty. But minor devils and other supernatural forces are hugely popular in the Jewish folklore of the former Pale, and they come in a tremendous variety of forms. This is richly presented in Badkhen, Evreiskaia chertovshchina. Marašeŭski, Kamiedyja, 77. Ibid., 115. Ibid. Kvas is a fermented beverage, usually made from rye bread. It is considered a great hangover cure. One of the first critical biographies of Kołas in English, and still one of the best, is found in McMillin, History of Byelorussian Literature, 196–219. Ibid., 196. Ibid., 201. Janka Lučyna (lučyna: splinter, chip, torch) is the pen name of Ivan Niesłuchoŭski (1851–97), a poet, educator, and professional engineer. He

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also wrote poetry in Polish and Russian, but with this pseudonym he signed only Biełarusian verses. His pen name suggests the symbolism of bringing light to peasant families that had no money for candles. In Gimpelevich, Vasil Bykaŭ, 97. In McMillin, History of Byelorussian Literature, 211. Ibid. Biełaruskija piśmeńniki, 3:332. In McMillin, History of Byelorussian Literature, 211. Kołas, Antoś Łata, 326. Ibid., 327. Ibid. Ibid., 330–1. Ibid., 336–7. Kołas, Symon-muzyka, in Kazki Žyćcia, vol. 6. Kołas, Kazki Žyćcia, 4:402–503. Ibid., vol. 3 (Introduction). See also Rich, Anthology of Byelorussian Poetry, 97–8. Rich, Anthology of Byelorussian Poetry, 97–8. The following translations are by Zina Gimpelevich from Kazki Žyćcia, first redaction, bk. 3 (1974), 539–63. Badchons (Yiddish; poets) created lyrics. They were also instrumentalists. Their mini-ensembles were called “an orchestra,” and though there were also individual performers in Jewish communities (mostly violinists, at least since the fifteenth century), they were not as popular as orchestras until the eighteenth century. In Sliepovich, “Klezmer kak fenomen evreiskoi.” Ibid., 3. Ibid., 11. Ibid., 7. Ibid., 8. Kołas, Symon-muzyka, in Kazki Žyćcia, 6:545. Ibid. See Shulman, “Iz evreev.” Herzen, Sochineniia v deviati tomakh, vol. 4, Byloe i dumy, 232-4. Alexander Herzen (1812–70), was a renowned Russian thinker known as “the father of Russian Socialism.” Born to a privileged family, he had a

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sensitive and talented soul even in his youth. As a teenager, he promised himself to fight the unjust regime, and he kept his word. Barščeŭski, “Romantic Elements.” Kołas, Symon-muzyka, in Kazki Žyćcia, 553. Ibid., 554. McMillin, History of Byelorussian Literature, 207–8. Kołas, “Chajm Rybs,” 14–22. Ibid., 14. Ibid., 15. Ibid., 15. Ibid., 21. Ibid., 22. Ibid.

ch ap t er t hr ee 1 For one of the most complete bibliographies (in Biełarusian), see Kipel and Kipel, Janka Kupała and Jakub Kołas. See also Stankievič’s seminal article in Biełarusian, “Janka Kupała.” The most comprehensive and complete literary biography of Kupała in English is found in McMillin, History of Byelorussian Literature. The latest complete edition of Kupała, in nine volumes, provides a well-documented chronicle of his life and works, compiled by Siełamienieŭ. 2 Mikałaj Łucevič (4 May 1881–?). Kupała and his siblings rarely mentioned their elder brother, who survived for only a few months. 3 Kupała, “Biography,” 50. 4 Ibid., 51. 5 Ibid., 53. 6 Ibid., 56. 7 Ibid., 56. Klejnbart contributed financially to Kupała’s first edition of Žaliejka. 8 McMillin, History of Byelorussian Literature, 184. 9 Kupaɫa learned about the bssr declaration (of 1 January 1919) only by chance: on their way from Moscow to Miensk, Z. Žyłunovič (Hartny) and J. Dydła paid him a visit in Smalensk. The bnr moved temporarily to Harodnia and then to Koŭno (Kaunas); its political status in Biełaruś continued until December 1920. When the Słucak rebellion was suppressed,

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the bnr government moved first to Prague and later to London. The current bnr’s president, the Honourable Mme J. Survilla, resides in Canada. Stankievič, “Janka Kupała,” xxvii. McMillin, History of Byelorussian Literature, 190. This discussion, the title of which follows V. Łastoǔski’s article “Spłačvajcie doǔh” (Pay your debt), was first published in Naša Niva in 1913. Kupała immediately entered the discussion by writing a passionate article, signed with the pen name “One of the Parnassians.” He stood up for a poet’s civic right and obligation to criticize the negative aspects of Biełarusians during times of moral, economical, and political malaise. He also expressed hopes for the future: “our contemporary woeful song will not stay forever.” See Stankievič, Heritage, xxvii. One indication of censorship (among many) is encountered in the second edition of the six volumes in 1932, which, in its third volume, did not include Tutejšyja. McMillin, History of Byelorussian Literature, 195. Kupała, “Pay your Debt” (Splačvajcie doǔh), in Stankievič, Heritage (Spadčyna), 191. “Žydy,” Biełarus, 7 November 1919, 1. The first abridged form (without stanzas 4–7) appeared in 1953 in New York, Biełarus, 12, 36 (15 June); the second, in 1955, was printed in Stankievič, Heritage, and included the initial stanzas (140–1). In Biełaruś, the poem “Žydy” was reprinted from Biełarus with the full fourteen stanzas only in 1997. See Kupała’s collected works, 4:69–71; 381–82. Starting at stanza 8, I continue Rich’s translation. See Biełarus 43 (1919): 1. The bnr government (Rada) is fully respected in the West. This is the only post-Soviet government-in-exile that has yet to pass its credentials to the rulers in the motherland. bund, the Biełarusian (later Polish and Lithuanian) Jewish Labour Party, founded in 1897. It fielded well-trained Biełarusian self-defence detachments (against the tsar’s police) after 1898. Biadulia, “Žydy na Biełarusi”; and Gimpelevich, “Źmitrok Biadulia.” McMillin, History of Byelorussian Literature, 185. “Prarok,” translated by me from Spadčyna, compiled by S. Stankievič, M. Pańkoŭ, and V. Tumaš. “Prarok” is also part of the cycle Zabrany kraj,

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which contains most of Kupała’s early civic poetry. “Žydy” was not included in the Soviet publication of 1922. Dragostinova, “Speaking National.” “Prarok,” Spadčyna, 77. Rubinčyk, “My jašče tut” (We are still here); Rubinčyk, Evrejskii kamerton (Jewish tuning-fork), 19 July 2001. Later, in his interview with Naša Niva (30 November 2007), Rubinčyk stated that, if written today, his article would definitely be less subjective. See http://nn.by/index.php? c=ar&i=13412. See also Liŭšyc, “Byl li Janka Kupała antisemitom.” Liŭšyc (Livshits) is a Biełarusian educator, journalist, literary historian, and ethnographer. Kupała, Poŭny zbor tvoraŭ, 4:69–70. Ibid., 8:105. See, for example, a letter he wrote in 1942 to the Red Cross on behalf of Biełarusian public and cultural figures. Kupała, Poŭny zbor tvoraŭ, 9:26–7. The poet’s signature is on all the letters that protested the enormity of German cruelty. Kupała’s essay was published as a brochure: “Narod-Mstitel” (Moskva: Voenkniga, 1941). Kupała, Poŭny zbor tvoraŭ, 5:179–80. Ibid., 180. Arsieńnieva, Vybranyja tvory, 580. Rich, Like Water, Like Fire. In her eminent modesty, Vera Rich did not mention her own superb foreword and academically astute comments. McMillin, “Natalla Arseńnieva: Poet of Autumn,” in McMillin, Belarusian Literature of the Diaspora, 103–30. Ibid., 103–4. Arsieńnieva was proud of her “Lermontov genes.” See Arsieńnieva, Miž berahami, xi. These data are found in the Russian census of 1897 (five years prior to the poet’s birth). See http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ethnic_history_of_the_ Vilnius_regionCensuses. The same site provides a good number of census results that reflect political and demographic changes in Vilnia and its province. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ethnic_history_of_the_Vilnius_ regionCensuses. See http://slounik.org/27665.html. The poet informs readers of her autobiography about her family’s painful

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journey back to Vilnia, which was made during the anti-Bolshevik rebellion and the civil war. Jurevič, Šmathałosy epistaliaryjum. Ibid., 188. Ibid., 35, 89, 115. Arłoŭ, “Frańcišak Kušal,” 206–7, 258, 338. See Jurevič, Biełaruskaja memuarystyka na emigracyi, 33, 85–7, 94, 114, 120 as well as 31–2, 51, 96, 205, 206, 275. This material also shows Kušal’s close association and friendship with many Biełarusian Jewish cultural figures before the Second World War. Jurevič, “Vypadak K. Akuły.” Jurevič’s remark about Kušal’s later use of letters sent to Akuła as a foundation for Kušal’s own memoirs is valid; however, Kušal was free to use his own material. See Kušal, Sproby stvareńnia Biełaruskaha vojska, 140. Ibid., 394. McMillin, “Natalla Arsieńnieva,” in McMillin, Belarusian Literature of the Diaspora, 103. Alpert, Destruction of Słonim Jewry. Gilbert, Holocaust, 184, 403. Liqueur, Holocaust Encyclopedia, 62. Actually, Miensk had two ghettos: one for Biełarusian Jews, the other for Western and Central European Jews. These two ghettos were under the auspices of two different administrations. Liqueur, Holocaust Encyclopedia, 62. Arsieńnieva, Miž berahami, 224–5. See also Arsieńnieva, “Natalla Arsieńnieva,” 14–16. Gershenzon, Kliuch very, 3. The author quotes nine more instances from the Old Testament to confirm his statement. Bulgakov, Master and Margarita, 418. McMillin titled his chapter about the poet “Natalla Arsieńnieva: Poet of Autumn”; she was given a similar nickname by many critics, including Anton Adamovič, who directs the reader to Arsieńnieva’s poem “Heta ž – vosień” (Indeed, this is – autumn); Arseńnieva, Miž berahami, xxxix. McMillin, “Natalla Arsieńnieva,” in McMillin, Belarusian Literature of the Diaspora, 14. Also known as the Treaty of Riga, 1921, under which Poland was awarded

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a considerable part of western Biełaruś and Ukraine, which it held on to until the beginning of the Second World War in 1939. McMillin, Belarusian Literature in the 1950s and 1960s, 44. Maxim Tank (untitled), in Rich’s Like Water, Like Fire, 323. Vera Rich, an eminent English poet, collected and translated many Biełarusian poems written by members of different generations, but she chose for her collection only one, possibly two, poems from even the most mature poets. Tank was an exception: there are twenty-four of his poems in Like Water, Like Fire. Narač is not only the name of the lake in the poem but also of a river that starts from it. The township situated near the lake is also called Narač. After the Soviet victory, Stalin “presented” to Poland a significant part of native Biełarusian territory. Like Lenin in 1921, Stalin in 1945 once more separated Biełarusian families. Biełarusian artists, poets, and journalists dominated the editorial staff of this publication and accounted for most of its contributors. It first appeared in July 1941 in Homiel but was soon transferred to Moscow. Razdavim fašysckuju hadziny became popular among all the Soviet nations that had fought the Germans. In 1945, under the same editorial staff, it was turned into a Biełarusian satirical publication, Vožyk (Little hedgehog). Right after the war, this publication, like others, often “revealed” so-called “enemies of the people.” “Good morning,” in Rich, Like Water, Like Fire, 213. Ibid., 213. McMillin, Belarusian Literature in the 1950s and 1960s, 47. Tank, Zbor tvoraŭ, 2:10. While hardly democratic régimes, Russia and Biełaruś no longer openly propagate racism. Nor do they rewrite Second World War history, as do some Ukrainian and Baltic historians. This alarming tendency was noted recently even in Canada. Erich Haberer (Wilfrid Laurier University, Ontario), in his 25 May 2014 presentation to the Canadian Association of Slavists, “Policing Rural Belarus: The Relationship between German Gendarmes and Native Schutzmänner in Anti-Partisan Warfare, 1941–1944,” openly stated “that time came to rewrite the history.” In his case study, he suggests that there was a close and companiable relationship between Germans, the local police, and the Biełarusian population. Rather dismissively

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(and only in response to a direct question), he admitted that Jewish and Christian Biełarusians suffered “some” German atrocities. Indeed, there had been times (albeit exceptional ones) when German soldiers or officers had helped people escape death. But to generalize a couple of human gestures and morph it into a thesis seems to be a dreadful approach to attempting to grasp the reality of Biełaruś from 1941 to 1945. Salomoni, “State-Sponsored Anti-Semitism in Postwar ussr.” Salomoni, Life and Times. See also Dzhakhangir, Nadzhafov, and Belousova, Gosudarstvennyi antisemitizm. On Zhdanov, see note 21 in Salomoni, Life and Times. Josef Blindered in Memorial Book of Kobylnik, http://www.jewishgen. org/yizkor/Kobylnik/Kobylnik.html.

c ha pt er fo ur 1 Ciška Hartny is the writer’s most popular pen name; he had thirty-three other pseudonyms and over ten cryptonyms, among which were Biełarus (a Biełarusian), Biełarus-Kamunist (a Biełarusian communist), and Jazep. 2 Sfojrym Mendele Mojcher, or Brojde. His other popular pseudonym is Mendele the Bookseller. His real name was Šolem (Šolam, Cholam, Jakaǔ) Abramovič. Considered a founder of modern Yiddish classical literature, he was a poet, prose writer, educator, essayist, literary critic, and public figure. For a concise biography, see Gimpelevich, Biełarusian Jewish Writers, 185–6. Abraham Jacob Paperna was a Russian-Jewish educator, scholar, Hebrew poet, writer, critic, journalist, and memoirist. He received a traditional Jewish education and was self-educated in Russian, German, and mathematics. His early poetry was published in Hebrew periodicals when he was only fifteen. Paperna served as the director of a number of Jewish schools and authored textbooks for them at various levels. His memoir (in Russian) – “Moi rodnoi gorod” (My native town), 31–175 – is a priceless chronicle of Jewish Biełarusian every-day religious and cultural life. Detailed, humorous, and sympathetic, he was an attentive eyewitness who understood both the historical period and the social structure of Kapyl, a typical shtetl of the Pale. See also Paperna’s brief biography in Gimpelevich, Biełarusian Jewish Writers, 184. 3 Paperna, “Moi rodnoi gorod,” 33.

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4 Sulimirskiego, Chlebowski, and Walewski, Geographical Dictionary, 386–7. 5 Ibid., 387. 6 Even-Shoshan, “Province of Minsk.” 7 Ioffe, “Evrei Kapylia.” 8 Rabbi Moses Mendelssohn (1728–86) launched the Haskalah (the Hebrew romantic movement), commonly referred to as the Hebrew Enlightenment. He was the grandfather of Felix Mendelssohn, the composer. 9 “Directors” were the Biełarusian equivalents of Jewish melamedes, elementary teachers (often unlicensed) who gave lessons to small groups of poor children. 10 “Ciška Hartny,” in Hartny, Biełaruskija piśmeńniki, 2:128–38. 11 Now this place belongs to Lithuania. Lithuanian sources don’t provide much information about the Jewish history of the shtetl, but they do indicate that ten thousand Jews were rounded up and murdered by the Nazis in 1941. Most of the victims had Jewish last names. 12 McMillin, History of Byelorussian Literature, 283. 13 Hartny, Baćkava volia, 2. 14 Gorky, Mat’. 15 Hartny, Baćkava volia, 24, 41. 16 Hartny, Zelenyi shum. 17 Hartny, Bezdel’nik, 1. 18 Hartny, Velikodnaja karobka. An Easter box or basket usually contains traditional produce (eggs, sausages, Easter bread, green onions, and sometimes herbs). On Good Friday, people bring it to church for a blessing. Roast piglet is a traditional dinner on Biełarusian Easter. 19 Hartny, Velikodnaja karobka, 1. http://tishkagartnij.ru/stories/1-page15.htm 20 Hartny, “Haspadar.” 21 Hartny, “U majsterni,” 1. http://tishkagartnij.ru/stories/1-page-12.htm 22 Hartny, “Mest’” http://tishkagartnij.ru/stories/25 23 This is a very important holy day for Orthodox Christians. It is celebrated on 14 October (1 October, Old Calendar). 24 Iskra (Spark): the name used by the Bolshevik grassroots organization and its chapters as well as the name of the newspaper they published in exile. 25 Hartny, “Mest’.”

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Ibid. Visit http://tishkagartnij.ru/stories/25-page-8.htm Hartny, Prysady. The nep (New Economic Policy) is state capitalism; it was introduced by Lenin’s government in 1921 in order to restore the economy ruined by the First World War, the Russian Revolution, and the Russian Civil War. The nep was abolished by Stalin in 1928. Hartny, Prysady, 183. Ibid., 60–1. Easter is generally in April, while the Feast of the Trinity is more often celebrated in June. Both holidays depend on the Orthodox Church calendar, which varies. A thaler (taler or tair) was a European silver coin that became an international currency; it was used for almost four hundred years. A thaler yielded its place to the dollar in the late 1920s. See Hartny, Prysady, 67. Taras, judging by the first name, was a Biełarusian of Ukrainian origin. Hartny, Prysady, 72. Most of Hartny’s personal archive either disappeared in Soviet times or was destroyed by the Germans during the Second World War. This particular safe was the only one that survived. It contained several of Harny’s manuscripts, written and published in 1930–31, as well as the incomplete and unpublished “Za svaju voliu, za voliu krainy” (1920). This short novel was published many years later in the journal Połymia. Hartny, “Za svaju volu,” 12. Symbolically, the journal was founded by Hartny in 1921. Hartny, “Za svaju voliu,” 38. Ibid., 22. Ibid., 22. Ibid., 23. Ibid., 19. Ibid., 23. Ibid., 23. Taras Shevchenko (1814–1861), a Ukrainian prodigy who was a poet, writer, and cultural figure. Hartny, “Za svaju volu,” 41. Ibid., 45. Hartny, “Nadzvyčajny dzeń u Achronima Bliuma.” Ibid., 10.

