Soviet Samizdat: Imagining a New Society 9781501763618

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SOVIET SAMIZDAT

A volume in the NIU Series in Slavic, East European, and Eurasian Studies Edited by Christine D. Worobec For a list of books in the series, visit our website at cornellpress.cornell.edu.

SOVIET SAMIZDAT

I M AG I N I N G A N E W S O C I E T Y

Ann Komaromi

NORTHERN ILLINOIS UNIVERSITY PRESS AN IMPRINT OF CORNELL UNIVERSITY PRESS Ithaca and London

Copyright © 2022 by Cornell University All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in a review, this book, or parts thereof, must not be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher. For information, address Cornell University Press, Sage House, 512 East State Street, Ithaca, New York 14850. Visit our website at cornellpress.cornell.edu. First published 2022 by Cornell University Press Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Komaromi, Ann, author. Title: Soviet samizdat : imagining a new society / Ann Komaromi. Description: Ithaca [New York] : Northern Illinois University Press, an imprint of Cornell University Press, 2022. | Series: NIU series in Slavic, East European, and Eurasian studies | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2021036772 (print) | LCCN 2021036773 (ebook) | ISBN 9781501763595 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781501763601 (epub) | ISBN 9781501763618 (pdf ) Subjects: LCSH: Underground literature—Social aspects— Soviet Union. | Underground press publications—Social aspects—Soviet Union. | Underground periodicals— Social aspects—Soviet Union. | Literature and society—Soviet Union. | Soviet Union—Politics and government—1953–1985. Classification: LCC PG3026.U5 K64 2022 (print) | LCC PG3026.U5 (ebook) | DDC 891.709/0044—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021036772 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021036773 Cover image: Natalʹia Abalakova, “Summa Archaelogiae: Collages”: “Black Hole,” part of the project “Exploration into the Essence of Art as Applied to Life and Art” by Natalʹia Abalakova and Anatolii Zhigalov, in MANA, no. 4, 1982, envelope 1. Credit: Archive of the Research Centre for East European Studies at the University of Bremen, FSO 01-066 (MANI).

For Leonid, Josephine, and Isabelle Livak

Co nte nts

List of Illustrations Acknowledgments

ix

xi

Note on Transliteration

xv

Introduction: Samizdat and

Underground Publics in the USSR

1

1. Samizdat and the Historical Self

20

2. Giving Voice to Truth in Samizdat

51

3. Imagining Time in Samizdat

84

4. Spaces of Samizdat Sociality

113

Conclusion: Samizdat and the

Contradictions of Soviet Modernity Appendix: Soviet Samizdat Periodicals,

1956–1986 161

Notes

197

Bibliography Index

285

255

149

I l lustr atio ns

1. Samizdat copy of The Gulag Archipelago (Arkhipelag GULAG) by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn 2. Cover of Chronicle of Current Events, no. 1, 1968 3. Natalʹia Gorbanevskaia, Moscow, March 1973 4. Aleksandr Ginzburg, Tarusa, 1976 5. Activists associated with the historical edition Memory: A. Roginskii, Iu. Shmidt, A. Danielʹ, L. Bogoraz, V. Sazhin, Ia. Nazarov, and B. Mitiashin, Leningrad, May–June 1976 6. Eviction of Mustafa Memedinov’s family after their return to Crimea, village of Beloye, Simferopol region, June 22, 1978 7. “Star of the Nativity” by Boris Pasternak, samizdat copy of verses from Doctor Zhivago 8. Evgeniia Ginzburg, [1960s?] 9. Women of the Council of Prisoners’ Relatives, Evangelical Christian Baptists, 1980 10. Viktor Krivulin, 1970s 11. Vladimir Vysotskii on the cover of Minstrel special issue, 1980 12. Iurii Galanskov, [Moscow?], 1960 13. Cover of Art of the Commune, no. 27 (December 22, 1962) 14. Drawing of people with UFO landing, from Our Personal Responsibility, no. 1 (1982) 15. Boris Konstriktor, Vladimir Erlʹ, and Sergei Sigei at Club-81, in Leningrad, 1981, from Transponans, no. 20 (1984) 16. Natalʹia Abalakova, “Summa Archaelogiae: Collages”: “Black Hole,” part of the project “Exploration into the Essence of Art as Applied to Life and Art” by Natalʹia Abalakova and Anatolii Zhigalov, in MANA, no. 4, 1982, envelope 1 17. Jews in the Contemporary World, no. 3, 1979

2 6 32 33

38 41 56 64 68 73 80 88 91 102 105

110 124

ix

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I L L U S T R AT I O N S

18. Fraternal Leaf let, no. 1 (1980), Baptist samizdat edition produced by printing press 19. Destroyed prayer tent of Evangelical Christian Baptists, Kishinev, 1978 20. Women activists: Tatʹiana Beliaeva, Natalʹia Malakhovskaia, Natalʹia Lazareva, Tatʹiana Goricheva, Natalʹia Diukova, Sofʹia Sokolova, Leningrad, no later than July 1980, when Goricheva emigrated

133 135

141

Acknowledgments

The long years I have spent working on samizdat means I incurred many debts. I am pleased to acknowledge some of them here. I owe much to the generous help over many years from colleagues at the International Memorial Society in Moscow, including Boris Belenkin, Aleksandr Danielʹ, Tatʹiana Khromova, Gennadii Kuzovkin, Aleksei Makarov, and the former director Arsenii Roginskii. All of them inspired me with their commitment and knowledge as they kindly helped enable my research. I am also grateful to the director Ian Rachinskii and the editor Larisa Eremina for supporting later stages of this work. Liudmila Petrakova provided excellent assistance with the samizdat periodicals data. I am also grateful to Irina Flige, director of Memorial, Saint Petersburg, for sharing her work and providing access to materials. Gabrielʹ Superfin, formerly of the Institute for the Study of Eastern Europe at Bremen University, has been the expert of reference for all things samizdat—the impact of his knowledge, judgment, and generosity is hard to overstate. I am grateful to the former director of the Institute Wolfgang Eichwede for support in early stages. Support for collaboration from the director Susanne Schattenberg and the knowledge and assistance of the archivist Maria Klassen made it possible to realize the Project for the Study of Dissidence and Samizdat (http://samizdatcollections.library.utoronto.ca) and much of the work associated with it. I am very grateful for the opportu­ nity to help bring attention to their outstanding collections. In addition to the institutions already mentioned, the Sakharov Center provided photo documentation for this book. I am delighted to acknowledge the Sakharov Centre and the helpful assistance of collections curator Natalʹia Samover. The archivist Olga Zaslavskaia at the Open Society Archives assisted in development of the initial Database of Soviet Samizdat and identified fur­ ther sources for information on Belarusian samizdat. Birutė Burauskaitė at

xi

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

the Genocide and Resistance Research Center of Lithuania kindly helped me with researching Lithuanian samizdat. I have benefitted in many ways from discussions and collaboration with specialists in the art and literature of the Soviet Underground, including Olga M. Cooke, Yelena Kalinsky, Yasha Klots, Ilʹia Kukui, Ilya Kukulin, Mark Lipovetsky, Ainsley Morse, Mary A. Nicholas, Valentina Parisi, Claudia Pier­ alli, Rebekah Smith, Klavdia Smola, and Josephine von Zitzewitz, whose The Culture of Samizdat appeared after this book was written. While wrestling with these materials, I had recourse also to insights and tips from Catherine Ciepiela and Lazar Fleishman, whose expertise proved highly relevant. I am grateful to colleagues in history and in comparative literature for their guidance and collaboration. Barbara Martin and Benjamin Nathans both modeled thoughtful scholarship devoted to Soviet dissidence that was rooted in substantial engagement with Russian colleagues. Benjamin Nathans and Kevin Platt did much to advance interdisciplinary research into dissidence and samizdat. This was true of Friederike Kind-Kovacs and Jessie Labov as well. Their work was particularly helpful to me. I have taken lessons on being precise and working closely with commu­ nity members on history that matters to them from historians of the Jewish movement in the Soviet Union, including Mikhail Beizer and Yaacov Roʹi. I owe a special debt to Polly Jones and to Kevin Platt for their helpful cri­ tique of this book in manuscript form. At the University of Toronto, the Centre for Comparative Literature and the Department of Slavic Languages and Literatures, along with Victoria College, afforded me wonderful possibilities for sharing my work in progress and for hosting colleagues working on the Soviet underground and related topics. Students in my classes on Late Soviet Culture and in my seminars on Public Reading provided great feedback and fresh ideas. Special thanks go to Ariel Leutheusser for prompting me to think harder about Michael Warner’s concepts and to Corinn Gerber for stimulating conversations about art and community publishing and the labor associated with it. My processing of data related to Soviet Samizdat periodicals and devel­ opment of this book benefited from the able assistance and helpful discus­ sion provided by Anna Chukur, Maggie Gruszczynska, Tim Klähn, Anastasia Kostrioukova, Anastasia Lachine, Victoria Lyasota, Irina Sadovina, Roman Tashlitskyy, Brett Winestock, and others. This book was greatly impacted by ideas and feedback from colleagues in the Book History and Print Culture program and from those involved with digital humanities at the University of Toronto, including Alexandra Bolint­ ineanu, Alan Galey, Alexandra Gillespie, and Dan White.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

xiii

The Project for the Study of Dissidence and Samizdat would not have been possible without the wonderful support available at the University of Toronto Libraries from colleagues including Sian Miekle, Andrew Macalo­ rum, Kelli Babcock, and Sunny Lee. Awards from the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada and research funding from Victoria University supported the devel­ opment of the Database of Soviet Samizdat Periodicals and the subsequent Project for the Study of Dissidence and Samizdat. The concepts and some material appearing in chapter 2, “Giving Voice to Truth in Samizdat,” were developed as part of my work on the article “The Voices of Samizdat and Magnitizdat,” slated to appear in the forthcoming Oxford Literature Handbooks: A Handbook of Soviet Underground Culture, edited by Mark Lipovetsky, Tomáš Glanc, Ilja Kukuj, Klavdia Smola, and Maria Engstrom. I appreciate their permission to use that material in this book. An earlier version of chapter 3, “Imagining Time in Samizdat,” appeared as “Literary Samizdat and Samizdat Publics,” Enthymema 12 (2015) in the sec­ tion “Per i 25 anni dall’abolizione della censura nell’URSS,” edited by Michail Talalay. I am grateful for permission to use parts of that article here. The information provided in the appendix on Samizdat periodicals is a slightly modified version of the data published in A. Komaromi and G. Kuzovkin, Katalog periodiki Samizdata, 1956–1986 (Moscow: Mezhdun­ arodnyi Memorial, 2018). As always, any omissions or mistakes are my own.

N ote o n Tra nsliteratio n

Transliteration of Russian and other FSUlanguage words, names of people, and titles of works are provided accord­ ing to modified Library of Congress guidelines. Original titles of samizdat periodicals are transliterated from non-Latin scripts. Personal names are ren­ dered without diacritics above letters. City names are provided according to Soviet-era official (Russian) usage (Leningrad, not Saint Petersburg), ref lect­ ing standard spelling of those names as recorded in the GEOnet Names Server, https://geonames.nga.mil/gns/html/.

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SOVIET SAMIZDAT

Introduction Samizdat and Underground Publics in the USSR

Samizdat (self-publishing) refers to the uncen­ sored, grassroots system of self-publishing found in the USSR after Iosif Sta­ lin and until perestroika: the spread of typewritten copies of uncensored works became one of the most distinctive phenomena of the late Soviet period. Under a regime that suppressed most street demonstrations and other manifestations of independent citizen initiatives, samizdat became the key form of alternative activity. The neologism “samizdat” entered vari­ ous languages and inspired independent press movements in other Eastern bloc countries.1 However, many political hopes for samizdat’s transforma­ tive potential proved unfounded. One of Svetlana Alexievich’s interviewees, Anna M., recalled with sadness in the post-Soviet era how much she believed in the power of sharing uncensored information: “People used to be put in jail for The Gulag Archipelago, they read it in secret, typed copies of it up on their typewriters, wrote it out by hand. I believed . . . that if thousands of people read it, everything would change. People would repent, tears would be shed.”2 Anna M., like many of those interviewed by Alexievich, lamented the loss of belief associated with the Soviet era. During the late Soviet period, some Soviet citizens renewed their sense of passionate commitment by avidly pro­ ducing, copying, and reading uncensored samizdat texts, just as they had earlier devoted themselves to building communism.3 1

2

INTRODUCTION

Figure 1. The Gulag Archipelago (Arkhipelag GULAG) by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn. One of the samizdat copies produced by Georgian dissident Zviad Gamsakhurdia. Credit: Archive “History of Dissidence in the USSR,” International “Memorial” Society, f. 157.

The Soviet regime proved to be mostly impervious to the political demands of samizdat, although it was not invulnerable to the economic and intraparty forces that would eventually contribute to regime change in 1991.4 Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn’s devastating account of the Stalin-era prison camps in The Gulag Archipelago (Arkhipelag GULAG) had a major impact on readers in the USSR and abroad after it was published in 1973. However, the regime did not change because of it; authorities sent Solzhenitsyn into exile.5 They put another famous dissident, rights activist Andrei Sakharov, into internal exile, having prior to that sent the poet Iosif Brodskii, whom they called a “parasite,” to do hard labor. Repression of those outstanding individuals likely increased their stature as dissident “heroes.”6 However, the samizdat network ranged much more widely. The government impris­ oned or expelled many other activists, including Baptist leader Georgii Vins, Hebrew teacher Iosif Begun, and feminist poet and activist Iuliia Voznesen­ skaia.7 Such actions demonstrated how easily the regime could deal with perceived enemies.

SA M I Z D AT A N D U N D E R G R O U N D P U B L I C S

3

Samizdat was the lifeblood of alternative activity in the late Soviet period, but it cannot be credited with renewing civil society or causing the fall of the Soviet regime.8 As oral histories and memoirs make clear, Soviet citi­ zens did not expect the end of the Soviet regime even during perestroika in the late 1980s. The overwhelming majority of samizdat writers and readers did not aim for such a goal. Nevertheless, a relatively broad cross section of the Soviet citizenry engaged actively with samizdat texts, which included a range of materials including repressed modernist literature, publications from abroad, bulletins documenting rights abuses, nonconformist literary and artistic works, and rock music zines. People devoted time to reading and typing such uncensored texts to pass them on to others. Although such activity could be risky, often it was not; the point for most people was not to challenge the regime so much as to participate in the development of knowledge and values among communities of readers. This activity helped them form new social networks and develop alternative views of the world and history. As a result, Soviet social imagination opened to new possibilities. Something did change. That change cannot be adequately explained by a binary model of heroic dissident opposition to the Soviet regime. Instead, this book treats samizdat as an alternative textual culture that facilitated the formation of new pub­ lic communities in the Soviet Union after Stalin. A powerful alternative to Soviet print, samizdat—described as “pre-Gutenberg” by Anna Akhmatova, and more f lexibly dubbed “extra-Gutenberg” by the conceptualist poet Lev Rubinshtein—did not replace or displace the dominant order of official print production in the USSR. However, samizdat did facilitate alternative episte­ mologies and new ways of imagining one’s self and the world for its readers.9 Richly generative of original creative work in art and literature, the samizdat system also afforded new potentials for social poiesis or the construction of communities in the form of underground publics.10 We can begin to account for these potentials by reviewing the role of print culture in establishing the modern forms of social imagination. Samizdat, in retrospect, looks intrigu­ ingly like a low-tech predecessor of the current digital and global age of extra-Gutenberg textual production and circulation, which poses such chal­ lenges to established ideas about how publics function. This book begins with two broad points. First, Soviet samizdat should be understood primar­ ily through its networks of readers rather than through its challenge to the Soviet regime. Second, the samizdat system and the late Soviet underground must be considered in relation to the official Soviet context that generated it and upon which it depended.11 Soviet samizdat was thus bound to the late

4

INTRODUCTION

socialist context and can help illuminate it. In addition, the history of the late Soviet underground might provide a useful perspective for thinking about the transition from an era dominated by print to the more f luid textual con­ dition we all now share.

What Is Samizdat? The term “samizdat,” a neologism meaning self-published, comes f rom sam- (self ) and -izdat, short for izdatel′stvo (publishing house). The Moscow poet Nikolai Glazkov coined “Samsebiaizdat” as a parody of official Soviet publishing houses (such as Gosizdat, State Publishing House; or Detizdat, Children’s Publishing House). Glazkov used the term as an imprint for the collections of poetry he produced at home beginning in the 1940s.12 Samiz­ dat came eventually to refer to a system of uncensored production and cir­ culation of texts that began in the Soviet Union after Stalin.13 Historians and other researchers have commonly identified the beginning of the samizdat system with the circulation of Nikita Khrushchev’s “Secret Speech,” which he delivered on February 25, 1956, following the Twentieth Congress of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union. In that speech to a closed session of party members, First Secretary Khrushchev denounced Stalin’s “cult of personality.”14 This origin story demonstrates the crucial role of the Soviet state in generating its alternative public sphere. Party officials read the speech in special meetings held around the country, and copies of the text leaked out to the general populace. The text of Khrushchev’s speech also made its way to the New York Times, where it appeared on June 4, 1956.15 We should take note of the extraordinarily active morphing of the text of Khrushchev’s speech through various formats, f rom oral to written, f rom official but restricted publication to spontaneous unauthorized copies and, eventually, to publication in the West, in what came to be known as tamizdat. Such mutability of textual forms, driven by demand for hard-to-obtain mate­ rial, came to characterize samizdat. Khrushchev’s speech affected the social and political context; it raised important questions about how to address the traumatic past of Soviet society without clearly indicating who might participate in deciding how it would be addressed.16 The powerful pressure to respond and the ambiguity about who was authorized to do so helped foster a range of responses, including a turn to uncensored production and circulation of texts as a newly viable channel for communicating with fellow citizens. The resulting samizdat system developed in the 1960s and 1970s and through the early 1980s into an extensive and ramified network, with publics

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5

organized around a range of issues and interests. The end of the system came after 1986, when perestroika fundamentally changed the situation and made it possible for the much more voluminous informal press to appear in relatively permissive conditions.17 The OED defines “samizdat” in terms of “clandestine” or “illegal” literature; yet samizdat differed in significant ways from the prerevolutionary underground press. Samizdat authors and readers typically did not pursue political regime change.18 Moreover, the use of underground printing presses distinguished prerevolutionary clandestine production and circulation from late Soviet samizdat, which people rarely produced on actual presses.19 It was easier and supposedly safer to produce samizdat on typewriters, using carbon paper to make a few copies at a time— generally five, sometimes six or seven.20 People also reproduced texts using photographic cameras—this method worked well for editions printed abroad and smuggled back to the USSR, although fewer people had the capacity to manage printing many photographs, and the product was relatively bulky. In both cases, the dispersed reproduction corresponded to the extra-Gutenberg nature of samizdat; the diffuse nature of the production and distribution of samizdat involved people throughout the network acting as authors and publishers as well as readers. Peter Steiner noted that neither the content nor the formal qualities of a text could be considered determinative of samizdat status.21 The line between what was and what was not acceptable to Soviet authorities might blur or change over time. Examples of works that were or might have been acceptable, but which at some point became unacceptable, included an analysis of events in World War II by General Petro Grigorenko, a chapter of G. K. Chesterton’s book on St. Francis of Assisi, poems by Marina Tsve­ taeva f rom 1920, and a review of a Deep Purple album; all of these texts appeared in samizdat. In addition, a work formerly allowed by the Soviet regime—such as Isaak Babel’s Wandering Stars (Bluzhdaiushchie zvezdy), a film script originally published in Moscow in 1926—proved impossible to find in the postwar era until it was republished by a specialized tamizdat publisher Ardis Publishers in Ann Arbor, Michigan—and smuggled back into the USSR to be copied and passed around. Texts like this were also samizdat.22 Aleksandr Daniel′ proposed treating samizdat as a “mode of existence [of the text]” (sposob bytovaniia [teksta]), which accommodates better the capa­ cious corpus we find because it avoids discriminating between what counts as samizdat and what does not based on content.23 This approach represents a departure from that of early surveys and analyses of samizdat, which sought to describe samizdat via ideological trends and contemporary sociopolitical

6

INTRODUCTION

issues. One early survey was written by the rights activist Liudmila Alekse­ eva, who first published her history of Soviet dissidence in 1984; her book remains an important source covering various national and religious groups as well as the movement for rights in the USSR. Alekseeva relied mainly on facts compiled in the sixty-five issues of the samizdat bulletin Chronicle of Current Events (Khronika tekushchikh sobytii). Other early efforts were made by Radio Liberty, which had a mandate from the US government to cover Soviet dissent in the Cold War era, and where staff established a “Samizdat Section” in 1971 to collect, process, and make available samizdat texts for Western researchers. Radio Liberty also broad­ cast news and discussions based on those texts by short-wave radio for Soviet audiences.24 Its publication series Collection of Samizdat Documents (Sobranie dokumentov samizdata, 1972–78) and Materials of Samizdat (Materialy samiz­ data, 1975–91) presented a wide range of uncensored texts. However, there were important and systematic lacunae, including literary and artistic texts, as well as writing about music and ethnic cultural editions, which lacked obvious relevance for policymakers. Therefore, studies that relied only on the Radio

Figure 2. Cover of Chronicle of Current Events, no. 1, 1968. Credit: Archive “History of Dissi­ dence in the USSR,” International “Memorial” Society, f. 153.

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Liberty collection were, necessarily, incomplete. Numerous other sources have appeared since the 1990s. Combined with the Radio Liberty records and the holdings in other archival collections, these sources fill out the more complete picture considered here.25 Because the production and circulation of samizdat texts—which were not printed books—was not institutionalized, the number of texts and read­ ers varied widely and depended on actions taken by dispersed individuals throughout a circulation network. In most cases, we must rely on recol­ lections by participants and records of information collected by people involved. In Anthology of Samizdat (Antologiia samizdata, 2005), for example, we find occasional information about print runs and circulation: the liter­ ary journal Avant-garde (Avangard, no. 1, 1965), which was edited in Mos­ cow by the poet Leonid Gubanov, was reportedly reproduced in two sets of carbon copies on a typewriter to make about ten to fourteen copies, which circulated primarily among his group of f riends. Although selected verses f rom the journal were republished later in the émigré journal Facets (Grani), the journal itself was not republished. No copies of it have surfaced in archives.26 Similarly, information about nonpolitical samizdat editions in Lenin­ grad came largely f rom personal archives and information furnished by editors and their f riends and acquaintances.27 We can supplement such information with other archived and published evidence, including copies of samizdat editions found in various repositories, as well as additional sources such as the handwritten record of samizdat journals recorded by Vladimir Erl′, and the pioneering early bibliography published by Alek­ sandr Suetnov in the 1990s.28 Other records, including the capacious and idiosyncratic five-volume “Blue Lagoon” anthology, compiled by Konstan­ tin Kuz′minskii and Grigorii Kovalev, further demonstrate the remarkably powerful impulse among samizdat writers and readers to chronicle and preserve the history of the uncensored texts they encountered and the groups producing and reading them.29 This study of samizdat, highlight­ ing its extra-Gutenberg status, accords special attention to the variety of sources that capture information about the texts and the voices and labor of the people involved.30

From Dissidents to Underground Publics Vladimir Kozlov described what he thought was problematic “dissident­ centrism” among historians of the late Soviet era, who focused too much on intellectual activists in the capital cities. Kozlov aimed to draw attention to

8

INTRODUCTION

more popular and widespread examples of sedition (kramola), which he felt had not been taken seriously. In the introduction to the English edition of Kozlov’s book, Sheila Fitzpatrick claimed that “popular sedition and intel­ lectual dissidence apparently had almost no connection with each other.”31 However, forms of dissidence and alternative publishing existed among evangelical Christian groups, as well as informal literary and rock music subcultures that challenge the characterization of alternative or dissident culture as a phenomenon limited to the capital cities and the intellectual elites. This book shows that uncensored samizdat publications ranged far beyond the capital cities and intellectual classes. However, this alternative activity needs to be contextualized within broader social shifts and chal­ lenges to official narratives and policies also occurring within the official culture. After all, the discussion of the Stalinist past was encouraged by the party and, according to Polly Jones, contesting the limits and terms of that discussion intensified even as the party “tried to control, and ulti­ mately to silence, the discussion of the Stalinism that it had done so much to unleash in the first place.”32 This dynamic applied mutatis mutandis to other formerly taboo issues, questions of rights and the rule of law, and forms of cultural experimentation, which began to spill over f rom the official sphere into samizdat activity under Khrushchev, gradually taking root in the gray zones and the underground as officials reined in censored publications. Many scholars considering the topic in the post-Soviet era have challenged reductive binaries separating official culture and opposition. In writing about samizdat, Serguei Oushakine argued that the discourse of rights activists mimicked official Soviet discourse.33 Oushakine’s focus on “political samiz­ dat” ref lected a limited corpus, but his point about the inf luence of official culture on alternative, uncensored expression is important. Indeed, changes from the top—beginning with Khrushchev’s Secret Speech, but not limited to it—tended to stimulate citizen engagement both within and outside official institutions. This included, for example, revisionist scholars working for the leading Soviet history journal Questions of History (Voprosy istorii), as well as students and mentors working within the officially established literary asso­ ciations (LITOs, Literaturnye ob″edineniia) in Leningrad.34 Lines can be drawn between the official revisionist historians and unofficial historical investiga­ tion and writing for the samizdat thematic collection Memory (Pamiat′) dis­ cussed in chapter 1. In addition, the LITOs incubated authors who would later produce unofficial works.35 In the well-known case of the Novyi mir journal, where Solzhenitsyn published before putting out his uncensored works, ground-breaking publications in the Thaw era provoked substantial

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reader reaction. Denis Kozlov, writing about Novyi mir, argued that “close involvement in political life characterized not only dissidents but also a great many other citizens.”36 Natalia Roudakova also critiqued assumptions about a 180-degree shift from official propaganda to press freedom with Mikhail Gorbachev’s glasnost reforms. Soviet-era journalists and their readers also sought truth and justice, she pointed out, a quest modeled on that of “promi­ nent justice-seekers who inspired the Russian Revolution such as Alexander Herzen and Vissarion Belinsky.”37 In this, they shared much with rights activ­ ists working in samizdat. These studies suggest we may qualify Alexei Yurchak’s observations about the disaffection members of the “last Soviet generation” felt. Yurchak’s inf lu­ ential account of the late Socialist era stressed the structural issues of a sys­ tem whose discourse had come to seem hollow so that performative values predominated or even displaced belief in the constative truth of statements.38 While skepticism to heroism, to dissidence, and to challenging the regime was commonly expressed even by those who engaged in underground or alternative activity, a commitment to finding and communicating some kind of “truth” motivated many at this time.39 As Juliane Fürst put it of people engaged in forms of an alternative culture in the USSR and across the East­ ern bloc: “the term in circulation was ‘truth.’ In the Soviet case this did not refer to the truth expressed in [the official newspaper] Pravda and in the Rus­ sian term pravda, but the deeper truth of the term istina that went beyond the meaning of merely being factually true.”40 Rights activists and others did search for truthful facts, but Fürst’s comment highlights the search for a deeper truth, which people sought in official publications before or even as they turned to alternative or underground communications in hopes it could be more freely expressed there. Samizdat was more than a set of texts. Samizdat—particularly as it became a system in the later 1960s and beyond—ref lected a practice of cultural pro­ duction and circulation that generated and maintained an alternative social space within official Soviet culture. Methods from book history can help us understand this social space of samizdat communication circuits and their relation to the surrounding Soviet context. Gordon Johnston’s study of samizdat from 1999, while limited to the Radio Liberty corpus and ear­ lier accounts, helped frame samizdat as a meaningful variation on book his­ tory. Johnston referenced Robert Darnton’s communication circuit, which traces the life cycle of a book from “Author” and “Publisher” to “Readers.”41 Johnston noted Darnton’s caution that “reading remains the most difficult stage in the cycle to understand.”42 Darnton commented on the difficulty of capturing people’s reading habits and ways of interpreting meaning.

10

INTRODUCTION

An informal system like samizdat implied extra complications in determining the numbers of readers—and even numbers of copies—for any given text. Other consequences of the nonprint or extra-Gutenberg status of samiz­ dat texts include the blurring of roles outlined by Darnton. Samizdat editor Natal′ia Gorbanevskaia typed seven copies of early issues of the Moscow samizdat bulletin Chronicle of Current Events. As Mark W. Hopkins described the distribution, “One [copy] went to a Western correspondent, another was saved in order to produce more copies, and the remaining five copies were given out. In the already established form for distributing samizdat, recipi­ ents were expected to reproduce further copies.”43 By the end of the 1960s, people in Soviet courts and abroad, like Soviet readers, recognized that samizdat was a system.44 In December 1968, it was clear that the Chronicle was reaching many readers at home and abroad. Gorbanevskaia ref lected on the role of the bulletin as a regular source of information in an anonymous editorial that month. There she also noted the role of the bulletin’s readers as its “volunteer publishers.”45 In a subsequent issue, she exhorted readers acting in that capacity to be extremely careful: “A number of inaccuracies occur during the process of duplicating copies of the Chronicle. There are mistakes in names and surnames, in dates and numbers. The quantity of them grows as the Chronicle is retyped again and again, and they cannot be corrected according to the context, as can other misprints.”46 This mattered because the bulletin’s credibility as a source of information depended on accuracy. In addition, mistakes could be legally actionable. The article of law in the Russian republic designed to control samizdat was 190-1. It stated: “The systematic dissemination by word of mouth of deliberately false state­ ments derogatory to the Soviet state and social system, as also the prepara­ tion or dissemination of such statements in written, printed, or any other form, is punishable by three years of detention, or one year of corrective labor, or a fine up to one hundred rubles.”47 Errors might be construed as falsehoods. Samizdat could be and was seized and used as evidence against samizdat authors, editors, and readers. If being punished for the text drew readers closer to the status of the “author” as defined by Michel Foucault, punishment (or the threat of it) was not necessary to motivate active engage­ ment in samizdat.48 People might derive authority from having or creating copies of rare and sought-after texts, such as poems by Leonid Aronzon, a book by Vladimir Nabokov, or an early émigré edition of Russian poetry.49 At the same time, their investment of time and labor in the text helped validate and potentially increase its value. Of course, people could also pen their own compositions for samizdat: in this system, authorship depended on uptake by fellow citizen readers, not on KGB attention.

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People resorted to a variety of spatial metaphors to talk about the alter­ native culture sustained by samizdat circulation. The word “dissidence” (dissidentstvo), widely applied in Western press coverage of activists in this period, contains that spatial implication within it, since it derives ety­ mologically f rom Latin words meaning to “sit apart” (dis-sidere).50 Soviet participants in alternative culture shunned the term, which was under­ standable, given the regular vilification of dissidents in the official Soviet press. Rights activists in Moscow referred to themselves as pravozashchitniki (rights defenders), although people f rom other groups often called them dissidents or democratic dissidents. Rights activists also embraced a term with Russian roots, inakomysliashchii, or “one who thinks otherwise,” seen as a less provocative term.51 This terminological shift was not lost on the KGB, where people were not buying the supposed legitimacy signaled by the Russian root. Iurii Andropov, speaking in 1977 as head of the KGB for the celebration of 100 years since Feliks Dzerzhinskii’s birth, talked about the term “dissident,” which, as he claimed: “amounts to a clever pro­ pagandistic invention designed to lead the public (obshchestvnnost′) astray. Translated, this word [dissident], as we know, means ‘one who thinks oth­ erwise’ (inakomysliashchii). Having put this word into circulation, bourgeois propaganda calculates that it may portray the situation as though the Soviet order does not tolerate the independent thought of its citizens. . . . This picture has nothing in common with reality.”52 In this speech Andropov also identified recalcitrant dissidents with criminals who needed to be dis­ ciplined and, when necessary, separated out of the good, unified body of Soviet citizens: “we try to help those who lose their way, we try . . . to dispel their mistaken ideas. We must act differently in those cases where some of those whom we refer to as ‘thinking otherwise’ (inakomysliashchie) begin by their acts to violate Soviet laws. There is a tiny number of such people among us, as there are, unfortunately, of thieves and bribe-takers, specula­ tors and other criminal transgressors. Those and the others harm our soci­ ety and therefore should be punished in full accordance with the demands of Soviet law.”53 According to Andropov’s presentation of the situation, those who could not be convinced to bring their “independent” thinking (which was, in his view, actually foreign-inf luenced) into line with the conceptual-political unity of the Soviet people were criminals or incapable of proper thought. Such people should be subject to forceful forms of persuasion and isolation from the rest of society. At stake was what Andropov characterized as the Soviet Union’s greatest achievement—the “conceptual and political unity of Soviet society.”54

12

INTRODUCTION

Such unity, admitting of no difference between the party and the peo­ ple or between government and civil society seemed totalitarian or at least undemocratic even to critics on the left.55 In the USSR, those involved with samizdat and alternative activity sought a space apart, although many believed that acting with some remove from that party-led unity would be good for the whole society. This alternative sphere was not a space of total freedom and independence, but it was a place of difference, informed by val­ ues or perspectives not sufficiently accounted for in official print and state­ ments by the leaders. Other terms for this space apart include “unofficial culture” or “second culture.” Such terms were used to refer to uncensored literary activity, which typically did not draw the same kind of scrutiny from authorities as rights activism but which did sustain a space apart for think­ ing, writing, and behaving differently.56 Scholars have also embraced the term “underground,” which some in Leningrad borrowed from English to use in their own form (andegraund) for unofficial culture.57 People also used the Russian word “podpol′e,” though some objected to what they felt that term implied.58 The adoption of the Western term “underground” points to the translation of forms and values in the spheres of the arts, music, literature, philosophy, and fashion from the West into Soviet culture as part of the widening cultural horizons and creative adaptations facilitated by samizdat. Such adoption of elements of Western culture occurred in the official cul­ ture of the Thaw period, and it became important also in unofficial culture.59 The term “underground,” like other similar terms, implied a relationship with the other social structures, in the first place to the official world or the above-ground world, with which it had constant communication and on which its existence depended.60 We can treat the relationship between this alternative space and official Soviet culture as a permeable boundary between which people and activi­ ties, texts and values, passed. This would be something like the “refract­ ing” relationship described by Pierre Bourdieu between the restricted field of cultural production and the larger societal context within which it is set.61 Book scholars recognized the utility of Bourdieu’s analysis for filling out the schematic model of the communication circuit to create a multidimensional social space.62 In the Soviet case, Bourdieu’s concepts of symbolic and cul­ tural capital (which are indirectly related to the political and economic forces of the larger social context) have proven useful as a way of describing the his­ tory of unofficial culture and those recognized as most creative or authorita­ tive within it.63 However, Bourdieu’s notion of agents on the field could lend itself to a reproduction of the focus on the “great men, great books” type of history that scholars of the history of communications have been eager

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to transcend.64 Jonathan Bolton, in his study of dissidents in Czechoslovakia, encouraged scholars in the field to move beyond familiar heroic narratives and debates about the political impact of dissent to consider characteristic practices, communications, and the question of publics.65 This book looks at the constitution of alternative publics and the varied territory they occupy, from the “dissident” areas of rights activism, to the relatively hermetic poetic and philosophical groups in the underground, with consideration of ethnic and religious communities, as well as the “gray zones” of semi-permitted music fandom. Ultimately, Bourdieu’s critique continues to operate accord­ ing to an economic model, and it does little to address the imagination of community fostered by textual circulation. The framework of public theory proves to be a particularly provocative one for samizdat. People devoted their time and labor to potentially risky samizdat activity because it helped them imagine themselves and their community differently. This aspect of samizdat has not been sufficiently addressed.66 The notion of alternative or underground “publics” developed in this study draws on debates among theorists of publics.67 It also takes a cue from other approaches to the study of dissidence. Detlef Pollack and Jan Wielgohs understood “dissidence” to consist of “all discourses and activities . . . that constituted, or wished to constitute, an autonomous sphere of public, politi­ cal and cultural communication . . . and which in so doing openly denied the claim of the regime to full control of public life.” They singled out samizdat as “[t]he systematic ‘site’ of dissidence.”68 This understanding of samizdat and dissidence needs to ref lect the broader sociological approach modeled by Bolton’s work, which Jones summarized this way: “dissidents are most significant not as causes of . . . political change but rather as complex indi­ viduals experimenting with new forms of self hood, sociability, and social relations.”69 These experiments occurred in a variety of ways: samizdat— with its heady possibilities for mixed forms of agency—was central to almost all of them. Jürgen Habermas initially described the public as a unified entity that took shape in modern society as a civil counterpart to the state.70 His account expressed a couple of premises that are fundamental to a Western liberal paradigm. One is the idea that truth is reached through the interaction of a plurality of subject positions and a process of contesting established under­ standings. This liberal idea of truth differs fundamentally from the Marxist conception of truth, as Natalia Roudakova pointed out. The job of the Soviet mass communicator was to interpret daily events from the standpoint of class struggle, to penetrate behind appearances, to abstract away from specifics, in order to uncover the underlying Marxist reality behind events—the liberal

14

INTRODUCTION

idea stressed the ability and responsibility of individuals to decide and debate amongst themselves what was true in the context of a free marketplace of ideas.71 The other related conception is that a legitimate public must be inde­ pendent of the state. Charles Taylor cited Habermas in his explication of the modern idea that the public sphere must be a space for discussion placed self-consciously outside power and the partisan spirit.72 What we find in the underground public sphere in the late Soviet era is a mix of these features. A general social imperative to express and respond to the truth of Stalinism had been articulated from the top, unleashing a variety of responses. Some tried to recover the truth of Leninism and the good socialist society, though this belief faded by the end of the 1960s. Some rights activists sought a guid­ ing light in legalist philosophy. The liberal paradigm of co-existing perspec­ tives and truths was embraced by democratic dissidents (rights activists) and the Western public whose attention they helped attract. However, plenty of people felt passionate about the truth that mattered for them and their com­ munity. Their particular truth was not encompassed either by the official agenda or by the universalizing struggle for human rights. The orthodox Marxist position admitted no distinction between the pub­ lic and the state, just as it made no allowance for the separation between pri­ vate and public spheres that is so vital (if also problematic and contentious) for public theory. Nonetheless, in the Soviet Union, after Stalin, there arose new spaces of social communication that entailed dynamic relationships between public and private types of activity.73 These extended from official Soviet culture into the so-called underground.

Samizdat Periodical Editions and the Extra-Gutenberg Social Imaginary Taylor described the modern “social imaginary” in terms of “the ways in which people imagine their social existence, how they fit together with others, how things go on between them and their fellows, the expectations that are normally met, and the deeper normative notions and images that underlie these expectations.”74 For Taylor, as for the theorists whose work he references—including Benedict Anderson, Jürgen Habermas, and Michael Warner—the development of modern forms of social imagination depended on types of sociality that emerged with print media.75 The public sphere, a fundamental condition for the modern social imaginary, was a common space that proved to be “a rather strange thing. The people involved have likely never met. But they are seen as linked in a common space of discussion through media—print media, in the eighteenth century.”76 The circulation of

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15

books, pamphlets, journals, and newspapers extends the presentation of self and the relation to others in society beyond intimate communications with family and friends into a community of strangers.77 In the USSR after Stalin, extra-Gutenberg forms of the text supplemented print media in important ways. Underground circulation of samizdat acted to widen and diversify the supposedly unified and controlled imagination of Soviet society with new public possibilities and perspectives. The study of samizdat, along with inquiries into late socialism more generally, have moved away from binaries of opposition. The late Soviet construction of self and historical and social imagination has proven to be quite complex across the spectrum from official to underground settings. Samizdat periodical editions provide one important way to appreciate the range of samizdat activity from the clandestine to the marginally accepted. Because periodical editions corresponded to communities of readers, they tended to be better captured and described.78 The forms of these periodical editions—bulletins, leaf let series, journals, thematic collections, and so on— illustrate the way samizdat borrowed and adapted official and established print forms.79 Nevertheless, there were specific affordances and limitations to the extra-Gutenberg samizdat existence of these editions. The following chapters explain those capacities while demonstrating the significant range of underground public communities. Chapter 1, “Samizdat and the Historical Self,” considers the role of samiz­ dat in light of the Thaw and de-Stalinization. These concepts have received nuanced treatment in scholarship; the liberalization of the Thaw and the process of reckoning with Stalin and correcting the course of Soviet soci­ ety initiated by Khrushchev were prone to ambiguity and contradictions. Attempts to deal with the history of the Stalin era led to the reevaluation of the role of individuals and the intelligentsia relative to the larger society and its path through history. Stimulated but also frustrated in many cases by the party’s leadership, people explored options in official culture and print, turning to unofficial samizdat when other options seemed closed. Samizdat writing did not simply oppose the official order. It facilitated a creative recon­ struction of models for thinking about self and society in the Soviet Union among samizdat authors and readers. Samizdat periodicals show how this thinking of the self was connected to a sense of one’s group within Soviet society and world history. These groups included the intelligentsia and the generation. As time went on, group affili­ ations linked to ethnic or religious identities, or even aesthetic or stylistic val­ ues, not acknowledged or insufficiently accommodated by the state, became more important for samizdat publics. The intelligentsia provided a template

16

INTRODUCTION

in Russian and Soviet history for imagining one’s own agency in relation to a group within the larger society. This imagination was stimulated by public communication (newly embodied in samizdat), which enacted the audience-oriented subjectivity described by Habermas as a crucial feature of the formation of modern self hood. In the post-Stalin era, such groups played an important role in recalibrating the sense of self in relation to history, whether past history or the unfolding of the present moment as part of his­ tory. Samizdat periodical editions allowed people to enact their identification with groups through participation in underground networks. Chapter 2, “Giving Voice to Truth in Samizdat,” treats the “voice” as a complex metaphor for samizdat communication, where relations between silence and speech, the self and the group, presence and absence may be negotiated. Associated with authenticity and the truth, samizdat voices also reveal the distinctive modes of expression by different people and groups. When samizdat appears to be the vehicle of the true or authentic voice, the medium can appear to be effaced, or its material poverty and precari­ ous existence can serve as a sign of truth or spirit. This type of relation­ ship to the poetic word was set up by inf luential modernist poets, including Osip Mandel′shtam, Boris Pasternak, and Anna Akhmatova. Not impacted directly by censorship or institutional demands, samizdat appeared to be a direct means of communicating from peer to peer. At the same time, the voice implied addressing an audience. The personalized inf lections of the voice acted as a sort of guarantee or “signature” indicating personal endorse­ ment and commitment to the community addressed and the “truth” around which it was organized. The voice also corresponded in many cases to the intimacy of insider knowledge. This personalized and intimate voice seems like the opposite of the rational objective and de-personalized voice typical of rights-activist samizdat editions. However, this objective voice was also constructed. Moreover, it included a sublimated but essential relation to indi­ vidualized and distinctive voices. Working through the ideology of the voice in samizdat allows us to highlight some critical material and social implica­ tions of the medium. Combined with the sense of audience-oriented subjectivity developed in chapter 1, the voices of underground texts illustrate the commitment to “truth-telling,” implying the active and engaged teller and audience, which is fundamental to samizdat communications, whatever the style or content of the message. Chapter 2 picks up the function of truth-telling essential to unofficial Soviet historiography, as described by Barbara Martin, and gen­ eralizes this function as a characteristic feature of all samizdat. This samiz­ dat function can then be explored through the notion of the chronotope as

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developed by Mikhail Bakhtin, by extending that notion into the processes of circulation and reception and treating samizdat periodicals according to the time and (social) space they define or occupy. As a result, we see how a transformed image of the human self becomes possible thanks to alternative temporalities and new spaces of sociality. Chapter 3, “Imagining Time in Samizdat,” takes up the temporality of samizdat chronotopes in underground periodical editions. It explores differ­ ent ways alternative conceptions of time may be linked to a vision of the group or society addressed. Samizdat temporalities in many cases referred to and adapted temporal schemes from official Soviet culture. Samizdat writ­ ers and readers also looked to coordinates from outside the Soviet imagina­ tion, adapted them to local needs, and thereby helped people think beyond the time of the Soviet state. Some samizdat authors and readers in Moscow reconceived revolutionary time. Others, including many in Leningrad, drew on the poetic traditions associated with that city to orient people to a great time of culture as opposed to the passing time of the state or empire. Other versions of eccentrically conceived time—that involved transcending or transforming the everyday world through play and art—illustrate the unex­ pected uses to which people put various inf luences for imaginative construc­ tions of the past, the present, and possible futures. What resulted from these different underground variations looks far more complex and hybridized than the “homogeneous empty time” of modernity in the classic national imagination. Chapter 4, “Spaces of Samizdat Sociality,” looks at public discourse in terms of the imagined “space of discussion,” Taylor described. In the case of the late Soviet underground, this was not a unified space but a collection of different discursive spheres associated with the communities who projected and represented themselves through samizdat periodical editions. Some of these underground groups maintained strong ties with one another, sharing spaces of discourse, while others sought to mark their distance from more dominant groups. One notable phenomenon consisted of groups trying to distance themselves from the inf luential and centrally located group of rights activists. This seemed to be as or more urgent a task than separating from official culture for some. People also sought to adapt official spaces of dis­ course: this fact helps underscore the embeddedness of underground groups within Soviet society. The space of discourse is also related to a geographic location—things could be said and done in the Soviet capital that were not possible in the other republics and provinces. On the other hand, the Mos­ cow center could be used by more peripheral groups as a central point of exchange and transmission. The publicity of samizdat endeavors based in or

18

INTRODUCTION

amplified by the major cities of Moscow and Leningrad provided a model for people in peripheral locations who started their own independent groups and samizdat editions. Samizdat activity spread around the USSR even when much of the more famous rights activism was repressed in the early 1980s; this was true until the advent of perestroika and the different era of informal press beginning in 1987. Samizdat periodical editions made it possible to weave new forms of the self and communities via the engagement of an underground public. The underground public could straddle official and unofficial spheres, it could be in communication with audiences abroad, and it might aim to reach audi­ ences long after the reign of the Soviet empire, whose imminent end people could not at that time foresee. Rather than a revolutionary transformation, the kind of changes afforded by samizdat communication resembled a thick­ ening of the cultural and social weave binding people together. Samizdat publics worked on generating their own texture (faktura) for themselves and their society through the threads binding them to one another, creating pat­ terns that showed their relationship to the past and to people and cultures beyond their immediate time and space. The conclusion, “Samizdat and the Contradictions of Soviet Modernity,” considers how samizdat expressed the contradictions of the Soviet system as a version of modernity. Theories on the contradictions of modernity and the Soviet system put forth by Habermas, Claude Lefort, and Yurchak provide a framework for considering Soviet samizdat and the underground public sphere as both specific to their context and part of what Taylor called “multiple modernities.” Samizdat periodicals illustrate the epistemological stakes of a more pluralistic and varied version of modern social imagina­ tion marked increasingly by extra-Gutenberg characteristics. In the Soviet case, the extra-Gutenberg culture of samizdat helped widen the possibilities for imagining the self, society, culture, and history. Samizdat epistemology implied less dependence on the knowledge provided by the state and estab­ lished print institutions. Communities linked by samizdat circulation gener­ ated their own forms of knowledge and truth that complicated and, in some cases, contradicted official knowledge. Part of the point of considering rights activism and other types of samiz­ dat publics together is to appreciate this pluralization of knowledge and “truths” as grounded in a specific context and comprising a network of related perspectives, rather than unbounded relativism. In this way, samizdat cultures and the legacy of samizdat do not show the same collapse of nar­ ratives and loss of logocentrism described by Western poststructural and postmodern theories.80 Alternative epistemologies do not imply no truth.

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Extra-Gutenberg social imagination does, however, appear to afford some potent new ways of imagining the self and society. These may add to the larger social fabric, or they may pull away from and tear that shared imagina­ tion of society. The strength of the democratic rights movement in the late Soviet context helped foster a commitment to verifiable facts and tolerance that most samizdat publics appear to have shared. At the same time, samiz­ dat art and literature demonstrated a cultivated sensitivity on the part of Soviet citizens to potentials for totalitarian dehumanization and violence at all levels of society, not just in the Soviet government. Extra-Gutenberg forms of social imagination and public creation have become common in the new millennium also in the West, not always for good. We may with reason be wary today of the ability to embrace alter­ native “truth” through extra-Gutenberg communications and communities. In this new global context, the legacy of Soviet samizdat and underground culture may suggest foils to the very tendencies they adumbrated. A commit­ ment to justice through fact-finding and giving voice to marginalized per­ spectives was one strong trend in samizdat culture. A wide-ranging critique of totalitarian tendencies was another. These aspects of samizdat culture suggest we might choose to fashion our more malleable notions of self and social ties to be bulwarks against the dangers of extra-Gutenberg communi­ cation rather than conduits for them.

C ha p te r 1

Samizdat and the Historical Self

After Stalin’s death the party and citizens faced pressure to confront the trauma caused by his regime and the challenges to the sense of legitimacy of Soviet society posed by his legacy. Khrushchev’s Secret Speech set off a process of reexamining the history of the Stalin era, to understand his “cult of personality” (kul′t lichnosti), and to think again about the role of individuals and their relationship to history. Signals from the top leaders set off a wave of questioning that encompassed the whole society as people in formal and informal ways reviewed the past and consid­ ered what it meant for their relationship to revolutionary history, the party, and their fellow citizens. Samizdat and various types of underground culture formed part of the mosaic of responses to the pressures of the time. Samiz­ dat developed more significantly beginning at the end of the 1960s thanks to the increasing limits on official publication possibilities. However, uncen­ sored production and circulation of texts in samizdat arose out of Soviet society and must be seen against the background of the broader social shifts and questioning occurring in the late Soviet period. This book also writes the history of samizdat into an even bigger pic­ ture of the changing of what Charles Taylor described as the modern social imaginary, the context for how people understand social relations, and the legitimacy of the social order they inhabit.1 This wider perspective has an advantage over the previous tendency to see samizdat only in relation to the 20

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Soviet State in terms of either opposition or mimicry—it accommodates, even invites attention to literary and other expressions of the social imagi­ nation that are not limited to dissenting ideologies and sociopolitical texts.2 This conception of social imagination, like the public theory on which it draws, highlights the way people connect their individual sense of self to their society and to shared norms and values. What happened in official cul­ ture affected those active in samizdat. By the same token, those working in the late Soviet underground could hope that sooner or later what they said and did would inf luence the social imagination of the whole society. Taylor and his sources linked social imagination to communication and what has been described as publics. The introduction of extra-Gutenberg samizdat complicates (without displacing) the role of print; we need to consider in more detail what that meant in the late Soviet context. The notion of the modern social imaginary, like Jürgen Habermas’s clas­ sic theory of the public sphere, depended on the category of the nation-state. The Soviet Union encompassed “national” categories within its universalizing ideology without eliminating the ambiguities and contradictions that contrib­ uted to the continued use of these categories within the state.3 In this way, too, samizdat expressed tendencies of the larger society within which it was set. However, samizdat also intensified the tendency to think in terms of group categories, not only national, that served as intermediary terms between Soviet citizens and the state and history.4 Samizdat periodicals illustrate these group identifications that helped people in the struggle to come to terms in new ways with history, the state and the sense of self connected to them. This chapter explores that connection and outlines the groups that played a role in the emergence of samizdat communication as an important forum for a reconstituted social imaginary.

History and the Soviet Self after Stalin Samizdat writing is like other addresses to a public in that it requires the author to imagine an audience. In describing the characteristics of public writing, Michael Warner was not focusing on authoritarian contexts of censorship. However, he found George Orwell’s literary portrayal of such a context useful for illustrating what he had in mind. The necessity of an imagined audience becomes clear when it is absent. In the opening scene of Orwell’s novel Nineteen Eighty-Four (1949), the protagonist Winston, who is observed constantly by the telescreen in his apartment and bothered by nosy neighbors, thinks about beginning a diary. He feels sure his unauthorized act will provoke repression by the authorities, but there is something else

22

CHAPTER 1

that threatens to derail his efforts: “For whom, it suddenly occurred to him to wonder, was he writing this diary?”5 Winston cannot think of anyone he knows who would be willing to read his independent writing for any pur­ poses other than criminalizing him. Eventually, Winston unleashes a torrent of increasingly disordered obser­ vations onto the page. He begins with an account of the previous evening’s activities: “April 4th, 1984. Last night to the f licks. All war films. One very good one of a ship full of refugees being bombed somewhere in the Mediter­ ranean. Audience much amused by shots of a great huge fat man trying to swim away with a helicopter after him. first you saw him wallowing along in the water like a porpoise.” His writing degenerates subsequently into a hysterical scrawl: “theyll shoot me I dont care theyll shoot me in the back of the neck . . . I dont care down with big brother.” But asserting his defiance of the authorities and their use of violence is not enough. Winston continues to be preoccupied by the question of his audience: “He wondered again for whom he was writing the diary. For the future, for the past—for an age that might be imaginary.” Facing up to that question with a realistic assessment of his bleak prospects allows him to formulate an intention to write simply because the gesture restores some sense of humanity: “He was a lonely ghost uttering a truth that nobody would ever hear. But so long as he uttered it, in some obscure way the continuity was not broken. It was not by making yourself heard but by staying sane that you carried on the human heritage.” With the diary, Winston attempts to address himself “to the future or to the past, to a time when thought is free, when men are different from one another and do not live alone—to a time when truth exists and what is done cannot be undone.”6 Winston’s dystopian context is extreme, but his deci­ sion highlights the imaginative sociality involved in writing, an act that in the modern public sense implies a sense of one’s human interlocutors and a connection across space and through time. This connection is so strong it can transcend current political circumstances and help reestablish a sense of truth, reality, and responsibility. Orwell’s famous dystopian novel spoke to anxieties about purges and Stalinism under discussion on both sides of what Winston Churchill had called the “Iron Curtain” in a speech from March 5, 1946.7 For his part, War­ ner was interested in drawing out the dynamics of public writing with a vivid example. Censorship in the Soviet Union was real, and we may appreciate the difficulty Soviet authors had in imagining an audience for uncensored writ­ ing, given the state’s monopoly on publishing. Already in the 1930s Soviet writers had begun to write “for the desk drawer,” that is, not for immediate circulation and often without any foreseeable chance of publication. Such

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writing lacked the benefit of the shaping force of an anticipated audience, particularly when authors could not or did not think about reaching an audi­ ence. In her own uncensored notebooks, the Soviet literary scholar Lidiia Ginzburg insisted: “A writer should be published.” She lamented the case of dilettante writers who remain content to produce and keep manuscripts, avoiding the difficult trials of an actual audience and therefore not taking responsibility for their words. In that case, she wrote, all that is required is “some kind of internal effort,” and the “chicken-scratches” will be absorbed back into the writer’s consciousness, as though they had not been written at all.8 The problem as she saw it was to achieve an attitude of mature responsi­ bility in the conditions prevailing (this passage was from notebooks written in the 1950s–1960s when samizdat began to be thinkable). Ginzburg did not speak here about the institutional barriers to getting something in print in the USSR: rather, she focused on the mentality of an author who does not assume the responsibility that addressing an audience entails. Many people observed the effects of internalizing official censorship.9 Ginzburg more sub­ tly pointed to the dangers of the absence of any internalized social control of one’s writing in the context of an uncensored process. After Stalin, Soviet citizens felt called on to address the issues faced by Soviet society. Mobilized by messages from the party leadership, notably those at the Twentieth Congress in 1956 and at the Twenty-Second Con­ gress in 1961, people began to talk and write about the history and legacy of Stalinism. As suggested by the limited distribution of Khrushchev’s Secret Speech, this official acknowledgment of traumatic losses caused by Stalin’s actions was partial, with party leaders attempting to keep control of the content of discussion and the bounds of participation. Messages from the top were mixed; it was not clear to what extent Soviet public memory should celebrate history, on the one hand, and confront traumatic failures, on the other. There was no ready answer to the question of whether perpetrators of violence like Stalin and his henchmen should be written out of history and forgotten—could their mistakes and achievements be remembered dif­ ferently? It was unclear how regular citizens might participate in these dis­ cussions.10 Public discourse about Stalinist violence continued to be tightly controlled.11 However, as the revelations of the Twenty-Second Congress and the removal of Stalin from the Mausoleum on Red Square showed, party leaders issued a general call to citizens and writers to assist in the shared task of confronting and overcoming the worst aspects of the Stalinist past.12 The point that matters for this book is that samizdat and informal or uncensored speech was part of the expansion of public discourse also found in official speech and print in the post-Stalin era; it was not separate from

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that larger process. The historian Denis Kozlov, studying the reactions of readers of the official journal Novyi mir wrote that the Thaw marked “the unmaking of Soviet subjectivity. The new awareness of the centrality of mass violence in the country’s history urged people to dissociate themselves from the interests, scripts, and language of this regime, to seek new forms of self-expression and new grounds for intellectual stability rather than absorbing themselves in the old, now manifestly inadequate political lan­ guage.”13 Moreover, the neat division of a supposedly liberal Thaw period under Khrushchev followed by re-Stalinization in the late 1960s as Stagnation under Leonid Brezhnev elides the uneven and contradictory manifestations of official loosening and tightening of controls in both periods. It may be that the mixed signs of encouragement and frustration throughout the Thaw facilitated the slow emergence of samizdat which then became a system in the more restrictive period after Khrushchev.14 Stephen Bittner evoked the ambiguities present in the Thaw metaphor, which contained “the meanings that Ilya Ehrenburg first saw in the metaphor—impermanence, uncertainty, instability.”15 This period of upheaval after Stalin cannot be reduced to the opposition of autonomous subjectivities unchained during the Thaw, only to be repressed once more during Stagnation. However, subjectivity was at issue: Soviet subjects questioned their roles and their relationship to others and to history more urgently as the “universe of meaning” that seemed rela­ tively stable under Stalin was “thrown into disarray” in a time of rapid ideo­ logical change under Khrushchev.16 This exploration undertaken by Soviet citizens in official and unofficial settings concerned memory and trauma. It also involved examining anew the roles of individuals, groups, writing, and culture, relative to history and the larger society. A striking example of such exploration is found in the case of Revol′t Pimenov, who produced an early samizdat leaf let series titled Information (Informatsiia, no. 1–6, Leningrad, 1956–57). Just as Stalin’s cult of personality was a central issue in the process of confronting the Stalinist past, a “cult­ like belief in the liberation of the personality” was a central principle of the Thaw, according to Benjamin Tromly, who explored Pimenov’s exemplifica­ tion of this belief.17 We can consider Pimenov to be a transitional figure on the cusp of the samizdat era, illustrating features common to the time as well as his own specific interests and motivation. The reactions of fellow students who listened to Pimenov and occasion­ ally collaborated with him show us how the dynamics of group forma­ tion and imagination in this period drew on the Soviet revolutionary past, even as they underwent changes during the Thaw. Pimenov’s attempts to create a conspiratorial group among the students at the Leningrad Library

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Institute were not unprecedented. Official documents show the existence of isolated independent student groups beginning in the late 1940s. Some of these groups had political agendas. In Moscow, in the late 1940s–early 1950s, reports of student groups including the Army of the Revolution, the Union of Struggle for the Revolutionary Cause, and others in Leningrad, Sverdlovsk, and a few other cities made their way into the files of the secu­ rity services.18 In Cheliabinsk, for example, a youth group formed in 1947 that went by the name of the Communist Party of Youth. The group was devoted to authentic (podlinnyi) Marxism-Leninism, and it was anti-Stalinist. That group grew to fifty-three members and featured an organizational hier­ archy.19 Although the excesses of some such groups—in one case, the leaf lets members produced called for the overthrow of the regime—might appear to justify the action of security organs to stop them, it looks as though authorities took repressive measures against any spontaneous manifesta­ tion of independent public initiative.20 There were independent student groups devoting themselves more strictly to aesthetic principles, although this did not necessarily forestall repression by the authorities.21 Members of the group that produced two issues of an independent anthology called Snow Wine (Snezhnoe vino) for circulation among fellow students were charged with criminal behavior. In the astonishing words of the official account, the students attempted to foment “‘counter-revolutionary activity’ concealed with the help of Symbolist devices” (“‘kontrrevoliutsionnuiu deiatel′nost′, zamaskirovannuiu s pomoshch′iu simvolicheskikh priemov”).22 In all cases, such independent groups did not last long and did not reach a wide audience. We know about them from documents archived by the security services and sometimes through memoirs. Pimenov’s leaf let series also did not last long, nor did it reach a wide audi­ ence. His attempts to mobilize fellow students were familiar from revolu­ tionary history but not effective or appropriate in the Thaw context. Pimenov spoke at an informal gathering to a group of students at the Leningrad Library Institute in December 1956. They had been gathered by Boris Vail′, who announced that Pimenov would speak about “the Russian Revolution in Soviet fiction.” Pimenov had sought out Vail′ as a likely comrade based on Vail′’s involvement with the uncensored literary journal Heresy (Eres′).23 Vail′ also told the students that Pimenov was coming from the center and that he would address “methods of struggle.” The pitch appears not to have been well-coordinated—there was no central organization, and Pimenov had not suggested that they should pretend there was. However, Pimenov decided on the spot to play along with Vail′’s fiction; he even solicited dues for the sup­ posed organization. The handful of students who assembled proved skeptical

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about the strategies of legal and open opposition Pimenov discussed. More­ over, the subsequent failure of the nonexistent group to produce the leaf lets Pimenov described at the meeting helped convince the students to dissociate themselves from this dangerous game; they renounced the organization at a subsequent meeting.24 This proved to be a wise move—the KGB had been tipped off to the supposed secret organization. They questioned Pimenov’s associates and arrested him on March 25, 1957. Some of what Pimenov was speaking about struck a chord among university audiences at the time. A group of young revisionist historians approached Pimenov eager to discuss the revolutionary history he seemed to know so well. Pimenov’s rejection of a Marxist framework for the Soviet system was out of step with their views, and it did not represent the trend of most critique during the Thaw period. Perhaps more significant, Pimenov’s penchant for open and demonstrative opposition made him exceptional and unreliable. Pimenov alienated the historians by copying and distributing one of their texts despite having promised not to do so. Pimenov’s wife Irina Verblovskaia took strong exception to some of his ideas and behavior. She disagreed with his analysis of events in Hungary, and she disliked what she understood to be Pimenov’s quest for arrest and imprisonment to confirm his heroic status.25 Pimenov was arrested on March 25, 1957, and he served time in camp and prison until 1963. Verblovskaia, Vail′, and others were also arrested and imprisoned. Pimenov fit with his times in the sense that “Other intellectual rebels of the period grappled with the ongoing demands of Soviet subjecthood—the need to rationalize one’s actions in world-historic terms and to project a mor­ ally pure and ‘civilized’ self to others.” However, this rebellion in the context of de-Stalinization did not look the same in all cases.26 Pimenov stood out in other ways. His enthusiasm for Father Gapon, who led the Saint Petersburg Union of Factory Workers in 1905, led to his legalist philosophy.27 He pro­ moted the idea of independent interventions into the public debate on an open and legal basis. In this, he was ground-breaking; such principles, with some modifications, would become key ideas for rights activists a decade later.28 At a meeting with collaborators in December 1955, Pimenov recalled: I was expressing the opinion that our activity . . . should not be directed against socialism, the Soviet order, and so forth. I even said that the Soviet Constitution is the most democratic in the world—one had only to really use it. Our activity, I said, should be directed at the defense of the Soviet Constitution and the rights it guaranteed—freedom of speech, freedom of assembly, and freedom of association. Defense of

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such rights could only happen by direct unauthorized initiatives—by asserting, ourselves, the freedom of speech, by freely assembling, by creating unions and associations.29 Although revolutionary conspiracy would become nearly obsolete after Sta­ lin, the assertion of legality within a Soviet framework and the language of rights had a future; it would become a pillar of democratic dissident activity, even if authorities did not accept that such activity was legal. Pimenov’s Information, which he and his collaborators Vail′ and Verblovs­ kaia compiled to be typed on one sheet, front and back, in six-seven copies, contained items culled from articles from foreign, especially Polish, press that was available in Soviet kiosks but which most Soviet readers could not read. The leaf lets also included information from foreign radio transmis­ sions as well as facts transmitted by friends in letters and orally about events such as strikes outside the capital cities and not reported in the official press. They presented this information without editorial commentary. In retro­ spect, Pimenov and his friends characterized Information as a precursor of the Chronicle of Current Events and similar samizdat bulletins.30 The comparison is suggestive but not exact because the information was political rather than strictly focused on rights.31 Pimenov also believed that the goal of the inde­ pendent edition was to create conditions for people themselves to speak out.32 Moreover, his conception of the heroic individual’s role departed from Marxist orthodoxy. For him the intelligentsia, with its long genealogy in Rus­ sian and Soviet history—a genealogy strongly bound up with the writings of Aleksandr Gertsen (Herzen)—served as audience and intermediary. This allowed Pimenov to mark the distance between himself and the party as he worked on forging his individual role in history.33

Hegelian History and Rights Activism The rights activist Vladimir Bukovskii spoke eloquently and at length about his path to democratic dissidence after Stalin. He recalled the revolutionary romanticism of his student days, fostered by Soviet education and popular culture, which seemed naive when he looked back on it: “How can grown­ up people seriously believe that revolutions are the result of the activities of some underground organisations?”34 If those called dissidents in the postStalin era eschewed notions of revolution and conspiratorial underground organizations, that is because they were a product of their historical experi­ ence and contemporary conditions; in the post-Stalin era, arrest remained possible, but the impulse to reevaluate the society and one’s role in it was

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broadly shared. Andrei Siniavskii, arrested in 1965 along with fellow author Iulii Daniel′ for publishing uncensored works abroad, wrote about dissidence in this period. He stressed the domestic forces that led to the appearance of dissidents as “a new phenomenon, exclusively the result of Soviet reality.” Siniavskii cited Bukovskii’s reaction to the Twentieth Congress as emblem­ atic of attitudes at the time: “What were these advanced ideas if they had produced Stalin? . . . The same scoundrels who had lied to us for thirty years about Stalin would now lie to us about Party democracy. Who could believe them?” Bukovskii’s response was representative also of the Soviet intelligen­ tsia, whose function Sinaivskii explained: “The intelligentsia is compelled by nature to interpret life, to criticize, to develop individual and social con­ sciousness. Thus, the intellectual task—the necessity of understanding all that had happened—was combined with the sense of moral duty that makes a person think independently.”35 Thinking independently and acting mor­ ally in the post-Stalin context meant reevaluating one’s individual role and relationship to the intelligentsia—and to the historical process with which it is linked—without assuming that the party would explain things entirely. Samizdat provided a way to communicate directly with other members of the intelligentsia. This new form of expression drew on existing paradigms rooted in earlier Soviet and Russian history. Possibly the most fundamental paradigm for Soviet consciousness was Hegelian historicism. Bukovskii invoked it to describe the development of a samizdat system: Throughout Moscow, office typewriters worked overtime, clicking out— for the pleasure of the typists or for their friends—the poetry of Gum­ ilyov, Mandelstam, Akhmatova, and Pasternak. It felt as if everyone were gingerly straightening numbed limbs after ages of sitting still, of people trying to twiddle their fingers and toes and shift position as their bodies pricked with pins and needles. It seemed there was noth­ ing to keep them sitting still any longer, but they had lost the habit of moving and had forgotten how to stand on their own two legs. The rebirth of culture in the Soviet Union after half a century of plague recapitulated all the stages in the development of world culture: folklore, epic, tales passed from mouth to mouth and from generation to generation, songs by troubadours and minstrels, and finally prose— novels, dissertations, philosophical treatises, topical articles, open let­ ters and appeals, journalism. Thus, Samizdat went step by step at an accelerated rate over the history of culture.36

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Bukovskii’s account resembles the Hegelian theory of world history expressed in culture, developing f rom oral folklore through songs (poems) to prose, including the public appeals and journalism in samizdat that might inf luence the state. Thus, samizdat effected a recapitulation (presented by Bukovskii as a restoration) of the development of world historical culture. Bukovskii’s way of telling this story underscores two points: literature and culture were woven deeply into the Soviet rights activists’ conception of history and dissidence, just as they were integral to the formation of a modern liberal public in the West.37 This account also suggests that, for dissidents, the Soviet system f rom its origins involved the suppression of cultural development and that samizdat authors and readers could redeem their society f rom this original sin. Dissidents would, through Samizdat, help their society resume its role in world history. While literary writers and readers sought to reconnect with world culture, the rights activists con­ nected these efforts with history by appealing to progressive international norms, which the USSR, as the leader of progressive humanity, should embody.38 This kind of thinking inspired the rights activist and dissident historian Liudmila Alekseeva. In her memoirs, Alekseeva recalled that growing up she loved to think of herself, like her parents, as belonging to the “revolutionary generation” and to believe they were among “history’s favorites.” When the family moved to Moscow, her father gave her a copy of Gertsen’s mem­ oirs My Past and Thoughts (Byloe i dumy, 1852–68) in 1937, to serve her as a guide. Speaking for herself and the Thaw generation, Alekseeva identified them as cultural resources on which one could draw for a transformed, dissident self.39 Irina Paperno discussed the importance of Hegelian his­ toricism, transmitted to Russian readers through Gertsen’s writings in the nineteenth century, for structuring the self-conception of the intelligentsia in tsarist Russia as well as in the Soviet Union: “What do Herzen’s memoirs stand for? One of the founding texts of the intelligentsia culture, My Past and Thoughts, helped to create its main institution: an intimate circle of intellectuals alienated f rom the state and society who felt bound by a sense of their social and historical mission.”40 The alienation of the intellectuals sets up the notion of an intermediary term between the individual and the state or the party, and this proved useful for educated people who by design or circumstance found themselves outside of party-run structures in the post-Stalin context. Interestingly, this Hegelian paradigm was not confined to the highly educated intelligentsia in the Soviet Union. Ordinary citizens also remade

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themselves in the model of the New Man required by the state or recounted their lives to show the imprint of history on them. Jochen Hellbeck found that under Stalin, Soviet diarists “sought to realize themselves as histori­ cal subjects defined by their active adherence to a revolutionary common cause.”41 Paperno looked closely at diaries by two different women. She examined the memoirs of Lidiia Chukovskaia, the intellectual writer and friend of Akhmatova, on the one hand, and she read the notebooks of a jani­ tor of little education, Evgeniia Kiseleva, on the other. Paperno concluded, “I see the most striking similarity and a definitive, distinctly Soviet inf luence in the way both storytellers relate to the historical-political domain and, in the end, to the Soviet state as a stand-in for history.”42 Whether loyal helper of the Soviet revolution or victim crushed by the wheel of history, significance derived from the same conception of master agency invested in the Soviet state. Paperno drew attention to the extreme drama of the historical imagina­ tion channeled through Gertsen, which Paperno called “Hegelian histori­ cism of a Russian bent.”43 As she explained: “Russians lived in an unjust and despotic society. Accordingly, Hegel’s language of ‘progress in the conscious­ ness of freedom’ and his optimistic historical eschatology are replaced by the idiom of repression, violence, and catastrophe. Moreover, the drama of ‘world-historic individuals’ is applied to the ‘accidental’ existence of a single individual. The result is a story of intimate life embedded in catastrophic history.”44 Utopia or apocalypse: the valence could change, but the common element of dramatic historical conclusion remained, as did the belief in its world-historical character. Igor Halfin analyzed the historical consciousness of Soviet citizens in terms of a “Russian revolutionary eschatology [that] sought to change society radically, to move society ‘forward,’ not ‘backward,’ to abolish politics, and to open a new, conf lict-free, transparent page in the story of human existence.”45 This optimistic eschatology had its double in the tragic catastrophe of history, which was how people like Akhmatova understood their lives and selves. In the post-Stalin era, with the waning of revolutionary romanticism and Stalin’s terror in the past, this Hegelian historical imagination became more prosaic. In addition, with the possibility for freer communications—in writ­ ing as well as orally in informal settings—the imagination of the intimate circle could be expanded to a public. Crucial to the public is the notion of stranger relationality. Here is how Michael Warner described it: “The devel­ opment of forms that mediate the intimate theater of stranger relationality must surely be one of the most significant dimensions of modern history.” We read public texts as addressed to us and to strangers at the same time.46

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Thus, the notion of the intelligentsia in the post-Stalin era could once again be expanded through networks of distribution of uncensored texts. Key to the rights activist narrative was the Hegelian progression from belletristic literature (poetry) to prose of the world, that is, writing that addressed social affairs. For Alekseeva, the moral roots of rights activism were found in literature. She pointed out that Soviet rights activists did not initially know much about the Western notions of human rights with which they subse­ quently became closely associated. She explained, “[Soviet] rights activists did not borrow ideas from the international human rights movement because they were poorly informed about it at the time the movement emerged in the USSR.” Moreover, “they were not a direct continuation of the Russian democratic tradition. Rather, they came out of a tradition of sympathy for ‘the little man’ (malen′kii chelovek) on which the Russian [literary] classics are based.”47 Though not directly traceable either to the inf luence of West­ ern discourse or native Russian democratic traditions, the rights activists became firmly associated with both of those areas (and made reference to them as they developed their own means of expression) because they shared notions about how individual subjects and public interventions developed. The common origin is literary reading: Andrei Amal′rik also claimed that the dissident impulse to reassert an individual “I” and to defend oppressed indi­ viduals came from Russian literature of the nineteenth century.48 Amal′rik and Alekseeva both identified the roots of dissidence, which they under­ stood in terms of telling the truth about laws and rights and protesting their violation, in literature. This (Hegelian) notion that literature lays the foundation for what fol­ lows informed their accounts of how samizdat developed. In her review of samizdat in an anonymous editorial in issue five of the Chronicle of Current Events published on December 31, 1986, Natal′ia Gorbanevskaia asserted that “During the last few years samizdat has evolved from a predominant con­ cern with poetry and fiction towards an ever greater emphasis on journalistic and documentary writing . . . samizdat, in addition to its role as a supplier of books has begun to fulfill the functions of a newspaper.”49 Gorbanevskaia was herself a poet and translator who turned to the important civic activity of editing the Chronicle bulletin. She asserted and exemplified the trajectory of development from literature to social intervention. The narrative of evolution from poetry to civic activity became fixed for a liberal description of samizdat and alternative activity. Bukovskii recalled, for example, that the “Civic Appeal” penned by protest organizers to call people out to Pushkin Square to demand glasnost in the proceedings against Siniavskii and Daniel′ circulated via networks for textual transmission already

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Figure 3. Natal′ia Gorbanevskaia, Moscow, March 1973. Credit: Archive “History of Dissidence in the USSR,” International “Memorial” Society, f. 110.

established by passing around the verses of the poets Osip Mandel′shtam and Boris Pasternak.50 The circulation of poetry, Bukovskii suggested, facilitated the social action called for in this “Civic Appeal.” This narrative also appeared in accounts written for Western audiences. In his essay sent out for tamizdat publication in 1969, Andrei Amal′rik described samizdat as central to an inde­ pendent social movement in the Soviet Union. Since the mid-1950s, he wrote, that movement had grown to include uncensored verse; Amal′rik mentioned poems from Pasternak’s Doctor Zhivago and Aleksandr Ginzburg’s poetry col­ lection Syntax (Sintaksis). This independent social movement found expression in the poetry readings at Maiakovskii Square, as well as at exhibits by inde­ pendent visual artists (Oskar Rabin, Anatolii Zverev, and others) and in bards’ performances (by Bulat Okudzhava, Aleksandr Galich, Vladimir Vysotskii) cir­ culated on cassette tape (magnitizdat).51 Amal′rik claimed that what he called the “cultural opposition” was growing into “political opposition” to the Soviet regime.52 Likewise, Mikhail Meerson-Aksenov claimed that “social samizdat” came after (and was a logical outgrowth of ) “literary samizdat,” a fact that according to him underscored the spiritual sources of dissident thought.53

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Figure 4. Aleksandr Ginzburg, Tarusa, 1976. Credit: Archive “History of Dissidence in the USSR,” International “Memorial” Society, f. 110.

Rather than Pimenov’s Information, rights activists and their historians tend to name Ginzburg’s Syntax (Moscow, 1959–60) as the start of samizdat as a sociocultural institution. For example, Daniel′ said that with Ginzburg’s collection, some Soviet citizens began to conceive of the possibility of reaching an audience directly, without censorship, by writing for samizdat, the way they formerly might have written “for the desk drawer” (pisali v stol).54 The edition became a samizdat landmark in part thanks to the high quality of the original Soviet uncensored poetry it featured—including verses from Joseph Brodsky, Gen­ rikh Sapgir, Gorbanevskaia, Okudzhava, and others who could not publish their poetry in official publications. Issues of Syntax reportedly circulated well (up to 300 copies), based on the interest they aroused among the liberal intelligentsia in Moscow and Leningrad. Ginzburg knew people in these cir­ cles, and the endorsements of Leonid Pinskii and Grigorii Pomerants helped

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spread the word of the collection. The success of such an edition—featuring high-quality poetry and no discernible political agenda—apparently helped expand that network and prime it for further sharing of samizdat texts. Ginz­ burg had plans for a fourth, ultimately unrealized, issue devoted to Lithu­ anian poetry that would have capitalized on ties with intellectual audiences in the Lithuanian republic. As in the case of many samizdat editions, Ginz­ burg’s arrest in July 1960 caused plans for further issues to be halted.55 Ginzburg’s production of literary samizdat preceded his civic activity. After returning to Moscow following his two-year incarceration, Ginzburg became involved in the activism growing around the case of Siniavskii and Daniel′. Working with friends, Ginzburg put together and distributed the samizdat White Book (Belaia kniga) in 1966. The book included the texts of the defendants’ statements in court and articles representing Soviet and West­ ern press coverage of the case.56 Ginzburg was rearrested in January 1967, with three associates, Iurii Galanskov, Aleksei Dobrovolskii, and Vera Lash­ kova; all of them were charged with “anti-Soviet agitation and propaganda” (Article 70). They were brought to court in what was called the “trial of the four” (protsess chetyrekh) a year later, between January 8 and 12, 1968. The first issue of the Moscow Chronicle of Current Events, which appeared in April 1968, covered the case. In this way, the former poetry editor Ginzburg also became a major social activist for the rights movement. Many open letters were written and circulated in samizdat concerning the Siniavskii-Daniel′ case from 1965–66, and the trial of the four. One letter from January 11, 1968, was addressed by its authors Larisa Bogoraz-Daniel′ and Pavel Litvinov in an unusual and significant way “To world public opin­ ion” (K mirovoi obshchestvennosti), rather than to Soviet officials, as was usu­ ally the case.57 The authors told their audience that the trial of Ginzburg and his friends who helped prepare the White Book could not be legal and just. They wrote: We appeal to world public opinion, and in the first place to Soviet public opinion. We appeal to everyone in whom conscience is alive and who has sufficient courage: Demand public condemnation of this shameful trial, and the punishment of those guilty of perpetrating it! Demand the release of the accused from arrest! Demand a new trial in conformity with all the legal norms and in the presence of international observers! Citizens of our country! This trial is a stain on the honour of our state and on the conscience of every one of us.58

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The appeal stands out for addressing an international public in progressive solidarity, but it also called on Soviet citizens as a public and as individuals who bore responsibility for what was happening in the country. Bogoraz and Litvinov claimed that the trial of the four resembled a witch trial, which was an “unthinkable happening in the twentieth century.”59 This letter indicates the way rights activists appealed to a progressive public, given the impossibility of real public debate within official Soviet institutions: “We are handing this appeal to the Western progressive press and ask that it be published and broadcast by radio as soon as possible. We are not sending this request to Soviet newspapers because that is hopeless.”60 As the remark about an anachronistic witch trial indicates, rights activists saw the injustices perpetrated in the Soviet Union as a throwback, an unfortunate lapse in his­ torical progress. Samizdat might, through the help of an independent and international public opinion, put the Soviet state back on the right track. The samizdat coverage of the trial of Ginzburg and his associates in the first issue of the Chronicle of Current Events in 1968 did not result in their liberation. However, it did inaugurate a remarkable run for the samizdat bul­ letin, which went on to appear regularly (aside from an interruption of a year and a half thanks to a KGB case against it), for another fifteen years.61 Mos­ cow rights activists considered their most prominent representative, Andrei Sakharov, to be a global thinker, as opposed, for example, to the Russian Slavophile Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, who thought in national terms.62 The historical imagination of rights activists implied the role of Russian intelli­ gentsia (to which they belonged) in helping correct the course of progressive history as pursued by the Soviet state. From Moscow it was much easier than anywhere else to pursue this activity, gather information from other regions and, as necessary, smuggle samizdat out through diplomatic mail pouches and through foreign visitors to the West.63

Pluralizing History in Samizdat The Thaw era prompted a reexamination of Soviet history that began inside official institutions and print with critical inquiries and new perspectives appearing in literary works and historiography.64 As Kozlov showed, stu­ dents and regular Soviet readers joined in efforts led by writers to negoti­ ate new relationships to the past through literature and factography. The work and lives of classic Russian authors like Aleksandr Pushkin and Lev Tolstoi suggested alternatives to the f lawed present—these were sites where people thought cultural traditions and ethical values might have been kept whole. This past was recuperated through the accumulation of historical facts,

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stripped of analysis and generalization; such factography could reground a sense of truth.65 That meant something to how people saw themselves and the groups with which they were associated. As Kozlov put it, “The search for historical evidence was also a quest to explain and define collective and individual identities in the midst of a challenging present.” This process evolved, however. What started as a shared collective ref lection increasingly “diverged across myriad social, ethical, cultural, educational, political, and ethnic differences.”66 By the late 1960s, the political and publishing climate had changed. Pub­ lishing critical works on Stalinist themes was impossible.67 Increasingly, writers and readers turned to samizdat for any sort of writing deemed ideologically or aesthetically divergent. In recalling the history of their times, many Soviet people remembered the suppression of the peaceful reform movement in Prague by Soviet Russian troops in August 1968. That Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia seemed to mark the end of hopes for reform and belief in the possibilities for working within the official system.68 Specific alternative groups had their own late 1960s landmarks; for example, Jewish movement activists pointed to the Six-Day War in 1967 and the aggressive anti-Israel rhetoric in the Soviet press at that time. Whatever their “stumbling block,” those who turned to dissidence and alternative culture in the late 1960s and later found an increasingly pluralized unofficial public sphere.69 Alekseeva recalled that by the early 1970s, dissidents “united in their censure of the evils of Soviet society, begin to differ in their explanations of the nature of that society and, particularly, in methods for the country’s recovery.”70 Similarly, speaking of unofficial literati and underground culture in Leningrad, Boris Ostanin and Aleksandr Kobak recalled a trajectory from the “lightning bolt” of the 1960s to the “rainbow” of unofficial culture in the 1980s.71 The rise of underground and subcultural groups was associated with the kind of disaf­ fection symbolized by the “generation of janitors and doormen” (pokolenie dvornikov i storozhei).72 Some graduates with higher education began to avoid work they felt would be compromising, and there were those who avoided institutions of higher education altogether, despite their intellectual inter­ ests. Instead, they took jobs such as boiler-room workers or night guards. These jobs afforded informal opportunities to write poetry, listen to music, and socialize with like-minded friends.73 If even the democratic dissidents evinced a “profound absence of their pre-revolutionary predecessors’ confidence in historical progress,” this was symptomatic of a broad shift in the historical imagination—and the affiliation with the state it formerly implied—in the post-Stalin era.74 Kozlov showed that by the 1950s and 1960s, letters from regular Soviet readers to Novyi mir

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showed: “less and less association with the state values, less of a desire to ‘inscribe their life into a larger narrative of the revolutionary cause.’ Under the weight of the growing historical ref lection and social skepticism  .  .  .  that narrative began to disintegrate.”75 Having lost the confidence in the pro­ gressive and unified history that underwrote the worldview of Soviet citi­ zens through the Stalin era, unofficial writers and readers of the late Soviet period began to conceive of alternative histories that ref lected their other affiliations. Such pluralism was ref lected in the samizdat series of thematic collec­ tions entitled Memory (Pamiat′, Leningrad and Moscow, No. 1–5, 1976–81). Unofficial historians with ties to rights activists compiled the issues of Mem­ ory, which attempted to fill in holes in recent history of the Soviet Union. Solzhenitsyn’s Gulag Archipelago directly inspired the editors of Memory.76 Much of their initial focus was on the history of the camps. The documents they included came from unpublished personal memoirs and personal collections. In their preface to the first issue of Memory, the anonymous editors ref lected on the fact that authoritative and institutional sources of memory—documents in official archives and libraries—were largely inacces­ sible thanks to secrecy classifications. However, they said: Our chief historical secrets are of a special kind. Millions of people are privy to these secrets. One can prepare for [the purges of ] 1937 in secret, but to put them into effect in secrecy would be difficult. There are millions of witnesses and many of them are still alive! Not one historian ever had such abundant material. Right next to us in “broad daylight,” a treasure lies waiting—just bend down and pick it up. Archives are not only governmental—they are also personal.77 Memory presented history from the bottom up. The editors, among whom Arsenii Roginskii played a leading role, sought to draw on the unpublished memoirs, oral histories, letters, and personal papers of regular people.78 The editors published a variety of documents from personal archives. Many of the people they described proved to be relatively significant literary, social, military, or religious figures, whose stories had been repressed but docu­ mented by family members and friends. Thus, these people were not quite as ordinary as the editors suggested they might be when they referred to mil­ lions of witnesses. However, these contributions helped foster critical debate about what transpired in Soviet history and what history counts. The émigré historian Mikhail Geller (Michel Heller) began his review of the first issues of Memory by recalling that Orwell was one of the few who understood the Soviet system and its ideological approach to history.79

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Figure 5. Activists associated with the historical edition Memory: A. Roginskii, Iu. Shmidt, A. Daniel′, L. Bogoraz, V. Sazhin, Ia. Nazarov, and B. Mitiashin, Leningrad, May–June 1976. Credit: Archive “History of Dissidence in the USSR,” International “Memorial” Society, f. 110.