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49 Jazep was one of Hartny’s pen names. 50 Nightingale was one of Źmitrok Biadulia’s pen names. 51 This satirical poem was dedicated to Źmitrok Biadulia and was first published on 5 August 1932 in Litaratura i Mastactva (Literature and arts), p. 4. See http://tsikhan.livejournal.com/81509.html. 52 Biadulia’s natural but also untimely death occurred only three and a half years later. ch ap t er f ive 1 Michaś Lyńkoŭ (1899–1975; Michail Cichanavič Lyńkoŭ). Some of his pen names include Vasilok (a diminutive of Vasil, meaning “blue cornflower,” a symbol of Biełaruś), Michaś Vasiliok, Michał, and Michaś. 2 See the interview (in Russian) with Mykoła Miatlicki (editor-in-chief of Polymia) entitled “Vozrast ognia-vechnost” (Eternity: This is the age of the flame) in Sel’skaia gazeta, 22 January 2008, http://www.sb.by/ kultura/article/vozrast-ognya-vechnost.html. 3 Exact data for this publication have not been found. 4 Maładniak (Youth [1923–28]) represented a group of Biełarusian proletarian writers and other cultural figures who aspired to develop Soviet Biełarusian literature and arts so that it could join contemporary world culture. For the fate of Biełarusian artistic movements and organizations under the Soviets, see chapter 6, this volume, on Jurka Vićbič. 5 All of the stories except for “Benia-bałahoła” were published in Lyńkoŭ, Zbor tvoraŭ. To read “Benia-bałahoła,” visit http://knihi.com/Michas_ Lynkou/Bienia-balahol.html. 6 Found in an anonymous biography of Lyńkoŭ, at http://belsoch.org/?pg= biograph&bio=3&pstr=3. 7 Ibid. 8 Pushkin, Complete Works, 7:515. 9 Lyńkoŭ, Zbor tvoraŭ, 1:23–4. 10 Lyńkoŭ, “Goy,” 25. 11 Mojšes and Ickis are plural male Jewish nicknames. Jankis and Jazeps are plural Biełarusian Christian nicknames. Sora is a singular female Jewish name, and Hanulia is Biełarusian. See Lyńkoŭ, “Goy,” 25. 12 Ibid., 29–30. 13 Ibid., 36. 14 Ibid., 37.

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15 Ibid. 16 Ibid., 42. 17 Stanisłaŭ Bułak-Bałachovič (1883–1940), who is reminiscent of Ukrainian anarchist Nestor Makhno (1888–1934), was a controversial figure who served, in turn, the tsarist, Red, White, and Polish armies. He was not personally involved in the pogroms, but he gave a free hand to the “boys” of whatever power he was serving. See Kruchinin and Mitsner, “General Stanislav Balakhovich.” For more details, see chapter 6, this volume. 18 Lyńkoŭ, “Goy,” 48. 19 Ibid., 50. 20 Chaver (friend). This is one of many Hebrew words adopted by the Biełarusian language. 21 Lyńkoŭ, “Goy,” 51. 22 Ibid., 51. 23 Ibid. 24 Lyńkoŭ, “Homa,” 54. 25 A yeshivot, or yeshiva, is an academic institution for the advanced study of Hebrew texts. 26 Lyńkoŭ, “Homa,” 55. 27 Reznik is a Yiddish word (originating from Biełarusian) for the occupation of Jewish ritual butcher (who is able to kill an animal without causing pain). In Czech, reznik means “butcher.” 28 A gymnasium diploma was a prerequisite for entering the Russian Empire’s universities. 29 Lyńkoŭ, “Homa,” 56. 30 Ibid. 31 Ibid., 57. 32 Ibid., 58. 33 Ibid. 34 Ibid., 60. 35 Ibid., 61. 36 Ibid., 63. 37 Ibid. 38 Ibid., 64. 39 Lyńkoŭ, “U miastečku.” 40 The Komsomol (Communist Union of Youth) was formed in 1918; the

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later abbreviation (1922) was vlksm (All-Union Leninist Young Communist League). Lyńkoŭ, “U miastečku,” 92. Ibid., 93. Ibid., 95. Ibid., 101. Ibid., 102. Ibid., 105. “Jews in Crimea,” http://www.yivoencyclopedia.org/article.aspx/Crimea. Ibid. Lyńkoŭ, “U miastečku,” 119. Lyńkoŭ, “Benia-bałahoła.” Ibid., 1. Ibid., 2. Ryhor Lyńkoŭ (1909–41; pen names: R. Smieły, R. Synica) was a poet, translator, playwright, journalist, and prose writer. Janka Maŭr (1883–1971; real name: Ivan Michajłavič Fiodaraŭ) was a Biełarusian prose and children’s writer and the founder of science fiction literature in Biełaruś. He was also a satirist, historian, translator, and academic. He was born in the Biełarusian village of Liebianiški (currently in Lithuania) and was educated in Koŭna (Kaunas). He graduated from vocational school and entered teachers’ college, only to be expelled and arrested for his political activities. Despite this, Maŭr completed his education and passed his exams as a non-resident student; he received his diploma in 1903. Maŭr was arrested again in 1906 on the same charges and was not allowed to teach in government schools; in 1911 he found a position in Miensk’s private school. Maŭr was a veteran and a highly decorated individual, receiving the Order of Labour Red Banner, the Order of Glory, and many Soviet medals. He was given the title of Esteemed Figure of Arts in 1968. Maŭr’s most popular literary works, among many, are the novels Amok (1928, 1930) and Robinsons from Paleśsie (1929). Maŭr, “Zavošta,” 303–17. Ibid., 306–7. Ibid., 308. Ibid., 313. Ibid., 317.

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60 Vasilki is the plural of “blue cornflower” (symbol of Biełarusian childhood and of the country itself); also, in the singular (Vasil), it is a Biełarusian nickname, as popular in the country as is “Ivan” in Russia. 61 “About the journals Zvezda and Leningrad,” see http://www.cyberussr. com/rus/zvezda-e.html. 62 Ibid. 63 Chekhov, Chaika, 50. 64 Cholam (Šolem) Zorin (1902–72) was born in Miensk and left for Israel in 1971. See Levine, Fugitives of the Forest. Tuvia Bielski (1906–87) was born in western Biełaruś and died in New York City. The most detailed account of his life and activities is in Tec, Defiance. 65 Arad, Holocaust in the Soviet Union, 487–8, 498, 508, 513. 66 “Jašče try pravedniki,” http://www.svaboda.org/content/article/25365 832.html.

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c h a pt er si x Some parts of this chapter are a rewrite of Gimpelevich, “Jurka Vićbič.” Vićbič knew Ehrenburg’s life and work well, although Ehrenburg’s novel Ottepel’ (The thaw [1954]) did not impress him. Vićbič did not believe that Moscow was a friend to Biełaruś. On the contrary, after studying the relationships and historic fates of Biełaruś and Russia, he turned against the Russian and Soviet “tsars” who had invaded and ruled his homeland for many years. Nor was Vićbič optimistic about the Soviet “thaw”: he had a premonition that it would be followed by an “ice age.” Vićbič was the pen name (taken from the writer’s beloved river, Vićba) of Georgii (George) Shcherbakov. His family preferred the Russian spelling, but Vićbič used only the Biełarusian version, Ščarbakoŭ. At home he was called by the nicknames Sima or Seraphim. Jurka Vićbič was the name he used most often in his writing; his adopted American name, Jury Stukalič (Stukalich), was his next best known pseudonym. Other pen names he used were Źmitro Ažhirej, Janka Sałagub, Sielanin, Michaś Žyhalevič, Stary Žaŭner, Aleś Kryžanič, Juryj, Michaś Krynicki, Ihnat Tur, Vasil Savicki, and Juvenał. See Liavon Jurevič’s compilation in Vićbič, Lšono Haboo Bijrušałajm, 200. I am most grateful to the Biełarusian-American Vićbič scholar, Liavon Jurevič, who collected, edited, and published Vićbič’s works, with detailed introductions, in the following major editions: Vićbič, Antybalšavickija

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paŭstańni; “Epistaliaryjum”; Lšono Haboo Bijrušałajm. Other materials pertaining to this study are noted at the appropriate time. Aucouturier, Boris Pasternak, 427. See also 11–19, 337–57. Vićbič’s Lšono Haboo Bijrušałajm was first published in Polymia revalucyi 2–3 (1933). Reprint: Spadčyna 5–6 (1999): 203–85; last published: Lšono Haboo Bijrušałajm: Davaennaja proza (Next Year in Jerusalem) (Miensk: Knihazbor, 2011). Vićbič, Antybalšavickija paŭstańni. In the Soviet Union a “disenfranchised person” was the one whose family was considered privileged or well-to-do under the tsars. Until 1936–37, the children of such “class enemies” were not allowed to graduate from high school and thus were ineligible to enter postsecondary institutions. The two main sources for the family history are Jurevič, Epistaliaryjum, 7–110; and Vićbič, Lšono Haboo Bijrušałajm, 3–229. Karnyaljuk, “Memory about War,” 55–68. Karnyaljuk based his study on archives, cemeteries, and interviews with close to seventy-five respondents. Ibid., 61. See Kniga Pogromov. Indeed, there are 538 pages of documentation about pogroms against Ukrainian Jews and only 211 about those against Biełaruśian Jews. Actually, there was not a single violent pogrom registered in 1918 in Vialiž. In that township, pogroms started later, with the occupations and retreats of the White and Polish armies. See Kniga Pogromov, 544, 548–9, 553, 556, 563–4, 566, 570–1, 573, 631, 689, 695, 697, 713. Ibid., 539. Ibid., 636. Ibid., 631, 636, 657, 679, 680, 695. Ibid., 631. Vićbič, Antybalšavickija paŭstańni, 41. Jurevič, Epistaliaryjum, 14. Jurevič notes but does not elaborate on the events that darkened the existence of all exiles born in the territories of the former Soviet Union. Actually, in order to leave the Soviet Union in the 1970s, Biełarusian Jews used the same ruse, indicating Poland (mainly the Białystok area) or some other part of western Biełaruś as their family birthplace. Dr Lina A. Kachulina, the director of Vialiž’s history museum, in private correspondence, informed me that the middle brother, Sergei, publicly

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renounced his father at the time of the Soviet persecutions of priests in the 1930s. According to her, both Sergei and Evgenii (the youngest brother) were actively involved in anti-religious propaganda. Her information is based on the memoirs of history professor Ihar Mogilanskii, who was a lifelong friend of both brothers. Mogilanskii left for Israel in 1978. I am grateful to Dr Kačulina for the reference. According to Vićbič’s widow, Hanna Stukalič, Evgenii was killed in action and Sergei survived. At the Yalta Conference (4–11 February 1945), Winston Churchill and Franklin D. Roosevelt promised Stalin they would return Soviet citizens who found themselves outside the Soviet Empire during and after the Second World War. The name “Operation Keelhaul” derives from a naval punishment known as keelhauling, which inovled dragging someone underneath a ship. This term was applied to the Allies’ repatriation of Soviet pows to the Soviet Union. This action, carried out by the British and American military, took place in northern Italy between 14 August 1946 and 9 May 1947 and returned nearly 4 million people to the Soviet Union. After the publication of Epstein’s book, Operation Keelhaul, this term came to symbolize the Allies’ wrongdoings. The Ščarbakoŭ (Stukalič) family were among the many thousands of exiles who found themselves in pow camps, faced with the unknown. Although it is true that their lot was more fortunate than that of many who were forcibly deported, until the mid-1970s, when the third wave of Soviet immigrants arrived, émigrés were rarely free of the stress of possible deportation. Savik, “Niedazvolieny biełarus,” 184–9, at 184. Podlipskii, Ariets s beregov Dviny, 7–8. Jurevič, Epistaliaryjum. Savik, “Niedazvolieny biełarus,” 189. Fridman, “Fil’my,” 73–85, at 80. See the bibliography in Vićbič, Lšono Haboo Bijrušałajm, 200, 201, 205, 209, 210, 216, 220, 222–3, 228. The Gestapo provided various rewards for “Jewish heads,” from money to Jewish personal belongings and even tobacco. See Altman, Holokost, 298. Podlipskii, Ariets s beregov Dviny, 8. Documents about graduates of this school are meagre due to the destruction of the archives during the Second World War. I am grateful to L. Kačulina and V. Shchegolev for this information as well as to N. Hardzienka for the following reference in Russian:

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“Velizhskoe peduchilishche i ego vypuskniki,” Virtual’nyi Velizh, http:// www.velizh.ru/info.php?id=auth_stat8. Podlipskii, Ariets s beregov Dviny, 18–22, 27–30. Podlipskii’s argument that Vićbič was one of the most zealous supporters of Bolshevism among Biełarusian writers before the war does not really make Vićbič a villain: this was a standard position of many intellectuals of the time, who were sincere in their desire to belong to the new society. Sanmiya, Against the Current, 43, 80–1. I took part in a number of Biełarusian charitable, academic, and cultural organizations abroad. Having been brainwashed during my childhood, I was deeply suspicious of every Biełarusian who “left with the Germans,” even in my adulthood. Before committing myself to any common work, I would scrutinize the Biełarusian émigrés in personal interviews. Ragula, who was one of my first subjects, understood my feelings and answered all kinds of painful questions willingly and truthfully. Z. Kipel, Dni adnaho žyćcia, 11–12. Sanmiya, Against the Current, 80. Ibid., 83. Arad, Holocaust. Ibid., 433. Ibid., 433–4. Ibid., 436. Ibid., 506–16. Altman, Holokost, 170–3, 244–57, 287–309. Jurevič, “Epistaliaryjum,” 14, 15. Ibid., 15. Ibid. Vićbič, Lšono Haboo Bijrušałajm, 9; mapp (Moscow Association of Proletarian Writers) was founded in 1923 and became part of rapp (Russian Association of Proletarian Writers) in 1928. Belapp (Biełarusian Association of Proletarian Writers) was a section of mapp, later renamed bapp. For some time, these organizations were approved by the Soviet government; however, all of them were dissolved after an April 1932 Communist Party decree that reconstructed all Soviet cultural associations. In April 1934, by the next party decree, the Writers’ Union of the ussr (which had chapters in each republic) replaced all other writers’ organizations.

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44 Uzvyšša (Hill or Rise, or Upland [1926–31]) was a Biełarusian professional writers’ association. Some of its members came from its sister organization, Maładniak (Youth [1923–28]), a group with similar aspirations to nurture Soviet Biełarusian literature. 45 Nikolai Ivanovich Bukharin (1888–1938) was a liberal Bolshevik, supportive of the intelligentsia. He was a member of the Politburo (1924–29) and a member of the Central Committee of the All-Union Communist Party of Bolsheviks (later the Communist Party of the Soviet Union. 46 Among the members of Uzvyšša were the following poets and writers: Kužma Čorny (chairman of the organization; real name: Mikałaj Ramanoŭski, 1900–44); Kandrat Krapiva (associate chair; real name: Kandrat Atrachovič, 1896–1991); Adam Babareka (secretary, 1899–1938 R*); Źmitrok Biadulia (real name: Samuil Plaŭnik, 1886–1941); Siarhiej Darožny (real name: Serada, 1909–43. R); Uładzimir Duboŭka (1900–76); Maksim Lužanin (real name: Aliaksandr Karataj, 1909–2001); Jazep Pušča (1902–64); Vasil Šašalievič (1897–1941. R); Todar Klaštorny (1903–37. R); Fielix Kupcevič (1902–38. R); Lukaš Kaluha (real name: Kanstancin Vašyna, 1909–37. R); Andrej Mryj (real name: Šašalievič, 1893–1943. R); Klimient Kundziš (real name: Jakaŭchyk, 1898–1941. R); Anton Adamovič (1909–98); and Jurka Vićbič (1905–75). *“R” indicates a person who was either shot or perished in the gulag’s labour camps. 47 Marakoŭ, “Pradmova da knihi Vyniščeńnie.” 48 See note 5 for different dates of publication. I am using the most recent version (2011). 49 Strangely, many early Soviet proletarian critics labelled the language of Naša Niva either artsy or archaic. It would be more accurate to note that Uzvyšša’s principles concerning freedom in art and language were similar to Naša Niva’s. 50 In Vićbič, Lšono Haboo Bijrušałajm, 5. 51 Maldzis, “Jurka Vićbič,” 27. In the same article, Vićbič’s writings are labelled anti-Semitic. 52 Vićbič played a major role in Šypšyna as one of its eleven founders (1945). Vićbič’s detractors view Šypšyna as a highly politicized organization. By contrast, his admirers agree with him that Šypšyna was needed by all Biełarusians and was unique in that it welcomed all Biełarusian writers without regard to their individual faith or politics. In a 1953 letter to Alieś Zmahar, Vićbič wrote that the membership of the bnr (Biełarusian

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People’s Rada), the bcr (Biełarusian Central Rada), and the Third Force (another Biełarusian political organization, estranged from both the bnr and the bcr) were united within the membership of Šypšyna and that they were unanimous in standing firm against all enemies of Biełaruś. Vićbič himself was, at different times, an active member of the bcr and bnr; however, in relation to Šypšyna he not only associated himself with the organization but saw himself as its central uniting force. See Vićbič, in Jurevič, “Uzvyšša, Šypšyna i Jurka Vićbič,” 360. Alieś Zmahar (real name: Aliaksandr Jacevič; 1903–95), was a Biełarusian writer, poet, and playwright. At the age of sixteen, together with his father, Zmahar took part in the Słucak uprising against the Bolsheviks. Zmahar immigrated to the United States in 1956. Vićbič, Lšono Haboo Bijrušałajm, 3–4. Ibid., 69. Ibid., 69–70. Ibid., 65. Staś is short for Stanisłaŭ. Sholem Aleichem (Solomon Rabinovich, 1859–1916). His Tevye der Milkhman (Tevye the milkman), like many other works, defined and created an East European Jewish biography during the troubled times of the late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century pogroms. Vićbič, Lšono Haboo Bijrušałajm, 99–100. Ibid., 77. Ibid., 8. Jurevič, “Epistaliaryjum,” 15. See note 24. During the occupation, Vićbič worked on Biełaruskaja hazeta (Biełarusian news), Beloruskii rabotnik (Biełarusian worker), and Ranica (Morning). He also published Vialižskija paŭstancy (Vialiž’s rebels) and (in Russian) Nacionalnye sviatyni (National sacred objects). The former, which includes Jewish themes, became integrated into Vićbič’s Antybalšavickija paŭstańni (Anti-Communist uprisings). Vitaŭt Tumaš (1910–98), medical doctor, political and cultural activist, publisher, and literary critic. Aliona and Liavon Jurevič, in Vićbič, Lšono Haboo Bijrušałajm, 200–27. McMillin, Belarusian Literature of the Diaspora, 204. Ibid., 201. Vićbič, Antybalšavickija paŭstańni, 41. Antybalšavickija paŭstańni was at first welcomed in the United States, having been launched with a grant from the Russian Institute (now the

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Harriman Institute) of Columbia University. The reviewers, however, advised Alexander D. Dalin, the head of the institute at the time, against publishing Vićbič’s work. Vićbič, deeply hurt by the reviewers’ verdict, did not accept what he believed to be a handout from Dalin – a one-year teaching contract. See Vićbič, Antybalšavickija paŭstańni, 274. Kniga pogromov, 581, 749. Moreover, many victims of pogroms were saved by righteous Gentiles. Some were saved by Biełarusian Muslims (Kniga pogromov, 579). Political anti-Semitism turned economic, peaking in 1921, after which most Polish gangs were pushed out by the Red Army. By 1922, looting and marauding had been curtailed, and both were stopped by the end of that year. Vićbič, Antybalšavickija paŭstańni, v. Though the writer was only fifteen at the time, he claims a personal involvement in the Vialiž uprising. See Vićbič, Antybalšavickija paŭstańni, 41. Kupała glorified the early days of collectivization in the narrative poem Nad rakoj Aresaj. Vićbič, Lšono Haboo Bijrušałajm, 148–9. This unique Slavonic hymn (canon) is dedicated to the Martyr Varus (Uar, Uvar). The hymn opens with a prayer to the Holy Martyr Varus, who was given powers to pray and receive blessings for the repose of non-Orthodox Christians. It is a prayer to save the Israelites who obeyed God and to punish the Pharaoh for being their oppressor. Kołas’s use of symbolism is obvious: the Israelites represent Biełarusians of all faiths, and the Pharaoh is a symbol of the Bolsheviks. I am grateful to L. Jurevič and J. Dingley for the reference to “Kanon sviatomu mucheniku.” See http://www.orthomama.ru/cat76text 350.htm. Vićbič, Antybalšavickija paŭstańni, 222. Latgalians currently constitute the population of a large part of eastern Latvia. Vićbič, Antybalšavickija paŭstańni, 27. The absence of pogroms is confirmed by their absence from The Book of Pogroms. Stanisłaŭ Bułak-Bałachovič (1883–1940) was a controversial figure who served, in turn, the tsarist, Red, White, and Polish armies. See Kruchinin and Mitsner, “General Stanislav Balakhovich v 1939 godu.” In Kniga pogromov, 625–30, there are some documented conversations

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between Bułak-Bałachovič, Savinkov, and Biełarusian Jews. Also, most of the documents in this edition confirm that the same pogroms (including killings) were also perpetrated against Biełarusian Christians and Muslims. These pogroms were directed against all social classes, including the peasantry. Vićbič, Antybalšavickija paŭstańni, 130–1. Ibid., 87. McMillin, History of Byelorussian Literature, 295. Vićbič, Lšono Haboo Bijrušałajm, 181. Ibid., 160–84. I am grateful to Jim Dingley for the reference. This letter is a response to Panucevič (real name: Papucevič, 1910/11–1991), a minor Biełarusian political activist involved in emigration. The letter, dated 22 May 1970, was kindly shared with me by Dr Liavon Jurevič, who later included it in his own publication. See Jurevič, Žanry, 338–40. Dr Jurevič includes the entire letter in its original Biełarusian; my English translation presents only its second part. Biełarus is a newspaper of the Biełarusian emigration, regularly published since 1950. The Mamonič brothers were merchants from Mahilioŭ who supported a printing house in Vilnia from 1574 to 1623. This press produced about sixty publications. The brothers were law-abiding citizens. Vaščyła was a leader of the anti-serfdom uprising (1740–44). Here Vićbič is stretching historical facts by ascribing political power and/or influence to Jews. A symbolic name for Russians among Biełarusians of non-Russian ethnicity. The impact of the Bolshevik Revolution on Biełarusians is truly a complicated matter. The fact is that most Biełarusian Jews lived in small towns, and even before the Second World War they were as apolitical as were the Biełarusian peasants. After the Polish-Soviet War, when Biełarusian Jews were subjected to Polish pogroms, the Red Army was, at least on the surface, not as anti-Semitic, and therefore, around that time, most Jews grew more sympathetic towards the Bolsheviks. True, the bund (Jewish Labour Party) often stood against the newly formed Biełarusian Democratic (People’s) Republic (bnr, 1918–19). The bund cooperated more with the Social Revolutionaries (the most powerful political party in the Russian Empire at the time) and Mensheviks. The German forces that occupied the country were also against the bnr. But one must remember that, in every

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ethnic Biełarusian group, including Jews, there were only a handful of Bolsheviks. Another historic fact not often mentioned is that the Biełarusian national movement received strong support from Biełarusian Jews in their initial resistance to the Bolsheviks. The entire quote from Hosea 8:7: “For they have sown the wind, and they shall reap the whirlwind: it hath no stalk: the bud shall yield no meal: if so be it yield, the strangers shall swallow it up.” More than 800,000 Biełarusian Jews perished during the Second World War (Holocaust Encyclopedia, 65). This number does not include the murders of Biełarusian Jews from Białystok, which was claimed by Poland (Holocaust Encyclopedia, 485); it doesn’t include the 55,000 “foreign” Jews from Germany, Austria, Moravia, France, and other countries who were murdered on Biełarusian territory (Holocaust Encyclopedia, 65). The author is referring to the Mekong Delta in Vietnam and hints at American involvement in the Vietnam and the Israeli-Arab wars. Jurevič, Žanry, 338–40. Bykaŭ used to repeat this phrase in order to repel importunate admirers. This is what I heard during my very first phone conversation with him. However, I was very lucky that he later had a change of heart and granted me a number of valuable interviews. McMillin, Biełarusian Literature of the Diaspora, 202. Ibid., 205–6 c h a pt er se ve n Among other awards, Janka Bryl received the State Literary Prize of the ussr in 1952 and the Jakub Kołas Literature Prize in 1963; in 1981, he was given the honourary title the People’s Writer of Biełaruś. Another state prize, named after Jakub Kołas, was given him in 1982, and in 1994 he was elected a full member of the Biełarusian Academy of Sciences. I provide more details about these forceful separations and their consequences when analyzing specific literary texts. Bryl, Nižnija Bajduny; Bryl, Zołak ubačany zdaliok. Yiddish: shames; Hebrew: shammāsh: server, attendant, candle lighter. The Yiddish term “shul” was used in Biełaruś for a synagogue; it is cognate with the German Schule, school, while synagogue comes from the Greek word for “assembly.” These teams were cutting charred wood with axes.

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6 It is customary for Biełarusian children to call non-blood-related adults “uncles” and “aunts.” 7 Bryl, Nižnija Bajduny, 60–4. 8 Ibid., 85–6. 9 I continue to call the boy Jurka but occasionally remind readers of the narrator’s real name (Janka). 10 Bryl, Zołak ubačany zdaliok, 166. 11 Ibid., 166. 12 Ibid., 167–8. 13 Ibid., 175. 14 Ibid., 183–4. 15 Ibid., 184. 16 Ibid., 199. 17 Bryl, Pišu jak žyvu. The present study uses the online copy of these same texts, http://www.twirpx.com/file/760629. The only difference is in the page formatting. There are 234 pages in the online version (starting with the title page). 18 Rybakov’s novel was translated into English as The Fear. 19 Bykaŭ, “Pałkavodziec.” 20 Ibid., 23. 21 Bykaŭ, Ściuža. This work was completed in 1969, but it was only published thirty years later, in 1993. 22 Gimpelevich, Vasil Bykaŭ, 149. 23 Grossman, Forever Flowing, 68–83. 24 Ibid., 83. 25 At that time, Soviet Russia acted on behalf of Soviet Biełaruś, while Ukraine had its own representative. 26 Bryl, Pišu jak žyvu, 2. 27 Anton Dzianikin (Denikin; 1872–1947). Of a very humble background, he rose to become one of the most capable military figures during the rule of the last Russian tsar. Denikin’s army fought the Bolsheviks. 28 Bryl, Pišu jak žyvu, 24. 29 Ibid., 24. 30 Pasternak, Doctor Zhivago, 431–2. 31 Bryl, Pišu jak žyvu, 172–3. 32 Gimpelevich, Biełarusian Jewish Writers of the Twentieth Century, 178, 187, 224, 231.

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33 Bryl, Pišu jak žyvu, 79. 34 Ibid, 90. Jakaŭ Hiercovič (1910–76), Biełarusian writer and journalist. 35 Certainly, these cases were not as common among Biełarusians as among Lithuanian and Polish partisans. See, for example, among many others, Kahn, No Time to Mourn; Duffy, Bielski Brothers; Cohen, Avengers; Levine, Fugitives of the Forest; and Tec, Defiance. 36 Bryl, Pišu jak žyvu, 139. 37 Good new books – in particular, collected volumes – were a rarity in the Soviet Union, and many people would recognize the volume’s author by the cover’s colour. 38 Bryl, Pišu jak žyvu, 150–1. 39 Ryhor Sałamonavič Biarozkin (1918–81) was a Biełarusian and Russian writer of Jewish decent; he was also a journalist and literary critic who was loved and respected by most of his fellow writers. The Biełarusian secret police arrested him in 1941, and he was sentenced to death. In the chaos of the first days of the war, the sentence was not carried out, and he escaped and joined a passing Red Army unit. See Gimpelevich, Biełarusian Jewish Writers of the Twentieth Century, 211. See also chapter 9, notes 42–50. 40 Bryl, Pišu jak žyvu, 166–7. 41 Ibid., 165. 42 Alieś Adamovič (1927–94), the youngest of the three partisans. He was a writer, literary critic, screenwriter, professor at Moscow State University, member of the Biełarusian Academy of Sciences, and public figure. He was also an ardent opponent of Lukašenka’s regime. Uładzimir (Vałodzia) Kalieśnik (1922–94), a writer, journalist, literary critic, and professor, was, at different times, the president of two Biełarusian universities. 43 Bryl, Pišu jak žyvu, 168–9. c ha pt er e i gh t 1 A poem he dedicated to his sister on her sixtieth birthday is actually an intimate song to Natalla and a proclamation of her brother’s love. See Karatkievič, “Natašy ŭ jaje …,” 393. 2 Since 1991, this institution has been known as Vserossiīskī gosudarstvennyī unuversitet kinemаtоgrafii (All-Russian State University of Cinematography).

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3 Gimpelevich, “Uładzimir Karatkievič.” This sentiment is fully developed by R. Baradulin. 4 Ibid., 113. 5 Kundera, Art of the Novel, 44. 6 Maldzis, Žyćcio i ŭzniasieńnie. 7 McMillin, Belarusian Literature in the 1950s and 1960s, 243–82. 8 Rubinčyk, “Jaŭrejskija persanažy.” 9 See a similar idea developed in an essay by the leading Biełarusian poet, Baradulin, “Tolki b jaŭrei byli,” n.104. See also chapter 9, this volume. 10 Rubinčyk, “Jaŭrejskija persanažy,” 61. 11 Karatkievič, “Jaŭrejcy,” Zbor tvoraŭ, 1:350. 12 Karatkievič, Zbor tvoraŭ, 1:336. 13 Ibid., 359. 14 Ibid., 351. 15 Ibid. 16 Karatkievič, Zbor tvoraŭ, 4:363. 17 Lesya Ukrainka (real name Larisa Kosach-Kvitka; 1871–1913) was a poet, prose writer, essayist, and literary critic. She was also a well-known figure in Slavic modernism. 18 “Dziady” is a Pan-Slavic and Baltic holiday for commemorating ancestors. It has been celebrated since pre-Christian times. In Biełaruś, Dziady has preserved its most ancient custom, the Slavic-Baltic funeral feast. In the Christian era, Dziady has been commemorated on 26 October (Old Style) or the first Saturday before 8 November (New Style). The custom was renewed on 30 October 1988 with an annual march to Kurapaty, where victims of the Communist regime are buried. 19 McMillin, Belarusian Literature, 243; Vierabiej, “Jadnajučy sučasnaje z minułym,” 176; Gimpelevich, “Uładzimir Karatkievič,” 115. 20 Karlinsky, Nabokov-Wilson Letters, 44. 21 Rubinčyk, “Jaŭrejskija persanažy,” 63. 22 Ibid., 61. 23 Rubinčyk, “Jaŭrejskija persanažy,” 63; Michail Hierčyk (Majsiej; 1932– 2008) was a Biełarusian writer and editor. 24 Viktor Nekrasov (1911–87) was a prominent Soviet and Russian writer, journalist, editor, and war veteran. He was forced into exile by the Soviet government.

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25 Babi Yar was the place where most of Kyiv’s Jews were massacred, along with some Soviet soldiers and other Soviet citizens who resisted the Germans. 26 Parnis, “Viktor Nekrasov i Babi Yar.” 27 Evgenii Yevtushenko (1932–2017) is a Russian poet, prose writer, editor, play and scriptwriter, actor, and public figure. 28 Gimpelevich, “Changing a Canon.” 29 Karatkievič, Zbor tvoraŭ, 1:10. 30 Karatkievič, “Cyhanski karol,” 73–129. 31 Let’s randomly take two volumes that confirm the author’s constant references to Jews: Karatkievič, Zbor tvoraŭ, 2:59, 75, 148, 174, 311, 408; Karatkievič, Zbor tvoraŭ, 3:122, 154, 202. 32 Karatkievič, Zbor tvoraŭ, 8:253–4. 33 Hereafter, Chrystos pryziamliŭsia ŭ Harodni; McMillin, Belarusian Literature, 276. 34 Maciej Strykoŭski (Strykojwski, Strykowski, Strycovius, 1547–93) was a soldier, a Catholic priest, and a writer, and is considered to have shaped the Lićvins (present-day Biełarusians) national identity. Despite his preference for Polish rule and culture, he strongly encouraged Lithuanians (back then, the Samogitians) and Biełarusians (back then: Lićviny, Litviny, Lithuanians) to use their national languages. 35 Zygmunt I Stary (the Elder; Sigismund; 1467–1548) was the king of Poland and the grand duke of Lithuania (1506–48). 36 Bykaŭ, Zbor tvoraŭ, 1:8; Maldzis, Žyćcio i ŭzniasieńnie, 152. 37 Ravvuni means much the same as “(young) rabbi”: a teacher of the Torah and leader of a synagogue. In the New Testament (John 20:16), the disciples address Christ by this name. 38 The Gospel of Judas, Coptic Text, is the exact copy of the official publication of the National Geographic Society (Washington, dc ngs, 2007). Both texts are based on the critical edition of the Tchacos Codex. See Kasser and Wurst, Tchacos Codex. Also helpful is Pagels and King, Reading Judas. Using this material, I draw parallels with Karatkievič’s novel and the historic text of The Gospel of Judas. The National Geographic Society’s The Gospel of Judas was made available online in April 2006 at www.nationalgeographic.com/lostgospel/document.html. 39 These fifty-two texts were translations from original Hebrew and (Jewish) Aramaic into Coptic, dated to about sixteen hundred years ago. Most of

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the original ancient texts predated or were written at the same time as the four orthodox Catholic Gospels. All of them, like the Gospel of Philip, bound with the Gospel According to Thomas (Judas Thomas) in Pagels, The Gnostic Gospels, were written in a different spirit than were the four canonical ones. The Gospel of Philip, for example, states that Mary Magdalene was one of Christ’s closest apostles and companions, while the Gospel According to Thomas claims that Christ had a twin brother. Some scholars named him James; others called him Judas Thomas. According to Pagels, Judas Thomas was Christ’s spiritual brother. See Pagels, Gnostic Gospels, xv–xvii. Irenaeus’s five volumes are entitled The Destruction and Overthrow of Falsely So-Called Knowledge. See also Irenaeus, Against Heresies; and Pagels, Gnostic Gospels, xviii. Pagels, Gnostic Gospels, xix. Ibid., xx. Ibid. Smith, Gnostic Writings, xv. Actually, the Jesuits appeared about fifty years later in Biełaruś, but Karatkievič apparently “needed” them to play a negative role in Biełarusian history of that time and so had them appear in the novel during the reign of Zygmunt I (Sigismund), under whose rule gdl and Lićviny (Orthodox Biełarusians and Uniates) were considered “second-class” citizens relative to Catholic Poles and Samogitians (modern Lithuanians). Karatkievič, Zbor tvoraŭ, 6:54. McMillin, Belarusian Literature in the 1950s and 1960s, 276–7. Ibid., 66. Karatkievič, Zbor tvoraŭ, 6:61. Ibid., 93. Apparently Karatkievič knew well the laws of the Kahal’s damnations and the unbearable situation of any Jew who was exiled from a Kahal. Such a Jew would become an outcast from every Jewish community in the world. Without such support he or she would not be able to find work anywhere and would die of hunger. Karatkievič, Zbor tvoraŭ, 6:100. Pagels and King, Reading Judas, xxii–xxiii. Karatkievič, Zbor tvoraŭ, 6:97. Ibid., 98.