Orwell’s clarity preceded that of many of his compatriots: in 1946, he wrote about the effect of the “Russian mythos” on English intellectual life after the war, because of which, “known facts are suppressed and distorted to such an extent as to make it doubtful whether a true history of our times can ever be written.”80 That effect in the West constituted an echo of the situation in the USSR, where, as Maksim Gor′kii (Maxim Gorky) wrote, “It is imperative that we know everything that happened in the past not as it has already been told, but as it is illuminated by the teachings of Marx-Engels-Lenin-Stalin.” Gor′kii delivered that statement as part of his conclusions regarding the responsibil­ ity of Soviet writers.81 The bounds of what could be discussed and how it might be treated changed in the Thaw era; however, that legacy of party control continued to shape historiography throughout the period, becoming much tighter in the late 1960s and by the 1970s. Using popular sources for history in Memory was a way of subverting that control to include other voices. This was another version of the factography so important in the post-Stalin era. Such attempts to pin down the evidence were considered quixotic by another samizdat author whose writings about the camp were well-known at the time and surely familiar to the Memory his­ torians. Former camp inmate Varlam Shalamov expressed far less certainty

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than Gor′kii that history was, or would be, known correctly. He spoke in one story about the “elusive nature of the evidence”: I believe in official records, I am by profession a factographer, a fac­ tologist, but what do you do if these records don’t exist? There are no personal files, no archives, no medical histories . . . The documents of our past have been destroyed, the watchtowers dismantled, the bar­ racks razed to the ground, the rusty barbed wire wound up and taken somewhere else. In the ruins of Serpantinka fireweed f lourished—the f lower of amnesia, the enemy of archives and of human memory. Did we ever really exist?82 The facts formed the horizon of history that was the background in which the human being could emerge as a significant actor or—if those facts were ignored or buried—be annihilated. Solzhenitsyn’s work exerted a tremendous inf luence by opening up the history of the Gulag and suggesting the myriad voices who could tell the tale; yet the historians working on Memory asserted their difference with Sol­ zhenitsyn in their attitude to the facts. Defining their work as strictly “sci­ entific” (nauchnaia), Dmitrii Zubarev, who began working with the group for issue no. 2 (1977), said this approach entailed the group’s rejection of Solzhenitsyn’s idea that “there is one correct path in history.” Zubarev recalled, “Pluralism at just that time became a topic of discussion in emigra­ tion: did Russia need pluralism, or was it the case that one correct—but not communist—world view was required?” Zubarev said that the group creating Memory believed “the more truths (istin), the better.”83 In terms of topics covered, the group also expanded beyond the history of victims of the Gulag. They aimed to explore more than just what the state perpetrated. As Roginskii recalled, “having left the gulag behind, we needed to understand in what direction we were going. I think we moved away from . . . so to speak, crimes of power, of course it was there at the beginning and remained always, but we moved away from this quietly toward the history of the formation of the broad Russian public.”84 The group aimed to establish a longer genealogy of independent public activity that existed already under Stalin, even if it had no chance to develop then. The series Memory showed that pluralized perspec­ tives and groups could be found even during the Stalin era. That early Soviet public, as ref lected in the issues of Memory, consisted of various strands—the intelligentsia of the 1920s was represented in N. P. Antsiferov’s memoirs, and the perspectives of monarchists were conveyed in Vasilii Shul′gin’s memoirs. They shared the pages of Memory with the writings of hard left Social Demo­ crats and religious believers.

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In addition, Memory ref lected recent events. The editors addressed this aspect of their work in a statement issued to mark a decade of the Chronicle of Current Events: The editors of the historical collection Memory believe that there is a spiritual connection between the Chronicle and our collection. The Chronicle is an informational bulletin making public those facts of our present time that according to the official point of view should not be publicized. Memory tries to fulfill an analogous task relative to the facts of the past, and the existence of the Chronicle played a significant role in making us aware of the necessity of this task. There is another impor­ tant point: it is already time to illuminate and understand the history of Opposition (Soprotivlenie) in the past 10 years. In this sense the Chronicle is not just the past but the future of Memory.85 As part of this unfolding post-Stalin history, the Memory editors published the memoirs of Revol′t Pimenov, who refused to use a pseudonym to protect himself as these editors did.86 In 1981, it was Roginskii’s turn to be arrested, a fate he did not seek.

Communities and Samizdat The pluralism of the post-Stalin underground public was ref lected in rights activist editions, but it also exceeded them. There were others who sought “new forms of self-expression and new grounds for intellectual stability” in art, in cultural activity, in music, and in ethnic and religious communi­ ties.87 One of those communities not centered in Moscow consisted of the Crimean Tatars. The Crimean Tatars had been deported en masse under Sta­ lin from Crimea in a swift and brutal action begun on May 18, 1944, having been accused as a nation of “betraying the homeland” during the occupation of the peninsula by Hitler’s troops. They were sent to the Urals, Uzbekistan, Kazakhstan, Turkmenia, and Kirghizia as special settlers, not permitted to leave. After Khrushchev’s denunciation of Stalin’s crimes at the Twentieth Party Congress in 1956, the so-called banishment regime restricting the Crimean Tatars to their sites of exile settlement was lifted, although return to Crimea was not permitted.88 Crimean Tatars had faith in the regime’s good intentions: they began petitioning Soviet officials for repatriation to Crimea, believing that Leninist norms, including fair treatment of national groups, would be restored. This campaign involved initiative groups formed in many communities through­ out the dispersed villages and towns in Central Asia, primarily Uzbekistan,

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Figure 6. Eviction of Mustafa Memedinov’s family after their return to Crimea, village of Beloye, Simferopol region, June 22, 1978. Credit: Collections of the Sakharov Center, Moscow.

where the Crimean Tatars lived.89 Representatives visited Moscow regularly to present documents to officials. By the early 1960s, Soviet officials began taking repressive measures against the community, arresting and trying Crimean Tatar activists for supposedly anti-Soviet activity. In the second half of the 1960s, members of the community no longer believed that respectful appeals to Soviet officials would be sufficient, and they began appealing directly to their fellow Soviet citizens through samiz­ dat. In June 1965, the first issue of the Crimean Tatar’s series called Informa­ tion (Informatsiia) appeared. The Crimean Tatar informational bulletin was important in a couple of ways. The historian Gul′nara Bekirova said that the bulletin Information had a powerful consolidating effect for the movement and the national consciousness of Crimean Tatars: “I think that it is completely obvious that the institutional formation of the Crimean Tatar movement was the result of issues of [the bulletin] Information. We should also note their inf luence on the process of changing the national consciousness, on the improvement of internal communicative channels.”90 Bekirova referred to Benedict Anderson as the scholar who described such processes. Alekse­ eva asserted that the bulletin Information helped inspire the Moscow Chronicle three years after the Crimean Tatar bulletin began, in 1968.91 Crimean Tatar issues became an important early area of concern for rights activists: people

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from outside the community, notably Aleksei Kosterin and Petr Grigorenko, advocated on their behalf beginning in 1967.92 By reporting on the efforts and repressions of Crimean Tatar representatives, the bulletin Information helped inform members of its own community as well as the larger Soviet public.93 Through samizdat circulation it eventually reached the international public. That said, the circulation and preservation of the Crimean Tatar bulle­ tin Information were far from a sure thing. Having begun relatively early, working outside Moscow, the Crimean Tatar activists could not achieve the same methodical appearance and handling of issues of their Information bul­ letin as would be seen in the case of the Moscow Chronicle, which began in 1968. Moscow rights activists reported on Crimean Tatar problems begin­ ning in issue 2 of the Chronicle. Issue 12 of the Chronicle (February 28, 1970) reported on the trial of Mustafa Dzhemilev, accused of producing, among other documents, issue 69 of the Crimean Tatar Information bulletin.94 M. N. Guboglo and S. M. Chervonnaia, who published their history of the Crimean Tatar movement in the 1990s, lamented the state of the archive—manuscript materials were scattered around collections in the Crimea, and they feared that many documents related to the movement’s activities in the 1960s–1970s were lost. Issues of the Crimean Tatar bulletin Information, which had been “systematically produced . . . in typescript copies, sometimes by xerox and rotoprint in relatively solid print runs,” were not collected all together in one repository. While it was known that there had been hundreds of issues, it was impossible to establish complete information about the edition (and all the information it contained on the movement). The richest archive, they said, was at the house of Dzhemilev in Bakhchisarai, which hosted the offices of the Organization of the Crimean Tatar National movement.95 Even as it addressed the history of Crimean Tatars, issues of Information chronicled the unfolding events of the movement in the 1960s through the 1980s. However, if issues of the Moscow Chronicle were well preserved, providing a fine record of events as seen and recorded from the Moscow rights activist perspective, the possibility of history for the Crimean Tatar movement continued to suf­ fer from the marginalization of the people.96 Issue No. 69 of the Crimean Tatar bulletin was titled Mournful Informa­ tion (Traurnaia informatsiia). It covered events between May 15 and June 1, 1968, reviewing the “tragic events of repression of the representatives of the Crimean Tatar people in Moscow.” The bulletin was addressed at the top of the title page, “To the Central Committee of the CPSU, the Supreme Soviet of the USSR, the Council of Ministers of the USSR, Public Organi­ zations, public persons, and the whole Soviet people”; its samizdat circula­ tion effected this address to the wider public. The main text opened with a

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lengthy and rhetorically elevated description of the historical time, studded with words in all capitals and exclamation points: “The twentieth century— the century of PROGRESS, a century under the banner of the tempestuous development of technology and world culture. The century that witnessed the first f lying ships and the first f lights to the cosmos! The century of cyber­ netics! The CENTURY, that heard the wondrous sounds of the harmonies of Rakhmaninov, Stravinskii, Shostakovich, and Prokof′ev! . . . The century of the titans of human thought—Lenin and Einstein!”97 The first page of the text included a list of great achievements in culture and science followed up by reminders of the war and atrocities that also marked the century, including Stalin’s cult of personality and its millions of innocent victims. Authors invoked the year 1968 as the “International Year for the Defense of Human Rights” and then as the “Year of Human Rights in the Soviet Union,” like the first issues of the Chronicle of Current Events, started in April of that same year. This appeal to a broad progressive public in the USSR made a claim for the significance of events affecting the Crimean Tatar nation within the register of major moments (in this case, mass atroci­ ties rather than great achievements) of the twentieth century.98 Crimean Tatars aimed to assert the truth of a history that mattered greatly for them in terms of their present possibilities for living as a community with a right to their culture. Most Soviet citizens were, by official design, ignorant of the problems they faced. Editors of the informational bulletins aimed to show that their specific history mattered as part of Soviet and world his­ tory. This included the 1944 events that, as the writer in Mournful Information told readers, resulted in the death of 46 percent of their people during and shortly after deportation.99 Despite official suppression of the history and ongoing repressions, the Crimean Tatar nation, as bulletin editors insisted, remained a legitimate part of the Soviet people.100 The bulletin editors also reported on advocacy activity, and they regularly reviewed the intransigent problems they faced with the Soviet government. For example, editors of Information no. 82, from January 1, 1969, noted the discrepancy between cur­ rent official statements about “the happy life of the family of nations sharing equal rights in the USSR,” and the continued denial of the rights of Crimean Tatars to live on the historic lands from which they had been deported.101 Their reporting made plain the gaping contradiction between official Soviet rhetoric about its leading role in progressive world history and the continued discrimination faced by Crimean Tatars. The presentation of history and its mode of address differed in a later Crimean Tatar journal titled Effort (K″asevet) (No. 1–, 1984– until after 1994). Issue No. 1, from 1984, contained sections on issues, events, and history and

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ethnography of Crimean Tatars aiming to “bring to light and provide a foun­ dation for the concrete historical roots of the Crimean Tatar people.” A final section presented poetry in the Crimean Tatar language. The rest of the jour­ nal was in Russian. The history in this journal was oriented more specifically to Crimean Tatar events and audiences. It appears designed to strengthen the identity and knowledge of members of the community. This mattered because Crimean Tatar language, culture, and history had been systemati­ cally suppressed among communities of deportees, and “Historical works were rewritten and new ones added in which the history of the Crimean Tartars was falsified from ancient times until the present.”102 Mosques and other traces of their former life in Crimea were destroyed under Stalin. Although the tone of Effort was less exhortative than the bulletin Informa­ tion, the graphic design aimed to catch the eye, with red ink and decorative elements created from asterisks and other typographical characters.103 Two issues of this journal surfaced in the archive (reportedly many more were produced).104 However, it was not picked up for reporting or reprinting in other sources. Samizdat publications for the use of a specific community or group could slip from the wider public view unless and until historians find an interest in recording their existence. Such a loss of part of the history of alternative activity in the late Soviet era occurred with Belarusian samizdat journals, which were not reported in the Moscow Chronicle and not found in the expected repositories, biblio­ graphical lists, and accounts. Unlike Crimean Tatar and other communities, Belarusian activists appear not to have had connections with the rights activ­ ists in Moscow. Instead, a record of these journals (including eight titles for the period through 1986) came from the Modern History Archive in Minsk. In an afterword to their 1998 catalog of the former uncensored press, Aleh Dziarnovic asserted that this record showed that “Belarus has a tradition of ‘samizdat’ press and that the Belarusian society ranks the freedom of expres­ sion among its highest values. If today newspapers in Belarus defend them­ selves from being closed by the authorities, we clearly understand that they are worth being supported notwithstanding their political orientations.” The history of free press matters, he wrote, because people struggled for the “free word” already in the 1960s, 1970s, and 1980s, when the political situation was repressive. This provided “the ground for the development of today’s independent Belarusian journalism and book publishing.”105 Samizdat of the Jewish national movement proved, by contrast, to be well documented. Jewish activists worked in Moscow and Leningrad, mak­ ing connections and communications easier, and a research center in Israel set about documenting all their samizdat activity.106 The journal Culture

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(Hebrew: Tarbut 1–13, 1975–79) was designed to appeal most of all to mem­ bers of the Soviet Jewish community. The cover featured large (handwritten or collaged) Hebrew letters spelling out “Tarbut” to signal its relevance to a Jewish audience (although most Soviet Jewish readers did not read much if any Hebrew). This graphic sign mattered as a symbol of their shared cultural heritage. The first issue of Culture (1975) featured a statement by Martin Buber that must have seemed timely to some Soviet Jewish readers of the day, even though Buber wrote it for a syllabus for Jewish youth in Germany in 1932. Buber wrote, “Much has disappeared from Jewry in the past one hundred and fifty years, but nothing is so ominous as the disappearance of the col­ lective memory and the passion for handing [it] down.”107 Jews in the Euro­ pean Russian portion of the Soviet Union generally assimilated into Soviet culture. While many participated in rights activism, a smaller group actively identified with Jewish national interests.108 Therefore, the task of the Culture editors was to resist the suppression of Jewish culture and history by the regime and to reconstitute Jewish community by encouraging their readers to learn about Jewish history and traditions. Issue 11 (1978) of Culture directly addressed Jewish history: the first sec­ tion of the issue was headed by the question, “So Do We Have a History?” The editor Aleksandr Bol′shoi translated Haim Hazaz’s story “The Sermon” from Hebrew into Russian for the journal. In the story we learn little about Hazaz’s main character Yudka except that he was “a man of few words” who rarely spoke in public. Yudka has great difficulty articulating his thoughts for his comrades in the Haganah, the Jewish paramilitary organization of Brit­ ish Mandate Palestine. The men of the Haganah portrayed in the story have assembled around the end of the 1920s or early 1930s for the meeting of an unspecified committee. Showing visible signs of nervousness, Yudka begins to speak before them: “I didn’t come here to give a speech. I just wanted to say something important. What I mean is, I really shouldn’t say anything at all . . . do you know what it’s like to have to stand up and speak when you shouldn’t?”109 Yudka’s feeling that he should not speak continues to haunt him through­ out the story as he haltingly addresses the group. The character’s problems resemble what Nancy Fraser described as the difficulties of those who feel alienated from an established public. They typically do not observe the con­ ventional style of discourse or agree with already established understandings about which topics merit discussion and how they should be approached. Those so excluded tend to experience their wants and needs as inchoate: “Subordinate groups sometimes cannot find the right voice or words to

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express their thoughts,” Fraser noted.110 In the case of Yudka, he strains to say that he “object[s] to Jewish history,” comprised, as he provocatively char­ acterizes it, of a “mob of beaten, groaning, weeping, begging Jews.” He expresses his view that the Jewish people need to “live in its own land and control its own fate” in order to have a real history. Although his Zionism might not surprise the group, his objection to conventional notions of Jewish history presumably does. The audience appears generally sympathetic to Yudka’s haltingly expressed argument, but its sharply polemical and idiosyn­ cratically philosophical aspects remain alienating to them. In the end, Yudka appears still “muddled from so much speech and emotion.” In conclusion, the committee leader advises Yudka, “Say whatever you want.” But, he tells him, “Just go easy on the philosophy.”111 The first problem for those seeking to express new or unorthodox perspec­ tives on history, literature, or any other subject in the early post-Stalin era had to do with finding an official outlet that would accept their intervention as legitimate. Failing that, they sought a way—as Pimenov and Aleksandr Ginzburg did—to produce and circulate their work through uncensored samizdat. While this helped bring about the alternative public in the late Soviet era, the problem of dominant and competing perspectives within that sphere became more important to its function as the system developed.112 After all, the official Soviet public was not a public sphere in Habermas’s sense. Fraser valued Habermas’s model precisely because it insisted on a dis­ tinction between the public and state control, even if that distinction was not historically or necessarily absolute.113 The public envisioned by Soviet rights activists had liberal features. Questions of rights were conceived as autonomous from politics—they were a moral and legal issue—and they were universal. Literature had a legitimate function from this perspective in setting up the real public business of guaranteeing rights. Rights activists believed that people had a right to express religious beliefs or national cul­ ture or their aesthetic tastes, for that matter. However, in those cases, rights activists thought of what people expressed as a matter of private concern. This distinction stands out sharply in the activism associated with the case of authors Siniavskii and Daniel′. Whether their works were well written was not the issue, insisted Aleksandr Esenin-Vol′pin, who helped craft a strict legalist approach to their case.114 That legalist view became dominant among rights activists, but other considerations—of style and perceived quality— mattered to literary nonconformists, for example. This process of strategic filtering by rights activist gatekeepers—combined with their privileged channel of communication out to foreign press and amplification—meant that groups with other interests found themselves

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in a subordinate position. The Jewish activists associated with Culture were addressing a different public of Soviet Jewish readers, and they had their own goals. They thought it was important to distinguish their efforts from those of rights activists. This was also a strategic calculation—they were concerned about official efforts to suppress rights activity, which the Soviet authorities regarded as political and threatening. The editors of Culture did not want their readers to be afraid to pick up the journal: “Don’t be scared, friend, of the typescript pages. Don’t be scared of the non-standard look of this edition. Don’t be scared of the words ‘Jewish Journal.’”115 Culture activists struggled to establish their space within the alternative public sphere.116 Those writing and reading samizdat devoted to various kinds of culture did not necessarily think of the constitution of the self in universal terms— there were Jewish selves, Baptist selves, and Russian Orthodox selves. Though such affiliations could take various hybrid forms, these cultural identities mattered for many. It is important to bear in mind that audiences and goals for samizdat editions differed. They were produced by a set of counter-public groups making up the underground public sphere. Addressing these groups with the concerns and the style proper to them helped them come into being as networks within which people could imagine themselves differently.117 Moreover, signs of this difference, including conf lict or tension between these alternative public groups could indicate the more robust function of a pluralized underground public after 1968, rather than being necessarily evidence of its dysfunction.118

Subcultural History A broad view of samizdat and culture includes subcultural editions.119 Music fandom for unauthorized forms of music, particularly the music of bards and rock music, occupied a “gray zone” on the margins between official and underground culture.120 At the same time, scholars understand late socialist subculture as a species of the global counterculture.121 This was certainly true in the case of rock music fans, whose enthusiasm for Western, especially Anglo-American, groups and musicians helped fuel a subculture that in its developed form produced remarkable Soviet rock bands.122 Soviet authori­ ties did not regard music as posing the same threat as literature and writ­ ing, although they did attempt to curb Western inf luence and perceived immorality.123 The creation of a subcultural community around rock music is linked to its distinctive ways of facilitating alternative Soviet self hood in the 1970s and beyond. Rock journals in samizdat show the shifts in historical imagination

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at work among members of this group, too. Samizdat rock journals (Soviet zines) became a widespread and sustained phenomenon in the 1980s. They provided a place for people to recognize, express, and develop the history and values of the rock scene. This was an important and complex task, like the establishment of a domestic Soviet rock sound, because of the inf luence of Western music. Igor′ Smirnov, an inf luential journalist writing for samizdat rock publications of the time, suggested that the inf luence of the West posed a more existential threat than did official repression and attempts by authori­ ties to tame Soviet rockers. In the article “The New Hesiod,” published in the Moscow samizdat rock journal The Ear (Ukho 1–11, 1982–83), in issue 4 in 1983, Smirnov wrote that he and his Soviet readers knew all about how things are supposed to progress—there is one time for hippies and a subsequent time for the Sex Pistols. We know all about the times in the West, wrote Smirnov, but “about ourselves, we don’t know a blasted thing” (ne znaem ni khrena).124 Smirnov set out to establish a domestic rock and counterculture history. He described an initial period associated with Soviet hippies coinciding with the introduction of Western music and the founding of Soviet rock bands who were merely imitative. Smirnov asserted that the early achievements in the formation of a Soviet rock music scene were apparent by 1980. By that time, it was possible to see the effects of the first rock concerts organized on a semi-official basis and of the rock festivals that had taken place in Tartu and Tallinn.125 Most crucially, Smirnov wrote, Soviet groups began to have the experience of composing and performing their own independently created songs rather than second­ ary or imitative versions of Western hits.126 Soviet groups like Aquarium and Zoo (Zoopark) embodied this new domestic creativity in rock music. Subse­ quently, the rise of Soviet punk, which Smirnov preferred to call “new wave,” brought about a convergence of more elite and high cultural interests with a broadly popular rock aesthetic. In part, that more popular spirit of rock fandom grew out of enthusiasm for hard rock, especially the band Deep Purple, which appealed to students and working-class listeners as well as more sophisticated music fans.127 The musician Aleksei Kozlov noted the importance of Deep Purple for the “democratization” of rock in the USSR.128 Smirnov wrote about the geographic spread of this new original Soviet rock culture and the spontaneous energy it embodied: The “new wave” is putting out shoots from Lvov to Magadan. The pro­ cess is so out of control that the author is not capable of naming all the new groups. Let’s just say that the show by “Aquarium” in Arkhangelsk last year gave a start to a whole f lowering of groups, but we hardly know about them.

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Again, gradually, the revival of centers of socializing and the exchange of information (recordings) is happening. First of all, this is occurring in rock clubs and the clubs of music lovers, and it is occur­ ring independently of what the [official] organizers of these clubs want. They serve to bring together those who play and those who don’t play in one collective. On this fertile ground grow fruits such as the samizdat journals Roxy and The Ear. These “new people” are pro­ ducing their own journalism, their own psychology, and almost their own philosophy.129 Smirnov’s description shows how a sense of a history that feels like one’s own—whether one is a musician or a fan of Soviet rock—arose with new forms of socializing and communication, fostering a sense of self among those Smirnov called “new people.” In fact, Smirnov’s article about this renaissance came at a time when official repression was increasing.130 How­ ever, the groundswell of Soviet rock subculture about which Smirnov wrote did provide the basis for the tremendous growth in the late 1980s, even before perestroika, when rock clubs and samizdat journals popped up all over the USSR.131 In her discussion of “dropping out” as a broad term for countercultural behavior in late socialism, Juliane Fürst remarked on two aspects of the phenomenon that are relevant for exploration of the role of samizdat in the present study. First, she noted that doing something alternative or countercultural depends on the mainstream culture that sets the norms and standards one might transgress.132 In this way, too, samizdat communication depended on the official Soviet print establishment as the foil that made it significant. Samizdat grew out of boundary pushing within post-Stalinist official publi­ cations, and it was driven by the need evident already there to reassess history, the authority of the party, and the role of individuals and groups within Soviet society and world historical narratives. As samizdat developed into a system in the late 1960s and beyond, the imagination of history and group identities, along with the ways people might forge their sense of self and connections with their fellow citizens, became pluralized. The state and a Hegelian notion of world history no longer provided the only framework according to which Soviet citizens might make sense of their lives and behavior. This has relevance for a second important observation Fürst made: she wrote that dropping out required “agency and subjective intention.”133 Peo­ ple decided that doing things differently meant something to them. With samizdat, people read or wrote texts that were not authorized by the state,

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and while this did not have to mean they were opposing the state (most were not), it did mean they located the source of authority and meaning else­ where. This source might be construed as something pre-existing (a national identity or religious creed, for example). This validation was also projected and cocreated by the public among whom the relevant samizdat texts cir­ culated. As Warner wrote, the projection of a social imaginary entailed by publics is social poeisis—it is the creation of social meaning via the circula­ tion of texts.134 A public is “poetic world-making.”135 Those worlds in Soviet samizdat were related to one another and to the official culture that helped generate them, but the character of those worlds—which may also be con­ veyed through a style of behavior or expression—and the particular relations pertaining among any of them, are not a given and need to be explored. Barbara Martin, who studied the work around the samizdat serial col­ lection Memory, also wrote about the dissident historians Aleksandr Sol­ zhenitsyn, Anton Antonov Ovseenko, Roy Medvedev, Zhores Medvedev, and Aleksandr Nekrich. She proposed that dissident historiography consti­ tuted a genre defined by its function of “truth-telling” and its reliance on oral testimonies and uncensored memoirs.136 Such works were hybrid creations formally, combining aspects of historical scholarship, autobiography, docu­ mentary, historical novel, and political pamphlet. Martin found their com­ mon feature to be their commitment to truth-telling, which animated these works with a moral purpose.137 I want to pick up on the pragmatics of this truth-telling function, which may more broadly define the samizdat mode of existence of the text. The role of testimony—oral accounts and memoirs— in dissident historiography points to the way truth was substantiated; it was told by people whose personal perspective and voice distinguished what they were saying from official, authoritative, and clichéd discourse. The telling was done from one person to another, extended through samizdat public circulation to the many others among whom the reader imagined herself.138 As we shall see, the voice that speaks to others (through the mediation of samizdat) provides an index of the search for authentic self hood and social­ ity based on truth, however that truth was conceived.

C ha p te r 2

Giving Voice to Truth in Samizdat

Chapter 1 explored how the sense of history shaping lives and giving meaning to actions for Soviet citizens entailed imagining a unified history. We saw that in the post-Stalin era, this gave way to a plurality of new imaginations of shared history, while commu­ nity perspectives that engaged with their specific histories gained traction through samizdat. That is, samizdat facilitated the change and pluralization of imaginations of historical time. This chapter considers the imagination of social space as expressed by samizdat voices. Voices can endow the sense of social space with varying characteristics. For example, lyric voices tend to create a sense of intimacy, whereas public voices advertise the fact that they address broad groups, including strangers who share the perspective and inter­ ests of the text.1 Moreover, the texts belonging to different public groups— the collection of what Fraser called “counterpublics”—exhibit their specific styles. Such distinctive styles help facilitate the world-making function of the public groups; they participate in the creation of divergent and overlapping social worlds.2 Such style informs a group’s “voice” or range of voices. In that sense, the plurality of groups with distinctive voices (expressing varied styles and concerns) that emerged in samizdat by the 1970s widened and diversified the social room available in the late Soviet underground. This underground emerged from the general Soviet social imaginary rather than as a realm entirely separate from it. Because of this overlap, much samizdat activity was 51

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tolerated. Moreover, when the Soviet government cracked down on rights activists in the early 1980s, there was still space for some activities. Creating social space for truth to be told in the post-Stalin era was a dif­ ficult and important task given the specific characteristics of Soviet society under Stalin. Claude Lefort described the distinctive features of the totalitar­ ian society under Stalin, which relied on the use of terror and the camps. Crucially, the Soviet state by ideological design collapsed any distinction between the state and civil society.3 As we saw in the introduction, Soviet leaders like Iurii Andropov cast this lack of space between the party and the people as a great achievement; he lauded that unity in his 1977 speech celebrating Feliks Dzerzhinskii. By then, Andropov felt the need to address dissidents, whom he sought to delegitimize.4 Under Stalin, the unity of the party and the people was expressed by the near-total collapse of any dis­ tance between what state discourse would say and the reality it purported to express. A corollary identity between what the state said and what people could say characterized the totalitarian state.5 That state allowed no room for other perspectives or dissenting voices. The situation changed with the Thaw. The speeches at the Twentieth and Twenty-Second congresses, in 1956 and 1961, and the changes they intro­ duced, helped expose the gap between what the party’s discourse said and what Stalin and his administration did. As a master figure, Stalin concealed contradictions between state discourse and the reality it claimed to rep­ resent. After he was gone, his legacy presented problems the party could not ignore.6 The party’s official statements “made criticism of Stalin and exploration of terror—the two most important themes explored during de-Stalinization—a legitimate focus of public discussion and an obligatory theme for Soviet literature and historiography.”7 Having mobilized citizens to aid in this process, the party gave mixed signals and exercised uneven control, which helped generate unofficial discussions. The samizdat public sphere emerged as an extension of the processes unfolding in Soviet society and a result of the tensions it produced, rather than as a fully independent reaction to oppression.8 Bittner cited the independent reaction to the arrest and trial of Siniavskii and Daniel′ in 1965–66 as the point at which the image of a monolithic public led by the party could no longer be maintained.9 As Andropov’s remarks showed, the party persisted in its attempts to claim that the only legitimate authority f lowed through itself.10 Nevertheless, it had unleashed the possibility for people to express the voice of conscience as they heard it, including from outside the bounds of state discourse. It was important for people to tell the truth. As was pointed out in Chapter 1, this “truth-telling” function was definitive for Soviet samizdat.11

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Lefort described the changes in late Soviet society in terms of creating new space in the Soviet social imagination after Stalin. Social divisions in Soviet society, which existed but were masked under Stalin’s rule, widened after his death into a perceptible fracture between the state and the people. In that context, the modes of contestation that emerged after Stalin’s death acted to “open up a space beyond the limits of power and outside the imagi­ nary barriers around the Soviet social world,” wrote Lefort. He specifically mentioned the spaces of law, religion, and national identity.12 We should add to this list the spaces of culture—poetry, philosophy, and even music—that marked out new vistas of expression associated with alternative values and possibilities for self-formation. These spaces implied authority located out­ side the party’s discourse, though not necessarily opposed to the Soviet state. The voices animating these alternative spaces distinguished themselves from the homogenized repetition of the state’s authoritative discourse, which had come to dominate much of the official press.13 Inasmuch as that authoritative discourse was clichéd and depersonalized, independent voices could mark their distance from it by being personal or distinctive, by speaking about lived human experience, and by appealing to specific religious, national, or other cultural forms of expression. A critical look at the “voice” in samizdat considers the contradictions within this key term. Viktor Krivulin wrote of samizdat, “This history starts from the voice and not from the manuscript.”14 Krivulin was thinking of the poet Osip Mandel′shtam’s assertion from decades previously: “I alone work from the voice.”15 On the one hand, the voice evokes the alternative authority (of the poetic Word [Slovo], in Mandel′shtam’s case) associated with the indepen­ dent social space it helps create. This authority might come from the person’s ability to testify to realms of knowledge or experience unacknowledged by the state. Such authority could be underwritten by the speaker’s willingness to risk bodily harm due to speaking out without authorization. Mandel′shtam’s imprisonment and death in a Stalinist camp provided a compelling example. However, the consequences need not be so dire to establish the authenticity of the speaker whose independent expression somehow diverges from statesanctioned norms.16 On the other hand, the presence implied by the voices of samizdat was mediated. Moreover, the media of samizdat were both obtru­ sively specific and obviously inadequate. The fragile and unstable samizdat typescript was emblematic in this regard.17 Thus, the medium began to sig­ nify via this poor materiality. Again, by the logic of a culture of the Word that inherited Christian paradigms, the spirit best resides in the humblest physical vehicle. Samizdat thus embodied for many readers a meaningful ambiva­ lence between poor matter and spiritual (moral, cultural, or aesthetic) truth.

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This mediation of voices was essential to create the compelling and authen­ ticating contrast of matter and spirit. At the same time, the mediation made the text public and expanded the social space within which the text circu­ lated. As a public text, samizdat was directed to strangers as well as known interlocutors. The active engagement of those audiences with the text was necessary to give it life. In this way, voices—in the plural—marked out new spaces of sociality created by samizdat circulation.

Thawed Voices The emergence of samizdat voices with alternative styles and forms of expression taking on new topics in samizdat grew out of trends in official Soviet society. Although the foreign interests did not initiate or lead the development of samizdat, the new possibilities for publishing abroad—in tamizdat—afforded greater possibilities for imagining spaces outside official discourse and giving voice to them. Western publishing and audiences played a role, together with the actions of officials and of Soviet writers and readers themselves, in making it possible for samizdat voices to create alternative or underground social spaces within the Soviet Union after Stalin. The approved publications of Il′ia Erenburg in this period help illustrate the way samizdat grew out of trends and tensions in Soviet society. His novella The Thaw (Ottepel′), published in Banner (Znamia) in May 1954, pro­ vided the label widely used for the early post-Stalin era. Erenburg also wrote about the new ability to speak out, showing how the force of such speech depended on the silence of the past. While people had to be silent under Stalin, now they could speak; indeed, it was a moral responsibility to do so.18 The relationship of speech to silence was not simple. In his popular and inf luential memoirs, People, Years, Life (Liudi, gody, zhizn′), which appeared published in serial format in New World (Novyi mir) in the early 1960s, Eren­ burg wrote about topics and people that had disappeared or never been allowed before in Soviet print. In one of the most controversial passages, Erenburg wrote about the atmosphere of 1937–38, the height of the great purges under Stalin. It seemed that the “live human voice” was muted, he said; “There was much that we could not confide even to those closest to us; all we could do was to press the hands of our friends with particular warmth now and then, for we were all involved in the great conspiracy of silence.”19 If this suggests that the enforced silence of the Stalin era gave way to free speech after Stalin, Erenburg’s case shows that the reality was more compli­ cated.20 Party leaders attacked Erenburg, lambasting his “theory of silence” and alleged hypocrisy.21 Moreover, Erenburg’s memoirs hardly amounted to

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a full accounting of that history. Nevertheless, even mentioning taboo topics and names meant much to readers. Kozlov described Erenburg’s account of 1937–38 as “laconically understated,” although readers’ responses showed that such elliptical references still mattered a great deal to people eager to hear something more than stilted bureaucratic accounts about the purges.22 Erenburg’s brief mention of the arrests and deaths of Mandel′shtam, Perets Markish, Babel′ and other intellectuals marked the first time their names had appeared with approbation in Soviet press in more than twenty years. Readers took notice.23 Not just speaking on certain topics, but how one spoke mattered. In this same chapter of his memoirs on 1937–38, Erenburg explained that at that time his prose had become impoverished, standardized, conventional. He turned to verse as a means for expressing what could not be said. In verse he wrote “about things which I could not and did not want to tell any­ one.” Thus, in a poem of 1938, which Erenburg recalled in his memoirs, he pleaded, “Let me not think too long, silence that voice, I pray, that memory should scatter, that grief should break asunder.” Not known for his poetry, Erenburg nevertheless turned to the poetic form for the ambiguous and intimate confession he later offered publicly to late Soviet readers. He elabo­ rated in poetic form the silence of the time, alluding to things which could not (and were not then) directly expressed.24 Poetry served Erenburg as an alternative for language that had failed. It also provided a means of address­ ing what had happened that pointed the way forward: “Poetry became for me a laborious rarefied atmosphere, a purification. By sensing the impor­ tance of the single word I perceived both the link with the past and the real­ ity of the future, I felt the details of life, and this helped me to overcome despair,” he wrote.25 In the early 1960s, people turned to poetry on a mass scale. Official publica­ tions and audience reactions of the time suggest that people believed poetry had the capability to renew the whole society. Among popular officially pub­ lished poets, Evgenii Evtushenko addressed formerly taboo topics, and Andrei Voznesenskii pushed the boundaries of poetic form.26 But poetry helped cre­ ate and expand underground channels of communication, too. People passed around manuscript copies of repressed verses by Mandel′shtam and Marina Tsvetaeva, and Boris Pasternak’s new verses from the novel Doctor Zhivago circulated in samizdat beginning in the mid-1950s.27 Initially, Pasternak still hoped for the official publication of his novel. He shared the manuscript and poems with friends and potential editors, expecting eventual approval. After being rejected by New World, the most liberal official outlet, Pasternak sent the manuscript abroad; Giangiacomo

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Figure 7. “Star of the Nativity” by Boris Pasternak, samizdat copy of verses from Doctor Zhivago. Credit: Archive “History of Dissidence in the USSR,” International “Memorial” Society, f. 186, op. 1, d. 20.

Feltrinelli published it in Milan in 1957.28 The announcement of the awarding of the Nobel Prize in Literature to Pasternak in October 1958 prompted a furious response from Soviet officials. Most Soviet readers had not yet seen the enormous novel although this did not stop them from criticizing it (as expressed in a cliché of the time, “I have not read it, but I will say . . .” [ne chital, no skazhu]). However, the slim set of poems from the novel circu­ lated relatively widely.29 In this case, official attention, while negative, helped stimulate interest. Authorities forced Pasternak to refuse the Nobel prize, and they com­ pelled other Soviet writers to denounce him. Though they did not put Pas­ ternak on trial, the vicious campaign against him, combined with his already fragile health, led to his death on May 30, 1960. For all its ugliness, the Pas­ ternak case played out quite differently from the repression of writers under Stalin; he was not tried, not imprisoned, and not executed.30 Western atten­ tion to Pasternak’s work, while it irritated Soviet officials, likely helped shield him from worse persecution. In addition, the new possibility of publishing

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in tamizdat, which Pasternak’s novel helped show, marked a new phase in which underground circulation and tamizdat publication for uncensored writing became thinkable. This was certainly the case for Siniavskii, who worked on Pasternak’s poetry and who, along with Daniel′, sent uncensored works abroad for publication. Siniavskii, like many other writers of the time, took inspiration from Pasternak’s objection to official clichés and high-f lown rhetoric. Pasternak’s character Zhivago expressed the idea that some forms of silence offer refuge and refreshment: “How intense can be the longing to escape from the emptiness and dullness of human verbosity, to take refuge in nature, apparently so inarticulate, or in the wordlessness of long, grinding labour, of sound sleep, of true music, or of a human understanding rendered speechless by emotion!”31 Siniavskii also described Pasternak’s use of popu­ lar phrases as part of the antidote to such empty rhetoric.32 In Doctor Zhivago, Pasternak strove for a directness of style that would communicate in a new, less rhetorical or formal way with readers.33 Lazar Fleishman said the “simplicity” of the Zhivago poems expressed “a new intimacy and sincerity.”34 The poem “Hamlet” exemplifies the use of direct syntax in a poem that embraces a plain-spoken style: “I love your stubborn purpose, / I consent to play my part.”35 At the same time, the Zhivago poems show a new use of Christian themes and forms, which Pasternak adopted after the war. As he developed the poem “Hamlet” in late 1946, Pasternak added the parallel between Hamlet and Christ: “Abba, Father, if it be possi­ ble, / Let this cup pass from me.” The turn to Christianity by Pasternak was new, inf luenced by what had been a temporary relaxation of the regime’s attitude to the Russian Orthodox Church during the war. Officials reversed this trend after the war, and Khrushchev’s administration cracked down on religion. However, in this rediscovered spiritual realm Pasternak found uni­ versal and nondogmatic ethical alternatives to Stalinism.36 Publication abroad facilitated another remarkable instance of a new use of the voice in the post-Stalin era. In her poem Requiem, Anna Akhmatova expressed the experience of the people—particularly women—during the Stalin-era purges. Adopting an epic scope unlike her earlier more strictly lyri­ cal poetry, Akhmatova described the moment when she accepted the role of someone who could commemorate and communicate the experience of those women waiting outside prisons for news of their loved ones: In the terrible years of the Yezhov era, I spent seventeen months on prison lines in Leningrad. One day somebody “identified” me. Then a woman with blue lips who was standing behind me and who, of course, had never in her life heard my name before, awoke from the

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torpor normal to all of us and breathed a question in my ear (everyone spoke in whispers there): “Can you describe this?” And I said: “I can.” Then something like a smile slipped across what once had been her face.37 Akhmatova added this preface in 1957 to the other parts of the poem written between 1935 and 1940. She assembled the parts together on paper for the first time in 1962, when Solzhenitsyn’s publication of One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich in New World stoked unprecedented hopes for new possibili­ ties to publish in the Soviet Union.38 Although Solzhenitsyn’s novella, as it turned out, indicated a limit to those possibilities rather than wider horizons, Akhmatova realized her intention to publish Requiem by agreeing to have it published abroad. In this way, the world saw how her poem models the intimate interaction between the poet and the people that helps forge a new public bond in speaking out. Akhmatova’s text as written down, circulated and printed abroad, trans­ formed oral communication into a public text. The exchange recorded in the preface had been a whispered conversation. In addition, prior to the early 1960s, Akhmatova communicated the verses from Requiem orally to just a handful of close friends for preservation in memory. Michael Warner commented on the difference between public and lyric speech and the contamination of pri­ vate and public modes in a way that is relevant for Akhmatova’s poem: “Pub­ lic speech differs from both lyric and sermonic eloquence by construing its addressee as its circulation, not its private apprehension. The most private, inward, intimate act of reading [or, I would add, oral communication—AK] can be converted by the category of the public into a form of stranger relation­ ality.”39 Tamizdat publication—and samizdat circulation—fostered this new public relation whose truth and authenticity were underwritten by personal experience and the oral communication recorded in the poem. Akhmatova mixed poetry and historical witnessing in ways that underscore the impor­ tance of orality—personal testimony linked to the body of the speaker—for the samizdat public. Having been there, Akhmatova could convey the tragic dehumanization caused by the women’s suffering: she wrote of “what had once been” her interlocutor’s face. Akhmatova used her poetic gifts to help restore the humanity of the woman (and, by extension, of all the people who thus suffered), commemorating their experience in a poem shared with read­ ers that makes them all in some sense witnesses to the event.

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Akhmatova’s companion Lidiia Chukovskaia provided another type of testimony, recording Akhmatova’s daily life and oral statements. On March 4, 1956, according to Chukovskaia, Akhmatova said, “Now the prisoners are returning, and two Russias will look each other in the eye: the one that pro­ nounced sentences, and the one that served them. A new epoch has begun.”40 Apropos of this famous pronouncement, Paperno commented on Akhmato­ va’s desire to see a clear division in the community between persecutors and victims as well as a clean temporal break between the corrupted past and the redeemed present. The reality, Paperno noted, proved to be messier.41 Samiz­ dat helped travel the distance between epochs and social divisions, spanning those with knowledge of the purges and Gulag camps and those without direct knowledge. Negotiating those divisions involved foreign readers and publishers as well as Soviet readers who copied and shared texts of testimony. The line dividing those who stayed in the USSR from those who emigrated abroad constituted another painful dividing line laid bare by the epigraph to Akhmatova’s poem.42 However, the laying bare of such divisions, traversed and negotiated however imperfectly by samizdat and tamizdat, helped foster a new sense of a shared social space established by this uncensored commu­ nication. Community entailed divisions, but these divisions encompassed in one space of communication meant it was now possible to recognize and express different points of view.43 Akhmatova’s version of the voice of the intellectual did not appeal to everyone. Representative of the older generation of poets formed before Soviet life, Akhmatova embodied a relatively traditional model of the poet or intellectual whose power and purpose paralleled that of the state. Embody­ ing a poetic power that stands apart from the state, but for which the state is the defining context, she was not unlike her romantic predecessors, Alek­ sandr Pushkin and Mikhail Lermontov.44 However, belonging to the literary intelligentsia in the Soviet Union entailed its own set of tensions, as Chukovs­ kaia’s account of Akhmatova and their circle revealed.45 Indeed, as Paperno read it, Chukovskaia’s depiction of Akhmatova revealed a poet whose defen­ sive embodiment of helplessness paradoxically embodied the power of the oppressor.46 Aleksandr Zholkovskii wrote extensively on the relationship of Akhmatova’s authority to that of Stalin and the totalitarian oppression she opposed. He identified Solzhenitsyn as another writer who embodied the authority structures of the state even as he set himself against it.47 These critical accounts should not be understood as a mere deconstruction of the tremendous inf luence these writers exerted. On the contrary, Solzhenit­ syn’s work inspired a generation of historians as well as (often frustrated) camp memoirists who followed. For her part, Akhmatova’s mentorship of

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a new generation of young poets in Leningrad provided a crucial informal link between the modernists and late Soviet poets.48 However, to borrow Siniavskii’s distinction, we may say that the narratives and self-fashioning of “heretics” like Akhmatova ref lected a different formation from that of the “dissidents,” who were educated and grew to maturity within the Soviet State.49 Many dissidents eschewed the tragic martyrdom of the poet’s persona and the belief in the transcendental value of art exemplified by Akhmatova.50 We should also consider in more detail how the official publication that inspired the wave of camp literature represented the truth about the Stalin era. As the most famous author writing about the Gulag camps, Solzhenit­ syn, like Akhmatova, channeled the voices of people he had met during his harrowing experiences. In his fictionalized account, Solzhenitsyn endowed his eponymous protagonist with speech enlivened by the kind of popular and camp jargon commonly used by the regular prisoners among whom he served his time.51 For example, Solzhenitsyn employed lively free indirect discourse to render Shukhov’s perception of the work crew leader, Tyurin; Shukhov “looked around and caught sight of the gang boss. . . . He looked grim. He didn’t stand for any fucking nonsense in the gang (Smekhuechkami v brigadu svoiu ne zhaluet), but he kept them pretty well fed and was always worried about getting them a good ration (paek).”52 This language created a compelling impression of authenticity and freshness. The editor of New World, Aleksandr Tvardovskii, acknowledged the nonstandard character of Solzhenitsyn’s prose in his foreword to the novella in the November 1962 issue of the journal. As Tvardovskii said, the author’s use of “certain words and expressions typical of the setting in which the hero lived and worked may offend a particularly fastidious taste.” However, as one of those works that is “faithful to the great truths of life,” one that is “deeply human in its presenta­ tion of even the most painful subjects,” Solzhenitsyn’s work is appropriately expressive, with its “unpretentiousness and down-to-earth simplicity,” quali­ ties that give it “great inner strength and dignity.”53 Tvardovskii’s evaluation showed how the voice of Solzhenitsyn’s character was central to the power of his work. Solzhenitsyn’s novella marked a limit of what could be said in official print, rather than the beginning of the ability to f reely review the history and experiences of the Stalin era many hoped it heralded. Solzhenitsyn’s subsequent publication about the camps, his massive uncensored work The Gulag Archipelago (Arkhipelag GULAG), was published abroad in late 1973 and smuggled back into the USSR for samizdat circulation. It had an enormous impact on Soviet readers and the international public.54 In it, Solzhenitsyn

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channeled myriad voices of those who had been in the massive prison camp system. Soviet citizens who had not been imprisoned had only vague ideas about how massive the network of prisons and camps had been. It consti­ tuted an “almost imperceptible country inhabited by the ‘zek’ people.” The word “zek” came f rom “imprisoned” (zakliuchennyi, z/k). Only they knew “the whole truth.” Prior to this time, they kept their silence “as though stricken dumb on the islands of the Archipelago.”55 By his own count, Sol­ zhenitsyn’s book included material f rom the reports, memoirs, and letters of 227 witnesses. He could not, he said, name them. In this context, this lack of a name due to possible further reprisals against them by the state became a sort of badge of honor for those who had suffered. By contrast, Solzhenitsyn could and did name representative oppressors, including the chief prosecutors and Gor′kii, as an official writer who glorified Soviet proj­ ects using slave labor. Solzhenitsyn expressed gratitude to those unnamed persons who provided the material for what he presented as a common, collective monument to others who were tortured and murdered. He also declared his intention “to pay tribute to those who helped me keep this manuscript concealed in difficult periods and then to have it copied.” But he could not name them either, he said.56 In the name of all those silent, honest people, Solzhenitsyn offered the truth and the pledge that everything “will be told” (budet rasskazano).57 His opening in the preface to The Gulag Archipelago indicates the literary skill that helped him convey information effectively about this massive system, nearly inconceivable in its scope, which he described as a shadow country, the country of the zeks. Solzhenitsyn introduced his book by referring to a brief account in an issue of the Soviet academic journal Nature (Priroda) about the discovery of frozen prehistoric salamanders (tritony) by members of an excavation crew in Kolyma who ate them “with relish.” Despite the lack of context or details, Solzhenitsyn said he and other former prisoners under­ stood what had happened: “We could picture the entire scene right down to the smallest details: how those present broke up the ice in frenzied haste: how, f louting the higher claims of ichthyology and elbowing each other to be first, they tore off chunks of the prehistoric f lesh and hauled them over to the bonfire to thaw them out and bolt them down.”58 Few readers of The Gulag Archipelago can forget this opening anecdote. These prehistoric sala­ manders have become famous as a metaphor for the buried trauma of Soviet society, which Solzhenitsyn exposed.59 As the metaphor suggests, his prose was not necessarily a transparent channel for this truth. His literary art— combined with his forceful ideas about the spiritual rebirth of the martyred Russian people—contributed to the force of his message.

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Solzhenitsyn’s writing did more than anyone else’s to widen the Soviet imaginary relative to the history and experience of Stalin-era camps. While acknowledging this tremendous contribution, some pointed out that Sol­ zhenitsyn’s truth threatened to be as monologic as the authoritative state discourse against which he asserted it.60 Moreover, as we saw in the case of the Memory historians, there were those who were keen to break the spell of his victim-centric narrative.61 A less authoritarian—but more subtly compelling and extremely popular— example of samizdat camp memoirs can be found in Evgeniia Ginzburg’s works. Ginzburg ref lected on how the community of those who know the truth of the camps might be fostered and expanded. Her writing exempli­ fied a humanistic vision in prose characterized by a straightforward, realistic style.62 Ginzburg did not adopt the stance of a prophet of truth. She won over readers with her relatively modest presentation of her own experience and views, including her moments of doubt. Ginzburg’s portrayal of her conversations with fellow prisoners modeled the kind of direct and intimate conversation that her texts fostered with readers. That intimate connection was made broadly public through tamizdat publication and wide circulation in samizdat.63 Ginzburg described her thoughts and emotions during peri­ ods of intense suffering, including her separation from her children, one of whom subsequently died. The sharing of personal and painful knowledge characterized this intimate—if also public—communication between author and readers. Ginzburg portrayed the pact of trust this implied in an episode appear­ ing in the second volume of her memoirs. At the time narrated, in the late 1940s, Ginzburg was living as a f reed woman (a former prisoner) in Kolyma where she worked in a kindergarten among coworkers who were all regu­ lar citizens. She felt the alienation and isolation created by her experience and status more keenly when she accompanied the children at the end of summer to a local pioneer camp. Locals referred to the pleasant place as the “Northern Artek,” recalling the network of distinguished Pioneer camps called “Artek” on the warm Black Sea coast. Unlike the other regular work­ ers, Ginzburg had no one to visit her on the weekends. Her husband Anton Walter remained imprisoned, and her surviving son Vasya lived in Mos­ cow with her former husband’s relatives. Those relatives were not eager to keep Ginzburg’s teenage son. One of them, Motya Aksenov, reproached Ginzburg in a letter for failing to retrieve her son. Ginzburg had not left him there because she was neglectful. She was conscious of how vulner­ able her position was and was loathe to subject her son to the conditions in which she had to live. Ref lecting on the reproaches, Ginzburg mused,

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“How could I hope to explain all the peculiar features of my ‘f reedom’ to this denizen of another planet?”64 When two guests unexpectedly turned up at the pioneer camp to visit Ginzburg, their friendly interaction underscored the gulf Ginzburg also felt between herself and the other regular workers. Warmth and mutual under­ standing arose quickly between Ginzburg and these strangers based on their shared experience as ex-prisoners: “We heard that there was one of us among the teachers and so we came along,” observed one of the visitors, explaining their unexpected appearance. “It must be a bit rough for you on your own among all those free teachers,” he said. “Nobody to talk to. Let’s go for a walk and have a chat,” he invited her.65 In her memoirs, Ginzburg referred to the two men, Vasily Kuprianov and Yakov Umansky, as “my relatives” since they were like the kin who visited other teachers. She felt immediately at home with them because they under­ stood her. Ginzburg recorded their personal stories of unjust repression, pre­ serving their testimony. She depicted them as representatives of something larger than their individual experiences. Kuprianov displayed a philosophical attitude, while Umansky showed a rigorously ethical attitude. Together, their symbolically Hellenic and Hebraic voices evoked the foundations of civiliza­ tion, which Ginzburg believed had been undermined by the terrible violence and betrayals perpetrated in Stalin’s Soviet Union. The men also functioned within the story to help explain the particulars of Ginzburg’s situation. This truth would have been obvious to former prisoners but obscure for most readers. Their conversation allowed Ginzburg to articulate her situation; they discussed the fact that Ginzburg did not go back to the mainland for her son, because as a former political prisoner it would be difficult to obtain per­ mission to do so. Even if she did get permission, she could not get a decent job there. She would be a social outcast and find it hard to make a living to support her son.66 Moreover, she was awaiting the rearrest that all former prisoners felt was inevitable, and which did indeed come in 1949. In talking with Kuprianov and Umansky, Ginzburg expressed her belief that it would be better to bring her son Vasya out to Magadan, a conviction the two men supported. Although they all expected rearrest, they had to behave as though they were free: “God willing,” said Umansky, “[Vasya] may manage to complete his schooling while his mother is provisionally free. And if not, he can still grow up to be an honorable person when he has seen the Kolyma reality for himself.”67 Later, Ginzburg ref lected on the fact that prior to her son’s arrival, the whole community of former prisoners in Magadan weighed in on the question of whether to tell Vasya that they got there on false charges and to explain to him who was to blame for the cruelties and

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injustices they had suffered: “To put it in a word: Was he to be told the truth? The whole truth?” Although the advice she received was varied, Ginzburg had no doubts. She found that only “absolute candor and truthfulness” about her experience and what she had understood was possible with him.68 Vasya in the memoirs functions in part as a stand-in for the reader: a person from the mainland (or other distant life) who knows nothing about the reality of the prison camps and Kolyma.69 He is invited—like the reader—to share Ginzburg’s experience in order to learn about the reality of that world so that he might become an “honorable person.” Ginzburg showed the intimacy and trust established even among complete strangers who shared a truth obscured or elided by the larger society. The samizdat text became the vehicle for creating such intimate ties among a reading public, creating hope for the future by way of moral and philosophical education of readers. Ginzburg’s text suggests that this shar­ ing of knowledge would make it possible, too, for a wide public of samizdat and tamizdat readers to become honorable persons. That community would consist of those who had lived the experience and those who had not, while the latter would recognize the truth of that experience. Those who had lived

Figure 8. Evgeniia Ginzburg, [1960s?]. Credit: Archive “History of Dissidence in the USSR,” International “Memorial” Society, f. 110.

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it would acknowledge the honor in the others’ recognition and be freed from their own shame and disadvantage as formerly incarcerated people. By the late 1960s, the tension between the imperative to say more about Stalin-era history set into motion by the party foundered in official culture as officials renewed efforts to control the bounds of what could be said. Samiz­ dat grew out of tensions unleashed by the Thaw in Soviet society. Publica­ tions in official print and in samizdat demonstrated the complex way voicing the truth depended on the silence that preceded or extended beyond autho­ rized speech. This truth was not as simple as Solzhenitsyn suggested when he proclaimed in The Gulag Archipelago that all would be told. As that work demonstrated, considerable literary craft, the right rhetorical pose, and good timing might be needed for the truth to circulate and engage a sympathetic audience. The communicative context mattered. Once the channels of com­ munication established by samizdat and tamizdat had been opened, texts could mediate more direct communication between authors and readers. The story of what had happened under Stalin was a matter concerning all Soviet citizens, as well as friends and foes of the USSR outside its borders. Reckoning with this truth seemed fundamental to establishing that people of the reading community were “honorable persons” with whom one could speak, as opposed to conformists buying a comfortable life with their silence about what happened under Stalin, and what continued to happen in Soviet society after him.

Periodicals: A Plurality of Voices Samizdat journals and other periodical editions reveal some important nuances in the concept of voicing truth in the Soviet Union after Stalin. They show that in addition to the truth about Stalinism, samizdat played an important and sustained role in circulating the truth about current events, including continued repression and abuses of power as well as underground activity. Samizdat periodicals also demonstrate the significance of commu­ nity voices associated with the publics of these editions: these alternative communities contributed to the process of pluralizing Soviet social imagina­ tion and opening the spaces of difference that would allow for the reconstruc­ tion of various modes of self hood and social relations in the post-totalitarian environment. The space created by these different voices made it possible to imagine and negotiate the basis for a society grounded on truth and com­ municative action rather than on party fiat. The Baptist community in the Soviet Union had long tried to secure a viable position in Russian and Soviet society. They aimed to ensure their right

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to act according to their conscience under the imperial and then postrevo­ lutionary rule. Along the way, these Baptists developed a strong culture of legal knowledge and civic action. The Russian Empire had treated Old Believ­ ers and others of Russian nationality who adhered to another faith to be schismatics: for that reason, Baptists in the Russian empire had been legally embattled since the time of their growth as a movement in the nineteenth century.70 The Russian Baptists’ culture of community-based authority and decision making led one government official in 1911 to observe with con­ cern that the Baptist movement provided its participants with a “school of public activism” (obshchestvennaia shkola).71 In the early revolutionary period, buoyed by the religious freedoms granted in 1905, the Baptists felt a kinship with the spirit of revolution even as liberals, populists, and Marxists debated the political implications of religious dissent. However, by the end of the 1920s, Baptists could have had few illusions regarding the hostility of the Soviet State toward their activity.72 The relaxation of religious controls during World War II led to a mas­ sive reestablishment of activity of the Evangelical Christian Baptist church in the USSR. Spread out beyond the capital cities in various regions of the Soviet Union, the Baptists were the largest non-Orthodox religious group in the Soviet Union.73 In the post-Stalin era Soviet Baptists encountered new turbulence, thanks to the anti-religious campaign of Khrushchev, pursued between 1959 and 1964.74 Khrushchev’s administration aimed to strengthen observance of the 1929 law on religious cults, which introduced controls on religious activity. According to Marxist-Leninist ideology, religious activity would die out in the revolutionary society; in this, the official Soviet view coincided with a dominant view among Western intellectuals and academ­ ics who took a Weberian view of the progressive nature of secularization.75 In its totalitarian form, Soviet ideology would tolerate no alternative authority structures, and this opposition between “scientific atheism” and religious belief continued under Khrushchev.76 The 1929 law had set strict limits on religious activity, in which children could not participate. It forbade religious organizations from cooperative financial dealings, and it outlawed auxiliary activities such as women’s religious associations, excursions, libraries, and other enterprises. Only registered religious activity was legal. These restric­ tions were given new force in the early 1960s.77 Both Russian Orthodox and Protestant groups complained that officially registered churches—overseen in the Baptist case by the All-Union Council of Evangelical Christian-Baptists— served the security services as instruments for monitoring and control­ ling religious communities. Given this new sort of surveillance and the renewed state pressure on them in the early 1960s, Baptists created a series of

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alternative organizations. These included the Initiative Group, which became the Organizational Committee (Orgkomitet) in 1962, becoming the unreg­ istered Council of Churches of Evangelical Christian-Baptists (CCECB) in 1965. This unofficial council directed most of the unofficial publishing and communication to dispersed communities.78 The processes of modernization in the USSR after the war facilitated the growth of Baptist communities. The growth of small cities in outlying regions led to the swelling of the ranks of Protestant evangelical groups (which included Seventh-Day Adventist and Pentecostalist communities in addition to Baptists) by young people attracted to these communities in the new urban environments.79 While men occupied senior pastoral and leadership roles—notably, Georgii Vins helped establish the unregistered organization and served as general secretary of the CCECB in 1965 until his arrest—women also did significant work, including in the production and distribution of Baptist samizdat.80 One of the most famous was Aida Skripnikova, arrested in 1967 for passing copies of the samizdat Fraternal Leaf let (Bratskii listok) and transcripts of court proceedings against Baptist believers to a Swedish friend who was caught with the texts at the border. The transcript of Skripnikova’s trial, at which she was eventually convicted according to Article 190-1 to three years of forced labor, also circulated. The practice of transcribing and circulating the court proceedings against Baptist believers had a dual function. On the one hand, they served the purposes of rights advocacy—they created a record of Soviet judicial actions that could then be challenged or disputed in public. On the other hand, the Baptist reporters used the trials as an opportunity to describe models of correct and dignified behavior by Baptist defendants. In some cases, these unofficial Baptist reporters used the trial transcripts also to record and comment on the disputes between atheist prosecutors and believing defendants, thus provid­ ing another form of evangelizing.81 The records combined the truth of facts about state action with the Christian truth. This dual function of Baptist samizdat communication also informed reporting in the Bulletin of the Council of Relatives of Evangelical ChristianBaptist Prisoners (Biulleten′ Soveta rodstvennikov uznikov Evangel′skikh khristian­ baptistov), which appeared from 1971 to 1987. The edition was referred to in shorter form as the Bulletin of the Council of Prisoners’ Relatives, or the Bulletin CPR. The council that produced this samizdat bulletin was led by Lidiia Vins, Georgii Vins’s mother.82 Issue 9, 1972, of the Bulletin CPR covered the tragic case of Ivan Moiseev. Moiseev, a young man from a Baptist family in Moldavia, continued to practice his faith while serving in the army beginning in November 1970. Moiseev’s

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Figure 9. Women of the Council of Prisoners’ Relatives, Evangelical Christian Baptists, 1980. Credit: Collections of the Sakharov Center, Moscow.

refusal to renounce Christian practices provoked interrogations and punish­ ment from Army officers. As a result of such punitive treatment, on July 16, 1972, Moiseev died.83 Moiseev’s relatives remarked that the depth of the Black Sea water in which Moiseev was said to have drowned accidentally was 156 centimeters, while Moiseev was 185 centimeters tall: their point was that the official account of accidental drowning, which circulated in newspapers, made no sense.84 He must have been incapacitated to have drowned in such shallow water. The pattern of abuse he had reported made it likely officers did it.85 The Bulletin CPR presented the relatives’ legal demand for a formal investi­ gation and punishment of the perpetrators. The body whose height relatives cited played a dual role: it served as material evidence of criminal activity and showed that Ivan was martyred for his Christian faith.86 The recordings of Ivan’s voice in written and audio formats constituted further evidence for the truth of his case. The editors of the Bulletin CPR enumerated the materials on which they drew for the issue detailing his case, including “documents, photographs, letters, audiotapes and witness testi­ mony.”87 Transcripts of Moiseev’s audio accounts of the final weeks of his life and excerpts from his letters did more than describe the torments to which his superiors subjected him. For example, they included an account of a dream Ivan had following a night when he had been forced to stand

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outside, lightly dressed, while it was 30 degrees below zero Celsius. Ivan dreamed of an angel who came to him in bed and ordered him, “Ivan, get up!” He f lew with the angel to another planet and saw the Apostle John, Moses, David, and the prophet Daniel before seeing the light of the new Jerusalem. If this was a fever dream, it also meant something more to him. In a letter home, Ivan wrote about the bodies of angels: “Now I want to write to you about the wonderful bodies of angels, which ours will also become, if we are faithful until death. . . . But their bodies are not like ours, their bodies don’t block any­ one from seeing past them. You look and you can see right through them like looking through a glass, and inside and outside they are pure, pure as crystal, as glass. . . . How pure, pure they are, if we wipe a glass clean it will still be dirtier than those bodies.”88 Ivan’s oral accounts and writings channeled Christian imagery through his own youthful enthusiasm and imagination for a highly distinct individual voice. The editors clearly thought this would be moving for readers—the humble simplicity of Ivan’s faith and the fervor of his visions helped convey his faithfulness through the trials and eventual death to which officers subjected him. Moiseev also wrote poetry about his faith while serving in the Soviet Army: Let Christ’s love In our hearts burn As the lighthouse beacon glows That friends and foes May always perceive: How great is Jesus Christ’s love! [Pust′ Khristova liubov′ / V nashem serdtse gorit, / Kak na more gorit ogon′ maiaka, / Chtoby drug i ne drug / Mog vsegda govorit′: Kak Khristova liubov′ velika!]89 The presentation of this material “from Vania’s personal notebook” provided intimate access to his thoughts and words, which testified with a passion to the greatness of Christ’s love. Congruent with that message, the main point of Ivan’s relatives’ report to the church, published in the Bulletin CPR, came at the end: “Let this living f lower, having given the fragrance of its youth on the cross, serve as a good example for all Christian youth to so love Christ as our son Vanya loved Him.”90 The poetic metaphor, like the Biblical quota­ tions used here and elsewhere, served to transform the facts into a testament of faith.91 Ivan’s words and his life, sealed by death and communicated in the reports circulated to the faithful, became a message intended to mobilize them for acts of piety: this was the Christian truth.

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The dual form of the truths communicated in the Bulletin CPR, like the voices of Baptist community members, distinguished their accounts from those of the rights activist Chronicle of Current Events. The use of religious and emotional language by the Baptists contrasted with the dry, objective tone of reporting in the Moscow Chronicle. In a 1975 report on the trial of Georgii Vins, the latter edition mentioned Moiseev; Vins was charged among other things with “publicizing the martyr’s death on 16 July 1972 of the Baptist I. V. Moiseyev who died while serving in the army; the prosecution asserts that Moiseyev drowned while bathing in the sea.”92 The juxtaposition of the mar­ tyr’s death to official accounts in the Chronicle helped highlight the pattern of official abuses and cover-ups. However, it also contributed to the impres­ sion of objective reporting for which the Chronicle was known and which constituted its voice. The Chronicle founding editor Gorbanevskaia told the researcher Mark Hopkins: To a certain extent the [Chronicle] style already had been worked out in samizdat letters of protests. Basically, there was an attempt in all the letters to be very exact, to lay out the facts, to describe the violation of rights, to quote articles of law. Nothing was exaggerated. The love for objectivity was in the air. Was this un-Russian? I don’t think so. Herzen’s Kolokol contained a mass of pure information . . . We were educated in communist propaganda—exaggeration, lies and the like. And we felt that we had no right to either lie or to exaggerate. The Chronicle put itself outside of any polemics. There was the idea that the Chronicle was a common voice, not the voice of an individual person or a specific group. Therefore, the Chronicle had to be put together so that no personal opinion entered into the information.93 This common voice rising above individual voices and subjective views was more constructed and contingent than it might seem. It drew on a tradition of liberal press traced back to Herzen, and it made sense within the frame­ work of human rights discourse that became so important internationally in the 1970s.94 Amnesty International, in an extraordinary move, decided to publish English translations of the Chronicle under its own imprimatur—this was the first time it did so for material not produced in-house by its own staff.95 The back of the Amnesty edition of No. 63 of the Chronicle featured an endorsement from the Times Literary Supplement: “Notwithstanding con­ stant KGB harassment and the arrest or exiling abroad of more than a hun­ dred of its editors, correspondents, distributors and couriers, it has held with quiet courage and tenacious integrity to the highest journalistic standards of objectivity.”96 This rational, objective reporting helped Western readers

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appreciate and endorse the truth of the Chronicle. Obviously, while there was some overlap in rights advocacy between democratic rights activists in Mos­ cow and Baptist community members, the style represented in the Chronicle differed strongly from the emotional, poetic, and religious appeals of the Bulletin CPR. Despite these striking differences, the voices of rights activist and unreg­ istered Baptists shared some structural similarities. Both depended on the voices of individuals reporting to them. The survey of repression in the Chronicle did not include Baptist and other Protestant cases until 1974. The members of the Baptist church lived as a rule in the provinces and came from the working classes. The Baptists did not take their initial cue for public activism from other dissident groups: they had their own culture of civic and legal awareness. It took time for the rights activists to expand their net­ works and coverage to include more peripheral groups, including Baptist communities.97 Once they had done so, and having established a network of Helsinki Groups for collecting and reporting on national and regional issues, the rights activists were known for their effective channels of communica­ tion from Moscow to the West, and people came to them with their stories. Liudmila Alekseeva talked in 1977 about the reports received in writing and in person by the Moscow Helsinki Group: People also came to us to present their complaints in person, some­ times after traveling great distances. We called these persons khodoki, an old Russian word which literally means “walkers” but which once was used to denote messengers who delivered petitions addressed by the peasants to the authorities. Some messengers reported violations of their own rights or of the rights of friends or relatives (for example, the right of emigration). . . . [F]ew of them are able to state the essen­ tials of their case concisely. During these meetings, they tend to relate their own life stories and to ask for advice on questions completely irrelevant to the Group’s activity. Their tales require scrupulous analy­ sis to separate emotional exaggerations and inaccuracies from the facts of the case.98 The process of stripping out subjective observations, private detail, and emotional expression from accounts produced a distilled voice. That voice was also constructed and distinctive, even though it may be hard to recognize it as such, given the way an impersonal (objective) voice has been natural­ ized as the voice of fact and reason in modern Western public discourse. However, the rights activists’ common voice, not less than the voices found in Baptist samizdat editions like the Bulletin CPR, depended for the force of

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its claim to public attention on the bodies of those imprisoned or hurt. The repressed and their loved ones had testified to this harm, and the activists reported on it. In some samizdat bulletins, such as the information bulletins of the Crimean Tatars, collective or anonymous reports were punctuated with individual voices. For example, Zore Isliamova reported on the poor treat­ ment she and fellow Tatar demonstrators received in Moscow. She concluded emotionally: “Can we really forget all of this and be patient? . . . Where is our Leninist path, the one our party is following?”99 In all these cases, the humanity of individual and embodied voices undergirds the claims for public attention and support against unjust and repressive state actions. In samizdat editions oriented to specific communities, the distinctive forms of expres­ sion help legitimate the voices of truth-tellers whose message helps bind the community together in shared goals and values. No less than these more bounded communities, the rational and objective voice of rights activist edi­ tions legitimized it for its broad and international audience. We can also find a different common ground between Baptists and writers like Pasternak, whose postwar turn to Christianity coincided with the resur­ gence of the Baptist community in the USSR during that period. The differ­ ences between them are important, too. While Baptist expression targeted the community, Pasternak’s Christian truth aimed to express universal val­ ues embodied in a shared culture. His version of Christianity was conveyed through literary expression rather than through the strictly observed norms of personal and community conduct and speech among Baptists. In yet another way, Pasternak’s literary form of a spiritualized culture shared something with the poetic culture that f lourished among poets active in Leningrad in the 1970s.100 Krivulin was a spokesperson for this “second culture” of the Leningrad underground, which became a vibrant scene by the late 1970s.101 Like others, he took inspiration from Akhmatova, whom he visited in the early 1960s. She helped expand his sense of modernist poetry and “world culture,” including Dante and foreign languages, much as she had done for Iosif Brodskii and his friends.102 Brodskii, whose verses circulated widely by the early 1960s, was an important figure for the early history of Leningrad underground poetry, but he left in 1972. After his departure, the literary underground became more broadly recognized and viable as a literary scene for others. Krivulin and his peers talked about Brodskii’s poetry as a culmi­ nation or ultimate point of development rather than a body of work with great inf luence for those who came after him.103 They went back to similar modernist sources, however, including the work of Mandel′shtam, whose

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Figure 10. Viktor Krivulin, 1970s. Credit: Collections of the Sakharov Center, Moscow.

“longing for world culture” and elaboration of the poetic Word in essays and verses did much to inspire poets of the late Soviet underground.104 The samizdat journal Thirty-Seven (Tridtsat′ sem′ 1–21, 1976–81) featured the work of Krivulin and poets he knew, including Oleg Okhapkin, Aleksandr Mironov, and Elena Shvarts. Krivulin’s wife Tat′iana Goricheva founded the unofficial Religious-Philosophical Seminar, which he and others helped lead and which included a relatively wide circle of 30–100 auditors, including even some unregistered Baptists. For a while, meetings of the seminar were held at apartment 37 at 20 Kurliandskaia Street in Leningrad, which the couple shared with their roommate and coeditor Lev Rudkevich.105 The seminar fur­ nished materials for early issues of Thirty-Seven, which the editors described in the foreword to issue one as “a necessary continuation of our friendly socializing.” Too often, they lamented, “the significant facts of a living cul­ tural process remain the property of a small group of people.” Therefore, they aimed in Thirty-Seven to bring culture “out of its pre-written state,” that is, to convert the content of oral socializing into a public record.106 Krivulin later recalled the goal of the journal Thirty-Seven in terms of “creating a kind of language capable of describing the actual condition of

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the cultural and historical moment in Russia as seen from a subjective point of view (s tochki zreniia lichnosti).”107 In a sense, this “subjective” character of Leningrad samizdat helped shore up the interiority described by Habermas as the foundation of the public sphere: these unofficial writers understood themselves to be recreating the autonomous life of the person oriented toward core humane and spiritual values.108 Moscow activists also appealed to such values in the Russian literary tradition as the foundation for their work. Leningrad authors were devoted to cultivating a new stage in cultural expression appropriate to their time. Unlike Moscow rights activists, these authors tended not to seek immediate publicity abroad or even wide expo­ sure among their contemporary Soviet readership.109 In an article of 1979, Krivulin affirmed that “Anna Akhmatova’s prophecy about a new f lowering of Russian poetry is being fulfilled. But it is being fulfilled painfully and with difficulty. This is a f lowering concealed from the eyes of readers. A f lower­ ing not for contemporaries . . . This language is not obvious.”110 Krivulin and others waited for the possibility of publication at some unforeseen time in the future, and they counted on culture to validate their poetry at some point in years to come as a worthy part of the tradition. In his memoirs, Krivulin described his personal revelation of a cultural space transcending the everyday and the contemporary moment. On July 24, 1970, as he told it, he was reading the works of the nineteenth-century poet Evgenii Baratynskii so intently he began to feel he could no longer distinguish where the latter’s voice ended, and his own began. This was when he discov­ ered his capacity to orient his poetic practice to a greater cultural tradition that had little to do with the Soviet culture around him. In a poem on Georges de la Tour (“La Tur”) included in Thirty-Seven 1 (1976), Krivulin evoked the anonymous and degraded language of the street as the jumping-off point for the imagination of a higher and more humane sphere: It seemed like chaos. I hate crowds, but there exists more of what is human in any given face. In an angry “Go to hell!”— there is confusion, as if not here, but beyond the boundary of the immobile sphere movement is still possible. Right here, on the yellow, dirty-yellow, yellow-gray street near the aperture of the entranceway, we froze, more dead than sculptures— but also more beautiful. The effect of light, to which La Tour

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devoted half a life, half a life—will not be extinguished on the street. It seemed like chaos: no! In any person’s mug by design one can trace the features of an archangel and the visage of a seraph. [Kazalos′ khaosom. Ia nenavizhu tolpy, / no bol′she chelovechesk­ ogo est′ / v liubom litse. V ozloblennom: Poshel ty!—/ stoit raste­ riannost′, kak esli by ne zdes′, / no za granitsei nepodvizhnoi sfery / dvizhenie eshche vozmozhno. Zdes′ zhe, / na zheltoi, griazno-zheltoi, zhelto-seroi / na ulitse u skvazhiny proezzhei / my zamerli mertvei skul′ptury—/ no i prekrasnei. / Effekt svechi, kotoromu La Tur / pol­ zhizni posviatil, polzhizni—i ne gasnet / na ulitse. Kazalos′, khaos. Net! / Liubaia rozha v zamysle svodima / k chertam arkhangela i liku serafima.]111 The lyrical voice of the poet expresses a vision of what lies beyond the chaos and metaphorical immobility of the street—that immobility seems similar to what others called the “no-time” (bezvremen′e) of the period of Brezhnev­ ian stagnation (zastoi) in the 1970s.112 The anonymous and aggressive speech heard among the crowd—“Go to hell!”—might, with the right kind of apprehension, be taken as the rough starting point for possibilities like those revealed in the paintings of La Tour, where humble faces become angelic in the light of the candle as rendered by the artist.113 By means of a baroque effect signaled through reference to La Tour, the poverty of culture on the late Soviet street as depicted by Krivulin serves to highlight the greatness of the spiritual transformation that may take place thanks to the vision and painstaking craft (techniques one spends half a life mastering) of the late Soviet poet.114 Like the painter illuminated the humble human visage, so the poet shows language to be capable also of conveying divine meaning even here, in his time. Despite the lost cultural connections, Krivulin and his fellow poets dared to cultivate their own voices in dialogue with the great poetic tradition they were recovering. Oleg Okhapkin’s stubborn defiance captured the sentiment of these unofficial poets: “If there were dozens of Dantes living beside me I still would not write differently or be distressed about my own lack of tal­ ent. After all, there is a collective sounding of the Word and my voice is not less necessary in it than that of some famous operatic bass.”115 Okhapkin emphasized the necessity of his poetic voice, a voice both personal and his­ torically conditioned, which made a meaningful contribution, as he firmly believed, within a Chorus of poets from the long tradition. This combina­ tion of an acute sense of one’s own time apprehended from the perspective

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of a broader time of culture made up the creative orientation to history that shaped these poets’ voices.116 This conjunction of orality and the written word in samizdat distin­ guished it from official print, as Krivulin told it. He glossed Mandel′shtam’s statement about working from the voice this way: “The human voice united in itself a perfectly unique quality with something supra-personal, anonymous-folkloric, an authorless element.”117 The voice, when cultivated, could negotiate to good effect the tension between individuality and the col­ lective required for individual expression to mean anything. Krivulin drew attention to the social and performative nature of the poetic word. Samizdat texts in the 1960s seemed somehow secondary to their oral performance, like a score, he said. He cited the remarkable case of Grigorii Kovalev, who was blind and endowed with a remarkable memory. Kovalev memorized and recited hundreds of unprinted poems that were then recorded in writing by Konstantin Kuz′minskii and Kovalev for their monumental anthology of unofficial poetry.118 Realizing the living poetic word took discipline and careful attention. Krivulin said one needed to forego the “little pleasures” used by the regime to pacify citizens. These included “hockey or figure skating on TV after work, ‘The Voice of America’ [on shortwave radio] after midnight,” long holiday weekends, and “a night over a hard-to-read copy of [Solzhenitsyn’s] Gulag” in samizdat.119 In Krivulin’s account, such pleasures comprised a whole pack­ age of permitted and semi-clandestine experiences readily available in their society. We may be surprised by Krivulin’s dismissal of Gulag Archipelago as part of this set. However, around 1976, when Leningrad’s unofficial culture was being established as its own sphere, the publication of Solzhenitsyn’s work was relatively recent, and the scope of its impact was enormous. Like the historians around Memory, poets in Leningrad aimed to mark out their own space for work by distinguishing their interests and voices from those found in Solzhenitsyn’s texts. In order to establish their own creative relation­ ship to the cultural heritage, they needed a space of their own, structured by themselves, not by the state, and not too inf luenced by the foreign public attention to the Soviet state and opposition to it. The editors of Thirty-Seven expressed impatience with a foreign press report about their cultural milieu as an underground community. They took issue with the political implications of the article reportedly published in a US newspaper, “The Leningrad Underground Continues to Operate.”120 The main thing the author of the article failed to understand, they said, was the following: “Leningrad unofficial culture DOES NOT MERELY OPPOSE SOCIALIST REALISM. Its character and project are deeply positive, and to

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think of it as the antithesis of state political and even aesthetic conceptions would be offensive to it.” The “f lat spirit of opposition is not capable of inspiring any one of us,” they said, “Render unto God the things that are God’s” (Bogu dolzhno otdat′ Bozh′e). Forms of expression from the JudeoChristian tradition, like the paraphrase of Matthew 22:21 appearing here, did much to structure the space for the dialogue with world culture and with each other among Leningrad writers. This included recorded conversations titled “Evangelical Dialogues” between Goricheva and Krivulin, which appeared in early issues of Thirty-Seven, along with correspondence on philosophical and theological topics. However, the editors published little associated directly with the Russian Orthodox Church, and what they did publish tended to be unconventional—this was true of a text by Pavel Florenskii published in issue 2 and of interviews with newly religious Orthodox priests appearing in issue 14. Their voices were part of a tapestry in which religious culture was not doctrinaire. This was a broad and living tradition of thought that also included twentieth-century cultural criticism and philosophy, not all of it religious. For example, issue 5 was devoted to the work of Martin Heidegger. Later issues featured articles on visual art and poetry by conceptualist poets Lev Rubinshtein and Vsevolod Nekrasov, alongside the “metarealistic” poetry of the Leningrad school.121 The differences between Moscow authors and Leningrad authors in this sense, too, created space for productive dia­ logue about what an independent culture could look like in contemporary time and where it might be headed. It was important to the editors that people understand this dialogue was not in any significant way carried on with the state. The voice traveled between official and unofficial cultural spaces with Soviet guitar poetry, which was featured in the newspaper Minstrel (Menestrel′ 1–23/24, 1979–84), devoted to Soviet bards, their music, and their fans. Like the rock zine mentioned in chapter 1, the journal Minstrel illustrates the gray zone occupied by marginal music and fandom associated with it in the late Soviet period.122 These were forms of underground culture that persisted on the margins of official culture and survived the crackdown on rights activ­ ism and other types of open associations and samizdat.123 Guitar poetry was first composed and performed beginning in the late 1950s and early 1960s; however, by the 1970s, it began to appear in Soviet films, television, and theater, although it was rarely discussed in the press. As Rachel Platonov wrote, Western observers tended to characterize guitar poetry tendentiously as a potentially risky “counterculture,” in which bards were like “outlaw minstrels.” Such a description might possibly have applied to the bard Alek­ sandr Galich, who was eventually expelled from the USSR, but it elided “the

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numerous intersections and interactions between guitar poetry as a whole and fully sanctioned Soviet culture.”124 As the Minstrel editor Andrei Krymov told it, the journal aimed most of all to fill in information gaps for fans of the genre—there was little in the official press about guitar poetry, also called “author’s song” (avtorskaia pesnia) and “all of it was superficial—a view from outside (vzgliad izvne).” Thus, the journal “aimed to provide a view from inside the culture (vzgliad iznutri).” Minstrel was conceived as a samizdat edi­ tion but launched strategically as a wall newspaper (stengazeta) hung up for public display at the Moscow Club of Amateur Song, so it was monitored and approved by authorities.125 The photographer Gennadii Shakin made A4-sized negatives by photographing the paper. The negatives were then lent out to people who could make photocopies of them.126 The editors tried to avoid political problems. For example, they referred to Aleksandr Galich with hints when his name was not allowed in the official press.127 The jour­ nal, like guitar poetry as a whole, thus “negotiated a thorny path between the permitted and the prohibited, the official and the unofficial.”128 The voices of Soviet bards, including the most famous representatives of the genre—Galich, Bulat Okudzhava, and Vladimir Vysotskii—were dis­ tinctive. Okudzhava’s songs featured his “tremulous baritone half singing, half speaking his wry and wistful lines over the barely audible arpeggiations of his poorly tuned guitar.”129 Vysotskii had a rougher voice and style to match the camp inmates and people of the street whose voices animated his songs. Similarly, Galich’s style depended on the “tapestry of colloquialisms, jargon, slang, curses—a linguistic image of the particular realm formed by the outcasts of society.”130 Thus, guitar poetry, played by the singer-composer accompanying himself on a seven-string guitar, was also aesthetically mar­ ginal: “simple melodies” and “self-consciously inexpert guitar playing” were characteristic of the genre.131 Over what one scholar described as “primitive rhythmic and harmonic scaffolding” stretched the voice; that voice is “mani­ festly untrained, tonally poor, uncertain in pitch, at times employing crude recitative or ordinary speech—but always enunciating clearly.”132 As Lev Anninskii recalled, “Bulat Okudzhava, with his trademark goodwill . . . said that everyone hated him: poets, for the fact that his texts were not poems, but song lyrics; composers for the crudeness of his melodies; singers for his rather hard-of-hearing voice; guitarists for the unattractive strumming.” But, added Anninskii, this undisciplined style helped show that the “self­ expression of the soul (dusha) was more important, stronger and higher” than professional considerations of quality. The soul convinced listeners by the naiveté (and thus the immediacy and authenticity) of its expression—the spirit of this authenticity animated the new genre.133

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The technology of magnitizdat—the audio counterpart to samizdat— reinforced the impression of authenticity and shared values among guitar music fans. The spiritual strength of the genre was also conveyed by these nonprofessional recording means.134 Magnitizdat recordings of unofficial performances of guitar poetry in apartments, from which other copies could be made, tended to be poor quality, thanks to the use of low-fidelity reel-to-reel recorders. Such recordings of performances were typically full of background noise: “Some of it is extraneous, like vehicles passing in the street outside or the footsteps and voices of neighbors. Some of it, though, is an integral part of the ambience of magnitizdat: the creak of furniture, the chink of bottle against glass, the coughs and muttered comments from the audience in the room.”135 One of the effects of such ambient noise was the perception of a closer connection between singer and audience—a connec­ tion audible in the “requests, banter, and repartee, warm or bitter laughter” included on the tape.136 This ambient noise, together with the amateur qualities of the performance and the recording, fostered the sense of community fans of guitar poetry found in the songs they shared. Platonov described it this way: “Guitar poetry evolved not just as a song genre but also as a sociocul­ tural phenomenon, a medium through which Soviet young people across several generations articulated thoughts, opinions, and identities; recognized and interacted with like-minded individuals; and formed communities that were never entirely within, yet also never entirely outside of, the Soviet kolle­ ktiv (collective).”137 Minstrel fostered a similar sense of a friendly collective with the slogan on the cover, “Let’s Join Hands, Friends!” (Voz′memsia za ruki, druz′ia!), a well-known refrain from Okudzhava’s song “The Union of Friends” (Soiuz druzei, 1967). The sense of connection and intimacy reinforced by amateur characteristics tended to level the playing field between performers and audi­ ence. Fans would sing bards’ songs and even compose their own. Along with journalistic coverage of bards’ songs and critical discussion, the journal fea­ tured some of these in a section titled, “‘How’s it going, Bulat? .  .  . (Kak dela, Bulat? . . .): Authors’ songs dedicated to B. Okudzhava.”138 The com­ munity of fans of bards’ music also depended, like other alternative public groups, on sharing knowledge repressed by authorities or simply omitted in the official press. The view of bards and their music “from inside,” as Krylov put it, was typically not of a sensitive nature for the authorities. However, one example concerns information about Vysotskii, a popular actor as well as bard. Authorities tried not to publicize information about his death by drug overdose on July 25, 1980, but news traveled among fans, thousands of whom packed the streets for his funeral. Following Vysotskii’s death, editors

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Figure 11. Vladimir Vysotskii on the cover of Minstrel special issue, 1980. Credit: Archive of the Research Centre for East European Studies at the University of Bremen, FSO 05-2.26 (Krylov, Andrei).

of Minstrel put out two issues with articles and materials about his bardic works a special issue for August–September 1980 and issue 1 (11) from 1981 were devoted to Vysotskii. Both featured photographs of Vysotskii on the cover, and they were highly sought after. Krylov reported that in this sense the KGB’s involvement had an unin­ tended positive effect because it helped keep them informed about what was going on; one of the KGB representatives told leaders of the Club of Ama­ teur Song that they had caught one seller of samizdat copies with several thousand copies of the special Vysotskii issue. This massive interest amazed Krylov.139 Important articles about Vysotskii by fellow bards appeared first in the pages of Minstrel, effectively covering his creative legacy much more fully than the official press did. Because of the limited way Vysotskii had been presented in official culture—where he was known as an actor, not a bard—some readers who saw articles f rom Minstrel learned much they had not known. As Igor′ Karimov put it, mimicking the naive reader, “You mean, Vysotskii was not simply an actor, but also a poet who wrote

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unofficial (blatnye) songs?!” Karimov went on to assert that in this way, “Min­ strel opened people’s eyes—it helped people learn the truth.”140 Samizdat journals did much to connect individual voices to communities. These were alternative public groups who recognized themselves through the style of verbal expression and associated spiritual values broadly con­ ceived. Such values and their expression might be connected to a religious or other communal tradition, or with a conception of culture that was broad in scope but specifically inf lected, as in the case of bards’ songs, or of poetry ref lecting a quasi-sacred culture of the Word. For such communities shaped by samizdat and magnitizdat circulation, the authenticity and strength of their values were often signaled by the poor qualities of the media in which voices were recorded and shared. These humble material manifestations demonstrated the marginality and exclusivity of communication not com­ promised by state collaboration or endorsement. This proved to be the case even for semi-legal samizdat like that devoted to bards’ music. Thus, samizdat voices conveyed a contradictory but intriguing mix of individual and collective identities, transcendent spirituality and degraded materiality, as well as silence and speech. Samizdat texts made intimate and personal connections public as they allowed people to imagine their connec­ tions to a better, more truthful community of Soviet people. Samizdat entailed changed temporal and spatial coordinates in alternative public imagination. The sense of history became more complicated and plu­ ralized. This chapter showed how the transmission of voices created social space for conversation, discussion, debate, and the development of alterna­ tive public spheres. In particular, Ginzburg’s text showed how intimate rev­ elation to trusted peers became the foundational scene for a broader public community based on truths shared through the medium of samizdat. The voice of truth in samizdat depended in some way on the silence out of which it came. Such silence preceded the voice and was invoked explicitly or implicitly by the person or persons choosing to speak. In this way, the silence was not simply an effect of the state—it was a condition in which people had been involved, and choosing to break this silence was a meaningful act. Samizdat meant that the axis of communication and the agency to speak and hear shifted from that between the state and the people it authorized to speak, to people speaking to one another and giving one another audience and encouragement. In a sense, the attempts of state officials to attribute dissidence to foreign inf luence represented an attempt to deny that Soviet people could speak any truth not provided by the state. That totalitarian epistemology had foundered, however, in the post-Stalin era, giving way to

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a pluralized model of knowledge spoken and heard among those who saw themselves as part of alternative communities. This model of truth-telling in samizdat cannot be reduced to the monologic truth-telling some associated with Solzhenitsyn. However, this plural­ ization does not entail the same relativism implied by Yurchak’s performative turn in late Soviet discourse. In his account of the last Soviet generation. Yurchak analyzed the performative use of authoritative discourse as part of the creation of a de-territorialized outside (living vne) within Soviet soci­ ety.141 Samizdat is not limited to its relationship to the state’s authoritative discourse. Instead, as this chapter has shown, samizdat texts helped create a space for imagination, thought, and community among speakers and their audiences. This alternative social space was also increased by varied speakers and communities in samizdat whose style of expression and point of view differed from those of other samizdat speakers and communities. Thus, samizdat space depended on distinct subject positions among Soviet citizens. In this way, the agency developed as part of a sense of self established rela­ tive to those peer readers and not (or not only) to the state. Juliane Fürst distinguished her views on the “agency and subjective intention” of those who dropped out from Yurchak’s model. The dropping-out Fürst described entailed renegotiating on a daily basis the balance between living inside and outside of Soviet social norms.142 Samizdat writers and readers did not nec­ essarily demonstrate their nonconformism to the degree of dropping out, but they did develop an alternative sense of self hood and agency based on the community of knowledge and imagination sustained by the texts they shared. This alternative sense of self can be related to the notion of samizdat chronotopes. While there is not a single samizdat genre—samizdat being a mode of existence of the text—there is a characteristic type of samizdat pro­ duction and circulation defined by the action of citizen peers rather than by agents of the state or state-controlled print institutions. There is also a truthtelling function that helps define this characteristic samizdat mode of the text.143 As Bakhtin pointed out, the representation of the human figure (and, hence, its imagination) requires a time-space projection, what Bakhtin called a “chronotope.” “The image of man is always intrinsically chronotopic,” he wrote, adapting Immanuel Kant’s observation that space and time are indispensable for any form of cognition.144 In his article on the chronotope, Bakhtin analyzed its shape in various historical genres of literary writing. In the conclusion, he gestured toward “the complex problem of the listenerreader, his chronotopic situation .  .  . ([and] his role in the process of the work’s life).” We can activate this possibility of extending the chronotopic

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situation via the samizdat audience. Bakhtin pointed out that “every literary work faces outward away from itself, toward the listener reader, and to a certain extent thus anticipates possible reactions to itself.”145 Creative thinking about publics, particularly by Warner, has helped make clear the way public texts engage audience members to construct worlds and social spaces that did not exist or existed only partially before (that is, to engage in poiesis of the imagined community and its world).146 Thus, the chronotopes of samizdat involved not only the space-time complexes described within the texts but, crucially, the social spaces and times constructed by their circulation among a public.