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56 Ibid., 98–9. 57 Izgoi (stranger; person in ancient Kyivan society with an altered social status, e.g., an illegitimate child, a ruined merchant, a freed slave). The word is of Hebrew and Yiddish origin. 58 Karatkievič, Zbor tvoraŭ, 6:102. 59 Mindouh (Mindaŭg; Mindaŭgas), the gdl’s ruler (1240–63). He brought together the lands of present-day western Biełaruś and eastern Lithuania. His capital was the Biełarusian city of Navahradak (Navahrudak). Supposedly he was often reproached for his benevolent attitude towards his own tribe, the Samogitians. 60 Karatkievič, Zbor tvoraŭ, 6:114. 61 Ibid., 6:122. 62 Ibid., 6:139. 63 Karatkievič, Zbor tvoraŭ, 6:162. 64 Each of these protagonists is a Renaissance man and represents a “typical” highly educated original philosopher of the sixteenth century. Ałbin Kryštofič is entirely the creation of Karatkievič. However, Kašpar Bekieš has a strong historical prototype: the Hungarian-born Gáspár Békés (1520–79), a scholar (a heretic and atheist), military officer, and administrator in Hrodna during his friend Stefan Bathory’s (1533–86) rule of Reč Paspalitaja. 65 Bratčyk is clearly referring to Leonardo da Vinci, given some of the details of the old master’s life, work, and death. 66 The Gospel of Mary (Mary of Magdala, Magdalena) was first discovered in Egypt. A German scholar, Dr Carl Reinhardt, purchased this codex in 1896. It was published only in 1955. By then, the Nag Hammadi collection had been discovered. Also written in Coptic, some copies were similar in style to Reinhardt’s purchase. The Gospel of Mary has also been found in some Greek copies, which pre-date Coptic copies of 4–5 ce. 67 Karatkievič, Zbor tvoraŭ, 6:169. 68 Ibid., 172. 69 Ibid., 189. 70 Ibid., 195. 71 Ibid., 227. 72 Ibid., 228. 73 Ibid., 235. 74 Ibid., 255.

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Ibid., 330. Ibid., 331. Ibid. Ibid., 379. Ibid. Ibid., 380. An interesting and symbolic coincidence: in Hebrew, the number 18 represents “life.” Ibid., 408. Ibid. Ibid. Here Karatkievič performed one more miracle for Thomas, who was illiterate and therefore could not have rewritten the order. Ibid., 488. Ibid., 490. Ibid. Karatkievič, Liście kaštanaŭ. McMillin, Belarusian Literature in the 1950s and 1960s, 275. Karatkievič, Liście kaštanaŭ, 336–7. Ibid., 340. Charlie Chaplin’s (1889–1997) birth in London’s East End, where most East European Jews lived after emigration, led to the myth that he was a Jew, but he was not. Indeed, every East European and Nazi alike (for contrasting reasons) thought he was a Jew. This melody was popular in the district of London where he grew up among many Jews from the former Pale. Karatkievič, Liście kaštanaŭ, 359. Ibid., 364. Ibid., 365. The Judenrat was a council of Jews, appointed by the Germans. They were responsible for implementing Nazi policies within Jewish communities during the war. However, this typically common interpretation of the Judenrat, which in the beginning hoped to assuage the Germans with good work and obedience, is a Soviet interpretation and too primitive to allow for a full understanding of this complex phenomenon. The source of Judenrat behaviour should be sought and found in a history of the Jewish Kahal in the Pale of Settlement. Also, the Judenrat expected the familiar

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behaviour of the civilized Germans of the First World War and could not have anticipated the Nazi barbarity of the Second. 98 Karatkievič, Liście kaštanaŭ, 367–8. 99 Karatkievič, Zbor tvoraŭ, 3:418.

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18

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c ha pt er n in e Baradulin’s most popular pen names were Avoś Savoś, Alieś Kalina, and Alieś Čabor. “Baradulin, Ryhor,” in Biełaruskija piśmeńniki, 1:210–35. McMillin, Writing in a Cold Climate, 87. This entire chapter could serve as an ideal epitaph for the people’s poet. Baradulin, Tolki b habrei byli! Kniha pavahi i siabroŭstva [If only Jews were here! The book of respect and friendship]. ARCHE 3. See also the discussion of this essay in chapter 1. Twain, Concerning the Jews. First published in 1899. At present, it’s 0.5 percent. See http://classiclit.about.com/library/bl-etexts/mtwain/bl-mtwainconcerningjews.htm. Baradulin, Tolki b habrei byli!, 8. Franklin, Ursula Franklin Speaks, 30. Baradulin, Tolki b habrei byli!, 9. Kryvičy is a half-Baltic, half-Slavic tribe from which Biełarusians claim their origin. Ibid., 12. The author profoundly expresses his spiritual connection and his mother’s influence in Baradulin, Evanhiellijie ad mamy. Baradulin, Tolki b habrei byli!, 14. Ibid., 15. Ibid. I find Jackie Wullschlager’s 582-page critical biography, Chagall, to be the best so far. The only unfortunate drawback is that the author refers to the artist’s birthplace as Russia. See also Chagall’s short bio in: Gimpelevich, Biełarusian Jewish Writers, 176–7. Baradulin, Tolki b habrei byli!, 15. Ibid., 16. Ibid. Ibid.

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Gimpelevich, Biełarusian Jewish Writers, 177. Baradulin, Tolki b habrei byli!, 17. Ibid., 18. Ibid. Ibid., 19. Ibid. Ibid., 20. Gimpelevich, Biełarusian Jewish Writers, 225–6. Baradulin, Tolki b habrei byli!, 20. See http://encyclopedia2.thefreedictionary.com/Zair+Azgur. Baradulin, Tolki b habrei byli!, 22. Ibid. Ibid. Baradulin, Tolki b habrei byli!, 22. Relies’s pen names: Ryhor Hryhorieŭ, R. Hryhorieŭ, G. Lieonaŭ, and Ryhor Ryhorieŭ; Gimpelevich, Biełarusian Jewish Writers, 231. Baradulin, Tolki b habrei byli!, 23. My sentiments exactly with respect to my own translations of Baradulin’s work. Baradulin, Tolki b habrei byli!, 23. Ibid., 27. Hryša and Ryhor are Biełarusian variations of Yiddish Hirš; Grigorii and Grisha are Russian. Gimpelevich, Biełarusian Jewish Writers, 211. Baradulin’s extraordinary lifelong attachment to his mother, Akulina Baradulin, was expressed in his will, in which he requested to be buried next to her. Baradulin, Tolki b habrei byli!, 28. Ibid., 31. Ibid., 31. Ibid. Ibid., 34. Ibid. Gimpelevich, Biełarusian Jewish Writers, 222. Baradulin, Tolki b habrei byli!, 35. Ibid., 36. Ibid., 37.

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55 Baradulin offers this excerpt, and most other examples of Kislik’s works, in original Russian; “glagol” (biblical: word). It also means: a verb, a noun, and “to speak” in Old Church Slavonic. 56 Baradulin, Tolki b habrei byli!, 38–9. 57 Ibid., 40. Vasil Bykaŭ also frequented Kislik’s apartment. 58 Russian version of Biarozkin. 59 Valka (Valentin Taras; 1930–2014) was a Biełarusian Russian writer, poet, publicist, journalist, translator, literary critic, and political activist. Like Adamovič, he became a child partisan during the war. Fedia (Fiodar Jafimaŭ; Russian: Fiodor Efimov, 1933– ) is a Biełarusian and Russian Soviet writer, critic, editor, and translator. Igor’ (Ihar Šklareŭski; Russian: Igor Shkliarevsky; 1938–; pen name: Steklovskii) is a Biełarusian-born Russian (Soviet) poet and translator. Sasha (Aliaksandr Drakachrust; 1923–2008) was a Russian and Biełarusian poet and translator. He was born in Moscow of Biełarusian Jewish parents. Both were killed by the Stalinists in 1937 and were rehabilitated only in 1955. Drakachrust grew up with relatives in Biełaruś and joined the Red Army in 1941. The poet was in Berlin when the war ended; he would stay in the military service until 1971. That year he moved to Miensk, but his Biełarusian publications (always in Russian) date back to 1963. He authored more than ten books of poetry. 60 Baradulin, Tolki b habrei byli!, 41. 61 Ibid., 42. 62 Gimpelevich, Biełarusian Jewish Writers, 232. 63 Baradulin, Tolki b habrei byli!, 43. 64 Gimpelevich, Vasil Bykaŭ, 23. 65 The book that Bykaǔ showed me is Shagalovskii sbornik. It is a compilation of the proceedings of five conferences dedicated to Chagall. The languages of the proceedings are Biełarusian and Russian. Some of the book’s materials are priceless because they include Chagall’s original prose and poetry, Bykaǔ’s and Baradulin’s works, as well as strong contributions from many other cultural figures. 66 Gimpelevich, Vasil Bykaŭ, 27–9; Gimpelevich, Vasil Bykaŭ. Knigi i sud’ba, 322–33. 67 Liudmila Rublevskaja posted her Russian interview with Simanovič on 25 September 2013 at http://www.sb.by/kultura/article/vitebskieprogulki-s-davidom-simanovichem.html.

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68 There is an excellent biography and bibliography dedicated to Simanovič by Vitali Karacupa and Viačasłaŭ Nastecki at http://archivsf.narod.ru/ 1932/david_simanovich/index.htm. 69 Baradulin, Tolki b habrei byli!, 44. 70 Ibid., 45. 71 Ibid., 45. 72 French Wiki has an excellent biography of the artist: http://fr.wikipedia. org/wiki/Boris_Zaborov. 73 Baradulin, Tolki b habrei byli!, 46. 74 Ibid., 47. 75 Ibid., 51. 76 Ibid., 52. 77 Ibid., 55. 78 Ibid. 79 Valožyn became infamous after the war because some of its inhabitants collaborated with the Nazis and practised their cruel behaviour towards Jews. These wicked actions were unique in Biełaruś. One explanation could be that the Germans appointed as head of local administration an eager anti-Semite of Polish ethnicity who gathered like-minded people around him. Valožyn was also noted for the unprecedented action of killing Jews who returned home to claim their meagre properties after the war. 80 See Bialik, “Prorochestvo,” 7–11. 81 Gimpelevich, Biełarusian Jewish Writers, 230–1. 82 Baradulin, Tolki b habrei byli!, 117-18. 83 Gimpelevich, Biełarusian Jewish Writers, 180–1. 84 Baradulin, Tolki b habrei byli!, 122. 85 Gimpelevich, Biełarusian Jewish Writers, 237. 86 Baradulin, Tolki b habrei byli!, 128. 87 Gimpelevich, Biełarusian Jewish Writers, 233. 88 Baradulin, Tolki b habrei byli!, 210. 89 Ibid., 130–2. 90 Ibid., 131-3. 91 Ibid., 136–7. 92 Ibid., 137. 93 Please see note 18, this chapter. 94 Baradulin, Tolki b habrei byli!, 145.

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95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118

Wullschlager, Chagall, 487–8. Ibid., 487. Baradulin, Tolki b habrei byli!, 149. “Brine” is an allusion to his parents’ selling herring in brine in their Viciebsk corner store. Wullschlager, Chagall, 487–8; Baradulin, Tolki b habrei byli!, 149–50. These first four lines are also missing in Wullschlager’s book. See Baradulin, Tolki b habrei byli!, 149. An allusion to a hiding place. Baradulin, Tolki b habrei byli!, 149. Ibid., 150. Once again I regret that my translation into English is unable to match Baradulin’s. Baradulin, Tolki b habrei byli!, 161. Gimpelevich, Biełarusian Jewish Writers, 184. As previously mentioned, in Hebrew numerology the number 18 means “life.” Baradulin, Tolki b habrei byli!, 168. Ibid., 167. During the war, Moscow would hold a fireworks display in every city taken back from the Germans, starting with Stalingrad. Baradulin, Tolki b habrei byli!, 185–6. Ibid., 194. Sonečny zajčyk means “sunny bunny.” Baradulin, Tolki b habrei byli!, 190–1. Ibid., 193. Baradulin’s psalms were set to music by the poet and musician Alieś Kamocki (1958); Kamocki produced a cd of this fusion in 2000. See chapter 9, notes 8 and 9. Michele Somerville, “Allen Ginsberg, Buddhist Rabbi,” http://www. huffingtonpost.com/michele-somerville/post_863_b_719676.html.

c hapt er t en 1 The kgb was founded in March 1954, exactly a year after Stalin’s death. It successfully continued the work of its predecessors: the Cheka, the ogpu, and the nkvd, with regard to strengthening the Cold War. 2 Snyder, Bloodlands, 345.

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3 Georgii Musievič’s book is available online. Since it was written in Russian, transliteration is done according to the LoC, except for Biełarusian geographic and last names. 4 In addition to the history of the area, Musevič’s book brings together unique data about Biełarusian Jewish livelihoods before and after the catastrophe. Indeed, even such authoritative sources as Laqueur’s Holocaust Encyclopedia and Arad’s Holocaust in the Soviet Union do not mention the Holocaust in the Biełarusian cities of Kamianiec-Litoŭski and VysokaLitoŭsk, and in places where thousands of local Jews were murdered: Raviec, Piasčany, the Vorachaŭski forest, among others. 5 Yizkor, Kameints de-Lita. The project coordinator is Jenni Buck, and I am sincerely grateful to her for references. Note that places are spelled differently in different languages: Biełarusian, Polish, Russian, Yiddish, Ukrainian, and others. Below I try to accommodate each in accordance with the language of reference. 6 Musievič, Narod, 2. 7 Ibid., 5. 8 Ibid., 5. Tadeusz Kościuszko (Tadevuš Kasciuška;1746–1817) is a national hero of Biełaruś, Lithuania, Poland, and the United States. He fought in the Reč Paspalitaja uprising against Russia and was a leading figure in the American Revolution. An accomplished architect, artist, and military leader, and close friend of Thomas Jefferson, he believed firmly in freedom and human rights. 9 Hans Ferdinand Helmolt (1865–1929) worked with more than thirty of Germany’s best historians while editing his renowned Weltgeschichte (World history). The first English translation appeared in 1901. The first translation into Russian was taken from the third edition of Helmolt’s nine volumes in 1903–04. Helmolt continued to edit these volumes until the end of his life. Six translators were supervised by nearly a dozen Russian academics of the highest rank, who not only edited Helmolt’s Russian version but also added more recent information to the various subjects. See Helmolt, Istoriia chelovechestva. 10 The city of Białystok is 188 kilometres from Warsaw, only fifty-four kilometres from the border with today’s Biełaruś. When, in accordance with the Treaty of Riga, 1921, it was awarded to Poland, the city had a predominantly Biełarusian Christian and Jewish population. Half its citizens were killed during the Second World War. Hajnaŭka is a typical

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Biełarusian town. It was returned to Soviet Biełaruś in 1939, but, despite, the predominantly ethnic Biełarusian population, it was given back to Poland in 1944. http://zarya.by/event/message/view/8474. 20.08.2012. Musievič, Narod, kotoryi zhil sredi nas, 1. “Pravda o narode, kotoryi zhil sredi nas. V Kamentse – Holokost? Chto takoe – Holokost?” (Truth about the people who used to live among us: Holocaust in Kamenets? What is it – Holocaust?). See http://www.stol-kam. na.by/p0115.htm. I am still awaiting a reply from the site’s owners regarding my request that they delete this piece of hate literature. Ibid. See http://www.jewishgen.org/Yizkor/Kamenets/kam046.htmlPage56. See especially the Lithuanian (Old Biełarusian) Chronicles in the introductory article. Laqueur, Holocaust Encyclopedia, 83. Out of thirty thousand ghetto inhabitants in Brest, only about two hundred people survived. The rest were either shot in the town or deported to other places for extermination. Though pages 101 to 103 give us most sources for Musievič’s work, there are no references to these works and pages in the body of the book. Once again, this style is still acceptable for most writings in the post-Soviet lands. Musievič, Narod, 93. Ibid., 94–5. Ibid., 7. Ibid., 93. Ibid., 95–6. Ibid. The merchants in the Russian Empire were divided into three ranks or guilds, and everyone had his own taxation system and privileges; the lowest rank paid 60 silver rubles to the government; the middle rank, 300 silver rubels; and the highest rank paid 800 silver rubels per annum. However, the Jews, who paid considerable sums annually to the government, besides being taxed like all other merchants, were allowed to trade only in the seventeen provinces in which they were permitted to reside. They were excluded from the other fifty-two provinces of the empire. The first guild comprised the aristocracy of capital and industry; the middle guild in-

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cluded merchants of the second guild, whose commerce had more narrow limits; the traders of the lowest guild were the petty traders, who lacked the right to draw bills of exchange. See “Guilds in Russia.” The ending “o” and not the Biełarusian ending “a” is influenced by local Ukrainian-Biełarusian dialect. Musievič, Narod, 14. Beit Midrash (House of learning; House of interpretation). Ibid., Narod, 21. The yeshiva educational system of that time is difficult to compare with today’s system. In a Canadian university, it takes four to eight years to earn a PhD; this degree should be preceded by three to four years of a BA program and one to two years of an MA program. This process may still be compared with eight years of studying at Jewish primary schools (kheyder) and ten years in a yeshiva. Yizkor, Kameints de-Lita, 136–9. Raddock, “Kamenetzer Yeshivah of America,” 137. Ibid., 137. Degel Naphtali is a festschrift dedicated to Rabbi Lebowitz (Leibovitz). Raddock, “Kamenetzer Yeshivah of America,” 137. Musievič, Narod, 34. Ibid., 35. Ibid., 41. Ibid., 45. Kol Nidre is a prayer recited on the eve of the Day of Atonement (Judgment day). Ibid., 46. Ibid., 56–60. Yekheskl (Ezekiel) Kotik (1847–1921) is known for his twovolume memoir Mayne Zikhroynes. In the first volume he describes his childhood in Kamianiec; in the second he writes of his life in Russia proper and other parts of the empire. Zolf (1898–1961), On Foreign Soil. Like Kotik, he writes with great warmth about life in his home country. He wrote his memoir in Canada, to which he immigrated in 1945. The second part of On Foreign Soil includes less fond memories of Biełarusian Jewish life in the shtetls under the Soviets. Musievič, Narod, 62. Yizkor, Kameints de-Lita, 127–45. Kustin, “Kokhav Ya’akov Anshey Kamenetz D’lita Society,” 143.

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45 Meir Mendel Visotzky, “The Establishment of Kamenetz-Litovsk Aid Society in America: Activity Report,” in Yizkor, Kameints de-Lita, 131. 46 Sarah Hurwitz, “The Kamenetz Society in America: Activity Report,” in Yizkor, Kameints de-Lita, 127. 47 Dov Schmidt, “My Journey to Kamenetz (Kamianiec) in 1965,” in Yizkor, Kameints de-Lita, 175–8. 48 Ibid., 175. 49 Ibid., 176. 50 Ibid., 177. 51 Ibid., 178. 52 Musievič, “Open Letter.” 53 Ibid., 87. 54 Ibid., 89. 55 Ibid. 56 Mamus, Naviny Kamianieččyny. Musievič later included it in his book. 57 Ibid., 91. 58 Musievič, Narod, 91. 59 Ibid., 99. 60 Snyder, Bloodlands, 402. 61 All old Jewish cemeteries were vandalized and destroyed after the Jews of the region were murdered. 62 Musievič, Narod, 100.

1 2 3 4 5

c h ap t er e leven The most popular pen names were Vojt Navum and Navum Pryhavorka. Rich, “Jewish Themes,” 116. Dunin-Marcinkievič, Vybranyja tvory, 44. Ibid., 46. Adam Mickiewicz (1798–1855) was a Polish poet, dramatist, translator, publicist, essayist, prose writer, political activist, and a professor of Slavic studies at the Sorbonne. Biełarusians, Lithuanians, and Poles have all considered him their own national poet, and each of these three nations had a certain legitimacy to its claim. However, in his writings, Mickiewicz used Polish much more frequently than he used Biełarusian. Yet he had never lived in Poland proper: he was born and raised in the Biełarusian-Lithuanian territories of the former gdl. So, although he wrote mainly about Biełarusian nature, myths, people, and culture, he did so in Polish.

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6 Russia lost this war against the ailing Ottoman Empire (whose allies included Sardinia, France, and Britain). This allowed the Ottomans another twenty years of freedom from Russian expansionism. But there were some allowances as a result of this war: the Russian Orthodox Church’s rights were made equal to those of the Roman Catholic Church and some other churches in the Holy Land (which, at the time, was part of the Ottoman Empire). 7 Siaržuk Sakałoŭ-Vojuš (1956– ) is a Biełarusian bard, writer, and journalist. In private conversation in the mid-1990s, he expressed his strong conviction that Mickiewicz had Jewish roots. 8 Rich, “Jewish Themes,” 117. 9 Bahuševič, “Niemiec.” 10 Bahuševič, “Padarožnyja žydy.” 11 McMillin, History of Byelorussian Literature, 98–107. 12 Ibid., 98. 13 To the best of my knowledge, neither poem was mentioned in literary criticism. 14 The blood libel reached Biełarusian lands only after the country became a part of the Russian Empire. Every layer of Russian society, in particular the nobility, picked up on Judeophobic myths emanating from Germany and Poland. The same myths were not popular among lower classes of the Biełarusian population in the Grand Duchy of Litva. See Reznik, Rastlenie nenavist’iu. 15 McMillin, History of Byelorussian Literature, 107. 16 Harecki, Biełaruskija piśmeńniki, 2:148-55; Mryj, Biełaruskija piśmeńniki, 4:334–35; 2:148–55; Mryj, Biełaruskija piśmeńniki, 4:334–5). 17 McMillin, History of Byelorussian Literature, 262. See also 141–3, 146, 261–4. 18 Harecki, Ruń, 79-86. 19 Chekhov, “Ivanov,” in Polnoe sobranie, vol. 11; Chekhov, “Dom s mezoninom,” in Polnoe sobranie, vol. 9. 20 Harecki, “Krasavaŭ jaźmin,” 86. 21 Ibid., 82. 22 Harecki, Dźvie dušy. 23 See note 16 (above). The biography and bibliography on Mryj that I use here are from Biełaruskija piśmeńniki, 4:334–5. 24 “Rabin,” 48–54. Uzvyšša was published ten times a year.

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25 Ibid., 48. 26 Ibid. 27 Both interlocutors understand that, by “Litva,” the rabbi means contemporary Biełaruś. 28 Ibid., 49. 29 Ibid., 50. 30 Ibid., 52. 31 Ibid., 54. 32 In Biełaruś the novel was published in its entirety only in 1988 by Polymia (first January issue). 33 “Mryj,” http://knihi.com/Andrej_Mryj/Zapiski_Samsona_Samasuja.html, pt. 2, 7. 34 Ibid., pt. 3, 10. 35 According to Radio Liberty’s article, based on studies by Martin McKee, life expectancy for males had fallen to sixty-two years in Biełaruś by 2013. Seet http://www.rferl.org/content/life-expectancy-cis-report/249 46030.html. 36 See Kazloŭski, Biełaruskija piśmeńniki, 3:82–3. 37 Kazloŭski, Rachil, 1. Reprint from the original. 38 Ibid., 3 39 Ibid., 5. 40 Ibid., 5. 41 Ibid., 7. 42 Ibid., 8. 43 Ibid., 9. 44 Ibid., 9. 45 Ibid., 11. 46 Ibid. 47 Ibid., 20–3. 48 Rich, Like Water, Like Fire, 117–18. 49 When Kobiec brought this novella to the Biełarusian literary journal Nioman, the editorial staff were afraid to publish it, summoning the courage to do so only twenty-five years later, in 1989. Even then it was the first true narration about the gulag printed in contemporary Biełaruś. 50 Kobiec, Vybranyja tvory. Aliona Kobiec-Filimonava (1932– ) shares with the reader her father’s nickname, by which his friends often referred to him: Martin Eden.

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Kobiec, Vybranyja tvory, 16. Ibid., 158. Ibid. Ibid., 185. The essay is in Russian, so the transliteration of names has been rendered accordingly. 56 Kobiec, Vybranyja tvory, 534. 57 Rich, Like Water, Like Fire, 13. 51 52 53 54 55

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app en dix t wo The following selection of Ryhor Baradulin’s poetry are from his book If only Jews Were Here! The Book of Respect and Friendship. Here I translate a few poems from the section entitled “Niezabytajie, Viekaviečnajie (Unforgettable, immortal), part 1. With the exception of the first three poems, these verses are vehicles for the poet’s religious feelings. Baradulin wrote this poem in 1963. See Baradulin, Tolki b habrei byli!, 197–8. Ibid., 198–9. Jama or Iama (the Pit) is one of the sites where Miensk’s Jews were killed on 2 March 1942. That day, five thousand Jews were exterminated at this ravine, but only five hundred of them were buried there. Needless to say, Jama is just a symbol of hundreds of similar places in Miensk alone. Nevertheless, Biełarusians view Jama as Miensk’s Babi Yar. The first memorial, with an epitaph in Yiddish written by Chajm Malcinski – “In everlasting memory of the five thousand Jews who perished at the hands of German-fascist thugs on 2 March 1942” – was erected in 1947. It was demolished in 1952, when the poet and a sculptor, Morduch Sprišen, both war heroes, were arrested and sent to a Soviet gulag. The current monument, “Monument to Fallen Jewish people,” was erected in 2000. See http://minsktourism.by/en/the-memorial-complex-yama-pit. Baradulin wrote this poem in 1992. See Baradulin, Tolki b habrei byli!, 200. “Kneading trough” refers to a vessel in which the dough, after being mixed and leavened, is left to rise or ferment. See Exodus 8:3, 12:34; Deuteronomy 28:5, 7. At the time of Exodus, the dough in the vessels was still unleavened as the people were compelled to flee in haste. Baradulin wrote this poem in 1992. See Baradulin, Tolki b habrei byli!, 201. Vifleem is the (Jewish) Aramaic word for Bethlehem. This is also the most

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common transliteration into the Eastern Slavic languages. Bethlehem is considered to be the birthplace of King David and his descendent, Jesus Christ. Baradulin, Tolki b habrei byli!, 201. In the Old Testament, fire is a symbol of the Almighty. Baradulin, Tolki b habrei byli!, 202. Ibid., 203. Ibid., 204. Ibid., 205. Ibid. Ibid., 206.

1 Bibliography

Adamovič, Alieś, and Granin Daniil. Blokadnaia Kniga [The blockade book]. Leningrad: Lenizdat, 1984. Moscow: Independent publishers, 2003. – Franz + Polina [screenplay], 1990. (Movie director and producer Mikhail Segal, 2006.) – Idi i smotri [Come and see]. Screenplay, 1984. (Movie director and producer Elem Klimov, 1985.) – Khatynskaia povest’ [The Khatyn story]. Moskva: Molodaia gvardiia, 1972. (Peperstraat: Glagoslav, 2012.) Adamovič, Alieś, Bryl Janka, and Uładzimir Kalieśnik. Ja z vohniennaj vioski [Out of the fire (1977)]. Moscow: Progress Publishers, 1980. http://knihi.com/ Ales_Adamovic/Ja_z_vohniennaj_vioski.html. – Otvoevalis’ [We’ve had it with this war]. Moskva: Molodaia gvardia, 1990. Adamushko, V.I., O.B. Biriukova, V.P. Kriuk, and G.A. Kudriakova. Spravochnik o mestakh prinuditelnogo soderzhaniia grazhdanskogo naseleniia na okkkupirovannoi territorii Belarusi, 1941-1944 [A reference on forced incarceration of civilians during the occupation of Biełaruś, 1941–44]. Miensk: Natsionalnyi arkhiv Respubliki Belarus, 2001. Akudovič, Valiancin. Metafizika (kod) adsutnaści: Asnovy Biełaruskaj mentalnaści [The metaphysics (code) of absence: The foundations of the Biełarusian mentality]. Miensk: Lohvinaŭ, 2007. Aliachnovič, Frańcyšak. Ptuška ščaścia [Bird of happiness]. Vilnia: Klockin, 1922. Alieksievič, Svietłana (Svetlana Alexievich), U voiny ne zhenskoe litso [War’s unwomanly face]. Mosow: Progress Publishing,1988. – Vremia sekond hend [Time second hand]. Moskva: Vremia, 2013. Collected works in five volumes. Alpert, Nachum. The Destruction of Słonim Jewry: The Story of the Jews of Słonim during the Holocaust. New York: Holocaust Library, 1990. Allport, Gordon. The Nature of Prejudice. Boston: Addisson-Wesley, 1954.

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1 Index

abduction for Russian military service, 18 Acts of the Apostles, 16, 388n40n43. See Skaryna Adam (first creation), 53, 58, 59, 61 Adamovič, Alieś, 231n42, 286n57, 422n42, 430n59 Adamovič, Anthony (Anton), 67, 201, 404n56, 416n46 Ahniacviet (Ognetsvet), Edzi, 295 Ahkienazi, Izrael, 322 Akhmatova, Anna, 176–7, 183 Akudovič, Valiancin, 392n104 Akuła, Kastuś, Combat trails, 101–2, 404n46 Aleichem (Š. Rabinovič), Sholem, 6, 17, 146, 164, 180, 196, 230, 296, 417n57; Tevye the milkman, 165 Aleksandrovič, Andrej, 194 Alexander I, 14; Alexander II, 14 Alexis I, 52, 53, 397n22 Aliachnovič, Frańcyšak, Bird of happiness, 58; In NKVD [OGPU ] clutches, 399n40 Alieksievič, Svetlana, 365 Allied pow camps, Allied prisoner of war camps (pows), 101, 187, 414n19 Alpert, Nachum, The Destruction of Słonim Jewry, 103, 404n49 Alšanski, Navum (Lieutenant-Colonel), 29 Altbauer, M., The Five Biblical Scrolls, 387n37 Altman, Il’ia, Holocaust and Jewish resistance, 190, 414n26, 415n39 Altshuler, Mordechai, Soviet Jewry, 390n64 Anders, Władysław (Polish Army, London-based government-in-exile), 100

Aniempadystaŭ, Michał, The people’s album, 366 Aniščanka, Jaǔhien, “Benyamin Špeer,” 387n35 annihilation, 12, 97, 192; extermination, 12, 32, 37, 97, 103–4, 192, 434n17 An-sky (Rappoport), Sloyme, 19 anti-cosmopolitan campaign, 25–6, 29 anti-Semitism, 5, 19, 21–2, 29, 31–4, 41– 2, 84, 92, 117–18, 189–90, 199–200, 206, 232, 276, 286, 390n58n65, 418n68 anti-Soviet feelings (in the shtetl), 167, 184, 188–90, 199, 225, 271, 282 Arabiej, Lidzija, 365–6 Arad, Yitzak, The Holocaust in the Soviet Union, 190 ARCHE (journal), 38, 42–3, 366–7, 428n5 Arłoŭ, Uładzimir, This Country Called Biełaruś, The order, 36, 101, 366, 393n108, 404n43 Arsieńnieva, Natalla, vii, xi, 83, 97–9, 101–5, 107–10, 120, 403n33n36, 404n48n53n56–7; “Akcyja” (Action), 108; Beneath the blue sky, 102; “Indeed this is – autumn,” 404n56 Art College, 11 Ashkenazi (European Jews), 42 Astravuch, Aliaksandr, Yiddish-Biełarusian dictionary, 43, 395n138; “Yiddish sayings and proverbs,” 43 Aucouturier, Michel, Boris Pasternak, 413n5 Aǔsiščer Lieŭ (Ovsishsher, Lev), 29 Azhur, Zair, 280, 310, 429n32 Babel, Isaak, 26, 180 Babkova, Volha, 366

466 Babrujsk, 17, 52, 148, 172, 203, 294–5; Russian public library, 17 Badkhen, Meir, Jewish diaboliad, 399n46 Bahdanovič (Bogdanovich), Maxim (Maksim), 17, 65, 84, 97, 357, 360, 389n50 Bahuševič, Frańcišak, Bieniadzikt, 343, 344–6, 437n9n10; a home and a prison for Christian and Jewish Biełarusians, 344 bałahoł, bałahoł (a) [cart driver], 128, 148, 170, 170, 171, 280, 319, 323, 409n5, 411n50 Baradulin, Ryhor: Chagall’s writings, 298–303; close to seventy books, 273; Evangiellie ad mamy, 428n14; If only Jews were here: The book of respect and friendship, 274, 291, 311, 394n121–2, 428n4, 431n82n84n86n88–92n94, 432n106–16n121–2, 439n1–8, 440n8– 16; “If only Jews were still here (among us),” 39; invaluable humanistic tradition, 272; A new moon over the steppe, 273; nominated for the Nobel Prize twice, 273; People’s Poet, 273; translations from Yiddish, ten Western languages, 272; the Uniates, 274 Baradulin, Akulina, 272, 276, 279, 282, 283, 290, 429n44 Baroque and the Enlightenment, 52, 55–6, 397n18n21 Barščeŭski, Alieś, 78–9, 401n78 Barsuk, Zachar, 296–8 Bates, Alfred, 396n16 Bemporad, Elissa, Becoming Soviet Jews, 28, 30, 391n74, 392n84 Beorn, Waitman, Wade, 33, 392n97 Berlin, 127, 131–2, 175–6, 279, 282, 393n109, 430n59 Biadulia, Źmitrok, ix, 17, 39–40, 67, 84, 91, 97, 101, 144–5, 180, 192, 201, 205, 225–6, 294, 347, 389n56, 394n123– 4n126n128, 402n21, 409n50–3, 416n46 Bialik, Chajm Nachman, 83, 291–3, 339 Białystok (historic Biełaruś), 31, 56, 112, 134, 185, 226, 317, 317, 326, 392n88, 413n17, 420n90, 433n10

ind ex Biarozkin, Ryhor, 231, 281–6, 310, 422n39, 430n58 Broŭka, p., 194, 282, 290; Kuliašoŭ, A., 282, 284–5; Pančanka, P., 282. See also Tank, Maxim Bible, 8, 9, 15–16, 71, 197, 250, 253–4, 278, 279, 286, 367, 387n40, 396n5 Biełabocki, Andrej (Jan), 51 Biełaja vieža (the White Tower), 264, 315 Biełarusian: emigration, x, 34, 100, 102, 120, 187, 192, 199–200, 205, 214–15, 239, 269, 323, 330, 392n101, 419n84–5, 427n93; exile, 8, 23–4, 34, 42–3, 85, 89, 99–101, 182, 187, 194, 194, 248–9, 280, 285, 291, 313–14, 328, 340, 348, 362, 383n2, 385n18, 390n66, 402n19, 407n24, 413n17, 414n19, 423n24, 425n51 Biełarusian Academy of Sciences (nan), 27, 66, 84, 125, 176, 420n1, 422n42 Biełarusian Central Rada (bcr), 101, 417n52 Biełarusian Christians and Jews suffered first and most, 5, 12, 15, 18, 21, 27, 35– 6, 38–40, 48, 95–6, 98, 186, 194, 198–9, 205–6, 229, 235, 237–8, 261, 283, 393n118, 406n67; Biełarusian Jewish Holocaust, 25, 34, 96–7, 108, 117, 175, 189–90, 190, 229, 274, 277, 299, 313, 318, 329, 331, 334 Biełarusian Classicism and Neoclassicism, 55–7, 70, 398n36 Biełarusian demography, 28, 338, 384n9 Biełarusian history, 5, 35–6, 48, 95, 98, 194, 199, 206, 229, 235, 237–8, 393n118, 425n45; Biełarusian history in five minutes, 35 Biełarusian language and Yiddish enjoy equal rights, 23 Biełarusian Orthodox, 51, 75, 98, 119; Catholics, 9, 119, 202, 244, 246, 265, 354; “lesser gentry,” šliachta, szliachta, 8, 15, 53–4, 57, 85, 195, 251, 342–3; Uniates, 51, 119, 195, 274, 276, 425n45 Biełarusian People’s (Democratic) Republic (bnr), 23–25, 90–1, 383, 390n66n67, 401n9, 402n19, 416n52,