C ha p te r 3

Imagining Time in Samizdat

The imagination of time is linked with space, as Bakhtin’s term “chronotope” suggests.1 The chronotope entailed by samizdat truth-telling cannot be neatly divided into temporal and spatial components. Bakhtin’s essay on the chronotope offered a historically broad analysis of literary genres: samizdat requires some adaptation in the use of his term. In the first place, samizdat is specific to the modern period, and it is situated on the margins of print culture. This specificity needs to be addressed. The modern imagination of time is a key issue in the study of an extra-Gutenberg system like samizdat. In the second place, samizdat encom­ passes far more than just literary works. This chapter treats mainly literary and artistic works and statements about them—such works tend to provide or support ref lection on how time is imagined or created. However, the samizdat chronotope concerns alternative imaginations of time and space in a variety of types of text, and this chronotopic imagination is linked to what Michael Warner called the world making, or poiesis of samizdat publics.2 Moreover, within these alternative publics, this world making aims to be transformative.3 According to Benedict Anderson, the apprehension of time and commu­ nity we think of as modern depends in important ways on print culture, a fact that novels and newspapers illustrate particularly well. Anderson’s clas­ sic study of “imagined communities” continues to be widely referenced in 84

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discussions of modern social imagination. In his analysis of what he called the “literary convention” of the newspaper, Anderson evoked a sample front page of the New York Times, where one might find stories about “Soviet dis­ sidents, famine in Mali, a gruesome murder, a coup in Iraq, the discovery of a rare fossil in Zimbabwe, and a speech by Mitterand.”4 The occurrence of Soviet dissidents in this series was determined by the time in which the book was being prepared for its first publication in 1983. This observation goes to part of Anderson’s point: the juxtaposition of unrelated and geo­ graphically dispersed events was justified by their coincidence in time. As he wrote, “The date at the top of the newspaper, the single most important emblem on it, provides the essential connection—the steady onward clock­ ing of homogeneous, empty time.”5 In the early 1980s, stories about Soviet dissidents regularly formed part of the daily presentation in the newspaper of significant events. As opposed to the homogeneous time of modernity linked in Anderson’s analysis to print media and the market for them, samizdat as an extra-Gutenberg mode of existence of the text facilitated the development of multiple alter­ native senses of time to which alternative communities were oriented. A more congenial concept for describing this situation could be the “het­ erogeneous time of modernity” described by Partha Chatterjee.6 Talal Asad expanded on the way Chatterjee’s “heterogeneous time” could be enacted through “embodied practices rooted in multiple traditions, of the differences between horizons of expectation and spaces of experience—differences that continually dislocate the present from the past, the world experienced from the world anticipated, and call for their revision and reconnection. These simultaneous temporalities embrace both individuals and groups in com­ plexities that imply more than a simple process of secular time.”7 Asad’s explanation enhances our understanding of the variety and complexity of modern social imagination. Asad drew attention to embodied practices and the continued significance—which may be overt or disavowed—of diverse religious traditions and other forms of transcendence in the public sphere. In this telling, the reality of time in modern societies has long been more complex than the homogeneous time of state bureaucracies and markets described by Charles Taylor as the time of modern secular society.8 Taylor pointed out that the lexical roots of the word “secularity” link the imagination of society to time in the sense of the age (the saecula). He analyzed “radical secularity” as the modern (Western) notion that the society makes its own context of laws and legitimacy without relying on a transcendent order.9 Asad pointed out the contradiction in the fact that secularism uses a politi­ cal medium (representation of citizenship) to transcend the differentiating

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practices of the self articulated through class, gender, and religion. By con­ trast, the state in premodern societies (whether those societies are deemed premodern according to a common calendar or because they are not secular in the way modern Western societies are) mediates local identities without aiming at transcendence.10 Asad’s analysis added to a fundamental thesis of Taylor’s work, that secularism is a constructed and contingent world view associated with modern Western societies, and that it is much less mono­ lithic or inevitable than many have thought.11 In this way, Asad also contrib­ uted to the horizon of “multiple modernities” as an alternative to a unified and Western-centric model.12 Akhmatova’s well-known formulation about samizdat and a pre-Gutenberg era highlighted the tensions of Soviet modernity.13 According to the more pluralized understanding of modernity outlined above, samizdat manifested and supported the development of heterogeneous modern time in the postStalin era, as opposed to the monolithic progressive chronology of official Soviet ideology. Marxist-Leninist ideology had taken the implications of the modern age to an extreme of radical secularity to which everyone was expected to adhere in all aspects of life. As discussed in chapter 2, Claude Lefort characterized the Soviet social imagination as bounded by a kind of mental fencing (clôture); various modes of contestation in the post-Stalin era transgressed its boundaries and opened wider the space for social imagina­ tion. In a different but related way, Taylor described the “closed” immanent frame of modern secular imagination, which admits of no transcendence.14 Chapter 2 showed that interest in religion, inspired at least partly by a certain wartime revival of Russian Orthodoxy promoted under Stalin, and provoked by the crude promotion of “scientific atheism” under Khrushchev, prompted post-Stalin Soviet writers and communities to challenge the boundaries of Soviet public discourse.15 People turned to forms of transcendence which the party had (rather inconsistently) tried to make obsolete. Among them, Tat′iana Goricheva, leader of the Religious-Philosophical Seminar in Lenin­ grad and one of the editors of the samizdat journal Thirty-Seven, articulated her sense of the rebellion against monotonous secular conformism in the USSR. She wrote of the need to renew a “liturgical conception of time” in her preface to selected texts from the samizdat collection of ecumenical Chris­ tian texts titled Hope (Nadezhda 1–10, 1977–82). Goricheva insisted: “Today the liturgical conception of time is as badly threatened as that of space. We ‘never have time.’ We live in an age of rapid action . . . Our arid souls can be revitalized by means of the Church calendar, which is decked out with numerous festivals and events. Here time does not run in a homogeneous

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monotonous gray, where an individual is either at work or is forgetting him­ self in senseless enjoyment.”16 The Russian Orthodox Church calendar provided one of many templates from the past re-engaged by people to inspire a new, more complex sense of time. Such alternative temporal structures came in religious (transcendent) and immanent varieties. Without wholly displacing the shared temporal f low of Soviet life—most people continued to maintain some sort of official work schedule and awareness of Soviet news and events—these alternative temporal models introduced hybridity and heterogeneity into social imagi­ nation. Such admixtures of temporal hybridity helped authors and readers of samizdat reimagine time to generate a new sense of themselves and society, according to which they understood the meaning and significance of their lives differently. This chapter examines several instances of the alternative imagination of time, principally through literary and artistic samizdat periodical editions. Imaginative works invite ref lection on the terms of their construction, allowing us to consider the time sketched out within the text alongside the practical duration of the edition’s appearance and circulation. Samizdat peri­ odicals provide the chance to consider issue numbers and associated dates: the temporal expanse of a samizdat periodical is usually quite irregular and, in many cases, sharply abbreviated. This serves as an index of a decidedly non-print, non-market environment, in which the pressure of political and legal forces, along with the difficulty of sustaining regular alternative pub­ lishing, often led to a short lifespan for the edition. The strong aspiration in the texts toward realizing alternative forms of time contrasts with the edi­ tions’ precarious existence in the late Soviet context. Samizdat journals and other periodical editions thus evoked in an often unstable way the hopes for personal transformation and social renewal envisioned by various groups.

The Time of the Avant-Garde in Moscow Shortly before Aleksandr Ginzburg’s literary collection Syntax (Sintaksis 1–3, 1959–60) appeared, another significant development took place at the monu­ ment to Vladimir Maiakovskii.17 That monument was unveiled in Moscow on July 28, 1958. The site became known as the Maiakovka, and the people who gathered there between 1958 and 1961 for informal poetry readings and socializing, were called the Maiakovtsy. These gatherings contributed signifi­ cantly to the growth of an alternative public sphere, not because assembling on the public square became a viable strategy (it did not), but because people

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Figure 12. Iurii Galanskov, [Moscow?], 1960. Credit: Archive “History of Dissidence in the USSR,” International “Memorial” Society, f. 110.

made acquaintances and formed networks relevant for subsequent under­ ground activity. Future rights activists including Vladimir Bukovskii, Iurii Galanskov, and Eduard Kuznetsov met at the Maiakovka. People who would work in independent groups aiming for a Russian national revival, includ­ ing Vladimir Osipov and Anatolii Ivanov (Skuratov) also met there until the authorities forcibly dispersed those gatherings.18 In addition, the group of poets called SMOG developed out of the Maiakovka scene by 1964.19 Public gatherings at the Maiakovka proved hard to sustain in the face of repressions by the authorities.20 However, samizdat writing and publishing turned out to be a relatively durable strategy. One of the most famous par­ ticipants among the Maiakovtsy was Iurii Galanskov, who edited the journal Phoenix (Feniks, 1961). Galanskov’s 1960 poem “A Human Manifesto” (Chelovecheskii manifest) served as a programmatic document for the Maiakovtsy. Bukovskii recalled how movingly Galanskov’s poem seemed to capture the spirit of the time. It was a “human,” not a narrowly political manifesto, he claimed.21 As such the poem conveyed the hopes of a generation emboldened by the post-Stalin

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Thaw, aiming to revive human values and reform Soviet society. Galanskov portrayed the drama of the “I” speaking out: he called on the audience to a quest for freedom and truth: It is I— calling people to truth and struggle, unwilling to serve any longer, I tear apart your black ways, woven from a lie [Eto—ia, / prizyvaiushchii k pravde i buntu, / nezhelaiushchii bol′she sluzhit′, / rvu vashi chernye puti, / sotkannye iz lzhi.]22 The speaker outlines high stakes: the audience members may join the poet’s quest for “truth” or remain bound up in “black ways” and lies. Galanskov’s “A Human Manifesto” was a public lyric—this somewhat par­ adoxical form united the intimacy of lyric poetry with a public address. The two modes tended to be separate in the modern era, as Warner described it: lyrics imply private speech addressed by the lyric speaker to him or herself; by contrast, public speech is addressed to an audience. Warner illustrated the distinction with a quote f rom John Stuart Mill’s essay f rom 1833: “Elo­ quence is heard, poetry is overheard.”23 The intimate privacy of the lyric had little place in official Soviet culture. However, the lyric poems of repressed modernist poets, including Akhmatova, Gumilev, and Mandel′shtam, were among the earliest texts circulating in samizdat already in the 1940s to the early 1950s.24 Moreover, the revival of poetry in the post-Stalin era culmi­ nated in audiences of thousands for poetry readings by Bella Akhmadulina, Evgenii Evtushenko, and Andrei Voznesenskii by the early 1960s.25 Galans­ kov’s impassioned exhortation to his audience most immediately brings to mind the fervor of revolutionary passion in Maiakovskii’s deeply personal yet also provocatively public poetry, in which he proclaimed, for example: For you, I will pull out my soul stamp on it— to f latten it out! and give it to you bloody red as a banner. [vam ia / dushu vytashchu, / rastopchu, / chtob bol′shaia!— / i okro­ vavlennuiu dam, kak znamia.]26 Maiakovskii, who started as a Futurist firebrand, was subsequently proclaimed the greatest of Soviet poets. He exemplified exciting possibilities for poetic

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innovation that f lourished in the modernist era and through the 1920s, and he also became highly canonical. Maiakovskii was an important figure of reference for people interested in expanding the boundaries of expression in official and unofficial writing.27 Maiakovskii exemplified a conf lation of the modes of intimate and public address that remained provocative and productive into the late Soviet era. This implies a hybrid or complex temporality bringing together the “no time” of lyric speech, which is “timeless overheard self-communion” (or address to an intimate other), with the public speech that “requires the temporality of its own circulation” (it is addressed and circulated to a crowd, in which the listener/reader also places herself ).28 The lyric mode and the public sphere ascended to prominence in the modern imagination with the spread of print. Both have been destabilized by the rise of digital media.29 Samizdat had a similarly destabilizing effect on print paradigms, creating (or recreating) a less fixed temporality that might seem at once premodern and new. In the case of Galanskov, this complex temporality entailed high stakes. Galanskov published his poem “A Human Manifesto” in Phoenix, thereby confirming the poem’s status as a public text to be circulated among readers after having been read out loud on the square. The samizdat journal Phoenix was then picked up by the émigré group NTS and printed in Germany in the journal Facets (Grani) 52, 1962.30 In part thanks to such republication, Phoe­ nix became part of the officially assembled record of “anti-Soviet activity.” Galanskov also attracted the attention of authorities by assisting Ginzburg with the White Book covering the Siniavskii-Daniel′ affair.31 Convicted of antiSoviet activity in 1968, Galanskov died in prison in 1972 from complications following surgery. Galanskov’s willingness to submit his whole passionate (poetic) self to public scrutiny in this context thus resulted ultimately in the “no time” occasioned by his end, which also became a public event, reported in issue 28 of the samizdat Chronicle of Current Events. The avant-garde aspiration to trigger a leap into a better future by bring­ ing art and poetry into direct contact with life inspired another samizdat endeavor, which explicitly appealed to similar revolutionary roots. The journal Art of the Commune (Iskusstvo Kommuny 20–33, 1962–63) was also cre­ ated in Moscow, though it did not come directly from the gatherings at the Maiakovka. The editors Vladimir Petrov and Grigorii Freidin referred to the journal by the same title published in Petrograd (1–19, 1918–19), with which Futurists Maiakovskii and Osip Brik had been involved. Their efforts seem like an extension of attempts to renew society in official Soviet print (rather than a wholly independent alternative). Il′ia Erenburg mentioned the futur­ ist journal Art of the Commune in his memoirs People, Years, Life (Liudy, gody,

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zhizn′), published in New World in the early 1960s. His reference to the his­ torical futurists may have both ref lected and helped inspire the interest of post-Stalin youth in experimental art of the pre- and early postrevolutionary years.32 In the course of negative reaction to aspects of Erenburg’s memoirs by party leaders and spokespersons, this reference attracted attention; the official critic Vladimir Ermilov cited Erenburg’s mention of Art of the Com­ mune among other modernist artists and phenomena from the early revolu­ tionary period. Erenburg had cited a passage in which Futurists asserted they should be able to use state power to implement their artistic ideas. Ermilov claimed that this showed that party leaders like Khrushchev were right to be suspicious of the will to power among modernist artists. He wondered why Erenburg was interested in modernist art and culture while ignoring what succeeded it, the true revolutionary art of progressive realism.33 Ermilov’s article highlights the party’s attempts to put a fence around art and culture so that there would be no independent sphere for aesthetic values and expres­ sion. In the post-Stalin environment, people felt less compelled to observe

Figure 13. Cover of Art of the Commune, no. 27 (December 22, 1962). Credit: Archive of the Research Centre for East European Studies at the University of Bremen, FSO 01-076 (Petrov/ Gribkov/Melamid).

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those boundaries, and in samizdat they would not have to: thus, samizdat began to look to some like a more attractive option. Issues of the new typescript version of Art of the Commune in samizdat were numbered beginning with twenty to signal a continuation of the artis­ tic legacy from the early part of the century.34 Petrov and Freidin spoke of a “lost generation” (poteriannoe pokolenie) in the Soviet Union. They could have seen the epigraph to The Sun Also Rises (“You are all a lost generation”) and read about the concept in Ernest Heming­ way’s memoirs, A Moveable Feast; Hemingway’s works were hugely popular in the Soviet Union in the 1960s.35 The editors applied the designation lost generation to those Soviet young people who had fought in World War II and then been forced to endure what they described as the “unrelieved darkness” of the early 1950s. While it was not made fully explicit, a Soviet reader of the 1960s would have understood that the horizons opened to those who went abroad as soldiers during the war were closed off thanks to the more her­ metic, chauvinistic, and provincial cultural atmosphere created under Stalin by the early 1950s. People “chose between alcohol and suicide,” wrote the editors. New art and literature would create possibilities for developing a cre­ ative and independent relationship to the historical and social moment. The editors addressed the need to construct social reality anew using the arts: “Material values, once established, lose their validity . . . Only art is capable of reanimation.” At the moment, wrote the editors, the pathways (puti) to readers are closed. “We have to open those pathways,” they asserted, so that the new art can be communicated and engage people in revitalizing society. Thus, the editors projected a public beyond their close friends, imagining through the medium of the samizdat journal a reanimation of society to be accomplished through communication of the new art.36 Authors in this samizdat version of Art of the Commune adopted elements of the provocative style and mission of their Futurist forebears, deriding, for example, Soviet literary criticism (which they call “cretinism”), which seems to want “literary donkeys and sheep,” “bleat[ing], ‘S-O-O-O-METH­ I-I-ING PR-O-O-O-GR-E-E-E-SS-I-I-I-VE.’”37 Although the rudeness of the Art of the Commune authors resembles that of the Futurists f rom the first part of the century, their historical distance f rom them can also be sensed in this piece: the authors made fun of the way the Soviet government and official culture promoted so-called progressive values because in their view the revolutionary culture of the Soviet Union had lost much of its legiti­ macy and needed to be revived. This was not so different f rom the call of party leaders to renew socialist values. In that same issue twenty-two, a neighboring piece broke ranks with avant-garde forebears by advocating the necessity of classic literary works. The author argued that theorists

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should explore Pushkin’s relevance today.38 Practitioners of art should work on transferring and translating the classics f rom one system into another—f rom their historical moment to the present time, the author suggested.39 This matched in many ways the efforts of party leaders to engage the Russian literary canon, including Pushkin, who was the subject of major official celebrations in 1937 and 1949, as well as realist novels of the nineteenth century, treated as the legitimate forerunners of Socialist Realism. The authors of Art of the Commune wanted to take on and revive that Soviet mission: for them, the future depended on an active and creative relationship to the past, including both the avant-garde and the classical artistic/literary heritage, apprehended beyond the bounds set by the party around proper socialist art.40 In addition to direct statements in forewords and theoretical essays, the authors of Art of the Commune provoked their audience to be critically active co-participants in their project by means of the design of pieces in the jour­ nal. The addendum “Questions of Degeneracy” (Voprosy marazma) in issue thirty-three of the journal presented the text of a speech by L. F. Il′ichev, head of the Ideological Commission, “On the Responsibility of the Artist.” Il′ichev delivered the speech at a meeting with Khrushchev and six hundred representatives of the cultural intelligentsia at the Kremlin on March 7–8, 1963. In that speech, Il′ichev castigated Erenburg at length and called other artists and writers to task for their supposed transgressions. The speech was studded with empty clichés, such as: “We all live and work for the people.”41 The editors of Art of the Commune did not retype the speech; rather, they cut it from the pages of Pravda and pasted it into their journal as an addendum. They wrote their own title, “Questions of Degeneracy,” by hand over the pasted text of the speech, suggesting that the words of authoritative spokes­ persons of Soviet progressive culture served as evidence of the senescence of the system. The collage demonstrated the existence of another space and perspective by displacing the text of the speech from the official newspaper into the pages of the samizdat journal. It showed how samizdat publishing might work around and through official print culture by destabilizing (and playing with) its principles and forms of expression.42 The editors managed to produce fourteen issues of the journal, and they avoided repression. They did not manage to reach a wide readership, however. The avant-garde hope of bringing art (on their terms) into Soviet life to provoke a transformational renewal remained a marginal dream. These early Moscow samizdat publications remained oriented to the idea of the progress of Soviet society. They brought fresh energy—and some independence—to the pursuit of officially established goals of post-Stalin society. The authors and editors involved aimed to transform individual and

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generational consciousness in relation to Soviet social progress by drawing on the rich potentials of public lyric time and the avant-garde legacy.

The Late 1960s: The Time for Rights Defense Is Now By the late 1960s, Moscow became known for rights activism, which entailed a different sense of time. The first issue of the Chronicle of Current Events (Khronika tekushchikh sobytii, April 30, 1968) displayed its orientation toward an international framework of values and the present time with the banner announcing: “The Year of Human Rights in the Soviet Union.” That banner persisted through the five issues of that year, and issue 6 in 1969 announced: “The Year of Human Rights in the Soviet Union Continues.”43 The frame­ work of human rights was relatively new, and its audience was international, even if rights activists (pravozashchitniki) in the USSR stressed the authority of the Soviet constitution and international agreements to which the Soviet Union was a signatory (notably, this included the Helsinki Accords in 1975).44 The values to which editors appealed were universal: the constant epigraph for all issues of the Chronicle was Article 19 of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, which spoke of the right of “everyone (kazhdyi chelovek) . . . to freedom of opinion and expression.” The apparent timelessness of such universal values had to be created and maintained in the present with atten­ tion to individual cases and the legal context. Soviet rights reporting was not limited to the context of the state; human rights had become an increasingly important topic of international discus­ sion after World War II and in the 1970s, in particular.45 The epigraph of the Chronicle helped signal to audiences abroad that the reports of violations of human rights and rights under Soviet law would be of interest to them, too, and it linked the independent Soviet public with its international counter­ part. The Chronicle effectively amended the historicist imagination inherited from previous generations by stripping out the eschatological drama and refusing to be either entirely integrated into the state’s agenda or tragically martyred by it. In calm and objective tones, the bulletin turned the attention of Soviet citizens and allies abroad to events in the present and the plight of individuals whose rights were denied. The first issue of the Chronicle of Cur­ rent Events led with a juxtaposition of significant dates: On 10 December 1968 it will be twenty years since the United Nations General Assembly adopted the Declaration of Human Rights. “Human Rights Year” began all over the world on 10 December 1967. On 11 December 1967 the trial of Yury GALANSKOV, Alexander GINZBURG, Alexei DOBROVOLSKY and Vera LASHKOVA was

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due to begin in Moscow. The trial was postponed, however, and only began on 8 January 1968.46 The rights activists working on the Chronicle aimed for maximum precision in dates and facts. They also offered readers a version of history and cur­ rent events that highlighted the contradiction between the advancement of international norms and laws and the violation of them by the Soviet state, which pretended to be the leader of progressive humanity; this issue of the Chronicle went on to detail the violations inherent in what came to be known as the “trial of the four.”47 Relying on intellectual connections between the dates juxtaposed here, eschewing emotion and drama and without suggest­ ing an imminent utopia or world-historical disaster, the editors of the Chron­ icle calmly and factually rehabilitated the present as a site for public attention and meaningful independent intervention by a Soviet public. The valorization of the present as the time when universal values could be enacted based on attention to individual cases depended on regular and sustained production of the Chronicle of Current Events to cover events on an ongoing basis, as the bulletin’s name suggested. Over sixty-five issues spread over fifteen years, the Chronicle systematically recorded the facts of unfolding arrests, trials, and interrogations, as well as protests and appeals regarding the violations of individual—and universal—rights. Andrei Sakharov praised the Chronicle for exemplifying “the best in the human rights movement, its principles and highest achievements—the defense of human rights using objective information, and with a principled rejection of violence. The very fact of the almost uninterrupted publication of the Chronicle for more than fifteen years is a miracle of self-sacrifice, of wisdom, of courage and intel­ lectual integrity.”48 Reporting in the Chronicle aimed to have an impact on the violations of rights and legality by Soviet officials by mobilizing public atten­ tion at home and abroad. To this end, the editors tried to convey information as quickly as possible to the widest possible audience. This was also true for the Information Bulletin (Informatsionnyi biulleten′ 1–24, 1977–80), a series produced by the Working Commission to Investi­ gate the Use of Psychiatry for Political Purposes. Reporting in issue 9 on the arrest of one of the commission’s members Aleksandr Podrabinek on May 14, 1978, the editors aimed to mobilize an international response, as the press release appended to the issue made clear: “The Working Commission calls on all the psychiatric organizations of the whole world and also on all honest psychiatric physicians to speak out in defense of Aleksandr Podrabinek.”49 The commission also arranged for independent evaluations of dissidents who were or might be subject to punitive psychiatric measures. The com­ mission welcomed KGB surveillance of these informal walk-in clinics since

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this helped alert authorities to the possibility of conf licting information and advocacy, effectively discouraging authorities’ use of such measures. “The very fact that an evaluation had taken place became a defense against psychi­ atric abuse,” said Podrabinek.50 Following his emigration from the USSR to Germany, Kronid Liubarskii developed a similar principle regarding the collection and dissemination of actionable information by a broad group of supporters abroad interested in supporting the Soviet rights movement. In the first issue of the tamizdat edi­ tion News from the USSR (Vesti iz SSSR), in 1978, Liubarskii explained what he intended by organizing an “information pool”: The idea was that in the West many people and organizations were actively supporting the rights movement in the USSR and receiving information about it. This information comes in letters, by phone and from people who traveled to the USSR, in reports from agencies (not all of which make it into print) and by many other means. . . . Now and in the future we are talking in the first place about relevant (opera­ tivnaia) information, urgent information that is important for concrete action . . . Thus, for example, the appearance of an important theo­ retical article in samizdat is extremely interesting, of course, for the members of the rights movement, but it does not represent urgent information for the pool.51 The Chronicle of Current Events differed from Liubarskii’s bulletin in a cou­ ple of ways. It reported on new editions in samizdat, and it was not able explicitly to mobilize concrete action in the same way. However, the tempo­ ral model and epistemology were similar; Liubarskii also aimed to provide clear information as quickly as possible about facts and events related to rights violations that were otherwise suppressed or distorted by the official Soviet press. This uncensored journalism—more in the case of the Chronicle than for the shorter-lived émigré edition News from the USSR—was viewed by Western outlets as the most reliable source of information about rights abuses and dissident activity at the time and later. Guided by the needs of people in the present, these editors produced what also became the first draft of the history of the rights movement.

The Time of Culture in Leningrad Rights editions in Moscow samizdat helped establish a base against which Leningrad writers developed their distinctive focus, creating a different rela­ tionship to imagined time. As samizdat developed, writers in Leningrad

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began to emphasize the values of the autonomous culture as their special purview. This entailed a different type of temporality. In retrospect, the samizdat almanac Fioretti (1965) was cast as the beginning of autonomous culture in Leningrad; that is how it appeared after the so-called second or unofficial culture with literary work at its core began to f lourish there in the mid-1970s.52 Viktor Krivulin wrote that “the emphatic aestheticism of the authors in Fioretii can be seen as a sign of the separation (rassloeniie) of a unified aesthetic-political space of uncensored literature.”53 The division at that relatively early moment was not clear. The collec­ tion Fioretti, compiled by the editor Aleksandr Churilin, included poets of Malaia Sadovaia—those who congregated at the café of the Eliseevskii shop beginning in 1964. Authors whose works appeared in the collection included Aleksandr Al′tshuller, Leonid Aronzon, Tamara Bukovskaia, Vladimir Erl′, Evgenii Venzel′, and Evgenii Zviagin, among others.54 One of the SMOG poets from Moscow, probably Vladimir Batshev, proposed that his group join forces with the Leningraders to have the collection published either in the USSR, or, if that was not possible, in Facets (Grani) abroad. Authorities got wind of the situation, and efforts to cooperate with SMOG poets were abandoned as was the plan to publish the collection.55 By contrast, the inclu­ sion of work by Leningraders Erl′ and Aleksandr Mironov in the Moscow samizdat journal Sphinxes, and the inf luence of SMOG on the subsequent Leningrad Khelenukts group showed that cooperation and mutual inf luence between groups across the two cities was possible.56 These caveats about a strict division between samizdat in Leningrad versus Moscow notwithstanding, the collection Fioretti advertised an orientation to what Bakhtin would later call the “great time” of culture that seems distinct from the appeals for immediate social reform by Moscow-based samizdat poets, critics, and rights activists seen in the preceding section.57 This lon­ ger historical perspective was indicated by the title of the collection, which referred to the Fioretti di San Francesco (The Little Flowers of St. Francis of Assisi). In addition, the epigraph for the collection came from William Shakespeare’s sonnet 74, as translated by Samuil Marshak. The original reads: But be contented: when that fell arrest Without all bail shall carry me away, My life hath in this line some interest, Which for memorial still with thee shall stay. The translated sonnet in Fioretti reads: When they lead me out under arrest, With no ransom, bail or delay,

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Not a boulder of stone, not a gravesite cross— My monument will be these lines. [Kogda menia otpraviat pod arrest / Bez vykupa, zaloga i otsrochki, / Ne glyba kamnia, ne mogil′nyi krest— / Mne pamiatnikom budut eti strochki.]58 Marshak’s translation raises a couple of specific associations for Russian readers. Without a doubt, the first line, “When they lead me out under arrest / With no ransom, bail or delay,” evoked the threat faced by heretical authors in the Soviet Union. While the situation became much better after Stalin, the trial of Leningrader Iosif Brodskii for parasitism in 1964 was an early indication of the measures authorities could take against writers who tried to work outside the bounds of official organizations and censored print.59 However, in Shakespeare’s sonnet the private or sociopolitical event is given existential significance as the fate of all human beings (death), to which the poet responds. In addition, Marshak’s f ree translation of Shake­ speare’s lines 3 and 4, which he renders, “Not a boulder of stone, not a gravesite cross—My monument will be these lines,” suggests another cul­ tural association. To a Russian ear, the lines recall Pushkin’s canonical poem bearing the epigraph Exegi monumentum. This poem, also known by its first line, “I raised myself a monument not made of human hands” (“Ia pami­ atnik sebe vozdvig nerukotvornyi,” 1836), contrasts the Alexandrine stone column (a symbol of imperial greatness) with the poet’s own, more endur­ ing verses. Pushkin’s poem refers to Horace’s ode “Exegi monumentum” with its similar assertion that literary works last longer than monuments in other materials. The implication of a parallel realm of the spirit represented in culture and lasting longer than any given state or empire resonated profoundly in Brodskii’s poetry and that of many other writers of Leningrad samizdat. The idea that they were working on enduring and universal issues belong­ ing properly to the “great time” of culture helped consolidate a sense of common purpose and community among people working in Leningrad. In the eyes of many Leningrad writers, this commitment to autonomous cul­ ture distinguished them from more politically and socially engaged writers, as well as those literary writers who were more easily published abroad, which could bring fame and money—those possibilities they associated with being in Moscow. Thus, the Leningrad writers’ assertion of autonomy and corollary orientation to a greater sense of time was one way to transform the practical disadvantages of not being in the Soviet capital city into a sort of advantage.60 The aestheticization of marginality went further than this,

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however. Poets cultivated what Sergei Stratanovskii called the “Godforsak­ enness” of Leningrad in their time—this quality seemed apparent in a run­ down industrial stretch along Obvodnyi Canal between the Baltic Station and Gaza Prospect (now Old Peterhof Prospect). That region provided the name for the samizdat journal Obvodnyi Canal (Obvodnyi kanal 1–19, 1981–93).61 The aestheticization of marginality and material poverty had strong prec­ edents among the Lianozovo artists and poets outside Moscow in the late 1950s–early 1960s. If Lianozovo writers turned that feeling into “concrete poetry,” the Leningrad poets cultivated it according to their own spiritual­ ized sense of high culture.62 To partake in the great time of poetry meant transcending current events. This was not a turn away from history, but a choice to apprehend one’s own time in light of culture and the tradition, according to Ol′ga Sedakova, a Moscow-based poet who wrote about Leningrad poets who subscribed to this world view. She discussed the “return to culture” among poets of this gen­ eration, likening the acute but specific sense of historicity among unofficial poets of the 1970s to T.S. Eliot’s view that a poet’s word can be recognized as a cultural event only if he does something new relative to the existing tradition.63 Krivulin, a coeditor for Leningrad samizdat journals Thirty-Seven and The Northern Mail, expressed an idea he shared with other Leningrad authors: they tended not to seek immediate publicity abroad or even wide exposure among contemporary Soviet readers, relying instead on the longer time-span of culture to validate them eventually as a worthy part of the tradition.64 This also meant working with the rhythm of the collective and responding f lexibly to audience interest. Of the journal Thirty-Seven, Krivu­ lin said, “Everything vibrated, even the print run,” which could vary from a few dozen to more than two hundred copies.65 The journal shut down in 1981 thanks to pressure from the KGB and the emigration of several of its editors and authors. The cultivated idiosyncrasy of Thirty-Seven contrasted with the regularity of another important Leningrad journal called The Clock. The latter, along with Thirty-Seven, demonstrated the relative maturity of the Leningrad unof­ ficial cultural scene. Initiating editor Boris Ivanov conceived of the journal The Clock, which lasted for an astounding eighty issues, as a venue for the authors and events contributing to an increasingly broad and well-developed unofficial cultural movement. The Clock came out like, well, clockwork. Even in the tense atmosphere of 1980, when Soviet authorities cracked down on dissidents and drove many out of the country or into inaction, issues of The Clock continued to appear: “I thought that The Clock should ‘run’ during any kind of political weather,” explained Boris Ivanov.66

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Although unofficial culture could appear to be the opponent of official Soviet culture, Ivanov played down that opposition. He commented that the idea of revolution or combative opposition had no allure for most of those working in unofficial culture at that time, in the early 1980s, because of the traumatic experience of the revolution and its destructive consequences for lives and culture in the country.67 Thus, Ivanov refused the heretical model of orientation to the state as an agent of history, sweeping along or crushing individuals in the way of its progress. This shift was accomplished, perhaps paradoxically, through attempts to normalize relations with the authorities. Ivanov detailed factors contributing to the success of efforts to establish the officially registered, yet independent Club-81, including precedents like the grassroots Club of Amateur Song (see chapter 2), the desire of the authori­ ties in the early 1980s to show a tendency toward democratic reform, and their recognition that it was impossible to control the proliferation of samiz­ dat and tamizdat.68 Authors and artists associated with The Clock embodied the Leningrad unofficial impulse to reconnect with a lost heritage, ref lecting a belief that the Soviet Union had interrupted the normal process of cultural develop­ ment.69 In addressing that situation, The Clock aimed to restore what was viewed as a normal temporal process of culture, bringing independent efforts to connect to the past and the West back into the broad, unfolding Soviet cultural process as a regular part of its development. The Clock distrib­ uted material over a set of stable sections in each issue, including sections for prose, poetry, literary criticism, translations, and a chronicle of independent cultural life. The Clock brought together a relatively eclectic group of authors associated with various groups, including the Religious-Philosophical Semi­ nar, the group around Sergei Maslov producing the samizdat review journal Sum (Summa 1–8, 1979–82), and Efim Barban of the Jazz club “The Square” (Kvadrat), which had an independent journal of the same name.70 The Square (no. 1–19, 1965–87) illustrated the imbricated nature of samizdat and official publishing, which was particularly evident for samizdat related to audio cul­ ture. The first three issues of The Square were printed officially by the city Komsomol (Gorkom komsomola), but later issues were created as samizdat. The Jazz club had many covers with an official responsibility statement of the city Komsomol, with they used on later issues to make it seem legal. When samizdat issues 11 and 12 were discovered by the authorities of the Palace of Culture (Dvorets kul′tury) where the Jazz club was located, the publication was moved to Novosibirsk.71 In Leningrad, The Clock helped establish the progress of independent cul­ ture as a regular phenomenon alongside official Soviet culture. The visibility

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it gave to various authors, groups, and events allowed young creative people to see themselves as part of a legitimate cultural process. The precedents set by nonconformist artists, who managed to get approval for independent exhibitions and groups, gave Ivanov and his friends hope that they could come to an understanding with Soviet authorities who were interested because they would thus be able to see who was doing what. Negotiations led eventually to the establishment of the independent, yet officially sanc­ tioned, group Club-81. Established in 1981, Club-81 became a hub for further developments in an increasingly normalized independent Leningrad culture. Club members produced further initiatives, including the samizdat journal devoted to translation Pretext (Predlog, 1984–89), the bulletin Regular News (Reguliarnye vedomosti, 1982–85), the literary collection Circle (Krug, 1985), a satirical journal Red Follower of Shchedrin (Krasnyi shchedrints, 1986–91), and the children’s journal GaB (DiM, Devochkam i Mal′chikam [For Girls and Boys], 1986–87). The Clock and Club-81 helped establish the regular rhythm for inde­ pendent culture to grow and diversify.

Eccentric Time There were other samizdat journal projects that ref lected an impulse toward eccentric chronotopes and the spaces of freedom and alternative social for­ mations they represented. One of these was the thematic collection UFO (NLO: Nasha lichnaia otvetstvennost′ [Our Personal Responsibility] 1–2, Lenin­ grad, 1982–83), which attempted to show the connection of human beings with the astral world.72 The central figure in the group creating this journal, Kari Unksova, was a poet inf luenced by her study of theosophy.73 The enthusiasms of Unksova and her group fit into the more general religious renaissance seen in unoffi­ cial Soviet culture: eastern and esoteric philosophies were part of that trend.74 It seems that the independent character of Jiddu Krishnamurti, who refused the role of leader in theosophy for which he was groomed, was particularly attractive for the UFO group. In the “Apologetics” section of the first issue, a quote from Krishnamurti advocates for a renewal of contact with the real by learning “to die in relation to the experience of the previous day and in relation to the feeling of the present day,” because experience, and the labels and symbols that help us process it, create mere repetition, instead of the renewal and creativity one should seek.75 For these authors, the renewal of the possibility of the present moment depended on connecting with wisdom thousands of years old, while also enacting that wisdom via social games in the present. In the section on

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Figure 14. Drawing of people with UFO landing, from Our Personal Responsibility no. 1 (1982). Credit: Archive of the Research Centre for East European Studies at the University of Bremen, FSO 05-1.7 (MANI).

“ARTCONTACT,” the authors proposed a set of games they described as designed to counter regular, utilitarian action, what they called “directed and declared type of action” that “2000-year-old practice” (presumably: the time of the common era of civilization) has shown as dangerous. Direc­ tions for the aleatory social games of “ARTCONTACT,” which involve mix­ ing up names for objects and designations for male and female, can be easily implemented by any group anywhere on earth, the authors insisted. These games were designed to prompt a cognitive “return to childhood.”76 The author writing in this section referred to the nearly 2,600-year-old wisdom of ancient Chinese philosopher Lao-Tze (Laotzi) to illustrate how categories may be overturned: “The real truth resembles a lie, real masculinity resem­ bles femininity.” The author, called the coordinator, recalled a corrupting experiment in a kindergarten in which children were given salty cream-of­ wheat cereal and told it was sweet. The experiment seemed designed to pervert the children’s natural instincts and interrupt their unmediated con­ nection with reality. Reportedly, it made many of the kids sick. In conclusion, the author wrote that all spiritual leaders assert that people are as blind as

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moles, and that vision comes only through one’s own efforts—“the rest is salty cream-of-wheat.” As a counter to such institutional and social attempts to manipulate (and damage) people’s perception, UFO offered games because “PLAY WILL RETURN TO YOU YOUR SPIRITUAL HEALTH.”77 Unksova also participated in the women’s movement. As a result, she was charged, like other members of that movement, with a violation of Article 190-1 for dissemination of slander of the Soviet system, and she had to hide from the KGB. Unksova planned to emigrate, but she died on June 4, 1983, as the result of a car accident.78 Andrei Iziumskii’s tribute to Unksova in UFO, prior to her death, expressed the force of her personality for people associated with the journal. Iziumskii wrote, “We had to wait 10,000 years for her to be born” and bring her feminine consciousness in poetry. He went on to say that as a result, “The world is finally united in one constantly f lowing whole, not knowing division into subjects and objects, astral and noospheres .  .  . into the esoteric and the everyday.”79 The appeals to esoteric wisdom and insight of the UFO group depend on ancient sources along with references to the whole of human history and the origin of human consciousness in childhood. This is different from the Hege­ lian historical model, departing even from its Christian roots. The renewal of the individual’s contact with reality and creative potential depends on social games—corrupt social institutions oversee the perversion of consciousness (the authors did not emphasize the Soviet character of those institutions). The cure is natural, “playful” social interaction. The journal exemplifies what Krivulin called a “planetary” consciousness, not by evoking a Western cultural tradition but by reference to Eastern and ancient sources. A final example of altered chronology is found in the work of Ry Nikonova (Anna Tarshis), Sergei Sigei (Sigov), and the samizdat journal Transponans (1–36, 1979–87).80 Nikonova, Sigei, and their associates also aimed to continue the avant-garde legacy, looking back again to the Futurists. Their eccentric approach to that legacy differs from earlier appeals to it and demonstrates how samizdat and the unofficial culture widened the possibilities for social, histori­ cal, and aesthetic thinking. Nikonova and Sigei did not simply refer to the most prominent Russian Futurists. As shown in the survey of earlier developments in Moscow, Maiakovskii had been an obvious figure to follow for earlier Soviet poets, artists, and audiences interested in pushing beyond the boundaries of the Soviet canon.81 As more of the repressed avant-garde heritage came to light, people began cultivating more specific approaches to it. Nikonova and Sigei pushed past such obvious leading lights, seeking out those who had been forced into the lower stratum (nizovoi sloi) of culture beginning in the 1920s, seeking to transpose their achievements into current artistic practice.82

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A figure of particular importance for them was Vasilisk Gnedov.83 Gnedov (1890–1978) was a relatively obscure figure with a brief career as an avant­ garde poet with the group of Ego-Futurists. Much of Sigei’s activity was devoted to compiling information about the avant-garde. He was delighted to find Gnedov still alive and to be able to correspond with him—Gnedov was, thus, a living link to the avant-garde tradition that so interested Sigei.84 Gnedov had been forced to drop down to the lower stratum of poetry; after working for a short time with the Ego-Futurist group in Petersburg, he was drafted into the army in 1914. Gnedov was wounded while fighting with the Red Army. Later, he was arrested, in the 1930s, subsequently spending many years in the camps.85 In later life, Gnedov lived in the provinces—not in Mos­ cow, Sigei noted—and he wrote, “until the day of his death.”86 Writing for himself and for poetry—not for print and the authorities—proved to be a less dangerous way to continue to be artistically active throughout one’s life. For Sigei and Nikonova it also represented untapped potential. Sigei and Nikonova mimicked that continuous artistic activity carried on in a provincial location. In their journal Transponans, produced initially in Yeysk, and only later circulated in Leningrad, Sigei and Nikonova published poems by Gnedov and other lost works by marginal avant-garde figures. They took inspiration from that work for their own poetry. Gnedov’s “Poem of the End,” from the book Death to Art (Smert′ iskusstvu), published in 1913, was a famous example of Russian minimalist poetry, consisting of a title and a blank page.87 It prompted Nikonova to develop her own “vacuum poetry.” Excerpts from Nikonova’s book Literature and Vacuum, appearing in Tran­ sponans 13 (1982), served to outline a system of vacuum poetry, with sections on “The Cosmic Conventionally Literary Vacuum,” “The Neutral Platform,” “Pauses,” “Diffusion (Again on Pauses),” “On the Indifference to Compass Directions of a Visual Vacuum,” “Actions,” “Literature Minus a Vacuum,” “Literature Performs a Zero,” and “A Look into the Future” of vacuum poetry developments. The “Complete Vacuum” is a storehouse (sklad) of existence, Nikonova wrote, because out of nothing there may sometimes appear something new.88 Sigei, Nikonova, and their friends contributing to the journal Transponans thus revived avant-garde techniques to recreate an artistic process of con­ tinuous creation and renewal. The journal provided a means for develop­ ing this activity in a public and sustained way. The first several issues, with manifestos of “Transfurist” poetry, were created by Sigei and Nikonova on their own, but the journal subsequently drew in major authors from Lenin­ grad and Moscow, too, to become a striking venue for late Soviet avant-garde art.89 Sigei’s ties to Leningrad—where he was enrolled as a correspondence

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Figure 15. Boris Konstriktor, Vladimir Erl′, and Sergei Sigei at Club-81, in Leningrad, 1981, from Transponans, no. 20 (1984). Credit: Archive of the Research Centre for East European Studies at the University of Bremen, FSO 01-037 (Vladimir Erl′ Collection).

student at the Leningrad State Institute of Theatre, Music, Art and Cinema, from 1979 to 1984—facilitated connections with authors like Erl′ and those associated with Club-81, where they held their second Transfurist reading on July 3, 1983. The Yeysk location mattered to Nikonova and Sigei on principal—that was where avant-garde art could still be done.90 They made commitments to provincialism and dilettantism part of their artistic credo, ref lecting geo­ graphic and institutional eccentricity that complemented their rejection of official means for legitimating artistic work in the Soviet Union. Their ver­ sion of temporal eccentricity needs to be appreciated on its own terms. It meant departing from the linear and punctual temporal model associated with revolution and the historical avant-garde to embrace multiple and hybrid vectors of development. Nikonova and Sigei talked about going deep into the lower stratum of culture to find avant-garde potentials and unfold­ ing those potentials in a multitude of directions to create whole systems of their own, as Nikonova did in the case of vacuum poetry. This was intended to be a model for others. Thus, the journal Transponans pointed at once backward, out, and forward: they brought avant-garde techniques from the past into the present of their work in Yeysk, working to spread their energy

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through collaborations with Leningrad artists and Moscow Conceptual­ ists. That broad network of artists represented a variety of ways of using neo-avant-garde potentials to spur present and future developments.91 In Transponans 7, 1980, the concept of the manifesto, so important for the Futurists and other historical avant-garde movements, came in for parodic variation. B. Konstriktor (aka Boris Vantalov, born as Boris Aksel′rod) drew the character “Mania Fest” on the f rontispiece using a hand making the vulgar fig sign for the face.92 Konstriktor also partici­ pated with Nikonova and Sigei in composing for this issue the “Project of a Manifesto for Transfur-Poets,” which made the declarations, program, and even name of the group open to a process of negotiation and collective work with fellow contributors. Konstriktor’s “Fragments” in this issue also illustrate the embodied and individual character of avant-garde activity in this late Soviet iteration: “Poetry, in the final analysis, is the elaboration of correct breathing, that is, internal alchemy, the infusion into the organ­ ism of the golden pill of immortality, sense is a side effect and in the first place stands His Majesty Rhythm. Only he is capable of wresting f rom the depths of our being that original breathSPIRIT (vozDUKH) that grants immortality. The question of reading is a question of breathing: not what we read, but what we breathe!”93 The Transfurist emphasis on the embodi­ ment of poetry can once again be related to Gnedov’s “Poem of the End,” which he performed with decisive hand gestures. Nikonova, in particular, developed that idea for a system of gestural poetry and performance.94 Konstriktor’s statement connects the internal process triggered in the body by the rhythm and breathing of poetry to timelessness (immortality), fur­ ther emphasizing the move away f rom a historical process focused on the state toward an embodied process that brings the working artist into con­ tact with infinity.

Art and the Archive The folio series MANA (an acronym derived from the Moscow Archive of New Art [Moskovskii arkhiv novogo iskusstva], 1–4, 1981–82) was created by a group of artists associated with Moscow conceptualism.95 The trend took its name from an article by Boris Grois titled “Moscow Romantic Con­ ceptualism,” which first appeared in the samizdat journal Thirty-Seven 15 (1978) before being widely reprinted.96 Conceptualism in the USSR arose in part as a reaction to the difficult history of nonconformist Soviet art, which included Khrushchev’s rebuke to innovative young artists invited to participate in the Manezh Exhibition in December 1962, and the infamous

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Bulldozer Exhibition in Beliaevo, outside of Moscow, on September 15, 1974. That latter exhibition was so named because of the violent reaction of Soviet authorities, who destroyed works at the independently organized exhibition using bulldozers.97 Conceptualism made it possible to move beyond tradi­ tional painting and sculpture, which were dependent on the materials and exhibition spaces controlled by Soviet authorities. It also meant imagining new ways of conceiving artistic and social space and imagining the time of art and the art process. Conceptualism inaugurated a different temporal model for understanding time and the work and art history. The value of the art object implied the time involved in mastering technique and receiving inspiration—or being appropriately conscious, according to the Socialist Realist model. Conceptu­ alism shifted the focus to the time of the event when the artistic idea of an artist or group is implemented. According to the conceptualist principles, anyone could read the conceptual instructions and repeat the work: such repetition helped highlight the context of the event.98 Conceptualism in this way is a type of art that corresponds particularly well to the samizdat mode of existence of the text, or, at least, that allows for ref lection on that mode, as works by Lev Rubinshtein and Dmitrii Prigov show.99 The MANA folios were full of documentation of artworks in their “event-ness”—including docu­ ments of staged happenings, as well as visual works along with instructions and descriptions, critical and theoretical essays. Even the mode of presenta­ tion of the MANA folios, which consisted of series of identical blue-green envelopes with highly variable and sometimes surprising contents, made reading them an “event.”100 Rubinshtein’s card catalog poetry offers one provocative example of con­ ceptualist temporality. In Rubinshtein’s performances, the act of lifting cards and reading from them created a frame of time around each of the short statements, which Rubinshtein strung together in a series that suggested something was happening or was about to happen. His “Event without a Title” in MANA 1 (1981) condensed these features into a short set of handwrit­ ten cards (just twenty-one) containing statements that appeared to respond to a wish for something to happen: (1) “Absolutely impossible.” (2) “In no way possible.” (3) “Impossible.” (4) “Maybe sometime.” .  .  . (11) “Maybe soon.” (12) “Probably soon.” .  .  ] (17) “Now.” (18) “Attention (Vnimanie).” (19) “There it is (Vot).” (20) “That’s it (Vot i vse).” (21) “The end (Vse).”101 The content of the happening is never explained, but the series engages the atten­ tion of the audience (reading or hearing it) and plays with their expectations, thereby baring the structure of such attention to the poetic or artistic event as something to contemplate.

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The folio issues provided a way to collect experiments by Soviet concep­ tualist artists, who were developing their own milieu and communicating about artistic events, innovation, theoretical ref lection, and audience reac­ tion among their own tightly knit group. Thus, these conceptualist artists had withdrawn from the Soviet art process (for this work, at least—many of them continued to make money on official commissions) to create their own context, which independently incorporated cues from the past and abroad, without being obviously connected to either of those contexts. For example, Viktor Skersis’s “Chair. Photograph of a Chair. Definition of a Chair” riffed on Joseph Kosuth’s classic conceptualist work “One and Three Chairs” (1965) with three blank sheets of white paper. As Viktor Skersis explained, the sheets constituted three discrete instances of the same thing, as in Kosuth’s work with the chair. However, their blankness corresponded to the absence (or pretended absence) of any information in the Soviet context about how Kosuth or others staged that idea.102 In work included in the next folio, Sker­ sis further adapted Kosuth’s foundational work with a set of photographs humorously illustrating the proposition, “In order to humanize things, the means for contraception and an apparatus for execution are necessary.” The staging of the chair for execution in one photo and for abortion in another demonstrated the absurdity of applying an inappropriate philosophical dis­ course (humanization) to things. Rather than the real object disappearing behind the idea, the chair’s static form resisted the attempt to endow it with reproductive or mortal capacities.103 Other work that referenced the histori­ cal avant-garde included I. Volodin’s laconic series of statements framed on the page by the corresponding basic geometrical shapes, which were of such interest to Kazimir Malevich and Soviet Constructivists: “I hate the square!” “I hate the circle!” and “I hate the triangle!”104 The MANA folio series helped consolidate a group of artists engaged in related artistic experiments. The term MANA (MANI) was coined in the mid­ 1970s by Andrei Monastyrskii, perhaps with the help of Rubinshtein or Nikita Alekseev.105 The MANA folios made manifest an archive of created works and related discussions to establish the grounds for the further expression and development of Soviet conceptualist practice.106 As editor of folio no. 1, com­ pleted in February 1981, Monastyrskii adhered to a strict structure consisting of two series—a series of envelopes with works (reproductions or documen­ tary traces) accompanied by a separate series of texts, including texts about the works, or critical reviews, analytical articles, and literary writings. The first folio started with an artist whose name began with “A” (A. Abramov) and ended with an artist whose name began with “Ia” (I. Iavorskii), the last letter of the Cyrillic alphabet, suggesting a sort of totality that resonated, as

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Monastyrskii put it, with the name of the émigré magazine A-Ya, which had been coming out since 1979.107 The magazine A-Ya presented conceptualist works and texts in three languages (Russian, French, and English). The editor Igor′ Shelkovskii, who emigrated to France in 1976, talked about the fact that A-Ya was intended to show a more interesting side of nonconformist art to the West (i.e., more interesting than the relatively incoherent collections of individual nonconformist works shown abroad before that time). However, the magazine was, in the first place, important for the artists themselves, who were eager to see themselves ref lected in that international venue. Shel­ kovskii recalled, “We wrote that all works from the USSR were published without the knowledge of the artists, in fact, it was the opposite—the artists themselves took the initiative to place their works in the journal.”108 The MANA folios seemed to artists like a format with the potential to spread information within and beyond the core group of acquaintances. As Skersis put it: “It was necessary that we should have . . . channels of com­ munication . . . We thought that we needed some kind of common unifying network of distribution.” Of the four to five copies of each folio created, the editor kept one copy, one went to Il′ia Kabakov’s studio (where people came to visit and would see it), one was sent to Margarita and Victor Tupitsyn in New York, and the others were shared via other sites where artists gath­ ered in Moscow. The second folio, edited by Skersis and Vadim Zakharov in June 1981, aimed to widen the circle beyond well-known Moscow friends: “We wanted to go beyond the Moscow conceptualist circle . . . though back then it was known as the circle of MANA.”109 The second issue included works by new members of the artistic group, Igor′ Lutz, Iurii Bokser, Boris Kokorev, and Salavat Shcherbakov. The aim was to cultivate the openness of the group, and unite different generations, making “a link between the pres­ ent and the future.”110 The fourth folio of MANA, edited by Natalia Abalakova and Anatolii Zhi­ galov, also included fictitious artist characters dreamed up by Skersis and Zakharov, including “Ekaterina Shnitser” and “Elena Volodina,” credited as being the creators of a long fold-out poster reading “All Men Are Scum!” which is surely one of the most striking pieces of the folio.111 Abalakova and Zhigalov saw themselves as mediators between the generations, the “young­ est ones in the older generation of Moscow conceptualists and the oldest ones in the younger generation.”112 Abalakova’s series of collages “Summa Archaeologiae,” found in this folio, channeled a broad set of problems and ideas important to her and other artists from the group. Her collage “Black Hole” (Chernaia dyra) catches the eye with a large black silhouette of the Soviet Union in the middle surrounded by scraps of print from magazines.

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Figure 16. Natal′ia Abalakova, “Summa Archaelogiae: Collages”: “Black Hole,” part of the proj­ ect “Exploration into the Essence of Art as Applied to Life and Art” by Natal′ia Abalakova and Anatolii Zhigalov, in MANA, no. 4, 1982, envelope 1. Credit: Archive of the Research Centre for East European Studies at the University of Bremen, FSO 01-066 (MANI).

The background includes reproductions of fellow conceptualist artists’ work (part of Aleksandr Kosolapov’s “Sasha, will you have tea?” 1975, can be seen in the upper left), and in the bottom center one sees a scrap from the cover of A-Ya, where such works would have been publicized abroad. Any large black shape brings to mind Malevich’s “Black Square,” which seems like a plausible (if polemically invoked) referent.113 Kovalev pointed out that the satire implied by the way in which Abalakova and Zhigalov referred to such iconic predecessors targeted not necessarily the avant-garde as such but attempts to create a direct connection to that distant heritage as practiced by nonconformist artists in the 1960s.114 In an essay accompany­ ing the series in MANA 4, Abalakova talked about the collage technique as one arising from the rather chaotic everyday reality in which she lived, with diapers boiling on the stove and masses of paper lying around—postcards, newspapers, attestations from the housing management, bills, paid and unpaid, receipts, tickets, letters. This everyday trash (khlam) furnished the materials for works that could be done in a jiffy—provided someone nicked

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some glue and black paper for her. “I love to do everything fast,” she wrote, referring to the necessity of her working context and her principles for the process. The series underscored the fact that “Everything is happening here and now.”115 The artwork, which took no time to make, as the artist told it, ref lected the art process in its context—internationally, and in the apart­ ment. The time of the MANA folios, then, may have been in part oriented to the future inasmuch as it constituted a record of activity of these artists. However, it was also a record of activity in the present, in the here and now, designed like other samizdat journals and bulletins to stimulate and support effective activity by all those among whom it circulated. Samizdat periodicals could not maintain the impression of regular, homog­ enous time created by print newspapers. Even the most regular and longestlived samizdat bulletin, the Chronicle of Current Events, was subject to inter­ ruption by repressive measures by Soviet authorities. What it and other periodical editions of samizdat demonstrated was a commitment to action via communication in the present. This characterized other editions as well, even those such as the autonomous aesthetic editions of Leningrad samiz­ dat, where an orientation toward the development of the cultural process in the present time coexisted with reference to the tradition and the great time of culture. The key to the transformation of writers and readers through samizdat is partly to be found in the potential created by such hybrid tem­ poralities. Thinking had shifted from a focus on the outstanding works and authors of a grand, unified, and progressive history to the interactions of texts and readers in rhizomatic, pluralized, and essentially unpredictable ways. Some of these editions proved to be short-lived, but their impact among read­ ers could be significant—the fact of speaking out opened wider the channels of communication and enlarged the imagination of possibilities—for art, for community, and for social action. The varying examples surveyed in this chapter show how heterogeneous time—expressed in temporal models that were complex and alternative to the Hegelian historicism that dominated the Russian and Soviet conscious­ ness in earlier generations—developed in and around samizdat periodical editions. These editions demonstrate a shift from a broad orientation to Soviet society and the capacity of uncensored poets and artists to facilitate renewal and reform in the 1960s, to the longer historical view of world cul­ ture and eccentric models of time and social formation. In all cases, the activ­ ity of the individual poet or artist became resonant within a group of peers (that is, people who were equals in terms of being regular citizens rather than wielding power endowed by the state), who formed an audience of

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active co-participants. According to the logic of this dissident chronotope, individuals within the network of creation and reception of samizdat publi­ cations became capable of meaningful transformation occurring apart from what the state would do or say. Thus, the development of alternative publics in the USSR entailed a shift away from a unified Soviet chronotope oriented to the state and its history toward multiple and hybrid forms of truth-telling, sociality, and creation modeled for and by audiences in samizdat. Samizdat editions in their production, their reading, their performance, and their circulation brought people together in apartments and in gather­ ing sites of their own choosing outside of official institutions to create a culture and thus weave a sense of time and a social fabric within which they as individuals could also be transformed. This process differs significantly from the homogeneous empty time of modernity in which national imagi­ nations took shape; in this extra-Gutenberg context, the character of any specific public network, its values, principles, and ways of understanding its group’s history mattered for the sense of self and social ties created within it, complicating the relationship to the framework of the larger Soviet society. A few of these endeavors—like The Clock, which succeeded in staking out space alongside official Soviet culture; and, for different reasons, the pro­ vincially located but centrally networked journal Transponans—managed to sustain their activity over dozens of issues and many years. This was unusual. The social space created by most samizdat periodical editions ran up against limits set by the authorities. Having considered here the somewhat less risky sphere of literary and artistic culture in our exploration of dissident tempo­ ral imagination, the next chapter turns to the hard realities of social, politi­ cal, and material conditions within which other dissident publics tried to establish alternative social spaces.

C ha p te r 4

Spaces of Samizdat Sociality

This chapter surveys the alternative public sphere as a set of imagined social spaces created and ref lected by the samiz­ dat texts that circulate within it. Taylor described the modern concept of the “public sphere” as a “kind of space of discussion.”1 This chapter explores the spatial side of the samizdat chronotope from this theoretical angle to treat the variety of “spaces” created by such texts to accommodate discussion of topics not appearing in official Soviet print or not adequately addressed there. The role of media in creating the space of public discussion is key: as we saw earlier, theorists have devoted much attention to the ways print production and circulation created and sustained the modern public sphere.2 Based on this understanding, we can treat the dissident public sphere in the Soviet Union as a product of the non-print samizdat editions that consti­ tuted it. While the circulation of samizdat proved to be fundamental to the development of this alternative social space, we know that the less central­ ized and less institutionalized character of this extra-Gutenberg mode of the text helped facilitate the pluralization of the underground with a variety of publics. The multiple underground or alternative publics generated and sus­ tained by samizdat took shape thanks to the circulation of texts within and in some cases beyond the boundaries of Soviet society. This chapter focuses primarily on the communities of readers within the USSR.

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A special role was played by samizdat journals and other periodical edi­ tions, which staked out the positions for alternative public voices and identi­ ties within the larger Soviet public. Journals and other periodical editions implied a collective effort in the production of texts. As periodicals (or at least in aspiring to be such) these editions entailed projecting audiences over time. They thus indicated a certain level of self-awareness and engagement of audiences as alternative publics. Some samizdat journals envisioned their audience as being generally coterminous with the Soviet people (this was the case for the Moscow Chronicle, for example). In other cases, the topics, lan­ guage, and sites of production and circulation of samizdat journals indicated more limited social spaces positioned relative to other conceptions of alter­ native publics. This chapter surveys a few of the variously configured social spaces occupied by alternative, underground communities based on the periodi­ cal editions that addressed them. Along the way, we will read aspects of the material forms of samizdat periodicals (media, language, number of copies, etc.) as elements expressing the social spaces projected and enacted by the editions.3 That is to say, we are dealing with material texts circulating within (and thereby creating as well as ref lecting) a social space. These samizdat journals and other periodical editions represented and modeled a range of modes of truth-telling and self-transformation. Such alternative social spaces mingled and overlapped with official Soviet cul­ ture in many cases. They also depended on the tolerance of Soviet authori­ ties.4 People could adopt various positions distanced f rom the state, in the shadow of the state, or as a rival to it. The sociality facilitated by samizdat texts created these alternative public spaces; however, the state authorities ultimately decided what would be tolerated and for how long. The state played a crucial role in determining how much space these publics could occupy.

Pluralizing Views on Rights Ukrainian Herald

Rights activists battled, as the intelligentsia in Russia had long done, to estab­ lish closer ties with the working classes and people outside the major cities. Western observers commented on the narrowness of dissident circles, but it was well known to Soviet activists, as well.5 In the 1970s, rights activists tried to create a stronger foundation for their universal aspirations by cultivating ties with other regions and social strata.

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Ukrainian samizdat illustrates the possibilities for collaboration as well as the challenges of expanding rights advocacy beyond the Moscow center. Ukrainian activists shared many interests with Moscow-based rights activists while also being distinguished by specific constraints and concerns. Prison and labor camps provided an important opportunity for people from dif­ ferent groups and regions to meet others, create networks and share infor­ mation. Ukrainian national activists established close ties with the Moscow dissidents when representatives of both groups found themselves incarcer­ ated together in the Mordovian camps in the mid-1960s. That was where Ukrainian activists imprisoned in 1965 met the convicted authors Iulii Daniel′ and Andrei Siniavskii, for example. Moreover, since the route from Ukraine to Mordovia ran through Moscow, relatives of prisoners and released prison­ ers stopped to see relatives of imprisoned Muscovites, increasing familiarity and cooperation between the two groups.6 The 1965 arrests in the Ukrainian republic targeted the Ukrainian Sixtiers, a generation of poets, journalists, historians, and literary scholars who supported the idea of a renewal of Ukrainian culture in the context of the Thaw and reforms of the Khrushchev period.7 Like the Sixtiers in Rus­ sia, these f resh voices expressed hope for reform and liberalization of social and cultural discussions in the Soviet Union. Similar to the fate of their counterparts in Moscow and Leningrad, many of these reform-minded intellectuals in the Ukrainian republic soon found themselves squeezed out of good professional positions and educational institutions and pushed into manual labor and blue-collar jobs. Already in 1965 a whole stratum existed of Ukrainian “stokers with a university education.”8 These marginalized intellectuals increasingly turned to samizdat as an outlet for their creative and social interests. For example, a literary samizdat journal called The Chest (Skrynia) appeared in L′vov in 1971. The initial samizdat run was only about fifteen copies and likely had limited circulation. However, the edition and its authors subsequently became known for having been expelled f rom the university due to the scandal over the journal. The story helped to give the journal and the authors a legendary status that may have played a role in helping to stimulate further unofficial literary and cultural activity in L′vov.9 The samizdat Ukrainian Herald (Ukrains′kyi visnyk 1–9, 1970–75), edited by Viacheslav Chornovil, first appeared in Kiev in January 1970. It enjoyed wider circulation than The Chest. Ukrainian activists gave copies of the issues to f riends in Moscow who reported their news in the Chronicle of Current Events. Those Moscow activists passed issues of the Ukrainian Herald across the border to Western publishing outlets and even produced their

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own samizdat Russian translations of issues. Despite the parallel efforts and goals shared among the two groups, there were differences. The authorities ramped up repressions earlier in the Ukrainian republic than in the Rus­ sian republic. By many accounts, punitive measures were harsher in the Ukrainian republic than in any other.10 Such repression was certainly more severe and widespread among Ukrainian activists than among Moscow rights activists. Alekseeva discussed the harsh conditions calling the Ukrai­ nian republic a “testing ground” for punitive action. She detailed the arrests of the Ukrainian Sixtiers in 1965, which was followed by another wave of arrests, searches and interrogations that swept through activist networks there between 1972 and 1974. Subsequently, almost all the members of the Ukrainian Helsinki group were also arrested.11 There was more f reedom in the Soviet capital and less in non-Russian national republics and regions, where the sharp eyes of foreign correspondents and diplomatic corps rarely penetrated. The Ukrainian Herald resembled the Moscow Chronicle in reporting on violations of rights. Soviet government repressions against Ukrainians and Ukrainian national expression also helped shape the agenda of activists in the Ukrainian republic. Many remained focused on the national inter­ ests around which they first mobilized. In this way, the Ukrainian Herald, devoted at its inception like the Moscow Chronicle to plainly reporting facts, underwent a change of character and editors after the wave of arrests fol­ lowing the appearance of the first six issues. Issues 7 and 8 (1974) featured thematic essays and articles on Ukrainian national problems, including an essay taking a strong position on the “Ethnocide of Ukrainians in the USSR.” The focus on Ukrainian national issues also informed the bulle­ tin series Memorandum (1976–77) and the series titled Informational Bulle­ tin (Informatsiinyi biuleten′, 1978–80) produced by the Ukrainian Helsinki Group (UHG). The relative neglect in these editions of repressions against other groups, including the Crimean Tatars or the unregistered Baptists in the Ukrainian republic is worth noting, given that Peter Vins, son of the unregistered Baptist leader Georgii Vins, was a member of the UHG. The group’s pub­ lications did not mention the struggle of Soviet Jews trying to emigrate f rom the Ukrainian republic, and they did not address the aspirations of the Ukrainian Greek Catholics to achieve legal status.12 The interests of these other groups featured in separate samizdat editions with specific Bap­ tist, Crimean Tatar, Jewish and Ukrainian Greek Catholic profiles, though such editions encountered their own significant difficulties. For example, it appears that only one issue of the Ukrainian Catholic Herald (Ukrains′kyi

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katolyts′kii visnyk) appeared in 1984. Thus, although Ukrainian national activists were oriented to the type of rights activism based in Moscow, the group did not exemplify a similar aim to produce universal coverage; they had their own issues and constraints. Documents

Following the eighteen-month hiatus in the appearance of the Moscow Chronicle of Current Events occasioned by the legal case against its editors, rights activists renewed the publication of that bulletin.13 At this stage, they could demonstrate their expanded contacts: beginning in 1974, the Chronicle began to feature regular reports on Baptists and other religious groups. The Moscow rights activists also added to their long-standing ties with Ukrainian, Crimean Tatar, and Lithuanian groups by enlarging the network to include Georgian, Armenian, and German emigration activists.14 Soon thereafter, the Helsinki Watch Groups—the first such group was founded in Moscow on May 12, 1976—formalized these links. The Helsinki Accords, signed in August 1975, made it possible for Soviet rights activists to pursue expanded work within a clear international framework.15 The Ukrainians formed their own Helsinki group in November 1976, followed by Lithuanian, Georgian, and Armenian groups. Petr (Petro) Grigorenko, a Red Army general of Ukrainian origins who became active on rights issues in Moscow was a mem­ ber of both the Ukrainian and Moscow Helsinki groups.16 As part of this f ramework, the Moscow Helsinki Group issued a series of documents and information known as Documents (Dokumenty 1–219, 1976–82).17 Group members sent the documents abroad and circulated them domestically.18 These documents covered a wide range of problems faced by religious believers, ethnic communities, and other groups. For example, Document no. 1 covered persecution of the Crimean Tatar activist Mustafa Dzhemilev; Document no. 4 named people from Jewish families seeking reunification with relatives in Israel or the United States; Document no. 5 detailed “Repressions against Religious Families,” concerning the govern­ ment practice of taking children away f rom Baptist, Pentecostalist, and Adventist families thought to be educating children in a manner inconsis­ tent with communist morals. One unnumbered document, “In Defense of Valentin Moroz,” contained an appeal to foreign governments about the case of this Ukrainian historian and national rights activist imprisoned since 1970 and said to be subject to punitive psychiatric medicine. Other documents covered disruption of phone and postal communication with international interlocutors (Document no. 2), as well as searches and other

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repressive measures against Helsinki Group members (Document no. 16). One document named political prisoners requiring immediate release due to their poor state of health (Document no. 17), and other documents in the series highlighted a variety of legal cases affecting specific groups and categories of citizens, spotlighted for being punished for trying to exercise their rights. Thus, the public engaged by rights defenders became broader and more ramified thanks to the geographic dispersal of audiences with specific areas of concern. The samizdat editions show the accompanying diversification of genres, including bulletins and document series containing urgent and actionable information. In addition, there were journals featuring authors who were also rights activists or close to them: journals such as Social Prob­ lems (Obshchestvennye problemy 1–15, 1969–72); Memory (Pamiat′ 1–5, 1976–81); Around the Draft Constitution of the USSR (Vokrug proekta Konstitutsii SSSR 1–5, 1977); and Quest (Poiski 1–8, 1978–80), were among editions featuring longer essays and materials designed for sustained ref lection on social and histori­ cal issues. Although it remains impossible to know exactly how wide the audiences for these journals were, people from outside the capitals and intel­ ligentsia circles certainly knew about the rights reporting in bulletins and documents. The information for such bulletins and document series came from many sources.19 Chronicle of the Catholic Church in Lithuania

The possibilities for the creation and circulation of samizdat editions in vari­ ous republics differed quite a bit based on specific social and political condi­ tions, as seen above in the Ukrainian case. The alternative public sphere in the Lithuanian republic proved to be an exceptionally well-developed and varied social space for asserting and exploring Lithuanian identity and asso­ ciated issues. This was not the case in other Baltic republics: a handful of Estonian national samizdat editions were found, but no Latvian national editions have been found for this era ending in 1986.20 The f lagship edi­ tion of Lithuanian samizdat, the Chronicle of the Catholic Church in Lithuania (Lietuvas Katalikų baznycios kronika [Lith.]), ran for an astounding eightyone issues between 1972 and 1989. The Lithuanian Chronicle was f requently reported in the Moscow Chronicle and abroad. It was widely available to readers in the Lithuanian republic. Some sense of the size of the audience ready to engage with such a publication can be gleaned f rom the fact that shortly before the Lithuanian Chronicle first appeared, 17,054 Lithuanians

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signed a petition addressed to Brezhnev regarding the way the Soviet gov­ ernment restricted religious f reedom and persecuted the Catholic Church.21 The combination of religious and national issues ref lected in the Lithuanian Chronicle appealed broadly across social classes and geographical regions in the republic.22 Moscow rights activists took information f rom the Lithu­ anian Chronicle for their own bulletin, and they helped translate and circulate copies of it in Russian.23 Copies of the Lithuanian Chronicle were typed, although prayer books in Lithuanian were printed on clandestine presses. Michael Bourdeaux noted that while typing was the primary method for reproducing copies of the Lithuanian Chronicle issues, participants also reported using copying machines: At the trial [concerning the Lithuanian Chronicle] in December 1974, one of the witnesses admitted using an Era photocopying machine in the work and producing twenty copies of each of two consecutive issues. One of the defendants admitted distributing one hundred cop­ ies of the sixth issue. The present author has not seen any of these mechanically reproduced numbers and it is not possible to guess the total production for any issue. As far as is known, the organizers of the literature have used their secret printing facilities only for the produc­ tion of prayer-books, not the Chronicle.24 Bourdeaux compared this distinction in the means of reproducing sacred versus secular texts to the practice in Baptist samizdat, which is discussed below. The use of typewriters rather than copying machines may have been a way to avoid being charged with more serious crimes for the mass pro­ duction of more sensitive rights-related reporting. In any case, typewritten copies did not impede the regular distribution of the Lithuanian Chronicle, including transmission to the West and publication there in both Lithuanian and English. The Lithuanian Chronicle aimed, like the Moscow Chronicle, to mobilize and inform domestic and international audiences about the Soviet State’s abuses of rights in the republic. There was a difference, however, in the communal character of the Lithuanian Chronicle; if the Moscow Chronicle highlighted individual cases of people arrested or persecuted, the Lithuanian Chronicle also related many anecdotes about everyday encounters of believ­ ers with scoffers in some position of authority. Although these encounters did not necessarily result in arrest, they illustrated the struggle to assert

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Lithuanian identity. Thus, for example, issue 10 (1974) of the Lithuanian Chronicle included news about the six-hour search of the home of the Ukrai­ nian priest, Vladas Pigolis, in Kaunas, on March 20, 1974, which was associ­ ated with a wider campaign by authorities to crack down on the production and distribution of the Lithuanian Chronicle. The same issue of the Lithu­ anian Chronicle also related the following incident: Šiauliai. In October, 1974, Home Room Teacher (Mrs.) Aukštikalnienė, of Grade 7B in the J. Janonis Middle School of Šiauliai, assigned (Miss) R. Vaitkutė to conduct an atheistic hour. The girl’s mother found out about this compulsory assignment. She came to the teacher and asked why her daughter must conduct the class’s atheistic hour. “She is on our list of churchgoers,” explained the teacher. “We are Catholics, and my daughter will not conduct such an hour.” “If you were an old woman, I would not be surprised,” spoke the teacher, “but you are a young woman and bring your children up so badly.” “What harm has my daughter done?” asked the mother. “Her con­ duct mark from you was very good.” “We wish all the children to be atheists, therefore atheism must be fostered in the child from the cradle on.” “No, my children will never be atheists!” declared the mother.25 Such a story, which would have no place in the Moscow Chronicle, is indica­ tive of the kind of self hood fostered by the Lithuanian Chronicle. The name of the city where the incident took place and the rough date signify that this is a real incident and connect it to the Lithuanian territory. The naming of the child further contributes to its verifiability (it is possible that some read­ ers will know the family), and it shows that the family has overcome the fear and scorn promoted by Soviet officials against religious believers in the press and other public settings, including school. They are willing to speak out about their faith. The fact that this girl’s family—like many others—shared their story for publication in the Lithuanian Chronicle demonstrates further their willingness to make a public statement about their identity as believing Lithuanian Catholics. The publication of such an everyday encounter also models behavior for others: one can manifest a Lithuanian Catholic identity meaningfully in lots of small ways. Distinctively in the case of the Lithuanian Chronicle, the editors aimed to reach an audience in the Vatican, which many felt was too sympathetic to the official Soviet line.26 Editors also added commentary to the presentation of facts in the Lithuanian Chronicle, something the Moscow Chronicle editors

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did not do. Thus, for example, the Lithuanian Chronicle editors addressed the effects of atheist indoctrination: Atheistic Marxism seeks to have all people think, speak, and act only in accord with the Communist party program. The atheists, in their war against religion in Lithuania, are trying to break the spirit of the Lithuanian nation, to deprive it of spiritual values, to lower Lithuanian self-esteem, and acculturate the believ­ ing public. Once the Lithuanians have become atheists, have begun contracting mixed marriages, deprecating their Christian culture, con­ ditions will be ripe for them to merge into a homogeneous mass of people, all speaking the language of Lenin. The people, however, are thoroughly disenchanted with Marxist Communism.27 This resistance to official demands for ideological and linguistic conformity in the late Soviet Union hearkened back to a tradition of similar resistance by Lithuanian Catholic Church clergy and Lithuanian people to policies of Rus­ sification under the Tsarist regime. The Lithuanian Chronicle’s translation into Russian for rights activists and their networks signified a convergence of interest in the framework of human and Soviet legal rights. Yet the fact that the original publication was in Lithuanian was principally important to the character and concerns of its Lithuanian readers—its core audience. The edi­ tors affirmed that, like the Moscow Chronicle, the Lithuanian Chronicle was not anti-Soviet. Its editors aimed to work with Soviet laws, not against them. Nevertheless, those editors needed to remain anonymous because they were subject to arrest and other persecution.28 The clandestine function of some workings of the Catholic Church in the Lithuanian republic provided infra­ structure and social context in which the bulletin could be produced and circulated, uninterrupted until 1989.29 Within the alternative public space created by the Lithuanian Chronicle, a host of other samizdat editions appeared. These included editions produced by those who had close contact with the Moscow rights activists—the Lithu­ anian Helsinki Group produced its own series of Documents (Dokumentai) between 1976 and 1981, and the Catholic Committee for the Defense of Rights of Believers also published a series of Documents in the Lithuanian republic from 1979 to 1980. Other journals produced in Lithuanian included Dawn (Aušra, 1975–88)—an important national Catholic samizdat journal treating socio-political topics, and the journal The Bell (Varpas, 1975–83), which was a liberal Catholic journal that recalled the journal of the same name from the late nineteenth century.30 The range of political positions

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expanded with the Euro-communist orientation of Perspectives (Perspektyvos, 1978–81). The samizdat journal The Shelter (Pastogė, 1978–79) acquainted readers with literary works and essays expressing Lithuanian cultural val­ ues, and a Lithuanian poetry journal called The Flow of the River Nemunas (Nemuno Vaga) began appearing in 1985. Catholic youth organizations in the republic produced the samizdat journals The Future (Ateitis, 1979–80) and The Future of Lithuania (Lietuvos ateitis, 1979–83). There were other journals and collections in this, perhaps the richest of the limited alternative public spheres.31 Jews in the USSR

The Jewish samizdat public was another dissident sphere in which expres­ sion exhibited overlap with and divergence f rom the universalizing dis­ course of rights activism. The early series of collected documents related to the struggle for the right to emigrate, titled Exodus (Iskhod, 1970–71), bor­ rowed the established rights activist techniques and mode of presentation. Article 13 from the Universal Declaration of Human Rights appeared on the title page of Exodus, like Article 19 on the cover of the Moscow Chronicle. Article 13 covered the right to f reedom of movement within one’s State and away from it and back to it.32 In addition, the cover of Exodus featured a line from the Psalms, 137.5–6, beginning “If I forget thee, O Jerusalem,” reinforcing the specific communal concerns of the collection. However, the long-running journal Jews in the USSR (Evrei v SSSR), appearing shortly there­ after and running for a substantial twenty-one issues between 1972 and 1979, modeled a different character and relationship to its audience: rather than simply informing domestic and international audiences about the specific— and, for many, overwhelmingly important—issue of emigration, the journal Jews in the USSR provided a place for Soviet Jews to ref lect on their identity and concerns more broadly with sections such as “Who Am I?” The found­ ing editor Aleksandr Voronel′ was, with his wife Nina, close to Siniavskii and Daniel′ as well as to Sakharov and other leading rights activists in Moscow.33 Voronel′ recalled realizing at a certain point that his community’s concerns needed to take priority in his activity.34 He began Jews in the USSR, which involved many editors, and continued after he emigrated in 1974, becom­ ing the most famous Jewish samizdat journal. It provided Soviet Jews with the opportunity to write and read about the range of concerns (not only the right to emigrate) relevant for their group. Like other Jewish samizdat editions, it was produced in Russian for its largely assimilated Soviet Jewish audience.

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The samizdat journal Culture (Tarbut [Hebr.]) was billed initially as a “sup­ plement” (prilozhenie) to Jews in the USSR.35 Felix Dektor, the first editor of the journal, created Culture at the request of Pavel Abramovich, Veniamin Fain, and Vladimir Prestin, who were leading figures in the movement to expand cultural—that is, nonpolitical—activities for Soviet Jews. Dektor and other activists in separate interviews talked about Culture as a “kosher” jour­ nal, that is one providing no obvious grounds for objection by the Soviet authorities. This was a journal in which the word “Zionism” did not appear, and where culture was the focus.36 The editors of Culture aimed to reach a wider Soviet Jewish audience beyond activists and intellectuals. This cultural trend was supported by the Israeli Nativ Bureau, which provided financial help, advice, and materials, including Hebrew textbooks for Russian speakers published by Biblioteka-Aliya. Those promoting the cultural trend conceived of Culture as a safer alternative to the more openly dissident journal Jews in the USSR. It would appeal to Soviet readers scared off by the more agita­ tional character of Jews in the USSR. Israeli government officials working with Nativ aimed to shift the discussions about emigration policy out of the alternative public sphere to conversations among diplomats and emissaries with Soviet officials behind closed doors. Dektor feared the contrast between the “kosher” edition Culture and the more openly dissident Jews in the USSR might make the editors and publishers of the latter journal more vulnerable, so he asked that Culture first be associ­ ated closely with Jews in the USSR as a supplement.37 After several issues, Cul­ ture appeared as a stand-alone journal. Dektor insisted on editorial autonomy. When he prepared issue four of Culture in 1976, Dektor included the memoirs of a woman who escaped the massacre of Jews in Kaunas on June 25–29, 1941. She wrote, “People, I want to tell you about how Lithuanians killed Jews, so you know.” Such historical testimony was wholly unacceptable to Soviet authorities. It ran counter to the Soviet line that fascist Germans and their sympathizers were the aggressors and that all the Soviet peoples suffered; vio­ lence against Jews was not a special case. Moreover, officially, the Lithuanian people, as good members of the Soviet brotherhood of nations, could not be responsible for such violence. Dektor wanted a piece to accompany and frame this dissenting and plainspoken account by a survivor; he asked the Lithuanian poet Tomas Venclova to write a foreword, “Jews and Lithuanians.” Photographs of issue 4 of Culture appeared in volume 18 of the Israeli tamizdat series Jewish Samizdat (Evreiskii samizdat), where other issues were published in full. The images of issue four of Culture look to be based on microfilm photographs—but they are illegible. Venclova’s compelling essay went on to be printed elsewhere and much talked about, whereas other

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contents of Culture 4 were not reprinted.38 There seems to be no surviv­ ing copy or even list of contents for this issue. Dektor, who emigrated to Israel around that time, says he passed along the prepared issue to the typ­ ist, as usual. However, given the inf lammatory nature of the pieces, about which he had been warned, it seems the issue was suppressed—not by Soviet authorities but, most probably, by Jewish activist leaders in agreement with their Israeli contacts. Such tensions indicate the relatively developed character of the alternative Jewish public in the USSR. This space for ref lection on Jewish identity, peoplehood, culture and rights issues extended throughout other editions published in Moscow, such as a journal concerned with Hebrew language and pedagogy, called Hebrew/Our Hebrew (Ivrit/Nash ivrit, 1978–80), and a collection called Emigration to Israel (Vyezd v Izrail′, 1979–80), produced by the Moscow Public Humanities and Law Seminar, which illuminated the legal side of the emigra­ tion process. The collection titled Jews in the Contemporary World (Evrei v sovre­ mennom mire, 1978–81) gathered news items and information about Jewish life in other countries for a Soviet Jewish audience.