in d ex 419n88. See also bnr, Łastoŭski, Vacłaŭ, Survilla, Ivonka Biełarusian Popular Front, 238, 273 Biełarusian principalities were unique, 7 Biełarusian Renaissance, 8, 40, 235 Biełarusian theatre, 26, 46–7, 49, 51–2, 54, 56, 66, 140, 163, 328, 340, 355, 362; comedy, vii, 16, 46–7, 51; drama, 56–8, 65, 127, 145, 216, 246, 265 Bielski, Tuvia, 32, 179, 412n64, 422n35. See partisans Birabidžan (Russian, Birobidjan), Soviet Jewish Autonomous district, 362–3, 365 blood libel, 7, 18, 387n36, 389n57, 437n14 Blum, Jacob, 4, 384n10–12. See Rich, Vera, The Image of the Jew bnr (longest-surviving post-Bolshevik governing body in exile), 23–5, 90–1, 383n2, 401n9, 402n19, 416n52, 419n88. See also Survilla, Ivonka Bogrov, Grigori, 19 Bohdan, Siarhiej, 36, 393n109–11 Bolshevik Revolution (the October), 19, 22, 25, 30, 66, 90, 104, 129; fear of ordinary people, 221 Bratochkin, Aleksei, 35–6, 36, 384n13, 392n102, 393n107 Brutskus, Boris, 16 Bryl, Janka, vii, 34, 209, 213, 217, 220, 222, 226, 392n100; Bryl introduces a fifth type of informer, 222; Bygone dawn, 209, 215, 220; “A cigaretteholder and a file,” 225–6; I write as I live (“Cognac”), 225–7; The Lower Bajduny, 201–20; Molka,” 207–10; My Best Friend Ziama, 207; “Šejna, was first raped, and then shot,” 220; “We were living together like good neighbours do,” 228 bssr (Biełarusian Soviet Socialist Republic), 23, 25, 30, 89, 90, 112–14, 138, 148, 176, 209, 239, 366, 401n9 Buck, Jenny, 433n5 Budny, Symon, 8, 15, 54, 397n27 Bukharin, Nikolai Ivanovich, 104, 183, 248, 404n55

467 Bułak-Bałachovič, Stanisłaŭ, served in turn, the tsarist, Red, White, and Polish armies, 155–7, 197, 203, 418n77, 419n78 Bulgakov, Mikhail, The Master and Margarita, 104, 183, 248, 404n55 Bułhakaŭ (Bułgakaŭ), Valier (Sinicki): History of Biełarusian Nationalism, 392n104 Buraŭkin, Henadź, “Rabbi’s ash-tree,” 366 Bykaŭ, Vasil, ix, xi, 3, 11, 19, 66, 180, 204, 206, 221, 233, 235, 240, 242, 265– 6, 272–3, 280, 287, 290, 373, 386n27, 400n54, 420n93, 421n19n21n22, 424n36, 430n57n64–6 Bylinina V., and Zvonareva L., Simeon Polotskii, 398n29; Połacki, Siamion, 49, 51, 53–4 Čachovič, Sihismund, 85 Cajtšryft, xi Canada, 101, 189, 209, 248, 313, 322–30, 390n66, 402, 405, 435n41 Catherine II, 14 Catholic, 9, 21, 51–2, 54, 75, 98, 103, 119, 153, 158, 186, 194–6, 202, 226–7, 244, 246, 248, 254, 257, 259, 265, 274, 320, 326, 332, 351, 354, 398n28, 424n34, 425n45, 437n6 Caucasus, 10, 351 Census, 7, 16, 25, 33, 168, 403n37 Central Committee of the Biełarusian Communist Party, 27, 28, 67, 81, 114, 125, 131, 137, 157, 164, 176–77, 226, 229, 231, 415n43, 416n45 Chabad Hasidism, 37 Chagall (Šahał), Marc, 3, 10–1, 44–5, 277–9; My life, 384n14, 386n28, 395n144, 428n18, 430n65, 432n95n96n99; to come to terms with his personal survival, 299; “To the everlasting memory of artists – the Holocaust victims,” 299–302, 310 Chaldean, Semitic/Hebrew people ruled for a brief time in Babylonia, 16, 388n42 Chaplin, Charlie, City Lights, 267, 427n93

468 chapun (a catcher of souls, kidnaper of Jewish kids for Russian military), 68–9, 78 Charyk, Izi (the most talented Yiddish poet of his time), 193–4, 278–9, 293–4 Cheka (Lenin’s secret police), 20, 432n1 Chekhov, Anton, 170; The seagull, 178, 412n63; Ivanov, 348, 437n19; “The house,” 437n19 Chernobyl, xii, 30, 44, 291 Christian friends celebrated Chanukkah and Purim, 21 Chursik, Viktar, 366 Ciacierski, Michail, 57, 398n37 Ciapinski, Vasil, 54, 397n26–7 Civil War, 6, 9, 87, 91, 110, 119, 148, 157, 180, 185, 200, 357, 394n128, 404n39 collapse of the Soviet Union, 27, 35, 44 Collectivization, 25, 32–3, 130, 164, 172, 221, 418n71 Commonwealth of Poland and Litva, 8, 14, 387n32; Reč Paspalitaja, 8–11, 14, 38, 48–56, 123, 240, 315, 326, 383n2, 385n16, 387n32, 396n15, 397n22, 398n32n34, 426n64, 433n8. See also gdl Communist Party’s iron grip, 27; Communist Party’s 1946 pogrom, 176–7 Communists reintroduced the policy of Russification, 20, 27, 87, 100, 317, 398n27 conquest of Mścisłaŭ (Mstsislavl), 53 Constitutions (Bolshevik, Biełarusian) of 1919, 1927, 1938, 384n4 Cossacks, Khmelnitsky (Chmielnicki), 8– 10, 14, 52, 397n22; Pałonsky, 42 Crimea, 168–9, 258, 342, 351, 411n47; Biełarusian Tatars, 10, 98, 122, 202, 204, 385n18n22; Crimean Tatars, 258–9 Danilova, Elena, 316 Dante, Alighieri, 245, 283, 312; Divine Comedy, 117 Davidovič, Jafim, 29 Devil, 51–8, 59–68, 70–1, 374, 399n46 Dingley, Jim, x, 386n30, 418n72, 419n84

ind ex “disenfranchised person,” 184, 413n8 Doctors’ Plot, 29 Dominican College in Zabielsk, 57 Dominican Order, 50–1, 57, 397n20 Dostoevsky, Fyodor, 18, 258, 344, 358, 390n58 Dragostinova, Theodora, 92, 403n24 Drakachrust, Alexander, 310, 430n59 Duffy, Peter, 422n35 Dunin-Marcinkievič, Vincent, 340–3, 436n3 Dyła, Jazep, 366n7 Dyńko, Andrej, 38–9, 125, 394n119; Habrejski numar, 38, 42 Dzerzhinsky, Felix, 20 Dzhakhangir, G.S., Nadzhafov, Belousova, State anti-Semitism in the USSR , 406n70 Dziady (Grandfathers), 238, 423n18 Ehrenburg, Ilya, 181, 206, 412n2 Elenetskii, Piotr, 315 Enlightenment, 52, 55–7, 99, 150, 244, 292, 397n18n20n21, 407n8 Epstein, Julius, Operation Keelhaul: The Story of Forced Repatriation from 1944, 187, 414n19 ethnic, ix, 4–7, 18, 22–3, 25, 31, 98, 140, 186, 201–2, 214, 234, 245, 268, 326, 334, 344, 346, 365, 383n2, 403n37, 420n88, 434n10; ethnicity, 27, 31, 33–4, 37–9, 122, 130, 136, 206, 208, 229, 233, 238–40, 269, 273, 284, 309, 322–3, 337, 344, 346, 356, 360, 363–5, 368, 393n18, 394n124n128, 396n7, 419n87, 431n79 Europe, European, 7–8, 12, 15–16, 21, 30, 32–4, 42, 44, 47, 56, 75, 92, 103, 114, 123, 133, 168, 176, 185, 201, 206, 219, 243, 273, 292, 300, 322, 330, 334, 384n9, 385n16, 393n109n118, 396n5, 404n51 Even-Shoshan, Shlomo, 123, 407n6 family camps, actively subsidizing local economies, 90, 179. See partisans February Revolution of 1917, 22, 127, 197

in d ex Filimonov, Dmitrii, 365 First World War, 9, 22, 40, 66, 87, 99–100, 110, 114, 119, 133, 136, 147, 182, 185, 197, 200–2, 210, 215, 219, 225, 325–6, 328, 331, 347, 350, 357, 394n126n128, 408n29, 428n97; fatherless, 218; orphans, 69, 231, 323, 381 Fishman, Boris, A Replacement Life, 392n101 Folklore, 15–6, 214, 276, 342, 362, 365, 399n46 Franklin, Ursula, 275, 428n10 Fridman, Arkadii, 199, 414n24 Frug, Semen, 19 Gal-ed (Israel), 4, 204–05, 227, 279, 291, 313, 324–5, 331, 333, 365, 391n79, 412n64, 414n18, 418n72, 420n91 Garbinski, Juraś, 389n55 Gaudí, Antoni, 115 Geographical Dictionary, 123, 407n4n5 German invasion of the ussr, 25, 112, 200, 232; German occupation, 32, 101– 3, 112, 117, 119–20, 174, 182, 187–89, 213; Gestapo provided rewards for “Jewish heads,” 414n26 German pow camps, 208; concentration camps, 208, 293; gassing of Jews, 32, 104 Germany, 7, 12, 22, 34, 96, 101, 109, 117, 127, 131–32, 187, 282, 300, 306, 312, 314, 324, 333, 351, 387n36, 396n5, 420n90, 433n9, 437n14 Gershenzon, Mikhail, 104, 404n54 Ghetto (Hieta), 97, 103–4, 83, 108–9, 115–16, 118–19, 189, 207, 226, 270, 293–4, 329–30, 387, 404n51, 434n17 Gilbert, Martin, 404n50 Gimpelevich, Zina, 373, 386n26, 402n21, 406n2, 412n1, 421n32, 422n39, 428n18, 429n30n37n43n51 430n66, 431n83n87 Glaser, Amelia, 4, 384n7 “Glory to you, O Jews of Biełaruś,” 89, 93 Gnostic texts: gnostic teachings, 244; gnostic writings, 244, 425n44; The Gospel of Judas, 239, 241–46, 249–50,

469 265, 424n38; Gospel of Mary, 253, 426n66; Gospel of Philip, 242, 425n39; Gospel of Thomas, 244; Kasser, Rodolphe and Gregor Wurst, Tchacos Codex, 424n38; Smith, 425n44; Gogol, Nikolai, 18, 222 Goldberg (Sarid), Leybl, A Short History of Kamenentz-Litovsk, 318–19 Golden Age to Biełarusian Jews and Christians, 15, 39, 41 Goldenkov, Michael, 366 Golosov, Viktor, 44, 359n142 Gordon, Michł, 293 Gorev (Goldman), Boris, in Russian Literature and Jews, 18, 20, 389n54 Gorky, Maxim, Mother, 129, 407n14 Gottheil, Strack and Jacobs, 385n17 Grand Duchy of Litva (gdl; Litvania; Lithuania), 7, 10, 13, 15, 41, 118, 240, 385n16, 388n40, 437n14; gdl, 7– 9, 13, 16, 24, 39, 41–2, 48–51, 53, 98, 100, 119, 123, 279, 314–15, 326, 340, 343– 44, 383n2, 385n16, 387n32n36, 393n112n118, 394n124, 396n15, 425n45, 426n59, 436n5; lićviny, (litviny), Christian Biełarusians, 8, 10, 38, 109, 326, 424n34, 425n45; Lithuanian Chronicles, 7, 318, 326; litvaki (litvaks), Biełarusian and Lithuanian Jews, 8, 10, 15, 18, 24, 38, 98–9, 393n118; Litva, 8–10, 13–15, 18, 24, 38, 40–1, 48, 98–9, 118, 126, 202, 240, 293, 351, 383n2, 385n40 394n118n126, 437n14, 438n27; Metrika, 385n16; Great Patriotic War (Soviet name for wwii), 6, 123, 172, 180, 279; half the population of Soviet Biełaruś was either killed or deported, 25 Grossman, Vasily, Forever Flowing, 222, 421n23 Haberer, Erich, “Policing Rural Belarus,” 405n68 Harecki, Maksim, 40, 99, 346–7; Before dawn, 347; early arrest and exile (1930– 35), 348; “Jasmine was blooming,” 348,

470 437n20; Melancholy, 347; a second arrest in 1937 and his death in 1938, 348; Two souls, 347 Hartny, Ciška (Žyłunovič, Źmicier, Chviodaravič), first president of the Biełarusian Soviet Socialist Republic, 121–38, 140–47, 401n9, 406n1, 407n10; “Achronim Blum’s unusual day,” 143, 408n47n48; in Biełaruskija piśmeńniki, 407n10; The death of Herman Wasserman, 131–2; “An Easter box,” 130, 407n17n18n19; A father’s will, 127–9, 407n13n15; For my own freedom for my country’s liberty, 138, 408n36–43; “The good manager,” 131, 407n20; A green uproar, 130, 407n16; Hartny (Žyłunovič) lovingly calls Biadulia “brother,” seeks comfort in the past and invites his friend to do the same, 409n49n50n51; “In the shop,” 131–2, 407n21; “Lounger,” 130, 407n17; mercilessly tortured by the nkvd, 125; “One’s own pancakes,” 135; “The Socialist girl,” 127; Songs of labour, 126, Songs of a tanner, 126; Songs of love, 126; Songs of work and struggle, 126; Sorrows and desires, 126; “The tanner,” 136; A triumph, 126; “Two forces,” 127; “Vengeance,” 132, 407n22n25 Hebrew, 8, 12, 15–16, 38, 40, 42, 51, 55– 6, 123–4, 196, 201, 215, 237, 243, 248, 250, 276, 291, 293, 313–14, 327, 367, 373n2, 387n32, 388n42, 394n123n126, 397n27, 406n2, 407n8, 410n20n25, 420n4, 424n39, 426nn57, 427n81, 432n107 Helmolt, Hans, Ferdinand, Weltgeschichte (World history), 316, 433n9 Herzen, Alexander, Byloe i dumy (Bygone days), 78, “the father of Russian Socialism,” 400n77 Hierasimovič, Źmicier, 36 Hiercovič, Jakaŭ, 229, 422n34 history, 229, 235–8, 248, 250, 275, 313– 18, 321, 323–4, 327, 330, 335, 338–9, 343, 348, 350, 360, 373, 384n4n9, 385n18, 387n32, 388n45, 389n50-1,

ind ex

392n105, 393n118, 395n143, 395n1–2, 399n50n51, 400n55 Hitler, 28, 32, 101, 104, 117, 146, 169, 179, 205, 207, 312, 329, 336 Hłobus, Adam, “Locals,” 366 Hniłamiodaŭ, Uładzimir, Ulysses from Pruski, 366 Holocaust, 5–6, 10–12, 25, 29, 32–5, 37, 96–7, 100, 103, 105, 108, 117, 119, 175, 189–90, 220, 229, 239, 274, 277, 299, 300, 312–13, 318–19, 329, 331, 334–8, 390n64, 392n94n98, 393n114, 404n49– 52, 412n65, 414n26, 415n34n39, 420n90, 433n4, 434n13n17 Hrdlicka, Alfred, 115 Hurwitz, Sarah, 331, 436n46 Hymn-canon to the sacred martyr Uaru, 418n72 Idelson, Uładzimir, 311 Ievlievič, Ihnaci, 54, 398n28 Inquisition, 104–5, 107, 248, 257; inquisition spared the lives of (converted) Jews, 105 intermiedyia (interlude), 50, 57, 72 Ioffe, Emmanuel, Kapyl’s Jews during the Great Patriotic War, 123, 407n7 Ioselevič, Berka, Colonel, formed a Jewish regiment that became one of the bravest military units during the Tadeusz Kościuszko (Tadevuš Kasciuška) uprising, 314 Irenaeus, The Destruction and Overthrow of Falsely Knowledge, Against Heresies, 243–4, 425n40 Jadvihin Š. (Anton Liavickij), 86 Janoŭskaja, V.V., 392n104 Jama (the Pit), 29, 376, 439n4 Jewish Anti-fascist committee, 118, 391n76n77. See also Michoełs, Solomon Jewish communal graveyard and gravestones, 116–17, 328 Jewish customs, clothing, habits, and religious distinctiveness, 117, 120, 140, 258, 335, 362, 383n2

in d ex Jewish Diaspora, 24, 29; Jewish doctors, 29, 102, 322, 335, 390n58 Jewish labour parties, 22, 25, 28; bund, 20, 22, 25, 28, 91, 132, 139–40, 402n20, 419n88 Jewish peasants loomed large in nearby agricultural colonies and settlements, 168, 313, 320–1; Jewish rabbinic court commonly used by Christians, 13 Jews of Biełaruś, 10, 11, 39–40, 89, 93–8, 100, 123, 157, 164, 178, 191, 193, 184– 5, 200, 210, 220, 232, 235, 313, 340; Jews were the most significant minority in the country, 5, 36, 239 “Jews in Crimea,” 168, 411n47 Jews migrated to the Eastern Slavic lands in the first millennium, 7; first Jewish community in the usa, 330–31 Judaism, 37, 39, 42–3, 61, 261, 310, 325, 365; Judaism does not recognize the Devil and Hell, 399n46 Junger Arbeter (Young worker), 26; Junger Leniniec (Young Leninist), 26 Jurevič, Liavon, 24, 100, 187, 190, 199, 412n3n4, 417n52, 418n72; “Biełarusian Memoirs (Memuarystyka), 404n44; “The case of Kastuś Akuła,” 404n45n46; Genres, 419n84, 420n92; Liavon Kryvičanin, 24, 390n70; Manyvoiced epistolary, 100, 404n40–2, 413n8n17, 414n22, 415n40, 417n60; “Upland (Rise), dog rose,” 417n52; Kachulina, Lina, 413n18 Kagan (Kahan), Sara, 294–5; murdered in the Miensk ghetto in 1941, 294 Kaganovitch, Albert, 31, 392n92 Kahals (Jewish communities), 14, 19, 35, 40, 123, 313, 322, 326, 387n35, 400n68, 427n97; Klier, John, “Jewish Kahal,” Russia Gathers Her Jews, 387n35 Kahn, Leon, 422n35 Kalieśnik, Uładzimir, Out of the fire, with Alieś Adamovič and Janka Bryl, 231–2, 422n42 Kalinoŭski, Kastuś, 388n40n46 Kamianiec-Litoŭsk, 37, 313, 315, 318–21,