Figure 17. Jews in the Contemporary World, no. 3, 1979. Credit: Archive “History of Dissidence in the USSR,” International “Memorial” Society, f. 152.

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The editor Emmanuil Likhterov (whose name and address appeared on the issue) wrote in a foreword: “We, Jews, are a scattered people . . . A Jew, wherever he is—in Argentina or India, Sweden or Australia—everywhere feels himself to be a Jew and wants to know how his brothers are living in other countries. He is glad for their successes and feels sympathy for their misfortune. Considering the insufficient information about the life of Jews living in other countries in the world, the chronicle offered here aims to fill this gap, at least in some minimal way.”39 The issue included items from the press ref lecting Jewish life in France, China, Romania, South Africa, Israel, Poland, and elsewhere. Most of these journals and other serial editions were, like Jews in the USSR, created in Moscow and distributed through Jewish networks to other Soviet cities. Jewish samizdat journals were also produced in Riga, in the Latvian republic, which had a strong Jewish culture until World War II: a thematic collection on Jewish religion, philosophy, and culture called Jewish Thought (Evreiskaia mysl′, 1978) appeared brief ly, and a collection of documents called Law and Reality (Din umetsiut [Hebr.], 1979–80), created by activists in Riga, drew attention to cases of “Refuseniks,” Soviet Jews denied exit visas. The Leningrad Jewish Almanac (Leningradskii evreiskii al′manakh, LEA 1–18, 1982–89) was a long-running serial collection of scholarly work and essays on topics of Jewish history and culture. It managed to continue running in Leningrad during a difficult time for rights activists, setting an outstanding example for the continuation of Jewish cultural work and scholarship in the Soviet context. The journal Contemporary Jewish Folklore (Sovremennyi evre­ iskii fol′klor, 1986) grew out of work around LEA. Thus, the alternative Jew­ ish public developed into its own varied social space with several centers of activity and good networks of distribution within the USSR and out to Israel, where it was ref lected in the research series Evreiskii samizdat.

Dissident Publics: Adapting Official Spaces Political Diary

The samizdat journal Political Diary (Politicheskii dnevnik), produced every month by Roy Medvedev between 1964 and 1970, was devoted to social and political issues, but it projected a small and specific audience, unlike rights activist editions.40 This audience differed from that of the Moscow Chronicle and most other samizdat editions because Political Diary circulated among Communist party officials. Medvedev received materials from some inf luen­ tial people with access to documents. For example, Evgenii Frolov, a veteran

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Party member who worked with the editorial board of the journal Kommu­ nist, initially gave Medvedev a copy of Khrushchev’s Secret Speech in 1956. He provided other restricted documents in the years that followed. Others did the same. Issues of Political Diary included essays by Lev Kopelev and Petr Iakir on Stalin’s crimes, writing by Raisa Lert and Aleksandr Tvardovskii on neo-Stalinism, and texts ref lecting currents of dissident thought related to Marxism and Slavophilism, as well as debates about the economy, and the possibility of war with China. In 1968–69, the reform movement in Czecho­ slovakia, the Soviet-led invasion to suppress it, and the ensuing press reports and debates dominated the issues, which had grown from twenty-five or thirty pages to over one hundred. Regular sections of the journal included a “Survey of Main Events of the Month,” “Letters, Articles, and Manuscripts,” “From Literary Life,” “From the Past,” “Notes on Economic Questions,” and “Nationality Problems.” Medvedev typed up the issues for distribution to about forty or fifty members of the Soviet establishment, including Aca­ demician Andrei Sakharov. Apparently, none of them informed the KGB. For most of its life, the number of copies made by Medvedev and his friends was restricted to five. In 1971, Roy Medvedev and his brother Zhores Medvedev decided it was time to publicize the edition more widely, and they sent eleven issues abroad for publication.41 Medvedev’s Political Diary was published when fears of re-Stalinization mobilized some party officials and liberal intelligentsia to work toward reform of the Soviet system. Its clandestine mode of production and distribu­ tion marked out a space within the Soviet establishment for critical thought about reform. Subsequent events, including the invasion of Czechoslovakia on August 24, 1968, which Medvedev described in the pages of the Political Diary as “a blow against socialism in Czechoslovakia and throughout the world,” changed the minds of many reformers who no longer saw work­ ing within the party and establishment as a viable option.42 By 1970, Roy Medvedev needed a break from producing Political Diary. Five years later, he took up another enterprise, this time a “thick journal” called The Twen­ tieth Century (XX vek), of which ten issues appeared between 1975 and 1976. Medvedev borrowed the thick journal form from official publications such as New World, filling its pages with articles on politics, sociology, economics, history, art, and literature.43 All about Tsvetaeva

The serial collection titled All about Tsvetaeva (Vse o Tsvetaevoi), which ran for twenty-two issues between 1978 and 1984, is found at the other end of the

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axis of engagement from Political Diary. At this end we find autonomous cultural pursuits. Nevertheless, the impulses driving All about Tsvetaeva can be traced to debates in the official press. The editor Lev Mnukhin, who had a technical education, became passionately interested in the poet Marina Tsvetaeva in the 1960s. At the beginning of that decade, a debate between brilliant intellectual voices representing the perspectives of “Physicists” and “Lyricists” animated the pages of the official Soviet press.44 Il′ia Erenburg was one of the writers who participated in that debate. As was the case for many Soviet readers, Erenburg’s memoirs, where Tsvetaeva’s name was mentioned, became a “guide” for Mnukhin to thinking more widely about the Soviet literary heritage.45 Mnukhin began collecting information from memoirs, old and new publications of her work at home and abroad, per­ sonal items, photographs, and artifacts related to Tsvetaeva’s life. Mnukhin brought the thorough and objective methodology acquired during his scien­ tific training to bear on his activity collecting historical and bibliographical data about Tsvetaeva; in the process he remade himself into a noted Tsve­ taeva scholar.46 Beginning in the early 1970s, Mnukhin began to be invited by organiza­ tions to give lectures about Tsvetaeva in various cities around the USSR. Talking about Tsvetaeva in the late Soviet period was delicate. Thanks to her sympathy for the White Russians, her suicide, and the formally experi­ mental nature of her work, she was not an officially acceptable writer. Thus, Mnukhin developed a strategy; he would propose a general and inoffensive title for his lecture—such as “Journeys and Fates of the Books of Russian Poets”—and speak about Tsvetaeva during the lecture. He employed a simi­ lar strategy in the organization of thematic evenings devoted to Tsvetaeva, which he coordinated with the officially registered Society of Bibliophiles so they could be held at a local library. Mnukhin deliberately alternated more sensitive topics with subjects that were relatively anodyne. Thus, if one evening’s discussion seemed possibly problematic, prompting security officials to look into the series, they would find nothing alarming at the next meeting.47 These thematic evenings took place between 1978 and 1991 at local libraries. Nevertheless, participants—who included regular readers of Tsvetaeva’s poetry, scholars and famous artists—recalled in retrospect that what they perceived to be the “half-forbidden nature” (poluzapretnost′) of the evenings was part of what attracted them.48 Issues of the collection All about Tsvetaeva were based on these thematic evenings until the mid-1980s. The collection was designed to preserve con­ tributions that ref lected information not otherwise kept by or made acces­ sible in official Soviet institutions. Mnukhin got help f rom colleagues at

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the laboratory where he worked: he was the senior staff member and later the director of his lab and his coworkers all “shared a little bit in my non­ technical life.” One of them would arrange to print three copies of each issue. Issues would include three or four photographs f rom the evening, and they would feature the names of the editor (Mnukhin) and coorganiz­ ers of the meeting. Mnukhin and his associates did not aim for wide distri­ bution of these issues; instead, they were intended to preserve materials for future publication and state archives or other institutionalized repositories that did not exist yet. Mnukhin said he “did not believe in state collections,” at least not as he knew them. Like most readers, he was not allowed access to special holdings of prerevolutionary, émigré, and foreign materials.49 The evenings and the samizdat collection about Tsvetaeva took up a selfconsciously marginal or transitional position between official and unofficial culture. By the late 1980s, Tsvetaeva was no longer prohibited, and there was no longer any need for the samizdat issues. SMOT’s Information Bulletin

Organizers announced the founding of the Free Interprofessional Associa­ tion of Workers (Svobodnoe Mezhprofessional′noe Ob″edinenie Trudiash­ chikhsia)—known in English by its Russian acronym SMOT—on October 28, 1978.50 If Roy Medvedev turned to an audience of party members in the hopes of top-down reform, this independent organization of Soviet work­ ers put its faith in the strength of initiatives f rom the bottom-up.51 Both Medvedev’s edition and the SMOT bulletin aimed to occupy the social space established by the official Soviet press and communications and to offer an alternative perspective on official socialist ideology and life in the USSR. The SMOT workers’ movement consisted of geographically dispersed and autonomous affiliate groups and a council of representatives. They observed conspiratorial discipline among themselves and in their dealings with émigrés.52 Such discipline, along with such association with émi­ gré activities, made them look at least potentially anti-Soviet. The names of people in the council became known to the authorities, who quickly arrested them. Editors of SMOT’s Information Bulletin (Informatsionnyi biulleten′, 1978–92) aimed to help transform the consciousness of regular worker-readers and to change the concept of what an activist and samizdat edition could be by engaging with that (underserved) audience on something more like its own terms. The editors cultivated a style and themes different from those of the

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rights activist editions.53 Rostislav Evdokimov, one of the Information Bulle­ tin editors, satirically characterized “rights defense” (pravozashchita) as “self­ defense” (samozashchita) because it frequently involved activists reporting on the repression of one of their own elite activist class. The SMOT bulletin reported on arrests of SMOT activists, but Evdokimov and his fellow edi­ tors tried to keep such reports brief. They wanted to appeal to their broader working-class readership.54 This meant making decisions about the format of the bulletin: The editors had no doubt that the majority of workers simply would not read a thick samizdat journal. There are eccentrics, of course, but SMOT was not created for the eccentrics, and therefore the length of each issue was not to exceed 12–15 typed pages. We considered the ideal length to be 10 pages which meant completely renouncing the wordiness characteristic of many of the free-thinking intellectuals who reached for a typewriter in those years. In terms of the style of the edited material it was decided . . . to write so as to interest a regular person—lively, informal, with imagery, not shying away from humor.55 Examples of this style can be found in later issues. In issue 25, from Decem­ ber 1981, SMOT editors reported on Brezhnev’s speech at the November Plenum of the Central Committee. The speech was published in abridged form, “not in order to economize on paper,” the editors noted with some irony, alluding to the familiar tedium of Brezhnev’s long-winded pronounce­ ments. Brezhnev insisted that the failure to meet production goals ref lected the fact that nearly every second year was bad for agriculture. The editors commented acidly that such frequency of crop failure was “some kind of new natural phenomenon.” Later in the issue, reports from readers included a note that bread was being rationed in the city of Kirov, an event of obvious importance to workers there. This issue also included a story of a neon sign near the Moscow Metro station Polezhaevskaia (a relatively far-f lung and, thus, working-class region), with the slogan “Glory to the CPSU [KPSS],” in which two of the bulbs stopped working, leaving “Glory to the SS.” In that way the slogan was altered “not so much in essence, as in sound,” com­ mented the editors. On the next night, “not having the time or inclination to fix it during the [October] holidays,” as the editors wryly noted, “they decided to turn off the sign.”56 The editors of the SMOT Information Bulletin wanted to reach a broad and dispersed readership, and they deliberately avoided appointing a fixed

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executive group. Issues 1–6 of the bulletin were put together in Moscow based on texts prepared in Leningrad. The next editorial group, putting out the issues in Leningrad, were not sure how many issues had appeared, so they chose to begin their series with no. 10, although they continued to put “Moscow” on the title page to confuse the authorities. Initially, four copies of each issue were produced, then those were retyped and xeroxed secretly to make three hundred or more copies. Regional affiliates were encour­ aged to produce their own information bulletins, and various versions did appear.57 Community

The journal Community (Obshchina, 1978), of which only issue 2 survived, was produced by the “Christian Seminar on Problems of the Religious Renais­ sance,” an informal group initially established by Aleksandr Ogorodnikov in Moscow in October 1974.58 The small Russian Orthodox group included young representatives from Leningrad, Kazan, Minsk, Riga, Smolensk, and other cities in the USSR.59 The group and the journal point to the more gen­ eral religious renaissance in the Soviet Union; this renaissance was largely the phenomenon of Russian Orthodox believers, the largest faith community in the USSR, estimated by the end of that era to have had at least fifty mil­ lion adherents.60 Despite the intercity connections of the group, the second issue of the journal, which weighed in at a hefty 283 pages, was produced in only nineteen typescript copies. We can assume the circulation was quite limited—it was confiscated, and no copy of issue 1 has been found. Although the journal circulated in a limited way in the USSR, it attracted a fair amount of attention abroad, thanks to the KGB’s harassment of group members and efforts to suppress the journal. KGB agents seized the materi­ als assembled for the first issue in March 1977, and the second issue in May 1978. The group reconstituted the second issue (though not the first) and circulated it, sending news of the issue and at least part of the materials out to the West for publication.61 Information about the arrests of editors and group members in 1979 appeared in Russian- and English-language reports in the West.62 Although the editors rejected official attempts to characterize their activity as “anti-Soviet” and their writings as slanderous, their statements were provocative. The Community group aimed to occupy and redefine the space of official Soviet ideology, as they made clear. In the “Declara­ tion of the Principles of the Seminar,” in Community 2, the editors began

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by introducing themselves as “a group of Russian youth, rejecting the dead ideological dogmas . . . and coming to the Church.”63 They turned well-known formulations f rom official culture on their heads. In an open­ ing article on “Sources and Hopes,” Ogorodnikov wrote, “They taught us, ‘Man—that sounds proud!’ [Chelovek—eto zvuchit gordo!],” a canoni­ cal phrase f rom Maksim Gorkii’s play The Lower Depths. As Ogorodnikov laconically observed, “our concrete experience said something else.” Socialist culture offered what this group believed to be “a false image of the world.” But, he proclaimed, “To live in untruth became intolerable. The aimless existence in a f renzied world is intolerable.” The word “aimless” (bestsel′noe) in this context recalls the famous admonition f rom Nikolai Ostrovskii’s Socialist Realist classic, How the Steel Was Tempered: “The most valuable thing a man has is his life. He is given only one life, and he has to live so as not to feel tormenting pain at the thought of aimlessly wasted (bestsel′no prozhitye) years.”64 Ogorodnikov talked about the pernicious formation of a Soviet education, during which these classics were read, and he insisted that such Soviet education had produced this wasted life, formed by “lies, lies, lies.” In light of the “contemporary religious renais­ sance,” people were witnessing the appearance of a “new hero” thirsting to acquire “God’s Truth” (Pravda Bozhiia).65 In his article “The Culture of the Catacombs,” Ogorodnikov tried to theorize the quest of the young person who had torn himself away f rom official ideology and fallen into the “second cultural reality.” “We see,” said Ogorodnikov, “the birth of island-communities of people that bring a principally new spirituality and form the person with a non-Soviet consciousness and way of acting.”66 Again, Ogorodnikov echoed official Soviet language about a “new person” or “new hero,” reversing the official valence and reinvesting that language with the group’s own religious meaning. In the case of Community, the enthusiastic, youthful proposition of an alternative truth and transforma­ tion into a new person, given this reference to the official Soviet template, seems particularly provocative. The group also aimed to define the role of Russia as a spiritual leader in the world, taking the place of Soviet Russia as a political leader in the progressive Marxist-Leninist view of world history. In the foreword to the journal, the editors announced, “We stand on the threshold of a new epoch, a new worldview and a historically new consciousness. In these events, Rus­ sia has been allotted a special place.” “The coming of the young generation to the Church has a definitive significance for the fate of Russian Christian­ ity,” they said, but it also has significance for the whole world.67 Members of

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the group took cues f rom Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, borrowing his formula­ tion to declare that “Instead of proletarian internationalism Russia should reveal a new communal society or, as Aleksandr Isaevich [Solzhenitsyn] would say, ‘a new sacrificial elite.’”68 The Community group members had ties to and credibility with other dissident groups, including the group around the Leningrad literary and philosophical journal Thirty-Seven. An interview and discussion with Vladi­ mir Poresh, a leading figure in the group, appeared in issues 17 and 18 (1979) of the journal.69 Quite a bit of Community editor Oleg Okhapkin’s poetry appeared in Thirty-Seven as well. Members of the Community group also had connections with feminist and rights activists.70 In addition to writings f rom prominent Russian Orthodox philosophers f rom earlier in the twentieth century, including Sergei Bulgakov and Nikolai Berdiaev, issue 2 of Commu­ nity included a section titled “Toward Ecumenical Unity,” with documents related to the group’s outreach to Christian groups abroad, and discussing its respect for Catholics in Russia. The discourse in and around Community put it on the liberal end of a spectrum of Russian Orthodox revival activities that ran on the other end toward chauvinist national views and ties with the “Russian party,” a loose configuration of those aiming to revive the Russian national spirit and Orthodoxy among party officials and dissident groups.71 Russian nationalist and Orthodox samizdat editions included the widely distributed and longrunning journal Popular Assembly (Veche, 1971–74), edited by Vladimir Osipov, who began his unofficial career at gatherings around the Maiakovskii Monu­ ment. The journal fell apart in scandal after ten issues as editors quarreled and traded accusations regarding collaboration with the KGB or NTS (NarodnoTrudovoi Soiuz or National Labor Alliance). After that, Osipov published a couple of issues of the journal Earth (Zemlia, 1974). Another short-lived edi­ tion was the Moscow Miscellany (Moskovskii sbornik, 1974–75), which included pieces by authoritative Orthodox intellectuals. One of these, Gennadii Shimanov, later published thematic collections under the title Many Years (Mnogaia leta, 1980–82). Divisions between official and alternative public spaces were in many cases far from clear. Many of these samizdat editions encroached in their own ways on the space of ideology occupied by the Soviet State or party establishment; this might manifest in Marxist, socialist, or nationalist terms. In another way, an independent cultural initiative like that devoted to Tsve­ taeva’s legacy could occupy lower-profile official spaces, with the long-term goal of becoming part of established archival institutions.

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Occupying Other Spaces Fraternal Leaflet

The Baptist edition that would come to be known as the Fraternal Leaf let (Bratskii Listok) began appearing intermittently in the early 1960s. It came out more regularly beginning in 1964 and became a numbered monthly edi­ tion by 1965.72 The Fraternal Leaf let was an important platform for communications for the unregistered Baptist Council of Churches of Evangelical Christian-Baptists (CCECB), which formed around that time. As discussed in chapter 2, the space for Baptist activity in the Soviet provinces was established prior to and independently from the rights movement centered in Moscow.73 Though rights activists began reporting on Baptist issues in the Chronicle of Current Events in 1974, the religious rhetoric and spiritual issues of uncensored Bap­ tist editions marked their public as a space apart from both official and main­ stream dissident publics.74 The working-class origins and provincial location

Figure 18. Fraternal Leaflet, no. 1 (1980), Baptist samizdat edition produced by printing press. Credit: Collections of the Sakharov Center, Moscow.

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of Baptist communities also meant that—despite some communication and mutual assistance facilitated by activists in the capital cities—the Baptist pub­ lic was geographically dispersed and socially distinct from urban activists. The large subset of Soviet citizens identifying as unregistered Baptists, made up of many thousands, if not millions of believers, drew itself together to protect against official persecution and uncomprehending or hostile outside eyes.75 Looking back at the history of the unregistered Baptists, historians noted that: Around a thousand people were repressed by the security services for educating children, publishing literature and running prayer groups. People belonging to the [unregistered Baptist] Council’s churches became accustomed to running prayer groups in the forest, in waste­ lands and other unpopulated places, hiding f rom the gaze of outsid­ ers. In the years of Soviet power, the community of [unregistered Baptist] Initiative group members acquired a closed character. Pastors protected members of the community not only f rom the punishing acts of the State but also f rom the inf luence of Soviet culture. Con­ trol was exercised over practically everything: over ways of behav­ ing and the style of dress. Strict moral norms and close attention to all the demands of the Council of Churches by f raternal members of the community sharply distinguished them f rom regular Soviet Baptists.76 Accounts of persecution in samizdat reports served to help strengthen the faith and commitment of the dispersed community and to inform Soviet Baptists as well as the wider international community about what was happening. In part because of their relatively remote provincial location and clan­ destine activity, Baptist samizdat editions constituted an exception to the general rule that Soviet samizdat existed in typescript form. From official and samizdat reports of searches, and seizures of equipment we know that unregistered Baptists put together their own printing presses. Walter Sawatsky described one remarkable example: One printing press was run by a small electric motor which used only a small amount of electric current so that a high electric bill would not betray the press location. Usually the press was started by hand in order to overcome the initial inertia, after which the motor could run the machine on its own. It was constructed out of washing machine wringer rollers, bicycle pedals and chains and other assorted materials.

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It could be packed into five small suitcases at very short notice and be hand-carried elsewhere. But for the press to function, supporters throughout the country were busy stripping off bark from the trees in Northern Siberia, burning tires and finding other scraps of the cor­ rect metal, which were melted down and cooked together in order to provide the proper chemical mixture for making ink and other necessi­ ties. There was no typesetter, but some of the workers, who spent up to two years literally underground, were engaged in the laborious task of finding perfectly equivalent master sheets which were then photo­ graphed. Since no single person could buy more than a ream of paper without attracting suspicion, there were literally hundreds of persons involved in collecting and transporting it.77 This underground press shows an outstanding level of enterprise and col­ lective spirit. This kind of mechanization of the process would have been unthinkable at the time among Moscow activists. Nevertheless, working in their conditions, the Baptists demonstrated a spirit of inventiveness and social cohesion characterizing samizdat publics generally. The unregistered Baptists intended their samizdat editions, many of which carried the “Christian” (Khristianin) publishing house label, primarily

Figure 19. Destroyed prayer tent of Evangelical Christian Baptists, Kishinev, 1978. Credit: From the Collections of the Sakharov Center, Moscow.

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to unify the community of the faithful dispersed across many republics, by supplying them with necessary religious literature, including Bibles and prayer books, and religious training. Authorities seized the presses and arrested those who worked on them whenever they could. At a farm in Latvia, in 1974, authorities in a helicopter noticed a printing press. They arrested seven workers and seized fifteen thou­ sand Bibles and nine tons of paper. The photos and stories of those arrested appeared in “Christian” publications soon after: that meant that the Baptist press kept working elsewhere. Baptists printed reports of another raid near Leningrad, in Ivangorod, in 1977, when four people were arrested. A Baptist press was discovered in January 1980, in Dniepropetrovsk, and another in the village of Glivenki in the Novorossiysk region in June 1980. Despite the arrests and seizure of equipment, the diffuse network continued to oper­ ate.78 Georgii Vins (until his 1974 arrest) and Gennadii Kriuchkov helped organize printing operations.79 It seems to be the case that printing was used mainly for sacred literature while other methods, such as hectograph (sin′ka) and mimeograph (rotator), were used for informational editions. The hybrid methods used to produce issues of the Bulletin of the Council of Relatives of Evangelical Christian Baptist Prisoners in the USSR (Biulleten′ soveta rodstvennikov uznikov EKhB SSSR) are indicative of the range of means employed; early issues from 1971 to 1977 were produced on hectograph; issues between 1977 and 1980 were done on mimeograph; and late issues between 1980 and 1987 were produced by means of offset printing.80 The unusual variety of produc­ tion methods and the exceptional volume of texts produced depended on the relatively remote and dispersed locations as well as the strong cohesion and sense of purpose among community members fostered in part by official attempts at repression. Roxy

In chapter 1 we considered the perspective on domestic rock history in samizdat publishing of the early 1980s. Samizdat journals devoted to rock music date back to the late 1960s, with the first recorded example being BeatEcho (Bit-ekho 1–2, 1967) in Khar′kov. The second and more significant wave of rock activity and samizdat dates to the journal Roxy, begun in Leningrad in 1977. That second wave also included Mirror (Zerkalo 1–4, 1981) and The Ear (Ukho 1–11, 1982–83) in Moscow. The Ear was suppressed during increased repressions in 1983–84, before a third wave in 1985 and later. This third wave was marked by much broader geographic dispersion of rock samizdat pro­ duction and the activity that went with it.81

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In addition to covering Western rock music, samizdat rock journals pro­ vided information about domestic concerts, festivals, rock personalities, and albums. Official pressure on rock fans and their activities was sometimes greater and sometimes less, but the domestic Soviet rock scene had become significant by the late 1970s. By common consensus, the appearance of the venerable Leningrad rock journal Roxy (Roksi, no. 1–15, 1977–90) marked the consolidation of a domestic Soviet rock subculture.82 The impulse for the journal was described in terms of the “joy of human contact”: “To make a journal all together and feel ourselves to be among like-minded people was a way of getting our kicks (bylo v kaif ), and therefore the most important thing in the journal became that idea of pure kicks (ideia chistogo kaifa).”83 The slang term kaif (kicks, pleasure, high) helped mark out the boundaries of the group of like-minded fans, marked by a distinctive style of discourse with its own slang and other forms of behavior. The editors and authors of Roxy (which included Boris Grebenshchikov and his friends) took some cues from listening to the Beatles and, later, bands like Deep Purple. They also read the magazine Rolling Stone, and the writings of Bob Dylan and Jim Morrison, among others. They also took inspiration from the Western-looking fiction of Vasilii Aksenov and songs by Andrei Makarevich and his rock group Time Machine founded in 1969.84 Such listen­ ing and reading helped create the sense of a world apart from regular Soviet society, where people found a feeling of authentic human contact and a shared sensibility.85 The initial look of Roxy was rather primitive, consisting of a couple dozen pages stapled together and three or four poor-quality photos pasted into the pages of issues produced in just five copies.86 However, the sections of this do-it-yourself journal featured analysis of rock music by Gre­ benshchikov and friends, a look at the texts of rock songs, interviews with Soviet rock musicians, and a tongue-in-cheek “Gossip” column. The journal thus fostered a discrete homegrown subculture, complete with its own slang and its own style. An important part of the distinctive verbal style in Roxy and Soviet rock subculture generally was steb (styob), a type of mockery accompanied by deadpan delivery that can seem like identification with the discourse being imitated. Such mockery, which might manifest as overidentification with Soviet values or a fixed literary style or emotional affect, should be done well enough that it remains detectable only to those in the know. In this way, steb served to distinguish the in-crowd who got the joke from the straight man or square who did not.87 Yurchak discussed several instances of steb, assert­ ing that it avoids affiliation as well as any stance of support or opposition.88 Such an analysis does not account for the most important aspect of rock steb,

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which consisted of affiliation with the subcultural group, as opposed to the rest of Soviet society (often referred to as sotsium). Moreover, when Boris Grebenshchikov wrote about those who “get” rock music, in “On getting it” (“O vrube”), in the first issue of Roxy, he described a type of generational divide familiar from the 1960s in the Soviet Union. Vasilii Aksenov, writing for the young people of that decade, spoke about how their generation dis­ tinguished fathers from sons in light of the crimes and mistakes of the Stalin­ ist past; this controversial statement provoked a passionate response from Soviet leaders, and the theme informed Aksenov’s later samizdat writing.89 Grebenshchikov asserted a similar sort of group identity without engaging the authorities openly or spelling out the political implications, which would not have fit the tone or style of a rock journal. The epigraph—in English—at the beginning of Grebenshchikov’s piece came from a Western study: “In a study of six children with behavioral or emotional problems, amplified rock music (mainly, by the BEATLES) has interrupted . . . disruptive behav­ ior . . . The children were also observed synchronizing their movements to the music . . . as they express their enjoyment of the music.”90 The use of the quote associated getting it with the relatively unspoiled consciousness of children. However, it was not limited to children. Grebenshchikov suggested that the quality of getting it superseded other more superficial and harmful distinctions: “People are distinguished according to racial characteristics or by national belonging. There exist big groups of people who are distinguished according to whether they control the means of production. People are also distinguished according to their attitude to rock music: some get it, and some don’t. There are more of the latter. To this day it remains a mystery whether anything unites those who get it except the fact that they get it.”91 The in-group of those who get it is explicitly not defined by fixed or pre­ given boundaries. The citation of an experiment with children seems not unlike the experiment described in the journal UFO (Our Personal Responsibil­ ity) although these are different examples. Grebenshchikov’s analysis also contained echoes of earlier public debates about generations and youth. It held out the promise of transformation and renewal; like troubled children, anyone might be healed by rock. The journal, while its circulation was not enormous, shared information and modeled taste and style for an audience of Soviet citizens who might find that they, too, got it. John Lennon got it, wrote Grebenshchikov; Western rock culture enabled Soviet musicians and fans to create a space inside the USSR for expressing their own sense of free­ dom and alternative shared values. Leading samizdat editions like Roxy appeared to have an enabling effect inf luencing a wide and dispersed audience to produce their own samizdat

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journals as the network of rock music culture (facilitated by the copying and selling of audiotapes) spread in the 1980s.92 Already in 1983, the journal ZGGA (no. 0–2, 1983–84) appeared in Alma-Ata; the three issues of this rock journal were produced in about thirty copies, many of which went to Moscow, Len­ ingrad, the Baltic republics, and other Soviet cities.93 As the climate became more propitious, the f loodgates opened; the journal Pops (Pops 1–3, 1984–85) was a joint venture created by authors from Moscow, Leningrad, and the fareastern village of Belaya Gora who had never seen one another in person.94 In Moscow there appeared the Moscow Journal (Moskovskii zhurnal 1–2, 1984–85), Zombie (Zombi 1–16, 1984–91), Morel (Smorchok 1–22, 1985–87), and Urlight (Urlait 1–26, 1985–92). RIO (1–23, 1986–89) came out in Leningrad. Beyond the capital cities, the spread of rock samizdat activity was impressive: journals in provincial cities included Appleye (EplOKO 1, 1985) in Sverdlovsk; Problems of the Ear, Nose and Throat (Problemy otolaringologii 1–2, 1985–86) in Tyumen′; Audi-Hollies (Audi-Kholi 1–7, 1986–94) in Kazan′; Hotcake (Blin 1–2, 1986) in Novosibirsk; On Rock (Pro rok 1–8, 1986–1988) in Tallinn; and the journal SELF (SELF 1–9, 1986–90) produced by a group calling itself the “Urals Volunteer Association of Degenerates” at the Rock Club in Chelyabinsk, to name just a few.95 In short, by the mid-1980s, the rock subculture in the USSR, which had developed on a semiofficial basis, showed impressive geographical reach, appealing to broad Soviet audiences across class lines. Woman and Russia

Issue 1 of the thematic collection (al′manakh) titled Woman and Russia, which appeared in Leningrad in the fall of 1979, created a space for discussion of women’s issues in the underground public sphere. The issue began circulat­ ing in September 1979, although the title page carried the date December 10, 1979, a symbolic date connecting the women’s efforts with International Human Rights Day.96 It was far from obvious how to inaugurate an alterna­ tive discussion of women’s issues in the Soviet underground context. In the opening piece, the Soviet editors contested the officially asserted equality between men and women. They stated that women’s claims to rights were often dismissed as unjustified in official discourse and by unofficial groups, as well. Nevertheless, the authors maintained that “the so-called ‘women’s question’ was an essential part of the general struggle for the renewal of the world (obnovlenie mira).” Translators of the English edition published in London rendered this as “the general struggle for a restructuring of soci­ ety,” a difference that underscores the difficulty Western observers had in appreciating the metaphysical orientation of the Soviet women’s movement,

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members of which frequently turned to Russian Orthodox forms of expres­ sion and quite seriously aimed to renew the world.97 Soviet dissident activ­ ists writing about women’s issues staked out a position distinct from that of established dissidents in the USSR while being in many respects decidedly eccentric with respect to Western feminist discourse, too. Editors of the English-language edition reported on the feeling among women activists in Leningrad who asserted, “Feminism has not been given the space to develop within the democratic movement, meaning among rights activists.98 Women writers also expressed the idea that male editors of Leningrad’s unofficial “second culture” were hostile to much women’s writing because they did not deem women’s topics to be serious.99 Iuliia Voznesenskaia, who worked on Woman and Russia, said something similar in her article about the women’s movement in Soviet Russia. She noted that women democratic rights activists were particularly dismissive of the efforts of feminist activists. They considered the discussion of women’s top­ ics and hardships to be vulgar or banal and unworthy of debate. This could be explained psychologically, she asserted: When they broke out of the bounds of routine consciousness, our rights activist women (demokratki) frequently threw off also their femi­ nine nature, remaking themselves in the image and countenance of a man, a sort of inf lexible revolutionary, deprived even of the moral right to a private life—the next paradox of the next revolution! And the Collection [Woman and Russia] spoke about such simple things as the Church, birth, nursery schools and family life . . . A step into the depths of things seemed to many like a step backwards—and because of this we met with deliberate misunderstanding.100 Articles published in Woman and Russia covered harassment of women in prison, humiliating and painful experiences in birth centers, domestic labor, expectations around motherhood, and the difficulty of seeking abortions, among other issues—topics rights activists dismissed as banal everyday con­ cerns or unseemly sexual stories. In part, the problem also had to do with the nature of the transforma­ tion of Soviet women as conceived by authors and editors of the dissident women’s movement in Leningrad. Voznesenskaia referred to the conscious­ ness of dissidents as the baseline for the distinctive dissident feminist trans­ formation that in her words amounted to a move “into the depths of things” (v glubinu). Some of these authors embraced that depth in terms of religious insights. Tat′iana Goricheva’s work with the Religious-Philosophical Sem­ inar associated with the journal Thirty-Seven surely had an impact on her

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views as expressed in Woman and Russia, which she helped edit. Her piece most openly employed Russian Orthodox discourse. Goricheva wrote, for example, “The purity of the Mother of God raises her above the Angels. She is the ‘most chaste,’ She is the Church of Christ, She is ‘most beautiful’ . . . All this became clear to me as my spirit recovered and I found the church.” Such rhetoric clearly challenged the sensibilities of Western feminists who had trouble relating to these views.101 It corresponded to an established Soviet model of self-transformation and truth-telling, which we have seen adapted for alternative purposes in the case of Thirty-Seven, among Baptists and among members of the Community (Obshchina) group. For these Soviet women working in Leningrad at that time, religious and spiritual forms of discourse seemed like natural and authentic means to express their sense of truth and transformation.102 In 1980, the women activists started a club, the name of which, “Mariia,” gestured toward the religious models many of them embraced. They started the club in Leningrad at that time because, as Voznesenskaia said, “Life demanded new forms” of socializing.103 Rejecting the Bolshevik and party organizational models consisting of leaders and masses, the activists looked toward other groups as examples. Voznesenskaia singled out two of

Figure 20. Women activists: Tat′iana Beliaeva, Natal′ia Malakhovskaia, Natal′ia Lazareva (from the back), Tat′iana Goricheva (center), Natal′ia Diukova, Sof′ia Sokolova, Leningrad, no later than July 1980, when Goricheva emigrated. Photograph from the Chronicle section of Thirty-Seven, no. 20 (1980). Credit: Archive of the Research Centre for East European Studies at the University of Bremen, FSO 05-1.6 (Journal “37,” Leningrad).

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them—SMOT and the group formed around the Religious-Philosophical Seminar that produced the journal Community (Obshchina, 1978). These were groups in which people helped each other in life as well as in their shared work, she said.104 The club produced a journal called Mariia, which lasted for a few issues. Further materials were published abroad. Perhaps because of the amount of foreign attention to the women activ­ ists’ work, and possibly also thanks to its critique of Soviet society, the authorities cracked down swiftly on members of the dissident women’s movement in Leningrad. Tat′iana Goricheva, Natal′ia Malakhovskaia, and Tat′iana Mamonova were all forced into emigration in July 1980. Harassment of Galina Grigor′eva and Kari Unksova, associated with the journal NLO, forced them into hiding for some time. Finally, the arrest of Natal′ia Lazareva in September 1982 spelled the end of the club and journal “Mariia.” Trips Out of Town

The group that came to be known as Collective Actions (Kollektivnye deistviia, also KD) formed in Moscow in February 1976, uniting the artistic efforts of Andrei Monastyrskii (de facto leader of the group) with those of Nikita Alek­ seev, Nikolai Panitkov, and Georgii Kizeval′ter. Several other members joined the group later. The group organized a series of actions begun in 1976, and documented in a samizdat series of albums entitled Trips Out of Town (Poezdki za gorod), first published in 1980.105 The actions involved inviting spectatorparticipants to travel to a designated area outside of town—typically an open field—where the group staged actions such as the appearance of two mem­ bers emerging out of the woods (“Appearance” [Poiavlenie]), or the ringing of a bell placed under the ground (“Lieblich”), or the creation of a large balloon-filled sack to be released to f loat down a river (“Balloon” [Shar]). Participants sometimes received a document testifying to their participation. In addition to invitations and participation certificates, plans and instruc­ tions, photographs and transcripts of participant reactions constituted the documentation included in these samizdat albums. The emptiness of the field and the meaninglessness of the events were programmatic elements of the “actions”: Here we have defined the “empty action” (pustoe deistvie) as a principle, however, in each action (aktsii) it is expressed in its own way and is considered to be a certain temporal fragment from the action when the spectators, if one can so say it, “intensely do not understand” or

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“incorrectly understand” what is going on. . . . Those acts or events by means of which the “empty action” (an appearance, a disappearance, a moving away, doubling, or etc.) is realized not only create the condi­ tions for meditation at the level of direct perception, but also become its theme.106 The term “action” as used here to designate a genre of work seems to embody the larger principle of an “empty action,” which leads spectators to perceive the staged event (the action) as both aesthetic and meaningless; that is, devoid of any significance ready to be attributed to it in regular utilitarian and ideological schemes, and therefore open for a larger, unprogrammed spiritual revelation.107 The efforts to transcend ready-made schemes of meaning associated with dissident opposition were obliquely suggested by the location and tim­ ing of a couple of the actions. The first action, “Appearance,” took place in Izmailovskii Park outside of Moscow in the spring of 1976. That was a year and a half after the second Fall Outdoor Exhibition of unofficial art, which took place following the infamous “Bulldozer Exhibition” in 1974, so named because of the violent reaction of Soviet authorities, who destroyed the inde­ pendently organized exhibition using bulldozers.108 The Collective Actions event “Appearance” made no explicit reference to that history or to struggles with the regime, but placing the event thus implied some relation to the pre­ vious attempt to create space for art outside of official locations and dictates. A later action, “Slogan-77” (Lozung-77), involved hanging a banner between two trees with the message: “I DON’T COMPLAIN ABOUT ANYTHING AND I LIKE EVERYTHING, EVEN THOUGH I HAVE NEVER BEEN HERE AND I DON’T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT THESE PLACES.” The red banner with white lettering evoked official Soviet banners. Though the message was hardly oppositional (in fact, it suggests a steb-like overidentification with a familiar Soviet attitude of optimism and approval of what is provided), hanging such a banner in the city would certainly have provoked repressive measures by the authorities. Monastyrskii later com­ mented on the significance of the timing of the banner action ten years after the arrests of Iurii Galanskov and friends, which provoked demonstration by rights activists on Pushkin Square.109 The connection between the action and the demonstration, he suggested, had to with a change from social histori­ cism to an aesthetic and personal (chastnyi) historicism.110 In both KD actions, the empty field or natural space signified a location beyond that structured by Soviet society and its authorities without dictating an alternative structure of meaning.

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The point of staging a meaningless action in an empty field was twofold. Organizers intended, first of all, to turn attention to the psychological and social processes at work in the heads of participants in order to free them from pre-given formulas. Monastyrskii described the “field” (pole) of action as both a real, empirical place and a psychological one. The invitation and the act of taking time out of regular life to go to an empty field outside the city created the (empty) field of expectations that becomes the sphere in which the “action” took place.111 The less that action could be reduced to any fixed interpretation, the more generative it could be as a stimulus for open-ended ref lection, even provoking the sense of an extraordinary experience. Thus, the artist Il′ia Kabakov, who participated in many of the actions, reported on the “euphoric state of mind,” created by being out of control and wondering what would happen, followed by an impression after the action that a “mir­ acle” had occurred. Participant Irina Pivovarova said, “We people who are accustomed to caring about every minute, every second, being constantly on the run . . . suddenly engaged in such an unacceptable waste of time . . . From all of this one did not have a sense of emptiness, but a feeling of fullness, of satisfaction. I can’t explain it.”112 Kizeval′ter noted that the technologized cultural situation in which they lived in the Soviet Union, epitomized by the effect of television and film, made them all “extremely passive.” Going out to a natural environment outside the city provided a better chance for people to “liberate themselves from the pressure of a cultural milieu that consigns them to passivity.”113 The other crucial aspect of the actions as planned by the group was to bring people together. The authors stated in a Fragmentary remark from 1976 that the actions were intended to be a new form of unofficial cultural event, like the public reading or seminars characteristic of unofficial Soviet life at that time. Their main goal consisted of “the development of potential forms of spiritual contact between us all.”114 They asserted further in a Fragment from 1977 that “the true value of our work can be grasped only within the narrow circle of friends.”115 As Yelena Kalinsky suggested, this statement raises com­ plicated questions about the perception of the afterlife of the actions and their status in art history. At the same time, it highlights the crucial value of the social circle within which a transformation of consciousness and activation of liberated creative energy was thought to be possible. The multiple republications and abundant discussion of the Trips Out of Town and other Soviet conceptualist work suggest that pace the opinions of the authors of the 1977 Fragment, the resonance of these actions transcended the narrow circle of friends. This was a widening of the audience that the samiz­ dat albums—and their post-Soviet reprints—facilitated over the long run.

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Bestiary

Research in the central government and regional archives has revealed the perhaps surprising amount of samizdat activity, especially among literary groups, that occurred in Siberian cities. Elena Savenko compiled a catalog of samizdat periodicals f rom Siberian locations, including Bestiary (Besti­ arii), a literary collection edited by O. Volov in Novosibirsk, of which she documented no. 1 (1984), and no. 4 (1985). We know little about this edition and others in Siberia, including early ones such as the journal Irtysh Waves (Irtyshskie volny, Omsk, 1957), and later ones like Archivist (Arkhivarius, Irkutsk), of which nine issues appeared between 1980 and 1982. Many of these publications were associated with groups formed at institutes, uni­ versities, or even factories. For example, the journal The Feast of St. George (Iur′ev den′) was produced by the literary group of the Trust Company “Sibelektromontazh” in Novosibirsk, in 1970.116 Although such publications did not ref lect or inf luence the larger cultural process the way, for example, samizdat journals of Leningrad did, they represented spaces of alternative activity and discussion with importance for those who participated. They show how knowledge of samizdat, transmitted through foreign news and by word of mouth as well as via copies passed among trusted f riends and acquaintances, enabled Soviet citizens to imagine and project their own independent group identities and communications at the local level in loca­ tions also far f rom the capitals.

The Informal Press of Perestroika The examples of samizdat periodical editions surveyed in this chapter exem­ plify a range of types of commitment, from the moral strength of rights activists with their discourse of legal legitimacy to the fortitude of national or religious conviction expressed through devotion to the given culture and willingness to risk ostracism or repression. The values of the rock subculture and the cognitive independence associated with artistic activity command their own types of commitment. In all cases, the sense of independence and authenticity—and thus the transformative potential—of samizdat editions was closely tied to the lack of power and economic benefit they represented. This absence of financial interest or political potential was guaranteed by the authoritarian Soviet State.117 With the easing of authoritarian control in the second half of the 1980s, dissidents, who were seeing the advent of the greater freedom for which they struggled, began to lose their raison d’être. Gorbachev’s introduction of glasnost made independent print legal in the

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perestroika era beginning in January 1987.118 Some call it “alternative press” and others “informal press,” but all agree that this independent press of per­ estroika, created and consumed in relatively permissive conditions, differed substantially from the samizdat that preceded it.119 The freer conditions of the perestroika-era allowed for commercial and explicitly political interests to emerge in informal press in the Soviet Union. Thus, Elena Strukova described the appearance of prices on alternative press editions already in 1987–88. Interestingly, the price f luctuated depending on where you got your copy—you might get an issue of a paper printed on Gogol Boulevard for the price on the header, but on Pushkin Square, you would pay more, and what you would pay for a title from another city had no relation to the printed price.120 That variability was a mark of the “samizdat­ like” informality of the early perestroika-era publishing ventures, Strukova wrote. Such early market instability was echoed in the volatility of political positions held by multifarious self-proclaimed parties and their factions.121 Some coherent market and political trends emerged within a couple of years, however. Occasionally, informal press editions could provide a stepping­ stone toward political inf luence in the Soviet Union, which had not been true for samizdat.122 This overview of selected spaces of discussion created within the dis­ sident public sphere in the Soviet Union is not comprehensive, but it illus­ trates major trends, including the constitution of large (and diversified) samizdat spaces, the adaptation of official discussion spaces for dissident issues, and the creation of “other” dissident spaces by groups seeking to cre­ ate an outside perspective within Soviet society. As in our look at samizdat temporality, we find here, too, that the space of discussion and alternative imagination of time and history are linked in the process of telling alterna­ tive truths. Both parts of the samizdat chronotope contribute to the ability of these texts to produce a transformed understanding of what Soviet self and society might mean. Authors and readers of samizdat created these alternative senses of time and spaces as social constructs elaborated and maintained by the networks of writers and readers who were peers in the sense they all functioned in these contexts outside of official institutional power. However, the mainte­ nance of such an alternative chronotope depended also on what the authori­ ties allowed. Given the material precarity of samizdat texts, their circulation and the engagement of readers in the community proved susceptible to disruption by Soviet authorities. The extra-Gutenberg condition of samiz­ dat obtaining prior to perestroika meant that the samizdat periodicals and the spaces of discussion they projected could be quite uncertain. Material

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problems arose in the acquisition of paper, the commissioning of typists and, in rare cases, the arrangement of underground printing press equip­ ment or machine copying. However, we can distinguish samizdat spaces from the modern spaces of public discussion considered by most public theorists because of the relative lack of commercial and economic pressures before perestroika. Even rights activists who most directly aimed to impact the Soviet regime’s practices and policies held to the value of their activity in the absence of indications that their efforts would have these effects. Grigorii Pomerants, writing about Sakharov for a collection to be published in the dark days of 1981, said: I am more and more convinced that if the human rights movement yields any political results it will be only in the distant future, in some entirely different era, in a completely different Russia. But the farther off that is, the more I like the human rights activists. What they are doing is hard to justify in terms of outer expediency. But in their hope­ less cause there is something else besides the impossibility of political success: the possibility of remaining a human being—a step toward what Dostoyevsky called a strongly developed personality. Before our eyes arose a kind of all-inclusive Leo Tolstoy, with his “I cannot remain silent.”123 Samizdat truth-telling was a way of breaking the silence and therefore assert­ ing that one was (or that one had become) a fully human subject. However, the ability to tell the truth by writing, publishing or reading, and sharing samizdat texts was far from assured. Some samizdat editions lasted a long time, in part thanks to the coordination of editorial groups designed to sur­ vive incidents of arrests or emigration of its members. Many managed to survive for just a short while. The samizdat editions surveyed among “other” spaces, including the rock journal Roxy and the albums Trips Out of Town, stretch the dissident space furthest beyond the usual outlines created by rights activist histori­ ography and archival practices. These editions also most obviously overlap with Yurchak’s inf luential description of “deterritorialized spaces” in late Soviet culture. It is worth returning to his point, which modified the idea of deterritorialized spaces developed by Giles Deleuze and Felix Guattari for the Soviet context by introducing Mikhail Bakhtin’s concept of being “vne-.” For Yurchak, Bakhtin’s concept of being outside (vnenakhodimost′), used to describe the author’s relation to the literary hero he creates, designates the late Soviet person’s “outsideness” relative to the authoritative discourse of Soviet society.124 This explanation tells us more about the system and how

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people related to it than it does about the people as individuals or as people relating to one another via samizdat publics. Yurchak described what he called a “performative” relationship to authoritative discourse for late Soviet people, who remained essentially agnostic about its truth content.125 This study of samizdat spaces emphasizes the effect of peer-to-peer rela­ tions and the commitment to the truth of samizdat texts. Samizdat truth was far f rom a matter of indifference for writers and readers, and it mat­ tered in some cases also to the authorities who might pursue them. While this survey of samizdat authors and journals has insisted on stretching the range of forms of dissident truth-telling beyond that practiced by rights activists, the whole set remains unified by the truth-telling function ani­ mating the samizdat chronotope and the capacity for personal and social transformation it implies. Samizdat writing, unlike strictly literary writing, facilitated an identification of the author and the reader with the “space, time, value and meaning” of the world ref lected in the writing.126 Such identification could mean dialogic engagement with forms of official dis­ course and/or with alternative national or religious ideologies, as well as with discourses of Western culture (including the history of rock and art history) and their adaptations by Soviet artists. The difference between alternative and official discourse cannot be reduced to some hard and fast distinction between official and unofficial forms. Rather, these forms were hybridized and their relations pluralized as portions of Soviet society shifted f rom an exclusively vertical orientation to state agency and author­ ity toward greater reliance on loosely organized horizontal networks of affiliation and communal ties. The samizdat publics treated here—a collection that emphatically includes nonconformist artists and rock music fans along with rights activists— certainly had a concept of the in-group, of those who got it and related to the texts as members of its group. What they got was the truth of a worldview, an understanding of society and how it could be different. A person might read a rights bulletin or a workers’ newsletter or a rock fanzine without feeling identified with that group and certainly without necessarily taking up a position of agitation or resistance to the larger society around them. But what made samizdat journals and other periodicals distinctive was the fact that they were created by and addressed to people for whom the issues and mode of expression therein mattered. These people were committed to their truth, and their samizdat editions offered the possibility of personal and social transformation according to that truth.

Conclusion Samizdat and the Contradictions of Soviet Modernity

This book treated samizdat in terms of a highly variable practice of truth-telling for publics that perceived that truth as in some way transformative for their sense of self and of society. It also ana­ lyzed samizdat as a practice embedded within the late Soviet context. As researchers have shown, the effects of de-Stalinization were complex. Samiz­ dat represents an extension of those processes—it arose in response to the contradictions that had been exposed in late Soviet society. Terts (Siniavskii) stirringly announced some of these contradictions in a 1957 samizdat essay: “So that prisons should vanish forever, we built new prisons. So that all fron­ tiers should fall, we surrounded ourselves with a Chinese Wall. So that work should become a rest and a pleasure, we introduced forced labor. So that not one drop of blood be shed any more, we killed and killed and killed.”1 Although such vigorous clearing of the throat may have been necessary at the time, late Soviet authors went on to develop more nuanced ways of expressing their historical experience and their awareness of totalitarian potentials extending beyond the realm of state actions.2 Samizdat works were prompted initially by the tension between the (official) call to speak out and assist in the cause of reforming Soviet society, on the one hand, and the party’s efforts to control what was said and printed, on the other. Samizdat provided a way to address fellow citizens and the international public directly. While some authors and editors had a foreign audience in 149

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mind, most were oriented to domestic readers. Samizdat conveyed truths that mattered to them. This book argued that we need to shift from a previous view of samiz­ dat primarily in terms of its vertical relation to the Soviet regime to focus on the horizontal axis of communication among groups of Soviet readers. By communicating or expressing things not found in official Soviet print, samizdat authors and readers created different ways of seeing themselves and their community or society. Samizdat periodical editions enacted an alternative chronotope characterized by varying imaginations of space and time through the temporal and spatial coordinates of samizdat circulation. Such complex samizdat chronotopes offered an opportunity for people to think of themselves in new ways, supported by the public of friends and strangers who shared their textual experiences. These alternative publics shared truths that were increasingly thought of as autonomous from party dictates, even when those truths overlapped with Soviet discourse, whether that be the official legal code or official revolutionary or cultural aims.3 At the same time, this samizdat chronotope ultimately depended on the mea­ sure of freedom allowed by Soviet authorities; it was impacted by the con­ text. As a product of Soviet society, the samizdat mode of the text expressed its contradictions. This view of samizdat also takes up the revisionist view of Soviet soci­ ety as a species of modern society rather than its opposite. Yurchak wrote that “as a modern project, Soviet socialism shared the key contradictions of modernity.”4 This useful corrective to Cold War–era political binaries does not change the fact that modernity under Stalin had taken an extreme form. To put it simply, the Soviet Union had provided a vivid demonstration of the totalitarian potentials of modern society.5 Contending with the Stalinist legacy of violence and enforced ideological unity remained key problems for post-Stalin society in its official and unofficial forms. In official discourse, party spokespersons aimed to return to what they saw as the true unity of the party and the people on a Leninist basis. Samizdat publics challenged the exclusive control of the party to determine the character of that unity—they contended variously that civil society, religious or national groups, poets, art­ ists, or music fans had a role to play in social renewal. For some working with samizdat, the role they occupied seemed analo­ gous to the role of the intelligentsia, which had struggled in the nineteenth century to assert independence from the state in its aim to safeguard social and cultural values.6 However, the notion of the intelligentsia, which seems to have been key for Moscow rights activists, was not equally relevant for all samizdat public groups. This alternative public sphere was not a public in the

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classic liberal sense, and not everyone thought of their group as represent­ ing the interests of the whole Soviet society. Instead, many groups turned from the state-based framework to focus on their ethnic and religious com­ munity. Some were oriented to the implications of the more specific musical or artistic expression that occupied them. Some of those drew attention to gendered interests or stressed a philosophical agenda (while a handful of women activists combined those things). The result was a pluralized under­ ground with multiple alternative publics more or less loosely related to one another and to the larger society.7 Behavioral forms of expression were rel­ evant, as was the style of expression: we looked in chapter two at the range of voices in samizdat. Yet, while scholars have treated “dropping out” in broader terms as a quest for authenticity and agency in late Soviet society, samizdat texts remained central: they usually fed the ideas that made drop­ ping out possible.8 In addition, samizdat enlarged late Soviet imagination with the sociality of its text-based publics, giving people the opportunity to feel connected with Western rock fans or Buddhist hippies abroad while they identified with their fellow countercultural types at home. This gave meaning to their dress or behavior, even (or perhaps especially) when their more conforming Soviet neighbors did not understand. These alternative samizdat publics developed links and analogies to non-Soviet formations, even as they were distinctively generated by and oriented to their late Soviet time and place. If late Soviet society is, more obviously than the Stalinist version that pre­ ceded, a species of modernity, we can treat it as a meaningful part of “mul­ tiple modernities” to use Taylor’s term. Taylor’s conception challenges the hegemony of a Western European model, and it seems increasingly relevant today.9 Samizdat manifested a now widely apparent late modern tendency for extra-Gutenberg modes of the text to destabilize the print paradigm so central to the Western European concept of modernity. The qualities of print had been associated with the rise of key aspects of European moder­ nity, including scientific knowledge and individual self-determination, associated with property and ownership.10 Such aspects reached grotesque proportions with Stalin’s personality and dominance over all spheres of specialized knowledge as enforced through censorship and repression. This phenomenon was satirized memorably by Iuz Aleshkovskii in his samizdat song, “Comrade Stalin, you’re a real big scholar, you know a lot about lin­ guistics.”11 Many such samizdat works addressed the need in this context to restore a sense of humanity that applied to all people. A number of samiz­ dat authors used humor as well as straightforward truth-telling to cultivate anew the ability to think, in Hannah Arendt’s sense of the term.12 In this

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commitment to renewed humanism and capacity for thought, set against the tendency of totalitarian impulses to destroy both of those things, many samizdat texts modeled values that remain relevant also now, after the Soviet Union. One of the persistent questions about samizdat, when viewed through Western critical lenses, has been what drove people in the absence of profit and to the detriment of their thriving to engage in this risky and laborious behavior?13 A partial answer can be found in the symbolic or cultural capital derived from reading as well as writing samizdat. A fuller answer, as I tried to show in this book, takes into account the possibility of achieving a renewed sense of self in conjunction with the imagined community of samizdat pub­ lics. Among other things, the question indirectly highlights the insufficiency of critical inquiry that does not consider the differences implied by multiple modernities; the Soviet and Eastern bloc cases show that the turn to extraGutenberg forms of the text in late modernity was not necessarily driven by a specific technology or by capitalist development, as more Western-centric models of analysis would suggest. We know that technologies must be stud­ ied with an eye toward the social protocols and culture within which they are used.14 What if we also need to study new late modern social mechanisms, such as the creation of imagined community by extra-Gutenberg means, with this kind of contextual sensitivity? In that case, this new social mecha­ nism should be studied in relation to the various contexts and different tech­ nologies that may support it. As Benedict Anderson’s analysis showed, social imaginaries can be powerful forces in history.15 Perhaps we are only now beginning to appreciate this fact relative to the many forms social imaginar­ ies may take when activated by this extra-Gutenberg social mechanism in different contexts. Certainly, what we thought of as the given “modern social imaginary” has been fragilized.16 That hegemonic Western imaginary with its liberal democratic values now seems to have been much more contingent and fragile than we thought: it no longer seems to be the inevitable end to which societies are progressing. Indeed, events in the new millennium have prompted a new look at how totalitarian potentials may variously manifest.17 They are present in Western democracies, too. Extra-Gutenberg social imaginaries seem to be more common or more inf luential now, but they are not necessarily constructive or antitotalitarian in their effects. The renewal or transformation of the self in conjunction with an alternative imagined community may entail aggressive chauvinism and divisive epistemologies, such as conspiracy theories. In the Soviet con­ text, the emergence during perestroika of the antisemitic and racist Pamiatʹ (Memory) group demonstrates this possibility.18 Thinking about alternative

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social imaginaries as such might help us contend with the varying potentials they harbor. Such alternative imaginaries need not be directly related to chal­ lenges to a state or regime; they often were not in the late Soviet case. The rise of extra-Gutenberg communities in late modern times might be under­ stood as a response to the encroachment of political and economic powers on what Jürgen Habermas called the lifeworld. Extra-Gutenberg publics then represent an attempt to restore communication among people as an autono­ mous basis for values and identity.19 Does the belief in autonomous values create a special potential for critical capacity or, conversely, vulnerability for those who identify with an alterna­ tive community?20 It seems both more and less critical capacity are possible effects. Pernicious outcomes may be linked to the cases in which an agent representing political or commercial power co-opts the alternative commu­ nity (which imagines itself beyond those forces) for its own purposes. This happens in specific contexts. In the Soviet case, the persistence of national chauvinism under Stalin and after him in some ranks of the party and among some samizdat authors proved relevant for the rise of a populist move­ ment like that associated with the Pamiatʹ group. In other contexts, as, for example, in Britain and the United States, a tendency toward deregulation combined with a lack of understanding of new digital technologies seem to have played a role in the rise of new populist groups. Digital technolo­ gies cannot bear sole blame for this situation: Rush Limbaugh’s mobilization of an alternative community in the United States (the so-called ditto-heads along with the wider audience that accepted his cruel and grievance-based rhetoric) depended on his distinctive use of AM radio. That community has been implicated in the rise of the Murdoch media empire and Trump-style populism.21 As these examples suggest, the encroachment of political and economic forces on alternative communities seems capable of accelerating totalitarian potentials. This is part of how the legacy of the late Soviet underground matters for us beyond the Soviet Union. Some late Soviet works and activities still resonate today because they demonstrated a critical commitment to truth and humane values in the context of extra-Gutenberg communication. For example, as we saw in chapter one, the amateur historians around Memory (the samizdat series) combined a commitment to strict fact-finding with skepticism towards the authoritarianism of Solzhenitsyn’s truth and asso­ ciated narratives of victimization while taking inspiration f rom his work. They also promoted the idea of grassroots involvement and citizen-based sourcing of historical documents.22 This practice continues to be relevant in the post-Soviet era. For example, Iurii Dmitriev’s efforts to collect and

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publicize information about the over six thousand victims of the Stalinist terror buried in mass graves in the Sandarmokh (Sandormokh) forest in Karelia is a citizens’ initiative. The state opposed such fact-finding.23 The official Military Historical Society wanted to attribute corpses found in the Sandarmokh forest to the execution of Soviet citizens by members of the Finnish army during World War II; apparently, they worried that the record of killings by the Soviet NKVD would tarnish Russia’s image in the world. Dmitriev’s efforts have been supported by other independent historians and community groups linked to the various ethnicities of the victims. Their historical research and the attempts to memorialize and pub­ licize the events continue the kind of fact-finding and commitment to his­ torical accuracy in which rights activists engaged in the Soviet era.24 Irina Flige wrote that the struggle over Sandarmokh had been a struggle for the truth that can make it a functioning lieu de mémoire, uniting families and communities with the whole multiethnic post-Soviet society. The stakes matter today, she insisted; the facts uncovered transcend the categories of victims and perpetrators in the past, establishing for the present a crucial sense of “responsibility, intellectual honesty and precision” in the quest for the meaning of what happened.25 An extra-Gutenberg sense of truth and community was also embodied by the efforts of Michael Beizer to recover and share repressed Jewish history in the early 1980s. Trained initially as an engineer, Beizer turned to unofficial historical research pursued through talking to people, viewing books and materials collected in private homes, and searching for related information in old city directories. Beizer did much to reconstitute the repressed Jewish his­ tory of Saint Petersburg/Petrograd/Leningrad, which he shared on unoffi­ cial walking tours of the city and in the samizdat Leningrad Jewish Almanac.26 Others participated in such unofficial work to re-establish Jewish history in the USSR. An informal group from Leningrad traveled on multiple occasions beginning in 1982 to the former Pale of Settlement to document the history and cultural artifacts left behind by Jews who had moved to the cities or died during World War II. This work helped provide a basis for institutionalized Jewish history and scholarship in the post-Soviet era.27 Community-based history has been addressed in scholarship in the West: this is one important way extra-Gutenberg work has come to matter also for institutions outside the Soviet and post-Soviet contexts. In the United States, for example, community historians may address white supremacist distor­ tions of national and local history. The Hidden History walking tours of New Orleans cover the African history of the French Quarter; participants are given a packet of xeroxed sheets that contain collaged items detailing

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information and events not covered in history textbooks.28 The trajectory of Hidden History founder Leon Waters from Marxist-Leninist activist to scholar and spokesperson for African American history is not entirely unlike the evolution of underground activists in the late Soviet Union.29 In both cases, extra-Gutenberg work grounded itself in particular perspectives for a constructive critique of hegemonic ideologies. Such a move can fulfill poten­ tials unrealized by universalizing ideology alone (whether Marxist-Leninist or liberal democratic). At Jackson Square, for example, the French Quarter tour highlighted “the contrast between the professed ideals of Jacksonian democracy and the realities of slavery and Indian removal.”30 Archival insti­ tutions, museums, and the scholarly field of information studies generally recognize the value and necessity of working with black and indigenous community members and their collections of knowledge—which are often established in informal ways and outside of mainstream institutions—as part of ethical practice.31 If the history of samizdat might help us appreciate some of the construc­ tive critical and resistant possibilities afforded by extra-Gutenberg endeavors across contexts, the legacy of Soviet underground literature also offers a sub­ stantial ref lection on its dangers. Venedikt Erofeev’s samizdat classic Moscow Stations (Moskva-Petushki, 1969) brought late Soviet reality into the sphere of world culture according to readers.32 The novel helped foster a sense of alter­ native community among readers in the USSR. It also conveyed something of the comedy and tragedy of that life to those far beyond its borders.33 The oral style of protagonist Venichka’s speech depends heavily on quotations from an eclectic range of sources in authoritative speech, popular culture, and poetry. Iurii Levin ref lected on the improvisational quotation as a distinctive generational practice, honed through quotes from novels by Ilʹia Ilʹf and Evgenii Petrov (Twelve Chairs and The Golden Calf) and Mikhail Bulgakov (The Master and Margarita). Such citation was common in official culture. It helped suggest satirical perspective and difference, and it likely inf luenced Erofeev’s writing style.34 Erofeev’s novel supported such practice among alternative groups of readers: the distinctive and aphoristic style of the character Venich­ ka’s speech made him eminently quotable. Quotations from Moscow Stations helped people with similar sensibilities and values recognize one another. These readers appreciated Venichka’s resistance to the optimistic and heroic values of official Soviet culture, expressed in his morning observation: “Everything on earth ought to happen slowly and out of joint, so we don’t get above ourselves, so we remain sad and lost.”35 Such utterances pointed the way out of Soviet everyday life and current events and toward the realm of existential ref lection. One reader described how people in her circle liked

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to use quotes from Erofeev’s novel even (or especially) in situations where they did not obviously apply. This is something the character Venichka does in the novel, too. For example, to describe a beautiful woman, one would say she had “a pigtail from rump to nape,” even if she had short hair. Venichka’s formulations just seemed to be good style.36 The end of Erofeev’s book features Venichka’s plaintive call for commu­ nity and the renewal of values. Venichka seeks shelter and help in the f right­ ening cityscape of Moscow (while still believing he has arrived in Petushki). He encourages himself: “Go on, try any house in Petushki, knock on any door and ask them, ‘What’s my heart mean to you?’ . . . I knocked, shiver­ ing with cold, and waited for them to open up.”37 No one opens the door to him, and shortly thereafter he encounters the thugs who murder him at the end. This violent end seems like a drastic contrast to the cheerful drinking and conversation on the train; it reportedly bothered Mikhail Bakhtin.38 How­ ever, it ref lects Erofeev’s cautionary awareness that the alternative commu­ nity may be a fantasy, mirroring the totalitarian forces of the larger Soviet society, imposing solipsistic isolation and logical deduction on its citizens.39 There is reason to doubt whether the fellowship Venichka experienced among his fellow passengers was real and substantial. They gather because they want to drink. They are gratified by the way Black Moustache reels out his account of social and cultural history, which boils down to the following: “All Russia’s honest men drank like fish.”40 Black Moustache’s account, like his “lemma” tends to reduce history and human behavior to a single prin­ ciple or model. This seems, then, like a satire of Marxist-Leninist theory and its ideological deformation of culture and history. The problem is not lim­ ited to state propaganda; the end of Venichka’s journey suggests that such single-mindedness remains a deterministic trap he cannot escape. After all, Venichka’s whole story is about drinking, and his dream of a Petushki para­ dise at the end of the journey gives way (thanks to his drunken disorienta­ tion) to a devastatingly violent conclusion. The train companions—who are described grotesquely in terms of their isolated traits or items of clothing— may be mere projections of his own personality.41 In any case, they offer him no help or guidance as he loses his way. He remains mired in an ultimately violent solipsistic fantasy. The downturn predicted by Black Moustache’s lemma is realized horribly in Venichka’s own journey, which seems like a carnivalesque debauch before becoming a grotesque nightmare ending in death. The scenes on the train re-read in this context seem like a cautionary vision of the way the community may turn out to be part of a dangerous fan­ tasy, particularly when animated by unthinking desire. The narrative logic

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of such single-mindedness releases violent forces with effects in real life, or at least real life in the world of the novel, as Venichka is murdered by four thugs at the end.42 A sense of the totalitarian potentials of discourse and alternative com­ munity also informed Dmitrii Prigov’s brilliant art. The Soviet Conceptualist gesture of distancing oneself from any given discourse (nezalipanie) repre­ sented “a new anti-totalitarian position, since it was based on the presupposi­ tion that any language, when perceived as the vehicle of unquestioned truth, becomes a source of totalitarian repression.” Prigov’s work embodied this broad principle: “‘totalitarian’ was understood to mean Soviet language, the language of Soviet myth, and any significant discourse supported by complex institutions (the discourse of a great culture, nationalist discourses, etc.)”43 Totalitarian potentials were not limited to Soviet discourse. Prigov’s poems and performances were highly wrought, gem-like studies offering crystalline images of discourse that bare their inner workings and help liberate the contemplating consciousness.44 The author’s (and reader’s) meta-perspective transcends the voices, viewpoints, and personae within individual works. For example, in his “Open Letter” to friends from 1984, Prigov as a character invited his audience to share in a common project. Through burlesque style, he systematically undermined the bases of the community he invoked: Dear comrades! To you, I am talking to you, my friends! . . . My f riends! Companions of my doubts and fond, complicit wit­ nesses of minutes of soaring revelations! Compeers (Drugi)! Kinsmen (Sorodichi)! Fellow tribesmen! We are few. We cannot be many. We should not be many. We are Sudras! We are Brahmins! OM! OM! We are a small tribe, a chosen tribe, called to life from nothingness solely by the attentions of heaven, destined to fulfill some task generated by our own selves, the only task, not mandatory for anyone in its ruinous detachment from the world of natural habits, affairs and comforts, but inevitable in its voluntary tonsure, acceptance of pure humility of service in the face of those not even looking in our direction, not even turning in profile towards us in half-animal curiosity, not accepting us, not knowing and not wanting to know us, denying the actual grounds for the very possibility of our existence, denouncing us and spewing blasphemy and denunciations upon us, persecuting and punishing us by lopping off our delicate extremities, underdeveloped for communi­ cation with the realities of concrete reality.45

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The open letter is a typical samizdat genre, and Prigov invokes the margin­ ality of the addressees and their notion of the community along with the autonomy of their values, expressed in their “ruinous detachment f rom the world of natural habits, affairs and comforts.” Prigov veers here f rom an overly importunate opening address into an unregulated string of state­ ments about the supposed community, straining each one past its logical and emotional breaking point to produce a humorously grotesque pastiche of unsustainably exaggerated discourses. This method typifies his work across genres. Prigov’s ability to take a discourse or fixed type of consciousness to absurd lengths, and to set different, mutually exclusive discourses against one another for calculated effects, produced some celebrated examples of Soviet conceptualist writing: his “Policeman (Militsioner)” cycles f rom the late 1970s are among the most famous. As the title of the cycle suggests, these poems deconstruct institutionalized authority, whether that of the state or of art and the poet. The poet is identified, in this case, with the policeman.46 Prigov’s works perform apophatically, I would suggest. Exposing the per­ ils of identification, they undermine its very possibility within their bounds as works, including the possibility of identifying with a discourse that imag­ ines itself to be outside the state’s authority. Prigov’s deconstruction of late Soviet anti-authoritarianism is not precisely like the Western postmodern ethos. A positive commitment remains detectable in them: by cathartically releasing the impulse to authoritarianism in all discourses, Prigov’s works affirm a nondogmatic commitment to freedom and culture. Such positive values are dissolved neither by the carnival of Erofeev’s novel nor by the burlesque pastiche of Prigov. Arising out of their context, such works remain compelling in their expression of an aspiration to freedom and culture, ani­ mated by resistance to the temptations of unfreedom associated with alter­ native discourses as well as official ones. The post-Soviet author Kirill Medvedev claimed the legacy of unofficial Soviet poetry in his writing. He wrote a manifesto against copyright and did his best to cultivate publishing outside of established channels. In Medve­ dev’s account, late- and post-Soviet Russian writing showed an attachment to a cultural tradition and the special role of the poet that distinguishes it from writing associated with the Western critique of logocentrism.47 In his 2004 essay, “My Fascism,” Medvedev diagnosed a bland and censorious liberal mainstream. He acknowledged the charm of Aleksandr Dugin’s lively ver­ sion of Eurasianism but warned against the serious dangers associated with its “ontological certainties and sacred truths.” Now, argued Medvedev, hav­ ing recognized “that Russian postmodernism can be adapted for fascistoid

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propaganda, and Western postmodernism can be used just as well for Ameri­ can imperialism; when liberalism has become the basis for a cannibalistic neoliberalism,” we need “a new shared understanding of humanity.” This new notion of humanity will be developed “using something from logo­ centrism, something from postmodernism, something from straightforward utterance and from direct action . . . and culture and counter-culture—and probably something else, too, that we haven’t thought of yet.” This pastiche of possibility was offered by Medvedev as the successor to late Soviet under­ ground culture. Like the renewed commitment to values among samizdat publics, Medvedev’s new notion of humanity is oriented toward a better possible future.48 Although the Soviet Union is long gone, we are hardly done with the contradictions of late modernity. As we try to recognize and cope with the extra-Gutenberg potentials for good and ill in our present time, the legacy of late Soviet modernity and its samizdat public communities remains rel­ evant. The projected personae, both fictional and lived, the acute awareness of totalitarian potentials, and the drive to purge society of those potentials, whether through committed truth-telling or via the meta-commitments of fictional performances—these elements of the samizdat legacy are part of the historical and cultural resources available to our late modern age, tools for thinking to help guide us through the possibilities and perils of the more f luid textual condition we all now share.

Appendix

Soviet Samizdat Periodicals, 1956–1986

This listing provides basic information about the samizdat periodical editions encountered during research in broadly dis­ persed archives and through review of the published literature on the topic. The selection is deliberately limited to editions of classic Soviet samizdat that were part of a numbered series or intended to be part of a sustained series. For this reason, some collections of works and anthologies—which also ref lect groups working in samizdat—were not included. The selection here highlights the difficulty of realizing regular periodical production in samizdat, even as it gives us a sense of the range of groups and types of activ­ ity aspiring to this level of public communication and existence. Scholars at the Memorial Society (Moscow) and the Open Society Archive began collecting information for a comprehensive database of samizdat, based on the Sbornik dokumentov samizdata (SBOR) and Materialy samizdata (MATE). The list of titles here ref lects a narrower focus on periodicals and the addi­ tion of information from regularly cited reference works, including Suetnov’s catalog Samizdat (SUET), the more recent Samizdat Leningrada (SAMI-LE), and Samizdat i novaia politicheskaia pressa (SAMI-NO). These reference publications provided a base to be enriched with other information, including from some digital sources. Whenever possible, information was cross-referenced between sources. The list was expanded with additional data collected from press reports, archived copies and publications by other scholars working in the 161

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area.1 The aim was to include only titles of periodical editions with some public existence, based on evidence that the circulation of the editions exceeded a domestic or intimate circle. Over time, it became clear that this judgment was difficult to make: archiving of the edition or its registration in a recognized source therefore provided a basis for inclusion. Archival collec­ tions are listed here based on my search of publicly available holdings.2 The source SAMI-NO lists additional Russian archives and library collections— some of these have been dissolved or have moved, and interested researchers are therefore referred to that source for further information about holdings of copies of those titles.3 As bibliographers have noted since the beginning, samizdat challenges all our criteria.4 It also tends to proliferate, as the earliest catalogers and compil­ ers of samizdat noted.5 The corpus tends to expand even as attempts to pin down data on individual items can be elusive. Therefore, this list is, inevita­ bly, incomplete. Nevertheless, this list provides a useful snapshot of samizdat periodi­ cal editions based on the sources named here. The print version of the list makes the information accessible to scholars in some ways not afforded by the online database Soviet Samizdat Periodicals (http://samizdat.library.uto ronto.ca). That database is part of the larger online project site that includes illustrated timelines and stories as well as interviews for context. It also fea­ tures digitized copies of issues from the archives for a couple dozen litera­ ture and art titles (these are indicated by the source Project for the Study of Dissidence and Samizdat [PROJ]).6 One advantage of the print version of this catalog listing is that it will be easy for many to scan and use the full set of data as presented here. The print version should also facilitate scholarly ref lection on the limits of this set and help motivate work according to dif­ ferent chronological or generic criteria. The publication of an earlier set of data in Russian was designed in part to make the topic more relevant for Russophone readers and historians.7 In complementary fashion, the purpose of publishing this English-language version of the list is to raise awareness of the samizdat field and resources related to it among students and scholars in the west. Entries are listed alphabetically by title of edition. Source codes with a four-letter base (e.g., SUET) keyed to the beginning of entries in the bib­ liography should help readers find full references there. Archived copies, when available, have been indicated at the end of entries with a three-letter code (e.g., BRE, MEM)—see the listing of archives for full names of these institutions.

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City names are given according to Soviet-era official Russian usage (for example, Sverdlovsk, not Yekaterinburg) according to standard spelling of those names as recorded in the GEOnet Names Server.8 The note “s.l.” (sine loco) indicates that the place of publication is unknown. Original edition titles are transliterated into Latin characters when necessary, ref lecting as closely as possible the way they appeared in the original language of the edi­ tion. Personal names are transcribed without diacritics. When no informa­ tion is available for a category, a dash appears. The structure of entries is as follows: English Title (Original title); Years; Number of issues; City; Language; Editor(s) (with) Participants; Groups; Subjects; Sources; Archives. Affair (Delo); 1986–; no. 1–; Moscow; Russian; N. Dmitriev; —; Music; SAMI-NO; —. Alkonost (Alkonost); 1980; no. 1–4; Novosibirsk; Russian; A. Rogachevskii; —; Literature; SAVE 47, 158; —. All About Tsvetaeva (Vse o Tsvetaevoi); 1978–84; no. 1–22; Moscow; Russian; L. Mnukhin with V. Cherkasov, T. Leskova, I. Liubimova, A. Zadikian, E. Zelʹvianskii; Moscow Society of Book Lovers; Literature; MNUK, VSEO, TSVE; —. Alma Mater (Alma Mater); 1979; no. 1–4; Vilnius; Lithuanian; D. Kershute, P. Peceliunas; —; Lithuanian topics, History, Religion/ Philosophy; KHRO-68 no. 53, 55, 56, 57, 60, ALEK 43, 50, 57, ALEX 67, 76, 84, CAHI no. 77/1981, RELI-73 no. 8.4/1980, SLOW 33, VEST-SS no. 3/1981, 18/1981, VASI, ALMA-82, ALMA-84, REME-80 121, BOUR-79 251–52; BAY, MGV. Almanac (Al′manakh); 1965–66; no. 1–7; Leningrad; Russian; V. Sazhin with T. Arkadʹeva, L. Entina, T. Faleva, N. Pivenʹ, G. Shalita (first-year students from the Department of Russian Language and Literature at the Pedagogical Institute); —; Literature, Sociopolitical topics; SAMI­ MA 10, 70–72, SAMI-LE 391, 452; —. Alternative Writing (Isekiri); 1983–85; no. 1–10; Kohtla-Järve; Estonian; H. Kaljulaid; —; Estonian topics; Sociopolitical topics; MATE no. 15/1985, DARS; —. Alyssum (Burachok, Vitazhenets); 1986–87; no. 1–3; Minsk; Belarusian; A. Bialiatski, S. Dubauts, V. Ivashkevich, V. Viachorka; —; Belarusian topics, Sociopolitical topics; PAZA 23, 25; —.

Amalthea (Amal′teia); 1978–88; no. 1–7; Novosibirsk; Russian;

G. Kuznetsov, M. Mikheev, A. Shalin, L. Vishnevskii; Literary Association “Amalthea”; Literature; SAVE 47–48; —.

164

APPENDIX

Appleye (Eploko); 1985; no. 1; Sverdlovsk; Russian; L. Baksanov; Beatles Fan Club; Music; KUSH-94 172, KUSH-91, SUET 1:204; BRL, GWU. Aqua (Akva); 1985–; no. 1–; Moscow; Russian; —; —; Science;

SAMI-NO; —.

Archive (Arkhiv); 1976–78; no. 1–5; Leningrad; Russian; V. Nechaev, M. Nedrobova; —; Art; KHRO-68 no. 43, 49, ALEK 286, 289, ALEX 355, 358, SAMI-MA 15, SAMI-LE 393, KOVA-06 107, ARKH-ZH, PROJ; BRE, MEM. Archive of the Chronicle (Arkhiv Khroniki); 1974–; no. 1–2–; Moscow; Russian; —; —; Defense of Rights; KHRO-68 no. 33–34, 36, KHRO­ ZA no. 15; —. Archivist (Arkhivarius); 1980–82; no. 1–9; Irkutsk; Russian; I. Podshivalov (with students from the philological faculty of Irkutsk State University); —; Literature, Sociopolitical top ics; SAVE 52–53, 158, BOGD 3; —. Around the Draft Constitution of the USSR (Vokrug proekta Konstitutsii SSSR); 1977; no. 1–5; Moscow; Russian; P. Grigorenko, R. Lert; —; Sociopolitical topics; KHRO-68 no. 46–47, 51, CAHI no. 55/1978, 56/1978, SUMM no. 1, NATH 185–86; MEM, UTL. Art of the Commune/AC (Iskusstvo Kommuny/IK); 1962–63; no. 1(20)–14(33); Moscow; Russian; Iu. Freidin, E. Mikhailov, V. Petrov; —; Art, Literature, Sociopolitical topics; SAMI-AL 436–37, PARA 4–7, PROJ; BRE. Audi Hollies (Audi Kholi); 1986–90; no. 1–7; Kazanʹ; Russian; S. Gurʹev, G. Kazakov, A. Koblov, I. Smirnov; —; Music; SAMI-NO, KUSH-94 39–41, SUET 1:188; —. Avant-Garde (Avangard); 1965; no. 1; Moscow; Russian; L. Gubanov; “SMOG” Group; Literature, Art; ANTO-SA 1.2:356, GRAN no. 61/1966:15, POLI-97 316–17, 367; —. Avant-Garde (Avangard); 1986–90; no. 1–5?; Kirov; Russian; E. Ostanin, N. Golikov; Club “Vers libre”; Literature, Sociopolitical topics; SAMI­ NO, SUET 1:173; —. Beacon (Paros); 1967–; no. 1–; Yerevan; Armenian; Sh. Arutiunian, A. Khachatrian, S. Zatikian; National Unification Party (NUP) of Arme­ nia; Armenian topics, Sociopolitical topics; ALEK 74, ALEX 13, 124, CAHI no. 49/1978, SLOW 67, 87, POSE-45 no. 7/1979, ZISS 120–22, MATE no. 4/1978-AC3119; —. Beat-Echo (Bit-Ekho); 1967; no. 1–2; Kharʹkov; Russian; S. Korotkov with D. Iamshinetskii, N. Ostrovskii, A. Rosiiskii; —; Music; KUSH-94 193–94, KUSH-91, SUET 1:188; —.

APPENDIX

165

The Beginning (Nachalo); 1960–62; no. 1–4; Novosibirsk; Russian; V. Gerchikov, M. Iavorskaia; —; Literature; SAVE 35, 158; —. The Bell (Kolokol); 1965; no. 1–2(24); Leningrad; Russian; S. Khakhaev, S. Moshkov, V. Ronkin; Union of Communards; Sociopolitical topics, History; ALEK 235–37, 290, 341, ALEX 295–98, SAMI-MA 10, POSE-45 no. 24/1967, 1/1968, SAMI-VO2 30, 235–39, KHRO-68 no. 2, POLI-97 341, PESK 274–75, RONK, SAMI-VO1 264–67, SUET 1:18, BIOG 240; HOO. The Bell (Varpas); 1975–83; no. 1–; s.l. (Lithuanian SSR); Lithuanian; A. Burokas, E. Burokas, J. Dabravoskas, V. Vaineikis; —; Defense of Rights, Lithuanian topics, National culture, Sociopolitical top­ ics; BOUR-79 251–52, RELI-73 no. 7.2/1979, POSE-45 no. 5/1978, KHRO-68 no. 44, ALEK 43, ALEX 66, REME-80 158–61, VIOL 35; MGV, BAY (VIL). Bell Tower (Samrek′lo); 1979; no. 1–2; Tbilisi; Georgian; D. Berdzenish­ vili, L. Berdzenishvili, V. Dzabiradze, V. Shonia; Republican Party of Georgia; Georgian topics, Sociopolitical topics, Defense of Rights; ALEK 98, SLOW 74, 198; —. Beloved Dawn (Aušrelė); 1978; no. 1–8; Vilnius; Lithuanian; A. Terlackas; —; Lithuanian topics, Religion/Philosophy, Sociopolitical topics; KHRO-68 no. 49, 54, SAMI-MA no. 15/1981, BOUR-79 251–52, VASI, REME-80 429; BAY. Bestiary (Bestiarii); 1984–85; no. 1–4; Novosibirsk; Russian; O. Volov; —; Literature, Art; SAVE 49, 158; —. Birth Pangs (Erkunk); 1969––; no. 1––; Yerevan; Armenian; P. Airikian; National Unification Party (NUP) of Armenia; Armenian topics, Sociopolitical topics; CAHI no. 49/1978, POSE-69 no. 7/1979, ZISS 120–22, MATE no. 4/1978-AC3119; —. Blue Lantern (Blakitny likhtar); 1971–74; no. 1–15; Novopolotsk; Belaru­ sian, Russian; V. Mudrou, A. Rybikau, V. Shlykau (Students of Novo­ polotsk Polytechnical Institute); —; Belarusian topics, Literature; DEMA 145, PAZA 23, 165; —. Bonfires of Madness (Kostry bezumiia); 1972; no. 1; Moscow; Russian; N. Bokov; —; Literature, Sociopolitical topics; KOVC no. 4; —. Boomerang: Literary, Artistic and Cultural Educational Monthly (Bumer­ ang: Literaturno-khudozhestvennyi i kul′turno-prosvetitel′nyi ezheme­ siachnik); 1960; no. 1; Moscow; Russian; V. Osipov (with participants from Maiakovskii Square gatherings); —; Art, Literature; ALEK 360, ALEX 438, SLOW 61–62, KHRO-68 no. 23, SAMI-AL 281, 434, POLI­ 97 175, 306, 369, NICH 73, PROJ; BRE, MEM.

166

APPENDIX

Bulletin (Biulleten′); 1978–82; no. 1–14; Moscow, Chistopolʹ, Yurʹyev­ Polʹskiy; Russian; V. Fefelov, F. Khusainov, I. Kiselev, O. Zaitseva; Ini­ tiative Group for the Defense of the Disabled in the USSR; Defense of Rights; KHRO-68 no. 51–53, 56–57, 60, 62–64, ALEK 284, 347–48, ALEX 411–13, SAMI-BU no. 109/1982, VOLN no. 41–42/1981, MATE no. 10/1979, 41/1979, 16/1980, 17/1981, 22/1981, 38/1981, 7/1982, 18/1982 AC3511+AC3765+AC3942+AC4292+AC4322+AC4449+AC 4577+AC4632; OSA, MEM. Bulletin (Biulleten′); 1982; no. 1–3; Moscow; Russian; —; Soviet group “Amnesty International”; Defense of Rights; KHRO-68 no. 63–64, VEST-SS no. 16/1982; MEM. Bulletin (Biulleten′); 1984; no. 1; Leningrad; Russian; V. Tereshchenko and A. Burlaka with I. Leonov, A. Andreev, V. Guseva, A. Ogibina; —; Music; KUSH-94 62; —. Bulletin “+” (Biulleten′ “+”); 1984–86; no. 1–; Moscow; Russian; O. Korzinina, E. Kulinskaia, A. Lashchiver; —; Defense of Rights; MATE no. 4/1986 AC5591+AC5592+AC5593, ARKH-IS, BIUL-VI; HOO, MEM, UTL. Bulletin of the Council of Relatives of Evangelical Christian Baptist Prisoners in the USSR (Biulleten′ soveta rodstvennikov uznikov evangel′skikh khristian-baptistov SSSR); 1971–87; no. 1–141; Mos­ cow; Russian; G. Rytikova; Council of Relatives of ECB Prisoners; Defense of Rights, Religion/ Philosophy; KHRO-68 no. 35–38, 41–42, 44, 51–56, 62, ALEK 157–59, ALEX 210–11, 213, 341, SOBR no. 9, 14, 15, 19, 21, 23, 25, 27-AC690+AC883 and others, MATE no. 4/1971, 42/1972, 38/1973, 47/1973, 16/1975, 18/1975, 21/1975, 40/1980, VOLN no. 6/1972, BIUL-SO, CAHI no. 5, 16, SAWA 242, RELI-73 no. 1/1973 and others, SUMM no. 5–6, SAMI-NO 14, ARKH-IS, SAMI-AL 226, 285, SUET 1:33; BAY, OSA, BRE, UTL, HOO, MEM. Bulletin “V” (Biulleten′ “V”); 1980–83; no. 1–105; Moscow; Russian; S. Grigorʹiants, F. Kozelov, I. Kovalev, I. Kozlov, E. Kulinskaia, K. Popov, A. Sannikova, V. Senderov, A. Smirnov, S. Smirnov, V. Tolʹts, T. Trusova, L. Tumanova; —; Defense of Rights; ALEK 301–2, ALEX 373, 378, 424, BIUL-VI, MATE no. 17/1983, 24/1983, 27/1983, 40/1983, 42/1983, ARKH-IS, TOLC; BRE, HOO, MEM. The Call (Prizyv); 1971–81; no. 1–21; Moscow; Russian; A. Rotberg; Ecumenical Christians; Religion/Philosophy; RELI-73 no. 13.3/1985, SUMM no. 3; BAY.

APPENDIX

167

Candle (Svecha); 1983–84; no. 1–3; Irkutsk; Russian; I. Perevalov, I. Pod­ shivalov, V. Siminenko (Students of Irkutsk State University); —; Lit­ erature, Sociopolitical topics; SAVE 53–54, 158; —. Cartridge Clips (Naboini); 1984; no. 1; Slonim; Belarusian; S. Astravtsov, S. Dubavets; —; Literature; PAZA 32–33; —. The Case of Alexander Ginzburg and Yurii Orlov: Informational Bulletin (Delo Aleksandra Ginzburga i Iuriia Orlova: Informatsionnyi biul­ leten′); 1977; no. 1–2; —; Russian; —; —; Defense of Rights; KHRO-68 no. 47, MATE no. 29/1977, 23/1978-AC3051+AC3266; OSA, UTL. The Cat Behemoth (Kot-begemot); 1982–87; no. 1–; Moscow; Russian; S. Gaponenko; —; Music; KUSH-94 97, SUET 1:193; —. Catacombs (Katakombos); 1978––; no. 1–46(?); Kaunas; Lithuanian; P. Mikalauskas-Antalkis; —; Literature, Lithuanian topics; —; KAU. The Chest (Skrynia); 1971; no. 1; Lʹvov; Ukrainian; Iu. Vynnychuk, O. Lisheha, V. Morozov, M. Riabchuk, H. Chubai; —; Literature, Ukrainian topics; IAVO 288–89, SKRY; —. Children’s Herald (Detskii vestnik); 1973–; no. 1–; Leningrad; Russian; —; Council of Churches of Evangelical Christian-Baptists; Religion/ Philosophy; SAMI-MA 14, SAVE 139; —. Chronicle of the Catholic Church in Lithuania (Lietuvos katalikų bažnyčios kronika); 1972–89; no. 1–81; Moscow; Russian, Lithuanian; S. Tamkevicius, J. Boruta, J. Steponavicius; Catholic Church in Lithu­ ania; Lithuanian topics, Religion/Philosophy, Defense of Rights; ALEK no. 49–50, 57, 294, ALEX 72, 74–75, 76, 78–80, 83, 84, 252, 330, 364, SOBR no. 17, 24, 25, 27, 29-AC1203+AC1204 and others, MATE no. 33/1974, 40/1974, 52/1974, 35/1975, 10/1981, RELI-73 no. 4.1/1976 and others, VEST-25 no. 112–13/1974, SLOW 54, 86, VEST-SS no. 1/1981, KHRO-68 no. 30, 32, 34–41, 43–44, 46, 48–49 and others, REME-80 121, 130–31, 396, 580, BURA 45, VIOL 73, BOUR-79 251–52, 256, SPEN, LIET-74, KHRO-79A, CHRO-74, LIET­ 98, SAMI-AL 224, ELTA-54 no. 1–2, 9–11, LIET-79; BAY, KAU, MGV, GRC, MEM. Chronicle of the Catholic Church in Ukraine (Khronika katolits′koi tserkvi na Ukraini); 1982–87; no. 1–31; s.l. (Ukrainian SSR); Ukrainian, Rus­ sian; H. Budzynsʹkyi, I. Helʹ, O. Horynʹ, I. Terelia; Action Group for the Defense of Rights of Believers and the Church in Ukraine; Ukrai­ nian topics, Religion/Philosophy, Defense of Rights; MATE no. 8, 10–11, 15, 18–, 32, 40-AC5371, AC5372 and others, RELI-73 no. 13.3/1985, YASI, SAMI-ST no. 20, TERE; HOO, OSA.

168

APPENDIX

Chronicle of Current Events (Khronika tekushchikh sobytii); 1968–82; no. 1–65; Moscow; Russian; N. Gorbanevskaia, L. Bogoraz, A. Danielʹ, N. Emelʹkina, E. Epshtein, G. Gabai, I. Gabai, Iu. Gastev, M. Gelʹshtein, I. Iakir, A. Iakobson, T. Khodorovich, Iu. Kim, I. Kovalev, S. Kovalev, V. Krasin, N. Kravchenko, M. Landa, A. Lavut, P. Litvinov, G. Liubi­ anitskii, T. Osipova, Iu. Shikhanovich, E. Smorgnova, G. Superfin, T. Velikanova, L. Vulʹ; —; Defense of Rights; SOBR no. 1–9, 10A-10Б­ 10B, 21–24, VOLN no. 1–6, KHRO-68, ALEK 225–27 and passim, ALEX 285–373, MATE no. 5/1971, 9/1972, 17/1972, 26/1972, 34/1972, SUMM no. 1, 3, 4, 5/6, VEST-25 no. 98/1970, 99/1971, ANTO-SA 2:429–32, VEST-SS no. 16/1980, HOPK 26, UNCE, KHRO-79B, POSE­ 69 no. 1–9, ACHR-78, ACHR-71, KHRO-73, SAMI-AL 218, 385, SUET 1:18, SAVI 207, NICH, KUZO; HOO, MEM, UTL, BRE. Chronicle of the Gulag Archipelago/Chronicle of Zone 35 (Khronika Arkhi­ pelaga Gulaga/Khronika Zony 35); 1974–82?; no. 1–?; Permʹ; Russian; —; —; Defense of Rights; VOLN no. 23/1976, KHRO-68 no. 36, 51, MATE no. 26–27/1975-AC2168+AC2169, 15/1977-AC2899, 2/1978­ AC3097, 9/1978-AC3166, 11/1983-AC4872; OSA, HOO. Chronicle of the Gulag Archipelago (Khronika Arkhipelaga Gulag: Sbornik dokumentov); 1974–75; no. 1–4; Moscow, Vsekhsviatskoe; Russian; —; —; Defense of Rights; VOLN no. 23/1976, KHRO-68 no. 33; BEL. Churbashka: A Jolly Collection for Little Uncles and Aunties (Churbashka: Veselyi al′manakh dlia malen′kikh diadenek i tetenek); 1986–; no. 2–; Leningrad; Russian; —; —; Art, Literature; SUET 1:187, BRIT-LI; BRL. The Clock (Chasy); 1976–90; no. 1–80; Leningrad; Russian; I. Adamatskii, V. Dolinin, A. Dragomoshchenko, B. Ivanov, Iu. Novikov, B. Ostanin, S. Sheff, Iu. Voznesenskaia; —; Literature, Art; ALEK 286, 289, 310, ALEX 354–55, 358, 376, SUMM no. 1–7/8, ANTO-SA 3:303–305, SAMI-LE 463–65, VEST-SS no. 12/1982, KOVA-06 136, INDE, KONS 38–41, SAMI-AL 435, SUET 1:19, 186, IVAN, SAVI 208, KRIV 353, SABB 211–18, VONZ-16 23, LYGO 129, VONZ-17 114, PROJ; SPB. The Clock: Thematic Collection (Chasy: Al′manakh); 1975; no. 1; Lenin­ grad; Russian; A. Antonov, V. Erlʹ; —; Literature; ALEK 286, ALEX 354, SAMI-LE 463; —. Collections (Sborniki); 1961–62; no. 1–6; Leningrad; Russian; G. Donskoi; —; Literature; SAMI-LE 399; —. Community (Obshchina); 1978; no. 2; Moscow, Leningrad; Russian; A. Ogorodnikov, O. Okhapkin, V. Poresh; Christian Seminar on Prob­ lems of the Religious Renaissance; Religion/Philosophy; KHRO-68

APPENDIX

169

no. 46, 49, 51, 53, 55–58, ALEK 199, ALEX 259, MATE no. 3/1979­ AC3452, VOLN no. 39/1980, RELI-73 no. 8.2, 9.3–4, SUMM no. 1, SAMI-MA 96–97, VEST-SS no. 17/1980, SAMI-LE 298, 436–37, ELLI 388–90, 415, 419, POSP-84 433–334, POSP-95 358–59, VONZ-17 112, MART 98; BAY, MEM. Constellation (Sozvezdie); 1983; no. 1; Tyumenʹ; Russian; Ia. Afanasʹev; —; Literature; SAVE 49, 158; —. Contact (Kontakt); 1982–88; no. 1–7; Russian; Gorlovka; Russian; A. Kulinich; —; Literature; KHAR-FA 26; —. Contact (Kontakt); 1986–88, no. 1–2, Novokuznetsk; Russian; N. Kalashnikov; —; Literature; KHAR-FA 26; —. Contemporary Jewish Folklore (Sovremennyi evreiskii fol′klor); 1986–; no. 1–; Leningrad; Russian; —; —; Jewish topics, National culture; KARA 25; HAR. Conversations (Gutarka); 1975–76; no. 1–45; Minsk, Molodechno; Belaru­ sian; M. Ermalovich, Ia. Kulik; —; Sociopolitical topics, Literature; SLOW 47–48, DEMA 148, PAZA 25–27; —. Crack of Light (Prosvet); 1982–; no. 1–; Tallinn; Russian; T. Gaenko; —; Literature; SAMI-MA 19; —. Crime and Punishment (Prestuplenie i nakazanie); 1969; no. 1–7; Moscow; Russian; —; —; Defense of Rights; SOBR no. 7, 21AC490+AC1025, KHRO-68 no. 9–10, MATE 19/1972; OSA, MEM, BRE. Crocus (Padsnezhnik); 1963–64; no. 1–4; Minsk; Belarusian; M. Ermalovich; —; Belarusian topics, Literature; DEMA 151, PAZA 25; —. Culture (Tarbut); 1975– 79; no. 1–13; Moscow; Russian; F. Dektor, A. Bolʹshoi, L. Godlin, F. Kandelʹ, R. Nudelʹman, V. Prestin, I. Rubin, V. Fain, I. Essas; —; Jewish topics, National culture, History, Religion/ Philosophy; KHRO-68 no. 37, 53, 56, ALEK 134, ALEX 189, SAMI­ KR, EVRE no. 6, 11, 19, 25, SUMM no. 1, KOSH 2: 365–370, 379, LAZA 109–11, SAMI-AL 418, PINK-94 29, HOFF 102, KOMA-12 286, 289–90, 299; HAR, MEM, VAA. The Culture Archive (Kūlturos archyvas); 1977–; no. 1–; s.l. (Lithuanian SSR); Lithuanian; —; —; Lithuanian topics, National culture, Litera­ ture, History, Sociopolitical topics; SAMI-ST no. 15/1981, REME-80 121, VIOL 34; —. Dawn (Aušra); 1975–88; no. 1(41)–60(100); s.l. (Lithuanian SSR); Lithu­ anian; L. Kunevicius, P. Raciunas, S. Tamkevicius; —; Lithuanian topics, National culture, Sociopolitical topics, Religion/Philosophy, Defense of Rights; KHRO-68 no. 39–49, 51–57, 60–61, 63–64, ALEK

170

APPENDIX

43, 47, ALEX 66, 71, RELI-73 no. 7.2/1979, 12.1/1984, SLOW 38, 55, VASI, REME-80 121, 125, 153, BURA, AUSR-77, AUSR-75, BOUR-79 251–52; BAY, MGV, GRC, BRL, KAU, MEM. Democrat (Demokrat); 1971; no. 1–6; Tallinn; Russian; S. Soldatov; Democratic Movement of the Soviet Union; Defense of Rights, Sociopolitical topics; SOBR no. 23-AC1152, SAMI-BU no. 127, KHRO-68 no. 25, 29, 38, ALEK 63, ALEX 90, SLOW 74, SOLD 22; OSA, BRE. Dialogue: A Journal of Polemics and Criticism (Dialog: zhurnal polemiki i kritiki); 1979–81; no. 1–3; Leningrad; Russian; K. Butyrin, S. Stratanovskii; —; Literature, Religion/Philosophy, Sociopolitical top­ ics; KHRO-68 no. 61, ALEK 310, ALEX 376, SUMM no. 5–6, SAMI­ MA 125–26, SAMI-LE 402, KONS 41, PROJ, IVAN 65, VONZ-17; SPB, BRE. Diary of Volunteers (Dnevnik dobrovol′tsev); 1986–88; no. 1–3; Moshkovo; Russian; M. Kupko; —; Sociopolitical topics; SAMI-NO, SAVE 95, 159, BOGD 9; —. Digest (Daidzhest); 1982–85; no. 1–12; Moscow; Russian; A. Razgon, A. Torpusman, V. Chernin; —; Sociopolitical topics; SAMI-KR, KARA 25, KOSH 2:373, KOMA-12 287; VAA. Disco-Start (Disko-start); 1980; no. 1–2; Tbilisi; Russian; S. Mozgovoi; —; Music; KUSH-94 186, SUET 1:190–91; AAK. Documents (Dokumentai); 1976–81; no. 1–29; s.l. (Lithuanian SSR); Lithu­ anian, Russian; —; Lithuanian Helsinki Group; Defense of Rights, Lithuanian topics; KHRO-68 no. 54–56, 58, 61, SLOW 57, SBOR no. 5, KHRO-ZA no. 25, 28, 36, 39, LIET-99;—. Documents (Dokumenty); 1976–82; no. 1–219; Moscow; Russian; —; Mos­ cow Helsinki Group; Defense of Rights; ALEK 273, 278–79, 283–84, 341–43, ALEX 346–47, 352, SSSR no. 3/1981, KHRO-68 no. 40–58, 60–65, SBOR no. 1–8, DOKU-06; MEM. Documents (Dokumenty); 1979–80; no. 1–42; s.l. (Lithuanian SSR); Lithu­ anian, Russian; —; Catholic Committee for the Defense of Rights of Religious Believers; Defense of Rights, Religion/Philosophy; KHRO­ 68 no. 54–56, 60, 62, ALEK 50, ALEX 76, 340, SLOW 39, KHRO-ZA no. 37, 39, 40; —. Documents of the Christian Committee for the Defense of Believers’ Rights in the USSR (Dokumenty khristianskogo komiteta zashchity prav veru­ iuschchikh v SSSR); 1976–80; no. 1–1282?; Moscow; Russian; G. Iakunin, V. Kapitanchuk, V. Khaibulin; Christian Committee for

APPENDIX

171

the Defense of Believers’ Rights in the USSR; Defense of Rights, Reli­ gion/Philosophy; ALEK 255–56, ALEX 196–97, 272, DOKU-77, ELLI 420–28, 439, 456, POSP-84 2:435, POSP-95 359–60; —. Double (Dabl); 1985–88; no. 1–6; Izhevsk; Russian; A. Somov, S. Chirtsev; Izhevsk Rock Club; Music; SAMI-NO, KUSH-94 37; —. Down with Slavery (Šalin vergia); 1980; no. 1; s.l. (Lithuanian SSR); Lithu­ anian; —; —; Lithuanian topics, Sociopolitical topics; ALEK 43, ALEX 67, VEST-SS no. 7/1981, POSE-45 no. 7/1981; —. Duel (Poedinok); 1979–89; no. 1–18; Moscow; Russian; E. Abramova, I. Alekseenko, V. Bykov, Iu. Denisov, N. Denisova, M. Ikonnikov, E. Osipova, V. Shepelev; —; Sociopolitical topics, Literature; KHRO­ 68 no. 56, 57, 62, ALEK 309, ALEX 375, CAHI no. 77/1981, 89/1982, VEST-SS no. 4/1981, 17/1980, 9/1981, POIS no. 1/1981, SUET 1:19, 111; —. The Ear (Ukho); 1982–83; no. 1–7(11); Moscow; Russian; I. Krichevskii, V. Litovka, E. Matusov, A. Troitskii, A. Filin, S. Zharikov, V. Ivanov, Iu. Nepakharev, A. Pavliuchenko, M. Sigalov, I. Smirnov, A. Suetnov; —; Music; KUSH-94 84–90, SUET 1:203, SAMI-NO; AKK, BRE, BRL, GWU. Earth (Zemlia); 1974; no. 1–2; Aleksandrov; Russian; V. Osipov, V. Rodi­ onov; —; Religion/Philosophy, National culture, Sociopolitical topics; KHRO-68 no. 34, 35, 37, 45, 63, ALEK 362, ALEX 440–41, MATE no. 13/1975, 25/1975-AC1909+AC2060, VOLN no. 20/1975, CAHI no. 23/1974, 25/1975, RELI-73 no. 4.3/1976, 5.4/1977, MITR 463, DUNL 206–11, SUET 1:19, 72, ELLI 337–39; OSA, MEM. Effort (K″asevet); 1984–1994–; no. 1–; Rodnykove; Russian, Crimean Tatar; Sh. Kaibullaev; —; Crimean Tatar topics, Literature, Defense of Rights, Sociopolitical topics; SAMI-NO, GUBO 24; BRE. Emigration to Israel: The Law and Common Practice (Vyezd v Izrail′: pravo i praktika); 1979–80; no. 1–8; Moscow; Russian; M. Berenfelʹd, M. Riabkina, I. Tsitovskii; Moscow Public Humanities and Law Semi­ nar; Jewish topics, Defense of Rights, Sociopolitical topics; SAMI-KR, KARA, EBPE no. 20, 23, KHRO-68 no. 54–56, ALEK 129, ALEX 194, PINK-93 413, KOSH 2:372, SAMI-AL 418, PINK-94 29, KOMA-12 287, 290; HAR. Entropy or Eyelids Rolled Inward (Entropiia ili zavorot vek vnutr′); 1975–; no. 1(?); Moscow; Russian; —; —; Literature; —; HOO. Eos (Eos); 1986; no. 1–2; Leningrad; Russian; K. Boldivskii, G. Brevde; —; Literature; SAMI-LE 465–66, IVAN 330, SAMI-NO; —.

172

APPENDIX

Epsilon-Salon (Epsilon-salon); 1985–89; no. 1–18; Moscow; Russian; N. Baitov, A. Barash;—; Literature; SAMI-NO, INDE 181–241, SUET 1:186, PRAP 150, SAMI-VE 658–61, PROJ; BRE. The Estonian Democrat (Eesti demokraat); 1972–74; no. 1–7; Tallinn; Estonian; A. Iuskevich, M. Kiirend, K. Miattik, S. Soldatov, A. Varato; Estonian Democratic Movement; Estonian topics, Sociopolitical topics; KHRO-68 no. 25, 38, ALEK 63, ALEX 90, VOLN no. 4/1972, CAHI no. 38/1976, SLOW 42, 178, DARS; —. Exodus: Collection of Documents (Iskhod: Sbornik dokumentov); 1970–71; no. 1–4; Moscow; Russian; I. Averbukh, D. Koliadnitskaia, I. Roninson, V. Svechinskii, V. Fedoseev, R. Fedoseeva; —; Jewish topics,

Defense of Rights, National culture; KHRO-68 no. 14–15, 17–18,

20, ALEK 118, ALEX 180, 183, SAMI-KR, KARA, SOBR no. 6, 8,

13-AC420+AC426 +AC600+AC601, EVRE no. 2, PINK-93 412, KOSH

2:353–54, POSE-45 no. 7/1971, HOFF 98, KOMA-12 285–86, 289;

OSA.

Experiments (Opyty); 1984–85; no. 1–5; Leningrad; Russian; V. Maksimov, G. Miropolʹskii; —; Literature; SAMI-LE 437, KONS 47–48; BRE. Extinguished Intention (Umyslopogaslo); 1959; no. 1; Barnaul; Russian; Bazhko, Kuklin, Obraztsov (Students at Barnaul State Pedagogical University); —; Literature; SAVE 34–35, 158; —. Eye (Oko); 1985; no. 1; Moscow; Russian; P. Kolupaev, V. Litovka, A. Zhukov; —; Music; KUSH-94 97–98, SUET 1:196; —. FANK (FANK); 1984–91; no. 1–2; Volgograd; Russian; B. Zavgorodnii; —; Literature; KHAR-FA 43; —.

Fashion Journal (Zhurnal mod); 1972–; no. 1–; Sverdlovsk; Russian;

S. Sigov, A. Tarshis; Uktuss School; Art; SIGE 546, PROJ; BRE. The Feast of Saint George (Iur′ev den′); 1970–; no. 1–; Novosibirsk; Rus­ sian; —; Literary group of Trust Company “Sibelektromontazh”; Literature; SAVE 42, 159; —. Fiakh (Fiiakh); 1986; no. 1(?); Leningrad; Russian; —; —; —; SAMI-NO; —. Fiction (Fiktsiia); 1967–71; no. 1–3; Moscow; Russian; V. Gribkov, Iu. Kosmynin, V. Kotrovskii, V. Lugovskoi, V. Fomin; “Fiction” group; Art; PARA 7–9, METK 15–45; —. The Flow of the River Nemunas (Nemuno vaga); 1985–89; no. 1–10; s.l. (Lithuanian SSR); Lithuanian; R. Pukenis; —; Literature, Lithuanian topics; VASI; (VIL).

APPENDIX

173

Followers of Girshfel′d (Girshfel′dovtsy); 1962; no. 1–4; Krasnoyarsk; Russian; V. Gerasimchuk; —; Literature; SAVE 39–41, 158; —. Forehead (LOB); 1972; no. 1–6; Leningrad; Russian; S. Dediulin, V. Petranovskii; Leningrad Society of Bibliophiles (Leningradskoe obshchestvo bibliofilov = LOB); Literature; SAMI-LE 423, PROJ; BRE. Fraternal Leaf let (Bratskii listok); 1965–2000; no. 1–; s.l. (Russian SFSR); Russian; —; Initiative Group, Organizational Committee for the Convention of the All-Union Congress of the Evangelical Christian-Baptist Church, and the Council of Churches of Evangelical Christian Baptists; Religion/Philosophy, Sociopolitical topics; SOBR no. 14–15, 22, 27–29-AC785+AC790 and others, KHRO-68 no. 16, 34, 44, ALEK 153, 157–58, ALEX 12, 205, 210–11, MATE no. 16/1975, 44/1975, RELI-72 no. 8.13–16, SUMM no. 5/6, SAMI-MA 14, VEST­ 25 no. 99/1971, CATA avril/1975, RELI-73 no. 10.1/1982 and others, BRAT-SO, BRAT-LI, ARKH-IS; BAY, OSA, MEM. Free Thought (Svobodnaia mysl′: Obshchestvenno-politicheskii zhur­ nal); 1971; no. 1; Tallinn; Russian; A. Bolonkin, S. Soldatov; Demo­ cratic Movement of the Soviet Union; Sociopolitical topics; SOBR no. 23, VOLN 7/1973, KHRO-68 no. 29, CAHI no. 5/1973, MATE 45/1972, VEST-SS no. 9/1981, NICH 84; OSA, BRE, UTL, MEM. The Free Word (Svobodnoe slovo); 1956; no. 1; Irkutsk; Russian; L. Borodin (Students of the History Department at Irkutsk University); “Free Word” Group; Literature; SAVE 32–33, 158; —. Freedom and Homeland (Volia i bat′kivshchyna); 1964–66; no. 1–16; Lʹviv, Morshyn; Ukrainian; D. Kvetsko, Z. Krasivsʹkyi; Ukrainian National Front; Ukrainian topics, National culture, Sociopolitical topics, His­ tory, Economy; KHRO-68 no. 17, SLOW 84; —. Fresh Voices (Svezhie golosa); 1956; no. 1; Leningrad; Russian; M. Ger­ chikov, A. Zelinskii, Iu. Masaitis, I. Trubniakov; —; Literature; SAMI­ MA 7, ENDS 27, SAMI-LE 398, 448–49, BRIT-ST 172, LYGO 53; —. From Yellow Silence: Collection of Memoirs and Articles of Political Pris­ oners in Psychiatric Hospitals (Iz zheltogo bezmolviia: Sbornik vospomi­ nanii i statei politzakliuchennykh psikhiatricheskikh bol′nits); 1977–; no. 1–; Moscow; Russian; V. Nekipelov, A. Podrabinek; —; Defense of Rights; —; UTL. The Future (Ateitis); 1979–80; no. 1–2; s.l. (Lithuanian SSR); Lithuanian; —; —; Lithuanian topics, Religion/Philosophy; ALEK 43, ALEX 67, VIOL 32, 34, VASI; —.

174

APPENDIX

The Future of Lithuania (Lietuvos ateitis); 1979–83; no. 1–8; Kaunas, Telsiai; Lithuanian; P. Butkevicius, J. Kauneckas, B. Briliute, S. Kelpsas, A. Patackas; —; Lithuanian topics, National culture, Sociopolitical topics, Religion/Philosophy; KHRO-68 no. 64, RELI-73 no. 14.3/1986, SLOW 55, VASI 147, BURA 45, LAIS-07 22; —. Futureling (Budushchel′); 1970; no. 1–2; Leningrad; Russian; S. Sigov; Society for Velimir Khlebnikov; Literature, Art; KUKU 228, 251, 252, PROJ; BRE. GaB: For Girls and Boys (DiM: Devochkam i mal′chikam); 1986–87; no. 1–5; Leningrad; Russian; Iu. Galetskii, S. Nizovskii, E. Zelinskaia; —; Literature; SAMI-LE 403, KOVA 136, SUET 1:176; SPB, UTL. Gastronomical Saturday (Gastronomicheskaia subbota); 1983–88; no. 1–9; Leningrad; Russian; B. Berkovich, A. Krusanov, P. Krusanov; —; Literature; SAMI-LE 397–98, SUET 1:175; BRE, SPB. Georgia (Sakartvelo); 1982; no. 1; Tbilisi; Georgian; —; —; Georgian top­ ics, History, Sociopolitical topics; ALEK 98, ALEX 119, MATE no. 11/1983-AC4871; OSA. The Georgian Herald (Sakartvelos moambe); 1976; no. 1–2; Tbilisi; Rus­ sian, Georgian; Z. Gamsakhurdia, M. Kostava; —; Georgian topics, Defense of Rights; KHRO-68 no. 45, 50, 61, ALEK 95, ALEX 116, SLOW 75–76; OSA. Glabocit: Glass of Boiled Citrus (Stavartsit: Stakan varenogo tsi­ trusa); 1983–; no. 1–; Moscow; Russian; A. Egorov, A. Karamazov, E. Liamport, M. Romm, S. Sapozhnikov; —; Literature; INDE 127; —. God and Homeland (Dievas ir tėvynė); 1976–82; no. 1–20; Kapsukas; Lith­ uanian; L. Sapoka, A. Ylins; —; Lithuanian topics, National culture, Religion/Philosophy, Defense of Rights, Sociopolitical topics, Litera­ ture; KHRO-68 no. 40, 43, 44, ALEK 43, ALEX 66–67, RELI-73 no. 7/1979, SLOW 41, SSSR 5/1982, VASI, REME-80 121, 131, BOUR-79 251–52; MGV, BAY. The Golden Fleece (Okros sats′misi); 1975–76; no. 1–4; Tbilisi; Georgian; Z. Gamsakhurdia; —; Georgian topics, Sociopolitical topics, Litera­ ture; KHRO-68 no. 38, 42, 45; ALEK 95, ALEX 116, CAHI no. 36/1976, SLOW 65; —. The Grail (Graal′); 1980–84; no. 1–11; Leningrad; Russian; V. Maksimov, D. Marchenko, E. Pusser; —; Literature; SAMI-LE 401, KONS 47; BRE.

The Great Ring (Velikoe kol′tso); 1983; no. 1; Sengiley; Russian;

A. Kokliukhin; Club of Lovers of Fantasy Literature “Zodiac”; litera­ ture; KHAR-FA 5; —.

APPENDIX

175

Hang-Out (Tusovka); 1986–91; no. 1–9/10; Novosibirsk; Russian; A. Belikov, S. Bortnitskii, B. Komarov, S. Korotaev, V. Lysenko, V. Murzin, et al.; Novosibirsk Rock Club; KUSH-94 150–55, KUSH-9, SAVE 153, 159; AAK. Hebrew/Our Hebrew (Ivrit/Nash Ivrit); 1978–80; no. 1–4; Moscow; Rus­ sian; D. Zisserman, P. Abramovich, V. Fulʹmakht; —; Jewish topics, National culture; SAMI-KR, KARA, EVRE no. 17, 22, 25, PINK-93 413, KOSH 2:379, PINK-94 29, CHLE 84, 86–87, KOMA-12 286, 290–91; MEM, HAR, VAA, SPB. Helios (Gelios); 1985–; no. 1–; Tbilisi; Russian; A. Balabuev, V. Golubev, I. Vakhtangishvili; Club of Lovers of Fantasy Literature “Helios”; lit­ erature; KHAR-FA 17; —. Hello (Allo); 1974–75; no. 1–4; Rostov-on-Don; Russian; I. Vaganov; —; Music; KUSH-94 164; —. Herald of the Association for Experimental Fine Arts (Vestnik Tova­ rishchestvo eksperimental′nogo izobrazitel′nogo iskusstva); 1984–86; no. 1–; Leningrad; Russian; S. Kovalʹskii, Iu. Rybakov; Association for Experimental Fine Arts (AEFA [TEII]); Art; SAMI-MA, SAMI-LE 213, 291, KALI, KOVA-14, PROJ; BRE. The Herald of Exodus (Vestnik iskhoda); 1971–72; no. 1–3; Moscow; Russian; I. Breitbart, V. Meniker, B. Orlov; —; Jewish topics, Defense of Rights, Sociopolitical topics; KHRO-68 no. 20, 23, 24, ALEK 118, ALEX 183, SAMI-KR, KARA, EVRE no. 3, SOBR no. 13, 22, 25-AC1085+AC1390+AC1391, PINK-93 413, KOSH 2:360, LAZA 97, PINK-94 29, HOFF 98, KOMA-12 285–86; OSA, HAR. The Herald of Freedom (Laisvės šauklys); 1976–88; no. 1–7; Vilnius; Lithu­ anian; K. Jokubynas, J. Sasnauskas, S. Stungurys, A. Terlackas; —; Lithuanian topics, National culture, Religion/Philosophy; KHRO-68 no. 44–45, 48–49, 58, ALEK 43, ALEX 66, SLOW 54, BOUR-79 251–52, VASI, REME-80 160–61, BURA, VIOL 34, LAIS-02; MGV, KAU. Herald of the Human Rights Movement (Vestnik pravozashchitnogo dvizhe­ niia); 1983; no. 1; Moscow; Russian; E. Sannikova; —; Defense of Rights; ALEX 373–74, CAHI no. 103/1984, MATE no. 17/1984; BRE, MEM. Herald of Salvation (Vestnik spaseniia); 1963–75; no. 1–; Lenin­ grad; Russian; G. Kriuchkov; Council of Churches of Evangelical Christian-Baptists; Religion/Philosophy; SOBR no. 7, 14–15, 19, 22-AC783+AC786+ and more, KHRO-68 no. 35, 43–44, ALEK 157, ALEX 210, MATE no. 16/1972, SUMM no. 5–6, SAMI-MA 14, ARKH­ IS, MEZH; BAY, OSA.

176

APPENDIX

Herald of Truth (Vestnik istiny); 1976–2012; no. 1–; Leningrad; Russian; G. Kriuchkov; Council of Churches of Evangelical Christian-Baptists; Religion/Philosophy; KHRO-68 no. 43, 45, 49, ALEK 157–58, ALEX 210–11, RELI-73 no. 10.1/1982:75, 10.2/1982:198, 11.3/1983:328, 12.2/1984:190, 12.3/1984:323, SUMM no. 5/6, SAMI-MA 14, VEST­ IS, SUET 1:164, ARKH-IS, MEZH; BAY, OSA, MEM. Heresy (Eres′); 1956; no. 1–2; Leningrad; Russian; I. Adamatskii, B. Vailʹ; —; Literature; SAMI-MA 8, 34–36, PIME 228–30, SAMI-LE 403, VAIL 129–31, 138, SUET 1:18, LYGO 53; —. Hey (Au); 1979–80; no. 1–3; Kaunas; Russian; A. Abrauskas, A. Trubitsyn; —; Music; KUSH-94 43–44; —. Hope (Viltis); 1983–86; no. 1–6; s.l. (Lithuanian SSR); Lithuanian; —; —; Religion/Philosophy; VASI 147; (VIL). Hope: Christian Reading (Nadezhda: Khristianskoe chtenie); 1977–82; no. 1–10; Moscow; Russian; Z. Krakhmalʹnikova; —; Religion/ Philosophy; KHRO-68 no. 65, ALEK 200, ALEX 260–61, VOLN no. 44/1981, RELI-73 no. 11.1–2/1983, 13.2/1985, VEST-25 no. 137/1982, VEST-SS no. 14–15/1982, NADE, CRYS, GORI, KORN 55, MART 100; HOO. Hotcake (Blin); 1986; no. 1–2; Novosibirsk; Russian; A. Senin; —; Music; KUSH-94 150, SAVE 152, 159, SUET 1:189; —. Hotel: Non-Literary-Artistic Edition of Petersburg Idiots [NOLAREPI] (Gostinitsa: ALiteraturnoe KHudozhestvennoe Izdanie Peterburgskikh Idiotov [ALKHIPI]); 1983; no. 1–5; Leningrad; Russian; Iu. Galetskii; —; Literature (Supplement to Silence, see title below); SAMI-LE 400–401; —. ID (ID); 1984–85; no. 1–6; Novosibirsk; Russian; A. Belikov, V. Lysenko; —; Music; KUSH-94 149, SAVE 148–50, 159, SUET 1:192; —. Idiot (Idiot); 1983–2013; no. 1–44; Moscow, Vitebsk, Samara; Russian; V. Novikov; —; Literature, Sociopolitical topics, Belarusian topics; DEMA 149, PAZA 30, IDIO; —. In Defense of Economic Freedoms (V zaschchitu ekonomicheskikh svo­ bod); 1978–80; no. 1–11; Moscow; Russian; V. Sokirko, V. Grin, I. Nikoforov; —; Economy, Sociopolitical topics; SAMI-BU no. 94/1981, KHRO-68 no. 49, 52, 54, 56, 58, 60, ALEK 345, 348, ALEX 354, 409, MATE no. 4/1984-AC5148, SUMM no. 3, VEST-SS no. 3/1980, SSSR no. 2/1981, SAMI-AL 428; BRE, UTL, MEM. In Our Cups (Za bottl′om); 1976–78; no. 1–4; Moscow; Russian; V. Bessonov; Sexual-Democratic Alcoholic Party (SDAP); Sociopoliti­ cal topics; BESS 25, 668; —.

APPENDIX

177

In the Dust of Stars (V pyli zvezd); 1984; no. 1–3; Zheleznodorozhnyy (Moscow oblastʹ); Russian; E. Kharitonov, Iu. Poliakov, Iu. Metlov; Club of Lovers of Fantasy Literature “Mysterium”; literature; KHAR­ FA 5; —. In the Light of the Transfiguration: Weekly Russian Orthodox Newspaper (V svete preobrazheniia: Ezhenedel′naia pravoslavnaia gazeta);  1978–81; no. 1–83; Grebnevo; Russian; D. Dudko; —; Religion/ Philosophy; SAMI-BU no. 71, ALEK 194, ALEX 252, VEST-25 no. 127, 129–130, RUSS-47 10.01/1980, 14.02/1980, 21.02/1980, 29.02/1980, 13.03/1980, 20.03/1980, NOVO 05.02/1980, SAMI-AL 389, ELLI 411, 423, POSP-84 438, POSP-95 361; HOO, BAY, BRE. In the Name of the Homeland (Anun aireniki); 1966–68, 1975–82 (?);  no. 1–; Yerevan; Armenian; A. Antonian, O. Vasiljan; National Unifi­ cation Party (NUP); Armenian topics, Sociopolitical topics; ALEK 74, ALEX 124, CAHI no. 49, SLOW 47, ZISS 120–22, MATE no. 4/78-AC3119; —. The Independent: Herald of the Ukrainian National-Democratic Union (Samostiinik: Visnik ukrains′koho natsional′no-demokratichnoho soiuzu); 1985–; no. 1–; s.l. (Ukrainian SSR); Ukrainian; —; Ukrainian National-Democratic Union; Sociopolitical topics, Ukrainian topics; YASI; —. Information (Informacija); 1975–; no. 1–21–; Vilnius; Lithuanian; —; National People’s Front of Lithuania; Sociopolitical topics, Lithuanian topics; DRAU no. 70.43; OSA. Information (Informatsiia); 1956–57; no. 1–6; Leningrad; Russian; B. Vailʹ, I. Verblovskaia, R. Pimenov; —; Sociopolitical topics, Econ­ omy; SAMI-MA 8, 33, PIME, SUET 1:18, BIOG 432, VAIL 159–60, TROM 173; —. Information/Mournful Information (Informatsiia/Traurnaia informat­ siia); 1965–85; no. 1–; Moscow, Tashkent, Samarqand; Russian; E. Abliazizov, R. Dzhemilev; Crimean Tatar Initiative Groups; Crimean Tatar Topics, National culture, Defense of Rights; SOBR no. 4–6, 9, 12-AC307+AC308 and others, KHRO-68 no. 8, 18, 31, 34, 52, 61, ALEK 109–10, 117, ALEX 12, 147, BEKI-IN 275–79, GUBO 18, 23, BEKI-04, CAHI no. 6/1973, 36/1976, MATE no. 45/1974, 32/1977, 31/1984, SLOW 48, POSE-45 no. 4/1969, NOVY no. 97/1969, NOVO no. 28.03/1969, SAMI-AL 417, KOWA 5; BRE, OSA, MEM, MAU. Information Bulletin (Informatsiinyi biuleten′); 1978–80; no. 1–5; Kiev; Russian, Ukrainian; O. Berdnyk, P. Grigorenko, V. Kalynychenko, I. Kandyba, L. Lukʹianenko, M. Marynovych, M. Matusevych,

178

APPENDIX

O. Meshko, M. Rudenko, V. Sychko, V. Strylʹtsyv, N. Strokata, O. Tykhyi, P. Vins; Ukrainian Public Group to Promote the Imple­ mentation of the Helsinki Accords; Defense of Rights, Ukrainian topics; SOBR no. 30-AC3195, KHRO-68 no. 48, MATE no. 14/1978, 35/1980-AC4087, 39/1978-AC3387, INFO-BI, INFO-78, UKRA-83, HUMA, INFO-BU, UKRA-01; OSA, MAU. Information Bulletin (Informatsionnyi biulleten′); 1977–78–; no. 1–3–; s.l.; Russian; —; The Council of Churches of Christian-Pentecostals Wishing to Leave the USSR; Defense of Rights, Religion/Philosophy; MATE no. 37/1978-AC3375, VEST-SS no. 19/1981, ALEK 167, ALEX 221; BAY. Information Bulletin (Informatsionnyi biulleten′); 1977–80; no. 1–24; Moscow; Russian; V. Bakhmin, I. Kaplun, A. Podrabinek, F. Serebrov, L. Ternovskii; Working Commission to Investigate the Use of Psy­ chiatry for Political Purposes; Defense of Rights; KHRO-68 no. 44, 47–58, 60, 63, ALEK 284, ALEX 352, CAHI no. 51/1978, SOBR no. 30, MATE no. 28/1977, 1/1978, 13/1978, 18/1978, 24/1978, 27/1978, 30/1978, 31/1978, 33/1978, 35/1978, 40/1978, 2/1979, 7/1979, 12/1979, 22/1979, 36/1979, 3/1980, 18/1980, 21/1980, 44/1980, 8/1981-AC3045+AC3328+ and more, SUMM no. 3, SLOW 51, VOLN no. 31–32/1978, VEST-SS no. 18/1980, 1/1981, SBOR no. 4, VANV 45; OSA, BRE, MEM. Information Bulletin (Informatsionnyi biulleten′); 1978–92; no. 1–6, 10–100(?); Moscow, Leningrad; Russian; V. Dolinin, R. Evdokimov, I. Gelʹtser, A. Iakoreva, B. Kanevskii, I. Kaplun, H. Lesnichenko, N. Nikitin, V. Senderov, L. Volokhonskii; Free Interprofessional Association of Workers (SMOT); Economy, Sociopolitical topics; KHRO-68 no. 53, 61–65, ALEK 284, 346–47, ALEX 352, 375, 410–11, SAMI-BU no. 94/1981, VOLN no. 34/1979, CAHI no. 56/1978, 59/1979, MATE no. 27/1979, 17/1981, 27/1981, 2/1982, 7/1982, 15–17/1982, 30/1982, 33/1982, 37/1982, 39/1982, 3/1983, 5/1983, 9/1983, 41/1983, 2/1984-AC3669+AC4293+ and more, SUMM no. 2, SAMI-MA 15, 100–108, SLOW 85, VEST-SS no. 14–15/1982, SAMI-LE 187–88, SUET 1:43, IVAN 122–23; MEM, UTL, HOO. Information Bulletin (Informatsionnyi biulleten′); 1979–; no. 1–2; Mos­ cow; Russian; V. Kuvakin; Initiative Committee for the Struggle for the Right to Free Emigration from the USSR; Defense of Rights; KHRO-68 no. 53–54, MATE no. 7/198; OSA. Information Bulletin (Informatsionnyi biulleten′); 1979–80; no. 1–2; Mos­ cow; Russian; L. Bogoraz, E. Bonner, S. Kallistratova, L. Kopelev,

APPENDIX

179

A. Lavut, L. Ternovskii; Committee for the Defense of Tatʹiana Velikanova; Defense of Rights; KHRO-68 no. 55, MATE no. 8/1980, 24/1980-AC3873+AC4001, VOLN no. 38/1980; OSA, BRE. Information Bulletin (Informatsionnyi biulleten′); 1983; no. 1–4; Simfero­ pol, Tashkent; Russian; —; Musa Mamut Initiative Group of Crimean Tatars; Crimean Tatar topics, National culture, Defense of Rights; MATE, GUBO, SAMI-AL; OSA. Information for Friends (Informatsiia dlia druzei); 1970; no. 1; Obninsk, Kaluga, Moscow; Russian; R. Medvedev; —; Defense of Rights; SOBR no. 9-AC658; —. Information Leaf let (Informatsionnyi listok); 1979; no. 1; s.l. (Rus­ sian SFSR); Russian; —; Srednevolzhskaia Group for the Defense of Human Rights; Defense of Rights; KHRO-68 no. 62, ALEK 294, ALEX 365; —. Information Leaf let of the Persecuted Barnaul Church of Evangelical Christian-Baptists (Informatsionnyi listok barnaul′skoi gonimoi tserkvi evangel′skikh khristian-baptistov); 1971; no. 1–2; Barnaul; Russian; —; Church of Evangelical Christian-Baptists; Defense of Rights, Reli­ gion/Philosophy; SOBR no. 15, 21, MATE no. 6/1972, SAVE 159; BAY, OSA. Information Pages (Listy informatsii); 1980; no. 1; Moscow; Russian; V. Barats; —; Defense of Rights; KHRO-68 no. 60, ALEX 349–50,

MATE no. 15/1981-AC4274, VEST-SS no. 8/1982, 16/1982; OSA.

Informational Bulletin of the CLF “Helios” (Informatsionnyi biulleten′ KLF “Gelios”); 1985–87; no. 1–; Tbilisi, Kiev; Russian; I. Vakhtang­ ishvili; Iu. Kovalev; Club of Lovers of Fantasy Literature “Helios”; Literature; KHAR-FA 24; —. InformBulletin of the IA “Helios” and the CLF “Tree of Desires” (Inform­ biulleten′ IA “Gelios” i KLF “Drevo zhelanii”); 1985–91; no. 1–50–; Tbilisi; Russian; M. Abramian; Informational Agency “Helios” and the Club of Lovers of Fantasy “Tree of Desires”; Literature; KHAR­ FA 24; —. International Amnesty (Mezhdunarodnaia amnistiia); 1973; no. 1–4; Mos­ cow; Russian; V. Arkhangelʹskii, A. Tverdokhlebov; —; Defense of Rights; KHRO-68 no. 30, ALEK 264, ALEX 330, SLOW 77, SAMI-KR; OSA, MEM. Irtysh Waves (Irtyshskie volny); 1957–; no. 1; Omsk; Russian; —; —; Lit­ erature; SAVE 158; —. Jewish Annual (Evreisiki ezhegodnik); 1986–88; no. 1–3; Moscow; Rus­ sian; V. Geizelʹ, G. Levitskii, V. Mushinskii; —; Jewish topics, National

180

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culture; SAMI-KR, KARA, KOSH 2:375–76, PINK-94 31, SUET 1:223, KOMA-12 287, 291; VAA. Jewish Thought (Evreiskaia mysl′); 1978; no. 1; Riga; Russian; V. Galʹperin, A. Tsinober; —; Jewish topics, National culture, Reli­ gion/Philosophy; SAMI-KR, KARA, PINK-93 413, PINK-94 29, KOMA-12 289, 290; —. Jews in the Contemporary World (Evrei v sovremennom mire); 1978–81; no. 1–6; Moscow; Russian; E. Likhterov, V. Fulʹmakht; —; Jewish top­ ics, National culture; SAMI-KR, KARA, EVRE no. 24, 25, PINK-93 413, KOSH 2:366, PINK-94 29, KOMA-12 286, 290–91; HAR, MEM, VAA. Jews in the USSR (Evrei v SSSR); 1972–79; no. 1–21; Moscow; Russian; A. Voronelʹ and M. Agurskii, I. Brailovskaia, V. Brailovskii, F. Dektor, E. Finkelʹshtein, M. Giterman, Iu. Golʹfand, V. Iakhot, V. Lazaris, A. Lunts, R. Nudelʹman, B. Orlov, B. Palatnik, I. Rubin, E. Sotnikova, N. Voronelʹ; Jewish topics, National culture, Sociopolitical topics, His­ tory; ALEK 127, 135–36, ALEX 184, 189–91, SAMI-KR, KARA, EVRE no. 4, 6, 7, 10–13, 16, 21, KHRO-68 no. 30, 32, 34, 36–38, 52, 56, 60, 64, RELI-73 no. 5.2/1977, 10.2/1982, SUMM no. 1–3, 5–6, PINK-93, ANTO-SA 2:454, SLOW 49, KOSH 2:354–60, LAZA 99–109, PINK-94 29, HOFF 102–108, KOMA-12 281, 286, 289, 290; UTL, SPB, MEM. Jews in the USSR: Special Issues (Evrei v SSSR: Spetsial′nye vypuski); 1975; no. 1; Riga; Russian; V. Buiko;—; Defense of Rights, Jewish topics, National culture; KARA, EVRE no. 11, KHRO-68 no. 35, LAZA 102, 107, KOMA-12 286, 294; OSA. Juventus Academica (Juventus academica); 1985; no. 2; s.l. (Lithuanian SSR); Lithuanian; —; —; Sociopolitical topics, Lithuanian topics; SAMI-BU no. 152/1985, SAMI-ST no. 22/1987; —. The Knight (Vytis); 1979–80; no. 1–6; s.l. (Lithuanian SSR); Lithuanian; Z. Baranauskaite, A. Belickas, V. Bogusis, R. Grigar, E. Krukovskis, V. Sakalys, E. Sasnauskaite, J. Sasnauskas, A. Terlackas, E. Terleck­ iene; League for the Freedom of Lithuania; Lithuanian topics, Defense of Rights, Sociopolitical topics; SLOW 83, VEST-SS no. 12/1981, KHRO-68 no. 52–54, 58, 61, ALEK 43, 57, ALEX 66, 84, VASI, BURA, VIOL 35, VYTI; MGV, KAU. Lamp (Fonar′); 1962(?); no. 1; Moscow; Russian; M. Kaplan, V. Kononenko (Participants in Maiakovskii Square gatherings); —; Lit­ erature, Art; SAMI-VO2 47, POLI-97 310, 341, 364, 375, 385; —. Lamp of Days (Liustra dzen); 1979–80; no. 1–4; Minsk; Belarusian; V. Viachorka, S. Dubauts, S. Sokalau; Belorussian Tolerance Group; Sociopolitical topics, Belarusian topics; DEMA 149, PAZA 30–31; —.

APPENDIX

181

The Lamp of Diogenes (Fonar′ Diogena); 1985–; no. 1–; Moscow; Russian; —; —; Literature; SAMI-NO; —. Law and Reality (Din u-metsiut. Zakon i deistvitel′nost′); 1979–80; no. 1–6; Riga; Russian; Ia. Arʹev, A. Marʹiasin, G. Shadur, V. Sulimov; —; Defense of Rights; Jewish topics; SAMI-KR, KARA 24, EVRE no. 24, 25, PINK-93 413, KOSH 2:367, KOMA-12 287, 290, 294; HAR. Leaf let (Listok); 1978–79; no. 1–12; Leningrad; Russian; S. Sigov; —; Art, Literature; KUKU 228, PROJ; BRE. Left Turn (Levyi povorot); 1979–81; no. 1–; Moscow; Russian; V. Cher­ netskii, A. Fadin, B. Kagarlitskii, Iu. Khavkin, M. Rivkin, A. Shilkov; Moscow-Petrozavodsk Neo-Marxist Group; Sociopolitical topics; SAMI-KR, SAMI-BU no. 131/1984, ALEK 308, ALEX 424–25, CAHI no. 77/1981 89/1982, VEST-SS no. 9/1981, 17/1982, 20–21/1982, KHRO-68 no. 62, 64, 65, SAMI-AL 428, SUET 1:19; BRE. Leningrad Jewish Almanac (LEA: Leningradskii evreiskii al′manakh); 1982–89; no. 1–; Leningrad; Russian; M. Beizer, V. Birkan, E. Erlikh, S. Frumkin, Ia. Gorodetskii, B. Kelʹman, Iu. Kolker, A. Taratuta, G. Vasserman, R. Zapesotskaia; —; Jewish topics, National culture; SAMI-KR, KARA, EVRE no. 26, 27, MATE 28/1984, PINK-93 413, KOSH 2:373–75, BEIZ-05, SAMI-LE 417–18, SAMI-AL 417, PINK-94 31, SUET 1:225, BEIZ-89, ASSO, BEIZ-12 379, KOMA­ 12 287, 310; BRE, HAR, HAI. Life (Khaiim); 1979–86; no. 1–11; Riga; Russian; L. Fabrikant, R. Koblents, E. Levich, S. Shvartsband, K. Solovei; —; Jewish top­ ics, Sociopolitical topics, Literature; SAMI-KR, KARA, EVRE no. 25, SUMM no. 5–6, KOSH 2:365, KHRO-68 361, PINK-94 29, KOMA-12 287, 290;—. Literary Almanac (Literaturnyi al′manakh); 1961–62; no. 1–2; Moscow; Russian; V. Muravʹev, G. Nedgar; —; Literature; POLI-97 382, PROJ; BRE. Literary Notebooks (Literaturnye tetradi); 1981–82; no. 1–; Irkutsk; Rus­ sian; I. Arefʹev, B. Chernykh; Vampilov Book Collective; Literature; SAVE 50–52, 158; —. Literary Pages (Literaturnye stranitsy); 1968; no. 1; Moscow; Russian; A. Monastyrskii, S. Veshnevskii, L. Rubinshtein, V. Shevchuk, M. Delʹskii; —; Literature; —; MEM. Lithuanian Archive (Lietuvių archyvas); 1976–; no. 1(6); Vilnius; Lithu­ anian; B. Miksys, V. Skuodis; —; Lithuanian topics, National culture, History; KHRO-68 no. 55–56, 60, ALEK 43, ALEX 13, 67, SLOW 55, VEST-SS no. 7/1981, SSSR no. 3/1981, 5/1982, BURA 45; MGV.

182

APPENDIX

The Living Church (Gyvoji bažnyčia); 1983; no. 1–4; s.l. (Lithuanian SSR); Lithuanian; —; —; Religion/Philosophy, Lithuanian topics; VASI; (VIL). Llor-n-Kor (Llor-n-kor); 1986–98; no. 1–31; Velikiye Luki; Russian; G. Moiseenko, E. Moiseenko, N. Moiseenko, A. Sidorov; —; Music; KUSH-94 25, SUET 1:194; —. MANA: The Moscow Archive of New Art (MANI: Moskovskii arkhiv novogo iskusstva); 1981–82; no. 1–4; Moscow; Russian; A. Monastyrskii and N. Abalakova, E. Elagina, G. Kizevalʹter, I. Makarevich, N. Panitkov, L. Rubinstein, V. Skersis, V. Zakharov, A. Zhigalov; —; Art, Litera­ ture; SAMI-AL 450–51, KALI 120, ZAKH-94, KRIV 354, PARI 168–69, ZAKH-16 173–74; PRAP 105–108; BRE, ZIM. MANA: Moscow Archive of New Art—Collections (MANI: Moskovskii arkhiv novogo iskusstva—sborniki); 1986–91; no. 1–6; Moscow; Russian; I. Bakshtein, Iu. Leiderman, A. Monastyrskii, S. Hansgen (Khensgen); —; Art, Literature; KALI 120, MONA-94 123; —. Many Years (Mnogaia leta); 1980–82; no. 1–5; Moscow; Russian; G. Shimanov; —; National culture, Religion/Philosophy, Sociopoliti­ cal topics; ALEK 309, ALEX 445, RELI-73 no. 11.2/1983, VEST-25 no. 134/1981, SSSR no. 3/1981, MITR 430–88, SUET 1:20; BAY, MEM. Maria (Mariia); 1980–82; no. 1–6; Leningrad; Russian; T. Beliaeva, G. Grigorʹeva, T. Goricheva, N. Lazareva, N. Malakhovskaia, A. Malonga, E. Shanygina, Iu. Voznesenskaia; Club “Maria”; Defense of Rights, Religion/Philosophy; KHRO-68 no. 56, ALEK 307, 310, ALEX 376, 385, RELI-73 no. 11.2/1983, SAMI-MA 120–23, VEST-SS no. 5/1980, no. 10/1980, and more, SSSR no. 5/1982, SAMI-LE 425–26, VOZN-IO, MARI-ZH, MARI-JO, VOZN-IU, MALA, ELLI 398, IVAN 31, 46, MART 98; —. Maia (Maiia); 1980–90; no. 1–6; Pskov, Leningrad, Frunze; Russian; M. Andreev, A. Nesterov, E. Shesholin; —; Literature; KHRO-68 no. 64, SAMI-LE 424, ANTO-NO vol.3A, CAHI no. 105/1984, ANDR, SUET 1:179–80; UTL. Meeting (Vstrecha); 1985–; no. 1–; Moscow; Russian; —; —; Literature; SAMI-NO; —. Memorandum (Memorandum); 1976–77; no. 1–18; s.l. (Ukrainian SSR); Russian; —; Ukrainian Helsinki Group; Defense of Rights, Sociopolitical topics, Ukrainian topics; KHRO-68 no. 45, 46, 48, 49, 50, 51, 56, 60, SBOR no. 3, 5, KHRO-ZA no. 25, 29, DOKU-06; —.

APPENDIX

183

Memory: Historical Collection (Pamiat′: Istoricheskii sbornik); 1976–81; no. 1–5; Leningrad, Moscow; Russian; S. Dediulin, A. Dobkin, F. Perchenok, A. Roginskii, V. Sazhin; —; History, Sociopolitical topics; KHRO-68 no. 42, 49, 51, 53, 57, 63, ALEK 284–85, 290, 348, ALEX 353, 360, 375, SUMM No 2, 3, ANTO-SA 3:271–72, ISTO, SLOW 67, VEST-SS no. 15/1981, 22/1981, POIS no. 1/1979, RUSS-47 14.04.1977, 05.07.1979, 24.12.1981, SAMI-LE 440–41, PAMI-78, PAMI-79, PAMI-82, SUET 1:19; MEM, UTL. Metrodorus (Metrodor); 1978–82; no. 1–10; Leningrad; Russian; P. Diatrop­ tov, D. Panchenko, S. Takhtadzhian; —; Literature; ALEK 310, ALEX 376, SAMI-MA 16, 90–93, SAMI-LE 428, KONS 47, SAMI-AL 437; BRE. Minstrel (Menestrel′); 1979–84; no. 1–23/24; Moscow; Russian; A. Krylov, B. Zhukov; —; Music; KARI 176–78, OPYT; BRE. Mirror (Zerkalo); 1976–77; no. 1–4; Moscow; Russian; O. Vakulovskii, D. Vrubelʹ, A. Suetnov; —; Literature, Sociopolitical topics; SUET 1:72; —. Mirror (Zerkalo); 1981; no. 1–4; Moscow; Russian; S. Voronin, E. Kornilov, I. Krichevskii, V. Litovka, E. Matusov, I. Smirnov, A. Suetnov, A. Troitskii, A. Filin; —; Music; ALEX 394, VEST-SS no. 19/1982, 19–35, SSSR no. 5/1982, KUSH-94 79–83, SAMI-AL 440, SUET 1:192; AAK, BRE. Mitya’s Journal (Mitin zhurnal); 1985–2001; no. 1–59; Leningrad; Rus­ sian; D. Volchek, O. Abramovich; —; Literature; SAMI-NO, SAMI­ LE 429, KOVA136, INDE 73–75, MITI, KONS 45–47, SAMI-AL 438, SUET 1:180–81, SAVI 191, 202–203, KRIV 353, KOMA-13, IVAN 322, 330; SPB, BRL. Mongoose (Mangust); 1986–89; no. 1–; Novosibirsk; Russian; S. Kuzʹmin; —; Sociopolitical topics; SAVE 95–96, 159; —. Morel (Smorchok); 1985–87; no. 1–22; Moscow; Russian; A. Borisov, R. Dianov, N. Dmitriev, S. Letov, A. Sokolovskii, A Solovʹev, S. Zharikov; —; Music; SAMI-NO, KUSH-94 98–101, SUET 1:201; AAK. Moscow Journal (Moskovskii zhurnal); 1984–85; no. 1–2; Moscow; Rus­ sian; E. Matusov; —; Music; KUSH-94 97; —. Moscow Miscellany (Moskovskii sbornik); 1974–75; no. 1–2; Moscow; Rus­ sian; L. Borodin; —; National culture, Religion/Philosophy, Sociopolitical topics; KHRO-68 no. 64, ALEK 362, 366, ALEX 441, 445, ANTO-SA 3:273, POSE-45 no. 5/1975, SSSR no. 3/1981:354, GRAN no. 121/1984, MITR 430–88, DUNL 212–13, SAMI-AL 417, SUET 1:19, ELLI 339; BAY, MEM.

184

APPENDIX

Mysticism (Mistyka); 1982–83; no. 1–4; Grodno; Belarusian, Polish,

Russian; V. Varanets, Iu. Kamiagin (Students at the University of

Grodno); —; Belarusian topics; DEMA 150, PAZA 25; —.

Neck (Sheia); 1964; no. 1–2; Moscow; Russian; N. Bokov; —; Literature; SAMI-VO2 47; —. The New Moscow Almanac (Novyi moskovskii al′manakh); 1986–89; no. 1–4; Moscow; Russian; I. Bubnov; —; Literature; BESS 697; —. Newspaper (Iton); 1970; no. 1–2; Riga; Russian; I. Mendelevich, V. Boguslavskii, M. Gelʹfond, L. Korenblit, K. Malkin, B. Maftser; All-Union Coordinating Committee (VKK); History, Jewish topics, National culture, Sociopolitical topics; SAMI-KR, KARA, EVRE no. 1, KOSH 2:353, KHRO-73 no. 17, 20, PINK-94 29, MEND, BIOG 344, HOFF 96, KOMA-12 275, 276, 286; MEM. The Northern Mail: Journal of Poetry and Criticism (Severnaia pochta:

Zhurnal stikhov i kritiki); 1979–81; no. 1–8; Leningrad; Russian;

S. Dediulin, V. Krivulin; —; Literature; ALEK 310, ALEX 376, SUMM no. 4, SAMI-MA, KHRO-68 no. 56, SAMI-LE 449–50, BIBL vol.2, KONS 39, SAMI-AL 439, KONT no. 30/1981, SAVI 191, KRIV 353, SABB 220–25, 438–43, PROJ, IVAN 28, 35, VONZ-17; BRE. The Northern Murinsk Bee (Severnomurinskaia pchela); 1975–77; no. 1–7; Leningrad; Russian; V. Ballaev, N. Maslova; —; Literature; SAMI-LE 450; —. Notebook of Social Democracy (Tetrad′ sotsialisticheskoi demokratii); 1965; no. 1–8; Moscow; Russian; S. Kolosov, E. Kushev; —; Sociopolitical topics; SAMI-VO2 35, RUSS-47 no. 3088/1976, POLI-97 377, NICH 74; HOO. Number (Nomer); 1965–74; no. 1–35; Rostov, Sverdlovsk; Russian; S. Sigov, A. Tarshis; Uktuss School; Art, Literature; ANTO-NO 5B:546–61, KUKU 225–59, WIEN no. 19/1978, KOHC 43–45, SAMI-00 451, PROJ; BRE. Obvodnyi Canal: Literary-Critical Journal (Obvodnyi kanal: Literaturno­ kriticheskii zhurnal); 1981–93; no. 1–; Leningrad; Russian; K. Butyrin, B. Rokhlin, S. Stratanovskii;—; Literature; SAMI-MA 125, SAMI-LE 320, 402, 435, KOVA-06 136, KONS 41–42, SAMI-AL 438, SUET 1:19, 181, SAVI 191, KRIV 353, SABB 226–34, 444–50, PROJ, IVAN 104, 330, 422, VONZ-17; BRL, MEM, BRE, SPB. Old Believer [Supplement to “Almanac”] (Starover [Prilozhenie k

“Al′manakhu”]); 1966; no. 1–5; Leningrad; Russian; V. Sazhin,

N. Sherman; —; Literature, History; SAMI-MA 10, 71, SAMI-LE 391, 452–53; —.

APPENDIX

185

ON ROCK (PRO ROK); 1986–88; no. 1–8; Tallinn; Russian; E. Komarova, A. Kuznetsov, A. Madison, N. Meinert, V. Nikolaev, M. Shliamovich, P. Tseluiko, O. Vlasova; Rock Club “Peak”; Music; SAMI-NO,

KUSH-94 180–82, SUET 1:198; GWU.

On the Situation of Lithuanians in the Belorussian Republic (Apie lietuvių padėtį Baltarusijos Respublikoje); 1972–78; no. 1–2; s.l. (Lithuanian SSR); Lithuanian; A. Patackas; —; Lithuanian topics, National culture, Sociopolitical topics; LIET-53 37:352; —. One Step Forward, Two Steps Back (Shag vpered, dva shaga nazad); 1957; no. 1–; Kemerovo; Russian; G. Bondarenko, I. Felʹdman, R. Kalu­ gina, N. Khoven, M. Murzaeva, M. Orlova, G. Slabysheva (Students f rom the Department of Historical Philology at Kemerovo Peda­ gogical Institute); —; Literature, Sociopolitical topics; SAVE 33–34, 159; —. Oprichnina-77 (Oprichnina-77); 1977; no. 1–4; s.l. (Russian SFSR); Rus­ sian; T. Khodorovich, V. Nekipelov, T. Osipova; —; Defense of Rights, Religion/Philosophy; KHRO-68 no. 48–49, 51, 53, 57, 62, MATE no. 16/1977, NEKI 196–209, 210–20, 276; —. Optima: Literary Manuscript Journal (Optima: Literaturnyi rukopisnyi zhurnal); 1960–62; no. 1–5; Leningrad; Russian; K. Gorev, L. Mikhailov, E. Shneiderman; —; Literature; SAMI-MA 9, 50–51, SAMI-LE 437, LYGO 65, PROJ; BRE. Options (Varianty); 1980–81; no. 1–4; Moscow; Russian; V. Chernetskii, A Fadin, B. Kagarlitskii, Iu. Khavkin, P. Kudiukin, M. Rivkin; Moscow-Petrozavodsk Neo-Marxist Group; Sociopolitical topics; SAMI-KR, KHRO-68 no. 62, 64, 65 ALEK 308, ALEX 424–26, CAHI no. 77/1981, 89/1982, SLOW 445, VEST-SS no. 9/1981, 10/1982, 17/1982, SUET 1:19–20; —. Organ of the BVSCA (Organ BEKO); 1982–83; no. 1–4; Riga; Russian; A. Kastonenko; Bolderai Variety Show and Concert Association; Music; KUSH-94 162, KUSH-91, SUET 1:196; —. Our Heritage: A Collection of Materials about Jewish Culture (Nashe nasledie: Sbornik materialov po evreiskoi kul′ture); 1982; no. 1; Mos­ cow; Russian; I. Begun; —; Jewish topics, National culture, History, Religion/Philosophy, Literature; PINK-94 29–30, SAMI-KR, KOSH 2:372–73, KOMA-12 287, 291; VAA. The Path of the Nation (Tautos kelias); 1980–81; no. 1–3; s.l. (Lithuanian SSR); Lithuanian; —; —; Lithuanian topics, National culture, Sociopolitical topics; ALEK 43, ALEX 67, POSE-45 no. 7/1981, SSSR no. 5/1982, VASI, VIOL 15, 35, TAUT; —.

186

APPENDIX

Perspectives (Perspektivy); 1978; no. 1–2; Leningrad; Russian; A. Khavin, A. Reznikov, A. Skobov, A. Tsurkov; —; Sociopolitical topics; KHRO­ 68 no. 51, 53, 54, ALEK 291, ALEX 423, SUMM no. 3, SAMI-MA 15, 109–114, VEST-SS no. 3/1978, 23–24/1982, SSSR no. 3/1981; —. Perspectives (Perspektyvos); 1978–81; no. 1–22; Vilnius; Lithuanian; V. Skuodis, B. Burauskaite, D. Kershute, P. Peceliunas, S. Stungurys, A. Zilinskas; —; Lithuanian topics, National culture, Defense of Rights; KHRO-68 no. 51–56, 60, ALEK 43, 50, 57, ALEX 67, 71, 76, 84, CAHI no. 77/1981, SLOW 68, VEST-SS no. 3/1981, POSE-45 no. 7/1981, VASI 148, REME-80 121, 166, VIOL 35, 126, PERS; BAY, MGV. Phantasm (Fantazm); 1981; no. 1; Permʹ; —; —; Literature; KHAR-FA 43; —. Phoenix, Phoenix-66 (Feniks, Feniks-66); 1961–66; no. 1–2; Moscow; Russian; Iu. Galanskov (People who participated in gatherings on Maiakovskii Square); —; Literature, Religion/Philosophy, Sociopo­ litical topics; SOBR no. 1, ALEK 221, ALEX 280, VEST-25 no. 84–85, ANTO-SA 1.2:350, 2:433, SLOW 43, 61–62, GRAN no. 52, 56, 63–65, 67–70, KHRO-68 no. 1, SAMI-AL 436, POLI-97 66, 107, SUET 1:18, GALA; HOO. A Place for Information: Monthly News Edition (Informatorii: Ezheme­ siachnoe informatsionnoe izdanie); 1977–89(?); no. 1–40(?); Moscow, Yaroslavlʹ; Russian; A. Nebun; Combined editorial groups “Demos” and “Novyi putʹ”; Sociopolitical topics; SAMI-NO, SUET 1:75; SPB. Polemics (Polemika); 1982; no. 1; s.l. (Lithuanian SSR); Lithuanian; —; —; Lithuanian topics, Sociopolitical topics; —; KAU. Political Diary/Months (Politicheskii dnevnik/Mesiatsy); 1964–70; no. 1–75; Moscow; Russian; R. Medvedev; —; Sociopolitical topics, History, Economy, Literature; ALEK 213, ALEX 14–15, 418, 424, MATE no. 5/1972, 44/1975-AC 2320, SOBR no. 20-AC1001–1012, ENDS, DVAD, ANTO-SA 1.1:23, SSSR no. 9/1984, POLI-72, SUET 1:18; MEM. Pop-Dynamo (Pop-dinamo); 1986–87; no. 1–2; Kuybyshev; Russian; A. Astrov; —; Music; KUSH-91; —. Pops: The New Rock Troubadour (Pops: Novyi trubadur roka); 1984–85; no. 1–3; Moscow, Leningrad, Belaya Gora; Russian; S. Afonin, S. Chernov, B. Khromov, R. Losev, A. Semenov; —; Music; SAMI-NO, KUSH-94 91–96, SUET 1:197; AAK. Popular Assembly (Veche); 1971–74; no. 1–10; Aleksandrov; Russian; V. Osipov, I. Ovchinnikov; —; National culture, Religion/Philosophy, Sociopolitical topics, History, Literature; SAMI-KR, SOBR no. 21–24,

APPENDIX

187

28–29—AC1013-AC1020-AC1108-AC1140-AC1230-AC1599-AC1665­ AC1775-AC2040-AC2452, VOLN no. 9–10/1973, 17–18/1975, KHRO­ 68 no. 18, 20, 22–24, 26, 32, 34–38, 43, 45, 63–64, ALEK 196, 360–65, ALEX 253, 438, 440–42, 447, MATE no. 1/1972, 38/1972, 13/1973, 20/1973, 17/1974, RELI-73 no. 9.3–4/1981, 11.2/1983 and others, SUMM no. 1, VEST-25 no. 103/1972, 104–6/1972, ANTO-SA 2:436, SLOW 83, MITR 430–88, YANO 62–84, DUNL 199–221, VSKH 10, WALT 20–26, SAMI-AL 418, SUET 1:19, ELLI 298–300, MART 98–99; UTL, MEM, OSA, HOO. Pretext (Predlog); 1984–89; no. 1–18; Leningrad; Russian; M. Iosselʹ, M. Khazin, S. Khrenov, S. Magid; Translators’ Division of the

Literary-Creative Association “Club-81”; Literature; SAMI-NO,

SAMI-LE 443–44, KOVA 136, IVAN 196–98, 407; —.

Prism (Prizma); 1961–62; no. 1–2; Leningrad; Russian; B. Taigin and K. Kuzʹminskii; —; Literature; ANTO-NO 2A, SAMI-LE 444, LYGO 64; —. Problems of the Ear, Nose and Throat (Problemy otolaringologii); 1985–86; no. 1–2; Tyumenʹ; Russian; M. Nemirov; —; Music; KUSH-94 189, KUSH-91, SAVE 151, 159, SUET 1:198; —. Progress: A Socio-Political Journal (Postup: Gromads′ko-politychnyi zhur­ nal); 1972; no. 1–2; Lʹvov; Ukrainian; G. Khvostenko, Ia. Mykytko, Z. Popadiuk, V. Rokytskyi; Ukrainian National Liberation Front; Sociopolitical topics, Ukrainian topics; KHRO-68 no. 45, OVSI 2:126–27; —. Quest (Poiski); 1978–80; no. 1–8; Moscow; Russian; P. Abovin-Egides, V. Abramkin, M. Gefter, V. Gershuni, R. Lert, G. Pavlovskii, V. Sokirko; —; Sociopolitical topics; KHRO-68 no. 51–58, 60–65, ALEK 285, 290, 298, 309, 345, 348, ALEX 353–54, 360, 367, 369, 375, 409, MATE no. 15/1981-AC4280, SUMM no. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5–6, ANTO-SA 3:277, SLOW 68–69, VEST-SS no. 3/1980, 14/1980, 15/1980, 19/1980, 23–24/1980, 12/1982, POIS, GERS, SAMI-AL 428, SUET 1:19, IVAN 54; SPB, BRE, UTL, MEM. Quest and Thought (Poiski i razmyshleniia); 1980–81; no. 1(9)–8(16);  Moscow; Russian; A. Babenyshev, S. Larʹkov, M. Rozanov; —; Sociopolitical topics; KHRO-68 no. 57–58, 61–62, 64, ALEK 309, 348, ALEX 375, MATE no. 15/1981-AC4280, SUMM no. 7–8, SLOW 69, VEST-SS no. 21/1980; BRE, MEM. Ramuva (Ramuva); 1969–71; no. 1–3; Vilnius; Lithuanian; —; Ramuva; Lithuanian topics, National culture; SLOW 73–74, BURA 30–31; —. Ray of Freedom: A Journal of Moral-Political Renaissance (Luch svobody: Zhurnal moral′no-politicheskogo vozrozhdeniia); 1971–74; no. 1–8; Tal­ linn; Russian; S. Soldatov; The Democratic Movement of the Soviet

188

APPENDIX

Union; Estonian topics, Sociopolitical topics; SOBR no. 23-AC1175­ a-3, SAMI-BU no. 127/1983, KHRO-68 no. 29, 38, ALEK 63, ALEX 90, CAHI no. 38/1976, DARS, SOLD 227; OSA. Re PATRIA (Re PATRIA); 1974; no. 1; s.l. (Russian SFSR); Russian; L. Bauer, V. Grigas, F. Ruppelʹ;—; German topics, National culture, Defense of Rights, History; ALEK 143, 147, ALEX 167, 172, MATE no. 35/1974-AC1776, VOLN no. 16/1975, POSE-45 no. 9/1974, BIOG 482, 663; —. Red Follower of Shchedrin (Krasnyi shchedrinets); 1986–90; no. 1–10; Len­ ingrad; Russian; B. Ivanov; —; Literature; SAMI-LE 414, KOVA 136, ARKH-ZH, IVAN 323, 414, 453–54, VONZ-17 113, PROJ; SPB, BRE. Regular News (Reguliarnye vedomosti); 1982–85; no. 1–7; Leningrad; Russian; V. Dolinin, S. Korovin; —; Literature; SAMI-LE 445, IVAN 86–88, 113, 124, 134–35; —. Review (Obozrenie); 1971–72; no. 1–3; s.l. (Russian SFSR); Russian; —; —; Defense of Rights, Sociopolitical topics; VOLN no. 3/1972, 4/1972, KHRO-68 no. 23–25, POSE-45 no. 4/1972, 7/1974; MEM. The Right to Emigrate (Pravo na emigratsiiu); 1979; no. 1; Moscow; Russian; L. Agapova, I. Lupachev, V. Repnikov, V. Shepelev; Public interest group “The Right to Emigrate”; Defense of Rights, Sociopo­ litical topics; ALEK 281, 284, ALEX 349–50, 352, MATE no. 4/1980-AC3841; OSA. RIO: Advertising and Informational Survey (RIO: Reklamno-informatsionnoe obozrenie); 1986–89; no. 1–7(23); Leningrad; Russian; A. Andreev, A. Burlaka, S. Chernov, V. Fedotov, S. Firsov, A. Ipatovtsev, E. Kuklina, A. Minevich; Club of Rock-Journalists; Music; SAMI-NO, KUSH-94 62–68, SUET 1:198; AAK. Rock Bulletin of the Moscow Urban Rock Laboratory (Rok-biulleten′ mos­ kovskoi gorodskoi rok-laboratorii); 1986–; no. 1–; Moscow; Russian; —; —; Music; SAMI-NO; —. Rock Courier (Rok-kur′er); 1986–89; no. 1–6; Kharʹkov; Russian; V. Gar­ buz, S. Kaplin, A. Martynenko, S. Miasoedov, S. Oleinik, S. Shelkanovt­ sev; —; Music; SAMI-NO, KUSH-94 194–95, SUET 1:200; GWU. Rock Express (Rok-ekspress); 1986; no. 1; Novosibirsk; Russian; B. Koma­ rov; —; Music; SAMI-NO; —. Rock Salad (Rok-salat); 1983; no. 1; Leningrad; Russian; R. Losev; —; Music; KUSH-94 62, SUET 1:200; —. Rock Tribune (Rok-tribuna); 1985–; no. 1–; Kurgan; Russian; D. Bykov; —; Music; SAMI-NO; —.

APPENDIX

189

Rounded Corner (Tupoi ugol); 1957, no. 1; Leningrad; Russian; M. Bolʹshakova, I. Vinogradskii, A. Kozlov, I. Kocherov, A. Melesh­ chenko, M. Petrov, D. Pirumov, V. Ptashnik, A. Rimskii-Korsakov, L. Romankov, L. Romankova (Students of the Polytechnical Insti­ tute), and I. Favorskii; —; Literature; SAMI-LE 459. Roxy (Roksi); 1977–90; no. 1–15; Leningrad; Russian; A. Andreev, M. Bruk, B. Grebenshchikov, A. Gunitskii, Iu. Ilʹchenko, I. Leonov, B. Malyshev, M. Naumenko, O. Reshetnikov, V. Sorokin, A. Startsev, Iu. Tyshkevich, N. Vasilʹeva, N. Vasin; —; Music; SAMI-LE 447, KUSH­ 94 55–61, SAMI-AL 286, 439, AKVA, SUET 1:199; BRE, AAK, BRL. Rubbish: Artistic-Literary Collection (Khlam: Khudozhestvenno­ literaturnyi Al′manakh); 1979; no. 1–2; Izhevsk; Russian; —; —; Literature; KHRO-68 no. 62, SUET 1:147; —. The Russian Word (Russkoe slovo); 1966; no. 1; Moscow; Russian; E. Kushev, V. Voskresenskii; Ryleev Club; Literature; SOBR

no. 7-AC521, GRAN no. 66, SAMI-VO2 36, KRAT Vol.6, ERMO,

RUSS-47 no. 3088/1976; HOO.

Sail/Thistle (Parus/Chertopolokh); 1965–66; no. 1–2; Leningrad; Rus­ sian; O. Liagachv, V. Petrochenkov; —; Literature; SAMI-NPP, SAMI­ 03 441, KOVA; —. The Semi-Daily (Poolpäevaleht); 1978–79; no. 1–7; Tartu; Estonian; H. Jakobs; —; Defense of Rights; Literature; National culture; History; Estonian topics; KHRO-68 no. 52, 56, ALEK 63, ALEX 90, SLOW 69–70, VEST-SS no. 23–24/1980, DARS, MISI 268; —. SCD: Survey of Cultural Death (OKS: Obzor kul′turnoi smerti); 1986; no. 1–3; Moscow; Russian; —; —; Music, Literature; KUSH-94 98, SUET 1:196; —. The School of Theory and Practice of a New Esthetics (Shkola teorii i prak­ tiki novoi estetiki); 1973–74; no. 1–5; Moscow; Russian; L. Melamid, V. Petrov; —; Art; PARA 10–11; —. The Second Year (God vtoroi); 1961; no. 1; Novosibirsk; Russian; V. Boikov, T. Ianushevich, A. Ptitsyn, V. Zakharov (Students of Novo­ sibirsk State University); —; Literature; SAVE 37–38, 158; —. Self (Self); 1986–90; no. 1–9; Chelyabinsk; Russian; I. Arinichev, I. Stepanov; Urals Volunteer Association of Degenerates and Chely­ abinsk Rock Club; Music; KUSH-94 196, BRIT-LI; —. Sexual Democrat (Seksual-demokrat); 1972; no. 1; Voronezh; Russian; Semenov, Vysotskii (Second-year students at Voronezh Univer­ sity); —; Sociopolitical topics; ALEX 394, KHRO-68 no. 25; —.

190

APPENDIX

Shartash (Shartash); 1979; no. 1; Sverdlovsk; Russian; —; Members of Sverdlovsk Club of Fans of Fantasy; Literature; KHAR-FA 47; —. The Shelter (Pastogė); 1978–79; no. 1–2; Vilnius; Lithuanian; A. Patackas; —; Lithuanian topics, Literature; KHRO-68 no. 38–39, 54–55, 58, ALEK 43, ALEX 67, RELI-73 no. 14.3/1986, SLOW 68, VASI 148, VIOL 32, 35, 124–25, LAIS-07 22, PAST; BAY, UTL. Ship (Korabl′); 1983–; no. 1–; Moscow; Russian; A. Egorov, A. Karam­ azov, E. Liamport, M. Romm, S. Sapozhnikov; —; Literature; INDE 127, 135–77, SUET 1:18, 178; —. Signs f rom the Mountains (Karby hir); 1980, 1988; no. 1–2, 3; Kolomyia; Ukrainian; D. Hrynkiv; —; Literature, Ukrainian topics; YASI, SUET 1:217; —. Signs: For New Painting (Metki: Po novoi zhivopisi); 1975–80; no. 1–12; Moscow; Russian; V. Gribkov, V. Petrov; —; Art; SAMI-AL 451, PARA 12–13, PRAP 83–84, METK 51–58, PARI 166–68, PROJ; BRE. Silence: Literary-Artistic Journal (Molchanie: Literaturno-khudozhestvennyi zhurnal); 1982–83; no. 1–9; Leningrad; Russian; D. Volchek; —; Literature; SAMI-LE 430, INDE 73–75, KONS 45; BRE. The Siren (Sirena); 1962; no. 1–2; Moscow; Russian; M. Kaplan, V. Komar, V. Skuratovskii (People who participated in gatherings on Maiakovskii Square); —; Literature, Art; ANTO-SA 1.2:351, SAMI-AL 439, POLI-97 310, PROJ; BRE. A Small Voice (Golosok); 1957; no. 1–6; Leningrad; Russian; Iu. Andreev, E. Baskin, G. Donskoi, Iu. Poletaev, V. Slivker, A. Fainshtein (Second­ year students from the Institute of Engineers of Railroad Transporta­ tion); —; Literature; SAMI-LE 398–99; —. Snaimehob (Amegob); 1970; no. 1–2; Leningrad; Russian; M. Abdulakha­ tov, V. Petranovskii; Literary circle at the Chemistry Department at LGU; Literature; SAMI-LE 303, 392; —. Social Problems (Obshchestvennye problemy); 1969–72; no. 1–15; Moscow; Russian; V. Chalidze; —; Sociopolitical topics; SOBR no. 7, 9, 16—AC479-AC499-AC657-AC659-AC660-AC661, KHRO-68 no. 10–17, 19–26, 32, ALEX 327, MATE no. 1/1976, ANTO-SA 2:428, DOKU-72 124–237, SUET 1:18; MEM, HOO. Socialism and the Future (Sotsializm i budushchee); 1980–81; no. 1–6; Moscow; Russian; V. Chernetskii, A. Fadin, B. Kagarlitskii, A. Khavin, M. Rivkin; Moscow-Petrozavodsk Neo-Marxist Group; Sociopoliti­ cal topics; SAMI-KR, KHRO-68 no. 62, 65, ALEK 308, ALEX 424–25, CAHI no. 77/1981, 89/1982, VEST-SS no. 9/1981, 10/1982, 17/1982, SUET 1:19; MEM.