471 323–66, 328–330, 334–7, 393n115, 433n4n5; Vysoko-Litoŭsk, 319, 321, 323–4, 326, 329–30, 334, 336–37; cantor, Jaffe, 327 Kamiedyja (Comedy), 46, 56–8, 64, 69, 71–2, 399n41. See also Marašeŭski. Kamocki, Alieś, produced Baradulin’s psalms, 432n116 Karacupa, Vitalii, Nasteckii Viacheslav, “Simanovič,” 431n68 Karatkievič, Uładzimir, vii, 8, 233–42; “Chesnutt leaves,” 239, 265–71, 427n91; Christ landed in Hrodna: The Gospel of Judas, 239, 241–65, 424n31n32, 424n38; The Gypsy king, 240, 424n30; “Flood,” 237; The mill on the blue whirlpool, 239; Mother of the hurricane, 239, 241; Soviet Ukrainian authorities labelled him as a “Ukrainian nationalist,” 235; Spikes under your reaping-hook, 235; “To a Jewish girl,” 236, 423n11; Zbor tvoraŭ, 423n13–16, 424n29n31–2 Karlinsky, Symon, 48–50; NabokovWilson Letters, 423n20; Russian Drama, 396n9–12, 397n17 Karnyaljuk, Vitaly, 185–6, 413n9 Karpiuk, Alieksiej, Danuta, 366n12 Kaściukievič, Pavał, 366n13 Katzenelson, Itzhak (Icchak-Lejb Kacenelson), 293 Kazłoŭski’s, Viktar, Rachil (Rachelle), 356–60 Kelner, Victor, Evrei v Rossii (Jews in Russia), 13, 387n32–4 kgb [The state security police], 20, 27, 125, 187, 432n1; Cheka, 20, 432n1; nkvd, 20, 33, 88, 100–1, 110, 125, 187, 191–2, 299, 361, 399n40; ogpu, 20, 33, 191, 399n40 kheyder, cheider, khadarim, (primary schools), 24–5, 435n29 Khmelnitsky (Chmielnicki), Bohdan, 8– 10, 14, 397n22. See also Cossacks King, Karen, The Gospel of Mary of Magdala, 246, 249–50, 425n53, 426n66 Kipel, Vitaŭt, 201; Kipel, Zora, Days of

472 one life, 189, 201, 373; Kipel and Kipel, Bielarusian Statehood, Janka Kupała and Jakub Kołas, 385n201, 401n1, 415n31 Kislik, Navum, 239, 284–6, 310, 430n55n57; the demise of most of his generation, 284 Klimaŭ, Artur, Šalom, 366n14 Klimkovič, Michaś, 194 Kniga Pogromov, The book of pogroms: Pogroms in Ukraine, Belorussia, and the European part of Russia during the civil war, 185, 190, 200, 413n11, 418n68n78 Kobiec, Ryhor (Michail Drač, Michajła Musievič Sandyha), 360–3, 365; Vybranyja tvory, 438n49n50, 439n51–4; Biełarusian Film Studio was located in Leningrad and Kobiec worked there as a consultant, director, producer, scriptwriter, 361 Kobiec-Filimonava, Aliona, 362, 364, 438n50; Dunaevskii’s music, S. Michoels, 362 Kobrin, Rebecca, Jewish Białystok, 31, 392n88 Kołas, Jakub (Kanstancin Mickievič), vii, 17, 45–6, 65; Antoś Łata, 46, 65–72, 395n2; “Chajm Rybs,” 46, 142, 401n82–8; In the virgin forests of Paleśsie, 68; most Jews did not care for the Bolsheviks and instead were loyal to their Christian and Muslim neighbours, 40, 80; The New Land, 65; The strikers, 67; Symon the Musician, in Kazki Žyćcia, 46, 65, 72, 395n3, 400n64–74, 401n79; War against the war, 66 Komsomol (vlksm) (Communist Union of Youth), 164, 192, 410n40 Konan, Michał, village of Traščotki, 185 Konopnicka, Maria, 18 Kościuszko (Tadevuš Kasciuška), national hero of Biełaruś, Lithuania, Poland, and the United States; close friend of Thomas Jefferson, 4, 44, 114, 433n8 Kotik, Yekheskl, two-volume memoir, Mayne Zikhroynes, 328, 435n40

ind ex Kovner, Arkadii, 13 Krajeŭski, Stanislaŭ, 43, 395n141 Kravtsevich, A., Smolenchuk (Smolienčuk) A., and Tokt, S., Belorusy, 392n104 Kuliašoŭ, Arkadź, 282, 284–5 Kundera, Milan, The Art of the Novel, 235, 423n5 Kupała (Łucevič), Janka (Ivan, Jan, Jaś) and siblings (Kazimir, Sabina, Hekia, Maryja, Jasia Leakadzija; Stankievič, Uɫadzisłava, wife), 20, 85, 40; “Arise from our people, oh, prophet!” 87; “The avenger nation,” 96; “Before the future,” 87; “Dzieviać asinavych kolliaŭ” [Nine aspen stakes], 86, 96, 119–20; “The heritage,” 87; Jasia remembered visiting Abramka, a Jewish shopkeeper, 11, 86; Kupała is an iconic Biełarusian writer, vii, xi, 16–17, 40, 67–8, 83–9; “No Time for Prayers When the House Is on Fire,” 83, 88, 96; “Žydy” [Jews], 86–8, 89–90, 394n127, 402n16n17, 402n18, 403n23; “The minstrel,” 87; “The natives,” 87; On the road of life, 67, 87; Over the River Aresa, 201, 418n79; “The poet,” 87, “Time to pay back our debt to Biełaruś,” 87, 90 Kurkoŭ, Ilia, 366n15 Kušal, Frańcišak, chief of the Police School in Miensk, senior member of the Biełarusian Central Rada (bcr) 10001, 404n46; Arłoŭ, “Frańcišak Kušal, 99, 404n43; bcr Defence Army, 101; 30th Waffen Grenadier Division of the ss (First Biełarusian), 101 Kustin, 330, 435n44 Kuznetsov, Anatol, Babi Yar, 240 Kwartalnik Historii Žydów (Poland), 4 Kyivan Rus’, 315; Kyiv-Mohyla Collegium, 54, 398, Kyiv University, 234 Larin, Jurii, 453 Łastoŭski, Vacłaŭ, 23; the bnr’s first prime-minister, a statesman, editor, poet, writer, literary critic, journalist, bibliographer, politician, ethnographer, a

in d ex renowned historian, “Spłačvajcie doǔh” [Pay your debt], 390n60; Łastoŭski government’s memoranda of 1921, 23, 24, 390n60, 402n12 Latgalians, 10, 202–3, 418n74; Latvians, 10, 203, 315; Old Believers, 50, 119, 202 Lenin, Vladimir, 20–1, 23, 26, 67, 84, 113–14, 146, 169, 192, 391n77, 405n62, 408n29, 411n40 Leonardo da Vinci, 252, 395n5, 426n65 Lermontov, Mikhail, 18, 98, 389n50, 403n36 Levanda, Lev, 19 Levine, Allan, 412n64, 422n35 Lewin, Paulina, 52 Liber (Goldman), Mark, 20 Liosik, Jazep, 367 Liqueur, Walter, ed., The Holocaust Encyclopedia, 319, 404n51–2 Lithuanians, 7, 8, 10, 98, 202, 315, 385n18, 386n23, 387n31, 424n34, 425n45, 436n5. See Biełaruś, gdl Liŭšyc, Uładzimir, “Janka Kupała i Evrei,” 93, 403n26 Lučyna, Janka (lučyna: splinter, chip, torch; Ivan Niesłuchoŭski), poet, educator, engineer, 66, 399n53 Lukašenka, Aliaksandr, 36, 189, 208, 279, 291, 336, 339, 422n42 Lvov-Rogachevsky, 388n45, 389n51; Gorev, History of Russian-Jewish Literature, 18, 389n54–55 Lyńkoŭ, Michaś, vii; after the 1930s, Jews no longer figure as primary characters in Lyńkoŭ’s works, 172; “Andrej Liatun,” 171, “Apošni zvierajadaviec,” 171; “At the shtetl,” 164–70; “At the shtetl,” ends on a note of hope, which always seems to be strongest among those with a long history of misfortune, 170; “Bieniabałahoła,” 170–1, 411n51–2; “Goy” (The Gentile), 150–7, 409n10n–14, 410n15–23; “Homa,” 157–64, 409n24– 38; I am just a goy, a hateful goy to her parents, 154; Lyńkoŭ’s earlier stories did not cling as tightly to Soviet proto-

473 cols as did those of some other Biełarusian writers, 149; Lyńkoŭ, like Hartny, could have described himself as halfpeasant and half-proletarian, 147, 148– 50, 409n1n2; “Saŭka the agitator,” 171; stories about German atrocities and the heroic vengeance of Biełarusians, 175; Sustrečy [Encounters], 172; Viekapomnyja dni, 177–8 Maładniak, Belapp, represented a group of Biełarusian proletarian writers and other cultural figures who aspired to develop Soviet Biełarusian literature and arts, 148, 192, 409n4, 416n44 Malcaŭ, Uładzimir, “A performance of Jewish theatre,” 367n17 Malcinski, Chajm, 276, 279–80, 283–4, 306–9; he wrote in Yiddish at a time when the majority of Jewish writers were forced in ‘volunteer’ fashion to forget their native language,” 279; a prisoner in a Soviet labour camp, preserved his humanity, humility, and passionate love for life, 307, 439n4 Maldzis, Adam: At the crossroads of Slavic traditions, 51, 56–7, 397n18; Enlightenment, 55, 236; “Gentry’s culture of the second part of the eighteenth century – beginning of the nineteenth century, 398n31–3, 398n35, 399n39; “Jurka Vićbič,” 194, 236, 416n51; “Life and rise of Uładzimir Karatkievič,” 238, 423n6, 424n36 Mały Traścianiec, 104, 293 Marakoŭ, Leanid, “Pradmova da knihi Vyniščeńnie,” 192 Marašeŭski, Kaetan, Comedy, Kamiedyja; vii, 16, 45–6, 56–8, 58–65, 69–71, 79; first published by V. Perets (Biełarusian: U. Perac) in Izv. otd. Russkogo jazyka i slovesnosti imperatorskoi Akademii nauk 16, 3 (1911), 395n1, 399n37; in a word, he is a good Jew, 76; Marašeŭski’s co-authors, Ciacierski, M., and Jurevič, Ju., 57, 399n37; Marašeŭski’s Jew is acting more like a good Christian, 61

474 Marples, David, 30, 392n82 Marshak, Samuil, a poet, incomparable translator (from English, German, and Yiddish) as well as a founder of modern Soviet literature for children, 292, 431n80 Marzaliuk, Ihar, “Christians and Jews of the gdl,” 41–2, 385n19, 395n133 Maŭr, Janka, “What for?” 173, 175; depicts the death of Lyńkoŭ’s son and wife realistically, 411n54 McKee, Martin, “Life expectancy,” 438n35 McMillin, Arnold, xi, 29, 51–2, 65–8, 72, 74, 79, 83, 87–8, 92, 98, 103, 109, 115, 127, 191, 199, 206, 233, 236, 238, 242, 246, 266, 272, 274, 343, 346, 373, 392n81, 397n18n21, 399n50-2, 400n556n58, 401n81, 401n1n8, 402n11n14n22, 403n35–5, 404n48n56– 7, 405n59n66, 407n12, 417n64–5, 419n81, 420n94–5, 423n7n19, 424n33, 425n47–8, 427n90, 428n3, 437n11– 2n15n17 melamed (teacher), 20, 158, 167, 388n47, 407n9 Meltser, David, 103 Mendel, Menachem, 37 Mendelssohn, Moses, 124, 407n8, Haskalah movement, 292, Hebrew Enlightenment, 124; grandfather of Felix Mendelssohn, 407n8 Miatlicki, Mykoła, 147, 409n2 Michlic, Joanna, Poland’s Threatening Other, 4, 384n5 Michoełs, Sołomon (Sałamon; Šlioma) Vovsi, 28; Among the first leading physicians to be arrested was Stalin’s personal doctor and Michoełs’s brother, Miron Vovsi, 391n77–8; Michoels’ death, 29; Mickiewicz (Mickievič), Adam, Pan Tadeusz, 342–3; Mickiewicz’s friendship with Armand Levy, 18, 436n5, 437n7 Miensk Opera House, 102; composers: Mikoła Kulikovič-Ščahloŭ, Alieś Karpovič, Mikoła Ravienski, 103.

ind ex Mikulič, Barys, Wind at sunrise, 367n18 Minsky (Vilenkin), Nikolai, 19 Modernism, 149, 194, 423n17; symbolism, 107, 148–9, 151, 193–4, 196, 265, 400n53, 418n72 Molière, Poquelin, Jean-Baptiste, 57. See also Le Médecin malgré lui, Marašeŭski Mondry, Henrietta, Exemplary Bodies, 4, 384n8 Mryj, Andrej (Andrej Antonavič Šašalievič): Notes of Samson Samasuj, the first modern Biełarusian satire, 354– 6, 416n46, 437n16n23, 488n33–4; “The rabbi,” 350–4, 356; studied at the priest’s college, drafted as a soldier at the beginning of the First World War, 346–7, 349–50 Musievič, Georgii, People who used to live among us: Dedicated to Jewish people who endured so much suffering, viii, 37, 312–38, 393n114–15, 434n12n18, 443n3–4n6, 435n27–8, 436n52-5n579n62 Nabokov, Vladimir, 238, 423n20 nacdem, (national democrat), 25, 125 Nadav, Mordechai, Jews of Pinsk, 31, 292n91 Nadson, Alexander, Father, “Francis Skaryna,” x, 16, 19, 388n40n42 Nadson, Semyon, 19 Nadzir, Mojše (Yitzchak Rayz), 292–93 Naša Niva (Our field), 40, 67, 80, 87, 98, 126, 138, 141, 193, 347, 366, 389n50, 393n109, 394n125 402n12, 403n26, 416n49 Nazis, Biełarusian Jewish and Christian death, murdering Jews, Roma, gays, and the disabled, 12, 27, 29, 32, 44, 84, 88, 94, 96, 107, 131, 169, 188–89, 232, 269, 312, 322, 324, 333, 387n31, 407n11, 427n97, 431n79 Nekrasov, Viktor: exile, 239–40, 423n24, 424n26; Parnis, “Viktor Nekrasov and Babi Yar, 424n26” New Economic Policy (nep), nepman, 135–36, 408n29

in d ex Niadzelskaja, Zinaida, 185 Niakliajieŭ, Uładzimir, Łabuch, 367 Nicholas I, 78, 385n16 Nikifarovič, Vankarem, 310 nkvd (People’s Commissariat of Internal Affairs), 20, 33, 88, 100–01, 110, 125, 187, 192, 361, 399n40, 432n1; ogpu, 33, 125, 187, 191, 432n1; kgb, 20, 125, 187, 432n1 Old Biełarusian, 7, 15–16, 46, 48–9, 55, 383n2, 385n16, 396n8n13–4 “Open letter to Gorbachev,” 235 Orzeszkowa, Eliza, 18 Pagels, Elaine: The Gnostic Gospels, 253, 259, 425n40–3; The Origin of Satan; Pagels, Elaine, King, Karen, Reading Judas: The Gospel of Judas and the Shaping of Christianity, 243, 244, 246, 249, 250, 424n38, 425n53 Pale of Settlement, 6, 16, 30, 119, 124, 142, 149, 153, 159, 169, 202, 349, 362–3, 384n3, 427n97 Paliakoŭ, Samson, 311 Pališčuk, Rada, “S Razgonom o Razgone,” 390n61n63 Paperna, Abraham, Jacob, Russian-Jewish educator, scholar, Hebrew poet, writer, critic, journalist, and memoirist, 13, 121, 122, 123–4, 406n2 Partisan, 12, 32–3, 96–7, 101, 112, 119, 147, 177–8, 189, 207–9, 226, 229, 231–2, 266–8, 270–2, 283, 360, 405n68, 422n35; Jewish partisans, family camps, 178–89, 190; See Tec, Defiance, 32 Pasternak, Boris, Doctor Zhivago, 183, 226, 413n5, 421n30 Pichura, Guy, “The Engravings of Francis Skaryna in his Biblija Ruska, 1517– 1519,” 388n41 Piłsudski, Jósef, 203 Płatner, Isak (Ajzik), 303–4 Podlipskii, Arkadii, An Aryan from the Dvina’s shores, 187–88, 199, 414n21n27, 415n28 Połacki, Siamion (Simeon), 49, 51, 53–4,