APPENDIX

191

Sorrowful Christ (Rūpintojėlis); 1977–90; no. 1–26; s.l. (Lithuanian SSR); Lithuanian; A. Urbonaite; —; Lithuanian topics, National cul­ ture, Religion/Philosophy; SLOW 74, POSE-45 no. 5/1978, KHRO­ 68 no. 46, 51–52, 54–56, 60, 63; SSSR no. 5/1982, ALEK 43, ALEX 67, VASI 147, REME-80 121, 131, BURA, VIOL 35, RUPI, BOUR-79 251–52; —. Soviet Crucian Carp (Sovetskii karas′); 1978–; no. 1–; Moscow; Russian; A. Egorov, A. Karamazov, E. Liamport, M. Romm, S. Sapozhnikov; —; Literature; INDE 127; —. The Sower: Social Democratic Agitational Leaf let (Seiatel′: Sotsial­ democraticheskii agitatsionnyi listok); 1971; no. 1–2; Moscow; Rus­ sian; A. Malinovskii; The Sower Group; Sociopolitical topics; SOBR no. 23-AC1138+AC1139, VOLN no. 5, MATE no. 3/1972, 35/1972, 39/1977, RUSS-72 no. 3; OSA. Sphinxes (Sfinksy); 1965; no. 1; Moscow; Russian; V. Tarsis; “SMOG” group; Art, Literature; ALEK 212, ALEX 273, ANTO-SA 1.2:353, SLOW 76, GRAN no. 59/1965, POLI-97 317, SUET 1:18, LYGO 97–98; HOO. The Square (Kvadrat); 1965–78, ?-1987; no. 1–14, no. 15–; Leningrad, Novosibirsk; Russian; E. Barban, S. Belichenko, N. Leites, A. Mez­ drikov, P. Simakov; Leningrad Jazz Club; Music; SAMI-MA 17, SAMI­ LE 408–9, FEIE 99–100, SAVE 147–48, IVAN 22; BRE, SPB. Stalk (Stebel′); 1985–86; no. 1–2; Novosibirsk; Russian; A. Belikov, S. Bortnitskii, V. Lysenko, A. Senin; —; Music; KUSH-94 150, SAVE 150, 159, SUET 1:201; —. Storm-Tossed (Brosaemaia bureiu); 1965–70; no. 1–; Novosibirsk; Russian; —; Seventh Day Adventists; Religion/Philosophy, Sociopolitical top­ ics; SAVE 136, 159; —. Storyteller (Magid); 1981; no. 1; Moscow; Russian; P. Abramovich, D. Zisserman, V. Fulʹmakht; —; Jewish topics, National culture, His­ tory, Religion/Philosophy; SAMI-KR, KARA, PINK-93 413, KOSH 2:371, PINK-94 31, CHLE 87, KOMA-12 287, 290–91; —. Strength in Sobriety (Blaivybėje—jėga); 1981; no. 1; s.l. (Lithuanian SSR); Lithuanian; —; —; Sociopolitical topics, Lithuanian topics; KHRO-68 no. 61, ALEK 43, ALEX 67, VEST-SS no. 12/1981, POSE-45 no. 7/1981, BURA, VIOL 32, 34, REME-96 61–62; —. Subtext (Podtekst); 1978–81; no. 1–4; Novosibirsk; Russian; S. Kamyshan; —; Literature; SAVE 43–47, 158; —. Sum (Summa); 1979–82; no. 1–8; Leningrad; Russian; S. Maslov, S. Levin; —; Sociopolitical topics, Religion/Philosophy; KHRO-68 no. 53, 56,

192

APPENDIX

61, 63, 64, ALEK 285, 310, ALEX 354, 376, SUMM, SAMI-MA, SLOW 79, SAMI-LE 454–55, IKHL, IVAN 22; MEM, SPB, BRE. The Summons (Zov); 1957; no. 1; Sakhalin; Russian; E. Pavlov, E. Shneiderman, O. Kanakhin; —; SAMI-LE 407; —. Supplementary Materials on the Free Dissemination of Ideas and Infor­ mation in Estonia (Lisandusi mõtete ja uudiste vabale levikule ees­ tis); 1978–86; no. 1–25; Tallinn, Tartu; Estonian; Y. Adams, M. Kiirend, V. Niitsoo, A. Pesti; —; Estonian topics, Defense of Rights, Sociopolitical topics; KHRO-68 no. 52, 54, 56, ALEK 63, ALEX 90, SUMM no. 7–8, SLOW 55, VEST-SS no. 1/1982, DARS, RUUT 132; —. Sverdlovsk Rock Review (Sverdlovskoe rok-obozrenie); 1986–87; no. 1–3; Sverdlovsk; Russian; A. Matveev, A. Baksanov, L. Dzhudov, A. Kalu­ zhskii, I. Kormilʹtsev, D. Karasiuk, E. Kurzanov; —; Music; SAMI-NO, KUSH-94 172–73, KUSH-91, SUET 1:199; GWU, AAK. Syntax (Sintaksis); 1959–60; no. 1–3; Moscow; Russian; A. Ginzburg; —; Literature; KHRO-68 no. 1, 44, 62, ALEK 212, 216, 236, ALEX 13–14, 273, 296, ANTO-SA 1.1:20, 1.2:349, LYGO 59–62, SLOW 76, GRAN no. 58/1965, REME-80 70, SAMI-LE 451, ANTO-NO vol.1, SAMI-AL 280, 439, PRAP 47–48, PROJ; MEM, BRE. TFW: This Fantastic World (EFM: Etot fantasticheskii mir); 1983–89; no. 1–; Kiev; Russian; V. Talalaev; Members of Club-Studio “Fantasy”; Literature; KHAR-FA 48; —. Thawed Patch (Protalina); 1979–80; no. 1/2–3; Moscow, Serpukhov; Rus­ sian; V. Pomazov; —; Literature; UMER; MEM. Thirty-Seven/37 (Tridtsat′ sem′/37); 1976–81; no. 1–21; Leningrad; Rus­ sian; V. Antonov, T. Goricheva, B. Groys, V. Krivulin, N. Malakhovs­ kaia, E. Pazukhin, L. Rudkevich, N. Sharymova, S. Takhtadzhian, L. Zhmudʹ; Religious-Philosophical Seminar; Literature, Religion/ Philosophy, Art, Science; SAMI-LE 457–59, SAMI-MA 63, 74–81, ARKH­ ZH, KHRO-68 no. 43, 48, 49, 53, 56, 60, ALEK 286, 289, 310, ALEX 355, 358, 376, SUMM no. 1, 3, 4, VEST-25 no. 118/1976, 121/1976, 123/1977, ANTO-SA 3:297–302, POSE-45 no. 3/1977, RUSS-47 no. 3383/1981, KONS 38–39, SAMI-AL 285, 440, SUET 1:19, SAVI 191, 193, KRIV 352–53, SABB 207–11, SAMY, ELLI 391–97, LYGO 129, POSP-84 433, POSP-95 358, PROJ, KOMA-14, VONZ-16, VONZ-17 114, IVAN 35–36, 101, 107; BRE, HAR, BAY, SPB. Time to Stoke the Fire (Vremia topit′); 1986–91; no. 1–15; Leningrad; Russian; A. Mashnin, A. Sokolkov; —; Music; KUSH-94 68, SUET 1:189; —.

APPENDIX

193

Together (Zusammen); 1971; no. 1–2; Leningrad; Russian; M. Ivanov; —; Literature; SAMI-MA 11, 83; SAMI-LE 201–203, LYGO 119; —. Tomahawk 15 (Tamagavk 15); 1975–; no. 1–; Moscow; Russian; P. Palamarchuk; —; Literature; PETR; BRE. Trace (Sled); 1986–; no. 1 –; Moscow; Russian; M. Scherbakov; —; Litera­ ture; SAMI-NO; —. Transponans: A Journal of Theory and Practice (Transponans: Zhurnal teorii i praktiki); 1979–87; no. 1–36; Yeysk, Leningrad; Russian; S. Sigov, A. Tarshis; “Transfurists”; Art, Literature; SAMI-LE, KUKU, WIEN, KONS, SAMI-AL, SIGE, SAVI, KHAR-PI, PRAP, SAMI-VE, ANTO-NO vol.5B, TRAN, PROJ, VONZ-17 114; BRE, SAC. Trips Out of Town (Poezdki za gorod); 1980–2009; no. 1–11; Moscow; Russian; N. Alekseev, E. Elagina, G. Kizevalʹter, I. Makarevich, A. Monastyrskii, N. Panitkov, S. Romashko; —; Art; PRAP 91–97, JACK, KOLL, KOLL-DE1 11, KOLL-DE2, KOLL-DE3;—. The Twentieth Century (XX Vek); 1975–76; no. 1–10; Moscow; Russian; R. Medvedev, R. Lert; —; Sociopolitical topics, Economy, Literature, Art; CAHI no. 26/1975, SUMM no. 7/8, ENDS 21, DVAD, ANTO-SA 1.1:23, SAMI-RE1, SAMI-RE2, EVNI; —. UFO: Our Personal Responsibility (NLO: Nasha lichnaia otvetstven­ nost′); 1982–83; no. 1–2; Leningrad; Russian; K. Unksova; —; Art, Literature; SAMI-LE 432, PROJ; BRE. Uikh (Uikh″); 1985–; no. 1; Moscow; Russian; I. Glazkov, D. Golubev, M. Stoliarov; —; Music; KUSH-94 123; —. Ukrainian Catholic Herald (Ukrains′kyi katolyts′kyi visnyk); 1984; no. 1; s.l. (Ukrainian SSR); Russian, Ukrainian; I. Terelia; —; Religion/ Philosophy, Ukrainian topics; MATE no. 12/1985-AC5414; MAU, OSA. Ukrainian Herald (Ukrains′kyi visnyk); 1970–75; no. 1–9; Kiev, Lʹvov; Ukrainian; V. Chornovil, M. Kosiv, V. Lisovyi, A. Pashko, E. Proniuk, S. Khmara, O. Shevchenko; —; Ukrainian topics, Defense of Rights, Literature; SOBR no. 18, KHRO-68 no. 13, 18, 22, 24–25, 27–29, 38, 45, 56, 60, ALEK 23–33, ALEX 41–48, 54, 56, SLOW 83, UKRA-06, UKRA-72, UKRA-70, ETHN, DISS; MEM. Underground (Andergraund); 1986–94; no. 1–9, lacking no. 3 and 4; Ishim; Russian; P. Zemlianykh, M. Zuikov; —; Music; KUSH-94 38–39, SAVE 151, 159, SUET 1:188, SAMI-NO; —. Urlight (Urlait/Ur lait); 1985–92; no. 1–26; Moscow; Russian; A. Belo­ nosov, A. Volkov, S. Gurʹev, A. Inʹshakov, A. Lipatov, E. Matusov, K. Musin, O. Osetrov, A. Serʹga, I. Smirnov; —; Music; SAMI-NO, KUSH-94 112–33, SUET 1:186, 202; AAK, GWU.

194

APPENDIX

Vantuz (Vantuz); 1986–88; no. 1–3; Ulan-Ude; Russian; A. Gavrilov; —; Music; KUSH-94 192, SAVE 151, 158; —. Venus (Milavitsa); 1974–76; no. 1–7; Minsk; Belarusian, Russian; U. Arlou, Iu. Bandarovich, E. Zaikouski, G. Kulazhanka, I. Charniauski (Students of the History Department of Belarusian State University); —; Literature; DEMA 150, PAZA 31–32, 165; —. Vladimir (Vladimir); 1975–76; no. 1–6; Moscow, Vladimir; Russian; T. Khodorovich M. Landa, G. Podʹiapolʹskii, T. Velikanova; —; Defense of Rights; MATE no. 30/1975, 21/1977-AC2243a+AC2944; VLAD-77; OSA. The Voice (Golos); 1978; no. 1–10; Leningrad; Russian; N. Lesnichenko, A. Snisarenko; —; Literature; SUMM no. 1–2, SAMI-MA 16, SAMI-LE 398; —. The Voice of Lithuania (Lietuvos balsas); 1977–; no. 1–; s.l. (Lithuanian SSR); Lithuanian; —; —; Lithuanian topics, Sociopolitical topics; KHRO-68 no. 44, ALEK 67, ALEX 43, POSE-45 no. 7/1981, BOUR-79 251–52; —. The Voice of the Estonian People (Eesti rahvuslik haal); 1970–74; no. 1–6; Tallinn; Estonian; A. Iuskevich, M. Kiirend, K. Miattik, S. Soldatov, A. Varato; Estonian National Front (ENF); Estonian topics, Sociopo­ litical topics; ALEK 63, ALEX 90, KHRO-68 no. 38, SLOW 42, DARS, RUUT 131; —. The Way of Truth (Tiesos kelias) (Put′ istiny); 1977–87; no. 1–25(?); s.l. (Lithuanian SSR); Lithuanian; —; —; Lithuanian topics, Religion/ Philosophy; KHRO-68 no. 44–45, 51, 55–56, 58, 61, 63, ALEK 43, ALEX 66, RELI-73 no. 7.2/1979, VEST-SS no. 12/1981, VASI 147, REME-80 121, 131, VIOL 35, BOUR-79 251–52; BAY, MGV (VIL). The White Book of Exodus (Belaia kniga iskhoda); 1972–73; no. 1–2; Mos­ cow; Russian; R. Rutman; —; Defense of Rights, Jewish topics, Sociopolitical topics; SAMI-KR, KARA, SOBR no. 13-AC1125+AC1673, EVRE no. 5, ALEK 127, ALEX 183–84, PINK-93 413, WHIT, SHAR, LAZA 97, HOFF 98, KOSH 2:360, KOMA-12 285–86, 289; OSA, UTL. White Nights (Belye nochi); 1956–58; no. 1–3; Leningrad; Russian; A. Domashev; —; Literature; SAMI-LE 177, 394; —. White Shadows (Belye teni); 1968; no. 1–2; Tomsk; Russian; V. Krama­ renko with other students of the Historical Philological Department of Tomsk State University; —; Sociopolitical topics; SAVE 42–43, 158; —. Woman and Russia: A Journal for Women about Women (Zhenshchina i Rossiia: zhurnal dlia zhenshchin o zhenshchinakh); 1979; no. 1;

APPENDIX

195

Leningrad; Russian; T. Goricheva, N. Malakhovskaia, T. Mamonova; —; Sociopolitical topics, Defense of Rights; VOLN no. 38/1980, KHRO-68 no. 55–57, 60, ALEK 286, 307, ALEX 355, 385, SUMM no. 4, 5–6, SAMI-MA 120–22, VEST-SS no. 10/1980, 12/1980, POSE­ 45 no. 4/1981, SSSR no. 1/1981, SAMI-LE 404, VOZN-IO 37–52, WOMA, ALMA-80, FEMM, ZHEN, NECH, ELLI 397–98, IVAN 31, 46; HOO. Woogie (Vugi); 1986; no. 1; Saratov; Russian; A. Filipov, S. Tiapkin; —; Music; KUSH-91; —. Word and Deed of the Evangelical Catacombs (Slovo i delo evangel′skikh katakomb); 1974; no. 1–2; s.l.; Russian; —; Church of Christians of Evangelical Faith—Pentecostals; Religion/Philosophy; —; HOO, OSA. Word of Love (Meilės žodis); 1979; no. 1–6; s.l. (Lithuanian SSR); Lithu­ anian; —; —; Lithuanian topics, Religion/Philosophy; VASI 147; —. Youth (Molodost′); 1968; no. 1–2; Vladimir; Russian; V. Borisov; Union of Independent Youth; Defense of Rights, Sociopolitical topics; KHRO­ 68 no. 8, ALEX 301, POSE-45 no. 9/1970; —. ZGGA (ZGGA); 1983–84; no. 1(0)–3(2); Alma-Ata; Russian; E. Bychkov, M. Dzhumagaziev, R. Nugmanov; —; Music; KUSH-94 12–14, KUSH­ 91, SUET 1:192; —. Zombie (Zombi); 1984–92; no. 1–16; Moscow; Russian; N. Komarova and V. Kondakov, V. Marochkin, Z. Khashimov, G. Indenbaum, V. Tartakovskii, A. Koblov, S. Kosheverov, Kupidon; —; Music; SAMI­ NO, KUSH-94 102–111, SUET 1:71, 192; —.

N otes

Introduction

1. As discussed by H. Gordon Skilling, Samizdat and an Independent Society in Central and Eastern Europe (Columbus: Ohio State University Press), among others. See below on Soviet coinage of the neologism “samizdat.” 2. Anna M., an architect, grew up in the prison camps where her parents were incarcerated. Svetlana Alexievich interviewed her between 1991 and 2001 when she was fifty-nine years old. See Alexievich, Secondhand Time: The Last of the Soviets: An Oral History, trans. Bela Shayevich (New York: Random House, 2016), 265. 3. Yelena Yurievna S. talked about her belief in communism in “On the Beauty of Dictatorship and the Mystery of Butterf lies Crushed against the Pavement,” as did Vasily Petrovich N., Communist Party member since 1922, in his account, “On a Different Bible and a Different Kind of Believer,” both in Alexievich, Second­ hand Time, 41–77, 165–86. Samizdat reading was relatively widespread among some groups of citizens, including more educated city dwellers, but it was not limited to them. Nevertheless, many saw samizdat as a marker of status: one younger respon­ dent, Alisa Z., recalled her family’s naive attachment to samizdat books: “we had something to be proud of, something we were very proud of: We were proud of our favorite books, which came f rom the underground” (Alexievich, Secondhand Time, 338). 4. Stephen Kotkin derided the notion of civil society changing regimes in East European communist countries as so much “claptrap.” Kotkin, expressing a view accepted by most historians today, maintained that the communist regimes brought down their own systems: regime change was not the work of dissidents. See Kotkin, Uncivil Society: 1989 and the Implosion of the Communist Establishment (New York: Modern Library, 2009), 7. 5. Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn (1918–2008) was celebrated for his novella about life in the Stalinist labor camps, One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich, published in the official liberal Soviet journal Novyi mir in 1962. His uncensored history of the prison camp system, The Gulag Archipelago, was published abroad in 1973. Solzhenitsyn was stripped of Soviet citizenship and expelled from the USSR in 1974. He wrote several large novels about Russian and Soviet history, as well as essays and speeches exempli­ fying his neo-Slavophile perspective on history. 6. “What a career they are making for our red-haired f riend,” said Anna Akhmatova of Brodskii when he was arrested. Iosif Brodskii (1940–96)—whose name usually appears as Joseph Brodsky in English—was known for his poetry cir­ culated in samizdat. He had no official job. He was placed twice in mental institu­ tions before being tried for “parasitism” and sentenced to hard labor in 1964. Thanks

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to international protest, Soviet authorities commuted his sentence, and Brodskii was released after eighteen months, after which he emigrated in 1972 and took up residence in the United States, becoming Poet Laureate in 1991. Andrei Sakharov (1921–89) was, with Solzhenitsyn and Brodskii, among the most famous individual Soviet dissident figures. A nuclear physicist who helped develop thermonuclear weapons, Sakharov became a public critic of Soviet nuclear tests and an advocate of human rights. He rose to international prominence beginning with his 1968 essay, “Ref lections on Progress, Peaceful Coexistence, and Intellectual Freedom,” circu­ lated in samizdat and published abroad. Solzhenitsyn and Brodskii were each recog­ nized with a Nobel Prize for literature in 1970 and 1987, respectively, and Sakharov for peace in 1975. 7. More information on the unregistered Baptist, Jewish national, and Russian feminist movements with which Vins, Begun, and Voznesenskaia were, respectively, associated appears in the following chapters. 8. The rights activist Liudmila Alekseeva wrote a history of Soviet dissidence, Istoriia inakomysliia, which first appeared in 1984. It was published in English as Soviet Dissent. In her history, she described samizdat as fundamental to dissidence, identi­ fied with rights activism: “The backbone (karkas) of the Soviet human rights move­ ment is samizdat . . . the channels of communication used by samizdat . . . spread out silently and invisibly; like mushroom spores,” in Ludmilla Alexeyeva, Soviet Dissent: Contemporary Movements for National, Religious, and Human Rights, trans. Carol Pearce and John Glad (Middletown: Wesleyan University Press, 1985), 284. The English translation refers to the “human rights movement,” whereas the Russian original talks about a “rights movement” (pravozashchitnoe dvizhenie). Compare Alekseeva, Istoriia inakomysliia v SSSR: Noveishii period (Moscow: Moskovskaia Khelʹsinkskaia gruppa, 2012). Although Soviet rights activists referred to the international discourse of human rights, they also grounded their activity in Soviet legal codes and domestic legal consciousness, as shown by Benjamin Nathans, “Soviet Rights-Talk in the PostStalin Era,” in Human Rights in the Twentieth Century, ed. Stefan-Ludwig Hoffmann (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 167. 9. The use of “pre-Gutenberg” and “extra-Gutenberg” as epithets to character­ ize samizdat is explored in Ann Komaromi, “Samizdat as Extra-Gutenberg Phenom­ enon,” Poetics Today 29, no. 4 (2008): 632. 10. Michael Warner made the important point that public speech involves “world-making,” or poiesis—it projects and brings about or sustains the audience group, rather than simply addressing it as an empirically existing social entity. See Warner, Publics and Counterpublics (New York: Zone Books, 2002), 114–15. 11. That context was shaped by Soviet authorities as well as citizens. Peter Steiner referred to the “heightened context-sensitivity” of samizdat as part of what makes it difficult to define, in his essay “On Samizdat, Tamizdat, Magnitizdat and Other Words That Are Difficult to Pronounce,” Poetics Today 29, no. 4 (2008): 614. 12. People trace the origins of the term “samizdat” to Glazkov. See T. Bek’s remarks in Khikhimora, ed. N. N. Glazkov (Moscow: Vremia, 2007), 521. Lev Losev referred to Glazkov’s term and his sardonic unofficial poems in “Samizdat i samo­ gon,” in Zakrytyi raspredelitel′ (Tenaf ly, NJ: Ermitazh, 1984), 165–66. 13. The historian Aleksandr Danielʹ recalled that literary-minded youth in the capital cities began to use the term “samizdat” on the cusp of the 1960s, although it

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was not widely used until later in the decade; see Danielʹ, “Istoki i smysl sovetskogo Samizdata,” in Antologiia samizdata: Nepodtsenzurnaia literatura v SSSR. 1950-e–1980-e, ed. V. V. Igrunov and M. Sh. Barbakadze, 3 vols. (Moscow: Mezhdunarodnyi institut gumanitarno-politicheskikh issledovanii, 2005), 3:18. 14. Staff at the Samizdat Section of Radio Liberty in Munich considered Khrush­ chev’s speech to be the first samizdat document, according to the history of the Radio Liberty “Samizdat Archives” (Arkhiv Samizdata), HU OSA 300-85, Open Society Archives, Budapest, Hungary, http://catalog.osaarchivum.org/catalog/jDen7kVB. The start date for classic Soviet samizdat is generally accepted to be 1956, as affirmed, for example, by Elena Strukova, “Samizdat kak pamiatnik knizhnoi kulʹtury vtoroi poloviny XX veka,” Acta samizdatica 1 (2012): 12. 15. On major points of Khrushchev’s speech, the context of de-Stalinization and the circulation of the text of the speech, including its leakage and publication in the New York Times, see William Taubman, Khrushchev: The Man and His Era (New York: W.W. Norton, 2003), 270–89. 16. Polly Jones, Myth, Memory, Trauma: Rethinking the Stalinist Past in the Soviet Union, 1953–70 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2013), 2–3. 17. Gorbachev’s speech about the press and glasnost in January 1987 marked a turning point; see discussion of the informal press during perestroika at the end of chapter 4. 18. By contrast, the clandestine press in tsarist Russia exemplified the growth of reformist and radical political ideologies. As the authors of an official Soviet guide stated: “Uncensored editions provide valuable material for understanding a series of historical events. Thanks to them, it is possible to study the ideological f low of the Russian liberation movement, to determine the programmatic and tactical demands of the revolutionaries, and to establish the scope and character of practical activity in the Revolutionary underground.” From Svodnyi katalog russkoi nelegal′noi i zapreshchennoi pechati XIX veka. Knigi i periodicheskie izdaniia, ed. I. P. Kondakov, B. S. Itenberg, et al. (Moscow: Gosudarstvennaia ordena Lenina Biblioteka SSSR imeni V.I. Lenina: 1971), 5. Another account of prerevolutionary press and organizations from Land and Freedom (Zemlia i volia) to Lenin’s Pravda of 1912 can be found in Leonard Schapiro, The Com­ munist Party of the Soviet Union (London: Eyre & Spottiswoode, 1962), 6–130. 19. Robert Eugene Johnson described several examples of underground printing presses and libraries in the late nineteenth century, in Peasant and Proletarian: The Working Class of Moscow in the Late Nineteenth Century (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1979). An exceptional case in the late Soviet period can be found among unregistered Baptist communities who made use of homemade underground presses for some of their samizdat: see chapter four of this study. 20. In the USSR, samizdat writers and editors favored typewriters and car­ bon paper, which they considered to be a safer method of production because it would be less provocative to authorities. Conditions varied in other Eastern Euro­ pean countries that took up “samizdat” based on the Soviet example. For example, people in Poland used mimeograph and xerox technology (Skilling, Samizdat, 11). On the importance of typewriters for samizdat culture, see Evgeniia Varentsova, “Pishushchaia mashinka v pisatelʹskom obikhode XX veka,” in 200 udarov v minutu: Pishushchaia mashinka i soznanie XX veka (catalog), ed. Gleb Morev (Moscow: Poli­ tekhnicheskii muzei, 2016), 167.

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21. Steiner, “On Samizdat, Tamizdat,” 614. 22. Ardis Publishers produced reprints of modernist and early Soviet texts like Babel’s Bluzhdaiushchie zvezdy (1972) that could no longer be obtained in regular bookstores and libraries. They also published Russian works by Vladimir Nabokov. Soviet readers prized printed or photographic copies made f rom Ardis editions that circulated in samizdat. Ivan Tolstoi, who read such samizdat in the late 1970s, recalled the precious lists of Ardis publications on the back of those books, which helped readers piece together more of the literary heritage that had been suppressed. See Ann Komaromi, “Ardis Facsimile and Reprint Editions: Giving Back Russian Literature,” in Samizdat, Tamizdat and Beyond: Transnational Media During and After Socialism, ed. Friederike Kind-Kovacs and Jessie Labov (New York: Berghahn, 2013), 38, 333. 23. Danielʹ, “Istoki i smysl,” 17. 24. On the unfolding situation in the early 1970s, see Albert Boiter, “Samizdat: Primary Source Material in the Study of Current Affairs,” Russian Review 31, no. 3 (1972): 282–85. On Radio Liberty’s mission and function, see Cold War Broadcasting, Impact on the Soviet Union and Eastern Europe, A Collection of Studies and Documents, ed. Ross A. Johnson and Eugene R. Parta (New York: Central European University Press, 2010). 25. Additional sources include Aleksandr Suetnov, Samizdat: Bibliograficheskii ukazatel′, 2 vols. (Moscow: Aprelʹ, 1992); Samizdat Leningrada, 1950-e–1980-e: Literat­ urnaia entsiklopediia, ed. V. E. Dolinin, B. I. Ivanov, B. V. Ostanin, and D. Ia. Severi­ ukhin (Moscow: Novoe literaturnoe obozrenie, 2003); Antologiia samizdata; and E. N. Savenko, Na puti k svobode slova. Ocherki istorii samizdata Sibiri (Novosibirsk: GPNTB SO RAN, 2008). 26. The samizdat journal Avant-garde was described in Antologiia samizdata, 1:356. Liudmila Polikovskaia also recorded the existence of the journal in My predchu­ vstvie . . . predtecha . . . Ploshchad′ Maiakovskogo. 1958–1965 (Moscow: Zvenʹia, 1997), 316–17, 367. For collected information and sources on samizdat journals, includ­ ing archived copies, see the appendix in this volume and Ann Komaromi, Database of Soviet Samizdat Periodicals, part of the Project for the Study of Dissidence and Samizdat, http://samizdatcollections.library.utoronto.ca. 27. This information was compiled in the respected reference work created by people formerly involved in samizdat activity, titled Samizdat Leningrada. 28. Vladimir Erlʹ’s manuscript record, Rospis′’ samizdatskoi periodiki: Rannie 1980-e, is located in the Archive of the Research Centre for East European Studies at Bremen University, FSO 01-037, Vladimir Erlʹ collection. See also Suetnov, Samizdat: Bibliograficheskii ukazatel′. 29. Antologiia noveishei poezii u Goluboi Laguny. The Blue Lagoon Anthology of Modern Russian Poetry, 5 vols., ed. Konstantin Kuzʹminskii and Grigorii Kovalev (Newtonville, MA: Oriental Research Partners, 1980–86). 30. Adrian Johns, who denaturalized the assumptions of print culture in con­ sidering the history of the book, argued for more “regard for the labors of those actually involved in printing, publishing, and reading,” as well as “respect for their own representations of printing, embracing both its prospects and its dangers.” See Johns, The Nature of the Book: Print and Knowledge in the Making (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1998), 28.

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31. Fitzpatrick’s discussion of the popularity of foreign radio as a referent in popular conversations seems to contradict that statement to some degree since the foreign “Voices” broadcast quite a bit of samizdat. See V. Kozlov, “Vvedenie,” Kramola, Inakomyslie v SSSR pri Khrushcheve i Brezhneve, 1953–1982 gg. Rassekrechennye dokumenty Verkhovnogo suda i Prokuratury SSSR, ed. V. A. Kozlov and S. V. Mironenko (Moscow: Materik, 2005), 10. See discussion in the English edition: the book was translated as Vladimir A. Kozlov, Sedition: Everyday Resistance in the Soviet Union under Khrushchev and Brezhnev, ed. Vladimir A. Kozlov, Sheila Fitzpatrick, and Sergei V. Mironenko, trans. Olga Livshin (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2011), 22, 29. 32. Jones, Myth, Memory, Trauma, 10–11. 33. Serguei A. Oushakine, “The Terrifying Mimicry of Samizdat,” Public Culture 13, no. 2 (2001): 192. 34. See Roger D. Markwick, “Thaws and Freezes in Soviet Historiography, 1953–64,” and Emily Lygo, “The Need for New Voices: Writers’ Union Policy towards Young Writers, 1953–64,” in The Dilemmas of De-Stalinization: Negotiating Cultural and Social Change in the Khrushchev Era, ed. Polly Jones (London: Routledge, 2006), 173–92, 193–208. 35. Emily Lygo gave a detailed account of how this worked in her book on Lenin­ grad Poetry 1953–1975: The Thaw Generation (Bern: Peter Lang, 2010). For an account of the role of the LITOs in forming the young generation who would participate in unofficial culture in Leningrad in the 1970s, see also V. E. Dolinin and D. Ia. Severi­ ukhin. “Preodolenie nemoty,” in Samizdat Leningrada, 13. 36. Denis Kozlov, The Readers of Novyi Mir: Coming to Terms with the Stalinist Past (Cambridge MA: Harvard University Press, 2013), 342n37. 37. Roudakova argued against the idea that regular Soviet readers and official journalists were deprived of their own agency through official indoctrination and control. See Natalia Roudakova, Losing Pravda (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017), 3, 7–8. 38. Yurchak quoted one respondent, “Inna,” who admitted that she and her f riends would exchange a typed song by Aleksandr Galich or a poem by Brodskii, but “[a]s for signing dissident letters or getting involved in other [dissident] activi­ ties, we never believed in that.” See Alexei Yurchak, Everything Was Forever, until It Was No More: The Last Soviet Generation (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2006), 145. 39. The ability to perceive and express this “truth” is related to the sense of autonomy fostered by samizdat communication and discussed in Ann Komaromi, Uncensored: Samizdat Novels and the Quest for Autonomy in Soviet Samizdat (Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press, 2015). 40. Fürst wrote about the quest for truth entailed by “dropping out” in the social­ ist east: this was “a moment of truth in the sense of personal salvation from lies.” See Fürst, “Introduction: To Drop or Not to Drop?” Dropping Out of Socialism: The Creation of Alternative Spheres in the Soviet Bloc, ed. Juliane Fürst and Josie McLellan (Lanham, MD: Lexington Books, 2017), 8. 41. Gordon Johnston, “What Is the History of Samizdat?” Social History 24, no. 2 (1999): 116–22. 42. Robert Darnton, The Forbidden Best-Sellers of Pre-Revolutionary France (London: HarperCollins, 1996), 183–84, was quoted by Johnston (“What Is the History

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of Samizdat?” 118). The communication circuit appeared in Darnton, The Kiss of Lamourette: Ref lections in Cultural History (New York: W. W. Norton, 1990), 112. See also Darnton, “‘What Is the History of Books?’, Revisited,” Modern Intellectual His­ tory 4, no. 3 (2007): 496. 43. There were no precise statistics to say how many copies eventually circu­ lated. See Mark W. Hopkins, Russia’s Underground Press: The Chronicle of Current Events (New York: Praeger, 1983), 26. While Gorbanevskaia produced the first ten issues practically on her own, a series of subsequent editorial teams took over pro­ duction after her arrest. Tatʹiana Velikanova organized the typing and distribution of the initial copies of issues f rom the beginning of 1970 until her arrest in Novem­ ber 1979, as reported by Gennadii Kuzovkin, “Nauchnoe izdanie ‘Khroniki tekush­ chikh sobytii’ i novye vozmozhnosti dlia izucheniia samizdata,” Acta samizdatica 1 (2012): 39. 44. Julius (Iulii) Telesin recalled that beginning in 1969, the term “samizdat” could be found in major official Soviet print outlets, including Novyi mir, Ogonek, and Literaturnaia gazeta. He described the first “purely samizdat show trial” of Ilʹia Burmistrovich in May 1969. Telesin argued that these instances showed that officials were struggling to define a phenomenon in terms they could understand, that is, as defamation of the Soviet State and social system. Julius Telesin, “Inside ‘Samizdat,’” Encounter (February 1973): 25–26. 45. From the editorial “Review of Samizdat for 1968” in issue 5 (December 1968). Zug, Switzerland: Amnesty International Publications (Inter Documentation Company AG), 1978. See also electronic republication, A Chronicle of Current Events, https://chronicle-of-current-events.com/. 46. From Chronicle 7 (1969), quoted by Hopkins, Russia’s Underground Press, 29. 47. The Presidium of the Supreme Soviet of the RSFSR passed Article 190-1 along with Article 190-3, concerning assembly that disturbed the peace, on Septem­ ber 16, 1966. Although the articles specified lighter sentences than Article 70 (antiSoviet agitation and propaganda, used against Andrei Siniavskii and Iulii Danielʹ for their works published abroad earlier that year), they prompted criticism. Prominent intellectuals objected in an open letter that the articles were “contrary to the Leninist principles of socialist democracy,” and that they opened the way to “subjective and arbitrary” interpretations by authorities. From Pavel Litvinov, The Demonstration in Pushkin Square: The Trial Records with Commentary and an Open Letter, trans. Manya Harari (Boston: Gambit, 1969), 13–15. 48. Foucault wrote, “Texts, books, and discourses really began to have authors (other than mythical, ‘sacralized’ and ‘sacralizing’ figures) to the extent that authors became subject to punishment, that is, to the extent that discourses could be trans­ gressive. In our culture (and doubtless in many others), discourse was not originally a product, a thing, a kind of goods; it was essentially an act . . . Historically, it was a gesture fraught with risks before becoming goods caught up in a circuit of owner­ ship.” From Michel Foucault, “What Is an Author?” in The Foucault Reader, ed. Paul Rabinow (New York: Pantheon Books, [1969] 1984), 108. 49. Valentina Parisi, who ref lected on the way roles outlined by Darnton tended to overlap in samizdat, wrote about Iurii Abyzov’s careful reproduction by hand of the cover and publisher’s mark for the 1933 Berlin edition of Fishnet (Nevod).

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See Parisi, “Scribes, Self-Publishers, Artists: Performing the Book in the Samizdat Writing Scene,” in Publishing as Artistic Practice, ed. Annette Gilbert (Berlin: Stern­ berg Press, 2016), 159. 50. “Dissidence” acquired a new, historically specific definition based on politi­ cal dissent in totalitarian (especially Communist) states, as seen in The New Shorter Oxford English Dictionary on Historical Principles, ed. Lesley Brown (Oxford: Claren­ don Press, 1993), 1:703. An official 1953 Soviet dictionary treated “Dissidenty (inako­ mysliashchie)” in terms of historical religious dissent; see Entsiklopedicheskii slovar′ v 3 tt., ed. B. A. Vvedenskii (Moscow: Gosudarstvennoe nauchnoe izdanie, “Bolʹshaia sovetskaia entsiklopediia,” 1953), 1:560. That practice continued throughout the Soviet years. Only in the post-Soviet era, a 1997 dictionary provided a new and separate definition of “dissidenty,” referring to members of a movement against totalitarian regimes in socialist countries. See DISSIDENTY, definition 2, in Bol′shoi entsiklopedicheskii slovar′, ed. A. M. Prokhorov (Moscow: Bolʹshaia Rossiiskaia entsik­ lopediia, 1997), 361. 51. Philip Boobbyer explained, “The Soviet dissidents are not easy to define. The Soviet regime itself happily labelled its opponents ‘dissidents’ because the words had anti-social and extremist connotations. Partly for this reason, oppositionists gener­ ally did not like the term ‘dissident.’ The dissidents sometimes preferred to describe themselves as ‘inakomyslyashchie,’ literally, ‘people who think differently,’ because it was a less loaded term.” In Philip Boobbyer, Conscience, Dissent and Reform in Soviet Russia (London and New York: Routledge, 2005), 75. 52. “Doklad tovarishcha Iu.V. Andropova,” Izvestiia 213, no. 18668 (September 10, 1977): 2. 53. “Doklad tovarishcha Iu.V. Andropova,” 2. 54. “Doklad tovarishcha Iu.V. Andropova,” 2. 55. Claude Lefort, The Political Forms of Modern Society: Bureaucracy, Democracy, Totalitarianism (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1986), 215; and Nancy Fraser, “Rethinking the Public Sphere: A Contribution to the Critique of Actually Existing Democracy,” in Habermas and the Public Sphere, ed. Craig Calhoun (Massachusetts: The MIT Press, 1992), 109–10. See discussion of these positions in chapter 2. 56. Boris Ivanov and Boris Roginskii traced the term “second culture” to Sergei Dovlatov in their foreword, “Ot sostavitelei,” in Istoriia leningradskoi nepodtsenzurnoi literatury: 1950–1980 gody. Sbornik statei, ed. B. Ivanov and B. Roginskii (Saint Peters­ burg: Izdatelʹstvo DEAN, 2000), 3. The term gained wide currency to designate unof­ ficial culture in Leningrad. 57. On “andegraund,” see the discussion with Mikhail Aizenberg et al., “Ande­ graund vchera i segodnia,” Znamia 6 (1998), https://magazines.gorky.media/ znamia/1998/6. Stanislav Savitskii addressed the use of the term “andegraund” by people at the time in Andegraund: Istoriia i mify (Moscow: NLO, 2002), 47–48. For the term’s use in English-language scholarship, see Klavdia Smola, “Community as Device: Metonymic Art of the Late Soviet Underground,” Russian Literature 96–98 (2018), 13. 58. Rights activists, even when forced to conceal their identity, insisted on the legality of their actions—they had nothing to hide. This attitude is ref lected in the Russian title of Petro Grigorenko’s memoirs, V podpol′e mozhno vstretit′ tol′ko krys

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(In the Underground You Meet Only Rats) (New York: Izdatelʹstvo Detinets, 1981). The English edition was more neutrally titled Memoirs (New York: Norton, 1982). Editors of the Leningrad samizdat journal Thirty-Seven also rejected the label “under­ ground,” as discussed in chapter 2. 59. Eleonory Gilburd described the “translation” of Western texts and forms into official Soviet culture, including the translation of Ernest Hemingway’s works and the exhibition of Pablo Picasso’s paintings. In Gilburd, To See Paris and Die (Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2018), 119, 216–17, and passim. See also Yurchak on the “Imaginary West,” in Everything Was Forever. 60. As Klavdia Smola and Mark Lipovetsky wrote, “the underground is conceptu­ alized as a specific niche developing in constant interaction with other social spaces such as the semi-official and the official.” See Klavdia Smola and Mark Lipovetsky, Introduction to the special issue “Russia—Culture of (Non-)Conformity: From the Late Soviet Era to the Present.” Russian Literature 96–98 (2018): 2. 61. Pierre Bourdieu described the relationship of the field of art to political and economic forces in society outside it. He described the field as “a prism which refracts every external determination,” in The Field of Cultural Production: Essays on Art and Literature, ed. Randal Johnson (Oxford: Polity, 1993), 164. 62. See Peter D. McDonald, “Implicit Structures and Explicit Interactions: Pierre Bourdieu and the History of the Book,” Library, ser. 6, 19, no. 2 (1997): 105–21. 63. Examples of Bourdieusian analysis of alternative culture in the late Soviet era can be found in Mikhail Berg, Literaturokratiia: Problema prisvoeniia i pereraspredeleniia vlasti v literature (Moscow: Novoe Literaturnoe Obozrenie, 2000); Komaromi, Uncen­ sored; and Elena Vladimirovna Pankratova, “Literaturnaia strategiia samizdatskogo zhurnala ‘Chasy’: Kontseptsiia nezavisimoi literatury” (PhD diss., Saint-Petersburg Gosudarstvennyi Universitet, 2018), 17–18. 64. In his study of illegal literature in France before the Revolution, Darnton expressed his intention to describe a world of illegal literature that, while it might seem surprising, shocking, naughty, or comic, would certainly “look different from the world made familiar by the great-man, great-book variety of literary history” (Darnton, The Forbidden Best-Sellers, xxii). 65. Jonathan Bolton, Worlds of Dissent: Charter 77, The Plastic People of the Uni­ verse, and Czech Culture under Communism (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2012), 14–16. 66. Public theory thus offers another way of addressing the question posed by Peter Steiner considering how samizdat departs from the economic premise of Darn­ ton’s communication circuit: “why did some East Europeans engage in activities from which they could hardly profit monetarily and that ultimately could be detrimental to their well-being?” (Steiner, “On Samizdat, Tamizdat, Magnitizdat,” 619). 67. An earlier treatment of literary samizdat and public theory appeared in Ann Komaromi, “Literary Samizdat and Samizdat Publics,” Enthymema 12 (2015): 8–26, http://riviste.unimi.it/index.php/enthymema. 68. Pollack and Wielgohs added that these dissident discourses and activities would be “critical of the regime,” but I do not consider the direct critique of that type to be a necessary component of dissidence. Detlef Pollack and Jan Wielgohs, “Introduction,” in Dissent and Opposition in Communist Eastern Europe: Origins of Civil Society and Democratic Transition (Farnham: Ashgate, 2004), xiii.

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69. Jones discussed Bolton, Worlds of Dissent in “Socialist Worlds of Dissent and Discontent after Stalinism,” Kritika: Explorations in Russian and Eurasian History 15, no. 3 (2014): 651. 70. Jürgen Habermas, The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere: An Inquiry into a Category of Bourgeois Society, trans. Thomas Burger and Frederick Lawrence (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1989). 71. Roudakova cited the communication scholar Wilbur Schramm: “‘The teach­ ings of Marx are immovable because they are true,’ Schramm quoted Lenin as say­ ing. Truth was thus revealed to Soviet audiences through the mass media, whereas in the liberal tradition, Schramm .  .  . wrote, truth was always contested through rigorous argument, confrontation of evidence, and exchange of ideas. At their most fundamental, Schramm . . . said, ‘the differences between the Soviet tradition and ours are the differences between Marx and Mill . . . on the one side, man as a mass, malleable, unimportant in himself, in need of Promethean leadership; on the other side, man as intelligent, discriminating, perfectly able to purchase by himself in a ‘free marketplace of ideas’” (Roudakova, Losing Pravda, 4–5). 72. See Taylor, “Modern Social Imaginaries,” Public Culture 14, no. 1 (2002): 114. The opposition of the critical public depended on the ability of reason to put a check on power: veritas non auctoritas facit legem (Habermas, Structural Transforma­ tion, 82). 73. Voronkov and Wielgohs talked about the rise of a “private-public sphere” in “Soviet Russia,” in Dissent and Opposition in Communist Eastern Europe, 111–14. Platt and Nathans picked up their notion of a “private-public sphere” in the context of what Voronkov and Wielgohs described as “the partial retreat from the state’s claims to control over daily life.” See Kevin Platt and Benjamin Nathans. “Socialist in Form, Indeterminate in Content: The Ins and Outs of Late Soviet Culture,” Ab Imperio 2 (2011): 310, 312. 74. Taylor, “Modern Social Imaginaries,” 106. 75. Taylor acknowledged that his work drew heavily on the pioneering study by Benedict Anderson in Imagined Communities, as well as work by Habermas, Warner, and others (Taylor, “Modern Social Imaginaries,” 92). 76. In addition to the rise of a public sphere, Taylor cited two other transitions fundamental to the formation of a modern Western social imaginary—these con­ cerned the economy and the practices and outlooks of democratic self-rule (Taylor, “Modern Social Imaginaries,” 111–12). 77. Habermas called this “audience-oriented subjectivity.” See chap. 2 of Habermas, The Structural Transformation. 78. Just over 300 titles appeared online in the database by Komaromi, Soviet Samiz­ dat Periodicals, http://samizdat.library.utoronto.ca, covering 1956–86. The database narrowed the genres covered but expanded the sources used, as compared to the Catalog of Samizdat (Katalog samizdata) produced by the Moscow Memorial Society in partnership with the Open Society Archive. That initial catalog was based on Radio Liberty’s publications of samizdat documents. Discussion of the database informa­ tion appeared in Komaromi and Kuzovkin, Katalog periodiki Samizdata, 1956–1986 (Moscow: Mezhdunarodnyi Memorial, 2018). 79. For example, the “thick journal,” a staple of Soviet publishing, was represented in samizdat by Leningrad journals Thirty-Seven and The Clock, as well

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as journals of sociopolitical discussion like Quest (Poiski) and The Twentieth Century (XX vek). See discussion of the genre in chapter 4. 80. Reference to Western poststructuralist theories was important for some Soviet and post-Soviet authors in the 1980s and after. Descriptions of Russian “post­ modernism” have taken into account the specificity of the Russian case. See, for example, Mark Lipovetsky, Russian Postmodernist Fiction; Dialogue with Chaos, ed. Eliot Borenstein (Armonk, NY: M.E. Sharpe, 1999).

1. Samizdat and the Historical Self

1. Taylor described what he meant by the “social imagination”: “I am think­ ing rather of the ways in which people imagine their social existence, how they fit together with others, how things go on between them and their fellows, the expec­ tations that are normally met, and the deeper normative notions and images that underlie these expectations” (Taylor, “Modern Social Imaginaries,” 106). 2. Taylor continued, “I’m talking about the way ordinary people “imagine” their social surroundings, and this is often not expressed in theoretical terms; it is carried in images, stories, and legends . . . the social imaginary is that common understand­ ing that makes possible common practices and a widely shared sense of legitimacy” (Taylor, “Modern Social Imaginaries,” 106). 3. Yuri Slezkine, “The USSR as a Communal Apartment, or How a Socialist State Promoted Ethnic Particularism,” Slavic Review 53, no. 2 (1994): 414–52. 4. Stephen Bittner wrote about the discourse of fathers and sons during the Thaw, as well as the notion of the thaw generation. See Stephen V. Bittner. The Many Lives of Khrushchev’s Thaw: Experience and Memory in Moscow’s Arbat (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2008), 13–14. 5. George Orwell, Nineteen Eighty-Four (London: Penguin Classics, 1949). 6. Orwell, Nineteen Eighty-Four, 10, 21, 29, 30. 7. As part of the cultural Cold War, the CIA book program supported the creation and distribution of books like Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four to Soviet and Eastern Bloc readers. A Russian version was published in 1957 by Possev publishing house, and in 1960 by an unidentified publisher in a seventeen-centimeter (6.69 in) copy convenient for smuggling and clandestine circulation. See Alfred A. Reisch, Hot Books in the Cold War: The CIA-Funded Secret Western Book Distribution Program behind the Iron Curtain (Budapest: Central European University Press, 2013). Soviet readers certainly knew Orwell’s novel; Andrei Amalʹrik referred to it in the title of his famous 1967 essay published in English as Will the Soviet Union Survive until 1984? (New York: Harper & Row, 1970). Most Soviet citizens did not expect the regime’s demise by that year, however. 8. From Lidiia Ginzburg, “Zapisi 1950–1960-kh godov,” in Zapisnye knizhki. Vospominaniia. Esse (Saint Petersburg: “Iskusstvo-SPB,” 2002), 188–89. 9. Thus, for example, Vasilii Aksenov recalled after emigrating the double-bind of combatting internalized censorship and feeling that combat constituted another type of submission to political control in the USSR. He dramatized the conversa­ tion he had “with my own right hand: ‘You, hand, you belong to a free person, you mustn’t shuff le between those countless Soviet taboos, you must crush them, you

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must prove to them . . .’ At this point I used to interrupt the dialogue and command my hand to stop: ‘you shouldn’t have to prove anything to this scum!” In “Looking for Colour: A Soviet Writer Compares Tsarist and Soviet Censorship,” Index on Cen­ sorship 4 (1982): 3–4. 10. Polly Jones reviewed these issues in Myth, Memory, Trauma: Rethinking the Stalinist Past in the Soviet Union, 1953–70 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2013), 6. She described the tension created by party control: “Even in its most populist, radi­ cal moments, however, the party continued to believe in the party’s unimpeachable authority over the people. This belief was usually not matched, however, by a stable image of the rights, freedoms, and duties of the Soviet citizenry. This struggle for authority had its counterpart outside the corridors of Soviet power, as the Soviet population grappled with potential new forms of interaction between state and soci­ ety, and between individual citizens.” See Jones, “Introduction,” in The Dilemmas of De-Stalinization: Negotiating Cultural and Social Change in the Khrushchev Era, ed. Polly Jones (London: Routledge, 2006), 5. 11. Kevin M. F. Platt wrote that, despite the global reach of Khrushchev’s speech, “within the bounds of the Soviet Union, Stalinist political violence came to be a highly controlled, taboo, and even ritualized subject—never discussed completely openly, addressed in public settings only with extreme caution, debated by social elites in closed settings, and documented and critiqued by dissenting members of society in secret conversations and samizdat publications such as Solzhenitsyn’s Gulag Archipelago.” “Secret Speech: Wounding, Disavowal, and Social Belonging in the USSR,” Kritika 42 (2016): 649. 12. However partial and limited, official statements at the post-Stalinist con­ gresses criticized Stalin and exploration of terror as a “legitimate focus of public discussion and an obligatory theme for Soviet literature and historiography” ( Jones, Myth, Memory, Trauma, 8). 13. Denis Kozlov, The Readers of Novyi mir: Coming to Terms with the Stalinist Past (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2013), 9–10. 14. There was a change in the late 1960s. Jones wrote, “it was only in the late 1960s that narratives of the cult of personality retreated fully into nonstate networks, becoming a “counter-memory” marginalized and silenced by the new priorities of Brezhnev-era public memory” (Myth, Memory, Trauma, 11). 15. Bittner, The Many Lives, 13. The metaphor of the Thaw dates to Erenburg’s novella The Thaw (Ottepel′), published in the official journal Znamia in May 1954 (Bittner, The Many Lives, 2). 16. Bittner, for example, wrote, “the common denominator of Khrushchev’s con­ tradictory, uneven, and sometimes ill planned reforms was rapid ideological change. Stalinism offered an evolving set of “systemically structured processes and experi­ enced social relations” that shaped individual identity and consciousness, explained the Soviet role in the world, and presented a vision of the communist future that justified present sacrifice and repression. Consequently, when Stalin died, more changed in the Soviet Union than the inhabitant of the Kremlin and the amount of repression he employed. A universe of meaning was thrown into disarray” (Bittner, The Many Lives, 12.) 17. Benjamin Tromly, “Intelligentsia Self-Fashioning in the Postwar Soviet Union: Revolʹt Pimenov’s Political Struggle, 1949–57,” Kritika 13, no. 1 (2012): 151.

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18. E. Iu. Zubkova described them in her book Poslevoennoe sovetskoe obshchestvo: Politika i povsednevnost′, 1945–1953 (Moscow: ROSSPEN, 2000), 148–49. Fürst cited evidence of around two dozen underground youth organizations operating in the late Stalin era, “The Arrival of Spring? Changes and Continuities in Soviet Youth Culture and Policy between Stalin and Khrushchev,” in: The Dilemmas of De-Stalinization, 141. 19. Anatolii Zhigulin, “Chernye kamni,” Znamia 7 (1988). Aleksandr Voronel also wrote about his activity with a group of seven other youths preparing uncensored leaf lets for workers in Cheliabinsk in 1946, in A. Voronelʹ, “Trepet iudeiskikh zabot,” originally published in the samizdat journal Jews in the USSR (Evrei v SSSR) 10 (1975), republished in Evreiskii samizdat 12 (1977): 17–18. 20. Zubkova, Poslevoennoe, 149. 21. When the sculptor Ernst Neizvestnyi and his friends at university decided in 1949 to form a group for self-education, despite having no political goals, they under­ stood that uncensored reading could get them punished. Therefore, they hid their activity and (pre-samizdat) clandestine translation and sharing of otherwise unavail­ able texts from the likes of George Orwell, Nikolai Berdiaev, Vladimir Solov′ev, and others. From E. Neizvestnyi, “Katakombnaia kulʹtura i ofitsialʹnoe iskusstvo,” Lit­ eraturnaia gazeta (October 10, 1990): 8. 22. Zubkova, Poslevoennoe sovetskoe obshchestvo, 148. 23. The uncensored literary journal Heresy, produced in the fall of 1956 by stu­ dents under the direction of Professor V. A. Manuilov at the Leningrad Library Insti­ tute came under attack in Leningradskaia pravda. Each copy of every issue was written by hand. See Igorʹ Adamatskii, “Vse nachinaetsia s eresi,” In Samizdat: Po materialam konferentsii “30 let nezavisimoi pechati 1950–80 gody,” Sankt-Peterburg, 25–27 aprelia 1992 g., ed. V. Dolinin and B. Ivanov, 34–36 (Saint Petersburg: Nauchno-informatsionnyi tsentr “Memorial,” 1993). See also “Eresʹ,” in Samizdat Leningrada, 403–4; and the account by Boris Vailʹ, Оsobo opasnyi (London: Overseas Publications Interchange, 1980), 129–32. 24. Tromly, Intelligentsia Self-Fashioning, 171–72. 25. Tromly, Intelligentsia Self-Fashioning, 168, 170–71. Tromly discussed Pimenov’s dismissal of his wife Verblovskaia’s political arguments, thereby reproducing a gen­ dered division of labor from the Bolshevik models that partly informed his pose (Intelligentsia Self-Fashioning, 170). 26. Tromly, Intelligentsia Self-Fashioning, 168. 27. Tromly, Intelligentsia Self-Fashioning, 166. 28. Benjamin Nathans examined another rights pioneer active a decade later in his article, “The Dictatorship of Reason: Aleksandr Volʹpin and the Idea of Rights under ‘Developed Socialism,’” Slavic Review 66, no. 4 (2007): 630–63. 29. Revolʹt I. Pimenov, “Vospominaniia,” pt. 1: “Odin politicheskii protsess (1956–1958),” Pamiat′: Istoricheskii sbornik, vol. 2 (Paris: YMCA-Press, 1979), 2:229–30. The published volume is based on the second issue of the samizdat edition Memory (Pamiat′), dated Moscow, 1977. 30. Irina Verblovskaia, “K istorii vozniknoveniia samizdat 50-kh godov,” in Samiz­ dat: Po materialam konferentsii, 33. 31. Tromly, Intelligentsia Self-Fashioning, 173n99. 32. As expressed in Vailʹ’s memoirs Оsobo opasnyi, 159–60.

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33. Nathans wondered whether Tromly’s account of Pimenov’s self-fashioning overemphasized the role of Stalinist subjectivity. He quoted from Pimenov’s mem­ oirs to show how Pimenov appealed to Gertsen’s famous slogan: “I stand not with those who do the hanging, but with those who are hanged.” Benjamin Nathans, “Thawed Selves: A Commentary on the Soviet First Person,” Kritika 13, no. 1 (2012): 182–83. 34. From Vladimir Bukovsky, To Build a Castle—My life as a Dissenter, trans. Michael Scammell (New York: Viking Press, 1978), 119. See also discussion in Vladi­ mir Bukovskii,“I vozvrashchaetsia veter .  .  .” (New York: Izdatelʹstvo “Khronika,” 1978), 106–8. 35. Andrei Sinyavsky, Soviet Civilization: A Cultural History, trans. Joanne Turnbull and Nikolai Formozov (New York: Arcade, 1990), 226, 229–30. 36. Bukovsky, To Build a Castle, 140. The final sentence is my translation from the original Russian version: Bukovskii, “I vozvrashchaetsia veter . . .,” 124. 37. Habermas discussed the role of novels along with other cultural works in forming public selves (The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere, 51). 38. The Soviet dissident anxiety about falling behind world progress, which appears to be a particular expression of a more generalized modern Russian anxiety going back to the time of Peter the Great, may be compared to the perspective of colonized peoples written out of “world history” by Hegel. On that colonial perspec­ tive, see Ranajit Guha’s critical appraisal of Hegel’s philosophy of history, including the movement from poetry to prose as it relates to the evolution of spirit in History at the Limit of World-History (New York: Columbia University Press, 2002), 14–15. 39. Ludmilla Alexeyeva and Paul Goldberg, The Thaw Generation: Coming of Age in the Post-Stalin Era (Boston: Little, Brown, 1990), 10, 13. 40. Paperno wrote about the inf luence of Gertsen (Herzen) on Alekseeva. See Irina Paperno, Stories of the Soviet Experience: Memoirs, Diaries, Dreams (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2009), 11, 12. 41. Hellbeck, Revolution on My Mind, 4–5. Hellbeck stressed the Hegelian underpinnings of his subjects’ way of thinking. For writer Aleksandr Afinogenov, for example, “Stalin personified history’s revolutionary development, playing a role comparable to Hegel’s world spirit, and for this reason the highest aspiration for Afinogenov, as well as other Soviet artists, was to occupy a place near Stalin in order to share in his prophetic vision and transformative powers” (Revolution on My Mind, 327). 42. Paperno, Stories, 160. 43. Paperno explained, “In Hegel’s terms, it is a sense of history immanent in the individual, internalized history, the meaning of which man is compelled to elaborate in his daily life” (Paperno, Stories, 11). 44. Paperno, Stories, 11. 45. Igal Halfin analyzed the eschatological structure of Marxist thought in From Darkness to Light: Class, Consciousness and Salvation in Revolutionary Russia (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 2000), 9. 46. Michael Warner, Publics and Counterpublics (New York: Zone Books, 2002), 76–77. 47. Alexeyeva, Soviet Dissent, 267. 48. See Andrei Amalrik, Notes of a Revolutionary, trans. Guy Daniels (London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1982), 5.

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49. Gorbanevskaia quoted by Peter Reddaway in his introduction to Uncensored Russia. The Human Rights Movement in the Soviet Union. The Annotated Text of the Unof­ ficial Moscow Journal, trans. Peter Reddaway (London: Jonathan Cape, 1972), 35. Reddaway emphasized the liberal democratic roots of the “democratic movement” dating back to Gertsen (Herzen) and the nineteenth century (Uncensored Russia, 15–17). The editorial item “A Survey of Samizdat for 1968” can be found in issue 5 (December 31, 1968) of A Chronicle of Current Events, https://chronicle-of-current­ events.com/. 50. Bukovskii’s remarks appeared in 5 dekabria 1965 goda, v vospominaniiakh uchast­ nikov sobytii, materialakh samizdata, publikatsiiakh zarubezhnoi pressy i v dokumentakh partiinykh i komsomol′skikh organizatsii i v zapiskakh Komiteta gosudarstvennoi bezopas­ nosti v TsK KPSS, ed. A. Danielʹ et al. (Moscow: Memorial, Zvenʹia, 2005), 22. 51. See Amalrik, Will the Soviet Union Survive until 1984? (7, with note). Amal′rik’s account of the cultural opposition was unusual in that it touched on poetry, visual arts and music, ref lecting Amal′rik’s broad circle of acquaintance. 52. Amalrik, Will the Soviet Union Survive until 1984?, 9–10, 5–6. 53. See Meerson-Aksenov, “The Dissident Movement and Samizdat,” in The Polit­ ical, Social and Religious Thought of Russian “Samizdat”—An Anthology, ed. Michael Meerson-Aksenov and Boris Shragin, trans. Nickolas Lupinin (Belmont, MA: Nord­ land Publishing, 1977), 29. 54. Danielʹ, “Istoki i smysl,” 20. 55. Authorities seized copies of Syntax and other materials seeking “anti-Soviet propaganda.” Failing good evidence, they fabricated a criminal charge on which to convict him. See the article on Sintaksis (Antologiia samizdata, 1.2: 349). 56. In the Posev edition of the White Book, published by the anti-Soviet émigré group NTS (National Labor Alliance), editors drew attention to its “pocket-sized format,” intended “for convenient circulation in Russia”: Belaia kniga o dele Sinia­ vskogo i Danielia (Frankfurt am Main: Posev, 1967), 3–4. For more on the NTS, see chapter 4. 57. The letter was published as Document III:2, “To World Public Opinion,” in Pavel Litvinov, The Trial of the Four: A Collection of Materials on the Case of Galanskov, Ginzburg, Dobrovolsky & Lashkova, 1967–68, trans. Janis Sapiets, Hilary Sternberg, and Daniel Weissbortrom (London: Longman, 1972), 226–27. 58. See Document III:2, “To World Public Opinion,” in Litvinov, The Trial of the Four, 226–27. 59. In part, Bogoraz and Litvinov wrote: “The judicial trial of Galanskov, Ginz­ burg, Dobrovolsky and Lashkova, which is taking place at present in the Moscow City Court, is being carried out in violation of the most important principles of Soviet law. The judge and the prosecutor, with the participation of a special kind of audience, have turned the trial into a wild mockery of three of the accused— Galanskov Ginzburg, and Lashkova—and of the witnesses, an unthinkable hap­ pening in the twentieth century. The case took on the character of the well-known ‘witch trials’ on its second day when Galanskov and Ginzburg—despite a year of preliminary incarceration and in spite of pressure from the court—refused to accept the groundless accusations made against them by Dobrovolsky and sought to prove their innocence” (Litvinov, The Trial of the Four, 225). 60. Litvinov, The Trial of the Four, 227.

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61. The KGB’s Case 24 against the Chronicle caused a long interruption between October 1972 and May 1974. Mark W. Hopkins covered details of the case in Rus­ sia’s Underground Press: The Chronicle of Current Events (New York: Praeger, 1983). For more on the Chronicle, see chaps. 2 and 3. 62. Alexeyeva, Soviet Dissent, 324–26. 63. Amalʹrik was one of those who created initial connections between rights activists and foreign visitors and international news correspondents. Aleksandr Ginz­ burg asked Amalʹrik in December 1966 to follow up an address left with Danielʹ’s wife Larisa Bogoraz by an English journalist. Ginzburg reportedly said, “You know how to socialize with foreigners. Couldn’t you put that journalist in touch with me?” Amalrik, Notes of a Revolutionary, trans. Guy Daniels (London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1982), 3. 64. Roger D. Markwick noted that literary writers and publicists provided the impetus for Soviet “revisionist” historians to take up sensitive themes in “Thaws and Freezes in Soviet Historiography, 1953–1964,” in The Dilemmas of De-Stalinization, 174. 65. Denis Kozlov cited Okudzhava’s writing about the era of Pushkin and Vasilii Bykov’s story about teaching and studying Tolstoy as examples, in “The Historical Turn in Late Soviet Culture: Retrospectivism, Factography, Doubt, 1953–91,” Kritika 2, no. 3 (2001): 577–600. 66. Kozlov, “The Historical Turn,” 599, 600. 67. Solzhenitsyn’s attempts to publish after Khrushchev left office in 1964 are well-known. Jones traced the fates of Konstantin Simonov’s One Hundred Days of War and Aleksandr Bek’s novel, The New Appointment, slated for publication in 1966, but ultimately banned, during the “drive to re-heroize the Stalinist past in the second half of the 1960s” (Myth, Memory, Trauma, 239). 68. Konstantin Rogov wrote: “Precisely that event [the invasion of Czechoslo­ vakia by Soviet troops] became the key cultural myth and cultural experience of a whole epoch. It became the text around which a colossal cognitive space began to be created.” Rossiia/Russia. Vyp. 1[9]: Semidesiatye kak predmet istorii russkoi kul′tury, ed. Konstantin Rogov (Moscow: O.G.I., 1998), 9. 69. Andrei Sinyavsky wrote about a “stumbling block” spurring dissident activity, in “Dissent as a Personal Experience,” Dissent 31, no. 2 (1984): 154. 70. Alexeyeva, Soviet Dissent, 323–24. 71. Boris Ostanin and Aleksandr Kobak. Molniia i raduga: Literaturno-kriticheskie stat′i 1980-kh godov (Saint Petersburg: Izdatelʹstvo imeni N. I. Novikova, 2003), 14. Their article “Lightning and Rainbow” (“Molniia i raduga”) first appeared in the samizdat journal The Clock (Chasy) 61 (1986). 72. Boris Grebenshchikov and his band Aquarium (Akvarium) sang about the “Generation of Janitors and Doormen” on the album Equinox (Ravnodenstvie, 1987). Grebenshchikov either picked up or coined this common formulation for a phenom­ enon recognized as characteristic of the 1970s. Bukovsky noted that the dropouts of the 1970s were preceded in the 1960s by a trend of young people who failed to finish their degrees because they were unable or unwilling to accede to ideological demands placed on their work. See Bukovsky, To Build, 124–25. 73. Dolinin and Severiukhin wrote about unofficial literati in Leningrad taking jobs as boiler-room stokers and other menial positions in the 1970s, in “Preodolenie nemoty,” in Samizdat Leningrada, 26.

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74. Benjamin Nathans, “Talking Fish: On Soviet Dissident Memoirs,” Journal of Modern History 87, no. 3 (2015): 585. 75. Kozlov, The Readers of Novyi mir, 10. 76. See Anton Sveshnikov, “Istoricheskii sbornik ‘Pamiatʹ’: Istoriia i konteksty,” in Istoricheskii sbornik ‘Pamiat′’: Issledovaniia i materialy, ed. B. Martin and A. Sveshnikov (Moscow: Novoe literaturnoe obozrenie, 2017), 75. See also Barbara Martin’s inter­ view with A. Iu. Danielʹ, in Sveshnikov, “Istoricheskii sbornik ‘Pamiatʹ,’” 333. 77. “Ot redaktora,” in Pamiat′. Istoricheskii sbornik, vypusk 1 (New York: Khronika Press, 1978), viii. The preface was written by Aleksandr Danielʹ with the help of A. B. Roginskii, M. Ia. Gefter, and S. V. Dediulin. 78. On Arsenii Roginskii, who went on to head the Memorial Society, see Benjamin Nathans, “Profiles in Decency,” New York Review of Books (April 23, 2020), https://www.nybooks.com/articles/2020/04/23/arseny-roginsky-profiles­ decency/. 79. Mikhail Geller, “Pamiat’ i ‘pamiatʹ’,” Vestnik RSKhD no. 128 (1979): 192–204. 80. Orwell said: “The fog of lies and misinformation that surrounds such subjects as the Ukraine famine, the Spanish civil war, Russian policy in Poland, and so forth, is not due entirely to conscious dishonesty, but any writer or journalist who is fully sympathetic to the USSR—sympathetic, that is, in the way the Russians themselves would want him to be—does have to acquiesce in deliberate falsification on impor­ tant issues.” From Orwell, “The Prevention of Literature” ( January 1946) in George Orwell, The Collected Essays, Journalism and Letters of George Orwell, vol. 6: In Front of Your Nose, 1945–1950, ed. Sonia Orwell and Ian Angus (London: Secker & Warburg, 1968), 62. 81. Geller quoted from the speech by Maksim Gorʹkii on “Soviet Literature,” delivered at the First All-Union Congress of Writers in 1934, in M. Gorʹkii, Sobranie sochinenii v tridtsati tomakh (Moscow: Gos. izd. khudozhestvennoi literatury, 1953), 27:333. This was the Congress where Socialist Realism was promulgated as official doctrine. 82. From Varlam Shalamov’s story “Perchatka,” in Sobranie sochenenii v chetyrekh tomakh (Moscow: Khudozhestvennaia literatura, 1998), 2:279. Quoted in Sarah J. Young, “Mapping Spaces as Factography: Human Traces and Negated Genres in Varlam Shalamov’s Kolymskie rasskazy,” Slavonica 19, no. 1 (2013): 3. 83. From Barbara Martin’s interview with Dmitrii Zubarev, Istoricheskii sbornik “Pamiat′,” 183. Evoking a somewhat different set of connotations, Fürst asserted the importance of truth as istina over pravda for alternative attitudes in the late Soviet era (Fürst, “To Drop,” 8). 84. From the interview by Ann Komaromi and Gennadii Kuzovkin with Arsenii Roginskii, April 4, 2008, Project for the Study of Dissidence and Samizdat, https:// samizdatcollections.library.utoronto.ca/interviews/arseny-roginsky. 85. “Otzyv redaktsii ‘Pamiati’ o desiati let sushchestvovanii ‘Khroniki tekush­ chikh sobytii,’” Pamiat′, 3:558–59. The published volume is based on the samizdat historical collection Memory (Pamiat′), no. 3 (Moscow, 1978). The collection was rep­ resented abroad by Gorbanevskaia, founding editor of the Chronicle, who had immi­ grated to France in 1975. The volumes published in tamizdat attracted international attention, including that of the prominent US historian Richard Pipes, who wrote to the editors concerning a review they published of his book Russia under the Old

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Regime (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1974), as discussed in Istoricheskii sbornik “Pamiat′,” 136–37, 157. 86. Pimenov, “Vospominaniia.” 87. The quotation is from Kozlov, The Readers of Novyi mir, 9. 88. David Kowalewski, “National Dissent in the Soviet Union: The Crimean Tatar Case,” Nationalities Papers 2, no. 2 (1974): 3, DOI: 10.1080/00905997408407756. 89. Alekseeva devoted a chapter to the long-standing issues of poor treatment of the Crimean Tatar people in chapter seven of Alexeyeva, Soviet Dissent. On the initial period of petitions, see 137–40. 90. Gulʹnara Bekirova, Krym i krymskie tatary v XIX–XX vekakh: Sbornik statei (Moscow: n.p., 2005), 276. 91. Alekseeva spoke of the Crimean Tatar bulletin Information as a “prototype” for the Moscow Chronicle (Alexeyeva, Soviet Dissent, 285). 92. Sakharov also advocated on behalf of the Crimean Tatars in 1968 (Kow­ alewski, “National Dissent in the Soviet Union,” 9). 93. Bekirova wrote that the bulletin Information began in June 1965, and by the early 1980s there were hundreds of issues (Krym i krymskie tatary, 275). See also M. N. Guboglo and S. M. Chervonnaia, Krymskotatarskoe natsional′noe dvizhenie (Moscow: Tsentr po izucheniiu mezhnatsionalʹnykh otnoshenii pri RAN, 1992), 1:18. 94. Dzhemilev was tried together with Ilʹia Gabai, who was sent from Moscow to Tashkent for the trial. Gabai was also accused of circulating samizdat, though he was not acting together with Dzhemilev. From item 3 in issue 12 (February 28, 1970) of A Chronicle of Current Events. 95. Guboglo and Chervonnaia, Krymskotatarskoe natsional′noe dvizhenie, 18. 96. See the introduction for reference to Alekseeva’s history written on the basis of Chronicle issues. 97. Mournful Information 69, published as AS no. 396 in Sobranie dokumentov samizdata 12 (1973). Crimean Tatars had special faith in Lenin’s legacy in part because he had signed a decree in 1921 on the formation of the Crimean Republic (Alexeyeva, Soviet Dissent, 141). 98. Mournful Information 69. 99. Mournful Information 69. This number was determined based on careful cen­ sus calculations undertaken by Crimean Tatar leaders in 1966, using the networks initially established by the initiative groups of the early 1950s (Alexeyeva, Soviet Dissent, 138, 142). 100. Mournful Information 69. 101. Information 82, January 1, 1969. From the Archive of the History of Dissi­ dence in the USSR, Memorial (Moscow), F. 119 (P. G. Grigorenko). 102. Alexeyeva, Soviet Dissent, 138. 103. Copies of K′′asevet 1–2 (1984) are located in the Archive of the Research Centre for East European Studies at Bremen University FSO 01-022 (S. M. Chervon­ naia, M. A. Chervonnyi, Z.G. Liubina). 104. The editor Shevket Kaibullaev specified the different eras in the life of the publication: from 1984 to 1987 there were about four issues per year that treated rights and the Crimean Tatar movement; from 1988 through 1994 the journal included social and literary topics; and beginning in 1994 it became a publication with historical-ethnographic information for a broad audience. This information

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comes from Shevket Kaibullaev’s text about K″asevet, shared by Gulʹnara Bekirova in personal correspondence (November 22, 2006). 105. See Dziarnovic, “History Is Just Being Written,” in Pazatsenzurny pery­ iadychny druk Belarusi, 1971–1990, ed. Iurasʹ Lauryk and Larysa Androsik (Minsk: BGAKTS, 1998), 164. 106. The Center for Research and Documentation of East European Jewry in Jerusalem produced the series Jewish Samizdat (Evreiskii samizdat), reprinting the peri­ odical publications of the movement beginning in 1971. For more on Jewish samizdat journals, see chapter 4. 107. Buber, “Why We Should Study Jewish Sources,” In Israel and the World: Essays in a Time of Crisis (New York: Schocken Books, 1963), 147; appeared in Soviet samizdat as “Pochemu nam sleduet izuchatʹ evreiskie istochniki,” Tarbut 1 (1975), republished in Evreiskii samizdat 18 (1979). 108. Larisa Bogoraz, for example, described identifying with Russian culture more than with the Jewish people: a fate she did not want for her children and grandchildren. In Bogoraz, “Do I Feel I Belong to the Jewish People?” originally published in the samizdat journal Jews in the USSR (Evrei v SSSR) and republished in I Am a Jew: Essays on Jewish Identity in the Soviet Union, ed. Aleksander Voronel, Viktor Yakhot, and Moshe Decter (USA: Anti-Defamation League of B’Nai Brith, 1973), 63–64. 109. Haim Hazaz, “The Sermon,” in The Sermon & Other Stories, trans. Hillel Halkin (New Milford, CT: Toby Press, 2005), 234. The story appeared as “Vystuple­ nie” in Tarbut 11 (March 1978), republished in Evreiskii samizdat 19 (1979). 110. Fraser cited feminist research on the inequities observed among participants in mixed-gender deliberations, and she cited theorist Jane Mansbridge to show how “subtle forms of control,” including the language people use for deliberation, favors one way of seeing things and discourages others. From Nancy Fraser, “Rethinking the Public Sphere: A Contribution to the Critique of Actually Existing Democracy,” in Habermas and the Public Sphere, ed. Craig Calhoun (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1992), 119. 111. Hazaz, The Sermon, 236–37, 248. Yudka seems to refer to what Salo W. Baron described as a tendentious “lachrymose” conception of Jewish history. See Baron, “Ghetto and Emancipation,” in The Menorah Treasury: Harvest of Half a Century, ed. Leo W. Schwarz (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, [1928] 1964), 63. 112. The present book builds on other scholarship using critical debates about the public sphere to help analyze late Soviet culture. Jones referred to Bolton (Worlds of Dissent) and the articles collected in Samizdat, Tamizdat and Beyond: Transnational Media During and After Socialism, ed. Friederike Kind-Kovacs and Jessie Labov (New York: Berghahn Books, 2013). She said, “Both studies continue the productive theo­ rization of post-Stalinist culture in terms of public spheres, especially Michael War­ ner’s post-Habermasian notion of counter-publics produced through discourse and cultural circulation” ( Jones, “Socialist Worlds of Dissent,” 648). 113. Fraser called out “the longstanding failure in the dominant wing of the socialist and Marxist tradition to appreciate the full force of the distinction between the apparatuses of the state, on the one hand, and public arenas of citizen discourse and association, on the other. .  .  . the conf lation of the state apparatus with the public sphere of discourse and association provided ballast to processes whereby the

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socialist vision became institutionalized in an authoritarian-statist form instead of in a participatory-democratic form. The result has been to jeopardize the very idea of socialist democracy” (Fraser, “Rethinking the Public Sphere,” 109–10). 114. From Volʹpin’s recollections (5 dekabria 1965 goda, 43). 115. From the editors’ foreword in Tarbut 11 (March 1978). 116. The tension in the Jewish movement between the so-called “culture activ­ ists” (kul′turniki) and “political activists” (politiki) who demanded rights was real, even if the divide between them was far from absolute, as Yuli Kosharovskii showed in “We Are Jews Again”: Jewish Activism in the Soviet Union (Syracuse: Syracuse Uni­ versity Press, 2017), 178–90. For more on plurality within the Jewish movement, see chapter 4. 117. As Warner said, “A public is a space of discourse organized by nothing other than discourse itself. It is autotelic; it exists only as the end for which books are pub­ lished, shows broadcast, Web sites posted, speeches delivered, opinions produced. It exists by virtue of being addressed” (Publics and Counterpublics, 67). 118. Fraser made the point that conf lict and dissent among people in the pub­ lic could indicate more effective democracy rather than dysfunction (“Rethinking,” 117). See also Warner on Fraser’s “subaltern counterpublics,” Publics and Counterpub­ lics, 118. 119. The use of the term “subcultural” indicates the nonverbal character of the dominant mode of expression among alternative music fans and musicians (Fürst, “To Drop,” 5–6). Soviet bards and rock artists were noted in many cases for the qual­ ity of their lyric texts. Fans also were using discourse and verbal communication to make sense of the music they loved and what it meant. 120. Rachel Platonov used the term “gray zone” in her book, Singing the Self: Guitar Poetry, Community, and Identity in the Post-Stalin Period (Evanston, IL: North­ western University Press, 2012). For more on Platonov’s analysis of Soviet bards and their audiences, see chapter 2. 121. Fürst wrote, “Many aspects of cultural and social life in the Western postwar years also left their marks in the East: the global counterculture of the 1960s, the turn toward Eastern esotericism, the anticapitalist boom of punk culture, changes in youth culture caused by technological innovation, just to name a few” (“To Drop,” 2). 122. Artemy Troitsky was an insider to the scene who helped describe it for West­ ern readers. See Troitsky, Back in the USSR: The True Story of Rock in Russia (Boston: Faber and Faber, 1987). 123. For an overview of Soviet rock and the impact of government policies and Western inf luences, see Sabrina Petra Ramet, Sergei Zamascikov, and Robert Bird, “The Soviet Rock Scene,” in Rocking the State: Rock Music and Politics in Eastern Europe and Russia, ed. Sabrina Petra Ramet (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 1994), 181–218. 124. Igorʹ Monakhov (Smirnov), “Novyi Gesiod,” reprinted in Aleksandr Kush­ nir, Zolotoe podpol′e. Polnaia illiustrirovannaia entsiklopediia rok-samizdata. 1967–1994. Istoriia. Antologiia. Bibliografiia (Nizhny Novgorod: Dekom, 1994), 219–23. The style of expression in Soviet rock zines was highly developed and significant. See discus­ sion in chapter four. 125. In addition to the organization of rock concerts and festivals featuring homegrown Soviet groups, the technology of sharing music facilitated its spread.

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An early practice of copying Western rock albums onto x-ray film, which began in the 1950s, gave way to magnitizdat cassette tapes. On rock on the bones (“roentgen­ izdat”), see Yurchak (Everything Was Forever, 182–84); and Artemy Troitsky, Back in the USSR, 7–8. By 1969 the Soviet Union was producing more than 1 million tape record­ ers a year, as demand grew. By 1985, they produced 4.7 million annually (Yurchak, Everything Was Forever, 187). 126. Smirnov, “Novyi Gesiod,” 221. 127. Smirnov talked about passing around a copy of an article about Deep Purple from hand to hand as a sign of new horizons for rock (“Novyi Gesiod,” 221). 128. See Aleksei Kozlov, Dzhaz, rok i mednye truby (Moscow: Eksmo, 2005), 261. See also Sergei I. Zhuk, Rock and Roll in the Rocket City: The West, Identity, and Ideol­ ogy in Soviet Dniepropetrovsk, 1960–1985 (Washington, DC: Woodrow Wilson Center Press, 2010. 129. Smirnov, “Novyi Gesiod,” 223. 130. Aleksandr Kushnir detailed the repressions that caused samizdat journals, including The Ear to be shut down in 1983 in “Iz-pod pressa vremen,” Zolotoe podpol′e, 8–10. 131. See chapter 4 for more on this broad network of rock fandom. 132. Fürst, “To Drop,” 5. 133. Fürst, “To Drop,” 6. 134. Warner argued that the public constituted a “social imaginary.” He pointed out that “the idea of a public, unlike a concrete audience or the public of a polity, is text-based—even though publics are increasingly organized around visual or audio texts. Without the idea of texts that can be picked up at different times and in dif­ ferent places by otherwise unrelated people, we would not imagine a public as an entity that embraces all the users of that text, whoever they might be” (Publics and Counterpublics, 12, 67–68). 135. Warner talked about the function of public texts in terms of poiesis—the creation of a social world that did not exist before: “A public is poetic world making” (Publics and Counterpublics, 114). This differed from the common view that publics exist independently of the speech that addresses them. In that more conventional view: “The public is thought to exist empirically and to require persuasion rather than poesis [sic]. Public circulation is understood as rational discussion writ large.” This amounts to a “constitutive misrecognition of publics” (Warner, Publics and Counterpublics, 115). 136. Barbara Martin, Dissident Histories in the Soviet Union: From De-Stalinization to Perestroika (London: Bloomsbury, 2019), 3. 137. Barbara Martin, Dissident Histories, 181. 138. Public speech fundamentally entails the conjunction of personal and imper­ sonal: “With public speech . . . we might recognize ourselves as addressees, but it is equally important that we remember that the speech was addressed to indefinite others,” wrote Warner (Publics and Counterpublics, 77). 2. Giving Voice to Truth in Samizdat

1. Warner emphasized that public speech must be addressed to strangers. When we read or hear it, we are conscious that it is addressed to people we do not

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know as well as to ourselves. This gives “general social relevance” to utterances that might otherwise be thought of as private (Publics and Counterpublics, 77). Further discussion of Warner’s analysis of the relation of lyric and public modes to time appears in chapter three. 2. Warner quoted Fraser on the term “subaltern counterpublics,” which desig­ nate “parallel discursive arenas where members of subordinated social groups invent and circulate counterdiscourses to formulate oppositional interpretations of their identities, interests, and needs.” Warner also pointed out that “Differential deploy­ ment of style is essential to the way public discourse creates the consciousness of stranger sociability.” Those in the group understand the style as simply expressive, while to outsiders it may seem to be estranged or objectified speech (Warner, Publics and Counterpublics, 118, 108–9). 3. Lefort wrote that “totalitarian discourse denies all the oppositions that bour­ geois ideology dealt with . . . Above all else, totalitarian discourse effaces the opposi­ tion between the state and civil society; it seeks to make the presence of the state manifest throughout the social space.” From The Political Forms of Modern Society: Bureaucracy, Democracy, Totalitarianism, ed. and trans. John B. Thompson (Cam­ bridge: Polity Press, 1986), 215. Fraser remarked on the lack of distinction between the state and civil society and the threat it posed to the possibility of socialist democ­ racy (“Rethinking the Public Sphere,” 109–10). 4. See quotation and discussion of Andropov’s speech in the introduction to this book. 5. Lefort wrote that the totalitarian discourse works “by diffusing itself through­ out the circuits of socialization, by elaborating systems of signs whose representative function is no longer identifiable, by taking hold of actors in order to insert them within these systems, in such a way that the discourse speaks (almost) through them and abolishes (almost) the space, which is indeed indeterminate but always preserved in bourgeois ideology, between the enunciation and that which is enunciated” (The Political Forms, 215–16). 6. Yurchak cited Lefort’s description of the “master” whose person covers over contradictions, pointing to the disappearance of Stalin as the beginning of “late socialism” (Everything Was Forever, 10). 7. Jones, Myth, Memory, Trauma, 8. 8. Jones wrote, “the party continued to believe in the party’s unimpeachable authority over the people. This belief was usually not matched, however, by a stable image of the rights, freedoms, and duties of the Soviet citizenry. This struggle for authority had its counterpart outside the corridors of Soviet power, as the Soviet population grappled with potential new forms of interaction between state and soci­ ety, and between individual citizens” (The Dilemmas of De-Stalinization, 5). 9. Bittner, The Many Lives, 200. 10. Bittner wrote, “In 1968, when Ginzburg, Galanskov, Dobrovolʹskii, and Lash­ kova were tried for compiling and distributing the White Book, the court further tightened the reins by rejecting assertions that individual conscience was a basis of authority in Soviet politics. Patriotism demanded the subordination of conscience to the state” (The Many Lives, 209). Nevertheless, Bittner showed that the transition between the Thaw period and Brezhnevian stagnation in the USSR was more com­ plex than a move from greater freedom to renewed repression.

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11. Barbara Martin identified this truth-telling function with dissident historiog­ raphy, but it was a more generally felt imperative. Barbara Martin, Dissident Histories in the Soviet Union: From De-Stalinization to Perestroika (London: Bloomsbury, 2019), 3. 12. Claude Lefort wrote of the effects of internal and external (international) pressure on post-Stalin societies in Eastern Europe  in terms of a heightened gap between power and the people: “As much in the USSR as in the countries of the East the weight of foreign oppression is added to that of internal oppression so that the fracture between the power and the population has become more profound . . . there is not necessarily a convergence among the modes of contestation that have appeared, but all of them try to open a space beyond the limits of power and outside the bounds of the social imagination—a space of law, a space of religion, a space of national identity” (“Tant en U.R.S.S. que dans les pays de l’Est où le poids de l’oppression étrangère s’ajoute à celui de l’oppression intérieure, la fracture entre le pouvoir et la population s’est approfondie. . . . des modes de contestation se sont fait jour qui ne sont pas nécessairement convergents, mais qui ont en commun de tenter d’ouvrir un espace hors des limites du pouvoir et hors de la clôture imaginaire du social—espace du droit, espace de la religion, espace de l’identité nationale.” L’Invention démocratique (Paris: Fayard, 1981), 347. 13. See Yurchak’s description of the standardization and predictability of Soviet “authoritative discourse,” particularly after Stalin (Everything Was Forever, 36–37). 14. Krivulin, “Zolotoi vek samizdata” (343). 15. Mandelʹshtam wrote: “I alone in Russia work from the voice while all around the bitch pack writes” (Ia odin rabotaiu s golosa, a vokrug menia gustopsovaia svoloch′ pishet). The line comes from the fifth section of “Fourth Prose,” written in 1929–30 and circulated three decades later in samizdat. See Osip Mandelstam, The Prose of Osip Mandelstam, trans. Clarence Brown (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1965), 181. Krivulin wrote about first learning of Mandelʹshtam from Erenburg’s memoirs People, Years, Life, published in Novyi mir in the early 1960s. From Krivu­ lin’s essay “Osip Mandelʹshtam: Otkrytie i preodolenie,” in Okhota na mamonta (Saint Petersburg: Russko-Baltiiskii informatsionnyi tsentr BLITS, 1998), 190. 16. The behavior discussed in terms of “dropping out” amounted to the same sort of attempt to create a separate space in Soviet society as we see in samizdat. Fürst wrote that “‘dropping out’ was part and parcel of a search for something uncorrupted, purer, and truer—in short more ‘authentic’” (“To Drop or Not to Drop?” 8). 17. Krivulin, “Zolotoi vek samizdata,” 346. 18. Khrushchev modeled—in an ambivalent way—the responsibility to speak out with his Secret Speech at the Twentieth Congress. The message was taken up generally by Soviet intelligentsia and revisited, for example, by Aleksandr Galich, who satirized silence as profitable conformity in his song “Goldminer’s Waltz” (Staratel′skii val′sok) from 1963: “But insofar as silence is gold, / We are prospectors, no question of it” (No poskolʹku molchanie—zoloto, / To i my, bezuslovno, sta­ rateli) (Smith, Songs to Seven Strings, 207). 19. Ilya Ehrenburg, Eve of War, 1933–1941, trans. Tatiana Shebunina with Yvonne Kapp (London: MacGibbon & Kee, 1963), 214. This passage appears in bk. 4, chap. 30 of Erenburg, Liudi, gody, zhizn′, 206. 20. Erenburg enjoyed special privileges to speak, write, and travel relatively freely, in part because “Khrushchev was initiating a policy of ‘peaceful coexistence’ and it

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was helpful to have a writer such as Ehrenburg, who was identified with European culture, represent the Soviet Union’s benign intentions.” Joshua Rubenstein, Tangled Loyalties: The Life and Times of Ilya Ehrenburg (New York: Basic Books, 1996), 293. 21. In an article in Izvestiia, from January 30, 1963, the literary critic Vladimir Ermilov (a former member of the Russian Association of Proletarian Writers, famous for his participation in political campaigns against many authors) attacked Erenburg for suggesting that he and other Soviet citizens had been aware of the innocence of millions of Stalin’s victims during the 1930s, but that they had been compelled to keep silent (Priscilla Johnson and Leopold Labedz, Khrushchev and the Arts: The Politics of Soviet Culture, 1962–1964 [Cambridge: MIT Press, 1965], 18). The coordinated attack on Erenburg was part of a conservative revanche that took shape by early 1963 and included Khrushchev’s refutation of Erenburg’s statement during his speech on March 8, 1963. In retrospect, many saw a partial rehabilitation of Stalin beginning around that time (Rubenstein, Tangled Loyalties, 344, 353–55). 22. Kozlov, The Readers, 178. 23. Evgeniia Ginzburg was one of the first to thank Erenburg for bringing back the victims’ names (Kozlov, The Readers, 179). On Ginzburg’s own memoirs, see below. 24. Erenburg ended the chapter by saying, “the curtain of the confessional may be simultaneously lowered and raised” (Eve of War, 217). 25. Ehrenburg, Eve of War, 216. 26. Olga Carlisle described the mass popularity of poetry in the Soviet Union since Stalin: “Whole printings of books by popular poets are sold out in a few hours, and printings of as many as three hundred thousand volumes are not uncommon. Throughout the country, huge crowds congregate whenever a public poetry reading is given.” From Carlisle, Poets on Street Corners (New York: Random House, 1968), 5. She profiled Evtushenko, Voznesenskii and others, also considering the alternative “barracks” poetry associated with Lianozovo. 27. As detailed in Antologiia samizdata, 1.1:249. 28. Lazar Fleishman described Pasternak’s decision to pass the manuscript through Sergio d’Angelo to the publisher Giangiacomo Feltrinelli in Milan. See Fleishman, Boris Pasternak: The Poet and His Politics (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1990), 275. For more on the complicated history of publishing Pasternak’s novel in the West, see Paolo Mancosu, Zhivago’s Secret Journey: From Typescript to Book (Stanford: Hoover Press, 2016). 29. Kozlov, Readers, 112. The wide circulation of Pasternak’s Zhivago poems beginning in the mid-1950s was noted by many familiar with samizdat at the time. See, e.g., Krivulin, “Zolotoi vek samizdata,” 345–46. Some of the poems from the novel had appeared in Banner in 1954, increasing awareness of them. 30. Galich’s song “In Memory of Boris Leonidovich Pasternak” (Pamiati Borisa Leonidovicha Pasternaka, 1966) bitterly satirized the complacency of Soviet intelligen­ tsia who continued to accept the state’s persecution of writers, even if in slightly less directly violent forms: “How proud we are, contemporaries, / That he died in his own bed” (Kak gordimsia my, sovremenniki, / Chto on umer v svoei posteli). Quoted by Rachel Platonov, Singing the Self, 195n34. 31. From pt. 1, chap. 5.5 of Pasternak’s Doctor Zhivago, trans. Max Hayward and Manya Harari (London: Collins and Harvill Press, 1958), 130.

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32. Siniavskii discussed Pasternak’s language in “Poeziia Pasternaka,” in Paster­ nak, Stikhotvoreniia i poemy (Moscow: Biblioteka poeta, 1965), 24, 28. 33. Again, Pasternak’s protagonist Zhivago expressed this idea: “It had been the dream of his life to write with an originality so covert, so discreet, as to be out­ wardly unrecognisable in its disguise of current, customary forms of speech. All his life he had struggled after a language so reserved, so unpretentious as to enable the reader or the hearer to master the content without noticing the means by which it reached him. All his life he had striven to achieve an unnoticeable style” (Doctor Zhivago, 394). 34. Fleishman, Boris Pasternak, 270. 35. The final line of the poem, “To live your life is not as simple as to cross a field” (Zhizn′ prozhit′—ne pole pereiti), is a popular Russian proverb (Doctor Zhivago, 467). 36. Fleishman, Boris Pasternak, 259–62. 37. Requiem, in Anna Akhmatova, The Word That Causes Death’s Defeat: Poems of Memory, trans. Nancy K. Anderson (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2004), 135. Nikolai Yezhov was head of the NKVD from 1936 to 1938, at the height of the purges, during which Akhmatova’s son Lev Gumilev was arrested and imprisoned for five years. Her husband, Lev’s father Nikolai Gumilev, had been charged falsely with membership in a monarchist organization and shot by the Soviet secret police in 1921. 38. See Iakov Klots, “‘Rekviem’ Akhmatovoi v tamizdate: 56 pisem,” Colta, June 24, 2019. https://www.colta.ru/articles/literature/21637-rekviem-ahmatovoy-v-tamiz date-56-pisem. 39. Warner, Publics and Counterpublics, 84. 40. Lidiia Chukovskaia, Zapiski ob Anne Akhmatovoi: 1952–1962 (Moscow: Soglasie, 1992), 2:190. 41. Paperno, Stories, 102. On the lack of clear divisions between victims and per­ petrators, see remarks recorded by Svetlana Alexievich, “Why didn’t we put Stalin on trial? I’ll tell you why . . . In order to condemn Stalin, you’d have to condemn your friends and relatives along with him.” From Section: “On How We Grew Up among Victims and Executioners,” part of “Snatches of Street Noise and Kitchen Conversa­ tions (1991–2001),” in Alexievich, Secondhand Time, 32. 42. Akhmatova delivered a rebuke to those who lived “where foreign wings shel­ tered and reassured” in the 1961 epigraph added to the poem, and émigré readers took notice (Akhmatova, “Requiem,” 135). On émigré reaction, see Klots, “‘Rekviem’ Akhmatovoi v tamizdate.” 43. Lefort described the effect of totalitarian ideology in covering over social divisions in the supposed unity between state and society (The Political Forms, 217). 44. Harsha Ram explained how romantic Russian poets internalized the space of the tsarist empire, which helped give force to their poetry even as they contested aspects of that power, in The Imperial Sublime: A Russian Poetics of Empire (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2003), 5. 45. As Paperno wrote, given the Soviet state’s attempts to co-opt the literary intelligentsia into the official social hierarchy, belonging to that group implied “an uneasy relationship to the state power: a double bind of privilege and martyrdom” (Stories, 60).

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46. Paperno, Stories, 87. Paperno referred to Alexander Zholkovsky, “The Obverse of Stalinism: Akhmatova’s Self-Serving Charisma of Self lessness,” in Self and Story in Russian History, ed. Laura Engelstein and Stephanie Sandler (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2000), 62–64. 47. Zholkovsky, “The Obverse of Stalinism,” 67–68. 48. In addition to Brodskii and the others counted among “Akhmatova’s orphans,” Krivulin and Vladimir Muravʹev were among those who visited Akhmatova and took important inspiration from the contact with her. See Anna Akhmatova: Poslednie gody. Rasskazyvaiut Viktor Krivulin, Vladimir Murav′ev, Tomas Ventslova (Saint Peters­ burg: Nevskii Dialekt, 2001). 49. Sinyavsky, Andrei. “Dissent as a Personal Experience,” trans. Maria-Regina Kecht, Dissent 31, no. 2 (1984): 154. 50. For example, conceptualist artist Ilʹia Kabakov expressed impatience with his fellow Soviet intellectuals’ reverence for cultural artifacts such as Andrei Tarkovskii’s films and Akhmatova’s poetry. See Matthew Jesse Jackson, The Experimental Group: Ilya Kabakov, Moscow Conceptualism, Soviet Avant-Gardes (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2010), 74. 51. Nikolai V. Pervushin described Solzhenitsyn’s “powerful and rejuvenated lan­ guage” as central to his literary craft, which exhibited the traits of skaz, stylized oral speech. From Pervushin, “Preliminary Remarks on the Literary Craft of Solzhenit­ syn,” Canadian Slavonic Papers 13, no. 2/3 (1971): 145. 52. Alexander Solzhenitsyn, One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich (New York: Bantam Books), 49. 53. From Tvardovskii’s “Instead of a Foreword,” in Solzhenitsyn, One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich, xx. Andrew Wachtel observed “that One Day came to be pub­ lished at all is something of a miracle.” He examined editor Aleksandr Tvardovskii’s careful framing of the novella within the November 1962 issue of New World (Novyi mir). Wachtel, “One Day—Fifty Years Later,” Slavic Review 72, no. 1 (2013): 108. 54. As Claude Lefort wrote, “The Gulag Archipelago—this book or one like it, at least—there were a small number of us waiting for it a long time: a book telling how it is in the prisons and work camps . . . the mechanisms of extermination dissimulated beneath the signs of the Revolution, the benevolent Plans and the New Man—coming to us at last from Russia itself, written by someone whose testimony and knowledge of the system would be irrefutable.” From Lefort, Un homme en trop. Réf lexions sur “L’archipel du goulag” (Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 1976), 9. Looking back on the appear­ ance of Solzhenitsyn’s book as a major event, Yves Mamou recalled, “The Gulag Archipelago . . . which appeared in France and in Germany in 1974, marked a turning point. Not as much for the Russians and all the minorities terrorized and maltreated by the Soviet police apparatus as for us French.” See Mamou, “L’Archipel du goulag,” Le Monde (August 5, 2008), https://www.lemonde.fr/idees/article/2008/08/05/l­ archipel-du-goulag-par-yves-mamou_1080386_3232.html. 55. Aleksandr I. Solzhenitsyn, The Gulag Archipelago 1918–1956: An Experiment in Literary Investigation, trans. Thomas P. Whitney (New York: Harper & Row, 1973), x. 56. Solzhenitsyn, The Gulag Archipelago, xi–xii. Alekseeva discussed the chain of events in which Elizaveta Voronianskaia kept a copy of the manuscript of The Gulag Archipelago. After being questioned for five days by KGB agents in August 1973, the seventy-year-old woman told them the hiding place and then took her own life.

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Solzhenitsyn’s book was subsequently published in Paris in December 1973 by the YMCA Press (Alexeyeva, Soviet Dissent, 320). Alekseeva’s information on this and many other events came from their initial reporting in the samizdat bulletin Chronicle of Current Events (Khronika tekushchikh sobytii). 57. Solzhenitsyn, The Gulag, xi. 58. Solzhenitsyn’s description of the frozen creatures as possibly amphibians (tritony, translated as “salamanders”) drew on the material he found in an issue of the Soviet journal Nature. Solzhenitsyn, The Gulag, ix. 59. In the issue of Nature to which Solzhenitsyn referred, salamanders were discussed separately from the big fish uncovered during work on a road near the Kolyma riverbed. Solzhenitsyn’s salamanders took on a life of their own as a sat­ urated metaphor that stood in for former prisoners, dissidents, the return of the repressed, and indeed the work itself. See Ben Nathans “Talking Fish: On Soviet Dissident Memoirs,” Journal of Modern History 87 (September 2015): 597n60; Nikolai Formozov, “Metamorfoz odnoi metafory: Kommentarii zoologa k prologu Arkhi­ pelaga GULag,” Novyi mir 10 (2011); Mark Lipovetsky and Alexander Etkind, “Voz­ vrashchenie tritona: Sovetskaia katastrofa i postsovetskii roman,” Novoe literaturnoe obozrenie 94 (2008): 175; I. Sukhikh, “Skazanie o tritone (1958–68). Arkhipelag GULAG A. I. Solzhenitsyna,” Zvezda 12 (2001). 60. Grigorii Pomerants referred in his polemic with Solzhenitsyn to Dostoevskii as the basis for a more polyphonic notion of the self and ideas. He took the side of Siniavskii (Terts) against that of Solzhenitsyn. The latter wished to cancel out the possibility of disagreement and debate in the name of his (national) truth. But, wrote Pomerants, “I am continuing the argument, and my argument is for the republic of ideas against the tyranny of truth.” From Grigorii Pomerants, Sny zemli (book pub­ lished as Poiski Special Issue no. 7–8) (Créteil, France: Poiski, 1984), 276. 61. V. V. Ioffe talked about the objections of A. E. Tumanova, who was involved with an opposition group in the 1950s. She complained about Solzhenitsyn’s tenden­ tious characterization of the prisoners: “In three volumes of the Archipelago one finds only victims. But he knew about our group” (Sveshnikov, “Istoricheskii sbornik ‘Pamiatʹ’”), 73–74. 62. Natasha Kolchevska wrote about Ginzburg’s intention to “promote a cultural and moral vision.” While not a professional literary writer, her memoirs read like a novel, with “a polished narrative exposition” and “a strong authorial voice.” From Kolchevska, “The Art of Memory: Cultural Reverence as Political Critique in Evge­ niia Ginzburg’s Writing of the Gulag,” The Russian Memoir: History and Literature, ed. Beth Holmgren (Illinois: Northwestern University Press, 2003), 148–49, 152. 63. Evgeniia Ginzburg’s memoirs Krutoi marshrut were among the most popular works in samizdat (Alexeyeva, Soviet Dissent, 327). They circulated in up to five thou­ sand copies (Olga M. Cooke and Rimma Volynska, “Interview with Vasilii Aksenov,” Canadian American Slavic Studies 39, no. 1 [2005]: 22). The first volume was published in Milan in Russian and Italian in 1967. The second volume was written in the late 1970s and also published abroad. They appeared in English as Into the Whirlwind, trans. Paul Stevenson and Max Hayward (New York: Harcourt, Brace, Jovanovich, 1967), and Within the Whirlwind, trans. Ian Bolan (New York: Harcourt Brace Jova­ novich, 1981). 64. Ginzburg, Within, 231.

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65. Ginzburg, Within, 234. 66. Alan Barenberg prefaced his discussion of prisoners released from Vorkuta with the observation, “Former prisoners faced misunderstanding, prejudice, and sometimes open hostility from the society that they were attempting to rejoin.” See Barenberg, “From Prisoners to Citizens? Ex-Prisoners in Vorkuta during the Thaw,” in The Thaw. Soviet Society and Culture during the 1950s and 1960s, eds Denis Kozlov and Eleonory Gilburd (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2013), 147. The prospects for “provisionally released prisoners” in 1948, the time of Ginzburg’s conversation, were much worse. Ultimately, however, her fate illustrated the possibility of success­ ful reintegration into Soviet society after Stalin. 67. Ginzburg, Within, 238–39. 68. Ginzburg, Within, 267–68. 69. Vasya is Vasilii Aksenov, the writer, who depicted a fictionalized version of his experience in Magadan with his mother in his novel The Burn. See Vassily Aksyonov, The Burn: A Novel in Three Books (Late Sixties–Early Seventies), trans. Michael Glenny (New York: Random House, 1984). 70. Heather Coleman, Russian Baptists and Spiritual Revolution, 1905–1929 (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2005), 19–20. 71. Coleman, Russian Baptists, 74. 72. Coleman, Russian Baptists, 130–31. 73. Nadezhda Beliakova and Miriam Dobson, Zhenshchiny v evangel′skikh obsh­ chinakh poslevoennogo SSSR: 1940–1980-e gg.: Issledovanie i istochniki (Moscow: Indrik, 2015), 22. 74. See Walter Sawatsky, Soviet Evangelicals since World War II (Kitchener, ON: Herald Press, 1981), 15. Michael Froggatt referred to events from 1959–64 as part of Khrushchev’s second “anti-religious campaign” in “Renouncing Dogma, Teaching Utopia: Science in Schools under Khrushchev,” in The Dilemmas of De-Stalinization: Negotiating Cultural and Social Change in the Khrushchev Era, ed. Polly Jones (London: Routledge, 2006), 263. 75. Catherine Wanner described the inf luence on Soviet ideology of the Webe­ rian view of secularization, which “took Europe as a normative model for social and cultural development. This thesis posited that secularization was an inevitable outcome of modernization, that is, a byproduct of increased urbanization, educa­ tion, and bureaucratization. As these developments intensified, the thinking went, an inevitable shift from religious myth to rational scientific thinking would evolve, prompting new understandings as to what constitutes authoritative knowledge, which would lead to the privatization of religious belief and eventual withering away of the role of religion in social institutions and in the public sphere.” From Wanner, “Introduction,” in State Secularism and Lived Religion in Soviet Russia and Ukraine, ed. Catherine Wanner (Washington, D.C.: Woodrow Wilson Press, 2012) 7. 76. Froggatt, “Renouncing Dogma,” 257–63. 77. On the relationship of the 1959–64 measures to the 1929 law, see Sawatsky, Soviet Evangelicals, 136. Michael Bourdeaux discussed Article 227, introduced in July 1962 to the Criminal Code of the Russian Republic. The article made it punishable for up to five years of imprisonment or exile for crimes including, “Organizing or leading a group whose activities are carried on under the guise of teaching religious doctrine and carrying out religious rites which entail . . . either prompting citizens to

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refuse to participate in social activity or [to refuse to] fulfil their civil obligations, and likewise enticing minors into this group.” Quoted in Michael Bourdeaux, Religious Ferment in Russia (London: Macmillan, 1968), 13. 78. See Bourdeaux, Religious Ferment, 21; Sawatsky, Soviet Evangelicals, 141, 146; and Alexeyeva, Soviet Dissent, 204. See also Sovremennaia religioznaia zhizn′ Rossii, ed. M. Burdo and S.B. Filatov (Moscow: Logos, 2003): 185. 79. Beliakova and Dobson, Zhenshchiny v evangel′skikh obshchinakh, 25, 29. 80. For more on the scope and mechanisms of Baptist samizdat, see chapter 4. 81. Beliakova and Dobson, Zhenshchiny v evangel′skikh obshchinakh, 172–73. 82. The council was founded on February 24, 1964, not long after Baptist Nikolai Khmara died after being imprisoned for his faith and tortured to death (Beliakova and Dobson, Zhenshchiny v evangel′skikh obshchinakh, 349–50). Lidiia Vins started working with the council a couple of years after its inception, and she led the group in the 1970s (Alexeyeva, Soviet Dissent, 210). 83. The Bulletin CPR issue 9, 1972, was published as AS no. 1205, in Sobranie dokumentov samizdata no. 19. An English account of Moiseev’s story with several translated documents from the case appeared in Myrna Grant, Vanya (Carol Stream, IL: Creation House, 1974). 84. The water’s height of 156 centimeters corresponds to 61.4 inches, or just over five feet. At 185 centimeters, Moiseev was 72.8 inches, or just over six feet tall. 85. Official Soviet press reports described an accidental drowning and denounced the reform Baptists who described the incident otherwise (Grant, Vanya, 195–203). 86. Ivan’s relatives insisted on opening Ivan’s coffin so his bruised body could be seen (Grant, Vanya, 20). 87. AS no. 1205, 3. 88. AS no. 1205, 16; Grant, Vanya, 172. 89. The poem appeared at the end of the Bulletin CPR editors’ address to readers (AS no. 1205, 3). 90. AS no. 1205, 4–5; Grant, Vanya, 191. 91. The report by Ivan’s relatives opened with a quote from Revelation 6: 9–11: “I saw underneath the altar the souls of those who had been slain because of the word of God, and because of the testimony which they had maintained . . . And there was given to each of them a white robe; and they were told that they should rest a little while longer, until the number of their fellow-servants and their brethren who were to be killed even as they had been should be completed also” (Vanya, 190). 92. From the report on “The Trial of G. P. Vins,” issue 35 (March 31, 1975). See: A Chronicle of Current Events, https://chronicle-of-current-events.com. 93. Mark W. Hopkins, Russia’s Underground Press: The Chronicle of Current Events (New York: Praeger, 1983), 23. 94. Samuel Moyn wrote that human rights were “widely understood as a moral alternative to bankrupt political utopias.” Moyn, The Last Utopia (Cambridge: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2010), 5. Moyn cited statements by people such as Julia Kristeva in France regarding a “new type of intellectual” to illustrate the fact that “One of the distinctive features of human rights consciousness in the crucial years of the 1970s was that appeal to morality could seem pure even where politics had shown itself to be a soiled and impossible domain” (The Last Utopia, 170).

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95. See details on the English editions of A Chronicle of Current Events by Amnesty International in chapter 4. 96. A Chronicle of Current Events, no. 63 (London: Amnesty International Publi­ cations, 1983). 97. Alexeyeva, Soviet Dissent, 340–41. 98. From Alekseeva’s statement on behalf of the Soviet Helsinki Groups to the Commission on Security and Cooperation in Europe, Washington, DC, June 3, 1977. Transcript in the Radio Liberty Samizdat Files at the Open Society Archive (HU OSA 300-85-46/2, Folder 2-10, “Dokumenty samizdata 1977,” 6–7). Alekseeva also mentioned khodoki in her introduction to Dokumenty Moskovskoi Khel′sinkskoi Gruppy (1976–1982), ed. D. I. Zubarev and G.V. Kuzovkin (Moscow: MKhG, 2006), 5, http:// mhg.ru/sites/default/files/files/docmhg_1976_1982.pdf. See more on the Helsinki groups in chapter 4. 99. See discussion of Crimean Tatar samizdat editions in chapter 1. Isliamova came with a group to Moscow to advocate for repatriation. She refused to get on the bus sent by officials to take her and her fellow Crimean Tatars back to the Bukharan Region. As a consequence, she was thrown into a jail cell with criminals, interrogated at 3 a.m. and charged falsely with disorderly conduct. Mournful Information 69, AS No. 396. 100. These poets are sometimes referred to as the “Leningrad School.” See, for example, Stanislav Savitskii, Andegraund. Istoriia i mify leningradskoi neofitsial′noi literatury (Moscow: NLO, 2002), 20. 101. See Viacheslav Dolinin and Dmitri Severiukahin, “Razmezhevanie dvukh kulʹtur,” in Preodolenie nemoty: Leningradskii samizdat v kontekste nezavisimogo kul′turnogo dvizheniia (1953–1991) (Saint Petersburg: Izd-vo Novikova, 2003), 25–26. The editors Boris Ivanov and Boris Roginskii traced the term “second culture” (vtoraia kul′tura) to Sergei Dovlatov in their foreword, “Ot sostavitelei,” to Istoriia len­ ingradskoi nepodtsenzurnoi literatury: 1950–1980 gody. Sbornik statei (Saint Petersburg: Izdatelʹstvo DEAN, 2000), 3. The term gained wide currency to designate under­ ground culture in Leningrad. 102. Anna Akhmatova: Poslednie gody. Rasskazyvaiut Viktor Krivulin, Vladimir Murav′ev, Tomas Ventslova (Saint Petersburg: Nevskii Dialekt, 2001) 27. 103. Krivulin said that of the poets named by Akhmatova in the early 1960s as a golden group, including, most famously Brodsky, there remained something like a “nostalgic echo.” From Krivulin, “Predislovie,” in Okhota na mamonta, 8–9. Brodsky, who was exiled to the north and later left the USSR in 1972, projected a poetic persona as the last great poetic “Author,” but he did not exert much direct inf luence on those who came after him, as Olga Sedakova explained it in her essay, “Muzyka glukhogo vremeni,” Vestnik novoi literatury 2 (1990): 258. 104. Mikhail Aizenberg commented on the widespread turn to the Silver Age and “world culture” in late Soviet underground poetry (“Andegraund vchera i segod­ nia”). Clint B. Walker analyzed Krivulin’s complex triangulation of subtexts from Mandelʹshtam and Valerii Briusov in “The Spirit(s) of the Leningrad Underground,” Slavic and East European Journal 43 (1999): 678. Emily Lygo identified Mandelʹshtam as the most important figure from the Petersburg literary heritage for Leningrad poets in her book, Leningrad Poetry, 1953–1975: The Thaw Generation (Bern: Peter Lang,

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2010), 6–7. Josephine von Zitzewitz likewise described Leningrad unofficial culture as “permeated by a Mandelʹshtamian ‘longing for world culture’” in her study, Poetry and the Leningrad Religious-Philosophical Seminar, 1974–1980: Music for a Deaf Age (Cam­ bridge: Legenda, 2016), 2. 105. On the religious-philosophical seminar, see Samizdat Leningrada, 445–46; and Josephine von Zitzewitz, Poetry and the Leningrad Religious-Philosophical Semi­ nar, 1974–1980: Music for a Deaf Age (Cambridge: Legenda, 2016). In addition to the apartment number, the journal name Thirty-Seven ref lected some more esoteric understandings (Samizdat Leningrada, 457–58). Information on the edition can also be found in the introduction to “37” by Josephine von Zitzewitz and Ann Komaromi, Project for the Study of Dissidence and Samizdat (PROJ), https://samizdatcollec­ tions.library.utoronto.ca/content/introduction-37. 106. “Ot redaktsii,” Tridtsat′ sem′ 1 (1976). Electronic editions and full text tran­ scriptions is available at PROJ, https://samizdatcollections.library.utoronto.ca/ islandora/object/samizdat%3A37. 107. From Krivulin’s essay on “‘37,’ ‘Severnaia pochta,’” in “Samizdat: Po materi­ alam konferentsii,” 74–75. 108. Habermas, chap. 2 of The Structural Transformation. 109. That said, a broader spectrum of writers and readers was associated with another journal begun in 1976 in Leningrad: on The Clock (Chasy, 1976–90); see chapter 3. 110. From the article appearing under the pseudonym A. Kalomirov (V. Krivu­ lin), “Dvadtsatʹ let noveishei poezii,” in the samizdat journal Severnaia pochta 1–2 (1979): image 042 (PROJ). 111. Krivulin, “La Tur,” Tridtsat′ sem′ 1 (1976) : image 63 (PROJ). 112. Aizenberg described the 1970s: “The noise of history was not heard; the no-time expressed itself in ultrasound. We searched for a language that would be comprehensible to our time” (Aizenberg, “Andegraund vchera i segodnia”). 113. See, for example, the chiaroscuro effects and simple faces used by Georges de la Tour in his painting Joseph the Carpenter (ca. 1642, Louvre). 114. Vladislav Kulakov identified the spirit of a cultural “inferiority complex” of Krivulin and associated poets with Mandelʹshtam’s “tongue-tiedness” (kosnoiazychie): Kulakov, “Stikhi posle stikhov,” Polilog 4 (2011): 8. On the ironic awareness of “cul­ tural poverty” among Krivulin and his associates in the 1970s, see also von Zitzewitz, Poetry and the Leningrad Religious-Philosophical Seminar, 60. 115. Krivulin, Okhota na mamonta, 8. 116. On what Bakhtin called the “great time” of culture, see discussion in chapter 3. 117. Krivulin, “Zolotoi vek samizdata,” 344. 118. Krivulin, “Zolotoi vek samizdata,” 344. See the anthology edited by Kuzʹminskii and Kovalev, Antologiia noveishei poezii. 119. Krivulin, Okhota na mamonta, 8. 120. The article whose title was given as “Leningradskoe podpolʹe prodolzhaet deistvovatʹ,” reportedly appeared in the Herald News on June 19, 1976. The loca­ tion of the newspaper was specified only as the United States, and the original has not been found. From “Replika redaktsii,” Thirty-Seven 5 (1976): images 158–59 (PROJ).

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121. Boris Grois’s article on “Moscow Romantic Conceptualism” first appeared in Thirty-Seven (see chapter 3), as did works by Rubinshtein and Nekrasov. On the term “metarealism,” see Mikhail Epstein, “Metarealism and Conceptualism” and “A Catalogue of New Poetries,” both in Russian Postmodernism: New Perspectives on Post-Soviet Culture, ed. Mikhail Epstein, Alexander Genis, and Slobodanka VladivGlover (New York: Berghahn Books, 1999), 105–12, 145–51. 122. See chapter 1 on the rock samizdat journal The Ear (Ukho). 123. Alexeyeva, Soviet Dissent, 376. Among other repercussions, the crackdown on the dissident activity at the beginning of the 1980s meant that the Chronicle of Current Events ceased publication after 1982. 124. Platonov, Singing the Self, 5. 125. Until the summer of 1981, Minstrel came out as organ of the Moscow Club of Amateur Song. Then, after events in Poland, it was shut down by authori­ ties, and editors repositioned the edition as the wall newspaper of the Panopticon (Panoptikum) Club of Amateur Song at the Gorbunov House of Culture. Then the Moscow Club of Amateur Song was revived, and Minstrel became its organ again. From the conversation with the Minstrel editor Andrei Krylov led by R. Shipov: “Opyt legalʹnogo samizdata 80-kh,” Bibliografiia 5–6 (1992): 67. 126. Igorʹ Karimov, Istoriia Moskovskogo KSP. Liudi. Fakty. Sobytiia. Daty. Sub′ektivnyi vzgliad na ob′ektivnuiu real′nost′ (Moscow: Ianus-K, 2004), 176–78. 127. “Opyt legalʹnogo samizdata,” 68. 128. From Platonov’s chapter 2 on “Gray Zones: Theories of Marginality in a Russian-Soviet Context,” in Singing the Self, 39. 129. J. Martin Daughtry, “‘Sonic Samizdat’: Situating Unofficial Recording in the Post-Stalinist Soviet Union,” Poetics Today 30, no. 1 (2009): 28. 130. Rosette C. Lamont, “Horace’s Heirs: Beyond Censorship in the Soviet Songs of the Magnitizdat,” World Literature Today 53, no. 2 (1979): 226. 131. Platonov, Singing the Self, 38–39. 132. Gerald Stanton Smith, Songs to Seven Strings: Russian Guitar Poetry and Soviet “Mass” Song (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1984), 97. 133. Lev Anninskii, Bardy (Irkutsk: Izdatelʹ Sapronov, 2005), 7. 134. The magnitizdat system developed when reel-to-reel recorders, such as the Yauza system tape recorder, began to be widely available around 1960. Smith quoted official statistics showing that “The open-reel tape recorder was first marketed in the USSR on any significant scale in 1960, when 128,000 of them were manufac­ tured.” Within a decade, production was up to over a million (Smith, Songs to Seven Strings, 95). 135. Smith, Songs to Seven Strings, 97–98. The audio values of recordings of rock music, whether Soviet or Western, tended to be much higher thanks to an alterna­ tive commercial network and different audience expectations. See Anna Kan, “Living in the Material World: Money in the Soviet Rock Underground,” in Dropping Out of Socialism, ed. Fürst and McLellan, 255–76. 136. Smith, Songs to Seven Strings, 98. 137. Platonov, Singing the Self, 4. Platonov referred to public theory to address the way guitar poetry helped define and communicate “identities, interests, and needs” (Platonov, Singing the Self, 10). Rossen Djagalov also argued for the relevance of Jürgen Habermas’s theory of the public sphere and Benedict Anderson’s concept

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of imagined communities in understanding the social effects of author’s song (gui­ tar poetry). See Rosen Dzhagalov, “Avtorskaia pesnia kak zhanrovaia laboratoriia,” trans. A. Skidan, Novoe literaturnoe obozrenie, no. 6, 2009, http://magazines.gorky. media/nlo/2009/6/avtorskaya-pesnya-kak-zhanrovaya-laboratoriya-soczializma-s­ chelovecheskim-liczom.html. 138. From the listing of contents of Minstrel: “Soderzhanie gazety ‘Menestrelʹ za 1979–1985 gg.,” Bibliografiia 5–6 (1992): 70–79. 139. “Opyt legalʹnogo samizdata,” 68. 140. Karimov, Istoriia Moskovskogo KSP, 178. 141. Yurchak referred to the state of being outside (vnenakhodimost′), used by Bakhtin to describe the author’s relation to the literary hero he creates, to describe the way in which Soviet people carved a space of de-territorialized “outsideness” relative to authoritative discourse in late Soviet society. Yurchak, Everything Was For­ ever, 133–34. 142. Fürst talked about “agency and subjective intention” in the introduction (“To Drop,” 6). In her article in that volume, Fürst remarked, “Yurchak locates most of the concepts he has coined for the world of the ‘last Soviet generation’ in a struc­ tural analysis of late socialism, turning its subjects’ nonconformism into ciphers of the period rather than an act of agency. This neatly sidesteps the perennially tricky question of whether we can truly ever speak of resistance and opposition in a setting in which, as many historians have acknowledged, dissent and affirmation were tightly intertwined. If Yurchak’s alienated, indifferent crowd does not count as opposition, who then should count as a dissenter? Yet it also means that the subjectivity of the late socialist subject fades from the picture. By looking at the Yellow Submarine through the prism of the term ‘dropping out,’ the subjectivity of its members is put center stage.” From Fürst, “We All Live in a Yellow Submarine: Dropping Out in a Leningrad Commune,” in Dropping Out of Socialism, ed. Fürst and McLellan, 181. 143. The notion of this truth-telling function comes from Barbara Martin, Dissi­ dent Histories in the Soviet Union: From De-Stalinization to Perestroika (London: Bloomsbury, 2019), 3. 144. M. M. Bakhtin, “Forms of Time and of the Chronotope in the Novel,” in The Dialogic Imagination: Four Essays, ed. Michael Holquist, trans. Caryl Emerson and Michael Holquist (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1981), 85. 145. Bakhtin, “Forms of Time,” 257. The article on the chronotope was written in 1937–38, although the “Concluding Remarks,” from which I quote, were written in 1973. 146. See Warner’s discussion in “A Public Is Poetic World Making,” in Publics and Counterpublics, 114–24. 3. Imagining Time in Samizdat

1. Bakhtin wrote, “We will give the name chronotope (literally, ‘time space’) to the intrinsic connectedness of temporal and spatial relationships that are artistically expressed in literature” (“Forms of Time,” 84). 2. Warner, Publics and Counterpublics, 114–15. 3. Warner wrote, “Dominant publics are by definition those that can take their discourse pragmatics and their lifeworlds for granted, misrecognizing the indefinite

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scope of their expansive address as universality or normalcy. Counterpublics are spaces of circulation in which it is hoped that the poiesis of scene making will be transformative, not replicative merely” (Publics and Counterpublics, 122). 4. Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Ref lections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism (London: Verso, [1983] 2006), 33. 5. Imagined Communities, 33. Anderson referenced Walter Benjamin’s concep­ tion of “homogeneous, empty time,” a sort of simultaneity that is an essential modern conception (Imagined Communities, 24). 6. Partha Chatterjee, “Anderson’s Utopia,” Diacritics 29, no. 4 (1999): 132. 7. Asad introduced this notion of heterogeneous time as a complement to that of “complex space,” a topic treated in chapter four of Talal Asad, Formations of the Secular: Christianity, Islam, Modernity (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2003), 179. 8. Asad, Formations of the Secular, 5. 9. Taylor, “Modern Social Imaginaries,” 115. 10. Asad, Formations of the Secular, 5. 11. See John Milbank’s account of Taylor’s thesis in A Secular Age: “secularization is not whiggishly on the agenda of history, but is fundamentally the result of a selfdistortion of Christianity—primarily in Western Europe.” From Milbank, “A Closer Walk on the Wild Side,” in Varieties of Secularism in a Secular Age, ed. Michael Warner, Jonathan Van Antwerpen, and Craig Calhoun (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2010), 55. 12. Charles Taylor, Modern Social Imaginaries (Durham: Duke University Press, 2004), 195. 13. Nadezhda Mandelʹshtam recalled Akhmatova saying of Osip Mandelʹshtam that he did not need Gutenberg’s invention. “In a sense,” said Nadezhda Mandelʹshtam, “we really do live in a pre-Gutenberg [dopechatnaia] era” (from the end of the chapter “Window on the Sophia Embankment” in Hope against Hope [1970: 380]). The phrase pre-Gutenberg is relatively widely invoked for late Soviet culture and commonly attributed to Akhmatova. Viacheslav Ivanov wrote of seeing the manuscript of a poem by Brodskii in Akhmatova’s room. Akhmatova said, “We live according to the slogan ‘Down with Gutenberg.’” See Viach. Vs. Ivanov, “Besedy s Annoi Akhmatovoi,” https://stihi-rus.ru/ahmatova9.htm. 14. This “closed” spin on the immanent frame has been hegemonic in intellec­ tual and academic milieux in the West, said Charles Taylor, in A Secular Age (Cam­ bridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2009), 550. 15. Michael Froggatt, “Renouncing Dogma, Teaching Utopia: Science in Schools under Khrushchev,” in The Dilemmas of De-Stalinization: Negotiating Cultural and Social Change in the Khrushchev Era, ed. Polly Jones (London: Routledge, 2006), 257–58. 16. Goricheva, who participated in the women’s movement and the ReligiousPhilosophical Seminar in Leningrad, addressed an international audience in her pref­ ace Cry of the Spirit: Christian Testimonies from the Soviet Union, ed. Tatiana Goricheva (London: Fount Paperbacks, 1989), 17–18. Natalʹia Krakhmalʹnikova was editor of the samizdat collection Hope. 17. See discussion of Syntax (Sintaksis) in chapter 1. 18. Liudmila Polikovskaia, My predchuvstvie . . . predtecha . . . Ploshchad′ Maiakovsk­ ogo. 1958–1965 (Moscow: Zvenʹia, 1997), 11, 164.

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19. The acronym SMOG signified either “Daring, Thought, Image, Depth” (Smelost′, Mysl′, Obraz, Glubina); or “The Youngest Society of Geniuses” (Samoe Molo­ doe Obshchestvo Geniev). The SMOG group included Leonid Gubanov and Vladimir Aleinikov. Samizdat journals that included their poetry were Sphinxes (Sfinksy, 1965) and Avant-Garde (Avangard, 1965). The two groups are mentioned in 5 dekabria 1965 goda, 6, 8. See also Polikovskaia, My predchuvstvie, 311 and passim. 20. By the spring of 1961, authorities started driving away the people gather­ ing at the Maiakovka. Four participants—Ilʹia Bokshtein, Anatolii Ivanov, Eduard Kuznetsov and Vladimir Osipov—were arrested between August and October 1961 and investigated for attempts to establish an underground revolutionary organiza­ tion. These arrests put a definitive end to the Maiakovka gatherings. See Alexeyeva, Soviet Dissent, 272; Polikovskaia, My predchuvstvie, 135; and the article on Feniks in Antologiia samizdata, 1.2:350. 21. To this day, wrote Bukovskii, he could not say whether they are good verses; they were too identified with that time (krovno oni sviazany): “One of the works most often read in the Square was Yuri Galanskov’s Manifesto of Man [Chelovecheskii manifest]. It was read both by the author and by some of the actors. To this day I cannot say whether it is a good poem or not, and I’m in no position to judge - it is too intimately bound up with my whole recollection of those times. We perceived the Manifesto of Man as a symphony of rebellion, as a summons to resistance.” From Vladimir Bukovsky, To Build a Castle: My Life as a Dissenter, trans. Michael Scammell (New York: Viking Press, 1978), 117; (Bukovskii, I vozvrashchaetsia, 131–32). 22. The text of Galanskov’s “Chelovecheskii manifest” (1960) was printed in Antologiia samizdata, 1.1:108–10. 23. Warner continued quoting Mill: “Eloquence supposes an audience . . . Poetry is feeling confessing itself to itself, in moments of solitude” (Publics, 81). 24. Danielʹ, “Istoki i smysl,” 18. As discussed in chapter 1, Bukovskii cited the circulation of verses by Mandelʹshtam and Pasternak as important to establishing channels of transmission (5 dekabria 1965 goda, 22). 25. Olʹga Carlisle wrote about such crowds, including more than 12,000 people who attended a reading at the Luzhniki Stadium in Moscow in the fall of 1962. From Olga Carlisle, Poets on Street Corners (New York: Random House, 1968), 5. 26. From the end of part 2 of Maiakovskii’s “A Cloud in Trousers” (Oblako v shtanakh), in V. V. Maiakovskii, Sochineniia v dvukh tomakh (Moscow: Pravda, 1988) 2:14. 27. Maiakovskii was like a gateway drug through which other poets and artists of the modernist period could be accessed. This was true for some in the late 1940s, according to Siniavskii (see Abram Terts, Spokoinoi nochi, in Sobranie sochinenii v dvukh tomakh, [Moscow: SP “Start,” 1992], 2:579–80), and for others by the early and mid­ 1950s, according to Lev Losev, as he wrote in “Tulupy my,” Novoe literaturnoe obozre­ nie 14 (1995), 209. 28. Warner, Publics, 81–82. Warner also wrote about the sermon as an American form of this kind of address that is both public and intimate (Publics, 83–84). 29. Warner, Publics, 82. 30. For more on NTS (Narodno-Trudovoi Soiuz, or the National Labor Alliance), see chapter 4. 31. See chapter 2.

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32. Erenburg mentioned Art of the Commune in chapter 7 of book two of Liudy, gody, zhizn′, in Sobranie sochinenii v deviati tomakh (Moscow: Izdatelʹstvo “Khudozhest­ vennaia literatura,” 1966), 8:266. For more on Erenburg’s memoirs and reactions to them, see chapter 2. 33. V. Ermilov’s article, “On Reading I. Erenburg’s Memoirs People, Years, Life,” which appeared in Izvestiia, January 30, 1963, was translated in Priscilla Johnson and Leopold Labedz, Khrushchev and the Arts: The Politics of Soviet Culture, 1962–1964 (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1965), 126. 34. The editors Vladimir Petrov and Grigorii Freidin presented individual issues at Saturday evening gatherings when a few dozen people would assemble at a pri­ vate apartment to read poems and discuss art. These gatherings included the poet and future Moscow Chronicle editor Natalia Gorbanevskaia, future Sots-artist Aleksandr Melamid, and the soon-to-be-famous playwright and prose author Liudmila Petrush­ evskaia. The independent public in the early 1960s in Moscow was neither uniform nor unified—but it was open and new enough for people who were or would be part of various groups and spheres of activities to come together to share and discuss new ideas and endeavors. Within that developing system of unofficial culture, Art of the Commune began to establish its own “ecological niche,” as Vitalii Gribkov put it, consist­ ing of activity at the crossroads of politics and art, realized through artwork and the­ ory of art. From “Puti,” Iskusstvo Kommuny 20 [1] (1962): 1–2, reprinted in Parallel′naia kult′ura. Integrativnoe napravlenie v rossiiskoi kul′ture, ed. V. S. Gribkov (Moscow: Smysl, 1999), 4. The issue and editors’ foreword can be found in the electronic edition of Iskusstvo Kommuny, in the Project for the Study of Dissidence and Samizdat (PROJ). 35. Eleonory Gilburd, To See Paris and Die: The Soviet Lives of Western Culture (Cambridge: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2018), 119–30. 36. “Puti,” Iskusstvo Kommuny 20 [1] (1962): 1–2, reprinted in Parallel′naia kult′ura, 5–6. 37. “Konechno, eto ochenʹ smeshno, kogda literaturnye osly i barany nachi­ naiut bleiatʹ: ‘Che-e-e-g-o-o-o n-i-i-i-b-u-u-u-d’ progr-e-e-e-ss-i-i-i-vnog-o-o-o !’” in “Neobkhodimostʹ teorii” (The Necessity of Theory), Iskusstvo Kommuny 22 (1962): image 2 (PROJ). 38. The Russian Futurists David Burliuk, Kruchenykh, Maiakovskii, and Viktor (Velimir) Khlebnikov had famously called on readers to “Throw Pushkin, Dosto­ evskii, Tolstoi et al. overboard from the ship of modernity!” In the 1912 manifesto “Poshchechina obshchestvennomu vkusu” (“A Slap in the Face of Public Taste”), in Literaturnye manifesty: Ot simvolizma k Oktiabriu, ed. Karl Eimermacher (Munich: Wilhelm Fink Verlag, 1969), 1:77–78. 39. “Klassicheskoe nasledie i novoe iskusstvo,” Iskusstvo Kommuny 22 (1962): image 8 (PROJ). 40. Andrei Bitov also explored the potentials of reviving the literary heritage by combining the canonical literary heritage (classic texts taught in schools) with refer­ ences to repressed authors like Mandelʹshtam in his novel Pushkin House (Pushkinskii dom), which he began writing not long after this in 1964. The novel circulated in samizdat and was published abroad. See Andrei Bitov, Pushkin House, trans. Susan Brownsberger (Normal, IL: Dalkey Archive, 1998). 41. An English translation of Ilʹichev’s speech appeared in Khrushchev and the Arts, 137–47.

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42. “Voprosy marazma,” Iskusstvo Kommuny 33 (1963): images 11–16 (PROJ). Dis­ cussion of this journal and addendum appeared in Ann Komaromi, “Samizdat as Extra-Gutenberg Phenomenon,” Poetics Today 29, no. 4 (2008): 652–55. 43. The second banner slogan appeared in issues 6–11, before variations pro­ claiming the “movement” for the defense of human rights, and the “struggle” for the same continues in subsequent issues. See notes in the database for the periodical Khronika tekushchikh sobytii in PROJ, https://samizdat.library.utoronto.ca/content/ khronika-tekushchikh-sobytii. 44. For more on the activity linked to the Helsinki Accords, see chapter 4. 45. Samuel Moyn traced the emergence of a new discourse of human rights at this time, noting the significance of Soviet dissidence in international discussions, in The Last Utopia: Human Rights in History (Cambridge: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2010), 3, 133–40. On Soviet specificities, see Nathans, “Soviet Rights-Talk in the PostStalin Era,” in Human Rights in the Twentieth Century, ed. Hoffmann, 166–90. 46. The text in English is available at A Chronicle of Current Events, https://chron icle-of-current-events.com/. The Russian version offers a more closely rendered ver­ sion of the typographic layout of the samizdat text, and it is used as a model above: Khronika tekushchikh sobytii, Istoriko-prosvetitelʹskii tsentr Memorial, http://old. memo.ru/history/diss/chr/index.htm. 47. The “trial of the four” was discussed in chapter 2. 48. Quoted by Hopkins, Russia’s Underground Press, vii. 49. Information Bulletin 9 (1978): 24. From the Archive of the History of Dissi­ dence in the USSR, Memorial (Moscow), F. 163 (RK [Rabochaia komissiia]). 50. Podrabinek was quoted by Rebecca Reich, State of Madness: Psychiatry, Litera­ ture, and Dissent after Stalin (DeKalb: NIU Press, 2018), 94. 51. From Liubarskii’s letter, in Vesti iz SSSR (USSR News Brief), no. 1(1978), https:// vesti-iz-sssr.com/2016/11/30/30-noyabrya-1978-n-1/. The copy held in the Royal Library in Brussels included Liubarskii’s card files on political prisoners and a list of people and organizations solicited as part of the Information pool. 52. “Fioretti,” Samizdat Leningrada, 467. As discussed in chapter 2, “second cul­ ture,” along with “unofficial culture,” became terms designating a distinctly aesthetic or cultural, as opposed to political, samizdat in Leningrad. 53. Krivulin, “Zolotoi vek samizdata,” 351. 54. From information on “Malaia Sadovaia (Poety Maloi Sadovoi)” and “Fioretti” in Samizdat Leningrada, 424–25, 467–68. 55. Lygo, Leningrad Poetry, 96. Some poems from Fioretti were subsequently published in vol. 4A of Antologiia noveishei poezii. 56. Lygo, Leningrad Poetry, 98. This was true for the larger samizdat journals that appeared in Leningrad beginning in 1976: Thirty-Seven and The Clock included Moscow authors, as well. 57. M. M. Bakhtin spoke about works by Shakespeare and others that exist in “great time” in his “Response to a Question from the Novyi Mir Editorial Staff,” in Speech Genres and Other Late Essays, ed. Caryl Emerson and Michael Holquist, trans. Vernon McGee (Austin: University of Texas Press: 1986), 4. 58. Samizdat Leningrada, 467. 59. Further arrests in 1974 of Mikhail Kheifets and Vladimir Maramzin, associ­ ated with the compilation and presentation of a samizdat collection of Brodskii’s

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poetry, helped dispel any lingering illusions from the Sixties that independent efforts could lead to reform of the system Dolinin, “Preodolenie nemoty,” Samizdat Lenin­ grada, 18, 20. 60. The editors of the important encyclopedia Samizdat Leningrada similarly emphasized the distinctive autonomous cultural character of Leningrad unofficial culture; they excluded sociopolitical editions unless they featured literary or artistic work. See “O printsipakh izdaniia,” Samizdat Leningrada, 53. 61. From Stratanovskii’s description of the urban landscape and its connection with his poetry, “Obvodnyi kanal” (Samizdat Leningrada 435). 62. Vladislav Kulakov wrote about the “barracks aesthetic” (barachnost′ ) and con­ cretism of “Lianozovo” poets in “Lianozovo: Istroiia odnoi poeticheskoi gruppy,” Poeziia kak fakt, 11–34 (Moscow: Novoe literaturnoe obozrenie, 1999), 18. More gen­ erally, Tomáš Glanc proposed that cultural blindness or deficit was a constitutive component of the group and authorial self-understanding in late Soviet unofficial culture. See Tomash Glants, “Avtorstvo i shiroko zakrytye glaza parallelʹnoi kultury,” Novoe literaturnoe obozrenie 6 (2009), https://magazines.gorky.media/nlo/2009/6/ avtorstvo-i-shiroko-zakrytye-glaza-parallelnoj-kultury.html. 63. Olʹga Sedakova, “Muzyka glukhogo vremeni,” Vestnik novoi literatury 2 (1990): 262. Eliot wrote that a properly historical sense involves “a sense of the timeless and of the temporal together,” and that is what makes a writer traditional. From T. S. Eliot’s 1919 essay, “Tradition and the Individual Talent,” in The Sacred Wood: Essays on Poetry and Criticism (London: Methuen, 1950), 49. 64. Krivulin suggested this in numerous writings, including “Zolotoi vek samiz­ data” and A. Kalomirov (V. Krivulin), “Dvadtsatʹ let noveishei poezii,” in the samizdat journal Severnaia pochta 1–2 (1979): image 042–062 (PROJ). 65. Krivulin, “‘37,’ ‘Severnaia pochta,’” in Samizdat: Po materialam konferentsii, 76. 66. B. I. Ivanov, Istoriia Kluba-81 (Saint Petersburg: Izdatelʹstvo Ivana Limbakha, 2015), 26. Elsewhere, Ivanov defined that as one of the core principles of the journal: “people only need a ‘Clock’ that ‘runs.’” In Boris Ivanov, “Po tu storonu ofitsialʹnosti,” in Samizdat: Po materialam konferentsii, 85. 67. Ivanov, Istoriia Kluba-81, 24–25. 68. Important also was the role of individuals, such as Iurii Andreev, a member of the party and official Union of Writers, whose liberal instincts made it possible to work with him to bridge the divide between official and unofficial literary groups (Istoriia Kluba-81, 44–64). 69. Krivulin wrote about the impulse to renew connections with the past and the West: “it was necessary to return to that historical point where the totalitarian government first interfered in the natural process of evolution of styles and artistic forms (which happened in the 1920s),” and to “restore the broken contacts with a planetary cultural process” (“Zolotoi vek samizdata,” 348). The poet Kirill Medvedev echoed this evaluation of the “Petersburg” line of unofficial literature in the USSR, which aimed as he put it to continue the “‘interrupted traditions’—whether that be the undervalued authors of the Golden Age, the forbidden authors of the Silver Age, or the Oberiuts.” Kirill Medvedev, “chtob uskusstvo bylo nashim, obshchim, zhivym, postoianno tvorcheskim delomʹ,” http://kirillmedvedev.narod.ru/chtob. html, accessed Oct. 31, 2019. 70. Ivanov, Istoriia Kluba-81, 22.

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71. Vladimir Feiertag, Dzhaz ot Leningrada do Peterburga: Vremia i sud′by (Saint Petersburg: KulʹtInformPress, 1999), 99–100. 72. For example, the contributor A. Timofeevskii used the pseudonym “Comet” (Kometa). 73. Samizdat Leningrada, 347. 74. Sedakova talked about the religious renaissance (religioznoe vozrozhdenie) in terms of a more common turn among unofficial poets to the Russian Orthodox Christian tradition (“Muzyka glukhogo vremeni,” 262). V. E. Dolinin and D. Ia. Severiukhin noted the varied ways this turn to spirituality might manifest, including through interest in cosmic ideologies and Buddhist elements (Samizdat Leningrada, 36). Nikolai Mitrokhin used the term “religious renaissance” to refer to what happened on a broad scale in Soviet society in the late 1980s, but he linked it to develop­ ments in unofficial culture and samizdat between the 1950s and the 1980s, in “Sovets­ kaia intelligentsia v poiskakh chuda: Religioznostʹ i paranauka v SSSR v 1953–1985 godakh,” Novoe literaturnoe obozrenie 3 (163) (2020), https://magazines.gorky.media/ nlo/2020/3/sovetskaya-intelligencziya-v-poiskah-chuda-religioznost-i-paranauka-v­ sssr-v-1953-1985-godah.html. 75. NLO 1 (1982): image 040 (PROJ). 76. NLO 1 (1982): images 041–045 (PROJ). 77. NLO 1 (1982): image 045 (PROJ). Kari Unksova and Aleksei Sobolev are listed as contacts for the ARTCONTACT group (NLO 1 [1982]: image 043), and Unksova is probably the “coordinator” referred to here. 78. Samizdat Leningrada, 347. It is not clear from this brief account what prompted the authorities to bring the charge of Article 190-1 against Unksova. Authorities used the charge more frequently in the early 1980s to suppress various forms of unofficial activity. 79. NLO 1 (1982): 130. 80. Transponans, PROJ, https://samizdatcollections.library.utoronto.ca/islan dora/object/samizdat%3Atransponans. 81. Even before the Maiakovskii monument, in the early to mid-1950s, Maia­ kovskii, as a sanctioned Soviet author, provided a way to access Futurist and modernist authors unavailable in official Soviet print, according to Losev, “Tulupy my,” 209. 82. Sigei wrote, “Literary ferment began in the lower stratum beginning at the end of the 1950s. This was natural, in that its goal was restoration of the tradition of Russian poetry. That tradition had been destroyed by the fact that its main continuers (the “stockholders”) exited into the lower stratum of literature . . . The main task is the transposition (transponans) of the achievements of those who exited into the lower stratum, existing only there.” Published in Transponans 1 (1979): images 4–5 (PROJ), and reprinted as Sergei Sigei, “O ‘zadachakh’ transpoezii,” in the catalog Transfurizm, comps. Sergei Kovalʹskii, Ilʹia Kukui, Boris Konstriktor, ed. Ilʹia Kukui (Saint Petersburg: Muzei nonkonformistskogo iskusstva, 2017), 16. 83. The Transfur-manifesto, 2 published in Transponans no. 7 (1980): images 12–13 (PROJ), mentioned Khlebnikov and Kruchenykh along with the more mar­ ginal Vasilisk Gnedov as figures who established the beginning of what the group called “polystylistics.” The manifesto was republished in Transfurizm, 11. Sigei men­ tioned the same three Futurists in his article, Sergej Sigov, “Ego-futurnaliia Vasiliska Gnedova,” Russian Literature 21 (1987): 116.

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84. Crispin Brooks pointed out that aspects of the correspondence with Gnedov in the year before his death may have been disappointing to Sigei, who wrote: “I am still in awe of these pioneers, although (probably) I see in their creative prac­ tice a little more than was in it in actual fact.” Quoted and discussed by Brooks, “On One Ancestor: Vasilisk Gnedov in the Work of Sergej Sigej and Ry Nikonova,” Russian Literature 59, no. 2–4 (2006): 182–83. Sigei also corresponded with the for­ mer OBERIU (Association for Real Art) poet Igorʹ Bakhterev and with the collector and scholar Nikolai Khardzhiev, a friend of avant-garde artists and authors. 85. Brooks, “On One Ancestor,” 179. 86. Sigov, “Ego-Futurnaliia,” 116. 87. Gerald J. Janecek reproduced the poem and discussed it as consisting of a title and a printer’s seal and date at the bottom, in “Minimalism in Contemporary Rus­ sian Poetry: Vsevolod Nekrasov and Others,” Slavonic and East European Review 70, no. 3 (1992): 402, 404. Janecek cited Gnedov elsewhere as one of the main inf luences on Nikonova’s poetry, the other being the constructivist A. N. Chicherin, although Nikonova was working with short forms from before her exposure to those prede­ cessors. See Dzheralʹd Ianechek (Gerald Janecek), “Tysiacha Form Ry Nikonovoi,” Novoe literaturnoe obozrenie 35 (1999): 284, 293. 88. Ry Nikonova, “What Is a Vacuum? (Chto takoe vakuum?),” Transponans 13 (1982): images 32–33 (PROJ). 89. Among the authors and artists who contributed were the Leningrad poet Kari Unksova, the Moscow poets Genrikh Sapgir and Vladislav Len, and the Moscow Conceptualists Andrei Monastyrskii, Dmitrii Prigov, and Lev Rubinshtein. For the long list of contributors, including names of avant-garde artists and writers from the past and from the West, see Ilʹia Kukui, “Laboratoriia avangarda: Zhurnal Transpon­ ans.” Russian Literature 59, no. 2–4 (2006): 233–34. 90. Like Gnedov, who remained in the provinces and worked there in later life, Sigei and Nikonova considered the provincial location to be a “necessary condi­ tion for the existence of the avant-garde” at a time when it had been pushed to the periphery, not only in official Soviet culture but also in Leningrad unofficial culture, as described by Ilʹia Kukui, “‘Sokhranitʹ nitʹ poeticheskogo avangardaʹ: The Journal of Theory and Practice Transponans,” PROJ, https://samizdatcollections.library.uto ronto.ca/content/%D0%BF%D1%80%D0%B5%D0%B4%D0%B8%D1%81%D0% BB%D0%BE%D0%B2%D0%B8%D0%B5. 91. Kukui contrasted the “horizontal and unidirectional vector of movement (f rom the past into the future)” of Futurists with the transfurist movement deep into the artistic form, a movement that avoided any active resistance to or engage­ ment with the System at the center of Soviet culture. “Vectors,” which Nikonova often drew as arrows bent or going in various directions, represented an important part of the theory and practice of Nikonova’s art. Discussed by Kukui, “‘V kazhdoi forme—forma vechnosti’: transponirovanie kak mirosozertsanie,” in Transfurizm, 14–15. 92. Konstriktor met Nikonova and Sigei in the late 1970s and became central to the Transfurist group that developed. He married Nikonova’s sister Nadezhda Tarshis. “O progulkakh s Nichto v svoiu storonu: Boris Vantalov/B. Konstriktor,” Transfurizm, 277. 93. Transponans 7 (1980): images 10–11 (PROJ).

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94. Sigei, “Ego-Futurnaliia,” 120; Gerald Janecek, “Tysiacha form,” 287. 95. Editors of the MANA folios included Andrei Monastyrskii (no. 1); Vadim Zakharov and Viktor Skersis (no. 2); Elena Elagina and Igorʹ Makarevich (no. 3); Natalʹia Abalakova and Anatolii Zhigalov (no. 4), with the participation of Georgii Kizevalʹter as photographer. A fifth folio was begun by Konstantin Zvezdochetov of the Mukhomor group, but it stalled. Although Georgii Kizevalʹter reportedly took it up to complete it in 1986, it does not seem to have functioned in the same way for communication among artists at that time, and there is no copy available in any publicly accessible archive. See Yelena Kalinsky, “The MANI Archive,” Zimmerli Jour­ nal 5 (Fall 2008), 120. See also Vadim Zakharov and Annette Gilbert, “No to Mass Circulation: Publishing in the Context of an Aesthetics of the Relationships in Post-Samizdat,” trans. Shane Anderson, in Publishing as Artistic Practice, ed. Annette Gilbert (Berlin: Sternberg Press, 2016), 174; and Alexandra Danilova and Elena Kuprina-Lyakhovich, “MANI: An Experiment in Modelling Cultural Space,” ed. Margarita Tupitsyn, Victor Tupitsyn, and David Morris, trans. Mikhail Grachev, in Anti-Shows: APTART 1982–84 (London: Afterall Books, 2017), 241. 96. Boris Grois, “Moskovskii romanticheskii kontseptualizm,” Thirty-Seven 15 (1978): images 50–65 (PROJ). It was subsequently published in the émigré journal A-Ya 1 (1979): 3–4, 11, published in Russian, French, and English. Grois treated the topic also in Text 1, “Nulevoe reshenie,” in MANI 1 (1981) (PROJ). See a reprint of this article in Boris Grois, “Nulevoe reshenie,” in NOMA, ili Moskovskii kontseptual′nyi krug, ed. Ilʹia Kabakov et al. (Zurich: Cantz, 1993), 42–59. See also “Moscow Romantic Conceptualism,” in Boris Groys, History Becomes Form: Moscow Conceptualism (Cambridge: MIT Press, 2010), 35–55. 97. Michael Scammel described these events in his “Art as Politics,” in Noncon­ formist Art: The Soviet Experience 1956–1986, ed. Alla Rosenfeld and Norton T. Dodge (London: Thames and Hudson, 1995), 52–54. 98. Conceptualism, wrote Grois, “may be interpreted . . . to refer to any attempt to withdraw from the production of artworks as material objects intended for contemplation and aesthetic evaluation and, instead, to thematicize and shape the conditions that determine the viewer’s perception” (Groys, “Moscow Romantic Conceptualism,” 35). 99. “Conceptual writing is contextual writing,” said Jacob Edmond in “Russian Lessons for Conceptual Writing,” in Postscript: Writing after Conceptual Art, ed. Andrea Andersson (Toronto: University of Toronto Press and Denver: Museum of Contempo­ rary Art, 2017), 316. Edmond talked about Prigov’s ref lection on expectations associ­ ated with samizdat in his series of “Mini-Buksy” (Edmonds, “Russian Lessons,” 324). See also Lev Rubinshtein’s statements in “What Can One Say?” in Re-Entering the Sign: Articulating New Russian Culture, ed. Ellen E. Berry and Anesa Miller-Pogacar, trans. Gerald Janecek (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1995), 212–15. 100. This was true in the archive at Bremen, where I looked through and pho­ tographed the four folios. In addition to the expected typewritten texts and black­ and-white photographs, there was an envelope with a sticky gray powder, which was dried ink, according to Mary A. Nicholas (correspondence September 1, 2021), and which I had trouble cleaning off my hands, and another envelope with colorful confetti that was difficult to return to the envelope—these were “Untitled Works,” by Viktor Skersis, envelope 22, and by Viktor Skersis and Vadim Zakharov, envelope 23, in MANI 4 [1982], images 0223–0229 [PROJ]). Another envelope with a long fold-out

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penis-shaped poster featuring the slogan “All Men Are Scum!” was an event for all of us working in the archive that day. 101. From Lev Rubinshtein, “Sobytie bez naimenovaniia,” MANI 1 (1981): Enve­ lope 17, images 0183–0186 (PROJ). Gerald Janecek discussed this work. Gerald J. Janecek, Everything Has Already Been Written: Moscow Conceptualist Poetry and Perfor­ mance (Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press, 2019), 74. 102. Skersis claimed not to know what made up Kosuth’s “One and Three Chairs,” which seems like an adopted attitude, rather than a real lack of knowledge: “Not having any information about the development of the given idea by Kosuth or other investigators, I fulfilled the above-mentioned work which consists of three white sheets.” From Skersis, “Stul. Fotografiia stula. Opredelenie stula,” MANI 1 (1981): envelope 19, images 0198–0203 (PROJ). 103. In one photo, a chair is tipped over with its legs up, and a sheet draped over it in imitation of a woman’s body positioned for a gynecological procedure. In another, an ax is fixed on the wall over a chair so that it might be released to fall on the chair in an arrangement resembling that of a guillotine. From MANI 2 (1981): envelope 38, images 0391 and 0397 (PROJ). 104. Igorʹ Volodin (pseudonym for Viktor Skersis and Vadim Zakharov), enve­ lope 4, MANI 4 (1982): images 0036–0040 (PROJ). 105. Danilova and Kuprina-Lyakhovich, “MANI,” 232. 106. As Yelena Kalinsky put it, “The project was a way of facilitating dialogue among artists whose work touched on similar concerns, and like the magazine A-Ya, contributed to the consolidation of the group known today as the Moscow Conceptualist circle.” Kalinsky, Yelena, “The MANI Archive,” Zimmerli Journal 5 (2008): 120. 107. Danilova and Kuprina-Lyakhovich, “MANI,” 236. 108. Igorʹ Shelkovskii, “Moi semidesiatye,” in Eti strannye semidesiatye, ili Pote­ ria nevinnosti: Esse, interv′iu, vospominaniia, ed. Georgii Kizevalʹter (Moscow: Novoe literaturnoe obozrenie, 2010), 345. 109. Skersis was quoted by Danilova and Kuprina-Lyakhovich, “MANI,” 236. 110. Danilova and Kuprina-Lyakhovich, “MANI,” 237. 111. “All Men Are Scum!” (Vse muzhiki—podonki!) MANI 4 (1982): envelope 27, images 0266–0267 (PROJ). 112. Danilova and Kuprina-Lyakhovich, “MANI,” 240. 113. MANI 4 (1982): image 0020 (PROJ). This collage also appears in Natalʹia Abalakova and Anatolii Zhigalov, TOTART, ed. Nelli Podgorskaia (Moscow: Maier, 2012), 46, http://conceptualism.letov.ru/16_03_TOTART_rus_new.pdf. 114. See the text by A.K. (TOTART, 38). 115. From N. Abalakova, “Totalʹnoe khudozhestvennoe deistvie i ‘Summa Arche­ ologiae,’” MANI 4 (1982): envelope 1, image 0008 (PROJ). The text was also reproduced at http://conceptualism.letov.ru/TOTART/Natalia-Abalakova-Summa-Archaeolo giae.html. 4. Spaces of Samizdat Sociality

1. Taylor talked about the public sphere arising when: “widely separated people sharing the same view have been linked in a kind of space of discussion.” From Taylor, “Modern Social Imaginaries,” 112.

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2. Major theoretical works on national publics or communities and the role of print culture referred to by Taylor and discussed in the introduction to this study include Habermas, The Structural Transformation; Anderson in Imagined Communities; and Warner, Publics and Counterpublics. 3. This attention to the physical space of the page and material indices of the edition is inspired partly by the analysis of Jerome McGann, who insisted on the social nature of negotiations of meaning that take place at the site of the physical text: “Various readers and audiences are hidden in our texts, and the traces of their multiple presence are scripted at the most material levels” (McGann, The Textual Condition, 10). 4. These alternative spaces might bring to mind Michel Foucault’s notion of the “heterotopia,” from his lecture “Of Other Spaces,” trans. Jay Miskowiec, Diacritics 16, no.1 (1986): 22–27. It is worth noting also Anindita Banerjee’s suggestive concept of “heterochronotopia,” a synthesis of Foucault’s concept with Bakhtin’s “chro­ notope,” to refer to Russian science fiction and “the diverse modes of writing for and against multiple, contending regimes of modernity in a context that simultane­ ously stands inside and outside the dominant picture of the world to this day.” From Banerjee’s book We Modern People: Science Fiction and the Making of Russian Moder­ nity (Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press, 2012), 160. Though there may be some overlap, the “space of discussion” posited by public theory and taken up in this chapter may be distinguished from those concepts of heterotopia by the emphasis on media, textual circulation, and the community of readers brought together by material texts in an imagined space. 5. For example, Abraham Rothberg in 1973 cited Soviet activists well known in the West but apparently lacking both popular support and inf luence at home: “The masses seem as hostile to the Solzhenitsyns, Yakirs, Yesenin-Volpins, and Grigo­ renkos as the Party press reports. . . . The dissidents are alienated from the workers, the peasants, the military, and the government bureaucracy, so that they have neither a mass base nor political leverage of great strength.” See Abraham Rothberg, The Heirs of Stalin: Dissidence and the Soviet Regime, 1953–1970 (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1973). 6. Alexeyeva, Soviet Dissent, 38. 7. See Alexeyeva on “The Generation of the Sixties,” in the context of the Ukrainian national movement (Soviet Dissent, 31–39). Valentin Moroz wrote on the “Sixtiers,” in Valentin Moroz: Esei, lysty i dokumenty (Munich: Suchasnistʹ, 1975), 79. Another source is “Shistdesiatnyky,” in Rukh oporu v Ukraini: 1960–1990, ed. Osyp Sinkevych (Kiev: Smoloskyp, 2010), 11–18. 8. Alexeyeva, Soviet Dissent, 41. This is similar to the boiler-room workers and other members of the “generation of janitors and doormen” discussed in chapter 1. 9. Interview with Mykola Riabchuk, March 31, 2008, Project for the Study of Dissidence and Samizdat (PROJ), https://samizdatcollections.library.utoronto.ca/ interviews/mykola-riabchuk. 10. Viktor Yelensky quoted the evocative saying: “For the same misdeed in Mos­ cow nails are trimmed, while in Kyiv the hand is cut,” in “The Revival Before the Revival: Popular and Institutionalized Religion in Ukraine on the Eve of the Collapse of Communism,” in State Secularism and Lived Religion, 306. 11. Alexeyeva, Soviet Dissent, 55 and passim.

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12. Regarding the various Christian groups in the region, Yelensky cited figures showing that by the mid-1980s officially registered religious institutions in the Ukrai­ nian Republic (which constituted nearly a third of the figures for the whole USSR) included 4,000 Orthodox parishes, 1,100 communities of Evangelical Christian Bap­ tists, and 100 Roman Catholic groups. Authorities had banned Greek Catholic (Uni­ ate) churches, although 12,000 signatures appeared on a petition to abolish the ban. Yelensky argued that the Ukrainian Greek Catholic issue was extremely significant for the religious revival in the 1970s and 1980s. Yelensky, “The Revival Before the Revival,” 307, 319. 13. Between October 1972 and May 1974, the Moscow Chronicle did not appear, as Soviet authorities pursued Case 24 against those who worked on it. See Hopkins, Russia’s Underground Press. 14. Alexeyeva, Soviet Dissent, 332–33, 340. 15. The Final Act of the Conference on Security and Cooperation in Europe, signed on August 1, 1975, and ratified by the Soviet Union on September 18, 1975, became commonly known as the Helsinki Accords. Four “baskets” divided up the articles of agreement, with humanitarian provisions in the third basket. Subsequent review meetings for representatives of signatory states in Belgrade (1977–78), Madrid (1980–83), and Vienna (1986–89) provided the chance for Soviet dissidents and their allies to exert further international pressure on the Soviet Union in the context of its Helsinki obligations. Alekseeva discussed the Moscow Helsinki Watch Group in Soviet Dissent, 335 and passim. 16. P. G. Grigorenko, Memoirs (New York: Norton, 1982), 435, 437. Grigorenko was also known for his activism on behalf of Crimean Tatars. 17. Out of well over 200 documents released by the group, 195 were numbered. From the introduction to Dokumenty Moskovskoi Khel′sinkskoi Gruppy (1976–1982), ed. D. I. Zubarev and G. V. Kuzovkin (Moscow: MKhG, 2006), 5, http://mhg.ru/sites/ default/files/files/docmhg_1976_1982.pdf. Founding members of the group included Liudmila Alekseeva, Mikhail Bernshtam, Elena Bonner, Aleksandr Ginzburg, Petr (elsewhere Petro) Grigorenko, Aleksandr Korchak, Malʹva Landa, Anatolii March­ enko, Iurii Orlov, Vitalii Rubin, and Anatolii Shcharanskii (Dokumenty, 24). 18. Alexeyeva, Soviet Dissent, 346–47, 352. 19. On provincial khodoki (travelers) who came to bring their cases to Moscow rights activists, see chapter two. 20. Samizdat editions produced in Latvia were Jewish editions or rock zines. Dis­ cussion of Estonian national editions appeared in A. Komaromi and G. Kuzovkin. Katalog periodiki Samizdata, 1956–1986 (Moscow: Mezhdunarodnyi Memorial, 2018), 161–62. 21. Thomas Remeikis, among others, described the petition and other unof­ ficial activity in Opposition to Soviet Rule in Lithuania 1945–1980 (Chicago: Institute of Lithuanian Studies Press, 1980), 114. Though there were other mass petitions, V. Stanley Vardys pointed out that “the [Lithuanian] Chronicle’s publication was inspired by several concerns. The sponsors of massive petition drives scored meager successes with Soviet authorities, thus showing that this practice was as inadequate as it was risky. Petitions did not stop trials of any of the priests charged with the teaching of religion,” in The Catholic Church, Dissent and Nationality in Soviet Lithuania (New York: East European Quarterly, 1978), 151.

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22. A long tradition for building national identity in resistance to the authorities existed; Vardys discussed the resistance to Russification policies of the tsarist govern­ ment at the end of the nineteenth century via smuggling publications that fostered Lithuanian Catholic identity and secretly educating children in the Lithuanian lan­ guage. See Vardys, The Catholic Church, 16–17. 23. The rights activist Sergei Kovalev, whose 1975 trial was held in Vilnius, helped facilitate contacts between the Moscow rights activists and Lithuanian Catholic activ­ ists. See Vardys, The Catholic Church, 153, and Alexeyeva, Soviet Dissent, 78. 24. From Michael Bourdeaux, Land of Crosses: The Struggle for Religious Freedom in Lithuania, 1939–1978 (Devon: Keston College, 1979), 256. Remeikis described the trial mentioned by Bourdeaux: “Petras Plumpa and four others were tried in December of 1974 for the production and dissemination of the [Lithuanian] ‘Chronicle.’” The trial was reported in detail in issue 13 of the Lithuanian Chronicle (Remeikis, Opposi­ tion to Soviet Rule in Lithuania, 396). 25. From the Chronicle of the Catholic Church of Lithuania 14 (1975), ed. and trans. Rev. Casimir Pugevicius (Brooklyn, NY: Lithuanian R. C. Priests’ League of America, 1977), 29–30, http://www.lkbkronika.lt/index.php/en/3-the-chronicle-of-the-cath olic-church-in-lithuania.html. 26. Vardys, The Catholic Church, 156. 27. Chronicle of the Catholic Church in Lithuania 10 (1974) (United States of Amer­ ica: The Lithuanian Roman Catholic Priests’ League of America, n.d.), 8–9. 28. Editors since revealed include the founding editor Sigitas Tamkevicius, arrested for anti-Soviet propaganda in 1983, as well as Jonas Boruta, who edited the Lithuanian Chronicle with the help of Julijonas Steponavicius. 29. Tamkevicius recalled giving the issues to a nun who had a small, isolated room where she could retype them before passing them on to others, while Tam­ kevicius could burn the initial incriminating typescripts. From the author’s interview with Tamkevicius, April 8, 2008. 30. Thomas Remeikis, Opposition to Soviet Rule in Lithuania, 158–61. 31. There were other samizdat periodical editions associated with Lithuanian national and religious culture totaling thirty-two titles recorded, more than for any other group. See Komaromi and Kuzovkin, Katalog periodiki Samizdata, 105. 32. See the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, https://www.un.org/en/ universal-declaration-human-rights/. 33. Nina Voronelʹ wrote about becoming close to Iulii Danielʹ, Andrei Siniavskii, and their households in 1961. Thus, the Voronels were in the center of things to witness the unfolding of the Siniavskii-Danielʹ affair and the emergence of rights activism, in Nina Voronelʹ, Bez prikras. Vospominaniia (Moscow: Zakharov, 2003), 137. 34. Discussed in Ann Komaromi, “Jewish Samizdat—Dissident Texts and the Dynamics of the Jewish Revival in the Soviet Union,” in The Jewish Movement in the Soviet Union, ed. Yaacov Ro’i (Washington, DC: Woodrow Wilson Center Press, 2012), 282. 35. See chapter 1 for a discussion of some materials in Culture (Tarbut). 36. Vladimir Prestin and Veniamin Fain explained the motivations for focusing on culture so that more Soviet Jews would continue their traditions and also be more motivated to emigrate to Israel. See Yuli Kosharovsky, “We Are Jews Again”: Jewish Activism in the Soviet Union (Syracuse, NY: Syracuse University Press, 2017), 181–83.

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37. A later editor of Jews in the USSR, Viktor Brailovskii, was arrested in 1980 when authorities cracked down on dissident activity. 38. Venclova opened his essay by saying: “I have a daughter: she is two years old. According to the laws of the state of Israel, she is a Jew. I, myself, am Lithuanian according to anyone’s laws and, most importantly, according to the spiritual law, which I adopted for myself. Some day my daughter will ask me about what happened between our two peoples during the years of the Second World War. I will try to answer that question now,” from “Jews and Lithuanians,” in Tomas Venclova, Forms of Hope: Essays (Riverdale-on-Hudson, NY: Sheep Meadow Press, 1999), 43. The essay provoked discussion among Lithuanians, as ref lected in the edition of Venclova’s essay that appeared in Cross Currents 8 (1989): 55–73, which included a response by A. Zuvintas and Venclova’s response to him. 39. “Ot redaktora,” Evrei v sovremennom mire 3 (March 1979): 1. From the Archive of the History of Dissidence in the USSR, Memorial (Moscow), F. 152. 40. The title Political Diary did not appear on the journal itself. The first page of each issue was labeled with the month and year, and readers referred to it among themselves as Months (Mesiatsy). The title was added later to copies sent abroad for publication. See the introduction by Roy Medvedev, “How Political Diary Was Created,” in An End to Silence: Uncensored Opinion in the Soviet Union, ed. Stephen F. Cohen, trans. George Saunders (New York: W.W. Norton, 1982), 20. On the fascinat­ ing careers of Roy and his brother Zhores as dissident historians, see Barbara Martin, Dissident Histories. 41. Medvedev, “How Political Diary Was Created,” 17–19. 42. Medvedev, “Was the Invasion a ‘Defense of Socialism’?” in An End to Silence, 284. On the invasion of Czechoslovakia as a watershed moment for the development of a dissident public sphere, see chapter 1. 43. Robert A. Maguire, in his study of the journal Red Virgin Soil, edited by Alek­ sandr Voronskii noted the importance of the “thick journal” genre in Soviet literary life from the 1920s to the 1960s: see Robert A. Maguire, Red Virgin Soil: Soviet Literature in the 1920’s (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1968), xi. This Russian genre, established in the 1840s and 1850s, featured a well-developed literature section built primarily on prose, vigorous literary criticism touching on social issues, and “a struc­ ture carefully organized according to a ‘line’ that ref lected a specific ideology,” such as, in the nineteenth century, Slavophilism, Populism, the Westernizing tendency or Marxism (Maguire, Red Virgin Soil, 36, 42). Medvedev was known for his adherence to Marxist-Leninist principles. He was not supportive of efforts to promote reform through appeals to human rights, although this did not stop him from working with Andrei Sakharov on some occasions (Antologiia Samizdata, 2:140). 44. Ilʹia Erenburg, Boris Slutsky, and Evgenii Evtushenko were among the writ­ ers engaged on the “Lyricists’” side of the debate, surveyed retrospectively by K. A. Bogdanova, “Fiziki vs. Liriki: K istorii odnoi ‘pridurkovatoi’ diskussii,” Novoe liter­ aturnoe obozrenie 111 (2011): 48–66. 45. From the interview with L. A. Mnukhin by Ann Komaromi (Novem­ ber 3, 2007) in “Tsvetaevskie vstrechi i samizdatskii sbornik ‘Vse o Tsvetaevoi,’” Acta Samizdatica 1 (2012): 93. An English version appeared as “Interview with Lev Mnukhin,” PROJ, https://samizdatcollections.library.utoronto.ca/interviews/ lev-mnukhin. Erenburg wrote about Tsvetaeva in chap. 3 of bk. 2 of Liudy, gody, zhizn′

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in Sobranie sochinenii v deviati tomakh (Moscow: Izdatelʹstvo “Khudozhestvennaia literatura,” 1966), 8:230–37. One of the thematic evenings devoted to Tsvetaeva that Mnukhin organized was devoted to “Tsvetaeva and Ilʹia Erenburg” (December 17, 1984): Lev Mnukhin, “Khronika tematicheskikh vstrech, posviashchennykh zhizni i tvorchestvu Mariny Ivanovny Tsvetaevoi,” in Itogi i istoki: Izbrannye stat′i (Moscow: MUK “Memorialʹnyi Dom-muzei Mariny Tsvetaevoi v Bolsheve,” 2008), 466. 46. See the foreword to “Interview with Lev Mnukhin.” 47. Mnukhin described his strategy: “I alternated the subjects—from the con­ troversial to the uncontroversial. Sosinsky, let’s say, talked about immigration, the White movement, about the journal Russia’s Will (Volia Rossii) where he worked and so on. Next time, we had Ilya Zilberstein, an official cultural figure. And then again a banned subject, for example, about Tsvetaeva’s daughter, Ariadna Sergeevna Efron, and her years in the camp. We would read her letters sent from the camps, and then ‘Tsvetaeva and the Novel,’ you see? For example, we would have the evening with émigré poet Alexei Eisner and then ‘Tsvetaeva’s Moscow.’ So, as soon as one might think that there was something wrong—no, no, everything seemed normal” (“Inter­ view with Lev Mnukhin”). A list of speakers and topics for the evenings appeared in Mnukhin, “Khronika tematicheskikh vstrech,” 459–71. 48. Kostrioukova, “Chitatʹ i slyshatʹ nastoiashchuiu literature,” in “Tsvetaevskie vstrechi,” 93. 49. “Interview with Lev Mnukhin.” 50. Much of the information on SMOT comes f rom V. Dolinin, “Informatsion­ nyi biulletenʹ Svobodnogo mezhprofessionalʹnogo obʺedineniia trudiashchikhsia (IB SMOT). 1978–1982,” in Problemy modernizatsii vysshego obrazovaniia v kommuni­ katsionnom obshchestve (Sb. trudov 3-i mezhvuzovskoi nauchno-prakticheskoi kon­ ferentsii, Sankt-Peterburg, 11–13 maia 2005 g.) (Saint Petersburg: NOU PO Institut televideniia, biznesa i dizaina, 2005), 85–92. The author is grateful to Viacheslav Dolinin for sharing this article with her. 51. Dolinin, “Informatsionnyi biulletenʹ,” and Rostislav Evdokimov, “Infor­ matsionnyi biulletenʹ SMOTa,” Samizdat (Saint Petersburg: NITs Memorial, 1993), 100–108. 52. The council of SMOT worked with the NTS (Narodno-Trudovoi Soiuz, or the National Labor Alliance), whose activity was described by Benjamin Tromly, in Cold War Exiles and the CIA: Plotting to Free Russia (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2019), 169–81. This anti-Soviet émigré group was established initially as the National Union of Russian Youth in 1930 in Belgrade by White Russian émigrés, as described in V. D. Poremskii, Strategiia antibol′shevitskoi emigratsii. Izbrannye stat′i 1934–1997 (Moscow: Posev, 1998). Discussion of their publication of dissident literature in the journals Facets (Grani) and Sowing (Posev) along with other individual editions from the Posev publishing house can be found in NTS. Mysl′ i delo. 1930–2000, Seriia “Bib­ liotechka rossievedeniia,” issue 4 (Moscow: Posev, 2000), 52. The NTS Samizdat col­ lection is preserved at the Hoover Institution. 53. Rostislav Evdokimov, “Informatsionnyi biulletenʹ SMOT,” in Samizdat: Po materialam konferentsii “30 let nezavisimoi pechati 1950–80 gody,” Sankt-Peterburg, 25–27 aprelia 1992, ed. V. Dolinin and B. Ivanov (St Petersburg: Nauchno-informatsionnyi tsentr (NITS) “Memorial,” 1993), 102–3. 54. For this reason, they also reported instances of repression against Seventh Day Adventists in various provincial cities and printed stories about regular people,

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such as Pavel Borovik, a resident of Vladivostok, who withdrew from the Party and was therefore judged incompetent to work: the story he provided to editors appeared in full in issue 15 of SMOT’s Informatsionnyi biulleten′, AS No 4760, Materialy samiz­ data 39 (1982). 55. Rostislav Evdokimov talked about these decisions made during the period he worked as editor of the bulletin with Viacheslav Dolinin. He also noted that topics of interest to workers included information about market prices and about the grocery items sold through ration cards, “Informatsionnyi biulletenʹ SMOT,” in Samizdat, 102–3. 56. From issue 25 (1981) of SMOT’s Informatsionnyi biulleten′, AS no. 4711, Mate­ rialy samizdata 30 (1982). 57. Evdokimov, “Informatsionnyi biulletenʹ SMOT,” in Samizdat, 103–6. 58. Jane Ellis surveyed the history and fate of the group in “USSR: The Christian Seminar,” Religion in Communist Lands 8, no. 2 (1980): 92. 59. “Obshchina,” Samizdat Leningrada, 436. Vladimir Poresh, one of the editors, recalled there were about ten members of the initial group, one of whom was a Baptist, in his article, “‘Obshchina’—zhurnal Khristianskogo seminara (1974–1980),” in Samizdat, 94. 60. Numbers of Russian Orthodox believers appeared in Jane Ellis, “The Reli­ gious Renaissance: myth or reality,” in Candle in the Wind: Religion in the Soviet Union, ed. Eugene B. Shirley, Jr. and Michael Rowe (Washington, DC: Ethics and Public Policy Center, 1989), 262. 61. Poresh, “‘Obshchina’—zhurnal Khristianskogo seminara,” in Samizdat, 96–97. 62. In addition to Ellis’s “USSR: The Christian Seminar,” Philip Walters trans­ lated and published a document titled, “From the Transcript of the Trial of Vladimir Poresh,” Religion in Communist Lands 10, no. 3 (1982): 344–350; after the earlier publi­ cation “Iz zapisi suda nad Vladimirom Poreshem,” Vol′noe slovo 39 (1980): 83. 63. Obshchina 2 (partial reprint), AS no. 3452, Materialy samizdata 3 (1979): 13. The editor Oleg Okhapkin recalled, “We thought that a new ideology should replace the Soviet ideology.” This, he claimed, was the reason the KGB arrested editors of the journal Community. From the “Interview with Oleg Okhapkin,” interviewed by Ekaterina Smirnova, PROJ, October 5, 2006, https://samizdatcollections.library.uto­ ronto.ca/interviews/oleg-okhapkin. 64. From pt. 2, chap. 3 of Nikolai Ostrovskii, Kak zakalialas′ stal′, in Sochineniia v trekh tomakh (Moscow: Izdatelʹstvo TsK VLKSM “Molodaia gvardiia,” 1967), 1:242 (translation mine). 65. Ogorodnikov, Obshchina, 2, 11. 66. Quoted by Poresh, “‘Obshchina’—zhurnal Khristianskogo seminara,” in Samizdat, 98. 67. “Predislovie k zhurnalu ‘Obshchina,’” in Samizdat, 132–33. 68. Obshchina 2, 12. 69. The journal Thirty-Seven was discussed in chapters 2 and 3. 70. The Community editors used the language of Soviet law and human rights to assert the legality of their activity, and they published an article by Viktor Kapitan­ chuk, a member of the Christian Committee for the Defence of Believers’ Rights in the USSR. That group put out a series of hundreds of Documents (Dokumenty) begin­ ning in 1976. The series ceased after the arrest in early 1980 of the committee mem­ bers Gleb Iakunin and Viktor Kapitanchuk. On this group, see Jane Ellis, The Russian

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Orthodox Church: A Contemporary History (London: Croom Helm, 1986), 420–28, and Dmitry Pospielovsky, The Russian Church under the Soviet Regime, 1917–1982 (Crest­ wood, NY: St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 1984), 2:435. 71. Nikolai Mitrokhin provided the definitive account of the movement, including its official and unofficial expression, in Russkaia partiia: Dvizhenie russkikh natsionalistov v SSSR: 1953–1985 (Moscow: NLO, 2003), 14, 357. An earlier and less complete account of the “Establishment Right” and the “Dissident Right” was provided by Alexander Yanov, The Russian New Right. Right-Wing Ideologies in the Contemporary USSR (Berkeley, CA: Institute of International Studies, 1978), 18–19. Gennadii Kostyrchenko addressed the complicated intra-party dynamics, including hostility toward the “Russian party” from Brezhnev and other top party officials, and significant uptake of the national­ ist discourse and ideas associated with the “Russian party” by some second-tier party members and bureaucrats, as well as intellectuals spanning the official and unofficial divide. See G. V. Kostyrchenko, Tainaia politika: Ot Brezhneva do Gorbacheva (Moscow: Mezhdunarodnye otnosheniia, 2019), 2:120–24 and passim. 72. Alexeyeva, Soviet Dissent, 210. 73. The name Fraternal Leaf let referred to this long legacy, echoing the same title of a Baptist publication in Russia that began in March 1906 as a supplement to Ivan Prokhanov’s evangelical journal The Christian. Heather Coleman recalled that the original Fraternal Leaf let “focused on the day-to-day lives of believers and on build­ ing community among them,” and that “From the very first issue of Bratskii listok, [Ivan] Kushnerov regularly reported on believers’ legal difficulties and wrote detailed articles informing his readers of their rights and the laws that applied to them.” See Coleman, Russian Baptists and Spiritual Revolution, 30, 32. 74. The CCECB was established as an alternative to the officially registered Soviet Baptist Church organization, the All-Union Council of Evangelical ChristianBaptists (AUCECB). See discussion of the Baptists in chapter 2. 75. Jane Ellis, who worked with Keston College, the British group documenting Christian dissent in the Soviet Union, estimated that there were probably about 5 mil­ lion Protestants in the USSR, including more than 3 million Baptists, half a million Pentecostals, and smaller numbers of Seventh-Day Adventists, Lutherans, Mennonites, Methodists, and Jehovah’s Witnesses. From Ellis, “The Religious Renaissance: myth or reality,” 262. This number presumably included both regular Soviet Baptists and members of the unregistered Initiative Group, later the CCECB. 76. As reported in Sovremennaia religioznaia zhizn′ Rossii, ed. M. Burdo and S. V. Filatov (Moscow: Logos, 2003), 189. L. N. Mitrokhin noted that members of the CCECB sometimes sought out conf licts with the authorities. Baptizm: Istoriia i sovremennostʹ (Saint Petersburg: RKhGI, 1997), 415, 420. 77. Sawatsky, Soviet Evangelicals, 247–48. 78. Sawatsky, Soviet Evangelicals, 246; and Alexeyeva, Soviet Dissent, 211. 79. Sawatsky, Soviet Evangelicals, 248. 80. From a digital collection of the International Union of Churches (Mezhdun­ arodnyi Soiuz Tserkvei) of Slavic Baptists (Russian Evangelists in the United States), http://propovednik.com/library?album=14577. 81. Aleksandr Kushnir, Zolotoe podpol′e, Polnaia illiustrirovannaia entsiklopediia rok­ samizdata. 1967–1994. Istoriia. Antologiia. Bibliografiia (Nizhny Novgorod: Dekom, 1994), 10.