475 398n28. See Bylinina and Zvonareva, 398n29–30 political parties: Bolsheviks, vii, 22–3, 25, 28, 38, 44, 67, 80–1, 84, 90–1, 110, 122, 125, 130, 136–37, 149, 177, 181, 183– 85, 187, 189, 191, 196–97, 199, 202–5, 221, 226, 278, 390n66, 416n45, 417n52 418n72, 419n88, 420n88, 421n27; bund, 20, 22, 25, 28, 91, 132, 139–40, 323, 402n20, 414n45; Hordonija and Bejtar, 323; Independent Jewish, 323; Mensheviks, 22, 419n88; Poalej Cion (Syjon; a Social-Democratic Labour Party), 323; Social Democratic Party (sdp), 20, 125– 6, 323; Zionists, 23–4, 26–7, 37, 323 prince, princess; Alherds’, 13; Mikałaj Radziwiłł (zhydovstvuiushchie, Jew-like ones), 8, 37, 66, 393n112 princess Turandot, 293; Volhynian prince, Vladimir, 315; Prince Wittgenstein inherited Kapyl, 123 Prus, Bolesław, 18 Pushkin, Aleksandr, 18, 88, 150, 208, 287, 389n50, 409n8 Rabkin, Abram, 310 Raddock, “Kamenetzer Yeshivah of America,” 324–5, 435n31–2n34 Rakovsky, Puah, My Life as a Radical Jewish Woman, 18, 389n53 Razenbaŭm, Symon, 24 Razgon (Rashon), Lev, 21, 390n61n63 Reč Paspalitaja (Biełarusian), Rzeczpospolita (Polish), 8, 9–11, 38, 48–56, 123, 240, 315, 326, 383n2, 385n16, 387n32, 396n15, 397n22, 398n32n34, 426n64, 433n8. See gdl (Grand Duchy of Litva) Red Army, 22, 101, 119, 135–6, 138, 147, 152, 172, 187, 196, 209, 220, 224, 282, 293, 295–6, 326, 329, 350, 360–1, 418n68, 419n88, 422n39, 430n59 Rejzin, Ruva, lost his life in military action, wife and child were murdered in the Miensk ghetto, 293 Relies, Hirš, 228, 280, 304–6, 310, 429n37

476 restrictions on artistic freedom had tightened considerably by the early 1930s, 148 reverse discrimination and a negative type of nostalgia, 34 Reznik, Semion, Russian society picked up on the Judeo-phobic myths emanating from Germany and Poland, 387n36, 389n57; the same myths were not popular in the gdl, 437n14 Rich, Vera, x, 4, 46, 65, 73, 88, 97, 110, 339, 341, 360; Like Water, Like Fire, 368, 403n34, 405n60 Riga, 110, 128–9, 131; Treaty of Riga, 1921, 223, 315, 326, 404n58, 433n10 Rosenthal, Herman, “Kiev,” Reprint from 1906 Jewish Encyclopedia, 385n15 Rubinčyk, Wolf, ix, 19, 236, 239, 384n4; “Internet, Jews, and Biełaruś,” 42; “Janka Kupała and Jews,” 93, 403n26; “Jewish characters and motives in Uładzimir Karatkievič’s creative works,” 236, 239, 241, 243, 423n8n10; “Jewish themes in Vasil Bykaŭ’s works,” 423n21n23, 403n26, 423n8 Rublevskaja, Liudmila, 287, 430n67 ruling Communist Party’s anti-Semitic doctrine, 13 Russification of Biełarusian lands, 20, 27, 87, 317, 388n46, 398n27 Russian-Jewish literature, 18, 388n45 Rybak, Alexandr, a Norwegian singer, composer, violinist, pianist, writer, and actor, was born in the bssr, 44, 395n143 Rybakov, Anatoly, The Fear, 221, 421n18 Sabbath (Saturday), 63, 84, 156, 210, 288, 365 Sabibor [Sobibor], 34 Sahanovič, Hienadź, Unknown war, 1654– 1667, 9, 385n21, 397n23–5 Sakałoŭ-Vojuš, 437n7 Sałaviej, Alieś, 181 Salomoni, Antonella, “State-Sponsored Anti-Semitism in Postwar ussr,” 117, 406n69–71

ind ex Sanmiya, Inge, Against the Current, 415n29n32–3 Sapieha, Leŭ, 98 Saveckaja Biełaruś, Biarozka, 273; Połymia, 114, 127, 273, 366, 408n36, 409n2, 413n6, 438n32 Savik, Lidzija, “A forbidden Biełarusian,” 187–8, 414n20n23 Savionak, Liavon, 24 Schiller, Friedrich, 163 Schmidt (Shemida), Dov (Bertschik), 331–2, 436n47–51 Second World War, ix, 4–5, 9, 23–7, 32–3, 37, 53, 66, 88, 97–102, 109, 115, 117, 119, 147, 169, 172, 182–4, 187, 191, 198–200, 207–8, 229, 231, 234, 239, 296, 305, 312, 319, 320–1, 323, 325, 329, 331, 386n31, 390n65, 404n44, 405n58n68, 408n36, 414n19n27, 419n88, 420n90, 433n10; many soldiers and officers in the Soviet army were of Biełarusian Christian and Jewish origin, this despite a horrific loss of 800,000 Biełarusian Jews, 112, 178–89 Sephardic Jews, 42 serf (court) theatre, 55–6; serfdom in Biełaruś was established only after the Russian invasion and the partitions of the Reč Paspalitaja, 398n34 Serper, Jakaŭ, Serper, Mira, 311 Sfojrym (Š. Abramovič), Mendele, Mojcher, 17, 121–4, 406n2 Shagalovskii sbornik, 430n65 Shakespeare, William, Hamlet, 146, 272, 354, 391n77 Shatskikh, Aleksandra, Vitebsk: The Life of Art, 30, 392n83 Shevchenko, Taras (Šaǔčenka), 88, 237, 408n44 Shkandrij, Myroslav, Jews in Ukrainian Literature, 4, 384n6 Shklovsky, Viktor, 6 Shochet, Azriel, The Jews of Pinsk, 31, 392n90 Shostakovich, Dmitrii, Thirteenth (Choral) Symphony, 240 shtetl, shtetls, štetl, township, provincial

in d ex setting of a small shtetl, 6, 21, 30–1, 75, 80, 121, 123, 126, 128–33, 135–6, 138– 42, 148, 152–58, 160–1, 163–75, 180, 193, 209–10, 213, 215, 274, 277–81, 285, 293, 344, 349, 351, 353, 355–6, 364, 375, 406n2, 407n11, 435n41 Shulman, Alexander, From Jews – forever to Russian soldiers, 400n76 Simanovič, David; “David quickly showed me his Vitebsk via a dear-to-hisheart route (Pushkin-Chagall-Korotkevich-Bykov),” 286–88, 298, 311, 400n67, 430n67, 431n68 Simonov, Konstantin, 286–7 Singer, Israel, Joshua, Nay Rusland, 26, 390n72 Siniła, “Narod knihi,” 42, 395n137 Six Day War, 29, 239 six-volume history of Biełaruś, 35 skamarochi (minstrel-buffoons), 46–7, 395n4 Skaryna, Francis, (Frańcišak), 15–16, 47, 54, 98, 237; Skaryna could be called the Leonardo da Vinci of Biełaruś and Europe, 395n5; twenty-two books between 1517 and 1519, 388n40 397n3, 388n40n43 Skurko, Andrej, “A few examples: Comparing Judaism with Christianity,” 43, 394n125 Sliepovich, Dźmitry, “Klezmer as a phenomenon,” 75, 311, 400n69–73 Sliepovich, Iryna, 311 Slozberg, Henrik (Genrich), 13 Smilovitsky, Leonid, 31, 33, 392n87n98–9 Smith, Andrew, Philip, Gnostic Writings of the Soul, 425n44 Smolienčuk (Smolenchuk, Smalienčuk), Alieś, 6, 392n104 Snyder, Timothy, 14, 22, 312; “Sleepwalking to War,” 25, 390n71; The Reconstruction of Nations, 30, 392n82; “Holocaust: The Ignored Reality, 32, 392n94–5;” Bloodlands: Europe between Hitler and Stalin, 32, 312, 336, 392n96, 432n2, 436n60 Solzhenitsyn, Aleksandr, Two hundred

477 years together, 12–13, 19, 181, 386n30, 389n51 Somerville, Michele, “Allen Ginsberg, Buddhist Rabbi,” 311, 432n118 Sorkina, Ina, Biełarusian shtetls, 31, 392n89 Spinoza, Baruch, a Jewish and Christian religious philosopher, 37, 393n111 Sprišen Morduch, 439n4 Stalin, Stalinism, 20–2, 25, 27–8, 32, 84, 101, 113–14, 118–30, 144, 146–7, 169, 178–80, 192–3, 205, 222, 224, 231, 282–3, 312–13, 329, 336, 362, 385n18, 391n73n76n78, 399n40, 405n62 408n29, 430n59; understanding of the benefits of a partisan war, 178 Stanisłaŭ-Aŭgust (Stanisław II August), 55, 398n32 Stankievič, Stanisłaŭ. “Janka Kupała: The Poet’s Life and Creative Path,” 11, 87, 401n1 strong, staccato-like Moscow accent, 41. See Zajka Strykoŭski, Maciej, Chronicle, 242, 424n34; Zygmunt I the Elder, 242, 424n35 Stupnikov, Alexander, Izgoi-1 [Outcasts], Izgoi-2, 12, 386n31 Sulimirskiego, Chlebowski, and Walewski, Geographical Dictionary, 123, 407n4 Šupa, Siarhiej, 367, 384n4; “Peśnia Peśniaŭ” (The Song of Solomon), 367; “Habrei ŭ bnr,” 23, 390n67 Surta, Trafim, 41 Survilla, Ivonka, Joanna, v, x, xii; President, bnr, Canadian citizen, Sorbonneeducated linguist, translator, artist, and public figure, 390n66, 402n9. See also bnr Švedzik, Henadź, 295–96 systemic anti-Semitism, 5, 22. See antiSemitism Tałałaj, Lieŭ, 296 Talmud, Hałacha [Jewish Law, based on the Talmud], 8, 42, 124, 244, 325; Tanah

478 or Torah, 42, 72, 105, 107, 121, 123–24, 224, 330, 377, 424n37. See also Bible, Torah, Old Testament Tank, Maxim (Jaŭhien Ivanavič Skurko), 83, 97, 108–11, 114–15, 118–20, 282, 405n60–1; At my table, Cranberry blossom, 112; For Soviet Biełaruś, 112, 175; “Ghetto (Hieta),” 108–9, 116–20; “Good Morning,” 113, 405n64–5; A gulp of water, 115; Let’s crush the fascist vermin, 112; Let there be light, 115; My daily bread, Pines over the Narač, 115; Prepare your weapons, 113; The rye’s lullaby to a road, 115; Staging posts, 110; That they would know, 113; Through the fiery horizon, 113; A trace of lighting, 115; Under the mast, 112; Taras, Valiancin (Valentin), 367, 430n59 Tatar-Mongol yoke, Golden Horde, Khanate, 9; Biełarusian principalities were often spared by the Khans through diplomatic agreements, though this relationship was never simple, 48, 50, 396n8 Taŭbin, Judal (Juli), was exiled by the Soviets and executed after his second arrest in 1936, 285 Tec, Nechama, Defiance, 32, 392n93, 412n64, 422n35 tenderness of their farewell is heart-warming, 144 Tereshkovich, Pavel, Ethnic History, 392n104 there should be neither Jews nor Christians in the future Biełaruś, 95 Tkačoŭ, Michaś, “Russia’s war with the Reč Paspalitaja Commonwealth, 1654– 1667,” 9, 385n21 Tolstoy, Leo, 17; Turgenev, Ivan, 18 Tolts, Mark, “Population and Migration,” 7, 385n16 transliterations from Biełarusian: Łacinka, 369–73; Taraškievič, Branisłaǔ, 369 Tsaitšryft, 4, 384n9 Tsypkin, Leonid, insights into Dostoevsky’s anti-Semitism, 389n58, 390n58 Tumaš, Vitaŭt, 199, 402n23, 417n62

ind ex tutejšyja (locals), 10, 87, 366, 402n13 Tuwim, Julian, 29, 38, 393n116 Twain, Mark, 311, “Concerning the Jews,” 166, 274–5, 428n6; The Prince and the Pauper, 166 Ukraine, 5, 7, 9, 12, 17, 30–2, 48–9, 117– 18, 126, 153, 185–6, 190, 223, 384n3, 385n18n22, 396n8, 398n34, 405n58, 421n25; Ukrainian Academy of Sciences, 84 Ukrainka, Lesya, 237, 423n17 underground (which also had many Jewish members) was formed as early as July 1941, 178 Ungar-Sargon, Batya, “The Mystery of the Origins of Yiddish Will Never Be Solved,” 15 Uniate Church (Greek Catholic), 9, 51–2, 54, 103, 119, 195, 274, 276, 326, 425n45 Usikaŭ, Ja, 52 Vasilievič, Aliona, 367 Veitsman, Maria, (sister of Chajm Weizmann, first Israeli president), 118 Vićbič, Jurka (Georgii Shcherbakov, 184, Jury Stukalič), vii, 100, 181–2, 185, 412n2n3, 413n6n7, 414n18, 416n46n51–2, 418n67; alternative biography, 182–3, 186–7; Anti-communist uprisings and resistance in Biełaruś, 413n7n16, 417n66, 418n69–70, 419n79–80; Correspondence, 413n8n17, 416n52, 417n60, 419n84; expresses overt sympathy for the Jews of Biełaruś and discusses their inclusion in the Biełarusian body politic, 182–206; Lšono Haboo Bijrušałajm [Next Year in Jerusalem], 185, 413n6, 414n25, 415n43, 415n50, 417n53n58–9, 418n73n75, 419n82–3 Vierabiej, Anatol, 238, 423n19 Vilnia Codices 52 and 262, 15 Vilnia Collegium, 54; Vilnia had 105 synagogues and Jewish prayer houses, 98; hotbed of Biełarusian, Polish, Jewish,

in d ex and (later) Lithuanian and Russian cultural activities, 98 Višnioŭ, Źmicier, 367 Visotzky, Meir Mendel, 330–1, 436n45 Volski, Arkadź, 295 Vovsi, Miron, 391n78 Vozvrashchennye imena, 390n73 Western scholars, 32, 65, 206 White Army, 185, 203, 224 Wullschlager, Jackie, Chagall, 299, 300, 384n14, 428n18, 432n95–6n99–100 Yad Vashem (The World Holocaust Remembrance Center), 119; Josef Tunkievič, Jan Vałaj, and Adolf Žełuboŭski, Janina and Aliaksandr Kryvicki, 179 Yalta Conference, Churchill and Roosevelt promise Stalin they would return Soviet citizens, 414n19 Yevtushenko, Yevgeny, “Babi Yar,” 181, 240, 424n27 Yiddish, 12, 15–18, 20–1, 23, 26, 28–9, 33, 37, 39–41, 43, 50–1, 55–6, 59, 67, 75, 103, 124, 128, 144, 148, 164, 166, 182, 193, 195, 208, 211–12, 214–18, 227, 243, 272, 274, 276–80, 285, 288, 291–6, 299, 303, 307, 309, 313, 323, 330, 354, 358, 365, 367, 375, 384n4, 386n25, 388n46, 391n76–7, 394n123, 395n138, 400n68, 402n2, 410n7, 420n4, 426n57, 429n42, 433n3, 439n4; Yiddishland, 3–5, 26, 31; Yiddishland is an umbrella term for the Pale of Settlement, 384n3 YIVO Encyclopedia of Jews in Eastern Europe, 15, 36, 168, 393n106, 411n47 Yizkor, Sefer, Kameints de-Lita: A Memorial Book of Kamenets Litovsk, Zastavye, and the Colonies (Biełaruś), 313, 324, 330, 406n72, 433n5, 434n16, 435n30–7n43–4, 436n45–7 Yom Kippur [Judgment Day], Kol Nidre [All Vows Prayer], 327 Young Biełarusian Pioneer Organization, 166

479 Zaboraŭ (Zaborov), Barys, Abramavič, 289, 290–1, 311; Zaboraŭ is one of the most celebrated “French” artists with an international reputation, 289 Zabrany kraj (Taken away country), 92, 326, 402n23 Zajka, Vital, x, 15, 40-1, 394n129–30; “The Self Perfection of Lithuanian– Biełarusian Jewry in the Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries,” 388n44; “Biełarusian Literature,” 387n38–9; “A few late and some timeless thoughts about Biełarusian Jews and Christians, 394n129–30”; “Origins of Lithuanian Sub-Ethnicity in European Jewry,” 389n52; interview with his doppelgänger, 41 Załman, Shneur, 37 Zamoisky, Andrei, Transformation of shtetls in Soviet Biełaruś, 31, 392n90 Zaprudnik, Jan, x Zeltser, Arkadii, Jews of the Soviet province: Vitebsk and shtetls, 31, 392n86 Złotnik, Illa, Miastečka; music: Alieś Symanovič, translated from Yiddish by Fielix Chajmovič, 367 Zmahar, Alieś (Aliaksandr Jacevič), 416n52, 417n52 Zolf, Falk, On Foreign Soil, 328, 435n41 Zorin, Cholam (Šolem), 179, 412n64. See also partisan Zoshchenko, Michail, 176–7 Zubaraŭ (Zuborov), Leanid, 29 Zvezda and Leningrad (journals), 176, 412n61–2 Zwick, Edward, 32 Zygmunt I Stary (the Elder; Sigismund); king of Poland and the grand duke of Lithuania (Litva), 242, 424n35, 425n45 Žytkoŭski, Samuil, 24