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82. Kushnir, Zolotoe podpol′e, 9. Iurii Domanskii also cited the late 1970s as the time when Russian rock took shape. While there were rock groups previously, he wrote, the real founders of a domestic rock scene in the USSR were Makarevich (founder of the group Time Machine) and Grebenschikov (of Aquarium) and Mikhail (Maik) Naumenko (of Zoopark) in Leningrad. In Iu. V. Domanskii, Russkaia rok-poeziia: Tekst i kontekst (Tverʹ: Tverskoi gosudarstvennyi universitet, 1999), 4:4. 83. Interview with Oleg Reshetnikov, editor of Roxy from 1979 to 1983, pub­ lished in the Samizdat journal RIO, quoted by Kushnir, Zolotoe podpol′e, 55. 84. In addition, Polly McMichael wrote about the importance of bootlegged recordings of Dylan’s songs for Grebenshchikov and Naumenko, who recorded their own album All Brothers Are Sisters under its inf luence. See McMichael, “‘After All, You’re a Rock and Roll Star (At Least, That’s What They Say)’: Roksi and the Creation of the Soviet Rock Musician,” Slavonic and East European Review 83, no.4 (2005): 665–66. 85. Kushnir, Zolotoe podpol′e, 55. 86. Natasha Vasilʹeva, who typed the issues and handled the photographs, recalled making five copies (McMichael, “After All You’re a Rock and Roll Star,” 670). These copies were distributed among rock fans who frequented cafes, notably Café Saigon on Nevskii Prospekt in Leningrad. See Sumerki “Saigona,” ed. Iuliia Valieva (Saint Petersburg: Samizdat, 2009). Svetlana Boym also discussed “Saigon” in The Future of Nostalgia (New York: Basic Books, 2001), 149–55. 87. I am indebted to McMichael’s description of the role of the “straight man” in steb (“After All, You’re a Rock and Roll Star,” 678). 88. Yurchak, Everything Was Forever, 250. 89. Komaromi, Uncensored, 54. 90. Grebenshchikov cited (not quite exactly) from Claire V. Wilson’s 1976 study, “The Use of Rock Music as a Reward in Behavior Therapy with Children,” Journal of Music Therapy 13, no. 1 (1976): 39–48. The use of English words and phrases in Roxy (as in Aksenov’s text) is associated with the appreciation of British and American rock and functions as a sign of good taste. The text of this and other issues of Roksi can be found at “Akvarium,” https://handbook.severov.net. 91. B. G. (Boris Grebenshchikov), “O vrube,” Roksi 1 (1976), at “Akvarium.” 92. As Anna Kan reported, “Russian rock with good sound quality was a very com­ mercial proposition. Sasha Startsev, the editor of the samizdat rock magazine Roksi, had a well-developed network of DJ clients in various cities, from Kharkov to Vladi­ vostok: ‘They were decent, educated guys with a mission to spread new music in their regions. At the same time, they were quite aff luent and prepared to pay a good price for the quality. I’m sure they could return their investments quite easily in their own cities.’” From Kan, “Living in the Material World: Money in the Soviet Rock Under­ ground,” in Dropping Out of Socialism, ed. Fürst and McLellan, 270. 93. Kushnir, Zolotoe podpol′e, 12–14. 94. Kushnir, Zolotoe podpol′e, 92. 95. E. N. Savenko listed seven rock music samizdat journals she found in Siberia, in: Na puti k svobode slova. Ocherki istorii samizdata Sibiri (Novosibirsk: GPNTB SO RAN, 2008), 159. 96. Iuliia Voznesenskaia dated the appearance of the issue to September 1979: Iu. Voznesenskaia, “Zhenskoe dvizhenie v Rossii,” Posev 4 (1981): 41.

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97. The phrase about renewing the world appeared in “These Good Old Patri­ archal Principles,” Woman and Russia, trans. the Women and Eastern Europe Group (London: Sheba Feminist Publishers, 1980) 22. The London editors confessed, “Some of the contents we found difficult to appreciate; we felt distant from the religious ideas expressed by one or two of the women.” From the “Introduction,” Woman and Russia, 2. 98. From the “Introduction,” Woman and Russia, 10. 99. On Leningrad “second culture,” see discussion in chapters 2 and 3. Galina Grigorʹeva said that the women’s movement arose in part because most women’s work was labeled “unprofessional” or “second-rate” by established samizdat editors: this occurred, in her opinion, just because the women treated gendered topics. From Grigorʹeva, “K istorii zhenskogo dvizheniia vosʹmidesiatykh godov: Alʹmanakh ‘Zhenshchina i Rossiia,’ zhurnal ‘Mariia,’” in Samizdat, 122. Anna-Nataliia Malak­ hovskaia likewise complained that male editors of samizdat editions regularly mar­ ginalized women’s writing and denied space to the social themes that interested them. Her comments appeared in “O zarozhdenii russkogo feministicheskogo alʹmanakha ‘Zhenshchina i Rossiia,’” Solanus 14 (2000): 68–69. 100. From Voznesenskaia, “Zhenskoe dvizhenie v Rossii,” 41. A slightly different version of the article appeared as Youlia Voznessenskaia, “Le mouvement féministe dans notre pays,” in Maria: Journal du Club féministe “Maria” de Leningrad (Paris: des femmes, 1981), 38. 101. The editors of the London edition confessed, “we shuddered at the con­ servative ideas in Tatʹyana Goricheva’s article” (Woman and Russia, 2). Later they somewhat condescendingly explained, “Because Russia has never had a ‘rational’ revolution, an enlightenment or a renaissance, religion has always played a far more important part in liberal intellectual life there than it has in the west.” French edi­ tors showed more comprehension of the religious elements of Russian dissident feminism, which they understood by analogy with those of the Polish Solidarity movement: opposition in officially atheist Eastern European countries differed from opposition in the West. From Maria, 7. 102. Two women in the group, Tat′iana Mamonova and Natalia Mal′tseva, embraced a Western type of feminism, whereas other members of the Soviet women’s movement turned to Russian Orthodox values and forms. Voznesenskaia, “Zhenskoe dvizhenie,” 41; Grigorʹeva, “K istorii zhenskogo dvizheniia,” 122. 103. Voznesenskaia, “Zhenskoe dvizhenie,” 42. 104. Voznesenskaia, “Zhenskoe dvizhenie,” 42. 105. As Yelena Kalinsky wrote, “The actions [mounted by the Collective Actions group], their documentation, the many post-action discussions that took place among the audiences and organizers, and the theoretical texts that sprang up in their wake became regular mainstays of artistic life within the Moscow conceptualist cir­ cle, and formed a key locus for the articulation of Moscow conceptualist discourse in the second half of the 1970s and 1980s.” Yelena Kalinsky, “Drowning in Documents: Action, Documentation, and Factography in Early Work by the Collective Actions Group,” ARTMargins 2, no. 1 (February 2013): 84–85. See also the Moscow conceptu­ alist edition MANI, discussed in chapter 3. 106. From Monastyrskii’s Foreword (Predislovie) to volume 1 of Trips Out of Town, republished in Kollektivnye deistviia (A. Monastyrskii et al.), Poezdki za gorod

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(Moscow: Ad Marginem, 1998), 20–21. That edition contained volumes 1–5. The vol­ umes were republished in somewhat fuller editions in Kollektivnye deistviia, Poezdki za gorod 1, and Poezdki za gorod 2–3 (Vologda: Biblioteka Moskovskogo Kontseptu­ alizma Germana Titova, 2011). The materials can also be found in Russian and in English, in “Collective Actions,” Conceptualism, http://conceptualism.letov.ru/KDACTIONS.htm. 107. Gerald Janecek addressed the two different terms used in Russian for “action”: the Russian word deistvie comes from a Slavic root for action and move­ ment, while the word aktsiia, derived from Latin, is used in Russian to refer to an investment in the stock market and less commonly for diplomatic action. Thus, akt­ siia as a term for the genre may signal the unusual nature of the activity and evoke the documentation that is so central to the way the action was realized and preserved for contemplation. See Gerald Janecek, Everything Has Already Been Written: Moscow Conceptualist Poetry and Performance (Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press, 2019), 172. 108. Michael Scammel described these 1974 exhibitions in “Art as Politics,” Non­ conformist Art: The Soviet Experience 1956–1986, ed. Alla Rosenfeld and Norton T. Dodge (London: Thames and Hudson, 1995), 53–54. 109. Janecek, Everything Has Already Been Written, 175. The banner recalls the more obviously ironic Sots-Art slogans of Vitalii Komar and Aleksandr Melamid. Janecek cited Monastyrskii’s text from vol. 3 of Trips Out of Town, titled “With a Wheel in the Head (Remarks on Sociology, Art and Aesthetics),” in Kollektivnye deistviia (A. Monastyrskii, et al.), Poezdki za gorod, 1998, 298. See chapter 2 in this book on the arrests of Ginzburg, Galanskov, Dobrovolʹskii and Lashkova after the samizdat production of the White Book covering the case of writers Siniavskii and Danielʹ. Galanskov’s arrest was also associated with his editing of the samizdat journal Phoenix, discussed in chapter 3. 110. As Monastyrskii put it, Soviet society (the sotsium), signified by the red color and form of the banner, became in this way the content around which the group could construct an artistic-existential space, a new frame of esthetic conventions, as opposed to accepting Soviet society (and historical imagination) as the field within which the artists had to operate (Kollektivnye deistviia, 1998, 299). 111. Monastyrskii, “Predislovie” (Kollektivnye deistviia, 1998, 19, 21). 112. From the accounts of participants (Kollektivnye deistviia, 1998, 58, 63, 76). Janecek discussed these reactions and also noted Alekseev’s reference to Zen koans, commenting on the general intention of the Collective Actions group to provoke an event in the psyche of the observer, a sense of a perceptible change, as in the case of a ritual (Everything Has Already Been Written, 178, 179, 187). The inf luence of infor­ mation about Zen Buddhism and the work of John Cage on the Collective Actions group was also noted by Kalinsky (“Drowning in Documents,” 83) and Janecek (Everything Has Already Been Written, 162). 113. G. Kizevalʹter, “Akt vospriiatiia kak predmet izobrazheniia (Monastyrskii et al., Kollektivnye deistviia, 111). 114. Quoted by Kalinsky (“Drowning in Documents,” 88–89) from the “Frag­ ment 1976 goda” in Kollektivnye deistviia, Poezdki za gorod 1:147. 115. Quoted by Kalinsky (“Drowning in Documents,” 90) from the “Fragment 1977 goda” (1976), Poezdki za gorod 1:148.

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116. E. N. Savenko, Na puti k svobode slova. Ocherki istorii samizdata Sibiri (Novosi­ birsk: GPNTB SO RAN, 2008). 117. Such a lack does not mean there was not symbolic and cultural capital potentially associated with samizdat activity. In addition, the transfer of samizdat materials abroad might translate into political significance and, occasionally, finan­ cial potential, although this transfer might entail the exchange of symbolic capi­ tal from the samizdat field to symbolic capital in the Western context (Komaromi, Uncensored, 152). 118. Strukova wrote about Gorbachev’s remarks at the Plenum of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union in January 1987, at which he said: “The press should support glasnost (openness) in the country, to inform our people . . . We need the press to be an active participant in perestroika.” After this speech, mass repressions against samizdat producers and distributors ceased, and the era of the alternative press began. Al′ternativnaia periodicheskaia pechat′ v istorii rossiiskoi mnogopartiinosti (1987–1996) (Moscow: GPIB, 2005), 9. 119. Editors made a distinction between “classic samizdat” and the “informal press,” which began in 1987: “Katalog periodicheskikh i prodozhaiushchikhsia neformalʹnykh izdanii na russkom iazyke v archive samizdata,” Materialy samizdata 8 (1991), iii. Voronkov and Wielgohs wrote: “The social and political mass move­ ment that emerged in 1987 had an entirely different character. It was created under circumstances that were changed wholly; viewed programmatically, organization­ ally, and personally, it had few if any connections to the prior dissident movement.” (“Soviet Russia,” 106). Aleksandr Danielʹ also distinguished samizdat from the “infor­ mal press of 1987–90” (“Istoki i smysl,” 17). 120. Strukova, Al′ternativnaia periodicheskaia pechat′, 24. 121. Strukova, Al′ternativnaia periodicheskaia pechat′, 25. 122. An example of this access to positions of political inf luence can be found in the anarcho-syndicalist journal The Community (Obshchina, 1987–88—not to be con­ fused with the samizdat journal of the same name), produced by students of the History Department at Moscow State Pedagogical Institute. Strukova noted that the authors of Obshchina—Andrei Isaev, Aleksandr Shubin, and others, became promi­ nent figures in the student, professional unions, and political movements in the final years of the USSR (Al′ternativnaia periodicheskaia pechat′, 36). 123. Grigorii Pomerants, “The Price of Recantation,” in On Sakharov [originally Sakharovskii sbornik (New York: Khronika Press, 1981], ed. Alexander Babyonyshev, trans. Guy Daniels (New York: Vintage, 1982). 124. Yurchak, Everything Was Forever, 133–34. 125. Yurchak talked about people reproducing the forms of authoritative Soviet speech within a deterritorialized discursive field such that the constative meaning of the speech was “unanchored” or “ignored.” Yurchak, Everything Was Forever, 115. He took the distinction between performative and constative aspects of speech from J. L. Austin’s speech act theory, as developed in Austin’s book How to Do Things with Words (Oxford: Clarendon Press, [1962] 1999). 126. In the essay “Author and Hero in Aesthetic Activity,” Bakhtin wrote about the fundamental relationship of the author to the hero of a literary text, according to which “the author occupies an intently maintained position . . . outside the hero with respect to space, time, value and meaning” in the literary text. Quoted and discussed by Yurchak, Everything Was Forever, 133.

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Conclusion

1. From his uncensored essay, “On Socialist Realism,” in Abram Tertz (Andrei Sinyavsky), The Trial Begins and on Socialist Realism, trans. George Dennis (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1960), 162. 2. Siniavskii used the ambiguities of literary narration and style to destabilize authority in various spheres of discourse. His transgression of norms related to the nearly sacred character of Pushkin as a Russian author is an oft-cited example of how dissident writing might also challenge more deeply embedded Russian cultural values. See Andrei Sinyavsky, Strolls with Pushkin, trans. Catherine Theimer Nepom­ nyashchy and Slava I. Yastremski (New York: Columbia University Press, 2016). 3. A study of samizdat autonomy in the writing of Vasilii Aksenov, Andrei Bitov, and Venedikt Erofeev appeared in Komaromi, Uncensored. 4. Yurchak, Everything Was Forever, 10. Yurchak cited Michel Foucault’s conten­ tion that fascism and Stalinism puzzle people in the West as “pathological forms” of power because they are “not quite original. They used and extended mechanisms already present in most other societies. More than that: in spite of their own internal madness, they used to a large extent the ideas and the devices of our political ratio­ nality.” From Foucault’s “Afterword: The Subject and Power,” in Hubert L. Dreyfus and Paul Rabinow, Michel Foucault: Beyond Structuralism and Hermeneutics (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1982), 209. 5. Claude Lefort classed the Soviet Union as “totalitarian.” He wrote, “The phe­ nomenon of totalitarianism enables us to decipher the specific features of bourgeois ideology, for the contradiction of the latter is ref lected in it.” See Claude Lefort, The Political Forms of Modern Society: Bureaucracy, Democracy, Totalitarianism (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1986), 214. 6. On adaptations of Western liberal ideas and debates between Slavophiles and Westernizers battling out the fate of the country through literary works and criti­ cism, see Marcus C. Levitt, Russian Literary Politics and the Pushkin Celebration of 1880 (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1989). 7. Fraser and Warner called them “counterpublics.” 8. The concept of “dropping out” is explored in Dropping Out of Socialism, ed. Fürst and McLellan. 9. Taylor wrote of “provincializing Europe,” which “means that we finally get over seeing modernity as a single process of which Europe is the paradigm, and that we understand the European model as the first, certainly, as the object of some creative imitation, naturally, but as, at the end of the day, one model among many, a province of the multi-form world we hope (a little against hope) will emerge in order and peace.” From Taylor, Modern Social Imaginaries, 196. Taylor was referring to Dipesh Chakrabarty, Provincializing Europe (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2000). 10. See Elizabeth Eisenstein, The Printing Press as an Agent of Change: Communi­ cation and Cultural Transformations in Early-Modern Europe (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1979). Scholarship since her landmark book has questioned both the causal force of print and the stability of print qualities she outlined. Among rather scholars addressing the topic, Adrian Johns showed how the truth and stability of printed texts had to be negotiated, in The Nature of the Book. Print and Knowledge in the Making (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1998). Developments in book history

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have proven illuminating for analysis of samizdat, as I aimed to show in Komaromi, “Samizdat as Extra-Gutenberg Phenomenon.” 11. From Iuz Aleshkovskii’s “Song about Stalin” (Pesnia o Staline) (Antologiia samizdata, 1.1:111). 12. Arendt described the force of logical deduction imposed by the totalitarian order, which eliminates thought along with a relationship to the world and to other people: “The only capacity of the human mind which needs neither the self nor the other nor the world in order to function safely and which is as independent of experience as it is of thinking is the ability of logical reasoning whose premise is the self-evident.” In Hannah Arendt, The Origins of Totalitarianism (New York: Schocken Books, 1951 [2004]), 614. 13. Peter Steiner posed this question (Steiner, “On Samizdat,” 619). 14. Lisa Gitelman, for example, talked about media in terms of “socially realized structures of communication,” in Always Already New: Media, History and the Data of Culture (Cambridge: MIT Press, 2006), 7. 15. Anderson, Imagined Communities. 16. Taylor wrote about an increase in the overall level of fragilization of forms of belief (A Secular Age, 531). This seems to apply not just to forms of religious belief and unbelief but to the shared premises of the modern social imaginary, that security and prosperity are the ultimate secular goods, best pursued by the economic coop­ eration of a collective of individuals (“Modern Social Imaginaries,” 96). 17. Already in 2009, scholars argued for “the need for a new round of thinking on totalitarianism” in a comparative context, motivated in part by the resurgence of totalitarian ideologies linked to terror and a recognition that the thinking on totali­ tarianism was deeper and richer than many historians had realized. See the “Intro­ duction,” to Beyond Totalitarianism: Stalinism and Nazism Compared, ed. Michael Geyer and Sheila Fitzpatrick (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 11. This argu­ ment seems even more relevant with the rise of populist movements and conspirato­ rial theories among identity groups in western countries. 18. The Memory group of perestroika times should not be confused with the unofficial historians’ collection Memory, discussed in chapter 1. On the Perestroika group and Russian nationalism, see Yitzhak Brudny, Reinventing Russia: Russian Nationalism and the Soviet State, 1953–1991 (Harvard University Press, 2000), 207–9. Brudny detailed attempts by the post-Stalin Soviet government to co-opt Russian nationalist intellectuals, but he did not document the unofficial samizdat side of this activity as part of the larger “Russian party” phenomenon mentioned in chapter four and discussed by Mitrokhin (Russkaia partiia) and Kostyrchenko (Tainaia politika, 2:120–24 and passim). 19. “The structures of the lifeworld lay down the forms of the intersubjectivity of possible understanding,” wrote Habermas. These structures consist of shared notions of “culture, society, [and the] person.” In modern times, the system and the lifeworld become disconnected and with developing complexity, the former seeks to instru­ mentalize the latter, instead of serving its values: “the irresistible irony of the worldhistorical process of enlightenment becomes evident: the rationalization of the lifeworld makes possible a heightening of systemic complexity, which becomes so hyper­ trophied that it unleashes system imperatives that burst the capacity of the lifeworld

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they instrumentalize” (Habermas, The Theory of Communicative Action, vol. 2: Lifeworld and System: A Critique of Functionalist Reason, trans. Thomas McCarthy (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1987), 126, 138, 155). On the late Soviet underground as “lifeworld,” see Klavdia Smola, “Community as Device: Metonymic Art of the Late Soviet Underground,” Russian Literature 96–98 (2018): 14. 20. For example, while aiming to strip away the bourgeois mythologies asso­ ciated with culture, Pierre Bourdieu suggested that culture still could provide the autonomous ground for the intellectual’s critique of power, and that this autono­ mous culture might be realized different ways in different contexts. See Bourdieu, The Rules of Art: Genesis and Structure of the Literary Field, trans. Susan Emanuel (Stan­ ford: Stanford University Press, 1992), 343–44. 21. Michael Carlson, “Rush Limbaugh obituary,” Guardian (February 17, 2021), https://www.theguardian.com/media/2021/feb/17/rush-limbaugh-obituary. 22. As the Memory editors wrote in the foreword to issue 1: “There are millions of witnesses and many of them are still alive! Not one historian ever had such abundant material.” See chapter 1. 23. The fate of Iurii Dmitriev, imprisoned on false charges of child pornogra­ phy, seems sadly familiar. Dmitriev’s case was summarized by Andrew Higgins, “He Found One of Stalin’s Mass Graves. Now He’s in Jail,” New York Times (April 27, 2020), https://www.nytimes.com/2020/04/27/world/europe/russia-historian-stalin­ mass-graves.html. 24. Dmitriev worked with colleagues from the Saint Petersburg affiliate of the Memorial Society to determine the names and burial places of thousands shot and buried in 1937–38 in the Sandarmokh forest in Karelia. Many of these were signifi­ cant cultural figures imprisoned at Solovki. See Iu. A. Dmitriev, Mesto pamiati Sandar­ mokh, ed. by A. Ia. Razumov (Petrozavodsk: n.p., 2019). 25. Irina Flige, Sandormokh: Dramaturgiia smyslov, ed. A. Iu. Danielʹ and O. P. Nikolaev (Saint Petersburg: Nestor-Istoriia, 2019), 12–13. 26. The text for the tours produced by Beizer appeared in the first eleven issues of the Leningrad Jewish Almanac and in Michael Beizer, The Jews of St. Petersburg. Excursions through a Noble Past, ed. Martin Gilbert, trans. Michael Sherbourne (Phila­ delphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1989). 27. The excursions, led by Ilya Dvorkin, recalled the early twentieth-century expeditions of S. Ansky between 1911 and 1914. Described by V. Dymshits, “Dva puteshestviia po odnoi doroge,” in Istoriia evreev na Ukraine i v Belorussii, ed. V. Dym­ shits (Saint Petersburg: Petersburg Jewish University, 1994), 8–11. 28. Alerted by a podcast to the existence of the “Take ’Em Down NOLA” move­ ment to remove monuments to racist white leaders and the related Hidden History tours (https://www.hiddenhistory.us), I took the “African History of the French Quarter” tour led by Malcolm Suber in June 2018. 29. Lynnell L. Thomas, “Neutral Ground or Battleground? Hidden History, Tourism, and Spatial (In)Justice in the New Orleans French Quarter,” Journal of Afri­ can American History (Fall 2018): 624. 30. Thomas, “Neutral Ground or Battleground?” 622. 31. See, for example, Arisa Elena Duarte and Miranda Belarde-Lewis, “Imag­ ining: Creating Spaces for Indigenous Ontologies,” Cataloging & Classification

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Quarterly 53, no. 5–6 (2015): 677–702. See also Chaitra Powell et al., “This [Black] Woman’s Work: Exploring Archival Projects that Embrace the Identity of the Mem­ ory Worker,” KULA: Knowledge Creation, Dissemination, and Preservation Studies 2, no. 1 (2018): Article 5, DOI: http://doi.org/10.5334/kula.25. 32. Vladimir Muravʹev, “Vysokikh zrelishch zritelʹ,” in Zapiski psikhopata (Moscow: Vagrius), 11. 33. See David Remnick’s review of a production in New York: “The Lush Life of a Muscovite,” New Yorker 71, no. 33 (October 23, 1995): 36–37. The theatrical adapta­ tion was based on a UK radio version of Erofeev’s novel, which provided the basis for the full Mulrine translation—Venedikt Yerofeev, Moscow Stations: A Poem, trans. Stephen Mulrine (London: Faber and Faber, 1997). 34. Iurii Levin, “Semiosfera Venichki Erofeeva,” in Sbornik statei k 70-letiiu profes­ sora Iu. M. Lotmana, ed. A. Malʹts (Tartu: Tartuskii universitet, 1991), 498–99. 35. Yerofeev, Moscow Stations, 2. Andrei Zorin wrote about the way phrases from Erofeev’s text came to seem like aphorisms. This prose “added a special dimension to our collective efforts not to disappear into the surrounding reality,” he said. in “Opoznavatelʹnyi znak,” Teatr 9 (1991): 120. 36. Yerofeev, Moscow Stations, 34. Sofʹia Bogatyreva talked about the pigtail and other formulations from Erofeev’s novel, which people in her circle of acquaintance knew almost entirely by heart. She was quoted in Oleg Lekmanov, Mikhail Sverdlov, and Ilʹia Simanovskii, Venedikt Erofeev: Postoronnii (Moscow: Izdatelʹstvo AST, 2018), 214. 37. Yerofeev, Moscow Stations, 124. He goes on to address people more gener­ ally: “You people out there, humanity, I don’t know you too well, I haven’t paid you much attention, but I’m interested in you. I’d like to know where your soul is these days, to know for sure if the Star of Bethlehem’s going to shine out again, or even just f licker. . . all the other stars have just about had it” (Yerofeev, Moscow Stations, 125). 38. Bakhtin is said to have appreciated Erofeev’s novel, apart from the end, in which he saw “entropy.” See Zorin, “Opoznavatelʹnyi znak,” 121. 39. Arendt wrote about “the self-coercive force of logical deduction . . . which prepares each individual in his lonely isolation against all others . . .” as a pillar of totalitarian regimes (Arendt, The Origins of Totalitarianism, 610). 40. Yerofeev, Moscow Stations, 60. 41. Cynthia Simmons, Their Fathers’ Voice: Vassily Aksyonov, Venedikt Erofeev, Edu­ ard Limonov, and Sasha Sokolov (New York: Peter Lang, 1993), 76. 42. The link between erstwhile companions and Venichka’s murderers is estab­ lished by the roommates in Orekhovo-Zuevo, who form another unified and Rabe­ laisian drinking community. They turn on Venichka in suspicion and anger for trying to keep some things private (Yerofeev, Moscow Stations, 15–18). 43. As explained by Andrew Kahn, Mark Lipovetsky, Irina Reyfman, and Stepha­ nie Sandler, A History of Russian Literature (Oxford Scholarship Online, May 2018), 557, DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780199663941.001.0001; emphasis added. 44. Prigov explained his technique thus: “I work meditatively. I see some crystal­ line images and enjoy them. I take apart the logos of a mentality and this work of contemplation, of modeling is equivalent to the modeling of a separate poem. And if a person is able to follow in my footsteps as given to him in these poems to come

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out at an elevated point of contemplating this myth [that is what I try to provide, because] for me that is such a zone of happiness and beauty.” Sergei Gandlevskii, Dmitrii Aleksandrovich Prigov (Dialogue), “Mezhdu imenem i imidzhem,” Literat­ urnaia gazeta, 19, no. 5447 (May 12, 1993): 5. 45. Dmitri Alexandrovich Prigov, Soviet Texts, trans. Simon Schuchat and Ainsley Morse (New York: Ugly Duckling Presse, 2020), 124–25). The original can be found as “Otkrytoe pisʹmo (Prigov)” at https://wikilivres.ru. 46. In one version, Prigov wrote: “I want someone to dream of me / In a uni­ form, in boots and in a holster.” He liked to wear a policeman’s hat when he recited these poems. Quoted in dual Russian and English texts by Gerald Janecek, Everything Has already Been Written, 128–29. 47. Kirill Medvedev argued as a Russian poet with avowed roots in the Soviet underground against the idea that literature is a “private activity.” Poetry, he argued, matters: “poetic language in Russia, even the most refined and individualized, is, sorry to say, far from being your private business. .  .  . If you don’t give Russia a living language, it will take a dead one, a zombie language, a dead for that pretends to be living, and it’ll be your fault.” From Kirill Medvedev, “My Fascism (a Few Truths)” (2003–4), in It’s No Good trans. Keith Gessen and Mark Krotov (New York: Ugly Duck­ ling Presse, 2012), 106. 48. Medvedev, “My Fascism,” 99–100, 109–10.

Appendix. Soviet Samizdat Periodicals, 1956–1986

1. More details about the collection of this data can be found in “About the Database of Soviet Samizdat Periodicals,” in Ann Komaromi, Soviet Samizdat Peri­ odicals (http://samizdat.library.utoronto.ca). The database includes additional notes, and it indicates what piece of the data comes from which source. Some information is fragmentary. For instance, Aleksandr Suetnov recorded five issues of the Kirov journal Avant-Garde (Avangard) from 1986 to 1988. In the online catalog Samizdat i novaia politicheskaia pressa, an issue of the same journal from 1990 is recorded with no issue number given. Therefore, the citation listed here indicates those upper lim­ its with a dash or question mark to indicate that the full extent of the issues is not established: Avant-Garde (Avangard) 1986–90; no. 1–5? 2. Additional information about copies viewed can be found in the database under “Issues, Contents and Archived Copies,” included when relevant, for example, for Quest (Poiski). 3. See Samizdat i novaia politicheskaia pressa, http://filial.shpl.ru/sam/sam_ p2.htm. Some of these additional archives inside Russia are also referenced in the entries in A. Komaromi and G. Kuzovkin, Katalog periodiki Samizdata. That catalog also includes reference to some private collections. 4. Aleksandr Suetnov discussed the difficulty of determining what was quality literature vs. graphomania, or purely amateur writing in samizdat. It could also be hard to affix thematic or generic labels, like those used in official publications. The solution is not obvious, but, as Suetnov observed: “One thing is clear—the logic of classification should be principally different from that of the official press” (Suetnov, Samizdat, 8).

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5. In the early 1970s, Albert Boiter noted “the tremendous volume of the mate­ rial available.” From Boiter, “Samizdat: Primary Source Material,” 285. 6. Project for the Study of Dissidence and Samizdat, http://samizdatcollections. library.utoronto.ca. 7. Komaromi and Kuzovkin, Katalog periodiki Samizdata. 8. GEOnet Names Server, https://geonames.nga.mil/gns/html/.

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Zisserman-Brodsky, Dina. Constructing Ethnopolitics in the Soviet Union: Samizdat, Deprivation, and the Rise of Ethnic Nationalism. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2003. [ZISS] Zorin, Andrei, “Opoznavatel′nyi znak.” Teatr 9 (1991): 120. Zubkova, E. Iu. Poslevoennoe sovetskoe obshchestvo: politika i povsednevnost′: 1945–1953. Moscow: ROSSPEN, 2000.

Archival Collections Further information about reported holdings in additional institutions is available at http://samizdat.library.utoronto.ca. Archives of Aleksandr Kushnir (“Kushnir Productions”) [AAK)] Association “Remember and Save.” Archive of the Jewish Aliya Move­ ment in the Soviet Union. Haifa, Israel [HAI] Baylor University, Waco, TX. Keston Center for Religion, Politics, & Society. Keston College Collection [BAY] The Belousovitch Collection of Samizdat and Independent Press. Uni­ versity of Toronto Library [UTL] British Library [BRL] The Central Archives for the History of the Jewish People (CAHJP), Hebrew University, Givat Ram Campus, Jerusalem (Ha-Archion HaMercazi l’toldot ha-am ha-yehudi) [HAR] George Washington University, Washington, DC, Gelman Library, Spe­ cial Collections, International Counterculture Archive [GWU] International Historical, Research, Human Rights and Philanthropic Society “Memorial,” Moscow. Archive of the History of Dissidence in the USSR [MEM] International Historical, Research, Human Rights and Philanthropic Society “Memorial,” Saint Petersburg [SPB] Kaunas County Public Library / Kauno Apskrities Viešoji Biblioteka [KAU] Lithuanian Genocide and Resistance Research Center, Vilnius, Lithuania (Lietuvos gyventojų genocido ir rezistencijos tyrimo centras) [GRC] Library at Vilnius University. This indication is given in parentheses to indicate that the list of holdings at the library was consulted, but the copies could not be viewed for verification [VIL] Museum-Archive and Documentation Center of Ukrainian Samvydav [MAU] Museum of Genocide Victims, Vilnius, Lithuania (Genocido aukų muz­ iejus) [MGV]

284

BIBLIOGRAPHY

NTS: Samizdat collection. Hoover Institution, Stanford University

[HOO]

Open Society Archive, Central European University, Budapest, Hungary. Radio Liberty Samizdat Archives [OSA] Research Centre for East European Studies, University of Bremen, Germany (Forschungsstelle Osteuropa, Universität Bremen) [BRE] Vaad Russia, Moscow. Archive of Samizdat [VAA]

Index

Abalakova, Natalia, 109–11

Abyzov, Iurii, 202n49

“action, empty,” 142–43

Affair (Delo), 163

Afinogenov, Aleksandr, 209n41

Aizenberg, Mikhail, 225n104, 226n112

Akhmadulina, Bella, 89

Akhmatova, Anna, 3, 57–60, 72, 74, 197n6,

220n42, 221n48, 229n13

Aksenov, Vasilii (Vasya), 62, 63–64, 137, 138,

206–7n9, 223n69

Aleinikov, Vladimir, 230n19

Alekseev, Nikita, 108

Alekseeva, Liudmila, 6, 29, 31, 36, 71, 116,

198n8, 221–22n56

Aleshkovskii, Iuz, 151

Alexievich, Svetlana, 1, 220n41

Alkonost, 163

All about Tsvetaeva (Vse o Tsvetaevoi), 126–28,

163

Alma Mater, 163

Almanac (Al′manakh), 163

alternatitve press of perestroika, 145–47

alternative community, 153, 155–58

alternative press of perestroika, 248n118

Alternative Writing (Isekiri), 163

Alyssum (Burachok, Vitazhenets), 163

Amal′rik, Andrei, 31, 32, 206n7, 211n63

Amalthea (Amal′teia), 163

Amnesty International, 70

Anderson, Benedict, 41, 84–85, 152,

227–28n137, 229n5

Andreev, Iurii, 233n68

Andropov, Iurii, 11, 52

Anninskii, Lev, 78

Anthology of Samizdat (Antologiia samizdata,

2005), 7

Antsiferov, N. P., 39

“Appearance” (Collective Actions event),

143

Appleye (EplOKO), 139, 164

Aqua (Akva), 164

Aquarium (Akvarium), 48, 211n72

Archive (Arkhiv), 164

Archive of the Chronicle (Arkhiv Khroniki),

164

Archivist (Arkhivarius), 145, 164

Ardis Publishers, 200n22

Arendt, Hannah, 151, 250n12, 252n39

Around the Draft Constitution of the USSR

(Vokrug proekta Konstitutsii SSSR), 118,

164

art, and MANA folio series, 106–11

Articles 190-1 and 190-3, 67, 103, 202n47,

234n78

Art of the Commune/AC (Iskusstvo Kommuny/

IK), 90–93, 164, 231nn32,34

Asad, Talal, 85–86, 229n7

atheist indoctrination, 121

Audi Hollies (Audi Kholi), 164

Avant-Garde (Avangard, 1965), 7, 164, 200n26,

230n19

Avant-Garde (Avangard, 1986–90), 164

avant-garde, time of, in Moscow,

87–94

A-Ya, 109

Babel, Isaak, 5

Bakhtin, Mikhail, 82–83, 84, 97, 147, 156,

228n1, 248n126, 252n38

Banerjee, Anindita, 238n4

Baptists, 65–69, 71, 116, 133–36

Barenberg, Alan, 223n66

Baron, Salo W., 214n111

Batshev, Vladimir, 97

Beacon (Paros), 164

Beat-Echo (Bit-Ekho), 164

Beginning, The (Nachalo), 165

Begun, Iosif, 2

Beizer, Michael, 154

Bekirova, Gul′nara, 41

Belarusian samizdat journals, 44

285

286

INDEX

Bell, The (Kolokol), 165

Bell, The (Varpas), 165

Bell Tower (Samrek′lo), 165

Beloved Dawn (Aušrelė), 165

Benjamin, Walter, 229n5

Bestiary (Bestiarii), 145, 165

Birth Pangs (Erkunk), 165

Bitov, Andrei, 231n40

Bittner, Stephen, 24, 52, 206n4, 207n16,

217n10

“Black Hole” (Abalakova), 109–11

“Blue Lagoon” anthology, 7

Blue Lantern (Blakitny likhtar), 165

Bogoraz-Daniel′, Larisa, 34–35, 210n59,

214n108

Boiter, Albert, 254n5

Bokshtein, Il′ia, 230n20

Bol′shoi, Aleksandr, 45

Bolton, Jonathan, 13, 214n112

Bonfires of Madness (Kostry bezumiia), 165

Boobbyer, Philip, 203n51

Boomerang (Bumerang), 165

Borovik, Pavel, 242–43n54

Boruta, Jonas, 240n28

Bourdeaux, Michael, 119, 223n77, 240n24

Bourdieu, Pierre, 12, 13, 204n61, 251n20

Brailovskii, Viktor, 241n37

Brezhnev, Leonid, 24, 75, 129

Brodskii, Iosif (Brodsky, Joseph), 2, 72, 98,

197–98n6, 225n103

Brooks, Crispin, 235n84

Brudney, Yitzhak, 250n18

Buber, Martin, 45

Bukovskii, Vladimir, 27, 28–29, 31–32, 88,

211n72, 230n21

Bulldozer Exhibition (1974), 106–7, 143

Bulletin (Biulleten′, 1978–82), 166

Bulletin (Biulleten′, 1982), 166

Bulletin (Biulleten′, 1984), 166

Bulletin “+” (Biulleten′ “+”), 166

Bulletin of the Council of Relatives of Evangelical

Christian Baptist Prisoners in the USSR

(Biulleten′ soveta rodstvennikov uznikov

evangel′skikh khristian-baptistov SSSR),

67–69, 71, 136, 166

Bulletin “V” (“V” Biulleten′), 166

Burliuk, David, 231n38

Call, The (Prizyv), 166

camp memoirs, 2, 37, 39, 60–65, 197n5,

221–22nn54,56,58,59,61, 223n66

Candle (Svecha), 167

card catalog poetry, 107

Carlisle, Olga, 219n26, 230n25

Cartridge Clips (Naboini), 167

Case of Alexander Ginzburg and Yurii Orlov:

Informational Bulletin (Delo Aleksandra

Ginzburga i Iuriia Orlova: Informatsionnyi

biulleten′ ), 167

Catacombs (Katakombos), 167

Cat Behemoth, The (Kot-begemot), 167

censorship, 22–23, 206–7n9

“Chair. Photograph of a Chair. Definition

of a Chair” (Skersis), 108

Chatterjee, Partha, 85

Chervonnaia, S. M., 42

Chest, The (Skrynia), 115, 167

Chicherin, A. N., 235n87

Children’s Herald (Detskii vestnik), 167

Chornovil, Viacheslav, 115

Christian Seminar on Problems of the

Religious Renaissance, 130–32 Chronicle of Current Events ceased publication of, 227n123 versus Chronicle of the Catholic Church in Lithuania, 119–20

Information as precursor to, 27

interruptions to, 111

and Memory, 40

versus News from the USSR, 96

production and distribution of, 10,

202n43

renewal of, 117

and rights activism in 1960s, 94–95

trial of the four covered in, 35, 211n61

voice and truth-telling in, 70–71

Chronicle of Current Events (Khronika

tekushchikh sobytii), 168

Chronicle of the Catholic Church in Lithuania (Lietuvos katalikų bažnyčios kronika), 118–22, 167, 239n21, 240nn24,28 Chronicle of the Catholic Church in Ukraine

(Khronika katolits′koi tserkvi na Ukraini),

167

Chronicle of the Gulag Archipelago (Khronika

Arkhipelaga Gulag: Sbornik dokumentov),

168

Chronicle of the Gulag Archipelago/Chronicle of

Zone 35 (Khronika Arkhipelaga/Gulaga/

Khronika Zony 35), 168

chronotopes, 82–83, 84, 101–6, 111–12, 150,

228n1

Chukovskaia, Lidiia, 30, 59

Churbashka: A Jolly Collection for Little

Uncles and Aunties (Churbashka: Veselyi

al′manakh dlia malen′kikh diadenek i

tetenek), 168

Churilin, Aleksandr, 97

INDEX CIA book program, 206n7

Circle (Krug), 101

“Civic Appeal,” 31–32

classic literature, 92–93

Clock, The (Chasy), 99–101, 112, 168

Clock: Thematic Collection, The (Chasy:

Al′manakh), 168

Club-81, 101, 105

Club of Amateur Song, 227n125

Coleman, Heather, 244n73

Collections (Sborniki), 168

Collective Actions (KD, Kollektivnye

deistviia), 142–44, 246n105, 247n112

Communist Party of Youth, 25

Community (Obshchina), 130–32, 141, 168–69,

243nn59,63,70, 248n122 community/communities, 40–47 alternative, 153, 155–58 imagined, 84–85 subcultural, 47–49, 215n119 See also public sphere; social space(s) conceptualism, 106–11, 157–58, 236nn98–98

Constellation (Sozvezdie), 169

Contact (Kontakt, 1982–88), 169

Contact (Kontakt, 1986–88), 169

Contemporary Jewish Folklore (Sovremennyi

evreiskii fol′klor), 125, 169

Conversations (Gutarka), 169

Council of Churches of Evangelical

Christian-Baptists (CCECB), 67,

133–34, 224n82

counterpublics, 51, 217n2, 228–29n3

Crack of Light (Prosvet), 169

Crime and Punishment (Prestuplenie i

nakazanie), 169

Crimean Tatars, 40–44, 72, 213n97,

225n99

Crocus (Padsnezhnik), 169

cultural capital, 12, 152, 248n117

culture

Bourdieu on, 251n20

official, 8, 12, 21, 65, 92, 131, 155

second/unofficial, 12, 36, 76, 97, 100, 140,

203n56, 225n101, 232n52 time of, in Leningrad, 96–101, 233n60

Culture (Tarbut), 44–47, 123–24, 169

Culture Archive, The (Kulturos archyvas), 169

Czechoslovakia, Soviet invasion of, 36, 126,

211n68 Daniel′, Aleksandr, 5, 198–99n13

Daniel′, Iulii, 28, 33, 240n33

Darnton, Robert, 9, 204n64

Dawn (Aušra), 169–70

287

Deep Purple, 48

Dektor, Felix, 123, 124

Democrat (Demokrat), 170

deterritorialized spaces, 147–48

Dialogue (Dialog), 170

Diary of Volunteers (Dnevnik dobrovol′tsev),

170

Digest (Daidzhest), 170

Disco-Start (Disko-Start), 170

discourse, space of. See space of discourse

“dissidence”/“dissident,” 11, 13, 203nn50–51

dissident historiography, 50, 218n11

Djagalov, Rossen, 227–28n137

Dmitriev, Iurii, 153–54, 251nn23–24

Dobrovolskii, Aleksei, 34, 210n59. See also

trial of the four

Doctor Zhivago (Pasternak), 55–57, 219n29,

220nn33,35

Documents (Dokumentai, 1976–81), 121, 170,

243n70

Documents (Dokumenty, 1976–82), 117–18,

170

Documents (Dokumenty, 1979–80), 121, 170

Documents of the Christian Committee for the

Defense of Believers’ Rights in the USSR (Dokumenty khristianskogo komiteta zashchity prav veruiuschchikh v SSSR), 170–71 Dolinin, V. E., 211n73, 234n74

Domanskii, Iurii, 245n82

Double (Dabl), 171

Down with Slavery (Šalin vergia), 171

“dropping out,” 49, 82, 151, 201n40, 218n16,

228n142

Duel (Poedinok), 171

Dzhemilev, Mustafa, 42, 213n94

Dziarnovic, Aleh, 44

Ear, The (Ukho), 48, 136, 171

Earth (Zemlia), 171

eccentric chronotopes, 101–6

Edmond, Jacob, 236n99

Effort (K″asevet), 43–44, 171, 213–14n104

Ego-Futurists, 104

Eliot, T. S., 99, 233n63

Ellis, Jane, 244n75

Emigration to Israel (Vyezd v Izrail′ ), 171

“empty action,” 142–43

Entropy or Eyelids Rolled Inward (Entropiia ili

zavorot vek vnutr′ ), 171

Eos, 171

Epsilon-Salon (Epsilon-salon), 172

Erenburg, Il′ia (Ehrenburg, Ilya), 24, 54–55,

90–91, 93, 127, 219nn21,24, 231n32

288

INDEX

Erl′, Vladimir, 7, 97, 105

Ermilov, Vladimir, 91–92, 219n21

Erofeev (Yerofeev), Venedikt, 155–57,

252n35

Esenin-Vol′pin, Aleksandr, 46

Estonian Democrat, The (Eesti demokraat),

172

Evdokimov, Rostislav, 129, 243n55

“Event without a Title” (Rubinshtein),

107

Evtushenko, Evgenii, 55, 89

Exodus: Collection of Documents (Iskhod:

Sbornik dokumentov), 122, 172

Experiments (Opyty), 172

Extinguished Intention (Umyslopogaslo), 172

Eye (Oko), 172

Facets (Grani), 7, 90, 97, 242n52

Fain, Veniamin, 240n36

FANK, 172

Fashion Journal (Zhurnal mod), 172

Feast of Saint George, The (Iur′ev den′ ), 145,

172

Fiakh (Fiiakh), 172

Fiction (Fiktsiia), 172

Final Act of the Conference on Security and

Cooperation in Europe, The (Helsinki Accords1975), 94, 117, 239n15

Fioretti, 97–98

Fitzpatrick, Sheila, 8, 201n31

Fleishman, Lazar, 57, 219n28

Flige, Irina, 154

Florenskii, Pavel, 76

Flow of the River Nemunas, The (Nemuno

vaga), 122, 172

Followers of Girshfel′d (Girshfel′dovtsy), 173

Forehead (LOB), 173

Foucault, Michel, 202n48, 238n4, 249n4

Fraser, Nancy, 45–46, 51,

214–15nn110,113,117, 217nn2–3

Fraternal Leaflet (Bratskii listok), 133–36, 173,

244n73

Freedom and Homeland (Volia i bat′kivshchina),

173

Free Interprofessional Association of

Workers (SMOT), 128–30, 242n52

Free Thought (Svobodnaia mysl′ ), 173

Free Word, The (Svobodnoe slovo), 173

Freidin, Grigorii, 90, 92, 231n34

Fresh Voices (Svezhie golosa), 173

Froggatt, Michael, 223n74

Frolov, Evgenii, 125–26

From Yellow Silence (Iz zheltogo bezmolviia),

173

Fürst, Juliane, 9, 49, 82, 201n40, 215n121,

218n16, 228n142

Future, The (Ateitis), 122, 173

Futureling (Budushchel′ ), 174

Future of Lithuania, The (Lietuvos ateitis), 122,

174

Gabai, Il′ia, 213n94

GaB: For Girls and Boys (DiM: Devochkam i

mal′chikam), 101, 174

Galanskov, Iurii, 34, 88–89, 90, 210n59,

230n21. See also trial of the four Galich, Aleksandr, 77–78, 218n18, 219n30 Gastronomical Saturday (Gastronomicheskaia subbota), 174

Geller, Mikhail (Michel Heller), 37

Georgia (Sakartvelo), 174

Georgia Herald, The (Sakartvelos moambe),

174

Gertsen (Herzen), Aleksandr, 27, 29, 30,

209nn33,40

Gilburd, Eleonory, 204n59

Ginzburg, Aleksandr, 33–34, 192, 194,

210nn56,59, 211n63. See also trial of the four

Ginzburg, Evgeniia, 62–64, 219n23, 222n63

Ginzburg, Lidiia, 23

Gitelman, Lisa, 250n14

Glabocit: Glass of Boiled Citrus (Stavartsit:

Stakan varenogo tsitrusa), 174

Glanc, Tomáš, 233n62

Glazkov, Nikolai, 4, 198n12

Gnedov, Vasilisk, 104, 106, 235nn84,87

God and Homeland (Dievas ir tėvynė), 174

Golden Fleece, The (Okros sats′misi), 174

Gor′kii, Maksim (Maxim Gorky), 38

Gorbachev, Mikhail, 145, 199n17, 248n118

Gorbanevskaia, Natal′ia, 10, 31, 32f, 70,

202n43, 210n49, 212n85, 231n34

Goricheva, Tat′iana, 73, 86–87, 140–41, 142,

229n16

Grail, The (Graal′ ), 174

Great Ring, The (Velikoe kol′tso), 174

Grebenshchikov, Boris, 137, 138, 211n72

Gribkov, Vitalii, 231n34

Grigor′eva, Galina, 142, 246n99

Grigorenko, Petr, 42, 117

Grois, Boris, 107, 236n98

Gubanov, Leonid, 230n19

Guboglo, M. N., 42

guitar poetry, 77–79, 227n137

Gulag Archipelago, The (Arkhipelag GULAG)

(Solzhenitsyn), 2, 37, 39, 60–61, 76,

197n5, 221–22nn54,56,58,59,61

INDEX Gumilev, Lev, 220n37 Gumilev, Nikolai, 220n37 Habermas, Jürgen, 13, 14, 46, 205n77, 209n37, 227–28n137, 250–51n19 Halfin, Igor, 30 “Hamlet” (Pasternak), 57 Hang-Out (Tusovka), 175 Hazaz, Haim, 45–46 Hebrew/Our Hebrew (Ivrit/Nash Ivrit), 124, 175 Hegelian historicism, 27–35, 209nn38,41 Helios (Gelios), 175 Hellbeck, Jochen, 30, 209n41 Hello (Allo), 175 Helsinki Accords (1975), 94, 117, 239n15 Helsinki Groups, 71, 116–18, 121 Hemingway, Ernest, 92 Herald of Exodus, The (Vestnik iskhoda), 175 Herald of Freedom, The (Laisvės šauklys), 175 Herald of Salvation (Vestnik spaseniia), 175 Herald of the Association for Experimental Fine Arts (Vestnik Tovarishchestvo leksperimental′nogo izobrazitel′nogo iskusstva), 175 Herald of the Human Rights Movement (Vestnik pravozashchitnogo dvizheniia), 175 Herald of Truth (Vestnik istiny), 176 Heresy (Eres′), 176, 208n23 Herzen. See Gertsen (Herzen), Aleksandr heterochronotopia, 238n4 heterogeneous time, 85, 229n7 heterotopia, 238n4 Hey (Au), 176 historical self, 20–21 history community-based, 154–55 Hegelian historicism, 27–35 Jewish, 154 reexamination of Soviet, during Thaw, 35–40

and Soviet self after Stalin, 21–27

subcultural, 47–50

Hope (Viltis), 176

Hope: Christian Reading (Nadezhda:

Khristianskoe chtenie), 86–87, 176 Hopkins, Mark W., 10, 70 Hotcake (Blin), 139, 176 Hotel (Gostinitsa), 176 “Human Manifesto, A” (Manifesto of Man) (Galanskov), 88–89, 90, 230n21 human rights, 31, 43, 70, 94–95, 147, 224n94, 232n45

289

ID, 176 Idiot, 176 Il′ichev, L. F., 93 imagined audience, 21–23 imagined communities, 84–85 In Defense of Economic Freedoms (V zaschchitu ekonomicheskikh svobod), 176 Independent, The (Samostiinik), 177 independent thinking, 28 informal press of perestroika, 145–47, 248n118 Information (Informatsiia, 1956–57), 24–25, 27, 177 Information (Informatsija, 1975–), 177 Informational Bulletin of the CLF “Helios” (Informatsionnyi biulleten′ KLF “Gelios”), 179 Information Bulletin (Informatsionnyi biuleten′, 1977–78), 178 Information Bulletin (Informatsionnyi biuleten′, 1977–80), 178 Information Bulletin (Informatsionnyi biuleten′, 1978–80), 95, 116, 177–78 Information Bulletin (Informatsionnyi biuleten′, 1978–92), 128–30, 178, 243n55 Information Bulletin (Informatsionnyi biuleten′, 1979–), 178 Information Bulletin (Informatsionnyi biuleten′, 1979–80), 178–79 Information Bulletin (Informatsionnyi biuleten′, 1983), 178–79 Information Leaflet (Informatsionnyi listok), 179 Information Leaflet of the Persecuted Barnaul Church of Evangelical Christian-Baptists (Informatsionnyi listok barnaul′skoi gonimoi tserkvi/nlevangel′skikh khristian­ baptistov), 179 Information/Mournful Information (Informatsiia/Traurnaia informatsiia, 1965–85), 41–43, 177 Information Pages (Listy informatsii), 179 information pool, 96 InformBulletin of the IA “Helios” and the CLF “Tree of Desires” (Informbiulleten′ IA “Gelios”i KLF “Drevo zhelanii”), 179 In Our Cups (Za bottl′om), 176 intelligentsia, 28, 29, 30, 150, 220n45 International Amnesty (Mezhdunarodnaia amnistiia), 179 In the Dust of Stars (V pyli zvezd), 177 In the Light of Transfiguration (V svete preobrazheniia), 177

290

INDEX

In the Name of the Homeland (Anun aireniki), 177

Ioffe, V. V., 222n61

Irtysh Waves (Irtyshskie volny), 145, 179

Isliamova, Zore, 72, 225n99

Ivanov (Skuratov), Anatolii, 88, 230n20

Ivanov, Boris, 99–100, 203n56, 225n101,

233n66

Iziumskii, Andrei, 103

Janecek, Gerald J., 235n87, 247n107, 247n112

Jewish Annual (Evreisiki ezhegodnik), 179–80

Jewish history, recovery of repressed, 154

Jewish national movement, 44–47, 215n116

Jewish samizdat, 122–25, 180

Jewish Thought (Evreiskaia mysl′), 125, 180

Jews in the Contemporary World (Evrei v

sovremennom mire), 124, 180

Jews in the USSR (Evrei v SSSR), 122, 123, 180

Jews in the USSR: Special Issues (Evrei v SSSR:

Spetsial′nye vypuski), 180

Johns, Adrian, 200n30, 249n10

Johnson, Robert Eugene, 199n19

Johnston, Gordon, 9

Jones, Polly, 8, 13, 207nn10,17, 214n112,

217n8

Juventus Academica, 180

Kabakov, Il′ia, 144, 221n50 Kaibullaev, Shevket, 213–14n104 Kalinsky, Yelena, 144, 237n106, 246n105 Kan, Anna, 245n92 Kapitanchuk, Viktor, 243n70 Karimov, Igor′, 80–81 Kheifets, Mikhail, 232n59 Khlebnikov, Viktor (Velimir), 231n38 Khmara, Nikolai, 224n82 Khrushchev, Nikita, 66, 106–7, 219n21 Secret Speech, 4, 8, 23, 199n14, 207n11, 218n16

Kiseleva, Evgeniia, 30

Kizeval′ter, Georgii, 142, 144

Knight, The (Vytis), 180

Kobak, Aleksandr, 36

Kolchevska, Natasha, 222n62

Konstriktor, Boris, 105f, 106, 235n92

Kosharovskii, Yuli, 215n116

Kosterin, Aleksei, 42

Kostyrchenko, Gennadii, 244n71

Kosuth, Joseph, 108, 237n102

Kotkin, Stephen, 197n4

Kovalev, Grigorii, 7, 76, 110

Kovalev, Sergei, 240n23

Kozlov, Aleksei, 48

Kozlov, Denis, 9, 24, 36–37, 55, 211n65

Kozlov, Vladimir, 7–8

Krishnamurti, Jiddu, 101

Kristeva, Julia, 224n94

Kriuchkov, Gennadii, 136

Krivulin, Viktor, 53, 72–75, 76, 97, 99,

218n15, 221n48, 225n103, 233n69

Krylov, Andrei, 78, 79, 80

Kukui, Il′ia, 235n91

Kulakov, Vladislav, 226n114, 233n62

Kuprianov, Vasily, 63

Kushnerov, Ivan, 244n73

Kuz′minskii, Konstantin, 7

Kuznetsov, Eduard, 88, 230n20

labor camps. See prison and labor camps

Lamp (Fonar′ ), 180

Lamp of Days (Liustra dzen), 180

Lamp of Diogenes (Fonar′ Diogena), 181

Lashkova, Vera, 34, 210n59. See also trial of

the four

la Tour, Georges de, 74–75

Law and Reality (Din u-metsiut. Zakon i

deistvitel′nost′), 125, 181

Lazareva, Natal′ia, 142

Leaflet (Listok), 181

Lefort, Claude, 52, 53, 86, 217nn3,5, 218,

221n54, 249n5

Left Turn (Levyi povorot), 181

Leningrad Jewish Almanac (LEA: Leningradskii

evreiskii al′manakh), 125, 154, 181

Leningrad Library Institute, 24–26, 208n23

Leningrad underground, 72–77, 96–101,

226n104, 233n60

Levin, Iurii, 155

Lianozovo artists, 99

Life (Khaiim), 181

lifeworld, 153, 250–51n19

Likhterov, Emmanuil, 125

Limbaugh, Rush, 153

Lipovetsky, Mark, 204n60

Literary Almanac (Literaturnyi al′manakh),

181

literary associations (LITOs), 8

Literary Notebooks (Literaturnye tetradi),

181

Literary Pages (Literaturnye stranitsy), 181

Lithuania, 118–22

Lithuanian Archive (Lietuvių archyvas),

181

Lithuanian Helsinki Group, 121

Litvinov, Pavel, 34–35, 210n59

Liubarskii, Kronid, 96

INDEX Living Church, The (bažnyčia), 182

Llor-n-Kor, 182

logocentrism, 18, 158–59

lost generation, 92

Lygo, Emily, 225n104

lyric speech, 58, 89, 90, 216–17nn138,1,

230n23 magnitizdat, 79, 227n134

Maguire, Robert A., 241n43

Maia (Maiia), 182

Maiakovka, 87–88, 230n20

Maiakovskii, Vladimir, 87–88, 89–90,

230n27, 231n38, 234n81

Maiakovtsy, 87–88

Makarevich, Andrei, 137

Mal′tseva, Natalia, 246n102

Malakhovskaia, Natal′ia, 142, 246n99

Mamonova, Tat′iana, 142, 246n102

Mamou, Yves, 221n54

MANA: The Moscow Archive of New Art (MANI: Moskovskii arkhiv novogo iskusstva), 106–11, 182, 236n95 MANA: The Moscow Archive of New Art—

Collections (MANI: Moskovskii arkhiv

novogo iskusstva—sborniki), 182

Mandel′shtam, Nadezhda, 229n13 Mandel′shtam, Osip, 53, 72–73, 76, 218n15, 225n104, 229n13

Manezh Exhibition (1962), 106–7

Mansbridge, Jane, 214n110

Manuilov, V. A., 208n23

Many Years (Mnogaia leta), 132, 182

Maramzin, Vladimir, 232n59

marginality, aestheticization of, 98–99

Maria (Mariia), 142, 182

Mariia, club, 141–42

Markwick, Roger D., 211n64

Marshak, Samuil, 97–98

Martin, Barbara, 16, 50, 212nn76,83,

216nn136–137, 218n11, 228n246, 241n40

Maslov, Sergei, 100

McGann, Jerome, 238n3

McMichael, Polly, 245n84

Medvedev, Kirill, 158–59, 233n69, 253n47

Medvedev, Roy, 125–26, 241n43

Medvedev, Zhores, 126

Meerson-Aksenov, Mikhail, 32

Meeting (Vstrecha), 182

Melamid, Aleksandr, 231n34

Memorandum, 116, 182

Memory: Historical Collection (Pamiat′:

Istoricheskii sbornik), 37–40, 118, 153,

183, 212n85, 251n22

291

Metrodorus (Metrodor), 183

Milbank, John, 229n11

Mill, John Stuart, 89, 230n23

Minstrel (Menestrel′), 77–78, 79–81, 183,

227n125

Mironov, Aleksandr, 73, 97

Mirror (Zerkalo, 1976–77), 183

Mirror (Zerkalo, 1981), 136, 183

Mitrokhin, Nikolai, 234n74, 244n71

Mitya’s Journal (Mitin zhurnal), 183

Mnukhin, Lev, 127–28, 242n47

modernity, 149–59

Moiseev, Ivan, 67–70, 224n184–86

Monastyrskii, Andrei, 108–9, 143, 144,

247n110

Mongoose (Mangust), 183

Morel (Smorchok), 139, 183

Moscow conceptualism, 106–11

Moscow Helsinki Group, 71, 117

Moscow Journal (Moskovskii zhurnal), 139,

183

Moscow Miscellany (Moskovskii sbornik), 132,

183

Moscow Stations (Moskva-Petushki) (Erofeev),

155–57, 252nn35–37 Moyn, Samuel, 224n94, 232n45 Murav′ev, Vladimir, 221n48 music new wave, 48

periodicals on, 77–81, 136–39, 227n134

punk, 48

rock, 47–49, 136–39, 192,

215–16nn119,125, 227n135, 245nn82,86,90,92 subcultural community around, 47–49, 215n119 technology and spread of, 215–16n125 “My Fascism” (Medvedev), 158–59 My Past and Thoughts (Byloe i dumy) (Gertsen), 29

Mysticism (Mistyka), 184

Nathans, Benjamin, 205n73, 209n33 nation-state, and modern social imaginary, 21

Neck (Sheia), 184

Neizvestnyi, Ernst, 208n21

New Moscow Almanac, The (Novyi moskovskii

al′manakh), 184

New Orleans, and community-based

history, 154–55

News from the USSR (Vesti iz SSSR), 96

Newspaper (Iton), 184

new wave music, 48

292

INDEX

Nikonova, Ry (Anna Tarshis), 103–6, 235n87, 235n90

Nineteen Eighty-Four (Orwell), 21–22, 206n7

Northern Mail, The (Severnaia pochta), 184

Northern Murinsk Bee, The (Severnomurinskaia

pchela), 184

Notebook of Social Democracy (Tetrad′ sotsialisticheskoi demokratii), 184

Novyi mir journal, 8–9, 36–37

NTS (Narodno-Trudovoi Soiuz or National

Labor Alliance), 90, 132, 210n56,

230n30, 242n52

Number (Nomer), 184

Obvodnyi Canal (Obvodnyi kanal), 184

official culture, 8, 12, 21, 65, 92, 131, 155

Ogorodnikov, Aleksandr, 130, 131

Okhapkin, Oleg, 73, 75, 132, 243n63

Okudzhava, Bulat, 78, 79

Old Believer (Starover), 184

“One and Three Chairs” (Kosuth), 108,

237n102 One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich (Solzhenitsyn), 58, 197n5 One Step Forward, Two Steps Back (Shag vpered, dva shaga nazad), 185

On Rock (Pro rok), 139

ON ROCK (PRO ROK), 185

“On the Responsibility of the Artist”

(Il′ichev), 93

On the Situation of Lithuanians in the

Belorussian Republic (Apie lietuvių padėtį

Baltarusijos Respublikoje), 185

“Open Letter” (Prigov), 157–58

Oprichnina-77, 185

Optima: Literary Manuscript Journal

(Optima: Literaturnyi rukopisnyi zhurnal), 185

Options (Varianty), 185

Organ of the BVSCA (Organ BEKO), 185

Orwell, George, 21–22, 37–38, 206n7,

212n80

Osipov, Vladimir, 88, 132, 230n20

Ostanin, Boris, 36

Ostrovskii, Nikolai, 131

Our Heritage (Nashe nasledie), 185

Oushakine, Serguei, 8

Paperno, Irina, 29, 30, 59, 220n45

Parisi, Valentina, 202n49

Pasternak, Boris, 55–57, 72, 219nn28–30,

220nn33,35

Path of the Nation, The (Tautos kelias), 185

People, Years, Life (Liudi, gody, zhizn′) (Erenburg), 54–55 perestroika, informal/alternative press of, 145–47, 248n118 periodicals

and alternative social spaces, 114

and conceptualism, 106–11

and dissident publics’ adaptation of

official spaces, 125–32 and eccentric time, 101–6 and extra-Gutenberg social imaginary, 14–15

and impression of time, 111

list of samizdat, 161–95

and occupying other spaces, 133–48

and pluralizing views on rights, 114–25

and rights activism in 1960s, 94–96

“thick journal” genre, 126, 205–6n79,

241n43 and time of avant-garde in Moscow, 90–94 and time of culture in Leningrad, 96–101 voice and truth-telling in, 65–81 Perspectives (Perspektivos, 1978–81), 121–22, 186

Perspectives (Perspektivy, 1978), 186

Pervushin, Nikolai V., 221n51

Petrov, Vladimir, 90, 92, 231n34

Petrushevskaia, Liudmila, 231n34

Phantasm (Fantazm), 186

Phoenix (Feniks, Feniks-66), 90, 186

Pigolis, Vladas, 120

Pimenov, Revol′t, 24–27, 40, 208n25,

209n33

Pipes, Richard, 212n85

Pivovarova, Irina, 144

Place for Information, A (Informatorii), 186

Platonov, Rachel, 77, 79, 215n120, 227n137

Platt, Kevin, 205n73, 207n11, 218–19n20

pluralism, 39, 40, 65, 82, 114–25

Podrabinek, Aleksandr, 95–96

“Poem of the End” (Gnedov), 104, 106

poetry

card catalog poetry, 107

and eccentric time, 104–6

of Erenburg, 55

Galanskov’s “A Human Manifesto,”

88–89

guitar poetry, 77–79, 227n137

and literary ferment, 234n82

Medvedev on, 253n47

popularity of, 219n26

INDEX and time of culture in Leningrad, 97–99

Transfurist poetry, 104–6

vacuum poetry, 104

Polemics (Polemika), 186

“Policeman” cycles (Prigov), 158

Political Diary/Months (Politicheskii

dnevnik/Mesiatsy), 125–26, 186, 241n40

“political samizdat,” 8

Pollack, Detlef, 13, 204n68

Pomerants, Grigorii, 147, 222n60

Pop-Dynamo (Pop-dinamo), 186

Pops: The New Rock Troubadour (Pops: Novyi

trubadur roka), 139, 186

Popular Assembly (Veche), 132, 186–87

Poresh, Vladimir, 132, 243n59

post-Stalin era

communities and samizdat in, 40–47

effects of internal and external pressure

during, 218

Hegelian historicism and rights activism

in, 27–35 history and Soviet self in, 21–27 periodicals and voicing truth in, 65–81 reexamination of Soviet history during, 35–40

samizdat voices during, 54–65

social space for truth-telling during,

52–53 as unmaking of Soviet subjectivity, 24

Prestin, Vladimir, 240n36

Pretext (Predlog), 101, 187

Prigov, Dmitrii, 107, 157–58, 236n99,

252–53nn44,46

Prism (Prizma), 187

prison and labor camps, 2, 37, 39,

60–65, 115, 153–54, 197n5, 221–22nn54,56,58,59,61, 223n66 private-public sphere, 205n73 Problems of the Ear, Nose and Throat (Problemy otolaringologii), 139, 187

Progress: A Socio-Political Journal (Postup:

Gromads′ko-politichnii zhurnal), 187

psychiatry, 95–96

public(s), 215n117, 216nn134–135

dominant, 228–29n3 samizdat in underground, 7–14, 199n19 public speech, 58, 216–17nn138,1, 230n23 public sphere, 14–15, 113, 237n1. See also community/communities; social space(s)

public theory, 13–14, 204n66, 227–28n137

punk music, 48

Pushkin, Aleksandr, 35, 93, 98

293

Quest (Poiski), 118, 187

Quest and Thought (Poiski i razmyshleniia),

187

“Questions of Degeneracy,” 93

Radio Liberty, 6–7, 199n14

Ram, Harsha, 220n44

Ramuva, 187

Ray of Freedom (Luch svobody), 187–88

Reddaway, Peter, 210n49

Red Follower of Shchedrin (Krasnyi

shchedrinets), 101, 188

Regular News (Reguliarnye vedomosti), 101,

188

religious controls and activity, 65–69, 71,

116, 118–22, 133–36, 166, 167, 224n82,

239nn12,21, 240nn24,28, 244n75

Religious-Philosophical Seminar, 100

religious renaissance, 101, 130, 131,

234n74

Remeikis, Thomas, 239n21, 240n24

Re PATRIA, 188

Requiem (Akhmatova), 57–58

Review (Obozrenie), 188

rights activism

and different sense of time in 1960s, 94–96

and Hegelian historicism, 27–35

pluralizing views on, 114–25

rights activists, 11, 203–4n58, 238n5

Right to Emigrate, The (Pravo na emigratsiiu),

188

RIO: Advertising and Informational Survey

(RIO: Reklamno-informatsionnoe

obozrenie), 139, 188

Rock Bulletin of the Moscow Urban Rock

Laboratory (Rok-biulleten′ moskovskoi

gorodskoi rok-laboratorii), 188

Rock Courier (Rok-kur′er), 188

Rock Express (Rok-ekspress), 188

rock music

audio values of recorded, 227n135

founding of Russian, 245n82

periodicals on, 136–39, 188, 192,

245nn86,90 subcultural community around, 47–49, 215n119 technology and spread of, 215–16n125, 245n92

Rock Salad (Rok-salat), 188

Rock Tribune (Rok-tribuna), 188

Roginskii, Arsenii, 37, 39, 40

Roginskii, Boris, 203n56, 225n101

294

INDEX

Rogov, Konstantin, 211n68 Rothberg, Abraham, 238n5 Roudakova, Natalia, 9, 13, 201n37, 205n71

Rounded Corner (Tupoi ugol), 189

Roxy (Roksi), 136–39, 147, 189, 245nn86,

90

Rubbish (Khlam), 189

Rubinshtein, Lev, 3, 107, 108

Rudkevich, Lev, 73

Russian Orthodox Church, 76, 87, 130,

140–41

Russian Word, The (Russkoe slovo), 189

Sadovaia, Malaia, 97

Sail/Thistle (Parus/Chertopolokh), 189

Sakharov, Andrei, 2, 35, 95, 147, 198n6

samizdat

aim of, 3, 149–50

authorship of, 10

communities and, 40–47

consequences of non-print, 10

contradictions within, voices, 53

distribution and circulation of, 10–11, 15,

197n3

end of, 5

evolution of, 31–32

and extra-Gutenberg social imaginary,

14–15 as found in official speech in post-Stalin era, 23–24 and growth of reformist and radical ideologies, 199n18 Hegelian historicism and development of, 28–29

history of, in social imaginary, 20–21

impact of, 1–2, 3–4

informal press versus classic, 248n119

as marker of status, 197n3

number of texts and readers of, 7

officials’ struggle to define, 202n44

origins of term, 198n12

overview of, 1, 4–7

production of, 5, 119, 134–35, 199n20

reasons for engaging in, 152

as sociocultural institution, 33–34

Soviet print establishment as foil to, 49

study of, 15

in underground publics, 7–14, 199n19

samizdat chronotopes, 82–83

Saturday Gazette, The (Poolpäevaleht), 189

Savenko, Elena, 145

Sawatsky, Walter, 134–35

SCD: Survey of Cultural Death (OKS: Obzor

kul′turnoi smerti), 189

School of Theory and Practice of a New

Esthetics, The (Shkola teorii i praktiki

novoi estetiki), 189

Schramm Wilbur, 205n71 second/unofficial culture, 12, 36, 76, 97,

100, 140, 203n56, 225n101, 232n52

Second Year, The (God vtoroi), 189

secularism and secularization, 85–86, 223n75, 229n11 Sedakova, Ol′ga, 99, 234n74 SELF, 139, 189

self, historical, 20–21 Severiukhin, D. Ia., 234n74 Sexual Democrat (Seksual-demokrat), 189

Shakespeare, William, 97–98 Shakin, Gennadii, 78

Shalamov, Varlam, 38–39 Shartash, 190

Shelkovskii, Igor′, 109

Shelter, The (Pastogė), 122, 190

Shimanov, Gennadii, 132

Ship (Korabl′ ), 190

Shul′gin, Vasilii, 39

Shvarts, Elena, 73

Sigei (Sigov), Sergei, 103–6, 234n82, 235nn84,90 Signs: For New Painting (Metki: Po novoi

zhivopisi), 190

Signs from the Mountains (Karby hir),

190

silence, under Stalin, 54–55, 81

Silence: Literary-Artistic Journal (Molchanie:

Literaturno-khudozhestvennyi zhurnal),

190

Siniavskii, Andrei, 28, 57, 240n33,

249n2

Siren, The (Sirena), 190

Skersis, Viktor, 108, 109, 237n102

Skripnikova, Aida, 67

“Slogan-77” (Collective Actions event), 143–44 Small Voice, A (Golosok), 190

Smirnov, Igor′, 48–49 Smith, Gerald Stanton, 227n134 SMOG, 88, 97, 230n19

Smola, Klavdia, 204n60 SMOT (Free Interprofessional Association of Workers), 128–30, 242n52 Snaimehob (Amegob), 190

Snow Wine, 25

Sobolev, Aleksei, 234n77

INDEX social imaginary

boundaries of, 86

history of samizdat in context of, 20–21

samizdat periodical editions and extra-

Gutenberg, 14–15, 152–53

Taylor on, 206nn1–2

Warner on, 216n134

Socialism and the Future (Sotsializm i

budushchee), 190

Social Problems (Obshchestvennye problemy),

118, 190

social space(s), 113–14 of communication circuits, 9–10 and dissident publics’ adaptation of official spaces, 125–32 imagination of, as expressed by samizdat, 51–54, 81–83 occupying other, 133–48 and pluralizing views on rights, 114–25 of samizdat communication circuits, 9–10

and samizdat voice and truth-telling

during Thaw, 54–65 for truth-telling, 52–53 and voice and truth-telling in periodicals, 65–81

See also community/communities; public

sphere

Solzhenitsyn, Aleksandr

attempts to publish following

Khrushchev’s departure, 211n67

Gulag Archipelago, 2, 37, 39, 60–61, 76,

197n5, 221–22nn54,56,58,59,61

impact on Community, 131–32

language and literary craft of, 221n51

Novyi mir journal, 8–9

One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich, 58,

197n5

overview of, 197n5

Pomerants’ polemic with, 222n60

Sakharov compared to, 35

as writer embodying state authority

structures, 59

writings on Stalin era, 60–62

Sorrowful Christ (Rūpintojėlis), 191

Soviet Crucian Carp (Sovetskii karas′ ), 191

Soviet Dissent (Alekseeva), 198n8

Soviet modernity, 149–59

Soviet self, after Stalin, 21–27

Soviet society

progress in, 93–94

as species of modern society, 150, 151

unity of, 11–12

295

Sower, The (Seiatel′ ), 191

Sowing (Posev), 242n52

space of discourse

and dissident publics’ adaptation of official spaces, 125–32

media and creation of, 113

and occupying other spaces, 133–48

and pluralizing views on rights, 114–25

Sphinxes (Sfinksy), 97, 191, 230n19

Square, The (Kvadrat), 100, 191

Stagnation, 24

Stalin, Joseph

enforced silence under, 54–55, 81

historical examination of era of, 20, 23,

153–54, 207n16

totalitarian society under, 52

voicing truth on conditions under, 60–65,

219n21, 220n41 See also post-Stalin era

Stalk (Stebel′ ), 191

steb (styob), 137–38

Steiner, Peter, 5, 198n11, 204n66

Steponavicius, Julijonas, 240n28

Storm-Tossed (Brosaemaia bureiu), 191

Storyteller (Magid), 191

stranger relationality, 30

Stratanovskii, Sergei, 99

Strength in Sobriety (Blaivybėje—jėga),

191

Strukova, Elena, 146, 248n118, 248n122

student groups, 24–26

subaltern counterpublics, 51, 217n2

subcultural community, 47–49, 215n119

subcultural history, 47–50

Subtext (Podtekst), 191

Suetnov, Aleksandr, 253n4

Sum (Summa), 100, 191–92

Summons, The (Zov), 192

Supplementary Materials on the Free

Dissemination of Ideas and Information in

Estonia (Lisandusi mõtete ja uudiste vabale

levikule eestis), 192

Sverdlovsk Rock Review (Sverdlovskoe rok­ obozrenie), 192

symbolic capital, 12, 152, 248n117

Syntax (Sintaksis), 33–34, 192, 210n55

Tamkevicius, Sigitas, 240n28 Taylor, Charles, 14, 20, 21, 85, 86, 113, 151,

205nn75–76, 206nn1–2, 237n1, 249n9,

250n16

Telesin, Julius (Iulii), 202n44 Terts (Siniavskii), Abram, 149, 222n60

296

INDEX

TFW: This Fantastic World (EFM: Etot

fantasticheskii mir), 192

Thaw communities and samizdat in, 40–47 effects of internal and external pressure during, 218

Hegelian historicism and rights activism

in, 27–35 history and Soviet self in, 21–27 periodicals and voicing truth in, 65–81 reexamination of Soviet history during, 35–40

samizdat voices during, 54–65

social space for truth-telling during, 52–53

as unmaking of Soviet subjectivity, 24

Thaw, The (Ottepel′) (Erenburg), 54

Thawed Patch (Protalina), 192

“thick journal” genre, 126, 205–6n79, 241n43

Thirty-Seven/37 (Tridtsat′ sem′/37), 73–77, 99,

132, 140–41, 192, 226n105, 236n96 time, 84–87, 111–12 of avant-garde in Moscow, 87–94 and conceptualism, 106–11 of culture in Leningrad, 96–101, 233n60 eccentric, 101–6 heterogeneous, 85, 229n7 rights activism and different sense of, in late 1960s, 94–96

Time to Stoke the Fire (Vremia topit′ ), 192

Together (Zusammen), 193

Tolstoi, Ivan, 200n22

Tolstoi, Lev, 35

Tomahawk 15 (Tamagavk 15), 193

totalitarian discourse, 157, 217n3

totalitarianism, 52, 66, 249n5, 250nn12,17

Trace (Sled), 193

Transfurist poetry, 104–6

Transfur-manifesto, 234n83

Transponans, 103–6, 112, 193

trial of the four, 34–35, 95, 210n59, 217n10

Trips Out of Town (Poezdki za gorod), 142–44,

147, 193, 246–47n106

Troitsky, Artemy, 215n122

Tromly, Benjamin, 24, 208n25, 209n33

Trust Company “Sibelektromontazh,” 145

truth and truth-telling

in camp memoirs, 64–65

in dissident historiography, 50

and imagination of social space as

expressed by samizdat voices, 51–54, 81–83 Marxist versus liberal idea of, 13–14, 205n71

in post-Stalin-era periodicals, 65–81

and samizdat voices during Thaw, 54–65

search for deeper, 9, 201nn39–40

social space for, 52

as way of asserting humanity, 147

See also voice(s)

Tsvetaeva, Marina, 127, 242n47

Tumanova, A. E., 222n61

Tvardovskii, Aleksandr, 60

Twentieth Century, The (XX Vek), 126, 193

Twentieth Congress (1956), 4, 23, 28, 52,

218–19n20

Twenty-Second Congress (1961), 23, 52

UFO: Our Personal Responsibility (NLO: Nasha lichnaia otvetstvennost′), 101–3, 138, 193

Uikh (Uikh″), 193

Ukrainian Catholic Herald (Ukrains′kyi

katolyts′kii visnyk), 116–17, 193

Ukrainian Helskinki Group (UHG), 116,

117

Ukrainian Herald (Ukrains′kyi visnyk), 114–17,

193

Ukrainian Sixtiers, 115, 116

Umansky, Yakov, 63

Underground (Andergraund), 193

underground publics, samizdat in, 7–14,

199n19 Universal Declaration of Human Rights, 94, 122

Unksova, Kari, 101, 103, 142, 234nn77–78

unofficial/second culture, 12, 36, 76, 97,

100, 140, 203n56, 225n101, 232n52

Urlight (Urlait/Ur lait), 139, 193

vacuum poetry, 104

Vail′, Boris, 25, 27

Vantuz, 194

Vardys, V. Stanley, 239n21, 240n22

Vasil′eva, Natasha, 245n86

Velikanova, Tat′iana, 202n43

Venclova, Tomas, 123–24, 241n38

Venus (Milavitsa), 194

Verblovskaia, Irina, 26, 27, 208n25

Vins, Georgii, 2, 67, 70, 136

Vins, Lidiia, 67, 224n82

Vins, Peter, 116

Vladimir, 194

Voice, The (Golos), 194

Voice of Lithuania, The (Lietuvos balsas),

194

Voice of the Estonian People, The (Eesti

rahvuslik haal), 194

INDEX

297

voice(s) and imagination of social space as expressed by samizdat, 51–54, 81–83 in periodicals, 65–81 samizdat, during Thaw, 54–65 Volodin, I., 108 Volov, O., 145 Voronel′, Aleksandr, 122, 208n19 Voronel′, Nina, 240n33 Voronianskaia, Elizaveta, 221–22n56 Voronkov, Viktor, 205n73, 248n119 Voznesenskaia, Iuliia, 2, 140, 141–42 Voznesenskii, Andrei, 55, 89 Vysotskii, Vladimir, 78, 79–81

White Shadows (Belye teni), 194 Wielgohs, Jan, 13, 204n68, 205n73, 248n119 Woman and Russia (Zhenshchina i Rossiia), 139–42, 194–95, 246nn97,101 women’s issues, 139–42 women’s movement, 103, 246nn99,102 Woogie (Vugi), 195 Word and Deed of the Evangelical Catacombs (Slovo i delo evangel′skikh katakomb), 195 Word of Love (Meilės žodis), 195 Working Commission to Investigate the Use of Psychiatry for Political Purposes, 95–96 writing “for the desk drawer,” 22–23

Wachtel, Andrew, 221n53 Walker, Clint B., 225n104 Walter, Anton, 62, 63–64 Wandering Stars (Bluzhdaiushchie zvezdy) (Babel), 5 Wanner, Catherine, 223n75 Warner, Michael, 21, 22, 30, 50, 58, 84, 89, 198n10, 215n117, 216–17nn134,135,138,1,2, 228–29n3, 230nn23,28 Waters, Leon, 155 Way of Truth, The (Tiesos kelias), 194 White Book (Belaia kniga), 34, 210n56, 217n10 White Book of Exodus, The (Belaia kniga iskhoda), 34, 194, 210n56 White Nights (Belye nochi), 194

Yanov, Alexander, 244n71 Yelensky, Viktor, 238n10, 239n12 Yezhov, Nikolai, 220n37 Youth (Molodost′ ), 195 Yurchak, Alexei, 9, 82, 137, 147–48, 150, 201n38, 217n6, 228nn141–142, 248n125, 249n4 Zakharov, Vadim, 109 ZGGA, 139, 195 Zhigalov, Anatolii, 109, 110 Zholkovskii, Aleksandr, 59 Zitzewitz, Josephine von, 226n104 Zombie (Zombi), 139, 195 Zorin, Andrei, 252nn35–37 Zubarev, Dmitrii, 39